diamond-reads

[diamond-reads]

the final defense of the dying 🥀 jeonghan x reader.

jeonghan has escorted twelve tributes to their deaths. he will do everything in his power to make sure you don’t face the same fate.

🥀 pairing. hunger games mentor!jeonghan x tribute!reader. 🥀 word count. 13.1k. 🥀 genres. alternate universe: non-idol, alternate universe: hunger games. heavy angst, action, friendship, romance. 🥀 includes. minors do not interact. minor character deaths; hunger games-typical depictions of blood, gore, violence; themes of ptsd, sex work; sexual content; mentions of food, alcohol. childhood best friends, jeonghan yearns :(, cameos of svt members. 🥀 footnotes. this is part of the angst olympics collaboration. i did say this would be above 5k. a direct hit for @diamonddaze01, and for everyone who soldiered through sunrise on the reaping. my masterlist 🎵 doomsday, lizzy mcalpine. meet me in the woods, lord huron. growing sideways, noah kahan. we hug now, sydney rose. no light, no light, florence + the machine. without you without them, boygenius. the prophecy, taylor swift.

I. YOON JEONGHAN, THE FRIEND. 

Jeonghan’s nightmares always start the same. 

The middles and the endings vary. If he’s lucky, he doesn’t have to suffer through an entire run of his Games. If he’s unlucky, he wakes up gasping for breath like he had his head dunked underwater the entire evening. 

It always opens with the sprawling fields of District 11.

The very lands he had once thought to be so commanding. On his first train ride to the Capitol—when he was being sent out like a pig for slaughter—he knew, even then, that the sight was one to behold. Bountiful orchards, fruit trees in full bloom, tilled land as far as the eye could see.

When he sees them in his nightmares, there is always something wrong. An infestation. A wildfire. His loved ones, spilling blood all over the hay. 

Tonight, it’s you.

Jeonghan’s subconscious is caught off-guard. It’s not the first time he’s dreamt of you, after all. And so he thinks it’s going to be pleasant, thinks he’s going to enjoy some ethereal adventure. 

But then you open your mouth and nothing comes out. Not your sweet voice. Not your call of Hannie. Your face contorts, twists, like you’re in pain. It’s the very last expression Jeonghan would ever want to see on your face. 

He tries to reach you. He takes a couple of paces forward. He breaks out into a run. But the fields stretch, and stretch, and stretch, and all the while, you stare straight at him with that soundless look of terror. 

Jeonghan wakes with his chest heaving. 

It takes him thirty seconds to realize he had been dreaming. It takes him another five minutes to clamber out of bed, unsteady on his feet as he makes his way to the en suite bathroom. 

Here, in the Victor’s Village, it’s only him. And he doesn’t mean that in the sense that he has no living relatives to stay in this big, empty house with him. He means it in the sense that he’s the only district’s Victor, the only one to have come back alive after 73 iterations of the Games. It had its advantages.

Being all alone means nobody can hear Jeonghan when he screams. When he sits in the tub, head between his knees, and screams until his voice is hoarse. 

He chalks up the eerie dream to what awaits him later in the day. The reaping looms over him like a storm cloud, but there’s also a silver lining he holds on to as he goes through his morning routine. It’s morbid. It’s cruel. He would never admit it to anyone. 

For once, Jeonghan is looking forward to the reaping. 

On average, the reaping was considered the worst day for any district. An annual lottery that decided who would be sent off to participate in that year’s Games. Behind New Year’s, Reaping Day was the second-most likely day for people to get drunk. 

Today was your last. 

The last day you had to have your name in the bowl. The last reaping you would have to endure. 

You and Jeonghan were twelve when your names first got added into the mix. When he came back from his Games, he made sure you would never have to apply for tesserae—a year’s worth of grain and oil. He was richer than the gods, anyway, with all his winnings. And who else would he share it with but you? 

So, in your final year, there are still only seven slips of paper with your name on it. 

Jeonghan likes your chances. 

The reaping kicks off at around three in the afternoon. Obligations keep Jeonghan away from sneaking out to find you, but he knows where to look once the ceremony begins. You’re in the roped-off area of the town square, towards the front where all the older eligibles await their fate.

Jeonghan doesn’t bother to hide the fact he’s staring, that he’s waiting for you to look his way. Almost willing it, even, and he can sense your vexation from the stage where he’s forced to stand. 

You finally look up at him. For a moment, he sees the face in his dream. The one screaming.

It passes like a mirage, leaving your familiar expression of exasperation. 

Stop, you mouth, trying to look somewhat stern. Failing. (A corner of your lip has twitched upward.) 

He raises one shoulder in a shrug. Can’t help it, he mouths back, the knot in his chest loosening ever so slightly.

For the first time that day, he feels like he can breathe. 

The mayor steps forward to recite the history of the founding of Panem. The Dark Days brought upon by the uprising, the Treaty of Treason that institutionalized the Games. There’s a measly attempt to discuss the spoils and riches that come with winning, but nobody is convinced. Not when there’s still only a solitary victor on stage. 

“District 11’s victors,” the mayor rasps. This part is required reading, has been included in the program for the past six years. “Yoon Jeonghan, the 66th Hunger Games.” 

