Savie’s

i like it, i’m 25.

[naomi-nana]

𓏲ּ𝄢 seventeen : drunk texts .

featuring : maknae line ! hyung line here.

cw : gn!reader, seungkwan calls reader 'girl' but it's more as a friendly(?like dude n bro) term, suggestive, mentions of alcohol of course, somewhat implied smut??, swearing, i've never gotten drunk before so this might be inaccurate. as always, do not apply these to the real artists.

a/n : hey, hello, lemme just drop this here rq :)

LEE SEOKMIN — 이석민

KIM MINGYU — 김민규

XU MINGHAO — 徐明浩

BOO SEUNGKWAN — 부승관

CHWE HANSOL — 최한솔

LEE CHAN — 이찬

seokmin : his smile widened once he saw you approaching him. unfortunately for seungkwan and vernon, now they have to see him clinging onto you like he never met you for months. it's fine, really, who cares if other people are giving you the stares? you're more than happy to be hugged by him—oh, oh my god, you're falling over—well... now you're on the floor....

mingyu : this man is smiling the moment he saw you. he knows what he wants, and he's not going to wait any longer. before you could even approach him, he'd be the one to walk up to you instead—albeit a little clumsily due to his drunk state. but so what? he doesn't mind—as long as he gets to kiss you like there's no tomorrow.

minghao : you couldn't hold your laugh and teasing when you finally met him. you would hold your phone up, shoving it in his face while pointing at the typos he made while he texted you. he'd just squint his eyes while saying, i'm already dizzy and you're showing me a screen? safe to say, he would never hear the end of it.

seungkwan : this man is whining, complaining, and pouncing on you the moment he walked through your door. it's a little endearing (???) how he tried to sound sexy, only to accidentally burp in your face the next second. both of you immediately covered your face—him from embarrassment, and you from trying not to laugh—really, boo seungkwan's life is full of comedy.

vernon : he was all chill when you picked him up. in fact, he was a little too chill—that when you talked to him and noticed him not responding—you turned around and saw that he already fell asleep by leaning onto the wall. you'd have to shake him awake a few times before his eyes widened in shock. he asked you where you are, and you facepalmed, saying that you haven't even walked out the door yet.

chan : it's not much of a surprise to you, really. that when you walked through the door, the room was filled with teasing from the older members. and the only guy who didn't make a sound the whole time was him—tucked in a corner, away from everyone. it was cute how his ears seemed to turn even redder the moment you walked closer to him.

naomi-nana. do NOT repost, do not use (with or without permission), do not recommend or talk about my works outside of tumblr.

[catiekayy]

Seventeen Reacts: Brat vs Brat Tamer

Anon Req. for my opinion on who all in Seventeen would be a brat and who would be brat tamer. It's a little long and there is some smut so MDNI 18+ ONLY. A/N- thank you @milk-moonbunnies for beta reading this for me and for being my sounding board for my ideas!!!

S.Coups- Surprisingly, Coups would fall into the category of brat. I think he would be the brattiest, poutiest baby when you two are alone because maybe you didn't greet him as soon as he got home from rehearsal, you were busy reading, and didn't hear him come in the door.

Cheol would lean over your shoulder and say something like, "Oh I see you just don't love me as much as that book, huh?"

You glance over your shoulder at him before responding, holding back a grin. "What on Earth do you mean? I absolutely love you Cheol." You have to hold back your giggles.

"If you did, you would've noticed when I got home." He pulls back so you can get a good look at him now. He has yearning eyes, complete with furrowed eyebrows, and a pouty set of lips that you would have to put a minium of 50 kisses on before he finally hummed out a content sound and curled up with you on the couch, finally relaxed. "So, Baby, tell me about this book." His voice is muffled against your hair as he burrows his face into your neck, sweet soft kisses being placed on your skin in return for the ones you gave him earlier, all of them an unspoken promise of what the rest of the night will hold for you two.

Jeonghan- You would think he would be a brat, but honestly, I think he's more of a brat tamer. He knows all the little attitude tricks and manipulations you could possibly pull out.

Imagine if you're both out, grabbing some food with friends, and you planned to drink heavily that evening, but Jeonghan wasn't planning on babysitting you tonight. He even warned you about it beforehand while the two of you were getting ready. You rolled your eyes and brushed off his words, so when he keeps ordering you waters before you can even get a drink order in you start getting increasingly irritated with him.

"Why do you keep doing that? I wanted to drink tonight." You murmur into his ear, your tone just drips with brattiness.

Jeonghan's hand reaches over squeezing your thigh under the table a silent gesture that answers you before he even has to open his mouth. "Because Angel, I need you nice and alert for all the things I have planned for us tonight, be good for me."

He punctuates his sentence with another squeeze, and smirks at the flush that spreads on your cheeks from his words, you sit a little straighter in your chair after that.

Joshua- He would also be a brat tamer, but like in a softer version, kind of like Jeonghan in his subtle approach to it.

For example, when you visited him while he was on tour, you were planning on seeing the city that day, but suddenly staff came to him, and asked him to do a vlog with the guys instead.

"I'm sorry, Sweetheart." He gives you an apologetic smile as you all pile out of the company SUV, and onto the beach. Then Hoshi turns on the camera, and Joshua snaps into fan service mode as you stand off to the side watching.

This becomes the pattern all day long. At every stop you all make, you're getting a little pouty and sulky as the hours pass, and quite honestly? Near the end of the day, you're over it.

Joshua of course notices the attitude in your stance, and tugs you subtly into the tinted backseat of the SUV while you're at the park. "Let's straighten out this attitude, Sweetheart." He says as he adjusts you over his lap.

Minutes later, you both emerge from the car, you with a newly adjusted attitude and a slightly sore ass, and Joshua with a smirk, and a bit of a red and aching palm.

Jun- Jun would also be a softer version of a brat tamer.

Since he's gone for long periods of time filming, he of course would bring you with him whenever he had to go abroad for it. Neither of you wanted to deal with that separation.

When you're on set with him, you're usually pretty patient, and actually really enjoy watching him work, but today, you're feeling especially restless.

Every time he gets a small break, and checks in, you ask when the day will be wrapped up. And each time you ask, your pitch gets a little more whiny, and Jun notices, even if you don't think he does.

When filming for the day wraps up, you're both in the car on the way back to the hotel when you speak up. "I seriously thought today would never end." Your tone is completely bratty at this point, and Jun has had enough by now.

He reaches over and squeezes your knee, his voice low and raspy in your ear "Baobei, if you don't change your attitude and apologize for your tone today, I'll have to get creative." His words are met with an eye roll from you and a sarcastic "sorry."

And all Jun does is smirk at that, because a few minutes later in your hotel room he's got you on your knees choking on his cock.

"See, I told you I'd get creative to get those pretty lips to apologize correctly," he huffs out roughly, looking down at you.

Hoshi- Would be a brat tamer, and he would definitely be the kind of boyfriend that would purposely push buttons to get you to be a little extra bratty just so he could get you back to being nice again.

Maybe one night he's staying extra late to work on some choreography, and he did tell you he'd be a little later than normal, but it's been three hours past the end time now, and you're getting impatient and hungry.

The music is vibrating the walls of the practice room as you open the door, and a very sweaty and breathless Soonyoung is sitting on the floor drinking water. "Hey Jagiya, I'm just finishing up, give me like two more hours and we can get dinner."

He's joking of course, and he gives you a playful smile that promptly drops as he sees your crossed arms and frown. "Don't 'Hey Jagiya' me." Your voice has a whiny and slightly mocking pitch to it that pulls Hoshi to his feet, his eyes sharp and dark.

Soonyoung's steps guide you backwards until your back hits the wall, while he puts his hands on either side of your shoulders, his breath hot on your neck as his voice lowers, vibrating down to your core. "Don't make me find a better use for that pretty little mouth of yours, Jagiya."

Wonwoo- 1000% a brat tamer, and he is not afraid to remind you about it either at home or in public. Although it sometimes feels like his favorite places to remind you who is in charge are in public.

Like the night he takes you to the local arcade for your usual date night, and he's not letting you win the games like he normally does. You start to get a little on the grumpy side, and your answers start to become clipped and shortened to one word.

"Bathroom." You say with crossed arms, before you sulk off, unaware that Wonwoo was right on your heels. He follows you in, locking the door behind the two of you, and gives you a single eyebrow raise.

"We're going to fix this little attitude of yours." He states it while lifting you onto the counter before you can protest. He's quick to pushing up your skirt, pulling down your panties, and kissing up your thighs until his lips meet your pussy. He licks a long stripe that leaves you shaking immediately.

Four orgasms later, Wonwoo helps you off the counter, with a gleam in his eye. "Now, lets go play nicely, okay?" You nod your head and walk out of the bathroom on jello legs, and he follows behind adjusting his glasses and wiping off his lips with a smirk.

Woozi- Jihoon is definitely a brat tamer, but it takes a lot to get him there. Like he will let you get away with a lot before he finally decides to act on anything.

The late night you come visit him while he's working in the studio is the tipping point, this time, apparently. It's not like you've never hung out there while he's worked before, but this time you were extra fidgety, and being a little more distracting than normal.

"What's that button do? What about that switch?" You ask, reaching across the soundboard while Woozi was focused on his laptop. Not looking, he reaches over, and holds your wrist.

"Baby, don't touch. I've told you a million times, okay? Behave. I'm almost done." He looks at you now, over the rim of his glasses, and you straighten up immediately, tucking your hands away in your lap.

The good behavior only lasts for so long before you push the chair back, and start spinning around, humming songs until Woozi sighs heavily and turns around grabbing the chair, stopping the spinning. "Baby." His voice is dangerously low now, "Are you bored? Do I need to tire you out so I can finish work?"

That's how you ended up bent over the soundboard nearly drooling, and Jihoon is pulling a second orgasm out of you within 10 minutes as he murmurs something about finally getting work done after this.

DK- Okay, so I actually think DK would fall into a switch category where he could be a brat but also a brat tamer.

Because imagine if there's a time where the two of you are on vacation, and it's to an all inclusive resort, the kind that you get to do all the activities and packages through them.

Well, the activity that DK booked was swimming with the sea turtles on the second day of the trip, and that morning you guys got a message that the activity had to be cancelled and you'd been re-booked for a "surfing experience" instead.

Throughout the morning, and into breakfast, DK was extra crabby about losing his activity. "I just really wanted to swim with the turtles is all." He halfheartedly pushes a pancake around on his plate while his lips pull into a frown.

"Keyomie, it'll be fun. We'll still be in the ocean and in the sun. Most importantly, we'll be spending time together." You say trying to coax him into a better mood before you two have to head to the beach.

Of course, once you guys make it there, and actually get started surfing - DK starts to have an amazing time. He's laughing, and catching right onto the lessons like a natural.

You, however, are not having fun at all. It's as if the roles have reversed, you're now sulking, and sitting on your board kicking the water until DK paddles next to you.

"Honey, cheer up? Why don't you go relax on the beach, and watch, and then tonight I'll make sure to treat you to something extra fun." He finishes his sentence with a promising wink that ignites a heat right to your core.

Mingyu- Like S.Coups, Mingyu would also be a pouty little brat when something doesn't go his way.

Like the day you two decided to go shopping, he was excited at the opportunity to spoil you a little bit, willing to buy you anything you wanted or possibly even looked at, if you'd let him.

So imagine his surprise at the first store, when you two are up at the counter to pay for your things, he's reaching for his wallet and suddenly, he hears the "DING" of the card reader.

Mingyu looks over at you, as your tapping your phone to pay instead, his mouth gaping. "Yah! Let me pay at the next one." He insists as you two leave the store, you shrug him off and continue shopping.

This pattern repeats through the whole shopping center. You are absolutely ruining his plans to spoil you today and he is a big pouty mess by lunchtime.

"What's wrong?" You nudge his foot under the table, and he gives you the saddest puppy eyed look before responding.

"I just really wanted to spoil you today, and you keep ruining it by paying for everything." He huffs jutting out his bottom lip.

"Okay, how about this, I'll let you buy me one thing, and then I'll spoil you too." You smirk mischievously offering your compromise.

Of course Mingyu eagerly takes the offer, and that's how an hour later he's now focused on your new diamond necklace nestled between your gorgeous tits that bounce as you ride him in the back seat of the car.

At the end of the day everyone got spoiled a little bit.

Minghao- Minghao is a little tricky, but I think he would be kind of a silent brat when he brings you around the chaos of the 12 other guys.

Usually at home you're pretty laid back and relaxed around him. So, he expects the same introverted behavior around them, he thinks maybe you'll come out of your shell a little bit, but he figures you'll stick next to him most of the night.

What he did not expect was that you would go fully extroverted on him, and completely immerse yourself in the chaos.

You laughed loudly at all of DK's jokes, you fed into Hoshi's tiger agenda, and even go toe to toe rage baiting Seungkwan for a little while, making everyone in the room erupt in laughter.

Don't get Hao wrong, he loved watching you get along with his friends, it's just that he didn't like that you weren't immediately in his vicinity. He wanted you getting along with his friends, but also love up on him too.

When there's finally a lull in the madness, Minghao approaches you. "My Love, are you having fun? Can you come back and sit with me?" He asks while lacing his hand into yours to get your full attention. You only need to glance briefly at Hao to see the slightly woeful look on his face.

"Oh, are you jealous?" You tease him at first, but when you see that his frown only grows, you drop it. "Of course I will, lets go." You reply leading him to the couch, where he stays stuck to you for the remainder of the evening, and you make sure you pay extra attention to him with a knowing grin.

Seungkwan- Is a brat, but he tries so hard not to be. Especially around you, because he loves you so dearly.

For instance, you try to be the extra sweet doting partner, bringing home a bag of skincare products with a grand plan of you two staying in for the night and having a mini spa evening together.

"Oh, what are these?" Seungkwan asks peeking into the bag on the counter while you gather snacks. He tries very hard to hide the grimace on his face as he reads the labels on the products.

"I thought we could have a night in, like a mini spa." You reply with a hopeful tone.

Luckily for Seungkwan, you're preoccupied pulling out the snacks and drinks from the fridge while you explain, otherwise you'd see the absolute horror on his face as he continues going through the bag. "Yeah? That sounds like fun, Baby." He grabs the bag and follows you into the living room, where you start unpacking everything, and handing Seungkwan his face mask. "Hopefully, this won't make me break out." He mumbles under his breath with a sigh as he sticks the Hello Kitty sheet mask onto his face.

"What was that?" You ask as you smooth your own mask on with a calmed sigh, your head is thrown back against the pillows on the couch.

"Hmm? Nothing..I said I hope this clears my breakouts. I love you, Baby." Seungkwan says quickly, settling in his own spot next to you as he quiets his own thoughts.

He would do anything for you, always for you.

Vernon- Vernon is a brat tamer, but he also shows it in subtle or nonchalant ways, because that's just Vernon.

For instance, the time you asked him to teach you how to play guitar is a good example. By the time he caved and agreed, you had resorted to begging to be taught by him, and he finally gave in.

Vernon told you to come by his practice space in the evening, after he was finished with work, and you show up completely eager and even picked out your favorite song that you want to learn too.

All of that crumbles away about an hour later, when you still haven't been able to pick up the finger positions for basic chords. Vernon is still totally patient, and encouraging, but also slightly too relaxed for your liking in this moment. "No, not like that. Here try again," he repeats, and adjusts your fingers again.

He gives you another encouraging smile, and you groan loudly in frustration. "I hate this song now. Maybe if you taught me better, I would be learning it faster." You grumble, adjusting your grip on the neck of the guitar as Vernon raises a surprised eyebrow at your sharp words.

All forms of nonchalance fall away as he leans in close, his breath warm against your neck. His voice is low and rough in your ear. "Oh, I can definitely teach you something if you don't fix that attitude, Brat."

And just like that, you sit up, trying a little harder to learn as the promise still lingers between you two the rest of the evening.

Dino- Chan is a brat, but it's only because he gets passionate about things.

When you asked him to teach you the Internet's most recent viral dance trend, he was so excited to get to share something he was passionate about with you.

Dino has always longed to teach you some dances, or even a little group choreography, but you've always turned him down. Usually claiming two left feet usually, but that's until tonight.

When you meet him in the practice room, he's practically bouncing out of shoes with excitement, and he jumps right into showing you the first steps. A few attempts in, and you're doubled over laughing watching yourself wiggle around in the mirror in front of you two, totally not taking this as seriously as Chan is at all.

"C'mon, Babe, please actually try this time." He shows you the moves again, slower this time, breaking them down with counts in an attempt to get you to grasp it. As he counts you off for your next attempt, you barely get three steps in before you trip, and fall down giggling at the mishap. You swipe you hair from your face, and look up at Dino, finally noticing his sulking face.

"Channie, what's wrong? Did I mess up too much?" You stand, and move towards him, tugging his arms out from being crossed over his chest.

"No, it's that you're not really trying. You're acting like this is just a joke, and not a special moment for us to share." He explains with the widest and saddest boba eyes he's ever given you.

You nod in realization. "Okay, I'll actually try this time. Promise." You move back to your spot, and he counts you in again, but this time, you actually hit a few of the moves, leaving Chan with a bigger smile than when the night started.

[studioeisa]

perfect strangers 🩵 mingyu x reader.

for the first time in seven years, kim mingyu thinks he might actually have a shot at standing on the podium. he has a decent car, a good teammate, and… a girlfriend? after f1 tv erroneously tags a complete stranger as his ‘partner’, mingyu now has to reckon with being one half of the newest couple on the grid.

🩵 pairing. formula one driver!kim mingyu x influencer!reader. 🩵 word count. 21.k. 🩵 genres/includes. romance, fluff, humor. alternate universe: non-idol, alternate universe: formula one. mentions of food, alcohol consumption; profanity. the alex albon-ification of mingyu, down bad/yearner!mingyu, 97z adjacent to 2019 rookies, williams slander (soz). 🩵 notes. this is part of cam&em studio’s lights out collaboration. i had somehow deluded myself that this would not be that long, but combine my two special interests and.. bam 😦 always so humbled to be among caratblr greats. ty for hosting, @camandemstudios!!! let’s go racing!!! ᯓ★

Mingyu likes to think he’s calm. Composed. The kind of driver who takes Monza in stride, doesn’t let the history or the speed or the ridiculous number of Ferrari fans turn his knees into jelly.

That’s the version of himself he would like to believe. The truth is, Monza is the track that raised him. He was fifteen the first time he snuck into the stands with a handful of friends, listening to engines scream like they could shake the sky apart. Now, he’s back as a Williams driver, pretending he’s not vibrating with the same teenage excitement. Pretending the goosebumps under his race suit are just from the morning chill.

“Still staring at the track like it’s your first crush?” Seokmin’s voice drifts over, amused and much too loud for Mingyu’s pride.

He turns to find Lee Seokmin—McLaren orange splashed all over him, lanyard swinging, already grinning as if he knows he’s being insufferable. Which, of course, he does.

Mingyu adjusts his cap with a lopsided grin. “Bold words from the guy who once called Eau Rouge ‘kinda cute.’”

“That was one time,” Seokmin says, mock-offended, “and it is cute. In a terrifying, please-don’t-launch-me-into-the-fence way.”

Xu Minghao appears before Mingyu can volley back. The new arrival is in Mercedes gear, impossibly relaxed, sipping an espresso like he has all the time in the world. Minghao never hurries, never sweats, never looks anything less than editorial-spread perfect, even in a paddock crawling with cameras. It’s infuriating.

“Don’t encourage him,” Minghao says, eyes flicking to Seokmin. Then, to Mingyu: “You’re jittery.”

“I’m not jittery,” Mingyu protests, immediately aware that only jittery people insist they’re not. “I’m focused.”

Minghao takes a long sip, unimpressed. “You’re vibrating like a phone on silent.”

Seokmin nearly chokes on his laugh. “Oh my god, he is,” he cackles. “Someone put him in airplane mode before quali.”

Mingyu glares, but it’s half-hearted. This is how it always goes: Seokmin heckles, Minghao observes, Mingyu suffers. He can’t even complain, because the truth is he likes it. Likes that they’re here, together, even in rival colors. Likes that Monza isn’t just a track, it’s their track. The place where they were kids with bad haircuts and bigger dreams, trying to convince each other they’d all make it here someday.

And look at them now. Williams, McLaren, Mercedes. Not bad for three idiots who once got kicked out of a karting facility for trying to draft a security golf cart.

Seokmin slings an arm around Mingyu’s shoulders, nearly knocking his cap off. “Don’t overthink it, Gyu,” Seokmin says cheerfully. “Just drive like hell. If you don’t win, you’re only letting down half of Italy.”

“Comforting,” Mingyu deadpans.

Minghao’s mouth quirks. “Don’t listen to him. Just remember what we said when we were fifteen.”

Mingyu remembers. He remembers vividly. Sitting on cheap plastic seats, knees knocking together, promising each other they’d one day not just watch, but race. That they’d carry each other through, no matter where the grid scattered them.

“Win or lose,” Mingyu muses, “we always meet back here.”

Seokmin nods, unusually serious for a moment. Minghao just sips his drink, but his eyes soften.

Seokmin ruins it, as expected. “Cool. So when I beat you both, I can expect dinner Il Moro, yeah?”

Mingyu groans. Minghao sighs. Just like that, the moment dissolves back into chaos—the only way it ever really works with the three of them.

Still, as Mingyu turns back toward the track, he feels steadier. Ready. Because Monza isn’t just special. It’s home. This time, he’s not just the kid in the stands; he’s the one behind the wheel.

Qualifying at Monza is always chaos disguised as order, though. The track is so fast, so unforgiving, that one slipstream too many or one lock-up at Variante della Roggia can drop you down five places before you can blink. Mingyu knows this. He’s lived this. Still, it doesn’t stop his pulse from thundering when he’s released from the garage, when Williams sends him out into the blur of red, silver, orange, blue.

Minghao is clinical. His laps are precise, as if he’s painting with a ruler. Every apex kissed, every braking point exact. It’s maddening how effortless he makes it look, as if he’s just taking his Mercedes out for a polite Sunday stroll at 350 km/h.

Seokmin is chaos in motion. The rocketship of a McLaren twitches under him, but he wrangles it with surprising grace. Somehow, it works. He’s fastest through Sector 2, the radio full of his whoops and laughter. By the time Q3 ends, he’s snatched pole, punching the air with that face-splitting grin.

Mingyu? He lands a respectable P7. Solid. Reliable. The kind of position that makes engineers nod approvingly but doesn’t earn headlines. He knows it’s good work. He knows Williams is stronger than it’s been in years, that the upgrades are sticking, that the car beneath him is finally something more than a stubborn mule in corporate livery. But when he hears the crowd roaring for Seokmin’s orange car or sees Minghao’s name perched neatly in P2, it’s hard not to feel like the supporting character in someone else’s movie.

On his cooldown lap, the adrenaline settles into something softer. He loosens his grip on the wheel, lets the Monza trees blur past. It’s hard not to think back. To the hell that was Red Bull, to the brutal climb up the junior ladder, to the endless conversations about potential and promise. He’s spent years carrying Williams through development, pulling every scrap of performance out of machinery that didn’t always want to cooperate. Now he’s here, at the sharp end of a new chapter, finally with a car that might fight.

But still. No podium. Not yet.

He watches Seokmin celebrate over the radio, hears Minghao’s cool acknowledgment of his front-row start. Mingyu smiles, even laughs, but inside he tucks the thought away like a folded note: I’ll get there, too.

Because Monza raised him. Monza taught him how to dream. And tomorrow, maybe, it’ll teach him how to stand where he’s always wanted. Up high, champagne in hand, finally shoulder to shoulder with the friends who’ve always believed he could.

Mingyu finds his way to the decisively unglamorous Williams motorhome. It’s not much compared to the chrome-and-marble lounges that Ferrari or Red Bull roll out every weekend, but it’s comfortable in its own way. Blue accents, warm lighting, coffee machines that don’t sputter half the time anymore. Progress.

Joshua Hong sits at one of the tables, helmet still under his arm like he doesn’t quite trust leaving it anywhere else. Old habits from Ferrari, maybe. Back when every move was photographed, every angle scrutinized. He’s scrolling through data on a tablet, lips pressed into a thin, disappointed line. He’d qualified P13. 

Mingyu drops into the seat across from him with all the subtlety of a collapsing deck chair. “You know, staring at telemetry won’t make the car magically faster,” he says delicately. 

Joshua looks up, startled, then huffs a laugh. “Worth a shot.”

Mingyu leans back, folding his arms behind his head. “First Monza with Williams. How’s it feel? Culture shock?”

Joshua considers it, then shrugs. “It’s… different,” he settles. “Ferrari had twenty people fussing over every button I touched. Here, I feel like I’m supposed to make my own coffee.”

“You are supposed to make your own coffee,” Mingyu says, grinning. “It’s character building.”

That earns him a real laugh. Joshua shakes his head. “I’m still adjusting, I guess,” he confides. “The car handles fine, but it’s not what I’m used to. You’ve been here longer, and you make it look easier than it is.”

Mingyu tries not to preen at that. Instead, he tips forward, conspiratorial. “Here’s the trick. Don’t fight the car too much. It’s stubborn. Think of it like… a cat. If you force it, it’ll scratch. If you coax it, it’ll cooperate just enough to get the job done.”

“So you’re saying I should… seduce the car?”

“Maybe buy it dinner first.” 

They both laugh, and the tension in Joshua’s shoulders loosens by a fraction. He taps a note into the tablet, still smiling. “Honestly, thanks. It’s not easy, but at least I’ve got you.”

Mingyu blinks, surprised by the sincerity tucked under the joke. He clears his throat, pretending to study the ceiling. “Well, don’t make it sound like we’re married. You’ll give the engineers ideas.”

“Relax,” huffs Joshua. “You’re not my type.”

“Rude,” Mingyu says, clutching his chest in mock offense. 

But inside, he’s relieved. Relieved that Joshua isn’t bitter, isn’t distant, that the shadow of Ferrari hasn’t made him impossible to reach. Joshua’d made a pretty good case for himself in Maranello red, but then seven-time World Champion Yoon Jeonghan wanted to make a move from Mercedes. It’s the kind of thing you can’t even be mad about, the type of demotion you take with a clenched jaw and a prayer for redemption. 

Williams isn’t Ferrari. It never will be. But maybe, with Mingyu and Joshua, it can still be something worth building.

“Come on,” Mingyu says, pushing to his feet. “I’ll show you where they hide the good snacks.”

Joshua follows, grinning now, and for the first time all weekend Mingyu feels like they’re not just two drivers shoved together by circumstance. They’re teammates. Maybe even friends. And at Williams, that might just be the secret weapon.

Unfortunately, their snack run is cut short. Williams has decided it’s ‘content time.’ Which, in practice, means Mingyu and Joshua are herded into a corner of the motorhome that’s been dressed up with two folding chairs, a blue backdrop, and more ring lights than anyone needs outside a K-pop audition.

Joshua takes it in stride. Professional smile, easy banter with the social media coordinator. Mingyu, on the other hand, is already zoning out. He knows the routine: intro clip, thumbs up, some scripted lines about teamwork and strategy, maybe a ‘who’s taller’ joke if the intern behind the camera is feeling spicy. His brain is already skipping ahead to tomorrow. The race. Monza at full tilt, the slipstreams, the strategies, the chaos waiting to happen.

He half-listens as the briefing drones on. Celebrities expected in the paddock tomorrow. So-and-so, actor. Someone else, pop star. And then.

Your name.

It snags his attention for half a second, the way an unexpected chord does in the middle of a song. Vague recognition thrums at the back of his mind. You’re an influencer, he thinks. He follows you, though he doesn’t remember when he clicked the button. Late-night scroll, probably. He remembers flashes: a vlog with neon signs in Tokyo, a clip of you spilling iced coffee and laughing at yourself, a carousel post full of designer clothing. 

The memory is fuzzy but oddly warm, like a light left on in another room. Mingyu almost lingers on it. Almost.

Then the coordinator claps their hands and announces, “Okay, Joshua first, then Mingyu. Quickfire questions, then predictions for quali and race.”

And just like that, the thought is shelved. Mingyu sits up, shakes the static from his head, and focuses back on what matters: data, pace, tire strategy. Tomorrow is Monza, and Monza doesn’t leave space for distractions—even ones with familiar names and half-remembered smiles on a glowing phone screen.

Come Sunday, the excitement is at a fever pitch. Race day at Monza is a circus, and Mingyu is one of the trained performers.

The morning starts with the usual noise: fans pressed against barriers, chanting names, waving flags. Reporters circle like seagulls over fries, microphones shoved forward in case anyone slips and says something headline-worthy. The Williams garage is a hive. Mechanics shouting tire pressures, engineers glued to monitors, Joshua humming nervously as he tapes up his gloves. Somewhere in the paddock, Seokmin is almost certainly mugging for a camera. Somewhere else, Minghao is almost certainly pretending the cameras don’t exist.

Mingyu goes through his rituals. Left glove first, always. Then right. A tug on each strap to make sure they’re snug. He taps his helmet twice against his knee before handing it to his mechanic. 

Sips water. Sways side to side on his feet like he’s already negotiating Ascari. He jokes when someone asks if he’s nervous. “Nervous? I only panic recreationally.” The laughter helps. 

Then comes the walk to the grid. The roar grows louder, a wall of sound built from engines and announcers and tifosi who’d probably sell their souls for a Ferrari win. Mingyu does the usual handshakes, the usual half-hearted smiles for the cameras. His mind is already moving faster than his feet, lap one unfolding in his head like a storyboard.

The moment his helmet clicks into place, the world changes. The chaos of Monza mutes, as if someone turned the volume knob down to zero. The crowd is still there, the cameras still there, Joshua still fiddling with his steering wheel somewhere in the garage. But to Mingyu, it’s silence. Pure, focused silence.

He slides into the cockpit, straps pulled tight across his chest, the car cocooning him. His visor lowers. His breath echoes back at him, steady, rhythmic. The grid fades to shapes, colors, blurred edges at the periphery of vision. All that’s left is the straight ahead—the red lights waiting to tell him when to leap.

Formation lap. Heat in the tires, brakes biting, the car alive under him. He lines up in P7, nose angled toward possibility. The lights blink on, one by one.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

For a second, nothing exists but his heartbeat.

Then the lights vanish, the world snaps back to deafening, and Mingyu launches. The car surges forward like it’s been waiting its whole life for this one second, and Monza opens wide in front of him.

Monza doesn’t give you time to breathe. Not really. Not when you’re thundering into Turn 1 at 300 km/h with six other cars fighting for the same square of asphalt. Mingyu knows this, braces for it, and still winces as two cars brush wheels in front of him. He darts left, gains one position, loses another. Net zero. Typical Williams arithmetic.

The first laps are pure survival. The car is twitchy in the chicanes, eager to understeer as if it has personal beef with his front tires. “Front end’s gone, it’s like driving a shopping cart,” he snaps into the radio. 

There’s a pause, then his engineer’s calm voice: “Copy, Mingyu. Balance noted.”

He knows they’re used to it by now. He’s affable in the paddock. Always smiling, quick with a joke, the guy who helps rookies find the good coffee machine. But in the car? On the radio? He’s a menace. His friends tease him about it constantly. Gentle giant until you put him in a helmet, then he’s Gordon Ramsay with downforce.

“Why did we pit that early?!” he barks twenty laps later when he’s spat out into traffic. “I’m boxed in by two Alpines who think this is a fu—damn carpool lane!”

“Understood, Mingyu. Let’s keep pushing.”

He groans, but there’s no time to sulk. Ahead, Seokmin is dancing in clean air at the front, Minghao lurking just behind. Mingyu feels the gap between them and himself like a physical ache. They’re fighting for podiums. He’s fighting his steering wheel just to keep the car pointing straight.

He keeps going. He wrestles the Williams through Ascari, feathering the throttle. He throws it into Parabolica with more hope than grip, muttering prayers to the racing gods and a few curses for good measure. Every lap is a scrap, every sector a negotiation.

The radio crackles. “Good work, Mingyu. Lap time’s improving. Keep this pace.”

He exhales, a humorless laugh catching in his throat. “Tell the car that.”

It’s not glamorous. It’s not heroic. But it’s racing. And when the laps tick down and the flag finally waves, Mingyu drags the car across the line. Bruised ego, tired arms, and all. Not a podium, not a headline. Points, still. Points for Williams after spending years hoping for the bare minimum of a finish. 

The checkered flag waves, and Mingyu exhales so hard it fogs the inside of his visor. His arms ache, his neck feels like it’s been wrung out, and the Williams under him is radiating the heat of a dying sun. But the timing screen doesn’t lie: P5. 10 points for Williams. Practically a love letter written in neon.

The radio crackles alive with static. “Mega job, Gyu! That’s P5!”

Mingyu decides he’ll take it. Helmet bobbing against the headrest, he radios back, “Alrighttt, baby!”

“Way to make your girlfriend proud, mate.”

“…Thanks, gu—my what?”

The radio goes suspiciously quiet. No laughter, no explanation, only the faint hiss of white noise. He waits. One beat. Two. Nothing. Mingyu narrows his eyes inside the helmet, muttering, “Yeah, real funny, guys.” 

He imagines the garage choking back laughter, everyone pretending to busy themselves with tire blankets and telemetry screens while actually waiting for the inevitable post-race interrogation.

Still, as he slows the car on the cooldown lap, weaving to wave at the fans, he can’t shake the question. Girlfriend? He’d remember if he had one. He thinks. Probably.

Classic Williams. Work him to the bone, then leave him with a riddle to chew on all night. He can already hear Seokmin and Minghao cackling about it over dinner.

But for now, he allows himself the satisfaction: P5 at Monza. A win in its own way.

Mingyu, sweat-streaked but still buzzing from the race, tugs his fireproof top straighter as he slides into the mixed zone. but P5 has him smiling like he’s just won the whole championship, as he walks into the pen. Fluorescent lights, elbowing journalists, and the faint whiff of rubber baked into the asphalt.

“Great drive today, Mingyu,” someone from Sky Sports barks out. “How did it feel out there?”

He leans closer to the mic, conspiratorial. “Like wrestling a bull on roller skates. But hey, we stayed on track, didn’t explode, and crossed the line in one piece. That’s what we call progress.”

A few chuckles ripple out. He answers questions easily: strategy calls, tire management, how much water he thinks he sweated out. (“About three liters, minimum. I’m basically jerky now.”)

Then a reporter tilts her head, squinting at her notes. “And Mingyu, about the broadcast—?”

“What about it?” 

“Well, it was one hell of a hard launch, wasn’t it?”

Mingyu’s face contorts into polite confusion, like someone who’s been told the ending of a movie he hasn’t seen yet. He opens his mouth to explain—though what exactly, he’s not sure—but before he can string together a defense, his PR handler materializes at his elbow, all professional smiles and efficient steering. “Thanks so much, we have to move on. Next interview, sorry!”

Mingyu is herded away mid-protest, eyebrows climbing up his forehead. “Wait, broadcast? What broadcast? I didn’t even—” His words are swallowed by the crowd as another mic is shoved in front of him.

It takes hours for Mingyu to finally piece it together. By the time he’s showered, debriefed, and shoved into fresh Williams merch, the adrenaline has faded to something heavy in his bones. Only when he’s slouched in the back of the team van, scrolling his phone, does the mystery crack open.

His notifications are a war zone: Seokmin’s texts in all caps (“LMAOOOOO BRO UR FINISHED”), Minghao’s in his trademark straightforwardness (“bold of you not to hide from us”), and about a dozen unread group chat messages with the kind of creative memes that can only be weaponized by friends who know your weaknesses.

Mingyu squints, thumb hovering over the link Seokmin has sent. A screen recording, clipped from the F1 TV broadcast. He taps it open.

The screen cuts to the Williams garage, right after his near-spin-save, the crowd roaring like it’s a goal at the World Cup. Then the camera finds… you.

Mingyu, against his better judgment, has to admit the broadcast director has taste. The lens loves you. He privately does, too, for about half a second. The easy way you smile, the spark of expression that makes the whole shot hum. 

But then his gaze slides to the graphic at the bottom of the screen, and his soul leaves his body. There’s your name, and then the designation.

Social Media Influencer, Partner of Kim Mingyu.

Partner. As in…? 

He doesn’t even know you.

He stares at the tag so hard he’s convinced he’ll find a typo hidden inside. Nothing. Just his name, clean as day, tethered to yours. His stomach does a neat little nosedive. He scrolls back, replays it once, twice, three times, like maybe on the fourth it’ll magically change to something less career-ruining. No luck.

Another message pings in from Seokmin: a string of wedding emojis. Minghao simply adds: “congrats.”

Mingyu slumps further into the seat, phone pressed to his forehead.

The video conference feels less like a meeting and more like a trial. Mingyu sits in his apartment with hair still damp from the shower, clutching a mug of coffee like it’s a legal defense. On his screen: Williams PR, looking like they haven’t smiled since the V6 era, and you. An innocent bystander dragged into the mess, appearing far too composed for someone accused of having a secret relationship with him.

God, Mingyu thinks, unfair. 

Even pixelated through mediocre Wi-Fi, you look good. Distractingly good. How is it possible to look camera-ready in a Zoom call? He looks like a raccoon caught stealing snacks, and you look like a magazine spread.

“Let’s run this again,” one of the PR managers says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Are you or are you not in a relationship with Kim Mingyu?”

You sigh, hands raised in a calm denial. “We’re not,” you say, and your voice is pitched just a touch differently from whatever tone you use for filming content. It fascinates Mingyu. “We’ve never even spoken before this.”

Mingyu nods enthusiastically. “True. I’d remember if we had.” Then, realizing how that sounds, he backpedals. “Not because you’re forgettable. You’re, uh—very memorable. Obviously. Just—” He clears his throat. “Point is, this is our first conversation.”

Your brows lift, amused despite the situation. “Thanks, I think?”

PR is unamused. “This isn’t a joke,” they insist. “The broadcast explicitly tagged you as Mingyu’s partner. The narrative is running wild. We need clarity.”

Mingyu leans toward the webcam, adopting his most trustworthy expression. Unfortunately, makes him look like he’s about to confess on a reality dating show. “We’re telling the truth,” he retorts. “No secret relationship. No scandal. Just a very confused driver and a very unlucky influencer.”

“And you’re certain?” PR presses.

“Yes,” you say firmly. “Absolutely.”

“Yes,” Mingyu echoes. Then, almost reflexively, “Although—I mean, hypothetically, if there were ever a relationship, we’d probably be, you know, supportive of each other’s careers. That’d be nice. Not that this is that. Because it isn’t.”

PR stares. You try not to laugh. Mingyu wants to sink through the floor but can’t help sneaking another glance at you, wondering if the meeting could possibly end with something besides his professional funeral.

The Zoom call sputters to an end not long after. PR smiling too tight, lawyers muttering about statements, and Mingyu signing off with a half-wave. The second his laptop screen goes black, his brain decides to betray him. Naturally, the first thing he does is type your name into Instagram.

He tells himself it’s just curiosity. Research. Due diligence. Absolutely not stalking. Except, two scrolls in, he’s already leaning back in his chair, eyebrows climbing as your follower count glares at him: 512,000. Half a million, he thinks to himself. That’s… several Monzas full of people. Great.

He knew you did commentary on motorsport—he’s seen your posts, the ones that float onto his Explore page between dog memes and teammate thirst edits—but it turns out you have a whole empire attached. There’s a makeup brand. Campaign shots. Tutorials with numbers in the six digits. Mingyu taps one absentmindedly and is immediately greeted with perfect lighting, perfect editing, and perfect you.

What really makes him grin is when he stumbles across a clip with a familiar face: James Vowles, the Williams team principal, standing awkwardly in front of a camera while you shove a mic toward him. “James, be honest,” you say, “what’s harder, running an F1 team or trying to blend liquid eyeliner in under three minutes?”

James blinks like a deer in headlights. “…The eyeliner?”

“Correct,” you chirp, before turning back to the camera. “That’s why he runs the cars and I run the tutorials.”

The video cuts with James chuckling, clearly defeated, and Mingyu can’t stop the bark of laughter that escapes him. 

Mingyu doesn’t mean to fall down the rabbit hole, but that’s exactly what happens. One video turns into five, five turns into twenty, and suddenly he’s a full-blown archeologist digging through the ruins of your Instagram.

There you are with F2 drivers, teasing them mid-interview until they’re blushing like schoolboys. There you are at an IndyCar paddock, chatting with a team principal as if he’s your next-door neighbor borrowing sugar. Mingyu leans closer to the screen with every swipe, eyes darting between your captions and the way you laugh, quick and clever, always a beat faster than whoever’s in front of you. He finds himself grinning at his phone like an idiot. 

The hours slip away without him noticing, the digital equivalent of quicksand. His thumb keeps scrolling even though his brain is half-asleep, his body heavy in his bed. Then—there it is. A photo buried deep in your feed, posted more than three years ago. Younger you, hair a little messy, no glam team in sight, standing high in the Monza nosebleeds with a grin that threatens to split your face in two. The caption is nothing but a string of exclamation points and a blurry shot of cars in the distance.

Looks like he isn’t the only one who’d dreamt of Monza.

Mingyu stares at it, soft amusement tugging at his mouth. He barely registers the way his thumb hovers, then double taps. A small heart flashes red before his phone slips in his hand, the screen dimming. The last thing he knows before sleep drags him under is your wide smile from the grandstands. Bright, unpolished, impossible not to look at. 

Somewhere in the background, the quiet horror of having just liked a three-year-old photo waits for him in the morning.

The thing is, Mingyu doesn’t notice right away. Why would he? He sleeps like a log, wakes up like one too, and the only thing on his mind is coffee and cardio. So there he is, dutifully jogging on the treadmill, earbuds in, pretending this is about fitness and not an excuse to outrun his anxiety, when TikTok does what TikTok does best: ruin his life.

The video pops up innocently enough. Caption in neon text: “Did Mingyu just soft-launch a girlfriend???” A voiceover kicks in, suspiciously gleeful. “So, Mingyu liked this three-year-old photo of our favorite influencer—yes, three years old, folks—and here’s the proof.” 

Cue screenshot. Cue zoom. Cue circle around his username.

Mingyu’s foot falters. His treadmill betrays him. One mistimed step, and suddenly he’s half-tripping, half-flailing, clutching for balance. His earbuds yank out with the violence of divine punishment.

A man of precision on track, publicly defeated by a treadmill and a phantom like. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Mingyu swears they’re multiplying—these PR meetings. Same conference room, same slideshow clicker, same headache. This week it’s Baku, and instead of tire strategy or track notes, the PowerPoint behind the comms team might as well be titled How to Manage Your Totally Real, Definitely Not Imaginary Girlfriend.

He sits there, arms crossed, pouting like someone stole his dessert. He’s already said it a hundred times: you’re not dating. Apparently, the Internet has spoken, and the Internet doesn’t exactly care about facts.

“We just need to be clear in messaging,” one PR manager says, pointing at a bullet point that reads Keep It Vague.

“Vague?” Mingyu repeats, voice pitching with incredulity. “What’s vague about ‘I don’t know her’?”

Someone else sighs, like he’s the problem child. “It’s not about accuracy, Mingyu. It’s about optics. If you push too hard, it looks defensive. Defensive looks guilty.”

“So now I’m guilty of… not dating someone?” He leans forward, gesturing wildly. “You hear how that sounds, right?”

The silence that follows suggests yes, they hear it. No, they don’t care.

Mingyu slumps back in his chair. He’s all out of exasperated arguments. The PR team drones on about narratives and fan sentiment graphs, but it washes over him. Water on a duck’s back. Finally, he just sighs, mutters something noncommittal, and waves a hand. Fine. Believe what you want.

By the end of the hour, his pout has calcified into resignation. If the whole world wants him in a relationship he doesn’t have, he’s not going to win the argument today. He gathers his things, ducks out before someone can hand him another bullet-pointed nightmare, and calls it a draw. For now.

Mingyu swears he’s not thinking about you. Not at all. Not when he’s reviewing track notes, not when he’s staring down the tight castle section in Baku. He’s perfectly disciplined, focused, and absolutely not distracted by someone with sharp wit and a suspiciously radiant Zoom camera presence. Nope. Not him.

Until the morning of qualifying, that is.

Instagram stories. A quick scroll, nothing serious, until there you are, framed in blurry orange and papaya. A McLaren paddock pass swinging around your neck like a guillotine blade pointed at Mingyu’s sanity. He stares, brows furrowing with something suspiciously close to betrayal.

Of course it’s McLaren. Of course they’d play the long game. If Williams accidentally branded you his partner, McLaren’s apparently out here auditioning you for the role.

He tells himself to let it go. To focus on the race. To be a professional. Instead, he’s suddenly opening his DMs, staring at your name in the chat box. His thumbs hover. He types. Hi.

Deletes.

Types again. Wow!!!

Deletes harder.

What does one even say? ‘Hey, didn’t know you were in town, hope papaya orange brings out your eyes’? ‘Cool pass, traitor’? ‘Please stop looking this good while I’m trying to not die in a street circuit’? Every attempt looks ridiculous the second it leaves his brain.

With the resignation of a man already defeated, he sets the phone down. He’s done. He’s above this. He’s a professional athlete, not some lovesick fanboy—

He picks the phone back up. One more try. Just one. He thumbs in the lamest reply in human history, something so bare-bones he can feel his ancestors shaking their heads at him: Nice lanyard lol.

He means to delete it. He means to backspace, to retreat into silence, to salvage dignity.

But his thumb betrays him a second time.

Sent.

A beat.

Delivered changes to Seen. 

Every vein in Mingyu’s body goes cold-hot-cold. You’ve seen it. The lamest message in the known universe. No time to unsend, no room for excuses. It’s done. He’s doomed.

Baku may be a monster, but nothing terrifies him more than waiting for your reply.

Mingyu stares at his phone like it’s a bomb he accidentally armed. He’s mentally drafting an apology tour when the notification banner pops up.

|   yourusername: thanks. it’s from mclaren, though. 

Okay. Professional. Polite. Mingyu exhales, shoulders sagging, and immediately thumbs out a reply. 

|   min6yu_k: Knew that. Was just testing you. 

There’s a pause, long enough that he wonders if you’ve muted him forever, but then another bubble appears. 

|   yourusername: u’re terrible at tests, kim.

He grins despite himself, typing fast.

|   min6yu_k: That’s fair. In my defense, I don’t usually text mid–Grand Prix scandal.

|   yourusername: a scandal you created by liking a post from 2021?? 🤨

Mingyu winces, caught red-handed. He considers doubling down, then decides self-deprecation is safer.

|   min6yu_k: Guilty

|   min6yu_k: Sorry about all of it, by the way. I didn’t mean to drag you into weird rumor mill territory.

This time, your response comes quicker. The words are still measured, but there’s a softening he can almost hear.

|   yourusername: it’s fine lol. not like you paid f1tv to do it or anything 

|   yourusername: just wasn’t expecting to wake up with people tagging me as ‘f1 wag of the year’

Mingyu laughs out loud, loud enough that his trainer shoots him a look. He taps back:

|   min6yu_k: Honestly, you deserve the award just for surviving that Zoom call.

Your reply takes longer this time, but it’s worth the wait.

|   yourusername: don’t get used to it. m not doing another emergency pr summit with u

|   min6yu_k: Noted. One PR trauma bonding session only 👍

The typing dots linger for a moment, then vanish. Finally:

|   yourusername: anw no promises about seeing u around the paddock 

|   yourusername: but good luck in quali 🍀

The words land softer than he expects. A pat on the back he didn’t know he needed. Mingyu reads them three times before tucking his phone away.

He qualifies P4. He’s not saying it’s because of you, but he’s also not saying it isn’t.

Qualifying P4 feels like the kind of small miracle that makes you think maybe all the treadmill trips, the PR scoldings, and the humiliating Instagram accidents were worth it. But Sunday has teeth. By lap twenty, Mingyu’s strapped into a seat that might as well be a bull ride with branding. The car is twitchy, the balance gone, and his voice is chewing through radio static.

“Why am I losing power out of turn two?!” he barks.

Pit wall comes back too calm for his liking. “Telemetry shows everything is stable, Mingyu. Keep managing.”

“Stable? Stable?! I’m wrestling a washing machine on rollerblades, how is that stable?”

He gets silence. The kind of silence that says we don’t know either, please don’t crash. By lap forty, his jaw is locked, shoulders aching, and he’s screaming again. “This thing is undriveable! Brakes are gone, rear won’t hold! Do you want me to park it or what?”

“Negative, keep pushing.”

He pushes. All the way down the order until the flag waves and the numbers slap him in the face: P16. From the high of P4 to this. A freefall with no parachute. He sits in the cockpit longer than he should, helmet pressed against the wheel, before finally peeling himself out.

The paddock microphones descend like vultures. One of them doesn’t even start with a question about the car. “Mingyu, fans noticed your girlfriend was seen wearing McLaren colors today. Any comments on that?”

His jaw ticks so hard it could crack. Sweat’s still streaking down his temple when he levels them with a stare sharp enough to cut wire. “Next question.”

Another tries again, reshuffling words but not intent. Mingyu’s answer doesn’t change. This time, colder: “Ask about the race or don’t ask at all.”

There’s always background noise in the paddock. Engines, chatter, cameras clicking. Right now all he hears is the roar of blood in his ears, louder than any crowd. P16, and apparently, he still can’t shake you from the headlines.

Mingyu does what he always does after a race gone sideways: he disappears. Not Houdini-level, but close. Sunglasses, cap pulled low, hoodie large enough to smuggle an entire pit crew under. He walks through the Old City, trying very hard not to look like someone who just drove an F1 car into the ground and then got roasted on live television.

The Old City is perfect for this. Stone walls, narrow alleys, that golden glow of lamplight softening even the sharpest edges of his mood. He likes it here. Always has. There’s something about Baku at night that feels like the world is willing to forgive him, at least for a few blocks.

Which is exactly when he rounds a corner and nearly collides with you.

Of course. Of course.

You blink, step back, and immediately clock the situation. “Right,” you say lightly, hands going up in mock surrender. “I’m guessing you don’t want company right now.”

