warnings ⸻ ˚₊·
mentions of angst · rivalry · swearing · school pressure · emotional tension · heated arguments · unresolved yearning · rebel reputation vs golden boy image · jealousy · raw confessions · NO PROOF READING WAS DONE
synopsis ៹
in a world where silence and rebellion clash like chalk against slate, he’s the boy with pressed collars and perfect grades, and you’re the girl with torn notebooks and a storm stitched into your veins. every sharp word traded is a spark. every glance held too long is a secret neither of you can name. and somewhere between late-night notes and hallway arguments, hate begins to unravel into something much harder to fight.
author’s note ✧
for the girls who love sharp tongues, colder stares, and the burn of rivalry that tastes almost like love. nerdy seungmin has been haunting me lately—so this one’s for you if you’ve ever wanted to ruin and heal the smartest boy in the room all at once.
Playlist for this fic <3
(seungmin has mentioned in some interview that he listen to shawn mendes)
--
The last place you expected to be was standing on the auditorium stage, a newly appointed co-head of the school fest. You'd imagined a casual role, maybe handling the music playlist or designing some quirky posters – definitely not this. Your name echoed through the microphone, followed by scattered applause that felt oddly hesitant. You managed a wobbly smile, already picturing the endless possibilities for a truly legendary, slightly chaotic school event.
Then the principal cleared his throat, and your vision of neon lights and impromptu dance-offs began to flicker. "And joining [Your Name] as co-head," he announced, "we have someone known for his exceptional organizational skills and meticulous planning: Kim Seungmin."
Your jaw, which had been set for a triumphant grin, nearly unhinged. Kim Seungmin. The same Kim Seungmin who’d once given a five-minute lecture in pre-calculus on the optimal angle for turning a page without creasing it. The same Kim Seungmin who color-coded his highlighters, his binders, probably his socks. Your polar opposite.
He ascended the stage with a calm, almost regal stride, his posture impeccable, a faint, unreadable expression on his face. As he took his place beside you, the air immediately thickened, charged with a silent, simmering current. You offered a tight-lipped nod, which he returned with a curt dip of his head – more of a dismissal than a greeting. This wasn't just tension; it was a perfectly constructed wall going up between you.
The first official meeting of the Fest Committee was, predictably, a disaster. You walked in, buzzing with ideas, a crumpled sketch of a "Death-Defying Disco Inferno" theme in your hand. "Okay, people!" you announced, slapping the sketch onto the table with more enthusiasm than grace. "Forget boring booths! I'm thinking a neon carnival, maybe a haunted escape room, and definitely a flash mob during lunch!"
A collective gasp, then murmurs. Seungmin, seated directly opposite you, merely raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. He hadn't even looked at your drawing. Instead, he calmly unrolled a pristine, professionally printed Gantt chart, each task meticulously laid out, every deadline highlighted in a different pastel shade. "While enthusiasm is appreciated," he stated, his voice smooth and devoid of any discernible emotion, "we must adhere to a structured framework. My preliminary proposal focuses on a traditional, revenue-generating fair model, emphasizing clear communication channels and hierarchical task delegation."
You scoffed. "Hierarchical task what-now? This is a school fest, not a corporate takeover!"
He ignored you, addressing the rest of the team. "For instance, our current budget projection shows a deficit if we pursue… unconventional attractions. A simple, well-executed theme ensures financial viability and avoids unnecessary complications."
"Unnecessary complications are what make things memorable!" you shot back, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. This was going to be a long semester.
The next hour was a slow, agonizing grind. Every idea you floated – a student-run art gallery, a quirky talent show, even just painting the gym a different color – he meticulously dissected, pointing out logistical flaws, budget constraints, and potential safety hazards. It was like trying to argue with a highly intelligent, perfectly insulated brick wall.
At one point, you were explaining a particularly brilliant idea for a 'Mystery Food Truck' concept. "So, like, people buy tickets, but they don't know what they're getting until it's served! It's a risk, but fun, right?"
Seungmin cleared his throat. "It's 'buy tickets for,' not 'buy tickets.' And the concept lacks proper allergen disclosure and health code compliance. Furthermore, the element of surprise could lead to customer dissatisfaction."
Your face burned. He hadn't just corrected your grammar; he'd done it in front of the entire team, making you sound like an uneducated fool. A ripple of suppressed chuckles went through the juniors. You wanted to crawl under the table and disappear.
Instead, you straightened, forcing a saccharine smile. "Oh, my apologies, Professor Kim. I didn't realize we were in a linguistics seminar. Perhaps next time, I'll submit my ideas in triplicate, bound with a ribbon, and accompanied by a detailed bibliography."
His eyes, dark and unblinking, met yours. Not a flicker of amusement, not a trace of anger. Nothing. "Punctilious execution is paramount," he simply stated, turning back to his chart. The utter lack of reaction was almost more infuriating than a fight would have been.
After that, the division of labor was practically a given. He took charge of finance, logistics, and anything that involved spreadsheets and meticulous planning. You, in a defiant act of self-preservation, claimed creativity, public relations, and anything that involved brainstorming sessions fuelled by questionable amounts of caffeine. Both of you walked away from that meeting secretly seething, convinced the other's approach would lead to certain disaster.
Despite your initial assessment of him as a robotic, joyless individual, you couldn't help but notice something perplexing about Seungmin. He was popular. Not in the loud, charismatic way you tended to be, but in a quiet, undeniable manner. People approached him with questions, seeking his advice, trusting his judgment. They listened intently when he spoke, nodding respectfully. It was his organized charisma, you realized with a jolt – the kind that drew people in with competence and reliability, rather than dazzling them with flair. He wasn't just smart; he was dependable, a steady anchor in the chaotic sea of high school. It was, grudgingly, something you admired, even as it annoyed you.
Seungmin, for his part, found himself covertly observing you. You arrived at meetings with a whirlwind of energy, your ideas often half-formed but undeniably exciting. You could walk into a room and within minutes, have people laughing, offering suggestions, genuinely engaged. While he meticulously laid out plans, you inspired enthusiasm. You won people over with sheer charm and carefree energy, a natural ability to connect that he, despite his intellectual prowess, couldn't replicate. It was infuriatingly effective.
The budget meeting was where the real fireworks began. You presented your estimates for the "Enchanted Forest Photo Booth" and the "Cosmic Cafe," confidently citing projected revenue from ticket sales. Seungmin, without missing a beat, pulled up his own projections.
"While your creative endeavors are… ambitious," he began, his voice flat, "your revenue estimates are optimistic to the point of being reckless. The cost of materials for a 'Cosmic Cafe' alone, not to mention the specialized lighting for an 'Enchanted Forest,' far exceeds our allocated budget."
"Reckless?" you snapped, leaning forward. "At least I'm not proposing something so mind-numbingly boring that people will fall asleep before they even buy a ticket! Where's the fun in a 'traditional fair,' Seungmin? Are we trying to raise money or put everyone in a coma?"
"Fun does not equate to fiscal irresponsibility," he retorted, his voice rising slightly. "My plan is designed for maximum efficiency and return on investment. Your proposals are a glorified spending spree!"
"And yours is a glorified spreadsheet!" you shot back, slamming your palm on the table.
The principal's office was surprisingly quiet. "I don't care about your personal differences," he said, his voice deceptively calm, "but the school fest is a tradition, and it will be successful. You two will work together or be replaced. Is that clear?"
The silence that followed was thick with unspoken threats. You exchanged a glare with Seungmin, a silent promise that neither of you would be the one to back down first.
Later that day, you vented to your best friend, pacing furiously around your room. "He's insufferable! A human calculator! A robot in human skin! He probably runs on batteries and recharges by organizing his sock drawer!"
The next morning, you walked into the committee room, still fuming from your rant, only to find Seungmin already there, meticulously arranging pens in a holder. He looked up, his expression as impassive as ever. "I overheard your charming assessment yesterday," he said, his voice low, "and while I appreciate the unique biological classification, I assure you, my operating system is far more advanced than mere batteries. And for your information, my sock drawer is organized by fabric type, not just color."
You gaped, caught completely off guard. He'd overheard? And that comeback! It was so perfectly dry, so utterly him, and yet it stung with an unexpected bite. He didn't even crack a smile, just went back to his pens. The humiliation, quickly followed by a strange flicker of grudging respect, was almost unbearable.
From that moment on, a new, unspoken tension settled between you. You were both secretly motivated to outdo each other. Every proposal, every task completed, became a silent competition. You worked harder, stayed later, just to prove you could be as effective as he was, even with your "chaotic" methods. He, you suspected, was doing the exact same thing, determined to show that his meticulous order would always triumph over your wild ideas.
Despite the animosity, small details about him started to emerge, almost against your will. He always carried a carton of strawberry milk to meetings, carefully placing it beside his meticulously organized notebooks. It was such an incongruous detail for someone so rigid, and you found yourself watching for it, a tiny, inexplicable crack in his robotic facade.
He, in turn, couldn't help but notice your habits. He'd meticulously color-code your shared project folders, only to find them later adorned with whimsical doodles – cartoon animals, intricate floral patterns, even tiny caricatures of committee members (which he definitely recognized as himself, with his perpetually serious expression). It annoyed him immensely, a testament to your inability to conform, but a small part of him found them… unexpectedly charming.
Their glares across the meeting table became a silent rivalry language. A narrowing of eyes for a particularly brazen suggestion. A subtle curl of a lip for an overly optimistic projection. It was a communication understood only by the two of you, a private war waged in the confines of a conference room.
One heated argument over the placement of the main stage, a particularly ridiculous clash of wills, reached a crescendo. You were exasperated, throwing your hands up. "Why are you always so rigid, Seungmin? Can't you just let go for one second?"
His jaw tightened. He held your gaze, his eyes dark, then slowly, deliberately, he slammed his pen down onto the table. The sharp crack echoed in the sudden, absolute silence of the room. The other committee members froze, eyes darting between the two of you, sensing the precarious edge you were teetering on.
In the suffocating quiet, a desperate, impulsive question burst from you. "Do you ever smile?"
His jaw visibly tightened further. His eyes, usually unreadable, flickered with something – anger? Hurt? You couldn't tell. He simply stared at you, his silence a stark, unyielding wall. No answer.
That night, you were gathering your things to leave, the argument still replaying in your head, when you noticed a light on in the main committee room. Curiosity, or perhaps something else, pulled you back. Through the open door, you saw him. Seungmin, alone, surrounded by stacks of files, meticulously organizing them late at night. His sleeves were rolled up, a few strands of hair had fallen across his forehead, and for a fleeting moment, he looked tired, vulnerable, and surprisingly human. It was the first crack in your perception of him, a tiny chink in the robot's armor.
You slipped away before he could see you, the image of him, alone in the quiet room, stubbornly working, burning itself into your mind. You walked home, still irritated, still nursing the wounds of his sharp words, but also, strangely, oddly aware of him in a way you hadn't been before. The rivalry was still there, sharp and undeniable, but now, a subtle, confusing thread of something else had begun to weave itself into the fabric of your interactions. You hated him, you really did. But you couldn't stop thinking about him.
The air in the committee room still hummed with the aftershocks of the budget meeting and Seungmin's unexpectedly sharp comeback. A fragile, yet palpable, truce had settled, defined by cold civility rather than genuine peace. The next battleground? The decor theme.
"Alright, team," you began, trying to inject some much-needed enthusiasm, "let's talk visuals! I'm still feeling a risky neon carnival vibe. Think glow-in-the-dark cotton candy, blacklight art installations, maybe even a UV paint splatter zone!" You gestured wildly, your eyes alight with the vibrant possibilities. "It's fresh, it's exciting, it'll make us stand out!"
Across the table, Seungmin adjusted his glasses, his expression flat. "While the concept of a 'paint splatter zone' certainly sounds… unique," he said, his voice dripping with thinly veiled disdain, "I maintain that a traditional school fair theme is more appropriate. It's universally appealing, logistically simpler, and aligns with community expectations. Imagine classic game booths, handmade crafts, perhaps a quaint, aesthetically pleasing photo backdrop with natural light."
The room split. A few of the younger students, their eyes wide at the mention of neon, murmured their agreement with your idea. The more pragmatic, often older, members nodded along with Seungmin, envisioning easy setup and predictable success. You could feel the subtle shift, the silent alignment of sides forming around each of you. It wasn't just an argument about decorations; it was a referendum on your leadership styles.
"A quaint photo backdrop?" you scoffed, leaning back in your chair. "Are we trying to throw a festival or a tea party for centenarians?"
"We are attempting to execute a successful and reputable school event," Seungmin countered, his gaze unwavering. "Not a chaotic rave that will alienate parents and potentially violate school policy."
The argument escalated, their voices rising, until Ms. Davies, the faculty advisor, clapped her hands sharply. "Enough! Both of you! This is counterproductive." She surveyed the divided room, her gaze stern. "The decor will blend both ideas. [Your Name], you'll incorporate some of your modern, vibrant elements. Seungmin, you'll ensure it remains structured and cohesive. You are co-heads. You will cooperate."
You bit back a sarcastic retort, while Seungmin merely nodded, though his jaw seemed to clench almost imperceptibly.
Later that afternoon, you presented your initial sketches for the blended theme: iridescent streamers, subtle neon accents, and a "Galaxy Game Zone" that hinted at your carnival idea without going full rave. Seungmin looked at them, his lips pressed into a thin line.
"These designs," he stated, pushing them back across the table, "are fundamentally childish. The color palette lacks sophistication, and the thematic execution is, frankly, amateurish. We need something more… mature."
Your eyes narrowed. "And your idea," you retorted, grabbing his meticulously detailed, almost architectural blueprint for a 'Harvest Festival' layout, "is soulless. It looks like a tax form, not a celebration. Where's the joy? The spark? It's just lines and labels!"
"Lines and labels," he said, tapping the blueprint with a precise finger, "ensure functionality. 'Joy' does not prevent bottlenecks at the ticket booth."
Ms. Davies, bless her exhausted soul, then delivered the final blow. "You two will sit down, right now, and merge these plans. I expect a unified blueprint by the end of the day. And don't leave this room until it's done."
You groaned inwardly, exchanging a venomous look with Seungmin. Sitting together for hours. Just the two of you. This was going to be torture.
The initial hour was a flurry of snarky banter. Every suggestion you made was met with a dissecting, often condescending, remark from him. Every logical counterpoint he offered was met with your eye-rolls and exaggerated sighs.
"So, the 'Cosmic Cafe' then," you muttered, tapping your pen against your teeth. "We could have star-shaped lanterns…"
"And a clear, concise menu board, unlike the 'mystery' debacle," he interjected, without looking up from his laptop.
"Oh, right, because ambiguity is the greatest sin in your universe," you shot back.
"Irresponsibility is."
"Boring is."
But as the hours dragged on, the snark began to wear thin, replaced by a dead silence that was almost heavier than the arguments. You stared at your half of the table, sketching angrily, while he typed away, the rhythmic click of his keyboard the only sound. It was an uneasy truce born of forced proximity, not mutual respect.
The next few days were a blur of committee meetings and sub-group assignments. You, however, found yourself increasingly frustrated by Seungmin's unwavering adherence to "protocol." So, in a moment of rebellious brilliance, you snuck in risky ideas behind his back. You subtly convinced the art club to use glow-in-the-dark paint on some of the "traditional" banners, framed some of your neon concept art and hung it in a less conspicuous hallway, and quietly secured a booking for a local breakdancing crew, pitching them as "surprise entertainment." They weren't exactly a flash mob, but it was a start.
You felt a surge of defiant satisfaction with each small victory. Seungmin was too busy with his spreadsheets and schedules to notice your little acts of sabotage. Or so you thought.
You were in the middle of convincing the drama club president to incorporate a dramatic light show into their skit when Seungmin appeared, his face uncharacteristically grim. He held up one of the glow-in-the-dark banners you'd approved.
"Care to explain this?" he asked, his voice low, deceptively calm.
Your heart gave a small leap. "It's… artistic expression? Adds a bit of flair?"
"Flair that was not approved, not budgeted for, and directly contradicts the agreed-upon aesthetic," he stated, his eyes boring into yours. "And I'm given to understand you've engaged a 'breakdancing crew' without consulting anyone. Are you deliberately undermining my efforts?"
"Undermining? I'm trying to make this fest actually fun!" you fired back, your own anger flaring. "Unlike your beige, soul-crushing vision!"
"My vision ensures success! Your 'fun' guarantees chaos and potential failure!" he retorted, his voice rising. "You are completely reckless! You think you can just do whatever you want without consequences?"
"And you're a control freak! You think everyone needs to be a clone of your perfectly ordered mind!"
It was a brutal exchange of words, sharp and cutting, leaving both of you breathing heavily, the air around you thick with animosity. He turned on his heel and walked away, his back ramrod straight, leaving you seething.
Later that afternoon, still reeling from the confrontation, you were heading to the library when you saw him. On the empty baseball field behind the school, Seungmin was alone, wearing a plain t-shirt, his usually neat hair slightly dishevelled. He was practicing a baseball throw, over and over, with a powerful, fluid motion you hadn't expected. The ball zipped through the air, hitting the fence with a satisfying thud. He looked… different. Less like a robot, more like a focused, intense athlete. You found yourself pausing, oddly drawn, watching him without realizing how long you'd been standing there.
He wound up for another pitch, then hesitated, his arm mid-air. He turned his head slowly, his eyes locking onto yours. He'd seen you. His face, initially focused, hardened almost instantly, a flash of annoyance crossing his features.
"What are you staring at?" His voice, though distant, carried across the field, edged with an impatient frustration. It wasn't a question, but a demand. The annoyance in his voice, the way his gaze lingered, made you flush. You quickly spun on your heel and walked away, the echo of his annoyed "what are you staring at?" burning in your ears.
The next day brought the first practice run for the main stage performances. The lights flickered, the sound system buzzed, and a prop backdrop started to wobble precariously close to the edge of the stage. Panic flared through the student crew. But before anyone could react, Seungmin's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and clear. "Stage left! Support beam, now! Secure that top corner!"
His precise, calm order saved a near-accident. The crew, startled but responsive, followed his instructions without question, and the backdrop was stabilized just in time. The crisis averted, he simply resumed checking his clipboard, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. You watched him, a knot forming in your stomach. He had been right. His attention to detail, his quick thinking, had prevented something serious. You grudgingly admitted he was right (in your head), though you'd die before saying it out loud.
Seungmin, meanwhile, observed you throughout the practice. Despite the technical glitches and the general disarray, you were a whirlwind of positive energy. You were cracking jokes with the overwhelmed tech crew, offering words of encouragement to nervous performers, and somehow, miraculously, keeping everyone's spirits up. You were chaotic, yes, but you were also the emotional backbone of the entire operation. He grudgingly admitted she keeps morale up (in his head). It was a skill he completely lacked, and one that, to his quiet frustration, was proving undeniably valuable.
That evening, your phone rang. It was Ms. Davies. "Look," she sighed, "I'm calling both of you. You have to coordinate together. This infighting is affecting the entire committee. You're both indispensable, but you're also driving everyone crazy. I'm setting up a shared document, and you two will be updating it together, daily. No more surprises, no more silent treatment."
You hung up, dread washing over you. More forced collaboration. This was never going to end.
The next day, you found yourselves in the committee room again, hunched over a shared laptop, updating the dreaded document. The silence was thick, punctuated only by the click of the mouse and the occasional sigh from either of you. You were outlining a schedule for prop distribution when you heard it – a faint, almost inaudible humming under his breath. It was a soft, melodic tune, familiar yet out of place.
You paused, leaning in slightly. "Is that… Shawn Mendes?" you asked, a playful, incredulous note in your voice.
He stiffened instantly, his humming cutting off abruptly. His head snapped up, and a faint blush crept up his neck, though he quickly tried to mask it by clearing his throat and adjusting his posture. "It's a structurally sound piece of music," he mumbled, refusing to meet your eye.
You couldn't help but tease him. "Seungmin, you have a secret pop obsession? The robotic brain enjoys shawn mendes songs?" You grinned, finding a rare, unexpected chink in his armor.
He glared at you, his ears still a little red. "It's merely an example of efficient song composition. And you," he retaliated, grabbing a report you'd just finished, "your handwriting on these reports is atrocious. It looks like a spider crawled across the page after consuming too much caffeine."
