──── 「코르티스」 💭.ᐣ.ᐟ ot5 cortis x reader 彡 angst to comfort. bf!members. headcanons w. 1152 . . . . . ── ꩜ .ᐟ 💬 requested!! super rushed one . . . . . SYN. how the members reacted when a heated argument with you escalated, causing you to withdraw or feel scared.
──── JAMES
arguing with james was rare, you could count the times on one hand. when it happened, he always made sure it didn’t escalate too far. no shouting, no doors slammed, no leaving without talking it out. but tonight was different.
the plan was supposed to be a casual date, but exhaustion and miscommunication piled up. a small disagreement spiraled, and before you knew it, he slammed his hand against the table. the sharp sound made your chest tighten, and for a second you couldn’t breathe.
james’s eyes widened instantly. he froze, then stepped closer, his voice dropping into a calm, urgent whisper. “wait— no, i’m sorry,” he said as he wrapped you in a careful hug.
his forehead pressed to yours, his hands firm but gentle on your shoulders. “i didn’t mean to scare you. i shouldn’t have done that.”
you stiffened at first, overwhelmed by the intensity of his apology, but slowly you melted into the warmth of his embrace. he whispered again, soft, deliberate, “it’s all my fault. please… i don’t want us like this.”
──── MARTIN
martin was never loud. he respected boundaries, and raising his voice was foreign to him—but tonight, exhaustion broke his usual calm.
it started with something small. a forgotten item that was supposed to be the point that you guys went out. blame bounced back and forth, frustration mounting. then, for the first time, his voice rose.
your body stiffened, terror rooting you in place. martin immediately froze as he saw your reaction, guilt flashing across his features. “wait— hey,” he said quickly, lowering his voice as he realized he’d gone too far. “ i didn’t mean to shout.”
you backed away, shaking your head, and left the living room, ignoring his calls and knocks. an hour passed. when you finally opened your door, you found him sitting in the corner, leaning against the wall, looking exhausted and regretful.
the instant martin saw you, he stood and crossed the room. arms open, he pulled you into a gentle hug. “i’m sorry,” he whispered, voice low. “i let my frustration get the better of me… i shouldn’t have raised my voice. that’s on me.”
martin held you there without pushing, letting you take your time, giving space while still keeping you close. the sincerity in his tone made it impossible to stay upset for long.
──── JUHOON
juhoon’s arguments were usually blunt, sometimes sharp, sometimes just straightforward. tonight, your forgotten promise triggered him, and exhaustion made his patience vanish.
“you said you’d handle it,” he started, voice tense, running a hand through his hair. “you said it yesterday. now it’s not done.”
“i didn’t forget on purpose!” you shot back, feeling your frustration flare. “i was busy, i had other things—”
“busy?” he interrupted, raising a brow. “we all have things, but you never manage to keep your word sometimes. it’s not just tonight!”
“what do you want from me, huh? to be perfect?” you snapped, hurt stinging your words. “i’m trying, okay?”
he let out a sharp sigh, leaning back. “i know you are, but this isn’t just about trying. it’s about trust. how many times do we have to go over the same thing?”
the argument escalated, voices rising, tension thick in the air. your pride screamed at you to not back down, but the fear of confrontation and anger made you retreat. you walked out of the room, slamming the door behind you, heart racing.
juhoon ran a hand through his hair, realizing he’d pushed too far. he followed quietly, sitting beside you on the couch, letting a pause settle between you.
he reached for your hand gently. “i didn’t mean it like that,” he said, tone softened, the sharpness gone. “i was tired and i took it out on you. that’s not fair. you don’t have to say anything. just… let me fix it, okay?”
you glanced at him, tension in your chest easing slightly as he squeezed your hand, patiently waiting for you to respond.
──── SEONGHYEON
with seonghyeon, arguments started small, usually teasing gone too far, but pride could make them flare quickly. but tonight, your patience had worn thin. you’d been ignoring him every time he poked fun at you.
“you’re taking forever with that level again,” he said, smirking. “are you even trying?” he said. “maybe if you stopped interrupting me every two seconds, i could” you shot back, voice sharp.
“wow, rude much? i’m just trying to help,” he countered.
“help? it feels like you’re just making fun of me. you’re so impossible sometimes.” your frustration spilled out.
seonghyeon ran a hand through his hair, guilt and fractured flashing across his face. “impossible? really? you’ve been ignoring me all day, and now you’re snapping at me?”
you glared, but his tone that was now more soft made you pause. he scooted closer, lowering his voice. “look, i know i was wrong. i just don't want us fighting like this over something so stupid.”
after a long pause, you let your shoulders relax, the tension draining out. “…fine. just don’t tease me like that again,” you muttered.
he smirked lightly, relieved but still gentle. “deal. i promise. no more teasing… for now.” but seonghyeon held your gaze with a quiet sincerity, giving you time to calm down, making sure you knew his apology was genuine.
──── KEONHO
arguments with keonho were usually playful, never serious. tonight was different—this time, you thought he would follow through, but he didn’t.
you crossed your arms, frustration bubbling, as keonho tried to explain himself. “i didn’t think it was a big deal,” he said, voice calm but earnest.
“not a big deal?” you snapped, voice sharp. “you promised you’d handle it, and now it’s all messed up!”
keonho ran a hand over his face, letting out a low sigh. “i know. i messed up, okay? i didn’t forget on purpose, and i didn’t expect you to get this upset.”
you glared at him, chest tightening. “it’s not about being upset, it’s about keeping your word!” you shook your head, stepping back. “i need some space right now.”
keonho nodded, exhaling softly, and retreated, respecting your distance. minutes later, a soft knock caught your attention. you opened the door cautiously and saw a small bag sitting on the floor, neatly placed but clearly meant for you.
curious, you bent down, picking it up. the sight of your favorite snacks made your anger washed away, and your fingers brushed against a small taped note at the top. in messy, hurried handwriting were the simple words. i’m sorry.
your chest tightened and went into the living room. keonho sat there, shoulders slightly slumped, waiting silently. you didn’t speak. instead, you walked over and hugged him, letting the tension dissolve.
keonho froze for a heartbeat before returning the embrace, his apology clear in the quiet, steady pressure of his arms around you. no words were needed, sometimes, actions said everything.
Dudeee can u do a cortis ot5 where irl conversation reader drops their full name like uk there's a prank like that
— bf!cortis when you call him by his full name (prank)
i originally wanted to make proper ficlets for this, but my reqs are starting to fill up... so i'm going to have to start making some reqs like these instead... imsososorry.
martin edwards park
✴︎ ok but saying martin edwards?? probably wont give you much more than a side-eye and maybe a questioning look.
✴︎ but park woojo?
✴︎ he def takes a second just to remember that's... technically him
✴︎ not offended or scared, just confused at where its coming from
✴︎ treats it like you've suddenly started calling him by an old username
✴︎ spends the whole prank wondering where this came from
"park woojo."
nothing.
"martin."
"yeah?"
you immediately have to look away before you start laughing.
the second time gets a reaction, but not the one you expect.
"...who?"
"you."
"oh."
there's a pause.
"right."
another pause.
"that's me."
from that point onward, every time you call him park woojo he looks just confused. not upset. not suspicious. just completely lost as to why you've suddenly decided to start using a name nobody ever really calls him.
james / chao yufan
✴︎ surprised because no one has used his full name casually like that in soooo long
✴︎ gets completely sidetracked once he realizes your pronunciation is perfect
✴︎ makes you repeat it just to hear it again
✴︎ spends more time asking where you learned it than questioning the prank
✴︎ remembers he was supposed to be suspicious ten minutes later
"chao yufan."
his head snaps up almost immediately.
"...what?"
"can you move?"
instead of answering, he just stares at you for a second.
"say it again."
"what?"
"my name."
now you're the confused one.
you repeat it and he immediately grins.
"again."
the prank completely falls apart from there because now he's too busy asking where you learned the pronunciation from. by the time he remembers something weird is happening, the conversation has already moved on.
kim juhoon
✴︎ catches on too fast i fear
✴︎ decides if you're using government names then he's doing it too
✴︎ starts responding with your full name every chance he gets
✴︎ commits to the bit harder than you do
✴︎ somehow turns the prank against you
"kim juhoon."
he looks over immediately.
"yes, yn ln?"
you already know this was a mistake.
"can you pass me the remote?"
"certainly, yn ln."
he hands it over with a completely straight face.
from then on, every sentence includes your full name somehow. it only gets worse when he realizes you're trying not to laugh.
by the end of the day, you've heard your own government name more times than he's heard his, and somehow he's the one enjoying himself.
eom seonghyeon
✴︎ immediately assumes something bad happened
✴︎ sits up straighter every time you say it
✴︎ mentally prepares for bad news that never comes
✴︎ keeps asking if everything's okay
✴︎ doesn't find the prank nearly as funny as everyone else
"eom seonghyeon."
his head lifts instantly.
"...yeah?"
"can you hold this for a second?"
he takes it without question, but the look doesn't leave his face.
later you do it again.
"eom seonghyeon."
"...what happened?"
"nothing happened."
"are you sure?"
after the third time, he's fully convinced you're working up to something. when you eventually tell him it's a prank, he just stares at you with that slightly annoyed, soft scowl of his.
"...i thought you were about to tell me something serious."
ahn keonho
✴︎ doesn't react much at first because everyone calls him ahn-kono affectionally anyway
✴︎ gets confused by the way you're saying it rather than the name itself
✴︎ starts trying to analyze your tone like there's some hidden meaning
✴︎ keeps randomly bringing it back up later
✴︎ finds the prank more annoying than funny because now he's bothered by something he can't explain
the first time you call him ahn keonho, he barely reacts.
"ahn keonho."
"hm?"
"can you pass me that?"
"yeah."
that's it. you almost think the prank is going to fail completely until you do it again later. and then again. by the third time, he finally pauses.
"...why do you keep saying my name like that?"
"like what?"
"i don't know." he frowns. "just... ahn keon-ho."
when you refuse to explain, it somehow bothers him even more. twenty minutes later he'll still randomly glance over and ask, "seriously though, why'd you say ahn keonho like that?"
❛ 𝓦𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒+𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒. ❜ angst ⠀·⠀⠀swimmer!keonho x volleyball player!reader ⠀·⠀⠀non-idol!au ⠀·⠀⠀ right person, never the right time
❛ 𝓝𝐎𝐓𝐄. ❜ a short old wip to commemorate blue lips mv release today 🥹 ⠀·⠀⠀sorry in advance guys i cried while proofreading this (it probably still has mistakes, idgaf i just want yall to cry with me) 😓 ⠀·⠀⠀also this is slightly different from my writing style but i’m tryna figure out what kind i like better :<⠀·⠀⠀and special mention to this bitch too @ramenoil fuck u
❛ 𝓦𝐂. ❜ 2.8k
the cruel thing wasn’t that you and keonho never dated. the cruel thing was that everyone around you assumed you would.
you were sixteen when it started—not officially, and definitely not dramatically. it just happened in the gymnasium after school—the heavy, echoing sound of a volleyball bouncing rhythmically against polished wood while a swimmer sat on the bleachers pretending to do his homework. his textbooks were always open to some random page he never actually turned, a mechanical pencil balanced between his fingers. he was just watching practice, and you were a girl who kept pretending not to notice how his eyes followed you across the court lines.
at first, he came because his practice ended earlier and his house was empty. then, he came because he liked the noise, or so he claimed when a teammate teased him. really, though? he came because you were there, but neither of you ever acknowledged the fact.
you’d look up after a particularly brutal drill, wiping sweat from your forehead with the back of your wrist, and there he’d be—dark hoodie that was too big for him, a huge swimming bag dropped carelessly by his feet, hair still damp and curling slightly from the pool, with one earbud in. he was watching—always watching—not creepily or obviously, but just enough, like he wanted to memorize the exact way you played before the world got too loud.
one day, your coach went completely ballistic, screaming at everyone to run suicides and laps and dives and whatnot until the gym floor felt like it was spinning. you collapsed beside the bleachers afterwards, your face completely red, legs burning, and entirely convinced you were actually dying right there on the hardwood.
suddenly, a freezing cold bottle of sports drink appeared in front of your face, condensation dripping onto your kneepads.
you looked up, blinking through the sweat. keonho, the boy whose presence you’d grown accustomed to, stood in front of you.
“you looked like you were about to pass out,” he said, his mouth twitching slightly into that stupid, affectionate smile.
“i wasn’t,” you defended, your voice sounding breathless and pathetic.
“you were.”
“i wasn’t.”
“you literally couldn’t stand two seconds ago.”
“that’s unrelated,” you rolled your eyes, snatching the bottle from his hand.
he laughed properly this time, head tipping back slightly, a low, genuine sound that usually got lost in the rafters of the noisy gym. you hated that laugh—you hated it because every time you heard it, something inside your chest shifted, and it made you feel completely defenseless.
after that, it became routine. it was just an unwritten rule between you—he’d bring blue sports drinks, you’d dig through his bag to steal his chocolate snacks. he’d carry your knee caps when you forgot them under the bench, and you’d send frantic spam texts reminding him to actually eat a real meal after his morning swim meets.
small things. tiny things. things that didn’t mean anything to anyone else, and yet meant absolutely everything to you.
nobody confessed, and nobody asked anyone out. you were young, you had practice tomorrow, and you had games next week. there was always time… or so you thought.
by seventeen, people knew. not officially, because there was nothing to put a label on, but everyone in your year knew.
“are you two dating?” your teammate asked during break, leaning so far over your desk she was practically sitting on your notebook.
“no,” you said, without looking up from your sketches.
“then why is he waiting outside class right now?”
“he isn’t.”
“he literally is. he’s leaning against the lockers. he looks ugly, by the way.”
your chest tightened. you glanced outside through the small glass pane of the classroom door, and keonho would immediately look away, rubbing the back of his neck, caught red-handed.
