Rookie Mistake ; one practice session with wooyoung suddenly gives you the confidence of a man-eater, but some lessons are harder to forget than others.
♪ idol!wooyoung x idol!reader (fem) | series, part 3/? ~9k
Static: something that is stationary, unchanging, or fixed in one place; lack of progress.
♪ MDNI, reader is a rookie idol, using wooyoung’s notorious seduction skills to get closer to her crush. Vulgar language, mentions of sex, making out (who else cheered!!), both woo and reader are freaky bruh, someone tame them. also a tiny bit of text screenshots, i’m experimenting.
♪ “He can’t fuck you like I can.” — Teeth (interlude), xxxtentacion.
Wooyoung has never had an issue with his confidence. He has plenty of other problems, obviously. An inability to mind his business. A mouth that moves significantly faster than his brain. A deeply concerning tendency to make bad decisions simply because they seem funny at the time.
Confidence, though? Never been one of them.
Wooyoung knows he’s attractive, and he treats that fact like a weapon. He acts first, says whatever possible inappropriate thing crosses his mind and deals with the consequences later. His entire existence is built around that exact kind of momentum. No pauses. No second-guessing.
If you want something, ask for it. If you don't like something, say so. If you want to fuck someone, for God's sake, don't spend three weeks staring at them from across a room and just hope it’ll happen one day.
Wooyoung doesn't mind being alone. What he hates is having nothing to do. Silence gives a person’s brain too much room to wander, and his brain has always been better at creating problems rather than solving them. That's precisely why he keeps his schedule packed tight: Practice, drinking, going out, people, sex, whatever works to keep the momentum. As long as there's something happening, he doesn't have to sit around wondering what the hell he's doing with his life.
He liked people best in small doses. Enough to have good conversations, share a nice drink, or hook up for the night, but he hated getting close to the point where he felt obligated to sit there and listen to their problems.
And yet, somehow, he’s found himself playing teacher to the world’s most anxious girl.
His phone buzzes against his thigh, cutting through the silence of the empty hallway. He pulls it out to see a string of texts lighting up the screen.
Rookie: where are u
Rookie: im ready
Rookie: unfortunately
He stares down at the messages, his thumbs moving over the glass to type back a quick response before he starts heading up the concrete stairs.
You had both agreed to meet up tonight to actually work things out, keeping it under wraps because neither of you wanted to deal with everyone else knowing about your little "arrangement." Deep down, he knows it’s harmless, and it honestly wouldn't even matter if his members found out. But avoiding it saves him the headache of their endless questions and suspicious glares.
They considered going out to eat, but that would’ve been too public. They also considered getting a hotel room, but those are either for hook ups or going on tour, no in between. That left the next best option: sneaking into the company practice room late at night. Right around the time when the building is a ghost town, especially on a weekend.
He pushes the glass door open, stepping past the wall of floor to ceiling mirrors and into the empty space.
You are sitting cross-legged right in the center of the wooden floor, already looking up at him with a deep scowl carved into your face.
He could have ignored your texts entirely. He could have easily stuck to his own schedule and gone home instead of making time to let you work your way into his week like this. But alas, even he doesn't have a solid answer for why the fuck he’s standing here. He’s probably just bored and needs a fresh distraction, and he always seeks entertainment where it’s due. Having to sit down and tutor you through your panic is just an annoying side effect he has to tolerate to get to the good part.
“What took you so long? Sit down.” you snap, breaking the silence and motioning toward the floor right next to you, where you’ve dropped a stray foam cushion.
“I was with a friend,” he says smoothly, rolling his shoulders back before sauntering over and casually dropping his weight onto the floor right beside you.
You narrow your eyes at his painfully obvious excuse, staring at him like you know for a fact he is full of shit. But you give up on pressing it, letting out a heavy sigh. You reach into the plastic grocery bag sitting between your knees, pulling out two cold glass bottles of beer and shoving one directly into his hand.
“For the nerves,” you mutter, pressing your lips into a tight line as you pop the cap off your own.
He knows for a damn fact that you are the only nervous one in this room right now, but he decides to keep that to himself. He pops his bottle open, lifts it toward you in a mocking little toast, and takes a long, slow sip of the cold liquid.
you both stay silent for a beat, mutually deciding to relax for a second and let the buzz kick in.
“Okay,” Wooyoung speaks suddenly, breaking the quiet hum of the room and causing you to nearly choke on your fresh sip of beer. “Come closer.”
He doesn’t even wait for a verbal response, reaching out and grabbing the edge of the foam cushion you’re sitting on, pulling you across the wooden floor until you are practically pressed right against his side.
Your brows furrow, your expression twisting as you shove lightly at his arm. “Why? I thought you were going to teach me how to flirt.”
“I am teaching you,” he replies, a smug grin spreading across his face. “A huge part of flirting is body language. If you’re interested in a guy, you start by closing the distance and seeing how he reacts.”
You huff out a breath, fidgeting with your fingers. “Okay, but how am I supposed to tell if he’s interested?”
“It’ll be obvious, guys make it easy.”
“How so?” you press, narrowing your eyes at him.
He lets out a heavy sigh, shifting his weight so he’s fully facing you. “Fine. Let's do a practice run. Pretend we’re sitting at a bar right now. Try to flirt with me, and I’ll show you how a guy reacts when he's hooked.”
“But–”
“Just do it, stop overthinking.”
You suck in a sharp breath, bracing yourself before hitching your hip and inching closer into his personal space. “You drinking alone tonight, handsome?” you ask, tilting your head up at him with an intense gaze.
A dark thrill rolls through his chest at the attempt, and he doesn't even have to fake the reaction. He leans in close, letting a slow, wicked smile take over his face.
“Hopefully not anymore, now that you’re here,” he murmurs smoothly, his voice dropping an octave as his eyes lock onto yours, loving the way you instantly tense up under the heat of it.
There it is. That little freeze. Wooyoung has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing in your face.
You were trying so hard to look confident just a second ago, sitting there with your chin tilted up and that breathy attempt at a seductive voice. And now, a single smooth sentence from him has completely knocked the wind right out of your lungs.
Cute. Not that he would ever admit that.
“You’re supposed to respond,” he reminds you, tilting his head.
Your expression twists into something painfully shy. “I know,” you mutter, your eyes squinting as you desperately search for words.
“Uh…” Your gaze drops briefly down to his collarbone before shooting right back up. “Do you… come here often?”
Wooyoung’s mouth twitches. A genuine laugh slips past his lips before he can stop it, and you instantly lash out, shoving hard against his shoulder. “Shut up! Don't laugh at me!”
“That was terrible,” he fires back, grinning wider at your reaction.
You roll your eyes but a stubborn little smile is already fighting its way onto your mouth.
“You’re too damn stiff. Relax. Again,” Wooyoung commands, shifting his weight.
You take a sharp breath, visibly forcing your shoulders to drop and your posture to loosen up. This time, when you look back at him, something stubborn and genuinely mischievous flashes through your eyes.
You shift even closer, crawling forward on your knees until your legs press flush against his thighs. You slide one hand up to plant it firmly on the floor right beside his hip, leaning in.
Wooyoung’s eyes drop instantly, tracking every single movement with heavy focus, before dragging back up to lock onto yours.
“What do you think now, sunbaenim?” you ask, your voice dropping into something teasing, a nasty little glint of pride dancing in your eyes.
He holds your gaze for a long, heavy beat, letting the tension stretch out between you before he finally answers. “I think you’re getting a lot braver.”
Your cocky expression falters for a split second, a crack in your armor showing. “Is that all?”
“No,” he murmurs, his dark eyes dropping like a stone straight to your mouth. “I think you’re fucking terrified.”
Your lips part slightly in surprise. Wooyoung deliberately lets the heavy silence sit there between you for another second, completely savoring the anticipation radiating off you. “You’re sitting there waiting for me to flirt back, aren't you?”
Your face flushes bright red immediately, the heat blooming across your skin as you pull back, trying to put some space between you. “I am not!”
“Liar.”
You let out a dramatic scoff, tossing your head back and deliberately looking away toward the wall of mirrors to avoid his gaze.
Wooyoung sits back, watching you closely for a long moment. Honestly, his brain is running in circles trying to figure out if this stupid little "lesson" is actually teaching you anything useful, or if it's just making things worse. Either way, he is having way too much fun to even think about stopping now. He softens his posture just a fraction, the sharp edges of his teasing dropping into something slightly more steady.
“Tell me what to do,” your voice slips out, sounding genuinely defeated, that tiny crack of surrender shoots straight to his filthy brain like a shot of adrenaline.
He slides across the wooden floor and brings the two of you right back into each other's space. “Tell me what you would say if you actually liked me, if I was Sunghoon,” he prompts, his tone dropping lower, keeping you focused.
Your expression shifts, the playful defiance melting into something a lot more hesitant. “...I’d probably ask if you wanted another drink.”
A genuine, pleased smile spreads across his face. “See? You’re learning something, rookie.”
“What next?” you ask, turning your head back to look right at him, your eyes catching the studio lights with a devastating, unguarded look that hits him a little harder than he expected.
“Then, if I was him, I’d ask why you keep looking at me like that,” he fires back smoothly.
You immediately snap your head away, breaking eye contact again like you’ve just been burned, and a soft laugh escapes his throat at the predictability of it. “Why’d you look away?” he asks, leaning over to track your face.
“Because you’re making me nervous.”
The words slip straight past your lips before you seem to realize you’ve said them.
Wooyoung goes still, all the playful teasing vanishing from his posture as his dark gaze drifts slowly across your face, searching every micro-expression for whatever the hell is going on inside your head. “Because I’m flirting with you?”
You give a tiny, almost faint nod, your jaw tight as you refuse to look at him.
The blunt confirmation does something unpleasantly satisfying to his ego. A slow smile curves his mouth, dripping with pure cockiness. “Then I must be doing something right.”
You let out a harsh scoff, throwing your hands up in a desperate attempt to claw back an ounce of your dignity and confidence. “You’re just acting.”
“Am I?”
Wooyoung watches the wave of confusion wash entirely over your face, something tight and unfamiliar twisting in his chest at the sight of you being cornered.
He lowers his voice into a raspy hum that vibrates right against your skin. “You’re supposed to be pretending I’m Sunghoon, remember?”
“I know,” you whisper, your voice losing its edge.
“Then stop looking at me like I’m Wooyoung.”
He tests the waters, his patience wearing thin in the best possible way, and leans closer. He slides his hand up, planting his palm warm and heavy right over your knee.
“Woo, stop.”
Your voice makes him freeze dead in his tracks, his fingers curling slightly against your skin.
“I know I’m the one that came to you asking for help and… fuck, I really am grateful,” you mutter, your gaze dropping to the floor between you. “But, a part of me knows this is a waste of your time.”
His eyes stay locked onto yours, completely unblinking, his thumb tracing a slow circle over your kneecap to silently tell you to keep talking.
“It doesn’t matter how much we work on silly flirting tactics, the fact that I'm inexperienced is always going to be there, holding me back,” you suck in a shaky breath, your shoulders slumping. “I’ve kissed two guys, Woo. That’s it. And one of them I drunkenly lost my virginity with. I don’t even know if I’m a good kisser or not.”
Your voice drops low, turning breathy and frustrated, the absolute vulnerability of it making something sharp spike behind his ribs.
“And it’s driving me insane because I want to know what it feels like to actually command a room, to not feel like an absolute fraud every time some guy looks at me twice,” you finish, your chest rising and falling as you finally look back up at him.
“Woo?” you test, your voice dropping into a nervous whisper when he stays silent for too long.
He doesn’t break eye contact. Instead, he slowly slides his hand further up your knee and over your thigh, his fingers pressing into the fabric of your clothes as he studies you carefully. “It’s easy enough to find out.”
Your brows snap together, your eyes widening in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“Let me kiss you.”
You jerk backward instantly. “What? No! Are you out of your fucking mind?”
He refuses to let you crawl away, his strong hands shooting out to hook right under your knees before he yanks you right back into his space, trapping you between his legs.
“C’mon, rook,” he murmurs, a cocky smirk playing on his lips. “We are two grown ass adults. I think we can handle a little experimental kiss without freaking out. I’m just trying to help you.”
Your eyes blow wide, darting up to meet his. “You’re serious?”
“Completely.”
Your gaze immediately drops down to his mouth, tracking the movement of his lips like you’re trying to memorize it. “Now?”
“Now.”
Slightly trembling, you take the bait. You shift forward, hiking your knees up and straddling his hips, planting your legs on either side of him. Your hands come up, shaking a little as you press them flat against his chest, your weight settling down onto him while your eyes stay locked greedily on his mouth.
“Calm down,” he mumbles softly, his hands resting easily on your waist.
Taking his advice, you suck in a sharp breath. You lean in and press your quivering lips directly to his. His body goes rigid for a second, urging you to take the lead. He wants to see what you’ve got. Once you realize that you actually have to do the work, you press closer, your tongue swiping timidly across the seam of his closed lips.
His mouth parts instantly, letting you in. You flick your tongue against his, and suddenly, you aren’t in this alone anymore. He shifts his lips against yours, taking control of the rhythm, gently sucking at your tongue until his senses are entirely flooded with the taste of beer, sugar, and you.
A low groan rips straight from the back of his throat, vibrating against your mouth. That sound acts like an absolute switch being flipped. Your hands instantly slide from his chest all the way up, your fingers curling hard into the dark strands of his hair, gripping tight.
His hands tighten like vices around your waist, his grip bruising as he hoists you up and yanks you completely flush against his chest.
God, you can kiss. A flash of pure disbelief hits him. Did you lie to him just now? Were you just spinning some sob story to trick him into making out with you? Because if this is what you call inexperienced, half the people he’s hooked up with need to go back to kindergarten. The dirty, intrusive thought of what else that mouth of yours could do, of where else you could use your hands, throws massive amounts of fuel onto a fire that was already burning way too hot.
You push your body closer, shifting your hips and accidentally grinding down against him out of pure instinct, no doubt trying to chase away the friction and the pressure building up between your own legs.
A harsh growl tears out of him, his patience snapping completely. He slightly pushes you back by the shoulders, breaking the kiss with a sharp gasp of air.
You stare at him wide-eyed, chest heaving and lips swollen. “Was… was that okay?” you ask, your voice a breathless rasp.
His hand moves, wrapping around your wrist, uncurling your trembling fingers from his hair, and dragging your arm down until he places your palm flat against his thigh. He stares straight into your dilated eyes, forcing you to look at the undeniable evidence of what you just did to him.
You pliantly let him guide your hand further up his leg, entirely frozen in shock as he slides your palm right over the hard erection straining heavily against the thick denim of his jeans.
“What do you think, rook?”
The problem with actively trying to not think about something is that your brain apparently takes it as a personal challenge, turning every single memory into a neon sign flashing right in front of your face.
You do not like Wooyoung. That’s the first thing you have to establish to yourself. The second is that whatever the fuck happened last night, the beer, the stupid acting drills, the way your hand ended up pressed against his jeans, was entirely circumstantial. A fluke. A lab experiment gone wrong. The third is that you are absolutely, one thousand percent not going to think about it anymore.
“—and then he has the nerve to look at me like I’m the one being weird,” you finish, throwing your hands up into the air. “Like, excuse me? He’s the one that barged in on me and started all that stupid teasing out of nowhere.”
Ningning sits beside you on the couch, calmly chewing as she inhales a fistful of popcorn. She has been listening to your breakdown about the night at the bar and the bathroom stall for way too long now. And yes, you deliberately chose to rant exclusively about the public humiliation because there is no way in hell you are admitting to her that you swapped spit and touched an idol's crotch last night.
You spin around on the cushions to glare at her. “And don’t even get me started on the way he talks.”
She arches a single eyebrow, swallowing her bite. “You’ve been talking about the way he talks for fifteen minutes straight. What do you mean ‘don’t get me started’?”
“Because it’s annoying!”
“Uh-huh.”
“He has this stupid little tone.” You immediately drop your voice an octave, slouching your shoulders and doing a painfully accurate imitation of him. “Relax, rookie. Stop overthinking.”
Ningning snorts right into her popcorn bowl, a kernel flying across the coffee table.
You point a finger directly at her face. “See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about.” You flop backward dramatically against the cushions, letting out a loud, miserable groan. “I don’t like him.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
Your head picks up, looking at her intently. “But you’re thinking it, right?”
“I think you talk about him a lot for someone who supposedly can’t stand him,” she says dryly, reaching back into the bowl.
You groan louder, grabbing one of the couch pillows and yanking it into your lap like a shield. “Anyone put in that kind of close proximity is bound to feel some type of way. It’s called being uncomfortable.”
“Not unless you like them.”
A petty, devious thought sparks straight through your brain as you accept the ‘challenge.’ You shove yourself off the couch, crawling across the cushions before planting yourself right on her lap, straddling her legs. You place your hands down on her shoulders, deliberately recreating the exact same invasive posture that made your stomach flip inside out with Wooyoung not even 24 hours ago.
You reach out, taking her chin between your thumb and fingers to tilt her face up toward yours. Ningning’s lips twitch, a smirk breaking through. You lean in slowly, narrowing your eyes to mock a seductive glare, trying to squeeze out any kind of tension, and... nothing. Absolutely zero electricity. Just two friends looking at each other like idiots over a bowl of popcorn.
You let out a flat sigh and slump forward, your forehead dropping onto her shoulder while you stay sprawled across her lap.
“I told you,” she deadpans, giving your thighs a couple of casual, dismissive pats.
You shove yourself off her, rolling your eyes as you scramble back over to your side of the couch and cross your arms over your chest. You stare blankly at the TV screen, but your mind betrays you, dragging back to the memory of the studio, to the heavy drag of his hands, to how easily he completely ruined your peace of mind.
To the kiss. The burning desire wrapped up in a harmless favor, something that was supposed to help you gain a little baseline confidence but instead left your brain completely spiraling.
It’s like eating a meal and still feeling hungry because you didn’t satisfy your cravings.
Do you regret it? Yes, absolutely. Fucking obviously. Will you do it again?... You’ll have to come back to that question later.
Obviously, the smart answer should be a hard no, that it will definitely never, ever happen again. But you would be lying if you said it didn’t help. Seeing the shock hit his face and feeling the hard evidence of arousal in his pants just from you kissing him? You. Something you did had that effect on a guy like him. It made you proud. It made you feel like you could walk right up to Sunghoon, french the hell out of him, and then walk him like a dog just because you felt like it.
You can only imagine how many more things you could drag out of Wooyoung if you played your cards right. How many more secret lessons or skills he could teach you. And the best part is that you can practice your moves on him and it doesn’t even matter, because at the end of the day, he doesn’t matter. He’s just a tool for your training camp.
Fuck. That thought is way too dangerous.
“You know what, I need a distraction,” you announce loudly, sitting straight up on the couch and clapping your hands together. A major dih-straction. “I’m ready to finally ask Sunghoon out.”
Ningning barks out a sharp laugh, aggressively setting the popcorn bowl down on the coffee table and snapping upright right beside you. “What? Where did that come from?”
You pull your phone out of your pocket, the bright screen glaring in your face as you tap your thumb against the glass to open your messages.
Ningning’s eyebrows pinch together, her eyes darting from your face down to the phone. “Wait, you’re actually serious? Babe, I was only half-joking about the whole ‘liking Wooyoung’ thing. You don’t have to force yourself to hit on Sunghoon just to prove a point to me.”
You immediately lock your posture, pulling your shoulders back and lifting your chin with stubborn, unyielding pride, refusing to let her see you crack. “This has nothing to do with Wooyoung. It’s about me finally going after the guy I’ve wanted for over a year now.” You turn your head to glare at her, narrowing your eyes and dropping your voice into an annoying tone. “You’re the one who told me I need to put myself out there, remember?”
Ningning slumps dramatically against the couch cushions, completely defeated by her own words. She lets out a heavy sigh. You completely ignore her obvious disappointment, your thumb swiping across the screen until you find Sunghoon’s contact name.
You exhale a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding, staring blankly down at the glowing text thread with Sunghoon.
“Well, that was way easier than I thought,” you mutter out loud, watching the little typing bubble flash before he mentions setting up a reservation to a restaurant.
Instantly, a cold, sickening wave of nausea blooms hard in your stomach. Fuck. Maybe this was a stupid idea. The frantic practice sessions with wooyoung last night were supposed to teach you basic flirting skills, but instead, they somehow trained you in an entirely different, highly inappropriate set of physical skills. And now you realize you are completely unequipped for a real date. You need actual strategies. You need backup. You need to study like this is the most important exam of your life. And sadly, since YouTube doesn't offer step-by-step tutorials on how to seduce a guy, you are forced to crawl directly to your next best option.
You shoot Ningning one final, defensive glare as she watches you from the couch, then make a hard beeline for the bathroom and slam the door shut.
You mentally curse yourself, calling yourself every idiot name in the book for doing this, but your traitorous fingers are already moving on autopilot to pull up his contact and hit call.
It rings twice before the line picks up. Faint, breathy giggles from some random girl echo in the background through the speaker, and a sharp, bitter pinch of irritation hits your chest. You hate the pathetic way that sound makes your stomach drop even more than it already is.
“Hello?” his rough, annoyed voice calls out over the phone.
“Can I come over real quick? It’s an emergency.” you blurt out, your voice tighter than you intended.
You hear a heavy, exaggerated sigh blow through the mic on his end. “I’m not doing this bullshit right now, rookie. I’m busy.”
“Woo, I need you.”
There is a long, heavy pause that stretches out for way too many seconds, agonizingly slow for how desperate you feel right now.
“Okay… fine, yea come over.” he says flatly, before the line immediately goes dead with a final, sharp click.