There’s a smatter of polite applause. Jeonghan offers the gathered crowd a small nod in acknowledgement, but nothing more. 

The list ends there. 

The district’s escort since gods-knows-when moves up to the microphone. Bauble lived up to her name; she was a stout, shimmery thing embellished in absurd shades of gold and glitter. You once told Jeonghan that her voice was like a coin in a tin can, and he’s been unable to unhear it ever since. 

She waxes poetics about the honor of being a tribute. Jeonghan tunes it out, focuses on staring straight ahead. He wonders, briefly, what he should have for dinner. 

Bauble steps towards the glass bowl containing hundreds of folded pieces of paper. Hundreds. Some have their names in there on twenty-something slips. 

Not you. You only have seven. Seven, because Jeonghan had made sure to keep the odds as low as possible.

“Ladies first,” Bauble warbles. 

And perhaps that’s Jeonghan’s first mistake—that he does not worry. 

He’s so sure, so certain, riding on the high of this reaping being your final one. His mind is already halfway into next week, into the special brand of kindness you afford him in the aftermath of the Games.

You were always a little softer to him whenever he came home from the bloodbath. A consolation, he had thought during his first year as a mentor. Perverse as it is, he soaked it all up. 

The nights you’d spend at his home in the Victor’s Village. The cooked meals and the reassuring touches. The words you’d murmur whenever he woke up from his nightmares; your sweet nothings of you did what you could and no one blames you and it was just a dream, Hannie, you’re safe here. 

He’s thinking of those, of you.

And so he nearly misses the way Bauble calls out your name. 

The very name he had shrieked as a child when the two of you played games in the corn fields and rice paddies. The very name he had murmured soundlessly while he was delirious and sick in his own arena. (The thought of you, the only thing that kept him alive.) 

It’s your name, but everybody in the crowd—from the farmers to the ranchers to the Peacekeepers, even—know you as something else. 

Jeonghan’s darling. Jeonghan’s sweetheart. 

The love of his life, now sentenced to die. 

He can feel it. The tangible shift in the air. 

The camera trying to get a tight shot of his face. The probing eyes, all flickering between you and Jeonghan like the district doesn’t know who to focus on.

You may be the reaped, but the slip of paper in Bauble’s hand has condemned you both. 

Jeonghan doesn’t give anyone the satisfaction of a reaction

He watches, tight-lipped and steely-eyed, as you move through the crowd like a summer breeze. You don’t look towards him. A small grace. 

You take your place on the stage. Bauble—ignorant as ever of the tension that has rippled through the district—flashes you a toothy smile. 

“Lovely,” she sing-songs. Jeonghan barely resists the urge to tear the escort’s wig off. 

She moves over to the boys’ fishing bowl and pulls out a name. It’s some rancher’s son, someone who got a little cocky about the amount of tesserae they thought they could get. He stumbles forward from the back row of eligibles, which means he’s young. Probably only thirteen or so. 

Jeonghan doesn’t dwell on it it. He’s too busy holding his hands behind his back, his nails digging into his palms in a way that will leave crescent-shaped marks. 

“Ladies and gentleman, join me in welcoming the District 11 tributes of the 73rd Hunger Games!” Bauble trills.

During Reaping Day, there is already barely any applause or cheers. Why would anyone celebrate when Jeonghan was still the only one to have come back after all these decades? 

Today, though, it’s silent as a tomb. 

Bauble looks like she’s at a loss. A quiet district doesn’t make for good television. “And may the odds be ever in their favor,” she’s saying hastily, but her words patter off when it begins. 

A low hum. Somebody from the back of the crowd starts it up, and then the rows follow suit one after the other.

People are always angry in District 11.

The days are long and the work is hard. The sun is unforgiving; the labor, unjustified. And so the people have learned to sing, have taken to music so they could bear the strife. The two of you grew up to hymns in the fields, ballads on birthdays— 

Songs at funerals. Grief shared in rumbling baritones, in lyrics passed down from one generation to another. 

The weeping women begin to croon.

The fields whisper low where the tall corn sways, Calling your name in the hush of the days. Summer was golden, but frost’s moving in, Taking the bright ones again and again.

It’s a song as old as time, an honor as recognizable as the three-fingered salute. Jeonghan dares to steal a glance at you. You’re clutching the male tribute to your side, and your jaw is set with defiance. 

The sun kissed your brow as you worked through the rows, Hands stained with labor, a heart no one knows. Now they have sent you where none should be sent, Leaving us hollow, our backs tired and bent.

Your parents. Gods, your parents. Jeonghan’s gaze skips over the crowd as he tries to find them. There’s so many, too many people. He’s a little grateful he can’t locate them. He wouldn’t know what to do if he saw the looks on their faces. 

Back when the two of you had been playmates, your father had always teased Jeonghan about bringing you home before the sun set. Jeonghan had been so diligent, had never failed your father once, but now. 

But now. 

Gone like the harvest, gone with the wind, Taken too soon, though your roots ran deep in.

The earth holds your footsteps, the sky holds your name, But nothing will ever grow quite the same.

Bauble is getting restless. The mayor keeps throwing helpless glances at Jeonghan. He stares straight ahead. He has no plans of interrupting. Not this. Not when it’s for you.   