“no idea,” you muttered, turning a page to hide the flush creeping up your neck. your teammates never believed you, and honestly, neither did his.
at competitions, the gravity of it got worse because somehow, out of all the chaotic sports complexes in the city, you always found each other. different venues, completely different schedules, entirely different sports, yet somehow—always.
you’d lose a devastating match, and your phone would buzz against the bottom of your gym bag before you even finished crying in the locker room.
ahn 🩵: you played well
no greeting, no explanation. just that small message that made you feel just a little better.
after he finished a grueling freestyle race, you’d instantly send him a text.
you: you looked nervous before the start.
ahn 🩵: thanks?
you: it was cute.
you’d watch the screen. three dots. disappear. reappear. disappear again, as he probably choked on his water bottle on the other side of the city.
ahn 🩵: shut up.
you laughed into your palm for ten minutes straight in the back of the team bus.
it should’ve been simple—teenagers fall in love every day in cramped hallways and dusty gyms, the world keeps turning, and nobody notices. except by eighteen, the world had started noticing keonho.
it happened in a flash: national rankings, local television interviews, articles online, athletic sponsors, followers multiplying by the thousands overnight—people started calling him the future of the sport, the next big thing, a prodigy, a star. and the higher he rose into that suffocating atmosphere, the smaller his actual world became. every single hour of his day was scheduled by adults, every public appearance managed, every single word monitored by a PR team.
you noticed the cracks before anyone else did, because you noticed everything about him. you noticed the way he started looking entirely exhausted under the fluorescent school lights, the way his real smile appeared three seconds later and disappeared much faster, the way he checked his phone constantly like he was waiting for the leash to tighten, and the way he stopped laughing as loudly in the corridors.
one evening, you found him sitting completely alone on the concrete steps outside the swimming centre, still in his damp training clothes, staring blankly at nothing in particular.
“bad day?” you asked quietly, stepping into his line of sight and sitting beside him.
he jumped slightly, then smiled. the automatic kind. the fake kind. the polite, professional kind that never reached his eyes and was meant for reporters. “just tired.”
neither of you spoke after that. students passed in a blur of motion, streetlights flickered on one by one, and the city grew darker and colder around you. after a while, he leaned his head back against the cold brick wall and closed his eyes, his breathing heavy.
and for the first time in months, he looked his age. not a future olympic star, not an athlete, not a headline—just keonho, eighteen, exhausted, and human.
your chest hurt immediately—a sharp, ridiculous ache. it was unfair how much you loved him. you wanted to reach out, take his hand, and tell him he didn’t have to be extraordinary when he was with you, but you didn’t.
he wanted to ask you to stay right there beside him forever, to stop the clock from moving, but he didn’t.
that was the ultimate problem—you both kept choosing later, assuming the world would wait for you. it wasn’t going to.
you figured that out the hard way, because three months before graduation, the articles finally flooded the internet like a tidal wave: ahn keonho signs with major management company. olympic prospects. young swimming sensation rumored to be preparing overseas training.
you stared at your phone screen in the quiet of your bedroom, your heart sinking straight into your stomach, because he hadn’t told you a single word about it. not yet.
you convinced yourself he was just waiting for the right moment, that he would tell you after practice, but he didn’t—not because he wanted to hide it from you, but because the reality of it made every conversation feel impossible.
how do you tell the girl who knows your real laugh that you’re moving across an ocean?
suddenly, the calendar bled out. there were only two weeks left, then one, then three short days, and the silence between you was growing heavier than the pool water.
the night before graduation, you found him in the school gym. it was empty, dark, and completely silent—the same place everything had started. he was sitting in your usual spot on the bleachers.
you sat cross-legged beside him. for a long time, neither of you spoke.
“you’re leaving.” it wasn’t a question.
he nodded. “yeah.”
you stared ahead at the court. “okay.”
it was a pathetic, devastating word, because what you actually wanted to say was ’don’t go’, and what he wanted to say was ’come with me’, but neither happened.
“i watched your first practice here,” he said quietly into the dark.
you laughed softly. “that sounds creepy.”
“it probably was.”
“definitely was.”
he smiled, looking out at the court. “you were terrible.”
your jaw dropped. “i was not!”
“you missed, like, seven serves.”
“it was one serve.”
“it was seven.”
“it was one!”
the argument felt familiar, comfortable, and warm—the kind of conversation you only have with someone who matters, someone you’ve loved for years, and someone you’re about to lose.
the realization hit both of you at the same time. the laughter faded, and the heavy silence returned while rain began tapping against the windows outside.
keonho swallowed. you noticed, because you always noticed. his hand was resting on the bleacher between you, and your hand was only inches away—just inches. your skin practically buzzed from the proximity, the heat of him right there, but it was a distance neither of you crossed.
“you’ll do well,” his voice was incredibly quiet, almost swallowed by the sound of the storm outside.
“so will you.”
another pause.
“i’m going to miss watching your games,” he admitted.
you looked down at your knees, blinking rapidly because if you looked at him now, you might cry. “i’m going to miss your stupid texts.”
a laugh escaped him, small and broken. “those were good texts.”
“they were terrible.”
“they were excellent, because they made you laugh.”
the rain grew louder, but neither of you moved. neither of you left, and neither of you confessed, because somehow a confession felt too small for what existed between you.
love wasn’t the problem; you were already there. the problem was timing, distance, fame, and the entire world standing between two teenagers.
eventually, he stood up. his joints popped slightly in the quiet gym, a harsh, grounding sound that meant time was up. you stood too, and the gym suddenly felt enormous—too much space, too much air, too much ending.
he looked at you—really looked at you, his pretty eyes hidden slightly under his bangs, as though trying to memorize every detail. and you realized, helplessly, that was exactly what he was doing—memorising the shape of your smile, the curve of your eyes, the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were nervous. everything.
he reached out, his hand hovering for a fraction of a second like he might actually touch your cheek, trace the line of your jaw, do something. your breath hitched. but his fingers just twitched, dropping back to his side as he clenched his fist into his pocket.
“good luck,” your voice cracked, small and pathetic.
he nodded once, his throat bobbing as he swallowed down whatever else he wanted to say. “you too.”
then he turned and left.
he didn’t look back. you watched his back—the broad slope of his shoulders under his dark hoodie, the heavy swing of his swimming bag—as he walked toward the double doors. the click of the latch echoed like a gunshot in the empty space. and then he was gone.
just like that. no confession, no kiss, no dramatic movie ending. just a boy walking out of a gym, and a girl left standing there, looking at the empty doorway like he was still something extraordinary.
you hated it—you hated him. you loved him so much.
years passed, and the world outside that gym caught fire. your volleyball career exploded, but his swimming career became an absolute monolith.
by nineteen, keonho wasn’t just a boy who smelled like chlorine anymore; he was a brand. he was a national asset.
the change was dizzying to watch from a distance. suddenly, you couldn’t walk into a convenience store without seeing his face plastered over billboard advertisements for luxury watches, sports drinks, and skincare lines. he had stylists who tamed his messy hair that you loved, managers who curated his public captions, and media trainers who taught him exactly how to smile for the flashing cameras without actually revealing anything at all. you realised you hadn’t seen him actually smile for years now.
his world became hyper-curated, clinical, and completely suffocating. every interview was a rehearsed script. “i’m just focusing on the upcoming trials,” he’d say into a cluster of microphones, his eyes blank and polite. “i owe everything to my coaches and the fans.”
you hated those interviews. you hated them because his smile appeared too late and disappeared the moment the camera panned away. you knew the exact cadence of his real laugh—the raw, head-tipping-back kind that made you laugh too—and you never heard it on television. not once. never after high school ended.
sometimes journalists asked him about high school memories, trying to find a human angle for their articles. he’d mention volleyball—only volleyball, every single time. “there was a great energy in the school sports department,” he’d tell a reporter, keeping his voice perfectly level. “the volleyball team trained right next to us. it kept me motivated.”
the internet went wild trying to decode it. rumors flew quickly across forums—was he dating a volleyball player? did he have a secret first love? but he never dropped a name, never gave them a single crumb to follow. people never understood why he was so fiercely protective of that one specific, mundane detail of his youth.
neither of you explained.
at twenty-three, you sat cross-legged on a hotel bed halfway across the world, your laptop screen illuminating the dark room. your own team had a major match the next day, but you were wide awake, watching him stand on an international podium.
the arena was deafening, and you could hear it thrugh the screen itself. thousands of people were screaming his name, waving banners with his face on them, camera flashes exploding like miniature stars in the arena.
he had a gold medal heavy around his neck, flowers in his arms, and the entire world looking at him with absolute adoration. and all you could think, your chest aching immediately with a ridiculous, familiar pain, was that he was still biting the inside of his cheek. right there on global television, surrounded by endless applause, his jaw was tight, his teeth catching the inner lining of his mouth.
he was terrified and exhausted. and some habits never changed.
that same night, oceans away, keonho sat in the back of a sleek black car, the city lights blurring past the tinted windows. his phone buzzed in his palm; not with a text, but with a google alert—an article about your team winning a major championship.
there was a photo attached: your hair was messy from practice, your face flushed, a heavy trophy raised high above your head as you laughed with your teammates. you looked pretty when you were tired… which was completely unfair.
he stared at the screen for a long time as the driver silently navigated midnight traffic.
his thumb hovered over the keyboard, ’congratulations’: fifteen simple letters. he typed it out. his thumb shook slightly above the send button. but then his screen flashed with a notification from his head manager, reminding him of a 6:00 AM press conference and a commercial shoot. the corporate machine waiting to swallow him whole the second the sun came up.
he looked back at your photo. you looked so bright, so grounded, so entirely untouched by the artificial gold cage he lived in.
he deleted the text.
he never sent it, not because he didn’t want to, but because he wasn’t sure if reopening that door would save him—or completely destroy the one pure, quiet thing he had left.years later, people would say ahn keonho had everything—fame, success, medals, recognition. and maybe they were right. but sometimes, late at night, after the endless applause died down and the managers left him alone in an empty luxury apartment, he’d remember a nearly empty school gym. a girl laughing beside him, pen ink smudged against her hand, and a distance of just a few inches that he had been too afraid to cross.
he’d wonder, for the rest of his life, whether the greatest thing he ever lost was never actually his to lose. while somewhere else in the world, sitting in the quiet of your own room, you’d wonder the exact same thing.
⌣ ﹒ ୨ৎ ﹕an. hey so 😂😂😂😂😂 i cried. like a fucking baby. ⠀·⠀⠀also this reminded me 2521 sb i want to cry all over again 😁
SYNOPSIS :: You’d think having spent months ‘dating’ that the two of you would’ve sorted out whatever issues underlined every argument you shared, but, truthfully, you both enjoyed the bickering far too much to want it to stop.
W.C :: 6.6k
CONTAINS :: skater!keonho x regina!reader, a spinoff of she’s kinda hot, can be read as a standalone (but highly recommend reading the first fic), angst + fluff, description of injury, mentions of death/killing (joking), bickering/arguing, kono’s friends are haters, use of dollars, cliché, skinship, pet names, the love bomb, kissing
PLAYLIST :: She looks so perfect - 5sos; My own worst enemy - Lit; Still into you - Paramore; Teenage dirtbag - Wheatus; Take me away - Christina Vidal Mitchell
You and Keonho had been… something for about three months now.
Three months of arguing over everything. The thermostat. The last slice of pizza. Whether or not a hot dog was a sandwich (he said yes, you said absolutely not, and you'd nearly broken up over it twice). You fought like cats and dogs, like fire and gasoline, like two people who had absolutely no business being in the same room.
But the thing that got you the most—the thing that made you want to scream, to pull your hair out, to shake him until his teeth rattled—was his complete and utter inability to plan.
You planned everything. You had spreadsheets. colour-coded calendars. Alarms set on your phone for things that were still three weeks away. You knew where you needed to be and when and what you needed to wear and who you needed to impress and exactly how many minutes late you could arrive before it went from fashionable to disrespectful.
Keonho just… existed.
And apparently, for him, that was enough.
"We'll figure it out," he'd say, whenever you tried to pin down a date, a time, a commitment. "It'll be fine," he'd say, when you asked him what he was wearing to something important. "Don't worry so much," he'd say, when you were clearly, obviously, rightfully spiraling.
You wanted to strangle him.
You wanted to kiss him.
Usually both at the same time.
Tonight's fight had been brewing for weeks, simmering under the surface of every text he left on read, every plan he showed up late for, every time he looked at you with those stupid, calm eyes and said "we'll figure it out" like it was the easiest thing in the world.
The dinner was important. People who mattered would be there. People whose opinions could make or break things you'd been working toward for years. A single wrong move could, and would, unravel everything.
You'd told him about it three times. Texted him the address twice. Sent him a reminder the morning of, complete with a photo of the venue and a highlighted map. Told him, specifically, explicitly, begged him to wear something nice.
He showed up forty-five minutes late in a wrinkled band tee and ripped jeans.
You spotted him the second he walked through the door: that stupid beanie, that lazy slouch, the skateboard he'd somehow snuck past coat check. Your blood went cold. Then hot. Then cold again.
You excused yourself from a conversation and crossed the room in what felt like slow motion. Your heels clicked against the marble floor. Your perfectly applied lipstick felt like warpaint.
You grabbed his wrist and pulled him into the hallway before he could say a word.
"What is wrong with you?"
"Traffic," he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. He looked completely unbothered and completely unaware that he'd just detonated a bomb in the middle of your perfectly constructed evening.
"You don't have a car."
"Pedestrian traffic."
"Keonho."
He shrugged. That infuriating, shoulders-up, I don't see the problem shrug. His beanie was crooked. His hair was a mess. There was a small rip in the knee of his jeans that you were pretty sure hadn't been there yesterday.
"I'm here, aren't I?"
"You're late." Your voice came out sharp, each word a knife. "You're dressed like that. I told you—I specifically told you—"
"You told me a lot of things, princess."
"Don't call me that."
He tilted his head, beanie slipping further over one eye. There was something in his expression, not quite a smirk yet not quite a challenge, that made your stomach twist. "Then stop acting like one."
You wanted to hit him. You wanted to scream. You wanted to grab him by that wrinkled band tee and shake him until he understood.
"Do you have any idea how this looks?" You hissed, glancing over your shoulder at the crowd inside. Laughter spilled through the doorway. Glasses clinked. The world you were supposed to be performing in continued on without you. "I've been talking you up for weeks. Telling people you're coming. Telling them you're—"
"What? Worthy of being seen with the great and mighty you?"
