sypnosis when keonho posts a picture of his sister and seonghyeon, his bestfriend suddenly forgets how to act.
pairing non idol!eom seonghyeon x keonho's sister!reader. reader portrayed as stella from hearts2hearts. ahn keonho! as readers brother.
warnings ! alot of swearing, attempts at humour, gay jokes, seonghyeon is down bad and its very obvious. do not mind the timestamps pls!!
a/n hello everyone!! this is my first ever au on this account and its genuinely something i came up with quick but i really do hope you enjoy it!! if you have any other smau ideas pls request bc im so down for anything. part 2 will be out in a while (will link it here when im finished)!! thank you sm and enjoy ❤
you're thoughts that can't be tamed
—martin edwards
🌻 idol!martin x f!reader, yearning, miscommunication, abandonment, angst/no comfort
wc: 2.6k
syn: disappearing from your life was the best way for martin to let you go without hurting you, right?
playlist: welcome and goodbye by dream and ivory
iro's notes: this actually felt a lot like break the ice to me, sum ab these concepts dude 😵💫. anyw i hope u guys liked it. this idea lowk came to me in my dreams universe was plotting,, now that i read this back, im not the proudest of this one but we ballin
Martin’s definition of breaking the news to you was just simply not doing it. Sounds stupid as fuck. He knows that too. How was he supposed to tell the love of his life he was leaving? Leaving and never coming back. Never looking back.
9th February, 2019
You chuckled, “Mars, why do you have a bag on? You look stupid like this.”
Martin didn't look at you; he could only stare at the floor. “Yn.” His voice was shaky. He finally looked up at you, eyes meeting yours. His heartbeat only got faster. “I’m sorry.”
You walked closer to him. Looking up, trying to meet his eyeline. “What did you do?”
The way your innocent eyes gleamed at him only made it harder. “I–” his voice cracked, “I can’t tell you.” He held your shoulders, dipping his head down slightly to the crook of your neck. “Please forgive me.”
“Martin, what’s–” You didn’t get to finish the sentence. You barely had time to process the weight of his breath against your skin before the space he occupied was empty. You didn't even get to ask a question before he ran.
Unfortunately, that was the last time you saw him.
1st June, 2026
Saying that 6 years ago was the last time you saw him, in present time would be a lie. He's everywhere. Big billboards. Your social media feeds. Even going to a record shop feels like hell. What do you mean the first thing you see is a giant poster of Cortis with Martin smack bang in the centre?
Exactly six years ago, Martin Edwards—the same boy you'd known since the day you were born—quite literally walked out of your life. No explanations, no warning, no nothing. Just an, "I'm sorry, bye," as if those words were enough. As if they could make up for the six years you spent without him. As if they could answer every question he left behind. By the fifth year, you'd learned more about Martin from a giant billboard than you ever did from him. At least the billboard told you where he'd gone.
The day he left, you cried. You cried so hard. You asked everyone—your mom, his mom, his dad, even his sister. The only answer you ever received was, "Sorry." Apologies upon apologies. You hated apologies. What you hated even more was the fact that Martin couldn't even tell you he was leaving to chase his dreams.
He didn't send a text. He didn't leave a note. He didn't leave anything at all. You mourned him without having anything of his to hold onto. As a child, you thought you were the most horrible friend anyone could ask for. You were only eleven years old, naive enough to believe his disappearance had somehow been your fault. That's how far your imagination could take you.
At some point, you stopped showing up at family gatherings afraid Martin would show up. That's funny, he never did. At some point, you even stopped talking to his sister because of how much she resembled him. It’s fucking stupid. It’s so fucking stupid.
What frustrated you further was that the only time Martin reached out to you was on August 18, 2025. The day Cortis debuted. He invited you and your mom to the release party of his first album.
You didn't go.
You didn't have to.
Instead, as pathetic as it sounds—you stayed at home. All alone. What did you do all alone? You sat and watched old videos of you as a child. And of course, every video had Martin in it. Videos of you and him fighting. Videos of you and him eating ice cream. Even a video of you and him attempting to push Martin’s sister into the pool, which only ended up in both of you being thrown in. You missed him. You missed him more than you’d want to admit. But why would you go?
I mean, did you want to? No. This isn't a lie. You didn't want to go. You'd somehow harboured hatred for Martin Edwards. And that was the verdict. You hate Martin Edwards.
He still sent invites to all his concerts and release parties. Your mom always tried to convince you—“Sweetheart, that's your best friend. Come with me please?”
Best Friend. You had many, the word didn't bother you. Apart from the sole exception of it being used for Martin. Because abandoning you with no explanation isn't something a best friend would do.
Over time you and his sister started talking again. She obviously realised the impact Martin had on you in the first 3 years of him disappearing. She did what any older sister would. She filled in the void Martin created. She was older, of course. But she was like your sister. So when Cortis had a university performance, she convinced you.
Let's not get into how. Just know it took three months of relentless hints, suspiciously timed conversations, and far too much persistence on her part. Somehow, she'd managed to wear you down.
The terms were simple:
Go the concert
Stay the entirety of it
Don’t go backstage with everyone else.
Leave.
Martin’s eyes were glued onto his screen. Trying to adjust a track that didn’t sound right yet. “Martin, she agreed.” He finally looked away from his screen.
“You’re joking.”
Martin’s sister chuckled at his expression, “You want me to uninvite her right now? I’m sure she’d love that.”
Martin got up from his seat wrapping his sister in a tight hug. “I love you, I love you. Thank you so much.”
She pushed him off, "That doesn't mean she forgives you," she said, her voice muffled.
Martin sat back on his chair, “I know, but I'll apologise the second I get a chance.”
She went silent for a second, and then,”She’s not coming backstage.”
Martin looked up at his sister. Stared at her face for a second, processing it all. And then a small nod. “Does she still hate crowds?”
His sister shrugged before walking out. Behind him, Seonghyeon, Juhoon, James, and Keonho sat staring in confusion. Keonho cleared his throat, “So…who’s Yn?”
Martin stared at his laptop screen, watching the unfinished track. Juhoon chimed in, “Wait, is this the one you keep sending invites to?”
James perked up, “Is her mother your mother’s friend? The one we always see backstage?”
Seonghyeon chuckled, “Why doesn't she like you, what did you do dude.”
Martin didn't turn to look at them. Just sighed, “Something bad, I guess.”
“How bad?”
Martin sighs, “I left.” a pause, “I didn’t tell her.”
Juhoon eyebrows furrowed, “For how long?”
“Since 2019.”
Seonghyeon meddles in, "Without saying anything?"
"Yeah."
"And you've been sending her concert invitations?"
Martin spun his chair around to face them. He nodded slightly.
James let out an awkward chuckle, “That’s bad.”
Keonho rubbed a hand over his face. "And you've been sending her invites all this time?"
Martin nodded again.
Juhoon leaned back in his chair. "Dang..."
Martin finally spoke up, “I know it’s bad. I’ll tell you guys everything later.” he gets up from his chair stretching. “I’ll drop her a text, I know she’s going to leave the second we’re done performing.”
Seonghyeon tilted his head at martin, “How bad did you fuck up for her to not even want to say hi?”
Martin just stared at the floor. He had nothing to say.
Six years should've been enough. Enough time to forget the way you laughed. Enough time to stop searching for your face in crowded arenas. Enough time to stop wondering whether you still took your tea the same way or whether you'd finally learned to like crowds. Six years should've been enough to let you go.
It wasn't.
The cruelest part was that Martin had gotten everything he'd wanted. The career. The music. The stages. The screaming crowds. Everything he'd spent years chasing sat right in front of him, yet somehow his mind always found its way back to you.
His only friend.
No—that wasn't true. He had friends now. Good friends. People he trusted. People he cared about. Yet when he thought about home, when he thought about comfort, when he thought about the person who knew him before he became someone worth knowing, he thought about you.
And maybe that was why he was afraid.
Some nights he wondered if he should've stayed. If he should've told you the truth. If he should've let himself be selfish and chosen you over the dream that had consumed him for years. Maybe things would've hurt less that way.
Maybe you would've hated him less.
The thought sat heavy in his chest.
You were everywhere. In old memories. In songs he never released, or in songs he did release. In unfinished lyrics buried beneath folders he'd never open again. In every apology he'd rehearsed a thousand times but never had the courage to say aloud.
He can’t even talk about the comfort and warmth you brought to him. The warmth of your skin whenever you gave him a hug, the way your words sounded like honey whenever he was down. He should've stayed and let you run into his heart carelessly. But instead, he carelessly let go. That's why he’s afraid.
Six years later, and you were still the thought he couldn't tame. The thought that refused to leave. The thought that made him wonder whether success was worth the silence he left behind. And for the first time in years, you weren't a memory on a screen or a name on an invitation.
You were coming.
Which should've made him happy. and, it did.
But for some reason, the day of the performance. He regretted ever asking you to come. He begged his sister to convince you for three months straight. His wishes sound ungrateful. He isn't ungrateful. He's a coward.
Six years of writing lyrics, almost a year of performing in front of thousands without breaking a sweat, and he couldn’t even put four words together in his head without suffocating.
“Hey, glad you came.” No, that sounded arrogant.
“Yn, I’m sorry.” Pathetic.
His carelessness can't be cursed with a stupid apology. He’d spent months begging his sister to convince you, but now that you’d actually agreed, the reality of it hit him like a physical blow to the chest. His hands were clammy and sweaty, his heart was pounding against his ribs, and the carefully rehearsed apologies he’d muttered to himself in empty hotel rooms completely dissolved like cotton candy in water.
He wanted to run. He wanted the power to cut out, the stage to collapse, anything to give him an out. He was an absolute coward. He’d built an entire career out of finding the right words, yet looking at his screen right now, he knew the second he saw your face, he was going to open his mouth and give you nothing but silence.
And since the universe loves Martin Edwards, you were in the front row.
To his surprise, you were actually enjoying the show. He saw you take videos. Videos of everyone but him. You didn't even look at him during his parts. But all he could focus on was you. He wished he could lose this crowd, just be alone with you. Apologise for his stupidity and win you back. He wished he could pull you into a hug mid set.
The performance ended.
Martin's heart was still racing. His shirt clung uncomfortably to his skin, damp with sweat. His lungs burned from the set, his chest rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath.
Backstage, his members were talking over one another. His parents had somehow found their way into the room. Your mother stood near the entrance, laughing at something James had said.
Everyone was here. Everyone except you.
Martin's sister tugged on his sleeve. "She's going to leave."
His stomach dropped. All at once, the noise around him disappeared. You weren't coming backstage. Of course you weren't.
Why would you?
Before he knew it, he was moving. "Martin?" someone called after him. He ignored them. The backstage door slammed open. Security yelled something. Fans gathered outside immediately noticed him, voices rising in excitement as they called his name.
He didn't stop. He pushed through the crowd, scanning every face, every car pulling away from the venue.
Then he saw you. Finally. The passenger door had already closed. The engine started. "No, no, no—" Martin broke into a run.
The driver looked startled as he yanked the door open before the car could pull away. Breathless, he slid into the seat beside you and slammed the door shut.
Silence.
You turned your head. And he saw your face. Not as a polaroid, not in pixels. But real, in flesh. For a second, Martin forgot every apology he'd spent six years rehearsing.
His chest tightened again, guilt engulfed him. You just stared at him. Martin swallowed hard. "Yn..." His voice cracked. "I—" Nothing,he couldn't speak. His hands were shaking. "I'm sorry." The words came out rushed. "I'm sorry."
You didn't react.
Martin looked down at his hands. "I know that's stupid. I know it doesn't fix anything. I just..." He laughed weakly, shaking his head. "God, I had this whole thing planned. I thought if I saw you again I'd know what to say. But you're here and I can't—" Martin dragged a hand over his face. "I can't do this right."
The city lights flickered across your face through the car window. You finally spoke. Not to him though. To the driver. You leaned ahead, “Can you stop by the hotel near Orchard avenue?”
He watched as you ignored him, but he didn't stop. "I should've told you." His voice was barely above a whisper now. "I should've stayed. I thought leaving would make things easier. I know I always told you everything. I know this was crucial but I—I didn't know how to leave you. I thought just disappearing would work but—" A bitter laugh escaped him. "It didn't."
Martin looked at you for the first time since getting into the car. "I missed everything."
He missed your birthdays, school, all the important things. He missed everything stupid thing that happened to you. He also missed telling you every stupid thing that happened to him.
"I kept thinking I'd reach out when I had something worth showing for it. When I was finally something valuable. Time went by so quick." He shook his head. "Then one year became two. Two became six. And suddenly I didn't know how to begin." The silence from your end felt unbearable. "I never stopped thinking about you. I tried." His eyes burned brimming with tears. "I really tried to. Every thought, every song I've drafted, everything somehow winds me back to you. I'm sorry. I was a terrible friend." Martin let out a shaky breath.
Then, before he could stop himself, he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around you. For a second, he let himself pretend. Pretend six years hadn't happened. Pretend he hadn't destroyed the best thing he'd ever had.
You didn't hug him back but you push him away either. You just sat there, letting him feel whatever he was feeling. When Martin finally pulled away, the ache in his chest felt worse.
The rest of the drive passed in silence. Eventually, the car slowed. The hotel came into view. Martin reached for the door. Then he paused. "At least you still cared enough to drop me back."
It wasn't a question. You finally looked at him. The expression on your face gave nothing away. "Would be fun watching you get slimed out by your fans, but frankly, I don't care."
The car door opened, Martin stepped out. The window began rolling up again. Panic surged through him suddenly as he bent down. "Are you serious?"
"I'll let you know in six years."
And then the window closed. Martin saw the car leave. He can't even blame you. You gave him exactly what he gave you.
when ryul gets drunk, he becomes brutally honest. not the kind of honest that starts arguments or reveals secrets, but the kind of honest that makes it painfully obvious of how much he likes you.
which is unfortunate, for everyone else.
because sober ryul at least pretends to have self-control.
but drunk ryul?
absolutely not.
the second alcohol hits his system, he suddenly needs to be touching you at all times.
a hand on your waist. his arm around your shoulder. his chin resting on top of your head. his fingers tangled with yours. anything and everything.
he just simply refuses to leave you alone.
it starts about an hour into the party.
the music isn't too loud, and people are scattered around the room talking. and you're standing near the bar with one of your friends when you suddenly feel a familiar pair of arms wrapping around your waist from behind, without any warning and shame.
you don't even need to turn around to know who it is.
"hi, baby." his voice slightly slurred. not concerning, but enough to tell that he's definitely tipsy.
you laugh softly and glance over your shoulder.
"hi, ryul," he only hums in response, tightening his arms around your waist before resting his chin on your shoulder.
"you okay, babe?" you asked softly, turning your head slightly to look at him. one of your hands came up to gently cup his cheek, your thumb brushing across his skin.
ryul immediately leaned into your touch.
"mhmh..."
his eyes fluttered shut for a second, and he looked way softer than he did five seconds ago.
and you couldn't help but smile.
"yeah?" you teased quitely.
another hum.
and before you knew it, he was practically melting against you, all of his weight leaning onto your shoulder as if standing by himself had become way too much work.
"girl," your friend stared at the two of you, looking completely bewildered.
"does he always do this?"
you glanced down at the arms currently wrapped around your waist before laughing softly.
"pretty much."
"we're literally in the middle of a conversation."
before you could answer, ryul spoke up from behind you.
"doesn't matter."
your friend blinked.
"...i can hear and see you."
"good."
ryul tightened his hold around your waist immediately.
dramatically & possessively.
like he genuinely believed somebody might steal you if he let go for more than three seconds.
"she likes me more."
your friend burst out laughing.
"oh my god."
"it's true," ryul insisted.
you rolled your eyes.
"ryul."
"what?"
"you're being weird."
he gasps. like actually gasps. then lifts his head from your shoulder just to stare at you in disbelief.
"you think i'm weird?"
"...a little."
"wow."
he shakes his head dramatically before burying his face against your neck.
"i've never been more betrayed in my life."
it only gets even worse from here. because now that ryul has attached himself to you, he refuses to leave. and everywhere you go, he follows.
when you walk to the bar to get another drink, he's right behind you with his arm wrapped securely around your waist.
when you sit down on one of the couches, he immediately drops beside you, throwing an arm over your shoulders.
at one point, you leave to use the bathroom.
and when you come back?
he's already waiting outside the bathroom door. leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets.
you stop in front of him, trying to hold back a smile.
"were you waiting for me?"
"yeah."
"...why?"
he blinks. once. like you've just asked the most ridiculous question imaginable.
"cause you left."
you stare.
ryul pouts slightly. like actually pouts.
"and i missed you."
your heart immediately betrays you.
"ryul."
"what?"
"i went to the bathroom for three minutes."
"longest three minutes of my life."
you laugh despite yourself.
and ryul immediately brightens. because apparently, making you laugh was worth standing outside a bathroom waiting for you.
which, honestly?
explains a lot about him.
"you're ridiculous."
"but you love me."
you roll your eyes, though the smile on your face gives you away immediately.
"maybe."
"maybe?"
he narrows his eyes dramatically.
"that's crazy. after i suffered for three whole minutes."
"you survived."
"barely."
before he can continue complaining, you reach up and gently cup his cheek.
the words die in his throat immediately.
then, before he can process what's happening, you lean forward and press a quick kiss against his cheek.
soft and warm, gone in a second.
and ryul freezes completely.
"...baby."
you laugh softly.
"what?"
he just stares at you. speechless for once in his life.
but then a slow grin starts spreading across his face. the kind that means he's about to become even more unbearable.
"do that again."
"absolutely not."
"please?"
"no."
"baby."
"ryul."
"baby."
you groan. immediately regretting it when he wraps his arms around your waist again, looking entirely too pleased with himself. because now he has a new reason to stay attached to you for the rest of the night.
the grin on ryul's face never disappeared after that.
not even a little.
if anything, it got worse.
because apparently one kiss on the cheek was enough to make him completely insufferable for the rest of the night.
he stayed attached to your side the entire time, his hand always finding yours the second you started walking. his fingers immediately intertwined with yours, holding on like he was afraid you'd somehow disappear again.
you can only laugh and let him.
because honestly? you were starting to get used to it.
the others, however, were not.
especially louis.
"hyung."
"what."
louis stared at the two of you in disbelief.
"you've followed y/n noona into four different spots tonight."
ryul glanced over.
"and?"
"and that's not normal."
"yes it is."
"NO IT ISN'T."
woojin who's beside him immediately nodded.
"he's right. this is actually getting concerning."
"thank you," louis said, pointing at woojin dramatically before turning back to ryul. "i saw you standing outside the bathroom waiting for her."
ryul frowned slightly.
"that's because she was in there."
louis and woojin blinked in disbelief.
"THAT'S NOT AN EXPLANATION."
you couldn't help but laugh.
which only made ryul smile.
"see?" ryul said, gesturing toward you proudly. "she gets it."
"she absolutely does not get it," louis shot back immediately.
"i do a little bit," you admitted.
"NOONA!"
"baby, thank you."
"STOP ENCOURAGING HIM."
ryul ignores him completely.
instead, he immediately reaches for your hand again.
things reach their peak when a random guy decided to sit beside you.
that's it. that's the crime.
and suddenly ryul looks offended. like someone personally insulted him.
you notice immediately.
mostly because his arm tightens around your waist.
"ryul."
"hm?"
"why are you glaring?"
"i'm not."
you look directly at him.
he looks directly at the random guy.
and the guy looks terrified.
"...babe."
"what?"
"you're definitely glaring."
"only a little."
"RYUL."
he sighs dramatically before finally looking away.
then, without warning, he gently cups your face and presses a kiss on your lips.
right there. in front of everybody. just because.
and your face immediately felt warm.
"what was that for?"
he shrugs.
"felt like it," ryul simply said.
of course he did.
later that night, when the party starts winding down and people begin heading home, you finally manage to get ryul into the passenger seat of your car.
which should've made things easier. but it doesn't. because now he has you all to himself.
the moment you start driving, he turns in his seat to face you completely.
and just... stares.
you glance over.
"why are you looking at me like that?"
"because you're pretty."
you almost missed a turn.
"ryul."
"what?"
"stop."
"i'm serious."
he sounds genuinely confused. like he doesn't understand why that's embarrassing.
"you're really pretty."
you can feel yourself smiling despite your best efforts.
a few minutes later, the car grows quiet.
you assume he's finally falling asleep.
until you feel his fingers finding yours across the center console.
holding your hand loosely and comfortably.
like he can't help himself.
and when you finally get home, you barely make it through the front door before ryul wraps himself around you again.
his arms slide around your waist immediately while his face disappears into your shoulder.
and for the first time all night, he's completely quiet.
"babe?"
he hums softly.
"you tired?"
another hum. but this one is sleepier.
you smile and run your fingers through his hair.
and he melts in an instant. the tension leaves his shoulders. his grip loosens slightly. and he leans into your touch without even realizing it.
"you know," you murmur softly, "you're very clingy when you're drunk."
you feel him smile against your shoulder.
"only when it's you."
and honestly?
you think that might be the sweetest thing he's said all night.
which is saying a lot.
because he's spent the entire evening attached to your side, kissing you whenever he felt like it, holding your hand every chance he got, and looking at you like you were the best thing in the room.
a few minutes later, he's asleep. half on top of you. arms still around your waist. completely unwilling to let go even in his sleep.
and as you sit there trapped beneath your ridiculously clingy boyfriend, gently brushing your fingers through his hair while he sleeps against you, you can't help laughing quietly to yourself.
because tomorrow morning, ryul is going to be so embarrassed.
but tonight? he's too busy loving you out loud to care.
─────────────────────────────────
HIIIIIIIII, I'M BACK WITH ANOTHER RYUL FIC. CUZ I'M JUST SIMPLY OBSESSED WITH HIM. AND I CAN'T HELP IT. HEHE.
hope you all enjoyed this one too! and enjoyed my other two ryul fic. thank you for reading my fic and giving it lots of love!
notes: this is a work of fiction, ofc none of it is real and merely for content. this is also my first time doing a smau. I hope it's accurate but if it's not pls be mindful with the criticism. along with this, I'm currently working on request! but as stated in interaction rules, I tend to go on random hiatus, my exams are also coming soon so I'll be inactive. rn I'm currently on a holiday so expect rlly late updates. But I also have other ideas to work on one day. thanks for reading. Also...I'm pretty sure we can tell who my bias in lngshot is..
this was a very lazy post while I'm working on a req...
You couldn’t give less of a fuck about Single’s Inferno.
The show was playing on your phone anyway, more background noise and flickering light than actual entertainment. Some contestant was dramatically confessing feelings by a beach bonfire while dramatic music swelled, but your brain had checked out ten minutes ago. It was just something mindless to scroll through while Ohyul slept curled around you like a koala that had discovered his favorite tree.
Why did people watch this? If you wanted to see attractive people overthinking romance, you’d just have look in the mirror at 2 a.m. while your wonderful hot and kind boyfriend dry-humped you in his sleep.
Priorities.
Two years together and the relationship still felt like the best secret in Seoul. Ohyul was the polished, charismatic leader of his group Lngshot, billboard face, killer vocals, the kind of guy fans wrote fictions about (…)
But here in your small apartment, he was just your Ohyul. The one who showed up after brutal schedules with convenience store snacks and that tired, boyish grin, begging for cuddles like he hadn’t just danced his ass off for twelve hours.
The one who whispered “I only feel real when I’m with you” against your skin after shows. Non-idol, non- famous you, with your regular job and zero spotlight tolerance, somehow balanced his chaotic world perfectly. He said your place smelled like home. You said he smelled like expensive cologne and an illegally overworked kid.
Tonight he’d stumbled in around midnight, hoodie half-zipped, hair fluffy from the dorm shower. Ramyeon dinner turned into lazy kisses on the couch, then bed. Now he was spooning you tightly from behind, one arm slung over your waist, his chest rising and falling steadily against your back, his breath tickled the nape of your neck- warm, rhythmic, comforting, your legs were tangled with his, his thighs pressed right behind yours and the room was dark except for the soft glow of your phone screen.
Then it started.
A subtle shift of his hips. The unmistakable heat and hardness of his cock- morning wood, ( midnight would be more accurate ) - nudging against the curve of your ass through his thin boxers and your sleep shorts. Slow and unconscious. Like his body was seeking you out on autopilot.
You bit your lip, eyes still half on the phone where some guy was crying over a pineapple or whatever the hell was happening on Single’s Inferno.
He rolled forward again, firmer this time. The thick length of him slotted between your cheeks, hot and insistent, dragging with just enough friction to make your breath catch. A tiny, breathy whimper escaped him- soft, needy, straight into your hair.
“Mmmh…”
His hand flexed on your waist, fingers curling like he was pulling you closer even in dreams. Another slow grind, hips circling lazily, the head of his cock pressing right where the fabric stretched tight over you, you could feel every inch of him throbbing, the warmth radiating through the layers between you.
You paused the show, setting the phone face-down on the nightstand with a soft sigh. The sudden quiet made his little sounds louder, another whimper as he rutted again, sleep-drunk and desperate.
“Ohyul-ah,” you whispered, voice low and teasing, reaching back to thread your fingers through his messy dark hair. “That dream must be reeaaaally good.”
He stirred, a soft groan vibrating against your shoulder. His eyes fluttered open halfway, still hazy with sleep, cheeks flushed even in the dim light. “mmh… sorry.” His hips gave another unconscious push, grinding harder now that awareness was creeping in.
His voice was thicker, raspier in the middle of the night. It sent a spark straight down your spine, since when did you have a thing for voices?
You chuckled quietly, reaching back to stroke his scalp the way he loved, he buried his face deeper into your neck, embarrassed but clearly loving the attention. Another roll of his hips, deliberate this time, slow and sensual, made you question if he was asleep or not, very clearly talking but eyes closed.
“Don’t tease… it feels too good. Your ass fits me perfectly. Every push just… ahh… slides right there.” His voice cracked into a soft whimper as he circled his hips again. “Can I keep going? Please? Just a little longer.”
You turned your head enough to catch his eyes in the near-darkness. His lips were parted, breath coming quicker now, that perfect face all rumpled and needy just for you. The faint scent of his shampoo and skin filled the space between you, clean, warm, addictive.
“My good boy,” you murmured, cupping his cheek. “You’re doing so well, Ohyul…”
The praise made him shiver visibly, he let out a longer, shakier whimper, pressing his forehead to your shoulder as his hips picked up a gentle rhythm- slow thrusts against your ass, skin growing hotter. “Baby… say it again. Please. I need it. I love being good for you.”
You smiled, nipping at his jaw. “You’re my good boy. My talented, hardworking sweet Ohyul who comes home to me and turns into the sweetest and horniest man ever … you’re making me wet just from this, you know that?”
“Fuck…” He moaned softly, the sound muffled against your skin. His hand slid down to grip your hip, pulling you back firmer as he rutted with more purpose. The drag of fabric was driving you crazy- he could tell by the way your breathing hitched. “Feels so good.… I can feel you through the shorts. I love you so much. Can I take them off? Just yours. I need- I just want to feel you properly.”
His voice was trembling with want, polite even while desperately horny. Classic Ohyul-top energy in the way he held you, but melting under praise like this. He was incoherent, saying about whatever crossed his mind, hoping it’d come out making sense.
You lifted your hips cooperatively. “Go ahead, baby. You can take what you need.”
He whimpered gratefully, quickly tugging your shorts and panties down your thighs. Cool air kissed your bare skin for a second before he was right back- hot, bare cock sliding between your cheeks now, skin on skin. The slick glide made him groan deeply.
“Oh god… fuck…”
He let out a long, shaky breath, his forehead dropping against the nape of your neck as he adjusted himself. The sensation of his bare, velvet hot length sliding against your skin was a thousand times more intense than the fabric had been. He was trembling, his entire body humming with a restless, needy energy. "You're so soft," he whimpered, his voice cracking as he began to move in earnest, shallow, rhythmic thrusts that made your toes curl into the sheets. "So fucking soft... I can't get enough of you."
Every time his hips bumped against you, he let out a tiny, stifled sound halfway between a moan and a sob as if he were trying to be quiet for your sake but couldn't help himself. He was so focused, so utterly devoted to the sensation of being close to you, his hands roaming your waist and hips with a reverence that made your heart swell even as your body burned. He wasn't just seeking release; he was seeking you, worshiping the very curve of your body with every desperate, sliding movement. Ohyul was so shamelessly yours, cold and serious utside but as soon as he stepped in your small apartment he was suddenly the world's most high maintenance, needy golden retriever in human form, the second he crossed your threshold, that intimidating persona didn't just crack it disintegrated into a pile of softness.
He was a man who could command a venue of thousands with a single glance, yet here he was, practically vibrating against your spine because you'd dared to tell him to stop being polite.
"Please.." he breathed, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he picked up the pace just a fraction, his movements becoming more urgent, more frantic. "Tell me I'm doing it right. Tell me you like it when I'm like this for you..." He sounded so vulnerable, so beautifully undone by the simple act of wanting you in the dark of the night.
You tilted your head back, exposing the long line of your throat to him as you let out a breathy, shaky laugh.
“You're doing everything right, my love, you're doing so well for me," you murmured, reaching back blindly to find his hand, lacing your fingers with his and pressing his palm flat against your hip so he could feel how much you were trembling. “But if you keep being this sweet, you're going to make me lose my mind before you even get inside me."
You shifted your weight, arching your back to press your heat more firmly against his length, a daring challenge in your voice. “Don't just tease baby... stop being so polite and actually take what's yours."
The thing about Ohyul was that he was a contradiction wrapped in soft skin and desperate devotion, here, in the suffocating warmth of your shared bed, he was entirely yours to unravel. He was a man who wanted to lead you, to possess you, to drive you wild with his strength yet he was also a man who lived for the moment you looked down at him and told him he was good.
As your challenge hung in the air, his grip on your hip tightened, his fingers digging into your skin just enough to let you know he’d heard you. That "polite" veneer he always carried, the one that made him so endearing, finally cracked.
"You're so mean to me," he rasped, though there was no heat in the complaint, only a raw, starving hunger. "Giving me orders like that when you know I can't say no to you..."
He didn't wait for a response. With a low, guttural growl that sounded nothing like the sweet boy who kissed your forehead in the morning, he shifted. He surged forward, his body a heavy, commanding weight against your back. The friction of him moving the sheer, unadulterated heat of his bare skin sliding against yours made your vision blur for a second.
He messily got rid of his shorts, leaving them halfway on just so he could take his cock out, and guided himself to your entrance, his breath hot and frantic against the shell of your ear. "If you want me to stop being polite..." he whispered, his voice dropping an octave, trembling with the effort of restraint, "...then don't blame me when you can't walk tomorrow morning."
With a sudden, decisive thrust, he stopped teasing. He buried himself deep inside you in one smooth, forceful motion, filling you so completely that the breath was knocked right out of your lungs.
Ohyul let out a loud, uninhibited moan, his head falling into the crook of your neck as he shuddered from the sheer intensity of the connection. He stayed there for a heartbeat, frozen, just feeling how perfectly you gripped him, before he began to move, no longer the slow, hesitant rhythm from before this was purposeful, deep, and demanding, each stroke a silent vow that he was, indeed, taking exactly what belonged to him.
The sudden, overwhelming fullness of him sent a shockwave through your entire body, making your eyes flutter shut as you gasped for air that wouldn't come. The sensation of him stretching you, filling every empty inch of you with that thick, pulsing heat, was almost too much to bear. You could feel the vibration of his moan against your skin, a low rumble that seemed to echo deep in your own bones.
