It's been a while since i last posted here and i just wanted to say that i haven't had access to tumblr for a good 2 months or so (SORRY)
made by me
fluff
sorry for making it so short! (i'm not that good at au's sorryyyyy)
english is not my first language so I apologize for any spelling/grammar mistakes!
Thank you for the request <3
It's early in the morning when your alarm finally goes off.
With a tired groan you slowly open your eyes, only to be met by Hoshi’s sleeping face just a few inches away from yours, his lips slightly parted as he breathes softly.
It doesn’t take long until you realize you’re completely trapped in his embrace.
You carefully try to wriggle your way out of his arms, hoping to not wake him up. Unfortunately the moment you move, his grip tightens around your waist.
“Hoshi..” you whisper “I need to get ready for work”
Instead of answering he pulls you closer and buries his face into the crook of your neck.
“Stay with me..” He mumbles sleepily.
You almost laugh in disbelief. You’ve never seen him this clingy before.
“My boss is going to be fuming if I'm late again,” you mumble, gently attempting to push his arms away.
At the mention of your boss, Hoshi finally loosens his grip
“Okay then” he groans, sounding a bit disappointed
You slip out of your bed and head into the bathroom to get ready, as you brush your teeth you hear the faint rustling of sheets coming from the bedroom.
You rinse your mouth and head out of the bedroom, expecting to find hoshi half-asleep in bed.
But the bedroom is empty.
“Hoshi?” You call out, glancing around before hearing quiet footsteps behind you.
You turn to see him standing in the doorway, hair messy and eyes barely open.
“Where did you go?” you ask
“Looking for you” he mumbles, walking over and wrapping his arms around you waist
“I was only in the bathroom” you chuckle at his clingyness
“You were gone for too long” he whines, nuzzling into your hair
“i still need to get ready for work” you hum as he rests his chin on the top of your head
“You should call in sick” he commented casually
“But i’m not sick” you replied
“You could pretend” he pouted, his arms around your waist traveling down to your hips
“Just stay home today…please?” he begged
“What are we supposed to do all day?” you curiously asked
“Sleep, and cuddle” you exhale but before you respond he pulls you towards the bed
“Hoshi…” you groan
“Just five minutes..” he smirks, already wrapping himself around you, you sigh but eventually give in, eventually settling into his embrace. His head rests against your chest as you run your fingers through his messy hair
“you’re so clingy in the mornings”
He hums sleepily and pulls you closer “Only with you”
you smile and press a soft kiss to the top of his head.
synopsis: Where you never realized your bodyguard was watching you.
Being the senator's daughter means having eyes on you at all times, and because of that, you were used to being watched. There were cameras, reporters chasing after you, and security guards behind you like shadows. It was nothing now.
You thought he was just another bodyguard hired to control you.
Seungcheol knew better.
pairing: bodyguard!Seungcheol x spoiled heiress!reader
warnings: a bit of stalking; fem reader, dark themes; use of alcohol; obsession; dacryphilia (that was a thing for me back then); begging; prey/hunter kink; overstimulation; oral (f receiving); pet names; tw's may change. MDNI
The hallway was so dark that you could barely see your own hands in front of your face. You couldn't turn on your phone's flashlight either. That would give away your location, and he would easily find you.
You’re not that dumb, come on.
You're a daddy's girl, used to the easiest life. Everything you may want was within reach at the snap of your fingers. You would’ve never dreamt of being chased after inside your own house – that wasn't even a possible scenario in your mind.
Poor naive girl.
You used to think of him as a stranger. Just another employee of your father, another bodyguard hired to make your life unhappy and miserable.
You barely knew him, cut that out. You didn't know him at all, not even his name.
He was a stranger.
.
.
.
To you.
Seungcheol knew you very well.
He had every detail of her extensive routine memorized. Seungcheol knew your college schedule by heart, and the Pilates days, and the nights of the debate club.
Nothing escaped his sharp gaze.
Seungcheol knew who all your friends were. He had a list of all your ex-lovers and the severity of each breakup as well. He knew who you hung out with, who you spoke to, and who you hated. If there was one thing Seungcheol knew how to do, it was his job.
He was the best bodyguard in the country.
That's why he was hired, and also why he was able to keep his job for so long – and believe it, you had tried to get him fired at all costs.
This is the main reason why you’re in this current situation.
When you were invited to a club opening by your group of equally spoiled friends, Seungcheol knew that would be the end of him.
There’s a limit of what a “patient” man can endure.
A/N: so I had this Johnny fic where he was a stalker, and he kinda hunted the yn, but the thing is, I hated that fic. I wrote that when I was trying to do explicit scenes (which I still am), but that went BAD. I was trying some wild stuff and dark themes – and I had just read haunting adeline, so I thought,
"why not try to write something like this too?"
...what a fucking bad decision. I definitely shouldn't have, because that shit was awful.
So here I am again, doing the right thing and rewriting that fic in a better way – with Scoups now, because Viola is working on something special with my man.
˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ THE WORLD'S GREEDIEST BABY 🧸ྀི — mingyu fulfilling your pregnancy cravings <3 ( word count 503 )
[ extras ] pregnancy obvi, food, established relationship
ੈ✩‧₊˚ note ! i havent written for svt in ages, huh... i was inspired by @/madebymiri on insta and tt, cuz her pregnancy cravings were CRAZY i love it
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ @fantasia-films , @k-records ; div by @bbyg4rlhelps
mingyu loved cooking and it was a well known fact that both you and him were huge foodies.
he had no objections whenever he had to cook something his friends or family asked him to. pasta, steaks, crazy salads… though questionable, he’d always make it.
“gyu…” your soft voice sounded like a lullaby, though mingyu already knew what you wanted to ask. “i’m hungry…”
he contemplated pretending to be asleep for a split second. pros: he got to sleep more. cons: unhappy wife, disappointed wife, hungry wife, frustrated wife.
“five more… minutes” mingyu slurred sleepily, throwing his arm over his eyes. your giggle made him smile, the sound itself disregarding the importance of sleep at the moment.
he felt you shift to a sitting position, a soft thud of feet landing on the floor.
“sorry for waking you up” you sighed. mingyu stood up and groaned in a lazy stretch, turning the light on. you both squinted your eyes to get familiar with the sudden illumination.
“don’t worry about it, baby” he hummed. you rested your hand on your bulbous belly, the cause and the reason of all of this.
mingyu smiled softly, reaching his hand out.
“here, let me help you stand up” your husband offered and you agreed, as even standing up while being seven months pregnant started to cause you trouble.
you went to the kitchen, mingyu helping you sit on the bar stool in front of the kitchen island.
“so? what’s on the menu?” he asked, scratching his ribs. you pretended to think, making a silly face. he smiled subconsciously; pregnancy really made you glow.
“okay, so hear him–“
“her” mingyu corrected you. “only a girl can have such crazy ideas–“
“shush. okay, so: a sandwich. preferably using the bread you made. then, salted butter. on top of that, biscoff spread” you listed and mingyu started taking out the ingredients. nothing alarming yet. “then, some miso paste for the, you know, umami. and, the best part…”
“uh-uh” he nodded, brows already furrowed.
“bacon. crispy bacon. topped with a little maple syrup” you hummed happily, rubbing your one hungry beast of a child.
mingyu sent you an unfazed look.
“what?” you chuckled. “not my idea!”
“okay, okay…” he laughed and rubbed his eyes. then, he started taking out ingredients. “you can go back to sleep, you know. you need it.”
“no… i feel guilty that i woke you up…”you hummed and rested your head on your arms, on the countertop.
“do you think she’ll be such a michelin star growing up? making us five course breakfasts?” mingyu joked.
“star…” you repeated slowly “i like that nickname”
“it’s cute” mingyu agreed.
focusing on cooking, he started rambling about his work. when he finally turned around with the finished product, he realized you fell asleep. soft snores escaping your lips, hair scattered on the marble countertop.
mingyu just smiled and decided to let you sleep for a few more seconds. he didn’t want his precious star to eat a cold sandwich.
SYNOPSIS ✧˖° for several generations, there’s been bad blood between two competing families running ancestral firms in the shipbuilding business. when an accident happens during a joint venture, the families are forced to work together to cover it up, and what better way to do so than with an unexpected marriage?
TAGS ✧˖° arranged marriage/fake dating, explicit sexual content, dilf!mingyu, age gap (20s + 40s), slight size kink, this was supposed to be more porn than plot but i got carried away and made them lovers™ instead, angst, mc has shitty parents which is a Big Thing
♫ ✧˖° private by the nbhd ✧ freak by lana del rey ✧ kiss it better by rihanna ✧ big feelings by ariana grande
NOTE ✧˖° so i finally got around to watching akotsk recently and baelor targaryen now lives in my head day and night. hot intelligent caring soft spoken older man who gets things done…. needthat 😁😁 which is how his character kinda became the inspiration for gyu in this fic. anyway ramble over enjoy folks
YOU ARE YOUR FATHER’S DAUGHTER. you’ve heard it plenty of times throughout your life.
stand-offish, detached, decorum-obsessed. you and your older brother are carbon copies of the man who raised you, his norms and values remaining imprinted in your heads. not that your mother’s any different.
what you clearly care about most in life is two things: money and status.
luckily, you were born into a prominent, wealthy family that allowed you to have both of those things. your grandparents founded a shipbuilding company that’s grown to be one of the largest in the world, and to this day, the company is still in your family’s hands.
your father, as the ceo, sits at the helm of the company. your mother is a private equity investor, a terrifyingly good one. your brother, wonwoo, is about five years older than you and set to take over your dad’s position as soon as he retires.
being the second-born means ranking lower in the pecking order. not that you really mind — you work hard, you deliver good results, and you already know a stellar position in the company is waiting for you as soon as wonwoo becomes the man in charge.
your family is known to drive business more ruthlessly than others. a stark contrast to the family business that’s posed the biggest threat to yours for multiple generations now.
kim mingyu leads his family’s company in a way you never would. more personal relationships with their staff, dressed relatively casually for a ceo, radiating nothing but warmth and approachability.
or so you’ve been told, anyway.
your father believes it’s the main reason they’ll never make as much money as you, even if most people in the same business has always spoken rather highly of them. where the competition between your two companies came from or what led up to it, you don’t know, but it was already there when your grandparents were still running things. something personal, clearly.
and, as it turns out, old habits really do die hard. it’s the main reason you’ve been hostile to each other for so long.
though, in all fairness, it’s not nearly as bad as it used to be. most of your current rivalry has been reduced to mere dirty glances, low blows, bad mouthing one another and trying to take each other’s clients. not very professional, no, but a necessary evil sometimes.
one of the clients of theirs you tried to poach from them — a man of solid status, who both your families tried your hardest to impress — decided he simply couldn’t choose which of the two companies he wanted to get into business with. so to your worst nightmare, he put out the idea for a joint venture. since the profit and other benefits from the proposal were too good to turn down, both kim mingyu and your father agreed to it.
in hindsight, however, you kind of wish you hadn’t.
four months into your partnership, an accident occurred on one of the wharfs. a result of gross negligence that could be blamed on either of your families, and as it turns out, you might not be the only ones aware of it.
which brings you to your current situation — an emergency meeting between the only people allowed to hear of it.
“we have footage of a person taking evidence. for all we know, it could be an employee. it’s too delicate to see the light of day,” your father says.
wonwoo steals a look at you from under his thick-rimmed glasses before turning back to the paperwork in front of him.
mingyu sighs, one hand supporting his chin, that silver ring he always wears on his pinky glistening in the sunlight that’s shining through the windows. “yes, and we’re gathered here because you said you had an idea how to handle it.”
“we talked with our lawyers, who ended up advising the old-fashioned approach,” wonwoo begins, twirling the navy ballpen sitting between his thumb and index finger. “people love a new subject to talk about, right? simple gossip easily becomes the talk of the town. like a relationship, for example.”
mingyu’s sister, coo of their company, raises a brow. “between who?”
“someone from your family, with someone from ours.”
“i’d agree, except most of us are spoken for,” she adds, gesturing to the ring on her finger.
it’s a fair point. your parents are married, your brother engaged, mingyu’s sister is also married. which, technically, leaves him, and—
he appears genuinely confused for a moment — until his eyes meet yours.
for someone with such a presence, you know exactly how to draw attention to yourself at the right moment without saying a word. you shoot him a catlike smile, waiting for him to figure it out, full-on smirking once the realization visibly dawns on his face.
“are you implying what i think you’re implying?” mingyu asks, his mouth running dry.
“unless you’ve got some secret younger brother walking around somewhere, yes, it’s gonna be you and me.”
he’s baffled that you’re being so casual about it. “and you’re happy with this?”
a question you don’t hear quite often. still, you pay it little mind.
“well, it was my idea,” you cross your arms, immediately speaking up again once you catch those raised brows of his. “don’t flatter yourself. you’re the last man i’d willingly take to be my husband under normal circumstances.”
mingyu shakes his head. “this is deranged.”
“look, think of the damage it would do to both our reputations if the press got a hold of it,” wonwoo cuts in, folding his hands together. “it wouldn’t be permanent. how about a three-year contract? you can claim to be a private couple, you just gotta show your faces together every once in a while to keep up appearances. once three years have passed, file for divorce. it’d probably fly by.”
the idea isn’t unheard of, he’s aware of that. plenty of pr firms are very much in favor of fake relationships, even fake marriages. it’s one of the things he dislikes about that circle of society his job has forcibly put him in.
and now that he’s thinking about it, the press would have a fucking field trip with this relationship. he’s gotten media attention for his good looks before, and he knows you’re quite popular as well, having acquired a bit of a socialite status — in the eyes of any pr agency, you’d be a perfect match.
still, mingyu stares at you, his lips parted, brows knitted in something awfully close to horror, choosing to voice his thoughts; the elephant in the room.
“and how old are you, again?” he hears himself ask, the question almost rhetorical. he could’ve sworn you were, what, twenty-five? twenty-four?
“twenty-three,” you answer curtly, at which his eyes widen.
christ. as if this couldn’t possibly get any worse.
you’re just so… young. too young. an adult, obviously, but still. he’s got no business being married to some girl your age at forty-one. the press will undoubtedly agree. hell, they’ll make a full-blown scandal out of it.
he’s pulled out of his thoughts once more when he hears that low, silky voice of yours. “if it’s any consolation, i’ll be twenty-four by the time we get married.”
finding your eyes again, he takes a good look at you.
god, look at you, for christ’s sake. you might as well be a porcelain doll — flawless makeup, dangly pearl earrings, bouncy princess-like curls, clothes tailored perfectly to your body.
sure, he thinks you’re a pretty girl. he’s not blind. but your beauty hides a design; it’s a shame the rest of the world can’t see you for who you really are. the same goes for the rest of your picture-perfect family.
“if i were to agree to something like this,” he hesitantly begins, “we’d have to make it believable. a public outing every two months wouldn’t cut it. we’d have to commit to it, live together, even do public displays of affection—”
again, he meets your gaze, this time to gauge your reaction. you’re as unimpressed as ever, shrugging your shoulders before taking a sip of your water. does he really think you didn’t come up with that already?
“we have an estate just on the city border. secluded, big enough to lead your own lives,” your father suggests. “people would be none the wiser.”
a mere glimpse of his sister’s expression is enough for him to know she doesn’t think it’s a bad idea, and with that in mind, he bites his lower lip, putting the company’s best interests above his own.
“i’ll consider it. send over the paperwork. you’ll have my answer by friday.”
it’s a good enough answer for now. you all shake hands, and when your father and brother exit the conference room, mingyu gestures for his sister to escort them to the entrance, making sure you stay behind.
you’re still seated several spots away from him, symbolizing how big the distance is between you. today marks, what, the second time you’ve talked to him? the third? you’re practically strangers to one another. all you’ve ever done is watch each other from the sidelines.
emphasizing the extent of this possible future agreement again, he says, “you know that a couple of pictures for the press wouldn’t cut it. we’d have to make it look real.”
your voice sounds less cutting this time. “i’m a great actress, y’know.”
a scoff leaves his mouth. “i don’t doubt it.”
“so what’s on your mind?” you ask, fingers itching with the growing urge to crack him open. maybe it’s the fact that he’s not scared to speak his mind, not afraid of a little honesty — a quality hard to find in the people around you these days.
“we’d be exclusive for three years. no under-the-radar affairs, they always get out.”
all you do is shrug.
he pushes his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “and your dad’s completely fine with you living in the same house as a man nearly twice your age?”
his choice of words causes you to tilt your head. “well, he wasn’t a huge fan of the idea. but it’s the company above everything else, at the end of the day. besides,” you push a little, “i’m sure you’ll behave like a perfect gentleman, won’t you?”
there’s a soundless chuckle rolling past his lips. he answers your rhetorical question with a simple nod of his head.
not like you expected a different answer from him anyway.
you get up from the leather chair with an extended hand. his dark eyes swiftly look you up and down now that he’s got you standing before him in all your glory.
he rises from his seat, drawing your attention to his striking height and broad shoulders. when he shakes your hand, both of you maintaining eye contact a little longer than necessary, he wonders what the hell that prominent feeling sitting deep in his gut is — or more importantly, why you’re making him feel it.
FOR ALL HIS FLAWS, there is something about mingyu that intrigues the fuck out of you.
he has a masculine presence that is hard to come by in men, you find. level-headed, sharp, intelligent, confident. his voice, calm and soothing, commands the attention of any room he’s in. it’s almost bizarre to see how easily people flock to his demeanor. despite all the nasty stories your family has told you about your husband, you quickly begin to understand why he’s so respected by everyone around him.
kim mingyu is a man who could crack the world like an oyster if he wanted.
and, for what it’s worth, he makes good on his promise to be a gentleman to you. he’s just as chivalrous behind closed doors, something you didn’t expect but welcome wholeheartedly.
the first time you’re reported to be dating following a meticulously planned public outing together, it gathers a wide range of mixed reactions from the general public; revulsion, disapproval, curiosity. either way, it means your mission of steering people’s attention toward the union is working.
rather well, actually.
obviously, you’re not surprised by the negativity. an age difference of nearly two decades was bound to be considered controversial.
but mingyu is an unexpectedly strong actor. it’s mostly because of him that a massive group of people that was previously negative about your relationship turn around.
he knows exactly how to present himself as a man in love, managing to keep that mysterious allure to your dynamic while making everyone believe you make him the happiest man on earth.
the first turning point comes when he tells some journalist at an event that he’s itching to go home to you, his fiancée. based on the article that came out the next day, he couldn’t stop gushing about you.
he sways even more people in the right direction by talking about you and complimenting you to some reporters and papparazzi bugging him in the city. the videos are uploaded and widely shared on social media within mere hours, leading to his handsome, chiseled face circulating on every platform.
in hindsight, he might’ve been the perfect choice for this arrangement, given him being your polar opposite, as people keep pointing out.
as a result, everyone wants to know everything; how you met, what you love about him and he loves about you, how long you’d been going out before he put that huge rock on your finger, what the wedding plans are. the combination of your reputation and status with his struck some kind of gold.
by the time you finally get married, the vast majority of the public has turned positive about your relationship.
and so, as expected, your wedding makes it to the front page of every single newspaper and tabloid. all the national social media platforms are flooded with the wedding photos you managed to make incredibly convincing. the deal turns out to be more profitable than anticipated — stock prices in each of your companies see some of the biggest growth in a while.
the first couple months of living together are strange, filled with both of you adjusting to a new lifestyle and home. the estate you moved into together is, indeed, big enough for you to miss each other most of the time, so avoiding one another is hardly necessary.
you both spend lots of time in your own studies, or at the offices of your respective companies. in your spare time, you can often be found in the library, outside by the pool or in the city. your husband thoroughly enjoys working out, cooking — even baking from time to time. which, admittedly, he’s a little too good at.
on the few occasions that you do spend time together, there’s this constant, palpable tension between you, and you can’t quite put your finger on the reason for it.
thankfully, the awkwardness between you’d already vanished into thin air before you got married; back when you went to your favorite restaurant to stir up the first romance rumors.
ever since, your conversations usually go the same. some banter, along with you taunting him with that razor blade of a mouth and him rolling his eyes in response — he accidentally called you sweetheart once and never quite let it go when he noticed you didn’t dislike it — and whenever you’re in public, it always ends with that quick peck on the lips.
you’re three months into your marriage when you spend a week on the italian coast together; the perfect spot to keep to yourselves while the press gets the lucky opportunity to get a photo or two, but only from a distance.
in your shiny blue bikini, you lie on your stomach, turning your head to him.
“can you put some sunscreen on my upper back?” you ask. “i can do the rest myself.”
he glances at you, the sunglasses on his head pushing his dark locks away from his face. “i could also just do your entire back.”
of course, he can already spot that raised brow of yours before it’s even there. “for the pictures?”
“is the idea of me doing something out of the kindness of my heart so hard to wrap your head around?”
you roll your eyes. “alright, we get it, you’re such a gentleman—”
“exactly,” he responds in the same tone, teasingly tapping his hand on your back, gesturing for you to lie down so he can put the sunscreen on. “don’t forget it.”
“how could i ever?”
putting the thick liquid on his palm, he rubs his hands together. his gaze is fixed on your back, particularly so when you swiftly reach back and undo the clasp to give him better access.
trying to ignore the clear increase of his heartrate, he massages the sunscreen into your skin, slowly making his way down your spine.
his voice sounds uncharacteristically hoarse when he asks, “want me to do the rest, too?”
the rest being your lower body.
with a huff, you come across more uninterested than you really are. “sure.”
behind you, you hear him grab the necessary extra sunscreen, and he starts with your calves, big hands sliding upward, to the back of your thighs.
he subconsciously holds his breath when his hands move even higher. for a man who prides himself on control, you affect him remarkably easily, and he detests it.
almost as much as he is desperate to bask in the feelings you give him.
eventually, his hands cup your ass, and it has you biting your lip to stop yourself from making noise. you’re not this sensitive in general. you blame it on the fact that you’re not actually together, as well as the raging sexual tension that’s been lingering in the air since you agreed to the marriage in that damn meeting.
it takes every ounce of strength in him to pull his hands away. his cock is fucking throbbing at this point, and he prays to whatever god is out there that you won’t take notice of it.
luckily for him — or so he thinks — you’re more occupied with the little group of photographers on a nearing boat. it prompts you to look back at him over your shoulder, meeting his eyes.
“you should kiss me,” you tell him, subtly gesturing to what you’ve just seen. “it’s only fitting.”
his dark eyes flick back and forth, from the boat in the water to your face. he hums something before pressing his lips against yours, and you’re almost taken aback by the intensity of it.
you feel his hand brush past your neck, ending up on your jaw, and you come to the horrifying conclusion that the man you should hate kisses you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.
reality kicks in for him when your fingers trail past his bicep. he shouldn’t be doing this — much less enjoy it.
still, it feels like a damn crime to pull away from you.
“i think,” he mutters, taking the loose strings of your bikini and tying them into a knot on your back, not visibly reacting to the clear goosebumps erupting on your skin as a result, “you should do my back too.”
you stifle the chuckle of excitement rising in your throat. “so much for good publicity, huh?”
all he gives in response is a cheeky tilt of his head.
frankly, you don’t have a clue what either of you are trying to do here — whether it’s making your relationship convincing for the tabloids, pushing one another to see who does the best job at it while remaining completely unfazed, or acting on the mutual attraction without having to admit that it’s there.
but the whole thing does make your head spin a little. even if you can’t stand your husband, it’s not like he isn’t strikingly good-looking. it borders on annoying how his dark locks always perfectly fall into place, how handsome he looks even in those clothes you consider too ordinary for a man like him, how his muscles flex when he’s working out.
oh, who are you kidding? he’s hot as fuck. and it pisses you off.
you’d never tell him — or anyone else — but you like how tall he is. you like that he’s so much bigger than you, that his hand always seems to sit on your lower back, that he walks around with such a natural sense of confidence. you like his age.
one of the things that turned you away from his ridiculous good looks in the beginning was his unwavering warmth. his weakness, in your eyes, and those of your family’s.
but you quickly discover how wrong you were to think so, because as it turns out, his warmth is not unwavering, and he is far from weak. one should not trespass too much on his hospitality.
occasionally, your husband can be a bit of a stoic. you’re not sure what you find more baffling — the way he remains shockingly calm when angry, or the fact that his voice still manages to come across this domineering.
it’s why you pretend to scroll on your phone whilst curled up on the couch, a barely concealed smile sitting on your face.
mingyu stands in the living room, lecturing someone from the company over the phone. his voice is low and sharp and completely stable. very subtly, you glance up at him, biting back a grin as you cross your legs and lean into the armrest.
you just can’t tear your gaze off him. the tight jaw, the deep breath through his nose, the narrowed eyes, the flex in his forearm, the frown etched into his forehead.
halfway through, he catches you staring. neither of you shy away from the eye contact that follows.
it takes a good fifteen minutes before he ends the conversation and hangs up the phone.
“what’re you smiling about?”
naturally, you don’t feel the need to acknowledge his question. “nothing. what’re you frowning about? you want those lines in your forehead to get worse or something?”
“just a situation at the wharf,” he scoffs, “and excuse you. are you calling me old?”
“aging is nothing to be insecure about, really—”
“you’re horrible.”
“you always say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“it is. you’re the only one who keeps acting like it isn’t.”
you roll your eyes, getting up from the sofa. “whatever, old man.”
oh, he’s so much fun to push around. if anything, he does the same to you the entire time, so it’s entirely mutual.
you have lunch in the city together a few days after, and much to your annoyance, the weather forecast of the day was clearly sorely mistaken, the unexpected heavy rain leading to your cherished, expensive suede pumps being ruined.
and, as he knows to expect from you by now, your opinion on things is quite visible on your face. not like you haven’t been grumbling about it since you sat down at the restaurant ten minutes ago.
“what’re you fussing about? they’re just shoes,” he says a little too casually, immediately knowing it was the wrong move given the glare you so kindly send his way.
“they’re not just shoes, you prick. they’re dior. that’s over twelve-hundred bucks for a pair of pumps.”
“well, maybe you shouldn’t be wearing shoes that cost more than other people’s rent.”
“you know, if i wanted your opinion,” you lean back in the velvet green chair, pausing, “well, i don’t know what i’d do, because, quite frankly, it’s never happened.”
“would it really kill you to be a little less tough for a single day?”
“yes. which would suck for you and your cute little company, ‘cause you’d no longer have a wife, and we all know the revenue i’ve gotten you already.”
“don’t spin the narrative. it’s not like we were a sinking ship before this marriage,” he states, quickly adding, “no pun intended.”
still, you chuckle, a soft sound that drifts somewhere between genuine and malicious. “maybe not on paper, but you’ve been in hot water in the past.”
somehow it’s never occurred to you just how many excellent puns you can make for the shipbuilding business.
“after which i took over and got us out of it.”
a true statement. “doesn’t change that you hit the jackpot with me tied to your reputation now.”
it draws a laugh from his mouth. he can’t resist teasingly using your words against you. “on paper, maybe.”
you scoff. “and here i thought you were supposed to be a gentleman.”
“i am,” he mindlessly retorts, scanning the menu. “i can reserve an extra half hour to take you for some new shoes. or is that not up to your standard, princess?”
despite the mocking undertone to his voice, he’s clearly serious, so you grab a hold of your own menu, flipping it open. “well, it’ll do.”
it makes him smile to himself. for a girl representing everything he’s been raised to disapprove of — classist, a little too excessively focused on personal appearance and the opinions of others — he doesn’t find you as unlikeable as he anticipated.
not at all, maybe.
