Synopsis - the student council election at EN- Academy has begun, with two rival teams at the center — yn, the warm and energetic candidate leading the B.L.I.S.S campaign. and sunghoon, the calm and composed candidate guiding the A.S.C.E.N.D campaign. their campaigns clash through debates, rallies, and strategy, but behind the rivalry, moments of tension and attraction begin to appear. between teasing, accidental closeness, and quiet admiration, the rivalry slowly evolves into something more.
Pairing - park sunghoon x reader ( m )
Status - ongoing! updates are inconsistent because i can't stop procrastinating and i'm lazy as fuhh💔 but I'll try to update every weekend ✌️
Genre - Highschool! Au, enemies-to-lovers, fluff, humor, sfw, mlm/bl, SMAU, romance, slice of life, campus drama, non-idol! Au
Things to expect ! - myung jaehyun as yn's face claim, arguing, profanity, kys/kms jokes, corny jokes, smau + written format, rivals to lovers, school politics & drama, mild angst, probably more but i'm not too sure yet 🤤👍😊
Synopsis - the student council election at EN- Academy has begun, with two rival teams at the center — yn, the warm and energetic candidate leading the B.L.I.S.S campaign. and sunghoon, the calm and composed candidate guiding the A.S.C.E.N.D campaign. their campaigns clash through debates, rallies, and strategy, but behind the rivalry, moments of tension and attraction begin to appear. between teasing, accidental closeness, and quiet admiration, the rivalry slowly evolves into something more.
PROLOUGE ( 📃 wc 1134 )
the school's official tweet drops just before first period — and within minutes — the entire campus knows. group chats explode, timelines refresh endlessly, and rumors start forming before classes even begin. by the time students begin pouring into the main lobby, phones are already lighting up with notifications.
student council election season is officially open.
for a moment, there is silence. then everything explodes.
gasps, whispers, laughter, disbelief. phones come out instantly, fingers gliding across their screens as screenshots get sent to group chats, posted on stories, and spammed into timelines. the words blur into excitement and speculation.
election season at EN- academy is never subtle. it’s not just about leadership — it’s about influence, reputation, and who gets to shape the social atmosphere of the entire school. it is where alliances form and break, it is where friendships are tested, it’s chaos wrapped in neat posters and strategically chosen slogans.
and right now, the stage has just been set.
yn finds out while nearly falling out of his chair laughing. gyuvin is mid-story — hands gesturing, voice too loud for the library, and yn is losing it, chest aching from how hard he is laughing. his phone vibrates against the table. he ignores it until leehan wordlessly nudges it toward him.
the moment yn reads the announcement, something sparks. "oh," he breathes, lips curling into a grin. "oh, i’m so doing this!" leehan squints at him. "don’t." "absolutely do!" gyuvin butts in, already excited.
the idea settles deep in his chest, warm and electric. student council president, it feels right in a way that makes his heartbeat quicken. yn has always thrived in the company of others, finding joy in the vibrant chaos of social interactions. for him, leadership isn't about control — it's about creating spaces that echo with laughter and warmth. it’s turning boring ordinary school days into something people actually look forward to.
by the end of lunch, he's already dragging leehan into a quiet hallway corner, excitement spilling out in rushed words. "i need you," yn says. "vice president. you keep me grounded, i keep things fun. perfect balance!" leehan stares at him for a long moment, then sighs. "you’re going to be unbearable."
"so that’s a yes...?" yn asks, trying to act casual — but the hope blooming across his face game him away. "... fine." leehan finally says with a slow exhale, fingers coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "but don't make me regret it."
he then asks anton to join next, to which he accepted — of course. someone has to handle organization before yn accidentally schedules five rallies on the same day.
wonyoung and liz don’t rush. they listen first, then speak carefully, untangling yn’s whirlwind of ideas and turning scattered excitement into something real. gyuvin practically vibrates with excitement, already planning events like they’re concerts.
yn's next target is kenshin, an adorable but firm student. he invites kenshin via text. kenshin hesitates for a while — but finally accepts the invite through a string of tiny emoticons. hanni and sophia exchange looks that scream mischief, ready to stir curiosity and buzz across the school.
as the day unfolds into night — yn finds himself staring at the glowing screen of their group chat, his chest a mix of excitement and nerves, reflecting on the whirlwind of events that brought them here.
B.L.I.S.S.
Born to Lead, Inspired to Serve Students!
sunghoon finds out in the middle of a quiet hallway, the kind that usually feels peaceful between classes — his phone vibrates softly in his hand. he glances down, expecting nothing more than another reminder or schedule update.
instead, the announcement stares back at him.
he stops walking. around him, the hallway slowly fills with noise. students huddle together, already whispering theories and predictions. sunghoon stands still in the middle of it all, eyes fixed on the screen — thoughts already moving faster than he can register.
the idea doesn’t arrive gently, it settles in his chest with weight.
student council president.
it makes sense in a way that feels almost inevitable. leadership — to sunghoon — has never been about popularity or attention. it is about order, responsibility, duty. it is about making sure everything works the way it should, that no one is left scrambling in confusion or uncertainty. where others see chaos, he sees systems waiting to be built.
"you’re thinking about it." sunoo’s voice pulls him back to the present. sunghoon looks up to find his best friend leaning beside him, arms crossed, expression soft but knowing.
sunghoon exhales slowly. "yeah." sunoo doesn’t hesitate. "then i’m in." the words land with quiet certainty, grounding and familiar. sunoo has always been like that — unwavering, fiercely loyal, ready to stand beside him without question.
by the end of the day, their team begins to take shape.
karina joins them first. her sharp eye for detail naturally brings order to any chaos — she asks sharp questions, takes meticulous notes, and reorganizes plans before sunghoon even finishes explaining them.
yujin bursts in right after — loud and grinning — already cracking jokes and talking way too fast. she throws out ideas between laughs, and somehow they all make sense. yunjin stays close — quiet but focused, eyes following every word, making sure nothing important gets missed.
minji works silently beside them, efficient and steady, piecing everything together behind the scenes. yoonchae rounds out the team, eyes sharp, mind already planning their online presence and strategy. fingers itching to turn ideas into posts and plans.
woonhak is next — bright energy slipping into the group like sunlight through a window — he cracks jokes, eases the tension, and somehow makes even the serious talks feel lighter. hanbin arrives with quiet elegance. choosing his words carefully, shaping their image with soft confidence and thoughtful care.
by nightfall, sunghoon sits at his desk, phone glowing softly in the dim light of his room. their group chat hums with organized plans, schedules, and calm discussion.
A.S.C.E.N.D.
Advancing Students through Commitment, Excellence, and New Development.
by the next morning — the campus is transformed, alive with a vibrant energy that crackles in the air, as if the very walls hum with anticipation and the corridors pulse with the rhythm of excited footsteps.
posters bloom across the walls overnight, campaign accounts flicker to life, group chats detonate with theories, screenshots, and half-wild guesses. rumors sprint through hallways faster than footsteps, and alliances begin to form before anyone even realizes they’re picking sides.
amidst the teasing laughter and simmering rivalry, two leaders step into the spotlight, blissfully unaware of the whirlwind of chaos and unexpected alliances their campaigns are about to ignite
Synopsis - the student council election at EN- Academy has begun, with two rival teams at the center — yn, the warm and energetic candidate leading the B.L.I.S.S campaign. and sunghoon, the calm and composed candidate guiding the A.S.C.E.N.D campaign. their campaigns clash through debates, rallies, and strategy, but behind the rivalry, moments of tension and attraction begin to appear. between teasing, accidental closeness, and quiet admiration, the rivalry slowly evolves into something more.
Synopsis - the student council election at EN- Academy has begun, with two rival teams at the center — yn, the warm and energetic candidate leading the B.L.I.S.S campaign. and sunghoon, the calm and composed candidate guiding the A.S.C.E.N.D campaign. their campaigns clash through debates, rallies, and strategy, but behind the rivalry, moments of tension and attraction begin to appear. between teasing, accidental closeness, and quiet admiration, the rivalry slowly evolves into something more.
A.S.C.E.N.D campaign
PARK SUNGHOON » ISTJ ୨୧ ━━━━ ୨୧ running for student council president. calm, precise, and terrifyingly composed. speaks less but means more. doesn’t waste words, doesn’t waste time, doesn’t tolerate inefficiency. has the kind of presence that makes people sit up straighter without realizing.
SUNGHOON'S FRIENDS
KIM SUNOO » ENFP ୨୧ ━━━━ ୨୧ running for vice president. sunghoon’s best friend. loyal, emotionally intelligent, and terrifying when protective. keeps the team grounded while also making sure no one underestimates them. soft heart, sharp tongue.
YU JIMIN » INTP ୨୧ ━━━━ ୨୧ running for secretary. perfectionist to her core. handwriting immaculate, schedules flawless, plans airtight.cannot stand inefficiency. quietly competitive, especially with anton.
AN YUJIN » ESTJ ୨୧ ━━━━ ୨୧ running for treasurer. charming, smooth, and deceptively clever. handles funds like it’s second nature. always smiling, always calculating. never lets emotions interfere with strategy. EXTREMELY brainrotted.
HUH YUNJIN » ENFJ ୨୧ ━━━━ ୨୧ running for auditor. meticulous, intense, and slightly dramatic about mistakes. notices everything. refuses to let even a single number slide.
KIM WOONHAK » ENFP ୨୧ ━━━━ ୨୧ running for discipline officer. fun, silly, and naturally chaotic. the type to laugh first, panic later. somehow ends up in charge of order despite being part of the mess. lightens the mood everywhere he goes. tries to make rules, forgets them halfway through. still weirdly effective because everyone adores him.
SUNG HANBIN » ESFJ ୨୧ ━━━━ ୨୧ running for pr head. polished, articulate, and effortlessly charming. knows exactly how to present an image and control a narrative. dangerously persuasive.
KIM MINJI » ISFJ ୨୧ ━━━━ ୨୧ running for event coordinator. quiet, observant, and incredibly efficient. plans flawless events behind the scenes. hates unnecessary noise.
JEUNG YOONCHAE » ENFP ୨୧ ━━━━ ୨୧ running for media manager. clever, strategic, and subtle. posts clean, sharp content with perfectly timed shade. never openly instigates, but always seems to offend someone.
Synopsis - the student council election at EN- Academy has begun, with two rival teams at the center — yn, the warm and energetic candidate leading the B.L.I.S.S campaign. and sunghoon, the calm and composed candidate guiding the A.S.C.E.N.D campaign. their campaigns clash through debates, rallies, and strategy, but behind the rivalry, moments of tension and attraction begin to appear. between teasing, accidental closeness, and quiet admiration, the rivalry slowly evolves into something more.
