Genre: Fluff, comfort, romance, established relationship
Word count: 2300
Trigger warnings: Self-image insecurity, mild emotional distress, soft physical affection, possible spoilers from “Pretty Woman” the movie.
Summary: A quiet movie night turns tender when Pretty Woman makes you see everything you’re not, and Seungcheol shows you everything you are.
A/N: i love Pretty Woman the movie and CxM’s 5, 4, 3, Pretty Woman, and of course i had to write something inspired by it. hope you’ll enjoy ☺️
MASTERLIST
The living room glows with the soft light of the TV, the kind of warmth that only comes from a night with no schedule, no deadlines, no alarms. The opening credits of Pretty Woman roll, and the familiar music fills the space.
You’re curled into Seungcheol’s side, your legs tangled under a shared blanket, his arm resting lazily along the back of the couch. It’s been weeks since you’ve both had time like this, no rehearsals, no meetings, no cameras. Just you, him, and a movie you’ve loved since forever.
He glances down at you when Julia Roberts’ laugh fills the room. “You really love this one, huh?”
You nod, smiling softly. “It’s a classic. She’s… perfect.”
Seungcheol hums, low and fond. “You say that every time.”
He leans back, eyes half on the screen, half on you. He looks so effortlessly at home in his sweatpants, hair still a little damp from his shower, skin warm against yours. You try to focus on the movie, but your eyes keep flicking to him, catching the way the glow of the TV paints his jawline in gold. He looks like someone out of a scene, too beautiful to be real, too close to look at for too long.
When the boutique scene plays, the one where Vivian is turned away, humiliated before her transformation, something tightens in your chest. You’ve seen it a hundred times, but tonight it hits differently.
Julia walks out of the shop, small and ashamed, only to return later radiant and unstoppable. Big mistake. Huge. The audience cheers. You’ve always loved that part. But tonight, it only makes your throat ache.
You think about how easily she transforms, how the world suddenly sees her differently just because she looks the part. And you think of Seungcheol, the world’s leader, the one everyone calls handsome, charming, powerful. The kind of man who could walk into any room and own it without trying.
And then there’s you.
You swallow the thought down, but it lingers. When Seungcheol reaches for your hand, you flinch, just slightly and he doesn’t seem to notice, too absorbed in the next scene.
A few minutes later, you mumble something about needing the bathroom and slip away before he can offer to pause the movie.
The light in the bathroom is harsh, bright, too honest. You grip the sink and look at your reflection.
There you are.
Your hair’s a little messy from the couch. The sweatshirt you’re wearing isn’t one of those sleek ones that look effortlessly cute, it’s just soft and worn. You look… fine. Normal. But the word pretty doesn’t feel like it belongs anywhere near what you see.
You think about the photos Seungcheol takes on tour, the way fans talk about him online, how he looks, how confident he is, how lucky you must be. And you are lucky, you know that. You just can’t shake the thought that maybe he deserves someone who actually looks like they belong beside him.
You hear laughter from the living room, the movie, not him, and your eyes sting unexpectedly. You blink it away, exhaling shakily.
The knock comes gently.
“Hey,” Seungcheol’s voice, soft through the door. “You’ve been in there for a while. You okay?”
You freeze. Your first instinct is to lie. “Yeah, I’m fine! Just…uh…hair’s a mess.”
He chuckles lightly, but there’s a pause. “Can I come in?”
You hesitate, then sigh. “Yeah.”
The door creaks open, and he appears in the reflection behind you, his expression shifting from curiosity to worry in an instant.
He takes in the scene without a word: you standing too still, hands gripping the sink, eyes avoiding your own.
“Hey,” he says again, stepping closer, voice low. “Talk to me.”
You shake your head. “It’s nothing, Cheol.”
“Doesn’t look like nothing.” He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. His reflection in the mirror meets yours, gentle, steady, patient.
Something inside you cracks.
“I just…” you start, the words trembling. “Sometimes I look at you and…” You cut yourself off, biting your lip. “And I don’t understand how you can look at me the way you do.”
He frowns. “What do you mean?”
You exhale shakily. “You’re you. S.Coups. Everyone sees you and thinks you’re perfect. You’re handsome, confident, talented. And then there’s me. I don’t feel like…”, your voice wavers, “like I’m enough to stand next to you.”
The silence stretches. For a heartbeat, you can’t meet his eyes.
Then Seungcheol moves slow, deliberate. He steps behind you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him even before he touches you. His hands rest lightly on your shoulders, grounding you.
“Look,” he murmurs. “At us.”
You do. In the mirror, his arms slide around your waist, his chin dipping to rest on your shoulder. You see the two of you reflected back, not idol and fan, not stage and spotlight. Just him and you.
“Do you know what I see?” he asks quietly.
You swallow. “Probably not what I do.”
He shakes his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I see the person who makes home feel like more than a place. Who listens when I’m too tired to talk. Who tells me when I’m wrong, and still cheers for me anyway.”
He presses a kiss to your shoulder, feather-light. “You think I need someone prettier? You’re the reason I even feel human after all that stage stuff. You’re the part that’s real.”
You blink, tears spilling before you can stop them.
“Cheol…”
He turns you gently in his arms, thumb catching a tear before it can fall further. His voice softens even more. “You know Pretty Woman isn’t about becoming beautiful, right?”
You sniffle, trying to smile. “Kind of feels like it, though.”
“It’s about someone realizing they always were,” he says. “And finding someone who finally saw it.” His gaze searches yours, earnest, unwavering. “You don’t have to change a single thing for me to see you.”
He leans forward and presses a kiss to your forehead. Then another to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. Each one unhurried, reverent, like he’s reminding you wordlessly of every reason he loves you.
When he finally pulls back, his hand stays on your jaw, thumb brushing along your skin. “You’re enough,” he says, firm but tender. “More than enough. You always were.”
Your chest aches in that way it does when you’re overwhelmed with love, not the fluttery kind, but the deep, rooted kind that settles right behind your ribs.
You reach up, curling your fingers in the fabric of his shirt. “I don’t deserve you sometimes.”
He huffs softly, smiling. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing.”
You laugh, watery and quiet, and he grins like it’s the best sound he’s ever heard.
“Come on,” he murmurs. “Let’s finish the movie. It’s the best part.”
Back on the couch, he doesn’t bother with the blanket, he just pulls you into his lap, tucking you against his chest like it’s second nature. His fingers trace lazy shapes along your arm while the movie plays.
When the final scene fades to credits, you shift to look at him. The screen’s glow softens his features, and for a moment, you forget to breathe.
He notices. “What?”
“Just thinking,” you say. “You’d make a good Richard Gere.”
He grins. “And you’d make a better Julia Roberts.”
You scoff, shaking your head. “You have to say that. Boyfriend obligations.”
He tilts his head. “No, I really don’t.” Then his voice drops, quieter, sincere. “I say it because it’s true.”
You feel your heartbeat stutter, the kind of warmth that rushes up your throat, impossible to hide.
He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours. “You know what’s prettier than Pretty Woman?”
You hum, smiling faintly. “What?”
“You,” he whispers, “when you finally believe me.”
For a moment, the world narrows to the space between your lips, to the way he’s looking at you like he’s memorizing every detail. When he kisses you, soft, unhurried, full of quiet promises, it feels less like a movie moment and more like a truth you’ve been waiting to hear.
When he pulls back, he’s smiling again, his thumb brushing your chin. “There,” he says. “Now you’re glowing.”
You laugh softly, leaning into his chest as the credits roll. His hand finds yours, fingers fitting perfectly together.
You think about Pretty Woman again, how it ends with a fairy-tale rescue. But sitting here, surrounded by warmth and the faint hum of the TV, you realize that Seungcheol didn’t rescue you. He just reminded you that you were never lost.
⠀︵⠀STRAIGHT OUT OF THE MOVIES ⠀◌Ⳋ ✧ ── don't you love when you're a player and your crush has to pull out the ‘10 things i hate about you’ card?
pairing: mingyu x gn!reader wc: 1.2k words
warnings: mingyu calls reader doll and gorgeous
lua's note: happy late bday my sweetie @mi9yuz :))
ᯓ★ "so won't you smile? i'm shooting a movie"
“So it’s a deal.” Mingyu said as he took a bite of your ice cream.
You looked at him in confusion and surprise. “First of all, that was extremely rude. Don’t you ever eat my ice cream again, okay? Second of all, what are you talking about?”
“If you win the match, I’ll ask you to be mine.”
“So,” you take a bite of your cream while looking at him like he made an unfunny joke. “You’re saying that if I win the next game, we’ll become official?”
“That’s right. I mean, not you you, but if your team wins. I’ll finally ask you the question I bet you’re dying to hear.”
You laughed, and Mingyu smiled. “What? You’re about to tell me that you never wanted me asking you to be mine? I’m sure you already imagined me being your boyfriend, I’m such boyfriend material that you can’t help but think how good I’d be to you, am I right?”
