hello! i am kourt, but you can also call me kie ^ ^
im working on a carrd, so this'll just have to do for now🤓
i'm also trying to start writing on here, but the thing is i already write on wattpad (@neptneghoul) and on tiktok where i write filo AUs (@dumblywrittten) 😬😬😬
K-POP FANDOMS ::
njz/newjeans, cortis, lngshot, illit, le sserafim, twice, unchild
OTHER (MUSIC) FANDOMS ::
tyler the creator, frank ocean, daniel caeser, laufey, the smiths, clairo, kendrick lamar, mac miller, malcolm todd (kinda??), olivia rodrigo, zild, iv of spades
DNI ::
rcists, hmophbics, xenophbcs, prolife/🍊 supporters, 🧊 supporters, etc.
WARNING: kissing, second hand embarrassment, louis being dumb, miscommunication, implied sexual content, misunderstanding, first kiss anxiety, fluff, wc: 2.5k+
SYNOPSIS: Louis avoided your kiss because he doesn’t know how to admit he hasn’t had first one, which leads to him scrambling to make it up to you.
Dating Louis was great. He was a perfect boyfriend. Attentive, cute, caring, the whole package really. The only thing was.. he was totally oblivious. It was painful. At this point, you couldn’t tell if he was doing it on purpose or not. I mean, movie night. The atmosphere was perfect. Your parents weren’t home so you had the house to yourselves. You’d act scared, curl up next to him — and he’d hold you. When you looked up you thought, this is it. except, he immediately changed the subject and scooted away from you. He claimed he was feeling stuffy. Fair enough.
When you surprised him after practice and you guys went on a late night stroll, You pretended to be cold, and he wrapped his jacket around you without hesitation. When he dropped you off and the two of you were standing on your porch, you thought that was it, he’d kiss you. He was staring at you like you were the only girl in the world when he suddenly said — “It’s cold. You should go inside.” You couldn’t tell if he saw the way your smile immediately dropped.
But, third time’s a charm. Right? This time, Louis planned a picnic for the two of you. He was bashful and shy the entire time, it was insanely cute. So when you guys were pressed shoulder to shoulder, and his head was tilted downwards towards you, you thought he’d actually do it. But instead, he stuffed a strawberry in your mouth and told you to eat.
It was frustrating. You thought having a boyfriend came with all the perks of a relationship, like kissing. But no, instead your boyfriend acted like you had cooties. And you had no idea why. So what conclusion did you come to? He’s nervous!
So you had the brilliant idea of initiating it yourself.
This time, you guys decided to go to the arcade. Louis insisted on showing off his physical prowess on the punch machine in attempt to impress you.
He absolutely destroyed you in any video games you tried. He dominated every game in the room. Except for one.
“Wait I got it!” Louis yelled, his face completely focused on the plushy he was holding with the claw machine. Right before he could drop it in the chute, it slipped the hold. Louis groaned in disappointment. “It’s okay Louis. Don’t waste all our tickets on the claw machine, you know their rigged.” You laughed, patting your defeated boyfriend on the back. “I guess..”
“Why don’t we try the photobooth?” You asked, waiting for your plan to fall in place. Louis agreed, following you to the crammed booth. “There’s barely enough space for us to both sit.” Louis scratched his head.
“It’s fine, you can sit!” You insisted, grabbing him by the shoulder and sitting him down. It would be hard to kiss your 6’2 boyfriend if you were the one sitting. The photo sequence started, You and Louis posed like any other couple, His arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close since you were standing. And you had your arms around his neck area. Okay this is it. You hyped yourself up.
It was the perfect moment. So you went in for the kill. “Wait, look at me.” You said. He looked up at you, waiting for you to say something when instead you began leaning in. He realized a second late what you were doing. Louis froze as you inched closer to his face, instinctively leaning back.
Flash!
It was incredibly awkward now. Louis just.. avoided your kiss. Your eyes fluttered open when you made contact with nothing, only to realize what had happened. “Uh, why don’t we go try the claw machine one more time?” Louis nervously smiled, trying to recover from the uncomfortable situation. Louis picked up the photo strip printed out. It was cute up until the last one, which was the failed attempt at your first kiss. You, leaning in with your eyes closed, and Louis leaning back with his eyes wide open.
“Uhm..” Louis awkwardly chuckled. You slapped your hand over your face, pure embarrassment settling in. “I should go.” You said, in attempt to save your dignity. “Y/n wait-” Louis grabbed your arm. “No really, it’s fine. I’ll see you later okay?” You replied with a smile on your face, although internally you were ready to die.
Louis watched you walk away with a frown on his face.
The photo strip stared at him, sitting on his desk. Louis stared back, his hands clasped in front of him as he replayed the moment over and over in his head. Especially the last photo. Your face—eyes closed, leaning in like you were certain. Him, pulled back, wide-eyed like he had seen something terrifying instead of… you.
Louis audibly groaned, remembering how embarrassing the situation was for the both of you, shaking his head as if it’d make the recollection disappear. Yeah, he chickened out.
These past couple days you’ve been more distant, awkward, and dry. Of course he knew why. He just didn’t know how to fix it. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to kiss you—he did. Obviously. You were his girlfriend. It was that he had never done it before. And now that the moment had actually come, Louis realized something humiliating.
He didn’t know how.
The poor boy was at a crossroad with no idea what to do, when an amazing idea came to his mind. He grabbed his laptop, opening up google.
searching…
how to kiss █
Results flooded his screen. Youtube links, websites -- everything, all teaching him, how to kiss. He pressed a reddit thread.
@Far_Influence9185 •3y ago
Practice on a pillow. Or just do a more relaxed kind of peck. I don't know I've only kissed one person and that was in the first grade.
@thegoat_762 •3y ago
I’m 16m and haven’t had my first kiss I’m too scared and ion even got a gf to kiss
@deleted •3y ago
My buddies first kiss the girl puked in his mouth so as long as you dont do that you are golden.
Louis’ face scrunched up in disgust as he read the last one. He hoped you wouldn’t do that to him. Most of these were just as clueless as him or absolutely useless. As he continued to scroll on the thread, his door burst open.
“Yo Louis have you seen my-”
Louis instinctively slammed his laptop shut, looking like a deer caught in headlights. Woojin’s eyebrows furrowed as he looked at his roommate who was looking awfully suspicious. “Uhm, what were you doing?” Woojin asked, staring at his laptop.
Louis didn’t reply immediately. He racked his brain for what to say. Oh hey Woojin? Yeah I’m just researching how to kiss so I can make a move on my girl.
Yeah, that wouldn’t work.
“Please don’t tell me you were watching p-”
“Ew!” Louis yelled, visibly grimaced. “I’m not watching that. I was just.. Doing something..” Louis danced around the truth. Woojin raised a brow.
“What do you want anyway?” Louis said abruptly, changing the topic. Woojin walked up to him, Louis’ grip tightened on his laptop. “Hey what’s that?” Woojin pointed out the window, a shocked look on his face. Louis’ head snapped towards the direction, searching for whatever Woojin was talking about, when he took that as a chance to snatch Louis’ laptop and run off.
“Hey!” Louis yelled, bolting after him. Woojin ran towards the dinner table where Ryul and Ohyul sat, startled by the sudden noise. Woojin ran around the table, playing a game of cat and mice with a very angry Louis. “You’re not funny! Give me my laptop back!” Louis tried to chase him around the table. “What are you guys doing?” Ohyul asked, intrigued.
“Louis was watching-”
“Shut up!” Louis jumped on the table, swiping at his laptop and missing. In the process he knocked over Ryul’s cup of water off the table. In the midst of the chaos Louis created, Woojin took that as a chance to run to his room, locking his door.
Louis banged on it. “Come out bro! This is not funny.” He whined, defeated. “He took your laptop?” Ryul asked. Louis nodded. “Why do you want it back so bad?” Ohyul grinned.
