the gap moe is gojo satoru, number one gaming youtuber in japan, and how he crashes out loser style whenever people hit on his vlogger girlfriend. (that’s you, by the way.)
content: language, crude humor, crack fic, modern au, youtuber au, everyone is an adult, hints of reverse harem
wc: 11.6k
ss count: 0
warning: contains smut (you all cheer in unison)
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thursday, 10:03 am. two days before the wedding.
the venue is stretching itself awake.
after weeks of clouds and the stubborn chill of early mornings, the first real warmth of spring has finally settled into the grass. the sky is pale blue and blinking. birds flit low over the clearing. the breeze carries with it the scent of soft earth and something blooming nearby— honeysuckle, maybe. or cherry blossoms still clinging to the trees above the path.
you’re here early.
not because you had to be, but because something about today feels tender. anticipatory. and you wanted to be here when it was still quiet— just you and the open space, the faint glimmer of sun warming the wooden trellises and the long aisle laid with mossy stones.
you kneel near the pergola, fiddling with one of the aisle markers. silk ribbon, cream-white, trailing like a ribbon from some fairytale neckline. the corners of your mouth lift softly when you fix the twist in it.
your coat keeps slipping off your shoulder. you do not fix it. there’s birdsong somewhere nearby. a bee. a breeze.
and then—
footsteps.
your pulse jumps before you look.
you already know.
you turn.
minho’s walking up the garden path, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loose in one hand, bouquet of fabric samples in the other.
his eyes find yours immediately.
neither of you says anything for a second too long.
then—
“the aisle looks good,” he says. low. careful.
you shrug, smiling softly. “it will look better with people in it.”
he stops beside you. doesn’t crouch. just looks down, then up again, like he’s trying to memorise the way you look in this light.
the silence between you has changed.
once sharp. then heavy. now— light, trembling, gold-edged.
he clears his throat. “florist wants to triple-check the final boutonniere colours. your cousin mentioned wanting them to match the bouquets.”
you blink. then glance down at the marker in your hand.
your bouquet.
right.
your eyes flick back to him.
his lips twitch. “was that your idea?”
“nah,” you say, breezily. “if it were would you have a problem with that?”
“not if it gets me a matching corsage.”
you raise an eyebrow. “you want a corsage?”
“only if it comes with a matching date.”
your breath catches.
he notices. of course he does.
but neither of you leans in. neither of you pushes.
you both keep working. separately. side by side.
an hour later, you're rearranging chairs for the final walkthrough. your fingers graze his when you both reach for the same corner. you don’t comment on it. you don’t even glance at him. but your hand stays there a second too long.
when you brush your hair out of your eyes, he watches the motion like it effected him personally.
when he stands behind you at the ceremony arch, his palm hovers just short of your back.
he says, “you look like you belong here.”
you reply, “this is the nicest you’ve ever been to me.”
he shrugs. “might be losing my touch.”
you want to say no, you're just getting brave.
but instead you turn, heart heavy with softness, and smile like that will be enough.
and for now, it is.
friday, 6:54pm. one day before the wedding.
a dinner the night before the big day is held at your cousin’s favourite italian place— tucked into a side street near the venue, all golden light and hanging ferns, menus written in chalk on black slate boards. there are only twelve of you around the long table, the wedding party plus you and minho, invited by default, seated exactly where everyone knew you would end up.
side by side. elbow to elbow. knees brushing accidentally. then not so accidentally.
there’s music low in the background, clinking glasses, a shared bottle of wine being passed around. you’re halfway through your second glass and a bowl of fresh pasta when your cousin leans across the table, eyes narrowed with mischief.
“so,” she says, to no one and everyone. “am i allowed to ask if my two favourite planners have reconciled yet?”
you almost choke on your sip.
minho pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth.
you groan. “please don’t start that again.”
“what!” she grins, delightfully smug. “i’m just saying— something happened the other day. and now you’re finishing each other’s sentences again and i haven’t seen minho scowl once, which is rare. i think i’m allowed to ask.”
“no, you’re not,” minho mutters, cheeks a little too pink for someone pretending to be unaffected.
you glance down at your plate, but your smile betrays you.
“come on,” one of the bridesmaids, jay, pipes up. “we’ve all seen it. you two have been practically glowing this week. there was definitely a moment by the arch. i saw it. i have witnesses.”
“not glowing,” you mumble, trying to play it off. “maybe just— well-lit.”
“well-lit my ass,” another bridesmaid, attie, says. “you blushed so hard when minho handed you that ribbon it was like watching a live wedding proposal.”
minho groans softly. “i hate all of you.”
“no you don’t,” your cousin sing-songs. “not when she’s around.”
you shoot her a look that says i will un-cater this wedding if you continue. she only grins wider.
minho leans toward you just slightly. says under his breath, “i think we might need a new table.”
“a new wedding party.”
“a new planet.”
you bite your lip to keep from laughing. your thigh is pressed to his under the table now, and neither of you move.
someone calls for a toast, and all attention shifts.
except his. minho’s gaze stays on you as everyone else raises their glasses. his eyes soft. dark. unreadable.
you don’t look back.
not right away.
but when you do, the smile you give him is barely there.
and he still catches it.
friday, 8:34pm
the laughter trails behind you as the restaurant door swings shut. warm light spills onto the cobbled street, golden and flickering, but the night air is cool and crisp— spring just beginning to warm the bones of the city again. you wrap your coat a little tighter, step out onto the sidewalk, and feel minho fall into place beside you like a second heartbeat.
neither of you says anything for the first few steps.
it’s not awkward. just… full. stretched thin with everything that has not been said.
you walk slowly, not toward anything in particular. just away from the noise. away from the eyes. the pavement is uneven underfoot, and the breeze carries a faint hint of jasmine from some garden you cannot see.
minho has his hands in his pockets. the tip of his nose is pink from the cold. he looks like someone trying not to look at you. you are doing the same.
finally— he clears his throat.
"you okay?"
you nod. “mhm. you?”
“yeah. just full. and mildly traumatised.”
you glance at him. “from the pasta or from the relentless teasing?”
“bit of both.”
you smile. it feels different now— quieter. not so performative.
his voice drops a little, eyes still ahead. “you were glowing today. if anyone asks again.”
your breath catches.
you do not ask if he means it. you have no need, you already know he does.
“you too,” you say, because it is the truth. because you can still see the soft tuck of his shirt collar and the way his cuff had brushed your wrist during the table setup earlier.
a pause.
then, you ask gently: “you nervous for tomorrow?”
he exhales. slow. “not so much for the wedding. i have confidence it’ll go well— we planned it after all. it’s just… everything after.”
you laugh lightly, then hum. “yeah.”
a longer pause.
“but it’s going to be beautiful,” he adds.
“i know, it freakin’ better be.” you laugh, and so does he.
and then you stop walking.
the end of the street is near. your cars are parked in opposite directions. there is nowhere else to go tonight. not really.
he rocks forward on his feet a little. then back. shifts his weight like he might reach for something but doesn’t know how to.
you beat him to it.
“i’ll see you tomorrow?”
his gaze finds yours. it’s steady. a little glassy. a little warm.
“wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he says.
you nod. take a step back. then another.
he does the same.
and you both turn away at the same time, like you rehearsed it.
neither of you looks back.
but your hands still tingle when you reach for your keys.
saturday, 8:22am. the morning of the wedding.
the sunlight drips in soft and warm, slow as honey through gauzy curtains. your dress hangs by the window, bathed in gold sunlight. on the table lies a scattered mess of makeup brushes, hair pins, a folded list with a large majority of the final touches ticked off. it smells faintly of floral perfume and the sweetness of spring— peony, peach, and the distant whisper of dew still clinging to the garden paths.
your cousin sits cross-legged on the bed, half-curled in a silk robe, holding a bottle of nail polish like it’s a weapon of emotional destruction.