If there is one thing Wooyoung cares about outside of his members and being an idol, it’s his sexual reputation. He knows he’s damn good at what he does and he loves hearing the rumors and feedback that comes with it. Knowing he can completely scramble someone's brain and make them feel good feeds right into his ego.
However, his track record is about to take a massive hit thanks to the gorgeous girl he just kicked out of his bed. He lets out a loud, miserable groan, rubbing his face as he thinks about how hot she was. He didn't even get to finish before she scoffed right in his face, pulled away, and packed her clothes just because he answered his phone mid-thrust.
He refuses to acknowledge the underlying reason for why he answered the phone, shoving that thought deep down so future Wooyoung can deal with it later. Too much thinking hurts his brain, and he doesn't want to unpack why a phone call from your bratty ass made him abandon a very promising hookup.
Honestly, considering the way you practically stormed out of the studio after that kiss last night, he figured you would be giving him the silent treatment for at least a week out of pure embarrassment. The fact that you tracked him down instead proves you are a lot tougher than he initially gave you credit for. It piques his curiosity. You aren't nearly as innocent or incapable as you constantly pretend to be.
His bedroom door swings open without a warning, and you strut right inside with a heavy tote bag slung over your shoulder.
“Still haven't learned how to knock, have you?” he calls out, leaning back against his headboard with a smirk.
You immediately slap a hand over your nose in sheer disgust, using your other hand to slam the door shut behind you. “Jesus Christ, it smells like dick and cheap body spray in here.”
He rolls his eyes, pulling a loose sheet up over his exposed waist. “Yeah, well, if you must know, I had to cut a very good session short because of your needy ass.”
You don't even blink. You just strut straight over to his desk, drop your tote bag with a heavy thud, and pull two different dresses out of it. You spin around to face him, a sharp, triumphant smile spread across your face.
“Well, whatever you were doing doesn't matter, because this is way more important,” you announce proudly. “I finally have a date with Sunghoon tonight.”
His expression remains flat and you let out a disappointed pout at his lack of a reaction. He stretches his long arms straight up over his head, letting out a slow, dramatic sigh.
“Why do you need me for this? I feel like we got plenty of good practice in last night,” he says, his dark gaze dropping down and dragging lazily up the length of your body with blatant appreciation.
Your floral perfume is floating through the air like a cloud. It doesn’t just hit his nose, it wraps around his taste buds, leaving this sweet trace on the back of his tongue that makes his mouth dry out.
His jaw hardens into a tight line. He wants to find its origin on your body. He wants to back you up against his wall and lick and suck and kiss your skin until you are groaning underneath him.
Wooyoung violently snaps his head back, his eyes flashing wide open as his brain trips all over itself.
Jesus, where the fuck did that come from?
“Okay, sure, but I’m definitely not prepared for an actual date, plus I need you to help me pick a dress. I need a guy's opinion,” you say, he shakes his thoughts away as you hold up two different hangers like a pair of flags. The first is a short white dress, and the second is a loosely fitted black one.
“Hmm,” he squints as he looks back and forth between the two options. “I don’t know, I’m gonna have to see them on you to decide.” he says, letting a smug smirk slide across his face.
You let out an exasperated sigh, looking around his bedroom before your eyes land back on him, your gaze unapologetically dragging down his body just to return the favor. “Hey. You aren’t naked under there again, right?”
His smirk deepens, turning into something entirely wicked. He lifts a leg up and dramatically kicks the blanket back, revealing his lower half. You jump back with a startled squeak, instantly raising your hands to cover your eyes, only to drop them when you realize he’s already wearing a pair of thick gray sweats.
“Ugh, you’re so annoying,” you snap, rolling your eyes before dropping the white dress down onto his cluttered desk. “Cover your eyes.”
His brows furrow. “What?”
“I need to change into the dress.”
“In here?”
“I barely made it through that front door and into your room without getting spotted by one of your members, so yes, in here. I am not going back and forth to the bathroom down the hall.”
“Fine by me, put on a show,” he smiles, leaning his head back against the headboard.
“I’m dead serious, no peeking. I do not consent.”
“Alright, chill the fuck out, I’m not gonna look,” he says, holding his hands up in mock surrender before deliberately rolling over onto his stomach, turning his back to you.
Even with his back turned, a sharp spike of adrenaline hits his chest. He can already hear the faint crinkle of fabric behind him.
Maybe he should’ve talked that girl into finishing the round before letting her go, because now he can feel that exact same frustrated, denied rush trickling straight down his body and settling heavy in his pants.
He sits there staring at the blank wall, but his brain is entirely occupied by the rustle of clothes happening just a few feet behind him. He imagines what you look like right now, standing half-naked in the middle of his bedroom. He pictures the exact type of underwear you're wearing, wondering if it's basic cotton or something you actually put thought into wearing today.
He lets his mind chew on the thought of what it would take to completely strip away every last shred of your stubborn attitude, to see you standing there entirely bare, stripped of your clothes and dignity, completely exposed and kneeling just for him. He wants to know how long you'd try to keep up that arrogant attitude before you were begging him to touch you, completely unraveling the second his hands mapped out your skin.
“Okay,” your voice suddenly rips him out of his filthy thoughts, cutting through the thick air of the room. “You can look now.”
He turns around slowly, pushing himself up so he's sitting fully upright against the headboard.
You make a show of turning around, doing a slow little spin for him to judge. It is a basic black halter-top dress. It hugs your hips nicely, but the loose cut at the top completely swallows up your waist, hiding your shape.
“Mm, it’s nice. But it’s not doing it for me,” he answers, tilting his head with a critical look.
You nod, turning on your heel to grab the white dress off his desk, giving him a hard, pointed look that clearly demands he turn back around. He lets out an exaggerated sigh but complies anyway, shifting his weight and facing the headboard again.
Behind him, he listens to the frantic shuffling of clothes, the snap of a zipper, and the quiet huff of your breath.
When you announce you're done, he turns back around, and his breath nearly catches in his throat.
The white dress destroys the black one. It clings to your frame, hugging every single curve and contrasting sharply against your skin.
You lean into it, striking a dramatic pose just to mess with him, spinning around and looking back over your shoulder with a wicked grin before jokingly hooking a finger under the strap and sliding it halfway down your shoulder. “Think he’ll like it?”
He huffs out a sharp breath through a wide, disbelieving smile, his eyes locked onto your frame. “Enough with the striptease, are you trying to make me hard?”
You gasp, raising a hand to take a vicious swing at his shoulder. “Pervert.”
He easily catches your wrist mid-air before you can land the hit, pulling your arm just an inch closer while a wicked smirk spreads across his face. “How are you going to survive when Sunghoon flirts with you if you can’t even handle it from me?” he teases, his dark eyes glinting with pure amusement.
“That’s completely different and you know it,” you snap back, trying to yank your arm out of his grip. “You’re only flirting with me because you’re bored and want to get a rise out of me. If Sunghoon flirts with me, it’s because he actually wants me. Hopefully.”
“Fair enough,” he concedes smoothly, letting go of your wrist and dropping his hands back against the mattress.
He watches you huff out a breath and turn away to check your reflection in the small vanity mirror across the room, your fingers smoothing down the front of the white dress. His gaze tracks the sharp line of your back and the way the fabric clings to your hips, a slow heat settling back into his chest.
Hearing a sharp laugh escape your lips snaps his attention back to your face, and he sees you standing there with your eyes locked on the top of his dresser.
“Did you seriously buy personalized condoms?” you ask, pointing a finger at the box with pure disbelief.
Shit. He completely forgot to put those back into the drawer before you barged into his room. Still, a laugh pulls from his lips as he shrugs. “Mingi got them for me. They have his face printed on the wrappers.”
Your expression instantly twists from amusement to deep confusion, which makes another genuine laugh rip out of his throat. “Uh, why would you own those?”
He pushes himself up off the bed, crossing the floor to snatch up the box before tossing it out of sight into his bottom drawer. “He bought them as a gag gift. Told me that every time I use one, I have to look my partner dead in the eye and say ‘Mingi’s protecting us tonight’” he chuckles, shaking his head at the memory. “Hell, one time it worked so well it ending with him joining in on the fun.”
Your jaw drops open, the color draining slightly from your face. “Joining in, as in… having sex with you?”
“Well, me, another girl, and him, yes.” he replies casually, leaning back against the edge of his desk.
Your jaw drops even further down, your eyes bulging out. “Wooyoung, do you like guys?”
A slow, shameless smile spreads across his face. “I like anyone who knows what they’re doing. The more the merrier. At the end of the day, a hole is a hole, right?”
“God, that is so fucking degrading,” you snap, crossing your arms defensively over the white dress.
“You’re lucky I didn’t decide to snatch Sunghoon up myself before you ever got the chance,” he fires back, enjoying the way your eyes flash with sudden hostility.
You glare daggers at him, your nostrils flaring.
“Relax, he’s not my type. Too vanilla.” he scoffs.
“Ugh, he’s not vanilla!”
“Then tell me the truth, why didn’t you guys fuck that day at the bar? You both had the opportunity and every excuse in the book, so why didn't it happen?” He steps forward, closing the distance between you and backing you up a single step until your calves hit the edge of the mattress. “And don’t sit there and lie to my face saying you were the one who turned him down, because I could practically smell the desperation and arousal coming off you just from watching the way you looked at him.”
He towers over you, completely boxing you in against the bed. He tracks the uneven rise and fall of your chest beneath the tight white fabric, watching you swallow hard as you try to think of a comeback that won't give you away. The panic written all over your face is better than any drug, and he leans in just an inch closer, letting the suffocating heat of his body press right against yours while he waits to see you crack entirely under the pressure.
You let out a defeated breath, your shoulders collapsing forward as all the fight drains right out of you. “He rejected me.”
Wooyoung freezes dead in his tracks, his entire body going rigid before he instinctively steps back an inch to give you some breathing room. His thick eyebrows knit together in disbelief. “He what?”
You look him dead in the eye. “He told me he likes to take things slow.”
“Do you like to take things slow?” he fires back immediately, leaning his weight toward you just a fraction.
“No. Yes? I don’t fucking know!” you snap, letting out a dramatic sigh before dropping your weight and sitting down heavily on the edge of the mattress. You rub your palms over your face. “But I know I like him. And I know I’m excited to go on this date.”
He watches you for a second, a strange shift rolling through his chest before he shoves it down. He pushes off the floor, moves over, and drops down onto the mattress right beside you, the bed frame groaning under his weight. He tilts his head all the way back, staring up at the ceiling with a blank look on his face. “I’m sure it’ll go great,” he says, his voice entirely devoid of the usual bite or teasing inflection. No sarcasm. No biting retort to rile you up. Just a completely straightforward, genuine statement.
“Thanks.”
The idea of some vanilla guy taking things slow with a girl like you makes his jaw clench in pure irritation. Taking things slow sounds boring as hell. It sounds like a total waste of the way you look in that dress.
He knows damn well how this date is going to end. Sunghoon is going to play it safe, say all the predictable, polite shit, and send you home early with a boring peck on the cheek, leaving you right back here in his bedroom asking him for more. Let the guy have his little practice round tonight. Wooyoung knows he's going to be the one you come running back to when you realize how painfully boring Sunghoon really is.
It doesn't take long before you finally check your phone screen, curse under your breath at the glowing numbers, and scramble off the mattress to gather your scattered things. You snatch your tote bag off the desk, shove your discarded black dress inside, and start checking yourself out in the vanity mirror one last time.
“You’re gonna be late for Mr. Slow-and-Steady,” he calls out, his voice dripping with a mocking tease as he tracks your frantic movements across the room.
You whip around, pointing a threatening finger right at him from across the space. “Shut up. I’m leaving right now.”
You pause at the doors threshold for a split second, turning back to glare at him one last time before stepping out into the hallway and letting the door click shut behind you.
The second the lock engages and the room goes dead quiet, the playful smirk slides right off his face, replaced by a restless, heavy edge. He stays sitting on the edge of the mattress for a long moment, staring at the empty space where you were just standing, listening to the faint sound of your footsteps fading down the hall.
He stands up, shakes his head, and runs a hand through his hair, already calculating how long it’s going to take before you text him complaining about how boring your date is.
The sudden knock echoes hard against the wood. He strides across the room, yanks the door wide open with a sharp snap, and cocks a single brow. “Back so soon?”
He cuts himself off, the words dying instantly in his throat.
His eyes sweep over the doorway, and a bitter wave of disappointment hits his chest. It’s San, standing there with his shoulder casually leaned against the door frame, looking way too smug.
San takes one look at Wooyoung’s annoyed expression and raises an eyebrow, his gaze dropping to the empty hallway before tracking back. “You like playing teacher, huh?”
“Ah,” Wooyoung breathes out, smoothing his face back into an effortless mask as he tilts his head and smiles lazily at San. “No. I just like to play in general.”
San scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest and narrowing his eyes. “What do you even gain out of this? You’ve never put in this much effort to fuck someone before. You usually just blink and they’re already on their knees, and if not, you move on to the next.”
“That’s not what this is about,” Wooyoung says, leaning his shoulder against the door frame to match San’s posture. “It’s just a friend helping out a friend.”
“You aren’t friends with girls, Woo,” San fires back, his tone sharp and deadpan. “You’re telling me there isn’t a single part of you that wants to fuck her?”
Wooyoung looks away, rolling his eyes and staring down the hall for a second, pretending like he’s never thought about it. “Maybe. I’m a man of desire, would that really be so surprising?”
“With the way you act around her, yeah, it would be,” San mutters, uncrossing his arms and shaking his head. “Do you really think she would even hook up with you after all your bullshit?”
Wooyoung's jaw tightens just a fraction before a smile pulls on his lips. “Is there anything I want that I don’t get?”
Clack. Clack. Clack.
The sound of your kitten heel aggressively tapping against the restaurant floor is the only thing you can focus your hearing on right now. The rest of the room is just a chaotic blur of silverware clinking, plates clattering, and muffled conversations blending into white noise while you frantically bounce your right leg up and down out of pure anxiety.
Sunghoon still isn’t here. It’s been fifteen fucking minutes past the agreed-upon time, and he is nowhere in sight. To be entirely fair, yes, you did show up a little bit early, but that tiny detail does nothing to stop your brain from reeling.
Mr. Slow-and-Steady.
Wooyoung's smug voice echoes loud and clear right in the middle of your thoughts. You roll your eyes, lifting your cocktail glass off the table and taking a massive gulp of the overpriced liquor. You ordered it the second you sat down, telling yourself it would take the edge off your nerves, but all it’s doing is making your stomach burn.
You quickly lock your phone screen and then turn it right back on, pretending with all your might to be doing something important. It’s a pathetic performance, mostly meant to convince the rest of the restaurant that you aren't sitting in a corner booth by yourself. You can practically feel everyone at the surrounding tables staring at you, judging the sad fact that you've been nursing a single drink alone for ages.
You take a sharp, ragged breath through your nose. You need to focus on literally anything else before you meltdown or do something stupid. Without wasting another second, your thumb hits speed dial, calling Karina’s number.
She answers the call almost immediately, her voice bright and cheerful. “Babyyy!”
Just hearing her normal, upbeat tone instantly does half the work of calming your nervous system down. You drop your shoulders an inch and grip the phone tighter.
“Rina, guess where I’m at right now?” you say, trying your absolute best to keep your voice steady and not sound entirely broken.
“Where?” she asks, the sound of a microwave in the background telling you she’s probably raiding her fridge at home.
“On a date with Hoonie.”
“What?!” Her voice blasts through the speaker at a volume that causes you to slightly pull the phone away from your ear and wince.
“Yeah, except I’m currently freaking the fuck out, and he isn’t even here yet, and this place is way too fucking fancy, and I don’t know which fork to kill myself with,” you blurt out all in one breath, your fingers nervously picking at the paper napkin on the table.
“Woah, okay, slow down, babe. Calm down,” Karina laughs softly, her tone soothing. “It’s normal to be nervous.”
You listen to her words, rolling your eyes at the ceiling before forcing yourself to take a deep, shaky breath.
“This is a good thing, okay?” she continues, her voice firming up with encouragement. “You’ve wanted this guy for so long, it’s going to be fine. Just play it cool.”
“Play it cool? Right, totally, I can do that. I’m the coolest.” you whisper to yourself, slapping your own cheeks lightly to get the blood flowing back into your face.
Sudden movement catches your eye in your peripheral vision near the front host stand. You snap your head toward the entrance, and Sunghoon walks in.
“Oh my… oh my god,” you gasp, all the air instantly evacuating your lungs in a single pathetic wheeze. “He’s here, fuck, I gotta go.”
Before Karina can even answer on the other end, you slam your thumb down to hang up the phone and drop it right into your lap, straightening your posture and trying your absolute best to pretend you aren’t on the verge of an anxiety attack.
He looks ridiculously good. He’s wearing a crisp, tailored dark grey blazer over a fitted white t-shirt that outlines his broad shoulders, his dark hair styled perfectly out of his face with just a few soft strands falling across his forehead, and silver earrings catching the restaurant lighting every time he moves. He scans the room, spots your corner booth, and immediately locks eyes with you.
A slow, gorgeous smile spreads across his face.
Your eyes immediately zero in on his mouth. Right there in the corner, those slightly prominent, subtle vampire fangs catch the light. You find yourself wondering what kind of jagged, bruising marks those canines could leave carved into your skin.
He’s too vanilla. okay, wooyoung seriously needs to get the fuck out of your head.
You shove the intrusive thought away, plastering a wide welcoming smile across your face and forcing your shoulders to drop as he walks up to the table. You are totally cool. You've got this.
He slides smoothly into the plush leather booth across from you, the faint scent of cologne hitting your senses as he gets settled. Both of you instantly open your mouths to speak at the exact same time, stumbling over your words before awkwardly laughing as you both accidentally end up complimenting each other's outfits at the same time.
You let out a breathy giggle, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. Okay, maybe you were overreacting. Maybe this isn’t so bad after all.
He leans back against the leather, his gaze dropping down to the half-empty glass sitting in front of you. He raises an amused brow. “Starting without me, huh?”
A slight flush creeps up your neck. “Don’t judge me,“
“I would never.”
You trace the damp condensation ring on the wooden table with the tip of your fingernail, suddenly hyper-aware of how loud your own pulse is ringing in your ears. You shift your weight against the cushions, your eyes darting back up to meet his as a wave of impulsivity hits you. You are terrible at playing subtle guessing games, and you refuse to spend the next two hours sitting here wondering if he thinks you're just a buddy getting a casual bite to eat.
“Is this a date?” you blurt out suddenly, your voice cutting straight through the ambient noise of the restaurant. “This is a date, right?”
He doesn’t even blink. Instead, a warm, genuine smile spreads across his face, clearly amused by your total lack of a filter and obvious nervousness.
“This is whatever you want it to be,” he answers smoothly, leaning his forearms against the edge of the table as he looks right at you. “But yes, I would prefer if it was a date.”
A sudden swarm of butterflies flap their wings in your stomach, and your breath catches short in your throat.
The clear confirmation immediately irons out the jagged edges of your anxiety, smoothing out your pulse until you can actually breathe again. Okay. Good. At least you and him are sort of on the same page.
Before you can spiral into another thought, a waiter appears at the edge of the booth with a polite smile, snapping you both back to reality. You quickly rattle off your order without even pretending to look at the menu again, choosing the cheesiest thing on the page because you are definitely taking advantage of these fancy dishes. Sunghoon orders a heavy rye whiskey alongside an entree of his own, and watching him smoothly order without hesitating makes a stupid little thrill run down your spine.
Once the waiter vanishes back into the crowd, the table goes quiet for a second, and your brain immediately starts racing to fill the empty space.
If you’re interested in a guy, close the distance and see how he reacts.
The advice echoes in your head, and instead of overthinking it, your body just moves. You slide your weight across the plush leather of the curved booth, hitching your hips up and scooting right around the corner until you are sitting beside him instead of across the empty table space.
Sunghoon blinks, a surprised, highly pleased flash crossing his features as he realizes you’ve completely invaded his personal bubble.
You casually prop your elbow up on the table, rest your cheek right in the palm of your hand, and turn your head to stare directly into his eyes.
“What are you thinking about?” you ask, your voice dropping just a fraction lower, a cheeky, challenging edge sliding right into your tone.
Sunghoon sets his whiskey glass back down onto the dark wood with a soft click, the ice shifting inside. He turns his head to face you, the close proximity making it impossible to miss the slight crinkle around the corners of his eyes as a genuine, slightly vulnerable smile forms on his lips.
You suddenly feel a weird, familiar twitch of self-consciousness. You instinctively drop your gaze away from his intense stare, letting your lashes sweep down as you bite your lower lip.
“I was thinking about how I’ve been wanting to take you out for a while now,” he says, his voice low and steady in the noisy restaurant.
Your head snaps back up, your eyes widening just a fraction.
“Really?” you whisper, your voice suddenly sounding soft and breathy, letting your shyness do the heavy lifting.
“Yeah, really,” he chuckles, reaching up to casually brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his knuckles lightly grazing the skin of your cheek. A warm jolt shoots straight down your spine. “Honestly, I was almost sure I totally scared you off with that whole soft rejection during that stupid seven minutes in heaven dare at the bar. I figured you hated my guts after that.”
A tiny, self-deprecating giggle slips past your lips, and you lean just a fraction closer into the touch of his hand, playing the part of the slightly flustered, blushing girl to perfection. “No, you didn't scare me off. I was just... figuring things out.”
“Well,” he smiles, his thumb lightly stroking your jawline before he drops his hand back to the table, “I’m really glad you decided to reach out.”