CONTRARY TO PREVIOUS EXPECTATIONS, mingyu doesn’t utterly detest living with you.
would he admit it out loud? no, you’d never let him hear the end of it.
slowly but steadily, he begins to learn your mannerisms, daily habits, little tics.
your regular coffee order is a capuccino with a teaspoon of sugar, and you have it twice a day. dark chocolate always seems to worm its way into your daily diet, in any shape or form. you have a set of favorite gold jewelry you don’t leave the house without. you get your nails done every two weeks, more often than not opting for darker colors instead of bright ones.
whenever you get cranky — usually halfway through the evening — it goes from zero to a hundred all at once, showcasing itself in constantly furrowed brows and curt answers. it takes a good half hour for you to properly wake up in the morning, and both he and the staff know not to ask anything of you during that time.
you’re high maintenance; he didn’t expect you not to be.
witty remarks aside, you’re not a very chatty person. he’s not sure if it’s a matter of personality or circumstance. both, probably.
you’ve been particularly snappy over the past couple weeks. he doesn’t know why. doesn’t know how to ask about it without crossing that invisible boundary between you, either.
for a girl who seems to have everything she could ever desire, you seem unhappy. unhappy and tired.
what shocks him is your relationship with your family. how they treat you. so formal, so impersonal — he tries to remember if he’s ever seen them give you a hug, or a compliment, or a genuine smile. nothing comes to mind.
a scolding from them makes you crumble.
here and there, he catches glimpses of the girl hidden underneath that aloof and cold exterior you’re so damn keen to uphold. he catches the quirk of your lips when you think no one is paying attention, the little muscle by your cheekbone that visibly tightens when you’re angry but pushing it all down so it doesn’t come out.
a recipe for disaster, of course.
he’s just arrived home, closing the front door behind him, when he hears you talking on the phone from the kitchen, not having to listen long to know your father’s at the other end of the line.
an argument. he’s not sure what it’s about.
the conversation ends abruptly. mingyu figures he should just leave you be, until he hears glass breaking, and a chilling shrill leaving your mouth.
he rushes into the kitchen, finding you there with a nasty slash across the palm of your hand and the shards of a broken wine glass all over the counter and tiled floor.
“what are you doing here?” you ask, a little bewildered, “thought you had a conference in the city tonight.”
“it got cancelled,” is all he answers with. you’re acting awfully calm for someone with a fresh wound. “jesus, your hand. you’re bleeding.”
“yeah, it just, um—i don’t know what happened.”
he doesn’t believe it. you know he doesn’t. he’d be an idiot if he did.
not that it matters. he steps over to you, gently taking your hand to inspect the damage.
it hardly takes a degree in medicine to tell it needs stitches. it wouldn’t surprise him if small pieces of glass got into the wound as well. “that’s way too deep to treat here, we gotta go to the hospital for this.”
“the hospital?” you ask as he’s reaching into one of the drawers for the first aid kit, pulling out some clean gauze. “no. no, we can just—we can just call my doctor. he’ll be here—”
“it’s two in the morning. driving you to the hospital would be twice, probably three times as fast,” he insists while wrapping the gauze around your hand, the blood immediately staining it red.
his statement is fair, logical — but he doesn’t understand your reasoning, and the last thing you want to do right now is explain it to him.
you hiss in pain. “no, i’ll wait.”
“absolutely not.”
“i don’t wanna go to the hospital.”
“why not?”
you refuse to give him an answer. “mingyu. i mean it, i’m not going.”
“there’s most likely several pieces of glass in your hand. that needs to be taken out as soon as possible.”
“we can—i can wait.”
in any other situation, he’d respect your wishes. this is different. why on earth are you so hellbent on staying here?
still, he tries to find the middle ground. “what am i gonna have to do to get you into the car with me?”
you inhale sharply, wincing. “unless you throw me over your shoulder and quite literally carry me out of here, i won’t go with you. so quit it already.”
“you don’t think i’d do that?”
“no, you wouldn’t,” you retort, looking around to find your phone so you can make the call.
giving you a blank stare, he purses his lips.
should he leave you be? perhaps. but just this once, he firmly believes he knows better.
it takes a few seconds before he’s made up his mind. he steps over to you, leaning down to hook his arm behind your knees, and you’re thrown over his shoulder before you can comprehend it.
“what the hell are you—let go of me!”
“quit being so stubborn. we’re going to the er, whether you like it or not.”
“like hell i am. put me down!”
“you scared of the hospital or something?”
“i’m not a child, you asshole,” you grumble, using your good hand to push against his arm. “put me down or i’ll—”
“you’ll what?”
he finds out what your plan is when he feels a sharp pain in his arm. it hits him so suddenly that he accidentally lets go of you, and you hit the floor with a loud thud.
“son of a—” he groans, looking down at his arm, “you bit me?”
the fall doesn’t make you any less willing to talk back to him. “you dropped me—”
“christ, you bite hard.” a huff leaves him before he regains his senses. you watch him getting on one knee to help you up to your feet. “i’m sorry. are you okay? you didn’t fall on your hand, did you?”
you clench your jaw. why is he even apologizing? the only reason you bit him was to force him to let go of you. “yeah, fine.”
using your good hand, you take his, and you both stand up.
“my parents would—” you start, cutting off your words, “no, never mind.”
he doesn’t let you. “they’d what?”
god, you’re going to regret this. you’re going to regret this, is all that runs through your head. “they’d never let me hear the end of it if i went to the hospital for some damn stitches. too public for something minor.”
odd reasoning, he finds. very odd. what kind of person could find it in themselves to be more worried about the front page of the newspaper than the wellbeing of their own child?
“so this is about bad publicity?”
“it always is.”
you hold the wrist of your injured hand, trembling from the pain, almost too afraid to look at him.
mingyu is unsure whether to be more concerned about the blood running down your arm or the expression on your face.
he takes both of your coats from the stand, turning back to you. “a friend of mine is an er doctor. i’m pretty sure his shift just started. i can call him from the car, make sure we take a back entrance. no one will know.”
a part of you hates how convincing he manages to be. with a sigh, you nod, agreeing to it.
the drive to the hospital is quick but quiet. upon your arrival, you take notice of his constant asking the attending doctor and nurse whether it’s gonna be okay, how many stitches you need, whether it’ll hurt or not, if he can help in any way. he offers for you to hold his hand while getting them. you refuse with a glare.
you end up clenching his hand regardless, and he lets you.
it’s possibly, in your experience, the first time someone gives you such treatment without expecting anything in return. almost like he cares about you.
no, you don’t quite like that feeling. it’s rather unsettling, actually.
during the drive home, you thank him, and it sounds different compared to all the times he’s heard you say it before.
he looks into your eyes and sees humanity staring back.
your makeup all smudged, hair frizzy and a bit disheveled, splatters of your own blood on your shirt — it’s the most messed up he’s ever seen you.
“can i ask you something?”
you only hum.
“were you actively trying to hurt yourself?”
he listens to you letting your breath out. “no, it was an accident. just got angry.”
while he hasn’t known you for a long time, he believes your answer to be truthful, but he still keeps the possibility of it being a lie in mind.
“please don’t do that again. for both our sakes,” he mutters gently, not to scold you, but to emphasize he doesn’t want you to injure yourself.
with your good hand sitting underneath your chin, you turn your head to him. “i’ll ask the driver next time. so you don’t have to bother.”
“i didn’t say it was an inconvenience. it wasn’t. i just don’t want you getting hurt again.”
“why do you care?” you ask with an unnatural softness to your voice.
it takes him a moment to answer. he’s not sure he can give a proper one. “well, we’re married. your mess is mine, isn’t it?”
the statement registers as a sour pinch in your gut. “not even a little.”
“then maybe we should start being more open with eachother,” he shrugs a little too casually for your taste. “i know what we have is only a business agreement, but... during the time we’re together, we might as well make it easier for both of us, right?”
it violently rips a tear from your eye, which you wipe away before it has the opportunity to roll down your cheek.
you don’t want to be open with him at all. it’d be the opposite of easy, even if you did trust him.
“right,” is all you quietly respond with, unconvinced but too tired to argue about it.
he glances your way. you don’t meet his eyes.
to make sure the conversation ends on a better note, he jokes, “you really do bite hard, y’know.”
“i guess. sorry about that.”
waving it off casually, he laughs, creating a little clarity in the mess of your mind.
“no, it’s fine. at least i now know your bite is the same as your bark.”
“oh, god,” you snort, cracking a smile at the comment, and he instantly feels more at ease.
the incident isn’t mentioned again, save for the repeated question how your hand feels throughout the days that follow. you clearly don’t feel like discussing it, so for now, he chooses to leave it.
but it feels wrong to. he’s always been one to take care of those around him, and no one has ever rejected that or treated it like a bad thing.
but you’re actively fighting back, making sure not to let him in even when you’re vulnerable, and he despises it.
another three months go by, and to make things worse, you’re hit with the news of your father’s sudden passing.
mingyu’s just arrived in another country for an important business trip when he’s informed of it. it immediately prompts him to jump on the plane back home.
he returns to the house late that night, finding you alone, sitting in front of the fireplace, the corners of your mouth downturned and a glass of hard liquor on the coffee table beside you.
in spite of your mournful state, you still find it in you to scowl at him.
“what the hell are you doing here?”
he puts his travel bag down on the floor. “i heard what happened. i’m sorry.”
genuinely confused by his presence, you mention, “but the funeral isn’t in another three days.”
“so?”
“so, you cancelled the rest of your trip for nothing. not like anyone’s seeing this.”
mingyu scoffs. did you genuinely believe he’d only show up back home for the funeral, only for the moments you’re publicly seen together? just to make sure he’d be on your side for the photos?
“i’m here because you just lost your dad. you shouldn’t be alone right now.”
for someone as intelligent as you are, it takes an embarrassing amount of time to catch onto his reasoning.
he flew in because it’s the human thing to do. how very like him. you’re not sure you would’ve done the same for him. does that make you a bad person?
after all, this thing between you is nothing more than business. mere contractual obligations that ought to be carried out.
letting out a humorless laugh, you say, “it’s funny. had the situation been reversed, my dad would’ve advised me to fly in solely to attend the funeral.”
every time he thinks your eyes can’t possibly get any darker, any meaner, you prove him wrong.
still, he finds something hidden underneath that casual cruelty of yours. kneeling in front of you, he lowers himself so you no longer have to look up at him.
downing the bit of alcohol left in the glass, you chuckle again, a clear lump sitting in your throat. “it’s kinda stupid when you think about it. he’s got access to the best doctors in the world, and he dies of a fucking heart attack, in less than an hour. now my brother’s gonna have to take over, and i’ll have to take on more work, too—”
you sniff, cynically going on about work in an attempt to push out the realization that the man who raised you, the man you’ve always looked up to, is gone.
mingyu moves to sit next to you, infiltrating that personal space you’ve always kept whenever you’re at home, and he takes you in his arms.
it’s a risky move — he half expects you to shove him away.
it takes a second for your body to adjust to his embrace. how long has it been since someone hugged you out of free will, to offer comfort? you’re not sure. the feeling of his arms around you paired with his hand rubbing on your back is enough to forcefully pull the first sobs out of you.
your crying is painful, heavy, cathartic. it flows out of you like a dam breaking, and he knows these tears aren’t just from the loss of your father.
he can’t help but wonder — how long have you been holding that in?
“it’s okay,” he murmurs into your hair, fingers threading through it. “it’s okay, sweetheart.”
you weep in the crook of his neck for what feels like hours. the next day, you don’t acknowledge anything that happened between you.
during the funeral, you lean into his chest, your head against his shoulder. he knows it’s not for show — and his hand finds your back once more, staying there throughout the ceremony.
he finds you hard to read, hard to understand. you walk on eggshells around humanity. it’s something you won’t dare touch, not even with a ten-foot pole.
yet whilst your gratitude remains unspoken, he feels it. you cling to him, showing that you need to be held just this once, and he’s able to reach for your hand without worrying how you might react. his fingers intertwine with yours like you’ve been doing it for years.
he’s so genuine, so disgustingly sincere about all of it. it makes you wonder why he’s constantly on your side when you’ve never been on his.
MINGYU MUST BE KEEN TO GET AWAY. at least, that’s what you assume.
he’s been as helpful and supportive as one could be since your father’s passing. it’s been a few months since the funeral, and it slowly but steadily feels like your life is getting back on track.
at this point, a good nine months since your wedding, the company wants him to go abroad for the business trip he’d cut short to go home to you.
it’s an extended trip, too. three months. three whole months.
he’s got every right to go, of course. he’s sweet enough to check with you if it’s okay before agreeing to it. out of everyone around you, he’s the one who pulled you through all the shit that happened. he wouldn’t even have considered the trip if he didn’t think you were feeling better again.
yet something still makes your stomach flip when he asks you. not in a good way.
which is a little strange. these were the moments you looked forward to when you got married — him being far, far away from you, leaving you able to breathe again.
after all, that’s how you’ve always felt in relationships. like you’re being suffocated.
admittedly, you haven’t felt like that with mingyu. the first months were a little strained, obviously, but even then discomfort wasn’t how you’d describe being around him.
not that you’d say so out loud. you think you’d rather get shot than tell him you don’t mind his presence.
so you say goodbye to him at the airport, finding yourself checking his flight status while he’s on the plane, a sense of relief hitting you when he’s arrived at his destination safely.
and throughout those three months that he’s away, you’re both more than a little miserable. for what it’s worth, it sells the story to the people around you — ultimately, you’re supposed to be faking your love.
your house, massive as it is, feels incredibly quiet and hollow without the sound of his voice, without seeing him walk around. you try to focus more on other things to pull yourself out of it, but even you notice the way your heart jumps a little whenever you get a text or a call from him.
mingyu feels worse. he’s been on edge since he left the country. it’s hard to believe he’s feeling this cranky over the fact that his beautiful wife isn’t in the same room as him, rolling her eyes at one of his terrible jokes, cussing him out or throwing some snide little comment his way.
so he feels better with every day that passes. the sooner he can go home again, the better.
at least your calls make it more bearable. you both come up with shitty excuses to pick up the phone; work, your families, a missing kitchen utensil that just happens to be essential that day — anything other than the truth. and the excuse itself is always long forgotten when you’re an hour into the call.
you tell him about your day while sitting on the sofa, mindlessly fiddling with your wedding ring. by now, you’re used to someone in your circle always being in a different time zone. you’re enjoying your saturday morning as he’s about to go out to dinner with a friend.
thankfully, he’s set to complete the business trip and take the flight home tomorrow, and fuck are you itching for him to come back to you.
hansol has been raiding the mini fridge in his large hotel room for the past twenty minutes — not a regular occurence, since they’re normally both very punctual, but mingyu can no longer consider himself such since he’s started this ritual of calling you a little too often.
“sweetheart,” he murmurs in the microphone, kind of annoyed that his friend is here already, even though he was the one to suggest meeting at this time, “i gotta go. hansol’s waiting for me, and if i’m any later, the restaurant’s gonna cancel our reservation.”
you smile to yourself at the nickname, and you sound remarkably loving for a girl who claims not to give a damn about her husband. “don’t let me keep you. enjoy your dinner.”
hansol is barely within earshot at this point, much less listening in on the conversation, yet the line he’s said to you so casually so often still rolls off his tongue.
“i love you.”
technically, he doesn’t have to wait for your answer — it’s not like hansol can hear what you’re saying, and for all he knows, you’re by yourself, so it’s not like you’d have to pretend—
“love you too.”
your reply doesn’t quite reach his brain until he hears the familiar noise of the connection being shut off.
it’s not the first time you’ve said it to him, of course. you’ve had to say it countless times in the presence of others to make the show believable. those times, it never meant anything, never held any actual weight.
this time, he doesn’t know what to feel.
you look at your phone with deeply furrowed brows, pushing it away as if it’s suddenly become radioactive.
you don’t say things like that. every time you’ve said it to mingyu so far has only been to sell the show. you had no reason to say it this time around, you didn’t need to pretend. you could’ve said bye and it would’ve been fine.
the embarrassment kicks in next. what are you gonna say to him? fucking hell, he comes home tomorrow. how on earth are you gonna look him in the eye and explain this?
god, you even agreed to pick him up from the airport — good for publicity and all — and you severely regret doing so.
all kinds of shitty excuses run through your head into the following evening, when you’re waiting for him in the arrivals hall.
the moment you meet his gaze, his eyes light up, and he looks surprisingly well-rested for someone who just had an intercontinental flight.
your voice is lost on you when he lets go of the suitcase to wrap his arms around your body, anchoring you in place, and it takes a second for you to reciprocate the gesture. he’s got his hand on the back of your neck when he moves to kiss you.
every nerve in your body buzzes with excitement. your day-to-day life felt so empty without him, and now that you have him back, you can’t stomach the idea of him leaving again.
“hi, sweetheart,” he breathes out, not at all caring if anyone’s watching. “missed you.”
there’s a little too much pressure on your chest when you mutter a quiet missed you too.
but he doesn’t give the reaction you were afraid of. instead, he gives you another kiss, one that might not really be necessary for the public eye but certainly isn’t unwelcome. you feel like a lovesick teenager when he eventually pulls away, not able to resist cracking a smile at the realization that you would’ve kept kissing him.
it might be the first time you properly look at his face.
his dark brown eyes have so much warmth in them — beautiful, compassionate, kind eyes with that small crinkle at the corners.
it doesn’t matter that you don’t know what to do with all he expresses, because he puts his arm around you, asking if you can take him home, and the only thing you can do is oblige.
pictures of your reunion hit social media platforms the same day, the newspapers the next; it solidifies your relationship to the outside once more.
back home, you swiftly return to the routine you had before he left. he finds his life considerably more worth living when he finds you doing your makeup every morning.
at one point, when you’re running late for some event, he offers to do your hair. it earns him a very raised brow, and he’s genuinely a little offended that you’re making this assumption of him that there is something out there he cannot do.
“gyu, if you fuck up my hair, i will kill you. like, actually kill you,” you deadpan, still unwilling to hand him the curling iron.
deadpanning a stare, he merely beckons with his fingers as if to say give me that, and you hesitantly give in, proceeding to do your makeup while he gets started.
surprisingly, your nervousness slowly settles down when you see him seperating your hair in parts, and once he does the first curl perfectly, you feel comfortable enough to let him handle it.
when he eventually receives a phone call from someone at the office, he pushes his phone to sit between his ear and shoulder, keeping it there as he continues to do your hair.
it’s a bit funny, really — you already know he’s irritated when he narrows his eyes like that, but handling whatever incompetence needs to be dealt with today doesn’t stop him from focusing on the task at hand.
he hangs up after a while, shaking his head to himself. “the mind-numbing day-to-day detritus of this job. god.”
it makes you snort. “everything okay?”
“yeah, just something going on at the office up north. nine out of ten times, it’s got something to do with nothing more than paperwork, meetings… you know the drill,” he shrugs. “same as always.”
in the meantime, he puts the curling iron to the side, and you’re seriously impressed with the way your hair turned out.
“so? up to your standards?” he asks, making eye contact with you through the mirror.
“not bad. do i want to know where you learned how to style hair like that?”
“when i was sixteen, there was a period where i had to take my sister to dance class every week, but she was always late from school right before, so she had to rush everything. asked me to do her hair a couple times, when she had a performance scheduled.” he smiles faintly at the memory. “i still remember her saying over and over to twist the barrel away from the face. just stuck with me, i guess.”
“cute,” you mutter. “my nanny’s always done it for me. i would’ve never trusted wonwoo with something like that at sixteen.”
he reaches underneath the tabletop to pull the curling iron’s plug out of the wall. “we had to do it ourselves. didn’t have a nanny.”
“never?” you ask with a frown. his parents had plenty of money, so that couldn’t have been the issue.
“nope. i mean, when i was too young to care for my sister, the neighbor’s kid would watch over us, but that was only for a few evenings a year. our parents always made sure one of them was home to take care of us.”
it sounds like an impossible mission. you know for a fact that his parents were just as busy as yours have always been. big careers, long days — you didn’t believe it was possible to successfully juggle that with kids.
god knows your parents didn’t.
to this day, your nannies might feel more like family than your blood relatives ever have. they did a better job at raising you than your mother and father did.
“were you and your sister happy at home?” you hear yourself ask, voice a little strained.
he nods, and it only makes you feel worse.
LOOKING AT YOURSELF IN THE MIRROR, you’re putting in your earrings when there’s a knock on your door.
“yes?” you say, giving him permission to come in.
your husband opens the door, standing in the doorway of your walk-in closet.
for a brief moment, neither of you move. his eyes look you up and down — taking in the dress, the heels, the makeup, the jewelry that gives you an elegant touch. there’s an emotion you can’t pinpoint flickering across his face.
god, that dress hugs every curve of your body perfectly.
his voice comes out strangled. “going out?”
you can practically feel your heart beating in your throat. “yeah, i’m having drinks with an old friend.”
“anyone i know?”
“i doubt it,” you say. “he and i went to college together.”
mingyu feels his own demeanor shift a little. “he?”
“something you’re trying to say here, mingyu?”
the way his heart skips a beat when his name rolls off your tongue is a little ridiculous. “am i not allowed to know the whereabouts of my wife?”
oh, he just loves calling you that. a bit too much, maybe.
feeling his eyes on you, you reach into a drawer for your favorite necklace, changing the subject. “put it on for me?”
he looks particularly handsome tonight, even in his plain long-sleeved shirt and the loose sweatpants sitting low on his hips. he runs a hand through his black hair to keep it out of his face, the gold wedding ring that binds you together remaining on his finger day and night.
his breath hits the back of your neck as he takes the two ends of the necklace between his fingers, sending a shiver down your spine. the smell of your perfume floods his senses, making him dizzy.
it’s such a signature scent that he gets a rush every time he smells it. through half-lidded eyes, he watches you turn around and look back up at him.
he wonders what it’d be like to kiss you, really kiss you — not like those split seconds his lips touched yours merely to keep up appearances. the closest he’s gotten to it is that time you picked him up at the airport.
“you look nice,” he mutters softly.
for this one time, you shoot a genuine smile his way. “thanks.”
casually grabbing your coat, you throw the garment on, giving yourself one last glance in the mirror.
“want me to drive you there?”
it’s not an unusual offer for him to make. he always volunteers to take you if he’s free, though you doubt it’s purely out of the kindness of his heart this time around.
“no, it’s okay. the driver should already be out front.” you press a kiss to his cheek, which he instinctively leans into. “i’ll see you later, yeah?”
forcing himself to push his jealousy aside, he nods and says, “yeah. have fun.”
you pass him, leaving him behind in your room, and he’s suddenly engulfed by a deafening silence.
in a way, he believes you bring out the worst in him. the urge to hop in his car and follow you, watch you and your friend to see if that’s truly all he is to you, has never been stronger.
he resists. not easily.
your night out with james passes as agonizingly slowly for you as it does for your husband back home.
you like him, of course; he’s a good friend.
but you saw the look on mingyu’s face when you left. you were pushing his buttons a little, getting that first glimpse of jealousy as a result — which you, very shamelessly, crave more of.
so when you eventually get back home, you’re surprised to find both the kitchen and living room void of human presence.
you find him in the large backyard, sitting by the pool, huffing out the smoke of his cigarette as you approach him. “home so soon?”
he spreads his legs, leaning back in his spot on the chair, almost like he’s inviting you to get in his lap. almost.
“what, am i disturbing your peace and quiet?”
“not today,” he jokes, shifting in his place. “so? how was your date?”
you cross your arms. “wasn’t a date. not to me, anyway.”
intrigued, he glances at the spot next to him, waiting for you to sit. he’s positively surprised when you do.
without having to ask for it, he’s already handing you his cigarette, letting you take a drag. you wonder how he can read you so seamlessly — if anything, it kind of unsettles you.
“was it a date to him?”
“i don’t know. maybe. he just kept going on about the way we used to be in college, even though he knows i’m married.”
there’s a subtle twitch of his eyelid. “do you like him?”
“as a friend, yeah. nothing more than that. i’d never go out with him romantically.”
good, mingyu thinks to himself as you return the cigarette to him, and you stand up again.
the sound of a zipper being undone makes him look up. your dress slides down to your ankles, the beaded garment hitting the dark grey tiles of the patio with a soft thud, and you sit at the edge of the pool, proceeding to lower yourself into the water.
he keeps his gaze fixed on you the entire time. you feel him with every move you make.
it’s not like he hasn’t seen you in a bikini plenty of times before — but lingerie is different.
his eyes trail along the black bra with its small silk bow and tiny jewel at the centre, and it looks so pretty with your necklace that he should probably divert his attention if he doesn’t want the bulge in his pants to become any more prominent.
if this is your way of teasing him, it’s working.
you tilt your head back to dip your hair in the water. when you eventually lock eyes with him again, you still find him staring at you, the lighting from the bottom of the pool reflecting on his face.
there’s a new, freshly lit cigarette between his teeth. whether he decided to have another ‘cause he needed it or he just wanted an excuse to spend more time with you, he’s not sure.
“so what’s the deal with you?” you ask, at which he raises a brow.
“what?”
“well, not to call you geriatric or anything,” there’s a brief pause when he snorts at your choice of words, “but why were you still single when we got married?”
“why were you?” he teases.
your shake your head. “don’t switch the subject. we’re talking about you here, not me.”
mingyu tries to force the smug little expression off his face. “if i answer, you gotta do the same.”
that familiar roll of your eyes tells him enough.
“let’s just say i was married to the job before i got married to you,” he shrugs. “i mean, i occasionally went on dates and everything, but... i’ve always been a workaholic. the company used to be my dad’s. he was so proud of my achievements after he stepped down, and i didn’t ever want to stop expanding. the women i dated admired that until it meant i didn’t really have much time or space for them in my life. understandably so, i guess.”
it’s as honest an answer as he can give, that much is obvious.
“you don’t come across as a workaholic to me. maybe in the beginning, but…”
“i used to hate coming home, ‘cause all i had there was an empty apartment, an empty house.” slowly but steadily, he’s treading into dangerous territory. “and now my house isn’t empty anymore.”
since that time you cut your hand, he’s been home more often to keep an eye on you, spending more time with you, indirectly forcing himself to take his mind off work and do other things. which, frankly, is doing wonders for him.
“fair enough,” you say. he hums as if to say your turn now, and you have no choice but to make good on your promise. “well, i haven’t been with that many guys, but… i don’t know. they all wanted to go faster than i did, or they couldn’t communicate, or they got annoyed that i value my career in the company more than the relationship… and i’m not perfect, so it’s not like it was all them. i know that. but they just couldn’t give me what i was looking for, i guess.”
you shrug your shoulders, and mingyu watches the crinkle between your brows as you recall your former relationships with clear annoyance.
it makes him chuckle. “i’d say that’s valid.”
“you’re being weirdly sensible about this.”
“yeah, you’d be surprised,” he retorts, narrowing his eyes at you. “so does that mean you’ve sworn off love?”
it’s a good question — also one you don’t have a definitive answer for. “i’m not sure. i know i’m not looking for it.”
good, he thinks. a wise mindset to have, in his opinion.
“so what would you look for?” he pushes his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “in a guy? you got a type?”
older, you’d probably say, but that would be a little too transparent. “not to be predictable, but i’ve always liked the tall, dark, handsome type. too bad they usually disappoint in the personality department.”
he has to bite back a grin. “do i fit your criteria?”
“tall, dark hair, dark eyes, lacking personality… yeah, i guess you’re my type, if you look at it that way.”
“wow,” he muses, “tough crowd, huh?”
you laugh this time, a wonderfully bright sound that briefly pulls some clarity into this lustful haze you’re both clearly in.
but that clarity doesn’t last long.
“aren’t you gonna join me?” you ask, looking up at him, and he flicks the ash off the cigarette.
“not tonight,” he replies. “for now, i’m content watching you.”
your gaze drifts past his crotch, and it’s hard to tell in the darkness, but you’re convinced he’s as turned on as you are. the sexual tension reverberates in every sentence, in every motion, it’s been lingering in the fucking air since you left earlier.
at this point, you’re sure kim mingyu wants to fuck you — and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to fuck him, too.
COCKTAIL PARTIES ARE A WASTE OF TIME, in mingyu’s opinion, but he finds them more bearable since he started attending them with you.
at the end of the day, he’s a simple man. he enjoys having a beautiful woman on his arm, and luckily for him, you love to flaunt your handsome, charming husband.
even when he’s talking to other people, his eyes are secretly glued to you. he glances your way whenever he has the chance, his heart blooming in his chest at the sight of you smiling and laughing.
or, at least, that is what happens usually.
currently, as he’s emerged in a conversation about a new engine screw design that sounds genuinely interesting to incorporate in his company, he catches you talking to and laughing with a young man at the other side of the room, which stirs up something in his gut.
you’re still talking to him when you suddenly feel mingyu’s hand on your lower back.
“hey. i was just talking about you,” you say, your palm sliding up to his shoulderblades. “james, this is my husband, mingyu.”
james. a familiar name.
it hits him immediately — this is the guy you went out to get drinks with a while ago.
“nice to meet you,” mingyu shakes his hand, the hand that’s still sitting on your back not moving an inch. “you two know each other?”
“we went to college together,” james answers, and your husband has to refrain from childishly sending him a glare that he was clearly talking to his wife, not him.
“james’s father is on our company’s board. i think wonwoo’s introduced you to him a while ago,” you elaborate, noticing a hint of annoyance in his attitude that disappears once his gaze is back on you.
