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[belongjoong]

faking it --౨ৎ-- j.wy

「pairing」: fuckboy!wooyoung x fem!reader

「word count」: 16.4k

「genre」: fake dating, friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, smut

「summary」: after a cruel breakup with your boyfriend seonghwa, your friend wooyoung comes up with a perfect plan for you to get over him. fake dating. you need a date to prove to your ex you’ve moved on; wooyoung needs to convince people he’s capable of a real relationship. months of pretending turn into a feeling that you are no longer wanting to fake

「warnings」: implied drinking, ex bf seonghwa (he cheated), emotional manipulation, crying, mutual pining, jealousy, fboy tendencies, avoidant attachment, kissing, self-sabotage (woo), arguing, breakup, true love making :) , hickies, body worship, crying during foreplay (NOT dacryphilia), nipple play, licking, nipple sucking, clit stimulation, fingering, woo is literally so caring it needs its own warning, oral (f receiving), edging(?), bigdick!woo agenda, unprotected sex, possessiveness, missionary, cowgirl, pull-out method, aftercare, pet names including baby, darling, and others. ENJOY

「author's note」: guys this has been months in the making, and i hope it was worth the wait. it was all inspired by this request, so thank you.

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You attempt to let the music of Mingi’s apartment drown out your thoughts. You shouldn't have come, you knew that, but San insisted, and Hongjoong promised your ex wouldn't be here. You foolishly believed both of them. 

Except he was there.

Seonghwa stood in the kitchen with a red solo cup in his hand, laughing at something the girl next to him said. She was undeniably beautiful, and you hated that. She has a confident smile that you were never quite able to pull off, and her hand rested on his arm so casually. The sight of it made your stomach twist into knots.

It had been a few months since you found his messages with another girl. Messages consisting of ‘I can't wait to see you again,’ and ‘I will break up with her soon.’ When you found out, he'd stammered out excuses that all boiled down to the same thing: you weren't good enough. You hated him, yet you still felt like you couldn't breathe when you saw him.

"You okay?" San appeared at your elbow, concern creasing his features as he followed your gaze across the room.

You tore your eyes away, forcing a smile that felt like shattered glass in your mouth. "Fine. I'm fine."

"You don't look fine." San's voice was gentle, the kind of gentle that made you want to cry. "We can leave. Hongjoong will understand-"

"No." The word came out sharper than you intended, and you softened it with another brittle smile. "No, I'm not letting him chase me out of my friend's birthday party. I'm fine, really." 

Before you can even realize, the emotions hit you all at once. "I need some air," you mumbled, not waiting for San or Hongjoong to respond before you were pushing through the crowd toward the apartment door.

-

The hallway outside was quiet, the bass now just a muffled thump through the walls. You leaned back against the cold concrete, closing your eyes and trying to remember how to breathe normally. This was pathetic. 

"Rough night?"

Your eyes snapped open to find Wooyoung leaning against the wall a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest and an unreadable expression on his face. You hadn't even heard him come out. 

He was in your Sociology class last year. Charming, funny, and always had a new girl on his arm. Somehow, despite being in completely different social circles, you'd ended up as friends. 

You'd never really figured out how it happened. Wooyoung collected people often. But he'd stuck around even after the semester ended, and even now, you sometimes felt like you were waiting for him to realize you weren't interesting enough to keep around.

"I'm fine," you said automatically, then winced at how many times you'd said that tonight. "Just needed a break from the noise."

Wooyoung pushed off the wall, moving closer with that easy grace he always seemed to have. "You're a terrible liar, you know that?"

"I'm not lying-"

"You've been staring at Seonghwa like a kicked puppy." His voice was not cruel, but it still made you flinch. "San and Hongjoong look ready to fight someone for you. And now you're out here looking like you're about to cry."

"I'm not going to cry." Your voice was defensive. "And I wasn't staring."

"Right." Wooyoung stepped closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne, the same warm scent from your study sessions. "Look, I get it. Breakups suck. But that guy?" He motioned his thumb toward the apartment door. "Not worth it."

You wanted to argue, to defend Seonghwa or yourself or the relationship you had. Instead, you felt your eyes burning with the tears you'd been holding back all night. "He cheated on me."

Wooyoung's expression switched. "Yeah, I know. Which is why I'm saying he's not worth the time you're giving him."

"I know that." Deep down you knew Seonghwa wasn't worth crying over. "I know he's not worth it, but I can't just... stop feeling things. I can't just turn it off."

"I'm not saying you should." Wooyoung's voice was surprisingly gentle. "I'm just saying you deserve better than spending Mingi's birthday hiding in a hallway."

"I'm not hiding-"

"You're definitely hiding."

"Okay, maybe I'm hiding a little."

Wooyoung was quiet for a moment, studying you with an expression you couldn't quite read. Then he tilted his head toward the elevator. "Come on. Let me take you home."

"You don't have to."

"I get it." His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. "You shouldn't be alone right now. And before you say you're fine-" He held up a hand to stop you. "-I’m sure you are. But you don't have to be fine by yourself."

The words hit something tender in your chest, and you found yourself nodding. "Okay."

The walk to his car was quiet, the night air cool on your cheeks. Wooyoung opened the passenger door for you, something he'd never done before, and you slid in, grateful for the privacy. As soon as he started the engine, the tears you'd been holding back finally spilled over.

"Sorry," you choked out, wiping at your face. "I'm sorry, I don't know why-"

"Hey." Wooyoung's hand found yours, squeezing gently. "Don't apologize. You're allowed to cry."

"I just feel so stupid." The words tumbled out. "It's been months. I should be over this by now. I should be over him. But every time I see him with someone else, I just... I feel like there was something wrong with me that made him-"

"Stop." Wooyoung's voice was sharp enough to cut through your spiral. "There's nothing wrong with you. He cheated because he's a selfish asshole, not because you weren't enough."

"But maybe if I had been more-"

"More what? More fun? More exciting? More whatever the hell he was looking for?" Wooyoung's grip on your hand tightened. "You could have been perfect and he still would have cheated, because that's who he is. It was never about you not being enough. It was about him being too much of a coward to end things properly."

You looked down at your joined hands, at the way his thumb was tracing small circles on your skin. "I just wish I could stop caring. I wish I could see him happy and not feel like I'm drowning."

"I understand." Wooyoung's voice was softer now. "But you will. Eventually. It just takes time."

"How much time?" The question came out small.

"I don't know. But in the meantime..." He paused, and you could feel him watching you. "You could at least pretend. Make him think you're over it, even if you're not."

You let out a hollow laugh. "I'm a terrible liar. You said so yourself."

"Not if you had help." There was something careful in his tone now, like he was testing the waters. "Not if you had someone to back up your story."

You turned to look at him, confused. "What do you mean?"

Wooyoung was staring straight ahead at the road, jaw tightening as he chose his words carefully. "I mean... what if you weren't alone at these parties? What if you showed up with someone who made it very clear you'd moved on?"

Your heart skipped. "Wooyoung."

"Just think about it." He glanced at you briefly before returning his eyes to the road. "You want to prove you're over him. I want to prove I'm capable of committing to someone. We could help each other."

"What are you suggesting?"

"I'm not suggesting anything tonight. You're upset, and this isn't the right time." He squeezed your hand once more before releasing it to shift gears. "But maybe we could talk about it. When you're feeling better. When you're ready."

Your mind was already racing, imagining walking into a party on Wooyoung's arm, Seonghwa seeing you happy, and the freedom of not having to feel pathetic anymore.

"Why would you want to help me?" you asked quietly.

Wooyoung was quiet for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower, vulnerable. "Because you're my friend. And because..." He hesitated. "Because everyone already assumes the worst about me. That I'm incapable of anything real, that I'm just some player who doesn't care about anyone. And I'm tired of it - of my family asking when I'm going to settle down, of my friends making jokes about my commitment issues. I'm tired of people treating me like I don't have feelings."

You'd never heard him talk like this before. You'd always assumed Wooyoung didn't care what people thought, and that his confidence was unshakeable.

"I didn't know you felt that way," you said softly.

"Yeah, well." He let out a laugh. "I'm good at hiding it and pretending it doesn't bother me. But it does."

"We'd both be getting what we need." He pulled up in front of your building but didn't unlock the doors yet. Instead, he turned to face you fully. "Look, I'm not trying to pressure you. And tonight's not the night to decide anything. I just..." He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I just want you to know that you don't have to keep feeling like this. There are options. Ways to take back some control."

"Can I think about it?" you asked.

"Of course." He reached over and unlocked your door. "Take all the time you need. And if you decide it's a terrible idea, we'll never talk about it again."

You nodded, opening the door but hesitating before getting out. "Wooyoung?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For tonight. For listening and not making me feel stupid."

His expression softened. "You're not stupid. You're just human. And humans take time to heal."

You climbed out of the car, but before closing the door, you leaned back in. "I'll text you. About... about everything."

"I'll be waiting." He offered a small smile. "Now go get some sleep. You look exhausted."

"Such a charmer," you said, but you were smiling as you closed the door.

You watched him drive away, his tail lights disappearing around the corner, and something felt strange. The idea he'd planted was taking root, the possibility stuck in your mind.

What if you didn't have to feel this way anymore?

As you got ready for bed, your phone buzzed.

Wooyoung: Made it home safe. Get some rest.

You stared at the message, warmth blooming in your chest. Then you typed back:

You: Thanks, Woo. For everything. Let's talk tomorrow?

Wooyoung: Tomorrow. I'll buy you food.

You: It's a date.

You sent it before you could overthink it, then immediately panicked. But his response came quickly:

Wooyoung: 😏

Ugh, that emoji. You fell asleep that night thinking about possibilities, about pretending, about Wooyoung's hand in yours and the way he'd looked at you like you mattered.

Maybe it would blow up in your face. But maybe it was what you both needed.

The restaurant Wooyoung chose was small and kinda secluded from campus. It was the kind of place that you would always see, but never go inside. When you stepped in, you could already see him sitting at a table in the corner, so you made your way over.

He glanced up as you approached, "Hey. You found it okay?"

"Yeah." You slid into the seat across from him, suddenly aware of all the people who could be watching. 

"So I've been thinking," Wooyoung said once you'd both ordered. "We should probably establish some ground rules before we start this whole thing."

You pulled out your phone, opening your notes app. "Okay. What did you have in mind?"

"Well, first - and most important - no real feelings." He said firmly. "This only works if we both remember it's fake. The second someone catches actual feelings, we end it. Agreed?"

The words stung more than it should have. "Agreed."

"Good." He seemed to relax slightly. "Second, we need to figure out how we're going to act in public. Like, what's acceptable and what's off limits."

You considered. "Hand holding is probably necessary. Maybe arms around each other?"

"Kissing?" The word stuck between you, suddenly making you feel kind of flustered.

Your cheeks heated. "I mean... couples kiss. People would think it was weird if we never did."

"So kissing is allowed." Wooyoung's voice was neutral. "But only when necessary. When people are watching."

"Right. Only when necessary."

"What about when we're alone?" He was watching you closely now. "Do we drop the act completely, or...?"

"I think we should stay in character sometimes," you said slowly, thinking it through. "To practice. So it looks natural in public."

"Makes sense." He nodded. "Okay, what about social media? That's gonna be the most important part of this."

"Soft launch?" you suggested. "Like, subtle photos where we're together but not obviously dating. Then after a week or two, we can make it ‘official’?"

"Smart." Wooyoung was typing notes into his own phone. "We should probably go through each other's social media, make sure we know what we each usually post. And we need to get our story straight, like how we got together, when we started dating, all that."

The food arrived, and you both paused to eat. It was really good, and you found yourself relaxing into the comfort of Wooyoung's presence. This was still weird, but it was also kind of exciting. 

"So," Wooyoung said around a bite of pasta. "Our story. How did we fall for each other?"

You thought about it. "We've been friends for a year. We could say... it just kind of happened naturally? We were spending time together, and we realized there was something more there?"

"That is way too vague. We need specifics in case anyone asks." He leaned back, considering. "What about this: you know how I took you home after Mingi's party last night?" he pauses to take a bite. “What if that was our turning point? You were upset, I comforted you, and we both realized we had feelings for each other."

It was close enough to the truth to be believable. "Okay. So we will be secretly dating for a little bit, and then we ‘go public’?"

"Exactly." Wooyoung looked pleased. "That gives us a backstory and explains why no one's seen it coming."

You added it to your notes. "What about the end date? How long are we doing this?"

"Two months minimum," he said. "Long enough to be convincing. We can reassess after that, see if we need to keep going or if we've both gotten what we need out of it."

"And either of us can end it at any time?"

"Either of us can end it at any time," he confirmed. "No questions asked."

You looked down at your notes, at the rules and boundaries you'd constructed. Could you really fake a relationship like this?

"You're overthinking it," Wooyoung said, reading your expression with the ease of someone who knew you well. "We'll be fine. We're already friends. This is just friendship with some hand-holding and the occasional kiss."

"Right." You forced a smile. "Just friendship with fake benefits."

"Exactly." He grinned. "Now, let's talk logistics. We should probably start spending more time together in public. Study dates, coffee runs, that kind of thing. Ease people into seeing us together."

"We already do that stuff."

"Yeah, but now we'll be doing it with intent. Sitting closer, more casual touches, looking at each other like we're..." He paused. "Like we're in love."

That word felt… weird. "How do you look at someone like you're in love with them?"

"You've never been in love?" He seemed surprised.

"I thought I was. With Seonghwa. But obviously, I was wrong about that." The bitterness crept into your voice before you could stop it.

Wooyoung's expression softened. "Hey. Just because he was an idiot doesn't mean what you felt wasn't real."

"Yeah, well. Real or not, it didn't matter in the end." You pushed your pasta around your plate. "So how do we do it? The ‘looking like we're in love’ thing?"

"I don't know." He looked genuinely thoughtful. "I guess... you just look at the person like they're the only one in the room? 

"Have you ever looked at someone like that?"

"No." The admission came quickly, followed by a self-deprecating laugh. "Told you I'm bad at this stuff."

"But you've dated lots of people."

"Dating and being in love are different things." He met your eyes. "I've never let anyone get close enough for love."

He was clearly being vulnerable, and you found yourself asking, "Why not?"

He looked up at you. "I think you can be friends with someone of the gender you're attracted to, but if you spend enough time together, if you get close enough, eventually attraction develops. And once that happens, the friendship is basically over because someone always wants more."

You frowned. “But what if they both end up wanting more?”

"Maybe. But I've seen it happen over and over. Someone catches feelings, confesses, and then everything gets weird. The friendship ends, or it becomes this awkward thing where one person is always wanting more than the other can give." He shrugged. "So I keep things casual. I date people, but I don't let them get too close. That way no one gets hurt."

"Except all the people you've dated who wanted something more," you pointed out.

"I'm honest with them from the start." But he looked uncomfortable. "I tell them I'm not looking for anything serious."

"And they think they can change your mind."

"That's not my fault."

"I didn't say it was." You studied him across the table. "But maybe... your theory is wrong? Maybe men and women can be close friends without attraction ruining everything?"

"Can they?" His gaze was intense suddenly. "Really think about it. Your close guy friends. Have you ever been attracted to any of them? Even a little?"

You opened your mouth to argue, then closed it. You thought about your friendships, about the guys you'd gotten close to over the years. And if you were honest... "Okay, maybe there's been some attraction. But that doesn't mean the friendship ends."

"Doesn't it?" Wooyoung leaned forward. "Be honest. Those friendships where there was attraction - are you still as close with those people?"

You wanted to argue, but you couldn't. He had a point. "So what, you're saying you and I can't be friends because we might eventually be attracted to each other?"

"We're already friends," he said. "And I plan to keep it that way. Which is why this fake dating thing is perfect. We get to be close, we get what we need out of it, and then we go back to being regular friends before anything complicated happens."

There was a flaw in his logic somewhere, you were sure of it. But you couldn't quite put your finger on it. "What if we're the exception? What if we prove your theory wrong?"

"Then we'll both be pleasantly surprised." But he didn't sound like he believed it.

The conversation changed to lighter topics after that - like planning your first official appearance as a couple, deciding on pet names (he voted for "babe," you threatened to call him "woowoo" in front of everyone if he did), figuring out how to handle questions from friends.

By the time you left the restaurant, you had pages of notes and a decent plan. Wooyoung walked you home. "Might as well start practicing," he'd said with a grin, wrapping his arm over your shoulder.

"So we're really doing this," you said as you reached your building.

"We're really doing this." He held out his hand, pinky extended. "Pinky promise? Two months, or until we both get what we need. No real feelings, no drama, and we stay friends when it's over."

You hesitated for just a moment, looking at his offered pinky. This was insane. This was going to end terribly somehow. But Wooyoung was looking at you with that mix of hope and mischief that you'd never been able to resist, and you found yourself hooking your pinky with his.

"Pinky promise."

His fingers squeezed yours gently, and for a moment, you were both just standing there, pinkies linked, looking at each other in the glow of the streetlight. 

Then Wooyoung grinned again and pulled his hand away. "Okay, girlfriend. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Goodbye, boyfriend," you said, testing out the word. It felt weird in your mouth.

You watched him walk away, hands in his pockets, and tried to ignore the flutter of nerves in your stomach. This was fine. This was going to be fine.

You were just helping each other out. What could possibly go wrong?

The past few weeks were surprisingly easier than you anticipated. Meeting up to do some homework in the library, the occasional surprise breakfast before class. Hell, you even babysitted his cat for a few days when he went to visit his parents. 

Today was a group dinner that was planned by Hongjoong for everyone to have the chance to catch up in the midst of the busy semester. When you found out Seonghwa would be there, Hongjoong offered to uninvite him, but you assured him it was fine,

The restaurant was louder than expected. It should have made you nervous, all these people, all these eyes potentially watching, but Wooyoung's presence beside you was surprisingly grounding.

"So," Mingi said, leaning forward with a grin that was entirely too knowing. "When were you two going to tell us?"

"Tell you what?" Wooyoung asked innocently, but his thumb was tracing circles on the back of your hand under the table.

"Oh, please." Mingi gestured between you. "You two show up together, you're practically glued to each other, and you think we haven't noticed?"

"How long?" Hongjoong asked, though something in his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

"About three weeks," Wooyoung said smoothly. "We wanted to make sure it was real before we told everyone."

"Three weeks?" Jongho looked skeptical. "You kept it secret for three weeks?"

"We're good at secrets." Wooyoung's implication made several people laugh. You just rolled your eyes.

Pretending felt awkward, but Wooyoung made it easy. His hand never left yours, his attention consistently returning to you even as he joked with the group. It felt natural in a way that surprised you.

"I have to say," San said, catching your eye with a smile, "you look happy. Happier than I've seen you in a while."

The observation caught you off guard, mostly because it was true. You were happy. Maybe it was the relief of finally having a plan, of taking some control back. Or maybe it was just Wooyoung, the smooth comfort of his presence.

"I am happy," you said, and meant it.

Seonghwa shifted in his seat, and you could feel his eyes on you, but you didn't look at him. You'd spent months drowning in the weight of his gaze, of his pity or his judgment or whatever it had been. You were done with that.

-

The conversation turned more casual, talking about class and free time. 

"You're teaching her to dance?" Hongjoong looked delighted. "I need to see this."

"Absolutely not," you said quickly. "I do not have any rhythm."

"She's better than she thinks," Wooyoung said, and there was genuine affection in his voice that made your heart skip. "She just needs confidence."

Seonghwa finally spoke up, his voice annoyed. "Since when do you dance, Wooyoung? I thought you said it was 'too much commitment' to take on dancing."

The table went silent. The tension could be cut with a pair of scissors, but Woo’s response was quick. "I said organized dance was too much commitment. Dancing with my girlfriend is different." He looked at Seonghwa directly, his smile pleasant but his eyes hard. "It's not a commitment when you actually want to do it."

The implication was there: unlike you, who made everything feel like an obligation. You saw Seonghwa's jaw clench, saw the flash of anger in his eyes.

"Okay!" San said brightly, clearly trying to settle the tension. "Who wants to split dessert?"

The conversation moved on, but all you could pay attention to was Wooyoung beside you, the protective way he angled his body toward yours, of the thumb still tracing patterns on your thigh. When you glanced at him, he leaned in close again.

"You okay?" he murmured, quiet enough that only you could hear.

You nodded, throat tight with an emotion you couldn't name.

"Good." His hand squeezed your thigh gently. "Because you're doing great. He can't stop looking at you, and you haven't looked at him once."

Right. This was the plan. Make Seonghwa see that you'd moved on. Prove you were happy. It was working exactly as intended.

So why did your chest ache when Wooyoung pulled away?

-

Partway through dessert, you'd ended up sharing a chocolate lava cake with Wooyoung, feeding each other bites while your friends made exaggerated gagging noises. You excused yourself to the bathroom.

For some reason, Seonghwa left the table shortly after. 

He appeared behind you in the hallway. He ran a hand through his hair, that nervous gesture you used to find endearing. Now it just makes you tired. "I needed to talk to you. Alone."

"We don't have anything to talk about.” As hard as you tried to shut him out of your brain, you couldn't help but hope that he would somehow say the right thing.

"We don’t?" He stepped closer, and you turned to face him. "You and Wooyoung? Really?"

Well that is not what you wanted to hear at all.

"What about it?" 

"Come on." Seonghwa's voice dropped with a pleading undertone. "You know his reputation. He's going to hurt you."

The audacity of it stole your breath. "Like you hurt me?"

He flinched. "That's not… I made a mistake, okay? I know I did. But Wooyoung?. He's just going to use you and move on like he does with everyone else."

"You don't know anything about him." The words came out sharper than intended, defensive in a way that surprised you. "And even if you did, it's none of your business who I date."

"I still care about you."

"You lost the right to care about me when you cheated." Your voice was steady and cold. "And you definitely lost the right to have opinions about my relationship."

"I just don't want to see you get hurt again."

"Then you should have thought about that before you hurt me yourself. I loved you. And you told me you loved me too."

Seonghwa looked like you'd slapped him. "That's not fair."

"No," you agreed. "It's not. But neither was what you did to me." 

You looked down at his hand on your arm, then up at his face. A few months ago, this moment would have meant everything. The concern in his eyes, the attention, the clear jealousy in the way he spoke. You would have read into it, hoped it meant something, maybe even considered giving him another chance.

Now? You didnt really feel anything.

"Let go of me," you said quietly.

He did, immediately, and you saw slight fear on his face.

You left him standing there, your heart pounding but your head clear. When you walked past him, Wooyoung was waiting at the end of the hallway, leaning against the wall with casualness that didn't really hide the tension in his shoulders.

"You okay?" he asked immediately. "I saw him follow you-"

"I'm fine." And you were. You were more than fine. "He just wanted to share his opinions about our relationship."

"And?"

"And I told him where he could shove those opinions." You smiled genuine. "Can we go?"

Wooyoung's look shifted into something proud, almost awed. "Yeah. Yeah, we can go." He held out his hand, and you took it without hesitation. 

The group was disappointed but understanding when you announced you were leaving. San hugged you tight, whispering "I'm proud of you" in your ear in a way that made your throat tight. Hongjoong just had a knowing look on his face the whole time, but he didn't say anything. Those two could definitely see right through you.

Seonghwa returned to the table just as you were leaving, and you didn't miss the way his eyes tracked to your hand in Wooyoung's, to the way Wooyoung helped you into your jacket, to the casual kiss he pressed to your temple as you walked out.

The air was cool, clearing the remaining tension from your shoulders. Wooyoung kept his arm around you all the way to the car, and when he opened your door, he paused.

"That was..." He seemed to be searching for words. "That went really well. Better than I expected."

"Yeah." You slid into the passenger seat. "It did."

The drive back to your place was quiet. Wooyoung's hand found yours across the center console, and you let yourself enjoy the warmth, the casual intimacy, the illusion of being wanted.

When he pulled up outside your building, neither of you moved to get out immediately.

"So," Wooyoung said finally. "First official appearance: success?"

"Definite success." You turned to look at him. "Thank you. For everything. For defending me, for being perfect, for-"

"Hey." He squeezed your hand. "That's what boyfriends do, right?"

Right. Boyfriends. Fake boyfriends.

"Right," you echoed.

There was a moment of hesitation where you both just looked at each other. Wooyoung's eyes dropped to your lips, then back up, and your breath caught. Was he going to…

He leaned in, and your heart stopped. But instead of your lips, his mouth pressed against your forehead, soft and lingering.

"Goodnight," he murmured against your skin.

"Night," you managed, voice barely a whisper.

You practically floated up to your apartment, touching your forehead where his lips had been. This was fake. This was all fake.

But why were you starting to wish it were real?

Week One

The library was your usual haunt, the area by the window where the sun created the perfect reading light. You were hunched over your laptop, supposedly working on an essay, but mostly you were thinking about Wooyoung beside you.

It had been three days since San's birthday dinner, and you'd seen him every single one of those days. Study sessions, he'd said. Got to keep up appearances.

But right now, with his leg pressed against yours under the table and his hand occasionally reaching over to steal your highlighter, it felt less like an appearance and more like... something else.

"You're not even reading that," Wooyoung said, not looking up from his own textbook.

"Yes, I am."

"You've been on the same page for ten minutes. I can see your screen."

You scowled and scrolled down, but he wasn't wrong. You'd been distracted by the way he bit his lip when he concentrated, by the furrow between his brows, by the way he'd draped his jacket over the back of your chair like he was marking territory.

Your phone buzzed, and you glanced down to see a notification from Instagram. Someone had tagged you in a post. It was a photo from dinner, you and Wooyoung caught mid-laugh, his hand on your face, both of you looking stupidly happy.

The comments were already rolling in. Cutest couple ever. I KNEW IT! Finally! And, from San: Called it 😏

"We're official on social media," you said, showing Wooyoung the screen.

He leaned closer to look, his shoulder pressing against yours. "Damn, we look good together."

"It's a nice photo."

"It's not just the photo." His voice was quieter, more serious. "We look happy."

You did. That was the strange part. In the photo, there was no acting, no visible performance. You just looked like two people who genuinely enjoyed each other.

"Wooyoung!" A girl's voice cut through your thoughts. You looked up to see one of his classmates, Minjeong, you thought her name was - approaching the table with a bright smile. "I heard about you and..." Her eyes landed on you. "Oh. Hi."

"Hi," you said, aware of the way Wooyoung's hand had automatically moved to rest on your thigh under the table.

"I just wanted to say congratulations," She continued, though something in her smile had dimmed. "I never thought I'd see the day Wooyoung settled down."

"Yeah, well." Wooyoung's thumb traced an absent pattern on your leg. "Sometimes you meet the right person."

Minjeong's eyes flickered between you, and you could see her trying to figure out what made you special, what you had that dozens of other girls hadn't. The attention made you squirm.

After she left, you turned to Wooyoung. "Does that bother you? Everyone being surprised?"

"That I'm in a relationship?" He shrugged, but there was stiffness in his posture. "I'm used to people assuming the worst about me. At least now they have to reconsider."

"It's not the worst, thinking you prefer to keep things casual."

He met your eyes. "When it means everyone thinks you're incapable of real feelings? They think I am heartless and only care about myself."

The hurt in his voice made your chest ache. Without thinking, you reached out and laced your fingers through his. "You're not heartless."

"You're the only one who seems to think so."

"Then everyone else is an idiot."

He laughed, surprised, and the tension broke. His hand tightened around yours. "Thanks, girlfriend."

"Anytime, boyfriend."

You stayed like that, hands linked on top of the table, and went back to your work. When a notification lit up your phone twenty minutes later, you glanced down to see Wooyoung had texted you.

Wooyoung: this is nice

You looked up. He was still focused on his textbook, but there was a small smile on his face. You typed back with one hand, not letting go of him with the other.

You: what is?

Wooyoung: this. studying together. holding hands. being close.

You: we've always studied together

Wooyoung: yeah but now I get to hold your hand while we do it 😏

You bit back a smile.

You: smooth

Wooyoung: you like it

You did. God help you, you really did.

-

That night, after you'd parted ways, your phone buzzed again.

Wooyoung: get home safe?

You: just walked in. you?

Wooyoung: been home for like 10 minutes

Wooyoung: was waiting to make sure you texted

Something warm bloomed inside you..

You: you don't have to do that

Wooyoung: I know

Wooyoung: I wanted to

Wooyoung: goodnight. dream about me 😉

You fell asleep smiling at your phone like a fool.

Week Two

"You're terrible at this," Wooyoung said, laughing as you stepped on his foot for the third time.

"I told you I can't dance!" You tried to pull away, but he held firm, hands on your waist in the middle of his living room.