He was right. You did imagine him being your boyfriend- countless times if you have to be honest. You really couldn’t help but think how amazing life would be if you had him as officially yours, if you could introduce him to your friends as your boyfriend and not as the famous long pause as if trying to figure out what to say before saying friend.
“I never imagined that I would hope to lose a match so badly,” you held back a smirk, but when you saw that Mingyu was looking at you like a lost puppy, pouting and clinging to your arm, you let out a choked laughter. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Do you hate me that much? Don’t you wanna be mine? My only one, the one I’ll cherish forever and ever?”
“Dramatic, aren’t you?” You took a large bite from his ice cream and stood up before he could even process your past action. “I have to go now, see you later?”
“Whe-where are you going?”
“Practice for the upcoming match. Maybe this match is the most important one of my life so far, but just maybe.”
Mingyu’s expression softened as he sat still on the bench, looking at you with shiny eyes. “Yeah, you really should go practice. I don’t date losers.”
“Noted. See ya!”
“See ya, potential future lover!”
You chuckled and walked away; your heart skipping a beat at the thought of becoming his significant other. You knew that your team had to win that match in a way or another - Mingyu had to be yours, and you had to be his.
When the day had come, you were listening to your coach’s words, but your eyes were fixated on where Mingyu was sitting with his friends. They were holding signs that showed their support for your team, but Mingyu’s sign wasn’t hyping up your team, it was hyping you up. You and you only.
“Did you hear me, Y/N?” Your coach’s voice made you stop looking at Mingyu and his friends, and that was when you noticed all of your teammates looking at you, worried that you weren’t paying attention to his words and could possibly screw up during the match.
“I did, coach. Don’t worry.”
“Alright then, you can do it. Let’s go!”
As the match started, your focus shifted towards the game and you promised to yourself to give your best, maybe even more than your best.
You watched your opponents and tried to guess their next moves, all that while running and helping your teammates out to pass the ball to each other.
During the breaks, you would look at the benches full of people, but your eyes always landed on them - Mingyu and his friends. Those were the only moments when you could hear their shouts, because once the game started again every sound that wasn’t your heartbeat or your teammates and coach’s voices would fade away immediately.
When the match was over, you were exhausted, but extremely happy; your team had won and your dream was about to come true.
You looked towards Mingyu’s direction with a huge smile on your face, only to be met with only his friends that were shrugging his shoulders and shaking their heads while mouthing that they didn’t know where Mingyu was. You frowned and looked around, trying to find him and failing miserably.
Your heart clenched at the thought of him losing the last minutes of the game, losing the announcement that said that your team was the winner.
Some of your teammates hugged you from behind, congratulating you and themselves for winning and you decided to play along. However, everyone’s attention turned to the crowd when they heard shouts:
“Go get her, dude!”
“Y/N, he’s coming for you!”
Not a minute after Mingyu’s friends shouts, you heard a voice on the speaker singing ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’, it was Mingyu’s voice.
You gasped and started to look around, trying to find him. When you did, he was wearing a dark blue suit and striped shirt; he was holding a small bouquet with white roses in one hand and a mic in another. He looked absolutely stunning.
He walked towards you while still singing. People in the crowd were recording and murmuring about the moment, but your focus was only on the boy in front of you, singing that beautiful song to you and making it seem like it was a moment straight out of the movies.
Once he finished the song, your cheeks felt sore from smiling so much. Mingyu put the microphone down on the grass and handed you the bouquet.
“I can’t believe you really did that.”
“Well, I had some lessons with the best, Patrick Verona,” He smirked and took your hand. “So, tell me. Don’t you wanna be my love? The owner of my heart? The reason why I breathe?”
“Are you always that cheesy?”
“Only when it comes to you. So, yes or no?”
“You know I want to.” Your smile got wider, something that you didn’t even know that it was possible.
Mingyu mirrored your smile and leaned forward to kiss you, but you leaned back and placed your hand on his chest. “I’m sweaty and probably stinky, are you sure you want to kiss me right now?”
Mingyu seemed to think about it for a moment. “I remember talking about not dating losers, not about not dating sweaty and stinky yet gorgeous dolls.”
You chuckled. “You’re impossible.”
“That’s why you love me.” He said before pressing his lips against yours and kissing you in a slow pace as you kissed him back.
His friends and some other people started to shout praises at you. It not only seemed like the final scene of a movie, but it felt like one.
When you broke the kiss, he hummed and looked in your eyes. “Yeah, I’m not kissing you after any of your matches again.”
You hit his chest while laughing, making him let you an “ouch” in a mocking way. “I was kidding, I swear! But how about you go take a shower and then we go out, hm? Our first date as a couple.”
“Yeah, that sounds nice. But only if you pay me an ice cream and do not steal bites from it.”
“Now you’re asking too much, you know that your ice cream always tastes sweeter than mine, but I can try to not eat it if it means that much to you.”
Synopsis: It’s been 2 days since you confessed to your best friend that you love him, and it’s been 2 days since you’ve talked to him. Now you're hiding in the bridal suite of your friend's wedding, avoiding him.
Content: Angst, Fluff, Comfort | Friends to Lovers
Tags: bridesmaid!reader, groomsman!vernon, insecure reader, jihyo appears, dino's getting married in this one lolz, intense pining, lots of internal spiraling, vernon's facial expressions get flamed, 2 kdrama fall moments, a little konglish w/ translations, a kiss, no "y/n"
Word Count: 6.4K
What is love? If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that it’s what you feel for Chwe Vernon. Unfortunately for you, though, you really didn’t know any better, and now you’re facing the consequences of your actions.
It’s been two days since you confessed to your best friend that you love him, and it’s been two days since you’ve talked to the man. Honestly, you have no one to blame but yourself, but you’ve convinced yourself that it’s everyone else’s fault for encouraging you. Maybe, if they hadn’t kept pushing you to confess to him—insisting that he definitely was into you—then you wouldn’t be in this position.
Said position involves taking turns hiding in the bridal suite and bathroom of this wedding venue. In fact, you’re so committed to your act that you’ve practically become one with the shadows.
If anything, Vernon should be grateful that you’re going out of your way to avoid him. That way, he wouldn’t get bombarded with the secondhand embarrassment from remembering that horrible day.
The only reason you’re here right now is because both Chan and his bride are close friends of yours, and you wouldn’t want to miss their wedding for the world. Plus, you’re also a bridesmaid.
It was on you for blurting a disastrous confession to Vernon a few hours after the wedding rehearsal.
But the bride and groom don’t even know that things have changed between the two of you. Given the chaos of wedding preparations, you withheld the fact that you and Vernon are going through a rough patch right now—if not the end of the friendship entirely. You didn’t want to add to their stress, but now you feel like you’re on fire.
After all, Vernon is one of the groomsmen. What’s worse is, the wedding plans involve bridesmaids and groomsmen walking down the aisle in pairs, and you’d been placed with Vernon without a second thought.
In other words, you’re completely screwed.
“T-minus 20,” your friend and fellow bridesmaid Jihyo says, nudging your side. “We should go now.”
You feel a faint pulsing at the forefront of your head, a headache creeping up on you. God, what if when he sees you, he shakes his head and makes an X or something with his hands, insisting that he won’t walk down with you? What if he finds you physically embarrassing to be around, and just walks away? You’ve been running away from him all day, so it might not be a stretch to consider that he might have been trying to get away from you, too.
You groan, scrunching the root of your hair, somewhat messing up your carefully curled hair. No, he wouldn’t just leave, that would ruin the wedding. He has too much love for Chan to do that to him. If he protests, he’d either do it subtly right before or confront you after it’s all over.
You shut your eyes and take a deep breath. No one knows about your falling out except for you. And, well, Vernon, of course, but that’s not who you have to keep this secret from. You have to do your best to act normal and not at all like your heart is on the verge of bursting.
“Has anyone ever died of embarrassment?” you suddenly ask, fingers dancing to find something to channel your nervous energy into. You fist a bit of the dress you’re wearing, then release it when you realize you can’t wrinkle the pretty material. “Shit.” You smooth over the fabric with shaky, sweaty hands.
“What is going on with you?” Jihyo’s eyes narrow as she looks you over.
“I’ll tell you later,” you manage, bouncing your leg up and down.
“Later, as in when?”
“After the wedding,” you grit. You want to bury your face in your hands, but the expensive makeup gives you pause. You settle for lowering your head, staring listlessly at the white tiles on the ground.
“Is this about what happened with Vernon?”
You whip your head up. “You know?”
Jihyo slowly blinks, then deadpans, “Uh, yeah? A, both of you have been weird. The last time I saw you two not together was like, five years ago. And B, you’re literally the least subtle person I’ve ever met.”
“Oh,” you squeak, then quickly ask, “Wait, what do you think happened with Vernon?”
She stares blankly at you, as if the answer is obvious. “You confessed. He said nothing. You ran away.”
Your eyebrows shoot up, eyes growing comically large. Then, a frown replaces your shock. You don’t need to ask her how she knows. If anything, it just adds to the notion that even your other friends knew that he would’ve rejected you.