“must’ve slipped my mind.”
james nods, not caring much for your husband’s answer. “i’m sorry i couldn’t make it to the wedding. i was working abroad at the time. hard to make a change of plans on short notice, unfortunately.”
mingyu has to bite his tongue not to throw out a petty remark, but not even you spare your so-called friend from the occasional razor-sharp retort. “several months isn’t really that short of a notice, though, right?”
an awkward chuckle rolls past your friend’s lips. the sight of you two clearly judging him together certainly has his mouth running a little dry. in this moment, you and mingyu prove to be more of a united front than the guy anticipated.
but james also has a massive ego — and a massive crush. he’s been raised to be just as, if not more spoiled than you are, and he’s always gotten what he wanted. the fact that you’re married doesn’t matter to him.
in your clutch, you feel the vibration of your phone. pressing a kiss to mingyu’s cheek, you tell him you need to take a call, after which you excuse yourself.
james thinks he’s subtle when he glances at your backside as you’re walking off to a quiet corner without guests, and it’s in that exact moment your husband decides to do something about this pest of a boy.
with his hands in his pockets, mingyu moves a bit in his spot, blocking the view on purpose.
“you know, she never mentioned you to me,” he starts, forcing himself to sound civilized, “at all.”
“well, i’m sure she had her reasons not to,” james counters, mimicking your husband’s act of putting his hands in the pockets of his trousers.
mingyu nods, very briefly looking your way. “she looks nice tonight, doesn’t she?”
“yeah, like a dream.”
something dark flickers across his face. “like yours?”
the sudden bluntness catches the younger man off guard. “what?”
“does she look like your dream?” mingyu flatly repeats, and james becomes increasingly aware of the tightness of his jaw.
“we’re just friends.”
“i didn’t ask if you were friends. i’m asking if you want her.”
james swallows, debating whether he should answer truthfully or not. mingyu knows how to come across as intimidating when he needs to. “it sounds like you already know the answer to that.”
your husband steps a little closer to him in warning, managing to do so without drawing any unwanted attention. “i want you to stay away from her.”
“i can’t just do that.”
a baffled scoff escapes him. “i think you can.”
“you may love her,” his tone changes into something close to taunting, “but she doesn’t love you back, does she?”
mingyu inhales sharply. it’s a complicated situation; he constantly has to remind himself that he’s not in a real marriage, not in a real relationship. which is why he probably shouldn’t feel possessive over you.
but you’re his wife. he’s grown not just fond but also quite attached to you, and even if you’re not in love with him, he knows for a fact that you’re definitely not in love with this kid.
he’s not worried in the slightest you’d even entertain the idea to the guy. but when someone is shamelessly trying to go after his girl — fake relationship be damned — he can only let so much slide.
“who knows,” your husband shrugs, his head cool. “but if you truly believe she’s in love with you, you don’t know her at all.”
a beat of silence.
“you’re—”
the guy cuts off his own sentence. mingyu presses him to say whatever truth he’s clearly holding back. “i’m what?”
“you’re old enough to be her father.”
funny.
“and yet she proudly wears the gold ring i gave to her,” he contests, as if this wasn’t one of his own concerns when the marriage was first brought up in that damn meeting. “i don’t know how else to make it clear to you, buddy, but if she actually wanted to come home to you, she would. so i suggest you take a hint.”
somehow, his voice continues to sound as controlled as ever, despite the racing of his heart. he’s never felt like this, never acted like this in previous relationships. it’s as if he can feel the possessiveness spreading through his every vein, all the way to his fingertips.
he turns his head to find you in his field of vision, and he instantly relaxes. he suddenly remembers once again how much he hates cocktail parties — you’re the only good part about them, really.
leaving your wannabe-lover behind with a last stern but dirty glance, he walks up to you, sliding his arm around your waist. you’ve just hung up the phone, so he seizes the opportunity to ask, “can we get out of here already?”
you hardly need to lay eyes upon your friend to know your husband was being less than pleasant to him.
if mingyu thinks he’s the only one keeping his eyes on you the whole time, he’s very much mistaken. your gaze wanders back to him even when you’re talking to other people, always.
glancing at james from the corner of your eye, you raise a brow. “what’d you say to him? he’s looking a little pale all of a sudden.”
“nothing he didn’t already know.”
you narrow your eyes at him. “right. that clears everything up.”
“the fact that he’s in love with you is one thing,” he elaborates, “but publicly sizing you up the whole damn time is another. so i told him to leave it and take a hint.”
there’s a mischievous glint in your eye that he just misses by looking away from you. you’re a little shocked this is getting under his skin so much. and, as always, you like to push his buttons.
“just because he’s kissed me in the past doesn’t mean he’s in love with me.”
as you’d hoped, his gaze snaps back to yours. “he kissed you—when?”
“not recently, if that’s what you’re worried about. back in university.”
his eyes are blazing with something new. you resist the rising smirk by acting like this isn’t an important topic of conversation at all, even though it’s obvious he’s dying to know every little detail.
“you didn’t date him though, did you?”
“well, not exactly, no.” upon the sight of him growing increasingly frustrated with every vague answer, you add, “gyu, are we really going to have this conversation in a room full of people?”
a good point that leads exactly to the outcome you thought it’d have.
“no. but we need to talk about this, privately.”
“fine,” you tell him, feigning annoyance, “let’s go home, then.”
you head towards the entrance and he immediately follows suit. your coats are handed to you by the clerk, and you’re back in the car you came with in mere minutes.
the tension in the car is so utterly palpable that you’re close to trembling in your seat. you silently thank the universe that the drive to your house is only a few minutes.
he’s parked the car in the driveway before you know it, and you unlock the door, suddenly increasingly aware of his presence looming behind you — like you can practically feel his eyes burning into your back.
throwing the keys on the cabinet in the hallway, you kick off your heels, leaving them on the floor.
“this is ridiculous, mingyu,” you huff, walking into the living room, warm lighting reflecting on your skin.
with dark eyes, he throws off his suit jacket. his tie quickly follows. “can’t say i agree.”
“i don’t recall having to give my dating history before we got married.”
“so he is your ex?”
an awfully humorless chuckle is pulled out of your throat. “i already told you he’s not. and even if he was, why do you care?”
“i care because you’re married to me, and that prick was looking at you like you were his,” he talks back, rolling up the sleeves of his white dress shirt before he opens the top two buttons.
“is that what this is really about? you’re jealous of some guy i know from college?”
a muffled grunt leaves him. opening the bottle of scotch sitting on the coffee table, he pours himself a glass, proceeding to down it in one go.
you’re leaning against the wall, watching him with crossed arms and knitted brows.
he doesn’t respond at first.
with heat creeping up the back of his neck, he steps closer to you. “you’re married to me.”
he’s being remarkably straightforward tonight. you look up at him, the corner of your mouth curled up in that devious little way he’s grown so stupidly fond of.
you’re riling him up on purpose. you both know it.
“and yet that guy has seen more of me than you have.”
little distance remains between you when he takes another step. his left hand touches the wall, and with his arm beside your face, you feel your cheeks burning up. still, you act unimpressed.
“did you fuck him?”
for a man that doesn’t curse often, it sure sounds good rolling off his tongue.
“no.”
“then what happened between you?”
for a moment, you’re rendered breathless. his thumb grazes past your lip, moving down to your jaw. “all we… we only made out once in our last year in university, when the whole class went on a summer trip together. i was already in my bikini, so…”
the proximity causes you to trail off. he urges you to continue, muttering, “so?”
you scratch your throat. “so we kissed, and he put his hand under my top. it was nothing more than that.”
in hindsight, you don’t even regret kissing james that day. you both wanted it at that time. the only problem is that he still seems to harbor feelings for you — though you believe he’s more in love with the idea of you rather than you as a person — whereas you’ve never had those feelings to begin with.
with mingyu, it’s different. you don’t know what you feel for him. but you’ve wanted him to kiss you, really kiss you, for a long time now. that and a lot more.
“so your little fling has seen more of you than your own husband,” he says, almost sounding a little mean when does. “we should change that, shouldn’t we?”
the air between you feels thick, charged, and his eyes drop again, this time to your mouth, then lower to where your nipples have tightened under the thin fabric of your dress.
“yeah,” you hum, barely audible.
his voice is just as quiet. “good.”
contrary to your expectations, he backs away from you, leaving you flustered and clothed against the wall.
he takes a few steps and sits down on the velvety chair, leaning back lazily while gesturing at your clothes. “so… show me.”
“show you what?”
“you could start with whatever’s underneath that dress.”
the words briefly throw you off balance. for a man who’s not once made it this abundantly clear he wants you, he’s being damn upfront about it now.
he’s been such a gentleman all this time — maybe that’s why the difference in attitude is making your head spin. sure, he’s made a cheeky comment here and there, but fucking hell, it’s like the man sitting in that chair is a completely different person.
with his legs spread, he leans his head back, watching you through half-lidded eyes. slowly, you step forward, and he flexes his hips, lifting off the couch slightly as he spreads his legs wider.
you reach for the zipper of your dress to pull it down. once the fabric hits the floor, a downright filthy smirk begins to rise to his face, which he slightly suppresses by clenching his jaw.
you’d be lying if you said it didn’t make you buzz with excitement.
you’re not close enough for him to touch you. it makes him clench his fists, as if to restrain his fingers from reaching out to feel your skin.
“pretty,” he gets out a little more breathlessly than intending to at the sight of your matching set of lingerie — god, he might be fucking sweating from this.
it elicits a smile from you. “i figured you liked lace.”
“did you?”
“lucky guess.”
god, lucky guess is an understatement. he’s a sucker for it. still, he gestures to your lingerie, because as pretty as you look in the dark fabric, he’s going insane at the idea of you without it. “gonna take that off, too?”
it’s a little mean of him — making you undress completely while he hasn’t shed as much as a single piece of clothing.
then again, you’d be lying if you said it didn’t turn you on.
so you take two steps over to him, practically standing between his thighs. you push your underwear down before reaching back to undo the clasp of your bra, and once you’re completely naked, his hands finally move to your body, settling on your hips.
the first kisses are pressed to your stomach, trailing down to your navel, and he pulls you into his lap. getting to touch your bare skin makes him feel intoxicated, and the only thing he wants is to indulge.
“james,” you say, and his eyes snap up to meet yours at the name, “what’d he say to you?”
with a hoarse voice, he gives his answer.
“he said i was too old for you. that i could’ve been your father.”
when you sit in his lap, you feel him twitch against your leg. “sounds like he got one thing right.”
the vision of you biting your lower lip is the last thing he sees before you kiss him, and he pulls you tighter, almost getting so lost in the embrace that he forgets you’re completely naked in his lap.
goosebumps begin to appear on your skin when his hands travel up your spine.
you have to force yourself to break the kiss, and he’s already leaning in again, looking like he’s about to pout when you don’t.
instead, you push against his chest, his back flush against the chair.
“let me do this,” you breathe out, getting out of his lap to sit on your knees, right between his legs, and he can’t pinpoint whether it’s a question or a command, but you don’t wait for a reaction from him.
you undo the zipper of his trousers, leaving his pants on as you take his cock out of his underwear.
he fails to hold back a soft moan when your tongue runs over the bulbous tip of his cock. it’s slow, tentative, torturously gentle.
you love watching him fall apart just as much as the other way around, and right now, as you take him in your mouth for the first time, he looks like he could cry.
“shit—” he gasps, fingers digging into the soft armrests of the chair. in a fleeting moment, he realizes what he’s pined after for god knows how long is finally happening, and it feels so right.
his mind is reeling. you affect him so easily; the sheer amount of times he’s touched himself late at night to the idea of having you under him, thinking how pretty you’d sound moaning his name, is a little embarrassing.
it takes every ounce of effort not to buck his hips. you take notice of it.
you don’t make it any easier for him.
his hips shift beneath you, and a low rumble vibrates in his chest.
with blown pupils, he watches your left hand moving down to your clit, and you fucking hum around him in ecstacy.
no, he can’t come already, not this soon—
gently pushing you back, he almost stutters from edging himself. “fuck. baby, stop, stop—”
with parted lips, you can’t resist cracking a joke. “what, too much for you, old man?”
“you’re infuriating,” he retorts, kissing you a little breathlessly before he says, “get on the couch. on your back, c’mon.”
even if he’s been aching to touch you the entire time, it’s not impatience that drives him to put his hands on you already. with his big hand on your stomach, he pushes you back, a bit annoyed by the tight fabric of his clothes but too occupied with you to do something about it.
and every thought that was lingering in the back of his head utterly evaporates when your pussy is fully on display for him.
he drags his finger down your wetness, hypnotized by your body’s immediate reaction to the touch.
“are you gonna fuck me?”
instead of giving a reply, he moves to hover over you, licking a long stripe from your stomach up to your neck, trapping you beneath him.
clearly, he’s toying with you — suddenly taking his time, slowly exploring every inch of you while painfully aware of the way you keep clenching around nothing.
you didn’t want to beg, but if he keeps this up, you might have to.
“gyu—” you cut yourself off mid-sentence to swallow at the feeling of his warm breath against your nipple, “i want you to fuck me.”
“is that a nice way to ask for things?”
oh, so this is his payback for that little comment you made.
unfortunately, it really fucking turns you on. to make things even worse, he’s rubbing his cock against your pussy, so close to slipping in that you might as well be on the verge of tears.
“ask me to fuck you, nicely,” he emphasizes by grinding against you once more, “and i will.”
he’s not the only one who can be a tease, you prove. “i could just get on top of you and do what i want.”
“try me.” his voice is so unbelievably mocking that it’d piss you off if he didn’t look so attractive right now.
ever defiant, you try to regain control and move from underneath him, but you both know it’s useless. he’s a big man, with such strength that caging you in his hold is stupidly easy for him.
still, he appreciates your clear effort.
he eventually chooses to place his right hand on your wrist, and you stop your struggling. with his left, he guides his cock to your hole, pressing just the tip in, and you shiver under him.
“ask me.”
you finally give in. “fine, fuck—please fuck me—”
he’s sheathing himself inside you before you can comprehend it, briefly knocking the wind out of your lungs. the girth of him makes you feel so full that you nearly have trouble breathing.
when he puts his hand on your thigh, you lock your legs around his waist, letting out a whimper.
“my favorite girl,” he grunts, “you look so fucking pretty like this.”
you’re so full, it’s nearly painful — but it evaporates almost instantly when he gently rocks his hips against you.
all you can do is hold on to him, head falling back against the sofa as he gives you everything he has. it’s rough, nearly brutal, but fuck is it good.
the hand on your thigh travels, moves upward, only for his thumb to press against your clit. the touch is a shock, one that sends your pussy fluttering around him. he grunts, stills, keeps toying with your clit until your thighs quiver and everything in you begins to clench down.
then it all disappears as he pulls his thumb away and resumes thrusting.
you push yourself up on your elbows in disbelief.
“you think i didn’t know what you were doing by insinuating you’d fucked that friend of yours?” he smirks, referring to the things you said to make him go home early with you.
wow. he’s fucking teasing. toying with you.
“not like you were protesting it, though, were you?” you reply sharply, chest hot with both irritation and arousal.
your husband laughs, grinds against you, pulling forth a moan you’ve never made before.
“just can’t help yourself, can you?” he muses, “always gotta be a little brat.”
the chuckle that leaves your mouth quickly turns into a moan when he adjusts the position a little, hitting the spot that makes you see stars.
“oh my god—” your voice is strained, feeling every motion of his hips. his cock is so perfectly sheathed into you, hands keeping a firm grip on your hips.
he buries his face in the crook of your neck, kissing your skin, a fresh rush of adrenaline pumping through him when your sharp nails dig into his back.
“fuck,” he groans. “i’m gonna come inside you, yeah? be a good girl and keep it all in once I’m done.”
you nod, eager for it. his head falls against the side of your face, and his lips press against your ear. your body twitches again when he brings his finger back to your clit.
he comes inside you with a groan, and you’re already so strung out from your previous orgasm that the next one is on you like an animal biting at your ankles. it’s sharp and fast and it overwhelms.
his hand is a little shaky when it takes a gentle hold of your chin, and he leans down to kiss you, content.
you lie there with him beside you, starting to relax, chest no longer heaving from the exertion.
“i can’t believe it took us over a year to have sex.”
he chuckles. “you didn’t make it easy for me.”
with a cheeky little smile, you tease, “not my fault you practically get a hard-on whenever i walk into the room.”
mingyu rolls his eyes, always seeing your witty little quips coming from a mile away. “always so humble, aren’t you?”
“oh my god, you can’t even deny it!”
“well, you can’t deny i just gave you the fuck of a lifetime either, so i think we’re square.”
“the fuck of a lifetime? you’re giving yourself a little too much credit here.”
“right. i must’ve misheard the part where you begged me to touch you.”
“lapse of judgement.”
staring dryly at you, he’s met with a broad smile from you, and you have the audacity to scrunch your nose like you’re so cute — which you are, to be fair — and he cracks, not able to resist the corners of his mouth curling up.
SINCE THAT NIGHT, it’s as if the two of you are on your honeymoon.
a funny thing, considering you pretended to be such slightly over a year before, when you’d just spoken your vows.
you both even take an entire week off by calling in sick — something about both of you catching food poisoning. how horrible for both of you to be sick at the same time.
by now, you must’ve had sex in every damn spot in the house. the shower, the backyard — even the dining room table, which has easily become a big favorite.
things are good at home. you enjoy living with him, both of you are happier.
when the doorbell rings one night, mingyu is met with an unexpected face.
your brother doesn’t even try to crack a smile. so much for good manners. “hi. i wanna talk to my sister, is she home?”
“no, you just missed her. she’s getting drinks with friends,” he replies. when wonwoo hums in disappointment, he suggests, “wanna come in for a beer?”
sharing a drink is one of the many things they’ve never done before, despite being brothers-in-law. mingyu knows how much wonwoo disapproves of his work mentality, but he also knows how to spot someone who needs to get something off their chest.
they end up in the backyard. insects rasp from the trees below, the air thick and warm with the fresh scent of the hills after a day of sun.
“so, is living with my sister still bearable?”
mingyu takes another drag of his cigarette, choosing to answer truthfully. not like he has anything to hide. “i’ve grown to enjoy her company a lot, actually.”
“since when?”
“a while.”
“i thought you hated her. i thought she hated you.”
“i never hated her. she’s... vibrant, funny and loving.” mingyu smiles to himself at the thought of you.
wonwoo frowns. “are we talking about the same person?”
“i mean, she was different in the beginning. i know that. but she’s… she’s special to me. i get fucking miserable at the idea of not having her around me. and we still clash at times, we still argue, it’s not perfect. but i love her to death.”
your brother still has that frown on his face. he doesn’t know what he finds uncannier — the way mingyu describes your character and relationship, or the fact that he doesn’t recognize this at all in his own situation.
“you really love her?”
“yeah, i do.”
“wow, i didn’t... know that was happening,” he breathes out, finding it more curious than anything. “how long did it take? to get to this point, i mean.”
“a while. we had a bit of a rocky start, but given our history, that was only natural. and then things gradually shifted, i guess. why?”
“no reason in particular, i just... my marriage is different, i suppose.” when your husband raises a brow, wonwoo shrugs his shoulders. “don’t get me wrong, i love my wife, i do. i just didn’t think that — what you have with my sister — was possible.”
“depends on the person you’re with. and the effort you’re putting into it. i mean, if you weren’t married, would you choose to get with her again?”
the speechless stare into the distance says enough. the corner of mingyu’s mouth quirks up into something of amusement, and so your brother weakly defends himself. “it’s just—you know, she was from a good family, and my parents loved her from the start—”
“but you’re not in love with her.”
wonwoo sighs. “so you’re saying you would? if you weren’t married, you’d seriously marry my sister again?”
“in a heartbeat,” mingyu responds, bringing the cigarette back to his lips, and your brother sinks deeper into his seat, not sure what to do with himself.
a few weeks later, you’re seated in the church with mingyu beside you, both of you dressed up. it’s the first time you’re attending a wedding as a couple.
“something wrong?”
you huff, shifting on the uncomfortable wooden bench. “no, it’s just not a very comfortable seat to have for a couple hours. i swear, anyone willingly doing their wedding ceremony in a church...”
he frowns at that. “need i remind you that we got married in a church?”
“keyword in my statement was willingly.” you shake your head, and when he still appears confused, you lean closer to him, making sure no one hears your conversation. “i didn’t even want to get married in a church. or in the summer. and god, don’t even get me started on that atrocious wedding bouquet—”
mingyu stifles a chuckle. “is there anything you did like?”
as if forcing yourself to remember the event, you narrow your eyes. “you were wearing a nice suit. my dress was alright. not my first pick, but still pretty.”
“well, you looked gorgeous. but why didn’t you say anything about those things? it was your mother who arranged most of it.”
the blank stare sent his way is enough of an answer. still, you add, “she just wanted something that’d appeal to everyone. you have no idea how much i had to fight just to wear a dress i remotely liked.”
it sparks an interest in him. “so, if we got married again, and you were allowed to determine everything, what would you want?”
you tilt your head in thought. “i’d want a smaller amount of guests than before. a fall wedding sounds nice, though spring is also beautiful. a different dress, different food, something more intimate. more personal. having dinner and drinks in a garden, candles on the tables... something dreamy and romantic, i’d love that.”
“sounds beautiful,” he murmurs, imagining it, lifting your hand so he can press a kiss to the gold wedding band you’ve got on your finger.
it won’t be there forever. every day that passes is a day closer to the expiration date written in your contract, which he’s really starting to dread.
“i don’t wanna be divorced from you,” he whispers, the first time he addresses what you’ve been holding off all this time.
“i don’t either,” you tell him earnestly, “but you know how it is. we’ve got contractual obligations to carry out. i’m sure my mother has already set her eye on a new man for me, once everything’s done.”
it’s obvious you couldn’t be any less happy about it. he can’t stand it — the grip your family has on your life. it’s the one thing that constantly tries to pull you away from one another, and once the divorce rolls around, it will.
with his chest tightening, he sighs. “yeah, i know. it’s what we agreed to, but... it’s gonna be hard.”
you nod, squeezing his hand.
in a year, you’ll no longer be his, and that thought alone makes him feel sick.
he puts his arm around you, pulling you closer to him, hoping it will make the knowledge of what’s bound to happen go away, even for a little while.
THE DIVORCE IS, unfortunately, front page news.
shock, surprise, and a group of people cleverly throwing around the classic i-told-you-so comment — it seems to be the main topic of conversation everywhere, even though you’d planned to handle it discreetly.
things between you and mingyu end on a strange note. using the term end doesn’t feel right, since it doesn’t feel like either of you decided to actually put an end to it.
you both remain quiet about the reason for the divorce, even giving vague answers to those in your social circle. no one gets it; you’re divorced, so why are you continuing to be seen talking to one another at social events?
it sparks questions, of course. your mother highly disapproves, and the moment wonwoo accidentally mentions that your marriage turned out to be more real than it was ever supposed to be, she knows she needs to take measures to steer you back in the right direction.
little does she know her actions only lead you into the opposite.
she picks out a new guy for you to be sweet on like a pair of gold earrings to add to her already extensive collection, and naturally she picks the one guy you’d never get together with.
james.
it’s such a laughingly bad choice that it’s almost funny. you and him look perfect together on paper, sure, with your families being good friends, you and him being the same age and having attended the same private schools.
what makes the whole thing even lousier is that this isn’t an agreement like it was with mingyu. you actually have to pretend you like him, act like you and your husband weren’t a good match.
it’s fucking horrible. you’ve never had this strong of an urge to stab yourself with a dinner knife, so you should give it to the guy — that is quite the accomplishment, given the sheer amount of bullshit everyone keeps throwing into your lap.
it makes you tired of everything. you only look forward to social outings because it’s the only opportunity you have left to see mingyu again.
whenever you speak to one another now, it’s mostly banter. you’re not the type to actively voice how much you miss eachother, not like that. but you both feel it. it lingers in every shared drink, every conversation.
james, the insecure little man that he is, still doesn’t like how much you keep talking to your ex-husband. doesn’t mingyu see that you’re his now? that he won?
clearly not, he finds, because in spite of mingyu being the plus-one of a beautiful woman at the party tonight, his gaze is still locked on you the whole time.
you’ve noticed his presence, as well as his date’s, and pure jealousy rushes through you. even if you haven’t told him your relationship with james is only a thing because your mother wanted it to be, you sure hoped he understood.
to show up at an event hosted by your family’s company, uninvited, with another woman, is a bold statement. one that makes you want to claw at his face, if you’re being honest.
you’re ordering a drink at the bar, and very subtly, mingyu intends to walk over to you, only to find the one and only person he’d hoped to avoid tonight standing right in front of him.
and the boy already speaks before he can get a socially acceptable greeting out of his mouth. “you’re not wanted here.”
your ex remains unmoved by it. “i wasn’t aware you’re handling the guest list tonight.”
“i don’t want you talking to her.”
the mere mention of you causes him to stiffen, but he plays it off smooth enough to make it untraceable. “she’s a grown woman, i’m pretty sure she can decide that herself.”
quite a hypocritical response to give, mingyu realizes, since he said almost the same thing back when you were still his.
but he’s too far into this to admit it. or to care.
“or you could just listen to me, her boyfriend, when i say she doesn’t want anything to do with you.”
mingyu pushes his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “how was she? my wife, when you slept with her.”
james is taken aback by the bold question, simply not enough of a quick thinker to come up with a proper reply rather than the stutter that leaves him.
but your ex doesn’t give him the time of day. “she used to tense, right in the middle of fucking, and she’d come and get those… electric shocks. i miss that. did she do that?”
whatever it is that flashes behind the boy’s eyes, it’s anything but recognition, which confirms what he already thought; you haven’t had sex with him.
good.
“she’s—we’re fine.”
taunting him, mingyu slowly nods, no longer interested in continuing the conversation now that he’s gotten what he needed. like clockwork, you appear right in his field of view, standing out in the crowd of people, and he shoots a curt excuse me to your boyfriend before leaving him alone.
several faces across the room turn when mingyu approaches you. a shiver goes down your spine as he comes closer, an effect none of your other romantic partners have ever had on you.
god, you almost forgot how masculine he is. the broad shoulders, the confidence in his walk — though he looks particularly handsome tonight.
“oh, i don’t trust that look,” is the first thing you say to him, and it immediately makes something flourish in his chest. it proves that this is all he came here for tonight. you.
“what look?”
“the one you’ve been giving me all night. like you know exactly what i’m thinking.”
“so you’ve been looking at me all night?” his hands sit in his pockets, and he makes sure to hold eye contact with you. “i mean, we both know you’ve hardly paid attention to your little boyfriend.”
“oh, wow. you really have been staring at me for the whole evening.”
“well, we were married for three years. i’ve always looked at you.”
“we’re not married anymore,” you tell him, putting your hands behind your back, “and i pay enough attention to james.”
“do you?”
“yes,” you hiss, irritation subsiding as quickly as it came, and you force yourself to look away from him. “he’s great. really great.”
“trying to convince yourself or me?”
you narrow your eyes at him. “why would i need to convince you of anything?”
“probably ‘cause i’m the only one who knows you well enough to see through you.”
“for now.”
“you know, he just came up to talk to me, all territorial about you,” he says as he takes a step closer, “and i couldn’t help but wonder why you haven’t slept with him yet. if he’s so great like you claim.”
you scoff. “who says we haven’t?”
“hey, i get it. he’s insufferable.”
“mingyu, you’re my ex-husband. i’m not gonna discuss my sex life with you.”
“well, we don’t have to discuss it.”
with a smug smile, he peers down at you, and you hate the effect it has on your body, not to mention what he’s implying. “you’re not serious.”
“i’m dead serious.”
“he’s—i have a boyfriend.”
he lowers his voice. “i’ll leave you alone if you can tell me, truthfully, that you like him in the slightest.”
several guests around are still stealing glances at the pair of you, and with him clearly not backing away from you either, you feel the incessant need to get away from the crowd.
“come with me,” you gesture, turning your back to him, and he follows you out of the room.
the only benefit of the party being hosted on your turf means you know exactly where to go if you don’t want to be disturbed.
in this case, that means your office, which is located on the floor above you.
you all but shove him inside as soon as you’ve reached the top of the stairs. slamming the door behind you, your chest moves rapidly, up and down. “you’ve lost your fucking mind to drop by at an event where you’re obviously not welcome. and with a goddamn date too. it’s only been a couple months since our divorce—”
“says the girl who has a boyfriend already,” he cuts in, “and the only reason i came in with that woman — who is nothing more than an old friend — was to see you.”