Mingyu could laugh if it didn’t sting a little. You’re not pitying, and that almost makes it worse. Pity, he can swat away. This gentle assumption that he needs space? That’s harder to argue against. His throat goes tight, but he manages a faint grin from under the brim of his cap.

“Depends,” he says. “Do you count as company or cosmic punishment?”

Your smile tilts, not unkind, and you shake your head. “I’ll take that as my cue. Good night, Mingyu.”

You step past him, and he lets you, every nerve screaming to ask you to stay. To hang around. To just talk about anything that isn’t tire degradation or whether P16 is a character flaw. He swallows it down, watching your figure fade into the lamplight until he’s left alone with his disguise, his hoodie, and the city that always seems to know when he needs to hide.

Mingyu tells himself it’s fine. People bump into each other in crowded old towns all the time. One awkward encounter doesn’t mean anything.

Then he sees you again twenty minutes later, bent over a display of silver bangles at a stall, the shopkeeper coaxing you into trying one on. He’s half tempted to call it a simulation glitch.

By the third run-in—this time at a clothes shop where you’re holding up a linen shirt to the light—Mingyu is actively bargaining with the universe. Once is a coincidence. Twice is… funny. Three times? That’s fate with a capital F. Someone’s writing this, and Mingyu is the unwilling protagonist.

He ducks into a little restaurant tucked against the curve of the city wall, hoping for anonymity, peace, maybe a plate of kebab big enough to eat his feelings. Instead, the hostess leads him straight to a table—and there you are again. 

Not at his table, mercifully, but at the one directly across, angled perfectly so the two of you sit like some deranged parody of a date. Mingyu covers his mouth with a hand like he’s trying not to laugh at the world’s dumbest punchline. You catch his eye just long enough to arch a brow, equal parts really? and don’t even start.

Dinner becomes an Olympic-level charade. He stares at the menu too hard. You sip your drink with the exaggerated grace of someone being watched, which, to be fair, you are. Whenever your gazes almost meet, you both snap your attention back to your plates like guilty schoolkids.

Some small joke you must have thought of on your own occurs to you, because you duck your head, shoulders shaking, and laugh into your meal. The sound is warm, unguarded, nothing to do with him. For the first time since the race, Mingyu feels something slip in his chest. His mouth tugs up, almost against his will, into a smile. 

Three days. That’s how long Mingyu gets to breathe before the next firestorm.

Barely seventy-two hours of pretending the Internet has moved on, and then PR summons him as if he’s a schoolboy headed for detention. Mingyu slumps into the conference room chair, hood still up from the drive over, and immediately they spin a laptop toward him.

The photo in question: Baku’s Old City, the kind of shot that belongs on a travel brochure. A jewelry stall gleams with silver chains and glassy trinkets. There’s Mingyu—hood pulled up, cap tugged so low it shadows half his face, but his height and frame basically scream yes, it’s him. His posture is a dead giveaway; he has never in his life managed to look inconspicuous. A few steps away, there you are. Not talking. Not even facing each other. Just existing in the same atmospheric frame. The Internet, of course, has already branded it confirmation. Hashtags piling up by the second. Think pieces forming. Fans congratulating themselves on being right all along.

“Really?” Mingyu squints at the screen. “This is the smoking gun? My back?”

“Your recognizable back,” one of the managers corrects, pinching the bridge of their nose like they’re suppressing a migraine. “Do you have any idea how quickly this is spreading?”

“Quicker than my car on Sunday,” Mingyu mutters, because sarcasm is the only weapon left in his arsenal. He’s barely armed, but it’s all he’s got.

The room doesn’t laugh. Of course it doesn’t. He’s talking to people who categorize memes as communication risks. They don’t have the range.

Mingyu tries, weakly, to defend himself. He explains you weren’t together, that you hadn’t even exchanged words, that coincidence is not the same thing as a relationship. He gestures with his hands, sprawling explanations across the table, hoping volume and dramatics might soften the edges of disbelief. It’s pointless. His PR team waves him off. They’re already drafting statements, debating whether to ignore or confront, arguing over hashtags that will inevitably backfire. One of them says ‘brand synergy’ with a straight face.

Mingyu sinks lower in his chair, jaw tight, cap brim nearly touching the table. He knows the drill by now. No matter what he says, the narrative’s already running laps without him. On the outside, he’s exasperated. On the inside, though, he’s quietly grateful.

Because if the vultures had gotten photos of those dinner tables, side by side in the Old City, chairs angled just so, him biting back laughter as you laughed into your meal—then that would’ve been ruined, dissected, cheapened into content. He can already imagine the captions: soft launch confirmed, same restaurant, same night, what more proof do you need?

But they don’t have that. All they have is his back in front of a jewelry stall, a sliver of coincidence blown into mythology. Which means he gets to keep the dinner. He gets to keep the sound of your laugh tugging his mouth into a smile. He gets to keep it as his, that moment. Untouched, unpolished. 

Mingyu resolves to keep his head down. Or at least he tries to, though it’s hard to look subtle when you’re six-foot-something and wearing a fireproof suit. The only thing louder than the Internet whispering about him is the uncooperative Williams underneath him.

Singapore: he retires, engine coughing out before he can even call it a night. America: he crosses the line dead last, gritting his teeth while the checkered flag waves like mock applause. PR tells him to keep smiling, but even he can’t fake cheer through the smell of burning rubber and disappointment.

It’s not all bad. Mexico: pit lane start, every commentator politely predicting doom. Mingyu claws his way up, lap after lap, until the scoreboard flashes him into the points. Las Vegas: the lights, the noise, the neon chaos, and the Williams wrestled to P6. For a moment, it almost feels like proof. Proof that he belongs here, proof that the fight is worth it.

He races, races, races. The weeks blur together: flights, hotels, meetings, helmets, grids. Always noise, always expectation.

In the gaps between, when the adrenaline fades and the world is still, he tries not to think of you. Not your giggle across a dinner table in Baku. Not the idea of you lingering at the edges of his story like some subplot he isn’t brave enough to read aloud.

He tells himself it’s better this way. That racing is enough. That winning—even scraps of it—is enough. But sometimes, when the garage finally empties and he’s the last one there, he catches himself staring at the shadows, half-expecting them to laugh the way you did.

The next time he actually sees you, it’s not in an ancient city or the dawn of the paddock. Instead, it’s a charity gala. One that’s not supposed to be a battlefield, but unspools like one anyway. The moment Mingyu spots you across the ballroom, every carefully rehearsed sponsor smile crash lands into nothingness. The chandelier above gleams, champagne flutes clink, and Mingyu’s standing there with a bow tie that suddenly feels three sizes too tight.

“Don’t look now,” Minghao murmurs, which is, of course, the universal sign to definitely look now. Seokmin cranes his neck shamelessly.

“Oh, she’s here,” hums Seokmin. “No wonder he looks like he just saw the light of God.”

“I do not look like that,” Mingyu mutters, but his ears betray him, turning a shade redder than the Ferrari livery he’s sworn to loathe.

Minghao raises his glass. “You’re short-circuiting.”

“Am not.”

Seokmin grins, cruel and delighted. “You’re buffering.”

Mingyu glares at both of them as if sheer willpower can keep his dignity from combusting. He risks one glance back, and there you are, catching his eye. For a beat, the whole room fades. The music, the chatter, the endless speeches. Just you, framed in soft golden light.

On instinct, Mingyu lifts a hand in a wave that feels ridiculously small for someone his size. It’s awkward, a little sheepish, but honest. When you acknowledge him with the faintest smile, a nod in return, it’s enough to reset his entire internal system. He’s still Mingyu—Williams’ exasperated problem child, PR’s recurring nightmare—but in that moment, he’s also just a boy shyly waving across the room.

For the rest of the night, Mingyu tells himself he’s not hovering. He’s not orbiting. He’s not casually re-aligning his path through the gala ballroom so that every champagne refill, every polite handshake, somehow puts him within fifteen meters of you. 

No. He’s just… navigating. Strategically. Like he does on track. Except instead of overtaking Boo Seungkwan, he’s dodging billionaires in tuxedos and trying to stay within your view.

Minghao notices first. “You’re circling,” he muses. “Very predator-and-prey of you, Kim.”

Seokmin grins. “More like a golden retriever lost in a sea of penguins.”

Heat creeps up Mingyu’s neck. He ignores his friends, throwing a suppositious glance towards where you are, laughing at something someone’s just said, light catching the edge of your glass. He short circuits all over again.

By the time he finally intercepts your orbit, you beat him to the punch. “You know,” you say, eyebrow raised, “for someone the Internet keeps calling my boyfriend, you’re surprisingly bad at just coming over to talk.”

Mingyu groans, half-burying his face in his hand, but laughter spills through his fingers. “Unbelievable. Even you?”

“Even me,” you confirm, smile tilting into smirk territory.

“Great. Fantastic. Love that my fake relationship is just as good at roasting me as my real friends.”

“Maybe you should work on your approach,” you suggest, tilting your head.

“Oh, because sneaking up on you at a gala is already peak suave?” he shoots back, earning the smallest laugh from you—a sound he pockets instantly.

The two of you slip into small talk, the easy, low-stakes kind. Complaints about the too-fizzy champagne, mutual side-eyes at the overzealous photographers, gentle mockery of the violinist who’s going a little too hard on Vivaldi. Mingyu lets himself just stand there, conversation flowing between you, thinking maybe he doesn’t mind the world’s favorite rumor if it means he gets to hear you laugh again.

One of the photographers is relentless. Mingyu swears the guy has been circling like a shark all night, lens gleaming, waiting for the perfect strike. He and you have already dodged him twice. Once by pretending to be fascinated by the dessert table, another by Mingyu faking a very urgent bathroom trip. Now, cornered by the bar, there’s no escape route except straight through.

“Just one picture,” the man insists, camera half-raised. “For the fans. For the story.”

Mingyu shoots him a look that hopefully communicates: if you say ‘story’ one more time, I’ll actually combust. Out loud, he goes with: “We’re good, thanks.”

You’re already shaking your head, polite but firm. Still, the photographer doesn’t budge. He leans in, coaxing, pressing, eyes flicking between you and Mingyu as if you’re a headline just waiting to be printed. Mingyu sees it. That flicker of unease in your shoulders, the way your hand tightens around your clutch. You’re not pitying him, not annoyed—just uncomfortable. Which, for Mingyu, is more than enough incentive to do something.

He doesn’t think. He just acts. One hand lifts, finds the small of your back, rests there with enough certainty to draw a line in the sand. “We’re trying to stay lowkey tonight,” Mingyu says, tone calm but edged with finality. It’s the kind of voice that isn’t loud but leaves no room for argument.

The photographer hesitates, caught off-guard, before lowering his camera. Mingyu doesn’t wait for him to regroup. With a gentle but decisive pressure of his palm, he steers you away, guiding you back into the flow of the gala crowd.

Only once you’re safely out of range does Mingyu let out a breath and mutter, half-groan, half-laugh, “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but thank god for the world’s slowest string quartet.” He tilts his head toward the musicians in the corner, whose dirge-like tempo is the perfect cover for his quick exit.

You glance up at him, eyebrows raised, lips pursed into a thin line. He shrugs, hand hovering at your back for a beat longer  before he reluctantly pulls it away, conspiratorial grin slipping in. “What?” Mingyu says. “Every fake boyfriend has to earn his keep somehow.”

You don’t even need to speak before he feels the lecture coming. “You know you basically poured gasoline on the rumor mill just now, right? You could’ve left it alone, but no. You had to…” You gesture vaguely toward the part of your back where his hand had been seconds earlier. “That.”

Mingyu runs a hand down his face like he can physically wipe away the accusation. “What was I supposed to do? Just stand there? Watch you squirm while some guy shoved a camera in your face?” His voice pitches, equal parts exasperation and self-defense. “Come on, you looked uncomfortable.”

“I would’ve managed,” you say, chin tilting stubbornly.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t want you to ‘manage’,” Mingyu shoots back, his words clumsy but earnest. “I wanted you out of it. So I got you out of it.”

The two of you stand there, simmering in a disagreement that’s half bickering, half something else. Mingyu crosses his arms, jaw tight, but his mind races—conspiratorial, frustrated, and maybe just a little guilty because you’re not entirely wrong. He did fuel the rumors, didn’t he?

You sigh, breaking the stalemate. 

“Still.” Your voice softens, reluctant but sincere. “Thank you, I guess.”

That’s all it takes for Mingyu’s defenses to flicker. His shoulders drop a fraction. “You’re welcome,” he says, low. Then, because he can’t resist, he adds, “Next time, I’ll let the paparazzi have you. Just to balance the damn rumors.”

The Qatar desert sun leans heavy against the track, and Mingyu is sweating before he’s even in the car. The second-to-last race of the year, and he’s wound tight as suspension springs, desperate for a podium that keeps dangling out of. He doesn’t know why he feels this bone-deep need to prove himself—maybe to the team, maybe to the sport, maybe to himself. Maybe all three.

He tries to focus. He really does. Helmet on, mind narrowing to the thousand moving parts of a race. Brake points. Tire temps. Strategy calls. Don’t think. Don’t drift. Just lock in.

But there’s whispers in the garage, the kind of background chatter he’s learned to ignore. Except this one snags his ear like a hook. Something about you. About you being here. About Williams, of all teams, deciding they’d much rather have you floating in their hospitality suite than pretending they’ve still got control of their season. He’s not even sure it’s true, but the rumor curls through the air, and suddenly it’s in his bloodstream.

Mingyu pretends not to care. 

He pretends really, really hard. The flutter in his chest betrays him, tapping against his ribs like it’s got its own engine. He clamps down on it, tells himself it doesn’t matter, tells himself he’s got work to do. He’s here for the car, the laps, the fight. Nothing else.

Except—if you are here, somewhere in the paddock, he can’t help but wonder. 

Would you be watching him? Would you be laughing at Williams’ gallows humor, or would you be looking for him on track? He’s not sure which answer makes his heart race faster.

Helmet visor down, lights above flickering red. Mingyu tells himself he’s chasing a podium. Somewhere in the mess of adrenaline and nerves, he knows he’s chasing something else, too.

Mingyu qualifies P7, which is not bad considering the Williams spends half its time threatening to explode. He tells himself a podium is still in reach—if strategy plays nice, if the car behaves, if the gods of motorsport are in a generous mood. He’s clinging to optimism like it’s oxygen, and it almost feels convincing.

Joshua, later, is leaning against the pit wall with arms crossed. The two of them are trading notes on tire wear when Joshua tilts his chin toward the paddock and says, casual as ever, “Your girlfriend’s here.”

Mingyu blinks. “Excuse me?”

Joshua doesn’t even look up from the tablet. “Your girlfriend. Over there. By the garage.”

For a beat, Mingyu thinks it’s a joke, the usual ribbing. But then Joshua’s expression doesn’t change, doesn’t even twitch with irony. He’s dead serious. Which means Joshua doesn’t think he’s teasing. Joshua actually believes it.

Mingyu groans, head tilting back. “Oh my God. Not you too.”

“Too?” Joshua finally glances over, eyebrows raised. “So you’re not denying it?”

“I—Joshua.” Mingyu levels him with the most exhausted look he can muster. “We’ve talked, like… three times.”

Joshua shrugs, unbothered. “Looks like more than that.”

Mingyu mutters something unprintable under his breath, already feeling the weight of inevitable defeat. If even his own teammate has crossed over into the conspiracy camp, then resistance is futile.

Sighing in the tone of a man trudging toward his own execution, Mingyu straightens his cap and makes his way toward the garage. He catches sight of you just where Joshua said, sunlight catching against your profile. Despite himself—despite the sheer ridiculousness of it all—he feels that stupid flutter in his chest again.

He clears his throat. “Hey.” Pause. “Apparently I’m obligated to greet my… uh, girlfriend.”

The word hangs there, dry as dust, but his goofy grin betrays him.

You’re leaning against the garage railing when he arrives, Williams blue catching the lights just right. It makes your skin look luminous, your eyes brighter, your whole presence impossible to ignore. Your shirt hangs loose but sharp, tucked just so, sleeves rolled like you know exactly what you’re doing. Hair pulled back neat, a few strands escaping like they’re in on some private joke. To Mingyu, you look like the team’s best-kept secret and a fashion campaign rolled into one.

“P7,” you say in greeting. “Impressive. I heard your radio, though—are you sure half of that wasn’t just dramatic improv?”

Mingyu puts a hand to his chest, scandalized. “That was high-quality communication. Shakespearean, almost. I was painting a picture of the car’s suffering.”

“Mm. Sounded like a soap opera,” you reply, amused. “Very moving, though.”

He narrows his eyes at you, but his grin gives him away. “You know what’s really moving? How much better you look in Williams blue. It’s offensive, actually. You’re making the rest of us look underdressed.”

You laugh, batting him away, but the flush in your cheeks is there. Mingyu, pleased with himself, settles beside you. You’re mid-sentence about the car’s performance when the joke in your tone suddenly sharpens into conviction.

“It’s not hopeless, you know,” you say, leaning forward a little, eyes alight. You’re not even looking at him; you’re eyeing the FW47 car. “Williams has the aero figured out in theory. They just need to optimize the mechanical grip and manage tire degradation better. If they get that balance right, you could be fighting solid midfield every weekend. Maybe higher.”

Mingyu stares. 

You’re animated, passionate, talking with your hands like you’re sketching blueprints out of air. He catches the curve of your mouth, the fire in your words, the way your voice lingers on possibility. He’s so caught up in the sight that it takes you arching a brow for him to realize his mouth is hanging open.

“What?” you ask. “You’re gaping.”

“Uh—” Mingyu’s brain short-circuits, and before he can stop himself: “You’re hot.”

Silence. His eyes go wide. “Wait, no, I mean—you’re smart. And hot. But also smart. Like, terrifyingly smart—”

Your cheeks are crimson now, but you’re laughing through it, hiding your face in your hand. Mingyu groans into his palms, wanting to melt into the garage floor. Somehow, though, when he risks a glance, you’re still smiling at him.

That evening, his hotel room is blessedly quiet. No engineers running simulations, no PR managers breathing down his neck, no Joshua pestering him with unsolicited advice about hydration. Just him, the glow of his phone, and the exhaustion settling deep in his bones.

He’s halfway through convincing himself to sleep when his screen lights up with a message from Minghao. One link, no explanation. The cryptic efficiency of someone who knows exactly how to ruin his peace.

Mingyu taps it. Regrets it immediately.

A post from paddock photographer Kym Illman. A candid, crisp shot from the garage earlier: you in Williams blue, laughing so hard you’ve gone pink-cheeked. Mingyu is right beside you, caught mid-smile, teeth on full display. The picture is practically weaponized charm, the kind of thing PR dreams of and Mingyu personally dreads.

The caption reads, Mingyu and his partner sharing a light moment in the garage. Williams bringing more than just fresh energy this weekend.

Mingyu groans into his pillow. Partner. Partner! He’s losing the war, one pixel at a time. The entire Internet is now a scrapbook of moments he can’t explain, strung together into a narrative he never signed off on.

He should be annoyed. He should be typing some half-hearted denial to Minghao right now. Instead, his thumb hovers over the image, holding it just long enough for the save option to appear. Because the photo—well. It’s good. And he likes the way you look with laughter spilling out of you, the way he looks like someone worth laughing with.

A part of him hopes it’ll double as a good luck charm. Spoiler alert: Sundays care very little about luck. 

Starting at P7 isn’t bad, Mingyu tells himself. In fact, P7 is great. P7 is ‘you can claw your way to the podium if you don’t blink’ territory. He repeats this as he straps in, as he flicks through his steering wheel settings, as he forces his breath steady. Williams isn’t exactly giving him Excalibur here, but he can still fight with a butter knife if he swings hard enough.

For a while, it even looks possible. He’s hanging on, toe-to-toe in the midfield, saving his tires like he’s babysitting toddlers hopped up on sugar. He’s patient, disciplined, calculating. The radio crackles with encouragement: “Nice work, Gyu. Keep this pace, we’ll have options.”

Mingyu believes him—until strategy decides to do the Macarena in traffic.

“Box, box, box,” comes the call, too late for an undercut, too early for an overcut. He emerges behind a train of cars that are slower than dial-up internet, and his entire plan unravels. “

Why did we pit there?” Mingyu demands. “Whose idea was this?! Are we trying to set a Guinness World Record for Most Time Wasted?”

The pit wall gives the vague, corporate answer. Mingyu groans. Fine. Reset. He can still recover.

And then it rains.

Not much, at first. A drizzle, the kind that makes you question your windshield wipers. But here, on slicks, it’s Russian roulette. “Rain on Sector 2,” his engineer says. “Copy?”

“Copy,” Mingyu mutters, then immediately fishtails. “Never mind, un-copy.”

His rear steps out in a slow, cinematic spin. Tokyo Drift but with zero style points. He pirouettes once, twice, kisses the runoff. Somehow, he avoids the wall. “Car’s fine, car’s fine,” he says quickly, like he can ward off damage with words alone.

The problem is, he’s lost chunks of time. The car won’t grip. He’s skidding through corners like a toddler on rollerblades. The radio comes in: “Box for inters?”

Mingyu sighs. “Sure,” he grits out. “Let’s just throw darts at a board at this point.”

The inters don’t save him. The track dries faster than his patience. He’s hemorrhaging positions. Every lap is another cut. “We’re losing pace,” his engineer says wryly.

“Thank you for the breaking news,” Mingyu shoots back. “Next you’ll tell me water is wet.”

The final straw comes when he spins again. This time, a lazy half-turn that stalls him dead. He tries to rejoin, but the gearbox protests, the engine coughs, and the car gives up. A stubborn mule in carbon fiber. Yellow flag. Out. 

He rips off his wheel, slams it down. The radio captures the wreckage of his mood, the flare of his temper: “Unbelievable. I swear, this car fucking hates me. Every weekend, it’s like, ‘How do we ruin Mingyu’s life today?’ Well, congrats! You nailed it! Ten out of fucking ten!”

Silence on the other end. Even PR can’t spin this one.

When the marshals push his car away, Mingyu leans back in his seat, helmet hiding his expression. He should be furious. He is furious. But underneath it all, he’s just tired. Tired of chasing podiums that slip like soap through his fingers. Tired of trying to wrestle miracles out of machinery that won’t cooperate.

The post-race gauntlet is merciless. Mingyu peels himself out of the car like a man molting out of regret, and it only gets worse from there. Cameras swarm. Microphones appear. The interviewers all carry the same tone—pity dipped in professionalism—as they circle around the elephant in the paddock.

“Unfortunate race today, Mingyu. Talk us through the spin?”

Talk us through the spin. As if he doesn’t replay it on loop every time he blinks. He pastes on a smile that doesn’t reach anywhere near his eyes and offers up the same canned lines: “Yeah, tough one. Strategy didn’t play out, rain caught us off-guard, car was tricky to handle. Happens in racing.” 

He knows he sounds like a Wikipedia page of excuses, but it’s either that or full meltdown live on Sky Sports.

By the time he’s herded into the Williams garage for the debrief, his nerves are frayed down to threads. The engineers argue over telemetry, strategists snipe over rain calls, and Mingyu sits there, nodding, calculating how many laps it would’ve taken to at least limp into points.

The salt in the wound? Minghao and Seokmin, beaming on the podium screens. Another champagne spray. Another trophy kiss. Mingyu tells himself he’s happy for them. He tells himself a lot of things. Deep down, jealousy coils tight, acidic, like he’s been made to clap for someone else’s birthday party when it was supposed to be his.

When the meeting finally dissolves, he slips out, jaw tight, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. That’s when someone steps in his path. He doesn’t even clock who it is before snapping, sharp and venomous: “What now?”

And then he sees.

It’s you.

You blink at him, startled but not retreating, your brows quirking. Mingyu’s stomach plummets. Fantastic. Just brilliant. He’s spent weeks trying to convince you he’s not a complete disaster of a human being, and here he is, barking at you like a cornered dog.

His voice comes out too fast, too eager to undo the damage: “Wait, sorry—God, I didn’t know it was you. I thought—you know what, doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have snapped at all.”

You don’t make it easy for him. You don’t make it hard, either. You just… take a seat. Mingyu follows suit. Against the garage wall, it’s just you and him on two ancient, folding chairs. There’s no pity in your eyes, no lecture in your tone. He’s so grateful it nearly undoes him.

Silence stretches, the kind that crackles like static. He braces for something clinical—strategy notes, soft condolences. Instead, you tilt your head and ask, entirely out of nowhere: “What’s your favorite color?”

Mingyu blinks. Of all the questions—“My… favorite color?” 

He sounds like you just asked for his PIN number. “Uh. Red. No—blue. No—wait, not like Williams blue, more like… the sky when it’s just about to storm. That kind of blue.” He hears himself ramble, and it horrifies him for a beat. You’ve gone and messed it up, boy. 

You only hum, thoughtful. And then you don’t say anything else. The silence settles again, which is somehow worse. After about a full minute of silence, you smirk. “You know, customarily,” you say, “when someone asks you a question like that, you’re supposed to return the favor.”

He jolts, eyes widening. “Oh. Right. Yeah. Uh—what’s your favorite…” His brain does a lottery spin of topics—movie? food? pet names?—and somehow lands on, “Circuit. Yeah. What’s your favorite circuit?”

That gets you to light up, as if you’ve been waiting all day for someone to ask. You launch into a passionate spiel about technical corners and elevation changes, about how Suzuka is poetry in geometry. Mingyu listens, trying not to gape like a tourist at the Louvre, but he’s certain his mouth does fall open somewhere between ‘cornering’ and ‘apex.’

He  stares at you for a second longer than he should, caught between admiration and amusement. Then he almost-smiles. “See, I was expecting like… Monaco. Because pretty. But no, you’re out here giving me a TED Talk.”

“Sorry for having taste,” you say, mock-prim. “Alright, your turn again. Favorite meal?”

“Easy. Ramen. Any kind. Preferably the kind I don’t cook myself.”

You laugh. “Convenient. Okay—favorite childhood cartoon?”

He groans like this is torture. “Do you realize this could define how you see me forever? Fine. Pokémon. Basic, I know, but Growlithe was my guy.”

“Predictable. I would’ve pegged you for a Dragon Ball kid.”

“Oh, I was,” he says, pointing at you. “But you only said one. See? I have integrity.”

The back-and-forth continues, questions traded like contraband in a classroom: least favorite subject in school, dream vacation spot, worst haircut. With each answer, the weight on Mingyu’s shoulders eases. Somewhere between your exaggerated gasp at his confession of once owning frosted tips and his genuine interest in your love of late-night beach walks, he realizes he’s smiling without forcing it.

For once, post-race, he isn’t counting what he’s lost. He’s cataloguing these tiny answers instead, tucking them away for when they might someday matter. If that day were to ever come at all. 

Eventually, the night winds down, and reality starts tugging you back toward your own obligations. Mingyu catches the shift in your body language before you even say it. You stand, brushing invisible lint off your outfit, and tell him you should go.

“Already?” he asks, trying to sound casual, like this doesn’t gut him just a little. “No dramatic farewell speech?”

You laugh and lean down to give him a quick hug, perfunctory at best. It barely counts. It’s more like a polite tap of shoulders than anything else. Mingyu blinks. Stares. Then, with a blooming grin that’s both incredulous and shameless, he says, “You know, for someone who’s supposedly my girlfriend, you’re really underselling it.”

Your eyes sparkle, the corner of your mouth quirking upward. “Oh? You want a better one?”

Mingyu opens his mouth to reply, but it doesn’t matter. Suddenly, you’re wrapping your arms around him properly. Fully. No half-measures, no polite shoulder-tap. Warmth, pressed close enough to fry every neuron in his brain. He goes statue-still, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat. For a terrifying second, he thinks he might actually forget how to function.

Instinct finally kicks in, and he hugs you back. Tentative at first, then firmer, anchoring himself like you’re the only stable point in a world that keeps tilting sideways. He could get used to this. Too easily.

You shift, about to pull away, but his voice escapes before he can stop it. Softer than he means to, vulnerable in a way he almost never allows himself: “Five more minutes.”

You freeze, then settle. He feels you smile against his shoulder.

“Five minutes,” you echo, teasing but warm, and Mingyu prays for time to go slower.

For once, everything actually goes Mingyu’s way.

It’s not perfect—he doesn’t leap onto the podium in a blaze of champagne glory—but it’s close. Close enough that he can taste it. Strategy is sharp. The car holds steady. He dices through midfield battles with a mix of sharp elbows and prayer, and when the checkered flag falls in Abu Dhabi, he’s crossing the line in P4. Four. Just shy of the podium. The kind of finish that makes your stomach twist with both pride and irritation, because how dare happiness arrive dressed as almost?

The radio crackles to life before he’s even cooled the car down. “P4, Mingyu! Amazing job. That’s points secured and top eight in the championship. What a season.” The voice from Williams is beaming, practically hugging him through the static.

He leans back in the cockpit, sweat stinging his eyes, and laughs. Half in disbelief, half in exhaustion. Top nine. He’s in the top ten of the driver standings. Something he wouldn’t have dared to scribble in the corner of his notebook a few years ago. Something that felt galaxies away when he first climbed into a car that could barely finish races without a prayer and duct tape.

“Thanks, guys,” he says into the mic, voice a little rough. “Really. Couldn’t have done it without you. Let’s keep building. I’ll be back next season stronger than ever.”

There’s a cheer on the other end of the radio. He closes his eyes for a second, the lights of Yas Marina still blazing around him, and lets himself feel it. Not a podium. Not yet. But damn close. Close enough to know he’s not dreaming anymore.

Mingyu is still humming with adrenaline, his race suit damp with sweat, when the microphones swarm again. Only this time, the air feels different—lighter, buoyed by the fact he’s just hauled a Williams across the line in P4. 

The first interviewer grins. “Mingyu, incredible finish today. You must be thrilled.”

Thrilled doesn’t even cover it. He rattles off something about the car being strong, the team executing perfectly, about how every pit stop felt like choreography, and the words actually sound like him, not a hostage video. He can feel himself grinning in a way that won’t peel off his face for days.

Then, inevitably, the pivot: “And we have to ask… there’s been a lot of talk about the support you’ve had this season, especially from someone seen often by your side. Care to comment?”

The universe clearly has a sense of humor. Mingyu knows who they mean. Of course he knows. He’d be blind not to. When he scans the garage edge, you’re not there. No quick eye roll, no sly smile, no subtle cue to help him dodge or play along. Just an empty space where you should be, and suddenly his chest aches more than his arms did wrestling the car through Turn 9.

He could dodge, like always. Crack a joke, laugh it off, turn the question into smoke. That’s the script. But he’s loose with joy, too full of something he can’t swallow back down. So, instead, he leans into the mic and says, “Honestly? I couldn’t have done it without her support. Through the highs, the lows, the complete disasters—she’s been there. So… yeah. I’m grateful. More than I can say.”

The crowd of reporters buzzes, hungry for more, but Mingyu only smiles, sharp and secretive. It feels good to give a bit, to let the truth slip through the cracks. It feels good to say your name and have it be associated with his. 

His PR team gives up for the season. After a week of frantic emails, ‘damage control’ meetings, and increasingly desperate drafts of public statements, they stop chasing him down hallways with their iPads. Mingyu stops pretending he’s going to answer them, too. At some point, it just isn’t worth the effort. The world seems to have decided what it wants to believe, and honestly? He’s too tired, too giddy from Abu Dhabi, to keep trying to redirect the narrative.

It’ll blow over, he tells himself. You’ll ignore it. Ghost the rumors into silence the way you do everything else you don’t want to dignify. He’s almost convinced himself when, the next day, he scrolls through Instagram and sees it.

Your story.

It’s grainy phone footage, taken by someone else in some sports bar miles and miles away from where he is. The audio is terrible, bass thumping, people yelling over each other. But there you are, unmistakably you, at the center of the chaos. Jumping up from your barstool when Mingyu’s Williams crosses the line P4, screaming like you’ve just witnessed a miracle. You clap your hands to your mouth, eyes bright, and laugh into your drink, glowing with secondhand victory.

Mingyu stares at his phone. Then he laughs. Loud, ridiculous, unguarded laughter that startles the poor Williams junior engineer walking past his hotel room door.

Without even thinking, he hits the reshare button. Adds a caption that’s half joke, half confession: Best cheerleader I could ask for. Even from across the world. 🩵

Two doors down, his PR person heaves out an exhausted sigh when she gets the Story notification.

The break kicks off the way all bad ideas start: with Minghao declaring, “What’s the point of being young, rich, and stupid if we don’t at least borrow Toto’s yacht?” and Seokmin immediately agreeing. Mingyu, who’s usually the voice of reason, somehow becomes the designated captain within the hour.

Now here they are, bobbing off the Sardinian coast like three very expensive criminals. The sun is ridiculous, the sea too blue to be taken seriously, and Mingyu is already rehearsing how he’ll explain this in court. (“Your honor, it was peer pressure. Also, Minghao had the keys.”)

They sprawl on deck chairs with sunglasses and cocktails that Minghao insists are ‘balanced,’ though Mingyu suspects they’re about 80% rum. Seokmin kicks his feet up and points his glass at Mingyu. “So. You and her.”

Mingyu groans. “No. Not this again.”

“Yes, this again,” Minghao says, far too pleased. “You’ve been dodging since Singapore. It’s getting embarrassing.”

“It’s not like that,” Mingyu insists, though even he doesn’t buy the dryness in his own tone. He sips his drink to hide it, though the concoction mostly just makes him cough.

Seokmin grins like a man who’s spotted blood in the water. “Bro, you reshared her Instagram story with a caption. A caption! That’s couple behavior.”

“Friends can write captions,” Mingyu says weakly.

“Not sweet ones,” Minghao counters, leaning back with all the serenity of a Bond villain on vacation. “You basically confessed.”

Mingyu tries to wave them off, to redirect, to point out the literal stolen yacht situation that seems way more pressing than his alleged love life. But they don’t budge. The teasing circles him like seagulls, relentless, pecking at every excuse.

Finally, he just throws his hands up. “Believe what you want. I’m not explaining myself anymore.”

Seokmin and Minghao exchange a look that says everything. The case is closed, the verdict unanimous. Mingyu is dating you. Mingyu does not get a say.

He stretches out on the deck, lets the sun burn his cheeks, and tells himself it’s easier this way. Besides, he thinks, half-smiling into his glass, there are worse people to be your alleged significant other. 

The yacht feels different once Minghao and Seokmin’s girlfriends arrive. Before, it was three idiots pretending they knew how to work a boat. Now, it’s candlelit dinners, more bottles of wine, laughter that rings across the water. It’s picturesque. Romantic. A setting from a movie poster.

Which is fine, really. Good for them. Great, even. But somewhere between the second glass of wine and Seokmin serenading his girlfriend with a Bruno Mars impression, Mingyu realizes he has become… the fifth wheel. The extra chair at a table for four. The stray sock in a neatly folded pair.

He tries to roll with it. He raises toasts, he laughs too loudly at Minghao’s jokes, he even helps refill glasses with all the grace of a man auditioning for ‘world’s most eligible bachelor.’ The longer the night goes, the clearer it becomes—this is Couple Island, and he’s accidentally booked himself a ticket.

Sometime after midnight, drunk and fed up, he makes his escape. Slips away from the warm glow of fairy lights and clinking cutlery, out onto the quieter deck where the sea hushes against the hull. His phone feels heavy in his pocket, reckless and inevitable. He doesn’t think twice. He just hits call.

The screen lights up, and after a few rings, your face appears. Half lit, eyes squinting, hair mussed from sleep. “Mingyu?” you murmur, voice low and scratchy. “Do you know what time it is here?”

“It’s morning, right? Perfect timing,” Mingyu grins, though it’s crooked and hazy. “You’re my breakfast call.”

You blink at him, unimpressed but too tired to argue. “You drunk?”

“Drunk on friendship,” he says, then groans, flopping onto a deck chair. “Okay, maybe also wine. But mostly on friendship. Terrible, terrible friendship.”

Your brows lift. “What happened?”

Mingyu presses the heel of his hand to his forehead as if he’s the world’s most tragic hero. “They brought their girlfriends. Minghao and Seokmin. Both of them,” he whines. “I’m the fifth wheel. Do you know what that’s like? To be the odd one out on a yacht? It’s humiliating. I’m like a decorative throw pillow. Nobody needs me, but I’m here.”

You laugh softly, trying to smother it in your sleeve, but he catches it. He narrows his eyes at the screen. “You’re laughing at me.”

“I’m not,” you say, still smiling. “I’m sympathizing.”

“You’re doing it very poorly.”

“Go back inside, Gyu. You’ll forget all about this in the morning.”

He sighs, dramatic as ever, tipping his head back to look at the stars. “Maybe. But right now, it feels like the saddest movie in the world. Mingyu: The Fifth Wheel. Nobody would buy a ticket.”

“I’d buy a ticket,” you say quietly, already slipping back toward sleep.

Mingyu is three drinks past good judgment. Sardinia is wasted on him; the stars are blurred, the sea hums like a lullaby, and yet the only thing he cares about is the faint glow of his phone screen. Specifically, the sleepy face blinking back at him from thousands of miles away.

“Do you know,” he keeps on going, slurring through it, “future scholars are going to study this moment.”

You voice is muffled by your pillow. “Scholars?”

“Yeah. Exhibit A: Minghao and Seokmin being disgustingly in love. Exhibit B: me. Alone. Tragic. Very Greek mythology of me.”

You huff something like a laugh, eyes already drooping again. He should stop. He should absolutely stop. But Mingyu’s mouth keeps going like it has its own steering wheel. “Also,” he says suddenly, as if it’s just occurred to him, “you look so pretty right now.”

There’s a pause. A beat too long. Then you’re fully burying half your face into the pillow, muffling something incoherent. Mingyu’s heart is tap-dancing in his chest. Smooth, genius. Real smooth.

He panics forward, babbling, “No, I mean, not just now. Like—always. But right now too. Like, imagine—imagine waking up next to you. First thing in the morning. And you’d be all—” He waves a hand, searching for words, “—soft and annoyed because I’m talking too much, and I’d bring you coffee, but probably spill it, and you’d forgive me because I’d look very apologetic while shirtless—”

“Stoppp,” you groan, but your voice is soft, too soft. He can see the pink creeping over your cheeks even with your phone’s dim light.

Mingyu hides his own face in his elbow, groaning like he can rewind the last thirty seconds of existence. “Oh my God, kill me. Forget I said any of that. I’m—this is—illegal content.”

You don’t answer. You’ve gone quiet, your breathing evening out, the screen wobbling as you sink deeper into your pillow. A small smile tugs at his mouth. He wants to keep going, to ramble until the sun comes up, but the night air is cool, the deck is comfortable, and his words finally slow into nonsense.

At some point, the phone slips to his chest. His eyes close. On your end, you’re already gone, dreaming. Two time zones apart, you fall asleep on the same call, the line still open, the quiet static of connection buzzing like a heartbeat.

Like an actual couple.

The day after, Mingyu wakes to the kind of heat that makes him wonder if he accidentally slept in the mouth of a volcano. His face is tight, his arms stinging, and when he tries to move, every muscle protests. He sits up on the yacht’s deck with a groan, phone dead beside him like a corpse at the scene of his bad decisions.

It takes a few hours—painkillers, aloe, two bottles of water, and locating a charger that isn’t claimed by Seokmin’s girlfriend—before his phone finally buzzes back to life. Mingyu stares at the black screen reflecting his fried expression, trying to remember how many regrettable things he said last night. He’s about 70% sure he called you pretty. He’s 100% sure he meant it.

His thumbs hover over the keyboard. He starts and deletes three drafts before settling on cowardly honesty:

|   min6yu_k: Hey

|   min6yu_k: Sorry about last night. And this morning. Also sorry in advance for every other time I’ve ever been alive. 

|   min6yu_k: I know we’re not really friends. So I won’t bother you anymore

|   min6yu_k: 🥺🥺🥺

It’s dramatic. It’s pitiful. It’s very him. He sighs, hits send, and tosses the phone aside, prepared to spend the rest of summer nursing his wounds, physical and otherwise. 

Except three dots appear. Then a reply.

|   yourusername: you can bother me whenever you want :) 

Mingyu blinks. Reads it twice. Three times. He grins so wide his sunburn protests, but he doesn’t care. Maybe he lost a layer of skin to the Sardinian sun, but he’s gained something else. Something a little reckless, a little ridiculous, and very possibly the best part of his summer. 

At first, Mingyu hovers over the message bar like it’s a detonator. He’s sober this time, which makes everything worse. No wine haze to blame, no excuses. Just him, his phone, and the awareness that if he presses send, there’s no rewinding.

When he finally does send a message, it’s a selfie of his sunburnt face. The caption: 

|   min6yu_k: Survived Sardinia. Barely. RIP skin.

You take three hours to reply—plenty of time for him to spiral, convince himself he’s made a career-ending mistake, and contemplate moving to the wilderness. Then your response lands: a blurry photo of your breakfast, and a jab at his own suffering. 

|   yourusername: sardinia? how original

|   yourusername: fork found in kitchen 🍽️

He laughs—out loud, alone in his kitchen—and that’s all it takes. The door cracks open. From then on, the rhythm builds. At first, hesitation lingers. Messages sent with too much caution, replies delayed on purpose so he doesn’t look overeager. 

Somewhere along the way, the choreography slips. He responds within minutes now, sometimes seconds, shamelessly glued to his phone like a teenager. He sends you photos: his ridiculous tan lines, the monstrosity of a protein shake he attempts, a cat he sees on the street that looks like it’s plotting global domination. You send back TikToks that make no sense at 3 a.m. but have him howling with laughter under his covers.

And then come the barbs, sharp but playful. You roast his selfies (“Your arm looks like it belongs to another species”), and he retaliates by mocking your taste in music. It should be embarrassing, how quickly it becomes a habit. This thread of chatter threading through his days, as constant as hydration reminders and training sessions.

But Mingyu’s not embarrassed. Not anymore. He just thinks, conspiratorially, that if this is what bothering each other looks like, he’s never been happier to be a nuisance.

This is where it gets him: 

Mingyu has known many flavors of doom in his life. Punctured tires, last-lap lock-ups, missed braking points. All of them humbling in their own way. None compare to this: two photos flashing across his phone, your face out of view, your body framed in mirror selfies, each dress daring him to choose.

|   yourusername: help me pick? 

It’s harmless, obviously. Mingyu stares for so long he forgets how to blink. His brain stutters, sputters, tries to buffer like a bad WiFi signal. He considers tossing the phone into the sea. Monaco’s harbor is right there. It’d be so easy.

Instead, he does the next worst thing: he runs. Actually runs. Down the promenade, past tourists with gelato and locals pretending not to be tourists. He jogs the length of Monaco like cardiovascular exercise will sweat the problem out of him, like he can outpace the way his pulse goes haywire at the thought of choosing which dress you’ll wear.

By the time he circles back to his apartment, lungs on fire, shirt damp, he forces himself to type something vaguely neutral: Red. Classic. Can’t go wrong. He even throws in an emoji, something safe, a thumbs up. Detached. Cool. The digital equivalent of sunglasses indoors.

Your reply comes minutes later. 

|   yourusername: perfect

|   yourusername: that’s what i was leaning towards. thanks, gyu ♥️

Casual. Effortless. Like you’ve just asked him for help carrying a grocery bag, not ripped open his ribcage and left his heart in the chat. And you’ve started calling him Gyu now, too? 

That’s the moment. The horrifying, crystalline moment where Mingyu realizes with the clarity of a man struck by lightning that he wants you. Not in the abstract, not as a punchline to his friends’ teasing, but in the messy, all-consuming, terrifying way that has him jogging laps around Monaco to keep from combusting.

But how is Mingyu supposed to want somebody he already supposedly has? 

He doesn’t even notice it happening at first—days swallowed by preseason meetings, simulator hours, sponsor shoots where he smiles so hard his cheeks twitch. He figures if he stays busy enough, the static in his chest will quiet down. If he puts a little space between himself and you, maybe the wanting will dull into something manageable. He tells himself it’s strategic distance. 

Except it isn’t, and it doesn’t help. He finds himself unlocking his phone mid-briefing, half-expecting a message that isn’t there. He laughs too loudly at jokes that aren’t funny, just to prove to himself he’s fine. He convinces himself that this is what focus looks like.

Then one day, it happens. A ping. A message. You. Mingyu doesn’t brace himself, doesn’t think. He opens it on instinct and immediately gets sucker punched in the gut.

|   yourusername: hi! you’re probably busy with training haha i hope u’re doing well

|   yourusername: (kinda miss u tbh 😮‍💨 is that stupid?) 

His brain bluescreens. Full system failure. He actually forgets how to breathe, like someone’s yanked the air out of the room. He’s not even sure what expression he’s making until he hears the sound of a door creak. Joshua, who had been mid-sentence about something sponsor-related, freezes in the doorway. His eyes widen, then narrow, then flick to the glowing phone in Mingyu’s hand.

“Uh-huh,” Joshua says slowly. Then—mercifully, wisely—he backs out of the room without another word.

Mingyu sinks into his chair, phone clutched to his chest. Strategic distance, he realizes, doesn’t stand a chance. He types out the fastest response he’s sent in days. 

|   min6yu_k: Hiii yes sorry training’s been a bitch but i’m doing ok how are you???????

|   min6yu_k: We’d have to be stupid together then 

|   min6yu_k: Because I miss you too 

The first race of the new season should not feel like this. Mingyu knows nerves—he’s lived on them since he was old enough to lace his own karting gloves—but this is different. This is not a pre-race tremor, not the usual itch of adrenaline waiting to be unspooled down a straight. This is worse. This is him, phone in hand, thumb hovering, debating whether calling you is the bravest or dumbest decision of his week.

He calls anyway.

The line rings once, twice, and then you pick up. “Hey, Gyu. What’s up?”

“Hey.” He clears his throat, already regretting everything. “So, uh… Albert Park.” Brilliant start. Shakespearean. “First race of the season.”

“Right,” you say slowly. “I’m aware. It’s in all the headlines.”

“Exactly.” He paces his hotel room, wearing a groove into the carpet. “And, um. I was thinking… maybe you could come. Not, like, as a Williams guest or whatever, because, y’know, branding and politics and boring stuff. I mean as my guest.” He emphasizes it in case you missed it. “Like—my guest. We could… go into the paddock together. Maybe grab a bite. Walk around.”

There’s a silence on your end, the kind that feels longer than it actually is. Mingyu stares at his reflection in the blackout window, mouthing the word idiot at himself just in case.

Finally, you say, skeptical, “You’re inviting me to the Australian Grand Prix as your date?”

He chokes. “Not—date! I mean—it could—if you—no. Just, y’know. Companionship. Human interaction. Totally platonic. Unless—” He squeezes his eyes shut. “You know what, I’ll stop talking now.”

You laugh softly, and he feels his chest loosen a fraction. “You’re ridiculous,” you say, letting the pause twist the knife for half a second before conceding, “I’ll come.”

Mingyu exhales so hard he nearly drops the phone. “Cool. Great. No pressure, obviously. Uhm, remember to wear sunscreen, okay? Albert Park sun is brutal. I’d know. I’m practically a walking cautionary tale.”

Another laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind, Gyu,” you say, almost shy, and Mingyu soundlessly fist pumps to himself. 

The nerves don’t go away, but they shift. No longer sharp and skittish; instead electric, buzzing. The kind that says he’s about to race for something more than points.

Mingyu tries to tell himself it’s just another Saturday. Just another quali. Just another morning of stretching out his nerves and trying not to combust before getting into the car. Except this time, he’s driving a very different kind of car. A rented SUV with tinted windows and three passengers, one of whom happens to be you.

He picks you up from your hotel, the street still teeming with Grand Prix weekend energy. You slip into the backseat, wedging yourself between his trainer and manager without complaint, like being sandwiched between two six-foot blocks of professionalism is the most natural thing in the world. Mingyu swears the interior shrinks the second you get in.

Your outfit. God help him, your outfit. Casual but sharp, put-together in a way that makes the Melbourne sun look underdressed. He risks a glance in the mirror and nearly rear-ends a taxi. Smooth.

“Uh,” he starts, already regretting it, “you look… very… event appropriate.”

A pause. The kind of pause that echoes. His trainer coughs into his fist. His manager looks out the window a little too intently.

You blink, mercifully amused, lips quirking. “Event appropriate, huh?”

“Yeah,” Mingyu insists, doubling down like a fucking idiot. “Like, if there was a… podium for outfits, you’d be P1. Easily. Dominant performance.”

That earns a snort from the trainer, barely smothered, and a muffled laugh from his manager. Mingyu resists the urge to eject himself from the driver’s seat mid-traffic. He grips the wheel tighter, muttering, “Ignore them. They’re not funny.”

You, gracious as ever, lean back against the seat, still smiling. “Thanks, Gyu. That’s sweet.”

Sweet. He’ll take sweet. Sweet is a win. Sweet is a miracle. Sweet is better than event appropriate.

Albert Park looks different when you’re seeing it through tinted windows and the flash of camera lenses bouncing off the glass. Mingyu knows the drill—he’s been doing this for years—but today the sight of the waiting crowd makes his pulse spike harder than any formation lap. Fans, media, the blur of microphones and glossy posters, all of it pressing in like a tide.

He tries to give you a heads-up, fumbling for some kind of warning. “Hey, so, outside’s gonna be… intense. Cameras. People yelling. Think, like, a K-pop concert but everyone’s taller.”

You just slide your sunglasses on with an ease that makes him question who’s supposed to be protecting whom. “Relax, Gyu. I’m an influencer,” you remind him delicately. “I’ve had strangers yell my username at me across a mall. I’ll survive.”

The car doors open, and it’s go time. His trainer gets out first, then his manager, then him. The noise surges instantly, like someone unmuted the world. Phones thrust forward, lenses clicking, fans screaming his name. He pastes on the practiced smile, the one that says approachable but not available, and starts the slow walk forward.