As he began to move, the rhythm was no longer a gentle caress; it was a primal, driving force. Each thrust was heavy and deliberate, hitting deep enough to make your hips lift involuntarily, seeking even more of him. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the quiet room, a rhythmic, wet melody that heightened the feverish tension between you.
“Fuck… Ohyul...," you whimpered, your fingers digging into the mattress as you tried to anchor yourself against the onslaught of pleasure. Your head tossed back against the pillow, your hair a messy halo in the moonlight. You could feel the sweat beginning to bead on his chest, the friction of his skin against your back becoming slick and intoxicating.
Despite his sudden dominance, you could still hear the small, broken sounds he made with every deep lunge those tiny, needy whimpers that betrayed how much he was enjoying being inside you. He was taking charge, his movements powerful and commanding, yet he was still so clearly undone by you. He was a man possessed, his breath coming in short, jagged hitches as he leaned over you, his chest heaving against your shoulder blades.
"You're... you're so tight," he groaned, his voice thick and strained, sounding as if he were fighting to keep his composure even as he drove himself into you with increasing fervor. "So perfect... fuck, baby, you feel so good."
He reached around, one hand sliding under your stomach to tilt your pelvis up, angling you to take him even deeper. The change in angle caught you off guard, a sharp, exquisite sensation that made you cry out his name. He didn't slow down; instead, he used the momentum to pick up the pace, his thrusts becoming faster, more frantic, as the tension in the room tightened like a coiled spring. He was no longer just taking what was his; he was trying to lose himself in you entirely.
You took his hand and guided it to your lower belly, pressing his palm flat just below your navel.
“Right there,” you whispered. “Feel that? Every time you push in deep… there I can actually feel it…”
He moaned brokenly, the sound vibrating against your shoulder. His hips stuttered for a second as he focused on the sensation under his palm. “Fuck… I feel it. Oh my god, baby. It’s so… ngh…fucking hot.”
You kept his hand pressed there as he fucked you from behind, spooned tight together. The position made everything feel more intense -his chest glued to your back, his thighs slotted behind yours, the slow wet slide of him entering you over and over.
“Slow down a little,” you murmured, voice warm with praise. “Yes, just like that. Feel how deep you are? You fill me perfectly. My good boy is making such a pretty bulge right here.”
He whimpered loudly, almost pathetically sweet, and pressed his palm harder against your stomach. You could feel his fingers trembling. “Baby… keep talking. Please. Tell me exactly what it feels like. I love it so much... Shit- it’s throbbing.”
You clenched around him deliberately on the next thrust, making sure he felt it both inside and under his hand.
“Mmm… there. When you thrust up, I can feel this vein on the top of your cock. You’re stretching me so nicely.”
Ohyul’s breathing turned ragged. He started kissing and licking the back of your neck messily, tasting the light sheen of sweat on your skin while his hips kept that steady, deep pace. The combination of sensations was overwhelming: his hot tongue on your neck, his cock dragging inside you, his palm feeling every movement, the soft whimpers he couldn’t hold back.
“Shit-ahh-I can feel it twitching under my hand when you clench,” he gasped. “You’re so tight around me….”
You keened, guiding his hand lower. On the next thrust he sank all the way in and you pressed his palm firmly down. The bulge was unmistakable.
“There,” you praised, voice soft and affectionate. “Feel how deep you are? My good boy is all the way… fuck… inside.”
He let out the longest, shakiest whimper yet, burying his face completely in your hair. “Baby… I’m so close already.”
You turned your head for a messy kiss, tongues sliding lazily. “Faster then, baby….You’re doing so well.”
His hips picked up the pace- still controlled, but deeper and more urgent. The wet sounds between you grew louder. His hand stayed glued to your belly, feeling every thrust, while broken praises about how ‘fucking delicious’ you were, and whimpers spilled from his lips against your skin.
The friction was becoming electric, a fever pitch of heat and wetness that made the air in the room feel heavy and thick. Every time he bottomed out, the sensation of that vein sliding against your most sensitive walls sent jolts of lightning through your nerves. You were lost in the rhythm, your body acting on pure instinct, arching and tilting to meet every punishing, beautiful lunge he made.
Ohyul was teetering on the edge, his composure completely disintegrated. He was a man caught between the urge to lose control and the desperate need to stay perfect for you.
"Faster... please…” he choked out, his voice barely a whisper, a plea for the release that was clawing at his insides even though he was the one controlling the pace.
He began to drive into you with a frantic, uncoordinated intensity, his hips slamming against yours with a force that made the bedframe creak. His breath was a series of broken, high pitched staccato moans, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he tried to stifle the sounds of his own undoing.
"You're so... fucking... perfect," he gasped, the words broken by the sheer effort of his movements. "I love... how you feel... how you take me..."
He was reaching his limit. You could feel the tension in his thighs, the way his entire body was vibrating with the impending climax. His hand on your belly tightened, his fingers spreading wide as if he were trying to anchor himself to you, to make sure he didn't drift away in the storm of pleasure.
"Baby, baby, baby " he whimpered, his voice rising in pitch as he felt the first waves of his orgasm beginning to roll through him. "I'm gonna... I'm gonna.-"
With one final, desperate, soul shattering thrust, he buried himself as deep as physically possible, his body stiffening as he finally broke. A long, loud, uninhibited cry escaped him, muffled only slightly by the crook of your neck, as he came inside you, his pulses thrumming rhythmically against your walls. He continued thrusting, determined to make you feel good too.
The sensation of his climax the rhythmic, pulsing heat of him filling you so deeply was the final trigger your body had been waiting for. As he huddered against your back, the tension that had been coiling tight in your lower belly finally snapped.
A sharp, breathless cry tore from your throat as your walls clamped down on him in a series of frantic, involuntary contractions. It felt as though a wave of pure, liquid heat was radiating from your core, spreading through your limbs and making your vision white out for a split second.
You arched your back violently, your fingers clawing at the sheets, your entire body trembling in the grip of an intense, soul shaking orgasm.
"Ohyul… fuuck..”
The way you squeezed him, so tight and so desperate, seemed to push him even further over the edge. He let out a choked, strangled sound at the sensation of your climax wrapping around him, his own release intensifying in response to your pleasure. He buried his face deeper into the nape of your neck, his entire frame vibrating as he rode out the waves of your release alongside his own.
For a long minute, the only sounds in the room were the heavy, synchronized gasps for air and the frantic thudding of two hearts beating as one.
The air was thick with the scent of sex and the heavy, sweet musk of lazy spent passion.
He collapsed against your back, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your spine, his breath coming in long, shuddering sobs of pure, exhausted bliss. He stayed there, heavy and warm, trembling in the afterglow, his forehead pressed against your damp skin as he waited for his breathing to steady.
"Did..." he whispered into your skin, his voice tiny and sweet again, the predator having once again melted back into the boy who just wanted to be loved. "Did I do good for you, baby?"
You let out a long, shaky exhale, the kind that only comes after your soul has been momentarily pulled from your body. Your muscles felt like jelly, heavy and warm, and the sensation of him still buried deep inside you was a grounding, delicious weight. Slowly, you turned in his arms, your movements sluggish and uncoordinated, until you were facing him. In the dim, silvery moonlight filtering through the curtains, he looked absolutely wrecked his hair was a damp, dark mess, his eyes were hooded and glassy with lingering pleasure, and his lips were swollen and red from your kisses. He looked so vulnerable, so soft, waiting for your verdict like a puppy waiting for a treat.
You reached up, your hand trembling slightly as you cupped his face, your thumb stroking over his flushed cheekbone.
"Good?" you repeated, your voice a low, honeyed rasp. You leaned forward, pressing a slow, deep, lingering kiss to his forehead, then his nose, before finally capturing his lips in a soft, tender kiss that tasted of salt and shared heat. “It felt perfect my love… always does.”
You pulled back just an inch, your eyes searching his, your expression melting into one of pure adoration. "You're the best boy in the world."
A small, shy, and utterly content smile broke across his face at the praise, the tension finally draining completely from his shoulders. He let out a soft, contented sigh and tucked his head into the crook of your neck, wrapping his arms around your waist to pull you as close as possible, even though there was barely any space left between you.
"I wanna stay here with you forever" he murmured, his voice muffled against your skin, his breath warm and steadying. "Ugh. I wish we were stuck together with glue.”
SUMMARY: Your sister’s deranged plan to sneak into ENHYPEN’s sendoff after their concert was never supposed to involve you, until you run into Lee Heeseung unexpectedly outside the arena. One whirlwind of an interaction together turns into many and now you find yourself falling for him. But when your secret relationship (if you can even call it that) is exposed, can you survive the consequences of being with someone so unattainable?
PAIRING: idol!heeseung x fem!reader
WORD COUNT: ~30k
GENRE: starstruck!au, secret!relationship, strangers to lovers, one-sided & subtle enemies to lovers, angst, fluff, smut
WARNINGS: mdni, nsfw, y/n lowkey mean, situationship, cursing, unsafe sex, edging, slight brat-taming, finger sucking, cumplay, cumeating, quickie, biting, marking, mutual masturbation, slight name kink, car sex, mentions of smoking, if i’m missing stuff feel free to lmk
A/N: Fic took 10 years off my life. If you watched or know the movie StarStruck (which inspired this fic), y/n is characterized as a bit of an ENHYPEN hater to match the vibes. There are some criticisms of fandom culture in this story, but please don’t take any offense. At the end of the day, I do be writing fanfiction about k-pop men so who am i to talk really.
“I just love him,” your sister sighs dreamily.
To any sane person passing through your living room, it might sound like she’s talking about a lover. Someone who knows she exists. Someone who reciprocates the pathetic yearning in her voice. But no. From where the two of you sit, side by side on the couch, her eyes are locked on a complete stranger on the television, rubbing the stomach of a grumpy black cat.
She’s made you sit through a playlist of ENHYPEN content for hours now, a new EN-O'CLOCK episode playing one after the other. Your sister stretches out a hand toward the screen like she’s about to caress it and you cringe out of secondhand embarrassment.
“Tomorrow’s the day,” she whispers, voice soft. “When we see each other again…”
You feel a sharp chill down your spine. She’s talking about a concert. One that she’s dragging you to because she has no one else to go with. “Sophia,” you say carefully. “You know you don’t actually know him, right?”
She rolls her eyes. “What are you talking about? I literally video-called him the other day.”
You blink at her. “Yeah... because you bought seven hundred copies of their stupid album—”
She waves a dismissive hand. “But he always recognizes me! He knows my name.”
You swallow back a sigh. Of course, he does. Anyone would, if the same girl showed up to every fan meeting, concert, and award show. “Whatever you say,” you mumble underneath your breath.
Moving back home after college wasn't supposed to be like this. Being forced against your will to watch a bunch of grown men throw each other into a pool, while you wait to hear back on job applications. You love your sister, truly. But she’s also a full-grown adult who spends her free time following around a K-pop idol who wouldn’t care if she lived or died.
Lee Heeseung.
You didn’t mean to remember his name, but now even hearing it makes your eye twitch. It’s not that you hate him, exactly. Maybe resent is the right word? That whole group, really. So cocky. So sure of themselves. Basking in the screams of girls like Sophia, who would throw their whole life savings just to catch a glimpse of them.
“And when I see him tomorrow,” she murmurs, almost in a daze. “He'll fall in love with me.”
“Oh yeah?” you snort. “How are you planning to make that happen? You gonna bring a book and start reading it by the barricade while he performs?”
You're joking. Clearly. But when she actually looks at you, thoughtful and serious, your smile falls. “Should I?”
–
“So… what do you think?”
Heeseung tries to keep his voice steady, but nevertheless, it wavers from his desperation. Across the small meeting room, his manager studies him with an unreadable expression. Just a few minutes ago, he gave a presentation to a room full of executives on a project he’d spent the past few months working on in between grueling schedules. Writing, producing, and choreographing a solo album. All his.
“It’s good,” Manager Jung admits, breaking the silence. “Everyone knows you’re fully capable of doing this.”
Heeseung smiles, relief starting to stir within him. “Thank you.”
“But..." his manager continues softly, "I don’t know if everyone else thinks so.”
The older male takes a deep breath. “They’re worried that a solo album might mean… you’re having ambitions beyond ENHYPEN.”
Heeseung's eyes widen, shaking his head even before Manager Jung finishes speaking. It’s just something he wanted to try. Something beyond his comfort zone that he could call his own. “I’m not going anywhere,” Heeseung continues. “I’m committed to the group. I promise.”
The older male reaches across the table and places a reassuring hand on the idol's shoulder. “I know,” his manager says firmly. “And I’ll make sure they know too. Just focus on tomorrow’s concert, okay? Stay out of trouble, keep doing what you’re doing. I’ll let you know when they make a decision.”
When Manager Jung leaves, the laptop in front of him still glows with the first slide of Heeseung's presentation. His stare lingers on it for far too long before closing the screen.
Heeseung exhausted all his energy on demos and concept ideas, spending sleepless nights convincing himself he was good enough to be called an artist instead of just an idol. He had hoped for something more concrete from Manager Jung. Some kind of yes, or at least a maybe. But "I'll let you know" never really means anytime soon in this industry.
–
It’s absolutely miserable in the pit of the concert. The people behind you are using your shoulder as a tripod. Their massive Canon lenses that they managed to sneak in are resting against you. Though you want to whip your head around and tell them off, you also don’t want to get mobbed by a bunch of rabid fans.
Your sister spends the whole setlist admiring only Heeseung, ignoring a high-five from Jake when he passed by your section. Though you secretly judge her, you still let yourself enjoy the free ticket. Before you know it, the whole arena is sobbing as the ENHYPEN members share their closing remarks.
All you can think about is traffic. And whether your sister would be open to getting takeout after. You haven't eaten for hours...
Heeseung clears his throat into the mic. He’s wearing a simple white graphic tee and hoodie, dark shades hiding his eyes. Beads of sweat glisten on his forehead under the stage lights. Damn it. He does look good.
“I really love the stage,” Heeseung says softly. “I’m so happy to receive everyone’s love and support. I hope we can continue to be with you, ENGENEs, for the rest of our lives.”
The audience roars in agreement. He stands there, trying his best to take it all in. But his mind keeps going back to the tracks sitting unfinished on his computer. The ideas that might never make it past the studio. God, he wants it to work out so bad.
–
“Are you insane?!” you hiss, nearly tripping over nothing as your sister drags you down a dark path behind the arena. The sewer nearby emanates a foul stench. “The concert ended like half an hour ago!”
She rolls her eyes like you’re the overdramatic one. “They do a send-off, idiot. I need to find a way in before they leave.”
You stare at her with bulging eyes. You're almost tempted to call your parents. Or the police. Anyone who could talk some sense into her. “Why can’t you be like the other weirdos and just wait by their vans?”
She lets go of you to march toward a set of double doors barely lit by one overhead bulb. You swear a rat just ran across your peripheral vision.
“This is ridiculous,” you huff, arms folding tight across your chest. “Please. Can we just go home?!”
Sophia stops, turns to you, and dangles her car keys in front of your face. “Unless you want to take a bus or walk all the way back, I suggest you keep watch.”
She doesn't spare you a glance, testing the door handle. It creaks open. "You can't be serious…"
“I’ll text you when it’s over,” she squeals in delight. “Call me if security shows up.”
“Sophia—”
But the door slams shut before you can grab her. She’s gone, and you don't follow her in. Your conscience won’t let you. You glance around, senses heightened when you glance at a few shifting shadows in the corner of your eye. Your phone screen glares back at you. Low battery. Great.
So, with a resigned sigh, you slump down on the cold concrete just outside the metal door, hugging yourself as you sit beneath the buzz of the overhead light.
–
“Send-off is in two minutes,” the tour coordinator calls out. “Please make sure you’ve grabbed all your stuff. We’ll be heading straight to the vans right after.”
The boys nod. Heeseung checks his bag. Lip balm, cologne, portable charger… All there. He zips it closed and hands it off to a staff member, who disappears down the hall and towards the vans.
Through the barricade ahead, he can already see the crowd of ENGENEs gathering with signs and phones raised. He smiles instinctively. Because no matter how tired you are after a concert, you can’t show it. These fans have to think you’re invincible.
As he steps out and begins making his way down the crowd, he stops to sign a few photocards and pose for selfies. He’s good at this. Always warm. Always approachable. Flirty. The version of himself they all want to see. But halfway through, a sinking feeling tugs at his subconscious. Like he’s forgotten something. Something important.
“Heeseung! What’s your favorite photo on your camera roll?” a fan calls out, holding up a phone to record him eagerly. He blinks, caught off guard. He saved a funny meme earlier. A photo of a dog he sent to the group chat. He reaches for his back pocket. Nothing. Front pocket. Still nothing.
And then it hits him.
He tells the boys after he’s interacted with as many fans as he could that he left his phone behind. “Make it quick,” a staff member tells him in passing. “We’ll send a different car to get you by the back entrance.”
He nods, sprinting back through the glass doors. Relief washes over him when he finds his phone exactly where he remembers leaving it. On a table in the changing room.
Heeseung spots the green EXIT sign shortly after, pushing the heavy door open. It doesn’t budge. He frowns, pushing again. Harder this time. BANG.
“OW—”
Heeseung freezes. What was that?
He steps out into the humid summer night and jumps at the sight of a shadowy figure on the ground, groaning. Rushing forward, he kneels beside the figure. You look like a fan. A fan, he just slammed a door into. Heeseung's brain short-circuits when he sees a smear of red. Blood. On your forehead. “Oh my god,” he says under his breath. “D-did I just hit you?”
“No,” you snap, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’m sure my head just hit the door all by itself—”
His pulse quickens and his career flashes before his eyes. Manager Jung’s words resound in his head. Stay out of trouble. “Not good,” Heeseung mumbles. “No, no, no. This can’t be happening." He stands up, pacing back and forth like a maniac.
“Chivalry is dead,” you mutter, sitting up on your palms without his assistance. The nerve to not even apologize! What a dick.
You squint up at him, your vision starting to clear under the flickering light. Blondish hair. Hoodie. Shades pushed down enough to catch a glimpse of big doe eyes. Familiar. But not actually.
“Heeseung?” you say slowly. His name barely leaves your lips until he’s shushing you, holding his hands up in a prayer position, and looking around with a horrified expression.
“Please,” he begs. “You can come to our fansign next week if you don’t scream my name-”
You scoff. “I don’t want your autograph, you freak,” you reply harshly.
Heeseung realizes then how badly his words came out. Like he was offering hush money. He scans you, guilt twisting his stomach. But what were you even doing here in the first place? Were you a stalker? He shakes his head. There's no time to think about it now because your bleeding hasn’t stopped, and your eyes start to glaze over. He leans back down in a panic.
“Do you want me to take you to the hospital?” he asks hurriedly, as the headlights of a black van make their way towards you two. He points at the car. “We can take you. Just please don’t tell anyone—”
“Screw you,” you mumble through your lightheadedness. “Sophia… I need to see Sophia…”
“Who’s Sophia?” he asks, crouching to grab your wrists. He urges you to keep talking, just in case you lose consciousness. "Do you hear me?"
“My sister,” you groan, tsking at his impatience. He helps you stand, your weight falling against his chest.
Heeseung sees you better now, up close and under the dim light. You’re pretty. Like, really pretty. ‘Definitely not the time,’ he scolds himself.
“What happened?” the driver asks through a rolled-down window. “Should I call an ambulance?”
“No,” Heeseung says quickly. “There might be cameras. Let’s go to the hospital.”
The driver hesitates, then nods. Together, they get you into the passenger seat. Heeseung shuts the door behind you, exhaling sharply. This van was a backup, meant to carry all of the boys' stage outfits. There’s barely room for one person to sit, let alone two. He tries his best to squeeze in beside you, but his shoulder presses against yours all the same.
“Who is this?” the driver asks hesitantly. Heeseung doesn’t know how to respond. Because really, he doesn’t know either.
“Um…” he starts, shifting his gaze to you. “What’s your name?”
You click your tongue, saying it sharply.
“Nice to meet you,” he laughs nervously. “Please don’t hate me.”
You glare at him, unable to even find the energy to roll your eyes. Nausea floods your senses. “Too late,” you mumble, slowly drifting off.
“Hey, no!” Heeseung snaps his fingers in front of you and gulps. “Stay awake.”
He’s done for. Absolutely done for. He's going to be all over X tomorrow. His solo album will be trashed with all the other songs he’s submitted in the past. Fuck. He heaves out a deep breath and leans in close to you, your eyes suddenly shooting wide open.
“Get away, you creep!” you manage, pushing weakly at his chest.
“Relax! I’m just...” His voice drifts off, giving up any semblance of a productive conversation. When he reaches past you carefully, you tense as you breathe in his scent. A mix of sweat and citrus. “Just let me put your seat belt on for you.”
–
“It’s not a concussion,” the doctor says calmly. “Just a surface-level injury. She should be fine.”
Manager Jung nods. He arrived minutes after Heeseung called and despite being flustered, he immediately secured a more private examination room before anyone could recognize him.
Heeseung hasn't left your side. He can't. He feels too guilty to leave you alone, with the left side of your forehead all bandaged because of him. The rest of the boys were covering for his absence at their post-concert staff celebration back at the company. He didn’t even know if he could show his face to all of them right now.
“That’s... good to hear,” Heeseung says with a smile, immediately faltering as he meets your sharp gaze.
“Then why do I feel like throwing up?” you ask dryly.
“You mentioned you were in the front row of the concert, right? Probably fatigue or dehydration.”
Your face warms. You did say that. But only when Heeseung was in the bathroom and far, far away from you. You sneak a glance at him now, and sure enough, you catch the faint twitch of a smirk on his lips. Great. Now you look overdramatic.
“Can I go?” you mutter, not bothering to hide the impatience in your voice.
“Yes,” the doctor replies kindly. “But please make sure to monitor your symptoms. If you feel any loss of consciousness within the next few days, please come back immediately.”
Heeseung’s manager follows her outside to finish some paperwork, and the two of you are left in an awkward silence. While you text your sister, Heeseung watches you like a hawk with his shades pushed up into his hair. The moment he sees you open a social media page is the moment he’d step in.
Apparently, Sophia was caught trying to sneak into the send-off. She didn’t even get to see the boys. As you’re about to send her the hospital’s address, Heeseung clears his throat.
“I’m so sorry,” he finally lets out, soft like how he spoke during the concert. Perfectly media trained. “I really didn’t mean to—”
“Save it,” you sigh, still in a bad mood. You can tell when someone puts on a customer service voice from a mile away. “I’m not gonna say anything if that’s what you’re worried about.”
His ears flush pink. Because, yeah. That is what he’s worried about. To him, staying with you was basic common decency. But still, he knows how it could look. The internet dissects everything. One photo, one rumor, and suddenly he’s being accused of favoritism. Or worse. Dating a fan.
Still, he studies you. You don’t seem like you were trying to ambush him. You don't seem like a fan at all. You’re too irritated with his presence, like he disrupted you rather than the other way around. Isn’t it usually a stalker’s plan to run into their favorite celebrity? But, he guesses it’s best not to ask questions.
“We kind of need that in writing, actually,” he mumbles shyly. “My manager… he brought the paperwork. We can compensate you for all this.”
“Wow,” you drag sarcastically. “Lucky me!”
Right on cue, a knock comes from the other side of the door. “Heeseung,” Manager Jung's voice comes out muffled. “Have her sign the form, and let’s head out soon. Wear your mask when you leave.”
You turn your gaze to him, who’s looking at you sheepishly. He’s holding out a folded packet of paper with a pen clipped to the front. You tug it from his hands, signing your initials and name on whatever is highlighted in yellow. Like you were even in the right state of mind to fill out this damn NDA.
Could you sue them for this? Probably. But you’re too tired to care and the money they offered was enough for you to take without complaint. You just want to go back home.
“So...” he starts cautiously, breaking the silence as you reach the last page. “You’re an ENGENE?”
“No,” you reply flatly, hoping to tick him off. “I probably never will be now.”
He raises a brow, skeptical. “You’re not? Then what were you doing, front row, at our concert?”
You scoff. “Being forced against my will to listen to grown men sing about being vampires,” you state with disdain.
“Funny ‘cause I swear I heard you screaming my name at the barricade—” Heeseung’s bluffing. He has to be. He couldn’t have heard your moment of weakness during that one part of his in Teeth… could he?
“Shut up,” you grumble, cheeks heating up in embarrassment. He tries to hide his smirk. Because he didn’t see you. Not at all. Just wanted to tease you, but he doesn't quite know why. Really, Heeseung should be exhausted by now, his body aching from hours of performing on stage. But instead of resting, he’s here. With a girl who clearly wants nothing to do with him. He’s glad you don’t.
“You’re lucky I signed this thing,” you say, flipping the packet back to its first page.
“The offer still stands, you know?” he says lightly. “You can come to our fansign event.” Before you can think of a clever comeback, his phone buzzes.
“Shit.” Heeseung scans the screen, jaw tightening.
“What?” you ask, cautiously.
“Fans are swarming the waiting room,” he mutters. “Someone must’ve seen the van.”
“Don’t you have bodyguards to escort you out?”
“We didn’t bring security,” he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thought that would be more lowkey…” Apparently not.
Your eyes dart to Heeseung's face, watching him carefully. You wonder if he's always looked like this or if stage lights and video editing were just that good at masking the dark circles underneath his eyes. He looks tired, defeated even. Like he’s used to this. He scrolls through X, searching for his name. And there it is:
enhaluvbot: heeseung went to the hospital straight after the concert i hope he's ok ;_;
No mention of you. No photos. Nothing that could jeopardize his career. His solo. For now. That’s all that matters. Your phone buzzes next. You glance at the message, eye already twitching.
big sis: heeseung’s in the hospital. i’m staking out to see him. just take a taxi home so i can make sure he’s ok :<
You stare at the screen, mouth open in disbelief. Did she not care if you, her younger sister, were okay? You don’t have your wallet. Your phone’s battery is almost drained. And now your ride home is outside the hospital, probably crouching behind a trash can for a glimpse of the same guy standing in front of you. Fuck this.
“I’m leaving,” Heeseung says suddenly, zipping up his hoodie. “Is your sister on her way?”
“Oh, she’s here,” you say solemnly. “Just... not for me.”
He gives you a confused look. You don’t elaborate.
“This is really dumb of me to ask,” you start, your voice quieter now. The most docile you’ve been with him since you met just two hours prior. He leans in slightly to hear you better.
“Would it be weird if I asked whether you could help get me a taxi?”
Heeseung scratches his head. Any company executive would be screaming at him to say no. That any proof of him being with you tonight was a paper trail he could not erase. But he looks at you, bandaged and exhausted. He swallows hard. What kind of person would he be to leave you here to fend for yourself? He’s the reason you’re even here in the first place.
He lets out a deep breath, slipping his mask on and bringing his shades down to rest on his nose. He’ll break the rules just this once.
“Let’s just ride together.”
–
The two of you slip out of the hospital through the back. A taxi, called with specific instructions from Heeseung, waits near the side entrance.
“Please drop her off first,” Heeseung tells him, settling into the back seat with the middle unoccupied between you two. “Then take me to this address.”
Back to the company, to the post-concert celebration he’s already late for.
The driver squints at you both from the rearview mirror. Heeseung’s face is hidden behind his mask and shades in the dead of night. The left side of your forehead is wrapped in a bandage that’s bled through just a little.
“Wow, HYBE! Are you an idol, sir?”
You snort before you can stop yourself, and Heeseung shoots you a tiny glare. A stupid idea pops into your head, the opportunity too good to pass up.
“No,” you sigh dramatically. “Please don’t misunderstand! He’s actually really ugly under the mask. Could never be an idol. He just dresses like this for fun.”
Heeseung turns his head so fast you can hear the sharp rustle of his hoodie. You try to bite back a grin.
“We’re just visiting the company,” you continue with an exaggeratedly sweet tone. “You know BTS? He LOVES them.”
Heeseung covers his mouth to hide the reddening of his cheeks, like his mask isn't already doing that for him. The taxi driver just nods awkwardly, not sure if it made sense for a fan to come to an entertainment company at this time of night. He’d be surprised, Heeseung thinks.
“And you, ma’am? Why are you bleeding?”
“I—”
“She fell,” he cuts in before you even have the chance to speak, exacting his revenge. “In front of hundreds of people. Everyone was pointing and laughing. It was really embarrassing, sir. You should’ve seen her!”
Now it’s your turn to glare at him. The driver chuckles, looking between you two.
“He thinks Jungkook is his best friend, sir,” you say again, eyes locked on Heeseung’s. “Has posters of him all over his room—”
“She tripped trying to steal candy from a kid,” Heeseung shoots back. “But the kid had a black belt in judo and pinned her down. He's six years old, by the way.” The two of you fire extravagant lies, one after the other. By then, the taxi driver had already tuned your voices out.
“Young love is nice, isn’t it?” he sighs, continuing to drive. “I remember when my wife and I started dating—”
Heeseung waves his hands frantically. “Oh, we’re not—”
“With him? As if—”
But both your protests fall on deaf ears. The driver’s phone rings, and he’s already talking to someone else. You slump back in your seat, upset that you weren’t able to correct him in time. Heeseung glances at your sulking figure and smiles behind his disguise.
It’s unsettling, but weirdly comforting, how you are with him. Like all pretenses were thrown out the window. You can't help but think the same. Never in your life did you expect a celebrity to be as petty as you.
“I’m so sorry, you two,” the driver says abruptly, snapping you both out of your thoughts. “I forgot to pick up my daughter from her friend’s place, so I need to head back immediately. Can I drop you both off at your address, sir? It’s closer.”
Heeseung blinks. “But she needs to get home. She’s injured.”
The driver shrugs his shoulders, flustered. “I’m sorry, but she’s waiting on me. There are other taxis in that area you can wave down.”
“Okay,” Heeseung says slowly, then turns to you. “Will you be okay?”
You just hold up your phone, dead and useless in your hand, as a reminder to him why you even rode together in the first place. You feel pathetic once more with what you’re about to request.
“Do you think I could borrow a charger?” you ask, cringing slightly. “Just for a little, so I can let my family know I’m on the way home.”
He smirks. “Borrow? Like we’re going to see each other again?”
You glare. “I’m literally bleeding,” you say, pointing at your forehead. The one he slammed into a door. Valid point, but there’s nothing he could do now.
“My bag isn’t with me.”
You both sigh, gazing up at the front of the HYBE building as it comes into view. Neither of you makes a move. Heeseung scratches his head and relents. So much for staying out of trouble.
“...Do you want to come up with me?” he asks softly, making sure the driver doesn’t hear. “You can charge your phone in one of the recording studios.”
–
The taxi drops you both off a block away from the company. Heeseung spots a few girls ahead, their eyes scanning every figure that walks into the building from the front entrance. He doesn’t recognize them. Not any of the usual fans that stalk ENHYPEN.
Still, he pulls his hood lower and moves fast. You follow close behind, head down. You two maneuver past them and slip through the side entrance of the dark building. Inside, sleek wooden panels and stone floors greet you. You manage to hide just behind Heeseung to be let in, bypassing the facial recognition software the whole place seems to have.
“This is insane,” you mutter, in awe of how futuristic it all is. Heeseung doesn’t say anything, just keeps walking like it’s normal.
For him, it most likely is. Stopping in front of a door, he glances both ways down the hall before opening it. The inside of the room is almost enveloped in pitch darkness, save for a floor lamp in the corner. You enter behind him, the control panel full of blinking LEDs and buttons that look too complicated to touch. The recording booth was on the other side of a glass window.