“well, i don’t really wanna see you if you pull stunts like that.”
“we both know that’s not true.”
“god, you need to stop.”
“stop what?”
“you keep talking to me, about us, about my fucking sex life with my boyfriend—” you make the mistake of briefly glancing at the wooden desk, your voice lost on you when you have to inhale sharply.
and he sees it happen. “i’ve fucked you over that desk. you remember?”
“what?”
“i can see you thinking about it.”
“i wasn’t,” you tell him, “and for the record, you didn’t just fuck me, i’d say i was an active participant.”
he fucking loves that you still find it in you to talk back to him when you’re so obviously flustered by the entire ordeal. “usually, yes, you were very active, but occasionally, you preferred it being done to you. this was one of those times.”
unfortunately, he’s right. but you’re not willing to give in so easily.
“why would you mention that?”
his voice is suave and sharp. “why would you think about it?”
the all-black attire is a criminally good look on him. his shoes are neatly laced and polished, his slacks perfectly pressed and free of wrinkles. the buttons of his dress shirt remind you how good his massive forearms look when his sleeves are rolled up. your gaze scans his entire body, entirely focused on how the top two buttons of his shirt are undone, revealing a bit of dark chest hair.
you’re so lost in your own thoughts that his movement toward you startles you out of your lustful thinking.
you gulp, unable to stop the memory of him touching you on your desk from replaying in your head. “i didn’t even think about it until you reminded me of it.”
he doubts it. but if you want to play this game, sure, he’ll play. “your boyfriend probably thought about fucking you here too. then again, that might be a little too much for him.”
“how would you know?”
“well, i told him how pretty you look when you come,” he answers truthfully, “and he didn’t strike me as a guy who knows what to do with you.”
it’s been months since you had sex, and it’s left both of you awfully pent up, clearly. just standing near one another in a room full of people was enough to feel it.
and now that you’re alone, it’s even worse.
you decide not to deny it anymore. “no, he wouldn’t know what to do with me.”
the cold wood of the desk suddenly touching the back of your thighs brings you to realize he’s been cornering you this whole time, getting you right where he wants you.
if you couldn’t remember why you always found his demeanor so attractive, you sure as hell do now. he’s ridiculously good at it — the way he crowds you, looking down at you, following your every move with his eyes. and he’s fucking smug about it, too.
you look up at him, challenging him, because you knew exactly what you were doing by bringing him up here.
the kiss is frantic, messy, a blur of sensation as your body presses closer to his, desperate for more. a soft gasp slips from your lips, mingling with his, and in your frantic fervor, you bite down on his lower lip, hard enough to taste copper.
he has to bite back a moan at the mere taste of your lipstick.
god, he wonders how the hell he made it through the past months without this, without you.
the familiar smell of your hair nearly sends him into overdrive. he touches you like a man starved, too greedy to take his time with you the way he’s always done.
his hands are everywhere, roaming down your hips, fondling your breasts. when his lips leave yours, they trail down your neck, nipping at the skin above your collarbone, and the sweet kiss on your stomach is the only warning you get before he hikes up your dress and dives in between your legs.
“shit,” you choke out, sounding so pornographic that it makes his cock twitch.
sucking in a breath, it’s too much at once, and you’re not sure whether to pull him closer or to push him away.
he only lifts his head to scold you. “hold still.”
your breathlessness isn’t enough to stop you from defying him. “you’ve never held still during all those times i sucked your dick, either.”
yeah, he’s missed you. “maybe you wouldn’t be such a brat if you had your hands tied.”
infuriatingly, your body betrays how you feel about the suggestion. his eyes briefly flick down at the sight of your thighs clenching together.
when he looks back up at you, you shrug, taunting him by nodding at his belt. “maybe.”
he doesn’t have to think it over for another second. while you pull your dress over your head, discarding it on the floor, his belt comes off in the blink of an eye, wrapped and neatly secured around your wrists. he pushes the small stack of documents and pens off the desk, laying you down, and you shiver from the coldness of the polished hardwood against your back.
you can feel his fingers moving, hooking his finger under your panties to pull them down, the cool air hitting your exposed skin only spurring on the wetness collecting between your thighs.
his tongue dips in abruptly and you inhale sharply, trying not to jerk up a bit from the sudden sensation. he licks a slow stripe along the length of your slit, puffy folds swollen with arousal.
the words are stolen from you as he starts to probe with his tongue, lapping at your arousal and groaning softly before licking teasingly on your clit.
he doesn’t stop when looking up at you, finding you exactly as desperate and wanting as he expected.
“so now,” you choke out, voice strained, “you decide to take it slow?”
the comment drives him to wordlessly push two thick fingers into your pussy. you clench around him with a moan, head falling back to expose your throat. he groans, runs his sticky lips over your neck as he sets a pace with his fingers. with it, he presses his thumb to your clit, pressing and swirling.
it’s embarrassing how fast he gets you to be a whimpering, moaning mess under him. your hair is everywhere, lipstick smudged, sweat beading on your forehead.
above you, mingyu is losing his composure just as much as you are. the grip of his hand on your thigh is harsh, digging into your flesh, and he’s aching for you to fall apart, to be inside you.
“fuck,” he murmurs, his mouth back on you, sucking your clit into his mouth. it’s a sharp ache that bursts behind your eyes — you nearly jump off the desk from it. he’s enthusiastic, eating you without care for himself. he chases and chases until you’re done, crying.
“fuck. please, gyu—” your thighs tighten around his head, and he smiles against your pussy, continuing.
your entire body shakes, lifting off the desk, curling forward, clawing at mingyu’s arms. when he releases your clit, his arms go around you, dragging you to the edge of the desk.
his hips roll against yours, and despite still shaking from the orgasm, you can’t help leaning into his every touch.
jesus, you want him to fucking use you until you’re both empty.
“bend over the desk. i want you to hold onto it,” he orders, manhandling you into the position. with your chest against the flat surface, you hear a zipper sliding along its track, the shuffle of clothes, and he sinks inside you.
“gyu,” you murmur, and the sound he makes in response goes straight to your pussy.
he lightly nods his head, hands squeezing tighter on your hips. “i know, sweetheart, i know.”
he keeps you in place, leaving you unable to move much as he snaps his hips against you, his cock hitting so deep you feel him in your stomach. the sound of your bodies coming together over and over again is loud in the room, nearly swallowing up his harsh grunts and your breathy moans of pleasure.
“perfect,” he groans. “made for me.”
he goes all in, fucking you until every thrust punches the air from your lungs and your knuckles turn white from gripping the table beneath you.
with his left hand still holding onto the desk, he uses his right to tilt your chin up, his nose buried in your hair. “tell me you need me.”
arching your back, you try to catch your breath, having to force yourself to focus on anything other than the way he feels inside you.
he grunts when you clench around him. “tell me.”
“need you,” is what immediately comes out of your mouth, the words dragged out in a soft, whiny sound.
it nearly makes him spiral. he’s completely lost in it, his pace changing as he struggles to stay afloat.
keeping one hand on your throat, he reaches between your legs to play with your clit, adding a bit of tension in the way he holds onto you. it only takes a few gentle circles of your clit before you’re clenching hard around him.
he grinds forward, a guttural moan escaping him as he stills, his hips slammed flush against yours.
the whimpered cry that rolls up your throat and bursts forth from between your lips is unobstructed. your pussy squeezes around him even as he continues to move inside you. his actions only prolong it, drawing it out, seeking more as your hips writhe in time with him.
the aftershocks are the worst part. not because they’re painful, but because the muscles in your thighs won’t stop twitching. his smile against your neck tells you all you need to know — he’s smug, downright satisfied with how you fell apart for him.
there’s a brief pause of silence before the grip of his hand eases up on your throat. he slides out of you, causing you to whimper at the loss. he eases you down on the flat surface, your limbs almost giving out.
your bound hands are dangling off the edge of the desk. another little aftershock hits you when he leans over your body, raising his arm to remove the belt from your wrists.
he turns you around to be able to look at your face, and you sit up, fingers resting at the opening of his shirt. he feels your hand slip underneath the fabric to touch his chest.
he doesn’t stop you. instead, he leans into your touch, claiming your mouth. you only pull away from each other to catch a breath.
“was it too tight?” he hears himself ask upon the sight of the leather’s strain marks on your skin, ears still ringing a little from his orgasm.
“no, it was good. i was just… pulling on it a lot,” you say, wincing a little when you finally get to lay your arms beside your body after having them above your shoulders the entire time.
reaching down, he picks up your dress, handing it back to you. putting it on again feels horrible. your body aches more from the separation of your bodies than what he did to you.
you’re adjusting the skirt when he lifts his hand to fix your hair. his index finger brushes past your cheek, and he smiles at you, remembering just how much he misses waking up next to that pretty face of yours.
fuck, you’re dreading leaving this room.
but you can’t stay here, you’ve been gone too long already. it’s rather surprising no one has stopped by your office to check where you are.
on the interior balcony overlooking the ground floor, you glance at the guests below whilst all of them are blissfully unaware of your presence above them.
you lean against the doorpost, and mingyu notices the sudden stiffness of your jaw. “hey, what’s wrong?”
with a sigh, you shake your head. “i just don’t wanna go down there.”
your ex-husband shrugs. “so don’t.”
easy for him to say. “the last time i told my mother i didn’t feel like attending, she said i was lazy and ungrateful. spoiled. you know how she gets.”
this time, he’s the one who clenches his jaw. “you’re none of those things.”
“i am spoiled. everything i have was handed to me on a silver platter.”
“you’ve had a lot handed to you,” he agrees, “but you work hard. you do your best. you’re smart.”
“and where has that gotten me?” you ask, repressed anger pouring out. “i’m still stuck under my family’s thumb, still treated like a child, or a pawn to use in some business strategy. the only reason i have a high-ranking position in the company is because she still controls me.”
“you could resign. with your connections, you could get a position like that elsewhere in minutes,” he suggests. “hell, i’d kill to have someone like you in my company.”
“you’re just saying that ‘cause of our history.”
“i’m not. you’re competent and reliable. when are you finally gonna start believing that?”
you swallow hard, refusing to look him in the eye.
“i’d go back to you in a heartbeat, you know that?” you whisper. it’s the first time in a long time that your voice breaks.
mingyu wonders if you’ve been aching to return to him as much as he’s been waiting for you to show up at his doorstep with your things. “everything in the house is the same. you could move back in today if you wanted.”
it causes a tear to roll down your cheek, because fuck, you’re ready to call the movers to arrange it right now.
“i want to. but you know how things are.”
he does. he also knows they need to change. “what’re you gonna do when they ask you to marry him?”
“i doubt it’ll come to that.”
“you know it’ll come to that.”
with trembling fingers, you push a strand of hair away from your face. “i don’t know how to get out of it. they won’t accept no for an answer.”
obviously, he could offer you a position in his own company, or fix one for you through his network, but it wouldn’t be right, and you both know it.
“go back to james, to your family. play the part. find a new position in a different company, build your own career, become independent.”
“that’s easier said than done. they’d cut me off entirely, disown me, probably launch a fucking smear campaign against me. god, i’d lose everything.”
“no, you’d gain everything. you’ll have your freedom, you’ll no longer have to walk on eggshells around them, do their bidding. you’re deserving of more respect than they give you.”
“i know that, but i just don’t... i don’t wanna end up alone.”
it’s scary to step away from everything you’ve ever had. he understands that. but you need to do this if you ever want a shot at happiness.
“sweetheart, you’ll always have me. there will always be someone here for you.”
even with tears threatening to spill from your waterline, you’re rolling your eyes at him. “i kind of hate that you always have the best possible response for everything.”
he smiles at you. “that’s why i need you to knock me down a peg. can’t let it get to my head, right?”
“right,” is all you say, mirroring his expression, and your hand finds his, his thumb gently stroking your skin.
PERHAPS YOU SHOULD’VE BEEN CEO, wonwoo thinks to himself at some point. he’s not bad at the job, his leadership is steady and secure. but it’s something that has secretly always lingered in the back of his mind.
the moment you break the news to him that you’ve broken things off with james and plan to resign at your family’s company to start working for another, he’s shocked, to say the least.
he doesn’t feel at ease or at home in the company like he did before, when you were working by his side.
the family is no longer a united front — in terms of business, anyway.
to say your mother is fuming about it would be a severe understatement. she uses every manipulation tactic known to man to try and change your mind, and unsurprisingly, she cuts you off financially, expecting you to run back to her.
chaos ensues when you don’t.
days of waiting for it turn into weeks, and weeks turn into months.
every answer you give to the press about your decision to leave the company oozes composure and class. launching a smear campaign against you is such a bad move, according to the pr agency, that it might even backfire.
wonwoo, being his mother’s favorite, gathers courage he didn’t know he had in him to tell her to stop her relentless pursuit and petty revenge.
and, surprisingly enough, she halts whatever plan she was going to set in motion. not exactly willingly, definitely not out of the kindness of her heart. but she stops.
still, she breaks off all contact with you. it feels heavy at first, but quickly you understand how much of a weight it lifts off your shoulders. perhaps, you think, you should’ve done this sooner.
wonwoo is proud of you for making the decisions that you have. from the sidelines, he watches you build your own career, your own name, with your own talent. the public eye seems to commend you.
finding a replacement for you in the company is no easy feat. you’re not as expendable as your mother thought, a terrible realization that wonwoo continues to feel on a daily basis.
he doesn’t know how to fix it, or if he ever will. he doesn’t know if his mother has it in her to recognize her flaws and faults and rekindle her relationship with you.
regardless of the answer to those questions, he knows that you’re happy and doing well. you’re still private, blunt, severe — you haven’t turned into a completely different person. but you’re happier.
you’re somewhat surprised when he breaks the news of his divorce to you, but given that you’ve found love in the unexpected, he thinks that maybe, it’s possible for him too. time will tell, he supposes.
a good year after you’ve left the company, wonwoo looks through the mail with a coffee mug in hand, and when his eyes catch the wedding invitation, all he can do is smile at himself.
love me a cheesy good ending sorry. like yes do whatever u want live your life the world is ur oyster x
® SANAKIRAS — do not repost, remake or copy my work in any way whatsoever.
tldr: you're grumpy and he's hurt
a/n: i feel rotten on the inside today and this emerged. not proofread
you woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. you’d been grumpy all day, and you knew in your heart of hearts all jeonghan was trying to do was cheer you up, but he was pissing you off even more.
you were laying in bed, stewing in your grumpiness when it reached a breaking point. he was making jokes, poking at your sides, and generally just irritating you further. you were not in the mood to play around, joke, or giggle.
so you snapped, “just leave me alone and shut up.” as soon as the words left your mouth, you wished you could take them back. especially when you saw the way he looked at you after hearing your words.
he looked hurt, and reasonably so. you two had a rule in your relationship: no disrespect. you could get angry, but no hurtful words. it was something you’d agreed on long ago before things even got serious. he wouldn’t tolerate that from you, and you wouldn’t from him. but now here you were, telling him to ‘shut up’ when all he was trying to do was make you feel better.
you watched as he left the room, not saying a word. now you felt even wors than before. you felt small and guilty, knowing you were in the wrong. and to make matters worse, you knew he wouldn't retaliate. he never raised his voice or even took a tone with you. he treated you with the utmost care and respect and you had just completely disregarded that by being disrespectful to him.
jeonghan could not raise his voice at you, but sometimes he really wanted to. there was something in him that just couldn’t do it. even now, in the living room by himself after being told to shut up, he couldn’t even imagine yelling. he knew that would accomplish nothing. so he did what you asked and left you alone. you stayed in the bedroom and he stayed out. he knew eventually you’d come out, but he was hurt by the way you spoke to him, so he kept his distance. he knew he was owed an apology, and you weren’t ready to give him that, so instead of making the situation any worse, he left you alone.
a few hours and many tears later, you finally emerged from the bedroom. slinking your way to the living room like a dog with its tail between its legs. you knew he heard you, the creaky floorboards giving you away but he didn’t look up at you; he kept his gaze laser-focused on whatever show he’d been watching.
“hannie?” you called out to him from the doorway, scared to approach in case he was still upset with you. you were relieved when he immediately looked up at you, eyes soft and a little sad, probably matching your own.
you padded across the room and at beside him on the couch, afraid to say anything. you knew you were in the wrong, knew you owed him an apology and an explanation. that didn’t make actually saying it any easier.
you took a deep breath. “i’m sorry. you didn't deserve that. i know you were trying to help but i was not in the headspace to receive that and i took it out on you which isn’t fair to you.” you spared a sidelong glance at him, surprised to see his focus entirely on you.
he blinked slowly, holding your gaze as he said, “it’s not the fact that you asked me to leave you alone that upsets me. its the way you said it. we don't speak to each other that way, lovie.” he reached fo your hand, “i know you were in a bad mood, and maybe i pushed too many buttons, but i don’t like the way you spoke to me, at all.”
you squeezed his hand, “i know. that wasn’t fair of me. you deserve more than that. we deserve more than that. i was just so frustrated and it just came out of me. as soon as i said it, i regretted it and was too ashamed to face you until now.” you could feel the lump in your throat and the tears in your eyes, you looked away from him.
he gently pulled your chin back towards him, brushing a stray tear from your cheek, “i’m sorry too. i knew you were grumpy and i shouldn’t have bothered you so much. i just wanted to see you smile.” he gave you a weak smile of his own, which you returned. “next time just tell me you need space. i won’t ever be offended by you just expressing your feelings.”
you sniffled, “okay. i’m sorry.”
he kissed your forehead, “all is forgiven, lovie.”
I have two wips in progress, and let me know which one you’d like me to post first :)
1) Mr mystery part two (mortal coups x celestial being reader)
2) raw, primal: fear (title could be changed) (jeonghan x chef!reader, zombie apocalypse au)
I don’t think I’ll be uploading them until maybe next week, but which one would you prefer first anyways? let me know and thank you for interacting with my post :)
if u guys also have any ideas or requests do let me know ik i took so long making the last one but it was super fun to write (thank u for trusting me)
Chwe Hansol x F!Reader
Tgs.Enemies? to lovers, everyone is super gay-and horny- sorry -not sorry-, atempt of crack, SMUT! unprotected sex (safe sex is great sex) Um, im too lazy tu put sum tags srry, SOONYOUNG'S TIGER AGENDA!!!!!
An. Yay! Im finally back, after, like a month?? I'm really sorry about thta, but i went tru sum shit;
While writing this story, I kept asking myself: Should I keep going? Honestly, I was pretty unhappy with how it was turning out; I couldn't find the right flow, and it was driving me crazy. At times, I found it boring, pointless, or overly dramatic—none of which was what I wanted—and on top of that, it didn't really align with the prompt provided by the lovely person who made the request. I was really torn about it; I’m not kidding when I say I have about eight drafts of this story, yet I still feel like the result is pretty bad. But I’ve got to get back on track, lol.
Anyway, a huge thank you to @aikadirii for the request. I am so incredibly sorry for how long it took me to get this done, and thank you so much for your patience—I hope you enjoy it.
And also, kudos to @gent1es3xy for creating the header for this story! Thank you for sharing a bit of your beautiful skill and talent with me!!
Wednesday 10th 2:00 p.m.
Classes had just finished. You were on your way to the fine arts majors building (Or whatever it's called), where you were supposed to meet Minghao after finishing his lecture, in about 30 minutes.
“Where do you think you’re going in such a rush, Miss?”
The familiar, sharp-tongued cadence of a certain voice pulled you right out of your post-lecture trance. You blinked, halting in the middle of the quad just before the double doors of the Humanities building.
It was Boo Seungkwan, The Boo Seungkwan.
He was standing radiating energy, holding a massive, dangerously high stack of neon pink flyers against his chest. Standing right next to him was Soonyoung, wearing an oversized graphic tee, sweatpants, and a backwards snapback, actively trying to balance a single flyer on the tip of his nose while looking entirely pleased with himself.
They were a perfect match.
“Kwan. Soonyoung,” you sighed, though the rigid line of your shoulders instantly softened.
Apart from Minghao, Seungkwan was the one person you couldn't bring yourself to be cold to. He was dramatic and loud, sure and the complete opposite of you, but in a "good way", but he was the only part of your past that you didn't bury. And he had an amazing work ethic that you secretly respected.
And Soonyoung, Soonyoung is Soonyoung. He's just a sweetheart (Not so sweetheart when he decides to be
“I’m actually on my way to catch Minghao before his class block ends. What are you guys doing? Is this a protest?”
“Worse,” Soonyoung chimed in, the flyer falling off his face as he caught it with a lightning-fast reflex, flashing you a bright grin. “It’s a recruitment drive. We are spreading the gospel of the arts, one neon sheet at a time.”
“It is a cultural awakening,” Seungkwan corrected, cutting Soonyoung a look before stepping closer into your personal space, thrusting one of the hot-pink papers directly under your nose.
“And lucky you! Your two favorite seniors are handing you the opportunity of a lifetime on a silver platter. Look at it. Read it with your eyes.”
You squinted at the flyer. Printed in bold, chaotic, Comic Sans lettering across the top was:
“A singing contest?” You raised an eyebrow, you were about to ask about the TIGER shit, but your corporate-wired brain immediately started calculating the time-to-benefit ratio. “Kwan, you know I don't do things like this. I am a business major, I don't sing, and I have—”
“A massive, gaping hole where your fun should be,” Seungkwan interrupted smoothly, dramatizing his tone a lil too much, pouting his lip in a way that he knew exactly how to use to his advantage.
Then he leaned in, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “Listen to me girly girl, girly business major, miss missy miss executive. The grand prize this year is sponsored by the alumni association. It’s two thousand dollars cash. Two. Thousand. Dollars.”
“Two thousand?” you repeated.
“Exactly,” Seungkwan said. He grabbed your forearm, giving it a gentle squeeze. “And here is the catch—I need a partner. A reliable, disciplined, non-flaky partner. I was going to ask someone from the vocal department, but they’re all so dramatic and high-maintenance. But you? You have structure. You keep a schedule. You’re perfect. And you can keep the money, I’m just doing this for the love of art.”
“Kwan, I haven't sung in front of a crowd since high school,” you pointed out, though you were already opening the calendar app on your phone. “By the way, Soonyoung, what's with the tiger propaganda shit?” You finally asked while taking a look at your packed calendar.
“I'm a tiger!” Soonyoung blurted out, bouncing on the balls of his feet making a weird claw thing with his hands.
“It's right after the mid-semester rush, Seungkwan!—” You were about to start complaining about the inconveniences this event might bring, when Seungkwan interrupted you again.
“Yeah! The stage is gonna be set up in the central courtyard. It’s a whole festival vibe. Food trucks, loud speakers, everything to relax after the most stressful week EVER to exist,”
Wednesday the 24th. The afternoon was completely clear. With some aggressive time management over the next days, you could easily shift your study blocks around to make room for a few rehearsals.
“Fine,” you said, letting out a defeated but genuine smile as you looked at Seungkwan’s sparkling, expectant eyes. “I’ll do it. I'll clear some of my afternoons so we can rehearsal whatever you have in mind. But if we enter this, we are winning it. I don't do participation trophies, Kwan.”
“Yes! I knew my structural queen wouldn't let me down!” Seungkwan cheered, nearly dropping his entire stack of flyers as he threw his free arm around your neck in a brief, suffocating hug. “We’re gonna dominate. I already have a list of songs in my head.”
“Hey, if you guys need someone to produce the backing track or tweak the EQ on your mic levels, you should ask Hansol, i think i put that in the poster.” Soonyoung said casually, leaning against a concrete pillar and tossing a stray marker into the air. “He's a literal god with live audio setups. He helped me mix the track for my dance crew last term and it sounded absolutely massive.”
“Who?” You asked.
“Hansol,” Seungkwan answered, as he straightened his pink flyers. “Chwe Hansol. Oh, he’s the absolute best. He looks like a total slacker—well, he is a total slacker—but his ears are incredible. He’s so sweet once you get past the quiet, scary look. We love him.”
“Oh, I'll have that in mind.”
“Alright, alright, we're not distracting you anymore, so don't get your syllabus in a twist,” Seungkwan laughed, nudging your shoulder playfully. “I’ll text you the track options tonight. Now go find Hao before he has a meltdown because you're not there to pick him up.”
You gave them a final nod, and walked away toward the arts building.
You checked your watch as you neared the back entrance of the fine arts building. 2:10
Technically, you were twenty minutes early based on the schedule Minghao had given you on at the beginning of the semester.
But the moment you spotted him pacing outside the glass double doors, pacing in the hallway like a stray cat, you realized the arts department had pulled another unannounced time shift.
The moment Minghao caught sight of you, his entire posture shifted from a tense, pacing wire to a dramatic sigh of relief. He didn't even wait for you to reach the doors before pushing them open.
“You're late, but thank god you're here! If I had to stand out there for another five minutes listening to the theater majors argue about avant-garde lighting design, I was going to explode.”
“Nice to see you too, Hao,” you laughed, adjusting your tote bag as he practically marched you down to the exit. “And technically, I'm twenty minutes early. What happened to your lecture block?”
“The professor let us out early because he claimed the 'vibe of the studio was too stagnant today,'” Minghao scoffed, rolling his eyes, though there was a fond familiarity in it. “Which translates to: he wanted to go home and nap. But I'm not complaining. Come on, I need to grab coffee, after that, let's go to your place.”
“Excuse me? My place?” You asked him while he dragged you to the cafeteria.
“So,” Minghao ignored you, throwing a sideways glance at you as you navigated a hallway. “I ran into Seungkwan about an hour ago. He looked like a man possessed by a neon pink demon. Did you see him?”
“Oh yes, I did.”
“My condolences”
“And he actually recruited me for the contest thingy”
Minghao stopped dead in his tracks, turning to look at you with wide, disbelieving eyes. “He what? You? Miss 'I don't have time for unbudgeted socializing' agreed to Seungkwan's festival shenanigans?”
“There is a two thousand dollar cash prize, Hao,” you defended, raising an index finger. “And my afternoons for the week of the 24th are completely clear if I double my study hours this weekend. It's a calculated risk for high return.”
“Riiiight. Not because you have a massive softspot for Seungkwan, and you would say yes to him even if he asks you to jump off a cliff,” Minghao teased, an affectionate smirk playing on his lips as he started walking again. “Well, good luck. Rehearsing with Seungkwan is a full-time job. He's going to treat you like a trainee before a debut. I heard he makes freshmen cry with his coaching.”
“I can handle Seungkwan, and no, I don't have a soft spot for him.” You sighed “It's the technical side I'm wondering about,” you muttered, “Soonyoung mentioned someone named Chew…Hansol? Said he does the audio mix for the stage.”
Minghao’s expression shifted, his smirk fading into something a bit more nuanced—a mix of amusement and a warning. “Ah. Chwe Hansol.” He corrected you, “I know him! He's my best —male— friend!”
“Best friend? Since when do you have friends I haven't vetted?”
“Since he transferred back from his exchange program last month. He’s a good guy. Super laid-back, real nonchalant, does a lot of production work and digital design. I call him Vernon, mostly.”
“Vernon,” you repeated, testing the name out. It sounded artsy but grounded, the exact kind of person Minghao would choose to spend time with. You offered a genuine, supportive smile, nudging his shoulder with yours. “Well, if he managed to survive your standards of friendship, he must be decent. Bring him along to the café later. I’ll buy him something.”
Minghao paused by the cafeteria entrance, his phone already out as his thumb flew across the screen. “ Oh! You're paying? Let me text him, he’s absolutely coming. He survives entirely on iced americanos and whatever snacks he can scavenge, so free food is his ultimate weakness.”
He typed out a quick message, grunting in satisfaction when a reply came back almost instantly. “He's already in the student lounge downstairs, probably pretending to work. Let's grab the coffees first, then we'll head down.”
Ten minutes later, armed with three iced americanos and a couple of pastries, you followed Minghao down the concrete stairs toward the main lounge.
The main lounge was notoriously chaotic—a lot of students here and there, some of them working on , some of them just hanging out etc.,
Sitting in an uncomfortable-looking plastic chair was the so-called Chwe Hansol, slouched so low his spine looked optional.
And as soon as you saw him, all your alarm bells went off. "Is this guy Minghao's friend?" you wondered.
He wasn't exactly a stranger to you; he was in one of your filler classes, work ethic.
At first glance, he seemed like a lazy, useless slacker. He never attended class; you rarely saw him there, and when you did leave, you'd find him wandering around, smoking whatever cigarette he could get his hands on at the time. Another thing you'd noticed about him was that he always turned in his assignments—the ones he dared to do occasionally—a few weeks late. And you couldn't understand why the hell they were always accepted.