“Me too,” you murmur, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
The rest of the night goes shockingly smooth. Turns out, once you drop the panicked act, talking to him is ridiculously easy. You end up trading stupid stories over the table while tearing through some absolute bomb ass food that completely justifies how overpriced the menu was. You make a mental note to take a picture of the receipt later so you can save the name of this restaurant.
By the time the bill arrives and you aggressively fight him over who is paying—losing, obviously, because chivalry isn't completely dead—you’re both laughing as you stumble out the front doors and into the cool night air.
He walks you right up to the curb where your Uber is already waiting with its hazards flashing. You turn to face him under the amber glow of the streetlamp, suddenly hyper-aware of how quiet the sidewalk is compared to the buzzing restaurant.
An unexpected weight drops into your chest. For all your complaining about anxiety and putting yourself out there, you actually find yourself kind of bummed out that the night is ending right here on a public sidewalk.
“Well,” you say, rocking back slightly on your heels, breaking the quiet. “This is me, not getting kidnapped by a serial killer.”
Sunghoon laughs, a genuine sound that slides right through the night air. He steps just a tiny bit closer, his hands sliding casually into the pockets of his slacks. “Thank god for that. Can’t have you disappearing before our second date.”
Your eyebrows shoot up, a pleased grin breaking right through your shy mask. “Oh, so there’s a second date?”
“Only if you want one,” he teases back, a confident smirk touching his mouth.
You lean against the open door of the car, tilting your head with a sharp, challenging grin. “Well, you’re going to have to work a lot harder to impress me next time. Maybe try kissing me goodbye instead of standing there and looking pretty.”
Sunghoon’s smirk drops off his face instantly, his eyes flashing with sudden realization at the blatant, unapologetic challenge hanging right in the air. Before you can even blink, he steps across the gap, his hand reaching out to catch the edge of the car door and stop you from sliding inside.
“Is that right?” he mutters.
“mhm,” you hum, your sarcastic exterior completely cracking the second he steps into your personal space.
He steps up to you, his hand sliding up from the car door to cup the back of your neck, his warm fingers gently curling into the hair at your nape. He pulls you forward, closing the final inch of distance between you, and presses his lips softly against yours.
It’s tender and completely comforting in a way that makes your entire chest loosen. His lips are warm and soft against yours, moving at an easy, unhurried pace that feels entirely natural. You let out a quiet breath against his mouth, your hands instantly coming up to grip the fabric of his t-shirt, pulling him closer as you sink right into the kiss. The accidental scrape of his canines grazing your bottom lip sends a sharp jolt straight down your spine, and you open your mouth just a fraction, letting him deepen the connection.
He tastes like rye whiskey and clean mint. You completely forget about the Uber, forget about the driver watching in the rearview mirror, and forget every single cynical thought you had all evening. It’s warm, it’s grounding, and it’s entirely too good to pull away from.
When he finally draws back a couple of inches, his thumb lightly brushes against your cheekbone, his breath coming out in a slow, uneven hitch.
“Was that impressive enough for you?” he whispers, a smug smile catching the corner of his mouth.
You let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh, pressing your palm flat against his chest.
“Text me when you get home,” he murmurs, stepping back just enough to let you slide into the backseat of the car.
You pull the door shut, rolling the window down to flash him one last smug grin as the car finally pulls away from the curb, your fingers automatically tracing over your own lips while your heart hammers a frantic, excited rhythm against your ribs.
And then, a sudden wave of shock hits you square in the chest.
You sit straight up, your hand flying down against your side. You didn't check your phone. Not once. From the second you hung up on Karina to the exact moment you were making out on a public sidewalk like teenagers, your phone has been completely neglected at the bottom of your purse. That’s a personal record for a chronically online disaster like you.
You dive your hand into your small black shoulder bag, rummaging past your lip gloss and keys until your fingers wrap around the cold glass of your device. You yank it out into the dim light of the passing streetlamps and double-tap the screen to wake it up.
The lock screen instantly floods your eyes with a blinding wall of notifications. Missed calls from Karina, a group chat explosion of at least forty unread texts asking for the gossip because of course they already found out, and an ungodly amount of app alerts. You swipe most of them away with an impatient flick of your thumb, ready to text Karina that you survived and that the kiss was actually a solid experience.
Right as your thumb hovers over the messenger app, a new banner drops down from the top of the screen with a sharp vibration against your palm.
Mistake: Let me know when you’re ready for someone who actually knows what they’re doing.
Off to a rough start ; anxiety is a bitch, confidence is apparently a learned skill, and jung wooyoung is the last person you should ever be taking advice from.
♪ idol!wooyoung x idol!reader (fem) | series, part 2/? ~7k
Static: something that is stationary, unchanging, or fixed in one place; lack of progress.
♪ MDNI, reader is a rookie idol, forced to work alongside wooyoung, trying her best to win over her crush and somehow tying wooyoung in with it. Vulgar language, sex, brief mentions of masturbation, wooyoung is annoying, reader is an angel (figuratively).
♪ “Give me what i want, even if it hurts.” — One of the Girls, the weeknd.
Surprise!!! Your anxiety is back, as if you didn’t already have enough on your plate. It’s the same kind of gut wrenching panic you had back in your trainee days when you first had to put yourself out there. It was a constant: I can do this. I can’t do this. I can do this. I can’t do this. And in the end, you always ended up losing the fight.
Your left eye has been twitching non stop for the past 24 hours. You spent half an hour googling it at 3am and apparently it could either be from excessive alcohol consumption, lack of sleep, stress, or caffeine. In your case, it’s probably all of the above.
“But that night, at the bar I mean, we were all obviously there with our set intentions, right? The five of us,” you hold out your hand, aggressively flashing all five fingers before curling your hand into a tight ball, “made a fist. A sex fist. And together, we were sex-fisting our way through the night… you know what, maybe that’s not the best metaphor,” you let out a heavy sigh, dropping your hand back down at your side. “I’m sorry, what was your question again?”
Hongjoong stares at you, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe with a mildly concerned look on his face. “Uhm,” he starts, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why are you here at six in the morning?”
“Oh,” you let out an embarrassed laugh, slapping your palms against your thighs. “Right… I need to see Wooyoung,” you straighten your posture, suddenly trying to look like a professional who definitely didn’t show up uninvited and start rambling on about your chaotic night out, which to be fair, is the reason you're here.
Hongjoong sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, his eyes going wide. “Oh god, what did that idiot do this time—”
“Nothing! I just…” you cut him off, freezing mid-sentence as your brain scrambles to find an excuse that doesn’t make you sound crazy. If you tell him the truth there’s no doubt that Hongjoong will slam the door right in your face. So, the obvious alternative is to lie. “I need him, you know, for practice. Dance practice. We have to, uh, work on our duet.”
He lets out a heavy sigh filled with exhaustion. “Oh, thank god, that’s a relief,” he mutters, finally uncrossing his arms and stepping to the side to let you pass him.
You kick your shoes off with way more force than necessary, tossing a sarcastic look over your shoulder as you walk into the dorm. “Jeez, how many women show up at your door with wooyoung related issues?”
Hongjoong trails behind you, locking the front door with a heavy click. “Honestly, too many to count.”
Ugh, you hate what the thought of facing him does to your insides. A cluster of nerves bubbles up in your chest, squeezing down on your lungs. You suck in a sharp breath through your nose, digging your nails hard into the flesh of your palm to force the panic away. You don’t have time for pointless anxiety right now. You have a much more annoying task at hand.
“His room is three doors down to the left. Feel free to wake him up.”
You offer a quick nod, turning on your heel toward the dim hallway.
“Hey,” Hongjoong calls out again, stopping you in your tracks. You swivel your head back, raising an eyebrow at him. He hesitates for a second, his expression turning serious. “He’s, uh… he’s been good to you, right?”
You give a lazy shrug, letting your arms cross over your chest. “I mean, it’s Wooyoung. He’s been as good as he can be,” you reply, flashing a small smile.
Hongjoong’s eyebrows furrow, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I know he gets a bad wrap, but seriously, don’t let those stupid rumors get inside your head. Underneath all the bullshit, he’s a genuine person.”
Wooyoung? Genuine?
That statement almost makes you giggle. You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from cackling, because with the way Hongjoong said it, you can’t help but feel… pity? Yikes.
“Right. Totally.” you manage to choke out with a straight face.
Hongjoong gives a final nod, turning away and disappearing down the hall toward the kitchen before you can say another word, leaving you standing alone in the hallway to deal with your next big mistake.
You’ve always wondered how a group of this size managed to comfortably share a living space, but stepping further into the apartment, you realize it’s definitely bigger than the cramped layout at the Axis or Aespa dorms.
You don’t even bother to knock on the door. You just twist the handle and push the door open, bracing yourself for a wall of B.O. and clothes littering the floor. Instead, you are hit by a weirdly clean, expensive-looking room. It’s decked out entirely in matte black furniture with small accents of red, and the air smells strongly of cedarwood and cologne. You slip inside, clicking the door shut behind you and slowly walking across the floor until you’re standing next to his bed.
Wooyoung is sound asleep. He’s also shirtless, of course, as if this situation wasn’t already difficult as it is. His chest is broad with lean, smooth muscle. Clean lines run down his stomach and the trail of an ink tattoo curls around his rib, though you aren’t sure what it means. He’s sprawled out on his back with one arm bent above his head, looking entirely too peaceful for someone who is an absolute menace to society. The blanket cuts off right at his hips, hiding the rest of him and leaving just enough to annoy the hell out of you.
You let out an irritated huff of air, leaning down to snatch a loose pillow off the space beside him. Without a second thought, you haul back and mercilessly whack him right across the face with it.
“What the fuck?” he rasps out, his voice thick and gravelly from sleep. He blinks rapidly, shoving himself up onto his elbows and aggressively rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
“Good morning, sunshine.”
He squints up at you through narrowed eyes, “How the hell did you get in here?”
“Hongjoong let me in.” you shrug, casually using the arm still holding a pillow to point toward the door.
He takes a second to process that, his brain trying to catch up. He drags a hand down his face, letting out a heavy groan. “Get out.”
“Nope, too late for that.” you snap back, shifting your weight and parking your ass directly onto the edge of his mattress with way more force than necessary.
He collapses backward, letting his head fall against the pillow. “What the fuck could you possibly want at this hour?”
The words get stuck in your throat, nearly gagging you as the absurdity of your current situation sets in. You can’t believe you’re in Jung Wooyoung's room right now, sitting on his bed, and about to ask him for help. Wooyoung. Out of every single human being on planet earth, you had to choose him.
To be fair, you slammed back three "shots of motivation" around two hours ago and pulled an all-nighter, so your brain isn’t exactly thinking clearly. At least, that’s the excuse you give yourself.
You grip the edges of the pillow tighter, clearing your throat. “I need your help.”
Wooyoung’s head instantly lifts up off the pillow, his dark messy hair sticking out in every direction as he stares at you in disbelief. He freezes for a split second before a slow smirk spreads across his face, his eyes lighting up with way too much amusement. “Do you now?” he asks.
He pushes himself forward and fully sits up, dragging his eyes down your body in a pace that makes your skin prickle.
You immediately lift the pillow, holding it up right between you like a weapon, to which he just chuckles, raising his hands in mock surrender.
“Relax, no judgment here,” he claims, his voice dripping with arrogance. “You got one little taste of Sunghoon and realized you needed the real deal, huh?”
A violent flush creeps up your neck, “I never—” God, there’s no way you are about to admit this right now. “Me and Sunghoon, I mean, we never… we didn't do anything.”
This has got to be the top ten most humiliating things ever. You desperately wish you could sit here and brag right into his smug face about how amazing Sunghoon was, how he rocked your world. But sadly, you can’t. Because the second you and Sunghoon walked into that bathroom, you practically tried to jump his bones, only for him to gently push you away and reject you.
A tight knot twists in your chest just thinking about it. He had the audacity to say he didn’t want to ‘take advantage’ of you while you were drunk, that he’s the ‘take things slow’ type. And then, to cap off the award-winning tragedy of your evening, you started crying over a soft-boy rejection and guilt tripped him into driving you home.
Wooyoung’s eyebrows bunch together, his smirk turning into genuine confusion. “I don’t get it, you left the bar with him. If you two didn’t fuck, then what the hell happened?”
“That’s besides the point,” you say, shifting uncomfortably on the mattress. You pull one knee up, resting it on the bed and shoving your weight forward, forcing him to scoot over.
“Alright, fine, keep your secrets,” he says, pulling the blanket up higher over his stomach. “Why do you need my help?”
You roll your eyes, letting out an exhausted huff as you look him dead in the eye. “C’mon, you basically have a master’s degree in flirtation. I need you to teach me, okay?”
His annoying smirk returns, and you have to physically look away so your fucked up brain doesn’t get any weird ideas.
“Oh?” he purrs, his voice dropping an octave. “You think I'm seductive?”
“Ugh, Woo, please, I’m not in the mood for this.” you groan, rubbing your temples.
He studies you for a second, like he’s weighing his options. “Fine, but I’m starving. I need actual food if I’m going to waste my morning coaching you through your sad love life.”
You immediately sit up straight, determination surging back into your veins now that there's a goal in sight. “There’s a twenty-four-hour sandwich place not too far from here, we can walk over and grab something.”
“Okay, cool. Go wait in the living room and I’ll be out in like five minutes,” he says lazily, shifting under the covers.
“Just throw on a shirt right now and let’s go,” you complain, gesturing impatiently toward the door.
His eyes slowly drift down from your face, dropping deliberately to the heavy grey blanket still pulled up over his waist, before dragging his gaze back up to lock onto yours with a challenging glint.
Your brain short-circuits for half a second before reality crashes in.
You instantly launch straight up off the bed, slapping your palm flat over your eyes and whipping around so fast you almost trip over your own feet. “Jesus fucking christ, are you naked under there?!” you screech, stumbling blindly toward the door.
His loud, obnoxious laugh echoes off the bedroom walls behind you, “Maybe knock next time."
You yank his bedroom door shut behind you, making sure it clicks back into place with a heavy thud. It’s quiet enough that you won't wake up anyone still sleeping, but with enough force to show your attitude.
Standing out in the quiet hallway, your brain finally starts moving past the adrenaline, and a cold wave of regret hits you. This was a mistake. 90% of the time, Wooyoung thinks with his dick, meaning zero good is ever going to come out of asking him for relationship advice. But whatever, desperate times call for desperate measures, and at this point, you're scraping the absolute bottom of the barrel. Besides, it’s not like his little flirts and teases actually get under your skin. At all. You are completely immune to him.
Ignoring the fact that you DJ’d ur shit to him, because that was an obvious fluke. You weren’t turned on by him, you were turned on from the idea of him in the heat of the moment. There’s a difference, and you are very clear about it.
“Off to a rough start, are we?” a low voice drawls out in front of you.
You pick your head up just as a tall shadow strolls right past you down the hall, not even bothering to stop or wait around for your response.
Great. Another witness to your pathetic descent into madness. And of course, it’s Mingi. The only other member who’s almost on the same fuck-around-and-find-out level as Wooyoung, both literally and figuratively.
Your feet mindlessly shuffle after him, following into the dimly lit kitchen. Thankfully, a fresh pot of coffee is already brewed and sitting on the counter. Probably Hongjoong’s doing, though the captain himself is nowhere in sight.
You lean against the kitchen counter, crossing your arms as Mingi casually reaches for a mug, his broad shoulders shifting under an oversized black t-shirt. Unlike Wooyoung, who treats every human interaction like a mental warfare, Mingi actually has a soul. He’s always weirdly nice to you, mostly in the way a grown man is nice to his friend's annoying little sister.
“To answer your question, yes, today has already been rough.” you mutter, grabbing the mug out of his hand and pouring yourself a cup of coffee. You take a scalding sip and wince. “I had to wake Wooyoung up.”
Mingi chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrates right through the quiet kitchen. He leans his hip against the counter right next to you, “Ah… work related or did you finally miss us enough to show up here?”
“Keep dreaming.” You snap back, though a smile tugs at the corner of your lips. You nudge him with your elbow. “I’m here strictly on business.”
“Mmm sounds interesting,” Mingi beams, stealing the mug back out of your hands to take a sip. He shifts his weight, his posture suddenly turning a bit more serious. “Hey, listen, about the other night…”
“Ugh, please, I swear to god I cannot handle another lecture today about how ‘deep down Wooyoung is actually a good person,’” you groan, cutting him off mid-sentence. You turn to face him fully, dramatically tipping your head back toward the ceiling in sheer agony. “Trust me, Hongjoong’s already got that covered.”
Mingi’s eyebrows pinch together, a genuine look of confusion crossing his face. “Actually, I wasn’t going to say that—”
Before he can finish, the scrape of a bedroom door opening down the hall cuts through the air. Mingi sets your mug back down on the counter with a soft clack, pushing off the surface and turning toward the exit. He pauses at the doorway, throwing a final look over his shoulder. “By the way, I don’t believe in ‘deep down’ bullshit anyway. I think you are exactly what you show people you are,” he says smoothly, before disappearing down the hall.
Fuck.
A cold, uneasy knot forms in your stomach. Did you say the wrong thing? Was he mad? you’re left spiraling, completely clueless about what he was actually trying to bring up. Something about the other night, when you were all drunk at the bar. You second-guess every embarrassing thing you did for a moment. You know what? It doesn't even matter. He was probably just going to make fun of you or mutter some stupid bullshit about how boring Sunghoon is, just like the rest of them.
“What was that all about?”
You whip around, Wooyoung has finally dragged himself out of the bedroom. He’s wearing a fitted, dark grey t-shirt that clings to his chest, tucked haphazardly into a pair of black sweatpants. His dark, messy bedhead is still sticking up in defiant little pieces. He rolls his shoulders back, shoving his hands deep into his pockets as his dark eyes lock straight onto you with way too much amusement.
“Nothing important, you ready to go eat?” you mutter, trying your best to sound casual.
He narrows his eyes at you for a split second, but thankfully he moves on. He gives a curt nod and turns on his heel, leading you out of the kitchen and heading down the hallway toward the front door.
The walk over to the sandwich shop is painfully awkward. You spend the entire time trapped inside your own head, debating whether you should make up some pathetic excuse, pretend the whole morning never happened, or start firing questions at him about seduction tactics. So instead of deciding on anything, you just silently trail right behind him, staring at the back of his head and zoning out completely.
You don't even realize how hungry you actually are until you push open the shop door. The second the heavy smell of toasted bread, melted cheese, and garlic butter hits your nose, your stomach violently growls.
You quickly order and pay for two sandwiches, then walk over to the corner booth Wooyoung claimed for the two of you. You slide the bag onto the table and he immediately reaches out to snatch the sandwich first. You slap your hand down over the bag, pulling it away and narrowing your eyes at him across the table.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“...I’m trying to decide if I trust you.”
“You do.” he says smoothly, extending his hand out further with an entitled little grin.
You roll your eyes, the corners of your mouth twitching upward. You shove the foil-wrapped sandwich across the table into his hand, turning to slide into the booth.
Right as your ass hits the seat, his hand darts across the table. He grabs your wrist in a firm grip, pulling your arm toward him before you can even blink. “What the fuck happened to your hand?”
You frown, leaning over to look down at your skin, totally confused. Your eyes land on your palm and you instantly freeze. There are jagged, dried red crescents dug deep all over your skin where your fingernails have been biting into it. Fuck. Your anxiety is clearly way worse than you realized. You were so busy spiraling about Sunghoon and Mingi and this absolute clown sitting across from you that you didn't even notice yourself tearing your own flesh apart.
You jerk your hand backward out of his grip, hiding your palm under the edge of the table. He watches you go, his eyebrows pinched tightly together in a look that is uncomfortably close to actual concern. This is so gross.
“Sorry,” you mutter, trying to laugh it off as you aggressively wipe your palm against your jeans. “It’s just a nervous habit.”
He says your name in a soft voice, completely stripped of its usual mocking edge. Your stomach instantly tightens into a knot. Because when the hell has he ever said your name like that? When has he ever looked at you without trying to start a fight? It throws you completely off balance, and you hate it.
“Can we just… move on? I have a man to seduce,” you laugh off, waving the unscathed hand dismissively as you force a bright smile onto your face.
He holds your gaze for a long suffocating second before giving a slow nod. The annoying, arrogant smirk slides right back onto his face, his usual demeanor returning. Thank god.
You both turn your attention to the greasy brown paper bags, tearing into the foil wrappers. The initial tension evaporates, replaced by the quiet bliss of stuffing your faces. You sit in silence for a solid five minutes, focusing on your food.
Wooyoung is the first to break the silence, “If you actually want my opinion, I think you should start with your confidence.”
You freeze mid bite, dropping your sandwich back down onto the wrapper and staring at him like he’s lost his mind.
He continues, “you will never be comfortable in front of him if you aren’t even comfortable in your own skin first. You overthink every single move.”
You cross your arms over the table, puffing out your chest in pure denial. “What are you talking about? I am totally comfortable… and confident.”
He narrows his eyes, leaning back in the booth and looking you up and down with an expression that says are you sure?
You hold out for three whole seconds before your shoulders slump. You let out a heavy, defeated sigh. “Okay, fine, whatever. How do I do that?”
He tilts his head back, dragging his eyes toward the ceiling tiles as he thinks for a second. “Go out. Get loose. Stop worrying about looking stupid. Learn to dance like there’s no one else in the room but you.”
Hearing that makes your anxiety spike so hard your chest actually aches. Impossible. As long as you are who you are you don’t think you could ever do things without thinking twice, maybe even multiple times. You can’t just turn off the panic switch. But looking across the table at his smug face, a stubborn spark burns in your chest. Maybe it doesn't hurt to at least pretend to try.
“But, you can’t do something like that at a boring ass bar.” he says before taking another bite of his sandwich.