“how are we feeling?” she asks, voice light but not unserious.
you press a mascara wand against your lashes and try not to blink. “i feel like my spine has been replaced with jello. i’m convinced i’ve missed something, but i know i’ve prepared everything.”
“mm. good. romantic.”
you laugh, quietly. “you nervous?”
“terrified. ecstatic. my body is held up by 90% adrenaline and 10% mimosa.”
you pause. then glance over your shoulder. “you look calm.”
“i’m lying.” she grins. “i’ve spent the last twelve hours sweating through various expensive materials. but this?”—she gestures to the room, the air, you—“this makes it feel real. i’m glad you’re here.”
you smile. it’s soft. aching around the edges.
a beat. then—
“how are you?” she asks, gently now. “like really?”
you hesitate. “tired. relieved. excited. a little confused.”
her brows rise. “confused?”
you pause again. then, low: “we talked. we… fixed things. mostly. i think.”
her eyes sharpen like a cat clocking prey. “you think?”
“we’re good. he’s… he’s good. i don’t know where we lie now.”
“so you’re still not saying anything about how completely in love with each other you are, huh.”
you scoff. “that is categorically false.”
“sure.”
“shut up.”
but you're smiling now. cheeks warm.
“do i need to lock you in a closet with him to build sexual tension?” she asks, sweetly. “old-school seven minutes in heaven style?”
“please do not.” you are completely flushed and trying to laugh off your embarrassment.
“noted. but just so you know… your bouquet’s done. and it matches a certain man's boutonnière. completely by coincidence.”
you shoot her a look.
she shrugs. “what a mystery.”
saturday, 8:23am
minho is standing in front of the mirror, shirt half-buttoned, hair a little too neatly done from the stylist’s overly eager hands. he’s quiet.
the groom leans in the doorway with his tie in one hand.
“you good?” he asks.
minho nods.
“you sure? you’re doing the thing where your jaw looks like it’s fighting your entire bloodstream.”
he exhales. slow. “i’m good. just thinking.”
“about the fact that you’ve been in love with your co-planner for the past few weeks?”
minho glares.
“what?” the groom raises his hands. “we all see it. it’s practically broadcast globally through satellite.”
“we’re not datin—”
“yet.”
minho doesn’t respond. just adjusts his collar. stares into the mirror like maybe his reflection will confess something for him.
“you know,” the groom says after a beat, “she’s really happy when she’s around you.”
minho’s hands still.
“just in case you needed to hear it again. i think it’s about time you made a move.”
he doesn’t say anything.
but when he turns back to the mirror, the ghost of a smile appears— barely there, like breath against glass. maybe it was about damn time.
saturday, 10:45am
you do not see minho until the crowd parts.
you have been drifting from corner to corner like a restless ghost, hands smoothing ribbons that do not need smoothing, tucking stray petals back into bouquets, adjusting the altar cloth so many times you have lost count. your clipboard is tucked into your elbow like a second pulse, the familiar weight of it grounding you when your mind threatens to float away.
the venue is glowing. mid-morning light slides through the canopy of early-spring green above, scattering honey-gold dapples across the white runner, the rows of cream chairs, the trellises dressed in wildflower garlands. a soft breeze stirs the petals along the aisle, carrying the gentle hum of distant laughter and clinking glass from somewhere behind the hedges.
you are checking a final arrangement when you pause, fingers hovering midair. something in your chest stirs—an unnameable prickle, a ripple of heat.
you straighten slowly.
and then—
he’s there.
just… there.
standing near the edge of the clearing, where the sunlight breaks in shards through the leaves. his suit is charcoal, perfectly cut, the lapels smooth and sharp against his shoulders. but it’s the small boutonnière that catches your breath—blush roses, pale sage, tied with the exact silk ribbon you remember fumbling with at dawn, your hands trembling from too much coffee and too many thoughts of him.
your fingers had brushed that bow like it mattered. like it meant something. like it might touch him even if your hands could not.
your heart forgets how to move.
he hasn’t seen you yet. his eyes sweep the space methodically, one hand tucked into his coat pocket, the other lifting to shield his gaze from the bright spill of morning. his hair is styled but still a little soft at the edges, like he might have run his fingers through it one too many times. he looks composed. deliberate. painfully handsome.
and then—
he does see you.
and everything stills.
his eyes pause. then drag over you in a slow, unguarded sweep—catching on your hair, the way your dress fits along your shoulders, the bouquet trembling faintly in your grasp.
there’s a shift in him so quiet it might be mistaken for a sigh: the slight parting of his lips, the gentle collapse of his shoulders like he’s bracing against an invisible wind.
your stomach flips so hard you feel a little lightheaded.
his gaze lands on your wrist, where the same blush blooms catch the sun.
you glance down too, as if drawn by an invisible string.
when you lift your eyes again, his mouth has softened into something dangerous. something private. a quiet, crooked thing that tugs at the corners like he’s smiling from a place so deep it does not know how to come out all the way.
you take a step forward.
he does too.
not rushed. not performative. just pulled. gentle as a tide.
when you meet halfway, the hush around you feels thick enough to drink. he stops directly in front of you, standing close enough that you catch the faint warmth radiating from his skin, the clean echo of his cologne softened by the sun.
he looks at you.
and looks.
and looks.
it feels like he is reading you, line by line, carefully, reverently, as though each detail is a verse he wants to memorise.
his voice, when it comes, is low. almost shy.
“your flowers.”
you lower your gaze to them, as if seeing them for the first time. “what about them?”
he tilts his head, hair catching the light like the delicate edge of a blade. “they match mine.”
you lift an eyebrow, lips parting in feigned surprise. “how mysterious.”
he snorts—an actual, tiny laugh—and you watch the tension ease at the corners of his mouth. “wild,” he murmurs, shaking his head as if marvelling at an impossible coincidence.
“almost like someone planned it,” you tease, voice soft but steady.
he clicks his tongue, gaze dragging deliberately over your face, lingering at your lips, then your eyes. “no. impossible.”
you laugh, quiet and airy, the kind that only happens when your lungs feel too small for your ribcage.
“you look…” he starts, then pauses to swallow. his eyes flick down your silhouette again, quickly, before darting back to your face. “you look beautiful.”
the world tilts.
you should tease him again. deflect it. twist it into something manageable. but you can’t. not this time.
your mouth curves, slowly, as if pulled by a force outside yourself. “you don’t scrub up so terribly yourself.”
his head dips forward, chin almost to his chest, and he lets out a quiet, incredulous laugh like you’ve punched the breath from him.
he lifts his eyes again. and for a moment, neither of you says a word.
it is loud, this silence. roaring with everything unspoken— every late night working side by side, every brush of fingers that almost became a touch, every look that burned too long.
then someone calls out from the edge of the clearing, a distant voice reminding you both of the world beyond this charged little orbit.
he shifts first, straightening, his hands adjusting his jacket sleeves—something to anchor himself back into reality.
you step back, just enough to breathe again.