B.L.I.S.S campaign
YOON YN » ENFP ୨୧ ━━━━ ୨୧ running for student council president. warm, loud, and everywhere all at once. needs to talk ro someone or he'll explode. runs on caffeine, optimism, and pure stubbornness. allergic to silence. somehow always the center of attention even when he isn't even trying.
YN'S FRIENDS
KIM DONG-HYUN » ENFP ୨୧ ━━━━ ୨୧ running for vice president. yn’s emotional support human and full-time reality check. sarcastic, observant, and painfully honest. always two seconds away from calling yn out on his nonsense but would also fight anyone who dares criticize him. claims he hates chaos. somehow always standing in the middle of it.
LEE ANTON » INTP ୨୧ ━━━━ ୨୧ running for secretary. the organizational backbone of the team. permanently tired but wildly efficient. lives off to-do lists and schedules. pretends he isn’t stressed while internally calculating seventeen different deadlines. absolutely done with yn’s last-minute ideas but still makes them work.
JANG WONYOUNG » ESTJ ୨୧ ━━━━ ୨୧ running for treasurer. liz's best friend. calm, collected, and unshakably composed. very demure. handles money like a pro. never raises her voice, never loses her cool, and somehow always wins every budget argument. the quiet authority of the group.
KIM JI-WON » INFP ୨୧ ━━━━ ୨୧ running for auditor. wonyoung's best friend. very coquette. detail-oriented, calm, and observant. catches mistakes with a gentle smile. looks harmless, absolutely is not. runs purely on quiet judgment and pink lip gloss.
SAKURADA KENSHIN » ENFJ ୨୧ ━━━━ ୨୧ running for discipline officer. cute, firm, and communicates exclusively in emoticons like (๑>◡<๑). surprisingly strict despite the soft vibes. hands out warnings with adorable faces. somehow intimidating and precious at the same time. no one takes him seriously until they really, really should.
PHAM HANNI » INFP ୨୧ ━━━━ ୨୧ running for pr head. charming, persuasive, and terrifyingly convincing. could sell sand at a beach and everyone would buy it thinking it would give good luck. loves dramatic speeches and perfectly timed lines, lives for gossip and public reaction.
KIM GYUVIN » ENFP ୨୧ ━━━━ ୨୧ running for event coordinator. walking ball of sunshine and chaos. professional hype man. always promoting B.L.I.S.S campaign like its a religion. plans events like festivals. fueled by excitement. zero volume control, extroverted. yn’s personal hype man. cheers the hardest.
SOPHIA LAFORTEZA » ENFP ୨୧ ━━━━ ୨୧ running for media manager. sharp, observant, and always ten steps ahead. subtley stirs drama while pretending she didn’t. definitely enjoying the rivalry a little too much. secretly shades the other campaign through her posts.
𝒮YN ╱ After being caught cheating on a test, there’s only one other possible way to save your final grade—a tutor. You hate the idea of it, but your teacher thinks it’s the best choice. Well, maybe it would’ve been if your tutor wasn’t an annoying little shit.
𝒫AIR tutor!juhoon & gn!reader ⸝⸝⸝
•ㄑ𝒞ONT ★ oneshot romcom school au tutor x tutee short enemies to lovers arc juhoon lwk evil for a bit swearing y/n nearly cries mentions of food 3 kisses ( diff kinds lolol )
𓂅 thanks to lina for sending me that juhoon edit 🫰 cooked up this fire work, all from him saying the word 'copycat' 😭😭 #STREAMBUTTERFLIES if soph ate it up Yall will too thanks! | playlist is linked in the title !! ╲ 6.0K+ ( 6024 words )
“COPYCAT.” The word feels like a knife to your gut. It hurts only because it’s embarrassing with how it reminds you of the terrible moment. How could you get caught cheating during a big examination?
“Stop calling me that.” You say, eyeing the boy in front of you. Kim Juhoon, your tutor.
“Not if that’s what you are.” He flips through the pages of his notebook. “You’re the one who got caught copying off someone else’s scantron.”
Juhoon lifts his head with his eyes now on you. “Not me.” The boy finishes.
You roll your eyes as the annoyance begins to eat at you. “I have a name.”
“I’m aware.” He replies.
“It’s (Name).”
“I know.”
You bite your tongue as your jaw clenches.
“Then why don’t you call me it?”
“I don’t want to.” His attention is brought back to the notes in front of him. It consists of information from different lessons taught in class. The period he has before yours. At least you don’t have to see him around aside from these moments after school.
“Copycat.” Juhoon says again. At this rate, you wouldn’t be surprised if he’s doing this to get under your skin because honestly, it’s working. Really well at that.
You hate Kim Juhoon. You didn’t know he existed before this moment, and you really wish you still didn’t. The regret that settles within your system whenever you’re near him is unbearable. Why’d you choose to copy off the student beside you? Hell, why’d you have to be terribly obvious about it too? God, is this how you’re being punished?
If so, you hate it. You hate him and your teacher for setting you up with him. Who cares if this is the only way to save your final grade, you’d rather fail the class and retake it next semester if it means you don’t have to suffer with him as your tutor.
He’s infuriating.
An annoying little shit.
“Here,” he starts and places a notebook with questions in front of you. “Try these questions. Let me see how well you know your stuff.”
It’s not like you’re stupid or anything. Chemistry just so happens to be your worst subject possible, that’s it. The questions before you look like absolute gibberish. You don’t know what you’re looking at. It’s filled with a bunch of numbers and many different units, something you aren’t familiar with.
“I’ll give you twenty minutes.”
The timer counting down isn’t helping your case. For some reason this feels like an actual test. A test made by him of all people. You don’t like this at all.
Screw you, Mr. C.
You remember the conversation vividly as if it didn’t happen only yesterday. The way Mr. C called you down into the science office with your recent test score in hand. Despite the automatic zero as a consequence of cheating, he still chose to mark it either way.
“I’m sure you must have a clear understanding as to why you’re here, right?”
You had no other choice but to nod at his words. It’s obvious why. You’re being punished.
“Look, you know that it’s your final year and your grades matter a ton, (Name).”
You nodded again. Of course you know that, every single senior knows that.
“Which is why I’m giving you another chance to save your grade. You can replace your zero with your exam grade. But judging by your previous scores, you’ll need to score at least an eighty to pass this course.”
An eighty percentage? What the actual hell? How are you supposed to achieve that when your average scores are sixties and sixty-fives on a good day?
“So, what do you think about having a tutor?”
Great idea. Just, never let it be Kim Juhoon ever again.
His brows furrow in confusion at the way you’re staring daggers at him. You should be focusing on the set of questions, not him. His gaze flickers down at the notebook he gave you, and then back to you.
“Times up, show me your paper.” Juhoon grabs the notebook in a hurry before you could get a grip on it. Shit, you didn’t answer a single question with how you were too lost in thought.
“Wow, you really don’t know your stuff.” He scoffs and something within you switches.
“No wonder you copied off of someone else…” You’re reaching over the table in an attempt to grab the notebook away from Juhoon. Unfortunately, you fail as the boy pulls his arm away, higher into the air.
The boy pauses his movements, turning his head to look at you. “Copycat.” He insults once more, taking note of how your eyes narrow.
“Fuck you.” You retort as you harshly plop back into your seat. It hurts but you can’t bring yourself to care. You’re fuming with anger.
He’s so annoying.
Juhoon silently organizes his papers before giving you his full attention. “From what I was told, you need at least an eighty percent on this exam to pass this class.” He starts, but it’s quiet. Nearly falling deaf on your ears.
“Correct?” He asks and you nod, embarrassed.
“So Mr. C referenced me to be your tutor. Right?”
You nod again.
He sighs. “Might as well start immediately with the way we only have a month before the final exam.” The boy picks up a pencil, twirling it around with his fingers as a distraction.
“And with the way you couldn’t answer these starter questions… It’s obvious we will need to work on you a lot.”
“I’ll be patient.”
Juhoon notices the way you roll your eyes, rolling his back at you. It’s not like he wanted to tutor you of all people. He loves tutoring people, just not when they’re like this. Clueless. But it’s fine, it’s not like it’s something the two of you can’t change.
You just need some… practice and constant lessons. That’s it.
An eighty percentage will definitely be possible—soon.
More like soon being never.
It’s been two weeks since the daily tutor sessions started with two more left on the clock. Time is running out with no improvement being made.
“Can you please focus?” Juhoon asks, stressed. The ink of his pen makes a dot below the sentence he’s pointing at.
“I literally am.” You reply, annoyed. What else does he want you to do? Nod along to every sound he makes to show that you’re paying full attention? You’re already trying your hardest to understand what he’s saying.
Now he’s asking for too much.
He places the pen down beside the sheet of paper. “Then what did I just say?”
You’re silent. To be honest, you are paying attention. The only issue is the fact that you have no clue what he’s talking about. He’s moving too fast.
An exasperated sigh leaves Juhoon’s lips as he rubs at his temples. “You’re hopeless.”
Ouch.
“That’s not nice to say.” You say, looking away from your tutor. It shouldn’t hurt. Every single insult the boy has ever said to your face never took a toll on you. So, why does this one hurt more than the rest?
“What else am I supposed to say? I don’t know how else to help you.”
“You said you would be patient.”
“It’s really running thin.”
It sounds like he’s giving up on you.
Your silence gains the boy’s attention. It’s unlike you to let him have the final blow. You’re either coming up with a better response, giving him the meanest look ever, cursing him under your breath or to his face—anything. Anything but silence
He looks up, fingers pausing their circles on his temples. You aren’t even looking at him. It’s as if he’s not there at all.
Staring closely, he’s able to see the way your bottom lip slightly trembles. Are you really about to cry over what he said? This isn’t the worst of it all, he’s said way more meaner things. Despite that, this is what really tipped you over the edge?
Juhoon sighs, guilt sinking within his system. “Okay,” he starts, softening up. “I’m sorry.”
He digs into his pencil case, grabbing the pack of tissues for you. “Take these.” Juhoon gently slides them over to your side of the table. You’re still not looking his way, too embarrassed in case a tear falls.
“Tell me, what don’t you understand?”
You turn to grab the pack of tissues, still never batting Juhoon an eye. “Everything. You’re too fast when explaining things.”
“Sorry. I’ll slow down.” That’s right. Your level of understanding is far too different from the students Juhoon previously tutored. Far too different from his own brain. That’s completely on him for assuming you could keep up.
“Do you have your previous tests?” Juhoon questions as your gaze finally lands on him. The two of you lock eyes. Your clueless ones stare into his. There’s a faint shade of red from the tears that previously welled up in your eyes.
All because of him. It feels like a slap to his face as a pit swarms around his stomach.
It’s a mix between guilt and… butterflies? He only continues to feel bad for making you emotional. However, he also starts to feel flustered. Flustered at the way the two of you locked eyes. Weird.