“Woo, I am not the clubbing type. This is all still new to me, that’s like taking a rehearsal straight to broadway.” you snap back.
He ignores your idiotic theater reference, letting out a sigh. “If you actually wanted this, wanted him, you would stop making excuses and go for it.” He says around a mouthful of food.
He’s right. You asked him for advice for a reason, so you can’t complain when he actually gives a good answer. It’s time to start practicing what you preach.
Unfortunately, trouble has a way of finding a guy like Wooyoung, even when he makes a point of staying out of it.
Especially then.
It doesn’t always show up in some crazy way that immediately breaks down his walls. Sometimes, it shows up in his bedroom uninvited and asking for advice about a guy he couldn’t care less about. He pushes all those useless thoughts out of his head now. Not worth the energy.
Because right now, with the exact view he has, his mind couldn't possibly be focused on anything else.
Yunjin is currently on top of him, her hands braced flat against his chest as she sets a punishing pace that pulls the air right out of his lungs. He lets out a sharp, breathless laugh, his hands sliding up to grip tightly around her hips to guide her weight exactly where he wants it.
They had officially crossed paths during rehearsals for that Mnet collab, where some late-night studio flirting somehow evolved into finding out she was entirely down to fuck.
Honestly, he never would have pegged her for that type at first glance, completely misjudging a book by its cover and thinking she was strictly into girls. More for him, I guess.
He loves the control of it, but he loves it even more when she fights him for it, gripping his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
He curves his hands over her waist, his thumbs pressing hard into the dip of her hips as he drives upward, catching her off guard. She lets out a sharp gasp that breaks right against his mouth as she stumbles mid-motion, her eyes flashing with a mix of fury and pleasure.
"Don't get cocky," she breathes out, her voice rough as she adjusts her balance and retaliates, dropping her weight down with a speed that forces a grunt out of his chest.
No bullshit, no fake sweetness, just raw, unhinged friction. He slides his hands up her back to tangle his fingers in her hair, pulling her down so he can devour her mouth while his hips move against hers. She curses against his lips, shifting her angle to hit every single nerve until his grip on her hair tightens into a fist.
He feels her hips start to stutter, the rhythm losing its sharp edge as fatigue finally catches up to her. He flashes a lazy grin up at her flushed face, knowing damn well he’s barely broken a sweat. He grabs her waist, flipping her over in one smooth motion, and settles right between her thighs.
Wooyoung pins her wrists against the mattress above her head with one hand, leaning down so his mouth hovers right over her ear.
She tries to kick her legs in retaliation, letting out a frustrated curse, but he just laughs, driving straight into her with a sudden thrust that instantly shuts her up. She gasps, her back arching off the bed as her hands scramble to grip his shoulders, her nails instantly digging into his skin to anchor herself against the new friction.
He can tell she’s right on the edge, her breath hitching and her legs trembling against his hips as she completely falls apart beneath him. He drives into her at a smooth pace, riding out the exact reaction he wanted, her body convulsing beneath his before he lets go with a low, rough groan.
He stays on top of her for a few seconds, letting his chest heave against hers before he finally pulls out and rolls onto his back, tossing an arm over his eyes.
She lies there completely sprawled out, staring up at the ceiling with her chest rising and falling in massive, shuddering gasps.
After a minute, she turns her head sideways on the pillow, glaring at him with exhaustion. “You’re a real piece of work, Wooyoung.”
He lets out a lazy chuckle from the back of his throat, not even bothering to open his eyes. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”
She shifts on the mattress, propping herself up on one elbow as she looks down at him, her expression turning way too analytical for a casual hookup. “For someone who sleeps around as much as you do, you don’t actually seem interested in anybody.”
He finally opens one eye, glancing over at her with an amused smirk. “It’s easier this way.”
She raises an eyebrow, her gaze turning sharp. “For them or for you?”
He rolls his eyes, letting out a dismissive snort as he sits up. Before he can dodge the question with another joke, she hits him with a look that feels uncomfortably serious.
“One day you’re gonna meet someone you can’t keep at arm’s length.”
He laughs, shaking his head at the absolute absurdity of it. “Please. I’d pack my bags and leave before it ever got to that point.”
She gives him a knowing smile, leaning down to grab her shirt off the floor. “Exactly.”
He doesn’t even care to think about whatever the fuck that means, instantly pushing it out of his head and focusing on the next task that will successfully distract him. No downtime. No gaps.
Mingi and San have already blown up his phone about heading out to drink tonight, again. It’s kind of annoying considering they are usually the ones to lecture him about cutting back on his alcohol intake, but whatever. As long as tonight isn't some surprise intervention, he is always down to drink. Plus, he figured he could squeeze in a quick fuck and still make it in time before those two idiots get too drunk and find some hook up of their own.
He discards the used condom and walks over to his closet to yank out a clean black button up, pulling it over his shoulders, buttoning it, and rolling the sleeves up to his elbows.
“What are you doing after this?” Yunjin asks as she pulls her skirt up over her thighs, checking her reflection in the full-length mirror.
“Meeting up with some of my members,” he responds, frantically searching for his rings in the mess on his dresser.
“Ugh, I could seriously use a drink right now,” she says, flashing a sharp grin over her shoulder. “Can I tag along with you?”
He hesitates, his eyes narrowing as he looks over at her.
“Relax, Mr. Commitment-Phobic, I meant as friends,” she laughs, turning around and pointing an accusing finger right at his chest. “I’m here for a good time, not a long time.”
He flashes a slow smile, shaking his head at her bullshit. “Fine, you can come. But only if you bring your leader with you. San’s been losing his mind over her for months.” Plus it’ll score him some points meaning San won’t be on his back tonight.
She gasps, her jaw literally dropping open as her eyes widen in shock. “Chaewon? Oh my god, wait, that’s kind of cute.”
He rolls his eyes, grabbing his phone and wallet off the nightstand before shoving them into his pockets. “Ready when you are.”
She nods, grabbing her small leather bag and heading for the door.
The ride to the club is anything but quiet, but Wooyoung doesn't mind in the slightest. Yunjin is loud, sharp-tongued, and genuinely funny, carrying the conversation without him needing to do all the heavy lifting. In a weird way, she kind of acts like a female version of his own members. Which is probably a messed-up thought to have right after sleeping with her, but the familiarity makes him feel comfortable. Along the way, they make a quick detour to pick up Chaewon, who climbs into the back seat looking absolutely stunning.
By the time they pull up to the VIP entrance, the bass from the club is already vibrating through the floorboards of the car.
He steps out into the warm night air, giving the bouncer a quick nod before pushing past the velvet ropes. The second the heavy double doors swing open, a wall of deafening bass hits him, accompanied by the sweet smell of expensive perfume, alcohol, and sweat.
Absolute heaven.
This is his ideal night out. Loud ass music, neon lights, a crowd of ridiculously attractive people grinding against each other, and the promise of endless drinks waiting at the bar. It strips away all the bullshit of his busy schedule and lets him just exist in the chaos. He rolls his shoulders back, a slow grin spreading across his face as he scans the room, completely ready to tear the night apart.
He cuts through the mass of bodies on the dance floor, the two girls trailing close behind him through the flashing strobe lights and smoke machines. It doesn’t take long to spot San and Mingi at the mini-bar tucked away in the VIP section, already deep into some intoxicated debate about something stupid.
“Oh, thank fucking god,” San breathes out the second he spots Wooyoung, immediately trapping him in a suffocating hug. “I’ve been third-wheeling these two animals all night.”
It takes him a second to look past San’s shoulder and realize that Giselle is practically glued to Mingi’s side, her hand locked tight around the back of his neck. Right. So that’s still going strong.
A sharp grin spreads across his face as he pushes San off his chest, holding up a hand like a proud matchmaker. “Relax, I brought you something.”
San’s face twists into confusion. He blinks, following the direction of the finger and looking past his shoulder. The second his eyes land on Chaewon standing right behind him, San’s entire posture snaps straight. Every trace of exhaustion vanishes, his expression instantly turning into that overly confident smile he uses when he's trying way too hard to impress someone. He straightens his jacket and immediately pivots, zeroing in on Chaewon.
Right on cue, Giselle and Yunjin let out that high-pitched excited scream thing that girls do, abandoning the boys to crush each other in a dramatic hug.
Leaving the girls to their chaos, he wastes no time taking advantage of the distraction. He slides right up to the sticky VIP counter, flagging down the bartender and ordering the strongest drink they can pour. The glass is handed over in seconds, and he throws his head back, taking a massive gulp. He lets out a sharp exhale as the alcohol hits his bloodstream, immediately welcoming the warm stimulation in his body.
In the literal minute it took him to down half his glass, San and Mingi have already started arguing again.
“Okay, then do it right now! Prove it!” San yells over the bass, gesturing down at the club floor with his beer.
Mingi’s eyes narrow, instantly taking the bait and accepting whatever stupid challenge San just threw at him. Without missing a beat, Mingi drops straight down to his knees on the filthy floor and pumps out the absolute most pathetic, unstable push-up he has ever seen.
It makes him choke on his drink, a burst of loud, genuine laughter escaping his throat as he watches. Mingi pushes himself back to his feet, swaying slightly and looking far too proud of himself for a man who just nearly pulled a hamstring doing a two-second workout.
“What the fuck was that? You call that a push-up?” he teases, wiping a drop of alcohol off his lip and pinching his eyebrows together in mock disgust.
Mingi glares at him, crossing his arms. “Yeah, I pushed myself up, didn’t I?”
Oh, jesus christ. He can actually feel his brain cells dying one by one just listening to this. Mingi’s comment instantly triggers San, setting off a back and forth argument.
Wooyung tunes them out completely, finishing off the rest of his drink in one final gulp, and leans over to mutter a quick ‘be right back’ to Yunjin. He takes the opportunity to slip away from the VIP table before they can drag him into another pointless debate.
He navigates through the pulsing crowd, making his way toward the back hallway where the bathrooms are. He gets intercepted twice on the walk by gorgeous girls flashing hopeful looks, tossing out easy smiles. Normally, he’d jump at the chance to play that game, but he already had his fun today and honestly just wants to drink and have a chill night.
He pushes his way into the men’s room, which is nearly empty. Walking straight to the first stall, he shoves his hand out and pushes on the door. Locked.
“Occupied!” a weirdly familiar and feminine voice snaps from inside.
He stops dead in his tracks, his hand lingering on the latch. “Rookie?” Ugh, not this again. He’s starting to think it’s some kind of sick joke the universe is playing on him.
The stall door whips open and your face pops out, eyes wide with sheer panic and confusion. “What the fuck are you doing in here?”
He crosses his arms, leaning lazily against the doorframe with his eyebrows pinched together. “I could be asking you the same thing… this is the men’s room.”
Your eyes dart past his shoulder, no doubt catching sight of the urinals or a guy walking in, and you let out a sharp gasp. You yank the door halfway closed, just enough to hide your face.
Before he can make another joke, your hand shoots out from behind the door, blindly grabbing his wrist and hauling him forward. You drag him straight into the cramped stall with you, slamming the door shut and sliding the lock into place.
Your back is facing him, your fingers clutching the plastic while you peek through the small slit between the door and the frame. Wrapped snugly around one of your palms is a fresh layer of white gauze, stark and bright against your skin. At least you took care of it.
“I'm starting to think you're stalking me,” Wooyoung teases, leaning his shoulder against the side of the stall. He’s already buzzed enough that his brain feels a little loose in his skull.
Your hands stay pressed against the plastic. “Don't flatter yourself, asshole. Didn’t Mingi tell you I was coming?”
His eyebrows knit together, a flicker of genuine confusion cutting through the haze in his head. “No, why would he?”
“Oh,” you mutter, your shoulders slightly drop. “That's... kind of weird.”
His brain doesn’t even bother to process what that means, his gaze dropping away from your face and dragging slowly down the entire length of your body.
You are wearing a tight, fitted black dress that clings to every single curve of your body. It has a dangerously low neckline that dips down your chest and a completely open back. The skirt rides high enough on your thighs that it barely covers anything when you lean over. It hugs your waist like a damn glove and does absolute wonders for your figure, teasing just enough skin to make anyone with a pulse turn their head.
He lets out a low, appreciative hum in the back of his throat, his eyes snapping back up.
He forces himself out of his thoughts. “Who are you looking for?” he asks, shaking his head.
Your fingers clench tighter against the flat surface, and you huff out an aggravated breath of air. “Sunghoon. I saw him out there and completely panicked. Didn't even look at the sign on the door before I bolted in here.”
“Why did you come if you didn’t want to see him?” he fires back, pushing down the weird twinge of annoyance, or whatever the hell it is, stirring in his chest.
“Why does anyone come to a place like this? To have fun,” you snap, finally turning around to face him. You plant your back flat against the door, glaring up at him. “Besides, you literally told me to come out tonight and get loose,” you mock, throwing his exact words right back in his face with a sarcastic tone.
A predatory smirk spreads across his face. He closes the tiny distance between you, pressing his hand flat against the door right by your head and leaning his weight in until he’s practically caging you in. “Are you having fun now?” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave as he dips his head down close to yours, milking the reaction for all it's worth.
You freeze like a deer in headlights for a second, your eyes widening as he gets entirely too close for comfort. Then, the panic wears off, replaced by pure irritation. You shove your hands against his chest, “Stop being a weirdo.”
He lets out an exaggerated sigh, throwing his head back before reluctantly stepping away to put some space between you. “Alright, whatever. So why are you avoiding him? I’m not wasting my time teaching you the art of seduction for nothing.”
“Yeah, that’s not the only art you're teaching me,” you mutter, rolling your eyes and crossing your arms over your chest, tucking your wrapped hand out of sight.
His expression turns completely cocky as he shoves his hands deep into his pockets. “My looks are just a bonus.”
“That’s not what I meant,” you scoff, letting out a dry laugh. You slump your shoulders, looking suddenly exhausted. “Look, I just can’t face him right now. We haven’t even fully gotten through step one yet. I’m still working on getting loose.”
He visibly winces at the phrase getting loose, instantly flashing back to what he was doing an hour ago before he came here. He forces his brain out of the gutter, clearing his throat. “First of all, there are no fucking ‘steps’. And second of all, walking out there and talking to him firsthand is the best kind of practice you could ask for.”
You practically pout as you look up at him through your eyelashes, instantly shedding every ounce of that fierce attitude you had just a second ago. “I don’t even know how to flirt.”
He lets out a heavy sigh, looking away for a second to rake a hand through his hair as he actually thinks about it. Why do I always end up in these situations?
“Look,” he says, narrowing his eyes at you. “If you are ever in a situation where you have to flirt, stop overthinking and ask yourself: what would someone with that level of confidence do or say right now? How would they react? What would their body language look like? Then, you just put on a performance. Fake it until it stops feeling like a lie.”
You pause, your eyes widening slightly as his words sink in. A slow, processing look crosses your face before you give a stiff nod.
Before either of you can squeeze out another word, the bathroom door swings open, the muffled club bass suddenly spiking as a voice cuts straight through the thick tension in the room.
“Wooyoung, you in here, man?” San’s loud intoxicated voice echoes off the tile floors.
He watches you instantly stiffen in front of him, every bit of color draining from your face as your expression twists into absolute fear.
“Yunjin said he wandered off this way,” Mingi’s voice pipes up right behind San.
He reacts on pure instinct, shifting his weight and reaching his hand out behind you, his fingers going straight for the lock. The second he brushes the metal, your hands shoot out, slapping over his to stop him. You stare straight up into his eyes, panic written all over your face, that frantic expression only fuels the wicked part of his brain that loves chaos more than anything else.
He tightens his grip around the lock, intending to throw the door wide open and watch you squirm. But right as his fingers pull back to slide it open, you whip around with terrifying speed, slamming both of your hands flat against the plastic stall door and violently shaking it back and forth on its hinges.
He is so completely caught off guard by the sudden, erratic movement that it takes him a full second to process what the hell you’re doing. Then, the sound hits him.
A loud, incredibly convincing moan slips right past your lips, echoing off the cramped walls and vibrating through his chest.
He freezes dead in his tracks, his eyes blowing wide as he stares down at the back of your head. You are literally standing in a bathroom stall, shaking the door and faking a full blown, spine arching orgasm just to trick his best friends into thinking someone is getting railed five feet away from the urinals.
An electric wave of excitement surges through his stomach, buzzing through his veins like cheap tequila. A sinful laugh bubbles in his throat, completely thrilled by your audacity. Watching you throw yourself into a dirty performance without a single ounce of hesitation? Fuck. Maybe you actually do have some natural talent after all.
Each breathy moan hits him straight in the chest like a physical punch, sending a hot, electric jolt straight to his dick. He stands there totally paralyzed as every single sound you force past your lips shoots straight into his ears.
Your fake moans don’t stop for another ten agonizing seconds until the muffled sound of San and Mingi muttering confused insults fades out, followed by the heavy door clicking shut as they retreat back into the club.
The second the coast is clear, you whip around to face him, your chest heaving and your face twisted into a scowl. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
He throws his head back and barks out a loud, genuine laugh, completely unbothered by your rage. He sucks in a breath, looking you up and down. “Damn, girl. I didn’t know you had that in you.”
Your cheeks flare, a brutal red rushing up your neck and pooling in your face as the reality of what you just pulled off sets in.
He steps in close, invading your personal space just to twist the knife a little further, letting his eyes rake over your flustered expression. He drops his voice to a low, mocking tease right next to your ear. “Trust me, if you make those sounds with Sunghoon, there is no doubt he’ll fall flat on his face for you.”
Without waiting for a response, he reaches behind you, sliding the lock out of place. He pushes the stall door wide open, tossing a final smile over his shoulder as he steps out into the room, leaving you behind to deal with the wreckage of your own pride.
Everyone in the industry knows Jung Wooyoung has a reputation: cocky, shameless, and infuriatingly good at living up to every sexual rumor. Thankfully, none of it concerns you. You’re too busy chasing one dream and one boy, and Wooyoung is neither. When Mnet pairs you with the most insufferable idol you’ve ever met, he agrees to help you win over your crush far too easily.
Two birds, no stones ; you can only ignore a walking, talking distraction for so long before you snap and do something rash. Or worse, you let your guard down in front of him.
♪ idol!wooyoung x idol!reader (fem) | series, part 1/? ~11k
Static: something that is stationary, unchanging, or fixed in one place; lack of progress.
♪ MDNI, reader is a rookie idol, forced to work alongside wooyoung for a special collaboration, trying her best to navigate her career and win over her long-lasting crush, without wooyoung getting in the way. (I did write half of this while drunk so bear with me, i’m so excited to progress this story i have so many ideas, who’s ready!!!)
♪ “There is no reason for following you.” — Sagittarius (wooyoung), ateez.
When you first clawed your way into the kpop industry, you quickly learned that there were a set of unspoken rules. The first one was simple: keep a polished image. A pristine, untouchable facade designed specifically to captivate the fans and trick the media into believing you were an entirely different person than the sleep-deprived mess running on caffeine and pure spite.
However, a deeply annoying habit came along with that ‘rule’. You tended to keep up that exact same persona even when the cameras stopped rolling. It’s not like you’re doing it on purpose to be deceiving, though being a little petty to people who don’t expect it is a nice bonus. It’s just objectively easier to meet people with the same personality they have already consumed online. And honestly, it can be awkward as hell if you don’t keep it up around those who expect the cutesy routine.
The second rule is hierarchy. You know, the usual bowing to your seniors, shaking hands, and plastering on a smile in front of cameras.
And lastly, keep your curiosity to urself about who’s fucking who. You know what they say, curiosity killed the cat.
The system was a literal minefeild of short-term relationships, situationships, and whatever-the-fuck-ships. It was kind of like everyone agreed it was too risky to date outside of the industry because you never know who’s gonna go against that NDA so most people just said screw it, no pun intended.
Sure, it’s fun to fantasize about all the scenarios where you sneak around backstage and mess around no-strings-attached. But let’s be real, some miserable part of you knows the truth. The second you actually end up face to face with the opportunity, all that fierce resolve is going to evaporate into thin air. Your anxiety will take over, consuming you whole until you practically become one with your own facade.
You were chosen to represent your group in Mnet’s special collaboration. Pulling 4th and 5th gen idols and putting them into duos for a stage performance. This should’ve been exciting. Other groups wait years for opportunities like this, if they even got them at all. One collab could introduce you to people who’d never even heard of Axis before. It was exactly the kind of exposure every newbie dreamed about.
So why did it feel like someone had placed another hundred pounds on your shoulders?
With your group members, it’s different. You love your girls to death, and you are fiercely protective of them, but they know the real you. The one who curses like a sailor when she misses a step, holds long lasting grudges over little things, and refuses to let anyone walk over her.
It’s the same kind of dynamic you have with Aespa. While you are endlessly grateful for your own group, you’re undeniably closer to the Aespa members. They are the ones who originally dragged you into being a trainee back when you were just a stubborn kid with big ambitions.
Especially Karina, you’ve known her for years and years, she’s been there through every monthly evaluation and mental breakdown. She’s practically the older sister you never had, the one person who can look at you when you are being a complete brat and call you out on your bullshit without getting a middle finger to the face.
She's supposed to be your personal safe haven, which is exactly why you’re currently stress gripping her t-shirt while hiding behind her body.
“Baby, c’mon. It’s not that big of a deal.” Karina says, lifting her shoulders to try and wiggle out of your grip. She doesn’t even sound stressed, which somehow makes it worse.
“Easy for you to say, you practically know all these people.” you whine, refusing to budge. You glare past her shoulder at the glass door, awaiting your doom.
“You'll be fine. And if anyone so much as looks at you wrong, I’ll literally fight them.” she reassures, reaching back to pat your hand where it’s balled up in her shirt. Your shoulders drop an inch, forcing yourself to relax.
