pairing: human prince jaebeom + vampire princess female reader
genre: fluff, angst, forbidden love (kinda?), arranged marriage, enemies to lovers, smut (eventual), vampire, royalty, fantasy au
word count: 8k+
warnings: cursing, mentions of war, violence, and death, hot jay b (lol this is a warning), suggestive sexual content, eventual smut
summary: in an effort to end centuries of war, you agree to a political marriage with the enemy. you never considered that your circumstances could allow you to indulge in matters of the heart. that is, until your intended pushes past your boundaries, tempting you with intelligent banter and salacious, midnight promises.
rating: 18+ (mdni)
author’s note: after a million years, i’m finally posting the first part lmao. ugh i just love fantasy au’s or any au that has mythical/magical elements to it. lol like just look at all those genre tags. they’re my favourite to read and write! i hope that you guys enjoy this series (also i have no idea how many parts it’s gonna be lmao, the series list is only an estimate) <3
p.s. happy birthday to my beloved lim jaebeom, lim leader, jay b, defsoul, producer, singer, dancer, artist, photographer. i know that i clown u all the time but tbh i actually think that ur really neat. love u dawg
[library] [got7 library] [vermillion series]
✧✧✧
encounter (en-koun-ter) - to meet with or contend against, possibly with difficulty or opposition.
“being good to you is the easy part.”
# day eight of (the)8 days of minghao. ♡ happy birthday, minghao!
☆ includes: translator/interpreter!reader, idiots in love, yearning!!!, hurt/comfort, confessions. alcohol consumption, reader gets a [minor] surgery. mandarin & other languages are all courtesy of google translate. word count: 25.8k (damn.)
Minghao learned early on that there were words that didn’t always have a translation.
He had grown up with Shenyang Mandarin, only to have to learn Korean, English, and even some Japanese. It was always such a frustrating feeling, to have the Mandarin word at the tip of his tongue then to need to swallow it or substitute it.
He’s never felt that way with you, at least.
You, PLEDIS’ skilled, multilingual interpreter-slash-translator. Minghao remembers the day you came in, nine years ago. How he had felt a spark of hope when you slid into the dialect that was all-too familiar to him. Finally, Minghao had thought.
He had started off as your pupil, your tutee for Korean. Over time, it blossomed into genuine friendship. He can count on one hand the things that he has in Korea. The group. The fans. The other Chinese idols. And you.
It’s comfortable and easy with you. It’s always been. It’s why Minghao is fine with seeking you out at the company, with sliding into the seat next to you even though you’re working on something on your laptop. Checking subtitles for a SEVENTEEN video, it seems.
He waits until you’ve noticed him before he holds out the book he had been reading. It's a Korean novel. Almond by Sohn Wonpyung. He points to a particular phrase— 눈치가 빠르다— before speaking, but the words aren’t in Korean.
“Is there a Mandarin word for this?” he asks in Mandarin, his voice taking on the lower pitch of the dialect. His eyebrows knit together in a look of utter concentration. “Or is this one of those untranslatables?”
You pull out your earphones, a mild look of amusement on your face at Minghao’s sudden appearance. When you realize what he’s asking of you, a small huff of laughter escapes, but you concede to looking at the book in his hands. You say the phrase under your breath, as if testing it out.
“It’s not untranslatable,” you say, sliding right into Mandarin to match Minghao. “The literal translation is observant or perceptive. But in Korean contexts, it’s meant to describe— I suppose, comprehension that something is going on with a friend, or a family member. Like, ah—”
You pause. And then you code switch, again, this time, to English. “A gut feeling?”
“Ah.”
Minghao’s expression clears as comprehension filters across his face, his mouth forming that little ‘o’ shape as he repeats the phrase as well. “A gut feeling... okay, like intuition.”
He pulls his legs up on to the chair, resting his chin on his knee. “Do you think it's something that is universal? A gut feeling. Is there a word for that in Mandarin?”
You’re far too used to Minghao getting philosophical, to him pressing for more than the first answer. “Gut feeling in Mandarin... zhíjué?” you offer.
“Zhíjué,” Minghao repeats quietly, mulling the word over. There’s something satisfying and soothing about rolling the syllables on his tongue, the way he does it. The way they come from the back of his throat— a language that's as intimate as his mother's lullabies when he was a child.
He lets the word rest in his mouth for a while— zhíjué, gut feeling— before he looks back at you, his chin tilting forward in a nod. He gives you a little smile, appreciative.
"Mhm," he says. "That’s close enough."
You chuckle before slipping right back into Korean. It’s a dizzying back-and-forth between at most three languages, at any given time. The two of you have been called out for it, but Minghao secretly enjoys the challenge.
"I’ve been meaning to check that out from my neighborhood's library," you note as you tap at the spine of Minghao's copy of Almond. He privately marvels at how your voice sounds more mellifluous in your first language, almost missing the question you pose. “How are you liking it so far?”
He looks down at the book in his lap, thumbing through the pages idly. “It’s good,” he answers simply. There’s a pause, but it's not quite awkward. It's something else... an afterthought. The next words are quieter than the last. “A bit sad.”
“That’s what most reviewers have said about it,” you muse, leaning back against your chair to stretch your legs underneath you. “Maybe I’ll finally pick it up this weekend.”
Minghao doesn’t look at you directly when you start to stretch out, when your shoulders roll forward. Instead the focus of his eyes is on the book on his lap, but his mind is most definitely not on the words on the pages.
When you mention picking it up that weekend, he nods in silent agreement, the movement a bit stiff. And then, in that same beat: “Have you gone to the doctor about your back pain?”
The question is quiet but pointed, with just a hint of concern to his voice. He spots all the tells of you preparing to lie to him— the tick in your jaw, your tongue peeking out between your clenched teeth. “Of course I have,” you lie smoothly. “It’s just your regular back pains that come with sitting in a chair a lot.”
“Hm.”
Even this late in the game, you still thought you could lie to Minghao. And maybe you could, and he would let it slide, in favor of being considerate and polite.
But only for a bit, because he knows you haven't seen a doctor about the back pain that started recently. Knows that you’re being a hypocrite, always asking him to take care of himself when you aren’t even doing the same for yourself.
He’s not entirely surprised, admittedly. You’ve always been so focused on your work and on taking care of others that it was sometimes hard to think that you focused on yourself. Not that Minghao is one to talk, when it comes to taking time for his own health. But this was you.
He sighs, just barely, before he reaches over to nudge you on the shoulder, like he would do with Jun or Soonyoung or any of the other members. “Liar.”
A sound between a huff and a laugh escapes you, but then you raise your palms in a show of surrender.
“I haven't really had the time to go to the doctor,” you admit sheepishly. “There’s been a lot of content to translate. And I’ve been preparing for the group's Japan showcase next week.”
Minghao knows you well enough to know that you'd probably work yourself till you dropped, if you had the chance. The thought makes him want to roll his eyes.
“Mm,” he responds, his eyes narrowing as he crosses his arms across his chest. “You can stop working for ten minutes to go to a clinic. You have enough money. And even if you don’t, I could—”
He cuts himself off, biting the inside of his cheek. The words nearly slipped.
— take you to one, he had meant to say.
The offer is on the tip of his tongue; the thought of you walking around with such bad back pain that you could barely walk without hobbling having pissed him off. Some part of him, some tiny selfish part, is holding him back from saying anything.
Maybe he just wants to see what you do. If you’ll finally do something about it, if only because he’s asked you to care for yourself for once.
There’s a flicker of surprise on your expression, though it's quickly smoothed out by something more akin to affection. Minghao had always been the thoughtful kind. It had taken some time for him to warm up to you, but around three or so years into your friendship, you’d started becoming a recipient to his quiet care and compassion.
“I’ll get a proper checkup once the Japan showcase is over,” you finally concede, if only to put his mind at ease. “The whole thing. A CT scan and all that.”
Minghao let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding out in silent relief, his shoulders dropping. When you promise that you'll go for a checkup when the Japan showcase is over, part of him wants to say I don’t believe you or I’m coming with you or even I’ll take you there myself.
But he decides to keep his mouth shut. There's no point in arguing, unless he wants to give you even more of a headache. He huffs with faux annoyance. "I’ll hold you to that," he tells you.
Minghao’s little show of annoyance does little to unnerve you, especially when you know it’s just that. A show. You shake your head with amusement before glancing at the table in front of you, where your laptop rests, forgotten.
“I still have to finish this, though,” you say almost ruefully to Minghao, tilting your head slightly as you look back at him. “Do you have any other schedules for the rest of the day?”
“I don’t,” he says. “We have a free day today. My only plans were to bother you.”
Minghao’s definition of bothering was a lot different from, say, what Mingyu or Jeonghan would call being a bother. No, for Minghao, bothering you entailed simply being in your space— mostly in silence.
“Knock yourself out, then,” you say with a slight wave of your hand, essentially giving Minghao the carte blanche to stick around, maybe read, as you finish off your work. “I'll probably be done in half an hour. Let's grab something to eat after?”
“Thirty minutes,” he agrees. “And I get to pick the place.”
For the next half hour, Minghao makes an effort to not bother you in the way most of the other members would. No unnecessary comments, no sudden pokes with a pen or a random finger tapping at your shoulder.
He simply sits there, legs crossed out in front of him, one hand flicking through the pages of the book he was reading earlier, the other hand on his knee. Every so often, he glances up, just a brief glance to check if you’re still swamped with work.
It’s hard for anybody, even the most unobservant of people, to miss the sight of the two of you sharing the couch in the company lounge. Two such different people— you, with your cool temperament and soft features, and Minghao, with his sharp eyes and his sharper tongue.
And yet, the sight of the two of you is more familiar than anything else. Anyone who’s been around the company long enough has seen the two of you sitting almost shoulder to shoulder. Quiet. Serene. At utter peace with each other's company.
There are others who want to interrupt, but the intensity of Minghao’s gaze as he glances up briefly is enough to discourage them. It’s a silent challenge and a promise that they better not disturb the two of you.
By the end of the thirty minutes, you’re nearly done with the video subtitles, and Minghao is about five or so pages from finishing his book. The book has been set aside on the table by then, his gaze now focusing on your work, rather than the story in his hands.
You hammer out the last of your subtitles with a mumble of “I’m done, I’m done.”
You shut your laptop with a slight snap, groaning slightly as you sink back against the back of the couch. “That was rough,” you huff as you press the heels of your hands to your eyes. “My French is getting rusty.”
“You say that about every language,” he points out. He watches you for a moment more before he reaches over, fingers wrapping around one of your wrists to tug at your arm. “Come here.”
This wasn’t the first time he’d used touch to get your attention. Minghao wasn’t the most outwardly tactile, but he had his moments. Touch was an easy, unspoken thing; it required no language, it spoke volumes.
This was one of those rare, intimate, moments of his. The moments where he let his guard down, the walls around him falling away. He tugs again, pulling you a little closer to him.
“Come here,” he says again. The word comes out in Mandarin, his fingers gently squeezing around your wrist, his other hand going to your hip to encourage you to lean in.
“So demanding,” you huff in the same language.
You’re complaining, but there isn’t any bite or any real annoyance in your tone. If you were really bothered, you’d pull your arm away and snap at him in Korean. Instead, you go along with what he’s doing, allowing him to pull you closer, even as you continue to grumble under your breath in Mandarin.
You give too much, he thinks silently, as his hand moves up from your hip to gently press your head into his shoulder, his arm wrapping around your waist instead. You let me have too much.
It’s a compromising position, especially in the company lounge. No other idol would be caught dead cozying up to a staff member like this, but Minghao was just a little bit above it all and HR had long since given up on lecturing you both about propriety.
Your hand absentmindedly rests over his knee, the platonic touch hidden underneath the table. You stick to Mandarin as you hum “This is nice.”
Minghao can’t help but agree with your words, his eyes fluttering close as he rests his cheek on the top of your head. Even with a company full of people around you and a door that anyone could walk through at any second, the two of you are tucked away in your own little world. He hums in response to your words, his own hand moving slightly to lace his fingers through yours.
Despite the fatigue weighing down on you both, the two of you stay like that, tangled together on the couch in a way that's more akin to a couple than just friends.
Eventually, the silence and stillness between you two is broken by a gentle knock on the wood.
Minghao’s eyes flutter open; he lifts his head up slightly to glance towards the door. “It’s open,” he says, his voice not betraying that you’re tucked into his side or that his hand is tangled with yours.
The door creaks open a crack, and Jeonghan peeks in. His eyebrows shoot up slightly. His mouth opens and closes, as if to say something, but you can see a knowing look pass across his face.
“Ah,” he says, and it almost sounds like he’s laughing.
You code switch to Korean, unsurprisingly. “Jeonghan,” you greet, raising your free hand to wave at the older boy. You make no real effort to disentangle from Minghao. If anything, the fact that it's just one of his members makes it easier for you to just relax a bit more. "Hao kept me company while I was working."
"I can see that," Jeonghan says with no shortage of amusement. He steps into the room, decisively closing the lounge door behind him. "I figured he'd be here."
Jeonghan takes a few steps closer to the couch before he halts, just a few steps away, his legs slightly apart and his arms folded over his chest. He looks between the two of you, his gaze drifting meaningfully from the arm wrapped around your waist, to the fingers still entwined with Minghao's.
“He's good at keeping company,” Jeonghan agrees, his head slightly tilted.
“Shut it,” Minghao grumbles in response, irritation obvious in his voice.
He doesn’t move his head or his arm wrapped around your waist. Instead, he raises his other hand— the one that’s still holding your hand— to give Jeonghan a gesture that clearly means for him to go away.
Jeonghan just laughs in response to the gesture, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “What, are you two lovebirds too busy for me?” he says, his tone deliberately saccharine. “I just wanted to tell you that the boys scheduled a game night later.”
Minghao glances down at the watch on his wrist, before looking back at the two of you. “What time?” he grumbles to Jeonghan, visibly displeased at the thought of having to disentangle from you.
“In about an hour,” Jeonghan sing-songs.
“Don’t be late,” he adds cheerfully, before promptly turning around and leaving the room.
“There goes our dinner plans,” you deadpan to Minghao once Jeonghan has left, although you don’t really sound upset about it. It’s more of a statement of a fact.
“Guess so,” he responds, his chin still resting on top of your head. Your hair is soft, and his fingers absently brush against the strands.
There’s a beat of stillness between the two of you, before he speaks again. “Sorry,” he murmurs, the word quiet and soft. He knows you’d probably been hoping to eat before going back to subtitles.
“No apologies necessary,” you say easily, because this was just sometimes the reality of our friendship. You always had a dozen other things pulling at you in different directions, and so a couple of stolen hours was always a welcome reprieve.
You give Minghao's hand a gentle squeeze. “Let's stay like this for— five more minutes,” you bargain, a slight smile tugging at your lips as you stare ahead. “And then we can pack up.”
“Five more minutes?” Minghao repeats, his voice low. He thinks over your words for a moment, before he lets out a soft sigh, his hand tightening around yours. “Okay.”
There aren’t many moments when he isn't in control, or when he lets his guard down. But this— with you, with your soft hair and comfortable warmth, is something he can’t resist. He lets his chin rest on top of your head, the weight of his head resting against you. He closes his eyes, and simply lets himself breathe.
The minutes pass by in comfortable silence, the two of you still tangled together on the couch. For those few moments, Minghao has nothing to worry about and nothing to think about. He has no choreography to practice, no schedule to keep.
Five minutes spin into seven, then ten. Neither of you are keen to pull away. At the fifteen-minute mark, you finally do try. “We’ve had more than five minutes,” you say against Minghao’s shoulder.
Minghao’s arm tightens around your waist, his fingers curling around your hip in a silent bid to keep you in place. He can feel the reluctance in your tone, the hesitation, and that’s what spurs him to be a little selfish.
He lets out a soft breath, his words a low, reluctant mumble. “Just... one more minute.”
“We have to go, xīngān,” you mutter absentmindedly.
It’s unfair, the way a single word in Mandarin sounds perfect in your voice. He doesn’t know if you’re even aware that you just called him darling— maybe it was a lapse in the switch to Mandarin, maybe it was intentional.
Either way, it doesn’t take more than a single moment for his heart to skip a beat, the sound of the word making something flutter and stir in his chest. His fingers involuntarily tighten around your hip.
“Okay,” he responds, his own voice coming out quieter than usual.
He does let go of you afterwards, the loss of your body heat making his hand feel a little cold. The couch feels noticeably larger and cooler without your side pressed against his, and he already misses the weight of your head against his shoulder.
Minghao tries very hard to look collected as he stands up from the couch, his face almost carefully neutral. His lips quirk up into the ghost of a smile before he offers you a hand to help you up as well.
He holds your hand a little longer than is necessary before letting go slowly. Silence drifts over the two of you as you make your way to the door, and for once, Minghao isn’t quite sure what to say. All he can think about is the single word you’d used— xīngān, in that warm tone of yours.
It’s an endearment he’s heard from friends, family, and fans. It’s a simple, innocent term. The only thing that makes it strange is that he’d never heard you use it for him until now.
He clears his throat, trying— and failing— to keep the quiet waver out of his voice. “Hey,” he says, the word falling from his lips a little more softly than he'd intended.
He pauses for a beat, as you turn to look at him questioningly. He doesn't know how to voice what he wants to say, so he opts to keep things as simple as possible.
“You called me xīngān,” he says point blank.
For a moment, the silence drags on as you keep walking. "Xīngān," you repeat a little dumbly, your eyebrows furrowed as you try to remember how the word translates in. When it seems to dawn on you, you stop dead in your tracks.
You’re speaking in Korean when you frantically wave your hands in front of you, your eyes slightly wider than before. “I’m sorry,” you say, panicked. “I think I was aiming for yīngjùn de. You know, ‘handsome.’ I don’t know why I called you—”
Minghao's shoulders nearly slump in disappointment. It’s a stupid, pointless feeling. It’s just a word, and a common endearment, at that— and yet he’s disappointed to learn that you were trying to say something else.
He gives a little scoff, not bothering to keep the petulance out of his voice. “Oh,” he responds, his hand lifting to rub absently at the back of his neck. “Damn.”
“Did you— like being called xīngān?” you ask, and then you try for the term in your smooth, easy Korean. “Yeobo?”
Minghao hesitates, the slightest hitch in his breath as you repeat the word in Korean.
The truth is a stupid, pointless one. The truth is that his heart almost jumped into his throat the moment he heard that single word, those two syllables. The truth is that he did like being called that. He liked being called darling. He liked it a lot, to be quite honest.
He gives an aborted nod, his gaze falling away from your face. “Maybe. A little.”
“In Korean or in Mandarin?” you prod.
“Do you prefer yeobo,” you start, the Korean term rolling easily off your tongue. “Or xīngān?”
Your Mandarin version is a little more hesitant, more reserved, but just a touch more sweeter.
Both, Minghao nearly blurts out, before he stops himself. He doesn't know which one it is he likes more— the sweet, gentle lilt of the Mandarin, or the smooth, almost-familiar Korean. All he knows is that the sound of being called ‘darling’ in your voice, in any language, makes something in his chest flutter and tighten.
He hesitates, but again— there's no point in being coy about it, is there?
“Both,” he answers softly, his eyes lifting up to meet yours.
“Darling,” you test out— this time not in Mandarin or Korean, but in English. It's heavily accented and clumsy, but the sentiment is still the same. Minghao sucks in a breath, his heart skipping another beat. It's stupid, he’s stupid, but—
He likes how you sound, speaking English. He likes the way your words soften and drag, the way your tongue wraps around the syllables, the gentle flow of your sentences. It’s all so stupid, and yet his heart can't help but skip another beat as he listens to you speak.
The corners of his mouth lift slightly. “I like that one too,” he responds.
“In any language, huh?” you tease lightly, a light pink dusting your cheeks. The two of you begin to walk, again, because you do have places to be.
In an absentminded way, you begin to mumble the ways you know ‘darling’ is translated in other languages.
If nothing else, Minghao has to admit that watching your cheeks flush— and hearing you speak all these other languages— is very distracting.
He’s still busy mentally storing away this new, intriguing tidbit of information that he's learned about himself, but he still can't help his mind from wandering at the sound of other languages falling from your lips. A few of them are familiar, having seen or heard them before, but some of them are entirely new.
Minghao can’t help his mind from dwelling on how good they sound when you say them.
"Wait— what about Arabic?" he asks, cutting into your little list.
It’s the only one he can think of. He just wanted to hear you say this one, too.
“I haven’t touched Arabic in ages,” you mutter distractedly. Minghao can’t help but silently laugh as he watches your facial expressions flicker in a series of micro-emotions, each one slightly different from the other. Frustration, confusion, a pinch of annoyance— and all of it over this little thing.
“I think it's maḥbūb,” you answer after a full moment's pause. Your nose scrunches up in mild frustration; the endearment accented in the language you don’t use often.
His laugh turns into a little scoff, before he finally just lets the laugh roll right out of his lungs. “You’re cute when you’re frustrated,” he tells you fondly, the words falling from his mouth before he can help himself.
Shit.
He'd planned on saying that, but not so— casually. So off-handedly, without a thought to the meaning behind the sentiment. It’s a little much, and yet he can't take the words back now that they’re out there. Thankfully, you take it in stride.
“And you’re cute for liking to be called darling,” you tease right back.
The words hit Minghao square in the chest like one of your punches. He’s glad you’re a few paces ahead of him so you can’t see the way his mouth parts slightly, the way he nearly stumbles. He’s thankful for the few beats of silence before you pipe up once more.
“I think I’ll stick to xīngān,” you commit.
And just like that, he’s breathless again.
He’s a sucker for that term, the way it rolls off your tongue. The way you choose it, like it's the easiest, most obvious choice in the world. “Xīngān,” he finds himself echoing, his voice softer, breathier than he’d meant it to be.
The sound of it leaves a warm, pleasant feeling in his chest. He likes the safety of the word, the way it makes something in his chest flutter. He can’t help the slight smile from tugging at his lip.
“I like the way you say it,” he admits, no longer bothering to keep up the charade of nonchalance.
“I’ll say it more, then,” you muse.
Minghao isn’t even fully convinced that you realize that this is flirting. He’d always gotten that feeling, that you don't always notice when something turns into that sort of casual teasing. He knows you can flirt; he’s witnessed some of your flirtations personally and he’s heard plenty of stories from the others.
But this sort of thing— this banter, the way you tease him with a casual sweetness in your voice— it’s new flirting territory. It’s something he's never experienced in your presence.
He follows you silently to the doors of the company, his heart pounding in his chest. The two of you walk side-by-side, your hips and shoulders nearly brushing with every two steps.
Neither of you bother to slow down as you near your inevitable separation. There isn’t a point, after all. Why draw out the goodbyes?
Before he loses the confidence, Minghao reaches out to snag your wrist. He can only hope that you’re less oblivious than he’s afraid you are.
“Hey,” he calls you back, his voice just a touch breathless. “You free this weekend?”
You tilt your head to one side, only momentarily thrown off. It wasn’t unnatural for you to meet with the boys when they didn’t have a schedule. Sometimes, it was a language lesson; other times, it was a spontaneous hangout. It was always discreet, never anything to really read in to.
You and Minghao have had your fair share of escapades. Chinese takeout on the floor of your apartment, trips to a local library. They’re few and far between, but always welcome.
“I’m free Saturday evening. I have to work in the morning, and I have a family thing on Sunday,” you answer. “What’s up?”
Minghao feels the slight tension in his shoulders loosen at your answer. It’s not a no, not when it comes with a little extra clarification, as though you had been expecting something of a meetup anyway.
He drops the grip on your wrist, his fingers loosening just enough that you can pull away if you want. “Do you want to—” he starts, the words catching in his throat. Is it just him, or is the hallway warm? “Do you want to go to the movies?”
“The movies? Sure. What did you want to watch?" you inquire, your head tilting further as your curiosity is piqued.
The overhead lights catch the soft, sharp lines of your face, illuminating the features that Minghao knows like the back of his hand. The gentle tilt of your chin, the way you’re slightly shorter than he was, the way your hair frames your face in a messy but unfussy way— as though you didn’t try, but the effect was pleasing nonetheless.
It’s an effect that isn't lost on Minghao, that leaves something warm and fond twisting in his chest. He struggles to get a hold of himself.
“There's a film festival,” he says. “An international film festival, over in Gwangjin.”
If Minghao were a weaker man, he would have beamed at your reaction— the excitement in your voice, the way you reached out to squeeze his wrist in turn.
“That sounds fun,” you say happily. “I’d love to go.”
He knew you were passionate about languages, about cultures— one of the reasons you two have gotten on so well, as you’re the only person he’s ever met who shares that sort of enthusiasm. The only person who understands it in a way that doesn’t feel too much.
He gives you a little flicker of a smile before he answers. “Good.”
There's a beat of silence as he contemplates his next few words— and what exactly he was about to propose. “You know…” he finally says, his tone just a little hesitant. “There's a… there's a film that I really wanted to see. In the festival, I mean.”
“It’s in Mandarin,” he quickly clarifies, the words tumbling from his mouth in a way that feels a little too much like panic. “Um— will your Mandarin be up to it? No subtitles.”
“I’ll be up for it,” you assure Minghao laughingly. “If I miss anything, I guess I’ll just have to ask you.”
Ask him? The idea— the mere implication that you’d be leaning in, closer, to ask him. That you’d be needing something, some sort of clarification, a better context.
The way you'd need him.
And perhaps it was obvious, the way you and he were constantly switching back and forth— him with his Mandarin and your Korean and English, to fill in the blanks. But the words still set something loose in his chest, to know that he would be there to help you if you needed it.
“Yeah,” he says, once he finally manages to remember how to speak. “Yeah, you can ask me.”
As you begin to step away, you speak up. “It’s a date, then,” you say casually, still painfully unheeding to the implications of everything. “Will you pick me up or should I meet you there, xīngān?”
Minghao has never felt more simultaneously grateful and betrayed by your lack of awareness.
Because how could you be so casual, how could you just drop that right in front of him— calling it a date, calling him ‘darling’— as though it was nothing more than just another hangout? It leaves him reeling in a way that makes it impossible to respond.
He can only offer a nod, his throat dry, as one hand lifts in a half-wave. “I’ll pick you up,” he says, his brain lagging behind with the rest of his body.
You give a small wave back, your smile just as bright and friendly as the rest of you. This was going to be a thorn in Minghao's side, it seemed. Your brain wasn’t good at half measures. You needed clarity, needed straightforwardness to confront abstract feelings.
You disappear through the revolving front doors of the company, leaving Minghao in the company lobby that suddenly feels all-too warm. His phone pings in his pocket; a text from Jun.
You're late to game night, his member teases. Get away from the love of your life and get your ass over here. ㅋㅋㅋ
Because of course Jeonghan had tattled to all the other boys where Minghao had been. He rolls his eyes as he glances down at the screen, tapping out a quick response.
I'm coming. Don't cheat.
He glances up and back at the glass revolving doors, knowing full-well that you're already on the street at this point.
Minghao, for all his bluntness, has suddenly found himself in a situation where all he can do is beat around the bush.
Minghao arrives outside your apartment building on time, his hands shoved deep in his pockets against the early evening chill. His heart is pounding in his chest, the nervous energy buzzing in his veins.
He had dressed up. He had put on cologne. He was taking you to a film festival. What could possibly happen that would go wrong?
It's a thought that is interrupted when a horn beeping snaps Minghao's attention away from his inner thoughts, as he straightens and glances down the street. There's no one parked on your street, no one walking down the sidewalk. He takes a step forward, peering across to the other side of the street— and there you are, stepping out of the building.
It takes everything he's got to keep a straight face. It feels like something out of a drama, and he's still not entirely sure he's not dreaming.
The fact that you're dressed up too is not lost on him. Damn it, of course you'd look good to him, no matter what you'd chosen to wear.
Minghao straightens as you draw closer, suddenly not quite knowing what to do with his hands. Does he pull you in for a hug? Offer up a casual, friendly greeting?
He settles for a nod, shoving his hands further into the pockets of his jeans, doing his best not to stare. "Hey."
"Hey," you greet right back, flashing Minghao a dimpled smile. You give Minghao a once-over.
"You look nice," you say like it's the most casual observation in the world.
The praise sets something aflutter in Minghao's stomach, his hands gripping his car keys a little tighter to try and keep them from shaking. "Thanks," he responds, somehow finding it in himself to step closer and unlock the car door for you. "You look good, too."
Good doesn't even begin to cover it, he thinks as he goes to slide into the driver’s seat.
"You got me nervous," you say as you pull the seat belt over yourself, suddenly slipping into Mandarin. "About the film having no subtitles, I mean. So I ended up brushing up on my Mandarin."
He lets out a small huff of a laugh that's bordering on a scoff. "Since when have you had to brush up on anything?" he responds in Mandarin as well, flicking on the turn signal and pulling the car out into the street. "Your Mandarin is perfect."
"I'm always studying. You know me," you chirp, leaning forward slightly to fiddle with the knobs of Minghao's car radio. You’ve been in his passenger seat enough time to feel comfortable doing this; you settle on a station playing mostly Western indie songs.
"And my Mandarin always has room for improvement," you go on. "I'm still working on that C2-level proficiency."
Of course you weren't satisfied with just good. You had to go and be an overachiever. Minghao finds himself shaking his head at the thought of how your drive for excellence in everything was— for lack of any better word— admirable and adorable all at the same time.
"You're insane," he says under his breath, still so awed by self-imposed standards. "You really don't need to do that, you know. You're great the way you are."
"How is it that you're both goading and complimenting me at the same time?" you tease.
The way you speak sounds effortless and yet Minghao can pick up on the little moments where your tongue would just ever so slightly stumble. He could correct you, but God, he's never quite heard that same sound before.
In fact, he's suddenly very aware of just how different you two sound when you speak his mother tongue.
"It's called being a good friend," he responds, fighting the rising urge to say something else.
"You're a pain in the ass, but I love you, anyway," he continues, his hand settling on a knob on the center console to change the radio station to something with a bit more of a modern beat. You always had to listen to indie music.
As the sounds of some Top Fifties pop song filters through the car, you let out a snort of laughter and respond noncommittally to Minghao's jab. "Love you, too," you say with no shortage of sarcasm. The words, in Mandarin— wǒ yě ài nǐ— still sound soft and sweet and lilting, despite your best effort to sound mocking.
Minghao suddenly has to swallow against his very dry throat. He hadn't expected that response from you, not when the last time he had said those words to you was months and months ago during an argument between the two of you. A particularly stressful work week, a squabble that neither of you talk about anymore.
"You better," he manages to respond, his voice cracking ever so slightly on the second syllable of 'better'. He hopes it goes unnoticed.
That little stutter, that tiny stumble around the last syllable of 'better', was the only indicator that betrayed the way Minghao's heart was hammering out the wildest beat in his chest.
He knows it's a sign of his own impending nerves when he turns the radio volume all the way up, drowning out any chance of conversation between the two of you for the rest of the ride to the venue.
Far too used to Minghao's pockets of peace, you pay no heed to the fact that the rest of the car ride is spent in companionable silence. You only break it once Minghao is pulling up into the parking lot of the theater house.
"You should go ahead. I'll get us snacks," you offer delicately, this time in Korean. The reminder of how the two of you had to hide any sort of public interaction settles like a stone at the very bottom of Minghao's stomach, and yet he nods anyway, silently agreeing with the logic of your suggestion.
You ask, "Is there anything you want to eat?"
He lets out a soft sigh as he pulls the keys out of the ignition. "Popcorn," he responds, his eyes skimming over your form as you unclick the seatbelt to leave. "With M&Ms."
The familiar request makes a small smile tug at your lips. It was the same thing, still, that Minghao asked for after all these years of movie-watching. "Got it," you say, sliding out of his car. "I'll find you in a bit."
Even through the closed car door and over the sound of the car radio turned up to its highest, he can still clearly hear the smile in your voice. It sets that now familiar thump in his chest into overdrive.
"Hurry up," he responds in all of his usual nonchalance, despite the fact that his eyes are still following your figure, taking in the way you carry yourself as you walk away.
Shit, he's so gone for you.
Minghao's choice of seats are typical as always. In the very back of the theater, to keep him away from possible prying eyes.
You settle into the seat at his right, carefully balancing the food you’d gotten the two of you. "I couldn't carry two popcorn buckets, so we'll have to share this big one," you whisper to him as you pass him his pack of M&Ms and a bottle of soda.
"Thanks,” he murmurs over the sound of advertisements playing over the big screen.
"I've heard a lot of good things about this film," you mumble. "No making fun of me if I cry."
"I would never," he replies, voice as light as yours.
Sure enough, the opening of the film has Minghao leaning forward on the edge of his seat, engrossed in the drama unraveling between the characters on-screen. It's like he was that sixteen year-old boy in the movie, struggling to find his place in the world.
He's all but quiet in his consumption of popcorn, a hand sneaking into the bucket at times to munch on a few pieces idly. A few times, when the food almost runs out— he accidentally brushes his fingers against yours. The touch is brief, accidental, but each time, his skin feels like it's singing, and he fights the impulse to grasp your hand altogether every time he reaches for popcorn.
He does notice, however, when you seem to encounter unfamiliar words. His gaze flicks over to you as your lips wordlessly form the nickname they call the main character. Xiǎoshì.
It's a term, sure, but it's far more than that to him.
For him, it's a moment. A time in his life that was so brief, but one he remembers like it happened yesterday. A small part of him wants to tell you all about it, but he can't now.
And so he settles on another form of communication. With your attention still on the screen, Minghao reaches over— and finally grasps your hand. Interlocking your fingers together.
As your fingers grasp with his, a part of him hopes that you don't pull away. He almost wants to look sideways at you, just so he can see your reaction— read your face as you focus on the movie in front of you, as your heart beats fast, loud, against your ribcage.
He doesn't dare to hope, though. He keeps his hand in yours, holding on tightly, as the movie continues to play out, the scenes getting more familiar to him.
The main character gets into a particularly nasty row with his mother about following his dreams, about leaving home, about wanting a better life than the one they had in their province. His gaze flinches slightly at the familiar scene before him and the memories, the emotions, that it all brings up in him.
It's a tense scene, spoken in the scathing language he'd grown up in, and you can tell the way it's affecting him. Instinctively, you reach your free hand over to gently press at the side of Minghao's head; a quiet invitation for him to rest his head on your shoulder.
Minghao takes you up on your invitation, the touch of your hand almost a command to him. He lets his head rest on your shoulder, not unlike a weary puppy. He can practically hear his mother's voice in some parts of the argument playing out in the movie. He can hear his own words echoing in his ears— almost as if he himself was the one speaking on-screen.
He wants to stay in the moment, with you, in the darkened theater as the movie continues to play. He doesn't think he can tear his eyes away from the screen, just like how he feels like he can't let go of your hand.
But it's a movie— a coming-of-age one, at that— and so all ends well. The boy and his mother reconcile. The main character is not any older by the last part of the film, but he's wiser, and the whole thing ends with him looking out at the Beijing skyline, humming an old lullaby for comfort.
The credits roll. The lights stay off as they do, and you finally, finally, bring yourself to pull away from Minghao's shoulder.
You keep your hand in his, though, as you let out a quiet, watery laugh. "Xu Minghao," you reprimand in Mandarin. "You took me to the saddest movie ever."
"I told you," he responds back lightly, in Mandarin, his own voice a little rough from trying to hold himself back just a bit. "My friend said it was a sad one, when he recommended it. And you said you were fine."
He squeezes your hand again, shifting in his seat so that he was facing you, a hint of teasing in his tired eyes.
Absent-mindedly, you rub your thumb on the back of his palm. "How did you like it?" you ask, pitching your voice lower, still, despite no one being within your vicinity.
Minghao's eyes soften a little at the tender gesture on your part. He feels the light, comforting motion of your thumb brushing against the back of his palm and he lets out a small, shaky sigh of his own. "It was... a little difficult to watch," he admits, his voice quiet, his eyes focused on your interlocked hands between you.
"Do you want to talk about it over dinner?" you offer, your smile just a touch rueful. "Or we could just... have dinner and not talk about it at all. Whichever works best for you."
At your offer, a small, almost self-deprecating smile quirks at the corner of Minghao's lips. He squeezes your hand one more time. "Dinner, yes. Talking, no."
The walk back to the car is a quiet one. Once you’re in your seats, Minghao puts the burden of deciding on you.
"There's this barbeque place I've really been wanting to try out over in Myeongdeong," you rave, but then your fingers freeze over the GPS screen. You glance at Minghao over your shoulder, suddenly a bit sheepish. "It's a bit out of the way from your dorm and my apartment, though. Is that alright?"
He lets out a small, soft laugh, shifting in his seat a little before reaching over to lightly flick your ear. "When has distance ever stopped me?" he retorts, his usual dry tease in his voice. "Let's go, I'm starving."
"Alright, alright," you huff as you plug in the address. The directions to the restaurant— somewhere twenty minutes away, barring traffic— appear on screen as you move back into your seat, still pouting slightly at your ear being flicked. "I just thought you'd be sick of me after the movie."
"Sick of you?" He scoffs at your words as he begins to peel out of the parking lot. "I think I would die of boredom without you, actually."
“Ah. Because no one else will keep up with you like this, hm?"
"They're not quick enough. You're one of the rare ones who don't make me want to tear my hair out."
"You're laying it on thick tonight. Is this a ploy to get me to pick up the dinner bill?” you tease. "Because really, Hao, there's a rather big difference between the salaries of idols and translators."
He chuckles a little at your comment, his grip around the steering wheel tightening slightly. "No, this is not a ploy to make you pay for dinner. I'm treating tonight. I'm rich, remember?"
"Yah, you're not treating!” you shoot back. “We’ll pay for our own shares. You should only spend your money on things that are important.”
"And treating you isn't important? You're always important to me. Don't deny it."
When you suddenly go silent as a flush starts to creep up your face, Minghao can't help but look away from the road for a few moments to glance at you from the corner of his eye. He can only see the side of your face, the blush that colors your cheeks glowing against your skin.
"You can't just say stuff like that so casually," you snap, though your tone is soft around the edges. "You should save that for birthdays or holidays."
"And why only birthdays and holidays?" he muses. "I'd rather tell you all the time."
In a bid to regain a bit of an upper hand, you keep your eyes out the window as you mumble in Mandarin, "Just keep driving, xīngān."
Seeing your flustered face flush an even deeper color of red gives Minghao a sort of satisfaction, his lips tugging up at the corners. He can't help but chuckle a little more when he hears the words that leave your mouth in Mandarin, his mind taking a few moments to register the nickname he's grown to like.
"Yah, don't just call me that without warning," he says, voice slightly muffled as he continues to focus on the road. "My heart can only handle so much."
You finally glance over at him. The blush still lingers, but there's a bit of a mischievous glint in your eyes now. "Should I warn you, then, if I'm about to use it?" you say sweetly, sticking to his mother tongue for the sake of seeing how far you can go with it. "Should I only save it for special occasions?"
"Yes," he manages to hiss out after a beat, a small scowl on his face when he realizes that you're taking advantage of his weakness. "I'd much prefer you to warn me in advance. And only use it on occasions that actually count."
"I'm about to use it," you warn instantly, leaning slightly forward to turn down the radio. There had been some other group's song playing, filling the car with the sweet, lilting sounds of a ballad.
"This occasion counts, xīngān," you sing-song. "Every moment with you counts."
At your obvious mockery, Minghao's scowl only deepens, not that he really minds. Your sweet words have his heart thudding loudly in his chest in spite of his protests.
"Stop being so cheesy. You're only saying this because you know that I like it, aren't you?"
"I'm saying it because I like it," you answer. "It suits you. I'm about to use it again."
You pause for a beat. "Darling," you say, this time cycling between English, Korean, and Mandarin. "Yeobo. Xīngān."
This time, Minghao can't help but chuckle. He's definitely going to be having a good time tonight.
"Are you going to spend the rest of the night calling me that?" he questions, finally having to pause at a red light. He turns to look at you for a few moments. "Just so I know what to expect."
"Do you want me to?" you ask right back, your eyebrows raised slightly.
"If you did," he starts, the words coming out before he even fully registers them, "I wouldn't stop you."
The light turns green. The cars in front of you move forward a bit, and that means that you have to as well. The moment passes ever so slightly as Minghao is forced to lurch forward, to turn the corner that will finally have you at the barbecue place you'd recommended.
You look ahead, away, the smile on your face widening just a bit. And because he said he wouldn't mind, because he'd given you something akin to a go-ahead—
"Alright, xīngān," you say softly.
The term of affection in your voice has Minghao's heartbeat rising, the nickname ringing in his ears, filling his chest with a sort of sweetness at the sound of it. It was like music to his ears, he thinks, the way you say it, the way it sounds.
Once again, he can't help the smile that finds a place on his face, though he hides it by turning away to concentrate on the road ahead, trying to focus on it instead of the way his heart just won't stop racing in his chest.
The meal is comfortable. You talk about everything and nothing; you take turns cooking the meat. If sometimes you fall silent, neither of you feel the need to fill that quiet. You're so assured in each other's presence that we're fine to just be.
It's easy, with you— easy to relax in a way that he sometimes can't with others. He feels comfortable with you, safe around you, and he doesn't really have to think about what words he uses or the right thing to say.
You make it easy for him. And he's grateful for it.
As the night continues, though, the light conversation seems to eventually die down. Not that it bothers him; no, as Minghao has said before, the two of you do well with silence.
In the quiet that now surrounds the two of you, though, his mind begins to wander. A thought that has been in the back of his mind since earlier that night resurfaces again.
"Xīngān," he begins tentatively, his eyes still on the grill in front of him as if staring at it is supposed to give him some strength. Once again, he finds himself turning to Mandarin for the question, the words feeling like home on his tongue.
It feels, somehow, more fitting to ask you this question in the language that's his, one that he's comfortable and practiced in. "Do you believe in fate?"
Mìngyùn. Fate. Your mouth soundlessly tries out the word, the two syllables lolling on your tongue.
"Like— the red thread of fate," you say, just a little dumbly, as you contemplate Minghao's question. You don't even notice the way you've switched over to Mandarin to match his pace. "Like that kind of fate? Or something else?"
He takes a beat before he answers, trying to figure out how to word his question, how to express what he means in a way that makes sense, even to himself. "I mean that kind of fate," he clarifies. "Like, soulmates."
"Do you?" you ask suddenly, throwing the query back to him.
"I do."
"What version of the red string of fate do you believe in?"
He hesitates when you ask him the question, not quite sure how to explain the kind of fate he believes in. "I believe in things that are inevitable."
"I mean— I believe in things that are destined," he continues, trying to elaborate. "I believe the people— the ones who are supposed to be together— will always find each other, in a way, no matter what happens. No matter how much time passes, or what obstacles there are between them."
The way the corner of your mouth twitches when he says the word inevitable sets something ablaze inside him.
He knows the look you're giving him is just one of interest, not a look of affection, but to him, it feels like a look of affection.
Your lips twist into a slightly rueful smile as you take a moment to flip the meat on the grill, trying to keep it from burning. It's your turn to keep your gaze evasive as you answer.
"I'm not sure if I believe in fate," you say, your Mandarin deliberately careful and slow. "Or soulmates. Not in the way that you do, at least."
The words strike a painful sort of ache in his chest and Minghao finds himself having to bite down on the inside of his lip, trying to quell the way his heart seems to clench at the confession.
This time, you slide into Korean, desperate to get your point across in the language that you know, in the tongue where you won’t be misconstrued. "I want to. I want to believe that soulmates exist— that there's someone out there for all of us," you say with a little more firmness, the change in speech giving you some more conviction.
"But I think that if soulmates do exist, they're not found; they're made." You pause to bring your gaze back up to Minghao. "People meet, they get a good feeling, and they get to work building a relationship. And that will lead to the inevitable."
He's not quite sure why it feels like a loss, somehow, to no longer be speaking in Mandarin, and it makes his fingers itch for something to do. There's a moment where Minghao has to process the words you say, the way you express yourself so firmly and deliberately, as if you've given this some thought. Slowly, he gives a nod. "Like working in a relationship. Like making it work."
"Like making it work," you concede.
You gently place the last pieces of meat on Minghao's plate. "The concept of the red string of fate has always scared me," you admit, your mouth twitching upward in a slightly wistful smile. "What if the person on the other end follows the string only to realize they don't like what they find?"
Minghao's gaze drifts down to the plate of food you've assembled for him, a gesture that feels oddly domestic, somehow, to have someone prepare a plate for him, and his heart gives a warm, affectionate little squeeze.
He looks back up when you speak, his face a carefully stoic mask in spite of the way his heart is giving a painful thud, thud, thud inside his chest.
"I think..." he begins slowly, his eyes still on you, the words leaving his lips careful and deliberate, as if he's trying to pick them out slowly from a tangled mess in his mind.
There's an intensity to his gaze, a gravity that's hard to miss. "I think even if the person on the other end of the string doesn't like what they find, it's what they're supposed to have. It's what they're destined for."
"Ah. Destiny."
Minghao had stuck with Mandarin; you say it in Korean. The two words— mìngyùn, unmyeong— are the two faces of the same coin.
"And who do you think I'm destined for, xīngān?" you ask with just the right amount of teasing, making it a point to still refer to Minghao with the Mandarin term of ‘darling’ despite speaking the rest of the question in Korean.
It's supposed to be nothing more than a good-natured joke, but Minghao feels the sudden urge to be honest.
He knows it's a joke, he knows it's meant to be a lighthearted question, but something in the back of his head, something sharp and cruel, his traitorous, selfish heart keeps repeating the question back to him: Who do you think I'm destined for?
The thought that you'd be destined for anyone but him makes him feel like there's something lodged in his throat, something painful and sharp, and he wants to reach out and grab you, hold you, pull you tight against him and just never let go.
But instead he just looks at you and he forces the corners of his lips to tug up into a smile. "You're destined for someone wonderful," he says in his soft Mandarin, his trademark sincerity.
It's a non-answer; a cop-out, a way to avoid confessing things he shouldn't, but it's the best he can manage at this moment, when I wish it was me is screaming so loud in his head, it's all he can hear.
You smile softly.
Minghao had told the truth. You are destined for someone wonderful.
He just wishes he could have been more specific.
The next time he sees you is ahead of the boys’ Japanese showcase. Minghao had been lagging behind in the airport; he'd managed to get a few moments of shut eye on the plane, but it did little to stave off the exhaustion he still felt.
He walks a few steps behind Seungcheol, his eyes flitting idly through the crowd, until they land on you, walking slightly ahead.
You were already moving efficiently, keeping your gaze straight as you walked next to Seungcheol, your eyes focused and unflinching even as the press and fans yelled out at you.