“see you in there,” he says, voice husky at the edges.
you nod. “see you.”
he hesitates, gaze darting one last time to your wrist, then your mouth.
and then he moves past you, toward the crowd gathering near the aisle entrance.
you watch him go.
your fingers flex on the bouquet like you are holding something too precious to name.
saturday, 11:15am
the guests are seated, prepared for the ceremony to begin.
the air holds that expectant hush that comes right before a swell of music, a collective inhalation that feels almost sacred. a few birds flit across the canopy above, their wings stirring the soft gold light that filters through the early spring leaves. petals lie scattered along the aisle like small blessings, trembling faintly with each passing breeze.
you stand just behind the trellis, hidden enough to watch without being watched. your clipboard rests against your hip, the pen looped through the top like a safety pin for your nerves.
the music shifts—low and lilting, strings that feel like the inside of a held breath—and every sound in the clearing stills.
your cousin stands at the end of the aisle out of sight, her breath shallow, bouquet cradled in her fingers as if she is afraid it might float away. the veil tucked in her hair flutters softly, catching the light like gossamer thread.
you step closer, hand sliding around hers. your thumb presses once against her knuckles, a quiet promise.
she turns slightly, eyes bright and glassy. her mouth trembles, but her smile is unwavering.
you lean in. “you’re ready,” you murmur.
she nods. one quick, shaky exhale.
and then—
she steps forward.
the music lifts to greet her, and all at once the aisle becomes a river of turned heads, widened eyes, sharp intakes of breath. every guest leans closer, pulled forward by the gravity of this first step.
you slip sideways into the front corner, clipboard now clutched against your stomach. your eyes sweep automatically—chairs, floral arches, altar drapery—all in perfect alignment. but your gaze refuses to stay there.
because across the sea of faces—near the front, standing at the groom’s side—is minho.
he is supposed to be looking at the bride.
but he isn’t.
his eyes are already on you.
fixed. unblinking.
the corners of his lips twitch like he’s trying to school his expression, but his eyes betray him completely. wide, dark, soft in a way you have only glimpsed in stolen moments.
you shift your weight to your back foot, forcing your attention to the aisle. you try to focus on the gentle progress of your cousin’s steps, on the delicate tremor of her veil, on the collective hush that holds the clearing like a fragile glass orb.
but it's hard.
so hard.
because you can still feel the warmth of his gaze on your wrist from earlier. because you can still hear the soft hush of his laugh when he called you beautiful. because you can see the ribbon of your bouquet matching the bloom pinned to his chest— proof of something shared, something secret, something yours.
the officiant’s voice rises gently, inviting the couple closer. vows unfold like the first touch of dawn— tender, trembling, careful.
your cousin’s voice cracks halfway through her vow. the groom’s hand lifts to brush away a tear that never quite fell. someone in the second row sniffles loudly. the officiant laughs softly, waiting, then continues.
you steal a glance around the clearing. heads bowed, hands pressed to mouths, tissues dabbing at eyes. and still—when you glance back, when you dare—minho is looking only at you.
your chest tightens, a quiet ache blooming between your ribs. despite this, you do not look away.
not this time.
when they exchange rings, you swallow hard. your cousin’s shoulders shake with laughter through her tears. the groom presses his forehead to hers, whispering something that draws a stuttered, teary giggle from her lips.
the officiant smiles, voice bright now: “you may kiss the bride.”
and they do.
the clearing explodes in sound— cheers, applause, a jubilant swirl of clapping hands and camera shutters and flowers being waved in the air.
your heart beats so hard you feel it in your fingertips.
somewhere beneath the celebration, beneath the golden haze of that first shared kiss, your heart stutters for something—someone—else entirely.
after the ceremony, after the hugs and the first frantic wave of congratulations, after the newlyweds are whisked away for photos—he finds you.
your back is turned, scanning the programs left on chairs, counting flower bundles.
then—
a hand, firm and warm, slides to the small of your back.
you freeze.
minho's voice—low, roughened by something that sounds suspiciously like nerves—spills just beside your ear.
“you were incredible.”
your breath shivers out of you in a single, quiet exhale.
you turn your head just enough to catch his eyes, close now, so close.
and for the first time today, there is no teasing. no deflection. no mask.
only the raw, quiet truth that trembles between you like an unstruck match.
you open your mouth—maybe to say thank you, maybe to say something else entirely—but he’s already stepping back, his hand sliding away slowly, reluctantly.
and somehow—
somehow, those three words feel heavier, truer, more electric than anything else you have heard all day.
saturday, 5:32pm
the golden hour settles like honey over the clearing. lanterns flicker to life one by one, each bulb blooming warm against the deepening blue of early evening. light pools across the tabletops in gentle circles, slipping over crystal glasses and scattering off silver cutlery in soft sparks. every surface seems to glow; every guest is gilded in that soft, forgiving twilight.
you move through it all like a quiet current—calm, steady, endlessly watchful. you check on the caterers, run a gentle hand over a linen runner that has shifted, bend to rescue a stray petal caught in a breeze. your clipboard feels lighter now, more an ornament than armor.
someone calls your name. you turn— your cousin stands there, veil long gone, hair pinned up in soft, romantic curls that tumble around her shoulders. her eyes are bright, cheeks flushed pink, her fingers laced tightly with her new husband’s.
they reach you in seconds, and she pulls you in before you can even think to protest. her arms wrap around you, warm and trembling.
“thank you,” she breathes against your ear. “thank you for making this the best day of my entire life.”
you laugh, but the sound fractures on its way out, already threadbare with emotion. “you’re going to make me cry,” you murmur, voice thick.
“good,” she says, pulling back to wipe at your cheek. “you deserve it. you deserve everything.”
you open your mouth—maybe to deflect, maybe to tease—but the words die before they can form. her eyes hold yours, and for a moment, the entire day presses in around you, heavy and bright and impossibly soft.
then—
a presence at your back.
you do not have to turn. your skin recognizes him before your mind does—warmth radiating close enough that your shoulder hums with it.
“you okay?” minho’s voice drifts low, almost inaudible under the chatter and clink of glasses.
you swallow, nod once. you cannot quite turn to meet his eyes, not when your heart feels like it might spill out through your ribs.
he stays for a moment longer—close enough that you feel the edge of his breath on your neck—before a guest waves him over. he steps away, but his gaze catches yours as he moves, tethering you there.
when you finally let out the breath you didn't know you were holding, the evening seems to tilt slightly—like the whole clearing has been caught between two heartbeats.
dinner winds down. plates are scraped clean, glasses refilled and traded like little secrets. clusters of guests drift between tables, laughter lifting in bright ribbons that twist up into the trees.
you spot minho across the dance floor—jacket gone, sleeves rolled, a lock of hair falling across his forehead. he looks different like this: softer, a little more unraveled, the edges of his careful composure loosened just enough to show the warmth beneath.
your gaze lingers too long. he catches it. his lips twitch, a soft, knowing curve that sends warmth flooding up your neck.
then the speeches begin.
you step quietly to the side, hands clasped at your waist, breath shallow. your cousin steps up first. her voice shakes at the beginning, thin as a trembling bowstring, but then steadies, blooming bright and clear.
she thanks her family, her new husband, the friends who have shaped her life. she glances at you, her voice catching as she says your name, telling everyone how you built this day from nothing—how your hands held every detail, how your heart held them all steady.
your cheeks burn. you look down, throat tight, a shy bloom of warmth expanding beneath your ribs.
then, it's minho turn. he moves slowly, fingers curling around the mic. he pauses, thumb brushing his lip like he’s buying himself a few more seconds.
you can tell he has no notes. nothing rehearsed.
he opens with a laugh, a small joke about emergency caffeine deliveries and endless last-minute revisions. the crowd laughs with him, easy and warm.
but then—
his voice drops, softens, grows unguarded.
“there’s a lot i could say about this couple,” he starts, gaze sweeping the guests once, then landing—steadily, unwavering—on you. “but i think the thing that stands out most is that real love lives in the smallest details. in the tiny moments no one else notices. in the care that holds everything up when the rest of us might let it fall.”
your pulse stutters. you do not move.
“and,” he continues, voice low enough that it seems to find only you, “it’s in the people who make that possible. the ones who hold the entire world together, even when they’re carrying more than they should have to.”
his eyes stay on yours.
your chest pulls tight.
someone in the audience laughs softly, dabbing at their eyes. the groom claps him on the back when he finishes, the crowd lifting glasses, the sound of cheers and glass chimes like a gentle rain.
but you can't quite hear it.
because he is stepping down, moving toward you, his gaze locked to yours like an unspoken vow.
when he stops in front of you, your breath hiccups. you manage a small, watery smile. he answers with a grin of his own—crooked, trembling at the corners, something impossibly soft hiding there.
he opens his mouth like he might say something—another joke, maybe, or a quiet question—but then someone catches his wrist, tugging him to the dance floor.
he goes, but not before his fingers ghost across yours, the slightest brush that feels like a promise tucked into your skin.
you stand frozen for a moment, heart clattering.
then your cousin finds you, bright and breathless, her fingers closing around your wrist, dragging you into the swirling ring of bridesmaids dancing.
you do not resist.
the music surges, joyous and sunlit, and the entire floor becomes a sea of laughter and blurred movement and warm, soft collisions.
every few beats, minho appears beside you—his hand catching yours mid-spin, his shoulder brushing yours as he passes, his breath grazing your cheek in quick, stolen seconds.
neither of you speaks.
neither of you needs to.
because the entire room already knows.
and, somewhere deep down, you know too.