You suck in a deep breath through your nose, squeeze your eyes shut for a second, and give one highly reluctant nod. Karina takes that agreement as a green light, hooking her hand around the handle and pushing it open.
Inside, the space is already loud with overlapping chatter and limbs stretching mid-conversation. Nobody pays attention to the door opening, which gives you about three seconds to debate whether you can fake a sudden medical emergency and crawl back down the hallway.
As if sensing your hesitance, karina reaches back and gives your hand a comforting squeeze.
It had only been a year since Axis officially debuted, yet somehow it felt like both yesterday and years ago. Every single day blurred into an exhausting cycle of the exact same routine: dance practices, vocal lessons, camera rehearsals, and endless content filming.
Somewhere in between all of that, you were supposed to remember to eat, sleep, answer messages, and be interesting enough for fans to keep caring about.
The most exhausting part of it all is this realization that resting has somehow become something you have to earn. Considering this, you can’t begin to imagine the blood, sweat, and tears all these idols have put into their careers.
This is only your second practice together for this collab, and you are still sweating bullets just like you did on day one. To make matters worse, you are trapped in the exact same room as your crush, Sunghoon, the guy you’ve been lowkey pining over since your trainee days. The man is the literal definition of handsome, with thick eyebrows and those captivating slightly uneven eyelids that you've spent an embarrassing amount of time staring at. You clearly have a huge weakness for eyes.
Alas, the universe has a personal vendetta against you.
Because instead of getting paired up with your dream man, they partnered you with the literal bane of your existence: Jung Wooyoung.
Your eyes drift right back to Sunghoon, watching as Karina walks up to him to discuss their shared choreography. You watch him nod, his dark hair falling across his forehead, tracing the sharp, distracting lines of his neck down to his prominent adam’s apple. You swallow thickly, your mouth suddenly dry. When his smooth, long-fingered hands come up to brush a strand of hair out of his face, your breath catches. You picture exactly what those hands would look like gripped around your throat, or buried in your hair, or pressing you hard against the drywall of the hallway until you’re—
“Hmm, so that’s your type?” A smug voice purrs right behind your ear, hot breath brushing against your skin. You jump so hard you feel your heart stammer, spinning around to glare daggers at the source.
“I gotta give it to you, rookie, you’ve got pretty decent taste,” Wooyoung says, leaning his shoulder lazily against the doorframe with an annoying grin.
“Don’t call me that,” you deadpan, all the built up excitement leaving your body and replacing it with anger.
“What should I call you then?” he smirks, tilting his head.
“By my name. Or better yet, don’t call me at all.”
“Aw, c’mon. You gotta give me a little more than that if we’re gonna survive this.” he laughs, clearly enjoying how much you hate him.
You narrow your eyes, scanning the room to make sure nobody is listening before stepping closer and hissing under your breath, “Wooyoung. Swear to God, promise me right now you won’t tell anyone about—”
“Your little crush?” he cuts you off, purposefully saying loud despite your obvious attempts at being quiet.
You panic, lunging your palm forward to cover his mouth. Wooyoung lets out a muffled laugh against your skin, pulling your hand away with his fingers.
“Calm the fuck down, my lips are sealed,” he whispers back, making a theatrical zipping motion across his mouth.
You let out a long exhale of pure relief, dropping your shoulders.
“Can I ask, why him?” Wooyoung nudges his shoulder heavily against yours, giving you a look that is entirely too conceited for your liking.
You glance back across the room to where Sunghoon is standing. “I don’t know. I just feel like it’s a sign that we’re both here. Like fate, or something."
Wooyoung lets out an obnoxious snort. “Please. Fate isn't real, you’re just horny.”
“It is real. You’re just too emotionally devoid to believe in it.” You shoot back, narrowing your eyes at him.
Before he can open his mouth to give some petty retort, you deliberately turn your back on him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of the last word.
You walk over to plant yourself firmly by Karina’s side, offering Sunghoon an awkward wave and a shy smile before immediately looking down at your shoes. You let them continue on with their conversation, perfectly content to zone out and pretend you don’t exist.
You actually met the rest of Ateez a couple of months after your debut, and you’ve always looked at them like reliable older brothers in this toxic-ass industry. They just carry this natural protective energy that makes you feel safe.
Wooyoung, on the other hand, you have actively avoided since day one. It’s not even personal hatred. Well, okay, mostly it's not. You’ve heard the rumors circulating about his ‘skilled’ reputation in the bedroom. Apparently, the man does not disappoint, and the mere thought of it makes your stomach do an involuntary flip.
Let's be real, Wooyoung is definitely not loving boyfriend material. Sunghoon, however, totally is. And you are not about to let the literal epitome of a fuckboy derail your plan to get with your dream man.
“What about you?” Sunghoon’s smooth voice pulls you right out of your thoughts.
You blink rapidly, staring at him like an absolute idiot before letting out a pathetic, “Huh?”
He gives a soft laugh, completely unbothered by your lack of attention. “Me and Karina are going to grab food after practice. What do you want?”
You. I want you.
“Oh, uh, I’ll probably just grab a sandwich or something…” you mumble, your voice dropping into a whisper.
He nods, flashing a polite smile before turning on his heel to go chat with the other guys on the other side of the studio. You immediately lift both hands and slap them right against your face, mentally screaming at yourself.
Regrettably, this is nowhere near the first time you’ve embarrassed yourself in front of him, and knowing your chaotic track record, it’s definitely not the last.
“Could you be any more obvious?” Karina teases, leaning in and bumping her hip against yours with a grin.
“Rina, please shut up, you know how fragile I am about this,” you whine, dropping your hands to let out a dramatic pout.
You’ve actually crossed paths with Sunghoon a handful of times now, yet any attempts at subtle flirting always ended in epic failure. You genuinely can’t tell if you are just bad at it or if he’s totally oblivious. Still, you are nothing if not determined. And you are definitely not the type to give up easily.
“Yeah, well, I’m sure things will work out great as long as black cat over there doesn't completely sabotage your luck,” she deadpans, tilting her head toward the corner of the room.
“Black cat?” You furrow your brows, tilting your head to the side before realizing. “Oh. Wooyoung? Why would he ruin my luck?”
“Are you serious? You know what he’s like, and given your trusting nature—”
“Jesus Christ, Rina. I’m just dancing with the guy, not sucking him off in some random practice room. I have standards. And I’m loyal,” you interrupt, scoffing out loud.
“I know, I know. I just want you to be careful. Guys like him can be… persuasive,” she warns, crossing her arms.
“Trust me, I do not have to worry about that,” you say, waving a dismissive hand in the air. “His presence alone is enough to turn me off, it’s like blowing out a candle. ”
“What about blowing?” a rich, deeply amused voice drawls out behind you. You could practically hear the smirk in his tone.
“Speak of the fucking devil,” Karina mutters, rolling her eyes.
“As much as I’d love to stand here and listen to you two talk shit about me,” Wooyoung says, sliding his fingers in a gentle grip around your forearm, “I need my partner.”
Before Karina can protest, Wooyoung yanks you backward, physically dragging you away from her like a kidnapper hauling off a hostage.
“Hey—wait a second, you psycho!” you hiss, smacking his wrist.
He completely ignores you, marching across the massive studio floor until you are both planted directly in front of the wall-to-wall mirrors. He finally lets go of your arm, shaking his head with a smirk. “What happened to that insane work ethic you showed on day one, hm? Don’t wanna look unprepared.”
“I’m never unprepared, you arrogant piece of shit,” you glare at him through the reflection, crossing your arms tightly under your chest. “I’ve actually leveled up my dance skills significantly since the last time I was punished with your presence,” you add matter-of-factly, lifting your chin up in pure stubborn defiance.
Wooyoung actually is an amazing dancer, which only fuels your anger even more. He’s very good at what he does, in more ways than one you would assume. Actually, you don’t even have to assume anymore because your friends love to pester you about all things sex when it comes down to him.
Wooyoung lets out a low, disbelieving hum, his dark eyes locking onto yours in the mirror. “Is that so? Then let's move on to part B.”
Before you can even register the command, he steps in front of you, back pressing against the mirrored wall. His eyelids lower lazily, waiting for you to get into formation.
“Hold on a second, time-out,” you panic, throwing your hands up. “I can’t just skip ahead. We’re still barely learning part A.”
“Yes you can, now put those new skills of yours to use,” he fires back. “I’ll do the counts for you, show me what you got.”
After making a show of scoffing and glaring at him, you hesitantly step into formation, positioning your feet against the hardwood floors. Doing this intimate choreography with his hands planted all over your waist is one thing, but having him stand back and watch you execute it alone is a whole different kind of hell. It makes you hyper-aware of every single limb attached to your body.
As he calls each count, you force your body to move along with the rhythm, trying your best to remember the steps. Thankfully, he’s calling them out slower than the actual beat, which gives you an advantage.
“Stop.”
You freeze mid-step, one leg awkwardly extended in the air, your eyes snapping up to meet his with a defensive glare. “What? My foot was literally right where it’s supposed to be.”
“Your turn is completely off on the seventh count,” he says, not even bothering to argue as he walks right up behind you.
He places one warm hand directly on your waist, his long fingers pressing firmly against your skin to anchor your hips, while his other hand wraps around your wrist. He moves your arm to correct its angle, his chest brushing lightly against your back as he guides you backward through the movement step-by-step. You can feel the steady heat radiating off him and the easy way he handles your weight, adjusting your posture with zero effort while your brain can only focus on the proximity.
“Mind if we join?” Sunghoon's voice cuts through, snapping you back to reality.
Your entire nervous system jolts. In a blind panic you shove Wooyoung away with a force that makes him stumble back a step, narrowing his eyes on you. You brush off your waist and sleeves as if his physical touch had contaminated you.
You turn away from him, forcing an unbothered expression as you give your attention toward Sunghoon and Karina, who’s standing right beside him, giving you a snarky look. You pretend like you didn’t just have a mini panic attack, throwing your shoulders back and feigning total confidence. “Of course not, join us! We were just going over part B.”
Karina steps forward, her eyes darting between you and him with far too much sass. “Right, well, Sunghoon actually mentioned he still needs some pointers on his footwork, so how about I work with you for a bit,” she says, smoothly sidestepping over and grabbing your wrist to pull you closer to her side. She shoots a look over at Wooyoung, “And he can help Sunghoon instead.”
“Fine with me.” Wooyoung shrugs, sauntering over toward Sunghoon to start breaking down the routine.
For the next hour, practice turns into a special kind of torture. You have to actively bite the inside of your cheek and pretend you don’t care that Karina uses every single water break to mouth insults at you, blatantly mocking the way he had just grabbed your waist five minutes ago. She mouths ‘rookie’ at you while doing a terrible impression of his posture, and you have to dig your fingernails into your palms just to keep from flipping her off in the middle of the studio.
You spend half the time glaring back at her and the other half trying to ignore the sound of his voice carrying across the room as he critiques Sunghoon's turns with that same annoying authority.
When practice finally ends, your energy is completely drained, but you hold onto one single fraction of hope: your plans to go grab food with Sunghoon and Karina. You were mentally preparing yourself to actually flirt without messing it up this time. But of course, the universe loves kicking you when you're down.
Right as you're grabbing your bag, Sunghoon gets a text, mutters some bullshit excuse about a sudden schedule change, and bails on you entirely, leaving you stranded in the parking garage.
Now, all your brain can do is replay every single second. You can still feel the ghost of wooyoungs hands wrapping around your wrist, the stubborn heat of his chest pressing against your back, and how you ended up trapped in the same room as the man who has been trying to get under your skin since day one. How you told yourself that you would stay away and the world laughed and shoved you together instead.
This whole arrangement is temporary. You can and you will endure him until this stupid collab ends. And the second it’s over, you are putting millions of distance between the two of you before he manages to take things any further.
The Aespa dorm is never still, that’s the reason you love crashing here instead of your own dead-silent apartment. There’s always something chaotic going on, which usually does a fantastic job of distracting you from your own self-loathing brain.
Tonight though, that reliable background noise is failing miserably.
Instead, a deep sense of irritation is pulling at your nerves, refusing to let you zone out. You’re currently sprawled facedown across the couch, replaying every single second of today's practice in your head.
You bury your face deeper into the pillow, kicking your legs out of frustration.
“Okay, there is no way it was that bad,” Giselle says, absently stroking the dark hair of her girlfriend, Ningning, who is currently draped across her lap like a cat.
You lift yourself off the sofa in a sharp motion, letting out another exaggerated huff and squinting your eyes down at Giselle.
“The only reason you are even remotely trying to minimize this is because Wooyoung is, no doubt, hot AF,” she continues, a teasing glint flashing in her eyes before Ningning casually slaps a hand against her knee in warning.
“Gross,” You dramatically pitch your body forward, flopping against Karina’s shoulder and burying your face directly into the crook of her neck to hide your misery. “You guys already know I have my heart set on another. Actual romance exists, unlike whatever the hell you're all implying.”
“Ugh, not Sunghoon again,” Ningning groans, lifting herself off Giselle just to sprawl her legs out over her lap instead.
“What’s wrong with Hoonie?” you ask with your brows furrowed in pure offense.
“He’s way too reserved and boring for someone like you,” Ningning says bluntly, picking at her fingernails like it’s obvious. “Plus, he plays dumb every single time you throw yourself at him.”
Your expression drops, freezing mid-sentence. “Wait. Am I actually that obvious—”
“Whateverrrrr, skip the crisis, I want the good stuff. Tell me what happened at practice today,” Giselle interrupts, leaning forward and staring expectantly at Karina.
Karina sighs, her hand coming up to push your head back an inch so she can breathe, “It wasn't that bad. But, I don’t know, Wooyoung is definitely making things harder.”
Giselle flashes a full-blown grin that makes you want to throw a pillow directly at her head. “Oh I’m sure he’s making something harder.”
“Oh, god.” you groan, slapping both palms flat over your burning face as Giselle giggles.
“Stop it, Gigi. Don’t encourage that shit,” Karina snaps, shooting Giselle a warning look. “She debuted less than a year ago, and the last thing she needs right now is getting involved with someone that flaky.”
A sharp breath escapes your lips as you stare up at the dorm ceiling, your mind already racing toward the inevitable wall of wars waiting for you. You aggressively pick at the hem of your hoodie, shifting your attention back down at your lap. “I feel like I haven’t even figured out how to be an idol yet,” you mutter, your voice dropping into a harsh whisper. “I still overthink every live. I still apologize to managers for stupid shit. Half the time I feel like everyone’s waiting till someone realizes they picked the wrong person for all of this.”
You let out a dry laugh under your breath, shaking your head. “And now I’m supposed to proudly represent the entire group for this huge collab?”
The heavy silence stretches beside you on the couch, allowing you to continue.
“I keep thinking…” your fingers tighten around the cloth of your sleeves until your knuckles turn white. “If I screw this up, people aren’t just going to say I screwed up. They’re going to say Axis wasn’t ready. They’re going to blame the whole group because I couldn't handle a little pressure.”
Karina moves, sliding closer to wrap her arms around you, pulling you back into that warm comforting space she has always used to ground you. “Baby, no.” she mumbles softly, pressing a gentle kiss against the top of your head. “You are going to do amazing. Just focus on your own talent and everything else will work out.”
You let out a long, shuddering breath against Karina’s shoulder, the tight knot in your chest loosening just a fraction. You know she’s right.
Karina gives a final gentle squeeze to your shoulder before standing up to stretch, her joints popping. Giselle immediately claims the freed-up space, sprawling across the cushions and pulling Ningning even closer.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You don't have an ounce of energy required to fish it out, so you stay heavily slumped against the cushions, staring blankly at an expensive-looking painting across the room while your brain refuses to shut the fuck up.
This isn’t even the first time either Ningning or Giselle has tried to put the whole idea of Wooyoung into your head. They have a very specific way that they operate, and tend to assume others will work the same way.
You’d be lying if you said their attempts haven’t made you question things about him. But they are just thoughts. Even though you guys bicker, you are practically worlds apart. If it weren’t for shared mutuals, you never would’ve spoken to him and vice versa, and you would’ve been fine with that. You almost wish that’s how it was. No contact.
Another buzz vibrates against your thigh.
With a deep sigh, you finally reach down, yank the phone out of your pocket, and flip the screen up to check the notifications.
Mistake: u busy?
Mistake: meet me at the studio in 30.
Karina appears right beside the couch, holding out a glass of ice water. You didn’t even hear her walk over from the kitchen, completely lost in your own spiral. “Drink this and calm down,” she says, shoving the glass toward your chest.
You instinctively tilt your phone screen away from her line of vision, almost immediately regretting it when her eyes track the movement.
“Who the hell are you texting?” Karina asks, her tone shifting.
You flip the screen shut, shoving the phone deep into your pocket and launching yourself off the couch. “No one, I’m just gonna head back to the studio to get some extra practice in,” you blurt out, walking toward the hallway while completely ignoring the suspicious glare Karina is giving you.
“Hmm, right. Not practicing alone, I’m guessing?” Giselle teases from across the room.
“It’s strictly professional, perverts,” you object, snatching your jacket off the backrest and shoving your arms into the sleeves before you could change your mind.
“There’s zero harm in doing him once to get it out of your system!” Giselle yells as you yank the front door open into the hallway.
You slam the door shut behind you, huffing out a loud breath into the empty hall. There is literally no fucking way in hell you would ever hook up with Wooyoung. Even entertaining the thought for a millisecond makes your face scrunch up. His entire abrasive personality irks you to your core, and you know for a fact he only pokes and prods at you just to get a reaction.
Fuck him.
Fuck him?
Shit.
There were two things Jung Wooyoung was passionately devoted to in life: music and pleasure. Honestly, he’d rather die than choose between the two. Most of the time they went hand in hand anyway.
When he talks about pleasure, he doesn’t just mean sexually. Though, lets be entirely fucking real that definitely made up a solid 70% of it. Wooyoung liked what he liked, and he had the face, the body, and the stamina to back it up. But when he talked about the real kind of pleasure, he meant that deep soul-shaking satisfaction. The rare moments where for a few seconds, and if you're lucky maybe a few minutes, life actually felt worth living.
Those were the moments when the tight knot in his chest finally relaxed, when the deafening noise of the industry, the cameras, and the endless expectations drowned out and it felt like he was sitting comfortably on top of the world. It didn’t happen often, but that deficiency was what made it so addictive. It made everything else feel worth it, the constant clawing and chasing day in and day out just to feel something real.
A feeling of pure ecstasy.
Of course, alcohol was a decent alternative when the real thing was out of reach. But considering Wooyoung had a ‘pristine’ idol image to maintain, it was something he strictly only relied on when he was truly desperate.
Lately though? He’d been desperate as hell.
He was three beers deep back at the dorm when his brain officially decided he needed a distraction that didn't involve drinking himself into a hangover. That brilliant impulse is exactly how he wound up sitting alone on the hardwood floor of the studio, his back braced against the mirrored wall while the overhead lights were dimmed down to a dull glow.
Control isn’t something he chases. It’s something that inevitably comes naturally to him.
He wakes up every morning with his body already aligned to his will. He eats when he decides to eat. He dances when he decides to dance. He fucks when it suits him and leaves before any emotions have a chance to take root. Everyone looking in on his life confuses his restraint with repression. They think because he indulges in hook-ups that he must be compensating for something softer underneath. That there must be a fracture hiding under the confidence.
People like to watch him dance because he doesn’t look desperate. He doesn’t flail or strain or perform like it’s something he has to prove. He moves like the outcome has already been decided. Like he’s carrying out a conclusion that was reached long before the music started.
He wonders if that’s his real addiction. Not rhythm or control. But being observed. Being treated as something divine.
Everyone loves to tell him that his habits are bad because they like to cling to other people's issues rather than focus on their own. He’s not interested in becoming better. Wanting to change implies regret, it implies that something about him is wrong. All he’s doing is fulfilling a basic human need.
Sometimes he thinks about how boring it must be to live inside a mind that can be hijacked by feelings. To wake up one day and realize your thoughts are no longer your own, that your pulse answers to someone else’s name. That kind of vulnerability disgusts him.
He’s not naive enough to believe he’s incapable of wanting. Wanting is human, and he’s not above that no matter how supreme he believes himself to be. He wants dominance, challenge, and intensity. He wants to feel something sharpen him instead of dull him. What he doesn't want is to be consumed.
That’s the line he draws, because everything else is negotiable.
He checks his watch for the hundredth time, rolling his ankles out, before the studio door finally swings open and you practically strut inside.
“Are we actually going to practice, or are you just going to sit on your ass the whole time?” you tease, dropping your bag by the entrance.
You’re wearing a pair of baggy, grey sweatpants hanging dangerously low on your hips, paired with a fitted black tank top tucked tight against your waist, with an oversized zip-up draped over your forearm. His dark eyes instantly drag up the length of your body, lingering on your face with an annoying smirk before he bothers to reply.
“Don’t act like you weren’t struggling to keep up with me earlier today, sweetheart,” he fires back, pushing himself up onto his feet in one fluid motion.
You scoff, “Are you always this cocky?”
“I prefer the term charismatic, and yes, fortunately for the rest of the world, I was born like this. Pure, grade-A talent coursing straight through my d and a.”
You let out a genuine laugh, shaking your head in pure disbelief. “What—what the fuck are you talking about? It’s DNA.”
“That is literally what I just said,” he shoots back.
You move over toward the speaker, taking your phone out to connect it. “Whatever you say, let’s just get this over with.”
He wastes no time moving into position directly behind you.
The heavy baseline rumbles through the studio speakers, and before the first count starts, his hands are already exactly where he wants them on your waist.