He’s half-hoping, half-dreading that you’ll be swallowed by the chaos. But no—you emerge behind him, cool as anything, taking two polite steps of distance. Sunglasses hiding your eyes, shoulders relaxed, expression unbothered. To the outside world, you look like any other VIP guest tagging along, but Mingyu knows better. He knows you’re choosing to walk in the slipstream, close enough to follow, distant enough not to feed the wolves.

He can’t help himself. Every few strides, he glances back over his shoulder. Quick checks, like he’s making sure his phone hasn’t fallen out of his pocket. Just to confirm you’re there. That you haven’t peeled away, decided it’s too much, vanished back into the car.

He slows down just enough to let you catch up, then gestures vaguely at your sunglasses. “Good choice,” he says, just low enough so that no one else can overhear. “Sun’s brutal.”

“I figured.” You tilt your head toward the clear Australian sky, unimpressed. “It’s literally daylight. Revolutionary concept.”

“Yeah, but Melbourne daylight is different,” Mingyu insists, as if he’s the leading authority on weather patterns. “Sneaky UV levels. They don’t warn you about it in the travel brochures.”

You give him a look over your shades. “Are you actually worried about me getting sunburnt at a racetrack?”

“Someone has to be,” he mutters, tugging you a half-step closer to the shade of a Williams banner. “Trust me, the cameras will make a whole slideshow if you’re peeling tomorrow.”

You laugh under your breath, which he pretends not to notice. Instead, he points toward the accreditation zone. “Security will scan your pass. Don’t let go of it, or they’ll treat you like you’re trying to break into Fort Knox.”

“Gyu,” you say patiently, “I’ll be fine. Really.” You gesture to the phone already in your hand, camera app open. “Worst case, I film content and go viral for being denied entry. Great engagement.”

“Please don’t make my paddock debut about you getting tackled by security.”

“Relax,” you say again, softer this time. “I’ve survived worse than this. Go focus on your actual job.”

The reminder lands sharper than it should. His job. Right. Quali, telemetry, strategy. He’s supposed to be thinking about apexes and braking zones, not sunscreen and lanyards.

At the edge of the hospitality suite, he hesitates. You’ve already slipped into your influencer default. Phone angled, voice lilting into that effortless rhythm of someone who knows exactly how many seconds of banter an audience will tolerate. He should leave. He should. Instead, he hovers, trying to decide whether fussing one last time will make him look protective or pathetic.

You solve it for him by lowering your phone and arching a brow. “Don’t you have somewhere to be, superstar?”

Caught. He scratches the back of his neck, sheepish. “Yeah. I just… wanted to say, uh. I’ll see you later.”

And then he’s hugging you. Sort of. An awkward, halfway squeeze that’s more bump than embrace—one arm slung around you before he thinks better of it. It’s brief, barely long enough to register, but when he pulls back his ears are hot, and he hopes nobody got that on camera.

You don’t tease him for it. You smile like you’re in on the joke. “Good luck, Gyu,” you say. 

He nods, turns, walks away before he can second-guess the whole thing. He qualifies P12, and rolls up on Sunday with a note to himself that you’re somewhere, out there, watching. 

The thing about starting P12 is that expectations are mercifully low. You don’t need to be a miracle worker; you just need to keep the car in one piece, dodge midfield chaos, and maybe luck into a points finish if the racing gods are feeling charitable.

Mingyu knows this. He tells himself this as he rolls up to the grid, helmet heavy on his head, the whole world buzzing around him. P12. Respectable, manageable. Just stay out of trouble.

Naturally, trouble finds him by Turn 3.

There’s a tangle of cars ahead, two midfielders locking wheels like stubborn toddlers, and suddenly he’s threading through carbon fiber confetti, heart in his throat. One car spins, another skates across the runoff, and Mingyu darts left, then right, then somehow pops out the other side like a magician’s rabbit. P9.

“Nice job, Gyu,” his engineer crackles in his ear. “Keep it steady.”

Steady, sure. Except the field ahead is snarled in its own mess. Dirty air stacking cars like rush-hour traffic, everyone fighting over the same square foot of asphalt. Mingyu bides his time, lurking, waiting. He knows Williams didn’t give him a rocket ship, but it gave him something better today: clean air, if he can just grab it.

And then it happens. A bold dive here, a DRS overtake there, another spin he manages to skirt by a hair’s breadth. Suddenly, impossibly, he’s free.

No traffic. No turbulence. No rear wing to stare at.

Just open track.

Mingyu blinks at the empty stretch ahead like he’s hallucinating. “Uh,” he says into the radio, voice cracking in a way he prays the broadcast doesn’t catch, “is anyone gonna tell me why I’m… leading?”

“Confirmed,” his engineer replies, calm as if they haven’t just witnessed an exorcism of Williams’ last decade of pain. “You’re P1. Repeat, P1. Head down, focus.”

P1. He’s never heard those syllables in that order attached to his name. Not in Formula One. Not in a Williams. The last time this team led a lap, he was still in high school, scrolling highlights on a cracked phone screen. 2015. 

Now it’s him. Now it’s real.

The crowd’s roar swells as he flies past a grandstand, a wall of sound rattling his chest even through layers of fireproof and carbon fiber. He doesn’t dare glance, doesn’t dare blink, but he feels it. The weight of history, the disbelief in the air, the cameras that will replay this moment a thousand times over. Kim Mingyu, leading a lap in a fucking Williams. 

“P1, Gyu,” his engineer repeats, and this time it sounds a little less clinical, a little more awed. “You’re leading the race.”

Mingyu exhales through a laugh he can’t contain, giddy and sharp. “Yeah,” he says, conspiratorial even with the whole world listening, “no pressure or anything.”

He keeps driving.

For ten glorious laps, Mingyu lives in a universe where the Williams is the fastest thing on track. Ten laps of clean air, ten laps of watching the timing screens update with his number at the very top, ten laps of telling himself not to think about the fact that he’s leading a Formula One race. 

Of course, reality has mirrors. And in those mirrors, Minghao and Seokmin are getting larger. Orange and silver machines, jaws open, hungry. Friends off track, rivals on it.

“Maintain pace, Gyu,” his engineer says evenly, which is code for: try not to get eaten alive.

“I’d love to,” Mingyu replies, voice dry, “but I think they skipped breakfast.”

Still, he holds them. A lap, then another, then another. He can practically feel the disbelief radiating through the paddock. Williams leading. Him leading. A miracle stretched into double digits.

But miracles are greedy with fuel and merciless with tires. On lap 11, the call comes. “Box, Gyu. Box this lap.”

He doesn’t argue. He peels into the pitlane, heart pounding, knowing exactly what it means. The stop is slick. Sub-three seconds, one of Williams’ best in years. For a heartbeat, hope flares. Maybe, just maybe.

And then he’s back out, slotted into traffic, mirrors full, lead gone.

The world resumes its natural order.

By the time the checkered flag waves, Mingyu’s in P6. Respectable. Points on the board. Nothing headline-shattering. It feels like champagne anyway.

He unclips his belts, chest still buzzing. P6, and he’s grinning inside his helmet like a maniac. He knows what just happened. He knows what it felt like, ten laps in the sun after a decade of drought.

When the radio crackles with the engineer’s closing words—“P6, Gyu. Great job out there.”—he answers without thinking, giddy and conspiratorial, “Yeah. But did you see those ten laps?”

Because he did. And he’s not forgetting them anytime soon.

Helmet off, sweat dripping, heart still sprinting laps long after the checkered flag, Mingyu climbs out of the car in a haze of adrenaline. He waves at the crew, at the fans, at the blur of Williams blue around him, but none of it sticks. His gaze finds you instantly, like his eyes have been preprogrammed for it.

And before he can think, before he can second-guess, he’s moving.

You barely have time to set your phone aside before he’s got you in his arms. An adrenaline-fueled, lift-you-clear-off-the-ground hug. The world tilts with it, the paddock noise muffling under the rush of his heartbeat in his ears. You laugh into his shoulder, muffled, protesting just enough to save face, “Gyu, people are watching—”

As if the snap of cameras doesn’t remind him. As if the universe doesn’t immediately hand him a reality check in the form of fifty lenses clicking at once.

Right. His place. His job. His image. He puts you back down quickly, ears burning hot, and attempts a recovery maneuver as subtle as a spin into gravel. He offers his hand, plastering on a grin. “High five?”

You just stare at him for a beat, long enough for him to realize how stupid it sounds. Then you roll your eyes, the fond kind of exasperation that says you know exactly what he’s doing. One hand comes up, cupping his cheek with a gentleness that cuts through all the noise. You lean in and press a kiss to his cheek, right there, in full view of the paddock, the cameras, the world.

“Congratulations, Gyu,” you say softly, like it’s just the two of you anyway. “That was incredible.”

Mingyu’s mouth opens, then shuts, then opens again, but nothing remotely human comes out. Just static. Just overload. He can drive 300 kilometers an hour, but this? This he has no defense for.

Somewhere in the back of his scrambled thoughts, he realizes the headlines are already writing themselves. But, for once, he can’t bring himself to care.

“You have to break up with her.”

That’s how his PR opens the meeting. No good morning, no coffee, no gentle preamble. Nothing but a straight shot to the chest.

Mingyu blinks across the glossy conference table, helmet hair still damp from simulator practice. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You and her.” His PR gestures vaguely, like waving at a rumor in the air. “The influencer. It’s time to end it.”

“End… what?” Mingyu asks, baffled. “We’re not even—” He cuts himself off, because he knows exactly how this sounds. “I’ve said a hundred times we’re not dating.”

“Exactly.” His PR leans forward, earnest in that professional, bloodless way only PR managers can be. “Which makes this easy. If you’re not really together, then breaking up shouldn’t be a problem.”

Mingyu stares, slack-jawed. “You’re asking me to fake break up with someone I’m not dating. Just so what—people stop shipping us?”

“Not just shipping. Headlines. Trends. The narrative has shifted too far. You leading laps, finishing P6—that should’ve been the story of Melbourne. Instead, every outlet ran photos of her kissing your cheek. Four races in, and people are still asking about your ‘girlfriend’ instead of your cornering speed. We need the spotlight back on Williams.”

He drags a hand down his face, muttering, “Unbelievable.”

“Triple-header is coming,” PR presses on, relentless. “Europe is brutal with media. If we don’t redirect focus now, you’ll spend half your pressers answering personal questions. So we end it. Clean break. A short statement, mutual respect, wishing her well, etcetera. It’ll die down in a week.”

Mingyu tries—really tries—to keep his expression neutral. But the twitch in his jaw, the way his knee won’t stop bouncing, betrays him. He’s frustrated. No, worse than frustrated. Cornered. Like they’ve told him to DNF a race he hasn’t even started.

Finally, he exhales, sharp and disbelieving. “You make it sound so simple. Just—press release, problem solved. But you ever consider maybe it’s not that simple for me?”

His PR fixes him with that calm, unblinking stare. “Mingyu. This is Formula One. Nothing is ever simple. That’s why we manage the story before it manages you.”

Mingyu doesn’t have a quick, witty comeback to that. All he has is a knot in his chest, tightening as the word breakup echoes in his head. Something he was never in, something he doesn’t want, and yet somehow, they’re asking him to make it real.

The race around the corner is Suzuka. It’s a world away from the neon chaos of Melbourne or the glamour circus of Monaco. Perfect, Mingyu had thought. Lowkey. Easy. So, of course, it feels anything but.

He spots you, weaving through a cluster of tables on the restaurant’s outdoor patio. Even in the soft light, you stand out, easy and composed, the kind of presence that makes him sit up straighter without realizing. He tells himself to be cool, casual—no overthinking.

“You look…” He pauses, searching for a word that doesn’t sound like it was fed to him by a PR intern. “… phenomenal.”

Your lips curve into a smile, faintly amused. “Phenomenal, huh? Big word for a race car driver.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Mingyu shoots back, grin in place. “I usually stick to things like ‘fast’ and ‘turn left here.’”

The banter lands, but there’s a hitch in his chest that doesn’t ease. He pulls out your chair like a gentleman, sits across from you, and tries to remind himself this is supposed to be simple. Two friends, two meals, no cameras, no press statements hovering like storm clouds. You were here to watch a different series, and he was a couple of days early to his own race weekend. A convenient meet up. 

You glance at the menu, easy, unbothered, while Mingyu pretends not to study the way the lantern light catches in your hair. He wants to lean into it. The warmth, the normalcy, the way your presence steadies him more than any simulator lap ever could. But the conversation with his PR sits in the back of his mind like a weight he can’t shake.

He laughs at your joke about jet lag, compliments your choice of ramen, even teases you for documenting the steam curling off the bowls for your followers. Outwardly, he’s himself. Playful, a bit awkward, just enough charm to keep things light. Underneath, he’s split in two. Half of him is here, in this moment, soaking you in. The other half is already calculating headlines, imagining the fallout, wondering when the other shoe will drop.

You catch him zoning out once, chopsticks paused midair, and tilt your head. “What’s that look for?”

“Nothing,” he says too quickly, pasting on a grin. “Just… carbs. Love carbs.”

You laugh, though it’s edged with a bit of certainty. Mingyu laughs too, because that’s easier than saying the truth. He wants to be fully here, fully with you, but there’s a part of him that can’t stop holding back. And it kills him a little, because if any place should’ve been easy, it should’ve been Suzuka.

It turns out the city has a dessert shop tucked into every side street. Crêpe stands with paper cones, ice cream parlors with flavors no European circuit would dare attempt. Mingyu follows your lead, ducking into the more secluded ones, the two of you slipping past fans like conspirators avoiding capture. Sunglasses, hoodies, baseball caps—it’s practically a spy movie, if spies cared this much about mochi.

He ends up with matcha soft serve, you with strawberry. You both settle into a park bench that looks like it was made for dates, not debriefs. For once, the air feels still.

It’s you who brings up Qatar. “Remember that weekend?” you ask, twirling your spoon in the air. “When you DNF’d and looked like you were ready to quit motorsport entirely?”

“Vividly,” Mingyu deadpans, licking a drip of ice cream before it melts down his hand. “Truly one of my career highlights.”

“You were sulking,” you continue, grin tugging at your lips, “so I asked you all those ridiculous scrapbook questions. Favorite color, dream vacation, bucket list stuff. You looked at me like I’d lost my mind.”

“You had lost your mind,” Mingyu insists, playful. “I’d just cooked my tires in Q1 and you wanted to know my favorite animal.”

“Still worked though,” you say lightly, biting into your cone. “You smiled. And I told you all about how Suzuka is my favorite circuit.”

Mingyu pauses, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Why’d you do that, anyway?”

You glance at him, eyes reflecting the lantern glow. Your answer is simple, almost offhand, but it lands like a punch straight to his ribs. “Because I wanted you to just think of good things.”

He stares for a beat, throat suddenly tight. There’s a dozen clever replies he could make, a hundred quips to dodge the weight of it. None of them feel right. Not here, not now.

Instead, he does something braver. Wordlessly, he reaches out, fingers brushing against yours in the small space between. His pulse hammers as he waits, half-expecting you to pull away. You don’t. You blush, glance down, then shyly curl your hand into his. Soft, certain.

Neither of you says anything after that. You just sit there, eating ice cream in companionable silence, hands entwined under the lantern glow, letting Suzuka hold the words you’re not ready to say out loud.

The park is quiet, the lantern-lit street behind you fading into soft shadows. Mingyu leans back, still holding the ghost of your hand in his own, when it happens: the both of you speak at the same time. “I—” “We—”

“You first,” Mingyu says, quick, because he’s a gentleman—or because he’s stalling.

You hesitate. Then you take a breath and drop it like a guillotine. “We should… break up.”

For a second, Mingyu thinks he’s misheard. The cicadas are loud, the buzz in his ears louder. “Sorry,” he stutters, “what?”

“You know.” You look down at your lap, twisting the edge of your sleeve between your fingers. “Just… say we split. Make it official, so people stop talking about it.”

Mingyu heart skids. “Let me guess. My PR gremlins reached out to you.”

You shrug without meeting his eyes. “Something like that.”

That shrug shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, but it does. You look small when you say it, like the words don’t belong in your mouth. And Mingyu hates it. Hates that this thing, whatever it is between you two, makes you sad instead of light.

He sits there, silent for a beat, staring out at the faint glow of the vending machines across the park. There’s a hundred arguments to make, loopholes to wriggle through. But none of them are what he wants to say.

So he settles on the simplest answer, voice steady even though his chest feels anything but: “No.”

The word hangs between you, clean and sharp, like a flag he’s just planted. No disclaimers, no half measures. Just no.

Your brows knit. “No?”

Mingyu sits up straighter, realizes he’s just lobbed a single syllable grenade into your lap, and now you’re staring at him like he owes you the full manual. Which, unfortunately, he does.

“Right. No,” he repeats, nodding too much. “As in, no, I’m not doing that. The fake breakup thing. Because—because—” His voice trips over itself. He groans, face tilting skyward for a moment. “God, why is this so hard to say?”

You wait. Patient, kind, which only makes it worse. 

“Look.” He exhales, and forces his eyes to meet yours. “I don’t want to lose you. Not like this. Not before I even get the chance to—” He falters. Then, softer: “—to have you properly.”

The last words tumble out in a rush, embarrassingly earnest. His ears burn, and he wants to bury himself under the park bench. Instead, he braces for impact. You’re staring at him, wide-eyed, caught somewhere between startled and touched. And then—unfairly, devastatingly—you blush. A soft pink spreading up your cheeks, visible even in the dismal park light.

Mingyu swallows, throat dry. “So, uh,” he adds, voice cracking around the edges, “your move.”

It feels a lot like waiting for a race to start, for that iconic lights out, and away we go to ring through the circuit. There’s a countdown in Mingyu’s head. Five, four, three, two—

“So…” you start, “how did your matcha ice cream taste?”

Mingyu balks. He’s halfway through processing the confession he just dumped on you, and now—ice cream reviews? “Uh. It was… cold? Sweet? A little bitter? Like, earthy?” He gestures vaguely, as if the right adjectives are hiding in the bushes behind you. “Honestly, it just tasted like… matcha.”

You press, lips twitching. “I mean, I want to try it for myself.”

He looks at the empty cup in his hand, then back at you, utterly lost. “But I, uh… finished it? Like… five minutes ago?” He lifts the cup to show it off, because clearly the evidence helps.

You laugh, the sound bubbling up like you can’t hold it in any longer. “Mingyu. I’m trying to ask if I can kiss you.”

Oh.

Oh. 

His entire brain hits the emergency brakes. Eyes wide, ears hot, neurons firing off fireworks. And then he sputters, grinning so wide it almost hurts. “You should’ve just asked that in the first place!”

Before you can roll your eyes again, he’s already leaning in, all eagerness and barely-contained giddiness, heart hammering so loud he swears you can hear it as his lips find yours.

His hands find your face almost instinctively, palms cupping your cheeks. You, ever contrary, slip your hands up to wrap around his wrists instead, grounding him. The contact sends a jolt straight through him, but he doesn’t dare move away.

You’re both terrible at this. Smiling too much, giggling in the middle of it, teeth and noses bumping just enough to make it ridiculous. And yet, Mingyu thinks it’s the best kiss of his life. He tastes sugar and laughter and the kind of lightness that makes the world spin softer. Something sweet, faintly tart, clings to your lips. It ruins him all over again.

When you finally pull back for air, he immediately chases after you, lips brushing clumsily, desperate. You catch your breath and tease, “Still not enough matcha flavor?”

Mingyu, breathless and pink-eared, blurts, “I’ll get you all the ice cream in the world if you just—” and cuts himself off by pulling you right back in, kissing you like it’s the only thing on the calendar that matters.

Monza smells like gasoline, nostalgia, and the kind of pressure Mingyu pretends doesn’t get to him. 

He tells the camera it’s just another race weekend, but in his head he knows Monza is still sacred. Straight lines, roaring history, the sort of track that makes or breaks legends. Which is why, naturally, he’s been paired for media duties with Minghao and Seokmin. Because fate likes to test him.

Minghao is being his usual infuriating self, answering a journalist’s question about tire management with a perfectly calm, perfectly vague “It depends,” while Seokmin leans into his mic and announces, “I plan on not crashing.” 

The room laughs. Mingyu groans. This is his life: carrying the weight of Monza while babysitting two men who find chaos funny.

They bounce off each other like badly behaved electrons, the press delighted, and Mingyu, despite himself, plays the straight man. “I’m surrounded by clowns,” he says, and sure enough the clowns grin.

But then—then—he sees you.

You’re not supposed to be here yet, but there you are, slipping into the paddock. Mingyu goes still, mic halfway to his mouth. His brain is gone, his mouth is gone, and he’s halfway out of his chair before he realizes he’s moving.

“Where are you going?” Seokmin calls after him, eyes wide with mischief. “Hey, it’s just a media session, not a wedding march!”

Minghao, not even looking up from his phone, adds, “Don’t trip over your feelings, Mingyu.”

Mingyu ignores both of them. He’s already weaving through cables and crew, long legs making embarrassingly quick work of the distance. He tells himself he’s walking, but the truth is closer to a jog. Maybe even a run. He doesn’t care. He’s got Monza waiting, he’s got pressure pressing down on him, but right now, he’s got you, and that eclipses everything else.

He doesn’t even pretend to slow down. He barrels straight into you with the kind of single‑minded determination he usually saves for turn one, sweeping you into a hug so tight it makes your feet leave the ground. The cameras click like machine gun fire, but for once, he doesn’t care. It’s you. Everything else can queue up and wait.

You melt into him, laughter bubbling as he rocks you side to side. When he finally loosens his hold, his gaze snags on your outfit—and that’s it, Mingyu’s gone.

“Wait—hold on—” He leans back just far enough to take you in properly. “Is that… is that a custom jersey?” His voice pitches up like he’s seeing fireworks. “Oh my God, it’s my number. And Williams. And cropped? Do you want me to die?”

You grin, tilting your chin so the light hits the printed ‘06’ stitched across you. “Figured I should dress for the occasion.”

Mingyu is instantly generous with his compliments, layering them one after the other like he’s stacking pit stop tires: “You look insane. Gorgeous. Unfair. Like—do you know how much trouble you’re about to get me in? People are going to riot.”

Before you can roll your eyes, he’s already attacking with kisses. Forehead, cheeks, nose, chin, quick pecks everywhere like he’s determined to leave no part of your face unclaimed. You try to push him off, laughing protests muffled between smacks of affection.

“Mingyu—stop—people are staring—”

“Let them stare,” he breathes between kisses, words warm against your skin. “They should know I’ve already won today.”

Eventually, you surrender, slumping into his arms with a sigh that’s equal parts exasperation and fondness. Somewhere off screen, his PR person is already probably having a heart attack. 

Mingyu has never been prouder of three hours spent sitting in a too-cold conference room surrounded by too many suits. Usually, PR meetings drag on with endless discussions about sponsor activations and social media angles, but that one? That one, he’ll happily put in his memoir someday. 

For three hours, he sat tall in his chair, chin lifted, repeating the same thing until the walls practically echoed with it: he was not breaking up with you. Not in private, not in public, not in any alternate universe.

The team tried everything—statistics about audience focus, graphs showing the attention curve, polite suggestions that Williams deserved the spotlight. He listened, nodded, smiled even, then shrugged and repeated it again: “I’m not doing it.” 

His PR lead had rubbed their temples. His manager threatened to ‘circle back.’ Mingyu just folded his arms and thought about Suzuka, about you laughing into his mouth with strawberry ice cream still sweet on your lips, and wondered how they ever thought he’d say yes.

He promised you he’d figure it out. That meeting was him fulfilling his promise. 

The climax came when James walked in, coffee in hand, eyebrow already raised at the tension in the room. Mingyu didn’t even wait. “I’m not breaking up with her,” he said, like a kid daring his parent to say no. 

James stared, sipped, then sighed like a man who has seen too much. “Fine,” James said, and just like that, the case was closed. 

Victory, thy name is Kim Mingyu.

And now, here he is in Monza, with you in his arms, reveling in the world’s biggest plot twist. The cameras might think they’re witnessing a PR disaster. Mingyu knows better. He thinks it’s a love story. He squeezes you tighter, grins against your hair, and calls you the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

Mingyu goes through his rituals. Left glove first, always. Then right. A tug on each strap to make sure they’re snug. 

He taps his helmet twice against his knee before handing it to his mechanic. Sips water. The same old checklist, muscle memory dressed up as superstition. This time, there’s a new addition.

He glances down at his phone, the lockscreen glowing back at him. A screenshot from that very first broadcast. Your name, your tag, bold and impossible to ignore: Partner of Kim Mingyu. Wrong back then. Right now. Better than right—deserved. He grins like an idiot every time he sees it, and now is no exception. The sight of it steadies him better than any pep talk could.

Then comes the walk to the grid. Mingyu does the usual handshakes, the usual half-hearted smiles for the cameras. But his mind isn’t only running laps this time. It flickers back to you, standing somewhere in the paddock with that jersey on, cheering him with a grin that’ll outshine the entire weekend. His girl, his girl, his girl. 

The moment his helmet clicks into place, the world changes. The crowd is still there, the cameras still there, Joshua still fiddling with his steering wheel two rows ahead. But to Mingyu, it’s silence. Pure, focused silence. You’ve already done your part, even if you’re not sitting in the cockpit beside him.

He slides into the car, straps pulled tight across his chest, the cockpit cocooning him. His visor lowers. His breath echoes back at him, steady, rhythmic. The grid fades to shapes, colors, blurred edges at the periphery of vision. All that’s left is the straight ahead—the red lights waiting to tell him when to leap.

Formation lap. Heat in the tires, brakes biting, the car alive under him. He lines up in P10. The lights blink on, one by one.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

For a second, nothing exists but his heartbeat—and a faint image of his lockscreen still burned into his vision.

And then the lights vanish, the world snaps back to deafening, and Mingyu launches. The car surges forward, and Monza welcomes him home.

Mingyu drives like he’s been waiting his whole life for this. In a way, he has. Not just for Monza. For you, too. For love and speed and calling wins as they come.

He’s precise. Every turn-in is sharp, every exit clean, every lap a mirror of the last. The car finally behaves, the balance perfect, as if it’s decided, for once, to stop fighting him and join in on the dream. The pit stops click like choreography, mechanics flawless, seconds shaved so cleanly it’s synonymous to fate. He glides back out without losing rhythm, and somewhere in the corner of his mind, he’s grinning at the absurdity: Williams, of all teams, putting on a masterclass.

He tells himself not to get ahead. Don’t count the laps, don’t think about the what-ifs. Except it’s impossible. Ten to go and he’s still there, clinging to the back of the train. Minghao up front, Seokmin directly in front of him, and then him—Williams blue streaking against the sea of silver and papaya. 

Eight laps. 

Six. 

His engineer’s voice is smooth, coaxing, but Mingyu can hear the edge in it, the tremor beneath the calm. “Keep it steady, Gyu. You’re right there. Bring it home.”

Bring it home. As if it’s that easy. As if he hasn’t been haunted by years of DNFs, slow cars, pit wall gambles that never paid off. As if this isn’t Monza, cathedral of speed, the place he’d sworn as a rookie he’d give anything just to finish well in. 

The tifosi are a blur of scarlet in the grandstands, flags whipping like fire, but somewhere among them, he imagines you. Hands clasped tight, heart pounding as hard as his. 

Four laps. 

He can’t tell if it’s sweat or tears fogging up his visor, but the corners blur for a second, heart jackhammering against his ribs. He laughs breathlessly, half a sob, as if the sound will keep him steady. 

Three laps. Two. 

Every instinct in his body screams to push harder, to gamble everything on one reckless dive. He could try and snap past Minghao, could maybe overtake Seokmin. For once, Mingyu doesn’t chase. He holds. He trusts. He feels the car answer him in kind, as though it knows, finally, what’s at stake.

Final lap. 

The world condenses into white lines and asphalt. Every braking point feels sacred, every throttle press an oath. Ascari rushes by like a memory he’ll never lose. Then Parabolica. Endless, swallowing him whole and spitting him back onto the straight. 

The checkered flag waves.

Kim Mingyu, Williams’ pride and joy, roars across the line in P3.

The radio explodes. Crying, shouting, voices tripping over each other in disbelief. Five years without a podium, and Williams finally has one. Mingyu finally has one. His engineer is yelling his name. Someone else is screaming numbers, lap times, statistics. He can’t speak, throat too tight, helmet pressing against his tears. The noise is unbearable, overwhelming, until something cuts through all of it.

Your voice. Trembling, wrecked, crying and laughing all at once: “Mingyu—”

Just his name, but it knocks the breath out of him harder than Eau Rouge ever did.

That’s it. That’s when the dam breaks. He’s laughing and crying at the same time, shoulders shaking in the cockpit, breath fogging his visor. He squeezes the wheel, Monza unfolding around him like a film reel he never thought he’d get to star in. The podium ceremony, the champagne, the photos—he’ll get to them eventually. But right now, all he can think about is you, you, you. 

“Did you see, baby?” Mingyu chokes, voice cracked and breaking. “Are you proud of me?”

[joshujin]

tainted tides (part one)

series masterlist • part one • part two 🔞 18+, minors do not interact 🚨 minors and blank blogs will be blocked

🍸 Brought to you by @studiosvt's Puttin' on the Ritz Collab

The wife of a politician is good for very few things—how flawless and beautiful and desirable you are being paramount to all. Every fundraiser, every gala, every luncheon, you're at your husband's side, the picture perfect portrayal of who New York City expects their First Lady to be. What they don’t expect is their prohibitionist mayor’s wife to be spotted at a popular speakeasy the night of the city's biggest raid. Or for her to go missing shortly after.

PAIRING: rum runner!seungcheol x fem!reader WC: 12k TAGS: angst, hurt/comfort, sweet baby angel cheol CW: domestic violence (not b/w mcs), bruising, blood, descriptions of injuries and physical altercations, infidelity (tho is it actually if your husband is a piece of shit who should get shot out back old yeller style?), cigarettes/cigars, more to come!   A/N: another collab with studiosvt instead of working on my wips oops what's new. please be careful with this one. the domestic violence is never graphic, but the injuries resulting from it are described at times. i'm done with part 2 (just need to edit), and i think we're looking at 3-4 parts. as always, though, thanks in advance for the patience i will be requiring lol. ily enjoy!  

THE ROOM IS THICK WITH SMOKE JUST LIKE IT ALWAYS IS, a heady cigar haze blanketing the entire cafe-turned-speakeasy better known as Club Maestro. Long, languid, melancholic notes sung by the beautiful jazz singer onstage rise into the air and fold right into the clouds, and between that and the smuggled liquor in your system, you feel a little dizzy.

“She's the berries, ain't she?” Evelyn asks before she brings her cigarette holder to her lips and inhales, the tip of her cigarette burning a bright orange as she does. You follow her gaze to the singer and nod.

“She is,” you agree. “Voice of an angel.”

You've only snuck away with your best friend to visit Club Maestro a handful of times—whenever your husband wandered off for poker night with his friends—but you're sure you recognize the performer from one of your past visits. The loneliness and longing in her voice sounds too familiar for this to be your first time hearing it.

After a few minutes of silent appreciation, Evelyn's low whistle cuts through the music. You look over at her to find the gloved hand holding her cigarette holder covering her lips in pleasant surprise. You frown.

“What?”

She doesn’t bother using any words, instead nodding behind you and puckering her lips pointedly. You look over your shoulder, doing your best to pretend you’re casually scanning the room. At first, you don’t see him. There are too many bodies, too much smoke, the lights are too dim, and you're too tipsy. But even so, as soon as he breaks through the crowd and makes it to the bar, you know immediately who Evelyn is referring to.

The man stands casually once he's at the bar, talking to Mingyu, the co-owner of the speakeasy, like they're good friends. You take the opportunity to enjoy the stranger’s profile while he's turned away from you, openly and unashamedly admiring him. His smooth, supple skin, tanned from whatever must keep him in the sun. The dark hair he dares to leave long and unstyled, a stark contrast to all the slicked back dos around him. His plump lips, looking so pink and soft and… bitten—in the slightest of pouts. He’s exactly what your husband would call a miscreant. You think the only truly fitting word is bewitching. 

He must feel the weight of your stare because his eyes stray away from Mingyu's and go straight to you, like he knew exactly where he felt the prying gaze coming from. There's something about his eyes—imploring and insistent—that make you feel stripped bare. You look away quickly, turning around in your seat to find a delighted Evelyn.

“Go over there.”

You look at your best friend incredulously. “What?”

She smirks and kicks your shin lightly under the table. “You heard me! Go over there! Introduce yourself. Get the guy to slide you some giggle water. Flirt a bit!”

“Ev, I’m married,” you say, dumbfounded. 

The reminder drains all the joy out of her face and voice, and you immediately regret bringing your husband up. Doing so always has this sort of effect on her. 

“God, don't remind me,” she groans, taking an especially long drag of her cigarette. She blows the smoke out the side of her mouth, frowning as she stares down at the table. 

Her red lips twist to the side into an uncertain and hesitant pucker, and she flicks her perfectly waved hair out of her face, habits you recognize when she's contemplating whether or not she should say something. You watch her, your own thoughts wandering to the fact that she can wear lipstick so bright—that she can wear makeup at all without her husband calling her an unrefined woman. You would never be allowed to wear makeup for fun. You would never be allowed to cut your hair the way Evelyn and so many other women have. Short, sharp, cute. A statement against the traditional household. According to your husband anyway.

“He's not here, we're on the other side of the city, and it's not like you're taking the Sheik straight to bed!” she finally says, the words tumbling out of her mouth like they've been kept inside it for too long. “You're just going to say hi!”

“I'm not going to say anything,” you insist. You're the mayor's wife. It doesn't matter where in New York City you go; you'll never actually be away from him. It's enough to be sick with paranoia that he'll one day find out about these escapades to Club Maestro. You don't need to add flirtations with a stranger to the list of things to worry over. “I'm married.”

“Please stop saying that,” Evelyn begs dramatically, rolling her eyes as she taps her cigarette against the ash tray on the table.

“What?” you ask, huffing a short laugh. “That I'm mar—”

“Yes!” your best friend nods fast as she cuts you off. “That bluenose you call your husband doesn't have an ounce of respect for you! Why should you give him any back?”

You try not to sigh heavily. While the state of your marriage isn't something you explicitly discuss, it's also not a secret you keep from her. Everyone who's ever meant something to you has already faded to the edges of your life, giving up on contacting you over the years because of your busy schedule or your conflicting stages of life. Or maybe it was just a product of your sheer inability to get anyone you care about to care back. But not Evelyn. 

Evelyn persisted through ignored phone calls and disregarded letters and missed dates and days you would leave her knocking on your front door for what felt like hours because you couldn’t bear to face her. She didn't let any amount of stonewalling or insistence from your husband that she leave you alone deter her. Evelyn, it turned out, is the only friend you've ever really needed. 

“I’m sorry,” she mutters, shaking her head. “I… I don’t intend to be mean.”

You try to smile. “No, you don’t need to be sorry. It's just complicated.”

“I’m sure it is,” she says, nodding. After a moment, she shrugs one shoulder. “A simple hello to a stranger would be a lot less complicated.”

You level her with a flat look. “Ev.”

She says your name right back before she sets her cigarette down on the ashtray, leaving it to burn out. She leans forward and rests her elbows on the table, intertwining her fingers before she cradles her chin on top of them. She looks at you like she hasn't properly seen you in years. 

You only see her once a month. You acknowledge that she probably hasn't properly seen you in years—since before your wedding. Between the music, the bootleg alcohol, and the furious gossiping you two engage in, there isn't much room to really look at each other. Really see each other. Not that you particularly want to. You're afraid all you'll see when you look at Evelyn is a wife who chose much more wisely than you did.

You wonder what she sees as she looks at you now. 

“It doesn't have to mean anything,” she says softly. “I was just joking. You don't need to flirt or get the man to slide you some giggle water or even say anything beyond ‘hi.’” She sighs, her eyes running away from yours and focusing on her quickly diminishing cigarette. “I just want to see you do something for you.”

“I do things for me,” you defend yourself weakly. “I come here with you, don't I?”

“And even that is really for me,” she points out, rolling her eyes before glaring at you. She isn't wrong. You stand to lose a lot coming to Club Maestro when your husband is a staunch prohibitionist, but it’s the most you can do to nurture your friendship. You're lucky it suffices for Evelyn. “When was the last time you did something for you?”

Her question comes out in a tone so exhausted, it threatens to sober the entire joint right up. And it's the reason you find yourself wordlessly gesturing to your face—a silent question for your best friend. Do I look okay?

You suppose the least you can do to chip away at the debt you owe her for staying around is say hello then scurry on back, insisting you did exactly as she asked when she inevitably throws a tantrum about it. Those bright red lips slowly curve up into a wide grin, and she nods.

“You're perfect. The real bee's knees.”

You roll your eyes but smile anyway, thanking her quietly.

“Here goes,” you sigh, shrugging as you stand.

The bar the stranger and Mingyu are at isn't far from your table, but between the wall of drunk, pushy bodies and the dimmed lights, it still takes a great deal of time and effort to get over there. By the time you do, you grab the first spot available like a child grabbing the wall of a pool in their struggle to keep from drowning.

You huff a curse under your breath as you pull yourself closer, staking your claim on your small piece of real estate at the bar. When you're sure no one is going to shove you out of your space, you straighten your hair and dress once more, looking over your shoulder at Evelyn, who is silently and excitedly clapping. You suppress a smile as you turn back to the bar.

You didn't quite make it to the stranger, but you're only one couple away and you’re grateful for the chance to muster up the courage to make your way down. Ever the attentive bartender, Mingyu steps away from his friend almost immediately, fixing his charming, lopsided smile on you.

“Why hello, Miss Lady,” he says, using the nickname he’s given you.

It used to be Miss Mayor when he—horrifyingly—recognized you during your first visit. Then it became Miss First Lady, and now just Miss Lady—each nickname replacing the other every time you, Evelyn, or even his wife, Jihyo, scolded him for calling attention to you. You aren’t exactly worried about the person engaged in criminal activity dropping a dime on you. You think Miss Lady is conspicuous enough and after enough time, it's grown on you. 

“What can I get for you and Miss Evie?”

“Um, just me,” you say, smiling nervously. He doesn't question it, though, his easygoing grin staying put as he nods. 

Honestly, you hadn't thought far enough to actually have an order in mind. You just thought you'd waltz right up, say your quick and panicked hello, and march right back to Evelyn. Your excitement withers a little as you realize how out of practice you are.

Your husband courted you when you were young—naive enough to still believe everyone had good intentions, and inexperienced enough to blindly crave a passionate romance like the ones you saw come out of Hollywood. You never even got a chance to see what else was out there. Who else was out there. Saying you're out of practice might not even be accurate if you were never practicing to begin with.

“Miss Lady?” Mingyu calls, laughing a bit as he narrows his eyes at you playfully. “Where is that little head of yours off to, hm?”

You apologize, body jostling a little as people push past. “Sorry, just… zoning out. Been a long day,” you say. It's not inaccurate. Every day feels like a long day.

“Well, then let's get some moonshine in you and make it an even longer night!” he says, smirking mischievously.

You can never keep a smile off your face around Mingyu, and you understand well why Jihyo glows the way she does even with all the hardships she and her husband seem to have—hardships that force them into avenues that could end in a prison sentence. 

It feels impossible sometimes, looking at her and Evelyn and seeing lives you maybe could've had if you hadn't shacked up with the first swell that paid you any attention. The glamour drew you in, and now, even if your best friend seems to think you're the bee's knees, the last thing you feel is glamorous.

“I'll take a Bee's Knees, please,” you tell him.

Mingyu pounds the surface of the bar with his fist before shooting you a quick finger gun and winking. “Comin’ right up.”

“Thank you,” you say so softly, you’re not sure he even hears as he steps away to make your drink. You sigh after a few moments and steal a glance to your right to look at Mingyu’s friend. You’re startled to find the couple between you is gone, and without anyone in the way, he’s leaning most of his weight against the bar, brazenly staring at you. “Um—” you clear your throat nervously. 

His lips quirk up into the smallest of smiles. He nods at you. “Sweet drink.”

The stranger's voice is soft and deeper than you imagined it would be—almost a low rumble and barely audible over the sounds of Club Maestro. Still, you hear him like he's speaking right into your ear. He stands to his full height and slowly saunters forward, his hand dragging along the counter as he keeps his body angled toward you and takes the spot the couple left.

Every word you've ever known suddenly vacates the premises of your brain. From the table you were seated at with Evelyn, he was a handsome man—the most handsome man in the room as far as you were concerned. But up close, he’s breathtaking. You're not sure you've ever seen someone as striking, with his deep brown eyes, even deeper dimples puncturing each cheek, and a look on his face that tells you he's trying his best to be guarded but is miserably failing.

Because the only word you can use to describe the look in his eyes is intrigued. He rolls his lips between his teeth like he's trying to subdue a smile, and your muscles relax the longer you stare. He doesn't rush you to respond, seeming perfectly happy with just enjoying the moment. You immediately know that your plans of a fleeting “hello” have been dashed, and you can’t find it in yourself to feel anything but excited about it.

“My best friend told me I look like the bee's knees,” you finally say. “Felt fitting to order it.”

“I'm afraid she was severely understating her compliment,” he argues.

“Is that so?” you ask, rolling your lips between your teeth to suppress your own smile now. That just makes him grin freely, his dimples inviting you closer. You feel your knees wobble. You clutch the edge of the counter.

“Very much so,” he insists, nodding. “I'd say it's clear you're the most beautiful woman in this gin mill—probably in all of New York City.” 

You feel your cheeks immediately warm and you can't help the smile that takes over your lips. Something about his expression softens, his eyes turning to melted chocolate as they sweep your face for something.

“And unsurprisingly… a beautiful smile to match,” he tells you quietly. He watches you so carefully, like you might disappear under his very gaze if he does it in any other manner. Like he sees right through your attempts to be a normal person in here.

“Does that work with all the dolls you chat up?” you ask, your voice not as confident as you wish it would be. You can hear just how shaken you are, but if he notices it, he doesn't say.

He shakes his head. “Wouldn't know. I've only tried it on one pretty lady.” He smiles at you expectantly, and his dimples immediately become your favorite thing about his face. He tilts his head in question and asks, “Well? Is it working?”

“No,” you lie. He grins wider. “It isn't.”

“Eh, I’m a patient man,” he says nonchalantly, shrugging even though you know he knows it's working. “Got nothin’ but time.”

You open your mouth, unsure of what to even say to that because you weren't expecting such a forward conversation. In only a handful of sentences, this man has managed to make you feel desired for the first time in years.

“One Bee's Knees for Miss Lady!” Mingyu's voice booms before your brain can even begin to form words. 

The man reappears before you and slides the cocktail across the grain—a pale yellow drink with a lemon rind hooked on the rim, dangling off it in a perfect spiral. It's almost too pretty to drink, but you need something to fix the sudden dryness in your mouth and throat. You immediately take two healthy gulps large enough that both men raise their eyebrows at you.

“Thirsty,” you whisper, clearing your throat and trying not to wince at the way the liquor burns, even with all the honey and lemon. You quickly slide Mingyu a few bills—money you've quietly saved—and when he counts it and cocks an eyebrow at you, you jab a thumb over your shoulder in the general direction of Evelyn. “For the night's tab.”

He continues to stare.

“And then some,” you mutter over the lip of your drink.

“Thank you!” he says cheerily before tucking it into his apron.

“Thank you.” You take a tiny sip this time. “Amazing as always.”

“You can thank this guy,” Mingyu informs you, nodding at his friend next to you. You turn back to the stranger to find his eyes haven't left you, though he has a more easygoing energy about him with the speakeasy's owner here. “This is our supplier.”

It's funny hearing it so casually admitted in the safety of Mingyu's bar. When you hear about bootleggers and rum runners in the light of day, it's either whispered with scandal or muttered with a level of derision and disgust you don't think matches the crime. But in here, you can remember a time when your parents shared a bottle of wine at dinner on the rare occasion they didn't have to work. In here, you can almost reach out and touch a time in your life where you didn't have to hear about how alcohol—and not the failings of men—were ruining the country.

The man doesn't seem concerned with how you'll receive this information, and why would he be? You're a patron at a juice joint with a cocktail in front of you. His smile turns into a lopsided smirk now and he shakes his head. “I get Mingyu bathtub gin. He's the one who makes it edible.”

You cough at the idea of bathtub gin in your mouth and the men laugh. You should've known it was a joke; the liquor here certainly didn't taste low quality.

“He's being modest,” Mingyu says, rolling his eyes. “Seungcheol is the best rum runner around. Liquid gold, truly. Gotta fight all the other joints in town for his attention.”

A warm sensation spreads across your body and you're sure it's just the alcohol hitting your stomach, but it pairs well with finally knowing this man's name. You tilt your head at him and smile. 

“Seungcheol,” you repeat, testing how the syllables feel in your mouth. They taste sweeter than the honey sticking to your tongue. His mouth opens in a silent “ah” as he nods once and gives you a charming smile that lights the feeling in your stomach on fire. 

“Choi Seungcheol,” he confirms. 

He extends his hand toward you and gives you a look you can't quite decipher. It almost feels like a challenge. You stare down at it, large and halfway to you in line with the counter. You can see callouses along the top of his palm from where you are, and you picture him carrying heavy boxes of liquor into Club Maestro every night. You wonder how the callouses would feel compared to your husband's smooth palm—free of any blemishes that would suggest having ever worked hard in his life.

Your muscles tense at the thought of him.

It's just a handshake. It's what people in society do when they meet each other for the first time. Your husband shakes hands with dozens of people a week. Maybe even hundreds. This is one hand, one introduction—just a brief, customary greeting between strangers before they part again forever. Somewhere deep down, you're aware it shouldn't scare you like this; you know that feeling this way isn't normal.

But you've suffered a lot worse for a lot less. You know the consequences of a fleeting glance you didn't even notice you gave or a man looking at you a little too long—a man you never even noticed yourself. Even when all you did was avert your eyes to the ground and exist out in the world, there were consequences simply for drawing attention.

The idea of what could happen to you if you slide your hand into Seungcheol's makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand. The gravitational pull convinces you to do it anyway. His fingers close around your hand firmly but gently, and he simply holds you there, not even bothering to uphold the guise of shaking it. 

You stare down at your hands joined together, your left ringer finger glaringly empty like it always is in Club Maestro, your wedding ring tucked away in your nightstand to avoid any further speculation should someone think they recognize you. You like the way your hand looks like this. Plain, empty.

You state your name for him—the name you had before it became just another thing your husband took from you. You don't know why you do it, and it doesn't help the fear ravaging inside you, but you give him your maiden name. 

Seungcheol repeats it, same as you did, and he must like it because his lips press closed into a delicate smile, like he's trying to keep the taste of your name inside his mouth. 

“That’s a lovely name,” he says, making your heart violently lurch.

Aside from Evelyn, no one knows it—your maiden name. Everyone who does has already been methodically and meticulously cut out of your life. Now, someone knows you again, and that alone feels like an entire well full of hope you can bathe in—that there's a version of you in another living human being's mind that isn't tangled up with your husband. On top of that, he thinks your name is lovely. And after all these years, you'd forgotten to think that too.

“Thank you,” you say through the knot in your throat. 

You're not sure when, but at some point, Mingyu wordlessly slipped away to help his other patrons, leaving you to figure out what to say to Seungcheol next, an increasingly hard task given how captivated you are by his eyes.

You settle on: “Um, you don't want a drink?”

He shakes his head. “I don't drink on the job.”

“Oh… you're working right now?” 

“Mhm,” he nods, looking toward the back of the bar past Mingyu. Two men you think you might have seen before are bringing out new bottles of liquor from another room. “Just made a delivery. I have a few more.”

“Well, don't let me keep you,” you say almost too quickly. You're getting a little too lost in how exciting and nerve-wracking it feels to talk to Seungcheol, and you're not sure that you can step away from him unless he does it first.

He scoffs out a laugh like it's the most ridiculous notion. “I'd let you keep me for as long as you wanted. New York will survive without their precious alcohol for a night. Besides, that's what those two idiots are for.” He jerks his head at the two men. “Joshua and Vernon can handle things if you decide you're generous enough to keep me here a bit.”

You feel your cheeks warm. It shouldn't feel romantic—a criminal putting off his crimes just to spend some time with you. It does anyway.

“Why do you only visit once a month?” he asks suddenly.

The question takes you by surprise. “You've seen me before?”

“Yeah.” He nods slowly. “‘Course I have.” To his credit, he seems to think his next words over this time, but in the end, he says what he's thinking anyway. “Hard not to. I come here almost every night to oversee deliveries or take inventory. I always catch myself looking for the beauty in the blue dress.”

You look down at yourself, surprised that the dress you wear every single time you visit Club Maestro was memorable enough for him to take note of. It's the only colorful garment in your entire wardrobe—a relic from your old life that you were able to stow away in the back of your closet, safe from your husband's prying eyes—and it’s plain and outdated and unflattering compared to the fashion the speakeasy sees. You love it anyway. 

“More often than not… you aren't here,” he finishes, pulling your gaze back to him. “Not a big drinker?”

“No,” you admit, laughing a little because your cocktail is ironically almost finished from the sheer nervousness of being in Seungcheol's presence. “But I suppose I'm a bit of a homebody too. My friend and I—” you nod in her direction. “We do this as our girls’ night out.”

“And will your friend be mad that I've interrupted your one girls’ night out this month?” he asks, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

“Please,” you shake your head and scoff. “She's thrilled.” Your eyes widen a little at the answer, which feels like an admission that the two of you discussed him. You blame your cocktail. “Um, I mean—”

“Well then count me as grateful to her,” he says, smiling widely. “I've been too intimidated to approach you.”

“Approach me,” you repeat dumbly.

He hums. “I thought about all the ways I'd try and get you to give a nobody like me the time of day.”

You playfully glare at him but all he does is shrug and laugh. You sigh. “Well? Tell me about these grand plans of yours.”

He acquiesces easily, like vulnerability and rejection don't scare him at all. “Maybe I'd ask Mingyu what your order was and bring you and your friend some giggle water. Ask you to dance. Maybe I'd pretend to trip by your table and embarrass myself horribly and win your pity long enough to learn your name.”