"That's not—"
"Is that what this is about?" He stepped closer, and suddenly the hallway felt smaller. His voice was quiet now, but no less sharp. "How it looks?"
"It's about respect, Keonho. It's about showing up when you say you will. It's about not making me—" Your voice caught and you closed your eyes to recollect yourself. " —not making me look stupid for defending you to everyone who said I was making a mistake."
He went quiet.
"Who said that?"
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me."
"It should matter to you that you were late. That you're wearing that. That you can't seem to—" You stopped and pressed your fingers to your temples, the beginnings of a headache pulsed behind your eyes. "I had a plan. I had everything planned. I knew exactly how this night was supposed to go, and you just— you just—"
"We'll figure it out."
"We'll figure it out?"
You laughed. It came out sharp and bitter, nothing funny about it. The sound echoed off the hallway walls.
"That's your answer to everything." You were pacing now, heels clicking against the marble, back and forth, back and forth. "'We'll figure it out.' 'It'll be fine.' 'Don't worry so much.' You don't plan. You don't think. You just show up whenever you feel like it and expect everyone to be grateful that you bothered to exist in their direction."
"Maybe because I trust that things will work out without me having to control every single detail."
"Not everyone has that luxury."
He crossed his arms, leaned against the wall and watched you pace. "What's that supposed to mean?"
You stopped and faced him, your chest heaving.
"It means some of us don't have the option to just exist and hope for the best. Some of us have to earn our place. Some of us have to fight for every single thing we have, and one wrong move, or late appearance, or bad outfit can take all of it away."
He was quiet for a long moment.
"Do you understand how embarrassing this is for me?" You asked, and your voice was more tired now. "How it feels to stand there and watch people's faces when they see you? To know they're thinking that's who she chose?"
He pushed off the wall.
"Embarrassing."
"Yes."
"I'm embarrassing to you?"
"That's not—" You stopped. Swallowed. The lump in your throat was hard to get past. "You're not trying, Keonho. You're not showing up. Not really. You're just—here. Floating. Existing. And that's not enough. Not for this. Not for—"
You didn't finish the sentence.
He stared at you. His face was unreadable—that careful blankness he wore when he was actually hurt, when he was trying not to show it. His jaw was tight. His hands were in his pockets, but you could see the tension in his shoulders.
"Why does embarrassment matter so much to you?"
The question landed like a slap.
"What?"
"Embarrassing." He said the word slowly, like he was tasting it, turning it over in his mouth. "Why does it matter so much? Why do you care what they think?" He gestured toward the doorway, toward the laughter and the clinking glasses. "They don't know you. They don't know us. They don't know anything. They're just people with opinions that don't actually mean anything."
"Opinions mean everything."
"To who?"
"To me."
He nodded slowly. Something flickered across his face: disappointment, maybe. Or understanding. It was hard to tell.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "I know."
The silence between them was heavy. Wrong. Stretching like taffy, thin and about to snap.
You could hear your own heartbeat atop his breathing, the distant murmur of the party you were supposed to be charming slicing through the quiet.
"Look," he said, running a hand through his hair, knocking his beanie completely off. It landed on the floor with a soft thump. "I'm sorry I was late. I'm sorry I wore this. I'm sorry I'm not—whatever you need me to be for this to work."
"Keonho—"
"I'm trying, princess." He bent down and picked up his beanie, dusted it off against his thigh. His voice was quiet, as though he was choosing every word carefully. "I'm just not trying the way you want me to. And I don't know if I can."
He turned toward the door and something in your chest cracked.
"Don't."
He stopped. His back was to you still and his shoulders were tense.
"Don't walk away," you said. "Not from me."
"I'm not walking away." His voice was soft, almost gentle. That made it worse. "I'm giving you space to go back in there and do your thing, make it the perfect evening." He glanced back at you over his shoulder. "I know you need that. I know you planned for that. So go. I'll see you tomorrow."
"And what about us?"
He was quiet for a long moment. The kind of quiet that felt like a held breath.
"We'll figure it out."
"Stop saying that."
"It's all I've got."
There was a momentary lull until you crossed the room before your brain could catch up with your body.
You grabbed the front of his wrinkled band tee, pulled him down and you kissed him.
Your fingers twisted in his shirt, knuckles white, pulling him closer like you were afraid he'd disappear. His free hand caught your waist and the other dropped his beanie again, completely forgotten, his fingers threading into your hair, loosening pins, ruining your perfect updo.
He kissed you back like he'd been waiting for it. Like the fight had been building toward this all along: every argument, every slammed door, every "we'll figure it out" and this was the only possible conclusion.
His mouth was warm. He tasted like the energy drink he'd been nursing on the way over, sweet and sharp, and his lips were slightly chapped, and you didn't care. You didn't care about any of it.
The party behind you faded away, the carefully constructed walls you'd spent years building came crashing down. All that existed was his hand on your waist, his fingers in your hair, his mouth moving against yours like he was trying to tell you something he didn't have words for.
When you finally broke apart, both of you breathing hard, your chests heaving, your foreheads pressed together, he let out a shaky breath.
"What was that?" he whispered.
"I don't know."
"You kissed me."
"I know."
"Why?"
You opened your eyes. He was so close that you could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes and the way his lips were slightly swollen.
"Because—" You swallowed. Your voice was shaking. You couldn't remember the last time your voice had shaken in front of anyone. "Because I didn't want you to leave. Because I don't care about the dinner. Because you're right, embarrassing doesn't matter. It never mattered. I just—"
"Just what?"
"I don't know how to be anything other than this." You gestured vaguely at the party behind you, at your perfect dress, at the life you'd built out of sheer will and terror. Your hand was trembling. "I don't know how to let go. I don't know how to trust that things will just work out. I don't know how to be like you: how to just exist and believe that's enough."
He was quiet for a moment. His thumb was tracing small circles on your hip, through the fabric of your dress. His other hand was still in your hair, loose strands falling around your face.
"I'm not asking you to be like me," he said finally. His voice was soft and gentle in a way that made your chest ache. "I'm just asking you to let me in."
You stared at him. His eyes were dark and steady and warm. There was no judgment or frustration there. Just... him. Just the boy who showed up late in wrinkled band tees and said "we'll figure it out" like it was a prayer.
"I don't know how to do that either," you whispered, and watched as his eyes scanned your face.
"Then we'll figure it out," he said. "Together."
He said it like a promise. Like a vow. Like he meant it.
You kissed him again and this time it felt less like a fight and more like a surrender. Your hands slid up from his chest to his shoulders, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. His hand pressed flat against your lower back, pulling you closer, and you let him. You let yourself be pulled.
When you finally pulled back his band tee was even more wrinkled than before, your perfect lipstick was definitely smeared across both your mouths, and your updo was a lost cause.
"You're still late," you said.
"I know."
"You're still dressed like that."
"I know."
"And I still want to kill you."
"I know." He grinned that stupid, lopsided, infuriating grin that had made you want to scream the first time you saw it. "But you still kissed me."
"Shut up."
"Make me, princess."
And that sums up pretty much the entirety of your… whatever you are. You’ll be at each other’s throats constantly, and yet you can’t seem to stay away from one another.
Another aspect of you two being together was that you had the emotional expressiveness of a rock and would close in on yourself whenever something upset you, driving Keonho absolutely mad.
The first time you stopped going to the skate park, he didn't say anything.
He noticed, though. Of course he noticed. Keonho noticed everything about you: when you were tired, when you were faking, when you were one wrong word away from shattering.
And most of all he noticed when you started pulling away, though he let you be by yourself for a few days to mellow until he finally had enough.
You were half-asleep when you heard it: the soft scrape of a shoe against the trellis, the creak of the window frame, the quiet thud of a body dropping onto the roof that sat just below your window with a few too many scuff marks. Your heart lurched and you sat up, pink blanket pooling around your waist, hair a wild mess from tossing and turning.
And there he was.
Keonho, in the flesh, backlit by the dim glow of the streetlights outside, pulling your already slightly open window wider. You immediately rose, moving towards him and shoving your curtains aside, already knowing what this was about.
"Talk to me," he said, already swinging his leg through the frame. "Or I'm climbing in."
"You're already climbing in."
"So talk to me faster."
"You can't just show up at my window at two in the morning," you said, your voice still thick with sleep and something a bit too close to relief, moving back to sit on the edge of your bed.
"I can't? Because I just did."
"It's breaking and entering."
"My feet were already in the room before you said you didn’t want me here." He dropped his skateboard against your wall, kicked off his shoes, and stood at the foot of your bed with his arms crossed. "That's not forceful. That's just... hovering without opposition."
"That's not a thing."
"It's a thing I just came up with." He tilted his head, beanie askew, hair falling into his eyes. "Now. Talk."
"I don't have anything to say."
"That's a lie." He took a step closer. "Your left eye is twitching."
"My left eye is not—" It was, you could feel it. You hated him. "I'm fine."
"Stop saying that."
"Stop meddling."
"No."
You glared at him and he glared back. The air between you crackled. This was your love language: two people who cared too much and didn't know how to say it any other way.
"I heard your friends," you said finally.
He went still. Completely, utterly still. Like someone had frozen him in place.
"They said I was using you." Your voice came out flat, practiced, like you'd rehearsed it in the mirror a hundred times. "That I'd get bored. That I'd throw you away." You swallowed but your throat was dry. "And I thought maybe they're right. Maybe that's what I do. Maybe that's all I know how to do."
Keonho didn't say anything for a long moment. He just stood there, looking at you with an expression you couldn't read: something between frustration and tenderness and a third thing you were too scared to name.
Then he walked around the bed, sat down next to you, and knocked his shoulder against yours. Hard.
"Ow," you said.
"That's for ignoring me for six days."
"I wasn't ignoring you, I was—"
"Busy." He knocked his shoulder against yours again, softer this time. "Yeah, I know. You're always busy when you're scared."
"I'm not scared."
"You're terrified." He turned to face you, close enough that you could see the dark circles under his eyes from staying up toolate. "You're so scared you can't even say it without your voice going up at the end like a question."
Your breath caught.
"My friends are idiots," he said. "They don't know you."
"Neither do you."
"I know you leave your shoes in the middle of the floor even though you yell at me for the same thing—"
"Because I live here. You're a guest."
"—I know you pretend not to like my music but you added three of my songs to your playlist—"
"I added them so I could identify them and properly hate them."
"—I know you're mean because you're scared, not because you're cruel."
You opened your mouth. Closed it.
He was looking at you with something far too soft for his sharp face that made your chest ache and your eyes burn and your heart beat too fast. "I know you haven't thrown me away yet. And I've given you plenty of reasons."
"You are annoying," you whispered.
"Yeah." He almost smiled. "But you keep me around anyway."
"I'm reconsidering."
"No you're not."
"Get off my bed."
"It's my bed now." He leaned back on his hands, looking up at your ceiling like he owned the place. "I call dibs."
"You can't call dibs on someone else's bed."
"I just did."
You sat there for a couple of seconds, weighing up your options, then you grabbed your pillow and hit him square in the face with it.
He grabbed it and hit you back.
What followed was a full-scale pillow war, leaving feathers floating in the air and both of you breathless and laughing, his beanie somehow on your head and your silk scrunchie around his wrist.
You eventually ended up tangled together in the pink blanket, his chest against your side, your leg thrown over his, both of you gasping for air.
"See?" he said, grinning. "This is why you keep me around."
"I'm going to push you out the window."
"You'd miss me."
"I'd watch you fall."
"Kinky."
"Keonho!”
A week later, he crashed.
The call came from his friend, one of the ones who still looked at you like you were a bomb waiting to go off. "He's at your place. He said you'd know what to do."
You did.
You were already climbing out of bed, already pulling on the nearest hoodie (his, you realised later), already running down the stairs before your brain caught up with your body.
You found him on your front steps.
It was worse than you'd imagined. Worse than any of the scenarios that had played out in your head while you were running. He was sitting on the cold concrete, one leg stretched out in front of him, the other bent at an awkward angle. His jeans were torn at the knee and there was far too much blood. His palm was scraped raw, little flecks of gravel embedded in the skin, and his board was lying in the bushes where he'd apparently thrown it in frustration.
"Keonho."
"Hey princess." He looked up, and smiled like nothing was wrong and he wasn't bleeding on your mother's precious front steps. "Nice pajamas."
"You're bleeding on my steps."
"It's fine."
"It's not fine, get inside."
"I can't feel my left hand."
"Keonho."
He let you pull him up, though winced at the sudden weight on his injured leg. He let you drag him inside, through the foyer, up the stairs, down the hall to your bathroom. He let you push him onto the marble counter, that he had always commented was way too expensive, and he let you kneel in front of him to push his ripped jeans up his legs.
"It's fine," he said again.
"You keep saying that like it's going to become true."
"Optimism."
"It's delusion."
He watched you dab antiseptic on his knee—watched your face, specifically, the furrow between your brows, the set of your jaw, the way your lips pressed together like you were holding back a flood of words you didn't know how to say.
"You look like you're about to fight someone," he said.
"I'm about to fight you if you don't stop crashing into concrete."
"Skateboarding involves concrete. It's kind of the whole thing."
"Then stop skateboarding."
"Now that's delusion."
You pressed the antiseptic harder than necessary. He hissed through his teeth.
"Serves you right."
"You're so mean."
"You love it."
He went quiet, his gaze following your every move as you attempted to patch him up as well as you could. "You're really worried about me."
"I'm worried about your knees." You dabbed at a particularly nasty scrape, your touch gentler now. "They're going to be nothing but scar tissue by twenty-five."
"That's not what I meant."
You looked up at him and his face was soft in the bathroom light: no smirk, or teasing, or armour. Just Keonho. Just the boy who somehow, against all odds, makes you feel safe and loved and more yourself than ever before.
"Of course I'm worried about you," you said quietly. "You're an idiot who throws himself at the ground for fun."
"That's not why you're worried."
"You're very annoying today."
"You're avoiding the question."
"I'm cleaning your wounds. Show some gratitude."
He caught your wrist before you could pull away. His thumb pressed against your pulse point that was racing, betraying you, telling him everything you were trying to hide.
"You're scared," he said.
"I'm annoyed."
"You're scared and you're pretending to be annoyed because that's easier."