"Oh, really?" you shot back, snatching the report. "At least my thoughts aren't as dull as your penmanship is neat. It's legible, that's what matters! Unlike your personality."
The sharp words, however, lacked their usual venom. There was a lightness to them now, a familiar rhythm.
As the sun began to set, casting long shadows, you found yourselves walking home, both leaving the school at the same time. The usual distance you maintained was slightly lessened, a subtle shift you both noticed but didn't acknowledge. You walked home in silence, but not as hostile as before. It wasn't comfortable, not yet, but the air felt less charged with outright loathing. It was a tentative, almost fragile, cease-fire.
That night, alone in your room, you found yourself pulling out the revised decor blueprint Seungmin had meticulously updated. You traced the lines, noting his precise labels, his careful calculations. Despite yourself, you started to see the logic, the efficiency in his plan. It was boring, yes, but undeniably solid. You were secretly re-reading his notes.
Miles away, Seungmin sat at his desk, a stack of notes and reports before him. His eyes, however, kept drifting to the margins of one of your reports, where a small, surprisingly detailed doodle of a starry night sky with tiny, smiling planets had been scrawled next to a list of budget figures. He found himself studying it, a faint, almost imperceptible furrow in his brow. He was secretly re-reading your notes, too. The conflict was still alive, simmering beneath the surface, but something else had undeniably begun to stir. A quiet, confusing awareness.
The countdown to the school fest was ticking down, and with it, the pressure was mounting like a physical weight on everyone’s shoulders. What had started as a series of brainstorming sessions and mild-mannered meetings had devolved into a frantic, chaotic scramble. Responsibilities piled up, sub-groups were struggling, and the air in the committee room was thick with the scent of stale coffee and impending doom. You and Seungmin, despite your best efforts to manage your respective domains, were both burning the candle at both ends. Your free-flow, "we'll figure it out as we go" approach was a stark contrast to his meticulous, "there are no contingencies for chaos" framework, and the friction between the two was becoming unbearable.
The tipping point came with the printing of the official invites. It was a simple task, one you had confidently assigned to a junior who was usually reliable. You had given her the design, which you’d whipped up in an hour of manic inspiration, and a loose deadline. You trusted her, and you trusted your gut that the design was perfect. It was a beautiful, vibrant card with a stylized illustration of your neon carnival, designed to get people hyped. The mistake was small, a single misplaced comma in the date and a typo in the main sponsor's name, but it was significant. You only found out when a frantic junior, her face pale, came to you with a box of the newly printed cards. The typo was glaring. All three hundred invites were wrong.
Before you could even formulate a plan, Seungmin was there. He picked up one of the invites, his expression hardening as his eyes landed on the error. You braced yourself, expecting a lecture, but what you got was something far worse. He didn't just point out the mistake; he dissected it in front of a small group of confused juniors.
"This is what happens," he said, his voice low and cutting, "when you rely on a 'free-flow' approach. A lack of proper proofreading, an absence of a clear chain of command, and an over-reliance on… intuition." He looked at you, his gaze cold and full of disdain. "You were careless. This isn't just a typo; this is a tangible consequence of your recklessness. Now we have to pay to get these reprinted, all because you couldn't be bothered to check something so basic."
The juniors, who had been listening to you just a moment ago with enthusiasm, shifted uncomfortably. His words, delivered in a sharp, almost surgical manner, didn't feel like a scolding; they felt like a public execution. You felt the blood drain from your face, your skin growing hot with a mixture of shame and fury. It was one thing to be lectured by him in private, but to be humiliated in front of your peers, your own team… it was a new low.
"I'll handle it," you muttered, your voice barely a whisper, your eyes burning.
"You should have handled it the first time," he said, turning back to his clipboard, as if the conversation was over.
The casual dismissal was the final straw. Deeply stung, you didn't say another word. You simply dropped the box of invites and walked away, the juniors parting for you like a red sea. You could feel their eyes on your back, the silent whispers, the unspoken embarrassment. It wasn't the mistake that hurt; it was the brutal, unfeeling way he had called you out, making it seem as though your very presence was a problem.
As if to twist the knife, Ms. Davies, a teacher who had always been fond of your creative energy, came over to you later that day, catching you in the hallway. "Don't let him get to you," she said, her voice gentle. "He’s a good kid, but he can be a little rigid. We all make mistakes. What matters is how you fix them." Her words were meant to be comforting, but they were a double-edged sword. She had taken your side. You knew this would only subtly frustrate him, reinforcing his belief that people were too soft on you.
You avoided him the whole day. You took different routes in the hallway, skipped lunch in the committee room, and made sure to be the last one to leave your classes. The silence between you, which had once been filled with a simmering hate, was now a heavy, suffocating blanket. It was a silence that carried the weight of his harsh words and your deep-seated hurt. It was heavier, more profound than any fight.
That night, well past the time anyone else was in the building, you were coming out of the art room with some posters when you saw a light on in the committee room. The door was ajar, and as you peered inside, your heart gave a strange, complicated lurch. There he was, Seungmin, sitting at a desk with the box of botched invitations, a fresh stack of paper, and a pristine printer. He was alone, his brow furrowed in concentration, painstakingly inputting the correct information. He wasn't delegating the task or complaining about it; he was redoing your mistake alone.
A surge of shame, and something else you couldn't name, washed over you. The anger you’d felt all day began to dissipate, leaving behind an uncomfortable, quiet gratitude. You took a tentative step into the doorway. "You… you don't have to do that," you whispered, your voice small.
He didn't look up, his fingers moving methodically across the keyboard. He finished a line of code, then hit 'print.' The machine whirred to life, spitting out a perfect, corrected invitation. He picked it up, inspected it, and gave a tiny, satisfied nod. Then, and only then, did he glance over at you, his face still unreadable. You couldn't tell if he was annoyed, or resigned, or simply indifferent.
"Thank you," you said, the words feeling foreign on your tongue.
He didn't respond with a word. He just gave a curt nod and returned to his work. The gesture was minimal, a silent acknowledgment, but it was enough. It was an olive branch, a tiny, fragile one, and you couldn't help but feel a little less alone in the world.
The following day, you walked into school to find that the entire student body was in on your personal drama. The rumors started in school as whispers, then blossomed into full-blown public opinion: "they fight like a married couple." It was the worst possible comparison, one that made your stomach churn with disgust. You were furious, and you made sure everyone knew it.
"A married couple? Please! He's my polar opposite! We're not married, we're not dating, we just… tolerate each other out of necessity," you'd snapped at a friend in the hallway.
Seungmin, when he heard it, simply rolled his eyes, a gesture so deeply detached and condescending that it somehow made your furious denial seem even more over-the-top.
The universe, in its cruel irony, decided to make things even more awkward. Later that week, you and Seungmin were the only two committee members free to go on a props shopping trip to a large, warehouse-sized craft store on the edge of town. It was just the two of you, alone, in a car that felt uncomfortably small.
He was in his element, of course. He had a printed list, a spreadsheet on his phone, and a keen eye for finding the most practical, durable, and cost-effective materials. He insisted on a very specific shade of blue for the backdrop and a certain brand of high-strength tape. You, meanwhile, were on a mission to inject some personality. As he was preoccupied with comparing different types of felt, you sneaked in colorful add-ons to the cart: a giant disco ball, a string of glowing mushroom lights, and a bag of iridescent glitter.
You found yourself noticing how meticulously he was and how he checked every single detail twice. He weighed the spools of ribbon, inspected the weave of the fabric, and even read the fine print on the glue bottles. It was exhausting to watch, but you also saw that he wasn't doing it out of a need for control; he was doing it to ensure nothing went wrong. There was a quiet intensity to his focus, a genuine care for the quality of the final product.
And he, in turn, found himself watching you. You didn't just grab items; you made a show of it. You charmed the cashier into giving you a discount, chatted with a fellow shopper about their DIY project, and somehow got the attention of a store employee who found the exact shade of glitter you were looking for. He noticed how easily you talked to strangers, how people smiled at you in return. Your energy was infectious, a genuine and unforced magnetism that made his own carefully constructed politeness seem pale in comparison.
You had your arms full of fabric rolls and fake plants when one of the heavy bags ripped, and the contents went spilling all over the floor. You let out a frustrated sigh, bending down to collect the mess. Before you could even register what was happening, Seungmin was there. He didn't say a word, didn't make a comment about your clumsiness. He simply bent down, scooped up the heavy bag you had dropped, and took it from you. He took it wordlessly, his face as impassive as ever.
"Oh," you said, caught off guard. "Thank you."
He didn't respond with a word, just a quiet shrug as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The small act of kindness, unprompted and without fanfare, hit you with the force of a tidal wave.
Just as you were leaving the store, the skies opened up, and the rain started pouring with a vengeance. You both sprinted for the nearest shelter, which happened to be a cramped bus stop, filled with other people waiting out the storm. With the loud, drumming rain and the close proximity, the silence that fell between you was now heavy with a different kind of tension.
It was you who broke it first. "Well, this is just great," you muttered, leaning against the cold glass. "Trapped with the human rulebook."
He didn't rise to the bait. "It's a statistical certainty that it would rain," he said dryly. "The meteorological data was quite clear."
"See? That's what I'm talking about! You're so predictable," you shot back, but there was a teasing quality to your voice now, a lightness that hadn't been there before.
The sarcastic quips returned, a familiar and comfortable rhythm, a way of navigating the charged space between you. You mocked him for his reliance on data; he mocked you for your inability to carry a bag properly.
Then, a sweet-faced old woman next to you smiled. "You two are a lovely couple," she said warmly, "It's so nice to see young love."
Your head snapped up, and you denied it loudly, the words tumbling out of your mouth in a panicked rush. "Oh, no, no, we're not—we're just committee heads for the school fest!"
Seungmin, surprisingly, also denied it on instant instead of avoiding it like he always did, though his denial was as perfectly structured as his notes. "We are merely colleagues collaborating on a shared project. There is no romantic component to our relationship," he said stiffly.
The old woman just smiled knowingly and nodded. "Whatever you say, dears."
You didn't look at him for the rest of the ride, but you could feel him there, just inches away. Both of you were silent, the bus moving through the rainy city. And though you would never admit it, you couldn’t stop thinking about it later. The stranger's simple words had labeled a complicated, volatile relationship, and in the privacy of your own mind, you had to ask yourself: Was it really so far from the truth? The thought was terrifying, and for the first time, not entirely unwelcome.
The uneasy truce from the bus stop dissolved quickly under the weight of an escalating crisis. The principal’s voice, usually calm and measured, cut through the afternoon announcements with unusual severity. "Fest prep is significantly behind schedule. If we don't see substantial progress by the end of the week, I will have no choice but to reconsider the event altogether."
A collective groan rippled through the student body, but a cold dread settled in your stomach. This wasn't just about a school event anymore; it was about your reputation, and Seungmin’s. The stakes had suddenly skyrocketed. There was only one solution: an all-nighter, and Ms. Davies made sure it was a joint command. "You two," she stated, her gaze pointedly alternating between you and Seungmin, "will coordinate this tonight with your entire team. I expect to see tangible results by morning."
Seungmin, predictably, took charge with the efficiency of a seasoned general. He arrived with an extensive checklist, assigning tasks with precise, almost surgical, instructions. "Alright, listen up," he commanded, his voice sharp and clear, cutting through the weary murmurs of the team. "Section A, backdrop construction. Section B, prop painting. Section C, electrical wiring. We'll rotate every two hours. No unscheduled breaks. Hydration is mandatory, but chatter is not. We are operating on a strict timeline." He moved through the auditorium, a clipboard in hand, organizing everything like a military drill. The team, exhausted but intimidated, moved with a newfound, albeit grumbling, discipline.
You, on the other hand, knew that pure discipline wouldn't carry them through hours of tedious work. Morale was plummeting faster than the fest budget. So, as Seungmin barked orders, you moved through the room with a different strategy. You started cracking jokes, offering ridiculously bad puns about paint fumes, and making silly faces at the most stressed-out juniors. You brought out a stash of your emergency snacks—extra-spicy ramen, giant bags of chips, and an array of sugary drinks. And then, the final touch: you pulled out your portable speaker.
"Alright, people!" you declared, hitting play on a high-energy pop playlist. "Time to get this party started, even if it's a work party!" The bass vibrated through the floor, a stark contrast to the quiet, focused intensity Seungmin had cultivated.
He spun around, his eyes narrowing at the sudden blast of sound. "Do you mind?" he demanded, walking swiftly towards you. "This is a work environment, not a discotheque. We need focus, not auditory distractions."
"Oh, come on, Seungmin! A little music helps keep the energy up!" you retorted, turning the volume dial higher just to annoy him.
He bristled, a vein thropping faintly in his temple. "It's disruptive and unprofessional." But as he returned to his inspection of the stage scaffolding, you noticed something. He was subtly tapping his foot to the beat, a barely perceptible bounce in his otherwise rigid posture. And then, so quietly you almost missed it, you heard him secretly hum along to the chorus of a particularly catchy song. The realization hit you with a jolt: he wasn't immune to fun, he just fought it.
Hours bled into the late night. The initial exhaustion had given way to a strange, almost delirious energy. You were covered in paint streaks, your hair a mess, but you felt a surprising camaraderie with the rest of the team. You glanced over at Seungmin. He looked tired, too, his usually pristine shirt rumpled, dark smudges under his eyes. He was still working, correcting a junior's attempt at building a prop stand, his voice softer than usual.
He finished, then straightened up. Without a word, he walked over to a cooler he’d brought, pulled out a carton, and walked directly towards you. Your eyes widened as he extended his hand. It was a strawberry milk. Cold, pink, and utterly unexpected. He didn't say anything, just held it out.
Shocked, you took it, your fingers brushing his for a fleeting moment. His hand was surprisingly warm. You stared at the carton, then at his impassive face. "Thanks," you managed, your voice quiet. He simply gave a curt nod and walked back to his station. You took a sip, the sweet, cold liquid a surprising comfort in the late hours. It was the first time he'd offered you anything without an agenda, without a hidden critique. A small gesture, yet it felt monumental.
A while later, you were taking a quick break, scrolling through your phone, when you glanced up. Seungmin was sitting alone on a crate, his own phone in his hand, looking down at the screen. A faint, almost imperceptible smile played on his lips. It was small, fleeting, but undeniably there. Not his usual tight-lipped politeness, but a genuine, soft curve of his mouth.
"So you do smile," you blurted out, the words escaping before you could filter them.
His head shot up, his eyes wide. The smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by an instant, almost panicked, stiffness. He instantly froze, his expression shutting down, becoming that familiar, unreadable mask. He quickly shoved his phone into his pocket.
"Don't," he mumbled, his voice tight, barely audible. He looked away, his jaw clenching.
The abruptness of his reaction, the raw defensiveness, made something click in your mind. He didn't just not smile often; he hated smiling because he didn’t trust it. Like it was a weakness. Like it made him vulnerable. A wave of unexpected empathy washed over you. The anger and annoyance you usually felt towards him receded, replaced by a strange, quiet understanding.
A fragile silence grew instead of a fight. It wasn't the hostile silence you were used to, but something softer, more tentative. The music still played, but the underlying tension had shifted.
"You know," you said, breaking the quiet, your voice softer than intended, "your seriousness… it's actually useful sometimes. Like, when everything else is going crazy, you're the one who keeps us on track." It was a genuine admission, one you never thought you'd make.
He didn't look at you, but you saw the barest flicker in his eyes. He paused, then responded, his voice equally low. "And your chaos… sometimes it works. Keeps people from burning out. Keeps the mood light." It was a grudging admission, but it was an admission nonetheless.
That was it. The first moment of genuine teamwork. Not forced by a teacher, not fueled by competition, but born from a reluctant acknowledgment of each other's strengths. You continued working through the night, falling into a surprisingly efficient rhythm. You cracked jokes when spirits flagged; he stepped in with clear directions when things got messy. You were still two very different people, but for the first time, you were truly working together, not just in parallel.
The next morning, as a bleary-eyed Ms. Davies surveyed the transformed auditorium, a satisfied smile spread across her face. "Remarkable," she murmured. "Absolutely remarkable. You two really pulled through."
News traveled fast. By lunch, the rumors in school had taken a new, bewildering turn. Instead of "fighting like a married couple," the whispers were now, "they're warming up to each other?"
You heard it from your friends, from random classmates, even from a freshman in the hallway. You felt a blush creep up your neck, a confusing mix of embarrassment and something else you couldn't quite name.
Then you saw Seungmin, approached by a group of juniors, one of whom brazenly asked, "So, are the rumors true, Seungmin sunbae? Are you and [Your Name] finally getting along?"
His reaction was immediate and decisive. His eyes hardened, and he shot down the rumor sharply, his voice devoid of warmth. "Absolutely not. We are colleagues fulfilling a responsibility. There is nothing 'warming up' about it. Focus on your own tasks." The juniors scattered, chastised.
You watched from a distance, and a peculiar, oddly hurt feeling bloomed in your chest. It was illogical, of course. You had denied the same rumors yourself, just minutes ago. You hated the comparison. But seeing him shut it down so emphatically, so coldly, made your stomach clench with an unexpected pang.
During meetings that followed, despite the outward professionalism, you found your eyes lingering more. On his precise movements, the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the faint shadow of a smile that sometimes threatened to break through his serious facade. You would catch him looking at you too, a quick glance that darted away the moment you met his eyes. Neither of you wanted to admit it, not yet. Not the subtle shift, the easing of hostility, the strange, new awareness that was undeniably growing between you.
The temporary truce, fragile as spun sugar, shattered with the first festival mock event. This was the dress rehearsal, the final run-through before the actual day, designed to iron out any kinks. Instead, it exposed every single flaw, magnified every underlying tension. Your brilliant, slightly unconventional lighting setup for the main stage, meant to create a dazzling, immersive experience, instead resulted in a spectacular technical mishap. A key circuit blew, plunging half the auditorium into darkness, causing a ripple effect that shorted out the sound system and froze the projection screen. The dazzling light show became an instant, deafening blackout, followed by confused murmurs and then, outright panic from the performers.
You, despite the chaos, tried to take it lightly. "Whoops! Looks like we just invented the 'surprise blackout segment'!" you called out, trying to laugh it off, already thinking about how to turn the disaster into a quirky, memorable moment. "Alright, everyone, minor hiccup! Let's get these lights back on, improvising is half the fun, right?"
But Seungmin didn't find it funny. Not even a little. The moment the backup lights flickered on, illuminating the mess, he stormed towards you, his face a thundercloud. This wasn't the usual controlled annoyance; this was raw fury, simmering just beneath the surface, finally boiling over.
"This is not a 'hiccup'!" he exploded, his voice low but vibrating with intensity, drawing the attention of every bewildered committee member and performer. "This is what happens when you prioritize reckless, unproven ideas over fundamental safety and established protocols!" His voice rose with each word, sharper than you'd ever heard it. "I warned you about the voltage, I warned you about the experimental wiring, but no, you had to have your 'dazzling light show'!"
He gestured wildly at the darkened stage, his anger painting him red. "You ruin everything you touch! Every single time, you bring chaos, you create problems, you disregard every piece of advice given to you. This entire fest is jeopardized because of your irresponsibility!"
The words, so brutally delivered, hit you like a physical blow. "You ruin everything you touch." They weren't just about the lights; they were about you. About your very essence, your approach to life. You were stunned, deeply hurt, the air knocked out of your lungs. The cheerful mask you usually wore cracked, revealing the vulnerability beneath. Your eyes burned, but you refused to let the tears fall.
Instead, a cold, hard anger sparked within you, pushing back against the pain. "Oh, and you're so perfect, aren't you?" you fired back, your voice trembling despite your efforts to control it. "At least I’m not a lifeless robot! At least I have ideas, passion, something beyond spreadsheets and rules! Maybe if you actually lived a little, you'd understand that sometimes things go wrong, and you just fix them instead of blaming everyone around you!"
"I'm fixing your mistakes because you refuse to be anything but a liability!" he spat, his face tight with controlled rage.
"And you're a self-righteous, control-freak dictator!"
The air vibrated with the force of your words. You could feel the stunned silence of the team around you, the palpable drop in their morale. You didn't wait for a response. You just spun on your heel and walked away, furious, leaving him standing there in the half-lit auditorium. You heard the murmurs begin as you left, the embarrassed whispers, the questions about the fest's fate. It felt like the end.