You snort at that one. “Wow, a man willing to wound his own pride for me.”

He shrugs. “Don't give me too much credit,” he says, chuckling. “After all, it still took you getting to the bar for me to finally say hi.”

“I still commend you on your effort,” you tell him honestly. “How long have you been…” You gesture at the wall of liquor behind the bar.

He grins. “Breaking the law?” You nod, blushing a little. The mayor of New York City enforces prohibition laws with an iron fist, and his wife is currently lost in conversation with a rum runner. “Since it went into effect. I was already working at a small liquor distributor, so when we got shut down, I just took what I knew and ran with it.”

“And what did you know?” you ask.

“I knew all of our overseas connections, for one,” he lists. “I knew that they stood to lose a lot of business with prohibition, and were therefore willing to turn a blind eye to a lot.” He nods down at your drink. “And I know what tastes good and what tastes like shit.” 

You grin at his cursing. It’s impolite to talk like that in front of a lady, but there’s something refreshing about hearing it in public. There’s something respectable about a man doing that out in the open rather than behind closed doors, pretending like he never said a horrible thing in his life anywhere else. 

You take a sip of your drink and you nod. “Very tasty. Not-at-all bathtub gin.”

He laughs. “No, definitely not bathtub gin. Though… I do know how to bootleg liquor too.”

“‘Course you do,” you say against the lip of your glass, rolling your eyes and enjoying the feeling of pretending you know anything at all about this stranger. His smile is bright.

“Why do you say that?”

“Something tells me you're nothing if not resourceful.” 

“Guess you gotta be in these times, huh?”

You can't help the sigh you heave then. “Right.”

“Tell me about that,” he says like he just caught you saying something you shouldn't have. You look at him with confusion. “That sigh,” he clarifies. “What's got a pretty woman like you sighing like that? Tell me.”

“I can't,” you say regretfully. Not without shattering this illusion you know you're both under—the one where you're single and available to fall in love. 

“Okay,” he responds easily, not pressing the matter. “Then just tell me anything.”

It’s this request that finally reminds you who you are and who you’re expected to be—mostly, it reminds you who you can’t be. And you can’t be someone who tells Seungcheol anything real about yourself. You can’t be the woman he meets at a bar and sweeps off her feet and whisks her away, even if by some miracle that's what he wants to do. And you doubt he does.

You’re probably just someone he thought would be fun to pass a few hours with. You have a good thing at home. You have a roof over your head, food on the table, and the kind of security a lot of women vie for. 

“I should get back to Evelyn,” you say quietly. “Um. Girls’ night and all. I'll see you around, Seungcheol.”

You don't wait for his response. You don't even look up at him. You leave your drink on the counter and turn away, making your way back to your best friend, and you ask that she leave the topic alone for the rest of the night. Mercifully, she does.

That first conversation with Seungcheol seems to break a dam for him because he has no qualms about approaching you after that night. It starts with catching your eye across the bar and winking at you, smirking when your face gets hot. It grows to coming over with both of your regular drink orders—knowledge lent to him by Mingyu—and chatting your best friend up like he knows the way to your heart is her approval (and if the way her bright and infectious smile puts you at ease is any sign, it probably is). It even escalates to pretending to trip next to your table and using it as an excuse to say hello, then staying and making the two of you laugh for hours—so long that his employees have enough time to leave, make the rest of their deliveries, and return to kick back and relax.

He tells you stories about his eccentric clients and tales of deliveries gone wrong. He tells you about Joshua and Vernon, and the insane things they get up to while on the job. He has you laughing and gasping and shrieking and asking endless questions all night with his company, and it isn't until several months after that first night that you finally realize every single interaction has been his attempt to chip away at your resolve. 

“‘Scuse me,” Evelyn says, sighing and standing up. “Need to go to the ladies' room.”

“I'll come with,” you tell her, moving to stand up. You're startled back into your seat when she throws a glare at you.

“No need,” she practically barks before giving you a sickly sweet smile once more. “I'm a big girl. I'll be back with another round. The usual?” 

You shake your head, gesturing to your glass still half-full. Seungcheol follows your lead even though his drink has been long gone.

Evelyn shrugs. “Suit yourselves. Be back.”

“Subtlety really is her strong suit," Seungcheol comments, smiling down at his empty glass as he tilts it back and forth, the ice in it sliding around lazily.

You hum your agreement, shaking your head as you watch her retreating figure. “Conniving.”

“Wow, being left alone with me really that bad?” he asks, faking a wound to his chest as he brings a hand over his heart.

“No! No, it's not that! I'm just—I think—”

“So you do enjoy my attention,” he swings completely to the other end of the spectrum, that easy smirk finding his mouth again. 

“I…” You can’t say yes but you also find yourself incapable of lying. You very much enjoy Seungcheol’s attention.

Visit after visit, he never fails to find you, work to break down the walls you’ve built up in the time since you last came, and make you smile all night, your cheeks hurting by the time you’re home, resting your head against your pillow. Hurting so much, that you find yourself terrified of these foreign feelings and you spend the next month trying to steel yourself to face him again, just for him to break through as easily as he always does.

He’s also ingratiated himself with your best friend with master precision—so much so, he’s all she can ever talk about now.

Seungcheol is so sweet on you.

That man is carrying a torch for you.

How can you resist a man so kind?

Questions like that—questions Evelyn often asks—make you coil in on yourself in shame. You know she’s really asking why you’ve instead settled for a man so unkind when men like Seungcheol exist. What she's really doing is encouraging you to step out on your husband. 

The rum runner snorts at your loss for words. “Have I proven myself yet?”

“Proven yourself…?” you repeat, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“Have I proven to you that I'm not just another drugstore cowboy using lines on you?” he asks, eyes never leaving you. “You got any plans to stop runnin’ soon?” 

“Running…” you repeat again.

“That's what you're doing, isn't it?” he asks, setting his glass down and tucking both hands into the pockets of his pants. He nods at you. “This whole thing you got going on—being cold to me for the first hour I'm here, ultimately being unable to resist my insanely captivating charm—” You roll your eyes. “—and raising my hopes just to put me back at square one the next time I see you… you're runnin’.”

“I'm not running,” you say confidently. Because you should be running, and this is not what it should look like. Running properly would be never returning to Club Maestro and giving your husband no reason to suspect you've been doing anything he considers unsavory of a lady.

“Then what are you doing?” he asks, eyes studying you carefully. They sweep across every bit of your face slowly, but like always, there isn't a trace of irritation on his face. It's been months of this, and he's still every bit as patient as he's always been. 

“It's just…” you shrug. “It's complicated. I'm not in a… place in my life where I can do…” you gesture at him and the space between the two of you, “whatever this is.”

He grins. “So you agree, there is something here.”

You groan, and let your head fall into your hands briefly before pushing your hair away from your face exasperatedly. “You're exhausting.”

“Hey, you tell me to stop, and I'm out of your hair,” he says, pouting a little. “I'm persistent but I know what ‘no’ means.”

You stare at the table, begging yourself to just tell him to stop. It would make your life so much easier—a lot less scarier and riddled with anxiety. But it would also take one of the already few joys you experience in life. Now that you've experienced Seungcheol's attention, you're selfish enough to want to keep it, even if you know you shouldn't.

“I like you, Y/N,” he says, his mouth smiling softly around your name. He makes it sound so beautiful. “I think I've proven that ‘complicated’ doesn't scare me. So be complicated. I don't know anything about you.”

You don't know much about him either, but he's right; he knows absolutely nothing about you other than your name. 

“If complicated is all I get to know about you, I'm fine with that. It's something. And I'll take anything you give me.”

You exhale slowly, feeling your resolve breaking. It took a lot of strength to ignore a man as handsome and charismatic as Seungcheol. You're realizing now it's impossible to outright reject his affections. You don't even want to. If it were up to you, you'd give him anything he asked for.

But it's exactly that kind of thinking that landed you in your marriage. 

“I can't give you much. Anything at all, actually…” you say, hearing the regret in your voice loud and clear. 

"You've already given me your time,” he points out. “A seat at your table. The privilege of being one of the dolls on girls’ night.” You smile against your will. “Give me one more thing. No matter how small. I'll find a way to make it last me years.” 

Your face gets hot at the words, and if you weren't already sitting, you know they would've knocked you clean off your feet.

You blow out a breath. “Like what?”

He smiles widely at the question, taking it as a step forward. “Like… a dance.”

“A dance?” you ask like dancing at a club with a live band and a dance floor is the most ludicrous idea you've ever heard.

He smiles like it endears him. “Mhm,” he hums easily. He nods at the dance floor, which is packed with couples swaying to the singer's voice. “Do you know how to?”

You nod. “I do…”

“Then, do you want to dance?” he asks again, patience not-at-all waning. 

It's a point of no return, you think. You say yes to this dance, and you say yes to him holding you. You holding him. You say yes to prolonged periods of doing nothing aside from staring at each other. You say yes to wanting this.

You're fully aware you're about to cross lines that could break bones. Your body stiffens a little at the thought, but one glance around and it's clear no one is paying either of you attention.

“Okay,” you whisper. He hears you loud and clear, though, standing and offering you his hand. You stare at it, just like you did the first time you contemplated shaking his hand, and he gives you that same look—a challenge.

You slip your hand into his, your other quickly grabbing your drink for courage, and he gently pulls you to your feet. He quietly leads you to the dance floor until you're somewhere you've never been in at Club Maestro: the thick of it.

Seungcheol leads your free hand to his shoulder, your other cradling your cocktail against your chest like a lifeline. He rests his hands at a respectful height on your waist, and he nods at you.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

It's such a simple question, but it almost knocks you off your feet. You used to find assertiveness attractive. You used to think being led and having decisions made for you was romantic. Is this okay would've had a younger version of you rolling your eyes and teasing Seungcheol for being a pushover. Today, at the age you are now, you think it's the kindest question he can ask you.

You smile and nod. “It's perfect.”

He returns your smile and wordlessly begins to move, your bodies swaying to the music, and although your paranoia continues to gnaw at you, you feel safe. With a wall of bodies around you, and Seungcheol's kind eyes and light hands, you feel safe. 

“You're very nice,” you say, feeling silly as you do. It's such a juvenile compliment, but you think it's the best one you can give. Nice is all you really want these days. 

Seungcheol doesn't seem to think it’s juvenile, though, because he smiles warmly. “I think you're very nice too.”

You purse your lips into a flat smile and nod once, tucking away another opinion of you Seungcheol has that your husband would probably never agree with. 

“You'd think I told you you were insufferable the way you look right now,” he tells you, laughing a little. You join him, shaking your head.

“Sorry,” you mutter. “Guess I'm just not used to… this.”

“If ‘nice’ has you flustered, I better not get started on all the things I think about you.”

You nod quickly. “Yeah, best not.” He laughs louder at that, and you smile, enjoying the way you can feel the sound under your fingertips. “You're so forthright about your thoughts and feelings. It's a little intimidating.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot,” he says, honest as always. “I got tired of being anything other than uncomfortably honest after a while, though. Life feels too short to spend it keeping up appearances.”

You bite your lip, feeling ashamed for the truth you're omitting every time you see him. “Right.” 

All you do with your life is keep up appearances. At fundraisers, galas, rallies, all the things a mayor's wife is meant to make an appearance at. You go and you smile and you wave and you pretend to be a happy, loving wife when you don't know the last time you felt happy outside of Club Maestro was. Even then, you'd be in denial to pretend like part of that isn't because of the man whose arms you're swaying in right now.

“Tell me anything,” he says gently, fingers curling against your waist ever so slightly. 

It's the same request he had the very first night you met—the one that sent you scurrying away. His efforts to wear your walls down must have worked because you feel like you've long missed the chance to run away from him.

So instead, you take a sip of your drink and you tell him about the version of you he's already received parts of—the you who still has the maiden name he knows you by. You tell him you're an only child of two parents who were never home because even with both of them working, there was always just enough food to feed the three of you. You tell him you started working under the table yourself cleaning homes before you graduated high school. 

You tell him that even with all the struggle, you still had a happy childhood. Your parents were embarrassingly and loudly in love, and where money fell short, you were showered in adoration. You were always lucky enough to find yourself in good company, making friends easily and often. You don't tell him about the single unlucky time you misjudged what you thought was the best company you were ever going to get.

“And now?” he asks, a soft smile on his mouth.

“What do you mean?”

“You've told me all about you in the past tense. Who are you now?” Another simple question that makes you lose cognitive function.

“I'm… here,” you say simply. “I'm here… with Choi Seungcheol…” His smile widens. “And I feel… happy. I don't care to know who I am beyond that right now.”

He nods. “I'll take it.”

“Your turn. Who are you?”

He laughs, shoulders shaking under you. “Loaded question.”

“Oh, so you do see how hard it was to answer,” you point out jokingly. It takes you by surprise—the joke. You don't unwind long enough to do a lot of it at all. He laughs louder, nodding.

“Yes, I see the spot I put you in,” he admits and apologizes. He bites his lip once his laughter fades, and he stares at a spot above your head while he thinks of what to tell you. You think you can see the same hesitation and fear you felt.

“Courage?” you ask quietly, tilting your glass toward him. “I hear they get the best liquor in all of New York here.”

He looks down and smiles at the cocktail between your bodies, both amused and touched by the offer. He accepts, one hand slipping off your waist to take your drink. 

“I got it,” you say quickly, shaking your head as you bring the glass to his face. 

The surprise is plain on Seungcheol's face, but he schools his expression quickly, letting his hand find your waist again, this time a little lower than before. He nods his consent and you press the glass to the pink of his lips gently, tilting until you watch the yellow disappear into his mouth. Your eyes fall to where his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. You discreetly press your thighs together.

He nods when he's had enough and you take the drink back, taking a sip of your own, eyes unable to leave his as you do. His gaze flicks down to your mouth for only a second, but it's enough to lift the corners of it. 

Is this who you are? Not a woman who cheats on her husband so publicly because you're forgetting that bit the longer you sway here with Seungcheol. But a woman who flirts? So openly and freely? A woman who forgets herself and what's expected of her long enough to joke and laugh and tell someone she hardly knows about how she sometimes woke up in the middle of the night to her parents dancing in the living room after a long day of work—a lot like this—while their favorite record played on their dingy, secondhand player? Is this who you are? Because you were tied down by your husband before you would've ever known.

“I was raised by a single father,” Seungcheol starts, licking his lips free of whatever honey and lemon remains. “Similar to yours, he worked like a dog. He died when I was 15.”

You close your eyes briefly and nod, your free hand instinctively dropping to his chest to rub it in what you hope is a comforting motion. It must be because his hand comes up to close over yours, squeezing gently as he holds it over his heart. You try not to stumble or stare at your joined hands, forcing your gaze back up to him. You can tell he doesn’t realize what he did because he's looking past you like he's somewhere far away.

“I was old enough by a lot of men's standards to start working, so I did. Left school, worked the factory line until I worked my way up into contracts. Luckily enough, Mingyu kept in touch from school, and we've been inseparable since. At least until he met my cousin.”

“Who's your cousin?” you ask. He gives you a light glare before looking around with an annoyed expression on his face. You choke on nothing. “Jihyo?! Jihyo is your cousin?!” 

He sighs, nodding. “Yes. Her mother is my dad's sister. They live across the country, and Jihyo showed up on my doorstep one day, demanding I house her. Something about finding herself.” 

He rolls his eyes and you laugh, choosing to be delighted by the information rather than focus on the fact that he was still left to fend for himself at 15 despite having family.

“She and Mingyu did invent ‘inseparable,’” you giggle. Jihyo likes to pretend Mingyu forced her into this life of crime they have, but everyone knows that woman can't be forced to do anything she doesn't want to. If not for its lucrative business, she did it because she's helplessly in love with Kim Mingyu.

“They sure did,” he says, feigning irritation, but after a moment, he smiles. “They're perfect for each other. Even if I hated the idea and punched Mingyu when I first found out.”

You flinch. “You punched him?” you squeak. 

He nods, smiling at the memory, unaware of the alarms going off in your head. “Mhm, I found them petting heavy on my own couch like they were opening up a zoo.” Your lips twitch in an attempt to keep from laughing. “And I punched him. Pulled my punch, though, and all he did was laugh at me.”

You bite your lip and nod, letting the information sit with you. It doesn't matter anyway. Seungcheol, whether or not he had a propensity for losing his temper, would go on with his life, and you would go on with yours, unaffected by his inclination to punch friends.

“Then…” he shrugs, looking around the room. “Prohibition happened, and we all had to adapt. So now, I'm here.” His eyes come back to you and life fills them once more. “I'm here, and I'm also happy.”

You hum. “Good.”

He realizes now that he’s holding your hand against his chest, and he looks down at your intertwined fingers, smiling softly when he sees it’s real. His other hand takes more real estate on your waist, arm snaking around you and bringing you closer to him so that his body flush and warm against yours. Your dress suddenly feels too thin on you, and you think if he concentrates hard enough, he’ll be able to tell just how badly you want to let him take it off you.

“I feel like it’s my responsibility to let you know Evelyn got back to the table five minutes ago and has been staring at us like we’re her divorced parents getting back together,” Seungcheol informs you. You snort, not bothering to turn around to glance at her; you know she’s doing exactly that. 

“Again, subtle,” you sigh, shaking your head. “Should we rejoin—”

“Nah,” he says quickly. “She said it herself. She’s a big girl.”

You nod, biting a smile down. She did say that. So you choose to ignore your best friend staring holes into your back and enjoy this moment with Club Maestro’s rum runner. For once, you try your best to follow Evelyn’s wishes and do something for yourself, and right now, there’s nothing more you want to do than sway your body with Choi Seungcheol’s while he looks at you like you’re the only woman in the room. 

And you do that for exactly two more songs before your time together is cut off by three loud bangs upstairs. The musicians stumble on their beat and you flinch against your dance partner, your glass slipping out of your hand and tumbling to the floor, soaking the front of both your dress and Seungcheol's shirt on the way down.

“Shit!” you gasp. “I'm sorry!” 

You don't even get a chance to start wiping at his chest because the bouncer bursts through the door of the cellar and shouts one word at the top of his lungs, the sound cutting through the music and the quiet murmur of conversations easily. 

“RAID!”

The chaos that ensues is immediate, the crowd erupting into shouts of fear and confusion. The dance floor becomes an uncontrollable wave of patrons desperately trying to find an exit that doesn't involve coming face-to-face with an officer.

The first thought that crosses your mind is that anyone in a uniform will immediately recognize the mayor's wife. The second is Evelyn. You turn toward the table you were at to see if you can catch a glimpse of her, but it's already abandoned, the chairs you were in all  haphazardly thrown to the ground. Before you can start scanning the room for her, you're shoved hard, taking what you think is an elbow to the ribs.

Your pained shout is drowned out as you're ripped out of Seungcheol's grasp by several people trying to push past, and before you know it, you're being carried away, caught in the riptide of panic. It doesn't take long before you lose your footing and you're thrown to your knees. You scramble to get up but take a foot to the side as someone trips over you. You recover just to get a foot on your hand. And suddenly, you're curled up into a ball, hands protecting your neck and head as you're battered by the stomping of panicked people who don't even realize you're there. You squeeze your eyes shut the way you always do when something hurts.

If you die here, you don't think it's the worst way to go. Realistically, your chances of dying bloodied and bruised were always high. Doing so at the hands of strangers who didn't know they were doing it somehow seems better than any other way.

“Come on! Up, up!” 

You hear his voice before you can register you've been yanked upright. When you open your eyes, you're met with Seungcheol's chest. He has an arm around you, holding you tightly to his body as his other makes sure to keep everyone else away from the both of you.

“Evelyn!” you shout in his ear.

“I saw her leave!” he shouts back, pushing through the unforgiving crowd as he tries to make his way to the stage. “Went through the bar exit!”

Your relief is overwhelming, the tension in your shoulders releasing as you let Seungcheol haul you to an exit. The trek is a blur, and you only process you've been successfully led out when the cold night air bites at your face. Seungcheol doesn't release you though, instead taking your hand in his as he pulls you away from the building.

“What about Mingyu and Jihyo?!” you shriek.

“They know what to do!” he assures you, pulling you into a run as he navigates the streets, full of patrons running every which way as cops begin to descend. You lift a hand to your face to hide it as you follow Seungcheol.

He safely leads you into an alley where what you assume is Seungcheol's Ford is parked. He opens the door for you, situating you in your seat before he quickly shuts it and makes his way to the driver's side.

The engine roars to life and he peels away from Club Maestro, refusing to let up on the accelerator until he's several blocks away. When the night outside the car is quiet enough that all you can hear is your labored breathing, Seungcheol slows to a stop in the parking lot of a diner. Before you can ask him a stupid question like “what now,” he's out of the car and opening your door. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, brows furrowed as his eyes scan your body for injuries. Of all the things you thought he would ask or say, that wasn't one of them.

When he doesn't find anything, he gently takes your hands in his and guides you to lift your arms. You wince at the tender spot on your ribs, and the pain is familiar enough that you know you're going to have a nasty bruise to hide for weeks. His eyes dart up to your face in alarm, and when he registers the pain on it, his face contorts in anger.

“I'm sorry,” you breathe, trying to tamp down your expression of pain. 

“What are you sorry for?” he asks sharply. You try not to flinch but fail. He takes pause, watching you carefully as confusion takes the place of anger. He lowers your arms but keeps your hands in his hold, his thumb rubbing your skin in soothing sweeps back and forth. “How bad is it? Should I take you to the h—”

“No!” you say quickly, shaking your head. “No. No, I'm fine, I promise. Just a little sore. I'm okay.” He says your name like he's known you for years and can tell you're lying. “I'm not going to the hospital. I'm going home.”

You slide out of the car, ignoring the perplexed look on Seungcheol's face. “I'll take you home.”

“No, it's okay.” You try to sound nonchalant but even you can hear the slight tremble in your voice. There is no way Seungcheol is taking you within a mile of your home tonight lest you want the both of you dead. “You should check on Min—”

“I told you, they're fine. We have a plan for things like this,” Seungcheol says, his concern growing more and more palpable by the second. You feel like you could choke on it. “Please let me take you home. I'll even drop you a block away if you don't want a stranger seeing where you live.”

Your heart breaks at how sweet he's being. Still, you shake your head. “No, it's not that. It's… I just have to go, okay? I have to find Evelyn and—”

“Then we'll find her together!” he insists, showing you even more of his stubborn side than before. “I won’t sleep tonight—or maybe ever again—if I let you wander off into the night with an injury after a raid.”

“That's a bit dramatic.” He glares at you and you groan. You step toward him and take one of his hands in both of yours. It's warm and grounding and you try to take note of every curve and callous, knowing this will be the last time you get to have this. “I promise you, I'm fine and I will get home in one piece. I wish I could explain, but… I just can't, okay? Please get home safe, and please take care of Mingyu and Jihyo.”

You move to step away—where, you have no idea. Probably into the diner to try and get the smell of alcohol off your dress before calling a taxi service to get you home. But Seungcheol doesn't let you go, his hand clinging onto yours. You turn back and are struck by the forlorn expression on his face. He still has that look about him—the one that makes it feel like he's trying to be guarded but failing miserably. It makes all the fight leave your body, and you feel your arms go limp as you stand there staring at each other.

One gentle pull has you up against his chest.

“Why does it feel like you're planning on never seeing me again?” he asks quietly, like if he asks any louder it's a curse that will come alive. You open and close your mouth a few times, but nothing comes out. “Tell me it's not. Tell me it's not the last time and that I'll see you after this. Tomorrow. Or the day after. Or whenever. Even if you need the cover of night and Club Maestro to do it. I'll go wherever and whenever you need us to be.” You're astounded at how easily he reads you. At how unafraid he is to be honest. “I'll say goodbye tonight… but only if you tell me I'll see you again.”

You lift his hand to your face and press your lips to each of his knuckles, struggling to keep from crying as you steel yourself to lie. You smile against his skin and nod. 

“You'll see me again, Seungcheol,” you say, voice surprisingly steady. “Maybe tomorrow. For lunch, out in the light of day, away from the club. Okay?”

He smiles but it doesn't reach those beautiful eyes and he nods once. You think he knows you're lying because he doesn't ask for your phone number and he doesn't offer you his. He just pulls you into his chest and hugs you tightly against him. You feel his lips against your temple before he pulls away. 

“You better get home in one piece,” he says in a threatening voice that doesn't instill the fear of god in you. Instead, it makes your stomach warm again.

You nod. “You too. I'll see you.”

“Soon, okay?” he asks, voice still hopeful. 

You agree and walk away and into the diner. When you look out the window one more time before entering the restroom, you find him standing right where you left him, watching you. You lift a hand half-heartedly. He doesn't return the wave, simply smiling.

When you come back out of the restroom, your dress soaked and wrinkled from your shoddy wash job, the Ford is gone, and so is the man of your dreams.

When you were only 19 and freshly hitched, your husband had only one other married friend, and his wife was named Rosie. You saw the couple often and even spent time with Rosie by yourself, shopping together, having tea, and confiding in one another. In fact, you're sure you're the only person who knew just how sad Rosie could get—whole days where she couldn't get out of bed, couldn't speak, couldn't be a human being, let alone a wife. 

You weren't sure what to make of it, but you did your best to be there for her, making meals and delivering them, providing distractions in the form of gossip, or just sitting in silence if that's what she needed.

Then, one day, she just… disappeared. Your husband said she went crazy—“hysteria,” he and his friend called it. Like it was some kind of contagious disease. They told you she was sent away for help, and it wasn't until you relayed this to Evelyn that you understood it meant being committed in a mental asylum. 

You're sure it was very helpful for Rosie to be sent away on her own and for her husband to be remarried within the year, but good wives didn't make observations like that. Good wives accepted new wives with open arms and used them as reminders of how replaceable they were. 

You still don't know what became of Rosie. You suppose you could've found out but you didn't. Maybe you knew all this time what it meant, and maybe you knew all this time that it could happen to you, so you kept your head down and you tried not to be sad or unmotivated or “lazy” or “difficult” or “emotional” or any of the other words used to describe Rosie.

But you still went to Club Maestro and you still let Seungcheol into your life because you didn't think that what happened to Rosie could be more than just a horribly misguided attempt at rehabilitation—that it could be leveled against you as an actual punishment. 

You hadn't even been able to say a single syllable before he had his hands on you the night you got home with your dress still smelling like liquor and honey.

“Did you think I wouldn't find out immediately when the fuzz spotted my wife at the biggest raid in the city?”

“You thought you were slick, sneaking around with a thug behind your husband's back?”

“Did you let him fuck you in the bathroom like the fucking whore you are?”

Your screams went ignored by your own staff and neighbors for hours, and by the end of it, you were locked in a room, left in a pile on the floor with nothing but a single threat: “You shape up now, or you're getting committed. And I'll find myself a wife who understands her blessings.”

You're not sure how long it's been since then—how long it's been since you lied to Choi Seungcheol's face and promised you'd see him again. It doesn't really even matter because already, you feel like you’ve lost something you’ll never have back. You spent several months resisting his charms and trying to convince yourself that you didn't want him, and for what? A body so black and blue, you haven't been able to rise out of bed without help. 

If anything, your husband's wrath should've made you regret ever seeing Seungcheol—ever going to the speakeasy at all. Instead, it had you wishing you'd done something that maybe would've actually warranted the reaction you got. 

Nothing you ever do could've deserved that. You think it's Evelyn's voice you hear dismissing your thoughts.

But didn't you deserve it? You knew going to a juice joint as the mayor's wife was a bad choice. You knew letting the rum runner flirt with you so openly was dangerous. You knew dancing in his arms the way you were was inappropriate. You knew what would happen. Maybe you did deserve a bit of punishment—not because of what you did but because you stupidly did it anyway, knowing what it would cost you.

You spend more time unconscious than not, and when you are awake, you don’t bother to open your eyes or do anything other than beg any god that's listening to be put back to sleep. The time goes by with brief glimpses of staff helping you, darkness engulfing your room, sunlight taking its turn, and helplessly crying when your body refuses to sleep anymore than it already has.

You don't think you've known pain quite like this, and still, somehow all you can think about is Seungcheol and his dimples. The thought of him on the dance floor—all yours for that brief moment—is the only thing that helps you forget how broken you feel.

There are two soft knocks on the door, and you groan from under your covers, not quite able to muster up the energy or the pain tolerance to open your mouth and speak. 

You hear a key slide into the lock and the door opens with a soft creak when your visitor—probably the kitchenmaid with another weak attempt to get you to eat—doesn’t get a proper response. The only people with the key are the housekeeper and your husband, the latter of which deemed it appropriate to lock you in this room despite the fact that you couldn't sit up on your own, let alone walk to the door and leave the house.

Your visitor steps in quietly, closing the door behind them softly and turning the lock once more. 

In the silence, you think you fall asleep again, but you feel a hand rest against your shoulder and realize it's only been seconds. The touch is so featherlight, but you shudder at the sensation anyway, whether out of pain or fear, you’re not sure because you don’t even know where your pain comes from anymore.

Someone whispers your name and it sounds awfully like Evelyn. You don’t think you’ve heard her voice in quite some time. You know you meant to call her the morning after the raid, but of course, you couldn’t. You don’t even know how long ago that morning was. It could have been yesterday. It could have been a year ago. All you know is you miss the sound of it. 

“Ev…?” you croak under your covers, unable to shrug them off. “Can’t…” It takes everything in you to speak, but your voice miraculously squeezes through the ring of bruises around your throat, coming out dry and raspy. “Can’t… go to… Club M…” you don’t bother finishing your sentence. 

You’re too tired to go, and you’re 100% sure you’ll die in this very bed at this point. What a silly thought for Evelyn to even have at all—to come here and ask you to go out. 

“We’re not going to Maestro,” she says with an urgency you don’t think makes sense. “Come on, get up.”

“No.” Then, a thought comes to you. “How…s—how’s S’ngcheol…”

The covers slip off and you hear a soft gasp. Her voice is watery the next time you hear it. “I’ll fucking kill him.”

“Cheol…?” Why would she kill him?

“What?” she doesn’t wait for you to brace yourself for the pain and respond. “You have to get up. Please! We don’t have a large window,” she speaks.

Evelyn makes sounds that have you thinking she’s rummaging through your things—clothes and toiletries your husband had thrown at your body in a rage before locking the door on you. You don’t know how many hours it had been until he finally allowed the housekeeper in to clean you up and get you into bed. 

“He left for a fundraiser on the other side of the city,” she explains. “Come on, babe, you have to get up.” When you don’t respond to anything she’s saying, she abandons whatever she’s doing to come back to your side. “I'm going to help you up, okay? It's going to hurt a whole lot, but I promise you'll be safe after.”

Safe.

The word gets you to open your eyes for the first time in… you're not even quite sure. It's dark, your best friend backlit by the moonlight streaming in through the open window behind her. Your eyes still feel swollen, but you find you're able to open them much more than you could the last time you did.

It takes you too long to try to produce words to express your confusion because Evelyn apologizes preemptively before slipping an arm under you and lifting you into a sitting position. You gasp as your pain increases tenfold, your ribs and your stomach screaming in protest as Evelyn forces you to stay up. A foreign sound escapes your mouth as you squeeze your eyes shut once more, willing the pain to go away. It doesn’t listen. 

Evelyn grasps your hand in hers, letting you grip it as hard as you need to without complaining. 

“You’ve got this,” she whispers, supporting your weight as you lean heavily into her. “I’ve got you. We’ve all got you, and we’re getting you out of here, okay? You never have to come back. All I need you to do is try, and I promise I’ll do the rest.”

“What… what….”

“Come on, babe,” she whispers, moving your legs gently and slowly until they’re hanging off the edge of your bed. 

“He’ll…” you wince as you swallow, your throat distracting you from the rest of your body. “He’ll kill you.”

Evelyn scoffs. “I have Kim Mingyu and Choi Seungcheol and my fucking husband, and you think he can kill me?” she barks out a laugh as she starts to loosen her grip on you, testing to see if you can hold yourself up. She finds the answer is no and curses. 

“Where is he,” you gasp. 

“At a fundraiser,” she repeats. “He left a few minutes ago, and—”

“Not him,” you say, shaking your head. You open your eyes when you think you can stomach the pain and find Evelyn crouched down in front of you, hands on your shoulders as she holds you upright. Her eyes soften with understanding and you’re thankful you don’t need to explain. 

“He’s here,” she says quietly, smiling at you with tears in her eyes. “He’s here, Y/N. And so are Mingyu and Jihyo. They’re outside ready to bump off your piece of shit husband if he comes back early. Even Jun is helping,” she tells you, voice sweetening around her husband’s name. “He’s at the fundraiser with him and when he sees him leaving, he’ll call your house, let the phone ring once, and hang up as a warning. I’ll explain, but only once you’re out of here, okay?”

Tears slip from your eyes and hers spill over too. She shakes her head. 

“I’m so sorry I left you here with him all these years,” she says, voice cracking. “I’m sorry. But I’m here and I’m getting you out, okay?” She pauses this time, allowing you the near minute it takes to speak through your tears and the ache in your throat. 

“Okay.”

In the end, you never hear the phone ring. Partly because you fall back asleep as Evelyn leaves you to pack your things—and you stay asleep—but mostly, because by the time that lone phone ring echoes off the walls, you’re long gone from the prison you’ve been calling home for years. 

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[joshujin]

tainted tides (part two)

series masterlist • part one • part two • part three 🔞 18+, minors do not interact 🚨 minors and blank blogs will be blocked

🍸 Brought to you by @studiosvt's Puttin' on the Ritz Collab

The wife of a politician is good for very few things—how flawless and beautiful and desirable you are being paramount to all. Every fundraiser, every gala, every luncheon, you're at your husband's side, the picture perfect portrayal of who New York City expects their First Lady to be. What they don’t expect is their prohibitionist mayor’s wife to be spotted at a popular speakeasy the night of the city's biggest raid. Or for her to go missing shortly after.

PAIRING: rum runner!seungcheol x fem!reader WC: 9.1k TAGS: angst, hurt/comfort, sweet baby angel cheol CW: domestic violence (not b/w mcs), thoughts of regular violence including but not limited to kidnapping and torture and murder, mildly possessive language from seungcheol (let’s just remember this is the 1920s ok), use of “wife-beater,” visit series masterlist for complete warnings! A/N: rum runner!seungcheol save me!!!! save me rum runner!seungcheol!!!!!!!!!!

IT'S BEEN TWO WEEKS. The longest two weeks of Seungcheol’s life.

He wasn't a fool. On some level, he knew that you were lying. Your unshed tears and the regret and sadness in your eyes made it clear your goodbye was meant to last longer than a single night. And still, he let you go. 

What should he have done? Refuse to let you out of his car? Force you to let him take you home? All he had were options that would've scared the life right out of you if almost being trampled to death hadn't already. He thought he was doing the right thing, but he can't shake the feeling that it was the biggest mistake of his life. 

The first time Seungcheol saw you in Club Maestro was almost a year ago at this point. You were in that blue dress of yours, except you had white gloves that came all the way up to just the bottom of your sleeve. You wore them on and off, and he could never guess why some nights were glove nights and others weren't—mostly because it seemed like your pattern never followed the weather either. 

You were seated at what would become you and your friend's usual table, specially reserved for you by Jihyo, who took an immediate liking to both of you. Your friend seemed to be doing her best to engage you in conversation, but you seemed almost… Honestly, the best word Seungcheol can use to describe it is catatonic.

There were dark circles under your eyes, your lips seemed permanently downturned, and you spent the entire night either nervously looking around or staring at the table in front of you. Then, it was time for Seungcheol to make a delivery at another juice joint, so he left.

The next time he saw you, you had more life in you. Your skin glowed, you were smiling a bit more, and you were actually talking to your friend. You had nights like that—where you acted a little more carefree. But he noticed you never let go all the way. No matter how much you smiled, it never reached your eyes. No matter how hard you laughed, there was an edge to it. And no matter how you tried to blend into the crowd and take up as little space as possible, you were still the most beautiful woman in the city to Seungcheol.

And when he saw you smile for the first time—really, truly smile—the night he properly met you, he felt life split into two. The time before you and the time after you. 

He didn't realize the time after you would look like this, though. If it had been up to him, it would look like taking you on dates, having your hand tucked into his elbow everywhere you went so everyone knew you were his girl, buying you a record player alongside the record your parents used to dance to. Maybe being the parents dancing in the living room in the middle of the night someday.

Instead, it's been two weeks and no one has heard from you or seen you—not that there are many people he can turn to—and he has no way to reach you. He thought he was doing the right thing by not pushing. And now he has no idea if you're okay because he was too chicken to ask for your phone number.

Now he has no idea if he'll ever see you again.

“Uh, boss,” Vernon's voice cuts through the silence and he clears his throat. Seungcheol looks up at him. “Are you ready?”

He looks down pointedly at his hand resting on the steering wheel, as their boat floats in the middle of the ocean, bobbing and not a single mile closer to getting back to shore since Seungcheol took the wheel. He knows how this must look.

Every day, they rise before the sun, take the boat 14 miles out to meet a foreign vessel outside of U.S. waters carrying all kinds of liquor, pack as many barrels of it as they can onto his boat, and transfer everything back to shore. They've done it for years now, and they've become so good at it, they can do it with their eyes closed.

Seungcheol stalling at the wheel like this is not part of their routine.

“Should probably head back before the patrols come around,” Vernon says, looking around for the telltale lights that signal the Coast Guard approaching. At 3 a.m., there's nothing but inky blackness.

But he taught his crew well; never linger around after a pick-up. So he nods and forces himself to focus on the job at hand, doing his best to push you to the back of his mind so he can get this batch of liquor back and ready for dropoff.

He succeeds, getting the liquor smuggled onto the shore and safely into the warehouse, where Joshua is ready to receive it and start logging where every last bottle is going while Vernon runs QC to make sure everything looks good. 

After that, his success is short-lived. As soon as he leaves Joshua and Vernon and the rest of the crew to their jobs, his mind is on you again. Club Maestro hasn't reopened yet after the raid, and he knows you're not frequenting any of the other speakeasies in his territory. So where have you been? While his life continues on as normal as possible after a raid like Maestro's, what have you been doing? 

Everything he knows about you is something you shared about a past version of yourself, as if you were recalling someone you don’t even remember anymore. You told him you liked to read often and that you passed the time between shifts cleaning people’s homes as a teenager by reading a book called The Awakening by a Kate something. You told him you carried the book everywhere, reading and rereading it and keeping it concealed because your parents had warned you that others would think ill of you for reading something so “immoral.”

He laughed. “What was it about?”

He enjoyed the way your cheeks turned a deeper pink than they already were, swaying in his arms. “Hard to explain.”

“Try.”

“You’re pushy, you know that?” you laughed. He smiled, fingers curling against your waist. He wanted to hold you so much closer than this. He wanted you to tangle your limbs with his and just the thought of it made him feel drunk. “It’s about a woman who wakes up.”

He nodded. “Mmm, The Awakening. Literally.”

You grinned. “Mhm,” you hummed right back. 

“That’s all you’re going to give me? Are you really going to make me go out and read?” he asked, knowing full well he would do it just to get whatever tiny piece of you he could get his hands on. 

“Reading is a wonderful pastime, Seungcheol,” you said but acquiesced anyway: “It’s about a woman who is trying to understand her place in the world. I think that’s pretty straightforward.”

“And you? Have you found your place in the world since then?”

“I’m not sure.” He counted that as a positive. It gave him hope that maybe that place could still be somewhere near him. 

Is that what you’ve been doing? As Seungcheol carries on like nothing has happened—like his life doesn’t feel like it’s come to a jarring halt—are you reading The Awakening for the millionth time? Or does that memory belong to a version of you that doesn’t exist anymore? 

This is what his life has looked like for the last two weeks: struggle to get through his morning tide work, distract himself with menial tasks at the warehouse, then spend the day running his cover business and resting before doing nighttime deliveries—all while torturing himself with thoughts of you. He tortures himself and replays every little thing you’ve ever told him, whether by accident or because you were feeling generous, and he tries to piece together what your day could possibly be looking like. And then he feels like he’s lost something so inexplicably precious to him, it knocks him breathless.

The routine stays uninterrupted for the most part, until he arrives at the office that serves as the front for his rum-running—a trucking and cartage company—and finds Evelyn seated on the first step, a silk scarf wrapped around her head and big sunglasses covering her eyes. She's dressed in pajamas with a large trench coat haphazardly thrown on, and despite the relief he briefly feels that your best friend is alive, everything about her sets alarms off in Seungcheol's head.

“Evelyn?” Her head snaps up like he accidentally just woke her. She jolts up onto her feet, not bothering to straighten out her appearance as she does nothing short of dive at him. 

“Seungcheol!” she gasps, sounding relieved as she wraps her hands around his forearms. “Oh thank god.” He raises his eyebrows at her. “I need your help.”

“What is it?” he asks, his heart dropping. “Where is she? Is she okay?”

Evelyn opens and closes her mouth several times before shaking her head and shrugging. “I… I don't know. But I don't think she is.”

“How could you keep something like this a secret from me?” Seungcheol asks, his voice booming beyond his control as he throws the door to Jihyo’s cafe—their daytime business—open. 

He glances at the single customer seated at the window, and without having to say a word, they scurry out of the establishment. He locks the door behind them and turns back to his cousin, who’s standing behind the counter with wide eyes.

“And what the hell do you think you’re doing coming into my cafe like that?” she asks, scoffing as she throws a rag over her shoulder. “Runnin’ off my customers, acting like—”

“I know, Jihyo,” he cuts her off, throwing himself into a seat across the counter from her. She frowns at him, very clearly taking pause at his mood. “I know she’s married and I know who she’s married to and I know you let me bumble around like a fool after a married woman.” Each instance of the word married sends Seungcheol reeling even further. 

“Oh” is all his cousin has to say. 

“Yeah, oh.”

“Seungcheol… it’s…” Jihyo sighs as he glares at her. “It’s complicated.” There’s that word again. Complicated. “And it wasn’t my secret to share.”

He knows that. Logically, he knows that no one who knew—not Jihyo, not Mingyu, not Evelyn—could have told him this information until you were ready to share it with him, if you were ever going to be ready to share it with him. If he thinks about the last time he saw you, he knows you were never going to be. And he knows that his anger is misplaced; he’s not angry at Jihyo or anyone else. He’s not even angry with you. 

He doesn’t care that you’re married. If he were a better man or less stuck on you, he might care. He might walk away and call it dodging a bullet. But he’s not a better man and he’s as stuck on you as he’s going to get. He doesn’t care that someone beat him to you because if he can still take you, you were never any other man’s to begin with. He’s not angry at you for that. 

He’s angry with himself for letting you go that night. He knew. Something inside Seungcheol knew he was making a mistake, and he still let you out of his car and into the night by yourself. He still let you go home to face that monster on your own, and now, even your best friend has no idea if you’re alive. 

“I know that,” he sighs, defeated. “I know. I’m sorry.” Jihyo’s eyebrows rise at the apology. “Evelyn stopped by the office—said her husband works for the DA and helped track me down. You don’t think he’ll use that information to come get me, do you?”

Jihyo scoffs and shakes her head. “Nah, she used to bring that Sheik around before she replaced him with Lady. He’s the Real McCoy—bit of a cake-eater, but he’s good people. Even gave us a tip or two when the fuzz would be in the area.”

That’s all Seungcheol needs to hear. He runs a hand down his face in exhaustion and sighs. “Ev hasn’t heard from Y/N since the night of the raid.”

“I hear that’s common…” Jihyo says like she’s testing the waters to see exactly how much Seungcheol knows. 

“She always found a way to call her back within a few days,” he says. “It was easier with her because their husbands run in the same circles. Not a peep in two weeks.”

Jihyo hums, offering nothing else. Seungcheol can see the panic that seeps into her eyes, though, confirming her attempt to hold your secrets in case Evelyn didn’t give him the full picture. His cousin is nothing if not loyal.

“I know the sanctimonious bastard is a wife-beater, Jihyo,” he tells her bluntly. His next words make his stomach turn violently. “Ev’s afraid she’s dead.”

Her inhale is sharp. Her walls come down and she leans over the counter. “What?” she hisses. “What do you mean dead?” He glares at her, silently begging her not to make him repeat it. “Okay,” she says, understanding. The wheels in her head visibly turn. “Okay, okay, okay. Um, where is Evie right now?”

“Went back home. Said her husband was seeing the mayor today and might have something to report to her,” he mumbles, uninterested in Evelyn and her cake-eating husband. 

Since she left his office, Seungcheol has been struggling to refrain from marching right up to the mayor’s house and shooting him square in the face. Not that he even knows where you live. He groans, letting his face fall into his hands. This is what he gets for being so nonchalant about current events. He should have recognized you. He should have known who you were. He should know where the mayor resides. Most of all, he should’ve known to keep you from leaving his car. 

He thinks he should've seen the signs—your on-and-off usage of those gloves, the way you fidgeted any time someone mentioned Evelyn's husband or prohibition or the mayor himself, the way you closed yourself off at the sheer suggestion of violence. But he didn't, and he doesn't think he'll ever forgive himself for it.

“Okay,” Jihyo says again, her eyes not fully focusing on anything as she thinks about what they need to do next. It’s something he appreciates about his cousin; he doesn’t need to tell her what he needs. She just helps, and he’s thankful for it because he doesn’t know how to tell her he desperately needs you to be alive. “Kim Mingyu!” she bellows suddenly, startling Seungcheol in his seat. He rolls his eyes when he hears the man stomping up the stairs from the cellar immediately. 

“I didn’t do anything!” he shouts as he climbs the stairs. “Whatever it is, it wasn’t me! I have been in the cellar, slaving away and cleaning all day! There’s no—oh. Hey.” He appears at the door behind Jihyo, dumbfounded when he sees Seungcheol seated at the counter with no customers in the cafe. He looks over to the door to find it locked and frowns. “What’s going on?”

Jihyo turns and asks, “Do you still know that kid? Came to the juice joint almost every night at one point? The one who kept getting fired from—”

“The housekeeping agencies,” he finishes. “Yeah. If you’re thinking about hiring him, I’m telling you now, there’s a reason they keep firing him. He’s all charisma, no work ethic. Complete waste of—”

“You think he’d know who his replacement at the mayor’s house was?”

Mingyu stops dead in his tracks and glances at Seungcheol again. He nods slowly. “Yeah. I reckon he would… why…?”

Jihyo waves an impatient hand at him. “Seungcheol knows everything. No need to be clammed up.”

“What?! You kn—”

“Yes, I do. Thanks for telling me, by the way,” he hisses at the man. “Some best friend you are.”

“Aw man, come on—”

“Kim Mingyu,” Jihyo says, commanding his attention immediately. “This is important. Go find the kid—”

“His name is Chan, baby.”

“Go find him!” she shrieks, losing her patience. “And get him to tell you who replaced him and see if he knows how we can get in touch with them. Okay?”

“Okay, yeah,” he agrees easily. “But what’s going on?”

Seungcheol slumps in his seat, his forehead meeting the coolness of the counter. He thinks he’ll lose himself in his rage if he needs to explain what’s going on. Evelyn explained it in very few words. He “has a temper.” He’s “difficult at home.” He’s “not a gentle man.” Seungcheol thinks if he needs to repeat even a handful of any of those words, he’ll find himself in jail before he can find you.

“We’re going to rob the mayor,” Jihyo sighs, walking over to the door and flipping the sign to closed. “That’s what’s going on.”

It takes Mingyu a measly hour to get the name of the current kitchenmaid and another hour for this Chan kid to get him a phone number and address. By the time night falls, his cousin and best friend have a promise from Chan’s replacement to meet them at their cafe after her shift ends at midnight, and by the time the sun rises, Seungcheol has thought up about a thousand different ways he can murder your husband. 

Rum-running isn’t gang-related. At least Seungcheol’s isn’t. Sure, he has a crew that he keeps armed at all times, but that’s to keep his workers—all of them brothers at this point—safe in case the fuzz messes with them. And sure, he has a territory of speakeasies he’s the exclusive supplier for, and sure, that has resulted in some skirmishes with other rum-running groups. But he doesn’t engage in nonsensical violence, he doesn’t threaten anyone, doesn’t terrorize whole neighborhoods, doesn’t go out of his way to seek power or fight with the police. In fact, several speakeasies run on credit to him, and does he ever come around waving a gun in people’s faces and demanding they pay? No. He just goes about his day, trusting he’ll be paid, and he always is. 

He built his businesses—real and fake alike—from the ground up, and in the process, created a family he’d do anything to protect. That’s all. Nothing gang-related. Seungcheol has his corner of New York, and that’s good enough for him. He’s never thought of committing any other crimes that didn’t involve getting the people in this city drunk. And up until tonight, he’s definitely never thought of himself as someone who would want to kidnap, mutilate, and murder anyone. 

There’s a first for everything. 

Mingyu hadn’t wanted to go into the details the kitchenmaid provided them. Even without those details, everything he and Jihyo told Seungcheol and Evelyn was enough for all four of them to feel murderous.

He keeps her locked in a room only he and the housekeeper have the key to.

It’s pointless, though; she hasn’t been able to rise out of bed on her own since the night of the raid.

She’s not doing well, but he won’t let any of us bring her to the doctor. He won’t let us do anything other than feed her and bring her to the toilet.

She won’t eat or drink water. She doesn’t speak. She just… sleeps.

You were locked in that house, withering away, and for two weeks, Seungcheol had been trying to go on about his life. For two weeks, Seungcheol had stupidly wondered if you were reading or listening to your favorite records or out with Evelyn and your friends, and for two weeks, you were caged up and left alone to die like a dog. He feels like a fucking idiot. 

“You look like you’re going to murder someone,” Mingyu comments, leaning against Seungcheol’s Ford casually, like they aren’t outside the mayor’s house, waiting for a sign from Evelyn, who entered several minutes ago, to help get you out. 

“How can you watch someone go through that and not do anything?” Seungcheol mutters, glaring at the sprawling home before him, an understated display of old money if he’s ever seen one. Mingyu tilts his head at him. “How can you watch a man beat a woman—beat her—within an inch of her life and do nothing about it?” he asks, voice cracking around the knot in his throat. He squeezes his hand into a fist to keep from shaking. “How can you continue to cook and clean and do your job, knowing there’s someone dying in the next room?”