Heeseung practically lived in this room for the better part of the year, recording new melodies for ENHYPEN’s music. And sometimes, he’d be in here at the dead of night to test new sounds he wanted to try in his own self-produced tracks.
“I’ll grab you a charger,” he says, then hesitates. “Can I trust you to head out after you’re done?”
You shrug. “No promises,” you say, admiring the couch by the door. Velvet. You take a seat, making yourself comfortable. “I might have to record something before I go.”
He scoffs. “Just leave through the exit we came from. If you see anyone holding a camera, hide.”
Heeseung takes off his mask and sunglasses, examining them a little bit, before handing them to you. “Use these. Just in case.”
You take the items that smell faintly of his cologne and bite the inside of your cheek. Isn't this weirdly intimate?
“You really have to think about this kind of thing all the time?” you ask, cutting through the silence.
Heeseung doesn’t respond right away. His lower back leans lightly against the couch's armrest, eyes on the floor. He's heard this too many times before. It’s not like he doesn’t know how ridiculous he sounded. How he has to constantly hide wherever he goes and whoever he’s with.
He shakes his head. “Not always. Most days, we don’t get bothered. We aren't at that level of popularity. Maybe at the airport. But that’s just what being an idol is about.”
Still. You think about how different his life is from yours. From the fancy ass buildings to the stalkers-in-waiting. It must be exhausting, having to keep up appearances.
“This shouldn’t be normal for anyone,” you whisper, surprisingly tender. You look at him and guilt riddles you. Your sister and her far-from-normal tendencies led you here in front of him… and she's part of the problem.
“No one should have to spend every moment of their life looking over their shoulder,” you continue. “Not even assholes like you.”
He laughs softly. You really lack a filter. “I love my job too much to worry about a few bad fans," he reasons. "If I weren’t doing this..."
Heeseung's voice drifts off, but his eyes find yours. "I’d be nothing.”
You don’t know what to say to that. Because somehow, the saddest thing you’ve ever heard is said with the happiest smile on his face. You don’t doubt that he was born for the idol life. It seemed like it on stage and even more so here. The way he shrugs off things that would break most people. Good for him, you think to yourself sadly. He has something you wish you had. Purpose.
“And you?” Heeseung asks suddenly. “Who are you?”
You never felt small throughout the few hours you’ve spent with him, but the question knocks the wind out of you a little. Because you don’t have an answer. “None of your business,” you say begrudgingly.
“Yeah,” he scoffs. “Just a stalker.”
“Don't call me that,” you interrupt, biting the inside of your cheek. “I’m not even a fan.”
“You’re not? Really?” He laughs almost out of disbelief. “We’re already past the point of lying, you can just—”
“I don’t like you,” you interrupt him plainly. “If my stupid sister didn’t drag me to your concert, I wouldn’t have even bothered to come watch a bunch of fuckboys sing shitty music they don’t even produce themselves…”
But your voice drifts off. Because you see how Heeseung's gaze intensifies, his brows furrowing in disappointment. He’s heard it all before. From people online, from accounts with no profile pictures pretending like they know exactly what kind of person he is. Standoffish. Cocky. Flirtatious. Disingenuous. That's all they say about him. And so do you.
“You don’t even know me,” he says, voice low.
“You’re right. But I’ve seen enough.”
Designer clothes. Girls groveling at his feet. Performances all over the world. His life is wonderful. There’s hordes of fans that support him every day, who would love him at his highest and lowest points in his life. He works in an industry that probably pays him more than you'll ever see in your lifetime. He’s set for life.
Your back straightens from your seat on the couch as Heeseung walks toward you.
“I think you’d think differently of me if you actually tried to get to know me.”
“I don’t want to.”
He gives you a look. “What use do you get out of acting so hostile with me?”
You bite the inside of your cheek. Nothing, really. “I just don’t see what’s so good about you,” you mumble. It’s meant to be a joke, a slight dig at him. But still, he flinches.
Memories of his trainee days, of nights spent wondering if he should have just gone to college or do his military service early like his other friends, wash over him. “Trust me,” he replies, throat dry. “I don’t either.”
And you wonder if you went too far. You typically do. You lower your gaze. “Sorry. Didn’t mean—”
He cuts you off. “Can’t we just start over from when I asked you who you were?” he sighs.
You look up at him and raise a brow. “Why does my opinion matter to you anyway?” you ask, genuinely. “I’m a nobody—”
“Well I want to get to know this nobody before I hand her my charger,” he cuts in.
You hesitate. He did do more for you tonight than Sophia did, at least. Maybe you owe him an honest and civil response. “...I'm still figuring it out.”
A silence falls between you two as Heeseung takes a seat next to you. He doesn’t quite look at you. "How come?"
You shrug. “Just graduated from university. Don’t have a full-time job yet. I was working at a restaurant for a while, but the pay was horrible. My sister’s a mess, my parents are up my ass.” You swallow back a bitter laugh. “Never really had the time for self-reflection.”
He watches you quietly, and you take it as permission to keep going. “I guess you can call me a coward,” you admit, voice low. “Felt like I missed my chance to do something great with my life. And now I feel like everyone else has already started their lives, and I’m…”
You don’t know why you’re saying all this. Maybe because he asked. Maybe because it’s the first time someone actually took the time to care. And maybe because he’s a stranger you’ll likely never see again.
It’s a bit embarrassing, though. Because you know the kind of person you’re speaking with. An idol. Someone who actually pursued their dreams. He wouldn’t get it. “So yeah,” you sigh. “Still figuring it out.”
He chuckles, and you almost give him a glare. But there’s a tenderness to his gaze that you can't quite place.
“Aren’t we all?” Heeseung replies, finally looking at you. He was never very good at comforting others, but it's genuine. Because Heeseung understands you, more than he’d like to admit.
Because he doesn’t know when he ends and the idol version of him begins. As the oldest, Heeseung is supposed to be the dependable one. The mediator. The most experienced. So many responsibilities but so little time to remind himself why he even chose to be an idol. He only remembers when he’s on stage.
You glance down at the mask and shades in your hand. Silence overtakes you both once again, and you fake a small cough.
“How much do you think I can sell this online?” you ask, noticing that the sunglasses he's given you have a silver Prada logo on the side. He huffs out a quiet laugh and with a slight pause, he stands up from where he sat.
“I’ll be back,” he says. “I’ll get you a charger... and some food. Since you’re fatigued and everything.”
Your mouth parts slightly in shock. “You don’t have to.”
He smiles. “But I want to.”
You look up at him. He's handsome, really, even out of the stage lights.
–
Heeseung’s been stuck at the celebration longer than he intended, in his fifth round of empty small talk with some staff members. Every laugh, every congratulatory pat feels robotic because his mind keeps drifting back to the small recording studio three floors down. Back to you.
“You tired?” Jungwon asks, hand resting on his older member’s shoulder.
Heeseung nods, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Long day.”
An understatement. Jungwon only knew the surface of what happened after the concert. He doesn't know about your presence in this very building at this very moment. Fuck. He needs to get back to you. “I’m just going to head to the restroom for a bit,” Heeseung mutters, coughing into his fist.
At the catering table, he grabs a couple of pastries. He stacks them neatly on a plate like a man starved. Then he slips toward the door, glancing over his shoulder. Behind him, he doesn't hear Jungwon mutter to Sunoo. “Why is he bringing all that to the restroom?”
Heeseung takes the stairs two at a time. By the time he reaches the recording studio, he’s half-expecting it to be empty. It isn’t. You’re still there. Slumped over the couch, head buried in your elbow on the armrest. Asleep. Or unconscious. For a moment, he panics. Should he be concerned? His hand hovers uncertainly before he shakes your shoulder gently. “Hey...”
You groan, shifting slightly in your sleep. Heeseung sighs in relief. 'Good,' he thinks to himself, 'you’re not dead.'
He sets the plate down on the table and plugs in your phone with the charger he retrieved. “So much for just charging your phone,” he says under his breath, more to himself than you.
He takes a seat on the rolling chair and spins around to look at you. Heeseung smiles, but stops himself. He wonders if any of this is okay. Being in this room with you. He shakes his head. Who is he kidding? None of this would ever be. Making up lies to a taxi driver, opening up to a complete stranger. But why did he find this kind of fun? Hanging out with you.
Every interaction of his is examined and scrutinized. No matter if he was talking in front of the camera, to fans, or even to other idols. But with you, it's almost easy. To be himself. You treat him like a person. A regular person. He misses that more than he realized. He used to be like everybody else. Used to pull all-nighters for high school exams, which he would still ultimately fail. Used to take on part-time jobs so he could afford the newest console games.
The mundanity of his old life... sometimes he wishes for it back.He shakes his head again, trying to push the thoughts away. He unlocks his phone and types a quick message to Jungwon. ‘Leave before me. Don’t wait up.’
Then he puts it face down on the table. Heeseung sits there, admiring the steady rise and fall of your breathing. He reaches a hesitant hand out and tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear. Your eyelashes flutter just a little. You are really pretty.
His mind screams at him to leave, to go back upstairs, and return to the familiarity of the staff that made this lifestyle possible. But Heeseung tells himself he’ll wait with you here until you wake up. He did injure you after all.
So he spins back around, types his password into the computer, and opens up a music file he’d been working on for the past three months. He doesn’t bother to put on a headset, just plays the track from start to finish. He’d get in so much trouble right now, playing this in front of you. But it’s okay, right? Anyway, you’re asleep—
“It sounds good,” you mutter groggily behind him. He whips the chair around back to you. Shit.
“S-sorry,” he stutters, pausing the track. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Keep playing,” you sigh into your arms. “I like it.” A flood of warmth coats Heeseung’s chest. You like it. He smiles, pressing play again, letting the song’s softness permeate the foam-padded walls.
–
You sit up too fast when you wake up, your hand flying to the back of your neck as the stiffness settles in. Heeseung is slumped in his own chair. You almost scream, forgetting where you were.
There’s a plate of food on the desk, most likely stale by now. Your heart skips a beat. He actually got you that?
You double-tap the screen of your phone and see forty missed calls from your parents and Sophia. But what’s worse is the time. 8 a.m. You shoot up, grabbing your things, practically ripping the charger from the wall socket. Voices echo faintly from outside the room as panic surges through you. Staff are already at work. Were you seriously here all night?
Heeseung stirs. His eyes blink open, still heavy with sleep, until he sees your mortified face. He sits up.
“I’m fucked,” you say under your breath, flashing him your screen. He leans forward, taking the phone in his hand to see it better. You try not to acknowledge how his fingers brush yours.
“No,” he gulps. “I’m fucked.” He slouches back into his chair.
“How do I get out of here?” you say in a hushed tone as if the people outside would hear you through the soundproof walls.
Heeseung rubs his face. “Just walk out. No one’s going to notice. A lot of people work here.” He hesitates. “Me, on the other hand—”
His phone buzzes before he can finish. He picks up the call, interrupting his monologue of despair, knowing his members would interrogate him when he's back at the dorm. Heeseung's tone shifts instantly. “Hello, sir,” he chirps, suddenly more alert. He's sitting straighter, voice a little higher, and tone more formal. Your eyes narrow.
“I’m glad you enjoyed the tracks,” he says excitedly. But his expression falls a little as he listens intently to the other person speak on the other line. “Of course, sir. We can change it if you don’t like it. I was wondering if we can keep that—Oh, no, it’s okay... We can get rid of that too if you want—”
He’s so eager to agree, didn’t even hesitate. You don’t know the full context, but you recognize the tone well. The sounds of someone desperate for approval. When he hangs up, his expression is tight. Not at all like the guy from last night with his quiet laughter and teasing remarks. When Heeseung meets your gaze, he knows the look you give him. Like he’s a lost puppy.
“Our creative director. He's being an asshole about some changes I made to the lyrics—” he clarifies, but he stops himself. Because why does he need to explain himself to you?
“It’s okay,” you say softly, noticing his furrowed brows. “I get it.”
You swallow hard. “But you don’t have to always accept what people tell you,” you continue. “It’s okay to say no.”
And his eyes waver. No one’s ever really told him that before. Heeseung’s whole life, his whole career, was about obedience. It’s been drilled into him. Keep your head down. Respect your elders. Take feedback silently. Don't ever be selfish. He heard it constantly as a trainee. In I-Land. At the start of his debut. And here you are, a complete stranger, telling him he could stand up for himself.
“Thank you,” he says with a sad smile. He tries not to read into the way your eyes ignite something in his chest. That subtle pull he feels toward you. It's a feeling he's used to pushing down. You adjust your clothes to be more presentable, moving towards the door.
“It was nice meeting you.” You pause, not sure what else to say. “You’re a lot nicer than I thought you’d be.”
Because he seemed so quiet in the shows you’ve watched him in. Too flirtatious with fans. Too passionate on stage. You painted a negative picture of him in your head because your sister was so in love with him. She tended to have bad taste in men.
He smiles back, just a little. “On the other hand, you’re very mean—”
You sneer. “Want me to take it back?”
“I’m kidding,” he laughs. “Thank you too. For being a good person.”
Because it could have all gone wrong today. You could have taken advantage of the situation. Could have had him trending on all social media platforms that same night. You could have ruined his life. But you didn’t.
You both reach for the door at the same time. His hand lands on top of yours as it clicks open. His face is close. Heeseung’s deep brown eyes look into yours with a softness that makes your palms sweat.
“See you around,” you say, as low as a whisper. Not really knowing if you will, but it feels right to say. Heeseung doesn’t say anything back. He can’t. Your hand underneath his… he wishes it could stay there forever.
But no matter how much he wishes you’d stay in his head, to be in this moment with him, he can’t say what he really wants to. And so, you walk away.
–
You try your best to adjust to the regular schedule programming of your life, focusing on job applications you have yet to hear back from. Anything to distract yourself from the fleeting presence of Lee Heeseung in your otherwise uneventful life.
It's annoying, trying not to think about him when your sister continues to shove ENHYPEN content down your throat. But your brain keeps going back to a few days ago, how his voice was so much softer when it wasn't echoing through an arena.
Even after she ditched you after the concert, your silent treatment toward Sophia barely lasted a day. She bribed you back with takeout and coffee, flashing that credit card of hers so easily in your line of vision. So now she’s back to replaying the Bad Desire music video in your living room.
It’s like you can’t escape him. Heeseung’s face is everywhere. On news sites, store ads, even the email sitting in your inbox: BELIFT LAB: Confidentiality Agreement and at the top of your bank account deposits.
But somehow, Heeseung's ever-looming presence doesn’t stir the same resentment you thought it would. It used to all feel fake. His smile, his charm, his confidence. But his laugh sounds the same as when you met him. His willingness to look after you, to stay with you, seemed to match the caring personality on the vlogs Sophia forced upon you.
You almost wish it didn’t feel so familiar. Every time you see him, some part of you slips back to the recording studio, to the version of him who saw through your guarded facade.
Sophia still doesn’t know what really happened after the concert. You never really told her. Partly because of the NDA, mostly because she has a few screws loose when it comes to Heeseung. To your family, it was simple: you slipped, hit your head, and spent the night in the hospital. Your parents didn’t ask for details. As long as they didn’t have to pay for anything.
"WHAT?!" she exclaims from the couch. You ignore her.
“There’s a cup sleeve event for ENHYPEN happening right now,” she cries, smacking a hand on your shoulder. “And Heeseung just showed up. He never comes to these things!”
You flinch. “Did you not see the weather advisory?” you reply, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickened when you heard his name. “There’s gonna be a huge storm later-”
She scoffs. “When has that ever stopped me?”
–
Sophia always has her ways of dragging you out of the house. Then again, promising a free dinner to an unemployed person always seems to work. And that’s how you find yourself standing in a line, sweating under the sweltering heat of the sun with a crowd of ENGENEs walking past you two. They’re holding iced Americanos adorned with the boys’ faces on the cup sleeves. You tap your foot impatiently, wiping beads of sweat from your forehead.
This better be the best coffee you’ve ever had. Your sister holds out her handheld fan as it slows to a stop. It was the only reprieve you two had in this unforgivingly humid summer.
“Shit,” your sister cries, shaking it like that’ll help. “Can you buy a battery? I think my fan just died.” You rejoice, willing to do anything to get out of the line and escape the mugginess.
After a block, you spot a convenience store. Cool air greets you the second you walk in, and you almost moan in relief. The cashier barely looks up when you ask where the batteries are, just points toward a shelf near the counter for eating.
Someone sits there, hood up, mask pulled down, slurping ramen like he was in the comfort of his own home. And though his face is obscured, there's something about his posture.
“Heeseung?” you say in a low whisper, battery pack in one hand and fan in the other. The person puts up his mask sloppily and whips his head around. His eyes open wide, and you’re even more sure of it now. It really is him.
“It's you.” His voice is muffled, but his eyes say it all. Like he was greeting an old friend. Hesitantly, you take the seat beside him. “How’d you know I was here?” he asks with a raised brow.
You rest your chin on your hand, basking in the cool air of the store. “You think I keep up with you like that?”
Heeseung holds a doubtful glint in his eyes. “So you just happened to run into me for the second time this week?”
You roll your eyes. “Then why don’t you report me?” you bite back. “Since you seem so concerned.”
Heeseung purses his lips. You’re probably right. Once was a coincidence. But twice? He looks at you a bit more thoughtfully. No. He believes you. “And you're at this specific convenience store because…?”
“Sophia,” you answer, like that explains anything. “She dragged me to your fans’ event thingy.”
That’s when you notice the Americano beside his instant ramen bowl. With a cup sleeve of himself. You pick it up, grinning. “Really? Narcissistic much?” you chuckle as you point at his face.
He lowers his mask just enough for you to catch the faint smirk underneath. “Was I supposed to ask for another member's?”
Without thinking, you slip the cup sleeve into your purse. “Wha—”
“For my sister,” you say quickly, interrupting him from his protests. “So she doesn’t get upset later if she gets someone other than you.”
“Sophia… is your sister,” Heeseung starts slowly, like the gears are turning in his head as he speaks. How harshly you speak to him. How little you knew about him. And now he feels embarrassed. “And she’s a fan? Of me?”
You snort. “No, she’s your wife.” He blinks, and you almost try not to laugh at how genuinely alarmed he looks.
“I’m joking,” you laugh. “She thinks you two are, at least. Recognize her?” You pull up a photo from the concert with the two of you pressed against the barricade.
“You were actually that close?!” he gawks, taking the phone from your hand. To think, in that same photo, he was probably on the stage performing his heart out. That version of Heeseung would have never imagined what would happen after.
As for your sister... he knows her, alright. You notice immediately how his face sours. Maybe it would be a bad time to reveal that she almost snuck into their sendoff…
“Sorry,” you say quickly. “If Sophia’s ever made you feel uncomfortable. She just gets obsessed really easily—”
“No, it’s okay,” he sighs, handing the phone back to you. He takes another slurp of his ramen before bringing the bowl to his lips to swallow the broth down. Heeseung looks at you with an unexpected solemnness.
The few interactions he’s had with your sister were a bit awkward in his memory. She would ask him about his ideal type, what kind of dates he would go on if he had a girlfriend. Questions he had preplanned answers to. “Like I said before," he says, recalling a memory. "I’m used to it.”
You wonder how often he tells himself this just so he can convince himself that it’s fine. Before you can think of anything to say, the door chimes behind you. Heeseung pushes his mask back up when he notices two teenagers walk in with ENHYPEN merch.
“Ugh,” one of them cries. “Someone said they saw Heeseung earlier. I wonder if he’s nearby.”
“Let’s check online,” the other one offers. “I think people saw him near this area…”
You don’t even need to say anything, Heeseung’s already standing. But instead of bolting like you expect him to, his hands find your wrist. Warm and firm against as it wraps around your skin. Before you can even react, you’re running with him out the door. The two girls look up, but it’s too late. The only proof of your existence in that convenience store was the ramen bowl and plastic cup that Heeseung left behind.
–
You’re breathless as he pulls you into alleyway after alleyway, eventually reaching one that opens up into a quieter street. An empty neighborhood that feels out of place in a city like Seoul.
“Why are we still running?!” you manage between gasps, trying to pull your arm out of his grip. “And why are you taking me with you?!”
He stops abruptly, chest rising and falling beneath his hoodie. It’s like Heeseung puts two and two together as he turns around. The way his hand is still around your wrist, how tightly he’s been holding on.
“Sorry,” he coughs. He releases you instantly, shoving both hands into the front pocket of his hoodie. “I panicked.”
“Why do we always end up like this?” you say, fanning your face. How Heeseung was wearing those layers in this weather was a mystery to you.
“Like what?” he asks with a small smile. A faint sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead.
“Trying not to be seen by your stupid fans,” you grumble. “I feel like a criminal."
Heeseung shrugs. “Well, you do keep following me around,” he starts teasingly through his mask. “You might actually be.”
You want to hit him so bad, but you hold off the impulse. “If I were you, I don't think I'd ever leave my house,” you shudder, remembering how the girls were scouring for updates on his location. “You need to hire a personal bodyguard.”
He chuckles. “I mean, I usually don't. Just… haven’t had a day off in a while.”
You raise a brow. “So you spent it getting shitty coffee with your face on it and eating ramen you could’ve made at home?”
“Can a man not leave his dorm and support a small business for once?” he jokes, hands in the air like a man under arrest. You manage out a small huff of laughter.
Heeseung's always really kept to himself. Not like he hated being with the boys all the time, but they spent almost all their waking hours together. Sometimes (most times) he likes being alone. There's no one around to impress. No one to disappoint.
He instinctively looks around in search of cameras, afraid the watchful eyes of fans have found him here with you. When the coast is clear and the paranoia fades, he lets out a breath he didn't even know he was holding in. Heeseung takes a moment to gaze at you for a second, memorizing your features just in case you slip through his fingertips once more. Just a few minutes of your time would be okay, right?
“If you’re free,” Heeseung mutters. “Do you wanna hang out?”
You blink. “Like right now?” He nods.
“I probably shouldn’t,” you say, glancing back toward the direction you came from. “My sister’s waiting for me.”
“The same sister who left you alone to sneak backstage?” he asks with a raised brow.
You narrow your gaze. “I didn’t tell you that...”
“I’m not an idiot,” he replies. “I see her everywhere. Let me guess. Were you keeping watch for her that night? Outside the backstage area? Was she trying to sneak in?”
Your eyes widen. Fuck. Just from his expression alone, he knew he was right. “Are you… gonna press charges?” you ask seriously. “Against her? I already signed the thing, so you can’t do anything against—”
“Relax,” he chuckles. “I won’t…”
His eyes linger on yours and down to your lips. There’s something you can’t explain in the way he looks at you. It makes you want to run far away from him and pull him close at the same time. Though you’d never admit it out loud.
He smirks. “As long as you spend some time with me.”
–
It’s nothing special. You just walk. Talk. Bicker. Keep walking. The streets here are vacant, save for a few chirping birds on telephone poles. The only person you’ve seen so far was an old man dozing off on a plastic stool, newspaper over his lap.
Heeseung asked what you studied in school, listening to your rants about tuition costs and late night shifts. You ask how hard it is to live with six other men, and he sheepishly reveals that he's one of the messier ones in the dorm. He’s shocked when you tell him that your favorite song of theirs is Polaroid Love, so different from your prickly personality. You wince a little when he casually mentions how smelly his feet get after dance practice. You could’ve left by now. Said your goodbyes. But you don’t, and neither does he.
In the humid heat of summer and in this secluded part of the city, drops of precipitation start to descend. It’s almost sudden, how quickly the rain pours down.
Heeseung takes your hand, and you don't resist like all those other times before, as he guides you toward the nearest awning. He peels off his completely soaked mask, stuffing it into the pocket of his black sweatpants. And he doesn’t let go of your hand right away. It’s only when you give him a questioning look that he releases you, wiping his hand on his pants to distract himself from the pattering in his chest.
“We should’ve brought an umbrella,” he mutters. You chuckle at how unprepared you both are, even when you knew that rain would come.
“Yeah,” you reply. “Now we’re soaked.”
You wonder why Heeseung’s gaze wavers. Why he shifts away from you so suddenly. You don’t notice how translucent your white blouse has become in the rain. How it clings to your curves in a way that makes him feel guilty for even taking a glimpse. He unzips his hoodie wordlessly, quickly wrapping it around your shoulders.
“Why—” And your face heats up, realizing then why he forced it upon you. Your bra was practically visible.
“Thanks,” you mutter begrudgingly, sliding your arms into the sleeves to pull the hoodie’s material closer. It smelled faintly of cigarettes and ramen packet seasoning. You wonder if he smokes.
“You should be more cautious with strangers, you know. What if I just ran off with this?”
He scoffs at you playfully. “Why don’t you want me to trust you so badly?”
Before you can protest, a notification rings for both of you. A flash flood warning in the area.
“Shit,” Heeseung sighs. “We need to find a place to wait this out.”
He shows you his screen, and sure enough, the next four hours were forecasted for heavy rain. This was all Sophia’s fault, you tell yourself. You look around to find any semblance of temporary shelter. A cafe, a restaurant, maybe a convenience store like before. But all the places in this quaint part of the city were boarded up or closed.
Then your eyes land on it, a place too embarrassing to mention out loud. Because you really, really don't want to go in there. Into a seedy-looking building, out of place and tucked in the corner. Its cream exterior is streaked with years of age and molding. The neon pink sign flickers through the haze of the rain.
Heeseung notices your gaze, and the same ideas formulate in his mind. His voice comes out awkwardly. “What about over there?”
He points at what is so clearly a love hotel, blushing at his own unintended implications. You shift away slightly, suddenly hyper-aware of him. How your body is wrapped in his fragrance.
“Don't make it weird,” he mumbles, catching the furrow of your brows. “It's only for a few hours.”
You scoff. “I'd rather sit here and swim through the water than—”
Lightning cracks impossibly near you two as the sound of thunder almost shatters your eardrum. The rainfall comes down harder, the streets basically turning into rivers. You take a deep breath. There's no other choice.
–
Heeseung opens the door to a dingy room, tacky floral prints adorning the walls with a picture of a rose hanging above the bed. Every possible accent of the room was in bright pink, save for the brown lounge chair suspiciously positioned right in front of the bed. You grimace at the sound of your wet boots on the creaky wooden floorboards.
“You couldn't have gotten us two separate rooms?” you mutter.
“The guy said all their other rooms were under renovation,” Heeseung replies, flopping onto the velvet chair. “Plus… do you have the means to pay? Or did you just assume that I’d be covering for both?”
You stare daggers into him, unable to muster a thoughtful response. Because he's right. And now you think you should never have told him you were struggling to find a job. “Whatever, dickhead…”
Your eyes drift to the bed. Two pairs of silk pajamas are folded neatly atop it, one slightly larger than the other. Since when did shady hotels offer such amenities?
You try not to think too hard about it because the humidity of the room clings to you, making you desperate for relief. Without thinking, you shrug off Heeseung’s hoodie. He scans your figure before quickly diverting his gaze, the wall suddenly becoming much more interesting. His ears flush a deep crimson.
“Why are you…” And then you remember how utterly soaked your blouse is as you look down. You cross your arms over your chest to hide the outline of your breasts.
“I'm gonna take a shower,” you mutter, rushing into the bathroom without a second thought. Shit. What was that just now? Why'd he look at you like that?
Your chest tightens. You swear there was something in the way he looked at you. Like tension. Like fire. Cradling your head in your hands, you groan. Were you turning into your delusional ass sister?
You try to distract yourself with a cold and uneventful shower until you remember the forgotten pair of pajamas left on the bed. Clad in a towel, you crack the door open just enough to peek out. Heeseung is still sitting on the chair, eyes widening when he sees your head poke through. Wet hair clinging to your neck, droplets of water coating your bare shoulders. He swallows hard.
“Do you mind handing the clothes to me?” you ask sheepishly. Heeseung walks in a daze, head full of thoughts too scary to say out loud, and grabs the smaller of the two silk pajamas. He holds them out to you.
“Hurry up,” he mumbles, trying his best not to look. “I need to take a shower too.”
You’re sitting on the bed, watching Heeseung—in the matching pair of pajamas—hang his damp clothes next to yours on the coat rack. The subtle hum of the hotel-provided hair dryer fills the room as he dries them out.
When the lights flicker from the storm outside, your body jumps before you can even process the sound of thunder. Heeseung’s eyes flicker to you. “Such a scaredy-cat…” Heeseung chuckles, turning off the dryer when he’s satisfied with his work.
“At least I'm alert,” you argue. “Unlike somebody…”
“Right…” He pays you no mind as he sets the dryer on the nightstand. Your eye twitches.
“What kind of idol just walks into a love hotel with a girl?” you taunt, irritated by his lack of response. “If I were some psycho, you’d probably be dead by now.”
“Are you?” he teases, sitting beside you on the bed. The mattress dips under his weight, and you scoot away instinctively to create distance between your warm bodies. “A crazy psycho killer who pretends to hate me?”
“It’s not pretend,” you say dryly. “I do, in fact, hate you. There’s a damn scar on my forehead because of—” He leans in, your words stopping at your throat as he examines the small scab hidden beneath your hair. For a moment, guilt flickers across his face, but you open your mouth before he can speak.
“Like you’d think you’d care more about your career, but it seems like I'm the only one with a brain between us,” you spit out. And you don’t even know why you say it. Maybe because it’s the way he’s looking at you so intently. Or how you can feel his breath on your skin with how close he’s sitting. Your heart beats too fast around him.
“And how’s your career working out for you?” Nevermind. Fuck him.
“That's such a low blow.”
“But it’s okay when you insult me?” he scoffs. “You think I’m an idiot—”
“Most idols usually are—”
“And you’re so quick to judge people.”
His hands ball into fists in his lap, breath ragged. The shift in his once soft demeanor makes your chest tighten. You know how you get sometimes, how prideful you can be. Defensive, even. Your words only ever come out wrong with him.
“Well, isn’t that the truth?” you huff. “God, did you hear yourself a few days ago? ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘Will do, sir.’ You’re like a total pushover.”
He tsks, jaw tightening. “Coming from you?” he asks mockingly, shifting closer. The mattress dips further, his hand pressing into the sheets beside your lap. Heeseung leans in close to your ear. “Don’t be mad that I worked for my dreams while you sit around and wait for yours."
You grit your teeth, the feeling of his breath on your neck like needles on skin. You hold your gaze on him. “At least I don’t have to fake who I am just so I can get people to like me.”
He glares at you, and in a split second, he moves away. “What a brat,” he murmurs under his breath, facing away from you.
You laugh darkly. “I’m a brat? Me? A brat? What about you?”
“What about me?” Heeseung counters. “I'm not the one who spends every second trying to start an argument. When all I’ve done—”
And he swallows his words a little, scared of how you might react if he were to tell you the truth. But there’s nothing to lose. Maybe he’ll never see you again. Maybe it's for the better.
“When all I’ve done…” he starts again, voice wavering. “All I’ve done these past few days since we met is fucking think about you.”
You feel every part of your body heat up. A warm, fluttering feeling you can’t describe. You push out a bitter laugh. “Oh, and was I supposed to, too, Mr. Idol? Was I supposed to fall to my knees when I saw you again?”
“Why are you so mean to me?” he asks quietly. “Do I bother you that much?”
You exhale, trying to find your composure. You do like being around him. That’s the problem. You had already made up your mind that he was off-limits, that he’s probably a horrible person and your sister can’t distinguish reality from his carefully curated persona. But he’s real. And in front of you.