Minghao's eyes don't leave your figure, following you and Seungcheol as you navigate the throngs of airport patrons with practiced ease. He's almost unsettled by how effortless you seemed— walking through the crowd as if it were nothing more than a casual stroll through the park, your expression set and unwavering as you translate for Seungcheol in a low, firm tone.
Once you finally get past the front doors of the airport, there's a lull as the boys all pile into a twelve-seater van. You stay by the door, finally stealing seconds to see each of them as they pass by you.
Vernon dips his head in a nod. Mingyu throws you an exaggerated wink. Jun mouths 'hello' to you in Japanese.
And then it's Minghao's turn to get in the van, to pass by you. There's not much either of you can do or say yet, considering the fact that there are still fans and press scrutinizing your every move, but he still has this. A moment of acknowledgment, however he deems fit.
Minghao's mouth tugs up at one corner as he sees you smile at him, the sight immediately making something warm bloom in his chest.
He can't help the subtle, almost instinctual reaction as he stops ever so slightly in passing you. He wants to say something, but words elude him.
Instead, his hand just grazes against your wrist— the merest press of his fingers against the bare skin of your arm. It's a tiny gesture, but one that speaks volumes.
For the rest of the car ride to the hotel, Minghao struggles.
He's stuck in a car full of members, all exhausted from the flight, all loud and noisy and rowdy, and the van feels suddenly stifling. He spends most of the time looking out the window, trying to focus on whatever he sees.
Anything to distract himself from thoughts of you and the ghost of your soft, warm skin under his fingers.
The next time you're slated to see the group is in the dressing room before their showcase. It's hours later. Hours you spend translating, liaising, transcribing. The dressing room is as lively as ever, most of the members having already changed into their stage outfits. Several of them are sitting around, idly eating snacks or watching videos.
You carefully push open the door. "Hey," you greet, and you're met with the instant chorus of thirteen boys welcoming you.
Seungkwan excitedly calls out, "Hey, hey, hey!"
Joshua gives you a warm smile. Chan waves exaggeratedly.
You let out a huff of laughter, already acutely familiar with the boys' habits. "Just wanted to check in on everyone before the showcase," you say as you lean against the doorframe.
Minghao is sitting on a couch in the corner of the room, his eyes on you as you say your reason for coming to see them.
"We're all good here," Jeonghan answers, one hand propping his chin up. "You look like you could use a sit, though."
Your laugh is just a little strained, your smile a touch forced. But your façade stays intact, even as you shake your head. "I've still got some preparations to do," you say lightly, and then you shift gears before anyone can press. "How was the flight?"
"It was fine," Seokmin pipes up. "You know, nothing out of the usual. We were well-behaved."
"Well-behaved," Wonwoo echoes from the couch. "If by well-behaved, you mean Soonyoung and Vernon got extremely handsy in the plane."
"Hey," Vernon protests, whipping his head around to look at Wonwoo, "don't say it like that!"
On the couch, Jihoon lets out an amused snort, shaking his head in fond, exasperated disbelief. "No, no, please," he encourages, his voice laced with sarcasm, "tell everyone how you two almost got us yelled at by the stewards because you were roughhousing over some food."
Soonyoung pouts, his expression instantly adopting a look of exaggerated innocence. "I don't know what you're talking about," he insists. "I was a perfect angel."
While the other boys are all busy ribbing on Vernon and Soonyoung, Minghao makes his way over to where you're standing against the doorframe.
He stops when he's standing next to you, and the corner of his mouth tugs up into an amused smile as he takes in your distant, almost out of it expression. When he speaks, his voice is soft enough for you to hear but low enough that the others can't, barely more than a whisper.
"You look tired."
You give him a sheepish smile as you pat out invisible wrinkles on your linen blazer. "Hao," you greet quietly, still a bit hesitant to use xīngān in front of his members.
Your gaze flickers briefly to the rest of the room before you switch to Mandarin, a clear indication that you want your next words to be for Minghao and Minghao alone.
"I am tired," you admit in his native tongue. "But it's nothing crazy. Just the usual exhaustion."
"You always work too hard," he responds, matching your switch to Mandarin. His gaze sweeps over your form, taking in the weary lines of your frame, the subtle stiffness in your stance. "You look like you'll fall over any second."
You roll your shoulders a bit, unconsciously leaning closer toward him. "It's my back, still," you confess. "Making things a little harder than usual. I really will get it checked when we're back in Korea."
A concerned frown tugs at the corners of Minghao's mouth when he hears you say it's your back, his eyes sweeping over your frame once again. "How long has it been bothering you?" he asks, his gaze sweeping over you.
He tries not to seem too obvious about it, but he steps a little bit closer, shifting a fraction of an inch closer in case you do fall over. His arm brushes up against yours, the contact between the two of you almost imperceptible.
"This morning," you say with a rueful smile, your hand reaching behind to massage the small of your back from over your layers of clothing. "The plane was a bit cramped."
Minghao's eyes narrow a fraction of an inch when he hears the reason, one of his eyebrows lifting slightly in a mixture of surprise and annoyance. "I told you to get it checked before the flight," he says.
You give Minghao a look that's mildly exasperated and wholly exhausted. "I'm already booked to see a physician once this trip is over," you grumble, crossing your arms over your chest as you look up at Minghao.
"You always say that," Minghao responds, the hint of annoyance in his voice a clear indication of just how frustrated he is. "It's clearly bothering you every day. If you just took some time off, maybe even just a week, maybe you'd—"
"Minghao."
The quiet, stern way you say his name— just his name; not Hao, not xīngān— cuts right through his frustrated tirade. A flicker of surprise passes across Minghao's features, the almost snap in your tone shutting him up.
"I'm going to go," you inform him stiffly, slipping back into Korean and away from the language you reserved for each other. "We need to prepare for the showcase."
His jaw clenches, a muscle in his cheek twitching as he tries to keep his mouth shut for once, biting back the words he wants to say, the protests that are so close to leaving his lips. He lets out another huff of air, forcing his expression to stay neutral.
"Yeah," he replies in the same language, the one word filled with annoyance. "See you."
When the showcase rolls around, you maintain a backstage presence. Your role, as always, entails that you pay complete attention to the boys as they speak. Whenever they address the crowd as a whole, you translate their Korean into Japanese.
For some reason, hearing the familiar sound of your voice coming out of the speakers, the smoothness of your Japanese, still feels somewhat calming to Minghao. In the chaos of lights and loud music, hearing the rhythm of your words through the speakers makes it feel like, at least for the moment, you're still right there beside him.
When the songs pass and the showcase ends, the members are all still riding the high of the excitement of their performance, the energy of their fans still buzzing in the atmosphere.
They all make their way backstage, the hum of their conversations filling the air, a sense of excitement and satisfaction, each and every one of them energized. Minghao, once again, makes his way over to where you're standing, his eyes on you, his expression almost intense.
You don't immediately notice Minghao approaching because a staff member is talking to you in rapid Japanese about some interviews you need to coordinate, need to play the role of interpreter for. You're trying to bargain for a moment's break, but it's a losing battle.
The staff then suddenly folds into a bow, and only then do you realize that Minghao had come up to you. You dip your head in an equally respectful bow of acknowledgement.
In Japanese, you tiredly assure the staff member you'll be there for the press circus; she leaves Minghao and you alone at your reassurance. You flash Minghao a weary smile, slipping, this time, into Korean. "Good job with the showcase," you say benevolently. "You did well."
He can't help the subtle frown that forms on his face, the way his eyebrows furrow in concern. The fact that you're once again hiding behind that professional exterior of yours, the friendly, polite smile you're shooting him, does nothing to soothe his frustration.
"Thanks," he mutters, his tone somewhat clipped.
He hesitates for a moment, his gaze sweeping over you. "Hey," he eventually says. "Come with me for a second."
You cast a glance around backstage. The boys are all off doing their own things— chugging water, ribbing each other, taking photos. In a gaggle of thirteen, it's easy to fly under the radar at any given time.
"You have a magazine interview in fifteen minutes," you tell Minghao, clueing him in on the conversation you had with staff just moments prior. "We can't really go anywhere—"
"I know," Minghao responds, his tone perhaps a little sharper than he'd meant it to be, frustration getting the better of him.
He takes a quick glance around the backstage area, confirming that the others are all occupied enough that they won't notice, before his gaze lands back on you. "We won't be long," he assures you, already grabbing your wrist.
His grasp on your wrist is firm, his hand strong and his fingers wrapping around the limb easily, pulling you along with him, with no room for any protest. He doesn't break his pace until he's found a small, secluded bathroom, pulling you inside and shutting the door behind the two of you before anyone could notice.
"Minghao," you hiss under your breath, still obviously pissed in the way you forgo both his nickname and pet name. "You can't just drag me off when we have work."
Even in his already frustrated state, Minghao finds himself momentarily distracted by your pissed off tone, and the use of his name without a nickname or pet name. He likes you calling him by some form of a cute or affectionate moniker far more than just plain, unadorned Minghao.
"We still have a couple more minutes," he retorts, mirroring your tone even as his hand slides down to lace your fingers together.
His eyes are heavy on you, his expression intense even as he takes an unabashed, close-up look at your face, studying the weariness in your expression, and the strain that's clearly weighing down on you.
He makes a move to reach down, his gaze on your cheek, to brush away a strand of stray, loose hair. His heart lurches when he sees the way your expression softens subtly, even when you're still trying to be mad at him. The way you immediately intertwine your fingers in his— God.
"We look very suspicious right now," you say dryly, your free hand gesturing vaguely to the fact that Minghao practically has you pinned against the bathroom wall. "Is this what you pulled me away for?"
"We'll make it quick," he manages to reply, sounding slightly hoarse, before closing the already-minimal distance between the two of you, one arm snaking around your waist.
"We shouldn't—" you protest weakly, because there's just some things you can't explain away. Like how Minghao and you might be caught hugging in this bathroom when you were colleagues at worst, good friends at best. "We're going to get in trouble."
"We won't," he responds, his tone firm, stubborn.
His other hand comes up to rest at the back of your head, pulling you in even closer, burying your face in his chest, the other arm still looped firmly around your waist. He lets out a sharp exhale of air, the frustration and tension of the moment melting into something akin to relief.
"Just—" he mumbles, his breath hot in your ear. "Let me hold you. Just a little— for a second."
A small flicker of relief fills his chest when he feels the tension ease as a result of his embrace, the way you lean against him, almost as if you're allowing yourself just to relax. To melt against his body the way you almost never did in public.
When you mumble Mandarin against his chest, your words are slightly muffled. "I'm sorry about earlier," you whisper. "I was really stressed."
"I know," he responds, just as quietly. "I'm sorry too."
This was how it was with the two of you— the quick-tempered arguments, the stubborn disagreements, and then the inevitable apologies that always followed. Minghao knew he was stubborn, maybe even a little irritable, and he would admit that he could've handled his response better.
But, for some reason— in the moment, at least— all of that tension that had been between the two of you in that moment just evaporated in the embrace. "You're working yourself to the bone," he mutters quietly, into your collarbone.
He knows how hard you work, in general, but it's become increasingly worse as of late. The endless translation, the interviews, the subtitles and scripts. It all seemed to be getting too much, even for you.
"I know it's not my place to tell you this but—" he continues, his voice becoming even more hoarse and heavy in worry. "You need to take better care of yourself. You can't just keep pushing yourself like this. Not like you've been doing. You're going to burn out at this rate."
It's just the way the two of you were— you, the overworked, over-stressed, and over-tired, and him, almost constantly worried about your general well-being, worried about you working yourself to actual exhaustion.
The moment you gently run your fingers through his hair, he instantly melts against you even more, practically nuzzling against your shoulder.
"You do have some right to tell me this. We're friends," you sigh, tilting your head to press your lips to the side of Minghao's temple. "And you're right— I'll look into taking a medical leave for a bit, once we get back home."
"Good," he responds, his voice quiet but firm. "You need a break. And I—" he pauses, hesitating.
He doesn't like seeing you like that, he wants to say. He doesn't like seeing you so tired and so stressed every day. He doesn't like how you barely have any time together anymore. He doesn't like seeing you overexert yourself so much.
He stops himself from saying it out loud, instead letting out a soft huff before continuing. "I really worry about you, you know?" he mutters against your shoulder.
"I know, xīngān," you respond, slipping into Mandarin in a bid to comfort Minghao a little more. A beat. And then, ever so quietly: "I worry about you, too."
You slide your hand up and down his back. "We're both fools," you whisper with a slight huff of laughter.
"Yeah," he agrees with an exhale of a laugh at your last words. "We are both fools."
But we're fools for each other, his mind unhelpfully reminds him as he dares to hold you for just a moment more.
He just has to go and mess it all up by insisting, "I wish you’d let people take care of you."
People, meaning him. He had meant to say I wish you’d let me take care of you, but instead something entirely else came out. He knows he ought to back down the moment he feels you tense under his grasp, but Minghao was nothing if not adamant.
"I don’t need to be taken care of," you persist.
Minghao huffs into your hair. "That’s bullshit and you know it."
"Hao—"
"It’s not a sign of weakness—"
"You keep treating me like—"
"I’m not—"
"Minghao!"
You’ve all but pulled away now, your earlier softness replaced with a new kind of tension. It’s not the same tiredness from being overworked; no, it’s the frustration of the two of you trying to speak over each other. The push and pull of your words. Your mutual inability to communicate just what you mean.
Minghao’s fingers ball into fists at his sides to hide his almost trembling hands. It’s all he can do to keep himself from reaching back out for you.
"I'll go ahead," you whisper decisively, your gaze fixed on the door. "I'll see you at the magazine interview."
An almost visceral, physical pain shoots through Minghao's chest at the mention of you leaving. His mind screams no, don't leave, don't go. But he swallows down his own irrational, impulsive desires, his own selfish longing for you.
"I— yeah," Minghao responds slowly. "I'll meet you there."
He watches silently, almost helplessly, as you make a beeline for the door.
The interview is with NYLON JAPAN. You interpret and translate for both the interviewer and the boys, once again acting as an off-camera presence— an intent, constant figure quietly relaying questions and answers.
There's some benefit in SEVENTEEN being thirteen members strong. That way, Minghao is in the second row, some distance away from you. If you avoid his gaze, it almost feels negligible.
For the duration of the interview, Minghao can hardly concentrate on the questions and answers being traded between the members and the interviewer. His focus is firmly drawn towards you.
He can't help but glance in your direction every so often. Every time your gaze accidentally meets his, it's like a jolt of electricity straight to his chest, his stomach clenching at the painful realization of how close you are and how far away you feel.
When the interviewer begins to ask member-specific questions, you do your job as well as you always do. The first two are for Seungcheol, then Chan. And then, of course, there it is.
You nod a bit as the interviewer poses his question. "Jun and Minghao," you translate, your voice wavering imperceptibly on the second name. "You two are the members that have given up a life in your home country in exchange for being an idol. How are you able to cope with that?"
As you translate Jun’s answer to the interviewer, Minghao can hardly focus on the actual words he's saying. He’s only half-listening as he watches the subtle flutter of your eyelashes, the slight parting of your lips, the crinkle in your forehead as you concentrate hard on getting the Japanese translation perfect.
His chest feels tight, like there's a band wrapped around his entire body, constricting his airflow.
When your gaze finally moves back to him, locking eyes with his own, a rush of breath leaves his lungs, his heart jumping in his throat. The look in your eyes, the distance between the two of you— it’s nothing short of exaggerated.
For a brief moment, he's not answering a question for a Japanese magazine interview. He's answering a question for you.
"It's hard," Minghao answers, his voice quiet and low, somewhat hoarse. "It’s really hard and lonely sometimes."
Every word that leaves his lips feels like a struggle to get out, like they're getting stuck in his throat, choking him.
"But I have the members, and we have the fans," he continues, a quiet yearning in his eyes. "And so it’s bearable," he says, despite the pit still present in his stomach, despite the ache of needing more.
He keeps his gaze focused on you, letting every word he says hold a meaning beyond the answer to the interviewer’s question— as if he’s answering for you and not the interviewer. But he has to keep his words vague, just in case those damned cameras picked up on his words and the way he looks at you.
"It's bearable," he repeats, swallowing hard, letting his eyes convey what he really means, even if his words can’t. You make it bearable.
There are some things that don't need to be translated. The pinched look on Minghao's face. The way he's openly staring at you. The subtle shift among the members— all of whom seem to pick up on something Minghao isn’t saying.
"Is that all?" you ask Minghao in Korean, your voice steady as ever despite the flicker of emotion in your gaze.
That aching, yearning expression is still present on his face as he responds.
"Yeah," he says. "That’s all."
Minghao's phone is tucked under his pillow, the device set to vibrate.
He jolts awake the moment it begins to buzz, a habit he had grown after years of being under the spotlight and on the road. His hand flies out to grab the phone.
His eyes bleary, he blinks a few times to clear his vision. A slight smile involuntarily tugs at his lip when he sees your message, his eyes skimming over the contents of it several times.
i'm sorry about today. (yesterday, technically?) i hope you're resting right now. ily.
"Idiot," he murmurs quietly to himself.
You don't have anything to apologize for, he replies quickly. It's not your fault. I'm the one who should be sorry. I should've been more patient with you.
How are you? Are you okay?
i'm ok. fell asleep on the couch and woke up suddenly. but did i wake you? it's so late. you should be asleep.
A quiet sigh leaves Minghao's lips as he reads your response, a part of him feeling a pang of guilt, as if knowing he was the reason you were awake right now.
You did wake me. But don't worry. I'm glad you texted me. Can you call me?
A beat.
let me just step out onto my balcony so i don't wake my roommates.
The image of you carefully sneaking out onto the balcony to talk, just so you wouldn't wake your roommates, briefly flashes through Minghao's mind. It reminds him of his own sleeping roommates a mere few feet away from him.
He sighs softly, quietly pulling himself out of bed, careful to not disturb Mingyu and Jun as he quietly makes his way out into the balcony from the door to his left.
The air is cold and the night sky is clear. Those are the two of the three things Minghao registers when he steps out on the balcony of his hotel room. The third thing comes after you call him and there’s a slightly amused edge to your tone as you say, "Look to your right, xīngān."
He turns to look to his right just as you asked, his eyes searching the balcony area in the distance. He can't quite make out any details on your figure in the low lighting, but when his eyes finally land on you, his heart skips a beat all the same.
"Found you," he murmurs.
"I didn’t mean to wake you," you say softly. "We could have talked in the morning, you know."
"I know," Minghao responds. He leans against the railing of his own balcony, the metal cold to the touch, his eyes fixed on you. He's sure you can't see him clearly, but it doesn’t matter at this moment.
He was looking at you, and that was enough.
"I wanted to talk to you," he says simply, the words said without a trace of shame, just quiet honesty.
"What did you want to talk about?" you ask, giving him the liberty to set the pace for tonight, to pick and choose his battles.
There are a lot of things Minghao could say right now, a lot of things he wants to say. But instead, he settles for, "How are you?"
"Better now," you say simply, your gaze still fixed on Minghao in the distance. And it's the truth, even if the second half of your answer goes unspoken. Better now, that you're talking to him.
He stands there silently, still watching you from a distance. Despite his earlier confidence in talking to you, he's suddenly feeling uncharacteristically timid. Tongue-tied, almost, with his words caught in his throat. He can’t bring himself to speak for a moment, a part of him still feeling guilty about earlier.
He swallows the tightness in his throat, taking a deep breath, before finally forcing the words out. "I'm sorry," he mumbles. "For what happened in the bathroom."
Perhaps it's the years you’ve known each other, the herculean task you’ve both faced. But Minghao and you know better than anyone that things were so easily lost in translation, that there’s only so many emotions that can be grasped in all the languages of the world.
"We just have to get better at using our words, I guess," you sigh.
Something in his chest settles at your response— at the understanding in it, at the fact that you don't hate him. The knowledge washes over him like a sudden warmth, the guilt he'd felt earlier slowly evaporating with each passing moment.
"We do," he replies quietly.
There's a comfort, still, in being just a couple of balconies away. How you can make out each other's vague silhouettes in the late evening of this foreign country.
It feels like you're standing on the precipice of something, of possibility.
But instead of confronting it, you opt to dance the line a little longer. Your eyes are still trained on the sky as you slip into Mandarin.
"The stars out here are so clear, xīngān," you muse thoughtfully. "It's beautiful, don't you think?"
The change in language registers quietly in Minghao's mind, his brain taking a second to get used to it after speaking in Korean and stilted Japanese most of the day.
He looks up at the night sky for a moment in quiet contemplation, taking in the beauty of the stars as you'd described them, before turning his gaze back to the shadowed outline of your figure in the distance.
Something about the sight, about you, makes his heart ache a little bit. Beautiful, you had said about the stars, but he’s not looking at them.
He responds softly, longingly, in Mandarin, his voice almost a whisper in the night air. "It really is."
The next day, you both get on separate flights back to Seoul. As Minghao had poked and prodded you to do, you finally take the medical leave from work— a one-week block, which was the longest you’d ever gone away from PLEDIS since you first started nine years ago.
Roughly three days into your break, Minghao is in dance practice when he feels his phone buzzing in his pocket. He frowns when he glances at the screen and sees your name.
can i call?
The sight of the message, so unlike your usual lighthearted air, makes his heart drop instantly in his chest. There's no text-speak, no cutesy words, no emoji— just a simple question. He drops whatever he's doing, ignoring the questioning stares from the members as he steps out into the hallway and quickly dials your number without a second thought.
"Xīngān," he greets you, a little breathless from the rush he'd felt upon seeing your message. There's a hint of concern in his voice as his heart races in his chest, his mind whirling with thoughts.
He doesn't even bother with pleasantries or small talk, diving straight into the issue at hand. "Is everything alright? What's wrong?"
Much to Minghao's chagrin, you bother with pleasantries. "Hey," you say back in Mandarin when he greets you. For a moment, you hesitate; like you're not quite sure which language you want to speak to Minghao in.
"I'm sorry," you say in Korean. "Did I bother you?"
Minghao shakes his head even if you can't see him. He's silent for a moment, mulling over his words before replying, "No. Never. You didn't bother me, xīngān."
The words are uttered quietly, his voice soft and gentle, as if he's afraid that the volume of his own voice might somehow scare you away.
"I finally visited a doctor for my back," you say, finally. "It's a herniated disc, and I'm being slotted in for a surgery in two days."
His heart drops into his chest at your admission, the words feeling like a sudden weight upon him. Herniated disc.
The words feel like a sudden strike to his heart, his mind racing with questions and concerns. "A herniated... disc," he repeats, his voice a little breathless, a little shocked, as he quickly tries to process what he'd just heard.
He doesn't realize he's switched to Mandarin, his own words spoken in a rush. "How bad is it? What are the doctors saying?"
You stubbornly stick to Korean, likely because it's easier to accurately relay your medical results in the same language you'd received them in. "It's not bad," you say firmly. "The operation is an open discectomy on my lower back. It will take at most an hour, and I'll only need to stay in the hospital for up to three days."
There's a flicker of irritation in Minghao's eyes at your insistence to continue speaking in your language, frustrated at the lack of comprehension and understanding it brought. He wants to protest, to argue, to tell you to just use Mandarin— but it disappears when he hears your firm voice, when he realizes what it is you're telling him.
An hour-long operation. Three days in the hospital. It didn't sound bad, per se, and logically, he knew that you would probably be fine. It still didn't make him worry any less.
"What are the risks?" Minghao asks after a moment.
Normally, he would have just looked up whatever answers he wanted, searching it up in medical databases and online articles. But, for some reason, he's suddenly terrified to hear anything other than the sound of your voice— your words, reassuring him that everything will be okay.
"No change to the back pains," you rattle off. "A five to fifteen percent chance of a revision discectomy if the herniated disc returns. A lower chance of an unstable spine. It's— they're truly not bad risks, Hao."
"Five to fifteen perc— no, that's not a 'truly not bad risk'," Minghao counters immediately, his voice sharp and frustrated, as if scolding a child that was being too nonchalant.
"You— it's surgery, xīngān—" he continues in Mandarin, his tone almost pleading. "Five to fifteen percent chance— it— what if something goes wrong?"
He feels a little bit frustrated at his sudden loss for words in both languages, as if his own limited vocabulary couldn’t express the rush of emotions that had suddenly overwhelmed him.
"Hey," you say softly into the receiver, this time switching over to Mandarin. Because it had always been more soothing to him, more familiar in the sense that mattered. "Take a moment and breathe for me, xīngān."
There's a sense of calm that washes over him as he finally hears the change in language. He takes a deep, shuddering inhale, followed by a slow exhale, his eyes squeezed shut as he mentally counts down seconds.
Slowly, the panic, the fear he'd felt gradually starts to subside, leaving his heart and breath steadier— but not completely unbothered.
After a moment, you go on in Mandarin, calm and measured. "It's a surgery with a high success rate of sixty to ninety percent," you maintain. "I need it to address the persistent back pains, xīngān. If I don't do it now, the pain will only get worse and more of my spine could be affected."
You pause, letting the words sink in. "These doctors are good," you go on. "They do their job well."
Minghao takes several more slow, steady breaths as he listens, the sound of your voice alone calming him down, helping him keep his mind clear and focused. He knows you're speaking to him in Mandarin because it's easier to communicate with him this way, but he can't help but notice the subtle firmness, the reassurance in your tone.
The statistics, the numbers, the facts— they're hard to deny, and as he takes another shaky inhale and exhale, he realizes that you're right. "Sixty to ninety percent success rate," he repeats to himself, his voice a soft murmur.
"Sixty to ninety percent," you reaffirm. Then, in a more shy tone, you add, "I'm sorry for springing this on you. I— I just didn't know who else to call."
He notices it then, the meekness in your words, the small hint of vulnerability in your voice. Any remaining anxiety he felt from the situation suddenly dissolves with the realization that you needed this.
You had called him because you’d needed to hear a familiar, comforting voice, a sense of reassurance after what you'd just confessed. He swallows back his fears, his worries, any thoughts about the risk and that lingering, unpleasant feeling in his chest, because you needed him to be calm, to be steadfast.
"Don't... Don't apologize, xīngān," he says almost immediately after. He swallows again before continuing, mentally berating himself for letting his anxiety and irrational fears take over his brain. "No, don't— I'm glad you called. I'll always pick up the phone."
"Are you free tomorrow?" you ask tentatively. "We could grab a meal before I have to check into the hospital."
As he hears the question, his mind immediately begins to run through his schedule for the next day.
He knows what he should do. He knows what the logical part of his brain, the part that's in control of his rationality, is supposed to do. But when he thinks of you— of you, in the hospital, waiting to undergo a surgery (it's safe, it's a safe surgery, he chants in his brain) alone, without him—
"I'll clear my schedule," he tells you.
"No, you don't have to," you say quickly, falling back on Korean in an attempt to express your haste. "It's okay. We can just meet once the operation is over—"
"I'm clearing my schedule,” he repeats, his voice firm, final. “I’m going to be there. We’re eating before the surgery, and I’m going to be at the hospital with you afterwards. I’m not letting you go to the hospital alone."
A beat. While there are things that Minghao and you have yet to clear about the nature of your friendship, one thing stands true regardless of label.
"You're too good to me, Xu Minghao," you say softly, shifting to his mother tongue for the sake of sentiment.
He lets the sound of your voice, the familiar language, wash over him. As it does, it soothes the anxiety that still gnaws at the corners of his mind.
"It’s…” he begins quietly, a small, almost sheepish smile forming on his lips, “not really…”
There’s a moment of silence before he sighs softly, his expression growing more earnest as he continues. “Being good to you is the easy part.”
"And it’s xīngān, not Xu Minghao," he adds quickly, and he’s sure you can hear the pout in his voice.
It draws a laugh out of you— one that's still quiet, but a lot more genuine. A moment of levity. A brightness that only Minghao could truly give you. The sound of your laughter, even over the phone, is enough to lift his spirits, his heart swelling in his chest in relief.
"Xīngān," you amend, and your voice is just a little too fond to be friendly.
For a moment, Minghao can convince himself that all will be alright in the world again.
The discectomy is relatively uneventful, which can only mean that it was good. There's no way of Minghao knowing this, of course, not as he spends the entire morning in a group meeting he can't really skip.
Regardless, all the members can tell that Minghao's heart isn't really in it. That he's physically at the PLEDIS building, sure, but his mind is on you— somewhere in an operating room, under anesthesia.
Seungcheol broaches the topic carefully. "Ah, it’s their surgery today, isn’t it?" the leader asks almost too casually, to no one in particular. There's a murmur of agreement across the table of thirteen boys. Some shifty, knowing glances at Minghao.
Minghao nods in response to Seungcheol's question, his expression still entirely too… anxious. "Yeah," he replies, keeping his voice as controlled as he possibly can, even as he feels his dread build up inside of him. "I'll be going to see them, after this."
It doesn't go amiss to anyone that Minghao doesn't even bother to extend the invite to anyone else. Jun is the only one who looks vaguely miffed about it, but they're all mostly understanding of how different Minghao felt with you compared to their own concern, their own affection.
Joshua offers the next best thing.
"I was thinking we could chip in to send flowers," he says, and there's easy assent across the group. Minghao feels a small flicker of warmth in his chest at the thought of how you'd receive these messages of their care and concern.
As Vernon and Jeonghan debate what arrangement to send, Jun throws a glance at Minghao and almost smiles. Almost.
"What flowers did you get them?" Jun says in Mandarin, so no one else in the room can pick up how quickly the other Chinese man had clocked that Minghao was already three steps ahead.
Minghao glances over to his friend, his expression unreadable, as he answers in the same language. "Sunflowers," he replies, not missing a beat.
Jun can only smile faintly at Minghao's answers. "Sunflowers for your sunshine," Jun teases good-naturedly, still in the tongue that none of the other members will understand.
There's something about the way the Mandarin word for 'sunshine'— yángguāng— that sounds just so right. The Chinese term falls from the older man's lips like a blessing, a wish for good luck and health and goodness for all those involved.
Minghao isn't sure if he'd imagined it, not exactly, but he sees the way Jun looks at him right after he says the word. For a split second, Minghao's chest tightens, his throat clenching up, because maybe Jun thinks his feelings for you are obvious.
Maybe Jun thinks he's been obvious all this time. In his head, Minghao had already been thinking it— yángguāng, sunshine, mine— And it's only now that he realizes that he was never the only one who saw it that way. That saw you and Minghao as something inevitable.
He glances at Jun, eyes softening, filled with almost a wave of gratitude.
"Sunflowers for my sunshine," he repeats, hoping it will somehow manifest like a prophecy.
You wake up after your operation with one less disc in your spine and one too many floral arrangements in your hospital room. As you blink against the vestiges of your anesthesia, you register the absurd, almost comical amount of flowers piled on the couch, and it doesn't take you more than a couple of seconds to realize it came from the boys.
One of whom is dozing off in a chair next to you. You watch with mild amusement as Minghao's head dips in his restless slumber, his fingers still surprisingly firm around the bouquet of sunflowers in his lap. The affection you feel for him then threatens to overwhelm you.
You manage to tamp it down in favor of gently prompting, "Minghao."
Your voice is still hoarse, still a little rough around the edges. Not quite enough to rouse him from his sleep. After two or so more attempts, you go for what you know will wake him up.
"Xīngān," you call out with no shortage of fondness.
The sound of your voice jolts Minghao awake, and he opens his eyes in an instant. For a moment, his vision is still blurry, the world around him seeming almost vague, fuzzy with sleep, but then it snaps into focus when he sees you.
When he sees you awake, alive, and looking at him. His heart does somersaults in his chest.
"Yángguāng," he answers, his voice low, soft and affectionate, barely above a whisper.
"That's a new one," you say in Mandarin; your voice is still scratchy, but your amusement is not any less evident.
He thinks he'll never get tired of watching that. Of watching your lips move that way. "You like it?" Minghao asks.
He doesn't need an answer to his question, because he already knows that you do— but he can't help himself, needing the confirmation, needing to hear your answer. The thought of calling you 'sunshine' isn't a new one, but saying it out loud to you for the first time, when you're awake? It feels like a miracle.
"I could live with it," you answer with a soft smile— even though both Minghao and you knew that you would now never be able to live without it.
Minghao wants to laugh at the way you shrug his question off, at the way you seem so nonchalant, even as you give him that sweet, sweet smile that is so bright that it could rival the very sun itself.
Because he knows the truth. He knows you're happy about it. He knows you love it. He can tell it in the way you're looking at him, in the way your eyes glitter with affection.
"I'm glad," he answers, playing right into your charade because he knows every little trick in your book.
And then, in a fit of bravery— one that he almost feels like applauding himself for— he leans in to press a kiss to your temple.
When he pulls away, the bouquet of sunflowers still clutched in his hands, he's sure he can see it. The happiness in your eyes. The sheer, blinding affection in your smile.
"Thank you," you whisper earnestly. Partly because your voice is still shot; partly because you don't trust yourself to speak any louder. "For coming to see me."
He has to swallow hard to regain control of his emotions, because he is so terribly, terribly in love. He laughs under his breath because he's not sure what to do about his feelings anymore. Maybe it's best to just throw himself off the cliff and see what happens, right?
"I'll always come see you," he answers, instead, making a promise for the future.
He leans in again with that thought on his mind, and he presses another kiss to your temple, softer, longer, his lips lingering against your skin for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
He pulls away to meet your gaze, and he almost feels like laughing at the way he can see his feelings reflecting in your eyes, shining in the pools of your irises. He loves you, he loves you, he loves you. How is he going to live with that?
Minghao leans in again, but this time, he kisses the corner of your lips, right where your smile is.
And it's astounding, really, just how terrible Minghao and you still are at this whole thing. Despite all the years between you, you still falter and stumble in getting your feelings across.
There was always something. A job to do. A reputation to uphold. And now, a hospital bed, a recovery period.
But, for once, you can only laugh breathlessly as Minghao gives you two more kisses, as you feel the upward curve of his lips against your face. Your heart stutters at the peck on the corner of your mouth; it's not quite what you both want, what you both need, but you'll take it. God, you'd take it.
"Stop that," you try to chide in between your giggles. "Get off me, Hao—"
The sound of you laughing is like a revelation in Minghao's chest. As if a chord of tension that had been strung taut within him for so long had been cut.
He pulls back with a look of satisfaction on his face, that teasing grin playing on his lips as he does. "But why?" he asks in an absolutely, unbearably sweet tone, a tone that is laced with faux innocence, even though he knows why. You were recovering. You had to be careful.
A part of him is almost glad he hadn't kissed you properly. Because if he so much as feels the softness of your lips against his, he's not sure he'll be able to stop.
But God, does that make him want it even more— the fact that he can't, the fact that you're so close and still beyond his grasp. He forces himself to look elsewhere then and his gaze falls to the bouquet on his lap, to the flowers he'd brought you.
Sunflowers, because he doesn't think they make flowers that even compare to the brightness of your smile, or the way your eyes glitter when you laugh— at least, not flowers that make him think of you and you alone.
He holds the bouquet out to you. "Do you like them?" he can't help but laugh. He had chosen them and bought them for you, and yet, in true Minghao fashion, he finds himself still asking for your approval.
"I love them," you say easily, readily, already reaching out to take the arrangement from Minghao.
Three sunflowers in full bloom, flanked by chamomile and irises and baby's-gypsophila. Your smile is bright and wide as you look down at it, as you hold it delicately.
When you look back up at Minghao, there's that touch of amusement again. That tinge of disbelief that seems to wordlessly communicate, I can't believe you.
"You didn't have to," you point out with a low chuckle, shifting slightly in your hospital bed as your fingers go imperceptibly tighter around his flowers. "But thank you."
The sight of the smile on your face is enough to almost make him want to kiss you all over again.
It's not the first time he'd given you an arrangement of flowers, but it's the first time it's made Minghao feel like he's just given you his heart, too.
"No, I didn't," he agrees lightly, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, the very tips of his fingers brushing against your soft skin. But I wanted to.
The boys all come to visit, one after the other. In small groups, in age order, until they have to be kicked out for being too noisy and potentially drawing too much attention to themselves. There are doctors, too, and nurses. All of whom are a little shell shocked at the idols just milling about in your hospital room, making themselves at home.
Throughout it all, Minghao stays. His usual quiet, steadfast presence. He absorbs all the diagnoses; he tells off his members when they get overwhelming. And, when no one's looking, he'll squeeze your hand or press his fingers into your shoulder.
As always, there are some things neither of you have to say out loud.
He's more than happy to play the role of your protector, even as he continues to worry, even as he's filled with dread over the possibility of you not recovering fully and what that might mean.
See, Minghao would never describe himself as a man of prayer. He doesn't go to temples nearly as often as he should, though he does go often, and he doesn't consider himself not spiritual.
He finds himself praying anyway. To the universe and whatever is out there, begging for the chance that all of this would work out for you.
But for now, at this moment, all Minghao can do is wait, and focus on the way your hand feels in his— a source of comfort in and of itself.
That's how your mother finds you, actually, on the evening that she deigns to visit.
Minghao is at your bedside, playing with your fingers, and the two of you are debating over something trivial— the merits of adapting dramas into other languages— with your heads bent together. It would've been negligibly friendly if it weren't for the obvious affection in your petty argument, the way you practically lean into each other's touch.
That's why it takes a moment for either of you to register that a third person had entered your hospital room. You look up at the sound of a throat clearing, and you're just about to apologize when you register who the silver-haired woman by the entryway is.
Your spine goes rigid; your eyes, imperceptibly wide. "Eomma," you choke out in a slightly strangled whisper.
Minghao goes still the moment the word leaves your lips, and his mouth goes dry when he registers the figure at the door. He doesn't exactly know what kind of a relationship the two of you had, but Minghao can only hope, for the sake of politeness and respect, that she doesn't despise him.
"Hello," he says weakly, his hand tightening almost protectively around yours in a silent gesture of support before he finally rises to greet her. He bows respectfully, clearing his throat to greet your mother appropriately.
Your mother's scrutinizing gaze flickers over Minghao— everything from his polite bow to the way he had just been holding your hand, moments prior. When she speaks, it's in garbled Korean; there's a hint of a French accent, one that doesn't quite match her Seoul dialect.
"There's no need for that," your mother tells Minghao, referring to his bow. She's aiming for kindness but comes off, still, as cold. It must come with the nature of her profession; you had once mentioned that your parents were diplomats.
Minghao forces himself to stay calm and composed, even as the fear of how your mother may react to him sets in the pit of his stomach. He nods his head, but he doesn't quite dare to look her in the eye
"I'm Xu Minghao, ma'am. I'm here to offer some company," Minghao tries to explain, though he's not sure he's doing the best job of it.
There's a flicker of recognition on your mother's composed expression. The look of recognition in your mother's eyes puts Minghao slightly at ease, but that doesn't quite erase the nervous tension, the anxiety that thrums against the underside of his very skin.
"Xu Minghao," she repeats, and you let out a groan when she sounds just a little amused despite her stoic demeanor.
He waits, just about holding his breath as your mother comes further into the room, stopping in front of the two of you. Minghao shifts awkwardly in his spot, glancing over to you just about nervously, as if waiting for you to take charge of the situation.
"Eomma," you repeat. This time your voice is a lot more level. You try to ignore the way Minghao seems absolutely scared shitless at your side. "When did you fly in?"
There's a detached casualness to your mother's response, almost more like you're colleagues than family. "Just this morning," she says. "I'm staying at your grandparents’ for now."
You dip your head into a nod. There's a pause.
"Minghao is a member of SEVENTEEN," you say, sounding just slightly resigned at having to remind your mother.
The older woman turns her gaze back to Minghao, her eyebrows raised slightly. "I'm aware," she says coolly, an edge of amusement in her tone. When she refers to you, she sticks to your full name instead of your nickname. "How is it working with my child, Minghao?"
"They’re wonderful," Minghao answers without hesitation, his answer almost coming out a little too fast.
He doesn't bother to temper it back, because that's how he feels— and because he believes that your mother needs to know how he feels about working with you, about being around you.
"Kind," he adds after a moment of pause, looking back over to you, just about begging to be given permission to continue, to gush about you.
You look straight back at Minghao, barely resisting the urge to vehemently shake your head. You know him. You know how he wants to say more, would probably talk hours and hours about your role as an interpreter if you gave him the green light.
As you attempt to wordlessly communicate with him through your pointed glare, your mother watches the exchange with growing amusement. Then, just as you always have whenever you wanted to get Minghao talking more—
"I would hope they were kind," your mother says, though she says the words in Mandarin.
When your mother speaks in Mandarin, Minghao can't help the rush of gratitude that floods through him, because that only means one thing— that it was okay, that he was encouraged to say more. And so, he does, a small smile on his lips.
"Kind, thoughtful, patient," he says softly, almost like a litany. "Always on top of things. Brilliant."
There was something about talking about you in his own language that made everything come so much easier to Minghao. "They make us all look bad," he adds with a soft laugh, though there's a hint of truth behind the words. He means it.
You made him want to be better to you, more worthy of you, and not just as a person, either. As a man, too.
You stare up at Minghao, exasperated at how a simple change in language had suddenly gotten him so honest. "You shouldn't say all that—" you hiss at him.
As you go on to tell off Minghao under your breath and he only looks down at you with that completely smitten expression, your mother puts two and two together. One doesn't have to be in the same room as the two of you for too long to recognize it.
Ah, the older woman thinks to herself. They're in love with each other, and they don't even know it.
The expression on Minghao's face as you scold him would be better described as that of a puppy who doesn't quite understand what he'd done wrong. His eyebrows furrow, and as you continue to hiss under your breath, he looks like he simply wants to reach out and pull you into a hug because he can't stand it when you fuss over him.
But he settles for squeezing your fingers once more, his grip tightening, just enough to ground himself when you don't seem to relent in your quiet berating.
After a moment, your mother clears her throat again. It's a habit of hers that immediately gets you to shut up.
"I just wanted to drop by," she says vaguely, switching back to Korean. "But I really must get going. Duty calls."
"Duty calls," you echo quietly, and your mother's gaze softens imperceptibly.
"I'll be back later tonight," she reassures you. Her gaze flickers to Minghao for a moment before returning to you. "I trust that you'll be in good hands until then."
"Eomma," you huff, and your mother looks like she almost might laugh.
Minghao stays still as he watches you interact with your mother, as he watches her gaze flicker back and forth between the both of you. He can't help the slight smile on his face at the look in your mother's eyes, however, because it's almost like approval.
She turns to Minghao, this time. Gives him a once-over. He's jolted when your mother suddenly speaks French. It's not anything Minghao will understand— just a brief sentence that is meant for you and you alone. It's almost impertinent; the words are anything but.
Your smile widens and you respond in the same language.
Your mother gives Minghao a nod. "Goodbye, Minghao," she says in Korean as she takes her leave. "It was a pleasure to meet you."
Minghao is left looking at you, still holding on to your hand. His eyes flicker down to your smile, a grin of his own blossoming on his lips. "What did you say to each other?" he asks, almost immediately pouting.
He won't admit it, but he feels almost jealous. The feeling tides over when you absentmindedly note, "It was nothing."
The smile on Minghao's face turns soft and he squeezes your hand for good measure, still watching your face even as you slump back against your bed.
"You're a terrible liar, y'know." He raises your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss against your knuckles. "You know I can read you, right?"
"She asked me if I agreed with the meaning of your name," you say point blank. "And I said yes. Of course."
Minghao pauses, his lips still at your knuckles as he absorbs your words.
He knows what his name means. He's heard it enough in his lifetime. As far as names were concerned, he always considered himself lucky for the fact that he's got a pretty decent one.
Ming, 明, which meant bright and brilliant. Hao, 浩, which meant grand and vast. Minghao— someone bright, brilliant, vast like the sky.
But to hear you say it back to him like this? It feels like a revelation. Like you're giving him a gift, something that he can hold on to.
"Of course," he repeats reverently, his heart a steady thump, thump, thump in his chest.
The subsequent recovery period is a slow crawl. Minghao fusses more often than not. He ensures you're on top of things— physical therapy, check-ups— and is extra careful about anything that might involve your back.
Even as you're given the go-ahead to return to work, he frets, having read through one too many articles about the risks of having a discectomy. How strenuous labor and contact sports are still off the table for the foreseeable future. How, now, four weeks after the surgery, you still ought to be careful with routine activities.
It's as endearing as it is vaguely irksome, especially on instances such as these. The rest of the staff avert their gazes and try not to laugh. The boys look like they're most definitely going to give you grief later on.
Because Minghao is still adamantly carrying your things as you all head to a shooting location for the newest Going Seventeen episode.
"Hao," you say through gritted teeth, right at Minghao's heels as he lugs around your duffel bag. "I told you, I can carry that!"
Despite the slight exasperation in your voice, Minghao can't hide the way the corners of his lips tug into a smile.
He knows exactly what he's doing and he knows how it makes you feel. But he can't help himself; it's too easy to wind you up. "It's heavy," Minghao insists, despite the fact that it's not that heavy, or that he doesn't actually believe that it is.
He’s just being a slight nuisance on purpose, something he does often to get your attention.
"It's not heavy," you seethe, taking extra steps to keep up with Minghao's lithe strides. He’s leading you to one of the company buses that would take all the members and the staff to today's shooting location— some beachside AirBnB along Sokcho.
"I packed it, for Christ's sake. I know it's not heavy," you insist helplessly, reaching out one hand to tug at the back of Minghao's shirt.
He's always like this, pushing and prodding and annoying you to get reactions out of you because he finds it amusing. It's been such a long time since you last properly scolded him, and oh, how he wants you to do it again.
He stops in his tracks, forcing you to either halt in yours or bump into him. When he pauses, your feet keep moving on their own accord. Your face smashes right into Minghao's back.
Immediately, your hand that had been grasping his shirt flies to your face. You clutch the bridge of your nose— feeling a slight sting there, following the impact— as you mumble a low chorus of "ow, ow, ow, what the hell..."
The moment your face smashes into his back, Minghao finds himself doubling over in laughter, his frame shaking as he braces against his knees. The look of pure disbelief on your face is probably one of the funniest things he's seen all week, and the laughter that bubbles up out of his chest is unrestrained and free.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" he apologizes, his voice wavering in between laughter as he slowly tries to regain his composure. "Are you... are you alright? Does it hurt? Is it broken?"
"You're insufferable," you huff before stomping ahead of him, making it a point to bump your shoulders against his as you make a beeline for the bus.
Minghao only continues to chuckle, shaking his head as he follows after you, his laughter never once dissipating. By the time he reaches the bus, he's still smiling, completely unable to hide the way he keeps grinning.
Much to Minghao's chagrin, however, you exact your revenge in the smallest way possible: By settling into a seat next to Mingyu, who's always more than a little willing to jump on Minghao's nerves when given the chance.