"You're scared and you're pretending to be fine because that's easier."
He blinked. You'd surprised him. Good.
"See?" You said, pulling your wrist free. "We both have things we don't want to talk about. Now let me finish cleaning you up so I can go back to hating you in peace."
"You don't hate me."
"I'm working on it."
He laughed, or at least attempted to, his breath hitching because moving his ribs hurt. You flicked his forehead.
"Ow."
"Stop making me worry."
"I can't promise that."
"Then stop crashing."
"I can't promise that either."
You sighed, long and dramatic, and went back to work on his other knee.
"You're gonna give me gray hair," you muttered more so to yourself.
"You'd look good with gray hair."
"Keonho."
"What? You would."
You pressed a kiss to his kneecap before you could think better of it—a quick, impulsive thing, your lips brushing against his scraped skin.
He went very still, then very red. The flush crept up his neck, spread across his cheekbones, turned the tips of his ears pink.
"Don't," you said.
"I wasn't gonna—"
"You were gonna smirk."
"...Maybe."
You flicked his forehead again. This time, he caught your hand and kissed your knuckles instead of complaining, one slow and deliberate kiss to each finger, his lips warm against your skin.
"That's cheating," you said.
"Is it working?"
"No."
"Your face says yes."
"My face says I'm going to smother you in your sleep."
"I'd love that."
"Get off my counter."
After that, he started coming over just to be there, sprawling across your pink blanket like he pays rent, watching you exist with an intensity that should have been illegal.
"Can I help you?" You said, for the fifth time, as you stood at your vanity.
"Nope."
"Then why are you staring?"
"Because you're doing something interesting."
"I'm doing my skincare routine."
"Exactly. Interesting."
You stared at him in the mirror. He stared back from your bed, chin propped on his hands, looking like a cat who'd found the warmest spot in the house. His scraped knee was bent, his bandaged hand resting on the blanket, and he looked so comfortable that it made your chest ache.
"What's that one do?" He asked, pointing at your toner.
"It balances my pH."
"Your... what?"
"pH. The acidity of my skin."
A pause. "That's a thing?"
"Yes, Keonho. That's a thing. Some of us care about our skin."
"I care about my skin."
"You use bar soap on your face."
"It works!"
"It works against you. Your pores are screaming for help."
He snorted. "You're so dramatic."
You ignored him, choosing to move through the steps—cleanser, toner, serum, moisturiser—explaining each one as you went. He asked questions just to annoy you. You answered them just to prove you knew more than him. It was a dance you'd perfected over three months, a back-and-forth that felt like second nature.
"So this one," he said, pointing at your serum, "is basically magic water?"
"No, it's… actually, yes. Kind of. But expensive magic water."
"So you're putting magic water on your face."
"Antioxidant-rich magic water."
"That's not a real thing."
"It's a real thing that costs eighty dollars."
He sat up so fast his hair became disshevelled in a scruffy mess that made him look almost… adorable. "Eighty dollars? For water?"
"It's not just water, I literally just explained the ingredients to you—"
"You said 'fermented something' and I stopped listening!"
"That's on you!"
"I could buy three decks for eighty dollars!"
"You don't need three decks!"
"You don't need eighty-dollar water!"
You threw a cotton pad at his face and it ended up stuck to his forehead. He left it there, too focused on your current bickering.
"This is why I don't explain things to you," you said.
"This is why you should explain things to me. I'm learning."
"You're judging."
"Learning and judging. They're the same thing."
"Get out of my room."
“No.” He grinned, cotton pad still stuck to his forehead, looking like the stupidest person you'd ever been in love with. "You'd be sad if I left."
"I'd throw a party."
"You'd cry."
"I'd celebrate."
"You'd cry while celebrating."
"Keonho."
"What's that one?" He pointed at the smallest bottle on your vanity.
You picked it up. "That's eye cream."
"What's it do?"
"It... moisturises my eyes."
"Your eyes?"
"The skin around my eyes."
He stared at you and you stared back. The cotton pad was still on his forehead because he still hadn't removed it.
"So," he said slowly, a grin spreading across his face, "most of these are just... different kinds of water?"
"I'm going to kill you."
"You put water on your face. Then more water. Then different water."
"I'm going to kill you and hide your body in my closet."
"You'd miss me too much."
"I'd miss nothing."
He tilted his head, the cotton pad finally falling onto the blanket, his smile so wide it made your chest hurt. "Say that again but look me in the eyes this time."
You threw the eye cream at him.
He caught it one-handed like some kind of action hero, and immediately shoved it into his hoodie pocket.
"I'm keeping this," he said.
"That's forty dollars."
"Then I'm keeping forty dollars."
"Keonho. You're not keeping the eye cream," you said, crossing your arms and turning to face him fully.
He patted his pocket. "Already in there. It's warm now. It's bonding with me."
"Take it out."
"No."
"Keonho."
"That's my name, don't wear it out."
You glared at him and he only looked back utterly unbothered and the absolute picture of smug satisfaction.
"You're actually going to steal from me?"
"I'm not stealing. I'm... relocating."
"To your pocket."
"Temporary relocation."
"You're not going to give it back."
"Temporary can mean a lot of things princess." He shrugged, utterly shameless.
You lunged for him.
You grabbed his hoodie sleeve and tried to shove your hand into his pocket. He twisted away, laughing that stupid, warm laugh that made your stomach flip, and you ended up half on top of him, both of you grappling like children fighting over the TV remote. The pink blanket bunched beneath you and your hair came loose from its clip.
"Give it," you hissed, your face inches from his.
"Make me."
"I will actually hurt you."
"You've been saying that for three months and I'm still standing."
"Barely."
He snorted. You used his distraction to jam your hand into his pocket. Your fingers closed around the tiny bottle—yes—but his hand closed around your wrist at the same time.
"Nice try," he said, breath warm on your face.
"Let go."
"Say please."
"I'd rather die."
"Dramatic."
"Keonho."
He grinned, and for a moment, neither of you moved. You were tangled together on your bed, his back against the headboard, you half-sprawled across his lap, your hand in his pocket and his hand on your wrist and his face entirely too close to yours.
"You're ridiculous," you said quietly.
"You love it."
"I love nothing."
"You love me."
The words landed differently than they had before. He'd said them casually—joking, teasing, the way he always did. But something about the way he was looking at you now, something about the way his thumb was tracing slow circles on your wrist, something about the way his voice had dropped an octave made it feel less like a joke and more like a test.
You pulled your empty hand out of his pocket, though you didn’t care about the cream anymore.
"I'm serious," you said, sitting back slightly, though you didn't move off his lap. "Give me the cream."
"I'm serious too." He didn't let go of your wrist. Didn't stop tracing those circles. "Say it."
"Say what?"
"You know what."
"I really don't."
"You're a terrible liar."
"I'm an excellent liar. I've built my entire social reputation on it."
"Then be honest." His voice went quiet. "For once. With me. Just say it."
Your heart was doing something stupid in your chest. Something loud and panicked and entirely out of your control. It was hammering against your ribs like a caged animal, and you were sure he could feel it through your wrist, through the thin skin where his thumb was pressed against your pulse.
"I don't know what you want me to say," you whispered.
"You do."
"Keonho—"
"Three months." He shifted, sitting up straighter, bringing his face closer to yours. "Three months of fighting and stealing my hoodies and pretending you don't care. Three months of you letting me climb through your window at 2 AM. Three months of this." He gestured between you with his free hand. "And you're still going to sit there and tell me you feel nothing?"
"Yes."
"Stop lying to me."
You looked at him. His eyes were dark and steady and completely, terrifyingly sincere. There was no escape route. No exit strategy. Justhim, waiting and patiently choosing you.
"Why do you do this?" You asked, and your voice was smaller now. Smaller than you wanted it to be, than you'd ever let yourself sound in front of anyone else.
"Do what?"
"Stay." Your throat was tight. Your eyes were burning. "Even when I'm like this. Even when I push. Even when I say things I don't—" You stopped. Swallowed. "Why do you stay?"
"Because I know you don't mean it."
"What if I do?"
"You don't."
"You don't know that."
"I know you." He reached up with his free hand and brushed some hair off your forehead and tucked it behind your ear, the way he always did when he was being gentle. "I know you're scared. I know you've been hurt. I know you push people away before they can leave so you don't have to feel it when they go." His thumb traced your cheekbone. "And I know—" He paused. Took a breath. "I know that underneath all of that, there's someone who just wants to be chosen. For real. Not for the crown. Not for the reputation. Just... chosen."
You couldn't breathe.
"I'm choosing you," he said. "Right now. Every day. I'm choosing you. And I'll keep choosing you. Even when you're mean. Even when you push. Even when you throw things at my head." A small smile tugged at his lips. "Especially then, actually. You have crazy good aim princess."
"Keonho—"
"I love you."
There it was. Not a joke. Not a test. Not a weapon. Just... the truth. Dropped into the space between you like a stone into still water, sending ripples through everything.
"I love you," he said again, softer this time, like he was telling you a secret. "And you don't have to say it back. You don't have to do anything. I just needed you to know. Because someone should choose you. For real. And I'm done pretending that's not what I'm doing."
The room was too quiet and your heart was entirely too loud. You could feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes and you blinked them back furiously.
"You're an idiot," you said.
"I know."
"You're the biggest idiot I've ever met."
"I know."
"You steal my skincare products and you put your shoes on my rug and you never shut up and you—" You ran at of steam for a brief moment, breathing heavily. "You climb through my window at 2 AM and you see me and you stay and I don't—I don't know how to—"
You stopped, pressing your palms against your eyes. "I don't know how to be loved," you whispered. "I don't know how to receive it. I only know how to perform and defend and attack and—"
"Then let me teach you."
You looked up. His face was so open. So vulnerable. So completely unlike the lazy, smirking boy who'd nearly murdered you with his skateboard when you first met. His eyes were bright, almost wet, and his lips were parted slightly, and he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
"Let me teach you," he said again. "Slowly. Badly. While we fight about the thermostat and the last slice of pizza and whether or not hot dogs are sandwiches—"
"They're not."
"—they're absolutely sandwiches—"
"They're not—"
"Stop doing that."
"Doing what?"
"Avoiding."
You closed your mouth and he waited.
Then, finally, quietly, like you were admitting something you'd been hiding your whole life:
"I love you too."
His whole face changed. Like the sun coming out from behind clouds. Like you'd handed him something precious and fragile and entirely unexpected, and he was holding it with both hands, afraid to drop it.
"Say it again," he said.
"You heard me."
"Say it again anyway."
"No."
"Say it and I'll give back the eye cream."
"Liar."
"Okay, I won't give it back." He was grinning now, wide and real and bright. "But I'll actually shut up.”
"You won't."
"No." He laughed. "I won't. But I'll try."
You laughed surprised and almost giddy. It bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest, and you couldn't stop it, and you didn't want to.
"I love you," you said. "I love you and you're the most annoying person I've ever met and if you ever tell anyone I said this first—"
"You didn't say it first. I did."
"Semantics."
"I'm telling everyone."
"I'll kill you."
"Worth it."
He kissed you as soon as the words left his mouth.
His hand came up to cup your jaw, fingers splaying across your cheek, tilting your face exactly where he wanted it. His lips moved against yours with a confidence that made your head spin—slow at first, then deeper, then hungry, like he'd been waiting for this, and he'd been starving for it.
You kissed him back with everything you had. Your fingers tangled in his hair: soft, slightly messy, smelling like his cheap shampoo and the skate park. His other hand slid around your waist, pressing you against him until there was no space left between your bodies.
His mouth was warm. Addictive, even. He kissed you until your lungs burned and your lips tingled and the world outside your bedroom had ceased to exist entirely.
When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against yours. His thumb traced your cheekbone. His eyes were dark and soft all at once.
"Hey," he whispered.
"Hey."
"I love you."
"You said that already."
"I'm going to keep saying it."
"I know."
He kissed you again—softer this time, just a brush of lips, a promise. Then again, a little longer. Then again, like he couldn't help himself from memorising the shape of your mouth against his own.
You smiled against his lips. "You're going to give me permanent lip damage."
"Worth it."
"Keonho."
"What? You're kissable."
"That's not a word."
"It is now. I invented it."
"You can't just invent words."
"I just did. Kissable. It means deserving of many kisses." He demonstrated. Twice. "See?"
You shoved his chest weakly. He caught your hand and kissed each of your knuckles, slow and deliberate, the way he'd done in the bathroom.
"You're ridiculous," you said.
"You love it."
"I love you. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yes."
He grinned, and you kissed him again just to wipe that stupid thing off his face.
It didn't work. You could feel him smiling the whole time.
When you finally settled: both of you tangled in the pink blanket with your head on his chest and his arms wrapped around you, he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.
"The eye cream is still mine," he said.
"Over my dead body."
"We can arrange that."
You shoved him. He fell back against the headboard, laughing, and you let yourself fall on top of him, face buried in his hoodie, heart so full it hurt.
"I love you," you mumbled into his chest.
"I know."
"Don't get cocky."
"Too late."
You could feel him smiling against your hair. His arms tightened around you, one hand tracing lazy shapes on your back—circles, spirals, a heart. The other hand was definitely still clutching the eye cream in his pocket. You could feel the little bottle pressing against your hip.
"Hey," he said again.
"Mm?"
"You're my favourite person to fight with."
"You're my least favourite person to exist near."
"Same thing."
"It's really not."
"Shut up and let me hold you."
"You shut up."
He laughed a warm, rumbling sound that traveled through his chest and into yours. You smiled into his hoodie. And somewhere in his pocket, your forty-dollar eye cream sat warm between your bodies, a tiny hostage in the middle of a war neither of you wanted to win.
Because winning meant stopping.
And stopping meant no more fights.
And no more fights meant no more this.