That night, alone in your room, the cutting words replayed in an endless loop in your head. "You ruin everything you touch." The bravado you'd shown in front of him evaporated, leaving behind a raw, aching pain. You curled up on your bed, the hurt finally breaking through your defenses, and you cried alone. It wasn't just frustration; it was a deep, soul-shattering sadness. This was the first real emotional crack, a moment of profound vulnerability where the confident, carefree exterior crumbled entirely.
Miles away, in the quiet of his own room, Seungmin was also awake. The auditorium incident, the words he had hurled at you, spun in his mind. He had been angry, yes, but the harshness of his attack, the personal nature of his accusations… he knew he had gone too far. He saw your stunned, hurt face, the way your usual fire had dimmed, and a heavy, suffocating wave of guilt settled on his chest. He paced, restless, the image of your shattered expression burning in his mind. He had aimed for logic, for consequence, but he had hit something far deeper. He hadn't meant to break you.
The next morning was a nightmare. The moment you saw Seungmin in the hallway, your stomach lurched. You immediately veered off, taking a circuitous route to avoid any contact. You felt his presence, the way the air subtly changed when he was near, and you did everything in your power to make yourself invisible. He also saw your calculated evasions. He saw the way your head ducked, the way your path shifted. He knew you were avoiding him completely, and it was a sharp, unwelcome pang.
The tension between the two of you was a palpable entity, a dark cloud hanging over the committee. The team was walking on eggshells, performing their duties with a quiet, almost fearful diligence. The usual chatter was gone, replaced by an uneasy silence.
You were trying to focus on a new prop design in the art room when you overheard a couple of guys, not from the committee, talking. "Heard the co-heads had a massive blow-up yesterday," one sneered, loud enough for you to hear. "No surprise. [Your Name] always messes things up. She's too flaky to handle anything serious."
A familiar spark of anger ignited within you, but before you could respond, a cold voice cut through the air. "I suggest you refrain from speculating on matters you know nothing about."
You looked up, startled. Seungmin stood in the doorway, his eyes fixed on the guys, his posture rigid. His voice was low, but laced with an undeniable menace. He hadn't raised it, but the chilling authority in his tone made the two guys flinch. He didn't defend you directly, but his temper simmered and he had stepped in, snapping at the guy for daring to speak ill of you.
They mumbled apologies and quickly retreated. Seungmin didn't look at you. He just stood there for a moment, his gaze still hard, then he turned and walked away. But you had caught that small protective act. It was quick, subtle, and completely unexpected. The robot had defended you. The realization was confusing, unsettling.
Later, you returned to your desk in the committee room, finding it devoid of your usual messy pile of papers. Instead, a neat, organized stack of notes, perfectly indexed and cross-referenced, sat precisely in the center. Your share of notes. Seungmin's handwriting, of course. He had silently placed them on your desk. He hadn't waited for a thanks, hadn't sought acknowledgment. He had just done it, an unspoken, practical gesture that somehow felt more meaningful than words. You didn't thank him back, not out loud, but you picked up the stack and read them anyway, your fingers tracing the neat, precise lines.
During the next practice event, which, thanks to Seungmin's frantic, lone efforts, ran smoother, you watched him. He was a whirlwind of efficiency, troubleshooting problems before they even fully emerged, guiding the younger students, his face set in a grim determination. A small, technical error occurred with a sound cue, completely unrelated to your previous mishap. Before anyone could panic, Seungmin immediately stepped forward, addressing Ms. Davies. "My apologies, Ms. Davies. I miscalculated the trigger point for the cue. It won't happen again." He shouldered all blame, even when it clearly wasn't entirely his fault, protecting the student who had actually made the error. It was another surprising display of responsibility, a silent strength that made you see him differently.
He, in turn, observed you. You were still quiet, less boisterous than usual, but you were moving through the team, quietly reassuring the nervous performers, offering gentle corrections, and somehow, by just your presence, subtly fixing the morale that his earlier outburst had shattered. You were doing it despite the cold war between you, despite the fact that you still probably hated him. He noticed how she fixes morale despite hating him.
A first fragile layer of understanding began to form, thin as ice, but undeniable. You both recognized the other's unique value, their indispensable role in this overwhelming task. But you were both too prideful to admit it. Too hurt by the brutal words, too entrenched in your rivalry.
Their fights now sting deeper than before. The arguments weren't just about winning; they were about defending bruised egos and hurt feelings. The animosity was still there, a default setting, but beneath it, a confusing undercurrent had begun. They had torn each other down, built each other back up, and in the process, revealed fragments of themselves they never intended to share. The bitter truth was starting to dawn on both of them: they care more than they want to. The thought was terrifying, unwelcome, and yet, persistent.
The aftershocks of the stage mishap and the brutal argument had left an acrid taste in the air. The animosity between you and Seungmin was thicker than ever, yet strangely, something had shifted. The hard shell of mutual hatred had developed a hairline crack, allowing glimpses of something far more confusing to seep through. It was an unspoken, fragile awareness, and it made the current situation almost unbearable.
Ms. Davies, perhaps sensing the need for a change of scenery – or perhaps a desperate attempt to force some kind of functional interaction – announced a new assignment. "For the outdoor segment of the fest, the game booths and the sports challenges, I'm sending you two to the sports ground for setup."
You groaned inwardly. Of course. The one place where physical exertion might actually drain some of the pent-up frustration between you. You arrived to find a sprawling expanse of green, dotted with the skeletal frames of what would soon be game booths. Seungmin was already there, directing a group of volunteers, his usual clipboard clutched firmly in his hand.
He was explaining the layout for the baseball throw, demonstrating proper form. His movements were fluid, precise, and surprisingly powerful. He wound up, his body a coiled spring, and hurled the baseball. It whistled through the air, hitting the target board with a satisfying thwack that echoed across the field. He did it again, and again, each throw perfectly executed.
You found yourself pausing, a wrench in your hand, a half-assembled frame forgotten beside you. You watched silently, oddly drawn. It wasn't just the athletic prowess; it was the unexpected grace, the raw energy that seemed so at odds with his meticulously organized persona. He looked… unburdened, for a moment, genuinely absorbed in the physical act.
He released another perfect throw, then turned, probably to address a volunteer, and his eyes landed on you. He caught you staring. A flicker of surprise, then something else, something almost like amusement, crossed his face. A faint smirk played on his lips, quick and unsettlingly charming. It was the first time you’d seen anything remotely resembling a genuine, non-sarcastic smirk from him.
He walked towards you, the baseball still in his hand, stopping a few feet away. "Something interesting?" His voice was low, and for once, not laced with disdain, but something lighter, almost playful yet challenging. "Or are you just admiring my superior form?"
Your cheeks flushed. "Hardly. Just wondering how someone so stiff manages to move like that."
The smirk widened fractionally. "Want me to teach you?"
The invitation hung in the air, unexpected and tempting. A part of you, the part that hated him, wanted to immediately refuse, to maintain the distance. But another part, the curious, competitive part, saw it as a challenge. And, a tiny, buried part of you felt a pull towards that unexpected flash of playfulness. You hesitated for a beat too long, then, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible, you reluctantly agreed. "Fine. But don't expect miracles, Professor Perfect."
"I expect competence, at minimum," he retorted, though the edge was softer.
The awkward first lesson began. He stood behind you, guiding your grip on the baseball, his hand briefly covering yours. A jolt, like a small electrical current, passed between you. You quickly pulled your hand away, feeling a strange heat prickle your skin. He didn't comment, simply adjusted his stance and tried again. He corrected your foot placement, your shoulder alignment, your wrist flick. There were lots of accidental touches – his hand brushing your lower back as he demonstrated posture, his arm grazing yours as he showed the follow-through. Each touch, however brief, sent a confusing spark through you. You’d always kept a careful distance from him, and this forced proximity was unsettling.
You tried to focus, but his intense, unsmiling concentration as he explained the physics of a proper throw was almost comical. He was so serious about it. He looked like a mad scientist, detailing a complex theorem, only the subject was a baseball. You tried to suppress it, but a giggle escaped your lips. You couldn't help but laugh at his serious teaching face.
He stopped mid-sentence, his brow furrowed. He stared at you for a moment, then a faint blush crept up his neck, a tell-tale sign beneath his pale skin. He looked away quickly, composing himself. "Is there something amusing about proper biomechanics?" he asked, his voice returning to its usual dry, sarcastic tone, effectively masking it. But you had seen it – the blush, the brief moment of discomfiture. He was human.
Despite the awkwardness, something shifted. Out here, on the open field, away from the pressure of meetings and budgets, your teamwork felt smoother than in meetings. He would patiently correct your form, and you, surprisingly, would listen. You’d even manage a decent throw or two, which earned you a rare, almost imperceptible nod of approval. The competitive drive was still there, but it was less about proving each other wrong and more about achieving a common goal, however small.
After a few more throws, he straightened up. "Your throwing arm needs work, but your general athleticism isn't entirely abysmal." It was the closest he'd come to a compliment. "I can also show you some basketball tricks, if you're interested."
"Oh, really?" you challenged, a playful spark in your eyes. "And what, pray tell, are your hidden talents in that department, Professor?"
He just raised an eyebrow, a hint of that smirk returning, and walked over to the basketball hoop. He demonstrated a series of dribbles, crossovers, and even a fancy spin move, all executed with unexpected agility. He then tossed you the ball. You tried to mimic his moves, but your coordination, usually passable, completely deserted you. You fumbled the ball, tripped over your own feet, and sent it bouncing off the backboard in a completely wrong direction. You failed miserably.
He watched your spectacularly botched attempt, and then, slowly, a sound escaped him. A low chuckle, then a fuller, unrestrained laugh. It was a genuine, open laugh, a bright, surprising sound that filled the air. You had never heard him laugh like that before, not a scoff or a sneer, but a real, honest-to-goodness laugh. It was a rare moment, and it utterly disarmed you.
"Oh, my God," you gasped, clutching your stomach, "you actually laughed! You're having fun!" You teased him about finally having fun, a wide, genuine smile on your face.
His laughter died down, but the residual warmth lingered in his eyes. His expression softened, losing its usual guardedness. For a fleeting second, he looked almost… gentle. But then, as if a switch had been flipped, his face hardened, and he shut down quickly, the familiar mask sliding back into place. "It was merely an involuntary physiological response to extreme incompetence," he stated, his voice flat, but the slight tremor in his lips betrayed him.
You tried to push him, to make him laugh again, but he was gone, retreated behind his walls. Still, the image of his rare, genuine laugh lingered in your mind.
That night, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, you found yourself replaying the day's events. The accidental touches, his suppressed blush, the way he'd teased you, and most vividly, his unexpected laughter. A warmth spread through your chest, and you realized, with a jolt, that you were smiling, thinking about him. Not the "I just got one over on him" smile, but a soft, contented one. The realization was confusing, unsettling. This wasn't hate. It wasn't even just rivalry anymore.
Miles away, Seungmin was also trying to sleep, but your image kept flashing in his mind. Your bright, uninhibited laugh as you fumbled the basketball, the way your eyes sparkled when you were excited about an idea, the unexpected "thank you" you'd given him the night of the invites. He found himself replaying her laugh in his head secretly, a quiet, melodic sound that somehow resonated with him more than any organized spreadsheet ever could. He was confused, refusing to label it. It was dangerous, this new awareness.
Over the next few days, the change was subtle but undeniable. Your banter became less poisonous, more teasing. The sharp barbs were still there, but they were coated in a thin layer of something else – familiarity, perhaps even a grudging affection. He still corrected your grammar, but sometimes a fleeting smirk would accompany it. You still mocked his rigidity, but you found yourself paying closer attention to his actual instructions.
But this new dynamic came with its own risks. The tension felt sharper, almost electric, every time your eyes met, every time you inadvertently brushed hands reaching for the same pen. The clear, defined rivalry line blurred dangerously, dissolving into something far more complicated. You were no longer just enemies; you were something else entirely, something neither of you was ready to acknowledge.
The quiet, confusing truce of the sports field carried over into the next phase of fest prep. It was an unspoken, yet undeniable, shift. The hate hadn't vanished entirely; it had simply thinned, replaced by a charged, almost electric tension. Your forced proximity was no longer torture but a source of strange, unsettling anticipation.
The ultimate test of this new dynamic was a group project for a marketing class, which, to your mutual dread, needed them to present together. The topic was brand synergy, a cruel joke of fate that perfectly mirrored your current predicament.
When the time came, you stood side-by-side in front of the classroom. You started with your usual flair, improvising a lively, interactive introduction, gesturing wildly, and even asking the audience to participate. You were all about the energy, the feeling, the chaotic joy of it. Seungmin, meanwhile, stood as your still, composed counterpoint, a picture of methodical poise. He had his notecards, a detailed, perfectly structured script, and he spoke in clear, concise bullet points, citing data and brand case studies with academic precision.
The audience, a mix of your friends and his admirers, was oddly captivated. They leaned forward, listening intently, genuinely enjoying both styles blended. Your energy grabbed their attention; his logic held it. The room buzzed with a shared, surprising realization: you were so different, yet you complemented each other perfectly.
After the presentation, as you were gathering your things, you heard him. His voice was low, almost a whisper, as if the words were an immense effort. "That worked."
You stopped, turning to him, a grin spreading across your face. It was a simple admission, yet it felt like a monumental surrender. You couldn't resist. You teased him for finally admitting it. "Oh? The great Kim Seungmin concedes that my brand of chaos has a measurable effect? I'm honored."
He didn't rise to the bait with his usual snark. He just picked up his notecards, his lips twitching into a faint line. He rolled his eyes, but there was no malice in the gesture, only a wry acceptance.
Ms. Davies, who had witnessed the presentation, stopped you both in the hallway. "That was an excellent presentation," she said, a genuine smile on her face. "You two have a natural dynamic. Your combined energy is really effective. Good work." Her praise hung in the air, a final confirmation of what you had just discovered. You could feel Seungmin beside you, and you glanced at him just in time to see a quick, almost imperceptible smirk. He was proud of the presentation, proud of the collaboration, and you were the only one who saw it. You caught him smirking faintly, a private moment shared just between the two of you.
Your heart gave a strange flutter. The word that came to mind, a soft, dangerous, and utterly forbidden thought, was "cute." You almost called it cute out loud before you bit your tongue, the word dying a frantic death in your throat.
That evening, a study session was a pretense for more forced collaboration. You found yourselves in the quiet, hushed tones of the library, your textbooks and laptops spread out on a large table. The silence between you, which had been so fraught with hostility just a week ago, now felt comfortable, not hostile. The occasional click of his keyboard, the soft rustle of your turning pages—it was a gentle soundtrack to your shared work.
You looked up from your notes, finding yourself unable to resist the urge to glance at his. His handwriting was perfect, each letter a precise, uniform work of art. You found yourself mesmerized, a strange pull to this ordered, controlled world he inhabited. You studied the neat lines, the meticulously highlighted keywords, the perfect symmetry of it all.
He must have felt your gaze. Without a word, he leaned closer, his hand reaching across the table to a section of his notes he was working on, as if to show you something. His face was just inches apart from yours. The sudden proximity, the warmth of his body, the faint, clean scent of his soap—it all hit you at once, startling you. You both froze, suspended in that moment, your eyes locked, the air thick and humming with a raw, unspoken energy.
The moment was too intense, too overwhelming. You couldn't handle the silent question in his eyes, the gravity of it. Panic seized you, and in a desperate, last-ditch effort to break the tension, you blurted out the first ridiculous thing that came to mind. "Is that the font you use in your dreams, too? It's so… legible."
He pulled back, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. He didn't smile, but the rigidity of his posture softened. "You're impossible," he muttered, but the words were without bite, almost a fond observation. He picked up his pen and went back to his work, but the spell had been broken.
You tried to refocus on your own notes, but the quiet hum of the library was suddenly deafening. The image of his face, so close to yours, was burned into your mind. You thought about his faint smirk, his subtle shrug, his words that had changed from insults to quiet observations. A dangerous, exhilarating question formed in your mind, a thought you had been actively trying to suppress: were you falling? The thought was terrifying.
Seungmin, for his part, was also struggling. He kept his eyes on his notes, but the words swam before him. He replayed the moment in his mind, the way your eyes had widened, the way your lips had parted just slightly. He had leaned in, almost without thinking, a magnet to your chaotic, vibrant energy. He tried to rationalize it away, to push the thoughts away as illogical data, as a "glitch" in his system, but he couldn't stop.
The truth was staring both of you in the face. This wasn't just professional collaboration. It wasn't just a rivalry with a temporary truce. You both finally had to realize: this is no longer just rivalry. It had become something else entirely, something fragile, something real, something that had been building since the moment you were forced to share a stage. But admitting it felt terrifying. It would mean shattering the comfortable walls you had built around yourselves, and neither of you was ready to face that terrifying, beautiful truth.
The fragile foundation, laid down during the library study session and the silent baseball lesson, held. It didn't just hold—it solidified, becoming an unspoken truth that hummed between you and Seungmin. The direct hostility had evaporated, replaced by a new, more dangerous current. Your forced proximity was no longer a punishment; it was a source of strange, unsettling anticipation.
As the days sped towards the festival, a remarkable transformation occurred. The fest prep was now smoother, almost effortlessly efficient. Where there had once been clashing blueprints and public arguments, there was now a seamless, almost intuitive division of labor. You would propose a wild, imaginative idea, and before you even finished speaking, Seungmin would be sketching out the logistics, refining the budget, and quietly, almost imperceptibly, making it viable. And conversely, when he’d hit a snag in his meticulous planning—a last-minute vendor issue, a scheduling conflict—you would effortlessly charm a solution out of thin air, or rally the weary team with a burst of morale-boosting energy. Your synergy was visible to everyone.
Committee members, once wary of approaching either of you, now came with requests, clearly seeing you as a unified front. Your differences no longer clashed; they interwove, creating a tapestry far richer and stronger than either of you could have woven alone.
But with this newfound, undeniable harmony came something else. The whispers, which had previously labelled you as a "married couple," now began to take on a decidedly more suggestive tone. People started shipping you openly. You’d be working quietly, and a junior would nudge their friend, pointing at you and Seungmin, stifling giggles. Or a teacher would make a passing comment about "how well you two get along now, really well."
You, in your usual carefree manner, found yourself laughing it off. "Oh, come on, guys, it's called professionalism!" you'd declare, waving a hand dismissively, though a slight warmth would creep up your neck. You tried to treat it like a joke, a harmless consequence of your sudden efficiency.
Seungmin, however, reacted differently. Every time he overheard a whisper, every knowing glance, he would get visibly annoyed. His jaw would tighten, his shoulders would tense, and a distinct flush would creep up his neck and over his ears. He hated the implication, the insinuation that anything so illogical and messy could be happening between you.
You couldn't resist. You'd catch his eye, a mischievous grin playing on your lips. "Why so red, Professor Kim? Is your logical mind overheating from too much irrational speculation?"
He would immediately turn away, a deeper crimson spreading across his face. He'd avoid eye contact, his gaze fixed on some distant, safe point on the wall. "It's merely a physiological response to irritating stimuli," he'd mumble, his voice a little strained, or "The ambient temperature in this room is suboptimal." His excuses were as transparent as glass, and your grin would only widen. He was so easy to fluster when it came to this.
One afternoon, during a particularly gruelling budgeting session, a natural break was called. You leaned back, stretching, when you saw him reach into his bag. He pulled out a carton of strawberry milk. You'd noticed it was his constant companion. Without a word, he set it on the table between you, then pulled out another, identical carton. He didn't offer it, didn't push it towards you; he simply placed it there, a silent offering.
You stared at it, a wave of tenderness washing over you. It was completely accidental, and utterly intimate. He was sharing his ritual, his small comfort, without a spoken invitation. You picked up the carton, the coldness a pleasant sensation in your hand, and quietly drank it. The unspoken gesture felt heavier than any conversation you’d ever had.
The shared moments started to multiply, small glimpses into each other's worlds. During a frantic search for some missing receipt, you both ended up rummaging through a box of discarded snacks left over from a previous event. You pulled out a packet of spicy chips, crinkling it. "Want some?"