"Sorry, Hao," Mingyu sing-songs, his eyes sparkling with mirth. "But I'm calling dibs for the next two hours. There's an empty seat next to Jun, though!"
Minghao only rolls his eyes, clearly slightly miffed at the way you'd just abandoned him for Mingyu in a heartbeat.
He finds his way to Jun's side, plopping down on the seat next to the other boy with an overdramatic, exaggerated sigh. "He snatched her away from me, ge," he whines, glancing back over to you with that same pout still on his face.
"You made her bump into you, Haohao," Jun points out with another roll of his eyes, shaking his head, though there was still a slight curl on the corners of his lip.
"I'm just having fun! You could at least sympathize with me.” There's no seriousness behind Minghao's complaint. It's a tone of complete and utter playfulness, and that only deepens Minghao's smile as he leans back in his chair.
The bus ride drags on, slow and careful, with Mingyu and you chatting about menial things. At one point, he slumps against your side to fall asleep on your shoulder, and you doze off with your cheek pressed to the top of his head. Seokmin takes a photo for posterity purposes.
Jun and Minghao watch from a couple of seats behind, and for a moment, Jun is contemplative.
It's a conscious choice for Jun to slide into Mandarin. The only other person in the bus who might understand it would be you, and you’re knocked out cold. That means the words are for Minghao alone.
"How much do you like them, Haohao?"
The switch in language catches Minghao's attention, especially when he hears the seriousness in Jun's voice. It's enough for him to pause, lifting his head up from where he'd had his chin resting against his knees.
"Too much, I think," he finally answers, with just a slight hint of hesitation.
It's not because he's ashamed, but because he's never been the kind of person to be so open about these type of feelings before. He's not even sure he knows how, sometimes.
"There's no going back now," Jun says, reaching out to lightly nudge Minghao's hip with his own. There's a slight look of concern in his eyes, but he speaks carefully, keeping his voice low as he continues.
"You might be in too deep," Jun continues, his voice a low murmur as he adds. "But I think... if the way they look at you is any indication, they’re right there with you."
The smile that spreads across Minghao's face is blinding, despite the way he turns his gaze down to his shoes. He can't help it— not when his heart is beating fast against his chest, at the idea of you feeling the same way that he does.
He wants it to be true, more than he's ever wanted something to be true in his entire life.
"I should hope so," he says, in an attempt at being flippant, but the way his voice sounds? It would give him away instantly.
When the company bus eventually rolls up onto a gravelly parking lot, the sight beyond the vehicle is one to behold. Sprawling, white sand beaches with glittering waters. The boys are still supposed to film some content, do some challenges, but the prospect of being in somewhere so pretty has significantly boosted everyone's spirits.
Wonwoo rouses Mingyu and you from your sleep. Mingyu chatters aimlessly at your side, only pausing when Minghao comes up to you; of course, the older boy can't resist one last jab.
In full view of Minghao, Mingyu does an infuriating shaka sign in front of his face and mouths 'call me, jagiya', completely unwarranted. It draws a proper snort of laughter out of you.
"Stop it," Minghao whines as he reaches out to pinch Mingyu, though there's no real heat behind his voice. He doesn't even try to hide that smile on his face, not when he catches the way you laugh.
He can't look away from you once he sets his eyes on you. He's never been able to.
He just hopes that you can't tell exactly how in love he is. Because how is he supposed to tell you he's fallen hard?
The day at the shore flies by faster than any of them expect it to, but in the end, the filming is finally over.
By the time the staff tells them they're finished, the sky is painted in beautiful shades of orange, pink, and purple. It only adds to Minghao's already good mood, especially when he gets the chance to steal you back from Mingyu and get you all to himself.
When filming wraps up and the cameramen all begin to pack their material, the boys take it as a go-ahead to treat the rest of the late afternoon as a beach day.
You smile, mostly to yourself, as they break off— to take photos, to go for a swim, to explore the private beach. All the while, you try to maintain your focus on your laptop, your practiced fingers moving across your keyboard.
It's why you're initially oblivious to Minghao's stealthy approach.
Minghao lingers behind for a moment, watching you work. He's already gotten changed, his clothes swapped with swim trunks and a simple black tank top.
He knows better than to bother you while you're working, and so— to your oblivious self— he's content to stand by and simply watch until you're done. After another moment, his expression softness as he sees how your brow furrows in concentration. Minghao steps in a little closer, one hand coming up to gently ruffle your hair.
He almost doesn't want you to get back to work and instead considers pulling you up so you can go for a swim with him. He does no such thing, though, settling for patting your cheek once before pulling his hand away.
You briefly glance up from your laptop so you can flash him a ghost of a smile. There's something to be said about the ways you often communicate without words, how easy it is to just understand.
You dip your head, give a wave of your hand, turn your gaze back to your laptop. A silent, speechless Go ahead, I'll follow.
It's like there's nothing he's not feeling right then— just happiness at seeing a smile, and the way that it feels like there's no secrets between the two of you.
He reaches out to gently pat your cheek once more, his hand lingering for a moment before he pulls away again, turning to make his way out of the tent, the grin on his face still ever-present.
By the time you're done with your work and changed into some proper swimwear, most of the boys and the staff are already in the water. It's in moments like these when you're reminded why you've stayed with PLEDIS for so long— the ways you're allowed to interact, to just be, when there's no cameras on, no job to do.
You linger by the shoreline for a beat too long. Before you know it, you're being swept off your feet. Your shriek of surprise pierces across the beach as Jun easily throws you over one shoulder, his hand respectfully bracing the part of your back where there's still marks from your surgery.
"Sorry, tàiyáng," Jun cheekily says in Mandarin as he rushes the two of you into the water, eliciting laughs from everyone else. He sends you hurtling into the ocean as you scream bloody murder, but you're laughing, still, as you go down.
Minghao is laughing from where he's standing near the shore, still waist-deep in the water. He'd heard you scream, but the second he hears the sound of your laugh he knows you're fine. Instead of rushing to his feet and out of the ocean, he just stays where he is, the smile on his face never faltering.
The sound of your laughter is only made better by the way the sunlight dances off the water, reflecting off its shimmering surface like diamonds.
He watches as you resurface, your wet hair in your face as you gasp for breath, your face bright with a smile, and he can't help the way he feels himself falling, falling, falling.
He wants to swim over and make sure you're alright, but he knows that Jun won't let anything happen to you. All Minghao does is watch, his grin wide and bright, his eyes never leaving you. He's completely smitten, and right now, the others are just going to have to deal with him being even more of an insufferable, lovestruck fool.
The next couple of moments drag on with light-hearted rough housing, with idle splashing and lazy swimming, until Jun has somehow maneuvered you and him towards where Minghao is in the water.
Jun, behind your back, throws his best friend a conspiratorial wink.
Minghao knows that he can be obvious to an almost comical degree when he's in over his head in his feelings for you, but Jun winking is an entirely different story, and he's already a little wary as Jun brings the two of you over in his direction.
Even still, nothing could prepare him for the sight of you soaked from head to toe, the water shimmering on your skin in the sunlight as you near him.
Oh, he's screwed, and he's pretty sure Jun and the others know that.
So he does the only thing he can think of.
Minghao dips under the surface of the water and disappears, ducking under the water for a few seconds before he comes back up just behind you, and reaches out to tickle your sides. If he's going to be an idiot and fall all over you, he might as well try and cover it up with a little bit of playfulness.
"Yah, don't do that!" you cry, already rounding in a futile attempt to stop Minghao. You weren't particularly ticklish, but something about the cool water and the warm breeze has you feeling more sensitive than necessary. Breathless laughter escapes you as you try to capture Minghao's wrists, to stop him from his actions.
Jun quietly pads away with the pleased air of someone having done his job well. Some of the other boys share knowing glances— like they know they ought to intervene— but it's Seungcheol who shakes his head, who wordlessly calls everyone off.
The leader, telling his members in the most subtle way, Let Minghao have this.
There are words Minghao wants to say when you reach for his wrists to stop his actions, to ask if you want to join him in diving under the water with him, but words have never been his strong suit.
No, it's actions that are his strength. And so, instead of asking if you'd like to join him, Minghao does just that, wrapping his arms around your waist and ducking the both of you under the water, the salt in the water stinging his eyes a bit as he opens them briefly beneath the surface.
And then he brings you back up for air, the look on his face almost triumphant as he laughs, shaking his head to rid himself of the water that's plastered all over his hair and face.
When you emerge, you laugh in between gasps for air, and instinctively reach up to push aside the wet strands of hair sticking to Minghao's face. "Look at you," you say disapprovingly, but you're betrayed by the pure, unadulterated adoration in your tone.
"You love this look on me, xīngān," he insists, with that same wide grin on his face.
And, well, he's not wrong. He can see the way your gaze lingers on his face, even as you scold him and ruffle his wet hair teasingly.
It makes him wonder what it'd be like if all the what-ifs were real, if this was a relationship rather than an almost. He's almost afraid to wish for it. As if wanting it too much might break it.
Minghao likes the way that you press close to him, and he keeps his arm wrapped snugly around your waist as you talk and laugh and joke with the others.
It almost feels right, the way you're there next to him. Even though this isn't a relationship, the way that you slot right next to him is comforting because it almost makes what isn't feel more like what it could be.
He wants the taste of you to be something more than just a taste. He wants more than a simple bite.
And so, that's how he finds himself suggesting that the two of you go on a walk together once the sun starts to set. There's a slight flush to his cheeks as he asks the question, a shy little smile on his face as he murmurs it.
He wants a chance to be alone with you. He thinks he deserves that much, especially now, after spending the rest of the day having been teased and prodded and jabbed at by the others about his feelings for you.
"Sure," you say coolly, somehow managing to keep your voice level. "Let me just grab my stuff."
That's how you and Minghao end up breaking off from everyone else, kicking up the sand underneath your feet as you go. There's a couple of jeers here and there; Seungcheol warns you both to be back before dark.
You take it in stride as you go on ahead, your shoulders just barely brushing. Like you're absolutely helpless to the pull of gravity that tries to keep you together.
Once the other boys are out of sight, out of earshot, Minghao finds himself growing slightly less shy as you walk side by side, the two of you headed for a small cliffside pathway.
His gaze is drawn to you rather quickly— to the way the ocean breeze makes your hair blow about, the way you almost shine when the sunlight hits you. The way your hand is so tantalizingly close. His own almost aches to reach out and take yours.
"You know," he says instead, his lips quirking up into a little cheeky grin that makes his dimple show when he sees the path lined with flowers. Some of them blooming, some small clusters of white blooms scattered around the cliffside.
Minghao plucks one of the blooms from its plant and tucks it into your hair so it's just behind your ear. He has to focus to not notice the way his fingers skim your cheek, and God, you're so close.
"I think you look pretty like this," he says, and the words are whispered out like a confession. He picks another of the blooms, and offers it to you, his smile bright, genuine. "Take it. For good luck, maybe."
When he extends to you one of the white blooms with that gorgeous, dimpled grin, you chuckle quietly. You take the flower. You hold it in your fingers for just a beat.
And then you stand on your tiptoes to mimic Minghao's action— tucking the bloom right above his ear.
"You're all the good luck that I need, xīngān," you say laughingly, in Minghao's mother tongue.
Minghao melts, his lips parting in the slightest as he stares at you like you're a vision, like you're something to worship. He's already far too gone on. The moment he feels your fingertips against his skin, he decides he'll never be able to get over you, not if it takes him years to try to do it.
There, the two of you stand, looking at each other with an unspoken, shared admiration, standing in front of a cliffside that overlooks the ocean with the sun setting against it, the horizon all burning shades of amber and orange and red.
This is a moment that Minghao won't forget, and he takes your hand in his, slowly interlacing your fingers together to see if you'll let him.
Just to know that there's a little bit of a chance that his dreams could come true, someday.
Your fingers find purchase in the spaces between Minghao's, slotting there as if it was something meant to be. As if the two of you might have the right.
For a beat, neither of you really say anything as you look out to the glittering expanse of ocean, the sun setting right beneath the horizon. It's a little too picture perfect.
Exactly the reason why neither Minghao nor you dare to verbalize whatever this is, whatever you've been dancing around for years and years. Minghao wants to tell you everything, tell you that he loves you, maybe get down on his knees and kiss your hands, ask you to be his and to let him be yours.
But he stays there. Silent. Holding your hand by your side.
When you head back to everyone— where food is being served for the members and the staff— there's a bit of an exaggerated welcome from all sides. The boys all jeer, and the staff give you side-eyes, but you only shake your head slightly as you peel away from Minghao's side.
The words stay unspoken. The red thread of fate, the one that Minghao so firmly believes in, draws out for another moment more.
As you go to shoot back some drinks with your team, Mingyu sidles up to Minghao's side. The older man presses a sweating bottle of beer into Minghao's hand.
"Still not tonight, huh?" Mingyu asks with no shortage of amusement.
The beer in his hand is cold enough that it would be a little uncomfortable to hold onto if Minghao weren't so used to it, but he simply wraps his fingers around the bottle and takes a half-hearted sip from it.
His lips purse as he hears Mingyu's question, a frown crossing his face.
"No. We didn't talk about anything," he says, somewhat regretfully, because tonight just felt like it could have been the right night to say something. To finally admit how he feels, to finally ask what he wants to ask.
And maybe you would deny him, tell him that you just wanted to be his friend, but he'd take it. He'd take anything if it meant he could stay in your life—
Or maybe you'd even say yes, and he could finally have a chance to prove himself to you.
"Are you going to try again tomorrow?" Mingyu asks, taking a sip of his own beer, his eyebrows raising a little.
Another sigh falls from Minghao's lips and he nods, his gaze softening as he looks in your direction, watching you smile in spite of the way he aches to be by your side.
"Of course I'm going to try again tomorrow," he whispers, and he'll do that for the rest of his life if he has to.
The night drags on with everyone getting progressively more drunk. Soonyoung is reduced to tears at one point, while Seungkwan puts on an enthusiastic, one-man performance of Aju Nice.
And maybe Minghao drinks a little more than he usually does, partly because Mingyu and Jun take advantage of the fact that it's a rare thing for them to be drinking with you within the vicinity.
Minghao's best friends are menaces who want to see what type of drunk he is, who want to see how it will affect the way he approaches you. He's always been quiet when he's drunk— the type of drunk with a slight permanent blush to his cheeks, with a lazy grin on his face, with thoughts too slurred or in Mandarin for most of the boys to understand.
And tonight was no different, with his face flushed from alcohol and his words so slurred that all Mingyu and Jun can pick up is the word pretty over and over, along with a couple of other words in Mandarin. But he's always been honest when he's drunk— almost too much so.
Jun is a bit stressed having to play interpreter for Minghao's drunken ramblings, but it's all worth it when Mingyu tosses his head back with raucous laughter at every word spilling from Minghao's lips, interpreted by Jun.
"This is too much," Jun whines once the three of them have worked through a significant amount of soju. A glassy-eyed Mingyu nods in agreement, though neither of them are as bad as the notoriously lightweight Minghao.
"Haohao, are you going to go up to her or what?" Mingyu teases.
Another slurred word in Mandarin falls from Minghao's lips upon hearing that, his eyebrows knitting together for a moment as he pouts at Mingyu.
It's almost comical to see, to hear Minghao's usually soft and lilting voice falter, all while his cheeks stay a soft pink and his hair is a mess from how he's been running his hand through it.
The thought of approaching you makes his stomach churn, but he knows that he will. After this next shot. Just one more drink.
"Ge, you said you'd only drink one," Jun murmurs, a bit of concern seeping in his tone as he sees Minghao grab shakily yet another shot glass of soju.
Of course, he ignores their warnings for the moment as he downs the shot, his face growing pinker as he shakes his head and pushes himself to his feet.
It takes him a moment to gain his footing, his legs a little wobbly from alcohol, but he gets it. Mingyu laughs so hard that tears come out of his eyes. Jun, distressed, shoots back some more alcohol.
Minghao's vision is a little blurry, but you're just within his sight. And so, with Jun and Mingyu watching from behind, he makes his way towards you.
He's got a lopsided grin on his face, his cheeks a little pink, and he thinks he must be in love in a moment like this.
"Xīngān," he slurs, a slight hiccup following the word as he stops in front of you, his vision still a little fuzzy. He raises his hand to gently rub the back of his neck, his tone a little softer— and a bit more earnest— as he murmurs his invitation. “Can we talk for a minute?”
"Hey, you," you greet, readjusting the flower that he'd placed behind your ear. "Having fun?"
Minghao shakes his head, his lips parting to say no only to dissolve back into soft little hiccupping giggles instead. Of course he's having fun— how could he not, when his love is right there, and he gets to see you smiling and laughing and tipsy yourself?
He stumbles forward, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and pulling you in, his free hand coming up to your face as he squishes your cheeks and gives you a bright, gummy smile. "Are you having fun, xīngān?" he asks.
"I'm having fun, Hao," you concede laughingly, resting your other hand at his waist to keep yourself steady. It's— once again— a position that implicates you a little more than it should, but everyone's varying levels of drunk anyway.
This isn't the drunk Minghao, exactly, that everyone has seen. This is the one he so rarely allows anyone to witness, the one who gets clingy and a little emotional. He's usually much more capable of keeping his composure, even with alcohol loosening his tongue and his inhibitions, but he just can't manage to focus on anything but you tonight.
"Come run away with me," he murmurs. He tugs you against his side again, a little less carefully this time. He wants the closeness, tonight, as he leads the two of you over to the chairs loosely surrounding a warm bonfire.
It's mostly the other boys here— Joshua and Vernon practicing an acoustic guitar, Jihoon chatting with the co-producer everyone knew he had a bit of a thing for. They all watch with mild amusement as Minghao drunkenly stumbles over to one of the chairs, single-minded in his ambition of sharing a single seat.
He plops down onto the chair, tugging you right into his lap. He's so close to you then, his lips next to your ear as he wraps his arms snug around your waist, his legs on either side of you, pressing you close against him.
"I missed you," he murmurs, and the words are slurred, warm on the shell of your ear as he presses his face into the crook of your neck and exhales softly for a moment.
He's drunk. And in love. And that's a dangerous combination.
You press your fingers into Minghao's knee, your shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. "How could you miss me?" you whisper back. "I was right there the whole night, xīngān."
He shakes his head, burying his face into the crook of your neck, mumbling softly. "You were far," he pouts, his words a little more garbled than before. He has no sense of personal space right now, with you pressed so close against him, and he's more prone to whine to get his way.
He wants this. He wants you close. He wants you.
"Is that so?" you say sympathetically, the words coming out almost like a coo. "You have me now, though."
"I'm never letting you go," he responds.
There's still an almost childish part of him that thinks if he says it, like this, with you wrapped up in his arms, with your face flushed from alcohol, that maybe you'll stay by his side.
He just has one question that he wants an answer for.
"Will you hold my hand," his words are slurred, his fingers tracing along the small of your back, up, down, back up again, "and look at the moon with me?"
Wordlessly, you reach for his hand at the small of your back and you thread your fingers together. You keep your intertwined hands over your thigh as you lean just a little further into Minghao until he's pressed against the back of the chair and you're practically lying on top of him.
It's easier, this way, for you to tilt your head back and do exactly as he asked. "Moon," you point out with your free hand, the word coming out in Mandarin. Yuèliàng. "It's a crescent moon tonight, see?"
With his arm securely around your waist, he presses closer still to look at the moon together, his words still a stammer as he murmurs, "Yeah. Just like us."
The words have no logic, not when he's drunk and soft and clingy like this. But he's still happy with it.
"Just like us?" you echo, and you briefly wonder if you're just a little too tipsy; if you'd missed a chapter or two about how you could be compared to the waxing crescent. Your eyebrows furrow in mild confusion, though you quickly realize there's no point in worrying your head when you could just ask.
"I'm the moon, and you're the flower," he declares, with all the confidence of his own drunken logic, his eyes falling to look at the flower still tucked behind your ear. He reaches up a hand to brush his fingers against the side of your face.
If not for the alcohol, he might be too shy to admit how pretty you are to him.
"We're a matched set, xīngān," he says.
The smile that breaks out on your face, then, is bright and wide and warm, rivaled only by the bonfire raging a couple of feet away. Your friends are still chattering amongst themselves, completely oblivious to Minghao's bold declaration.
A matched set. And you're just a little out of it, just a little drunk yourself, as you mindlessly link Minghao and your pinkies together. It's a quiet promise on its own. An assurance that this was something that could happen, would happen, at the right time.
"My moon," you concede, calling Minghao with a breathless sort of giggle. "My moon, my xīngān, my Hao."
"I love it when you speak Mandarin," he admits, his words warm against your temple as he presses closer still, his lips a few centimeters from your skin.
He has too much alcohol in his system, too little a filter for his thoughts, and right now, Minghao's world consists only of you and how you look in the moonlight— like some kind of vision, like something he'd write about in a song.
"Say it again," he instructs, his tone gentle. A request. Never a command.
"Which part do you want me to say again?" you ask in Mandarin, because Minghao had said he loved it when you spoke in it and you'd be damned not to give in.
It's all the same to him. The gentle words that come tumbling from your lips— he doesn't need to understand the meaning, he just wants to hear you speak.
Because how you sound when you speak Mandarin is lovely, and Minghao can't help but lean in just a little to drink in the sound of it, his fingers tracing along the exposed skin of your upper back.
He's never cared or loved the way he does when he's speaking Mandarin. But you, when you speak to him, it sounds like poetry.
"Anything," he murmurs. "Just say anything."
You tilt your head back up to the sky, where none of the usual Seoul light pollution is barring you from seeing the stars. When you see the expanse of the Big Dipper, you stick to what you know.
A Korean myth from your yesteryears, one that he hadn’t heard of in his own childhood.
"Once upon a time, deep in the mountains, lived a mother and her seven sons," you start softly, in Mandarin, as per Minghao's request. You tell the story almost in a whisper— the cold winter, the seven brothers, the Jade Emperor of Heaven.
A part of you, in the language that was a part of Minghao.
As you tell the fable, the alcohol settles comfortably in Minghao’s system. He feels sobered by the fact that you’re so close, that you’re indulging him in the way that you always do. So much, he thinks again. You give me so much.
And yet it’s not enough, still. He thinks back to the Korean phrase he once sought you out for. Intuition. Zhíjué.
Your story is winding to a close when he decides to trust his gut, this time. His arms tighten around your waist and he buries his face into the back of your shoulder.
"I love you," he says. Wǒ ài nǐ.
You pause. He can hear the smile in your tone as you respond, "I love you, too." Wǒ yě ài nǐ.
But, no. Minghao is done.
He won’t let this pass, won’t let miscommunication take this away from him. He has spent the better half of his twenties grasping at straws, bridging gaps in languages; this will not be another one of those things that he can’t say. He takes a fortifying breath.
He doesn’t care if you don’t believe in soulmates. If he’s the only one who thinks there’s a red string tied between you two. He’ll subscribe to your credo of destiny. He’ll do all the work.
"I’m in love with you," he amends. Wǒ ài shàngle nǐ.
He says it in his language, because it feels right, but then he repeats it in yours so there’s no room for you to misunderstand. It doesn’t change, anyway. Korean, Mandarin. English, Japanese.
Minghao is helplessly, hopelessly in love with you.
It feels like forever before you respond.
When you do, it’s in Mandarin. "Me, too," you admit, and he peeks at you enough just to see the way you’re gazing up at the night sky. He catches the hint of the smile on your face; the sincerity of which threatens to bowl him over.
You repeat his words— I’m in love with you— in Mandarin, then Korean, then English, then Japanese. Then all the other languages you know.
Minghao resists the urge to tell you to stop, to tell you it’s okay. He holds you tight, laughing quietly, as he basks in what feels a lot like the beginning of something.
It’s okay, he wants to say as you confess to him in Spanish, in Portuguese, in Italian.
synopsis ᵎᵎ y/n has always known heeseung, her older brother’s best friend, who was a constant presence in her life growing up. now 20, despite her growing attraction to him, heeseung sticks to his rule of keeping her off-limits, honouring his promise to never cross the line of dating his best friend’s little sister. however, she’s no longer the little girl she once was.
warnings ᵎᵎ dry humping, hand job, nipple play, first time, p in v, unprotected sex (don’t do!), soft dom, profanity
the summer heat clings to the pavement outside, but the backyard is a sanctuary of cold drinks and loud music. the smell of charcoal and seared meat fills the air. jake stands by the grill, flipping burgers with an intensity that suggests he thinks he’s a professional chef. he laughs, shouting something about the secret seasoning to a group of his friends.
you float in the cool blue water of the pool, the chlorine stinging your eyes slightly. chaewon and haerin are beside you, their voices a blur of gossip and giggles. you can feel a gaze on you and you turn your head slowly.
heeseung sits on the edge of a lounge chair, a cold soda in his hand. he isn't talking to anyone. his eyes are locked on you, tracking the way the water beads on your shoulders. when you catch him, he doesn't look away immediately. his expression is unreadable, a mix of something heavy and hungry. then, he blinks and shifts his focus to his drink, a small, tight smile playing on his lips.
"he’s totally staring at you," chaewon whispers, splashing you.
"no he’s not," you reply, though your heart skips. "he’s just zoning out."
"like he wants to eat you alive?," haerin adds with a smirk.
you dive under the water to hide the blush creeping up your neck. heeseung has been a fixture in your life since you were a kid. he’s like an older brother, one you actually like, the one who taught you how to play video games and shared his snacks when jake was being a brat. but lately, the air between you two feels thick. it feels like a string stretched too tight, waiting for one of you to pull it.
── .✦
an hour later, the party is still humming, but you find heeseung in the kitchen. he’s holding his hand, a small piece of gauze pressed against a bleeding cut on his palm.
"what happened?" you ask, stepping closer.
"stupid can opener," he says. his voice is soft, a low rumble that vibrates in your chest. "jake told me to open the pineapple, and i think the pineapple won."
"let me see," you examined his hand before hissing in sympathy with furrowed eyebrows.
“come with me,” you gently lead him to your room, the only place where it is quiet.
you sit him down on the edge of the bed and fetch the first aid kit. you carefully peel back the bloodied gauze. the cut is shallow but jagged. you dab it with antiseptic, and he winces, his fingers twitching against the mattress.
"stop squirming," you murmur.
"it stings," he replies. you look up, and he’s already looking at you. he’s so close you can smell his cologne, something like vanilla and cedar. his eyes roam over your face, lingering on your lips before snapping back to your eyes. the room feels smaller. the sounds of the party downstairs fade into a distant hum.
"you look pretty today," he says.
your hand freezes. you search his face for a sign that he’s joking, but his gaze is steady. it’s an honest observation, stripped of the teasing he usually employs.
"you’re just being nice because i’m fixing your hand," you whisper.
he lets out a short, breathy laugh. he doesn't pull his hand away. instead, he let’s his fingers brush against your wrist.
"maybe i am," he says. "or maybe i’m just finally saying it."
the moment shatters when jake bangs on the door, yelling for heeseung to come help with the drinks. heeseung stands up quickly, the tension snapping like a rubber band. “thanks y/n,” he gives you a small, lingering look before disappearing into the hallway.
── .✦
a week later, the house is quieter. jake has left for a trip with his girlfriend, yunjin, leaving you alone with heeseung.
it starts with a low rumble that shakes the windows. then the sky turns a bruised purple, and the rain begins to hammer against the roof. a sudden, violent crack of thunder echoes through the house, and the lights flicker once, twice, and then vanish. the darkness is absolute. you freeze in your room, your breath coming in short, jagged gasps. thunder has always been your enemy. it feels like the world is breaking apart. another bolt of lightning illuminates the room in a ghostly white flash, followed immediately by a boom that makes you jump.
you stumble out of your room, your hands grazing the walls. you find your way to heeseung's door and push it open. he’s lying on his bed, the glow of a small battery powered lamp casting long shadows across his face.
"y/n?" he asks, sitting up.
"can i stay here?," you whisper, your voice trembling. "i-i can’t sleep."
his eyes soften and he smirks just a bit. he doesn't hesitate. he moves over, patting the space beside him. "c’mere."
you scramble onto the bed, curling into a ball. he pulls the duvet over both of you and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. you tuck your head under his chin, listening to the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart. it is the only thing that feels safe in the world.
"i’ve got you," he murmurs. his hand rubs slow circles into your back. "just listen to me. ignore the noise."
you close your eyes, breathing in the scent of him. you feel his chest rise and fall. for a long time, neither of you speak. the rain continues to lash the house, but inside the cocoon of the blankets, it’s warm.
you feel him shift. his chin brushes the top of your head. he pulls you closer, his grip tightening almost imperceptibly. you look up, and he’s already looking down. the light from the lamp catches the gold in his eyes. he doesn't move away. he lets his gaze linger on your lips, his breath hitching.
"y/n," he whispers. it’s a warning and a plea all at once. you want to lean in. you want to erase the few inches of space between you but he closes his eyes and lets out a long sigh, leaning his forehead against yours.
"try to sleep," he breathes. "i’ll carry you to your room once you’re asleep." you feel a cold knot form in your stomach. you didn’t want to go, but you respected the boundaries between you two.
"okay," you agree muttering softly with a nod.
you fall asleep in his arms, but the comfort is gone, replaced by a yearning that feels like a physical ache.
── .✦
a few days later, the sun is back, but the tension has only grown. jake is still away, and he has asked heeseung to keep an eye on you. heeseung is in your room, sitting on the bed while you fuss over him.
"your skin is literally flaking, heeseung. how do you live like this?" you tease, holding a bottle of moisturizer.
"i’m a simple man. soap and water does the trick," he says with a soft smile.
"you’re a disaster," you reply. "sit still."
you lean over him, your face inches from his. he watches you with a quiet intensity, his eyes following every movement of your hands. you gently apply the cream to his cheeks, your fingers massaging the skin in slow, circular motions. you like taking care of him. you like the way he lets you, the way he becomes docile under your touch.
"didn’t know you were so bossy," he
whispers, though he is smiling.
"someone has to be," you retort. "otherwise you would probably forget to eat."
"maybe i like it when you take charge," he says.
you laugh, but the sound dies in your throat when you realize how close you are. the air is thick again. you try to get a better angle to reach his forehead, and you shift, sliding forward until you are sitting partially in his lap.
your heart hammers against your ribs. you freeze, your hands still resting on his face. he doesn't move. he just looks at you, his pupils blown wide.
then, it happens. as you shift again, your crotches graze. it’s a brief, accidental touch, but it feels like an electric shock. you gasp to yourself softly, your eyes widening slightly. beneath the thin fabric of his sweatpants, you feel it. he’s hard. incredibly hard.
the shock lasts for a second before a sudden, primal heat takes over. neither of you pulls away. instead, he presses you closer. an instinctive need to feel more of him overriding your shyness. you begin to rub against him, a slow, tentative dry humping that starts as an accident and turns into a demand.
he lets out a low, guttural groan, his hands flying to your waist to hold you steady.
"y/n," he gasps. "we shouldn't."
"i don't care," you whisper.
he breaks. he lunges forward, his lips crashing against yours. the kiss is hesitant at first, a question asked in the dark. then it turns hungry. he tastes like mint and longing. his tongue slides against yours, sucking and swirling, claiming you in a way he never has before. you moan into his mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.
his movements becoming more urgent. he was gentle, but the raw need was evident in the way he gripped you. you arched your back, a soft moan escaping your lips. the feeling of him, hard and pressing against you, was overwhelming.
he pulls back for a second, his breathing heavy. he looks at you, really looks at you.
"you’re not the little girl i used to know anymore, are you?" he breathes.
his hands slide down, gripping your thighs and pulling them wider. he reaches for the hem of your shirt, looking at you, asking for permission. when you gave a soft nod he gently lifted it. he sees your breasts and he lets out a shaky breath. he reaches out, his thumb brushing over your nipple, which is already hard and peaking. you arch your back, a small cry escaping your lips.
"god, y/n. you’re so beautiful," he whispers.
he leans down, his mouth replacing his fingers. he sucks your nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the areola. he teased you, biting softly, then sucking hard, creating a vacuum that sent sparks shooting straight to your core. the sensation is overwhelming. you feel a pulsing heat between your legs, a wetness that makes you squirm. “so soft," he groaned.
you reach down, your hand trembling as you find the bulge in his sweatpants. you grip him through the fabric, and he nearly jumps off the bed.
"fuck," he groans. you slide the fabric down, freeing him. his cock springs out, thick and pulsing, a bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip. you’ve never seen anything like it. you wrapped your fingers around him, feeling the velvet texture of his cock. he was thick and pulsing, leaking a bit of pre cum that made your grip slick. he let out a strangled noise, his eyes closing.
"let me show you," he whispered. he guided your hand, showing you the rhythm he liked.
"like that. wrap your fingers tighter."
you followed his lead, your thumb rubbing over the sensitive head of his cock. he was shaking, his muscles tensing under your touch.
"like this?" you ask softly.
"yeah," he rasps. "just like that. a little faster." he guides your hand, showing you the rhythm he likes. you watch as your hand slides up and down the shaft, the skin sliding over the head. you hear the wet sound of your grip, a rhythmic shlicking that makes your own core throb. he closes his eyes, his head falling back against the headboard, his hips jerking upward into your hand.
"y/n, you’re gonna be the death of me," he moans.
you move your hand away, your eyes searching his. you want more. you want everything. you reach for your own pants, sliding them off along with your underwear. you are completely bare before him now, your legs shaking.
he looks at you, and for the first time, hesitation flickers in his eyes.
"i don't want to take this from you," he whispers. "your first time. i want it to be perfect. i don't want to be the one who ruins it."
"i want it to be you," you say, your voice firm despite the nerves. "i only want you, heeseung."
he lets out a shaky breath and pulls you back down, his movements gentle and slow. he kisses your forehead, your eyelids, your nose.
"i’ll be careful," he promises. "tell me if it hurts. tell me to stop, and i’ll stop immediately."
he moves between your legs, his knees pushing yours wide. he enters you slowly, the tip of his cock stretching your tight opening. you wince, your fingers digging into his shoulders.
"shhh," he whispers, kissing your jaw. "just breathe. look at me."
you look into his eyes, and the fear begins to fade. he pushes in another inch, then another. you feel a sharp sting, a feeling of being too full, but he stops. he stays still, letting your body adjust. he whispers sweet things to you, telling you how much he loves the way you feel, how long he has wanted this.
when he finally pushes all the way in, you let out a long, shuddering breath. he stays there for a moment, his forehead pressed against yours.
"you okay?" he asks.
"y-yes," you whisper. "don't stop."
he begins to move. it is slow at first, a gentle rocking that focuses on the friction. the sting fades, replaced by a building pressure. he starts to pick up the pace, his thrusts becoming deeper and more confident.
the sounds of the room change. the soft whispers are replaced by the sound of skin slapping against skin, the squelching of your natural lubrication mixing with his. your breasts bounce with every movement, his hands gripping your hips to keep you pinned.
"you feel so tight," he groans, his voice vulgar and raw. "fuck, y/n, you’re squeezing me so hard."
you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. you feel him hitting your cervix, a deep, blunt pressure that sends sparks through your entire body. you moan, your voice high and needy.
"more," you beg. "please, more." he obliges, his movements becoming frantic. he is no longer the gentle protector. he is a man possessed. he thrusts into you with a sudden, overzealous energy, his cock slipping out almost entirely before slamming back in. the sound is wet and loud, filling the quiet room.
you feel the tension building, a coil tightening in your lower belly. he is close too. his breathing is ragged, his face strained with effort.
"i’m going to-," he gasps. "i’m going to come."
"m-me too," you cry out. "do it with me." he gives one final, powerful thrust, burying himself as deep as he can go. he freezes, his body shuddering as he releases. you feel the hot, thick pulses of his cum filling you, a warm flood that makes you peak right along with him. you scream into his shoulder, your muscles contracting around him in waves of pleasure.
he collapses on top of you, his heart racing against your own. he doesn't pull away. he stays there, holding you, his breath hot against your neck.
neither of you says a word. there is no confession of love, no promise of a future. there is only the heavy silence and the knowledge that everything has changed.
── .✦
the next morning, you wake up to a cold bed. you walk into the kitchen, your body feeling heavy and sore. jake is there, eating cereal and talking to heeseung. they are laughing about some meme niki made of sunoo in their groupchat.
you stop in the doorway. heeseung looks at you. for a split second, the mask slips. you see the longing, the guilt, and the raw desire in his eyes. then, he looks away, turning back to jake with a casual smile.
"morning, kiddo," jake says, oblivious. "you look like you slept for a thousand years."
"i did," you mutter.
for the next week, it’s as if it never happened. heeseung treats you with a polite, distant kindness. he doesn't touch you. he doesn't linger. he follows the rule again: you are off limits.
the silence between you becomes a torture. every time he walks past you, you feel the ghost of his touch. every time he laughs at something jake says, you feel a surge of resentment. you begin to believe that for him, it was just a moment of weakness. a one time touch that cannot ever happen again.
the pressure reaches a breaking point when jake brings up a topic over dinner.
"so, my friend from college, minho, is coming to visit next month," jake says, chewing on a piece of chicken. "he’s a great guy. smart, funny, and he thinks you’re cute from the photos i showed him. i think you two would reaaally hit it off."
you felt heeseung stiffen beside you. you didn't have to look at him to know he was reeling. it was like he'd been punched in the gut.
"i don't really want to date anyone right now, jake," you said softly.
"come on, just one date. he's a catch," jake insisted. "right, heeseung? minho's a catch, isn't he?"
heeseung didn't answer for a long time. when he did, his voice was cold. "i think she said she's not interested, jake. leave her alone."
jake blinked, surprised by the sharpness of his tone. "whoa, okay. just a suggestion."
heeseung suddenly stands up, his chair scraping softly against the floor.
"i’m gonna get some air," he says, his voice tight. he disappears through the sliding glass door.
── .✦
that night, you couldn't sleep. you walked out onto the balcony, curling up in the large hammock, staring at the city lights. the air was cool, the stars blurred by the city's glow. you felt a presence behind you.
you hear the door open. heeseung slides into the hammock beside you, his shoulder brushing yours, the fabric dipping under his weight. he doesn't look at you. he stared out at the skyline for a long time before he spoke.
"i’m sorry," he whispers. his voice is broken, thick with an emotion he can no longer hide.
"for what? you don’t owe me anything.." you say softly despite the internal tug on your heart.
"for the way i have been acting.. pretending that night didn't happen. for being a coward and acting like i don’t want you every single second of the day." he turned to look at you, and his eyes were swimming with emotion.
"i can't stand it, y/n. i can't stand the thought of you with someone else. i can't stand the way i have to act when jake is in the room."
"then.. why do you keep doing this?" you whisper. "why do you keep pushing me away?"
"because he’s my bestfriend," he says, referring to jake. "and i love you. and in my head, those two things cannot exist at the same time. i promised him years ago that i'd never... that you were off limits. if i take you, i'm betraying the one person who's always had my back."
he reaches out, taking your hand. he slowly guides it to his chest, pressing your palm flat against his heart. it’s racing, drumming a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
"do you feel that?" he asks. "that’s you. it’s always been you. since you stopped being the cute little sister and became the only person i can think about. and i’m terrified, y/n. i’m terrified of losing jake, but i am more terrified of a life where i cannot be with you."
“heeseung..” you muttered in utter shock. you feel a tear slide down your cheek.
"i love you too," you whisper.
he didn't hesitate this time. he pulled you into a kiss that tasted like relief and desperation.
"we have to be secret for a while," he murmurs against your lips. "just until i figure out how to tell him."
"i can do that," you say.
the secret is a thrill. stolen kisses in the laundry room, holding hands under the dinner table while jake talks about his day, and late night visits to each other's rooms when the house is silent. the yearning is replaced by a simmering passion, a shared secret that binds you together.
but secrets have a way of leaking. two weeks later, jake walks into the living room while you and heeseung are entangled on the sofa. you’re draped across his lap, your head tucked into his neck, and he is kissing your temple with a tenderness that is impossible to mistake.
── .✦
the end came on a rainy tuesday. jake had come home early from class and walked into the living room to find you and heeseung tangled together on the couch, heeseung's hand slid deep under your shirt and your legs wrapped around his waist.
they both froze. jake's jaw dropped, his eyes darting from you to heeseung.
"what the actual fuck?" jake yelled.
heeseung stood up, stepping in front of you protectively. "jake, let me explain."
"explain? you're fucking my sister! you're my best friend! how long has this been happening?"
"a while," heeseung said, his voice steady despite the tension. "and i'm sorry i know i broke the promise. i know i crossed the line. but i love her. i really love her."
jake looks at the two of you. he looks at the way you are clinging to heeseung, and the way heeseung is looking at you as if you are the only thing in the world that matters.
jake looked like he was about to explode. he paced the room, swearing under his breath. you held your breath, your heart hammering. then, jake stopped and looked at heeseung.
"you really love her?" jake asked, his voice quieter.
"more than anything in this world," heeseung replied.
jake sighed, rubbing his face with his hands.
"god, i'm so stupid. i should've seen it. the way you two look at each other... it's disgusting, honestly." he looked at you and rolled his eyes. "you have terrible taste in men, y/n. he's a nerd."
you laughed, a sob of relief escaping you as you threw your arms around your boyfriend. "i know, but he's my nerd."
he steps forward and points a finger at heeseung. "if you break her heart, i will actually kill you. i will bury you in the backyard and tell everyone you moved to busan."
heeseung laughs, a sound of pure relief. "deal."
jake shakes his head, a small smile on his face. "get a room, you two. seriously. i can't handle the PDA in my own house."
“as if you and yunjin aren’t all over each other!” i yelled at him while giggling.
once jake leaves, heeseung pulls you back down into the cushions. he wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a tight, warm embrace.
"i can’t believe he is okay with it," he whispers.
"i told you he loved us," you giggle.
you pull back and begin peppering his face with tiny, cute kisses. one on his forehead, one on each cheek, one on the tip of his nose.
"stop it," he laughs, though he is leaning into you. "you’re too cute."
"i’m allowed to," you say, kissing his chin. "i’m your girlfriend now."
he stops laughing, his expression turning soft. he cups your face in his hands, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones.
"i love you so much baby."
"aww i love you too, my hee."
you cuddle into him, the weight of the world finally lifted. for the first time in your life, everything is exactly where it is supposed to be.
REQUEST: you were mad at your boyfriend after he kept his hobbies a secret. however, after a week of no contact, you ended up texting him—why? someone was following you.
ㅤ⤷ FEATURING: nicholas of &team ♡
WORD COUNT: 3,686
WARNINGS: angst to fluff, nico being WEIRD, profanity i think, nico being touchy, mentions of gangs/gang symbols, riki being super scary in front of him enemies but a sappy kitten for u and u only, blood, gun (not actually used), violence!!! blonde ki😁 small kiss at the end, use of pet names
AUTHOR’S NOTE: i’m so sorry for disappearing again😭😭😭 no pretty graphic for this post because my laptop BROKE and i hate editing on my phone🥳🥳🥳 thank you to the anon who requested this!! i merged your req with an idea of my own🙈🙈🙈 i’m so sorry it took so long to answer but i hope you like it!!! ☹️☹️💞💞 ENJOYYY!!
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A LOT COULD HAPPEN in thirteen minutes.
The wind did not want to be gentle tonight, leaves brushing through your hair as you walked out of your favourite café, phone in hand. The crescent moon remained hidden between the clouds, moonbeams doing little to light your path towards the bus station—it had been a while since you’d taken the bus home. Wired headphones wedged into your ears, you quietly hummed to the beat of the music, readjusting the strap of your handbag dangling from your shoulder. Faint scents of honey lingered on the cotton material of your sweater, your unfinished cupcake in your other hand. Late night study sessions were clearly not for the weak… but, you couldn’t stay home.
It wasn’t even your home. It was… Ni-ki’s. Your boyfriend. Had his own place all to himself downtown. Probably bought with blood money, you couldn’t help but think.
The soles of your trainers drummed heavily against the concrete pavement, like hushed thunderclaps—a quiet contrast, with Butterfly by LOONA bouncing off the walls of your ear canal. You had ended up blocking his number; your Riki’s number. With the amount of times he had called and texted these last few days, it was getting harder and harder to avoid him. Part of you wanted to hear him out, discover why he had hidden his choice of career path from you.
That career path being a fucking member of some underground gang. You didn’t have time to listen to Ni-ki’s excuses, not after finding a suitcase filled to the brim with opiates and all sorts of illegal, Class-A drugs. It all made sense—the inconspicuous Ace of Spades symbol tattooed on his right wrist, how he could afford a luxury apartment at the mere age of twenty… and, he had hidden it all from you. Thinking you wouldn’t find out.
It wasn’t like you hated him all of a sudden. If anything, you were just confused—how long had Ni-ki been doing this? Was he forced into joining? Had he killed people?
It was hard to believe that your boyfriend, who whined every morning if you tried shimmying out of his suffocating cuddles—“Five more minutes, baby? You can go to class later…”—was doing all this while you were attending lectures. How did he even find the time to commit to this without you catching on earlier?
It helped you connect the dots: he was always home late. He always left the room whenever he had to make a call. Hell, he bought you Chanel, for fucks sake.
It was ridiculous… So ridiculous that you were unsure on how to face him. Were you afraid of what he would tell you or just… afraid of him?
You crossed the road, entering a more secluded area of town since taking this alleyway saved five minutes of your time. The last bus departed at around eight o’clock—you were planning on heading back to your student accommodation for a bit since the campus wasn’t too far away. You’d have to go back to Ni-ki’s apartment at some point, but that was a problem for another day. Swallowing the last bite of your cupcake, a sudden rush of the wind caused the floral case to slip from your fingers, the cream cheese acting as liquid glue, the paper clinging to the brick wall of the wide passage.
“Ugh…” you sighed to yourself, bending down to pick it up—you hated littering with a passion. Though, as you straightened your posture, something had pulled one of your buds out of your ears and, naturally, you thought it was just the abrupt gush of wind coming your way.
Until you turned around.
“Oh!” You jumped in surprise, a random man standing before you under the flickering alley lamp, automatically taking a few steps back when you noticed the close proximity. His presence wasn’t recognisable, noting the monochromatic shades of grey his body was clad in. It was the baby pink wolf cut that caught your attention most of all, bangs falling just below his hidden eyelids… Eyes bearing a resemblance to black roses. They were dim. Focused on one thing entirely.
You.
“Uh… sorry,” you apologised quietly, taking your other earbuds out, deciding whether you should just walk away or stay put. “Was I in your way?”
“Not at all,” he replied, a small smile playing on his lips, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. “I’m Nicholas. Saw you from across the street…” Momentarily, his voice trailed off, gaze raking over the long, white skirt that, thankfully, covered most of your legs. “Thought I’d say hello.”