"You're not trying. Here, feel the rhythm." He pulled you closer, so close you could feel his heartbeat. "It's like a game. You wouldn't button-mash your way through a boss fight, would you?"

"That's completely different-"

"It's not. You're overthinking it. Just..." He started swaying, gentle, and you had no choice but to follow. "There. See? You're doing it."

You were barely moving, just a soft rocking back and forth, but he was right. You were doing it. And more importantly, you were pressed against him, his hands warm on your waist, his breath stirring your hair.

"This isn't really dancing," you said, voice softer than intended.

"It's close enough." He hummed something under his breath, a melody you didn't recognize, and guided you in a slow circle. "Besides, couples dance like this all the time."

"At wedding receptions."

"Exactly. We're just practicing for future wedding receptions."

You paused for a second, trying to not over think what he just said. 

"Your turn," he said suddenly, pulling back. "Teach me one of your games."

"Really?"

"Really. Fair is fair."

You ended up showing him a co-op game that you usually play with randoms online, but this time you actually got to play with someone you knew. Wooyoung was terrible at it - his character kept running off cliffs - but he was laughing, genuine and bright, and you couldn't remember the last time you'd had this much fun.

"How are you so bad at this?" you teased as he died for the fifth time.

"I'm used to dance games! These are different."

"Dance games are so much harder-"

"Are not."

You started playfully bickering, and somewhere in the moment, Wooyoung's arm ended up around your shoulders, your head found its way to his chest, and when you finally beat the level, you both cheered and he kissed the top of your head without seeming to think about it.

The kiss froze you both.

"Sorry," Wooyoung said quickly. "I wasn't thinking.."

"It's fine." You forced yourself to relax back against him, even though your heart was racing. "We're practicing, right? For when people are around?"

"Right. Practicing."

But his arm stayed around you for the rest of the night, and when you left, he hugged you at the door longer than necessary.

Week Three

The restaurant was busy, Friday night crowds filling every table, and you'd somehow ended up in a small booth clearly meant for couples, with candlelight flickering between you.

"This feels like a real date," you said, then immediately wanted to take it back.

But Wooyoung just smiled. "That's kind of the point, isn't it?"

"Yeah. The point."

Conversation flowed easily, like it always did with him. You talked about classes and complained about professors and debated topics that randomly came up. At some point, your feet tangled under the table, and neither of you moved to separate them.

"Can I ask you something?" Wooyoung said during dessert.

"Sure."

"Do you still think about him? Seonghwa?"

The question surprised you. You'd barely thought about your ex all week. "Not really. Sometimes, but not like before."

"What's different?"

You considered, taking a bite of the cake you were sharing. "Before, I'd see him and it would hurt. Like a physical pain. But now..." You shrugged. "Now I just feel kind of indifferent. Like he's someone I used to know."

"That's good, right? That's what you wanted?"

"Yeah." You met his eyes. "It's exactly what I wanted. This whole thing-" You gestured between you. "-it's working."

Something flashed across Wooyoung's face, there then gone, too quickly to identify. "Good. I'm glad."

When he walked you home that night - he always walked you home now, even though it was out of his way - you lingered at your door.

"Thanks for dinner," you said.

"Anytime." He was standing close, hands in his pockets, looking at you with an expression you couldn't quite read. "I had fun."

"Me too."

Neither of you moved. The space between you felt thick, Wooyoung's eyes dropped to your lips, and you stopped breathing.

He leaned in slowly, giving you time to pull away. But you didn't. You couldn't.

His lips brushed your forehead and you felt the loss of what could have been a real kiss.

"Goodnight," he murmured.

"Night," you whispered back.

That night, you couldn't sleep. You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment of the past three weeks. Every touch, every smile, every time he'd made your heart race.

This was supposed to be fake. You'd agreed on rules. No real feelings.

But somewhere between the practice dates and the touches and the way he looked at you like you mattered, you'd broken the most important rule.

You'd fallen for him.

Your phone buzzed, pulling you from your spiral.

Wooyoung: you awake?

You: yeah. can't sleep

Wooyoung: me neither

Wooyoung: been thinking about tonight

Your heart stuttered.

You: yeah?

Wooyoung: yeah

Wooyoung: I think we're getting really good at this

Wooyoung: the whole fake dating thing

Wooyoung: it barely feels fake anymore

You stared at the message, reading it over and over. Did he mean...?

You: yeah. barely fake.

Wooyoung: goodnight. for real this time

You: night, woo

You fell asleep with your phone clutched in your hand, his words replaying in your mind.

It barely feels fake anymore.

No, you thought. It doesn't feel fake at all.

The text came on a random Tuesday afternoon, three simple words that made you feel… indifferent: Can we talk?

You stared at Seonghwa’s name on your screen, trying to figure out what he could possibly have to say to you now. It had been a while since you’ve broken up, more than a month since you’d started “dating” Wooyoung. What could he possibly want?

You: About what?

The reply came quickly.

Seonghwa: Us. What happened. I just want to talk, please. Coffee tomorrow?

You should have deleted the message and moved on. But some part of you - the part that still remembered loving him, even if you didn’t anymore - couldn’t quite let it go without closure.

You: Fine. 3pm at the cafe on Main.

You told Wooyoung about it that night during your regular phone call - when had nightly phone calls become regular? - and his response was immediate.

“I’m coming with you.”

“Woo, you don’t have to…”

“I know I don’t have to. I want to.” His voice was firm. “He doesn’t get to ask you to meet alone. I’ll wait outside or something, but I’m coming.”

The protectiveness in his voice made your chest happy. “Okay. Thank you.”

“Always.”

-

The next day, Wooyoung picked you up early, and you could see the tightness in his jaw as he drove.

“You okay?” you asked.

“I should be asking you that.” He glanced over. “Are you nervous?”

“A little. I don’t know what he wants to say.”

“Whatever it is, you don’t owe him anything. You know that, right?”

“I know.”

His hand found yours across the console. “And if he says anything that upsets you, I’m coming in there.”

You squeezed his hand, grateful. “My knight in shining armor.”

“Damn right.”

The place was quiet when you arrived, and Seonghwa was already there, sitting at a table with two coffees in front of him. He stood when he saw you, and you noticed he looked tired, shadows under his eyes.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Thanks for coming.”

“What did you want to talk about?” You didn’t sit yet, keeping your guard up.

“Please, just… sit? Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”

You glanced out the window where Wooyoung was leaning against his car, arms crossed, watching. He gave you a small nod, and you felt braver.

You sat.

“I got you your usual,” Seonghwa said, sliding one of the cups toward you. “Mocha latte, extra whip.”

You didn’t touch it. “What do you want, Seonghwa?”

He took a breath, and you could see him gathering courage. “I made a mistake. Making you break up with me. Cheating. All of it. I was an idiot, and I’ve been miserable ever since.”

Your stomach dropped. 

“Seeing you with Wooyoung these past few weeks…” He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s been killing me. Seeing you happy, seeing you with someone else. It made me realize what I lost.”

“So you want me back.” Your voice was flat.

“I want a chance to fix this. Or at least try to prove that I can be better.” He reached across the table, trying to take your hand, but you pulled back. “Please. We were good together. We can be good again.”

You looked at him, the boy you’d spent years with, the one you’d planned a future with, the one who’d broken your heart so thoroughly you’d thought you’d never recover.

And you felt… nothing.

No anger, no longing, no pain. Just a distant sort of pity. 

“We weren’t good together, Seonghwa.” Your voice was firm. “We were comfortable. There’s a difference.”

“That’s not true…”

“It is.” You met his eyes steadily. “You cheated on me because you weren’t happy. And honestly? I wasn’t either. I was just too afraid to admit it.”

“But we could try again.”

“No.” The word came out stronger than you intended. “We can’t. Because I’ve moved on. I’m happy now. Actually happy.”

“With Wooyoung.” His voice turned bitter. “You really think he’s going to stick around? Everyone knows his reputation.”

“Everyone knew your reputation too,” you said quietly. “The good guy. The loyal boyfriend. And look how that turned out.”

He flinched.

“Wooyoung treats me better in one day than you did in two years,” you continued, and realized with a start that it was true. “He listens to me. He remembers things I say. He makes me laugh. He makes me feel like I matter.”

“I made you feel like you mattered-”

“You made me feel like an obligation.” The truth spilled out. “Like something you kept around because it was easier than being alone. And I let you, because I thought that was the best I could get.”

Seonghwa was staring at you like he didn’t recognize you.

You stood, leaving the coffee untouched.

“I forgive you,” you said. “For the cheating, for the lying, for all of it. But I don’t want you back. I hope you find someone who makes you happy. But it’s not going to be me.”

You walked out without looking back, and the moment you stepped outside, Wooyoung was there.

“You okay?” His hands came up to cup your face, searching your expression.

“I’m perfect.” And you were. You felt lighter than you had in months, like you’d finally closed a door that had been left open for too long. “Can we go?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” His arm came around your shoulders, solid and sure, and you leaned into him as you walked to the car.

You didn’t realize you were crying until you were in the passenger seat and Wooyoung was wiping your tears with his thumb.

“Hey, what’s wrong? What did he say?”

“Nothing. Everything. I don’t know.” You laughed wetly. “He said he wanted me back.”

His expression darkened. “And?”

“And I told him no.” You looked up at him, at the concern in his eyes, at the gentle way he was touching you. “I told him I’d moved on. That I was happy.”

“Are you?” His voice was quiet. “Happy?”

“Yeah.” You reached up, covering his hand with yours. “I am.”

His expression changed. It was something vulnerable and hopeful and scared all at once. He leaned forward, and for a heart-stopping moment you thought he was going to kiss you. Really kiss you.

But then he pulled back, clearing his throat. “Good. That’s… that’s good. I’m glad.”

He started the car, and you tried to ignore the disappointment curling in your stomach.

As he drove, one hand on the wheel and one hand finding yours, you stared out the window and tried not to think about how much you’d meant every word you’d said to Seonghwa.

About how Wooyoung made you feel wanted. 

And about how you’d fallen completely in love with your fake boyfriend.

You couldn’t sleep.

It was 2 AM, and you’d been lying in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling and replaying every moment of the past month. Every touch, every smile, every time Wooyoung had looked at you like you were the only person in the room.

The forehead kisses. The hand-holding. The protective way he’d shown up for you today.

When had it stopped being an act?

Your phone buzzed on your nightstand, and your heart leaped when you saw his name.

Wooyoung: you awake?

You: unfortunately. you?

Wooyoung: can’t stop thinking about today

Wooyoung: are you really okay?

You stared at the messages, fingers hovering over the keyboard. You could lie. Keep up the act that this was all still fake and manageable.

You: I’m okay. Better than okay, actually.

You: I meant what I said to him. I’ve moved on.

Wooyoung: good. he doesn’t deserve you anyway

You: woo…

Wooyoung: yeah?

You typed and deleted three different messages before settling on:

You: thank you for being there today

Wooyoung: always. that’s what boyfriends do, right? 😏

There was a long pause. Then:

Wooyoung: doesn’t feel very fake anymore, does it?

Your breath caught. You stared at the message, reading it over and over.

You: no. it doesn’t.

Wooyoung: is that a bad thing?

Was it? You didn’t know anymore. All you knew was that you were in too deep, and there was no way out that didn’t end in heartbreak.

You: i don’t know. is it?

Wooyoung: I don’t know either

Wooyoung: goodnight. we should talk soon. actually talk.

You: goodnight woo

You fell asleep with your phone in your hand, his words echoing in your mind.

Doesn’t feel very fake anymore.

-

The next morning across campus, Wooyoung was having a crisis.

He’d been staring at his phone for twenty minutes, reading and rereading your text conversation from last night. Doesn’t feel very fake anymore. What had he been thinking, sending that? He might as well have just confessed outright.

“You look like you’re having an existential crisis,” San said, dropping his stuff into the seat next to him.

“I am having an existential crisis.”

Hongjoong appeared on his other side. “Does this crisis have anything to do with your girlfriend?”

“Fake girlfriend,” Wooyoung corrected automatically, but the words felt wrong in his mouth. 

“Is she still fake?” Hongjoong asked. “Because to me, you two look pretty real.”

Wooyoung groaned, letting his head fall onto the table. “I fucked up.”

“What did you do?” San asked.

“I caught feelings. For someone I’m supposed to be fake dating.” He lifted his head, looking between his friends. “How did this happen? We had rules. It was supposed to be simple.”

“Feelings are never simple,” Hongjoong said.

“Especially not when you’re spending all your time with someone you’re pretending to date,” San added. “Kind of unavoidable."

“That’s exactly the problem!” Wooyoung ran his hands through his hair, frustrated. “This is exactly what I said would happen. And now I’ve proven myself right, and I hate it.”

“Why do you hate being right?” San asked.

“It means I can’t be close to someone without fucking it up with feelings. It means-” He broke off, his fear finally surfacing. “It means I’m going to lose her.”

“Why would you lose her?” Hongjoong looked genuinely confused.

“Because that’s what happens. Someone catches feelings, things get weird, and the friendship ends.”

“Or,” San said slowly, “someone catches feelings, the other person feels the same way, and they end up together. Did you ever consider that?”

Wooyoung stared at him. “What if she doesn’t feel the same way?”

“Are you serious right now?” Hongjoong laughed. “Woo, she looks at you like you hung the moon. I’ve never seen two people more obviously in love while claiming to be ‘fake-dating’.”

“You think she feels the same way?”

“I think you’re both idiots who need to talk to each other,” San said bluntly. “But yes, I think she’s just as gone for you as you are for her.”

“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted quietly.

“You talk to her,” San said firmly. “You tell her the truth. And you figure it out together.”

Wooyoung pulled out his phone, looking at your last text exchange. Doesn’t feel very fake anymore. No. It doesn’t.

Maybe it was time to stop pretending.

-

That evening, you were at home trying to study when your phone rang. Wooyoung’s name flashed on the screen, and your heart jumped.

“Hey,” you answered.

“Hey.” His voice sounded strange. “Are you busy?”

“Just studying. Why?”

“Can I come over? I think we need to talk.”

Your stomach dropped. This was it. He was going to end the arrangement. Tell you he couldn’t do this anymore. You’d broken the rules by catching feelings, and now…

“Yeah,” you heard yourself say. “Yeah, come over.”

“I’ll be there in ten.”

He hung up, and you stared at your phone, panic rising in your chest. You had ten minutes to prepare yourself for heartbreak.

You spent those ten minutes pacing your apartment, trying to figure out what you’d say. How you’d react. Whether you should tell him the truth or keep lying.

When the knock came, you nearly jumped out of your skin.

Wooyoung stood in your doorway, hair slightly messy like he’d been running his hands through it, eyes dark with something, you couldn’t tell what it was.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.”

You stood there for a second, just looking at each other. Then Wooyoung stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

“We need to talk about this,” he said, motioning between you two. “About us.”

Your heart was pounding so hard you thought it might break through your ribs. “Okay.”

“I’ve been thinking about what I said last night. About how this doesn’t feel fake anymore.” He took a step closer. “And it doesn’t. At least not for me.”

You couldn’t breathe. “Woo…”

“Let me finish. Please.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I know we had rules. I know we said no real feelings. But somewhere along the way, I broke that rule. And I’ve been terrified to tell you because I thought it would ruin everything.”

“What are you saying?” Your voice was barely a whisper.

“I’m saying I have feelings for you.” He was looking at you with such intensity you felt pinned in place. “I can’t tell the difference between pretending and reality anymore because when I’m with you, it all feels real. The hand-holding, the dates, the way I want to kiss you for real instead of just your forehead - all of it.”

Your breath caught. “You want to kiss me?”

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks,” he admitted. “But I was scared.” He pauses. “But then I realized,” he continued, stepping closer, “maybe my theory was wrong. Not about the attraction part - I think I was right about that. But about what it means.” He reached out, taking your hand. “Maybe the point isn’t that attraction ruins friendships. Maybe the point is that the best relationships start as friendships. And maybe sometimes, falling for your friend isn’t the end of the friendship - it’s the beginning of something better.”

Tears were streaming down your face, and you didn’t even care. “Wooyoung-”

“I think I am in love with you,” he said, the words froze in the air between you. “I’m completely, hopelessly in love with you. And I know that wasn’t part of the plan, and I know we said this would be temporary, but I don’t want temporary. I want real. I want you. Even when we met in class, I felt something for you. It has always been there.”

You were crying in earnest now, your free hand coming up to cover your mouth.

“Please say something,” Wooyoung said, and you could hear the fear in his voice. “Tell me I didn’t just ruin everything. Tell me-”

“I think I love you too,” you said, the words tumbling out. “I’ve been in love with you for weeks, and I was so scared to tell you because I thought you’d think I broke the rules, and I didn’t want to lose you…”

You didn’t get to finish because Wooyoung was kissing you.

And for once, it wasn’t a forehead kiss. It was a real kiss.

His hands cupped your face, and his lips were soft and desperate against yours, and it felt like coming home. You kissed him back with everything you had, months of pent-up longing pouring into this one moment.

When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.

“We’re idiots,” you said, laughing through your tears.

“Complete idiots,” he agreed. “We could have been doing this for weeks.”

“We had rules-”

“Fuck the rules.” He kissed you again, shorter this time but no less sweet. “I don’t want to pretend anymore. I want this to be real.”

“It already is real,” you said. “It’s been real for a long time.”

“Yeah.” He smiled. “Yeah, it has.”

You kissed him again, and again, making up for lost time. And when you finally pulled back, breathless and giddy, Wooyoung took your hand.

“So,” he said. “Will you be my girlfriend? For real this time?”

“Yes.” You didn’t even have to think about it. “Yes, I want that.”

“Good.” He pulled you close, wrapping his arms around you. “Because I’m not letting you go.”

You buried your face in his chest, breathing him in, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your cheek.

This was real. And for the first time in months, you felt perfectly happy.

Everything should have been perfect.

You were actually together. No more pretending, no more rules. Just you and Wooyoung.

Except something was wrong.

It started small. A cancelled study date here, a shorter text conversation there. Wooyoung said he was busy with dance practice, with family stuff, with a big project for class. All reasonable excuses.

But it had been almost a week since your confession, and you’d barely seen him.

You: miss you. when can I see you?

Wooyoung: sorry, got a lot going on. maybe this weekend?

Maybe. Not definitely. Maybe.

You tried not to read into it, tried to tell yourself he was just actually busy. But the familiar doubt crept in anyway.

Had you been wrong? Had he changed his mind? Had the reality of actually being together scared him off?

When you finally did see him - at a group hangout at Mingi’s place on Friday - he was different. Still affectionate, still attentive, but there was a distance in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Like part of him was somewhere else.

“You okay?” you asked quietly when you had a moment alone.

“Yeah, fine. Just tired.” He kissed your forehead, but it felt forced.

And then you saw it later.

Wooyoung, across the room, laughing with a girl you didn’t recognize. His hand on her arm, that devastating smile turned on her full force. The same charm he used to use on everyone before you.

Your stomach twisted.

“That’s Yuna,” San said, appearing at your elbow. “She’s in Wooyoung’s contemporary dance class.”

“Oh.” You tried to sound casual. “They seem friendly.”

San gave you a look. “Don’t read into it. He’s probably just being nice.”

But you couldn’t help but read into it. Couldn’t help noticing how easily he made her laugh, how she touched his arm back, how he didn’t pull away.

When Wooyoung finally came back over, you were ready to leave.

“Already?” He looked surprised. “It’s early.”

“I have an early morning tomorrow.” The lie came easily. “I should go.”

“Oh. Okay.” He walked you out, but he didn’t offer to drive you home like he usually did. “Text me when you get back safe?”

“Sure.”

You waited for him to kiss you goodbye. He kissed your forehead.

Always your forehead. Never your lips. Not since that first night when you’d confessed your feelings to each other.

“Goodnight,” he said.

You walked home alone, feeling the distance between you growing with every step.

-

By the second week, the distance had become unbearable.

Wooyoung barely texted. He cancelled more plans than he kept. When you did see him, he was distracted and distant. The easy affection had been replaced by something controlled.

You tried to talk to him about it, but he deflected every time.

“I’m just stressed about midterms.”

“I’m fine, really. Just need some space to focus.”

“You’re overthinking it.”

But you weren’t overthinking it. You could feel him pulling away, could see him reverting to his old patterns. The fuckboy who never let anyone get too close and kept everything surface-level.

The breaking point came at Yunho’s place.

You’d come with Wooyoung, but within an hour, he’d disappeared into the crowd. You found him in the kitchen, and your heart sank.

He was flirting with Yuna again. Not just friendly conversation. It was actual flirting. The smile, the eyes, the casual touches. All the things he used to do with you before it became real.

“Having fun?” The words came out colder than you intended.

Wooyoung turned, and something flickered across his face. Guilt? “Hey. Yeah, just talking to Yuna.”

“I can see that.”

Yuna looked between you, clearly sensing the tension. “I should go find Yeosang. Nice talking to you, Wooyoung.” She left quickly.

You and Wooyoung stood in uncomfortable silence.

“What’s going on with you?” you finally asked.

“Nothing. I was just talking to someone-”

“You’ve been avoiding me for two weeks.” Your voice cracked despite your best efforts. “Ever since we made it official, you’ve been pulling away. And now you’re flirting with other girls right in front of me?”

“I wasn’t flirting…”

“Don’t lie to me.” Tears were burning in your eyes. “I know you, and I know what flirting looks like. I watched you do it for months before we got together.”

Wooyoung’s jaw tightened. “You’re being paranoid.”

“Am I? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you got what you wanted. Prove you could commit, made your family happy, and now you’re ready to move on. Just like you do with everyone else.”

“That’s not fair.”

“How so?” You were starting to get upset, but you were past the point of caring. “You said you loved me. You said you wanted this to be real. But the second it actually became real, you started running.”

“I’m not running.”

“Then what do you call this?” You gestured between you. “You barely talk to me. You cancel our plans. You avoid me at parties. And when you do see me, you act like I’m someone you’re obligated to spend time with, not someone you claim to love.”

“I do love you.” His voice rose, frustration showing through. “That’s the whole fucking problem.”

You stopped, stunned. “What?”

Wooyoung ran his hands through his hair, and you could see him warring with himself. “I love you. And that terrifies me. Because we were friends, and now we’re not, because we caught feelings.”

“We’re not friends anymore because we’re together-”

“But that’s temporary too, isn’t it?” His voice was harsh, almost desperate. “Relationships end. People leave. And when this falls apart - because it will fall apart, they always do - I won’t just lose my girlfriend. I’ll lose my best friend.”

Your breath caught. “You think we’re going to fall apart?”

“I think I don’t know how to do this, and I don’t know how to treat you the way you deserve.”

“So you thought the best thing to do was to push me away and make me wonder what I did wrong?” You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. “You are sabotaging us before we even gave it a try.”

You wanted to comfort him, to tell him he was wrong and that you weren’t going anywhere. But you were too hurt.

“So instead of taking the risk, you choose to end us before it even started?” Your voice was broken. “You’re proving yourself right by making sure we fail?”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted. “I just know I’m scared.”

“Well, I’m scared too.” You wiped your eyes. “I’m terrified. But I’m not running away. I’m not flirting with other people to make myself feel safe. I’m choosing to trust this. To trust you.”

“I don’t know if I can do that.”

The words landed like a blow. You stared at him, at the boy you’d fallen in love with, and realized he wasn’t ready for this. Maybe he never would be.

“Then what are we doing?” you asked quietly. “If you can’t trust this, can’t trust me, then what’s the point?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.” You laughed, but it came out bitter. “You told me you wanted this to be real. But the first time it gets hard, you act like caring about someone is a weakness instead of a strength.”

He didn’t have an answer for that.

You waited, hoping he’d say something. Anything. But he just stood there, looking miserable and lost, and you realized you couldn’t do this anymore.

“I need space,” you said. “Real space. To figure out if this is worth fighting for when you’re not willing to fight for it too. I am not doing the whole ‘not being good enough’ thing again.”

“Don’t-” His voice broke. “Please don’t do this.”

“You’re the one doing this,” you said.

You left before he could respond, pushing through the party and out into the cold night air. You made it two blocks before you had to stop, leaning against a building as sobs took over your body.

You’d fallen in love with someone who was too afraid to love you back.

And you didn’t know how to fix it.

The next two weeks were hell.

Sitting next to him at group dinners, feeling the tension between. Holding his hand because people expected it, feeling his fingers tight and desperate around yours. Catching his eyes across the room and seeing the same misery you felt reflected back.

But the second you were alone, the distance returned. He’d drop your hand like it burned. Make excuses to leave. Avoid any real conversation.

Your friends weren’t blind.

“Okay, what’s going on?” Hongjoong asked one afternoon when Wooyoung had left yet another hangout early.

“Nothing. He’s just busy.”

“Bullshit.” San leaned forward. “You two have been weird for weeks. Did something happen?”

You wanted to lie, but you were so tired of pretending.

“We’re fighting,” you admitted. “Sort of. It’s complicated.”

“What happened?” Hongjoong’s voice was tender.

“He’s scared. Of commitment, of getting hurt, of losing me. So he’s pushing me away before I can leave him.” You laughed hollowly. “Classic self-sabotage.”

“Have you talked to him about it?”

“I tried. He won’t really talk to me.” You felt tears threatening again. “I don’t know what to do. I love him, but I can’t make him not be afraid. And I can’t keep putting myself through this.”

San and Hongjoong exchanged a look.

“We’ll talk to him,” San said.

“Don’t. Please.” You shook your head. “He needs to figure this out himself. Either he wants this or he doesn’t. But I can’t force him to choose me.”

“He does choose you,” Hongjoong said firmly. “He’s just a dumbass who doesn’t know how to handle anything.”

“Then he needs to learn. Quickly.” You stood up. “I need to go. I have studying to do.”

You left before they could see you cry again.

-

The next couple’s appearance was Mingi’s movie night. Everyone would be there, which meant you and Wooyoung had to show up together and act normal.

You met him outside the building, and the sight of him made your chest ache. He looked tired, dark circles under his eyes, hair unstyled. Like he hadn’t been sleeping well either.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

“Hi.”

The walk to Mingi’s apartment was awkward. When Wooyoung reached for your hand, you let him take it, but it felt wrong. Like you were both just going through the motions.

Inside, your friends were already sprawled across Mingi’s living room, arguing about what movie to watch. You and Wooyoung ended up on the couch, sitting close because that’s what couples did, but the space between your bodies felt like a canyon.

Halfway through the movie - some action film you weren’t really watching - he shifted closer. His arm came around your shoulders, and you stiffened.

“Relax,” he murmured, quiet enough that only you could hear. “People are watching.”

Right. You were performing. Like you had been from the beginning.

Except now it hurt so much more, because you knew what it felt like when it was real.

You leaned into him because you had to, resting your head on his shoulder. His hand came up to play with your hair, an absent gesture that used to make you feel cherished. Now it just felt empty.

“I miss you,” he whispered against your hair.

The words made your eyes burn. “I’m right here.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

You knew what he meant. You missed him too. Missed the version of you two that had been happy, that had been hopeful. Missed the boy who had looked at you like you were his whole world.

After the movie ended, and after some of the others had left, you excused yourself to Mingi’s patio. You leaned against the railing, allowing yourself to take in the fresh air of the cold night. You hear the sliding glass door open behind you.

“Hey.”

You spun around. Wooyoung stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, looking uncertain.

“Hi,” you managed.

“Can I…” He gestured to the balcony. “Can I join you?”

You nodded, and he stepped outside, the door closing behind him. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You both just stared out, at the lights of the buildings in the distance.

“You look beautiful,” Wooyoung said finally.

“Thanks.” Your voice was cold. “You look nice too.”

More silence.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “About what you said. About how I’ve been sabotaging us.”

You didn’t respond, waiting for him to continue.

“You were right. About all of it.” He turned to face you. “I was so scared of losing you that I started pulling away. And I didn’t even realize I was doing it until you pointed it out.”

“And?” You kept your eyes on the horizon, not trusting yourself to look at him.

“And I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.” His voice cracked. “I’ve been miserable without you. I can’t sleep, I can’t focus. All I do is think about you and how badly I fucked everything up.”

“Woo-”

“I love you,” he said desperately. “I love you so much it scares me. And I know I handled that fear in the worst possible way. I know I hurt you. But please… please give me another chance.”

You finally looked at him, and the raw emotion on his face made your chest tight. “I don’t know if I can do this again. I can’t keep putting myself through this cycle of you pulling away every time you get scared.”

“I know. I know I don’t deserve another chance. But I swear, I’m done running. I’m done sabotaging us. I want this, I want you, and I’m ready to fight for it.”

“Are you?” The question came out sharp.

“I can’t promise I won’t be scared,” he admitted. “But I can promise I won’t run. I’ll talk to you instead. I’ll let you in instead of shutting you out.”