Behind you, he can practically feel the defensive posture radiating off your spine. You’re standing as straight as a board, chin tucked, shoulders locked. The universal stance of a girl trying very hard to pretend she isn’t actively aware of every inch of space we’re sharing. It’s adorable, really, how much energy you waste trying to pretend you don’t care how close he’s standing.
You let out an annoyed sigh right as the movement begins.
He doesn’t rush, especially when he knows it’s getting under her skin. Instead, as the beat indicates the first slow glide, his palm flattens against the small of your back, pressing just a fraction harder than called for. His thumb traces a lazy, deliberate line right over the thin fabric of your shirt, feeling the exact second your breath hitches.
You try to play it cool, as always, but the stubborn little tilt of your head gives it away every time.
While you dance with focused intensity, he dances with a smile.
As the steps flow into the next transition, he pulls you closer, wrapping his arm securely around your ribcage and snapping you flush against his chest. The impact is sudden, but he catches you effortlessly, letting you feel the heat of him right through your clothes.
“Too slow on the turn again, rookie.” He murmurs, his voice almost gravelly.
In the mirror, he catches your reflection, your eyes narrowing into a glare, jaw clenching tight. It’s easily the most entertaining part of his entire week.
He tracks your every move as you snap your arms into place, hitting every count with a sharp precision just to prove a point. You think you’re punishing him with that fierce, don’t-touch-me scowl, completely blind to the fact that it only makes him want to crowd your space even more.
He closes the distance between you before you have the time to brace yourself, his arm sliding down to grip your hip while his other hand catches the back of your neck. He tilts your back into the drop, letting you go lower than the routine rehearsed, bringing his face inches from yours so you have no choice but to look right at him.
Up close, your chest is heaving, dark hair spilling back, and that legendary mean expression flickering just enough for him to see the absolute chaos he’s managed to stir up inside your head.
The final heavy beat of the section thuds through the floorboards, echoing off the mirrored walls.
When he finally hauls you back up to a standing position, you're practically vibrating with anger. You shove your hands hard against his chest, stepping back with an exaggerated huff, already reaching for your water bottle with shaking fingers. “Don’t do that again.”
He stands there, leaning against his own weight. He lets out a low laugh, thoroughly pleased with himself. ‘Do what? I’m just following the choreo.”
“Don’t act ignorant. You were adding extra steps.” You deadpan, evening out your breathing as you lean back against the wall.
“Every one dances the same choreo differently, I’m just interpreting it the way I see fit.”
You both stand in silence for a minute, taking a break to drink water and cool off.
He watches you from the corner of his eye, tracking the anxious little ticks you’re trying to hide. Your hands are clenched into tight fists at your sides, your fingers digging into the thick fabric of your sweats, twisting and pulling at the fabric in a nervous spasm. Twitch. Squeeze. Release. Over and over again.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asks, his tone rid of the usual teasing edge as he shuffles over and leans his shoulder against the wall right next to you.
He’s seen you pissed off, screaming your head off, laughing your ass off, and acting like a total idiot, but he’s never seen you anxious. It’s throwing him off.
“Wooyoung, if you were a guy–” you start, your voice hitching slightly.
“I am a guy, what the fuck are you talking about?” he interrupts, his dark brows furrowing in genuine confusion.
You let out a breathy, pathetic little giggle, reaching out to slap a weak hand against his bicep. “Right, right, obviously. But if you were a guy like Sunghoon…”
He groans, rolling his eyes back so hard it hurts. “Oh, Jesus Christ. Here we go again with the ice prince.”
“Let me finish,” you snap back, standing up straighter and puffing your chest out to look intimidating, even though your hands are still shaking. “Hypothetically. How would you want someone you were interested in, someone like me, to approach you?”
He turns his head slowly, locking eyes with you. You’re staring right back at him with this intense expression, waiting for an actual answer like your life depends on it.
He peels his shoulder off the wall, pushing off lazily and stepping right into your personal space until he’s towering directly in front of you.
“If I was interested in you,” he says, his voice dropping an octave as he leans down just enough to make you shrink, “I would be doing the approaching. I wouldn't wait around for you to do it first.”
He slowly leans his head down further, closing the distance between you two until he can literally feel the heat radiating off your skin and smell your floral perfume mixed with sweat. He brings a hand up to the side of your face, his thumb lightly dragging back and forth along the sharp line of your jaw. He can feel the steady, arrogant thrum of your pulse right there against your cheek, and the sudden, suffocating closeness of his body traps you completely between his chest and the studio mirror.
As he moves even closer, your eyelids flutter shut on complete autopilot, your brain short-circuiting at the sudden physical shift.
Instead of what you’re clearly bracing for, he drags his hand up past your cheek to your forehead, his fingers brushing a strand of hair out of your eyes and then aggressively snaps his thumb and middle finger together, delivering a hard thwack straight to your forehead that immediately snaps you out of your daze.
Your hands fly up to smack over your forehead with a sharp gasp. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” you yell, shoving both hands hard against his chest and ducking underneath his arm to maneuver around him. “I hate you so much!”
He throws his head back and laughs, completely unfazed as he watches you storm across the room. “No you don’t.”
Time is scary. Sometimes you just want to be stuck in the moment, getting a little extra time before you have to actually live your life.
You recently watched an old episode of the twilight zone where this man gains the ability to freeze time whenever he wants. Naturally, he immediately decided to take advantage of it and rob a bank, but then he abused it so much that he couldn’t unfreeze time anymore. He was stuck in a world where time is permanently frozen and everyone around him is stuck like creepy statues forever.
Moral of the story: you’ve spent way too much time staring at your ceiling wondering what kind of things you would do with that power. You’d love to put the world on pause and be able to sit there and do nothing without anyone telling you to get up. And then, whenever you’re ready, you can unfreeze time and move on. But of course, that’s unrealistic and a girl could only dream.
You’ve been fantasizing a lot recently about what you would do differently if you could go back in time. For a lot of situations, you would want to try harder, for some you would try less. If you could go back in time with what you know now, you could be so much more than what you are. But I guess that’s the point of “you live and you learn.” You know you wouldn’t be who you are today without these experiences but what you don’t know is if that’s a good thing.
You aggressively pull your heavy duvet tighter over your chest, not wanting to face the world. There's nothing scheduled for today, so you take the opportunity to bask in your misery.
You think you could just lay right here forever, tuning the entire world out and dealing with the consequences later. The thought of eventually having to get up only makes you sink even deeper into the mattress, embracing the warmth while you can.
It definitely doesn’t help that a certain pest has been consuming your mind. The last time you willingly had a conversation with wooyoung was when he texted you demanding an extra practice session. Of course, your dumbass didn’t even piece it together until you were halfway through the session that he was drunk. Or at least carrying a heavy buzz he tried to hide. You don't even know why that annoyed you so much, seeing as you’re practically an alcoholic yourself half the time.
Maybe it wasn't even the drinking. Maybe it was the humiliating fact that he tried to pull a move, and you actually let him get away with it for a second. Shame flares up in your chest. You’ll be damned before you ever give him the satisfaction of adding you to his list of bodies. You refuse to just be another one of his easy hookups. God, you don't even like him. He’s annoying, he’s arrogant, and his face makes you want to punch the nearest thing.
To make things worse, you’ve spent the entire week dodging him at practice, making up pathetic excuses just to partner up with Karina instead. And as if he knew the turmoil happening in ur brain, he has spent every single day wearing obnoxiously tight tank tops that show off every ounce of his upper body.
You’ve had to force your eyes away from him every two seconds. The honey-toned skin of his shoulders, the sharp lines of the tattoo sprawling across his forearm that matches his irritating personality, the way his chest heaves and flexes during the heavy choreography, and the distracting imprint visible through his sweatpants whenever he hits certain moves.
Your thighs involuntarily squeeze together at the thought.
He’s doing it on purpose. He’s actively trying to break you down and sabotage your focus away from what actually matters: your career, your pride, and your desperate need to maintain your dignity.
With a frustrated huff, one of your hands snakes downward between your legs, sliding straight under the soft fabric of your shorts until your fingers press right against your own wet heat.
Fuck.
You let out a sharp breath through your teeth, letting your head drop back hard against the pillows. The friction is immediate, sending a sharp jolt straight up your spine that makes your toes curl. You aren't even thinking about anyone else, your brain is entirely flooded with the memory of his heavy hands wrapping around your waist at the studio, the smell of his musk, and the smirk he always wears when he knows he's getting under your skin.
You shove two fingers inward, sliding deep with a heavy friction that makes your hips buck up off the mattress on instinct. Your breathing turns into a ragged pant, your free hand clutching a fistful of your bedsheets.
You mutter a string of curses under your breath, completely pissed off at yourself for letting him occupy this much space in your body and your mind, even when you're alone in your own damn bed.
The pressure builds fast and vicious in your lower belly, tightening like a coiled spring. You move your fingers faster, chasing the edge, your head entirely consumed by the filthy urge to scream his name just to spite him.
Right as the wave peaks, your whole body locks up. A sharp, full body shiver ripping through your limbs as you ride out the messy release. Your chest heaving as you collapse back against the mattress, completely breathless and desperately wishing you could scrub him out of your system for good.
“Baby!” a sickeningly sweet voice calls out, a second before your bedroom door swings wide open and someone waltzes in.
You snap out of the haze, frantically shoving your hand out from under your shorts and dragging the heavy duvet up over your waist. You freeze in sheer panic, your heart hammering a million miles a minute against your ribs, fully convinced for a horrifying second that you just got caught red-handed.
She didn't see anything, but the lingering adrenaline spike makes you want to crawl into a hole and die anyway. You aggressively wipe your sweaty palm on the bedsheets, panting quietly as you try to force your breathing back to normal.
Ningning crawls right up onto the bed on her hands and knees, completely oblivious to your near-death experience, grabbing onto your shoulders and hauling back with everything she’s got to try and hoist you upright. “Come on, get ur lazy ass up, you’re drinking with us.”
An exaggerated groan leaves your throat. You purposefully go limp, turning yourself into dead weight and refusing to let her pull you up. “how did you even get in here? go drink with someone else and let me rot in peace.”
She persists, straining against your weight for a few more seconds before she finally huffs, gives up, and flops onto the mattress beside you. “Karina is busy doing actual work, and you know Winter is a lightweight that turns into a crybaby after two shots. Besides, Yuna gave me a spare key to your apartment months ago.”
You mentally curse your own group’s leader. Yuna has always had a massive soft spot for Ningning, and despite your desperate attempts to keep people out of your personal space, she always finds a way back in. Then again, you can’t blame her, you’ve practically slept at Aespa’s dorm more than your own.
“What about Gigi?” you ask, slowly shifting yourself up onto your elbows.
“She said we aren’t drinking if you don't come.”
“You know damn well she’s still gonna drink either way.” you counter, turning your head sideways to fully glare at her.
Ningning blinks her big cat-like eyes at you. Giving you that expression she knows you can’t say no to. There’s no doubt she’s trying to guilt trip you, but even so, you’d feel worse saying no to her. Plus, the idea of alcohol suddenly sounds like a top tier solution to your…issue.
“Fine.” you snap with a heavy sigh.
She instantly perks up, practically jumping up in the bed. “Okay, perf, let’s get ready!” she scrambles off the bed, skipping toward the bedroom door.
“Ning-ah, wait, I'm not packing up all my shit just to get ready at ur dorm.” you complain, rubbing your face to shake off the remaining ecstasy before fully sitting upright.
“No need.” she says over her shoulder. She leans down right by the entry, grabbing a duffle bag off the floor, and carries it back into the room. She drops it right at the foot of your bed, no doubt stuffed with makeup and clothes.
Your expression drops. You stare from the bag back up to her innocent grin. “You weren’t taking no for an answer either way, were you?”
She unzips the main pocket, already pulling out products. “Nope, so it’s a good thing you willingly said yes.”
“I don't even feel like getting ready. Can't I just go like this?”
Ningning pauses, dragging her eyes down your body and staring at you like you're insane. She lifts a hand and dramatically waves her finger in your face. “Like that? Babes, you've got stains on your shirt.”
You let out yet another exhausted groan, having completely lost count of how many times you’ve sighed today alone.
“Trust me,” she continues, flashing a sly look, “you’re definitely gonna want to look pretty for this.”
You don’t even want to know what she means by that. Grumbling under your breath, you forcefully shove yourself off the bed and drag your feet over to sit down at the vanity.
You go through the repetitive steps of your usual makeup routine, stabbing blindly at your eyeliner until Ningning finally loses patience and completely takes over your face, and eventually your hair too.
As much as you bitched and moaned the entire time, you’re secretly glad to have friends that can pull you out of your funk. If not for her, you would’ve spent the rest of the day letting your thoughts swallow you whole. You can’t admit that though, your friends would freak the fuck out if they knew things were getting bad again. So instead, you gather all that ugly internal static and shove it somewhere deep, mindlessly nodding along to whatever outfit Ningning pulls out of your closet that is guaranteed to show too much cleavage for your own liking.
Before you have a second to catch your breath or second-guess your evening plans, she’s grabbing your wrist, hauling you out your front door, and shoving you straight into the back of an Uber.
A reluctant smile twitches at the corner of your lips once you glance over at the GPS and realize she set the directions to your absolute favorite bar in the Gangnam District. While you usually love hitting up all the random hidden speakeasies, Le Chamber is hands down the undefeated champion of your nightlife rotation. Ningning loves the place just as much as you do, mostly because she goes crazy for some good whiskey.
The suffocating cloud of anxiety completely leaves your body the second you step inside the seemingly underwhelming library. Ningning graciously gestures for you to take the honors, stepping back to let you stride up to the shelves and press down on the correct book. The heavy hidden doors slide open, revealing the gorgeous interior bar behind it.
You live for low-key bars that are laid back with dim lighting and comforting tunes as opposed to the ones with loud, bumping music and bodies crowding the floor. As you stand there soaking in the atmosphere, your eyes glance over to the booth near the back where a certain trio walks toward you.
Karina, Giselle, and Winter.
You whip your head around to stare at Ningning with the most betrayed expression on your face. “I thought you said they weren’t even coming out tonight?”
“I had to emotionally blackmail you somehow. Please don’t hate me.” she pouts, throwing her hands up in an apologetic shrug.
“You’ve seriously got to stop lying to me. You know I could leave at any second, right?” You shoot back, crossing your arms below your chest to glare at her.
“Hopefully not before I can buy you a drink.” A smooth, devastatingly familiar voice cuts in right behind you.
You practically feel your stomach do a flip as you turn around at an embarrassing speed. Your eyes lock onto Sunghoon’s sharp jawline and effortlessly nice outfit. “Hoonie! What are you doing here?” the question came out slightly more defensive than you meant.
He lets out a small, amused laugh, completely unfazed by your mini freak out. “Mingi and Jake invited me, so I figured I’d tag along.”
Figures. Karina has had a chaotic on and off fling with Jake for the past two years, and is actually the reason why you met Sunghoon in the first place. You’re almost 100% sure that Jake mentioned his weekend plans to Rina to which she took as an opportunity to mash us together like barbie dolls.
Though, you’re surprised that Ningning and Giselle went along with this plan, considering both of them openly despise your taste in men and think Sunghoon is about as exciting as a piece of dry toast.
You tear your gaze away from your scheming friends and bring your attention back to Sunghoon, attempting to gather every ounce of confidence in your body. “So… can I take you up on that drink offer?”
His lips pull into a genuine smile and you have to physically dig your fingernails into your own palms to stop yourself from melting on the spot. He lets out a sweet little “mhm” before turning on his heel and leading you toward the bar. You have to ignore the obvious glares from ningselle as you walk past.
Your forced confidence starts feeling a little bit real as you strut over. Even though you haven’t consumed a single drop of alcohol yet, this atmosphere mixed with the proximity of Sunghoon standing just inches away is enough to intoxicate you.
The two of you slide onto a pair of leather barstools. He leans his elbow on the counter, looking back over his shoulder to check on you with a look in his eyes that makes your stomach tighten. “What do you want to drink? I can get it for you,” he offers, his tone dropping into something warm.
Normally, you’d skip the foreplay and order straight-up tequila shots because if you're going to drink, you might as well speed up the process and get properly fucked up. But you’re way too embarrassed to do that on the first proper date-adjacent interaction with him, absolutely terrified he’ll judge you for being a slight alcoholic.
“Oh, um… I’ll just have whatever you're having!” you say a little too fast, giving a tight smile.
He nods approvingly, turning back to flag down the bartender. “I’ll get two whiskey highballs.”
Shit. You completely despise carbonated alcohol. Highballs are basically ninety percent fizzy water with a bit of whiskey. Whatever, you’ve already committed, and you are far too stubborn to back down now.
“So, how’s practice been going for you?” he asks, turning his body on the barstool to face you head on, giving his full attention.
You pretend to think about the question for a second, tapping your fingernail against the counter before sighing, “It’s definitely going. The opportunity is amazing but…” you mentally curse your own traitorous brain for even thinking about him right now, “wooyoung can be a nightmare to work with.” you force your face to remain casual, masking the irritation.
“Really? I never would’ve guessed.” he replies, his tone light. “You two look like you've got insane dance chemistry.”
You hate yourself for the pang of disappointment that hits your chest, wishing for even a split-second that he looked just a tiny bit jealous.
“It’s just for the cameras.” you say, shaking your head. A wave of irritation builds in your throat before you aggressively shove it back down where it belongs.
His lips part to say something, but before he can respond, the bartender reappears, setting two heavy glasses down on the wood. “Two whiskey highballs.”
You both wrap your fingers around your glasses, lifting them up to clink in the middle. “Cheers,” you say in unison.
You forced a swallow, the aggressive fizz of the soda stinging your throat like a mouthful of pins. It completely masks the smooth warmth of the whiskey, leaving only a bitter, prickly burn. You suppressed a shudder, setting the crystal glass down and meeting his eyes with a smile.
“You know, I was actually a little disappointed we didn’t end up partners for this whole thing.” he says softly, maintaining a level of direct eye contact that makes you hyper-aware of your entire body.
You visibly perk up a little in your chair, “Oh. Really?” is about the most articulate thing you manage to drag out of your throat.
“Don’t get me wrong, Karina is an incredible dancer, but I’ve always wondered what it would be like to work with you instead.” he murmurs with a gentle, comforting smile.
You feel your stomach erupt into a swarm of butterflies, gripping the edge of the bar while fighting for your absolute life to avoid looking like a total, drooling idiot.
“Thank you, that’s really sweet.”
He takes another casual pull from his glass, watching you. You stare helplessly at the way his throat moves when he swallows, entirely unbothered by the hellish bubbles. “Wooyoung is lucky.” he adds, glancing away for a split second.
Your body practically deflates, slumping backward like a popped balloon.
Of course. Wooyoung. That jackass always manages to ruin the moment, even without trying.
Before you can fire off a bitter response, Sunghoon gracefully slips off his barstool. “Anyway, should we go join the others?”
You slide off your chair, offering a small, stiff nod, fully aware that the question was more of a statement.
It’s been almost a full week since wooyoung drunkenly asked you late at night to come practice with him. A week since you first started snapping at him in rehearsal like an angry cat, glaring at him with those big eyes just to accidentally let your guard down long enough for things to get slightly heated between you two. Long enough for normal people to move on. Long enough for bruises to fade and routines to reset.
Not long enough for him to forget the way your body reacted to his. Except you’ve spent every waking second since then avoiding eye contact.
He doesn't do attachment, and he definitely doesn't chase people who act like they despise his existence. You think you're being all subtle with your little side-eyes and forced excuses to be away from him. You think you’re successfully shutting him out, walking past him in the halls like he’s invisible.
He knows that you’re addicted to the attention, even if it pisses you off. You like to pretend he’s just an annoying coworker you’re forced to tolerate but he knows better than that. He’s never been a guy who backs down from a challenge, especially when the prize is watching your feisty, beautiful face turn bright red.
And he’s more than happy to keep patiently teasing until you finally snap. Even if a cup is slowly being filled up, it still eventually overflows.
Normally, he would take this window of free time to blow off steam by getting blackout drunk somewhere loud and messy. But after a solid week straight of pounding alcohol every single night, doing it again would be crazy.
Just kidding, he is crazy. So the second Mingi and San texted him asking if he wanted to hit up a bar, he immediately pictured shot after shot and a roster of random girls to keep him distracted. The exact combination he desperately needed right about now.
So you can imagine his great disappointment when they dragged his ass out to this boring, bougie ass bar that doesn't even have a decent beer selection, let alone a party vibe. Instead, he’s sitting here drinking whiskey like some middle-aged man.
After two shots and two drinks down his throat, he’s finally catching a decent buzz that takes the edge off. He’s sitting in a U-shaped leather booth next to San, with the rest of the chaotic lineup stretching out around the curved table: Ningning, Giselle, Mingi, Winter, Jake, and Karina. It’s an objectively random lineup, but he doesn’t give a fuck about the logistics of why they're all here. He's just here to drink, zone out, and forget about life for at least one hour.
Honestly speaking, he would’ve bailed and headed straight home to raid his own alcohol collection twenty minutes ago if Ningning hadn't just sauntered over and dropped the casual mention that you were here.
He was kind of looking forward to seeing you after being ignored all week. But the second you walk up to the table with Sunghoon right by your side, his brain remembers the minor detail that you are actively pining after another man.
Your eyes go wide for a split second when you realize he’s sitting right there in the booth, though you instantly snap your mask back into place when Sunghoon gently guides you forward. The only available spot in the booth is wedged directly between Wooyoung and Sunghoon.
You hesitate, freezing up before reluctantly sliding into the leather seat, setting your drink down on the table with a slight tremor in your hand.
He suppresses a smirk. Tonight just got ten times better.