“I do.” You say as you place the pack of tissues down, reaching for your backpack shortly after. The test scores were so bad you refused to look back at them. Every result you got was just as you expected. No improvement, just getting worse and worse.
You hand him the stack of unit tests and quizzes. The amount of red pen visible is enough to colour a single piece of paper, front and back. It’s unbelievable, but he doesn’t say anything. Not after the outcome from earlier, he doesn’t want to feel that feeling ever again.
“How about this,” Juhoon begins, proposing a new idea, “We end here and continue tomorrow? I’ll create a lesson plan today too.”
There’s a stillness in the air as you ponder on his suggestion. It’s not a bad idea. You could use a break today too, especially after your near slip up.
“That works with me.”
Your words ring through his head as he flips through the stack of tests. This is going to be hard. He doesn’t know where to start with teaching you, it even seems as though you lack preknowledge too. It can’t be that hard to teach you the basics… If anything, stuff learnt from the previous year is practically false information anyway.
“God,” Juhoon mumbles as he takes off his glasses. He places them to the side followed by a sigh. He picks up the test in front of him, eyeing the numerous wrong answers underneath every question.
Two weeks left and he’s sure you learned nothing yet. He still feels bad for what he said. Thinking about it now, he knows how it feels to be told that you’re hopeless.
It’s genuinely the worst thing to exist. Besides that, there’s another reason why Juhoon can’t bring himself to go to sleep. The fact he has to make a lesson plan is definitely one of them, but the other reason is because he can’t stop thinking about it.
The time where the two of you locked eyes. There’s no explanation as to why it won’t leave his mind. Maybe it was all a fluke. You were crying for God's sake, there’s no reason for him to feel even a hint of flustered.
Was it because that was the first time he’s ever truly looked into your eyes? Was it because there was no heated tension in the air? He doesn’t know what it was. All he can say is that one, this is the first time he’s ever felt these kinds of butterflies, and two, your eyes are extremely beautiful.
Looking into the pieces of paper, there is only one way to make it up to you, well, to possibly make it up to you.
“What’s that?” You question your friend, pointing at the small drink at your desk. There’s a sticky note attached, but with the distance between you and your desk, you aren’t able to read it clearly.
Moka tilts her head in an attempt to get a better view. “I’m not sure.”
It’s a faint yellow sticky note stuck onto what appears to be your favourite drink. Weird, do you have a secret admirer?
Supposedly a stalker?
You take a seat with your gaze never lifting from the sticky note. I’m sorry｡ Enjoy this ⦂), it reads. The handwriting seems familiar. The hollow circles to represent a period is something you know all too well. You’ve seen it before, on the marking of your practice tests. Every piece of feedback or simple comment is always followed by an empty dot.
Kim Juhoon is the culprit behind all of this. The thing is, how does he know about your favourite drink? You’re sure that the two of you never crossed paths whenever you had it. So, how else must he know?
Is he really a stalker?
You only have to wait and confront him during your tutoring session. They happen daily, so of course you’re bound to see him at least once today. You know you’ll see him, but you can’t wait. The anticipation is really killing you.
Just how does he know about your favourite drink?
Did he really go out of his way and ask those who are close to you? There’s no way he is that curious about you. You’re pretty sure he’s still not fond of you. Yes, he apologized for what he said yesterday, but isn’t that human decency? If you said something back then maybe things would’ve happened differently. Going off of your previous sessions, this isn’t the worst thing he has said to you, but you had a response for the rest. This is the only time where you felt, unfortunately, hurt.
He only apologized because of your reaction, right? Even so, why did he go out of his way to apologize once more—with your favourite drink included.
Just how does he know about your favourite drink?
“Do you look like this when you’re doing your homework too?” A poke to your forehead catches your attention, the lingering pain bringing you back to reality. You lift your head, making out the figure in front of you.
The boy who sent your thoughts spiraling.
Kim Juhoon takes a seat on the bench beside you. “If you think it’ll make you look smarter, it won’t. No need to copy other students around you.”
“Copycat.”
Your eyebrows furrow as you turn to look at him. He’s quick to press his index finger in the space between your brows while clicking his tongue, easing away the wrinkles that formed.
“What did I say?” He mutters, disappointed. “Don’t do it. You'll grow to get wrinkles if you do.”
“It’s said that they make you appear wiser.” You say. “It’s a good thing.”
The boy has to stifle a laugh beside you. That’s the stupidest thing he’s heard you say within the last two weeks of being forced together. Trust, there’s been a lot of things that you’ve said too. He nods to your words, waving off your reply.
“Believe what you want.”
“Then tell me the truth.”
Your question confuses him. What do you mean? The truth about the wrinkles? The fact that what you believe is completely false?
“How do you know about this?” You ask, holding up the empty boxed drink, the sticky note still attached. It’s not your fault that you couldn’t resist it. It’s your favourite drink and thinking really does numbers on someone’s hydration level.
Oh, you caught on.
“What makes you think that’s from me?” Juhoon questions back, wondering what you’ll say next. Hopefully you’re only pointing fingers, truly unsure of who might’ve left that drink on your desk. He knows better than anyone that it was him, but he doesn’t want to own up to it. He doesn’t know why he did it either. It was an urge that he couldn’t fight back. The sticky note, however, that’s not something he has a good explanation for. He really does mean the apology.
“The sticky note. The handwriting is the same. The way you draw your periods is the same. It’s all on this sticky note.” You peel it off from the boxed drink, giving it to him to have a closer look.
There’s something happening with Juhoon. The same butterflies from the moment you two locked eyes are back. The fact you noticed something not many have that quickly does something to him.
“Okay,” he starts, followed by a breath. “It was me.” Juhoon confesses.
You expected him to say that, but you didn’t expect him to come clean so easily. Usually, he’s a stubborn boy. “How do you know that it’s my favourite drink?”
“Your tests.” He answers.
You’re confused. “What?”
“On the side of one the pages you wrote about wanting a boxed drink in a tiny font.” He lifts his finger to point at the one in your hold. “It was that one.”
That does sound like something you’d do. You’ve done it so many times that you’ve lost track of how many tests it’s written on.
“I didn’t know it was your favourite drink, I just assumed it was something you liked.” Juhoon adds. “I still feel bad for yesterday’s incident, so I thought it would be best for me to finalize my apology.”
You hate Kim Juhoon, he’s an asshole and the worst person on Earth—something you would’ve said at least a week ago. You never believed that people could change how they feel about someone within a short time, however, here you are proving yourself terribly wrong.
The way his words make your heart flutter isn’t something you’re used to. Shoot, this isn’t a good sign. No, it’s not true. You still hate Kim Juhoon. He always finds a way to get under your skin, but right now, he isn’t. His presence is enough to irritate you, but right now, it’s not.
Do you still hate Kim Juhoon or are you only saying that you do?
“I hate you.” You blurt out, catching both of you by surprise. He’s taken aback by the sudden negative response to his positive one. Should he not have done that? There’s a tang at his heart. It’s bitter, not even close to being sweet.
You’re embarrassed. You didn’t mean to say that. You don’t hate him, at least, you don’t think you do anymore. He’s slowly making his way up your like-meter with a possibility of surpassing a certain point.
Feelings.
“Sorry, I don’t mean that.” You apologize, looking down with a burning face. Too embarrassed to even look him in the eyes.
“Thank you.” You thank the boy as you rise from your spot and speedwalk away from the bench. What a way to say goodbye knowing you’ll have to be alone with him, face to face, in nearly three hours. Is it too late to cancel this session? Hell, is it too late to drop out of tutoring? You could escape with ease and retake the course next semester, right?
There’s no saying that you can’t.
“There’s a waitlist.” Your guidance counsellor says, bringing absolute defeat to your world.
“Sadly, you’re not the only student who wants to mix chemicals and see what happens!” She jokes to ease the disappointment you felt. It doesn’t help. Not even close actually.
Great, you’re stuck with Juhoon for another two weeks. All you have to focus on is the stuff he’s teaching you. Nothing else.
To your dismay, that’s quite hard of a goal to achieve when there are nonstop butterflies swarming in your stomach. You’ve never realized it due to the constant irritation you felt whenever you were near him, but the way he speaks is quite soft.
You want to tell him to shut up. You hate it. Hate it only because it only makes your current state worse. There’s no way he was like this before. You’re sure of it. Maybe yesterday’s incident softened him up more than you thought it did. You refuse to believe that it didn’t.
“Are you okay?” He asks, his hand reaching to feel your forehead. The sudden shadow that appears above the notebook causes you to shy away from his touch, startled.
“What are you doing?” You question, eyes wide.
“Sorry, you weren’t replying to me calling your name…” Juhoon replies, retracting his hand back faster than ever. “I was checking if you had a fever… your face is red.”
Oh.
“I’m okay.” You say with a smile when in reality, you’re mentally cursing at yourself.
On the other hand, Juhoon is going crazy. Has your smile always been that attractive? The constant aggression he would feel whenever the two of you were together concealed so many things about you from him.
You’re nowhere near the person Juhoon created in his head.
He can feel the butterflies reappearing. The same ones as always. He has to do something about this. “Where—Where were we?” Juhoon’s voice cracks as he tries to pull himself out of his thoughts.
You really hate how you found his embarrassed expression afterwards quite cute. This can’t be.
You clear your throat, regaining your composure. “Molecular structures.”
“Right.” Juhoon sighs in a way to forget the previous incident. “Right, we were.”
It’s safe to say that the two of you are definitely going through it. Especially after that day, things only got worse. The flinching and pulling away whenever your hands get close to each other, the hesitating to continue one’s sentence after locking eyes with the other, the hanging out outside of your meeting hours, everything.
Everything is different between the two of you. There are still bickering moments, but they don’t happen as often as before. They’re only for teasing purposes. Bickering moments where the two of you have smiles on your faces—not scowls.
It’s different.
“There’s only a week left.” Juhoon utters. One week left, then all of this is over. He wants to add. He can’t. You’re probably waiting for these moments to come to an end. Do you see them the same way he does? Do you look forward to them everyday?
“I’m feeling more prepared than I did on day one.” You say with a smile.
“That’s good. I’m glad that you are.”
The school day is almost over. Two more periods and you’re done. You’ll get to see Juhoon soon, but you don’t want lunch to end—you don’t want this to end.
“Hey,” you start, turning to face him with your legs crossed on top of the bench. The same bench where things changed for you back then. Hopefully it did for him too. He looks at you while placing a gummy bear in his mouth.
“What’s up, Copycat?”
Your smile falters at the sudden use of the nickname. “Not funny.”
The boy laughs while taking a bite of another gummy bear. At this point, he doesn’t use the nickname as an insult anymore. To be honest, you don’t recall him ever calling you by your name. It’s very rare or it just never happens. You don’t mind the nickname, if anything it grew on you.
“What were you going to say?”