You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to believe him so badly.

“When I saw you,” you said quietly. “Flirting with Yuna, a part of me wondered if you would ever change.”

He flinched. “I wasn’t flirting - okay, maybe I was. But it wasn’t about her. It was about trying to prove to myself that I could still be that person. The one who doesn’t get attached.”

“Why would you want to be that person?”

“Because that person doesn’t get hurt.” His voice had a hint of frustration. “That person doesn’t lie awake at night terrified of losing the most important thing in his life. That person is safe.”

“That person is lonely,” you said. “And I know you, Wooyoung. You don’t actually want to be him anymore.”

He was quiet for a long moment. “You’re right. I don’t. I’d rather be terrified and with you than safe and alone.”

“Then prove it.” You finally met his eyes fully. “Stop running. Stop trying to protect yourself from getting hurt by hurting me first. Just… be with me. Actually be with me.”

“I will.” He took a step closer. “I swear I will. Just please, give me one more chance. Let me show you I can do better.”

You studied his face, looking for any sign of doubt or fear. But all you saw was desperate sincerity.

“One chance,” you said finally. “But if you pull away again, if you start reverting to your old stuff, we’re done. For real this time.”

“I understand.” He reached out tentatively, and when you didn’t pull away, he took your hand. “Thank you. I won’t screw this up again.”

“You better not.”

He pulled you closer, and you let yourself lean into him, breathing in his familiar scent. His arms came around you, solid and warm, and you felt some of the tension you’d been carrying for weeks finally ease.

“I missed you,” he murmured into your hair. “I missed you so fucking much.”

“I missed you too.” You pulled back to look at him. “But we need to actually talk about this. About your fear, about your patterns. We can’t just sweep it under the rug.”

“I know. And we will. I’ll tell you everything.” He cupped your face gently. “But first… can I kiss you?”

Your heart skipped. “Please kiss me.”

He leaned in slowly, giving you time to change your mind. But you didn’t want to. You’d been wanting this too.

When his lips finally met yours, it was soft and sweet and perfect, his hands soothing on your face, your fingers curling into his jacket. You kissed him like you’d been waiting forever.  

When you finally broke apart, you were both smiling.

His eyes gleamed with the shine of the light through the glass and he kissed you again, quick and happy. “Let me take you home.”

-

You both head back inside with your fingers intertwined, and the remaining members of your friend group were pleasantly surprised at how your demeanor towards each other suddenly changed. 

“We’re heading out.” Wooyoung announced to them as he wrapped his arm around your shoulder. 

“Okay, love birds.” San said playfully.

The walk to his car was quiet, though it didn’t feel like anything needed to be said in the moment.

He opened the car door for you and gestured towards it. “M’lady.”

“Oh my god you are so weird,” you couldn’t help but to laugh at him.

You slid into his passenger seat, a feeling all too familiar. 

The drive to your apartment was quiet, but it was a different kind of quiet than the painful silences of the past two weeks. This was comfortable. Wooyoung’s hand found yours across the console almost immediately, his thumb tracing those familiar circles that made your heart race.

“I talked to my dad,” he said suddenly, breaking the silence. “After we fought. I called him and told him everything.”

You turned to look at him, surprised. “What did he say?”

“He told me I was being an idiot.” Wooyoung’s lips quirked into a self-deprecating smile. 

“Your dad sounds wise.”

“He has his moments.” His hand tightened around yours. “He also said that love isn’t about protecting yourself from pain. It’s about finding someone worth being vulnerable for.”

Your throat felt tight. 

“You’re worth it,” he said quietly, glancing at you before returning his eyes to the road. “You’re worth every moment of fear, every risk, everything. I’m sorry it took me so long to realize that I was ruining the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you just squeezed his hand, blinking back tears.

When he pulled up outside your building, neither of you moved immediately. The car idled, the soft hum of the engine the only sound between you.

“Do you want to come up?” The words tumbled out before you could second-guess them. “We could… talk more. About everything.”

Wooyoung turned to look at you, and something in his expression made your breath catch. His eyes were dark, intense in a way that sent heat pooling in your stomach.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rougher than usual. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

He turned off the engine, and the sudden silence felt deafening. You both got out of the car, and Wooyoung’s hand found the small of your back as you walked to your building, a touch that felt both protective and possessive.

The elevator ride up to your floor was torture. You were hyperaware of him beside you - the warmth radiating from his body, the scent of his cologne, the way his eyes kept flicking to you and then away, like he was holding himself back from something.

When you finally reached your door, your hands were shaking so badly you almost dropped your keys. Wooyoung’s hand covered yours, steadying them, and the touch sent shivers through your entire body.

“Breathe,” he murmured, so close you could feel his breath against your ear.

You managed to unlock the door and step inside, Wooyoung following close behind. The moment the door closed, the air between you became heavier.

You turned to face him, and the look in his eyes made your knees weak.

“We should talk,” you said, but your voice came out breathy.

“We should,” he agreed. He was moving closer, backing you delicately against the door. “We have a lot to talk about.”

“So many things,” you whispered, your hands coming up to rest on his chest. You could feel his heart hammering under your palm, as fast as yours.

“Like how I’m going to spend every day proving I’m worth your trust,” he said, his hands coming up to frame your face. “How I’m going to show you that I’m all in. That I’m not going anywhere.”

“Wooyoung…”

“Like how I’ve been thinking about really kissing,” he continued, his voice dropping lower. “Not just forehead kisses. Not just quick pecks. Actually kissing you the way I’ve wanted to since the night we confessed.”

Your breath hitched. “We kissed that night.”

“Yeah.” His thumb traced your bottom lip, and you felt it everywhere. “And then I got scared and pulled away. I’ve regretted it every day since.”

“Then don’t pull away this time,” you said, your fingers curling into his shirt.

He snapped. His mouth crashed against yours, and this kiss was nothing like the sweet one on the balcony. This was desperate, hungry, the emotion of your time apart poured into the connection of your lips.

You gasped against his mouth, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that made your entire body feel like it was on fire. Your hands moved from his chest to his hair, tangling in the soft strands and pulling him closer.

He groaned - actually groaned - and the sound sent heat straight through you. His hands moved from your face to your waist, pulling you flush against him.

“I’ve wanted this,” he breathed against your lips, trailing kisses along your jaw, “wanted you, for so long.”

“Me too,” you managed, tilting your head to give him better access as his lips found that sensitive spot just below your ear. “God, me too.”

His hands slid under your shirt, just slightly, his fingers splaying against the bare skin of your waist, and you melted into the contact.

“Is this okay?” he asked, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and pupils blown wide.

“Yes,” you said immediately. “Yes, this is okay. More than okay.”

He smiled that devastating smile that had always made your heart skip, and kissed you again, slower this time but no less intense. His hands stayed where they were, warm against your skin.

You tugged at his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders, and he helped you, shrugging out of it without breaking the kiss. It fell to the floor forgotten.

Your heart was racing so fast you thought it might burst. “Bedroom.”

He pulled back, taking your hand, and let you lead him through your apartment. The walk to your bedroom felt like it took forever. When you finally reached your room, you turned to face him, suddenly nervous despite everything.

Wooyoung seemed to sense your hesitation. He stepped closer, cupping your face gently, his thumb stroking your jaw line tenderly.  

“We can stop,” he said softly. “We can just talk, or watch a movie, or…”

“I don’t want to stop,” you interrupted. “I just… I want this to mean something. I want it to be real.”

“It is real,” he said, his voice fierce. “This is the realest thing I’ve ever felt.”

He kissed you again, serene this time, pouring emotion into it rather than just heat. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“I love you,” he whispered. “So much. And I’m going to spend every day showing you that.”

“I love you too,” you said, your hands sliding up his chest to loop around his neck. “Show me.”

His eyes darkened again, and he walked you backwards toward the bed.. When the back of your knees hit the mattress, you sat, and he followed you down, hovering over you with his arms braced on either side of your head.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, looking down at you with such intensity it made you feel like you were the only person in the world. “How did I get this lucky?”

“Woo…”

He kissed you again, and you pulled him closer, your hands exploring the planes of his back through his shirt. He made that sound again - that groan that drove you crazy - and his hand slid up your side, his touch reverent.

“Can I…” His fingers toyed with the hem of your shirt.

“Yes,” you breathed.

He sat back slightly, helping you sit up so slowly it was almost torture, pulled your shirt over your head. His eyes roamed over you, and the heat in his gaze made you feel desired in a way you’d never felt before.

“You’re perfect,” he said, his voice rough.

Your hands went to his shirt, and he helped you remove it, tossing it aside. And then you were skin to skin, his chest pressed against yours, and it felt so natural.

His hands mapped your body like he was trying to memorize every curve, every dip, every place that made you gasp. You did the same, learning the feel of him, the way his muscles tensed under your touch, the way his breath caught when you ran your fingers down his spine.

“I want you,” you whispered against his lips. “Please, I want all of you.”

“You have me,” he said, pulling back to look at you with such raw emotion it made your heart ache. “You’ve always had me, baby”

His hands cup each side of your face as he notices the tears threatening to break from your eyes. “Don’t cry, darling. I’m right here. I got you.”

He leans down to kiss you again, trying to drown out your emotions with something happier. He reaches around you to release the tension of your bra, each clasp he undoes exposes more of your skin: the swell of your breasts, the delicate dip of your collarbone. He pauses after each hook to press kisses along the new flesh, his lips soft like a worship, sending electricity pulsing across your body.

"You're so beautiful," he breathes against your sternum, his voice thick, with a hint of disbelief. "Every inch of you.”

He runs his hands over each mound, massaging deliberately in the hopes to relax you a little more. The nipple hardens instantly under his touch, and he doesn't hesitate. He gently rolls them between his thumb and pointer finger, as the remaining space of his hands cup your breasts. He wets his tongue, sliding it from the top of your navel, up to your neck, where he begins to leave messy, open-mouthed kisses that were sure to leave a mark by morning. Only quiet, broken breaths can escape your mouth.

His mouth descends, capturing the peak between his lips. He sucks softly at first, his tongue flicking over the sensitive bud. The sensation shoots arrows straight to your core, a slick heat blooming between your thighs as arousal soaks your panties. His tongue moves slowly, so slowly that it makes your thighs rub together in an attempt to relieve some tension. 

Your fingers thread through his hair, holding him close as your desperation grows."Wooyoung," you gasp breathlessly. His eyes lift to meet yours, and your expression was enough for him to sense what you wanted him to do next.

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your pants, meeting your eyes once again, just to make sure it was okay. You nod, and he pulls them down as you lift up your hips. 

Now with the first barrier discarded, he lowers his head between your legs. Gentle kisses peppered along the flesh of your inner thighs. Once he got closer to your core, he kissed over the cotton of your already soaked panties, and the skin between the fabric and your thighs. There was no rush in his pace. He’s making sure he savors the moment for as long as possible. 

The fake dates that blurred into real ones, the nights you spent pretending not to notice how his hand lingered on yours a second too long, the heartbreak when you thought it might all unravel. But here, in this moment, it's all laid bare. You love him, and from the way his eyes lock onto yours, you know he feels it too.

His fingers brush over the damp fabric of your panties, teasing the outline of your folds. You arch into him, a whimper escaping your lips when he finally pushes the material aside. His touch is deliberate, two fingers gliding through your slickness, coating themselves before circling your clit with just the right pressure. 

Wooyoung's thumb presses firmer against your clit, rolling in small circles while his fingers tease your entrance. “You're so wet for me,” he whispers, voice rough with emotion. “Tell me what you need. I want to hear it.” His free hand cups your face, thumb brushing your lower lip, pulling you into a deep kiss. Your tongues tangle, tasting the salt of your skin on him, and you moan into his mouth as he finally slides one finger inside you.

The stretch is perfect. He curls it upward, hitting that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. You break the kiss to gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders. “More,” you plead, hips rocking against his hand. “Wooyoungie, please... I need your fingers.” The words tumble out with the desperation that's built over weeks. 

He slides in another finger, making sure to brush across your spongy spot. All you can do is grip your fingers tighter into his biceps in reaction to the increased pleasure. You can feel yourself clenching around him, the feeling overwhelming - how he knows your body like it's an extension of his own, how he's memorized every gasp you make. 

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, not from pain or hurt this time. Wooyoung notices, of course, he always does. He slows his movements, fingers still buried deep but no longer pumping, instead stroking that sensitive inner wall with light pressure. 

“It's just us now. Let me show you.” He withdraws his fingers, earning a whine of protest from you, but then he's shifting down your body, settling between your thighs. His hands grip your hips, pulling you to the edge of the bed as he kneels on the floor. You prop yourself on your elbows, watching with bated breath as he hooks his fingers into your panties and tugs them off, exposing you completely.

Wooyoung's eyes drink you in. “Beautiful,” he breathes, before leaning in. His tongue flattens against your core, licking a long, wet stripe from your entrance to your clit. The direct contact makes you cry out, your head falling back as pleasure sparks through every nerve. He doesn't rush - his licks are languid, savoring you like you're the sweetest thing he's ever tasted. He laps at your folds, gathering your wetness on his tongue, then circles your clit with the tip, flicking it lightly.

Your hands find his hair again, tugging gently as you guide him. He hums in approval, the vibration sending pleasure straight through you. One hand leaves your hip to join his mouth, fingers sliding back inside you, three this time, stretching you fuller as his tongue works your clit without mercy. The combination is devastating. You feel yourself tightening, your peak approaching fast. But Wooyoung senses it, pulling back just enough to keep you wanting more.

“Not yet,” he murmurs, lips glistening with you. “I want to feel you come around my cock. Want to be inside you when you fall apart.” He stands, quickly shedding the rest of his clothes. His cock springs free, hard and thick, and a lot bigger than you had expected. 

You reach for him, wrapping your hand around his length, stroking from base to tip. Your hand could barely even fit around the girth of it. He groans, hips bucking into your touch. You use your thumb to spread the bead of pre-cum across the head, massaging the sensitive spot below the tip.  

Without hesitation, Wooyoung climbs back onto the bed, positioning himself between your legs. He lines up, the head of his cock nudging your entrance, but he pauses, searching your eyes. “Are you sure?” he asks, even though you both know the answer. The vulnerability in his voice - the fear of rejection after everything - makes your heart ache.

“Yes,” you say, cupping his face. “God, I want it so bad, Wooyoung.” With that, he pushes in slowly, inch by inch, filling you completely. The stretch burns so good, your walls fluttering around him as he bottoms out. You both moan, bodies connecting in the most emotional way. He stills for a moment, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed to yours again.

“I love how you feel,” he confesses, voice strained. “Like you were made for me.” Then he starts moving, shallow thrusts at first, grinding his hips against yours to hit your clit with every roll. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, your heels digging into his back. The pace builds gradually, his cock dragging along your inner walls, hitting that sweet spot over and over.

Sweat beads on his skin, dripping onto your chest as he leans down to capture your lips. The kiss is messy, all teeth and tongue, mirroring the way he's fucking you now - harder, faster, but the emotions still obvious. You can feel the love in every thrust, the way he angles his hips to give you maximum pleasure, how his hand slips between you to rub your clit in tight circles. 

His hand tightens on your thigh, holding you in place. “You're mine,” he growls softly, not possessive but affirming. He continues to roll his hips deliciously as you feel your climax start to build up again. Soft grunts escape him as he finds his motion within you. 

He slides out, leaving you empty and wanting more. 

You place your hand on his chest to guide him to lay against the mattress. You swing your leg over his hips, straddling him. You grabbed the base of his cock and glided his tip between your folds before sinking down onto his length. His hands guide your hips, encouraging you to ride him. You do, slowly at first, savoring the slide of every vein dragging inside of you. 

This time, it's you setting the pace - grinding down to take him deep, circling your hips to feel every ridge. Wooyoung's hands roam your body, sliding up to cup your breasts, thumbs teasing your nipples until they're pebbled again. 

You lean forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and he sits up to meet you, wrapping his arms around your waist. You’re face-to-face, intimate, his breath mingling with yours as you rock together. “I can never get enough of you,” he admits.

The words fuel your movements; you bounce faster, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the room. His cock hits deeper from this position, brushing your cervix with each downward thrust. Your pleasure keeps building, coiling tighter, and you can feel him swelling inside you.

Wooyoung's mouth finds your neck, sucking marks into your skin - marks that say you're his. One hand slips between you again, fingers finding your clit, rubbing in time with your rhythm. It's too much, the dual sensations pushing you towards your orgasm.

“Come with me,” he whispers, nipping at your earlobe. It doesn't take much more for you to be pushed over the edge. You grip on to his chest muscles tighter, as you cry out in pleasure. You throw your head back while you grind down on him. His movements became more uncontrolled beneath you. “Fuuuuuck, I’m gonna cum,” he urges your thighs up. When his length slips free, you rest your weight on your knees, your hand quickly meeting with his cock to milk it out. Cum spurts out in ropes, painting both of your tummies white. “Fuckfuckfuck,” he groans as you start to slow down your strokes. 

As the high fades, Wooyoung eases you off him gently. You collapse together, limbs entangled with each other. He reaches up, cupping your face in his palm, thumb brushing away a stray tear of overwhelming emotion that had slipped down your cheek. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice husky and tender, “you okay? That was... you were incredible.”

You nod, a small smile curving your lips as you lean into his touch, your body still humming with aftershocks. Slowly, you shift off his lap, your thighs quivering, and settling beside him on the rumpled sheets. His arm wraps around your waist immediately, pulling you close so your side presses against his, skin sticking slightly where his release has smeared between you. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You just lie there, hearts pounding in unison, listening to the rhythm of each other's breathing as it gradually evens out. Wooyoung's fingers trace idle patterns along your hip. You turn your head to look at him, taking in the flush on his cheeks, the way his dark hair clings to his forehead with sweat, and the vulnerability in his gaze that mirrors your own.

He eases out from the bed and grabs a warm cloth from the bathroom, cleaning you up with care, his touches lingering. He tosses the cloth aside and joins you under the covers. You cuddle your head onto his chest with your hand resting on his abdomen.  

“I can't believe we're here,” you whisper finally, your voice thick with the weight of everything. “After all that pretending... it feels like a dream.”

He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. “Not a dream. It’s as real as it gets.” His hand moves up to tangle in your hair, tucking a strand behind your ear. “I kept thinking, during those early 'dates,' how much I wanted to just grab you and kiss you for real. Not for show. But I was scared you'd pull away.”

You prop yourself up on one elbow, gazing down at him. “I was scared too. Scared of feeling this much after what happened before. But you... you make me feel safe. Like I can let go.”

He covers your hand with his, guiding it to rest over his heart. “You do the same for me. Every time you smile at one of my dumb jokes, or when you lean into me during those movie nights... it chipped away at my walls.” He pauses, his expression turning serious, eyes searching yours. “I love you. Not the version we pretended to be. The real you - the one who overthinks everything, who always puts others before herself, who makes my world brighter just by being in it.”

Tears well up again, but they're happy ones, spilling over as you lean down to press a soft kiss to his lips. It's not heated like before; it's gentle, tasting of salt and devotion. When you pull back, he wipes your cheeks with his thumbs, his touch like a feather. “No more tears unless they're from laughing at me,” he teases lightly.

You laugh, a soft, watery sound, and settle back down, your head finding its place on his shoulder. The sheets are cool against your overheated skin now. Wooyoung shifts slightly, reaching for the edge of the comforter and pulling it up over both of you, cocooning you in warmth. But he doesn't rush into full cuddling yet - instead, he rolls onto his side to face you fully, one leg draping over yours in a lazy tangle.

“Tell me something,” he says, his fingers now exploring the curve of your spine, dipping into the dimples at the base of your back. “What's your favorite memory from us? The real ones, I mean.”

You think for a moment, your hand mirroring his, stroking along his side, feeling the rise and fall of his ribs. “That night at San's, after the games. We were all pretending everything was fine, but when you pulled me aside in the kitchen... you didn't say much, just held my hand and squeezed it.”

His eyes soften, and he nods, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I remember. You looked so tired, but strong. I wanted to hold you right there, tell everyone to leave so I could take care of you.” His hand pauses its tracing, resting flat against your lower back, pulling you closer. “Mine's the drive home after we confronted Seonghwa. You were quiet, staring out the window, and I thought I'd lost you. But then you turned to me, smiled that small smile, and said, 'Thanks for being my fake boyfriend.' I almost crashed the car laughing.”

Minutes stretch as you talk, voices low, bodies gradually relaxing into each other. You watch him, heart swelling at the tenderness, the way he meets your eyes every few seconds as if to check if you're comfortable. “You're too good to me,” you say softly, reaching out to run your fingers through his hair.

He smiles. “Just getting started.” Crawling back under the covers, he draws you into his arms properly now, your head cuddling onto his chest, hand resting on his abdomen. The transition feels so natural.

“Stay with me tonight,” you say, nuzzling closer, inhaling the familiar scent of him.

“Every night,” he echoes, his arms tightening around you, fingers resuming their lazy traces over the skin on your back. The steady beat of his heart lulls you, as sleep begins to tug at the edges of your consciousness. 

Tonight, you would fall asleep feeling loved. 

Even if it started fake, it is real now.

And that is all that matters.

taglist : @kisssan @way2jellyous @life-is-a-game-of-thrones @stxrrywoo @civeua @princesskatriinnaaa @darjeelinglemontea @hwapuri @ramadiiiisme @dutchmancallypso @hueningsgirl @redemptions @poobysblog @yuyurat @booposaurusrex @sparky2020sworld @icarusfallingdown @beatenpath @girlcrushd @kyeomofhearts @ladymervy @lovekm @violatedvibrators @jxerv @noturresponsibility @oyoke @princess-of-the-wood @shrimpwoo @lateez @pyuddings @n01likeu @ttinypuff @strhwa @s0u1nyah

dividers by : @pixopix @cafekitsune

[yestodayys]

✮⋆｡°✩ 12:34am - smg

⋆ ˚｡𖦹 w. nsfw (MINORS DO NOT INTERACT), free use & semi-somnophilia, dirty talk, wet n messy, whiny service top mg, unprotected p in v, like 2 ‘mama’s, clitplay, creampie

⋆ ˚｡𖦹 wc. 1.4k

wandering hands wake you up, heavy palms that grip into plush flesh hard, and you’re moaning before you even realise. he’s back, you remember, mingi, with a new head of platinum hair that tickles your neck as he kisses up the curve of it and what time is it? it’s still dark outside, your throat feeling a little dry and limbs feeling a little stiff.

the white lights of the city illuminate your bedroom and you just about catch the clock on your wall - 12:34am. the long curtains that mingi had to help you put up are blowing in the slight breeze from the window; you’re unsure why it’s open but it’s a relaxing sight, watching the fabric blow and the cars speed down the roads below you. it’s chaotic but nice to be outside of it in your little bubble, almost enough to put you to sleep until a large, fumbling hand paws at your breast.

your clit throbs and you know what’s about to happen, trying to stretch and wake yourself up just enough.

this isn’t uncommon, you and mingi waking up in the middle of the night to fuck eachother’s brains out and then pass out again. his teeth bite into your skin, soft but promising, and you moan again, rolling onto your back despite still not being fully conscious.

everything’s a little hazy, but once you’re there mingi kisses you awake a little more, gentle open mouthed kisses that get deeper when you start to reciprocate, his tongue forcing into your mouth and claiming it as his. he’s messy as always, whimpering and pulling at your clothes, trying to get you as close as possible despite you being chest to chest, legs tangled up in each other.

he doesn’t say anything, fingers hooking into your sleep shorts and pulling them down your legs with ease. the night air is cold to your legs and he pulls the blanket over his back, encasing you in his arms and shuffling his own boxers down just under his balls to grip himself at the base.

mingi knows he doesn’t need to ask. nosing at your cheek, he kisses you again, deep as he pumps his cock a few times, positioning it at your hole. he finds you’re still slick from the night before and it makes him gasp a stuttered breath, pushing your thighs further apart and letting himself slide home. there’s a bit of resistance but he pushes past it, your hole stretching to allow his cock inside. it’s more than welcome with how nice he treats it.

“fuck, big,” you manage, whining against his mouth, hands pawing at his naked chest - he leans back and lets you see him, sharp angles and soft muscles on a long, lithe body, and your hands fall down the length of his torso when he starts to move. “so- ah, haa, oh my god, mingi-“

your pussy seems to gush around him whenever he pulls out, and his brows knit together in pleasure, pulling at your leg to bring it flat against his chest. he begins to rock a steady rhythm, your hands falling against the mattress uselessly, cunt throbbing for more.

mingi groans, knuckles tightening on your thigh, “baby, so fucking wet, so good,” he warbles. his balls start to slap against your ass and it’s too much, too big, so good; your back curves, and as if it reminds him his palm moves to tug your tank top up, over your breasts to expose them. he grips one of them and fucks you harder, watching the way they move in the barely-there light, eyes narrow and dark. “feels so- so good,” he huffs, “missed you so much, love you so much, fuck-“

if you were a little less horny you’d remind him that you went through this last night when he got home, but you buck your hips and let your cunt soak wet over his shaft every thrust. your clit goes neglected and you want to touch it so bad but you’re so sleepy still, writhing underneath him with strangled noises, grinding up like you’re in heat just to get some friction.

mingi notices, planting his knees further down on the mattress to lean closer to you. your leg falls back to the bed and he angles himself to thrust up deep, moving his hand from your chest to your clit and rolling his thumb over it steadily. your heart soars.

when you let out a warbled thank you he kisses your cheek and over to your jaw, grinding against you in such a way your slick wets his pubes and he rubs it over your clit. it feels so good he can’t help but clutch at you again, hand hooking under your hips to bounce you against him, his lips letting out little uh uh uhs with every one.

“oh, oh,” you keen, his cockhead fucking deeper and hitting a delicious spot inside you. your hands go to the pillow behind your head, clenching in the fabric hard and you start to move against him, desperate, making him moan gravelly against you. “so good, wanna- wanna cum on it,” you babble, “please, please-“

“yeah, honey?” he murmurs, lip curling up, “what do you need? tell me, c’mon,” his thumb flicks your clit and you whine, trying to find your words, “wanna give it to you, you’re such a good girl f’me.”

you’d be embarrassed any other time, but you move to grab his forearms, “a-ah, want- more, faster, please.”

he kisses the corner of your mouth and pushes forwards so your legs rest on his elbows, just spread enough to feel it hard and deep too as he starts to fuck you fast.

the bed starts squeaking but it’s no match for your wail, rivulets of arousal connecting your pussy to his skin. it smears up to the hair at the base of his tummy and he groans, wrapping his arms around your middle and holding you as you take it.

“s’good?” he mumbles, but all you can do is squeal through it, gut clenching tighter and tighter as he fucks you hard and fast, too much for a late night normally but you can’t help how fucking desperate you are - you’ve missed him too. “f-feel all of it, fuck-“ he gasps, hand dropping to your hip, pinning you down, giving you long, hard rocks of his hips, “fuck, mama, gotta cum for me, ‘m gonna cum.”

it’s said breathlessly, with a little chuckle, and you wrap your arms around him to bring him close to you. you kiss him this time, nudging your nose at his sharp one until he pushes his tongue past your lips again. you suck on it and he whines, driving his cock further; your clit drags against his pubes and you cry against his mouth, kissing him over and over, letting him fuck you both senseless.

“g’na cum,” you breathe, nails digging into his shoulders - he bites your lip, nips down your neck and keeps fucking you just like that, knows better than to change, letting your swollen bud drag over him just right until you’re whining through your orgasm. “oh, haa- mm,” you gasp, “fuckfuckfuck, yes-“

your hole clenches tight, over and over as you flood your release down to your fresh sheets; mingi grunts, “yeah, there we go.”

he has to fuck you through it with furrowed eyebrows and plush, parted lips against yours. when you stop writhing he rocks into you once, twice, before he fucks in deep and pulls your hips down against him, teeth nipping your shoulder as he fills you with his cum.

“fuck, fuck, mmm,” he breathes, nails digging into you, bouncing you on his shaft a few times to ride his own orgasm out.

it makes your head spin with overstimulation, eyes rolling to the side to look outside the window - the city moves on, cars still speeding past and white, blaring lights still barely illuminating you and your lover, completely wrapped up in each other, calm. he catches your attention again by nosing at your jaw and you let out a hum, turning back to kiss over his cheeks, nose and forehead, landing on his lips and sucking his bottom lip between yours.

he lets out a noise of amusement before he’s pulling out. you tilt your head, fully awake now and confused, “you’re not stopping, are you, min?”

his grin is visible even in the dim light, his toned arm moving to work on his shaft, other hand pushing his blonde hair back. his cock makes slick noises as he pumps it and his erection is unflagging, boxers soaked with both yours and his wetness.