“Vernon!” Minghao called out, throwing a crumpled napkin at him.
The guy didn't flinch. He slowly turned his head, blinking against the sudden intrusion. When he saw Minghao, a lazy, slow-burning grin spread across his face. “Yo, Hao.”
“Brought a guest,” Minghao said, stepping inside and setting the coffee tray down on the table. “And she brought tribute. Hansol, this is my best —Female— friend from the business department. The one I told you about.”
Hansol slowly sat up, though "sitting up" for him still looked like a slouch. He reached out, his long fingers wrapping around the iced americano you had bought. “Oh. So this is the infamous Hall monitor?” he murmured, his tone completely flat but laced with a faint, amused hum.
“Hall monitor?” you echoed, one eyebrow arched. “That’s cute. Coming from the guy who shows up to class twice a month and still somehow passes.”
Hansol let out a lazy chuckle, not even bothering to sit up straight. He took a long sip from the straw, eyes flicking over you like he was sizing up a mildly interesting exhibit at a museum. “Damn, straight to the throat. Nice to meet you too.”
Minghao dropped into the chair between you two, looking way too entertained for someone who was supposed to be your best friend. “Children, please. We’ve been here thirty seconds.”
“I’m just saying,” you continued, keeping your voice even, “some of us actually show up and do the work on time. Crazy concept, I know.”
Hansol shrugged one shoulder, unbothered. “And some of us actually get shit done even when we don’t sit in a lecture hall pretending to take notes for two hours. Different methods, hall monitor.”
You opened your mouth, but Minghao cut in quickly, pointing between the two of you with his pastry. “Okay, truce. Vernon’s actually really good at what he does. And you,” he nodded at you, “need someone who knows live sound for this thing with Seungkwan, right? So play nice.”
Hansol’s gaze slid back to you, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Seungkwan roped you in? Shit. My condolences. That man’s intense.”
“Yeah, well, there’s money on the line,” you muttered, stirring your drink with the straw even though it didn’t need it. “I don’t do it for fun.”
“Of course you don’t.” The way he said it wasn’t mean exactly, but it still prickled. Like he already had you figured out and found it amusing.
You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms. “Look, if you’re as good as Soonyoung says, maybe you can handle the tech side. That’s it. We don’t have to like each other.”
Hansol’s smirk grew just a fraction. He tapped his fingers against the plastic cup. “Didn’t realize we were declaring war already. Relax. I’ll do the mix. Long as you don’t suck at singing, it’ll sound decent.”
Minghao sighed loudly, rubbing his temple. You ignored him, keeping your eyes on Hansol.
Minghao, ever the peacemaker, changed the subject. “So what song are you guys thinking of?”
“Still waiting on his text,” you admitted. “Knowing him, it'll be or a song from a fem kpop group, or a pop song.”
Hansol snorted softly. “Bet he makes you run it like a military drill. Good luck with that.”
You shot him a flat look. “I can keep up. Question is whether you can actually deliver on the audio.”
For a second, it looked like maybe you’d actually poked at whatever ego he kept buried under all that slacker energy. Then it was gone, replaced by that same half-smile.
“We’ll see, I guess”
Minghao looked back and forth between the two of you like he was watching a tennis match played with live grenades. He took a massive gulp of his iced americano, the straw letting out a loud, empty scratch against the plastic bottom.
“Great,” Minghao said, setting the cup down. “Now that the battle lines are drawn and you've both successfully lowered my life expectancy, can we go? Hansol, we are going to her apartment, you coming or are you going to crawl back into whatever dark hole you came from?”
Hansol tilted his head back, “Can't. Got to meet some guy from the student council about the power supply for the stage. If we blow a fuse during the festival because they wanted to hook up three different taco trucks to the same outlet, it's on them.”
“Look at you, actually working,” you said, gathering your bag. “I'm shocked.”
Hansol cracked one eye open, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Don't get used to it, hall monitor. It’s a one-time fluke.” He picked up the half-eaten pastry Minghao had left on the table, took a massive bite, and gave a lazy wave with two fingers. “See ya, Hao. Bye, corporate.”
“I hope you choke and die,” you muttered as you stood up.
“I'll try my best,” his voice drifted back, already losing interest as he pulled his phone out and slouched even deeper into the plastic chair until he was practically horizontal.
“If you and Hansol are going to do that every time you're in the same room, I'm finding new friends,” his voice was muffled by the fabric.
“He started it,” you said, tossing your keys into the ceramic bowl by the door. You kicked off your sneakers and immediately went to the kitchen island to open your laptop. “He called me a hall monitor, what the fuck is even that? I'm not in everyone's ass!”
Minghao let out a snort, and you just sided eyed him and sighed. “I don't even care that he skips class, I care that the professors give him a pass because he's 'conceptually gifted' or whatever bullshit the department uses to excuse laziness.”
Minghao flipped over onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “Unfortunately for you He is gifted. The guy doesn't try because he doesn't have to. It’s annoying, I get it. But he’s not a bad guy. Just... aggressively relaxed.”
“Anyway, I need to shift my macroeconomics study block from Thursday night to—”
BZZZZ.
Your phone lit up on the counter. It was a text from Seungkwan. Then another. Then another more in rapid succession, followed by a link to a Spotify playlist and three screen-recorded vocal guides.
Kwan 🍊:
WE ARE GOING WITH A CLASSIC. NO DISCUSSION.
[Link: "Good Day" - IU]
WAIT NO.
WRONG LINK.
[Link: "juice" - Lizzo]
FIRST REHEARSAL THURSDAY 4PM OUTSIDE THE AUDITORIUM ANNEX. BE THERE OR I WILL REPLACE YOU WITH A CARDBOARD CUTOUT OF SOONYOUNG
You stared at the screen. Minghao raised an eyebrow from the couch, watching your face transition from calculated control to pure exhaustion.
“What did he pick?” Minghao asked.
“Lizzo,” you groaned, dropping your forehead onto the laptop keyboard. “He wants to do a circus. In front of the entire campus. During the mid-semester festival.”
“Could be worse,” Minghao pointed out, laughing as he stood up to rummage through your fridge. “He could have picked a high-bpm girl group song with choreo. Imagine you doing the choreo for 'Love dive' while trying to maintain your corporate dignity.”
“Don't give him ideas,” you muttered, lifting your head. You typed out a quick, brief reply to Seungkwan: Fine. 4 PM. Don't make me regret this.
Minghao pulled a can of sparkling water from your fridge, cracked it open with a psshht, and leaned against the counter, eyeing you like a cat that had just spotted a laser pointer. “You know, I’m actually looking forward to this presentation of yours. The universe is truly feeding me this month.”
“And look on the bright side,” he said, taking a massive gulp and leaning his hip against the counter. “Juice is a bop. You get to tap into your inner diva. The business school needs to see you show a little skin, metaphorically speaking. Or literally.”
“I am going to strangle him,” you muttered, staring blankly at your Google Calendar, “And you’re paying for the therapy when I choke on an instagram live. I don't even know how to bring 'juice' energy to a campus courtyard. I'm nothing near a performer.”
“Oh, please. You have plenty of attitude, you just channel it all into grading rubrics and judging people who smoke behind the library,” Minghao teased, pointing a spoon that magically appeared at you, Minghao had rummaged your refrigerator again, now holding a carton of almond milk and a small container of leftover overnight oats you’d prepped the night before. “Besides, I think it’ll be good for you. Maybe a little Chwe Hansol audio magic and some Lizzo vocals will cure your chronic rigidity.”
“What the hell? Hey! That's my dinner tonight!” you complained looking at how minghao was practically eating all you had, Minghao just shurged his shoulders, “I'm buying dinner tonight if that makes you feel better.”
You just sighed,“If you say his name in this apartment again, I’m locking you out. And don't talk to me about rigidity when you spent three hours yesterday trying to align the frames on your living room wall with a laser level.”
“That is spatial awareness and respect for visual balance, thank you very much,” he said, entirely unbothered. He took another slow scoop of your oats, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. “But let’s be honest. You’re not just mad that Hansol skips class. You’re mad because he’s the one variable on this campus you can’t schedule or predict. He’s a total slacker, he looks like he doesn't know what day of the week it is, and yet he functions perfectly. It goes against your whole worldview.”
“You know, in fact, I think he liked you,” Minghao said, his eyes gleaming with pure mischief. “Vernon usually looks like he’s asleep even when he’s walking, but the second you started lecturing him, he actually sat up. You woke him up from his permanent state of lethargy. Maybe you’re his type. The scary, organized type.”
You slowly turned your head to look at him, your expression completely blank. “My type is financial stability and people who know what a deadline means,”
“Oh, come on. That’s what we’re going with?” He took a sip of his sparkling water, smirking. “The two of you were practically vibrating. Hansol called you a hall monitor and you looked like you wanted to either deck him or climb him like a tree. Maybe both. At the same time.”
You shot him a glare. “I do not want to climb Vernon. He’s an arrogant, half-asleep slacker who floats through life on pure plot armor and those stupid pretty eyes.”
“Pretty eyes,” Minghao echoed, voice lilting with fake innocence. “Noted.”
“Shut up.”
He grinned wider, pushing off the counter to wander back toward the sofa, having finished his 5-star course meal, without caring to do the dishes he had used. “I’m just saying, the tension is so thick, I give you three months, and you'll be all over him.”
You closed your laptop and swiveled on the stool to face him fully. “You know what? Bold words from someone who’s been playing emotional musical chairs since freshman year.”
“Excuse me?”
“You love to analyze my life from the safety of my couch, but let’s look at your own radar,” you said. “How are things going in the Fine Arts department? Specifically, the dance wing? Have we decided which resident performer we’re pinning our hopes on this week, or are we still playing the field between the contemporary department and the musical theater track?”
Minghao froze. The smug look on his face faltered. “I don't know what you’re implying. I support all my peers in the performing arts.”
“You heard me.” You hopped off the stool and started counting on your fingers. “First it was Seokmin—‘Oh my god, look at him, his laugh could cure seasonal depression, I'm sure he could ease my mind with just his tip’—then suddenly you’re sketching Soonyoung’s side profile during dance practice like he’s your personal Renaissance muse. ‘He’s so passionate, even when he’s doing that tiger agenda nonsense.’ Make up your mind, Hao. You get heart eyes around Seokmin when he hits those high notes, and then five minutes later you’re blushing because Soonyoung looked at you while doing push-ups. Pick a lane, my guy. Or better yet, just ask one of them out instead of sighing into throw pillows in my apartment every other week.”
He throwed an arm over his eyes like a Victorian maiden.“This is betrayal. I came here for emotional support after witnessing your sexual tension circus, and you attack me? In my hour of need?”
“Hour of need?” You walked over and poked his side with your foot. “You’re literally using my throw pillow as a comfort blanket right now. Get your own emotional support sofa.”
Minghao peeked out from under his arm, grinning mischievously. “At least I’m self-aware about my crushes. You’re out here pretending you don’t want to throttle Hansol while also wondering what his hands would feel like—”
“Do not finish that sentence.”
“—on your waist,” he finished anyway, dodging the pillow you hurled at his head with a delighted cackle.
You grabbed another pillow and smacked him with it for good measure. “I hate you.”
“You love me, and at least thank me for using the family version,” he said. “I'm so proud of you, you’re going to that Lizzo performance and I’m coming to watch. Front row.”
“Only if you bring Seokmin and Soonyoung so I can watch you drool for both of them in real time.”
Minghao groaned, but he was smiling. “Touché, truce?”
“Truce,” you agreed, dropping onto the opposite end of the sofa. After a beat, you added, “But seriously… if Vernon calls me a hall monitor one more time, I’m stabbing him to death.”
Minghao nudged your ankle with his foot. “Or you could just kiss him and get it over with. Either way, we all need entertainment.”
You kicked his shin lightly. “Keep talking and I’m texting Seokmin your very detailed sexual rant from last month.”
He sat up instantly. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
The two of you dissolved into laughter, the kind that always seemed to fill your tiny apartment and make the stress of midterms a little more manageable.
Thursday 3:55 p.m.
The Auditorium Annex was an old, slightly damp brick building on the edge of campus. When you arrived, the heavy wooden doors were propped open with an old textbook, and the faint, echoey sound of Seungkwan doing vocal warm-ups vibrated through the hallway.
“Mi-mi-mi-ma-ma-ma—”
You walked inside, expecting just Seungkwan and maybe a stray Soonyoung wandering around. Instead, your eyes landed on the tech table set up against the back wall.
Sitting on top of a flight case, dangling a pair of earphones between his fingers, was Chwe Hansol. He was wearing an oversized hoodie that made the place smell faintly of clove cigarettes, holding a half-empty can of warm Red Bull.
He caught your eye, and that stupid, slow grin immediately crept back onto his face.
“Look who showed up,” Hansol called out, his voice echoing slightly. “And she's five minutes early. Classic.”
“Why the fuck are you here?” you asked, halting your steps as Seungkwan stopped mid-scale.
“I kidnapped him! He was loitering on the grass, so I bribed him with a burrito and the sacred duty of making sure we don’t sound like garbage. Genius, right?”
Hansol hopped off the case with an unhurried grace and strolled toward the center of the room. He stopped right in front of you—closer than necessary—looking down with those calm, unbothered eyes that always made your stomach feel stupid things.
“Room’s got too much low-end resonance,” he said quietly, handing you an wireless mic, “If you belt from the chest too hard, it’s gonna bounce back and sound muddy. Keep it light in the verses. Let Seungkwan do the hard work.”
“I know how to control my voice, thanks.”
“Sure you do. But controlling it and knowing when to hold back are two different things.” His eyes flicked down to your mouth for half a second before returning to yours. “Wouldn’t want you blowing out your pretty vocals before the chorus even hits.”
Heat crawled up your neck. You narrowed your eyes. “Worried about me now? That’s new.”
“Nah,” he murmured, finally stepping back, but not before his shoulder grazed yours. “Just don’t feel like fixing your mistakes when Kwan starts yelling at me for bad sound.” He slid the earphones over his ears and sauntered back to the soundboard, raising a lazy hand.
“Alright, Kwan. Let’s hear it. Start from the top.”
Seungkwan clapped excitedly. “Yes! Energy, people! You two can flirt later.”
“We are not—” you started, but Hansol was already twisting knobs invading the place with loud music.
Seungkwan started hitting the first verse. As you leaned into your lines, you swore you heard Hansol mutter into his mic check, just loud enough for you to catch: “Try not to stare at me the whole time.”
You nearly missed your cue.
5:10 p.m.
Seungkwan clapped his hands once, the sound sharp in the cavernous room. “Again! From the pre-chorus. You’re hitting every note, but it’s giving… nothing.”
You wiped a light sheen of sweat from your forehead and shot him a look. “I’m following the rhythm.”
“You’re following it like it’s a chore,” Seungkwan groaned, dramatic as ever. “This is Lizzo! Juice! Do you understand? JUICE! We need sass, we need swagger, we need you to act like you know you look good in that imaginary outfit. Not like you’re presenting quarterly earnings!”
Hansol’s chuckle crackled through the monitors. You glared toward the soundboard, but he was half-hidden behind his laptop, earphones around his neck, looking far too amused.
“Try loosening your shoulders,” Hansol suggested, annoyingly on-point. “You’re singing like you’re scared. Don't sing with your throat."
“I don’t need your commentary, Hansol.”
“You kinda do,” he replied without. “Your pitch is clean, but your delivery is… constipated.”
Seungkwan threw his hands up. “Exactly! Constipated energy is not what we’re going for!”
You sang the section again, trying to inject more attitude. The notes were still precise—years of classical training made sure of that (and pure un-polished talent)—but you added a little more bite, a little more sway in your hips. When you finished, Seungkwan stared at you for a long second, then sighed deeply.
“Okay. We’re done for today.”
You blinked. “What? We still have forty minutes.”
“No. We’re done.” He pointed at you with the seriousness of a disappointed mentor. “You’re too perfect right now. It’s freaking me out. Go home, watch some Lizzo performances, loosen up, and come back next time ready to be messy. I need fun, not perfection.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but Seungkwan was already packing his bag.
“Seungkwan, are you serious right now?” you asked, marching over to the edge of the stage, where seungkwan was packing his stuff. “We mapped out this rehearsal block to maximize our efficiency. You’re telling me to leave because I’m too reliable? Because I actually prepared?”
Seungkwan stopped pulling his water bottle zipper, looking up at you with an exhausted expression that lacked all of his usual theatricality. “No, I’m telling you to leave because you’re so wrapped up in execution that you’re forgetting to actually connect with the song. It’s a festival, not a job interview.”
“It’s a two-thousand-dollar cash prize. Forgive me if I want to make sure the technical framework is flawless.”
“And what happens when the framework is the only thing left?” Seungkwan’s voice softened. He stepped closer to you. “Look, I know how you get. Ever since... everything that happened, you’ve been running your life like a machine. If it’s not on the schedule, it doesn’t exist. If it’s not perfect, it’s a failure. But you can’t schedule charisma. You’re stubborn, you’re guarded, and you’re using this 'business major precision' as a shield so you don't have to put your actual personality out there.”
The words hit a nerve, raw and uncomfortably accurate. You tightened your grip on your bag, your jaw locking into a rigid line. “My personality is fine, Seungkwan. It’s just disciplined.”
“It’s defensive,” Seungkwan countered gently, though his eyes were firm. “You have beautiful vocals. You know you do. But you’re so terrified of losing control for even a second that you’re choking the life out of the performance. I’m not dismissing you to punish you. I’m dismissing you because staying here right now is just going to make you frustrate yourself into a wall.”
You stood there, you wanted to argue, to pull out your phone and show him the shifted study hours, the calculated time-to-benefit ratio, the sheer effort you’d put into clearing this afternoon. But the look on his face told you he wasn't going to budge.
“Go home,” Seungkwan repeated, offering a small, encouraging nod that felt entirely too much like a peace offering. “Rest. Decompress. Watch the videos I sent you. I’ll see you tomorrow at four, and I expect you to show up at least ten percent less organized.”
You let out a sharp, frustrated breath through your nose, turning on your heel without a word.
Down at the tech table, Hansol started wrapping cables, that infuriating half-smile still playing on his lips as he watched you descend the stage stairs. “Told you.”
“Shut up.”
He just shrugged, unbothered, his large hood shifting over his shoulders as you grabbed the rest of your things and stormed out, the heavy wooden doors of the Annex slamming shut behind you with a definitive, ringing thud.
Your apartment was quiet, the faint scent of lavender still lingering in the air—your designated sanctuary, usually capable of lowering your heart rate within minutes. Today, it felt like an interrogation room.
Your mind involuntarily flashed back to the Annex—the way the dim stage lights caught the sharp line of his jaw when he hopped off the flight case, the casual, effortless grace of his movements, and more than anything, you remembered the way his eyes had flicked down to your mouth, right before he told you not to blow out your pretty vocals.
"God, he is so incredibly annoying," You sat at the island, flipped to a fresh page, and started writing:
You stared at the list, tapping the pen against the paper. After a moment, you added one more line at the bottom:
You dropped the pen and groaned, pressing your forehead against the cool countertop. The worst part wasn’t even hating him. The worst part was knowing that beneath all the irritation, something else was simmering.
Your phone buzzed.
Minghao: So how was rehearsal with the chaos gremlin and your favorite slacker?
You typed back quickly.
You: Seungkwan called me constipated. Hansol agreed. I’m burning Seungkwan alive.
Minghao: Sounds like it went great ❤️, btw im coming over!
You: NO, I am BUSSY.
You tossed your phone aside and looked back at the list. For a second you considered crumpling it up, but instead you folded it neatly and tucked it into the back of your planner.
Out of sight, but definitely not out of mind.
Exactly eleven minutes later, the lock on your front door clicked.
Minghao didn't even bother knocking. He pushed the door open with his hip, holding a greasy brown paper bag that smelled intensely of al pastor tacos. He had already kicked off his shoes before the door even swung fully shut.
“First of all, you spelled 'busy' with two s's in your text, which means you were either typing with pure rage-shakes or you were inviting me to a completely different kind of party,” Minghao announced, walking straight to the kitchen island and dropping the bag right on top of your neat stack of textbooks. “Second of all, I told you I was buying dinner to make up for eating your oats. I keep my liabilities balanced, corporate.”
“I just misspelled, Hao,” you muttered, though the smell of marinated pork and fresh cilantro immediately made your stomach growl, effectively undermining your hostile posture. You pulled the paper bag toward you.
“Sure,” Minghao said, pulling up a barstool and leaning his elbows on the counter. He unwrapped a taco with the precision of a surgeon, taking a neat bite before pointing a finger at you. “So. Spill. How bad was it? Did Seungkwan actually make you cry?”
“Seungkwan didn't make me cry. He just... lacked appreciation for structural integrity,” you said, aggressively tearing open a packet of green salsa. “He told me my delivery was constipated, and Hansol had the AUDACITY to back him up.”
Minghao choked on his taco, his shoulders shaking as he tried to muffle his laughter. “Constipated? Hansol said that? The guy who speaks at a maximum of three words per minute?”
“Yes! And then he told me not to blow out my 'pretty vocals,' which is highly inappropriate and technically inaccurate since my vocal health is excellent,” you went on, the heat returning to your face just thinking about the way he’d said it.
“Oh, he is so gone,” Minghao sighed, shaking his head with a look of profound amusement. “You’re doomed. You know that, right?”
“The only thing doomed is my mental health If I keep letting these art majors derail my evening routine,” you snapped, though you quickly swallowed a mouthful of taco to mask the deflection. You reached for your phone, checking the time. 5:45 p.m. “Speaking of which, drop the matchmaker shit for five minutes. I need to open the student portal. Registration for the mid-semester elective block closes in fifteen minutes.”
Minghao raised an eyebrow, watching you pull your laptop back toward you and type in your student ID. “An elective? Again? Aren't you already taking enough credits to run a small dictatorship?”
“Not long ago a professor told me that corporate recruiters are looking for 'interdisciplinary adaptability' these days,” you explained, your fingers flying across the keyboard as the page loaded. “Apparently, having a transcript that looks like a pure spreadsheet makes me look rigid. He said the more diverse technical skills I can pad my resume with, the better I look against the Ivy League transfers. So, I'm adding a creative tech credit.”
“Right. Because nothing says 'I'm a well-rounded human being' like a forced academic mandate,” Minghao murmured, leaning over your shoulder to look at the screen. “What are the options? Intro to Macro-Micro Synthesis? Business Design Ethics?”
“No, those were full,” you muttered, scrolling down the list of approved cross-disciplinary electives. “I needed something that's more ‘creative’ than that. Here. Introduction to Audio Engineering and Digital Production.”
Minghao went entirely still beside you.
You didn't notice at first, your corporate-wired brain already reading out loud the syllabus synopsis. 'A practical approach to live sound reinforcement, digital audio workstations, and frequency modulation.'
“It looks clean,” you nodded to yourself, clicking the checkbox next to the course code. “It counts as a practical lab credit, it proves I can handle technical hardware outside of a standard corporate framework, and it’s three credits. Perfect.”
“Perfect,” Minghao repeated. His voice had dropped into a pitch that was entirely too quiet, entirely too full of a strange, vibrating energy.
You paused, your finger hovering over the final 'Submit Registration' button. You turned your head slowly to look at him. “Why are you making that face?”
“No reason,” Minghao said, his lips twitching as he took another sip of his sparkling water. “It’s a great class. Very technical. Lots of cables. Very organized.”
“Hao.” You narrowed your eyes. “What do you know?”
“I don't know anything,” he said, though a massive, wicked grin was rapidly breaking through his fake innocence. He stood up from the stool, backing away toward the living room with his hands raised. “I just think it’s beautiful how the universe works. You want resume padding, and the Fine Arts department… well, the Fine Arts department needs someone to help manage the lab equipment.”
You looked back at the screen. Your eyes skipped past the course description, down to the bottom of the portal page where the faculty and student-assistant listings were printed in tiny, gray font.
Lead Instructor: Dr. Lee —
Lab Assistant / Technical Supervisor: Chwe, H. (Fine Arts / Sound Design)
You stared at the name. Chwe, H.
“No,” you whispered.
“Yes,” Minghao rejoiced, throwing himself face-down into your couch cushions, his muffled laughter vibrating through the fabric. “Oh my god. You registered for his kingdom. You voluntarily walked into the lion’s den for a resume bullet point!”
“I can drop it,” you said quickly, your mouse moving erratically toward the cancel button. “I can find something else. There has to be a ceramics class or a—"
A bright red banner flashed across the top of the screen.
[PORTAL CLOSED. REGISTRATION PERIOD FOR ELECTIVE BLOCK B IS NOW LOCKED. ANY CHANGES REQUIRE A CHAIRPERSON'S SIGNATURE.]
You stared at the screen, the glowing white light reflecting in your wide, horrified eyes.
From the couch, Minghao lifted his head, a look of pure, unadulterated ecstasy on his face. “Class starts next Monday at 10:00 a.m., hall monitor. Make sure you show up early. I heard the lab assistant is really strict about his attendance.”
You dropped your head onto the cool surface of the kitchen island, You were going to kill Minghao. And then you were going to kill yourself.
Friday 8:20 a.m.
You'd had a good night's rest, so you were in a good mood. You got up, completed your daily morning routine, and decided to walk to the annex where you would rehearse with Seungkwan.
On the way, you decided to stop at the cafeteria. You bought three iced Americanos and some small desserts—just for you and Kwan—and deliberately asked the barista to drown in espresso the Americano you were giving Hansol, making it extra bitter... A daring prank.
You pushed the door open with your elbow, the familiar scent of the place greeting you.
“—and then I told her, if you want to behave like a 12 year old, you might as well just scream and throw a tantrum for your mommy to come pick you up!”
Seungkwan’s voice filled the place, Hansol looked really interested in whatever shit Seungkwan was gossiping about with him —That's weird— You thought, but didn't really pay attention to it.
You walked towards them, they were sitting on the edge of the stage, Seungkwan's legs dangling over the side, gesturing wildly with a half-eaten protein bar.
Hansol was the first to acknowledge you “Look who decided to grace us with her presence,”
Seungkwan beamed, instantly sliding off the stage. “And she brought gifts! Tell me one of those is an iced americano with oat milk and I'll love you even more.”
“Oat milk, extra shot, just how you like it, and don't worry about it, I don't need more of your love.” you said, handing him his cup along with a small lemon tart.
“Oh, in that case, I can give you hansol to give you some love,” Seungkwan cooed, immediately ripping the lid off to take a massive gulp.
You rolled your eyes “Ew, no.” you said pulling the second cup from the carrier and set it down right next to Hansol’s thigh —because there's no way you'll run the risk of brushing fingers with him, and feel that weird churn in your tummy you felt whenever you looked at his pretty hazel eyes—
“For the technical supervisor,” you said, your tone sweet enough to trigger a compliance audit. “To ensure optimal performance.”
Hansol finally looked up, his dark eyes locking onto yours. He looked at the cup, then back at you, a faint, suspicious glint in his eyes. “Tribute from the hall monitor? I’m honored. What’s the catch? Is there laxative in this?”
“Just standard espresso, Hansol. Drink up.”
You watched like a hawk as his fingers wrapped around the plastic cup. You had explicitly told the barista to pull the longest, most over-extracted, tongue-numbing quad-shot of espresso they could manage, bypassing the water entirely. It was a cup of pure, unadulterated, scorched-earth bitterness. You expected him to take a sip, choke, and give you the satisfaction of choking to death.
Hansol brought the straw to his lips and took a deep, continuous pull, swallowing nearly a third of the cup in one go.
You waited. You braced for the grimace.
Instead, Hansol let out a slow, satisfied breath. His eyes closed for a fraction of a second as the caffeine hit his system, and when he opened them, the lazy grin he always wore expanded into something genuine and thoroughly amused.
“Holy shit,” he murmured, looking at the dark liquid, then up at you, his eyes darker and entirely too focused. “This is incredible.”
You blinked. “...Really?”
“It’s perfect,” Hansol corrected, taking another long sip, his eyes never leaving yours. “This actually tastes like coffee. Didn’t think you would know how to pull a real drink. Thanks.”
You stood there, entirely robbed of your petty victory. He wasn’t suffering; he was thriving. The man genuinely ran on pure, toxic sludge.
“Don't get used to it,” you muttered, and got onto the stage to hide the faint warmth creeping up your cheeks.
“Alright people, let's begin. From the top of the second verse!” Seungkwan commanded. “And remember what we talked about. Think about the crowd, give me energy!”