In the corner of his eye, he can see you mouthing along to the words. In his honest, unbiased opinion, you were one of the district’s best singers. It kills him that no one will hear you, no one can hear you, as you give what may be your last performance for the people that have raised you. 

The song crescendos. Dozens of voices, furious as the storms that rampaged through Panem and left the district on its knees. 

Let the wheat bow, let the vines grieve, Let the rain fall for all we believe. If we had a choice, if we had a say, Not one of our own would be taken away.

Jeonghan hopes the Capitol cameramen are getting this, even though they’ll probably cut the broadcast. A district united in its sorrow is a dangerous one, and Jeonghan will pay a small price for letting it happen. 

He will pay an even heftier price for singing along. 

His tone has always been a bit on the nasally side, but the years have made it sweeter, sharper. He doesn’t have to pitch his voice particularly loud. The people see his mouth forming the words, see the way he joins in on the last chorus.

Gone like the harvest, gone with the wind, Taken too soon, though your roots ran deep in. The earth holds your footsteps, the sky holds your name—

But nothing will ever grow quite the same, he finishes, and then he finally looks towards you. 

II. YOON JEONGHAN, THE VICTOR. 

It had been his first reaping. 

His name, in the bowl only once. His cousins had told him it was unlikely. You had reassured him it would not be him, although his concern, even then, had been that it might be you. 

He had been basking in the relief of the female tribute not being you—instead being a wine-maker’s daughter—that he didn’t immediately register the fact his name had come out of Bauble’s gold-painted lips. 

Twelve-year-old Yoon Jeonghan. District 11’s male tribute for the 66th Hunger Games. 

You had screamed bloody murder. He remembers that. He remembers you running forward; you had always been quick on your feet. 

You reached Jeonghan just in time to give him a bone-crushing hug, to babble something helpless like Come back, swear it, before you were shoved down into the asphalt by the nearest Peacekeeper. 

Jeonghan had felt rage, then. Felt like he could win the Games solely based on the fact the violence had chipped one of your teeth and bruised your cheek. 

He had to be dragged kicking and screaming onto stage, had to be placed next to the female tribute who looked sick at the thought of heading into the bloodbath with a literal child. 

Cherry. That had been her name. Jeonghan remembers finding it ironic, because she smelled more like grapes. 

He had tucked away most of his memories of the pre-Games activities, or maybe the trauma had them blurring all together. The lack of victors for District 11 meant that his mentors had been pooled from other districts.

There was District 3’s Beetee, who won the 34th Hunger Games after electrocuting the Career pack. There was District 6’s Maeve, who accidentally won the 44th Hunger Games despite being high on morphling the entire time. 

Maeve trained Cherry. It didn’t do Cherry much good. 

Beetee trained Jeonghan. The man had been critical, clinical. He pitied Jeonghan, though. Any time Beetee seemed to remember Jeonghan was only twelve, the victor would stutter and wince. 

Jeonghan had hated that the most. That he was the youngest in the pool of tributes. That the Capitol citizens looked at him like he already had one foot in the grave. 

A part of him wants to say spite got him to win. A desire to prove himself, to break the record previously held by fourteen-year-old Finnick Odair. 

Jeonghan put on a good show. He charmed interviewers. He got a six as his training score after depicting particular adeptness at knife-throwing. 

It didn’t matter. None of it did. 

Going into the Games, Jeonghan’s morning long odds had been 60-1.

His arena had smelled of petrichor and blood.

Jeonghan blinked against the sudden glare of daylight as the plate elevated him into a clearing wreathed by towering trees. A canopy loomed above like a watchful eye, dappling the forest floor with fractured sunlight. The Cornucopia gleamed gold and monstrous at the center of the glade, its curved mouth yawning open with the promise of tools and terror. 

Around him, the other tributes emerged, silhouettes sharpening into figures with each second. They looked older. Meaner.

Cherry had been across from him, eyes wide and frantic. Her hands trembled at her sides. She wasn’t looking at the weapons. She was looking at him.

Jeonghan shook his head once. A warning.

The gong sounded, and he sprinted. 

The chaos unfurled behind him like a wave of shrieking metal. The sound of a throat being opened. Of someone crying for their mother. 

Jeonghan didn’t look back.

His legs were short, but fear lent him speed. He vaulted a moss-slicked log, ducked beneath hanging vines, tore through underbrush until his lungs burned.

He only collapsed hours later, curled beneath the roots of a colossal tree, his palms raw, his clothes stained with dirt and sweat. He couldn’t stop shaking. Not from cold but from the weight of it all.

Cherry hadn’t made it. 

He had heard her scream. High and shrill, cut short in the way all Capitol broadcasts made sure to capture. He had paused only briefly—just enough to register the voice—before running again.

It wasn’t supposed to be her. She was older, stronger.

Maeve had spent hours coaching her on traps and close combat. Cherry had taken to it well. 

Jeonghan was the joke. The child. The one who should have been first to go.

He curled tighter under the roots, pulling fallen leaves around his body like armor. Beetee’s voice floated back to him: Observe. Hide. Let the others thin themselves out. You are not stronger. You must be smarter. Use their confidence against them.