“fuck no,” he taps your hip, tongue running over his teeth, “hands and knees f’me, mama.”

[lcvejjoong]

the black cat nero (bonus scenes)

pairing : cat companion! wooyoung x witch! fem! reader (ft. friend! hongjoong)

synopsis : Whenever your friend comes over for a visit, your cat always bullies him.

genre : slice of life, fluff, comedy, fantasy au, domestic

warnings : none

author’s note : i saw a clip of wooyoung pushing hongjoong away during a fancall and decided to write some extra scenes where wooyoung bullies him all the time when he visits 😋 hope yall enjoy 🩷

word count : 0.4k

the black cat nero (main story)

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

1. seat stealer

Hongjoong stands up for two seconds.

When he comes back, Wooyoung is in his chair.

“That was my seat.”

Wooyoung shrugs, “It’s warm.”

“Because I was sitting there.”

“Yes.”

Wooyoung doesn’t move.

You sigh, “Just sit somewhere else.”

“THIS IS MY FRIEND’S HOUSE.”

Wooyoung yawns dramatically.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

2. a ‘test’

Hongjoong walks down the hallway.

Wooyoung passes him going the opposite direction.

BUMP.

Hongjoong stumbles.

Hongjoong: “What was that for?!”

Wooyoung, not even turning around: “Spatial awareness test.”

You: “Stop bullying him.”

Wooyoung: “He failed.”

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

3. spatial awareness 

Hongjoong leans over your worktable.

Hongjoong: “So this rune means—”

Wooyoung steps between you and Hongjoong and pushes him back with one finger.

Hongjoong: “HEY.”

Wooyoung: “Too close.”

You: “He’s just looking.”

Wooyoung: “With his whole body.”

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

4. food hoarder

Hongjoong brings snacks as a peace offering.

He sets them down.

Wooyoung appears instantly.

He opens the bag, takes one bite, makes a face, and puts it back.

Hongjoong: “WHY would you do that.”

Wooyoung: “Marking.”

You: “WOOYOUNG.”

Wooyoung: “It’s mine now.”

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

5. a perch

Hongjoong collapses onto the couch.

Two seconds later—weight on his chest.

Hongjoong wheezes: “WHY are you ON me.”

Wooyoung: “You were horizontal.”

Hongjoong: “THAT’S NOT AN INVITATION.”

Wooyoung: “It is.”

You walk in to see Wooyoung perched on Hongjoong like a very smug gargoyle.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

6. no leaving until i say so

Hongjoong reaches for the door.

Wooyoung stands in front of it.

Hongjoong: “…Move.”

Wooyoung: “No.”

Hongjoong: “I’m leaving.”

Wooyoung: “Incorrect.”

You: “Wooyoung, let him go.”

Wooyoung, staring Hongjoong down: “Say you’ll come back.”

Hongjoong: “WHY WOULD I.”

Wooyoung finally steps aside.

Wooyoung: “Rude.”

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

7. pushy pushy

You’re laughing at something Hongjoong says.

Wooyoung immediately wedges himself in and shoves Hongjoong with his hip.

Hongjoong: “I was talking!”

Wooyoung: “You were entertaining.”

You: “That’s worse.”

Wooyoung leans into you, pleased.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

8. typical cat behaviour 

Hongjoong sets his mug on the table.

Wooyoung stares at it.

Hongjoong: “Don’t you dare.”

Wooyoung slowly slides it off the edge.

The mug smashes into a million pieces on the floor.

Hongjoong: “YOU ARE A MENACE.”

Wooyoung: “You keep leaving your belongings unattended.”

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

9. territorial woo

Hongjoong sits beside you.

Wooyoung drapes an arm around your shoulders and pulls you closer.

Wooyoung: “Occupied.”

Hongjoong: “You can’t just—”

Wooyoung: “I can.”

You: “…He’s not wrong.”

Hongjoong: “WHY ARE YOU ENCOURAGING THIS.”

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

10. interrogations 

Hongjoong: “WHY do you hate me.”

Wooyoung thinks about it.

Wooyoung: “You smell like outside.”

Hongjoong: “…That’s it?”

Wooyoung: “And you talk too much near her.”

You: “That’s not bullying, that’s jealousy.”

Wooyoung: “Correct.”

Hongjoong: “I’m calling an exorcist.”

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

© lcvejjoong, 2026

taglist: @darjeelinglemontea ❤︎@fluffypuddingatz ❤︎@luumiinaa @snow0-0fairy @snow0-0fairy-writes @life-is-a-game-of-thrones @jiuchip

[noeyil]

topaz bickering is my lifeline

[lcvejjoong]

the black cat nero 

pairing : cat companion! wooyoung x witch! fem! reader

synopsis : A witch’s quiet life shifts when her familiar accidentally takes human form, blurring the line between magic-bound companionship and real love. 

genre : slice of life, fluff, comfort, slow-burn, fantasy au, romance, soft domestic

warnings : none

author’s note : it was rlly nice knowing you red haired wooyoung 🤧 ill miss you lots ❤️‍🩹 anywaysies in honour of mischievous wooyoung, here’s a fic about him 😛 ill post some bonus scenarios tmr so yall can look forward to that 😆🩷

word count : 2.9k

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The first sign something is wrong is the silence.

Your cottage is never silent.

Even when the forest outside settles into its afternoon lull, even when the wind forgets to stir the chimes hanging from your eaves, there is always something—the low hum of magic in the walls, the crackle of wards humming contentedly, the soft padding of paws against wooden floors.

Wooyoung’s paws.

So when you step inside and hear nothing at all, your heart stutters.

“Wooyoung?” you call, nudging the door shut with your foot. Your basket of herbs thumps softly onto the table, bundles of thyme and moonflower rustling. “I’m home.”

No answering meow. No offended chirp.

No dramatic flop onto your feet like you’ve committed some unspeakable crime by leaving for three hours.

Your brow furrows.

Magic lingers in the air—familiar, warm, threaded with your own—but there’s an odd tension to it, like a spell stretched too thin. The wards hum, but unevenly, as if confused.

You take a step further inside.

“Wooyoung?”

Still nothing.

A prickle runs down your spine.

He never ignores you.

Wooyoung is many things—dramatic, mischievous, catastrophically curious—but he is never quiet when you come home. Even when he’s sulking, he makes sure you know it.

You move slowly through the cottage, fingers brushing instinctively against the charm at your waist. 

Not fear—just caution. The kind a witch learns early.

The kitchen is empty. The hearth is cold. No black tail flicks from beneath the table. No golden eyes glare at you from atop the cabinets.

Your bedroom door, however, is ajar.

A soft pull tugs at your magic.

You push the door open.

And freeze.

There is a man on your bed.

For half a second, your mind refuses to process it. Some absurd thought flashes through your head before the details snap into place.

He’s tangled in your blankets like he belongs there, dark hair mussed, lashes resting against flushed cheeks. One arm is slung over your pillow. The other is tucked close to his chest.

He’s wearing your sweater.

Your favorite sweater.

The one Wooyoung likes to knead with his claws when he’s sleepy.

And perched atop of the man’s head. 

Two very familiar black cat ears twitch.

Your breath leaves you in a whisper.

“…Wooyoung?”

The name does it.

His eyes flutter open.

Golden. Startled.

For one suspended moment, you simply stare at each other.

Then he yelps.

He bolts upright, promptly getting tangled in your blankets and nearly rolling off the bed. He catches himself at the last second, clutching the sweater to his chest like it might protect him.

“I—! You—! This isn’t what it looks like!” he blurts.

You don’t move. You don’t blink.

You just stare.

Finally, very carefully, you say, “Why is my cat a boy.”

He winces.

“…Okay, when you say it like that, it sounds worse.”

“Explain,” you say flatly.

His ears flatten. His tail—tail, oh gods—flicks nervously behind him.

“So,” he starts, and already you know this is going to be bad, “you know how you said don’t touch the transformation charms?”

“Yes.”

“And you know how I’m very bad at listening when you say that specific sentence?”

“Yes.”

“Well—”

He gestures at himself again, helpless and sheepish and annoyingly adorable.

You press your fingers to your temples.

“Wooyoung.”

“I didn’t mean for it to stick!” he rushes. “I swear! I just wanted to see what it felt like. You’re always turning mice into teacups and back again and I was curious and then I found the charm and it looked lonely and—”

“You activated a human transformation charm,” you say slowly.

“Yes.”

“Without supervision.”

“…Yes.”

“Inside my house.”

“…Technically it’s also mine, but yes.”

You let out a long breath.

Silence stretches.

He peeks at you through his lashes.

“…Are you mad?”

You look at him. Really look.

It’s still him. You can feel it in the magic—his presence woven into your own like it has been for years. 

The same warmth. The same spark. The same soul that chose you, curled up at your feet the night your magic first manifested and refused to leave.

“I should be furious,” you say.

He nods miserably.

“But,” you add, stepping closer, “you’re not hurt.”

“No! Not at all. Honestly, this is great. Stretching feels amazing.”

You snort despite yourself.

That makes him grin, ears perking, tail swishing in a way that makes something warm bloom in your chest.

You reach out before you can stop yourself and flick one of his ears.

He purrs. Out loud.

Your heart gives up entirely.

“Oh no,” you murmur. “You kept that.”

He beams. “Perks of being a shifter.”

You sigh, but your lips curve upward.

“Get comfortable,” you tell him. “This might take a while to undo.”

He brightens instantly. “Does that mean I can stay like this?”

“For now.”

He flops back onto the bed with a pleased hum, immediately curling into your blankets like a cat returning to a sunbeam.

“…Can I keep the sweater?”

You laugh.

“Only if you don’t shed on it.”

He looks offended. “I do not shed.”

His tail flicks.

You don’t call him out.

Instead, you sit beside him, magic already stirring as you prepare to figure out what, exactly, your familiar has done to himself—and what it might mean that the bond between you feels warmer than ever.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

By morning, you’ve learned three things.

One: human Wooyoung sleeps like a cat.

Two: he snores.

Three: he is physically incapable of respecting personal space.

You wake to warmth pressed flush against your back, an arm slung over your waist, fingers curled lazily into the fabric of your nightdress. His face is buried between your shoulder blades, breath slow and even, the softest little purr vibrating against your spine.

For a long moment, you don’t move.

Your cottage glows faintly with early light, magic drifting through the air like dust motes. 

The wards hum softly, content. Everything feels… peaceful.

Dangerously so.

You glance down.

Black tail. Wrapped loosely around your thigh.

You inhale. Exhale.

“Wooyoung,” you whisper.

He hums, nuzzling closer.

“Wooyoung.”

“Five more minutes,” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep. “Sun’s warm.”

“That’s the window.”

“Mmh. Knew that.”

His hand tightens slightly at your waist.

Your face burns.

You gently pry his fingers away and sit up. Instantly, he whines.

“Nooo,” he protests, blinking up at you with bleary golden eyes. His ears droop. “You left.”

“I am right here,” you say, swinging your legs off the bed.

He watches you like you’ve personally betrayed him.

“You don’t usually leave,” he says quietly.

Something in your chest softens.

“I usually don’t have a human familiar attached to me,” you reply gently.

He perks up at that. “Human familiar,” he repeats, pleased. “I like that.”

You shoot him a look. “Its are not permanent.”

He just smiles, entirely unconcerned.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

Breakfast is… an experience.

Wooyoung insists on helping, which you immediately regret when he nearly sets the curtains on fire trying to light the stove with magic that is very much not his anymore.

“I used to just think about warmth,” he complains, hopping back as sparks fizzle. “Why do humans have to do things manually?”

“Because the universe hates us,” you mutter, taking the flint from him.

He hovers nearby, peering over your shoulder, tail swaying dangerously close to open flame.

“Wooyoung.”

“Hm?”

“Tail.”

“Oh—!”

He yelps, jumping back and knocking over a jar of sugar. White crystals scatter everywhere.

You stare at the mess.

He freezes.

“…I can clean that.”

“You don’t have thumbs for cleaning instincts,” you say dryly.

He gasps. “Rude.”

Despite everything, you find yourself smiling as you sweep the sugar away. He follows you around the kitchen, curious about everything—opening cabinets, poking at jars, sniffing herbs like he’s expecting them to run away.

“What’s this?” he asks, holding up a bundle of dried flowers.

“Moonflower.”

“Can I eat it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll hallucinate and climb the ceiling.”

“…Tempting.”

You give him the look.

He grins.

Eventually, you manage to sit him down with a bowl of porridge and fruit. He eats like he’s never seen food before, eyes lighting up with every bite.

“Oh,” he says reverently. “Oh this is good.”

“You’ve eaten it before,” you point out.

“Yes, but this is different,” he insists. “It tastes… better.”

You laugh. “That’s just having a human body.”

He hums thoughtfully, then glances at you. “You made it.”

“Yes.”

His ears flick forward.

“…I like when you make things for me.”

The warmth returns, low and steady.

Later, you spread your spellbooks across the living room floor, diagrams and notes scattered everywhere. Wooyoung lounges nearby, half on the couch, half on the floor, tail flicking lazily.

You mutter under your breath as you flip pages. “The charm shouldn’t have bound this tightly…”

He rolls onto his stomach, chin in his hands. “Is it bad?”

“No,” you say honestly. “Just… unusual.”

“Unusual how?”

You hesitate. “The familiar bond is responding to your new form. Adapting.”

“To what?”

You meet his gaze.

“To you being… closer.”

His ears flush pink at the tips.

“Oh,” he says softly.

The air between you shifts.

He clears his throat and flops onto his back dramatically. “Well! Guess I’m just irresistible.”

You snort. “You were like this as a cat too.”

“I know,” he says proudly. “You still let me sleep on your chest.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“…You weighed less.”

He laughs, bright and warm, and the sound fills the cottage in a way you didn’t realize you’d been missing.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

That night, as rain taps gently against the windows, you sit together by the fireplace. Wooyoung curls into your side without asking, head resting against your shoulder, tail tucked neatly around both of you.

You absently scratch behind his ears.

He melts instantly, purring loud enough to rival the rain.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” you accuse softly.

He doesn’t deny it.

“You’re very good at it,” he murmurs. “You always have been.”

You lean your head against his.

For the first time, the thought flickers through your mind—quiet, dangerous, tender.

What if he stayed like this?

The fire crackles.

Wooyoung shifts, fingers brushing yours.

He doesn’t pull away.

Neither do you.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The first kiss is not planned.

It’s not dramatic, or moonlit, or accompanied by some great surge of magic. It happens on an ordinary afternoon, with rainclouds looming low and the cottage smelling faintly of cinnamon and wax.

It happens because Wooyoung trips.

Again.

“Why are human legs so far apart,” he groans, sprawled on the floor at your feet. “As a cat, I had four. This is a downgrade.”

“You’ll learn,” you say, not even looking up from the potion you’re stirring.

“I’ve been human for two days.”

“Exactly.”

He huffs, pushing himself up—and promptly slipping on the rug.

You reach out on instinct.

He grabs your wrist just as quickly.

The pull sends you stumbling forward, potion forgotten as the ladle clatters to the floor. Wooyoung’s other hand comes up to steady you, fingers warm and firm at your waist.

You end up chest to chest.

Too close.

You can feel his breath. His heartbeat. The way his tail freezes, then curls slowly around your calf like it’s acting on instinct alone.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves.

Wooyoung swallows.

“You smell like cinnamon,” he murmurs.

“That’s the potion.”

“I like it.”

Your magic hums, responding—bright, electric, suddenly aware of his proximity in a way it’s never been before.

You should step back.

You don’t.

His eyes flick to your lips.

“So,” he says quietly, voice no longer playful. “Witches… they can kiss their familiars, right?”

Your breath catches.

“…You were a cat.”

“Still me.”

The truth of it lands softly, undeniably.

You nod.

He leans in slowly, giving you every chance to stop him.

You don’t.

The kiss is gentle—almost hesitant. His lips are warm, a little clumsy, like he’s not sure how much pressure to use. His hand tightens at your waist, just slightly, as if grounding himself.

Magic flares.

Not wild. Not dangerous.

Just warm. Familiar. Like home.

When he pulls back, his eyes are wide, shining.

“…Wow.”

You laugh, breathless. “Was it that bad?”

“No,” he says quickly. “It was— I just—”

He presses his forehead to yours.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

Your chest aches.

“You used to lick my face,” you point out.

“That was different,” he says solemnly. “That was love.”

You freeze. He does too.

“Oh,” he adds, belatedly. “I said that out loud.”

You should probably address that.

Instead, you kiss him again.

This time, he smiles into it.

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After that, things change.

Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just in the quiet spaces between moments.

He starts sitting closer. Touching more—your sleeve, your hand, the small of your back when he passes behind you. You find yourself reaching for him too, fingers brushing his hair, his ears, the base of his tail where it makes him melt instantly.

“You’re doing that again,” he purrs one evening as you scratch just right.

“You’re encouraging it.”

“Obviously.”

You learn his human habits quickly. He still curls up when he sleeps, knees tucked to his chest. He still startles at loud noises. He still seeks warmth, sunlight, you.

And when a spell goes wrong—when a charm crackles too loudly, sending a shard of magic ricocheting through the room—he’s there instantly, shoving you behind him without thinking.

His body tenses, protective.

You blink at his back.

“Wooyoung?”

He glances over his shoulder, sheepish. “Instinct.”

Your heart does something complicated.

Later that night, you find him perched on the windowsill, staring out at the moon.

“You miss it,” you say softly.

He hums. “Sometimes.”

“You don’t have to stay like this,” you remind him. “Once I unravel the charm, you can go back.”

He looks at you.

Really looks.

“And if I don’t want to?”

The question lingers between you, fragile and terrifying.

You don’t answer.

Not yet.

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─────────

The choice comes quietly.

Not with thunder or prophecy or some dramatic snapping of fate—but on an evening so gentle it almost feels unfair.

You’re standing in the clearing behind your cottage, the one ringed with stones and wildflowers. Fireflies blink lazily in the dark. 

Your spell circle glows faintly beneath your feet, chalk lines steady and sure.

The reversal spell is ready.

All Wooyoung has to do is step into the circle.

He stands just outside it, barefoot in the grass, your sweater hanging loose on his frame. His tail flicks behind him, betraying his nerves.

“You don’t have to do this,” you say for the third time.

He laughs softly. “You’ve said that.”

“And I’ll keep saying it.”

He turns to you then, golden eyes warm and earnest. “I know.”

Silence settles between you, filled with the hum of magic and the chirring of insects.

“When I was a cat,” he says slowly, “loving you was easy. It didn’t ask anything of me. I just… stayed. Curled up. Protected you in the ways I could.”

Your throat tightens.

“And now?”

“Now it asks more,” he admits. “Its demanding.”

He steps closer, stopping right in front of you, close enough that you can feel his warmth.

“I could go back,” he says. “Be your familiar again. Nap in sunbeams. Knock things off shelves. Guard you in quiet ways.”

You reach for his hands without thinking, threading your fingers together.

“But,” he continues, voice softer, “I don’t want to love you quietly anymore.”

Your breath shudders.

“I want to stand beside you,” he says. “I want to kiss you without spells allowing it. I want to argue with you and cook with you and hold you when you’re tired. I want you to choose me too.”

Tears burn at the corners of your eyes.

“You’re already chosen,” you whisper.

His ears twitch. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Human or cat. Familiar or not. You’ve always been mine.”

Something in his expression breaks—then reforms into something brighter, surer.

He steps away from the circle.

The spell fizzles, harmlessly dissolving into sparks.

Your magic hums—not in rejection, but acceptance. The bond shifts, loosening where it once tethered, tightening somewhere deeper.

Equal.

Wooyoung exhales shakily, then laughs. “Guess that answers that.”

You laugh too, through tears, pulling him into your arms. He hugs you back immediately, burying his face into your shoulder, tail wrapping around your waist like it’s always belonged there.

“I still get to nap in sunbeams, right?” he murmurs.

“Absolutely.”

“And steal your sweaters?”

“You’re wearing one right now.”

“Good.”

You pull back just enough to kiss him—slow, warm, sure. He kisses you like he’s had a lifetime of practice loving you, because in truth, he has.

Later, you curl up together on the couch, fire crackling softly. Wooyoung’s head rests on your chest, your fingers tracing lazy patterns through his hair and behind his ears.

He purrs, content.

“Hey,” he says sleepily.

“Hm?”

“Thanks for letting me choose.”

You smile, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“Thanks for staying.”

Outside, the forest breathes. Inside, magic settles—soft, steady, home.

Your familiar is not supposed to steal your sweaters.

But your lover?

That feels exactly right. 

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© lcvejjoong, 2026

bonus scenarios (ft. hongjoong) [coming soon!]

taglist: @darjeelinglemontea ❤︎@fluffypuddingatz ❤︎@luumiinaa @snow0-0fairy @snow0-0fairy-writes @life-is-a-game-of-thrones @jiuchip

[yungistiny]

spidey

[ J. Yunho ]

╚═════════

summary: in which your boyfriend looks too good with that spidey mask on

warning: dom yunho, sub reader, spiderman kink, oral, mouth fucking, fingering, edging, unprotected sex, squirting, creampie

genre: smut

pairing: idol yunho x afab reader

word count: 6.2k

masterlist

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You didn’t expect anything from today. Yunho and Yeosang had a full schedule, another packed fansign day for their latest comeback. You stayed behind at the apartment, hoodie swaddled and half asleep on their couch, the familiar hum of city noise outside barely registering over the background music coming from your phone as you were mid scroll, lazily tapping through stories when you saw it.

A video. It started innocent enough, blurry stage lights, excited fan captions. Then it cut to him. Yunho. Wearing it. The Spiderman mask with silver mesh lenses. Seamless contours. Matte finish. It clung to his jawline perfectly. The mask from his new suit. The one he got a week ago and swore was “just for the collection.” The one he tried on in their living room as a joke, muscles rippling beneath the suit’s black compression layer, making a web slinging motion and asking in that dangerously smooth voice, “Wanna see if it holds up under pressure?”

You had laughed then. Pretended it didn’t affect you. Pretended your thighs didn’t clench the second those lenses narrowed towards you, the illusion of expression far too real for your sanity. But now? Now he was wearing it in public. Onstage. Fully masked. That hoodie half zipped and slouched off one shoulder, revealing silver chains and a flash of skin. He wasn’t even doing much, just standing, head slightly tilted, watching fans standing next to Wooyoung with that easy confidence, but you could already feel the burn creeping up your neck.

Your mouth went dry. You replayed the video. Then again. Each time, it got worse. The lenses on the mask shifted subtly, narrowing just a bit as he moved. Reacting. Tracking. Like it was really part of him. Like he was really Spiderman. You exhaled shakily, tossing your phone to the side. No. No, you were not going to get worked up over a mask. Not again. You were fine. You were totally cool.

Then you grabbed your phone back up. A new video. This time, he crouched. Classic Spiderman pose. One knee bent, one arm extended in a mock web sling. And even through the grainy camera footage and LED haze, you could see it, the muscle in his chest flexing beneath his shirt, the chain bouncing slightly against his collarbone. The way his mask tilted up toward someone off camera, lenses narrowing like a predator that knew it had the upper hand.

“Oh, fuck,” you whispered.

You were so screwed.

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The apartment door clicked open just past 11:00 pm, followed by the low buzz of chatter and the telltale thump of Yunho’s heavy sneakers hitting the entry mat. You were barefoot in the kitchen, didn’t look up right away, just listened. You could hear Yeosang laugh first, light and familiar, and then Yunho’s deeper voice murmuring something back as the two of them shuffled inside, both sounding tired but wired from the day.

You turned just in time to see him. Yunho stepped through the hallway, hoodie unzipped, silver chains catching the overhead light, still wearing the same outfit from the fansign. But it was the way he casually reached into his pocket, pulling it out, that made you freeze. The mask. That same Spiderman mask with the expressive eyes. He was holding it by the jaw, fingers lazily toying with the edge of the fabric like it was no big deal. Like it wasn’t the exact thing that had kept you squirming on the couch all afternoon.

He didn’t even see you yet. He was grinning at Yeosang, who was kicking off his sneakers behind him. “Man,” Yeosang huffed, grabbing a water from the fridge without looking, though he brushed past you with a smile. “You’ve been teasing atiny with that damn suit since before Christmas.”

Yunho laughed from the living room, low, smug. “I still haven’t even posted the full photoset.”

“Because you like watching them suffer,” Yeosang tossed over his shoulder as Yunho twirled the mask on one finger. “You’re not wrong.”

You stared. Heat bloomed low in your stomach. You should look away. You should say something. But you couldn’t, not with the way he looked holding that mask. Not with his hair a little messy, lips still curved in a half smirk, chains still resting against his collarbone.

You must’ve made a noise because suddenly Yunho’s head turned as he walked into the kitchen, and those warm, deep brown eyes locked onto yours. And the smirk? It deepened. “Oh,” he said softly. “Hey, baby.” Your fingers tightened on the glass in your hand as the mask was still dangling from his fingers.

Yeosang stretched with a yawn, rubbing at the back of his neck as he padded toward the hallway. “I’m gonna shower before bed,” he mumbled, already halfway checked out. “Try not to break the kitchen counter while I’m gone.” Yunho huffed a laugh, tossing the mask onto the counter beside him with a soft thud of synthetic fabric and tech mesh. “No promises.”

You didn’t move, barely even breathed. The moment Yeosang disappeared down the hallway and the bathroom door clicked shut, Yunho was already stepping toward you. No fanfare. No teasing grin. Just quiet purpose. He didn’t say anything when he reached you. Instead, he wrapped his arms around your waist and buried his face in the crook of your neck.

The warmth of him hit instantly, broad chest pressed to your back, his hoodie soft against your tank top, the light jingle of his necklace brushing your collarbone as he inhaled deeply. Like he was grounding himself. Like he missed you. You felt his breath before you heard his voice as you placed your glass down on the counter.

“Been getting home and you’re always asleep,” he murmured against your skin. “Didn’t realize how much that was starting to fuck with me.” Your hand slid down to rest over his arm, fingers curling. “You should’ve woke me up,” You whispered. “You looked too peaceful,” he replied, then pressed his lips to the slope of your neck, not a kiss, more like a pause. A moment of worship.

The tension you’d been holding all day, the ache from seeing him in that damn mask, started to melt under his touch. But then he shifted, just slightly, and you glanced down. The mask was still there. Sitting on the counter. And Yunho’s hand reached for it again, fingers brushing the fabric like he knew. Knew exactly what had been driving you crazy. He didn’t lift his head when he asked, soft and low, “Do you like it?”

You stepped forward, casually slipping from Yunho’s arms like nothing had happened. Like your heart wasn’t hammering in your chest from the way his voice dropped, or how his fingers ghosted the edge of that mask like it was a secret he was about to expose. You rounded the counter, pretending to check something in the fridge you didn’t need. Cool air spilled out. You didn’t care. Your voice came out smooth, too smooth. “Like what?”

Yunho didn’t even blink as you turned back around, he was still watching you, chin tilted slightly down, eyes heavy lidded, lips curled in the faintest smirk. That unreadable Yunho expression that always meant trouble. His hand was still resting on the mask. “Like what,” he repeated slowly, gaze raking over you, “she says.”

You shrugged. A little too nonchalant. “You’ve done a lot of things worth liking. You’ll have to be more specific.”

He chuckled under his breath, the sound rougher than it should’ve been. “Uh huh.” And then he straightened up, leaned casually on the counter with one arm as the other lifted the mask again. Not rushed. Just slow. Deliberate. He held it between two fingers, letting it dangle. Like bait. “You looked at me like you were ready to climb me,” he said, voice low and fond, “when I tried this on last week.”

Your throat went dry.

“I saw you,” he added, cocking his head. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you biting your lip and pretending you weren’t two seconds from combusting.”

You opened your mouth to retort but nothing came out. Nothing except a weak little breath that gave you away entirely. And Yunho knew he had you. He dropped the mask on the counter between you, stepping close again, close enough to cage you in without touching you. “You want me to wear it again?” he asked, tone feather light but eyes locked on yours. “Right now?”

You didn’t answer him. Not with words. Not right away. Instead, you pushed past him, brushing against his chest deliberately, a quiet defiance in the way your shoulder bumped his. Your footsteps padded across the apartment floor, calm, unhurried, but with purpose, like you hadn’t just been wrecked by the question he asked. Like your heart wasn’t jackhammering in your chest.

Yunho turned, watching you go, and just before you reached the hallway, you glanced over your shoulder and said it. “Just the mask.” Then you disappeared down the hall.