“I know you’re a very punctual student and all…” You say and he hums. That’s true. He’s always on top with his attendance. “It’s also the week before exams. I don’t remember the name though.”
“Moratorium week.” Juhoon interjects, filling in the gap to your sentence.
“Yes! That.” You say, eyes gleaming with relief. “Since it’s moratorium week, going to class isn’t all that important, right?”
Juhoon takes a pause, putting down the bag of gummy bears in his hold. “What are you trying to say?”
“We should skip.”
“Like, hooky?” Juhoon asks.
You’ve never heard anyone call it that before. “If that means to skip then yes.” You reach for a gummy bear, popping it into your mouth with ease.
“We could do anything. Get food or go to the park nearby. Whatever you want.”
Juhoon has never done this before. Skipping classes or even school has never been a thought of his ever. It’s not like him at all. However, it wouldn’t hurt to try, especially with you. You can show him a new thing or two.
“Okay, let’s do it.”
You never thought he would accept your offer.
Nor did you think you two would ever hold hands. Acting without thinking, you only grabbed onto his wrist, dragging him to a nearby food stand on your way to the park. You don’t recall interlocking your hand with his, but Juhoon does.
He’s the reason for it. There was a chance and he took it. But it didn’t last long due to the fact you had to grab the treats with both hands.
You watch him intently as he takes a bite of the Tanghulu. “Is it good?” You question.
He takes a moment, letting the flavour marinate before giving his full reaction. The fruits are ripe, no slice of mango being sour. It’s sweet. “It is.” Juhoon replies.
Eager to try it, you ask him for a bite. Of course he says sure, he’s willing to share things with people. However, he didn’t expect you to pull his hand down with your own, taking the rest of the mango chunk he previously bit from.
He feels his ears heating up, flustered by the sudden interaction. It all happened too fast for him to keep up.
“You weren’t lying, it really is good.” You say, shocked. Juhoon’s malfunctioning. He can’t even formulate a response to your sentence. All he does is nod. That’s the only thing he can control at the moment.
“What time is it?” You ask, going back to feast off of your own Tanghulu. You pull out your phone before Juhoon could even check for himself. There’s a lot of time to spare before your session.
“Let’s go to the park. We have a lot of time to spare.” Here you are, once again, dragging him by the wrist. Though it’s a good thing that you did, Juhoon’s sure he wouldn’t be able to move on his own.
You aren’t even thinking about that right now. The only thing on your mind is the fact this will be your last time having fun before hell—exams. At least it’s with Juhoon.
You might as well cherish it even more then.
You took them all for granted. Here you are, sitting in your chemistry classroom for your final exam. The one you have to achieve an eighty percentage on to pass the course as a whole. Maybe even higher if that’s even possible.
The thing is, you don’t feel as unprepared as before. That last week of tutoring went by faster than you expected. It feels like you met Juhoon only yesterday. You never knew how fast a month could go by until now.
It felt like a blink.
Your pencil moves, bubbling in the letters on your scantron sheet one by one. Nearly every question you knew the answer to. You actually felt smart for once.
All thanks to Juhoon.
Honestly, you’re very thankful for him. Even for Mr. C. Without his absurd suggestion you would’ve never met Juhoon. Obviously the two of you got off on the wrong foot, but you’re pretty sure that feeling is now nowhere to be found. Previous hate replaced with something that even you can’t describe.
You’re sure that you like Juhoon. The two of you are good friends now. Not tutor and tutee, not enemies, nor are you strangers. Just good friends. But you like him more than a friend. His presence is something you look forward to everyday, and his laugh is mesmerizing as much as his voice is too. Everything about him, the things you previously hated shortly became things that you like about him.
You like him (and you hope that he likes you too).
The bell goes as you fill in your last bubble. An immediate wave of relief washes over you. You answered every single question, only guessing a few. Either way, it’s way better than any chemistry assessment you’ve done in your life.
“How do you think you did?” Mr. C questions as he takes your exam papers away. For once you don’t look like your soul was drained out of you. There’s a small grin on your face, leaving him shocked. That’s new.
“I think I did good.” You say. He’s glad to hear you say that. Hopefully giving you a tutor made a big difference.
All you need is an eighty percentage. Your chances to get that grade are higher than before. At this rate you’re able to call Juhoon your saviour. It’s funny how much you hated him before. If you really dropped out of tutoring, writing that exam would’ve been absolute hell.
As if it were a punishment.
“Checking your results?” Juhoon questions, appearing from behind you on the bench. The bench the two of you have lunch on nearly everyday. Who would’ve thought your relationship would ever reach such a level of closeness?
His hands grip the rim of the backrest as he leans in to see your laptop screen. Your heads are beside each other, side-by-side. He’s too close.
“Yes, I heard they came out.”
“Already? It’s been only two days.” The boy is in disbelief. He’s never gotten an exam grade back that fast. Maybe Mr. C works differently—way faster than his previous teachers.
You let out a shaky breath, too nervous to proceed to the next page. “I’m scared.”
“I’m sure you did fine. You didn’t copy off of anyone this time right?” Juhoon teases, earning a hit to his left hand. He holds back his laughter, apologizing after the blow. He’s definitely never letting that go.
There’s a pause filled with a sigh from you. You only need an eighty percentage. With how confident you were, handing in that exam, then it must’ve been achieved. Hopefully.
“An eighty-eight?” You’re surprised. It’s higher than your previous goal.
Juhoon smiles. “That’s really good. I’m so proud of you.” His hand finds its way to your shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. He’s truly proud. With how much knowledge you learned within a month, you were able to retain everything well.
“I actually passed!” You cheer. “Thank you, Juhoon.” You turn your head to Juhoon’s. He’s closer than you expected, but that doesn’t wash away the joy. However, it does give you a huge confidence boost.
Something the two of you weren’t expecting.
You lean in, placing a peck on his cheek. It’s to show your gratitude, right? But why not a hug? Why not a simple thank you? You don’t know.
His eyes are slightly wider than before with his mouth slightly hanging open too.
“Sorry, I don’t know why I did that.” You apologize with a hand on your lips. You’re just as shocked as he is. The laptop on your lap sits unacknowledged, portraying your results. You passed the class after constantly struggling. You even caught feelings for your tutor too. Despite how crazy it sounds, that wasn’t a struggle.
Not at all.
There's silence. The two of you stare at one another, both surprised, confused, flustered, every emotion that you could name.
Everything but distaste.
It’s obvious. The effect that kiss had on the both of you. His ears are turning a faint red, his face reaching a similar shade shortly after. Is it bad that he wants to do that again?
“That was weird, right?” You nervously laugh, looking away. His silence is enough to give you an answer. You definitely fucked up. What a way to ruin the mood.
You’re ready to get up and leave. Give him the space he needs, but Juhoon doesn’t let you. “It wasn’t.” He exclaims. You pause. What does he mean?
You’re looking at him again—confused by his response. Is it not weird that you kissed him on the cheek? The two of you are only good friends, no? Yes, there were moments of physical contact between one another, but that was it.
Nothing more and nothing less.
You thought it was a normal thing between both of you. Innocent touches without any meaning. Well, yours had meaning, but you aren’t sure about Juhoon’s.
“Can we…” He breathes, clearing his throat as his gaze briefly flicks down to your lips. “Can we do that again?”
You’re taken aback by his question. That isn’t something you would ever expect him to ask, especially after a kiss to his cheek. “Okay.” You say, fighting the excitement that settles in your system.
But this time it’s different. It’s not a peck to his cheek like you thought he wanted. Instead, he kisses you on the lips. You had no clue Juhoon could be this bold. His hand is still on your shoulder with the other tightening its grip on the bench. It’s not fair. He has something to restrain himself with and you don’t. Your hands find their way at the edge of your seat, gripping onto it faster than ever.
You’re copying him but who cares. It’s what you’re ‘known’ for doing, at least to him.
The pull away leaves you both feeling eager. The long stare at one another isn’t any better.
You have to say something.
He has to say something.
Either of you has to say something. Something that explains why the two of you did that. Explain why both of you mirror each other’s expressions.
“(Name).” Juhoon exhales. One of the rare occurrences where he says your name. However, he chose the worst time to do so. During such a moment. He’s such a tease.
He clears his throat—honestly, it’s a habit he’s picked up after being near you so much. Too worried he’ll experience another voice crack. He still hasn’t lived that one day down, nearly waking up in a cold sweat because of it every night.
“I know it’s been only a month,” he says, taking a pause to collect himself. “But I like you.”
“I want to believe that you feel the same way, especially after the two kisses. And I also want to be more than a friend to you. To be your boyfriend…” Juhoon continues, not giving you a moment to reply.
“So, can I be your boyfriend?”
The question isn’t a surprise to you. With the way he worked his way to it, you aren’t surprised at all. You’re surprised that he feels the same way and glad that he was quick to assume that you did too.
Thank God he did.
“Yes, you can.” You reply, a smile appearing on your face.
He feels relieved. Way more relieved than he does whenever he hands in a test, let alone an exam.
Thank God you said yes.
A month feels too fast, but you really do drive him crazy and not in an insane way. A way he’s never really felt before, as if he’s not from Earth. He couldn’t resist it, especially when the chance was right there, he had to take it. Just like the many previous moments too.
“I see that.” Juhoon points out, nodding his head at your hands gripping the bench. The same way he did with his right hand. “Copycat.”
“Be quiet. You’re the one who kissed me on the lips okay. I had to figure out a way somehow.”
“What did you think I was asking?”
“Another kiss to the cheek…”
He raises his brows. So the two of you weren’t on the same wavelength. “Would you have rathered that then?”
You pause. You want to say no, of course you wouldn’t have. But you know he’ll tease you. At this point, who really cares?
“No.” You reply and he smiles.
“Same here.” He leans in, placing a short kiss on your forehead. “You really are a Copycat.”
yn makes it exactly three steps past the school gate before the universe decides to intervene. not five, not six. three.
"ID?" the guard asks, already holding out his hand, bored but prepared, the stance of a man who has seen too much and is ready for more.
easy, automatic, muscle memory. yn reaches for his pocket without even looking, already mentally moving on to the next part of his day—then freezes.
he pats the pocket again, slower, more intentional. like maybe he just missed it the first time. then the other pocket, then the jacket, then the bag. zip open, rummage, fingers digging through chaos. zip closed, unzip again because maybe it respawned?
nothing.
absolutely nothing.
yn lets out a laugh, sharp and awkward, because that’s his default setting when panic hits. the kind of laugh that says i’m fine while actively not being fine. "okay, wait," he says quickly, already dropping his bag to the ground. "this is fixable. this is very fixable."
he starts pulling things out one by one like he’s filming a what’s in my bag vlog for an audience that did not ask, notebook, charger, pencil case, loose pens that should have been in the pencil case, another charger that he forgot to return to kyungmin three weeks ago, a crumpled receipt, and a sticky note that just says buy milk with no context.
he holds up the empty bag and peers inside like the id might be hiding in a corner, embarrassed. "i didn’t forget on purpose!" yn blurts, words tumbling out fast. "i wrote it down. i reminded myself. like, a lot. there were notes involved. multiple notes. this wasn’t negligence!"
the guard sighs, rubbing his temple like this exact sentence has been spoken to him twelve times already today. "week one," he mutters. "everyone’s still adjusting." yn’s eyes light up instantly, hope flickering back to life. "so i’m good?"