“Hey,” Mingyu says softly. “We don’t know that she’s—”

“She’s fucking dying, Mingyu.” His voice is trembling and it’s not a sound he’s used to. “She hasn’t been able to get out of bed in two fucking weeks. She’s been left to die, and no one in that godforsaken house is helping her.” 

His best friend stays silent, and he knows that Mingyu is thinking the same as he is; there’s no way either of them—or anyone else they know—would’ve let this happen to anyone in their vicinity. 

“Some people don't have the privilege of choosing,” he offers pathetically. “They probably thought they had no choice.”

“They had no choice,” he confirms. “The only option was to help her.” He shakes his head, sniffling as he gets increasingly upset. “They let him put his hands on her and they looked the other way. He tells them to keep her from the doctor and they obey. What is wrong with them?”

“They're scared. He's powerful.”

“He's an asinine halfwit.” Mingyu doesn't argue. “God,” he gasps, the knot in his throat growing larger and threatening to bring him to tears. “What would have happened if Jihyo hadn’t thought to get in touch with the kitchenmaid? Huh?” His breaths come out quick and labored, his chest heaving erratically as he thinks about it. “What would’ve happened if we just kept assuming she was fine?! What the fuck would have—”

“Hey,” Mingyu interrupts his spiral, one hand squeezing his shoulder and the other pressing against his chest, forcing his breathing to slow down. “I know. I know. We all know what would have happened, but we never have to think about that again, okay? Because Evelyn came and got you, and Jihyo got in touch with the kitchenmaid, and we’re here now.” He looks around pointedly. “We’re here and we’re getting her out. We never have to think about what would have happened if we weren’t because we are. Okay?”

He waits for Seungcheol to nod. He does, blinking rapidly to keep tears from slipping out of the corners of his eyes. He nods again. “Okay.”

“We all have parts to play,” he reminds him. Evelyn gets you. Mingyu and Seungcheol keep watch. Jihyo acts as their messenger. The housekeeper prepares the house for your absence. The kitchenmaid helps pack for you. Parts to play. “So you suck it up now and you play your part and we get her to safety. And when that’s done, you and I can have a big, old cry over a bottle of rum. But not until then. Alright?”

Seungcheol nods, taking a deep breath. “Okay,” he says again. “Okay. I’m fine.”

“Yeah. You are,” he affirms, releasing his hold on him when he’s sure he’s not going to start hyperventilating again. He leans back on the Ford once more.

After a few moments of silence, Mingyu side-eyes Seungcheol, a motion he notices in his peripherals.

“What,” he says, voice deadpan as his heart continues to calm down.

“I just haven’t ever seen you like this.”

“Like what?”

“In love.”

If it were any other time, he’d laugh and play it off, too shy to admit something so vulnerable to anyone but you. But when he thinks of what you’ve been through in the last two weeks, he doesn’t have it in him to pretend he hasn’t stupidly allowed himself to fall for you over the months he’s spent trying to break down your walls. He didn’t know time with you had been so limited. He really believed it when he told you he had all the time in the world to wait. It turns out you didn’t.

“I feel like it’ll eat me alive sometimes,” he finally says after several beats of silence. 

Mingyu smiles. “Oh, it will. Just let it. The sooner you give in, the easier your life will be.”

“You don’t think it’s weird? That it’s only been a few—”

“Nah,” he waves a hand dismissively. “Given her circumstances, the club was the only way you could have courted Lady. Those few months were probably everything to her.” He pauses in thought and laughs. “Besides, I knew I loved your cousin the second I met her.”

“Ugh, okay, enough.” He fights the twitch of a smile on his lips. “You’re so henpecked, it’s disgusting.”

“Look around at where we are right now,” his best friend points out. “It runs in the family, cousin.” 

Seungcheol doesn’t dignify him with a response. He’s right; all he really has is a single dance. No dates, no proper courting. Just a dance. And still, he’s here, helping your best friend break you out of this hell hole with plans to bring you back to his home. His home, where you’ll be safe while you heal with women who love you and you can decide whatever it is you want to do with your life next. 

He meant it when he said he would take whatever you gave him and make it last for years. Just a dance, and it’s already more than enough. 

“What’s taking so long…” he mutters impatiently. 

“It’s only been 15 minutes,” Mingyu says, glancing at his watch. “The kitchenmaid said she and the housekeeper are preparing Lady’s things so Evelyn can bring them with her. They—”

“Shut up,” Seungcheol interjects, spotting movement near the front window of the house. All the lights are off, but he’s a master at this, having to scan a wall of black every morning to make sure the Coast Guard isn’t sneaking up on them during their trades. 

Sure enough, a few moments later, the front door opens and Evelyn’s head pops out. She motions to Jihyo, who’s stationed on the front porch, ready to yell into the house if either Mingyu or Seungcheol signal the mayor’s arrival to her. Your best friend whispers frantically at his cousin. He recognizes the signs of distress on her face, but he also knows her well enough to understand that she’s trying to mask it for Evelyn’s sake. 

“Stay here,” he says quickly, deciding he’s had enough waiting. “If you see sign of the mayor, grab Jihyo and just hightail it.”

“What? No, I’m not leaving you all here to—” He doesn’t wait for him to finish, running across the street to meet Evelyn at the front door. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, breathless not from the movement but from the worry of anything going awry. There’s no way he can leave you here no matter what happens tonight. It’s either you’re leaving with them or he’s staying and facing your husband. “What’s going on?”

Both women startle at his sudden appearance, annoyance coloring Jihyo’s face. “You were told to wait—”

“No, this is perfect,” Evelyn cuts in. “Seungcheol, I need you to—”

“No,” Jihyo says like she’s been insisting the answer to whatever she needs is no since Evelyn opened the front door. She would be wrong. Seungcheol doesn’t care what Evelyn needs; he’ll do it if it means getting you out of the house faster. “I don’t want my cousin seeing her like this. I can help!”

“He was always going to see her like this!” Evelyn hisses, throwing Jihyo an incredulous look. “She’s staying at his house!”

“Yeah, but we’re taking care of her!” she insists, gesturing between her and Evelyn. “He doesn’t need to see—”

“Oh, dry up, Jihyo,” Seungcheol mumbles, waving his hand and gesturing for Evelyn to step aside to let him in. “I’m a big boy. I promise I’ll be fine.” She glares at him, crossing her arms. He sighs. “Evelyn’s right. I was always going to see her. There’s no world where she’d be living under my roof and I didn’t have eyes on her.”

Jihyo’s resolve crumbles before his very eyes. “Just… let me know if you need something. And don’t tell me to dry up ever again.” He almost snorts at that.

He nods, giving her shoulder a squeeze.

“She fell asleep,” Evelyn explains as she steps aside to let Seungcheol into the mayor’s home. And it’s painfully clear whose home this is. 

Seungcheol knew from the sheer size that the house was opulent and grand in ways he could never comprehend—not quite the mansion he imagines your husband can afford but passed on in a failed attempt to be more relatable to his constituents. Nothing about this house is relatable. Not the ornate iron gates, not the carved lion statues flanking the steps leading up to the porch, and certainly not the grand foyer Evelyn lets him into. 

It’s dark, save for the faint glow of the light in the kitchen as two of your helping staff prepare something for you. He sees everything clearly anyway. There’s a massive crystal chandelier hanging over their heads, white veined marble flooring underneath their feet, and so much space surrounding them, he thinks his voice would echo if he could find it right now. 

“She unfortunately won’t wake up—don’t worry!” she interrupts herself when he gives her a look of alarm, “She’s just exhausted. I don’t think her body can handle being conscious for more than a few minutes at a time.” 

She says it almost casually, but Seungcheol can see plainly how hard she’s trying to keep it together. She leads him through the foyer and to a room on the first floor, toward the back of the house—a room he assumes is usually for the help. She rests a hand on the knob and turns to him before opening the door. 

“It’s… it’s bad,” she warns him, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s really bad. And I… I know how you feel about her. It’s horrible, and it’s going to scare you.” Seungcheol inhales deeply, trying to make room in his body for the courage he desperately needs. “Please, please, please just don’t lose it in there, okay?” she asks. “Don’t react, don’t try to wake her. Let’s just get her out and leave, okay?”

He nods. “I’m with you, Ev,” he reminds her. “We get her out and the rest can wait.”

She huffs a breath of relief and nods. She turns back toward the door and he can see her visibly steel herself to reenter the room. She opens the door, and hurries him in. She nods at the body on the bed—too small to be the woman he’s kept in his heart for the last year. You're laying on your side with your head closest to the door and your legs hanging off the edge of the bed, as if you were getting ready to stand and decided to take a nap instead. 

“Carry her out to the car,” Evelyn whispers as she gestures to the bags in the corner. “I’m going to take these, then check in with the housekeeper before we leave.”

Seungcheol nods and tries not to hesitate as he approaches the bed, crouching down. He takes a breath and wipes your hair away from your face, and when he sees you for the first time in two weeks, he can’t help the tears that immediately slide down his cheeks. He doesn’t recognize you. He doesn’t recognize you at all, and if it weren’t for the confirmation of several members of your staff, he would question whether they had the right house or person. 

Your skin is too dark—mostly purple, even black in some areas. Some of your muscles swell unnaturally. Your breaths are too shallow. Your lip is split wide open, the only thing keeping it from bleeding being dried blood itself. Your eyes are deeply bruised, your nose is bent at a painful angle, and when he sees the ring of bruises around your throat, he understands why Evelyn wanted him to keep his composure. He bites his lip to keep from either sobbing or throwing up, he isn't sure. 

He doesn't realize his hand is shaking as violently as it is until he lifts it to softly graze your cheek. Seungcheol can’t see your face anywhere he looks. But this person has your hair. And she has your hands—the same ones you held him with, and the same ones you held your drink up to his mouth with. And that’s enough to get him moving. 

He gently inspects your body, trying to find the best way to lift you without aggravating any of your injuries. When he has to accept there isn't one, he takes you into his arms, holding you for a moment before he lifts.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against your temple even though he knows you’re not conscious. “This is going to hurt.”

And he’ll make sure it’s the last time a man ever causes you pain.

The agreement was that Evelyn would be at Seungcheol’s home every weekday, only retiring to her own home when Jihyo was ready to take over after a day at the cafe. Then, once Seungcheol returned from tide work, he’d relieve Jihyo around 6 a.m. and cover for both women until Evelyn came back at a prompt 9 a.m. On weekends, Jihyo would live out of his house full-time, taking care of you while Mingyu continued to prepare Club Maestro for reopening. 

That worked well for about a week before Seungcheol singlehandedly decided he needed to be home more often. Instead of covering for three hours a weekday, he left most of his rum-running responsibilities to Joshua and Vernon and his cover business to another crew member familiar with faking invoices, freeing him up to be home with you almost all day aside from tide work. 

Even then, Evelyn and Jihyo continued their shifts, resolute in seeing your care all the way through. 

She needs women, Seungcheol, Jihyo had told him. She needs women who will remind her she’s safe. He agreed, and it kept him at bay. Still, he kept his schedule free. When he wasn't out on the water with Vernon, he was home, trying not to bother whoever was currently taking care of you for constant updates, and somehow, hovering was easier than distracting himself with his job.

Seungcheol was addicted to your recovery. At first, he lingered outside the door to his second room—an office he and Mingyu quickly refashioned into a bedroom before they broke you out—because he was worried sick. Jihyo and Evelyn told him to stay away; they told him you could only stay awake for a handful of minutes at a time, and when you were conscious, you made it clear you didn’t want to see him. They told him that all you wanted was for him to know how thankful you were. It hurt Seungcheol at first, but he understood that if it were him, he wouldn’t want very many people to see him in the state you were in. In fact, he’d probably only let Mingyu see and help him.

So he only ever saw you when it was his turn to take care of you, and you were always asleep during his early morning shifts. But when he noticed your bruises beginning to lighten, the swelling subsiding, and your skin filling with life again, he was hooked. He told Joshua and Vernon not to expect him back outside of boat runs any time soon. He hurried the women into his home every day and made it clear he was at their beck and call, cooking for them, ordering his own crew to do personal errands for them, and making sure they were as comfortable as possible. The better they did their jobs, the faster you recovered, and he saw evidence of it every morning. 

After three weeks of proper recovery at Seungcheol’s, you were able to stay awake for an hour or two at a time. Your appetite made a return, and if you mentioned to either of your friends that you liked something he made, he cooked it until you all begged him to stop. And during his shifts, he could see glimpses of you again, without the injuries completely marring your features. 

Today, the cut on your lip is an almost completely healed scab, the swell of your broken nose (graciously reset by Jihyo since neither Seungcheol or Evelyn could stomach doing it) has gone almost completely down, and you’ve gained a good amount of weight—almost as much as you lost. You sleep on your back, something you’ve had to get used to since your arm is in a sling, and you look so peaceful and alive, Seungcheol could cry. He pulls your curtains closed before the sun can rise and bother you, and he settles into the armchair in the corner, pulling a blanket over himself. 

Tide work with Vernon this morning took longer than usual thanks to a patrol boat that came a little too close for comfort, and after a warm shower and his breakfast, Seungcheol feels more tired than usual. He reaches for his book, though, determined to stay awake during his shift in case you wake up. You never do when it's his turn to be in here—as if even your unconscious body knew he was present—but he’d be damned if he’s asleep the one time you do. 

He’s thankful for that stubborn attitude when not even 30 minutes later, he hears your voice for the first time in what feels like years. 

“There is no way you’re reading The Awakening right now, Choi Seungcheol.”

He flinches so hard, the book falls to his lap, effectively losing the page he had been reading and rereading for the last five minutes in confusion. He looks up to see you laying on the side with your healthy arm, curled into a small ball so that you’re facing him more fully at the foot of your bed. Your blankets are pulled up to your chin and you’re staring at him with a small, knowing smile. He thinks he should fall to his knees and thank you. For what, he has no idea. For being alive, probably.

“I, uh…” he stammers, blinking rapidly to ensure you aren’t a figment of his imagination. 

You giggle and it’s music to his ears. He finds himself smiling so widely, his cheeks hurt. He beams at you, his book and whatever non-response his brain had come up with long forgotten as the two of you stare at each other—a small luxury he never thought he’d be afforded ever again. At some point, your smile fades and you sigh, pulling the blankets around you tighter. 

“Thank you, Seungcheol,” you whisper, voice heavy with emotion. 

“Don’t,” he says, shaking his head. “You don’t need to.”

“I want to,” you tell him, wiping at your face. “This is… this is everything to me, you have no idea.”

He scoots to the edge of the chair and nods at the foot of your bed. “Can I?” 

You snort. “It’s your bed. Your house.”

“As long as you’re here, it's yours too. And you can be here as long as you want,” he tells you. Forever even, is what he doesn’t add. “The bed, the room, the rest of the house are all yours. You’re allowed to tell me no, okay? You’re allowed to have your own space here.”

You stare at him blankly for a few moments before silently nodding. “Come over.”

He moves to the foot of your bed, careful to keep a good distance from you. He’s happy to be this near to you at all. This is all he’s dreamed of for the last several weeks, and now that you’re here, awake and talking to him, he has no idea what to say to you. But the tears in your eyes push him to talk anyway. 

He starts with “I'm sorry.”

You frown and shake your head, laughing at yourself when your tears continue to spill over. “You don't need to be.”

He wants to reach forward and wipe your tears away, but he hears Jihyo in his head. You need women. You need to feel safe, and although Seungcheol would never dream of hurting you, he recognizes that a man reaching over the bed to touch your face is probably the last thing you want right now.

“I am anyway,” he says. “I wish… I wish I never let you leave that night.” He massages his palm to keep his hands from trembling. “I felt like something was wrong and I wish I had just asked you.”

“Nothing you could’ve said or done would’ve kept me there,” you tell him honestly. “I was too scared.” You visibly hesitate to say something else, but in the end, you tell Seungcheol, “I still am. And if it weren’t for Evelyn and Mingyu and Jihyo… and you.” You inhale sharply and wince when something in your body—your ribs, he assumes—causes you pain. “I would’ve never found the courage to leave. 

“I needed friends. I needed friends and I needed help, and I didn’t know how to ask for it. Even if you had asked me what was wrong, I would’ve just lied.” You shake your head. “There was nothing you could’ve done. Everything you can do, you’re doing now. You didn’t need to get me, house me, help me heal. And you did anyway.”

Seungcheol doesn’t know how to explain to you that he did need to do everything he did and continues to do. From the moment Evelyn showed up on his doorstep, there was never any question that he would come for you if you needed him. He doesn’t know when it happened, but some time over the last few months, your happiness and well-being became intrinsic to his. It’s not something that needs to be thanked or acknowledged; he just needs you to be okay.

“To be frank,” you continue, “it’s already more than I deserve.”

Seungcheol frowns. “Don’t say that.”

“What?”

“Don’t say you don’t deserve to be healthy and happy and cared for and safe,” he says, trying to get a grip on his voice when he notices it rising. “You deserve all of that and more.”

You purse your lips and it’s clear you didn’t realize the weight of what you just said. Seungcheol, on the other hand, is beginning to realize the things your husband did to you that needs to be undone. Like convincing you you weren’t allowed to take up space or that you didn’t deserve it to begin with. Making you feel like you weren’t worth enough to have friends and people who care for you. You don’t need Seungcheol to help undo any of that for you; he knows you can do that by yourself, and you can do that with Evelyn and Jihyo. But if you let him, he’ll spend every waking moment helping you pluck any remnants of the mayor out of your life.

“But… I lied to you for so long,” you remind him. “I lied and I let you in anyway because I’m selfish,” you start to ramble, wiping at your face so roughly, Seungcheol grimaces. He makes slow movements as he comes closer on the bed to you, and when you don’t show any signs of fear, he gently removes your hand from your face, holding it in his loosely in case you want to take it back. You don’t. “I’m selfish and I wanted you even though I was already married, and I lied and cheated and—”

“Shhh,” Seungcheol rubs circles into your hand. “I’m not mad at you for any of that. You had every right to keep whatever you wanted from me. It was a matter of life or death for you. I don’t blame you for any of it, okay? Besides, none of that means you deserve anything that happened to you. Nothing you could ever do would’ve deserved what happened to you.” Your eyes flick up to meet his, and your breathing starts to slow. 

“I thought of you,” you say suddenly, tears flowing freely as you give up on wiping them away. Your grip on his hand tightens, and he tries to remember how it feels because he knows he’ll be thinking about it for months—the feeling of you, alive, and in his hold again. “I thought of you every day. Every moment I had to be awake, I thought of you.”

His heart stutters. It’s probably the most honest you’ve been with him.

“I thought I was going to die in that room, Seungcheol,” you confide in him. 

It breaks his heart into pieces—thinking of you alone, laying in your own blood waiting for death to come. He wipes his own tears away. He sees you here, healthier and on the mend, but the sheer thought of how close you were to no longer existing instills a fear in him he thinks will swallow him whole if he turns his back on it for even a moment. 

“I thought I was going to die, but every time I thought of you… and that dance floor and those goddamn dimples.”

He lets out a laugh of disbelief. “My dimples?”

You nod, smiling wider. “Every time I thought of you, I felt okay again.” He fights the urge to curl up into a ball and cry. The last thing you need is to console him. “I thought that… even if I died, there was someone out there who had the memory of who I really am with him. The person I am without…” You shrug and he knows you mean your piece of shit husband. “If I died, at least there was someone who really knew me, even for a moment. And I felt okay.”

“Well, please feel less okay about dying,” Seungcheol pleads, pressing the heel of the hand you aren’t holding to his eyes. “That’s no longer an option for you.”

You laugh, squeezing his hand and bringing it to your chest. He lets his other hand fall from his eyes and looks at you, holding his arm like it’s anchoring you. “I know. And I’m grateful for that. All of it. You, mostly.”

He shakes his head, feeling like your gratitude is misplaced. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I’m sorry I didn’t come looking. I—”

“Stop,” you scold him, your voice surprisingly strong. You give his hand a playful shake. “I never expected you to. I didn’t expect anyone to.” 

That’s almost worse, Seungcheol thinks. He wants you to live a life where you know you can depend on someone to come when you need them to. And when it is your time to go, he wants you to expect to be surrounded by loved ones. He doesn’t want you to think you deserve to die alone. 

“Well, you should expect it. Because I would have,” Seungcheol says resolutely. “I would have come. I hesitated to look for you because I wasn’t sure it was what you wanted. I wasn’t sure if it was another wall to break down or… you just didn’t want my attention. But I won’t hesitate ever again. No matter what you need, no matter where you are, if you need me, I’m there. I’ll always come for you. I promise.”

You smile and he knows you trust that he’s telling the truth. “I know. You showed up when it mattered the most. You did come for me. I know you always will. Thank you.”

“Thanks for not dying,” he says pathetically. He’s never felt more like a little boy in his entire life. 

You nod. “No problem. Any time.”

He laughs at that, shaking his head at the fact that your sense of humor is still intact after everything. After a few moments, you close your eyes, a soft smile still on your lips. Seungcheol moves to slip out of your grasp but you hold him tight. 

“I’m not sleeping,” you say. “Don’t go. I’m just enjoying the moment.”

“That… makes me really happy.”

“Hm? Why is that?”

“Enjoying the moment means you feel safe here. And you are. You’re safe here, Y/N,” he tells you. You open your eyes once more. “You’re never going to feel anything like that ever again. You never have to go back. And you’re not stuck in this room either,” he says, desperate to make that clear. “I want you to be comfortable to go wherever you want… even if it’s not in this house anymore.”

You grin. “Kicking me out already?”

“No!” he exclaims immediately, not caring that it’s just a joke. “Like I said, you can stay here as long as you need to. I want you to stay here as long as that’s what you want.” You can stay forever and make this your home and go to sleep every night knowing he’ll keep you safe. “I’m happy you’re here. I’m happy you’re awake. I’m happy we finally get to talk.”

You sigh regretfully. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, no, that wasn’t meant to—”

“No, I know,” you shake your head. “I… the thought of you seeing me the way I was—even though I know you probably already had… it made me feel sick.” He doesn’t say anything, letting you process your own feelings before speaking. “I spent so much time being one person with you at the club—being a version of me I miss and still want so badly to be. I didn’t want you to see any other version. I didn’t want you to see me broken.”

“Good thing I didn’t,” he says. “And I never will. You’re a lot stronger than you give yourself credit for. No way in hell a bastard like him could ever break you.” You smile. “I’ll take whoever you give me, any day you give her to me. Whether that’s the version of you in the club or the version of you that reads The Awakening a thousand times or whoever else there is to meet. Whether you feel whole or barely pieced together. I’ll take it. Okay?”

You nod. “Okay.” 

You close your eyes again, your thumb caressing the skin of his hand as a reminder that you aren’t asleep and that you don’t want him to go. He smiles, taking in all of your features, thankful he can recognize you again. Thankful you’re alive.

“I like you too, Seungcheol.”

“Hm?” He raises his eyebrows, wondering if he accidentally said one of his thoughts aloud.

“That night, right before you asked me to dance,” you remind him. “You told me you liked me. I was too scared to say it back, so I’ll say it now.” You open your eyes and look right at him. “I like you too. And I unfortunately can’t give you more than that for the time being because… well…” You look at yourself meekly. “I have a lot of things to work on. And a lot of baggage to unpack. But I thought you should know.”

“I’m afraid my confession is a bit outdated,” he admits. “I don’t think ‘like’ is a strong enough word to express exactly what I feel about you anymore.”

You seem to remember how forward he is with his feelings about you and your cheeks turn that pretty pink that used to be dulled by the dim lighting in Club Maestro. Here, on the second floor of his home with the gloomy sunlight peeking through the curtains, he sees how much more beautiful you are in the light of day, and he feels so lucky he gets to see it.

“I don’t need or want anything other than for you to feel safe here,” he says. “You take your time working on whatever it is you think you need to work through, and know that Evelyn, Jihyo, Mingyu, and I are all here to help. Don’t think you need to rush through anything because none of this is to win you over and get in your good graces—I just want you to be okay. Don’t focus on anything else. I’ll continue holding a torch for you either way.” 

His honesty overwhelms even him. After the last few weeks you’ve had, he doesn’t feel like he has time to waste when it comes to making it clear just how much he feels for you. 

Your eyes widen and it’s clear you don’t know what to say. 

So instead of forcing you to find something to respond with, he smiles. “You hungry?”

“Um… yes, but enough with the seaweed soup, okay?” you say, laughing a little as you release his hand to sit up in bed, a feat that you couldn’t perform on your own just two weeks ago. You still hold your breath and wince as certain aches aggravate you, but you’re doing so much better. “I tell the girls I like something once and suddenly, it’s all I’m eating.”

He scoffs. “My mistake, cooking things the lady likes. Let me make you something abhorrent.” You roll your eyes as he stands. “Toast and jam?” You chuckle and nod. 

“Toast and jam is perfect.”

“Great. I’ll be back.” He returns to the chair, grabs the book he was reading, and rests it on your nightstand. “All yours. Couldn’t find your copy at your house.”

He heads to the door, making sure to leave it open, and he turns back to look at you one more time. You’re staring down at The Awakening, expression unreadable as you reach out and brush your fingertips against the cover. You smile. “Thanks.”

When he returns with your breakfast a few minutes later, he finds you asleep once more, the book having never been opened at all. Instead, you have it pressed against your heart, hands hugging it tightly to your body as you snore softly. 

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[wheeboo]

it started with a dare | yoon jeonghan

SYNOPSIS. in which you get dared to stand under the mistletoe. PAIRING. yoon jeonghan x gn!reader (ft. seungcheol as reader's older brother, implied other members are there too) GENRE. fluff, brother's best friend to lovers WARNINGS. mild swearing, booseoksoon are menaces, light kissing WORD COUNT. 1.5k

notes: for the "a very seventeen christmas" secret santa event by @camandemstudios! ho ho ho! this is your secret santa wheeboo speaking, and this fic is to be delivered to @soo0hee <3 i hope you enjoy hehe and have a wonderful christmas of your own!!!

"I dare Y/N to pick the most attractive person in the room and stand with them under the mistletoe."

Silence.

Utter silence at that.

Then a choked laugh rings out from someone𑁋probably Seokmin𑁋and you can feel fire burst out of your ears and swallow you whole. Your body sinks into the couch as the moments pass, feeling as if a million different pairs of eyes were all staring at you, waiting for you to do something.

"Are you serious right now?" You somehow muster up a chance to shoot a daggered glare right at Soonyoung, who was staring at you back so innocently.

You should have expected this, should have known better than to agree to join your friends' ridiculous game of truth or dare. But now, here you were. And as if the whole situation wasn't embarrassing enough, your eyes instinctively drift to Jeonghan across the room.

He was doing everything but being interested in the game, sitting on the couch right next to Seungcheol𑁋your older brother𑁋with his feet up on the coffee table and his arms crossed, rolling his eyes jokingly at whatever Seungcheol was saying.

Yoon Jeonghan, the boy who caught your eyes years ago when your brother brought him home for the first time. Yoon Jeonghan, the boy who used to ruffle your hair in the hallways back in high school and tease you about bombing your math exams, not realising how those little interactions meant to you. Yoon Jeonghan, the boy who never seemed to notice how much you'd grown since then, how much more you wanted him now.

Yoon Jeonghan, the boy who had always been lurking in the corners of your heart, but never fully in your reach. And you've accepted that fate a long time ago.

A lump forms in your throat. You already know this is going to be a disaster, especially with your friends staring at you like hawks, but it's not like you can choose someone else.

No, your eyes just had to gravitate straight to Jeonghan. Your brother's best friend.

Taking a deep breath, you find your feet begin to move on their own, dragging you across the room to where Seungcheol and Jeonghan were sitting.

You notice how calm Jeonghan is, how effortlessly relaxed he looks simply minding his own business, and it only seems to make everything worse, because you're about to do something that might just haunt you for the rest of your life.

When you approach closer, you hear the whispers of your friends behind your back. Jeonghan glances up from his spot on the couch, his brow raising upon your presence.

"Um..." You croak out nervously. "Hi."

It's just a game, You remind yourself. Just a game.

Jeonghan looks at you quizzically for a moment, and then his lips curl into a faint smile. But you don't detect any amusement in his features, any hint he might tease you senseless𑁋just a warm, easygoing expression that almost makes you forget why you're standing here.

"What's up?" he simply asks, and it's enough for you to beg the world to crush you.

"I, uh..." You seriously want to slap yourself in the face right now. "I pick you."

His eyes widen slightly, and your stomach ties itself into a knot.

"Me?" he questions.

"Uh, yeah." You nod quickly, dipping your head down guiltily. "We're supposed to... stand under the, um... mistletoe?"

Jeonghan doesn't answer right away, just glancing between Seungcheol's suspicious eyes towards the two of you and the mistletoe that stands proudly above the doorway to the living room.

Then he just fucking smirks.

"Well then," He takes his feet off the coffee table and stands up. "Lead the way."

Seungcheol opens his mouth to say something, but you're already walking away before he could get a word out. Each step feels heavier than the last as you trudge towards the stupid mistletoe, with Jeonghan casually following behind you.

When you reach the spot beneath the mistletoe, you stand there awkwardly, unsure of where to go from there. Jeonghan stands right in front of you, way closer than you anticipated, and you have to fight the urge to meet his eyes.

"So..." You turn back towards your friends. "Game over, right?"

"Of course not!" Seungkwan chimes in, shaking his head. "You still have to kiss, duh."

You're this close to kicking every single one of your friends in the shin.

"I𑁋That was not part of the dare!" You protest, face reddening. "You can't just𑁋"

"No takesie backsies!" Seokmin exclaims, and you give him your friendliest death glare.

You want to die. Or at least crawl into a hole and never come out. That would be nice right now.

"Y/N," he calls out to you, so quietly only you can hear. "It's okay. It's just a stupid dare, right?"

All the words that ache to tumble out of you immediately disperse when you meet his soft eyes. The way he's gazing at you has your legs feeling like jelly, your heart running marathons, your nervous façade crumbling just slightly. You almost forget about how your entire situation is put on display for everyone to watch.

"I won't bite, you know," Jeonghan muses playfully, yet when he catches the worried look on your face, his smirk fades away. "Y/N? Look at me."

You hesitate for a moment, before torturously lifting your head to look up at him. He's so pretty, especially up close, so close you can't help but flicker down to his lips for a second𑁋

"We can just get this over with, yeah?" His eyes hold yours even as he inches closer. "It'll be quick."

It's just a kiss, You tell yourself. Just a kiss.

"Okay," You murmur, feeling your feet root into the floor. "Okay."

Then when he gives you that smile again, you suddenly can't move. Jeonghan places one hand on your shoulder, another one coming up to hover closer to your cheek, though his warmth still seeps within even when he isn't fully touching you.

"Don't worry." He leans in more, his breath ghosting against your skin, and your eyelids flutter to a close. "It's just me."

Your heart pounds so loudly you're sure he can hear it. You can't see his face, but you know he's just a breath away from your mouth.

However, you also don't see the way he pauses right before your quivering lips, how his gaze roams over your face like he's studying you. You hear a chuckle.

"Cute."

Then before you can fully process, the softest touch of his lips land right at the corner of your mouth. It's gentle, light, lingering a few beats longer than necessary, and it's somehow more intimate than a kiss on the lips.

And then like a snap, it's over. Jeonghan pulls away from you slowly, the warmth from his touch spreading through your body like a wildfire. The room erupts into an obnoxious round of applause. You only stand there like a lost child, because the world and your damn brother now all know that you're hopelessly in love with Yoon Jeonghan.

And the worst part? It wasn't just a kiss in front of everyone𑁋he made it feel real.

"I..." You clear your throat, pursing your lips together. "I need a drink."

You're quick to dash towards the kitchen, away from your friends and Jeonghan.

Stepping into the kitchen, the cool air calms your flushed skin. You lean against the counter and let out a groan, burying your face in your hands, willing the heat to leave your face.

"Y/N?"

Shit.

"You okay?"

"No." You give a half-hearted laugh. "because now everyone and my brother knows I have a crush on you."

Jeonghan stands right next to you by the counter, tilting his head to get a better view of your face as he smirks amusedly. You roll your eyes, unable to grasp how much he seems to enjoy seeing you flustered.

"Seriously?" You frown. "You think this is funny? You𑁋"

"I think it's cute," Jeonghan interrupts confidently. "You're cute, and I'd rather kiss you properly than have it be from a stupid dare."

Your jaw drops to the floor, your brain short-circuiting, and you stare at him like he's just told you the most absurd thing in the world. And in a way, it is.

"Don't mess with me, Yoon Jeonghan."

"I'm not," Jeonghan responds affirmatively. "but it's fun watching you squirm."

You groan helplessly. "I hate you."

"No, you don't." He grins, the smugness oozing off him, and it's so infectious that you also smile, because he's right𑁋you don't. "Your brother can kill me for all I care, but..."

Jeonghan steps up to you until there's barely any space left between you two, reaching out to push back a strand of hair behind your ear. This time, when his lips meet yours, it's not a dare; not rushed or pressured, nor a product of your ridiculous friends’ antics. Though brief, it's deliberate, soft, like he's been waiting for this moment as long as you have.

When he pulls back, he shoots you a wink. "...I'll make this worth it for you."

And just like that, Yoon Jeonghan has you completely, hopelessly, irrevocably smitten. You can't decide if you want to slap him or kiss him again.

Before you could remotely question what the hell you just got yourself into, Seungcheol's unmistakable voice booms from the living room.

"Y/N! Jeonghan! Get your asses out here right now!"

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[scoupsakakitty]

Midnight Producer | idol/producer!Woozi x songwriter!Reader | fluff

The clock above the mixing console had just passed midnight. Most of the lights in the HYBE building had already been turned off, leaving only a handful of occupied studios scattered throughout the floors. Somewhere down the hall, someone was probably still recording vocals. Another producer was likely mixing a track that needed to be delivered by morning.

And then there was Y/N, who was currently losing a fight against her own song.

She groaned and let her forehead fall onto the desk with a soft thud.

"This is horrible."

The project file remained silent.

The lyrics were good. At least she thought they were. Writing had never been the problem. Y/N had spent years building her reputation as a songwriter. Lyrics came naturally to her. She loved finding the perfect words, creating stories through music, turning emotions into something people could sing along to.

Producing, however, was a completely different beast.

For the last six months she'd been trying to learn everything she could. Watching tutorials. Reading articles. Sitting in on production meetings whenever someone would let her. Slowly figuring out how songs were built from the ground up.

Tonight had been dedicated to her newest project, and after six straight hours of working on it, she somehow hated it more than when she'd started.

Y/N clicked play again.

The intro sounded fine. The first verse sounded fine. The pre-chorus was decent.

Then the chorus hit.

And she immediately paused it.

"Nope."

She physically recoiled. Something was wrong. She could feel it. She just couldn't figure out what. The worst part was that she'd been listening to it for so long that everything was starting to sound the same.

Maybe she just needed another opinion.

Grabbing her phone, she opened her messages. Her friend was usually awake around this time and often helped when Y/N was stuck creatively. Without thinking much about it, she exported the newest demo, attached it, and typed:

Please tell me what's wrong with this before I throw my laptop out the window.

The chorus sounds weird and I'm losing my mind.

She hit send and tossed her phone onto the desk.

Done.

Problem solved.

Now all she had to do was wait.

While waiting, she got up and stretched her arms above her head. Every bone in her body cracked.

Wonderful.

A true sign of youth.

She walked over to the small coffee machine in the corner and poured herself what was probably her fourth coffee of the night. Or fifth. She had stopped counting.

By the time she returned to her desk, her phone buzzed.

Y/N immediately grabbed it.

"Finally."

She expected to see her friend's name.

Instead, her stomach dropped.

The sender wasn't her friend.

It wasn't even close.

Her eyes widened.

Lee Jihoon.

For a moment she genuinely thought she was hallucinating. Then she opened the message.

The lyrics are good.

The chorus is overcrowded.

The bass is fighting for its life.

Y/N stared.

Read it again.

Then once more.

"The bass is fighting for its life?" she repeated aloud.

What did that even mean?

More importantly—why was Lee Jihoon texting her?

She quickly opened the message thread, checked the recipient, then checked it again. Her soul nearly left her body.

"Oh my god."

She had sent the demo to him.

Not her friend.

Him.

Out of all people.

Producer. Songwriter. Creative genius. One of the most respected producers in the industry.

And she had basically emailed him:

help before I throw my laptop out the window.

Fantastic.

Absolutely fantastic.

Y/N immediately started typing.

I'm so sorry.

That wasn't supposed to go to you.

I meant to send it to a friend.

Sorry for bothering you.

The response came almost instantly.

You already did.

Y/N blinked.

Then laughed despite herself.

Wow.

He really was as blunt as everyone said.

She typed back.

Fair enough.

Sorry again.

A few seconds passed before another message appeared.

The chorus still needs work.

Y/N stared at the screen.

Was he still talking about the song?

I know.

That's why I wanted help.

The typing bubble appeared, disappeared, then appeared again.

Do you know why it sounds crowded?

Y/N looked at her screen, then at the project file, then back at her phone.

Not really.

Exactly.

She frowned.

What does that mean?

It means you're changing things without understanding the problem.

Y/N felt personally attacked.

Wow.

Thank you for the encouragement.

You're welcome.

She nearly threw her phone.

Over the next twenty minutes, the conversation somehow continued. Every answer he gave created three new questions. Every explanation somehow confused her more. Eventually she ended up staring at the screen with a headache.

Finally she sent:

I genuinely have no idea what you're talking about anymore.

The reply came immediately.

I noticed.

Y/N groaned.

A second later another message arrived.

Answer your phone.

Before she could process what that meant, her screen lit up.

Incoming FaceTime.

From Lee Jihoon.

"What?!"

She nearly dropped her coffee.

The call continued ringing. For several seconds she simply stared at it. Then, with absolutely no preparation whatsoever, she accepted.

The screen connected.

Jihoon appeared.

Black hoodie. Messy hair. Headphones hanging around his neck. A half-empty coffee cup sitting beside him.

He looked exactly like someone who hadn't slept properly in days.

The first thing he said was:

"You look confused."

"Hello to you too."

"You don't understand compression."

Y/N stared.

"That's your greeting?"

"It's an observation."

"I understand compression."

"No."

"I do."

"No."

"Jihoon."

"You don't."

She already wanted to hang up.

Unfortunately, he was also helping.

So she stayed.

Over the next few hours, Jihoon walked her through everything. He shared his screen, muted tracks, explained frequencies, adjusted layers, and showed her exactly where sounds were clashing with each other.

At first she understood maybe ten percent of what he was saying.

Then twenty.

Then fifty.

Little by little, the song started making sense.

And for the first time all night, she felt like she was actually learning something.

Time passed faster than she expected.

One hour.

Then two.

Then three.

At some point she had moved from her chair to the couch in the corner of the studio. Jihoon was still talking. Something about transitions. Or layering. Or maybe both.

Honestly, she was struggling to keep her eyes open.

"You still there?" he asked.

"Mhm."

"You sound asleep."

"I'm listening."

"You just said 'mhm.'"

"I did not."

"You literally did."

Y/N yawned.

The blanket hanging over the back of the couch suddenly looked incredibly inviting. Her eyelids felt heavier by the second.

Jihoon continued explaining something.

She tried to focus.

Really.

She did.

But the combination of exhaustion, coffee wearing off, and his oddly calming voice made it impossible.

Her head slowly sank against the cushion.

A few moments later, silence.

Jihoon looked at the screen.

"...Y/N?"

No answer.

"...Y/N."

Still nothing.

He sighed.

The camera showed her curled up on the couch, completely asleep, her phone still balanced beside her.

For a moment he just stared.

Then shook his head.

"Unbelievable."

Yet despite the words, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

A few minutes later he stood from his chair, grabbed his laptop, and headed toward the door. If she was going to pass out in the studio, someone should at least make sure she didn't freeze.

And besides—

Her song was still driving him crazy.

Jihoon pushed the studio door open with his shoulder, his laptop tucked under one arm. The room was quiet except for the low hum of the computer still running on Y/N's desk. His gaze immediately found her asleep on the couch, exactly as she'd been when the FaceTime call ended. A strand of hair had fallen across her face and her phone was still resting dangerously close to the edge of the cushion.

He sighed.

"How are you even alive?"

For a moment he simply stood there before grabbing the blanket draped over a nearby chair and carefully laying it over her. Y/N shifted slightly, mumbling something incoherent before settling back into sleep. When she didn't wake up, Jihoon finally stepped away and looked toward the monitor on her desk.

The unfinished song was still open.

At first, he only intended to leave a few notes. Maybe fix one or two things that had been bothering him. Then he would go home.

Instead, he sat down.

One adjustment became another. Then another. Every time he thought he was finished, something else caught his attention. The annoying part was that the song actually had potential. The lyrics were strong, the melody was memorable, and despite all its flaws, the idea behind it was good. Really good.

Which was exactly why he couldn't leave it alone.

Hours passed without him noticing. Outside the windows, the dark sky slowly began to lighten. Empty coffee cups gathered beside the keyboard while the project file became cleaner and cleaner. By the time he finally leaned back in his chair, the chorus breathed naturally, the arrangement flowed smoothly, and the bass was no longer, as he'd so eloquently put it, fighting for its life.

A few feet away, Y/N remained completely asleep.

Jihoon glanced toward her and immediately looked back at the screen. Then, after a few seconds, looked over again.

Still asleep.

How was she sleeping this much?

Shaking his head, he left the studio and returned a short while later carrying two coffees and a small box of donuts. If she was going to panic when she woke up, she could at least do it with breakfast.

The building had already started waking up by the time Y/N finally stirred. Sunlight filtered through the windows and faint voices echoed from somewhere down the hallway. Her brows furrowed as she stretched beneath the blanket, clearly confused about why she wasn't in her chair anymore.

Then she opened her eyes.

For several seconds she simply stared at the ceiling before abruptly sitting upright. The blanket slipped from her shoulders as her gaze landed on Jihoon.

He looked up from his laptop.

"Morning."

Y/N stared.

Jihoon stared back.

Neither moved.

Finally she pointed at him.

"Why are you here?"

"You fell asleep."

"I can see that."

"You seemed comfortable."

"That doesn't answer my question."

Jihoon shrugged, causing Y/N to look around the room. The blanket. The couch. The sunlight streaming through the windows. The coffee sitting on the table. Slowly, realization began settling in.

"Wait," she said. "You came here?"

"Yes."

"You left your studio?"

"Yes."

"You stayed all night?"

Jihoon looked away.

Which was answer enough.

Y/N stared at him in complete disbelief. Before she could say anything else, he pushed a coffee and a donut toward her.

"Breakfast."

"A donut?"

"Breakfast."

She accepted both automatically while still trying to process the situation. Then Jihoon turned the monitor toward her.

"Look."

The moment Y/N saw the project file, she froze.

The arrangement had changed. New layers had been added. The transitions sounded smoother. The chorus, which had been driving her insane only hours ago, suddenly sounded alive.

Her eyes widened.

"Jihoon..."

She clicked through the tracks one by one, noticing adjustment after adjustment.

"You did all this?"

"Some of it."

She looked at him.

"Some of it?"

"Most of it."

A laugh escaped her before she could stop it.

"You didn't have to do that."

For the first time all morning, Jihoon seemed slightly uncomfortable. His fingers tapped lightly against the desk before he glanced away.

"Yeah."

A brief silence settled between them.

"But I liked your idea."

Y/N looked back at the screen.

Somehow, out of everything he'd said since last night, those four words meant the most.

[jihyun-verse]

ᝰ.ᐟ # YOUTUBE ── ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ── 🎥 A Treasure Box of: ✨ Suspicious BboHyunz Moments ✨

summary: a compilation of bbohyunz moments that makes carats questions if they just have a really bad case of delulu or something is actually going on between the two.

wc: 6.26k

indented text: weverse live comments text in bracket []: yt video captions

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ # 𝙝𝙮𝙪𝙣𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙚 masterlist

[ Opening now the treasure box of all boohyunz moments that makes my mind go circles! ]

[ Some of these are so damn obvious that at this point we’re all really just waiting for that damn announcement 😏]

[ And the fact that half of these are from welive??? Yeah, these two are getting really comfortable that it’s not even a secret at this point 😏😏😏 ]

[ Let’s start now! ]

[ Moment #1 — 20241110 Jihyun’s Book Club Weverse Live ]

The live started in the simplest way possible. Opposite from the glamorous and shining image of her on stage just a few hours ago, Jihyun is now currently sitting on the chair in her hotel room, comfortably dressed in matching pyjamas that are clearly oversized for her. 

Her phone was positioned against the desk lamp in front of her, slightly tilted, just enough to capture her upper body, while still showing the book she was about to read as well as book tabs and highlighters she brought with her. 

Meanwhile, the background fully shows the interior of the hotel room, signifying that the door was parallel to where her phone was currently positioned at.

[ At this point, nothing is really suspicious,,, y’all just have to wait and see LOLL ] 

The live started peacefully. It was noticeable that Jihyun just washed up because her hair was up in a bun, some strands were still wet, and her skin was glistening because of the light. 

“Carat-deul~ Hello,” Jihyun greeted softly as she waved toward the camera. “Did everyone eat already?”

[ Our sweetest girl, really 😭😭 ]

She laughed softly as the comments were immediately flooded with compliments. 

“Really? Did you guys have fun?” she asked, leaning closer towards the screen as she scrolled through the comments. “I’m relieved then.” 

She then spent a couple of minutes casually chatting with fans, thanking them for attending the concert since it was the very last stop for the US tour. 

Jihyun was continuously reading the comments, when suddenly, a specific one seemed to get her attention, causing her to pout. 

“Honestly..” she said in a soft voice like she was hesitating whether to say it or not. “Ah.. I don’t know if I should say this… I feel like a lot of you will be upset at the company again if I mention it..” 

She paused for a while, resting her chin on her palm thoughtfully. 

“To be honest, I was a little disappointed that we still didn’t get to go to other countries that carats have requested for this tour.” 

[ PLEDIS ARE YOU HEARING THIS !!!! ]

“I really wanted to go to Canada and perform, but I guess it’s not the time yet… And Europe too” She added with a bittersweet smile.

[ Now my baby is sad and its all Pledis’ fault ☹️ ]

Jihyun finally moved slightly away from the camera as she fixed her seating position and straightened her back. 

She exhaled first before continuing, “But we’ll work harder, so that carats won’t feel too sad, okay?”, smiling  brightly this time. 

After greeting and checking on everyone, Jihyun finally explained the reason why she decided to turn on the live show that night. 

“Actually,” she started, as she adjusted the sleeves of her pyjamas and finally grabbed the book in front of her. 

“The reason why I turned on tonight’s live show is because I wanted to do a reading session with you guys.” She then grabbed her phone from where it was propped on, and switched the camera to show what was on her desk. 

“I thought it would be a great way to relax since today was the last day for our US tour.” She added, as she returned her phone to its original position. 

Jihyun then proceeded to introduce the book she was going to read, and shared that she was so close to finishing it but couldn’t because of the tight schedule. 

She also shared that the book was so good that she literally binged read almost all of it for two days, and that she thought it would be really nice to see carats’ reaction to her reaction of the ending since it was a popular book. 

The live was going on for about 30 minutes now, and Jihyun had her headphones on as she was listening to the audiobook while reading at the same time. She talks here and there whenever the story gets to the exciting part, sharing her reaction to the fans, while carats were either reacting to the book with her, or simply just flooding the comment section with compliments of emojis. 

[ The last few moments before the storm ]

[ Remember this peaceful atmosphere because it’s about to get chaotic ] 

While listening to the audiobook, Jihyun was now currently annotating the book, even switching the color of her pens here and there depending on the mood she was feeling. 

She was so into it that she didn’t notice someone was entering the room. 

The live continued, and Carats watching the live heard the sound of the door opening. Everyone was already flooding the comments with questions, asking who entered the room, but since Jihyun was so busy at what she was doing, she didn’t notice at all. 

[ GIRLLLL i was so scared for her during this because what if it was a sasaeng likee?? 😭😭 ] 

The live went quiet for a few seconds, with just the sound of Jihyun’s pen and the flipping of the page being heard, when the sound of the footsteps approached closer. 

[ CHAT WAS LOSING IT NOW ATP ]

“Who is it???” “WHO?????” “GIRLL how good is that book how come she haven’t noticed someone entered her room 😭😭😭” “Who’s member is it???” 

Everyone was already panicking in the comment section, asking and informing Jihyun that someone had entered the room, when suddenly, they finally heard who it was. 

“Aegi-yah,” The viewers heard Seungkwan said from behind the camera. But since Jihyun was so into what she was doing, she still haven’t noticed him up until now. 

[ I LEGIT CRASHED OUT WHEN I HEARD HIM CALL HER LIKE???? ]

[ also,, not i-carats being clueless up until this point while k-carats are legit losing it in the comment section 😭😭 ]

“모냐 방금??????? 방금 애기라고 했나??????” (Wait what was that just now??????? Did he just say ‘baby’??????) “헐 승관이다ㅏㅏㅏㅏㅏ!!!!!” (OMG IT’S SEUNGKWANNNNNNN!!!!!) “미친 방금 뭐냐????????? “ (HOLY SH– what was that just now?????????) “아니 잠깐만 나만 들은 거 아니지????? “ (Wait hold on, I wasn’t the only one who heard it, right?????) “애기야?????????? 지금 애기야라고 한거임????????” (Baby?????????? Did he just say ‘baby’????????) “승관아 해명해봐” (Seungkwan-ah, explain yourself)

[ i swear, the moment i heard seungkwan i immediately came to X for translation LOLLL ]

After a while, the comment section was finally flooded by comment from international fans. 