For a second, everything was still. Silent. Then Yunho huffed a low laugh, shaking his head as he reached for the mask. “Fuck, I love her.” He said it like a confession. Like a promise. Like a man already halfway undone. The mask was back in his grip before he followed you. His footsteps didn’t rush, but they were steady, controlled, deliberate. Each one heavier than the last, like the weight of anticipation was settling in his spine.

You didn’t wait in bed. No, you stood just inside his bedroom, back facing the door, arms crossed, hip cocked like you had every intention of making him work for it. And when you heard the floorboards creak, you turned just as he reached the threshold. Just as he pulled the mask down.

And god help you, the second those lenses shifted, tightening slightly, zeroing in on you like a target locked, you swore your knees almost buckled. Yunho didn’t speak. Not with his mouth, anyway. He didn’t have to. The slow way he stepped inside, the way the door shut behind him with a soft click, the way he tilted his head and dragged his gaze down your body through chrome tinted eyes, it said enough.

You don’t move when he steps closer. You let him close the distance one measured step at a time, until the room feels smaller, thicker, like the air itself is holding its breath. The lenses track you the whole way, narrowing just a touch as he stops a foot in front of you. Not touching. Not yet.

You lift your chin. For a split second, you think he might say something. Tease you. Ruin you with that low voice through the mask. Instead, you’re the one who breaks the silence. “Strip.” It’s calm. Even. Almost lazy. And that’s when he laughs. It’s quiet, muffled by the mask, but unmistakable. A warm, low chuckle that curls through the room and straight into your stomach. He tilts his head, slow and amused, like he’s looking at you through a very different lens now. “Oh,” he says, voice distorted just enough to make it dangerous. “So we’re not pretending anymore.”

You don’t back down. You don’t blink. His hands come up, not to touch you, but to hook into the hem of his hoodie. He doesn’t pull it off right away. He pauses, thumbs pressing into the fabric, shoulders rolling back slightly like he’s stretching on purpose. Like he’s enjoying the show on your face. “You spend all day trying not to think about it, didn’t you,” he continues lightly, teasing, “and now you wanna tell me what to do?”

The hoodie slides up along with the white tank top he has on, slowly, deliberately, baring his stomach inch by inch before he finally pulls it over his head and lets it drop to the floor. The chain settles back against his chest with a soft clink. The mask still on as he takes another step forward. “Cute,” he murmurs. “You trying to be in charge.”

You swallow, heat pooling low, but you don’t move. Don’t give him the satisfaction. “Keep going,” you say. That makes him pause. Just for a beat. And you can tell, feel, the shift. The way the teasing eases into something heavier. More intent. His shoulders square, hands sliding to the waistband of his pants as he studies you like he’s deciding how long he’ll let this last. “Careful,” he warns softly. “If you keep this up, I might forget I’m supposed to let you think you’re winning.”

He didn’t wait for another command. The mask stayed on, lenses still fixed on you like he could see straight through every layer of calm you were pretending to wear. But his hands moved to the waistband of his pants, slow and easy, like this wasn’t affecting him at all. Like the room wasn’t practically vibrating with the tension now.

He pushed them down. Gray sweats slid over those strong thighs, hips shifting slightly as he stepped out of them and there they were. His boxers. You didn’t even blink. Bright red with the Spiderman logo splashed across the thigh, webbing detail stitched along the waistband like it was made to match the mask. Which, knowing him, it probably was. You stared at them. Then lifted your eyes back to his face, or at least, the mask.

He stood there like he knew exactly what he was doing. Because he did. You arched a brow. “Really?” He tilted his head again, lenses shifting to give the impression of a smirk. “Don’t act surprised,” he said, voice smooth through the mask. “You’ve folded at least three pairs of these this week.” You had. You definitely had. But none of those moments involved him wearing the matching damn mask, looking like a full blown fantasy that walked straight out of your web slinging, shame filled imagination.

You tried to keep your expression neutral, tried not to give him the satisfaction, but it was already there, the way your breath caught, the way your fingers curled slightly at your sides. Yunho saw it. Of course he did. And he took one slow step forward. “You gonna keep making the rules,” he asked, “or are you gonna let me break them?”

You didn’t answer him. You just dropped to your knees. No hesitation, just the soft sound of your knees hitting the floor and the slow drag of your hands up his thighs. Yunho didn’t move. Not at first. He stood there, looming over you, arms relaxed at his sides, chest rising and falling slow and steady. But those lenses? They shifted. Slightly narrowed, locked on you like a predator watching prey. Responsive. Alive. Your reflection warped in them as you looked up. And god, it was too much. The way the mask stared back, unreadable, inhuman, but unmistakably him. Yunho. The man you’d been aching over all day. The man who wore your obsession like armor now, his whole body humming with restraint.

Your fingers hooked the waistband of his ridiculous boxers, tugging them down slowly, teasing yourself just as much as him. You didn’t even bother pretending you were calm anymore. Not when he stepped out of them and the lenses tilted, just barely, tracking the path of your hands as they grazed up his thighs again.

Yunho was already hard. And when you looked up, mouth inches from him, the mask stared back like it was about to command you to worship. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to. Your own breath betrayed you again, a shaky exhale as your hand wrapped around the base of him, thumb sliding across the tip like a promise. And above you? Those eyes. Those damn eyes. Alive, watching, hungry.

You let your tongue flick out, just once, swiping across the tip of him with slow, deliberate heat. The taste of him already on your tongue, the weight of him in your hand. You could feel how hard he was, how much he was holding back. And still, you looked up. Tilted your head, lashes batting just a little for effect as you gave him your most dangerous smile. “Do you want to fuck my mouth, Spidey?”

The room went silent. Yunho didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. The mask stared down at you, lenses flicking wider for half a second like he hadn’t expected that, like his entire brain had just blue screened. “Did you just fucking call me Spidey?” he asked, voice cracking around a stunned laugh. Rough and low and already wrecked. The shift was immediate.

He twitched in your grip, hips tilting forward slightly like his body was answering before his mouth could. You saw it, felt it, and you knew you’d hit the target dead center. “Oh my god,” he groaned, hand flying up to his mask like he needed a second to recalibrate. “You…. fuck… you’re such a menace.” But he didn’t tell you to stop. Didn’t tell you to behave.

No, he stepped closer instead, the tip of him brushing your lips now, and those masked eyes narrowed down at you with something dark, something dangerous, something that screamed, You asked for this.

“Open your mouth, baby,” he growled, hips already tense. “Let’s see how much web you can handle.”

You let out a soft, breathless laugh. Because of course he said that. God, he was such a nerd. But damn if it didn’t make your thighs clench. Still smiling, you leaned in and finally wrapped your lips around him, slow and smooth, letting the weight of him press against your tongue as you eased him into your mouth. The sound Yunho made through the mask, that sound, was pure ruin.

His hands found your head almost instantly, fingers sliding through your hair with more care than control, letting you set the pace. Letting you move the way you wanted. At first. You started slow. Long drags of your mouth down his length, your tongue curling around him, tasting, teasing. You pulled back with a wet pop just to swirl your tongue at the tip again, watching his thighs tense under your hands. He was already trembling, breathing hard through the mask.

And those eyes, god, those moving eyes were locked on you like a fucking surveillance drone, every flicker of movement tracking your mouth, your hands, the way your lips stretched around him. “Fucking hell,” Yunho groaned, low and breathless, hands tightening just slightly. “You look…. fuck, you look so good like this.”

You took him deeper. Not all at once, but enough to make his hips jerk, his breath stutter, his grip flex against your scalp as he tried not to thrust. You didn’t stop. You picked up speed, slow to steady, steady to hungry. Letting your mouth do all the work, letting him feel every inch of you around him, warm and wet and relentless. And still, he let you lead. Still, he held back. But not for long. Because the second your eyes flicked up and you moaned around him?

Those lenses narrowed. And Yunho’s control shattered as your lips brushed the base, throat tightening around him, a soft choke followed by a moan that vibrated straight through his core.

That did it.

His fingers clenched hard in your hair, one hand slipping to cradle the back of your head, the other bracing against the wall beside you. “Fuck,” he hissed, voice gritty and warped through the mask. “That’s it.” His hips thrust forward, a sharp, sudden movement that shoved him deeper into your mouth, making your eyes flutter as your hands gripped his thighs for balance. He paused for half a second, just enough to make sure you could take it, to feel you adjust, and then he started moving.

Rough. Relentless. Controlled only by the tension in his jaw and the ragged moans pouring out of him. “Shit… look at you,” he groaned, voice wrecked and low, “taking it like that…. fuck, baby… you love this, don’t you?” The mask lenses narrowed, tracking the tears welling in your eyes, the drool sliding down your chin, the flushed heat burning across your cheeks. He could see the mess he was making of you, the way your throat flexed around him, gagging just enough to make him growl.

“You’re so good for me,” he gasped. “So good.” He didn’t let up. Not until your hands were clawing at his thighs, not until your moans turned breathless, your body shuddering as he used your mouth like he’d waited his whole life for this moment. Like the mask gave him permission to finally let go. And god, was he letting go.

He was close. You felt it. Every thrust of his hips grew sharper, his breath ragged through the mask, hips jerking like he was right on the edge. But just when you thought he’d let go, when you were bracing for it, he yanked you up.

Your mouth slipped off him with a gasp, eyes wide, lips swollen and wet as he hauled you to your feet like you weighed nothing. His chest rose and fell in hard, unsteady waves, the lenses on the mask narrowed tight in on you. Then, slowly, he reached up and pushed the mask back just enough to free his mouth.

Only his mouth. The rest stayed on. “Take those fucking clothes off,” he growled, voice raw and low and furious with need.

You barely moved before he was already helping you, yanking your tank up, hands skimming over bare skin, tugging at your shorts and underwear with such urgency it made your breath hitch. You stumbled back onto the bed naked, flushed and still catching up when Yunho dropped to his knees again.

He didn’t wait. He didn’t tease. He spread your thighs with one strong hand, the other bracing beside your hip as he lowered his mouth to you, and the moment his tongue made contact, your whole body jolted like he’d hit a live wire. The mask still on. Those eyes locked.

Even as he licked a slow stripe up your center, even as he groaned into you because it had had been days, the lenses didn’t look away. They watched you. Every shiver. Every twitch. Every breathless moan that spilled out when he finally thrust his tongue deep inside you.

Your hands flew to his hair by instinct, but instead of gripping soft strands, your fingers scrambled for purchase on the smooth edges of his mask. One palm cradled his temple, the other curling at the side of his head, clutching like you could anchor yourself there.

And he loved it. You could feel it in the way he groaned into you again, deeper this time, tongue fucking into you with a rhythm that made your legs shake, your hips roll, your head fall back onto the mattress. “Yunho…”

He stopped. Pulled back. The sudden loss of his mouth made your whole body jerk, a broken sound catching in your throat. You barely had time to look down before he lifted his head, lips shiny with your arousal, the bottom edge of his mask now resting just above that smug, ruined mouth.

And those eyes, still narrowed. Still locked on you as you blinked down at him, chest heaving. “Yunho?”

“No.”

His voice was low. Firm. He didn’t raise it, didn’t need to. But that one word made your breath catch. He crawled up, slow and fluid, all muscle and tension as he kissed his way up your body, over your thighs, your stomach, the center of your chest, until his face hovered just above yours, his weight settling between your legs.

“I don’t want to hear my name right now,” he whispered against your jaw, breath hot. “Say it.”

You swallowed hard, eyes wide, lips parting on instinct. “Spidey.”

God, you barely got it out before he groaned, deep and low, and slammed his tongue back between your legs like he was starved. He licked you open like he couldn’t help himself, devouring you, dragging wet, messy sounds out of you that echoed off the walls. You were already shaking when he pulled back again, just enough to grab you by the hips and drag you up the bed. Then he kissed up your body, to your throat. The mask pressed against your skin with every pass.

And finally, his forehead rested against yours. One hand planted beside your head. The other? Thrust. Two fingers buried deep inside you in one smooth, curling motion that made your back arch off the mattress. You gasped, sharp, ragged, and his mouth brushed yours like a threat.

“You like being fucked by Spidey that much, baby?” he whispered, thrusting his fingers again, slower this time.

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. Because just as you tried to speak, to answer, to beg, Yunho pushed a third finger into you and your whole body jerked. “Ah… fuck!”

The stretch made your thighs tremble, your head fall back, a choked sob tearing from your throat as his fingers filled you completely now, thick and deep and relentless. He didn’t let up. Not even a little. He drove them into you, curling up, hitting that spot over and over until you were practically convulsing, fingers scrabbling at the sheets like you could dig your way out from under the pleasure.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked, that damn mask still pressed to your forehead as he watched every twitch of your face. “Can’t even answer me now.”

The wet slosh of your slick echoed with every thrust of his hand, obscene, raw, like your body didn’t know how to contain it anymore. You were soaking him. His palm. The sheets beneath you. It was everywhere.

And still, he kept going. Kept pumping into you, faster, harder, the squelch of it rising with every stroke until you were right there, hips bucking, mouth open in a silent scream, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes….

He pulled out. Just like that. Your whole body snapped, the loss hitting you like a slap. “No!” The cry ripped from you before you could stop it, voice high and broken, legs still shaking as your walls clenched around nothing now, empty and throbbing.

Yunho’s hand hovered above you, fingers slick and glistening with your arousal. He brought them to his mouth slowly, deliberately, and licked them clean one by one, never looking away. Those eyes on the mask narrowed. Still watching. Still smiling. “You know I love you like this,” he murmured, dragging the fingers from his mouth. “Right on the edge. Ruined. So needy you can’t even think.”

You barely had time to catch your breath. To snap at him. Your legs were still trembling, your core aching and clenching around nothing, slick dripping down your thighs, when you felt it. The heavy, warm press of him, his dick right against your clit.

Not inside. Just there. Dragging slow and firm, the tip gliding through your folds, up and down, parting you with maddening precision. Your body jolted, hips lifting instinctively to chase more, but he didn’t give it to you.

He just watched. Those mechanical eyes on the mask narrowed slightly, tracking every twitch of your face, every whimper you let out, every helpless roll of your hips against him. “God,” he breathed, voice strained through clenched teeth and a ruined smirk, “you’re so wet for me.”

He rutted against you again, the underside of him sliding over your clit, smearing your arousal across both of you, pressure building again like your body couldn’t catch a break. “You were gonna come,” he murmured. “You were right there… weren’t you, baby?”

He nudged your clit with the head of his dick again, just a little harder this time. You cried out, legs falling open wider, hands scrambling for anything to hold onto, him, the sheets, the damn mask, but you were already gone. Your hips bucked, chasing friction, needing him to sink into you….

But he didn’t. He just kept grinding. Up and down. Over and over. Hot and slick and so close.

You sobbed his name, half choked, already overwhelmed, and that made him still. He pressed flush to your entrance, just barely nudging against it, but didn’t push in. And then, in the most unholy, sin drenched voice you’ve ever heard, “Try that again.”

You tried. God, you tried to hold onto some sliver of control, to stay in it, to meet him with the same teasing fire, but your body betrayed you long before your mouth did. Your hips wouldn’t stop moving, chasing the drag of him over your clit, slick and throbbing and right there, but never enough.

He knew it. Those masked eyes? Watching every second of your unraveling. Each little twitch of your thighs, every tremble in your stomach, the tear sliding helplessly down your cheek. And still, he didn’t give in. He just kept grinding, slow and hard, dragging the head of his dick right over your clit until your legs kicked and your mouth opened in a sob….

“Please.”

Yunho stilled. You were panting now, flushed and ruined, lips parted in surrender. Your voice broke on the next word. Soft. Shaking. Desperate. “Please, Spidey… fuck me.”

For a moment, all you could hear was his breath, ragged through the half lifted mask, chest rising and falling fast. “Oh, fuck me,” he groaned, dropping his head. “Say it again.”

You grabbed his shoulders, back arching beneath him, mind fogged and gone. “Spidey,” you gasped, “please… please, just fuck me, I need you inside me.”

That was it. He snapped. No more teasing. No more edging. With one brutal thrust, he buried himself inside you, the stretch perfect, thick and deep and so much all at once. Your cry echoed off the walls, hands flying to his back, clutching at sweat slicked skin and that chain as he pressed you down into the mattress, you gripped it.

His hips rolled into yours, slow and deep at first, like he wanted you to feel every single inch of what you’d begged for. And above you? That mask. Those eyes. Still locked on yours. Still watching. Still completely in control. “That’s it,” he growled, voice like gravel and sin, “you wanted Spidey?” He thrust harder, your moan cut off by the impact. “You got him.”

He moved slow and deep at first. Dragging his hips back, then forward, each thrust deeper and unhurried, intentional, like he wanted to make you feel every pulse of him inside you. The mask didn’t flinch. Those eyes watched everything, your parted lips, the flush spreading down your chest, the dazed way you moaned his name before you caught yourself.

And god, the way he looked above you, your hand gripping the chain against his skin, abs flexing, and that mask still locked on like you were the center of his universe. You should’ve let it stay like that. But you didn’t. You moved your hands to grip his shoulders, jaw clenched, chest heaving as you tilted your head and smirked.

“I thought Spidey was gonna fuck me.”

Silence. Then, a low, wrecked laugh against your cheek, one that vibrated right through your bones. “Oh. You wanna talk shit now?” You barely had time to gasp before his hands slammed into the mattress beside your head, and pounded into you. Hard. Fast. Unrelenting.

“Is this what you wanted?” he growled, his voice cracking, hips snapping into yours with enough force to rattle the bed. “This what you were begging for?” You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. Could barely think with how fast he was fucking you now, body jolting with every brutal thrust. The mask on, those sharp eyes never leaving you. You saw your own wrecked reflection in them, flushed and open, mouth slack as he wrecked you.

“You like being stuffed full like this?” he grunted, pace never faltering. “You like getting fucked by your friendly neighborhood….”

“Fuck!” You screamed, head thrown back, hands clawing at his back now, eyes rolling because Jesus Christ he was everywhere, inside you, above you, around you.

“Yeah,” he groaned, slamming into you even harder. “That’s what I thought.” Yunho’s thrusts were sharp, brutal, and unrelenting, but then he slowed just enough to adjust his grip, wrapping one strong arm around your waist and sitting up, bringing you with him in one fluid motion. You gasped as your body shifted, thighs straddling his lap, chest pressed flush to his as he stayed buried deep inside you.

Those moving lenses tracked every breath you took as your hands slid up his neck, trembling fingers framing his jaw. Your forehead dropped against his, the coolness of the mask kissing your skin where his heat radiated through it. You kissed him. Right where the mask ended. Right on his mouth. Soft and full of ache, like you needed him closer, deeper, everywhere.

He groaned into your kiss, hand fisting at your hip, and then he started thrusting up into you again. Hard. Deep. The new angle hit different, perfect, his dick dragging against your walls just right with every stroke, the sounds between your bodies wet and filthy and so loud in the otherwise silent room.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, clinging, grounding, as he fucked up into you over and over again. “I’m close,” you gasped against his lips, voice cracking.

“I know,” he gritted, forehead pressed tight to yours, his voice wrecked and low. “Me too. You feel so…. fuck, baby…” His hands were everywhere, gripping your waist, sliding down your ass, holding you in place while he snapped his hips up, chasing both your highs with wild precision. You felt his breath stuttering against your mouth, his body tensing under yours.

The mask never came off. The eyes never stopped watching. And neither of you wanted to stop as every thrust drove you higher, each one rougher, deeper, messier than the last. Yunho’s grip was bruising on your waist, his mouth panting against yours, breath hot and ragged as your hips rolled together in chaotic sync.

You were so close. Too close. “Yunho…” you gasped, broken and breathless, but this time? He didn’t stop you. Didn’t scold you. Didn’t even try to pull the name from your mouth. Because he was gone, too.

The mask pressed to your forehead. His hands dug into your hips. His dick slammed into you so deep you could feel it in your stomach. The sound of skin on skin, the wet slap of your bodies meeting, the absolute filth of it, was unbearable.

Your body snapped. You came hard, head falling back as your scream tore through the room, loud, raw, desperate. “Yunho!” Your thighs shook violently, cunt clenching tight around him, and then, your orgasm slammed into you so hard, so full body, you barely registered the gush of wet heat flooding his lap as you squirted, drenching both of you in wave after wave of release.

“Oh fuck…” Yunho groaned, deep and choked, hips jerking helplessly as your walls pulsed around him. “Fuck, baby…”

He wasn’t far behind. The second he felt you fall apart like that, so wet, so tight, so wrecked, he was gone. With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself inside you, dick twitching as he came hard, ropes of heat spilling deep into you. He held you there, arms tight around your back, face buried in your neck, breath ragged and broken as he emptied into you completely.

Both of you trembling. Both of you soaking. Still clinging like the world might fall apart if you let go. And above it all? That mask. Still on. Still watching. But right now, Yunho was just a man. A man who loved you falling apart for him.

You both collapsed. Your body went limp against his, still trembling, overstimulated and soaked, your face buried in his neck as you tried to remember how breathing worked. Yunho cradled you in his lap, arms wrapped tight around your waist, chest heaving as he finally leaned back against the headboard, completely spent, still inside you, both of you sticky, messy, and totally undone.

For a second, it was silent. Then, with a long exhale, Yunho reached up and finally peeled the mask off. He looked wrecked. Hair plastered to his forehead, face flushed, lips swollen from your kisses, pupils still blown wide. He dropped the mask onto the mattress beside you like it had weight, like it had power, and then let his head thud back against the wall behind him.

You were breathless, straddling his lap, your arms slack around his shoulders, eyes barely open. He tilted his head lazily toward you, lips brushing your temple. “You good?”

You nodded, still too far gone to form words, and he just smiled, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek.

Knock knock knock.

You both froze.

Yunho blinked. “No fucking way.”

From the other side of the door, Yeosang’s voice rang out, clear, calm, smug. “I ordered some pizza from that place down the street that’s open 24 hours.”

Another beat of silence. You buried your face in Yunho’s neck again, horrified.

“It’s hot,” Yeosang continued casually. “If you want some.”

Then, with a pause perfectly timed for maximum damage, “Spidey.”

Yunho groaned into your shoulder like he was about to die. You didn’t even have the energy to scream. You just whispered, mortified, “I’m never showing my face again.”

Yunho, still breathless, barely managed a laugh.

“I’m never gonna hear the end of it.”

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permanent tag list: @straycat420 @hannahlilibet411 @xh01bri @jintastic-yuyu @seungminniemin @ultrapinkvoidbouquet @wooyoungsbrat @lucid-galaxys-world @ecriggs1990 @straytiny127 @sannies-tiddies @hannahstacos @jiminthestreets-bonesinthesheets @love--in-stayville @hartsablaze @remi-young @bubbly-moon @fvxyxnh0 @herpoetryprincess @prchiquita8 @dreamgirlevilera @booposaurusrex @onecursedkitty @dvrktvnnel @atinynoona @metalheadatiny @uchihabbynic @eggielix @dodot04lover

[memorabxlia]

Kinkmas Day 11: Soaked — 민기

genre: smut synopsis: you’ve been trying to link up but never had the time, letting the tension grow, can mingi help it if he’s a little rough warnings: hair pulling, fingering, anal, big dick mingi, language, gentle biting, rough sex, kissing, lots of cum, possessiveness, mentions slight condom breaking pairing: situationship!mingi x fem!reader wc: 3.1k

The door of his apartment clicking shut behind you, the waiting was fucking over. Mingi stood there, his dark eyes holding yours, and he didn’t say a word. He just reached out, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck, and pulled you into him. The kiss wasn’t soft. It was a hungry, open-mouthed claim, his tongue sliding against yours, tasting of the whiskey he’d had earlier. You could feel the hard ridge of his cock, already straining against his jeans, pressed into your stomach.

He broke the kiss, breathing hard. “I’ve been thinking about this all goddamn week.”

“About what?” you breathed, your own hands sliding under his shirt, feeling the hard, warm planes of his stomach.

“About bending you over my kitchen counter and fucking you so deep you scream.” His voice was a low rasp. “About seeing how much of my cock that pretty mouth of yours can actually take. About making you come so hard you forget your own name.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs. “So do it.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He spun you around, your back pressing into his chest. His hands slid down your arms, then to your hips, pulling your ass back into him. You felt the massive, thick length of him, even through the layers of fabric. God, it was huge. You’d felt it before, through clothes, seen the outline, but this proximity made your mouth water and your pussy clench with empty, needy pulses.

“This,” he murmured into your ear, his lips brushing the sensitive skin there. “This is what I want first.” He guided your hands forward, placing them flat on the cool granite of the kitchen island. He nudged your feet apart with his own. With one hand, he gathered your hair, wrapping it around his fist and pulling just enough to arch your back, to make your ass stick out for him. The other hand went to the button of your jeans. He popped it, yanked the zipper down, and shoved both your jeans and panties down to your knees in one rough, efficient motion. The cool air hit your exposed skin, followed immediately by the heat of his palm slapping your ass cheek—not hard, a sharp, stinging promise.

“Look at that,” he growled, his fingers sliding through the slickness already gathered between your pussy lips. They were swollen, plump, the inner lips puffy and dark with arousal. His thumb found your clit, circling it once, twice, making your knees buckle. “Soaked for me already. You’re fucking drenched.”

You heard the tear of a condom wrapper, then the rustle of his own clothes. Then, the blunt, broad head of his cock was pressing against your entrance. He wasn’t gentle. He used his grip on your hair to hold you steady as he pushed forward, a slow, inexorable invasion that made you gasp. The stretch was immediate, intense. Your pussy walls, already slick and hot, had to open wide to accommodate his thickness. He pushed deeper, inch by impossible inch, until his hips met your ass cheeks with a solid smack.

“Fuck,” you moaned, the word torn from your throat. “Mingi… it’s so much.”

“It is,” he agreed, his voice strained. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, letting you feel every centimeter of him stretching you wide. Then he pulled back, almost all the way out, until just the fat head of his cock caught at your entrance, before slamming back in. The pace was brutal from the start. Each thrust was a hard, driving piston-stroke that jolted you forward on the counter. His balls slapped against your clit with every inward drive, a secondary, rhythmic pressure that started a steady thrum of pleasure low in your belly. But it wasn’t enough, not to push you over. The penetration was overwhelming, filling, fucking incredible, but your climax hovered just out of reach.

He fucked you like that for what felt like ages, the sound of skin on skin, your ragged moans, and his grunts filling the kitchen. Your breasts, freed from your bra earlier, swung heavily with each impact, the nipples hard and aching.

“Need more,” you panted, pushing back against him.

He slowed, his thrusts becoming shallow grinds. “Tell me how.”

“Fingers. Your hand. I don’t care. Just…”

He released your hair, his hand snaking around your hip. His fingers were deft, finding your swollen clitoris immediately, slippery with your own juices. He pressed the flat of two fingers against it, rubbing in tight, fast circles that matched the punishing rhythm of his hips.

Yes. The dual sensation was electric. The deep, full feeling of his thick cock spearing you, combined with the precise, frantic stimulation on your clit, sent sparks shooting up your spine. Your moans grew louder, more desperate. Your inner muscles began to flutter around his shaft, a wet, gripping pulse.

“That’s it,” he grunted, his breath hot on your neck. “Squeeze my cock. Milk it with that tight fucking pussy. I wanna feel you cum all over me.”

His words, the filthy, precise description of what was happening to your body, pushed you higher. The pressure built, a coil winding tighter and tighter in your lower belly. Your vision spotted. The sounds you were making didn’t sound human anymore. His fingers worked you relentlessly, his cock pounding into you, hitting a spot deep inside that made you see stars.

It broke. Your orgasm erupted through you, a violent, shaking wave that started in your clenched pussy and radiated outwards, making your toes curl and your entire body seize. You screamed, a raw, ragged sound, as your channel convulsed around his invading length, gripping and releasing in rapid, juicy spasms. He fucked you through it, his strokes becoming harder, more erratic, chasing his own peak.

As the last tremors shook you, he pulled out suddenly. Before you could process the empty feeling, his hand was on your shoulder, pushing you down. “On your knees. Now.”

You slid bonelessly to the floor, turning to face him. His cock stood out, glistening with your wetness, purple and thick and veined. It looked impossible. He fisted it, stroking twice. “Open up. I’m gonna cum all over that pretty face.”

You opened your mouth, sticking your tongue out. He aimed the broad head at your lips. The first hot, thick rope of cum hit your tongue, salty and bitter. The second painted your cheek. The third splashed across your forehead. He kept coming, pulses of it covering your chin, your neck, the swell of your breasts. It was profuse, abundant, a messy, hot claim. You kept your mouth open, swallowing what you could, the taste flooding your senses.

He was breathing like he’d run a marathon. He looked down at you, his eyes black with lust and satisfaction. “Fuck. Look at you.”

