Clingy boi
Clingy! Seonghyeon x reader
Requested
Genre: tooth rotting fluff
MASTERLIST
Requests are open!!
You know something is off the second you open your front door and Seonghyeon isn’t there yet.
Normally he beats you home. Backpack tossed in the corner, shoes kicked off without aiming, some half finished snack abandoned on the counter. Today the apartment is quiet in a way that feels intentional, like it’s holding its breath.
Your phone buzzes as you’re dropping your keys.
where r u
No capitalization. That already tells you everything.
parking. chill
Three dots appear. Disappear. Come back.
ok but hurry
You smile despite yourself, toeing your sneakers off. It’s been five days. Not even a dramatic amount of time, but enough that the absence feels heavier than expected. Different schedules, late nights, rainchecks that turned into more rainchecks. Life doing that annoying thing where it gets loud.
You barely have time to put your bag down before the door opens.
Seonghyeon doesn’t say hi.
He just walks straight into you.
Not aggressively. Not rushed. Just like his body decided you were the correct destination and didn’t consult his brain first. His arms wrap around your shoulders and back, face tucked into the side of your neck like muscle memory.
“Hi,” you say, a little breathless.
“Mm,” he hums, muffled, refusing to move.
You stand there for a second, hands hovering awkwardly in the air, then settling against his hoodie. He’s warm. Familiar. Solid in a way that makes your chest loosen.
You laugh softly. “You good?”
“No,” he says immediately. Honest to a fault. “I missed you.”
“I know.”
“I actually missed you,” he corrects, pulling back just enough to look at your face. His hair’s a mess, hoodie wrinkled like he slept in it. There are faint shadows under his eyes. “Like… it was annoying.”
You reach up, instinctively smoothing the wrinkle between his brows. “I texted you.”
“That’s not the same.”
Before you can respond, he leans in again, arms circling tighter this time. His chin hooks over your shoulder. You can feel him breathing you in, slow and steady, like he’s recalibrating.
You let him.
It’s one of those moments that would probably look excessive from the outside. Two people standing in an entryway, holding each other like the world might tilt if they let go. But it doesn’t feel dramatic. It feels practical.
Eventually, you say, “You wanna move before my legs fall asleep?”
He sighs, exaggerated, but loosens his grip enough to guide you inside with a hand still anchored at your waist. He doesn’t let go even when you both collapse onto the couch. He just rearranges himself so you’re tucked against his side, arm thrown over you like punctuation.
“You’re glued to me,” you point out.
“Yeah,” he says. “I warned you I’d be clingy.”
“You didn’t warn me this much.”
“That’s because I underestimated it.”
You tilt your head to look at him. He’s staring at the ceiling, jaw relaxed but eyes alert. Like he’s still making sure you’re real.
“You okay?” you ask again, quieter this time.
He shrugs with one shoulder, the one not pinning you in place. “Just don’t move.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
He glances down at you. There’s something soft and exposed there that he doesn’t always let show.
“I hate when our schedules don’t line up,” he says. “Feels like I blink and you’re gone.”
You reach for his hand, lacing your fingers together. “I’m here.”
“I know. I just needed to verify.”
You smile. “Consider it verified.”
That earns you the faintest smile back. He squeezes your hand once, twice, like a nervous habit.
A beat passes. Then another.
“You’re sleeping over,” he says suddenly.
You blink. “I am?”
“Yeah.”
“That wasn’t discussed.”
“It is now.”
You laugh. “You don’t even ask anymore?”
“I would, but what if you said no.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Manipulative.”
“Efficient,” he counters.
You shift slightly, testing his grip. He tightens immediately.
“See,” he says. “Clingy.”
“You’re not wrong.”
You don’t say no.
The night slides by quietly. Takeout eaten straight from the containers. A show half watched because he keeps pausing it to tell a story you’ve already heard, just to hear himself talk while you’re close. At some point his head ends up in your lap, fingers tracing absent lines on your wrist like he needs physical proof that you’re still there.
“You’re being weird,” you tell him, fond.
“I’m being deprived,” he replies. “There’s a difference.”
When it’s late enough that everything feels slightly unreal, you both migrate to his room. He tosses you an old t-shirt, then immediately regrets it when you start to change in front of him.
“I forgot you do that,” he mutters, turning away too late.
“You’ve seen me in a swimsuit.”
“That’s different.”
You snort. “Okay.”
You expect him to keep some distance once you’re both settled in bed. Maybe roll to his side, play it cool.
He does not.
The moment the lights are off, he scoots closer until your legs tangle. An arm drapes over your waist, his forehead pressing lightly into the back of your neck.
“You’re warm,” he says.
“So are you.”
“Yeah but like… specifically.”
You shift, turning to face him. You’re close enough that your noses almost brush.
“Seonghyeon?”
“Mm?”
“You’re staring.”
“I’m looking.”
“At what.”
“You,” he says simply. “I missed your face.”
Something in your chest pulls tight.
You lift your hand, brushing your thumb under his eye. “You missed me for five days. You’re acting like it was five months.”
He shrugs, eyes never leaving yours. “Time is fake.”
You laugh quietly. He smiles, full this time, relief written all over it.
His hand slides to your waist, not moving anywhere else, just resting there like it belongs. Like it always has.
“Stay,” he says. Not a request. A truth.
“I’m here,” you repeat.
He exhales, long and slow, like something finally unclenched inside him. He tucks his face against your shoulder, grip firm but gentle, the way you hold something you’re scared to lose but trust not to disappear.
Sleep comes eventually. Not all at once, but in pieces. The kind where you drift in and out, aware of the weight of him, the rhythm of his breathing. Every time you shift, his arm tightens reflexively, even in sleep.
In the morning, you wake up with him half on top of you, hair in your face, fingers curled into your shirt like he might float away if he lets go.
You smile, heart stupid and full.
Yeah. Five days was too long.
