it’s from when the two of you went to the farm two hours out from the city to pick strawberries. “it’s one of my dreams”, you had told him at the start of summer, a sweet sticky drip of strawberry ice cream threatening to fall from the edge of your cone, “i’ve just always wanted to go strawberry picking”.
wonwoo looked up strawberry fields nearby that night.
the day he chose to go, he recalls, turned out to be the hottest day of the summer. a killer day that wonwoo could do without reliving, but then he sees you with your big floppy hat and impossibly bigger smile and forgets all about the sun and it’s relentless heat. you pick another strawberry, the biggest, brightest one you can find, shove it in wonwoo’s face with a sigh of contentment, and drop it in your basket without saying a word. forget the heat, wonwoo just loved this day with you.
the rest of the memory unfolds as he expects it will. you pick some berries, take a break for homemade strawberry shortcake from the farm, and return to the field to pick some more. it’s only when both of you are done picking, when you’ve washed the fresh fruit and are strolling along a path of orange trees, that wonwoo notices that something in this memory is…off.
“do you remember that fight we had in the store by your mom’s place over cheese?” you ask suddenly, fingering through your basket for a strawberry. you find the perfect one, take a bite, and pause to lick the juice from around your lips. wonwoo finds it cute, smiling absently, while wiping your face with a napkin. “the super petty one when she was throwing that party for…”
“for my aunt.” wonwoo finishes for you. he finds a nearby trash bin and tosses the now pink napkin into it. “yeah, i remember that, but—“
wonwoo stops in his tracks. this isn’t how it happened.
“what?” you ask nonchalantly, searching your basket for another strawberry. “did i remember it wrong?”
“yes-well, no, it…” wonwoo trails off, grasping at the faintest sense of consciousness.
“what?” you repeat.
“that hasn’t happened yet.”
and your face the moment he says it… it just crushes him.
how can he describe it? it’s like when you tell a kid that the tooth fairy isn’t real. it’s like sobering up and aging a thousand years all at the same time. it’s like you’ve been pretending something—this—is real for so long you forgot that it’s all in your head. forgot it’s just a memory, wonwoo’s memory. that this moment isn’t happening in real time. it happened a year ago. and that party you mentioned only happened three months after the two of you visited this strawberry field. and that in the summer of this year, you and wonwoo are broken up. and have been for nearly two months.
this is a memory. but in this moment, with betrayal painted all over your face, in every crack and blemish and wrinkle, wonwoo struggles to remember why he wanted to forget it in the first place.
“you’re erasing me.” you say, so quietly and so heartbroken wonwoo barely even hears it. this isn’t part of the memory from the strawberry field. this is real. it’s you speaking to him, staring at him like you did when you broke up. it’s you, or whatever is left of you.
wonwoo can’t even say the words. he just nods.
and now, staring at him, in a memory that isn’t yours, you don’t look betrayed anymore—you look ashamed. “i erased you first didn’t i?”
wonwoo doesn’t even feel angered by the reminder. he just feels so fatigued by it. two months before now and ten months after this memory in the strawberry field, you and wonwoo broke up. you ended the relationship, cut ties, and went your separate ways. a week ago, wonwoo received an email that you were erasing him, a procedure to rid your mind of certain memories. in this case, your memory of him and your relationship.
revenge, wonwoo thinks flatly, still fighting against the fog to remember why he’s getting the same procedure done to him. no, he corrects, redemption.
“say something.” you say at last, right in front of him, basket of strawberries forgotten. literally. figuratively.
and of course, all wonwoo can think to say is, “why’d you forget me?”
he’s been wondering all week.
“why’d we break up?” you counter. it’s not meant in a rhetorical or mean way. it’s a genuine question. this version of you wasn’t the one that parted ways with him.
the memory shifts then. slipping out of his fingers like sand, he doesn’t try grasping after it. but he does think: he doesn’t want to forget that day. he wanted the procedure, yes, but that day he wants to keep. like a memento. like a relic of what used to be.
a new scene materializes. his first run in with you post break up, at a park by the river. he was going for a walk. you were sitting at a bench. he wastes no time, there isn’t enough of it to waste anyways. he runs straight to the bench he found you at that day.
“wonwoo,” you call when you see him approaching the bench.
“why’d you forget me?” he asks again, more fervently, breathless and flushed, hands grasping at your wind breaker with a desperation that he’d find embarrassing if this was real life. but it isn’t. it’s a memory he’s trying like hell not to forget.
“i was just so hurt.” you answer. and of course, this isn’t how this run in actually went. in real life, wonwoo saw you sitting there, stared for a moment too long and then bolted in the opposite direction. “i’m so sorry.”
“what if i don’t want to forget you?” wonwoo can already feel you slipping away. this moment was so short in real life, the memory is fleeting. and the last thing he hears before the river rises up from behind him and carries his consciousness away with the current is
“what if i regret erasing you from me?”
the next memory, is a hard one. the moment he knew it was time to call it quits. that winter had been so cold. it seemed to ice over your relationship. and god, wonwoo held on so hard for all of spring, praying the ice would melt away by summer. but it’s may and your kiss still tastes like freezer burn.
“hold on to something other than me.” you tell him, laying next to him under the sheets. the sun hasn’t risen yet. it’s a sunday. that wonwoo remembers. “hold on to the day we met.” wonwoo does. it was a beach. it was a beautiful day. the water was still freezing. “meet me there again in the morning.”
“but i’ll have forgotten you.”
“wonwoo,” you say with such sweetness and love, it knocks the breath out of his chest, “we fell in love once before. we can do it again.”
“what if it ends the same way? what if we break our hearts again?”
the memory is fading again. wonwoo can feel it getting pulled from beneath his feet. he holds on to that beach. he holds on to that freezing water. he remembers, he remembers, he remembers, he
wake up.
when wonwoo wakes up that morning, it’s like any other day. like any other day except for the odd feeling in his chest urging him to go to the beach, and the voice in his head telling him, “what if it doesn’t.”
Hey! This may seem a bit odd but I desperately wanna read a jeonghan fic called ‘Sunny Side Up’ by kirminghaos. The user has deactivated and I found that you had reblogged the fic back in 2020 ig… Do you happen to have any backup of the fic? because I couldn’t find any on the net and I really wanna read it😭
i'm sorry, i wish i did but unfortunately i do not </3
➳ summary: seokmin loves helping you out! he loves taking care of you! whether it be making you yummy food when you're sick or helping you reach for things, he loves helping you! so when he walks in on you shaving your legs, you really shouldn't have expected him to do anything other than offer his help.
➳ wc is approx 11.8k
➳ tags/warnings: friends to lovers, roommates to lovers. resolved pining, mutual pining. acts of service are his love language! top!seokmin, bottom!reader; service!top!seokmin. multiple orgasms, oversensitivity, pussy lover dk. fingering, eating out, mating press. bathroom and bed sex. dk's dirty talk includes lots of praise, he loves you!!! and you're gonna know it!!! petnames (baby, good girl, princess, sweetheart). razor and shaving talk, talk of body hair. talks of him listening to you masturbate, of him being a perv (sorry). big!dick!seokmin! banter and teasing, sex with light-hearted moments in between. they are in LOVE!!! and everyone probably knew except them tbh.
➳ author's note: lmk if i missed any tags! i hope y'all enjoy bc i certainly enjoyed writing it ^^ not proofread. mdni. thank you for @bitchlessdino and @himbocoups for helping me with the title!!! i really appreciate it ^^
People never seemed to believe you when you would say that you and Seokmin were just friends.
You knew what it looked like from the outside. Him, draped over your back, nuzzling into your neck; you, running to his side, wrapping your arms around his and squeezing. Him always turning to you first, holding his hand out to help you climb stairs; you watching him light up the room with his laughter and voice.
On the inside it was different. Because on the inside, for you, Seokmin wasn't just a friend.
His nuzzles made your heart flutter and tummy turn; whenever he offered you his hand you couldn't help but marvel at how beautiful his seemed, daydreaming of a day where the two of you would wear matching rings.
Seokmin was your first thought of the day and your last. The last thing you always did was send him a text good-night; the first, you'd check your phone for any messages from his. Whenever you caught sight of a flower you'd crouch down before it, trying to get the perfect angle to send him. Whenever you had something particularly good to eat you'd file it away at the corner of your mind, wanting to share it with him.
In this ever-changing world there were no constants; nothing was promised. No guarantee of two days of sunshine, no promise of a winter snow. But every day, for you, was constant in that every single day you was fully, entirely, wholly, incredibly in love with Lee Seokmin.
Nevertheless you'd swallow of that down, trying to hide your lovesick smiles and yearning eyes. For years you had succeeded, your love for him never-changing and always evolving to accommodate Seokmin was he grew from gangly teen to muscled man.
But sometimes --
Sometimes he did things that made you wonder.
You grabbed your plastic cup, holding it up to the bath faucet and filling it. The bathtub was cold beneath your thighs, you having changed into shorts and rolled them up, baring your legs to the world.
Once your leg was wet, having dumped the cupful of water, you grabbed exfoliating cloth. Adele sang from your phone as you scrubbed at your skin, your voice soft as you accompanied her.
You grabbed your shaving cream, squeezing it out onto your hand. The front door to the apartment opened and you paused, listening. And then Seokmin's voice, loud and clear, joined Adele's in harmony, and you resumed your task.
Your back was turned to the bathroom door, but you still knew when Seokmin appeared. Maybe it was from being in love with him for so long, but whenever he was near your body seemed to realize it before your mind ever did, as if it was in tune to him and reacted like a flower did the sun, constantly turning towards it.
He had paused his singing, but resumed once he found you in the bathroom. His voice bounced off the walls, surrounding you. "We were born and raised in a summer haze ~ bound by the surprise of our glory days."
You hum with him, slathering your legs with the cream. Seokmin stops belting, singing softly. He presses himself against your back, knees knocking against you, hands settling on your shoulders. "Whatcha doing in here?"
You twist your leg, making sure you covered behind your knee with the shaving cream. You often forgot about that area in particular, finding the hairs later in the night when you're in bed and cursing yourself for not being more aware.
"Shaving," you replied, spreading the cream over your knee. "It's that time of the week, Seokie."
Seokmin hummed, forefingers tapping against your shoulders to the beat of the song. "I don't think I've ever like, seen you shave."
"Well, usually I do it when I shower." You finish up spreading the shaving cream, flicking the excess into the tub. "But I showered yesterday and I don't really feel like showering today, you know?"
Seokmin made a noise of agreement. Then he ducked his head, bending. His sharp nose pressed into your hair; you could feel him inhale against your head. "Hm. Your hair smells good still."
"Still?" You parrot back, twisting to look at him. He's smiling softly, all golden skin and sweetness, so brilliant with his existence that you swear you'd need to start wearing sunglasses around him. "Are you suggesting my hair has ever smelled bad?"
Seokmin grinned, crossing his arms over his chest. He tapped at his chin in thought. "Hm. I feel as if answering this may end up with me having no roommate."
"That's what I thought." You gesture towards the counter behind him. "Can you turn off my music if you're gonna stay? Or at least turn it down. So I can hear you."
"No one has ever suggested they can't hear me before," Seokmin returned. But he did as you said, turning down the volume.
He watches, knees pressing against your back once more, as you pick up your razor. You slide off the case protecting the blade.
"Is shaving your legs hard?"
You shake your head. Then you're extending your leg across the tub, settling your foot on the opposite ledge. "It's just taxing, you know? It can get exhausting if you're standing while you do it. Plus if you shower while you do it you also risk the water going cold. And you can't really see behind your knee or other places, so you have to be careful to get them."
Seokmin was quiet. Then, "can I try?"
You pause from where your blade was pressed against your skin. Then you twist up to look at him, peering with narrowed eyes. "What?"
Seokmin shifted, biting down on his lip. He hadn't taken off his outside clothes, still dressed in a slightly too-large hoodie and baggy pants. His glasses were perched on the edge of his nose, making him all the more endearing.
"Can I shave your legs?"
You consider him for a moment. He had never asked before; no one ever had. All your life you had shaved your own legs, your own body. Someone else doing it was awfully intimate, you thought. Them wielding a blade, pressing it against your skin.
It was a form of trust. Trusting him to not hurt you; letting him run his hands over your legs, letting him close.
Shamefully your body reacted at that. Your heart sped in your chest, and a rush of heat traveled to your cunt and warmed it.
You shifted, fighting to ignore how the movement stimulated your cunt. "I mean. Don't you think it's gross?"
"What would be gross about it?" Seokmin cocked his head to the side, a gentle smile on his face. "It's just hair."
"So it is," you return, feeling a grin of your own stretch over your lips. You drop your leg from the ledge. "Go change into clothes you don't mind getting wet, Seok."
He's still grinning when he leaves the bathroom, his hands already pulling at the hem of his hoodie to pull it off. You can't help but stare after him until he rounds the corner, the image of his smooth back burnt into your mind.
You press your hand to the cold bath tile. Okay. Seokmin was going to shave your legs. He was going to have a hand on your leg, at least one; he was going to be close. He was going to be kneeling before you, maybe sitting. His eyes would be level with your knees, maybe even -- maybe even your cunt.
The thought of him sitting before you, level with your cunt, sent sparks through you, heat traveling through you and settling deep. Your cunt reacted, clenching, and when you shifted you could feel the little trickle of wetness leak from it.
Fuck. Fuck! Seokmin was doing something out of the purity of his heart, with sweet and innocent intentions, and here you were turning it into something perverted and filthy.
But still: Lee Seokmin sitting before you, level with your cunt, peering up at you with wide eyes. Him serving you, even just by shaving your legs.
Seokmin reappeared. He changed into shorts, bare feet slapping against the floor. He wore a white tank top, showing off his sun-kissed skin, strong shoulders and thick bicecps. You really couldn't help but stare, eyes traveling over him.
The way his tank clung to his chest, outlining his breasts. The way the straps of his tank top hung loosely to his shoulders, revealing smooth skin, the sharp edges of his collarbone. His sleeveless arms, thick with muscles and veins protruding when he reached out. Long legs on display, the long line of his neck shown off by the steep collar of the shirt.
And of course his face. His dark twinkling eyes and noble nose, strong jaw and high cheekbones. His large smile and how it sparkled.
Seokmin climbed into the tub, careful not to trip on you. He stood before you, grinning triumphantly. "There! All comfy cozy and ready to shave!"
You laughed, reaching out and softly kicking his shin with your toes. "Okay, Seok. Why don't we turn on the faucet, you'll need to rinse out the razor."
Seokmin flipped on the faucet, letting it trickle. Then he climbed down to sit on the floor of the tub, smiling up at you. He kicked at your foot in return. "Razor, sweetheart."
You handed him your razor, watching as he carefully slid the protective sleeve. "God, Seokmin. You've really got big ass feet."
He gasped, setting the sleeve on the tub edge. "You're so mean! Here I am, shaving your legs, and you're making fun of me!"
You extended your leg, resting it beside him. Seokmin took initiative, wrapping his hand around your ankle, ignoring the shaving foam that transferred to his hand from the action. He lifted your foot, using his free hand to tug up his shorts as to not get the foam on them, settling your foot on his thigh.
"Don't worry Seok," you wiggle your toes against his skin. He grinned up at you, reaching out and running the razor under the water. "You've got cute big ass feet."
He laughed, loud and bright. Seokmin set the razor against the bottom of your ankle, and slowly, carefully, he ran it up your leg.
You watched as he moved his hand back to the faucet, running his thumb downward on the razor, collecting your hairs from it. It was weirdly intimate, watching him clean your razor from your leg hair.
He moved his hand back to your leg, veins on his arms flexing as he took care not to be rough with you. You ran your eyes over him. His shorts were pushed up, revealing his plush golden thighs. You shifted your fingers against the edge of the tub. You wanted to reach out and settle your hand against his thigh, to feel his muscles and thickness.
Seokmin was extremely careful with you. He kept a steady grip on your leg and razor. Every so often Seokmin would lower his fae to your leg, looking over it to make sure that he hadn't missed a hair.
"This is kinda fun," Seokmin murmured, glancing up at you, "taking care of you like this."
You grinned down at him. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," he returned. He clean the razor, rotating your leg against his thigh. You pushed against his thigh a little; he squeezed your ankle in return. Seokmin began working at the side of your leg. "I don't know. It feels like -- I don't know. I just like taking care of you. Even like this."
You don't really know what to say to that. Seokmin was, everyone could agree, extremely sweet. There was no disagreement about that.
But his sweetness was both horrible and wonderful for you and your heart. He made you swoon and your heart race, made you want to reach out and throw your arms around him and press your mouth to his. His words and actions were dangerous -- they made you want to risk it all.
I just like taking care of you.
Sometimes they made you wonder.
Seokmin hummed along to the music, faint in the background. "Do you remember when you got sick? That time when you couldn't move?"
You sighed, rolling your eyes at the memory. "Wow. Thanks for bringing that up, Seok."
"No!" His eyes went wide, puppy-like. "No! I only mean -- when I made you that big pot of samgyetang? And I helped you wash your hair, and went and got you medicine?"
You frowned at the memories of that horrible week. "I'm sorry you had to do that, Seokmin. I feel bad making you --"
"No!" He cried out again, shaking his head. He set the razor down on the tub floor, wetting his hand under the faucet and using it to wipe down the leftover foam from where he had finished shaving. He picked back up the razor again, lowering his face to the space beneath your knee, intent on getting the few hairs leftover.
"I didn't mean it like that, sweetheart," Seokmin mumbled. He glanced up between you and your leg. "I didn't. I just brought it back up because I just wanted to say that I like taking care of you. Getting medicine, making you soup, shaving your legs. I don't mind it. Really, baby. I like taking care of you. I like it."
All air seemed to leave you; your brain flat-lined. It was like the whole universe just disappeared and nothing existed out of you, the bathroom, and Seokmin.
"Seok," you breathed, unable to really say much else. You wanted to say a million words, wanted to take the leap from off the cliff and into his arms. But how could you, when you were still unsure that he would be at the bottom to catch you? How could you when, despite all his sweet words, you didn't know the true color of them, whether they were painted in the gentle shades of friendship and platonic love or whether they mirrored yours.
He bit down on his lip, not looking at you. He moved your leg, extending it up and out. Seokmin rested your leg on his shoulder, giving him easier access to the space behind your knee.
Your shorts shifted, the movement catching Seokmin's eyes. You felt heat rush to your face. Ignoring him, you hurriedly smoothed your shorts back down, tugging them lower and concealing your inner thighs.
Seokmin went back to shaving. He gently pressed the razor to your skin, take care not to hurt you. Your gaze smoothed over the positioning of his fingers against the razor, over his strong forearms.
You wanted him. You wanted Lee Seokmin like flowers wanted sun and rain, like mountains wanted the sky, desperately rising over the horizon and kissing it.
It was horrible, you couldn't help but think. All this time being committed to Seokmin, being devoted to your friendship. Years of loving him, from the slope of his nose to his barking laughter; years of repressing it, content to just be at his side even as he held the hand of another.
You were content, you would tell yourself. You were -- you would say, watching as Seokmin looked at another with stars and suns in his eyes -- satisfied with this, with sharing memories and wishing to share a future with him, even if it meant one shrouded in friendship.
You were content with his friendly affections, you'd tell yourself. You were glad to know that every passing hug, cuddle, his sweet little kisses pressed to your cheek were all borne from the kindness of a close friend.
But your traitorous heart stammered and stormed in its trap, calling out. You weren't content. You weren't content with just staying at his side as a friend, you weren't content with knowing that one day you would watch him give his entire heart to another and you would be no one but a dear friend, a footnote in his life.
It was cruel, you thought, watching as Seokmin gently turned your leg, looking for any more stray hairs. It was cruel to love someone so kind and genuine, so sweet and honest.
"There," he announced, squeezing your leg. Seokmin smiled toothily up at you. "All done with this leg! You're as smooth as a rock, I'd say."
You raised your eyebrows in recognition. "Yeah? You reckon?"
"I reckon so," Seokmin returned. He placed the razor on the bathtub ledge, far from you. He then, softly, gently, fervently, ran his hand along your leg. He hummed, his eyes downcast, watching as his own fingers slowly mapped out your leg.
You swallowed, heart in your throat. His touch was horrific.
His touch made you yearn and lust in turn. You wanted his touch against you all the time, wanted to feel his hand in yours. You wanted to be able to grab his hand and run your fingers over his. You wanted his fingers to travel over your leg, up and up and up; to push beneath your shorts, to press against your panties and claim your cunt as his.
Then, nightmarish, as if it had come out of your most horrid dreams, you felt warmth flood through you, felt your wetness trickle out of your cunt and stain your panties.
A moment, and then you realized, with great horror, that you could smell it. Your shorts did nothing to hide your smell, as baggy as they were. You could smell your cunt through your panties and shorts, and you, with your stomach churning and rising into your throat, knew that there was no way Seokmin wouldn't smell it.
His dark eyes glanced up to you.
Immediately you withdrew, pressing your hands against the edge of the tub. You moved your leg from his shoulder, refusing to look at him, heart hammering and twisting and you knew you would have to move out. You would have to move from your apartment, from your city. There was no way you could face your friends again, let alone Seokmin.
Fuck -- what about your parents? They knew Seokmin; they loved him. They always asked after him, always so openly adored him. What would they do when you told them you no longer could see Seokmin, when you told them that the reason was because you were stupidly horny for him, that your lust ruined years of friendship.
"I think I'll finish later," you murmured, still not looking at him. "Sorry."
Then Seokmin was throwing himself forward, knees clanging against the tub. He wound his arms around your waist, stilling your movement, keeping you on the edge of the tub.
Surprised, you looked down at him and met his eyes. They were impossibly round, like saucers. He held the universe in his eyes, and you wanted to drown in it. "Y/n," he began, his chest against your knees; you could feel him breathing against your legs. "Wait. I need to tell you something."
Your heart leapt and fell in the same second, as if you had jumped for joy and instead found the earth had disappeared beneath you. "Seok, really --"
"No!" He pouted, pressing himself closer. He peered up at you, incredibly sweet. "It's important."
You wet your lips. Then you settled your hands over his arms, squeezing gently. "Okay."
Seokmin took a deep breath, eyes fluttering shut. But then he looked you in the eye, flicking his head to keep his bangs from obscuring his view of you.
"I -- I'm a horrible person."
You blinked once; twice; thrice. "What?"
He let out a loud groan, the noise echoing aruond the bathroom. He burrowed forward, forcing your thighs apart and placing his face against your stomach. Instinctively you settled your hand on his head, fingers carding through his hair. "Seokmin, you're not a bad person --"
"I am," he insisted, sharp nose pressing against your tummy. "I'm horrible. I've been lying to you this entire time."
You grew alarmed, brows furrowing. You tugged on his hair, trying to get him to show his face, but he resisted, whining. "Seokmin, you've got to be more clear with me. I don't understand what you're saying, sweetheart."
He whined again. "I wanted to shave your legs!"
You tilted your head, confused. "I mean -- yeah? It's not like you ask to shave someone's legs without wanting to? Like, it's really an intimate activity, I reckon, so --"
Seokmin groaned. "Baby," he said, shifting so he could peer up at you. He was pouting still, and you couldn't help but move your hand from his hair to his face, cupping his cheek. "That's not what I meant."
"So say what you mean, Seok," you murmured. "I can't understand you if you beat around the bush. Just because we've been friends for years doesn't mean I can read your mind all the time."
Seokmin nodded, tangling his fingers in the fabric of your shirt. He pulled at it, twisted it. "I wanted to shave your legs because it gave me an excuse to be with you."
"Seok --"
"Wait," he rushed on, dark brown eyes pleading. "Don't -- let me just talk, okay? Even if you don't understand."
At your nod, he carried on. He kept one of his arms around you, the other still messing with your shirt. "I -- I wanted to shave your legs because I like doing things for you. Not because we're friends -- well, I mean, of course we're friends, but I don't do it just to be -- you know, friendly. I mean, I'd make soup for any friend who's sick, yeah. But do you think I'd get in the bathtub to shave their legs?
"Like -- I wanted to be close to you, I wanted to do something for you. I wanted to -- to touch you, Y/n. I -- I'm horrible like that," he added, voice softer. "I'm horrible because I -- I've been taking advantage of you. When you were sick I pretended I was your boyfriend taking care of you, and when you ask if I could bring you something at work I pretend that I'm your boyfriend doing little errands.
"And -- and when I asked to shave your legs, it was just because I wanted to touch you and touch your legs. And like yeah, I did want to help you with shaving but that's because I love spending time with you and being with you and helping you. I love helping you reach things, I love it when you let me hug you when we're around our friends, I love it when you let me do weird stuff like shaving your legs, and I --
"I'm in love with you," he finished, voice going quiet.
For a moment the two of you were still. Your hearts didn't beat, your minds went silent; you wouldn't be surprised if even your blood stopped flowing.
"Seok," you breathed, eyes wide. You trapped his face between your hands, held the entire universe between your two mortal hands. "Seok -- I've liked you ever since you drove through the rain to get me from my campus dorm during the beginning of spring break. I've been in love with you ever since you invited me to that little painting activity at Minghao's job."
Seokmin's eyes were wide. "That's -- that was so long ago --"
"Do you remember? Do you remember that you got paint on your nose, and I pointed it out? And you laughed, and that was it."
"That was it?" He echoed, reverent. "I felt so guilty after, Y/n. I had pretended it was a first date, that you had -- that we were on our first date."
You laughed softly, a calm sort of excitement coursing through you. It was odd, how keyed up and in tune to Seokmin you were; but at the same time you felt serene, as if you had finally found the last puzzle piece to something you had been working on for years, and you were about to put it in place and step back to admire it.
"I would've said yes," you said, hands shifting on his face. You brushed your fingers over the shell of his ear, just marveling in the feeling of his skin beneath your fingers. "If you had asked, then. I would've said yes. I never would've imagined you had liked me all that time ago."
Seokmin huffed a laugh, as if he was in disbelief. "For me it was when we went to that flower festival. Remember? It was me and you and Jeonghan and Joshie. And you had stopped to take a picture of the flowers -- they were yellow tulips -- and then you put your phone down and you just looked at them, as if they were the most gorgeous things in the universe, and I just couldn't look away from you.
"I still can't stop looking at you," he carried on, swallowing. "Ever since then I haven't been able to look away."
Your eyes stung, your heart sang. You sunk your fingers into his wavy dark hair, thumbing at the strands. "All this time?"
"Of course," he said, brows pinched at the center. "How could I not have been in love with you?"
You barked out a harsh laugh, taking your hand away from his hair. You pressed it against your eyes, trying to force your tears away. "Fuck. Fuck. All this time -- I thought you had wanted to move in with me because you didn't have a choice, because Josh had moved out."
He sighed, reaching up. Seokmin took your hand in his, squeezing gently. "Never. Living with you has been one adventure after another, Y/n. And each single one had the best endings because you were there."
"Seok." It was like his love was water and your heart was a cup, overflowing with it. "I'm in love with you."
He laughed, and then Seokmin rose to his knees fully. He unwound his arms from around you, cupping your cheeks between his large hands. You let him guide your head down, eyes fluttering shut before his lips even met yours.
Seokmin kissed you with confidence, any insecurities he must have felt having left him as soon as you affirmed your feelings for him. His mouth was insistent against you, kissing you as if this, too, was another way for him to show his adoration and love for you.
Your hands went to his shoulders, grabbing. You twisted the fabric of his tank top in your hands, nails scraping lightly against his tanned skin when his tongue skimmed along your lower lip.
He pulled back slightly. "I love you. You're so beautiful. I love you."
You used your grip on his shirt to guide him back to your mouth, tongue rolling into his mouth. Seokmin let you lead, let you slide your tongue against his, let you suck on his lower lip.
When the two of you parted both of you were breathing heavily, gasping for air. He pressed his nose against yours, bumping gently, the small action making your heart flutter.
Seokmin fell back to his knees, hands resting gently on top of your knees. He traced figures into your skin as he looked at you, dark eyes flickering over your face, memorizing you.
You couldn't help but just look at him back. His beautiful nose and lips, the beauty marks that decorated his face. His eyes, the way his bangs fell and covered his forehead. He was beautiful, even there, on the floor of the bathtub.
Seokmin sighed softly. He ducked his head, pressing a kiss to the kneecap of your unshaven leg. He ran his hand along your calf, uncaring of how the small hairs pricked at his fingers.
"I love you," you can't help but say, smiling down at him. "I love you, Seokmin."
He was quick to echo the sentiment, unwilling to let your words go without a response. Those three words were like a melody, and he refused to let it go without its harmony, refused to let them go unanswered.
Seokmin reached beside you, grabbing the can of shaving cream. His hands were large and long enough that they made the can seem small. "How much do I need?"
You settled your foot on his thigh, unreserved with your touch. "Just enough to fill your palm will be good."
The sound of the can spritzing out cream filled the air, and as soon as you saw just how much cream fit into his palm your eyes widened. His hands were large, of course, just like his feet and nose and - ahem, anyways. His hands were large, and filling his palm meant that he used a good amount of the shaving cream, more than you would need.
He laughed, swiping his finger through the cream. "It feels like a cloud."
"You wouldn't be able to actually feel a cloud," you murmured. "They're just made up of tons of little water drops. I think if you were to put your hand through it all that would happen is your hand would get damp."
Seokmin shot you a look. He rubbed the cream together then he began spreading it along your leg and knee. His touch was light, rubbing and massaging your leg, ensuring that every part was covered. "I didn't mean it literally. I know that I can't actually touch a cloud."
You hummed. "Well, first there's the problem of reaching it to consider."
"I'll eat tons of veggies and just grow super long legs," he logically explained. "Long enough that I can reach the clouds no problem."
"That brings two issues to the table, though." Seokmin turned on the bathtub faucet just enough to rinse off his hands, getting the shaving cream off. Once done he turned it off again, reaching for the razor. "First of all, how could we talk to each other if you're so tall so you could tell me what clouds feel like?"
Seokmin ducked his head, keeping an eye on his hand as he slid the razor against your leg, ankle to shin. "I'd take a walkie-talkie."
"Do walkie-talkies work so high up?"
Seokmin cocked his head, pausing. "Well. I could take a radio with me."
"Wait," you gasped, eyes wide. "We can just use our phones. I forgot that planes literally are at cloud level and you can call from planes. We're idiots."
"Idiots in love," Seokmin said, grinning widely, his eyes crinkling from the force of it.
You laughed. "Okay okay. Idiots in love, I suppose." Then you paused, furrowing your brows. "I just realized we totally confessed our love for one another, which we both had assumed was unrequited for at least four years, and you're back to shaving my legs."
Seokmin shrugged. "Do you have a problem with that?"
"I mean. It's sort of lackluster, isn't it? In the movies love confessions are usually met with, you know." You felt heat travel to your face, and you looked at your shampoo bottle across the tub.
"No, I don't know," Seokmin said, and you could hear the grin in his voice even if you couldn't see it. "You'll have to tell me, sweetheart."
You threw him a sharp look, ignoring how a smile of your own was growing. "You have to admit that shaving my legs after our confession is a little weird."
"I don't think it's weird," Seokmin said. "I'm not just shaving your legs. I'm shaving your legs with love."
"Funny," you said, voice dry, "I thought you were shaving them with shaving cream."
Seokmin snorted, a loud noise that had you immediately laughing, throwing your head back. He snorted again in between chuckles, leading to another bout of laughter that made you nearly slip from the edge of the bathtub, your grip on the ledge not as tight due to your laughter.
Immediately Seokmin was dropping the razor beside his leg, settling his large hands on your hips and steadying you. He was practically beaming at you, the sunshine on his face so bright that you could hardly stand to look at it for fear of going blind. You continued to look at him though, too caught in the radiance of Lee Seokmin to even think of looking away.
"Careful!" He chided you, hands squeezing. "Don't want my new girlfriend falling. Unless it's for me."
"Of course," you said, hands settling on his arms. "Naturally."
Seokmin hummed. He squeezed his hands around your waist once more, fingers playing with the flesh there, massaging it. "What was the other thing? You said you had two problems with me eating veggies."
"I didn't say that," you giggled, moving your hand up his arm and to his shoulder, slipping your fingers underneath the strap of his tanktop and pulling at it. "But, as I was saying, if you grow super long legs and go to touch the clouds, we won't be able to talk --"
"Which would suck."
"-- and," you continued, watching as you tugged at the strap, revealing more of his sun-kissed shoulder and collar, "we wouldn't be able to kiss."
He was quiet for a moment. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," you breathed, taking in his body, how sturdy he seemed before you, how strong he was. "You'd be too high up. Wouldn't be able to reach your mouth."
"Fuck," he exclaimed, and then Seokmin was pressing his mouth to yours once more.
You inhaled sharply, arms winding around his shoulders. He kissed passionately, quickly, mouth never still for more than a moment, intent on marking your lips as his. Seokmin's hand went from your hip, smoothing over the skin of your bare thigh, fingers pressing against where your shorts had ridden up, bunched at the crease of your thigh.
"Y/n," he spoke against your mouth in a mumbled rush, your name the prayer of the worshiper before you, "can I -- you don't have to do anything, I just wanna feel you, I wanna touch you. Please, Y/n, please."
You nodded against him. His mouth claimed yours once more, claimed your lips and your breath and tongue, all as his, as if he hadn't had claim over your entire being for years, even if he didn't know it.
Seokmin's hands went to your shorts, and then you were lifting off of the ledge of the tub just enough for him to pull your shorts down your legs. You watched, with half of your mind present, as it slid alongside your leg with the shaving cream still smoothed over it, creating a mess of your shorts.
Seokmin's own clothes were getting covered with shaving cream, but he showed no sign of caring. He pressed close, one hand tangling in the back of your shirt, rucking it up and baring part of your back, his other hand gripping your thigh, thumb pressing into the flesh of your inner thigh.
"Let me," he begged, nose bumping into your cheek, spit smearing over your mouth, "let me touch you. I wanna touch your cunt, wanna see it. Please? Know you have a cute little cunt, a pretty little pussy just like the rest of you."
"Seok," you exclaimed. Or you tried to; your lungs seemed to have no air, and every word left your lips breathy, without any weight. "Seok, I want -- want you."
His fingers brushed over your cunt through your underwear and it was as if you had been electrocuted. Seokmin's touch sent a shock through you, your legs widening and head tipping back, unable to do anything other than offer your body up for him to devour.
Seokmin traced your cunt with his thumb, mapping it out. Once his thumb found your clit he let out a small, shaky laugh. Seokmin ducked his head, thumb pressing down against your clit, massaging it.
"Seokmin," you gasped, brows furrowing. He pressed his fingers against your hole, keeping his thumb against your clit. Despite the fabric of your underwear acting as a barrier he pushed his fingers in, cunt sucking and clenching greedily.
"It's okay sweetheart," he murmured, capturing your lips with his once more. You could barely kiss him, your mind not on his lips but his fingers as they pressed into you, as his thumb rubbed at your clit.
"You're beautiful," Seokmin whispered, hand leaving your cunt. You whined, a pout immediately pulling at your lips. Seokmin laughed softly, fondly, pressing his mouth against yours and kissing your pout away.
His hands didn't leave your cunt. He pulled at your underwear, fingers slipping inside. Seokmin sighed against your mouth, fingers slowly, gently, pressing into your hole, dipping into your cunt. His thumb, meanwhile, returned to your clit; he didn't press against it like before, instead tracing around it, thumb barely brushing over your clit as he focused on the area around it.
Your mouth fell open, brows furrowed, feeling something sting at the corners of your eyes. Soft little moans left your mouth, hips canting up into his touch, just as greedy as Seokmin was for him to claim you.
Seokmin's mouth wandered from your face to your neck. He pressed lingering kisses to your skin, teeth pulling and mouth sucking. Your mind seemed to whirl, trying to focus on the sensations of his mouth while also on his hand.
You felt surrounded by Seokmin. You felt as if he was taking you whole, despite him only using his hands and mouth.
"You sound so beautiful, you know that?" He said, teeth skimming along the place where your shoulder and neck met. "You -- don't be mad at me. But when you'd touch yourself I could hear, sometimes, and you always sound so beautiful, so gorgeous and tempting and I can't help but listen."
You moaned, not even in the presence of mind to think seriously of Seokmin's words. You heard him talk about listening, about how he liked to hear you touch yourself, and you couldn't help but think of it. Of your dildo deep in your cunt, trying to muffle your moans but Seokmin hearing them anyways, pressed against your bedroom door, listening.
"You're so beautiful 'n gorgeous," he babbled on, mouth hot against your skin. His fingers plunged into your cunt, two slowly burying themself in, stretching you out. Your cunt accepted them greedily, hips chasing after his fingers, trying to force them in.
Seokmin pulled away, leaning his head against your arm. He stilled his fingers inside of you, though his thumb still traced figures around your clit. "Fuck, you're an angel. You're so eager for me, aren't you? You want me. You want me."
You whined, grabbing at him. Seokmin let you, tilting his head towards your wandering hands as you sunk your fingers into his hair. "'course," you mumbled, one of your hands moving to the shell of his ear, tracing it. "'course I want you. I need you, Seokmin, need you."
Seokmin turned his head towards your hands, pressing his lips against your fingers. "Don't worry, princess. You've got me. You got me."
He buried his fingers the rest of the way into your cunt, eyes carefully watching your face for discomfort. It burned, slightly. His fingers were thin but the two of them were a stretch, but you knew -- just from glancing down at the large bulge in his pants -- he'd need to fit another in for you to even think of taking him.
Seokmin pulled his hand from your hip, and then he was putting that hand, too, down to your cunt. He hooked his fingers in your panties, using his long digits to pull it aside. He moved his thumb from your clit, replacing it with the one that had been on your body. Then he began shifting the fingers that were in your cunt, a third poking at your hole, searching inside of you.
You tried to center your attention on his hands, on how his dark brow furrowed with concentration as he tried to find your core. But his thumb felt so good as he rubbed at your clit, grinding down on it and making you want to ride his hand, toes curling. And the stretch of his fingers as he slid the third finger in felt so good, burned just enough for it to feel right.