You just panted, coated in him, your pussy still throbbing from the recent climax.

He leaned down, his voice dropping to a whisper. “We’re not done. I’m not done. Get on the couch. I want that ass next.”

Your legs feel like water as you stumble from the kitchen, his command ringing in your ears. The open-plan apartment feels vast and dark, the only light spilling from the range hood over the stove. The couch is a large, dark shape against the wall. You reach it, your knees still shaky, your skin sticky with his drying release. You turn, leaning back against the cushions, about to follow his last order.

But Mingi doesn’t let you get that far.

His hand closes on your shoulder before you can sit. “No,” he says, his voice a low thrum in the quiet room. “I said I wanted that ass. Not on your back. Not yet.”

He turns you, your back to him, and guides you forward until your hands brace against the back of the deep, plush couch. The fabric is cool and rough under your palms. He nudges your feet apart with his foot, widening your stance until you’re bent at the waist, your ass presented to him. Your jeans and panties are still a tangledconstraint at your knees, a frustrating barrier. With a low grunt, he hooks his fingers into the denim and yanks them the rest of the way.

His hands are warm and huge as they settle on the globes of your ass, kneading the flesh. “Look at this,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. His thumbs part your cheeks, exposing you completely. You feel utterly vulnerable, open. A shiver runs through you that has nothing to do with cold. “So fucking pretty. All pink and wet from me fucking your pussy. But this…” His thumb, slick with your own juices from where he’d touched you earlier, drags down the cleft, not touching your entrance, just tracing the sensitive skin around it.

His touch send a jolt of pure, undiluted heat straight to your core. Your pussy clenches around nothing, a fresh trickle of wetness easing out.

“You want it?” he asks, his voice right behind you. He’s close, you can feel the heat of his body, the hard press of his re-hardened cock against your lower back. It’s already thick and heavy again, a relentless engine of desire.

“Yes,” you whisper, the word barely audible.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Yes, Mingi. I want it.”

“How do you want it?” His thumb circles the tight ring of muscle, applying the barest hint of pressure. It makes you gasp, your fingers digging into the couch fabric.

“I want… I want your cock in my ass.”

“Good girl.” The praise is a dark caress. “But my cock is thick, baby. You felt it. It’s gonna take some work to get it in this little hole.” His thumb presses again, a little harder, and this time it sinks in just past the first knuckle. The intrusion is sudden, a sharp, stretching burn that makes you stiffen. “Breathe,” he commands, his other hand rubbing your lower back. “Just breathe through it. Get used to my finger first.”

He works it slowly, in and out, the drag of his skin against your inner walls sending confusing signals—a burn that slowly melts into a deep, strange fullness. He coats his finger in more of your wetness, then presses back in with two. The stretch is intense, a burning pressure that borders on pain. You whimper, pushing back against him instinctively.

“Easy,” he soothes, but his voice is tight with his own restraint. He crooks his fingers inside you, searching, and a jolt of unexpected sensation rockets through you, making your eyes fly open. “There we go. Just getting you ready for me.” He scissors his fingers gently, stretching you wider. The burn recedes, replaced by a throbbing, empty ache that begs for more. He pulls his fingers out with a soft, wet sound.

You hear the tear of another condom wrapper. The sound is sharp in the quiet. Then you feel him, the broad, blunt head of his cock, slick with lube from the packet, pressing against your prepared entrance. It’s so much wider than his fingers. The sheer size of it makes your heart hammer against your ribs.

“This is it,” he says, his voice gritty. He wraps one arm around your waist, holding you steady against him. The other hand returns to your hair, fisting it at the roots, pulling your head back just enough to arch your spine. “You take this for me. You take every fucking inch.”

He pushes.

The initial penetration is a white-hot brand of pressure. You cry out, a sharp, broken sound, as the massive head begins to breach you. Your body fights it, clenching furiously against the invasion, but he is relentless. He holds you immobile with the arm around your waist and keeps pushing with a slow, steady pressure that feels like it splits you in two. You feel every ridge, every vein on his cock as it forces its way inside, stretching you to a breathtaking, impossible width.

“Fuck, Mingi… wait…”

“Shhh,” he murmurs into the skin of your shoulder, his lips brushing you. Then his teeth graze the same spot, a gentle, playful bite that shocks you with its tenderness amidst the violence of the penetration. “You’re doing it. You’re taking it. Just like that. Breathe, baby. Let it in.”

You suck in a ragged gasp. The burning stretch crests, and then, suddenly, it gives way. The head pops past the tightest ring of muscle, and he sinks another inch, then two, into the clutching, hot channel of your ass. The feeling is overwhelming. It’s a deep, filling pressure that radiates through your entire pelvis, a constant, demanding presence. He holds still, buried partway, letting your body adjust to the monumental girth.

“Feel that?” he groans, his own control fraying. “Feel how fucking thick I am inside you? Your ass is hugging me like a goddamn fist.”

You can only moan in response, a low, continuous sound of strain and shocking pleasure. The fullness is incredible. He begins to move, shallow pulls and pushes that make your inner muscles flutter around him. Each withdrawal is a slow, dragging agony of sensation; each thrust back in is a conquest. The pace builds, his hips starting to pump in a harder, faster rhythm.

His grip in your hair tightens, keeping your back arched, your ass tilted up for his use. The position, bent over the couch, makes every thrust drive deeper, angling into you in a way that makes you see sparks. The sound is obscene—the wet, slapping noise of his hips meeting your ass cheeks, the low, animal grunts from his throat, your own choked-off cries.

“This ass,” he pants, his voice raw. “This tight, fucking perfect ass. It’s mine now. You understand? I’m claiming this hole.” To emphasize his point, he slams into you, a hard, deep pound that makes you scream. The speed intensifies, his pumping going wild, a brutal, piston-like drive that shakes your whole body. Your breasts sway heavily with the force, your nipples scraping against the rough couch fabric with every jolt. The pressure in your ass is immense, a constant, thrilling stretch that walks the line between pleasure and pain.

But just like before, the penetration alone, as overwhelming as it is, isn’t tipping you over the edge. The pleasure is a deep, resonant thrum, but your climax is a distant star. You need more.

Frantically, you slide one hand from the couch back, down over your trembling stomach, through the coarse hair of your mound. Your fingers find your clitoris, swollen and puffy and throbbing in time with your heartbeat. The second you press against it, a bolt of pure electricity shoots up your spine. You rub in frantic, messy circles, the stimulation a bright, sharp counterpoint to the deep, pounding fullness in your ass.

The combination is devastating.

“Yeah,” Mingi growls, watching your hand work. His thrusts become more focused, driving into you at a punishing, steady pace that steals your breath. “That’s it. Play with that fat little clit. Get yourself ready. I’m gonna fill this ass up. I’m gonna pump my fucking load so deep inside you it’ll leak out for hours.”

His filthy, precise words are the final catalyst. The coil in your belly, wound impossibly tight by the dual assault, finally snaps.

It’s a different kind of climax than the one before—deeper, more internal, a rolling quake that starts in your clenched asshole around his invading cock and radiates outward in violent, shaking waves. Your whole body locks up, your back bowing against his restraining arm. A raw, guttural scream tears from your throat as your muscles clamp down on his shaft in a series of fierce, gripping spasms. Your pussy, untouched, pours out a fresh flood of wetness that drips down your inner thighs. The sensations overload your nerves, a white-noise buzz of pleasure-pain that whites out your vision.

Mingi lets out a choked roar. Your convulsing triggers his own release. He rams into you one last, final time, burying himself to the hilt, and holds there. You feel it—the thick, heavy pulses of his cum inside the condom, deep in you. Each jet is a hot, distinct flood, a claiming shot that seems to go on forever, pumping his release into the deepest part of you. He grinds against you, milking every last drop, his body shuddering against yours.

For a long moment, there is only the sound of heavy breathing, the feel of his sweat-slicked chest against your back, and the incredible, stuffed-full sensation in your ass.

Slowly, carefully, he pulls out. The condom, stretched and filled, slips from your body with a soft, wet pop. The sudden emptiness is profound. A weird, hollow ache replaces the intense pressure. You feel loose, stretched, used in the most exquisite way.

You slump forward over the couch, completely spent. Mingi’s hands are on your hips, turning you around. You’re too boneless to help. He sits heavily on the couch, pulling you down with him, until you’re straddling his lap, facing him. Your sensitive ass cheeks settle on his powerful thighs. His own cock, softening now, lies against his stomach. He looks wrecked, his hair damp with sweat, his eyes dark and satisfied.

He doesn’t say anything for a minute, just traces the line of your jaw with his thumb. Then his gaze drops, looking down between your bodies.

“Look,” he says, his voice hoarse.

You follow his look. There, at your entrance, a thick, white glob of his cum is seeping out from inside you, pearling at the tight, stretched ring of your asshole before dripping slowly down onto his thigh. The condom must have broken, or he’d taken it off… you’re too foggy to remember.

“See that?” he murmurs, dipping a finger in the mess and bringing it to your lips. “That’s my claim. Deep in your ass. And it’s gonna keep leaking. Every time you move tonight, you’re gonna feel it. You’re gonna remember exactly where I was.”

You open your mouth, and he slides his cum-smeared finger inside. You suck it clean, the taste bitter and salty and purely him. The act is degrading and impossibly hot. Your oversensitive clit gives a feeble throb.

He leans in, his forehead resting against yours. “You’re a fucking dream,” he breathes. Then he nods toward the hallway. “Bathroom’s there. Go clean up. But don’t you dare try to push all of it out. I want to see it on you when you come back.”

He smacks your ass, a stinging punctuation to his order.

taglist: @minkilicious @kpopandprozac

nets: @blossomnet @daydreamnet @eighteez-net

[atiny-for-life]

Ateez and KQ Entertainment - A Summary

When it comes to K-Pop companies, anyone who's been a fan of any group for a while will know the majority of them are awful, greedy, and will sacrifice the health and safety of their artists for profit in a heartbeat. It's an awful industry built on the backs of underpaid, overworked young people who've been shamed and exploited since they were trainees and oftentimes bullied into plastic surgery, eating disorders, and mentally damaging competition with their peers. Many idols end up with chronic health issues, especially heart problems, long before they'll ever reach the average retirement age.

So what about KQ? Are they any different? Should we view them as one of them? Or are they an outlier like 1Verse's label SingingBeetle (founded by former SM employee Michelle Cho)?

Side note, and for the sake of completeness: After the group Block B, all its members including their parents, were exploited by their former agency Stardom Entertainment, KQ created an agency (called Seven Seasons) solely for Block B so they could continue activities. Unfortunately, back then, this was a job they were definitely not prepared for. There was mismanaging going on and Block B fans don't look upon that time fondly. Since then most, if not all, members have also eventually stopped renewing their contracts.

However, these days, we've got Ateez, Xikers, Maddox, Eden and everyone else under the company refer to KQ as a family. Why is that? Let's gather what we know.

The Beginning: Accepting Hongjoong as a trainee

Most Atinys will already know the story of how Hongjoong joined KQ as their first ever trainee back in 2015. He's shared this story many times over the years (recent examples: Zach Sang Show interview, K-Star Next Door, I.M on the Beat interview, T-TIME : Grrrgak!) but for those who've never heard it, here's a summary of how it went down:

Hongjoong wanted to make music so he put a bunch of self-composed songs on a mixtape and sent it to several companies, including the big three. His reason for targeting KQ specifically was his love of Block B's music, which made him disregard the fact that KQ wasn't looking to sign anyone else. In fact, they were only a management agency at the time so they weren't even in a position to accept trainees.

Regardless, he sent the tape together with a letter, telling them they should reach out and contact him if they'd like to work with him. Whoever received that letter at KQ tossed it aside, unopened, and a year went by. The company then moved buildings and, while packing up, someone came across the tape and letter.

Intrigued, they listened to it (untrained rap and all) and heard the potential, which led the CEO to make a judgment call and give Hongjoong a chance. KQ called him to ask if he still wanted to do music. Of course, Hongjoong said yes and took the risk of signing with them.

Ateez's lives as trainees under KQ

While it was Hongjoong's music school principal who initially gave him the idea of not just being a songwriter but also an idol, it was KQ who further encouraged him.

However, as their first ever trainee, Hongjoong had a difficult time. First, with Eden initially trying to push him to quit music because KQ had put him in charge of training Hongjoong as a producer and Eden had zero interest and training to be a teacher. (Of course, those feelings didn't last too long and Hongjoong wormed his way into Eden's heart fairly quickly.)

But even without that, he struggled with being lonely because most other trainees who walked into the practice room, never stayed. Additionally, KQ was quite poor at the time, so Hongjoong only ate fried rice most of the time which he quickly grew tired of. Many of you may remember this story from Hongjoong's mother's letter shared in this video last year:

In late June 2024, during a live, Hongjoong also shared he was diagnosed with two separate conditions during his trainee days, orthostatic hypotension (drop in blood pressure when standing up or sitting down which leads to fainting) and vasovagal syncope (fainting caused by triggers such as emotional distress, the sight of blood, etc.) which he's learned to manage since. However, this was something he forced himself to learn to deal alone since he didn't want to worry the company or others.

During these early days, KQ was broke and Ateez had a food budget (which they sometimes maxed out, leading Hongjoong to pretend he was dieting and push the others to use his budget for themselves) and weren't allowed to use their phones in the dorms, likely to discourage them from getting distracted and sleeping too little but, aside from Hongjoong, no one seems to have followed that rule. See, the famous clip of Hongjoong talking about being salty when he discovered Seonghwa's two hidden phones:

However, KQ famously never enforced any sort of dating ban unlike most other companies which later gave us one of the funniest headlines of all time:

"First hetero dating rumor in the group": ATEEZ’s fans hilariously redirect Yunho’s dating rumors to upcoming MAMA voting

On Monday, October 31, ATEEZ’s Yunho found himself embroiled in dating rumors with a non-celebrity woman after several anonymous fans took t

And they were also some of the first idols who proudly showed off their tattoos while many others were still banned from even getting them.

Ultimately, they already went viral predebut thanks to their outstanding dancing and Jongho's ability to split apples with his bare hands while singing.

Something I can't source but remember: Yunho, I believe, once shared the practice room used to be tiny and in terrible condition before they moved to a bigger building right before San joined the company.

It's also of note that Yeosang and Wooyoung left Hybe to sign with KQ and Jongho, who suffered significantly while being a trainee under TopMedia (alongside Kim Wooseok whom he's still friends with), has decided to rejoin the industry after taking a prolonged break from it all, presumably to recover and reevaluate his decision to be an idol. And boy, should we all be glad he chose to try again.

Investing in and defending Ateez

During their trainee days, KQ flew Ateez (plus their then maknae, who wasn't ready to debut in 2018 and presumably moved on to another company) out to LA where they received rigorous dance training so they could become the performance group we all know and love today. They documented the whole thing here:

Something worth noting about this time is: they've been consistently providing English subtitles for all their content which was definitely a huge contributor in how much more popular they've always been overseas compared to domestically.

In an attempt to get Ateez more exposure, KQ took the financial risk of paying for Ateez's participation in Kingdom: Legendary War all the way back in 2021 which was, honestly, a hellish time for the fandom - even KQ acknowledged that in a lawsuit they filed against some false rumors being spread about Ateez around the time, stating:

However, we have decided that the current situation, in which false information is misunderstood as true, can damage not only our artists’ reputation which has been achieved through hard work but also our fans' mental health, who are our artists' biggest supporters.

Participation in the program was deeply exhausting for Ateez (who were without Mingi at the time - more on that in a bit), but did prove worthwhile when it garnered them a significant amount of new fans thanks to their positive attitude regarding the competition which had the vibe of "We're just here to make friends and put on a great show."

Regarding this part of their history, it should be noted that, in the wake of Kingdom: Legendary War, additionally information came out, exposing severe mistreatment of Ateez at the hands of Mnet:

After constant disrespect, a Korean Atiny [...] made a lengthy post of all the times Mnet had treated the K-pop group poorly. The final straw might have been Ateez not getting a single nomination for any award on Mnet's award show, MAMA 2021, despite the channel calling them ‘performance kings’. On top of it, fans found it humiliating that Ateez, the only group that was not nominated, performed at the award show too. [...] Korean Atinys claimed that Mnet’s staff would scream at Ateez while filming their reality shows. They were not told about the venues where they would be performing like the outdoor festival event and their makeup room was the smallest during the ‘Kingdom’ shoot. While other participating groups were given sofas, Ateez members were given stiff office chairs.

However, this is not something to blame KQ for - Mnet is famously hated by all idols and is even known to mistreat Hybe artists, who are far more influential. They abuse the power they hold over all artists since everyone depends on them for promotions. One company alone, especially one on the small side, doesn't have the power to take them on. It'd take collective action on all companies' parts.

In the year that followed, 2022, KQ sued an infamous gossip YouTuber, who'd been spreading lies and rumors about idols for years, reaching all the way back to first gen idols. Even other fandoms cheered on KQ at the time for finally doing something against her.

Excerpt from the article:

The YouTuber has been criticized in the past for starting false rumors about idols. NMIXX‘s Sullyoon, BTS‘s Jungkook and RM, actress Han So Hee, And NCT‘s Jisung are just a few of the celebrities the YouTuber has targeted. According to reports, the person behind the Sojang YouTube account has been actively writing about rumors since K-Pop’s first generation. Before YouTube, the netizen had been active on online communities, Facebook, and Twitter. According to reports, it is believed that Sojang is a woman in her mid-to-late forties. This isn’t the first time the YouTuber has been sued. EXO member Xiumin has previously sued her, and BTS’s V had threatened to sue the YouTuber last December.

Again in 2022, they also took strong legal action when a tracking device was placed on one of Ateez's cars, stating "The defendant asked for leniency, but the company has not agreed to any leniency or settlement to prevent further damage and set a precedent for those who think of downplaying privacy violation offenses."

KQ has also proven themselves willing to back their artists' personal dreams financially, like when they paid for Hongjoong's non-profit photo exhibition which gathered money for charity and supported his wish to have a busking event, and got Seonghwa to meet his favorite ASMR YouTuber.

Recently (June 2024), Hongjoong also shared they're now getting paid extra incentives, as of last year (2023), as a thank you for all they've done for the company and the sum doesn't seem to be all that small.

Of course, there are also the most tangible and noticeable investments: creative marketing both locally and overseas, high quality music videos, regular vocal and performance training, booking music show and interview appearances and, notably, appearances on platforms outside the usual K-Pop sphere, i.e. React in 2019.

Ateez and the rest of KQ - family relationships?

We all know that famous clip of DJ Yunho calling KQ the best best company while Wooyoung's trying not to choke on his laughter:

And we also know Ateez and their respective families all get along - all their parents seem to have become friends and adopted the rest of the Ateez members as their own kids. Especially Wooyoung seems to call everyone's parents "mom" and "dad" and San's dad is deeply invested in everyone's health and well being. Hongjoong has even involved his brother before to help him choreograph for his MAMA performance.

Outside their immediate family, they all also have a group chat as Ateez with their CEO where he refers to them as his kids and he also watches their lives sometimes, attends concerts, etc.. Someone made a compilation here back in 2022 but they still imitate and quote him to this day:

And it's not just their CEO, they all seem to really love their managers and vice versa with this guy going viral for his adoration of Yeosang on multiple occasions and this clip between Wooyoung and his manager going viral more than once. You can find many compilations of the dynamics between Ateez and their staff but here's an example.

And here's an example of how Xikers and their staff treat each other (spoiler: it's adorable chaos).

We've also seen the hair and make up staff goof around with them and we also know how close they are with B.B.Trippin, the dance crew who create the majority of their choreos, who've been fostering an unbroken relationship with KQ since the early days due to their ties with Block B.

Today, they continue to tour with Ateez despite how sought after they are by other companies with JM, their leader, even stating in response to the question "What are your favorite groups to choreograph for?":

"Of course it’s ATEEZ! Right now I’m not making the choreography myself, I’m only working as the general director. But I’ve been with ATEEZ since the members were first together and we talk a lot, so we fit well and I like working with them."

And, of course, we know how close they all, but especially Hongjoong, are with Edenary and Maddox from not just Ateez's content, but also Maddox's:

How KQ handles health issues

In the beginning, Ateez were severely discriminated against in the industry, as is true for all groups of small companies. As a result, they pushed themselves extra hard during what limited performance time they had in order to leave an impression and slowly grow their Korean fanbase. To quote Mingi: "When we just debuted, we were known for the madness."

During their first tour in 2019, Yeosang broke his finger during a performance and set it again by himself without ever leaving the stage or even slowing down.

Seonghwa, in an equally bonkers move during the same tour, cracked his ribs while coughing and still chose to perform. At the end of Hala Hala, when they all pretend to snap their necks and collapse, his rib kept him from being able to get back up, leaving Yunho and Yeosang to basically carry him off stage.

After those incidents, KQ became far more vigilant and ensured Ateez watches their health and safety more closely, with Seonghwa sitting out a performance in 2020 due to an injury. Their statement stating:

During a recent modern dance lesson, Seonghwa experienced pain near his hip joint. He went for an examination at a medical clinic specializing in that area, and he has been diagnosed with a mild sprain. While it is a minor injury, he has been advised by the medical team to avoid intense movement for about two weeks, in order to avoid the worsening or relapse of the injury. Therefore, Seonghwa will only be taking part in the Meet & Greet segment of ‘KCON:TACT 2020 Summer’ on June 26, and it would be difficult for him to take part in the performance.

In November of 2020, the same year, roughly two years after debut, Mingi developed some severe anxiety which led to him getting tested and diagnosed before he went on a (back then) indefinite hiatus to get rest and regain stability in his life.

During this time, he didn't participate in any public activities but stayed in close contact with all the members and even San's dad who checked in on him regularly since he's San's dad's favorite.

He returned in mid-2021 after about half a year of intermittent schedules to get back in the swing of things and under the clearance of his therapist. His mind was made up that he wanted to keep on doing this and he seemed happy to be back:

Jongho, too, had a more severe injury in August 2023 and needed to get surgery to fix it. Thankfully he, too, recovered fully after a hiatus that lasted a couple of months which was followed by him sitting on a chair side-stage during performances for quite some time until his knee was fully healed.

More recently, we've also heard Seonghwa share that they used to struggle severely while touring, even requiring oxygen masks backstage to keep themselves going, which led the CEO to put together a team of pro athlete trainers to ensure Ateez can physically meet the demands of the industry without sacrificing their health any further.

Most recently, it was Wooyoung who needed to sit out for a bit when he developed cholinergic uriticaria. Thankfully, he's already back in the swing of things as well and has recently shared in an interview that his condition has been improving steadily since the first massive flare up after Coachella (though swelling in his face is still noticeable to them all when he exercises/dances for long periods of time).

Most Common Criticisms of KQ

1 - Ateez are overworked!

This is undeniably true for all successful idols. It's a brutal, brutal industry and unless all companies slow down, there is no way to take time off without being forgotten and losing out on future opportunities because a lot of fans are quick to move on whenever a group disappears for a bit. Many don't even stick around for more than one comeback to begin with.

Especially during the end of the year award period, all idols are deeply overworked which is why we saw Ateez get time off around early April. They also take breaks for holidays and Hongjoong has said before that they're adults and know what they're doing when a fan told him they're being overworked (I wish I could find the clip right now).

I also remember Seonghwa saying during an interview that KQ never makes decisions without talking them through with Ateez so they understand each other's reasoning and no decisions get made over their heads (once again, I wish I could find the damn clip but all I remember is Seonghwa had longer black hair and his outfit and the set were kept in black, white and gray tones).

2 - KQ is controlling!

If you've read the whole post, you'll already know Ateez have a lot of freedom compared to other idols, especially now. They get to do lives without supervision, pursue solo projects (including quality music videos for their covers and original songs), Yeosang was an MC for The Show for a long time where he got to show off solo, while Yunho and Hongjoong got to be Idol Radio DJs for a long time where they got to be mentors, show off as dancers and make new friends. On top of that, Yunho, Jongho, San and Seonghwa all four starred in a drama (with Yunho being a co-lead) criticizing the abuse and mistreatment idols face in the industry which Ateez reference to this day.

Hongjoong also gets to work with Xikers now, giving them guidance Ateez surely wished they'd had in their early days, and he even collaborated with Chungha on her first album in her new agency, while Wooyoung got to work on a dance passion project with Watcha which was close to his heart just last year.

On top of all of that, they get to goof around constantly while a lot of bigger names in the industry have much more scripted content. We've also heard Ateez be extremely honest with fans when it comes to their well-being, including when they're tired or struggling. They've even told stalker fans off on live with zero consequences from the company on multiple occasions.

Their freedom goes double when it comes to their music where we know all members get to participate in both the song and choreography from recording all the way to live performance. Just recently, Hongjoong openly fired shots at the former CEO of Hybe in a collab song with Odetari and, when prompted for a statement, KQ simply said they had "no comment".

3 - Wooyoung and Yeosang don't get enough lines!

From an outsider's perspective, this is true. However, we don't know what's going on behind the scenes outside of what they tell us. For example, Hongjoong shared just recently that all members sing the whole song and then lines get distributed based on who suits which parts best.

It's also worth mentioning that the distribution is balancing out more and more over time. A trend which will surely continue now that both Wooyoung and Yeosang have released more covers to flex their vocals and 'Will - The World' included sub-units so they could all show off and try out writing lyrics for themselves.

In Conclusion

I think, when it comes to Ateez, a lot of fans who raise concerns about KQ don't look at the bigger picture or lack some of the information needed to make a fair judgment. Though there is, of course, also absolutely valid criticism.

Please be aware I'm definitely not saying "Be a company stan, they deserve it!". The primary focus should always be on the artists themselves, not the people managing the funds in the background, but what I am saying is: "Trust Ateez."

There are so many idols out there who hate their companies, who are on the brink of collapse from exhaustion (P1harmony, NCT Dream, Enhypen, to name a few) and it's noticeable. They say it, they want fans to create a ruckus and demand better treatment, but Ateez isn't one of them.

All eight are very outspoken people and, from what we've seen and heard, so are their families. If KQ weren't full of decent people, Ateez wouldn't involve their siblings and parents in projects, they wouldn't so frequently bring up receiving gifts from their CEO, be so full of love and praise for their managers and staff, or willingly praise the company so regularly.

There have definitely been instances where trending hashtags were justified, such as when there was lacking airport security because KQ had underestimated how many people would show up to welcome them, but there's a lot of unjustified complaining going on as well which can be easily debunked.

I hope this roundup of base information will help some people get a clearer picture of what the company dynamic is like so everyone can come to their own conclusions.

Regarding recent rumors:

In the light of recent events, I'd like to say that I can't find proper evidence that Hybe Entertainment ever tried to buy up KQ, but it's clear that the relationship between the two companies is horrid, and very justifiably so on KQ's part.

After Hybe bought up Vlive, Ateez and Xikers moved to streaming on YouTube and KQ entirely separated ties with Weverse soon after by launching TOKTOQ in partnership with bemyfriends which Xikers also moved to.

This happened in the wake of Hybe trying to buy up SM Entertainment and forcing SM artists to move over to Weverse.

In essence, it's very, very, extremely obvious that Hybe is trying to build up a monopoly. They already own a shit-ton of labels, including Pledis (Seventeen's label), Belift (Enhypen's label), and KOZ (Zico/BoyNextDoor's label), and now also tried to buy up major shares of their biggest competitors, SM Entertainment.

Again, Hybe trying to buy KQ was never documented anywhere, it was just a rumor without a clear source, but I wouldn't be surprised if they did try at some point or another to get rid of yet another competitor.

[atiny-for-life]

Ateez's Full Storyline Explained - Updated Regularly!

Xikers' Full Storyline Explained - Masterlist

Ateez's label, KQ Entertainment - Everything you need to know.

Creative Spotlight Masterlist (Ateez Solo Projects)

Mini Lore Nuggets - Masterlist

Everything is in chronological order and updated whenever new information/content is released so, if you start from the top and work your way down, you should be fully caught up with the entire storyline up until now!

Side note: Early Japanese comebacks are not included since they're fully self-contained and Don’t Stop was left out since it's part of Ateez‘s 'Universe' (now 'Klap Entertainment') content which is separate from Ateez’s true storyline.

Masterlist:

Part 0: Glossary (Left Eye, Sopro & more)

BONUS: The Cromer Explained

BONUS: The Members (A-World)

BONUS: The Kingdom Performances

BONUS: Turbulence & The Real

BONUS: The Meaning of Hala Hala & Mito

BONUS: Work MV

BONUS: Ice On My Teeth MV

BONUS: Aniteez Lore

BONUS: The Symbolism of the chandeliers

Part 1: Fever Series Masterlist

Part 2: Treasure Series Masterlist

Part 3: The World Series Masterlist

Part 4: Golden Hour Series Masterlist

Part 4.5: Halazia Masterlist

Want to look at other people's theories? Try clicking here!