And this—messy and loud and full of arguing that truly served no purpose—was exactly where you wanted to be.
this will be the first and last time i’m addressing a message like this.
juhoon and martin being 18 years of age does not make it appropriate for people to write smut about them and they’re not even legal in their home country. you’ve been waiting for idols to turn 18 to write or consume smut for them; if you’re doing this at an age where their legality is still debatable and ethical concerns are being raised—shouldn’t that tell you something?
your age (as a writer or reader of such content) is not even the main concern or a relevant excuse for this matter. at the end of the day, the ones being perceived are the members—real people who debuted young and isn’t even a whole year into their career yet. tolerating this would only give others more reason to participate or keep doing it; this has happened in other fandoms and it can happen to us too.
we all know that everything here is fiction, but it’s a different conversation with smut for young idols. it puts them in a lens where people can view them inappropriately. what others think or do is not something we can control but what we do have responsibility for is not enabling these actions.
(anon you’re now blocked. please walk your perverted self out of this space. and to anybody else who thinks like this person—you are not welcome here)
summary. martin finally sees his girlfriend’s ‘hidden” talent
content. fluff, kissing, established relationship, literally just martin being down bad
the soft hum of equipment and the steady thud of a beat greeted you as you pushed open the heavy soundproof door. it was early evening, and the golden light from the setting sun filtered through the high windows, dusting the room in warm amber. there he was, martin, leaning over the mixing desk, headphones slung around his neck, fingers tapping rhythmically against the edge of the console. he looked so focused, so in his element, a small frown of concentration between his brows that you just wanted to kiss away.
you lingered in the doorway for a moment, watching him. he was wearing that oversized hoodie you loved, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and his blond hair was slightly messy from running his hands through it too many times. when he finally glanced up and saw you, his entire face softened, breaking into that familiar, boyish grin that made your heart flutter every single time.
“hey you,” he said, his voice warm and low, instantly abandoning the controls to stride over to you. he pulled you close by the waist, wrapping his arms tight around you like he hadn’t seen you in weeks instead of just this morning. “didn’t hear you come in.”
“didn’t want to disturb the genius at work,” you teased, looping your arms around his neck and leaning up to press a soft kiss to his lips. he hummed happily against yours, deepening it just a little, before pulling back just enough to look at you.
“you could never disturb me,” he murmured, brushing his nose gently against yours. “missed you today.”
“missed you too,” you replied, smiling as you ran a hand through his hair. “how’s it going?”
he stepped back, tugging you along with him toward the desk, his hand never leaving yours. “good, actually. working on this track… but i’ve been struggling with a melody line. something’s missing, y’know?”
he pulled you down onto the sofa tucked in the corner of the room and sat beside you, his arm slung comfortably over your shoulders, pulling you into his side. you rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart underneath the soft fabric of his hoodie. he played a little bit of the track for you. it was edgy, atmospheric, classic martin.
“it’s great babe,” you told him honestly. “but i get what you mean. it feels like it needs a voice that feels… soft, i guess.”
martin went quiet for a second, staring at the equipment, then suddenly his eyes lit up, and he turned to you with that mischievous sparkle you knew so well. a spark of an idea had just hit him.
“y’know what?” he said, sitting up a little straighter and turning fully toward you, taking both your hands in his. “you should try it.”
he shook his head, grinning. “no, baby. sing it. come on.”
you pulled your hands back, eyes going wide. “martin, absolutely not. i can’t sing! i hum in the shower, that’s it. you’re the musical genius here, remember?”
he leaned in closer, his face inches from yours, his voice dropping to that low, persuasive tone he knew worked every time. “c’mon, baby. just for me? please? i promise i won’t judge. even if it’s terrible, i’ll still love you more than anything.” he punctuated that with a quick, sweet peck on the lips, then another and another. “just try a little bit. for me?”
you knew you were going to cave the second he looked at you with those big, pleading eyes. you sighed dramatically, trying to hide your smile. “you’re impossible. fine. but if it’s awful, you’re deleting it immediately and you’re buying me dinner.”
“deal,” he said instantly, beaming, and kissed your forehead.
he jumped up, practically bouncing with excitement, and guided you over to the microphone stand in the booth. he adjusted the height for you, his hands brushing yours gently as he fixed the pop filter. he stood so close behind you that you could feel the warmth radiating off him, his chest pressed lightly against your back. he reached around you to put the headphones over your ears, his fingers brushing your hair back tenderly.
“comfortable?” he asked, his voice right by your ear, sending shivers down your spine. you nodded, suddenly nervous. “alright. just listen to the track. i’ll start it slow. just sing the melody like you hear it. don’t think about it too much, yeah? just feel it.”
he pressed a kiss to the side of your neck, lingering there for a second, and whispered, “you’ve got this.”
he stepped back to the desk, giving you a thumbs up. the music started playing in your ears. you took a deep breath, closed your eyes, and when the moment came, you sang.
you didn’t think about technique or pitch or anything. you just let the melody flow out, singing the lines the way they felt right, soft and gentle. it felt natural, almost like talking, just… musical. you finished the little section, opened your eyes, and pulled the headphones down around your neck, looking at him apprehensively.
“and?” you asked, bracing yourself. “was it as bad as i thought?”
martin was just sitting there, hands hovering over the board, staring at you with his mouth slightly open, looking completely stunned. he didn’t move or speak for a few seconds, and you started to get worried.
“martin?”
suddenly he shot up from his chair, nearly knocking it over in the process, and practically ran into the booth, grabbing your face in his hands. his eyes were wide and shining, filled with pure wonder and something else: pride, amazement, love.
“are you kidding me?” he breathed, his voice thick with disbelief. “you wanna join cortis?”
“i… what?”
“that was incredible,” he said, almost shouting it before remembering where he was and lowering his voice, though he was still beaming brighter than you’d ever seen him. he pressed his forehead hard against yours, holding you so tightly it felt like he never wanted to let go. “baby… you have no idea how beautiful that was. you’re tone… it’s perfect. how have you been hiding this from me?”
you laughed, shocked yourself. “i didn’t know! i really thought i was just noise!”
martin pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his thumbs stroking gently over your cheeks. “you sound amazing. like… actually amazing. i’m blown away.”
before you could say anything else, his lips were on yours, happy, and full of so much affection it made your knees weak. he kissed you deeply, pouring every ounce of his pride and adoration into it, his hands sliding down to your waist to pull you flush against him. you wrapped your arms around his neck, melting into him, smiling against his lips.
when he finally pulled away, he was grinning like an idiot. “we are keeping that. and we are doing more of it. you and me, making music together.” he pressed a small kiss to your cheek while nodding his head.
“y’know,” he murmured, kissing your shoulder, then your neck, then turning your head just enough to steal another quick kiss. “i always knew you were perfect. but now? you’re perfect and talented? dang, how did i get so lucky?”
you turned in his arms, resting your hands on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart. “i think i’m the lucky one. especially since you’re going to treat me to that dinner now, right?”
martin laughed, the sound echoing softly in the studio, and nodded, “absolutely. dinner, dessert, anything you want. but first, one more take? just so i can listen to you sing a little longer?”
you rolled your eyes playfully, but you were already leaning back toward the mic, his arms still wrapped tight around you.
“i love you, you’re genuinely so amazing in every way” he whispered, and as the music started again, you sang for him, and he listened with the biggest, proudest smile.
synopsis: James revisits the time he thought he had found the love of his life— you. He'd loved you so much, given you all his time but unfortunately, you still left him anyway. Why'd you fear commitment so much? Or did you just fear to committing to him?
contains: angst, somewhat comfort? profanity, drinking, mention of sex but there is no smut, kissing, reader is kind of emotionally unavailable, miscommunication. reader's parents are divorced, story is set in the 2000's!
wordcount: 3k+
note: shes back with angst!! everyone cheer, first of all, i can't believe how quick the juhoon fic grew omfg... im so grateful for all of you!! this fic is heavily inspired by 500 days of summer, its my fav movie ever so i had to write one! thank you for all the love, hope u like this one 💕
now playing... there is light that never goes out - the smiths ⸝⸝ heaven knows i'm miserable now - the smiths ⸝⸝ just like heaven - the cure ⸝⸝ please, please, please let me get what i want - the smiths ⸝⸝ lover, you should've come over - jeff buckley
James is an ordinary boy working as a writer for a greeting card company. He grew up listening to sad British pop music like The Smiths. Especially The Smiths. He's not very experienced in the department for love, hates his job and gave up in his dream of dancing. Guess that's what being an adult is like, huh?
You're an ordinary girl who just moved here after her graduation. You work as a secretary at said greeting card company. Your parents are divorced. Seeing them fight and bicker all the time as a child made you despise relationships, heck, the idea of marriage made your stomach churn. You don't fear commitment, commitment fears you.
But, this is not a boy meets girl story.
DAY (1)
It was love at first sight when he saw you step into the meeting room, reminding your boss of his schedule later. He admired the way your hair framed your face, tied in a messy bun. You looked ethereal, he couldn't have imagined a girl as beautiful as you in his dreams. He was star struck. He was quickly pulled back to reality at the sound of his boss’s voice.
“Everyone, this is my new secretary. Go on, introduce yourself.”
“Hello everyone, I'm y/n. Nice to meet you all.”
Your voice was soft, if he could, he'd tape it and play it on loop like it's his favourite song in the entire world. He was so infatuated by you. Unfortunately for him, he has very limited experience in the dating field. How should he approach you?
DAY (290)
“Oh my god, Sangwon! You're here! He's been throwing dishes and moping since forever.” said Martin.
Sangwon spots him in the corner of the kitchen, a dish in his hand before he smashes it on the floor. He rushed towards him, snatching it from his hand.
“Dude! What the fuck? Why are you smashing plates? Are you alright? Come, sit down.”
He guides him to the couch, cracks open a beer, passing it to him. James takes the beer from his hand, gulping it down in one go.
“She… She left me, hyung. It's over…”
“Woah, woah… slow down, who? y/n?”
“She broke up with me… Everything was going so well. Why did she leave me like this?”
DAY (4)
James steps into the elevator, the faint sound of “There is a Light That Never Goes Out” by The Smiths leaks out of his headphones. Suddenly, you step into the elevator, standing beside him as you wait for it to reach your floor.
“The Smiths?”
He looks in your direction, mouthing a small “hi”.
“I love The Smiths”
He takes off his headphones, slipping them around his neck.
“What?”
“I said I love The Smiths.”
“Wh- What- You like The Smiths?”
“I love ‘em.”
The song from his headphones is still faintly playing in the background.
“To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die.”
You step out of the elevator as the doors open, leaving him flustered and astonished.
“Holy sh-”
DAY (8)
There's a party in the office today. Everyone's scattered around the room, drinking cheap soda and cocktails. James sees you alone in a corner, drink in your hand. He sees the opportunity and strikes right at it. He walks over to you, almost bumping into a few people but he makes it through the crowd.
“Hey.”
“Hey. You're The Smiths guy.”
“Yeah… I'm James. James Chao.”
“I'm y/n.”
“Sooo…. y/n. How's it going? Do you like the job?”
“It's alright. I've always wanted something of my own. I moved here a few months ago, rented an apartment and got my first job. It’s so exciting to be on your own!”
“Right. I think this is your dream job then?”
“No… I just want to make enough money to travel and support myself. What about you?”
“Well… I wanted to be a choreographer. Unfortunately, that stuff didn't work out.”
“Well… if that was your dream, I think you should reconsider this job. I think you’d make a pretty solid dancer.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah.”
After talking to you at the party, inspiration struck him, he went straight home, looking for songs to choreograph. But, unfortunately for him, that spark was short-lived. He went back to his monotonous routine the next day.
“Guys, I'm officially in love with y/n.” announced James.
“Dude… what?” said Martin, popping a fry into his mouth.
“You're joking.” said Juhoon.
“You don't understand… I love her! I love the way her hair frames her face,I love her knees,I love the way she says my name, her lips look so plump and glossy, she always has that cherry chapstick on, she smells like vanilla and coffee…” James goes on and on, listing all the things he loves about you.
“Bro, just because some cute girl likes the same geek shit as you doesn't make her your soulmate.” replied Martin.
“What the hell do you mean by that?” asks James
DAY (27)
“Hey, James, are you going to the karaoke party tonight? the whole office is going.” asked Riki.
“Nah, karaoke and parties aren't really my thing. I'm staying in today.”
“Dude… the whole office is going.”
“So?”
“The whole office is going.”
“Ohhhhh…..”
The karaoke bar was buzzing with people. People laughing together over trivial things, drinking till they're out of their mind and singing like they've gone through 5 divorces. 5 drunk divorces.
James takes a sip of his beer before approaching you, he walks in your direction, a smirk on his face.
“Enjoying the show?”
“Oh. Yeah. I'm singing next.”
“What are you gonna sing?”
“You'll know soon enough. Anyways, you singing anything?”
“Nah, you'd have to get at least 6 beers in me to make me sing.”
Long story short, James ended up singing the most, he had to physically be removed from stage. It seemed like he had drunk his own body weight. While you, James and Riki walk towards a cab, well, try to walk towards a cab because Riki got so wasted that he couldn't even walk properly as he held onto James’s coat. The cab arrives and he helps Riki inside.
“Y’know…. y/n… he likes you? He’s likeeeeee madly in loveeee!! All he does it talk about you-”
“Shut up! Shut up! You’re just drunk.” James said as he shoved Riki.
“But-”
“Goodnight, Riki!” he said, slamming the car door on his face before the cab drove off.
“So… whatever Riki said… is that true?”
“What? Y’know he always gets wasted and says stupid shit like that. Don’t mind him.”
“Is it true?”
“What… What do you mean by that-”
“James, do you like me?”
“Well… yeah. I do.”
“I do too.”
“Then that’s settled- WAIT YOU LIKE ME?”
“Yeah, I do.”
Suddenly, out of nowhere., you grab James’s collar, pull him down to your level and kiss him. His eyes widen in shock, barely having any time to process before you let go. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. He’s left dumbfounded before you turn around to walk away.
“Wait! y/n! l-let me walk you home at least!”
DAY (45)
James and you have been going steady for awhile now. You guys often hang around the record store, go to the movies, and walk around LA. Things have been going well. You both act like a couple, you talk on your cellphones, share stolen kisses in the copier room, all silly things new couples do. Your favourite moments with him were the ones where it felt like it was just you two in the entire world, as if everyone else just disappeared. This was one of those moments.
“James, can I open my eyes now?”
“Yeah.”
When you open your eyes, you see the familiar decor of his apartment. Confusion etches across your face.