Jeonghan’s fingers had closed around a flat, smooth rock. He didn’t throw it, just held it, letting the weight steady him. 

That first night, the sky lit up with eight sepia faces. Cherry’s was among them. 

Jeonghan didn’t cry. He thought he might never stop if he started.

Instead, he thought of you. 

He told himself he wouldn’t die. Not until he saw you again. Not until he returned what the Peacekeepers took from your smile.

He slept with his back to the tree, one hand on the rock. Waiting. Listening.

Still alive.

Jeonghan stayed alive for 17 more days.

The arena was built to punish the reckless. A tropical forest that seemed quiet until it wasn't. The humidity sapped your strength. The mutant insects bit through your resolve. The rains flooded low ground without warning. Those who didn't know how to climb or swim were the first to go.

Jeonghan didn’t fight. Not at first.

He moved at night, listened more than he spoke, and memorized the rhythms of the forest. He watched the Careers from a distance as they slaughtered each other over dwindling supplies. He learned to tell which fruits made your stomach turn and which bark bled drinkable water.

He clung to Beetee’s instructions like a lifeline. 

Lay traps when you can. Scavenge. Never sleep in the same place twice.

And always—always—keep your district token close.

His token had been something from you. A woven bracelet you’d made him one summer, years ago. Red thread with a tiny, smooth seed sewn into the knot.

You had called it lucky. He had scoffed. 

In the arena, he held it every night like it might bring him back.

On day five, a small package drifted from the sky. Inside: a single strip of dried meat, a roll of gauze, and a note.

Keep going, little ghost.

He never did find out who sent it. Maybe someone who liked the way he vanished into the trees. Maybe someone who liked the tears he didn’t shed when Cherry’s face lit up the sky. He wasn’t sure it mattered. 

What mattered was that someone out there believed he might make it.

The days had bled together. He trapped a squirrel on day six. Found a dead tribute’s knife on day nine. Avoided a firestorm on day 11 by diving into a mudflat. He never got cocky. Never came close to the Cornucopia again. When the number of faces diminished in the sky—ten, then seven, then five—he started to dream of home.

When there were three left, he knew he would have to kill.

He hated himself for what he planned. Hated the way he sharpened his knife in the moonlight and hummed your favorite songs like it might somehow remind him of his innocence. 

That very innocence, shattered the moment he found himself face to face with the last of the Games. 

The forest burned on the morning of the final day.

The Gamemakers had set it ablaze from all corners. No more hiding. No more waiting. They were starving for a finale. The audience wanted blood.

Jeonghan emerged coughing, soot streaked on his cheeks. His hair, once so pale and soft, clung to his forehead, sweat-slicked and singed. He stumbled out into a clearing he had once used as a water source, now parched and cracked from the heat.

Two others waited.

Cassian, District 2. Large, broad-shouldered, trained from the cradle.

Rueya, District 5. Slender, fast, clever. She had a twitch in her jaw when she was calculating.

They turned to look at him like he was a hallucination. A demon from the woods.

“You made it?” Rueya asked, her voice hoarse.

Cassian just laughed. “Twelve-year-old freak.”

Jeonghan said nothing. He adjusted his grip on the knife. His fingers trembled, but not from fear.

He was remembering.

You, shouting at him for winning hide-and-seek again. Your face scrunched in disbelief when you couldn’t find him for an hour. How the others accused him of cheating.

He hadn’t cheated. He had just watched. Paid attention. Remembered where shadows fell and what cracked underfoot.

He remembered you throwing stones at him one summer afternoon, not out of hate but frustration, yelling, You ruin every game, Yoon Jeonghan!

Maybe he did.

Rueya had struck first.

Her blade aimed for his neck. He ducked. Rolled. Kicked dust in her eyes and used the moment to run. Not far. Just enough to get them to follow.

He was small. Quick. He led them where he needed them to go. Past the tree with the false trunk. Past the buried snare he had laid on day fourteen.

Cassian tripped it. Went down hard. 

A branch spiked through his thigh.

Jeonghan didn’t look back.

Rueya was faster.

She caught up by the riverbed, cornered him. Her knife was longer. Her reach, better. He bled from a shallow cut on his cheek and another on his shoulder.

Rueya lunged. Jeonghan pivoted, let her momentum carry her too far. 

She stumbled. He didn’t. 

Without a moment of hesitation, he slammed the heel of his hand into her nose. The crunch was sickening. She dropped her remaining blade to instinctively hold her nose, howling, “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

Those would be her last words.

When Jeonghan had staggered back into the clearing, Cassian was still alive, but barely. He had been dragging himself forward, face pale with pain. He looked up, eyes glassy. 

"You—cheating little shit—"

Jeonghan’s knife sliced through the air and landed squarely over Cassian’s left breast. Where his heart might have been, if he had one. 

The bracelet, your bracelet, blood-soaked and fraying, glinted when Jeonghan was lifted into the hovercraft. 

He had been shaking, his left ear ringing from the blow he hadn’t seen coming. His knee was swelling. Both injuries never quite recovered; later in life, Jeonghan would still hear best on his right side and always walk with a slight limp. 

But then, in that moment, Jeonghan had been alive. In the arena where smoke was curling up in the sky. In the hovercraft where he was deemed dehydrated, underweight, and on the brink of death himself. 