"you’re allowed in," the guard says, already pulling out a clipboard and a pen.
"but i’m logging this." yn’s smile freezes mid existence. not gone. just buffering. "logging… how?"
"failure to present id," the guard replies. "warning today. follow up if it happens again." yn nods way too fast, like speed alone will fix this. the guard waves him through without looking up. "don’t make it a habit."
yn steps onto campus like he just won a court case on a technicality. he straightens his bag, adjusts his jacket, fixes his hair in a reflective window. he walks with confidence that is completely undeserved, chest lifted, stride purposeful, like a man who absolutely did not almost get turned away at the gate.
he passes the main building. the bulletin board layered in too many posters. club sign-ups, event announcements, motivational quotes that feel vaguely threatening. the vending machines that are somehow already empty. he’s replaying the interaction in his head, polishing it. in his version, the guard laughed. maybe clapped a little. maybe said 'wow kid, you’ve got a good heart.'
six minutes later, his phone buzzes.
yn does not stop immediately. he takes two more steps first, like maybe ignoring it will undo whatever this is. like if he pretends hard enough, the universe will get embarrassed and take it back. then he sighs and pulls his phone out.
he stares at the screen.
blinks once.
then again, slower. like the words might rearrange themselves out of pity.
"no," yn says quietly.
then louder. "no?"
he scrolls. refreshes. nothing else. just the same message sitting there confidently, aggressively calm. he looks back toward the gate like the guard might still be watching, like this is all an elaborate social experiment designed specifically to ruin his morning.
his phone buzzes again. same notice. same tone. somehow more disrespectful. yn exhales hard, long, dramatic. "oh," he mutters. "logging means detention. that’s fun. that's a fun interpretation."
he pockets the phone and keeps walking, but slower now. betrayed. wounded. spiritually inconvenienced. students pass him, laughing, complaining about classes, holding their ids like responsible people. every lanyard feels personal.
he rereads the email. room 214, four o’clock.
of course it is. room 214. the room that exists exclusively for people who almost had it together. the room where dreams go to reflect. yn turns around slowly, shoulders sagging, every step heavy with the weight of irony. a man who tried his best and still lost.
halfway down the hallway, he opens his notes app. there they are. three identical lines. bold, merciless, haunting.
BRING ID.
BRING ID.
BRING ID.
he stares at them like they might explain themselves, like one of them might apologize.
"this is actually insane," yn mutters to no one, his thumb hovering uselessly over the screen. he locks the phone, slips it back into his pocket. stands there for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the ground like it might open up and swallow him whole.
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NOTE: just a heads up, this is completely fictional! this is my first ever smau fic (and my first fic overall), so I’m still learning. thank you for checking it out, and I hope you enjoy! 🫶
sim jaeyun, park sunghoon, park jongseong x male reader.
next chapter : chain reaction.
After the contract is signed, Y/n stops asking why. He just shows up—quiet, pretty, dressed in whatever they hand him. The boys don’t want him there, not really. But the cameras love him. The mirrors follow him. Every rehearsal hurts. Every silence drips with resentment. And still, they keep him. Jay writes like he’s angry. Sunghoon dances like he’s alone. Jake watches him too long. None of them speak it aloud, but the feeling is the same: Y/n wasn’t earned. He was chosen. By the wrong people. For the wrong reasons. And now he’s theirs.
Just twenty-three days until debut. Twenty-three days to become a fantasy.
warnings: idol!reader, objectification, industry power dynamics, emotional manipulation, possessiveness, voyeurism, obsessive behavior, gaslighting, celebrity exploitation, toxic relationships, industry elitism, ambiguous morality, dark themes of grief and identity loss, aestheticization of suffering, subtle yandere dynamics, inspired by The Idol and Anora.
please read before continuing:
CONTENT WARNING + Author’s Note
World Class Sin is a fictional story.
It is not real. The characters portrayed here are fictionalized versions inspired by public figures, but they do not reflect the real personalities, actions, or values of anyone in real life. This story is created purely for fictional storytelling and emotional exploration — nothing in it should be read as truth, reality, or a commentary on real people.
This fic is made of dramatized emotions, and heightened dynamics set within a stylized, pressurized version of the global idol industry. Though it explores intensity, control, and desire, it is not intended to reflect what is healthy, safe, or good in real life.
This story includes themes that may be emotionally heavy or difficult for some readers — such as emotional manipulation, objectification, isolation, possessiveness, psychological pressure, voyeuristic or obsessive dynamics, and moments where characters are treated as products instead of people. It also includes mature or NSFW scenes that reflect those imbalances — shaped by tension, not tenderness.
The characters are morally gray. They are flawed, reckless, and often driven by desire more than compassion. They do things that are not admirable. And while those choices may be compelling in fiction, they are not excuses for real behavior — and they are not meant to romanticize harm.
If you’re someone who’s sensitive to themes of control, emotional coercion, unwanted attention, or being dehumanized — please read with care. If at any point something in this story feels too close to home, too sharp, too familiar — you are allowed to stop. You never need to push through discomfort to prove anything. There is no story more important than your peace.
You are not someone’s fantasy. You do not have to be ruined to be seen, or hurt to be held. If this story ever makes you feel small, unsafe, or alone — please, please take space. Close the tab. Drink water. Text someone who sees you clearly. Come back only if and when it feels right.
And if it never feels right again — that’s okay too. Please don’t force yourself to return. This story does not deserve more of you than you’re able to give.
From writer to reader — I care about you. I care about your well-being more than this plot or any fictional moment. You matter more than anything written here. Your softness, your boundaries, and your safety are always worth protecting.
Please take care of yourself. You’re never alone in choosing yourself.
With care, Luke.
Before the company. Before the cameras. Before the lights wrapped around his skin like a second set of hands and people began calling his silence presence — there was just Y/n.
Y/n, who used to sing under his breath in the backseat of his mother’s car while she drove barefoot, humming along to songs too old for the radio. Who used to dance in the kitchen at night while spaghetti boiled on the stove, barefoot on cheap tile, arms wide like the world couldn’t touch him. He didn’t want fame. He just liked how music felt in his chest — like proof that he existed. Like warmth. And she saw it. His mother. She used to say he was a light. A soft one. The kind that flickered gently in dark places, not to shine, but to keep people from feeling alone. She called him magic. Said if the world saw him the way she did, it would fall in love and never recover.
But the world never got the chance to meet her. She got sick, fast and cruel, like some invisible hand reached down and stole the only thing keeping his life from collapsing in on itself. One day she was folding his laundry and singing about the weather; the next, she was a name on a hospital file he couldn’t afford to print. The grief didn’t break Y/n all at once. It hollowed him. Slowly. Gently. Like a song that fades without ending. He didn’t scream or cry or destroy things. He just… stopped. Stopped talking. Stopped singing. Started disappearing one silent moment at a time.
There were nights he didn’t come home. Mornings he couldn’t remember where he’d been. Rooms he walked into that felt too hot, too cold, too loud. People touched him and he let them, but it didn’t mean anything. He didn’t feel ruined — just distant from his own body. He let strangers speak to him like they knew who he was. Let the world pull at the corners of his clothes, his mouth, his name. He wore her perfume for weeks after she died, just to remember what love smelled like. And eventually, even that faded.
So when a woman with too many rings and too white of a smile called and said she’d known his mother once, said she had a place for him, a stage, a future — Y/n didn’t question it. He didn’t even want it, not really. But he went. Because it was forward. Because it was something. Because standing still was starting to feel like dying.
They flew him to Los Angeles. No audition. No promise. Just a room, a contract, and a group that had already been chosen. A self-producing global project: stylists from Seoul, choreographers from London, a debut stage booked in MCOUNTDOWN before the ink had even dried. Jay, Jake, Sunghoon — three names carved into the industry like sharp things. Boys with scars. Boys with hunger. Boys who had given everything to be here.
And now, they had to stand next to Y/n — the boy who had given nothing but still looked like he’d been born in spotlight.
The executives were obsessed. He was everything they wanted without even trying. A beautiful, damaged blank slate. His trainee period was short — barely weeks. But that didn’t matter. They said he had that thing. The unnamable thing. They called his eyes marketable sadness. Big, glistening, expressive things that looked like he was always about to cry. Like he knew something you didn’t. Like he needed saving. And people wanted to save him. Or ruin him. Or both.
He was pliable. Innocent in all the wrong ways. And when stylists dressed him in sheer shirts and told him not to smile, he didn’t ask why. When vocal trainers told him to whisper his lyrics like they were secrets, he did. When photographers posed his hands limp and his lips parted, he obeyed. There was something in him that had been emptied out. And in its place, the industry poured something else — glossy and broken and dripping with want.
They didn’t see the boy in the kitchen spinning barefoot for no one. They saw the after. The glow of something burned too long. A boy with soft wrists and pretty bones and eyes like bruises. Something not quite alive but still moving.
And Y/n let them have it.
Because it was easier than remembering. Because grief had made him quiet, and now quiet made him desirable. Because being watched felt better than being alone.
Because when you’ve been loved by someone who saw your soul, you’ll spend the rest of your life letting people take your body just to feel something close.
They didn’t meet him on a stage. Or in a practice room. They met him in silence—late afternoon, overhead lights too white, the hallway outside the recording studio carrying the sterile smell of burnt coffee and industrial air freshener. The building always felt like that. Cold, new, over-designed. Like ambition lived in the vents.
Y/n stood alone in the corridor, tucked into a corner like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to take up space. His clothes were plain—company-issued hoodie, soft drawstring pants, shoes too clean. He looked like he’d been dropped there, like someone forgot to tell him what to do next. His hands were tucked in his sleeves, his gaze heavy and uncertain, big glassy eyes scanning the passing staff like he was waiting for someone to explain what his life had become. But no one did. People walked past him like he wasn’t real.
And inside the studio, the boys were waiting.
Jay had been mid-edit, headphones pulled halfway off one ear, track looping back on itself as he adjusted vocal layering. Jake had been at the whiteboard with a pen in his mouth, scribbling fragments of a chorus they hadn’t agreed on. Sunghoon was sitting on the floor, stretching in slow, practiced lines, watching his reflection in the glass.
When the door opened and one of the assistant managers stepped in, clearing their throat with a smile too tight, everything slowed.
“Your new member’s here,” they said. Simple. Blunt. As if it were a schedule change, not a shift in the entire balance of the room.