Jihyo sighs, coming over to the loveseat to sit next to you. She gives you a warm side hug, rubbing your back. “He’s a massive idiot. It’s gonna be okay. Let’s just get it together for the wedding, hmm?”
You swallow roughly, then nod.
She continues, “Seriously, though. I’ve known Vernon for almost as long as you have. He’s not great at talking when he’s caught off guard—you know that, too.”
You blink at her words, the tiniest spark of hope igniting in your chest. But you quickly stamp it out, remembering the face he had made when you blurted out that you loved him.
Brows furrowed, open-mouthed, eyes wide, dead silent—he had to have been looking at you with disgust. That was the only way any sane person could decipher that look, really! There was no way that that face was the look of a man who was in love with you, as your friends have claimed.
“It doesn’t matter,” you say, wrinkling your mouth into a smile that anyone could tell was faked. “I’ll get through it.”
“Yeah, it’s not that deep. Just walk down the aisle with him. It’ll take 10 seconds, tops.”
You’re very sure she’s exaggerating, but you wave it off. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine,” she says dryly.
You glare at her. “I’ll be fine.”
“Good, that’s the right mentality,” she says, clasping your shoulders, shaking your upper body. “파이팅! [Fighting!]”
“해야지, [gotta do it,]” you mutter.
Jihyo’s right. You’ll have to see Vernon anyway, so you might as well do it with as much dignity as you can scrap together.
Except, the little dignity you have left demands some more time to procrastinate and linger in your regret.
Jihyo stands up from the couch, but you don’t. Your limbs feel impossibly heavy, as if they’ve been held down by a massive boulder.
You groan, “Just go without me, I’ll leave soon. I wanna go as late as possible.”
Jihyo looks at you with what you can only describe as immense pity. “Okay. I’ll see you in five?”
You nod numbly, watching her walk away to open the doors of the bridal suite.
Vaguely, you can hear some absentminded chatter across the room from the hair and makeup artists, mother of the bride, and maid of honor, all crowded over the bride. It’s all but a buzz in the back of your mind, though, since you’re preoccupied with trying to convince yourself that you have it in you to face Vernon. Knowing you only have five minutes before needing to walk down the aisle with him, your mouth feels dry—too dry.
At that realization, you force your heavy limbs to get up, then walk over the fancy rug to the table where a myriad of miscellaneous objects have been strewn about. You reach for your bag to take out your water bottle, but your hands falter when you look at the little keychain attached to the bag.
It’s a silver charm bracelet you’ve repurposed as a bag charm. It has a turtle and retriever puppy on it, representing the animals you’ve viewed each other as being. Seeing the charms causes a pang of longing to cut deep into you, reminding you of how much you’ve missed him in the last two days.
Could you ever forgive yourself for ruining your precious friendship? For getting too greedy, for asking for too much?
Your hands grip the edge of the table roughly, searching for something to stabilize your body, which is dangerously teetering in the high heels you had convinced yourself you’d be able to walk properly in. You’d bought it because the color of the shoe perfectly matches your dress, but the razor thin heel is proving to be an issue.
Subconsciously, your hand reaches out from the table corner to your bag, gently rubbing the golden retriever charm Vernon always said looked like you, and you’re hit with a sudden intense wave of sadness—but not for the confession.
No, instead, you turn your regret to the insecure internal ramblings that have ravaged you lately.
The earnest, bright eyes of the little puppy charm makes you conscious of the hollow ache spreading throughout your body. How could you have been so mean to your poor, fragile heart?
Alright, maybe you and Vernon wouldn’t be friends anymore. Maybe you would have to live without seeing him ever again.
But you’d have to live with yourself, and it wasn’t right to treat yourself like this.
Technically, Vernon didn’t even say anything to you. He didn’t outright reject you just yet, and he certainly didn’t say you weren’t someone worthy of love. So it was completely unfair for you to jump to those conclusions yourself, putting words in his mouth.
And most of all, it would be even more unfair to you, represented by this adorable puppy charm, to lose yourself to heartbreak.
Straightening your back, your other hand reaches into your bag for your water bottle. Upon chugging the remainder of the water, you close your eyes, concentrating on making your pulse slow down. It works, and you breathe a sigh of relief.
You might have to live with the fallout of this confession, but you could also live with the truth. Loving Vernon wasn't a mistake, and it wouldn't feel like one, no matter how he responded. He deserved honesty, and you deserved to stand by it. Even if this was the end, you wanted to leave this part of your story knowing you'd done right by both of you.
You nod to no one in particular, having made your mind up. After the wedding, you’ll go to him and be upfront about it all, bearing your soul to his response.
For now, though, you’ll help him enjoy the wedding by continuing to stay out of his sight. If he can’t see you, he can’t get reminded of his need to reject you—which is important, of course, because you don’t want his memories of this wedding to be of you crying after he lets you down.
With this renewed clarity, you steady yourself. Vernon doesn’t love you, and that’s okay. You’d do enough loving for the both of you.
────୨ৎ────
Vernon steps into the bridal suite, a thrum of nerves coursing through his veins. He’s spent the past half-hour searching for you in every nook and cranny of the venue, dodging curious glances and knowing jokes from the other groomsmen about his obvious distraction. Jihyo’s the one who finally pointed him in the right direction, murmuring something about how it’s been over five minutes, and how he’s the only one who can get you to show up.
When he sees you standing by the table, shoulders tense, your hands gripping the edge like it’s the only thing keeping you upright, his breath catches. There you are, beautiful and strong and fragile all at once, lost in your thoughts. His chest constricts. How did it come to this? How did the best thing in his life become the one thing he feels he’s on the verge of losing?
“Hey,” he says softly, taking a step forward, calling your name softly.
Your head snaps up at the sound of his voice, and the sudden movement sends you teetering in your high heels. Eyes wide, you twist toward him, your balance faltering. “Vernon?”
It happens in a split second. One of your heels trips on the edge of the rug, and you stumble forward. Vernon darts forward instinctively, grabbing you just before you hit the ground. His arms wrap around you tightly, steadying you.
For a moment, everything stops. Leaning against his chest, you can hear his heartbeat, a frantic rhythm that matches your own. God, your near face plant must have scared him a lot?
But just as you start to regain your footing, your heel accidentally digs into his foot, and he lets out a yelp of pain.
The abrupt shift in weight sends him off balance, and the two of you tumble onto the floor in a tangled heap.
There’s a beat of silence, and then Vernon’s crazy seagull call of a laugh cuts through the tension.
It’s infectious, and before you know it, you’re both laughing, the sound filling the room. It’s ridiculous, it’s messy, and it’s the most alive you’ve felt in days.
When your body relaxes all of its tension, you realize that you’ve missed him with every fiber of your being. That something in you has been waiting for him, like you’ve been in withdrawal without hearing his laughter in the last two days.
You’d planned on continuing to avoid him until the end of the wedding, so that he could enjoy his night without you, but that idea is crumbling right before your eyes. You might not be able to bring yourself to stay away from him any longer.
And then, oh, then—the laughter fades, and you realize how close you are.
Vernon’s face is inches from yours, his warm breath fanning across your skin. His eyes, dark and soft, hold a depth of emotion that makes your stomach twist. And for a fleeting moment, you think you see something raw and unguarded in his gaze—something you’ve seen before.
It’s how he looked when you confessed to him.
Your chest tightens, and your thoughts spiral. Is he mad, reminded of your confession?
You scramble to put distance between you, pushing yourself off him and stepping back hastily. Too hastily, really.
“I’m so sorry,” you stammer, smoothing down the fabric of your dress as if that will somehow restore your composure. “I didn’t mean to, I swear—”
“It’s okay,” Vernon says gently, sitting up.
He reaches an arm out for you, but you’ve already retreated several steps, an apologetic smile plastered on your face.
“We should get going,” you say, your tone overly formal. “It’s almost time.” Without waiting for his response, you turn on your heel and stride toward the door, your movements stiff and hurried.
Vernon watches you go, his hand dropping to his side. He flexes it, then exhales sharply, frustration bubbling beneath the surface of his calm exterior.
You’re running again, and he’s running out of time to fix this.
Pushing himself to his feet, he follows you out of the suite, his long strides easily catching up to you.
The two of you arrive at the line of bridesmaids and groomsmen just as the coordinator starts organizing everyone into pairs. You avoid Vernon’s gaze, your hands clasped tightly in front of you.
But when it’s your turn to step forward, he’s there, holding out his hand to you.
It shakes a little, and your breath hitches when you notice a flash of silver on his wrist. It’s a charm bracelet, and it’s unmistakably the same one you’ve kept on your bag for years, the little turtle and retriever puppy charms glinting under the soft light.
Surely not?
Surely, he doesn’t?
Tentatively, you place your hand in his, your fingers trembling. His grip is familiar, warm, and steady, grounding you even as your emotions threaten to overwhelm you.