“I didn’t even want to go out today,” you say, voice quivering. “My stupid ass sister forced me to. I’m sure you think any girl would kill to be in my position right now, but I don’t even want—”
“You know what I want?” Heeseung’s voice drops low. He swallows hard, licking his lips. His eyes glued to yours. “I wanted to see you again.”
“What?” you muster out. His hands find your face, his fingers firm against your cheek.
“You heard me,” he whispers. Heeseung leans in, his lips touch yours for a split second before pulling away. You close your eyes shut from instinct, craving for contact once more.
As if obeying your silent command, his mouth finds yours again. Testing the waters with soft movements. You hesitate, torn between the argument still echoing in your head and the warmth in your chest. He’s supposed to be a stranger. A fleeting passenger in your life.
But his lips move passionately against yours, like that of a lover. When you finally match his languid motions, his hand slides around your waist to pull you in closer. Heeseung’s kisses are sweet, deliberate. But this isn’t right.
You spent years rolling your eyes at the mere image of him on a screen, fighting with Sophia about how ridiculous it was to obsess over a man who would never even look in her direction. And now he’s here. Kissing you so tenderly that you think your heart might explode. The guilt sears through you suddenly.
You push him away, wiping your lips with the back of your hand. “Fucking perv,” you spit out, standing abruptly. Heeseung holds your forearm, his grip gentle, pulling you to face him. He’s still sitting on the bed, looking at you with those eyes. Those beautiful, pleading eyes.
“Is this what you and your boys do?” you ask through gritted teeth, your voice shaking. “Make moves on random girls, take them to hotel rooms, and then fuck them and—”
“No,” he says quickly. He hopes you believe him just this once. “I’m not that type of guy. And I wouldn’t do that. Not to you."
He hesitates, licking his lips, searching for the right words. Because if he’s being fully honest, Heeseung has spent almost every hour of his free time in the last few days trying to find you online. He’s scrolled through countless accounts, only getting as far as seeing your private Instagram account. Too scared to follow. Too scared of rejection. Too scared to cause trouble for the group.
He had a pit in his stomach when you left him, a more intense feeling than when he left his phone in the dressing room. Like he had lost something important. Someone.
And he sees it in your eyes too. How you push down your laughter when he makes a joke. How you leaned into his touch. How your words are sharp, but your pulse hammers fast. “You like me,” he blurts out, not even knowing that he said it out loud.
You laugh. “No. You’re delusional.”
He shakes his head. His grip on your wrist loosens, but his doe eyes stay on yours. You could pull away now. But you don’t. “Then why’d you kiss me back?”
His words hang in the air. And it’s strange because he knows this is stupid. Knows the risk. Knows that his company executives would lose their minds if they saw him like this. But he doesn’t want to think about it. He’s spent every waking moment in the entertainment industry only thinking about his image. He just wants to feel this. To be here with you.
But you’re no good at opening up, at letting people in. And it scares you more than you’d like to admit. “I don’t know,” you finally reply. And he smiles. Heeseung’s hands meet your waist, pulling you into his lap. You don’t resist.
“We just met,” you say, trying not to let the way he wraps your legs around him get to you. His fingers brush gently against your skin, moving the wet strands of hair away from your forehead. “I've known you for less than a day—”
“The best hours of my life,” he interrupts, smiling.
"We’re not even friends—”
“We could be?” Your heart flutters against your will. Screw him for being so charming. For knowing all the right words to say. Against your better judgment, your gaze drifts down toward his lips. You crave them.
“Is this something friends do?” you ask, voice low, leaning into him ever so slightly.
“Something we could do,” he whispers. And you don’t shove him away this time when his lips meet your temple, the area he hit with a door just days ago, and down to your own. His mouth works against yours, tongue pushing deeply into your wet cavern. His large hands roam your clothed back as they slowly trail your bottom
His touches are feather light against the fabric of your pajama pants. He almost lets go when you grab his wrist, only to force him into gripping you tighter. You had no desire to be treated like a delicate flower.
Heeseung takes a handful of you, groaning into your mouth at the feeling of your plushness. God, you have ruined him. He pulls away, awed by the trail of saliva that connects the two of you. He rests his forehead against yours, panting heavy against your skin. You feel him then. His rigidness underneath. You stare up into his eyes, meeting his intense gaze.
Heeseung searches for any semblance of regret in your features. That the pretty pout you give him is all in his imagination. That the short time you shared together did not affect you in the way it fundamentally changed him.
“I want you,” he says, a small whine evident in his voice. His hands don't leave your body. “Please tell me you want me too.”
Your mouth opens, almost ready to give a snappy rejection. But then you’d be lying. So you settle for the truth. “You don’t even know me,” you reply in a low voice.
Heeseung lifts you off of him for a short moment, and you feel the back of your head softly land on the pillow. You lay underneath him now, his wet hair dripping down onto your cheek. On your neck. On every exposed part of your skin.
“But I want to,” he whispers. “If you’ll let me.”
And you don’t know what overcomes you when your fingers find his shirt, pulling open the buttons of his top. Or what possesses Heeseung to push away your fumbling fingers to unbutton your pajamas as well. You shrug off the material, and you hear his breath hitch.
His eyes linger a little too long on your chest. You aren’t wearing a bra. You’d taken it off earlier, too uncomfortable to wear when it was soaked like the rest of your clothing. But you don't mind. Because you admire him, too, in his shirtless form. His toned body, muscular in all the right places. Sweat dripping down his chest from the stuffiness of the room.
You try to prop yourself up on your elbows to get closer to him, but Heeseung stops you. He pushes your shoulders down softly back into the mattress. His lips trace shadows of kisses down your neck until his face hovers over your tits.
Heeseung lands soft kisses around your nipple before swallowing a mound into his mouth, sucking gently as his tongue laps around your sensitive bud. His hand moves to grasp your neglected breast, massaging and switching sides when you whine at the loss of contact.
Your teeth break the skin of your lip, and a metallic taste finds its way to your tongue. He smirks. What did you get out of stifling your sweet moans?
“I think I like you like this,” Heeseung sighs, his mouth parting from you. He lifts his head, eyes never leaving yours, as his index fingers hook the waist of your pajama pants. "Finally quiet for me."
You glare down at him impatiently. "Shut up..."
Your fingers find his, helping him pull down the fabric. He chuckles, but it's stopped short. “Fuck,” he groans when he’s met with bare skin. Your back arches up into his touch.
You’re not wearing panties either, too uncomfortable to wear the soaked fabric against your newly showered skin.
“Were you expecting this today?” he teases, tracing his fingers on your inner thigh. “Didn’t bother wearing anything when you knew you’d be stuck here with me?”
You roll your eyes, trying not to focus on the way his hand inches closer to your nether region. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Heeseung leans down, face just above your torso. He gives a teasing lick at your navel, one that makes you grasp onto his shoulders from the warmth of his tongue. He pays you no mind, lowering himself down and peppering kisses on any part of your skin that his mouth can touch. And when you think he would stop at the place you needed him most… he doesn’t.
He moves lower, his wet pink muscle licking down your thigh, to your knee. All the way to your ankle until he reaches the very tip of your toes. Like he's teasing you. But not for him. No, this is his indulgence.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, as his face travels back up and in between your legs. “Every part of you.” You bite the inside of your cheek. He shouldn’t be talking to you like this. Or else you’ll start to forget who he is. A stranger. An idol. Your nemesis.
Heeseung's palms spread your knees apart, pressing his lips against your inner thigh. He laps at your soft skin, his eyes never leaving your furrowed brows of pleasure. You take hold of one of his hands, intertwining your fingers. You don't know why you do it, but it feels right to have your palm in his. It's intimate. More intimate than how his mouth hovers over your sensitive clit. He gives an experimental lap of his tongue.
“Ngh—” you almost let out, but you bite your lip again. Heeseung chuckles against you. His hand clenches yours, giving kitten licks on your wet folds.
“Pretty here too,” he mumbles, before licking a long stripe up to your clit. He stays there, dragging his tongue around your sensitive nub in circular motions. His free hand grips the plushness of your inner thigh, stretching you out for him further. He wanted access to all of you.
He dips down, mouth finding your entrance, licking up and down and back to your clit. Tongue smoothly gliding over your soaked folds, your clit pulses against the open-mouthed kisses he presses on it. You grind up into him from the wet sensation of his suckling, searching for relief. For him to finally draw it out of you.
Heeseung playfully glares at you, a mischievous grin forming on his face. Then, he nips at your clit, and your hand lets go of his. “Why’d you stop?!” you growl. He chuckles.
“Why are you pretending like it doesn’t feel good?” he shoots back, pressing featherlight kisses above your clit. You whine, annoyed. Your nails meet his hair, digging into his soft locks as punishment.
“Just shut up and do it properly,” you say through gritted teeth, pushing his face down closer to your exposed folds. He resists, looking up at you with a lick of his lips.
“Such a fucking brat,” he whispers, one of his hands finding its way toward your entrance. “Acting like you don't want me...”
His fingers swipe your outer folds, gawking at the milkiness that coats his skin. "...when you're this fucking soaked?"
“Fuck you,” you spit out, wrapping your legs around his head to drag him in. He almost laughs, but you smother any sound that comes from his soft lips. Heeseung laps at your clit, his index finger dipping ever so slightly into your warm, wet folds.
"Oh—"
It's foreign, the feeling of him pushing his digit into you, inch by inch. The way his tongue suckles your nub ever so gently. It's so slow, so cautious. You hate it. Your hips move on their own as you pull away from him, only to thrust up against his hand and back to his tongue. He groans against your pussy, taking the hint.
His wet, pink muscle flicks over your clit over and over, spreading your mess all over his already soaked face. Heeseung adds a second finger, working you open with a twist of his wrist. He rubs against the top of your inner walls, finding your G-spot so easily.
“Fuuuck,” you draw out, back practically off the mattress. He scoffs against your skin, nipping at your inner thigh as he fucks his fingers up into you.
"You like that?" He lifts his head, admiring your angry little face. The way you can still muster a glare with your scandalous moans. The way you don't look intimidating to him at all. Not one bit.
“Fuck you Hee-” His face edges close to your cheek. "Don’t scream my name," he whispers in your ear. His voice is low, teasing. "Someone might hear."
"You're such a dick—" Your complaints are muffled as his mouth crashes down on yours again. You taste yourself on his tongue, eyes clenching as you feel a pressure in your stomach start to build.
Heeseung doesn't mean a single word he's saying. Doesn't actually want you to suppress any of your desperate little sounds from your fuckable lips. No. He wants more than anything to hear it spill out of you. Like you’re his. Like he’s yours.
Your grip on his hair tightens as he pistons in and out of you brutally. The squelching sounds of your drenched pussy fill the room. It's ecstasy, his fingers plunging so deep inside of you. So close. You're so fucking close.
You pull away, lifting one of your hands to your mouth to cover the unbecoming noises that threaten to fill the room. It's too much. He's too much. You can feel it now. His thumb rubbing so deliciously on your clit, applying pressure on the bundle of nerves so deliciously.
Tears prick your eyes as you dig your heels into the mattress. Yes… That's it… Right there— And then, he stops.
"What the fuck!" you groan, eyes clenching from the loss of contact. Heeseung's hands meet your wrist, yanking your hand away from your mouth. He's seething. And you don't get it. Because didn't he just say...?
"I thought you didn't want me to scream," you say through gritted teeth. "I was so close—"
"I don't care," he says darkly, the shadow of him looming above yours. He pushes his palms against both sides of the pillow, leaning down to your face. "Don't hide from me."
You bite back a sour laugh. "Why don't you make up your mind instead of wasting my fucking time?"
Heeseung pulls you up, despite your yelp of protest. He lies down where you writhed underneath him just seconds ago, his hands indifferently clasped behind his head. He's composed, save for the heavy outline of his manhood on the light fabric of the pajama pants.
“Then don't waste mine either," he replies. “Do all the work. If you want to cum so bad.”
You’re tempted by the offer, really. But you know this is just a sick test from the devilish way he looks at you. You would not give in. Could not.
A harsh sound of thunder from the outside interrupts your thoughts, and you flinch once again. And like clockwork, your blood boils. Because Heeseung laughs at you. Again.
“Such a coward,” he chuckles, eyes shamelessly scanning your tits as they bounced from your shock. Your jaw clenches, and before you can hesitate, you climb on top of him. Your legs cage around his middle, and you don't miss the way his eyes flutter.
Without a word, you push his pants low enough to free his hard member. You bite back the gasp that threatens to spill out of your lips when you see his size. So large. So girthy. Tip, a pretty pink. A long vein on his underside. And it makes you see red. Because, of course, a gorgeous guy like him can have a gorgeous dick like this. It isn't fair. Everything about him is perfect.
“Fuck you."
"I'm trying to," he smirks.
You bring your hand to the tip of his cock, spitting on it as you glare up at him. Stupid, idiot Heeseung. Why can’t he just stick it in himself?
Your fingers spread the saliva over his mushroom tip, all the way down to the base of his cock. You take your time, stroking and spreading his precum. His dick twitches when you squeeze him tight. Heeseung bites his lips, watching as you take control. The eye contact. Your fucked out gaze. Finally, you position yourself on top of him. He doesn't try to help, tries to maintain his fake composure. But fuck, he needs you so bad. Your hands guide his cock to your entrance.
You sink onto him, agonizingly and painstakingly slow. A pace that takes everything in him not to just grab your hips and slam himself into you. But he doesn’t. Because the scene in front of him, of you struggling to take in all of his length, of your face contorting into such a lewd expression, makes the temporary frustration worth it. He’s so hard inside you, pulsing with desire. Heeseung is stretching you out so much, even if he’s only halfway into piercing your wet core.
Your brows furrow as you look down at him, gauging his reaction. But he’s so smug, and he’s wearing that stupid smirk on his face that makes you want to smack him. He enjoys this. Relishes watching you work for it. But in the deepest part of your mind, you can’t help but admit that you like how arrogant he looks right now.
It used to be so annoying, seeing this on a screen. But it's so much better in person. He's so much better in person. You lift yourself momentarily to give yourself some relief from the stretch. Your hole throbs around him, and his jaw clenches at how tight it feels when you push back down on him, so close to bottoming out.
“You’re taking me so well,” he sighs out, his hands kneading your breasts to distract you from the pain. To distract himself from how good it feels for his cock to be sinking into you this deeply.
Heeseung’s fingers tug and pinch your nipples as you fall forward enough for your face to hover above his. You let out a silent scream as your hips flush against his, fully enveloping his thickness into your warm, wet folds. He looks at you with such tenderness, a gaze so soft it feels foreign from the mocking smile he gave you earlier.
You try your best to adjust, your gummy walls tightening as you feel him stiffen even more inside you. You bite your lip, but Heeseung looks up at you pleadingly. Like a last resort.
“Say it,” he breathes out unsteadily, fully aware of how hypocritical he's about to sound. “My name.” And even though you find yourself wanting to bite back, wanting to spit at him and tease him the way he teased you... You couldn’t. Because you were past the point of saving face. Of letting your pride get in the way of the pleasure.
And so your hips move on top of him, your palms now landing on his toned stomach for balance. Your movements are deliberate, gyrating your hips in a steady rhythm. You could get addicted to this. To the sight of this tall, handsome man, coming undone underneath you. And so you bounce harder. Faster. Loud enough that the sounds of your ass smacking down on his balls reverberate throughout the dowdy hotel room. The headboard creaks annoyingly against the wall with your breakneck pace.
Heeseung’s hands wander to your thighs, the pads of his fingers digging into your skin. But that’s all. He does not get in the way of your desperate movements; he does not interfere with how erratically you impale yourself on his throbbing cock. You feel it, that familiar bubbling in your core.
“Heeseung,” you finally cry. And it takes everything in him not to cum right then and there. His name never sounded sweeter—not even when fans chant it during concerts. No. This is the best he's ever heard it. So good he should call his parents later to thank them for ever coming up with such a name. “Heeseung," you moan again. "I’m… I’m so…”
His hands squeeze your bottom, guiding you down on his cock. To finally help you reach your peak. Because you’ve given him what he wants. “I know, baby,” he says, the pet name coming out of his lips so naturally. “I know.”
You claw at his chest, gripping onto him as you chase your orgasm. You need it. So bad. And Heeseung finally thinks you deserve it. With every thrust, the tip of his cock almost leaves your tightness entirely until he pushes all the way into you once again. In and out and in and out, he fucks up into you at an unforgivable pace. He smacks your butt ever so slightly, squeezing and pulling them apart. It sends you forward.
“Heeseung—Fuck—I'm—” you scream. Red, hot waves overtake your vision.
Your climax rips through you like a bullet, pussy clenching around him in a vice grip that makes him moan. Your fluids gush out, staining the inside of your thighs as you ride out your much-needed high. You rotate your hips against him needily, muttering sweet nothings as your head falls onto his neck.
He grits his teeth. Trying to keep his breathing even. Because he doesn’t want to let this end, doesn’t know if you’ll ever let him see you again. You lick up at his neck, flinching when he pulls away. “No marks, baby,” he chuckles.
You try not to pout. Like his rejection doesn’t sting you one bit. He sees it, though. The disappointment in your surprisingly coy expression. And he smiles. His lips hover over your neck, too.
“I can give them to you instead?” he offers teasingly, against your skin. He nips just underneath your jaw. “Would you let me?”
You roll your eyes and pull him in closer. You know he’s not done. Know from how fucking hard he still is inside you. And the way he’s been subtly grinding into your soaked folds since you came. So you just give him a tired nod. He's just given you the best orgasm of your life. This is the least you could do.
“Don’t leave too much,” you mutter lazily, but he’s already sucking at your jugular.
His fingers meet yours again, intertwining your hands while his lips move against you feverishly. Even though you’re still so sensitive, so exhausted from the high you just came down from, you move against him once. He pulls you in, for his lips to find yours again. Heeseung’s feet plant themselves on the mattress, fucking up into you with a new sense of urgency.
His thrusts are quick, methodical. So different from how erratically you impaled yourself on him. Heeseung knows what parts of you to hit, knows the deepest ridges his cock can hit within you if he angles his movements just right. And he does. Again and again.
Heeseung's leaking tip kisses your cervix as you moan into his open-mouthed kisses. He lifts himself from the mattress and into a seated position, wrapping his arms around your waist as he tugs you flush against his chest.
“Heeseung—” you cry out at the new angle. He bounces you on him, as his tongue finds your nipples once again. He bites the top of your chest. Nips at the junction of your shoulder. Sucks the underside of your jaw. And he continues to push into you until the sensation in your core is back. Until he starts to feel it himself.
“Shit—” he moans through gritted teeth. “Baby—” Your nails dig into his back as you cry into his shoulder. Your tongue laps at his sweat, trying your best not to bare your teeth.
Heeseung lays you down on the bed now, knees pushing underneath your thighs so he can fuck you better in missionary. He's so close. So desperate to cum. But he wants you to feel it again. Wants you to know what you’d be letting go if you didn’t give whatever this was a chance. Because he wants to see you more. Wants to talk to you more. Wants to fuck you more.
His lips meet yours, but it’s not the messy kiss you thought it would be. It's sweet. Barely there, soft and tender. Like the first one he gave you. And yet, he still pistons into you.
“Oh my god—” Your head spins as you feel the floodgates of your pleasure start to rush out of you once more. Your hips lift into him as you cum for the second time, whining into his mouth at the overstimulation of his brutal pace.
“Me too, baby,” he groans against your lips. “Me too." His movements become irregular, his face reddening with motivation. "Fuck—"
Heeseung pulls out, his fist finding his cock. He strokes himself with such fervor, watching you with hooded eyes. His tongue pokes out of his mouth ever so slightly in focus, so close to reaching his orgasm. It's addicting to witness. How desperate the flick of his wrist is. How tightly he grips himself.
His eyes clench from the fiery sensation that floods his body, groaning as thick ropes of white liquid coat your body. It covers your chest, stomach, and neck like paint. Warm, wet paint. He moans when his eyes meet you again. Because you look so fucking beautiful, covered in his cum and panting underneath him. You really are perfect. He doesn't doubt it all. Perfect for him.
And it doesn’t matter to either of you that the rain had died down by now. That Jay is blowing up the group chat, asking if they want to watch movies in the living room together. Because all he wants to do, and all that he really can do, is get lost in you all over again. He pecks and bites everywhere his lips can touch. On your back. Chest. Neck. Making up for the marks you can never give him.
When morning hits, you expect him to be gone. So you try to wake up before him, before you see an empty bed. Before you get hurt when he ultimately decides to leave without a trace. So when Heeseung is still there, arms enveloping you into his chest, you forget how to move.
7 AM, sleeping through his ten alarms. It’s like deja vu, back to a few days ago when you woke up to the sight of his sleeping form in that studio chair. You were contractually obligated not to say anything back then. So why did he stay? And why is he still here?
You reach out without thinking, fingers tracing the faint line of his brows. It feels unfair, somehow, that you couldn’t admire him this closely before. Maybe if you knew how he’d really be in real life, soft and easygoing, you might give him more grace. But it’s more fun, arguing with him.
“Wake up,” you sigh when his phone goes off again. “Don’t you have work or something?” His naked form stirs, groaning. He pulls you in tighter, and you wonder if he truly is as asleep as he claims to act. The small smile on his face gives him away. “Five more minutes,” he mumbles into your hair, voice low and groggy.
“Maybe for you,” you say. “But I actually need to go home…”
You start prying his hand off your waist, but his eyes flutter open. This grown man pouts at you. “You’re leaving? Already?”
“I don’t know if you know where you are right now, but this is a love hotel. We should’ve left, like, last night.” He groans at the reminder, sitting up on the heel of his palms. The rounds that followed the first... he could never regret staying. Did you?
“I didn’t even get your number yet.” You blink. He was serious about that?
Just refuse, you think to yourself. Go about your day and forget about him. But his gaze is expectant. And you find it hard to refuse him and his stupidly cute face. So you hand him your phone. He hums happily as he types. Too happy.
“Is this covered in the NDA?” you ask, half-joking, half-trying to steady your pulse. The room is engulfed in your mixed scents, and you’re too aware of his body heat.
“No,” he chuckles, as he hands it back. He saves himself as <3 in your contact list. You try not to read into it.
“Can you keep a secret?” he asks. He’s teasing, but there’s a sincerity behind his words.
“What are friends for?” you sigh, tugging free of his hold to pull your now-dry clothes back. But it doesn’t come out as naturally as you intended, and Heeseung’s smile falters a little, too.
He doesn’t say anything, and that silence is somehow worse. Because, yeah. He knows what this can’t be. And you do too. Still, as you tug your shirt back into place, you feel the ghost of his fingers around your waist from moments ago. Warm and gentle. Like that of a lover.
–
So when he’s not working abroad, and when the house is empty on late nights, Heeseung slips in through the back door with his hoodie pulled up and a mask hiding half of his face. He knows exactly where the spare key is buried beneath the flower pot. Knows how early to leave before your parents return from their graveyard shifts. Knows how to stay still in the corner of your room when your sister FaceTimes you.
You feel like shit keeping this from them. Especially when your parents start to complain about missing ramen packs in the pantry. Or when Sophia gushes about how she can’t wait for ENHYPEN’s new album when you’ve already heard the songs spill softly from his lips. It feels like you’re dating your big sister’s crush—except he barely knows she exists. And you aren’t really dating.
But it feels right when he’s with you. When his breath traces your spine, when his fingers find their rightful place on your hips. When he tells you you’re perfect for him. Perfect with him. So much so that you start to believe him.
–
“I’m surprised you’re ever able to wake up for your job,” you mutter as Heeseung buries himself on your chest. He was supposed to wake up from his 15 minute nap ages ago. The promise of starting a new movie together is already long forgotten.
“It’s your fault,” he grumbles into your shirt. “You’re so warm. Like the sun.”
You roll your eyes. “Okay, well can I at least work on a job application or am I going to be forced into laziness like you?”
“You worry too much,” he sighs, like he’s ever had to search for a full-time job in his life. “You’ll find something. Just give yourself some time to relax once in a while…”
He squeezes you tighter, one eye squeezing open to see the cute furrow of your brows. “With me.” And you indulge in him. You let him fall asleep once again, snooze an alarm once or twice, and stroke his cheek. You memorize the angle of his jaw, the piercings in his ears, and the strands of hair that fall on his face.
Because each night, a new part of him slips through your fingers, another thing to lose when he’s off being an idol. How the purple spots on your skin from his bites fade away when he's not there. How the small gifts he buys you are tucked in the corners of your room, away from your curious sister's gaze. Yet still, he lingers in all your five senses.
You see the soft rise and fall of his chest on nights he sleeps over, so overcome with exhaustion that he dozes off in your arms mid-conversation. You hear the edge in his voice when you intentionally troll his games during late-night calls. You smell him in the faint trace of cigarettes suppressed by mint, a habit he never lets you see. You feel him in the quake of your floorboards as he practices new choreography in your room, knocking into shelves without a care, as if the room belongs to him. You taste him in that infamous cloud egg, along with the gentle frustration he tries to mask when you don’t stir it the way he does.
And you wonder if anyone else in arrangements like this notices these things. If they let themselves. Because last time you checked, friends don’t keep video calls running across time zones, waking up to each other's sleepy faces. They don’t fuck each other in the shower and help wash each other’s backs right after. They don’t ask what kind of flowers you like before boarding another flight. No. It’s not normal. You don’t want it to be.
–
“It would be nice,” he says one day. “A picnic by the Han River? We can go tomorrow night.”
You narrow your eyes at him, your attitude the same as it always is. “Are you crazy? What if we get seen together?”
“That’s what the shades, beanie, hoodie, and mask combo is for.”
You roll your eyes. “We might as well just stay inside,” you mutter.
It’s been getting to him, the hours with you that never feel like enough. Sometimes when he sees your Instagram feed, his thumb lingers too long. You hanging out with friends in crowded cafés… He’s envious. Of you. That you get to live your life without the constant fear of being watched. And everyone else. Because they’re with you.
Heeseung sighs. “I just want a change of scenery,” he replies softly. “Can’t we go? Idols go on dates there all the time. They never get caught.”
You scoff. Will this be a date? You want to ask what he means. But you swallow the question down, like you always do, and pretend it doesn’t burn in your throat.
“Aren’t you busy?” you ask. He’s been spending every free moment here, and that isn’t much. A comeback on the way. Endless rehearsals. You wonder why he bothers seeing you at all. He smiles, pressing a kiss on your temple. A new habit he’s formed.
“I make time for you,” he mutters into your hair.
–
Typical of Heeseung, he remembers to bring every kind of snack from the convenience store, yet somehow forgets the picnic blanket. And you forget to wear a jacket, thinking the humid air of summer would still hold its warmth. But it’s surprisingly chilly at 2 a.m., and now you’re enveloped in his hoodie while both of you sit on the damp grass. Your jeans cling to your skin, and his shoulders tremble from the cold.
“If I weren’t an idol,” he asks quietly, overlooking the Han with a beer in hand, “would you still find me handsome?”
“Who ever said I find you handsome in the first place?”
He glares at you jokingly. “Coming from the girl who has me saved as a heart in her contact list.”
“You’re the one who typed that in my phone—”
“But you never changed it,” he cuts in, smirking when you don’t say anything back.
“Sure,” you sigh, relenting to his stupid pout. “I’m sure you would have still been popular if you weren’t famous.” He smiles, sadly. He’d never know. Will never know. “Okay, how about if I were a worm?”
You scowl at him through your mask, and you can’t see the amused expression he wears on his face. Heeseung stays true to his word. He’s covered head-to-toe in black with his cap, mask, and shades. You wonder why he went through the trouble. He looks more suspicious this way.
“How about if you weren’t annoying?” you sigh, and he laughs.
“How’s the job hunt been?” he asks after a moment, glancing at you. He notices the tiredness underneath your eyes. He always does. And you know he feels guilty, though he’ll never say it. That you lose sleep just to see him in late nights like this. That your life had started to bend around his schedule.
“It’s hell,” you sigh, cracking your neck from side to side. “It’s like no one wants to hire these days.”
“I’m sure you’ll find something,” he says reassuringly. “I can ask around the company and maybe put in a good word—”
You shake your head before he can finish. “That’s not fair to you,” you mumble, though a small part of you seriously considers it. You’re not sure you could handle another argument with your parents about your future. “I wouldn’t want you to do something like that for me.”
He looks at you, confusion written all over his face. “What do you mean? That’s what friends are for.”
He says it, like usual, but the hesitation hangs in the air. It hurts to say these days, but it’s the only label that’s true. Still, you can’t help but wonder why he does this. Why he asks you to wait up for his calls, for you to keep him company in the hours no one else sees him. Why he touches you like you mean something to him if all he wants is a friend. Shouldn’t he already have enough of those?
“You know,” he starts hesitantly. Not sure how to tell you. Not sure if he should trust you as much as he already does. It’s been almost two months since that night in the alleyway. “I have a solo project I’ve been working on for over a year. I still haven’t heard back from the company about it.”
Your eyes widen. The songs he’d played for you in passing. Ones you'd Shazam with nothing ever showing up. “They’d be stupid not to,” you reply. “You have an amazing voice.”
He smiles, the soft curve of his lips showing beneath the mask. “And you’re more than capable of landing a job, too. We’re all walking our own paths. So… you don’t need to feel alone. We’re all anxious about something.”
He gives you a reassuring pat on your shoulder. “I believe in you.”
You smile. “Thank you,” you whisper. “That means a lot.”
You wish you could see his doe eyes right now, through his thick shades. Wish you could pull down his flimsy mask and kiss him. Just once in public, without having to think about who might be watching. But you can’t.
Heeseung shivers next to you through his thin shirt. He tugs lightly at your sleeve, which is technically his. “Can I have my hoodie back?” he asks jokingly.
“I don’t know,” you say, faking a pondering look. “I kinda like it. Looks good on me, right?” You strike a pose, hands on your hips.
“You know,” he teases, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were starting to like me.”
You almost unzip the hoodie off your frame, feigning disgust, but Heeseung lifts his hands defensively, still laughing.
“Keep it,” he says through his chuckles. “Wear it when you miss me.”
Your cheeks heat up. “What’s there to miss?” you mumble. “Videos of you are always playing in my living room.”
Heeseung shakes his head. “That’s not me.”
He lowers his sunglasses just enough for you to see his eyes—deep brown, reflecting a bright glow from the dim glow of the street lamps. “This is me.”
He holds his gaze, staring at you with such fondness. It took time for him to get here, to peel back the walls you’d built, to convince you that he wasn’t who you thought he was. And now that you’ve let him in, he wishes he could freeze this version of time. He’d capture this moment forever if he could.
But when Heeseung pulls his mask down for a brief sip of beer, he doesn’t hear it. Neither do you. The faint click of a camera shutter from across the river. Of a fan, hidden in the dark, fingers trembling around her lens. She isn’t sure what she’ll do with the photo quite yet, but she knows this isn’t right.
Because her idol isn’t supposed to be meeting girls like this in the middle of the night. Idols aren’t supposed to sneak into someone’s house far from the center of Seoul whenever they're finished with their overseas schedules. They’re not supposed to look at someone the way he looks at you.
Shouldn’t he know better? He’s an idol. He should act like one.
–
“Who you texting?” Jungwon asks, leaning against the mirror of the dance practice room. Heeseung doesn’t look up. He’s too busy sending you a photo of the new merch line he helped create, a set of cactus pins. He thinks you’d like them.