“None of your business.” Louis grunted, knocking harder on Woojin’s door. Shortly after, the door swung open, a chummy smile on Woojin’s face as he handed over the laptop to Louis who immediately snatched it. “I hate you.”
“If you wanted tips, you could’ve just asked any of us.” Woojin took a seat at the table, completely smug. “Ask what? Someone please explain.” Ohyul sighed. “Don’t.” Louis said, his eyes locked with Woojin. “I don’t know man.. It’s pretty funny.”
“Woojin.” Louis groaned.
“Just tell them it's not that serious.” Woojin stretched on the chair, laying his feet on the table to which Ohyul opposed. Louis sat next to Woojin, sighing.
“I was…” Louis trailed off. He tried to say it, but every time the words almost came out his mouth, he physically recoiled. “For godsake, just give me the laptop and let me see myself.” Ryul snatched it from him. “Wait, nonononono!” Louis reached across the table trying to grab it back. Ohyul pushed his arms away as he peered at the laptop sitting on Ryul’s lap.
Ryul opened it, to be met with a Reddit thread, on how to kiss. Silence fell for a moment. Ohyul’s grin widened, Ryul stared at the screen in silence. Woojin was snickering. Louis wanted to crawl under a rock.
“..You cannot be serious.” Ryul finally spoke. Ohyul and Woojin were having a laughing fit. “I seriously hate you guys!” Louis covered his face with his hands.
“Okay, okay. Why were you.. searching how to kiss?” Ohyul asked, biting his lip in attempt to hold his laughter in. “.. it’s a long story bro.” Louis ran a hand through his hair as he recalled the events. “Make it short.” Ryul said.
Louis grumbled. He wasn’t exactly encouraged to tell them what happened, especially after what they just did. “No judgement I swear!” Woojin said very loudly.
Louis looked at him reluctantly before caving. “Okay fine.” Louis sat forward. “A couple days ago.. I was on a date with Y/n.”
The three nodded, motioning for him to continue. “And she tried to kiss me.”
The three boys looked dumbfounded. “Okay? That’s all?” Ryul furrowed his brows. Louis sighed before answering. “No.. I dodged her kiss..”
Once again, silence fell. “Wow. You’re actually an idiot!” Woojin blinked. “Okay okay. So what? You’re trying to figure out how to initiate it then?” Ohyul asked. “Well. Yeah.” Louis scratched his neck. “But what happened after?” Ryul put a hand on Ohyuls shoulder, slightly pushing him since he strayed away from the story. “Well she was acting normal until the photo printed, then she left.”
“What do you mean until the photo printed?” Woojin replied. “Well when that was happening we were in a Photo Booth.. so it kind of caught on camera.”
Woojin burst out laughing. “You said no judgement!” Louis yelled. “Louis, why did you do that in the first place?” Ohyul asked. “Because. I haven’t had my first kiss. What if I’m like.. I don’t know. Horrible!” Louis threw his hands up, exasperated.
Ryul smiled. “Bro it’s not that hard. Just go with the flow.”
“No, don’t listen to him.” Woojin interrupted. “You absolutely can mess it up which is why she has to lead.” Woojin paused. “But actually since you messed that up already, I don’t see how that’s going to happen..”
Louis rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you just tell her the truth?” Ohyul suggested.
“And embarrass myself?” Louis gave him a look. “What’s so embarrassing about that? I told my first girl.” Ohyul shrugged. Woojin snorted.
“Nah. Ohyul’s right. Like Woojin said, you already messed it up. You have to explain to her why. Even if you kiss her she’s still going to wonder why you were so weird.” Ryul said.
As much as Louis hated to admit, they were right. He had to come clean. “You can always practice on a pillow. Or do a more relaxed kind of peck.” Woojin teased.
“Shut up!”
The rain pitter pattered outside. The downpour slowly trickled down your window. It was late out, your parents were sleeping. You were blasting music in your headphones as you reorganized your room, to keep your mind off of things.
You danced around the space as you picked things off of the floor. Your phone was low battery so you turned to grab your charger, only to be startled by your boyfriend standing outside your window drenched. Awkwardly waving. You screamed which also startled him. Louis jumped back, tripping.
You rushed over to the window, pushing it up. “Are you okay?” You asked, worried. Louis looked up at you, in all of his wet glory. “Uh. Yeah.” He smiled crookedly, pushing himself up. “Sorry about that.. I was knocking for a bit.”
“No! It’s fine. I shouldn’t have been playing my music so loudly…” the two of you were just staring at each other. Both at a loss for words, neither of you knew what to say, the tension was thick. “Uhm.. so what are you doing here? It’s pretty late.” You broke the silence. “I just really wanted to see you. And talk to you and-” Louis paused.
“..can I come in?” He blurted. You looked reluctant, which made Louis even more nervous. “I don’t know Louis.. I think you should just go home. It’s not really a good time right now.”
Louis pushed his hair back, the rain doing a number on him. “Look. I know I messed up.” He began. You finally looked up at him. “The truth is.. I was nervous. I know it was dumb. I should’ve told you this earlier. I just didn’t want to be that guy who hasn’t had his 1st kiss.”
“..huh.” You narrowed your eyes. Louis smiled, awkwardly. “That’s why you’ve been so..”
“Weird. Yes.” Louis interrupted. You bit your lip. “Don’t. Laugh.” He whined. “I guess I just wanted our first kiss to be perfect. For it to be the perfect moment. He held your hands. “But I don’t need any of that, when I have the perfect girl in front of me.” Louis smiled. You leaned back, scrunching your face. “You're so cliche.” You said, but in reality, you were cheesing. Your stomach was fluttering.
Louis pulled you back in and closed the gap. Was it awkward? Yes. But it was genuine and sweet. “So.. can I come in?” He grinned. “hmm… I don’t know. I think you have to work for it.” You teased.
“But it’s so warm here. And I’m so cold out here..” Louis pleaded, his bottom lip jutted out. “Well in that case.. I guess.” You rolled your eyes. Louis climbed in, hitting his head on top.. and then falling into your room.
IN WHICH — Martin is secretly dating his producer, and when she looks too good, he can't help himself.
idol!martin x producer!reader
୨⎯ contains: secret relationship • romance • fluff • minimal cursing • kissing • almost being caught • martin is just... idk • reader is a tiny tiny bit grumpy ⎯୧
wc. 734
j's corner ˚ · . lowk wrote this in 30 mins... enjoy
Martin's in the recording booth, his head bopping up and down to the melody playing. You two had just composed a new beat together and wanted to use it as a sample for their new comeback.
The beat played quietly through the headphones that sat atop of his head. He looks over towards you, a small smirk present on his face. You look to him, eyes rolling once you see the smirk. That look always means something, usually it's one of mischief.
"Come in here." He speaks into the microphone hanging in front of him.
"Why?" You throw back, pressing on the red button that allows him to hear you through the noise cancellation in the booth.
"'Cause, I need your help." He whispers, voice dropping the smallest bit to something more deep.
Your cheeks flush the smallest bit before you push yourself off the rolling chair and step towards the booth. You open the door and walk to Martin. He immediately wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his chest.
See, the thing is, no one knew about Martin and you. Being the co-producer for CORTIS, you knew to keep a professional attitude. Though, Martin had found a way to slide through those barriers. With reluctance, you melted into his grasp and rested your head down on him.
Martin slides the headphones off his head and down onto his neck instead, this way he could hear you better.
"You look so pretty today," He whispers and you slap his arm, telling him to shut up.
"You're so annoying, the boys will be coming in here in literally ten minutes." You grumble.
Martin laughs at that and reaches to your chin, tilting your head up so his eyes can meet yours properly. His eyes drift down to your lips and his face sobers.
"No, Martin, not now." You scold him as his gaze comes back up to your eyes.
"Just one, c'mon, I couldn't earlier because we were too busy on the new song." His lips form a small pout, and you can't pretend you don't want this too anymore.
You huff, "Fine. But just one!"