You always win, you had once tearfully seethed when he kicked your ass in Duck, Duck, Goose. You always win these stupid games!

III. YOON JEONGHAN, THE LOVER. 

He hears your footsteps before he sees you.

They echo down the corridor of the train like they always have, steady and sure and just a touch impatient. Jeonghan already knows it’s you; he doesn’t look up. 

He keeps his gaze fixed on the swirling ice in his untouched glass of Capitol liquor, something pale and sharp that burns in his nose more than it ever will in his throat. A good number of victors had succumbed to alcoholism, but he always had you to talk him away from the bottle. 

Today was no exception. 

The door creaks open.

“Bauble sent me,” you say, even as Jeonghan focuses on the drink in front of him. Your voice is clipped, professional. Not unkind. “She said you need to prep us.”

He doesn’t answer right away. He swirls his drink, then sets it down with a dull clink. The ice has barely melted. “Prep yourselves. I’m not your babysitter.”

There’s a beat. “You are, actually,” you say matter-of-factly. “That’s literally your job.”

“Then I’m off-duty,” he snips.  

The car smells like expensive polish and expensive drink and Jeonghan’s expensive silence. You don’t move. He can feel you watching him.

“Are you going to be like this the entire time?”

“Like what.”

“Like a jackass.”

That finally earns you a glance. He turns to look at you, and gods, it nearly kills him.

Your arms are crossed, shoulders squared, mouth set in that stubborn little line he knows by heart. You’re trying not to tremble. 

He forces himself to look away.

“You’re angry,” you say, quieter now.

“Shouldn’t I be?”

“I’m the one who got reaped.”

“Exactly.”

It shuts you up. For a second. Just a second.

Then you walk forward and sit beside him. Not across from him. Beside him. So close he can smell the faint traces of that soap you always used, the one that reminds him of lemon trees, wet earth, and the sun. 

“You’re not mad at me,” you say delicately. “You’re scared.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“You’re terrified, Hannie. You think you’re going to lose me.”

His grip tightens around the glass until the ice shifts, clinks.

“You think you already have,” you murmur.

Something crumbles in him then. He doesn’t cry, doesn’t scream, doesn’t shatter. He just sighs again—longer this time—and sets the glass down gently. It’s an acquiescence, an acknowledgement. 

“Come on,” you say, standing. You offer a hand. “Let’s go. My partner’s probably trying to figure out how to hold a fork.”

Jeonghan only stares at your hand for a moment. He doesn’t want to fall victim to preemptive nostalgia, but he does anyway. His gaze traces over the lines on your palm, the dirt underneath your fingernails, and he thinks of all the things you’ve done. All the things you have yet to do. 

You flex your fingers wordlessly, urging him. He lets you tug him up, almost all the way to the door—

—and then his hand pulls you back.

Not roughly. Not urgently.

But when his arms circle your waist, he leans forward like a man caving to gravity. He presses his forehead to your shoulder. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.

You let him hold you.

Because this is Jeonghan, and this might be the last time he ever gets to.

You card your fingers through his hair. He stays absolutely still, as if he can keep the two of you in this snow globe of a movement if he doesn’t move an inch. The seconds stretch into minutes, and he pulls away only when there’s a knock on the car door. Bauble, this time, eyeing the two of you like she knows something. 

She doesn’t know a thing, obviously. 

Back in the dining car, Jeonghan leans against the polished wood paneling, arms crossed. The smell of Capitol-grade roast duck and syrupy wine thickens in the air. He watches the way Barley picks at his food like it might bite back, eyes darting from plate to window to the unfamiliar silverware. 

You’re sitting straighter, trying to model bravery, but Jeonghan’s known you too long. He sees the tremors in your hands and fights the urge to reach for you. 

“So,” Jeonghan says, and the word is brittle, sharp. “You both get one question each. Make it count.”

Barley frowns. He’s all knees and elbows, a thirteen-year-old with a summer tan and a coffin waiting for him at home. “How long do you think I’ll last?”

Jeonghan doesn’t sugarcoat. “Depends. You follow instructions, you might last longer than an hour,” he says. 

Barley blanches. You shoot Jeonghan a look.

“He’s scared,” you say pointedly. 

Jeonghan raises an eyebrow. “He should be.”

Your voice is steady, though your eyes aren’t. “Then tell us what to expect,” you say.

He exhales through his nose, tilting his head like he’s heard this request a thousand times—and he has. But not from you. Not like this.

The annoyance coating your words isn’t amiss to him, either. It brings him a perverse sense of comfort. 

“You’ll be hungry. You’ll be hunted,” he says slowly. “And you’ll be alone, even when you’re not. Trust no one. Run the second the gong sounds. Don’t stop until your legs give out. And for the love of all things holy, don’t look back."

Barley is pale now, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Did it hurt? When they—when they came for you?”

For a second, Jeonghan sees it all again. Cherry’s panicked expression, the glint of Rueya’s blade, the snarl on Cassian’s face. He has to blink the memories away, has to focus on the fact you’re watching like you already know he’s going under. 

Jeonghan clears his throat. “All of it hurt.”