“My brother,” he lies, straight through his teeth.
“Your brother got you kicking your feet and giggling?” Niki chimes in, doubt etched all over his face. Heeseung only shrugs. “He’s funny.”
But all they’d have to do is glance at his phone screen to catch him in the lie.
Heeseung bites back a smile, ignoring the side-eye of curiosity from Sunoo across the room. The boys never press him much. They respect Heeseung too much to pry, to question the things he keeps close to his chest. But Jungwon breaks the silence.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he says in a low voice. “You know what some fans will do if they find out. It might not be safe for her.”
Heeseung sucks in a deep breath. Because he’s never really thought about it like that before. Not fully. Not beyond the thrill of sneaking out to see you, beyond the warmth that fills his belly whenever you greet him at your door. For the first time, the warmth he usually feels when he sees your name on his screen starts to feel like fear. He swallows hard, locking his phone, forgetting to reply to your message.
“Yeah,” he murmurs after a long pause. “Yeah, I know.” But he doesn’t. He knows he doesn’t. And that makes him feel like shit.
“You’re late,” you say, rolling your eyes when he slips in through the back door. Heeseung massages the nape of his neck, tugging off his mask with the other hand.
“Sorry. Practice was rough,” he groans, already making himself comfortable on your living room couch. He catches what's on the TV. An old fancam of him, mid-performance with his notoriously pink hair.
He turns, smirking. “I thought you said your sister was in Tokyo for a conference,” he laughs, nodding at the screen. “Did this just turn on by itself?”
You bite the inside of your cheek, rushing to the remote to turn it off. “Don’t flatter yourself…”
He stands, pulling you into his arms before you can escape. His warmth seeps through the fabric of his long sleeve as he presses his face into your hair.
“I missed you,” he sighs. You scoff, pushing him back down onto the couch. You straddle his hips, sitting on his lap. He adores you most like this. On top of him. “You say that to all the other girls?” you whisper darkly into his ear.
You don’t know why you say it. Maybe because you’ve been finding yourself scrolling through video after video of people thirsting after him, of him openly flirting with his fans, eyeing the pretty ones like he doesn’t have you waiting for him here. Even if he’s not yours. Even if this was supposed to be casual. You still had the right to be possessive… right?
“Eager today?” he chuckles, eyeing your lips as he subconsciously licks his own. He rubs circles on your lower back with his thumbs. “You know there’s no one else.” You lean into him, planting a delicate kiss on his lips. “So show me.”
Your hands find his hair, and he kisses you harshly as you pull him in. It’s urgent, how quickly the both of you take off your shirts. Most nights that he’s here, you don’t have sex. Which confuses you the most. He doesn’t expect anything from you. Doesn’t touch you when you don’t lean into it, doesn’t press you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with. A friend before the benefits.
So when he’s like this underneath you, desperate and hands all over your body, you let yourself get lost in him. He hoists you closer, pushing your pajama shorts to the side to feel you better. Your panties are soaked through, and those, too, are set aside. Heeseung groans when his digits meet your bare skin, prodding your entrance in an upward motion.
“So fucking wet,” he groans, eyes meeting yours. “Just watching me through a screen has you worked up like this?”
“Shut up,” you mutter, pulling him in by his shirt’s collar and smashing your lips against his.
His fingers enter you, and you’re so used to the size by now that they slide in with little resistance. He basks in your small whimpers above him, wondering how you can still be so sensitive to his touch. He pushes his fingers in as deep as they can go, prepping you for his length. He stretches you out, your head falling on his shoulder from his penetration.
“Don’t watch those anymore,” he whispers teasingly. “You have the real thing right here.”
You palm him through his jeans in response. Harshly. Heeseung groans into your hair. He’s already so hard, his bulge struggling against the tight fabric. He needs you. “You think you can take it right now, baby?” he asks in a hushed tone, like a secret shared between you two. “For me?”
Usually, you’d resist, draw out the time you have with him, and make him pay for having you wait. But it’s been almost two weeks since you last touched him like this. You need him just as badly. You nod your head, grinding into his fingers. Searching for more of him inside you. His palm grinds on your clit roughly.
“N-need to cum,” you cry, moving erratically against him. “Put it in.” He glowers at you through his long lashes. His movements slow down. “Say please.”
You bite your lip. “Don't tell me what to do.”
He pulls his fingers out of you, grabbing your jaw with the same hand. He forces you to look at him. Your vision almost goes red from the frustration. “Don’t be a brat.” You grit your teeth, bringing your hand to your core.
“Well, don't be a dick,” you mutter, as your own fingers slide in. But it’s not enough as you try to reach where he once was. Your fingers can’t go as deep, can’t penetrate yourself in the way that you want. Not since you’ve known Heeseung. Not since his fingers have carved their way inside you. He looks down and almost laughs at your pathetic movements.
“So useless,” he chuckles darkly, releasing his hold on you to unzip his pants. He grips himself through the fabric of his boxers as he stares you down. “Don’t even know how to touch yourself properly.”
And you moan when he pulls the fabric low enough for his dick to slap against his stomach, tip red with anger. He strokes himself languidly, watching you work towards an unachievable high. His hand spreads his precum throughout his length, deliciously coating himself in his stickiness.
Heeseung’s here. He could do this for you. So why can’t he just fucking stuff his cock inside instead of watching you struggle? “Heeseung,” you cry, your fingers aching from the shallow thrusts. “Just… Just need to cum—”
He scoffs. “So why can’t you?” He looks down between your bodies with a hooded gaze at how desperate your movements were compared to his methodical strokes.
“You always have so much to say,” he continues mockingly. “But can’t even make yourself feel good.” And even if he’s not touching you, you feel your resolve breaking. Because he knows exactly what he’s doing. What buttons to push to have your harsh words turn into moans.
“Need you…” You cry, fingers relentlessly jabbing with no luck. “Heeseung. Please. Just put it in.” He smirks. You know what saying his name does to him. “Good girl.”
He pulls your fingers out harshly, and you whine from the loss. It’s short-lived when he aligns his length to your entrance. You’ve exhausted all of his patience, and so he pushes in. Slowly, at first. His eyes screw tight. How are you still so tight for him? You push down, not caring to let yourself adjust. You were past the point of needing it. Though you won’t admit this to him, you’ve been soaked since watching his fancam.
Heeseung bottoms out inside you, your head rolling back at the way he fills every nook of your insides. Your core stretches out around him, clenching tightly against his thickness. “Fuck—” you cry, grinding down on him. Heeseung pulls you in closer, his breath hot and heavy against your heaving chest. He peppers kisses atop your breast to soothe himself. He looks just as needy.
You adjust yourself so that your hands are positioned behind you, holding his knees. Lifting slightly, you impale yourself back down on him. Again and again until you find a steady rhythm. Up and down, gyrating your hips the way you know he likes it. The way he’s taught you. He grabs your ass with both hands, guiding you down his thick cock.
“Fuck baby,” he says through bated breaths. “So good at riding me now…”
“Shut up,” you growl. You can’t cum before him. Your pride wouldn’t let you. Your nails break the skin of his shoulders. He sucks in a breath from the pain. And you shouldn’t be doing this, knowing how any little mark on him could be caught by the watchful eye of the public. But a sick part of you wants the cameras to see… want his stupid ass fans to see who he really belongs to.
“No fucking manners,” he growls, pulling out of you. You cry from the loss of contact, but he pushes you face-first and ass up onto the couch. He pulls down your shorts haphazardly, inserting himself back into your warm, wet folds. Heeseung groans, pushing your head down onto the cushion.
“Hee…Please…”
“Always so fucking rude,” he says as he thrusts into you from behind. His pace is unforgiving and brutal. Your ass bounces against his lower stomach, his fingers digging deeply into your hair to muffle your moans. “Can’t keep your hands to yourself.”
It’s unfair when he’s like this, all riled up. It makes you cum too quickly. “Come on, baby,” he laughs as you claw at the armrest. “Use that pretty mouth of yours now.” He grabs a fistful of your hair, arching you up to crash his lips on yours. It’s messy, all tongue and teeth. Wet, pink muscles battling each other for dominance. You’re close. He is, too. His pace quickens.
“Ngh—Oh my god—OH—”
Your knees collapse underneath you, and he follows, his chest on your back. He thrusts in and out so deeply, tip kissing your cervix as you feel him in your lower stomach. He releases your hair, his lips now finding your back. Heeseung grabs your breasts from behind, kneading them in circular motions as he nips at your skin.
“I’m—Fuck—Please—Heeseung—” You gasp. You can feel it, taste it. He brings his middle finger to your clit, as you push your head down into the armrest to cry out. And it hits you in waves.
You let out a long, drawn-out whine as your climax is dragged out of you. You whine, jutting your hips backward to feel more of him. He chuckles, biting down on your shoulder. You gasp. It’s punishment for the nail marks on his body. He pistons in and out of you until the very last second. Until he reaches the danger zone of cumming inside you without a condom. Because fuck, he loves doing you raw.
Heeseung pulls out, flips you around, and positions his cock just above your face. You put your tongue out on instinct, like you’d been waiting for this. For him. He pushes into your mouth in one swift motion, throwing his head back as his tip hits the back of your throat. The first ropes of cum fill your mouth.
“Fuck baby…” he sighs, thrusting slowly to come down from his high. You suction around him, milking him for all he’s worth. You swallow as much as you can, eyes never leaving his. He relishes in the feeling of you lapping the underside of his cock. He could stay in you forever, but he knows better.
Heeseung pulls out of you with a pop from your mouth. He bites his lip, eyes dark at the seductive sight in front of him. Your hair tousled with droplets of his cum on your chin. “Pretty,” he whispers. He leans down to kiss you, but you turn away.
“I’m gross right now,” you protest, cuter than you intended. You turn away even as he tries to attempt a kiss on the cheek.
“So am I,” he pouts. “Just let me—”
“No,” you scoff, pushing him off. “I don’t know who else you kiss with that nasty mouth of yours.”
He chuckles as you rush to stand with your wobbly knees. He looks at you with a fondness that almost makes you swoon. Almost. “We’re exclusive, aren’t we?”
He has no idea how those words make your chest tighten. “I-I need to clean up…” you mutter, refusing to answer his question. Your fluids shine on your inner thighs, shorts completely disheveled as you hoist them back up. You don’t even know where he’s thrown your shirt.
“Come back!” he calls out, but you’re already running past him and in the direction of your bathroom. Heeseung lies on your couch, reveling in the satiated feeling in his chest, zipping his jeans back up. He could never get bored with you, no matter how hard he tries. He reaches for his phone in his back pocket. A notification lights up the screen. From his manager. A meeting tomorrow. Urgent.
Heeseung feels the pit in his stomach form instantly. A million possibilities run through his head. His late-night disappearances from the dorms. The solo album proposal is still gathering dust on some HYBE executive’s desk. The argument with Jay a few days ago left the younger one teary-eyed. It could be any of those things. It could be all of them. Why just him, though?
“You good?” you ask, waddling back into the living room. You sink beside him. He nods, lips pressed thin.
“It’s nothing,” he replies in a low whisper. He stands up, and you try not to complain as he’s already reaching for his shirt. He usually stays. Usually has time to spend the night.
“You’re going already?” He pulls the long sleeve over his head.
“I got something tomorrow,” he mutters, walking toward the door. He’s already putting his shoes back on. You search his face for something. Warmth, reassurance, even a lie. But all he can spare you is a glance. One that feels devoid of all the emotions he’d shared before. He’d done a complete 180 in a span of five minutes.
“Thank you for tonight.”
And your heart sinks. Because he doesn’t do that, he doesn’t say things that make the sex feel transactional. When he utters those words, when they creep into your ears. Somehow, you feel used. And suddenly, this feels wrong.
Heeseung taps his foot against the wooden floor, the rhythm tense and hollow.
“We’ll move forward with the project,” Manager Jung says, but there’s no warmth in his words. Heeseung imagined this moment differently. An encouraging pat on his shoulder, his members jumping in to congratulate him. But no. He knows there’s something more. A laptop sits ominously on a table beside the older man, its black screen reflecting the overhead light.
“We think your project would be good for the group,” Manager Jung continues. “But we need to ensure the promotions go smoothly. We'll shoot and record everything and release it after the comeback.”
Heeseung nods appreciatively. “Of course—”
“But,” his manager interrupts sharply, “I need to clarify some things with you first.”
Manager Jung moves the cursor of the laptop to click on a tab. A video fills the screen of a hallway in HYBE that Heeseung has walked through millions of times. He swallows, a knot forming in his stomach. The camera lingers on the familiar concrete floors and fluorescent lights… until it lands on him. Bringing you into the building. Leaving in the morning.
“Heeseung,” the older man says steadily, stopping him. “You brought a non-staff member to our company building and, without permission from any of us, took a taxi with her—”
“That’s—”
“And both the taxi driver and a love hotel receptionist tipped a journalist that an idol who matched your description was with a girl,” he continues. “Is that true?”
Heeseung’s chest tightens. But how could they know? How would they know? “That was months ago!”
“So who is she to you now, Heeseung?”
He freezes. There’s so much to say, too much to explain. But his manager would never understand. They never do. “Please,” Heeseung chokes up, his throat failing him. “I’ll be more careful. W-we don’t meet in public—”
“Do you know how much it costs to pay that journalist off?” Manager Jung asks coldly. “Do you know how hard I had to fight for this project to be greenlit? The project you begged for.”
“And I am so grateful,” Heeseung blurts out. “I promise. This won’t happen again—”
“It won’t,” he replies flatly. “Make sure it won't, Heeseung."
His manager shuts the laptop down forcefully, standing up. He looks down at Heeseung with a hardened gaze. "You owe the others an apology," the older man continues. "As the oldest member, you hold a responsibility to set a good example for them.”
That’s the word. Responsibility. He'd almost forgotten. His hands dig into the material of his pants, nails threatening to rip through. He stands up, his head low, and bows deeply to his elder.
“I’m sorry.”
–
<3: can’t come tn i have practice
It’s the third time he’s turned down your invitation to come over. And yet, he’s just a few bus rides away. The nights he melted against your skin, the endless hours wrapped in each other, and talking about the future like they were concrete. No matter how busy he'd get, he still found time for you. And now he can’t bother to text you most nights.
You wonder if maybe he’s tired of you. Maybe he finally dropped the nice guy act he wore so well. Maybe there’s someone else. Maybe there are a thousand reasons you’ll never know, and you'd still have no right to ask. Because you don’t know what this is or what it's turned into.
And you understand that he’s busy. You do. But it still hurts to only see him when Sophia’s playing their music videos in the living room, a memory of him on that same couch that feels so far away now. “What do you do,” you ask your sister, in a rare moment of vulnerability, “if a guy starts acting distant with you?”
Sophia grimaces. “I don’t know. Don’t ask me about real men.”
You roll your eyes. “What do you call those freaks then?”
You point at her phone, where she’s scrolling through ENHYPEN edits like a woman hypnotized. “They’re better than men,” she says, like that explains everything.
Something tugs at your chest. Because no matter how many albums she buys, no matter how many calls she gets to fumble through with shaking hands, she will never truly know Heeseung. Nor would she actually want to.
She’ll never know how petty he is after a disagreement, asking for examples of all his wrongdoings just to put you on the spot. How hoarse his voice gets when he goes through packs of cigarettes and vape pens, only cooling off from them when he knows he'll have to interact with fans that day, or when he's recording something. How utterly imperfect he truly is. Because he is just a man, capable of having flaws and making mistakes.
Would she still love him if she knew that Heeseung? Would she still smile at his face on her screen if the qualities that made him human bubbled above the surface?
“So stop following him around,” you mutter under your breath. She pays you no mind.
“What’s the point anyway?” you continue, riling yourself up. “What do you get out of it?”
Sophia finally looks up, glaring. “You just don’t get it,” she sighs, shaking her head.
"No," you shake your head. "You don't." But, she’s already back to smiling with that deranged look in her eyes.
“Oh my god! Heeseung just posted on Weverse! He never does that—” You storm upstairs. Shame burning at the back of your throat. Because even as you reach for your phone, checking the last message you sent, reality is cruel.
you: interviewing for a job this week. so nervous.
Left on read.
You feel no better than Sophia, waiting for <3 to light up your screen. It’s pathetic.
–
It’s intentional, how dry he is. How distant.
“How’s the album coming together?” Jake asks, sitting beside him on the practice room floor.
Heeseung shrugs, a lump already forming in his throat. It’s hard to talk with any of them these days. The other boys live easier lives, dating other idols or stylists they can see without fear. They can meet at high-profile after parties, share romantic whispers backstage. He can’t.
He can’t be seen with you anywhere. Can’t linger too long on the sidewalk of your place or answer your calls if a single stranger might overhear.
“We film everything next week.” The younger man stares at Heeseung with a faint curiosity.
“I’ve been wondering,” Jake presses. “Did you change some of the lyrics?”
Heeseung nods. He was never ever really satisfied with his music. Constantly rewriting. The love songs he wrote always sounded too generic, written in the way he thought fans could imagine themselves being sung to. But the new lyrics, he can be proud of. Replaced with words that remind him of private moments in your room, of references he hopes no one will catch. Except you.
“They sound good,” Jake continues through Heeseung’s silence. “They sound a lot more heartfelt.” Heeseung nods again, but his eyes are somber. He brings his vape to his lips, already exhausting it of all its citrus flavor. His second cart this week.
Jake looks at him, concerned etched all over his face. "Slow down with that."
How obvious is it to everyone else? That he's slowly dissolving. Does Jake see it? Do the boys? Would the fans? No. They can't.
And he inhales another drag despite Jake's protests, punishing himself with the harsh burn in his throat.
–
The late-night calls disappear. The updates he’d give you on their new songs feel like years away. And after an interview that seems more promising than the rest, one that feels like it could lead somewhere, the screen in front of you blinks with a headline of an article.
Heeseung Of ENHYPEN Set To Release Mini-Album
Your eyes drift to the last text he sent you. A week ago. And you wonder why this hasn't been mentioned. He must’ve known, right? He’d been babbling for months about this project. Showing you demos, asking for your opinion. You heard those songs before his own members did. So why didn’t he tell you?
You’re the type to take a hint, to know when you’re not wanted. You stopped trying to reach out after the first three texts were ignored. But it’s hard to let go. Maybe because you’ve told him so much about yourself. Maybe because you know so much about him. It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself. It’s casual. Temporary. Always was. Still. Fuck him.
“I don’t know how to feel about Heeseung releasing a solo,” Sophia sighs, sprawled out on the couch. “I feel like he’s not ready.”
You wish she’d just shut up about him. Delete his playlists, tear down his posters, anything so he won’t keep existing in this house, he would always sneak into.
“I mean, what if the music he makes is shit?”
“You’ll find a way,” you sigh, exhaustion evident in your voice. “You with your blind loyalty.”
Sophia turns to you with a hint of hurt in her eyes, actually listening to you for once. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Prove me wrong,” you mumble. “Give me one critique about that guy that doesn’t end with you just swooning right after.”
She rolls her eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with him. What could I even say? That he’s too perfect?” The corner of your eye twitches just a little. Of course.
“The only thing that would pop your Heeseung bubble,” you start, “is if he started dating someone.”
Sophia scowls. “No—”
“Yes,” you interrupt. “That asshole could kill a puppy and you’d still put him on a pedestal.”
Sophia throws a pillow at you. “Good thing Heeseung isn’t the asshole you think he is.”
You bite your tongue. If she knew, would she even care? About him? About you? “Trust me,” you scoff. “He is.”
–
“What are you doing here?” you ask bitterly, as a familiar masked figure lingers at your back door. He’s wearing a beanie that hides the color of his hair, and the dark rings under his eyes are more prominent now than they’ve ever been. He didn’t even text you that he was coming. Just showed up.
“Can I come in?” he asks quietly. Normally, he wouldn’t. Now he waits at your door like a stranger. You step aside hesitantly, letting him through. Heeseung doesn’t take anything off. Doesn’t even untie his shoelaces. You narrow your eyes, the scent of smoke so palpable. He used to be so good at masking it.
“If you have something to say—”
“We need to talk." He cuts you off, keeping his gaze on the floor. Hands buried in his pockets so you wouldn't see how badly they were trembling.
“Then speak,” you say sharply. “Don’t waste my time.”
More than you already have, you want to add. More than he’s already taken from your once monotonous life. More than the color he splashed within it.
His voice is shaky, faltering under your watchful gaze. He knew this would be hard. Knew he was never good at letting things go. “We can’t do this anymore,” he finally says. “I can’t… I can’t fuck things up right now.”
You can only laugh. To you, it’s already ended. One week of silence was enough to scrub him from your mind. Almost. “You didn’t even need to tell me,” you mumble. “I could already tell.”
He finally looks at you. His eyes are wet. “It’s not you—”
“I know it’s not,” you interrupt venomously. “You’ve always been the problem.”
You turn away before he can see what he’s done to you. Before he can see the tears threatening to spill. “If that’s all,” you say, swallowing hard. “Then feel free to leave.”
He moves to take a step forward, but he knows it’s not right. Minimizing risk. That’s what he was here for. “Our texts,” he begins, voice strained. “Anything you have with me in it… could you delete them?”
You whip your head around, the tears that streak your cheeks glistening under the light. He sees them now. He forces himself to stay where he is, forces his hands to be useless at his sides. To not admit that this isn’t what he really wants.
“Are you serious?” you ask, taking a step towards him with folded arms. “You don’t trust me?”
“It’s not that,” he replies quickly with pleading eyes. “Everything you have... it could be used against us. I’m trying to protect you.”
You look at him with disgust, one that he cowers under. “You’re protecting yourself.”
You thrust your phone into his chest. “Delete everything,” you say through gritted teeth. “There’s nothing I want to remember anyway.”
Heeseung flinches, his hands shaking when he takes the phone from you. He types in your password the way he has countless times before. Memorized it like every other part of you. He blocks his own number, deletes the folder of photos you kept of him, and the endless messages. He erases the proof that he ever existed in your life. He wasn’t meant to be in it anyway.
When he returns your phone, the shame creeps up again. “I didn’t want to say goodbye like this—”
“How else would we say it?” you scoff. “What, did you want to fuck one last time?”
“You don’t know what it’s going to be like when people find out," he murmurs. "You’ll be in danger—”
“Trust me,” you say, unconvincingly, through your wavering voice. “I want to forget about what happened between us just as much as you do.”
Heeseung searches your gaze, but it breaks him. You’re not his girlfriend. You can never be. “If people find out,” he tries again, softer. “They’ll ruin everything.”
You shake your head. “They don’t have to,” you whisper, knuckles white around your phone. “You already did.”
Heeseung sucks in a deep breath and takes a step back. He deserves it. Really, he does. He deserves the hurt, the anger, the coldness. He can only blame himself. He moves toward the door.
“It’s funny,” you whisper as his hand reaches the door handle. “You’re exactly who I thought you'd be.”
He pauses, turning to face you once again.
“A pushover.”
You take a step toward him.
“A suck-up.”
And another. Close enough now that he can hear the shake in your breath.
“A fucking liar.”
Heeseung doesn’t say anything back. Doesn't flinch this time. He can’t. Because if this moment ends with him refuting you, it would be a lie.
No matter how much he wishes he could stay and comfort you, he still opens the door and walks away. He has to.
–
The click of a camera sounds off from across the street. From a seething silhouette. She stares at the familiar cadence in his steps as he leaves your house. He doesn’t notice her presence. Never does.
She doesn’t know that he’s already said his goodbyes, doesn’t know that it took everything in Heeseung to leave. All she thinks about is herself. About what he’s done. And how he needs to suffer the consequences of his actions.
–
And when he gets back to the dorm, Heeseung lets his bedroom door slam behind him. Sliding down the door until he’s sitting on the floor, knees drawn up. He ignored Niki’s greeting in the hallway. Pushed away the hollowness that consumed him. Until it all comes crashing down on him now. He buries his face in his hands and lets it happen this time. The tears, the regret panging against his chest.
Tomorrow, he’ll be like new. He’ll be the Lee Heeseung everyone knows. Calm. Composed. Able to roll with the punches that come with life. But for now, he is the Lee Heeseung he hates, the one who misses you. The one who aches with every being with the guilt of the overwhelming warmth he feels with you. Heeseung wipes his face with the back of his sleeve, breath trembling.
Love stories don’t always have a happy ending in his line of work. He’s an idol for god sake. He needs to act like one.
–
You’re wearing a black blazer, one Sophia gave you when she first landed her corporate job. You don’t fill it out in the same way she does, but still. You think you look good. The first time in a while where you felt like you’re heading somewhere productive.
And you’re proud of that, of yourself. Of the stubbornness it took to keep trying. Even when your thoughts keep drifting toward him. How he so vehemently believed in you. How he understood you. But it’s been days now since he wiped away his presence from your life. Weeks since he acted like you mattered to him.
“Sophia,” you call out from atop the staircase. “How does this look for the second round?”
And when you descend, hoping to see your sister’s grin, you are met with a coldness so abrupt it stops you mid-step. She sits frozen on the couch, jaw clenched, nostrils flared. Your eyes travel down to the phone on her lap, on a screen that you can barely make out. But you do. Your stomach drops, eyes flickering between her hardened stare and the phone.
“I-I can explain,” you stutter out, voice cracking as she rises to her feet. She doesn’t answer, brushing past you and disappearing into her room.
“Sophia, please—” The soft click of her bedroom door locks behind her.
–
“What did I tell you?!”
Manager Jung’s voice echoes off the mirrors of the practice room. Heeseung barely has time to react before the older man shoves his phone inches from his face, backing him into the corner like he’s seventeen again. Like he’s a defenseless little trainee. The screen shows a tweet. Fifty thousand likes from an anonymous account, posted just last night.
Idol shamelessly dating in public. #LeeHeeseung #ENHYPEN
Heeseung's throat dries. It's pictures he’s never seen before, but he knows them well. The wet grass. The wind cutting colder than it should have been on a summer night. Your voice, muffled by the black mask he made you wear. Though your face is blurred, he knows it’s you by the shape of your hands, by the hoodie you still hold hostage.
He scrolls. Another photo of him leaving your house, hood up and head down. Even on the day he called it quits. A shiver runs down his spine. Your name is written in the post’s quotes from a different account, along with your graduation photos. Unblurred. They know. They already fucking know.
“What did I say?” his manager snaps. “Stay out of trouble. Was that so hard?” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “They’ve already started sending funeral wreaths to the company.”
Heeseung doesn’t answer, his pulse ringing in his ear. He’s seen this all before with his idol friends, with the other members. Seen how badly a dating rumour can ruin a career. But you’re a normal person. You never asked for this. You’re not built for this scrutiny. He is. He’s supposed to be.
“Lie low,” Manager Jung continues. “Don’t say anything. We’ll instruct her to stay silent, too. The news will pass.”
Heeseung glares at the older man, his voice dark. “What about her? How are we going to protect her?”
His manager raises an eyebrow. “That’s not our responsibility." Heeseung’s eye twitches.
“Besides,” the older male starts, “if she says anything to imply a relationship, then we’ll have to take legal action. It’s defamation.”
Heeseung’s fingers curl into a fist so tight his nails dig into his palm. It would be so easy to swing his arm at the man he once respected and make him shut up. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t even say anything. Because he’s exactly who you think he is.
A pushover.
–
jungwononly: BELIFT isn’t saying anything so it must be true
xxenhaxx: i know her. she’s not even pretty lolol
Gobigorgohome: Wow lee heeseung dates his fans what a fucking loser. she goes to concerts with her sasaeng sister lolol
anonymous101501: die bitch.
You read comments until your eyes sting, until their words jumble together. Strangers dissect your life and worth like it’s second nature to them. You wonder how he puts up with this every day, reading the insults that many write about him. How he put up with you and the assumptions you made about him.
You tell yourself you’re strong, that this shouldn’t get under your thick skin. But if you thought you couldn’t escape Heeseung before, you truly can’t now. Ever since the photos came out, ever since your address got leaked to the whole internet, every part of your existence has become tethered to him.
The street outside your house is no longer quiet, raw eggs splattered all over with yolk drying on the concrete of your front steps. A mess you can’t even come outside to clean up anymore.
Your parents ask if you’re okay even though they aren’t themselves. They leave earlier for work to avoid the onslaught of cameras and people, holding their tongue when insults are thrown their way. And Sophia. She hasn’t spoken to you in days. Her door stays shut, ENHYPEN merch all sitting in boxes outside her door. You’ve knocked. Tried to speak to her. Tried to apologize. But she’s shut you out.
You hear the fans’ chants through the walls, voices blending into each other that they almost become white noise. Another egg slams against your window. Fake blood spreads across your front door in abstract streaks. You bury your head under the pillow, hands pressed tight against your ears, but it doesn’t help. Their words still seep in.
Slut. Leech. A nobody.
–
“Have you checked up on her?” Jungwon asks quietly, voice breaking the silence of the dorm’s living room. “I think some fans found her address.”
Heeseung sighs, eyes fixed as he scrolls through X. Deactivated accounts, pitch black profile pictures. Fansite after fansite. Closed. Even ones opened since his debut. Fans who told him that they’d support him no matter what. Gone like they never existed.
“It’s not like I can reach out,” he says finally, voice low. “I had her block me.”
He taps on a shaky video of an older man sweeping the sidewalk, gathering shards of glass and broken eggshells. Heeseung feels like he's been punched in the gut. He recognizes your house, the blue gate he used to pass through to get to the back entrance.
He watches the older gentleman bend down to clean the mess that people left behind. The fake blood, the paper signs with death threats. The face of a man he never got to introduce himself to. Only ever seeing his pictures when passing glances at them on your living room wall.
Your father, exhausted and defeated. He has to blink a few times to stop his eyes from burning.
Jungwon pats his older member’s shoulder gently. “This will blow over soon,” he says, trying to sound hopeful.
But Heeseung just shakes his head. “I should’ve been more careful,” he says, voice trembling. “I shouldn't have dragged her into this mess.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Jungwon replies, sitting next to him.
“It’s ridiculous,” Heeseung scoffs bitterly. “How do they expect me not to say anything?”
He sets the phone down on the table, face pressed into his hands. Nothing he does now will make it better. He’s broken too much, jeopardized everything. But the solo project will continue as long as he continues to stay silent. That's what matters, right? His career?
But still. He misses you... and the way you made him feel. He wonders what that feeling is.
–
By now, the sound of shouting outside has become the norm. You barely sleep, flinching every time a sound comes from outside. You’ve started playing music throughout the whole house just to drown them out.
So when you hear the front door open, your feet carry you downstairs with panic. You don’t know what you’re running towards. Your parents aren’t home at this time of day. It might be an intruder. But no. It’s Sophia. She’s standing. With a carton of her own eggs, pelting the small crowd of girls outside your gate.
“Do you all have nothing better to do?!” Sophia screams. “Why the fuck are any of you still here?! It’s been three days!”
You freeze, a few steps behind her. And somehow your heart feels full. You thought she’d be against you, outside with the rest. Calling you all kinds of insults. But here she is, hair messy, still in her pajamas, defending you like the big sister she is. It’s been a while since she’s acted like one.
“Do you all really think you have a chance with him? Just say you’re jealous and leave you bitches!”
You laugh in what feels like ages. Sophia. Mentally unstable Sophia was actually helping you. That’s more you can say about some others. You push past her, showing your face for the first time to the brigade outside your door. She glances at you with worry in her eyes. You squeeze her shoulder in reassurance. You can defend yourself.