You wanted and yearned and lusted and thirsted, and he was giving it to you.
"Seok --"
"Can you cum like this, baby?" He asked, dark eyes flicking up to yours. "Can you cum on my fingers, princess? I bet you can. You're always so good for me, yeah? Always so good to me. I know you can cum, yeah?"
He adjusted his fingers towards your front, and you couldn't help but press your nails into his shoulders as his fingers brushed against your core. The squelching of your cunt seemed loud, and combined with the warmth that flooded through your body at Seokmin's touch the music -- which still played from your phone -- went greatly unnoticed.
A few well-aimed thrusts with his fingers towards your core, the thumb of his other hand grinding down on your clit in tandem, and you were orgasming around him. You couldn't help but drape your body over his, relying on Seokmin's strength to keep you from falling.
He continued fucking you with his fingers as you came, his beautiful voice flooding your ears and mind. All you could think was him and his touch, even as your nerves exploded and, eventually after some time, mended.
Seokmin had slid his hand from your cunt, no longer stimulating your clit, in favor of wrapping it around you. He held you, up on his knees, face pressed into your neck. He was talking when you felt your mind return to your body, his voice sweet and beautiful.
"-- so beautiful, you know that? Sometimes when you smile at me I think that I'll die right then and there. Especially when you like, look up from what you're doing and stop doing it just to smile at me. Makes me feel special, you know?"
You laughed breathlessly against him. Seokmin stiffened for a moment, and then he was giggling along with you. "You okay, sweetheart?"
You nodded, pulling back. You took him in; the way his eyes lingered on you, his tongue running over his lips.
He shifted, his fingers inside of you following his movement. You winced, fingers flinching against his shoulders. "Shit -- sorry, princess."
Seokmin slowly withdrew his hand from within you. Despite of it all, despite having came only minutes before, when his fingers dragged against your walls you couldn't help but clench around them, hips grinding down on him.
Seokmin glanced up at you, eyes wide. You felt heat rush to your face, but you didn't look away. "I -- sorry."
"Why?" He demanded, hand settling on your thigh. "Can you -- do you think you can do it again?"
Your cunt clenched. You nodded, and Seokmin grinned blindingly. He stood tall above you, and for a moment your gaze lingered on the way his tank top hung from his torso, how his own shorts were bunched around his thighs and his dick was visible through them, large and long.
But then your eyes caught sight of the shaving cream stuck to his clothes. You glanced down your own body, and sure enough your shorts and legs were covered in shaving cream, made a mess by your impatient bodies.
You began giggling, leaning down and swiping your fingers through the shaving cream. You flicked it at Seokmin, the cream plopping against his shirt. "Before we go anywhere we need to leave our clothes in here. They're absolutely covered in shaving cream."
Seokmin giggled along, tangling with your own laughter and making it a melody. Then his hands were at the hem of his tank top, pulling, and all laughter ceased from you, eyes locked on him.
You watched, perhaps far too eagerly, as he lifted up his top. Your eyes were stuck on his figure, drinking in every single millimeter of sun-kissed skin he revealed. Seokmin was all lean angles, his stomach firm and shoulders broad, though his chest was soft.
"Stop looking at me like that," he laughed, flinging his tank top to his feet.
"And how am I looking at you, Seok?"
His fingers hooked into the waistband of his shorts. Seokmin's ears were flushed with color, trying to hide the smirk that was slowly overtaking him from how he enjoyed the weight of your eyes on his body. "You're looking at me like I'm something you wanna eat."
"Hm," you hummed, eyes on his hips. He had wide hips, and when he began pulling down his shorts, revealing skin slightly paler than his arms, you couldn't help but suck in your lip in appreciation. "Wonder why I'd look at you like that, Seok."
His pants dropped to the floor of the bathtub, leaving Seokmin just in his black boxer briefs. They did nothing to hide the shape of his dick, and when he turned to drop and grab the razor he abandoned, putting it safely on the ledge of the tub, your eyes flicked down to his ass, appreciative.
Seokmin's eyes darted up to yours. Then he let out a surprised noise, hand reaching out and slapping your knee. "Stop looking at me like that!"
You laughed loudly, reaching for him. You looped your arms around his thighs, bringing him close. He let out a low, strangled sound as you pressed your face against his thigh, lips kissing the fabric of his boxer briefs. "Come on, Seokmin. Give me a break. You just said that you've been listening to me masturbate but I can't look at you and appreciate you?"
He huffed, hands coming to rest in your hair. Seokmin guided your head back, and you tried to ignore the large shape of his dick and how it grazed against your cheek.
"Fuck," he whispered, "you look beautiful like this."
You let out a breath of laughter, ducking your head and burying your face against his thigh again. And then you were pushing him back, rising from the edge of the bathtub.
Seokmin watched, just as greedily as you had, as you hooked your hands into the waistband of your shorts. You pushed them down, ignoring how they fell through the shaving cream still on your legs. You grabbed them, and, still bent, you began wiping at the rest of the remaining shaving cream.
"Wait." Seokmin's hands went to your shoulders, and then he was pushing you back up. He took your shorts before crouching down, his knees popping. Seokmin began wiping at your legs, your little dark leg hairs reemerging, triumphant at surviving another day without being shaved.
You tangled one of your hands in his hair, playing with the long strands. "Gosh, Seokie. You're gonna make me start to think that you like being on your knees."
He stopped, eyes wide as he looked up at you.
You laughed, your free hand going to cup his cheek. "You do. You like being on your knees for me, don't you?"
Seokmin huffed, tossing your shorts to join his discarded clothes. "Already said I like helping you."
You cooed, pinching his cheek. Then you withdrew, stepping out of the tub. You looked down at your shirt and gasped, pulling at it. "Oh no!"
Seokmin was at the edge of the tub in an instant, reaching for you. "What is it?"
"I've got shaving cream on my shirt, too," you said, despite there not being a single ounce of cream anywhere on your shirt. "I'll have to leave it in here, too, I guess."
Then you were tugging it up and off, throwing it into the bathtub. Seokmin's eyes were froze on your chest, drinking you in. The curve of your breasts, the line of your shoulders. The shape of your throat, the bend of your stomach.
You grabbed your phone, finally stopping the music -- You Found Me by the Fray. You pretended to frown, looking down at your phone screen. "Oh no, I've got a text from Jeonghan --"
"Like hell you do!" Seokmin said, jumping from the tub. He grabbed your phone, placing it on the counter. Then his hands were on your hips, pushing you from the bathroom and down the hall, ignoring the sound of your laughter as he directed you.
He lifted you up and threw you onto his bed, grinning as you laughed at his eagerness. You crawled up to the head of his bed, excitement shooting through you as you felt the bed dip from his weight.
Seokmin's hands went to your waist, and then he was flipping you over. He went to his knees between your legs, large hands going to your thighs and spreading them, letting him press closer. His dark eyes drank you in, as if you were a masterpiece hanging at the Met and not his friend and roommate and maybe-lover laying on his bed.
"You're perfect," Seokmin informed you, hands smoothing up your thighs. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, raising his eyebrows in question. You lifted your lower half in answer, helping him guide your underwear the rest of the way down your legs.
Seokmin threw them down the bed, paying no attention to where they fell. His hands went back to your legs, running over both your freshly shaven leg and your hairy one all the same.
It was ridiculous, you thought, how his lack of preference sent a rush of warmth through you and wetness to your cunt.
His hands finished his journey at the apex of your thighs, thumbs pressing against the soft insides. Seokmin pushed them apart, baring your cunt, his eyes immediately transfixed on your pussy.
"Seokmin," you whined, squirming. "Stop staring at it like that."
He exhaled, biting down on his lip. His eyes flickered between your eyes and your cunt. "How about -- listen. I need to eat you out."
You sighed, throwing your head back against the pillows. They smelled like him, and coupled with his warm body against you, you felt surrounded by Seokmin. But you wanted more, you wanted his body actually on you, wanted to feel his weight covering you. "Seokmin, I want to feel you inside --"
"You will!" He interrupted, already lowering himself to the bed. He was golden, from his skin to his smile, gentle and reassuring. "I'll fuck you, princess, don't worry. I just want to taste you. Your cunt's so pretty, baby, I can't help it."
Then he was pressing his face down against your pussy, inhaling deeply as if you were a thousand-dollar bottle of perfume and not you, as if he was surrounded by flowers and not the smell of your pussy.
"You even smell good," he murmured, nose pressing against your mound. "Fuck. I knew you would, baby. I knew you'd smell good. Always smell so good, of course your pussy would smell pretty too."
"Seokmin," you whined, embarrassed. "Stop."
He breathed against your cunt once more, eyes fluttering. You were so embarrassed. It was your pussy he was smelling! Not some flower!
But Seokmin pressed his fingers to your cunt, spreading your lips apart. He groaned a little in appreciation. "Looks so good, baby."
You began to whine out his name again but the press of his fingers into your hole had you moaning, clenching around him. Three of his fingers worked into your hole, quicker than earlier do to you already being stretched. You couldn't help but groan all the same, eyes squeezing shut and toes curling, his fingers filling you so deliciously.
"Perfect," he mumbled. Then Seokmin was pressing his mouth to your clit, tongue lapping against it.
You let out a strangled noise, legs reflexively kicking out. Seokmin shifted, using his free arm to press you back down. "Careful, sweetheart."
Then he was licking back over your cunt, the sound of his mouth against your pussy lewd, making heat rush to your face and more of your pussy juices to flood out of you. He groaned, as if he was eating a first class meal instead of your cunt.
Seokmin worked his fingers in you slowly, rocking them back and forth, brushing the pads of his digits over your core. He was more focused on licking your pussy, his tongue running along his fingers and collecting your slick before returning back up to your clit.
He didn't eat you passionately, per say; though he was certainly eager. Seokmin ran his tongue along every inch of your cunt, exploring your crevices and folds, gathering your juices and returning to your clit to orbit it with his tongue, taunting you.
"Seok," you whined, face furrowed in a combination of arousal and irritation. "Please."
He hummed. Seokmin pressed his nose against your clit, tongue dipping into your hole as he slurped against you. When he spoke it was muffled, though he didn't care to take his face from your cunt -- from, as far as he was concerned, heaven. "Gotta use your words."
You moaned, legs kicking out. Seokmin pulled away, brow furrowed. His face was smeared with your juices, nose and cheeks and mouth and chin glistening with your arousal. He kept his fingers in you, though he stopped rocking them in your cunt. "Come on, baby. You always tell me to use my words, that we have to communicate if we want to have a good relationship."
You wanted to reach out and hit him. You had been talking about your relationship as roommates, talking about whose turn it was to take down the trash or get the mail. Not about him eating your cunt, not about his fingers wedged into your pussy down to the innermost knuckle.
"Seok," you whimpered, mouth pouting. "Seok, please."
"Say it, princess." He shifted his hand, using his free arm to press into the bed beside you, allowing Seokmin to hover over you. He lowered his face, breath warm against your mouth. "Gotta say it for me, baby. Please?"
You let out a small sob, looking up at him with wet eyes. "Please, Seokmin. I wanna cum, please."
He let out a little giggle, delighted. Seokmin bent down, pressing his mouth to yours, kissing your pout away. You couldn't help but gasp into it, the taste of your pussy on his lips.
"Good girl," he murmured before pressing one last kiss to your lips. Seokmin then made his way back down to your cunt, trailing kisses along your skin. Goosebumps rose on your arms as his mouth skimmed over your body, his lips pressing a fleeting kiss to each of your breasts, hand kneading at your hip.
Seokmin attached his mouth back to your clit, lips wrapping around the little bundle. He sucked at it, the sensation making your body jerk beneath him.
His fingers searched within you for a moment before he found your core once more. Seokmin began thrusting his fingers against it with precision, the sensation coupled with his tongue laving against your clit, sucking and licking and slurping, making you cry out, arching up from the bed.
"Seokmin," you cried, fingers fisting the blankets. Your legs tightened around him, Seokmin letting out a muffled moan as you squeezed him. You could feel it rising inside of you, like the wave of a tsunami; climbing and ascending, toes curling and body restless.
Finally the wave crashed against the beach and you came, orgasming around his fingers. You sobbed, mind going blank and heart so loud you could hear it roaring in your ears. Seokmin fucked his fingers into you continuously, unrelenting, ignoring your orgasming body.
You cried out his name, tears stinging at your eyes before they fell, sliding down your cheeks. Your body was electric, buzzing and filled with energy. Seokmin was doing anything other than soothe it, instead his mouth and fingers steadily working together to create more and more of it, thrusting you back up atop of that tsunami wave once more.
You kicked your foot out against him as you came down from your third orgasm of the day, his name leaving your lips in a loud whine. Seokmin finally pulled away, relenting; he gently eased his fingers from your cunt, pressed one last kiss to your cunt.
He laid his body on top of yours, a steady, grounding weight. He cooed at you, his large hand rising to your face and brushing away your tears. "It's okay, baby. It's okay. I got you, Seokmin's got you."
You grabbed at him, hands restless against his body. Seokmin pressed quick kisses to your face. "You did so well for me, princess. Did such a good job taking it."
You sniffled, and Seokmin tucked his head against your neck, muffling his laugh. "Don't laugh at me," you whined, hand weakly slapping his side. "You're mean."
Seokmin turned his head towards you, eyes sparkling fondly. "I'm not," he argued, though not convincingly. "Are you okay?"
You nodded, grabbing his hand. Seokmin laced your fingers together, thumb gently swiping over your skin. His fingers were thin and knobbly against yours, and you couldn't help but fixate on a little mole on one of his fingers.
"'m okay," you answered softly. "Just need a minute."
Seokmin hummed, pressing a kiss to your neck. He tucked his head back against you and, ignoring the situation, ignoring the press of his hard dick against your body and the stickiness coating your thighs, he began softly singing.
You brought his hand to your mouth, pressing a kiss to the back of it. His eyes sparkled as he watched you, the very picture of love. You couldn't help but smile back at him, content. "Hi."
He laughed softly. He then moved against your body, hands pressed to either side of you on the bed. Seokmin kissed your cheeks, his mouth trailing the path of your tears. "Can't believe you cried. Guess I'm just so good at eating you out that you couldn't help it."
You rolled your eyes, squeezing his hand in yours. "Whatever, Seok."
"Don't worry," he said, pressing a kiss to your lips. "You look very beautiful when you cry."
Seokmin then moved to the side, his body leaving yours. You shivered against the cold of the room, goosebumps rising, nipples pebbling. You watched, eyes taking in his long, lean body as he reached to the bedside table, pulling open the drawer.
He left the bed after retrieving what he was looking for. You watched, mouth watering, as he pushed down his boxer briefs. His cock sprang out, slapping against his stomach. Just as you had thought, his dick was huge. It was long and thick, and after a few strokes that had Seokmin hissing, a fat lob of precum leaked from the tip and onto the floor.
"I'll clean it later," he said, shoving his boxer briefs the rest of the way down. Seokmin released his cock to pull open the condom package. He began sliding it on, hand aruond his dick once more, but then stopped.
You glanced at him, raising your eyebrows. He whined, ears turning red. "Can you -- you know, look away?"
Bewildered, you propped yourself up. "What on earth do you mean?"
He whined again, pouting, his puppy-dog eyes begging. "It's weird when you watch me put it on."
Your mouth fell open. "Seokmin. You sound absolutely ridiculous. You're going to putting it in me and you're getting anxiety over me watching you put on a condom?"
Seokmin shot you a pitiful look. "Please? It's super weird.”
You sighed, but closed your eyes. Half a moment later he’s hopping back on the bed, making your eyes fly open.
Seokmin is grinning down at you, as if he hadn’t spent the past hour fucking you, as if you weren’t about to continue said fucking. It made your heart flutter and skip, and you felt like a lovesick fool when you smiled back at him.
Seokmin dropped a kiss on your forehead, and then he was kneeling back down between your legs. He placed his hands on your legs, squeezing gently. “You okay to keep going?”
You rolled your eyes. “Seok. You just made me look away so you could roll on a condom. Of course I’m okay to keep going, and as a matter of fact, I’d encourage it.”
He giggled, a boyishly cute thing that had heat flooding to your face. Seokmin then looped his arms underneath your thighs, and, slowly, as to not cause any unnecessary strain, he began pushing them up.
“Tell me if you want to stop at any time,” he murmured, eyes meeting yours. “We can stop whenever you want. Just tell me, okay, princess?”
You nodded, humming. Your thighs were pressed against your chest, kept in place by the press of his body. “You too, Seok. If you want to stop just let me know.”
He huffed, rolling his eyes fondly and with a little grin. “As if. Been dreaming of this for years.”
“No more lurking outside my bedroom door when I fuck myself,” you said, raising your arms and tangling your hands in your own hair, pulling gently. Seokmin kept one arm wrapped around your thigh, keeping it pressed to your chest. His other hand went down to his cock and you couldn’t help but adjust yourself so you could watch as his large hand jerked his cock, the tip of it so close to your cunt.
“No more listening while you fuck yourself,” he agreed. Seokmin moved closer, and you couldn’t help but clench in anticipation. “Relax, princess. Gotta be relaxed for me.”
You let out a deep breath, letting your head fall back to his pillows. “Well. You could keep listening, if you wanted. Could wait outside my door, listen to me fuck myself on my dildo. Wait until I’m crying and whining for you, then barge in and take over and show me how I should really be fucked.”
Seokmin let out a breath; the tip of his dick pressed against your cunt. “How do you deserve to be fucked, then?”
You hummed. Slowly Seokmin began to guide his dick inside of you. Immediately you felt the stretch; he was big. His dick felt huge inside of you, as if it was splitting you in two.
You wanted it all.
“Fuck me,” you whispered, biting down on your lip. For a moment you couldn’t think, distracted by the feeling of his dick in you, pressing deeper and deeper and deeper, forcing your walls to give around him and filling you. “Should be fucked like -- like ‘m precious or something.”
Seokmin hummed. The burn of his dick spreading you out slowly began to fade, and while it still persisted instead of being painful it felt delicious, a good sort of burn that made you want to buck up and force him in deeper, to take him.
“You are precious,” he said. Seokmin took his hand off of his dick, satisfied that it didn’t need his guidance to fit the rest of the way inside of you. He looped his arm around your other thigh, and, in once quick, sharp movement, impaled his dick the rest of the way inside of you.
You let out a strangled groan, arching up into him. Seokmin was flush against you, your ass against his thighs, his face next to yours. He reached and grabbed at your arms. You brought your hands down and he grabbed them, tangling his fingers in yours and pressing them against the bed.
“Feel so good,” he mumbled, voice low. “Feel so good wrapped around my dick, squeezing it. You’re so good, princess. Feel so tight and warm.”
You sighed, squeezing around him. Seokmin squeezed your hands in return. Slowly he began to slide out, the feel of his dick against your walls making your toes curl and mouth fall open. It felt delicious and wonderful, and when he thrusted back into you you couldn’t help but let out a loud moan.
Seokmin reangled himself, and on the next deep thrust he was hitting your core. Your cunt clenched around him, dragging out a loud, deep moan from his mouth that had your toes curling once more.
He began fucking you slow and deep, each roll of his hips satisfying. Seokmin’s dick was splitting you in half, and even though he was trying to be gentle the burn persisted.
“Perfect,” he mumbled, pressing a sloppy kiss to your neck. Seokmin panted against your skin, the sound loud in your years and coupled with the sound of his thighs slapping against your ass, the squelching of his dick inside of you. “Sound so fucking perfect, feel so fucking perfect. You’re so good for me, baby, so good and sweet.”
You couldn’t help but whine at his words. Seokmin was a talker, and sex was no different. Even as he thrusted deep and took your breath away, he continued talking, sin practically pouring from his mouth.
“Feel so tight around me,” he mumbled, moaning around his words. “Pretty little cunt so good. Sounds so good and sweet, wanna -- wanna keep fucking you, don’t ever wanna stop. Gonna make you cream around me, gonna fucking -- gonna fill you up, princess. Gonna fuck you until you’re crying, gonna fuck you until you can’t fucking take it --”
The tsunami grew once more, rising over your head. Seokmin bit at your throat and then you were orgasming, the crash of the wave loud in your ears. Just like before he continued fucking you, his thrusts unrelenting, his pace unwavering.
“Sound so fucking beautiful,” he whined, dropping his head into your neck. “God! Sound so fucking pretty crying for me, princess. Sound beautiful, look beautiful. Look so beautiful creaming around my dick, crying like that. My dick make you feel good? Tell me, baby; tell me it makes you feel good.”
You sobbed, and you knew, despite his words, you probably looked absolutely horrible, tear tracks down your face and mouth parted wide. “Feels good! Feel good, Seokmin, feels so fucking good!”
He moaned, pace stuttering. For a moment Seokmin was still and, foolishly, you thought that was the end of it.
Then Seokmin was releasing his grip on your hands entirely, leaving them bare and cold. He raised his torso off of you, sweat glistening. Seokmin’s hands went underneath your knees and then he was pressing them further up, not stopping until your knees were at your shoulders.
“Seok --” You let out a strangled cry as he thrusted sharply into you, unable to form any coherent thought. “Seokmin --”
“That’s a good girl,” he groaned, voice deep and dark and making your cunt clench around his dick.
Seokmin’s hands went to your hips, keeping them up. He began -- for a lack of a better word -- fucking you. Each drive of his cock inside of you had his balls and hips slapping against your ass, stinging; your cunt frantically clenched and quivered around him, each squeeze drawing a loud moan out of his mouth.
“Good pussy,” he praised, breathless. He was beautiful above you, bangs pressed to his forehead, brow furrowed in concentration as he chased and chased his own climax, desperation taking over him. “Such a good fucking pussy, such a good cunt for me.”
Another orgasm crashed down on you, the sound of your sobs and cries loud in your own ears. Your nerves were on fire and the orgasm, the waves, weren’t putting them out. Instead they were inflaming them, every inch of your body quivering and sweating.
You don’t remember when he came, nor did you remember him pulling out. You were somewhere else, where time didn’t exist, where nothing outside of Seokmin and his dick drilling you existed. It was all Lee Seokmin, all him.
When you returned, you were wrapped in his arms. He had one hand tangled in your hair, keeping your face pressed against his neck. Seokmin’s other arm was around your back, keeping your naked body flushed with his own. He had you against the pillows, having made a warm barrier against your back to keep you from feeling cold and barren.
Predictably, you were smelly, sweaty, and sore. Your cunt ached and thighs burned, though neither were particularly unpleasant. Instead you couldn’t help but feel satisfied, gleeful at the thought of the bruises that would litter your body from Seokmin fucking you, visible marks of him.
Seokmin pulled away a little, having felt you shift. His hand moved from your hair, cradling your cheek. He smiled down at you, so bright that you couldn’t help but close your eyes, groaning and pressing yourself back against him.
Seokmin laughed, arms wrapping around you. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, nose sharp as he nuzzled against your hair.
“I love you,” he said, voice sweet and fond and filled with adoration. “I love you, Y/n. You’re so amazing.”
You huffed. “Oh, so I’m amazing after we had sex?”
Seokmin gently pulled at your hair, reprimanding. “No twisting my words when we’re cuddling after making love, sweetheart.”
You grinned against his skin. You were surrounded by him and his smell, the musk of his body and the faint notes of his cologne. You were warm all around, from your heart to your fingers and toes. “Oh? So that was making love, was it? Fucking me like some animal?”
“Wasn’t it?”
You hummed, and then shook your head. “No. I don’t think so.”
“Is there a difference?” He asked, his hand returning to your hair. His fingers scratched lightly at your scalp, making your eyes flutter. “Between how we -- you know. How we did it and making love?”
You laughed, shifting. All you could see was golden skin and you couldn’t help but think it made sense. His golden skin and smile, the golden shimmer that surely surrounded this moment, you pressed against him, love tattooed on your bodies. “How we did it? You fucked me like an absolute animal, Lee Seokmin, and you can’t even say that we had sex?”
Seokmin whined, hand tugging at your hair. “Don’t make fun of me! You’re so mean. We just confessed our deep-rooted love for one another, made -- made --- made love, and now you’re bullying me! Stop laughing at me!”
Your laughter grew. Seokmin huffed, pushing away from you. You giggled as he crossed his arms over his chest, pouting down at you. “I can’t believe you! Taking advantage of little vulnerable me!”
You reached out, tugging at his hand, still grinning widely. “Sorry -- I’m sorry, Seok.”
“You’re still laughing!” He accused you, eyes wide as he slapped your hand away. “I don’t believe you’re sorry at all! You’re sitting there, laughing at me, while I’m here being all vulnerable! It’s inhumane!”
You couldn’t help but let out another bark of laughter. “That’s not what inhumane means, Seok.”
“See!”
Giggling, you rose to your elbows. Seokmin watched warily as you moved closer, lips pressed in a pout. He looked cute, arms crossed over his chest, pouting down at you with his big doe eyes.
But you couldn’t help but notice how his arms crossed brought attention to his chest, how his pecs pressed out. You couldn’t help but let your gaze fall over his bulging biceps, over his stomach; over his cock, still flaccid, still large and impressive and delicious.
Keeping your eyes on his dick, you moved to your knees. “I’m sure I can make it up to you, baby.”
summary: cold weather means chapped lips and you are appalled at how your roommate-crush applies his.
notes: gender neutral save for reader having a purse (?) and hansol referring to the reader's chest as boobs. this fic is also just a reminder that vernon is literally just a guy who probably uses 3-in-1. also i didn't reread this/edit it and wrote it at 2am so. yeah.
inspired by those tiktok videos making fun of how boys apply chapstick
The cold autumn wind bit at your bare arms as you and Hansol made your way down the sidewalk. When the two of you had left your apartment the sun had been shining and the breeze soft, warm enough for you to leave your cardigan on the sofa.
Hours later, however, once day had bled into dusk and the street lights turned on, the temperature took a severe dip. You didn’t want to complain, though; Hansol wasn’t done with his errands and you weren’t about to dip out on him.
“That’s why I don’t drive,” Hansol said.
“Yes,” you agreed, grinning and nudging your shoulder against his. “Totally not because you can’t pass the test.”
“That too.”
“That too.”
You looked back out to the street, wetting your lips as the wind ate away at them. Autumn and winter were your favorite seasons; you loved cardigans and sweaters and all the other fashion trends that came with cold weather. You didn’t, however, have any love for how the cold air would dry out your lips and skin.
You dug out your chapstick -- vanilla flavored -- and applied it. You paused on the sidewalk, putting the chapstick away. “You’re lucky you have me. You can’t survive on Uber for the rest of your life.”
“I’ll just make it so you can’t ever move out and have to be my roommate forever.” Hansol shrugged out of his jacket. He had layered -- like you, Hansol was a fan of cold weather because of the fashion opportunities it offered. More often than not you would see him layering jackets and hoodies or blazers and hoodies. He had long abandoned the tye-dye hoodie he had worn religiously when the two of you first became roommates but you still had a soft spot for it. It reminded you of the first few months of your relationship, when Hansol was quiet and kept his thoughts to himself.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He held out the jacket to you, sliding his phone out of his other pocket. Hansol didn’t look at you. “Take it.”
You blinked. “Sol, it’s your jacket. I should’ve known better than going out in a t-shirt and this is my punishment.”
Hansol lifted his eyebrow and pressed his lips together. “Dramatic.” He shook the jacket at you, unmoving even as a family pushed past the two of you.
Sighing for the theatrics of it, you reached out and quickly pulled the jacket on. It was warm from his body heat and smelled like him. When the two of you first became roommates Hansol had worn exclusively Axe body spray; he still refused any of the fancier stuff that his friend Seungcheol wore, but would tag along with you into Bath and Body Works and grab the body mists that caught your eye.
(Your eye. Hansol would stay at your side and let you roam around the store, picking out scents and sniffing them. The first few times you did that he didn’t even make any move to smell them himself, just dropping them in the basket after you complimented the fragrance. You began protesting whenever he did this, so he would put on a show of smelling the fragrance before putting it in the basket.
You chose not to analyze this too much.)
Hansol stepped into your space once you shrugged the jacket on, his hands going to the zipper. You tilted your chin up and out of the way as he zipped it, ignoring how your heart fluttered at how close he was. You could see every single one of his dark lashes; the soft curve of his eyes. Content, you mapped out his face and let your heart run rampant in your chest, ignoring the sirens going off in your head in favor of just looking at Hansol.
You knew him. You knew how he sniffed his socks before throwing them at the foot of the hamper; knew how he preferred using three-in-one shampoo, conditioner and body soap; knew his bedsheets and blankets were only washed regularly because you had set up a calendar of chores. You knew how he played his music too loudly and sang off-key and without care; but you also knew how sweet he could sound when he sang. You knew how large and warm his hands were; how it felt to fit your body against his and sway as you waited for your meals to cook; how it felt to belt out music at two in the morning with him, heart beating just as loudly as the music played.
You knew all of this about Hansol and still your heart decided to pack up and make its home in his hands. (But what a good place for it to be.)
Hansol glanced up as he fixed the collar, eyes catching yours. Immediately he contorted his face, sucking his lip in underneath his teeth and angling his head so he peered at you from underneath his brow.
You laughed, an obnoxiously loud thing, and pushed him away. “You fucking weirdo,” you giggled, stuffing your hands into the pocket of his jacket.
Hansol laughed along with you, joining you as you began walking again. He moved closer, and you startled when you felt his hand slip in with yours in the jacket pocket. His fingers brushed against yours for a second, the cold of them being out in the autumn air shocking you momentarily. Hansol’s fingers then clasped yours, and your hands joined together as naturally as the sun rose in the morning and set in the evening.
“What’s left for us to do, Mr. Chwe?”
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
The warmth of your apartment seeped into your bones, heating you up from the outside and making its way in. You moaned, kicking off your shoes and collapsing onto the sofa. You didn’t move out of Hansol’s jacket, instead burrowing into it further and wrapping it around you.
“I’m going to become one with the couch,” you mumbled, your words muffled by the sofa.
There was the sound of keys hitting the counter and shoes being kicked off and hitting the wall. You half-listened to Hansol as he moved about, nearing you. Until he was at the couch, dropping on top of you and molding his body into yours.
You groaned at the sudden addition of his weight. Hansol wiggled against you until he settled, his socked feet nudging yours and hands making their way into the space between your chest and the couch.
“Thank God for boobs,” he murmured, fingers wiggling against you. “So warm.”
“Fucking weirdo,” you returned, though you didn’t move. He burrowed his face into your hair.
“You smell good.” He took a deep breath. You were glad you were facing the couch; you didn’t know how you would explain your smile to him if Hansol saw. “Like a grandma.”
“What.”
He didn’t elaborate. Instead Hansol’s breathing evened out, fingers and feet shifting. You were content like this. Something pulled at your mind, warmth leaking into it and covering it in fog.
It means something, you thought. At the beginning of your crush on Hansol you were unable to relax around him at all, too nervous to laugh too hard around him in case you snorted (which happened far too often around him), too anxious to touch him. Now his very touch relaxed you; you searched for it in a crowd, and it was as easy and natural as breathing.
It meant something, you knew. It meant something that you were now so comfortable around Hansol that you were able to show every side of you and that you no longer felt the need to hide your undesirable parts.
Your phone chimed somewhere in the room. You didn’t move to get it, and Hansol didn’t move to release you. The two of you continued to lay there, his body on yours. If possible he moved even closer against you, and you faintly wondered if he was trying to combine your bodies into one.
Your phone chimed twice more in quick succession. Groaning, you shifted. “Solie. Need up.”
“You don’t,” he mumbled, though ultimately moving off of you. The both of you yawned as you stumbled off of the couch and towards your purse. “Who is it?”
You hummed, eyes reading over the texts. “Just Seungkwan raging about something Soonyoung did. Apparently Jihoon kicked him out of the apartment for the night so Soonyoung is staying with Kwannie and Seokmin.”
“Amazing.”
You stuffed your phone into the pocket of the jacket, turning back to your crush-roommate. He was slouched against the couch, bangs nearly obscuring his eyes. Hansol licked his lips.
Sighing, you dug into your purse and brought out your chapstick. You moved back to the couch, handing it to Hansol as you plopped next to him. “I feel like in a month we’re going to be testifying on whether we think Seungkwan is capable of murdering Soonyoung and Seokmin.”
Hansol shrugged. “I think Seungkwan secretly loves the chaos Soonyoung and Seokmin bring. He pretends he doesn’t, but he does.”
You watched, half amazed and half bewildered, as Hansol applied the chapstick. He wrapped his entire hand around the wand, like you would a microphone. He then pressed the entire surface of the chapstick flat against his mouth, turning his head to apply it.
“What the fuck are you doing.”
He paused. “Uh. Chapstick.”
“No you’re not,” you snatched the chapstick out of his hand. “If you’re going to misapply chapstick you can use your own. Bert’s Bees deserves better than this.”
Hansol threw you a look, his brows somehow both furrowed and raised. “Really.”
“Yes really.” You demonstrated how chapstick was supposed to be applied, your hand wrapped around the end and using only the sides of the surface, moving your hand instead of your head. “You don’t need to press so hard when applying it either. It’s not like you’re trying to use it all at once.”
Hansol was watching with rapt attention. His eyes were narrowed in on your mouth and fingers, watching as you ran the chapstick over your lips. He licked his lips.
“Your turn,” you said, handing off the chapstick again.
He glanced down at the yellow capsule before looking back at you. Hansol took it and brought it up to his mouth, applying it the same exact way he did before.
“You absolute monster!” You shrieked, moving to hover over him and wrestle the chapstick from his grasp. He laughed, a quick thing that always left you wishing for more. “If you’re not going to do it right, I’ll do it for you.”
You awkwardly angled yourself over him, one arm going to rest on the couch behind him and the other moving to his face. You pressed the tip of the chapstick against his lips right as one of his hands settled against your waist, startling you into dabbing his chin instead of his mouth.
He laughed again and you felt heat rush to your cheeks. Hansol’s other hand went to the other side of your waist and he guided you to instead straddle his thighs, your knees digging into the couch on either side of him. He coaxed you to sit your entire weight on him, one of his hands staying on your waist while the other traveled to the small of your back.
“There,” he said. “Perfect.”
Suddenly you were hyper aware of the world around you. You were all too aware of how close his face was to yours, how his breath hit your face and how close his hand was to your ass. How both his hands felt against you, how he seemed wrapped all around you.
This was ridiculous. You were sitting in your roommate-crush’s lap, getting ready to apply chapstick to his lips as if he was a toddler.
If Seungkwan saw this he would have a meltdown. Forget whatever Soonyoung and Seokmin were doing; this was enough to launch Seungkwan into a week-long rant about your feelings and pining and how disgusting the two of you were.
(You didn’t want to think about what Jeonghan would say.)
(You could hear Junhui cheering from across the city while Minghao rolled his eyes.)
You moved your arms to embrace Hansol fully. One arm wrapped around his shoulders and rested on his jaw, holding his face still. You could feel little pricks of his facial hair against your hand. With your other hand you raised the chapstick to his lips, the tip of your pinkie pressing against his cheek to steady your own hand.
“Pay attention,” you murmured. Speaking any louder would surely break whatever spell had settled over the two of you.
“I am,” he said. “Always.”
Slowly, gently, you applied the chapstick to his mouth. Swiping it back and forth, you watched as it brushed against the flesh of his lips. It was red. His mouth was so red and warm, and you could feel every breath he took against your fingers.
Quickly, far too swiftly for you to fully realize what you were doing, your lips descended and pressed against his. Just as briskly you pulled away, loudly gasping at your audacity.
“What the fuck,” you said. What the fuck what the fuck. “I’m sorry --”
“I’m not,” he said, and then his mouth was on yours again.
His hands moved against you, pulling you flat against him. One of his hands moved to sink into your hair, keeping your head close. Your own hands moved to either side of his face, your mouth dropping open in shock.
This wasn't what you had imagined for your first shared kiss. It was supposed to be soft and sweet, shy and gently bridging the gap between friends and lovers.
This was hot and seemed to light your blood and heart aflame. He was devouring you, mouth quick and biting. Hansol was kissing you as if this was all he had thought of for the years you’ve known each other. As if he was intent on eating you whole.
Then his tongue entered your mouth and pressed against your teeth and you let out the highest moan you’ve ever heard let alone uttered.
Chuckling against your mouth, Hansol pulled away just enough for your lips to brush. You followed against your will, his mouth a magnet, eager to reconnect. He obliged for a moment, teeth biting your lower lip before molding his mouth against it.
“Hansol,” you sighed, “Hansol, Hansol, Hansol.”
He breathed your name back, like it was a secret confession. Maybe it was.
Finally Hansol separated from you fully. When you went to follow he moved his hand to grip your jaw, holding you still. His other hand had slid down to where your shirt had ridden up, fingers swiping against your bare skin. “Okay. So what --”
“I love you,” you whispered. “I love you,” you repeated, louder. “I love you, Hansol. I’m sorry, I should’ve done this better but -- I love you.”
He blinked once. Then twice. And then his face broke into a wide smile. Fuck. It was the sun after rain; rain after drought. It was bright and devastating and you wouldn’t mind going blind if it meant going blind from staring at the brightness of Hansol’s smile.
And then his hands moved once more, framing your face, and his mouth was again on yours.
in the months he’s been running through seoul stopping crime as the masked superhero sonic, beomgyu’s managed to keep his identity hidden. that is, until, you ask him to secure an interview with the speedster for the school newspaper. what is meant to be a once off deal results in beomgyu having to spend more time around you, both in the suit and out, as a new threat emerges threatening your safety and the city’s.