“Oh,” you mumbled, fingers crumpling your cupcake case before dropping it into your handbag. He was a few inches taller than you—about 5’11? You didn’t sense any danger yet. “Okay, well… I’ll get going,” your head conveyed a small nod, spinning around to continue your walk. Only three minutes till you see the bus station. You were fine. You will be fine.
“We could walk together? Wherever you’re heading,” Nicholas spoke, footsteps echoing behind you as you unplugged your earbuds from your phone, shoving the tangled mess into your bag.
“I’m seriously okay, thank you,” you turned your head to give a polite smile, seeing Nicholas with his hands in his pockets, walking ever so casually—as if it wasn’t freaking the fuck out of you. But, you couldn’t speed up. You shouldn’t risk it: he’d catch on.
“Come on, pretty… didn’t even give me your name,” he called out, your eyes trained on the path in front of you, seeing the foggy exit of the alleyway just ahead. Just a few more minutes, right? Tapping the screen on your phone, you checked the time—10:09pm. And, then, your eyes fell short, glazing over your wallpaper, your heart thrashing against the chambers of your lungs… It was a picture of Ni-ki. On top of you, his long arms practically strangling your body. He was asleep, soft skin nestled comfortably in the crook of your neck—you remembered that night… his lips remained pressed against your fluttering pulse, his silver hair all poofy since it hadn’t been slicked back. You were smiling in the picture. Holding him.
Earlier today, you were deliberating on whether you should change the wallpaper or not.
Should I… call him?
No. He wasn’t being that forward.
“I don’t give my name out to strangers,” you retorted, unlocking your phone anyway after lowering your screen brightness, your thumb hovering over the Messages app. Nibbling your bottom lip, you opened it, navigating over to your blocked contacts.
“Strangers? Nonsense,” Nicholas chuckled, finding Riki’s number and pressing unblock. “I see you at that café almost everyday.”
“I’ve never seen you?” Glancing at him, you held your phone to your chest, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Was he in one of your classes? Better yet, why on earth would this guy be following you of all people?
And, so, before you knew it, your fingers were gliding across your keyboard, Nicholas’ words barely registering as your boyfriend instantly replied.
“It’s not like you were around here much,” Nicholas pointed out as you locked your phone, squinting your eyes at the exit at least two minutes away—who were you kidding? How could Riki even get here within the next one hundred and twenty seconds?
“What are you talking about?” You scoffed, crossing your arms as another cold gasp of wind breezed past you.
“You only studied at your boyfriend’s apartment until last week.” You halted, eyes widening, spinning yourself around at the matter-of-fact statement. Nicholas remained still, synonymous to you, though the smugness of his smirk never left his pale expression. “…Trouble in paradise?”
“Wh—Excuse me?” You mumbled in bewilderment, arms dropping to your abdomen as your fingers snaked around your mobile in despair. You didn’t dare look behind you—Nicholas would decipher that you had called someone.
“Am I wrong?” He innocently responded. Shit. You’d already given yourself away.
“I—”
“Ni-ki’s been slacking in his department, recently. Something we caught on,” Nicholas shrugged, hands sliding out of his pockets. The sleeves of his leather jacket stopped just below his wrists, and your eyes managed to catch something, too.
A tattoo. Red.
Similar to Riki’s. There was that identical ‘A’, yet…
It wasn’t a spade, but a diamond. Ace of Diamonds.
“What the fuck?” You whispered to yourself, eyebrows pulling together—you were sure Nicholas didn’t hear it, watching you whirl yourself back around… continuing your walk.
You were a little faster than beforehand.
Was this rival gang shit?
“Where are you off to so quick, darling?” Nicholas’ voice became rough like the jagged edges of the alley’s brick wall, the soles of your shoes smacking the pavement—significantly louder than your prior footsteps. “I just wanna talk about—”
“I don’t know anything, okay?” You shot back, texting Ni-ki a few urgent question marks with how long he was taking. Again, perhaps it was unrealistic to hope for him to get here so quickly, but the skin on your bottom lip was beginning to tear. “I haven’t spoken to Ni-ki in days like you just pointed out—”
“I can see you typing on your phone,” Nicholas hummed, patience running thin, finding that you had slipped your mobile into your bag. “You’ve texted someone, I assume?”
Keep walking.
“Hey,” he called out, irritation lacing his words—and, before you could break into a sprint, Nicholas’ slender fingers caught your wrist, ensnaring it within his grasp as he pulled you back, a sharp, violent pain gliding up inside your forearm’s muscles. Hastily, he seized your gasp by slapping his hand over your mouth, your chest slamming into his… your eyes widening in pure befuddlement. His gaze was cold. Unforgiving. The leather arm that wrapped around your waist became firm, locking you in place, your own gaze lowering to the ground when he tilted your head to meet him, his warm, smoky breath tickling your eyelashes.
“You’re a feisty one,” Nicholas’ voice dropped an octave deeper, lips pinched with a miniscule smirk. “No wonder why Ni-ki was so adamant on keeping you hidden.” Your eyebrows knitted together, flinching at the sudden closeness Nicholas attempted to achieve by brushing his nose against your cheek, inhaling your subtle musk. “Hm… Is that hibiscus—?”
His sentence was shortly cut off. One moment, the freak was smelling you.
The next?
He was on the floor.
You have got to stop underestimating Ni-ki.
“Oh my—” Exhaling sharply, your eyes landed on Nicholas, who had been shoved to the ground, doubling over in pain due to being punched right in the mouth. Blood dripped from his gums, the man spitting out his tooth as the red liquid coated the concrete like black, oozing tar. Seeing the shadow that painted his groaning stature, you shifted your gaze, mouth falling open at the sight of your fucking boyfriend.
Standing over him. With a gun?!
“Ni-ki—?!”
“I swear to God, you touch her again and I’ll kill you,” Ni-ki spat, pressing the tip of his gun against Nicholas’ forehead as the latter laughed, leaning his head against the wall. “Understand?” Wincing at the sight of Nicholas’ injury, you approached your boyfriend from behind, gently tugging his other arm to take him away from the scene—you looked around for any CCTV, but thankfully, there weren't any cameras present.
“Come on, man. Barely had the chance to—” his slurred speech hadn’t helped him at all, Ni-ki kicking his stomach in as Nicholas writhed in pain on the pavement, collapsing completely.
“Ki—!”
“Do you understand—?!”
“NI-KI!” You snapped, finally grabbing his attention, his head swivelling immediately at the sound of your distress. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you witnessed the outrage leave his body, shoulders deflating at the mere sign that you were unharmed—hearing you say his name for the first time in days. His cat-like eyes blinked gently, ink pupils dilating under the neglecting street lamp once he noticed your warmth floating around his arm.
“Yeah, baby?” he murmured, his inner eyebrows raising—synonymous to a poetic yearner of the Romantic era.
“Let’s go,” you pleaded softly, not wanting to be in this alleyway anymore longer. Your wishes were always granted by Ni-ki—he nodded, shoving his gun inside the pockets of his grey joggers, before taking your hand in his, cold fingers tangling with your own. Leading you out the way you came, you couldn’t help but give Nicholas one last look, whose forehead pressed against the stone ground in disgruntled despair—his pride had been wounded.
He was mumbling. “You’ll regret this, Nishimura…”
Ni-ki had barely registered it.
The cafe you were studying in entered your line of sight, being welcomed by the clouded moonlight once more. You saw his bike parked at the curb, the black vehicle reflecting your approaching figures. And, then, you stopped, shimmying your hand out of Ni-ki’s grip—a notion so abrupt that he turned on heel, taken aback at the sudden loss of your warmth. Gulping almost noiselessly at his exhausted expression of disorientation, you yourself turned around, taking the long way back to the bus station.
“Hey—Y/N,” Ni-ki called your name, following you in your footsteps. But, you weren’t stopping. “Y/nnie… Baby…” He sighed now, jogging after you so he could latch onto your wrist, his delicate hands spinning you around so you were facing him.
Quite frankly, you had enough. Tutting in his face, you shoved his chest, watching him stumble back as you repeatedly smacked his chest with your palms, frustrated with his lies, with his pestering—everything! You were sick of everything.
“You.” Smack. “Lied.” Smack. “To.” Smack. “Me—!”
“Y/nnie—” He tried to explain, catching your wrists after a few more moments of accepting them (in his head, he knew he deserved it). You weren’t really hurting him anyway, but the thought of you being pissed off at him?
Ni-ki desperately wanted to make this right.
“No!” You exclaimed, scoffing at how tight his grasp was, your attempts of pulling your hands out proving to be feeble. Groaning in annoyance, you stood up straighter, tugging the white material of his tank top, like you were demanding something of him.
In a way, you were.
Annoyingly, he looked somewhat… okay. From a distance, at least. His silver-blonde locks were slightly poofy, like he’d woken up suddenly—and, he had. Evidently, Ni-ki didn’t play about you. He probably fell asleep in this tank top, a grey, cotton jacket thrown on top of it to match his joggers. His signature, safety pin necklace dangled from his collarbone as it always did—but, his eyes. All sorts of red lines bled upon the white canvas of his gaze, onyx eyes yearning… pleading for you to hear him out as they widened hopelessly, caressing your wrists with his soft-to-the-touch fingertips. His dark circles had returned. In under a week.
He had been losing it without you.
“Baby,” he repeated, his tone pitched with an agonising whine that he only let you hear, bringing your hands to his abdomen, holding them like they were the most fragile pieces of architecture. “Just… Listen to me.”
“…Fine,” you mumbled, looking away as he cleared his throat, the vein that nipped his forehead threatening to pop out of anxiety.
“I know you’re mad—you have every right to be,” Ni-ki admitted, one of his hands hovering hesitantly above your hip, the breeze simmering into a light haze as it brushed through your hair. “But… You know… How was I genuinely supposed to tell you?”
“Wha—Are you serious?” You questioned in disbelief, snatching your wrists back as they fell to your side, seeing his face contort into something of genuinity.
“…Yeah,” he muttered, like a kicked puppy, your scoff only scaring him to ramble on further. “I just—I couldn’t find the right time to tell you! What should I have said? Hey, Y/nnie. Just wanted to tell you that I’ve been in a gang since I was sixteen—”
“First of all, you’ve been involved with them for four years?!” You interrupted, eyes widening with exasperation—but, with worry, most of all. You had so many questions. “Second of all, literally yes—that’s exactly how you’re supposed to tell me, Ki!”
“I didn’t want to scare you off…” He murmured in response, a small pout touching his lips as your eyebrows crinkled incredulously; you couldn’t believe what you were hearing.
“Well, I am scared…” you retorted, unable to step away when Ni-ki shook his head, cupping your cheeks with his hands—his calloused, gentle hands. It was unbelievable, the way he threatened Nicholas with so much… barbary. Yet, with you, he became mush. Obedient. Gentle. Clingy.
“You don’t need to be, pretty,” Ni-ki reassured, his thumb swiping over your cheekbone with the softest affection known to man, holding you like it was his first day on earth. “I can take care of myself. I can take care of you,” he affirmed with a slight smile—you only worried further. “Like tonight…”
“You wouldn’t have known about tonight if I hadn’t texted you,” you replied, feeling a little more docile as he held you. Unfortunately, his duck-like expression made it hard for you to stay mad at him.
“Yeah, but you were only here because we weren’t… on speaking terms,” Ni-ki deliberated, a small breath escaping his throat after remembering how long he had been apart from you for. “You normally study at home.”
“It’s your apartment,” you reminded him. He only rolled his eyes.
“Our apartment,” Ni-ki shot back, letting his arms wrap around your waist so he could reel you in, bringing you closer. “I really am sorry, baby. I should have told you from the beginning. I know that this scares you—especially after what happened in the alleyway, but I wanna answer your questions. Seriously, I’ll tell you everything,” he promised, boba-like eyes flitting from your very own doe ones, to your soft-skinned lips, which parted in hesitation.
You didn’t know if you could trust him again. Sure, he was indeed promising to spill his secrets. But, he might also withhold information… and, you might not even be ready to see this other side of him.
Seeing him threaten Nicholas like that? Your gaze only fell to your feet, slipping from his grasp only naturally as you became standing deadweight. Witnessing the deliberation directly with his eyes, Ni-ki could only swallow the Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, his shoulders stiffening like a barbell was scorching the blades of his back.
“Or… or not,” he quietly uttered, arms slipping from your waist as he took a step back, wanting to respect your boundaries. Gaze lifting, seeing his stricken expression only burned your throat with an intensity so raw, you could barely breathe. Did Ni-ki not anticipate that you would feel like this? His onyx eyes, the ones you always enjoyed waking up to, averted to meet the lamppost by the cafe. “That’s fine, uh… but, can you at least let me take you to your dorm?” Ni-ki asked, his voice gentle, akin to a droplet colliding with a window pain. The crack that found his words softened your expression, more than you care to admit.
You were supposed to be mad at him.
He was making it so hard…
“I can’t let you go by yourself after what just happened,” he added, seemingly not taking no for an answer as he began backing away, turning to find his motorcycle. He already had your helmet hanging from one of his handlebars, the smaller hat bedazzled with baby pink…
Your eyebrows crinkled.
“Wait,” you called out, fiddling with your fingers—Ni-ki spun so fast he almost toppled over, blinking away the sleep that threatened to cloud his vision, eyes widening in surprise.
“Y-Yeah?” he croaked, and you had to sigh.
You could never turn him away… as much as you wanted to.
“I wanna go home,” you mumbled, tone touched with a hint of stubbornness. Your boyfriend scratched his neck, stepping closer.
“Could you, uh, say that again—?”
“I wanna go back to yours!” You huffed, voice now pulled taut as Ni-ki raised his eyebrows, nodding almost immediately at the notion.
“Yeah, sure, baby, we can do that,” he reassured, clearing his throat when his fingers grazed your tiny helmet. It felt like decades since the last time he put it on you. Walking towards you, his eyes met yours, seeing your arms folded across your chest as he spoke. “Do you still want to talk about… everything?”
“No,” you said a little too quickly, confusing him before you corrected yourself. “Y-Yes, I mean. Just… not tonight, please.” Your voice was small. So small that Ni-ki melted at the sound of it, holding your helmet with his left hand, the right latching onto your chin. You relaxed them, letting your arms fall to your sides, the wrinkles in your forehead disappearing. “I missed you,” your whisper almost fell victim to the wind, but Ni-ki managed to catch it.
Hell, your admission had stopped the wind for him entirely. He was certain that, over the course of the week, he’d definitely missed you more.
Yet, he didn’t want to reveal that right now.
Instead, a smile stretched his lips, body deflating in relief as he dipped his head, nose nudging the side of yours before meeting your mouth with his. Testing your patience, he left a small kiss upon your Cupid’s bow, wanting to see if you were willing to accept him—but, you were quick to pull him back down, your left hand scaling up his neck to tangle in his dyed strands, kissing him back as soft as ever.
“Missed…” Smooch. “You…” Smooch. “More…” Smooch.
Yeah—he couldn’t keep anything to himself when it came to how he felt about you.
Anyhow, Ni-ki forced himself to pull away, almost regretting it after hearing your little whine.
“Sorry, my darling,” he smiled, his cheeks brightening with rosy hues under the moonlight. “Let’s finish this at home.”
“Okay,” you finally smiled in return, tilting your head as he helped you wear your helmet, sliding down the face shield before taking your hand.
Genre:Enemies-to-lovers, domestic fluff, college AU
Synopsis: When the campus menace and notorious snack-thief Lee Heeseung gets caught in a downpour and sprains his ankle, his fierce hybrid survival instincts kick in. To your absolute shock, his arrogant facade completely melts, leaving you to deal with a deeply feverish, incredibly clingy hamster hybrid who refuses to let you leave his freshly built living room nest.
WC: 1,582
The hum of the library’s ancient AC unit was usually enough to drown out the existential dread of my third-year Veterinary Medicine coursework, but today, the universe had chosen a louder, more irritating soundtrack.
*Crunch.* I didn't even have to look up from my tablet screen, where a complex diagram of hybrid nervous systems was currently blurring together. The faint, sweet scent of honey-butter seasoning and the soft, distinct rustle of a plastic wrapper told me everything I needed to know.
"Are you actually serious right now, Heeseung?" I muttered, rubbing the bridge of my nose beneath my wire-rimmed glasses.
A shadow fell over my desk, and before I could react, a long, pale hand reached directly into my open tote bag. Soft, rounded, sandy-brown hamster ears poked out from a mass of messy black hair, twitching in absolute triumph as he snagged the family-sized bag of chips I’d bought to survive my midnight study session.
"You bought the good ones today, Four-Eyes," Heeseung drawled. He slid into the empty plastic chair next to me, stretching his ridiculous six-foot-one frame out under the cramped desk. He invaded my personal space with the practiced ease of someone who owned the place, a permanent, lazy smirk plastered across his face. "I'll consider this tax for letting you sit in my glorious presence."
"Your presence smells like cedar shavings and stolen property," I snapped, reaching across his chest to grab the bag.
Heeseung dodged instantly, hoisting the chips high above his head. Because he possessed the genetic irony of a tiny, hoarding rodent trapped inside the body of a varsity athlete, I had to lean completely across his lap just to swipe at the air. He looked down at me, his dark eyes sparkling with unadulterated mischief, his twitchy pink nose crinkling as he laughed.
"Want 'em? Come get 'em, Dr," he teased, his fluffy ears flattening playfully against his head.
"Give it back, you oversized rodent, or I swear to God I will swap your presentation slides for the seminar tomorrow with a forty-slide gallery of senior-citizen guinea pigs."
Heeseung paused, his ears drooping just a fraction. He knew I’d do it, too. Last week, after he hid my anatomy notebook in the vending machine, I had changed his phone’s alarm to a high-pitched frequency that only hybrids could hear. He hadn't slept properly for forty-eight hours.
"You're evil," he muttered. But instead of handing the bag over, he casually popped a chip into his own mouth, then reached down and stuffed one directly into mine to silence me.
Across the aisle, two guys from the agronomy department were already snickering into their textbooks, whispering something about us that I chose to actively ignore. This was our daily warfare, a predictable routine of bickering, stolen snacks, and mild property damage that kept us both awake through the grueling college semesters.
But the universe has a funny way of shifting the balance when you least expect it.
It happened on a miserable Tuesday afternoon. The sky had opened up into a torrential downpour, turning the campus walkways into a slick, muddy hazard zone. Heeseung, possessing the stubborn pride of a hybrid who refused to admit that his animal counterpart hated getting wet, had marched out of the science building without an umbrella because "hamsters don't do rain."
An hour later, as I wrapped up a grueling lab session and walked out into the damp, freezing drizzle, I spotted a slumped figure on the bench beneath a leaking awning.
It was Heeseung. The arrogant, smirking menace of the library was entirely gone. His clothes were soaked to the skin, his left ankle was visibly swelling through his sneaker, and his usually fluffy ears were completely plastered to his head, drooping miserably over his eyes. He was shivering violently. Because hybrids struggle significantly with thermoregulation when their fur or ears get wet, the cold was hitting him twice as hard.
"Heeseung?" I called out, rushing over.
He flinched, looking up with pale lips and glossy eyes. "Y/N," he croaked, looking utterly devastated that I was witnessing him like this. "I... I slipped on the moss. My ankle popped."
My cynical student brain wanted to throw a sarcastic comment his way, but the future veterinarian in me took over the second I saw him tremble. Without a word, I unzipped my duffel bag, pulled out my dry, oversized fleece hoodie, and draped it over his shivering shoulders.
"Can you walk?"
He looked down, his cheeks flushing a faint, embarrassed pink. "No."
"Okay. Lean on me."
For the first time since I’d known him, Heeseung didn't make a snide remark. He just quietly let me hoist his heavy arm over my shoulder, his large frame acting as deadweight against mine as we slowly, painstakingly navigated the slippery sidewalk back to my apartment, which was thankfully just a block off-campus.
By the time I got him inside, stripped him of his soaking wet jacket, and got some ice on his sprained ankle, his high fever had kicked his hybrid instincts into absolute overdrive. When a hamster hybrid is severely sick or injured, their higher-level human reasoning takes a backseat to their base survival programming. For Heeseung, that meant one urgent, desperate necessity: nesting.
"Y/N..." he whimpered from the living room floor.
I walked out of the kitchen holding a bowl of warm broth and some anti-inflammatories, only to stop dead in my tracks. Heeseung had dragged every single pillow off my bed, my winter duvet, three throw blankets, and a pile of my freshly laundered clothes into a massive, circular fortress in the center of the room. He was curled up right in the middle of it, burying his face in the fabrics.
"The nest isn't right," he mumbled, his voice thick and congested. His nose twitched rapidly as he sniffed the air, his ears twitching anxiously. "It doesn't smell like you enough. I need... I need the green sweater. The one you wore yesterday."
I stared at him, completely stunned. The campus bully who spent his mornings throwing paper balls at the back of my head was currently begging for my laundry to secure his sick-nest.
"Heeseung, you're burning up. Take the medicine first," I said softly, kneeling at the edge of the blanket pile.
He watched me with wide, vulnerable eyes. Slowly, a pale hand reached out from under the duvet, his fingers gently catching the hem of my shirt and pulling me weakly toward him.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, a genuine tear pooling in the corner of his eye before slipping into the soft fur at his temple. "For stealing your chips. And hiding your books. I'm a terrible hybrid. You're trying to save lives and I'm just a menace."
The fever-induced guilt was making him look so incredibly small despite his size that my heart completely melted.
"Hey," I murmured, setting the bowl down and carefully crawling into the nest with him. "I bully you back, remember? I changed your laptop background to a hawk last month. We're even. But right now, you need to rest."
Heeseung let out a shaky sigh, the tension leaving his shoulders the second I sat beside him. Before I could move, his long arms wrapped securely around my waist, pulling me down into the center of the blankets. He buried his face directly into the crook of my neck, inhaling deeply.
"Stay," he mumbled against my skin. "Your scent makes it safe."
I couldn't leave even if I wanted to. He had effectively locked me in place, curling his long legs around mine like a giant, clingy rodent hoarding his favorite prize. His hot breath tickled my collarbone, and every few seconds, his incredibly soft ears would twitch against my cheek. As I carefully ran my fingers through his dark hair, avoiding the sensitive base of his ears, a low, rhythmic vibration started in his chest. It was a soft, content chattering—the ultimate sign of a hybrid who felt entirely safe and protected.
The next morning, the storm had passed, and bright sunlight filtered through the living room windows.
I woke up to find Heeseung’s fever had finally broken. He was still holding me tightly, but he was awake, staring down at my face with an expression so remarkably tender it made my breath catch in my throat. Seeing my eyes open, his ears perked up instantly, standing tall and fluffy.
"Morning," he whispered, his voice deep and raspy from sleep.
"How's the ankle?" I asked, shifting slightly in the pile of blankets.
Instead of letting me go, Heeseung just tightened his grip, hiding his flushed face in my hair. "Still hurts. I think I need to stay in this nest for at least another three days. Minimum."
I let out a soft laugh, poking his side. "Oh, really? The great Lee Heeseung wants to cuddle with Four-Eyes for a long weekend?"
He pulled back just enough to look me in the eyes, the familiar, playful glint returning to his gaze, though it was softened by something entirely real. His thumb reached up, gently brushing a stray strand of hair away from my glasses.
"I'll buy you a lifetime supply of honey-butter chips," he promised softly, his cheeks turning a bright pink. "And I'll let you study my hybrid reflexes all semester. Just... don't leave the nest yet."
I smiled, reaching up to gently scratch behind his sandy-brown ears, watching them twitch happily in response. "Deal, you oversized hamster."
Tags : fluff, fake relationship, next door neighbor, golden retriever bf x black cat gf, forced proximity, opposites attract
W.c : 3,4 k
Summary : It started with one call... You needed a fake date for one night... Turns out the only option you had was you infuriating next door neighbor Jung Yunho...
Playlist : Lovefool ; Greek God ; Treacherous ; Adore you
The email hit your inbox at 11:47 a.m. on a Tuesday-that specific type of weekday where even the smallest inconvenience feels like a declaration of war.
You stared at it for a full sixty seconds, blinking, like it might vanish if you didn't acknowledge it, rereading the subject line three times before doing the only logical thing: slamming your laptop shut like it had personally offended you.
You weren't dreading the reunion.
No. That would imply you cared. But something about the idea of standing in a rooftop bar surrounded by people you barely remembered-glowing, coupled up, overly successful in ways that made your stomach twist on itself like old cables-left a sour taste in your mouth. Because your personal life? A wasteland. A barren, Netflix-and-takeout desert. No partners. No flings. Not even a promising situationship. The most consistent thing in your life was your favorite hoodie and the Korean convenience store clerk who knew your instant ramen preference by heart.
But the real gut-punch?
He was going to be there.
Your ex.
The one who ghosted you five years ago-no explanation, no closure. Just vanished like a bad plotline in an unfinished book. And now, apparently, he was attending. Probably with some gorgeous new partner, because of course the universe wouldn't let you live.
You absolutely refused to show up as the sad, "forever loner" case study everyone would side-eye between mouthfuls of catered food. There was no way you were showing up alone. Not when people still whispered behind your back about how he left. Not when your old classmates would tilt their heads sympathetically and say, "Still single?" like it was an illness.
But you also didn't expect to be this... rattled by a college reunion. Not after surviving exams, three apartments, two job layoffs, and a breakup that taught you how cold silence could really be.
Which is how you found yourself pacing your kitchen at almost midnight, phone clutched in hand like it held the antidote to your dignity. Because apparently, it did.
You had no plans, no one to turn to but you had one solution. Not a boyfriend. Not even a date. Just the nuclear option : Jung Yunho.
Your infuriating next door neighbor. Ridiculously attractive. Annoyingly charming. Radiating with the energy of a golden retriever.
And your only option.
Ten minutes of agonizing indecision later, you gave in. Scrolled down your contacts. Hit call.
The line rang once. Twice.
"Why are you calling so late?" Yunho's voice crackled through the speaker-low, sleepy, and unfairly sexy. Of course. He sounded like sin wrapped in warmth.
You shut your eyes and took a breath. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. I just... need a favor." A pause.
"I have this class reunion thing," you went on, words tumbling out before you lost your nerve. "And I don't want to show up alone. Could you come with me? As my boyfriend."
A beat. Then:
"You want me to what?"
You closed your eyes.
"Just-pretend to be my boyfriend. For one night. One weekend. Whatever it takes. Please."
Silence.
You pictured him in his apartment right across the hall, probably shirtless, one hand rubbing his neck, hair pushed back in that way he does when he's half-annoyed but intrigued.
"You realize you called me at 12:03 a.m. to ask me to be your fake boyfriend?"
"Yes. And I'm incredibly aware of how pathetic this sounds, thank you."
Another pause. Longer this time. You could practically hear him smirking. Then:
"Alright. I'm in. But I have conditions."
"Yunho-"
He cut you off smoothly.
"Come with me to my cousin's wedding in three weeks," he interrupted.
"I need someone to keep my nosy, conservative family off my back. And someone hot and sarcastic might just do the trick."
WAIT DID HE JUST CALL ME HOT ? No, don't think about that. Focus.
You snorted.
"So I'm your distraction?"
"Exactly. We're both getting something out of it."
"Fine," you said, a smile creeping into your voice.
"If it's just that, we have a deal."
A beat passed.
"And if we're doing this, I also have rules," you added firmly. "Three, to be specific."
"Of course you do."
You ignored the sass.
"Rule one: no kissing unless we're in public. And don't overdo it."
"Damn. Killing the fun at the very beginning, don't you?"
"Rule two," you said louder, "No staying the night. No crashing at each other's places. We keep our space."
"You're afraid you'll fall for me in your sleep?"
You could hear the grin in his voice.
"And rule three," you said deadpan, ignoring his teasing, "absolutely no real feelings."
"So we're playing house but emotionally constipated. Got it."
You groaned, flopping back on your couch.
"You're the worst."
"And yet," he said, voice dropping again, smooth and teasing, "you picked me."
You could practically hear him raising an eyebrow through the receiver. You didn't even need to be in the room to picture that infuriating grin. The truth was, you were more afraid of falling for him.
✧───⋆｡°❅°｡⋆☕︎˚ʚ❆ɞ˚☕︎⋆｡°❅°｡⋆───✧
The week passed in a blur of overthinking, text threads titled "Fake BF Rules (pls don't be weird)", and you making the tragic mistake of watching romantic K-dramas at 2 a.m. while stress-eating leftover garlic bread.
The night of the reunion arrived too fast- and not fast enough.
You smoothed down the fabric of your black cocktail dress in the mirror, already regretting the extra layer of lip gloss. You looked hot. Objectively. But your stomach was flipping upside down. Every time you glanced at the clock, your heartbeat doubled.
And then, a knock.
You opened the door to Yunho standing there like he belonged on a magazine cover that said something like: "How to ruin lives just by existing."
Hands in the pockets of his black slacks, a loose white shirt tucked in, sleeves rolled to his forearms, and the first two buttons open over his chest. His blonde hair peeked from beneath a backwards black cap, looking disgustingly, unfairly hot effortlessly put together in a should-be-illegal way. His expression was lazy, half a smirk.
"Hey."
You blinked. -and promptly forgot how to speak.
"You're-uh. Wow."
He grinned, eyes flicking down your figure with a quick once-over that made your skin buzz.
"You're wearing that?" he said, voice low, a little hoarse. "Guess I'm the lucky one tonight."
You coughed to hide the very real and immediate urge to drag him back into your apartment.
"I thought fake boyfriends were supposed to be humble."
"I'm a multi-talented actor," he said, stepping inside and reaching out to fix your necklace like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Humility is extra."
His fingers brushed your collarbone. You froze.
Rule #3: No real feelings. You silently reminded yourself.
His eyes skimmed you slowly, unapologetically, pausing at your neckline before meeting your gaze again.
"You're gonna make it hard to pretend this is fake."
You rolled your eyes and stepped out, locking the door behind you.
"Let's get this over with."
The reunion venue was high-end-a rooftop cocktail bar wrapped in string lights, city skyline twinkling beyond the glass. Everyone looked polished and annoyingly successful. Champagne flutes, soft jazz, and conversations that started with "So what are you up to now?" and ended with humblebrags.
Yunho laced your fingers with his the moment you stepped in, his grip warm and confident. You tensed slightly.
"We're barely through the door."
He leaned down, lips brushing your ear.
"Public, isn't it?" he murmured. "Just following rule one."
He smirked and your stomach flipped at his words. You wanted to throttle him.
You should have expected Yunho to take the role so seriously, by the time you reached your ex-classmates, his hand moved behind your back, his cologne doing criminal things to your senses, and you were wondering why your heartbeat would not calm down.
The night started in a dizzying blur of forced smiles and fake laughs. Yunho played the boyfriend role too well-his hand always on the small of your back, his smile charming, his jokes just sharp enough to make people second-guess if he was serious.
He smiled at everyone. He remembered names. He told a story about how you met that was so ridiculous it made people laugh-something about tripping over him in the hallway and calling him a "6-foot inconvenience."
You were getting used to it-his heat beside you, the soft pressure of his hand at your waist-until it happened.
He walked in.
Your ex.
Wearing the same smug expression he always had when he thought he was the smartest man in the room. And he wasn't alone-some gorgeous, sharp-dressed person was clinging to his arm like arm candy. You stiffened, heart racing. But Yunho noticed before you could even say a word.
"So this is the infamous ex?" Yunho leans down to whisper as your ghost-from-the-past walks toward you with a drink in hand.
"He's not infamous. He's just... trash."
"Want me to punch him or just look hot?"
"You already look hot."
Yunho smirks.
Your ex approaches with a smile that tries too hard.
"Didn't think you'd come."
"Didn't think you'd care," you fire back sweetly.
Yunho didn't hesitate.
He pulled you closer—so close your spine registered the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest—and pressed a lingering, tender kiss to your temple. The warmth of his breath contrasted sharply with the glacial, predatory edge that entered his demeanor the moment he turned his gaze toward your ex. His voice was all honey-slick composure, dripping with an effortless charm that completely masked the underlying warning.
Extending one hand in a casual, expectant gesture of greeting, he kept his other arm securely banded around your waist, holding you flush against him as if nothing could ever pry you apart.
"Hey, man. I'm Yunho. I don't think we've met." he said, offering his hand for a shake, his tone dripping with polished hospitality.
Your ex stared down at Yunho's extended hand for a fraction of a second, a flicker of irritation crossing his face before he reluctantly reached out to shake it. Yunho’s grip was firm, almost crushing, anchoring the handshake a beat longer than polite society dictated before dropping it effortlessly.
Then, your ex raised an eyebrow, looking past Yunho to you.
"You brought a date?"
"Boyfriend," Yunho corrected smoothly before you could say anything, his smile never reaching his eyes, though the delivery was as casual as if he were discussing the weather. "Of two years."
You elbowed him sharply in the ribs, a silent reprimand for the sheer absurdity of the timeline he had just invented on the spot. He didn't even flinch; instead, he simply tightened his grip, anchoring you even closer to his side.
You stared up at his profile, completely dumbfounded, your eyes wide as you looked at him as though he had suddenly sprouted wings. Or horns. Or perhaps both.
"Though she still refuses to stop stealing my hoodies."
You nearly choked on your champagne. Your ex faltered. Yet you didn't miss it. His gaze flicked between you and Yunho, and something about his sudden smirk made your stomach churn.
"Didn't think you were the type to settle down."
Yunho's hand moved lower-dangerously close to your hip. You glanced at him in warning, but he just smiled and kissed your cheek.
"She's not the one who ran."
It was soft. But it landed like a slap. Your ex's face twitched.
You grabbed Yunho's hand, tugging him toward the hallway near the restrooms.
"We're getting more champagne," you lied.
Once out of sight, you spun around.
"What was that?"
Yunho shrugged, innocent.
"What? Was I too convincing?"
You opened your mouth-but then he stepped forward. Close. Way too close.
"You're shaking."
"I'm not-"
His hand came up, cupping your jaw. Gentle, grounding.
"You don't have to pretend for me." His voice was lower now, intimate, quiet. "But if I'm gonna pretend for you, I'm going all in."
Your breath caught.
You hated how close he was. You hated how your chest fluttered. You hated that he smelled like expensive cologne and warmth and something unfairly addictive.
"Yunho..."
He leaned in, lips brushing yours.
You panicked. "Rule number one."
"No kissing unless we're in public?" he murmured, backing you gently into the wall. His arm braced beside your head.
He tilted his cap slightly and grinned. "And right now we're in public."
Damn it.
You glared and whispered. "You're evil."
Your breath hitching as his thumb slid up to rest right against the pulse fluttering in your jaw. Fast. Erractic. Traitorous.
"Yeah," he whispered, his grin ghosting across your lips. "But I look good doing it."
For two agonizing seconds, the space between your mouths shrank to absolute zero. You braced yourself, your hand tightening on the lapel of his jacket— to push him away or pull him closer, you weren't even sure.
But Yunho didn't close the gap.
Instead, he tilted his head, his gaze dropping to your mouth before lingering on the nervous flutter of your throat. A low, quiet chuckle vibrated through his chest.
"I'm a man of my word. I don't cheat."
Your heart was hammering so loudly against your ribs you were convinced he could feel it through his shirt. "You're enjoying this way too much."
He pulled back just an inch, his eyes gleaming with infuriating triumph.
You absolute bastard.
You almost mouthed those words. But your brain was still trying to process whatever just happened. It was as if you could still felt the electricity through your body even if Yunho was now standing less closer. But still too close.
You swallowed hard, trying to regain some semblance of the composure you’d spent the last week practicing in front of your mirror.
"You're impossible," you muttered, smoothing the front of your dress with trembling fingers.
Yunho’s expression softened, the sharp, defensive edge he’d worn for your ex completely dissolving. He reached out, his thumb gently brushing across your cheekbone—not with the theatrical flair of an actor playing to a crowd, but with a quiet, grounding tenderness that made your breath catch all over again.
"Hey," he said softly, his voice losing its teasing cadence. "Seriously, you okay?"
The genuine concern in his eyes was almost worse than the flirting. It was disarming.
"I'm fine," you lied, looking away toward the hallway entrance.
"I just... didn't expect him to bring someone. And I definitely didn't expect my fake boyfriend to invent a two-year relationship and threaten a man with a handshake."
Yunho let out a low chuckle, stepping back just enough to give you some breathing room, though he kept his hands casually tucked into his slacks.
"Someone had to remind him what he lost," Yunho said simply, though there was no malice in it now—just a quiet certainty that made your stomach flip in an entirely different way.
"I know seeing him must suck. I can take you home if you want. We can leave him and his little arm candy to choke on their champagne."
You looked up at him, caught off guard by the sudden shift.
Underneath the swagger, the designer clothes, and the fake boyfriend theatrims, Yunho was actually paying attention. He had seen right through your sharp comebacks back there.
Your shoulders dropped just a fraction, the tension finally beginning to drain out of your spine.
"No," you said softly, a genuine, small smile finally touching your lips. "No way am I letting him think he chased me away. We're staying."
Yunho’s expression softened into a look that made your stomach flip all over again—this time, without any help from the ex.
"That's my girl," he murmured, offering his arm to you with a mock-formal bow that made your eyes rolled.
The walk back onto the rooftop terrace felt entirely different from the first time you stepped through the glass doors. The low thrum of ambient jazz and the chatter of old acquaintances no longer felt like a hostile tribunal waiting to pass judgment. With Yunho’s solid, warm frame walking beside you—his hand resting with casual, proprietary weight on the small of your back—the room seemed to shrink into something manageable. Your ex and his impeccably dressed companion were nowhere in sight, swallowed up by the sprawling crowd near the illuminated bar, but the phantom sting of their presence had completely evaporated.
The rest of the evening blurred into a surreal montage of stolen glances, lingering touches, and a level of domestic choreography that felt entirely too natural for a couple who had invented their relationship over a late-night phone call.
You traded polite pleasantries with people you had spent years trying to forget, laughed at jokes that were only mildly painful, and watched with secret amusement as Yunho effortlessly charmed a cluster of former sorority sisters who were hanging on his every word. He played the devoted partner with terrifying perfection, leaning in close to whisper ridiculous commentary into your ear that forced you to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing out loud. For the first time all evening, the knot of anxiety in your chest dissolved into a warm, buzzing hum of pure adrenaline.
By the time the rooftop bar’s string lights began to dim and the crowd thinned out, your ex was nowhere to be seen—having apparently decided that getting systematically out-maneuvered by a six-foot blonde neighbor in a black cap wasn't how he wanted to spend his Tuesday night.
The ride back to your apartment building was quiet, wrapped in the comfortable hum of the city at 2:00 a.m.
When the elevator doors dinged on your floor, you stepped out into the dimly lit hallway, your heels clicking against the carpet. You reached your door, fumbling through your small clutch for your keys, hyper-aware of Yunho standing just a few inches away, leaning casually against the doorframe of his own apartment directly across from yours.
"Well," you said, forcing a bright, casual tone as you finally fished the keys out. "The fake boyfriend act was a 10 out of 10. You deserve an Oscar. Or at least some free drink."
Yunho didn't move. He crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes catching the amber glow of the hallway sconce.
"I'm a man of expensive tastes. A free drink won't cut it anymore."
You unlocked your door and pushed it open, turning back to face him with a smirk. "Right. Well, thank you. For saving me back there. I owe you one."
"You certainly do," Yunho agreed, his voice dropping to that low, smooth register that made your skin tingle.
He pushed off the doorframe and took a slow step toward you, closing the distance until he was standing right on your threshold.
The air between you suddenly felt entirely too thin.
"Don't forget," he murmured, his gaze dipping briefly to your mouth before rising to lock with yours, "My cousin's wedding. You're returning the favor."
You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around the edge of the door. "I remember. Three weeks."
"Good," Yunho whispered, his hand coming up to rest on the doorframe right beside your head, caging you in just enough to make your breath hitch. "Because my family is ruthless. You're going to have to pretend you're madly in love with me."
Before you could think of a sufficiently sarcastic response to mask the frantic pounding of your heart, Yunho smiled—a slow, knowing, dangerous thing—and stepped back.
"Sleep well, neighbor," he said softly, turning away and walking across the hall to unlock his own door.
You stood frozen in your doorway for a full ten seconds, watching him disappear inside his apartment before the door clicked shut. You closed your own door, leaned your back against it, and slid slowly down to the floor.
Three weeks until his family's wedding.
You touched your fingertips to your temple where his breath had brushed hours ago, realizing with a sudden, terrifying jolt that the hardest part of the fake dating arrangement wasn't going to be surviving his family.
It was going to be surviving yourself.
Thanks for reading me ! Hope you like it so far ? Let me know your thoughts? ? Wanna see Yunho break the rules yet or no ?? 🫣🤭
Honestly I was planning to do a short OS at first but maybe I should do a full fanfic ?
What do you think ? 🤔
Keep it as short 2/3 part OS 🥰
Make it a full slow burn FF 😏🤪
Remaining time: 4 days 21 hours
🎧 Playlist : Lovefool - The Cardigans | Greek God - Conan Grey | Treacherous - Taylor Swift | Adore you - Harry Styles
synopsis✧˖°. when you get dragged to a party by your friends, the last thing you expect is to end up in a closet with jay, your enemy for months. but seven minutes in heaven changes everything, and what starts as a game turns into a night of confessions, passion, and unexpected tenderness. sometimes the person you think you hate is the one you needed all along.
contains✧˖° explicit sexual content ; choking/breath play ; overstimulation ; make out ; rough sex ; "seven minutes in heaven" trope ; aftercare ; fluff ending ; first time together ; party scene ; sunsun & heejake mention ; unprotected sex (cloak the joker before you poke her!) ; fingering ; eating out ; wc: 5.5k ; petnames (doll, princess, pretty) ; i probally missed some... tread lightly
notes✧˖° so i really enjoyed writing smut, so i decided to do a whole story of it, but with jay!! if there are any grammatical errors, i apologize, i kinda rushed this.. if you like my writng, PLEASE send an ask!! its kind of hard for me to come up with a story on my own. anyway, please enjoy the story!!
the music was too loud. that was your first thought as you walked into the crowded living room, some generic pop song thumping through the speakers loud enough to rattle your ribs.
you scanned the room, already regretting letting your friends drag you here. the apartment was packed with people you barely knew, bodies pressed together, the air thick with the smell of cheap beer and expensive perfume. someone had opened all the windows but it did nothing to cut the heat, the september night still clinging to the walls.
and then you saw him.
jay was leaned against the kitchen counter, red solo cup in hand, laughing at something jake said. he looked annoyingly good, black shirt sleeves pushed up to his elbows, silver chain catching the light. he must've felt you staring because his eyes flicked over, meeting yours across the room.
his smile dropped immediately.
you rolled your eyes, turning away. great. just what you needed tonight.
for months now, you and jay had been circling each other like sharks. it started with petty comments, escalated to full blown arguments at group hangouts, and now you couldn't be in the same room without wanting to strangle him. or something.
the something had become increasingly confusing lately. you'd notice the way his shirt stretched across his shoulders, the way his hands looked when he was typing on his phone, the way his jaw tightened when he was trying not to lose his temper with you. you'd notice, and then you'd hate yourself for noticing, and then you'd pick a fight to cover it up.
"okay everyone," sunoo called out, climbing onto a chair with the kind of dramatic flair only sunoo could manage. "we're doing spin the bottle. couples and boring people leave now."
the crowd groaned and cheered in equal measure. you should've left. you knew you should've left. nothing good ever came from party games invented by teenagers with too much time and not enough supervision.
but jay was already walking over, that stupid smirk on his face, and you weren't about to let him think he scared you off. you'd rather die than give him that satisfaction.
the circle formed on the carpet, mismatched cushions and discarded jackets creating a rough perimeter. you and jay ended up on opposite sides. perfect. your best friend mina squeezed your hand as she sat beside you, her eyes wide with the kind of delighted horror that meant she was already planning how to tell this story later.
"this is gonna be a disaster," she whispered.
"probably," you whispered back. "sunoo's already drunk. he'll probably forget his own rules in ten minutes."
"that's what i'm afraid of."
you looked around the circle. jungwon was there, looking slightly uncomfortable in the way he always did at parties, like he was calculating the earliest socially acceptable time to leave. riki was on his phone, probably texting his girlfriend. heeseung sat next to jake, their shoulders pressed together in a way that made you wonder if they were finally going to admit what everyone else already knew. sunghoon and sunoo were practically attached at the hip as usual, sunoo's head resting on sunghoon's shoulder, both of them wearing matching smirks like they knew something the rest of you didn't.
"rules," sunoo announced, clapping his hands together. "seven minutes in heaven. no exceptions. no escapees. door stays locked. if you come out early, you forfeit and have to take a shot of whatever mystery liquid jake has in that green bottle."
"it's fermented pickle juice," jake said proudly.
"absolutely not," jungwon muttered.
"what if it lands on someone you hate?" jay asked, looking directly at you with that infuriating eyebrow raise.
sunoo's grin turned wicked. "especially if it lands on someone you hate. that's the best part. the universe is telling you to work out your issues. in a closet. in the dark. alone."
"that's not how the universe works," you said.
"it is tonight," sunoo countered. "bottle is an old wine bottle, scratched and dented, completely unbiased. who's first?"
it started with jungwon. he spun and landed on some girl you didn't know, someone from sunoo's dance class apparently. they disappeared into the closet, came out seven minutes later looking disheveled but satisfied, jungwon avoiding eye contact with everyone.
riki went next. landed on jake. they just talked about soccer the whole time, apparently, though jake came out looking deeply confused about why riki knew so much about bundesliga defensive strategies.
heeseung spun and you watched jake's face carefully, the way he tried to look casual and failed completely. the bottle slowed, slowed... and stopped on sunghoon.
heeseung laughed, jake's shoulder relaxed, and sunghoon just raised an eyebrow. "i have a boyfriend," he said simply, gesturing to sunoo.
"pass," sunoo agreed. "but only because you're cute, heeseung. anyone else and i'd make them sit in the dark and think about what they've done."
then it was your turn.
you reached out, fingers wrapping around the cool glass. you could feel jay's eyes burning into you from across the circle, heavy and intent. don't land on him, you prayed. don't land on him. anyone but him. jungwon again. the wall. literally anyone else.
you spun.
the bottle rotated, catching light, slowing down, passing jungwon, passing riki, passing heeseung and jake...
and stopped on jay.