As you walk toward the aisle together, you don't look at whoever you're supposed to be looking at, whether it's the officiant or the people clapping in the crowd. Instead, your eyes are trained on the jewelry peeking out of his sleeve, and how his hand feels so soft and warm and dependable against yours.
Then, it suddenly occurs to you that maybe, just maybe, you saw it wrong that day. Maybe he wasn’t looking at you like he was appalled by your audacity to tell him your feelings. He might have actually really been confused, allowing for you to misinterpret his surprise for rejection.
But as soon as the thought enters your mind, you dismiss it. False hope definitely wouldn’t do anything for your precious feelings. Especially when the hope was that Vernon, of all people, would love you as much as you love him.
Desperately avoiding eye contact with the man in question, you stare straight at the bridesmaid-groomsman pair in front of you.
If Vernon loved you back, then he’d say it. He’d show it somehow, some day. Today wasn’t that day, and that’s okay.
You’d be alright without him, eventually. Probably. Hopefully?
With that rationale, you do your best to ignore your trembling legs, burning ears, and constricting chest. The bride and groom deserve a perfect procession, and you would play your role well.
────୨ৎ────
It was a beautiful ceremony. And, three hours into the reception, you’re proud to say that you’ve survived. Promptly after the procession, you separated from Vernon, finding refuge within the bridesmaid group. Ever since, you’ve flitted around different tables, dancing with random people, all in the name of protecting him from seeing you.
You’re actually incredible at avoiding people, if you do say so yourself. Every time you’ve seen Vernon within 50 feet of your vicinity, you’ve grabbed someone new to dance with or talk to. And for especially close calls, you’ve dragged Jihyo into the bathroom.
This time, though, you’re hiding in the bathroom without her. She’d finally refused to go with you for the nth time. The brat had thrown you to the wolves, essentially. No girl code—the nerve of her!
Patting down the roots and length of your hair, which had gotten a bit frizzy, you stare at yourself blankly in the mirror, watching a shiver run down your spine from the cold air-conditioning blasting in the small space.
Despite your efforts to calm down, a sigh escapes your mouth, your shoulders feeling far too heavy. What are you doing, hiding?
God, you love him so much. So much that you’re willing to dance around him so he doesn’t get reminded of you, so that he doesn’t worry about how to reject you all night, so that he can just enjoy the wedding.
What even is love?
You’ve heard that love is sacrifice, and if what you feel is really love, then, well. You’ll have to try not to love anyone but yourself from now on, because unrequited love is somewhat horrible.
You’ll get over him someday, right?
Right?
Before you can psych yourself out of leaving the freezing but rather safe haven that is the restroom, you march over to the door with a new mantra. You shake your shoulders and roll your neck, cracking the joints in your fingers.
“I’ll get over it,” you murmur. “I’m over it. I’m over it! Over, over, over.”
Pushing the door open, you continue rambling to yourself. “I’ll get over it. Over, over, over, over...”
“Over what?” comes a familiar voice.
Oh, shit.
Wide-eyed, you look up to see Vernon blocking your way past the bathroom and back into the hallway leading to the reception.
“Oh,” you gasp, limbs frozen. your eyes flit back to the door to the women’s restroom again, contemplating ditching him cheaply (again).
Vernon steps closer, his gaze softening as he notices your hesitation. His voice is low and gentle—too gentle—when he speaks, almost as if he’s unsure how to break the silence.
"Hey," he says softly, his hand reaching out, fingers brushing against your arm. "You don't have to hide from me, y’know."
You glance up at him, your adrenaline flowing through your veins. You want to back away, to keep putting distance between you, but something about his insistent stare makes your legs freeze.
"I know it's been awkward," Vernon continues, his words more measured now. "But I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable. I just—I just want to talk." He brings his right hand up to his chest, like he’s swearing that he speaks the truth.
You shake your head, your voice trembling. "You don’t have to. I don’t want to make things worse."
Vernon furrows his brows, stepping closer, as if he can’t bear to see you pull away from him again. "You think that running away will fix it? You think I want you to hide from me?"
You swallow hard, avoiding his eyes. "I don't know. This is all new to me."
"Then let me say it.” Vernon’s voice is strangled. "I don’t want to lose you, okay? I didn’t want it to happen like this, I…” His voice trails off as he clenches his fists, shutting his eyes tightly before opening them again. “Please don’t think I shut you down, I just—I needed some time to process everything. I care about you a lot—so much more than I know how to show, sometimes. Or,” he huffs with red-rimmed eyes, “a lot of the time."
A silence settles between you, thick and heavy, but Vernon doesn’t seem to notice. He looks at you with downturned, shining eyes, and you feel your defenses slowly start to crumble.
You’ve never seen him so devastated.
"Come here," Vernon says softly, his arm reaching out to tug you closer, now fully clinging to your side. "Please don’t keep running. Please?” He says the last word like it’s a prayer—and, oh, is it a powerful one.
Every part of your body stiffens, caught off guard by how warm he is, then immediately relaxes at how gently he’s holding you, as if you would break if he held on any tighter.
"Please don’t run from me anymore," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.
You think you could melt into his arms, and it takes everything within you to trust him, to not back away like you have for the past two days. With each passing second, you feel your spine relaxing and leaning into his touch. Then, in the midst of your relaxation, it occurs to you that he’s awaiting your reply.
But before you can answer his pleas, the sound of hurried footsteps echoes through the hallway. Jumping apart like fugitives before the law, you both turn to see Jihyo skidding around the corner, her face flushed with panic.
“There you are!” she exclaims, eyes wide. “The bouquet toss is about to happen! Get over here!”
Before you can even blink, Jihyo grabs your wrist, pulling you away from the delicate warmth of Vernon’s embrace.
“Now!” she shouts.
You twist your back around to send him a helpless look, and all he gives you is an encouraging nod and the cutest, awkward little wave. You see the sincerity in his boyish smile, which makes your chest feel tight, as if all the air had been sucked from the room. It’s bad enough for your delicate heart.
But then, most wickedly, you catch the adorable, anxious eagerness in his crinkled, watery eyes—and, oh.
It really is all over for you, isn’t it?
You really won’t be able to love anyone else, will you?
There is no “getting over” Chwe Vernon.
The last threads of your resolve crumble as you follow Jihyo. You barely register the steps that lead you back into the grand reception hall. She has a vice grip on your wrist, tugging you along with such urgency that your shoes almost trip you on the way inside. The room hums with energy, and you can’t help but feel out of place in the frenzy of people excitedly whispering and glancing toward the front.
Everyone has gathered in a semi-circle, eager faces all pointed at the bride, who is holding the bouquet high above her head. Your pulse is speeding up by the second, but it’s not for the reason the other single women are likely nervous for. All you can think about is how you’ve been dragged here with nothing but the love you have for Vernon—a deep, endless kind that threatens to burst out of you in a wildly embarrassing public display of affection.
"You're gonna be fine," Jihyo says with a grin, though it’s a little too wide, too bright. You’re not sure if she’s referring to the Vernon fiasco or the bouquet toss, but you force a smile back at her anyway.
"Sure I am," you mumble under your breath.
She doesn’t hear you, or if she does, she doesn’t acknowledge that she heard it. She’s already turned her attention back to the bride, her arm brushing yours as she steps forward, positioning herself with the other women who are trying to catch the bouquet.
You stand awkwardly behind her at the edge of the crowd of single women, feet shuffling, heart still pounding from your conversation with Vernon.
Then, the live orchestral music shifts, and you feel a slight weight in your stomach, despite knowing the chances of the bouquet toss heading your way is slim to none. Still, it’s happening now, and you’re now on the single ladies floor, so there’s no backing out.
When you shift your back to brush away some of the hair obscuring your vision, you make eye contact with the very man who has been occupying your every thought this evening. Vernon had probably followed you and Jihyo as she pulled you away, since he’s now standing near you. And, oh, he’s close—only an arm’s distance or so away from you, standing at the front of the larger crowd.
The closer the moment of the throw gets, the harder it is to ignore his burning presence. He’s standing with a group of other men who are watching the floor full of gorgeous, single women, but his attention is entirely on you.
A subtle smile plays at the corners of his mouth, and the air between the two of you suddenly feels too thick. You have so much to say to him, and you don’t know how to get it all out in an eloquent way.
But your deliberation of what to say to him is cut short by the screams announcing that the bouquet has launched into the air.
You lift your chin up, squinting as the light of the chandeliers temporarily blinds you. By the time you blink away the flashing spots in your vision, you see the trajectory of the bouquet.
It arcs high above the crowd of waiting women, catching the light as it spins toward the back—toward you! If you don’t move, the bouquet will crash into your face.
Your arms instinctively reach for the flowers, reaching beyond what you’d thought was capable for yourself. But the second after your back stretches and feet jump to accommodate the move, your left heel completely gives out, sending your balance completely off-kilter.
Your arms flail uselessly as your ankle sharply twists, and the world tips sideways. The air rushes past your face, cold and sharp, and you brace yourself for impact—ready to collide utterly gracelessly with the hard floor. But before gravity can win, a pair of strong hands clamps around your waist, arresting your fall with a jarring yet steady pull.