You took a deep breath, holding the wireless mic tight. You had spent three hours the previous night staring at your bedroom ceiling, listening to the track on repeat.
Hansol was watching. He had his headphones resting around his neck, leaning back against his chair —When had he gone there?—
“If I'm shinin', everybody gonna shine…”
You let your shoulders drop. You gave the line a rhythmic bite, your hips swaying naturally with the syncopation.
Seungkwan’s eyes lit up instantly.
When your line blended into the chorus, you didn't hold back. You let the vocals lift from your chest, bright and resonant. You were finally taking what was yours.
Through the entire three-minute track, Hansol’s gaze stayed locked onto you. His fingers moved over the faders instinctively, adjusting your levels in real-time, matching your volume as you grew bolder, pushing the backing track up to support you. It felt less like a tech check and more like a conversation.
The final hit of the snare echoed through the room and faded into silence.
For a second, nobody moved.
Then, Seungkwan let out a screech that probably rattled the pipes in the basement.
“YES! THAT IS WHAT I AM TALKING ABOUT!” He threw his arms up, spinning around to grab your shoulders, shaking you with ecstasy. “The voice! The attitude! The lack of constipation! You actually looked like you enjoy being alive!”
You laughed, a genuine, breathless sound, wiping a stray strand of hair from your face. “It felt... good.”
“It was gorgeous!” Seungkwan turned toward the back of the hall, shouting down to the tech table. “Hansol! Tell her! Didn't she look incredible?”
Hansol didn't shout back. He slowly reached over, tapped the talkback microphone.
“She didn't suck,” he said. You could see the wide, lazy smirk on his face, but his eyes were entirely serious. “Actually, she was great. Best I've heard.”
He let go of the talkback button, picked up his extra-bitter americano, and tipped the cup toward you in a silent, respectful toast before slouching right back into his chair.
“See?” Seungkwan nudged your side with his elbow, a massive, knowing grin on his face. “The slacker approves.”
You looked down at the floorboards, trying to keep the smile off your face, but failing entirely.
“Now that,” Seungkwan declared, slinging his bag over his shoulder, “was a rehearsal. See what happens when you leave your corporate shit at the door? Perfection.”
“Don't get ahead of yourself, Kwan,” you replied, still catching your breath.
You stole a quick glance down at the tech table. Hansol had already slouched back into his chair, as if sensing your eyes on him, he tilted his head, his hazel eyes catching yours. He didn't say anything, but the lazy, approving curve of his lips sent a strange jolt straight to your stomach.
You quickly looked away, clearing your throat and adjusting the strap of your bag
“I’m heading to the library before my afternoon lecture,” you announced, stepping off the stage before Seungkwan could get you into another artsy cult.
“Go! Fly, my little corporate bird!” Seungkwan waved you off generously. “I’ll text you about tomorrow’s call time!”
The rest of the day went unnervingly well. Your 11:00 a.m. macroeconomics lecture ended ten minutes early, your study block yields were at an all-time high, and you managed to secure a prime window-seat table in the library without having to fight a single freshman for it.
By 3:30 p.m., as you packed up your things, you had to admit—however reluctantly—that getting the performance anxiety out of your system had somehow cleared your brain chemistry too. You checked your phone. A single text from Minghao was waiting for you:
Predicting a crisis ranging anywhere from a minor wardrobe malfunction to a full-blown existential crisis over color theory —or maybe, just maybe, it was about a certain tan, tall, baseball captain guy— you made your way across campus to the sports complex.
The university’s club team was midway through an intense scrimmaging practice, the sharp crack of aluminum bats echoing across the turf.
You climbed the metal stairs of the bleachers, spotting Minghao instantly.
He was sitting on the top row, wearing dark sunglasses, a poorly placed cap on top of his head, and a pristine white sketchbook resting on his lap. He looked like an undercover spy—if the spy was entirely unhinged.
He didn't even turn his head as you dropped your bag on the metal bench next to him. His entire body was locked in a state of rigid, hyper-focused suspension, his chin resting on his hand, eyes pinned strictly to the diamond below.
“Hao?” you asked, leaning over. “What’s the emergency?”
“Shh!” Minghao hissed, not breaking his stare for a single fraction of a second. He raised one dramatic, slender finger to his lips. “Do not make sudden movements. You will disrupt the aura.”
You blinked, slowly turning your head to look down at the field.
Standing on the pitcher's mound, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his jersey, was Lee Seokmin. He was wearing his fitted baseball uniform, the jersey unbuttoned just enough at the collar to reveal a silver chain resting against his collarbone. He leaned back, wound up his arm with effortless, fluid power, and launched a fast pitch straight into the catcher’s mitt with a thunderous SNAP.
Seokmin immediately let out a bright, sunny grin, dusting off his pants and jogging toward the dugout while laughing with a teammate.
Beside you, Minghao let out a soft, pathetic, shuddering sigh that sounded like air deflating from a tire.
“Look at him,” Minghao whispered, his voice trembling with tragic reverence. “Look at his wide ass hips. It’s... it’s Michelangelo’s David in high-tops.”
You stared at your best friend, utterly speechless. “Minghao. You dragged me across campus... to watch Seokmin play baseball?”
“I am observing anatomy for my figure drawing class,” Minghao defended smoothly, though he hadn't made a single pencil stroke on his blank sketchbook page in what was clearly hours. He finally risked a sideways glance at you, though his eyes darted right back to the field the moment Seokmin adjusted his cap. “Besides, I needed a witness in case he takes his jersey off and my heart stops beating.”
“You are pathetic,” you said, though a genuine laugh bubbled up in your chest as you nudged his shoulder with yours. “Absolute goner.”
“Completely,” he agreed happily, eyes glued to the field. “And I’m not even sorry about it.”
“Sure you aren't” You said, looking back at the field.
Seokmin finished another pitch, the ball cracking into the catcher’s mitt like a gunshot.
He jogged back toward the dugout, laughing at something his teammate said, then—without warning—grabbed the hem of his jersey and peeled it off.
Minghao made a sound that could only be described as a wounded wheeze.
The sun hit Seokmin’s shoulders just right, highlighting every line of muscle earned from years of swinging bats and fielding grounders. He used the jersey to wipe his face, then slung it over one shoulder, revealing the silver chain resting against his collarbone again.
The man looked like a walking thirst trap in cleats. “Hao,” you muttered, half horrified, half impressed, “breathe.”
“I’m trying,” he whispered back, voice strangled. His sketchbook had long since been abandoned on the bench. Both hands were now gripping the edge of the metal bleacher like it was the only thing keeping him from launching himself onto the field.
Seokmin spotted you two on the top row. His bright, megawatt smile widened as he raised a hand in greeting and started jogging over, still shirtless, duffel bag slung across his back.
“Oh god, he’s coming over. He’s coming over. Do I look okay? Is my hair—” Minghao frantically patted his head, nearly knocking his cap off.
“You look like a Victorian maiden who just saw ankles for the first time,” you deadpanned, but you were already smiling. This was too good.
Seokmin reached the bottom of the bleachers and took the stairs two at a time, still glowing from practice. Up close, he was even more unfairly handsome—warm brown eyes, slightly damp hair sticking to his forehead, and that effortless, golden-retriever energy that made half the campus weak.
“Hey! Hao!” Seokmin greeted, practically radiating heat, sweat, and cheap body spray. He wiped his neck with the towel, his chest heaving slightly from the practice. “I didn't know you were coming to watch! Did you see that last curveball?”
Minghao opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
A small, broken “Hngh” was all that came out.
You pinched the bridge of your nose. Lord, give me strength.
Seokmin blinked, his bright smile faltering into mild confusion. “Uh... Hao? You good? You look a little... frozen.”
You let out an overly bright, cheerful laugh to cover the suffocating silence, forcefully kicking Minghao’s sneaker with the back of your heel.
“He’s great!” you chimed in smoothly, taking control of the narrative before Minghao could embarrass himself further. “He’s just... deeply immersed in his artistic process. You know how fine arts majors get. Overstimulated by lighting and motion.”
“Oh! Right, the visual arts brain!” Seokmin nodded earnestly, instantly buying it. He smiled down at Minghao again, his eyes softening. “Anyway, I was actually gonna text you, Hao. A bunch of us from the team are heading over to the diner near your apartment complex for burgers after we shower. Do you want to come? I can order those garlic fries you like.”
Minghao’s jaw worked silently. His brain had clearly short-circuited at the mention of garlic fries. He looked at Seokmin, then cut his eyes toward you in pure, desperate appeal, silently screaming for help.
“He’d love to,” you answered for him without missing a beat, reaching out to give Minghao’s shoulder an aggressive, solid pat. “He was just telling me twenty minutes ago how much he was craving garlic fries. Weren't you, Hao?”
Minghao gave a single, stiff, wooden nod, looking like a marionette being pulled by invisible strings. “G-Garlic,” he managed to croak out.
Seokmin’s grin flared back up to full power. “Awesome! Give me twenty minutes to change and I’ll meet you by the gates. See ya, Hao! Nice seeing you!”
He gave a bright wave, turned on his heel, and bounded down the bleachers two steps at a time.
The second Seokmin was out of earshot, Minghao collapsed forward, burying his face directly into his blank sketchbook with a long, muffled scream of pure agony.
“You owe me,” you said calmly, picking up his dropped pencil from the bleacher below and tossing it onto his lap. “I just saved your entire romantic trajectory.”
“I just embarrassed myself, IN FRONT OF LEE SEOKMIN,” Minghao groaned into his hands, his voice completely muffled. “He thinks I’m brain-damaged.”
“He thinks you’re a passionate, brooding artist,” you corrected, standing up and slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Now get up, go brush your teeth, and go eat garlic fries with your baseball captain. I have to go home and mentally prepare for tomorrow's practice.”
The walk back to your apartment was blissfully quiet. The late-afternoon sun was dipping behind one building, painting your face in warm shades of orange. For the first time all week, the perpetual tightness in your shoulders had completely unraveled, everything felt so light.
You unlocked your front door, kicked off your shoes into their designated corner, and immediately went into your domestic routine. You tossed a load of laundry into the washer, wiped down the kitchen counters, set your laptop on its stand, and prepped a fresh pot of cold brew for the fridge.
By 8:30 p.m., the apartment smelled so clean and you were satisfied with your work. You took a long, blistering-hot shower, letting the steam melt away everything. Damp-haired and swallowed whole by your softest pjs, you climbed into bed, propping your pillows up against the headboard.
You let out a long, contented sigh, pulling the duvet over your legs. Everything was under control.
BZZZZ.
Your phone vibrated violently against the nightstand, sliding two inches across the wood. You picked it up.
Hao: EMERGENCY.
Hao: DELETE MY SEARCH HISTORY.
Hao: ORPHANAGE. I AM MOVING TO AN ORPHANAGE IN TIBET.
You exhaled a quiet laugh through your nose, quickly typing back.
You: That bad?
Hao: I am typing this from the diner bathroom.
Hao: I have been in here for eleven minutes.
Hao: He might think I have a gastrointestinal disease.
You: Minghao, what did you do.
Hao: Okay so we got to the booth right? And he sat next to me. LIKE NEXT TO ME. Not with the TEAM. NEXT TO ME. IN A SEPARATE BOOTH.
Hao: So his thigh was touching my thigh. The entire time.
Hao: I couldn't eat. My throat closed up.
You: Ok and?
Hao: WHAT'S WITH YOUR DISINTEREST????? HELLO???
Hao: Anyway, he ordered for us. He remembered I like the extra crispy ones with the aioli.
Hao: He picked up a fry. He looked at me.
Hao: And then HE FED IT TO ME.
You sat up a little straighter in bed, a genuine grin pulling at your lips.
You: NO WAY.
Hao: YES WAY.
Hao: He literally held it out and said "Say ah" with that giant smile of his.
Hao: And instead of acting like a normal, functional, twenty-something adult, I panicked.
You: ...Hao. What did you do.
Hao: I bit his fingers.
You dropped your head back against the pillows, clutching your stomach as a loud, involuntary laugh echoed through your dark bedroom.
You: YOU BITE HIM??? LMAOOOOOO
Hao: AND I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO DO, SO HIS FINGERS STAYED INSIDE MY MOUTH FOR ABOUT 2 SECONDS
Hao: I just stared at him. He just stared at me.
Hao: And then do you know what this idiot did when I finally let go??
Hao: HE SUCKED ON THEM, HE SUCKED HIS SALIVA COVERED FINGERS
Hao: He looked me dead in the eye, and said "Mmm, savory."
You: I'm crying. He is SO down.
Hao: He’s a psychopath! A handsome, sweet, broad-shouldered psychopath!
Hao: Anyway, he’s currently outside the bathroom door.
Hao: I have to go back out there before he comes in.
You: Go back out there, and let him walk you home.
Hao: If I die tonight, tell my painting professor I hated his color wheel assignment.
Hao: ❤️
You locked your phone and set it back on the nightstand, the quiet hum of the apartment settling around you once more. A soft smile lingered on your face as you slid down into the sheets, pulling the blankets up to your chin.
Minghao was a mess, Seungkwan was a hurricane, and Chwe Hansol was an annoying, unpredictable variable that you still couldn't quite calculate. But as you closed your eyes, listening to the faint sound of city traffic outside your window, a rare sense of peace washed over you.
Your schedule was set. Your life was structured. You could handle a singing contest, a chaotic best friend, and whatever arrogant, quiet slacker the Fine Arts department threw your way.
Everything was going to be just fine.
or so you thought.
3:20 a.m.
You woke with a start, the back of your neck feeling wet with sweat dripping down your spine. Your breathing became erratic, and you tried to suppress the awful feeling a nightmare leaves behind by clutching the center of your shirt with all your might. Your nails dug into your palm, surely leaving a mark, but you hoped the shock would snap you out of the trance.
The air in the bedroom felt suffocatingly heavy, thick with the residual dread of a memory you spent every waking hour trying to outrun.
You sat frozen in the dark, your chest heaving, listening to the harsh, uneven sound of your own breathing. Your left hand was still clenched tight over your sternum, your fingernails biting deep into the meat of your palm. It was a grounding exercise a campus counselor had given you two semesters ago, back when the panic attacks were a daily occurrence rather than a rare, unwanted ghost. Find the physical edge, she had said. Remind yourself where your body ends and the memory begins.
Slowly, agonizingly, you forced your fingers to uncurl. Four pale, crescent-shaped indentations stood out against your skin.
You swung your legs over the side of the bed, the soles of your feet hitting the hardwood floor. The cold surface sent a sharp, grounding shock up your spine, but it did little to quiet the static screaming in your head.
You needed water. You needed to move.
You stood up, your legs feeling slightly leaden, and padded quietly into the dark living room. The apartment was dead silent, save for the hum of the refrigerator. You didn't turn on the overhead lights; the ambient glow of the city streetlamps bleeding through the blinds was enough to guide you to the kitchen island.
You poured a glass of cold water from the pitcher, drinking it in long, desperate gulps. The ice-cold liquid burned down your throat, anchoring you back into reality.
You leaned your hands against the edge of the granite counter, bowing your head, letting your damp hair fall forward to hide your face from the empty room.
You’re fine, you told yourself. It’s just physiological fatigue. You’ve been pushing your study hours to accommodate Seungkwan’s rehearsals. Cortisol spikes are expected under altered sleep architecture. It’s just chemistry.
But logic made a terrible shield against a racing pulse.
Knowing you wouldn't sleep again tonight—and knowing that letting your mind wander in the dark was a dangerous game—you pushed off the counter and walked over to the front door.
Your apartment building was a quiet, modest complex situated right on the edge of the campus perimeter. It had a small, private rooftop access point on the seventh floor—a concrete pad with an old iron fire escape railing where tenants usually hung laundry or sneaked drinks on warm weekends. It was off-limits past midnight according to the building guidelines, but right now, you didn't care about guidelines. You needed cold, open air.
You pulled on a light, zip-up hoodie over your pajamas, slipped your feet into a pair of worn slides, and grabbed your keys.
The hallway was quiet, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead as you made your way up the final flight of stairs to the heavy metal roof access door. You pushed it open, the cool night air hitting your face instantly washing away the stale heat of the nightmare.
You stepped out onto the gravel-lined roof, wrapping your arms tightly around yourself as you walked toward the ledge that overlooked the sleeping city. The air smelled of damp asphalt, distant ozone, and...
Weed?
You froze.
Standing near the far corner of the roof, propped casually against the rust-red fire escape railing, was a tall, shadowy figure. The tip of a cigarette glowed a bright, ember-orange in the dark, illuminating a pair of sharp, high cheekbones, a relaxed jawline, and a mess of dark hair sticking out from beneath a black hood.
It was fucking Chwe Hansol.
He was wearing an oversized jacket, a faded t-shirt, and track pants, a pair of earphones dangling around his neck. He had one hand buried deep in his jacket pocket, while the other held the cigarette between his two fingers, slowly exhaling a cloud of pale, sweet-smelling smoke into the night.
You stared at him, entirely rendered speechless.
Hansol didn't flinch, didn't even look surprised to see you standing there in pajamas at three in the morning. He just slowly turned his head, his hazel eyes catching the dim amber glow of the streetlights. He took another lazy drag, the ember brightening, before exhaling slowly through his nose.
“You’re trespassing,” he said, completely unbothered. “Building rules say the roof closes at midnight.”
You swallowed hard, your defensive instincts instantly flaring up despite the residual tremor in your hands. “I live in this building. What are you doing here? You don't even live here, so you're the one tresspassing.”
Hansol tilted his head back against the iron railing, snorting. “Who says I don't, neighbor.” He winked at you “I live on the sixth floor” He offered a small, half-smile. “Better view over here than on my balcony.”
You narrowed your eyes, crossing your arms tighter over your chest. “You’re breaking into the roof to smoke cheap weed anyway, I can report you.”
“Wait wait, it's not cheap, it’s imported,” he corrected smoothly. “And I’m not trespassing. I’m just occupying unused space. Efficient resource allocation. Thought a business major would appreciate that.”
You let out a dry, breathy sigh, turning your face away toward the city skyline. You wanted to give him a scathing retort, to tell him he was a public nuisance and an academic hazard, to march back down to your apartment and lock the door.
But as the cold wind swept across the gravel, a sudden, violent shiver wracked through your body—not from the temperature, but from the sudden, sharp recollection of the dream that had chased you awake. You bit your lip, wrapping your arms around your waist, trying to force your body to stay still.
You thought you were hiding it. You were always so good at hiding it.
Hansol didn't say anything for a long moment. Then, you heard the faint rustle of heavy fabric, followed by the soft, rhythmic crunch of gravel under rubber soles.
You turned your head just as Hansol stopped two feet away from you. Up close, without the bright fluorescent lights of the Annex or the noise of Seungkwan’s warm-ups, he looked different. Less like a caricature of an art-school slacker and more like something surprisingly real, grounded, and intensely observant. His eyes flicked down to your pale hands, still tightly gripping the fabric of your hoodie, then up to the faint traces of sweat dampening the hairline at your temples.
He didn't ask if you were okay.
Hansol reached down, flicked the lit cigarette off the side of the roof toward the alley drain below, and unzipped his heavy jacket. He slipped it off his broad shoulders in one fluid movement, holding it out toward you.
“Take it,” he said quietly. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine,” you said automatically, the refusal leaving your mouth before your brain could even process the gesture. “It’s just the wind.”
Hansol didn't pull the jacket back. He just stepped an inch closer, his presence warm and heavy against the freezing night air.
“You’re terrible at lying,” he murmured surprisingly gently. “Your jaw’s locked so tight you’re gonna crack a tooth. Put the jacket on.”
You stared at the dark denim and flannel lining he was holding out. You wanted to refuse. Your whole framework—your strict boundaries, your rule that Chwe Hansol was an annoying variable to be managed from a distance—demanded that you refuse.
Instead, your body betrayed you. You reached out with cold, trembling fingers and took the jacket.
It was heavy, soft, and radiating a deep, comforting heat. As you slid your arms into the oversized sleeves and pulled it around your shoulders, you were immediately enveloped in his scent—weed, dark coffee, and a faint trace of expensive laundry detergent —the same one you use— It was completely suffocating in the best possible way.
Hansol watched you swallow yourself whole in his jacket, the faint, lazy curve returning to his lips, though his hazel eyes remained steady and remarkably kind.
He leaned back against the concrete parapet next to you, resting his elbows on the ledge, looking out over the sleeping streets.
“Bad dream?” he asked softly, not turning to look at you, giving you the space to answer without feeling exposed.
You hesitated, pulling the collar of his jacket up higher around your neck, burying your nose in the warm fabric. “Something like that.”
“Yeah,” Hansol said, letting out a slow breath that blossomed into a cloud of white mist in the cold air. “They happen. Usually when you’re trying too hard to keep everything from falling apart during the day.”
You glanced sideways at him, surprised by the uncharacteristic depth in his voice. “What do you know about trying too hard? You don't even show up to class.”
Hansol let out a huffed laugh. He turned his head toward you, resting his cheek against his arm on the ledge.
“Just because I don't play the game the way the university wants me to doesn't mean I don't know what it feels like to drown in the expectations,” he said quietly. His hazel eyes locked onto yours, “You run yourself like a machine, hall monitor. You think if you stop moving for five minutes, the whole track is gonna derail.”
Your breath hitched in your throat. The sharp, accurate weight of his words hit you harder than any insult ever could. It was the exact same thing Seungkwan had tried to tell you, but coming from Hansol—just stated as a simple, objective fact—it cut straight through your defenses.
“It has to,” you whispered, the truth slipping out before you could stop it, thin and vulnerable in the quiet night. “If I don't keep structure, everything falls apart.”
Hansol didn't argue, he knew there was no point on it, he reached out, his long, warm fingers gently catching the back of your hand, and squeezed it. His skin was calloused but it felt weirdly warm and steady.
“Then let it fall apart for ten minutes,” Hansol said softly, his thumb tracing a slow, rhythmic circle over the back of your wrist, right over your thumping pulse. “I’m right here. I’ll make sure the roof doesn't cave in.”
You stared down at his hand wrapped around yours. The terrifying, chaotic noise that had been racing through your brain since 3:20 a.m. suddenly began to quiet down, replaced entirely by the sensation of his thumb moving against your skin, and the steady, grounding rhythm of his breathing beside you.
You didn't pull your hand away.
“You know, you're bad at pretending you hate me.”
You lifted your chin, glaring at him through the dark despite the fact that your hand was still wrapped firmly in his
“I don’t pretend, I do hate you,” you muttered, though the edge in your voice was entirely blunted by the ridiculous size of his jacket drowning your frame. “You are designed to test my patience. You’re irresponsible, you treat deadlines like abstract suggestions, and you smoke imported weed on my roof at three in the morning.”
“Our roof,” Hansol corrected, his thumb still tracing that slow, hypnotic circle over your wrist. He didn't let go. If anything, his grip tightened just a fraction. “And for the record, I don't treat deadlines like suggestions. I just prioritize my peace of mind over a grading rubric. You should try it sometime. It’s great for the complexion.”
“I have a four-point-zero GPA, Hansol I'm not going to stoop to your level of slackery.”
“And a resting heart rate of a panicked hummingbird,” he shot back. “Great tradeoff. Really winning at life.”
You let out a sharp breath, turning your head to look back over the city skyline. The night air was crisp, biting at the tip of your nose, but the heat radiating from his denim jacket—and the persistent, unyielding pressure of his fingers against yours—kept the chill from settling into your bones.
For a long time, neither of you said anything. The silence wasn't suffocating like downstairs.
“Why didn't you drop the class?” you asked quietly, the question slipping out before you could filter it.
Hansol tilted his head toward you, his dark brows drawing together slightly. “Which one?”
“The audio lab. The elective I registered for.” You swallowed, keeping your eyes fixed on the distant yellow lights of the highway. “Minghao said you’re the lab assistant. You could have asked the department head to swap you out when you saw my name on the roster. You knew I was going to make your life difficult.”
Hansol let out a short, soft laugh through his nose. He shifted his weight, turning his body fully toward you, leaning one hip against the iron railing.
“Why would I do that?” he asked softly.
“Because I’m ‘corporate’,” you said, quoting his own mocking label back to him. “Because I’m going to demand that every cable is labeled, every board is calibrated, and every lab session starts precisely at ten o'clock.”
“Yeah,” Hansol murmured, his hazel eyes tracking the movement of your breath in the cold air before settling back on your face. “You are. But you’re also the only person on this entire campus who actually looks at me like I’m a human being instead of a novelty.”
You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
Hansol looked away for a second, his gaze dropping to where his hand was still holding yours. He rubbed his fingers against your skin.
“Everyone in the Arts department treats me like some kind of lazy prodigy,” he said, his tone entirely flat, devoid of self-pity or arrogance. “They give me a pass when I skip, they tell me my work is ‘conceptually brilliant’ when I hand it in three weeks late, and they don't expect shit from me beyond popping up to mix a track when they need audio. It’s boring.”
He looked back up, his gaze locking onto yours with a sudden, startling intensity that made your heart do a violent, unscripted flip.
“Then you show up,” Hansol continued, the corner of his mouth twitching up into a small, real smile. “You look me dead in the eye, call me out on my bullshit, and demand that I actually do my job. You don't care about my 'vibe' or my 'reputation.' You just expect me to deliver.”
You stared at him, the wind catching a strand of your hair and blowing it across your face. Before you could reach up to move it, Hansol lifted his free hand, his long, warm fingers lightly brushing the strand behind your ear.
“I like that,” he whispered, making your breath hitch. “I like that you don't let me get away with it.”
“You’re still a slacker,” you whispered, though there was zero conviction left in your tone.
“I know,” Hansol agreed effortlessly, stepping half an inch closer. “And you’re still a hall monitor.”
“I’m going to fail your lab on purpose just to spite you.”
Hansol let out a genuine laugh. He finally released your wrist, but only to slide his hand down, letting his fingers lace through yours, his thumb resting comfortably over the back of your hand.
“You couldn't fail a class if your life depended on it,” he said softly. “Come on. It’s almost four in the morning. Your brain’s gonna melt if you don't get at least two hours of sleep before your rehearsal with kwan.”
He turned, gently tugging your hand to lead you back toward the heavy metal door of the roof access. You followed him without a word, the gravel crunching softly under your slides.
Hansol walked you all the way down to the fourth floor landing, refusing to take his jacket back despite your half-hearted protests. He just gave your hand one last lingering, warm squeeze, told you to lock your door, and sauntered back up to the sixth floor with his hands buried in his pockets.
That morning, sleep actually came. Wrapped in denim that smelled like him, your mind didn't cycle through a single disaster scenario.
By Saturday afternoon's rehearsal, the shift between you and Hansol was undeniable. You showed up five minutes early as usual, but instead of glaring at the soundboard, you handed him a fresh iced americano—this time pulled normally—and he took it with that same slow, lazy grin. When you stepped up to the mic to run "Juice" with Seungkwan, you didn't overthink a single note. You sang from your chest, letting your natural attitude bleed through the rhythm, laughing out loud when Seungkwan did a ridiculous shit during the bridge. Down at the board, Hansol’s eyes stayed glued to you, his fingers seamlessly balancing your frequencies, catching every subtle shift in your tone like he had known your voice for years.
“Flawless!” Seungkwan cheered. “I don't know what spirit possessed you over night, but keep it!”
And then Monday morning’s 10:00 a.m. Audio Engineering Lab went just as terrifyingly well. While Dr. Lee rambled through frequency modulation theory on the chalkboard, Hansol—slouched in a stool beside the main mixing console as the official TA—effortlessly walked the class through the hardware patch bays. When you got stuck on a complex routing input during the practical exercise, he didn't mock your rigid step-by-step approach. He just leaned over your shoulder, his chest hovering inches from your back, gently guiding your hand to the correct fader.
“See?” he murmured right against your ear, his breath warm against your skin. “Not so scary when you let the signal flow naturally.”
For two solid weeks, everything in your life ran with unnatural, golden precision. Your grades were pristine, your rehearsals with Seungkwan were festival-ready, and your chaotic late-night roof encounters with Hansol had settled into a quiet, comforting ritual.
The universe was starting to behave.
Monday 22nd — 2 Days Before the Showdown
The late afternoon sun was baking the outdoor athletic grounds, casting long shadows across the grass.
You were sitting on a concrete ledge outside the martial arts studio, your laptop resting unopened on your knees. Next to you, Minghao was frozen in a state of sheer, unadulterated sensory overload, his jaw hanging open as he stared through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the dojo.