PAIRING. superhero choi beomgyu x fem reader
GENRE. superhero au ; college au ; secret identity ; fluff ; slight angst ; reluctant friends to lovers
WARNINGS. swearing ; kidnapping ; injuries ; nsfw jokes reader hates sunghoon so be warned ; action scenes ; mention of panic attacks but no one has one
A/N. what's up my people! i told you i would have another beomgyu fic for yall didn’t i? this is wayyy overdue (was supposed to be for a collab event but um. anyways! the fic is more than half finished rn so let's all cross our fingers that i'll be donw before may. speaking of!! ty ty mayjay @tyunni for the header 🫶🏾 check this out too idk lol. okay, okay im done byeeee
TAGLIST. @pr0dbeomgyu @xiaoting999 @yyx2 @soobin-choi @4junmain @tsupuffs @yjwfav @mykalon @junityy @iyeonjuni @fairybinie @fallingforhoon @hanlvkes @soobisms (send an ask to be added)
In case it wasn’t clear, Universe, when Beomgyu said morning he meant eleven o’clock. Earliest. Not ass-crack o’clock and getting woken up by incessant knocking on his door.
He gets up and feels a crick in his neck from falling asleep on the couch. Expecting to see Yuna ready to collect his form that he has not yet filled out, Beomgyu straightens out his shirt, trying to make it look like he didn’t just roll off his couch. He has a total case of bed hair, but that’s hot, right? If he doesn’t draw attention to it, he can pretend it’s on purpose. Girls like messy hair.
With that in mind, Beomgyu opens the door with all the confidence in the world, his winning smile ready on his face, only to fall the moment he sees who is standing outside his room.
“I have a proposition for you.”
You wave a dismissive hand in his face and he swats at it petulantly like it’s a fly. “Please, save the pleasantries. Let me in, yeah?”
“What the fuck, Y/N?”
You, decidedly, were not Yuna. Where Yuna was all soft and shy smiles, here you are, deadpan expression and scowl all over your face.
“What part of that was pleasant to you?” Beomgyu bites out but steps away from the door anyway.
“You fill out that form yet?” you ask, looking around his room. If you were any other person, he might feel a little self conscious about how messy it is, but, as it stands, he’s just annoyed. What are you even doing here?
“No,” he responds curtly, eyeing said form precariously. He doesn’t understand why you even care, honestly. It’s like your sole purpose in life is to annoy him. “What do you want?”
If you can hear the clear irritation in his voice, you ignore it. “Imagine my surprise when my sweet, innocent little freshman—who I graciously took under my wing, mind you—texts me at ten PM asking about extra yearbook club forms because a ‘super cute guy just dropped by’...only to find out that it’s you.”
Beomgyu’s brain flits between a smug Yuna thinks I’m cute and— “You’re Yuna’s Junior Head?” The last bit was meant for his head but judging from the look you’re giving him, he said it out loud.
You just stare at him blankly, clearly unimpressed. “You should count yourself lucky that I didn’t just throw all the extras away once I found it was for you—” Beomgyu scowls— “but I guess I was feeling charitable. I came over to drop it off last night but you weren’t here.”
Shit. Yuna being in his room while he wasn’t here was manageable. She seemed too nice, too kind, too had basic human decency and wouldn’t go through his shit. You, however? Beomgyu wouldn’t put it past you to leave a dead rat or something under his pillow. He doesn’t say any of this though, in case you didn’t plant a dead rodent somewhere so as to not give you any ideas. He just shrugs noncommittally. “Went out.”
You hum. “Figured. Which is why I was so surprised to see this.” You pull out your phone and turn the screen to him, the gallery app opened up and there on the screen is—
“What the fuck, is that a dick pic?”
“What?” You turn the phone to stare at it, mouth hanging open slightly.
“Oh my god, did you take an unsolicited dick picture of me? What the fuck, Y/N? That’s, like, so uncool, what the fuck?”
“Oh, relax, it’s not yours. You should be so lucky.” Beomgyu has half a mind to strangle you right then and there. You swipe at the screen a few times before huffing out a breath and showing him the screen again. “This is what I was talking about, my god.”
And it’s him. Sonic. In his famous and easily identifiable blue and white suit, the grey embroidered lightning bolt running down his entire spine, body halfway out of his bedroom window, about to start his patrol. Holy shit.
Beomgyu can feel his eyes bulging out of his head. No, no, no, this can’t be happening. He’s been so careful! Sure, sneaking out of his window almost every night wasn’t the smartest idea but he had limited options! And he always made sure that there was no one around on the streets and he was literally as fast as light. He never had to worry about anyone seeing him because he moved faster than the brain could compute. This was never supposed to happen!
You hum, either oblivious to his internal panic or simply not caring, it’s not clear. “Interesting, right?”
“Uh…” Beomgyu says smartly.
Pocketing your phone, you clasp your hands together in front of you. “Now, this is where my proposition comes in.”
He groans dramatically, already preparing himself for the worst. “What do you want?”
“Get me an interview with him. With Sonic.”
“What?” Okay. He did not prepare for that.
“You heard me,” you say, shrugging, as if what you said was a completely normal request. “Otherwise this photo gets posted and the whole school finds out that you are Sonic’s secret bootycall.”
“I’m his what?”
This is insane—You are insane. Beomgyu would have laughed out loud at the absurdity of the situation if you weren’t standing here in front of him, arms crossed across your chest, clearly serious.
He baulks. “No, I am not getting you an interview with Sonic, are you insane?” It isn’t even a serious question because Beomgyu knows the answer to that. You are a citizen of Crazy Town, Population of One.
“Well, why not?”
“Aside from the fact that there is literally nothing I would rather do less, I don’t like you.”
You scoff, rolling your eyes. “I’m not crazy about you either, believe me. But you clearly know him.”
“That’s inconsequential and can’t be proven.”
“I have literal photographic evidence of him leaving your room.”
“Gah!” Beomgyu feels like he’s nine years old again, arguing about one thing or the other with you in class to the annoyance of your teachers. You always had a knack for getting on his nerves and it doesn’t help that the two of you were put in the same class every year for school. Even when his family moved from Daegu to Seoul and he thought that finally he was free from you, you had transferred to the same school as him.
He genuinely thinks that the two of you aren’t able to have a normal conversation without arguing. (It was actually suggested by one of your high school teachers that it might be best if you just join the debate team together. Bad idea. Him and you on the same team? Yeah, right.)
Going to college has been a sort of safe haven from being around you all the time, even if you did, once again, follow him to the same exact school. He’s just glad that the two of you are doing completely different courses and that the campus is big enough so it is almost virtually impossible to run into you. That is, of course, when you are not tracking him down to his room. “What do you even want an interview with him for?”
You look like you want to fight him. He can see your jaw clenching and your eye is twitching a little, a telltale sign that you are reaching your patience with him, and he is prepared to get into it with you when you uncharacteristically let out a frustrated groan and proceed to throw yourself onto his couch.
“Ugh!” you whine, pressing the heel of your hands to your forehead. “The newspaper committee has this stupid, dumb as fuck, running competition for all the junior editors to decide who will be Editor in Chief next year and stupid, dumb as fuck, Park Sunghoon’s stuff keeps getting chosen over mine because ‘No one wants to read about how there is no hope to stop global warming, Y/N. People want to believe they can make a difference. Why don’t you write about plastic straws instead, like Sunghoon?’ and—Ugh!
“Up until now my plan was to just, like, kill Sunghoon so the spot would go to me by default, but now I can interview an actual superhero and no matter how many stupid fucking turtles Sunghoon writes about saving, there is no way he can get a front page over that. So. Get me that interview.”
“Not okay okay, just…okay. Like, woah, okay, that’s. A lot.” Beomgyu thinks that this might be the most you’ve ever said to him in one go that did not include you cursing him out or complaining about how annoying he was. It was weird and a little disconcerting. He didn’t like it.
“I know.”
“It’s the most you’ve ever spoken to me in one go.”
Your face twists up at that. “Gross. Don’t make it weird.”
“You’re the one asking for my help, remember.”
“No, no, this is blackmail,” you correct, wagging a finger in his face and he slaps it away.
“You can’t even prove it’s my room.” He knows it’s futile, that he really has no choice but to give in, but just like the sun can’t help shining, he can’t help fighting with you.
“Oh, please, the people at this school are stupid and will believe anything. Plus, now that I’ve seen what the inside of your room looks like, I can just work a little photoshop magic and add things that are recognisable, have your friends comment on how the room looks a little familiar, and boom. My work is done.”
Beomgyu studies your face carefully, looking for any cracks that prove your bluffing, but he knows you and if there was one thing about you, you never bluffed. Everything you said, you meant. Fuck, he can’t let that photo get out. You might believe that he’s not Sonic and that he just knows him, but others might not and it would only be a matter of time before someone makes the connection between him and his superhero persona.
You raise a single eyebrow. Beomgyu sighs loudly, defeated. This, he tries to rationalise, is the lesser of two evils. “God, fine. I’ll get you that interview.”
“Great!” You jump to your feet with a flourish, very clearly satisfied with yourself and Beomgyu’s scowl deepens. You hold a hand out for him to shake and he pointedly ignores it, not that you care. “I’ll text you where he should meet me. Pleasure doing business with you. Also, get that form handed in. And stop seducing my freshman!”
He watches as you leave his dorm and feels like he’s just ran three laps around Seoul (and yes, he’s done that before). Throwing himself onto his couch, he covers his face with a cushion and lets out the most frustrated scream of his life, then abruptly stands up. Walks over to his door. And locks it.
older brother’s best friend turned roommates AU (feat brother!jeonghan) | fluff, comedy, romance
words: 8.5k
warnings: suggestive, direct mentions of sex but no smut. swearing, heavy drinking.
in which you move to a new town, crash with your brother’s best friend, and attempt to seduce him to show him you’re not just jeonghan’s kid sister anymore. (you’re unaware, however, that he’s figured out exactly what you’re trying to do, and that you’re testing the very last of his self restraint.)
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It takes you about three minutes to use an unwitting Jeonghan in your plot. After all, you learned all your guile and cunning from the master himself, your dear brother.
“I don’t know what to do,” you pout at him through the video call, putting on your best sad puppy eyes despite the lag and the spotty wifi at the airport lounge he’s in. “The landlord called me last week about the apartment, and Chan’s roommate doesn’t move out for another two months after I start school. I guess I can just get an AirBnB, but all the ones in the city are so expensive…”
This is, of course, a lie. It had been a happy coincidence that you’d be moving to the same city as Choi Seungcheol for your postgraduate studies, but your friend, Lee Chan, does not in fact have a roommate. He had extended his invitation for you to move in with him any time you wanted, but you had other plans, plans involving your older brother’s childhood best friend, a man you’ve been hopelessly in love with for as long as you can remember.
(“What, like you’re gonna seduce him? Like, with sex?!” Chan sounds mildly scandalized when you tell him your plan. “If that’s what you’re doing, then I don’t want to hear any more about it.”)
Jeonghan rolls his eyes. “What, all alone in a new city? You really think you’re gonna be okay living on your own for two months? No, you’re staying with Seungcheol. I’ll call him tonight.”
Jackpot. “Hannie, you don’t have to, I don’t want to inconvenience him, and you’re so busy too. I’ll be fine on my own.”
Your brother gives you a withering look. “If you want to die, sure. Look, my flight is leaving soon and I’m calling Seungcheol whether you want me to or not, you decide if you stay with him or get serial killed in the night.”
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You’ve known Seungcheol as long as Jeonghan has known Seungcheol, which, as far as you’re concerned, is as long as your memory is. You were a toddler when the two of them were in the same soccer league. There’s a picture of them standing together, skinny and gap-toothed, holding up plastic medals after winning their first match, that’s currently hanging up at your parents’ house. It hadn’t taken long for Jeonghan to be kicked out of the soccer league for repeated fouls and a persistent unwillingness to abide by the rules and play fair, but Seungcheol had stayed, playing soccer into high school and becoming the team captain and school heartthrob before going off to college on an athletic scholarship.
Right next to the picture of the two of them holding up their soccer medals is another picture, taken at your sixth birthday party. The three of you are sitting together at the table, side by side. Seungcheol and Jeonghan are grinning widely and you’re red-faced and snot-nosed and absolutely wailing, your chin and left cheek covered in frosting after your brother had smashed your face into your cake.
Like most older brothers, Jeonghan had tormented you throughout your childhood in the way that only older brothers can, but Seungcheol had always been nice to you. He helped you with your math homework after school, he gave you his old bike when he outgrew it, he even drove you to and from middle school every day for two months when you broke your ankle, just so you wouldn’t have to take the bus.
In retrospect, perhaps it was only inevitable that you would fall hopelessly in love with him. After all, what’s more cliched than falling in love with your older brother’s best friend? But by the time you had realized it, you were entering high school, and Seungcheol was leaving for college, moving across the country and leaving you alone in your hometown to, in Chan’s words, date every “cheap sketchy knockoff of Choi Seungcheol” you could get your hands on.
Back then, he probably wouldn’t have wanted you even if he stayed. You were an angsty teenager, practically a kid, and painfully awkward. Seungcheol, on the other hand, had always been popular, handsome, athletic, and perfect.
But now, now that you’re moving to the same city as him, you’re not going to throw away this chance. You’re going to show him that you’re not just his best friend’s kid sister anymore, you’re a woman now, and you’re going to make him want you.
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It’s night when you get to Seungcheol’s apartment building, which, you discover with some dismay, is at the top of a three-story walk up. It’s a nice brownstone in the city, surrounded by a wrought iron fence with a tiny lawn in the front and massive hydrangea bushes by the door. You thank the Lyft driver and, with some difficulty, lug your two large suitcases up onto the sidewalk and roll them to the gate.
Keeping a hand around the handle of one suitcase and an ankle hooked around the corner of the other, you manage to keep your luggage from rolling out onto the sloped street behind you while you fish your phone out of your pocket. You text him a quick here, and repocket your phone, freeing your hand to relieve your already sore ankle of suitcase wrangling duty. The air outside is unseasonably chilly for September, and there’s a slight drizzle tonight. Not enough to really count as rain, but enough to leave your hair damp and fingers cold.
The building in front of you is a beautiful Victorian with floral limestone molding above the large windows. The rent is undoubtedly expensive, but then again, Seungcheol has a fancy finance job in the city because he can’t just be handsome and friendly and athletic, he has to be smart and rich too.
A few minutes pass, and the drizzle doesn’t abate. You can feel water dripping down the back of your neck now. You let go of the suitcase to bring your phone out of your coat pocket once more and pull up your texts and, seeing the absence of even a read receipt, tap on Seungcheol’s contact to call him. The phone rings once, twice, three times, but nobody picks up. He knows you’re here— at least, he should, since you sent him your flight information this morning, but why isn’t he picking up your call?
The call goes to voicemail, and you hit the end button and call again. After two rings, to your relief, he finally picks up.
“Hey,” he sounds breathless, “so sorry, got held up at work. Are you still at the airport?”
“No, I’m outside your gate,” you respond, laying the suitcase next to you on its side so it doesn’t roll away. “It’s okay, I can wait.”
“No, no,” he says quickly, “it’s raining. Give me a moment and I can call my neighbor to let you in.”
“It’s fine!” You switch hands to shove your other hand into your pocket and give your stiff fingers a break from the cold. “How long do you think you’ll be?”
“Just a few more minutes,” he pants. Is he running? “I’m about a block away.”
You turn and sit on the suitcase that you’ve laid on the ground, resigning yourself to your fate. “Don’t worry, Cheol, I’m fine! It’s not like I’m a kid anymore.” In the back of your mind, you wonder if getting rained on would help your hidden agenda. You can almost imagine it, him rushing to cover you up with his coat, you, drenched in a sexy way (and not in the drowned rat way), your shirt transparent from the water and sticking to your body. It would be a perfect scene in a movie. “Take your time,” you tell him, considering if you should take off your jacket just so your clothes get soaked through.
By the time you remember that you had two suitcases, not one, it’s too late.
“Oh fuck,” you say into the phone, shooting to your feet.
“What happened,” Seungcheol’s voice sounds through the phone urgently, “are you okay?”
You look down the gently sloped sidewalk to see your errant suitcase rolling downward, alone, like the world’s saddest (and smallest) runaway train. “Shit, fuck,” you swear, shoving your phone into your pocket and taking off down the street after your wayward luggage.
The sidewalk is wet with rain now and splashes with each step, soaking your ankles and socks as you sprint toward your suitcase, which is now rapidly gaining speed. Everything is terrible and nothing is going according to plan, and you keep cursing under your breath as you run, vision laser-focused on the target in front of you.
When you finally catch up with your suitcase, you throw yourself forward and grab its sides to rein it in right before it escapes the sidewalk and into the intersection. What you hadn’t considered was your forward momentum from the full downhill sprint you had just engaged in, and the fact that, yes, your suitcase has wheels, the reason you were chasing it in the first place. The suitcase rolls out from under you, dragging you along with it, and you pitch forward towards the pavement.
This is it, you think, this is how I die. You didn’t even have time to write your will. You want your Nintendo Switch to go to Lee Chan, and you want your student debt to go to Yoon Jeonghan. You want everything else to go to your parents.
“Y/N!”
You squeeze your eyes shut, bracing for impact.
But to your surprise, you’re not dead. You’re not even laying on the cold, wet pavement. Instead, you’re warm— suspiciously warm and well-supported. You open your eyes to see Seungcheol staring down at you, his own eyes wide and panicked, his fluffy black hair slick with rain and falling over his forehead.
“Are you hurt?” He furrows his brows. “I rounded the corner and just happened to see you falling.” You’re still in his arms, pressed against his broad, strong chest, looking up into his dark eyes, and you’ve just suffered the most embarrassing moment of your life.
“Hi, Cheol,” you say weakly, offering a halfhearted smile. “It’s been a while.”
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“I mean, so maybe I almost caused a traffic accident and lost half my clothes in one go,” you tell Chan on the phone later with the blankets pulled up to your nose, still recovering from the most stressful 20 seconds in your recent memory. “I still ended up in his arms, so maybe this is a win.”
“Doubtful,” Chan responds. “I think the win and loss cancel out here, so you’re still zero for zero.”
“You should have seen the way he picked up my suitcases and brought them up the stairs,” you sigh, ignoring your friend, “he’s so strong and manly. And his guest bed smells just like him. Maybe I can trick my brain into dreaming about him.”
“Maybe I should call your brother and tell him that you were lying about the roommate situation.”
“You wouldn’t,” you prop yourself up on your elbows and glare at your phone, hoping that it carries through to your voice.
“You’re right, Jeonghan scares me too much,” Chan admits, and you let yourself flop back onto the mattress. “I feel like he’d get mad at me instead of you.”
“He was wearing a suit, too,” you continue dreamily, “because he just got off work. I’m gonna marry that man, I’ll bet money on it, Chan.”
“Can we stop talking about this? I was excited when you said you wanted to be roommates, but now I’m just all alone in this apartment, and I think the bathroom is haunted.” You hear him walking around. “Should I have a priest come and bless the water in the plumbing system to flush any spirits out?”
“If I have to counsel you on your supernatural experiences, then you have to listen to me talk about my future husband,” you argue, and Chan puffs air defeatedly. “Anyways, don’t bother blessing the water, just do some googling on if anybody’s died in that apartment, and if someone has, sage the place.”
“You’re a really good friend,” he says, full sincerity in his voice. “If that doesn’t work, though, do you think I should get a night light for my room?”
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So perhaps phase one of your plan didn’t work as well as you had hoped, but phase two will hopefully be better.
Seungcheol is working late again. Since you moved in, the two of you have fallen into an oddly domestic pattern— depending on if you need to stay in the lab late to finish up an experiment or if he’s working late to meet a deadline, one of you will make dinner. If it’s not too late, you’ll eat together and chat about the events of the day, but otherwise, whoever cooks will leave dinner on the stove for the other. After eating, you’ll work on your research, do your reading for seminar, or grade undergraduate assignments at the kitchen table while Seungcheol relaxes and hangs around the living room, sometimes watching TV, sometimes reading, sometimes listening to music and scrolling on his phone. When it gets later, Seungcheol will usually bid you a good night and go to sleep first.
Despite the familiarity of the routine and the comfortable way the two of you fall into each others’ habits, he keeps a careful distance from you. It’s not a distance that you can really put into words, since he’s completely normal and friendly with you, but this is a person you’ve known since before you could read, and here he is, acting like the perfect roommate.
Phase two of the plan is your attempt to change that. He had texted you earlier, letting you know that he’d be home late and not to wait up for him. About ten minutes before his ETA, you hop in the shower.
(Seungcheol returns to a warm and bright apartment. There’s Chinese carry-out waiting for him on the kitchen counter, and a small stack of printed out and half-annotated journal articles is sitting on the table when he gets home, reminders of his new housemate falling into the nooks and crannies of his life. Seungcheol resists the urge to let the familiarity settle in his bones. After all, he reminds himself, this is temporary, nothing but a dream.)
Your hair is still wet and dripping down your body when you step out of the bathroom, fresh from the shower and smelling like strawberries and green tea, dressed in a loose tee of his and tiny shorts. The omission of a bra is immediately obvious and very intentional.
Seungcheol has a piece of pork halfway to his mouth when you enter the kitchen. “Cheol, you’re home!” You grin brightly at him and take a seat next to him at the table, ignoring the empty chair across from him in favor of the proximity of the adjacent one. The pork falls from between his chopsticks and lands in his bowl atop the fluffy white rice.
He coughs, putting down his chopsticks and raising his fist to his mouth as he expels a grain of rice from his trachea. You quickly stand and move to his side, putting your hand on his back. He’s still dressed in navy slacks and an oxford, but his suit jacket is draped across the back of his chair and his tie hangs loosened around his neck. When you rub his back and lean towards him, peering at his face, he only seems to choke and cough harder.
You thrust his glass of water at him. “Here, drink.”
When he finally gains his composure, he looks up at you, face pink and eyes watery from his near death experience, and asks in a slightly hysterical voice, “is that my shirt?”
“Oh! I spilled food on my pajamas and I don’t have a second pair,” you lie. The shirt was a good touch and you congratulate yourself internally. He’s always been a bit possessive and territorial. “I hope you don’t mind, do you? Do you want it back?” You start to lift the bottom hem of the tee shirt, but you’re quickly stopped by Seungcheol’s arms waving in front of you.
“No! N-no,” he looks down at his food and takes a deep breath. “Keep it.” You’re still by his side, leaning against the table, a hand resting on his back.
“You okay?”
Seungcheol clears his throat. “Yes. Um. Thanks for making sure I didn’t choke to death. But, I think I’ll live to see yet another day. You can, uh, get back to your work. If you want.” He gestures vaguely at your readings that are lying forgotten on the table.
“Alright, Cheol,” you reply sweetly, rubbing his back one last time for extra measure. You take your seat next to him and push your wet hair back from your face. The top half of the shirt is damp now and is slightly transparent as you pick up your reading again.
The clock mounted on the kitchen wall ticks quietly behind you as Seungcheol eats in silence. You make your way through the methods section of one of your papers (myeloid targeted immunotherapies on mouse models). You note down the microwell assays used by the authors on a sticky note and, leaning back, slap it on the fridge for future reference. It sits squarely above Seungcheol’s weekend grocery list, the business card of Chan’s dentist, and a collection of random notes from your readings that you swear you’ll transcribe into your lab notebook sooner or later).
You sneak a glance at Seungcheol, who is resolutely eating and scrolling on his phone beside you. In the process of leaning back to deposit the sticky note on the fridge, the damp fabric of the oversized tee had shifted to cling to your skin, outlining the shape of your naked body underneath, but Seungcheol doesn’t even offer half a glance in your direction.
Perhaps this plan was a bust, you chew your lip in contemplation. The sudden wave of awkwardness breaks over you like a splash of cold water. What are you even doing? The chair screeches against the ground as you quickly stand up and gather your printed out journal articles in your hands.
“I’m, uh, going to finish my reading in my room,” you say, nearly cringing at the way your voice sounds, almost worried that he can sense the acute embarrassment in you.
Finally, Seungcheol looks up at you. His eyes are wide. “Oh,” he says, “sure. Don’t stay up too late. Thanks for getting dinner tonight.”
“Yeah, no problem.” You turn on your heel and try your best to walk, not run, back to the guest room that’s become yours.
As soon as you make it into the safety of your room, you kick the door closed behind you and throw yourself face-down onto the bed.
If Seungcheol weren’t home, you’d be screaming into the pillow, but you’re sure he’d hear you if you did, so you just moan weakly into the sheets, curling up in shame at your failed attempt at seduction.
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So the tee shirt stunt didn’t work. Neither did curling up next to him on the couch and cuddling, and neither did walking around in just a sweater and panties. Your piece de resistance had been a carefully planned evening in bed with your favorite vibrator, the bedroom door cracked open just enough for Seungcheol to overhear you moaning his name when he came home from work. This doesn’t lead to anything, of course, except for the sounds of his footsteps down the hall and the bathroom door slamming shut, followed quickly by the shower turning on.
Seungcheol ignores you so successfully that you begin to wonder if he actually hates you.
You get so desperate, you call your brother for intel (after carefully checking the time in Paris and confirming that he would be awake and wouldn’t be mad at you for waking him up at 2pm, like the last time you called). When Jeonghan picks up the phone, you regret your decision as soon as the first word leaves his mouth.
“You should call me more,” he complains before you can even get a word in, “are you ignoring me? Are you waiting for me to grow old and shrivel into dust so you can take my inheritance?”
“What are you talking about,” you sputter, “I text you all the time and you never respond! And also, inheritance?”
“Yeah, when I die, I’m leaving you half a pack of gum and a wig made from my hair.”
“This is why I never call,” you complain, sinking into your bed. “You’re the worst.”
“Hm,” he hums in assent, “maybe so. But why did you call this time?”
You gather up your courage. “I wanted to ask you something. What…” your voice falters and you close your eyes, realizing just how dumb you’re going to sound. But you’ve gone too far to back out, and Jeonghan is on the phone already anyway. “What type of girls does Seungcheol like?”
There’s a pause on the phone.
The silence drags on until it’s almost unbearably uncomfortable, but you refuse to back down first. Finally, Jeonghan breaks the silence.
“Ah, I see what’s happening.”
Immediately, you regret everything and hate your brother for being so smart and intuitive. “No you don’t,” you respond quickly, but it’s drowned out by the sound of Jeonghan cackling.
“Stop,” you protest weakly, but it falls on deaf ears. “Whatever you think it is, it’s not. Stop, Hannie, stop laughing!”
“You think you can trick me? Tell me, kid, when was Lee Chan’s old roommate supposed to move out again? I don’t think it’s a coincidence you called me, acting like a kicked puppy, begging for help—“
“Shut up, I wasn’t begging for help, I was just subtly nudging you towards a suggestion,” you snap.
“And you succeeded. Good work, kiddo,” he ceded.
You grouse in response. “I learned from the best.” Then, just as a formality, “but I wasn’t tricking you. My intentions are pure and innocent. How could you accuse your baby sister of something like that?”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever, I know this is delayed revenge for me making you cut your hair when you were in 7th grade so we wouldn’t have the same hair style—“
“Why should I have to cut my hair because you wanted to grow your hair out?!”
“—but I suppose I deserve it,” he continues, leaving you no indication that he heard your outburst. “But if you’re going to do this, why couldn’t you have picked someone other than Seungcheol? You know I’ll always choose your side in the end, but mine and Seungcheol’s friendship isn’t something I’m particularly interested in throwing away.”
“It’s not like that,” you sulk. “I’m not that evil.”
“Oh, interesting.” The tone of his voice sets off alarm bells.
“Stop, no, it’s not interesting.”
“So you like him,” you can hear the grin in his voice as he speaks. “This changes everything.”
“I shouldn’t have called you,” you start to complain. “You’re the worst and I hate you.”
“I’m the best, and you love me. As for Seungcheol’s type—“
“Forget it, I don’t want to hear it from you anymore—“
“—that’s irrelevant because you shouldn’t have to change yourself for anyone,” Jeonghan finishes, voice firm. “I’m not going to let you pretend to be someone else just because you like some guy.”
“He’s not just some guy,” you grumble.
“Compared to you? Everybody is just some guy compared to you.” Your brother suddenly sounds so soft, so sincere, that you feel yourself deflate. You mentally toss away all the barbs you had been preparing to shoot in his direction.
“Okay, fine,” you sigh, “but I feel like he thinks I’m just an annoying kid.”
“Well, if you’re really serious about this, then I’ll see what I can do—“
“Don’t,” you interrupt quickly, heart rate jumping, “please don’t interfere, it would be so embarrassing.”
Jeonghan hums vaguely. “Hm, I’ll consider it,” he says, which is code for “I’ll do whatever I want”.
And then, without another word, he hangs up on you.
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Perhaps you and Chan are too old to party like undergrads anymore, but the difference is that instead of going to frat houses and sticky cramped bars for illicit alcohol, the two of you spend the night at expensive clubs. Chan had dragged two of his new friends from his graduate program, Vernon and Seungkwan, to celebrate the end of midterms and your recent publication getting accepted by a tier 1 journal.
You rarely get messy drunk, especially after freshman year of undergrad, but tonight you blame Seungkwan, who places shot after shot in your hand, matching you drink for drink but is clearly able to hold his liquor better than you. If you were more sober, you’d make a mental note to never go partying with Chan’s friends unless you have a death wish. But you’re not more sober, and the world is currently tilting and spinning and your stilettos are definitely too unstable for you to walk on without breaking an ankle.
At the end of the night (or perhaps the start of the morning) when you get back to Seungcheol’s apartment, you stumble out of the Lyft and punch in the key code to the main entrance wrong twice before finally making it inside. As soon as you’re inside, you’re met with the sight of narrow stairs, and you remember that, yes, this is a building built 150 years ago, and yes, Seungcheol lives on the top floor, and yes, you’re way too drunk to make it up three flights of stairs in these heels.
So you do the only thing that comes to your tequila-addled mind— you turn around and sit on the first step of the staircase, slumping against the wall beside you, and you call Seungcheol.
He picks up the phone almost right away. “Hey, are you okay? What’s wrong?”
“Cheol, can you help me out? I’m drunk,” you add, as if your slurred words crashing into each other wasn’t enough of an indicator of your current state.
“I’ll come get you,” he says, and you hear rustling in the background as if he just stood up. “Where are you? Are you somewhere safe?”
“I’m downstairs,” you mumble.
He pauses for a second. “Downstairs?”
You nod in response, then two seconds later, you realize that he can’t hear your nod, so you respond with a single “yeah.”
There’s more background noise from the phone. Then, you hear the familiar sound of a closing door drifting through the stairwell. “You’re in the apartment?”
His voice echoes faintly against the walls the same time it comes through the phone, and you nearly whine at the auditory crosstalk. “I can’t make it up the stairs,” you confess, “I’m too drunk. Everything is spinning too much and I don’t want to fall over.”
You can already hear his footsteps descending as he responds, “don’t worry, I’ll be there in a moment.”
You blink, and true to his word, the next thing you know, he’s squatting in front of you, peering into your face. “Hey, how are you doing,” he asks in a voice that’s way too gentle for your heart to handle.
You smile at him. “Cheol, you came!”
“Of course I did,” he responds with a gentle smile of his own. “Come on, let’s get you upstairs and in bed.”
“You’re the best,” you babble as he helps you to your feet. He’s dressed in pajamas and his hair is ruffled, as if he had just rolled out of bed. “Did I wake you up? Did you get up just for me? I’m sorry, Cheol.”
“No, no, don’t be sorry. I just got back from getting drinks with friends and I was about to get into bed. Here,” he turns and lowers himself slightly, “hop on. I’ll carry you.”
“Are you drunk too? Oh no, we’re both drunk. Are you going to carry me up all those stairs? What if I’m too heavy?” Despite your words, you clamber onto his back and loop your arms around his shoulders, burying your face into the back of his neck and inhaling the strawberry scent of his shampoo. You’ve never felt safer or more secure in your life.
“Are you doubting my lower body strength?” He’s smiling, you can hear it in his voice.
“No,” you mumble. His back is warm and his skin is soft. “This is nice.” The calm energy he projects falls on you like a blanket, and you feel yourself being pulled under by the syrupy drag of sleep. You blink, and suddenly the two of you are halfway up the stairs already.
You nuzzle into the back of his neck, basking in the comfort of the moment. “Thanks for coming to get me,” you mumble, your lips moving against his skin. You feel him shiver underneath you.
“Any time.” His chest rumbles under your clasped hands when he speaks. In the absence of your usual inhibitions, you give in to what you want and press a small kiss to the back of his neck. His breath catches in his throat.
You blink again, slow and lazy, and when your eyes reopen, you’re in the apartment, sprawled on the couch. Seungcheol kneels in front of you, easing your heels off your bruised and sore feet. He runs the pad of his thumb gently against the raw patches of skin underneath your ankles that had been rubbed an angry red from the straps of your shoes.
“Cheol,” you mumble, your mouth feeling heavy.
He looks up. “Hm?”
“Come here,” you slur, tugging lightly at the collar of his pajama shirt. He rises to be eye level with you, leaning forward with his hands braced on the couch cushions on either side of your thighs. “Choi Seungcheol,” you murmur, placing a hand on his cheek when he pouts at your usage of his full name, “I like you, so, so much, Choi Seungcheol.”
That gentle, indulgent expression drops away in an instant, ice cracking over his face. “You’re drunk, Y/N,” he says flatly.
You frown. “It’s true, though.”
He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t look at you, either, even as he helps you up and leads you to the bathroom where he helps you take off your makeup. You wish you could tuck away and save the tender look in his eyes as he cleans away your smudged eyeliner and the vestiges of your foundation a makeup wipe, or the way his hand cups your jaw to hold your face steady as he gently massages away your mascara with a cotton pad soaked with makeup remover.
He puts your pajamas and a towel in your arms and turns on the shower, adjusting the temperature until it’s perfectly warm, and closes the door behind you. You manage to strip yourself of the clothes that still smell like alcohol and the club you were in for hours, and stumble into the shower, letting the hot water run over your body and dissolve the sweat and perfume.
Moments later, you’re clean and warm and dressed in pajamas when you open the door to the bathroom to see Seungcheol waiting in the hallway for you.
“I didn’t slip in the shower and hit my head and die,” you smile at him dopily.
“Good job,” he pats your back gently and you feel your drunk self puff up at the affirmation, “now let’s get you to bed.”
You let him walk you to your room and tuck you into bed, but the moment he turns to leave, you shoot your hand out and grab onto his wrist, stopping him with more dexterity than you should possess currently. “Wait, cuddle with me,” you mumble, voice taking on a whining lilt.
“No, you should go to sleep.”
You pout at him. “Come here,” you tug on his wrist again, and he acquiesces, sitting on the edge of the bed next to you.
“What is it?” He’s so soft and warm, you feel your heart surging with overwhelming affection. He looks like the human embodiment of comfort right now.
“Closer,” you mumble, and he leans forward like he’s expecting you to whisper a secret into his ear.
You study his face, drink in his dark lashes and thick brows, the slope of his nose and the curve of his mouth. He’s beautiful. He’s always been beautiful, the Choi Seungcheol of your childhood, your older brother’s best friend.
You lean forward and suddenly, you’re kissing him. His lips are soft against yours, softer than you could have ever imagined in your wildest fantasies. And Seungcheol, he kisses you back, his hands on your neck and cradling the back of your head.
The entire world becomes sharper, the alcohol-induced haze lifting in an instant, and you feel like you notice everything— the taste of his minty mouthwash on his lips, the way he smooths his thumb over a patch of skin under your ear, the sound of his breath as he sighs quietly into the kiss. You can feel his long lashes fluttering against your cheek as you press yourself further into him, wordlessly asking for more, more, more.
You want him. You want to feel his body on yours, to melt into your touch, but he’s pulling away from you, and you can only whine at the loss of contact.
“We shouldn’t,” he chokes, stepping back quickly as if he were burned by your touch. “We—I’m sorry, you’re drunk,” he says with a wide-eyed frightened expression on his face, “you should sleep it off.”
“But,” you try to argue, but he’s already at the door, flicking off the lights. “Cheol, I’ll see you in the morning, right?”
“Yeah,” he says, “I’ll see you in the morning.” Then, he disappears behind the closed door.
When morning comes and you peel yourself out of bed, pull together your scattered drunken recollections into a coherent timeline, and stumble to the kitchen, he’s already gone. In his place, a sticky note on the refrigerator door tells you not to wait up for him for dinner.
.
.
.
“Everything is terrible,” you stab at your chicken with more force than necessary. From across the table, Chan attempts to spool spaghetti onto his fork, but fails and gets slapped on the chin with wet noodles. The two of you are in a cozy italian spot that had just opened by campus, airing out your grievances against the universe.
“So I showed up to the lab meeting late, right,” you pop a piece of chicken in your mouth and don’t bother to finish chewing before continuing, “and it’s my turn to present at the lab meeting, so I gave my experiment updates and my advisor tore me at least three new assholes and absolutely destroyed my project plan. And now, I have to order new assays, and when I went into the wet lab later to check on my cell lines, two flasks of my glioblastoma cells, the U87s, had gotten contaminated.”
Chan drops a meatball unceremoniously into his noodles and the resulting splat leaves a tiny fleck of red sauce on his shirt. You ignore him as he cries out in dismay and dips his napkin in his glass of water to wipe the sauce off.
“So I went into the bathroom and cried a little bit, and then guess who comes out of one of the stalls while I’m crying? My seminar professor. I think it was the most awkward moment of my life.”
“All that sucks,” Chan says absently, but you don’t really care because you’re here to eat and vent, not to solicit advice from your human disaster of a friend.
“And the worst part of everything is that Seungcheol has been avoiding me, and I think he actually hates me,” you grouse, putting your fork down in defeat. “So I might actually be escaping to your apartment after all.”
“What? No, I just got comfortable with not having a roommate,” he whines immediately, “I already moved my desk and gaming PC into the empty room. And now you’re going to deny me my dedicated gaming space?”
You ignore him. “So, us going clubbing was last week, right? And I had all those tequila shots, and then the Lyft dropped me off at his apartment and I couldn’t make it up the stairs so I called him down to help me. And the next thing I remember, I’m in bed in my pajamas. And I think we kissed, but I can’t be sure because I can’t get ahold of him to ask.”
“What do you mean you can’t get ahold of him? You live with him!”
“Exactly,” you give up on the chicken and start to shred the complimentary bread instead, “so that means he’s putting effort into avoiding me. And if we did kiss, and that’s why he’s ignoring me, then that means my feelings definitely aren’t returned, and this whole endeavor was pointless.”