The warmth of his touch spreads like wildfire through the thin fabric of your dress, grounding you in an instant. Vernon’s hands are firm, almost possessive, his grip both steady and urgent, like he’s afraid to let go.
Your chest presses against his, the faint thud of his heartbeat syncing with the chaotic rhythm of your own. His scent hits you next—a subtle mix of cedarwood and something distinctly him, crisp and comforting all at once. The tension in your body melts slightly as his arms secure you closer, your trembling legs finding balance in his hold.
“Hey,” he says shyly, his breath fanning across the shell of your ear. It sends a shiver down your spine, his words calming and electrifying in equal measure.
Your fingers instinctively clutch at the lapels of his jacket, the soft fabric brushing against your palms, anchoring you to reality. His thumb brushes lightly against your side, the touch barely noticeable yet searing, and the warmth from his body radiates into yours like a shield against the world.
Slowly, he adjusts his grip, one hand sliding to the small of your back, the other ghosting against your shoulder as he steadies you on your feet. The gentleness of his movements is stark against the adrenaline roaring in your ears.
When you finally look up, your breath catches. His face is so close—closer than you were when you fell in the bridal suite, closer than you’ve ever been before. Close enough to see the individual strands of his long lashes, to see the beautiful shimmer in his brown eyes. His eyes, wide and searching, lock onto yours, the emotions swirling in their dark depths rendering you speechless.
“I’ve got you,” Vernon says, his voice barely more than a whisper, but the words reverberate through you like an earthquake. “다친 데 없어? [You’re not hurt, are you?]”
You shake your head without much thought, the back of your neck and your ears burning up at how tender his touch is.
His fingers linger at your waist, the subtle pressure of his touch still burning against your skin. Even as he pulls away just enough to give you space, the absence of his warmth feels like a loss you’re not ready to accept. Without thinking, your hand darts out, fingertips brushing against the sleeve covering the charm bracelet you saw during the procession.
And that’s when you notice the bouquet—clutched awkwardly in your other hand, its delicate petals trembling just as much as you are. The flowers are slightly askew from the near disaster, and it all comes crashing down on you.
You wince at the ridiculous public scene you’ve made, but the smile that spreads across Vernon’s face is enough to make you forget about everything, humiliation be damned.
“Perfect,” he says softly, though you can hear the teasing edge in his voice. “You got it, princess.”
Princess, the joke he started calling you after Disney movie marathons in which you mocked the main characters always needing men to save them—you were definitely having a princess moment right now.
Vernon reaches to brush a strand of hair out of your face, and you feel your cheeks heat from the decidedly intimate nature of his touch.
And that’s when the room erupts.
Cheers fill the space as the guests begin clapping, laughing, and shouting in celebration. You see Chan whistle, while his newlywed wife shouts, “Finally!” The noise surges around you, but you can’t focus on anything except the way Vernon is looking at you.
You don’t know how on earth you could have misinterpreted it before—his wide eyes, slightly furrowed brows, half-open mouth. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows thickly, and it’s suddenly clear he’s just as affected as you are.
He’s looking at you like you’re the only one in the room, like you’re the only one he can see.
He’s looking at you in the same way you look at him.
Your breath catches in your throat as you stare past his shoulders to see the waiting eyes of the entire room. It’s as though they’ve known all along, most having been there to see the constant teasing, the not-so-secret glances exchanged, and the tension that’s been building for what feels like ages. Everyone knew before you two did, really.
The realization hits you all at once, and a nervous laugh escapes you. You’re caught in the act—the act of love—and there’s no denying it.
You exchange an uncertain look with Vernon, and something flickers in his eyes. It’s something deeper, like the three words you told him two days ago, only to be met with silence.
“Looks like it’s fate, huh?” you joke weakly, shaking the bouquet, trying to regain some control over the situation.
But Vernon doesn’t laugh. His expression just softens, and his voice is so, so deep when he speaks, it’s barely audible over the noise of the guests. “Y’know, you don’t have to joke your way out of this.”
You swallow hard, but before you can respond, he steps closer to you, his gaze unwavering, presence overwhelming. He reaches for your hand, gently pulling it into his, where it fits just so, and the warmth of his touch sends a wave of electricity through you.
“You know I’ve been looking for you, right?” Vernon continues, his voice slightly choked, making your chest tighten. “All day. All day, yesterday and today. I’m so sorry I didn’t say anything that day. It wasn’t because I didn’t care, I do,” he pauses, tightening his grasp on you. “It’s because I care too much, really.”
Your breath hitches. What is he saying? Your brain is practically numb from the excessive overthinking you’ve been doing for the past two days. He needs to just spell it out.
“What?”
Vernon exhales a short laugh, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. His hands, buried deep in his coat pockets, tense visibly as his shoulders lift slightly. “I feel like you don’t get it,” he says softly, the words teetering on the edge of vulnerability.
Your heart skips a beat. “Get what?”
He looks at you—really looks at you, staring intensely into your eyes, weighing whether or not to say the next part. His jaw tightens for a brief second, the muscle flexing as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He pulls a hand out of his pocket, raking it through his hair. His fingers linger at the nape of his neck before dropping back to his side, curling loosely as though they’re bracing for impact.
“That I’m here for you,” Vernon says, his voice barely above a whisper. He steps closer, not quite closing the distance but close enough that you can feel the addictive heat radiating off of him. “That I’ve always been here for you. And not…” He clenches and unclenches his fists. “Not just as a friend.”
Your breath hitches, and you feel his gaze flicker to your lips for the briefest moment before darting back to your eyes. His own are wide, filled with uncertainty but also a quiet kind of determination.
He shifts again, this time slipping his other hand out of his pocket and holding it out, palm up, like an offering. His fingers twitch slightly, betraying his nerves, and you notice a faint redness creeping up his neck, the telltale signs of his composure cracking.
“I didn’t say anything sooner because…” His voice trails as he bites the inside of his cheek, eyes dropping to the ground. When he looks up again, his expression is raw and completely unguarded. “Because I didn’t want to mess things up. But I can’t keep telling myself I don’t feel this way. I’m sorry I’m so late.”
Your chest tightens as his words settle over you, finally registering the weight of them.
“Please don’t get over me,” he says all at once, breathlessly. His eyes are shining, his gaze ever so hopeful.
His hand lingers in the space between you, waiting, hoping.
“Please?”
You stare at his outstretched hand in disbelief, limbs locked by pure shock. Is this real?
You can feel the effort it’s taking for him to stay still, his thumb twitching every few seconds like he’s fighting the urge to pull away and retreat.
When you don’t immediately respond, Vernon exhales shakily and starts to pull his hand back, his lips parting as if to apologize.
But before he can, your fingers move instinctively, brushing against his.
The contact is brief, but it’s enough to make him freeze. His eyes snap to yours, widening as if he doesn’t quite believe what just happened. Slowly, hesitantly, his fingers curl around yours, the warmth of his touch steadying you as much as it does him.
“I mean it. I don’t want you to move on, because I love you,” he says shakily. “I’m in love with you, and I don’t know if you still feel that way for me, but… I need you to know how I feel.”
In the depths of his eyes, you see the vulnerability he’s always tried to hide, the intensity of the emotions he’s been holding back for so long.
And it’s as if the whole room vanishes, leaving just the two of you standing there. The bouquet is forgotten, and so are the guests, their cheers having long faded into the background.
Your heart feels as though it’s about to explode from your chest, but the words spill out before you can think. “I love you, too.”
Vernon brightens, eyes lighting up his, his grin stretching from ear to ear, and you fold. He’s handsome and sweet and a little awkward and brilliant—and yours.
Before your next breath, he’s leaning forward, closing the distance between you.
His lips meet yours in a kiss so soft, so gentle, that you barely feel it at all. Impatient, you eagerly lift your chin up for more of him. Wrapping your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss—oh, is it something to live for. You never want to let go. He tastes like chocolate and feels like a dream come true—he’s your very own prince, if you’re the princess.
It feels like the world has finally clicked into place. You and Vernon are on the same page, and it’s indescribable, really.
When the roaring in your ears subsides, you hear some wolf whistles, and you suddenly realize where you are. You barely bring yourself to pull a few inches away from him, laughing softly, and he smiles, his eyes sparkling with so, so much warmth and love. It’s all for you. And you realize that here, in his arms, you feel full. You feel so warm, so cared for.
This, this is love.
Masterlist
Author's Note: he's a bit of a loser in this, but i think he made up for it
Disclaimer: nothing i write is representative of how svt acts off camera, take their names as stand-ins for oc's!!
[ author's scribbles ! ] this is for @gyuwrites my pookie <3 sorry its short but i hope itll bring u some joy after the tough exam session <3 inspired by the one and only's top song !