“WAIT WHAT DID HE JUST CALL HER???” “Guys i dont speak korean WHAT IS HAPPENING 😭😭😭” “ GIIIRL APPARENTLY KWANNIE JUST CALLED HER BABY????”  “ how come she hasn't noticed it yet,,,, GIRL WE’RE GOING CRAZY HERE????” “ bro didn’t even hesitate??? Does seungkwan know she’s currently on live??? 😭😭”

After a few seconds of her not responding, Seungkwan decided to go closer to her, and call her attention again. 

“Jihyun-ie?” he said in a softer tone as he tilted his head, trying to meet her gaze. “Come, let’s go and eat now.” But when Jihyun still hasn’t responded, this made Seungkwan resort to his last option. 

[ THIS IS WHAT FINALLY MADE ME LOSE IT GUYS OH GOD ] 

He extended his hand and held her chin, making her finally look at him. The moment Jihyun felt his hand touch her, and when her gaze finally met his, her eyes widened in a panic. 

She immediately removed the headphones she was wearing. “What? Since when were you here?” She asked, clearly startled. 

Seungkwan then explained that he’s been there for a while already, calling her so that they could have dinner together. 

Jihyun’s facial expression finally calmed down for a little bit, but still couldn’t help but to laugh nervously at what was happening. 

“Did you come here knowing I was doing live?” She asked, smiling at him. 

For about two seconds, there was complete silence. The fans couldn’t see Seungkwan at this point. The only thing they could see was his arm resting on her shoulder. 

That was when Jihyun’s smile started fading, and was replaced by a shocked and nervous expression again. 

Then finally, carats heard a gasp from Seungkwan. 

“What??” He whispered with a low voice from behind the camera. “You were on live?!” 

[ YOU CAN CLEARLY HEAR HIS PANIC KDFJKSEHDRHWE 😭 Poor kwannie 😭😭 ]

Jihyun’s gaze switched between Seungkwan and her phone camera. The fans can clearly tell that this wasn’t planned at all, and the two were as surprised as they were. 

Afterwards, the fans heard a very muffled whispering from behind the camera. Seems like Seungkwan was explaining to Jihyun in detail what happened earlier the moment he went inside the hotel room. 

Jihyun’s pupil was shaking in nervousness, and her eyes, which was already big, doubled in size again. Her lips pressed tightly together before her hand immediately flew up to cover her mouth in shock. 

After Seungkwan was done explaining, Jihyun immediately turned her gaze towards her phone, and immediately turned off the live broadcast. 

[ NOW istg if some of yall still think we’re just delulu, i would like you to think again ]

[ this live was deleted by pledis btw 😏😏😏😏 ] 

[ Moment #2: 다시 11.55 LIVE and a Very Grumpy Kang Jihyun ] 

Their Yokusoku Fanmeeting in Japan just officially ended, and Seungkwan, Mingyu, Shua, and Vernon decided to start a live broadcast right after eating dinner and washing up. 

This live was already their second broadcast using Mingyu’s weverse account since the first one was set in portrait mode. And since Vernon unexpectedly joined, they had to switch it to landscape mode in order for them to fit in the screen. 

The live show has been running for a good 30 minutes already, with them mostly reading carats comments and starting a new discussion based on it. 

“Hi, Mr. Thomas!” Shua said, reading it from the comments. Seungkwan immediately turned his head towards him as Shua gave him the phone and pointed out the comment. 

Seungkwan laughed slightly before looking back at the camera. “Thomas is a banned word now. I’m going to report you.” He said in a teasing way. 

The other three immediately laughed. “Because, even other carats don't like it too.” He added. 

[ YEA guys please lets stop that thomas thing 😾 its getting really annoying ] 

Seungkwan then immediately reminded the fans to not be mad at those who mentioned Thomas because it might be just because they didn’t know he didn’t want to be called that anymore. 

[ MY SWEET BOO 🥺🥺🥺 ] 

“For the 11th Anniversary, I guess they didn’t want us to suffer that much,” Seungkwan explained to the members, seeing that most suggestions for the character they should dress up to aren’t as heavy as the halloween live they did before. 

Mingyu, who was continuously looking at the comments on his phone, answered, “I think they know that dressing as the cool characters is a lot better.”

 “Right? Because, honestly, when will we be able to do something like this ever again?” 

Shua, who was sharing the phone with Mingyu, looked up suddenly, reminded by something. “I actually sent Jihyunie a recommendation the other day. I saw a few comments recommending that character to her and I thought it would suit her so much so I had to make sure she picked that one.” He said, laughing towards the end. 

“Really? Who is it? What character was it?” Mingyu asked curiously as he looked at Shua beside him. To avoid any spoilers, Shua leaned towards Mingyu and whispered it into his ear. 

“AHHH! Wow, yah! That would seriously suit her so much!” He immediately said after hearing who it was, laughing slightly. 

“Ahhh,,, So it was you, Hyung, who suggested it to her.” Seungkwan said, his eyes widening in realization while pointing at Shua. 

“No, because I think that was the other night?” he said, tilting his head, as if thinking if his memory was right, “She was suddenly trying the makeup for it when i got h— in the middle of the night,” 

[ WHEN YOU WHAT???? WHEN YOU WHAT??? ] 

[ The bbohyunz living together allegations might actually be true its making me lose my mind 😭 ] 

“How was it tho? Because Jihyunie is really good at doing her own makeup, right??” Vernon asked. 

“It looks… really dark. But I like it. At first, I thought it was quite weird, because it kinda looks like a corpse–” 

“Isn’t that what that character is known for though?,” Mingyu asked, cutting Seungkwan mid sentence as he looked towards Shua. 

The live broadcast then continued smoothly, as the four members interacted with carats continuously. At some point, someone even asked why the members weren’t sleeping yet since it was getting quite late already. 

The members were currently talking about Seungkwan’s Boo Youmi transformation when a carat asked if he had taken a bunch of pictures as Boo Youmi. Seungkwan then shared that he did took a lot of photos but he missed the timing to post them; to which Mingyu answered that he can now post them since a lot of fans are waiting for it. 

They were having a good chat when suddenly, they heard the door beep, signifying that someone had tapped in their keycard. The members immediately turned their heads towards the hotel room door, visibly startled by the sudden sound. 

“Who are you?” Mingyu exclaimed, trying to ask the person trying to enter the room. 

Seungkwan then leaned forward slightly, attempting to figure out who it was. “Are you a member?” 

From beyond the camera, beside where the members were seated, the fans heard a heavy footstep enter the room. When the door closed again, the shock from the members' faces were now mixed with a faint smile. 

Then suddenly, a very sleepy and raspy voice was heard from beyond the camera. 

“Why is everyone so loud…? I could hear you guys from my room…” 

Away from the camera, Jihyun entered the room wearing an oversized pyjama set with her hair dishevelled, looking like she genuinely just woke up a few seconds ago before barging into the room.  

The members immediately bursted into laughter at the sight of her. 

Meanwhile, Jihyun was literally squinting from the brightness, as if fighting her sleepiness. Then, without hesitation, she mumbled quietly with her raspy voice, “Oppa… Are you not going to sleep yet?” 

This made the four stop mid laughter, but decided not to react as if to not raise suspicion. Seungkwan, who was in the far right seat, reached for Jihyun and pulled her to the side. 

That was the last scene the fans saw right before the other members looked at each other and just smiled to themselves and immediately threw a topic to talk about. 

But from behind the camera, they heard the two mumbling something quietly before leaving the room. However, since the other members were already talking, the broadcast wasn’t able to pick up the sound properly. 

[ no because technically she calls ALL the older members “oppa” but why did seungkwan immediately stand up like he KNEW she was specifically looking for HIM 😭 ]

[ ALSO??? YALL,,, THEY’RE ROOMMATES ??? ] 

[ Moment #3: Nana Tour Wake Up Mission ]

[ This one for real kinda confirms my theory that Boohyunz are normally roommates during tours ] 

[ The holy clips that started it all for me honestly ✨ ] 

After planning on how to surprise the members with Cheol, Na PD is now headed towards the room where the members who were still currently awake are. 

“I’m so nervous right now that my hands are shaking,” he said as he continued walking, shoving his hands in his pocket. 

Him, as well as the camera crew that was following him, finally turned into the hallway where the members’ rooms were located, when they immediately bumped into Seungkwan. 

Na PD’s body camera shows a quite drunk Seungkwan with this very disheveled curly hair, about to go into his hotel room. 

Upon seeing Na PD, Seungkwan’s eyes immediately widened. “What? What is this?” He said in panic, while Na PD immediately motioned him to come over. 

“Why are you outside? Weren’t you drinking with the members?” 

For a moment, Seungkwan just looked between Na PD and the crew in panic, as if he got caught doing something, while also being shocked as to why they were there. 

“No… No.. I–” 

[ LMAO him looking so nervous is making this more obvious i swear 😭😭 ] 

The video then immediately cuts to the part where the members who were drinking together decide who to wake up first. At first, they planned on waking Dokyeom first, when Chan suddenly blurted out, “Or, maybe we should wake up Jihyun first? She also didn’t join the company dinner earlier too..” 

“Oh right! Jihyun was so sick today she had to leave the stage during the encore earlier..” Cheol explained. 

The others immediately agreed, with the reason that if they woke her up last, with all the members present in her room, they would probably get an earful from her. 

Once all the members were already in front of her door, Cheol was about to tap in the master key card, when Na PD suddenly asked, “Wait, isn’t this Seungkwan’s room?” 

The members looked around themselves with a slight smile because of his question. Meanwhile, it made Seungkwan immediately laugh slightly as he explained to the members, “Ahhh… It’s because this is where I ran into PD-nim earlier.” 

The original video then immediately cuts to where all of them are—the members present as well as Na PD, enters the room, leaving the question unanswered if the room was actually Seungkwan’s or if Jihyun and him share the room together. 

[ YEAH they’re either roommates & kwannie was about to rest already when he bumped into na pd ] 

[ OR he was about to check on Jihyun because she’s sick ] 

[ 😼😼😼😼 ]

[ Mooment #4: 260401 Boostella ] 

[ This is where the BooHyunz living together rumors started !!! ] 

[ Mind you this is 4 months after SK confirmed that BooHan doesn live together anymore 🥹 ]

At first the live started as a voice-only broadcast. It started pretty late, at 12:54PM and Seungkwan had already washed up and was lying in bed when he turned it on. 

During the first few minutes. He first asked how the fans are doing, while also sharing that they had a practice today, so he decided to turn on the broadcast right after washing up. 

“After practice, I ordered some food at home and ate.” He said in a low and calm voice. 

“I ate dakgangjeong for the first time in a while and it was really good.”

[ I NEED MORE OF HIS LOW VOICE OH GOD ] 

At around the 15 minute mark, Seungkwan finally decided to actually turn on the camera, revealing the very dark room since he didn’t have any lights on. 

“Hold on, it’s too dark..” He said while reaching for the lampshade on his bed side table. “This doesn’t look right, wait a minute..” 

“How should I do this?”

Seungkwan then stood up for a second to open the lights, but seeing that it was too bright he just opted for the lampshade that was beside him, creating a very warm mood. 

Right after that, the comments were now going wild seeing the sight of him in bed all cozy while wearing a very loose set of pajamas. 

[ BBOHYUNZ AND THEIR OBSESSION WITH MATCHING PAJAMA SET >>>>> ] 

The live then continued smoothly for the next thirty minutes as Seungkwan chatted with carats regarding the upcoming encore concert and DxS fancon as he played various songs from his phone. Occasionally, he would also talk about artists he likes, share a memory attached to a certain song, or laugh at the comments that caught his attention. 

At one point, a song that he used to frequently listen to years ago started playing. 

“Oh! This song…” Seungkwan said as soon as the intro started playing. A smile immediately appeared on his face as he leaned against the headboard. “ I used to listen to this a lot back then. Seriously, I was obsessed with it.” 

He laughed slightly before continuing. “I think there was a time where I listened to it almost everyday. Even now, whenever it comes on, I still know the lyrics and all.” 

Seungkwan then continued talking about it, when suddenly, the faint sound of running water echoed throughout his bedroom. It was so subtle that the fans present on the live weren’t even sure if they had heard it correctly. But Seungkwan definitely did. 

He stopped talking for a brief second. His eyes widened slightly as he shifted his gaze from somewhere beyond the camera,

[ watch his face carefully here 😭 ]

[ THAT IS THE FACE OF SOMEONE WHO JUST REALIZED SOMETHING VERY IMPORTANT ] 

Almost immediately afterward, Seungkwan turned back his gaze towards the camera and started speaking like nothing happened. 

“Anyway…” he said while laughing awkwardly. “Yeah, I think that’s why I really liked that song so much..” 

The transition was so abrupt that it made the situation more suspicious. Making the fans more curious in the comment section than ever. 

[ At this point, someone was even teasing him that his apartment is haunted 😭 ] 

“What was that???”

“Eh??? What is happening??” 

“Yall I think I just heard his shower suddenly turn on???” 

“Either his place is haunted or—- 😏😏” 

As expected, Seungkwan’s eyes naturally drifted towards the comment section. Seeing how everyone was now talking about what happened, he tried to look for another topic to talk about to quickly divert the situation. 

But seeing how the comments still haven’t shifted, he decided to just address it. 

Seungkwan shifted his position, preparing to go out of bed. “Carat-deul.” he said, trying to sound casual. “Wait for a moment, okay? I’ll just just check something.” 

He then stood up and disappeared from the frame, leaving the viewers staring at the empty bed. 

[ my new zoom background loll ] 

The fans can hear his footsteps fading away as he go further as well as the sound of the door closing, signifying that he either went outside of his bedroom or just went to the en-suite bathroom. 

Almost at least a minute or two has passed when suddenly, the sound of the running water finally stopped. 

The fans heard the door again, and the sound of his slippers dragging across the floor. 

When Seungkwan finally returned to the frame, he was now wearing a very mischievous smile on his face. He then went back to his lying position earlier as he continued the broadcast. 

He let out a sigh while laughing slightly. “Ah, really.. That was..”

Before he was able to complete his sentence, his gaze immediately noticed the comments asking what just happened. His hand immediately reached his phone, as he scrolled through the comment section. 

“Kwan-ah, what was that just now?” He read aloud one of the comments. 

Before answering the question, he first resumed playing a song on his other phone to make a grasp of the situation. His gaze then turned to the camera again and let out a short laugh before answering. “It was nothing. I showered earlier and it seems like I forgot to close the faucet properly.”

[ THE SMIRK????? BOO SEUNGKWAN??? ] 

[ EVEN CARATWT WAS NOT BUYING THAT EXCUSE I SWEAR LOLL ]

[ your honor, my client is innocent but unfortunately he is very BAD at lying 😭 ] 

[ Moment #5: Carat-Log: The Wallpaper Incident ] 

[ also known as the day jihyun almost exposed herself HAHAHAHA ] 

This moment actually didn’t come from a livestream or any official schedule, 

It was from a completely random vlog uploaded by two carats sharing their experience preparing and joining a seventeen fansign event. 

According to the vlog, the two traveled to Korea for Seventeen’s fansign event the following day. Earlier that afternoon, they spent several hours shopping for some gifts to bring to the members. And since they were both Jihyun biased, they specifically prepared a separate gift bag for her filled with various Miffy items since they know how much she liked the character. 

After finishing shopping, they decided to have some dinner before going back to their hotel. 

The restaurant they chose was a popular spot now among carats since it was known that the group dined there often, with their signatures displayed on the wall. 

The two were conversing when one of them suddenly froze in the middle of speaking. The camera then shifted towards the opposite direction before quietly zooming in. 

Someone just walked in, and even the two couldn’t believe it themselves. 

Jihyun just came into the restaurant accompanied by her manager. ‘It was like everything was shining and sparkling around her’, the caption from the vlog said. 

[ imagine seeing your bias in the middle of eating dinner 😭 ] 

[ i literally would’ve lost my mind ]

The two immediately lowered their voices and turned the camera towards themselves, trying their best to act normal. 

According to the vlog, they had absolutely no intention of disturbing her. They didn’t want to make her uncomfortable, especially since she was clearly off schedule and was just simply trying to enjoy a meal by herself. 

So despite internally losing their minds, they decided to not make a fuss about it. Or at least that was their plan. But, it was as if destiny wasn’t on their side because Jihyun was seated on the table beside theirs. 

‘A literal princess is sitting right beside us, everyone 🥹’ the caption said. 

A few minutes after being seated, Jihyun suddenly looked in their direction. The two immediately panicked, worried that they were caught staring. But, instead of looking uncomfortable, Jihyun smiled brightly towards them as she bowed slightly to greet the two. 

It was noticeable the she glanced towards the bags sitting beside them. She smiled slightly seeing the photocard and keyring of her hanging in it. 

A few moments later, Jihyun stood up, on the way to somewhere when she unexpectedly stopped at their table first. The two carats looked up immediately. 

Then, before they could even say anything, Jihyun greeted them first. 

“Hello~” She said warmly as she bowed slightly. “Enjoy your meal~” She added before she continued walking. 

[ she greeted them first since they were too shy to do it first 🥹🥹 ] 

Despite the unexpected encounter, the two carats still tried their best to continue their dinner normally. 

According to the vlog, most of their remaining meal consisted of them whispering excitedly to each other while repeatedly reminding themselves to act normal. 

[ THEY WERE STRONGER THAN ME ] 

Meanwhile, the paper bag containing Jihyun’s gift remained sitting beside their table. 

Originally, they planned on bringing it to the fansign the following day. That was the entire reason they had spent the afternoon shopping in the first place. But since Jihyun was just sitting only a few tables away from them, the two began debating whether they should give it to her now. 

On one hand, they really didn’t want to bother her. But then again, what were the chances of accidentally running into her again? 

Eventually, they decided to gather whatever courage they had left and approached her before leaving. The vlog showed the camera shaking as they stood from their table and made their way towards where Jihyun was seated. 

According to  the uploader, they were so nervous that they forgot what they originally planned to say. 

When they finally reached her table, Jihyun immediately looked up and recognized them. Her expression softened before greeting the, “Oh! Hello again~” 

The two bowed politely before one of them carefully held out the paper bag. “We were actually planning to give these to you tomorrow during the fansign,” the fan laughed nervously, “But since we unexpectedly met you today, we thought we could give it to you now.” 

For a brief moment, Jihyun looked genuinely surprised. She carefully accepted the give with both hands as she thanked the both of them. 

Then, the moment she peeked inside, her entire face immediately lit up. 

“Oh my gosh you guys! Thank you for this~” She looked through the items one by one before shaking her head in disbelief. “This is so cute, thank you so much.” 

[ she really is such a sweet person oh gosh 🥺🥺🥺 ] 

Then, unexpectedly, Jihyun suddenly placed the gift down beside her. 

“Wait for a while,” she said as she began searching her bag for something. A few seconds later, she pulled out a marker and said, “Do you guys have anything you want me to sign?” 

[ SHE LITERALLY OFFERED FIRST OH GAAHH ] 

The two froze before panicking as they looked for a piece of paper or anything she could sign. 

After signing and chatting with them for a little bit, the conversation finally began winding down. The two were preparing to leave when Jihyun’s eyes suddenly landed on the camera on the table. 

“Oh? Are you guys filming a vlog?” She said as she tilted her head curiously. 

The fans nodded immediately. Sharing that they were recording their Korea trip, especially since they were attending the fansign. 

Jihyun’s eyes widened slightly as she nodded. “Really?” She then pointed towards the camera and asked, “Do you want me to appear for a little bit?” 

For a solid three seconds, neither of the carats responded, as if they had fully malfunctioned. “Really?!” one of them finally blurted out.

Jihyun immediately laughed before nodding. “Of course~” 

The two immediately agreed enthusiastically as they went and grabbed the camera from the table. Jihyun also stood up from her seat, before asking her manager to wait for a while. 

A few moments later, the camera switched into a selfie mode, showing the two and Jihyun in a clearer shot. 

The two carats immediately moved closer together while Jihyun stood beside them, leaning slightly toward the camera so that everyone could fit comfortably in the shot.

“Hello, everyone~ This is Jihyun~” She greeted cheerfully while waving towards the camera. 

The two fans beside her looked equally excited and overwhelmed. The atmosphere was warm and surprisingly natural. 

However, the moment Jihyun raised her hand and waved towards the camera, she completely forgot that she was still holding her phone in the same hand, making it lit up almost immediately, accidentally revealing her lockscreen wallpaper. 

[ MISS MAAM WHY YOUR WALLPAPER IS A SLEEPING KWANNIE?????? JSJLKDJJWEK ]

[ MIND YOU THIS IS AN UNRELEASED PIC ]

“Oh! Eonnie, is that Seungkwan on your wallpaper?” one of them asked calmly. 

“Hmm?” Jihyun asked, tilting her head, curious as to how they knew. She then looked at the same hand she waved with, and realized that her phone might have lit up earlier. She then looked up with a really flustered look. 

It was as if she was frozen for a second as her eyes blinked really fast. “Ah.. I only put it there because I wanted to tease him. Because he really hates it whenever I use it.” She quickly said, laughing slightly, almost awkwardly. 

According to the vlog, Jihyun shared that she had taken it herself while Seungkwan was sleeping, thought it was hilarious, and was using it occasionally whenever she wanted to annoy him. 

[ honestly?? GIRL nothing was hilarious in the photo,, it was actually so domestic like?????? ] 

[ bbohyunz and their ability to lie is nowhere to be found HAHAHHA ] 

[ Moment #6: NanaBNB: Chef Seungkwan ]

[ i swear i didnt notice this during the time of release until someone sent it to me as a supporting evidence of bboohyunz living together agenda after the boostella live LOLL 😭😭 ]

It all started when Seungkwan got picked as the cook for that day, together with Shua, Vernon, and Hoshi. 

Last night, the Nana BNB staff asked all of them what they wanted for dinner, to which the members replied with their own preferences. The cook was then chosen through a game of roulette. 

Shua was preparing the ingredients they needed for Hoshi’s Deep-fried dish with rice, when he heard Seungkwan sighing beside him. 

Shua was walking towards the pantry when he ran into Seungkwan and heard him let out a deep sigh. “I’m not confident at this…” Seungkwan let out while pouting as he hid his hands in the pocket of his hoodie. 

Shua stopped mid action and immediately turned his gaze on Seungkwan. “Why? You can just do it! There’s no reason for you to feel that way~” He said, assuring him that he can do it. 

Meanwhile, the other members who weren’t chosen for the task, are now having their own free time. Some were resting in their own respective rooms, some were playing on the Go Stop on the dining seat, while others chose to help with the cooking even though they didn’t have to. 

Seungkwan and Shua are now peeling the shrimp together. And since it takes quite some time, the two were debating whether they should peel all of it or just exactly thirteen pieces. 

“They’ll taste better with more shrimps. Fried shrimp is the best. You know it feels good when the food is tasty!” Shua said, keeping his gaze at the shrimp he was peeling. “The feeling of accomplishment when they enjoy eating them.”

Seungkwan just hummed in agreement. “But, I haven’t had that feeling yet.. Because I haven’t tried cooking ever.” He answered without much confidence in his voice. 

Shua laughed slightly at his answer. “Don’t you cook at home at all?”

“No. Not really..” 

“That’s interesting.. Knowing that your mom is really good at cooking,” Shua said in amusement as he looked at Seungkwan. “Your mother’s food is great.” 

“Exactly..” Seungkwan replied. 

Shua stopped at what he was doing for a while to stretch for a bit, when he suddenly mentioned, “Jihyunie too.. Jihyun is really good at cooking.” 

[ WHATS WITH THE SUDDEN MENTION KSJSJSJSJJSJS ]

[ nanabnb was filmed 2025,, but then again, we dont actually know when did boohan moo ed out of their dorm so 🤭🤭 ]

Seungkwan stopped mid-action as their eyes met. Both of them widened their eyes in realization, stunned smiles tugging at their lips as they processed what Joshua had just let slip. 

“But, in return,” Seungkwan explained as he continued peeling the shrimps on his bowl, “I do all the dishes and stuff.” 

[ IS THIS LOWKEY A CONFIRMATION OR THATS JUST ME? JSJSJJS ]

Seungkwan then sighed again before wondering aloud, “Ha.. Why is it that I am not interested in cooking at all?” 

[ Final Verdict ]

After spending way too many hours editing this video, compiling every moment I had in my memo, rewatching the clips frame by frame, and sharing a lot of theories with my friends enough to qualify me for a detective license, I have come to the conclusion that: 

Jihyun and Kwannie really do share something special with each other. It cannot be denied that they are each other’s comfort. 

Did any of these moments actually prove anything? — No. 

BUT

Did they somehow make everything look suspicious? — YES. Definitely, yes. 

However, at the end of the day, this video is simply a compilation of fun moments that fans have enjoyed talking about over the years. None of us really knows what happens behind the scenes, and everything discussed in this video should be treated as speculations and light hearted fan observations only. 

Whether you see these moments as friendship, coincidence, soulmate behavior, or simply two people who share a single brain cell, one thing is certain: The amount of happiness these two bring to other people whenever they’re together is genuinely special. 

And maybe that's the reason why a lot of people love revisiting these moments again and again. 

Not because we’re trying to prove something, but because watching them interact with each other is simply fun. 

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go stare my wall and rethink my life  choices after making this video. 

Thank you for watching! 

(and please remember, if seungkwan ever sees this compilation… yea.. I was never here) 

[ Video End ] 

See comments

BooSeokTeaz: the fact that seungkwan calls her baby so naturally is whats killing me. Thta did NOT sound like he was saying it for the first time either 😭😭 also the fact that pledis deleted that live after just makes it 10x more suspicious

Yoonzvt: coming back here just to let everyone know,,, apparently kwannie sleeps without his shirt on these days… yea… #deluluresponsibly #ihavenothingappropriatetosay

Horanghae4Life: my favorite genre of bboohyunz moments is when they just casually expose themselves and immediately tried to cover it up with the worst excuses known to mankind lolll

0406MingyuLuv: not the legendary shower incident 😭😭

JjongJjong1004: that boostella live is just something… cause ive been watching that live from the beginning and the water sound really just started at around like 40 minutes,,, so SIR what do you mean you forgot to turn it off since the very start??? 

Kwanjjiagenda: okay but seriously how did seungkwan knew jihyun was talking to him when she barged into the hotel room??? Theres literally four of them their and she calls all of them oppa 😭😭

SeoksoonTalk: that cut on nana tour says a lot i swear 😏😏😏

SVTot13: whether they’re dating or not, one thing is for sure: these two have absolutely zero survival instincts around cameras 😂😂

Bbohyundefender: at this point, PLEASE the two of them needs to check weverse first if someone is live or not 😭

Kkumaxcoups: shua saying that jihyun is really good at cooking and seungkwan casually answers that he does all the dishes in return????? Excuse me?????????

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[kkunai]

𝜗℘ ˖ ࣪ . ˖˙ true form!sukuna finds out you’ve been hiding your injuries from him :: tags. concubine!reader. fluff, angst n comfort. size diff. reader gets called ‘brat, woman’

“i’ve arrived, my lord,” you announce your presence as you step into sukuna’s quarters. the dimly lit room removes all the stress you currently had in your system—the knowledge that you’re safe in his space causes your shoulders to drop.

sukuna turns his head to look at you while he’s laid back on his bed, topless. all four of his eyes roam over your body, which isn’t anything unusual. he always does that.

“tch. took ya long enough,” the king of curses scoffs before gesturing for you to come closer, making that familiar motion with his fingers, “when i order y’ to come, you’re supposed to drop everything and rush to be at my service, woman.”

you hurry over to his side of the bed with a nod. “my apologies,” you mutter.

you can’t tell him why you’re late, because hell would break loose within these walls. and also because you’re scared of what his reaction would be.

before being called over, you were in the kitchen, peacefully trying to get a snack, when two other concubines entered the room. you tried ignoring them, but that didn’t seem to be the smartest move. it wasn’t long before they threw derogatory remarks at you.

of course, you stood up for yourself and yelled some back. that’s when one of them pushed you backwards, causing the skin near your hand to get slightly burned by the fire on the stove.

if it weren’t for the maids around that went to report the ruckus to uraume, god knows what more would have went down in that kitchen.

“oi,” sukuna grabs your jaw and lifts your head up.

he immediately notices the vacant look in your eyes, which is unusual for you. you snap out of your trance and set the nasty memories aside—ignoring the impulse to scratch the injury on your wrist.

“i’m sorry,” you say again before slowly undoing your obi.

you figure that is why sukuna had called you over, to do your job as his concubine. you halt your movements when you realise that undressing meant that he’s going to see the wound on your skin.

you hesitate. that same instant of hesitation doesn’t go unnoticed by the king of curses. a large hand moves to stop both of your wrists from pulling off your robes.

“. . .i’m giving y’ three seconds of my time,” sukuna narrows his eyes after allowing you to speak up and tell him what’s on your mind.

he hears you whimper in pain when he holds onto your wrist, your facial expression clearly uncomfortable. “spit it out,” he impatiently huffs. he wants to hear you say what’s wrong.

you desperately shake your head, biting your bottom lip. you don’t want to tell him—even though you know you’re obligated to.

denying an answer to sukuna was your next big mistake.

“fuckin’ brat,” the man grunts. he yanks your arms up to his face, harshly pulling down the sleeves of your kimono. all four of his red eyes immediately fall onto the wound on your wrist. you obviously haven’t treated it yet, even though you should have done so long ago.

there’s tension hanging in the air almost instantly after your little secret gets revealed.

sukuna’s grip on your hands tightens which causes you to flinch. you close your eyes and expect the worst. you can already hear the insults he’ll throw at you—how he’ll call you useless, weak, stupid and all that.

“look up at me,” his voice rings out in a firm tone. you don’t want to anger him more than he already is, so you obey. you open your eyes and glance upwards, your worried gaze meeting his.

sukuna takes a deep breath to contain the bubbling rage inside of him; a rare sight indeed. he doesn’t want to unnecessarily lash out at you when it isn’t needed. however, he can’t deny that itching urge in his chest, to get mad at whoever caused your skin to get tainted like that.

sukuna stares at you with an intimidating glare. when you expect him to yell profanities at you, the unexpected happens.

“who did this to you?” he asks, deep voice strained like he’s trying to hold himself back.

you blink a few times. sukuna sounds pissed off, and when he’s in that kind of mood, you know he’s not to be played with. you look the other way and try to think of a proper answer.

will you snitch and cause unnecessary bloodbath, or will you spare the lives of the concubines who hurt you and lie?

you’re scared of being seen as useless by sukuna if you tell him the truth. if you lie, he’ll probably call you weak and stupid as well. it’s a lose-lose situation, you conclude.

you swallow the spit that has gathered in your mouth before parting your lips.

“m-miko,” her name echoes in his ears.

you decide to be honest, because you know that there’s no fooling the ryomen sukuna. a second of silence follows and when you look up at him, he stares back at you with furrowed brows.

“ah,” you then realise that he doesn’t know his concubines by name. he has way too many women at his disposal and doesn’t find them worthy enough to remember.

however you have heard from uraume and the others that he does know your name—only yours. it makes you feel special.

you try to describe the concubine you’ve tussled with, “short blonde hair, uhm, mole under her right eye.. brown colored eyes—“

sukuna thinks for a moment before clicking his tongue once he faintly remembers who that’s supposed to be. without a word, he stands up and wraps one muscular arm around your waist, sweeping you off your feet and carrying you under his armpit like some package.

“uraume!”

his voice is loud enough to make the walls shake and it carries a clear hint of pure rage. everyone in the estate should have heard him by now, which means that they know what is going down in just a couple seconds.

sukuna sounding this angry only means one thing; someone is going to die today.

the servants hurriedly scurry around, deeply bowing as he walks past them in the hallway with you still tucked underneath his arms. you let yourself be carried while your heart beats uncontrollably fast in your chest.

you feel your hands shake a bit. seeing someone like sukuna be this mad for your sake—to the point that he’s ready to turn the entire area upside down—is somehow thrilling. though, you can’t help but feel sick because of your own thoughts.

someone is going to die and there you are, cheesing about the king of curses.

you see the white-haired chef appear from a corner, their steps hurried. they glance at you and then back at their master. it’s like they immediately connect the dots.

“treat her in my quarters. don’t let her leave until i come back,” sukuna commands without even looking at uraume. he’s staring ahead, with an ominous aura emitting from his body, one that somebody can sense from miles away.

he puts you down next to uraume before glancing your way one last time. he lets out a deep sigh as he sees the worried expression you’re making. he lowers his head to your level so you’d be face to face.

“and you,” his warm breath hits your cheeks and sends a shiver down your spine. you gulp as sukuna’s hand reaches up to firmly tug at your earlobe, “i’ll deal with your ass later, yeah? i’ll make you feel what it means to hide stuff from me.”

that sentence makes you even more nervous. you know you won’t be able to avoid the punishment sukuna has in mind, so you simply nod.

“understood,” you reply in a squeaky voice. you don’t have the guts to disobey him—he’s already out to kill someone and you don’t want to be the next victim.

sukuna straightens his back again and continues his journey towards the concubines’ quarters. every heavy step makes the floors and walls shake, a sign of his unstoppable rage that’s about to be unleashed.

you feel slightly puzzled. you didn’t expect this outcome when you revealed your injury to the ruthless man. you expected to be belittled and mocked for not being able to prevent a wound from being inflicted on your body.

instead, there he goes, off to get revenge in your stead. you feel a twisted sense of satisfaction after seeing sukuna be this protective over you. actions like these demonstrate more than his dull words can do, even if it may seem like he doesn’t care about what could happen to a human like you.

[eclipsaria]

Request:

hi yuki! could you maybe write something soft with chan and him teaching reader how to dance because she has two left feet, and they slowly fall in love? :) - @sluttyminghao

《 Danza Perfecta 》

Summary // In the quiet of a practice room, stolen moments turn choreography into passion, and falling in love becomes inevitable once more.

Genre : idol au

Pairing : SVT Dino x female reader

Warnings : fluff, secret relationship

W/C : 2 375

Rating : [ 13+ SFW ]

Now playing : Shape of You - Ed Sheeran

↻ Main Masterlist Seventeen Masterlist Taglist ↺

Before, you had lost count of how many times you'd told your manager the same thing.

"I'm not suitable for this," you insisted for what felt like the thousandth time, palms pressed nervously against your knees. "I'm a vocalist. He's a part of Seventeen's performance unit. How am I supposed to match Dino-sshi?"

Across from you, your manager only smiled brightly, patiently, and endlessly unfazed, as if your panic was a cute little habit rather than a genuine meltdown forming in your lungs.

"It's alright," they said cheerfully, waving away your concern like a stray dust particle. "The company decided it, and we think it'll be great exposure for you. Besides,'' the grin widened. "both of you are the youngest in your groups, same age, and the only ‘99 liners. Fans already ship you two!"

You almost choked when your manager added, "Even though you two never really interact, there are so many similarities…" your heartbeat tripped. Your gaze drifted away for a split second, before you reeled yourself back in.

If only your manager knew how untrue that was.

You and Chan did interact, more than anyone could guess, and enough to break every dating-ban rule the company ever wrote.

You hummed lightly to cover the tightness in your throat, forcing your expression into something neutral. Anything you said now could slip. One wrong word and you'd be sending your manager into cardiac arrest.

Now, the practice room is quiet when you step inside, door clicking shut behind you. Seventeen's dance studio smells faintly of fabric softener and the familiar wood-polish of overused floors. You're alone, just like you expected.

Your boyfriend is still somewhere in the sky, flying back from his overseas schedule. The two of you had exchanged itineraries like you always do, a subtle code only the two of you understand. His message from earlier still sits on your lock screen: "I'll be a little late. Wait for me?"

Of course you would.

You settle on the floor, leaning back against the mirrored wall. The silence wraps around you, but not unpleasantly. It's the kind of silence you've grown used to while waiting for him.

Opening your phone, you start scrolling through playlists, searching for something that could bridge your worlds. A song that fits a dancer and a vocalist. Something that feels like him and you.

You press play.

The opening notes of "Shape of You" pulse through the empty practice room, echoing softly against the mirrors. It's not like you don't know the song. You've heard it a thousand times, but this time you listen differently, for the tempo, rhythm, and the natural push and pull of the beat, the kind of foundation Chan always builds his choreography on. If you could break everything down first, then maybe he'd have a little less work to shoulder later. If you could study it now, your boyfriend could rest, instead of diving straight into another layer of responsibility the moment he returns from the airport.

You sigh, gently swaying a little to the beat as you count in your head. One, two, three, step, turn, and pause. You're not a dancer, but you want to at least meet him halfway.

Fortunately, today is one of your rare free days. Just a few recording sessions earlier, then nothing else until much later, you only need to go live tonight. And because you wanted every possible extra minute with him, you arrived early. Too early, maybe.

But how could you not?

You haven't seen him in nearly three months, if you're being honest. That's the curse of dating each other as idols: loving someone you can barely touch. Sometimes the months apart ache so deeply you don't know whether to laugh or cry.

And so you love him in other ways.

By watching his fancams at 3 a.m, by replaying his lines in variety shows, by smiling at his stupid inside jokes that only make sense to Carats but somehow feel like they're written for you alone, by falling in love with him a little more every time you see him on screen, because that's all you have.

And when you finally get to stand in front of him again, when his arms slip around your waist and he kisses your cheek like he's been starving for you, it feels like falling for him for the first time all over again.

Maybe that's the real reason you haven't broken up. Not because it's easy, but because every reunion rewrites the whole love story from the beginning.

You close your eyes, letting the beat of the song guide your breathing.

Come home soon, Channie, you think silently.

You're still swaying when the practice room door clicks open. Chan appears at the doorway with the soft thud of his duffle bag hitting the floor before he steps fully inside. His hair is messy from travel, and his oversized black hoodie clings loosely to his frame.

"Baby."

Just one warm and familiar word, and every part of you softens. You turn, instantly smiling, feet moving before you even tell them to. You practically run into his arms, wrapping yourself around him and inhaling the scent you missed far more than you'd ever admit publicly: fabric softener, a hint of his cologne, and something that simply screams him.

He giggles, arms sliding around your waist with that boyish excitement he saves only for you. He peppers a quick kiss on your cheek.

You pull back just enough to look at him. "Welcome back safely."

He laughs again, he always laughs more when he's with you, and leans forward to peck your lips this time, gentle but so full of affection that your stomach flips.

"Well," he says, grinning, "I can't wait to meet my Cinderella after all."

You blink, surprised, then laugh. "Cinderella? Why her?"

He shrugs lightly, tugging you just a little closer. "Because you sing so beautifully?"

Your heart squeezes at the earnestness behind his playful tone. You let out a soft and pleased noise, taking his hand and dragging him deeper into the practice room where your phone rests on the floor. He closes the door behind him before following you with that smile that makes everything feel right.

"I've selected the song we should perform for the MAMA collaboration stage," you announce proudly.

He leans over your shoulder to peek at the screen. "Shape of You?"

You hum in confirmation and tap play again. The familiar beat fills the room, and while it plays, you launch straight into your explanation: tempo, rhythm, the flow you imagined, how each section could transition smoothly, and what would highlight both your vocals and his dance.

Dino doesn't interrupt once, he just watches you, and soaks in every word in him like it's precious. When you finally stop talking, a little breathless, he beams at you with eyes warm, soft, and full of unspoken pride.

He doesn't pat your head (he knows you don't like that because that will mean you are younger than him) and said gently with sincerity: "You did amazing. Seriously, thank you. You planned all this just for us?"

You nod shyly.

His smile deepens. "Then you did a perfect job choosing the song."

He reaches for your hand, squeezing it, and in that quiet moment.

Now that your explanation is done, the weight shifts naturally onto him.

It's Dino's turn.

You feel a pinch of guilt. You wish you could help more, wish you could contribute something beyond counting beats and humming melodies. But choreography? Creating movement that feels effortless yet powerful? Matching body lines and transitions?

That was his world, not yours.

The company had told both of you, "Explore creativity. Build the stage together."

Easy for them to say.

You can sing, blend harmonies, control breaths, but shaping an entire dance? No way.

So you quietly step aside.

Dino sets his duffle bag down properly, ties his hair back, and begins stretching. There's a shift in him, like a switch flipping. Your playful boyfriend dissolves, replaced by Dino, Seventeen's dancer, the man who breathes choreography like oxygen.

He restarts the music. Once. Twice. A dozen times.

Each replay is him chiseling away at ideas: testing steps, turning, rewinding, scrapping, and rebuilding. His brows furrow, jaw tightening a little as he studies his reflection in the mirror, adjusting angles, aligning his shoulders, and refining footwork.

He's not choreographing a solo, either. Everything he does, he does while glancing toward the space you'll fill. He turns his body to include a partner. He measures distance with his hands. He tests lifts, interactions, moments where your movements need to connect.

It's a couple dance, not two separate performers.

You sit behind him, back resting against the cool wall, knees hugged to your chest. You shouldn't stare too much, but you can't help it. Watching him move is like watching someone paint air.

And he's beautiful like this. Focused, serious and completely immersed.

He doesn't realize how handsome he gets when he's working. How the intensity in his eyes pulls you in, how every precise shift of his body makes you fall just a little harder.

Your heart flutters against your ribs as you watch him, mesmerized. And at some point, without even noticing, a smile grows on your lips. You watch him dance, and every second reminds you why waiting months for him is worth it.

He's fixing the angles of his arms in the mirror when he catches sight of you, your chin propped on your knees, eyes soft, completely lost in thought as you watch him. And the smile on your lips… it's the kind of smile you give only when you forget the world is watching.

Chan chuckles under his breath. He turns around slowly, pretending like he's just checking his footing, waiting for you to snap out of your daze. It only takes a heartbeat for your gaze to meet his. Your eyes widen, and you immediately look away, flustered heat rushing to your face.

He smirks.

"Take a video," he teases, voice light, "lasts longer that way."

You roll your eyes hard enough to hide your embarrassment before pushing yourself up and walking toward him.

"So, what can I do?" you ask, trying to regain composure.

Chan steps behind you, hands gentle yet sure as he positions you. He nudges your foot slightly to the left, shifts your shoulders, aligns you with his planned formation. Then, without warning, he leans in and presses a feather-light kiss to your nape.

Your entire spine jolts. Your breath catches, and your heart drops, then soars.

His eyes meet yours in the mirror, his smirk deepening as he firmly settles his hands on your waist.

"You're beautiful, by the way."

You nearly combust on the spot.

He doesn't give you time to react. He simply intertwines himself into the teaching process. Close, warm, completely unbothered by how flustered he's making you. He starts demonstrating the steps, guiding your hips, your hands, and your posture.

But, of course… you're you. Vocals were your entire life as a trainee. Dancing? Secondary, and it shows. You mess up the timing on the second step. You nearly twist your foot on the third. At one point, your body moves left while he goes right.

Chan laughs gently, steadying you with a hand on your arm.

"It's okay," he assures softly, "not the first time I've seen this."

You giggle, leaning back just enough to nudge him with your shoulder.

"Really? Dissing Seungkwan?"

"I didn't say that," he replies immediately, looking away in fake innocence.

You raise a brow.

He clears his throat dramatically. And then, like nothing happened, he continues teaching you from behind, closeness making your pulse jump with every touch, every corrected angle, every whispered count.

You manage to nail the first few steps finally, and you're panting hard, sweat lining your forehead and trickling down your neck. You wobble off to the side to grab your water bottle, nearly collapsing beside your bag.

Chan, of course, doesn't stop. He restarts the song, continues piecing together the next movements, steps sliding with precision only he can achieve. You watch him for a moment before he finally pauses, hands removing his hoodie to reveal his tank top, breath steady but a bit heavier than before.

You toss him his bottle. He catches it effortlessly, twists the cap off with one hand, and starts drinking. And that's when your eyes betray you.

You stare at his Adam's apple. The way it bobs with every swallow. The way the muscles in his throat flex. And the sheen of sweat trailing down his neck. Then your eyes move down to his biceps. The way it flexes.

Your mouth goes dry. You gulp at nothing, annoyed at yourself, annoyed at him for looking like… that.

He finishes drinking, wipes his lips with the back of his hand, and moves to close the cap.

That's your chance.

You step forward, grab the front of his tank top, and tug him closer than necessary. He stumbles half a step, eyes widening before he can process what you're doing.

You lean in and place a quick kiss right on his Adam's apple.

When you pull back, he's frozen. You're staring at him, and he's staring right back.

"Your fault, by the way." You pout.

He snaps out of his shock, immediately grabbing your waist and pulling you flush against him.

His voice drops playfully. "Let's make this a part of the choreo."

You blink. Hard. "What? How about no?"

"It's a couple dance, baby."

"And risk fans speculating we're dating for real?"

He shrugs. "We'll call it fan service. For the ones who ship us."

You poke his chest. "You're impossible."

He grins. "Can't help it. I think I fall in love deeper for you."

You scoff in disbelief. "That's my line."

He doesn't back down. "I love you."

Your expression softens instantly. You rise on your toes and peck his nose.

"Love you too, my prince charming."

He laughs, forehead gently bumping yours. "Your prince charming?"

You shrug, smirking. "Well, you called me Cinderella just now, sooo…"

And with that, he pulls you into a warm, sweaty, and breathless hug.

Tagging // @stvrrylove @sol3chu @firstclassjaylee @ateez-atiny380 @reiofsuns2001 @thetjtales @metaphorandmoonlight @slytherinshua

[eclipsaria]

girl stop spreading rumors im not cheating on my husband 😤

can i get a drabble where she is an influencer and wants to try some trend on cheol

《 Let's Pretend ;) 》

Summary // What was supposed to be a harmless TikTok couple challenge turned unexpectedly romantic that leaves you flustered.

Genre : non-idol influencer au

Pairing : SVT scoups x female reader

Warning(s) : fluff

W/C : 2 929

Rating : [ 13+ SFW ]

Now playing : Good Guy - SF9

Note //

"and this one where he has to show how he'll act if a random girl approaches him" - rae

Cheol photos by rae

here you go XD

↻ Main Masterlist Seventeen Masterlist Taglist ↺

"Come on, baby, pleaseee," you whined, tugging on Seungcheol's sleeve as he sat on the couch, arms folded tightly across his chest. You'd been at it for the past ten minutes, and he still hadn't budged.

He tilted his head, lips pursed in resistance, the slightest pout forming. "But, baby…" he sighed, sounding halfway between amused and exasperated.

"Just this once! Never again! I promise!" you said quickly, clasping your hands together as though praying. "I swear, I'll never ask you to do this again."

Seungcheol arched a brow, still skeptical and not moved. He'd always been camera-shy. To him, having you on social media was enough. People already knew your face, your energy. He never felt the need to add his into the mix.

But then, after a moment of silence, his shoulders relaxed. He pressed his lips into a thin line, unfolding his arms before reaching for your hand. "Can I at least know what challenge we're doing?"

You froze, then your eyes lit up. That's a yes! practically screamed through your head.

"Oh, you're gonna love it," you grinned, immediately grabbing your phone and unlocking it with a flourish. "It's this trend. Look, look!"

You showed him the video, your voice filled with excitement as you explained, "So, the girlfriend pretends to be a stranger at a club, right? And the boyfriend doesn't know her. The whole point is to see how he reacts when this random girl flirts with him, who has a partner."

Seungcheol blinked at the screen, his expression unreadable. "...Pretend?" he muttered. "At a club?"

"Yeah!" you chirped. "It's harmless. Just acting!"

He sighed again, this time a deep and resigned one, rubbing the back of his neck. He didn't get why you wanted to do something so silly, why there was a need to pretend at all, but the sparkle in your eyes was reason enough.

"Fine," he mumbled. "Just this once."

You beamed, already switching your camera app on. "You're the best boyfriend ever."

The moment he agreed, you practically sprang up from the couch, the excitement bubbling in you too strong to contain. Seungcheol leaned back, watching in quiet amusement as you immediately started preparing for the shoot like you were on a mission.

First came the outfit. He watched you disappear into the bedroom and re-emerge a few minutes later in a sleek, club-ready look that made him blink twice. The outfit hugged your figure just right, your hair brushed out and styled with casual perfection. You looked like you were actually heading out for a night in the city instead of setting up a phone on your kitchen counter.

He stayed silent, just observing as you fiddled with your phone stand, trying to make it balance against the blender and a stack of cookbooks. You crouched down, squinting at the screen, adjusting the angle again and again until the frame caught just the right amount of background.

"Okay…" you murmured to yourself, stepping back, checking the lighting, then stepping forward again. "Almost perfect…"

Seungcheol was still standing where you'd left him, hair a little messy, in nothing but a white T-shirt and his favorite boxers.

You finally turned to him, frowning. "Are you not going to change?"

He tilted his head down, pretending to inspect his outfit, then looked up with a mock smile. "Should I?"

You stared at him like he'd just asked the world's most ridiculous question. "Duh~ Baby, we have to pretend that we're clubbing."

He raised an eyebrow. "Pretend we're clubbing in our own house?"

"Exactly!" you said, as if it was obvious. "That's the point of pretend! And if you want a better environment, we can even close the lights and buy some dark red and blue LED lights."

Seungcheol blinked at you, the corner of his mouth twitching in disbelief. "Woah," he muttered, finally throwing his hands up in surrender. He jabbed a finger toward the master bedroom, shaking his head with a reluctant grin. "Fine, fine… I'll go change, okay?"

You exhaled dramatically, arms crossed but a fond smile slipping through. "Thank you, finally."

He chuckled under his breath as he disappeared into the room, mumbling something about how he didn't remember signing up to be an actor.

When Seungcheol finally stepped out of the bedroom, you looked up from your phone and blinked.

He stood there in a black button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, collar open just enough to hint at his chest, paired with dark jeans that framed him way too well. His hair was styled back lazily, still damp from running his fingers through it.

You gave him a slow once-over, head tilting in approval. "Hmm," you murmured, pretending to think hard before a grin broke through. "Perfect."

He chuckled, half proud and half embarrassed. "You're unbelievable."

Grabbing his wrist, you dragged him toward the marked spot on the floor you'd set up earlier. "Stand here," you instructed, adjusting him like a director setting up a scene. "Right here is where you'll be standing, like you're just chilling at the club, got it?"

"So I just have to pretend you're a stranger," he said, brows furrowing slightly, "and that I already have a partner who's not next to me right now?"