Inside, Soonyoung was leading an advanced Taekwondo form. He was completely shirtless, his skin gleaming with sweat, every sharp, explosive kick showcasing the defined muscles of his back and shoulders. Every time Soonyoung let out a disciplined, thunderous shout while snapping a side kick, Minghao made a tiny, strangled squeak in his throat.
“Hao,” you sighed, resting your chin on your palm as you watched your best friend slowly lose his sanity. “You’re drooling. AGAIN.”
“He’s a weapon,” Minghao whispered, his eyes wide and completely unblinking behind his sunglasses. “Look at his lats. How is he even allowed to move like that in broad daylight?”
You let out a soft laugh, pulling your knees up to your chest. The light breeze ruffled your hair, and for a second, your mind drifted right back to a pair of hazel eyes.
The smile faded from your lips, replaced by a sudden, heavy knot in your chest.
“Hao?” you asked softly, your tone dropping its usual sarcastic edge.
“Hmm?” Minghao hummed, not taking his eyes off Soonyoung’s high kick for even a millisecond.
“I think... I think I’m starting to understand him.”
Minghao paused, his head slowly swiveling toward you. “Understand who? Soonyoung? Because trust me, there’s no understanding the tiger agenda, you just accept it—”
“Not Soonyoung. Hansol.” You swallowed hard, staring down at your sneakers as your hands tightened around your knees. “I used to think he was just lazy. I thought he was arrogant and didn't care about anything. But he’s not. He just... he sees through all the performance. He doesn't play the game because he knows how hollow it is. And the terrifying part is... he sees right through me, too.”
You looked up at Minghao, your eyes wide with a rare, genuine panic. “He knows why I keep schedules, Hao. He knows why I run myself like a machine. And instead of using it against me, he just... holds space for it. It’s scaring the shit out of me.”
Minghao’s expression softened completely. The theatrical, dramatic persona melted away, leaving the grounded, deeply empathetic best friend who had stuck by you through your worst breakdowns. He reached out, placing a gentle, reassuring hand on your shoulder.
“Hey,” Minghao said softly. “That’s not a bad thing. You’ve been hiding behind your spreadsheets and your strict routines for so long because you were afraid if anyone saw the real you, they’d leave when things got messy. But Vernon isn't scared of messy. He actually likes you for you, corporate shield and all. It’s okay to let him in—”
“LIKE WHO?!”
Soonyoung appeared out of thin air.
One second he was mid-kick. The next he was standing right there, still shirtless, still glistening, water bottle in one hand, like a sweaty tiger that had just discovered free gossip.
Minghao went instantly, terrifyingly rigid. His hand froze on your knee, his eyes widening to the size of dinner plates as he stared up at Soonyoung’s chest.
Minghao opened his mouth to scream—
Looking for any possible escape route to redirect the spotlight away from his own bright-red face, he pointed a frantic, wildly trembling finger directly at you.
“SHEHASAMASSIVECRUSHONCHWEHANSOLVERNONSHE’S IN LOVE WITH HIMANDWANTSTOPOUNCEONHIMSHARESALIVAANDITSSOCUTE!” Minghao blurted out at top speed, the words exploding from his mouth like a machine gun.
Your jaw dropped so low it nearly hit the concrete. “MINGHAO!”
Soonyoung’s eyes went wide with pure, ecstatic excitement. “WHAT?! VERNON?! Oh my god, that's why he has been listening to love songs, I knew it was you!”
“I DO NOT HAVE A CRUSH ON HIM KWON SOONYOUNG!” you yelled, scrambling off the ledge and shoving Minghao’s shoulder so hard he nearly keeled over into the grass. “Shut your mouth, Xu Minghao, or I swear to God I will dismantle your entire life right here on this turf!”
“Don't deflect onto me just because you’re in denial!” Minghao shrieked, scrambling up to hide behind Soonyoung’s broad, sweaty back, using the martial artist as a human shield.
“Oh, really? We’re doing this now?” You rounded on them, pointing an accusatory finger right through Soonyoung’s armpit at Minghao’s pale face. “Soonyoung, do you want to know why Minghao is actually sitting out here in ninety-degree heat? It’s not because 'he supports all his peers on the performing arts'! He’s been sighing into my couch cushions for three months because he’s THIRSTING over YOU! AND Seokmin! He literally can’t decide between you two, he wants BOTH of you!”
Soonyoung blinked, his head whipping around to look at Minghao over his shoulder, his mouth forming a perfect, stunned 'O'. “Wait... really? Me and DK?”
Minghao turned a shade of deep, burning crimson that rivaled Seungkwan’s neon flyers. He clapped both hands over his face, letting out a high-pitched, strangled scream of pure humiliation before turning on his heel and bolting toward the Fine Arts building at a full sprint.
“MINGHAO, GET BACK HERE!” you shouted, grabbing your bag and taking off right after him, leaving a thoroughly bewildered, half-naked Soonyoung standing alone on the grass, scratching his head with a giant, delighted grin spreading across his face.
Minghao sprinted like a man whose legal name had just been put on an international wanted list. His long, slender legs cut through the grass in a frantic zigzag, his dark cap flying off his head entirely as he rounded the corner near the campus fountain.
“XU MINGHAO! STOP RUNNING!” you roared, your tote bag slapping rhythmically against your hip as you pushed your legs into a full sprint. Your corporate dignity was officially dead, buried, and decompose on the turf.
“I AM ASCENDING TO A HIGHER PLANE OF EXISTENCE! DO NOT FOLLOW ME!” Minghao shrieked back, not daring to look behind him.
Right behind you, the rhythmic, heavy thud of athletic sneakers tore up the grass. Kwon Soonyoung, still entirely shirtless, still gleaming with sweat, was bounding after the two of you with the absolute pure, terrifying joy of a golden retriever that had just slipped its leash.
“WAIT FOR ME!” Soonyoung yelled, grinning so wide his eyes squeezed into tiny, excited crescents. “ARE WE DOING A TRIANGLE?! IS IT A POLYGON?! HAO, WAIT! I HAVE FLEXIBILITY!”
“SOONYOUNG, PUT A SHIRT ON!” you screamed over your shoulder, practically wheezing as you cut across the paved walkway near the student union.
“NO TIME! THE TIGER MUST HUNT FOR CLARITY!” Soonyoung roared, executing a completely unnecessary, high-flying hurdle over a wooden trash can without breaking stride.
The wild three-person stampede barreled straight past a group of terrified freshmen holding campus maps. Minghao, realizing he couldn't outrun your sheer rage for long, took a sharp, desperate left turn directly into the open glass doors of the student lounge—the exact place where the universe loved to stage your worst nightmares.
Minghao burst through the doors, sliding on the polished linoleum floor like a baseball player hitting home plate. He grabbed onto the back of a plush leather armchair to steady himself, gasping for air, his chest heaving, his face the color of a ripe beefsteak tomato.
Sitting in the booth right in front of him was Lee Seokmin. He was wearing a varsity jacket, looking freshly showered, his hair slightly damp, cheerfully eating a gigantic cinnamon roll with a plastic fork.
And sitting directly across from Seokmin, slouched was Chwe Hansol. Hansol had a pair of studio headphones resting around his neck, a half-empty can of energy drink in front of him, and a tablet open to a sound-mixing program.
Seokmin blinked, his fork hovering halfway to his mouth. “...Hao? Are you okay? You look like you just escaped a serial killer—”
Before Minghao could form a single syllable, you burst through the glass doors like a SWAT team commander, breathless, your hair completely unraveled from its claw clip, pointing a finger straight at Minghao’s face.
“I AM GOING TO END YOU!” you gasped out, gripping your side as a stitch burned through your ribs. “YOU ARE DEAD, XU MINGHAO! DEAD!”
“DON'T TOUCH HIM!” Soonyoung yelled, bursting through the doors a fraction of a second later, completely shirtless, hitting a sharp Taekwondo blocking stance right in front of the lounge entrance, chest heaving, sweat dripping onto the linoleum. “I AM HIS HUMAN SHIELD!”
The entire student lounge went dead silent.
Seokmin slowly set his fork down, his jaw dropping so low a piece of cinnamon roll almost fell out. He looked at Minghao, then at you, then at Soonyoung’s glistening, naked back.
“...Soonyoung?” Seokmin stammered, his cheeks instantly flushing red. “Where... where are your clothes?”
“No time for clothes, DK!” Soonyoung declared loudly, flexing his shoulders as he wiped his brow. “We are resolving emotional geometry! The tiger is present!”
Hansol didn't flinch. He slowly lifted his head from his tablet, taking a slow, long drag from a straw in his paper cup. His hazel eyes flicked from Minghao’s bright-red face, down to Soonyoung’s back, and finally settled on you. A slow, agonizingly familiar smirk spread across his lips, his eyes crinkling with absolute, unfiltered amusement.
“Well, well,” Hansol murmured, his voice lazy and deep, crackling softly through the quiet room. “Look who brought the circus to the lounge. What’s going on, hall monitor?”
“Shut up, Hansol!” you snapped, though your breath caught violently in your throat at the sight of him.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Soonyoung interrupted, turning around and placing both hands on his hips, completely unbothered by his lack of a shirt. He pointed dramatically at Seokmin, then at Minghao. “DK! Do you know what just happened?! Hao has sexual intent fantasies for both of us!”
Minghao let out a sound that wasn't human. It was a high-pitched, tea-kettle screech of pure, unadulterated soul-death. He immediately covered his face with both hands and sank directly onto the floor, curling into a tight, miserable ball beside the booth.
Seokmin’s eyes went wider than dinner plates. His face exploded into a shade of crimson so intense it looked dangerous. “W-WHAT?!”
Soft, rapid Mandarin spilled out of him in a continuous, despairing stream, muffled against the tiles.
“我要死了……我真的要死了……杀了我吧……把我埋在美术楼后面……”
(I’m going to die… I’m really going to die… just kill me… bury me behind the Fine Arts building…)
Seokmin crouched lower, still holding Minghao’s shoulders, looking equal parts concerned and completely lost. “Hao? I don’t— I don’t speak Chinese, but you’re scaring me a little—”
Minghao’s voice cracked higher, the words tumbling faster.
(Why did I say that out loud just now? Why did I open my mouth? I want to dig a hole and bury myself right now… never see people again… especially you… and you… and that shirtless tiger…)
“AND,” Soonyoung shouted, turning his tragic narrative beam straight onto you, “She’s running away because she’s violently in love with Vernon, wants to marry him, pounce on him and share saliva!”
You froze. The world stopped spinning. The air left your lungs.
Hansol paused mid-sip. His dark brows lifted slightly. Slowly, deliberately, he set his cup down on the table, leaning forward on his elbows, his hazel eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that felt like a physical weight pressing against your chest.
“Is that right?” Hansol murmured quietly, a faint, dangerous twitch playing at the corner of his mouth.
“NO!” you yelled, your voice cracking slightly as your face burned so hot you felt like you were going to combust right next to the vending machines. “NO! HE IS LYING! THEY ARE ALL DERANGED ART MAJORS WHO NEED TO BE MEDICATED!”
“I AM NOT DERANGED, I AM A TIGER!” Soonyoung protested loudly, grabbing Seokmin’s cinnamon roll off the plate and taking a massive bite out of it. “AND VERNON, YOU SHOULD KNOW, SHE THINKS YOUR EYES ARE PRETTY!”
“SOONYOUNG!” you shrieked, looking around frantically for something to throw, settling on a crumpled paper napkin from a nearby table and hurling it uselessly at his head.
Seokmin was currently trying to crawl under the table to comfort Minghao, who was still muttering in Mandarin into the linoleum floor. “Hao, please get up, I’m sorry about how I reacted, I, I don't mind about tht, we can talk about it, don't be upset, we all have our own little secrets. Please look at me—”
Hansol slowly slid out of the booth.
He didn't look at Soonyoung. He didn't look at Seokmin or the hyperventilating Minghao on the floor. He kept his eyes strictly on you as he unhurriedly walked around the table, his long, effortless stride closing the distance between you in four easy steps.
He stopped right in front of you—far too close.
You stood your ground, though your chest was heaving and your hands were trembling against your sides. You glared up at him, trying desperately to summon every ounce of your structured, corporate authority.
“Don't say a word,” you whispered, your voice shaking slightly. “Not one word, Chwe Hansol.”
Hansol looked down at you, his hazel eyes dark and remarkably soft amidst the absolute insanity unfolding around you two. The lazy smirk on his face slowly melted away, replaced by that quiet, grounding warmth that always managed to dismantle you entirely.
He reached out, his long, warm fingers gently catching your chin, lifting your face just a fraction so you had no choice but to look at him.
“Pretty eyes, huh?” he murmured, entirely ignoring Soonyoung who was currently trying to put a tablecloth on as a shirt.
“I’m going to kill Minghao,” you choked out, your heart hammering a chaotic rhythm against your ribs. “I’m going to murder him and bury him under the business building.”
“Let him live,” Hansol whispered softly, his thumb lightly tracing the line of your jaw, his touch sending a sharp, electric jolt straight down your spine. “He gave me some pretty good news.”
“It’s not news,” you defensively muttered, though you didn't pull your face away from his hand. You couldn't. “It’s... an exaggeration.”
“Right,” Hansol agreed, his lips curving into a small, real smile. He leaned in just a fraction closer, his breath warm against your flushed cheek. “An exaggeration. That’s why you’re blushing so hard, hmm?”
You bit your lip, completely defenseless.
Beside you, Seokmin had somehow pulled Minghao up off the floor, holding him by the shoulders while looking deeply, earnestly into his eyes. “Hao, listen to me, if I tell you I also had sexual intent fantasies about you, will you promise not to run away? I actually really liked spending time with you—”
“I AM GOING TO PASS OUT,” Minghao squeaked, his hand gripping Seokmin’s varsity jacket sleeve like a lifeline.
“SEE? IT WORKED!” Soonyoung cheered, throwing his arms in the air while still chewing on Seokmin’s pastry. “THE TIGER BRINGS UNITY!”
Hansol let out a soft laugh, his thumb gently pressing against your chin one last time before his hand slid down to wrap tightly around your cold fingers, lacing his through yours right in front of everyone.
He didn't care about the lounge. He didn't care about the shirtless martial artist or the chaotic confession happening three feet away. He just held your hand, steady and unyielding.
“Come on,” Hansol said quietly, giving your hand a gentle tug toward the exit. “Let’s get out of here before Soonyoung tries to marry them off.”
“Where are we going?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper as you let him lead you away from the madness.
Hansol shot you a sideways glance, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners.
“To the roof,” he murmured smoothly. “I think you’re due for your ten minutes of falling apart.”
Hansol took you almost running hand in hand to the apartment complex. Ignoring the scene where soonyoung continued to harass both seokmin and minghao.
The gravel on the roof access pad crunched softly beneath your shoes, a stark, grounding contrast to the echoing madness you’d left behind in the student lounge.
Hansol didn't drop your hand. In fact, the moment the heavy metal door clicked shut behind you, his grip tightened just a fraction, pulling you right along with him toward the fire escape railing.
You tried to snatch your hand back. “Let go of me, Chwe Hansol. The circus is over.”
“Is it?” Hansol asked smoothly, turning around and leaning his lower back against the iron railing. He didn't release your hand; instead, he used his leverage to gently pull you closer, trapping you right in his space. “Because from where I’m standing, the main attraction is right here.”
“I am not an attraction,” you snapped, forcing yourself to glare directly into his face—which was a massive mistake, because the setting sun was catching his hazel eyes, turning them into a warm, golden honey color that immediately rendered your brain useless. “And for the record, Xu Minghao is a pathological liar when he’s under duress. Nothing that came out of his mouth in that lounge was accurate.”
“Nothing?” Hansol echoed, one dark eyebrow arching in exaggerated disbelief. He raised his free hand, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “So Kwon Soonyoung was lying when he said you think my eyes are pretty?”
“He was exaggerating!”
“And the part about you having a massive crush on me?” Hansol stepped half an inch closer, his chest almost brushing yours. “Exaggeration too?”
“It was complete fiction!” you insisted, your voice cracking slightly under the sheer weight of your denial. You placed your free hand firmly against his chest to keep some semblance of distance between you, though you could feel the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart through his shirt. “I run my life on a strict framework. You are an unpredictable variable. You don't fit into my schedule!”
Hansol didn't pull back. Instead, an infuriatingly handsome grin spread across his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“You left out the part where I fix your audio levels,” he murmured softly, his hand sliding up your wrist, his warm fingers wrapping gently around your forearm. “And the part where we spent the past nights here until 3 a.m. And the part where you stare at me in every single chance you get.”
Your jaw locked. Heat surged up your neck, blinding and absolute. “I don't do such thing!”
“Sure thing,” Hansol whispered. He tilted his head, looking down at you with a gaze so intensely focused, so remarkably tender, that all defensive arguments you’d prepared completely evaporated from your tongue. “You know… for someone who hates unbudgeted risks, you’re doing a terrible job of running away right now.”
“I’m not running because I’m waiting for you to admit you’re being an arrogant—”
“I’m crazy about you,” he interrupted softly.
You blinked, both of you fell into silence, a soft cold breeze made you realize this wasn't a dream (Fortunately) and made you go back to reality.
“What?” you breathed.
“I’m crazy about you,” Hansol repeated, devoid of any teasing. His hazel eyes locked onto yours. “You drive me insane with your insults, and the second you walk into a room, I can’t focus on anything else. I haven't looked at anyone else since the day you yelled at me in the lounge. I, you drive me fucking insane.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs. You opened your mouth to give him a logical response—to tell him this was a distraction, to calculate the risk, to build a defense—but your body completely revolted against your brain.
“You’re lying,” you whispered, a desperate, last-ditch effort to keep your guard up. “You just want to win an argument.”
Hansol let out a soft, breathy laugh through his nose. “Guess I’ll have to prove it, then.”
Before you could process his words, Hansol leaned down.
His lips met yours, warm, soft, and unhurried. Just like himself.
He tasted so good, like coffee and weed. The kiss was surprisingly gentle at first, a quiet question lingering against your mouth, giving you every chance to pull back.
You didn't pull back.
A quiet, helpless gasp escaped your throat, and before you even realized what you were doing, your hand slid off his chest, flying up to grab the back of his neck. Your fingers tangled deeply into the soft, dark hair at the base of his head, pulling him down harder, aggressively deepening the kiss.
Hansol let out a low, surprised hum against your lips, his arm instantly wrapping around your waist, pulling your hips flush against his. The gentle question was gone, replaced by a sudden, fierce intensity that made your knees go entirely weak. He pressed you back against the fire escape railing, his mouth moving against yours with a possessive, hungry rhythm that completely robbed you of your breath.
He finally pulled back, gasping for air, and said in a whisper “Let's stop here, or you'll make me get hard.”
Hansol’s words hung in the air for half a second before you yanked him back down by the collar of his shirt.
The second kiss was nothing like the first; His tongue slid against yours the moment your lips parted, and you answered with the same hunger, biting at his lower lip hard enough to make him groan into your mouth. One of his hands stayed locked at your waist; the other slid under the hem of your shirt, palm hot against the bare skin of your lower back, pulling you flush against him until there was no space left.
You felt him hard, pressing insistently against your hip through the thin fabric of his track pants. Your free hand dropped without thinking, sliding down the front of his body until your palm cupped him fully. You squeezed once, feeling the heavy heat of him jump against your fingers.
Hansol’s breath punched out of him in a low, broken sound. “Fuck—! You certainly got sum dirty hands”
His hips rolled forward into your hand almost involuntarily, chasing the pressure. You stroked him through the soft fabric again, slower this time, mapping the length of him while your mouths stayed locked. His fingers dug into your back hard enough to leave marks.
You stroked him again, firmer, and he tore his mouth from yours just long enough to rasp against your cheek, “Keep doing that and I’m going to fuck you right here against this railing.”
The words made you snap out of the trance, you froze, palm still pressed against the hard outline of him, breathing hard. The rooftop suddenly felt enormous and exposed—city lights, distant traffic, the open sky, any random resident who might decide to come up for a late smoke. Your heart was hammering for an entirely different reason now.
“Not here,” you whispered, voice rough. “Let's go to your apartment. Now.”
Hansol didn’t need to be told twice.
He grabbed your wrist and pulled you toward the heavy metal door so fast the gravel skidded under your feet. You barely remembered the stairs—only the sound of both of you breathing too hard. He fumbled his keys at the sixth-floor door for two full seconds longer than necessary because you were already pressing against his back, mouth on the side of his neck, hand still teasing the front of his pants.
And the door finally gave. He dragged you inside, kicked it shut with his heel, and then you were on him again.
Back against the wall of the narrow entryway, mouths crashing together like you’d been starving for weeks. His jacket hit the floor. Your shirt followed a second later. Hansol’s hands were everywhere— along your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts while you shoved his track pants down just far enough to get your hand properly around him this time, skin to skin.
He was burning hot, already leaking against your palm. You stroked him once, twice, and the sound he made was filthy and you loved it.
“Christ,” he muttered against your mouth, hips jerking. “You’ve been driving me insane for weeks and now you’re just—”
You cut him off by squeezing harder, thumb sweeping over the head of his cock. Hansol cursed, spun you both around, and walked you backward deeper into the apartment without ever taking his mouth off yours. You stumbled past the small living room, until the backs of your knees hit the edge of his unmade bed.
You fell onto the mattress together in a tangle of limbs and desperate hands.
Hansol braced himself over you on one forearm, the other already working your leggings down your hips. You lifted to help him, kicking them the rest of the way off while your own hands yanked his shirt up and over his head, and he reached behind you to unclasp your bra. The second his bare chest was against yours the temperature in the room seemed to spike. He kissed you again while one of his thighs slid between yours, pressing right where you needed friction most.
You rolled your hips against him and felt the answering throb of his cock against your abdomen. Both of you were breathing like you’d run across campus. Your nails dragged down his back. His teeth grazed your jaw, then the sensitive spot just under your ear.
“Still hate me?” he asked against your skin, one hand already sliding between your legs, fingers finding you wet and aching.
You arched into the touch with a sharp inhale. “I do” You grinned, feeling him tense up. Your smile didn't last long, because the next moment Hansol’s hand settled firmly around your throat—not crushing, just enough pressure to make your pulse thunder against his palm and send a sharp spike of heat straight between your legs.
“Still hate me?” he repeated, thumb brushing the side of your neck in a deceptively gentle contrast to the hold. Two of his fingers slid through your wetness, circling your clit once before pushing inside with an easy, practiced curl that made your hips jerk up against him.
You sucked in a breath that came out half-moan, nails digging into his shoulders. “Yes,” you managed, the word cracking when he crooked his fingers just right. “Arrogant… slacker… bastard—”
He laughed low against your mouth, the sound vibrating through both of you, and pressed a little firmer on your throat while he added a third finger. The stretch burned in the best way. You clenched around him, thighs trembling.
“Keep talking,” he murmured, lips brushing yours. “I like how your voice sounds when you’re lying to me.”
You tried to glare, but the next roll of his wrist stole the expression entirely. Your head tipped back against the pillow, the hand on your neck guiding the motion, keeping you open for the wet, open-mouthed kisses he trailed down your jaw. When his teeth scraped the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, your hips bucked hard.
“Fuck—Hansol—”
He pulled his fingers free abruptly. The sudden emptiness made you whine, a sound you would deny later. He stood back on his heels just long enough to shove his track pants the rest of the way off, then reached blindly toward the nightstand. The soft rip of a condom wrapper was the only sound besides your ragged breathing.
Hansol ripped the condom packet open with his teeth. He was already kneeling between your spread thighs, the head of his cock glistening as it bobbed against his stomach. The condom hung half-out of the packet between his fingers when he suddenly shifted, climbing higher until he was straddling your lap instead—knees planted on either side of your hips, the full weight of him settling over you.
He braced one hand on the mattress beside your head and used the other to grip the base of his cock, angling it down so the hot, velvet length pressed flush against the soft plane of your lower abdomen. The head rested just below your navel, the shaft stretching upward in a line. He rocked his hips once, letting you feel exactly how far he would reach—how deeply he planned to bury every inch inside you until there was nowhere left for him to go.
“See that?” he murmured, voice rough and low, eyes locked on yours as he dragged the heavy length against your skin again. "That's how far I'm gonna stuff you. All the way up here. Gonna fill you so deep you feel it in your fucking throat."
Your breath caught. The heat of him against your stomach was scorching, the weight of his cock a promise that made your thighs twitch. He kept the pressure there for another long second, letting the image burn into both of you, before he finally lifted the condom and started to roll it down over the thick head.
Your hand shot out, snatching the half-rolled rubber from your fingers. Without a word you flung it sideways; it sailed off the edge of the bed and vanished somewhere into the dim room with a soft thwap against the floorboards.
“Yeah?” he breathed, leaning in until his mouth brushed your ear. “Do you want it raw? You sure about that? Because once I'm inside you like this, I'm not pulling out. I'm gonna breed that tight little cunt until you're dripping me for days."
Hansol’s eyes stayed locked on yours, then he moved. He scrambled back down your body, knees spreading your thighs wider as he settled between them again. The sudden loss of his weight made you hitch, but he didn’t give you time to complain. One hand pinned your hip to the mattress; the other wrapped around the base of his cock, guiding the slick, flushed head until it kissed your entrance—nothing more.
Just the tip.
He dragged it up through your folds slowly, coating himself in how wet you already were, then pressed it right against your clit and rubbed it in circles. Your hips jerked. He hummed, pleased, and did it again, the blunt head catching and sliding, never pushing in.
“Look at that,” he murmured. “Already dripping for me and I haven’t even given you an inch yet.”
He teased lower, letting the tip notch against your entrance, applying just enough pressure that you felt the stretch start—then pulling back the second your walls tried to suck him in. Again. And again. Shallow, maddening rolls of his hips that left you clenching around nothing, the head of his cock kissing you open only to retreat.
“Hansol—” your voice cracked. You reached for him, nails scraping his forearms, trying to drag him closer. He only chuckled, low and mean, and kept the same slow torture going, the thick tip sliding through your slickness, pressing in a fraction deeper each time before withdrawing completely.
Your thighs trembled. Your breath came in short, frustrated pants. Every time the head stretched you just enough to promise what was coming, he denied it, leaving you aching and empty.
“Please,” you finally broke, the word tumbling out before you could stop it. “Stop teasing—just put it inside!”
That was all he needed.
Hansol’s expression shifted. He locked eyes with you, lined himself up properly this time, and—without warning—thrust forward in one hard, deep stroke. He chewed his bottom lip shutting his eyes, letting his body adjust to the immense pleasure he was feeling.
The sudden stretch burned in the best way. He buried himself to the hilt in a single, relentless push, forcing every thick inch inside until his hips slammed flush against yours and the head of his cock punched exactly as deep as he had shown you it would. A broken sound tore from your throat; his own low groan vibrated against your neck as he stayed buried, grinding in tight circles so you felt every pulse of him.
“Fuck—there it is,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “Took me so well. So fucking tight around me raw.”
He didn’t give you time to adjust. He pulled almost all the way out until only the tip remained, then slammed back in hard, setting a deep, punishing rhythm that made the bedframe creak and the air leave your lungs in sharp gasps. One hand stayed locked on your hip, holding you exactly where he wanted you; the other slid back up to your throat, thumb stroking the side of your neck while he fucked you open with long, devastating strokes.
Hansol’s hips snapped forward again, burying himself to the hilt with a wet, filthy sound.
You clenched around him deliberately, hard enough to make his rhythm stutter. Then you tipped your chin up against the pressure of his palm “Is that—all you’ve—got?” you managed between sharp breaths, eyes locked on his. “All that talk about—Fuck—! stuffing me full and breeding—me, and this is the best—a lazy slacker can do? Barely feel— anything."
Hansol let out a low warning growl rumble in his chest. He slammed in harder, shoving you up the mattress an inch, but you only smirked through the stretch and kept going.
“Come on—Hansol. I’ve had—better. You’re supposed to be filling—me so deep I feel it in my throat, remember? Right now—it just feels… a-average—Like you’re holding—back because you can’t actually keep— u-up.” You clenched again and added with a breathless, mocking edge, “Is that even all–-of i-it? Feels smaller—than you made it l-look when you were—Shit—! pressing it against m-my—stomach. Thought you were gonna ruin—me with that cock. Guess size isn’t—everything after—all.”
That did it.
Hansol’s expression shifted into something feral. He released your throat only long enough to grab both of your wrists and pin them above your head with one strong hand. The other shoved under your knee, folding your leg high against your chest so he could drive even deeper.