Jay’s eyes didn’t move from his screen. “What do you mean, new member?” His voice was flat. Controlled. But his fingers paused mid-click.
“CEO’s orders. He’s joining the lineup.”
Jake turned. Sunghoon didn’t blink. None of them said anything, but the silence that followed was louder than any protest.
And then he stepped in.
Y/n, soft-faced, quiet, impossibly still. His presence wasn’t loud, but it was there. It crept into corners. His eyes—those too-bright, too-sad things—flicked from face to face, not with confidence, but with the strange, hollow politeness of someone used to being tolerated, not welcomed. He bowed. Soft. Awkward. Like he wasn’t sure he was doing it right.
Jay’s stare was unreadable. He leaned back in his chair, one eyebrow lifting slightly. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The tension in his shoulders said enough. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. They had trained for years together—fought, failed, rewritten songs through tears and caffeine and injury. And now this? A stranger in their studio? One they hadn’t trained with, hadn’t chosen?
Sunghoon stood. Slow. Measured. His body moved with dancer’s precision even now, coiled tight beneath the silence. His gaze swept over Y/n once, impersonal. Not curious. Just… calculating. Like he was adjusting choreography in his head to factor in a flaw.
Jake’s lips pressed into a line. He said nothing, but his grip on the whiteboard marker tightened, ink bleeding into the surface behind him like it had nowhere else to go.
And Y/n? Y/n just stood there. Looking at them. Looking past them. Not trying to explain. Not trying to smile. Just standing there with those trembling, ruined eyes like he already knew what they thought. Like he’d heard it before.
The manager gave a quick clap, like the moment needed wrapping. “Alright. I’ll leave you to it. He’s already got housing in your dorm. Training schedule starts tomorrow. Be good to each other.”
The door clicked shut.
And the silence collapsed into something heavier.
Y/n didn’t speak. He didn’t introduce himself again. He just stepped further into the room, slow, hesitant, like the floor might reject him. He moved toward the couch in the corner, sat down too carefully, as if afraid he’d take someone’s spot.
Jay turned back to his laptop. Pressed play. The track looped again.
Jake went back to the board, but didn’t write.
Sunghoon lowered himself to the floor again, more rigid this time.
No one told Y/n where to stand. Where to sit. What to do. No one asked his story. They didn’t need to. They had already decided what kind of person he was.
He was the fourth member now. A piece of a group he hadn’t earned. A replacement for someone they actually cared about.
He didn’t belong.
And in some twisted, brutal way—
That was exactly why they chose him.
The training studio was too bright in the next morning. Too clean. The kind of sterile, high-ceilinged space that didn’t allow mistakes to hide. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors on every wall, polished until they could catch even the faintest flicker of shame. The sound system buzzed faintly overhead. The air reeked of lemon disinfectant and effort.
Y/n was already there when the others arrived.
He’d shown up twenty minutes early, clutching a company-issued water bottle with both hands, like it might anchor him to the floor. He stood near the back wall, away from the mirror, staring at his own reflection like it didn’t quite match up. His hoodie sleeves were bunched at the wrists. His hair was still damp from the rushed shower. His eyes—their usual wounded-glass glaze—were unreadable, a little too wide, like he hadn’t slept.
He didn’t look like a trainee. He looked like someone pretending to be one.
Jay walked in first, earbuds still in, the collar of his jacket loose and unzipped like he’d sprinted from the studio just to be forced into this. He didn’t look at Y/n. Just dropped his bag at the wall and started stretching.
Jake came next, nodding curtly to the trainer stationed near the door, then immediately scanned the room. When his eyes landed on Y/n, something behind them tightened. It wasn’t surprise anymore. It was adjustment. A silent recalibration—how do you move around something you never asked for?
Sunghoon entered last. His expression didn’t change. It never did. He placed his water down carefully, tied his shoelaces like they were performance art, then stood in the center of the room and rolled his shoulders with the mechanical focus of a blade being polished.
“From the top,” the trainer called.
The music started.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t kind. It was the track they’d been preparing for weeks, long before Y/n had been added in. Heavy bass layered over precise percussion, punctuated with vocal stabs and hard cuts in the tempo. It's a song of the French House mixed with drum & bass and dubstep. The choreography was difficult—sharp hits, tight formations, no room to fall behind. It was designed to showcase unity.
Y/n was half a beat behind from the first step.
His movements were rehearsed, yes. Memorized. But not lived in. He danced like a soldier following orders, not like someone who believed in what he was doing. His limbs moved with calculated correctness, but there was no rhythm beneath it. No breath. Just mimicry. Just survival.
Jay didn’t hide his reaction. His eyes flicked up to the mirror mid-verse, caught the staggered rhythm in Y/n’s step, and narrowed. His jaw clenched. He didn’t say anything—but the tension in his arms as he hit his mark spoke volumes.
Sunghoon’s movements were a masterclass in control. Every pop of his shoulder, every step, every lift—clean, exact, devastating. But when they transitioned to group formation and Y/n brushed his side during a cross, Sunghoon’s body tensed. Only for a second. But it was there. A recoil.
Jake kept his eyes forward, lips pressed into a line. He hit every beat—fluid, magnetic—but you could feel it in the way his hands curled too tight on the downbeats, in the way his gaze skipped over Y/n whenever the formation pulled them too close. Not quite anger. Not yet. Just a loaded silence.
Y/n didn’t react.
Even when the trainer paused the track and called out, “Y/n—again. Your timing’s off on the first chorus.”
He only nodded. Stepped back into place. Counted under his breath. Reset his feet. Tried again.
And again.
And again.
By the third hour, the mirrors were fogged at the edges and the floor was streaked with sweat. The room reeked of it now—effort, frustration, resentment stewing under fluorescent light. Y/n’s hoodie was gone, revealing the too-thin tank top underneath, damp at the collar. His cheeks were red from exertion. His arms shook faintly when he raised them. But his expression hadn’t changed. He still looked like someone doing penance.
When they finally broke for water, Jay didn’t sit. He paced, wiping his neck with a towel, the lines between his brows deepening every time he glanced back toward Y/n, who was crouched by the wall, sipping water like it hurt to swallow.
Sunghoon didn’t speak. But his silence wasn’t neutral—it was sharp-edged, purposeful, a presence in the room like a wire stretched too tight. He pulled out his phone, thumb tapping idly, but his reflection in the mirror stayed fixed on the corner Y/n sat in.
Jake stood by the stereo, arms crossed, gaze down.
No one spoke.
Because nothing needed to be said. They were rehearsing for a debut that was supposed to be theirs—just theirs. Built on history. On blood. And now the fourth was here, soft-eyed and silent, fucking up the counts and soaking up the attention.
They weren’t teammates.
Not yet.
Just strangers in matching shoes, breathing the same stale air, waiting to see who would break first.
When the trainer finally called it, the silence that followed was louder than the music had ever been. No celebration. No breath of relief. Just the hollow, collective sound of sweat hitting polished floors and lungs still burning from the last chorus. Y/n stayed where he was, crouched low with his elbows braced on his knees, palms digging into the fabric of his pants. His chest rose and fell slowly. Measured. Controlled. The others didn’t look at him—not directly. They moved around him like he was a piece of faulty equipment no one had figured out how to replace yet.
Jay was the first one out the door.
He didn’t even bother pretending. His towel hit the floor beside his bag, and he stalked out of the studio with his jaw clenched and one hand already scrolling through his contacts like he was ready to start a war. Jake followed. Not as fast, but just as intentional. His water bottle was still full, untouched, swinging loosely at his side like a weapon. And then Sunghoon, calm as ever, but his gaze didn’t lift once—not to the trainer, not to Y/n. Just forward, like if he looked back, the thin thread holding his composure together would snap.
Y/n didn’t ask where they were going.
Didn’t ask if he should follow.
He sat there in the corner of the practice room, arms resting on his knees, hair stuck to his temples in wet strands. His eyes—those wide, silent, glassy things—looked straight ahead but didn’t see anything. They weren’t just tired. They were frayed at the edges, rimmed red, not from tears but from the ache of trying not to cry. It wasn’t the rehearsal that did it. It was everything underneath. The way grief builds like heat beneath the skin. The way loneliness makes your body too heavy. The way every second here felt like punishment for something he didn’t understand.
They hadn’t told him how much this would hurt.
Two floors up, the air felt different. Cooler. Quieter. The executive level of the building was all soundproof glass, imported marble, and lighting that made your skin look better than it actually was. Jay hated it. He hated the way the hallway echoed with silence, the way every piece of furniture was too expensive to sit on. He hated the waiting room outside the CEO’s office with its spotless magazines and staged smiles. But mostly, he hated that they had to come here at all.
He didn’t knock.
The receptionist barely looked up. “He’s finishing a call.”
“We’ll wait,” Jay said, already pacing. His voice was sharp, sure, dangerous. Jake didn’t say anything. He stood beside the window, arms crossed, watching the skyline like it had answers. Sunghoon sat, legs crossed, but his body was pulled taut. Even his stillness was strategic—like his breath could ruin the balance.
When the door finally opened, the CEO didn’t bother with greetings. “I assume this is about the new lineup.”
Jay stepped in first. “You assume right.”
The office was warm. Too warm. Designed to feel comfortable, inviting. But the weight of it pressed against their skin like humidity. Fake comfort. Manufactured trust. The CEO didn’t sit at his desk—he sat across from them, on a lounge chair like they were about to have a casual brainstorm session. That just made Jay angrier.
“We’ve been rehearsing this set for months,” he said. “We built this. The three of us. From scratch. And now there’s someone we’ve never trained with suddenly center in the marketing decks? You didn’t even ask.”
“He’s not center,” the CEO replied smoothly. “He’s presence.”
Jake’s knuckles flexed where his hands were folded. Sunghoon didn’t move.
“Presence doesn’t fix formation,” Jay snapped. “Presence doesn’t cover missed steps. He’s not ready.”
“He doesn’t need to be ready,” the CEO said, calm, like he was explaining something to a child. “He needs to be watched. And he is.”
Jay opened his mouth, then shut it again. There was something terrifying in how confident the man was. Like this had never even been a debate.
“He’s not the strongest dancer,” the CEO continued. “He’s not the best vocalist. But people don’t look away from him. We’ve tested it. Media, marketing, even styling. When he’s in the frame, he is the frame.”
“That’s not what we’re building,” Sunghoon said finally. His voice was low. Even. But the edge in it was impossible to miss. “This isn’t just a group. It’s a system. And he’s not part of it.”
The CEO nodded. Slowly. Like he’d heard that line before.
“And systems evolve. Especially the ones that want to last. You three are the spine. The sound. The foundation. But he’s the face.”
Jake looked away. His jaw twitched.
Jay was already standing. “You should’ve told us. Before it became official.”