"Yeap," you chirped, too focused on checking your phone screen to notice the way his tone dipped.

Seungcheol nearly shivered. The scenario didn't sit right with him, not one bit. He would never leave you alone in a club. Even if you went to the washroom, he'd be the one waiting right outside, keeping watch. The thought of you walking around on your own, wearing that mini dress that hugged every curve like it was made for you, it was enough to make his jaw tighten.

You were still fussing with the phone stand when he moved closer. Before you could even react, his hands slid to your hips, firm and possessive, pulling you back into his chest. His chin brushed against your shoulder as he breathed you in, the familiar and sweet trace of the perfume he loved most on you.

You froze for a second, blinking in confusion. "Cheol baby?"

His lips brushed against your neck when he muttered, "I hate it."

You smiled softly, assuming he meant the filming. You reached down and patted his hand reassuringly. "It's going to be fine, Cheol… it's just a short while. Bear with me, okay?"

But he only shook his head, his grip tightening slightly as he pressed a light kiss to your nape. "I don't like you going away from me," he murmured, so quietly that you almost missed it.

You blinked, turning your head a little. "Wait, what?"

He sighed, this time speaking louder, his voice firm but tender. "I don't like you walking alone in a club, especially not wearing this."

For a moment, you just stared at him. His slight pout, the faint frown lines at his brows, and the way his eyes softened with worry instead of jealousy, then a small laugh escaped you.

You turned around in his arms, cupping his cheeks gently, your thumb brushing over his skin. "Pretend, baby," you whispered, leaning in to peck his lips. "Don't take it seriously. You know I'd stay by your side if it were real."

Seungcheol sighed, the pout still there but easing. "You better."

You grinned, booping his nose playfully. "Now, Mr. Overprotective, let's film this before you change your mind again."

He groaned, but the tiny smile tugging at his lips gave him away.

You hit record, checked the framing one last time, and scurried into place. Seungcheol stood exactly where you'd positioned him. Arms crossed, expression unreadable, the faint gleam of amusement in his eyes betraying his internal reluctance.

"Okay," you whispered, mostly to yourself, adjusting your hair and shaking off your nerves. "Let's do this."

The phone's red recording light blinked. You gave yourself a silent countdown in your head, and then switched roles.

Your posture straightened, your walk changed. Gone was the familiar girlfriend. In her place was the confident, flirty stranger making her approach. You walked toward him with measured steps, the click of your heels echoing faintly against the floor.

Seungcheol's eyes followed your every move, his head slightly tilted. He wasn't even trying to act, his gaze just locked onto you, curious yet wary.

"Hey," you said softly, smiling up at him like you didn't know him at all. "You alone tonight?"

He blinked slowly. "Uh… I guess?" His voice was low, uncertain.

You took another step closer, keeping your tone teasing. "You guess?"

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his gaze flicking from your lips to your eyes. You could almost see the gears turning in his head, trying to stay in character and trying not to look too serious, but the possessive glint in his eyes was already seeping through.

You leaned closer, resting a hand lightly on his arm, tilting your head. "You look like you could use some company."

That was all it took.

In a split second, Seungcheol's jaw tightened. He didn't move away, but his hands twitched like he was fighting the urge to pull you against him. Then, slowly, he reached out and slid his hand to your waist, holding you in place.

"Company, huh?" he murmured, his voice dipping lower, the edge of real emotion bleeding into the act. "I think I've already got all the company I need."

You froze for half a second, your character slipping as your heart skipped a beat. You hadn't expected him to say it like that.

You managed a laugh, brushing your hair behind your ear, trying to stay in the bit. "You sure? She's not even here."

Seungcheol smirked, leaning in just enough that only the camera could tell how close he was. "She doesn't have to be. I know she's mine."

Your brain went blank for a moment. That wasn't acting anymore.

The camera was still rolling, but you could barely focus. His breath was warm against your skin, his words calm yet possessive, and for a second, the scene became something entirely unscripted.

You blinked, trying to regain your composure. "Cheol…" you whispered.

He only smiled, eyes flicking toward the camera briefly. "Challenge done, right?"

You let out a breathless laugh, phone in hand, replaying the video you just shot.

The screen lit up with the two of you. The soft lighting, the faint shimmer from your perfume bottle reflecting on the counter, Seungcheol's low voice rumbling through the speakers.

You watched the way he looked at you, not as an actor in a skit, but as someone who could barely separate the pretend from the real. The way his hand slid to your waist so naturally, the seriousness in his eyes, that unguarded moment where he whispered, "I know she's mine."

It wasn't staged, it wasn't meant for anyone else.

You stand for a long moment, thumb hovering over the screen, and quietly decided: This one stays with me.

Lifting your head, you called out, "Cheol?"

He appeared from the kitchen, already loosening his shirt collar. "Yeah?"

You smiled faintly, locking your phone before he could see the playback. "Let's redo it. The first one wasn't good enough."

He frowned a little. "Wasn't good enough? You're the one who said ‘perfect' ten times before we started."

You waved your hand dismissively. "Yeah, yeah. Lighting was off. Acting too stiff. Let's just make a new one."

He sighed but nodded, obedient as always when it came to you. "Fine. What do you need?"

"Grab me a wine glass," you said, standing up to fix your hair again. "Fill it with water, it'll look like I'm holding a drink."

Seungcheol gave you a look that said he didn't understand but wasn't going to argue. He grabbed one of the glasses from the cabinet, filled it halfway, and brought it over carefully.

You accepted it with a bright smile, tapping the rim with your nail. "Perfect. Now, same spot as before."

He went to stand where he had before, glancing around with that same uncertain expression. "So this is take two?"

"Yup," you confirmed, setting the phone back on the counter and checking the framing. "But this time, no stealing lines or ending early. Got it?"

He smirked faintly. "No promises."

You shot him a warning look, and he raised both hands in mock surrender.

The red light blinked again.

You took a sip of the water, then rolled your shoulders, slipping back into character. The playful stranger. The curious girl.

And as the scene began again, you caught the faintest trace of a smile tugging at Seungcheol's lips, the kind that said he already knew this version would end up being shared online.

You hit record again, the little red light blinking to life on your phone screen. This time, Seungcheol straightened his posture, clearly trying harder to play along. He took a slow breath, squared his shoulders, and gave you a mock-serious look.

You hid a grin behind your wine glass of water. He's actually taking this seriously now, you thought.

The scene began just like before. You, walking up to him like a stranger in a club, pretending not to know him.

"Hey," you said lightly, swirling the glass in your hand. "You alone tonight?"

Seungcheol turned toward you, his expression instantly morphing into mock disbelief. "Alone?" he repeated, brows lifting dramatically. "Do I look like the kind of guy who'd come here alone?"

You blinked, almost breaking character. He was improvising.

He leaned a little closer, crossing his arms, voice dropping just slightly. "Besides, even if I were-" his eyes flicked down at you, "-I think my girlfriend might kill me if I entertained a stranger that looks like you."

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to smile. "Oh? Is she that scary?" you teased, playing along.

"Scary?" He tilted his head, pretending to think. "No. Just… dangerously pretty."

Your hand nearly slipped on the glass. You glared playfully. "That's not how the challenge works, Cheol. You're supposed to reject me, not flirt back."

He chuckled, a deep sound that made it hard to stay in character. "I am rejecting you," he said, grinning. "I'm just doing it politely. Wouldn't want to hurt the feelings of someone so beautiful."

You groaned, half-laughing, half-defeated. "You're hopeless."

He shrugged casually, staying in his "club" persona. "What can I say? Even pretending, I can't not compliment you. It feels wrong."

The words slipped out so naturally you almost forgot the camera was still rolling.

You took a step closer, narrowing your eyes as if to challenge him. "So, if I really were a stranger, you'd still say that?"

He didn't hesitate. "If you really were a stranger," he said softly, gaze steady, "I'd probably fall for you all over again."

Your throat went dry for a second. The line wasn't scripted, but it hit deeper than it should've.

You quickly turned away, face warm, muttering, "Okay- cut! That's enough. You're not supposed to sound like a drama lead."

Seungcheol laughed, running a hand through his hair as he walked over to the camera. "You're the one who asked me to act," he teased. "Don't blame me if I'm too good at it."

You swatted his arm, cheeks still burning. "You were supposed to deny me, not write a love confession!"

He grinned wide, leaning down to kiss your forehead. "I did deny you," he murmured, eyes glinting. "I just did it my way."

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn't stop smiling.

Later that night, you sat cross-legged on the couch, both videos queued up on your phone. One was the first take: too intimate and real, filled with that possessive tenderness that made your heart flutter every time you replayed it. The other was the second take: playful and flirty, but still overflowing with his natural charm.

You stared at them for a long time.

You wanted to post. Your followers had been waiting all week for this TikTok challenge. They were already asking in the comments, "Where's the couple video? We're ready for your boyfriend's debut!"

But every time you hovered over the upload button, your thumb froze.

"Baby?" Seungcheol called from the kitchen, rinsing a mug. "You posting it?"

You looked up at him, smiling faintly. "...No. Not this one."

He raised a brow, drying his hands on a towel. "Why not?"

You turned your phone off, tucking it under a pillow. "Because," you said simply, "you're too romantic."

He blinked, then a low, genuine laugh came out of his mouth. "That's a first. I thought I was bad at being romantic."

"Yeah, well," you said, grinning, "try watching yourself flirt and tell me that again."

He shook his head, walking over to press a quick kiss to your temple. "Keep it private then. Just for us."

You smiled against his shoulder. "Already decided that."

The next day, you opened TikTok and recorded a short update for your followers.

"Hi everyone," you said sheepishly, waving at the camera. "About the couple challenge I promised… um… yeah. I'm not allowed to post it." You paused dramatically before breaking into a laugh.

The truth is, you didn't allow yourself to post it.

You winked, ending the video there. And even though the comments immediately flooded with curiosity and teasing, you didn't regret it one bit.

Because some things like Seungcheol's soft voice calling you his, or that unguarded smile meant only for you, to be kept safe, right where they belonged.

Tagging // @stvrrylove @sol3chu @firstclassjaylee @ateez-atiny380 @reiofsuns2001 @thetjtales @metaphorandmoonlight @slytherinshua

[svt-luna]

ʚིᵋ ⋆ WEVERSE LIVE ࣪ ! ˓ ౨ৎ ࣪˖ ─── 251119: Bugs says hi!!🐰

synopsis: Join Luna and Bugs the bunny for a cozy live filled with chaos, cuteness, and a surprise special guest who couldn’t (or wouldn’t) stop flirting with her.

wc: 4.5k

i haven’t done a weverse live in a year (crazy ik) and i have decided to do this after Hannie graced us with his presence in Shua’s recent live yesterday 🤩 and honestly, you guys have been messaging me to do this live after i answered this request. hope you guys enjoy this short one and happy reading, my loves!! 🩷

╰ ౨ৎ LUNA-VERSE MASTERLIST ╰ ౨ৎ weverse lives

bold dialogues are spoken in english ღ

The screen lit up with a soft glow as Luna smiled to the camera. For a moment, the only thing visible was her living room, warm lights, a small lamp glowing behind her, the corner of the couch, and Luna herself sitting cross-legged in an oversized brown sweater with her hair curled in front of her. She leaned closer to her phone, adjusting it a little to the left, then a little to the right, squinting as if that would help.

“Okay… I think that’s fine,” she muttered under her breath before leaning back with a soft exhale.

For a few seconds she simply waited, eyes flicking to the corner of the screen as the viewer count slowly climbed.

“Oh… people are coming in already,” she said, lips curling into a small smile. She lifted a hand to wave. “Hi. Hello, everyone. I’ll start in a few minutes, so just get comfortable.”

She sat back again, tapping her fingers on her knee as the comments began to fly in. Luna giggled quietly at a few she spotted, covering her mouth for a moment.

After letting the live settle, she straightened up and smiled at the camera. “Okay. I think we can officially start now.”

She gave a small, polite bow from where she sat. “Hi, Carats. I haven’t been live in a long time. I’ve been meaning to, but I kept getting busy… so today I decided I should finally do it.”

She paused, eyes shining with teasing excitement. “And… I have a special guest today.”

Her gaze dropped down in front of her, and she reached toward the floor beside the couch with both hands. There was a soft rustling sound, and Luna giggled right before she lifted something small, fluffy, and wiggly into her arms.

“Come here, baby. Up you go.”

She settled the little white-and-brown bunny on her lap, adjusting him so he faced the camera.

“Everyone, say hello to Bugs.” Her voice softened instantly. “It’s been a while since you’ve seen him, right? He’s gotten bigger.”

Bugs twitched his nose, staring blankly at the camera as if confused by his sudden fame. Luna laughed, gently scratching behind his ears.

“He was just running around earlier, so I had to literally chase after him and pick him up from the floor because he refused to come up here,” she said, rolling her eyes fondly. “But he’s here now. My special guest.”

She lifted Bugs a little closer to the camera. “Say hi, Bugs.”

Bugs, of course, did not say hi, which only made Luna laugh harder.

Luna adjusted Bugs carefully on her lap, one hand supporting his round little body while the other gently lifted his tiny paw.

“Okay, wait— Bugs, say hi properly,” she said, holding his paw up and giving it a tiny wave toward the camera. “Like this. Hello, everyone~”

She giggled immediately, her head dropping for a second as she tried not to laugh too loudly.

Bugs blinked slowly, entirely unbothered.

“He has no idea what’s going on,” Luna said, still laughing. “He’s just here like… ‘why is my owner like this?’”

She shifted him slightly so he was sitting comfortably against her chest.

“Bugs has been very clingy lately,” she continued. “I don’t know why. Maybe because I was gone for a while for tour? When I came home, he kept following me around everywhere. Like, every room. Even the bathroom! I was like, ‘sir, please, I need privacy,’ and he just stared at me.”

Luna lowered her voice, leaning closer to the phone. “He also stole my socks yesterday. Again.”

“I swear, this one is a menace,” she sighed. “He grabs one sock and runs under the couch like he knows it’s gonna bother me.”

Comments started flashing quickly, and Luna leaned forward to read them, still petting Bugs.

“Yes, honestly,” Luna said. “He acts like one. He cries when he wants attention. He sulks. He steals things. Very baby behavior.”

She squinted at another comment.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I named him. Jeonghan just spoils him too much. He pretends he doesn’t, but he does. He gives him treats behind my back.”

Luna gasped suddenly. “Oh my god, one time he gave Bugs one too many treats and then Bugs got so hyper he knocked over my entire stack of folded laundry. And Jeonghan just looked at me and said, ‘he’s a growing boy’… idiot.”

She rolled her eyes with a playful groan as the comments exploded with laughter.

“Don’t defend him!” she said, pointing at the camera. “It was a lot of laundry. Like… a lot.”

She paused, glancing down as Bugs nuzzled her palm.

“Aww… okay, fine, I forgive you,” she cooed to him, rubbing his head. “You’re still cute.”

Bugs hopped, trying to climb onto her shoulder, making her yelp.

“No, no— stay down, baby. You can’t go up there,” she said, carefully shifting him back onto her lap. “Every time he climbs up, he tries to chew on my hair.”

Leaning back, Luna adjusted Bugs again, sighing softly.

“Honestly, having him feels like raising a toddler,” she said. “But he makes me really happy. He sleeps next to me sometimes. Well… not in the bed. On the floor next to it. He has his own cushion.”

A comment caught her eye, and she burst into a laugh so sudden she snorted.

“‘Jiyeonie, show us how he reacts when you kiss him.’ That’s a bit random.” she read aloud, still laughing. “Okay, okay, wait.”

She cradled Bugs gently and pressed a soft kiss on top of his head.

Bugs immediately fluffed up, wriggled, and tried to climb up her arm again.

Luna shook her head affectionately. “See? He pretends he hates it, but when I stop, he bites my sleeve. He’s dramatic.”

She laughed again, looking back at the comments.

“No, no, he’s not like Jeonghan,” she said. “Jeonghan doesn’t bite me when I kiss him. Usually.”

Her eyes widened as she realized what she had casually revealed.

“Oh my god! wait— forget I said that,” she said quickly, covering her face with one hand while the comments exploded. “Stop! Don’t tease me! I’m not reading those!”

But she peeked through her fingers anyway, already laughing.

“Forget what I said. I wasn’t thinking straight.” Luna said again, chuckling.

A voice drifted in from somewhere off-camera, teasing, light, and unmistakably familiar.

“Lie to them properly, Jiyeon-ah. You’re terrible at it.”

Luna froze for half a second, eyes widening before she whipped her head toward the direction of the voice.

She immediately turned back to the camera with the fakest serious expression she could manage.

“Everyone, please ignore the stranger speaking in the background,” she said, lifting Bugs’ paw again like a shield. “It’s just the wind.”

A muffled huff of laughter came from off to the side.

Luna tried to hold her composure, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her, curving up, soft and obvious.

Someone was definitely in the room with her, and whoever it was, she was way too fond of them.

“Stop laughing,” she whispered to the person who off-camera, still smiling as she stroked Bugs’ fur.

She looked back at the phone again, cheeks a little warm as she read the flood of suspicious comments.

“Guys, it’s literally just the wi—”

Before she could finish, a shadow shifted beside her. Then, Jeonghan casually leaned into the frame as if he’d always been there, waving and giving giving his signature two finger salute.

“Hi~” he said, voice smooth and teasing. “Long time no see, Carats.”

The comments instantly exploded, flying up the screen too fast for Luna to even catch.

She burst out laughing, already scooting slightly so he could sit next to her. “You’re unbelievable,” she said, shaking her head.

Jeonghan lowered himself onto the couch beside her, close enough that their shoulders brushed. His eyes were warm and playful, crinkling as he watched the comments fly.

“They’re commenting so fast. Are they yelling?” he asked, leaning forward to squint at the screen.

“Yes,” Luna said immediately. “They’re yelling. They’re very excited.”

He put a hand to his chest dramatically. “Carats… I’ve missed you too.”

More comments shot up, Luna reading some out loud.

“Yes, unfortunately,” she said with a straight face.

Jeonghan gasped loudly. “Unfortunately?! After everything I do for you?”

She rolled her eyes. “What do you do?”

He pointed at Bugs. “I feed our son.”

Bugs sniffed his hand, then promptly climbed halfway onto Jeonghan’s thigh.

“See? He loves me more,” Jeonghan declared proudly.

Luna narrowed her eyes. “He loves whoever gives him snacks. Don’t take it personally.”

Jeonghan threw his head back laughing, one hand coming up to gently scratch Bugs behind the ears. “You’re just jealous,” he said, blatantly provoking.

“I’m not jealous of my own bunny,” Luna replied flatly.

“You’re jealous of me taking his attention,” he corrected, smirking.

She swatted his arm. “Stop lying to the people.”

He grinned at the camera. “She’s very jealous.”

“Stop it!” Luna said, trying not to laugh as she covered the lens with her palm for a moment. “Ignore him, he has nothing valuable to contribute to this conversation.”

The comments went even crazier.

Jeonghan leaned in a bit, eyes gentle. “Carats, she’s mean to me at home,” he whispered dramatically. “Please save me.”

Luna turned and glared at him with mock offense. “I’m literally the nicest person in this house.”

“Bugs is nicer,” Jeonghan shot back instantly.

Bugs, still nestled between them, yawned.

Luna pointed at him. “See? He’s bored of you already.”

“He’s relaxed because he knows his father is here,” Jeonghan countered.

She blinked once. Twice. “Jeonghan, stop calling yourself his father.”

Jeonghan shrugged with a grin. “Am I not?”

Luna let out an exasperated laugh, shaking her head as the comments flew again.

“They’re saying you just stole the live,” she said.

“That’s fine,” Jeonghan replied, leaning closer to the camera with a mischievous smile. “I’ll return it later.”

Luna shoved him lightly with her shoulder. “Get out.”

He leaned even closer to her instead. “No.”

She sighed, defeated, her smile giving away everything.

“This is why I said it’s just the wind,” she muttered.

Jeonghan laughed, brushing a hand lightly through her hair before placing it back on Bugs.

“Wind could never look this good,” he said under his breath.

Luna stared at him, jaw dropping as the comments erupted into full chaos.

“Why are you like this?” she whispered.

He tilted his head and smiled.

“What? Honest? I just am,” he answered simply and proud.

“Whatever,” Luna smiled as she adjusted Bugs on her lap, gently guiding him so he sat between her and Jeonghan like a tiny, fluffy mediator.

Jeonghan rested an arm casually along the back of the couch behind her, fingers brushing her shoulder every now and then.

“So,” Luna said, reading the comments with a small smile, “they’re asking what we’ve been up to lately.”

Jeonghan hummed, pretending to think. “Sleeping?”

She elbowed him immediately. “No you haven’t. Don’t lie.”

He looked personally offended. “I sleep.”

“You nap,” she corrected. “There’s a difference.”

The comments filled with laughing emojis and teasing messages.

Luna leaned forward, lifting Bugs’ paw again. “This one thinks he’s the busiest person alive,” she said, waving the paw like Bugs was agreeing.

Jeonghan shook his head. “This household is disrespectful.”

Luna laughed softly before turning back to the fans. “He’s been working very hard lately,” she said sincerely.

Jeonghan opened his mouth, ready to brush it off, but Luna held up a hand, not letting him interrupt.

“I mean it,” she continued. “He is working very hard.”

Jeonghan pretended to cover Bugs’ ears. “Don’t let him hear this. He’ll think I’m responsible.”

Luna ignored him completely. Instead, she leaned closer to the camera, lowered her voice in a dramatic whisper, and said, “He also started working out again. What did Dino say again? Jeonghannie is first place in terms of physique.”

Immediate chaos in the comments.

Jeonghan’s head snapped toward her. “Nana-ya.”

She broke into a grin and winked. “You’re welcome.”

He groaned loudly, dragging a hand down his face. “Why would you tell them that?”

“Because they like hearing it,” she said, blinking innocently.

“You like making trouble,” he countered.

“Yes,” she admitted without shame.

He pouted, an actual pout, full lower lip jutting out as he slumped back dramatically.

Bugs hopped slightly, brushing against his thigh.

“See?” Luna said. “Even Bugs is comforting you.”

Jeonghan gave her a side-eye. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

She reached out and adjusted the collar of his hoodie, the movement small and domestic. Her fingers lingered for a moment longer than necessary. “I’m just proud of you,” she said softly.

Jeonghan’s expression melted immediately. He touched her knee gently, thumb brushing over the fabric of her sweats. “Thank you,” he murmured.

Luna cleared her throat and straightened up, embarrassed. “Anyway—”

“No, no,” Jeonghan cut in, leaning closer, “say it again.”

She shoved him with her shoulder, laughing. “Stop fishing for compliments on my live.”

“It’s our live now,” he said smugly.

“Get out.”

He didn’t move an inch.

Instead, he scooted closer, their thighs pressed together. “No.”

Bugs climbed onto Luna’s lap properly, so she focused on petting him, pretending she wasn’t blushing.

One comment caught Jeonghan’s attention and he leaned forward to read it. “They’re asking if Bugs has been good lately.”

Luna snorted. “He destroyed one of your socks last week.”

Jeonghan lifted Bugs immediately, holding him at eye level. “You did what?”

Bugs blinked slowly, entirely unapologetic.

“I’m clearly the favorite,” Luna announced. “He only steals my socks… he chews on yours.”

“That’s fake news,” Jeonghan replied, lowering Bugs back down gently. “He loves me too much to do that.”

“He eats them,” she corrected.

“He cherishes them,” Jeonghan insisted.

Luna rolled her eyes. “You’re delusional.”

“You married me,” he said under his breath.

Luna’s head snapped toward him, heat rising to her cheeks. “We’re not married yet.”

Jeonghan looked at the camera, smirk creeping in. “Yet.”

Luna covered her face with one hand. “Stop talking.”

He clicked his tongue. “Make me.”

She lowered her hand slowly, staring at him. “We’re live,” she whispered sharply.

“So?” he whispered back, leaning in just slightly, eyes locked on hers with that teasing softness he always had around her.

Bugs hopped onto Jeonghan’s lap, ruining the moment entirely.

Jeonghan blinked, looked down at the rabbit who was now demanding attention, and exhaled dramatically. “He always ruins my timing.”

Luna burst out laughing. “He’s protecting my honor.”

Jeonghan played along, scratching Bugs’ head again. “You’re working against me, small child.”

Luna leaned comfortably against Jeonghan’s shoulder, finally relaxing fully into him. He let his hand rest on her thigh, a domestic kind of closeness they no longer had to hide.

“We’ve just been… living,” Luna said softly as she read more comments. “Working, resting, spending time with family… and taking care of this guy.” She lifted Bugs’ paw again.

Jeonghan nodded. “And taking care of her,” he added, tapping his chin lightly on the top of her head.

Luna smiled at the camera, cheeks warm. “He does take care of me.”

He smirked. “Thank you for admitting it.”

She elbowed him again, but didn’t pull away.

“Anyway,” Luna said as she stroked Bugs’ ears, “we wanted to spend time with you today. It’s been a while.”

“And because Jiyeonie missed you,” Jeonghan added, leaning forward with a grin.

“And Jeonghannie wants attention,” she countered immediately.

Jeonghan gasped. “I only want attention from you.”

Luna’s breath caught, her eyes flicking to him in disbelief.

He blinked back at her, all innocence.

The comments combusted for the tenth time.

Luna placed Bugs in the middle again, cheeks burning. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

She melted instantly.

Bugs sneezed.

Jeonghan nodded at the rabbit. “Exactly.”

Luna straightened a little before taking a sip of her coffee on the table before smoothing her hand over Bugs’ fur as she let out a small breath. “Okay—wait, I actually remembered something. Let me tell you guys this because it still makes me laugh.”

Jeonghan glanced her way with a soft hum, curiosity warm in his eyes. His hand rested behind her on the couch, thumb brushing lazily against the fabric.

“So… this happened in DC,” Luna said, pointing at the camera for emphasis. “And of course it involves Dokyeomie. Because why wouldn’t it?”

Jeonghan chuckled quietly, nodding.

“Okay so, we had some time before soundcheck, right?” she said, the energy in her voice rising. “And Kyeomie suddenly decides he wants coffee. Like… desperately. Like it was a life-or-death emergency.”

Another quiet hum from Jeonghan, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“So we’re walking down the street looking for this one café he found online that he really wanted to try. And he refused to pick another one. It had to be that café.”

Luna widened her eyes. “So we walk. And walk. And walk. And then we walk more. Dokyeomie insisted it was ‘just around the corner.’”

“Oh no…” Jeonghan’s shoulders shook lightly in a silent laugh.

“It was not around the corner,” Luna declared. “It was around twelve corners. Minimum.”

“So anyway, after like twenty minutes, we finally find it. Dokyeomie bursts through the door like he’s been wandering the desert for forty years.” She mimicked his dramatic inhale. “‘Ji-Ji, we made it.’”

“Aigo,” Jeonghan let out a soft coo at her impression, nodding along.

“And then,” she continued, holding up a finger, “we get in line, right? Normal. Peaceful. Calm. And all of a sudden he freezes and goes—” She paused dramatically, eyes widening. “‘Jiyeon-ah. I forgot my wallet.’”

Jeonghan’s laugh slipped out this time, soft and breathy.

Luna nodded aggressively. “Yes! Can you believe it? He forgot his wallet. After dragging me across Washington DC.”

She pressed a hand to her chest. “And then he says—‘Luna-ya… can you get this one?’”

Jeonghan hummed again, amusement clear on his face.

“So I bought his coffee. Because I’m a good person. But then—wait, it gets worse—he goes and orders the most complicated drink on the menu. Like twelve words long. I couldn’t even remember what it was.”

She closed her eyes and groaned. “The barista asked me what size I wanted and I said ‘the cheapest one, please.’”

Jeonghan giggled softly, leaning closer for a second, his hand brushing her knee as if he couldn’t resist touching her when she got this animated.

“So Dokyeomie gets his drink… finally,” Luna continued, “and he takes one sip. One. And he goes, ‘Jiyeon-ah… this isn’t what I wanted.’”

Jeonghan hid his smile behind his hand, shoulders shaking.

“And then he tried to convince me to switch drinks with him,” Luna said, pointing at the camera with betrayal in her voice. “Carats. He tried to scam me. ME.”

She let out a dramatic sigh. “And I still gave him half of mine because he looked sad.”

Jeonghan reached over and brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek. “You’re too kind,” he murmured.

Luna gave him a look. “I’m too gullible.”

He hummed with a tiny smirk. “Mm. That too.”

She gasped and nudged him with her shoulder, flustered but laughing. Bugs hopped in her lap at the movement, and she stroked him again with a gentle apology.

“Anyway,” she said, facing the camera again, cheeks still warm from all of Jeonghan’s soft attention, “that’s my DC story. Dokyeom owes me eight dollars and fifty cents.”

Jeonghan nodded, leaning in just slightly closer. “Make him pay interest.”

“Exactly,” she said, grinning.

The live chat went wild again, and Luna hid her smile in Bugs’ fur while Jeonghan watched her with that familiar soft expression he never bothered hiding anymore.

Luna blinked suddenly, patting around her lap with one hand while still holding Bugs with the other. “Wait—wait… where’s my phone?” she muttered, lifting the blanket beside her and looking under a pillow. “I swear I just had it, did Bugs sit on it? Bugs, did you steal my phone again?”

Jeonghan snorted softly, lifting his hand to gesture forward. “Nana-ya,” he said, amusement thick in his voice, “it’s literally right there.”

She froze.

Then slowly… very slowly… she looked at the phone propped up in front of them streaming the live.

Her face dropped in disbelief.

“Gosh,” she whispered, eyes widening before she burst into a loud laugh.

Jeonghan leaned back against the couch, laughing quietly but fondly, the kind that reached his eyes. “Cute.”

“I can’t believe you let me do that,” she shot back, still laughing as she ran a hand down her face.

He shook his head gently. “Why would I stop you? It was cute.”

Luna groaned dramatically, then glanced at the camera again. “I actually did this once with my mom too.” She pointed at the phone. “I was literally on the phone with her and I started looking for my phone. While using the phone.”

Jeonghan nodded slowly, lips curling. “It happens to the best of us.”

She rolled her eyes. “It happens to me. Specifically.”

He shrugged, smiling. “You’re still cute.”

Luna let out a tiny, shy sound before clearing her throat and shifting in her seat like she needed to escape from the warmth rising in her chest. Bugs hopped on her thigh and she quickly pet him to look busy.

Then suddenly she brightened, sitting up straighter. “Oh, wait guys, guess what.” She pointed dramatically at the camera. “Guess.”

Jeonghan narrowed his eyes at her theatrics. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Shh,” she hissed at him before turning back to the live. “Okay, so… Jeongie bought me a new phone out of nowhere. For no reason.”

Jeonghan burst out laughing instantly. “Here we go.”

“No, because, tell them why,” Luna said, jabbing his arm lightly. “Tell them why you did that.”

He lifted his hands innocently. “I had a reason.”

“A stupid reason,” she corrected.

“A sweet reason,” he replied softly, bumping her shoulder.

Luna sighed like she’d been holding this story in for days. “Okay, listen. He calls me a few days ago, right? And he goes, ‘Nana-ya, I’m at the mall with my mom.’ Normal. Cool. Fine. Right?”

Jeonghan nodded with a tiny smirk. “Right.”

“And then he tells me he saw a phone case that reminded him of me,” she continued, eyes widening like she still couldn’t believe it. “A phone case.”

“It was really cute,” Jeonghan muttered under his breath.

“And he wanted to buy it for me,” she said. “Which is sweet! I love gifts! But then he tells me they didn’t have the case for my phone model because it was sold out.”

She paused.

Looked at Jeonghan.

Looked back at the camera.

“So he bought me a new phone.”

Jeonghan pressed his lips together to hide his smile. “It made sense at the time.”

“It did not make sense,” she said, hitting his thigh lightly with the back of her hand. “My phone was only one year old! ONE! YEAR! OLD!”

“You needed an upgrade anyway,” he argued, leaning closer like he was whispering a secret. “You drop it too much.”

“I DO NOT—!”

He gave her a pointed stare.

She raised a finger. “Okay, maybe I do. But that’s not the point.”

Jeonghan tilted his head, eyes soft and playful. “But you love it, don’t you?”

Luna’s lips trembled, because yes, she absolutely loved it.

She sighed dramatically. “Yes. I love it.”

He grinned like he just won some kind of competition.

She rolled her eyes but leaned into him slightly, letting his shoulder press against hers. “He literally bought a whole new phone just so he could buy me a phone case that ‘reminded him of me.’”

He simply smiled at her, soft and warm, fingers brushing the back of her hand just once before resting between them.

Bugs stretched out across her lap, and Luna gently scratched behind his ear as she muttered, “Anyway. He’s ridiculous.”

Jeonghan leaned in just a little more. “You love me anyway.”

She didn’t look at him, but the tiny smile growing at the corner of her lips was all the answer he needed.

Bugs suddenly twitched in Luna’s lap, ears perking up like he heard some secret signal only bunnies knew.

Then, without warning, he hopped off her legs, landed on the carpet with a soft thump, and quickly bounced his way across the living room.

“Ah—Bugs!” Luna called, leaning forward and reaching an arm toward him even though he was already several hops away. “Bugs baby, where are you going?”

Jeonghan followed the bunny’s path with his eyes, eyebrows lifting. “Yah, where are you going?” he repeated, sounding like he was scolding a tiny child.

Bugs turned left, straight toward the kitchen.

“Oh,” Luna exhaled, immediately understanding. “He’s hungry.”

Jeonghan nodded once, knowingly. “Yep. It’s his dinner time.”

Bugs paused at the edge of the kitchen tile, looked back at them with judgment in his eyes, and thumped his foot once, loudly.

Luna gasped and pointed. “He’s literally telling us to feed him.”

“He’s impatient just like you,” Jeonghan murmured.

She shot him a glare that wasn’t serious for even a second.

Then she turned back to the camera, her tone softening into something apologetic and fond. “Okay, guys… it looks like it’s time to say goodbye. Bugs needs dinner, and if we don’t feed him right away he’ll start chewing the rug.”

Jeonghan hummed, scooting a bit closer so both of them were fully in frame. “We can’t let him starve. Because he might eat us.”

Luna pressed her lips together to stop a smile. “So we have to end the live, sadly.”

She waved a hand gently. “I promise I’ll go live again soon, okay? Maybe even with Bugs again.”

Jeonghan leaned slightly toward the camera, giving a casual two-finger salute. “Carats, thank you for today. Eat well, rest well… and wait for me just a little bit more.”

The comments exploded at that, but his eyes stayed soft, warm, and full of something steady.

Luna tucked her hair behind her ear, smiling in that tiny, shy way she only ever had around him. “We’ll see you guys soon. Thank you for hanging out with us.”

“Goodnight,” Jeonghan said softly,

“Goodnight,” Luna echoed.

They lifted their hands, waving toward the screen, hers gentle and bubbly, his slow and relaxed.

Bugs thumped from the kitchen again, louder this time.

Luna laughed. “Okay, alright! We’re coming!”

She reached forward toward the phone, still smiling.

And together, still waving, they ended the live.

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[cheolliecherie]

Rule Over My Heart | C. SC [1]

series masterlist , general masterlist

wc: 1.9K

genre/trope: royal! au, childhood friends to lovers, forbidden love, smut, angst

pairings: prince! seungcheol x handmaid! reader

summary: You and Seungcheol have never known a life without each other, even though there's a fact that has always created a huge gap between you. He is the Crown Prince, and that's the only way you should know him as.

disclaimer: this story isn't meant to be accurate to any time period nor based in historical facts about any real monarchy so do what you must from that oop.

cw: none for this chapter.

a/n: if i'm being honest when I said soon i didn't really mean the next day but omg I thought, "hold up, it's mothers' day tomorrow" and, you know, I thought it fit. you'll get me when you read the beginning. like, right at the start lol. my reasoning is ridiculous. but well i'm unpredictable like that (?). it's short but the tendency is that the chapters get a little longer as it goes as of now. and I'm thinking of biweekly releases bc I still have to work on ch. 5 and depending how that goes maybe add another one. starting to put them out now was a totally impulsive decision that I told myself I wouldn't take bc I wanted to have everything done for once T.T. when I'm 'on a roll' I tend to get discouraged if I hold back. thank you to those of you already looking forward to this (I warned y'all not to T.T). happy reading! (I guess? it starts to get a lil angsty at the end. don't kill me) - chérie

Chapter 1: Bound to Be

next

The castle is in a flurry. Everything still runs as smoothly as it always does, yet there's an undeniable excited buzz in the air that follows the news: their beloved Queen just had her first born.

"It's a boy!" One of the maids bursts into the room to announce to the rest of the castle staff.

A little boy unaware of the responsibilities and duties that will fall upon him and that his arrival has the power to change the course of many people's lives.

Like yours. You are born only a few months apart. While the whole kingdom celebrated the birth of the Prince, your welcome to the world is quite yet not less solemn. The difference is, you're the daughter of a maid. Not just any maid, though. Through her hard work, your mother has earned the trust of the Queen and is considered part of her closest circle.

Thus, you grow up able to see first hand what life is behind the fortified walls of the castle. Given your mother's position you remain behind the scenes and without losing sight of how work gets done, as it should be. Avoiding curiosity or calling any attention, no dawdling. Just efficient.

The more you try to make yourself smaller though, the more the Young Prince gets drawn by you. He stares, wondering, any time he sees you hiding behind your mom's skirts as she attends to her tasks, as you help her. For a brief moment your eyes meet, before you quickly dart your gaze away as if afraid it might offend him.

-

The first time Seungcheol speaks to you is when one day, he sees you rushing into the gardens. You seemed upset, so he'd followed you.

"Are you okay?" startled by his voice, you turn and he sees you're crying, more heavy tears gathering in your waterline as you hold them back now after being caught by the Prince.

You are not sure if you should talk to him, never have been left alone with him, but you also think it would be rude not to answer. You settle for a nod, though it doesn't seem to convince him. Seungcheol doesn't want to upset you more, so instead he looks for something to cheer you up. You watch him leave before he comes back a couple minutes later with a handful of flowers… That he just plucked out of the flower beds of their magnificent castle gardens. He offers them to you.

You stare at them in awe before you meet his eyes again and your face breaks into a happy smile. You seem to forget all about what you were crying about before, the dampness in your lashes the only hint left behind, and Seungcheol smiles proudly, warmth spreading on his face up to his ears that turn a soft shade of pink.

It takes you a while but eventually you do talk to him. You tell him that you'd tried to join a group of boys to play but they'd been mean, laughing at you before saying girls couldn't play with boys because they were weak, pushing you harshly making you stumble as if to prove their point. Seungcheol frowns at this, mind racing when your face falls a little as you recall when you recount the events.

"You can play with me." he offers, face lighting up by the idea. And before you began to worry about overstepping, he was grabbing your hand and pulling you along as he ran towards the fields surrounding the castle.

Late in the afternoon when you're walking back to the castle gates, someone comes rushing towards you two. Your mother. She looks rattled, and even more as she takes the state you're both in: your clothes are rumpled and covered in grass stains, dirt on your hands, even on your face. You get scolded all the way back inside. Then the Queen shows up, her worry fading from her as her eyes land on her son. She cups his cheeks, "Where have you been? And why are you a mess?"

"My apologies, my Queen." Your mom bows apologetically, face riddled with shame, "My daughter must've sneaked out with the Prince without me noticing."

Beside Seungcheol, you sniffle. He didn't spend all the afternoon trying to cheer you up for it to come around like this again. "It's my fault, Mother." you dare to look back up as he speaks and you shake your head at him, but he's not letting you take any blame.

However, the Queen smiles softly between you two, taking in the courageous look on her little boy's face, "Alright, then. No need to apologize. The kids were just playing." She addresses your mom, "Next time, don't stay outdoors until so late. Now, go get washed up. It's almost time for dinner."

Next time. Seungcheol nods, dimpled smile directed at his mother before he turns to you. You look away, flustered and fidgeting, while your mother takes hold of your hands and starts guiding you both out of the room.

-

Seungcheol found his lessons boring, but according to everyone - his parents, his governess, his instructors -, they are part of his obligations. He never once misbehaved, if you didn't count the borderline disrespectful sighing and the almost falling asleep. He'd much rather be playing outside with you, he thinks, staring out the window and down at the fields while wondering what are you doing right now.

His opinion on the matter changes once he learns that not everybody has the privilege of an education. One day, while he complains about lectures with you, you timidly share that you'd love to learn new things and to have lots of books to read, a huge library like the one he has in their castle. Now, he feels ashamed for taking his lessons for granted, but he can't dwell with that for long. Instead, Seungcheol springs into action, and that's when he comes up with mischief.

It's all deliberate, just until you come around. He makes sure the Queen notices that when you are around he seems to behave better and Seungcheol takes his success when she allows for you to attend his lessons with his high end instructors. His governess is grateful she doesn't have to chase after him down the long castle halls trying to get him to his study room anymore.

Your mother can't find her voice when the Queen proposes this for you. It feels like asking for too much, but looking down at you, seeing the wistful look in your eyes, she allows it.

The first day you join Seungcheol for his lessons, you are shy. Seungcheol's instructors had never seen him get so involved before, and with his support, you loosen up. You are a little behind for your age, but you're a fast learner. Soon later, you are up to Seungcheol's level, even exceeding him in languages and art.

-

It's another day where you two are outside sitting side by side, like you often find yourselves. He's not as good at this as you are, but he puts a lot of effort on it as he finishes it: a flower crown. The first time you made him one, he'd inspected it with so much care, taking it upon himself to learn to make them for you. Still, he doesn't think they're as pretty as you are. When he places it over your head and leans back to admire you wearing it, there's that gentle blush on his cheeks, just like the time before, and the time before that. You thank him each time with a smile. What's different now though, is when he says your name a little nervously.

You look at him expectantly, patiently waiting for him to continue. You notice he's also fidgeting with a single daisy, its stem shaped into a loop, like a tiny ring. It matches the crown he made you using the same flowers dotting all around you in the field. "Would you like to be my princess?"

Your eyes widen, "But I'm not a real princess."

"You could be. If you- If you married me." He says, being very serious about this conversation.

"We can get married right now?"

"Yes! If you want to."

You nod. "Okay."

"Really?" Seungcheol says, awestruck.

You hum in agreement, simple as that. Seungcheol is your favorite person and marriage means you get to spend forever with him.

Yet you think something's missing about this significant moment. It's your wedding! "But how do we know we are married?"

"Like this." You let him reach for your hand, and he slides the dainty flower ring on your ring finger. You stare at it like it's the most precious thing you possess now, before he speaks up again. "And we have to kiss."

Then he leans over to press a quick kiss to your cheek, moving back just as fast. Seungcheol's a blushing mess right now as he looks at you and so are you. Still, it's your turn. His breath hitches when you lean over and kiss his cheek too, then he's smiling wide. There's a gap left from his fallen upper front milk teeth, but it doesn't make his dimpled smile the less charming. You're smiling at him too.

When you grow up, Seungcheol promises to you both he will give you a real ring, the prettiest of them all.

-

As you get older though, you begin to understand the things you couldn't before, too young to grasp them.

You're late. You should've met your mother already to assist her. She's not going to be happy. You notice it as you approach, her expression is stern. "About time." She stops, reaching over, "What's this you are wearing?" looking disapprovingly as she holds up the flower crown, at your wind whipped hair.

"I- Seungcheol made it for me." the smile that begins to take over at this is quashed when you notice how scandalized your mother seems by this.

"How dare you address the Prince with such familiarity, young lady!" In all your life, you'd never seen her so upset, "I thought I taught you better."

You don't understand, but your mother will make sure you do. Seungcheol is not your friend, she states clearly, and she'll make sure you correct this childish, disrespectful behaviour of yours if you mean to fulfill your roles properly.

The next time you see him, you are quiet. Seungcheol brings it up, starting to worry when you won't even meet his eyes. "You should no longer associate with me, Your Highness."

He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but certainly it wasn't this. He laughs, trying to shake his discomfort, "What are you saying? And what's with the honorifics?" You two were a long way from caring about that.

"It's the right way to address you."

"Right." He's still smiling because there's no way you are being serious about this.

It makes it more difficult for you when you look up and see it, and he sees it then too, his smile wavering. "From this moment onward, we are not to meet anymore. Now, if you'll excuse me-"

"No!", he interrupts, the suddenly too real possibility of losing you filling him with dread."You can't do this."

"I'm only here to carry out my duties, Sir." you struggle to keep your voice from wavering as you say it.

"That's nonsense! You can't just leave! You're my- You are…" You stand there horrified when Seungcheol begins to cry. You never wanted this. For you to be the reason of his unhappiness. You can't bear to see it, you can't stay in the same room any longer. Tears begin to slide down your own face but once you turn around, you don't look back even when he calls after you.

[tonycries]

Beast - R.S.

Synopsis. Four arms. Four eyes. Two mouths. Ryomen Sukuna has everything he needs and more: power, riches, enough concubines that he’s grown bored of such frivolities. That is, until you’re entering his royal estate as the newest addition—and he just didn’t expect such a puny little human to become… His favorite.

Pairing. Ryomen Sukuna x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!concubine!reader, Heian era!Sukuna, true form!Sukuna, DP, Sukuna’s second mouth, the Sukuna Estate, other concubines, schemes, sIight pIot, mostly just true form Kuna mmmmpfg, he’s the master, he’s BIG (like really big), four arms, two mouths, he’s FÉRAL, mouth-ríding, sort of face-sítting, p sIapping, oraI (f + brief m), DÚMBlFICATION, making it fit, tight squeezes, stretching, tummy buIges, cervíx smooches, sIight degradation, bréeding, mentions of heirs, MANHANDLlNG, tension, full nélsons, overstímulation, spítting, foIding, stopping you from running, making you CRY, rough s, he’s MEAN, creampíes, cúmpIay, muIti-tasking (iykyk), implied marathon, slight proposals, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 10.5k

A/N. Blame that split-second frame from the last episode not me…

“Of the eighty-two chambers, you are free to enter most.” Uraume’s words were smooth, steady, and not a second longer than necessary; just as their steps were down these winding hallways. 

You’re hastening your strides to keep up.

“You may roam in the gardens and libraries. The main kitchen has its doors always open, the Eastern one is for specialty desserts and guests, and the Western one is for poisons…and guests.” They continue, “The dojo is forbidden to anyone but the master, and you are expected in the Buddha room every evening.”

They suddenly halt.

Boredly, “You do plan to stay alive, I believe?”

And you could barely breathe, “I-I believe so?”

You’re realizing that you’ve stopped at the end of a massive bridge connecting to a quieter wing of the estate—intricately carved, and accompanied by a slow river drifting underneath. Uraume’s hand falls to the edge of the lattice doors, “Good. Here we have the concubine quarters-” Looking at you seriously, “-where you shall reside.”

A shiver runs down your spine.

Truth be told, you hadn’t expected to get this far.

According to what the stories and legends claimed, a mere mortal like you would have been sniffed out—would have been sought after, would have your flesh torn to shreds the very second you stepped inside the Sukuna Estate. If not by the monster that inhabited it, then the Estate itself.

Some whispered that it was inhabited by cursed spirits - amongst something far, far worse - that both guarded and imprisoned. Whilst others whispered that the house itself was a cursed spirit in the form of this sprawling aristocratic estate—as vast as a palace. Even more whispered that whomever entered the house gained a taste for blood, and even most claimed that a house’s auspiciousness reflected that of its master’s. 

For who else would inhabit such a place but Ryomen Sukuna, the King of Curses himself?

If the public whispered about the estate, they simply yelled about the sorcerer that inhabited it. Blood-curdling screams. 

There was no avoiding the rumors that swirled around the special-grade; those who were unfortunate enough to cross his path painted a picture of a beast more than eight feet tall, with glowing blood-red eyes and horns that tore open the skies. Storms he could silence with a single wave of his hand. His powers were what made legends—never before had there been seen a sorcerer as strong as he, and it was likely that there never shall be again. Though that was not for a lack of trying, or talent, or assassinations. 

Despite remaining living, he was depicted in temples and murals of hell. Four arms. Four eyes. Two mouths and countless tattoos. So imbued in his sorcery that it metamorphosed his physical body itself - Ryomen Sukuna was said to be something more than human, but something less than a person. 

Look at him wrong and you might find yourself without sight. Without life. 

Thus, not many dared to lay their eyes upon him—but they didn’t have to. He left a pathway of destruction and blood-soaked footprints wherever he went. 

A kill count higher than several populations.

Wherever he went, it loomed the dark shadow of a hand across the land. Currently that hand was grasped tight around the city of Heian-kyō: the home of Ryomen Sukuna, it sat at the very center of the capital. Dubbed aptly by the citizens to be The Estate of the Dead. For no human that wandered inside, will ever wander out.

And yet, that’s exactly the chance you’d taken today.

You’d had enough.

You’d waltzed right up to those grand doors this evening, dwarfing everything and anything around it, and knocked. Dark mahogany panels. Gilded handles. Unlike most noble homes, the Sukuna Estate didn’t need to have guards stationed outside it—for who was mad enough to bother the King of Curses?

You, it seems.

And so the busy road froze around you; the residents paused mid-gossip, the merchants stopped haggling their prices, the carts and wheels creaked to a halt—the world itself held its breath as the doors to the estate had opened.

And a short, slender person stepped outside.

They were dressed in a dark monk’s robe draped over a white kimono, equally white hair dazzling - almost ethereally odd - underneath the sunlight. They closed the door behind themself, and looked at you intensely. “State your purpose.”

You struggled to remember why you were here in the first place, “I-It is my greatest honor to-”

“Hasten.”

“I only wished to-”

“Hasten-”

“A position.”

You weren’t sure who was more bewildered at the words that blurted out of you—you or the citizens around you. There were soft gasps that echoed into the air, peering even closer at the strange interaction. However, the attendant merely looked at you uncertainly, and you hurried to explain yourself. “I come seeking employment, my lord of the house.”

“I am but a mere servant.” They replied, raising one hand. “And we seek help no longer.”