“Enough with this slow ass drinking, I’m ready for some shots!” Winter calls out from her seat, slamming her glass onto the wood.
Mingi instantly lights up in agreement, scooting forward to grab a bottle and pouring rounds for everyone at the table. “How about we spice things up and play a game?” he announces, a smile spreading across his face.
God, this is why he loves drinking with Mingi. The guy always knows how to make things fun.
“What kind of game, exactly?” Karina asks, finally dragging her attention away from making heart eyes at Jake.
“Truth or dare,” Mingi replies proudly, like it's the most revolutionary idea on the planet.
A collective wave of excitement rushes over the table. “Shots first,” Winter demands, snatching up her glass.
Everyone at the table lifts their shot glasses into the air before knocking them straight back. The heavy liquor burns a hot line straight down his throat, the sudden kick floods his mouth with saliva before shooting right up to his fucked-up brain.
He turns his head toward you the second you slam your glass down, watching you swallow the burn. He leans in close, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly hum right beside your ear. “Wanna go a couple rounds?”
You practically choke on your own spit, coughing as you whip your head around to stare at him with wide eyes. “The fuck are you talking about?”
“The game, idiot.”
He takes a second to let his gaze drop down your body, taking in the short, sleek dress you decided to wear tonight. It’s tight enough around your waist to show off every curve, hugging your hips before flaring out just enough to drive him crazy, and the glossy fabric catches the dim bar lighting against your skin in a way that makes it way too hard to look away.
You catch him staring and visibly stiffen up, your shoulders locking as you aggressively cross your legs, he has to bite back a grin at how painfully obvious you are.
“Okay, I’ll start,” Karina announces, shifting comfortably in her seat. She lets her eyes drift lazily around the booth, humming to herself before locking dead onto Sunghoon. “Truth or dare.”
“Truth,” Sunghoon answers, sitting up a little straighter.
“Have you ever ghosted anyone?” she asks, raising an eyebrow with a challenging stare.
“Never,” he says without missing a beat, sounding entirely too proud of himself.
Fucking boring.
Wooyoung rolls his eyes internally at the answer, tuning out whatever boring small talk happens next until his gaze drifts across the table and lands on Giselle. “Truth or dare,” he cuts in, leaning forward with an expectant smirk.
“Truth,” Giselle fires back immediately, swirling the remaining ice in her glass.
“Have you ever fallen out of love with someone?”
Giselle freezes, her expression going blank for a second as she genuinely weighs the question. Instead of answering, she sighs, picks up her shot glass, and knocks the liquor straight back.
“Ouch, rough,” Jake mutters, letting out a low whistle.
“Ok, my turn. Mingi, truth or dare,” Giselle says, shaking it off and turning her body entirely toward Mingi.
A massive, shit-eating grin instantly spreads across his face. “Dare.”
Finally. Things are actually starting to get good.
Giselle doesn’t even hesitate. She kicks her legs over the leather bench and stands up, reaching down to snatch the bottle of tequila off the table. She glares down at him with a predatory glare. “I dare you to take a body shot off of me.”
Mingi wastes zero time standing up, grabbing Giselle by the waist and hoisting her right up onto the sticky wooden table, gently setting her down on her back.
Wooyoung blinks in mild confusion for a second, he could have sworn that Giselle and Ningning were dating. But he glances over at Ningning, who just takes a lazy sip of her drink with a completely unbothered expression, so he figures whatever open-relationship mess they have going on is none of his business.
Mingi snags a lime wedge from the garnish plate on the far end of the table, leaning over Giselle to wedge it right between her lips. Then he grabs a half-full shot glass, plants it squarely right between her tits, and flicks a quick line of salt across her chest.
He drops down over her, hovering close. He licks the trail of salt off her skin, instantly swoops down to snatch the shot glass straight off her chest with his teeth, and tilts his head back to slam it down. Without pausing, he lowers back in, biting the lime out from between her lips and tossing his head back with a loud muffled laugh.
The entire group sits there stunned for a minute before everyone starts hollering and patting their hands against the table. Wooyoung claps along, grinning like a maniac, before he casually shifts his eyes sideways to see how you're reacting to the chaos.
To his genuine surprise, when he glances over, you’re staring right back at him. You’re looking at him with this heavy, glazed-over, and completely wrecked expression in your eyes, lips slightly parted like you forgot how to breathe for a second.
His eyes flare wide, a bolt of adrenaline hitting his bloodstream, his gaze locking onto yours with hungry intensity. But the second you catch him looking back, your expression violently shutters. You snap your head away toward Sunghoon, forcing out a fake laugh like you were paying attention to him the whole time.
A hollow ache hits right in his gut. The sudden loss of that look leaves him feeling irritated and buzzing with energy. He wants more. He wants you staring at him like that until he’s had his fill.
He completely tunes out the next few rounds of the game, letting the alcohol swim in his head while background noise takes over. Mingi asks Jake some stupid question about Karina. Jake stammers and fires back a lame dare to Karina, and then finally, it’s Karina’s turn. Wooyoung is two seconds away from rolling his eyes, standing up, and walking out when Karina’s eyes shift past Jake and land squarely on you.
“Truth or dare.”
You blink slowly, looking up from where you’ve been aggressively picking at your fingernails in your lap. The flush of alcohol is creeping up your neck in a red stain, and your eyes are glassy and unfocused. You hum lazily, squeezing your eyes shut for a second before snapping them open with a reckless smile. “Dare.”
Karina’s grin turns straight up evil, her hands planting flat on the table as she leans forward. “You and Sunghoon. Seven minutes in heaven. Right now.”
You physically shrink back into the leather booth, your eyes going wide enough to pop out of your skull, every bit of color draining right out of your face.
“God, what are we, fucking seventeen?” San pipes up, rolling his eyes with a disbelieving scoff. Karina immediately turns her head and glares at him with so much anger that San wisely shuts up and takes a sip of his drink.
“Uhm, where? We’re at a public bar, Rina…” you whine, your voice dropping into a sheepish mumble. Fuck, even when you’re panicking and trying to back out, you look entirely too good.
“The bathroom down the hall,” Karina replies instantly, totally unfazed.
You flick your gaze over to Sunghoon, who immediately leans in close to your ear, whispering some sweet reassuring bullshit to make you feel safe. Wooyoung watches the interaction with a sour twist in his stomach. God, he despises Sunghoon’s whole nice-guy routine. He genuinely hopes he grows a backbone and tells you not to do it, just to put an end to the charade.
Instead, Sunghoon pulls back with a soft encouraging smile, and the both of you actually stand up from the booth.
The rest of the table erupts into obnoxious cheers and whistles as you let Sunghoon guide you away toward the back hallway.
He watches you retreating back for a hard second, his jaw clenched so tight his back teeth ache. Without a word, he snags the tequila bottle off the table, tips it straight over a heavy glass, and pours himself another shot.
A couple of minutes and three more shots later, he blinks against the dim orange lighting. The entire group slowly spread out.
Mingi and Giselle apparently got inspired by the whole 7-minutes-in-heaven situation and disappeared toward the exit to go find somewhere private to hook up. San and Winter abandoned the booth to go flirt with the bartender, and Karina and Jake are probably somewhere in the corner whispering sweet nothings at each other. Which leaves the booth awkwardly emptied out, except for just him and Ningning.
She stands up, slides over the sticky leather, and drops right next to him. She props her chin in her hand, studying him with annoying eyes. “Rough night, huh?” she asks, offering a lazy shrug.
He turns his head slowly, raising an eyebrow with genuine confusion. “What makes you say that?”
“Sunghoon?” she asks, phrasing it half like a question and half like it’s obvious. “You really expect me to believe it doesn’t bother you at all?”
He flicks his gaze away from her, staring down the hallway toward the bathrooms where you disappeared ten minutes ago. You still haven’t come back out. At least you’re having fun, right? Somehow almost everyone except him is hooking up right now, a definite first.
He drags his eyes back to Ningning. “I have to ask, aren’t you and Giselle, like, together?”
Ningning’s eyes instantly narrow into slits, her lips pressing into a flat line. “You’re dodging the question, asshole.”
“Answer mine first and I’ll answer yours. Fair is fair.”
She lets out a sharp huff of air, dropping her gaze to stare at a random spot on the sticky wooden table as her fingers start nervously fidgeting in her lap. “I guess we kind of were, at some point,” she mumbles, “Or I thought we were. But Gigi isn’t built for that kind of locked down bullshit. A part of me knows she never was. So now we just fuck here and there when we're bored and call it a day.”
“And you’re okay with that?” he asks, raising an eyebrow, genuinely surprised she puts up with it.
Ningning snaps her head back up, squinting right at him with a judgmental edge. “Save the interrogation, what about you? Stop running away from what I asked.”
He leans back against the plush leather, crossing his arms over his chest with an easy smirk. “No, Sunghoon doesn’t bother me. You think I give a shit? She’s out there having fun, and if anyone in this room can appreciate a good time, it’s me.”
He catches a quick flash of disappointment cross over her face before she masks it with an eye-roll, though he hasn't got a single clue why she gives a damn either way.
Before Ningning can fire back another insult, San and Winter drift back over to the booth, looking bored and ready to bail.
“Ning-ah, you ready to head back? This place is dead,” Winter asks, leaning against the edge of the table.
Ningning stands up without missing a beat, letting out a sharp sigh of relief. “Yes, I’m done here,” she mutters, offering a tight smile to the other two before turning away.
“Wait, what happened to the rookie?” Wooyoung interrupts, pushing himself up off the leather cushion.
Winter blinks at him, her eyebrows bunching together in confusion. “Who?”
Ningning rolls her eyes before saying your name.
“Oh, right. She left with Sunghoon not that long ago,” Winter says casually, checking her phone.
His expression sharpens, jaw locking hard as he sucks in a sharp breath of air. You really wasted no time, huh? You finally got what you wanted, sneaking off into the night with the golden boy while he sat here playing twenty questions.
Ningning leans in close, dropping her voice into a low, mocking tease right beside his ear. “Still doesn’t bother you, right?”
(will be more developed once I start posting more, just started this account so there’s not a lot)
♡ ateez
obsessed at first sight — idol!mingi x fan!reader; a simple favor turns into a living nightmare when a single moment in the front row pulls an anxious fan into the possessive orbit of an idol who wants to see her break. ~7k.
static — idol!wooyoung x idol!reader series; Everyone in the industry knows Jung Wooyoung has a reputation: cocky, shameless, and infuriatingly good at living up to every rumor behind closed doors. Thankfully, none of it concerns you. You’re too busy chasing one dream and one boy, and Wooyoung is neither. When Mnet pairs you with the most insufferable idol you’ve ever met, he agrees to help you win over your crush far too easily.
writings: i mainly write ateez unless i get a little inspiration or a request for another group. otherwise ateez has been consuming my life and my writing.
my requests are always open !! so feel free to request whatever you want and I will try my best to make it happen, as long as it is within my comfort zone.
premise: A simple favor turns into a living nightmare when a single moment in the front row pulls an anxious fan into the possessive orbit of an idol who wants to see her break.
All the mental affirmations you recited before leaving were useless. They didn’t do a damn thing to prepare you for the reality of walking into that stadium. To you, concerts had always felt like a sick social experiment, a way to torture people like you.
Getting trapped in a sea of strangers pressing in from every direction was, no doubt, a nightmare.
But here you were.
You had agreed to go just because your best friend had given you that look. The one she knows you could never say no to. She’d bought the tickets months ago, and when her initial company bailed, she was stuck. Even though your brain is wired to fear social events and professionally overthink every single interaction, you aren’t the kind of person who abandons people you care about.
You walked into that building trying to be a good friend, never suspecting that you were practically walking into a trap, baiting yourself for something that would eventually rip you from your pride.
Pretty much all you knew was that it was a kpop group called ATEEZ, but that was the extent of your knowledge. Your friend had been counting down the days like this was a renowned national holiday. She had spent hours showing you videos and teaching you songs, while you pretended to understand what she was talking about.
Even though that specific genre of music had never really been your thing, if it made her happy, it made you happy too.
The arena was easily twenty times bigger than anything you had pictured in your head. The ceilings seemed impossibly high, the lights stretching endlessly above you, and everywhere you looked there were people. Thousands upon thousands of them, all moving with the same anticipation and energy that you couldn’t quite understand.
The second you stepped inside, you felt a vibration deep in your chest, rattling through your ribs as the voices around you rose together in a way you had never experienced before.
Barking. Thousands of people, all of them barking in sync as if this was a totally normal way to greet a group of grown men. You went still, eyes darting around the arena in pure disbelief.
"What in the hell did I just get myself into?" you muttered, shrinking into your jacket.
Beside you, your friend looked like she’d just been granted entry into the pearly gates. She was practically vibrating along with the noise, her face lit up with a glow that made it clear this wasn't just a concert for her.
You genuinely tried to get it. You wanted that rush, that ability to just lose yourself in the collective mania, but you couldn't. All you could feel was the suffocating, heavy press of noise and bodies, making your own skin feel like it was two sizes too small.
The closer you got to the floor, the more the reality of it started to sink in and claw at your nerves. You knew you had good seats, but reading "front row" on a ticket and actually standing there are two different worlds. Once the barricade came into view, the whole event shifted. It wasn't just a favor for your friend anymore.
This was happening.
The stage wasn't some far away video on your phone screen. Those guys weren't just random faces from the clips you’d half-heartedly watched to keep your friend happy. They were real, breathing people, and they were about to be standing a few feet away from you.
Your heartbeat picked up before you even realized it.
Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag as your mind started running through every possible reason you should leave. The crowd felt unusually close and the air grew thick. Every sound seemed louder than the last.
Your body betrayed you before you had the opportunity to fight it.
Your chest constricted, turning your breathing into an uneven mess. That familiar, cold panic started its slow crawl upward, tightening its grip around your ribs and squeezing down on your heart.
Your brain was already screaming at you to run, to just get out of there while you still could, when you glanced over at your friend.
She looked absolutely radiant. Seeing that euphoria on her face felt like a sudden breath of fresh air. It didn't make the panic disappear, but it eased the suffocating weight of feeling trapped.
Because this wasn’t about you. It was about the person standing beside you who trusted you enough to share one of her favorite memories with you.
So instead, you forced yourself to take a deep breath, reminding yourself that you were okay.
—
It took you halfway through the set to realize you were actually enjoying yourself.
Your friend was in her own world from the second the lights cut, screaming every lyric and moving like she was the only person in the room. You weren’t on her level, not by a long shot.
You were still overwhelmed, picking apart the chaos, and the volume of it was still a lot for your brain to keep up with. But the dread you’d been carrying all day had finalled dulled.
There was something weirdly hypnotic about the whole thing. Watching the group work the stage, you could see the passion behind every move, and the way the crowd fed off it was almost dizzying.
Even without knowing their backstories or the lyrics to every track, you started to get it. You watched how they caught the eyes of people in the front row, how they genuinely seemed to care that they were there.
You finally understood the countdown, the money, and the absurdly long lines. You understood why thousands of people would willingly trap themselves in a concrete box just to be in the same room as these guys for a couple of hours.
Each solo stage had been different. Some were filled with exciting energy that made even you want to move along. Others were softer, more emotional, the kind of performances that made the entire stadium feel like it had gone quiet despite the thousands of people inside it.
They were all impressive, commanding the stage with charm. But then came a solo that practically stopped you dead.
Obviously, you barely knew the guy. You’d seen him in the clips your friend played on a loop, but he’d always just been part of the background noise. A face you’d seen but never really registered. That changed the second he took center stage.
The barking started again, but this time it was ravenous. Thousands of voices rising in a synchronized, guttural roar that rattled your teeth and sent a deep thrumming through the soles of your feet.
For a split second, your pulse spiked, and you braced for the familiar grip of panic. But as you looked up, you realized the tightness in your chest wasn't from the noise anymore.
It was him.
He was standing under a harsh, singular spotlight. There was something uncomfortably possessive in his stare. A carnivorous focus that felt like he was hunting for something specific.
"MINGI!" Your friend’s scream pierced the noise, snapping you out of your daze.
You were tasked with a job the second the lights dimmed: capture everything. Your friend had made you promise to record, wanting to be fully present while still having footage to look back on later.
It was a lost cause. Between the shaky camera angles, the ear-splitting shrieks in the background, and the moments where you’d accidentally record nothing but the ceiling, your camera roll was becoming a chaotic mess. Your arm was aching, and your hand was cramping from holding your phone steady.
Then, Mingi moved toward your section. You stopped worrying about the quality of the video and just stared through the phone, watching him get closer until he was all that filled your screen.
He pointed directly at your phone.
Your brain stalled. You didn’t lower the camera, your grip tightening instead, eyes scanning the sea of fans around you. Surely, he was signaling someone else. It couldn't be you. It was impossible.
A security guard appeared out of nowhere, reaching into your personal space with a practiced efficiency. Before you could even protest, the phone was plucked from your fingers.
"Wait—" you choked out, your words getting lost in the mass of screams.
The protest died in your throat. The guard turned, stepping toward the edge of the stage, and placed your phone into Mingi's outstretched hand.
The screen of your phone flickered, suddenly filled with the high-definition angle of his own face, his eyes amused. Then, he swung the lens outward, framing the thousands of screaming fans before the stage lights blurred into a streak of neon.
Just when you thought he’d hand it back, he turned and walked off stage. Still holding your phone.
"The fuc—" The sentence died on your tongue as your friend grabbed your shoulders, her frantic shaking snapping your head back and forth.
And yeah, sure, the situation was insane. You were the center of a moment that many would kill for, a viral spectacle in the making. But as his silhouette disappeared into the shadows, your stomach dropped with cold, hard panic.
That wasn't just a phone. It was your life.
Every saved message and vulnerability tucked into your notes, the raw, unedited version of you that lived behind that glass, it was all in his hands now. He was back there in the shadows with your digital soul, and you were expected to just stand here, smile, and be okay with it. The irony was suffocating.
You had spent your entire life turning yourself into a ghost to avoid this exact kind of exposure. You were the person who would pace a store for twenty minutes rather than ask an employee for help. You were the girl who apologized when other people bumped into you. You were a professional in avoiding confrontation, an expert in shrinking until you were invisible, terrified of anything that forced you to exist in the spotlight.
And now, you had been dragged, clawing and screaming, into the center of attention, tethered to a stranger who had just taken the only thing that kept your life private.
As much as you loved your friend and as much as you were grateful she convinced you to come, a small part of you felt nothing but relief when the concert ended.
You had enjoyed yourself more than you’d like to admit. But when the lights finally came up and the crowd started slowly moving toward the exits, you couldn’t stop the quiet breath of relief that left your chest.
“You can head home, I’ll catch up with you tomorrow,” you told your friend once you were outside the main crowd of people.
She looked at you, immediately understanding. “Are you sure?”
You nodded. “Yeah. Go ahead.”
Immediately after turning around, every ounce of confidence you had built up disappeared.
Great. Perfect. Exactly what you needed.
You made your way toward the nearest security guard, trying to ignore the way your nerves started creeping back in. “Excuse me,” you said.
The guard turned toward you. “My phone was… um, taken during the concert. Is there somewhere I'm supposed to go to get it back?”
Even saying it out loud sounded ridiculous. You could only imagine how it sounded to someone else.
The security guard stared at you for a moment before reaching up and pressing a hand against the earpiece connected to his radio, pausing for what felt like forever.
Because apparently the universe hadn’t given you enough almost-anxiety attacks tonight.
Your mind immediately started spiraling. Logically, you knew you hadn’t done anything wrong. But you couldn’t help the feeling of being in trouble to start creeping up your spine and—
“Follow me.”
Your heart sank. That was the least comforting sentence he could have said. Still, you reluctantly followed behind. You assumed wherever he was leading you was backstage, but honestly, you were too busy convincing yourself that you weren’t about to get yelled at to fully process anything around you.
A few hours ago, you had been standing in front of your closet trying to figure out how you were going to survive a concert.
Now you were walking through a private hallway because a famous idol had taken your phone. Your life had somehow become a plotline you would have rolled your eyes at and cringed over.
Another staff member approached, holding out none other than your phone.
“Oh,” you breathed. Relief hit you so quickly that your shoulders immediately relaxed. “Thank you.”
The staff member smiled, pointed towards the nearest exit, and walked away without another word.
That was it. Nothing bad happened. You weren’t in trouble. You were okay.
You looked down at your phone, checking for any damage before noticing something attached to the back. A sticky note. Your eyebrows furrowed.
“Taking your phone was bold, but trust me a little more tonight and meet me at ———— at 12:30.”
Your brain almost refused to process the words in front of you. The address was to a private speakeasy downtown.
Your fingers felt strangely numb as you unlocked your phone, opening your camera roll to not only see the video evidence of Mingi taking your phone, but an extra photo taken afterwards.
A selfie from backstage. One where Mingi is winking at the camera.
You stared at the picture for longer than you probably should have.
This wasn't you.
Nothing about tonight had been you.
You have spent your entire life making yourself smaller. Staying in the background. Letting opportunities pass because they require too much courage or uncertainty. Too much of you.
How many times had you gone home wondering what would've happened if you had just... said yes? If you had spoken first. Taken the risk. Walked through the door instead of talking yourself out of it.
You couldn't remember. There had been too many.
And maybe that was why your feet hadn't turned home. Maybe this was stupid. No, it was definitely stupid.
But the curiosity continued to grasp at your heart.
You glanced down at your phone again.
12:02 p.m.
Twenty-eight minutes.
Enough time to change your mind.
Instead, you opened your maps and started walking.
—
The address led you to a building that looked ordinary enough from the outside, tucked between a row of upscale restaurants and cocktail lounges glowing beneath warm amber lights. But the moment you stepped inside, the atmosphere swallowed you whole.