You stopped, utterly stunned. "Wait, you hate spicy food? Seriously? Kim Seungmin, the stoic, unshakeable force of nature, can't handle a little chili?" The sheer absurdity of it made you burst out laughing. It was such a delightfully human weakness. From that moment on, you teased him endlessly about it, offering him spicy snacks with a mischievous glint in your eye, watching him politely but firmly decline, his nose crinkling in distaste. It was a tiny, harmless vulnerability, and it endeared him to you in a way nothing else had.
He, in turn, discovered one of your own hidden insecurities. You were reviewing a poster design for the talent show, something you were usually so confident about. But for this, a tremor of doubt ran through you. "What if no one signs up?" you mumbled, more to yourself than to him. "What if the audience just… doesn't care? What if it's just a colossal, embarrassing failure?"
He stopped typing, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. He looked at you, his usual analytical gaze softening. "You're secretly scared of public failure, aren't you?" he stated, not as a question, but as a quiet observation.
You flinched, caught off guard. You always projected an image of fearless spontaneity. "Of course not! It's just… a lot of work."
He ignored your denial. "Look," he said, his voice unusually quiet, almost gruff. "We've prepared. We've accounted for variables. There will be an audience. They will care. You've ensured that." It wasn't flowery, it wasn't soft, but it was him. For the first time, he reassured her in his blunt way. He wasn't telling you not to be afraid; he was telling you that your fears, logically, had no basis, because you had already laid the groundwork for success. It was the most Seungmin-like reassurance imaginable, and it calmed you in a way no platitude ever could.
The boundaries continued to blur in the late hours. Your late-night texts about small details—a missing prop, a revised schedule—slowly began to turn personal. A hurried question about the fest budget might morph into a casual mention of a bad day, or a funny anecdote. One night, you were struggling to sleep, still feeling the anxiety of the mock event. On an impulse, you sent him a song, a chaotic, indie rock anthem that perfectly captured your restless energy. You didn't expect a reply.
A few minutes later, your phone buzzed. It was a link from him. A Shawn Mendes song. A smooth, melodic, surprisingly heartfelt ballad. Your lips curved into a soft smile. You played it on loop, imagining him, the meticulously organized robot, humming along to it. The thought warmed you from the inside out.
He, too, found himself increasingly fascinated by the small details of you. He starts noticing her in small things: the way you chewed on the end of your pen when you were deep in thought, the subtle tilt of your head when you listened, the spontaneous, bright spark in your eyes when a new idea struck. Your voice, with its energetic inflections, and your bright, uninhibited laugh—he found himself unconsciously seeking them out in the crowded hallways.
And you, increasingly aware of his gaze, caught him staring too long during meetings. His eyes would linger on your face, on your hands as you gestured, on your lips as you spoke. The moment you met his gaze, he would quickly look away, a faint flush coloring his cheeks.
You both recognized the shift, the dangerous territory you were venturing into. The unspoken, terrifying attraction that pulsed beneath the surface. Yet, neither of you dared to acknowledge it. Both avoided talking about it, circling around the elephant in the room with polite conversation and work-related banter.
But the silence only amplified the tension. It sharpened with every meeting, every shared glance, every accidental touch. You’d be leaning over a diagram together, and your fingers would brush, sending a jolt through your arm. Your breath would hitch, and you’d instinctively pull back, feeling a surge of panic. One instance, you were reaching for a pen on the desk at the exact same time. Your fingers brushed, just for a second, a fleeting contact that sent a shockwave through both of you. You both froze, your hands hovering inches apart, eyes locked in a silent, startled gaze.
In that frozen moment, a thought crystallized in your mind, sharp and cold: "This is dangerous." This wasn't just playful teasing or grudging respect. This was something real, something that could shatter the careful balance of your lives.
And for Seungmin, the internal battle was just as fierce. He felt the pull, the undeniable magnetism of your vibrant, chaotic energy. He fought against it, a desperate struggle for control. His mind screamed: "I can’t let myself lose control." Control was his anchor, his defense against the unpredictable. And you, you were the embodiment of beautiful, exhilarating unpredictability.
The air around you was thick with unspoken feelings, a heavy, expectant silence. A storm brewed silently between them, gathering strength, waiting for the inevitable moment when it would finally break. The surface was calm, but beneath it, the currents were churning, pulling you both irrevocably closer to the precipice.
The festival was a mere two days away. The air in the committee room, usually thick with the low hum of frantic work, now crackled with a potent mixture of excitement and exhaustion. The synergy you and Seungmin had built was at its peak. It was a well-oiled machine, each of you anticipating the other’s next move, covering for each other’s weaknesses before they could even become a problem. The team was amazed, the teachers were impressed, and you, despite the constant, dizzying tension, felt an undeniable sense of triumph. You were actually going to pull this off.
The final rehearsal before the fest was meant to be the victory lap, a celebratory final run-through to marvel at your hard work. It was the last chance to test the grand finale—a stage setup designed to reveal a series of custom-built, free-standing props that you had envisioned. You had drawn up the designs, and Seungmin, after his initial, logical protests, had meticulously refined the physics and structural integrity.
As the cue came, the lights dimmed, and the team pulled at the ropes designed to retract the main curtains. The sound was deafening, a sickening groan of metal followed by a splintering crash. The curtain mechanism jammed, but worse, the sudden strain on the stage’s frame, combined with a structural flaw in one of the central supports, caused a partial stage collapse accident during props setup. The wooden beams groaned and gave way, the main screen tilted precariously, and a series of meticulously crafted props came tumbling down, one after another, in a cacophony of shattered wood and twisted metal. It wasn't a total disaster, but it was close. Panic seized the team. People screamed, scattering from the stage as dust and debris rained down.
The principal arrived in a flash, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. He didn’t scream, didn’t yell. His voice was dangerously low, and every word was a sharpened knife. "What in the world is this?! You have two days. Two. And this is what I find? This is a complete failure of leadership. The safety of the students was compromised! The cost of this… this destruction… is beyond acceptable!" He gestured wildly at the wreckage. "I am seriously considering cancelling the event entirely. All of it." The threat hung in the air, cold and final.
You felt a crushing weight settle on your chest. It was your idea. The risky, unconventional props. The unique, complex reveal. Seungmin had warned you, not directly, but in his meticulous planning, in the extra hours he'd put in to make sure the structure was sound. But you, in your usual carefree, improvisational way, had pushed for speed over caution. This wasn't just a technical mishap; it was a consequence, and it felt entirely like your fault. You felt a wave of nausea, the knowledge that you had jeopardized everything so close to the finish line.
As you stood there, paralyzed by a sinking dread, you saw Seungmin do something that completely redefined everything you thought you knew about him. He stepped forward, his shoulders squared, his chin raised slightly. His face was pale, but his eyes were steady. "Principal," he said, his voice ringing with a calm that was completely out of place. "The blame for this lies with me. I was the one who signed off on the structural designs. I take full responsibility for the failure. It was an error in my calculations. I will personally find a way to fix this, but the fault is mine."
The principal, who had been about to unleash a storm of fury on the entire committee, stopped dead. His eyes narrowed on Seungmin. "An error in your calculations? You are Kim Seungmin. You don't make 'errors.' Are you telling me that you, in charge of every detail, missed something so fundamental?"
"Yes," Seungmin said, his voice unwavering. "I did."
The principal’s scolding that followed was brutal. He didn't just scold; he tore into Seungmin, his words lashing like a whip. "You've jeopardized the entire event! The reputation of this school, and more importantly, your own, is on the line because you chose to be careless. I expected more from you, Kim. You were supposed to be the sensible one, the responsible one. This is a disgrace." He reminded him that he was the golden child, the one who was supposed to be perfect, and that a mistake of this magnitude was unforgivable. He threatened to remove him from his position and put a formal warning on his record, an action that could jeopardize his academic standing and future prospects. It was a public dressing-down, vicious and relentless, and you could only stand there, watching, utterly shocked that he'd protect you like this. The man who had once told you that you "ruined everything you touch" was now sacrificing his own perfect record to shield you from the consequences.
The night was a whirlwind of frantic fixes, with Seungmin's parents called in for an emergency meeting and the entire committee scrambling to salvage what they could. The fest was on thin ice, but a new, simplified stage plan was quickly drafted. You were a ghost, moving through the tasks with a silent, haunted purpose. You needed to talk to him. You needed to understand.
You found him late that night, alone in the committee room, re-drawing blueprints on a new sheet of paper. The desk was littered with crumpled drafts, and he looked haggard, a deep line of exhaustion etched between his brows. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a stark, unforgiving glow on his pale face. He looked broken. You closed the door behind you. He didn't look up, his pen scratching furiously on the paper.
"Why?" you asked, the word a small, broken thing in the vast silence. "Why did you do that?"
He didn't stop drawing. "The safety report was my responsibility. The final sign-off was my responsibility. It was a logical consequence."
"Don't lie to me," you snapped, your voice cracking with a painful mix of fury and gratitude. "It was my idea. You know that. I pushed for it. You were just trying to make my reckless idea work." You took a step closer. "You took the blame. You took the fall for me. Why?"
He finally stopped, looking up at you, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion. "Because," he said, his voice hoarse, "I won't let you be blamed." The words were blunt, simple, but they cut to the core.
A rush of emotions, too complicated to name, flooded you. He was so infuriatingly noble, so self-sacrificing, so… perfect. And you, with your messy emotions and your chaotic energy, couldn't stand the thought of him doing something so immense for you. It was too much.
You felt something break inside you. All the tension, all the hurt, all the fear and the confusing feelings you’d been trying to bury came boiling to the surface. You snapped: "Stop trying to be a hero! Do you know what you did? You put your whole future at risk! All for me! I'm not some fragile thing that needs protecting! I make my own messes!"
He flinched. The calm he had clung to all day finally broke. His face twisted with a mixture of pain and anger. "That's exactly it, isn't it?!" he spat, slamming his pen down on the desk, the sound echoing loudly in the quiet room. "You always make a mess! You're careless, you're reckless, you're so irresponsible you can't even see the consequences of your own actions!" The accusations, once a cold observation, now came from a place of deep, gut-wrenching pain. He wasn't just angry, he was terrified. "I told you! I told you it was a risk! But you just laughed it off, didn't you? You always laugh everything off! Because it's never real to you until it crashes down!"
"And you're obsessed with control!" you fired back, tears welling up in your eyes. "You have to control every single thing because you're terrified of living! You can't stand anything that's not on your little checklist because it scares you! You're so scared of being anything but a perfect, lifeless machine, you'd rather sacrifice yourself than admit you might not have all the answers! You'd rather take the fall than let me fix my own mistake because that would be admitting that your world isn't perfect!"
The words hung in the air, poisoned arrows. The fight wasn't about the stage anymore; it was about the very core of who you both were. The tears that had been threatening to fall from your eyes finally did, spilling hot and fast down your cheeks. And you saw it then—a single, traitorous tear sliding down his face as well.
He was silent, shattered. He didn't move, just stood there, his shoulders slumped, the facade of a perfect machine finally cracked. You watched that tear fall, and the sight of his pain was a physical blow. You had won the argument, but at what cost? You had broken him.
In a final, desperate act of self-preservation, of pushing him away before he could get any closer, you took a step back. You had to make sure he understood. You had to make sure he never did anything so selfless for you again. You had to protect him from the chaos that was you.
"Go back to your perfect life," you said, your voice thick with unshed tears. "Just… stop. Stop pretending. You don’t deserve chaos like me."
The words were final, a door slamming shut. His eyes, full of a crushing, bewildered hurt, were a raw wound. He was stunned, speechless. He had fought for you, risked his perfect life for you, and you had just thrown it back in his face. You didn't wait for a response. You just spun on your heel and stormed out, leaving him shattered in the quiet, dim committee room, the ghost of your last, brutal words hanging in the air.
You went to your room, isolated yourself, and curled up in a ball, the belief that you ruin everything you touch now a cold, undeniable certainty. You didn't answer your phone. You didn't check for messages. The guilt was a physical weight, crushing you under its immense pressure. You had ruined the fest, and you had just broken the only person who had tried to save it for you.
Seungmin, meanwhile, stayed up all night. The words you had said, "you're impossible, you don't deserve chaos like me," echoed in the silence. He tried to focus on the blueprints, the numbers, the cold logic of fixing the problem, but the image of your tear-stained face, and his own single, shameful tear, kept getting in the way. He stayed up all night redoing plans alone, a desperate, obsessive attempt to regain control over the one thing he had lost: you. His usual analytical fury had turned inward, becoming a self-inflicted punishment. The guilt was crushing him. He had let his guard down. He had cared, and in doing so, he had made a mistake, a mistake that had not only damaged the fest but had seemingly confirmed every fear he had about himself. He was not a hero. He was just a failure.
Over the next two days, the school was abuzz with hushed whispers. Rumors spread that the fest may fail, and the pressure mounted on everyone. The team was exhausted and demoralized. You and Seungmin, once the driving force, were now two separate, broken entities. You avoided each other at all costs, not even a glance, not a word. The storm that was brewing had finally broken, but it hadn't cleared the air. It had left a devastating silence. The two of you had stopped speaking completely. The tension was gone, replaced by a deep, aching void.
-
The two days leading up to the festival were a miserable, agonizing blur. The passionate, creative energy that had once filled the committee room was gone, replaced by a suffocating, heavy silence. You and Seungmin, once the heart of the project, were now two separate, broken entities, orbiting a shared catastrophe. Days pass with zero contact between them. You’d see him across the hall, a ghost of his former self, and your heart would twist with a sickening pain. But you’d look away, your guilt a lead weight in your stomach. It felt as though an invisible wall had been built between you, one made of unspoken words and shattered trust. Every passing moment was a new incision on a wound that refused to heal.
Consumed by the belief that you had ruined everything, you did the only thing you knew how to do: you ran. You avoided the committee room entirely, hiding from the problem you had created. You answered text messages from other members with one-word replies, and only offered help with tasks that could be done in complete isolation. You didn't dare show your face at the fest, convinced that the moment you did, it would all come crashing down again. You were an island, isolated in a sea of your own making, consumed by your guilt. It was a corrosive, all-consuming emotion that ate away at your insides, making every laugh from a friend sound like an accusation, every casual glance a judgment. You felt like a plague, a force of nature that only brought ruin, and Seungmin was just the latest, and most painful, casualty.
Seungmin, meanwhile, was left to manage the wreckage alone. The new, simplified plans were a testament to his sheer will, but the work was relentless. He was everywhere at once—on the stage, in the tech booth, at the prop warehouse. The teachers, the other committee members, and your friends noticed his exhaustion. His perfectly pressed uniform was perpetually wrinkled, his hair was a mess, and his eyes, once so sharp and clear, were now perpetually bloodshot. Yet, when anyone asked if he needed help, he'd just shake his head and give a curt, clipped reply. He refused to complain, refusing to ask for the help he so desperately needed. He was shouldering everything, a silent, solitary Atlas bearing the weight of a world he had chosen to save. He had no one to share the burden with, and he wouldn't dare ask. The thought of letting someone else in, of allowing them to see the cracks in his perfect facade, was worse than the exhaustion itself.
You weren't there to see his breakdown, but you heard it in fragments. You overheard classmates talking in the hallway, their voices filled with a casual cruelty. "He's just not cut out for this, is he?" one of them said. "I thought he was supposed to be a genius. Looks like he couldn't handle the pressure. The fest is probably going to fail." Your heart plummeted. Her guilt deepens to an unbearable ache, a raw, exposed nerve. The words were like tiny shards of glass, each one twisting deeper. You retreated to a bathroom stall, locking the door, the quiet sobs tearing from your chest. You had not only broken him, but you had also tarnished his reputation. You had taken the one thing he valued more than anything—his control, his perfection—and you had shattered it, leaving him to pick up the pieces alone.
Later, your friend, concerned about your disappearance, found you in the deserted hallway. "You know you should be helping, right? He’s drowning. He won’t admit it, but he is. This is your fault." Her words were a painful truth, and when she urged you to talk to him, to apologize, to help him, you refused. "He's better off without me," you mumbled, turning away, the lie burning on your lips. "I just… I'm a mess. I'll just make things worse."
Unbeknownst to you, Seungmin was just around the corner. He had been looking for you, a desperate hope forming in his mind that you would finally talk to him, finally come back. But instead, he found himself a silent witness to a conversation that shattered his heart. He heard your friend's plea, and he heard your response: "I want some distance from all of this. He's better off without me." The words hit him like a physical blow. He froze, his entire body going numb. He had taken the blame, had risked his future, and you had confirmed his worst fear: that you didn't need him. His heart, already so bruised and fragile, shattered. He had chosen to be your hero, and you had just told him you didn't want him. It was a brutal moment, and it was a thousand times more painful than the principal's angry words.
That same evening, at baseball practice, he was a ghost on the field. He missed throws, his arm mechanics were off, and he kept looking toward the bleachers. The coach, a gruff but perceptive man, finally called him over. "What's wrong with you, Kim? You're a liability out there. Get your head in the game or get off my field." He demanded improvement and warned him that he would be benched. He saw him collapsing under pressure, and it killed you inside.
You had gone to the baseball field to clear your head, to be alone, but you found yourself hiding behind the bleachers, watching him secretly. You saw the slump of his shoulders, the uncharacteristic errors, the look of profound exhaustion on his face. He was not a perfect machine; he was a boy, hurting. He was hurting because of you. The sight of it was more than you could bear. You were a mess, a sobbing wreck, and you had to leave before he could see you.
Finally, the day before the fest, as you were slinking down a deserted hallway to grab something from the committee room, you saw him. He was standing there, leaning against a locker, a dark cloud of exhaustion and pain hanging over him. He was waiting for you. He straightened up as you approached, and his voice was raw, devoid of its usual controlled tone. “Why are you running?” The question was simple, but it was a raw, aching plea.
You flinched. You had no defenses left. You broke. The tears you had been holding back for days finally spilled over. “Because I break everything I touch—including you.”
A flicker of something—anger, frustration, agony—flared in his eyes. He took a step closer, his voice low and dangerous, a tremor running through the words. “Do you think I care? You think I’m perfect? You think my life is some pristine, little box I have to keep neat and tidy? I chose this! I chose to stand in front of that man, I chose to take the fall, I chose to be here now, trying to fix this! Do you think you’re the only one who can make a mess? I’m here. I’m right here, a mess because of you. Do you think I care about being perfect anymore? Do you think I care about what the principal says? I chose you, you idiot!” The words were a torrent of raw, unfiltered emotion, the final breaking of his control.
You just stood there, stunned, watching him as he revealed everything. He was trembling, his eyes glassy with tears. You had never seen him so vulnerable, so completely shattered. And in that moment, all your carefully constructed walls crumbled. You broke down crying in front of him, your body wracked with loud, heaving sobs.
He didn’t reach for you. He didn’t try to comfort you. He just stood there, trembling, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his eyes glassy and filled with his own unshed tears. The silence was deafening, a thick, heavy acknowledgment of all the pain that had been exposed. The truth was out, ugly and brutal and raw, and in its wake, there was nothing left but two broken people. You both walked away, but the truth was exposed.
The silence was a tangible weight between you, a heavy, suffocating blanket that had settled over the entire project. For two days, the committee room felt less like a workspace and more like a tomb. You and Seungmin moved through it like specters, avoiding each other's gazes, communicating only through clipped, curt words directed at other team members. The atmosphere was so thick with unspoken tension that committee members were genuinely scared to approach you both, preferring to whisper their questions to your friends rather than risk the fallout.
But the festival deadline, a merciless countdown, didn't care about your pain. With a final, frantic push, you were all forced back together. It was a cruel necessity. There were simply too many final details to handle alone. You found yourself on opposite sides of the stage, working on different tasks, but every move you made, you were acutely aware of him. The sound of his footsteps, the low rumble of his voice giving a direction, the flash of his hair as he bent over a prop—each was a new incision on a wound that refused to heal.
The awkward silence was broken only by the work itself. There was no longer any of the shared laughter or comfortable companionship. It was purely professional, but the professionalism was a paper-thin facade. Your hands trembled as you taped a banner, and his voice was so strained it was almost unrecognizable.
The tension finally came to a head when a teacher, oblivious to the emotional chasm between you, walked in, hands on her hips. "Alright, everyone listen up! The lighting and sound are a mess. We need to do a final systems check, and since you two are the only ones who know how this is supposed to work," she said, gesturing at you both, "I’m putting you in charge. Lead the discussion. Now."