Bauble waltzes in, then. “There you all are!” she chirps. “Oh, Jeonghan, you simply mustn’t hide my victors-to-be away like this. What if someone needs a morale boost?”

Jeonghan deadpans, “Morale died when you called her name.”

Bauble clicks her tongue, unfazed. While Jeonghan wouldn’t necessarily call the escort his friend, they did have a certain rapport built over years of sanctioned bonding. “Still so dramatic,” she tuts. “You’ve always had such flair.”

“You mean trauma.”

“You say tomato—” she flutters her fingers.

You smile faintly. Jeonghan sees it, the corners of your lips tugging upward despite everything. It’s too soft. Too real. It guts him.

When Bauble finally prances away to inspect dinner settings, when Barley decides he might as well spend his last few hours enjoying the pleasantries of the Capitol, Jeonghan shifts closer to you.

“You’ve always listened too well,” he says. “Even when I didn’t want you to.”

You look up. “I thought that was the point. To listen when no one else does.”

He tries to scoff, but it comes out too fond. He remembers every time you sat beside him in the fields, every time your hands were gentle when he woke screaming, every time you pretended he was still human.

He leans forward, lowering his voice. “You’re smart.”

“I learned from the best.” 

Jeonghan watches you, the defiance in your posture warring with the fear you don’t want him to see. He can’t fix any of it. He knows that. But he can give you this—this small, ridiculous moment.

“You know,” he says slowly, “Barley’s too small for the Capitol tuxedos. You’re gonna have to teach him how to fake confidence. Smile like you’re selling poison as perfume.”

You laugh, short and tired. “And what about me?”

Jeonghan’s smile falters. Softens.

“You… just be you. That’ll be enough.” He pushes off the wall, straightens up. “Come on. I’ll give you a tour of the train.”

You start to move past him, but his hand finds your wrist, halting you. He doesn’t speak. Just tugs gently until you step into his arms.

He holds you like it’s the last thing tethering him to earth. Like letting go means losing everything.

“Just… hold on,” he says quietly as he slots his fingers through the spaces of yours. Usually, you told him off when he got too clingy or touchy. You weren’t together or anything, after all, and so you demanded that he be more conservative. That he reel himself in. 

For once, you let him.

For once, he lets himself.

He holds your hand the entire way to the Capitol, where it’s a blur of color and shine. 

For a moment, even with the dread curling tight in his stomach, Jeonghan finds himself admiring the splendor. He isn’t surprised to see you and Barley equally speechless, craning your necks as the train pulls into the station; your faces, framed in the tall, sterile windows mirroring your awe back at you.

Barley presses his hand against the glass, wide-eyed. “Is that... a moving sidewalk?” he breathes. 

Jeonghan doesn’t answer. He’s too busy cataloging every flinch, every blink, every breath the two of you take. Watching the way you stand slightly in front of Barley, like you’re already trying to shield him from whatever came next.

Jeonghan loves you so much at that moment. 

Bauble is chattering beside you, of course, gesturing wildly with one hand. She barely notices when Jeonghan steps between you and a Capitol attendant, his hand curling lightly around your arm.

“Stay close,” he says below his breath.

You look up at him and nod. The ease of which you trust him, the lack of questions you have, nearly bowls him over. He sticks by your side the entire way to the Tribute Tower, where the apartment is all sleek marble and warm gold accents. Impossibly high ceilings and digital fireplaces that don’t throw any heat. There’s fresh fruit on the tables and beds the size of entire haylofts. It looks more like a presidential suite than a prison.

“Holy shit,” you whisper under your breath, fingers grazing the frame of an oil painting taller than you. Barley finds the snack cart and marvels over a slice of something custard-filled.

Jeonghan hovers. He can’t stop himself. Not when you were somewhere the Capitol could get its claws in you.

When the time comes for the Tribute Parade, he’s still on edge. Still worried the stylist team will do their jobs too well, while also simultaneously dreading them not doing enough. 

District 11 had always had a reputation for agricultural simplicity, which the Capitol liked to glamorize with varying degrees of taste. This year, apparently, they’d gone for mythical harvest gods. You’re draped in molten gold and deep, forest green, your arms dusted with shimmer like pollen. A long cloak of woven vines trails behind you, the ends studded with jewels shaped like pomegranate seeds and tiny bushels of wheat.

Barley dons something similar; a shorter tunic with a circlet of laurel around his head, a wooden staff in his grip that sparks gently with gold.

Jeonghan doesn’t know what to say when you step out from the dressing area.

He swallows hard. He had seen every horror the Games had to offer. But this—seeing you, radiant and ready for slaughter—is the cruelest thing.

You raise an eyebrow at him. “I look ridiculous, don’t I?”

He shakes his head. Tries to say something. Fails. It’s a far cry from the practical, utilitarian clothing the two of you have grown up with. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen you wear something so glamorous, and the thought of it only makes him want to run and hide. 

“Hannie?” you prod. 

He gets it together. 

“You look—” He clears his throat. His voice goes imperceptibly softer. “You look like something no one should be allowed to destroy.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Maybe you don’t have to. After a quick glance around the backstage—to ensure nobody is looking—you reach out, give his arm a comforting squeeze. 