"oh my god," mina muttered, her grip on your hand tightening to the point of pain.
jay's expression didn't change but something flickered in his eyes, something dark and interested that made your stomach flip. "well," he said, standing up with that infuriating casualness. "let's get this over with."
sunoo was practically vibrating with excitement, his feet doing a little dance on the chair. "closet. now. seven minutes. don't come out early or you forfeit and drink the pickle juice."
you stood on shaky legs. this was fine. this was absolutely fine. you just had to survive seven minutes in a dark closet with your enemy. easy. you'd done harder things. you'd survived finals week. you'd eaten sunoo's cooking. you could handle this.
the closet was small. way too small. it was technically a coat closet but someone had cleared out the coats to make room for... whatever this was. jay stepped in first, leaning against the back wall with his arms crossed, looking bored and put-upon. you followed, pulling the door shut behind you. the darkness was immediate and total, so complete you couldn't see your hand in front of your face.
"this is stupid," you said, pressing yourself against the opposite wall.
"agreed," jay said. his voice was closer than you expected, coming from somewhere in the middle of the small space.
you pressed yourself harder against the wall, arms crossed, trying to put as much space between you as possible. you could hear him breathing, slow and steady. smell his cologne, something woody and expensive that made you want to lean closer. the closet was warm, airless, and you could feel your heart starting to race.
"you're being dramatic, y/n," he said after a moment.
"i'm not doing anything."
"you're pressed against the wall like i'm contagious."
"maybe you are."
he laughed. low and soft, closer now. "you're ridiculous, you know that?"
"and you're insufferable."
silence. but it wasn't comfortable silence. it was charged, electric, the kind of silence that hummed against your skin and made the hair on your arms stand up. you could hear every breath he took, every subtle shift of fabric as he moved.
"why do you hate me so much?" he asked. his voice was closer now. when had he moved?
"i don't hate you."
"you sure act like it."
"because you're arrogant and annoying and you think you're better than everyone."
"and you're stubborn and impossible and you never back down from anything."
"someone has to put you in your place."
you could feel him now. the heat of him in the small space, radiating toward you like a furnace. your eyes were adjusting slightly, enough to make out the shape of him, the way he was leaning toward you, the glint of his chain catching some sliver of light from under the door.
"you've been trying to put me in your place for months," he said quietly. "how's that working out for you?"
"terribly."
"maybe you should try a different approach."
"like what?"
he didn't answer. instead, he moved. one hand found your waist, pulling you toward him with a strength that made you gasp, and then his mouth was on yours.
you gasped against his lips, surprised by the softness of them, by the way he kissed like he was starving, like he'd been waiting for this for years. his other hand came up to cup your jaw, angling your head just so, and his tongue slid against yours, demanding and sure.
you melted into it despite yourself. your hands found his chest, gripping his shirt, pulling him closer. he tasted like mint and something darker, something that made your head spin.
his hands moved to your hips, lifting you slightly, pressing you against the wall. you wrapped your legs around his waist without thinking, feeling him hard against you through his jeans. the friction made you whimper, made you roll your hips seeking more.
his hands roamed your body, sliding under your shirt, thumbs brushing over your bra. you arched into his touch, already lost in the sensation, in the way he seemed to know exactly where to touch you.
"pretty girl," he whispered, watching your eyes flutter in the dim light. "so pretty and you don't even know it. walking around acting like you hate me when you've been thinking about this too, haven't you?"
"yes," you admitted, the word torn from you.
he groaned, grinding against you with intent. "say it again."
"yes, jay. i've thought about it."
"about what? be specific."
"about you. about this. about you fucking me."
the words seemed to break something in him. he kissed you harder, more desperate, hands tangling in your hair, pulling just enough to make your scalp tingle.
"can't believe i'm finally touching you," he mumbled against your skin. "been driving me crazy. every time you roll your eyes at me, every time you argue, all i can think about is shutting you up with my cock in your mouth."
"jay-"
"you'd like that, wouldn't you? being on your knees for me?"
you nodded frantically, the image making you clench around nothing.
he was rolling his hips against you, creating delicious friction where you needed it most. you were both fully clothed but you'd never felt more exposed, more vulnerable, more seen.
"fuck, y/n," he breathed against your mouth. "i've wanted to do that for so long."
"shut up," you whispered, but you were kissing him again, harder this time, desperate.
his hands moved to your hips, lifting you slightly, pressing you against the wall. you wrapped your legs around his waist, feeling him hard against you through his jeans. the friction made you whimper.
"you're so responsive," he murmured, trailing kisses down your neck. "knew you would be. knew you'd fall apart the second i touched you."
"don't flatter yourself."
he bit your neck, hard enough to mark. "y/n, tell me to stop."
you didn't.
his hands roamed your body, sliding under your shirt, thumbs brushing over your bra. you arched into his touch, head falling back against the wall. his mouth followed, sucking dark marks into your skin, and you gasped when his hand wrapped around your throat.
he didn't squeeze hard, just enough to hold you there, pinned, his thumb stroking your pulse point. "look at you," he whispered, watching your eyes flutter. "so pretty when you're helpless. want me to choke you properly, princess? want me to cut off your air while i make you come?"
"yes," you breathed, the pressure making your head spin in the best way.
he applied a little more pressure, just enough to make your breath hitch, and grinned against your lips. "such a good girl. taking what i give you. imagine if i had you naked right now, my hand around your throat while i fuck you raw. you'd like that, wouldn't you? being completely under my control?"
you nodded as much as you could, pinned against the wall by his body and his hand.
"can't wait," he growled, grinding harder against you. "can't wait to get you alone and ruin you properly."
and then the door opened.
"time's up!" sunoo sang, sounding far too cheerful.
you both froze. jay's forehead dropped to your shoulder, his breathing ragged against your neck. you untangled yourself from him, straightening your clothes with shaking hands, trying to look normal, trying to remember how to breathe.
sunoo's eyes widened as he took in the scene. jay's swollen lips, your messed up hair, the hickey blooming dark on your neck. "wow," he said, stepping back. "okay then. didn't expect that. carry on."
you pushed past him, face burning. jay followed, and you didn't look at him as you rejoined the circle, but you could feel everyone's eyes on you, curious and knowing.
mina grabbed your hand. "what happened, y/n?"
"nothing," you lied, your voice rough.
she didn't believe you, but she let it go, though her eyes kept darting between you and jay with increasing interest.
the game continued, but you couldn't focus. jake spun and landed on heeseung, and they actually went into the closet. when they came out, jake's shirt was buttoned wrong and heeseung wouldn't meet anyone's eyes, his cheeks flushed pink. sunoo and sunghoon exchanged knowing looks, smug and satisfied.
you tried to focus on the game, on the conversation, on anything but the way your lips still tingled, the way your neck throbbed where he'd bitten you. but every time you looked up, jay was watching you. dark eyes tracking your movements, lingering on your mouth, on the mark he'd left on your neck.
it was disorienting. you'd spent months hating him, or trying to, and now all you could think about was the weight of his hand on your throat, the way he'd looked at you like you were the only thing in the world.
₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊
the party started winding down around two am. people were leaving in groups, calling ubers, stumbling out into the night in various states of disrepair. you were in the kitchen, pouring yourself some water with hands that still weren't quite steady, when you felt him behind you.
"still hate me?" jay asked quietly, close enough that you could feel his breath on the back of your neck.
you turned. he was closer than you expected, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to look at him, close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.
"still figuring it out," you admitted.
he smiled. it was different from his usual smirk. softer, more genuine, with a hint of vulnerability that made your chest ache. "can i drive you home?"
"my friends-"
"already left. i saw mina leave with jungwon twenty minutes ago. they looked pretty cozy, actually."
you checked your phone. three texts from mina
great. abandoned by your best friend for a boy. the betrayal.
"fine," you said, setting down your cup. "but if you murder me, i'm haunting you. and i'll be a very annoying ghost."
"fair enough," he said, that soft smile still playing at his lips. "i'd expect nothing less."
his car was nice. black, sleek, smelled like him, that woody cologne filling the enclosed space. you slid into the passenger seat, suddenly nervous now that you were alone with him. the closet had been one thing. adrenaline and darkness and the game. this was real. this was you choosing to be here, choosing him.
he started the engine but didn't pull out immediately. "can i be honest with you?"
"depends."
"i don't actually hate you. i never did. i just... didn't know how to talk to you. so i picked fights instead. it was stupid. i'm stupid."
you stared at him. "that's the dumbest thing i've ever heard."
"i know. i'm an idiot."
"yeah," you agreed, but you were smiling. "you are."
he reached over, hand finding your thigh, warm and heavy. "can i take you home? actually take you home? not just drop you off?"
your heart hammered against your ribs. "yes."
the drive was quiet, his hand never leaving your leg. he squeezed occasionally, thumb tracing patterns on your inner thigh, higher and higher, and you shifted in your seat, already wet again just from his touch, from the memory of his mouth on yours.
when you got to your apartment, you led him inside without a word. the moment the door closed, he was on you, pressing you against the wall, his mouth finding yours with a hunger that made your knees weak.
"bedroom," he demanded, his voice rough.
"this way."
he followed, and when you turned to face him in your room, he crowded you against the door immediately. his mouth found yours, hungrier than before, like the closet had just been an appetizer and he was starving for the main course.
"been thinking about you since we got out," he mumbled against your lips, his hands already pulling at your shirt. "couldn't focus on anything else. wanted to drag you back in there. wanted to push you to your knees right there in front of everyone."
"why didn't you?"
"patience," he said, though his hands were anything but patient, pulling at your clothes with desperate urgency. "wanted to do this right. wanted to take my time with you."
he stripped you slowly, worshipfully, murmuring praise with every inch of skin he revealed. "look at you. so fucking beautiful. can't believe i get to see this. can't believe you're letting me."
you pulled at his shirt, wanting him bare too. he let you, helping you undo the buttons, and then his chest was pressed against yours, warm and solid and perfect. he was lean muscle and smooth skin, and you couldn't stop touching him, mapping the planes of his body with greedy hands.
"on the bed," he ordered, his voice dropping lower.
you obeyed, lying back against the pillows. he crawled over you, kissing down your body, lingering at your breasts, sucking your nipples into his mouth until you were arching off the bed, then moving lower, to your stomach, the waistband of your jeans.
"jay-"
"patience," he said again, but there was a smile in his voice, dark and teasing.
he undid your jeans, pulling them down along with your underwear. you were bare before him, exposed and vulnerable, and he just looked at you for a long moment, his gaze heavy and reverent.
"perfect," he whispered. "absolutely fucking perfect."
he spread your legs, settling between them, and then his mouth was on you.
you cried out, hands flying to his hair, gripping tight. he was skilled, relentless, licking into you with long strokes that had you writhing, your hips bucking against his mouth. he sucked your clit, flicking it with his tongue, and you gasped his name, over and over like a prayer.
"that's it," he encouraged, looking up at you with dark eyes, his chin wet with you. "let me hear you. want to know what i do to you. want to hear how good i make you feel."
he added a finger, curling it inside you, and you moaned louder, your head falling back against the pillows. he built you up slowly, torturously, bringing you to the edge and then backing off until you were begging, your hands tugging at his hair.
"please, jay, please-"
"please what?"
"let me come. please. i need to come."
he sucked your clit harder, finger moving faster, curling to hit that spot inside you, and you came with a cry, back arching off the bed, your orgasm crashing through you like a wave. he rode you through it, gentle now, kissing your thighs, your hip bones, back up to your mouth.
"taste yourself," he said, kissing you deep, and you could, the faint sweetness on his tongue, and it made you shiver, made you want more.
he pulled back, standing to undress fully. you watched, propped up on your elbows, as he revealed himself. lean muscle, defined abs, a trail of hair leading down to where he was hard and heavy against his stomach.
your eyes widened. he was big, thick and long, curved slightly against his stomach, the tip already wet with precome. way bigger than you expected. he caught your expression and smirked, wrapping his hand around himself and giving a slow stroke.
"see something you like?" he teased.
"you're huge," you blurted out, then felt your face heat up.
he laughed, low and pleased. "don't worry, doll. i'll make it fit. gonna stretch you out so good. gonna make you feel every inch."
he climbed back over you, and you felt him against your thigh, heavy and hot. "touch it," he ordered.
you reached between you, fingers wrapping around his length. your hand couldn't close fully around him, and he groaned at the contact, hips bucking into your touch, his eyes falling closed.
"that's it," he encouraged. "feel what you do to me. been hard since the closet. since i first tasted you. since i first saw you tonight."
he positioned himself at your entrance, rubbing against you, teasing. the head of him felt huge against your folds, and you felt a flutter of nerves mixed with anticipation, your body already sensitive from your first orgasm.
"want you so bad," he admitted. "thought about this so many times. fucking you until you can't remember why you hated me. until you can't remember your own name."
"do it," you challenged. "fuck me, jay. i want to feel you."
he pushed in slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust. he was massive, stretching you wide, filling you deeper than anyone had before. you whimpered at the fullness, at the slight burn of being stretched around him, your nails digging into his back.
"fuck," he gritted out, forehead dropping to your shoulder. "so tight. so warm. taking me so well, princess. feel how big i am inside you? feel how perfectly you fit around me?"
he kept pushing until he was fully seated, his hips flush against yours. you felt impossibly full, stuffed, his cock hitting places you didn't know could be reached. you could feel your walls fluttering around him, adjusting to his size.
"so deep," you gasped, your voice shaky.
"that's it," he praised, starting to move, slow and deep. "gonna fuck you properly now. gonna make you feel every inch. gonna ruin you for anyone else."
he started moving, dragging out every thrust so you felt every vein, every ridge of him. you wrapped your legs around him, trying to pull him deeper, and he groaned, his control slipping.
"greedy," he accused. "want more of this big cock already? you can take it?"
"yes," you whimpered. "please, jay, give me more. fuck me harder."
he picked up the pace, snapping his hips harder, faster. the sound of skin on skin filled the room, mixed with your moans and his ragged breathing. with every thrust, he hit that spot inside you that made your vision blur, that made you see stars.
"feel that?" he grunted. "feel how deep i am? gonna ruin this pretty pussy for anyone else. gonna make you addicted to this dick."
"already am," you admitted. "only you. only your big cock, jay."
"that's right. only me. say it again."
"only you. i'm yours. please, don't stop."
he groaned, thrusting harder, losing his rhythm. the bed was hitting the wall, and you didn't care if your neighbors heard, didn't care about anything but the way he was making you feel.
he shifted your leg over his shoulder, changing the angle, and suddenly he was even deeper, hitting your cervix with every thrust. the stretch was almost too much, bordering on pain, but it mixed with the pleasure until you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
"too deep," you gasped, but you were pulling him closer, wanting more, your body greedy and desperate.
"you can take it," he soothed, though his voice was strained. "such a good girl. taking all of me. no one's ever taken me this deep, princess. made for me. this pussy was made for my cock."
he reached between you, thumb finding your clit, rubbing tight circles. the dual sensation was overwhelming, his size filling you completely while his fingers worked you higher, pushing you toward another edge.
"gonna come," you warned. "jay, i'm gonna-"
"come on my cock," he commanded. "come hard, let me feel you squeeze me. milk this big dick, princess. show me how good i make you feel."
you came with a scream, back arching off the bed, your orgasm intensified by the way he filled you completely. your walls clenched around him, rhythmic and tight, and he groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic.
"fuck, that's it. squeezing me so tight. fuck, you're so sensitive now, aren't you? can feel you fluttering around me."
but he didn't stop. he kept thrusting, slower now but still deep, still hitting that spot that made you gasp. you tried to squirm away, oversensitive, but he held your hips firm.
"jay, wait," you gasped. "i can't- it's too much-"
"shh," he soothed, his voice dark and commanding. "i know, princess. i know it's a lot. but you can take it. you're gonna take more for me. gonna make you come again. gonna overstimulate this pretty pussy until you're crying."
he kept moving, his thumb still circling your clit, and you whimpered, the sensation too intense, bordering on painful but somehow still good, still building you up again.
"look at you," he murmured, watching your face. "taking it so well. so sensitive and still taking my cock. such a good girl for me. gonna come again, aren't you? gonna come on my cock even though it's too much?"
you nodded frantically, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the intensity. he was relentless, fucking you through the oversensitivity, his cock dragging against your walls, his thumb working your clit with steady pressure.
"come on," he encouraged. "let go, princess. come for me again. i want to feel you. want to feel you squeeze me dry."
you came again with a sob, your second orgasm crashing into you harder than the first, your whole body shaking, your vision going white at the edges. your walls clenched around him, spasming tight, and he cursed, his hips stuttering.
"fuck, fuck, that's it. taking it so well. milking my cock so good. one more, princess. give me one more."
"i can't," you whimpered, shaking your head. "jay, i can't, it's too much-"
"you can," he insisted, his voice firm but gentle. "one more for me. let me feel you come one more time. want to feel you completely wrecked."
he adjusted his angle, hitting a different spot inside you, and you cried out, the sensation overwhelming. he was fucking you slower now, deep and deliberate, making you feel every inch, every pulse of him inside you.
"please," you begged, not sure if you were begging for him to stop or keep going.
"that's it," he praised. "beg me. beg me to let you come."
"please, jay, please let me come. please make me come again."
he thrust harder, his thumb pressing down on your clit, and you came with a scream, your third orgasm ripping through you, your body convulsing, your walls clenching so tight around him that he groaned, his control finally snapping.
he thrust twice more, hard and deep, burying himself to the hilt, and then he was coming too, spilling inside you with a guttural moan, his cock pulsing, filling you up. you felt every twitch, every pulse of him, the warmth spreading through you.
for a long moment, neither of you moved. he stayed inside you, still half-hard and huge, his weight comforting above you, his breathing ragged against your neck. when he finally pulled out, you felt empty, aching, already missing the stretch of him, your body trembling from the aftershocks.
"shh," he soothed, kissing your forehead, your cheeks, your lips soft and gentle. "i've got you. you're okay. you did so well, princess. took so much for me. so good."
you were still shaking, your body oversensitive and spent, tears sliding down your temples from the intensity of it all. he wiped them away with his thumb, his touch tender now, completely different from the roughness of before.
"stay here," he whispered. "don't move. i'll be right back."
he disappeared into your bathroom, and you heard water running. you lay there, boneless and trembling, your body feeling like it was floating. when he came back, he had a warm washcloth in his hand, gentle and damp.
"open up for me," he said softly, and you let him part your legs, let him clean you up with careful, tender strokes. the cloth was warm, soothing against your sensitive flesh, and you whimpered at the contact, still too sensitive.
"i know," he murmured. "i know, princess. almost done. just want to take care of you. want you clean and comfortable."
he cleaned you thoroughly, gently, his touch reverent. when he was done, he dropped the cloth in your hamper and climbed back onto the bed, pulling you into his arms. you went willingly, curling into his chest, your ear pressed against his heartbeat, which was still racing.
"you okay?" he asked quietly, his hand stroking your hair.
"yeah," you whispered. "that was... intense."
"too intense?" he asked, and you could hear the worry in his voice.
"no," you said quickly, looking up at him. "no, it was perfect. i just... i've never come like that before. multiple times. i didn't know i could."
he smiled, soft and proud. "you were incredible. so responsive. so willing to take more for me. thank you for trusting me."
"thank you for stopping when i really needed it," you said. "for checking in."
"always," he promised. "i'll always take care of you. after, during, always."
he reached down, pulling the blanket over both of you, tucking it around your shoulders. you were still naked, pressed against his warm skin, and you felt safe, cared for, completely content in a way you hadn't expected.
"can i stay?" he asked, his voice hesitant in a way you'd never heard from him before. "i mean... i can go if you want. but i'd like to stay. hold you while you sleep."
"stay," you said, curling closer. "please."
he relaxed, his arm tightening around you. "okay. i'll stay."
you lay there in the dark, listening to his breathing slow, feeling his heartbeat steady against your cheek. his hand traced lazy patterns on your back, soothing and rhythmic, and you felt yourself drifting, your body finally giving in to exhaustion.
"hey," he whispered, just as you were about to fall asleep.
"mm?"
"i meant what i said. i don't hate you. i think i might be... really fond of you, actually. in a non-annoying way."
you smiled against his chest. "i'm fond of you too. in a slightly less annoying way."
he laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest. "go to sleep, princess. i've got you."
"you're not going to call me princess forever, are you?"
"probably," he admitted. "you make it easy. so pretty and responsive and mine."
"hm," you murmured, too tired to argue, not really wanting to anyway.
"sleep," he whispered, kissing your hair. "i'll be here when you wake up."
you fell asleep tangled together, his arms around you, your legs intertwined, his heartbeat lulling you under. and for the first time, you didn't mind the idea of morning, didn't mind the idea of waking up next to him, of seeing where this could go.
the last thing you felt before sleep took you completely was his lips pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, and his whispered words: "mine. you're mine now."
and you were. completely, irrevocably his. and he was yours. and somehow, in the span of seven minutes in a closet and one night in your bed, everything had changed. the boy you'd hated was now the boy you were falling for, and you wouldn't have had it any other way.
you slept deeply, dreamlessly, safe in his arms, and when morning came, he was still there, watching you with soft eyes, and you knew that this was just the beginning.
⋆˚✿˖°
an✧˖°. i lowk wrote this while listening to chaconne, fever, and daydream... please any feedback is welcomed!! good or bad, just be respectful. reblogs are always welcome. PLEASE comment!! i love seeing peoples reactions!
SYNOPSIS: You and Mingi have been friends since the time your brain first learned to hold on to memories. An inseparable pair born from a bitter feud over a mango flavoured juice box. You shared everything. Did everything together. You even got matching haircuts once. Proper bros through and through. It’s been eight years since Mingi last saw you. He expected you’d be taller. Maybe a little broader. Or maybe you’d finally stop dressing like you lost a bet to Winnie the Pooh. Change was only natural, after all. But what he didn't expect was this...were you always this pretty of a guy?
WORD COUNT: 3.4k
TAGS: @decaffeinatedmom01 @bluberrymuffinn
At age four, you swore Mingi would be your lifelong nemesis.
Mainly because he stole the only pack of Mango juice left on the round table during kindergarten.
Everyone else got the flavours they wanted.
Except you.
He deprived you of that.
How dare he.
And you even remember him shoving it in your face, slowly sipping his mango juice-box whilst you were stuck with orange.
Plain, old, boring orange.
You remember tackling him to the ground not long after, but that was the extent of your memory for that day.
Then, at age eleven, you realised that Mingi was a helpless idiot.
This was after you had already somehow managed to build a strong enough friendship where the both of you would refrain from killing each other purely based on stolen juice-boxes and instincts.
“Hey! Go away! LEAVE HIM ALONEEEE!”
Little feet hurried over with manic flailing arms. A tiny you jumped to the rescue at the piglet squeal of your best friend.
“Ugh! Great. It's this weirdo, again. Let's get out of here before—”
It all happened so fast.
You taking flight.
The main bully's eyes widening in fear.
Your smoothly connected shoe against his stupidly dumbfounded face.
With a pained grunt, the bully tumbled on the ground, hand clasping his jaw as streaks of tears began to trail down his cheeks.
“You better stay away from him! OR I'LL—”
Your small fingers signalled a knife to your throat before pointing towards them menacingly.
With a dirty glare, the bullies gathered themselves before making their stumbling escape.
“That's right! Run away you COWARDS!”
You stood tall and proud in your little dungarees and brightly spotted Iron-Man shirt, hands resting comfortably on your hip like some off-brand superhero.
Soft sniffles broke your concentration.
A curled-up Mingi was left cuddling himself on the ground. His clothes tattered, skin dirtied, and a growing bruise on his forehead.
Finally taking in his sight, you gasped, running towards him like a dramatic heroine.
“Mingi! Can you hear me? MINGI DON'T LEAVE ME! DON'T Do tHiS TO mE! NOOO—”
“SHUT UP YOU IDIOT! YOU'RE GOING TO MAKE ME GO DEAF!”
You immediately shut your mouth.
“Ha...” A frustrated sigh. “Those cheaters ambushed me. I was totally going to win if it was one on one like we originally agreed.”
You blinked.
“You agreed to fight those bums?”
He stayed silent. Nothing but a stupidly proud smirk to his lips.
Well. Turns out he proposed the fight.
Huh.
“But you're weak as hell—OW!”
He threw a punch to your shoulder and shot you a soft glare.
“Sheesh...” you pouted, massaging your arm. “I didn't even lie though.”
“I wanted to prove myself without you butting in!” He stood up, his height just about the same size as you.
“Yeah, well...well you should've won then!”
“I was going to do that before you came flying in like Columbus!”
“Columbus doesn't fly! He was an architect or something, so you got that wrong!”
“WHATEVER! My point is—”
You watched his chest rise and fall as he threw his hands up in the air, his pent up frustration spilling out all at once.
“I wanted to win that fight. I wanted to be strong...like you. I wanted to be able to jump in and help you, one day.”
Your breaths slowed at his words.
“And you ruined that.”
“What, you wanted me to leave you there and watch you get beat up like a loser?”
“Maybe!”
“I hate you!”
“I HATE YOU MORE!”
You both shared an ice cream after that. Completely forgetting the harsh words you spewed towards each other.
At age fourteen, you noticed that Mingi was starting to grow a smidge taller than you.
You also noticed that he was far too up-his-own-ass to notice the bare minimum.
Like, the bare minimum.
“And then Betsy, you know, the pretty one, called me over and said she likes my highlights. I think she's totally into me."
You snorted.
He raised a brow. “Woah, what's with the reaction? Just because you're Mr. Popular with the girls doesn't mean I don't get my fair share of attention!”
Your footsteps halted. Pursing your lips in thought, you replayed his comment, bathing further in your ego.
“Wait... I'm popular with the girls?” You questioned, loosening the grip of your collar whilst sending a lazy smile to one of your passing female classmates.
She blushed within seconds and took off running after a shy wave of the hand.
“Wipe that stupid smirk off your face before I do it for you.”
You obliged.
“Anyway, I'm not interested in the girls.” You nudged him gently, making sure to keep eye contact as you said so.
“You aren't? Well then tell them to come my way. I think I'd be the world's greatest man with just a fraction of your—”
“You're hopeless.”
“Hey! Where did that come from? What did I do?!”
You pulled him off to the side, his back hitting the wall. Your hands held his shoulders in place as you inched your face closer to his.
You gazed deep into his eyes.
“Mingi. Look at me. Really look at me. Don't you get it? Haven't you noticed?”
An owlish blink.
Then his lips started.
“Do you...”
His ears began to redden at the intensity of your stare. Mouth suddenly feeling dry.
Up close you were more...soft-looking(?) than he thought. No wonder you were popular with the girls. Heck, he'd probably have fallen for you too, in different circumstances.
He cleared his throat, trying again.
“Are you—”
Your eyes shamelessly followed his lips.
...Yes.
“Maybe...”
Your eyes widened with hope.
...Yes!
“Did you get a new haircut or something?”
...
What.
Closing your eyes, you patted his arm twice, before walking off wordlessly, leaving a clueless Mingi behind.
“Wait! I'm sorry, come back! If it's not your hair then...did you forget to shower or something? You wore your boxers inside out? WHAT IS IT?!”
Just a few years later, around age sixteen, you realised your feelings for Mingi were probably one-sided.
It was also the year your family decided to move away.
You had told him during your routinely hang out session after school.
The park was too crowded, so you both opted to visit your home instead.
He was hanging upside-down on your bed, scrolling through his phone when your voice spoke up.
“What would you do if I had to move away?”
He nearly fell off the bed.
“What do you mean, what would I do, obviously I'd move with you.” He struggled to reposition himself and after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, he lay flat on your bed instead and looked at you.
“What's with the sudden question, anyway?”
Your silence suddenly felt off.
“No reason. Just curious—”
“Liar.”
You flinched at how fast he caught you out.
He was always good at that. Knowing when you were lying. For such an idiot, he was surprisingly perceptive, at times.
“Why did you really ask?”
You mindlessly looked around your plain room.
You wanted to avoid answering that question so bad.
“You're leaving. Aren't you.” He said it like a definite statement. Like he could see through you.
The silence in the room grew suffocating.
“I mean...define 'leaving'” you tried to joke, but neither of you laughed.
Mingi stayed quiet for a long time. Something you weren't used to from him.
Then, he slowly got up from your bed, and walked out of your room.
That was the last time you physically saw him.
He had called you up, a few days later. Spurred by your absence from school and the guilt gnawing at his stomach from his immature behaviour that day.
He asked whether it'd be okay to see you again.
You know. To apologise. Face to face.
But it was too late.
You were already gone.
You didn't know, but he already knew that.
His phone hung loosely in his arm as he stood in front of your family home. Your voice on the other end.
“I'm sorry.” You had said. And for a split second Mingi's frustrated resentment from the other day came bubbling up all over again.
He was mad at you.
For leaving him in such a short notice. For getting his hopes up for years, thinking you'd always be together.
His eyes stared past the glass windows of the house, blankly looking into the empty property.
He was mad at himself.
For never growing strong enough to be honest with you. For never fully appreciating the time he had with you. For feeling mad at you even though he knew it wasn't your fault.
His fingers rose to ring the bell.
The bell he had been pointlessly ringing for the past two hours.
Even if he knew no one would answer.
Just because.
Maybe. Just maybe... you'd magically appear behind the door and say that it was all a stupid joke.
But you never showed up.
The silence dragged on for another minute.
“It's okay.” He said.
Calmly.
Accepting.
Broken.
His best friend. The only person that truly knew him through and through.
The person he had started to unmistakably grow feelings for despite trying so hard to ignore them for so long.
“It's okay.” He repeated, more so to himself.
His head hung low as he rested it against the wooden door to your past home. Tiny droplets slowly decorated the top of his school shoes.
His shoulders shook silently.
And that was the last time Mingi had spoken to you.
And then came the day where he heard your name being mentioned.
Eight years later.
At a random paint-balling event where he was trying his hardest to live his 'best life' because Wooyoung wouldn't stop pestering him about making his twenties “worth it.”
Whatever that meant.
At first he thought he was hearing things. But then it got repeated again and he was convinced it might've just been another person with the same name.
“Are you even listening to me?” Yunho raised a questioning brow his way.
“Huh?”
“I said, we need to move in close, otherwise we'll never eliminate them.”
“Oh.” Was all Mingi could say.
He didn't even want to be here in the first place, so his lack of enthusiasm wasn't too surprising.
“Right. At my count, you move to the left, and I'll move to the right.”
The tall male just shrugged.
“Sure.”
Holding his gun in a way that was too serious for paint-ball, Yunho signalled his count, quickly crouching and making his run to his designated direction.
Mingi followed at half his speed, splitting off to the left, as discussed. Sighing, he checked the magazine of his gun, getting ready to aim at the person that hid behind the bush, around twenty metres away from him.
“I could be playing on my pc right now.”
A swift movement caught his eye.
The person behind the bush had changed cover.
Great. Now he actually had to play the game seriously.
Keeping his gun close, he quietly neared his target.
He was now just on the other side of the bush.
He got his gun ready.
Aimed.
And—
“OW! Mother fu—”
“Nyahahaha! I win!” The stranger continued shooting a tremendous waterfall of bullets, completely ignoring Mingi's pained laments.
“Hey! Cut it out, you psycho!”
The shooting only ceased due to the person's magazine running empty.
And as the freshly labelled "psycho" that they were, they continued to pull the trigger regardless. The constant subtle clicks of the gun filling in the silence.
“Gosh, this is why I didn't want to come in the first place.” A grumpy Mingi rose from his position, standing tall in front of the other stranger.
Without much thought, he removed his helmet and shades, carelessly tossing them on the ground as he tousled his hair in mild irritation.
For once, the clicking to the gun stopped.
At the uncharacteristic silence, Mingi lifted his gaze to meet the stranger's. Their helmet was clearly too big for them, shades hiding the majority of their face.
He lazily took one long look up and down, then started walking back towards where he knew Yunho would be.
“Woah, hey. Wait!”
“No.” Mingi said without even turning back.
A confused sound left the stranger.
“Huh?”
“Whatever you want to ask, I refuse it.”
A beat of silence. Then the stranger spoke up.
“Ayo, what a fricking weirdo.”
Mingi felt one of his veins pop.
“Come again?” He growled under his breath, turning to stand face to face with the person.
He was already annoyed at the way his day was going. He didn't need another catalyst riling him up right now.
“I said,” the stranger started, beginning to remove their own gear. First the helmet, then the shades.
You ruffled your sweaty hair, then stared straight at him with no particular emotion.
“You've become a weirdo.”
Stupefied.
That's what Mingi looked like.
With wide eyes and a hanging jaw, he stared at you endlessly.
Meanwhile, you stared back, the smallest spec of surprise behind your casual gaze.
“Dang. You don't look happy to see m—”
You were engulfed in a hug before you could even finish your sentence.
Warm arms squished you tightly, reluctant to let go.
“Actually, wait.” You were pulled back. “Why do you look like that?”
You deadpanned.
“Like what, Mingi.”
His heart did a flip.
Woah.
Did you always say his name so smoothly?
Mingi cleared his throat, nudging his jaw towards you like some sort of secret code.
“You know.”
You wordlessly blinked at him.
“...Like that.”
Pretty.
Were you always this pretty of a guy?
And why were you so...normal sized?
Soft, even.
He half expected you to resemble Dwayne Johnson by now. Especially with the way you were down to fight just about anyone, when you were younger.
And your hair.
He gasped.
Your face!
“Dude...”
A quiet pause.
“You look like a girl.”
You genuinely hit the hardest facepalm you've ever hit in your entire life.
Lord have mercy.
For a moment, you stood there, hand still on your face whilst Mingi watched you with conflicting emotions.
“I—” You started in disbelief. “I genuinely don't even know what to say.”
“Yeah, no. Me neither.”
You refrained from punching him in the mouth.
“Mingi. It's been eight years...”
“Yeah,” he nodded.
“And that's the first thing you say to me? ...Are you dumb?”
“Oh! I didn't mean it in a bad way. I just meant you look...” he appeared troubled, searching for the right word to say until—
“Pretty.”
You froze.
“Like, really pretty. I'm not even sure if that's the way I should be saying it but... that's how I feel so.” His dark orbs followed the way your expression buffered.
“Oh! Funny thing, actually—I mean, we have a lot of catching up to do—but before that, I wanted to tell you real quick—”
You came back to your senses at his yapping.
“Spit it out, Mings.”
His face sprouted in a bright blush at the familiar nickname.
“I like you.”
Silence.
Oh.
Oh?!
You opened your mouth to say something but he urgently interrupted you.
“I mean, I liked you. Back then, you know. I know you might not be into that kinda thing— I don't even know if I am, but I just wanted to let you know because I mean—oh, actually now that I think about it, that was dumb of me, forget what I sa—”
“MINGI! Shut the hell UP for a second, DAMN!”
His lips quickly straightened into a thin line.
Well, at least you knew he was still a yapper. That didn't change despite it nearly being a decade later.
“First of all. I am NOT a guy. I have no idea how this much time has passed and you genuinely didn't notice that.”
His brain stopped working.
“You didn't think it was weird that I wouldn't go to the toilet with you? Or that I'd have to use separate changing rooms to you?”
His eyes were practically hazed over at your revelation.
You sighed.
“And second, yeah, I liked you too. But you never even made it seem like you liked me back, and now I'm mad because you deprived me of my cliché teenage romance era.”
Your face grew red the more you spoke.
Both out of disbelief at the audacity of this guy truly going this long without realising the obvious, and at the fact that you were embarrassed to admit you liked him back then. Especially since it had been so long ago.
Mingi, the poor guy, was still stuck on the brand new information that you were, in fact, not just a suspiciously female-looking male.
“Wait...so I'm not gay?”
“Is that seriously all you took away from this?”
He didn't answer you.
“And considering you liked me despite thinking I was a guy, I'd double-check that claim.”
“Wait...” he continued, his selective hearing once again being triggered.
“You liked me back?”
You stood there quietly, watching this big, six foot, broad-shouldered dumbass try to get his thoughts into a coherent timeline.
After a while, you simply said.
“You make me want to cry.”
And started to walk off to where you hoped your game partner was likely waiting for you.
Of course, much like old times, Mingi tailed you like a lost puppy, assaulting you with a barrage of unanswered questions he'd been marinating for eight years.
Why did you leave so suddenly?
Where did you go?
Why did your contact change?
And most importantly: Did you still like him now?
Because he liked you.
He never stopped liking you.
Never stopped thinking about you.
He practically went through life on auto-pilot after you left.
But now you were back.
Would you leave like last time?
Would you tear him apart and isolate his feelings again?
Would you like him back?
“I can hear your yearning thoughts. Stop that.”
“Oh.” He gave a very slow blink. “My bad.”
You were both back at the main centre.
Someway, somehow, both your partners were still having probably the most intense battle of paint-ball known to man.
“So,” he started, repeatedly stealing glances your way. “Hypothetically speaking...”
You cocked your head towards him, watching him struggle to form a sentence. Your eyes naturally flitted to his lips.
He swallowed down harshly.
“Do you—no. Would you be open to explore our past feelings?”
Repeated blinking. Sweat pooling at his temples. A nervous smile.
You watched on without a word for what felt like minutes, to Mingi.
Then, finally.
“That depends on you.”
His arms languidly flew in the air, shrugging in false nonchalance.
“If you're that eager, who am I to refus—”
You pulled his collar towards you, swiftly connecting his lips to yours.
It didn't matter how many years passed, Song Mingi could never, and would never be able to sustain his cool demeanour around you.
He melted into the kiss like he had been starving for it. Lips moving in perfect sync to yours whilst following your lead.
As always.
His hand went to gently tilt your face. He deepened the kiss, softly melding against your touch. He was so ready to give you anything and everything. You just had to name it.
His joints grew weak as you put some distance between you, breaking the intimate moment after the shortest seconds Mingi has ever felt.
A brittle whimper slipped past his lips.
You raised an egotistical brow.
He furiously coughed, trying to play it off like nothing happened.
“Does that answer your question?” You spoke in a calm tone, eyes boring into his.
Sheepish, yet all the more shameless, Mingi gave you one of his signature smirks. His pearly white teeth matching perfectly with his goofy smile.
“I think I might need to revisit your answer. For research purposes—”
“—Oh. There you are.”
The two of you separated like you were contagious to one another.
A confused Yunho stood before you both. His eyes roamed to you, then slowly made their way to lock with Mingi's. He took one look at the state of both your faces, took a step back, and faced another direction.
“Erm...was I...interrupting something or?”
Another head popped up from behind Mingi's partner.
Your friend waved at you, looking like an Art Attack presentation.
“We lost.”
You awkwardly sent a thumbs up, trying to hide your plumped lip.
“Well... if you're done here, we can go?”
Angling his face to the both of you, Yunho's eyes waited on Mingi, who was furiously crossing his legs and nodding like an automated Christmas toy.
He hurried over to you, stole your phone from your back pocket, punched in his details and promptly bolted out the door in search for a safeplace.
Well then.
Your eyes fell to your phone screen.
'Mings >:3 ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️'
You had to hold back your laugh, because what the hell was that? Who needs that many hearts in a contact name?
“What's with the grin?” your friend materialised next to you, shoulder-bumping you gently.
You immediately straightened your face.
“What grin?”
“...You're joking.”
“No, seriously. What grin?” Having paid for your experience, you walked back to your car with your friend in tow, still playfully arguing.
A stupid grin on your face.
And a new stupid contact that you were sure to never let go of again.
At today years old, you finally realised that you'd long forgiven Song Mingi for stealing your mango juice box.
Warnings: •18+/MDNI •Possessiveness •edging •cockwarming •Jealousy •unprotected sex
╭☞Synopsis- Behind the cocky attitude and black hoodie is a secretly obsessed gamer who can’t focus the moment you’re in the room.
↝The boy who always goes AFK for you...
The apartment smelled like energy drinks, expensive cologne, and the faint metallic scent of overheating PCs. You stood in the doorway with your suitcase, staring at the chaos that was now going to be your home for the next few months.
Your best friend, Mina, had promised it would be fine.
“Heeseung barely leaves his room,” she had said. “He’s always streaming League or whatever. You’ll hardly notice him.”
He owned the entire apartment — three bedrooms, a massive living room turned into a gamer den, and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city. Mina had been renting one room for almost a year. When your dorm building had a pipe burst and flooded half the floor, she begged Heeseung to let you take the second spare room. He agreed… for an absurdly low price.
You just didn’t expect the owner to look like that.
Heeseung was leaning against the kitchen counter when you walked in, wearing an oversized black hoodie that somehow made his broad shoulders look even wider. The hood was up, silver hair peeking out messily. He was tall and annoyingly attractive. A half-empty Monster can sat beside him.
“Hey” he said, voice low and slightly bored. “You’re the new roommate?”
“Yeah. Thanks for letting me stay,” you replied, trying to sound polite.
He shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was holding back a smirk. “Don’t thank me yet. I stream until 4 a.m. most nights so good luck sleeping.”
Before you could respond, the front door opened again and three more guys piled in — Jake, Jungwon, and Sunghoon — loud, laughing, carrying takeout bags and controllers.
Jake spotted you first. His eyes lit up. “Damn. Mina didn’t say her best friend was this hot.”
Sunghoon gave you a once-over and smirked. Jungwon offered a shy but friendly smile.
You felt heat creep up your neck but forced a small smile. Heeseung’s gaze sharpened for a split second before he pushed off the counter.
“Living room’s mine for streaming,” he announced, already walking away. “Stay out of my setup and we’ll be good.”
Cocky.
Exactly the type you couldn’t stand.
The first week was quiet.
You kept to yourself. University classes in the morning, part-time job in the afternoon, and back to the apartment to study. Mina was barely home or hanging out with Sunghoon, leaving you alone with the boys most evenings.
Heeseung was always there.
Either locked in the biggest bedroom (which doubled as his streaming cave) or sprawled on the massive sectional in the living room with his friends, headset half-on, fingers flying over the keyboard and mouse as he carried ranked games in League of Legends.
He was good. Actually insane. You overheard his friends calling him “the best” more than once. Thousands of people watched him every night while he trash-talked opponents in that calm, deep voice.
But around the apartment? He was insufferable.
He’d walk around with his hood up even indoors, barely speaking to you unless it was to make some cocky comment.
“Studying again? Cute. Try not to fail while I’m out here making money playing games,” he’d say with that annoying half-smirk whenever he passed your open door.
You rolled your eyes every single time.
To cope, you started spending more time in the living room when the boys were over. At first you were quiet — just sitting on the far end of the couch with your laptop. But Jake was persistent.
“Yo, come closer. We don’t bite,” he grinned one night, patting the spot beside him.
You hesitated, but moved. Sunghoon offered you a drink. Jungwon asked about your classes. Slowly, you started talking more. Laughing at their jokes. Feeling… included.
Heeseung noticed.
His eyes would flick to you constantly from behind his monitors. When Jake threw an arm around your shoulders while laughing at a funny play, Heeseung’s jaw would tighten. When Sunghoon teased you about how pretty you looked after you came back from a night out, Heeseung’s fingers would pause on his keyboard for just a second too long.
But he never said anything directly.
Until the night you decided to push him.
It was a Friday.
Mina had gone out with Sunghoon on their first official date, leaving you alone with the boys. They were drinking — soju mixed with beer — celebrating Heeseung hitting a new peak rank.
You had one too many drinks yourself. The alcohol made you bold.
You sat right in the middle of them tonight, wearing a tight tank top and shorts. Jake was especially attentive, complimenting everything you said, making you laugh until your stomach hurt.
Heeseung was streaming but had the camera angled so only his setup showed.
You leaned into Jake’s side on purpose, letting him whisper something in your ear that made you giggle loudly.
From the corner of your eye, you saw Heeseung’s hand clench around his mouse.
“Jake,” Heeseung said suddenly, voice deceptively calm. “Focus on the game.”
Jake just laughed. “Can’t help it when she’s sitting right here looking like that.”
Your heart raced with petty satisfaction. You turned to Jake with a flirty smile. “Maybe I should sit on your lap next round. For good luck.”
Jungwon choked on his drink.
Heeseung finally looked straight at you. His eyes were dark, something unreadable swirling behind the cocky mask. He looked… annoyed.
But he didn’t say anything. He just unmuted his stream and kept playing like nothing happened.
Later, after the stream ended and Jake and Jungwon had gone home, you were a little drunk and buzzing with victory. You headed to the kitchen for water.
Heeseung was already there, leaning against the counter, hood down for once. His silver hair was messy, eyes tired but sharp.
“You done trying to piss me off?” he asked quietly.
You raised an eyebrow, stepping closer. “Why? Is it working?”
He stared at you for a long moment. The air felt thicker.
Then he smirked — that same annoying, cocky smirk.
“Careful, newbie. You’re playing a game you don’t know the rules for.”
He brushed past you, shoulder grazing yours, leaving the faint scent of his cologne and the heat of his body behind.
You stood there in the dark kitchen, heart pounding, wondering why the hell his words made you feel both angry and strangely excited at the same time...
The next day-
The lecture hall felt endless today. By the time you finally dragged yourself out of university, your feet ached and your stomach was growling. You stopped at the usual spot and picked up two portions of spicy tteokbokki with rice cakes and fried chicken — Mina’s favorite. She had been texting you all week about how stressed her assignments were, so you figured a girls’ night in with food and gossip was overdue.
The apartment was suspiciously quiet when you pushed the door open at 8:17 PM, the warm glow of the living room LEDs the only light on.
“Mina?” you called out, kicking off your shoes. No answer. The takeout bags rustled in your hands as you set them on the kitchen counter.
You pulled out your phone and dialed her.
She picked up on the third ring, voice slightly breathless and giggly. “Hey babe!”
“Where are you? I brought tteokbokki and chicken. Thought we could eat and gossip”
Mina laughed softly. “Ah… shit. I’m out right now. Sunghoon picked me up after class. We’re just… hanging out.”
You frowned, leaning against the counter. “Hanging out? Again? Mina, you’ve been with him almost every night this week.”
“We’re just having fun. No labels or anything serious. He’s really good at making me forget how stressful everything is, you know?”
You bit your lip. You had seen the way Sunghoon looked at girls — including you. The way his eyes raked over your body when he thought no one was watching. Heeseung’s best friend or not, he didn’t give off boyfriend material vibes. More like heartbreaker who looks like a model.
“Mina… just be careful, okay? I don’t want you getting hurt. He flirts with everyone.”
She sighed dramatically. “I know what I’m doing. I’ll be home late, don’t wait up. Eat without me — or share with Heeseung if he’s around. He probably hasn’t eaten anything but energy drinks again.”
You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, sure. Have fun.”
After hanging up, you stared at the two steaming bags. Jake and Jungwon weren’t coming over tonight — they were playing from home, apparently. That left only one person in the apartment.
Heeseung.
You told yourself it was just polite. You grabbed one of the takeout containers, a pair of chopsticks, and a bottle of water, then headed down the hallway toward his room.