[ extras ! ] wc 314, @kstrucknet
jihoon is a righteous person. does his job precisely, not half-assed. never. helps the elderly and doesn't litter. pays his taxes and doesn't break the law. maybe he doesn't agree with some politicians and their views but it would never cross his mind to ever hurt them. he believes that politics and religions are topics that should be omitted. mostly.
but right now…
his grip on the steering wheel is so tight, it turned his knuckles chalk white.
he's looking at the road, jaw clenched. he turned the music in the aux down, despite it being his favorite song. but he wanted you to sleep better, uninterrupted.
you fell asleep in his car and he kept on driving. you had a rough day and you were just going to the countryside for a moment before he left in order to execute his duties as a proper civilian would. you were supposed to switch at the nearest station but your eyes just closed for a second and… here you were, snoring softly.
your head was resting against the window and jihoon did all in his might to avoid the holes so you could just sleep fine. but here he is, cursing the government for not using his taxes to fill the holes with more cement.
a small bump caused you to jerk, head banging gently against the window.
jihoon curses once again and glances over, checking if you're okay. considering the small smack of your lips, he assumes you are.
and despite him being tired and irritated, he keeps on driving and doing all he can to keep you asleep. a smile forms on his lips as he sees you shuffle and reach your hand out just a little closer to where his is resting on the gear stick. he lets it go and interlocks his fingers with yours, giving your hand a gentle squeeze.
Sent by @nerdycheol !!!! HONEY 🍯 BABY💗 CONGRATULATIONS ON 1K🤩 YOU TOTALLY COMPLETELY DESERVE IT 🤩
can I request
💞+fluffy[9]+ cheol
maybe like mc fractured her hand and she can't do anything with her hand so cheol helps her with stuff:))
✩ ! includes :: tooth-rotting fluff, seungcheol × fem!reader. established relationship, reader got fractured hand injury, hair-braiding, domesticity, soft!cheol being a total golden retriever partner. 666 words. notes :: raeee, thank you SO much for your sweet ask and your love on my milestone! this one’s for you 💗 i hope you like itttt !! unbeta’d
“I can do it myself,” you glared at the hair tie between your fingers, frustration bubbling beneath your calm voice as your fingers wouldn’t cooperate, the fractured hand making even the simplest tasks a trial. Big warm hands gently took the hair tie from you, bicep flexed slightly, “I know, but let me do it for now,” Seungcheol told you softly.
You would rather not admit how much relief washed over you at that simple gesture. You’d always been stubborn—prideful, even—but there was something so tender about how carefully he cradled your injured hand, how the buff warmth of him seemed to chase away your frustration. Perhaps it was the irony of the situation that made you smile: here you were, the one usually so independent and strong-willed, utterly dependent on Seungcheol’s hands to get through the day. Not that it mattered, heartbeats didn’t need to be explained; they just were.
You watched him as his fingers hovered uncertainly over your long hair, like a bumble trying to solve a puzzle without the right pieces. “Make of that what you will,” you teased lightly, knowing full well that his patience would win out over your sarcasm.
He gave a sardonic grin in response, “you think this is easy? This braid may as well be a maze,” he muttered, eyes narrowed in concentration. “As if that ever worked to intimidate me.”
For a while you just sat there letting him work. You could hear the occasional matter of fact commentary: okay, so left strand over the middle... no, wait, him frowning, fingers fumbling but trying again, maybe this hand is less useful than the other, but sure—I'll manage. It wasn’t perfect, sure. The braid was a little lopsided with its strands sticking out here and there, looking more like a cozy mess of bed hair than the neat plait you usually wore. But Seungcheol’s hands were gentle with his every motion, a promise: I’m here. I got you.
“Not bad, huh?” he said, glancing up at you with a sleepy grin, eyes twinkling.
The corners of your mouth tugged upwards as you bit your lip. “The braid isn’t perfect... a little like your sleepy grin,” your voice soft. “But I digress—love doesn’t have to be perfect, does it?”
“Nope,” he answered, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. “Love’s messy, clumsy, and patient.”
You leaned into him, the warmth of his buff body a comfort that went beyond words. You felt your heart flutter, and it wasn't because the braid was flawless, but because it was made by him, and that made all the difference.
The days passed in a nice rhythm. Cheol helped you with everything from pouring your tea without spilling a drop on the table, to cutting your meals when your hand couldn’t manage the knife. You watched him in amazement; the man who could lift weights like nothing had suddenly become an expert in tiny, delicate tasks.
-
As he massaged your wrist to ease the stiffness, you caught a sardonic smile on his lips. “Buff, sure, but when it comes to braids and bandages, I’m a rookie,” he admitted to you, fingers tracing slow circles on your skin.
You laughed softly at him. “Ironic, isn’t it? The same hands that could probably bend steel now struggling with a hair tie.”
“Coital tension aside, I think this might be the most domestic challenge I’ve faced,” he said with a chuckle. “But so be it. I’m not letting you do this alone.”
You squeezed his hand, grateful for every moment and every small victory in this odd, slow dance of recovery. There was a moment that was quiet and ordinary when Seungcheol, with his imperfect braid and sleepy grin, looked at you like you were the most precious thing in the world. You may as well have been the only person alive. And in that moment, your fractured hand didn’t matter at all. He just loved you, loved to help you, loved to be with you.
I recently saw the video where s.coups showed his surgery scars on his knee (😔) can you write some fluff about reader taking care of him after surgery/after seeing the video ? Thank you so much and also , people will always accuse you of such things because they are jealous . just don't care about their opinions and keep on doing what you like ❤️❤️❤️
Warnings: mentions of injury/surgery recovery, emotional vulnerability, mental health (idol burnout, anxiety), crying, heavy emotional scenes, romantic fluff
I don’t know why that video hit me the way it did.
I’ve seen him perform, smile, carry his members like a leader made of steel but watching that clip of Seungcheol pulling up his pant leg and showing the scars on his knee…
It broke something in me.
It wasn’t the scar itself. It was the silence in the room when he showed it. The way the members looked away. The way he kind of chuckled, like he was pretending it didn’t matter. Like it didn’t ache every time he danced. Like it wasn’t a reminder of pain stitched into him.
And I guess the world saw it and moved on, like it was nothing. But I couldn’t.
I couldn’t stop thinking about how much he must’ve endured. Quietly.
The first night he came home from the hospital, he tried to smile. He really did.
"Don't look at me like that," he said, voice soft, brushing a hand through my hair. “I’m okay, really.”
But I could see the pain hiding behind his eyes the way he winced when he moved, the way he avoided sitting down fully, how he flinched when the blanket brushed against his knee.
“You don’t have to pretend,” I whispered.
That’s when he broke. Not loudly. Not all at once. Just… slowly.
His shoulders slumped. His voice wavered.
“It’s stupid,” he mumbled. “I’m supposed to be strong. But all I feel is… small.”
My heart cracked open.
“You don’t have to be strong for me,” I said, kneeling beside the bed. “You just have to be real.”
He looked at me like no one had said that to him before. Not in that way.
The next few days, I took care of him.
I cooked simple meals. Helped him shower when the pain was too much. Cleaned around him. Reached for things he couldn’t. Changed his bandages when his hands trembled.
I remember the first time I saw the scar up close. My breath caught.
It wasn’t just a scar it was a story. Of every dance he forced himself through, every moment on stage where he smiled for the fans while he was screaming inside.
“You hate it?” he asked quietly, watching my face.
I shook my head. “I hate that you went through it alone.”
And that night, for the first time, he let me cry in front of him.
I didn’t sob loudly. I just sat on the floor with my head in his lap, arms around his waist, tears soaking into his shirt while he stroked my hair with his uninjured hand.
He didn’t tell me to stop crying.
He didn’t tell me to be strong either.
He just whispered, “I know. I know. I’m here.”
One night, around 3am, I woke up to him staring out the window.
The moonlight poured in like soft silver, casting shadows on his skin. His knee was slightly bent, elevated by a pillow. I saw his hand resting gently on the scar, as if he was still trying to accept it.
“Can’t sleep?” I asked.
He turned to me. There was something in his eyes like a boy who once thought the world would always see him as invincible. And now, all he could see were his cracks.
“I’m scared,” he said.
I climbed out of bed and sat beside him.
“Of what?”
“Being forgotten. Falling behind. Not being enough anymore.” He paused. “What if they stop loving me because I can’t dance the same? What if I’m not the leader they need?”
It hit me then, how heavy that weight on his chest was.
“I didn’t fall in love with your dance moves, Cheol,” I whispered. “I fell in love with how you give pieces of yourself to everyone, even when you’re empty. I fell in love with the way you love your members like family. The way you smile at fans like you see each of them. The way you hide your pain to protect others. I see you. Not your steps. You.”
He didn’t say anything.
He just leaned his head on my shoulder, and we stayed like that until dawn.
Some days are better than others. He laughs more now. He lets me trace his scar with my fingers like it’s a map, not a flaw.
“I think,” he said once, “I was scared of looking weak in front of you.”
I smiled, brushing his hair back. “And I think you’re more beautiful now than ever.”
He didn’t believe me at first. But over time, he started to see it. In the way I looked at him. In the way I loved him not despite his scars, but with them.