This place was a parade of duality.
Music drifted through the air, loud enough to blur dozens of voices into one continuous hum. Glasses clinked together. Laughter echoed from every direction. The scent of expensive perfume mixed with oak-aged whiskey.
The room was a sprawling, tangled mess of people.
Couples were splayed out in the shadows, their bodies pressed together with a total lack of shame. You watched, heart hammering against your ribs, as hands roamed freely and mouths locked in desperate kisses that didn't bother to hide from the room. It was raw and completely unfiltered. They were living as if the rest of the world was nothing but static, turning their own rising heat into a performance for anyone unlucky enough to look their way.
Everywhere you turned, the air felt heavy with it. Strangers were leaning into each other’s personal space, lips brushing against ears, eyes locked in that glassy focus that only comes right before a line is crossed. They existed in their own private, sticky orbits, and as you watched them, a terrifying thought flickered in the back of your mind.
You looked down at your own trembling hands, wondering if this same frantic descent was inevitably gonna happen to you tonight. You weren't even sure if that was a good thing, or if, by the time the night was over, you’d be just another body lost to lust.
You almost forgot why you had come.
Almost.
A hostess approached before you could wander much farther.
"Reservation?"
You glanced down at the sticky note before quietly giving the name of the speakeasy.
Recognition flashed across her face.
Without another question, she smiled and gestured for you to follow.
The lively atmosphere slowly disappeared behind you as she led you down a narrow hallway lined with dark wood paneling. With every step, the music faded further into the distance until only the soft thump of bass remained somewhere beyond the walls.
She stopped in front of a black door, guiding you inside.
The room beyond couldn't have been more different. Quiet enough that you could hear the soft jazz floating from hidden speakers tucked somewhere overhead.
The lighting was low, casting everything in warm amber and deep shadows. It felt intimate without trying too hard.
To your right sat a polished walnut bar stretching almost the length of the room, lined with dark leather stools that looked comfortable enough to spend hours in. Shelves behind the counter displayed rows of crystal bottles that shimmered beneath the lights, every label looking more expensive than the last.
On the opposite side rested a large charcoal-colored couch, surrounded by low tables decorated with flickering candles that reflected off smoked glass.
In the center of the room stood a pool table unlike any you'd seen before. Its wood was nearly black, glossy enough to mirror the hanging pendant lights above it. The felt was a dark red that almost glowed beneath the dim lighting, making the polished pool balls resting on its surface look like tiny pieces of jewelry.
The room felt comfortable in contrast to the crowd of bodies just down the hall. Your shoulders relaxed before you even realized they had been tense.
Maybe this wasn't so bad. Maybe… no.
You still had absolutely no idea what you were doing.
Your gaze kept drifting back to the bar, hesitantly looking around. There wasn't a "Do Not Touch" sign, which you took as an opportunity to help yourself.
You picked up the nearest bottle, turning it over in your hands. The label was some high-end design and a language you didn't recognize. You didn't need to be a connoisseur to know the liquid inside probably cost more than your rent.
"Good enough," you muttered, your voice sounding too loud in the quiet room.
You dug through the cabinets until you found a heavy crystal glass hidden by an ice bucket. Your hands were clumsy, nearly fumbling the cork before prying it loose, the smell alone making your nose wrinkle and your stomach tighten. You poured with a reckless disregard, filling the glass until it was dangerously close to the brim.
You knocked it back. The burn was immediate, a searing, liquid fire that tore down your throat and settled in your gut. You doubled over, coughing, eyes squeezed shut as you fought to catch your breath.
"Jesus..." You let out a jagged, breathless laugh.
A minute later, you poured another.
Then a third, this one with a false, buzzing confidence you hadn't yet earned.
The heat started to settle beneath your ribs, finally beginning to unravel the tight knot that had been coiled in your chest since the moment you stepped into the stadium. But as the liquor dulled your senses, a different kind of sensation started to build. A static, prickling awareness at the back of your neck. It felt like you were being watched, even though you were alone. You couldn't say why, but the air in the room felt thick, as if something was waiting for you, biding its time in the shadows just out of sight.
The minutes leading up to 12:30 dragged on with agonizing slowness.
You couldn’t help but obsessively check the time.
12:27.
12:28.
12:29.
Every passing second felt louder than the soft jazz filling the room.
The alcohol had done exactly what you wanted it to do, and maybe a little more. The constant buzzing in your mind had quieted, and the tightness in your chest wasn't nearly as suffocating anymore. But your limbs felt heavier now, your movements slower, possibly a little more relaxed than you should be in this situation.
What are you doing? The question echoed through your head. "Shit..." you muttered, rubbing a hand over your face. "This is so wrong."
Before you could give yourself another chance to overthink it, you made up your mind.
Leave. Now.
You spun on your heel and yanked the door open, barely taking one step before you slammed into something solid.
Your hands shot out on instinct, bracing against a broad, hard chest to catch your balance. The fabric under your fingertips shifted as he absorbed your momentum without even flinching.
A low, vibrating chuckle rumbled right against your skin, sending a jolt of ice down your spine. "Leaving so soon?" The voice was amused and dangerously familiar.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Your stomach dropped into a void. You lifted your gaze, dread rising in your throat, and realized he was so much larger than he had seemed from the barricade. Up close, there were no stage lights or screens to soften him. Just the sharp, unforgiving line of his jaw and damp strands of dark hair clinging to his forehead.
Your heart hammered against your ribs in a frantic rhythm that you were sure he could hear. You were still pressed flat against him, your palms anchored to either side of his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath your touch.
Heat rushed to your face. The alcohol taking over your legs as they grow weak… or is it because of him?
His gaze drifted past your shoulder toward the minibar, no doubt seeing your mess from playing bartender. His smirk deepened. "I see you've made yourself comfortable." His voice came out low, almost mocking.
"I—" You breathed. That was about all you could manage to get out.
Mingi stepped forward. Instinctively, you matched it by taking one back. The door swung shut behind him with a sound that felt all too final.
He took another step.
You took another.
Only when your palms slid across the front of his shirt did you realize they were still there. Mortified, you pulled your hands away with an embarrassing speed.
“Am I that scary?” The question was followed by a smile that was entirely too innocent to be genuine. “I promise I won’t bite.” His tone was deceptively soft, and entirely aware of the power he holds. It unsettled you more than if he had laughed in your face. He is playing with his food, enjoying the way your shy, anxious nature makes you tremble.
Mingi knew exactly what effect he had on people and had long since learned how to wield it.
The realization hit you with a terrifying clarity. You weren't here because you’d stood out as something "genuine" or sweet in a sea of screaming fans. You were here because you were prey.
He hadn't been drawn to you by some romantic spark, he had smelled the timidness radiating off of you the second your eyes locked in the crowd, and he’d known exactly what he was dealing with: an easy target.
Without thinking, you took multiple steps back.
Mingi matched each one at an unhurried pace, yet somehow leaving you with nowhere else to go. It was almost playful, the way a cat watched a bird that had wandered just a little too close.
Your lower back bumped against the pool table. Your hands reached behind you instinctively, fingers curling around the edge of the polished wood as if it could somehow steady the sudden weakness in your legs.
Standing this close, the difference in your height was impossible to ignore, his broad shoulders reflected the warm light behind him until it felt like he occupied your entire field of vision.
His laughter started low, a quiet strangle of genuine amusement that shook his chest. He looked impossibly breathtaking with his dark hair falling over his forehead, even as his grin widened into something alarmingly possessive, a laugh meant for your ears only.
The solid oak edge of the pool table bites into your lower back as he closes the remaining distance. He places both hands flat on the red felt right beside your hips, trapping you inside a cage of his own making. His tall presence forces you to tilt your head back, looking straight up into the eyes of a man who just hours ago belonged to a crowd.
He still carries the lingering, electric energy of the stage but the polished idol persona is gone, replaced by the heavy, unblinking gaze of a predator who has cornered his target.
As the alcohol mixes with the sudden, violent spike of panic in your blood, a strange warmth blooms under your skin. Your heart is hammering so hard it hurts, but for the first time in your life, you don't feel numb. You feel the pure, raw adrenaline pumping through your veins, a vicious thrill that reminds you that you are vividly, stubbornly alive. You are terrified, yes, but some sick part of you is aching to know what he will do next.
Mingi notices the shift in your eyes immediately. A devastatingly beautiful smirk tilts the corner of his lips. He lifts one hand from the table, his knuckles tracing a slow path up your thigh, over the hem of your skirt, dragging up your body until the tips of his fingers rest right against your pulse.
"Look at you," he whispers, his thumb gently brushing over your jawline, forcing you to maintain eye contact. His eyes gleam with an obsessive hunger that has been brewing since the exact moment he saw you. "Your heart is beating so fast for me. You're shaking, sweet girl..."
You swallow hard, the heat of his thumb against your pulse point making it nearly impossible to gather your thoughts. Every instinct in your body is screaming at you to shrink back, to let the anxiety swallow you whole.
You press your palms flat against the table, bracing yourself, and look straight into his dark expression. A desperate attempt to summon every ounce of defiance you can muster.
"What... What do you want from me?" you ask, trying to sound firm and demanding, to show him that you won't just let him play with you.
Instead, the words stumble over your tongue. Your voice comes out small and entirely sheepish, pitched in a soft, trembling tone that portrays just how deeply he is affecting you.
The effect on him is instantaneous.
His eyes darken, pupils dilating until the iris is almost entirely black. A heavy, visual wave of arousal ripples through his entire demeanor, his breath catching in his throat as the soft sound of your voice hits him. His jaw tightens, and you can see the slight, erratic jump of the pulse in his neck.
He leans down further, his chest now brushing against yours, completely overwhelming your senses. The hand at your throat slides upward, his fingers tangling into your hair at the base of your skull, tilting your head up at a sharper, more vulnerable angle.
"What do I want?" Mingi rasps, his voice dropping an octave. He presses his hips just a fraction closer against yours, pinning you completely against the table. "Everything. I want everything, sweet girl. Especially with the way you’re looking at me right now."
His hand slowly grips your hair tighter, feeling less affectionate and more like a butcher testing the sharpness of his blade.
"I didn't think you'd actually come," he rasps, his voice shaking with a starvation that he is clearly fighting to control. "I spent the last 30 minutes driving myself crazy thinking you'd stay home... but you're here. You actually came to me."
You can feel the tremor in his hands, the sheer force of willpower it's taking for him to not take what he wants right now.
"You have no idea what you've done to me," he whispers, his eyes low, dark, and utterly consumed by you. "Showing up here... walking into this room alone with me... you practically handed yourself over. Don't fight it now, sweet girl. Just give yourself up to me. Please."
Mingi lets out a low exhale against your lips, his hips pressing into yours with a sudden, needy friction that leaves no doubt about how much you are affecting him.
The intense, unexpected sensation jolts straight through you, and a helpless whimper escapes your throat. He takes that involuntary noise as an open invitation, erasing whatever invisible line was between you two.
"Fuck," he gasps out, his forehead dropping against yours as he rolls his hips against you again, harder this time, completely desperate and starved for your touch. He is entirely consumed by you, his hands tangled in your hair and gripping your waist like vices, anchoring your body exactly where he wants you. You are completely trapped beneath him, helpless against his massive size, forcing you to feel every inch of him.
He surges forward, his large hands clamping onto your waist with bruising force. In one swift, seamless motion, he hoists you up, his strength effortless as he swings your body onto the pool table.
The abrupt movement sends the polished balls scattering with a sharp clack across the slate, some clattering into the pockets while others roll toward the edges. You gasp, the air leaving your lungs as your back hits the surface, but before you can even find your footing, he is already between your knees. He pulls your body flush against his, pressing you deep into the table until there is no space left between you.
The surface is uncomfortable but you can barely register it. All you can feel is the erratic thrum of his heart against your own and the heavy weight of his body pinning you down. He is consuming you, tracking every flicker of movement in your expression.
"Don't move," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a whisper that sends a shiver of dread down your spine. "I’ve been waiting all night to see you break. And you're so close, aren't you, sweet girl? Let's see how many more sounds I can pull out of you."
"I... I shouldn't be here," you manage, your words weak and flickering like a dying candle. You try to push against his shoulders, a pathetic motion, but he doesn't budge.
Mingi lets out a low, humorless laugh, his gaze dropping to your trembling hands before dragging back to your face. Without breaking eye contact, his free hand descended to his own waist. With one violent tug, he ripped his shirt open, buttons shooting against the wood of the table like spent casings. He discarded the fabric in a heap on the floor, his chest rising and falling.
Then, his eyes dropped to your top with a glinting malice. He didn't bother with buttons or zippers. He hooked his fingers into the neckline of your shirt and yanked. A sickening sound of fabric snapping gave way to the cool, prickling bite of the speakeasy’s air hitting your bare skin. You gasped as the cold left you exposed, his gaze dragging over you with a blistering intensity that felt like physical touch before he even laid a hand on you.
He laid his torso against yours, the heat radiating off his bare skin so intense it felt like a fever. The warmth where your skin met matched the aching heat that had already pooled between your legs.
Without a conscious thought, your body betrayed you. You arched your back, pressing your sensitive skin into him, desperate to bridge the remaining distance. You needed to feel more of him, to eradicate the space between you entirely.
Mingi sensed the surrender in the movement and didn't hesitate. He crashed his lips against yours with an unapologetic force. His mouth is devouring yours with a pressure that leaves no room for hesitation, his teeth grazing your lower lip until you taste the sharp, metallic tang of blood.
"You taste so unbelievably good, baby," he breaks the kiss to growl against your jaw.
He doesn't give you a moment to breathe before his hands move again, tracing the curve of your ribs before his fingers hook into the waistband of your skirt. He maneuvers you with ease, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand.
The other slides beneath the silk of your skirt, bypassing the lace and plunging directly between your folds to tease the slick, sensitive skin you hadn’t even realized was yearning for this kind of violation. You let out a broken sound as he begins slowly circling his thumb at the core of your pulse point with a precision that makes your vision swim.
"Look at yourself," he rasps, his voice humming across your skin as he continues his work. "Such a mess for me, hm? You didn't think you had it in you to be this desperate, did you?"
A small "mhm" slips past your lips. A sound so pathetic and submissive. The reality of that sound hitting your own ears acts like a bucket of ice water to the chest. The fog of desire instantly dissolves, replaced by a jolting horror at the realization of how easily you have let him dismantle you.
With a desperate, choked gasp, you slam your palms against his chest, driving all your remaining strength into the push. He doesn't yield easily, but the force of your panicked shove catches him off guard.
He stumbles back just enough for you to slip away. You scramble off the edge of the table, your legs tangling, and you end up stumbling back until you hit the plush cushions of the nearby couch.
You aren’t even sure what you’re running from.
Mingi doesn't try to stop your retreat. He just stands there, his chest heaving, his bare torso bathing in the dim lighting. His expression has shifted from playfulness to something genuinely volatile. A flash of anger towards the fact that you dared to break the spell he had woven.
"It’s too late for that, baby," he says, a torn threat that stops your breath in your throat. "You agreed to this the moment you walked through those doors."
He crouches in front of the couch, his posture unnervingly composed. The sight of his face, positioned just below the level of your own, does something embarrassing to your resolve.
"Can you be good for me?" he asks, his voice barely a breath, though it carries the weight of a command.
As he inches closer, his hands wrap firmly around your knees. With a slow, deliberate movement, he spreads your legs apart. The weakness of the position should ignite your panic, but instead, it dulls your fight-or-flight response until you can feel your body inevitably falling back into the rhythm of his control.
His hands work with calculated focus to discard your skirt and underwear in one efficient motion. Left entirely bare, you feel the cool air of the room contrast sharply against the heat of his skin pressing down on you.
"That's it," he murmurs, a pleased note of approval vibrating in his chest as he watches your posture slacken in total defeat. "Good girl."
Without breaking his gaze, one of his hands leaves your knee to reach down, the harsh rasp of his zipper filling the dead space. He shoves his jeans and boxers down, revealing his already thick and unbelievably hard cock, leaking so heavily that the wetness glistens in the low light. Your lungs momentarily forget how to work as your eyes are helplessly drawn to the sight of him. He is entirely too much for you to handle, yet you find yourself completely captivated by the sight.
As if sensing your subjection, he shifts his weight off his knees to bring you into another kiss. He begins to nibble sharply at your bottom lip, a distracting sensation meant to draw your focus away from his growing length between your thighs and toward the ache building in your mouth.
While he holds you captive with his lips, his arm begins to tremble, a muscular strain rippling through his bicep as he slowly lines himself up with your entrance.
He is visibly holding himself back, his muscles corded and tight with the effort of not taking you in one violent thrust, not yet, as if savoring the moment.
"You're perfect," he rasps, his voice so raw and wrecked it sounds like a prayer to a god.
The words are the final thread of his control snapping. Without a warning, he thrusts forward, slamming his hips into yours with a punishing force. A pitiful cry escapes your lips.
He is a man possessed, his movements driven by an obsessive thirst. Each thrust is a grinding assault that stretches you to your absolute limit, and every time he bottoms out against your womb, your body arches as a helpless surrender to his size and his strength.
The room is filled with the thick slap of skin against skin. His large hands gripping your thighs so hard his fingers leave bruising pressure against your skin, anchoring you to the couch so you have nowhere to go but further into his grasp.
Every time a whine spills from your mouth, his movements become even more frenzied. He is feeding off the sound, off the way your hips buck to meet his, the way your entire being is beginning to unravel under his dominance.
Your head rolls back, your eyes fluttering shut as you press into the cushion, the world blurring into nothing but the friction of his body and the pure bliss blooming in your core.
Suddenly, his fingers lock firmly around your jaw to wrench your head forward, forcing you to look at him. "Eyes on me or I'll stop," he insisted, his voice urgent.
You struggle for a split second, your chest heaving, but the look in his eyes forces you to comply. You lock your gaze onto his, drowning in the intensity of his stare.
His hands guide your waist in a slow, agonizing pace. He pulls out almost entirely, only to sink back in, dragging the sensation out until your nerves are screaming for release. Your hips buck up to desperately chase the friction he’s so cruelly denying you.
He watches your face for every sign of unraveling, his smirk widening as he feels you fraying under his control. He leans down, his lips ghosting over your ear, his voice a hot rasp that demands everything you have left. "Beg me," he whispers, his fingers digging into your hips to hold you steady. Your eyes widen, your breath hitching as the reality of his demand sets in. "Beg me for more."
The last remnants of your pride are incinerated. You are entirely undone, a tangle of limbs and gasps, your survival instincts stripped away until only one singular need remains. You don’t care how you sound or how you look. All that matters now is reaching that moment of pure ecstasy.
"Please... please, don't stop," you whisper, the words tumbling out in a frantic rush.
His breath hitches against your ear, the sensation sending a cascade of shivers down your spine. You feel his teeth graze the sensitive cartilage, followed by a sharp pinch that draws a broken sob from your throat.
"Say it louder, baby," he demands.
"Please, Mingi!" you gasp, the name tearing out of you in a raw, needy moan that sounds nothing like the person who willingly walked into this room moments before.
He accelerates, his movements shifting from that torturous, slow drag into a deep assault. Every thrust is a wet and heavy slide that finds you exactly where you are most vulnerable, stretching you until you feel you might snap in two.
The air in the room is thick with the scent of his sweat and the lingering cologne. Your hands clutching at his shoulders, digging into his skin as he hammers into you. He is savoring every perfect reaction you give him. You are completely at his mercy as he drives you closer and closer to that shattering edge.
You are bordering on hysteria, your throat raw from the cries that spill out with every hit. You have completely lost your grip on reality, tethered to this moment only by the feeling of him inside you.
Mingi shifts his hands to the underside of your thighs, hauling them backward, bending you into a position that leaves you utterly defenseless. He uses the leverage to drive himself even deeper, his hips angling with lethal precision against your g-spot. Your walls spasm, clamping down around him in a frantic grip that draws a deep moan from his throat.
Your orgasm hits you like a physical blow. You lose your voice, your mouth falling open in a soundless scream as your body completely falls apart for him. Waves of pleasure radiate from your core, forcing your hips to jerk helplessly against him.
He feeds on your climax, pushing you over the edge again and again. You feel the heavy, searing surge of his own release. Warm liquid flooding deep into your insides. He stays buried in you, his muscles shuddering as he grinds against you, his movements relentless, until he finally slows down to a stop.
In the haze of your collapse, your hand lifts, fingers trembling as you reach out. A submissive plea for the only thing that could anchor you back to reality: a touch, a kiss, some scrap of reassurance to prove that this wasn't just a brutal transaction.
Just as your fingertips ghost through the empty, cooling air, Mingi moves with a cold efficiency. He pulls away, the sudden loss of his grounding presence leaving you feeling powerless.
He stands over you, his chest heaving, sweat beading on his forehead and dripping down his jawline to catch in the hollow of his throat.
You watch, paralyzed, as he tucks himself back into his trousers. His expression is flat and devoid of anything resembling humanity.
"It's rare to see something break so beautifully," he says, his voice laced with an objective fascination. He pauses, his gaze sweeping over your discarded clothes and your shattered form the way one looks at a painting he has already seen many times: finding it more or less as expected, and returning his attention to other things. "Such a shame you're useless to me now."
The words land like stabs in your gut. He reaches down, casually snatching his shirt off the ground, and moves toward the door with a grace that makes his earlier madness seem like a well-rehearsed performance.
As the heavy black door clicks shut behind him, the silence of the room surrounds you. You remain on the couch, limbs heavy and unresponsive. Left with the lingering, sticky warmth of him dripping out of you like a curse.
You are left there in the dim, amber light, permanently destroyed.
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