“It’s been official since the day he arrived,” the CEO said. “The press release is already drafted. MCountdown is booked. You’re debuting in twenty-three days.”
Silence.
The kind that wasn’t hollow—but final.
Jay stormed out. Jake followed.
Sunghoon lingered for just a second longer.
Then he nodded once, almost imperceptibly. Not agreement. Just acknowledgment.
He understood now.
They were no longer building this group.
They were part of what had been built around someone else.
The door to the CEO’s office shut behind them with a soft click, but the silence it left in its wake was anything but gentle. The hallway stretched before them like a tunnel with no end, polished tile reflecting the muted overhead light, the buzz of fluorescent fixtures matching the hum in Jake’s ears. No one said anything at first. Jay stalked ahead, his shoulders rigid, hands clenched into fists at his sides. Sunghoon followed, his steps slow and even like he was regulating every inch of his body just to keep it from trembling. Jake walked last, still reeling from what had just been said, from the clarity of it — the certainty with which they’d been dismissed, replaced, rearranged around a single, silent newcomer with no past and no proof.
It wasn’t about talent. It never had been.
And that was the part that left a taste in their mouths like rust.
None of them had cried when their old friends were cut. When the lineups changed. When the fifth, sixth, seventh iteration of this group was dissolved and rebuilt again. They knew the rules. Knew how it worked. Survival meant adaptation. But this — this wasn’t survival. This was sabotage dressed up as strategy. They weren’t just making room for Y/n. They were being told that everything they had bled for was secondary now. That their work, their history, their nights spent collapsed in rehearsal rooms and vocal booths didn’t matter as much as the way he looked under soft lighting. The way his eyes stayed wide and sad, like he’d never learned to protect himself. Like the industry could devour him slowly and still leave room for dessert.
Jay stopped in the middle of the corridor, running a hand through his hair like he could scratch the thought from his skull. “He’s not even trying,” he muttered under his breath. “He just stands there. And they act like it’s art.”
Sunghoon didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. The line of his jaw, the quiet rage in the set of his mouth, said more than words. Jake leaned against the wall beside them, arms crossed, staring at the floor like it had betrayed him.
None of them had asked for this. And yet—there it was. That image of Y/n in the studio, barely moving, barely breathing, and still somehow commanding every eye in the room. It was offensive. It was infuriating. And it was undeniable.
The executives had seen it instantly. They hadn’t looked at Y/n and seen potential. They had seen a product already in its final form. A face that could sell out stadiums and perfume ads. A presence that didn’t need to say anything because the silence did all the work. That was the trick — the way his grief softened his features, made his mouth look vulnerable even when closed. The way his eyes stayed glassy, as if carrying a sadness that hadn’t been explained yet, but begged to be understood. They didn’t need him to be perfect. They needed him to be breakable. Beautiful in a way that made people want to ruin him, gently. Slowly. With reverence.
“He’s not even acting,” Jake said suddenly, voice tight. “That’s just how he is.”
Jay glanced at him. Jake wasn’t defending him. That wasn’t what this was. But the words hung in the air like something dangerous.
Because it was true. Y/n wasn’t calculating. He wasn’t pretending to be tragic. He simply was.
And that made it worse.
Because it made people want to keep him. To protect what looked so fragile, even if it wasn’t. Because despite the resentment curling in Jay’s chest, despite the quiet loathing in Sunghoon’s gaze, and the cold irritation in Jake’s bones—none of them wanted anyone else to have him. Not the executives. Not the stylists. Not the audience. He was theirs. He was in their group. Their story. Their songs. He hadn’t earned it, but now that he was here, the idea of someone else taking ownership of him felt like a deeper betrayal.
That wasn’t love. It wasn’t even care. It was possessiveness in its most twisted, quiet form. The kind that festers when something soft is placed in a room full of people who’ve only ever survived by being hard.
“He’s gonna ruin this for us,” Jay said flatly, starting to walk again.
But Jake didn’t move. And Sunghoon lingered.
Because ruin wasn’t always fire and blood. Sometimes, it looked like a boy with eyes full of grief and hands that didn’t know what to hold onto. Sometimes it looked like innocence laced with something sensual — not on purpose, but in the way people wanted to project their filth onto something clean. Y/n had become that. Not even a person anymore. A screen.
And maybe that was the real reason they couldn’t stand him.
Because he made everyone want things they weren’t allowed to want.
They walked without speaking.
The street was mostly empty, the kind of late where everything felt quiet in the wrong way—like the city was holding its breath. The sidewalk stretched ahead in long strips of shadow and light, blinking from the neon buzz of 24-hour storefronts and the muted glow of passing cars. Jay’s steps were fast, agitated. Sunghoon moved more slowly, deliberate, his body carrying itself with the kind of practiced calm that only barely masked unrest. Jake followed behind, not dragging his feet, but not really pushing forward either. Just… moving. Like the floor might vanish if he stood still too long.
They were still full of what had happened upstairs.
The way the CEO hadn’t blinked when he said it. He’s not the center. He’s the frame. Like they were props now, scaffolding around something else. Like the years they had poured into this — the ruined knees, the vocal strain, the callouses, the panic, the loneliness — were just context for a face with the right kind of silence behind it.
It was insulting.
And worse — it was working.
Jay had known a thousand boys more talented than Y/n. He could name five off the top of his head who were better dancers, better singers, better alive in front of a camera. And yet none of them made the room shift like Y/n did. That haunted stillness. The eyes that looked too open to be safe. A softness that wasn’t weakness — just absence. Like someone had carved out the center of him and left the shell behind, and somehow that was beautiful. The stylists whispered about it. The executives didn’t even try to hide their obsession. They were already shaping him into the kind of icon people whispered about, idolized, wanted to break just to see what kind of sound he’d make when he fell.
Sunghoon hated it.
Not Y/n, exactly. Not yet. But the imbalance. The way the system bent around him. He wasn’t supposed to be part of their equation. The three of them had been trained together like a machine — interlocking, precise. They’d shared blood, floors, years of fighting. They knew each other’s timing better than their own. And now this… soft thing had been dropped in the middle of it all like a piece of furniture no one remembered ordering.
And yet — even Sunghoon had caught himself watching him. Noticing the strange angles of his silence. The way he held tension in his throat but not his shoulders. The way his lips stayed slightly parted, always, like he was trying to breathe in something he’d never been taught how to take.
It made you want to reach for him.
Or shake him.
Or both.
Jake didn’t even want to admit what it made him feel. There was something about the way Y/n existed that made people confused about what they were looking at. He wasn’t performing, but it still felt like he was always on display. Like the air folded around him differently. Jake had been around stars before — people who knew how to command a room. But Y/n was the opposite. He did nothing. He shrank. And somehow, that was worse. Because people filled the space around him with their own desire.
And it wasn’t just them. It was everyone. The marketing team. The vocal coach. Even the interns whispered when he walked past.
They didn’t look at Y/n like a person.
They looked at him like a suggestion.
And maybe that was the worst part. Jake couldn’t stop seeing it either.
It wasn’t sympathy. They didn’t feel sorry for him. They were too angry for that. But they also didn’t want anyone else to get too close. Didn’t want to see him styled in a way they hadn’t approved. Didn’t want to hear a stranger talk about his eyes like they meant something. He was theirs now, whether they liked it or not. Their problem. Their weak link. Their… whatever he was. No one else got to decide how far he’d fall. If anyone was going to cut him down, it would be one of them.
The dorm loomed ahead — bland building, dim lights, the shape of routine glowing behind the curtains. It looked the same as always. But nothing inside felt stable anymore.
Jay didn’t stop walking until the front door clicked open.
Jake’s fingers hovered near the code box, even though he already knew the numbers. Sunghoon stood beside him, eyes flicking up toward the dark window above the kitchen. No movement. No sound.
Inside, Y/n was probably on the couch again. Or in the corner of the bedroom with his knees tucked up, headphones in, expression blank. Or maybe asleep with the light on, not dreaming. Just suspended.
They stood outside for a moment longer than they needed to.
No one said it.
But something had changed.
And none of them knew what it meant that the boy they hated most — the boy they had every reason to resent — was already starting to feel like something they owned.
There was no word for it — what he made them feel. Not jealousy, not fascination, not pity. It was something heavier, messier. Something they couldn’t talk about without sounding sick. And maybe that was why none of them spoke as they entered the building, shoes thudding softly against the tile, the hallway narrowing toward their unit like the tension between their ribs. Jay was the first one to disappear into the kitchen, pretending to check the fridge, like he wasn’t picturing the way one of the stylists had leaned too close to Y/n during fittings, adjusting the hem of his shirt like she was dressing a doll she wanted to bite. It had made Jay want to throw something. And he didn’t know why.
He’d seen idols before. Had stood in the wings while others were stylized into stardom — molded, exploited, made desirable. But Y/n wasn’t molded. He just existed. And it enraged Jay, how easily the staff folded around him. How everyone treated him like something breakable but beautiful enough to be worth it. Jay didn’t want to touch him. Not really. But sometimes, in the silence after rehearsal, he imagined what it would feel like to shake him. To crack the quiet out of his body just to see what was underneath. Was it real? That dazed innocence? That polished fragility? Or was he just acting like everyone else?
In the living room, Jake paused by the door to the shared bathroom, eyes flicking toward the dim light under Y/n’s room. Still no sound. Still no presence. Jake had spent years building himself into someone who could perform what people wanted — a good trainee, a good idol, a lyricist who knew how to turn emotion into sellable lines. But Y/n didn’t write anything. Didn’t offer opinions. Didn’t even flinch when people spoke about him like he wasn’t in the room. It made Jake feel insane. And worse — it made him curious. Because every time the PR team mentioned Y/n’s face — those eyes, that mouth, the melancholy soft enough to brand — Jake caught himself imagining it too. The way his lashes curved wetly when he was tired. The way his lips looked when he was breathing too hard after a failed take. It wasn’t even attraction. It was obsession with the idea of him. The way you want to figure out a locked door just because you’re not allowed behind it.
Sunghoon didn’t follow them in right away. He stood in the stairwell a moment longer, hand braced against the wall, replaying the moment in the CEO’s office when one of the assistants had said, “He’s the kind of face people fight over.” Sunghoon had laughed — just once — too bitterly, too sharp. He hated how right it was. How every staff member treated Y/n like a prize and a burden in one. How they cooed over his bone structure, his posture, his silence, as if it were something trained. As if it hadn’t come from being emptied out. But even Sunghoon, in the stillness of his own mind, had started to imagine it too — the way Y/n’s body moved when he wasn’t performing, the twitch in his shoulder when someone startled him, the way his voice broke on certain syllables like he didn’t know how to ask for comfort. It wasn’t sexual, not exactly. It was something worse. Wanting to own the shape of his ruin before someone else made a mess of it.