But when you see them now, your gaze softens. Most of them are kids. Preteens and teenagers. Victims of an idol industry that encourages this behavior, encourages them to think that they own the idols they worship. That they know him. That they own him. You exhale. BELIFT’s warning email is still fresh in your inbox and in your memory.
Do not engage. Do not respond publicly.
Fuck that.
“You should all be ashamed of yourselves,” you say to the crowd. “What does any of this accomplish?”
“Shut up, old hag,” one screams. You scoff.
“Go to fucking school or something,” you call out. “Live your life. Literally do anything else.”
“Leave Heeseung alone!”
“Do you think I control him?!” you cry out, pointing at the crowd furiously. “You all fucking do! You get to decide what he’s allowed to be. What he’s allowed to feel. Congratulations! He’s all yours.” Sophia almost holds you back, guiding you closer inside.
“Are you dating him?” one cries in the crowd. “Who is he to you?!”
You heave out a deep sigh, softening your voice. Their phone cameras are pointed at you now.
“Who is he?” you swallow. He’s a lot of things. Kind. Awkward. Always overthinking. Too obsessed with how other people view him. Too in his own head about the kind of person he should be.
“I don’t know,” you say with a wavering voice. “The Heeseung you're all so obsessed with… I promise you, I don’t know him. And I wouldn't want to.”
You turn away before anyone can shout at you again and close the door behind you. A silence follows, one that seems so foreign now. Sophia is staring at you, eyes wide in fear. When she sees a tear slip down your face, she doesn’t say anything. She just steps forward and wraps her arms around you. Because you never cry. Not in front of her at least.
You don’t try to stop the sobs that come as you sob against her shirt. “I’m so sorry, Sophia,” you hiccup.
She rolls her eyes. “Why are you sorry?”
“I thought you’d hate me,” you huff out between choked breaths. She wipes your tears away and sighs.
“I realized you were right, you know? My bubble was burst. I have absolutely no idea who he is.” Her gaze is so soft on yours. “But it seems like you do,” she continues with a smile, tucking a hair behind your ear. “And Heeseung is whatever. But you’re my sister. If you’re dating him and he makes you happy, then who the fuck am I to say anything?”
“S-so we’re okay?”
She crinkles her nose. “I promise you I’m not mad,” she mumbles. “Even if you took my man.”
You cry even harder. Because she’s trying to be funny, but nothing about this is. He’s not yours either.
–
When the news dies down and excuses are made when he’s absent from public appearances, Heeseung still can’t shake away the dread. The public has convinced themselves that it was all shock marketing for his solo. Or a rivaling fandom that wanted to sabotage his project. Anything but the truth.
Because you lied for him. You danced around the topic of your relationship, told the impressionable fans outside your door that he was no one to you. And it worked.
Sitting in a styling chair, Heeseung wonders if any of this is worth it. A life where he hides behind other people’s decisions. Where he has to pretend that what he had with you meant nothing.
“All she had to do was stay quiet,” Manager Jung mutters beside him, replaying the clip of your speech at your house on his phone. “But this might be good. Maybe it will take the heat off of us—”
“And what?” Heeseung interrupts coldly. “Put it on her?”
“The company is still cleaning up after your mistakes, Heeseung—”
“By doing nothing?”
Heeseung stands up, his stylist moving away from him. He’s never one to yell, always calm and collected. But he’s tired. So fucking tired. “It’s not her fault that this happened, so why should she have to deal with everything by herself?”
“You put this on her,” his manager snaps. “Not us. So how about you lower your tone when you speak like that?” He’s right. The whole room is looking at him. Staff members who've only ever seen him with a polite smile on his face are wide-eyed and nosy, stopping their camera adjustments to hear him better. They wait for him to apologize. And Heeseung grits his teeth.
He can’t keep acting like the perfect person they want him to be. “Then…” he breathes out, voice quieter. “I want to release a statement.”
Manager Jung’s appearance darkens even more than it already has. “No, Heeseung,” he sighs. “No. That’s not your decision to make.”
Heeseung scoffs under his breath. “Yes. It is.”
He turns around, wiping the sweat off his brow, ignoring the frantic calls behind him. Before he can talk himself out of it, he is out the door. He leaves his phone behind. It doesn’t seem as important as this does now.
Like he has countless nights before, he takes that 30-minute bus ride. Gets off at the stop that's a ten-minute walk from your house, which is still trashed with litter. He doesn’t stop at the front gate, aware that maybe some fans were still there watching. Not that he cares anymore. It’s way past that point. He comes in through the back and knocks. But it’s not you.
Your sister answers. He lowers his mask to give a shy smile. She freezes, grabbing onto the door frame to prevent her from fainting. Old habits die hard. But she tries to harden her expression. You told her everything after all. NDA be damned.
“W-what do you want?” Sophia says, attempting to toughen her exterior. “She doesn’t want to see you right now.”
He swallows. “But is she here? I just want a second with her.”
He gives her the most pleading look he could muster. “Please?”
She glares at him. The remaining delusions she had of this man dissipated with the wind. Those times you’ve complained about a mysterious boy who mysteriously ghosted you. He looked pathetic like this. Clad in all black, hidden from the world, and begging for a chance to speak with her little sister.
The version of Heeseung that she thought she knew… he’s not as perfect as she thought he was. “What’s in it for her?”
He licks his lips, voice low as a whisper. “I just need to tell her,” he mutters, “everything I couldn’t before.”
–
Even after the stunt you pull, you hear nothing from him. Not on the news. Not on social media. You refresh your search on him. He's still preparing for his solo album. Good for him. His life didn't change. But yours did.
“Get your ass out of bed just this one time,” Sophia cries, trying to pull the blanket off your figure. “Don’t you want to celebrate the new job?!”
You groan, burrowing deeper into your warm cocoon. It was a miracle you even got the email. You still half-expect another one to appear saying "Sorry, due to recent events..." But somehow, the offer stuck. You start next week. And you were more than willing to spend every second until then under self-appointed house arrest. You grunt, kicking blindly in her direction.
“Hey!” she hollers. “No one’s even out there anymore. I promise it’s safe.”
You roll your eyes. “Where would we even go? I don’t wanna go to a stupid club-”
“Just a night out,” she says quickly. “Free drinks and food. Everything on the house.”
Free food? You sit up, eyes crusty from all the scrolling. Even the world's toughest battles couldn't change your love for free stuff from your sister. She knows you too well.
“I don’t have anything cute to wear,” you mumble out, excuses falling from your lips. “And if I get mobbed outside, I might end up fighting someone.”
“Let me take care of it,” she says softly. “Just… Let me make it up to you. For that night.”
You blink at her. The night you met Heeseung. Why was she bringing that up now? Why was she suddenly trying so hard? But she stares at you with pleading eyes. “Fine,” you mumble. Sophia smiles at you.
“You can’t stay inside forever,” she says. “Celebrities deal with this all the time. You’ll live.”
“I’m not a celebrity,” you snort.
“Good thing too,” she scoffs, flicking your forehead. “Not with that hairdo.”
She leaves the room for a second, coming back with a beautiful silk dress. A delicate floral print adorns the off-white material, with brooches adding a touch of elegance to the dress. It’s a gift, she says. Just trust her.
You don't notice how the tag in the back says Prada. You think nothing of it when she’s spraying you with a fruity perfume, dousing your hair in product that slicks your hair in the right ways. You’re both out the door, in a taxi that feels far less elegant than the dresses you wear. The car stops in front of an old-timey theater in a more upscale part of the city, an expensive-ass opera house.
Yes, your sister was horribly irresponsible with her money. She once bought a $1000 keychain she saw Heeseung and Sunoo wear on their bags just so she could match with them. But how badly did she want to cheer you up? This part of Seoul wasn’t accessible to people like you. Not in your tax bracket.
You both approach a well-suited man at the end of a long hallway who greets you with a guest book in hand. “Names?”
And when your sister takes the lead, hand wrapped around your arm as she pulls you into a fancy waiting area, your eyes flutter in confusion. High tables with no chairs that are more for socializing than eating. People buzz around, networking.
“Where the fuck are we?” you mutter into her ear. "Did you take me to your work event?"
She shakes her head. “A friend of mine invited us,” she whispers. “Don’t worry about it.”
Sophia stops a server with a tray of finger foods that look too delicious to eat. You do it anyway with a fake sort of grace. Though you felt stuffy in the tight dress Sophia forced you into, it does feel nice to pretend once in a while. Like you have your shit together like everyone else.
Next thing you know, a group of servers is ushering you both into a small auditorium with dark walls and red chairs. It fills in quickly, overlooking a stage with black curtains and the golden amber hues emanating from the lamps strewn across the stage. And the prettiest of pink roses accent the piano and floor. Your favorite.
Sophia forces you to take a seat in the corner of the theater. Your attention is diverted to the stage where a lady with a mic greets the guests. She talks for a while, though you have a hard time listening when you notice a row of people with large cameras rush up to the front.
“We ask that you leave flash photography for after the number,” the lady says. “Videos may be uploaded with permission from our team. Again, we are so happy that you have all joined us for tonight’s release party.”
A what? You stare at Sophia, wide-eyed and clueless. You clutch her forearm. “Release party?”
A soft piano hums through the room as everyone gathers around, fixating their gazes on the stage. At the very front, you spot six men. Ones you’ve seen countless times before, all dressed as dapper as everyone else. And you freeze. “Sophia—”
She shushes you, forcing you to look at the stage. The lights dim, and a spotlight trails to the left. A man walks out from the black curtain, hidden behind a black fedora. In any other setting, you would have laughed, but the dark gingham suit he wears fits well with the golden hues of light. The stranger’s brown hair peeks through. You see him better now that he lays the hat gently on the piano. Fuck.
He takes a gentle hold of the mic, singing with an ease that only he could, a soft melody carried by his clear voice.
Lee Heeseung, with his cheeky smile and pouty lips, searches the gaze of the crowd with his hands tucked into his pants. Like performing is as easy as breathing. And you almost melt from the sight of him, but you wear a hardness on your face that masks the fast beating of your heart. His eyes search the room, the lyrics flowing from his lips.
“So this is love…” He turns his head, finding you in an instant. “I know it is.”
And the moment passes. He continues his performance, while you fall apart at the seams. Heeseung takes off his suit jacket, rolling up his sleeves as the music quickens.
He sneaks in glimpses of you. Your watery eyes are reflecting so beautifully off the golden stage lights. He loses himself in the music. His music. Everything he’s ever wanted to say, everything he’s ever wanted you to hear. For you to know him. For you to see him.
When it ends, he gives a bow so slight. And his eyes find yours again.
–
“I’m leaving,” you say, standing up from the suede red chair without a second thought. You rush out, Sophia chasing after you.
“Stop that,” she tries to match your speed, failing miserably in her high heels. “I’m not letting you.”
“No, fuck this,” you mutter. Rushing past the theater doors, you turn your head towards her. “Why’d you even bring me here?”
“Please, just hear him out,” she sighs. “He wanted to see you after his performance.”
“Why?” you mock. “So he can see how I’m doing after he’s rubbed whatever that was in my face? So he can tell me he made the right decision?”
“He deserves a second chance,” she pleads, your steps finally coming to a halt. She tries to grab your hand, but it’s balled up into a fist. She settles for your elbow instead.
“Of course you would say that,” you laugh bitterly. “So what did he promise you? Tickets to their concert? A backstage pass? Did he offer to take you to a fucking hotel right after?”
“Stop—”
“No!” you cry, tears ruining you’re makeup. “I’m done. I don’t need this shit. I don’t need him.”
You pull away from her, your high heels clacking against the marble floor. She follows you, silent now. You push down the pathetic sobs that exit your mouth, sighing in relief when you see the outside. But it’s strange. A black van is parked on the curb with an open door. Like it’s waiting for you. You hesitate, backing away until you feel the warm press of your sister’s hands on your back. She inches you toward the vehicle.
“W-what?” You try to turn, but the ground beneath you disappears as Sophia gives you one big push. You fall into the car, your knees landing on the dark carpet.
“OW—” And you see who’s inside, at the back, waiting for you. He holds a bouquet of pink roses wrapped in white paper with pleading doe eyes and a nervous grin, a suit vest that perfectly hugs his frame. You shake your head, lifting yourself onto your palms. Sophia pushes your feet into the car forcefully, and you throw her a panicked look.
“This is me trying to make it up to you.”
Quickly, she slides the car door. "What the fuck—"
Heeseung offers you a hand. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, flinching slightly when you push him away. “This was the only way I could reach out.”
“And whose fault was that?” you scoff, trying to open the door. But there's a child lock.
"Is this your plan? Try to kidnap me and apologize?"
He purses his lips. "Please. Just give me a few minutes of your time."
You look up at him, the roses in his hand, and the softness in his demeanor. You couldn't forget him even if you tried. So you sigh, sinking into the back seat with him. He lays the roses down to sit between you two. He had so much to say, so much to confess. But he didn’t know where to start. So you do it for him.
“Do you think just singing to me is gonna make everything okay?” you ask, venom laced in your voice. “Last time I checked, you were the one who wanted nothing to do with me—”
“I was wrong, okay?” he says, interrupting you. His voice lowers. “About everything.”
Heeseung bites his lip, heaving out a deep breath. “I fucked up, I know that…”
He sneaks you a glance, but you can’t even bother to look at him. He sees the thin streak of mascara that coats your cheek.
“I was thinking about what you said,” he starts, voice cracking just a little. “About how I just let things happen to me because I’ve normalized them or made excuses. And I just thought you didn't understand what it's like being an idol... but you’re right.”
He gulps. "You're right. I am a pushover. I am a suck-up. I am a liar..." Finally, you look at him. His chest tightens.
“I want to be better," he whispers. "For you.”
You scoff. “Isn’t it a little too late for all this?” you choke out, biting the inside of your cheek out of anger. “We’re not supposed to be seen with each other.”
He shakes his head. “I don't care anymore. I care about you.”
You suck in a deep breath. The snappy words that usually come out of your mouth when he’s around fade away. You feel it through him now. The regret.
“They… they won’t promote my new album,” he continues. “This is the only thing they let me do. Outside of this one event, I’m on my own with promoting everything. No music shows. No variety shows.”
He takes your hands into his, more to get support than to give it. You let him. “Like an independent artist,” he says with a cruel smile, hiding a despair you can’t fathom.
Your mouth falls open. “But why? I thought the rumors had already died down…”
“Because,” he starts, relieved now that you’re unconsciously clutching onto him. “...I don’t want to be a liar anymore.”
He swallows hard. Unsure if this will ever come out right. But he needs to say it. “I want to be with you. I want to take you to nice things like this. Nicer places. So we don’t have to hide behind shades or masks whenever we go out. I don't want to keep us a secret.”
The words knock the wind out of your lungs as he closes his eyes. Us? Since when was there an us? “So what are you trying to say?” you ask, in a low whisper. His thumbs rub over your knuckles.
“I’ll never,” Heeseung gulps. “Never do anything like I did before. I won’t shut you out. I won’t ask you to keep secrets for me.”
His head rests on your hands as he begs. You feel the wetness of his eyes hit the back of your palm. “I'm sorry,” he finally says. “I'm so fucking sorry.”
A stillness falls between you two, save for the soft sniffles barely audible from his muffled nose. You lift his head to meet your eyes, your palm resting under his chin. Despite the pain, despite the silent treatment, he seems so sincere. And maybe if he was just some guy who ghosted you and came crawling back without an explanation, then maybe you would have slapped the shit out of him. But this is Heeseung. And you know he has his reasons. So you nod, your own tears threatening to spill over once more. You don’t even try to hide them.
“You can leave,” he says through bated breaths, brushing the mascara stain from your cheek. “You can walk out of this car right now if you want. But if you let me… I… I want to tell you how I feel. Without running away.”
Your hand meets his wrist, losing yourself in his beautiful eyes. “And what is that?” you say, in a low voice.
He leans into you, his breath impossibly close to yours. “That I'm in love with you.”
You feel your heart flutter in your chest, and a smile finally pokes through your sullen face. You inch forward, catching his lips with your own in a soft kiss. When you pull away to see his fluttering eyes, your heart warms.
“I think I am too.”
The van parks in a destination unknown to both of you. Somewhere secluded. The driver walked out minutes ago, far enough away to give you both privacy in the back seat.
Your lips melt against Heeseung’s, tongues dancing to make up for the nights spent waiting to have this moment again. Your body remembers him, yearning for contact. He pulls you into his lap, admiring the way the expensive fabric bunches up your thighs. A dress he’d bought for you ages ago, not sure how appropriate it would be to offer it to you, knowing you'd outwardly refuse. You looked so fucking good in it.
“You’re so beautiful,” he mutters, peppering kisses down your neck. The neck that once wore his bruises so beautifully. You unbutton his vest, pulling apart the material and sighing from frustration when his dress shirt is still underneath.
“And you’re wearing too many clothes,” you grumble. He chuckles as your hands work their way down the new set of buttons, revealing his tanned skin one by one. He unzips the back of your dress, relishing in how it falls so easily for him.
“Fuck,” he sighs, masking a grin. “Why do you never wear a bra?”
He licks his lips at the sight. Your bareness, dimly glowing by the car’s overhead light. He takes his hand out to rub a nipple, perky and plump. “Didn’t think I needed to tonight,” you mutter mockingly. His gaze darkens.
“I’m not complaining,” he whispers against your skin, nipping at your collarbone. His mouth finds your bud, suckling at it as his hooded gaze follows you. You wrap your fingers around his hair, giving in to his warm touch.
It feels like all the other times before, but so much better. Because even if you’re in the back of his company van and hidden away from the world, you’ve never felt more seen by him. He’s learned everything there is to know about you.
Knows how much it drives you crazy when three of his fingers are inside, knuckles deep, massaging that spongy part of your core that makes your back arch into him. Knows how malleable your body is when he lays you down on the seats, flowers he forgot to offer you tossed onto the floor. Knows that when he bares his neck to your lips, that your mouth will flutter with sweet sounds because finally, he lets you mark him. But he still wants more.
You bite down hard when he positions himself impatiently between your legs. “Need you,” he grunts, his pulsing member catching between your folds through the thin lace of your underwear. “Right now.”
You let out a sound of agreement, continuing your nibbles against his skin. "Heeseung—"
He groans at the sound of his name, pushing your underwear to the side. You grab at his brown hair, pulling him to look at you. “Make it up to me.”
He nods feverishly, entering your tightness in a painstakingly slow pace. It always ends up like this. Not enough time to prep you, but still so fucked out underneath him. You find his neck again, digging your canines into him as he stills inside. He winces in pain, head falling forward. Heeseung deserves it. And god, does he love it.
He waits for the clench of your walls to soften, his thumb rubbing small circles on your clit to distract you from the stretch. Car sex should be messy. It should be quick. A damn driver is waiting outside of some sketchy parking lot just so he can reunite with you. But he could give less of a fuck. He’ll take everything in, take you the way he wants to. The way he knows you like it.
Heeseung’s hands are clasping your hands into his, above your head. His thrusts start slow and agonizing, but addicting all the same. They’re harsh against you, snapping his hips forward with perfect control. “Ngh!”
Your breasts bounce with each recoil of his thrusts, hitting the deepest part of you. Your eyes refuse to shut, too enthralled with the sight of your connection. Of him going so deeply inside of you that the imprint of him is visible beneath your belly button.
It’s silent, save for the wet sounds of his pounding, the rustling of clothes that stayed on from impatience, and the small sounds that come out of your lips. But it’s the loudest you’ve ever felt him. The intensity of his gaze, the intimacy of your held hands, pushes you closer to your climax faster than any other night. He is yours. He’s made it clear.
“More…” you cry. And you don’t know what you’re whining for, but you beg anyway.
“Anything you want,” he moans, pressing his forehead onto yours. “I can give you, baby. I promise…” You shut him up with your lips. Because this is enough. Him back, him dropping the pretenses. You don’t care for hors d'oeuvres or designer dresses. You miss him in your room. You miss him in that stupid hoodie. Just you. Just him. The Heeseung you know, the Heeseung you love.
“I just want you,” you cry, the familiar coil shooting through your toes and up your core. He buries his head into your hair, his slow pace quickening when he hears your breath hitch. The slickness of your walls only makes it easier for him to penetrate. In and out, over and over again. He’ll give you everything.
“Heeseung—”
The sweet sound of his name from your lips eggs him on. He plows deeper into you, rubbing against your sweet spot. Deep and hard. Until you start to see stars. Until your fingers clutch his and your mouth opens into a silent scream, hips stuttering up to meet his. Until your red-hot orgasm propels him to go faster and harder, cursing into your skin. His thrusts are cruel, rolling into you as you try to push down the oversensitivity. The car squeaks from his rough movements.
“Heeseung,” you whine again, tears falling down your face. He kisses them away, face flushed as he nears his own climax. Your makeup, so beautifully ruined.
“So pretty, baby,” he mumbles, pistoning harder into you. “So pretty.”
You choke out a sob, already another orgasm threatening to spill over. He feels it too, feels the last of his sanity fly out the window.
“Shit—I’m gonna—” He tries to pull away. Tries.
“It’s okay,” you coax him, wrapping your legs around his frame. He always pulls out. Never gives himself the satisfaction of cumming inside of you. But you want it now. More than ever. “It’s a safe day.”
It’s not like he hasn’t thought of it before. He never wore a condom with you anyway. He’d been holding back from it because it felt too intimate, felt too real. But he knows now what this is. What you have. And he’ll gladly give in.
His thrusts drag along your G-spot repeatedly as your hips arch up into him. “Mh…Oh my god…Hee—”
"Fuck—"
He moans with you, head resting on your shoulder. Ropes of hot, white cum fill your tight walls. You whimper underneath him, your second orgasm washing over you as the heat in your core spreads through your body. He thrusts as deeply as he can, whispering sweet nothings into your skin, pushing more of himself into your gummy walls. Your juices mix with his, squelching noises permeating the car.
When you look up, the windows are all fogged and dewy. “You’re so perfect, baby,” Heeseung sighs into your hair, coming down from his high. The best one yet. “Perfect for me.”
You brush his hair down from all the tugging you put it through, giving him a cheeky grin. “And who are you?” you ask teasingly. “Who am I perfect for?”
He smiles against your jaw, looking up at you through his beautifully long eyelashes. “Your boyfriend,” he smiles.
“Is that your way of asking?” you scoff, glaring up at him.
He lifts himself to your eye level. "No," he kisses your forehead. "The performance was."
Your cheeks warm, all of a sudden, so shy. The pink roses. The sneaking glances. Damn, he's good.
Heeseung grins. “So? Is that a yes?”
You shove his chest lightly. “Sure. Consider yourself lucky.”
“Big mistake,” he teases, wrapping his arms around you. “I’m never letting you go again.”
Even when you’re both appropriately dressed (save for the panties Heeseung hides deep into his pants pocket), the driver still feels less awkward to go back into the van. You take a second to admire the bouquet now in your lap, Heeseung’s hand in yours.
“I’m sorry, too, by the way,” you glance at him. “About your album. It would’ve been great to see you perform on music shows and all that.”
He smiles. There’s no sadness behind it this time. “Don’t be,” he reassures you. “I know what I'm signing myself up for.”
“But still. You didn’t have to do all this for me. The dress, the flowers… Convincing my sister—”
“Trust me,” he interrupts you. “I was going crazy without you.” You laugh at his surprisingly serious expression. You believe him.
“We didn’t have to go public, either,” you mumble. “I don’t want our relationship to hurt your career.”
He squeezes your hand, eyes searching your worried gaze. “It would have been public anyway,” he starts hesitantly. “Because I dedicated every song to you. I’ll give you a copy when it releases.”
Your mouth parts open in shock. “What?”
He laughs because he knows you heard him. Heeseung kisses your temple, the scar of your first meeting with him slowly fading with time. He hopes he can replace it with his presence instead.
“They’re all about you.”
–
Even though Heeseung hasn’t opened WeVerse in weeks, he finds himself typing from the small couch of the dorm living room. And hits send.
I’m so sorry to ENGENEs for the recent news. I want to be honest and say that the situation a few months ago had hurt me and the one I love very deeply. I just hope that our privacy can be respected at this time. Thank you, and I’m sorry for making any of you worry.
Sophia gawks at her phone, twisting it around to show you. The photocard of Heeseung that was once in the back is now replaced with a Polaroid picture of you and her as kids.
You try not to bite back a smile. “That’s my man, by the way.”
written for the heart’s mailroom event ! ༊
✷ nishimura riki spends an entire luxury fashion event forcing himself to stay composed while watching another man flirt with you, his oblivious fiancée, only to completely lose the battle against his jealousy the second you guys get home !
🗯️ 内容 explicit sexual content ♫ 18+ ⸝⸝ intended for mature audiences | minors do not interact ᯓ established relationship, public event tension, lots of emotional intimacy and domestic moments, jealousy, reassurance, possessive behavior, markings, praise kink, edging, oral sex (f. and m. receiving), face fucking, tipsy sex, unprotected p in v, dacryphilia, creampie !
EL’S ✷ BUBBLE : again, i got a bit carried away with this one so oops ! this may lowkenuinely be one of my most favorite fics i’ve written for this event >< if it wasn’t already obvious, i’m a complete sucker for fashion, polka dots (swear on my life i loved them before they became a trend everywhere), and anything nishimura riki 😚 requested by my one and only @vmpiricou, of course! aaand technically this isn’t even an event request, but a request that’s been rotting in my brain and inbox for forever now, so i thought it’d be the perfect addition to the lineup . . . basically a two-in-one request fic hehe ! enjoooooy <33 mwehehehehe with much love
The invitation had come in the mail three weeks prior, thick, cream-coloured cardstock with the Prada logo embossed in matte black foil, the kind of paper that felt like money between your fingertips.
A winter showcase.
An outdoor installation that merged fashion and architecture, held on the grounds of a privately owned estate just outside the city, where hedges were trimmed into geometric shapes and the fountains had been drained for the season so they wouldn't crack under the frost.
You'd been on the guest list before, your brand had collaborated with half the houses present tonight alone, but this year felt different.
This year, you weren't just a designer in attendance. You were the fiancée of one of Prada's youngest ambassadors, and the whole world knew it.
You'd spent the entire morning preparing. Not because you needed the time, you could throw together a look in twenty minutes flat, a skill honed from years of running your own label, but because the outfit required precision.
Every detail was deliberate, every accessory a statement, and if there was one thing you refused to do, it was to show up to a Prada event looking anything less than editorial.
The fuzzy grey high-neck winter jacket was your own design, a prototype from your upcoming fall-winter collection that you'd finished stitching at two in the morning the night before.
The thick scarf wrapped around your neck was a mix of blue, white, grey, and brown plaid patterns, hand-woven by a small atelier that was run by the sister of your online friend in Scotland that you'd been supporting since your brand first turned a profit.
The black mini-skirt was deceptively simple, a high-waisted silhouette that hugged your hips just right, the hem hitting mid-thigh.
Your brown winter boots were lined with shearling, practical but polished, the kind of footwear that said you understood the assignment: fashion first, frostbite second.
But the highlight, the pièce de résistance, was the tights.
Black polka dot tights.
Tiny white dots scattered across the sheer black fabric, close enough together to form a pattern but far enough apart that you could still see skin underneath. The dots caught the light differently depending on the angle, shifting from stark white to almost pearlescent when you crossed your legs. You'd spent an embarrassing amount of time deliberating over them, holding up pair after pair in front of your full-length mirror until Riki had finally wandered into your studio, chin resting on your shoulder, arms looping around your waist, and murmured, "The polka dots. Obviously."
You were also wearing a pair of black-framed glasses, rounded, slightly oversized, with thin metal arms, that Riki had gifted you on your six-month anniversary. He'd picked them up from a vintage shop in Harajuku during a tour stop, tucked them into his carry-on between his passport and a half-eaten pack of melon bread, and presented them to you in the back of a van with his manager yelling at him to hurry up.
The frames suited you in a way that made his chest tight every time you put them on, which was precisely why he'd bought them. Your hair was curled at the ends, soft waves framing your face, and your bangs were clipped back with two small silver clips, half-moon shaped, another one of your designs. White fuzzy earmuffs sat over your ears, the kind that looked like they belonged on a snow bunny in a 1960s ski film.
When you finally emerged from the bedroom, Riki was leaning against the kitchen counter, scrolling through his phone with a glass of water in his other hand. He glanced up, did a full double-take, and then just — stopped.
His phone slipped. Not all the way, not dramatically, but enough that he fumbled to catch it, his fingers closing around it a second too late, and it clattered against the marble countertop with a sound that made you wince.
"Riki—"
"Don't move."
"Huh?"
"I said don't move." He set his glass down carefully, deliberately, like he was afraid any sudden movement would shatter the image in front of him. His eyes dragged over you slowly, from the earmuffs perched on your head to the glasses sitting on the bridge of your nose, down the column of your neck wrapped in plaid, the grey jacket, the mini-skirt, the polka dot tights, the boots, and something in his expression shifted. His lips parted. His throat worked. He looked, for a moment, like a man who had just realised he was thoroughly, devastatingly out of his depth.
"You look," he started, and then stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. "You look unreal."
"You already said that when I tried on the jacket last week."
"I meant it then and I mean it now." He pushed off the counter and crossed the kitchen in three long strides, his hands finding your waist like they were magnetised to the spot. He dipped his head, pressing his forehead to yours, and you could feel the warmth of his breath fan across your lips. "The tights," he said, voice low. His fingers skimmed down your side, over your hip, settling at the bare strip of thigh between your skirt hem and the top of your boots. "The tights are going to be a problem."
"Ow, you don't like them?"
"I like them too much." He kissed you then, soft and slow, his thumb tracing circles on the outside of your thigh where the polka dots pressed against your skin. When he pulled back, his eyes were half-lidded and there was a faint smudge of your lip gloss on his bottom lip. "We're going to be late."
"You started it."
"I'm aware." He smiled, the smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and showed the slight overlap of his front teeth. "Come on, baby. Car's waiting."
Riki's outfit was, by his own admission, "an attempt at restraint." A black puffer jacket with a fur-trimmed hood that made him look like he'd stepped out of a streetwear lookbook, a white sweater peeking out from underneath the hem and collar, baggy denim jeans that sat low on his hips in that effortlessly cool way that only he could pull off, and his trusty pair of winter boots, the same ones he'd worn to three different fashion weeks and refused to replace because, in his words, "they're broken in perfectly." Around his neck was a striped blue scarf that you were eighty percent sure he'd stolen from your dad's closet last Christmas, but you didn't have the heart to call him out on it because he looked so damn cozy wearing it.
The estate was beautiful in the way that only places with old money could be, ivory walls and wrought-iron gates, gravel paths that crunched underfoot, and a sprawling garden that had been transformed for the event.
Heaters stood at intervals along the walkways, glowing orange against the early evening dark, and sheer tents had been erected over the main areas, their fabric catching the golden light of the chandeliers suspended within.
The air smelled like pine and expensive perfume, and everywhere you looked, someone was wearing something that cost more than a semester of tuition.
You and Riki entered together, his hand resting on the small of your back, and the cameras erupted. Flash after flash after flash, a wall of white light that made your glasses reflect like mirrors, and Riki's grip on you tightened, not out of possessiveness, but out of practice. He'd learned to guide you through crowds like this, his body angling to shield you from the worst of the surge, his hand a steady anchor against the chaos.
"Over here, Mr. Nishimura!"
"Miss! Miss, over here! The tights—who designed them?"