“Wait, but if you decide to move in with me, won’t it make things more awkward?”
“Maybe. But it’s already so awkward now, and I don’t think things can get any worse.” You sigh, completely dejected. “I’m too bummed out to finish this,” you push your half-eaten dish towards Chan, “you have this instead.”
“Okay, if you insist,” he eagerly accepts your food offering, seemingly oblivious to your inner turmoil. “Are you still down for drinks and karaoke tomorrow? Seungkwan has been on my ass about getting a karaoke squad going.”
You sigh again. “Seungcheol would love drinks and karaoke. Everything reminds me of him.”
“Hm.” Chan looks up from his lap. “You love me, right? We’re like, besties, right?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll go to karaoke with you,” you pop a piece of bread in your mouth. “And I’ll accompany you to whatever other social engagement you’re feeling too awkward to attend, as usual.”
“And you won’t get mad at me, right?”
“No, Chan, I’m a perfectly reasonable human.”
“Good,” he nods, pulling up his phone and turning it so that the screen’s facing your direction, “because while we’ve been talking, I’ve been texting Jeonghan.”
“What!?” You nearly choke on your bread and barely manage to keep it from going down your trachea as you swallow thickly. “Lee Chan, what did you do!”
“I’m being a good friend,” he says defensively as you snatch his phone from his hands and read the text conversation on the screen.
[Jeonghan Yoon]
Chan [5:43pm]
I think I need a favor
Jeonghan [5:43pm]
👀
let’s see what it is first
and remember, it’ll cost you, since i’m taking time out of my busy day to read your texts
Chan [5:44pm]
yeah yeah okay so, i’m hanging out with Y/N and she’s telling me that she got blackout drunk and may or may not have kissed Seungcheol (she doesn’t know/won’t tell me)
But now he’s avoiding her and she’s really sad about it and she’s convinced that he hates her
Jeonghan [5:57pm]
consider it resolved
free of charge. i’m boarding a plane to shanghai now, tell Y/N i’ll be unavailable for the next 9 hours. don’t bother texting or calling.
“No, you didn’t,” your jaw drops, aghast. In the thirteen minutes between Chan’s last text and Jeonghan’s response, anything could have happened. Consider it resolved? That could mean anything and, knowing your older brother, resolved isn’t necessarily a good thing at all.
“He said he fixed it,” Chan protests, snatching his phone back and holding it to his chest. “He’s, like, the most competent person I’ve ever met.”
You hiss in response, almost offended at your friend’s naivety, “he didn’t say he fixed it, he said to consider it resolved, which means he could be actively murdering Seungcheol right now, which isn’t a fix in my books!”
“It’s not like you were going to do anything about it! And, he said he’s on a plane to Shanghai, so there’s no way he’s actively murdering Seungcheol.”
“You’re the worst friend.” You ignore Chan’s pout. “You’re the worst possible friend and I’m going to find a hole and crawl into it and die.” Shooting him a sidelong glare, deliver your next sentence in the most devastating way possible. “You’re on your own for karaoke night.”
Chan’s eyes widen in dismay. “No!”
But despite the schadenfreude gleaned from your abscondence from Chan’s karaoke group, you can’t help but to let the dread build up through the rest of dinner. Those thirteen unknown minutes sit under your tongue like a lozenge, filling your mouth with all the possible ways Jeonghan could have ended his friendship with Seungcheol or chewed him out or screwed you over or embarrassed you. It’s not that you don’t trust your brother, but… it’s not like you entirely trust him either.
The subway ride home only serves to jumble up the anxiety more, especially knowing that you could run into Seungcheol on his way back from drinks with friends after work at this time. The subway is full of men in suits, heading back from their cushy white collar jobs. Desperate for something else to think about, you pull out your reading for the next week’s seminar from your backpack and lean against the train door, catching the last few rays of sunlight on the white printer paper in your hands.
You manage to distract yourself with work for the next few minutes (myeloid-derived suppressor cells as immunosuppressive regulators and therapeutic targets, you see some middle-aged guy trying to snoop over your shoulder and then immediately losing interest and looking away as soon as he reads the title) until the subway car rattles to a stop at your station. With the printed out article firmly held in your grasp, you make your way out onto the platform and into the rush of commuters going about their daily routine.
You glance to your left, then to your right, just out of habit, and then you lock eyes with Seungcheol and your stomach drops through your feet.
He stares back, wide-eyed and slightly panicked-looking, clearly not expecting to meet you on the subway platform either. The crowd jostles the two of you towards the exit stairwell, drawing you closer to him until it’s too late (or too awkward) to just pretend like you didn’t see him, closer and closer and then, he’s next to you, heading up the stairs side-by-side with you. He’s dressed in a navy suit with a sky-blue silk tie loosened around the collar of his white pinstriped button-up, his hair is fluffed in slight disarray over his forehead. It’s a devastatingly handsome look, and for a second, you feel light-headed.
“Doing some reading on the train?” He nods towards the papers in your hand, now crinkled from your tight grasp.
“Oh,” you laugh half-heartedly, “yeah, wanted to catch up before seminar next week.”
“Hm,” he says.
You chew your lip at the air of awkwardness between you and Seungcheol. The silence, despite being padded by the rumbling screaming of the departing train and the general buzz of the evening rush hour, is nearly unbearable, so you fill it, rambling as the two of you exit the subway station and turn onto the quieter tree-lined residential streets.
“I had the worst day,” you blabber, “my advisor ripped my project plan to shreds. I was going to order the chips I needed for my multiplexed single-cell secretion profiling, but now I need to rethink my entire secretion analysis plan.”
He listens, nodding and frowning and offering quiet “oh no”s at all the right moments as you talk about your two ruined flasks of glioblastoma cells and your little mental breakdown at lunch and your run-in with your seminar professor in the bathroom. He listens as you ramble and fill the space between your bodies with words, watching you in that kind, patient way that makes your heart ache with affection.
When the two of you finally enter the darkened apartment and Seungcheol flicks on the hallway lights, you realize you had been talking so much, your mouth is dry and you’re lightheaded from the oxygen expenditure.
“Sorry for talking so much,” you say, dropping your backpack to the floor next to your shoes. “I guess it’s been a while.”
“Yeah, I guess,” he says, still looking at you. You can tell he’s formulating something in his head. Maybe a speech. Maybe a single sentence. You’re not sure, though, and the silence stretches into awkwardness.
You clear your throat, and then suddenly words spill out, bypassing your brain to fall directly from your lips. “Do you think I should move out,” you blurt, feeling your chest tighten immediately at the words. “Chan says I can move in with him whenever. It’s been more than two months.”
Seungcheol blinks at you. “What? No, don’t move out.” He presses his lips into a tight line, then adds, “unless, of course, that’s what you want.”
“Do you want me to move out?” There’s those dark lashes and intense eyes again, like he can see right through you.
“No,” he says quietly, stepping closer to you. Instinctively, you inch backward until your shoulder blades meet the wall behind you, but Seungcheol follows.
His lips, pink, full, cherry-sweet, are the same as the lips you had admired that one summer day all those years ago. Seungcheol had come back from college and was at your house, looking for Jeonghan, but your brother wasn’t home, so the two of you sat out on the stoop of the house, talking until the sunset colored the whole world gold. You saved that memory in your heart, tucking it away where the warm summer air would stay frozen like a moment in amber. You remember watching his lips as he talked, and you remember how much you had wanted to kiss him. Your older brother’s best friend, home from college, sweet, charming, popular, athletic, handsome.
“I’m sorry,” you mumble, looking down. “I need to tell you something.”
Everyone is just some guy compared to you, Jeonghan had said, but he’s wrong, because compared to Seungcheol, you’re just some girl.
“I lied about Chan’s roommate situation. It was never true, I just wanted to get close to you. I’m sorry for lying to you.”
“Oh, Y/N,” he sighs, his hand lifting your chin until you make eye contact with him again. There’s that patience, that kindness again. The kind that makes your heart ache. “Don’t you think that I wouldn’t have accepted Jeonghan’s suggestion unless I wanted it too?”
You shake your head. “Didn’t you take me in as a favor for a friend?”
A smile creeps across his lips. “I don’t like any of my friends that much. But you, I do like you that much.”
You stare at him, not quite parsing his words. They enter your ears and settle in an alphabet soup word jumble. Like you? Like? I like you?
“Jeonghan called me earlier,” he says quietly, piecing the alphabet soup together as he talks, “and told me about— about how you feel about me. And here I was, these past few months, feeling guilty about our situation. Time spent with you felt… borrowed. Like it was only a matter of time before you figured it out.
“And, god, your little stunts, coming out of the shower wearing my shirt like that, leaving the door open and moaning my name. Jesus christ, it was like I was being tortured, put in my own personal hell where you were there, needy, there for me to take, and I couldn’t even touch you. But how could I? I felt like the big bad wolf, and you were my little red. In my head, you couldn’t possibly feel the same way, and I couldn’t possibly act on my desires.”
Heat rises in your cheeks. You lick your lips and whisper out your response. “What do you mean?”
He lifts his arm, caging you in against the wall. “I want you to stay with me,” he says. “The way you feel about me, I feel the same. I have, for years. So, stay.”
Like magic, the pieces fall in place, alphabet noodles stringing together into a single sentence, spelling out ‘I LOVE YOU’ in capital letters.
Leaping forward into the chasm, you throw your arms around Seungcheol’s shoulders and press your lips to his. He meets you, want for want, need for need, his hands automatically coming up to hold you as you tilt your head and lean into him.
Seungcheol tastes like heat, like summer afternoons and summer nights. You think you could kiss him forever.
“I’ll stay,” you pull away breathlessly to look into his eyes. “I want to stay with you, Cheol, I want to be by your side.”
He responds by pulling you into his chest, hugging you tight. “Welcome home,” he murmurs into the crook of your neck.
.
.
.
(extra)
The TV is on in the background to some entertainment channel, a background buzz filling the living room with blue moving light, but nobody is paying attention to what’s on the screen.
You’re seated on Seungcheol’s lap, his lips on your throat, his hand raking up the back of your shirt as he bites lightly at the sensitive flesh under your ear, sending shivers up and down your spine.
You whine, canting your hips down on his, relishing the way his chest rumbles with a growl as you move. And then, like nails on a chalkboard, you’re pulled out of the heady haze of lust and desire by the announcer on the TV—
“—and now, actor, model, singer, and idol Jeonghan isn’t satisfied with just those jobs under his belt, according to his recent tweets, he’s now a matchmaker too? The international superstar tells us everything in this exclusive interview—“
“I’m sorry,” you roll off Seungcheol and onto the couch beside him, looking for the remote, “I can’t do this while my brother is on the TV.”
“Fucking Jeonghan,” Seungcheol groans, running a hand through his touseled hair, “somehow cockblocking even while he’s on tour.”
“You should tell him about it,” you say while you reach between the couch cushions in search for the remote, “I think he’d love to hear about our sex lives.”
Fingers closing around the hard plastic, you lift the remote into the air, ready to change the channel, when you’re distracted by what your brother has to say.
“Well,” he tosses his bleached blond hair, “I think I’m a bit of a love expert now, after getting my younger sister and my good friend together. It’s a perfect match, and I think I just had a good eye when suggesting she move in with him. And now, thanks to me, they’re madly in love.”
He goes on without a single ounce of shame in his voice, “I’ll sing at their wedding of course, but I expect them to name their firstborn child after me.”
You rise to your feet, previous thoughts forgotten behind you as you zero in on the shit-eating grin on your brother’s face. “Motherfucker!”
❝Because the greatest war Seungcheol had ever waged was against your heart.❞
historical! au | enemies to lovers! au | smut, fluff | 41k words
s u m m a r y : there was only one thing you hated more than your restricted life, and that was choi seungcheol—the greatest venetian general who has ever lived. when a marriage is arranged between the two of you, you were sure it would end in bloodshed. however, as you and seungcheol are forced to attend balls and share a few hard truths, you realise you have more in common with the mysterious general than you thought.
c o n t e n t : military commander! seungcheol, noblewoman! artist! mc, artist! minghao, artist! soonyoung who are both annoying (affectionate), cheol and mc absolutely hate each other because i need to see proper e2l, cheol has a scar on his lip (yes this needs a separate warning), this is set in renaissance venice so there will be many artist references, the doge = basically ruler of venice, themes of sexism, constant arguing between mc and cheol, there is fluff, also angst mature warnings -> tons of sexual tension, making out fuelled by hatred, cheol calls you carrissima (which personally i find very hot) fingering, oral sex (f. receiving), unprotected sex (only because medieval contraception is horrendous), petnames cheol says some vile things during the deed, slight corruption kink
p l a y l i s t : dangerous woman by ariana grande || war of the hearts by sade || love is stronger than pride by sade || i don’t understand but i luv u by seventeen
t a g l i s t : at the bottom of the fic!
a u t h o r ’ s n o t e : hi hello thank you everyone for waiting for this monster fic!! thank you alice and addy for being the reason i finished this fic, thank you chia for creating a beautiful picture of general! cheol, and greatest thanks to choi seungcheol the man you are </3 i hope you all enjoy this fic as much as i enjoyed writing it <33
WHEN THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC DEFEATED THE OTTOMANS ONCE AND FOR ALL, EVERY CITIZEN—BE IT PEASANT OR THE RICHEST ARISTOCRAT—KNEW WHO WAS BEHIND THAT VICTORY.
His name sparked life into the deathly, cramped streets. Whispers and cheers carried along the murky lakes, the rushed streams underneath the city, lapping up to the cobblestoned shore—entering the ears of marketeers, patricians, nuns, prostitutes, everyone. Wherever one went, the commander’s name rang like the dozen church bells, scattered throughout the lake-locked lands.
The buzz in the air was more frantic this afternoon, though, because the victors’ party was finally returning to the state.
Finally returning home.
You, despite your family’s excitement, despite your connections to the man behind the success of it all, could not have cared less.
❝Because the greatest war Seungcheol had ever waged was against your heart.❞
historical! au | enemies to lovers! au | smut, fluff | 41k words
s u m m a r y : there was only one thing you hated more than your restricted life, and that was choi seungcheol—the greatest venetian general who has ever lived. when a marriage is arranged between the two of you, you were sure it would end in bloodshed. however, as you and seungcheol are forced to attend balls and share a few hard truths, you realise you have more in common with the mysterious general than you thought.
c o n t e n t : military commander! seungcheol, noblewoman! artist! mc, artist! minghao, artist! soonyoung who are both annoying (affectionate), cheol and mc absolutely hate each other because i need to see proper e2l, cheol has a scar on his lip (yes this needs a separate warning), this is set in renaissance venice so there will be many artist references, the doge = basically ruler of venice, themes of sexism, constant arguing between mc and cheol, there is fluff, also angst mature warnings -> tons of sexual tension, making out fuelled by hatred, cheol calls you carrissima (which personally i find very hot) fingering, oral sex (f. receiving), unprotected sex (only because medieval contraception is horrendous), petnames cheol says some vile things during the deed, slight corruption kink
p l a y l i s t : dangerous woman by ariana grande || war of the hearts by sade || love is stronger than pride by sade || i don’t understand but i luv u by seventeen
t a g l i s t : at the bottom of the fic!
a u t h o r ’ s n o t e : hi hello thank you everyone for waiting for this monster fic!! thank you alice and addy for being the reason i finished this fic, thank you chia for creating a beautiful picture of general! cheol, and greatest thanks to choi seungcheol the man you are </3 i hope you all enjoy this fic as much as i enjoyed writing it <33
WHEN THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC DEFEATED THE OTTOMANS ONCE AND FOR ALL, EVERY CITIZEN—BE IT PEASANT OR THE RICHEST ARISTOCRAT—KNEW WHO WAS BEHIND THAT VICTORY.
His name sparked life into the deathly, cramped streets. Whispers and cheers carried along the murky lakes, the rushed streams underneath the city, lapping up to the cobblestoned shore—entering the ears of marketeers, patricians, nuns, prostitutes, everyone. Wherever one went, the commander’s name rang like the dozen church bells, scattered throughout the lake-locked lands.
The buzz in the air was more frantic this afternoon, though, because the victors’ party was finally returning to the state.
Finally returning home.
You, despite your family’s excitement, despite your connections to the man behind the success of it all, could not have cared less.
Today — the first time in a small forever that he forgot to check the battery on his earphones (and subsequently had them die on him mid-workout) — Jihoon is forced to notice you.
pairing; lee jihoon x fem!reader.
content; fluff / gym crush au / strangers to lovers / kinda idiots to lovers / smut towards the end (MINORS DNI).
w/c; just a breezy 18k- and some change?
warnings; swearing, this is only proof read once because if i read it again i was going to lose my mind. please let me know if i've forgotten any. smut tags under the cut
( not sure that this counts as a warning but a heads up: the gym weight units, whenever mentioned, are in kilograms not lbs because i’m british and the metric system, am i right? sorry if there are any other british-isms, i try really hard to avoid them/catch them on a proofread but there are inevitably some that have slipped through the net. )
note; gym-selfie jihoon, you will never not own my ass.
( screaming internally this is the first fic i've written since my dan + phil youtube era. i don't know what i'm doing. this has been in my wips for about two months. it's a bit all over the place. that's. literally just me. bon appetite. <3 )
smut warnings: making out, grinding, fingering (f rec), oral (f rec), blowjob started/implied (at the end), protected sex (be safe out there gang), little bit of biting, no huge power dynamics? reader & jihoon are both switches (and simps), some use of pet-names (good girl/baby).
—————
He first sees you around lunchtime on an otherwise unassuming Sunday.
As you walk in, the gym is wonderfully quiet. A handful of regulars mill about, making full use of the rare freedom of the machinery. One of the club’s personal trainers is marching an impossibly steep incline on a treadmill. It could just be any other weekend session in this criminally over-equipped and under-used gym: the town’s worst kept secret. But when the door slams shut behind you, his head jerks up; it, in this moment, is the loudest sound in the room. It’s sort of the only one he hears at all.
Today — the first time in a small forever that he forgot to check the battery on his earphones (and subsequently had them die on him mid-workout) — Jihoon is forced to notice you as he sits with dumbbells rested against his thighs. He catches his breath as he wonders who you are, if you’ve ever been to this gym before, why he doesn’t recognise you. Are you a new potential regular, maybe? Or just visiting the area and making good use of the cheap pay-as-you-go rates? Maybe, he considers, lips turning downwards in thought… maybe you’ve been coming here for a long time and he’s somehow just always been so in his own head that he’s never noticed.
The last, he thinks, is sort of unlikely. No. He would definitely remember a face like yours.
His heart rate slows more than he usually lets it as he finds himself watching you fill up your water bottle at the fountain, taking a long sip on your way over to one of the stairmasters. His brain blanks out when he realises that he’s not just looking anymore, he’s sort of staring, and swallows the saliva on his tongue hard, looking back at the mirror. He doesn’t want to be that guy. He isn’t that guy – he just got distracted by the loud noise, and this is exactly why he checks the damn battery on his headphones before he leaves the house.
The only problem is that now, he can’t remember how many sets he’s done. He lies back and stares straight into a slightly sketchy light-fixture, neglecting to pick up the dumbbells that he put aside for his next set of pushes. Jihoon adjusts the position of his shoulders against the bench, arches his back off it slightly, digs his heels into the spongy floor beneath them and pushes the ones still in his hands until failure.
Today, he finishes his routine and leaves the gym without allowing himself so much as another glance your way.
He neglects to notice that your eyes are avoiding him right back.
—————
You smile at him for the first time on a Tuesday. Not the following one – a week and a bit later.
Seungcheol is with him tonight. Jihoon prefers to train alone nine times out of ten: this is a truth widely acknowledged, accepted and respected among his friends. Gym time is his down time, his equivalent of movie marathons and comfort food, of face masks and glasses of wine. But it’s not a hard rule: occasionally, someone will ask to tag along and use one of his guest passes, and Jihoon very rarely says no. There are two reasons. One, he isn’t actually rude, contrary to approximately eighteen running jokes in the group-chat. But also, it adds a little bit of variety to his otherwise very set-in-stone regimen, and mixing it up doesn’t hurt. Like tonight, for example. Seungcheol is pulling him into the studio off the main gym floor, his own gym bag packed with boxing pads and gloves for them to play with.
Variety.
Jihoon grumbles a little at the idea, at first. He has a very love-hate relationship with cardio, favouring a simple steady-state run over everything else, and it just feels a bit against his moral code to use gym time for something like this. However, he comes to discover very quickly that smacking Seungcheol’s hands is very therapeutic; Jihoon knows he’s maybe getting a little too into it when his friend asks if they can switch around, grimacing and shaking out his wrist after a particularly beefy punch.
He agrees, albeit reluctantly, tugging off the gloves he’s wearing and pulling on the pads instead.
This half of the activity is considerably less enjoyable for Jihoon; he starts to cool down and loses his flow almost straight away and after about thirty seconds, his breathing is back to normal and he feels ready to go again. Even so, he does what he needs to do to be a good workout partner, and goes one step further into ‘good friend’ territory as he allows Seungcheol to vent about the bad day he had at work in-between hits, offering murmurs and looks of disgust when it feels appropriate. Suddenly, the impromptu request to come to the gym tonight makes much more sense, as does the slightly bizarre choice of activity, but Jihoon tries not to ask about it in too much detail.
They swing at each other for a few more rounds apiece, working up a healthy sweat and getting out a few frustrations as the hour wears on. On the last set, Jihoon switches out Seungcheol’s hands for a punching bag, putting a lot more of his weight behind every hit and really tiring himself out. By the end, his hair sticks to his forehead and his cheeks have flushed bright red; he only stops when he gets that weird, metallic taste in the back of his mouth that says he’s probably overdone it. Again.
“Hit the shower?” Seungcheol asks breathlessly as he finishes his last set of Russian twists and lies down flat on the floor, equally sticky and flushed all over.
Jihoon pats his face dry with his towel, shaking his head. “You go ahead. I’ll have one at home.”
He doesn’t give Seungcheol much of a chance to respond, already cleaning down anything he’s touched or managed to sweat on and riding out the high of the endorphins flooding his veins. Secretly, he hasn’t had a cardio session this high energy or this satisfying in a long time. He isn’t going to readily admit to that though.
“Nah, I’ll do the same,” Seungcheol agrees. He starts packing the gear he brought with him into his bag and they leave together after, heading towards the exit.
That’s when he sees you again.
He doesn’t notice at first; you’re stowing your things into one of the higher lockers, and you have your headphones slung around your neck as he walks past. It’s the sound of a song he vaguely recognises through your speakers that makes his head snap over from the conversation he’s in the middle of. They walk past at the moment you drop down from your tiptoes, and you flash a small (but insanely pretty) smile at Jihoon.
By the time he manages to process this fact, he’s already walked past you and you’re headed over into the main gym area, so even though he turns around to try and catch your eye, all he sees is your retreating figure. He stumbles over his own feet, not looking where he’s going, and just barely catches himself on Seungcheol’s upper arm before he actually does fall over. His older friend glances down at his bicep before he adopts a look that Jihoon has seen many, many times before: just never directed at him. His cheeks heat up further and he looks away.
“What was that?” Seungcheol asks, one eyebrow so far up his forehead that it’s disappeared almost entirely under his soggy hair. He looks so smug, so incredibly entertained. Jihoon wants to smack that expression off his face, immediately.
“Nothing,” Jihoon rushes, managing not to act on the violent thought even though he wants to. He clears his throat. “No-one. I-... they’re new, I think. I don’t know.”
Seungcheol lets out a soft laugh, pushing the door open for them both to leave through. “Yeah,” he scoffs, eyes glimmering with something Jihoon doesn’t think he likes the look of. “Nothing, my ass.”
—————
Three days later, he hears you speak for the first time.
Granted, you aren’t speaking to him – at least, not at first. But that’s not really what matters.
It’s late, and it’s a Friday night. Fridays are usually Jihoon’s days rest days, but sitting around his apartment had him feeling impossibly twitchy, with far too much energy to burn and no way to do so without leaving the house. And he knows that he needs to take days off, now and again. He knows that they’re good for recovery and that it’s healthy to take time to himself that involves not lifting weights. But what he also knows is that if he doesn’t manage to shake the weird buzzing feeling in his muscles, in his joints, in his veins, he’s never going to get to sleep. So, here he finds himself at almost 10PM, walking down the street to get to the gym.
To begin with, he doesn’t know (or really care) who it is that’s coming up behind him. He can hear quite clearly that the mystery person is on the phone, and that they’re in the middle of what seems to be a rather heated argument: his brain latches onto occasional words, phrases, curses. Every now and again, their voice drops to a deep, frustrated mutter and he cringes slightly, making a point to keep his eyes forward and down so as not to draw attention to the fact that this presumably private conversation has become everything but.
He touches his entry fob to the sensor on the door as he arrives and pushes it open. Jihoon uses the opportunity to stand still, to glance back at whoever it is that’s walked behind him for the past four and a half minutes, and his eyes come to land on you. He falters, noting how your eyes are a bit glassy and your cheeks are stained with what he can safely assume are tear-tracks. In this moment, he wants to run; he doesn’t want anything to do with that, and he certainly doesn’t want to hear any more of your call. It’s none of his business, and he feels plenty weird enough already with what he has overheard. But, for some unknown reason, he stays in place.
“No – no, you don’t get to-...” you hiss into your phone. “It was our fucking anniversary, you asshole.” Jihoon’s face tightens at that, lips drawn between his teeth and his eyes blowing slightly wide. You pass through the door in front of him, flashing a small smile as you go. Another smile, he thinks to himself, but he’d be an idiot to compare them in any way; this one is so dramatically dissimilar to the first, he thinks it could almost have come from a totally different person.
Unfortunately, there’s nothing ‘insanely pretty’ about it this time. Your smile is tight-lipped and exhausted, slightly apologetic. Maybe even forced. He does try to return a warmer one to you, but he doesn’t know if you notice.
“Look, I’m at the gym – we’re not doing this right now. I’ll call you later.” You hang up the phone with the kind of sigh that groans in the back of your throat.
A small part of him wants to take this moment and use it to ask if you’re all right, but an even larger part of him doesn’t. It isn’t because he doesn’t care. In a weird way, considering this is only the first time he’s clearly heard your voice and he knows absolutely nothing about you, he does care. But there are a few things that stop him. Not only are you a near-complete stranger, not only would he have no idea what to say to you if the answer happened to come out as a ‘no’, not only is he already coming over a little bit clammy at the thought of having a conversation with you… Jihoon isn’t stupid. He knows from the sound of your voice and the way you’re rather aggressively typing a message into your phone that it’s a ridiculous question.
You’re walking into the gym at 10 o’clock on a Friday night, your eyes literally brimming with tears. Of course you’re not all right.
He’s still standing in the open doorway mulling all this over, but Jihoon only realises when a gust of wind slaps over his calves and sends a draught not only through the reception area, but up the length of his spine. He comes inside fully as you close the locker you’re using – he notices, but he isn’t sure why, that it’s the same one as last time – and throws his things into the one he always uses. Two below and one to the left of yours.
It’s quiet tonight: just the pair of you and one middle-aged guy. Jihoon recognises him as the friendly man who seemingly knows everyone who comes in here – including you, apparently, judging by the way he strikes up a short but energetic conversation. When the other guy walks away, you clamp your headphones back over your ears and return to what you were doing before, occasionally bobbing your head or moving your lips in time with whatever it is that you’re listening to. Jihoon steals little glances at you now and again when you’re in-between sets, watching how you breathe deeper, how your skin glows with sweat as you tap your fingertips against your thighs.
He almost drops the bar he’s holding when you catch his eyes in the long line of mirrors. He turns away, swallowing hard, completely missing how your own gaze lingers.
Jihoon becomes so obsessed with not being caught looking at you again that he doesn’t even notice when you disappear off the gym floor completely. It’s only when he pulls his headphones off at the end of his session and glances around that he registers your absence: your third companion is long gone, and he assumes you must have snuck out without him noticing too. He settles the speakers back over his ears before pulling on an old zip-up, flicking the hood over his head to shelter him a little better once he gets outside. But he’s in no rush to get home so he takes his time, resting his bag between his abdomen and the lockers, replying to a few messages and clicking his tongue at some of the nonsense being spewed into the group-chat.
He isn’t sure exactly how long he’s standing there for, but he does know precisely what pulls him back to the world outside of the device in his hands.
To begin with, he doesn’t notice you approach, lost completely in his screen. He doesn’t hear your footsteps, or the way you politely clear your throat to announce your presence so he can move out of the way. He misses your moment of realisation that he’s listening to music and has no idea that you’re standing three feet behind him. He doesn’t even see you walk up next to him, your hair still damp from your shower and sitting loose over your shoulders.
It’s only when you try to reach over him to grab the last of your things that he snaps out of his trance. The fragrance of your body wash hits him first, and oh boy, does it hit him. Sweet, and delicate. Then, he gets something beautifully fruity: it’s not a perfume (it doesn’t smell like a perfume), but it’s you. Your shampoo, maybe? A conditioner? He can’t tell. Whatever it is, the combination of fragrances has him feeling like he’s been slammed into by a damn freight train. He drops his bag to the floor, freezing for a second, and then finally moves away just as the little door swings open.
“I’m so sorry,” he says hurriedly, tugging his hood down and pulling his headphones off completely. “I didn’t even think you were still here.” He can’t shake the smell of you, nor the feeling of your warm frame leaning so close to his own. God, why is his heart pounding like he’s just finished a round of sprints? Why can’t he breathe?
“No – hey, no, don’t be,” you rush, shaking your head. You finally succeed in pulling your coat free and start trying to get it on; Jihoon wonders if you often struggle to find your sleeves like this, if you’re always chasing them around like a puppy after its own tail. He does it too, sometimes. He gets it. It’s cute. “It’s okay. I was trying not to disturb-... I’m sorry.”
“You’re fine,” he tells you. For the first time, he’s able to smile back at you properly.
Why is it so hot in here, all of a sudden? Do they shut off the air conditioning after hours or something? He’s breaking out in a sweat.
“Call it even?” you suggest shyly, extending out a hand now you’ve managed to get both arms through your sleeves. He looks down at your fingers for a second before reaching to shake your hand once, a semi-firm grip securing the ‘deal’. (He feels a bit like he’s been electrocuted after, but he tries not to make that too obvious).
It goes awkwardly quiet for a moment then, and Jihoon wishes deeply that he had it in him to say something. Anything. But his brain has gone completely empty and apparently, all he knows how to do is stand completely still like a fucking statue. He shifts his gaze from you, to the wall behind you, to the carpet beneath his shoes, all the while tugging at the collar of his sweatshirt as if it might bring him a tiny breath of fresh air. The gentle sound of you clearing your throat has him looking back at your face again though; he assumes for a second that this is maybe you about to announce taking your leave. All the while, he’s cursing himself out in his own head for being totally inept, and he’s not entirely sure that it isn’t written all over his face.
“Alone, today?” you ask, idly fiddling with your zipper and succeeding in taking him by surprise. He really didn’t think you were going to continue this. And yet…
“Hm?” he questions.
You swallow before answering. “You… the last time, you were with a friend?” you explain, and now it’s your turn to look away. He wonders if you’re a little warm too, if he’s right in what he was thinking about the air-conditioning.
“Oh. Right.”
He nods. An annoying train of doubt in his mind wants to know why you’re asking about Seungcheol; if maybe it was him that you smiled at the other night, even though he knows your eyes weren’t looking up at the man he brought with him. He thinks maybe he should be used to these turns in conversation by now – you certainly wouldn’t be the first person to ask if one of his friends is available, after all – but somehow, he isn’t, and he has a slightly bitter taste in the back of his mouth as he goes on.
He really didn’t have ‘you being interested in one of his best friends’ on his bingo card for tonight, that’s for sure.
“Yeah. I think he’s with his partner, or… I don’t know. I don’t really bring other people, often. That was a one-off.”
You nod silently and Jihoon can’t quite get a read on what that means. He wonders if you’re upset at the revelation of Seungcheol’s partner, or maybe that he doesn’t tag along to every session. Or maybe, maybe, you were just being polite, and you don’t really care what his friend is up to that means he isn’t here. But whatever it is that you’re feeling, you do far too good a job at hiding it; he’s suddenly very overcome with the desire to run, again, except this time he might just bury his head in the sand too for good measure.
“How much were you deadlifting, just then?” you ask in the lull, just as he thinks he might have perfected the best way to say goodbye that doesn’t make him come across as even more of a tool than he probably already has. It throws him off kilter, but somehow, he manages to answer you in reasonable time.
“Oh, God… uh, one… 160?” He says uncertainly. “That’s not… I can do heavier-...” In his mind, he slaps his forehead. “Wait, no, that’s-... I mean, it’s true, but I didn’t mean-...”
You bite back your smile as he talks himself in a circle but Jihoon is too flustered to notice, convinced that he now sounds like every arrogant gym rat on the planet. God, he’s given himself the ick.
“I guessed you could,” you say.
Oh boy, this freezes him. Mid-thought, mid blink, mid-breath: he’s completely stuck. What does that mean? What does that mean? He only just manages to unstick his now suddenly dry tongue from the roof of his mouth, looking at you with surprised, confused eyes and parted lips. There aren’t any words on them, though. Like a deer in headlights, he just… stares.
“I mean, okay. Come on.” Your eyes visibly drop as you look him over, gaze lingering at his shoulders, his biceps, his waist. “You can get another twenty on that at least, right?”
He doesn’t know how to explain what’s happening to him, but if he thought he was burning up before? It was nothing compared to this, now. And there’s no way you haven’t noticed how everything from the base of his neck to the tips of his ears has suddenly started staining scarlet. He bows his head and pinches his lips tight, wrestling away the train of thought that appears as you drag your bottom lip between your teeth momentarily, still eyeing his arms. God, he’s never felt so overwhelmed in his life.
“Something like that, yeah,” he strains. He’s trying so hard to be nonchalant, even though he knows all of his personal bests by heart. Deadlift, 195kg. He hit it a few weeks ago: a couple of days before he first saw you.
“Mm. You can tell.”
Jihoon tries to shake off the compliment, but he fails. In equal measure he wishes you’d stop (he doesn’t know how much more blood can rush to his cheeks before he keels over) and never wants you to stop talking. It’s all going straight to his stomach, though, and he doesn’t remember having felt this specific brand of nervous and excited and stupidly shy since he was in high school.
He can hardly keep up. This is the danger zone.
Maybe it’s a bad idea that he says the next thing that comes into his head in a desperate attempt to change the conversation away from how much he can pull. But somehow, his voice doesn’t break when he asks, “are you parked far away?”
What? It’s dark outside, and this part of town isn’t exactly known for its upstanding citizens and pretty flowerbeds.
“Oh,” you say, eyes a little wide. “I’m-... just staying close-by. I walked here.” The space between his eyebrows must crease a little too quickly because you immediately hurry to speak again. “Really. It’s like… not even ten minutes. All main streets. It’s nothing.”
“Ten minutes longer than I’d walk around here at night on my own,” he says lightheartedly. In tone, at least. He’s actually completely serious.
You laugh at that; he lets out a chuckle, too. Now, Jihoon doesn’t believe in fairies but he thinks that if they were real, they’d giggle just like you do.
With a smile still on your face, you say, “what? A strong guy like you? Come on, now.”
Do you have to keep doing that? Fuck, he’s absolutely done for.
He tilts his head forwards, eyes closed, trying so hard to stop the muscles in his cheeks from lifting in a grin that it becomes a workout in and of itself.
“I mean it,” he says, taking what he hopes is a subtle breath to settle the fluttering in his chest. The next thing he knows, he’s leaning one shoulder against the lockers, a little reminiscent of every douchebag in every teen movie ever made. If he doesn’t think about it too much, he won’t cringe into oblivion until he gets home and replays this interaction over and over in his head instead of going to sleep. “Maybe I’ve just lived here too long. I might be jaded, but it’s still true.”
“How long is too long?” you ask.
“All my life,” he tells you.
“No way?”
“Mm.” A beat. “What about you?”
“I’m just staying with a friend, right now.”
“Oh, right.” He falls quiet again as he remembers the first time he saw you, remembers making the list in his head of all the possible reasons he hadn’t seen you before. The second was true, then.
Why does that feel like the worst possible scenario? He decides not to unpack that here.
“Maybe-...” you start, glancing down at your hands, which have been twisting in front of you for a few seconds now. Your chest inflates, filled with the words you’re about to speak, but only a breath comes out when you shake your head instead of saying them. “No, don’t worry. Scratch that.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, because he thinks that whatever you were about to suggest, there’s not much he would have said no to. He feels like it’s only fair to give you another chance to say it.
But you don’t.
“Yeah, it’s nothing.” You pause. “I… should probably get going.” He glances over your shoulder at the clock mounted on the far wall, squinting to see the time. 11:45.
“Shit. Yeah, me too,” Jihoon agrees. He didn’t realise it had gotten so late, so fast: he’s hardly ever out at this time. Lord, he already knows it’s going to be an open inquisition when he gets back to his apartment. His neighbours, Soonyoung and Seokmin, are about to have a fucking field day.
But it’s already long past the time he usually goes to bed, so he asks his next question anyway. He still can’t shake the thought of you walking back on your own at this hour. “Do-… you need a ride?”
He’s not sure if you actually consider it, or just wait a moment before you answer just to be polite. Either way, you end up shaking your head.
“It’s okay. I’ve-… got a call to make, so.” Your voice is a little quieter, lips tweaking up into a regretful half-smile, and Jihoon curses in his own head. How had he forgotten about that? “Thank you, though. Really.”
“Don’t mention it,” he says. “Just… get back safe.”
You smile and nod, taking a step towards the door and Jihoon does the same. He reaches the exit first and holds it open for you; when you’re both out in the street, he suppresses a shiver and looks in the direction of where he left his car earlier. Feeling the full force of the cold, it crosses his mind to ask again if you’re sure about walking home, but you’re already pulling a beanie down over your still damp hair and tapping something into your phone, so he doesn’t say anything.