His door was slightly ajar — unusual. Soft blue light spilled out along with the rapid clicking of a mechanical keyboard and his low, focused voice.
Heeseung was deep in his element. He leaned forward in his expensive gaming chair. Multiple monitors glowed in front of him — one showing the League game, another with chat scrolling fast, a third with stream stats. He looked completely in the zone, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.
You hesitated at the door, suddenly feeling intrusive. But the food was getting cold.
You knocked lightly. “Heeseung?”
He didn’t hear you at first.
You stepped inside a little further. “Hey… I brought some takeout. Figured you might not have eaten—”
Heeseung startled, head snapping toward you. His eyes widened for a split second — surprise, then something softer — before his usual cocky mask slid back into place.
“Shit— wait, hold on guys,” he muttered into the mic. He quickly typed something, then turned fully toward you, one hand still on the mouse. “You’re in my room.”
You held up the container like a peace offering. “Mina’s out. I got extra. You’ve been in here all day, right? Just… eat something.”
For a moment he just stared at you, like he couldn’t quite process why you were being nice. Then the corner of his mouth twitched. “Trying to poison me or something?”
You rolled your eyes. “Yes, because I definitely went through all this trouble just to murder the guy letting me live here for cheap rent.”
He let out a short, surprised laugh — genuine, not the annoying smirk kind. It made your stomach do a stupid little flip.
He muted his mic properly this time. “Thanks. You can just leave it on the desk if you want.”
You walked closer and set the food down beside his keyboard. The room smelled like him — clean cologne mixed with the faint ozone of electronics. His setup was impressive: RGB lights, three large monitors, a professional mic, shelves of figures and keyboards.
As you turned to leave, Jake’s voice crackled through his headphones (he must have unmuted briefly).
“Yo Heeseung, you still there? What the hell, you went silent mid-fight.”
Heeseung’s eyes flicked back to the screen, then to you. Something shifted in his expression — “Uh… yeah, I’m here. Just… got distracted for a second.”
Jungwon chimed in, curious. “Distracted? By what?”
You were already at the door when Heeseung spoke again, voice deliberately light. “Hey. You don’t have to run off. Stay if you want. It’s just ranked with the guys. Not a big stream or anything.”
You paused, surprised. He never invited you into his space before.
Jake laughed over the call. “Wait, is someone in your room right now? Heeseung bringing girls over during stream? That's new.”
“Shut up,” Heeseung muttered, cheeks faintly pink under the blue light. He glanced at you again, almost nervous. “You can sit on the bed or whatever. No pressure.”
You shouldn’t. You knew you shouldn’t. But the way he looked at you made your stubborn side soften just a bit.
“Fine,” you said, sitting on the edge of his bed, legs crossed. “But only because the food will get cold if I leave you alone with it.”
Heeseung gave you a small, almost shy smile before turning back to his monitors. He unmuted. “Sorry guys, You can continue.”
The game picked up again. You watched him play in silence for a while, impressed despite yourself. His hands moved with precision, calling shots calmly while his friends hyped him up. Every now and then he’d sneak a glance at you, checking if you were still there.
At one point, after a particularly good play, he leaned back and finally opened the takeout. He ate quickly, humming in appreciation.
“This is good,” he said quietly, almost to himself.
You stayed longer than you planned. The stream chat kept moving but Heeseung seemed more aware of your presence than the thousands watching him. Every time you laughed softly at something funny the guys said, his lips would curve up a little.
By the time they finished the match (another win for Heeseung, of course), the takeout was gone and the tension in the room felt thicker than before.
He took off his headset and turned his chair toward you.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said quietly. “But… thanks.”
You shrugged, trying to ignore how warm his voice made you feel. “Don’t get used to it. I was just being nice.”
Heeseung leaned forward, elbows on his knees, looking at you with an intensity that made your heart stutter.
“Yeah?” His voice dropped lower. "You’ve been just being nice to Jake a lot lately too.”
There it was. The possessiveness he tried to hide behind annoyance.
You stood up, suddenly needing distance. “And you’ve been annoying on purpose. We’re even.”
You headed for the door, but his next words stopped you.
“Stay a little longer?”
It was soft. Almost pleading.
You didn’t turn around. “Maybe next time. Goodnight, Heeseung.”
As you closed the door behind you, you leaned against it, breathing a little faster than normal.
This was dangerous...
But as you walked back to your room, the memory of his shy smile...
Mina was going to get hurt by Sunghoon.
And you… you were starting to worry you might get burned by Heeseung too.
￣￣
Saturday night:
The living room was alive with laughter, the big TV glowing with the League client on screen, empty soju bottles and snack bags scattered across the coffee table. Mina had finally dragged you out of your room, insisting it was weekend and you both deserved to have fun after a brutal week.
The boys were already deep into it when you two arrived — Jake, Jungwon, Sunghoon, and Heeseung sprawled across the massive sectional. Heeseung, of course, in his signature black hoodie, hood half-up, silver hair messy as he fiddled with the controller settings.
“Finally!” Jake cheered when he saw you both. “The girls are here. Now we can make this interesting.”
Sunghoon’s eyes lit up as they landed on Mina. He patted the spot right beside him. “Come here, babe.”
Mina didn’t hesitate. She plopped down next to him, and within minutes they were whispering and laughing, his arm slung casually around her shoulders. You chose the other end of the couch, trying not to overthink how Sunghoon’s hand was already sliding down her back.
Heeseung’s gaze found you immediately. He didn’t say anything, but you felt it — that quiet, intense stare from across the room.
The games started light. Casual matches, silly bets. Whoever lost a round had to take a shot or do a dare. The energy was electric. You and Mina were laughing more than you had in weeks, the soju making everything funnier.
At one point, after Jake lost badly, Jungwon grinned mischievously. “Penalty: Jake has to let one of the girls sit on his lap for the next game.”
Jake’s eyes sparkled as he looked straight at you. “Well? Come on, beautiful. Don’t make me lose twice.”
You were tipsy enough to not care. With a shrug and a defiant glance toward Heeseung, you stood up and let Jake pull you onto his lap. His arms wrapped loosely around your waist, warm and playful.
“Much better,” Jake murmured against your ear, making you laugh.
Heeseung’s jaw clenched visibly. His fingers tightened around the controller in his hands — those long, veined, skilled fingers that flew across keyboards with such precision during streams. You had watched them for hours last night in his room. The way they moved… it was hypnotic. Your mind wandered dangerously — imagining those same fingers somewhere else. On your skin. Between your thighs. Pressing and teasing until—
You shook the thought away, cheeks heating.
The game continued. Mina and Sunghoon were getting bolder by the minute. Halfway through the next match, Mina was straddling Sunghoon on the couch, their mouths locked in a heated kiss. His hands roamed her back openly.
Jungwon whistled. “Get a room, you two!”
Jake laughed beneath you, his chest vibrating. “They’re not even trying to hide it anymore.”
Sunghoon pulled back just enough to smirk. “Jealous, Jungwon?”
You tried to focus on the screen, but your eyes kept drifting to Heeseung. He was pretending to watch the game, but his gaze kept flicking to you on Jake’s lap, dark and stormy. The cocky mask was slipping again, revealing something raw underneath.
Another round. Another loss for Jake.
“New bet,” Sunghoon announced, still holding Mina close. “Loser team has to do whatever the winner wants for the next ten minutes.”
The match was intense. Heeseung was carrying as usual, but Jake was distracted — his hands resting a little too comfortably on your thighs, thumbs stroking lazy circles that sent warmth spreading through you. You didn’t stop him. Part of you wanted to see how far you could push Heeseung.
Heeseung won the game almost single-handedly.
As soon as the victory screen popped up, he set his controller down slowly. His voice was deceptively calm. “My win. Jake, get your hands off her.”
Jake chuckled, not moving. “It’s just a game, bro. Relax.”
Heeseung stood up. He crossed the room in a few strides and stopped right in front of you and Jake.
“Off,” he repeated, eyes locked on you. “Now.”
The air grew thick. Mina and Sunghoon had paused their makeout session to watch. Jungwon raised an eyebrow, amused.
You lifted your chin stubbornly. “It’s just a bet, Heeseung. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
His eyes darkened.
You swallowed hard.
Jake finally lifted you gently and set you back on the couch, sensing the shift. “Alright, alright. Your win, captain.”
But Heeseung wasn’t done. He grabbed your wrist — not rough, but firm — and pulled you up. “Come with me.”
You could have resisted. You should have. Instead, you let him lead you down the hallway toward his room, heart hammering.
The moment the door closed behind you, Heeseung backed you against it. He just caged you in with his arms, staring down at you with that intense, conflicted look —
“You really enjoy driving me crazy, don’t you?” he whispered. His breath brushed your lips. “Sitting on his lap. Letting him touch you. While I’m right here.”
You tilted your head, stubborn even now. “Maybe I do. You’re always so cocky. Acting like you own everything — including me.”
Heeseung’s hand came up, hovering near your waist. Those long fingers you’d been fantasizing about brushed the hem of your top, not quite touching skin. “I don’t own you. But I want to. Badly.”
The confession hung heavy in the air.
You could hear the others laughing and playing in the living room.
Heeseung leaned in closer, lips inches from yours. “Tell me to stop and I will.”
You didn’t say anything. Instead, you grabbed the front of his black hoodie and pulled him the rest of the way.
The kiss was intense — hungry. His hands finally touched you, sliding under your top, those skilled fingers tracing your skin, gripping your waist possessively. He kissed like he played — focused.
When he pulled back for air, his forehead rested against yours. His voice was rough. “I’ve been jerking off thinking about you every night since you moved in. Hiding it because I didn’t think you’d want a nerd who lives in his streaming room.”
Your breath hitched.
Heeseung’s hand slid higher, thumb brushing just under your breast. “But I can’t pretend anymore.”
From the living room, you heard Jungwon yell something teasing about Mina and Sunghoon again,followed by loud laughter.
Heeseung smirked against your lips — that annoying, sexy smirk. “They’re distracted. Stay here with me a little longer?”
His fingers traced slow, teasing patterns on your skin.
“Heeseung… we shouldn’t—”
“Shh.” His voice was low, rough. His fingers slid under your top, tracing your ribs, brushing the underside of your breast.
“Let me make you feel good, yeah?”
You knoded.
In one smooth motion, he turned you around and pressed you against the wall beside the door, your cheek against the cool surface. His chest molded to your back, hard and warm through his black hoodie. You could feel how hard he was, pressed against your ass.
“Quiet,” he whispered right against your ear, one hand covering your mouth gently while the other tugged your shorts and panties down in one go. “They’re right outside. Don’t let them hear how much you want this.”
You whimpered against his palm as his fingers — those skilled fingers — found you already soaked. He groaned softly.
“Fuck… you’re dripping for me.” Two fingers circled your clit slowly, teasing, then dipped inside, curling just right. “All this time acting like you don't like me, and you’re this wet?”
You moaned into his hand, hips pushing back against him. Heeseung kept the pace torturous — slow, deep strokes with his fingers. Every time you got close, he slowed down.
“Please…” you whispered when he finally uncovered your mouth.
“Please what?” He kissed the back of your neck, grinding his clothed cock against you. “Tell me you want me. Not Jake. Not anyone else. Just me.”
You bit your lip hard, stubborn even now. “I… I don’t—”
He pulled his fingers out completely. You whined at the loss.
Heeseung spun you around to face him, lifting one of your legs around his waist. He shoved his sweatpants down just enough to free himself. His cock was thick, hard, the tip already leaking as he rubbed it against your slick folds.
“Say it,” he growled softly, eyes locked on yours. “Or I’ll stop right now.”
Your pride crumbled under the heat in his gaze. “I want you… only you, Heeseung.”
That was all he needed.
He pushed inside you in one deep thrust, stretching you open. Both of you moaned — his low and guttural, yours muffled against his shoulder. He was big, filling you completely, and the angle against the wall made everything feel deeper.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours.
He started moving — hard, controlled thrusts that pinned you to the wall. Each snap of his hips drove him deeper, hitting that perfect spot inside you. His hand came back over your mouth as your moans grew louder.
“Quiet, baby,” he panted, lips brushing your ear. “Don’t want the boys hearing how pretty you sound when I fuck you.”
You nodded frantically, nails digging into his shoulders through his hoodie. Heeseung fucked you like he’d been holding back for months, deep and possessive, one hand on your hip to keep you in place while the other muffled your moans.
“Come for me,” he whispered. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
The pleasure built fast and overwhelming. Your orgasm crashed over you hard, walls clenching around him. Heeseung followed right after, burying himself deep with a broken groan, filling you up as his hips stuttered.
For a moment, the only sound was both of you breathing heavily, bodies pressed together against the wall.
Heeseung slowly lowered your leg, but didn’t pull out yet. He cupped your face with both hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks tenderly. The cocky mask was completely gone — just soft, affection in his eyes now.
“I meant what I said earlier,” he whispered, leaning in for a kiss. “I’ve been crazy about you since—”
The door suddenly opened.
“Hyung, did you see my— oh shit.”
Jungwon stood in the doorway, eyes wide. He froze for a second, taking in the scene — you pressed against the wall, Heeseung’s hoodie still on but sweatpants low on his hips, the obvious position.
Jungwon’s face turned bright red. “Oops… I didn’t see anything. Carry on.”
He quickly backed out and closed the door.
Heeseung dropped his head to your shoulder with a groan. “Fuck. I forgot to lock it.”
Your cheeks burned hotter than they ever had in your life. “Oh my god… he saw us. He literally saw—”
Heeseung’s arms wrapped around you tighter, one hand gently rubbing your back. He was still buried inside you, softening slowly, but he made no move to pull out yet. His black hoodie smelled like him — warm, slightly sweaty.
“Shhh, it’s okay,” he murmured against your hair, voice soft and reassuring. “Jungwon’s not going to say anything. He’s probably more embarrassed than you are right now.”
You peeked up at him. “You forgot to lock the door.”
Heeseung let out a sheepish laugh and finally pulled out carefully, fixing his sweatpants before helping you pull your own clothes back up. “My bad. I was a little distracted.” He cupped your face, thumbs brushing your flushed cheeks. “But seriously, don’t worry. He’s my friend. He won’t make it weird.”
He kissed you gently this time — slow, sweet, nothing like the desperate way he’d fucked you against the wall minutes ago. Then he pulled you toward his bed, tugging you down with him. He wrapped his arms around you from behind, spooning you under his blanket, chin resting on your shoulder.
“Stay with me tonight,” he whispered. “Just like this.”
You nodded, letting yourself relax into his warmth. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your stomach, occasionally dipping under your top to caress your skin. No more words were needed. The distant sound of the boys still playing in the living room faded into background noise as you both drifted off, tangled together.
The next day, the apartment was strangely quiet.
Mina had texted that she was staying over at a friend’s (code for Sunghoon’s place again). Only Heeseung remained, locked away in his streaming room since early afternoon.
You wandered around bored, cleaning a little, trying to study, but your mind kept drifting back to last night — his hands, his voice telling you to stay quiet, the way he felt inside you. After a few hours, the silence became unbearable.
You needed an excuse.
You knocked lightly on his door before pushing it open. Heeseung was deep in a stream focused on the game.
“Um… have you seen my earrings?” you asked, stepping inside. “I think I lost them yesterday. Maybe they fell off in here?”
Heeseung paused his movements for a second, glancing at you with a knowing little smirk. He clearly didn’t buy it for a second. “Earrings, huh?”
You nodded, trying to look innocent. “Yeah. They’re important.”
He chuckled softly, muting his mic for a moment. "But from what I remember, you weren't wearing earrings..." He let out another quiet laugh. "Miss me already?"
Your face heated instantly. "I— no, I just—"
"Come here," he said, patting his lap without hesitation. His eyes were soft but playful. “It’s a long ranked session, but I want you close.”
You hesitated only a second before walking over and settling on his lap, sideways so you could lean against his chest. His arm wrapped around your waist immediately, holding you securely.
On the stream, Jake and Jungwon’s voices came through his headphones.
Jake: “Wait, is that— Heeseung, you have company again?”
Jungwon: “Hyung… after last night? Bold.”
Heeseung’s ears turned pink, but he kept his voice steady. “Focus on the game, guys.”
You shifted on his lap to get more comfortable. Heeseung’s grip tightened on your hip. “Don’t move too much,” he whispered against your ear, low enough for only you to hear.
The game continued. Heeseung was incredibly focused — calling shots, coordinating with his team. The feeling of him underneath you, warm and solid, made it impossible for you. After a few minutes, you started moving slowly grinding just enough to tease.
Heeseung’s breath hitched. His free hand squeezed your thigh warningly. “Baby…”
You leaned back against him, lips brushing his neck. “I want you now,” you whispered. “Please.”
He glanced at the screen — important team fight coming up. “This match is really important for the team. We can’t lose right now.”
You pouted, shifting again. He let out a quiet groan.
Then his voice dropped, dangerous and tempting. “I have an idea… but you have to be good. No moving yeah?”
You nodded eagerly.
Heeseung quickly muted his mic and turned on the “BRB” overlay. He pulled his sweatpants down just enough, then tugged your shorts and panties to the side. He guided you to sink down slowly onto his cock until he was fully seated inside you.
“Cockwarming,” he whispered, kissing your temple. “Just stay still while I finish this game. Then I’m all yours.”
You whimpered at the fullness, clenching around him involuntarily. Heeseung groaned softly, arms tightening around you. “Good girl. Just like that.”
For the first few minutes, you tried. You really did. But he was so deep, so warm, and every tiny shift made pleasure spark through you. Heeseung stayed focused on the game, talking strategy with Jake and Jungwon, completely ignoring the way you were struggling.
But you really wanted his attention so you started moving.
Slow, deliberate rolls of your hips. Clenching around him rhythmically.
Jake laughed. “Hyung, you good? You sound distracted again.”
Heeseung’s hand slipped under your top, pinching your nipple in warning, but it only made you move more. You rocked slowly, taking him deeper, biting your lip to stay quiet.
His breathing grew ragged. The game on screen started suffering — a missed skill shot, a bad positioning.
“Baby… I told you not to move,” he growled quietly, muting the mic again for a second. His hips bucked up once, involuntarily, driving himself deeper.
You smiled innocently against his neck. “You’re ignoring me. I just want attention.”
Heeseung cursed under his breath. His team was losing the fight because of his distraction.
On the stream chat, messages were flying:
“Is Heeseung okay today?”
“Bro is glitching hard lol”
With a low, frustrated groan, Heeseung suddenly pushed his chair back, still buried deep inside you. He wrapped both arms around your waist and stood up, carrying you with him as he leaned over the desk to quickly type-
“AFK sorry guys” before ending the stream.
“You win,” he said, voice dark and full of promise as he carried you toward the bed.
── ˚₊‧ 💋 ɞ₊‧˚ wooyoung x fem!reader ── mdni 𓆩♡𓆪 smut, enemies to lovers, neighbors au, slow burn, fluff, romantic comedy, mutual pining, sexual tension, forced proximity, kissing, dirty talk, teasing, fingering, handjob, aftercare, wooyoung and reader are both college aged students ⸝⸝ᵕ ༯ᵕ⸝⸝ let’s pretend to hate each other in the morning <3 ── word count: ⁶ᵏ 🎸 “Still don’t hate you…you’re just not what I pictured.”
A/N: I don’t know how this happened, but I listened to swim by bts on repeat while writing this entire fic. If you can somehow hear that song in the vibe of this story, now you know why. this was so fun to write, I may write part two if someone wants to request it cause I kind of have ideas. btw, so far, this is my longest fic I’ve written for this blog 🎉 so enjoy my cherries ˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊ feedback is always welcomed!
“Fuck!”
You threw your bag down on the ground in frustration, sinking to your knees before pulling out every last item.
Your keys were not in there.
You lent your garage opener to your cousin.
“Oh my god, this can’t be happening!”
For a moment, you refused to believe it, frantically searching for keys you knew weren’t there.
“What are you screaming for?” A familiar voice asked from behind you.
The last voice you wanted to hear in this stressful predicament.
Turning your head, you found him standing there.
Jung Wooyoung, your irritating neighbor.
His mere presence made your skin crawl. The last thing you needed was his cocky attitude pissing you off more or his rude, mocking remarks about the situation when you already felt dumb and embarrassed.
You rolled your eyes and sighed.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m locked out.”
“Okay, drama queen. Call your aunt or your cousin. Relax.”
“Thanks for the tip.” You replied sarcastically.
Asshole.
You collected your belongings off the ground and put them back in your purse before sitting on the porch steps. Wooyoung stood there, hands in his pockets, staring at you. It was off-putting and gave you too much time to study him.
His sparkling green navel piercing, his toned abdomen beneath that tight baby tee hugging his muscles—
No!
You focused on your phone instead, quickly texting a friend about possibly coming over. Anything to free you from whatever this was.
Why was he even still here?
“Is there something I can help you with?”
He flinched, as if the anger in your voice had surprised him. His stunned expression morphed into an arrogant grin, shrugging his lean shoulders nonchalantly. God, he was annoying.
“Didn’t know it was a crime to stand somewhere, princess.”
“You can stop with the little nicknames now.”
“You get in touch with your people?” He said impatiently, like you had begged him to come check in with you and wait.
Checking your notifications, you read the incoming message from your friend who said she was with her boyfriend and his family at his house. Your plan was foiled. There wasn’t anyone else you could text.
Disappointed, you clicked your phone closed.
“My cousin went out of town. My aunt is at work.”
“Wow. You really managed to lock yourself out with no escape route. That’s almost impressive.” There’s that tone again.
No help. No advice. Just disparaging comments. Disgusting.
If you could push him over, you would…but that wasn’t you.
“Anything else you’d like to say? Please say no.”
“That would still be saying something, tsk tsk tsk.” Wooyoung chuckled under his breath, that really big smile painted on his face. His dimples carved into his high cheekbones, and your heart skipped a beat.
Fuck. You had to stop looking at him.
Silence settled between you, the tension hanging heavy in the air. The weight of his attention prickled across your skin as you did your best not to glance his way. You started thinking of ways to tell him to fuck off politely.
“So what’s the plan?”
“I’m sitting here.”
“For how long?”
“Until my aunt gets home.”
“What time?”
“Late.”
Wooyoung paused. His eyes flickered from the porch to your car, then back to you.
Even keeping your responses vague and short, he kept prying. What was his problem? He didn’t like you, you didn’t like him so what’s with the fifty questions. If you couldn’t shoo him away gently, maybe putting in your AirPods would do the trick.
“…You’re serious.”
“Yes, and I’d like to do it quietly if you don’t mind.” You showed him one of the airpods and placed it in your ear.
“Jesus, just come to my place.”
You blinked, your heart pounding in your ears. What reality were you living in?
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not gonna spend my evening watching you sit out here for hours looking pitiful,” He shook his head as though trying to shake the thought away. His blonde and blue hair shimmered in the sunlight, “…and if my older brother comes home and sees you, he’ll kick my ass.”
“Yay, can I watch?”
“Not funny.”
“I’d rather sit here.”
“No, you’d rather be stubborn.”
“They’re the same thing.”
“They’re really not.” Wooyoung scoffed, folding his arms across his chest, a little bit of the tattoo inside his forearm showing. “You really want to sit out here with no bathroom, no water?”
You were genuinely shocked. Was he actually concerned for your well being?
Nonetheless, he was right.
It would get dark, you have no bathroom or water. You could sit in your car with the doors locked, but that still didn’t solve the piss or dehydration problem. The more you thought about it, you really saw no other option.
Goddamn it.
“Ugh, fine,” you stood to your feet in a huff, dusting off the back of your skirt before pointing a finger at him, “but if you think this means we’re friends—”
“Trust me, princess, that’s not what I’m worried about.”
Trailing behind him, he led you through the grass and past the fence. Wooyoung opened the side door to the house which confused you.
“Why aren’t we going through the front?” You whispered, being overly skeptical and a powerful laugh escaped his throat, booming in your eardrums.
“No one is home, you don’t have to whisper.” He closed the door and began walking down the wooden steps next to it, “My room is down here, not gonna walk through the whole house.”
He said it like it should be obvious to you and you regretted agreeing to this right then. You continued following him into the basement, fear crept through you as the darkness swallowed the staircase, until the last visible step disappeared under your feet.
“Wait here. This is difficult terrain in the pitch black.” Wooyoung warned in an exaggerated wildlife-documentary voice, and your teeth caught your lower lip as you held back a chuckle.
He wasn’t funny—least of all charming.
Then, he strutted into the darkness. You squinted, trying to see at least his silhouette but all you could hear was his feet shuffling somewhere ahead and you refused to move from the spot where he left you.
It was already strange enough you even went along with coming into his house, let alone going where you shouldn’t.
The sound of a drawstring being pulled echoed through the room, followed by a click. Suddenly, there was light. Your pupils widened, grateful you hadn’t taken another step. Only then did you notice the second staircase leading the rest of the way down.
Wooyoung stood there at the bottom step, waving at you to come down. As you rounded the corner, he turned on more lights and his “room” was actually its own separate apartment attached to the house.
The two of you walked between the kitchen and dining table before entering the den. A large blue L-shaped couch was on your right, with a large plasma TV across from it on the opposite side of the coffee table. To the left there was a ping pong table with a door behind it.
“That’s a bathroom but the toilet’s broken so you’ll have to use the one in my room, down the hall there.” Wooyoung pointed down the narrow corridor past the table.
He padded around the couch and clicked the television on, surfing channels until he landed on baseball.
“You can come sit down, ya know?” He giggled to himself, amused by your demeanor, as he stood there mindlessly typing on his phone.
Ignoring his tone, you stormed the path he went earlier and sat down aggressively on the sofa. Soon after you whipped your phone out, scrolling on Twitter while paying him no mind, hoping the hours would fly by as fast as possible.
“Did you want water?” He had moved in front of you and it startled you to look up, watching him loom over you.
“Uh, yeah sure.”
Wooyoung stayed rooted where he was, thumb lazily scrolling across his phone, though you had the distinct feeling his attention wasn’t entirely on the screen. You couldn’t concentrate on your phone with his musk and cologne wafting into your nostrils. His red jeans hugged tight to his waist. You could easily make out the deep V-line of his hips above his belt.
He eventually went to the kitchen, allowing you to breathe and shake away this light headed feeling. You were uneasy, pretending to stare at your phone, but you kept finding yourself drawn back to him.
Okay, maybe he was attractive, but his personality left much to be desired. You needed to remember that.
You turned your head to the television as he waltzed back over, handing you a red plastic cup.
“Filtered water for the princess. Don’t worry I didn’t poison it.”
You groaned, snatching the cup from him. “Thanks.”
“Gonna make myself a BLT sandwich in a bit. If you want one, you better speak up while I’m making it.”
Asshole. See? Nothing different. Same Wooyoung.
He sat down on the couch in the corner, noticeably not that far from you. If he stretched his leg, his foot could touch yours. There was plenty of room for him to sit farther away and yet he didn’t. You tried not to obsess about it, maybe that’s just his favorite spot.
The hushed commercials played in the background as you read some pages for the book on your phone you got into recently about a vampire princess and a member of her nightguard. It was sensual and dangerous, a combination you came to adore.
When your eyes drifted to Wooyoung as you took a sip of water, he wasn’t even paying any mind to the baseball game. He had a pair of silver headphones over his head, staring at his phone. It was then he glanced your way, and you instantly buried yourself back in your book.
Has he been doing that this whole time? Eyeing you when your head was turned? What’s his deal? You took another anxious sip of water.
As you set the cup on the coffee table, you glanced over and caught him flicking his gaze from you back to his phone. This was weird. He looked different today. Softer somehow, the glow from his phone caught the sharp lines of his face and it sent a shiver down your spine.
“I have to pee.” You blurted out, standing straight up before you sped off down the hallway.
When you got to his room, it was so…neat. More organized than you expected. He had a cascade of band posters plastered on the far wall in a circle of sorts. A black and red guitar sat in the corner next to some amps and a weight bench. Some clothes were folded on the bottom of his comforter and there were novels stacked on his bedside table. He liked to read?
The bathroom was spotless, pearly white and squeaky clean. Wow, his space was the total opposite of how you anticipated. This was bad. He’s being somewhat of a gentleman, he took pride in his hygiene and living area. It was all a shock.
Who knew your grungy, obnoxious prick of a neighbor wasn’t who you made him out to be…
After you peed and washed your hands, you left the bathroom and went back into the den. This time you noticed the bass and drum set on the far side of the room. Wooyoung still sat in the same spot.
“Are you in a band?”
He jolted at your voice, apparently forgetting you were there.
“Huh?” He slid his headphones down around his neck.
“A band? You’re in one?” You repeated, pointing to the instruments.
“Oh, yeah. Me and two of my friends, we started a little while ago.” He shifted as you sat back down in your original spot. “Hey, you wanna hear one of our songs?”
It was the first time you’d seen him so enthusiastic about something. It was kind of…cute.
“Sure, of course.”
“It’s only the instrumental. We’ve got lyrics for the chorus but not the full song yet.” Wooyoung muted the TV and played an audio aloud from his phone. “Do you even like rock music?”
“Do I look like I only listen to classical and bubble pop?”
“You color-code your life.”
“Shut up.” The corners of your mouth curled up a little.
As the clash of guitar and drum mixed into a melodic sound, a voice singing like an angel came over the chorus. Your ears perked at the heavenly high pitched tone that sang these emotional lyrics;
Water kisses broken stone,
Carving pieces into home.
You shine bright,
Molten sunlight,
How do I outrun the tide
That carries me to you?
“Who’s that singing?”
“Me,” He said proudly, “we ended up meeting this producer one day at a club event and he gave us a session to record at his studio. It was epic.”
This was insane. You’d always heard this loud guitar playing through the walls from his house and always perceived it as noise, but hearing it woven into a full song and his beautiful singing voice, you realized your assumptions were wrong.
The music slowed before fading into silence. Wooyoung locked eyes with you, his brows lifting expectantly. Neither of you spoke.
“Well?”
“It was…” you paused, “…pretty good.”
“That’s it? Pretty good?”
“What? It was nice.”
“Nice? Oh my god,” he leaned back, rolling his eyes in irritation, “you hate me that much? Can’t even give a guy a compliment?”
“I don’t…hate you.”
“Oh, really?” He bounced across the cushions closer to your side, sitting practically on top of you and touching your knee to his. “How ‘bout now?”
What the fuck was he doing? Why was he doing it? You pressed your thighs together, clutching at your phone and not facing him even though his gaze was stuck on you.
“Still don’t hate you…you’re just not what I pictured.”
“That’s gotta sting a little.”
“I mean…not exactly,” you finally turned your head, “and why do you care what I think anyway? We’re not friends…”
“That’s true…”
It was like word vomit coming up your throat, his magnetic stare peeling back the last of your defenses.
“I loved the song…and your voice was…really beautiful.” Your shoulders squished against his, the temperature growing warmer by the second.
“Thanks.” It felt like the two of you were struggling to talk, like the tension was blocking your vocal cords.
“Don’t you…hate me?” You questioned hesitantly.
“Not in the slightest,” he revealed softly, “I mean, you’re a bit hard to swallow at times, but I like that.”
You couldn’t help but giggle at his back handed compliment and he joined in, casually resting his hand on your thigh as you laughed together. A few hours ago you would've been thoroughly repulsed by his touch and slapped his hand away, but now…
Shit, what is happening? Were you into Wooyoung? It all felt so wrong yet so right at the same time. When you looked at him again, Wooyoung wore that big, stupid smile.
“What?”
“If you want to kiss me, you can.”
“Ugh, as if!”
“Stop playing around, princess. I see you looking at me.”
“Oh, the same way you’ve been looking at me?”
He held your gaze for a beat.
“I’m not denying it. Anyone with eyes can see how hot you are.”
“Fuck off.”
“I’m serious.”
He definitely was. Every inch of his expression told you so, but you couldn’t bring yourself to make the first move and kiss him. The knots in your stomach tightened as your lips parted.
“So, what are you going to do about it?”
Wooyoung wasted no time grabbing your face and pulling your lips to his, and it felt electrifying. Your lips moved against his before his tongue slipped past them, rolling gently against yours as he savored the taste of you. Fuck, this was too good.
Your eyes fluttered shut as the sensation ran through you, making your toes curl. When he broke the kiss, your fingers clawed at the front of his shirt as if you were making sure he didn’t move too far away.
“You liked that?”
Even with your eyes partly closed, you could hear the smirk on his face from his tone. Still dizzy, you let out a half laugh.
“Shut up.”
“Want me to do that again?”
You quickly nodded, a bit too eagerly. He placed a finger under your chin, raising your head before he kissed you again. It was a lot slower as he gradually deepened the kiss. His hands traveled to your waist and your body shuddered. Your tongues swirled together and you loved how puffy and soft his lips were, urging you to suck on the lower one.
A sharp groan escaped from his chest as he kissed you harder. It was as though everything you’d both held back had finally rushed to the surface—impatient and hungry.
Somehow you ended up straddling him without your lips ever breaking from his. His hands were all over you—thighs, back, hips, delicately caressing every inch. He was such a good kisser, you had to have been making out some time now.
Your fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck. When you accidentally tugged a little too hard, a whimpering moan slipped from Wooyoung’s throat into your mouth. It only made the kiss more needy and desperate, as if you could only get oxygen from each other.
This was crazier beyond belief.
Here you were, kissing the boy next door. The one you craved to get away from and now you couldn’t get enough of him.
Mid-kiss, a realization came over you. Wooyoung doesn’t live alone and his brother would probably make an appearance when you least expected. You broke the kiss and confusion wrinkled his face.
“What time is your brother getting home?”
“Huh? I don’t know.” He muttered, attempting to latch his lips back to yours but you pressed a hand against his chest to hold him back.
“Seriously, Wooyoung. What time?”
“Late.”
“Wooyoung!”
“I really don’t know, like later tonight. Don’t worry about it.”
His lips found their way to your collarbone, kissing and sucking their way up your throat. He was fucking relentless and it felt too good to stop him even though you tried to push on his shoulders with weak effort.
“Wooyoung…” You cooed for his attention, but he never slowed down or backed off a little. The bulge straining against his jeans brushed along your inner thigh and you knew nothing would get him to focus now.
“What if…your brother comes down here?”
Your eyes flicked to the steps as Wooyoung chuckled lightly along your skin.
“Believe me, he’s not coming down here. He never does. The only time he comes down here is if I borrowed something from him and forgot to give it back, or if I tell him I’ve got friends over,” he added reassuringly.
“He doesn’t know you’re here, so he isn’t gonna snoop.”
“Friends, huh? Like other girls?”
“Jealous already? Aww, that’s cute.” He pulled your hips down and ran his hands beneath the hem of your skirt, cupping your ass in his palms.
He gave your ass a hard smack and you yelped at the stinging contact. Wooyoung snorted at your reaction and you shoved him in the chest as payback.
“Now I’m leaving.”
“Oh, c‘mon don’t be like that. Y/N, I promise we’re fine.”
Despite your hesitation, you trusted him—something you never thought would happen in a million years. You latched your lips to his and he completely melted into you, drawing you closer to his body.
“But—” you interjected, tearing from him again. Wooyoung sucked his teeth and his arms fell to his sides, sulking like a puppy.
“Babe, you’re killing me.”
“I just wanted to say that we’re not having sex…not yet anyway.”
“Okay…noted. Should we schedule it? Let me get my planner.”
“Omg, shut up,” you playfully punched him in the arm, ignoring his cheesy smile.
“I just don’t want it to happen too fast and then we—”
“Hey,” he rasped, pinching your chin in his fingers, tilting your head up and pinning your focus to him, “you don’t have to explain. It’s whatever you’re comfortable with, whenever that may be.”
First, he teases you, then he shoots you with Cupid’s arrow.
Who was this guy?
Certainly not the neighbor you’ve been mortal enemies with.
His softened expression and heartfelt sentiment almost made you drop the boundary right then and there, but you held your ground. Desire was knocking, and you knew you wanted to do more than kiss him. The fact that Wooyoung wasn’t pressuring you to go any further made you swoon. His patience and tenderness were unlike anything you’d ever experienced. It was…refreshing.
“Besides, it’s not like I haven’t been waiting.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“When you moved in with your aunt, I saw you and you gave me the cold shoulder…but I still saw you.”
Fuck. This guy has been wanting to make a move on you this entire time? Your head spun, swallowing his words harshly. If you had stopped being a stuck-up priss, this could’ve all been resolved a long time ago.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I like the chase.”
God, you had to eat your earlier words. Wooyoung was, in fact, incredibly charming.
You lowered your face and kissed him, rubbing your hands along his neck. Wooyoung clutched handfuls of your thighs in his hands, squeezing your flesh between his digits. Heat built between your legs as you rutted your hips back and forth over his crotch.
The room filled with the sound of your shared whimpers.
It felt all too familiar and secure, like you were always destined to wind up here—in his house, on his lap, and kissing without an end in sight. Every nerve in your body was on fire from his possessive touch and delicious lips, blood buzzing in your ears.
Wooyoung’s lips moved lithely against yours, sucking and nipping your lips, devouring you as his bruising grip roamed behind you again, fisting your ass roughly.
Wetness leaked from your core, spreading between your folds and dampening the front of your panties as you unconsciously dry humped him. His erection twitched underneath the denim at the stimulation, poking your cunt at the perfect angle for you to thrust against.
“Fuck…” Wooyoung cursed into the kiss before his head tipped back, “…babe, you’re making it impossible to have restraint.”
How is it that you’d written him off so quickly without a second thought? This pretty boy with the pretty voice who was intoxicated by you. Every word he spoke gave him away.
Flattered by his eagerness, you hummed in amusement. Your mouth ghosted across to the corner of his lips, down his jaw to his ear, leaving tiny kisses in your wake. An affectionate lick to the earlobe and Wooyoung was like jelly in your hands.
“Maybe…” you breathed as your hand slid down his chest to the hem of your skirt, fingers fidgeting between your bodies until they curled around his belt buckle, “…we can find other ways…to satisfy each other?”
“What’d you…have in mind…princess?”
His hoarse voice gave you the sense that you had found one of his sweetest weak spots with your teeth, his body unraveling by the second as you sucked on his earlobe.
You sat up before reaching for his arm, briefly admiring the rose and thorn details on his tattoo. He watched you guide his hand to your inner thigh, bucking your hips into his ring-clad knuckles.
‘Oh,’ he mouthed silently, running the pads of his fingers over the soaked fabric. Before he could react, you were unfastening his belt and unbuttoning his jeans. Wooyoung snatched your wrist and you looked up at his face, puzzled by his reluctance.
“You don’t…you don’t have to do that.”
The gesture was sweet. Clearly he didn’t want you to feel like you had to do anything to appease him, and it only made your decision feel that much more certain.
“I want to, Wooyoung,” you replied kindly and he removed his hold on your arm, “unless you don’t want me to—”
“No, I definitely want you to,” he interrupted, cutting you off without a second thought. His enthusiasm left you a tad flustered. You looked at him, tracing the contours of his face. You never realized how lovely his eyes were before. They sparkled beneath the light, their slight asymmetry only making them more captivating.
As you tugged on the front of his pants, Wooyoung crushed his lips to yours, his cock springing free from its confines.
A gasp caught between your lips as you wrapped your hand around him. He was fairly…big. Bigger than what you expected. What he lacked in inches, he made up for in girth—you could barely loop your fingers fully around him.
“Thick like a coke can.” A coy grin appeared on his face.
Did he just read your mind?
“Just the most repeated comment I hear.”
“Likely story.”
“It’s true though, huh?”
You didn’t want to inflate his ego anymore, but your bashful smile certainly gave you away. Instead, your hand drifted along his shaft, and he quivered beneath your touch, swallowing hard. As you lowered your head, a wad of saliva drooled out of your mouth onto the swollen tip, mixing with the precum leaking out.
A quiet growl rumbled in his chest as you leisurely pumped him in your fist, your gut clenching from the vibrations. The veins running down his length flexed between your dainty fingers, and a strangled noise came out of Wooyoung as you picked up a steady pace.
“F-Fuck…” He stuttered, eyes heavy and dark.
He was hard—unbelievably, rock-fucking hard—twitching his hips helplessly, grasping for every ounce of the slick friction you delivered. Wooyoung shoved his hand further between your legs, sliding your underwear to the side and running his fingers between your soaked folds.
“God, you’re so wet.”
A choked moan escaped you as Wooyoung circled your aching clit, the pressure gathering in a knot lower in your belly. Your grip on him faltered as your concentration slipped, but you shook it off.
Wooyoung, however, had other plans.
He drove a finger deep into your core, hooking into your spongy walls until the sensation overwhelmed you. Cursing his name, you blinked away the searing pleasure blinding your vision. He added another finger for good measure, his rings pressing into your juicy flesh.
“S-Shit!” You cried out as his digits stretched you open.
Motherfucker.
Your dripping cunt pulsed around his fingers as he pumped in and out of you. Unable to resist, you rolled your hips into his hand, surrendering to the sweet bliss he brought you. How were you supposed to make him cum if he kept making your body tremble and your head spin?
“Does this feel good, baby?”
“Mmm…” You mewled, not registering a word he said.
How was he so good at that? He knew exactly how to put you in a drunken haze. His fingers scissored inside you with practiced ease while his thumb teased your sensitive bundle of nerves. It was exhilarating, the delicious burn wrecking you beyond repair.
He had the advantage, and judging by the smug smile tugging at his lips, he knew it.
“You look so pretty riding my fingers, princess.”
Ugh, that damn nickname. He was getting off on ruining you, breath hitching in your throat as your hand splayed across his chest, attempting to ground yourself. Wooyoung relished the sight of your head bowing forward, shaking as you babbled incoherently.
Fuck this.
All at once, you regained composure. One hand seized his throat. The other found the perfect rhythm, stroking him with raw, merciless pressure.
If you were gonna fall apart, so would he.
Wooyoung’s eyelids fluttered as his lips parted. That was more like it. His chest heaved and his fingers calmed inside your heat. You could feel his gut clenching from the fiery stimulation, signaling yet another kink of his—choking.
He was coming undone inch by inch whenever you put more weight against his windpipe, your fingers contracting around him as you braced his stiff erection.
“Oh, my g—fuck!” He gasped, gaining strength in his hand before continuing to finger your insides ruthlessly, bringing you right back to the edge.
He used his free hand to hike your skirt a little higher, giving you both a better view. Wooyoung hissed through his teeth as your nails dug into his skin, leaving small crescent-shaped marks. You were on the verge of collapse, your hold on him loosening while keeping a decent tempo.
Massaging him in your palm, your thumb swept along the underside of his cock and played with his perineum that was just below the tip. Wooyoung’s whole body jolted, a harsh yell of pleasure rushing out of him as he forcefully gripped your wrist, like he was ignited by flames coursing through him.
“Babe…if you keep that up, I’m gonna cum.”
His face was cherry red, his expression completely deadpan. The warning was genuine, his eyes pleading with you not to make him explode just yet. It was adorable, and a small laugh slipped out.
“What? I just wanted you to cum first.”
“My knight and shining armor,” he rolled his eyes and you kissed him for his chivalry, “how about we cum together, then?”
Your words sent a piercing chill down his back, and he kissed you breathlessly in response. He gave you an abrupt nod, quivering beneath you. His fingers thrust in sync with your strokes, taking each other to the edge simultaneously. As you smoothed over the frenulum, Wooyoung panted, throwing his head back.
“Fuck…fuck…I’m gonna…cum,” he murmured.
Your foreheads pressed together, breathing heavily into each other’s mouth, and it didn’t take long for you both to dissolve. Stars sparkled behind your eyes as your face fell into the crease of his neck, your orgasm splintering through you like a rocket.
At the same time, Wooyoung stilled as his release washed over him. His cock throbbed, spurting hot cum practically everywhere—across his stomach, his jeans, your arm, and your skirt. Just a mess, but you could barely care with your cunt pulsing around his hand, arousal trickling down his fingers.
Holy fuck…what the hell was that?
The white haze clouding your vision faded as your inner goddess came down from the high, and reality began to hit.
You did hate Wooyoung for making you feel this…good.
There was no way to fake the attraction, no way to fake the need for him, or act like this didn’t happen. But what if he could?
Neither of you said a word or moved for a while.
Until you finally caught your breath and sat up, avoiding his gaze.
“You got my skirt dirty.”
“Sorry, baby. I’ll get you a new one.”
Eventually, your attention found him again. His eyes were still full of lust. At least for tonight, you knew he was captivated by you. Somewhere deep down, though, you wondered how long it would last. So you’d enjoy right now with the boy next door who had you hooked like a fish.
“Hey, earth to y/n,” Wooyoung called, cupping your cheek and pulling your face to his, kissing you passionately.
He tasted like ice water on a hot day. You could sit here and kiss him forever, and maybe it was your inner goddess talking, but Wooyoung surprised you. He was different from the picture in your head. Between the books, music, and his caring demeanor, you were absolutely fucked.
“Let me get you some sweatpants and I can…clean up our mess.”
“You made more of a mess than me.”
“Wanna bet?”
He flashed you his hand, glistening and coated with your juices as he smiled, a squeaky laugh bursting out of him. You turned your head, hiding your amusement but he saw right through it, laughing harder as he grabbed your waist, nesting his lips to your ear.
“And I loved every second of it,” he purred, planting a kiss on your throat, “c’mon.”
You followed behind him as you walked to his bedroom. Wooyoung shuffled through his drawers and tossed a pair of black sweatpants on the bed. Stripping out of your skirt and panties, you put them on and noticed him sneaking glances in your direction.
“Did you want a t-shirt too?”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. So you’re comfortable?”
“…You don’t want me to leave now?”
“What?” Wooyoung marched over to you, staring silently. He appeared a bit…hurt? “Do you wanna leave?”
“No.”
“Then don’t,” he grinned and went back over to his dresser, “shirt?”
“Uh, sure.”
He tossed you a red band t-shirt, for Pierce the Veil—classic.
“I’ll meet you back out there, gonna shower real quick.” He said, slipping his shirt over his head, allowing you to see the other tattoos he had on his ribs and on his upper back as he strolled into the bathroom.
The water turned on but you didn’t leave. You sat on his bed and took the book from the top of the stack, reading the summary on the back. It was a romance horror novel about a vampire lord and a human maid. How were the two of you so similar?
You only got through about four pages when a fog of steam flowed from the bathroom door as it opened, and Wooyoung stepped out with a towel wrapped around his slim waist, hair dripping wet.
God, he was unfairly attractive.
“I’ll let you borrow it when I'm finished.”
That’s when you see his bookmark sticking out of the top of pages somewhere around the middle.
“You better, I want to know where this is going.”
“Two words: bloody sex.”