"Are those your own brand? Can you confirm—"
You smiled, tilted your chin, let the cameras capture the outfit from every angle. Riki did the same beside you, effortless, practiced, the product of years in an industry that demanded you be both accessible and untouchable. But just before you stepped past the photo wall and into the venue proper, he leaned down and pressed his lips to your temple, and the resulting shutter sound was deafening.
"You're killing me," he muttered against your hair.
"Behave."
"No."
The event was the kind of thing that looked effortless but required an exhausting amount of social choreography. You and Riki had been seated at different tables, his as Prada's ambassador, yours as the founder of your label, and while the tables were only about twenty feet apart, the distance felt insurmountable in a room where every conversation was a negotiation and every smile was a calculated move.
You handled your end with the ease of someone who'd been doing this since she was nineteen, when your grandmother's old sewing machine had been your only investment and your kitchen table had been your cutting room.
You shook hands with buyers, charmed editors, laughed at jokes that weren't funny, and somehow managed to compliment someone's shoes without lying.
Your grandmother had raised you to be warm, to hug people when you met them, to touch their arm when you laughed, to lean in close when they spoke so they knew you were listening. It was second nature to you, as automatic as breathing, and in the fashion industry, where everyone was accustomed to a certain degree of frostiness, your affection was disarming.
Which was how you found yourself in conversation with a man whose name you hadn't quite caught, something French, maybe, or Belgian, who had apparently designed the installation's centrepiece and was very keen to tell you about it.
"Your work is extraordinary," he was saying, his accent rounding out the consonants in a way that made everything sound like a compliment. "The way you construct silhouettes—it's architectural. Structural. I see a lot of myself in it."
"Oh, thank you!" You beamed at him, genuine and bright, because you appreciated any kind of comparison to architecture. Your grandmother had been a seamstress, yes, but she'd also been the daughter of a carpenter, and she'd always told you that building a garment was no different from building a house, you needed a strong frame, good materials, and a steady hand. "That means a lot coming from you. The centrepiece is incredible, by the way. The use of negative space—"
He stepped closer. You didn't notice. You were too busy gesturing at the installation, your hands painting shapes in the air the way they always did when you were excited about something. He reached up and adjusted the clip in your bangs, his fingers brushing against your hairline, and said, "This was falling. I fixed it."
"Oh! Thank you," you said, smiling. "These clips are tricky, they slip sometimes—"
"Your glasses too. May I?" And before you could respond, he was sliding them further up the bridge of your nose, his fingertips grazing your cheek, and you blinked at the proximity but didn't pull away because why would you? He was being helpful. He was being nice. That was a thing people did — they helped each other. Your grandmother had always said that kindness was free and should be given freely, and you'd lived your whole life by that philosophy.
Across the venue, Riki was in the middle of a conversation with a Prada executive about an upcoming campaign, and he was doing an admirable job of appearing engaged.
He was nodding at the right moments, asking the right follow-up questions, even managing a convincing laugh when the executive made a joke about a rival house. But his attention was divided. It had been divided since the moment you'd separated, his eyes tracking you across the room like a compass needle finding north, and right now, that needle was spinning wildly.
He saw it all.
He saw the man lean in too close — close enough that his breath was probably visible in the cold air between your faces. He saw the hand that reached up to fix your clip, fingers lingering a beat too long against your hair. He saw the way the man adjusted your glasses, his touch drifting from the frame to your cheek like it belonged there. He saw the way you smiled up at the man, bright and completely, heartbreakingly oblivious, because you were you, and you assumed the best in everyone, and it had never once occurred to you that someone might be using the excuse of helpfulness to touch you in ways that made Riki's blood pressure spike.
His grip on his champagne flute tightened. The glass was sturdy, Prada didn't skimp on glassware, but he could feel the tension in his knuckles, the fine tremor of restraint running through his forearm.
"Nishimura?" The executive's voice cut through. "You had thoughts on the Milan venue?"
"Sorry, yeah." He dragged his gaze back to the conversation, forced his expression into something neutral. "The Milan venue is great. The lighting is the main thing—we need to make sure the—"
The man had his hand on your shoulder now. Your shoulder. He was leaning down to say something near your ear, his thumb rubbing small circles against the wool of your jacket, and you were nodding along, completely unaware of the way his eyes were tracing the line of your jaw, the curve of your neck, the dip of your collarbone visible above the high neck of your jacket.
Riki smiled through it. He smiled through the next conversation too, and the one after that, and the one after that. He smiled when a photographer asked for a solo shot, and he smiled when a stylist complimented his scarf, and he smiled when a fellow ambassador asked about the ring on your finger, visible now that you'd taken your gloves off to accept a drink, because what the hell could he say? That he wanted to cross the room, slide his arm around your waist, and tell every man within a ten-foot radius to back the fuck off? That he wanted to bite the spot where that stranger's thumb had touched your shoulder? That he was actively restraining himself from doing something that would end up on every gossip account by midnight?
He could practically see the tweets already.
Oh my god.
PRADA’S NISHIMURA RIKI CAUSES SCENE AT PRADA EVENT—JEALOUS BOYFRIEND OR JUST BAD TEMPER? followed by a thread of clips taken from unflattering angles and captioned with takes so hot they could melt the ice on the garden paths.
He could see the think pieces, the psychoanalysis, the stan Twitter wars between people who thought he was justified and people who thought he was toxic, and neither side would be right because neither side knew the truth — they didn't know that you were the most oblivious person on the planet, that you thought everyone was just being friendly, that if someone flirted with you using the subtlety of a sledgehammer you'd probably just think they had great posture.
So Riki stayed where he was. He smiled. He networked. He kept his grip on his champagne flute tight enough that the tendons in his hand stood out like cords, and he watched, and he waited, and every time the man touched your shoulder, three times, he counted them, three goddamn times, he filed the number away like a brand seared into his memory.
By the time the event wound down, Riki had shaken approximately forty hands, smiled through approximately sixty conversations, and consumed approximately four glasses of champagne on an empty stomach.
He was tipsy, not sloppy, not sloppy enough for anyone to notice, but just enough that the edges of things had gone soft and warm and his tongue felt loose behind his teeth. The buzz was pleasant, distracting, a buffer between his brain and the image of that man's hand on your shoulder that he kept replaying like a scene he couldn't stop watching.
You found him near the exit, adjusting his scarf with one hand and his phone with the other, and you slipped your arm through his like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Ready to go, baby?"
"Yeah." His voice came out rougher than intended. He cleared his throat. "Yeah, let's go."
The car was waiting — a sleek black sedan with tinted windows, booked privately through the service Riki always used when he didn't want the company van's driver to overhear whatever half-coherent conversation would inevitably happen on the ride home. You climbed in first, pulling your earmuffs off and shaking out your hair, and Riki followed, immediately reaching for the partition button to close off the driver's compartment.
Then you were on him.
Not in a sexual way, not consciously, but in the way you always were when you'd been apart from him for more than an hour. You pressed yourself against his side, your cheek finding the curve of his shoulder, your fingers walking up the front of his puffer jacket to fiddle with the zipper pull. You pressed a kiss to his jaw, then another to the spot just below his ear, and you could feel the way his pulse jumped under your lips even though his posture remained carefully, deliberately relaxed.
"I missed you," you murmured against his skin. "The event was so, so long, baby. I kept looking over at you."
"Did you?" His arm came up around your shoulders, his thumb rubbing a slow circle against the curve of your arm. The gesture was affectionate, automatic, but there was something in the rhythm of it that felt… off. Like a metronome that was slightly out of time. "I was watching you too."
"Were you?" You smiled against his neck, your nose brushing the collar of his sweater. "Did you like how I handled the Barneys buyer? I think I got them to commit to the spring line—"
"You seemed pretty busy." The words were casual. Too casual. The kind of casual that was constructed, deliberate, a mask placed over something sharper. "With that guy."
"What guy?" You pulled back just enough to look at him, your brow furrowed. Your glasses had slipped down your nose again, and you pushed them up absently. "Oh—you mean the installation designer? He was super sweet, Ki! He helped me fix my clip, and he had really interesting things to say about textile architecture. Did you know he studied under—"
"He was flirting with you."
The car took a turn, and the glow of a streetlight swept across Riki's face, illuminating the hard set of his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows, the way his eyes were fixed on the window instead of on you. You stared at him, blinking.
"He was what?"
"Flirting. With you." Each word was clipped, precise, like he was biting them in half before they could escape. "He touched your hair. Your face. Your shoulder—three times. He was leaning in so close I could practically see his dental work."
"Oh." You sat back slightly, processing this information the way you processed most social cues with a delay long enough to be endearing and a little bit tragic. "He was... flirting? With me? But he was just being nice. He fixed my glasses, Riki. Who fixes someone's glasses if they're not being nice?"
"Someone who wants an excuse to touch your face," Riki said flatly. "Someone who sees an opening and takes it because you're too sweet to notice that he's not being nice, he's being interested, and there's a difference, and you—"
He stopped himself. Exhaled through his nose. His jaw worked, the muscle there jumping, and you watched the tension ride through his frame like a current, shoulders rigid, fingers flexing against your arm, the tendons in his neck taut. He looked like he was physically holding something back, and the realisation hit you like cold water.
"Baby," you said softly, reaching up to touch his face. "Hey. Look at me."
He did. His eyes were dark in the low light of the car, the amber of the passing streetlamps catching in them intermittently, and there was something raw there, something unguarded that made your chest ache. You'd seen Riki walk for ten thousand people. You'd seen him navigate boardrooms and red carpets and interviews with the ease of someone who'd been trained to be likable since he was fourteen.
But this — this was different.
This was your Riki, the one who got sulky when you ate the last mochi, the one who practiced his confession in the mirror for three days before actually saying it, the one who was sitting in the back of a black sedan with champagne-warmth in his veins and jealousy sitting heavy and obvious in his chest.
"I'm sorry," you said, and you meant it. You were sorry — not for being friendly, because that was who you were and he'd never ask you to change, but for not noticing, for making him sit through that, for being the kind of person who could have a man practically draw her a map to his intentions and still think he was just being polite. "I didn't realize. I would've—I should have—"
"It's not your fault." He said it quietly, firmly, and his hand came up to cover yours on his cheek, pressing your palm against his skin like he needed the warmth. "I know that's just how you are. I know you don't see it. That's not—you're not the problem, okay? That bitch is the problem. I just—" He exhaled again, sharper this time, and his eyes fluttered shut. "It drove me insane. Standing there, watching him touch you like that, and I couldn't do anything. I couldn't just walk over there without it being a whole thing, and I knew if I said something it'd be everywhere, and—"
"Ki."
"—and he just kept touching you, and you were smiling at him, fuck, and I know you didn't mean anything by it, but you're mine, and—"
"Riki."
He stopped. Opened his eyes. Looked at you with that expression you'd only ever seen in the privacy of your shared spaces, hungry and soft and a little bit desperate, like he was standing at the edge of something and needed permission to fall.
"I'm yours," you said simply. "You know that."
"I know." His voice was rough. The champagne had loosened something in him, stripped away the careful composure, and what was left was raw and wanting. "I know. I just—need to remind myself."
The rest of the drive was quiet, but it wasn't the comfortable kind.
It was the kind of quiet that hummed with tension, that filled the space between your bodies like static electricity, that made every point of contact, his hand on your thigh, your head on his shoulder, his thumb tracing absent patterns on the inside of your wrist, feel charged and significant.
You pressed more kisses to his cheek, leaving faint traces of lipstick like signatures, and he let you, his eyes half-closed and his jaw still tight, and the offness you'd sensed earlier crystallised into something you could finally name.
He was jealous. He was jealous, and he was tipsy, and he was holding himself together with the kind of restraint that was fraying at the edges.
The house was warm when you walked in, you'd left the smart thermostat on before you left, and the heat had been cranking for the past four hours, turning the space into a cocoon against the winter chill outside.
You kicked off your boots in the entryway, your feet finding the hardwood in just your tights, and you were reaching for the zipper of your jacket when Riki's hands found you.
Not your jacket.
You.
His arms wrapped around your waist from behind, his face pressing into the curve of your neck, and his entire body folded into yours like a building collapsing in slow motion.
He was heavy, taller than you by nearly a head, broader across the shoulders, all long limbs and lean muscle, and when he let go, he let go, his weight sagging against your back until you staggered slightly under the pressure.
"Whoa, hey—"
"You're mine." The words were muffled against your neck, damp and warm, and his arms tightened around your waist like he was trying to press you into himself, eliminate any space between your bodies. "You're mine, and he was touching you, and I couldn't—I wanted to—"
"I know, baby. I know." You turned in his arms, your hands coming up to cradle his face, and he looked at you with eyes that were glassy and dark and so painfully honest that it made your heart crack open. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should've noticed, I should've—"
"Don't apologize." He shook his head, his hair falling across his forehead in that way that always made you want to push it back. "Don't. It's not—it's not your fault. You're too good. You're too good and people take advantage of it and it makes me—"
He broke off, his throat working, and something shifted in his expression.
The whine was still there, the babyish, I-need-complaint pout that he wore when he was feeling small and wanted to be coddled, but underneath it, something else was surfacing.
Something harder. Hotter. The jealousy that had been simmering all evening was reaching its boiling point, and the warmth from the champagne was fanning the flames.
"Enough." His voice dropped. Not angry, never angry with you, but firm, decided, the kind of firm that brokered no argument. "I've been patient all night. I've been good. I've smiled and shaken hands and let that man put his hands on what's mine without saying a word, and I'm done being patient."
Your breath caught. "Riki—"
"I need to mark you." He said it like a confession, like something he'd been holding behind his teeth all evening and could finally release. "I need to mark you, doll. I need to see my marks on you so that the next time someone thinks they can touch you, they'll see them and know."
He kissed you then, not the soft, reverent kisses from the car but something deeper, harder, his teeth catching your bottom lip and tugging until you gasped into his mouth.
His hands were everywhere: cupping your jaw, tangling in your hair, sliding down your back to grip your hips and pull you flush against him. You could feel the heat of him even through the layers of your jacket and his puffer, the hard line of his body pressing against yours, and the champagne on his tongue was sweet and sharp and made your head spin.
"Up," he muttered against your lips, and then his hands were under your thighs, lifting you like you weighed nothing, and you wrapped your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck and held on as he carried you down the hallway to your bedroom.
He kicked the door open, not hard enough to damage it, but hard enough that it bounced off the wall, and laid you down on the bed with a care that contradicted the urgency of his movements. You sank into the duvet, your hair fanning out across the pillows, and he stood over you for a moment, chest heaving, eyes dragging down your body like he was committing every detail to memory.
"Keep the tights on," he said, and his voice was hoarse.
You blinked up at him. "What?"
"The tights." He sank to his knees at the edge of the bed, his hands finding your ankles and sliding up reverently over the smooth fabric dotted with tiny white polka dots. "Keep them on, baby. I have... plans."
His fingers traced the pattern, pressing gently into the sheer fabric, feeling the warmth of your skin beneath. The polka dots were like Braille under his fingertips, tiny raised dots that he read like a language only he knew.
He pushed your mini-skirt up, baring the expanse of your thighs, and the sound he made, low, guttural, somewhere between a groan and a growl, sent a shiver racing down your spine.
"God, these tights." He pressed his lips to your knee, then to the soft skin above it, the fabric of the tights a whisper-thin barrier between his mouth and your skin. "Do you have any idea what you've done to me tonight? Walking around in these—looking like that—and then letting some other man put his hands on you—"
"I didn't know—"
"I know you didn't, doll. That's what makes it worse." He kissed the inside of your thigh, open-mouthed and hot, and your breath hitched. "You're so trusting. So sweet. You think everyone's just being nice, and meanwhile I'm standing across the room watching some guy memorize the shape of your body through these—" He bit down. Not hard enough to hurt, not yet, but hard enough that you felt the pressure of his teeth through the thin fabric, and you let out a startled, breathy sound that was half gasp and half moan.
"Riki—"
"He touched your shoulder three times." He bit down again, harder this time, and this time there was no mistaking it, he was leaving a mark, his teeth indenting the skin of your inner thigh through the polka dot tights, and the contrast was devastating: the delicate pattern of dots, the dark fabric, and the red bloom of a bruise rising underneath. "Three times. I counted. I counted every single time his hand made contact with your body, and each time I wanted to break his fingers."
"Baby—"
"Three." He bit down again, higher up on your thigh, and you arched off the bed with a cry that you muffled against the back of your hand. The pain was sharp and bright, but it faded almost immediately into something warm and throbbing, and when you looked down, you could see the mark already forming, a dark, mouth-shaped bruise against the polka dot fabric, the white dots like witnesses to the claim.
"Two." Another bite, on the other thigh now, and his tongue swept over the mark after, soothing and wet and obscenely hot through the tights. You were trembling, your fingers twisted in the duvet, your glasses askew on your face, and he hadn't even taken off a single piece of your clothing.
"One." The last bite was the hardest, placed high on your inner thigh where the skin was softest and the tights were stretched thin, and you felt the sting of it all the way down to your toes. He pulled back to admire his work, and the sound he made, low, satisfied, almost predatory, made heat pool in your stomach. Three marks. Three whole ass bites. One for each time that man had touched you, each one a brand that would darken over the next few days into deep, mottled purple.
"Perfect," he breathed. His fingers traced the marks, pressing lightly, watching the way your breath stuttered. "You look so pretty with my marks on you, angel. So pretty. And everyone's gonna know. Not that they'd see these—" He dragged his thumb over the bruise on your inner thigh, and you whimpered. "But I'll know. And you'll know. And every time you move your legs tomorrow, you're going to feel them and remember that you're mine."
"I'm yours," you whispered, and you meant it with every cell in your body.
He smiled at that, not the sharp, possessive smile from before, but something softer, something that cracked through the jealousy like sunlight through clouds. "Yeah," he said, and his voice was gentle even though his hands were still pressing bruises into your thighs. "Yeah, you are."
He reached for the waistband of your tights then, hooking his fingers under the elastic and dragging them down your hips slowly, pressing open-mouthed kisses to every inch of newly exposed skin. The tights peeled off like a second skin, the polka dots sliding away from the bruises he'd left, and he tossed them somewhere over his shoulder without looking.
Your underwear followed, a scrap of black lace that he pulled down with his teeth, and the visual of it, Riki on his knees, his eyes dark and fixed on your face, his mouth dragging lace down your thighs, was enough to make your breath come in shallow, desperate pants.
"Ki, please—"
"Please what?" He settled between your legs, his breath warm against your inner thighs, his lips ghosting over the marks he'd left. "Tell me what you want, doll. You have a mouth for a reason."
"Your mouth. Please—I need—"
"What do you mean by please?" He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you needed him, and his tongue darted out to taste the mark he'd left.
The sensation was electric, warm and not nearly enough, and you squirmed beneath him, your hips lifting off the bed in silent pleading.
"I need your mouth on me. Please, Ki. Please, baby."
"Good girl." The words vibrated against your skin, and then his mouth was on you, and you stopped thinking entirely.
He was thorough.
He was always thorough, Riki had never done anything half-heartedly in his life, and that included this, but tonight there was an edge to it, a hunger that bordered on desperation. His tongue was hot and precise, mapping every fold and curve with the focus of a cartographer charting new territory, and when he found the spot that made your back arch off the mattress, he stayed there, circling and pressing and sucking until you were making sounds you didn't recognise.
"Riki—oh god—Ki—"
He groaned against you, the vibration of it shooting through your body like a shockwave, and his hands gripped your thighs hard enough to leave fingerprint bruises alongside the bite marks.
He was making noises too, low and guttural sounds that were half-moan and half-growl, the kind of sounds that came from a man who was losing himself in the taste of you, who couldn't stop even if he wanted to, who was drunk on champagne and jealousy and the sweetness of your body on his tongue.
"You taste so good," he murmured against you, his voice wrecked. "So fucking good, angel. My doll. Mine."
"Yours—ah—yours, baby, I'm—"
He didn't let you finish the sentence. His tongue flattened against you, broad and wet and relentless, and he licked into you with a determination that made your vision blur. Your glasses were completely fogged now, the lenses clouded with heat and moisture, and you reached up blindly to pull them off, tossing them somewhere on the nightstand, and the world went soft and dark at the edges. Not that you needed to see. You could feel every stroke of his tongue, every press of his lips, every sharp inhale he took between your legs like he was breathing you in.
The orgasm built slowly, a tightening coil in your lower belly that wound tighter with every stroke of his tongue. You could feel it approaching, cresting, your thighs shaking around his head, your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer even though closer was physically impossible—
And then he stopped.
You made a sound of protest that was embarrassingly close to a sob, your hips chasing his mouth, but he pulled back just out of reach, his hands pressing your thighs down against the mattress. "Not yet," he said, and his voice was steady even though his lips were swollen and glistening and his chest was heaving. "You don't get to come yet."
"What—why—"
"Three." He said it simply, and the meaning crashed over you like cold water. Three. Three edges. Three denials. One for each time that man had touched your shoulder, one for each moment Riki had watched from across the room and done nothing. This was the reckoning.
"Riki, I can't—"
"You can." He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee, gentle and reassuring. "You can, and you will. Because I asked you to. Because you're mine, and you're going to take what I give you, and you're going to be good for me. Can you do that, doll?"
Your eyes were stinging. Your body was thrumming with unresolved tension, every nerve ending screaming for release, and he was asking you to hold on, to wait, to endure. But the way he was looking at you, soft and dark and so full of love that it made your chest ache, made it impossible to say no.
"Yes," you whispered. "Yes, I can be good for you."
"My good girl." He smiled, and then he was moving, shedding his puffer jacket and pulling his sweater over his head, revealing the lean lines of his torso, broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, and the faint definition of his abs. He was beautiful. He was always beautiful, but like this, dishevelled and hungry and looking at you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth, he was absolutely devastating.
"Come here," you whispered, reaching for him, and he went.
He kissed you as he settled over you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and you could taste yourself on his tongue, sweet and strange. His hands worked at the remaining pieces of your outfit, the jacket, the scarf, the mini-skirt, until you were bare beneath him, your skin flushed and dotted with the marks he'd already left, and he pulled back to look at you again.
"You're so beautiful," he said, and his voice cracked on the last word. "So fucking beautiful, and you're mine. Say it again."
"I'm yours, Ki."
"Again."
"I'm yours. Only yours. Always yours."
He kissed you harder, his hands roaming your body with a reverence that bordered on worship. He traced the curve of your waist, the swell of your hips, the dip of your collarbone, his touch feather-light and burning. "This body," he murmured against your jaw. "This body is mine. Every inch of it. Every curve. Every mark."
His lips found your breast, his tongue circling your nipple, and you arched into the wet heat with a broken moan. "He can look all he wants. He can fix your glasses and adjust your clips and touch your shoulder until his fingers fall off. But at the end of the night, this—" He bit down gently on the swell of your breast, and you keened. "—this comes home to me."
"Yes—yes, baby, always—"
"Open your mouth for me, doll."
You did, without hesitation, without question, because you trusted him with every fibre of your being and because the look in his eyes right now, the raw and naked need, made it impossible to do anything but surrender.
He shifted, his knees bracketing your shoulders, and you watched through half-lidded eyes as he freed himself from his jeans, the hard length of him bobbing heavily against his stomach.
He was big.
You'd never gotten used to it — the first time you'd been together, you'd actually laughed, because what else were you supposed to do when confronted with something that looked like it belonged in a textbook? He'd been mortified until you'd explained, and then he'd been insufferably smug about it for approximately five weeks. Now, though, there was no laughter — only hunger, only want, only the desperate need to feel him in whatever way he'd give you.
"Tap my thigh if it's too much," he said, and his voice was gentle even though his hand was shaking where it gripped the headboard. "Okay?"
"Okay."
He pressed the head of his cock against your lips, and you opened wider, your tongue darting out to taste the salt of him, and the sound he made, a sharp, bitten-off groan that he tried to swallow and failed, sent a pulse of heat straight to your core.
He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust, and you felt the stretch of him, the weight, the girth, the way he filled your mouth until your jaw ached with the effort of accommodating him.
"Fuck," he breathed. His head fell back, the long line of his throat exposed, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. "Fuck, doll, your mouth—"
You hummed around him, and his hips jerked forward, pushing himself deeper, and you fought your gag reflex bravely, your throat fluttering around the intrusion. He noticed, he always noticed, and his hand came down to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek in a gesture that was so tender it made your eyes water.
"You're doing so good," he said, and the praise washed over you like warm honey. "So good for me, angel. Taking me so well. My perfect girl."
He started to move then, shallow thrusts at first, letting you set the pace, but gradually deeper, faster, his hips rocking into your mouth with a rhythm that was steadily losing its restraint.
The sounds he was making were obscene: low, rumbling moans that came from somewhere deep in his chest, punctuated by breathless curses and fragments of your name. He was vocal always, had been since the very beginning, the first time you'd been together he'd been so loud that his neighbour had pounded on the wall and he'd just laughed, breathless and unashamed, but tonight, with the champagne stripping away his inhibitions, he was practically singing.
"Ah—fuck, yes—just like that, doll—your mouth feels so—god—"
His hand fisted in your hair, not pulling, just holding, and his thrusts grew more erratic, his breathing more ragged, and you could feel him getting close, the way his muscles tensed, the way his moans pitched higher, the way his thighs trembled against your shoulders.
But he pulled back before he could finish, his cock slipping from your lips with a wet sound that made you both groan, and he was breathing hard, his chest heaving, his eyes squeezed shut like he was physically holding himself together.
"Not yet," he said, more to himself than to you. "Not like that. I need—I need to be inside you when I come. Need to feel you."
He moved down your body, settling between your legs again, and this time when he kissed you, it was slow and deep and tasted like the two of you mixed together.
You could feel him hot and hard against your stomach, the slick of him smearing across your skin, and you reached down to wrap your hand around him, but he caught your wrist and pinned it above your head.
"Patience," he murmured against your lips, and you whimpered because patience was the absolute last thing you had right now.
"I've been patient," you protested, and your voice came out wrecked, raw and hoarse from his cock in your throat and the moans you couldn't stop making. "Please, Ki—I've been so good—"
"You have," he agreed, and his free hand was sliding down your body, over the curve of your hip, between your legs, and his fingers found you dripping and swollen and so achingly sensitive that even the lightest touch made you jerk. "You've been so good for me, baby. My perfect, perfect girl. You deserve a reward, don't you?"
"Yes—please—"
He entered you in one long, slow thrust, and the sound you both made was identical, a broken, desperate moan that harmonised in the quiet of the bedroom.
He filled you completely, the stretch of him bordering on too much and then settling into something that made your eyes roll back in your head, and he held himself there, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in ragged pants.
"Feel that?" He rolled his hips, a slow grind that pressed against every sensitive spot inside you, and you sobbed. "That's mine. You're mine. Say it."
"I'm yours—fuck—I'm yours, Ki—"
He started to move then, really move, and the pace he set was punishing. Deep, hard thrusts that drove you up the mattress, each one punctuated by the slap of skin against skin and the wet sound of your bodies moving together. He was relentless, his hips snapping forward with a precision that spoke of barely contained control, and each thrust hit something inside you that made your vision go blank.
"This is mine," he gritted out, his hand sliding down to grip your hip hard enough to bruise. "This body—this pussy—all of it. Mine. Not his. Not anyone else's. Mine."
"Yours—only yours—baby, please—"
"Please what?" He shifted the angle, hitching your leg up over his hip, and the new position let him sink even deeper, and you heard yourself make a sound that was barely human, high and thin and desperate. "Please let you come? Is that what you want, doll?"
"Yes—yes, please, I need—"
"You need to wait." He thrust into you hard, and you screamed, and he swallowed the sound with his mouth, his tongue sweeping past your lips in a kiss that was all teeth and desperation. "Three, remember? You've had one. You need two more."
"I can't—I can't take it—"
"You can. You will." He pressed his forehead to yours, his eyes dark and molten, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "You're so strong, doll. So perfect. So beautiful. You can take anything I give you, and you'll thank me for it. Won't you?"
"Yes—yes, I'll thank you—thank you, Ki—"
"Good girl."
He kept moving, and you kept climbing, and just as the coil in your belly was about to snap for the second time, he pulled out. Stopped out of nowhere.
The emptiness was unbearable, your body clenching around nothing, your hips chasing the friction that had been so cruelly denied, and the sound you made was a full-bodied sob that echoed off the walls.
"I know," he said, and his voice was gentle even though his hands were shaking. "I know, baby. I know it's hard. You're doing so well. Just one more."
"One more," you repeated, like a prayer. "One more. I can do one more."
"My good girl."
He pushed back in, and this time the thrusts were slower, not gentler, not by a long shot, but more deliberate, more controlled, each one a calculated assault on your senses. His hand found the spot between your legs, his thumb pressing in tight circles, and the sensation of him inside you and his fingers on you was too much. You were shaking, tears streaming down your temples into your hair, your hands fisted in the sheets so tightly that your knuckles were white.
"You're so beautiful like this," he said, and his voice was reverent, worshipful, like he was looking at something holy. "All teary and desperate and mine. Nobody else gets to see you like this. Nobody. Not the designers, not the buyers, not the men who think they can put their hands on you at events. This—" He thrust deep, grinding against you, and you keened. "—this shit is mine."
"Yours—only yours—Ki, please—"
"Please what?"
"Please let me come—I can't—I'm going to—I need—"
"Not yet." But his voice was strained, his own control fraying, and you could see it in the way his jaw clenched, the way his thrusts were becoming more erratic, the way his moans were pitching higher and more desperate.
He was close too, you could feel it in the tension of his body, the way he was fighting his own release alongside yours, and the realization that he was denying himself as much as he was denying you made something hot and tight twist in your chest.
"Ki—"
"One more, doll. Give me one more. You can do it. I know you can."
He changed the angle again, deeper now, impossibly deep, the head of his cock pressing against your cervix with each thrust, and the pleasure was so intense it bordered on pain. You were beyond words now, beyond coherent thought, reduced to a creature of pure sensation, every nerve ending firing, every muscle trembling, your entire being focused on the point where his body met yours.
He pulled out again.
The third denial was the worst. Or the best. You couldn't tell anymore. You were sobbing openly, your body wracked with tremors, your thighs shaking around his hips, and when you reached for him, your hands were so weak that you could barely grip his shoulders. The orgasm that had been building for what felt like hours was hovering just out of reach, a wave that had crested but hadn't yet broken, and the frustration was so acute it was almost its own kind of pleasure.
"I can't—" you wept. "Ki, baby, please—I can't take another one—please, I need to come—I need—"
"I know," he said, and this time his voice broke on the words. "I know, doll. You've been so good. So perfect. So patient. You took all three so beautifully. My good girl. My perfect, perfect girl."
He thrust back in, and this time there was no stopping. No pulling out. No denial. Just the relentless, punishing rhythm of his hips and the pressure of his thumb on your clit and the sound of his voice in your ear, low and rough and so full of love that it made your chest hurt.
"Come for me," he said, and it was a command and a plea and a prayer all at once. "Come for me, doll. Let go. I've got you. I've always got you."
You came.
It hit you like a wall of light, blinding, all-consuming, every muscle in your body seizing at once as the orgasm that had been denied three times finally, finally crashed over you.
You were aware of screaming his name, of your nails raking down his back, of your body arching off the bed so violently that he had to pin you down with his weight, and the pleasure was so intense that for a long, terrifying moment, you couldn't see or hear or think, you could only feel, every cell in your body exploding and reforming and exploding again.
He followed you over the edge a moment later, his hips stuttering, his breath catching, and then he was spilling into you with a groan that seemed to come from the very marrow of his bones.