Martin immediately shoots forward, connecting your lips with eager. The kiss is soft, one with an underlying emotion fizzing between both of your lips. His mouth quickens against yours and you start to pull back.
"Not yet," he whispers against your mouth as he pulls you back in.
You soften, letting the kiss take you in and bask in his presence. Your hand comes up and cups his cheek. His one hand that was on your shoulder drifts down to your waist while the other leaves your chin.
After a moment, you feel his hand leave your waist too. You then feel a tune playing and pressure on both sides of your head. The realization dawns when you recognize the beat to be the one that you had just finished working on.
He hums quietly into your mouth when he feels your kiss falter for a second as you lose focus from being distracted. After what feels like only a minute, he pulls back, chuckling after you chase his lips.
"Thought you didn't want to kiss?" He teases.
"Shut up.." You mumble back, hiding your face in his neck.
Martin lets out another laugh, but then quickly steps back when he sees the door handle of the studio room twisting.
"Shit, they're here" He mumbles.
Your eyes widen and hands lift up to yank the headphones off. You step back as well just as the other four boys enter the room. James brows furrow when he sees you and Martin in the booth by yourselves.
Martin steps out of the booth and you follow. Seonghyeon and Keonho crash down onto the couch and Juhoon stands with James, giving us weird looks.
"Just came in early to help create the beat." Martin explains as both boys suspicious nod.
You and Martin both make eye contact after the boys walk away, he leans down and whisper in your ear, "What they don't know won't hurt them."
You smirk and start explaining the parts to the boys. In the corner of your eye you see Martin standing with them, but he's wiping some light pink gloss from his lips as he stares right at you.
You blush, wondering how many times you'll see the action moving forward since secret studio kisses have now been added to your relationship.
synopsis: you had initially thought martin edwards was your typical rockstar, collecting girls like they were trophies on a daily, but you soon realised how wrong you were.
To be a rockstar's girlfriend you needed to be many things: prepared for the intruding eyes of the public, ready for the endless girls throwing themselves at your boyfriend's feet, but most of all—if you wanted him completely obsessed—you needed to be cooler than him.
For a star like Martin Edwards, that was a tall order. Lead singer of his band, his face plastered across every magazine, his voice the anthem of a generation. He'd never publicly acknowledged a relationship, never shown interest in anyone. The endless fangirls bordering on stalkers made him paranoid—he'd rather be alone than risk letting a stranger in. He'd built his career on being untouchable, the kind of guy who left girls crying in their bedrooms, not the other way around.
Paris Fashion Week wasn't his scene at all. He'd almost skipped it, told his manager to shove the invitation somewhere unpleasant, but something pulled him there, a restless itch he couldn't explain, a feeling that he'd miss something important if he didn't go.
He came decked in black: scuffed combat boots, leather trousers that hugged his thighs, a faded CORTIS tour tee from two years ago. He looked bored, slouched in his front-row seat like he'd rather be anywhere else, fingers drumming against his knee as models glided by in designer gowns and sky-high heels. The music was too polished, the lights too bright, the whole affair too clean for his taste. He was about to get up and leave when you emerged.
You walked the runway like you owned it, wearing stunning floor-length gown in champagne silk that caught every light, a slit that went dangerously high, heels so sharp they could kill a man. You didn't smile, didn't wave, instead you moved like you were born for this, shoulders back, chin high, utterly untouchable.
His jaw went slack and his drumming fingers stilled. For the first time in years, Martin Edwards was speechless. His mind was hollow, entirely empty of any rational thought that would have been screaming at him to snap out of it before his reputation of being untouchable is completely destroyed. Instead there was one simple line repeating like a mantra.
He needed you. He needed you more than he'd ever needed anything.
You didn't look at him once. Your gaze swept over the front row like they were furniture, as though he was just another piece of decor, and that only made it worse.
At the end of the runway, you turned. For a split second, your eyes met his. You lifted one eyebrow by just a fraction—a flicker of curiosity, a silent question—before your expression smoothed back to perfect neutrality and you were gone, disappearing behind the velvet curtains.
He didn't even remember the rest of the show. He sat there like a statue, his mind replaying that single moment in an endless loop.
What he didn't know was that it had all been photographed. By morning, his slack-jawed, lovesick stare was splashed across every tabloid and newspaper in the country.
"ROCKSTAR RAVENOUS! Martin Edwards' Heart Snatched by Parisian Mystery Muse!" Screamed the front page of The Sun, complete with a grainy photo of his stunned face. "WHO IS THE SIREN IN HEELS?" Demanded the Daily Mail. Even the fashion magazines got in on it: Vogue ran a two-page spread speculating about the mysterious model who'd made the ‘Prince of Darkness’ lose his cool, complete with freeze-frames of that one eyebrow raise.
Martin sat in his hotel room the next evening staring at his own exposed face on every newsstand. The mask he'd worn for years—the untouchable, brooding rockstar—was gone. Everyone had seen him unravel in real time.
A slow grin spread across his face as he scanned the endless pages.
Good. Now you’d know exactly who was coming for you.
Two weeks later, you arrived back in New York following the event, doing everything in your power to try to forget the weird rockstar who stared at you like you'd personally ruined his life. You were in your penthouse apartment, a copy of Paper magazine with his lovesick face plastered across it on your marble coffee table. Your agent had been calling nonstop, thrilled about the publicity, already scheming about how to leverage it for your next campaign.
Your phone suddenly began ringing and you almost ignored it entirely, tired of the constant need for people to speak to you, but something pushed you to pick up.
"Hello?"
A low voice, rough and amused, crackled through the receiver. "That was a hell of a walk. Almost made me forget my own name."
You instantly froze. You knew that voice—you’d heard it enough times on the radio, on MTV, blasting from cars in traffic. The voice of a generation, the voice of every teenage girl's bedroom wall.
"Martin Edwards," you said flatly, sinking onto your velvet chaise. "How the hell did you get my number?"
"You're a model," he replied, like that explainef everything. "I'm a rockstar. I have people."
"You have stalkers, you mean."
He laughed a genuine, surprised sound, not the polished chuckle he typically gives interviews. "Yeah, maybe. But I'm not a stalker, I'm just..." He paused and you bit your lip slightly, unsure on why the silence made you nervous. "Determined."
You should have hung up and slammed the phone down and called your doorman to make sure no one gets past the lobby. You knew exactly what this was: a rockstar with a new fixation, chasing the next shiny thing, bored of groupies and looking for a challenge.
"Listen, rockstar," you said, your voice dropping to something cold and sharp. "I don't do groupies, I don't do fans, and I definitely don't do men who think they can just call me up because they saw me on a runway."
Silence came from his end. Then, quietly: "I don't want a fan. I want you."
"You don't know me."
"Then let me."
You chewed your lip, staring at your reflection in the dark window of your apartment—the skyline glittered before you, the city that never sleeps hummed twenty floors below. You've dated musicians before and it's always a disaster: the cheating, the lies, the constant parade of women throwing themselves at them. Martin Edwards was the biggest of them all. A tabloid regular; a walking red flag in scuffed boots and leather.
Though there was a rawness in his voice that caught you off guard and made you pause.
"I'm busy," you answeref, though the slight smile you were attempting to suppress suggested differently.
"Friday. 8pm. I'll send a car."
"I didn't say yes."
"You didn't say no."
You hung up before he could say anything else, but you made sure to write his number down on a scrap of paper incase he ever called again. Just in case.
Friday night arrived and you put on a silk black slip dress with barely there straps. The stretch of fabric falling just above your knee and you added strappy heels that made your legs look endless, folowed by a delicate necklace before you styled your hair loose and glossy.
You looked in the mirror and reminded yourself that you didn’t care what rockstar Martin Edwards thought of you, he was the same as every other male musician that latched onto women for a few weeks before getting bored.
You smoothed down the dress one last time, adjusting the thin straps on your shoulders before grabbing a small clutch, slipping your phone inside and taking a breath.
The town car waited outside your building, sleek and black, a driver holding the door open like this was completely normal. You slid into the leather backseat and watched the city blur past as he drove you downtown.