Such a boy's remark. You scoffed and set the book back down with the rest, eyes glazing over Wooyoung as the towel dropped to his feet. Spit collected over your tongue while he dressed, nearly drooling as your eyes scanned up his chiseled legs to his sizable package (even flaccid), up his hip line to his stern shoulder blades.
He put on a pair of boxer briefs followed by a pair of gray sweatpants that were cut into shorts with white flowers on them and a plain black cropped t-shirt.
“You checking me out, princess?”
“Maybe…” you replied, earning a pleased hum from him as he circled the bed and stood between your legs.
Placing his hands on either side of you against the mattress, he leaned down and kissed you gently. His kisses were so warm and graceful, sending electricity down to your toes. You would never tire of this.
Wooyoung unclasped your hands in your lap and intertwined his fingers with yours before yanking you to your feet and leading you back out to the den. He guided you to his seat in the corner and you sat down next to him, still holding hands as he unmuted the TV.
“Do you like horror movies?” He asked.
“Absolutely.”
“Excellent. Squeamish people are boring.”
His comment made you giggle in approval, honored to find another thing in common with him. Wooyoung made light work of untangling your fingers and curled his arm around your neck, causing you to lean against his side.
The movie title—House of Wax—rose across the screen.
A favorite film of yours, but how’d he know?
Maybe it was one of his favorites too.
You relaxed your head against his chest, mindlessly twirling your fingers with his over your shoulder. You’re not sure when you fell asleep but you knew you were in his arms, occasionally hearing his light snores.
Someone needed to give you a crash course on how to not fall head over heels for your next-door neighbor, but it seemed that you were too far gone anyway…
Pairing: lee seokmin x afab!reader
Genres: smut (minors dni!), best friends/idiots to lovers!au
Warnings: swearing, lotssss of teasing/switch dynamics, tickling, reader is obsessed w/ seokmin's body, they're idiots your honor and they're a lil bit in L-word 🤮, mingyu thrown under the bus as always, ONE BAD PUN BC I THINK I'M FUNNY, sex is as silly as me, BIG COCK SEOK 🗣️ like he's fucking huge okay, oral (both rec. kind of), attempt at 69 but seok's a menace the entire time, fingering, CRYING/TEARS, possession, biting, marking, multiple orgasms, squirting, lil bit of cumplay ig?, mentions of prev partners, overstim... i think that's it lmk if i missed smth 🥵😰
WC: 6.5k
A/N: um so this is the most self-indulgent thing i dared to post you're WELCOME i shall now go die in a hole to never be seen ever again... happy belated birthday to the loml ugh ty to all the frens that let me sob in their dms and to @onlymingyus for helping me with a damn title 💖
The commonly shared belief among your friend group was that Seokmin is abnormally soft when it comes to you.
You thought they were full of shit.
The bestest buddy in the world was also the softest ray of morning sunshine to ever exist in general. You could barely count on one hand the number of people he genuinely ever showed disdain towards or didn't get along with. All in all — it was extremely hilarious in your opinion because Seokmin's fluffy personality greatly contrasted with his lean, sharp physique.
Ironically, the main reason you ended up in this position.
Just moments before, you were on his bed and caged between his arms. The dog tag necklace you'd gifted, engraved with his birth date and initials, swinging in the same rhythm that your heart rapidly beats with the small space separating your bodies. A sly grin raises the corners of his lips, the long fingers of his left-hand creeping up to trail lightly at your sides.
"I know you have abs."
Seokmin's hands fly up to wrap defensively around his body, though all in good jest. "You can't just ask a dude how many abs he has!"
"And you can't lie to me by saying you don't have any! Do you know how many of your dude-bros have blabbed about your crazy gym routine to me? Can you even guess how many girls bitched at me 'cause you weren't shirtless at my pool party? As if that's my fault?"
"But it's mine?"
"No, all I have to do is prove them wrong. So, show me the goods!"
You sucked at making up your mind — what to eat, what to wear, what to watch, what to do — okay, but who doesn't? It's something Seokmin was very familiar with, hence him always having to pick up wherever you left off. He also knows just as well that once you've settled on something, you'll see it through to the very end. Eventually.
Which normally works out in his favor except in moments like now. So he resorts to a different preventative measure — tickling the decisiveness right out of you.
Like hell you'll let him do what he wants.
Maybe the whispers about him being soft for you were right. After all, it's to your utter benefit when you push at his shoulder. Only a bit unbalanced, he easily falls onto his side and you scramble to climb on top of him at record speed, one arm pinning Seokmin's wrists against the pillow beneath his head.
Unfortunately, this looks like one of your 3,718,493,842 very bad choices in life. Once again, something you didn't think all the way through. Sure, you've bested Seokmin at light wrestling and play-fighting before — back when you were toddlers and all he did was cry.
Now, at adult ages, it seems like a horrible, terrible, very bad idea to have him beneath you. Your fingers play with the hem of his black t-shirt that's ridden up ever so slightly, unbearablely close to the leather band of his silver belt buckle.
Seokmin's pupils are blown wide as he looks up at you with a strange, almost starry-eyed look of surprise. Black bangs flipped up across the dark gray of his blanket, silver chain askew shining against his collarbones, mouth slightly ajar.
Suddenly you're hyper-aware of sitting right on top of him, completely obliterating the distance between your bodies earlier, and leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination from what you can feel nestled in between your legs.
"Would it be inappropriate of me to take your shirt off right now?" you can't help but ask.
He laughs, all breathless and high-pitched like he does when he's nervous. "You're asking for permission?"
"Seokmin," you whine and shift your hips in protest without thinking. Another bad move. Oops. "I'm trying to be polite."
"You have me pinned to my bed with the intent to strip me and you're worried about being polite?"
"Oh, please, you could easily break free."
It's true. His wrists twitch a bit under your grasp, almost like he's attempting to do just that but you're faster once more. Or he's just letting you have your way with him. Whatever the case, your other hand firmly holds both of his down which only brings your faces closer together.
"Don't move."
"Okay," Seokmin agrees and licks his lips, "at least you know what consent means."
"Are you consenting?"
"Depends on what to."
"Me taking off your shirt."
"… Should I be flattered?"
"Very."
Brown eyes close, his brow furrowing. For a minute, you think you've accidentally taken things too far and are about to quickly apologize and backpedal before things backfire until his lips quirk up and Seokmin snorts.
"Never imagined you'd be stripping me like this."
You would agree because what the hell? All this for some abs? But the way he says it makes you pause.
"Have you imagined this before?"
Expecting him to panic or something, you're even more taken aback when he bites his lip like he's holding back more laughter.
"And what if I have? You'll be offended even if I lie."
You narrow your eyes challengingly while his sparkle. "Are you… flirting with me?"
"That is not how I flirt but okay."
"You're being weird. Weird weird. Like super-duper weird."
"Says the one soaking my jeans, right now."
You want to scream. Instead, you let out a scandalized gasp, eyes widening. The effort it takes to bolt away means you must release Seokmin. Something that doesn't even cross your mind with the shame heating up your cheeks, mortification setting off every sirening alarm in your nervous system.
Your first mistake.
Countless other mistakes will be made after this, but looking back — could they really be watered down to just a mistake after the end results? Why you're even so embarrassed in the first place is beyond you. And your best friend has zero intentions of letting you get away from him.
The minute Seokmin's hands are freed, one flies to keep your hips pressed against his while the other gently braces your back. Lifting his torso up with insane core strength he clearly was lying about not having, you have no choice but to wrap an arm instinctively around his neck like a koala. Your other hand curls into a fist, clinging against the fabric straining with the flex of his chest muscles while simultaneously attempting to push him back in a futile effort.
"Breathe," Seokmin murmurs in mild concern. His eyes crinkle as he smiles encouragingly. "Breathe for me, babe."
You hadn't even realized you were holding your breath. If you inched any closer forward, your nose would brush against his, and leaning too far back would end up with him on top of you again.
"This is all your fault, babe."
"You're the one that started this in the first place, babe."
"All I wanted was to see your abs," your voice drops to a pathetic whisper, "babe."
"All you had to do was ask, silly."
"I did!"
To your horror, he leans in even closer with a devious smirk so his nose brushes tenderly against yours. "For yourself. Not others."
"What… what are you playing at Seokmin?"
"It's like you misinterpret everything I do on purpose."
"I — "
"If you think I'm just playing around you're sorely mistaken."
A beat of silence. "Then what are you doing?"
"Nothing," he says innocently even though the hand on your back trails upwards and not-so-innocently unclasps the bra underneath your shirt.
Your jaw drops. Of course, your modest top is still on and the shoulder straps keep your undergarment in place. Yet, you feel naked with the way Seokmin shamelessly ogles your covered chest and lets out a satisfied groan, pleased that you weren't wearing a sports bra. After all, it's not the first time he's done that for you — but it is under this strange context.
"Seokmin — "
"I'll do whatever you want me to do. Tell me." His voice is low, rougher than you've ever heard, causing tingles to shoot down your spine at the way he says your name. "I should take full responsibility for whatever happens."
His last sentence echoes over and over inside your head because yeah, what the hell is going to happen? — until you blurt out, "You find me attractive?"
Finally, Seokmin acts the way you expect and are familiar with, his shy demeanor coming out like sun rays peeking through overcast clouds. Bowing his head, forehead flopping on your shoulder, he admits defeat.
"As if that's even a question, goofball."
"No way — there's no way! My bestie, you, find me, your bestie, like. Hot?"
"Look, I know it's cliché to fall for your friend and all that stupid shit," he grumbles, "but you don't have to sound so shocked. I already know thanks to Mingyu."
You freeze. "Know what?"
"… You're really going to make me say it?" he laughs in disbelief and shakes his head against your shoulder, causing your loose strap to slide down. "When my pride's already in tatters?"
Urging Seokmin to pick up his head and look at you, you face his brown eyes straight-on and cup his flushed cheek. "What did Mingyu say that crushed your pride?"
He sighs. "He told you I liked you before I ever got the chance to say it myself to you."
Your eyebrows raise. "He did?"
"Yeah. And I thought you just. Well. I don't know, I thought you were just ignoring it out of consideration or something. Obviously. Since you didn't say anything."
"… All 'cause I was pretty sure he blabbered about accidentally spilling the beans to you about me liking you."
The both of you pause, silently cursing poor Mingyu. He did mean well. Somehow.
"You're joking right," Seokmin whispers, "is this real?"
"What makes you think it's not."
"Because you've only ever returned my feelings in my dreams."
Your pride swells at that, wrapping your arms around his neck daringly. "Dream about me often?"
He falls backward on the bed, taking you down with him with your bodies pressed tightly together. You admire his handsome features with renewed thirst while he shuts his eyes, no longer forcing yourself to view him through the platonic lenses you'd kept on for so long.
Then his eyes flash back open and you flinch at the burning desire blazing within them. He's never looked at you like that, at least not directly and it ignites the equal yearning you feel for him like a match.
"Yeah," he answers your teasing question, "I do."
Just the thought alone makes you dizzy. Your best friend, your sweet and lovely Seokmin who puts up with all your bullshit, laying here on this exact bed with thoughts of you consuming his mind. Pining for you. Wanting you. Shit, you think he deserves to have all his fantasies come true. And you're more than happy to help him out.
"What do we do in your dreams?"
"Everything. Anything."
An iron-clad grip will probably leave bruises behind but it's not enough to stop you from a slow, lazy grind of your hips. You sit up for more leverage, hands on his broad shoulders for support, watching with smugness oozing out of your smile as he struggles to continue his wholesome thoughts.
"Holding hands, cute dates, buying you pretty things… "
"C'mon babe," you tease, "what else?"
"Ah… " Seokmin sighs, throwing an arm over his face to hide his eyes though it can't hide the flush creeping up his neck, to his cheeks, and coloring his cute ears. "You know… "
"Nah, I don't. Not unless you tell me."
"… Just gets lonely in bed. At night. Cold."
"We've slept together before when I've stayed the night and vice versa."
"Mhm, but never with my dick inside of you."
You coo, trying to keep up your unbothered façade as though the quickening pace of your hips isn't making an insane mess of his lap.
"Poor little Seokminnie had to jerk off all by himself." Leaning down to whisper maliciously in the ear that isn't shielded by his elbow, "Or did you do it while I was laying next to you because you were so frustrated?"
"As if," he scoffs, "and I'm not sure what you mean by little."
Like a switch has flipped, two hands return and grip your hips, keeping them stationary. To prove his point hard, it's Seokmin's turn to grind his pelvis up into the moist heat of your covered cunt while holding you still to feel every agonizingly delicious drag of his cock. The way he can feel you pulse against him even through your thin shorts, the devastating whimper that leaves your mouth when the rough fabric manages to catch your clit just right make up for the mildly gross stickiness of precum inside of his jeans.
A sadistic grin leers at you, almost a snarl. Such a jarring contrast to the normally soft, fond looks you're used to and a shudder runs through your body at the shock, another rush of heated arousal dripping from your pussy.
It's cute, Seokmin thinks to himself, how you put up this act and think you're the one in control when it's really me, the one whose lap you're on.
"Can you even blame me?" he growls, not waiting nor expecting any answer as he sits back up, jostling your body in the process. "I was so good, so well-behaved in front of you. And yet you waltz around me with barely anything on all the damn time, flirting with all my friends in that skimpy bathing suit without a care in the world… "
You don't even know when you ended up on your back. Staring wide-eyed into Seokmin's narrowed ones, his eyelids fluttering as he recalls these memories, fist clenched and arms tense as he towers on top of you once again. He's panting, lower body still pressed against yours.
"Batting your eyelashes at me, giggling, grinding that sweet ass all over me on the dancefloor and then skipping away even though I wanted to touch you so badly… and if that's not torturing enough, constantly showing up in my dreams, always out of reach… So yeah, I'm just a little frustrated, sorry."
"I'm… I'm… I-I didn't know — "
"I know that. I know that and that's why I felt like utter trash. You didn't mean any of it and here I am throwing my disgusting fantasies on you."
"Don't say that," you plead and cup the side of his face, running your thumb repeatedly across his mole. "You're not trash, Seokmin. I wasn't thinking — I mean I didn't realize… I just — "
"Please," he interrupts suddenly, desperately begging. "Please tell me… if this… if this is going to be a spur of the moment, out of pity, and a one-time thing… please tell me you don't want this. That you don't want me — "
"I want to kiss you."
You watch his body tremble before he takes a deep breath, smiling up at him as his eyes gradually open. They blink owlishly at you, nearly crossing in his attempt to scan your face if he really heard you correctly as you guide him by the jawline close to your lips.
"I want you, Seokmin."
To be honest, you've never really imagined what it'd feel like to kiss your best friend. The movies you've watched make it out to be magical, enchanting, and something out of a fairy tale. Sure, maybe they're not wrong but the majority of entertainment is the bad boy turning sweet or a soft boy remaining a gentleman.
Nothing's prepared you for awakening the beast in a good boy.
He kisses you with a ferocity that steals your breath from the get-go. A sensual clash of teeth, tongue, spit, love bites, and nips. Seokmin always had an enjoyable, pleasing tone to his voice and it sounds even better when he's grunting and groaning in the laidback battle for dominance.
Somehow, your clothes are merely disheveled and not ripped off despite continual tangling and grabbing at each other. Once again, you find yourself back on top as you gasp for air — having to push him away when he chases after you for more kisses. If you thought he was pretty before, he's even lovelier with shiny, swollen lips and a dazed, hungry look in his eyes.
Despite pouting at the sudden distance, the man astonishingly looks at you like you've hung the stars in the sky. As if he's never seen the ugly sides of you, your lowest and most embarrassing moments. His gaze trails from where you sit on his thighs to the rise and fall of your heaving chest to your blown-out pupils with such appreciation and awe that your cheeks are set aflame.
Although maybe you're just seeing a reflection of your own adoration. Running your hand down the toned length of one of his arms, you intertwine your fingers together. A smirk returns to your face as he squeezes back, distracted.
"So, can I see your abs now?"
Seokmin groans your name and chews on his lip, uncertain. You shrug and toy with the hem of your own shirt before decisively pulling it over your head. A blissed-out sigh escapes his mouth at the reveal.
Your bra is undone — thanks to his earlier mischief — and barely covers your breasts. Threatening to fall off at the slightest move, you pretend to protect what little modesty you might have and keep it in place with a free hand.
"Tit for tat?" you tease.
He audibly gulps and you watch his Adam's apple bob. You wait patiently, letting him go at his own pace and back out if he wants. Though he does relent because he feels at comfort with you, revealing his gorgeous tan skin and upper body you hadn't seen in what feels like years.
"Omigod…" you gasp out and he cringes, upper body taut with nerves. "You've been hiding a six-pack away from the public for so long?"
"I — "
"I want to touch them."
"Why are you so obsessed with my abs?"
"'cause they're mythical. Like unicorns or… or Bigfoot."
"You're comparing me to a yeti?"
"Not yet…i!"
He rolls his eyes at the ridiculous pun. "I thought I was getting a 'tit for tat'?"
"Yeah," you nonchalantly slide off your loose bra and toss it somewhere on his bedroom floor. Seokmin doesn't even get to relish the bare sight of your tits for his own enjoyment because you're grumbling, "can't even show his best friend his fine ass abs," and he has to correct you.
"Maybe if I was your boyfriend, I'd show them to you all the time."
"Oh? Is that a promise? A threat? A distraction?"
"An offer. A suggestion even."
"It's pretty tempting," you play coy, "can I touch you if I say yes?"
"Only if I can touch you too."
"Then yes." Your pointer finger travels down the flexed crease of his skin to right above his belly button. "Can I see your dick now?"
"But I want… I'd like to… taste you."
"Later," you assure and daringly place a kiss above his waistband. Your hands tug at the belt when his hips stutter upwards. "Please?"
He's gone the moment you flutter your eyelashes at him and so are his ruined jeans. Discarded on the floor to join the growing number of other clothing when he says yes.
Even Seokmin himself would admit he is indeed too soft for you but his cock certainly isn't. Your eyes nearly bug out when it flops against his stomach, angry red and leaking tears of precum. He grits his teeth at how much it aches, perfect jawline even more prominent.
His self-esteem would have been dashed to pieces at the devastating frown on your pretty face but it's greatly inflated when all you can do is whimper out, "You're so big… "
"Yeah?"
Your best friend — no, now your boyfriend, you suppose — hisses when you blink at him.
"There's no way you're gonna fit."
"Hah, 's never been a problem before." Nails dig into his thigh, the little show of possession at the mention of his previous partners wickedly giving Seokmin another ego boost. He's quick to try and appease you though by saying, "don't worry, babe… let me prep and taste you, I'll make it fit I promise and you'll feel good."
"Fuckin' sweet talker." You feel a hand reach out to temptingly slip under the band of your shorts. "Everything about you is always so sweet."
"'m sure you taste even sweeter."
"Seokmin…"
"Hm?" His touch grows bolder at the moan of his name, squeezing at the plumpness of your ass. "Will you please let me have a taste? Just wanna help you out."
You won't be thinking I'm so sweet after this.
Eager to touch him, you nod and start to take off your shorts but Seokmin is faster. Nearly tearing them off your body in excitement and somehow managing to position your bare lower body right where he wants it.
Luckily, you're able to face his neglected cock. A shriek leaves your mouth, though, because the hardened tip of his tongue is searching for your clit, lathing and suckling on it when he does find it.
You try to focus on your prize but it's difficult with the vigor he's attacking your throbbing, needy pussy. Seokmin holds you up high enough that he can leave occasional nips on the inner crease of your hips before harshly licking and sucking up your messy arousal. Shaking his head back and forth with an animalistic growl, all you can do is resort to pitiful kitten licks and slobbering mindlessly on just the side of his cock.
The more you attempt to wrap your lips fully around the tip, the further down he brings you to his mouth until you're almost suffocating him. A brutal assault where you can only twitch your hips to which he agreeably grunts, gliding you across his open mouth ever so slightly. Unable to escape the throes of pleasure, not that you would want to — you give up and give in.
Tears fill your eyes as your body convulses and shakes, staring longingly at his cock through bleary eyes. Seokmin's muffled moans as he gladly helps you ride out your orgasm with your fluttering hole clamping around his tongue barely registering in your ears. You feel like you're floating while underwater in the most delicious of ways.
Seokmin manages to nudge you enough so he can catch his breath while waiting for you to come back to him. A fond smile on his lips when you're finally able to move and he helps you flop by his side.
"Why on earth are you a pussy-eating pro?"
"You keep complaining about things most people don't find fault in."
"I wanted to suck the life out of you, not the opposite." You reach for his cock again but he stops you — again — and rubs the back of your hand consolingly while he wipes the wet mess you'd left on his face with a smirk like a badge of honor he takes pride in. "Lee Seokmin!"
"Shhh, don't whine, baby. Almost there, I'll let you have my dick soon. Give it to you real good. Now that I've confirmed what a tight, good little pussy you have for myself, gotta make sure you're stretched out enough. Don't wanna hurt you."
"It already hurts, 'm so empty, 'min."
"Greedy," he snickers, knowing you're full of shit, and sits up. "After I just stuffed you with my tongue so well that you complained about it, now you want me again?"
"Always want you. Always have. Didn't realize it before but it's true. 'm sorry, Seokkie, need you so bad though."
"Lucky I like you so much. Now turn around, let me see that lovely ass of yours."
You do as he says, clambering up on all fours and arching your back prettily, looking over your shoulder to see what he'll do next.
The sight alone is a wet dream. He's licking his lips, brown eyes honed in on your puffy, seeping cunt until he's snapped out of the trance when he realizes you're watching him. He sticks out his tongue to pull a silly face and you shake your head in disbelief.
A finger traces up your spine before it turns into his palm pushing down between your shoulder blades so your cheek is pressed into the pillows. You can just feel the heavy heat of his cock but he pulls away before you can savor it for too long. A constant tease that leaves you whining again in frustration and wiggling your hips enticingly, a futile effort.
"I know you're desperate. 'm sorry, don't wanna cum too fast and disappoint you though."
"You won't disappoint me."
"Nope, I'll make it worthwhile. Promise. We can do whatever positions you want after this. I'd like to see you riding me like you do in my dreams, personally." Watching how you clench at his words, he chuckles. "Knew you'd like that too. Now, let's see…"
He slips a digit inside your hole muttering, "There we go," and adds another. And another. Three fingers explore your gummy inner walls and he hums in contemplating tones before he begins scissoring motions to get your pussy to further open up.
Your moans are muffled by the bed and Seokmin simply increases his pace to make them louder with a sneer of satisfaction you don't see. You do feel him kissing down the length of your spine, more love bites that make you squeal at each pinch.
"So cute and perfect. What 'm I gonna do with you?" he asks and pretends to understand the unintelligible garble to his rhetorical question. "Yeah, that's right, babe. Fuck you even more stupid than you are now 'cause it's what you deserve."
Retracting his fingers, licking them clean, and mumbling how pretty you are — then he's finally wrapping a veined hand around his even veinier cock to tease at your entrance.
He plays with your wetness, coating his tip with it and making both your mouth and pussy drool. And god, does Seokmin relish the vision before him.
You're everything to him and that thought alone makes him bite down on his lower lip, a bead of sweat trickling down his forehead. He doesn't want to fuck this up. Every muscle in his body tenses when he takes a deep breath and eases himself inside, enraptured with the way your soft pussy lips part and cling around his length to welcome him.
When he glances up to check how you're doing, he has to reign himself back from exploding or thrusting insensitively all the way in. The way your eyes roll up, a stain of drool left on his blanket, and the feeble thank you's followed by a filthy series of moans — he lets out a string of curses that would make even a depraved whore blush out of shyness.
"S'big, s'full," you hiccup, clenching and unclenching in rapid successions that has Seokmin wheezing, though he tries to comfort you.
"'m not even all the way inside, sweetheart. Bear with me, babe. Breathe. I've got you."
"Got me… hella fuckin' full."
"You can take it. I know you can." He pushes his hips forward a bit more. "There you go, sweetheart. Relax just a tiny bit… Yeah, that's it…"
Praises fall from his lips and you sob at both the goddamn stretch and unfathomable pleasure. You already feel him buried in your gut reaching spots you didn't even know existed by the time he's almost bottomed out for his pelvis to press temptingly against your ass — you're pretty sure you can feel him in your lungs at this point.
"S'deep…!"
"Feel so fucking good… d'ya need me to pull out a little, baby? You still with me?"
You answer him by bravely using whatever strength — or more like the urge for him to split you open and take it all because you want to be as good as he's telling you that you are for him — and push yourself back so he's fully seated within your tight cunt.
You're probably screaming if your raspy throat and ringing ears are anything to go by. He's panting and rubbing his forehead with a groan.
"Fuck, what are you so hot for?"
The air feels like it's been punched out of his lungs, the same way his cock is being suctioned and squeezed. In an effort to wrangle whatever control is left within himself, Seokmin focuses on your body and how it reacts. Laying over your arched back to press your bare bodies close together in an intimate fashion.
You can feel his necklace and its cool touch on your burning skin. The recollection of never seeing him without it since gifting it to him reignites a possessive streak in you and has your pussy pulsing around him more fervently. Suddenly you long to have his mark engraved on you permanently, etched into your body and soul just like the inanimate object.
It's almost a shame when he pauses to tug it free so it doesn't break and let it hang over your shoulder instead. Not that it matters much, for you'd only have a temporary imprint of a dog tag shape on your back.
As if he can read your muddled mind (he probably can), Seokmin makes up for it in his concentration to delay his dizzy cloud of absolute unbridled lust. He's already left many physical reminders of his touch where you'll definitely be sore later scattered around your body and as a bonus — bites down where your neck meets your shoulder.
(You have no idea how you'll explain the obvious teeth marks to your friends the next day but you know they'll know. Especially when Seokmin — the little shit that he is — shamelessly shows off the various marks you'll leave all over him later tonight.)
But you don't think about that right now, any and all thoughts consumed of him, him, and him. You're full. So full. Oh, how you ache to run your fingers across his gorgeous body the same way he's able to yours, sneaking a hand underneath to fondle at your breasts and tug at your nipples. You suppose that can wait, already inching toward another crashing orgasm when he's unable to stay still anymore and starts shallow, cautious thrusts.
"Mm, ah, 'min… Seok… min… "
"'m here baby, you're gonna cum for me already, aren't ya?" He pulls his dick out far enough to see the way your essence glistens and coats his length and then smoothly stuffs you full again. "Go on and cream on my cock, make me yours."
Shockingly you shake your head. "No, too soon!"
"S'kay, I know you can give me another one after. If you let go now, it'll feel even better after. You're still so tight, I can barely move."
You really can't believe you're about to climax so soon again. There's not really a choice to hold it off anyways, especially when his hand moves away from your tits and mercilessly rubs your clit. He could've just fucked your throat raw with how hoarse your voice is now with all the sounds he's drawn out of you.
As you recover from the fuzziness of a second orgasm, he'd taken out his cock that's basically gone numb at this point (he's not sure if that's a good thing or not), and appreciates the delectable view of how your hole has been stretched out perfectly in the shape of his cock to accommodate him so sweetly. It all screams I am Seokmin's and he fucking adores it. And you.
There's only one thing left to do. Paint you with the color white.
"You ready for me?"
You breathlessly huff out a yes but honestly, you're unsure if you will be able to handle another peak without passing out. Seokmin soothes you, whispering that this will be the last one for this round accompanied by two chaste kisses on each of your shoulder blades. So wonderful and perfect, he reminds and suddenly you can do anything he asked of you.
Which is good because he's finally snapping his hips hard and fast with better ability, drilling into your warm, wet pussy he calls his that confirms that ownership itself with filthy noises of agreement and gushes of more arousal. You moan out a mix of yes, yours, and his name — growing so fucked out that when he asks you where you want him to cum, all you do is feebly bounce your asscheeks against his abs when he refuses to move.
"Shit, you gotta tell me now or I'll… fuck, I'll do it inside. I-I know you're on the pill but… "
"Please…"
"You'd look pretty with it all over your back but also spilling out of your pussy… "
"If you don't cum right now anywhere… I'll cry."
"You're already crying." His thumb brushes at the trail of tears that spilled over your eyelids.
"Seokmin…!"
"'m sorry, let me give you what you want."
His hips resume slamming at a rapid pace, hitting deep within that magic bundle of nerves without fail. Stars swim in your vision and the mind-numbing pressure twisting in your lower gut builds up without warning.
It's a silent scream this time and a peak that doesn't seem to end. As your body violently shudders and shakes for what feels like hours at its intensity, Seokmin's release is triggered. Gently thrusting as you spasm around him, milking his cock as it starts to fill you up with a comforting warmth. In a daze, he's forced out by the end of your explosive orgasm and watches with a slack jaw in awe.
He's managed to leave beautiful lines of white across your ass and back as intended. Though the bit he'd left inside of you is mostly expelled by you squirting and coating his thighs with your release, if he looks close enough, there are still globs of cream left around the outer lips of your cunt that has him groaning.
"This is better than what I've dreamt about."
"Of course. Real thing is always better."
"In this case, yes."
"… Do you still think I'm sweet?"
"… Somehow, yes."
Seokmin laughs as you collapse flat against the bed. You need to clean up but both of you can afford to rest a little first. He lays down next to you on his side, bringing you into his arms and you immediately snuggle your face into his chest before fixing him with a serious gaze.
"I don't get it."
He stiffens in fear. "Wh-what?"
"You fucked your previous partners, right?"
"Um… most… of them… "
"Like this?"
"Uh… " he narrows his eyes. "What… what do you mean?"
"There's no way they would've wanted to let you go if you got a stroke game and stamina this good. Unless you were just too much of a beast in the sheets — which I could understand."
His arms tighten around you. "I'm sorry, did I go too hard on you? I just didn't wanna cum too fast."
"No, you're insane but it was… incredible. You're the unreal one here."
"Didn't expect that when you harassed me about my abs, huh?"
"I did not harass you and of course not, did you?"
"No, but… I'm glad it did. You… don't… you don't regret it, do you?"
"No, why would I?" He breathes out a tiny sigh of relief which has you raising an eyebrow but you continue on. "I don't get why they didn't try harder to stick around. I mean you're perfect. In all aspects. I one-hundred-percent mean that."
"They weren't you, though. I'm sincere when I say you've always been the one. I was just afraid…"
"You're a damn good actor, you know that. I had no idea."
Your favorite smile beams at you. "I did major in theater. And we're both kinda idiots."
You slap at his chest playfully and he covers your hand with his. "I like you too, you know that? Like really mean it when I say I do. Even if you just obliterated my fucking vagina out of existence."
"There's no way, I most certainly did not." He kisses your forehead. "'cause you still have to ride me like promised."
"I don't think I'll be able to."
Your eyes close, ignoring Seokmin's gasp of shock and protests about cleaning up. He can tell you're pretty exhausted and acquiesces, shifting you into a position more comfortable for you to be able to doze off for a bit.
But you take that opportunity to spring to life, sucking the nastiest hickey on his neck right above his silver chain. One that will take weeks to heal. He lets out a moan as you do it and when you back away, the atmosphere has heated up again.
"You're giving me a hard time," he points out with an eyebrow wiggle and you giggle.
Urging him to roll over, you lug your aching limbs up and over so you can straddle his upper body. Adding more and more love marks and bites on his chest, neck, and arms. It's your turn to stake a hushed claim of mine whispered into his ears that you nip at. And he giggles, loving the attention you're showering him with.
His cock is stirring to life under your ministrations as is another pool of arousal swirling in your gut. Despite the hiss of oversensitivity and slight pain you both feel, you ease his length back inside. Nearly crying out because this new angle means he's stuffed in you even more, you don't know if he can fit until you're gasping in relief once you're successful.
He tentatively brushes his fingers against the bulge that appears in your lower tummy, wanton moans erupting from both of you at the gesture. It sends chills down your spine and you shiver.
"Gonna have to help me move, dunno if I have enough strength to make your dreams come true."
"S'kay, we have forever to act them out again and again," he reassures you which erases your pout. "You'll get used to me with enough practice."
"You think so?"
"Well, we can only test that theory to make sure."
You giggle as he pulls you in for a tender kiss by the back of your neck. "You're naughtier than I could've ever imagined."
"But you love it. You love me." His smug look only grows at your agreeing hum and when he flexes his abs. "Now, shall we see if all the work I put into my abs is worth it, babe?"
in which a sports journalist falls in love with south korea’s star defender
synopsis: when you meet sunghoon park — south korea’s calm, elite centre-back and vice-captain — during the world cup, professional interviews slowly turn into late-night conversations, gentle support, and stolen moments of connection.
as south korea pushes toward glory, so does hiding your growing feelings. through support, laughter, and quiet closeness, you discover something special that stays with you long after the final whistle.
pairing: footballer!sunghoon x reporter!reader
wc: 12.9k
warnings: none! it's mainly fluff with a tiny bit of angst at the end (good ending!!)
cw: slow-burn, mild emotional distress (sports related), talks about being under pressure, disappointments, insecurities, expectations. one kiss, strong language
a/n: SPAIN WON THE WORLD CUP!!!! i'm the happiest person on earth rn :(( i can't believe this fic started because of a silly idea i had rewatching iker casillas and sara carbonero’s 2010 world cup video for the nth time... ugh, i love my team. also, i just had to MAKE sunghoon's trading card because all the others were ai so i took care of it with my poor photo editing skills,,,,, 😁 (you know i had to take the opportunity to make him a player of my favorite team lmao)
the world cup buzzes like electricity in the air, thick and alive under atlanta’s stadium lights. the atmosphere wraps around everything, from the distant hum of distant chants to the sharp scent of fresh turf and street food vendors weaving through the crowds outside. south korea’s national team has arrived with quiet determination this time, not just as participants but as a team who trained for months in secrecy, refining a defense that feels impenetrable. their preparation whispers through insider reports and subtle leaks, hinting at new formations and unbreakable partnerships in the backline.
you step off the plane a few days earlier, notebook already full of notes, press badge hanging around your neck like a second heartbeat. mid-twenties, passionate about the sport since you first watched it as a kid in your living room, knees tucked under a blanket while your family cheered at the screen.
you earned this assignment through sharp reporting and a knack for getting players to open up, chasing stories in smaller leagues and building connections one honest conversation at a time. this is your first world cup covering the men’s side, and the pressure feels exhilarating, a mix of nerves and pure thrill that keeps your pulse quick.
sunghoon park stands out even before the tournament begins.
you know him, everybody does.
starting centre-back, atlético de madrid's star, vice-third captain of south korea's team despite being one of the younger leaders in the squad. his reputation precedes him: ice-prince composure on the pitch, elite defending that reads plays before they happen, precise tackles that disarm attacks without unnecessary force, aerial dominance in duels, and the rare ability to stay calm when everyone else loses their head. fans call him "the wall", a nickname earned through countless highlights of last-ditch clearances and steady leadership. teammates respect him because he leads by example, voice steady in the dressing room, never raising it unless absolutely necessary, offering quiet words of encouragement that carry weight.
off the pitch he carries a quiet politeness, almost shy, with sharp features and dark hair that falls just so, making him look more model than footballer sometimes, his presence drawing second glances even in casual team arrivals. but on it, he transforms into something unforgettable, every movement calculated, his focus turning the chaos of the game into something almost predictable for those watching closely.
the group stage opener arrives fast. south korea versus a tough czech republic known for physicality and counter-attacks, their players built like athletes who thrive on intensity and sudden bursts forward.
the stadium is packed, flags waving in vibrant waves of red and green, chants echoing off the sleek architecture and blending into a roaring symphony. you sit in the press box, heart racing as the teams line up, the bright lights casting long shadows across the pitch.
sunghoon wears the armband tonight as one of the captains rotates, his posture straight, eyes focused under the intense glare. the whistle blows and the match unfolds like a carefully choreographed dance, every pass and movement carrying the weight of national pride.
south korea dominates possession early, controlling the tempo with crisp passes that slice through the midfield. sunghoon organizes the backline with quiet gestures, shouting instructions that cut through the noise, his voice clear and authoritative without ever sounding frantic. when the opponent launches a dangerous cross in the 22nd minute, he rises highest, heading it clear with perfect timing, his body suspended for a moment in perfect athletic poise. you scribble notes furiously: park’s reading of the game is elite. anticipates runs before they develop. tracks shadows and feints with uncanny precision.
the first goal comes from a set-piece he delivers, his long ball finding a teammate who finishes clinically. 1-0. the crowd erupts in a wave of cheers and horns, the energy surging through the stands and into the press area, making your skin tingle.
half-time brings tactical adjustments, the players jogging off with measured steps, sunghoon’s expression unchanging, focused, a thin sheen of sweat on his brows but nothing else. you watch from your seat, analyzing every detail, the way he wipes his face with the hem of his jersey before disappearing into the tunnel.
second half tests them. the opponent pushes hard, physical challenges flying in, boots clashing against shins in audible thuds that make you wince from afar. sunghoon absorbs a heavy tackle but gets up immediately, brushing dirt from his jersey like it’s nothing, his face only shows determination. another key interception in the 68th minute prevents a certain equalizer, his sliding perfectly timed, the ball rolling safely out of bounds as the crowd holds its collective breath.
his composure never cracks, even as the minutes tick down and fatigue sets in for everyone else. south korea holds firm and adds a second goal late, a moment of clinical finishing that seals the result.
final whistle: 2-0. clean sheet. perfect start.
the stadium pulses with celebration, and you lean back in your seat, notebook overflowing, already replaying every touch from the ice-prince at the heart of it all.
the mixed zone after the match is chaotic, journalists crowding the barriers with cameras flashing and recorders thrust forward like eager weapons. the air feels humid and charged, thick with the scent of sweat, grass, and lingering adrenaline from the pitch. the players file through in waves, some pausing for quick quotes with tired smiles, others walking past with headphones on, heads down, lost in their own debriefs. you wait patiently near the designated spot, assigned specifically to sunghoon today, your notebook clutched tight and questions already mentally rehearsed.
when he approaches, towel around his neck, hair damp with sweat and slightly tousled, jersey clinging slightly to his frame from the exertions of ninety minutes, your pulse quickens despite your professionalism. he looks every bit the ice prince under the harsh mixed zone lights, broad shoulders still squared from the game, but up close there’s a subtle tiredness mixed with quiet satisfaction in his eyes, a faint flush on his cheeks that speaks to the effort he poured out.
“sunghoon park,” you begin, microphone steady in your hand, voice warm but professional, cutting through the surrounding din. “congratulations on the win and the clean sheet. you were instrumental at the back tonight. how did the defense hold up against their physical attacks?”
he stops fully, turning toward you with deliberate care. his gaze meets yours directly, polite and attentive, dark eyes steady without any hint of evasion. a small, shy smile touches his lips, the kind that barely shows but feels genuine, softening the sharp lines of his features for just a moment. “thank you. the team prepared well. we communicated a lot on the pitch, stayed compact. it’s a good start, but we know every match gets harder.”
you nod, following up smoothly, the words flowing as the crowd noise fades into background static. “your aerial duel win in the first half was crucial. and that long ball leading to the first goal — was that something practiced in training, or instinctive?”
“a bit of both,” he answers, voice calm and low, carrying that measured tone that makes every syllable feel intentional. “the coaches drilled set-pieces endlessly, but reading the moment… that comes with experience and trust in your teammates.” he shifts slightly on his feet, still looking at you, water bottle in one hand, the towel draped casually.
then you ask the tougher one, the kind that makes some players defensive or curt. “some analysts said before the tournament that the backline might struggle with pace. how do you respond to that after tonight?”
sunghoon pauses briefly, considering, then lets out a genuine laugh — soft, surprised, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that lights up his whole expression. it’s rare post-match, especially after a high-stakes opener, cutting through the usual post-game formality like a breath of fresh air.
“you came prepared with the tough questions, didn't you?” he teases lightly, tone playful but not mocking, a hint of warmth threading through. “i think we showed tonight that we can handle it. pace is one thing, but positioning and timing matter more. we’ll keep proving it match by match.”
you smile back, the chemistry instant and easy, a natural rhythm settling between question and answer. the interview flows naturally after that, a few more questions about team spirit and his leadership role as vice-third captain. he answers thoughtfully, adding small details that most players gloss over — the specific calls he made during transitions, the way the defenders rotated coverage to blunt counters, little insights born from hours on the training ground.
when it ends, he gives a slight bow of his head, respectful and understated. “good questions. thank you. see you.” his eyes linger just a second longer than necessary, holding yours with that same quiet intensity from the pitch, before he moves on down the mixed zone.
you stand there for a moment amid the continuing chaos, replaying the laugh in your head, the way his voice dipped on certain words. "he's handsome, but you're professional. remember the boundaries", you remind yourself firmly, even as your notes feel heavier with more than just match analysis. but the spark is undeniable.
back at the team hotel later that night, the lobby hums with subdued celebration. the space feels alive yet restrained, players and staff moving between rooms in quiet clusters, some heading to recovery sessions with ice baths and physio tables waiting, others grabbing late snacks from the discreet buffet setup in the corner. the hotel is modern, luxurious but secure, with sleek marble floors, towering glass windows overlooking the atlanta night, and strict curfew rules for the squad enforced by attentive staff. you’re staying on one of the lower floors, same as some media and support staff, close enough to the team’s area for convenience but separated by careful zoning that keeps interactions professional and contained.
jet lag keeps you awake, a restless energy humming in your veins, so you head to the lobby lounge for a quiet coffee, laptop open as you type up your match report, fingers flying across the keys in the dim glow. the lights are dimmed low, casting warm pools across the plush seating, soft piano music playing faintly from hidden speakers, a gentle melody that blends with the occasional murmur of conversation.
you’re halfway through your notes, capturing the rhythm of the defense and the weight of sunghoon’s contributions, when movement catches your eye near the entrance.
sunghoon walks in wearing a simple black hoodie and sweats, hair still slightly damp from a shower, the fabric of his clothes loose and comfortable after the intensity of the pitch. he looks younger like this, less captain, more guy in his early twenties carrying the weight of a nation on broad but unassuming shoulders. he spots you almost immediately, hesitation flickering across his face for a brief second before he approaches with measured steps.
“are you still working?” he asks quietly, voice gentle so as not to disturb the quiet space, his korean accent wrapping around the english words comfortably, smooth and familiar.
you look up, surprised but pleased, a small smile tugging at your lips. “yeah, i couldn't sleep. jet lag plus post-match adrenaline. you? should you even be down here this late?”
he gives that small shy smile again, the one that softens his sharp features, and sits in the armchair across from you after a subtle nod seeking permission.
“brief recovery session ran long. and yes, technically within limits if i don’t stay too long.” he glances at your screen with mild curiosity. “are you writing about the match?”
“i'm trying to capture it right. you made it easy with that performance,” you reply, closing the laptop slightly to give him full attention, the screen’s glow fading. conversation starts light, about the game, the flow of possession and the moments that stood out. he talks about specific moments — the tackle on the 68th, how the roar of the crowd affected concentration and forced quicker decisions, the way the backline shifted as a unit to snuff out threats.
you share observations from the press box, how the team’s shape looked solid from above, the defensive lines holding like a well-oiled machine even under pressure. the words come easily, trading perspectives that deepen the understanding of the ninety minutes.
“the jet lag is brutal,” he admits after a pause, leaning back into the cushions, his posture relaxing just a fraction. “it feels like my body is still somewhere over the pacific, caught between time zones. but nights like tonight make it worth it, the win settling something in the chest.”
you nod, sipping your coffee. “i get it. first world cup for me covering like this. the energy is addictive, but exhausting. what helps you unwind? besides perfect defending, obviously.”
he chuckles softly, the sound warm and low in the quiet lobby, a rare unguarded moment. “music sometimes. or thinking about simple things back home. korean food, especially. samgyeopsal after a win would be perfect right now. or even just ramyeon, spicy and comforting. the hotel options are good, but nothing beats street food at home late night after training.”
“ramyeon sounds heavenly,” you agree, smiling as the memory of your own recent meal surfaces. “i had some earlier from a local spot nearby. spicy, just right, with that perfect chew. if you get a chance off-schedule, there’s a place a short drive away that does authentic versions, the noodles are great. though i’m sure team nutrition has you on lock with carefully balanced meals.”
he listens intently, eyes brightening with quiet interest, nodding along as details unfold. the talk drifts naturally — small recommendations for hidden spots, funny stories about travel mishaps like delayed flights and lost luggage in past tournaments, how the world cup atmosphere feels different from league play, more electric and heavy with expectation. he asks about your reporting background, genuinely curious, leaning forward slightly. you tell him about covering smaller leagues first, the grind of rainy pitches and modest crowds that built your eye for the game. he shares a bit about balancing football with everything else, the pressure of being a leader despite his age, the quiet moments needed to stay grounded.
time slips by. maybe twenty minutes, maybe thirty, the lobby emptying further as staff dim the lights even lower and the piano music fades to a softer hum. neither wants to end it abruptly, the conversation weaving comfortably, but reality lingers in the back of both minds.
“i should head up,” he says eventually, standing slowly, stretching with subtle care for his body after the match. “i have a curfew and all of that. but… this was nice. unexpected, but nice.”
“yeah,” you reply, meeting his gaze steadily. “good talk, sunghoon. rest up. next match comes quick.”
he pauses before leaving, that shy smile returning, warmer now in the low light. “goodnight. and thanks again for the interview earlier. you made it… interesting, and easier.” his words carry a little extra weight, the small spark from the mixed zone flickering brighter here in the soft lights of the lounge.
you watch him walk toward the elevators, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands in a casual gesture, footsteps quiet on the marble. alone again, you reopen your laptop but type slower, mind replaying the conversation in fragments. professional. friendly. nothing more. yet the easy chemistry lingers like the aftertaste of good coffee, warm and subtly persistent.