"alright," the mc calls out, voice playful and bright, "now time for the esteemed bouquet toss! who’s feeling lucky tonight?"
the music shifts, quick and sparkly — the kind of cheeky, teasing melody that makes everyone lean forward, grinning.
your cousin steps into the middle of the floor, bouquet raised high in one hand, the other waving as she soaks in the cheers. she turns in a slow circle, laughing so hard her shoulders shake.
you hover at the edge, trying to disappear into the table linen, clutching your clipboard like a lifeline.
"get in there!" she shouts suddenly, pointing straight at you. her eyes are sharp, gleaming with mischief.
you shake your head fast, your laughter spilling out too loudly. "no, no, no—"
before you can finish, someone from behind — a cousin or maybe one of the bridesmaids — gives you a gentle shove. you stumble forward, nearly tripping, your hand shooting out to steady yourself on the nearest chair.
"you aren't working right now," your cousin crows, already victorious. "you're single. and as much of a snack as you are, you're standing too close to the food table. get. in. here."
you try to retreat, but another friend catches your wrist, dragging you into the centre of the circle. a loud, collective "ooooooh" rises from the guests.
your cheeks burn so fiercely you think they might glow in the dark. you glance back over your shoulder instinctively — and there he is.
minho.
leaning casually against a cocktail table, one arm draped lazily over the back of a chair, his other hand wrapped around a half-empty glass. jacket gone. sleeves rolled to his elbows. the line of his collar slightly open, just enough to reveal the delicate dip of his throat.
he’s watching you.
watching you like you’re the only one left in the clearing, like the noise has faded into some distant hum he can’t even hear.
his mouth curls at the corner, slow and deliberate, a private upside-down smile that does something dangerous to your insides. his eyes catch the light and go dark, molten, almost predatory in their softness.
your heart somersaults, crashing up into your throat.
you turn back quickly, nearly fumbling into the group of giggling women. someone tugs you deeper into the circle, hands all around you, laughter rising in waves.
your cousin lifts her arm, bouquet poised above her head. the crowd starts to chant. she pretends to throw once, twice — the bouquet dips dramatically to the left, then the right. squeals erupt every time she feints, arms flailing everywhere, fingers splayed in anticipation.
you shift backward, trying to vanish into the mass of elbows and perfume and hair. you repeat in your head that you do not care, that it’s just tradition, that there is no way—
but then the flowers go up.
they spin in a slow, perfect arc—white petals catching the lantern light, green stems flashing in a bright, defiant streak—and somehow, impossibly, they come straight for you.
your hands fly up on instinct. the bouquet hits your palms with a soft, shocking weight.
there’s a beat of pure silence.
then the entire group explodes.
someone behind you screeches. another friend clamps her hands on your shoulders, shaking you back and forth in triumph. petals scatter everywhere, tiny fragments clinging to your hair and arms.
you’re so stunned you almost drop the bouquet entirely.
you look up, breathless.
minho is still there.
his head tilts, eyes widening first in open surprise— then something else blooms across his face. he laughs, loud and startled, head falling forward for a second as he claps once, palm echoing sharp in the air. when he straightens, that smile is still there: soft, crooked, deeply fond.
you feel your entire body catch fire.
your cousin is doubled over now, pointing at you with both hands, tears streaking her cheeks. "i told you!" she screams. "fate! fate, bitch! i told you!"
you try to form a response—something snarky, something to save your dignity—but all that escapes is a high, helpless squeak.
the group starts chanting something you can’t even make out. someone loops an arm around your waist and parades you in a messy circle, your bouquet held high like a victory banner.
and through every dizzy spin, every blur of faces and lights and shrieks— he is there.
minho.
eyes locked to yours. unmoving. his expression carved open and raw, like he’s about to walk across the floor and pull you out of there with no explanation at all.
your pulse roars in your ears. you press the flowers tight to your chest, petals tickling your chin.
you don't know what to do with this sudden, thrilling ache coursing through you, what to do with the molten echo of his eyes on your skin, what to do with the sharp, impossible want tightening every breath.
but he does not move. not yet.
instead, he stands there, every line of him wound taut, every glance screaming what his hands have not yet claimed.
and you clutch the bouquet like a secret you have no idea how to keep.
saturday, 11:03pm
as the final chords of the last upbeat song melt into a softer, almost cinematic instrumental, the guests seem to float inward as if pulled by an invisible tide. the newlyweds step into the centre of the floor, hands already locked, foreheads nearly touching.
the music hushes to a gentle pulse, like a heartbeat. champagne glasses catch the golden string lights overhead, flickering with reflections of all the laughter and tears from the night.
your cousin tugs the mic from the stand, her other hand twisting in her new husband’s jacket sleeve. her eyes are red-rimmed, makeup smudged into something soft and human, hair slipping from its careful style in delicate little wisps that frame her face. she looks like a painting.
she breathes in once, then tries to start. "i just—" her voice catches, mouth tipping into a half-laugh, half-sob. she presses her lips together, trying again. "i just wanted to say… thank you."
her eyes scan the room. you feel them pause on your face for a moment, warm and bright and full of a thousand unspoken things.
"to every single person here tonight," she goes on, her voice finally steadying. "thank you for helping us make today… the best day of our lives."
the room erupts. people cheer and whistle, someone starts to chant her name before dissolving into giggles.
she glances at her husband, who watches her like he might never look away again. he presses his forehead to her temple for a moment, grounding her.
"we really couldn’t have done any of this without you all," she continues, sniffling through her grin. "our family, our friends… and especially," she turns, eyes locking on you now, "my incredible cousin. the person who basically held this entire event together with nothing but sheer willpower, an unholy number of to-do lists, and an ungodly amount of espresso shots."
laughter bursts from the crowd. someone yells, "she deserves a raise!" and you bury your face in your hands, shaking your head, your shoulders shaking with a helpless laugh.
your cousin isn’t done. "and," she pivots again, this time finding minho in the crowd, "to our favorite perfectionist menace. who, despite his permanently judgmental face—" a ripple of laughter breaks out, minho’s head drops forward for a second, hiding a grin behind his raised glass. "somehow made everything look like a dream."
he looks up then, mouth crooked, cheeks pink, eyes soft in a way that makes your heart seize. he lifts his glass higher, like a quiet salute.
"seriously," she says, voice suddenly tender and almost trembling, "we could not have asked for better people. for better friends."
she turns back to her husband, fingers pressing lightly to his chest, almost as if checking he’s real. he leans in and presses a gentle kiss to her forehead before taking the mic from her hand, steadying her fingers in his as he does.