[keiiqq]

[tsoachilles-nsfw]

rough sex, this. rough sex, that. what about soft, slow sex ??? grinding against each and whimpering into each other's mouths pathetically ??? feeling their hand on your throat, calmly possessing you ??? kissing each other everywhere, not necessarily even to make marks, just to feel each other ??? them holding your hands above your head ??? whispering sweet nothings in each other's ears ??? tracing each other's bodies afterwards just for the feeling of affection ??? cuddle sex ??? sleepy sex ???? what about that ?????

[doolet]

SAFE SPACE - ATEEZ

paring: ot8 x f!reader

summary: how ateez comforts you!

warning(s): angst, hurt comfort, fluff

wc: 1.9k

Request!

1 | 2

❀°。 hongjoong

Today wasn’t your day.

You woke up with a terrible headache, your legs like jello, and your entire body in pain like you were eighty years old. Only you knew what that meant.

It’d be a miserable week.

You stay in your room for the most part, too tired to try to move around. Hot tears plaster your cheeks when the cramps take over. Hongjoong, of course, notices immediately. And this isn’t new to him; he knows the drill by heart: favorite chocolates in your reach, more water than you can ever think of drinking in a glass jar on your nightstand, takeout already ordered, and a nice, hot bath for after.

“Baby, I ordered your favorite!” He coos, plastic bag in hand.

He lifts it in the air, moving over next to your bed. “I knew you'd be having a rough day, so I wanted to spoil you.”

You give a meek smile, wiping the tears from your face and sitting up to meet him halfway. He scans your face— eyes swollen and red from crying, lips quivering slightly.

“I know, baby.” He pushes a piece of your hair behind your ear, setting the food off to the side.

He continues, pulling you into his lap and cradling your head in his arms. “I hate seeing you like this.”

“Just let me spoil you the best I can.”

❀°。seonghwa

“Five people called out sick today,” your purse hits the wooden dinner table with a loud thud. “Thats practically our whole staff.”

You lean forward, hands flat on the table and head hanging low. From the kitchen, Seonghwa stops sipping on his chai tea.

“Bastards,” he says lowly.

You let out a meek laugh, wiping your mouth with the back of your sleeve. Tears already pricking at your eyes.

He notices, beckoning you over with two fingers. “Come here, love.”

You listen, melting into his arms when they wrap around your exhausted body. He slides his hand to cup the back of your head, nails gently scratching at your scalp.

“Sit,” he says gently, pulling you away from his chest and wiping your tears with the pads of his thumbs. “I already made dinner. You're not gonna lift another finger tonight.”

❀°。yunho

Black, dark streaks of mascara run under your eyes. Your concealer cakes up even after fifty sprays of setting spray. And your fake lashes refuse to cooperate.

Tonight was supposed to be special— date night with your boyfriend, Yunho.

You’d get all prettied up for him, slip into that dress he likes, and gorge on expensive food you wouldn’t have to pay for. But it’s not going how you wanted it to.

“Baby?” he calls, pushing open your creaky bedroom door.

The lights are dimmed. He can’t see it right away, but tears are already falling down your face. You don’t bother to look toward the door; you don’t even acknowledge it. Your hands work on autopilot, soaking cotton pads with makeup remover and aggressively wiping away the already–ruined makeup.

He continues inside, footsteps muffled by the carpet.

“Wanna talk about it?” he asks gently.

You shake your head, lips wobbling as you hold back a sob, cotton pad running underneath your eye to catch a stray tear.

Yunho exhales, crouching down beside your vanity. He looks at you through the mirror— your eyes bloodshot red, eyelids already puffing up.

“Look at me, love,” he says, tilting his head to try catching your gaze in the mirror. But you don’t let him.

He takes your jaw in his hand, guiding you to look at him. He looks heartbroken just from the sight of you.

“My love…” he whispers, thumb brushing away your tears and the mascara streaks. “What happened?”

You try to speak, but no sound comes out. Your throat burns from the effort to stay quiet, tightening under the weight on your chest.

“You know you’re beautiful. You don’t need any of this,” he murmurs, gesturing to the half-opened makeup scattered across your desk. “I’ll cancel the reservation. Just let me take care of you tonight, okay?”

His other hand runs over your knee, thumb stroking the fabric of your satin dress.

“I’ll run you a hot bath.”

❀°。yeosang

“Crap!” you yelp.

You yank your hand away from the metal pan, hand clutched to your chest. The pain slowly creeps down your hand— a cold flash before the stinging. The tears come before you can even think about crying— stinging the same way your burn does.

“What happened?” you hear from down the hall, and out comes Yeosang, running over like someone was hit by a truck.

You hesitate, embarrassed, but slowly, you stick your hand out to him. He notices the obvious growing red mark on the palm of your hand. His eyes grow wide, and he takes your hand into his.

“Oh, honey,” he says, pulling you over to a nearby bathroom and shuffling through the cabinets.

You stand there awkwardly, sniffling and holding your limp wrist.

“I didn't think it would get hot so quickly,” you mutter.

He glances at you quickly before standing up, aloe gel in hand. “It’s okay, it was just an accident.”

His thumbs swipe away your tears, blowing on your burn before applying the ice-cold gel. You wince when it hits your skin, the stinging growing before depleting.

“Call for me when you want to cook,” he jokes, kissing you on the cheek as he wraps your palm.

❀°。san

“I don’t cry at sad movies” were your famous last words.

The movie's ending hit you harder than a truck, used tissues tossed around and tears sliding off your sore cheeks.

“I thought you said you didn’t cry at sad movies,” you hear from beside you.

You glance at San, pouting and shaking your head. “I thought this one wouldn’t be that sad— and then the dog died!”

He lets out a soft sigh as he smiles at you. His body turns to yours completely, and he’s pulling you close.

“It’s just a movie, the doggy actor is alive and well,” he reassures, caressing your hair softly.

“Well, he should’ve lived in the movie.”

❀°。mingi

You've been called sensitive your entire life. A crybaby, dramatic, emotional— everything under the sun. You learned to brush it off, ignore it. You weren't that five-year-old little girl anymore.

But tonight hit you harder. Because the comment wasn't from your sibling, your friend, or a stranger. Those you could handle. Instead, it came from Mingi himself.

“Why are you being so dramatic?” he said, hands grasping at his hair.

It was something in the moment, a comment he made without properly thinking. He hadn’t meant it, and deep down you knew that. But that didn’t stop your heart from shattering into tiny pieces, didn’t stop the tears from flowing.

He stands in the doorway, awkwardly leaning against the doorframe and nervously playing with his fingers.

“Baby?” he whispers. “I’m sorry. Can we talk?”

You sniff, shaking your head against your pillow. “It’s okay, I’m fine.” Your voice wavers on the last bit.

His face falls. He walks into the room, kneeling at the edge of the bed where your face is. He looks almost as if he’s in pain, eyebrows pinched and lips in a pout like he’d also start crying at any moment.

He pushes a stray strand out from your face. “I didn’t mean it, baby; I swear.”

“I was frustrated, and I wasn’t thinking. I was being stupid.”

He immediately pulls you into him, arms wrapping around your shoulders as he pulls you down onto the floor with him.

“Please, baby, you’re not dramatic,” he says, voice now wavering. “Let me fix it.”

❀°。wooyoung

Having an idol boyfriend is not for the faint of heart. Hours pass when they work, their schedules are filled to the brim with things to get done, and not to mention the traveling.

You were fine with it— or at least, you thought you were fine with it. In the beginning it was easy, watching him perform made your day. But gradually, as the days went on, watching him made your heart tug, stomach drop.

His face finally pops up on your phone screen after the second ring. Your once-in-a-lifetime FaceTime. He’s sweaty, black hair sticking to his forehead, and he’s rubbing the exhaustion out of his eyes.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says cheerfully.

You try to smile, but the back of your throat strains before you can even speak. You angle the phone away from your face to gather yourself, rubbing your eyes.

But by the time you come back into frame— he’s already caught on.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Nothing, just tired too.”

He leans forward on screen. “Don’t lie, sweets.”

You wipe at your eyes again when a tear escapes the corner of your eye.

“I just really miss you.”

His face falls. He leans the temple of his head against his arm, staring up at the camera.

“I just wish you were here,” you finish.

He glances off screen, a mischievous look on his face. “Give me a few minutes.”

You blink, sniffling. “Why?”

“I’m gonna sneak out and come over.”

❀°。jongho

Thunder was the one thing that got to you.

Not blood, not pain, not even the creepy crawlers that hid in the dark crevices of the house.

Thunder.

Rain pounds against the window of your shared bedroom, heater on high, fan off. There’s no sound but the sweet, comforting patter of rain— at least until thunder and lightning come into the mix.

Some people love it, the combination of beautiful flashes hitting the earth accompanied by the harsh boom right after. Some say it’s calming, grounding.

But for you, it’s the bane of your existence.

You lie in bed with the duvet pulled up to your ears, only your toes peeking from the bottom of the blanket. Your whole body shivers, tensing when a loud crack of thunder breaks the calm rhythm of the rain. Tears slip past your lashes, dampening the pillow beneath you.

Jongho sleeps beside you— fast asleep. He’s like a rock, able to sleep through anything.

However, a pair of arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer to the safety of a warm chest.

It’s him. Jongho.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he whispers, his thumbs caressing the soft fabric of your sleep shirt.

You turn, burying your face in his chest, hands pressed firmly over your ears. Was it childish? Maybe. But you’ve never had a good experience with thunder. Something was always bound to happen when a storm hit— and he knew this.

So, there he stays, petting your soft hair, skimming your thigh when you inch closer, and kissing your damp hairline. He never once complains about your fear— just holds you, comforting you until you inevitably fall asleep in his arms.

masterlist

[stone2luvvv]

pov: you got married to yunho from ateez then years later you guys had 2 kids

[mingiatz]

Eight boys, eight hearts, eight very different ways to confess…

So here’s a tiny collection of how I imagine each ATEEZ member would finally tell you they’re in love.

Get comfy, it’s about to get soft.

Hongjoong | Seonghwa | Yunho | Yeosang | San | Mingi | Wooyoung | Jongho

💕⚡ — W O O Y O U N G — ⚡💕

Vibe: teasing → suddenly serious, flirty turned heartfelt

Trope: jokes become confessions

Warnings: playful chaos, heart-stopping sincerity, surprise softness

A/N: Wooyoung flirts with everyone, but means it with only one person. And when he drops the act? It’s intense. It’s honest. It’s impossible to mistake. This one hits right in the stomach 🤧💕

You should have known he was up to something the moment he didn’t take the good side of the couch.

Wooyoung is a menace, but a consistent one. That’s how you’ve survived being friends with him this long. You’ve learned his patterns.

Pattern #1: If there are snacks, he will steal at least 70% of them and pretend it’s your fault.

Pattern #2: If there is music, he will either be dancing or threatening to dance.

Pattern #3: If there is a couch, he will always take the corner with the best view of the TV and stretch out like a king, forcing everyone else to adapt.

Tonight, though, he walks into your living room, throws himself down on the less ideal side of the couch, and leaves the good corner free.

You narrow your eyes.

“Who are you,” you say, “and what have you done with Jung Wooyoung?”

He glances over, already halfway through opening the bag of chips he brought.

“Wow,” he says. “No ‘hello,’ no ‘wow, thank you for coming over with snacks like the generous king you are,’ just immediate suspicion.”

“I can multitask,” you say. “Hello, I’m suspicious.”

His mouth twitches.

“I just felt like sitting here,” he says, as if that settles it. “Nothing weird.”

You keep staring.

He keeps not meeting your eyes.

Interesting.

You put your hands on your hips. “You’re acting strange.”

He scoffs. “I’m always strange.”

“Okay, more strange,” you correct. “Did you break something? Is there bad news? Did you get a new haircut and you’re afraid I’ll roast you?”

He rolls his eyes and finally looks at you properly.

“No bad news,” he says. “No broken things. Hair still perfect, as you can see.” He flicks imaginary strands dramatically.

You squint.

“Are you dying?” you ask.

He snorts. “No? What?”

“Blink twice if the real Wooyoung is trapped in a basement somewhere,” you say. “Because the Wooyoung I know would have already eaten half that bag of chips and also stolen my blanket.”

“Your blanket is ugly,” he says.

“My blanket is cozy.”

“It looks like it was made out of retired grandpa cardigans.”

“And yet,” you say, pointed, “you always steal it.”

He opens his mouth, closes it, then shoves a chip in instead of replying. Classic avoidance.

You cross the room and flop down on the couch beside him, deliberately taking the corner. You tuck your feet up and claim your blanket, draping it over your lap.

He watches you, eyes flicking once to your legs disappearing under the fabric, and then away.

Okay, definitely weird.

You pull the blanket up aggressively, as if wrapping yourself in armor.

“Talk,” you say. “What’s going on in that head.”

He sighs dramatically, flopping back against the cushions.

“Can I at least pick the movie first?” he asks.

“We’ve seen every movie on your list,” you say. “Twice.”

“Third time’s the charm,” he says.

You snort. “Second time was the charm. Third time is concerning.”

“Fourth is tradition,” he counters.

You open your mouth to argue, but then you see the nervous flicker at the corner of his mouth, the way his hands are fidgeting with the ripped corner of the chip bag.

You exhale.

“Okay,” you say more quietly. “What’s wrong?”

His gaze snaps to you again, and this time he doesn’t look away.

For just a second, the chaos peels back, and you see it—something raw and unguarded in his eyes. It makes your chest go tight.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he says, softer now. “I just… wanted to see you.”

Your heart skips.

He says that kind of thing all the time. It’s not new. But tonight, with his shoulders a little tense and his usual bravado turned down a notch, it feels different.

“You saw me yesterday,” you point out gently.

He shrugs, eyes flicking back to the TV. “Yeah, well. I wanted to see you today too.”

You feel your face warm.

You hate how easily he does this to you. How one sentence, one look, can send your carefully arranged feelings tumbling like a stack of unsteady books.

You’ve liked him for a while now. Not in the vague, “oh he’s cute” kind of way. In the can’t-stop-thinking-about-him, stomach-flipping, half-panicked, half-thrilled kind of way.

Not that you’d ever admit that. Not when he’s like… this.

Jung Wooyoung, professional tease, serial flirt, walking chaos. He flirts with everyone. He likes making people flustered. That’s just how he is.

You tell yourself that when he throws an arm around your shoulders, he does that with everyone. When he drops into your lap, it’s because he’s a menace, not because he wants to be close to you, specifically. When he calls you “my favorite,” he says that about at least five other things a day.

It doesn’t matter that sometimes his eyes linger a little longer on you than they do on anyone else. That sometimes his jokes land with an odd weight, as if he’s hiding something in them. That sometimes, when he thinks you’re not looking, he looks… soft.

You’re his friend. You’re not going to mess that up by reading into every smile.

…Even if you kind of do.

“Did something happen?” you ask. “With work? With the guys?”

He shakes his head. “No. Just… a normal day.” He hesitates. “The kind that makes you think too much.”

That—that you understand.

You sink further into the couch, pulling the blanket up to your chin, suddenly feeling oddly exposed under his gaze.

“Okay,” you say. “Normal day thoughts. Do you want distraction or do you want to talk about them?”

He gives you a crooked half-smile.

“Since when did you become so emotionally intelligent?” he asks. “Usually your suggestion for my problems is ‘have you tried sleeping?’”

“It’s a good suggestion,” you say. “Very underrated.”

“You threatened to knock me out with a frying pan once so I’d go to bed,” he reminds you.

“I stand by that,” you say.

He laughs quietly, and some of the tension in his shoulders eases.

“I… don’t know what I want,” he admits. “Distraction sounds nice. Talking also sounds nice. There’s just—”

He breaks off, teeth catching his lower lip.

“There’s what?” you prompt.

He stares at you for a beat, something like frustration flashing across his features.

“You’re going to laugh at me,” he says.

“I laugh at you constantly,” you point out.

“That’s the problem,” he groans. “You’re too comfortable.”

“Wow,” you say. “Excuse me for enjoying your presence.”

He drags a hand through his hair, making it stand up even more.

“See?” he says. “You say things like that, and then you look at me with that face, and my brain just—”

He makes a small exploding gesture near his temple.

“—short-circuits.”

Your heartbeat stutters.

“Wooyoung,” you say slowly. “You’re really not making any sense.”

“I know,” he says. “I’m trying to work up to it.”

“To what?” you ask.

He looks at you, really looks, eyes searching your face like he’s trying to memorize it. You suddenly feel too warm under his gaze, hyper-aware of the way you’re sitting, the way your hands are clutched in your lap, the way your heart is hammering.

“Okay,” he says, half to himself. “Distraction first. Talk later.”

Before you can argue, he snatches up the remote and starts scrolling through your streaming app like his life depends on finding the perfect movie.

You watch him, the speed of his scrolling, the way his knee bounces erratically. He is Very Clearly Not Okay.

“Wooyoung,” you say. “You’re scrolling past everything twice.”

“Nothing’s speaking to me,” he says tightly.

“Maybe because you’re not reading,” you point out.

He grunts.

You reach over and take the remote from his hand.

“Hey!”

“Wooyoung.”

“What?”

“Look at me.”

He hesitates, then slowly turns his head. His eyes meet yours, dark and suddenly very serious.

“Talk first,” you say gently. “Then distraction. Your brain is doing that thing where it yells a lot in the background. I can practically hear it.”

He stares at you, lips pressed together like he’s pushing words back.

Then, unexpectedly, he laughs.

It’s a short, breathy laugh, disbelieving.

“What?” you ask.

“You,” he says softly. “You always do this.”

You blink. “Do what?”

“You look at me,” he says, “and suddenly I can’t hide anything.”

Something in your chest twinges.

“Is that… bad?” you ask.

He shakes his head quickly. “No. That’s…” He exhales. “That’s actually my favorite thing.”

You have to fight very hard not to melt into the couch.

“Okay,” you say, trying to sound normal when your insides are anything but. “Then let’s use it. What’s going on in there?”

You tap his forehead lightly.

He makes a face. “Rude.”

“Honest,” you correct.

He looks away, then back, then away again. Finally, he shuts his eyes for a brief second, like he’s bracing himself, then opens them and meets your gaze head-on.

“Promise you won’t make a joke before I finish?” he asks.

“Wow, calling me out,” you say, but you nod. “Okay. I promise.”

He nods, takes a breath, and then—

“Sometimes,” he says slowly, “I don’t know how to be serious with you without pretending I’m not.”

You blink. “What?”

He scrubs a hand over his face. “See? This is why I wanted distraction first.”

“Too late,” you say gently. “Explain.”

He leans his head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling.

“Everyone thinks I’m…” He gestures vaguely. “You know. Loud. Playful. Flirty. Annoying.”

“You left out ‘nimble,’” you say automatically.

He shoots you a look, and you mime zipping your lips.

“And they’re not wrong,” he continues. “I am all those things. I like being that way. It’s fun making people laugh. It’s fun teasing them, getting reactions. It’s… easy.”

You listen quietly, your heart tuning into a more careful rhythm. This isn’t a side of him most people get to see.

“But sometimes,” he says, “it feels like that’s all people want from me. Like I’m… performing all the time. Even when I don’t mean to.” He shifts, fingers picking at a loose thread on his jeans. “And then there’s you.”

You swallow. “Me?”

He nods.

“With you,” he says, “I start out joking. I can’t help it. It’s like my default setting. But then we’re in your kitchen, and you’re burning something again—”

“Hey.”

“—and you’re yelling at the pan like it personally offended you, and I’m laughing, and then all of a sudden, I look at you and it’s like… everything in me shuts up for a second.” His voice drops. “And I feel… calm. In a way I don’t, with other people.”

You stare at him.

“I still want to joke,” he says. “But it’s not because I want to hide. It’s because I want to see you laugh. Because your laugh is… stupid.” He grimaces. “Stupid in a way that makes me feel like my chest is going to fall apart.”

Your lips twitch. “My laugh is stupid?”

“Adorable,” he amends quickly. “Infuriatingly cute. Very distracting. I hate it.”

You smile, helpless.

“And then,” he continues, steamrolling over whatever expression is on your face now, “there are these moments. Tiny ones. You hand me a mug. You look at me when I say something dumb. You send me a meme in the middle of the day. You tell me about your week and try to act like you’re fine when you’re not.”

He swallows.

“And my brain goes,”—he taps his temple—“‘You’re in trouble.’”

Your throat feels tight.

“And I tell it, ‘Relax, we’re fine. They’re my friend. My best friend. My favorite person to annoy. That’s all.’” He laughs weakly. “But then we’re watching TV and you fall asleep on my shoulder and I don’t move for two hours because I’m afraid of waking you up, even though my arm is dead. And my brain goes, ‘No, really. You’re in trouble.’”

You remember that night. You remember waking up with a sore neck and an empty bowl of popcorn on the table, his hoodie draped over you like a blanket, even though you don’t remember when he took it off.

You hadn’t let yourself think about it too much.

You’re thinking about it now.

“And then,” he says softly, “I start wondering what it would be like to… hold your hand. Just because. Not because we’re crossing a street or I’m dragging you somewhere. To kiss you goodnight at your door and not make a joke about it. To show up at your work and say, ‘I’m here to pick up my....girlfriend’ instead of ‘my friend.’”

Your pulse spikes.

“And once that thought is in there,” he says, his voice trembling just slightly, “it doesn’t go away. It just… hangs around. Every time you look at me. Every time you call me. Every time you say my name like it… matters.”

Your eyes sting.

“Wooyoung…” you whisper.

“I tried to be cool about it,” he says. “Obviously. I’m very cool.”

“You’re incredibly cool,” you say, because he needs to hear it and because it makes his mouth twitch.

“I figured I’d just… flirt like I always do,” he says. “Except… it stopped being just flirting.”

He finally looks at you again, really looks.

“When I call you pretty,” he says quietly, “I mean it. When I say you’re my favorite, I mean it. When I tease you, it’s because I want your attention. When I steal your blanket, it’s because it smells like you. When I annoy you on purpose, it’s because I like seeing all your expressions. When I say ‘come over’ or ‘I’m coming over,’ it’s because… I feel better when you’re there.”

Your heart is pounding so hard you’re surprised he can’t hear it.

“And somewhere in all of that,” he continues, “I stopped being able to tell where the joke ended and the truth started.” His smile goes crooked. “So I did what I always do. I made everything a joke.”

Your chest aches.

“Today,” he says, “I woke up and thought, ‘What if I never tell you?’ And for about ten minutes, I was like, ‘Great, perfect, ideal plan, no risk, 10/10.’”

You huff out a weak laugh.

“But then I thought about you,” he says. “About you maybe falling for someone else. Someone who doesn’t know that you put your socks on before your pants because you said it ‘feels more efficient.’ Someone who doesn’t know that you hate when your foods touch. Someone who doesn’t know that you get quiet when you’re really upset, not loud. Someone who doesn’t know how you look when you’re trying not to cry and trying not to laugh at the same time.” His voice softens. “Someone who doesn’t know the things about you that I do.”

Your eyes blur.

“And the idea of that person being the one who gets to hold your hand,” he says, “or ...kiss you, or hear you say ‘I love you’ to them, when I’ve been here this whole time…” He trails off, then shakes his head, laughing humorlessly. “It made me feel like I couldn’t breathe.”

You realize now why he’s been off all night. Why his usual fire has been flickering instead of blazing.

“So I thought,” he says, staring at his hands, “maybe I should just tell you. Properly. Not in a joke. Not in a comment I can pretend I didn’t mean. Just… say it.” He glances at you, then looks away again quickly. “But that’s… terrifying.”

You wet your lips.

“What’s ‘it’?” you ask quietly, even though you already know. Even though your heart is pushing against your ribs like it’s trying to get closer to him on its own.

He laughs under his breath. It’s not a happy sound.

“You’re really going to make me say it, huh?” he says.

“You started this,” you remind him softly. “I just turned off the movie.”

He drags his hand down his face again, then lets it fall into his lap.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

He takes a breath. Lets it out.

When he speaks again, his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it.

“I like you,” he says. “In the ‘I want to date you’ way. In the ‘I want to be the one you call first’ way. In the ‘I want to kiss you and then make fun of your music taste’ way. In the ‘I think about you way too much’ way.”

He swallows.

“And… I think,” he adds, “that maybe ‘like’ stopped being a big enough word a while ago.”

Your lungs forget how to function.

He looks at you then, properly, his usual sharp stare melted into something earnest and scared and wide open.

“I love you,” he says.

The room seems to tilt.

“This isn’t a joke,” he says quickly, in case you had any doubt. “I’m not… playing around. I’m not saying it to get a reaction. I’m saying it because my chest has been screaming it at me for months, and if I don’t let it out, I might actually start vibrating.”

Despite everything, a quiet laugh escapes you.

“Wooyoung,” you whisper.

“I love you,” he repeats, more quietly this time, as if the words got easier on the second try. “I love you. And if you want to laugh, you can. If you want to tell me to stop, I will. If you don’t feel the same, I’ll go back to being your annoying friend who steals your snacks and crashes on your couch and tries very, very hard not to make it weird.”

His jaw clenches.

“But I couldn’t keep…” He gestures vaguely at his chest. “I couldn’t keep pretending it wasn’t real. Not with you. Not when… you mean this much to me.”

For a moment, all you can do is stare at him.

The boy who never shuts up is sitting completely still, waiting for you to decide whether you just changed his entire world or burned it down.

Your eyes sting. You blink, once, twice, trying to clear your vision.

“This is so unfair,” you say.

His face crumples, just a fraction.

“Unfair?” he repeats, voice suddenly hoarse. “Because you don’t—?”

“Because you stole my line,” you say, your voice wobbling.

He blinks. “What?”

You take a shaky breath, your heart pounding.

“You think you’re the only one whose brain is screaming?” you ask, half laugh, half sob. “You think you’re the only one who had an ‘oh no, I’m in trouble’ moment? Have you met yourself? Have you seen what you’re like?”

He looks bewildered. “I— what does that—”

“You show up,” you continue, because if you stop now you won’t start again, “and everything gets louder and quieter at the same time. Louder here—” You press a hand to your chest. “—quieter here.” You tap your temple. “You annoy me on purpose and then look at me like I’m the only one in the room. You steal my blanket and then tuck it back around me when I fall asleep. You flirt with everyone, but then you… say things to me that you don’t say to them, and I spend three business days trying to figure out if you meant them.”

His eyes widen slowly.

“And then you look at me,” you say, “when you think I’m not looking. Like you’re doing now, by the way, you’re very bad at hiding.”

He doesn’t even try to deny it.

“And I’ve been sitting here,” you say, “telling myself not to read into it. Not to ruin things. Not to be stupid. Because you’re my friend. You’re… Wooyoung. Chaotic, flirty, obnoxious, wonderful Wooyoung. And I thought… there’s no way. There’s no way he actually… feels the same.”

You let out a small, disbelieving laugh.

“But then you say things like ‘you’re my favorite person,’” you add, “and ‘I wanted to see you today too,’ and my heart is like, ‘sorry, your call cannot be completed as dialed, it’s too late, we’ve already jumped.’”

His lips part.

“You…” he starts slowly, “you… jumped?”

“I free-fell,” you admit, cheeks wet now. “And then I landed on my couch and pretended I didn’t.”

He stares at you, something dawning in his expression.

“So when I said I love you—” he begins carefully.

“I wanted to scream,” you say. “In a good way. Mostly.”

His breath catches.

“Do you…” He swallows. “Do you… love me too?”

You could tease him. Drag it out. Make a joke.

You don’t.

“Yes,” you say simply. “I do.”

No metaphors. No hiding. The truth, plain and solid.

His reaction is immediate and unfiltered.

He inhales sharply, shoulders jerking, eyes going huge. A sound escapes him — half laugh, half sob — before he claps a hand over his mouth like he’s afraid something too big will come out.

You see it anyway. Everything he’s feeling, clear on his face: relief, disbelief, joy so intense it looks like it almost hurts.

You gently tug his hand away from his mouth.

“Don’t hide,” you say softly. “Not from me.”

He exhales shakily.

“You love me,” he says, like he needs to hear it again to believe it.

You nod.

“I love you,” you say. “In the ‘please stop flirting with other people so casually before I die’ way. In the ‘I replay our conversations in my head at night’ way. In the ‘I want to sucker-punch anyone who makes you feel like you’re only good for being entertaining’ way.”

His eyes flood, lashes damp.

“In the ‘I want to be the one you come home to after your normal and weird days’ way,” you finish, voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah. I love you.”