“Why are we at your place? Weren’t you going to show me something special?”
“I’m showing you a part of me.”
James grabs a boombox from the corner, brings it over and sets it on the floor. He turns the switch on, the sound of the music flowing throughout his apartment. The way he dances to the rhythm is hypnotising, he’s so precise and graceful with his moves as if his body was made to move to the groove of the song. Suddenly, he grabs your hand and pulls you to dance with him.
“James! I can't dance!”
“Don’t worry, enjoy yourself, I’ll guide you.”
You both dance together- well you at least try. You’re trying to keep up with him but he’s just so good. He tries his best to go at your pace and guide you through it. You almost end up slipping but fortunately, he catches you just in time, your combined laughter filling the room.
As you both lie on the floor, staring up at his ceiling, you turn your head to look at him.
“James?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t wanna lead you on. I think you’re a great guy but… I’m not looking for anything serious right now. Can we keep it casual?”
Your words fly over James’s head. All he wants is to be with you so he agrees.
“Yeah… uhm yeah, that’s cool with me.”
DAY (290)
After a couple of weeks go by, James thinks you guys are doing fantastic. He’s hopelessly in love with you and believes you both are a couple. While you, on the other hand, are getting bored of this relationship. It’s so mundane. Go to record stores, talk on the phone, see each other at work, walk around LA, have sex… it’s getting boring. You think it's time to move on now.
You’re currently sitting at a diner, the smell of pancakes and maple syrup wafting in the air, servers walk around with precision, carrying almost a mountain of plates, the bell rings whenever a customer walks through the door. You think about when you and James went to a bar a few weeks ago and he got into a fight with one of the guys there. It was awful, he got sucker punched in the face and after that night, you were pissed. When you left the bar, he started asking you questions like, “What are we?” “We’re a couple right?” and all you said was “We’re friends, James.” . It was just too much work for you, you couldn’t commit to him if things were going to be like this, you did promise to keep it casual, right?
While you’re lost in your own thoughts, all James can think about is the next morning after the bar fight, where you both lay in your bed, it was the first time where you showed him your humble abode after… well doing what you guys were doing after a few weeks. He remembers how you both made up after that, you attended to him after the fight. The room smelt a bit like antiseptic mixed with the scent of vanilla candles, the sunlight filtered out by the curtains, you both tangled in the same blanket. You tell him about your dreams and how your parents got divorced and how it affected your life. He recalls what you said word by word at that exact moment.
“These are stories one has to earn… I’ve never told this to anyone before.”
“I guess I'm not just anyone, huh?”
How amusing is that you’re both thinking about the same thing but extremely different parts of it? When you’re with James, it doesn't feel… easy. He’s constantly stressed about your label. While James thought you were his soulmate after that bar fight. He genuinely thought you’re the one for him. Unfortunately, his dreams were about to be shattered in… a good minute. Your voice cuts through his daydreams and he straightens up.
“Hey, James, let’s not do this anymore.”
“What? Do what? Do you not wanna eat here?”
“No, I mean us. Whatever we’re doing right now, let’s end it.”
“y/n, are you breaking up with me?!”
“I’m not breaking up with you. We were never a couple, we can't break up.”
“Hey! I get a say in this too! We are a couple!”
“I told you I didn't want anything serious!” You grab your purse from the table and sling it around your shoulder before standing up to leave.
“Goodbye, James.” You say, before walking towards the door and disappearing in the street outside.
Fast forward to now, Sangwon is still trying to comfort a drunk James.
“Dude, she wanted to keep it casual… aside from that, did she ever cheat on you? Did she take advantage of you?”
“No…”
“James…”
“Don’t even.”
DAY (322)
James hates you. He hates the way you say his name, he hates your outdated haircut, he hates your knobby knees, he hates your chapped lips, he hates how you smell like a hippy candle shop, he hates everything about you. He can’t stand the thought of you. He’s been depressed ever since that. He hates his job even more now. He’s always moping around the office. His boss noticed his unusual behaviour and called him in.
“James… What’s going on with you? You seem sad and all you do is sulk.”
“It’s just that… My girlfriend broke up with me.”
“Oh. Oh… That must be tough, man. Here, I’ll assign you to the funeral cards so you can put your emotions to good use. Good idea, huh? People mourn their loved ones through your cards while you mourn your dead love by writing them, haha.”
James sighs at his boss’s joke. It does not land. It crashes straight into his chest.
“Very. Funny. Haha.”
DAY (402)
James is on his way to a coworker’s wedding. After your “break up”, all he got was an awkward email from you, nothing else. He’s boarding the train, bags in his hand until he sees a glimpse of you on the other side. He could recognise your presence in a sea of people easily. He quickly pushes past people, scrambling to his seat before he sets his bags down and makes his way to you. He enters the other carriage and spots you sitting near a window, he runs his hands through his hair before walking up to you.
“y/n…?”
“James? Oh my god, how have you been? Come sit, sit!”
He settles down before you, his hands on the table.
“Ive been good. Alright, even. What about you, what’s up with you?”
“Ah, nothing much. Got a new apartment elsewhere, new job… way better than my last one. So, where are you headed?”
“Ah, to a coworker’s wedding.”
“You still work there?”
“Yeah.”
Conversation flows easily. You both recall the good times you had together, laughing over something stupid. James thinks, this time the timing is right. It doesn’t take long for him to return to his school-boy mentality. I mean, your chemistry is much more friendly and easy-going than before, right? You even invite him to a party at your new apartment. He’s over the moon! He has time to make things right with you again. He can't miss out on this golden opportunity! Nothing is in his way now.
DAY (408)
James put together one of his best outfits today. He even spritzed some cologne. He was so confident about getting you back! He walks towards your apartment door, flowers in hand and rings your doorbell. You open the door, a glass in hand and you welcome him inside.
“Oh, James! You didn't have to.”
“Well… I had to get you something, would be rude not to.”
James looks around the room, it's filled with faces he doesn’t know. He sees a guy approach you both, he comes and stands next to you, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you closer. James’s jaw tightens.
“Ah, right! I wanted it to be a surprise for you… James, meet Youngjae, my boyfriend- well now, fiance! We got engaged a couple of days back!”
Horror washes over him. All the confidence he had walking here is gone. Just like your relationship.
“Oh…. That’s great. I’m so happy for you y/n.”
DAY (442)
James quit his job at the greeting card company and followed his true passion— dance. He did quite have an episode when he heard about your engagement, there were times he couldn't get out of bed and brushed his teeth with a bottle of Jack Daniel's. Now, he’s doing much better. He’s started choreographing more songs, applied to a couple of jobs to hold him by and even auditioned for a few companies.
Even then, he’s not completely over you. I mean, how could he be? Not even after like 3 months after your breakup, you’re suddenly engaged to this guy who you probably didn't even know more than him! He’s still mad at you. He never got the closure he wanted.
DAY (488)
James is coming back from one of his auditions today. He decided to take a walk through the park before going home. The park where you both used to frequent. He looks around him, families on picnics, kids chasing each other, couples sharing stolen kisses behind trees, among all this chaos, he finds the park bench you both used to sit on and just… take up each other's space, he recalls how comfortable that felt. Amidst the crowd, he spots you once again, sitting on that same bench. He approaches you, taking a seat next to you.
“So… how’s life been treating you?”
“Good. Good. What about you?”
“Fine… hey y/n… do you still think about us?”
“No. I don’t.”
“I… Well… I’m surprised.”
“Why?”
“‘Cause you never wanted to be anyone’s girlfriend and suddenly now you’re someone’s wife.”
“Surprised me too, yeah.”
“How did it happen?”
“It just... It happened.”
“Okay, but how? I mean, I don’t get it.”
“I just woke up one day and I knew.”
“Knew what?”
“Something that I wasn’t sure about when I was with you.”
DAY (500)
James stirs awake, fist fighting with his alarm cock first thing in the morning. After he finally shuts the damn thing off, he pours himself some coffee, he moves towards the front door, picks up his mail and sorts through it. While sorting through a mountain of bills and postcards from his relatives, he spots one labelled from an agency. He quickly rips open the envelope, before reading:
“Dear James Chao,
We are delighted to inform you that you have been selected as choreographer for our upcoming trainee group…"
SYNOPSIS :: In dinosaur drawings and stealing your fries, Keonho has always shown that it would only ever be you.
W.C :: 4.3k
CONTAINS :: childhoodfriend!keonho, childhood friends to lovers, swimmer!keonho briefly mentioned, skinship, kissing, both being slightly oblivious, teenage love
PLAYLIST :: Fade into you - Mazzy Star; Every summertime - Niki; Daylight - Taylor Swift; Open arms - Sza; Lovely girl - Racing Mind; Lover is a day - Cuco
Keonho and you were two peas in a pod for as long as anyone could remember, having known each other since you were little kids being placed as seatmates on the first day of school.
You don't even recall the teacher's face anymore. Just the scratch of the chair legs on the floor, the smell of crayons and raincoats, and this boy next to you who immediately drew a tiny dinosaur on a piece of paper atop the corner of his desk and looked over at you like he was waiting for you to react. You drew a bigger dinosaur next to his. He grinned, all missing teeth and mischief, and that was that.
For years, that was just how life worked. He stole the left-side swing before you could get to it, then gave it up with an exaggerated sigh. You saved him a seat at lunch and he'd slide in like he owned the place, stealing fries off your tray before you could stop him. He walked you home even when it was out of his way, kicking rocks and making up ridiculous stories just to hear you laugh. You made signs for his swim meets with glitter glue and terrible handwriting, and he'd hold them up at the finish line and wave them like a flag, completely and utterly unembarrassed.
He never said thank you in words, he was just a boy after all. But he'd show up at your door the next day with your favourite candy, toss it at your head, and say "Don't get used to it" with a smirk.
People always asked if you were dating, and you’d both turned red and say no far too quickly, spending the rest of the afternoon pretending not to look at each other. But by dinner, he was sending you a video of his dog doing something stupid, and you were sending back a blurry picture of your homework, and everything was normal again.
You grew comfortable with each other in ways you didn't fully appreciate until much later.
It just happened naturally, like moss creeping over stones or the way a favourite hoodie eventually molds itself to your shoulders. You knew how he took his ramyeon. He knew that you cried at animal commercials. You could sit in the same room for hours without speaking and neither of you would feel lonely—but also, you could talk for hours without running out of things to say, him talking just as much as you did, his voice easy and warm and full of jokes.
That was the thing about Keonho. Silence with him was fine, but laughter with him was better.
Maybe that's why it took you so long to realise.
Because love, the way people talked about it, was supposed to be loud: heartbeats and fireworks and grand gestures. But yours was just there. Already there. Had been there so long you'd stopped noticing it, like the air in your lungs or the beat of your own heart. It was in the way he threw popcorn at your head during movies, how he'd fake gag when you said something sappy, even in the way he'd look so softly at you when he thought you weren't paying attention.
You remember the exact moment you finally noticed, though.
You were both twelve, sprawled on his bedroom floor doing nothing in particular. He was reading something, or more so he was pretending to read something, because you caught him staring at you over the top of his book. You opened your mouth to say something smart, but he spoke first.
"You've got a weird face," he said, completely deadpan.
"Excuse me?"
"It's not a bad weird. Just. Weird."
You threw a pencil at him and he caught it, grinning. And for one second, one stupid, electric second, your chest did something strange it had never done before. Or maybe it had. Maybe it had been doing it for years and you'd just never paid attention.
You looked back down at your worksheet pretending to be cool, but your hand was shaking.
You didn't tell him. Not that day and not for a long time. You just started noticing things you'd always known but never felt. The way his hair fell across his forehead when he was tired, how his grin softened into something smaller when he thought you weren't looking, and how he said your name like it was a private joke the two of you shared.
And you thought: Oh no.
Oh no.
Because how were you supposed to go back to normal after that?
But you did, or at least you pretended to. You still saved him seats. He still walked you home, still kicked rocks, still made up stupid stories. You still made terrible glitter signs for his meets, and he still waved them like an idiot at the finish line.
You hadn't realised that Keonho felt the same, and had pretty much always felt the same. You thought it was just you and your own stupid heart getting carried away like it always did. You thought you were being careful, keeping it hidden enough that no one noticed.
But Keonho had always been faster than you. Quicker with a joke, quicker with a comeback, quicker to figure things out.
So while you were busy pretending everything was normal, he was busy noticing that you'd stopped returning his teasing, and you laughed a little too loud when someone mentioned dating, yet you still found reasons to touch his sleeve, his shoulder, his hand—fleeting things you probably didn't even realise you were doing, but still felt intentional to him.
He noticed all of it.
He just didn't say anything yet because nothing was scarier than attempting to figure out if you were risking an entire friendship for a love that held even the slightest possibility of being unrequited.
Instead, he started doing small things. Bringing you your favourite snack without being asked, and then pretending he'd bought it for himself until you stole it. Walking even slower on the way home so the walk lasted longer, complaining loudly about how tired he was. Letting his shoulder brush yours more often and then saying "Watch where you're going" like it was your fault.
You convinced yourself it didn't mean anything. He was just being Keonho. Annoying, playful, slightly obnoxious Keonho who had never once looked at anyone the way people looked at each other in movies.
And, to be honest, Keonho grew a little frustrated that you couldn't read into his—what he believed to be—plainly obvious attempts of showing you he liked you.
Because in his mind, he was being so screamingly obvious.
He'd started walking on the outside of the pavement so you were farther from the road, a trick he’d learnt from the kdrama you’d forced him to watch with you. He'd started bringing two of everything: two ice pops, two sodas, two bags of chips, and when you asked, he'd shrug and say "I was hungry" while shoving one straight into your hand. He'd started remembering things you mentioned once, offhand, like your favourite song or the name of a movie you wanted to see, and then bringing them up weeks later like it was no big deal.
And you just… smiled, said thanks and went back to your usual routine.
He once sat next to you on the school bus and let his leg press against yours for the entire forty-minute ride. Didn't move, or even breathe, honestly. And you just leaned your head against the window and fell asleep.
He spent that whole ride staring straight ahead, ears on fire, wondering if you were being oblivious on purpose or if you had simply never once thought of him as anything other than the annoying boy who stole your fries.