He knows he’s doing everything wrong. It’s your Parade, your Games. He’s supposed to be holding himself better, supposed to be the one offering you reassurance and solace. Instead, you’ve taken up your typical caretaker role, and he falls apart at the mere sight of you. 

When the chariots roll out and the cameras turn, Jeonghan has to stand just out of frame, mouth tight, hands clenched. The crowds react to you and Barley. Jeonghan hears none of it. 

Instead, he keeps his head slightly bowed; his gaze, away from all the other tributes who will all have a kill-or-be-killed mentality. 

Maybe if he wishes hard enough, Jeonghan thinks, he can stop the Games before they even begin.

IV. YOON JEONGHAN, THE MENTOR. 

Jeonghan stands at the head of the training room, arms crossed, jaw tight. From this angle, he can see both you and Barley moving between stations. You’re focused, determined, adjusting the way you grip the rope at the knot-tying corner. Barley, less so. He keeps fumbling, looking over his shoulder for approval.

It should’ve been easy, this mentorship. He’d won. He knew what it took. He could recite Beetee’s advice in his sleep, every trick he’d used in his own Games carved into his memory like tally marks. 

And yet, his throat burns and his hands won’t stop shaking.

He’s going to lose you.

The thought returns like a hammer strike. Over and over. No matter how hard he tries to bury it. Jeonghan drags his fingernails down the length of his arm as if pain might chase it away. He’s fairly sure he’ll have gashes by the time this week is over. 

You approach without warning, your face sweaty from training, your eyes sharp.

“You can’t keep looking at me like that,” you tell him. 

“Like what?” 

“Like you’ve already got a gravestone for me in some plot back home.” 

Jeonghan barks out a laugh—a surprised, hollow one. Your dry humor always did know how to cut through him. “I’m not doing that,” he snipes. 

“You are. You haven’t looked at Barley once without wincing. You flinch every time I handle a knife. You’re not helping. You’re scaring us.”

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder,” you say simply. “You’re Yoon Jeonghan. You survived at twelve. You have to be stronger than this.”

He turns away from you. You didn’t know—couldn’t know—what it’s been like. Watching years of reapings, standing on the same stage, seeing child after child go off to die while he stood there, the only victor District 11 had to offer. 

Every year, he makes himself hope. Every year, he trains them, watches the light in their eyes go dim as they were outmatched, outarmed, outplayed.

Every year, he fails.

He had never cried for them. Not once. Had never allowed himself to grieve. It was easier that way. To believe he’d done all he could. That they were always going to die, with or without him.

But not you.

You, who used to sneak into his house when he came home, just to leave honey cakes on the windowsill. You, who sang lullabies to him when the nightmares got so bad he couldn’t sleep. You, who had always seen him not as a victor, not as a killer, but just—

Jeonghan.

He turns back around and finds you still standing there, stubborn and unflinching. He lets out a breath.

“Okay,” he says hoarsely. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

Your shoulders relax slightly.

“I won’t flinch anymore,” he promises. “I won’t wince. I won’t look away. I’ll train you.” 

“Good,” you say, “because you’re our final defense, and you’ve been a pretty shitty defense so far.” 

He laughs. For once, it’s not forced. 

You, of all people, know just how much Jeonghan’s word means. He drums up support with prospective sponsors. He talks with the victors and tries to find alliances. 

He teaches Barley how to hold an arrow. He watches you throw knives and shouts out instructions. 

By the time your private training sessions come around, Jeonghan is fairly sure he’s never done this much work as a mentor in the past couple of years. As you and Barley get ready to face the Gamemakers, there is only one thing left for him to do: trust that everything you’ve learned will not fail you. 

The scores come in just after dinner, during a quiet lull where the four of you—Jeonghan, you, Barley, and Bauble—sit in the quarters, feigning calm over cups of Capitol-brewed tea. The screen crackles to life, and the room stills.

There’s an introduction. A reminder of why this is all done. Capitol citizens are given an idea of who to bet on based on the scores ascribed to each tribute. The private training sessions were a matter of who could put on the best show, but not too good. 

Score low, you would lose out on sponsors. Score high, you would be deemed a threat by other tributes. 

Scores range from one to twelve. The Careers, unsurprisingly, get nines and tens. The girl from Four gets a ten. The boy from Nine gets a four. 

And then it’s District 11. Your face flashes first. A moment’s silence. Then: eight.

Barley is the first to react. “An eight?” he breathes, nearly sloshing his tea. “That’s... that’s good, right? That’s really good, isn’t it?”

Jeonghan doesn’t say anything. Not yet. He’s staring at the number, willing it to hold still, like it might evaporate if he looks away.

Then Barley’s face appears on the screen. Six.

“Hey!” Barley exclaims, grinning at you. “We didn’t do half-bad!”

You laugh quietly, nerves still wound tight beneath your skin. “Guess not.” You glance at Jeonghan, whose brow is furrowed as if the numbers have personally offended him.

“Not half-bad?” you repeat to Jeonghan, as if urging him to confirm or deny your odds. 

He snaps out of his haze. “It’s good,” he says, but his voice is tight. “It’s good. You both did well.”

Barley’s too thrilled to notice the tension. He retreats into a quiet hum of excitement, and Jeonghan watches him go to his room, heart aching at how young he still is.