The jazz bar was hidden in the Village, tucked away behind an unmarked door you would have walked right past if the driver hadn't pointed it out. Inside, it was all exposed brick and dim amber light, a saxophone player in the corner crooning something slow and sad. The place was intimate, almost empty, a few couples scattered at tables alongside a bartender polishing glasses.
And there he was.
Martin Edwards sat in a corner booth, dressed down in a simple black sweater and dark jeans, his hair pushed back from his face. His fingers tapped against the tabletop in a restless rhythm, and when he saw you approach, he stood up so fast he nearly knocked over his drink.
"You came," he said, genuine surprise in his voice.
"You sent a car. It seemed rude to waste gas."
He grinned at your words. "I'll take it."
You slid into the booth across from him, crossing your legs, the slit of your dress falling open just slightly.
"So," you said, leaning back. "What's your angle?"
"No angle."
"Bullshit."
He laughed, running a hand through his hair. "I don't have an angle. I just saw you on that runway and couldn't stop thinking about you. That's it. That's the whole thing."
"You haven’t even asked for my name."
"I already know it's Y/N."
You tilted your head, studying him. He wasn't performing for you—not the way he performed on stage, not the way he performed in interviews. He was just here, nervous but trying.
"Okay," you said slowly. "One drink. If you bore me I'm gone."
"Deal."
You ended up staying until the bar closed. He didn't bore you. Instead he made you laugh whilst looking at you like you were the only person in the room, and when he walked you to your door at 3am, he didn't try to come in. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, memorising every detail of you with a slight smirk residing on his lips.
"Same time next week?" He asked, tilting his head just a fraction.
You should have said no and walked inside and forgotten this ever happened. Instead, you smiled. "Maybe."
Safe to say, Martin Edwards was a hard man to shake.
He had a way of appearing when you least expected him: a bouquet of peonies delivered to your apartment the morning after your first date, a handwritten note slipped under your door alongside it that revealed far more emotional depth than a rockstar of his realm should technically possess. He called you at odd hours from the road, his voice rough and tired, just to hear you say goodnight. He sent you playlists filled with unreleased songs he'd recorded himself that were burned onto discs, his voice cracking over stolen lyrics he'd rewritten just for you.
He was relentless, and worse, he was charming.
It started small with a dinner here and a walk there. He took you to dive bars and rooftop restaurants, to galleries and late-night diners. He never brought you to anything flashy, never paraded you around like a trophy. He kept you hidden, protected, his own private secret in a world that wanted to consume him.
You let him do it all because despite every instinct screaming at you to run, to protect yourself from the inevitable heartbreak of dating a rockstar, Martin Edwards made it impossible to resist.
He remembered everything—your coffee order, your favourite movie, the way you liked your eggs in the morning. He learned the exact pressure of his hand on your lower back that made you shiver when he guided you through crowds. He learned the exact rhythm of your breathing when you fell asleep on his chest.
He was careful with you in a way you hadn't expected.
And slowly, without even realising it, you fell.
Within two months of knowing you Martin was already inviting you backstage to his shows, keeping you hidden and protected from the intruding crowd. It was at one of these shows when he had pulled you behind a pillar, the rest of the world becoming nonexistent as his arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you tightly against him, his forehead dropping to uour shoulder.
You hesitated for a moment before reaching your hand up and letting your fingers sift through his strands, the sigh of relief he let out showing you were doing the right thing.
The two of you remained in that position much longer than what was considered normal, though neither of you cared, too swept up in the moment.
Eventually you heard him say something, his words muffled against your jacket.
“What?” You asked softly, a small smile resting on your lips. He lifted his head up, his hair standing up in multiple directions from all your ruffling, and he very much did not look like the hardcore rockstar many of his fans saw him to be.
"I said," he murmured, his voice rough, "I think I'm in trouble."
You raised an eyebrow. "What kind of trouble?"
"The kind where I can't stop thinking about you." He reached up, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear as you felt your cheeks redden just slightly at the gesture. "The kind where I don't want to be on stage unless I know you're watching. The kind where I wake up and the first thing I do is reach for you, even when you're not there."
Your heart stuttered in your chest, your gaze softening at his words. "Martin—"
"I know it's fast. I know we've only known each other two months. I know you probably think I'm just some rockstar who gets bored easily and moves on to the next thing." He let out a breath, his forehead dropping back to your shoulder. "But you're not the next thing, you're the only thing for me."
You stood there, frozen, his body pressed against yours, his words echoing in your head. Two months was nothing, barely enough time to know someone properly and let alone fall for them.
But you already knew him. You knew the way he took his coffee, that he hummed when he was concentrating, even how his eyes lit up when he talked about a new song he was writing. You knew the shadows under his eyes when he hadn't slept, that his fingers tapped against every surface like he was always composing something. You knew he looked at you like you were something precious he was terrified of losing.
And you knew, with absolute certainty, that you were already in too deep.
"Martin," you said softly, your fingers finding their way back to his hair, threading through the dark strands. "Look at me."
He lifted his head, his eyes meeting yours, and he looked nervous. Martin Edwards, the man who commanded thousands of screaming fans night after night, looked nervous.
"I'm not going anywhere," you said quietly. "You're not going to lose me."
His breath caught. "You mean that?"
"I mean it."
He stared at you for a long moment, searching your eyes for something: doubt, hesitation, a lie; he found none.
He slowly moved forward and his lips brushed against yours so softly you could barely feel them, and you realised in that moment he was afraid you'd pull away.
You did nothing of the sort and instead leaned into him, your fingers curling in his hair, pulling him closer. His arms tightened around your waist, and you felt the tension drain from his body as he melted into you.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps whilst his eyes remained closed.
"Y/N," he whispered, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.
"I'm here," you said softly. "I'm not going anywhere."
He opened his eyes, and the look in them made your heart ache. It was raw and open and completely unguarded.
"I've never—" He stopped, shaking his head. "I've never felt like this before. I don't know what I'm doing, I don't know how to do this."
"Neither do I," you admitted. "But we can figure it out together."
He smiled then, his grin reaching his eyes and making him look younger and lighter than how he appeared on the many magazines you absolutely did not keep hidden in your bedside table. "Together?"
"Together."
He kissed you again, softer this time—if that were even possible, as though he was sealing a promise. His hands cupped your face, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones, and you felt like the only person in the world.
When he pulled back, he was grinning. "I'm going to be so annoying now, you know that, right? The whole band is going to hate me. I'm not going to shut up about you."
You laughed, shoving his chest lightly. "You're already annoying."
"True." He pulled you back into his arms, burying his face in your hair. "But now I'm annoying and in love."
You could only smile against his shoulder at that, closing your eyes and letting the feel of him engulf your entire being.
From then on, Martin was yours and you were his, as hard as it was when you were constantly on opposite sides of the world. The distance was brutal: weeks apart, time zones that made calls nearly impossible, schedules that never seemed to align, but Martin made it work. He called you every night, no matter where he was or what time it was. He sent you handwritten letters filled with lyrics he'd scribbled in the margins of hotel notepads. He showed up at your apartment unannounced, exhausted and rumpled, just to hold you for a few hours before catching another flight.
You did the same for him. You flew across oceans to watch him perform, sitting in the shadows of the crowd, hidden beneath caps and sunglasses, just to see him do what he loved. You called him when you couldn't sleep, when the loneliness of your hotel room became too much and everything made you think of him.
It wasn't easy—there were nights you cried, overwhelmed by the distance, the secrecy, and the weight of loving someone the world wasn't supposed to know about, and there were nights Martin called you, his voice rough and raw, confessing how much he missed you followed by how much he hated being so far away.
But you always found your way back to each other, and every time you did, it was like no time had passed at all.
The public eventually found out, and it was entirely inevitable, to be completely honest. You'd been as careful as two people in the public eye could be, but you weren't as invisible or untouchable as you had thought. Eventually the paparazzi, relentless and all-seeing, caught a glimpse of what you'd been trying so hard to protect.