"we’re so lucky," he says, voice deep, low, warmth curling through every word. "so blessed. thank you for dancing with us. for laughing with us. for staying until the very last song. we hope you all felt the love tonight—because we felt every bit of it back."
someone near the back yells, "to the bride and groom!" and a wave of cheers echoes, overlapping claps and whistles and the chime of glasses lifted high.
your cousin looks at you again, eyes shining with gratitude and mischief. she blows you a kiss across the room. you laugh, tears hot on your lower lashes, and blow one back, your chest tightening in the sweetest possible way.
and somewhere—somewhere behind all that noise, in that tiny pocket of space where your world feels smaller and sharper—you feel minho watching you. again. unwavering. heavy. a quiet warmth that sits on your skin like sunlight after rain.
you glance at him just once, bouquet still clutched to your chest, fingers tightening around the stems. his mouth moves slightly, like he’s almost about to say something, but doesn’t.
your face feels too hot. you duck your head, heart drumming so loud you’re sure the entire tent can hear it.
the final slow song starts up. a few guests begin drifting out, some stay to sway under the twinkling lights—bare feet, heels discarded, heads tipped back with giddy laughter.
you watch your cousin and her husband fold into each other, their hands clasped between them, foreheads pressed together. their silhouettes sway softly in the glow, and you think—yes. this is what all of it was for. every late night. every meltdown. every stray petal fixed at the last second.
this feeling.
this impossible, bright, heart-thrumming warmth.
saturday, 11:46pm
the final songs bleed into soft echoes, low and lilting like a heartbeat winding down. guests begin to gather coats and shoes, laughter weaving between last hugs and final selfies. the entire venue feels like it is exhaling—a long, shimmering sigh after hours of heat and movement and music.
you move through it one last time, fixing a stray hairpin in your cousin’s undone bun, straightening her dress where the satin bunches at the waist. she laughs, teary-eyed, as you scold her for smudged lipstick, and she pulls you into a tight, breath-stealing hug.
her husband tugs you in next, arms wrapping around your shoulders in a quick, fierce squeeze. “text when you get home, okay?” he mumbles against your hair. you nod, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.
“go be married,” you tease, shooing them back into the little circle of guests lingering at the edge of the dance floor.
you finally step away, bouquet tucked under your arm—petals slightly battered from all the tossing and catching, still fragrant and soft despite it. you trace your thumb along one crushed bloom, heart thudding under your skin.
the path to the lot glows under the fairy lights, strung high and weaving between tree trunks like spilled starlight. each step feels oddly slow, each breath catching on the hush that has fallen in the garden’s wake.
and then—
minho.
waiting near the car, jacket draped over his forearm, bowtie dangling undone around his neck. his shirt sleeves are rolled, exposing his forearms—all smooth lines and delicate veins that flex when he shifts his weight. his hair is mussed, a bit of curl at the ends, no doubt from eager hands dragging him into photos and too many group hugs.
he watches you approach.
your steps slow, until you stop a few feet away.
your eyes meet.
and for a moment, it’s like the entire night—the music, the chatter, the leftover clinks of glasses—fades into something muffled and distant.
“so,” you say finally, your voice softer than you meant, almost a question, almost a breath. “driver minho on duty again?”
he smirks—the slow kind, like honey slipping down the edge of a spoon—eyes dipping to the bouquet, then back to your face. “someone’s got to make sure you and your contraband flowers get home safely.”
your laugh spills out, unsteady and a little too bright. “contraband? i only stole one bouquet, thank you very much.”
he raises an eyebrow, a dangerous arch that makes something low in your belly twist. “uh-huh.”
silence stretches.
not awkward. not really. just taut. electric.
he tilts his head slightly, flicks a glance toward the passenger side. “come on,” he says, voice low now, coaxing. “before they rope us into hauling crates back to the storage shed.”
you huff a laugh and cross to the car, fingers curling tighter around the bouquet.
the ride begins in hush— the engine’s gentle hum, the sound of gravel crunching beneath the tires as he pulls away. your dress rustles softly when you shift, bouquet balanced across your lap, petals catching the faint streetlight glow.
you risk a glance sideways. he’s drumming his fingers on the wheel absently, jaw flexing every so often. his other hand rests loose on his thigh— fingers tapping, slow, measured, as if keeping time with something neither of you can hear.
your own pulse thrums too loud, words coiling behind your teeth, stalling at the back of your throat.
you swallow. try again.
“this doesn’t mean we become strangers again, right?” you murmur. the words come out small, fragile as a moth’s wing. “after tonight?”
his hand stills. his head snaps slightly, eyes flicking to you like you’ve just torn open the sky.
“no,” he says immediately. urgent. “god, no. not if you don’t want to.” he swallows hard. “i’d—” he stops, breathes. “i’d seriously hope not.”
your laugh bursts out, thin and trembling. relief and something sharper tangle in your ribs. “good,” you whisper, eyes falling to your lap. “okay. i just… needed to make sure.”
he shifts again, glancing over with something raw and bright in his gaze. “it’d kill me,” he says, voice low, almost a confession, “to go back to that. pretending.”
your fingers tremble around a stray petal, twisting it until it nearly tears. your mind—soft, pink, tipsy from the leftover champagne and the warmth of him so close—sparks in wild loops.
you look at him again. his profile in the passing lights: high cheekbones, lashes dark and low, his throat shifting when he swallows.
heat rushes up your neck, want and champagne fuelling your next words.
“so…” your voice is smaller, but braver, your chin tilting slightly. “wanna come inside, then?”
his knuckles go white on the wheel. he exhales— a sound that’s almost a laugh, almost a groan.
he looks at you, really looks, eyes dark and searching.
“are you sure?” he asks, voice scraping low, careful.
you nod. once. firm. “yeah. i’m sure.”
he doesn’t say another word. but his shoulders ease, like he’s just been unshackled from something heavy.
the rest of the drive unfurls in a hush—the steady pulse of streetlights flicking over his face, your breaths shallow, a quiet, shared tremor weaving between your joined silences.
when he pulls up outside your place, you don’t wait. your hand flies to the handle, you slip out, bouquet still clutched like a shield, like a secret.
you pause in the driveway, heart hammering, and glance back to him over your shoulder.
he’s already out of the car.
and he follows.
your front door clicks shut behind you with a softness that somehow echoes louder than a slam.
you hesitate, hand still on the handle, forehead tilting forward just enough to brush the cool wood. you take a breath—deep, shaking — before you turn.
you set the bouquet gently on the entryway table, fingers lingering on the petals, pressing them lightly like they might anchor you here in this fragile, electric hush.
minho steps inside a moment later, his shoulders tensed, hands in his pockets. he pauses at the threshold, gaze skating over your figure, catching at your hair, your shoulder, your dress. his bowtie hangs loose around his neck, the undone ends curled like question marks. his hair falls into his eyes — soft, slightly damp from the late air — and he doesn’t bother to push it away.
you swallow, the silence stretching.
“shoes off,” you murmur at last, your voice like a half-formed thought.
you toe yours off first, sliding them against the wall. you hear him mirror you—a soft scuff, the dull thud of leather hitting the floor.
for a long moment, you both just stand there.
the hallway light spills warm, turning the edges of his face to gold, making every small shift of his expression feel almost cinematic. his throat bobs. he shifts his weight, shoulders twitching minutely, as though he’s holding back a dozen movements at once.
you clear your throat, a fragile sound. “um… wine?”
his eyes lift to meet yours, sharp and glassy. they flicker—to your lips, back to your eyes, down to your hands.
“yeah,” he says, voice low. “yeah, that’d be good.”
you turn before you can melt under that gaze. your hands hover at your sides, then rise to smooth your skirt, then drop again. you start toward the kitchen, feel him follow, his steps careful, as if he’s afraid to wake something.
you reach for the bottle you had hidden for a “special occasion,” fingers trembling slightly as you curl them around the neck. you almost drop the corkscrew, laugh quietly to yourself—a nervous, shaky sound that echoes too loud in the stillness.
behind you, he stops at the edge of the counter, leaning just slightly forward. his hand braces on the edge, knuckles white for a moment.
you work the cork free, breath shallow, heart thumping like it might break through your ribs. you keep your eyes on the bottle, hyper-aware of his warmth so close, of his silent, focused attention.
“you okay?” he asks, voice a little hoarse.
you glance over your shoulder, startled.
“yeah,” you say. it comes out softer than intended. “just… a lot.”
he nods, once. his fingers relax on the counter.
you pour two glasses, the wine sloshing slightly from your unsteady hands. you pass him one, and when his fingers brush yours—warm, calloused—your entire body jolts, like a live wire touched to skin.
he holds the glass between both hands, almost reverently, his thumb rubbing slow circles into the curve of it. his gaze flickers over you, lingering on your hair, your lips, the line of your collarbone.
you lean against the counter, wine glass clasped tight, trying to anchor your breath. he stands opposite, still near the edge, his chest rising and falling too quickly.
you both sip, the movements oddly synchronized.