-------
the days after the opening win settle into a rhythm that feels both exhausting and electric. south korea’s second group match arrives, and the team looks even sharper under the georgia sun. the next days settle into tournament rhythm, a steady pulse of preparation and anticipation that fills the air around the venues. training sessions you observe from afar, positioned along the sidelines with other accredited media, notebooks ready and cameras clicking discreetly. press conferences hum with questions in multiple languages, analysis fills late nights back at your temporary workspace. south korea prepares with focused intensity, the squad sharpening transitions and set-piece routines.
sunghoon leads defensive drills with quiet authority, voice steady as he directs younger defenders, demonstrating positioning with precise gestures and calm corrections. his movements remain fluid even in practice, reading imaginary attacks before they unfold, adjusting lines with a few words that carry across the pitch. you catch his eye once across the green during a water break, the brief connection unexpected amid the bustle of cones and passing sequences. he offers a small nod, almost imperceptible, but it warms something in your chest, a quiet acknowledgment that lingers longer than it should.
back in the hotel, paths cross again briefly — a hallway hello in the early evening, his damp hair suggesting another recovery session, your arms full of notes and a coffee cup. another shared elevator ride with staff present, where conversation stays light and public, comments on the weather, the quality of training pitches, nothing that draws attention. the spark simmers beneath the surface, subtle glances and polite smiles building something unspoken match by match.
the second group game arrives under the stadium lights once more. another win, 3-1 this time, the scoreline reflecting growing confidence in the squad. sunghoon marshals the defense like a conductor, his voice cutting calmly through the noise. two key tackles in the first half snuff out dangerous counters. a perfectly timed interception in the 55th minute sparks a fast break. sunghoon scores the opener from a corner, powerful header that sends the ball rocketing into the net, his timing impeccable as he rises above the defenders. composure intact even as teammates pile on him in celebration, the stadium erupting in a sea of red and cheers that shake the stands. you watch from the press box, fingers flying over your keyboard, noting how his positioning seems almost predictive.
post-match mixed zone, you’re the one they send for the team interviews again. when sunghoon reaches you, jersey still on, towel draped around his neck, he lingers. the interview starts professional — questions about the clean sheet streak, his leadership, the set-piece organization, how it felt contributing at both ends. “feels good for the team. defense first, always, but if i can help attack too… it adds something extra.” he answers with more ease now, small smiles appearing. the tease comes again when you ask about a near-miss. “you notice everything, don’t you?” that laugh returns, genuine and rare, soft and crinkling the corners of his eyes, shared just between you amid the surrounding chaos.
the moment stretches comfortably, his answers thoughtful as before, offering insights into the team’s adjustments at halftime and the way the crowd’s energy fueled the second half push. as you wrap up, he pauses instead of moving on immediately.
“you’re becoming the regular,” he says quietly, almost teasing. “it's good to see a familiar face.” his eyes hold yours a second longer before he nods politely and continues down the line. you keep the questions sharp yet fair, the rhythm between you flowing smoother with each exchange, that easy chemistry threading through the professional exchange like a hidden current. the warmth from the brief laugh carries you through the rest of your notes that night.
that night in the hotel lobby, the coffee area is quieter. you’re there with your notes when he appears again, hoodie up, looking refreshed but still buzzing from the win.
“mind if i join?” he asks. this time he seeks you out more deliberately, crossing the quiet lounge with purposeful steps and sitting longer in the armchair across from you. you gesture to the seat across.
conversation flows easier this time. he shares a funny story about a younger teammate’s celebration in the dressing room. you tell him about a chaotic press conference earlier. talk turns to korean food recommendations again — he describes his favorite spots back in seoul with quiet enthusiasm, making you imagine the crowded streets, and the perfect balance of flavors that remind him of home after tough matches.
“are you still craving that ramyeon?” he sends a subtle glance toward the hotel menu.
“always,” you laugh.
you swap travel stories, laughing softly over delayed flights and unfamiliar customs in distant stadiums. jet lag conversations deepen slightly into dreams and why this sport matters, the shared passion for the game threading through late-night reflections. the spark feels warmer, comfortable, hovering in the pauses between words.
by the third group match, a dominant 2-0 victory seals top spot in the group. clean sheets stacking up, a testament to the defensive solidity built over months. sunghoon’s leadership shines through every organized line and timely command on the pitch. he scores the first goal from a corner kick, rising powerfully to head it into the net. his celebration is restrained — a fist pump, quick hug with teammates — but you catch the rare wide smile. his defense remains elite, another strong performance with crucial blocks.
the post-match interview flows like you're old friends now, easy banter mixed with sharp analysis under the mixed zone lights. you’re now the unofficial go-to for the team.
“you’re making my job look too good,” you joke lightly, microphone steady but tone warmer than strict professionalism. sunghoon’s answers come thoughtfully, but he lingers noticeably after each question, adding small extras just for you.
“or you’re making me look good,” he replies softly, eyes warm with that subtle crinkle at the edges, the response quick and genuine. “that goal felt good for the fans,” he says, then softly after the mic dips, “thanks for the steady questions. keeps me grounded.”
the chemistry is obvious to anyone watching closely, but nothing improper. just easy rapport.
the hotel becomes your shared in-between space. quick hallway greetings turn into short conversations when paths cross. one evening after training, you’re heading back to your room when he appears around the corner.
”long day?” he asks. you nod. he walks with you partway, voice low. “we appreciate the fair coverage.”
that night’s lobby meeting stretches further into the quiet hours. recommendations turn personal — favorite movies for recovery days, the ones that distract the mind without demanding too much attention, music playlists that help settle the adrenaline.
your hands brush reaching for drinks from the low table between you, a small touch that sends a small jolt through the air. the eye contact lingers a beat longer each time, charged yet restrained. nothing crosses lines, but the connection feels real, slow-building, like extra time in a tight match where every second carries weight.
late nights in the lobby or coffee corner grow. you talk about pressure, how the tournament amplifies everything.
he admits quietly, “it helps having someone outside the team bubble to talk to. makes it feel less heavy.” you share your own experiences covering high-stakes matches. nothing crosses lines. just comfort. mutual understanding. a crush that simmers beneath polite words.
group stage wraps with top spot secured. advancement feels earned. sunghoon’s clean sheets and that set-piece goal make headlines. you write positively, balanced. you and sunghoon exist in this careful space — reporter and player, budding friends, something warmer underneath the surface of every exchanged word and glance. the ice prince thaws just a little for you in these stolen moments, and you find yourself looking forward to every post-match moment more than you should, the story and the person behind it intertwining in ways that feel both exciting and dangerously delicate.
-------
round of 16 hits on day 13. the atmosphere around the stadium crackles with higher stakes, the air thicker with tension and the roar of fans who have traveled far for this knockout stage. the opponent is tricky, technical, a side known for quick combinations and clever movement that demands constant vigilance. the match is tighter, every touch and challenge carrying the weight of potential elimination, the pitch bathed in bright lights that cast long shadows across the players.
sunghoon shines again, his presence at the back a steady anchor amid the intensity. a spectacular sliding tackle in the 40th minute prevents a goal, his body extending fully with perfect timing, the ball cleared safely as the crowd gasps and then erupts in relief. he organizes relentlessly, voice cutting through the noise with calm instructions, gesturing to teammates to maintain shape, reading the flow of the game with that trademark composure. south korea wins 1-0, a late goal sealing it in dramatic fashion. the clean sheet streak continues, another hard-fought shutout that speaks volumes about the defensive unit’s resilience and cohesion.
post-match, the mixed zone is busier than ever, journalists pressing closer to the barriers, cameras flashing in rapid bursts, the energy electric with the thrill of advancement. voices overlap in a dozen languages as players make their way through, some pausing for brief comments, others moving with exhausted determination. when it’s sunghoon’s turn with you, he lingers the longest yet, his jersey still marked with grass stains and sweat, hair damp and slightly tousled from the battle.
“it was a tough one today,” you say on mic, keeping your tone professional yet warm amid the surrounding chaos.
he answers thoughtfully, detailing the defensive adjustments and the importance of staying compact against their technical threats, his words measured and insightful as always. then, after the formal part winds down and the recorder clicks off, his voice softens, eyes meeting yours with quiet sincerity.
“i know i say this a lot, but… your questions help me reflect properly. see you around the hotel?” the invitation is casual, professional on the surface, but layered with that familiar spark.
that night, the elevator moment happens in the quiet hum of the team hotel. the lobby has mostly emptied, soft lighting casting gentle glows across the marble floors as staff move discreetly in the background. you both end up in the same car after curfew hours, the doors sliding shut to leave just the two of you inside for a brief ride. he presses his floor, you yours, the numbers lighting up softly on the panel. the space feels smaller, more intimate, with the faint scent of his post-shower freshness mingling with the neutral hotel air.
he glances at you with a small grin, the expression boyish and relaxed after the high of the win. “technically we're not breaking rules if it’s just elevator talk, right?” his tone is light, teasing in that understated way.
you laugh quietly, the sound echoing softly in the enclosed space. “team rules are strict. but i won’t tell if you don’t.”
he chuckles, the sound low and warm, filling the brief silence as the elevator ascends smoothly. “good. wouldn’t want to get the reporter in trouble.”
the ride is short but charged, the two of you whisper-joking about imaginary coach surveillance cameras hidden in the corners, trading playful exaggerations about what the staff might think of late-night elevator rides. his eyes crinkle with amusement, the tension of the match melting away in these stolen seconds of normalcy.
when the doors open on your floor, he says softly, “sleep well,” his gaze holding yours for a lingering moment before the doors begin to close behind you. you step out into the hallway, the warmth in your chest blooming brighter, carrying you toward your room as the elevator continues upward.
texts begin the next day. the mixed zone buzz still echoes in your mind as you wrap up another solid interview with sunghoon, the post-round-of-16 energy lingering in the air like static. you give him your number after the formal questions end and the recorders are away, framing it casually as “professional follow-up if needed for quotes or any clarification on comments.” your voice stays steady and professional, but your fingers brush lightly when you hand over the small slip of paper with the digits neatly written. he takes it with a small nod, that shy smile touching his lips again, eyes flicking up to meet yours for a beat longer than necessary.
“thank you. i’ll keep it professional,” he says softly, tucking the note carefully into his pocket.
his first message comes that evening, the notification lighting up your phone screen while you sit in your hotel room reviewing notes. it is a simple photo of his dinner plate with a perfectly arranged meal — grilled protein, colorful vegetables, and a small portion of rice — caption “hotel version of home food. still not as good as ramyeon.”
you smile immediately, the image capturing the quiet discipline of his routine even after a big win. you reply with a meme about strict diets and athlete life, something light and relatable that pokes gentle fun at the sacrifices. he sends back a laughing emoji — rare for him, you imagine, given his usual reserved nature — followed by a single “exactly” that makes your grin widen.
from there, the messages stay light, comforting, a gentle thread connecting the tournament days without crossing into anything overt. he sends silly pitch-side observations during training breaks: “jay almost tripped over a cone today. classic.” the photo attached shows a blurred moment of near chaos on the practice field, his dry humor shining through in the sparse words. you send encouraging articles about south korea’s impressive run or funny football memes that capture the absurdity of the world cup bubble, ones that make him reply with “this one’s accurate” or a simple thumbs up that somehow feels warmer than it should.
there's nothing flirty on the surface. just connection. mutual crush energy that both of you feel but respect the boundaries around, keeping exchanges safe and supportive amid the mounting pressure.
hotel moments multiply in the days that follow, the shared spaces becoming familiar territory for these careful interactions. late-night lobby talks stretch longer, the soft piano music and dimmed lights creating a private world away from the team’s stricter routines. one night on day 15 he brings a small herbal tea from the team area (within rules), the warm cup steaming gently as he sets it down on the low table between you. “thought you might like this. helps with the late nights,” he says quietly, his voice low enough to blend with the ambient hum of the lounge.
you talk about life outside football — his interests in ice skating from younger days, the way the rhythm on the ice once felt like an escape before football took over completely, describing the cold air and smooth glides with a rare nostalgic softness. you share your journey into sports journalism, the early struggles of proving yourself in press boxes filled with veterans, the thrill of finding stories that go beyond the scoreline. hands brush when passing the cup back and forth, the fleeting contact sending small sparks up your arm each time. eye contact lingers, dark eyes holding yours across the table with quiet intensity, the air feels charged but controlled, heavy with unspoken understanding as the hours slip by unnoticed. the conversations flow naturally, deepening the connection without rushing it, each word and glance adding another layer to the careful space you both navigate.
-------
quarterfinals arrive around day 18. the stakes feel heavier in the air, the stadium packed with fans whose chants create a wall of sound that vibrates through every seat and press box. the match is intense, a real battle against a formidable side that matches south korea’s determination with sharp attacks and physical duels. every minute stretches, the tension thick on the pitch under the bright lights.
sunghoon is everywhere — key tackles that stop dangerous breakthroughs in their tracks, precise interceptions that shift momentum, and steady leadership in extra time when fatigue threatens to creep in. his voice remains calm yet commanding, organizing the backline with gestures and short calls that cut through the roar. they win 2-1 in a dramatic finish, the late goal sending the entire bench and crowd into frenzy. the team erupts in joy on the pitch, players hugging, jumping, the relief and pride visible in every exhausted smile and raised fist. advancement to semifinals secured, a milestone that echoes through the night.
the hotel celebration that night is big but contained — music pulsing softly in the common areas, players laughing in groups, sharing stories of key moments from the match, staff joining in with congratulatory claps and snacks passed around. the atmosphere buzzes with pride and cautious optimism, lights a little brighter than usual, but everyone mindful of the next challenge looming. you observe from the edges as a reporter, keeping professional distance, notebook in hand and a quiet smile as you absorb the scene without inserting yourself into the core festivities.
later, when things quiet and the main areas begin to empty, sunghoon finds you outside near the hotel gardens, away from the main buzz. the paths are softly lit with low lanterns, the greenery lush and fragrant under the clear seattle sky. the stars are bright overhead, scattered across the dark canvas, the night air warm and still, carrying faint traces of desert breeze and blooming flowers.
“big win today,” you say as he approaches, his steps quiet on the stone path, still dressed in comfortable post-celebration clothes, hair slightly tousled from the long day.
he nods, sitting on the bench beside you with a comfortable distance that still feels close. “the team deserved it. everyone gave everything out there.”
after that, conversation flows deep and unhurried, it comes naturally. he talks about the pressure of the knockout stages, how every match feels like the last, the weight of national expectations sitting on his shoulders alongside the physical demands. his voice stays low and reflective, sharing small vulnerabilities about staying focused when the world watches.
you share how covering it has been a dream but emotionally draining too, the rollercoaster of emotions from the press box mirroring some of the intensity on the field, the responsibility of capturing moments fairly while feeling the pull of the story. an hour passes easily under the stars, time slipping by as words weave between match analysis, personal reflections, and quiet laughter at lighter memories from the tournament so far.
at one point your hands brush again while gesturing animatedly about a particular play, the contact warm and lingering. neither pulls away immediately, the touch extending a second or two longer than accidental. prolonged eye contact follows — his dark eyes soft, searching, reflecting the garden lights and something deeper. the almost-moment hangs in the warm air, charged with crush energy that peaks in the silence, hearts beating a little faster in the quiet night.
he clears his throat gently after a beat, the sound soft and respectful, pulling back just enough to keep the line intact. “i’m glad you’re here for all this. it makes the nights easier, you know?”
you smile, warmth spreading through your chest. “me too, sunghoon.”
he doesn’t push further. respect keeps the line intact, boundaries honored even as the connection deepens. but the friendship has grown, your bond is undeniable in these stolen moments of calm. as you both head inside separately, walking toward the entrance at a respectful distance, the tournament feels brighter, the stars a little clearer, the shared moments adding layers of comfort amid the beautiful game’s relentless pace.
-------
the semifinal week hits like a wave. south korea’s run has captured hearts back home and around the world. media pressure mounts daily — press conferences packed with reporters, questions sharper and more insistent, expectations heavier with every passing hour. training sessions stretch longer under the los angeles sun, tactics refined with extra repetitions, fitness pushed to the limit. sunghoon leads with that signature calm, directing drills and encouraging teammates, but you notice the subtle signs of strain in his shoulders when he thinks no one watches. as vice-third captain, he shoulders quiet responsibility, guiding younger players through tough sequences, voice steady even as fatigue sets in.
you feel the pressure too. your reports gain traction, interviews with the team sought after by bigger outlets. every day brings new deadlines, analysis pieces, and the growing awareness that this story — both the team’s and the one quietly unfolding between you and sunghoon — feels bigger than expected. you keep boundaries professional in public, but the hotel has become a sanctuary of sorts, a place where conversations breathe easier away from the cameras.
one particularly grueling training day ends late. the team disperses for recovery, bodies tired but spirits high. you’re walking the designated paths near the hotel, notebook in hand, reviewing notes under fading light when sunghoon appears. he wears team-issued sweats, hair slightly messy from the shower, a fresh scent of soap following him. a quick glance around confirms the area is quiet, within allowed boundaries for light activity.
“do you mind if i join for a short walk?” he asks, voice low and gentle. his eyes carry that familiar shy warmth, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
you nod, closing your notebook. “of course. rough day out there?”
he falls into step beside you, the path winding gently around landscaped gardens, away from main entrances but still visible enough to stay appropriate. “yeah, long one. legs feel heavy, but we needed it. that drill where the cones kept falling — your face was priceless when you were watching from the side.”
you tease softly, a light laugh escaping. “don’t remind me. you looked so focused, and then everything just tumbled. the younger guys won’t let it go, huh?”
he chuckles, the sound easing the day’s tension, shoulders relaxing a fraction. “no, they keep replaying it in the dressing room. i told them to focus on their own mistakes next time.”
gradually the conversation deepens as the sky turns deep blue, stars emerging one by one overhead. he talks about pressure first, voice thoughtful. “it builds differently in a tournament like this. every mistake feels like it could end everything. as captain… even vice… you feel it for the whole squad. not just for yourself.”
you listen closely, the gravel path crunching softly under your steps. “i can see it in how you carry yourself. what keeps you going when it gets this heavy?”
he thinks for a moment, steps slowing. “dreams from when i was younger. playing at this level, bringing pride home. and… smaller things now. quiet moments like this. reminders that there’s life beyond the pitch.” he glances at you, the air feels thicker. “honestly, you’ve become one of my favorite parts of this crazy tournament. talking to you after matches, the texts, these walks… it makes the pressure feel less lonely. like there’s something steady.”
your heart skips a beat at the admission. you look at him, the words hanging gentle between you under the starlight. “same for me, sunghoon. covering this has been incredible, the biggest assignment of my career, but getting to know you has made it special. in a way i didn’t expect. your perspective after games… it helps me see the match differently too. it makes me better, even.”
he nods, a soft smile appearing. “i’m glad. sometimes after a tough session i look forward to what you might ask next, or what meme you’ll send. it keeps things balanced.”
neither pushes further. hands brush once as you both gesture toward a nearby bench, the contact warm and lingering a heartbeat longer than necessary. prolonged eye contact follows under the stars — his dark eyes soft, searching, full of unspoken feelings. tension coils warmly, but respect holds strong. you sit briefly on the bench, the wood still holding daytime heat.
“tell me about seoul,” you say quietly. “what do you miss most when you’re away like this?”
he leans back slightly, voice warm with memory. “the streets at night, family meals where everyone talks over each other, my little sister teasing me. the quiet ice rink i visit off-season. it feels freeing, just gliding without thinking about the next match.”
you share your own stories in return. “my hometown had this small park where we’d kick a ball around as kids. football was always the escape, even before i started writing about it. now being here, covering your run… it brings that feeling back.”
the walk ends too soon, the hotel lights drawing closer, but the connection sinks deeper, roots forming in these simple, honest exchanges. you part ways near the entrance with quiet goodnights, the warmth of the conversation carrying into the night.
-------
semifinal day arrives heavy with anticipation. the opponent is formidable, a european side with attacking flair and experience in high-stakes matches. the stadium pulses with energy, south korean fans loud and proud, waving flags that create a sea of red across the stands. you sit in the press box, nerves alight as the match kicks off, heart pounding in time with the roar that greets the first whistle. sunghoon anchors the defense, composure like ice even as attacks rain down in waves. early chances for both sides keep everyone on edge. he makes a crucial block in the 18th minute, sliding perfectly to deny a shot, his body a wall that refuses to break.
the first half ends 0-0, tense and locked, both teams probing for weaknesses without success. you scribble notes furiously, the press box filled with the sound of typing and whispered analysis.
second half explodes with action. south korea scores first on a counter, sunghoon’s precise pass starting the move with perfect vision. celebrations are wild, players piling on each other as the stadium shakes. but the opponent equalizes quickly, the drama building with every minute. yellow cards fly, tempers flare, and extra time looms like a shadow. in the 82nd minute, sunghoon wins a vital aerial duel, clearing danger with powerful timing. the team pushes forward relentlessly. in the dying moments of regulation, a dramatic goal from a set-piece they practiced all week seals it.
2-1. south korea reaches the final.
the stadium erupts in pure ecstasy. players collapse in joy and exhaustion on the pitch, embracing, shouting, some dropping to their knees. sunghoon’s face shows rare pure emotion — relief, pride, tears barely held back as he hugs teammates tightly, the ice prince mask cracking in the best way. you watch from above, heart full, a lump in your throat at the magnitude of the moment.
mixed zone post-match is electric, buzzing with louder voices, brighter lights, and the raw energy of a team one step from history. when sunghoon reaches you, sweat-drenched and glowing with exhaustion and triumph, the interview carries extra weight. you ask about the resilience, his leadership, that final clearance, keeping your voice steady despite the rush of feelings.
he answers thoughtfully, voice steady for the cameras, detailing the defensive shape and the belief within the squad even when the score was level. as it wraps, he leans slightly closer to the mic, eyes on you with subtle softness that feels intimate amid the chaos. “thank you for being here,” he says quietly, almost under his breath but picked up on audio. “through all of it.”
the words are professional on the surface, but the delivery and his gaze carry more — warmth, gratitude, and that deeper connection built over weeks. fans and viewers notice immediately. social media lights up with theories about the “vibe” between south korea’s ice prince and the reporter.
he lingers afterward, as always, a stolen smile shared when cameras shift away for a moment. “we did it,” he murmurs, voice low and tired but happy, stepping just a fraction closer.
you nod, pride evident in your expression. “you did. incredible performance. that clearance in the 82nd… everyone in the press box held their breath.”
for a brief second the mixed zone noise fades into background static. he opens his arms slightly in a quiet offer, and you meet him in a quick, careful hug — nothing overt, just a brief, warm press of shoulders and arms, his jersey damp against you, the scent of grass and effort and victory surrounding the moment. it lasts only a heartbeat or two, respectful and hidden in the bustle, but the tension spikes sweetly, hearts beating harder in the small space between you. his hand rests lightly on your back for that instant, steady and reassuring, before you both pull away, cheeks flushed.
“get some rest,” you whisper, voice soft. “you earned it.”
he nods, eyes lingering on yours with that searching softness. “talk soon. hotel later if you’re around?” the words carry quiet hope. you smile, the almost-moment hanging in the air like the roar of the crowd still echoing outside. the connection feels stronger than ever, charged with everything unsaid, yet still carefully contained.
-------
the following days blur with celebration and preparation for the final. the hotel atmosphere buzzes with a mix of joy and focused energy, players moving between recovery sessions and light meetings, laughter echoing down hallways but tempered by the knowledge of the ultimate test ahead. sunghoon’s texts increase slightly in frequency, still light but warmer, carrying a quiet affection that makes your phone feel heavier in your hand each time it lights up.
a food pic arrives one evening with the caption “recovery meal. missing home flavors… and good conversations.” the image shows a neatly plated dish, simple yet carefully arranged, the kind of balanced food that fuels but never fully satisfies the craving for something familiar. you reply with an encouraging article about the final and a meme about dramatic semifinals that perfectly captures the chaos of extra time. he sends back “exactly this” followed by a laughing emoji, the rare sign of his amusement that always brings a smile to your face.
tension builds in beautiful, restrained ways throughout the week. stolen smiles across the lobby when eyes meet from a distance, quick and private amid the staff and players milling about. inside jokes during brief hallway passes — references to the falling cones or that memorable elevator ride — whispered in passing with soft chuckles that linger in the air after you part. these small exchanges become anchors in the busy days, tiny moments of normalcy that recharge both of you.
one evening he finds you in the coffee area again, the lounge quieter than usual after a long day. you’re typing up notes, shoulders tight from hours at the laptop, when he approaches with that familiar shy warmth. he sits across from you, voice low. “long day for you too?”
you nod, closing the screen slightly. “deadlines never stop. but watching you all out there makes it worth it. how are your legs holding up after that semifinal?”
he smiles, leaning back. “sore, but manageable. don’t burn out yourself. this final… we’ll need your steady questions after. you always make me think clearly when i answer them.”
the support flows naturally between you. you listen as he shares the weight of the upcoming match, offering quiet encouragement in return. “you’ve carried so much already. the way you lead the younger guys, the composure under pressure — it shows. rest those shoulders tonight, okay? ice them like the physios say.” he chuckles softly at your gentle teasing about resting his legs, the sound warm and easy, but underneath simmers deeper feelings — mutual crush evolving into something tender, real, built on weeks of understanding and respect.
another quiet moment near the gardens happens on a cooler evening, shorter this time due to stricter schedules and earlier curfews. the paths are dimly lit, the air carrying the faint scent of night-blooming flowers. hands brush again while walking side by side, the contact sending a familiar spark up your arm. neither pulls away right away. eye contact holds, his dark eyes soft in the low light.
“whatever happens in the final… i’m grateful for these weeks,” he says softly, voice sincere and a little vulnerable. “the talks, the texts, even the quick hallway jokes. it’s helped more than you know. having someone outside the team bubble who sees me as more than just the defender.”
you feel the same, words careful but heartfelt. “i’m grateful too, sunghoon. covering this run has been a dream, but getting to know you — the real you behind the ice prince reputation — has made it unforgettable. you’ve helped me stay grounded too, reminded me why i love the game in the first place.”
no lines crossed. just deepening connection, slow and respectful, hearts leaning closer as the biggest match approaches. you part ways with a quiet goodnight, the warmth of his words carrying you back to your room.
the week ends with the team focused and bonded tighter than ever. you prepare your notes for the final, mind full of sunghoon — the defender, the leader, the person who’s quietly become so important through shared laughs, supportive words, and those stolen moments of understanding. the final awaits, but this connection feels like its own victory already, a beautiful thread woven through the chaos of the tournament.
-------
the final week feels like the world has narrowed to a single point. south korea against a powerhouse european side — technically brilliant, physically strong, full of world-class attackers who can change a game in one moment. the hotel is quieter now, heavier with focus. players move through the halls with serious faces. laughter still comes, but it is softer, shorter. training is sharp, tactical, almost silent except for sunghoon’s calm instructions. he stands tall on the pitch, directing the backline with steady words, but you see the weight he carries.
media pressure peaks. every interview, every press conference asks about destiny, about making history, about what it would mean for the whole country. cameras follow the team everywhere. questions get harder. you feel it too, your own reports read by more people each day. but in the middle of all this, you and sunghoon steal small moments. a hallway smile when no one else is looking. a text at night that says “rest well. big day soon.”
the deeper connection from the semifinals carries them both. tension waving underneath, but they keep it light and supportive. inside jokes about elevator rules and ramyeon cravings ease the nerves when things feel too heavy.
the day before the final dawns clear and warm. new york’s sun rises early, painting the hotel windows in soft gold. you wake up with butterflies already dancing in your stomach. today is the last full day before everything reaches its peak. you know sunghoon must feel it even more. as vice-third captain, the expectations sit right on his shoulders. you spend the morning in the press area, typing notes and preparing questions, but your mind keeps drifting to him.
around midday, after the morning training session ends, you see him in the hotel lobby. he looks tired but composed, hair still damp from the shower, wearing simple team sweats. his shoulders seem a little tighter than usual. when his eyes find yours across the space, he gives a small nod. you walk over casually, keeping your voice low.
“hey,” you say softly. “how are you feeling today?”
he glances around to make sure no one is paying too much attention, then sighs a little. “honestly? i'm nervous. more than i thought i would be. this is the final. everything we worked for. what if i make a mistake out there? what if the team needs me and i am not sharp enough?”
his voice is quiet, almost a whisper. you see the worry in his dark eyes, the way he rubs the back of his neck. the ice prince mask is slipping just for you. you step a little closer, not touching yet, but near enough that your presence feels warm.
“sunghoon,” you say gently, “you have been incredible this whole tournament. that sliding tackle in the round of 16, the header in the group stage, the way you read the game in the semifinal. everyone sees it. the team trusts you. i trust you. one match does not erase all the good you have already done.”
he listens, eyes softening as he looks at you. “thank you. it helps hearing that from someone outside the squad. the coaches say the right things, teammates too, but sometimes it still feels heavy. like the whole country is watching.”
you nod, understanding. “it is heavy. but you do not carry it alone. not really. and tomorrow you will go out there and do what you always do — stay calm, read the play, lead by example. that is who you are.”
a small smile touches his lips. “you always know what to say. makes me feel steadier.”
the conversation flows easier after that. you walk together toward a quieter corner of the hotel, a small seating area away from the main bustle. no one bothers you. the moment feels private even in a busy place. you sit side by side on a comfortable couch. your knees brush lightly. neither of you moves away. the contact is simple but comforting, a quiet reminder that you are here with him.
“remember that time in the elevator?” you ask, trying to lighten the mood with an inside joke. “when we joked about coach cameras everywhere?”
he chuckles softly, the sound low and warm. it relaxes his shoulders a bit. “how could i forget? you said you would not tell if i did not. best deal i made all tournament.”
you laugh together, the sound mixing nicely. for a few minutes the final feels farther away. you talk about ramyeon again, what you would both eat right after the match if you could. he describes his favorite spot back in seoul in more detail this time — the spicy broth, the way the noodles feel, the late night vibes with friends. you share stories from your own travels, funny moments from smaller matches you covered before this big one. the talk helps. his voice grows calmer. the nervous edge fades little by little.
later that afternoon, after some recovery work, he texts you. the message is simple. “coffee area in twenty minutes? if you are free.”
you reply quickly. “see you there.”
when you arrive, he is already waiting with two cups of herbal tea. he hands one to you, fingers brushing yours on purpose this time. the touch lingers. you both sit close, closer than before. your arm rests near his on the table. the lobby is quiet enough that it feels like your own small world.
“i keep thinking about the first match,” he says after a sip. “how everything started. you were there with your questions. now here we are. final tomorrow. it feels fast and slow at the same time.”
you nod, turning to face him more. “it does. i have watched you grow even in these weeks. not just as a player. as a person. you let me see the real you. that means a lot.”
he looks at you, eyes steady and warm. “you let me see the real you too. not just the reporter. the person who loves the game, who works hard, who cares. it has been nice. more than nice.”
the words hang between you, full of meaning. tension builds again, the good kind that makes your heart beat faster. you lean in slightly. he does the same. your shoulders touch now, a gentle press that feels safe and exciting. his hand rests near yours on the table. fingers brush, then stay close, almost holding but not quite. the almost is sweet. it stretches the moment, makes it deeper.
“are you scared?” you ask quietly, wanting to give him space to share more.
he thinks for a second. “yes. a little. not of playing. but of letting everyone down. the fans, my family, the team…” then he adds, whispering, almost as if he was scared of pronouncing those words. ”what if i am not enough tomorrow?”
you turn your hand and gently squeeze his fingers for a brief moment. the contact is warm and reassuring. “you are enough, sunghoon. you have already proven it. tomorrow you will play like you always do. strong, smart, calm. and no matter what, i will be proud. the reporter part and the friend part.”
he squeezes back, just as gentle. his thumb rubs a small circle on the back of your hand before you both let go, aware of the surroundings. but the touch stays with you. his eyes look softer now, less nervous.
“thank you,” he whispers. “really. these talks… they help me breathe better. you help me.”
the rest of the afternoon passes in similar small moments. you walk together again near the gardens when schedules allow. the sun is lower, casting long shadows. this time you walk closer, arms brushing with every step. he tells you more about his younger days, the ice skating dreams, the pressure he felt even as a kid. you share your own fears about big assignments, how you sometimes doubt if your writing captures the real feeling.
“you do,” he says firmly. “your questions always make me think deeper. you see things others miss.”
the compliment warms you. you stop near a quiet bench. he sits first. you sit right beside him, thighs touching. the closeness feels natural now. his arm rests behind you on the bench, not quite around you but close enough that you can lean back into the support. you do. your head rests lightly against his shoulder for a few seconds. he does not move away. instead, he leans in too. the contact is soft, comforting. you stay like that for a minute, breathing together under the fading sky.
“whatever happens tomorrow,” he says quietly, voice close to your ear, “i am glad we had this. the connection. it is special.”
“me too,” you reply, heart full. “very special.”
you pull back after a while, but the warmth remains. he walks you partway to your floor later, the elevator ride shared again. this time it is just the two of you. no jokes about cameras. instead, quiet talk. his hand finds yours for a short squeeze as the doors open on your floor.
“rest well,” he says, eyes holding yours. “i will see you after the match.”
“you rest too,” you answer. “you will be great. i believe in you.”
that night the texts continue.
he sends a simple message. “can't sleep yet. thinking too much.”
you reply right away. “what is on your mind?”
“the final. the team. you.” the honesty makes your chest tight in a good way.
you send back encouragement. “you have prepared perfectly. tomorrow you step on the pitch and do what you love. i will be watching every move. cheering in the press box even if i stay professional on the outside.”
he sends a photo this time — just his hand holding the team badge on his sweatshirt, nothing fancy. “this means more with good support. thank you.”
the conversation goes on for a while, light and deep mixed together. he tells you a funny memory from training camp to ease his own nerves. you share a silly story from your first big assignment. laughter comes through the phone even if you can not hear it. slowly his messages slow down. “starting to feel tired. thanks for talking. goodnight.”
“goodnight, sunghoon. sleep well.”
the day before the final ends with you lying in bed, mind full of him. the way his shoulder felt under your head. the gentle squeeze of his hand. the nervous look that softened when you comforted him. the connection has grown so much closer, physically and emotionally. touches that linger. words that mean more. respect still holds everything together, but the tenderness is real. hearts leaning in as the biggest night of the tournament waits just ahead.
-------
the next morning comes early. you see him briefly at breakfast from across the room. he looks focused but calmer. when your eyes meet, he gives a small smile, the kind meant only for you. you smile back, sending silent support. the final is hours away, but the bond you built feels strong enough to carry through whatever comes. sunghoon is still nervous deep down, you know that. but he also knows he is not alone. your words, your presence, your gentle touches — they have become part of his strength. and for you, watching him chase history while sharing these quiet moments has become the most beautiful part of the whole world cup.
the hours before kickoff pass in a blur of preparation. you review your notes one last time in the press area. sunghoon sends one more text in the afternoon. “final walk through done. feeling ready. your words from yesterday helped a lot.”
you reply quickly. “you got this. go out there and be the wall they need. i am proud already.”
his answer is short but warm. “see you on the other side.”
as the team bus leaves for the stadium later, you watch from the hotel entrance. he catches your eye through the window for a brief second. the small nod he gives carries everything — gratitude, nerves, connection. you wave subtly, heart full. the day before the final has brought you closer than ever. touches, talks, comfort, shared silence. the final waits, but this quiet story between you already feels like a win worth cherishing.
-------
the stadium is a cauldron of noise and color long before kickoff, fans from both nations filling every seat, waving flags, singing chants that echo for miles. the air feels electric, thick with anticipation and the weight of history. you take your place in the press box high above the pitch, heart pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. your notebook sits open, but your eyes keep drifting to the field where the teams warm up.
south korea in their iconic red shirt, sunghoon is wearing the captain’s armband tonight, standing tall among his teammates. his expression is focused, that ice-prince calm masking the storm you know is inside after all the quiet talks and shared moments. he moves with purpose during the warm-up, stretching, touching the grass, talking quietly with younger players. you watch every step, remembering the way his shoulder felt under your head, the gentle squeeze of his hand, the nerves he let you see the day before. national anthems play, voices rising strong and proud. sunghoon stands straight, hand over his heart, eyes distant but determined. the whistle blows and the final begins.
the match is a chess game from the start.
both teams circle each other carefully, probing for weaknesses without giving much away. south korea defends resolutely, staying compact and organized. sunghoon is everywhere at the back — reading runs before they develop, winning aerial duels with perfect timing, distributing the ball calmly from the back to start attacks. you lean forward in your seat, eyes locked on him, scribbling notes but mostly just watching the way he commands the defense. his voice carries across the pitch even from your high position, steady instructions cutting through the roar.
the european side presses high, trying to force mistakes, but the defense holds firm. chances come and go. a shot from the opponent is saved brilliantly by the keeper. a dangerous cross is cleared by sunghoon’s powerful header, his body leaping high, timing exact. the crowd roars with every tackle, every clearance. you cheer loudly from the press box every time he wins a duel, your voice joining the thousands of korean fans, heart swelling with pride and worry at the same time. “come on, sunghoon,” you whisper under your breath when a striker gets too close.
0-0 at half-time. the players jog off, faces tired but focused. sunghoon claps teammates on the back, saying quiet words of encouragement. you can see the tension in his shoulders from afar, the way he glances toward the press box once, searching briefly. you hope he feels your support even from this distance.
second half mirrors the first. intense, cagey, every ball contested like it is the last. sunghoon makes a heroic block in the 60th minute, throwing his body fully in front of a powerful strike. the impact looks painful. pain flashes across his face for a split second, but he rises quickly, brushing dirt from his jersey and waving teammates into position, voice strong again. you stand up in the press box, cheering wildly, hands clapping until they sting.
“that’s it! keep going!” the fans around you roar in agreement. he looks toward the stands, toward you, for just a moment, a tiny nod almost imperceptible, but it warms you through.
the game stays locked. legs start to tire as the minutes tick down. extra time begins, the stadium even louder now, the pressure mounting with every pass. sunghoon keeps organizing, never stopping, even as exhaustion shows in slower movements. he wins more duels, makes more key interceptions, leading by pure example.
you watch him the whole time, heart aching with every challenge he faces, proud of how he pushes through. the connection you built makes every moment feel personal. you want this for him so badly. you want him to be happy.
in the dying minutes of extra time, the 118th, disaster strikes. a quick counter from the opponent catches the defense stretched. a through ball splits the line perfectly. sunghoon lunges desperately, sliding with everything he has left, but the striker rounds the keeper and slots it home.
0-1. south korea is losing.
the stadium erupts in the opponent’s favor, their fans exploding in joy. heartbreak crashes down on the korean side like a wave. the clock ticks away the final moments. south korea pushes desperately for an equalizer, throwing numbers forward, but time runs out cruelly.
sunghoon stands motionless for a second on the pitch, hands on his hips, chest heaving. then he turns his head toward the press box again and again as the whistle approaches. he searches for your face in the crowd, eyes scanning desperately through the sea of people. devastation etches his features clearly now — the pain, the disappointment, the exhaustion. but he stays composed for the team, moving to clap teammates on the back, head high even as the reality sinks in. you cheer his name loudly through the pain in your own chest, voice raw, willing him strength across the distance. “sunghoon! i'm so proud of you!”
the final whistle confirms it.
defeat. 0-1.
the european side celebrates wildly, piling on each other, jumping and shouting. south korea’s players drop to the grass, exhausted and emotional, some covering their faces, others staring blankly at the sky. tears start to flow for many. the weight of coming so close only to fall short hits hard.
sunghoon gathers them slowly, moving from player to player with purpose even as his own eyes glisten.
he puts an arm around the younger ones, pulling them into huddles, voice steady despite the tears he is fighting back. you see him wipe his eyes quickly with the back of his hand, shoulders shaking once before he straightens again. he consoles them with quiet words, hugging tightly, letting some cry on his shoulder while offering comfort in return. they console him too — teammates patting his back, sharing the pain, reminding him how far they came together.
the group stands close in the middle of the pitch, a circle of red jerseys bonded through the heartbreak, sunghoon at the center, leading even in defeat, tears falling freely now as he lets the emotion show while still holding the team together. the moment is raw and beautiful, full of pride mixed with sorrow, the end of an unforgettable run.
medal ceremony follows under the bright stadium lights. the atmosphere is a strange mix of celebration for the winners and quiet pride mixed with sorrow for the runners-up. silver medals hang around necks, gleaming against the red jerseys. sunghoon steps up to receive his with quiet dignity, head held high even as his eyes glisten with unshed tears.
the crowd gives warm applause for the south korean team, chanting their names in appreciation for the run that captured so many hearts. he claps for his teammates, a small, bittersweet smile on his face, but you can see the weight in his posture from your place in the press area. the journey meant everything, and ending here still hurts.
media duties come next. the mixed zone feels somber this time, the usual buzz replaced by quieter voices and heavy emotions. players move through slowly, some with red eyes, others forcing smiles for the cameras.
when sunghoon reaches you, his eyes are teary, shoulders heavy with exhaustion and disappointment. his hair is damp, jersey still marked from the battle, the captain’s armband still on his arm. you keep the interview professional at first, but your voice is gentle, full of care.
“sunghoon, a heartbreaking end after an incredible run. what does this silver mean to you and the team?” you ask, microphone steady but tone soft.
he swallows hard, voice thick but clear as he answers. “it means a lot. we gave everything we had out there. i am proud of the journey, the fans who supported us, the fight we showed together. we will learn from this and come back stronger.” his eyes stay locked on yours the whole time. tears threaten to spill over. the professional facade cracks slightly, the ice prince letting the emotion show more than usual. the moment feels intimate even with cameras rolling.
as the camera holds and the interview continues for a few more questions, you cannot help it. under the barrier, your hand reaches out briefly for his arm, a quick but affectionate squeeze of comfort on his forearm, fingers lingering for a second longer than strictly necessary. the touch is warm and reassuring, right there in public where anyone could notice. he squeezes your hand back gently with his own, eyes saying everything words cannot — gratitude, shared pain, the depth of the connection built over these weeks. the affection is clear in the way his fingers press softly against yours before you both pull away, careful but meaningful. fans will dissect the moment later on social media, replaying the clip, but right now it is just for the two of you, a small anchor in the heartbreak.
you continue with one more gentle question about the team spirit. he answers thoughtfully, voice a little steadier thanks to the touch. “the guys fought so hard. i am proud to lead them. we came so far together.”
the interview ends. he lingers longest with you, teary-eyed and reluctant to move on. you reach out again quickly, this time touching his arm openly for a moment, a light, comforting rub along his sleeve, right there in the mixed zone. “you were amazing out there,” you whisper softly, eyes full of pride and care. “the whole tournament. i mean it.”
he nods, leaning slightly into the brief contact, his own hand covering yours for a heartbeat. “thank you,” he whispers back, voice cracking just a little. “for everything. the talks, the support, being here. it made a difference. really.” his eyes are still glistening, but the small smile he gives you is real and warm, full of affection that goes beyond the game. the public touch feels bold but right in this emotional moment, a quiet way of saying i am here with you.
he finally moves on after one last lingering look, shoulders a little lighter, the comfort from your touch and words carrying him forward. you stand there watching him go, heart full despite the loss, the connection between you stronger than ever even in defeat.
-------
hours later, when the stadium empties and the bittersweet hotel celebrations wind down, the corridors grow quiet. music fades, laughter turns softer, and players slowly retreat to their rooms to process the loss in private. you sit in a quiet corridor near the team floors, away from everyone, the area dimly lit with soft wall lights casting gentle shadows. the air feels still after the chaos of the day. you are replaying the match in your mind, the pride and the pain, when footsteps approach.
sunghoon finds you there. he has changed into a simple black hoodie and sweats, hair messy from the shower, eyes still red from the tears on the pitch and the emotion that followed. he looks tired but real, the captain’s mask completely gone now. you stand up slowly as he approaches, heart beating faster.
“hey,” you say softly, voice barely above a whisper.
he stops close, closer than usual, looking at you with raw emotion that makes your chest tighten. his dark eyes search yours, glistening again under the low lights.
“i kept looking for you out there. in the final moments — when the goal went in, when the whistle blew. seeing you in the press box helped more than you know. it kept me going. it also reminded me why we fought so hard.”
silence stretches between you, heavy with everything unsaid over the weeks — the late night talks, the gentle touches, the shared laughs, the comfort you gave each other. the corridor feels like your own private world, far from cameras and teammates. he takes another small step closer, the air thick with tenderness and vulnerability.
“we lost the cup tonight,” he says, voice low and sincere, cracking just a little. “it hurts. a lot. but… i already won. having you here these weeks — getting to know you, talking after every match, those late nights in the lobby, the garden walks, your support when i was nervous. you made this whole journey feel like a win. even in defeat. i don’t know what happens when we go home, when the tournament ends and real life starts again, but i’d really like to keep seeing you. properly. no more careful lines. no more crazy boundaries. no more hiding how i feel.”
your heart swells so much it feels like it might burst. tears prick your own eyes as you look at him, this man who led with quiet strength through the entire world cup.
“sunghoon… i feel the same. you’ve been the best part of this tournament for me too. not just the football. the real you. the way you listened, the way you let me in, the way you made me laugh even on hard days. i don’t want this to end either.”
he steps even closer, almost closing the distance completely. the air thickens with all the built-up tension from weeks of slow glances and gentle touches. you smile through the emotion, trying to lighten it like you always do, voice soft and teasing.
“you know… i was half expecting you to kiss me right here, like iker casillas did with sara carbonero back in 2010 after the final.”
sunghoon blinks for a second, processing the words, then lets out a genuine laugh — surprised, warm, and full, breaking through the sadness in a beautiful way. his shoulders shake lightly as he chuckles, eyes sparkling despite the red rims and the loss.
“casillas did that because he won the world cup,” he points out, still chuckling softly, the sound echoing gently in the empty corridor. “he was champion. i'm not. i lost. so… bad timing on my part, huh?”
the silly joke lands perfectly. both of you start laughing quietly together, the sound mixing with the leftover emotion, tension easing into something sweeter and lighter. you reach out and touch his arm, squeezing it affectionately, feeling the warmth through the hoodie sleeve. he covers your hand with his own, holding it there, the contact grounding and tender. the laughter fades slowly into soft smiles, but the closeness remains.
he reaches up gently with both hands, cupping your face with careful, warm palms. his thumbs brush your cheeks softly, wiping away a stray tear you did not realize had fallen. “but if it’s okay… i’d still like to kiss you now. not because of a trophy. not because we won or lost. just because of you. because of us. these weeks meant everything to me.”
you nod, heart racing, whispering “yes” with a smile that trembles a little from the emotion.
the kiss is soft, tender, full of all the weeks of slow-burn tension and respect. his lips meet yours gently at first, sweet and unhurried, tasting of shared heartbreaks and quiet joys, of late night talks and comforting hugs. one of his hands slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading lightly into your hair. you lean into him, hands resting on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under the hoodie. the kiss deepens just a touch, still respectful but full of affection, pouring out everything you both held back for so long. when you pull apart, foreheads resting together, breathing softly in the quiet corridor, he smiles, eyes shining.
“we’ll win the next one,” he murmurs, voice warm against your skin. “together. whatever comes after this.”
you nod, smiling back, fingers tracing his arm gently. “together sounds perfect.”
the tournament ends in silver, bittersweet but proud.
but for sunghoon and you, it marks the beginning of something golden. friendship blossomed into more, slow and steady, just like extra time in a tight match — worth every minute, every glance, every touch, every quiet conversation that led to this moment in the dim corridor.
the future waits, but right now, in each other’s arms, the loss feels a little smaller.