It started with a photo: the two of you in a hotel lobby in London, his hand intertwined with yours, your head tilted back in laughter as he whispered something in your ear. It was grainy, taken from too far away, but it was unmistakably the two of you.
The next morning, the image was everywhere.
"ROCKSTAR'S SECRET LOVE AFFAIR EXPOSED!" was printed on every newspaper in the country. Your face was plastered across every newsstand, every television screen, every gossip column. Your agent's phone rang off the hook for hours on end; stranngers on the street recognised you, whispering behind their hands, pointing and staring like you were a spectacle.
You'd known this day would come, you’d prepared for it, even braced yourself for it, but nothing could have prepared you for the sheer weight of it: the invasion, the scrutiny, the sudden loss of privacy that came with being publicly linked to Martin Edwards.
You sat atop his bed in a London hotel room, the many magazines spread out in front of you as you sifted through one, your fingers tracing the grainy image of the two of you in the lobby. Your own face stared back at you, frozen in a moment of laughter, his hand wrapped around yours. It felt strange, seeing yourself reduced to a headline and a piece of gossip for strangers to consume without a care in the world about you as an actual person.
You heard the bathroom door creak open behind you, the air shifting as Martin emerged with his pyjamas sitting loose on his frame and his hair still damp, curling slightly at the ends. He crossed the room in a few quiet steps, and before you could look up, his hands were on the magazine, gently pulling it from your grasp.
"Hey—" you started to protest, but he tossed it aside, not caring where it landed.
Then he climbed onto the bed, his weight settling over you as he lay on top of you, his body pressing yours into the mattress. He was warm and solid, still smelling like soap and steam, and you let out a breathless laugh as you tried to shove at his shoulders.
"Martin, you're too heavy," you complained, but you were giggling, your hands flattening against his chest. "Get off."
He didn't move. Instead, he buried his face in the curve of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. "No," he murmured, the word muffled. "I'm staying here forever. This is my new home."
"Your new home is crushing me."
"Good, you're not going anywhere."
You laughed again, your fingers finding their way into his damp hair, threading through the damp strands. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm in love," he corrected, lifting his head just enough to look at you, his lips just grazing your chin. His eyes were soft and searching your own. "And I'm not letting a bunch of magazines ruin that."
Your smile faded slightly, the weight of everything pressing down on you again. "Martin—"
"I know," he said quietly, cutting you off. "I know it's a lot. I know they're going to be everywhere now. I know they're going to try to tear us apart." He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "But I don't care about any of it, all I care about is you."
You stared at him, your heart swelling. "You really mean that?"
"I really mean it." He leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "I love you, Y/N, and I'm not going to let anyone take that away from us."
You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him closer, and he let out a soft sigh of relief against your skin. The magazines lay forgotten on the floor, their headlines screaming about secrets and scandals, but neither of you paid them any attention.
In that moment, there was only the two of you.
"You're still crushing me," you murmured after a moment, a smile tugging at your lips.
He laughed, rolling off you just enough to pull you into his side, his arm wrapping around your waist. "Better?"
"Better."
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, and you felt the tension in his body slowly ease.
Eventually, the fans and press got used to seeing the two of you together.
It took time: months of grainy photos and speculative articles, of whispers and pointed fingers and strangers dissecting your every move. But slowly, inevitably, the novelty began to fade. You weren't a mystery anymore, you were just Martin Edwards' girlfriend, and he was just your boyfriend, and the two of you were simply... together.
The tabloids still covered you, of course, they always would, but the tone shifted. The invasive headlines gave way to something almost affectionate. The speculation about breakups and cheating scandals was replaced by stories about your red carpet appearances, your joint holidays, the way Martin looked at you during interviews.
"CORTIS Frontman and Model Girlfriend: The Coolest Couple in Rock?" —NME
"Martin Edwards and Y/N Y/L/N: How They Became Music's Most Stylish Pair" —Vogue
"Rockstar Romance: Why Martin and Y/N Are Relationship Goals" —Rolling Stone
You'd laugh every time you saw a new headline, shoving the magazine in Martin's face. "Did you see this? We're 'relationship goals.'"
He'd grin, pulling you into his lap. "They're not wrong."
You'd roll your eyes, but you'd be smiling. "You have such a big ego."
"You love it."
And you did. You really did.
The fans embraced you too. At first, there had been the inevitable backlash: jealous comments, cruel speculation, girls who swore you weren't good enough for him. But you weathered it, never engaging, never stooping to their level. You showed up to shows, stood quietly by his side, and let your actions speak for themselves.
Slowly, the fans came around. They saw the way Martin looked at you like you'd hung the moon, and how you supported him by showing up even when you didn't have to. They saw the small moments: him holding your hand backstage, you fixing his collar before he went on stage, the private smiles you exchanged across crowded rooms.
Soon, you weren't just Martin Edwards' girlfriend. You were the girl who'd tamed the rockstar. The one who could walk a runway in couture and still stand in the pit at one of his shows despite the rowdy crowd. The one who never looked fazed, never seemed rattled, never let the cameras get to her.
You'd become a style icon in your own right, your red carpet looks dissected and praised. You'd become a fixture at award shows, a staple of magazine covers, a name that stood on its own. And through it all, Martin was right beside you, his hand always finding yours, his eyes always seeking you out in a crowd.
The press called you the coolest couple, the most stylish pair, the relationship goals of a generation, but to you, it was simpler than that. You were just two people who'd found each other in the chaos, and had held on dearly when everything tried to pull you apart.
summary. headcanons about martin as a highschool boyfriend set in the 80s
warnings. none i can think of!
wc. 650
a/n. this is my first time publishing my writing EVER, so i would appreciate feedback more than anything! please know and keep in mind that english isn't my first language. i also had a rush of motivation for this so i have no introduction or a good theme yet, but i'll make all that this week. and don't hesitate to send in requests, i think that's what motivates me to write
- makes you cassette tapes inspired by anything about you: you in the morning, the time you first met, car drives with you…
- ceo of standing under your window with a boombox to serenade you: be it just because or after an argument
- plays “baby come back” after EVERY minor disagreement, and you just get embarrassed at how many times the neighbors must think you break up with your boyfriend
- because really… as annoying as he can get, you’ve never once come even close to breaking up
- drives a red dodge conquest
- has to squeeze in a little, but that’s just what you have to do if you want to drive a car that cool as a 6’3’’ guy
- a gentleman through and through, so he insists on driving you to and from school. if he’s honest he mostly does it for himself though because he can’t stand to be away from you for too long
- works at a local rock radio station; he’s the youngest by several decades but everyone trusts his taste so he chooses like 80% of the tracks played
- matching halloween costumes obviously
- doesn’t do a sport or any demanding extracurriculars himself, but puts his everything into supporting you if you do
- listens to the clash, the smiths and david bowie religiously
- outwardly judges you for being a madonna fan, internally can’t stop grooving to her songs everytime you put them on
- obviously it helps seeing how you’re always so happy listening to them!
- in that vein… always pulls you in for a clumsy little dance when a song you both love comes on
- will absolutely twirl you around and lean you down to place a loud peck on your lips and pull away with a stupidly cute grin
- obviously you two have song, like any respectable couple: drive by the cars
- fitting the title, the first time you heard it together was in his car: after a movie date, already parked back in front of your house, the radio humming low.
- you know you should’ve gotten out already, but there’s something in the air. you two are still talking, but keep sneaking glances at each other
- once the conversation dies down you’re just looking at each other smiling
- that’s when martin leans in
- when you don’t lean back and instead let your eyelids flutter shut, he gets the confidence he needed!