“I’ll see you around, uh-…” you start to say, only looking back up when you falter, realising that this is the first time you’re about to use his name and it occurs to you both, at the same time, that you haven’t done this part, yet.
“Jihoon,” he introduces himself, lips quirking into a side-smile. His gaze is expectant and you respond to it perfectly.
“Y/n,” you introduce yourself.
“See you around, y/n.”
You split off in the opposite direction to where he’s heading. Before he clamps his headphones over his ears for the short walk up to his car, the last thing he hears is the retreating sound of a dial-tone.
—————
He doesn’t see you then for two whole weeks.
For the first couple of days, he only idly notices; it’s not a big deal — it’s not like you’re always there when he is, and he’s sure it’s the same vice versa. But he notices your absence, nonetheless. By the end of the first week, he casually wonders if you’ve had a change in schedule. Maybe you’re on a different working pattern, something that means you can’t be there on Monday and Thursday evenings and at 11:45am on Sundays.
It’s not weird. He only knows this because prior to that first conversation, acknowledging you as you crossed paths by the free-weights became part of his routine. It’s fine that he sort of misses those little interactions, isn’t it?
Maybe you’ve decided to start training ridiculously early in the morning instead? He tried that once. Never again. It then occurs to him, in the middle of a self-enforced rest day as he sits in the dark nursing a headache, that perhaps you’re not well. He sort of wishes he’d had the guts to ask for your number the last time he saw you, now: he thinks he’d check in, see if you were okay, ask how work was going or something.
Deep down he knows he’d probably actually just be staring at a blank text thread with a ‘casual’ message typed, tweaked a few hundred times, and ultimately unsent. But that’s fine. It’s the thought that counts.
The next time he sees you isn’t even in the gym, at all. It’s a Sunday afternoon — he finished his morning session, went home, showered, and headed back out into town after some lunch with a few errands to run. He finds himself spoiled with the luxury of a spare few hours to kill and dips into his favourite coffee place, thrilled beyond belief to find that it’s not obnoxiously busy and that there’s only one other person in the queue waiting to be served.
Oh, he thinks when he looks up from his phone and sees a vaguely familiar set of headphones sitting on top of a definitely familiar mane of hair, standing right in front of him. Oh, shit. It’s you.
Jihoon goes back and forth with himself over it but ultimately decides he probably doesn’t know you well enough to just say hello out in the wild like this, so even though the urge to do so strikes, he holds himself back. It’s agonising, though. He really wants to.
You step forward to order and he’s typing out a reply to a message in his, Seokmin and Soonyoung’s three-way group chat, in which he’s literally been fighting for his life as of late. He made the mistake of mentioning you in passing a few days ago and ever since, he’s had to vehemently deny that he has developed his first gym crush, insisting that actually, he’s just made a friend. They don’t believe him, because of course they don’t. That would be far too reasonable. Seokmin says that Jihoon wouldn’t be blushing just from saying your name if you were really ‘just a friend’. Soonyoung argues Jihoon wouldn’t have mentioned you at all.
“I’m so sorry — bear with me, just-…” your voice is quiet but Jihoon hears you apologising to the cashier in front of you, and it snaps him clean away from the tiff he’s having with the men who live in his building. He glances up and you’re elbow-deep in the bag over your shoulder, red in the face with your bottom lip pulled between your teeth. He turns his head slightly and sees the small hand-written sign that says the card machine isn’t working, and they’re cash only, today.
He can hazard a guess at your predicament.
After another few seconds of you trying to find whatever it is you’re looking for in your bag, he starts feeling bad for you. This, right here, is his own worst nightmare. Should the roles be reversed, he thinks he would’ve just turned around and walked out. It’s exactly why he doesn’t bother with backpacks and satchels day-to-day: if it doesn’t fit in his pockets, he doesn’t take it out with him. The system isn’t perfect but it has saved Jihoon a decent amount of public distress.
But the roles aren’t reversed, and he has his wallet already in his hand, so… he only gives himself a few seconds to wonder if it’s appropriate before he does the stupid thing anyway.
“Don’t worry — I’ve got it,” he says, stepping around you, pulling out the cash to pay for your order. You’re dumbstruck when you look at him, head tilted to the side. The person stood behind the counter glances at you, then at him, and back at you; you don’t see this, however, because your eyes haven’t left Jihoon’s face since he appeared — as far as you’re concerned — out of thin air.
“I can’t ask you to…” you start to protest, but your hands have stopped fishing around and he’s moving the cash further towards the barista, who hesitates just a second longer.
“You’re not asking. I’m offering. I’ve got you.” He says this with such finality that you quite literally can’t argue with him. The lady behind the counter accepts the cash and you nod, shyly, mouthing a thank you. He orders his own drink — an Americano, nothing exciting — and you both go to stand at the other end of the counter while you wait.
“Hi,” you finally say, and Jihoon can’t help but give a small chuckle.
He doesn’t have anything hugely witty or creative in his arsenal, though, so he comes back with a matching, “hey.”
“How… have you been?” you ask.
“Can’t complain, really,” he says. “Are you okay? I haven’t seen you around for a few weeks.” Oh, God — the second the words are out of his mouth, he wishes he could take them back. Why did he have to add that last part? Why didn’t he just leave it at the question?
“Yeah — about that,” you breathe, ducking your head to conceal the heat that’s spreading over your cheeks. “You know how I said I was staying with that friend?” He nods, and you continue. “I was waiting for some stuff to get sorted out with an apartment and it all finally got resolved, so… I’ve been moving my stuff over to a new place.”
Jihoon feels his heart sink for a moment, but he keeps his expression pleasant and engaged. His fingers threaten to give him away as they fiddle with the aglet on the drawstring of his sweatpants.
“Sounds tiring,” he says lightly, and you laugh again, nodding. It’s odd, having his heart taking residence low in his stomach and somehow also in his throat, all while hammering away at a mile a minute. All the caffeine in the world couldn’t have this effect on him. “Is it going okay so far?”
“Yeah.” You nod. “It’s a process, but… it’ll be worth it.”
The barista behind the counter announces herself by clearing her throat and slides your drinks across the marble surface with a little glimmer in her eye. Jihoon picks them both up, extending yours out to you. There’s a pause (in which he swallows a large helping of self-doubt) as he glances to the door, working through several combinations of his next words in his mind before he looks back at you.
“Do you… maybe have ten minutes to sit with these?” He asks. You light up immediately, not even checking the time on any of your devices, nor the wall clock behind your head. He doesn’t let himself think about why it makes him giddy that you’re accepting the offer, just like that.
“Yeah — yeah, sure.” You smile, walking through the lines of tables and sliding into one of the big, comfy chairs by the window. He unzips his jacket and slings it over the arm of the other chair before settling in himself, his long fingers wrapping around the to-go cup. The drink warms his perpetually cold palms and he sighs sweetly.
“You must be excited to get into the new place, then?” he asks after taking a sip, letting it heat him up from the inside. It could be argued that this job is already being taken care of, but Jihoon is not about to go there.
“Oh, God yes.” You nod, relaxing back in the seat with your own cup. Jihoon subconsciously leans a little forward in tandem. “It’s been fun staying with my friend, but…” You pause, lips slightly parted, before going on. “Okay, a warning: I’m a terrible person for this, I know. She’s done me a huge favour, letting me stay there — but I can’t deal with how untidy she is. It’s driving me nuts.”
A chuckle bubbles in Jihoon’s chest, cheeks starting to ache as his smile grows and grows. It hasn’t fallen since he sat down opposite you, and doesn’t seem to be going anywhere, any time soon. “That bad?” he asks.
“You have no idea,” you groan, covering your face with one hand. He wishes you hadn’t — he thinks you look quite lovely when you’re all lit up like this. “She doesn’t clean her dishes after she eats — she piles them up in the sink for like, three days. I don’t think she’s used the vacuum the entire time I’ve been there. I keep finding wrappers and packets and mismatched socks everywhere —”
His snort of laughter rolls off the back of his throat rather ungraciously and he settles back into his chair. You gently bump his ankle under the table with your foot, beaming at him. “I’m serious! I can’t live like this, Jihoon. I can’t!”
The more you speak, the less he can control the fits he’s descended into, and his abs start to ache after a while; there’s desperation in your voice but it’s just wrapped up so cutely in your lighthearted frustration and decoratively tied together with your sunshine smile… he can’t help it — he’s in pieces. It’s okay though, because you’re laughing too: it makes him think of fairies again, and he can picture you with dainty, intricately patterned wings under the soft lighting in the café. He wipes the corner of his eye with the heel of his hand as he starts to calm down, taking a few deep breaths all the way into his stomach.
“You’re so much stronger than I am,” he says.. “I couldn’t deal with that.”
“You know, I had a feeling you’d be a clean person, too,” you say, sipping at your coffee again. “I mean… I’ve never seen you use the gym showers, so I wasn’t sure, but…”
“Hey,” he says, mock-defensively. “I don’t trust the locks, okay? I shower at home!”
Your cup is lifted to your mouth and he can only see you from the nose upwards, but by the creases at the corners of your eyes, he knows you’re concealing a smile behind it as you nod back at him.
Ten minutes turns to twenty and then somehow becomes thirty — Jihoon starts feeling like you’re someone he’s known for years, and not just the person he accidentally ended up paying attention to in the gym just a couple of weeks ago. He bounces off you and you bounce off him. Both of you have long-since finished your drinks, too: there’s no real reason for either of you to still be here.
Except the obvious.
“So, the apartment,” Jihoon says, leaning forwards again with his elbows resting on his knees. “Is it…?” He makes a few circular gestures with his hands with which he tries to imply something to the effect of ‘local’, or ‘nearby’, but he can’t quite bring himself to say that out loud. You seem to catch on though. Somehow.
Then again, you did say — a few subject changes ago — that Jihoon is on your wavelength. Maybe that’s it.
“About… a fifteen minute walk from here? Give or take,” you say, and his eyebrows shoot up his forehead so fast it’s like they’re on strings, being controlled by someone else. He doesn’t realise for a few seconds, by which point he isn’t even sure how to relax them.
“No way?” he says, trying to feign nothing more than an idle interest. Obviously, he’s soaring.
“Yeah. I’ll want to get back training soon, too, so there’s some incentive to get this done quickly. I miss it,” you tell him.
Jihoon comes out with what he says next without thinking. His mouth is moving before fully engaging his brain. It’s the coffee jitters. Apparently.
“Well, if you need any help with anything, I’ve got a car.”
“You’re too sweet,” you say. “I really couldn’t put you out like that, but…”
“You wouldn’t be,” he assures you with a shrug. “If I’m not working or in the gym… I’m never really that busy. It’s up to you, but-… I’d be happy to.”
You bite the inside of your lip for a moment, apparently mulling this over, before wiggling in your seat to pull your phone out of the front pocket of your jeans. You unlock the device and hand it over on a ‘new contact’ screen.
Jihoon goes completely stupid: he thinks his brain stops functioning as he takes it to put his number in — for a moment, he’s staring dumbstruck, struggling to even remember the order of the digits now he’s under pressure, but it comes back to him eventually. His thumbs dart across the screen and he checks, double checks and triple checks that he’s typed it right before placing it back in your waiting palm.
His fingertips brush against yours and it tickles, sending small shockwaves up his arms and straight into his chest. You smile down at your phone before glancing up at him.
“You need an emoji,” you tell him, and he raises an eyebrow at you.
“Huh?”
“Everyone in my contacts has one — I’ve been doing this since I was in high-school. You need to pick one, too.”
“Oh, uh-…” Jihoon swallows, and for some reason he’s completely forgotten every single little emoticon option there is. He draws a blank. “I can’t — you pick one for me. I don’t know.”
You narrow your eyes at him for a second, pouting your lips as you seem to scroll through the endless options. Now and again, you look up at him, as if trying to see what best fits him before you continue your search. He waits. And waits. And waits. He’s about to throw in an admittedly useless suggestion of some sort of boring animal when you turn your phone around to show him what you’ve chosen.
Jihoon, the contact name reads. And there’s the little angel face next to it.
“Oh, come on,” he says, blushing deeply. “You can’t be serious.”
“I totally am,” you say proudly, turning it back and pressing to save it. He hides his face in his hands. “If you won’t pick your own, you get what you’re given. You did this to yourself.”
“Wow,” he chuckles weakly, sliding his hands up into his hair and raking it back off his face. Your eyes move quickly across every inch and boy, does he notice. You shrug in response and test it, sending the same little emoticon to him. He blushes harder when it comes through and he saves your number into his own phone before placing it face-down on the table.
More than an hour after buying your coffee, Jihoon stretches his arms above his head and checks the time on his watch. He frowns slightly, not sure how the afternoon got away from him so fast, and lets out a sigh.
“I think I need to get going,” he says reluctantly. Leaving you is absolutely the opposite of what he wants to do, actually. Alas, “I have some friends coming over tonight.”
“Yeah — yeah, of course,” you smile, leaning to one side to pick your bag up off the floor. “No worries.”
You both move to stand up and he throws his coat over his arm, leading the way out. He holds open the door for you to leave first, then follows you outside into the afternoon sun.
“It was really nice to see you,” you say, turning to face him.
“You too,” he agrees. “Text me if you need anything, okay? But actually do. Don’t just say you will?”
You laugh sweetly. Fairies. His ears might have actually caught fire this time. “Okay, okay. I promise. I’ll text you — thank you.” There’s a pause, but only a tiny one. “And for the coffee, too.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he insists, waving it off. You shake your head. He thinks your hands are twitching when you stuff them into your pockets but he can’t be sure. Your breath definitely stutters, though.
“No, really. Um… next one’s on me?”
He blinks, and blinks again. Next one? The next one? He feels like he’s malfunctioned and been forcibly rebooted. The next one?
“I-…” he starts, his throat dry. “Yeah, okay. If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” You nod, smiling with — what he doesn’t realise is — relief. “I’ll see you around, okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah — I’ll see you, y/n.”
—————
Jihoon has no choice but to admit defeat to the group chat that night when Seungcheol and Jeonghan come over for a takeout.
Within minutes, his oldest friend is asking about the girl from the gym — he’s been just as relentless as Seokmin and Soonyoung in quizzing Jihoon, except it’s slightly harder to deny to Seungcheol because he did witness, first-hand, the way you had his friend tripping over his own feet with a single smile. At first, Jihoon tries to shrug it off. Play it down. Change the subject. He doesn’t mention that he’s actually spoken to you since he and Cheol trained together, or that he accidentally bumped into you and paid for your coffee, or that you stayed talking with him for as long as you did. He definitely doesn’t say that you exchanged phone numbers.
He absolutely won’t confess to being smitten.
All Jihoon willingly admits to is that from what he’s seen of you around, you seem nice, and with a roll of his eyes he does agree that he thinks you’re attractive. He gets a bit of a glare later in the evening when Jeonghan asks if he’s thought about where he wants to take you on your first date, and Jihoon tells him to stop asking stupid questions and eat his chicken before he eats it for him. But all in all he thinks he evades the worst of it pretty well. For now, anyway — he knows their pestering isn’t going away any time soon.
Especially not when, on their way out, Seungcheol leans close and whispers that whatever is going on with his gym crush, it suits him. Jihoon jabs him on the arm and the two men leave, laughing brightly.
It’s about an hour after his friends have gone home, having washed the dishes and cleaned up his apartment that Jihoon is sitting on his living room floor doing a few lower body stretches before he turns in for the night. He finds himself tapping into your text thread — not for the first time this evening — and skimming over the short conversation you had earlier. You messaged him when you got back to your friend’s place to thank him for the third time, and Jihoon replied back telling you that if you didn’t stop being silly, he was never going to respond to you again. Your reply came in the form of a “:(“ and his was a simple “:)”. That was it, but he’s been thinking about the exchange ever since.
He’s not sure why. Nor is he certain what about that has him looking down at the messages and grinning like a fool in his apartment, alone, at 10:30pm on a Sunday night. He could probably take a stab in the dark at what it means, though. He rubs at the back of his neck with one hand as he changes conversations and types out a short message with the other.
jihoon: fine. you’re right.
seokmin: ?
soonyoung: probs true, does need context
jihoon: about the gym girl. you’re right.
soonyoung: OH
seokmin: Hahahahahaha
seokmin: Yeah, you’re definitely the last to know, dude
soonyoung: fr even chan and hansol know atp lmao
jihoon: they what?
jihoon: how do they know?
jihoon: they don’t go to my gym! i haven’t seen them in weeks!
soonyoung: because we told them?????
seokmin: So, we might have told everyone
jihoon: blocking both of your numbers immediately.
seokmin: Hey! We’re just glad you’ve accepted it
seokmin: When do we get to meet her?
jihoon: blocked.
Well, great, Jihoon thinks as he fights the urge to lay face down on the floor and let the laminate cool his searingly hot cheeks.
At least he’s admitted it now.
He’s vaguely confirmed in writing that maybe he has a bit of a thing for you — it’s out in the open and at minimum, two of his friends know that it’s real. Straight from the horse’s mouth. Fingers. Whatever. No doubt by morning, all of his friends will have found out. The point stands that he hasn’t confessed to something like this since he was approximately sixteen years old, so whatever you’re doing to him, whatever this… is, it matters.
So, he asks himself, standing up off the hardwood floor and stretching his spine, arms locked behind him and pushed back as far as they can go. He turns off all the lights, checks the front door, goes through the motions to get himself ready for bed. So… what the fuck am I supposed to do now?
—————
Come Monday evening, he’s about ready to hit the roof.
As far as bad days go, Jihoon thinks he’s in the running for one of the worst ever. He slept awfully, tossing and turning through the night despite the usual winning combination of freshly washed bed sheets and his white noise machine drowning out the occasional disturbance from the street below. He wakes up two minutes before his alarm is due to go off, only to discover he fell asleep before plugging his phone in to charge overnight, and it’s sitting at a very risky 13%. The gel he uses to keep his hair off his face at work has gone weird and only does half a job, strands tumbling back in front of his eyes the second he goes to leave his apartment, very nearly forgetting his keys. Then, to really put the cherry on top, he sees that — at some point between getting home yesterday and now — someone has scraped his car while parking up next to him. There’s a large scratch right down the passenger side, with no note nor reliable CCTV in his apartment’s parking lot to confirm who it was, and of course, the space is currently empty.
All this before he even gets to work.
He fundamentally knows that starting the week off with a bad attitude will only lead to a really shitty remainder, but when Vernon sends his routine ‘Monday Motivation’ booster message — “you’re going to have a great day, today!” — into the group chat, Jihoon responds with a crude photo of his middle finger, right in front of the massive scuff on the bodywork of his Hyundai. Jeonghan replies with an ‘oof’, Wonwoo with a ‘yikes’, and Joshua, ever the comedian, sends a picture of Garfield lying face-down captioned ‘Mondays’ that nobody replies to. All responses feel kind of appropriate. But he pockets his phone without sending anything else, sighing again; he locks the car and checks the handle just in case before he finally heads into the building.
It’s going to be a long day. He just has to get through it.
Things don’t necessarily improve. He ends up in and out of meetings all day, so when 5 o’clock rolls around and he’s on his way out the door, he’s feeling a bit like he’s done nothing of actual value. Just, for some reason, thinking about you and tapping out a catchy beat on the top of his desk as he pretends to pay attention to useless presentation after useless presentation. But it’s still somehow been exhausting on his brain and on the drive back to his apartment, Jihoon feels so drained that he contemplates skipping the gym altogether and going straight to bed. This internal argument takes up most of his journey, but it does keep him occupied during the rush-hour traffic if it does nothing else.
Nothing has ever been fixed by ruining a perfectly good routine, however — so no sooner than he’s back in his apartment, he changes out of his button-down and trousers and into his regular gym gear. His protein shaker is ready on the counter for when he’s home again, the lights are off, his bag is on his shoulder and the door is locked. He pushes against it a few times, checking out of habit, despite the fact that his only neighbours on this floor are Soonyoung, Seokmin and an elderly couple with a cat they’re not technically supposed to have. Nobody tells, though, because Boots has become everyone’s emotional support animal. The only actual security threat is Seokmin maybe stealing something from his fridge, but he’s only ever satisfied after the third test anyway.
A quick warmup and a few easy stretches later, Jihoon sets about his business. Mondays are for training legs (and often, as a result, incapacitating himself for the rest of the week), and these workouts are always some of his most intense.
So intense, in fact, that he’s sweating buckets and cherry red when he steps away from the squat rack, tugging up the hem of his t-shirt to dry his face, a brief flash of his toned abdomen on full view. He’s just about catching his breath when he glances in the mirror, and his knees nearly give out when he sees you walking in. You lock eyes and smile at him in the reflection as you start to walk towards him.
It’s not just any smile, but he’s way too flustered to notice.
He spins around to face you, mortally embarrassed that you definitely just saw that, but in a weird way… kind of elated? You drop your headphones to sit around the back of your neck to greet him as you get closer. He pushes his hair back off his forehead and tries to act as cool as he can, but Jihoon suddenly becomes incredibly aware of everything about himself in this moment: his posture, how his arms hang by his sides, the exact positioning of his feet. The fact that he’s breathing pretty deeply, that his pulse is so loud in his ears that he can see your lips moving but can’t quite hear what you’re saying.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit — you’re talking. Focus. He needs to focus.
“Sorry — what was that?” he asks, eliciting a soft laugh from you.
“I like your shirt,” you repeat, a fraction clearer. Jihoon glances down at himself, at the same sweatpants and tight black workout top he wears in here several times a week, and looks back at you with a raised eyebrow. God, he lets himself think for half a second, entertaining his own stupidity with the idea that you’re finding this as hard as he is, too. Maybe I’m not alone in this.
“Oh?” he says. “Um — thank you?”
“How’d it go with your friends last night?” you ask, hardly skipping a beat, and he’s a little thankful that you skim over his poor attempt at gratitude for a compliment he isn’t sure he deserves. Instead, his confusion wraps itself around the fact that you actually remembered what he was doing last night. Hell, even he’d forgotten in the heat of the day he’d had, but you remembered. He’s sweating over it a little and briefly wonders what the chances are of the gym floor opening up and swallowing him whole.
Slim, he decides. But not zero.
There’s hope.
“Yeah — yeah, it was nice,” he says, internally kicking himself for overthinking this so much that he’s apparently lost his ability to speak. In the space of 24 hours, he’s gone from giggling over coffee with you to completely weak just at the sound of your voice. It should be easier here, if anything — this is home turf for him. His comfort space. He supposes the tight fit of your gym clothes accentuating your hips and thighs isn’t helping matters, and neither is the wide neckline of your own t-shirt exposing your throat and a collarbone. But still. He’s not a teenager. He should be able to handle a little bit of skin.
He clears his throat, rolling his head side-to-side. Focus. “Sorry — I’m-… I just didn’t expect to see you back here so soon.”
“Yeah,” you chuckle. “I-… couldn’t stay away. Missed it a little too much.”
“I get that,” he concurs, willing his eyes not to drop down your frame to a newly exposed area of skin just around your waist, your t-shirt riding up as you adjust your bag on your shoulder. “It’s good to-… have you back, anyway.”
“Good to be back,” you agree. “Hey — can you leave that set up for me, when you’re done? I’m on legs today, too.”
Jihoon doesn’t want to say that he knows Mondays are your leg days, as well, so he doesn’t. Even if it is true. He wonders if you would find it odd that he’s remembered. “Sure,” he says with a small smile, which you return. Just as you’re about to walk off to drop your things into a locker, he pipes up again. “I mean — hey, if you wanted a spot, or to-… do, you know… anything…”
“Are you asking me to train with you?” you ask, eyes bright and smile wider than he thinks he’s ever seen it. This is torture. He’s not even lifting anything and his heart is about to burst out of his fucking chest — God, maybe this was a bad suggestion.
“I-…” he starts, but he lets the breath out of his lungs and shrugs his shoulders. “Yeah. I am.”
“Give me two minutes,” you agree, hurrying off to put your stuff away and fill up your bottle.
He manages to squeeze another set of squats in before you get back, which is sort of a miracle seeing as how his knees have gone completely weak ever since you arrived. He’s scrolling through his playlist as you cross the gym floor on your way back to him, but he looks up and smiles as you approach.
“You go ahead — I’ve just finished.”
He knows he’s really fucking done for when, after the first round, you add plates onto the bar to out-lift him. All before he’s even positioned himself behind you to be a good spotter.
Jihoon doesn’t go down without a fight though, and things get a little competitive from there. Both of you throw some of your favourite (see: most agonising) exercises into the mix over the course of the hour, taking it in turns on the equipment and creating a session that just about has him able to move by the time you’re finished. You talk to each other when you’ve got the breath to do so, otherwise focussing on your workout with more intensity than either of you remember training with for a long time.
And so what if he has to turn away from you once or twice to compose himself when breathless whines spill from between your lips on your last few reps, the sheer effort of the movements pushing your muscles to their absolute limit? So what if he feels his entire body run a thousand degrees every time you sweetly encourage him to manage just one more? So what if his palm stays tingling for fifteen seconds every time you high-five him for a set well done?
You slide out of the hamstring curl machine with a deep breath and legs like two sticks of jelly at the end of the session, and he holds a hand out to steady you as you regain your ability to weight-bear.
“You okay?” he asks, and you nod, patting what’s exposed of your chest and neck with your towel.
“Yeah. Yeah — just… fuck.” You laugh, laying your hand over the top of his and squeezing. Only for a second — not even, only for a breath — and really just to let him know that you’re okay to stand on your own, but Jihoon feels a bit like he’s been electrocuted straight up his arm all the same. “You don’t come to play, do you?”
“Says you,” he scoffs, only now moving his hand from your upper arm. “I was wrong about you — you’re insane. Clinically insane.”
Using the paper towels he went to gather while you were finishing up, he wipes the machine clean as you stretch out your now slightly exercise-swollen thighs.
“I was just gonna finish up on one of the stairmasters,” you tell him, taking a long sip of your water. His eyes widen to the point of comedy, eyebrows high on his forehead. You snicker at his horror, the rim of your bottle hovering tantalisingly over your bottom lip. “What?”
“That’s-… got to be a form of masochism,” he says, exhausted just at the idea of marching up the never ending staircase even for a minute. You almost choke on your mouthful of water, only just swallowing it in time before a sudden, uncontrollable laugh erupts from your chest.
“How?!” you ask, covering your mouth with your hand. Just like yesterday, the urge to pull your arm away, to reveal your hidden smile strikes him. He doesn’t act on it, but he wants to.
“What do you mean, how? Why would you put yourself through that after what you’ve just done?” It’s completely lighthearted, and the rush of heat on your cheeks intensifies at the cocktail of shock and awe in his gaze.
You shrug your shoulders once. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just better than you.” The way the tip of your tongue teasingly sits between your teeth as you grin at him sends bullets of adrenaline through his veins and Jihoon runs his hand over his face.
For about three seconds, he tells himself he isn’t going to take the bait. He’ll lose, he’ll admit it — he’ll put his hands up and say you’re absolutely, definitely better than he is, if it means he doesn’t have to push through a round of cardio after surpassing every single one of his physical limits. But God, he thinks you look completely irresistible standing there challenging him like this, your hands on your hips. His eyes don’t leave yours and yours don’t leave his; both of your chests stutter, just a little bit, and he can see your smile grow in his periphery.
How the fuck is he supposed to walk away?
“Ten minutes,” he concedes, matching your footsteps as you start to walk backwards towards his least favourite line of equipment in any gym, ever. “And you’re definitely getting the next coffee, now.”
——————
That Friday, you finally text him again.
His muscles have just about returned to a working state and Jihoon is quite proud to say that he has regained the ability to sit down without needing something to hold onto. He got home from work, showered the day away and has just settled down into the sofa to start on the book Wonwoo has been on his ass about reading when his phone vibrates on the side table. He reaches over for it, trying to figure out which of his friends might be trying to get hold of him early evening on a Friday, and already going over excuses in his head as to why he can’t go out to do whatever they’re inviting him to. But when your contact name flashes up on the screen, every single thought disappears from his brain.
y/n: hey :)
y/n: just out of interest, how good are you at assembling furniture?
He furrows his brows at this. There’s a very obvious answer, which is that he’s not. He doesn’t want to reply saying so, though, so he goes for what he thinks is the next best thing.
jh: well…
jh: what are you trying to put together?
y/n: a bed :(
y/n: today’s your rest day, right?
y/n: can i bribe you with dinner after? :)
Oh? His brain stalls, fingers hovering over the keypad. He can literally see your face forming a little pout before growing into a hopeful grin in his mind’s eye. He doesn’t see how he could ever say no.
jh: apparently yes, you can.
jh: text me the address? i’ll leave in 5.
He changes out of his basketball shorts and hoodie in record time, abandoning Wonwoo’s book on his couch in favour of attempting to look at least somewhat presentable for you. He tugs on a pair of jeans that he hasn’t touched in about 6 months and one of his nicer t-shirts instead, even going as far as to spritz aftershave on the column of his throat. You’ve sent him your address and he makes to leave, doing his regular essential item pat-down on his way out the door. He puts your new apartment into his phone as he crosses the parking lot, stupidly delighted to discover it’s only 7 and a half minutes away from where he lives, and settles into his car with a series of deep exhales.
The breathing exercises don’t achieve much. His head is still spinning when he parks up in the street by your new place and lingers just outside the building. He sends you a text to say he’s arrived and you reply saying you’re on your way down. You appear in the lobby just a few minutes later.
“Hey,” you greet him warmly, crossing the space and putting your arms around him in a hug. He goes limp for a fraction of a second before his arms slide around you, too. God, he hopes you can’t feel his heartbeat right now. He thinks that the effect you have on him should be considered dangerous. But whether you can or not, you tighten your arms to squeeze him once before you unwind them from around his neck and step away.
“Hi,” he says, feverish from the tops of his ears all the way down to his toes. His hands find his pockets as you take a few more polite steps back.
“Thank you so much for this.” Your bottom lip finds temporary home between your teeth before you’re nodding back towards the stairwell. “I’m on the third floor. Follow me.”
He does. He walks up the stairs behind you as you ask about his day at work, and he tells you that he thinks today has probably been one of the best he’s had in about 2 months. When he asks how your day went, you turn your head back to look at him and stumble on the next step, gently laughing and saying that you think you’re at your tether’s end with D.I.Y, but it’s been pretty good otherwise. By the time you reach your floor, his thighs are aching, a bit of residual fatigue from your session earlier in the week making it a little harder than it ought to be. He can’t imagine how you’ve coped every day since then; if his own building didn’t have an elevator, Jihoon thinks he’d have been sleeping in his car.
You give him a little tour of the apartment, and he stands next to you at the window as you point out where you were staying with your friend a few blocks away. He thinks the view is seriously pretty in the evening light, enchanted by how he can see the tops of the slightly lower buildings and the street below, lined with neon storefronts and currently alive with shoppers and bar-goers, but… He cringes at himself for thinking it, but the view through the glass is nothing compared to the one he has inside.
You’ve started to put up a few decorations and knick-knacks around the place too. He doesn’t know you very well, but he still thinks it’s very you — all of it, and he likes them. Even with the room full of boxes and half-unpacked cases, there’s so much personality in it already. Charm. He brushes off your attempts to apologise for the ‘mess’, as you called it, despite everything being neatly pushed out of the way of the main space. It’s easily tidier than any other mid-move apartment he’s ever been in.
“Did you want a drink?” you ask him, walking over to the refrigerator and resting a hand on the door. “I’ve got wine, or-… anything, really.”
“Just some water would be great,” he says appreciatively, and a few seconds later you’re handing him a bottle, turning another one over in your hand. “I really wouldn’t be much help after a couple of glasses, trust me.”
“Does this mean you are good at it, then? Before a drink?” you ask him. Is it hope in your voice? Or do you somehow know how hopeless he is, and are you teasing? He can’t tell. Regardless, clearly his evasion earlier wasn’t quite as successful as he hoped it would be.
“About that…” He chuckles, taking a sip from the bottle and glancing sideways at you. “I’m sure between the two of us, we’ll figure it out.”
“My knight in shining armour,” you say with a laugh, closing your fingers around his wrist and leading him through the door to your bedroom. You’ve managed to separate all of the individual pieces, but you haven’t made any real progress otherwise. He settles himself down on the floor and reaches for the assembly manual, pursing his lips as he looks at the little baggies of screws and bolts and various other things he doesn’t know the names of.
“Okay.” He frowns, looking back up at you where you’ve kneeled down a couple of feet away. You’re grinning innocently back at him, but Jihoon’s lips are more aligned with a pout. “You maybe should have mentioned that the instructions are in Swedish.”
——-
Ignoring the fact that you can’t understand the directions printed on the flimsy little pieces of paper, you get to work. It’s… an interesting process, but somehow between the pair of you, you successfully manage to assemble the bed in just under two hours by mostly following the diagrams (and having to backtrack several times because Jihoon managed to miss a few steps). At three minutes to nine, you’re both finally standing up off the floor, stretching out stiff joints and tight muscles; the bed is fully assembled and made up with your sheets in the centre of the room, headboard against the back wall, the lamp you set on the dresser casting a pleasant orangey glow on every surface.
“We did it,” you say, a little in shock, a lot exhausted, and absolutely starving. At least, that’s what he assumes you’re feeling, because it’s what he is. “We actually did it.”
“I mean, you did most of it,” Jihoon says. It’s true; at a point, he was just handing you the pieces you asked him for and holding parts steady so that you could fit them together. But if you want to call it a joint effort, he isn’t going to stop you, and the roll of your eyes tells him that you do want to call it that.
“Shh. You helped,” you scold him, bumping his upper arm with your elbow. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“If you say so,” he chuckles, taking another sip of his water. Jihoon isn’t sure he believes you, but the way you’re challenging him to argue further with your tongue pressed against the inside of your cheek scrambles his brain. Any remaining argument dies on his lips. “We make a good team.”
“We do,” you agree, expression shifting into a shy smile, bumping his arm again, your elbow lingering against him for a second longer. “Come on, I think I promised to feed you, too. What are you in the mood for?”
A movie has been playing in the background for about an hour by the time your food arrives and you’ve eaten everything. Jihoon relaxes back against the cushions of the couch and you’re settled comfortably next to him: there’s plenty of space on either side of you both, so there isn’t really any need for you to have your upper arm basically pressing against his, but Jihoon is too comfortable to say anything and you certainly aren’t making any attempts to move away. You shift your legs after about ninety minutes, bringing them up underneath you so your thigh is pressed against his now, as well, and you’re twisted slightly so you’re physically facing him but your head is still turned towards the TV.
Everywhere your clothed body touches him is scorching, and he wonders if maybe he should’ve worn a thinner t-shirt, or at the very least something a little less heavy on his legs. His jeans, slightly tighter around the thighs than perhaps would be their peak level of comfort, are clinging to him everywhere and he’s so aware of himself, so aware of you, of your sweet body wash, your fruity shampoo, every single one of your breaths… He’s cursed people out for breathing too loudly around him before, but he thinks he could replace his white noise machine with an eight hour track of just this and he would sleep like a fucking baby.
One of your elbows is propped against the top of the cushions behind you and you’re resting your head in your palm, and (not for the first time this evening) he glances sideways to look at you. They’ve been fleeting glances thus far, only stealing fractions of a moment before he turns his attention back to the TV. But this? This is the wrong moment. Entirely the wrong fucking moment because as his head turns, so does yours, and you catch him in the act. Fuck, if he thought he was burning up, before? He’s pretty sure he’s somehow just descended straight to the second circle of hell, greeting all the other lusty sinners like old friends. Several of his thoughts tonight have been considerably impure, and in this half second of blistering eye contact, they all come rushing back.
The universe is really testing him this evening, and Jihoon is stumbling. It feels like any minute now, he’s going to explode.
He straightens his spine and looks back at the TV, trying to force his eyes to focus even though he’s completely swallowed by the feeling of your arm straightening across the back of the couch, your fingertips grazing over the skin at the bottom of his hairline. He can feel your eyes still on him, your gaze burning into his cheek, no doubt following as his tongue darts out subconsciously over his lips. But he can’t quite help himself, can’t get the image of how sweet you looked out of his head; he clears his throat quietly and looks over at you again, coming over almost completely blank the second he notices the glimmer your eyes hold when they’re trained on him.
Any. Fucking. Minute.
“Jihoon, I-…” you start to say, and he turns himself a little bit so that he’s facing you better, completely forgetting about the movie now. That’s not a great loss: he couldn’t explain the plot even if he tried. “I don’t know if-… you can tell me if I’ve read you wrong…”
“You haven’t,” he hurries. Relief starts to ease the tension between your brows, before you scrunch them again and cock your head to the side. “I’m sure you haven’t, I mean.”
In this new position, one of his legs is bent and sitting up on the couch beneath him and you’ve adjusted your own posture to accommodate. Your knee sits just over the top of his, more of your impossible body heat radiating through his clothes, and he glances down at the site of contact before he looks back at you.
“I just-... I don’t know, I think I knew I was interested in you from the first time I saw you, but the last few weeks especially…” You’ve been rehearsing this. He can feel it. It’s written in your eyes, holding the weight of the words you’re struggling to say, and behind them he can see cogs turning as you try to get the words in the right order. (He knows how that goes, because he’s been trying to figure out how to tell you, too.) He nods, urging you to keep going.
“I can’t get you out of my head. I really like you.”
He short-circuits, then. Even though part of him knew what you were going to say, hearing it out loud flips a switch inside him and he stops functioning. Blinking at you slowly, lips parted, heart racing – he feels as if his brain has been sucked clean out of his ears and is floating somewhere way above his head. Way outside of a contactable range, way beyond any level of rational decision-making. Jihoon knows what he wants to say, of course – he knows that he wants to say that he likes you, and that he has for a while, and that maybe you should let him take you out on a date or something, but all of that sits just behind the barrier of his teeth, so…
He leans forward and kisses you, instead.