You felt the warmth of it, the pulse of him inside you, the way his body shuddered with each wave, the raw, animal sound of his release, and it triggered another smaller orgasm in you, your walls clenching around him in aftershocks that made you both gasp.
He didn't pull out. He couldn't. His body had given out the moment the orgasm hit, and he collapsed on top of you with his full weight, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in ragged, shuddering gasps that you could feel against your sweat-damp skin.
You held him, your arms wrapping around his back, your fingers tracing the scratch marks you'd left, thin red lines that would be visible tomorrow if he took his shirt off, and you pressed kisses to whatever part of him you could reach: his temple, his hairline, the shell of his ear.
"I love you," you whispered, and your voice was wrecked—raw and hoarse and barely audible. "I love you so much, Ki."
"I love you too." His voice was muffled against your neck, thick and slow and sleepy, the champagne and the orgasm hitting him all at once. "I love you more than anything. You know that, right?"
"I know."
"Good." He pressed a lazy kiss to your pulse point, and you felt him smile against your skin. "Mine."
"Yours."
The silence that followed was warm and comfortable, the kind of silence that could only exist between two people who had just dismantled each other completely and were now lying in the wreckage, too spent to move but too content to care. The heater hummed in the corner. The snow was falling outside the window, visible in the glow of the streetlight, and somewhere in the distance, a car alarm went off and was ignored.
Eventually, Riki shifted, just enough to lift his head and look at you, his eyes heavy-lidded and soft and so full of affection that it made your heart do something embarrassing in your chest.
"Hey," he said.
"Hello to you too."
"Are you okay?"
"Mm." You stretched, wincing at the soreness that was already settling into your muscles, and you shifted your legs experimentally, and that was when you saw them.
The marks.
What the fuck.
You propped yourself up on your elbows, looking down at your body, and the sight that greeted you made your breath catch.
Your inner thighs were a patchwork of bruises, the bite marks from earlier, already darkening into deep purple and blue, overlapping and intersecting like some kind of abstract painting.
Your hips were fingerprinted, ten small crescents where his hands had gripped you.
Your breasts bore the faint impression of his teeth, and your collarbone — well. It looked like you'd been attacked by a very determined vampire.
"Oh my god," you breathed.
Riki followed your gaze, and the satisfied smile that spread across his face was entirely unapologetic. "Oh my god?" he repeated, his tone incredulous. "That's all you have to say?"
"Riki, there are—there are marks everywhere."
"That was kind of the point, doll."
"I know, but—" You shifted again, wincing as the bruises on your thighs pressed against the mattress, and then a thought struck you that was equal parts mortified and relieved. "Oh, thank god it's winter."
Riki raised an eyebrow. "Thank god it's winter?"
"So I don't have to head out in shorts twenty-four-seven," you explained, gesturing at the constellation of bruises decorating your thighs. "I mean, can you imagine? I'd walk into the office and my team would think I'd been attacked by a wild animal."
"A very handsome wild animal," Riki corrected, and you laughed.
"A very handsome wild animal who can't control his teeth," you amended.
"I control them just fine. I placed every single one of those marks with intent." He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, then another to the mark on your collarbone, his lips warm and lingering. "And besides, baby, you won't need to worry about shorts. I just washed and prepared your maxi skirts, especially the denim one your mom reworked, so thank me later."
You stared at him. "You did what?"
"Washed your maxi skirts." He said it casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world, like he hadn't just confessed to doing your laundry — which he never did, not because he was unwilling but because you were particular about the way your garments were handled and he'd once shrunk a cashmere sweater and you'd made a face so tragic that he'd sworn off laundry duty entirely. "The denim one is hanging on the back of the bathroom door. I air-dried it like you showed me. And the grey wool one is in the closet, third hanger from the left."
"You, Nishimura Riki, washed my skirts. By hand. And air-dried them."
"Yes." He blinked at you, all innocent and earnest, like he wasn't lying there with love bites covering his throat and your lipstick still smudged on his jaw. "Is that... is that weird?"
"No." Your voice came out thick, and you realised with a start that you were getting emotional, over laundry, of all things, but it wasn't really about the laundry, was it?
It was about the fact that this man, the same man who had marked you like a territorial wolf not fifteen minutes ago, had also spent time carefully hand-washing your skirts because he knew, somehow, that you'd need them. That he'd thought ahead. That he'd taken care of you in ways that were quiet and domestic and so fundamentally him that it made your eyes sting again.
"It's not weird," you said again, softer this time, and you cupped his face in your hands and kissed him, slow and deep and full of a love so enormous that you couldn't possibly contain it. "It's the opposite of weird. It's the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me."
"Now who's being dramatic," he murmured against your lips, but he was smiling, and you could feel the way his chest expanded with the kind of quiet pride that he'd never admit to out loud.
"Thank you, Ki."
"You're welcome, baby." He shifted, pulling out of you with a wince that matched yours, and the absence of him left you feeling empty and cold and aching in ways that were both physical and emotional.
He reached for the duvet, pulling it over both of you, and gathered you against his chest like you were something precious and breakable and infinitely worth protecting.
"Hey," you said, your voice muffled against his skin.
"Hm?"
"Next time someone flirts with me at an event and I don't notice, you have my full permission to come over and be insane about it."
He laughed, the kind that shook his whole body and made the bed creak. "You're going to regret saying that."
"Probably." You smiled against his chest, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his skin. "But at least I'll have the maxi skirts to cover the evidence."
"The denim one especially," he said, and you could hear the grin in his voice. "Your mom did a great job on it. The hem is perfect."
"You’re so weird."
"You love it."
"Yeah." You pressed a kiss to the centre of his chest, right over his heart, and felt it beat steady and strong against your lips. "Yeah, I really do."
Outside, the snow kept falling, blanketing the city in white, and inside, under the warmth of the duvet and the weight of each other, you fell asleep to the sound of his breathing and the knowledge that tomorrow, when you pulled on that reworked denim maxi skirt, the marks on your thighs would press against the fabric like a secret — yours and his and nobody else's.
When Riki handed you your glasses from the nightstand the next morning, his fingers lingering on the frames just a moment too long, you thought about the way he'd looked at you when you'd put them on the night before, like you were the only person in the room, in the city, in the world, and you smiled, and you didn't bother wondering whether the man from the event would reach out, because it didn't matter.
None of it mattered.
The only hands that would ever touch you like that, the only hands that had the right, were the ones currently reaching for the coffee maker, still clumsy with sleep, still wearing the scratch marks on his back like a badge of honour.
"Hey, baby?" Riki called from the kitchen, his voice rough with morning and fondness.
"Yes?"
"The tights—are they hand-wash only? Because I may have like… thrown them on the floor last night, and I want to make sure I don't ruin them when I pick them up."
You laughed, bright and so full of love it hurt, and you padded barefoot into the kitchen, your bruises hidden under the oversized sweater you'd stolen from his closet, and you kissed him until the coffee went cold and the snow outside melted into slush and the whole world narrowed down to this: his mouth on yours, his hands on your waist, his heart beating against your palms.
"Hand-wash only," you murmured. "Cold water. Lay flat to dry."
"I'll add it to the list," he said, and he smiled, the one that was just for you, and you thought, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, that you were the luckiest woman alive.
And the polka dot tights, when you finally retrieved them from the bedroom floor, were perfectly fine, ready for the next event, the next outfit, the next time Riki would look at you across a crowded room and know, with absolute certainty, that you were his.
Just as he was yours.
⭐ ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
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💿 ࿐ . . moonlight by kali uchis
✷ NOTE : thank you all so, so much for reading ! i hope you enjoyed this little world for a while ♡ all of this is purely a work of fiction & doesn’t reflect reality at all . . likes, reblogs, and feedback are deeply cherished and very, very appreciated on here !
IN WHICH yn interviews keonho at a chanel event && twt clocks that he’s in love! ┊ katseyereader smau crackfic downbadkeonho lmk4part2?? kindashortsrry<3
♫⋆.˚ now playing cinderella mac miller ft ty dolla sign
heyyy! can u do a fic where hyeon is your older bro’s bestfriend whom you have a secret crush on?? i rlly love that trope tysmmm 💗💗
BROTHER'S BEST FRIEND ── eom seonghyeon.
pairings older sister yn x brother's bestfriend seonghyeon
warnings swearing, mentions of drinking, they are both soooo avoidant (js like me teehee), lots of fluff, mentions of kissing, keonho is SUCH a menace, honourable mention to martin ALSO being a damn menace, JEALOUS HYEON
notes thank u for the req annonieee !!!! also pls ignore timestamps lolz..... this trope is so Dear to me bc i had the FATTEST crush on my older brothers childhood bestfriend and he's lowkey my Roman Empire....... also part 2 here
➪ summary : very heavy trigger warning for suicide in all. after your suicide, your boyfriend can't seem to move on.
➪ other notes : this topic has always been very difficult for me to talk about esp due to my own trauma. my plan was to post this on may 1st in honor of it being mental health awareness month but i believe we should always commemorate mental health and the struggles and outcomes that come from it.
moments where the lngshot members can’t help but find themselves slipping away from their known “tuff” personality.
headcanons!lngshotxfemreader, fluff, moments of intimacy, mentions of stabbing and implied “gang fights” on woojin’s, reader is implied to be a softie on ohyul’s part don’t look at me with those eyes, downbad members, courts james cameo, i think that’s about it blep
— wc: 2.4k
idk after the 2yul fic i wrote, i lost my mind. ok i just came home and i’ve been busy catching up with the fam. with what’s happening to me rn, i don’t think i’ll be able to post consistently like how i used to. STILL, if i finally get my shi right, i’ll try to keep this blog active. i love writing sm, i don’t wanna lose this blog. also i just really wanna thank those people who keeps on coming back here, i really appreciate y'all from the bottom of my esophagus. you guys are my day ones fr. I’m just happy people actually enjoy what i write. i love you all so much remember that.
@this is a pure work of fiction. no profit is being made from this work.
06liner!KWON OHYUL
“Like this?”
Ohyul had his eyes closed, a steady grip of his hand remained on your waist, the other carefully tracing the soft skin of your knee. You stayed near, rocking the chair slightly as you reach for the eyeliner from the table behind him.
You softly place one hand on his cheek, “Brown looks good on you.” You say as you try to shift your weight on your side for a better access.
He mumbles, his voice a bit raspy from last night’s event. “Mhm, you think?”
Slowly, he felt the drag of wet brush just below his eye. You bring his face closer, tilting up as you try to match the eyeliner on both sides. Ohyul felt your warm breath almost fanning over his nose. He smiles at the familiar scent of mint mouthwash he swore he just bought, occupy his nose. You just love using his stuff a lot, huh?
From the corner, ‘Intolewd’ by Matt Maltese plays, the faint beats filling the air while the warm sunlight streams across your bedroom.
A small grin forms in his lips as he fights the urge to not open his eyes.
Ohyul's calloused hands hovers almost everywhere—cupping your knees, squeezing your waist, pulling your one leg by your ankle as he places it on his thigh so he that can feel you "more closer". He then pulled your chair closer, combing your hair from the back when it got on the way. You only hum, too focused on his makeup. Your fingertips grazing over his long eyelashes that you adore and envy at the same time.
It’s kind of funny how a guy like him, all tall and gruffy, was at your mercy, following every requests you ask like he doesn’t have the will to push you around. If any of the guys sees him on this state, he’s not going to survive it. Not that it mattered much though. You’re too precious and he is down bad to the point of him envisioning himself to be on his knees in front of everyone if you wish him to be.
When he felt you let go of his face, only then he leaned closer, attempting to catch your lips, but instead of kissing you, he was halted once again as you steadied him, your hand on his chest. Then, he felt something brushing his lips.
“Baby,” he murmurs, “I thought we agreed on no lipstick.”
“But you look so pretty.” your lips quirked upward, giggling at your choice of color. Sneakily you reach for the small tube near you and smudged some of it on his lower lip.
“You always say that.” He opened his eyes, one eyebrow quirking at you. You’re smiling, he doesn’t know if that’s a good sign. Suspicion hits as Ohyul reach for the small mirror beside you. His other hand subconsciously land on your calf, his thumb rubbing the soft flesh.
He looks back at you, a look of “are you serious?” on his face, questioning the exaggerated lines on his lips. You only nod, smugly crossing your arms on your chest as you wait, “Stop complaining, you look gorgeous.”
Sooner enough, he felt something tingling on his lips. For a second his eyes widens at you as he asks you, “Baby, I think something’s wrong with my lips. Why is it burning?”
You shrug, slipping the lip plumper near behind the blushes in discreet motion. “It looks fine to me though.” Ohyul nervously pinch his lips, the orange pigment leaving stains on his index finger. When he realised what it is, his hand limmediately eft your leg and cups your face, presses continuous kisses on your lips.
“Ohyul!” You shrieked as you try to squirm away.
“Oh no you don’t,” taking advantage of your position, he grabbed your hips and pulled you flush on his lap, leaving you no where to escape. He continuous to kiss you: your neck, behind your ear, your cheek, everywhere he can reach. He laughs at the sight of his lips staining your skin.
By the time you gave up, both of you were breathless. You let out a tired sigh, snaking you arms around his shoulders and snuggles close on his neck. He, too, wrapped his around your wast, securing you as he leans back.
Beside him, his phone rings, Louis’ name come up. He swipes left, dropping the phone call before resting his head on top of yours. Everyone can wait outside, for now, he wants to enjoy this moment.
06liner!KIM RYUL
“Ryul, it’s still a no.” You gently patted his bruised knuckles dry.
When you met Ryul, no one could ever believe you would go for someone who's the exact opposite of you. You were sunshine and rainbows, an all-around student who’s always on top—and Ryul…well he’s the type to stay in detention or even worse—he could be at the police station for a week or two. You never intended to be in the same place as he is, not that you despise people like him—you just didn’t seem to fit in that kind environment he grew up with and plus, you never really knew him back then.
How you two got together was a bit complicated. It started when one of your professors asked you to tutor him for the finals and simply, you said yes—you're just going to tutor him, that's all.
pfft.
How simple minded you were back then.
You never intended to know him any deeper, but still, curiosity will always get the better of you. Time passes, you started to realise how he actually is smart if he puts his mind into it. How he actually is under that rough image he carved himself. It was never in your mind to fall into that deep well, but here you are. If only you ignored how persistent he was starting to get, maybe now you're not here in his frat, treating his injuries like his personal nurse.
“You just got out of detention, give those blokes some break.” You hissed, at the same time, you snatched the vape from his other hand, “And stop this too.”
“Come on love, they started it first.” He grumbles.
“Then try being the bigger person.”
He laughs at that. You sprayed the alcohol two times on the cotton pad, gently patting on his knuckle.
He hisses, “Careful there.”
“No. You’re the one who needs to be careful.” He jolts when you press the pad roughly.
“You need to stop acting mean to people. Remember Eunji? She told me you were acting rude to them.”
“I just–ow alright! Alright! Calm down for a second.” he smiled through the stinging sensation. Gosh you look so hot when you're mad.
He gently places one on your shoulder and stops you from abusing his injury further.
“Eunji’s my friend, you can at least—you know—smile and act little decent.” you sigh.
Smirking, he looks down and gently holds your hands. “I just don’t like you thinking I let my focus on someone else other than you.” he whispers while he starts kneading your knuckles like you were the one who’s injured.
“Ryul, I don’t act like that.”
“Yes I know. But don’t you hate it when people talk to me for too long?”
You rolls your eyes at that.
“Ryul,”
“Yeah?”
“You ain’t that a lot.”
He double takes, pausing for a second before making a face that made you snicker, “Excuse me?!”
You rolls your eyes then flickshis forehead, “What I’m saying is—”
“Oh nah, come here.” he shakes his head, amused, and at the same time shocked you even got the guts to say that to your boyfriend. When he pulled you to his embrace you pretend to scowl to which he mirrored.
“Ryul—”
“Ain’t a lot huh?”
He starts kissing you face nonstop, smudging your lipgloss all around the corner of your lips, some even were on you cheeks. Giggles erupted from the two of you, the air between you two growing more warmer as he tries to go for your neck.
You let out a small yelp when he “accidentally” bit your finger. “Ryul!”
He leans forward kissing your said fingertip, “Sorry, love.”
“Unbelievable.” You gave him an exasperated sigh before moving away only to be mulled back, and this time, he turns you around and pulls your back to his chest. Ryul hums, a contempt breathe of air escapes when he dips his forehead on your shoulder.
“Continue your advice, miss ma’am,” he gently squeezes your waist, “I’m all ears this time.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“No can do, miss ma’am.”
you sigh,
“Honestly.”
You rub your temples, laughing at his antics. You glance behind, a small smile on your lips. Ryul remained quiet for the rest of the night, noting all scolding you gave him for the past three hours. While he may not be most straightforward to talk with, he’s still on ears, noting, and reflecting every detail you give him, cause duh—miss ma’am is the boss here.
08liner!JUNG WOOJIN
“Jinnie?” You peek through the window, white curtains blocking your view.
The room was small: one bed on the middle, a dark brown desk, a stool and a single beige carpet on the floor. You also noted the infusion stand near the bed, a single clear bag of what you knew as iv drips, hangs on it.
“Hey there,”
You turn around, hands swinging in full mode. When the figure came into your view, you drop your guard and rushed to hug the person. The person—none other your boyfriend—opens his arms wide, hugging you with equal tightness.
“I was worried mad.” you press deeper, the faint scent of oud filling your senses.
“Hey hey, it’s not like I was the one who got beaten up. I promised didn’t I?” one hand reaches to pat the back of your head. You look up, face still mushed on his clothes. He looked fine, but a bit bruised on his cheek and his eye. Your heart tugged at the sight of his face.
“You look awful.” you furrow your eyebrows in worry.
“You should’ve seen me yesterday. Ohyul taught I got stung by a swarm of bees.” He chuckles, rubbing your cheeks with soft strokes he had always done since the start.
“It’s not funny. I thought you were the one who got stabbed!” You slap his chest. Woojin coughs, choking at the sudden stinging impact.
“Actually, about that.” he sheepishly scratches his head.
“Woojin.”
He side eyes you and meekly smiles, one hand moving to his lower side of his waist. Your eyes widen as panic surge through you. You reach for his side, “Woojin! I swear if I see one stitch I will end you!”
He tried to dodge you, but clearly he forgot how agile you are. You were chasing him in circles, and the next thing you both know, You two landed on the grassy ground.
You landed right on top of him, not caring to see who’s around, you swiftly raises his shirt just enough to look at what he was covering.
“Jinnie...” you stop, eyeing the wrapped bandage on his stomach. You felt you own guts churning, “It’s...”
“Not that deep.” he sat up, both palms propping on both of his sides.
Woojin blinks, noticing how you got quiet, “Hey, it’s fine. I’m fine. The doctor said it’ll heal after about a month or two.” he reassures you, holding your hand while he pulls his shirt down.
“The heck you mean it’s not that deep. You’re bandaged up.” You look at him, eyebrows upside down.
“Y/n, love, I’m fine. If I’m alive then it’s not that deep to think about. Don’t worry too much, k?” he peeks at your face, “Hm? See, I’m ok.”
“You two done yet?” a familiar voice made you two shot up towards the window. Ryul, who was dressed in blue robes and covered in multiple bandages, was staring at the two with a look of annoyance. The infusion stand creaks beside him.
“Ryul! You look—uh—well!”
“Whatever.” He shuts the windows close.
The curtains slides, still Ryul on sight, “You two need to get a room, the guard doesn’t like watching two corny teens on hospital grounds.” He says, vision pointing towards the cctv near them.
10liner! LOUIS JOURDAIN
Your bedroom door opens, dragged footsteps echoed behind you. You didn’t budge, staying glued to your laptop eyeglass sliding down your nose for the fifth time. The bed creaks.
“Y/nie?” your bestfriend, Louis, calls you.
“Hm?” Somehow, his voice didn’t sound right. You click the file to save as you turn around, “Yeah bro—woah.”
Your eyes trailed down to his wrecked state. Louis was covered in small cuts, his clothes tampered like he was dragged across towns. You stood up, rushing to check his arms.
“What happened?” you examine his cuts. It didn’t look like he was beaten up.It simply looked like he had fallen from somewhere a bit high.
“Alley kittens aren’t exactly the most friendliest cats after all.” He smiles sheepishly. You double take at that, surely the youngest member of the known delinquents of your school didn’t just tried petting alley cats, right?
“You tried petting them?” you ask, blinking at him then down to his arms, “Are you sure you didn’t roll around lake park?”
He shakes his head, “Nah, they were feisty that’s all.”
You stared at him. “You got scratched up for a cat?”
Louis rubbed the back of his neck. "Maybe."
“Louis.”
“Okay, definitely.”
You took off your eyeglass, sighing, you once again look at his arms, “I’ll call aunt Lidia, let’s get you checked up.”
“You’re not even going to ask me why I sacrificed my life on those kittens?” he looks up.
Your forehead creases, eyebrows raising high—yeah, why did he do that?
“I don’t know, maybe you were just feeling the cuteness aggression?” you tried to guess, but he only shakes his head.
He stood up, heading towards the door. You frown, “Hey where are you going?”
For about two minutes of quiet suffering, you were starting to get annoyed. He didn’t just leave right?
Suddenly, you heard a single cry behind the door. Louis pulled the knob, and stood there—a black kitten was on his hand, staring at you intently as if he already knew who you were.
Louis scratches the small feline’s ear, “I saw you yesterday feeding this little thing, and you said you always wanted to have a cat so hunter can have a sibling and so yeah—I got you this.”
“You got him...for me? W-wow.” You smiled at him.
He looks at you, eyes a bit uncertain.
“Also Y/n?
“Yeah?”
“Can I perhaps—maybe—if possible—like even just 1% chance, court you?”
summary. instead of admitting your feelings, you and martin decide it’s easier to bicker instead
content. frenemies to lovers??, one bed trope, kissing, bickering, ft. seonghyeon keonho and hyein
the whole situation was, in martin’s honest opinion, absolutely ridiculous. it was the kind of chaotic planning fail that only happened when you let hyein organise a trip, and honestly, he should have seen it coming. you were supposed to be on a fun weekend away with a small group; just you, him, your best friend hyein, and his two chaotic partners-in-crime, seonghyeon and keonho. it was meant to be relaxing, full of bad movies and takeout food. but somehow, between booking the cabin and actually arriving, hyein had managed to mix up the reservation, and now there was… a slight issue.
“there are only two beds,” hyein announced, popping her head out of the main bedroom, looking far too pleased with herself for someone who had caused this much trouble. “one king size in here, and one bunk bed in the second room.”
keonho immediately grabbed seonghyeon by the collar and dragged him toward the smaller room. “bunks for us! we get the bunks!”
seonghyeon stumbled along, looking back over his shoulder with a mischievous grin. “have fun, you two! try not to kill each other during the night!”
before either you or martin could protest, they vanished into the other room and slammed the door shut, followed instantly by the loud click of a lock. you turned slowly to look at martin, and he was already looking at you with that familiar, slightly annoyed expression that seemed permanently glued to his face whenever you were around.
this was your dynamic, after all. everyone knew it. you and martin were like oil and water, cats and dogs, you just didn’t mix. you bickered over everything: who got the last slice of pizza, who was right about movie plot holes, who walked too fast, who talked too loud. to anyone watching, it looked like you genuinely couldn’t stand each other. and honestly? you told yourself that was true. you told yourself he was arrogant, annoying, way too smug, and had the worst sense of humour known to mankind.
and martin told himself you were stubborn, argumentative, way too opinionated, and far too pretty for your own good.
wait. no. he tried very hard not to think that last part.
because the truth, the big, messy, complicated secret that neither of you dared say out loud was that you didn’t dislike each other at all. quite the opposite, actually. you liked each other far too much, and it terrified you both. so instead of being nice or normal, you had built a fortress of teasing and eye-rolling and sarcastic comments to hide behind. it was safer that way. if you pretended to hate him, you couldn’t possibly embarrass yourself by admitting you actually really, really liked him.
now, though, your fortress was crumbling. because you were standing in a small bedroom, and there was exactly one very large, very soft-looking bed in the middle of it.
“this is entirely your fault,” martin said immediately, crossing his arms over his chest. “if you hadn’t insisted we stop for coffee on the way, hyein wouldn’t have messed up the booking.”
you gasped, putting your hands on your hips. “my fault?! please! if you hadn’t spent twenty minutes arguing with keonho about which direction was north, we would have been here an hour ago! and besides, i didn’t tell your friends to lock themselves away and leave us with one bed!”
“they clearly did it on purpose,” martin muttered, running a hand through his hair, looking anywhere but at the bed. “this is exactly the kind of stupid scheme they would come up with. keonho has been saying for weeks that we ‘need to get along’ or whatever nonsense.”
“hyein has been doing the exact same thing,” you admitted, sighing and dropping your bag on the floor. “she keeps saying we have ‘tension’. which is ridiculous. the only tension i feel around you is the urge to throw something at your head.”
martin actually laughed at that, a short, breathless sound. “right. sure. that’s what it is.”
he moved forward, grabbing the spare pillow from the pile and tossing it onto the far left side of the mattress. “fine. look. i’ll sleep on this side, you sleep on that side. we stay on our own territory. there is a strict no-crossing line down the middle of the bed. do not touch me, do not kick me, do not steal the duvet, and we can get through this night without any issues. go it?”
“crystal clear,” you said, grabbing your own pyjamas and heading to the bathroom to change, slamming the door a little harder than necessary.
when you came back out, the atmosphere had shifted slightly. martin was already in bed, wearing a loose t-shirt and sweatpants, lying on top of the covers with his arms crossed behind his head. he looked incredibly comfortable, and also, you had to admit, unfairly attractive. you hated that you noticed that. you hated that your stomach did a little flip just seeing him there.
you climbed into the right side of the bed, pulling the duvet up to your chin, keeping as far to the edge as physically possible. there was a good foot of empty space between you. the lights were off, only the moonlight filtering through the curtains, casting soft shadows around the room.
for a long time, neither of you spoke. you stared up at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the night, and tried to ignore the fact that you could smell his cologne, clean and warm and something you secretly really liked. you tried to ignore how his breathing sounded, slow and steady, right next to you.
“you’re not asleep yet,” martin said suddenly, his voice low in the dark, breaking the silence.
“you’re not asleep either,” you shot back, not turning your head.
“can’t sleep,” he admitted quietly. “too aware that you’re three inches away from me, ready to bite my arm if i roll over too far.”
you huffed a laugh, finally turning your head to look at him. he was already looking at you, his face half-visible in the dim light. he didn’t look annoyed or teasing right now. he looked… soft. open. the mask of irritation had slipped right off.
“i wouldn’t bite you,” you whispered, surprising yourself by how quiet your voice was. “unless you snore. if you snore, i will definitely find a pillow and smother you.”
martin smiled, a genuine, lazy smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “i don’t snore. seonghyeon says i sleep like a log. very peaceful. unlike some people who talk in their sleep and mumble about how much they hate me.”
your eyes went wide. “i don’t do that!”
“maybe not,” he murmured, shifting slightly closer, just an inch, but enough that the air between you felt warmer. “but you do talk about hating me a lot. you make it your full-time job.”
you looked away, staring at the wall. “i don’t… hate you, martin.”
the words were out before you could stop them. you froze, heart hammering against your ribs. oh no. that was not part of the plan. that was breaking every single rule you had made for yourself.
beside you, martin went completely still. he didn’t speak for a moment, and when he did, his voice was lower, rougher, different than you had ever heard it. “you don’t?”
“no,” you said, so quiet you weren’t sure if he heard it. “i mean… you’re annoying. and you’re arrogant. and you think you’re right about everything. and your friends are absolute menaces who clearly set us up tonight.”
martin chuckled softly, and you felt the mattress shift as he moved again, closer this time, until you could feel the heat radiating off his body. “okay. that sounds like a list of reasons to hate me to me.”
you turned back to face him, and in the dark, you found his hand resting on the mattress between you. before you could think better of it, your fingers brushed against his knuckles. he didn’t pull away. in fact, he turned his hand over, palm up, waiting.
“it’s complicated,” you whispered. “it’s easier to… argue. to pretend. because if i’m busy fighting with you, i don’t have to think about how much i actually… like being around you. even when you’re being insufferable.”
there was a beat of silence, heavy and charged, and then martin’s fingers interlaced with yours, holding your hand tightly.
“god,” he breathed out, sounding relieved and exasperated all at once. “you have no idea. you have absolutely no idea. i spend every single day trying to find new things to tease you about just so you’ll look at me, or talk to me, or pay attention to me.”
he squeezed your hand, his thumb brushing gently over your skin, sending shivers up your arm.
“i don’t hate you either,” he said, his voice dropping to a murmur. “i think i’ve liked you since… forever. but you’re so sharp, and so smart, and i was terrified you’d just laugh in my face if i said anything. so i annoyed you instead. it was the only way i knew how to be close to you without ruining everything.”
you shifted closer, closing that final gap between you, until your shoulders were touching. it felt natural. it felt right. all the tension, all the bickering, all the years of pretending, it all melted away in that one moment.
“hyein said we had tension,” you whispered, leaning your head slightly toward his shoulder. “i think she was right. just… not the bad kind.”
martin laughed softly, lifting your joined hands and pressing a kiss to your knuckles, before his gaze dropped to your lips, slow and deliberate. the playfulness in his eyes softened into something much deeper, something that made your breath catch in your throat.
“can i show you what kind of tension it really is?” he asked quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper.
before you could even think of a teasing reply, he leaned in closer, his hand coming up gently to cup the side of your face, his thumb brushing softly over your cheekbone. then he kissed you. it was soft and sweet and slow, everything you had secretly imagined it would be, and more. it wasn’t rushed or messy; it was gentle, full of every unspoken feeling, every hidden thought, every moment you had spent pretending you didn’t care. his lips were warm against yours, moving with a tenderness that made your heart feel like it was melting right inside your chest. for a few perfect seconds, the rest of the world disappeared.
when he pulled back just enough to look at you, his forehead resting lightly against yours, his eyes were shining in the dark.
“yeah,” he murmured, a small, happy smile playing on his lips. “definitely not the bad kind.”
he chuckled softly, the sound vibrating in his chest. “my friends are going to be insufferable about this. you know that, right? seonghyeon is going to high-five me every five minutes. keonho is probably already betting on how long it would take us to admit it.”
“let them,” you said, finally smiling, feeling lighter than you had in months. your fingers lingered against the place where his hand still held your face. “they can be annoying together, as a group. we’ll just… ignore them.”
martin shifted again, this time sliding his arm underneath your pillow and pulling you gently towards him, until you were lying comfortably against his chest, your head resting right over his heart. his other arm wrapped securely around your waist, holding you close, like he never intended to let go. the invisible line down the middle of the bed was completely gone, forgotten.
“i can work with that,” he murmured into your hair, pressing another soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head. “just so you know… this is way better than arguing.“
you giggled before snuggling closer, wrapping your arm around his waist, breathing in that familiar scent that you loved so much. “you’re still annoying, though.”
“good,” martin replied, his chest rumbling with quiet laughter. “and you’re still stubborn. we’re perfect for each other.”
outside the door, you could hear faint whispers and stifled giggles; definitely seonghyeon, keonho, and hyein, listening at the door, making sure to tease you first thing in the morning.
🐼 aya’s note. phew! just something quick for my martin girlies!
turnnoffyourmind
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theartofmadeline
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dededos