I don’t know why that video hit me the way it did.
I’ve seen him perform, smile, carry his members like a leader made of steel but watching that clip of Seungcheol pulling up his pant leg and showing the scars on his knee…
It broke something in me.
We made it a ritual: every night, before sleeping, I would kiss his knee gently. No words. Just a promise. That he is loved. That he is safe. That he doesn’t need to be strong every day.
And some nights, when he’s in too much pain to hide it, he falls asleep with his head in my lap, tears on his cheeks. And I hold him like he’s my whole world.
Because he is.
He’s not just the leader of thirteen boys. He’s not just a stage presence or a fan favorite.
He’s a man. A beautiful, soft-hearted man with scars, fears, dreams, and a soul that aches just like any of ours.
And I will love every inch of him.
Even the broken parts.
Especially the broken parts.
Because that’s where the light gets in.
The seasons changed quietly, and so did he.
Not all at once.
Some days, he woke up lighter. He’d joke about how “grandpa Cheol” needed his heating pad before breakfast. He let me put cute stickers on his crutches once hearts, tiny carrots, and a teddy bear holding a “you did well” sign. He rolled his eyes, but he didn’t take them off.
He started to trust softness.
And yet… even healing has its shadows.
It was the day of the company shoot.
His first time returning to a set since the surgery.
I was helping him put on his outfit. My hands grazed his thigh while adjusting the fabric, and I felt him stiffen.
“What’s wrong?” I asked gently.
He stared into the mirror. Then at his knee. Then at me.
“I don’t want people to look at me and only see damage,” he whispered.
I touched his cheek. “They won’t.”
He gave a dry smile. “You will. Eventually.”
I hated that voice in his head. The one the world gave him. The one that told him he was only worthy when perfect. Only loved when shining.
So I kissed his scar. Then again. And again.
“Every inch of you is worth loving,” I whispered. “Even this. Especially this. This is where you fought. This is proof you stayed.”
He turned his head away, and I saw it—his eyes glassy.
But he nodded.
And he let me hold his hand on the way out the door.
After the shoot, he came home quiet.
He barely touched his food. Barely looked up.
I sat beside him on the couch, waiting. Not pushing.
Eventually, he spoke.
“Someone asked if I regretted getting the surgery,” he said. “If I thought it changed me.”
He looked down at his hands.
“And I didn’t know what to say. Because… maybe it did. Maybe I’m not who I was.”
Silence.
Then, he looked at me.
“Would you still love me if I couldn’t dance at all?”
I could’ve cried.
“Cheol,” I said, “I’d love you even if you couldn’t walk. Even if you lost your voice. Even if the whole world turned its back on you.”
I cupped his face, and his tears started to fall before he could stop them.
“I’d love you through every version of you. Broken. Brave. Angry. Quiet. Soft. Still.”
That night, we didn’t sleep.
We stayed up listening to the rain tapping the windows, wrapped in each other like the world didn’t exist beyond our skin.
He let me trace every scar physical or not. He told me about the nights in the hospital where he cried alone. About the fear of waking up to a future he couldn’t recognize. About the guilt of feeling like a burden to his team.
And I told him this:
“You were never a burden. You were always the heart.”
He buried his face in my neck, and I held him until his breathing slowed.
We built a new rhythm after that.
Morning coffees with jokes about who’s the better barista. Physical therapy sessions where I cheered him on like he was running a marathon. Lazy Sundays on the floor, lying in the sun, legs tangled, soft music playing.
We weren’t perfect. But we were present.
He danced again eventually.
Softer. But he danced.
And when he stumbled, I didn’t catch him to save him I caught him to remind him that falling didn’t mean failure.
One evening, while folding laundry, he suddenly asked me:
“Do you still think I’m beautiful?”
I turned to him.
He was standing by the balcony, light pouring through the sheer curtains. His scar caught the light not hidden, not ashamed. Just there. Part of him.
I walked over, rested my head against his chest.
“You’ve never looked more like the man I love.”
He exhaled shakily. “Thank you… for staying. For seeing me.”
I smiled into his shirt.
“I didn’t stay despite your scars. I stayed because of them.”
He kissed the top of my head and whispered, “Then I guess I’m not so afraid anymore.”
He still gets quiet sometimes.
Still flinches when the pain creeps in.
Still stares at the scar like it speaks louder than his voice ever could.
But now, he doesn’t face it alone.
Now, when the silence comes, I take his hand and kiss the space where it hurts.
And he lets me.
Because love isn’t about fixing.
It’s about holding.
It’s about saying: “Even if the world only sees your scars… I’ll always see your soul.”
He hadn’t smiled in days. Not really.
That kind of smile that starts in the chest. That doesn’t feel forced. That doesn’t feel like he owes it to his fans, his team, his world.
He had been working again, pushing too hard again. That permanent ache in his knee had returned, like a whisper saying, “Don’t forget, you’re not whole.”
But he was whole.
He was mine.
And I wanted to remind him of that.
So one evening, I sat next to him on the couch, took his hand in both of mine, and said:
“Cheol… come away with me.”
His eyebrows lifted, tired. “Come away where?”
“Somewhere warm. Somewhere with blue water. Somewhere that doesn’t ask anything of you. Just… the sun, the waves, and me.”
He hesitated. “I can’t. There’s so much to-”
“You can.” I squeezed his hand. “And you should. You’ve taken care of everyone else. Let me take care of you now.”
He looked at me like I’d just told him the sky could fall and we’d be safe anyway.
And the next morning, we were on a plane to Punta Cana, República Dominicana.
The first day, he barely spoke.
He just laid in the hammock on the little terrace of our beach villa, one arm draped over his eyes, the other resting on his stomach.
I brought him chilled coconut water. Pressed a kiss to his shoulder. Sat beside him with a book I never actually opened.
He didn’t have to talk.
I just wanted him to feel peace. To let the ocean undo the knots in his chest.
That night, we watched the sunset in silence.
As the sky turned orange and soft purples, I glanced at him. His lips were parted, eyes slightly wet.
“It doesn’t hurt right now,” he whispered.
I didn’t ask what “it” meant.
Pain. Pressure. The weight he carried every day.
I simply leaned into him and said, “That’s all I wanted for you.”
We spent our mornings in the ocean. I would swim ahead and turn back just to see him laugh that soft, open kind of laugh, the one I’d fallen in love with.
He’d splash me. Call me a little menace. Let the waves carry him like a child again.
In the afternoons, we’d find shade and drink fresh juice while I massaged his knee with the softest touch I could manage.
“I’m scared it’ll always be like this,” he said one day, his voice barely a whisper. “That I’ll never be… free in my own body again.”
“You’re not alone in it,” I replied, still rubbing gentle circles. “And freedom doesn’t mean going back. It means choosing how to move forward.”
He nodded slowly, eyes fluttering shut.
One evening, we danced barefoot on the beach.
There was no music just the sound of waves, the breeze rustling through palm leaves, and his low hum against my ear.
He moved cautiously. He held me tighter than usual.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he chuckled.
“You’re doing more than that,” I smiled up at him. “You’re living.”
He kissed me. Not like the urgent kisses from before. This one was slow, warm, like the sea wrapping the shore. Like gratitude.
On our last night, we lay on a blanket under the stars.
He had his arm around me, and the scar on his knee caught the moonlight. This time, he didn’t hide it.
“Promise me something?” he asked.
“Anything.”
“If I forget what this felt like… remind me.”
I kissed his collarbone. “Every time.”
When we got home, things didn’t magically fix themselves.
His schedule was still demanding. His body still had limits.
But now, there was something new in him.
A memory.
A secret smile that said: I’ve touched joy. I’ve tasted quiet. I’ve been loved in the places I was most broken.
Sometimes he’ll pull me into the kitchen while I’m cooking, turn on a soft song, and sway with me.
Sometimes he’ll whisper, “Let’s run away again soon.”
And I’ll answer, “Just say when.”
Because the world can wait.
But healing healing can’t.
And love… love doesn’t ask for perfection.
It just asks you to stay.
I hadn’t slept the night before.
The show was in a few hours, but my body wouldn’t let me rest. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him not dancing, not smiling but in pain, lying on the hospital bed, clutching his knee, saying “I’m scared I’ll never come back.”
And yet here we were.
Hours away.
He was coming back.
I sat quietly backstage, hidden behind the tech monitors and wires, while the rest of the staff bustled around. A pass hung loosely from my neck, but it wasn’t what gave me access it was him. He was my access. My home.
I could hear the crowd swelling beyond the curtains. Their voices full of love, hope, desperation. They’d missed him. They’d waited.
And so had I.
When the lights dimmed and the VCR started playing, I pressed a hand to my chest.
Every beat of the intro, I imagined him standing just beyond the wings. Breathing in. Out. In. Out.
“Cheol,” I whispered under my breath. “You’ve got this.”
And then he walked out.
He wasn’t sprinting. He wasn’t jumping. But he was there.
Walking confidently.
Smiling with that same dimpled grin.