He almost can’t believe that he’s only wanted this for as short of a time as he has; it feels like it’s been building inside him for so much longer. Relief floods through his veins, the emotional dam finally breaching. It only lasts a few seconds, but with his lips pressed to yours and yours pressing back, the static in his brain goes quiet, the movie falls silent: everything stops, except you. He thinks you could’ve been carved from stone around each other — he thinks something just feels so inexplicably right. Your hand tightens in his hair and he gasps softly as he pulls an inch back, eyes heavily lidded and looking straight at you through his lashes. You move forward, leaning your forehead against his, and the feather-light hold he has on your chin slides up to your cheek instead.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know how to-…” he says after a long, long moment of remembering how to breathe, how to blink, how to exist in your space without combusting on the spot. He still isn’t sure he knows how to do any of those things, especially not now he can see every single line of your face this close. He’s trying, though. “But — shit, I’m crazy about you.”
You kiss him, then, harder than before, colliding in a mess of half-finished breaths and bumped, stinging noses. His other hand comes up to sit against your rib cage, yours pressing into the material of his t-shirt over his chest. He smiles and parts his lips as yours move against them, your tongue gently sweeping into his mouth, finding his own; a soft, low moan tickles the back of his throat, his fingertips curling slightly to tighten his hold.
Jihoon isn’t sure how you end up on your knees, straddled astride his legs with one of his hands tucked between your thigh and calf, the other on the curve of your ass — he just knows that he doesn’t mind one bit. You’re warm and comfortable, the arch of your back pressing you into him deliciously. He’s kissing you like his life depends on it (he really fears that it might), and you’re doing the same back, licking against his tongue and rocking slightly with every separation and reconnection of your lips. He feels your fingers brush at the hem of his t-shirt and slip just underneath at the same moment as you pull away from him, and he’s so dazed, so fuzzy, so lost in you that he can only tilt his head back to stare up at your face. In your current position, you’re towering over him. It’s easily the best view he’s ever had.
“Can I-…?” you ask breathlessly. The new roughness to your voice goes straight to his cock and he has to restrain himself from bucking his hips upwards.
“Yeah,” he says, leaning forward slightly to try and aid you. Your hands tug at the bottom of his shirt and peel it up over his chest: he raises his arms slightly and soon, you can toss it to the unoccupied side of the couch. He shivers slightly as he relaxes back, both at the chill in your unheated apartment and upon noticing the way you’re staring down at him. It’s addictive.
“Oh my God,” you whisper, jaw a little slack, smoothing your hands over his shoulders to feel every ridge of hard-earned muscle. You travel down his arms, over to his chest, down his stomach… Jihoon sucks in a breath, your warm hands absolutely searing against his skin, and his abdominals tighten beneath them. Tilting your head, you press a line of kisses down the side of his neck, your lips brushing against one almost unbearably sensitive spot when you continue. “Fuck, you’re so hot.”
He smiles bashfully, rolling his head to the side and giving you all the access you want. Your lips tickle euphorically against him as he tugs you flush against his chest, both his hands now tightly pressing against your ass, fingers kneading the muscle concealed by your pants. You’re sitting right over his clothed cock and he’s reasonably sure he can feel your pulse between your thighs, letting out a soft grunt when you roll your hips deliberately down into his own. Your kisses travel to the swell at the curve of his shoulder before moving back up to his lips, where he meets you with a fire that he’s never kissed anyone with, before.
“Says you,” he murmurs into your mouth, your teeth clashing, his hips pushing slightly up off the couch. Just enough to make you sit back from him, just enough for Jihoon to open his eyes and look at you. His hair, thoroughly scrunched up and pulled around by your desperately gripping fingers, fans out at all sorts of angles and his chest has taken on a rosy hue since you last looked at it. With swollen, shiny lips, glossy eyes, breathing deep, he looks completely blissed out, like a man who could unravel beneath you if you moved just right. All from a little tongue action. He’d usually feel embarrassed, but it’s hard to when you’re the person on top of him; to be honest, neither of you would mind much if he did.
You’re pushing yourself up and off him before he can really get his bearings and an audible whine of despair parts his lips at the loss of your weight against his cock. Fuck, these jeans were a bad idea: he’s straining against the denim so much that it hurts, and there’s a near perfect outline of his hard-on. He stops pouting the second you take hold of his hand and tug him upright, though, your eyes dark and determined and intense. He thinks he might faint, actually: from standing too fast and feeling as though all the blood in his body is pulsing through his aching dick, he has to take a moment to stop the edges of his vision going dark before you’re pulling him through to your bedroom.
Something flips inside him the second you have him there. Jihoon, who was more than happy to sit beneath you and let you take all the control in the living room, is pushing you back onto the mattress by your shoulder and slotting himself between your parted thighs the moment the door is closed behind him. He’s past the point of wanting you, now: he needs you, and he needs you to need him, too.
And God, do you. You prop yourself up on one elbow, staring at where he’s now leaning over you with wide eyes and your bottom lip drawn between your teeth. He bends down and kisses along your jawline in response, nipping gently just below your ear. Your back arches up and in a flash, one of his hands is beneath you, snapping open the clasp on your bra with a few slides of his fingers.
“Wh-…” you start, giggling and panting at the same time. He smirks against your pulse point.
He flattens his tongue against you and licks a salty bead of sweat off your skin. “What?”
“Had no idea you could-…” You’re cut off by a gasp as one of his hands slides under your sweater, slipping beneath the garment he just unfastened. His fingertips graze over your breast and a pleading sob escapes you. His smile grows even wider. “You were so…”
“So what?” he prompts, pinching your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Another one of those beautiful sounds breaks the air above you. He does it again, massaging your breast with the palm of his hand. “Come on… talk to me.”
“So good,” you gasp, lying down flat and tilting your head back against the pillows. He rocks forwards to press his cock against you again and your thighs tighten around his hips, one leg hooking around his to keep him there. “So-… fucking good.”
You’re so impossibly irresistible to him, especially like this, and he sits up, settling on his knees to look down at you. Jihoon doesn’t even get the chance to move his hands towards the hem of your sweater to tug it off you though: you’re already grabbing it yourself, crossing your arms to pull it over the top of your head. He can see your bra now, and hell, it’s pretty even if it is just hanging off you. Baby pink and lacy. He thumbs over the material as he helps you pull it down your arms, briefly letting himself wonder if-…
“If only you’d been patient enough to see the set together.”
Oh, so you can read his mind now, too?
You glance down to the small space between your bodies and his eyes follow, lips slightly parted, a heavy sigh on his breath. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck — he wishes he had. Even imagining it, he’s throbbing.
“You wear all this for me?” he asks, hands creeping up the insides of your thighs. You nod up at him and he smiles down at you. “Fuck. I bet you didn’t even need my help tonight at all, did you?”
You’re bucking your hips now as his thumb brushes, agonisingly slowly, over your clothed cunt. One arm has come up to cover your face: for the first time, he acts on his impulsive need to see you shy, see you needy, and leans over you to gently pull it away and pins your wrist down against the mattress. He kisses you, his fingers on the other hand pressing slightly more firmly to where he’s pretty sure your clit is.
“Y/n, you’re so pretty. Let me see you.”
“I didn’t,” you admit, voice wobbling as he works you up so much you’re actually soaking through not just your pretty underwear, but the leggings you’ve had on all night, too. He can feel it against the pad of his thumb and he raises his eyebrows for you to continue. “Just… really wanted you to come over…”
“Mhm. I know,” he soothes, bending low again and kissing down towards your chest. His lips purse over one of your nipples and he sucks it up into his mouth, flicking his tongue over the bud. He releases your wrist with the hand currently taking most of his weight and leans on his elbow, teasing your other tit with his fingers. The weight of it in his palm has him murmuring soft praises against your skin, telling you over and over how good you feel. You push up onto your elbows to try and press him closer — when his teeth tug just slightly, you’re about ready to beg.
“Jihoon, please,” you murmur. He short-circuits, again. Goes blank. His name has always sounded so much sweeter on your tongue, but this? This? Oh, he doesn’t know if he’s ever going to recover. That sound is going to stick in his head for days, months, forever, if he has anything to say about it. But even if his brain isn’t working, his body moves on autopilot: he sits up and hooks his fingers under your waistband, pulling your pants down your legs and discarding them onto the floor.
He’s staring between your thighs with zero functioning brain cells and literal galaxies in his eyes, trying to figure out what cosmic miracle brought someone like you into his life, how on Earth he’s ended up between your thighs. The question is so overwhelming in his mind that he barely notices that you’re moving, at first. Jihoon doesn’t know what causes you to try and bring your thighs together — if it’s shyness or arousal, desperation, a search for friction? — but he stops you as soon as he realises, laying a hand on each of your legs, pinning your knees down now, instead.
“Keep your legs wide for me?” he asks, to which you punctuate a nod with an assenting hum. “Good girl.”
You’re so wet that when he strokes two fingers over your covered pussy, pressing the fabric of your panties into your heat, they come away thinly coated in the arousal that’s seeped through them. He brings his fingers to his lips then, eyes fluttering as he licks your slick off them. You taste otherworldly and he doesn’t hesitate to tell you so with a groan.
“God,” he murmurs, tugging at the waistband of your panties with his other hand. His eyes ask if you’re ready — if you’re sure, and when you nod down at him, he pulls them off completely too. His middle finger slips between your folds, collecting the wetness dribbling out of you, and he drags it slowly upwards towards your clit. He repositions himself again, leaning down over you with his head at your neck, the heel of his hand resting against your lower abdomen. He draws small circles over the bud, laying open-mouthed kisses at your collarbone and listening to the gorgeous sounds you make, learning what you like, following each gasp and moan and chasing as many of them as he can draw out of you.
At the same time as you start rocking your hips up to meet his hand, your nails scratching gently against his scalp again, Jihoon slips his finger down from your swollen clit to press it inside you. You gasp, high-pitched and needy, your cunt spasming around his finger and pulling it in deeper. He’s only in up to his second knuckle but the way you keen for him has him pushing further until it’s buried inside your pussy completely.
“S’this okay?” he asks, but he knows your answer thanks to your vocal responses to him already slowly easing his finger in and out, in and out. You nod your head almost aggressively as he glances up at your face, your eyes squeezed tightly shut, jaw tense, throat bobbing as you swallow hard.
“More — please,” you say not long after. A breath hitches in your throat when he does exactly what you ask, pressing the heel of his hand against your clit and positioning another finger at your entrance. He flexes his wrist slightly to get comfortable, pumping both fingers into you now, and he curls them upwards at just the right time to make your back arch off the bed. “Fuck — mhm, just like that—…”
He moves down your body slightly, reattaching his lips to one of your nipples as he fingers you deep and slow. He’s in no rush: Jihoon thinks he could do this all day and just deal with the RSI later on. You look so unbelievably hot with your face scrunched in pleasure, your thighs quivering as you fight to keep them apart like he asked you to, with your hips twisting down against his hand to try and get his fingers deeper and faster. When he lowers himself all the way down, settling completely between your thighs, he flicks his tongue out over your clit and your back arches up off the bed with a gasp.
“Don’t stop,” you whine, all high-pitched and rushed, both syllables merging into one hurried sound. “Fuck, fuck — please, don’t stop.”
“I’m not going to,” he murmurs, keeping pace and rhythm as he works you towards your high. God, he thinks there couldn’t possibly be anything in the world more sexy than watching you come undone from this angle. Your chest rising and falling in stuttered breaths, your hips rocking down against his hand, your pussy right on his mouth. Just the thought of it has his cock jumping in his boxers. “You gonna come for me, huh?”
“I-…” you start, releasing your death-grip on the bedsheets to bring a hand to cover your face. He clears his throat deliberately — perhaps it’s sort of closer to a growl than a cough — and he thinks maybe you really can read his mind, or maybe you’re learning that he wants to see every inch of you (especially like this), because a second later, it’s tangled up in his hair and holding him in place. “Y-yeah, fuck, I…”
“Good girl,” he coos again, and that breaks you. Your pussy tightens around his fingers and you feel yourself convulse, muscles clenching and releasing as you go over the edge with a cry. He eases you through your climax, tongue laving over your clit, fingers slowing but not stopping inside your cunt until your thighs close around his head in your oversensitivity. He takes the hint, then, and he slowly pulls away, sucking his fingers clean of your arousal while you take a few breaths to recover.
“Oh, my God,” you sigh as he moves back up and starts pressing small pecks over your chest and collarbones, your fingers lacing through his hair again to pull him up to kiss you. You groan softly at the taste of yourself on his lips, and can’t blame you. He still isn’t over it, either.
“You’re so gorgeous,” he tells you in-between kisses, one hand supporting the back of your neck to keep you close. “So pretty. So sweet. So good.”
“Shh,” you giggle, but he doesn’t. Just about every adoring adjective Jihoon has in his arsenal is murmured against your lips until you’ve gathered enough strength to get up on your knees and push him back onto the mattress, fumbling with the button of his jeans.
He groans at the relief as you tug them down over his hips and thighs. “We don’t have to do anything else if you’re—”
“Shh.” This one’s a little more insistent, and he makes a show of clamping his lips back together. “You wore the tightest jeans on the planet, had your cock on-fucking-display for me all evening, and you think I wanna stop now?”
His jaw falls slack at the words that come out of your mouth. The incredulous way with which you say them has him involuntarily bucking up into nothing. Your expression matches his when you finally get his jeans all the way off and his thin, black boxer-briefs are the only barrier between you. The outline of his cock strains against them, tenting the fabric: Jihoon doesn’t miss the way you lick over your lips before glancing up at him through your eyelashes. It’s your turn to give him the look, now, asking that this last part is okay, with your fingertips hooked underneath the elastic waistband. He nods feverishly up at your heavy gaze.
“Please,” he groans, lifting his hips so you can pull them off. His length springs free the moment they’re pulled low enough, slapping back against his abdomen, sitting pretty against his toned muscles, thick and veiny and red-tipped. Desperate. His underwear joins the pile of clothes down the side of the bed as you throw one leg over him; sitting across his thighs, you take his cock into your hand, giving it a few gentle strokes. He fucks up into your palm when you squeeze your fingers around it.
“I need you so fucking bad,” you murmur, head spinning, and Jihoon isn’t in much of a better state himself; he’s fighting to keep his eyes open, fighting to keep his breaths coming. He sits upright, one arm behind him for support, and kisses you hard as you continue to tug at his length.
“Need you, too,” he breathes, shifting so he has both arms around you. In a swift movement, muscles rippling, he lifts you off him and turns you over so he has you sitting on your now impossibly scrunched comforter.
He finds home back between your legs as you reach over into the drawer at your bedside and fumble around for a few seconds. He hears a little clatter and a rustling and when your hand resurfaces, you’ve pulled free a small foil square. You don’t even give him a chance to lean forward and take it; you’re ripping it open and looking up at him with the biggest doe-eyed stare he thinks he’s ever seen. He nods at the silent question, a grunt tumbling free as you roll the condom down his length. This is the most pathetic little bit of contact and he’s fighting demons.
“Okay?” he asks, shuffling back a little and giving you space to lie down flat on your back. You nod up at him, already wrapping your arms around his shoulders.
“Mhm, just-... take it slow?” you ask him, anticipation rendering you already a little breathless. “S’been a while.”
A grin blooms all the way from his lips to his eyes and he leans down to kiss you again, positioning his tip at your hole and pressing forward just enough to tease.
Your thighs tighten around his hips and he pushes himself further inside you with a stuttered groan, agonisingly slowly, inch by inch. He stills every few seconds, both to give you the time to adjust and so that he can take a steadying few breaths and not collapse at how good you feel wrapped around him; he stops pressing his hips forward before he’s fully sheathed inside your pussy and you let a whine slip, the stretch slowly easing.
“You can move,” you tell him, laying a kiss to his chest. “I’m okay.”
Jihoon gives a soft laugh. Oh, he wishes this was just to be polite, but no. He’s in real danger of losing control any second. “Yeah, this isn’t for you, baby.”
“Oh?” you ask. You clamp around him and he gasps at the tightness, hips jerking forward until he’s buried up to the hilt. Fuck, there’s a bruised cervix if you’ve ever had one; a high-pitched whine erupts out of your lips and he ducks his head down to your ear.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “You just-... fuck, you feel so good.”
“Mm, says you.”
It’s another moment before he thrusts with intent, though. But when he does? When he pulls out halfway before sliding all the way back inside you, losing and regaining the feeling of your heat enveloping him entirely, hearing your gasps against his collarbone? The invisible reigns holding him back unravel and he settles into a slow but intensely deep rhythm, guiding your legs around his waist. You hook your ankles behind his back and somehow, you suck him in deeper still, your bodies touching everywhere they possibly can, so impossibly close.
The arm not holding his weight slides beneath your hips and raises them just a little. Now, at this angle, every time he rolls into you he grazes against your sweet-spot and you’re reduced to an incoherent mess within a few minutes. Good, he thinks, because he’s not doing much better, himself.
You hug him tighter after one particularly well-angled thrust, sinking your teeth into the muscle of his shoulder. He hisses at the sting, and your lips part as if you’re about to apologise but he doesn’t give you the chance to; he bumps your nose with his own to ask you to lift your head slightly, before he bends down and kisses you hard.
“Do that again,” he gasps, almost all of his weight against you as the hand not around your hips comes up to rest on your cheek. When your brows tighten, he swipes his thumb over your spit-covered, swollen lips. “Please. ”
So, you do.
Maybe not as harshly as the first time, but your teeth find his collarbone and you suck a bruise into his skin, drawing from him the highest pitched sound you think he could possibly make. He squares his jaw, ducking his head back down, biting on his bottom lip before he has no choice but to speak.
“I’m close, y/n,” he confesses, fucking into you slower, trying to stave it off for a few more seconds, his hips stuttering. “Can-... can you give me one more…?”
You nod, the knot in your stomach already growing tighter and tighter with every movement he makes, and when one of your hands unwinds from around his back to slide between your sweat-slicked bodies, he moves slightly away, letting you reach down.
It’s the sight of two of your fingers finding your clit and rubbing your favourite movements out on yourself that takes him past the point of no return, his cock sliding in and out of you messily, desperately, chasing the high that he’s right on the brink of. He kisses and nips just below your ear, breathy groans tickling your neck, and your high-pitched whine tells him you’ve hit your orgasm just as he starts to spill his into the condom, gushing around him, your walls fluttering and milking him for all he’s worth.
—
You offer for him to shower first – an offer he gratefully accepts. While you’re taking your turn afterwards, Jihoon hunts down a fresh duvet cover in your room; he changes it, grabs you a glass of water for when you’re done, and sits on the edge of his bed with just the towel wrapped around his waist, scrolling through his phone. He looks up with a bright grin as the door opens and you emerge through it in your pyjamas, glowing from the light behind you, stray droplets of water clinging to your arms.
You pause gently rubbing your hair dry with the towel, eyes brightening when you see him. “You didn’t have to do all this,” you say, and he pushes a hand through his own still damp hair with a laugh.
“It was the least I could do,” he counters. You raise your eyebrows at him, crossing the room to sit opposite him. He drops his phone down onto the mattress. “I couldn’t leave and make you change them yourself.”
“Leave?” you ask, picking up one of his hands and playing idly with his fingers.
“I mean, it’s getting pretty late, so…” he says. “I probably need to get going at some point.”
“Or…” you say, tongue darting out over your lips. “Maybe you don’t.”
Jihoon looks down at your hands, then back up at you. Are you suggesting what he thinks you are, or has he still not quite come back to himself from earlier? It’s hard to say if the look on your face is hope, or something else.
“Are you… asking me to stay?” he asks.
“Only if you want to,” you tell him. He lifts your hands up, pressing a kiss to one of your knuckles, then using it to tug you closer to him until he can plant one on your own lips. “I’ve probably got an old t-shirt you could sleep in.”
“Of course I want to.”
So you slip away from him to go rummaging through your drawers, trying to find the promised article of clothing. The whole time, he’s awestruck. Jihoon can’t take his eyes off you.
——————
He wakes up next to you for the first time on a Saturday morning. His sleep-fogged brain registers lying on an unfamiliar mattress, tucked beneath new bedsheets, eyes fluttering open to take in a room he doesn’t quite recognise at first. Part of him wonders if he’s still dreaming. When he rolls over onto his side, and his eyes land on the curve of your shoulders, the fall of your hair down your back, he has to ask himself the same thing again.
All of last night must’ve been a dream, he muses, smiling shyly to himself and watching your frame rise and fall with every slow breath you take. There’s no way you really told him you liked him, too. There’s no way any of it could have really happened.
“Y/n?” He asks in the gentlest of whispers, only wanting to stir you if you’re awake already. When there’s no response, he moves a tiny bit closer to you, hesitating before he slips his arm around your waist and settles with his chest pressed against your back. A wildly insecure part of his brain tries to argue that just because you wanted what happened last night, that doesn’t mean you want all of this now. Maybe you only wanted to sleep with him, or maybe you’ll have changed your mind somehow now the sun’s come up. He considers moving away again, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling until you wake up and he can have a real conversation about where both of your heads are at with everything, but he barely gets a chance.
Those thoughts are silenced almost immediately, his brain falling quiet the second you roll over in his arms. You bury your head in the valley between his pectorals, tucked away from the world beneath his chin. His arms tighten around your sleep-warmed body.
“What time is it?” You ask. He contains a shiver at the softness of your voice, bliss running the length of his spine. Jihoon thinks that he could get used to this.
“I don’t know. Early, I think,” he murmurs, and you whine softly, burrowing deeper against his chest. “Go back to sleep.”
“Not if you’re awake,” you say. He’s not entirely convinced you can stick to that promise, though, with the way you yawn and he feels your eyelashes fluttering.
“Don’t worry about me,” he tells you, the tips of his fingers ticking against your side. He ducks his head, pressing a kiss to your hair. A soft hum rumbles in your throat and he can’t hold back the smile that spreads over his lips. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”
True enough, you fall back asleep curled up against him and Jihoon, to the sounds of your slowing breaths, drifts off too. A few hours later, at a far more reasonable time, you wake him up with a press of your lips to the tip of his nose.
Innocent, exploratory kisses grow heated in the warmth of the sun that streams through your blinds. Hands start to travel, sleep clothes get discarded, and you have him lying on his back, pressing kisses down his chiselled stomach when his phone starts to vibrate on the floor next to the bed.
He groans at the distraction, again as you shuffle up to sit on your knees and look at him expectantly.
“Are you gonna answer that?” you ask, the tips of your fingers grazing his thighs. He shakes his head, no. “Come on, Jihoon. It might be important.”
“Not important enough,” he sighs.
“At least see who it is,” you laugh. Despite a huffed protest, he props himself up on one elbow, leaning over the side of the bed and glancing down at his phone screen.
Seungcheol.
The arrangement to go for a run this morning comes rushing back to Jihoon, who slaps a hand to his forehead and reaches down to grab his phone off the floor, looking at you apologetically.
“Give me two seconds,” he says, and you grin wickedly up at him, ducking low to press a kiss to one of the lines that disappears down into his boxers.
“Take all the time you need.”
He answers the call frowning, flopping his head back against the pillows.
“Hey, look – I’m really sorry,” he starts to say, but Seungcheol’s voice cuts him off almost straight away.
“Jihoon, where the hell are you? I got to your apartment and your car wasn’t here, and Seokmin said he didn’t hear you come home last night. We all thought you’d died,” he hurries. Jihoon can picture the expression on the other man’s face perfectly, which is pretty unfortunate seeing as how you’ve moved to start palming his hardening cock through his briefs.
“I stayed out,” Jihoon says, a little wobbly. “I can’t make the run, someth-... shit.” You press an open-mouthed kiss to the outline of his length, the heat of your breath through the fabric sending him into overdrive. “Something came up-...”
The line goes silent for a second, and his breath stutters as you do the same thing again. Each press of your lips is euphoric agony, and he’s really not hiding this as well as he wishes he could. One look down at you tells him that you’re very proud of that.
“Dude,” Seungcheol gasps, snickering suddenly. “Tell me you’re not with a girl right now.”
“Shut up. Go away,” Jihoon grunts. “I’ll call you later.”
“Oh my God, is it gym girl? Did you finally-...”
“Bye, Cheol,” he hurries, hanging up before his friend can say anything else. He drops his phone onto the mattress, fake-glaring down at you and shaking his head. “You’re the worst, you know that?”
“Yeah?” you ask, pulling at the waistband of his briefs to tug them down his legs. “Let me make it up to you, huh?”
Byun Baekhyun, the college football team’s greatest runner back and also your ex-boyfriend. The two of you were the complete opposites and were never expected to last. He was the hottest guy at Exo University, while you were the school’s laid-back dance captain.
❝ If I could go back in time, I’d make sure to love you right. ❞
❝Because the greatest war Seungcheol had ever waged was against your heart.❞
historical! au | enemies to lovers! au | smut, fluff | approx. 30k words
s u m m a r y : there was only one thing you hated more than your restricted life, and that was choi seungcheol—the greatest venetian general who has ever lived. when a marriage is arranged between the two of you, you were sure it would end in bloodshed. however, as you and seungcheol are forced to attend balls and share a few hard truths, you realise you have more in common with the mysterious general than you thought.
c o n t e n t : military commander! seungcheol, noblewoman! artist! mc, artist! minghao, artist! soonyoung who are both annoying (affectionate), cheol and mc absolutely hate each other because i need to see proper e2l, cheol is the hottest man who ever lived, he also has a scar on his lip (yes this needs a separate warning), this is set in renaissance venice so there will be artist references, the doge = basically ruler of venice, themes of sexism, constant arguing between mc and cheol, there is fluff, also angst ofc mature warnings -> tons of sexual tension, making out fuelled by hatred, fingering, oral sex (f. receiving), unprotected sex (only because medieval contraception is vile), cheol says some very vile things during the deed, very slight corruption kink
p l a y l i s t : dangerous woman by ariana grande || war of the hearts by sade || love is stronger than pride by sade || i don’t understand but i luv u by seventeen
a u t h o r ’ s n o t e : hello everyone i died on this account but i am back and better than ever especially since cheol has the nerve to be the finest man alive. just a warning, this fic is going to be so horrendously self-indulgent </3
SEUNGCHEOL ENTERED THE ROOM, AND YOU STILLED.
He was also wearing his wedding attire, but his cravat had been loosened, revealing a sliver of his neck. His curls were wild, as if he had been raking his hands through them. Even as a groom his sword was strapped at his side, the weapon absent at the actual ritual. You could have laughed at him if you were not so nervous—even on an apparent intimate night, he had only thoughts of murdering you.
His expression, on the other hand, revealed no humour.
word count | 12.4k (SORRY idk why i do this to myself either)
pairing | lee chan (svt) x female reader
warning(s) / includes | swearing, mentions of drinking and alcohol, food mentions (lmk if i missed anything!!)
genre | fluff, humour, university au, enemies-to-lovers au
notes | uh i don’t really know how game season works bc it’s not really a thing in unis here (?) so ;-; please forgive me for any (inevitable) inaccuracies hghhghe also this is my first time making a moving banner so shhh just ignore how bad it is gwhsha
summary: lee chan should really stop winning so many games for your university, because as the resident writer for the sports column of the student newsletter, you’re starting to get really sick of having to cross paths with him all the time.
a/n: happy birthday to my boyfriend (/j) chan who’s also a loser (affectionate ig) bc he never pays rent for living in my head 🙄💗 also just thought everyone should see this clip that kinda inspired this whole fic okay bye—
WEEK NINE.
You love writing for your university’s student newsletter, you really do; you just hate the person you have to write about.
“Stupid Lee Chan and his stupid wins,” you grumble, stomping across the football field with your notebook grasped tightly in your hold. Seungkwan kindly got you one with a hard cover for the new school year, because he will never forget that particular afternoon last year when you stormed into Wonwoo’s office and slammed down a crumpled sheet of recycled paper onto his hardwood desk, with LEE CHAN’S STUPID INTERVIEW #4 messily scrawled across the top of the page.
Something about the look on your face that day told Seungkwan you didn’t particularly care if Chan saw the title, written in all caps with a black marker. Hell, you probably wanted him to see.
Thus entered the hard-cover notebook so no other innocent sheet of paper would have to meet its unfortunate demise at the hands of your never-ending feud with the star player.
“Well,” Mingyu begins, easily catching up to you thanks to his long legs, “they don’t call him the ace of the team for no reason, you gotta admit that those goals he scored at the game were pretty awesome. Redstone U stood no chance.”
You hate everything about the soccer field; the dirt that gets trapped between the grooves of your soles, the occasional rogue ball that comes whipping at your head at light speed, the jock who’s currently waiting for you at the bleachers…
“Yeah, he’s a good player, I guess. But I think he let all the attention get to his head.” You lift your free hand to shield your face from the late afternoon sun, beads of sweat already forming along your hairline. Damn you for always forgetting to apply sunscreen before heading to the field, Minghao will have your head when he finds out. “Every time he poses for you while you take his photos, I just want to throw up.”
“I don’t know, Y/N,” Mingyu singsongs, “people don’t throw themselves at him for no reason either. Plus, I think that blonde hair he has going on right now suits him really well.”
Your lips purse together as you swallow down a bitter remark about how you absolutely do not find Lee Chan attractive, especially not with the new hair colour he got done over the summer. Who cares that a compliment from Kim Mingyu, most-eligible-bachelor-on-campus extraordinaire, means you’re undeniably hot with a capital ‘H’ and the trademark symbol? Certainly not you.
genres: romance, angst, some fluff, university au, not a fake dating au
pairing: female reader x hoshi
words: 17.0k (01:08)
warnings: cursing, alcohol
notes (orig, 2020): "so the title is fluffy and this was a title fic, but then it ran away on me. I really like this one so... yeah. Enjoy!”
update, 2023: this is the she/her version of Bluff and Nonsense. other than the pronouns, nothing else has been changed. you can find the original they/them version here, and the he/him version here
“Soonyoung? Yeah I know him, you should too. He’s on the uni’s dance crew, and ever since he joined them, their popularity’s skyrocketed. I’ve met him a few times, great guy — got a tendency to run his mouth but hey, no one’s perfect. He’s smart anyways, probably knows how to deal with the consequences, right?”
or
Soonyoung never thought one bluff could lead to so much nonsense.
Kwon Soonyoung is a man of many talents. He’s the guy who could fit a whole orange in his mouth in fourth grade, the guy who always knew how to make the social studies teacher talk about his divorce instead of the world wars, and the guy who brought a live pigeon to school with no one questioning him whatsoever. He’s also the head choreographer of the university’s dance crew — you barely knew there was a dance crew until he showed up with his hand-drawn posters — as well as a totally well-rounded fine arts major. C’mon, who takes a chemistry course in the fine arts? Kwon Soonyoung, apparently.
Of his many talents though, lying is not one of them.
Which is why, when asked if he likes anyone, Soonyoung says your name instead of simply saying “no” (a much better option in hindsight). He actually likes a girl on his dance crew. Cute, funny, has those eyes you can just get lost in — lord knows Soonyoung has. But, at this relatively quiet party, with half the guests crowded on Seungcheol’s couch and the other half on the disgusting carpeted floor of his apartment, Soonyoung can’t admit his real crush because she’s sitting just a few feet away.
It wouldn’t be such a bad lie if you weren’t also sitting a few feet away.
You’re on your phone when he says your name in his heartbeat-induced panic, but you look up at the sound of it, as does Seungkwan, who was reading something on your phone from the beanbag chair you’re both sitting in.
A chorus of low, teasing ‘ooh’s rises throughout the room, almost like it’s eighth grade again and Soonyoung just got called down to the office. Except now, he might actually be in trouble. He gets a few claps on the back from his friends close enough to reach, commending him on his bravado even though he doesn’t deserve it. Really, the whole situation only dawns on Soonyoung after 6.8 seconds, which is a bit too long considering he made the situation in the first place. Blood rushes to his cheeks, not because of the alcohol in his red cup he’s yet to drink, but because you’re looking right at him, and he has no idea what to do.
Soonyoung doesn’t know you very well. In fact, he’d almost say he doesn’t know you at all.
You’re Seungkwan’s friend from one of his classes — computing science, if Soonyoung remembers correctly, but he’s not totally confident. The only reason you came tonight is because of Seungkwan. You don’t know anyone else.
With a tilt of your head, your face scrunches with question, and you look to Seungkwan for help. You know Soonyoung said your name, but you missed hearing the context. It looks like Seungkwan missed it too, seeing as the conversation you two have only makes your brow furrow more as the room chatter picks back up. Everyone else is already over Soonyoung’s sudden confession when Jeonghan starts talking about something else.
Except Soonyoung’s friends, of course. That would be too easy.
Mingyu turns to him with a stupid smile, his cheeks red from both the free opportunity to tease his upperclassman and the light beer he’s been sipping and pretending to get buzzed on all night. He nudges Soonyoung with his shoulder where they sit on the floor, leaning in to speak under the conversations surrounding them. “You didn’t tell me you like her,” he says, the jesting tone in his voice clearer than water.
“Yeah...” Soonyoung doesn’t know why he doesn’t just retract his confession, it’s not like Mingyu is close to you or anything, he’d understand. But then again, he’s bad at lying, and the girl he likes is still sitting on the couch. He scratches the back of his neck. “It’s sort of a recent thing.”
Mingyu’s smile only widens at Soonyoung’s response, his eyes turning to slits with the rise of his cheeks. “Soonie’s in looove~!”
And Soonyoung doesn’t know what to say. Nothing like this has ever happened to him before, not exactly like this, anyways. So he just looks down, scratches the back of his neck again, looks at one of his dance crew friends when she calls his name.
He doesn’t dare glance your way for the rest of the night.
Turns out you do know someone else other than Seungkwan, because once most of the guests have cleared out, leaving only half the boys to clean up, Seokmin approaches Soonyoung as he scrubs the sink of whatever that weird green stuff is.
He asks how Soonyoung knows you and says off-handedly that he’s never even seen the two of you talk. (Which is right.) He says these things shouldn’t be joked about, that you’re a person with feelings, and Soonyoung should leave you alone if he’s just doing this for comedy’s sake.
Soonyoung thinks he’s never seen Seokmin so serious.
It’s probably fine. You haven’t said anything good or bad, and other than the occasional tease from his friends, no one has taken anything too far. Maybe you’ll forget about it tomorrow. Maybe he’ll forget about it tomorrow, and it will all be okay.
Besides, it’s not like he actually likes you. And his real secret is still safe and sound.
•
Of Soonyoung’s many talents, making people sad is also not one of them.
It’s not that he actively tries to cause misery only to fail, it’s that he can’t stand upsetting anyone. He’s a people-pleaser by nature, that’s just how it is.
So he doesn’t say no when you ask him out for coffee.
And he smiles at you when you try to make conversation, even though it’s awkward and hesitant despite having a mutual friend like Seungkwan. It’s not so bad, he thinks. You’re trying, at least, and when you ask him about his interests, you actually listen, which isn’t common when he tends to over-explain his love for dance and performance. He has a coffee in his hand too, so that’s a plus.
You ask him if what he said at the party was true, and something in your eyes makes him say yes.
•
There are a few more coffee dates after that. It’s nothing official, and Soonyoung is hesitant to call the meetups “dates” because he’s not interested in dating you. But it’s a little late for that.
You seem brighter, though, every time he sees you again; he can’t bring himself to take that away, to cut the cord, to clean this mess he made.
Something about the way you two talk is nice, at least. Soonyoung can’t quite put his finger on it, and he tells himself that’s what’s drawing him back every time, not the guilt he feels sunken in his ribcage whenever you smile his way. It’s not that deep, he repeats to himself whenever you wave to him on campus, making him feel obligated to walk you to class. It’s not that deep.
He’s in the library one day when he spots you at one of the tables, books open and spread out as you scribble down notes, a pair of earbuds dangling from your ears. You haven’t seen him, so he doesn’t try to approach, just ducks back behind the bookshelf he’s been exploring. His hand is on a book he might like when a voice stops him.
“You know you’re an idiot, right?”
Minghao leans against the opposite bookshelf, his arms crossed, locked and loaded for judgement. Soonyoung looks around, but of course he’s talking to him. They’re the only ones in the row.
“Um, how do you want me to answer that?” he asks, unsure of exactly what Minghao’s talking about. Yeah, he knows he’s a bit dense sometimes, but not all the time.
Minghao rolls his eyes. “I know you like Sehee. You haven't stopped laughing like an idiot at her bad jokes." He nods his chin outwards, gesturing over Soonyoung's shoulder and through the bookshelves towards where you're sitting. "What are you doing messing with Seungkwan's friend?"
It’s not too surprising that Minghao knows — he’s an intuitive guy, but Soonyoung is still caught off guard. He asks first, under his breath, “Does anyone else know?”
“If you mean dumb and dumber, then no.” Minghao jerks his head to swing his dark bangs out of his eyes. Everyone keeps telling him to just cut his hair shorter, but he refuses for the aesthetic, or something. “Chan is way too focused on dancing to notice your dumbassery, and Jun is about as observant as a fishcake when it comes to feelings.”
Soonyoung’s shoulders fall in relief, though he didn’t even realize they’d tensed up.
“But that’s not the problem here. Why are you playing around with her if you’re into Sehee?”
“I’m not—” Soonyoung pauses, thoughts deliberate, “—I’m not playing around, okay? I just... I don’t know. You were all looking at me, and I couldn’t just say Sehee's name, she was right there!”
Minghao cocks an eyebrow at that. “But you could say hers?”
“It was a moment of weakness.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“I’m aware.”
Soonyoung groans quietly — he’s still in a library after all. He covers his face with both hands, not wanting to look at Minghao nor have Minghao look at him. For a second, it’s blissful, awkward silence, which Soonyoung would take over Minghao’s scolding any day. But of course, no haven lasts forever.
“You’re gonna have to tell her,” Minghao says, and he’s probably right. No, he is right, Soonyoung just doesn’t want him to be.
“I can’t do that! I said I like her— twice!”
“Twice?”
“Twice!”
Minghao only drops his head for a second, scoffing at the whole situation. Soonyoung wishes he could do that too, just laugh it off because it’s someone else’s problem.