They didn’t like him. They didn’t trust him. But they couldn’t stop watching him. And that was the problem — not just the threat he posed, but the way he unsettled something deep in each of them.
Not as a person.
But as a question.
A symbol.
A story waiting to be owned by someone.
And God forbid that someone wasn’t them.
note: hi, it’s luke. if you made it this far — welcome, and thank you for reading.
this prologue is just the beginning of what world class sin is going to be. a small taste of something heavier. i’ve had this concept sitting with me for a while now, and writing it has felt like peeling back something slow, sharp, and a little too intimate. the themes are layered — obsession, grief, beauty, control — and that’s exactly where this story lives. in the spaces between what’s seen and what’s endured.
there’s more coming soon, and things will only get deeper. the emotions, the tension, the unraveling — it’s all just starting. and if you’ve been peeking around the blog, you might’ve already caught a little spoiler floating around. hehe.
thank you for being here with me. and while you’re here, make sure you’re also being kind to yourself. drink some water, rest your eyes, and go easy on your heart when you need to.
more soon,
luke :)
— 🐶 annoying someone anonymously and your friend paying you for it? that's fun! partnering up for an important project with the same guy you've annoyed without realizing? not so much :(
sim jaeyun x m reader ! college au, classic teenager/suggestive jokes, possible slow updates :(
pairing: idol! Sunoo x member of XLOV! Reader (implied male)
IN WHICH: XLOV doesn't do the 1&Only dance trend with other idols, scared to make them uncomfortable. But Sunoo saw the challenge, and he really wants to do it. So what does he do? Beg management to ask XLOV's company for a dance challenge filming session.
featuring: XLOV members, and Jay.
— WRITTEN + SMAU!! ALL FAKE.
"하나 둘, 안녕하세요! 저희는 XLOV입니다!" (One two, hello we are XLOV!), the group greeted with a smile, bowing formally at the sight of senior idols in front of them.
"CONNECT! 안녕하세요, 저희는 ENHYPEN입니다." the two representing members of ENHYPEN bower too, with more energy— showing they wouldn't bite the XLOV members' ankles off.
Wumuti smiles, feeling less intimidated at the carefree appearance of the BE:LIFT group. "We're so glad you have found interest in our song," he'd smile.
"All Sunoo's idea honestly. He really loves that song.. what was it now?" Jay spoke up with a friendly grin.
"1&Only?" Rui finishes, eyeing the said member.
Sheepishly so, Sunoo nods with a chuckle. "Yeah, that one."
"And you're all aware of how the dance challenge for that goes right?" Y/n peeped into conversation, voice echoing through.
"Oh.. I only know the song." Jay shrugged, and pointed at Sunoo. "He does though."
"You haven't shown him?" Haru muses at the thought of Jay getting dragged blind.
"Ah.. nope!" Sunoo finally answers, snickering— which gains a laugh from the XLOV members.
"Hate to break conversation, we should start filming now." Wumuti snickers, as Hyun was already holding his phone up.
"Ah, Jay sunbaenim, here's what the dance looks like." Y/n nervously stammered, and unlocked their phone, scrolling through to show him the dance challenge.
Jay's eyes bulge out.
"Woah." is all he could say, as Sunoo beams seeing the dance. Jay slowly looks down and deadass holds his ass, wondering if he can shake it like.. yeah.
"We're not doing that part, sunbaenim." Y/n snorts, barely keeping it together.
"Oh, phew." Jay sighs with relief, shaking his head.
"Okay, now Y/n teach you both." Rui literally pushes them forwards, as the said member blinks, as he slowly regained bearings and nodded.
The minutes ticked by, the practice room filled with countings, laughs and comments from both groups. Hyun is to be seen recording everything, as Wumuti and Haru helped Y/n teach the two the choreography.
And eventually, the filming started. They took five tries, and they ended up being satisfied with it.
"Does this take look good?" Y/n asked, as a staff member (that Hyun dragged in out of sheer laziness), showed the footage.
"Hm, yeah it looks great." Sunoo nodded with a smile, looking at the member.
"Thank you so much for this opportunity. I really enjoyed it." Sunoo said with a grin, genuinely happy.
"Of course..!! We're also so happy you felt comfortable with us to do this." Y/n gave a thumbs up, and bowed.
"Aish, no need to be so formal." Sunoo shook his head, grinning widely now.
later that day, when the hallways are calmer and most people have already gone home, shinyu stops him near the stairs.
it’s quiet in that way schools only get when the day is officially over, lockers closed, footsteps distant, the air finally allowed to settle. yn is halfway down the steps, already thinking about what he would eat for dinner, when a familiar voice cuts through the silence.
"please remember to bring your ID tomorrow," shinyu says.
his tone is even, measured, like this is just another responsibility checked off a mental list. no judgment. no emphasis. no sign of anything unusual. clipboard tucked neatly under his arm, posture straight, expression unreadable.
yn spins around a little too fast.
"yeah," he says immediately. "totally."
he nods. once. twice. maybe three times. then, for good measure, he gives a thumbs-up, as if that seals the deal. shinyu accepts this without comment. he doesn’t smile. he doesn’t linger. he just nods once in return and turns away, footsteps already echoing down the hallway. calm. professional. unbothered.
like nothing happened.
like nothing ever happened.
yn stays frozen on the stairs for a second longer than necessary, staring at the spot shinyu just occupied, brain fully buffering. then he exhales, long and dramatic, like he’s just survived something life-altering.
the moment shinyu disappears around the corner, yn pulls out his phone. notes app, new note.
BRING ID
BRING ID
BRING ID
he stares at it, considers, then adds one more line at the bottom.
do not embarrass yourself again.
just in case.
prev • mlist • next
NOTE: just a heads up, this is completely fictional! this is my first ever smau fic (and my first fic overall), so I’m still learning. thank you for checking it out, and I hope you enjoy! 🫶
he jokes easily, slips into conversations without thinking, knows exactly when to laugh and when to talk just loud enough to be heard. he bumps shoulders with friends in line, teases heeseung about taking too long, lets yunjin drag him forward while he complains dramatically. he’s familiar with noise. comfortable in it.
this is his natural habitat.
and then there's shinyu.
shinyu stands near the voting booth like the concept of responsibility given a physical form—clipboard tucked neatly under his arm, expression calm, composed, completely unaffected by the chaos around him. people approach him with confidence, ask questions, thank him. shinyu answers smoothly every time.
yn watches all of this from two people away and suddenly forgets how words work. it’s not nerves, exactly. it’s more like everything in his head goes quiet all at once.
when it’s finally his turn, he steps forward too fast. his student ID slips from his fingers and hits the floor. behind him, someone laughs. yn laughs too—loud, easy, automatic—because that’s what he does. but shinyu is already bending down. he picks up the ID and hands it back like it’s nothing, like yn hasn’t just short-circuited entirely.
"student ID," shinyu says, professional, polite.
yn nods too quickly, mumbles something incoherent, their fingers brushing for half a second longer than necessary. he’s aware of every movement he’s making now. too aware. he votes. he should leave.
he doesn’t.
yn hovers, unsure what he’s waiting for, heart thudding like he’s about to say something stupid—which, historically, means he will. "you should vote and go," shinyu says, already turning his attention elsewhere. yn laughs. it comes out wrong.
"i already voted for you."
the silence is immediate, sharp. shinyu freezes, just for a moment, and it’s the first crack yn has ever seen in him. shinyu clears his throat.
"please move along," he says, voice steady again.
yn does, barely.
by the end of the day, he’s back to normal — talking too much, complaining loudly, pretending he didn’t almost combust in front of half the student body.
but when shinyu passes by again, clipboard finally closed, he pauses. "results are tomorrow," shinyu says.
"i’m not sleeping tonight," yn replies, half-joking, half-honest.
shinyu hesitates. then, softer, "get home safely."
yn smiles like an idiot after he leaves. he’s great with people. everyone knows that.
it’s just shinyu who turns him into a mess.
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NOTE: just a heads up, this is completely fictional! this is my first ever smau fic (and my first fic overall), so im still learning. thank you for checking it out, and I hope you enjoy! 🫶
NOTE: just a heads up, this is completely fictional! this is my first ever smau fic (and my first fic in general), so i'm still learning. thank you for checking it out, and I hope you enjoy! 🫶 (ts took so long omg)
shin junghwan — shinyu is the model student at 24/7 Academy — valedictorian, student council president, and someone who carries responsibility with quiet seriousness. he’s composed, observant, and deeply committed to keeping things running smoothly, not because he enjoys authority, but because he feels accountable for everyone around him. while yn's loud, rule-bending presence initially frustrates him, shinyu’s attention slowly shifts from obligation to concern, revealing a softer side beneath his controlled exterior — one that he’s not quite ready to acknowledge yet.
24/7 Academy Student Council —
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NOTE: just a heads up, this is completely fictional! this is my first ever smau fic (and my first fic overall), so I’m still learning. thank you for checking it out, and I hope you enjoy! 🫶
han yn — yn is a loud, impulsive student at 24/7 Academy whose name is said more often in detention slips than in praise. known for treating rules like suggestions and authority like a personal challenge, he somehow manages to be charming despite constantly being one complaint away from trouble. he’s social, expressive, and painfully bad at hiding his emotions — especially when it comes to his very obvious crush on the student council president, shinyu, who finds him irritating for all the wrong reasons.
yn's friends —
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NOTE: just a heads up, this is completely fictional! this is my first ever smau fic (and my first fic overall), so I’m still learning. thank you for checking it out, and I hope you enjoy! 🫶
Synopsis - shin junghwan(shinyu) is the school’s golden student — valedictorian, student council president, and perfect in every way. han yn is loud, reckless, and always one bad decision away from detention. they can’t stand each other. at least, that’s what shinyu thinks. Disciplinary Action ! follows a troublemaker with a crush and the golden boy who never meant to fall for him.
Pairing - tws! Shinyu x reader (m )
Status - ongoing! updates whenever i feel like it 🤑
Genre - enemies-to-lovers??, fluff, non-idol! Au, Highschool! Au, sfw, romance, mlm/bl, humor, slice of life, campus drama
Things to expect ! - Eunseok from Riize as yn's face claim, profanity, arguing, corny jokes, kys/kms jokes, smau + written format, reader gets insulted by his friends in almost every chapter, probably more but i'm not sure yet hwhe 😅✌️😊
Campaign Heart ! 🐧 ˚｡⋆୨୧˚
PROFILES!
01 academic probation
02 student council
CHAPTERS!
01 sybau
02 boring 😈😼 ( written part )
03 loser 😂🫵🤣 ( written part )
04 detention ( written )
05 fame comes at a price...
—more to go!
NOTE: just a heads up, this is completely fictional! this is my first ever smau fic (and my first fic overall), so I’m still learning. thank you for checking it out, and I hope you enjoy! 🫶