- your first kiss is short and sweet, but sooo soft and careful
- when it’s over way too fast, you lean in again and give him another one, a short peck
- he’s still so dazed he doesn’t completely register you say “goodbye, martin” and open the passenger door to walk to your front door
- manages a smiley and weak “bye”
- you don’t stop smiling on the way to your room, he doesn’t stop smiling on the drive home
- like the two idiots in love you are
- your parents love him: everytime he comes over for dinner or spends time with them he manages to wrap them around his finger
- brought your mom her favorite flowers when he first met her
- talks bands and cars with your dad and offers to help around the house without being asked
- plays games with your little siblings, always!
- if they only knew… how he sneaks through your window after curfew almost every weeknight
- after the first time he did this his ankle hurt for a week from jumping back down… he’s since learned from that, so don’t you worry!
- lays on your bed like it’s his own, feet dangling off the edge because he’s just so tall
- you’re usually sitting against your headboard, knees to your chest
- he thinks this is the best way he can be both comfortable and admire you
- you two are also the mom and dad of both his and your friend group
- and especially younger students at school dream of a highschool boyfriend like your martin
- because everyone can see how obsessed with you he is!
we're losing the plot tbh. yall say "dont baby idols" sonion what happened to protecting younger idols???? its alwayyysss that until its someone you're starting to be sexually attracted to even if you shouldnt be
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ─── juhoon plays in the world cup final when he saw you wearing his jersey and his whole confidence boosted
★ bf ! juhoon × fem!reader
word count ── 4.2k
˖᯽ ݁˖ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 coco speaking here! sadly korea didn’t win against mexico BUT THATS OKAY 😔😔😔 maybe in another life korea wins in the final like my fic LMAOAOA i just thought about this because juhoon is a really good soccer/football player HEHEHEHE HOPE YOU ENJOY 𖧧 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓
The stadium roared with a magnitude that felt almost otherworldly.
The deafening chorus of thousands reverberated through your entire body, vibrating beneath your feet and rattling the metal railing gripped tightly in your hands. Every corner of the arena pulsed with anticipation, emotion, and national pride.
A vast ocean of red and white stretched endlessly before you. Flags billowed dramatically in the evening air. Supporters leaped from their seats. Strangers embraced. Children sat atop their parents’ shoulders, waving banners larger than themselves.
The atmosphere was electric—so charged with excitement that even breathing felt difficult. This wasn’t simply a football match, this was history unfolding before your eyes.
The World Cup Final.
The culmination of years of sacrifice, relentless training sessions, devastating defeats, miraculous victories, and impossible dreams, and somewhere amidst the brilliant floodlights illuminating the pitch stood your boyfriend.
Kim Juhoon, wearing a Number 7 Jersey. Captain of South Korea. The man who carried the hopes of an entire nation upon his shoulders.
From your seat high in the stands, you could still pick him out immediately. There was something unmistakable about him. The quiet confidence in his posture, the sharp determination etched into his features, the captain’s armband wrapped securely around his bicep, the way he stood taller than everyone around him despite being surrounded by world-class athletes.
He looked composed, focused, ready. At least until his gaze wandered toward the crowd, toward you.
The moment his eyes landed on your figure, he visibly froze completely, utterly. For a brief second, the chaos of the stadium seemed to disappear from his perspective, because you were wearing his jersey.
Not merely a national team jersey, not a replica purchased from a merchandise stand. His jersey.
The exact one he had carefully folded and handed to you after practice months ago. The same jersey he’d insisted would look adorable on you. The same jersey he’d repeatedly begged you to wear, and the same jersey you had stubbornly refused every single time.
It had always felt embarrassing. Too obvious, too couple-like, too revealing of your relationship to the millions of people who watched him.
Yet today was different, today was the biggest day of his career. The most important match he would ever play, and if there was ever a moment to support him without hesitation, it was now.
The oversized fabric draped over your frame, the sleeves extending nearly to your forearms. His surname stretched proudly across your back. His number adorned the front. A silent declaration that made your cheeks warm when ever you looked down.
Yet the reaction it provoked from Juhoon was far more dramatic than you’d anticipated. Even from across the enormous field, you could see the exact moment his brain stopped functioning.
His eyes widened noticeably, his lips parted. The confident captain who had moments earlier looked prepared to conquer the world suddenly resembled a teenager experiencing his first crush.
A delicate blush climbed steadily up his neck, then to his ears, then across his cheeks. You had never seen him turn red that quickly before.
The sight nearly made you laugh, and then it became worse, much worse.
One of his teammates noticed. The player followed Juhoon’s line of sight. His eyes landed on you, specifically on the jersey.
His expression transformed instantly. A grin spread across his face, and he smacked Juhoon’s shoulder hard.
Juhoon stumbled slightly. Another teammate noticed, then another, then another. Within seconds, half the starting lineup seemed aware of the situation.
Several players turned around to locate you in the crowd. The moment they spotted Juhoon’s name displayed proudly across your chest, their reactions became merciless.
One player doubled over laughing. Another wrapped an arm around Juhoon’s shoulders. A third pointed dramatically in your direction while shouting something that made the entire group erupt into laughter.
Juhoon looked absolutely mortified. You could practically see him debating whether to disappear into the grass. Unable to resist, you lifted your hand and offered him a small wave.
The worst possible decision. His expression somehow became even redder. A feat you hadn’t believed was physically achievable.
The captain of South Korea, the man trusted to lead an entire nation. Reduced to complete embarrassment by a single oversized jersey.
Cute, dangerously cute.
For a fleeting moment, his eyes softened. The overwhelming noise of the stadium faded into the background. The pressure, the cameras, the expectations. Everything seemed to disappear, there was only you, standing in the crowd.
His lips curled upward into the faintest smile. One reserved exclusively for you. Then the referee’s whistle pierced through the atmosphere.
The match had begun, and in the blink of an eye, the shy, flustered boyfriend vanished. What remained was Captain Juhoon.
A man determined to bring home a World Cup, and judging by the fire igniting behind his eyes as he sprinted across the pitch, you suddenly had a feeling that wearing his jersey had given him far more confidence than either of you had expected.
You had watched Juhoon play more times than you could possibly count.
From small youth tournaments where barely a hundred spectators filled the stands, to professional league matches broadcast across the country.
You had witnessed victories, heartbreaking defeats, championship celebrations. Moments where exhaustion nearly brought him to his knees.
You knew the rhythm of his movements better than anyone. The slight tilt of his head before making a pass. The determined set of his jaw whenever he became focused. The calculated precision behind every decision he made on the field.
But this?
This was entirely different. The man currently commanding the pitch barely resembled the boyfriend who spent his evenings curled up beside you on the couch.
Tonight, he looked extraordinary. There was an unmistakable ferocity radiating from him. An almost magnetic confidence that drew everyone’s attention whenever he touched the ball.
It was as though every ounce of pressure, expectation, and responsibility resting upon his shoulders had transformed into pure determination.
He wasn’t simply participating in the match, he was dominating it. Every movement appeared deliberate, every decision seemed flawless.
The ball obeyed him as if attached by an invisible thread. His passes sliced through defensive lines with surgical precision. His footwork was elegant yet devastatingly effective.
Each sprint down the field left defenders scrambling desperately in his wake, even the world’s best players struggled to keep pace with him.
The crowd reacted to his every touch, a collective gasp, a thunderous cheer, an eruption of applause. The stadium seemed to pulse in time with his performance.
And the commentators? They could hardly contain their admiration. His name echoed repeatedly through the speakers overhead, praise followed praise.
They analyzed his leadership, his composure, his vision, his ability to elevate everyone around him. At some point, it felt less like a World Cup Final and more like a showcase of Captain Juhoon.
He was everywhere, directing teammates with sharp gestures, tracking back to recover possession, launching attacks, creating opportunities seemingly out of thin air. A true captain in every sense of the word. The embodiment of leadership, the heart of the team.
And when South Korea secured their second goal, the stadium nearly collapsed from the force of the celebration.
The ball struck the back of the net. The crowd exploded, a deafening roar surged through the arena. Flags waved wildly, fans leaped from their seats, some screamed, others cried. Complete strangers threw their arms around one another in celebration.