“thank you,” you blurt suddenly, the words scraping out. “for today. for… everything.”
he lowers his glass, sets it down carefully with a soft clink. his fingers stay curled around the base.
“you don’t have to thank me,” he murmurs.
your eyes sting. you shake your head, setting your own glass down beside his. your hand lingers, thumb brushing the stem, knuckles nearly bumping his.
“i do,” you insist, voice trembling. “you… you made all of this possible. i couldn’t have done it without you.”
he swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing.
“you could have,” he says, softer now. “you always could have. but… i’m glad you didn’t have to.”
your eyes flick up to his, searching, catching on the sharp brightness there. he takes a step forward—small, cautious—then another.
you push off the counter, the movement automatic, meeting him in the middle of the narrow kitchen. your hand hovers at your side, almost rising to touch him, but you stop yourself at the last second.
“minho,” you breathe.
his name lands between you like a drop in still water, rippling out.
he stands so close now you can see the faint shimmer of leftover rain at his temples, the quick flick of his pulse under his jaw.
he opens his mouth. shuts it again. you see the moment he decides to let go.
“i don’t want to go back,” he whispers, voice breaking a little at the edges. “to… whatever we were before. i don’t want to pretend i don’t—” he stops, head dropping slightly. his breath shivers against your cheek. “i don’t want to pretend anymore. i don't want to be strangers. i don't even want to be friends.”
your lips part, a soft gasp caught in your throat. you feel your fingers twitch at your sides, a thousand words pressing forward all at once.
“me neither,” you say, the words tumbling out, unsteady. “i don’t… i don’t want to keep holding it in. i love you.”
he looks at you—really looks, eyes raw, wide, terrified and shining all at once.
“i love you too,” he says, and his voice cracks on the last word. “you scare me,” he admits, breath shuddering out. “because you make me want everything.”
your mouth falls open. your fingers move, finally, rising to skim the edge of his jaw, trembling as they press into the skin.
“then take it,” you whisper. “take everything.”
and when he surges forward, it feels like the universe finally exhales. he closes the space in half a heartbeat, hands coming up to cup your face so gently it almost hurts. his thumbs brush over your cheeks again and again, as if to check if you’re really here, as if he cannot believe you are solid beneath his hands.
your breath hitches. he studies you—your lips, your lashes, the frantic flicker of your eyes—like you are a question he has been dying to answer for years.
and then his mouth finds yours.
the first press is soft, trembling at the edges, his lips moving slowly, carefully, as if savouring the shape of you. but that gentleness cracks almost instantly. the second kiss is hungrier, needier—he swallows your gasp, and you taste the wine, the salt of his sweat, the desperation that has been simmering between you since the day you met.
your fingers fist into the fabric of his shirt, knuckles white, tugging him closer, closer still, until your back bumps the edge of the counter. his body crowds into yours fully now, his chest pressing firm and hot against you. he groans low into your mouth, a sound so deep and rough it vibrates through your bones.
he breaks away just enough to pant, forehead pressed against yours, his breath shivering across your lips.
“i want this to be special,” he pants, voice cracked and shaking. “we… we don’t have to rush—”
you grip his shirt tighter, your laugh ragged, almost disbelieving. “minho,” you gasp, voice already wrecked, “if you don’t take me to bed right now, i might actually lose it.”
a laugh tears from his throat, sharp and stunned, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he shakes. but the laugh is broken halfway through, overtaken by a groan when your fingers slip up to his nape, scratching lightly.
he lifts his head again, eyes blown wide and dark, mouth already swollen from kissing you. “fuck,” he breathes, and then he kisses you again—deeper this time, as if each second without you might kill him.
you feel the shift the moment he gives in fully: the careful edges vanish, replaced by something raw, molten, unstoppable. he hoists you up with surprising ease, and you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist, your hands diving into his hair, tugging at the strands until he growls against your lips.
you both stumble down the hallway, bumping into walls, doors, laughing in wild bursts between desperate kisses. your teeth clack against his, and you feel the vibration of his laughter against your chest. his mouth roams—jaw, cheek, ear—each kiss messier, wetter, more frantic than the last.
he finally reaches your bedroom and lays you down with a gentleness that nearly undoes you. he hovers there for a heartbeat, just looking down at you, his chest heaving, hair falling into his eyes. he looks at you like he’s seeing the sun rise for the first time—reverent, disbelieving, hungry.
your hands slide up his chest, fumbling at the bowtie still dangling, fingers trembling as you tug.
“off,” you murmur, breathless, tugging again, your eyes locked to his.
his laugh is short, nearly a moan, but he obeys instantly, shucking off his jacket and tearing the bowtie from his collar, letting it fall to the floor in a soft whisper of fabric.
you sit up, shoving at his shirt buttons with clumsy fingers, your breaths coming sharp and fast. he watches you, jaw slack, eyes half-lidded and dark with want. when the last button gives, you shove the shirt off his shoulders, your palms skimming over the warm planes of his arms, his chest. he shivers under your touch, a muscle in his jaw twitching.
you lean forward, pressing your mouth to his chest—just below his collarbone at first, then lower, open-mouthed kisses that leave damp trails. he curses, his hands flying to your hair, knotting there, tugging you closer, his hips shifting forward against yours unconsciously.
“fuck,” he rasps, his voice rough, like gravel under your hands. “you’re… you’re gonna kill me.”
you grin against his skin, teeth grazing lightly over his sternum. “good,” you murmur, your voice wicked and soft at once. “maybe then you’ll finally shut up.”
he chokes out a laugh that turns into a stuttering groan when your nails scrape down his sides. he pulls you up suddenly, crashing your mouth into his again, and you fall back onto the bed with a gasp, legs instinctively parting as he moves between them.
he kisses you like a man starved, like he might never get the chance again. your lips are slick and swollen, your moans echoing between each sharp inhale.
when he breaks away just enough to drag his hands up your thighs, under your dress, he pauses, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath shaky.
“dress. off,” he pants, voice splintering. “please— i need to see you.”
you arch up eagerly, fingers scrambling to pull the fabric over your head, tossing it aside without thought. you hear the faint whisper of it hitting the floor, but all you can see is him—his pupils blown wide, his lips parted, his entire body trembling slightly as his eyes roam over you, devouring.
“fuck,” he breathes, reverent and wrecked at once. “look at you.”
you flush, heat licking up your chest, but before you can shy away, his hands slide up your sides, fingers hooking around your bra straps, and he leans down to kiss you—slow at first, almost reverent, as if to say thank you, as if to worship.
but that careful sweetness doesn’t last. your hips lift against him, needy, and he curses into your mouth, his teeth nipping at your lower lip.
from there, it all dissolves—into heat, into sound, into the frantic, unstoppable rush of everything you have both been holding back.
your hips buck up again, helpless under his touch, and he growls low in his throat. his mouth drags down, over your jaw, your neck, your collarbones—leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses that have your fingers clawing at the sheets.
“minho,” you gasp, your voice already hoarse, the syllables shattering in your mouth like glass.
he hums against your skin, tongue flicking out to taste the salt there, teeth grazing just enough to make you shudder. he moves lower still, the heat of his breath skimming over the tops of your breasts.
his hands are everywhere at once—cupping your ribs, brushing the undersides of your thighs, ghosting up the length of your sides. each touch sparks a new wave of heat, of want, of something so sharp it almost hurts.
he hooks a finger into the edge of your bra, glances up at you with eyes dark and pleading.
“may i?” he rasps, voice so wrecked it barely sounds like him.
you nod frantically, arching up, and he wastes no time. he unclasps it with deft fingers, sliding the straps down your arms so slowly it makes you sigh.
when he finally bares you fully, he sits back for a heartbeat, his gaze devouring you. he drags his eyes over every inch—your flushed chest, the hard peaks of your nipples, the tremor in your stomach—and he exhales a curse so soft it’s almost reverent.