For a second, he doesn’t move.

Then he laughs — a raw, choked sound — and throws himself at you.

You oof as he grabs you, arms winding around your shoulders, pulling you into a hug that’s all Wooyoung: too tight, too warm, too much, and exactly what you want.

You wrap your arms around him, laughing breathlessly against his shoulder.

“Careful,” you say. “I need that ribcage.”

“Do you?” he says, voice muffled in your hair. “Because my heart is outside my body right now.”

You squeeze him. “Mine too.”

He pulls back just enough to see your face, his hands still framing your shoulders. His eyes are shining, his cheeks flushed, his mouth curved in the softest version of his usual grin.

“I want to kiss you,” he blurts, then freezes. “I mean— can I? Can I kiss you? You can say no, it’s fine—”

You cut him off by leaning in and pressing your mouth to his.

He makes a startled noise, then recovers instantly, a smile breaking across his face mid-kiss. His hands slide from your shoulders to your cheeks, thumbs brushing your skin as he kisses you back properly, deeply, like he’s been waiting his whole life for this exact moment.

It’s… a lot.

It’s Wooyoung, so of course it is. He kisses like he does everything: with his whole heart. Playful at first, then suddenly earnest, then teasing again. He tilts his head, chasing your lips when you pull back slightly, laughing softly into your mouth when your hand finds the back of his neck and tugs him closer.

When you finally part, you’re both breathing harder, foreheads resting together.

“Wow,” he whispers. “You’re good at that.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you say, dazed.

He grins, that familiar wicked glint back in his eyes but this time it’s softened, framed by something deeper.

“So,” he says, voice still a little breathless. “We’re… dating now, right? Because if you tell me that kiss was, like, a community service moment, I’m going to pass out.”

You snort. “Yes, Wooyoung. We’re dating now.”

His grin somehow gets even bigger.

“I have a partner,” he says, like he’s trying the words on. “I have you.”

“You do,” you say.

He pulls you into another hug, burying his face in your neck.

“Okay,” he says. “First official boyfriend request.”

“You don’t waste time, do you?” you murmur against his hair.

“Never,” he says. “Stop doubting when I compliment you. I mean every stupid thing I say about you.”

Your chest tightens.

“Okay,” you say softly. “First official girlfriend promise: I’ll try.”

He pulls back, eyes searching yours.

“And second request,” he says.

“Already?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Next time I flirt with you…”

“Next time?” you interrupt. “You mean constantly.”

“…I want you to know,” he continues, undeterred, “that it’s real. Not just a joke. Not just me being chaos. It’s me saying ‘I love you’ in a way that makes you roll your eyes less.”

You bite your lip, smile tugging at it anyway.

“And my request,” you say, “is that you tell me when you need to be serious. Like tonight. So I can turn the jokes off and actually… see you.”

He feels that. You can tell by the way his expression softens.

“Deal,” he says quietly. “But you already see me.”

You smile.

“I do,” you say. “Took you long enough to realize it.”

He laughs, then suddenly gasps.

“Oh my god.”

“What?”

“We kissed before deciding on a movie,” he says. “This is chaos. This is anarchy. This is—”

You lean in and kiss him again, effectively shutting him up.

When you pull away, he sighs happily.

“Never mind,” he says. “Anarchy is fine.”

You chuckle, tugging the blanket again so it covers both of you now. He immediately takes advantage, scooting closer until he’s practically on top of you, his head on your shoulder, his fingers toying with your hand under the fabric.

“What are we going to watch, then?” you ask.

“You,” he says.

You elbow him lightly. “Pick a movie, loverboy.”

He grins up at you.

“Yes, partner,” he says, obviously savoring the word.

As he scrolls for something to put on, occasionally stopping to kiss your shoulder or your cheek or your knuckles, you lean back into the cushions, feeling warmth spread through your chest.

The couch is the same. The room is the same. The blanket is the same borderline-ugly-grandpa pattern. Wooyoung is still Wooyoung—dramatic, loud, annoying, endearing.

But his hand is in yours, his confession is echoing in your mind, and his eyes, when they flick to you between menu screens, are full of something new and undeniable.

He catches you staring and smirks.

“What?” he says. “Already obsessed with me?”

“Unfortunately,” you say.

He kisses the back of your hand.

“Good,” he says simply.

And just like that, with snacks on the table and a terrible movie starting up in the background, you realize: nothing has changed and everything has.

You still have Wooyoung on your couch, stealing your blanket and your snacks.

Only now, you have his heart, too.

And he finally knows he has yours.

thank you for reading, see you in the next confession

Find the other members here:

Hongjoong | Seonghwa | Yunho | Yeosang | San | Mingi | Wooyoung | Jongho

Taglist:@ninjakitty15 @dalsuwaha @likeejennie @starmee-lodurrson @luviebears @darjeelinglemontea @ffenjoyerdazme @moonlitcelestial @livonianmaia

[ashlinxloves]

Imagine a home cooking date with Wooyoung. The two of you started out trying to help each other cook, but both of you just got in the way of each other, so Wooyoung decided to sit you down on the stool by the counter while he cooked.

"I can cook too, y'know." "But you cook for me every day. Let me spoil you tonight." "But Woo—"

Before you could protest any more, he shoved a chopped piece of carrot into your mouth, making you hit him while he grinned and continue cooking.

The two of you were supposed to be making lasagna together. It ended up with you sitting by the counter, watching him move around the kitchen with focus and precision. Wooyoung looked perfect in the kitchen, like he was in his element.

"You would look hot as a house husband." "Mm, yeah? Am I your husband now, then?" "What—"

Your face flushed at the idea of marriage. Sure, you imagined having Wooyoung as your husband the mention of it so suddenly was kind of embarrassing.

"I—I mean– I meant it as a compliment." "All I'm hearing is that you want to marry me." "Wooyoung." "Mmm?" "Shut up." "Pfft—"

Once he finished cooking, you helped clean up the mess, at least doing something while the lasagna baked in the oven. The thoughts about your earlier conversation lingered, making you wonder if he'd really want to marry you.

"Hey, Woo?" "Yeah, baby?" "I.. uhm, never mind." "No, no, tell me. I wanna hear it."

You hesitated, looking at him with slight doubt while drying the dishes. He looked so handsome, so kind, and so, so hubby material.

"Would you marry me?" "Are you proposing?" "What—no!" "Aw man.." "Wooyoung, answer the question." "I meeean..." "Seriously, dude—" "Don't 'dude' me! I'm your boyfriend!" "Just answer it then-!"

You placed the rag down with a frown before Wooyoung suddenly went down on one knee, making you freeze.

"Okay– okay, listen to me. You're the love of my life, and you should know that. I wanted this evening to be more romantic, and I wanted to do this after dinner, but now also feels like the right time. Even if we're washing the dishes. So.. will you marry me?"

He pulled out a velvet box from his pocket, revealing a pretty engagement ring. Your jaw clenched and you could feel tears pricking your eyes.

"Yes—yes-! Of course, I'd marry you!" "Oh thank fucking god, I thought this would fail.." "You're a dumbass." "I'm your dumbass."

Dividers by @cafekitsune

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

Reblog if you love “—” and have never used ChatGPT

[mingiatz]

Eight boys, eight hearts, eight very different ways to confess…

So here’s a tiny collection of how I imagine each ATEEZ member would finally tell you they’re in love.

Get comfy, it’s about to get soft.

Hongjoong | Seonghwa | Yunho | Yeosang | San | Mingi | Wooyoung | Jongho

✿ ⋆ H O N G J O O N G ⋆ ✿

Vibe: soft creativity, late-night studio, accidental honesty

Trope: “I wrote this for you but I’ll pretend I didn’t.”

Warnings: crumbs, flustered tiny leader energy, hand-holding panic

A/N: Hongjoong would never plan to confess properly. He would accidentally drop his entire heart in a song and then panic when you understand it. I wrote this with his little scrunched nose and shy smiles in mind 😭💛

You’re pretty sure the vending machine downstairs is judging you.

It’s the only explanation for why it keeps making that grinding noise every time you press another button. You squint at the rows of drinks and snacks, tug your cardigan tighter around your shoulders, and debate whether buying a third energy drink in one night makes you an enabler or a good friend.

Probably both.

You sigh and press the button anyway.

The can drops with a thud that echoes in the empty corridor of the building. At this hour, most of the lights are off, except the dim strips lining the ceiling and the soft glow spilling out from under one door at the very end of the hallway.

Studio 3.

You don’t have to see the nameplate to know exactly who’s inside. The elevator ride earlier had been quiet, your reflection staring back at you in the scratched metal walls while you hugged a bag full of snacks to your chest. You’d gotten the text from him an hour ago, just when you were about to crawl into bed.

Can’t crack this bridge. My brain is soup. Are you awake?

You’d stared at your phone for half a second before typing back.

Unfortunately for you, yes. Do you want company?

His reply had come fast.

…yeah. If you’re not too tired. I’ll trade eternal gratitude and maybe a song.

The “maybe” had made you roll your eyes. The “eternal gratitude” had made your chest warm.

Now, as you make your way down the hallway with your armful of drinks, chips, and the sad excuse for a triangle kimbap from the convenience store, you can already hear faint sound leaking through the door of Studio 3. The low thump of a bassline. A few chords. The same loop, over and over.

You balance everything in one hand and knock with your elbow. The sound stops instantly.

“Yeah?” Hongjoong’s voice, muffled but familiar.

“It’s me.”

There’s a pause, then the beep of the lock as he buzzes you in. The room is a mess that only he could possibly navigate: papers stacked in little leaning towers, notebooks open to half-filled pages, a couple of empty cups near the computer, and cables everywhere. The neon sign on the wall casts a soft glow that makes the room feel smaller, more intimate, tucked away from the world outside.

He’s in his chair, turned halfway toward you, his hair pulled back with a clip you’re pretty sure he stole from you once and never gave back. There’s a crease between his brows that smooths out the second he sees you.

“There she is,” he says, voice dropping into something soft, relieved. “My favorite creative consultant.”

You snort and kick the door closed behind you. “Your favorite creative consultant has notes about the state of this room.”

“I didn’t invite an inspector.” He drags a hand through his hair, then catches sight of the bag in your arms. “Is that… food?”

“It’s called self-preservation,” you say, stepping carefully over a coil of cable to reach the small coffee table. “If I’m going to be emotionally destroyed by your unfinished demos, I at least want chips.”

He laughs quietly, that little breathy sound he makes when he’s tired, and rolls his chair closer as you unload your haul. “You got the one I like,” he says, spotting his preferred brand of energy drink.

“I always do.” The words leave your mouth too naturally, too easy, like they’ve been sitting there waiting for an excuse to come out.

He looks at you for a second too long before turning the can in his hands, fingers tracing along the rim. “Thanks for coming,” he says. “I know it’s late.”

You wave it off, trying not to think about the way your heart is suddenly beating harder. “You’re not allowed to implode creatively alone. It’s in the friendship terms and conditions.”

“I didn’t sign any contract.”

“You did. You just didn’t read the fine print.”

He smiles, one of those not-quite-smiles that curls at the corner of his mouth and crinkles the skin near his eyes. “Sounds accurate.”

You sink onto the small couch near his desk, tugging your legs underneath you, and let your eyes flick to the computer screen. The DAW is open, a million colored blocks stacked on the timeline: drums, synths, vocals. The project name at the top is something vague, just a date stamped in numbers.

“What are we working on?” you ask, twisting open your own drink.

He swivels back toward the monitor, one hand resting lightly on the mouse. “A mess.”

“Ah,” you say. “Your specialty.”

He turns his head to squint at you, affronted. “You disrespect me in my own studio?”

“It keeps you humble.”

He laughs again, but it’s softer this time. The tension in the air seems to tug, shifting from silly to serious in a way you’ve felt before with him – like there’s always something else hovering just under the surface, waiting.

He clears his throat. “It’s supposed to be a… I don’t know. A late-night song, I guess.”

“Very descriptive.”

“Oh, hush.” His fingers tap against the keyboard. “Here, just listen. Don’t look at me too hard while you do, I’ll get self-conscious.”

“Noted.”

He hits the spacebar.

Music fills the small room, wrapping around you like warm fog. It’s not fully mixed yet; you can hear the rough edges, the places where one sound juts against another. But the bones of it are there. A simple piano line, gentle and nostalgic. A steady beat underneath, soft, like footsteps on a wet street. And then—

His voice.

You’ve heard him sing a hundred times, watched him perform, seen him in front of crowds. But there’s something different about how he sounds through the studio monitors in this tiny room, in the quiet hours when the world outside has gone still. His voice is softer here, stripped down, like he’s talking only to one person and no one else.

You close your eyes without meaning to.

The first verse is about being awake when everyone else is asleep. About lights burning in windows and the feeling of being stuck in your own head. About the way the city sounds at night, faraway sirens and occasional cars. It’s lonely, but not hopeless. Just honest.

Then the pre-chorus comes in, and your throat tightens.

It shifts.

Now it’s about someone’s laugh. Someone’s footprints next to his. Someone who always shows up, even when they’re tired, with cold hands and warm eyes. The words don’t say a name, but it feels… weirdly specific. He sings about hands that always carry snacks, about someone who “knows all my bad habits and still knocks on my door.”

You open your eyes slowly, staring at the floor so you won’t accidentally meet his gaze.

The chorus builds gently around his voice, more instruments sliding in, but not enough to drown him out. The lyrics paint a picture of late nights in the studio, discarded coffee cups, looping melodies, and—

You always stay until the song makes sense

You always laugh when I forget to rest

You always call my chaos home

And I don’t know how to tell you yet

But I write it down in every song instead—

Your heart stumbles.

He’s singing about… someone. Someone who sounds an awful lot like—

The track continues, but your ears are roaring now. Your brain starts flipping through memories: the nights you’ve sat right here while he scribbled ideas in a notebook; the countless times you’ve arrived with takeout; the way he always seems relieved just to see you, like you’re a breath of air after being underwater too long.

You swallow hard.

Beside you, he fidgets in his chair. You don’t have to look at him to know he’s watching you.

The song glides into the second verse, talking about little things now: texts sent at 2 a.m., inside jokes, the comfort of someone’s voice when everything else feels loud. There’s a line about “your old sweater on my chair,” and you recognize it instantly – the cardigan you forgot here once and never bothered to take back.

Your fingers curl in the fabric of the same cardigan around your shoulders.

By the time the bridge hits, your eyes are stinging.

In the bridge, the words tiptoe dangerously close to something you can’t ignore.

If I say your name would it all change?

If I touch your hand would you pull away?

I hide it in chords and metaphors

But I’m only writing you more and more—

The last chorus soaks the room, his voice layering with echoes, harmonies weaving around each other like the feeling that’s been sitting under your ribs for months—years, maybe. You’re not sure anymore when it started. You just know it hasn’t gone away.

The song ends on a held note, fading into the quiet hum of the studio. The screen stops scrolling.

Silence.

You realize you’ve been holding your breath and let it out slowly.

“Well,” you say, because words are easier than the kaleidoscope in your chest. “That was trash. Pack it up, career’s over.”

He lets out a strangled sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “You’re the worst.”

You finally look up at him.

He’s turned his chair halfway toward you, elbows on his knees, hands twisted together like he doesn’t know what to do with them. There’s a nervous tilt to his mouth, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek, and his eyes…

His eyes are locked on yours with an intensity that makes your skin buzz.

“So?” he asks quietly. “What do you think?”

You could joke. You could deflect. You could pretend you didn’t hear yourself in every line.

Instead, the truth slips out in a small, vulnerable voice you barely recognize as your own.

“I think it’s… beautiful,” you say. “It feels really… honest.”

His shoulders loosen a fraction. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You swallow. “It… sounds like you. But more… exposed, I guess.” You gesture vaguely with one hand. “Like you’re not hiding behind a concept this time.”

His gaze flicks down for a second, then back up. “Maybe I’m tired of hiding.”

You blink.

The air thickens.

He clears his throat, looks away, then back again. “Did you… um.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Did you… get the lyrics?”

“I heard them,” you say, a little too fast.

“That’s not what I—” He stops, pinches his eyes shut for a second, then opens them again. “I mean, did they… make sense? Story-wise. Not, like… technically.”

There’s a tiny, terrified hope in his voice that punches right through you.

You breathe in. Out.

“I think,” you say slowly, choosing every word like stepping stones over a river, “that they sound like… someone trying very hard to say something important without actually saying it.”

He flinches like you’ve hit the bullseye.

“And,” you add, your heart hammering, “I think whoever they’re intended for would have to be pretty dense not to realize it’s about them.”

His lips part slightly.

You watch the way his throat bobs as he swallows. He grips the edge of the desk now, knuckles pale.

“What if…” His voice drops, softer than the music ever was. “What if that person is pretty dense?”

You blink once. Twice.

Your fingers tighten around the can in your hand.

“Then,” you say, “maybe you should try saying it without metaphors.”

The moment stretches like a held breath.

He stares at you, eyes wide and stunned, like he hadn’t expected you to hand him the rope that easily. Your pulse is a drum in your ears as you realize what you’ve just done. You’ve taken the quiet thing between you, the one that’s been living in the half-smiles and almost-touches, and set it in the middle of the room under a bright fluorescent light.

He could laugh. He could change the subject. He could throw a joke to replace the weight of this with something lighter.

He doesn’t.

Hongjoong stands up.

The chair rolls back with a faint creak as he pushes away from the desk. He takes a couple of steps toward you, then stops, as if giving you space to run if you want to. He looks suddenly younger and older at the same time — younger in his worry, older in the tired set of his shoulders.

His hand lifts, then falls uselessly to his side.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “No metaphors.”

You can’t move.

“Y/N.” Your name sounds different on his tongue now, like it’s carrying something heavier than usual. “You know that song’s about you, right?”

The words land like a stone dropped into water.

You knew. God, some part of you knew the second he described the late-night and the snacks and the sweater. But hearing him say it out loud makes your mouth go dry.

Your voice comes out small. “Yeah.”

He huffs a very soft, shaky laugh. “Of course you did. You’re smarter than me.”

“That’s not a high bar.”

He gives you a helpless look, like you’re both teetering on the edge of a cliff and you just cracked a joke about gravity.

He takes one more step, close enough now that you can see the faint dark circles under his eyes, the way the studio light paints shadows across his cheekbones. Close enough that you can smell his cologne, subtle and familiar from all the times you’ve hugged him hello and goodbye.

“I didn’t write it just because I thought it would make a good story,” he says. “I wrote it because my brain apparently only knows how to process my feelings in 4/4 timing.”

You let out a breathy laugh that feels more like a sob. “Classic you.”

“Yeah.” He wets his lips. “Classic me. Overcomplicating everything.”

He looks at you for a long moment, and you realize his hands are shaking, just barely. It makes something inside you soften further, like watching someone take off armor piece by piece.

“This is me trying not to overcomplicate it,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “So… here goes.”

You swear the room gets quieter.

“I like you.” The words come out simple, unadorned. “I’ve liked you for a long time. Longer than I should’ve, probably, before I said anything. And then it just got… scarier to say something the longer I waited.”

Your heart squeezes.

He exhales, like the confession itself has taken the wind out of him. “I don’t know when it started exactly. Maybe it was when you sat on that couch over there and fell asleep while I looped the same chorus for an hour. Or when you brought me soup that time I caught the flu and cursed at me for not taking a day off. Or the million other little things you do that make this,”—he gestures vaguely to the studio—“feel less like a box I’m trapped in and more like a place I want to be.”

His eyes are glassy now, but not with tears — more with a strange, intense brightness.

“I keep writing you into everything,” he says, his mouth twisting into a self-conscious smile. “Even when I don’t mean to. You’re in the background of every line, in all the in-betweens. And I thought maybe that would be enough. To just… sing it into the world and hope you never noticed.”

You let out a small, incredulous sound. “You seriously thought I wouldn’t notice a whole song about me leaving my cardigan here?”

He laughs, a little breathless. “In my defense, I changed the color of the cardigan in the second draft.”

“Oh, wow. Master of disguise.”

He smiles, but it fades quickly, replaced by something rawer.

“I’m saying all of this,” he continues, “because I don’t want there to be a day where you hear one of my songs a year from now and go, ‘Oh, I didn’t know he felt like that,’ while you’re… holding someone else’s hand.”

You blink hard.

The image hits you unexpectedly: you at some concert, some future where you and Hongjoong are just friends or… less, even. Standing in a crowd, listening to him pour his heart out on stage and realizing too late that you were the one he’d been writing about all along.

It hurts. Physically hurts.

“So.” He swallows. “I needed to say it now. When it still matters. When… when maybe there’s a chance you might feel the same.”

The silence that follows feels huge.

You realize somewhere in the middle of his speech that your hands have started shaking. You set your drink down carefully on the table so it doesn’t rattle.

“Joong,” you say, your voice wobbling.

He flinches a little at the nickname, like it’s a touch.

“I don’t just bring snacks to any random overworked producer, you know.”

A tiny crease appears between his brows. “What?”

You stand up.

For a second, the room tilts. You’re hyper-aware of everything – the hum of the computer, the faint smell of dust and coffee, the way your sock slides slightly against the polished floor. And him. Always him.

You close the distance between you by one step. Then another.

“I thought I was being obvious,” you say, your mouth tugging into a shaky smile. “But apparently we’re both emotionally constipated.”

His shoulders jerk in a startled laugh. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” you say. “You think I stay here until three in the morning because I love fluorescent lighting?”

“You love my charming personality,” he says reflexively.

“I do,” you admit, the words making you feel suddenly shy. “Way too much, actually.”

His eyes go round.

You take a breath and step closer, until there’s barely a hand’s breadth between you. You tilt your head up to meet his gaze.

“I like you, too, Hongjoong,” you say simply. “Not just in a ‘you’re my best friend, I’ll support you forever’ way. In a ‘I replay our conversations in my head before I sleep’ way. In a ‘I get stupidly happy when your name pops up on my phone’ way. In a ‘I’m pretty sure I’ve been half in love with you for a while’ way.”

The words hang in the air like sparkles of dust caught in sunlight.

He stares at you, stunned silent. After a moment, you see it— the exact second his brain processes your confession. His lips part, then snap shut. His hand lifts halfway, like he’s going to reach for you and thinks better of it.

“Don’t look like I just told you the twist ending of your own movie,” you say, your voice soft but teasing. “You had to know, at least a little.”

“I—” He shakes his head, laughing quietly in disbelief. “I hoped. I hoped so much that I… kind of convinced myself I was imagining it. It was safer that way.”

“Safer’s overrated,” you say. Your heart feels like it’s trying to break out of your chest, but there’s a strange lightness under the nerves. “This… feels better.”

He looks at you like you’ve hung the moon and are downplaying it.

“You’re sure?” he asks, as if he can’t quite trust his own ears. “This isn’t just you being… nice about my song?”

“I mean, I am being nice about your song,” you say. “It’s really, really beautiful.”

You reach up with an unsteady hand and brush your fingers just lightly against the front of his shirt, feeling the rapid beat of his heart under your touch.

“But I’m also being honest,” you add. “And honestly? I’ve wanted to kiss you in this stupid studio for months.”

He makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a choke.

For a moment, you wonder if you’ve pushed it too far. Then you see it — the way his expression shifts from stunned to something else entirely. Something warm and fierce and almost disbelieving.

“Okay,” he says, breathless. “Wow. Um.”

“Very articulate, Captain.”

He huffs a laugh that dies quickly when your thumb grazes the fabric over his chest again, the tiniest movement, but it drags his focus down to your hand, then back up to your face.

“Can I…” He swallows, his voice hoarse. “Can I kiss you?”

The fact that he asks, even now, makes your chest ache in the best way.

“Yes,” you say, the word leaving you on a breath you feel all the way to your toes. “Please.”

He moves slowly, like he’s afraid to startle you, but his hands find you at last — one settling at your waist, the other hovering near your jaw before he gently cups your cheek.

His thumb is warm against your skin. His eyes search yours, giving you one last chance to pull away.

You don’t.

When his lips finally press to yours, it feels like the sudden click of the right chord after hours of searching through wrong ones. Not explosive, not fireworks — just… right. Familiar and new at the same time, like returning to a place you didn’t know was home until you’d been away from it too long.

He kisses you carefully at first, as if memorizing the shape of you. You fist your hands in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, feeling the way his breath hitches against your mouth. The hand on your waist tightens, anchoring you to him.

The room, the computer, the song — everything falls away.

It’s just this. Just him.

When you finally part, his forehead rests gently against yours. His breath fans across your lips, uneven. You can see up close how his cheeks have flushed, how his eyes look glazed with something soft and disbelieving.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay. That… was definitely better than hiding in metaphors.”

You laugh, your own voice shaky. “Yeah. I’d say so.”

He pulls back just enough to actually look at you, his thumb brushing along your cheekbone. “Are you… okay?” he asks, because he always does, after every intense moment, making sure you’re still tethered.

“I’m good,” you say. “Really good.”

A slow grin spreads over his face, small but radiant. It makes him look years lighter.

“I feel like I should say something cool and romantic right now,” he admits.

“You already wrote a whole song,” you remind him. “I think you’ve met the quota.”

“True,” he says thoughtfully. “Still. Feels like I should say it again. Without the backing track.”

You tilt your head. “Say what again?”

He looks you dead in the eyes, not flinching this time.

“I’m in love with you,” he says.

The words land like a warm blanket around you, wrapping tight. You feel something inside you quietly rearrange itself around them, like your heart is making room.

You smile, and this one feels like it’s coming from somewhere deep.

“I’m in love with you, too,” you say.

His shoulders drop in relief, a laugh spilling out of him, bright and boyish. He pulls you into a hug, arms sliding fully around you. You go willingly, pressing your face into his shoulder. He’s solid and warm, and you can hear the steady pound of his heart against your ear.

For a while, you just stand there, holding each other in the little cocoon of Studio 3, the neon sign casting its soft glow over tangled cables and discarded coffee cups and the two of you, finally on the same page.

Eventually, you feel his chest vibrate with a thought.

“What’s going on in that brain?” you mumble into his shirt.

“I’m just realizing something,” he says.

“That you’re hopelessly in love with your creative consultant?”

“That I need to change the project name from ‘2025_11_idea’ to something less embarrassing when the guys see it on the studio computer.”

You pull back to smack his arm lightly. “That’s your big realization?”

“And that I’m hopelessly in love with my creative consultant,” he adds, grinning.

“Better.”

He leans in and steals another quick kiss, smiling against your mouth. “I should finish the song,” he murmurs. “Now that the ending’s… different than I thought.”

“How so?” you ask.

“I thought it was going to be unrequited,” he says lightly, though there’s a shadow of honesty under it. “Tragic, you know? Good for streams.”

“Wow,” you say dryly. “Sorry for ruining your tragic artist arc.”

He shrugs. “I’ll cope somehow. Maybe with cheesy love songs instead.”

You pretend to think about it. “I might be okay with that.”

“Yeah?”

“On one condition.”

He raises a brow. “Name it.”

“You let me hear them first,” you say. “Before anyone else. Always.”

Something flickers in his eyes — something that looks a lot like awe.

“Done,” he says immediately. “Deal. Contract signed, stamped, notarized.”

You smile, tucking your hands into his.

“So,” you say, glancing at the computer. “Play it again?”

He squeezes your fingers. “It’s going to feel different now, you know.”

“Good,” you say. “It should.”

He presses one last kiss to your forehead, then reluctantly lets go, returning to his chair. You sink back onto the couch, your cardigan still smelling faintly like the studio.

He glances over his shoulder at you, eyes soft and shining.

“Ready?” he asks.

You nod.

He hits the spacebar.

The song starts again — same piano, same beat, same voice. But now, every line that made your chest ache before makes it swell instead. Because now you know. He isn’t hiding in metaphors anymore.

The chorus comes, and when he reaches the line about “You always stay until the song makes sense,” he turns his head to look straight at you.

You grin, lifting your energy drink in a little mock toast.

“To songs finally making sense,” you say.

He smiles, wide and bright.

“To us finally making sense,” he replies.

And in the tiny glow of Studio 3, with his voice filling the room and your heart filling your chest in a way that’s almost too big to contain, you realize that for the first time in a long time, the late night doesn’t feel lonely at all.

It feels like the start of something you’ve both been writing toward for a very, very long time.

thank you for reading, see you in the next confession

Find the other members here:

Hongjoong | Seonghwa | Yunho | Yeosang | San | Mingi | Wooyoung | Jongho

Taglist: @ninjakitty15 @dalsuwaha @likeejennie @starmee-lodurrson @luviebears @darjeelinglemontea @ffenjoyerdazme @moonlitcelestial @livonianmaia