The answer, of course, was neither. You just didn't think someone like Keonho could ever like someone like you. So your brain filed every single one of his attempts under just being Keonho and refused to look at them any other way.
It drove him crazy.
He'd lie awake at night staring at his ceiling, replaying every moment of the day, trying to figure out what else he was supposed to do. Write you a song? He could do that, badly and off-key just to see you laugh. Hold your hand? He could do that too, he'd just have to come up with a stupid excuse first. Show up at your door with flowers? The thought made him want to throw up, but also, maybe. If it was you. He’d only do it if it were you.
He was twelve. Then thirteen. Then fourteen. And still, somehow, you hadn't noticed.
Everyone else seemed to be able to see it. Your mothers whispered and giggled behind their hands, picturing wedding colors before either of you had even held hands. Your friends rolled their eyes every time you said "Keonho's just being Keonho" like it was the most ridiculous sentence they'd ever heard. Even his swim coach once asked, after a meet, "Is that your girlfriend?" and Keonho had laughed and said "Not yet" and the coach had looked very confused because why else would this random girl be at every competition other than to cheer on her boyfriend?
But you? You were the only person in the entire world who couldn't see what was standing right in front of you.
It wasn't that you were stupid, because you weren't. It was that Keonho had been part of your life for so long that you'd stopped seeing him as a person and started seeing him as just… Keonho. The background radiation of your everyday existence. As necessary and as invisible as the air. The annoying, teasing, funny, stupid oxygen that made your heart beat its usually fast pace, but that if you went without you wouldn’t survive past 5 minutes.
You didn't notice the way his eyes followed you across the cafeteria because his eyes had always followed you across the cafeteria. You didn't notice how he said your name softer than he said anyone else's because your name had always sounded like that coming from his mouth—and also because he'd absolutely deny it if you asked. You didn't notice that he never touched anyone the way he touched you: a shove on the shoulder, a flick to your forehead, a hand ruffling your hair, because you had no way of knowing what he was like with other people when you weren't around.
(For the record: funny, but not as funny. Playful, but not as much. He saves his best material for you. He always has.)
The summer after he turned fourteen, he nearly told you five separate times. Once at the pool, your legs dangling in the water next to his, him splashing you on purpose. Once at the convenience store, buying you both the same ice cream without asking what you wanted because he already knew, and then licking yours before handing it over just to watch you shriek. Once on your front porch, the two of you sitting on the steps while the fireflies came out, him getting quieter and quieter until you asked if he was sick and he fumbled his words.
And once in his bedroom, you lying on his floor complaining about something, him sitting on his bed pretending to listen. He opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. Still nothing came out.
Instead, he threw a pillow at your head.
"Hey!" you said, laughing.
"You talk too much," he said.
But his ears were pink and he turned his face away, pretending to look for something on his bedside table. Anything to distract himself really: a pencil, a dead fly, he would have studied the dust motes floating in the afternoon light if it meant not looking at you sprawled on his floor, hair everywhere, cheeks flushed from laughing.
Because if he really, truly looked at you he knew he'd say it. And saying it out loud meant making it real. And making it real meant he could lose the one thing he knew he couldn’t lose.
That was the part no one talked about. Not in the movies, or in the goofy songs he hummed when he thought no one was listening. They always made confession feel like a door opening. But what if it was a door closing instead? What if he told you, and you laughed at him and then everything got weird? What if you stopped lying on his floor? What if you stopped stealing his fries as payback? What if you stopped being you and Keonho and became just two people who used to be friends?
He couldn't survive that.
You rolled onto your back and threw the pillow back at him. It hit him square in the face. "You're so weird lately," you said, but you were smiling.
He caught the pillow and held it in his lap. "Am not."
"Are too. You keep zoning out. And your ears are always red. Are you sick?"
"No."
"Fever?"
"No."
"Then what?"
He looked at you then for just a second. Long enough to memorise the way the light hit your face as you looked up at him like he was someone worth looking at. Then he turned away.
"Nothing," he said. "You're just loud."
"Rude," you said, and went back to complaining about your math homework.
And Keonho sat there on his bed, pillow in his lap, wondering if you would even feel the same.
That was the real question, wasn't it? Not if he loved you—that had been settled years beforehand. But whether you loved him back. Whether you had ever once looked at him and felt that same stupid, suffocating, wonderful thing he felt every time you walked into a room.
He didn't know.
He thought he knew you better than anyone, but he didn't know this. He couldn't tell if the way you leaned into him on the bus meant something or if you just did it because he was warm. He couldn't tell if the way you saved him a seat meant you wanted him there or if it was just habit. He couldn't tell if you looked at him the way he looked at you: like he was something precious, something fragile, something worth keeping.
Probably not, he thought. You were you. Bright and loud and easy with everyone. You hugged your friends and laughed with strangers. You probably didn't even realise you'd been breaking his heart gently for years, just by being yourself.
What he did know, though, was that even if you never feel the same way, he'd still want you here in every way you've ever been: stealing his food as payback, calling him annoying, falling asleep on his shoulder on the bus.
That was the scariest part. That he’d sacrifice his entire heart for the mere moments he gets to share with you because feeling heartbroken with you there was still a better fate than not having you at all.
But feelings that rooted themselves so deeply in you before you even had words to express them didn't stay buried forever. They grow whether you want them to or not, press against ribs and make a home in your throat. And eventually, carrying something so heavy on a soul so young is bound to boil over.
It happened on an ordinary Tuesday. You were walking home together like you always did: the same street at the same pace with the same space between you that sometimes shrunk and sometimes grew but never quite disappeared. He was carrying your backpack for you because you'd complained about your shoulders hurting—and he'd made fun of you for it first before taking it because that was his job and had always been his job. You were talking about something: a show you'd been watching, a friend who'd said something annoying, he couldn't even remember what.
And then you stopped walking.
He stopped too, confused. "What, did you forget something?"
You were looking at him with your eyebrows drawn together and your mouth slightly open. You looked like you'd just realised something you weren't supposed to realise.
"Ahn Keonho," you said slowly.
"Uh oh. Full name. Am I in trouble?"
"Why are you carrying my backpack?"
He blinked. "Because you said your shoulders hurt and then you whined about it for ten minutes. I did it to shut you up."
"Right." You nodded but continued to stare at him. "But why do you always do that? Carry my stuff? Walk me home? Remember everything I say?"
He felt his ears get hot and he shoved his hands in his pockets. "Because someone has to. You're a disaster."
"No," you said. "That's not what people just do. People don't just—" You gestured at him, at the backpack, at the years of history between you. "Keonho. Do you like me?"
The world got very quiet. No cars or birds. Just the sound of his heartbeat in his ears and your voice hanging in the air between them.
He opened his mouth but nothing came out, just like his bedroom and the pool, and like every other time he'd almost said it and then swallowed it back down.
But his ribs were aching, his throat was full, and he was so, so tired of carrying it alone.
So he did what he always did when he didn't have words. He deflected.
"What kind of question is that?" He said, aiming for casual and missing by a mile and a half. "Of course I like you. You're tolerable. Sometimes."
"Keonho."
"I mean, you're loud. You steal my food. You fell asleep on my shoulder on the bus and you drooled. On me. I should get hazard pay for—"
"Keonho."
He stopped and finally looked at you, noticing how your eyes were shining slightly.
"Just answer the question," you said quietly.
He swallowed. His ears were on fire now, and his heart was doing something violent in his chest.
"Yeah," he said. Voice barely there. "I like you. I've liked you. Probably since you drew that bigger dinosaur."
You stared at him. "The dinosaur?"
"You don't remember? First day of school. I drew a tiny dinosaur. You looked at me like I was an idiot and drew a bigger one." He shrugged, pretending it didn't matter. "You’ve been the only thing on my mind since."
You didn't say anything. You just stood there on the sidewalk, your backpack hanging off one of his shoulders, your eyes wide and shining and wet.
And then—
"You've been carrying my backpack for years and years because of a dinosaur?" you said.
He froze. "That's— that's not— that's not what I—"
You laughed, your eyes scrunching in delight as his gaze couldn’t help but soften at the sight. And then you stepped forward and threw your arms around his neck, backpack and all, and he stumbled back two steps before catching you both.
"You're such an idiot," you said into his shoulder.
He couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Couldn't do anything but stand there with your weight against him and your hair in his face and the entire world rearranging itself around his feet.
"Yeah," he whispered. "I know."
You pulled back just enough to look at him. Your face was closer than it had ever been and he could finally see every small detail he'd never noticed before.
"I kept the drawing too," you said quietly.
He blinked. "The drawing?"
"You let me keep the paper we drew on. I still have it."
His heart did something complicated. A warm, spreading thing that made his chest feel too small for everything inside it. "You're such a sap," he said, but his voice came out softer than he meant it to, almost fond. He'd kill you if you pointed that out.
"You're the one who fell in love because of a dinosaur."
He opened his mouth to argue but struggled to find any words because you were standing there, your face still too close, eyes still shining, and you were smiling at him like he'd just given you the world instead of a confession he'd been choking on for years.
"Touché," he managed.
And then you kissed him—or at least attempted to
Your nose bumped against his cheek. You’d angled wrong at first and had to correct. Your hands came up to grip the front of his jacket like you were afraid he might disappear.
He almost laughed. Almost. But then your lips were on his: soft, warm, a little clumsy, and every single thought in his head scattered like startled birds.
You pulled back too soon for him to fully comprehend what was happening. His ears were scarlet, he could feel the heat radiating off them, and his face was doing something he couldn't control. His mouth was still slightly open. His eyes were probably wide. He probably looked like an absolute idiot.
"So," you said, grinning like you hadn't just rearranged his entire internal organs, "does this mean you're going to stop stealing my fries?"
He stared at you. The audacity. The absolute audacity of this girl. You’d just had your first kiss on a random sidewalk after endless years of pining, and you were worried about fries.
"Absolutely not," he said.
And then he kissed you back.
His hand came up to cup the side of your face—something he'd seen in movies, and he'd imagined doing a thousand times in the privacy of his own head. His fingers were shaking and he hoped you couldn't tell. He kissed you slower this time, not because he knew what he was doing but because he wanted to remember it. The way you sighed against his mouth and your fingers tightened in his jacket. The way the whole world narrowed down to just this: you, him, the space between you finally closed.
When you broke apart, you were smiling so wide your eyes had practically disappeared. His ears were still on fire and his heart was still doing something embarrassing.
"Your face is really red," you said.
"Yours is too."
"Liar."
"You wanna go look in a mirror?"
You shoved his shoulder. He caught your hand before you could pull it back and held it there, fingers loosely tangled with you, and they stayed tied together for awhile
After that, things were different. Softer like someone had turned down the volume of the world and turned up the warmth. He still stole your fries and you still called him annoying. But now when he held your hand, he didn't make up an excuse first. Now when you leaned your head on his shoulder on the bus, he'd rest his cheek on top of your head and pretend he wasn't smiling. Now when your mothers whispered and giggled behind their hands, he'd stage-whisper to you and you'd both dissolve into laughter at whatever cheeky comment he’d made.
Being loved by Keonho, you learned, was a noisy thing.
It was him showing up at your door with your favourite snack, tossing it at your head, and saying "you owe me." It was him waiting for you after school even when your classes ran late, complaining loudly about how cold it was the entire time. It was him looking at you across a crowded room and pulling a stupid face until you laughed.
He still teased you constantly, that never changed and likely never would. But now there was something warmer underneath it that made your chest ache in the best way. Now when he called you annoying, it meant I love you. Now when he stole your food, it meant I love you. Now when he pulled stupid faces and made bad jokes and walked you home even when it was out of his way, it all meant the same thing.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
He never said it often. Maybe once a month, maybe even less. But he didn't need to. He'd been saying it for years—in dinosaurs and stolen fries, in backpacks carried and seats saved and walks home that were never out of his way. He'd been saying it in every stupid joke and every teasing grin and every time he looked at you like you were the best thing that had ever happened to him.
You just hadn't known how to listen yet.
Now you did.
"You know," you said one night, lying on his bedroom floor, him sprawled next to you, both of you staring at the ceiling. "I can't believe it took us this long."
"Blame yourself," he said. "You're oblivious."
"I'm not oblivious. You're just bad at flirting."
"I drew you a dinosaur."
"That was in first grade."
"My game has always been strong."
You turned your head to look at him, and found him already looking at you, his eyes soft in the dim light.
"I love you," you said. Just because you could.
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "I know."
"You're the worst." You roll your eyes, a grin forming on his face.
"You love me."
"Unfortunately," you said. And when he smiled his real smile that he didn't give to anyone else, you knew he was right.
People said you were too young to know what forever meant, and maybe they were right. But when you looked at Keonho, at this boy who had been beside you since the first day of school, who knew you better than anyone, who had loved you since before he even knew the word for it, you couldn't imagine a version of your life where he wasn't there.
And neither could he.
"So," you said one afternoon, walking home, his arm slung over your shoulders, your backpack hanging off his other arm because he still carried it even though you'd stopped asking. "Do you think we'll make it?"
"To where?"
"To forever. Or whatever."
He snorted. "That's a stupid question."
"Is it?"
He stopped walking and looked down at you. His ears were already pink, but he was smiling so softly at you you felt like you were going to melt.
"I've been carrying your stuff since we were seven," he said. "You really think I'm gonna stop now?"
You grinned. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting."
And he started walking again, pulling you along with him, and you let him. Because that was how it had always been and that was how it would always be.
You were fifteen. You were sixteen. You were two peas in a pod, still, always, just like everyone always said.
Some things don't need to be forever to be real.
But this one, you suspected, might just make it anyway.