“fuck… you’re unreal,” he murmurs, almost like he’s talking to himself.
before you can reply, he leans in, mouth closing over your nipple.
your head tips back with a sharp cry, your hands flying to his hair, twisting in the strands. he licks, sucks, teeth grazing just enough to make your hips jerk under him.
“please,” you moan, your voice dissolving into the air. “minho— please—”
he groans into your skin, switches to your other breast, lavishing the same worshipping attention until you’re a trembling, gasping mess beneath him.
finally, he drags his mouth down, tracing a line of heat down your ribs, your stomach. he pauses at your waistband, glancing up again, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide.
“want these off,” he pants, fingers already hooking into your panties. “need to taste you.”
you nod, unable to form words, your fingers gripping the sheets so hard your knuckles ache.
he slides them down slowly, pressing kisses to every new inch of exposed skin—your hipbones, the sensitive dip just above your thigh, the inside of your knee when he lifts your leg over his shoulder. each touch is like a tiny shock, your body arching helplessly toward him.
when he finally settles between your thighs, he pauses, just breathing against you. you can feel his breath—warm, humid, impossibly close—and it makes your hips twitch, a broken whine tearing from your throat.
“so pretty,” he murmurs, almost dazed, his thumb tracing lightly over your slick folds. “so fucking pretty for me.”
you sob his name, your hands flying down to clutch at his hair, desperate to ground yourself.
and then his mouth is on you.
at first, he teases—slow, languid strokes of his tongue that make you sob, your thighs quivering around his head. he groans at the taste of you, the vibration sinking into your core, making your back arch off the bed.
your fingers tighten in his hair, your hips bucking up.
“minho— please— more—”
he growls, a sound so deep it rattles through your bones, and then he gives in completely.
he eats you like a man possessed—messy, fervent, relentless. his tongue delves deep, his lips sealing around your clit and sucking so hard your vision whites out.
you writhe under him, helpless, your moans high and wild, echoing off the walls.
when you feel the edge rush up to meet you, your thighs clamp around his head, your hands tugging so hard at his hair he groans into you again.
“please,” you sob, nearly incoherent. “gonna— i’m gonna—”
he pulls back just enough to rasp, “come on baby, cum for me,” before diving back in, doubling his pace.
you shatter.
the pleasure explodes through you in a blinding rush, your entire body convulsing, a scream tearing from your throat as you ride the waves, hips bucking wildly against his mouth.
he holds you through it, hands gripping your thighs tight, tongue and lips unrelenting until you’re twitching, gasping, sobbing his name over and over.
when he finally pulls back, his mouth and chin glisten, his eyes nearly black as he looks up at you.
you reach for him immediately, tugging him up by the hair until his mouth crashes into yours again. you taste yourself on him, hot and heady, and it makes you whine into the kiss.
you fumble for his belt, both of you shaking, laughing breathlessly between kisses as you struggle to get him undressed.
when you finally shove his pants down, his cock springs free, flushed and heavy, and you both pause for a moment, just breathing.
he shudders when your hand wraps around him, his hips jerking forward, a strangled moan breaking from his lips. when you move to return the favour, his hand grips your hip to stop you.
“fuck— please— need you,” he pants, forehead dropping to yours. “need to be inside you—”
you nod frantically, your legs falling open wider, your nails digging into his shoulders.
“okay. yes— please— want you so bad— all of you,” you gasp.
he lines up, the head of his cock nudging at your entrance, and for a heartbeat, everything stills.
he looks at you, eyes wild and soft all at once, his hand coming up to cup your cheek.
“you sure?” he whispers, voice shaking.
“yes,” you breathe, your voice breaking. “minho, please.”
and then he pushes in, slow and deep, and the world shatters.
you both moan—low and broken—as he sheaths himself fully, his hips pressed flush against yours. he stays there for a moment, trembling, forehead pressed to yours, both of you gasping for breath.
“fuck— so tight— so good—” he groans, his voice wrecked.
you arch up into him, hips rolling desperately, feeling both overstimulated and understimulated simultaneously. “move,” you sob. “please— need you to move—”
he obeys.
he pulls back almost all the way, then thrusts in again hard, and your cry echoes through the room.
from there, it’s all feverish motion—his hips snapping into you at a relentless pace, your nails raking down his back, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him impossibly closer.
he buries his face in your neck, teeth scraping at your pulse, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.
“mine,” he gasps, each thrust punctuated, his voice strangled with emotion and need. “you’re mine— all mine—”
“yours,” you respond, nails dragging hard enough to leave marks. “yours— fuck—”
your climax builds again, tight and bright, your entire body tightening around him.
“minho— i’m— i’m gonna—”
he lifts his head just enough to watch your face, hips hammering into you, eyes wide and wild.
“cum for me again baby,” he rasps. “wanna feel you— please—”
you break.
your second orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, your entire body locking up, a scream ripping from your throat. you clamp down around him so hard he chokes on a curse, his rhythm stuttering.
with a final deep thrust, he spills into you, moaning your name like a prayer, his whole body shuddering as he pulses deep inside.
he collapses over you, both of you slick with sweat, shaking, the only sound your ragged, mingled breathing.
after a few seconds, he shifts just enough to press soft, trembling kisses along your jaw, your cheeks, your forehead— each one a silent apology, a vow, a promise.
you card your fingers through his hair, your eyes wet, your chest still heaving.
he lifts his head to look at you, his eyes wide and soft, a trembling smile curving his lips.
“you okay?” he rasps, voice nearly gone.
you nod, tears slipping free now, your hand coming up to cup his cheek. “never been better,” you whisper, your voice breaking.
he smiles—real and open and utterly wrecked—and leans in to kiss you again, this one slow and tender and impossibly sweet.
you cling to him, to the weight of him, to the warmth, to the knowledge that you are both exactly where you were always meant to be.
at some point in the hush, your fingers begin tracing idle shapes on his chest—little spirals, half-formed letters, mindless meanders that speak louder than any words. he watches you do it, his head propped up just enough to catch every flutter of your eyelashes when you glance up at him.
he hums, a deep, content sound, low in his throat. “you writing a novel on me?”
you snort into his skin. “maybe. someone has to document all your crimes.”
“crimes?” he scoffs, tugging you closer by the waist. “what crimes? being devastatingly handsome? making you finish so hard you nearly pass out?”
your gasp gets stuck in your throat, half outrage, half something far more dangerous. your hand flies up to smack his shoulder, but he catches your wrist easily, laughing.
“did not. you’re insufferable,” you grumble, trying and failing to suppress your own grin.
“and yet,” he drawls, pressing a kiss to your captured fingers, “here you are. willingly imprisoned.”
“i should have run when i had the chance,” you mutter.
“too late now,” he sings, smug, flipping your hand to press another kiss into your palm. “you’re stuck with me forever. binding contract and all.”
“contract?” you arch a brow, playing along. “did i miss the fine print?”
“page two, clause four,” he says immediately, with that infuriatingly smooth confidence. “once you let lee minho rail you into oblivion, you’re required to let him stay over. and also bring him coffee in bed. daily.”
you throw your head back, laughing so hard your ribs ache. “you are the worst. actually the worst.”
“hmm,” he pretends to consider it, dragging your wrist up to rest against his jaw. “most would say ‘best.’ in fact, top reviews across the board, mind you.”
“delusional,” you declare, leaning down to peck the tip of his nose.
he catches you before you can pull away, stealing a longer kiss that’s all soft lips and slow breaths. when he finally releases you, you’re both smiling, foreheads pressed together.
“tell me again,” he whispers, eyes searching yours.
your heart stumbles over itself, heat crawling up your neck. “tell you what?” you murmur, even though you already know.
his thumb brushes your jaw, as if coaxing it out of you. “what you said before.”
"hmm... i don't think i know what you're talking about..." you tease.
minho groans, tucking his head into your neck. "just say it. please?"
you swallow, throat thick. your free hand slides up to cup his cheek, thumb tracing at his chin.