You and Seungmin locked eyes, a brief, agonizing moment of shared desperation. There was no escape. You couldn’t pretend you didn’t exist anymore. You were forced to work together. Standing in front of the team, you both began to speak. Your voices were shaking, but you forced yourselves to act professional, going over the checklist, delegating tasks, your words a strange, stilted ballet of forced courtesy. He'd explain the tech setup, and you'd chime in with the visual cues. Every sentence was a tightrope walk. You were so close to the finish line, but the pressure to be normal was crushing you both.
After the meeting, everyone scattered, leaving the two of you alone on the empty stage. The quiet felt louder than the frantic buzz of the earlier rehearsal. You turned to walk away, to make your escape, but his voice, low and raw, stopped you. “Hey.”
You froze, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. You didn’t turn around. You couldn’t.
"Look at me," he said, and the demand held a desperate, aching plea. When you finally did, his eyes were bloodshot, exhausted, but they held a raw, terrifying sincerity. “I meant what I said.”
You felt your throat tighten. The words, so angry, so full of anguish, had been a constant replay in your mind. The thought that he hadn't just said them in the heat of the moment was a new, crippling blow. You avoided his gaze, staring at your shoes, the shame and guilt so overwhelming it made you want to disappear. "I know," you muttered, the words barely a whisper. "I'm sorry. For… all of it."
He took a step closer, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, as if holding himself back. “Don’t be sorry. I don’t want your apology,” he said, the hurt in his voice so palpable it was like a physical touch. “What I can't stand is this. This… distance. The way you look at me like I’m a stranger. The way you run. I can’t stand when you pull away.”
His confession tore a fresh hole in your heart. You finally looked up, tears blurring your vision. “I’m sorry,” you said again, but this time it was a plea. “I'm so sorry. I’m just… terrified. Of everything. Of messing things up. Of hurting you. You’re this… this perfect person, and I’m just… a disaster. I feel like my very presence breaks things. That’s why I left.” Your voice cracked, thick with the anguish you'd been holding in for days. “I’m terrified of hurting you.”
He shook his head slowly, the single, glassy tear you’d seen days before finally making a reappearance. “You don’t get it,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “You don't understand. You already hurt me more by leaving.” He took another step, the distance between you now terrifyingly small. “You think leaving me in that room was protecting me? You think abandoning me was a heroic act? It was the most brutal thing you could have done. I would rather you break every single thing in my life, every single one of my plans, than watch you run away.”
The words were a final, desperate admission of his feelings, a complete and total surrender. You couldn't hold back the sob that escaped your lips. The tears that had been so close to the surface for days now fell freely, a waterfall of anguish that had been building inside you. You were both so raw, so emotionally exposed, standing there on the empty stage under the harsh glare of the rehearsal lights.
He didn’t move to comfort you, but for the first time in days, his shoulders seemed to relax. He didn’t try to control the situation. He just stood there, letting the chaos of your emotions wash over him. He finally let out his bottled emotions. "I'm so tired," he whispered, the words barely audible, the raw, unfiltered truth of his exhaustion finally escaping. "I'm just so, so tired."
And for the first time in your life, you didn't feel the need to run. You stepped forward, your hand outstretched. You gently rested your hand on his shoulder, and a single, shuddering breath escaped his lips. She gently comforts him, her hand a soft, reassuring weight. He didn't move away. He leaned into the touch, just a little, a small, involuntary movement of a boy starved for comfort. He doesn’t smile, but his eyes soften, the sharp, guarded look replaced by a profound, aching vulnerability.
You looked into his eyes and the words came out, a confession you didn't even know you were holding. “I don’t hate working with you anymore.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, a muscle in his jaw clenching. When he opened them again, he met your gaze, and the words he spoke were the most honest, painful truth he had ever uttered. “I never hated you.”
The words hung in the air, a silent bomb. You both froze, realizing the immense weight of the words. He had never hated you. Even when he was at his most brutal, at his most annoyed, he had never hated you. It had all been a defense mechanism, a shield to protect himself from the powerful, unpredictable force you were. And you, you had been so caught up in your own guilt that you hadn't seen the truth.
The silence that followed was different from the one that had separated you for days. It was a shared silence, thick with meaning and the thudding of two hearts, both terrified and hopeful. The air crackled with a new kind of tension, not the cruel tension of hate, but the electric pull of two broken people who finally found their way back to each other.
The shift was undeniable. The chasm had been bridged, and you were standing on solid ground, ready to finally pick up the pieces, together.
The night before the festival was supposed to be a time of frantic, last-minute fixes, a final celebratory push. Instead, it was just… quiet. Most of the committee members had left hours ago, exhausted and demoralized. The school, usually a hive of activity, was now a hollow, silent echo of its daytime self. You and Seungmin, however, remained. The stage was a ghostly skeleton of its former self, with half-finished props and tangled wires scattered across the floor. The air was cold, and the only sound was the low hum of the stage lights you were trying to fix. Night before fest — decorations still unfinished. You were perched precariously on a ladder, trying to hang a massive, shimmering banner, and he was on the stage below, meticulously sorting through a box of bulbs. The silence, so different from the agonizing void of the past few days, was now heavy with a raw, unspoken emotion.
You fumbled with the banner, your hands shaking from a combination of exhaustion and nerves. It was the same banner you had worked on together, the one you had almost ruined. The irony was a bitter taste in your mouth. You finally got it hung, but it was slightly crooked. You sighed, defeated, and descended the ladder. He was still on the ground, his back to you, and something in the slump of his shoulders, the stillness of his form, made you want to just wrap him in a hug. But you couldn't. Not after everything. You stood there for a long moment, watching the way his shadow stretched long and thin under the stage lights. It felt like watching a stranger, a stranger you knew intimately, a stranger whose every breath you had once been in sync with.
You picked up a stray wire, trying to organize the mess on the floor, when he spoke, his voice low and strained. "You're doing it wrong."
You flinched. The old Seungmin, the one who saw everything with a critic's eye, was back. The words, however, held none of the old venom. They were just… tired. "Sorry," you mumbled, a familiar wave of shame washing over you. "I'm a disaster."
"Stop saying that," he said, turning to face you. His eyes were shadowed, but they held none of the brutal coldness from a few nights ago. They were just… hurt. "Just let me fix it." He reached for the wire in your hand, his fingers brushing against yours. The brief contact was an electric shock, sending a jolt of heat up your arm. You pulled back as if burned.
And that was it. That was the final straw. You had been holding it in for so long, and his quiet, resigned exhaustion, the way he was trying to fix your mistake yet again, sent a wave of frustration and pain through you. A stupid, petty argument breaks out again over last-minute choices. "Don't you get it?" you snapped, your voice rising. "I don't want you to fix it! I don't want you to take all the blame! I want you to be angry! I want you to tell me how much you hate this, how much you hate me for messing it all up!"
He stared at you, his eyes wide, startled by your outburst. He opened his mouth to say something, but you cut him off, the words spilling out in a torrent of raw emotion. “Why do you even care this much?! It's just a school festival, Seungmin! It’s not worth your record, not worth your sanity! What is wrong with you?! Why do you care about this more than you care about… about yourself?! It doesn't make any sense!"
He just looked at you, his chest heaving, his jaw clenched. The silence stretched between you, thick and charged with all the unspoken truths. You could see the internal battle raging behind his eyes, the final remnants of his control crumbling. And then, he said it. Not in a shout, but in a low, choked whisper that was more powerful than any scream. “Because it’s you!”
The words landed like a physical blow, a sudden, brutal confession that shattered the silence. The raw truth of it was so shocking, so unexpected, that it took your breath away. He wasn't yelling anymore. He was just… standing there, his face pale, his eyes wide and filled with a terrifying, agonizing vulnerability. Silence, heavy and raw. You felt your entire body tremble. This wasn't about the fest, not about the stage. It was about you.
He took a step closer, his voice barely a whisper, filled with the raw, brutal honesty that had been simmering beneath the surface all along. “You drive me insane,” he admitted, the words a confession of his own powerlessness. “You’re reckless, and you're careless, and you’re a walking catastrophe. You mess up everything you touch, and you make me want to scream with frustration. I hate the way you make me feel, the way you make me lose all my control. But… I can't stop caring.”
You couldn't breathe. His words were a mirror, reflecting all the flaws you had ever seen in yourself, but in his voice, they were not flaws at all. They were just… facts. And then, it was your turn. The words trembled on your lips, but you forced them out, a shaky, desperate confession. “I’ve been falling for you, and it terrifies me.” You had finally said it. You had confessed the one thing you had been so afraid to admit, the reason you had run, the reason you had pushed him away. Because the way he looked at you, the way he protected you, it made you feel something you had never felt before, something so terrifyingly real.
Tears sprang to both of your eyes, tears of relief and pain and brutal honesty. Tears on both sides—brutal honesty. The raw shouting had turned into a raw, messy breakdown. He reached out, his hand hovering over your face, as if he was afraid to touch you, afraid you would disappear.
“Don’t run from me again,” he whispered, his voice shaking.
“Then don’t let me go,” you whispered back, the words a silent plea.
And then, he was kissing you. It wasn't a perfect, cinematic kiss. It was messy, desperate, and trembling. His hands were in your hair, his lips were on yours, and you were kissing him back, a frantic, agonizing expression of everything you had been holding in for so long. It was the messiest, most desperate thing you had ever done, and you had never felt more alive.
When you finally pulled apart, you were both breathless, your foreheads touching, your eyes closed. The silence was heavy, but it was no longer a suffocating silence. It was a shared silence, thick with the aftermath of a confession and a first kiss. You opened your eyes, and a single tear slid down your cheek, and a ghost of a smile, a real, genuine smile, touched his lips.
“I’m so tired,” you whispered, and a laugh, shaky and choked with emotion, escaped your lips.
“I know,” he whispered back, his voice still raw, his eyes still glassy. He looked at you, his thumb gently wiping away a tear from your cheek. “You know… I’ve been so completely and utterly whipped for you all along.”
You laughed, a real laugh, that sounded more like a sob. It was the most honest thing you had ever heard him say. He had been fighting it, fighting you, but he had been falling for you all along. He had been so obsessed with not losing control, that he hadn't even realized he had lost it the moment you had walked into his life.
He gently cupped your face, his hands so warm and comforting. He leaned his forehead against yours, and you closed your eyes, a single tear of relief sliding down your cheek. There was so much left to say, so much left to define, but in that moment, in the quiet, dusty hall, you didn't need words. It was real.
You spent the rest of the night working in a comfortable, easy silence, not needing to speak, just holding onto each other quietly, a hand brushing against a hand, a shoulder leaning against a shoulder, a silent acknowledgment that the chasm was finally closed, and you were finally, completely, home.
Fest day finally arrived. The morning light, filtering through the high school windows, seemed to hum with a different kind of energy. It wasn't the frantic, chaotic buzz of a few days ago, but a nervous, electric current of anticipation. You walked into the main auditorium, and the sheer scale of what you had accomplished hit you like a wave. The stage, no longer a pile of splintered wood and twisted metal, stood tall and proud, its backdrop a stunning, meticulously crafted art piece. The lighting rig, once a tangled mess, now pulsed with a soft, confident glow. You saw him immediately. Seungmin was standing at the edge of the stage, his hands on his hips, a familiar look of concentration on his face as he surveyed the empty room. He looked tired, the shadows under his eyes a testament to the sleepless nights, but there was a quiet triumph in his posture.
The past twenty-four hours, since the moment you had kissed him, had been a strange, beautiful blur. The desperate energy of the previous night had been replaced by a quiet, focused collaboration. You had worked side by side, not as two separate entities forced together, but as a single, perfectly balanced machine. It was as if the brutal honesty and the first kiss had cleared a path, removing all the walls and defenses that had separated you.
And now, here you were, on the most important day of the school year. The fest was a living, breathing thing, and you and Seungmin, its creators, were its beating heart. The both worked seamlessly together — perfect balance. He would call out a cue, and you would hit the corresponding button without a word. He’d point to a prop that needed adjusting, and you’d already be moving to grab it. There was an unspoken language between you, a silent, intimate communication that had been forged in the crucible of chaos. It was a beautiful, terrifying thing, to feel so in sync with another person, to know their every move before they even made it.
And everyone noticed. The committee members, who had been so afraid to approach you, now watched with a silent, awestruck respect. The teachers, who had been so ready to write off the fest as a failure, now looked on with a sense of wonder. Everyone notices how in sync they are. You could feel their gazes on you, a strange combination of relief and curiosity. The pressure was on, but for the first time in days, it didn't feel like a crushing weight. It felt like a shared mission.
During a final walk-through, the principal himself stopped the two of you. His expression was one of genuine surprise and admiration. "I have to admit," he said, his voice unusually soft, "I was ready to pull the plug. But you two… you pulled it off. This is a testament to your hard work and leadership. You have gone above and beyond. Thank you." His words were a balm, a final, public acknowledgment of the pain and the effort. He praised them for pulling through, and a strange, shy smile touched Seungmin's lips.
You looked at him, and you saw something you had never seen before. Reader sees Seungmin shine — organized, respected, admired. He wasn't just the cold, analytical leader anymore. He was a force of nature, a person who had taken the weight of the world on his shoulders and had refused to be crushed by it. He was a hero, not because of a grand gesture, but because of his quiet, relentless determination. And the way he carried himself now, the way his shoulders were a little less tense, the way his eyes held a new, cautious hope—it made your heart ache with a fierce, protective love.
He, in turn, was watching you. You were a whirlwind of energy, a blur of motion as you checked the final details, your hair a mess, your cheeks flushed with excitement. He saw a vibrant, inspiring, fearless leader, a person who wasn’t afraid to take risks, a person who wasn't afraid to break things in order to build something new. He had been so obsessed with control, and you, with your beautiful, brilliant chaos, had shown him that sometimes, a little bit of beautiful chaos was exactly what was needed.
During the event, you were a blur of motion, rushing from the stage to the tech booth, but your eyes were always searching for him. And his were always searching for you. During event, they exchange small looks across the crowd. A shared glance, a brief, private smile. It was a secret language, an unspoken acknowledgment of the past few days, a silent promise that you were in this together.
At a brief, breathless performance break, you both found yourselves in a quiet hallway backstage, a small, intimate refuge from the roaring crowd. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and excitement, but in your little bubble, it was just the two of you. He didn't say anything. He just reached into his bag and pulled out a small carton of strawberry milk, his favorite. It was a simple, mundane thing, but in that moment, it was everything. He shared his strawberry milk with her—an intimate gesture. It was a silent apology for the arguments, a silent promise of everything that was to come. You took a sip, the sweet taste a comfort in the midst of the chaos, and you handed it back to him.
You sat on the floor, your legs crossed, the energy of the crowd thrumming through the floorboards. Without thinking, you reached out, and under the table, your hand found his. His fingers curled around yours, a tight, possessive grip that sent a jolt of electricity through your entire body. She holds his hand under the table. He squeezed back tightly, and a small, shaky sigh of relief escaped your lips. It was a silent acknowledgment, a physical connection that said everything that words couldn’t. It was a lifeline, a steady, anchoring force in the midst of the storm.
You were both so giddy, so electrified by the small, private act, yet so terrified of being exposed. It was a new, frightening thing, this intimacy. It was the calm after the storm, and it was the beginning of something new.
After the fest, the principal and staff praised them as the best leaders in years. The air was thick with relief and a quiet joy. You turned to him, your heart pounding, and in a low voice, a voice just for him, you whispered, “We did it.”
A tired, genuine smile, not a forced, polite one, touched his lips. It was so real, so completely and utterly his, that it made your breath catch in your throat. You had been so used to seeing him with a polite, practiced smile, but this one… it was different. You noticed it's genuine, not forced. He looked at you, his eyes soft, and he leaned in, his voice a low, intimate whisper. “With you, smiling feels different.”
The words were a final, devastating blow, a beautiful, shattering admission of how much you had changed him. You melted, and you reached for him, throwing your arms around him in a tight, desperate hug. She melts, hugs him tightly. He stiffened at first, a brief moment of surprise, and then, slowly, his body relaxed, and he melted into it, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you so close you could feel his heart beating. He buried his face in your hair, and you could feel his sigh of relief.
He whispered the words you had been so afraid to hear. “Don’t leave me again.”
And you, with the weight of his confession and the truth of his hug, promised him. “I won’t.”
The first week after the festival was a strange, disorienting blur of relief and overwhelming emotion. The frantic, high-stakes chaos that had consumed your lives for weeks was gone, replaced by a quiet, lingering exhaustion. But instead of leaving a void, the calm felt like a new beginning. Your late-night conversations and clumsy first kiss had been a catalyst, a brutal, beautiful reset button that had cleared the air and laid the foundation for something new. Weeks after fest, their bond grows. Slowly at first, like a cautious plant stretching for sunlight after a long winter, and then with a quiet, undeniable strength. You started spending every possible moment together, not out of obligation or necessity, but because the space between you felt wrong, an aching emptiness that only the other could fill.
You were officially dating but lowkey at school. There were no grand pronouncements, no public displays of affection in the crowded hallways. Your friends knew, of course, their knowing smiles and subtle nudges a constant reminder of the sea change in your relationship. But to everyone else, you were just the two leaders of the successful fest, a well-matched pair who had a new, unspoken camaraderie. You liked it that way. It felt like a precious, fragile secret, a small bubble of intimacy in the bustling, prying world of high school.
The dichotomy of Seungmin's public and private self became a fascinating, endlessly endearing thing to witness. To the world, he was still Kim Seungmin, the school's cold, meticulous genius. He was still quick with a dry, sarcastic comment, his eyes still held that sharp, analytical gleam, and he was still utterly uninterested in small talk or social niceties. To everyone else, he was still the same person, maybe a little less stressed, a little more… human. But with you? With you, the mask dissolved. Seungmin still savage, but only to others — soft with her. He’d see you in the hallway, a slight smile would touch his lips, and his eyes, once so guarded, would soften into a warm, gentle gaze that was only for you. The difference was so stark, so beautiful, it made your heart ache.
And you, of course, couldn’t resist the temptation. You loved to watch him in his element—calm, confident, and utterly untouchable—and then you’d catch his eye from across a crowded room and mouth, "You're whipped." He'd roll his eyes, a small, subtle reaction that no one else would see, but the faint, genuine smile that followed was a secret just for you. Reader teases him about being secretly whipped. He never denied it, not with his words, but with his actions. He started to show up at your locker with a carton of strawberry milk, his favorite, and he’d just hand it to you, a simple, quiet gesture that spoke volumes. The first time he did it, you just stared at him, and he looked away, his cheeks a faint, embarrassing pink. "Just… take it," he mumbled. "It's the only one they had left." It was the most terrible lie, and you both knew it. You started bringing him orange slices before baseball practice, a small nod to the fact that he was finally letting you in, letting you take care of him.
Your dates were a comfortable, chaotic mess. You’d meet up at the library after school, but it was less about studying and more about just being in the same space. You’d sit at the same table, surrounded by towering stacks of books, his neat, meticulous notes spread out on the desk, your own doodles of him in the margins. You’d share silent glances, your knees occasionally brushing under the table, a constant, unspoken intimacy that made your skin tingle. They study together — his notes, her doodles. His notes were perfect, every detail accounted for, every point highlighted and underlined. Your doodles were chaotic, a mess of lines and scribbles that somehow perfectly captured the way his eyebrow would raise when he was confused, or the way his lips would curl when he was trying not to smile.
The nights grew cooler, and your library dates turned into late-night walks, the kind of comfortable silences that only exist between two people who know each other deeply. You didn't need to fill the space with words. You just walked, your shoulders occasionally brushing, the unspoken conversation a low hum of contentment. Late night library dates — comfortable silences. You talked about everything and nothing. He'd tell you about a complicated equation he was trying to solve, and you'd tell him about the ridiculous dream you had last night. You both listened, not just with your ears, but with your hearts.