( #SNEAK DISSERS? THATS THAT SHI I DONT LIKE ) PART ONE ──── when your ex's girlfriend is getting too comfortable sneak dissing you on public platforms, you and your bsf decide to take matters into your own hands
# MARTIN EDWARDS × FEM!READER ( fluff & humor ) &&. EX!JUHOON JUHOON'S UNNAMED GF BSF!WONHEE ACADEMIC!AU (implied college solely because wonhee lives in a dorm) reader tutors martin !!! martin & juhoon's current gf have a link 🤫 but I can't spoil that read the fic to find out
( 𝓀aikai. ) PART TWO SOON ^•^ title a reference to the chief keef song lolll umm 😴 HIIIIIIII HELLOOOOO BOYSSS WHO MISSED MEEEEEE wow how long has it been since I uploaded a fic 😭😭 I'm still in the week before my finals start but I had an INSANE rush of inspo and you know how I am 😹😹 this is my last chance to post a fic while I'm still 19 so 😭 I wanted to make a special drop since my bday soon, I've been hella mia AND I missed you guys so much 😭 please catch me up y'all how have you guys been? I hope this is funny and I haven't lost my charm 😭😭😭
He kept pacing around the living room, fixing his hair every two seconds, checking the mirror like it personally offended him.
“You good?” she asked, tying her shoes.
He froze like she just caught him committing a crime.
“Me? Yeah I’m so fine. Totally…”
Then he tripped over absolutely nothing.
y/n blinked, laughing under her breath. “Uh-huh. Sure, Seonghyeon.”
He swore his ears turned pink.
Tonight was their dinner date, nothing insanely fancy, just a cute spot Seonghyeon picked because they had “the vibe.”
Whatever that meant.
But from the second they left the house, it started.
The moment y/n stepped into the warm, cozy restaurant lighting, Seonghyeon straight-up malfunctioned.
“Damn.”
That was ALL he said, staring at her like she was the sun.
y/n raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“You’re… like… really pretty,” he said, voice dropping into that shy, breathy tone he got when he was too honest. “I literally don’t understand how you look this good.”
“Seonghyeon,” she laughed, nudging him, “we didn’t even sit down yet.”
“And? You think sitting is gonna fix it?” he shot back, already smiling way too big.
They took their seats, his knee brushing hers under the table.
He didn’t move it.
Actually, he moved it closer.
y/n played with her menu. “What do you wanna eat?”
Without thinking, Seonghyeon said, “You.”
Her eyes snapped up.
Seonghyeon froze like he just got hit by a blue shell in Mario Kart.
“WAIT—NO—NOT LIKE THAT—PLEASE—”
y/n burst out laughing as he slapped a hand over his face, actually whining into his palm.
“I swear I didn’t mean it in a weird way,” he groaned. “I meant like—you’re cute. Like I could just… I dunno… squeeze your cheeks and bite you like a mochi or something. Oh my god.”
“You’re so lucky you’re cute,” she laughed.
He peeked through his fingers, already red.
“Yes please. Call me cute again.”
y/n playfully rolled her eyes at him.
A waiter came over to their table and the two ordered. They waited for a bit before the food arrives. But Seonghyeon won’t stop.
“You look really beautiful.”
“That’s the third time in five minutes.”
“Okay but… it’s true?”
She shook her head, cheeks warming.
He leaned forward, chin on his hand like a lovesick teenager.
“And your hair looks so good today. Did you do something to it?”
“I just curled it a little.”
“You look like a princess.”
“Seonghyeon,” she groaned.
“And your lips look—”
“Nope. Don’t finish that.”
He snorted and took a sip of his drink, eyes still glued to her.
He wasn’t even being smooth.
Just honest.
Painfully honest.
Because his face gave everything away, the tiny smile he couldn’t hide, the way his eyes kept dropping to her lips, the stupid dimples appearing every time she caught him staring.
At one point he sighed dramatically.
“What now?” she asked.
“You’re literally distracting me from my food.”
“How is that my fault?”
“I don’t know, maybe a really pretty girl is sitting infront of me and distracting me from eating.”
She kicked him gently under the table.
“Then stop looking at me.”
“No.”
⸻
They left the restaurant, the cool night air brushing against their skin.
Seonghyeon immediately grabbed her hand, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles.
He kept glancing at her like he couldn’t help it.
“You’re staring again.”
“Can you blame me?” he muttered. “My girlfriend’s perfect.”
“I’m not perfect.”
“Uh, yes? You are? I literally have eyes?”
She tugged her sleeve. “Stop glazing me.”
“I literally can’t,” he said. “It’s a condition. It’s called ‘I’m in love.’ Can’t fix it.”
y/n’s heart did a full somersault.
She stopped walking.
He stopped too, confusion written on his face before he softened.
Her arms circled his waist, Seonghyeon frozed before he hugged her back, pulling her close, chin resting on her head.
“You good?” he whispered.
“You’re being too cute.”
“That’s crazy because YOU’RE the cute one.”
She punched his chest lightly. “Stop glazing me!”
“Never.”
They finally reached her door.
Seonghyeon stood in front of her, rocking on his heels, hands still holding hers.
His eyes kept flicking down to her lips like he was trying so hard to be normal but was absolutely not succeeding.
“You’re really pretty,” he repeated softly.
“Baby—”
“I mean it. Like… I look at you and I’m like… bro, how did I pull? This is insane. It’s like I won life.”
She cupped his cheek, brushing her thumb across his warm skin.
His eyes fluttered a little.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked quietly, voice finally losing the silliness and turning sincere.
“Yeah.”
He leaned in, tilting his head just enough, pressing the softest, warmest kiss to her lips.
Like he wanted to commit it to memory.
He pulled back only an inch, breath brushing against her mouth.
Then he grinned.
“I wanna say something.”
“Seonghyeon—”
“You taste pretty too.”
“OH MY GOD.”
He burst out laughing, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her into his chest.
“Sorry, sorry,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “I’ll stop.”
seonghyeon ── IN WHICH , you who has always done everything, falls in love with a boy who shows love by quietly doing everything for her
BF!SEONGHYEON X FEM!READER ── .✦
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AUTHOR NOTES — coco speaking here! bro istg im always making seonghyeon blogs but HES JUST THE CUTEST EVER!! AND I LOVE MAKING BF!SEONGHYEON BLOGS ESPECIALLY 🥹 winter break lowkey has be bedrotting and scrolling through social media tho but i never felt so at peace 🫶🫶
Not in the loud, performative way people liked to romanticize, but in the quiet, ingrained way that came from years of relying only on herself.
She carried her own bags, fixed her own problems, swallowed her stress whole and kept walking. She didn’t ask for help unless she absolutely had to. Even then, it came out clipped, awkward, almost apologetic.
So when she started dating Seonghyeon, she didn’t expect much to change.
She expected affection, sure, hand-holding, late-night calls, after school hangouts. She expected kisses stolen when no one was looking, physical touch, the warmth of knowing someone chose her.
What she didn’t expect was how gently he would dismantle her independence without ever making her feel weak for it.
It started small.
Too small to notice at first.
Like how he always walked on the outside of the sidewalk without saying anything. Or how he carried an extra charger in his bag “just in case,” and somehow it was always her phone that died. Or the way he wordlessly took her empty cup and refilled it when they studied together, setting it back down beside her like it had always belonged there.
Y/n noticed, but she brushed it off.
Seonghyeon was just… like that.
He was the type to smile without realizing it, lips curved up while his eyes crinkled softly, as if joy sat naturally on his face. He laughed easily, openly, head tipping back, shoulders shaking, then immediately got shy when he realized how loud he’d been.
His expressions betrayed him constantly. Every emotion flickered across his face before his brain could filter it.
He was silly in a way that felt effortless. Jokes slipping out of him mid-conversation, playful nudges, teasing comments followed by a sheepish grin. But underneath all that was something steady. Thoughtful. Observant.
And deeply, deeply devoted.
One afternoon, Y/n was sprawled across her bed, laptop balanced precariously on her knees as she typed furiously.
Her brow was furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, fingers flying over the keyboard like she was racing someone unseen.
Seonghyeon sat beside her with his legs crossed, pretending to scroll on his phone.
Pretending, because in reality, he was watching her.
He noticed the way her shoulders tensed the longer she worked. How she forgot to breathe properly when she concentrated. How she hadn’t moved in over an hour.
Without a word, he slipped off the bed.
She didn’t notice until a familiar scent, warm coffee, lightly sweet, drifted into the room.
She looked up just as he returned, holding a mug out to her with both hands like it was something precious.
“You forgot this,” he said softly.
“I didn’t—” she started, then stopped when she realized her cup had been empty. “…Thanks.”
He smiled, pleased in that quiet way of his, and sat back down. Then, just as casually, he reached out and gently tugged the blanket up around her legs.
She froze.
“…You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to,” he replied simply, his eyes still on his phone, but his ears were red.
Moments like that kept happening.
Seonghyeon tying her shoelaces when they came undone, mumbling, “Hold still,” like it was the most natural thing in the world. Seonghyeon setting reminders for her deadlines. Seonghyeon packing snacks he knew she liked and pretending it was coincidence.
And always checking in.
“Did you eat?”
“Are you tired?”
“Want me to walk you home?”
She said no half the time.
He stayed anyway.
One evening, rain poured down unexpectedly, soaking the pavement and blurring the city lights into soft halos. Y/n stood under an awning, arms crossed, staring at the downpour with mild annoyance.
“I can walk,” she said when Seonghyeon held his jacket above both of them.
“You can,” he agreed. Then smiled, “But I can also hold this.”
She rolled her eyes, but didn’t move away as he draped the jacket over her shoulders instead, carefully adjusting it so it covered her completely.
They walked like that, pressed close, his arm snug around her waist, her fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie. Rain pattered around them, the world shrinking into something soft and intimate.
Halfway there, she stopped.
Seonghyeon turned instantly. “What’s wrong?”
“…Why do you do all this?” she asked quietly.
He blinked.
Then he laughed a little, shy and breathy. “Because I love you?”
She stared at him, something warm and unfamiliar swelling in her chest.
Later that night, curled up together on the couch, her head resting against his shoulder, y/n finally let herself relax fully. Seonghyeon’s hand traced lazy patterns along her arm, thumb brushing over her skin in slow, comforting motions.
She shifted, turning to face him. “Can I just say something?”
Seonghyeon hummed. “What is it baby?”
“You know, I’m not used to being taken care of.” she murmured.
His smile softened immediately.
“I know.”
She leaned closer. “But… I think I like it. When it’s you.”
His cheeks flushed pink.
“Yeah?” he asked, voice quiet.
She nodded.
He leaned in first, hesitant, gentle, until their lips met in a soft kiss that tasted like comfort and warmth. It lingered, unhurried, his hand sliding to cup her cheek as if she might disappear.
When they pulled apart, he pressed a quick kiss to her forehead.
“My strong girl,” he whispered, teasing affection woven into the words.
She laughed softly and kissed him again, this time deeper, surer, arms wrapping around his neck as he pulled her into his lap like it was instinct.
Maybe she was independent.
But loving Seonghyeon meant learning that letting someone care for you wasn’t weakness.
Sometimes, it was just love, expressed in quiet acts, warm hands, and a boy who showed it every single day.
MANIFESTING A GOOD JUNE MANIFESTING A GOOD JUNE MANIFESTING A GOOD JUNE MANIFESTING A GOOD JUNE MANIFESTING A GOOD JUNE MANIFESTING A GOOD JUNE MANIFESTING A GOOD JUNE MANIFESTING A GOOD JUNE MANIFESTING A GOOD JUNE MANIFESTING A GOOD JUNE MANIFESTING A GOOD JUNE MANIFESTING A GOOD JUNE
[looking at people younger than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at people older than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at myself] its over
let her cook ! (💬) debut post who cheered!! 🔥🔥half of this is inspired by my best friend and her boyfriend so credits to them ig 🙄
highschool bf!keonho who's always writing something or the other in your notebooks and books, leaving messages like 'i <3 u' or 'y r u so pretty?' in messy handwriting on the corner of the pages or scribles and doodles of two people kissing
highschool bf!keonho who always blows kisses to you when he's recieving an award for swimming on stage, and then gets super shy when everyone starts whooping .
highschool bf!keonho and you are probably the most famous couple at school, even the teachers know about you and (some) even ship you guys !
highschool bf!keonho who begged his older sister to teach him how to braid hair just so he could help you with yours . every morning before school, he comes over to your house so the two of you can walk together , but somehow always ends up getting roped into helping you style your hair in front of the mirror first . (he pretends it's the worst thing in the world but we all know he's lying)
highschool bf!keonho who isnt big on pda or physical touch in general . the most he'd do is bump into your shoulder while walking together or hold your pinkie in the hallways .
highschool bf!keonho who would be asking everyone for relationship advice . you'd see him randomly chatting up the maths proffessor , a few upperclassmen and obviously his hbs ! (he wouldn't trust martin one bit but he sounds the most sensible out of all of them so...)
highschool bf!keonho who isn't the best at academics so study dates are a must for you guys!!! you both are at the library almost everyday before exams, trying to revise the whole syllabus before they kick you out for being too loud and giggly . bonus points if he gets good marks after your tutoring, you'd proudly show him off to the whole class after that ...
highschool bf!keonho who is so indecisive about food that whenever his mom asks , "what should I pack for lunch?" he just shrugs and says , "it’s okay , y/n’s mom always packs extra for me," before flashing that sweet little smile of his .
highschool bf!keonho who wants try the whole 'climbing into ur gfs window' thing just cuz he watched steve harrington pull it off (vro is not the goat 😂✌️) but then almost falls off the roof...
highschool bf!keonho who is absolutely adored by your family . your mom calls him "my son" jokingly so often that no one reacts anymore , while your dad constantly invites him over on weekends to watch baseball together on the couch . the only problem? keonho doesn’t know a single thing about baseball .
highschool bf!keonho who believes in love at first sight and soulmates ('all that cheesy stuff' as he says) only because you exist . you are his first and will be his last <3
I can't be yours baby, know I be on tour crazy
—martin edwards
🎧 idol!martin x intern-stylist!f!reader, smau, fluff, crack, profanity, readers a chaser and martin loves the chase, lowk flirting, fans are hella yntin shippers, mentions of smoking (no one smokes tho!), mentions of marissa as enhypens stylist
syn: ending up as Martin's stylist while interning at HYBE for your portfolio sure did lead you somewhere.
playlist: mine by tink and g herbo
iro's notes: ts was so fun to make, il make more parts soon cus #yntin needs to be real😍 also yhc and my bby @062403 (nana) cameo WE UP, tl for additional parts is open<3 // if this does good i might as well make it a mini smau so...mhmm. also lowk predicted cortis tour w this one cus i drafted ts on 31st may