“okay, but only because it's true. i love you,” you say again. steady this time. clear and bright as starlight.
his breath hitches. “say it again.”
you giggle softly, nose brushing his. “you're so needy.”
“yep. only for you to see. i'm dangerously needy," he agrees without shame.
you roll your eyes but lean in closer, your lips ghosting over his as you speak. “i love you.”
he surges up, kissing you so hard you nearly fall backward. his hands tangle into your hair, pulling you down until your chests are flush again. he kisses you like he’s been waiting his whole life to hear those words, like he might dissolve if he stops.
when he finally pulls back, his eyes are glassy, lashes damp. “i love you too,” he murmurs, his voice raw and hoarse. “so much it’s fucking terrifying.”
you snort, even as your chest feels like it might burst. “good. means we’re both doomed.”
he laughs, quiet and warm, and tugs you down to rest against him again. his fingers stroke up and down your spine, lazy and unhurried.
after a beat, he shifts slightly, brows pinching. “wait. so… about that daily coffee. i was only half-joking.”
you groan, nuzzling your face deeper into his chest. “god, you’re so demanding.”
“please,” he scoffs. “you love it.”
“hate it,” you mumble, muffled into his skin.
“liar,” he accuses, tapping your side. “admit it.”
you only shake your head, smirking against him.
he laughs, and the sound is so beautiful, so open, that it hooks right behind your ribs and tugs.
eventually, the silence stretches again— not awkward, but settled. content. you listen to the rhythm of his heart under your ear, feel the steady rise and fall of his chest.
he exhales, and his chin tips down to rest against the top of your head. “you know… i really meant it.”
“meant what?” you ask, sleep already creeping at the edges of your thoughts.
“when i said you scare me,” he admits. “because you make me want… everything. the whole stupid, messy, forever thing.”
you tilt your head, peeking up at him. his face is so close, and even half-shadowed by moonlight, you can see every line softened by the truth in his words.
“then have it,” you whisper, threading your fingers through his hair again. “have everything.”
he stares at you, eyes wide, lips parting— like he might cry, or laugh, or both.
then he kisses you again. slow. gentle. a promise sealed in salt and moonlight.
when he pulls back, he breathes your name like a benediction.
you hum, tucking yourself into his side fully. “now shut up and sleep before you get sappy enough to propose with a twist tie or something.”
he snorts so hard it jolts you both. “tempting,” he teases, squeezing your hip. “might do it tomorrow. our wedding would be so well planned.”
“god help me,” you mutter, but your giggle betrays you.
he pulls the blanket higher around you, his breath soft against your forehead. “goodnight, trouble.”
“goodnight, menace,” you echo, already drifting.
in the quiet that follows, his fingers keep moving— up and down your arm, over your shoulder, across your back. a quiet mantra. you’re here. i’m here. we’re here.
outside, the moon shifts higher. the curtains sway, the air smells faintly of rain and lavender.
and inside, your heart finally, finally stops running.
tomorrow will come. it will bring new mornings and shared coffees and petty bickering about the proper way to fold towels.
but for tonight— tonight is just you and him. hearts tangled. breaths shared. laughter still echoing somewhere under your skin.
a love that feels, at last, like coming home and setting down your bags forever.
and neither of you ever plans to leave.
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and that marks the end of ‘aisle be damned’!
i wanna take a moment to thank everyone who stuck around for this series! i had such a good time writing this, it’s easily one of my favourite works thus far. i hope you enjoyed just as much as i did, and will come back to reread whenever you feel like it! thank you for taking the time to read it all 🩷
more skz here
requests open! now that i’m done with this i can actually get my requests out LOL. so if you have one send one my way i’ll get to it eventually, don’t be shy 😎
aisle be damned taglist (lmk if you’d like to be moved to the permanent taglist): @skzbyemmy @starlostjisung @hanjisrockstar @bahngarang @dostoevskydidion @mal-lunar-28 @kissesmellow21 @bestboileeknow @professionalcaratdeobi @madebybec @nightshadeblooming @roseanne-yoon @kuroosluthoe @skyearby @wormi @havennz @allaboutsan @chanyeoli0131 @btch8008s @lomllino @xitsjeonglix @leeknowsimpstay
★ in which you and hyunjin are dubbed “kpop’s most compatible couple” — despite the fact don’t know him more than “that tall guy from stray kids.” hyunjin, on the other hand, does know of you, and is totally is not spiraling over being declared your soulmate.ᐟ
— 현진 hwang hyunjin x reader series ★ tags: smau, fanboy + awkward hyunjin, idol!au, semi-strangers to lovers, fluff + crack.
chapter one | chapter two | chapter three
the catalogue
that’s the end of rarepair! thank you all for enjoying this as much as u did :). i definitely think smau series/works are for me, i rly liked making this! i think more are in the cards for the future… maybe… 😼
i also accept smau based requests, i had a few asking if that type of req is ok and it so is! js to lyk
pairing: lee minho x reader
tags: drabble. domestic fluff.
part of the emmieverse special—see here
minho is halfway through folding the freshly dried clothing in the laundry room when he hears it: the unmistakable chorus of tiny, judgmental meows.
he glances down. three pairs of eyes stare up at him like he is personally responsible for the downfall of society.
“what,” he asks flatly, holding up a pair of your socks.
soonie meows again—loud and mournful—and doongie rubs against his shin like he is trying to awaken guilt. dori simply stares. always watching. always planning.
“i fed you. i scooped your litter. i gave you those weird snacks you like,” minho lists, bending to scratch doongie’s head. “what else do you want, huh?”
they do not answer. they simply exist at him.
until—
the sound of the front door unlocking echoes from the other side of the house.
everything changes.
soonie bolts first, nearly slipping on the hallway rug. doongie trots after him with poise, and dori makes his usual dramatic entrance: meowing as if he just survived war.
minho snorts, shaking his head.
“traitors.”
you barely have one foot inside before you are surrounded.
“hi, my babies,” you coo, crouching down to pet them as they swirl around you in a furry storm. “missed me that much?”
minho stands at the end of the hallway, arms crossed, a hopeless little smile tugging at his mouth. the sight of his babies loving on you like this never gets old.
“they’ve been moping around like your absence broke each of their hearts,” he says, slowly approaching you from where he stood.
you grin at him. “maybe it did.”
he leans to kiss you hello, warm hands settling on your waist like they never want to leave. “well i missed you more,” he murmurs.
“i would hope so,” you quipped. you melt into his embrace for a beat, then pull back. “i’m starving.”
“same,” he agrees. “want me to start on—”
“i got it,” you wave his offer off, stepping into the kitchen. the cats follow after you immediately, falling into formation like little soldiers of chaos. they may as well be magnetised to you.
you open the fridge, eyeing them. “you just want food, huh?”
meows follow. of course they do.
you point down the hallway vaguely to where you left minho standing. “then go ask your father.”
there is a pause.
then three sets of paws patpatpat down the hall like a furry stampede. when they don’t find him near the entryway, they search the house.
not in the living room…
not in the bedroom…
….he’s in the laundry room again!
minho, in the middle of matching your sock pairs again, looks up just in time for the interrogation squad to arrive.
they meow. in sync.
he blinks. “did you—did they actually—”
from the kitchen, you call: “i delegated!”
minho just laughs, setting the socks aside to kneel on the floor like a medieval servant to his royal court.
“you guys are whipped.”
soonie hops in his lap. doongie starts purring. dori knocks over a cup.
minho sighs, grinning. “yeah, yeah. i’ll feed you. but only because your mother’s scary when she’s hungry.”
from the kitchen, you call once more: “i heard that!”
he smiles to himself, completely gone for this weird little family of his.
and for the record, the cats get fed first.
he knows his place.
tysm anon! i love writing lee know soft….. soft domestic lee know and i are married now
blakekathryn
kaledo-art
romaincrisis
snowghoul
prguitarman
pixelskylines
titsay