Your basketball lessons, once a source of tension, were now playful, filled with good-natured teasing and an unspoken, gentle competition. Basketball lessons turn playful, filled with teasing. He’d gently correct your form, his hand on your waist, and you'd pretend to get annoyed, but the truth was, you loved the way he touched you, the way his body felt against yours, the way he laughed when you missed a shot and landed on your butt. One particularly ridiculous day, a playful fight ends in a raw kiss mid-laughter. You were arguing about a missed foul, and you were both so wrapped up in the moment that you didn't see it coming. He reached out, his hands on your cheeks, and he kissed you, not a gentle, sweet kiss, but a raw, desperate one, full of passion and laughter.
He started walking you home daily, not because you needed a chaperone, but because he just wanted to prolong the time he had with you. You'd linger on your doorstep, a brief, silent moment that felt like an eternity. Seungmin starts walking her home daily. You noticed he listens more to your music now, the songs you had once blasted into the void of the school hallways now on his playlist. He, in turn, noticed you humming Shawn Mendes songs, the kind of soft, melodic tunes that were the complete opposite of the rock and punk you had always loved. You were both slowly, beautifully, changing, and the changes were subtle, a silent acknowledgment of the way you were falling into each other’s rhythm.
But it wasn't perfect. It couldn't be. The wounds from the past were still there, and they were still a part of who you were. One day, a big argument erupted. It was a petty thing, a minor disagreement about a group project that quickly spiraled into a much bigger fight, the kind of raw, emotional blow-up that you had both been avoiding. He accused you of being reckless, and you accused him of being a control freak. The words were familiar, but this time, they weren't meant to destroy. They were meant to hurt. You both said things you didn’t mean, and the silence that followed was a familiar, painful echo of the silence from a few weeks ago. But this time, you didn't run. You didn't slam the door and disappear. You both just stood there, tears in your eyes, but you stayed. Big argument once, but they learn to fight and return. You both took a deep breath, and you faced each other, ready to work through it, ready to fix what was broken, instead of running away from it.
He admitted he never thought he could let someone in. He confessed his fear of chaos, of things he couldn't control, of the way you made him feel a kind of raw, desperate emotion that he had always pushed away. He admitted that he was terrified of loving you, because it meant he was vulnerable, and it meant he wasn't in control. She, in turn, admitted she never thought someone would choose her chaos. She admitted her fear of being a burden, of ruining something pure and perfect, of the way he made her want to be a better person, a more careful person.
And then, he said the words that had been building inside him since the day you had walked into his life and turned it upside down. “You’re everything I didn’t know I needed.” The words weren't a grand, poetic gesture. They were simple, honest, and devastatingly true. They were a raw confession, a final, unyielding surrender.
Time Skip
Twelve years after the festival indeed 12 years of dating each other facing the ups and downs together, and a few months into a beautiful marriage, the "organized chaos" of your life had only deepened into a comfortable, shared rhythm. You stood in the living room of your home, a space filled with mismatched furniture that somehow worked perfectly together, just like you both. The scent of a celebratory dinner still lingered in the air, a sweet testament to a love that had grown from a bitter rivalry into a profound partnership.
A hand, warm and familiar, slid around your waist, pulling you gently back. A low, tired, but deeply content voice murmured against your shoulder, "You know, for all your brilliant chaos, you didn't leave a single detail of this night to chance. Everything's in its right place… except for you. Should I put you on a list, too?"
You leaned back into him, your head tilting to rest on his shoulder. "Why would I need to? My prize is already here. And besides, I'd say I've taught you a thing or two about abandoning your lists entirely."
He gave a soft smile, his eyes holding a decade's worth of inside jokes. His hands moved from your waist to your neck, his lips following, leaving a trail of soft, reverent kisses that made you melt. He kissed your collarbone, the delicate line of your neck, his every touch a silent prayer of gratitude for every part of you.
You traced the line of his jaw with your finger, your voice a soft murmur. "You're still a creature of habit, Kim Seungmin. But at least now your lists have a very important first item: Worshipping your wife. In a very… thorough way."
He chuckled, a sound that resonated deep in your chest. "A given. A constant. It doesn't need to be on a list. And besides," he added, his voice dropping to a whisper, his lips brushing your skin, "you can’t worship what you don’t have access to."
A hot flush crept up your neck. You gently pushed him back, your heart hammering in your chest, and a shy smile on your face. "That was… a very bold comment from the man who still carries an emergency strawberry milk in his bag."
He feigned a grimace, though his eyes were alight with mischief. "That was twelve years ago, when we were newly dating. Are you going to bring that up for the rest of our married life?"
"Until we're old and grey," you promised, your laugh bubbling up in your chest, your confidence returning. "It's the first crack I saw in your perfect armor. The moment I knew you were more than just a robot."
His smile faded, and his hands moved to cup your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. His expression was no longer teasing, but serious, and filled with a profound tenderness that still had the power to disarm you completely. "You know, that wasn't the first crack," he said, his voice low and intimate. "The first crack was when I saw you laughing with your committee. The way your entire body lit up with that unhinged energy. I was so angry, because I couldn't understand it. And so incredibly jealous, because I couldn't be like that. I wanted to see you that happy all the time."
Your heart ached, a sweet, painful twinge of a memory you had long buried. You had never known that. You had only seen his cold, analytical gaze.
He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. "And you, you didn't just see a robot," he whispered, his eyes closing. "You saw through my fear. That's why I knew I had to marry you. Because you're the only person who can see the fear, and not just the perfection. You're my beautiful, perfect chaos. And I'm all yours."
The air between you was charged, thick with a decade of unspoken words, of inside jokes and tender moments, of arguments and resolutions. The playful banter had given way to something deeper, something far more meaningful. His touch on your skin felt like coming home. He peppered your face with kisses before his lips found yours again in a slow, gentle, lingering kiss that tasted of sweet victory and promises.
The flirty words and playful jabs were just a cover for the deep, abiding love that lay beneath. It had been twelve years since you had met, since a disastrous school festival had brought two unlikely rivals together. The past decade and a half had been a beautiful, imperfect blend of his logic and your light, a life filled with spreadsheets and spontaneous adventures, with carefully planned vacations and last-minute road trips.
You and Seungmin. Chaos and order. A perfect, beautiful, and sometimes messy union.
⤷ chan x f!reader ୨୧ wc: ゛1973 words ˎˊ˗
Inspo: Run it - Chan in the body suit.
୨୧ cw: Minors DNI, Established Eelationship, Dirty Talk, Sub.Chan, Edging, Oversimulation, Orgasm denial, Chan crying due to oversimulation, No Proof Reading Was Done.
୨୧ synopsis:
After seeing the Run It mv, specifically your boyfriend in that damn body suit, you wanted to see him in it in person, but that just turns into his crying and begging for you to help him.
You had been scrolling through your phone when the mv dropped, and the second chris appeared on screen in that skin tight sheer bodysuit, your stomach flipped. The way the fabric hugged every line of his chest, the way it stretched over his torso and left almost nothing to the imagination - it was deliberate, and he hadn't said a word about it beforehand. By the time the video ended, your decision was already made.
You texted him right away.
"Bring the bodysuit home tonight. I want to see it on you in person."
His reply came back quick, a single question mark followed by a nervous emoji.
You didn't elaborate. You just waited.
When the front door finally opened hours later, chris stepped inside looking equal parts excited and nervous, the garment bag slung over one shoulder. He locked the door behind him, set the bag down, and glanced at you where you were already stretched out on the couch in nothing but one of his oversized shirts.
"Hey, baby," he said, voice low. "You... really want me to put it on?"
you nodded once, slow. "Strip first. then put it on for me."
He swallowed hard but obeyed, peeling off his hoodie and sweats until he stood there in well... nothing, just naked. his dick was already half-hard from the anticipation alone, you watched him step into the bodysuit, the black fabric sliding up his legs, over his hips, stretching tight across his back and the growing bulge between his thighs. He put it on completely, the material clinging to every muscle, outlining his nipples, hugging his waist. When he finally looked at you again, his cheeks were flushed.
"come here," you told him.
chris walked over slowly, stopping right in front of you. you stayed seated, legs spread just enough for him to see you weren't wearing anything under the shirt.
Your fingers trailed down your own stomach, slipping between your thighs. You started touching yourself right there, slow circles over your clit while he watched, dick visibly twitching inside the tight bodysuit.
"Don't touch yourself," you said. "And don't touch me either. just stand there and watch."
a soft, desperate sound left his throat. "fuck... you're really doing this?"
"Mhm." You pushed two fingers inside yourself, letting him hear the wet sound. "You looked so fucking good in that video. thought you could hide it from me? Now you're gonna stand here and suffer for it."
chros shifted on his feet, the bodysuit doing nothing to hide how hard he was getting. The fabric strained over his dick, the outline growing thicker by the second. His hands clenched at his sides like he was fighting every instinct to reach down.
"please," he whispered. "can I at least—"
"No." you sped up your fingers, moaning softly on purpose. "You just get to watch. And maybe if you're good, I'll let you feel something later."
He whined, hips twitching forward involuntarily. The bodysuit looked obscene now, stretched so tight around his erection that you could see the head pressing against the shher material completely, precum leaking. you kept touching yourself, letting your shirt ride up so he had a full view of your pussy, wet and glistening under your fingers.
"Look at you," you murmured. "Already leaking and I haven't even touched you. pathetic, baby."
chris's breathing was getting ragged. "I can't... it's too tight. Feels like it's squeezing me."
"Good." You pulled your fingers out, brought them to your mouth, and licked them clean while he watched. then you stood up, stepping close enough that he could feel the heat of your body but not close enough to touch. Your hand pressed flat against his chest, feeling how fast his heart was racing through the bodysuit.
"Take it off," you ordered. "Slowly."
His hands shook as he reached for the zipper. He dragged it down inch by inch, revealing smooth skin and the hard lines of his abs. when the fabric parted enough, you helped him, peeling it off his shoulders, down his arms. The suit caught on his hips, and you made him turn around so you could watch him push it down over his ass. His dick sprang free the second the material cleared his hips, flushed dark and already dripping at the tip.
You didn't let him step out of it completely. Instead you pushed him back onto the couch, the bodysuit still tangled around his thighs like restraints. He looked up at you with wide, desperate eyes, chest heaving.
"please, baby" he begged again. "Touch me. anything. I'm so fucking hard it hurts."
You climbed onto his lap but stayed just above him, your pussy hovering over his cock without touching. "Not yet. I want to see how long you can last like this."
Chris's hips bucked up on instinct, trying to chase any kind of friction. You pressed a hand to his stomach, holding him down. "Stay still or I stop completely my love."
he froze, whimpering. You reached between your bodies and wrapped your fingers around the base of his dick, giving one slow stroke before letting go. His whole body jerked.
"Fuck- please-"
"Shh." You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. "You're gonna be good for me, chris. you're gonna let me edge you until you're crying. And then maybe I'll let you have more."
You started again, this time with just the very tip of your finger tracing around the head of his dick, spreading the precum around. Every time his breathing picked up or his hips twitched, you pulled away. He was already close--you could tell by the way his thighs trembled and the broken sounds leaving his mouth.
"no, no, please don't stop," he gasped. "I'm sorry, I'll be good, just--"
You pulled your hand away completely, watching his dick twitch in the air, denied. A tear slipped down his cheek and he didn't even try to hide it.
"look at you," you said softly. "Already crying and I haven't even let you inside me yet."
chan's voice cracked. "I need you so bad bab-y, please- I'll do anything."
You smiled, wicked. "anything my love? Then keep your hands behind your back and don't move."
he obeyed instantly, lacing his fingers together behind him. You lowered yourself just enough to let the head of his cock brush against your entrance, not pushing in, just letting him feel how wet you were. His entire body went rigid.
"oh god—"
"Just the tip baby," you whispered. "that's all you get right now."
You sank down slowly, taking only the head inside you, clenching around it. chan made a sound like he was dying, head falling back against the couch, tears gathering in his eyes again. You stayed there, not moving, just holding him inside that tiny bit while you reached down and rubbed your clit again.
"Please," he sobbed. "m-more. I need more. You're so tight, fuck--"
"No." You lifted off completely, leaving him empty and throbbing. "Not until I say so."
You repeated the process three more times--taking just the tip, letting him feel your heat, then pulling away before he could get any real friction. each time he got closer, his begging got more desperate, his voice breaking on every word. by the fourth time, tears were streaming down his face and he was shaking so hard the couch creaked.
"I can't take it," he cried. "please let me cum. please. I'll be so good. I'll do whatever you want. Just please--"
You finally sank all the way down in one smooth motion, taking him to the hilt. chris screamed, body arching up into you, but you immediately lifted off again before he could thrust.
"not yet," you said. "One more time."
He was openly sobbing now, dick red and angry-looking, twitching with every heartbeat.
You gave him a moment to breathe, then took just the tip again, rolling your hips in tiny circles that drove him insane but gave him nothing substantial.
"I'm gonna cum," he warned, voice wrecked. "I can't stop it—"
You pulled off instantly. "No you don't."
chris broke. He was crying hard now, shoulders shaking, cock pulsing in the air with nothing to catch it. You watched him struggle through the ruined orgasm, cum dribbling out in weak spurts without any real pleasure. Only when he was completely spent and trembling did you finally sink down on him fully again, riding him slow and deep while he whimpered through the overstimulation.
"Good boy," you murmured, finally letting him have what he needed. "You did so well for me." you said kissing his nose wiping the tears away, then kissing his head.
chris could only nod weakly, still crying softly as you rode him, his body completely at your mercy, it wasnt a common occurance that chan was at yout mercy and now that he is..you dont plan on ending it all so soon.
You soon came around him with a soft moan, clenching tight, and he gave one last broken sound before going limp beneath you.
You stayed there for a long moment, stroking his hair while he caught his breath. Eventually he looked up at you with red-rimmed eyes, voice hoarse.
"...Can we do that again sometime-?" he whispered, well turns out it wasnt just you who enjoyed it but also your lovely boyfriend
you smiled, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Oh, baby. We're just getting started for tonight."
to which chan just hugged your waist "hm", he hummed not opposing the idea either.
Who knew edging him and seeing the whiny side of him would do something as much as loving it. It would be a lie to say that he didnt look pretty begging and crying, ugh.
about: you start dating your old school's biggest fuck boy, someone doesn't seem to be happy about it.
warnings: smau, cursing, jealousy, possessive behaviour, humor, fluff, angst? Bang Chan x Fem!Reader. James x Fem!Reader. Mentions of other idols: James - CORTIS, Giselle - AESPA.
a/n: I’m glad you guys are enjoying this series! I’m having so much fun making these in my free time <3 let me know if you wanna be tagged in the next parts!
Please do not interact with my blog if you're a minor.
about: you start dating your old school's biggest fuck boy, someone doesn't seem to be happy about it.
a/n: let me know if you wanna be tagged in the next parts! <3
warnings: smau, cursing, jealousy, possessive behaviour, humor, fluff, angst? Bang Chan x Fem!Reader. James x Fem!Reader. Mentions of other idols: James - CORTIS, Giselle - AESPA.
Please do not interact with my blog if you're a minor.
about: you start dating your old school's biggest fuck boy, someone doesn't seem to be happy about it.
a/n: let me know if you wanna be tagged in the next parts! <3
warnings: smau, cursing, jealousy, humor, fluff, angst ig? Bang Chan x Fem!Reader. James x Fem!Reader. Mentions of other idols: James - CORTIS, Giselle - AESPA.
Please do not interact with my blog if you're a minor.
about: you start dating your old school's biggest fuck boy, someone doesn't seem to be happy about it.
a/n: let me know if you wanna be tagged in the next parts! <3
warnings: smau, humor, fluff, angst ig? Bang Chan x Fem!Reader. Mentions of other idols: James - CORTIS, Giselle - AESPA. Please do not interact with my blog if you’re a minor.
about: you start dating your old school’s biggest fuck boy, someone doesn’t seem to be happy about it.
a/n: hi loves, I haven’t posted in a LONG time but I’m back ig? This series will have multiple parts so let me know if you wanna be in the tag list! I hate being employed btw.
warnings: smau, humor, fluff, angst ig? Bang Chan x Fem!Reader. mentions of other idols: James - CORTIS, Giselle - AESPA. Please do not interact with my blog if you’re a minor.
summary: the rumours about you and minho have been around for a while, you never confirmed them and he never denied them. all it takes is one livestream together for everyone watching to realise the rumours were true and to leave them wanting more
live: unfiltered series
this fic is the second part of this one however it could be read as a standalone (this is the only exception of the event)
“okay, you ready?”
a few weeks and dates and livestreams and some more dates had led to this - your first livestream together. you’re sitting on minho’s lap, your back pressed against his chest and his cock pressing against your ass, both of you completely naked and ready to start.
you nod your head, trying to appear calm, but you can feel your pulse hammering inside your chest. minho kisses the curve of your shoulder and then leans to tap the button on the screen, finally starting the livestream. the camera only catches your bodies from your necks down, filling the frame with your breasts, your stomach and the sight of your thighs on top of his thick ones.
as soon as you’re on, the chat explodes.
user69: holy shit it’s them
aussielord: fuck this is gonna be insane
cumslut: i knew those rumours of them being together were true
the donations start rolling in before either of you even moves and the number of viewers climbs fast.
“looks like everyone’s been waiting for this, huh?”, minho says, “well, the good news is that we’re about to give you exactly what you want”
his hand starts moving then, his fingers going from the base of your throat down between your breasts, pausing there to brush each nipple until they are so hard it almost hurts you. he continues moving his hand lower before it settles at your waist, his touch possessive but guiding at the same time.
he moves his hand between your thighs and then spreads his legs a bit beneath you, forcing yours apart with the help of his hand, until each of your knees hooks over his thighs. your cunt opens completely to the camera, your slick folds glistening and your clit already swollen and begging to be touched.
dirtypup: fuck look how wet she is already
maknaeontop: spread her legs more
edgequeen: i wanna be her pls
“see how they’re watching you? how they can tell you’re dripping for me?”, minho says as he brushes his lips against the shell of your ear, his fingers moving to trace your lower lips without pushing inside yet, “they’ve been dying to see your pussy up close again. and now it’s here, spread open on my lap”
you move instinctively, your hips rolling to chase his touch, your ass grinding back against his cock and he groans softly.
“i- i-”, you say as a moan escapes your lips.
“shhh, no, no. easy there”, he says, his voice dropping into that commanding tone he uses during his livestreams, “i decide when you get more, kitten”
he moves two of his fingers and finally parts your folds, circling your entrance before he sinks both of his fingers inside you. he starts curling them inside you as his thumb focuses on your clit, circling it with his thrusts.
“that’s it”, he says against your ear but loud enough for the stream, “take my fingers like the good girl you are. let everyone see how tight you are, how you’re soaking my hand”
your head falls back against his shoulders and your hips start moving again, rocking down onto his fingers. the camera shows everything - the way your cunt stretches around his fingers, how your juices coat his skin, how you’re dripping down onto his thighs, how your clit is throbbing visibly under his thumb.
“i- m-more… i need more”, you manage to say, your voice breaking with another moan.
quokkjone: the princess wants more, add another finger
minho hums and then obliges without hesitation, adding another finger inside you, the stretch burning you but your cunt clenching so hard around it you’re sure you’re gonna come any minute now.
“o-oh, god, i-i need more”, you say, your hips never stopping, chasing the friction, anything he would give you.
“fuck, listen to that”, he says, his voice rough with desire, “so wet for me. i’m sure you can all hear the sounds her pussy is making while i fuck her with my fingers”, he says to the people watching you, and you’re so lost in your own pleasure you almost don’t hear him.
your thighs tremble over his and your orgasm starts growing faster and faster. your hands move to his thighs for leverage as you try to ride his fingers more. his free hand comes up to cup one of your breasts, his thumb flicking over your nipple while his other hand continues working between your legs.
“you’re close already, aren’t you, kitten?”, he asks you now, his voice low and knowing, “i can feel you squeezing my fingers. you’re gonna soak my hand, aren’t you?”
you nod frantically, too lost in everything he’s doing to form words. your walls keep clenching around his fingers, your orgasm building, about to break, but then, he stops. his fingers still completely inside you, buried to the knuckles but not moving anymore. your desperate whines fill your room, your hips bucking uselessly in a helpless attempt against his frozen hand.
“no, p-please, no. why? what did-”, you say, turning your head towards him but he kisses you quickly, making you stop, his tongue sliding past your lips to swallow every broken sound you make.