His eyes searching the crowd, his hand on his heart.
The crowd screamed like they’d seen a miracle.
Because maybe they had.
He started rapping his verse smooth, controlled, powerful. There was a pause right before his footwork came in. A small bit of choreo, something light not too heavy on the knee.
He did it.
Not perfect. A little slower than the rest.
But his version. His choice. His power.
And that’s when my eyes filled.
I didn’t cry because he was on stage.
I cried because I knew everything it took to get there.
I knew the nights he sat on the bathroom floor, icing his leg, refusing to let me see how badly it hurt.
I knew the physical therapy sessions where he pushed himself too hard, then apologized for worrying me.
I knew the breakdown he had in the car one night, whispering, “What if they’ve all moved on without me?”
And yet, here they were screaming louder than ever.
Calling his name like it was a prayer.
“CHOI SEUNGCHEOL!”
I bit my lip and smiled through the tears.
You did it, baby.
When the lights went down for the encore, he disappeared from the main stage. I expected him to return with the others. He didn’t.
Instead, someone tapped my shoulder.
It was a staff member. “He’s asking for you.”
I blinked fast. “Now?”
She smiled. “Now.”
I found him alone in the greenroom, slumped on the couch, his chest still heaving from adrenaline and emotion.
His hair was damp with sweat.
His knee was wrapped tight.
His eyes were red.
He looked up at me.
And he broke.
He stood and pulled me into him like he’d been holding the whole world on his shoulders and finally let it fall.
“I was so scared,” he whispered into my neck. “I thought I wouldn’t make it. I thought I’d disappoint them. I thought-”
“You didn’t,” I choked out, gripping him tighter. “You didn’t disappoint anyone.”
He nodded, trembling. “But I kept thinking of you. Of that beach. Of your voice saying you’re not alone in it. That’s what got me through.”
I kissed his temple, tears spilling freely now.
“You were never alone, Cheol. Never.”
Later that night, the group went out to celebrate.
He didn’t stay long.
We ended up on the rooftop of our apartment building just the two of us, wrapped in one blanket, the city lights flickering like fireflies.
“I want to keep going,” he said softly.
“You will.”
“I want to do it for me. Not for pressure. Not for expectation. Just because I love it.”
I nodded, wiping his cheek. “That’s how I love you too.”
And as he laid his head in my lap and looked up at the stars, I realized:
The bravest thing isn’t getting back on stage.
It’s letting someone see you fall apart, and still choosing to rise again.
And he did.
And I will always be watching
Loving him, quietly. Loudly. Always.
I thought he was tired.
The tour had just wrapped, and I was ready to spend the next few days in sweats, ordering takeout, and massaging his knee every few hours while we watched movies.
But Seungcheol had other plans.
“Just trust me,” he said, grinning behind the wheel, his hand resting on my thigh. “Close your eyes.”
“Are you kidnapping me?”
“No,” he chuckled. “I’d never kidnap you. I’d ask you nicely and bribe you with iced coffee and forehead kisses.”
I sighed, already smiling. “You’re lucky I love you.”
“I know.”
When we stopped, I opened my eyes and gasped.
He had set up a full picnic under a tall tree in a quiet park near the Han River.
Blankets, cushions, lanterns, fairy lights strung through the branches above us.
But that wasn’t what got me.
What got me was the scrapbook that sat on top of the basket.
And the small wooden box beside it carved with our initials.
And a little folded card that read: “For every quiet day you stayed. For every time you held me when I couldn't stand. Let me give a piece of me back to you.”
I looked at him.
He smiled, a little nervously this time. “You always say I’m strong… but you’re the strongest person I know.”
He opened the scrapbook first.
Each page was hand-decorated with tiny drawings and messy glue stains.
Photos of us silly ones, blurry ones, ones I didn’t even know existed.
Captions like:
“She made me eat ramen three nights in a row but I still love her.”
“Taken 2 minutes before she cried watching a dog ad.”
“I don’t deserve her, but I’m never letting her go.”
Every now and then, a dried flower was taped in. Or a movie ticket. A Polaroid. A receipt.
“This is your love language, isn’t it?” I whispered, running my fingers over a photo of us at the beach.
He nodded. “It’s not loud. But it’s real.”
Then he opened the wooden box.
Inside: a pair of handmade pearl bracelets.
Simple. Elegant.
One for him. One for me.
Each with a tiny silver heart charm in the middle.
“I watched a dozen videos trying to learn how to tie them,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I messed up like seven times.”
I couldn’t stop smiling. “They’re perfect.”
“So are you,” he whispered.
Then came the final surprise.
He pulled out a small portable projector and turned it on against a white sheet strung between two tree trunks.
“A film?” I blinked.
He bit his lip. “something like that, yeah”
The screen lit up and I saw me.
Laughing. Dancing. Sleeping with my mouth slightly open. Painting. Walking away from the camera barefoot in the sand.
Clips from his phone. His camera.
From months ago. From days ago. From nights I didn’t even know he was watching.
His voice, soft over the video:
"I never say enough. So I made this. To say thank you. For not giving up on me when I couldn’t run. For seeing me when I tried to hide. For holding my heart gently, always."
He paused, his voice breaking.
"I love you. Not for what you do for me. But for who you are, when the world isn’t looking."
By the time it ended, I was crying. Like really crying.
The kind that shakes in your chest and leaves your throat raw.
He turned to me, suddenly worried. “Too much?”
I launched into his arms, wrapping myself around him like the world might disappear if I didn’t.
“It’s everything, Cheol. It’s everything.”
That night, as we lay under the stars, his head on my stomach and my fingers in his hair, he whispered something so soft I almost missed it.
“I used to think performing was the best feeling in the world… But loving you like this? It beats every stage.”
And I whispered back, tears still quietly staining my cheeks:
“I’d sit in the crowd forever just to watch you smile.”
after 3 weeks, we were finally back in Korea.
The tour was over. The surprise picnic had ruined me emotionally.
And now… now Seungcheol was emotionally ruining himself trying to cook “breakfast for his baby.”
Keyword: trying.
“Why is the kitchen full of smoke?!”
I sprinted out of the bathroom, towel still on my head.
“I don’t know!! The pancakes attacked first!” he yelled from behind a spatula, flapping it like a fan.
There were exactly four smoke alarms going off.
He had flour on his cheek, egg in his hair, and somehow… somehow…
he had managed to set the banana milk carton on fire.
“How does banana milk catch fire?!”
“I DON’T KNOW, BABE, I WAS JUST TRYING TO MAKE IT CUTE!”
We ended up eating instant noodles and crying laughing while watching our old videos.
“I forgot I used to do that jump split move,” he groaned, rubbing his knee.
“You also used to wear those little suspenders. Iconic.”
He gave me the deadest stare. “Don’t bring that era up again. Please. I had trauma.”
“I’ll bring it up at our wedding.”
“What-”
“Nothing!” I sipped my soup innocently.
Later that day, we went for a walk, and he INSISTED on wearing flip flops. “Easy and breezy,” he said. “I’m a summer boyfriend.”
But karma came fast.
One of the straps snapped mid-step, and he dramatically collapsed like he had been shot in a K-drama.
“My life is over. Just go on without me.”
“You’re sitting on a squirrel path.”
“Let the forest creatures claim me.”
I had to drag him back home with one flip flop and one sock, while people stared and he waved like royalty.
“I am Choi Seungcheol, former K-pop legend, current nature spirit. I have ascended.”
That night, I caught him watching the video he made of me again.
“You’re obsessed with me,” I teased, flopping beside him.
“I really am,” he said, totally serious.
Then he showed me a picture of me sneezing and said: “Even like this, you’re the most beautiful human alive.”
I tried to get revenge.
The next morning, I woke up first, tied my hair back, put on the apron, and declared:
“I’M making breakfast for my baby today!”
He looked nervous. “Have you ever cooked an egg in your life?”
“Emotionally, yes.”
“…No.”
Long story short:
I burned the toast.
Forgot the stove was on.
Set off two smoke alarms.
He walked into the kitchen wearing a cape made out of a towel and said:
“Fear not, my love, for your sick boyfriend-”
“Boyfriend.”
“for your BOYFRIEND will save this nation.”
And then he made pancakes from a box mix and acted like it was a Michelin-level meal.
Later, while cuddling on the couch with my head on his lap, he poked my cheek and whispered:
“You know what’s the best part of being with you?”
“Hm?”
“I get to be silly and serious. Strong and soft. I get to burn toast and still be your man.”
I looked up at him and grinned.
“You’ll always be my man. Even with one flip flop.”
imagine you lay in bed with wonwoo, whos just stuffed you full of his cum, all cuddled up together, as he tells you that you took him so well earlier.
"i'm so proud of you darling. you always know how to get me going."
he runs his free hand down your bare back slowly, whispering the softest praises and affirmations into your ear, and how much he loves you.
he brushes your hair off your forehead ever so slightly, and kisses the top of your head, unbeknownst to you, as you drift to sleep ever so peacefully in your loving boyfriend’s embrace.