The noise was indescribable, yet somehow, amidst all that chaos, Juhoon’s attention immediately sought only one thing.
You.
While his teammates rushed toward him in celebration, he turned, almost instinctively. His gaze swept across thousands upon thousands of spectators. Until he found you.
The moment his eyes locked onto yours, something softened in his expression, just for a second. Then a grin spread across his face, completely breathtaking. Before you could process what he was doing—He pointed directly at you. Your heart nearly stopped.
No… Absolutely not.
There were over eighty thousand people in attendance. Millions more watching from around the world. Surely he wasn’t—
The stadium cameras followed his gesture. Your stomach dropped. A collective murmur swept through the audience, then suddenly—Your face appeared on the colossal screen suspended above the field. Larger than life, impossible to miss.
The realization hit you all at once. The jersey, his jersey. His name displayed proudly across your chest. His number, his team, his unmistakable connection to you.
Thousands of people noticed instantly. The reaction was immediate. Entire sections of supporters erupted into cheers. Some pointed excitedly toward the screen, others laughed knowingly. A few fans even began chanting his name louder than before.
Your face burned with mortification. Heat flooded your cheeks so quickly you were convinced the entire stadium could see it. You briefly considered disappearing into your seat forever, or perhaps fleeing the country. Either option seemed reasonable.
Meanwhile, the source of your embarrassment stood proudly in the center of the field, completely unapologetic, completely shameless.
Juhoon looked downright pleased with himself. The grin stretching across his face was insufferably smug, the kind of grin that said he knew exactly what he had done, and as he jogged backward toward his position, still maintaining eye contact with you for one final second, his expression carried a silent message.
One that made your heart flutter despite your embarrassment.
Mine.
The cockiest man alive, and somehow, infuriatingly enough—The most lovable one too.
⸻
South Korea won.
3–2.
World Champions.
For a fraction of a second, the world seemed to fall silent. The referee’s final whistle sliced through the night air, sharp and unmistakable, signaling the conclusion of ninety minutes that would forever be etched into football history.
Everything stopped, as if time itself had hesitated. The players froze, the crowd held its breath, even you found yourself unable to move. Unable to think, unable to fully comprehend what had just happened.
Then reality crashed over the stadium like a tidal wave. Pandemonium erupted, the deafening roar that followed was unlike anything you had ever experienced. It wasn’t merely cheering, it was jubilation, relief, disbelief.
The collective release of decades worth of hopes, dreams, and prayers. The sound was so overwhelming it vibrated through your bones. It swallowed every other noise whole.
Around the pitch, emotions burst forth without restraint. Several players collapsed onto the grass, their legs finally giving out after carrying them through the most important match of their lives.
Others fell to their knees, hands covering tear-streaked faces. Some sprinted aimlessly across the field, screaming at the top of their lungs. A few simply stood motionless, staring at the scoreboard as if they needed visual confirmation that this wasn’t some elaborate dream.
The magnitude of the achievement was almost impossible to comprehend. South Korea… World Champions. The words felt surreal, unbelievable, historic.
Above the stadium, enormous confetti cannons detonated with thunderous force. Thousands upon thousands of crimson and silver fragments exploded into the night sky before drifting downward like shimmering snowfall.
The dazzling pieces caught beneath the floodlights, transforming the air into a glittering spectacle. Streams of color spiraled through the atmosphere. Fireworks illuminated the darkness overhead. Flags waved furiously from every section of the stands. Supporters embraced complete strangers.
Many openly wept, others laughed through their tears. The entire stadium had become a living, breathing celebration, yet amidst all the chaos surrounding you, your attention remained fixed on one person.
Juhoon.
Your vision blurred before you even realized tears had begun slipping down your cheeks. You hastily wiped at them. More appeared, then more.
The overwhelming emotion settled heavily in your chest, because this wasn’t merely a victory. It was the culmination of everything.
Every sacrifice.
Every setback, every impossible challenge he had endured. You remembered the countless mornings he woke before sunrise for training.
The exhausting schedules, the months spent away from home, the injuries that left him frustrated and unable to play, the nights where self-doubt crept into his mind despite his best efforts to hide it, the pressure placed upon him as captain, the expectations of teammates, the scrutiny of the media, the weight of an entire nation’s hopes resting upon his shoulders.
You had witnessed every chapter of the journey. The triumphant moments, the painful ones, the days where exhaustion clung to him so heavily he could barely keep his eyes open, the evenings where he sat beside you quietly, wondering if he was doing enough. If he was good enough, if all of it would eventually be worth it.
And now—You had your answer.
Standing in the center of the pitch, surrounded by flashing cameras and euphoric teammates, was the man who had refused to quit.
The man who had dedicated years of his life to chasing a dream that many deemed impossible. The captain who carried his team through the biggest tournament in the world. The boy who once practiced alone for hours after everyone else had gone home. The athlete who sacrificed comfort, sleep, and certainty for a chance at greatness.
And somehow, despite the confetti cascading around him and tens of thousands of supporters chanting his name, Juhoon’s gaze wandered toward the stands, toward you.
Even from a distance, you saw the exact moment he found you, his expression softened. The triumphant grin on his face faltered for just a second. His eyes glistened beneath the stadium lights.
Suddenly, he no longer looked like a global superstar, or a World Cup-winning captain, or the hero of an entire nation. He simply looked like Juhoon.
Your Juhoon.
Overwhelmed, emotional, happy beyond words. The corners of his mouth lifted into a smile so genuine it made your chest ache.
A smile that carried years of perseverance behind it. Years of resilience, years of unwavering determination, and as chants of his name reverberated throughout the stadium, one thought echoed louder than everything else.
He had done it against every obstacle. Against every expectation, against every doubt. Juhoon had reached the summit of the footballing world.
And now, beneath a sky filled with confetti and celebration, he stood exactly where he had always dreamed of being.
A World Cup champion.
The celebration seemed endless after, not that anyone was complaining. After all, moments like these didn’t happen every day.
History had just been written beneath the brilliant glow of stadium floodlights, and everyone wanted a piece of it.
The pitch had transformed into a whirlwind of activity, players moved from one obligation to another without a moment to breathe, broadcast crews swarmed every corner of the field.
Reporters fought for interviews, photographers captured thousands of images from every conceivable angle, television cameras followed the champions relentlessly, documenting each tearful embrace and triumphant smile.
The festivities unfolded in a dazzling blur. There were speeches, award presentations, medal ceremonies, team photographs, commemorative videos projected across enormous screens, corporate sponsors requesting appearances, officials offering congratulations, former players shaking hands, fans chanting from every section of the stadium.
The atmosphere remained euphoric long after the match had ended. At one point, you watched as Juhoon disappeared beneath a crowd of teammates celebrating around him.
A few minutes later, he reappeared holding the World Cup trophy high above his head while tens of thousands erupted into thunderous applause.
Then he vanished again, pulled away by reporters. Then by photographers, then by officials, then by another wave of teammates determined to celebrate all over again.
Every time you caught sight of him, he seemed to be somewhere new. Standing on a stage, posing for cameras, giving an interview, laughing with teammates, accepting congratulations.
The captain of the newly crowned world champions had suddenly become the most sought-after person in the stadium.
You understood. Of course you did, tonight wasn’t about you. It was his night, his team’s night, his country’s night. You figured it would be hours before you’d get a chance to speak to him properly.
Maybe after the press conference, maybe after the trophy presentation. Possibly not until everyone returned to the hotel. The thought made sense, disappointing, perhaps. But realistic.
So you remained in your seat, occasionally watching highlights replay across the giant screens while supporters continued singing throughout the arena.
The oversized jersey draped around your frame still carried his name across the back. A small smile tugged at your lips.
World Champion.
The title still felt surreal.
Your gaze drifted toward the field once more. Somewhere amidst the sea of cameras and flashing lights was Juhoon. You wondered if he’d even had a moment to process everything.
Whether he’d managed to catch his breath, or reality had fully settled in for him yet.