“shh, no, not yet, kitten”, he murmurs against your mouth, his voice low and firm against your lips, “you don’t come until i say so”
he pulls his fingers out of you slowly, dragging them out of you. your thighs tremble over his as he shifts beneath you, his hands gripping your waist and turning you around on his lap until your back faces the camera, your ass and the mess between your legs fully exposed to the people watching you now.
you press your breasts against his chest and now his cock is between your bodies, its tip glistening with precum and fully on display for the viewers. minho’s hands slide down to cup your ass, squeezing firmly as he leans in to speak against your ear again.
“didn’t you say you wanted to ride and soak my thighs? come on, kitten, do it now”
his words send another rush of heat through you, and you feel yourself dripping again. you shift forward obediently, you’re sure you would do anything he told you to do at this point. you straddle one of his thick and muscled thighs and then lower yourself until your dripping cunt meets his skin.
“f-fuck”, you gasp, throbbing your head back at the contact.
your folds part around the muscle there and your clit drags along his leg as you begin to rock your hips. each grind leaves a shiny trail of your arousal smeared across his thigh, the wet sounds growing louder with every pass. your breasts press against his chest, your nipples brushing against his skin with every movement.
minho’s cock stands rigid between you, twitching visibly on camera as you ride his thigh. your hand reaches down to wrap around it, your fingers curling around the tip, but his hand catches your wrist before you can do anything else.
“no”, he says, “i’ll do that. you focus on making a mess on my leg”
he lets your wrist go and wraps his own hand around his cock, beginning to stroke from base to tip, matching the rhythm of your grinding and every time his fist slides upwards, his precum wells at the tip and drips down over his knuckles.
midnightwolf: fuck look at her grinding on him
maknaeontop: his thigh is soaked already
princessonline: stroke it slower, let her watch
artprince69: she’s dripping everywhere, i’m gonna come from watching this
minho’s free hand moves to your ass, encouraging you to press down harder. your clit drags over the firm muscle again and again, each pass sending sparks racing up your spine. you moan louder now, the sound mixing with the wet slide of your cunt against his skin and the sound of his hand working his cock.
“listen how wet you are”, he says, his lips brushing your temple, “they can see every drop you’re leaving on me. keep going, just like that, kitten. show them how needy that pretty pussy is”
you answer with another moan, your hips moving faster, grinding down and making your clit throb. your hands move to his shoulders as you ride his thigh with desperation now. minho’s strokes on his cock grow firmer now and every few strokes he pauses at the tip, his thumb swiping over to spread the precum before sliding back down.
“this feels s-so good”, you say and then you lean to kiss him, your mouths meeting as your hips never stop moving.
strongspear: fuck they’re so hot together
edgequeen: she’s about to come on his thigh
minho breaks the kiss only to press his forehead to yours, his breathing hard just like yours.
“i can feel you getting close”, he says.
you nod your head frantically, your hips stuttering as you chase the edge, your orgasm building fast again but then, his hand leaves his cock to grip your hip, stopping your movements completely.
“but not yet”, he says again, “i told you you don’t get to come until i say so”
another broken whine slips from your throat, your walls clenching and fluttering around nothing. your clit throbs from your denied release and fresh arousal drips down his thighs. his hands slide under your thighs, lifting you off his lap with ease. he moves your bodies sideways on the bed so the camera can catch everything from your necks down to your feet, your naked bodies fully visible, every curve and movement on display.
you’re on your back, the sheets cool against your heated skin, and then minho climbs over you, settling between your spread legs. he leans down to kiss you, but the moment your lips part for him, he pulls back just enough to tease you, hovering so close you can feel his breath. you chase his mouth, lifting your head, but he pushes you back down with one hand on your shoulder, a smirk playing at his lips.
“stay there”, he says, his voice firmer now.
his hands move to your knees, gripping and spreading you wider until your thighs are stretched open, your dripping pussy completely soaking the sheets under you. he leans in again, this time letting the kiss land. his lips move against yours, hard and deep, while his hips shift forward. his cock nudges against your entrance, pressing slowly inside as his tongue slides against yours until he’s buried to the hilt inside you.
cumslut: the’re actually fucking on cam
user69: holy fuck look at that it’s so hot
minho groans into your mouth, his hips drawing back before thrusting forward again, setting a steady and deep rhythm. each stroke drags his cock along your sensitive walls, already overstimulated from your previous denials. your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper as your moans spill out between kisses.
“fuck, y-you’re so tight”, he breathes against your lips, “taking me so well, kitten”
you moan louder, your hips lifting to meet each thrust, “i-it feels so good… don’t stop, p-please”
his pace quickens, your hips snapping harder against each other as the camera captures every single detail - the way his cock disappears inside you, how your cunt clings to him, how your breasts bounce with each thrush, his hand sliding between your bodies and finding your clit, making your back arch.
“listen how wet you are, soaking my cock while everyone watches us”, he growls, thrusting deeper even though you didn’t know that was possible, “you love this, don’t you, kitten?”
“y-yes, fuck, yes-”, you gasp, your walls clenching around him as your orgasm grows again.
aussielord: this is the hottest thing i’ve ever seen
maknaeontop: look how she’s taking him fuck
minho’s thrusts grow rougher, his thumb moving faster on your clit now.
“come for me, kitten”, he says, his voice strained, “come on my cock while they watch us”
his words send you over and your orgasm crashes through you hard as you squeeze his cock, your whole body shaking. minho groans loudly and then he breaks too, his hips stuttering as he fills you with his cum, his cock throbbing deep inside you.
you both collapse together, both of you breathing hard, your bodies slick with sweat. minho stays buried inside you for a bit before he pulls out, a mix of your releases dripping from your pussy onto the sheets.
“it was our pleasure. we’ll see you very soon, you freaks”, minho says as he reaches over and ends the livestream, the screen going dark.
he turns back to you, his mouth capturing yours again, his lips hungry and needy against yours. you moan against them, your hands moving to his hair, pulling him closer to you, as you bite his lower lip, making him groan against your mouth.
“and you…”, he says, pulling away just enough to whisper against your lips, “don’t think i’m done with you”, he says before he kisses you again, “you’re going to do that again on my other thigh…”, he says and you feel yourself getting wet again, the idea making you moan against his lips once more, “like the good kitten you are for me”
and with that you know that even though the livestream is done, the night is far from over.
a/n: the live: unfiltered series is finally here!! i'm so excited for you all to read them and what a way to start!! you all loved our cam!minho so he had to come back to kick this off hip hip 🥳 next up we have (in the words of han jisung) our very own big boy changbin so you better get ready for that 🙂↕️
the library
likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated 🌟
warnings: unprotected sex; dom!changbin; handjob; fingering; oral sex (f and m!receiving); mirror sex; cum play; begging; dirty talk; semi-public sex; voyeurism; exhibitionism
summary: there are some things you should never do such as: having a crush on the owner of your gym, accidentally discovering said gym owner is a camboy, and touching yourself to said camboy and his livestreams. unfortunately for you, you’ve already failed all three
live: unfiltered series
“you’re cheating”
you roll your eyes, tightening your grip around the barbell resting across your shoulders. the metal feels cold against the back of your neck and the plates are so heavy that they make your legs tremble after the fourth set.
“i’m not cheating”, you say.
“then your form sucks”, changbin says as he lets out a scoff behind you.
“it only sucks because you’re distracting me”
he grins and there it is, that stupid grin. the one that makes his eyes disappear and the corner of his mouth tilt up just a little more on one side.
“excuses”, he says.
“you know what? fine, i don’t need your help”
he snorts, “you say that every time”
you hate that he’s right, mostly because…well, because he’s always right. you roll your eyes again and take a breath before you squat again, your knees wobbling.
“uh-”, he starts, his hands settling lightly at your waist, “nope”
“i’ve got it”
“you absolutely don’t”, he says.
changbin stands so close to you that you can feel his body heat through your t-shirt. his hands don’t grip your body too hard, they just guide you, one hovering near your side and the other lightly pressing your lower back now.
“chest up”, he says.
“it is up”
“no, it isn’t”
“yes it is!”
“y/n, you look like a shrimp”
you nearly choke, “what did you just call me?”
you push back up to standing and whip around to glare at him, but he just bursts out laughing, the sound bouncing off the mostly empty gym. it’s late, almost eleven, your favourite time to come - no crowds, no waiting for machines, no people filming themselves in front of mirrors, it’s just you and the music playing quietly through the speakers as changbin acts like your personal trainer despite insisting he isn’t.
“i hate you”, you tell him.
he pretends to be offended, gasping as he put his hand on his chest, “that’s so mean”
“mean and true”
“yeah, whatever”, he says, laughing now, which makes you laugh in return.
you’ve known each other for almost a year, ever since you started coming to the gym, absolutely terrified and having no clue of what to do here. you had spent ten minutes pretending to understand a machine as he watched you from afar before he gave up and came to your rescue, and the rest is history as they say.
over the next few days, you found out he was the owner of the gym, well, him and his friend bang chan, the other guy who was always there and would help you whenever changbin wasn’t working. you’ve been coming to the gym almost daily for a year, and here you are now, still getting bullied by changbin whenever you don’t do something right.
“again”, changbin says.
you groan, “I’m dead”
“nope”
“changbin-”
“no”
“my legs are going to fall”
he folds his arms, “no, they’re not”
you glare at him, “you’re evil”
“get lower”
“i hate you”, you say again.
“get lower”
you sigh and then do it, and it takes everything in you not to collapse there and then.
“okay”, changbin finally nods, “that’s enough”
“oh thank god”
he laughs and then you hand the bar back to him. your legs feel like jelly so you shuffle towards the bench nearby and almost flop onto it.
“that’s it, i’m never doing this again. i’m too old for this”, you say, trying to catch your breath again.
“you’re ridiculous”, he says, laughing at you.
“this is your fault”, you say, pointing at him.
“how is it my fault?”, he says.
“you make me do this”
“you come here voluntarily”
you open your mouth and then close it.
damn him.
he smirks, “thought so”
you groan and tip your head back, the ceiling lights blurring slightly above you. you’re sweaty and exhausted, you just wanna go home and relax, eat something while you-
“i’m leaving!”
you sit up and look at chan who is standing near the entrance with his gym bag slung over his shoulder.
“you two don’t stay too late”, he says.
“drive safe, chan”, changbin says.
“you too”, he says and then looks at you, “and don’t let him bully you, y/n!”
you sigh, “too late for that”
“hey!”, changbin protests.
chan grins and then disappears out the door, letting the silence settle over the gym. you look around - the treadmills are off, the stretching area is empty, there’s no chatter or weights clanking, there’s no music either now.
it’s just you and changbin.
“go home, y/n”, you hear him say suddenly.
“i’ll help you clean up”, you say as you stand up.
“it’s fine, you don’t have to do it”, he says, laughing softly.
“let me help you, please”
he shakes his head, the hair at his forehead bouncing slightly, “no, go home, it’s late”
he walks away and starts stacking weights. you follow him and then you hear him sigh, but you hand him plates anyway, and then he sighs again, louder this time. you grin and then he turns to look at you and points towards the door.
“out”
“no”
“out”
“you can’t kick me out”, you say as you cross your arms.
“yes i can, i’m the owner”, he says, mirroring your actions and crossing his arms too.
a staring contest begins then, but you lose after four seconds, because you're weak like that.
“okay, fine, i’m leaving”
“thank you”, he says, grinning at you.
you make a face at him and then he laughs. you feel your cheeks turning red because you love that sound, and you hate that you love that sound. you grab your bag and start walking towards the door before you embarrass yourself any further.
“okay”, you say, “i’m leaving”, you say again.
“good”
“you’re so rude”, you say laughing.
“you’ll survive”, he says laughing too.
you stop by the door and turn to look at changbin, who is standing in the middle of the gym with his hands on his hips, watching you, waiting until you leave - he always does that and it makes your chest feel warm.
“see you tomorrow?”, you ask, like you don’t already know the answer.
he smiles at you, “of course”
you smile too, “good night, binnie”
he wrinkles his nose at the nickname and you grin wider.
“good night, y/n”
as soon as you entered your apartment, you went straight to the bathroom, desperate for a shower and then once you were done, you ate some leftovers while you scrolled aimlessly on your phone. now it’s past midnight and you are lying on your bed with your hands folded over your stomach as you stare at the ceiling, wide awake.
you turn onto your side, then onto your back again, then onto your other side and then you groan into your pillow. you reach for your phone and open instagram then close it and open tiktok instead, but nothing catches your attention. you think about reading or watching a movie, but even those ideas seem boring at the moment too.
but then, you remember something your friend told you once, just over a month ago, during one dinner with too many beers.
“i’m serious”, she said as she leant over the table with flushed cheeks and a mischievous grin.
“oh my god, you watch random guys… what, jerking off online?”, you said, laughing as she rolled her eyes.
“you make it sound like i’m some kind of perv or something”, she said, leaning closer to hit you playfully, “i just do it from time to time, just, you know… when i’m stressed and i need to relax or something”
you nearly choked on your drink, “oh my god”
she only laughed harder and then took your phone, writing a website on your notes.
“one day you’ll thank me”, she said.
you had forgotten about it, until now. you open your notes and find the website she had written there. you look at it, biting your lip as you wonder whether you should do it or not. it’s not like anyone will know… right?
you feel your cheeks warm but then, you search the website, the page loading as you lie on your bed looking at your phone.
“oh my god”, you whisper, to no one in particular.
there are so many people, rows and rows of thumbnails, some more professional than others, others clearly filmed in their bedrooms with their phones and that’s it. you feel like an intruder and you almost close the page but then, curiosity wins and you click one.
the boy starts the video stroking his cock, right to it, and you panic and shut the video immediately. you click another one and then another, and you do the same thing with four or five more videos.
“this is stupid”, you say.
you turn onto your back again and sigh, then you stare at the screen again, your eyes catching a tab at the top.
LIVE.
okay, maybe this is more fun. you press it and then page refreshes, lots of livestreams appearing then. you blink and start scrolling, the thumbnails blurring together and not one of them really catching your eye. you continue scrolling for a couple of minutes, not paying much attention, and you’re close to giving up when you stop, your thumb freezing over one of the livestreams.
he seems familiar.
you can’t see the boy properly, but something about his posture, something about the clothes he’s wearing makes you stop, you’re sure you’ve seen him before. you look at the username but it doesn’t ring a bell. you open his livestream, trying to get a better look, see if you can recognise him and when you see him, the world stops.
it’s changbin.
the same changbin you were with just a couple of hours ago.
now he’s sitting there, smiling and talking as loads of comments and donations fill his livestream.
you lie on your bed, looking at him, you don’t even breath, you can’t. there has to be an explanation, this can’t be your changbin - not that the changbin you know is yours anyway but this can’t be that guy - it must be someone that really looks like him, or maybe he has a brother or a cousin that looks a lot like him, maybe he-
he laughs then and the sound shoots straight through you. you know that laugh, you could recognise it anywhere.
it is changbin.
“no fucking way”, you say as you keep looking at him, for some reason it’s impossible for you to take your eyes off him.
you keep looking at your phone, your heart beating so hard it feels like it might crack your ribs. changbin leans back in his chair, one of his ankles resting on the opposite knee, looking completely at ease with what’s going on, which makes you wonder how many times he’s done this.
cumslut: fuck yes finally
edgequeen: been waiting all day for this
princessonline: you look so good tonight i might just come from seeing you
changbin looks at his screen as he reads the message with a lazy smirk, his tongue pressing against his cheek before he laughs.
“everyone’s eager tonight, huh?”, his voice is low, a little raspy, a tone you had never heard, “you guys must be really worked up. what? did you miss me that much?”
he laughs again, the sound vibrating through your phone speaker and straight between your legs, your thighs pressing together on instinct.
user69: take everything off now
edgequeen: stroke your dick for us
“alright, alright”, he says, dragging the word out like he’s doing all of you a favor, “since you’re all so fucking desperate tonight…”
he grabs the hem of his t-shirt and takes it off, the fabric catching on his pecs before it comes free, revealing the smooth and thick muscle there and the sharp cut of his abs. he tosses the t-shirt aside and leans back again, letting everyone see his body.
you gasp out loud in your bedroom, your eyes tracing every line of him. heat floods between your legs, so fast it makes you dizzy. you’re soaked already and he hasn’t even touched himself yet, and you know you shouldn’t be watching this either.
user69: i’m so wet for you
princessonline: more more
cumslut: fuck you’re so hot
changbin’s eyes flick over the chat, clearly enjoying the attention, “this is what you all wanted, isn’t it?”, he says as he runs his hands down his chest, his thumbs brushing his nipples before sliding lower, “you’re all such greedy little freaks. i love it”
his fingers hook into the waistband of his pants and boxers and he lifts his hips just enough to shove them down in one go, stopping right below his balls so his cock springs free. it’s thick, already hard and shiny with precum. it rests against his lower abs for a second before he wraps one of his hands around the base and gives it a slow stroke.
you don’t even think, your hand dives straight under the waistband of your shorts and panties and your fingers find your clit instantly, rubbing it as you match the rhythm of his hand on your screen.
he reaches for a bottle of lube and then squirts a generous amount into his palm. he wraps his hand around his cock again and starts stroking properly, twisting his wrist on every stroke, the lube making everything easier.
“fuck, that feels good”, he groans, his eyes half lidded as he looks straight into the camera, “you guys are really making me work for it tonight. keep those comments coming and maybe i’ll give you a show”
edgequeen: faster please
princessonline: stroke that cock for us
cumslut: edge us
he speeds up a little and his thighs tense, the precum leaking more now, mixing with the lube and dripping down his cock onto his balls. you’re panting now, one finger sliding through your soaked folds before you push it inside. you imagine it’s his finger instead, stretching you open. then, you enter another finger and you imagine it’s his cock now. your thumb moves to your clit while your other hand grips your phone so hard your knuckles ache.
“all of you here… watching me jerk off… you’re such filthy people, i bet half of you are touching yourselves right now, aren’t you?”, he says as he squeezes his cock harder, “go on then, watch me while you fuck yourselves”
your fingers move faster and your hips roll up to meet your hand. every time changbin moans or speaks, another rush of slick coats your fingers and a new moan escapes your lips.
he’s getting close, you can tell by the way his abs tighten and his strokes become shorter, more urgent. his free hand moves to grip the armrest of the chair, the veins standing out along his forearm.
“shit… i’m g-gonna come”, he says, his voice strained, “you want it? wanna watch me make a mess?”
edgequeen: yes yes
cumslut: make a mess on my pls
user69: i wanna suck your cock
changbin’s head tips back against the chair and then with a loud and broken groan, he starts to come, his cum shooting across his abs and chest. he keeps stroking through it until his cock twitches and softens slightly in his grip, his cum dripping down his torso in shiny streaks.
the sight pushes you over the edge, your own climax taking hold of you as your thighs shake and your back arches off your bed. you bite your lip to keep from moaning too loud but a broken whimper still escapes you.
changbin catches his breath, his chest heaving, and then he looks back at the camera with that same cocky smile.
“fuck… that was good. thanks for being here, you little freaks. i’ll do this again soon if you keep being so… generous”, he says as he wipes some of the cum off his chest with his fingers and then licks them clean, before he leans closer to the screen, “good night everyone”, he says, still grinning, and ends the livestream.
your screen goes black and you continue lying there, with your phone still clutched in your hand and your other hand still between your legs. your thighs are trembling and your panties and shorts are soaked through, and you’re sure even the sheets are wet.
you can’t believe you just came to changbin - your changbin - jerking off live for hundreds of strangers and you don’t know how you’re going to pretend that nothing has happened.
the next evening, you stand outside the gym and contemplate changing to a completely different one. you’re scared to face changbin today, not because of him, but because of you and how you may react, because if you had to be honest with yourself, you don’t trust yourself one bit. it was one thing to have a crush on him, but it’s something completely different to have watched him stroke his cock during a livestream while your fingers were buried inside you.
you pull your sleeves over your hands and take a deep breath. you can do this, nothing has happened, you saw nothing, you did nothing, you definitely didn’t watch him as you-
“no”, you say to yourself, shaking your head.
you’re going to act normal, that’s what you tell yourself, so you push the door open and enter the gym and as soon as you do-
“hey!”
your soul leaves your body and you whip your head up - changbin is behind the front desk, already smiling at you, like he always does. you feel your cheeks warm and immediately guilt fills you, because even though his livestream was public, you feel like you invaded something private, like you peeked behind a curtain you were never supposed to see
you don’t respond and he tilts his head, “you okay?”