As they attempted to turn back and go inside, you’re rushing. “Please-”

Brows furrowed, “I said we seek help no-”

“But I swear that I shall be the most loyal servant to the master…” Bowed slightly, a slight rush of relief goes through you as you notice they’ve turned back. Just barely, but it’s something. “-after yourself, of course.”

They huffed in slight amusement.

And your hands shook. Gripped onto the long length of your sleeves, you steadied them before you continued - just as you’d practiced. “I swear upon my soul that no assignment shall be too great, no concern too small. Please—please, I have scoured every street and alley for weeks now in search of employment, and you have been the only one kind enough to open your doors…Any job is enough for me- any. Just spare me the chance.” Hands twisted together into a plea, “I beg of you.”

They looked slightly taken aback, and you stepped closer to seize your chance.

“My body is the master’s, and I shall gladly undertake any task.” You gazed straight into their doe-like, brown eyes—“Any task.”

Their lips barely moved as they repeated, “Any?”

“Any.”

There was a ringing silence following your answer, and you knew that everyone in the once-bustling vicinity must have been staring at you. But that didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered but the way the white-haired attendant let their brows raise, they appraised you from head to toe.

Head to toe.

Head to toe.

It honestly seemed like forever before they finally sighed, “At ease.”

And you shot upwards from your painstaking bow with an awed breath. 

Untold, the doors to the Sukuna Estate opened. They turned around, not meeting your eyes - nor that of anyone around you two - and gestured for you to follow them inside. Stepping inside as though they didn’t care whether you proceeded or not, the strange attendant uttered. “I expect you to use your body well to serve the master.” Just barely tilted to the side to take another look at you, “You have one night to please him.”

The sound of wrought iron echoed through the ancient city like thunder.

And you touched your sleeve once more - your best silk, but more specifically…the dagger you’d hidden beneath it. 

You had one night to take down the King of Curses.

In no time, you’d been led around the massive estate by Uraume - they’d uttered their name to you between the meeting chamber and the second library - and your heart still thumps away at your throat as they now creeeeeeak—! open the quarters for the concubines. Blood bubbling in your veins. Blade cold against your skin.

There was a buzzing sort of excitement that seemed to extend from the weapon and onto you—only growing stronger as you’re pacing inside. 

It wasn’t the small, structured sort of barrack that you might’ve expected - you weren’t sure the validity, but you’d already heard stories about how concubines were cramped together in certain royal palaces. Bunks on top of bunks. Bodies that remained undernourished and untouched.

However, what Uraume takes you through is a gilded hallway—nothing out-of-place from the rest of the palace. On one side was a line of separate rooms, at the end of the hallway the paneled doors opened to a garden. It had unlit lanterns on the high ceilings and intricate artifacts that seemingly sprouted from the gleaming wooden floors; the spotless corridor branched and divulged into several other rooms and hallways, weighed with nameplates, and you were shocked to realize that each concubine seemed to have their room - no matter how small their rank; there was a lingering of perfume in the air. 

Fit for royals.

Your eyes bounce off of the walls, and Uraume watches your reaction closely. “I assume it is to your liking?”

“Yes-” You wouldn’t want to give off the wrong impression - especially not when a mere offense could mean death—“F-forgive me, it’s far more than to my liking, it’s…” Taking another awed look around, “-magnificent. I suppose I didn’t expect it to be so…”

“Beautiful?” Uraume seems to read your mind.

And you can only turn to them and nod. 

They sagely nod, something knowing in their tone. “The master has an inclination to all that is beautiful and surprising.” Looking at you closely, “Particularly surprising.”

Uraume’s expression gives nothing away, and you attempt to do the same - the dagger glints coldly against your hand. A single movement and it could cut you. A single movement and it could be in your hands.

You don’t know how long they maintain eerie eye contact with you before the sound of footsteps makes you tear your eyes away—and where you’re perhaps expecting to see the monster, the inhuman, the master of this house himself—it’s another woman. Human, perhaps.

Donned in expensive silk that robes her figure, she tip-toes towards the two of you with a sheepish smile upon her painted face. 

She bows, and you’re bowing back.

“Forgive my intrusion.” She says as she straightens once more, “It is seldom we meet a new girl. Perhaps this is forward, but am I right in presuming you are one of the new concubines?”

“O-oh, you are correct.” You’re surprised by her warm and welcoming demeanour - weren’t fights and jealousy typical of close concubine quarters? Wasn’t she supposed to scheme and plot against you just as you were doing against her- you suppose your master?

But she takes your hand and beams at you, “Then it is most wonderful to make your acquaintance. Ask me anything you would like.”

Your lips part - unsure what to say - but the white-haired attendant at your side beats you to it by announcing. “Dinner shall be served shortly.” They turn, about to make their exit before eyeing you closely. “Human.”

And you wondered whether they meant to call you human…or they meant that dinner was human. 

Once those delicate doors slide shut, and Uraume’s footsteps disappear, you’re just then realizing that you were still holding onto the other woman’s hand. Mustering up some semblance of a smile, you’re asking her—“Could you tell me about…Ryomen Sukuna?”

.

.

.

“There’s a descendant of the esteemed Kamo clan here, as well—” One of the women chuckle, taking a deep drink of her sake - one of those expensive types that came in an intricate wooden box. She smacks her lips in satisfaction, “-but you just missed her.”

Your heart batters against your chest- you still had the dagger hidden up your sleeve. Setting down your water, you hope that none of the other concubines here can hear the waver in your voice- “I see. Is she perhaps attending the…?”

“Huh?” The woman looks at blearily for a few seconds. “Who? The master?”

You nod silently.

She exchanges a look with one of the other women-

Before bursting into rambunctious laughter. 

And you’re sitting there confused as they clap one another on the shoulders, as they rattle the food-laden table—as they wipe mirthful tears from their eyes. Repeating the last sentence to one another and breaking out into peels of laughter once more. Surely, you hadn’t said anything too humorous…perhaps this was some unspoken rule of etiquette you’d missed?

It hadn’t been too long since you’d been somewhat- absorbed into the group of numerous concubines upon concubines that were housed in the Sukuna Estate. Many more than you’d initially predicted - the hallway you’d entered had been just one of many residential wings. 

Right now, about half of them sat at a long table of which you couldn’t clearly see its end - both because of length and the sheer volume of food towering upon it. All sorts of soups and noodles. All sorts of breads and wines. All sorts of meats and charred vegetables. Desserts and colorfully-packaged sweets from around the world that you’d once believed that only the emperor himself would have been able to taste.

It would have been possible to dislike every food you’d ever known, and still find something here that made you wish to stay…if just for the food.

You could hear the other half of the women chattering and laughing away in another dining room connected to this one. 

All in all, your proponent - a woman you’d learned was connected with the Fujiwara family - had told you everything about Sukuna as she introduced you to the other concubines. They took you in readily, to your surprise, and cooed and surrounded and showed you around. Speaking to you about how the estate was designed personally by Sukuna himself. How Uraume was his (human) cook. How he was a ruthless ruler, and the hallways were more often bloodied than not—but he didn’t lay a hand on them.

When they’d told you this, you’d assumed it was regarding his more…aggressive reputation on the battlefield. You didn’t think it meant-

“Our Kamo girl has travelled to Edo.” The woman from earlier - Abe, you remember her name being - continues as the others settle down. She whispers scandalously, “To visit her lover.”

You breathe in sharply, “The master permits you to take lovers?”

“It isn’t that he permits…” Fujiwara smiles warmly at you - not too far down the table. The other concubines nod as she continues, “It’s that he doesn’t pry—he has no time for human frivolities. After all, the master hasn’t called for one of the girls in…well, since we can remember. He’s a picky man. But nowadays, girls enter and leave the estate as they please, as they wish for employment. Most choose to join the house staff in time, for we aren’t bound, and the master seems to have no need for concubines these days.”

Surprise overtakes you, your hand grips tightly on your sleeve. But your objective…

Abe speaks up now, “Which is why it’d been quite the surprise to know he’d allowed in yet another.” She leans in with a conspiratorial smile, “Perhaps you’re the type to really get his loins going-”

“Abe—!” A few other women swat at her.

“I jest- I jest—” She winks at you, “In part. Would you prefer to lay with the master?”

Something twists at the bottom of your stomach, “I-if it must come to it, I wouldn’t mi-”

You’re cut off as they exclaim in scandal all around you. 

Fujiwara shakes her head with a smile, then she looks at you. “No matter what it is, you shall be housed and fed here. You shall never go without despite the master’s…”

“Impotence?”

“…”

“I jest-”

“What’s more—” She pulls back her sleeves and gestures for a bowl of sake, “Given the state of affairs, I highly doubt that you would ever have to-”

Just then, there’s a tap at the sliding doors.

An announcement of Uraume’s title—before they’re cracking the entrance open just a fraction. That stark white hair of theirs flashes from the gap in the door, illuminated by both the dim yellow lighting and the curiosity leaking out of the dining room; eyes scanning the vast chamber before finally landing on you.

An utterance of your name.

All eyes snap to you.

“The master wishes for you to join him tonight.”

One by one, you could feel the jaws of the other women drop—as well as your own. Right alongside something at the pit of your stomach that you couldn’t quite describe. 

As the silence stretches and expands to the other speechless dining chamber- Fujiwara lets out a pointed cough—and it’s all you need to jolt right back to your senses. Scrambling to stand up, you barely have the time to smooth down your kimono before following Uraume out of the room - throwing a cautionary glance over your shoulder. 

Fujiwara smiles, slightly shocked. 

Abe winks. 

The sliding doors rattle closed, and the whirlwind of gossip that follows accompanies you even to the bridge. 

Head ducked. Hands in sleeves. Uraume remains painfully silent as you’re following them down winding hallways and past chambers vast enough to be estates themselves; and though you’d been given a tour of the place beforehand, you can’t help but let your mind get just a little frazzled at the thought of what was to come after.

Of what was to come once they finally stopped.

And they do—after what feels like nights upon nights, the white-haired attendant stops before two sliding doors - nothing but sliding doors. Though you’d assumed that the King himself might have decked his personal chambers with several of his best guards, you’re realizing with a prickle of anticipation that he didn’t need them.

But that only made your job easier.

Invisible hands seem to pull the doors - panes decorated in artwork depicting archery - apart, and you’re entering a room that would have been too lavish for an emperor. 

A massive rectangular-shaped room of which strange interconnected woodwork make up the flooring; windows towering from floor-to-ceiling, half-hidden by thick curtains of red velvet. They clung themselves onto a ceiling that was gilded, calligraphy rounding the high perimeter, and a chandelier-like composition of lanterns fashioned down from it. Reds and greens and blacks and golds, the most eye-catching painting colors of furniture within. 

In the far end of the royal chamber was the futon. 

And you would describe its incredible size and its golden threading, even the red, red blanket that covered it- you would…but your eyes were far more interested in who was occupying it.

Thighs spread. Two elbows resting on his knees.

All four eyes locked on you since the moment you step inside-

“Uraume.” His lips barely seem to move, though that hoarse baritone is hard to deny. It wasn’t as inhuman as you might have expected—it sounded human and yet, there was surely something malevolent in the way he made your thighs squeeze together with just a single word. “You are dismissed.”

You’re feeling Uraume bow deeply next to you, and in the blink of an eye they’re gone-

In another blink of an eye, Ryomen Sukuna has one large hand stuck out - index quirked at you, he beckons you to him once. Only once. 

And you gulp as you walk to him.

This was your first time really seeing the King of Curses- fuck. He was wearing nothing but baggy white pants and a strange, carnal inkling about him. Engulfing you in it the second you’re locking eyes with him. The legends were right…somewhat.

Because Sukuna truly was larger than any mere mortal could ever be: with shoulders sculptured and broad enough that they’d put your best warriors to shame, with corded muscle around biceps the size of your head, with his pecs creating a bumpy road for his tattoos. He was about nine feet tall—perhaps even taller than the stories said. Far taller. Far stronger. Far more monstrous. 

Abs consistently patterned his front, disrupted only by the presence of his second mouth - it slashes aaaaall the way across his navel, large n’ licking his cursed lips with a grin.

And those tattoos- oh, those tattoos.

They were the tattoos of a criminal - two looping around each of his four arms like shackles, and then a circle on all four deltoids.

You bite the inside of your cheek—you knew your mission. But fuck- you won’t deny that a part of you wanted him so bad. 

Sukuna’s pink hair catches the lantern light as he leans back on two hands, meaty thighs manspreading before you. And in-between you swear you could see the thick, throbbing outlines of two-

“On your knees.” The King commands. Crimson eyes narrowing, “Should you so wish.”

And your knees are buckling almost instinctually- he raises a rose-pink brow as he watches your hands reach for your sleeve…before ultimately going against your orders to settle down before the foot of the bed where he was seated. 

Embarrassment curdles in your chest as you’re crawlin’ yourself closer to him, and the sorcerer himself hums in approval once you’re leaning your cheek against his right thigh. Rubbing. 

The muscles underneath twitch—and Sukuna’s swollen tips let out a spurt of precum that puddles right in front of your lips. That translucent dampness stretches across the fabric and wets your lips with its salty taste- you whine.

Right before he grasps the back of your sweaty scalp with one massive hand- and shoves your head down onto one clothed cock. Your mouth gaped wide and plopping! right on top of his mushroomy tip—an open kiss against where his sensitive slit was flared outwards. 

He’s pulsating against your lips.

And you’re moaning with your eyes squeezed shut at the feeling of his entire tip being nearly fuckin’ big enough to envelop your entire maw-

“Do you understand now?” Sukuna’s tone rumbles from above - low and level in a way that speaks of such power. He doesn’t reveal anything more, however. “Do you understand that your puny human body cannot handle me?”

You’re looking up at him with furrowed brows, “I-I understand…”

“Do you understand that I may ruin you?”

“I understand.”

“Do you understand that you cannot take m-”

“I want you-” And almost as bewildering as the fact that you’ve interrupted him, is that Ryomen Sukuna doesn’t crush you with his cursed energy on the spot for interrupting him. “-my lord.”

But that seems to be his tipping point. For his large stomach mouth quirks upwards in what almost seems like a smile—

And Sukuna gruffs out, “Then kiss your King.”

And so you’re gripping onto the soft edge of the mattress and leaning yourself up into his kiss- not the one his face was so ready for—but one where you’re leaning in and pressing a chaste peck onto his second mouth.

Onto those monstrously large lips hungrily gaping at his stomach.

Onto that fucking hungry - starved - maw so deprived of any touch that he’s immediately slurpin’ the edge of his textured tongue outwards. Attempting to enter his incredible size between your own lips, Sukuna’s only managing to fit about an inch of his cursed tastebuds—swipin’ the insides of your heated cavern and making you gasp, before he’s searing his grip into your scalp and tugging you off-

“Naughty naughty.” He trundles. And yet there’s a glimmer of something different in his eyes that told you Ryomen Sukuna was almost…excited. He’s patting one side of him on the futon, “Come up here with me, insolent thing.”

In no time, you’re hauled onto the bed and straddling the infamous King. 

Thighs struggling to squeeze around his toned core, cunt drooling your slick through your panties. As you’re inadvertently rubbing uuuup and down his ridged abs- it creates a snail trail of glistening sap that trickles all the way down to his pinkish-brown happy trail. 

Sukuna titters once he leans his head down and takes in the mess - n’ then he’s gripping one side of your waist with a single hand. 

Squeezing lightly, it doesn’t take even a mere fraction of his power to glide the exterior of your pussy down those unruly tufts of hair—dooooooown in a carnal scratch as he positions you directly on top of his second mouth.

His second mouth.

Now gaped wide open and fucking ravenous.

Immediately cracking apart from each other with a parched gasp- something deep and rumbling from his underbelly. It reminds you of a creature that’s been starved for eons—something that makes shivers run up your spine right from the in-betweens of your drippin’ wet cunt. Right as you’re feeling his oversized tongue press aside your ruined underwear and start to eeeeeease inside-

“Fuh-fuuuuck—” Dazed peripherals rolling to the back of your head - without even realizing it, you’re planting your feet onto the futon and bucking- whether more into Sukuna’s cursed mouth or away from it…you’re unsure.

But he’s making the decision for you. He’s cupping either side of your hips with two clawed hands, letting those pointed tips dig into your clammy flesh, “Easy-” Letting out a rumbling chuckle. “Easy there, woman.”

Gasping, you’re lurching- 

“Easy.”

And it’s all he needs to steady you.

It’s all he needs to tighten his hold onto your squirmin’ body, until it’s like he’s attached onto you with adhesive. It doesn’t take much of him to move you ‘round and spread open those folds even further like a pretty flower—that massive tongue of his wastes no time before swirling around that first ring of muscle. Cutely clenching around him- fuck, he can’t wait.

Before slurping his muscle back and shoving it straight between your pussylips. 

Through the popping pressure in your ear, “Because how’re you gonna take my cocks otherwise?”

And you really didn’t forget who you were dealing with, did you?

You really didn’t think that Ryomen Sukuna - the King of Curses - was going to go easy on you…did you?

Because without even waiting for your struggling walls to get used to the size, his enlarged tongue reels all the way backwards with a deafening slurp! Right until the curvaceous tip was ticklin’ at your entrance, before Sukuna’s thrusting all the way back in. Again.

Your toes curl. Your eyes dart instantly to the back of your head. 

Sukuna himself cracks a smirk- before he’s then doing it again.

And again.

“Don’t think yer running from it.” A third hand ends up plastered atop your clammy scalp- dangerously gripping your head and puuuuuushing you down onto him. 

As far as your tight hole would let him. Your thighs quiver, “B-but-” Bucking.

“Now now, brat—” Pushing you back down. “Ya get what you’re given.”

Again and again.

It doesn’t matter how many times you’re twisting on top of him because of the ruthless swabbin’ of his tastebuds inside. Honed at the very tip and zig-zagging around in a way that makes you viscerally shake on top of him—he’s slipping his velvety muscle inside and stirring it a few times to get a reeeeally good feel for your walls. For how much you’d stretch. “Because you shall fit- oh…” He seethes between clenched canines, nose scrunched at the very top. “You must- fit it. You must not run away.”

Another tough battering ram of his thick tongue - it’s almost adorable how your poor body is being jerked to and fro. He murmurs, “For who can possibly escape Ryomen Sukuna? Heh.”

His tongue seems to wind n’ stretch even deeper inside you after his own self-praise - you always have heard rumors about the King of Curses being particularly egotistical…though righteously. 

And again and again—“P-please.” Sukuna’s second tongue fills you up in all sorts of ways you’ve never felt before - not with the texture or the size or the complete and utter need…Those ridged tastebuds of his were pushin’ into eeeeevery single nook and cranny he could reach - which was all of them. At least, as far back as your dewy walls were allowing him to go, “Such a size should be-”

“Necessary.” He’s cutting you off cleanly. “Besides…”

Sukuna raises a pink brow, leaning backwards on the mattress to watch his massive tongue indulge in and out. In and out. In and out.

Your puffy folds being pushed apart at a rapid pace, your gloss seeping everywhere as he tunnels inside—he’s letting out a low whistle of approval as his second mouth creates such a mess between your legs. Monstrous tongue jerking outwards and slapping the front of your cunt teasingly- it makes a fresh wave of your juices slather down your thighs.

And he smiles - already knowing that he’s going to clean this up later.

The King’s chest rumbles with satisfaction, “Heh- you should be aware, little human…that m’not even halfway inside yet.”

There were two things in that sentence that drove you utterly wild: the fact that he mentioned he was barely inside, and the fact that he said…yet. As though to prove the point he’d just sparked inside your muddled brain, Sukuna arches his hips off the bed and ruts-

Pistoning his tongue a mere inch deeper.

Even though - to you - it feels like he’d just struck his tongue against your very throat—“Wh-what you claiming…” Your thighs quake as he continues fucking you between them, “How much longer may you possibly have to go?”

“Oh…an inch, two, four….seven.” Sukuna tilts his head airily, “Tch- such tedious tasks are meant for humans. How about you count instead?”

You balk, “Pardon, master?”

“Count, little human.” And without a single warning, his fourth hand snakes underneath your flapping kimono- between those sopping pussylips and squeezing at your poor clit. “Your master orders you to count.”

And the only thing you can possibly do is let your eyes shutter at the pleasure, lips trembling as Sukuna’s second tongue finds its mazin’ way across your walls. As you’re struggling to get a single word out, however, at least the ruthless sorcerer slooooows his pace down to something more languid- making sure you feel every bump and vein.

Every quirk.

Every inch.

Until finally you’re throwing your head behind and vocalizing—after only a few sloppy strikes. “T-two…”

“Heh…interesting.” One of those gnarled hands clasped onto your sides reaches upwards n’ grabs onto your pretty face, smushin’ those cheeks together as he stares deeply into your eyes. Sukuna takes in your dazed peripherals, your spit-glossed lips - the way you looked completely and utterly gone on his tongue, and yet…still managed to answer his question.

Mere mortals never did manage to surprise him anymore. You, however…

Before even he knows what he’s doing, Ryomen Sukuna leans inwards and spits between your gaped maw. Rushing to then kiss you with his own lips - eyes widened, mouth hungry. He looks bewildered himself, as his cursed mouth continues rubbin’ your pussy raw—“It seems we have a feisty little human on our hands.” Three out of four hands groping at your sides and making you ride him-

You’re trembling.

“And yet, who told you to cease your counting?”

Thwack!

“Three—” You cry out. Expectedly, Sukuna was mean—that fourth n’ final hand of his plasters his knobbly fingertips against your sensitive nub. Spanking you hard enough to see stars.

But Sukuna only grins, “Incorrect.”

Yet another spank. Yet another brush of his cursed tongue inwards- and you swear that you’re starting to hear his second mouth start to snicker to himself. Was that even possible? 

Were you even thinking? Were you even breathing?

It doesn’t take his keen eyes long to realize that he’s left you completely and utterly stupid on his tongue—just so luscious and lewd. Spreadin’ apart your puffy folds and funneling your insides with him, “Four- four—”

“Correct.” Just to tease you, those fingers of his leave another rude spank.

And Sukuna doesn’t bother letting you gather your bearings before he’s delving even deeper. 

“F-five…” You’re trembling out as you feel the massaging texture of his tastebuds enter, they’re pokin’ into spots you hadn’t even realized you had - filling out your tight channel and leaving his shape molded straight into your cunt. “And is that…ngh- six?”

“That was seven.” He rumbles out in a smug tone.

Your jaw drops as you register the massive number - seven inches of his cursed tongue fucking your pussy. And yet it still doesn’t seem as though he’s planning to stop anytime soon…

Back arched, you’re keeping your hands on top of Sukuna’s broad shoulders. Nails digging into his deltoids. And with all the strength that you could muster, you’re attempting to riiiiiide your hips back down onto his—grinding in figure-eight motions.

Sukuna was already manhandling you down onto him - now it might just be your turn to control the cadence. To control how much of him went inside you.

“J-just fuck me already—” You’re pleading. Your jaw drops with a parched whimper, hips veering down harder and harder- “Ngh- that was eight. Nine. Just fuck me- all of me.”

Sukuna’s eyes widen in slight surprise- before he’s quickly catching himself and tightening the two hands at your waist. “Now now…easy there. Go too fast for a little human, and yer going to hurt yourself.”

“But I need it.” Lip jutting out in the cutest damn pout, “I need you inside me, Kuna.”

His breath catches, “Repeat what you just uttered.”

Back bending into the most delicious curve, pushing up against his sweaty pecs. You’re sobbing out as his stomach mouth gapes even wider n’ seemed to push in even more, more, moooore of his sultry inches—“N-nine and a half…? I need you inside-”

“Not that-” Smacking your clit once more. “-you insolent brat.” The tip of his tastebuds reach the very back of your pussy, and it’s a sensation you just can’t describe. “That…title. I command you to hah, repeat it.”

“Title?”

Thwack!

“Repeat it.”

And it’s taking everything and anything in you - in your utterly cockdrunken mind - to conjure up the faintest inkling about what Sukuna was talking about. To let your head throw back with a final primal cry—for the first time since he’d started fucking you with his stomach mouth, you’re finally feeling your ass cheeks seat down properly on top of his washboard abs. 

And then you’re finding yourself in his strong arms, your moans muffled into his actual mouth. “T-ten.” Gasping through the constant drool n’ sounds of pleasure clogging up your throat, “That’s ten, Kuna—”

And there it was.

Theeeeeere it was - in more ways than one.

Ryomen Sukuna’s getting to hear that sultry nickname fall from your mouth once more - for some inexplicable reason leaving the tips of his ears feeling warm - and he’s getting to see you complete his command.

Ten entire inches of his cursed second tongue- lickin’ away every trace of sap at your inner thighs, before he’s pushing it all the way inwards. Inwards and inwards. The maw slashed across his stomach grins as he’s hitting the very back of your pussy-

And before you know it, the King is tugging you into his arms.

He kisses your mouth sloppily while his second tongue continues fucking you between your legs. Harder by the minute.

Sukuna grunts as he opens his mouth wiiiiide n’ slips his tongue between your jaw- “Suck on my tongue.” He’s echoing out in a hollow tone.

And you can do nothing but squeeze your glossy lips together—eagerly suckling on his tongue. You’re unsure whether it was from your lavish dinner prior or whether it’s just how hazy your brain is, but you’re finding him to taste almost…sweet.

And your eyes roll to the back of your head as you do so-

“Heh-” Sukuna manages to pant out between kisses, open-mouthed and hot. “Now both pairs of pretty lips are sucking on my tongue.”

And your jaw…drops- only for him to use the opportunity to kiss you even deeper.

Making you ride his stomach mouth whilst he kisses you stupid - his tongue probing inwards, inwards, inwards in looooong slick thrusts. Scrapin’ every orifice inside but especially bending around to hit your g-spot. 

You’re sure your body jolts as you feel the sudden zaps of charged pleasure, setting your body positively alight. “I-I’m so close, master.” You pout, “I must- hah- cum.”

“Must, hm?” Sukuna mutters - almost to himself. “And am I to believe that my human deserves to cum? Am I to believe that she is ready to take both my cocks?”

Nodding fervently, “Y-yes—yes, please-”

“Am I to believe that she will have no trouble taking me down to the very womb?”

“Yes-”

Crimson eyes narrow, “I will not slow down, needy human. Am I to believe that-”

“Yes-” Just so gone on your impending high. So close. 

And to your surprise, the King merely chuckles as you’re interrupting him - had this been anyone else, then they would have found themselves being made an example of. But you…you’re finding yourself jerked almost aggressively upwards as he bucks his hips, more to run the ridges of his cursed tastebuds along the interior of your walls. Harder. Faster.

You hurtle straight into your high at an incredible pace-

“If you had let your King finish…” It’s the last thing you’re hearing before the pleasure overtakes you - Sukuna’s rumbling tone. “-then perhaps you would have known my question was whether I’m to believe you shall give me an heir in my name.”

His question was going to be whether you’d give him an heir.

His question was going to be whether you’d give him an heir.

But you’re unable to articulate anything more than a few whimpers n’ grunts - because the waves of your orgasm that overtake you are enough to leave you numb. Enough to leave you babbling. Enough to leave you shaking on top of Sukuna’s toned body as he shovels his fat tongue in and out.

In and out. In and out.

The way his overlarge tongue curved was just perfect for hittin’ every spot, and you’re feeling him time out your peaks perfectly—knowing juuust when the surges of your dopamine were at their highest. 

Just then, he’d slam! his flattened tastebuds onto the exact spot of your nerves. Fingers nothing but a dizzying blur between your legs as he rolls his thumb over your clit, “Gonna take my t-tongue-” Sukuna spits between honed canines, “Gonna take my cocks then- gonna take my seed.”

“Sh-shiiiiit—” You yowl, “It feels so good, Kuna-”

“That’s ‘master’ to you.” He scoffs, nose sliding down the column of your throat. Sukuna takes one more look at the way you’re swallowing him up - at the way you grind deeper to stuff his glistening muscle between your pussylips, and shivers. “Or…consider yourself lucky to be shown mercy this time, human. Say thank you.”

“Thank you, Kuna.”

“Tch-”

And with that said, it’s not long before you’re completely and utterly fucked through your orgasm by the mouth on his stomach—through every tiny shred n’ ounce of pleasure. 

Once Sukuna feels your quiverin’ pussy finish, he’s pulling out of you with the most lecherous squelch! Letting your thighs drape limply around his waist for a few seconds- that’s as long as the King can manage before he’s sitting up on the futon and flipping the two of you around.

So that your back was against the mattress. So that your head was hitting the pillows.

Sukuna crawls his massive figure down the length of your body- four arms pinning back your slick-sheened legs as he pushes his head between them. He’s wasting no time before digging his larger-than-mortal nose between your sodden pussylips and giving your cunt a good liiiiiiiiick of his actual tongue - this time tasting you with his actual mouth.

“Shit—” You’re surging up from your comfortable position, sparks sizzling in your brain. “A-again, Kuna?”

“Your master never had his fill.”

And with that said, he’s lavishin’ your pussy with countless long licks and dribbles. Lips glued to your folds. Breathing through his nose. Sukuna darts his tongue out - thick, though definitely not to the extent of his stomach mouth’s - and zig-zags it across your entrance.

Easing his wet muscle inside—inside and inside. He’s scourin’ every inch of your walls as though to check every mark he’s made before. Just so tender. 

The velvety inches of his tastebuds flickering in and out- five inches long, you’re realizing automatically. Far longer than a normal human’s.

And it just drives you insane. 

The edges of his fangs nip either side of your entrance - Sukuna had already left you so raw with his cursed tongue prior, so now it’s only taking a few seconds before he’s getting you to spray your orgasmic juices all over his mouth once more—“K-Kuna, I’m close.”

He hums at the feeling of your trembling fingers weaving into his pink hair, “Close? Stupid brat, you’re already cumming.”

The wetness of your cunt spills down his chin.

And Sukuna’s dragging his tongue iiiiiiiiiiiin and out at a constant, sloppy pace to get you through your high. To elongate it. Curving the pointed tip of his tongue against your g-spot - he holds it there for a few seconds just to feel you shake n’ clench around him.

Before he’s breathing through his nostrils and starting to synchronize your peaks with the slashes of his tongue. “Mhmmmm—” He moans out sultry vibrations, they send shockwaves up your spine. “Yes- fuck, yes. I believe this pussy is ready for me.”

Raging through you hard and fast - he doesn’t have much time before your legs start to twitch cutely with overstimulation. Tears sheening down your face. Your jaw unfastened with the most sinful noises. 

Sukuna’s prominent nose pushes up against your clit and you’re crying out—

Looking up at you with hungry, half-lidded eyes. “I believe this pussy is ready to be my queen.”

With the pins and needles of your last two orgasms still coursing through your body, it’s nothing but a blur to you as Sukuna hovers his large body over yours once more. And it’s as if one second you’re blinking up into his handsome face, and in the next—you’re finding him laid back against the mattress- and you laid back against him. 

Your head rests against his collarbone. Your back was arched against his stomach mouth.

Your legs were dangling off somewhere around his lower half- until Sukuna reaches two of his powerful arms down to position you properly. First, he’s grabbing either side of your waist and aligning you with where his clothed erections were—then he’s spreading your legs wiiiiiiide open.

Finally, he’s cupping his clawed hands underneath your thighs and pulling them up, up, up, upwards—until they were stretched out almost beyond your ears. And Sukuna was just basking proudly in this rude full nelson that he’d manhandled you into.

Gruff laugh echoing by the side of your ear, “And now…” In the corner of your teary peripherals, you’re seeing his other two arms bend to your lower half. “-to check for myself whether this pussy can really follow orders…”

Your kimono was already an utter mess- and Sukuna doesn’t have to do much to have it bunched around your naked hips. Your cunt all glistening with slick n’ saliva from earlier—hissing at the heated air that’s hitting you. “Shit…I need you so badly, master.”

“Then I expect you to take every inch.” He replies ominously. Just then, his eager fingers drop to the hemline of his pants. “I expect you to take every drop-”

And he’s tugging.

Only for your jaw to fall—

Because Ryomen Sukuna wasn’t just huge - you’d already expected as much, given his height and other physical prowess. But he was just staggering.

Just like the rest of him, there was double the number of appendages as there would be on a normal human. Two achingly-hard cocks stacked on top of each other. Inches upon inches. Despite your counting challenge earlier, you’re having trouble registering the sheer lengths that he could possibly be - ten…no….twelve? Perhaps even longer. Though you’re noticing that the upper one was just the slightest bit longer than the other.

Both just as girthy. 

Round and reddened. The plump, puckered tips upon their ends throbbed with carnal desire- oozing out generous helpings of milky-white precum that dribble down the front of your cunt. It mixes with the mess already made before, and leaves your thighs sticky with need. 

Heavy ballsack twitching underneath his second shaft. So many veins that you lose count.

“K-Kuna—” You’re whimpering as he starts to rub the shafts of his two cocks between your swollen pussylips. Pushin’ them apart and making space for his ruthless girths instead, “Want it inside, Kuna- hck! I really crave you inside me…”

“Oh, little human…” He coos from above. Larger face craning down next to yours, “Did you really believe that I was hesitating? That I was waiting for you?”

“I suppose…”

“Here’s where you are mistaken, my puny thing.” Sukuna trundles, and you don’t have to look behind to know that his sharp fangs were making an appearance. “I am no kindred man.”

A shiver runs down your spine.

And before you can open your mouth to ask what exactly he meant—his rounded tips press against your wettened crevice. Just the sweetest dual pecks, they’re letting out harsh slurps! as he starts to slip around your needy hole. “I wasn’t waiting for your body to get ready, as you so might have believed.”

“Th-then—?” You sob.

“I was waiting…” Your body bucks down into his, your hands reach up to grab at his pinkish locks and- 

And your dagger slips out.

His voice grows excited. “I was waiting-” Both of you reach for it at the same time, Sukuna with his four arms and you with your two. Your heart stutters- your hand closes around the thick, metallic hilt—“…for a distraction.”

Several things are happening at once: for one, Sukuna finally forgoes teasin’ at your readied hole to instead scour his cocks inside - fucking in with a long, hard thrust. Deeeeeeeply pressing against your cervix—it feels as though he’s splitting you sensually from the inside out, and you’ve never felt anything better.

And then you’re closing your fingers around the blade - tight - and aiming behind you to press the sharpened edge of it against his throat. 

You knew you’d struck your target. Especially when you feel the dagger tremble as he chuckles- chuckles. The King of Curses has the audacity to chuckle.

When you have a weapon to his throat.

You’re unsure whether it was overconfidence or something else entirely- but his hips don’t falter for a single second as he rams his swabbin’ tips thoroughly inwards—thumping away at the back of your pussy. Your ears sizzle with the slamming impact of skin-on-skin, “And so?” He mutters to you, “For what reason do you stall? Do it.”

You grit your teeth, blade pressing against his sunkissed skin until a bead of crimson peppers out. “Do you believe that I am too cowardly to do so?”

“Forbid the thought.” Sukuna hums, “A King assassinated by his favorite concubine? How romantic. I merely implore you to hasten-”

“I shall—”

“So do it.”

“Do not regret-”

“Do it.” 

In fact, he leans in even closer as though to help you.

He’s fucking you deep from the rounded orifice of your cunt, to the very depths of your womb. Pulse thundering inside - until it felt like he was taking over every single part of you—until your teeth were set on edge, and the thud-thud-thudding of his matching cocktips was all that you could think of. 

Your hand trembles around the hilt.

Your lips wobble with emotion.

Your eyes lock deeply with Sukuna’s own hellishly crimson ones, and-

And the dagger falls gently onto the cotton futon.

Sukuna’s body ripples with a sensation that could’ve been anything from pleasure, to victory, to utter glee—but most of all, his tone just sounded awed. 

“I knew there was something special about you, woman.”

And then you’re being crushed in Sukuna’s arms as far back as you would go - as high as your legs could reach above your head, as curvaceously as your spine could bend against his core. He’s manhandling you like nothing but a ragdoll above him—plastered to his muscular back, you’re at the mercy of his vicious thrust after thrust.

The stretch was just incredible.

The stretch was like nothing you’ve ever felt before.

Two thick, loooooooong shafts that were mazin’ between your sopping pussylips- the rounded edges of their cockheads manage to swerve your tight walls apart. Jostling against one another. Throbbing in synchronization inside you - ba-dump! Ba-dump! Ba-dump! Scraping his thumping veins inside and reaching aaaall across every nook, orifice, and cranny. Just so big.

Sukuna himself grunts out in pleasure as his cocks manage to press through the slight resistance you still maintained - his cursed tongue had stretched you out incredibly, and he’s groaning out in pleasure as his cocks manage to slide against one another and then against you- “And now- hah, and now I believe you remember what you promised me?”

“Promised?” Your lashes flutter open, “I-I’m afraid…”

“You promised me an heir.”

Your maw droops open. Your heart starts to race.

Your cunt’s drooling out your arousal at the prospect faster than you could register it- and Sukuna feels the sploshin’ leaks around his thickened bases. His grin stretches as he takes in your unspoken reaction, and before you know it—both sliding cocks are knocking at the door to your very womb-

“And I’m not Ryomen Sukuna if I don’t fuck one into you tonight, brat.”

Rough thrusts. Crushing you in his big, beefy arms. 

Closer and closer. Tighter and tighter. 

If you thought that you’d been treated like a ragdoll earlier- then you’d been lucky. Because now you’re pressed between his bulging biceps and his pecs, sweat covering both your bodies in a thin sheen as your movements grow more and more fervent—“Fuck a- hah, fuck my heir into you.” Sukuna was barely speaking by now - short, rasping bursts. “Fuck you so big and fuuuuuuuull.”

Running two hands down your front—“Master, I have doubts that it gets much more full than this.”

And he lets out what almost sounds like a guffaw, “It can.”

“Wh-what do you mean- oh.”

And all this time, you’d been damn thankful that Sukuna had chosen to stretch you out on his oversized tongue first—how else would you have fit him so easily? Softenin’ up the snug exterior of your channel. Mapping out your sweetest spots. 

Because it just made it even easier to slip inside—it just made it sooooo much more convenient for his dual tips to probe open your wet cunt. Inching and easing.

But then you’re starting to feel a third intrusion.

Then you’re starting to feel his needy tongue once more.

You’re gasping- 

The slightest, smallest ticklish sensation of…none other than his cursed mouth dragging down the inner sorts of your thighs. Just teasing. Just the roughened ridges of his tastebuds, long enough that he can snake them down and flatten them over that soft skin beside your cunt.

And in a matter of mere moments, Sukuna’s rugged hands settle deeper against your skin. Tight. Tough. He’s double-checking to make sure that your restless hips couldn’t skin away- before reeling his hips back and penetrating you in longer, harder ruts—each rude slammin’ of his cocks accompanied by the soothing laps of his cursed tongue. 

“Y-yet again—?” You’re blabbering out stupidly. Tears falling in big, bulbous beads down either of your cheeks and ending up smeared, “Kuna-”

“Mhmmmm.” He hums out - and you could almost hear the smugness in it. The way his piercing canines make an appearance as he says, “It’s for your own good, brat.” One of his hands lifts off of your sweat-covered body - folded like a lawnchair - and Sukuna runs it down your middle.

He stops right above where both his swabbin’ cocks and his tongue had started to form a tiny bulge at your stomach—“S-sensitive-”

“Exactly.” He sounds so content with himself. So damn content.

Those handsome lips - both pairs of them - quirk further upwards as he’s massaging the front of your stomach—particularly over that one spot where you’re stuffed till you’re bloated. Pressing down-down-dooooown- “And how shall this puny human body handle carrying my heir, hm?” He growls as he accelerates his ruts, “How?”

Mouth sobbing open in answer.

You're gripping onto either side of his muscular body and swervin’ your hips in response- unsure whether you wanted to rut back down for more or just…

“Running away?” Sukuna's dangerous trundle sounds from behind you, and the clasp he has on your shuddering body only grows stronger. Before you know it, you’re being manhandled like nothing but his favorite toy and shoved right back onto his twin erections-

He continues, “If you can’t handle two of my cocks—” They’re emptying out at the bottom of your pussy with two distinct thuds! The top one first, and then the squeezin’ of the latter. “If you can’t even handle my tongue…the babies of my lineage tend to be large.” 

Palm pressing down on your stomach.

“Does this pretty womb have enough space?”

And there’s nothing more for you to do but throw your head backwards and buck up into his awaiting arms. He’s only seeming to crush you even deeper against his toned body, “It does-”

“What was that?” One pink brow raises.

“I s-said it does—it does.” You’re blabbering away, thighs attempting to wrangle downwards so that you can steady yourself. But the only thing that’s succeeding in doing is making Sukuna tighten his restraint on you maddeningly - “I can fit even more of you- hngh, I can fit your…”

He grins- and this time it’s his second mouth that hisses demandingly at you. “Say it.”

“Heir in here…” And if this was any other time - if you’d been in any clearer of a state of mind - you wouldn’t have said such embarrassing words in your lifetime. And yet, here you were—bouncin’ down welcomingly into Sukuna’s largely gaped maw. “I want it, Kuna.”

“Heh?” He grins, “Then brace yourself.”

And it’s the only warning you’re getting - honestly, you’re surprised to realize that he’d given you any at all. 

Because in the next few seconds- his cursed mouth goes from lappin’ away at the sweet, sweet juices coating the edges of your cunt—to slithering between those puffy pussylips of yours and attempting to devour your pussy whole again.

Two arms laced behind your clammy scalp. Two more arms reaching down to toy with your overstimulated pussy.

“O-oh gods-” Hiccuping through your tears as you start to feel the pleasurable burn of your pussylips stretchin’ once more.

Wider and wider.

Deeper and deeper.

In, in, and in—

Sukuna's second mouth tenderly whips apart your wet walls—with the most lecherous squeeeelch! he's then attempting to stroke his tongue inwards between the thrusts of his dual cocks. Sharp, stabbing thrusts. Just to fit inside.

Three- three of his sinful appendages attempting to stuff you all full - you're losing your mind already with his throbbing cocks, but now Sukuna's tongue was a different sort of texture altogether that was just leaving you on the verge of-

“You can cum.” The King sputters out against your temple, lips moving what seems like a mile a minute. “But you have to remember to reward me with a strong heir after, hm?” Tap-tapping at the tummy bulge he was fucking into you, “Hafta give me one with my powers. Hafta give me one that- hngh, I can train into the strongest. Hafta give me one with- haaaah…” He breathes out laboriously, “-that smile.”

Your eyes shoot open as you’re registering exactly what he’s uttered, “Kuna…fuck, it feels so good.”

“Please…” And it might just be the first time that you’ve witnessed the infamous Ryomen Sukuna utter a word of plea since you’ve met him. That chiselled cheek of his nuzzles down the side of your temple, “-call me your husband.”

Oh.

Oh.

You’re barely even given enough time to let the entire ordeal sink of having him inside you sink in- before the wooden panels beneath the futon creeeeeeak—! And Sukuna’s arching his hips fully off of the dampened mattress, entering his entire greedy lengths into your pussy.

Again and again.

Reeling back until it was only the plump, glossy tips kissin’ at your entrance - before drag-drag-dragging his pulsating length inwards. In-between he just barely manages to squeeze his textured tongue inside.

Repeating once. Twice. Thrice. So many times that you’ve lost count, and you’re barely in control of your own ministrations as a third hand stuffs between your pussylips and squeezes your neglected clit.

And then your overstimulation’s hitting you all at once. All at once.

And Sukuna realizes it before you do- when you’re shivering primally on top of him and cumming once more. Around his cocks. Around his mouth. It’s such a white-hot pleasure that bursts stars behind your eyelids, creating heat at the tips of your toes and then sending it searing through every vessel within you-  your body shakes in his hold as the dopamine courses right through you. 

His lips crack into a chuckle, and he’s cooing softly down at you as he ruts his hips even harder—fucking you through every peak. “Theeeeeere, there…” Something almost sweet- though you know better than to expect sweet from Ryomen Sukuna. “My poor human couldn’t handle it?”

“I-I can…” You’re arguing back- even though your answer sounds like nothing but a jumbled mess of syllables. The sheer force of the high that wracks through you is enough to make your head spin, thighs shake—fucked up, up, and up by his never-ending hips. 

And he can only smile, “Is that so…? Then perhaps my fierce concubine won’t mind if I just—speed up a little bit.”

Even more?

Your mouth drops as you’re perhaps getting ready to beg for mercy- before even the choked-up syllables at your throat start getting fucked back down by his roverin’ tips.

Rubbing their flared ridges across every spot of your insides, dribblin’ out gooey precum into the smallest nooks and crannies. You’re feeling the sultry slickness of it puddling up deep inside you, and it’s almost enough to send you raging right into another high-

“K-Kuna—!” Your voice cracks.

“I know, heh.” He snickers, deep and hoarse. “I can feel this pussy begging even more f’me.” A few more vicious strokes and you’re feeling another faint arc of pleasure that you’re sure must be your nth high of the night. 

Hard and fast.

Hitting through every one of your bundled nerves- but especially that g-spot he’d bruised by now. Two large circular marks in the exact shape and circumference of his bludgeoning tips - they were slapping at two separate times—one after the other. Ba-dump! Ba-dump! 

Except…this time, Sukuna’s own thickened cocks twitch inside of you as you’re clenchin’ through your high-

“And don’t you worry, brat…” He growls from behind, “This time, your husband’s not too far behind—”

Your eyes flutter open in pure shock- and one of his hands reaches down to tilt your chin to look at him. “Shit-”

“Say it f’me.” Sukuna rasps, “Say it- call me your husband while I cum inside.”

And who were you to deny an order from the King himself? 

The words are barely escaping your lips—“C-cum inside me, husband…”

Before the strongest sorcerer in history throws his head back and jerks his hips upwards- letting the pouring wads of his cum plug your pussy up twofold. What’s better than one of his cocks seeping deeply at your innards? Two of them…There are so many gooey wads of it trickling all deeeeep inside- splashin’ against the spongy layer of your cervix. Swashing down your tight channel.

You’re shuddering as you feel the delicious sensation of him sprayin’ inside you - a sheer volume that ends up frothin’ in-between your legs. A circle of white forms around both of Sukuna’s thick bases. “There we go-” He snarls. “There- there, we go…”

“Shit—it feels so, ngh…” You don’t even have the words. Your body quakes as his ridged tastebuds start tickling the outer parts of your pussy. Long, luscious licks - it’s enough to make you cum again.

“And this baby shall become my heir.” Sukuna whispers - mostly to himself than anything. He runs a hand down the sweat front of your body, left ever-so-slightly more inflated with his constantly-pumping cum. “This baby shall be taught to become the strongest. This baby shall be- hah, feared amongst the nation’s lands and beyond…” His fanged smile grows, “Known by my name, I shall teach this baby to protect its mother with their life.”

The fatness of his tongue dips between your swollen pussylips- lapping again and again. He’s torn between drinkin’ up and pushing back the pearly white beads of cum that kept on leaking from you.

And you’re merely draped limply over his front. Crushed to his powerful body. 

“And this baby’s gonna become the most precious thing in this- hah, estate…” You feel him press a kiss to your temple, “-alongside you, of course, Your Majesty.”

“Majesty…?”

“The Queen of Curses.”

For who could’ve tamed the infamous Ryomen Sukuna?

In no time, he’s finally fucked himself into your pussy through his high- and it’s a tangled mess of limbs and moans as Sukuna attempts to pull out. Before realizing that his cocks were probed in too deeply, before realizing that that would mean letting his pool of cum spread out of your cunt.

Losing all his hard work.

And so he sniffs haughtily, reaching one pair of his hands up into the air and clicking-

In a split-second, you’re finding your back against the pillows. As if in a dream, you’re blinking up to stare into Sukuna’s handsome face—two hands braced upon either side of your head, both cocks still shovelled deeply inside of you. Throbbing. Did he just…did he just use his powers to change-

“Yes.” He answers your unspoken question- of perhaps it had been spoken, you’re too drunk on his cocks to realize whether or not you’d blabbered it out loud. “I call it…teleporting.” 

“Th-that should be outlawed-” You’re gasping. The air around you felt tightened with what you assumed must be his cursed energy - you’d heard the stories about them. Who didn’t?

And he merely hums, “I am the law, woman.”

Without another word, one of his four hands snake between your legs- his cursed second mouth had finished up lappin’ at the coat of cum around your thighs. And he licks his lips and belches almost gluttonously once Sukuna reaches down to cup your pussy and—

“O-oh.” Something buzzes between your overstimulated legs. 

Almost as soon as it’d started, it’s over- and Sukuna pulls his hand away—and then his rugged cocks. Letting out the most lecherous sluuuuurp! as he’s reeling his hips away, rounded tips funnel out from between your pussylips and leaving such a-

Wait…your eyes widen. There was no mess - whatever technique that Sukuna had collected between your legs stopped his cum from leaking out.

And the King of Curses wastes no time waiting for your surprise to register- not before letting out a deep snicker. He straightens his bulky body n’ edges himself closer—and before you know it, you’re suddenly finding your head straddled by Sukuna’s meaty thighs.

His dual, furiously-hot erections slapping their shafts down onto your readied face.

Both fanged mouths grin, “Now…open, human.”

And you just knew he was about to make you take both.

A/N. DJSFHSJKHS-

Plagiarism not authorized.

[deansallies]

guys. he can’t just do this. he can’t.

[lololololchips]

hey hey

What do you think about sugar daddy scoups??

Can you do a text imagine for that??

after MONTHSSS the texts have finally arrived…. imsorry

decided to go from sugardaddy to bf coups, hopefully you still enjoy it!!!

Choi Seungcheol || sugardaddy texts w/ scoups

genre: fake texts, smau, one shot texts, non!idol, sugardaddy!scoups

warnings: cursing, fem pronouns, mention of food, nsfw jokes, lmk if i missed anything else!

[imhalfplastic]

very curious to know what you think texting boyfriend vernon would be like? sooo… i would like to request a boyfriend vernon smau if you don’t mind!

hiiii i dont mind at all hehehehe <3

bf!vernon x gf!reader

genre: humor · fake texts themes: slice of life ig? cw: none