“You want more?” he snarled against your mouth, hips snapping into a faster, brutal rhythm that stole the air from your lungs. Every thrust was deep, punishing, the wet slap of skin on skin loud and obscene. “You want to talk shit about my fucking size while you’re stretched around me?”
He angled his hips and slammed in harder—harder than before—each stroke punching the thick head of his cock against your cervix with a force that made your vision spark white. The sudden intensity forced a broken, high sound past your lips before you could stop it.
“Still think I’m not enough, hmm?” he demanded, voice low and rough as he pounded into you without mercy. “Still think this cock is average while I’m nesting so deep inside you that you’ll feel me for days?”
He didn’t slow down. He only fucked you harder, deeper, the relentless pace turning every attempt at another insult into fragmented, gasping syllables. Your words dissolved into broken moans and half-formed curses; the only coherent sounds left were short, desperate pleas and his name torn from your throat every time he bottomed out.
“H-Hansol—fuck—too—” was all you managed before another hard thrust punched the rest of the breath out of you, leaving you unable to form anything more than helpless, shaky gasps as he drove into you over and over, determined to make every single provocation dissolve into nothing but incoherent, wrecked noise.
Hansol didn’t slow.
Even as the relentless pace punched broken, shaky gasps out of you, even as your words fractured into half-formed curses, you still forced out another provocation.
“Still—not—enough,” you managed between thrusts, the words coming out in short, ragged bursts. “Thought—you’d—ruin me—with that—cock—and you’re—still—just—average—”
That was the last coherent insult you got out.
Hansol pulled out, flipped you onto your stomach like you weighed nothing, and shoved a pillow under your hips so your ass was raised. Before you could even push up onto your elbows he was on you—kneeling high, then settling his weight right on the backs of your thighs, sitting heavily on your ass so you were pinned flat to the mattress.
His legs caged yours tightly, knees locked against the outside of your thighs, feet braced wide on the bed for leverage. One hand planted firmly between your shoulder blades, holding you down; the other gripped your hip hard enough to bruise as he lined himself up again.
“Still talking shit?” he growled, voice low and rough against the back of your neck. “Fine. Let’s see how much you can say like this.”
He thrust back into the hilt in one brutal stroke, the new angle forcing him even deeper. The position left you completely open and unable to move—his full weight on your ass, thighs trapped by the weight of his legs, feet driving every powerful snap of his hips so he could fuck into you with short, devastating force.
You tried to push up, tried to twist, tried to form another cutting remark, but the pressure of his body and the relentless depth stole the air from your lungs. All that came out were broken, high sounds and fragments of his name.
“Still think I’m average?” he demanded, never slowing, using the leverage of his braced feet to grind in even harder. “Still think this cock isn’t filling you? Say it again. Tell me how small I am while I’m nesting this deep inside you.”
He leaned more of his weight onto your lower back, pinning you completely, and kept thrusting, determined to fuck every last scrap of defiance out of you until the only thing left was the sound of you taking him.
Hansol kept the same relentless pace for what felt like forever, and your body started to tighten, that familiar coiling heat building low in your belly. You tried to hold onto the last scraps of control, tried to keep the provocations going, but the words came out wrecked and pleading instead.
“Hansol—fuck—I need to cum—please—let me—”
He didn’t ease up. If anything the hand between your shoulder blades pressed harder, keeping you completely still under him.
“No,” he growled against the back of your neck, voice low and absolute even as he fucked into you without mercy. “You don’t get to cum yet. Hold it. You spent all that time talking shit about my size—now you hold it until I say you can.”
You shook your head against the mattress, hips trying to push back against the impossible weight of him. The pressure was already too much. Every thrust dragged the head of his cock over the spot that made your vision white out. Your thighs trembled violently under the cage of his legs.
“I can’t—Hansol—I can’t hold it—”
“Yes you can,” he ordered, the words rough and steady while his hips kept slamming home. “Be good for once and fucking hold it.”
But your body had already decided. The next deep thrust forced a sharp, broken cry out of you. Your walls clamped down hard around him and then the tension snapped. A sudden, powerful rush of wetness pulsed out of you in hard spurts, soaking the pillow under your hips and running down both of your thighs as he continued to fuck through it. You came hard, squirting between every thrust, the involuntary contractions milking his cock while helpless, high sounds tore from your throat.
Hansol didn’t stop. He groaned low and filthy at the sudden gush of wetness, the way your body clenched and fluttered around him, but he kept driving in deep and hard, fucking you straight through the orgasm until the squirting slowed to messy, rhythmic pulses and your legs were shaking uncontrollably under his weight.
“Look at that,” he rasped, never slowing. “Couldn’t even hold it when I told you to. Making such a mess all over my cock.”
Hansol kept driving into you through the aftershocks, your body continued to flutter and pulse around him, the evidence of your orgasm soaking the pillow and his thighs. Only when the last hard spurt had slowed to a messy trickle did he finally pull out.
The sudden emptiness made you whimper.
He sat back on his heels for half a second, breathing hard, then climbed off you completely.
One strong hand tangled roughly in your hair, fisting a thick handful at the nape of your neck and yanking your head back just enough to turn you face toward him. He crashed his mouth down onto yours in a open mouthed kiss—tongue sweeping in, teeth catching your lower lip—while you were still trembling and gasping for air.
When he finally broke the kiss, his lips stayed close, breath hot against your mouth.
“Well?” he asked, the grip in your hair keeping you from looking away. “How was that? Still average? Still think you’ve had better?”
You were flushed, sweaty, thighs sticky and shaking, but the defiant spark hadn’t gone out. A wicked little smirk curved your swollen lips even as you panted.
“I’ve had better,” you managed, the words coming out hoarse and breathless but still laced with challenge. “Way better. That was… fine. Barely scratched the itch. You talk a big game, but I’m still waiting for the part where you actually ruin me.”
Hansol’s eyes darkened. A low, dangerous sound rumbled in his chest.
“Is that right?”
In one smooth, powerful motion he flipped you. He dropped onto his back against the mattress and hauled you up by the hips so you were straddling his lap, knees planted on either side of his waist. His cock—still hard—stood between them, the flushed head brushing against her soaked folds.
He kept one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints.
“Then ride it,” he ordered, voice silk over steel. “Show me how it’s supposed to feel. Take every inch yourself and prove you’ve had better.”
You hovered for a second, the head of him notched against your entrance, teasing them both. Then you sank down slowly. Inch by thick inch, until he was buried to the hilt again and your ass was flush against his thighs. The stretch pulled a shaky moan from your throat; you could feel him so deep it stole your breath.
Hansol’s jaw flexed. His fingers tightened in your hair.
“Move.”
You started rolling your hips—slow at first, grinding in tight circles so the head of his cock dragged against that sensitive spot inside you with every pass. Your hands braced on his chest, nails digging into the muscle as you lifted almost all the way off and then dropped back down hard.
Hansol’s head tipped back against the pillow, a low groan spilling out of him.
“Fuck—look at you,” he rasped. “Taking it so deep like this and still talking shit.”
You picked up the pace, bouncing on his cock with growing urgency, the slap of skin on skin growing louder. Every downward thrust forced a broken sound from your lips. You leaned forward, hair falling around both their faces, and deliberately clenched around him while you rode.
“Still just… average,” you panted against his mouth, the words interrupted by sharp little gasps every time you sank down. “Bigger than some… but nothing special. I’ve come harder on fingers. You’re not even—ah—making me forget my own name yet.”
Hansol’s control snapped.
He released your hair to grab both your hips in a bruising hold. Then he thrust up to meet every bounce, slamming into you from below with a punishing force. The new angle drove him even deeper; the head of his cock punched against your cervix with every upward snap of his hips.
“Keep talking,” he growled, eyes locked on yours. “Tell me how average this feels while you’re dripping all over me. Tell me you’ve had better while you’re bouncing on my cock like you can’t get enough.”
You tried. God, you tried.
But the dual rhythm—you grinding down and him slamming up—stole the words. All that came out were fragmented moans and half-formed insults that dissolved into desperate, high sounds every time he bottomed out.
“H-Hansol—fuck—still—not—”
He sat up suddenly, chest flush against yours, one arm locking around your waist so you couldn’t escape the depth. The other hand tangled back into your hair, yanking your head back so he could bite along your throat while he continued to fuck up into you with short, brutal strokes.
“Ride it harder,” he ordered against your skin. “If it’s so average, take more. Bounce on it until you can’t talk at all.”
Hansol’s hips snapped up hard enough to force a broken cry from your throat. His eyes stayed locked on yours, dark and mean.
“Look at you,” he growled as he slammed into you from below. “Riding my cock like a desperate little slut while you still try to talk shit. Pretending it’s average when you’re dripping all down my balls. You’re nothing but a tight, needy hole that can’t stop clenching every time I bottom out.”
Heat flooded your face, equal parts fury and something darker that made your walls flutter around him.
You didn’t think. Your open palm cracked across his cheek with a sharp, stinging slap.
Hansol’s head snapped to the side for half a second. When he turned back, a low, dangerous laugh rolled out of him. His free hand shot up, fisting a thick handful of your hair at the roots and yanking your head back so hard your spine arched.
“You shouldn't have done that.” he snarled against your throat. “Is that how you want to play? Fine.”
He locked both arms around you—one still buried in your hair, the other banded tight across your lower back—and started fucking up into you with brutal, relentless force. Every thrust punched deep, the head of his cock slamming against your cervix hard enough to make your vision spark white. The new angle left you completely open, unable to control the depth or the pace. He used the grip in your hair to keep your face tilted up, forcing you to take every punishing stroke while he growled filthy things against your ear.
“Still think it’s average? Still talking shit while I’m rearranging your guts? You slapped me and now you’re going to take it until you can’t form a single fucking sentence.”
He didn’t slow. He only drove harder, the wet slap of skin on skin loud and obscene, the bedframe groaning under the force. Your thighs trembled violently around his hips. Every deep thrust punched the air from your lungs in short, high sounds. The insults, the hair-pulling, the sheer overwhelming depth—it all crashed together until the last scraps of defiance melted.
“Hansol—fuck—” Your voice cracked. “It feels—so good—don’t stop—”
He yanked your head further back, teeth scraping the side of your throat as he kept slamming up into you.
“Say it louder,” he ordered, never easing the punishing rhythm. “Tell me how much you like getting fucked dumb on this cock you called average.”
“I like it,” you gasped, the words tumbling out broken and honest between thrusts. “I like it so fucking much—your cock feels so good—so deep—I’m going to cum again if you keep—ah—fucking me like this—”
Hansol’s grip in your hair tightened. He sat up fully, chest flush against yours, and started pounding into you even harder, forcing your body to take every inch over and over.
“That’s it,” he rasped against your mouth. “Keep telling me how much you love it. Let me hear how good it feels when I ruin this tight little cunt.”
Your nails dug into his shoulders as the coiling heat in your belly tightened again, every pull on your hair pushed you closer to the edge you could no longer hold back.
“Hansol—fuck—I’m gonna—”
He didn’t ease up.
“Cum on it. Show me.”
Your orgasm hit again. You clenched hard around him, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as pleasure ripped through you, flooding him with fresh wetness while you ground down helplessly.
And in the middle of it—while your walls were still pulsing and your voice was wrecked—you slipped.
The words came out unfiltered, raw, almost a sob against his mouth:
“I don’t hate you…, fuck, Hansol— I love, you— I need you—”
Hansol’s entire body went rigid. His hips stuttered once, twice—then he buried himself to the hilt with a guttural groan and came hard. Thick, hot pulses flooded you deep as he held you down, grinding through every spurt, forehead pressed to yours, breathing like he’d just been gutted.
“Fuck—say that again—” he gasped, still twitching inside you, cock jerking as the last of his release spilled out. His arms locked around your waist so tightly it almost hurt, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.
You were both shaking, slick with sweat, chests heaving against each other. His cock stayed buried, still half-hard and sensitive, as the aftershocks rolled through both of you.
Hansol’s hand finally loosened in your hair, sliding down to cup the back of your neck instead. His thumb stroked gently over your pulse. When he spoke again, his voice was rough, almost quiet.
“…You mean that?”
With no answer, Hansol eventually pulled out carefully, muttering something about the mess, then rolled off the bed and disappeared into the bathroom. You heard the water run. He came back with a warm washcloth and a towel, cleaning both of you up without much talk—efficient, almost clinical about it, which somehow felt more intimate than if he’d made a production out of it.
When he was done he tossed the towel toward the laundry pile in the corner and climbed back under the sheets. You were already lying on your side facing the window. He settled behind you at first, then shifted so you were both on your backs, bare shoulders and hips touching under the thin blanket.
“…You meant it, right?”
You kept your eyes on the ceiling. “What.”
“What you said. When you came.”
You didn’t answer right away. He turned his head toward you.
“The love part.”
You exhaled through your nose. “I was in the middle of—”
“Yeah, but you said it.” He shifted closer so his arm brushed yours. “Did you mean it?”
You stayed quiet.
He waited about five seconds.
“Okay, but like… seriously. Did you?”
You side-eyed him. “Hansol.”
“I’m just checking.” His tone was flat, but his fingers were tapping restlessly against the mattress. “Because people say shit when they’re coming. Doesn’t always count.”
You stared at him. He was looking at the ceiling again, jaw tight, like he was trying very hard to look casual while his whole body made him look like he was about to cry if you said no.
“I said it,” you muttered.
“Yeah, but—”
“Hansol.”
He turned his face toward you fully this time. “Just say yes or no. Simple.”
You sighed. “Yes.”
His shoulders dropped a fraction. He rolled onto his side and hooked an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him so your left side was to his chest. His face pressed into the side of your neck.
“…Okay,” he mumbled against your skin. “Cool.”
You stayed still for a second. Then the absurdity of the last twenty minutes—confession, sex, him grilling you like a soft interrogation—hit you all at once.
“This is ridiculous,” you said. “I spent weeks calling you a slacker and now I’m naked in your bed saying I love you after you fucked me stupid. My entire schedule is going to need a complete overhaul. Seungkwan’s going to lose his mind when he finds out. Minghao’s never going to shut up. And the audio lab is going to be a nightmare because I still have to look at you across the console and pretend I’m not thinking about—”
You stopped mid-sentence.
Because something firm and warm was pressing against the side of your thigh, shifting slightly with every small breath he took.
You glanced down. Then back up at the ceiling.
“…Are you serious right now.”
Hansol’s arm tightened around your waist. His voice came out muffled against your neck, completely unapologetic.
“What.”
“You’re hard again.”
A short pause.
“Yeah.”
“We just finished.”
“I know.”
You felt him roll his hips once, slow and deliberate, the length of him sliding along the soft skin of your thigh.
“Hansol.”
“You said you love me,” he murmured, like that explained everything. “Kinda does something to me.”
You closed your eyes. A tired, half-laugh escaped before you could stop it.
“You’re impossible.”
His hand slid lower under the blanket, palm settling warm on your hip, thumb brushing the crease of your thigh.
“You can say no,” he said quietly. “I’ll stop.”
You didn’t say no.
Instead you moved your body a little against him just enough to make his breath catch, and the soft sound he made against your neck was the least chill thing you’d ever heard from him.
“Body’s optimistic.”
You stared at the ceiling for another second, then let out a short, incredulous breath that was almost a laugh. “You’re unbelievable, does the weed make you have unlimited stamina?.”
Hansol tightened his arm around her waist and kept the slow, shameless grind going, voice muffled against her shoulder. “Nope. You said you love me. It’s not my fault my dick is an excellent listener.”
“Fuck you”
“Fuck me.”
While you and Hansol were practically tearing each other’s clothes off in the stairwell of the sixth floor, the student lounge down on campus was suffering through an entirely different kind of collapse.
Rewind twenty minutes.
The moment the lounge doors swung shut behind you and Hansol, the remaining trio was left frozen in a bizarre, triangle-shaped stalemate.
Minghao was still face-down on the linoleum, his cheek pressed flat against the cool tiles, muttering Chinese curses about burning down the Fine Arts department and moving to an unmapped mountain range. Seokmin was crouched beside him, looking distressed, trying to figure out how to operate a delicate porcelain vase. And Soonyoung was standing right in the center, still completely shirtless, currently wearing a stolen checkered tablecloth draped over his shoulders like a Renaissance cape.
“Okay,” Soonyoung announced, clapping his hands together with a sound like a pistol shot. “The hall monitor and the audio slacker have fled the scene to commit sins. Which means the floor is officially open for our polygon.”
“POLYGON?!” Minghao shrieked into the floorboards, his voice muffled by the tiles. “I AM LEAVING THIS PLANET!”
“Hao, please, your forehead is touching a public floor, you’re going to catch something,” Seokmin pleaded softly. He reached down, his warm hands gently hooking under Minghao’s armpits, effortlessly hauling the slender artist up off the ground like he weighed nothing at all.
Minghao stumbled, his face a horrifying shade of deep, plum red. He tried to yank his wrist back, but Seokmin’s grip was surprisingly firm, refusing to let go.
“Listen to me,” Seokmin said as he held Minghao by the waist to steady him. “I’m not laughing at you, Hao. Okay? I swear I’m not. If you... if you actually have intent fantasies about me, I need you to know that I spent the last few days staring at my phone waiting for you to text me.”
“He’s down astronomical!” Soonyoung declared, swooping in and throwing a sweaty arm around Seokmin’s neck while his tablecloth cape fluttered behind him. “DK literally talked about your collarbones for twenty minutes in the dugout after practice! He said he'd be honored to be one of your french girls— or, should I say guys?”
“SOONYOUNG!” Seokmin yelled, his own face instantly exploding into a red-ish blush, though he didn't deny it. Instead, he matched Soonyoung’s chaotic energy entirely, turning back to Minghao with a wide, blinding grin. “It’s true! I think you’re incredible! And if you want to include Soonyoung, I’m down! Soonyoung’s great! Look at his back muscles! They’re huge!”
“YEAH! LOOK AT MY LATS!” Soonyoung roared, flexing in the middle of the lounge.
Minghao looked between the two of them, and for a second, it looked like he was genuinely going to faint. His jaw worked silently. His eyes darted from Seokmin’s broad shoulders to Soonyoung’s defined chest, a terrible, helpless thirst washing over his pale face.
“You two are... you are both completely insane,” Minghao whispered, his voice trembling. “This is a public space. People are watching.”
And then, out of nowhere, the chaos stopped.
Soonyoung dropped his arms. The hyperactive, bouncing energy that had driven him to hurdle trash cans and scream about polygon shit vanished in a split second. He let the tablecloth slip off his shoulders, letting it fall onto a chair, and stepped closer to Minghao.
His posture shifted. The playful, cat-like tilt of his eyes softened.
“Hey,” Soonyoung said softly. “I’m not joking around anymore, Hao. I know I’m loud, and I know I push it with the tiger stuff. But I’ve watched you for a while now, and I know how much heart you put into everything you touch. If you’re offering us a chance to take care of you... I’m not letting you run away.”
Minghao froze. The sudden, drastic shift from chaotic martial-artist to a quiet, intensely focused man made his breath hitch hard in his throat.
Beside them, Seokmin didn't miss a beat. Matching Soonyoung’s vibe —again—, Seokmin leaned in close to Minghao’s other side. “Yeah, he's right.”
Then, just as quickly as the calm had settled, Soonyoung glanced at his watch.
“Shit!” Soonyoung blurted out, his normal, high voice snapping right back into place as if the serious moment had never happened. “I have a mandatory team debrief at the dojo in four minutes! My instructor is gonna make me do two hundred push-ups if I’m late!” And before he could sprint out the double doors, Soonyoung paused, turned back, and grabbed Minghao by the lapels of his clothes.
Without a single word of warning, Soonyoung leaned in and planted a hard, wet, sound kiss right on Minghao’s mouth.
Minghao let out a strangled, squeaking gasp—and before he could even process it, Soonyoung turned his head, grabbed Seokmin by the back of his neck, and kissed Seokmin straight on the lips, too.
“SEE YOU GUYS AT MY APARTMENT AT EIGHT!” Soonyoung screamed, turning on his heel and sprinting out of the student lounge at top speed, leaving a trail of pure, chaotic destruction behind him.
The lounge went dead silent again.
Minghao stood there, completely paralyzed, his hand pressed against his own lips, staring at the empty doorway in absolute, utter shock.
Seokmin blinked, a dazed, delighted smile slowly spreading across his handsome face as he touched his own mouth. He looked down at Minghao, his brown eyes sparkling with pure affection, and tightened his arm around Minghao’s waist.
“So,” Seokmin chuckled softly, his voice smooth and incredibly fond. “Do I get a turn with you?”
Minghao let out a long shuddering sigh, his head thumping weakly against Seokmin’s broad chest in defeat.
“I hate my life,” Minghao whispered, though his hand sneaked up to tightly clutch the front of Seokmin’s jersey. “Alright, go on.”
wednesday 24th 4:45 p.m.
You were standing in front of a wobbly full-length mirror, adjusting the strap of your top for the fifteenth time. Everything was in order.
Except your hands, which were cold enough to freeze water.
“If you pull on that strap any harder, it's going to snap,” a quiet, lazy voice drawled from behind you.
You looked up in the mirror. Hansol was leaning against the scaffolding frame, a walkie-talkie clipped to his belt and a roll of black gaffer tape resting over his wrist looking like the only person on campus whose heart rate hadn't surpassed sixty beats per minute.
You let go of the strap, turning around to face him. “The sound check got pushed back ten minutes because the student council miscalculated the wattage for the speakers. That shifts our entire block.”
“It's ten minutes, baby,” Hansol murmured, taking two slow steps forward until he was standing directly in your space. The familiar, grounding scent of him instantly cut through the overwhelming smell of grease and generator fumes. “The crowd's not going anywhere. Half of them are three deep in line for tacos anyway.”
“I like schedules, Hansol.”
“I know,” he said softly. He reached out, his warm fingers wrapping gently around your cold wrist, bringing your hand up between you. He rubbed his thumb over your knuckles, tracing the skin in that slow, hypnotic rhythm he always used. “Your hands are freezing.”
“It's just adrenaline,”
“Sure it is. Listen, you're gonna crush it. The track is set, the levels are clean, and you know the song backward. Just go out there and be messy like Kwan told you.”
You let out a small, breathless laugh, looking up at him through your lashes. “I don't do messy.”
“Yeah, you do,” he whispered, a tiny, genuine smirk touching the corner of his lips. “I've seen it. And I can make that happen again right here.”
Before you could give him a scathing retort about your personal boundaries, Hansol leaned down. His mouth met yours, while his hand trailed down to your plump ass. And you completely melted into it for three brief seconds, your hand coming up to rest against his chest, feeling the solid, rhythmic thud of his heart.
CRASH
The hollow metal folding table behind the scaffolding buckled as a heavy duffel bag slammed onto it, followed immediately by the chaotic stampede of four distinct pairs of footsteps hitting the wooden staging planks.
You shoved Hansol’s chest, scrambling backward with your face instantly burning, while Hansol merely straightened his spine with agonizing slowness, letting out a heavy, long-suffering exhale.
“Oh, wow,” Seungkwan’s voice cut through, his eyes wide as he took in the two of you standing entirely too close in the tight scaffolding gap. “Look at this. My girl is actively engaged in workplace misconduct ten minutes before showtime. Should I write you up, or should I call the dean?”
Right behind him, Minghao strolled in, looking entirely too satisfied with life. He was flanked on either side by Seokmin—who was proudly carrying two oversized tote bags filled with water bottles and towels—and Soonyoung, who was actually wearing a shirt for once, albeit an unbuttoned silk bowling shirt that did very little to cover his chest.
“I told you,” Minghao said smoothly, leaning his shoulder against a support beam and taking a slow sip from a boba cup. “I could smell the sex from around the corner”
“We were discussing some issues,” you said instantly, smoothing down your top, desperately trying to pull your corporate armor back over your head. “Hansol was giving me a technical update.”
“Right, technical,” Seokmin chimed in with an earnest grin, completely oblivious to your glare as he set the duffel bags down. “Is that what they call grabbing someone's ass in the fine arts department? Because if so, I need to take more audio labs.” he said nudging at soonyoung
Hansol didn't even blink. He reached up, casually unclipping the walkie-talkie from his belt, and pointed it at Seokmin. “Keep talking, captain, and I’m cutting your mic frequencies during the alumni announcement.”
“You wouldn't,” Seokmin gasped, clutching his chest.
“Try me.”
“Alright, save the domestic disputes —And public dryhumping— for the afterparty!” Seungkwan clapped his hands. “We have seven minutes before the central courtyard fills up, and I need everyone focused. Is the backing track queued?”
“It’s queued, Kwan. Relax,” Hansol murmured, turning back toward his mixing console. “You’re fine. Go warm up.”
Before Seungkwan could launch into another full-scale motivational speech, the heavy black curtain at the back of the stage was pushed aside.
A guy walked in, the kind of devastatingly symmetrical face that looked like it had been custom-ordered from a high-end agency. The kind of face that made you want to ruin it.
“Hey,” he said quietly, his voice low, smooth, and carrying a distinct LA accent. He tossed a fresh pack of guitar picks onto Hansol’s console. “Power main on the west wing is secured. You owe me an iced latte. Or a blowjob. Whichever’s faster.”
Hansol looked up, his posture visibly relaxing another notch. “Thanks, Josh.”
“Joshua?” Minghao blinked, stepping forward. “I thought you were in LA until Friday.”
“Flight got moved up,” Joshua replied, offering a polite, charming smile that didn't quite reach his eyes until his gaze casually swept past Minghao, past Soonyoung, and landed dead-center on Seungkwan.
Seungkwan, who had been mid-sentence while adjusting his ear monitor, froze. The mic in his hand dipped about two inches. His mouth stayed slightly open, his theatrical cadence completely evaporating as his eyes locked onto Joshua.
“Hmm, so you’re Seungkwan,” Joshua said.
Seungkwan cleared his throat, adjusting his jacket with a sudden, rigid sharpness that looked remarkably like your own nervous habits. “...Yeah. Boo Seungkwan. Vocal major. Who’s asking?—and why the fuck are you looking at me like that?”
Joshua didn't answer right away. He leaned back against the edge of the soundboard, crossing his arms, looking entirely unbothered and nonchatlant. “Hansol talks about you. A lot, actually. Said you were loud and get real fucking noisy when you’re worked up. Kinda give that a try”
Seungkwan’s eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”
“He left out the part where you actually clean up pretty well,” He tilted his head, his eyes fixed on Seungkwan’s flushed face. “Nice jacket. Would look even better on my floor. Or around your wrists.”
Seungkwan’s jaw worked for a fraction of a second. The man who could out-talk an entire student committee was suddenly standing there, his cheeks turning a very faint, dusting shade of pink, gripping his microphone just a little too tightly.
“It’s... vintage,” Seungkwan muttered, recovering his sharp edge with a defensive toss of his head. “And Hansol has no room to talk about loud. He lives in a cave, and still somehow finds time to get his hand down people’s pants backstage.”
“That's just the new york style, I'm more… Sophisticaded, if you like that,” Joshua hummed, his smile widening just enough to show a hint of a dimple. “Good luck out there. I’ll be watching from the sound booth.”
He didn't say another word, turning back toward Hansol to check a routing cable on the board, leaving Seungkwan staring at the back of his new love interest with an expression that was equal parts deeply offended and intrigued.
Minghao nudged Seokmin’s elbow, whispering out of the corner of his mouth: “Did Seungkwan just get short-circuited?Or is he hard?”
“I think so,” Seokmin whispered back, wide-eyed. “Is that allowed?”
“Shut up, both of you,” Seungkwan snapped, though his voice lacked its usual booming authority as he rapidly checked his wireless pack three times in a row. He turned to you, his eyes slightly wide. “Is he... is he always like that?”
“He’s from Los Angeles,” Hansol called out from the board without looking up. “Ignore him, Kwan. He feeds on attention. And pretty boys who blush when they’re told they’d look good with a dick in their mouth.”
“I do not, the fuck? I'm a church boy.” Joshua murmured calmly, his gaze flicked back to Seungkwan one last time, “I just appreciate quality vocals.”
Outside, the crowd roared as the main festival speaker announced the start of the vocal category.
Hansol held your gaze, giving you a single, slow nod. “You’re on, hall monitor,” Hansol said softly over the noise. “Go break the rules.”
You took a deep breath, cold hands finally warm, pulled Seungkwan by the elbow, and stepped out into the blinding stage lights.
Yay, lmk what u think about this in the coments! reblogs and likes are also aprecieated!
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