“yeah”, you say, too fast and too loud, even for him, “i mean- yeah, i’m o-okay”
thank god you were gonna act normal today, apparently your brain resigned the second you saw him.
he narrows his eyes, “you sure?”
you don’t trust your voice so you just nod your head and he watches you for a moment longer before he shrugs.
“okay”
that’s it, no suspicion or weird looks, no sign that his life imploded overnight, even though yours absolutely did.
you hurry towards the locker room before you say something stupid or do something embarrassing… again. and when you leave the locker room, you avoid him for the first fifteen minutes, hoping it’s not too obvious, but it is, at least for him.
you stretch longer than usual, spend extra time on cardio, look at yourself in the mirror whenever he passes by, but still, you can feel him moving around the gym, he’s everywhere - you can see him talking with other people, spotting someone on bench press, talking with chan about protein powder, cleaning some of the machines so he doesn’t have to do it later.
and even though he’s acting completely normal, this makes it so much worse for you because when you hear him laughing, all your hear is his laugh last night when he was teasing you - on camera that is - and when you see him wiping sweat from his forehead, all you see is him stroking his cock with his precum and the lube.
you nearly trip over your own feet at the thought and he looks at you, his eyebrows raised.
focus, y/n.
you are here to work out, so you grab some dumbbells and start your set - one, two, three, four, easy. you can do this. five, six-
“your elbow’s too high”
you jump, not having heard him getting close to you.
“oh my god”, you say as you turn around to look at him, “you scared me!”
“i didn’t do anything”, he says, raising his hands and laughing at your reaction.
“i didn’t hear you”, you say laughing nervously.
changbin keeps looking at you, like he can tell there’s something you’re not telling him, but you just avoid eye contact again.
he steps closer to you, “you sure you’re okay?”
yes.
no.
not even close.
but you nod your head, “yeah, i’m good”
you look at him and that’s a big mistake, because all you can see is his smirk and his hands stroking his cock, those same hands you wished were on your body instead, that cock you wished-
“... okay”, he says, and then walks away, obviously not believing you but deciding not to push you any further right now.
you let out the breath you were holding and then shake your head. this is ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous. you’ve known changbin for almost a year and yet, it only took one livestream, one stupid livestream, for you not to know how to act around him anymore.
get it together please.
you pick up your dumbbells again and do one set, then a couple more. you focus on the burn in your muscles, on your breathing, on counting your reps, on anything except him. and for a while, it works, but it’s mostly because changbin stays busy and doesn’t stay close to you again.
you hear him talking and laughing with chan and you refuse to look but chan notices, because he has seen you walking around each other today for a while and this is so not like you. he squints his eyes at you, then at changbin when he isn’t looking, and he knows that something has happened, but he doesn’t know what.
you continue working out as the time passes and the gym slowly empties. the music gets quieter and the lights dim slightly, the people saying goodbye as they leave the gym and then, you see chan, waving at you.
“see you tomorrow, y/n!”
you wave back, “bye chan!”
but then, you realise.
wait.
chan is leaving?
already?
you look around and see that the treadmills are empty, the stretching mats abandoned. there’s no one near the squat racks, no one near the benches.
it’s just you and-
oh no.
you freeze and turn around, only to find changbin at the front desk, already looking at you, with his arms folded, and for once, he’s not smiling at you.
oh oh.
you immediately look away and turn around again, pretending to be very interested in wiping down your equipment. you hear movement behind you and you close your eyes, hoping that it’s not changbin walking to you, hoping that he won’t wanna talk, hoping that-
“you’ve been avoiding me”
of course, no such luck.
you sigh and then turn around slowly, only to find changbin standing a few feet away from you, with his arms still crossed and still not smiling.
you laugh nervously, “no, i haven’t”
he raises and eyebrow, “i don’t believe you”
you don’t reply and he takes this opportunity to take another step closer to you.
“did i do something?”, he asks you.
“no”
“then why are you acting so weird today?”
“i’m not acting weird”, you lie, looking at the floor.
“yes, you are”
“no, i’m not”
“y/n, you can’t even look me in the eye right now”
you open your mouth to say something but then close it because he’s right. you can’t look at him because every time you do, you remember last night and you feel a million things at the same time - you feel guilty, embarrassed, hot and weirdly… jealous? which makes absolutely no sense.
you groan and changbin blinks.
“why are you groaning?”, he says.
you cover your face with your hands, “ugh, i can’t do this”
“do what?”
you start pacing and he just follows you, trying to keep up.
“changbin, you don’t understand-”
“then help me understand”
“i can’t!”
“why not?”
“because it’s embarrassing!”
changbin blinks then.
embarrassing?
what do you mean?
he looks genuinely baffled now and you only groan louder and walk faster. changbin continues to follow you, walking faster so he can step closer to you, concern replacing annoyance now.
“you know”, he says, “you can tell me anything, right?”
you stop and turn to look at him, almost colliding with him because of how close he is, and then you can’t take it anymore.
“well, i can’t exactly tell you i watched you with your cock out last night, can i?”
everything stops, both of you completely silent now, you swear that you could hear a hair pin drop if it fell at that moment. he blinks and then you realise what you’ve said, the colour draining from your face instantly, and you regret everything - watching the live, going to the gym, talking to him, hell you regret even existing right now.
“w-what?”, he says.
you cover your face again, “oh my god”
changbin doesn’t move, he doesn’t even blink. you sigh and squeeze your eyes shut.
“i found your… account yesterday and i… i-i watched your livestream last night”, you say, your voice muffled behind your hands.
his mouth falls open and suddenly the pieces click together, why you avoided him and why you refused to meet his eyes, why you were acting weird today and stepping away from him. he starts laughing then, not a small chuckle, but a full and loud laugh that fills the gym.
“oh my god, that’s why you’ve been acting like this today?”, he says.
you drop your hands, your cheeks burning as you stare at him in stunned embarrassment. his laughter only makes it worse and somehow hotter at the same time.
“y/n, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. i’m not ashamed of doing it and i never said anything about it but i don’t hide it either. but what i wanna know is…”, he says, walking closer to you, that cocky smirk from last night returning, “why did you watch it, huh? you needed to relieve some tension? or were you just looking for a fun time, sweetheart?”
you can’t talk, no matter how hard you try, your words won’t leave your lips, no sounds will come out. he keeps walking towards you and you step back until your spine meets the cool surface of the mirror on the wall. he doesn’t stop walking, crowding into your space until his chest nearly brushed yours.
“is that why you kept stepping away from me today? because you couldn’t stop thinking about me? about what i did with my hands? about my cock? or is it because you couldn’t stop thinking about what my cock might feel like inside you?”
your brain short circuits and you feel yourself getting wet, embarrassingly fast. you’re not even listening to what he’s saying anymore, your eyes are locked on his mouth and the curve of his lips, and changbin is not oblivious, not anymore.
“of course you were, sweetheart”, he says and then he dives in.
his mouth captures yours in a hard and hungry kiss, one of his hands sliding up to cup the back of your neck while the other braces against the mirror beside your head. his tongue pushes past your lips, tasting you and the heat that’s been simmering inside you since last night explodes into something consuming.
his mouth is still locked on yours when he grabs the back of your thighs and lifts you off the floor. you yelp and wrap your legs around his waist, your arms flying around his neck. he laughs against your lips and then carries you across the room. your back hits the open stretch of the floor near the centre of the room, the carpet soft under your spine as he lowers you down and follows immediately, his body settling between your spread thighs. he breaks the kiss only long enough to smirk down at you, his eyes dark and hungry.
“look at you, already clinging to me like you’re starving for it... you spent all day running away from me and now you can’t keep yourself away from me”, he says.
his hands start working at your clothes, yanking your top up and over your head, tossing it aside without even looking. he drags your shorts down next, and your underwear too, leaving you completely naked under him. the cool air kisses your skin but it's nothing compared to the heat rolling off his body.
changbin doesn’t waste another second. he drops lower, his shoulders forcing your thighs wider and he buries his face straight between your legs. his tongue drags a thick and wet stripe up your slit before he seals his mouth over your clit and sucks hard, ripping a scream from your throat, because nothing has ever felt like this. your hips buck up against his mouth on their own, chasing whatever he is giving you, your fingers fisting into his hair and tugging hard enough to make him groan into your cunt.
you can’t stop rocking your hips against his face, grinding down on that wicked mouth while he eats you out like he’s been waiting for this exact moment since the day you first met. your head lolls to the side and that’s when you see the full length mirror reflecting everything - changbin’s broad shoulders between your thighs, his head moving as he licks and sucks, your own flushed face twisted in pleasure, your legs spread wide and open for him. the sight punches the air from your lungs and another broken scream tears out of you, louder than the first one.
changbin feels the sudden clench of your thighs and lifts his head just enough to follow your gaze. when he spots the mirror and realises you’re staring at your own reflection, watching him eating you out, he lets out a dark laugh against your folds.
“oh fuck, look at that. you’re getting even wetter just from seeing you like this”, he says as he slides two fingers into you without warning, curling them deep while his tongue returns to your clit, “i didn’t know you had this in you, sweetheart. getting off on watching me tongue-fuck you in the mirror. that’s such a fucking turn on”
his fingers move steadily, scissoring and twisting while he sucks your clit again. you keep grinding down on his mouth and hand, your hips rolling shamelessly as the wet sounds grow louder. you try to talk, to say anything, but you can’t, every time you open your mouth a scream comes out.
every time your eyes flick back to the mirror you see his tongue moving against you, see his fingers disappearing inside you and your own body shaking and desperate, begging for him. it pushes you higher and higher, until the coil in your stomach snaps without warning.
“c-changbin!”, that’s the only thing you can say and when he groans against your cunt, you finally collapse.
your orgasm crashes through you in a rush of heat and pulsing pleasure, your thighs clamping around his head as you scream his name again and again and flood his tongue with your arousal.
he doesn’t stop licking until you’re trembling and whimpering, still watching the mirror because you can’t look away. he finally pulls his mouth away from your soaked cunt but stays between your thighs, his lips shiny with your release as he watches you with that cocky little smirk.
“easy, sweetheart”, he says, “breathe for me”
his fingers start tracing your skin, calming your body and the waves inside you. he leans down and presses a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh, then another higher up. each press of his lips feels tender, almost sweet after how hard he just made you come.
you’re still floating, your chest heaving, as if you’re somewhere far away and not in the gym with him. you move your head and your eyes focus on him again and then you notice the thick and obvious bulge straining against the front of his pants. your gaze locks on it and something hungry flickers back to life inside you.
before he can say anything else, you push up on shaky arms, grab his shoulders and then shove him backwards until he’s sitting on the floor. he laughs when he sees you manhandle him, but he lets you have your fun, at least for now.
“fuck, look at you”, he says as you kneel between his spread legs, “so desperate to get your mouth on me. my sweet girl really can’t wait another second, can you?”
“n-no”, you say, your voice hoarse from all your moaning and screaming.
your hands move to the waistband of his pants, dragging them and his underwear down, letting his cock free. changbin just watches you with that same teasing grin, taking his t-shirt off before one of his hands comes up to stroke your cheek.
“you’ve been thinking about this since you watched me yesterday, haven’t you? or maybe you’ve thought about this before, huh?”, he says, teasing you, “well, i guess that now that you are here on your knees it doesn’t really matter”
you wrap your fingers around his cock and then lean in, dragging your tongue from the base to the tip. changbin’s head tips back with a groan as you take him into your mouth and start sucking him. his hand moves to your hair, tightening just a bit.
“that’s it, sweetheart. fuck… your mouth feels so g-good. such a good girl for me”
you moan around his cock at his words, the vibration making his body tremble. he keeps talking, his voice getting rougher as you bob your head, taking him deeper and deeper each time.
“fuck… i’m gonna come down your throat if you keep going like that. you want it? want me to fill that pretty mouth?”
you hum around his cock and then hollow your cheeks around it. changbin curses, his thighs flexing, and then he comes hard, his cum flooding your mouth.
“f-fuck, y/n!”
you swallow as he keeps coming, your throat working as he fills your mouth more and more, some of it spilling from the corner of your lips. when he stops twitching, you pull off and climb up into his lap, grabbing his face with both of your hands before you kiss him, letting him taste some of his cum that you haven’t swallowed in your mouth. he groans into the kiss, his hands moving to your waist as he licks into your mouth, both of you moaning as he tastes his own release.
his hands slide down to grip your hips and then he moves you until you’re sitting on top of him, with the head of his cock right against your entrance. both of you groan at the contact and he rocks his hips once, dragging the tip through your wetness and coating himself before he starts to push inside.
“fuck, you’re so wet again”, he says, “look at you, dripping all over my cock already. you want it that bad, sweetheart? want me to stretch this tight pussy open?”
you nod your head, your fingers digging into his shoulder as you sink down slowly until your ass meets his thighs when you’re fully seated on his cock.
“that’s it”, he says as a broken moan rips out of you, “such a good girl for me. i’ve thought about this since i first met you. i knew you’d be this tight, i knew you’d squeeze me so fucking good”
you start to move, rolling your hips as you feel him throb inside you which pulls more whimpers from your throat. changbin watches your face the whole time, his eyes dark and hungry.
“faster, sweetheart. ride me, show me how bad you need it”, his hands guide you, lifting and dropping you onto his cock, “so fucking messy. you’re soaking my cock... such a needy girl for me”
you moan louder, bouncing harder, “please, more, i- i need more”, you gasp.
“yeah? my sweet girl begging for more already? you want me to fuck you until you can’t think straight?”
you nod your head and then his hips snap up to meet every drop of your body, his cock hitting your spot.
“every time i had my hand around my cock, i pictured you like this. every time, i imagined filling your cunt… and now you’re taking it like you were born for me”
you clench around him at his words, a fresh wave of your arousal coating his cock and he groans, his fingers digging bruises into your hips, but you don’t fucking care, you never wanna stop.
“that’s right. f-fuck, you feel so good. keep riding me, sweetheart, use my cock”, he moans.
your movements grow frantic, your thighs burning as you slam down again and again. you whimper, too far gone to form full sentences now.
“p-please… changbin… fuck me h-harder”
he growls and then flips you both. your back hits the floor again with a soft thud and he’s on top of you again, shoving your thighs wide apart. he lines up and slams back inside in one thrust. you scream, your back arching off the floor as he starts pounding into you without mercy.
“f-fuck, yes”, you moan as his hips snap against yours.
“this is what you wanted isn’t it? getting fucked stupid, as you scream for me, begging for more”
you can’t stop the sounds pouring out of you, high and broken moans and desperate pleas, “please, please, don’t stop- harder, fuck me harder”
your nails rake down his back, your legs locking around his waist as he thrusts into you over and over again. he leans down and kisses you hard, swallowing your cries. when he pulls back, his lips are shiny and his voice is completely wrecked.
“that’s my girl. so fucking loud for me”, he says and then he angles his hips, grinding deep on every thrust, “i’m gonna make you come again. i’m gonna make you scream my name again. you want that, sweetheart?”
you nod your head, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the intensity.
“yes- fuck, yes”
his pace turns savage, his hips slamming into you with bruising force, every thrust making you scream much louder than before. you’re right on the edge, your body wound tight and then changbin reaches between your bodies and rubs your swollen clit, completely shattering you. you come with a broken scream, your walls clenching his cock, which makes changbin curse and then come with you, his cum filling you, pushing his release as deep as he can while you both shake and moan against each other’s mouths.
he stays buried inside you, his forehead pressed to yours as you both pant hard. his cock twitches with the last weak pulses and then he kisses you again, tasting the salt on your skin from how much you’re both sweating.
“fuck”, he says against your lips, “you’re incredible”
you slowly pull away from him to look at him properly - his hair is a mess and you’re pretty sure yours is worse, but he’s smiling at you, not the cocky smirk from before, but a soft and genuine smile and then he brushes damp strands of hair from your forehead.
he leans down and kisses you, his tongue sliding against yours like he’s savouring every second. when he pulls back just enough to speak, his lips brush yours with every word.
“so… you’ve got a little crush on me, huh? watched my livestream like a good girl and got yourself off while i stroked my cock for strangers”
you groan, your face burning, and you try to hide against his neck but he just chuckles and leans down again to kiss the corner of your mouth.
“don’t hide now, sweetheart. i like knowing you were touching this pretty pussy while you watched me. makes me feel special”, he says as his hand slides down to squeeze your hip, his thumb stroking circles over your skin, “and every single time i jerked off? not only on screen? it was you i was thinking about. your face and your mouth. and this tight pussy i’m still buried in”
the filthy confession makes your walls clench around him again and the only thing you can do is grab his face with your hands and drag him back down into another kiss, desperate and messy as you moan into his mouth, your tongues sliding together one more time. he groans, his hips twitching and humping again, and he kisses you just as hungrily, sucking on your lower lip before he nips it lightly.
he pulls away a bit, breathing hard, his eyes bright and big as he looks at you.
“we should probably talk about this new… discovery over some late night dinner tonight, my treat. what do you say, sweetheart? you’re gonna let me take you out?”
“yeah”, you say, nodding your head without hesitation, still panting, and your lips still swollen from his kisses.
changbin grins, wide and bright, and then he pulls out of you with a wet sound that makes you both hiss. before you can protest the sudden emptiness, he stands up and scoops you up in his arms, cradling you against his chest. your arms loop around his neck and your fingers move to his hair, while his hands stay under your thighs and across your back.
he starts walking towards the showers, pressing soft kisses along your jaw and down your throat.
“i’ve got to get you cleaned up first”, he says against your skin, his voice warm and teasing, “can’t take my girl out for dinner when she’s still leaking my cum down her thighs”, he nips at your earlobe, chuckling when you shiver.
you hide your face in his neck, your body already humming with fresh arousal at his words. changbin kicks the bathroom door open with his foot, still carrying you and then he turns the shower on, its sounds echoing in the room as he keeps murmuring filthy words against your skin.
a/n: the second part of live: unfiltered is up!! thank you for all of your love and i hope you like this one as much as the first one! next up: our sweet and innocent seungmin 😇
the library
likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated 🌟
cw: hard dom, rough sex, manhandling, fingering, brat taming, pussy slapping, mean lee know
“Haven’t even fucked you yet and you’re acting all stupid.”
His words weren’t mean- just dry. as if he was commenting on the weather. as if he wasn’t fingering you so hard you wondered how it’s possible.
You gripped the sheets. Laying up on your stomach, whines and moans falling from your lips nonstop.
“Really makes me wonder if you’re really sorry or if you like to act like you are.” he hummed. Still fully clothed and sitting up on his knees while your shirt was scrunched up around your waist and pants hurriedly forced down to your knees. “Especially since you seem to think i’m stupid.”
“I am- i didn’t mean it, ‘sm sorry.”
“Yeah right.” He stopped just long enough to place a sudden, hard smack right onto your pussy. Whine tearing through your throat. An almost burning like sensation blooming before being replaced with a throbbing as he immediately started again. Pace harsh and practically jabbing into that sensitive gummy spot inside you.
Your hips raised and shifted, trying to get away from the overwhelming sensation which was only matched with another smack against your poor cunt. Clit pulsing with pain and pleasure.
His hand shoved you back fast down, firm and hard against the middle of your back. Finger digging into your skin to keep you into place as he pushed you up more. “Stay like that.”
His other hand gripped your hip hard. Keeping them in place- even as your hips instinctively tried moving. “You don’t get to be a rude brat all day then act like a baby when you start facing consequences.”
His hand on your back moved back down, placing a slap on your ass before moving back to your cunt. Rubbing hard, fast circles on your clit.
You let out an embarrassing mix of a moan and whine into the bed, hands tightening around your hold on the sheet harder. Your hair was in your face, some strands sticking to your forehead from sweat.
You wanted to open your mouth- explain yourself. Tell him it was a joke and that you’d never call your smart, handsome man ‘stupid’. About to before he suddenly plunged two fingers back into you.
“Open your mouth or try ‘n run away one more time and it’s another orgasm you’re giving me tonight. You’re already at three. Watch your mouth.”
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