“Well, you’re going to have to say something sooner or later.” Meeting his eyes, Soonyoung realizes Minghao might actually be worried. About you, or him, or something else, he’s not sure, but the subtle fold of Minghao’s eyelids tells Soonyoung this is about more than just calling out idiocy. “And I think sooner will hurt less.”
Soonyoung knows he’s right. But he doesn’t like it.
Before he can come up with a rebuttal, though, Minghao’s hands are on Soonyoung’s shoulders, and he’s pushing him out of the row of bookshelves and straight towards your table.
“You can do it, Soonyoung, just rip the band-aid while you still can,” he whispers in Soonyoung’s ear right before one last push at his back.
Soonyoung stumbles a bit, but once he regains his footing, Minghao’s already gone and you’ve already noticed the ruckus. You pull one earbud out with a bright smile. It’s so jovial that Soonyoung almost forgets why he’s here.
“Hi Soonyoung, I didn’t see you come in,” you say, and there’s no way you’re this energized just from studying in a library.
“Uh... hi.”
“You’ve actually got the perfect timing.” Waving to him, you gesture for him to sit next to you, and he does. You pull out some sort of planner, opening it to a few months from now. “I wanted to ask when exactly your showcase is? Seungkwan’s no help at all because he only cares about his concerts and stuff. Honestly, there aren’t that many...”
You’re going to have to say something sooner or later.
Soonyoung picks later.
•
“So when are you gonna ask her out?”
Jihoon stands in front of the stove, watching his hot water simmer, a bag of dry ramen in one hand and long cooking chopsticks in the other. It’s Soonyoung’s turn to make dinner tonight, but since he says he isn’t hungry, Jihoon’s scrounging it out himself.
Soonyoung, on the other hand, sits at their tiny dinner table, his forehead pressed to the cool surface, arms hanging limp at his sides. He mumbles something of a response, but it’s nothing more than a questioning grunt, if anything.
“Oh, you know.” Even when Jihoon says your name, Soonyoung stays still. “Only the girl you’ve been on several “dates” with ever since you confessed to her at Seungcheol’s party. When are you gonna ask her on a real date?”
Tired, Soonyoung groans. “When the time is right, I guess.”
•
You work on campus. It’s some part-time job you don’t care about enough to even complain over, despite the fact that you have to deal with annoying university kids every day. Soonyoung finds this out when he has coffee with Minghao in one of the buildings he doesn’t normally frequent, and only goes to today since Minghao has a class nearby in the next hour.
The coffee isn’t great, and it’s too expensive, but Soonyoung drinks it anyways. He much prefers the coffee from the cafe he goes to with you. Because the coffee is better. Obviously.
He hears your voice first, words indiscernible with distance and overshadowed by a much louder, angrier one, but still. Minghao sees you first, though, and he points past Soonyoung to the student printing center, where you’re standing behind the counter and arguing with some guy. You don’t seem too riled, but Soonyoung can tell you want to be anywhere but there, especially when the angry guy’s voice keeps getting louder and louder.
Soonyoung’s feet bring him over before his brain can register what to do. You haven’t seen him yet, he could just walk away, but he doesn’t. Your voice becomes clearer as he approaches.
“Listen, the printing center is for education, art, or business. I can’t print this for you.”
The guy goes off about personal freedoms or whatever, Soonyoung isn’t really listening.
“No, I get that this is a student printing center, but I really don’t think your big tiddie anime gf poster has anything to do with education, art, or business.”
And that’s when the guy grabs your arm. Which results in Soonyoung grabbing his arm. Which results in the accusatory question, “What are you, her boyfriend or something?”
Now, in a perfect story, this would be the first time Soonyoung meets you. Or maybe you’ve been close friends for a while. And this would be when Soonyoung says that, yes, he is your boyfriend, and he would save the day. Except you’d be all “why would you do that?” which would result in you both having to fake date to keep that guy off your back. In this perfect story, there would be no Sehee to like and no Minghao to judge, just you and Soonyoung fake dating. Eventually, you’d both catch real feelings instead of fake ones, and then boom, happily ever after.
But this isn’t a perfect story.
Soonyoung still says yes, and the guy still backs off. In reality though, because Soonyoung never thinks before he lies, you momentarily duck behind the counter and bring a hand up to your face to cover your ever-brightening smile. In reality, Sehee still exists at the forefront of his mind every dance practice, even though you’re the one he just promptly claimed to be the boyfriend of. In reality, Minghao watches from a little ways away, sipping his coffee and shaking his head in what can only be called disappointment.
Soonyoung’s never been good at lying. One would think he’d stop by now.
•
So, it’s official.
You’ve put a heart next to his contact name. He’s put one next to yours — red, because he doesn’t know your favourite colour. Seungkwan’s done the whole if you break my friend’s heart I break you spiel and Soonyoung finally realizes he’s in too deep.
It's almost too natural, how easily you bring him into your life and how easily he finds himself fitting. It's all so wrong.
Soonyoung feels like an imposter, like there's someone meant to be by your side, but it's not him.
You pluck up the courage one day to hold his hand, and he can't pull away because the lies tying him to you are too strong. The small bluffs he's spun have weaved themselves into a net he's tangled himself in.
His dance crew congratulates him when Jun spills the news. It's all mundane, really — dating in university isn't all that uncommon. Mostly, Soonyoung gets casual "you go, dude" comments or the like, but then Sehee says nothing. She smiles, and it has to be one of the most tragically beautiful things Soonyoung's ever seen. His heart fractures, just a little, and he doesn't know if he'll ever be able to fix it.
He smiles it off. Tries to, anyways.
Chan complains that Soonyoung's too harsh that day.
•
Jihoon likes you.
Not in a "Mister Steal Yo' Girl" way, but he laughed at one of your jokes the first time you came over to Soonyoung's apartment, and ever since then, he's been convinced.
"You must feel like the luckiest guy on earth with her around," Jihoon says once you leave for the night.
Soonyoung has no idea how to tell him he's felt nothing but unlucky these past few weeks, so he doesn't.
•
He polishes up on his acting. As awful as it is to think, Soonyoung has gotten really, really good.
His smile looks genuine. It has to — he shows it to Minghao, who says it's "adequate," which basically means perfect to the lowly humans beneath him.
He's gotten good at responding to you too, copying how the male leads do it in dramas and movies. It's sort of easy.
He hates how easy it is.
Soon enough, you try befriending the whole group. Being Seungkwan's friend, you've always wanted to, but apparently this is the push you needed. The boys are quick to warm up to you because, as Soonyoung's new girlfriend, you're now a new teasing target besides Chan. The youngest was always the brunt until you came along.
You say you don't mind — that his friends are amazing despite all the jokes and chaos. He believes you.
Minghao keeps his distance, saying he doesn't want to get himself involved. He's still the only one to know the truth, and his judging stare only grows worse as the days pass. Soonyoung wants so badly to make it go away, but he knows the only way to do that would be to tell you the truth, and he's just not ready.
Soonyoung's never broken a heart before. He's never planned on it.
Sometimes life makes its own plans.
"My shift got moved to tomorrow," you tell him when he picks you up from class, one hand in his and the other in your pocket. He knows it means something, but he doesn't know what. Your lips purse into a line as you stare at your shoes. “I was thinking... could I come watch your dance practice? If that’s okay?”
Now, Soonyoung loves dancing. He loves dance. He loves to dance. Performing sends an unparalleled thrill rushing through his veins like the solar system hurtling through the universe, and it’s something he’s never felt doing anything else. Dancing with others is a beautiful connection, an emission of silent truths communicated through the body. Practice, however, is the dirty version of dance. It has to be built up first — polished. Which is why Soonyoung says what he says. He doesn’t even think it over.
“No.”
It’s what he says every time someone asks. He doesn’t invite people to practices — never has. Even after his prompt refusal, he doesn’t register his mistake until the light in your eyes wavers. It doesn't disappear — just ripples. Comes back weaker than before.
"Oh," you say. The word should sound dejected but it doesn't. There's a smile at your lips, and Soonyoung can't help but think it looks kind of like his. "That's— that's okay! I was just — I don't know, I guess I just thought... I wanted to..."
Meeting his gaze, you look at him with shaking eyes, almost as if it takes great strength to keep them on his. He tries to backpedal, but you continue.
"I'll be going home then. I've got an assignment due soon anyways, so..." You pull your hand from his grip and, from where you two were walking toward the fine arts building, turn the opposite way. Your dorm is on the other side of campus. "See you tomorrow, Soonyoung. Have fun at practice."
Something about your smile haunts him.
It's hollow; feels empty when you flash it at him before going. He thinks fake smiles all look like that — insincere. His smiles at you must be the same way.
For an awful moment, he's hopeful. Maybe this will be the trigger. Maybe you'll end this tonight — whatever "this" is that Soonyoung has with you. Maybe he won't have to tell any harsh truths at all.
He turns and walks to practice.
The routine feels lighter tonight, though Soonyoung can’t pinpoint why. His body almost floats, and while that sounds good, it’s not. The rhythm is off. He’s not landing when he should be.
His crew notices, especially Chan, who complains that Soonyoung’s too much of a cocksure choreographer to be making repeated mistakes like this. They tell him maybe everyone should take a break. He agrees, but only because he’s frustrated — and he shouldn’t channel his anger into dance. Not this one, at least.
Everyone spreads throughout the studios to the edges, where they lean their body weight on the walls and slide down, water bottles in hand. The room reeks of sweat and feet, but Soonyoung’s used to it by now. He guzzles down half of his water in one go and pulls out his phone.
[❤] Sorry about earlier, I didn’t mean to react all... cold? Seungkwan told me you never invite anyone to practice, so it makes total sense why you said no
[❤] If I’m ever crossing any boundaries, let me know, okay?
Of course you’d be understanding. Soonyoung wouldn’t be that lucky.
He tosses his phone haphazardly in his bag, groaning and throwing his head back so it hits the wall with a dampened thud. The pain is dull compared to the thoughts top-spinning in his mind.
Across the studio, Minghao clears his throat, raising an eyebrow at Soonyoung when he opens his eyes to look at him. It only takes two reluctant nods for Minghao to understand the source of Soonyoung’s groans, and he does nothing to react but look away. Soonyoung thinks that’s almost worse than the judging eyes. At least at that point Minghao thought he was something other than a lost cause.
He doesn’t text you back. By the time he thinks of something a boyfriend would say, the time to say it has passed.
•
How much longer is he going to let this go on?
Soonyoung wonders that to himself as he sits, returned to Seungcheol's apartment for another one of his "getties" as people are so apt to call them. He's never understood the difference between a getty and a party, and he's always been too stubborn to ask, knowing he'd be mercilessly made fun of for not knowing something apparently all university students knew.
This one isn't so different from the last. More or less the same crowd, the same atmosphere as the night goes on. Only this time, when everyone's settled down in what can hardly be called a circle, Soonyoung's on the couch, sunken into the too-old cushions with an arm wrapped around your shoulders. You're far from your last claimed spot with Seungkwan on that ratty old beanbag chair, sitting comfortably under Soonyoung's arm with a plastic cup of whatever Jeonghan concocted for you — which you've yet to drink much of.
Sehee sits across from you both while she laughs at something Wonwoo says. You laugh too, but Soonyoung barely notices, eyes glued to the girl they've been stuck on since she joined his dance crew over a year ago. He wants to tell her how beautiful she is when she smiles, even under the light of Seungcheol's dingy apartment, but he can't. He wants to tell her how he's felt for months, but you're next to him. He wants to have a fucking drink but all he has in his cup is fucking iced green tea because he knows if he drinks he'll fuck up again.
Just like last time.
"You okay?" you whisper in his ear at one point.
He turns to see your concerned expression, and it only makes Soonyoung hate this even more. He doesn't deserve your concern.
"I'm fine."
But he's not fine.
He doesn't participate in much conversation — only speaks when spoken to, and even then with few words. You seem to become tense next to him, but he does nothing to try and fix it. Just tonight, he's going to let himself be tired.
Three times, you offer to leave, and all three he refuses. You give up eventually, though he can tell you know something's off. God, if he were drunk, he wouldn't even have to think about you for a whole night.
Somehow the topic of discussion turns to couples, and suddenly, an entire room of eyes is on you and Soonyoung. He barely catches the question before you're already pondering your answer.
What do the two lovebirds love most about each other?
You look at him. At him, at him. He feels your stare in the dip of his throat because he can't seem to swallow anymore. It's like his soul is being scanned for viruses.
"Hmm..." You let your chin fall into your palm with a smile. It's real. Too real. "I like his resolve," you finally say. "If he wants to do something, he does it." With a loud exhale through your nose, you tilt your head, still meeting his eyes with your own. Soonyoung's mouth slightly parts, slack with something he can't name. "I could learn a thing or two from him."
The room bristles with your answer, various response piping up around. Soonyoung sort of registers Chan saying, "That's cute. I wanna vomit," but he's too busy thinking about you, about how you've come to like something about him as deep as that when all he's done is pretend to even like you at all.
And even when his mind swims with that, Sehee asks again.
"Then Soonyoung, what do you like about her?"
It sort of hurts. Soonyoung's not afraid to admit to himself that hearing Sehee ask what he likes about you sends pain straight through his ears to his heart. There's an awkward pause and everyone's looking at him expectantly and, god, he wishes he stole your drink when he had the chance.
"I..." His throat goes dry. His lips part, but there aren't any words to slip past them. "I, um..." He looks to you, and your eyes speak volumes. Everyone else in this room has a sort of... hungry look. They want to know Soonyoung's answer for one reason or another, maybe to tease with or to ridicule or even wish for themselves. But you, your eyes meet his and he knows you're not expecting anything. That hurts too. He doesn't know why. But even then, he can't think of the words. Any words. He steals a glance at Sehee, whose expression is curious, doe eyes slightly giddy from alcohol. She's pretty.
"I like her laugh," he says. It's not about you. "Whenever she laughs, I think to myself, 'What I wouldn't give to see her laugh again'."
Your eyes move to the plastic cup you've got gripped between two hands in your lap, and Seungkwan points out your flustered state to the entire room despite the fact everyone can see it as long as they've got working eyes. You purse your lips together to contain a smile, but it doesn't work. Even Soonyoung can see that.
He needs a drink.
Having to go to the bathroom is a lousy excuse, and Soonyoung knows it, but he whispers that in your ear anyways and retracts his arm from your shoulder before escaping. He does go to the bathroom, a small thing with a shower and no bath, but all he does in there is stare at himself in the mirror. And when that becomes too much, his feet.
Someone else eventually has to use the bathroom for its actual purpose, so he opens it to the banging fist outside and slides past the person back into the hallway. He pauses before walking all the way back. You're caught up in some other conversation now, laughing and dramatically waving your hands as you deny some crazy embarrassing story Seungkwan's trying to spill about you. Seems you've already integrated yourself with his friends more than he thought.
Since your attention is occupied, Soonyoung instead ducks into the half-kitchen — not necessarily out of sight, but no one's really paying attention anyways. He knows he shouldn't take any chances, but he really, really wants to let go. He's been wearing a facade ever since he said your name that night.
"I wouldn't, if I were you."
Minghao's voice has Soonyoung jerking up and banging his head on the door of the open fridge he was rummaging through. He winces in pain, kneading his fingers into his scalp as if that will do anything.
"Wouldn't what?" he snaps.
"I dunno." Minghao shrugs, and it's almost infuriating how nonchalant he is. "Do something you might regret, I guess."
He takes the yet unopened bottle from Soonyoung's hands, reaching beyond him to put it back in place. There's no point in fighting against him since he's undeniably right, but Soonyoung grumbles anyways. His eyes glance every few seconds to you on the couch. If you happen to hear anything...
Well, he doesn't know exactly. But he doesn't want to find out.
"You have to end it."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"I just—" Soonyoung takes in a breath, too loud for his liking. He lowers his voice. "I can't, okay? I don't want to hurt her."
"So you're just going to date her based on false pretenses because you're too much of a coward to admit your mistakes?" Voice laced with sharpness, Minghao places his palms flat on the counter.
Soonyoung takes a deep breath through his nose, lips twisting in frustration. "Yeah, okay? Yeah," he whispers. "That's exactly what I'm gonna do."
A second passes. Minghao's brow furrows.
"And quite frankly," Soonyoung continues, "I'd rather you keep your nosy ass out of my business from now on."
He nearly storms off right then with the last word, but Minghao's fingers around his elbow stop him.
"You're going to get yourself hurt," Minghao warns through his teeth. He nods towards you. "And her in the process."
"We'll see about that."
Soonyoung has acted on impulse before. It happened with the pigeon, it happened with your name, and it's happening right now. Nothing is compelling him other than the absolute need to prove Minghao wrong, and even then, he doesn't know why.
He sits back down next to you, his spot saved by some miracle considering the surrounding company. The look on your face is happy, jovial. You must be having a right old time. His nerves strike with a feeling he's never quite experienced before.
When you study his face, no doubt not nearly as cheerful as yours, the expression you held falters to worry.
"You okay?" is once again the question on your lips, quiet, meant for his ears only.
Impulse is a scary thing. Soonyoung hates it almost as much as lying.
He leans in, crashing his lips on yours with his eyes half closed. His lips move and yours don't. Soonyoung can't even be sure you've closed your eyes, but at this very moment, he doesn't care. All he knows is he's angry and Minghao is watching.
This isn’t your first kiss — he knows because you’ve talked to him about this very topic. This is, however, to your understanding, the first “real” relationship you’ve ever been in. You told him yourself that you don’t really count that past kiss as your first, that you felt a bit... violated when it happened.
Soonyoung thinks this isn’t all too different.
He steals your second first kiss, and later, staring at the water-stained stucco ceiling of his bedroom, he kicks himself so hard it hurts.
•
You show up to movie night. Apparently Jihoon invited you — explained it like this:
“You won’t have to be so clingy with me if she’s here.”
At first, Soonyoung thinks Jihoon just wants to drop their roommate movie nights because he’s always complained about them, but Jihoon sticks around during Anastasia; sings along with you during Once Upon a December despite the fact that neither of you really know the words. He sits right in front of you two on the couch, cross-legged on the floor with a bowl of popcorn in his lap, that of which he only offers to you twice and Soonyoung once.
Whatever. You’re a better cuddler than Jihoon anyway.
Somehow it doesn’t feel forced when you lean your head on Soonyoung’s shoulder, or when he wraps his arm around your waist to get comfortable. He blames it on how tired he is, how he always gets on movie night after a week of classes and practices and too much work for one person to handle. Jihoon complains all the time that he’s too touchy when tired.
You absentmindedly play with his fingers for most of the movie. He doesn’t mind.
It’s been about a month now.
Soonyoung doesn’t kiss you again after the first time. Doesn’t stop you, either, but you’re more of an on-the-cheek kind of person. He thinks you think he wants to take this slow, even though he initiated the first big step (as convoluted as it was). He lets you think what you want.
Nasty business, it is.
Cleaning a bowl that once held popcorn. All the grease that sticks to the side because Jihoon likes to use too much butter. All the grains of salt that get underneath Soonyoung’s fingernails. He’s washing, Jihoon’s drying. It’s an arrangement of sorts.
You’ve already left for the night, gone back to your dorm since it’s only a five minute walk or so through campus. Jihoon insisted on Soonyoung escorting you, but you only smiled sweetly and refused. Maybe Soonyoung should’ve argued harder against you. He didn’t though. That’s why he’s scrubbing a bit too harshly now — he doesn’t like messing up.
Seems that’s all he’s good for lately.
“You’re unhappy.”
Soonyoung stops scrubbing. The only noise in the whole apartment is the slow gurgle of the sink because even with a plug, such an old thing just lets the hot water seep away as the seconds go by. Jihoon’s gaze is on the pan he’s drying, but Soonyoung knows his heart is in the question. It always is.
“I’m not,” he tries to deny, but it’s difficult to fool a person like Jihoon. (Especially since Soonyoung can’t even convince himself.)
The non-stick pan from yesterday’s dinner clangs against an older one when Jihoon puts it away. He looks at Soonyoung, but by then he’s turned back to washing the popcorn bowl, so their eyes don’t end up meeting.
“I’ve known you since tenth grade. You think I can’t tell when you’re upset?”
Soonyoung finds it hard to read Jihoon’s feelings most of the time. He didn’t realize he was such an open book the other way around.
Sighing, he continues to scrub the bowl, which has probably been clean for a minute already. “I’m just... stressed.”
“About?”
Minghao already knows; already thinks lowly of Soonyoung for it. If Jihoon knew... Soonyoung doesn’t know if he can take that.
So he lies. Again.
“Just the dance showcase.”
It isn’t a whole lie, not really, but he can’t call it the truth either.
Jihoon takes the bowl from Soonyoung’s grasp and rinses it under the tap. Since that’s the last dish, Soonyoung is stuck with nothing for his hands to do. They rest on the edge of the sink, but his fingers ache for a task.
Jihoon, the friend that he is, says, “That’s not for three months, though. I’m sure you’ll be perfect by then.”
“I don’t know...”
“Well I do.” Eyes meet eyes, a pair determined, a pair apprehensive. “Everything will work out.”
“...Okay.”
•
Soonyoung measures time in terms of you now.
When he last texted you. When he last saw you. When he last spoke to you.
It’s all a very elaborate calculation — how much time he’s spent on you versus how much time he should spend on you. No relationship is quite like this one, he thinks, and it’s quite the romantic notion out of context. The fact remains, every interaction he has with you only pulls him further and deeper into his lie.
Soonyoung’s time moves a bit slower now.
Faster, sometimes, but only when he doesn’t want it to.
•
You tell him you might be in love with him.
He says he might be in love with you.
He’s never hated lying more.
•
Jihoon is cleaning out the fridge when the buzzer goes off, so since he’s close by, he picks up the old corded phone attached to the wall. From his spot on the couch, Soonyoung looks up from his phone to see Jihoon cover the receiver and mouth your name. Jihoon makes some sort of gesture with his hands, and somehow Soonyoung understands that as, were you expecting her?
His eyes widen as it settles in that no, he’s not expecting you. The apartment is a mess.
Jihoon buzzes you in, hangs up, and immediately moves from the fridge to the coffee table, throwing the laundry he was planning on folding back in the plastic hamper and shoving the pile in Soonyoung’s lap.
“Take care of this,” he says. “I’ll clear up the kitchen.”
Right. Can’t have you thinking your boyfriend and his roommate are slobs.
Soonyoung reacts quickly, standing from his spot on the couch with the laundry basket in hand. He dashes to his room, where he plans to stuff the laundry in his closet and save that problem for later, but once he gets there, he realizes his room is even worse. There are dirty clothes dispersed all over his bed and old coffee cups littering his desk. Scrambling to shove the new laundry in his closet, the dirty clothes in the now empty hamper, and gather all the paper cups in his arms, Soonyoung’s breath starts to catch.
When he emerges from his room with two armfuls of garbage, he finds you at the door with Jihoon, your face hidden in his shoulder and your arms wrapped tight around his waist. Jihoon’s arms are up, almost like he’s being held at gunpoint, and his eyes widen even further when he catches sight of Soonyoung.
“Uhh... it’s for you.”
Soonyoung can hear your quiet hiccups even though they’re muffled in Jihoon’s shirt. He can’t bear it when people cry.
Yeah, maybe he’s been pretending to like you for a long time now, but he’s not a monster.
Right?
He likes you as a person. As a friend. And there’s no way he’s letting his friend go through pain like this.
Soonyoung swiftly discards his trash into the garbage bin and approaches you and Jihoon. At the commotion, you lift your head from Jihoon’s shoulder, eyes all red and puffy. Your lips press together, emotions nearly bursting at the seams, but they finally break out when Soonyoung opens his arms wide.
“C’mere.”
You practically flail into his embrace, arms wrapping around his torso in a vice grip as you hide your face again. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay — he knows you’re not.
Jihoon stands in the doorway for a few seconds, just looking at you and Soonyoung clutching at each other in the middle of the apartment before he shuts the front door and clears his throat.
“I’ll just, uh, I’ll be — um. Mhm. Yup.”
He escapes to his room.
Soonyoung squishes his cheek to your temple as you both stay there. You’re shaking, and his arms squeeze tighter. If only he could make it stop. He doesn’t know what to say or do to make you feel better.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, though quiet and hesitant.
You shake your head, mumbling something he can’t quite make out. He pulls back a bit, just enough to see your face and gently cup your cheeks in his palms. His thumbs rub at your cheeks, smoothing any stray tears across your skin.
“What’s that?”
“Just...” Your eyes glisten. His heart beats. “Could you please just hold me?”
And he does.
Decidedly, his bed is much more comfortable than standing in the living room, so he sways, rocking side to side with small steps that force you to walk backwards. His smile, though, is reassuring, and you follow his guidance without much complaint. He sits you down on his bed, thankful that he cleaned up beforehand, and slowly leans you down so you’re both on your sides, facing each other. Pulling you closer, he lets you rest your head on his chest. Your hand lies flat on top of him, but eventually your fingers curl, clutching a bit of Soonyoung’s shirt between them. Silent tears fall from your eyes to his chest, but he doesn’t care.
His arm underneath you wraps around, hand landing on your back so his thumb can rub soothing circles.
It’s quiet.
Funny. Soonyoung used to dislike silence with you — always felt the need to fill it with conversation or jokes or laughter. He wonders when it was last since he felt that way.
Soonyoung doesn’t know how much time passes. His eyes stick to his bedroom ceiling as he holds you close, thoughts on everything and nothing all at once. Are you asleep? Your tears stopped some time ago.
His question is answered when your voice, small and unsure, breaks the long-standing silence.
“Soonyoung?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I tell you about it?”
He cranes his neck to look at you, but it doesn’t really work. “Of course,” he says. “Why wouldn’t you be able to?”
You sigh. “I don’t know. I just... I don’t want to be a burden.”
“You’re not.”
“I know, but—”
“You’re not.”
You look up at him finally, and seeing your smile sends warmth through his blood. Your face is still looks wrecked from tears gone by, but your smile pushes all that out of the way.
“Thank you,” comes past your lips in a whisper. Then, after a moment of waiting, you say, “It’s just that... I... this — ugh.” You hide your face in his shirt again. “This is so embarrassing. I don’t even know why I got so worked up.”
Soonyoung doesn’t respond to that, just pats your back a few times and encourages you to keep going. You toy with the fabric of his shirt.
“This guy I used to know — I thought I’d never see him again, but he showed up today. Ran into him when I was walking back from the convenience store.” You bite the inside of your lip. “I haven’t thought about him in a long time, but, I don’t know, I guess seeing him just brought all these memories back all at once.”
“Bad ones?”
A breathy laugh escapes you. “Sure, you could say that.”
The silence comes back, and your brows furrow, almost like you’re trying to solve the problem all on your own. But you don’t have to. Soonyoung is here.
“Do you remember when I told you about my first kiss? Like, my real first kiss?”
Soonyoung hums. Of course he remembers.
“Back in high school, I used to have this friend. Sammy. She was — god, she was beautiful. And kind, and smart, and just... amazing. I miss her a lot. She’s abroad now, travelling the world with her sister. I think she’s in Peru now.” You chuckle at the mention of your old friend, but soon your smile twists into a frown. “This guy... I don’t like saying his name, but he liked Sammy. Everyone did, I don’t blame him for that, honestly. He was pretty popular back then — one of those sports boys, you know? Thinking about it now, he could’ve easily gotten with Sammy if he hadn’t been so conniving.”
“Conniving?”
“Yeah, he was... I don’t know how he got the idea in his head, but he came to me first. He kept hanging out with me, taking me on these... dates? But they weren’t really dates, all we did was talk about Sammy — what she liked, what she didn’t like. I knew he was using me, but I just... let him, I guess. Maybe back then I was just so caught up in being needed that I didn’t really mind being used.”
Soonyoung hugs you tighter.
“I guess he felt sorry, maybe? Right before he went to go ask Sammy out, he just... laid one on me. It was stupid. Like a pity kiss for my service or whatever. I wasn’t in love with the guy or anything, but it felt so... degrading. Like all I deserved was some action from a conventionally good-looking guy."
Your tears come back, brimming at the edge of your eyelids.
“I don’t know, it just — it just made me feel so...”
You take a breath. Exhale.
“...worthless.”
Soonyoung doesn’t fail to see the irony here, at least, but he feels slightly lifted. Whoever this guy is, Soonyoung’s a million times better.
“You’re not worthless,” he says — because he knows it’s true.
“I know.” You readjust yourself curled around him, wiping away the tears which haven’t fallen. “I mean, I know now.” Sighing, you wrap your arm around his waist, somehow pulling him closer than he already was. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For being here. For being you. For letting me be me.”
“It is my absolute pleasure to serve you, your majesty.”
You wack him with the sleeve of your sweater. “You’re such a dork!”
Your laugh is nice. Soonyoung hopes to hear it again soon.
“You know,” you say, eyes closed as you lie there with him on his bed. “Normally I would’ve gone to Seungkwan with my problems, but tonight...”
“Tonight?”
“You make me feel safe, Soonyoung. Thank you.”
His eyes close. “Really?”
“Yeah,” you breathe out. “That, and if I told Seungkwan, he would’ve found the guy and beat him to a pulp.”
“Why can I see that?”
“Because it’s true.”
You stay the night.
•
With a group of friends as big as Soonyoung’s, it’s about once every blue moon that the boys find a time that works for everyone, especially coming up on finals season. They all have their own worries around this time: the dance showcase, the big play, last-minute assessments, and — of course — finals.
So when they’re all free for barbecue one night, everyone’s ecstatic. Reservations are made, gratuities are calculated, and the group chat blows up every few hours with various changes to plans. (Mostly from Mingyu, who’s eager to show off his grilling skills.)
But of course, university is university, and it’s inevitable that someone has to bail out. That someone being Soonyoung.
The dance showcase creeps up a bit faster than anyone likes, and now Soonyoung’s professor is forcing him to choreograph an entire song for some freshmen only a month before the whole thing goes onstage.
First of all, who signs up for a showcase only four weeks before the performance? Who lets them sign up?
And second of all, doesn’t his professor realize Soonyoung has a life? He’s got other dances to work on, other classes to study for, friends to have barbecue with. How is he supposed to cram an entire choreography — not the mention the time it’ll take to teach the freshmen — into his already hectic lifestyle?
But Soonyoung is a people-pleaser. He doesn’t say no.
Instead, he regretfully messages the group chat, saying he can’t hang out tonight in favour of attempting to choreograph at least a quarter of the song in one sitting. He gets the usual whining, but they all know they can’t change his mind, so it fades out fast.
What he doesn’t expect is for them to invite you instead.
“It’s a thirteen person reservation,” Seungcheol reasons. “Besides, she’s basically one of us by now.”
Soonyoung can’t exactly argue with that.
So, you go to the restaurant with them while Soonyoung heads to the studio. Minghao picks you up along with Vernon and Chan, which sends an anxious bit of worry down Soonyoung’s spine, but he does nothing about it. If Minghao wanted to tell you, he would’ve by now.
You send him a good luck text.
[🍥] Don’t let those kids work you into the ground!
He stares at your words for a bit, distracted from finding the song he’s supposed to use. Your contact name is different now — one of those naruto fishcakes because of that time you took him out for ramen. That night had been full of laughter and loud, borderline obnoxious slurping, ending with the beautiful finale of Soonyoung throwing a fishcake straight into your open mouth.
You were the one that sweet-talked you both out of getting banned.
Soonyoung finally opens his music app and finds the song the freshmen requested (a rather boring one, if you ask him) which he sets to max volume. He doesn’t bother plugging his phone into the speaker system, not when he’s the only one in the studio.
Maybe he can do this.
•
“The trick is to add eggs and use less water,” you say as you scoop more batter onto the waffle iron.
Jihoon snorts from where he sits at the table, still shoveling more whipped cream and strawberry-smothered waffle in his mouth. “Are you sure the trick isn’t to just not be Soonyoung?”
“Hey!” Soonyoung pauses his own eating just to pout. “My waffles are good!”
“Sure, you keep telling yourself that.”
Both you and Jihoon laugh at Soonyoung’s expense, only further accentuating the pout on his face. You and Jihoon are too alike in that aspect. Well, actually, Soonyoung knows you’d never laugh at him, but he still can’t be sure about Jihoon. One time, back in high school, Soonyoung tripped over (what he thought was) a dead bird, and Jihoon laughed for hours — though Soonyoung always exaggerates the story into him laughing for days.
You sit down next to him with your own plate of waffles. There’s flour dusted on your arms, but you don’t seem to mind.
“You’ve got a little...” You point a finger at the corner of your mouth.
He knows. Soonyoung can feel the cool whipped cream right where you say it is.
He smiles wide. “I’m saving it for later.”
“Hmm...”
You say nothing, just smile as you lean in, kissing the corner of his lips. It’s quick, chaste, and barely a real kiss, but Soonyoung’s heart bounces in his chest. He’s never been kissed like that before.
He wonders if this is what it’s like to be loved.
That thought, though, he pushes back for another time.
“Gross. You guys made me lose my appetite,” Jihoon says. He keeps eating.
•
With eyes drooping shut every few seconds, Soonyoung decides it’s time to call it quits on the chemistry homework. It’s nearly one in the morning, anyways. He flips his textbooks shut and gathers up all his notes, putting them all in a haphazard pile that he’ll worry about in the morning. Swivelling in his chair, his eyes land on you.
Oh. He forgot you’re here.
You’re snuggled up on top of his covers, one arm wrapped around the pillow your head should be on, eyes closed as even, slow breaths come past your slightly parted lips. One of his hoodies is draped over your legs like a blanket. He wonders why you didn’t just get under the covers.
Well, he has been walking you home ever since he hadn’t some time ago. Maybe you were waiting.
He feels a bit guilty as he brushes his teeth and washes his face, but not too bad since you only have afternoon classes tomorrow. Maybe he can treat you to something in the morning to make up for it.
After he tucks you under a fluffy throw blanket, he crawls into bed and lies on his side, facing you.
Your other hand is lax, palm up and fingers curled, almost like you’re holding something invisible.
His hand would fit perfectly.
The tips of his fingers graze over the lines on your palm. Slow. Trepidatious.
You shift, fingers unconsciously curling around Soonyoung’s hand.
He closes his eyes.
•
The moves aren’t working.
The moves aren’t working and the music isn’t working and the dance isn’t working and nothing is working.
Soonyoung groans in frustration, almost screaming with his fingers threaded through his damp hair as he messes up yet another landing. He’s drenched in sweat, and it’s only been so many hours since the rest of the crew left for the night, not that he’s kept track.
It’s less than a week until the showcase. Six days, as Chan is apt to remind everyone with his stupid holiday countdown app.
That freshmen choreography is already over and done with — Soonyoung’s made it, he’s taught it to those over-eager nuisances, and if they need anything more, that’s on them. They’re no longer his responsibility.
That’s not what has him in such a state right now.
His solo — the one he’s been planning for the entire semester — it just doesn’t... feel right. He’s been slaving over it for days now, reworking the steps, figuring out what to take out and what to replace. But the more he fixes it, the more it feels wrong.
He can’t get the steps right. He can’t get anything right.
What is wrong with him?
He starts the music again at exactly one minute, thirty-eight seconds. The moves are clear in his mind. One step. Two steps. Sweep. Spin. Jump—
He falls.
The music goes on.
Soonyoung slams his fist onto the softwood floor, cursing at his ineptitude. He stays like that for a moment, eyes screwed shut and fists clenched so tight his nails dig into his palms. The song ends, only to restart again, but Soonyoung barely notices.
Screw the music. He stands; positions himself; tries again.
Again.
Again.
Again.
He falls.
He yells out at the floor, at his feet, at whatever is holding him back.
His reflection in the mirror stares back at him.
Mind blank, he sits there, legs stretched out in front of him as he hunches over, eyes closed to the world around. His breaths come out shaky and uneven, but even though every moment sitting still feels like eternity, his lungs fail to calm.
Someone knocks on the door, and for a second, Soonyoung thinks it’s Jun coming to tell him to go home for the night. He doesn’t want to, so he doesn’t look up.
The door opens, he can hear the quiet shuffling of hesitant feet that have removed their shoes just because the sign on the door told them to.
“Soonyoung?”
Your voice is clear — like a single drop of water coalescing into a whole — and it cuts through the sound of blood rushing past Soonyoung’s ears.
He looks up to see you standing a good length away, almost like you’re scared to approach. You’re wearing pyjamas, a thick sweater pulled over your shoulders and fuzzy socks donning your feet. Something bulges from the pocket of your sweater.
“What are you...”
“Minghao called me.”
In the back of his mind, a small part of Soonyoung wonders exactly when you and Minghao have gotten close enough to call each other, but the thought doesn’t stay for long. It can’t, really, not when you’re in front of him.
When Soonyoung says nothing more, you take another step forward. “What’s wrong?”
To anyone else, he might say nothing. Absolutely nothing is wrong.
His voice breaks when he tries to laugh.
“Everything.”
Your eyes soften, a small smile tugging at your lips. It’s not one of those pitiful smiles, he can tell, but it’s not fake, either. You bring your hands together in front of you, fiddling with the tips of your fingers as your eyes move from them to his gaze again. “I’m coming over. Is that okay?”
He nods.
First, you find his phone and turn down the music until it’s gone. You sit right behind him, legs spread on either side of his body, and you wrap your arms around his waist, pressing flush to his back and resting your cheek between his shoulder blades. He squirms a bit.
“I’m all sweaty,” he tries to argue, but you only squeeze him tighter.
“Yeah, you are.”
He stops resisting. It’s much too hot, what with his hours of constant exercise and your thick layers, but he can’t complain.
“Do you want to talk about it?” This time it’s your turn to ask.
“...Just hold me?”
And you do.
You press a kiss to the back of his neck. Slow, soft, and when your lips leave his searing skin, your forehead replaces them.
That’s when the dam breaks.
Hot, fat tears roll from Soonyoung’s eyes down his cheeks as sobs rack through his chest. The vibrations shake him and you all at once, but your hold never falters. He can’t see anything, only a blur of what should be his legs and your arms wrapped around his stomach. His hands go to clutch at your arms, desperate to hold onto something; to not let him sink.