Your thoughts were interrupted by the sudden vibration of your phone. You glanced down absentmindedly. The screen illuminated your face, and immediately, your heart skipped.
Juhoon ♡
A smile appeared before you’d even opened the message.
Tunnel behind Section C.
A second notification appeared almost instantly.
Now.
You blinked once, then laughed softly to yourself. Of course. The entire world wanted a piece of him tonight, the media, the fans, the photographers. Yet somehow, the first chance he found to escape—He was looking for you.
Your chest warmed instantly, because no matter how many cameras followed him…
The person he wanted to see first was still you, and judging by the urgency of those messages—Your boyfriend was getting impatient.
⸻
The tunnel behind Section C was astonishingly quiet compared to the spectacle unfolding elsewhere in the stadium.
The deafening celebrations that had consumed the arena moments earlier were now little more than distant echoes reverberating through concrete walls.
Muffled cheers drifted faintly from above. Occasional bursts of applause filtered through the corridors. Somewhere in the distance, supporters were still singing, still celebrating, still reveling in the fact that South Korea had become world champions.
Although down here, hidden beneath the stadium, everything felt strangely intimate, private, like a small sanctuary carved out from the chaos.
The fluorescent lights overhead cast a soft glow across the empty passageway as you followed the directions from Juhoon’s message.
Your footsteps echoed gently against the concrete floor. The oversized jersey shifted against your frame with every step. The realization still felt surreal.
World Champion.
Your boyfriend was a World Champion.
The thought hadn’t fully settled in your mind before a familiar voice suddenly cut through your thoughts. “Baby.”
The sound of it immediately made your heart flutter. You barely had enough time to look up. One moment the corridor was empty.
The next—Juhoon appeared from around the corner, and launched himself at you.
“Juhoon—!” A startled laugh escaped you as his arms wrapped securely around your waist.
The impact nearly sent you stumbling backward. Had he not tightened his grip immediately, you were fairly certain both of you would’ve ended up sprawled across the floor.
Not that he seemed concerned, not when he buried his face directly into the crook of your neck, or when he practically folded himself around you. He held onto you as though he hadn’t seen you in months rather than a few hours.
You felt the warmth radiating from him instantly. His skin was still heated from the match. His damp hair brushed softly against your jaw. The faint scent of grass, sweat, and expensive cologne lingered around him. Even now, long after the final whistle, his breathing remained uneven from adrenaline.
Then, you felt him laugh. The vibration travelled directly through your skin, warm, affectionate. “Hello, beautiful.” The words came out muffled against your neck.
You couldn’t help smiling. “Hello to you too.”
Juhoon only squeezed you tighter, if that was even possible. For several seconds he simply remained there, arms securely around your waist, seemingly unwilling to let go, as though the moment he released you, someone might drag him back toward another interview.
Eventually, he pulled back just enough to look at you, and immediately froze again. His gaze dropped to the jersey, then slowly traveled upward, then back down.
A disbelieving smile spread across his face, “I still can’t believe you wore my jersey.” His voice carried an unmistakable sincerity.
You rolled your eyes. “It’s just a jersey.”
The reaction you received was immediate. Juhoon’s hands rose to cradle your cheeks firmly.“No.” His eyebrows furrowed. “It is absolutely not just a jersey.”
You laughed. “Juhoon—”
“No, listen.” His dark eyes scanned over you with unwavering attention.
The oversized sleeves nearly covering your hands. The number stretched across your torso. His surname displayed proudly across the fabric. His expression softened with every passing second. “You have no idea what that did to me.”
Heat instantly rushed to your face. You hated how easily he could make you flustered. “You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Baby.” The corners of his lips twitched upward. “That time, I almost forgot how to breathe.”
You groaned. “Okay it’s not that serious.”
“I’m serious.” His thumbs brushed gently across your cheeks. “When I saw you in the stands wearing my name?” A smile tugged at his lips. “I genuinely thought my heart stopped.”
“That definitely didn’t happen.”
“It did.”
“It didn’t.”
“It absolutely did.”
You laughed despite yourself. The triumphant grin that appeared on his face suggested he considered that a victory, then, without hesitation, he pointed toward the field behind him.
“I scored because of you.”
Your jaw dropped. “Okay you’re just lying.”
“I’m not.”
“You trained for years for this.”
“Wrong.”
“Juhoon.”
“I’m telling the truth.”
“You’ve been preparing for this tournament since you were a teenager.”
He shook his head, completely unconvinced. “Nope.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
The smile stretching across his face became increasingly insufferable. “The second I saw you wearing my jersey, I knew I was winning.”
You stared at him speechless. “That’s not how football works.”
“It is…” His hands slid from your cheeks to your waist. Pulling you closer until there was barely any distance separating the two of you. “When you have a motivation
You snorted.n“Your big jersey was your motivation?”
“My beautiful girlfriend wearing my jersey was my motivation.”
His gaze softened, becoming infinitely more affectionate. He gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The cocky smile never fully disappeared, but there was something undeniably tender beneath it.
“I just wanted to make you proud.”
⸻
Juhoon’s arms found their way around your waist once more, as though he simply couldn’t help himself, after spending hours surrounded by reporters, cameras, and countless people demanding his attention, the only place he truly wanted to be was here, with you.
He gently tugged you forward, closer. Until scarcely any distance remained between the two of you.
Despite everything he had endured throughout the evening—the pressure, the expectations, the overwhelming celebrations—his eyes remained fixed entirely on you.
The triumphant energy that had carried him through ninety minutes on the pitch gradually faded. In its place came something softer.
His expression relaxed. The sharp determination that had defined him throughout the match disappeared completely, replaced by an almost unbearable fondness.
For a moment, he simply stared, taking his time, studying every detail. The oversized sleeves draped over your hands. The jersey hanging loosely against your frame. His surname stretched proudly across the fabric.
The sight seemed to render him momentarily speechless, a quiet laugh escaped him.
“God.” His thumb swept gently across your cheek. The gesture was absentminded, instinctive, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
“So pretty.”
Heat immediately crept into your face. You rolled your eyes. “Stop.”
His smile only widened, the kind of smile that always meant trouble, that appeared whenever he discovered something capable of making you flustered. “So pretty.”
“Juhoon.”
“My girl looked beautiful wearing my name.” The words were delivered with such sincerity that your stomach performed an embarrassing somersault.
You hated that reaction, especially because he noticed it immediately. His eyes brightened with amusement. The corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly.
There it was, that infuriatingly smug expression, self-satisfied. Entirely aware of the effect he had on you, the expression reserved exclusively for moments like this. “Aww.”
You groaned dramatically. “No.”
“Look at you.” His voice dropped lower, becoming teasingly gentle.” “So shy.”
You immediately shook your head. “I’m not shy.”
“Baby.” His eyebrows lifted. “You absolutely are.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Stop being stubborn.”
“Just don’t hide yourself beautiful,”
Your hands instantly flew to your cheeks. Juhoon’s laugh echoed through the corridor, entirely too pleased with himself.
“You checked.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“I was proving a point.”
“You proved mine.”
You groaned again, the grin on his face became almost unbearable.mWorld Champion, national hero, and somehow still the most annoying person you’d ever met.
Juhoon leaned forward slightly, reducing the distance between the two of you even further. His forehead came to rest lightly against yours.
The simple gesture immediately quieted the conversation. Everything slowed, the distant celebrations, the lingering excitement, the overwhelming chaos of the evening.
For a brief moment, it felt as though the rest of the world had ceased to exist.
His smile softened. “You’re so cute.”
You shoved his shoulder weakly. The motion lacked any real conviction, mostly because you were fighting your own smile, and partially because Juhoon didn’t move an inch.
If anything, he looked even more delighted. “My favorite girl.”
“Juhoon….”
“What? I just love showing off my girl.”
You immediately looked away, his laughter followed almost instantly, entirely captivated.
And judging from the way he continued looking at you, one might have assumed he had just won something far more important than the World Cup.
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