It’s ugly, the way he cries, but you let it happen. You hold him.
This is what it’s like.
Eventually, his desperate hands find yours, his arms crossed so his right is over your right, his left over your left. His fingers roam over the smooth backs of your hands until they reach your fingers and interlock. The palms of your hands are warm compared to his fingertips.
You’ve locked onto his body language by now — you’re fluent, so you know to continue pressing reassuring, slow kisses into his skin. You know to whisper little words that should mean nothing, but coming from your lips, mean everything.
He’s going to be okay.
For some reason, coming from you, he believes it.
You hold him until the hiccuping stops, until the tears are just dry streaks on his face, until his breath comes out in long streams instead of bursts.
His eyes stay shut as he feels you shift. One of your hands slips out of his grasp, your arm reaching back, and Soonyoung almost whines until he feels its return.
“Look,” you whisper.
It itches to open his eyes, but when he does, he sees what’s in your hand, right in front of him. A small stuffed tiger sits in your palm, positioned anatomically incorrect like a teddy bear, a velvet heart between its paws. Stitched white letters read:
Go get ‘em, tiger!
You chuckle lightly, repositioning yourself so your chin hooks over his shoulder. “Cheesy, I know. I was going to give this to you the day of the showcase, but I think you could use it right about now.”
Gingerly, Soonyoung lifts his hands together, and you place the plush in his awaiting palms.
His voice is slow to restart, but he manages to say, “Thank you.”
Hands now free, you wrap yourself around his waist again. “Anything for you.”
Such a simple sentence, that, and yet the confession sends blood to Soonyoung’s ears in the form of an awfully embarrassing blush. He runs his thumbs over the fuzzy fabric of the tiger plush.
“Soonyoung?”
“Hm?”
You press your lips to the crook of his shoulder, voice muffled in the fabric of his shirt. “I won’t force you to stop practicing. I know this is important to you.” Soonyoung feels your breath fan over his skin. “But I also want you to rest — you shouldn’t overwork yourself.”
One of your hands rises to his chin, guiding it up so he looks forward at the studio mirror and meets your gaze in the reflection.
“Whaddya say we do, hm?” You tilt your head, and Soonyoung thinks his pupils may be heart-shaped. “Do you want to practice more? Or can I take you home?”
“Just...” He swallows what’s left in his dry mouth. “Just once more.”
You smile. “Okay.”
As you get up, you run your hands up to Soonyoung’s shoulder and down to his hand, where you playfully pretend to pull him up with you. He laughs, hiding his face behind the tiger plush for a second before he stands, tugging your hands as he does so you fall into him when he rights himself. Both your hands are squeezed between him and you, while his unoccupied arm finds its way to your side.
Another smile tugs at your lips at the proximity. You shift your hands up so they wrap over his shoulders, linking behind his head. Leaning closer, your eyes gleam under the fluorescent lights. To the sound of silence, you sway together, waltzing in the dead of night.
“I’ll be outside, okay?”
Soonyoung’s expression tightens, eyebrows shifting in confusion. “Why?”
“Well,” you say. “I know how you feel about audiences during practice.”
Something about your smile right now makes Soonyoung feel so undeniably safe. You understand him. Never once have you questioned him over why he doesn’t invite you to practices, never once did you pressure him to change that.
“Do you know how I feel about you?”
“Hmm, do I?”
Do you?
“Stay.”
And you do.
•
Here’s the thing about dance showcases:
They’re big, they’re flashy, they take the entire year to plan, and they’re over in one night.
Soonyoung stands in the wings, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, hopefully not loud enough for anyone to hear. He watches as the group performing before his solo finishes up their dance, though he knows there is at least a minute before he’ll have to go on.
A tap on his shoulder makes him turn his head, and he sees Sehee’s smiling face.
“Nervous?” she asks, her voice hidden beneath the music.
She’s all dolled up, dressed in her costume with a sleek leather jacket to bring everything together. Her eyes glimmer just as much as her eyelids.
“You have no idea,” Soonyoung jokes, but his heart isn’t really in it.
Sehee tilts her head; blinks a few times. “You’ll do amazing. You always do.”
For what it’s worth, Soonyoung hasn’t forgotten his attraction. Sehee’s words soothe him to some extent, pump him up, even. It’s slightly terrifying — how much she still affects him even now.
You’re in the audience tonight, third row from the front, somewhere in the middle. Your seat is between Seungkwan’s and Jihoon’s, whereas all the other boys came (almost) too late and had to find seats elsewhere.
The music ends, applause erupts, and Soonyoung knows it’s his turn. He waits for the group to exit on the opposite side, and when the resounding claps quiet down, he takes the first step onstage.
Something Soonyoung has almost always known: stage lights are blinding. If they’re set up right, anyone onstage will have a damn hard time seeing anyone in the audience. He can’t see you — couldn’t during his previous performance with the crew, either. The only reason he knows you’re there is the million assuring texts you sent him before you had to turn off your phone for the show.
But he knows you’re there. He knows you’re watching.
Soonyoung stands with his left foot on the spike mark, right where he’s practiced time and time again ever since they transitioned into the space. Music floods his veins, and the world is gone.
He wouldn’t call it an escape. Soonyoung doesn’t use dance to get away, it’s not like that. This world he creates with dance — this other space where nothing exists except him and the music and the floor and the feeling — he chooses to go there. Euphoria, he thinks it might be called. Euphoric.
The space takes him. He lets it.
And then it’s over.
Soonyoung’s breath leaves him in bursts, his shoulders heaving despite how hard he fights to keep them still in his final pose. His back faces the audience, his right arm stretched out and up, fingers curling around nothing. Stars dance before his eyes — which he fails to catch with his outstretched hand.
He thinks he can faintly hear applause, but it’s nothing compared to the heart beating in his chest. Your voice plays in his ears, yet he knows it’s simply his imagination — his recollection.
I like your dance, you’d said that night. I’m no expert, no judge, but I like it. I love it, honestly. Your dancing... I don’t know. I wish I had the words. It’s like... a little box.
A little box?
You’ve got a little box in your hand. Brown, maybe the size of your palm. You open it and there’s no bottom, no sides, no shape, just an expanse of universe in blues and pinks and purples and whatever colours we don’t know exist. You look inside and reach your hand in, somehow fitting in the tiny yet infinite space. Your fingers brush through starlight like strands of silk, like the rays are minnows you’ve met during a summer dip. Like that. A little box.
I thought you said you didn’t have the words?
I don’t. Not enough.
Soonyoung vaguely registers the lights going black, the way his feet drift him offstage, the music of the seniors’ finale.
At some point, the lights are back on. Not the stage lights, but the harsh fluorescents once the audience has fully filtered out into the lobby. Most of them will leave, but the family and friends of performers are sure to stay, waiting there to congratulate and fawn over the dancers as soon as they’re let go for the night. Somewhere in his mind, Soonyoung knows his friends are outside waiting for him — him, Jun, Minghao, and Chan.
Roses are passed around. He’s never seen a blue rose before, but some dancers walk around with them as they change out of costume and gather their things. He points out a yellow rose from the bunch presented to him, but it turns out to be a bouquet for him specifically, and he takes the whole thing with his jaw slightly hanging. Everything’s a bit... slow. Soonyoung feels like he’s wading through water.
He hasn’t changed yet, simply standing in his costume as he watches people go back and forth. Other performers move from dressing room to dressing room, cleaning up what they have to while simultaneously patting each other’s backs. Techs go around making sure everything’s in order, nothing lost or forgotten. They put away the MC’s microphones and bother the dancers for not taking proper care of props even though it’s only been one night.
Another tap on his shoulder; it’s Sehee again.
“Can I talk to you?” she asks.
He follows her to a corner of the stage, where the curtains hang and hide the two — for the most part.
She turns almost too abruptly, causing Soonyoung to stumble over his own two feet to avoid bumping into her.
“This is really hard for me to say,” she starts. “But I have to get it out.”
Soonyoung nods, maybe saying something close to a confirmation, but he can’t really tell. He’s a little lightheaded. Sehee has changed out of her leather, instead now in a pair of grey sweatpants and a simple t-shirt. That’s the thing about Sehee, though, she has that unnamed sort of... effortless beauty. Even with her stage makeup wiped off, she glows.
“This might be one of the last times I ever work with you, you know? Next year, my parents are making me quit dancing so I can focus on my major. It sucks, yeah, but they’re right. I need to focus if I want to succeed. You know that too, don’t you? The need to succeed?” She takes a breath; laughs bitterly. “Sorry, I’m getting off track... I just — I wanted to tell you this because if I don’t tonight, I might never get the chance again.”
Maybe Soonyoung has dreamed of this moment. He can’t be sure, not yet, so he lets her continue.
“I like you, Soonyoung. I have for a while. But things happened, and you got together with...” her voice trails off. “And you seemed happy, after a while. I thought maybe I could just keep it hidden but, I don’t know, I think I need to tell you, to get closure because I'm not sure if I can go on without at least—”
Choices. Soonyoung — and everyone else in the world — has only made it through life with decisions. He’s made good ones. Bad ones. He’s had regrets and he’s had none. This, though, this choice is intensely apparent.
Apparent in the way he knows it will affect much more than he wishes.
He kisses her.
God, this is what he wanted, right? What he’s wanted for so long. He used to toss and turn at night over the thought of Sehee’s eyes; her smile; her lips.
And on his, they were heaven. Plump and soft just like the romance novels say, moving at the exact pace of his heartbeat.
The hand holding his bouquet drops to his side as the other goes to cup Sehee’s cheek. Faintly, the sound of paper fluttering to the ground reaches his ears, but nothing can distract him from this moment.
Until, of course, it ends.
Sehee pulls away. “We can’t— I don’t—”
Someone clears their throat.
Soonyoung turns, finding Minghao standing just off from the curtains, arms crossed and face contorted in thinly-veiled anger.
And you.
You’re standing next to Minghao, obviously shocked — over being seen or what you’ve seen, Soonyoung doesn’t know. Hands fisted and held close to your chest, your eyes widen as they meet Soonyoung’s.
It’s not so dramatic as the movies.
Soonyoung stares at you, tongue unmoving with nothing to say. You stare back, almost frozen, until Minghao gently takes you by your shoulders, forcing you to turn and leave the way you must’ve come. Nothing happens in the time it takes. Soonyoung simply watches.
He’s never been good at reading lips, but he thinks he knows exactly what Minghao whispers in your ear.
There’s something you should know.
Sehee mutters, “Sorry,” and leaves. She looks guilt-ridden as she does, but even in his half-frozen state, Soonyoung knows all of this is on him.
He stands alone in that corner of the stage, the only noise being the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant sound of the last stragglers in the dressing rooms. His hands clench, and the brown paper of the bouquet crumples. He looks at it then, at the yellow roses and baby’s breath, at the beige note that’s fallen to the floor.
Slowly, he crouches, picking up the note with his thumb and forefinger.
Congratulations Soonyoung!! I know how hard you’ve worked for this night, which is why I ordered these to be delivered. Joshua told me yellow roses represent happiness, or something. Pretty, right? You deserve every happiness, so I decided to start with flowers. Tonight may be over, but who knows, maybe we’ll find happiness in tomorrow, too.
It’s stupid. It’s not a love letter. It’s laced with love, though, and he hates that he recognizes your handwriting.
Time moves heavily as Soonyoung turns to the backstage door. He’s the only one left now, his station in the second boy’s dressing room is messy, unlike everyone else’s. His reflection stares back at him while he sits in front of the mirror, motions halved in speed as he wipes off his eye makeup.
It’s over.
When was the last time he thought about how it would end?
He changes out of costume, arms growing stiff, and stuffs everything in his bag without much care for how. His regular clothes itch; he longs to scratch at his skin, but he doesn’t.
He leaves your bouquet on the counter.
His friends stand in a circle in the lobby, brows furrowed and voices hushed as they discuss... something. Soonyoung has a bad feeling he knows exactly the topic. Minghao isn’t there. Nor are you.
Jihoon isn’t around, either, but Soonyoung remembers he had to leave immediately after the performance. Something about an essay. It doesn’t really matter now, not compared to this.
When he approaches his friends, they quiet down further. Half of them look his way with a frown, while the other half choose to avert their eyes. What do they know?
Seungkwan stands out the most. His arms are crossed, his lips are pressed together in a thin line, and anger radiates from his very being. Of course he’s mad. You’re his friend.
The silence consumes Soonyoung as he nearly shrivels under his friends’ gazes. He must have taken his time, the lobby is empty except for them.
“Where’s Minghao?” he asks.
Seungkwan lurches forward, but both Seungcheol and Wonwoo bring up their arms to hold him back.
“Where’s Minghao? Where’s Minghao?” he seethes. He jabs an accusatory finger in Soonyoung’s face. “You just kissed some girl and broke my best friend’s heart and you’re asking about Minghao?!”
So they don’t know. Not really.
Soonyoung endures the scolding. The looks. The questions. The noise.
No answers are really given.
The great thing about having best friends is that they know not to pamper you when you’ve done wrong. That’s also the worst thing about having best friends.
Seungkwan would go on and on, surely, but soon enough the boys notice how little Soonyoung is reacting — how his face and expression is slack and dull.
Joshua holds up a finger to quiet down the ones still complaining, then gestures towards the front entrance.
“Minghao left with her a while ago.” The look on his face is one of pity. Soonyoung hates it.
He nods; stuffs his hands in his pockets as he turns to the door.
“Wait! I’m not done—!” Seungkwan struggles against Wonwoo and Seungcheol, but he’s no match.
Soonyoung doesn’t stick around long enough to hear what happens next.
He has no sense of what to do when he walks out that door. Go home, maybe.
The night breeze hits him with more force than it should, making his eyes go dry and his lips tremble. Outside, everything is almost too loud. There’s traffic on all sides, surrounding the lot of the theatre; the sound of humming engines and honking horns assaults his senses.
He walks — though it feels like wandering — to the parking lot, where he plans to look around for a bus stop.
You’re there.
A mirage, he thinks at first, but you’re really there, sitting on one of those concrete barriers, legs outstretched and ankles crossed. You have your head lowered as you sit, hands braced on the cold concrete.
His held breath escapes him, and you look up.
“You’re here,” you say. The smile on your lips, ever so slight and ever so bitter, causes a ringing in his ears. “I almost thought you forgot about me.”
“I...”
“It’s a lie, right?” Your eyes glisten, but no tears fall. “You wouldn’t— I’m not— I’m not that naive, am I?”
Soonyoung’s lips part, but nothing moves past them. His hands itch to leave his pockets, but with nothing to reach for, they stay still.
“...I see.”
You drop your head again, bringing your hands together to fiddle with your fingernails. He hears your breath, shaky as it is, and his lungs constrict.
“God, it felt so real. I thought— I guess I don’t know what I thought, huh?” A shiver runs through you. “Was any of it real?” you ask the ground.
Soonyoung longs to answer. That’s the thing, though.
He doesn’t know.
Can any of it be real?
You laugh. Before, your laugh was spring strawberries; summer warblers; winter snowdrops. Now, your dry laughter echoes in Soonyoung’s mind like a pebble in a failed attempt of skipping stones.
“Guess not.”
You hop off the concrete barrier, wiping off your pants of dust and dirt. Still, you don’t meet his eyes.
Soonyoung’s heart beats in a way he knows isn’t natural. Guilt seeps through every orifice. “You’re not... you’re not yelling at me. You’re not crying — you’re not angry,” he stumbles through. “Why?”
It’s then that when you meet his eyes, he notices the dried tracks lining your cheeks. You have been crying, just in the time it took for him to come across you.
“I’m just disappointed in myself, Soonyoung,” you say. “I’m the one who fell for it so easily. I’m the one that was tricked. I’m the one who—” a breath “—who loved someone that didn’t love me back.” You step closer, arms limp at your side. “Once I get home, sure, I’ll cry my eyes out. Is that what you want to hear? I’ll curse myself for being so... so stupid.”
“It’s not your fault—”
“No, it’s not. This is not my fault. All I did was believe the words you said to me. All I did was hand myself to you on a silver platter.” Unshed tears brim at your eyelids, but it seems you refuse to let them fall. “But you know the worst part, Soonyoung?”
Everything?
“The worst part is I can’t yell at you. I’m not angry because I fell in love with someone who doesn’t love me back and it hurts and I can’t bring myself to hate you despite being told you’ve never thought about me the way I think about you.”
A breathy gasp escapes you, and you turn on a dime, the sight of your back an icy reminder to Soonyoung of what he’s yet to learn. You take a deep breath to gather yourself, shoulders rising and falling.
“I’ll be going now. I’ve got a lot to think about.”
Soonyoung doesn’t move from his spot when you walk away, or when you get into Minghao’s car, which pulls away after a moment of sitting there in its parking spot. His feet are stuck in stiff mud, unable to shift, even.
Perhaps he stands there for too long. It’s not until he’s staring down the front of his apartment that he realizes one of his friends must have dropped him off.
•
He hasn’t heard from you in a few days. He hasn’t heard from anyone in just as long.
Jihoon already knew (not everything, but enough) by the time Soonyoung rolled out of bed the day after. He hasn’t said anything about it, but Soonyoung can tell this silence isn’t the same as usual. They rarely eat meals together anymore. Last movie night, Jihoon didn’t even pretend to be busy, instead saying he simply wasn’t in the mood.
Seungkwan hasn’t left your side ever since... that happened. If Soonyoung happens to see you on campus, which is almost never, he backs out of approaching you because of the sheer force that is Seungkwan’s glare. Besides, he wouldn’t know what to say even if he did find the courage to face you.
Classes go by in blurs. Not quickly, like scenery past a car window, but so slow that once Soonyoung leaves, he remembers nothing but hours upon hours of staring at his empty notebook, even if the lecture was only fifty minutes long. Days are kind of like that too.
•
Sehee apologizes. She shouldn’t, but she does.
Soonyoung didn’t really hate what he did at first. He liked her, after all.
But when Sehee chokes on her own words, pleading to whoever will listen that she’s not that kind of girl, Soonyoung regrets kissing her more than he ever wanted to kiss her in the first place.
•
please let me explain
I’m sorry
it’s been a while, but still
I’m sorry
[🍥] Explain what?
[🍥] ...
[🍥] Soonyoung?
sorry I just
I wasn’t expecting you to answer
[🍥] Maybe I shouldn’t have
no
wait
I’m sorry
[🍥] So I’ve heard
I just want you to know why what happened, happened
[🍥] But I already know why
it’s not that simple
[🍥] You lied because you suck at lying. Because you knew Sehee was there that night and panicked. I was just collateral damage
[🍥] ...
[🍥] No answer, huh?
[🍥] So it really is that simple
please wait
I’m just trying to figure myself out
[🍥] Let me help you
[🍥] You want my forgiveness because you feel guilty. Maybe you don’t know it yet, but you want me to say I forgive you just so you won’t have to carry this around for the rest of your life
[🍥] I know this isn’t some romcom. I know you’re not here to get me back
[🍥] So just let it go
[🍥] Let’s just forget about this. About what happened
what if I can’t
[🍥] I don’t know
[🍥] Figure it out, I guess
[🍥] But do it on your own
•
Soonyoung doesn’t measure his time anymore.
He wakes up. He eats. He goes to class. He skips lunch. He goes home. He eats. He falls asleep.
When was the last time he went out with someone? When was the last time he had a real conversation?
He doesn’t know.
•
[Minghao] You should tell everyone else
why
[Minghao] Would you rather they think you’re a cheater or just an idiot?
I don’t know
[Minghao] I think they deserve an explanation
[Minghao] Want me to do it for you?
does it even matter anymore
[Minghao] It’s your choice
[Minghao] You just have to make it
then tell them
I don’t care
[Minghao] Are you sure?
tell them
•
These days, Soonyoung stays late at the studio. No one really practices there anymore, not since the showcase finished and finals have rolled around. Actually, Soonyoung should be studying too, but he can’t find the motivation. He thinks it might be the guilt.
You were right. He doesn’t want to carry this around.
The thing is, despite spending entire evenings in the studio, he can’t remember anything as he walks home. It must be hours spent in there, and yet, when he walks out, he can’t recall a thing. Like he was never there at all.
Where does the time go?
With his luck, the elevator is broken when he returns to the apartment building, so he has to take the stairs. Normally that wouldn’t be a big deal, but after hours of mindless, sloppy dancing, he’s much too tired. He fumbles with his keys when he tries to open the door, and he rests his forehead on the cool wood for a moment, sighing before he tries again.
The door creaks open. Though it’s late, the lights are still on, which Soonyoung frowns at when he realizes. Lately, Jihoon is never up when Soonyoung comes home. But there he is, sitting at the table right next to the kitchen with his eyes on his hands and his feet tucked under the chair.
Soonyoung freezes after shutting the door behind him, not wholly sure what to make of the scene before him.
After a moment of silence, Jihoon looks up from his fingers and meets Soonyoung’s gaze.
“Minghao called me today,” he says.
Soonyoung gulps, but doesn’t respond — doesn’t know how to.
“I didn’t want to believe it at first, you know.” His voice is slow, croaky; tired. “But it sort of makes sense, doesn’t it. I don’t know how I didn’t see it from the start.”
Slowly, Soonyoung slips off his shoes and steps further into the apartment. “So now you know. I’m really not in the mood for a lecture right now.”
“I just have a question.”
Soonyoung pauses, halfway through the apartment and only a few meters from his bedroom door. He turns to face Jihoon, sighing through his nose and digging his palm into his eye sockets. “Fine,” he concedes. “What?”
“If you never loved — never liked her, why are you acting like this now?”
“Acting like what?”
“Like a dead man walking.”
Soonyoung scoffs, a dry, empty sound as he looks away for a moment before meeting Jihoon’s gaze again. “You’re kidding, right?” he asks. “I lied to someone for months. I pretended to love someone I didn’t. I used her because of my own stupidity and pride, and then I used Sehee, too—” Pausing, he closes his eyes; takes a breath. “Isn’t it obvious? It’s guilt. I feel guilty for... for everything.”
“That’s the only reason?”
“Excuse me?”
Jihoon rhythmically taps the pads of his fingers on the table. It’s not loud enough to be heard, but Soonyoung’s eyes train to the sight. “It’s only the guilt?”
“What else would it be?”
This time, it’s Jihoon who sighs. He looks at his hands again for a second. “Do me a favour,” he says without looking up.
“Look, I already—”
“Just do what I say.”
Soonyoung groans, but he knows he can’t argue with Jihoon and win — not now at least. He rubs his eyes, shoulders rising and falling as he takes in a deep breath. Mumbling under his breath, he says, “Fine.”
Jihoon stands from his chair, and in such stagnant silence, the sound of the legs squeaking on the floor is profound. He points to the middle of the apartment, the large bit of floor-space that’s too big to be considered part of the kitchen but too small to house any furniture.
“Stand right there.”
“...What?”
Without answering, Jihoon simply points at the floor again, and Soonyoung can only groan in defiance as he moves to stand in that spot. Grabbing a throw pillow from the couch, Jihoon steps a few feet away, facing Soonyoung with the pillow held in one hand at his side. He seems to consider something for a moment.
Soonyoung has never been unable to read Jihoon this much, so he asks, “What is this all about—”
Jihoon screams. Not a high-pitched screech, but a guttural battle cry, and Soonyoung’s eyes widen. Faster than he can comprehend, Jihoon runs towards him and tackles him to the ground. Soonyoung’s legs crumble as he falls, and he feels the throw pillow pressing onto his face.
This is it, he thinks. This is how he dies.
“Jihoon!” he cries, but his protest is muffled by the pillow. “What the fuck are you—!”
“You fucking idiot! You don’t know shit!”
“I know that!” Soonyoung thrashes to get the pillow off, but Jihoon is way stronger than he looks.
“You miss her you fucking buffoon! You’re all in your doom and gloom because you had a good thing going and had to go fuck it up!”
“I don’t!”
“Don’t try to argue with me, fucker, I know you better than anyone. Now scream!”
The pillows squishes further down, and while Soonyoung can still breathe, it’s far from comfortable. He continues to struggle even though he knows it’s useless.
“What?!”
“Scream into the pillow! You’re mad at yourself and you should be! Let it all out!”
“I—”
“Scream!”
And he does. He lets out a loud bellow that’s nothing but sound roaring from his lungs. He does it mostly to appease Jihoon — so that maybe he’ll finally get off.
But it feels good.
No, not good, really. It feels awful. Everything feels awful. Yet, something about screaming makes him want to do it again. He yells once more into the pillow, the sound muffled in the fabric and yet intensely remarkable. He screams and he screams and he screams until he can’t scream anymore and his voice is raw and there’s no more sound aside from the fractured gasps of his sobs. Tears soak into rough fabric, and he doesn’t even notice that Jihoon isn’t holding the pillow anymore — he’s pressing it to his face himself. His body shakes under Jihoon. Soonyoung feels pathetic, but he can’t stop.
He tries again to scream into the pillow, but his voice cracks and all he knows is to cry.
This is what it’s like.
Quietly, Jihoon maneuvers himself so he sits by Soonyoung’s head. He slowly lifts a corner of the pillow and peeks at Soonyoung’s red face. “So,” he whispers, voice soft and full of care. “What are you going to do now?”
Soonyoung wraps his arms around the pillow, hiding his face again.
“I don’t know,” he says. He’s never felt less sure of anything. “I don’t know.”
•
That night, Soonyoung cleans his room. He doesn’t reorganize or anything, just picks discarded clothes up off the ground and throws them in a hamper, spreads his blankets so his bed actually looks bed-like, and takes his overflowing garbage bin out to the door, where he’ll take it out tomorrow morning. As he stretches his arm between his bed and the wall, his fingers close around the sweater he’s trying to reach and... something else. When he brings his hand back up, a small tiger plush stares back at him.
Go get ‘em, tiger!
He stares at the words for a moment, sitting up on his bed and leaning his back against the wall. The plush feels frail in his hands, almost like the velvet heart held in the tiger’s paws could crumble at any moment. Maybe it will.
Soonyoung settles down above the covers that night, and the tiger sits on his other pillow.
The one that still smells like you.
•
He cries. (For the second time since you left.)
•
After everything that’s happened, one would think it would take a miracle to fix what’s been broken. Soonyoung thinks it will take more than that, but still; he’s no miracle worker. He thinks it will take magic to just see you again.
Turns out, it takes a coffee.
Jihoon forces Soonyoung to join him in visiting one of the campus cafes. He doesn’t think about it too much, just believes Jihoon’s trying to keep him alive with a little kick of caffeine. That thought is pushed away when Jihoon blocks him from sitting at the little table, pointing instead across the space to the student printing center.
You’re talking to a customer at the front counter, forearms rested on the white faux marble. A smile is on your lips as you say whatever it is you’re saying to the girl, and Soonyoung finds it almost impossible to tear his eyes away. But he does. He scans the rest of the building for a second. Seungkwan is nowhere to be seen, and neither is Minghao.
He turns to Jihoon, a question on the tip of his tongue.
“She told the bodyguards to back off,” Jihoon explains without needing to be asked. “It’s been a few days.” He nods his chin towards you. “Go on. Talk to her.”
Soonyoung shakes his head, gulping down the words he can’t yet think of. “I don’t... I’m not... ready.”
“If you back out now, you’re going to keep backing out until it’s too late.”
Jihoon’s eyes blaze with an unfitting determination for such a setting. He looks stupid, like some self-made, all-knowing relationship guru who likes the coke he’s gripping too much. Still, he’s right.
Soonyoung licks his dry lips and looks at you again. You’ve sat down, relaxed after having helped that customer and now conversing with one of the other students working there. He misses the way you looked when you were happy — when you were happy with him.
What will it take to see that again?
What will it take to hold you again?
His feet move before his doubts can stop him, and the scene feels awfully familiar. This time though, Soonyoung can’t help but feel like the bad guy.
You don’t notice him until he’s right in front of you, and he doesn’t know what hurts more: the immediate frown, or the fake smile you use to cover it up.
“Hi, what can I do for you today?”
If Soonyoung had to define heartache, he might use this moment. Feigning to forget rather than acknowledging the past... it’s effective, but it hurts.
“Can...” He hesitates and curses himself for it. “Can we talk?”
“About printing, yes. About anything else? I really would rather we didn’t,” you say under your breath. It’s hushed, and you don’t shy away when Soonyoung leans closer to hear. That has to mean something, doesn’t it?
“But there’s something I need to say.”
“I don’t think I want to hear anymore apologies, Soonyoung.”
“It’s not that,” he argues.
Your eyebrows scrunch together. “It’s not an apology?”
“No— I mean, well, yes I want to apologize. I don’t think I’ll ever stop apologizing, but— but that’s not what I—”
“Soonyoung.”
He stops at your word, knowing that speaking will only get him further into trouble. Around you, his words keep failing. Instead, he meets your eyes, which under more inspection, seem hardened.
Have eyes ever looked so hardened when brimmed with tears?
“I don’t know if you know this, but seeing you makes me hate myself.” By now, your coworker has walked to the back, probably to respect your privacy. Your voice almost cracks. “I’ve felt worthless before, but Soonyoung, do you even realize what that — what you did to me?”
He barely breathes before saying, “What if I... what if I said I fell in love with you? Somewhere along the way?” A pause. Your eyes waver, but steady themselves. “What if I said I love you?”
“Soonyoung,” you say after a second.
“Yes?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
•
[🍥] Give me a reason to give you a chance
this is real right?
[🍥] It’s not a dream if that’s what you’re asking
all of a sudden??
[🍥] Minghao and Jihoon said I should
[🍥] And I think I should too
[🍥] But it’s hard
[🍥] What you said yesterday... I don’t know if I can believe it just yet
will you meet me?
I want to see you
[🍥] Can you give me some time?
yes
all the time you need
but will you?
will you meet me?
[🍥] I don’t want to
[🍥] But then again, I do
[🍥] Just give me some time
•
A strange thing, time. It passes by much too quickly when you want it to last, and it drags on when all you want is to be there. There; right then; right now.
Soonyoung stays up late turning on and off his phone, waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting.
It’s only been two days.
Jihoon thinks he’s crazy, though he hasn’t said it out loud — Soonyoung can tell.
He also thinks he might be a little crazy, but that’s okay. If it means he’ll get the chance to make it up to you... maybe he’s fine with being crazy.
At some point, Jihoon barges into his room and takes away Soonyoung’s phone, snatching it straight out of his hands like the little thief he is. He keeps it out of reach despite being shorter, preaching bullshit like, “You need to calm down and act like a normal person!”
Fine, whatever.
Soonyoung goes out for some air. And instant ramen.
There’s a twenty-four hour convenience store right on the edge of campus, manned by a single tired university student that everyone is aware of, yet no one really seems to know his name. It’s one of those spots where time doesn’t exist; maybe names don’t, either.
Compared to the blackness of night, the blanch white convenience store sticks out like a sore thumb, especially with all the bright posters and fluorescent tube-lights. Soonyoung feels just as out of place with no people around just outside the store, but really, it’s to be expected at a time like two in the morning.
He’s right at the door when it chimes and slides open. And so are you.
Both of you freeze where you are, you in the doorway and he just in front. His jaw slacks slightly as he takes you in.
You’re in casual clothes again, a thick sweater and presumably pyjama pants. This version of you comes with good memories — for some reason he likes it more than he cares to admit. Maybe he liked that you could share a more vulnerable side to him, and he to you in return. Although, you’ve shown this side to even the unnamed convenience store guy.
It’s your voice that breaks him from his reverie.
“Soonyoung,” you say, and it’s softer than before. Maybe your voice is lighter from the fact that it’s two in the morning, maybe just because you’re tired, but a small part of Soonyoung wishes that it’s something else — that you sound softer because you’ve missed him too.
He hopes it isn’t just hope.
He says your name, the sound beautiful and battered on his tongue. A small smile passes your lips, so fast that he almost misses it, but he doesn’t. That’s one thing he knows about you: how much you care. Even if someone hurts you, you always take the time to hear them out. You give them chances. Soonyoung should thank his lucky stars that you’ve done the same for him.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
You smile again, and it reaches your eyes, however sad.
“Is it time?” he asks.
“It can be.” The plastic bag in your hand crinkles as you sway it back and forth. “Do you want it to be?”
“Yeah.” His voice comes out like a breath. “Please.”
“Then that’s what we’ll make it.”
You gesture to the ground, where the curb meets the asphalt, but Soonyoung is still a little shocked that he’s even met you here in the first place, so he watches, dazed, as you sit down on the curb before joining in. He stays silent as you pull out an ice cream cup and hand it to him. He stays silent as you procure a second one and peel open the plastic lid, digging into it with the wooden stick spoon-wannabe that comes with the package. He stays silent as you look at him, the wooden stick hanging from your mouth.
“So,” you say, scraping the side of the paper cup. Meeting his eyes, you sport a sly smile. “I hear you’re in love with me.”
The ice cream stays unopened in his hands. He finds it so easy to smile back.
“Yeah. I think I am.”
“You think you are?”
“I’ve never loved someone like this before,” he tries to explain, though the words are slow to his tongue. “I can only think.”
“I guess so.”
“But—” he looks at his fingers, fiddling with the plastic lid of the cup, and a small laugh escapes “—I’m thinking really, really hard.”
You laugh too; his heart blooms.
“Is that so?” you tease, smiling around the wooden spoon. “It’s gonna take more than that.”
“I think I can do it.”
“You think?”
“I think really hard.”
Soonyoung might be in love with every part of you, even if he never realized. Your laugh, your smile, your tells, your habits. He wishes he knew sooner, that this laugh could’ve been his forever long before now.
You scrape the last drops of ice cream out of the paper cup and leave the stick in your mouth, a bit chewed up. Your shoes tap against the asphalt, the rhythm something that draws both his and your eyes.
“You know...” you say, turning your head to meet his gaze once more. “You know you hurt me, right? You know this won’t be easy?”
“None of what we had was easy.”
A scoff runs past your lips. You bump your shoulder against his. “Speak for yourself. I fell hard and fast for you, asshole.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. I know.” You take the still unopened ice cream from his hands and stuff it right back in the bag it came from. “Say it again, though.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Hmmm... maybe it’ll take a few more times.”
“I’m—”
“But not tonight,” you say. “Tonight...”
Your hand beside him closes the distance, grazing over his and pulling it over to your lap.
“...just hold me?”
And he does.
Bonus (gn) epilogue: Fluff and Context
Bonus (gn) blurbs: [a fate of my choosing][pick a struggle]
Hello! If you don't mind, can you recommend to me some of your must-read fics or from your favourite other writters? Preferably enemies-lovers or besties-lovers trope or anything! Thanks so much! Take care!♡♡♡
omg i was actually planning to do a ficrecs list at some point,, but here are some authors i really really like
disclaimer: some of these r nsfw so check the warnings before you proceed!
➼ anything by @gohyuck is usually some of the best stuff i have read... my favourite however has to go to her 37.5% viewer rating series which she put out for hyuck's birthday,, she also has an amazing jaemin fic titled 'smultronställe'
➼ recently @tyonfs completed the bitch hunters series... and i can confidently say its the best 00 line series on this page..her other jaemin fic (cherry girl) is phenomenal as well and her writing. is injected with the most effortless humor while also tugging at your heartstrings
➼ i haven't stopped thinking about fast times by @choerrypuffs since it. came out....reading it for the third time was actually what convinced me to start publishing my works on here and i also recommend the haechan christmas collab that was done by the luvpuffcore trio
➼ one of the very first fics i read here was sweeter than honey by @luvdsc and it changed my life...her writing style is so distinct and it just flows very well
➼ i also really like happier than ever by @rrxnjun...it's a childhood f2l one and 'how to self-sabotage: a bulletproof guide by zhong chenle' is also adorable
➼ 'no longer human' by @neo-shitty also completely restructured my perception of fan writings in general...I'm not one for dystopian aus but i was left completely heartbroken at the end of it in the best way possible
➼ highly recommend the seven sins series by @misfitneo...it's so well thought-out and such an engaging read..i also really loved how she wrote in the members personalities so distinctly
➼ if i can't have you by @nctream is also an example of wonderfully immersive writing...she has such a vivid imagination and the way she conceptualizes her works is very impressive! 'the abduction of persephone' is also wonderful
this is all i can come up with from the top of my head and I'm sorry for clogging up the dash/notifs with my mentions but i hope you enjoy reading these!! they're genuinely what i think make up some of the best writing on nctblr and were what pushed me to develop my writing a lot as well <3
🫐 “Viscount Joshua Hong is by far the most eligible bachelor in London. Rich, handsome, and renowned for his excellent manners and refined tastes…(con)” (written + rich ppl au)
read here part two
AH! LOVE IS YOU- @ch3wytzuyu (it’s me hehe)
🫐 “when y/n met joshua due to going to the same concert, they become friends and somewhere in that time, she develops feelings for him, even though he’s over 5.9k miles away” (smau)
read here
MOTHERS DAY- @devoidwrites
🫐 “Joshua surprises you on mother’s day, with the help of a certain set of twins”. (small drabble, domestic au)
read here
2 MINUS 1- @horangboosadan
🫐 “the one where Joshua wants everyone to think he’s over you but in the end, he can’t even fool himself.” (smau OOOOOOOOFFFFFF)
read here
GETTING TO KNOW YOU- @wooahaes
🫐 parents au!! (i love these sm if you find any with joshua…. my dms are open
read here
BOYFRIENDS- @milfgyuu
🫐 “Joshua is the best friend watching you stay in a broken relationship and the one you always come running to when it all falls apart. “You lay with him as you stay in the daydream.” (this one has some pretty heavy shit, pls read the original warning on the post 🫶🏽)
read here
BROTHERS BEST FRIEND- @chocosvt
🫐 “joshua happens to be your best friend's older brother. he's pretty, and he's got a lot of cool details about him that you pay a concerning amount of attention to, but he’s just a friend (if you could even call it that). still, what does he think of you, anyway? that is—if he thinks of you.” (i read this fic like 1-3 years ago and it’s still one of my faves I ADORE THE REWRITTEN ONE)