You stay behind. You know better.

“He’s proud of his six,” you say softly. “You should be proud of us, too.”

Jeonghan finally meets your gaze. “What did you do?”

You shrug, but your eyes are shining. “Used a sickle. Told them I’d only ever used it on weeds, not people. Then showed them I could take the heads off three practice dummies in under ten seconds.”

He stares.

“Okay, maybe eight seconds,” you admit with a sheepish grin. “But still.”

“Gods,” he mutters. “Why would you tell me that?”

You tilt your head. “Because I need you to believe I have a shot.”

Jeonghan presses his fingers against his eyelids. Eight. A real shot. That’s what it means. But the Capitol loves nothing more than raising hope just to snuff it out.

And so he tries not to feel hopeful. He tries.

“I’ll be ready,” you say, your voice pure as the driven snow. “You made sure of that.”

He exhales slowly. He has to believe it. For your sake. And Barley’s. And for the twelve other faces in his head, the ones he couldn’t save. He opens his eyes and looks straight at you. 

“Just keep doing what you did today,” he says. “And I’ll do the rest.”

He does what he can, but there is only so much he can do. 

By the time the pre-Games interviews come around, he knows you will have to write your own ending. Even in the viewing room where Jeonghan sits with Bauble and a glass of untouched wine, it feels like every bulb is trained on the screen, on you.

He hasn’t breathed since your name was announced. He probably won’t breathe until your interview is over.

Barley’s had gone well. Nothing to call home about. He had been your typical young tribute, showing off boyish charm and vouchsafed innocence. 

You, on the other hand, look devastating.

The prep team had broken their backs to make it work. Your outfit—woven in silks dyed the color of ripening wheat, dotted with reddish sequins like the leaves from trees—catches the light with every small movement. Your hair is twisted back in a braid like the reapers wear during harvest. And your smile, shy but steady, is enough to hush even Caesar Flickerman.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he croons, gesturing with flair, “from District 11, please welcome our stunning tribute!”

You walk forward, gracious and poised. Jeonghan clenches his fists in his lap. It feels like every step you take toward that stage is a step further away from him.

“Good evening,” Caesar says. “You’re quite the sight tonight. The Capitol is enraptured already!”

You laugh lightly. “It’s not every day someone from my district gets to wear something this fine. I’ll enjoy it while it lasts.”

Jeonghan flinches. He knows that tone—modest, self-deprecating, practiced. You’re playing your part. He just wishes you didn’t have to.

Caesar chuckles, his teeth gleaming. A shark, ready to draw blood.  “Now, I’ve heard you’re quite the singer. Is that true?”

“Depends on who you ask,” you reply, to the laughter of the crowd.

Jeonghan stares. He knows how nervous you are. He knows how tightly you were wound in your quarters, how your hands shook as you ate. But here, under the scrutiny of all of Panem, you are luminous. You can joke around with Caesar; you hum a little tune when asked.

You are everything they want you to be.

He hates it. He loves it. He doesn’t know what to feel.

Caesar leans forward after your little song. His eyes glitter. “And tell me—I think everyone wants to know,” he says conspiratorially. “Our only Victor from District 11. Jeonghan. The youngest ever to have ever won the Games. A little birdy has told me the two of you are… close.”

Jeonghan goes rigid.

Bauble mutters something under her breath; Jeonghan thinks it might be a cuss. On screen, Caesar keeps his smile, but the question lands with precision.

You tilt your head, feigning thoguthfulness. “Jeonghan is my mentor,” you say. “But more than that, he’s my best friend.”

The audience lets out a collective murmur.

Jeonghan grips the arms of his chair.

“He’s the strongest person I know,” you say. “And I’m lucky he never gave up on me. I’m going into these Games with more than most. I have his faith.”

The crowd bursts into applause.

Caesar touches his chest theatrically. “Well, if that isn’t love, I don’t know what is.”

You smile. It’s a momentary slip in your carefully curated image, as if the thought of love and Jeonghan brings you a genuine sort of joy. The audience catch that, too, and the applause only gets louder. 

Jeonghan lets out a breath. Not quite a sob. Not quite relief. But it’s something. 

Because if he can’t protect you with his own hands, then he’ll let the Capitol fall in love with you. Let them send gifts, parachutes, lifelines.

Let them see what he’s always seen.

Later that night, Jeonghan finds himself staring at the ceiling.

The lights are off, the room mostly dark save for the faint Capitol glow filtering through the windows of his bedroom. It bleeds silver against the walls, but Jeonghan’s eyes are trained on the shadows. 

He’s been lying here for over an hour now, still in his clothes, hair unwashed and face unshaven, unable to summon the will to move. The interview replays in his head, your dress still shimmering in his memory, your voice steady and luminous beneath Caesar's showmanship.

You’d been a star. You—his star. And tomorrow, you will be in the arena.

He breathes out, pressing the heel of his palms into his eyes until colors burst behind his lids. The pressure does nothing to stop the ache in his chest. Jeonghan sits up.

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. 

He should stay put and not make this harder, but his body moves before his mind can catch up, and he’s halfway to your door when he finds you already there.

You’re barefoot. Wrapped in a soft Capitol robe. Your hair is tousled from tossing and turning, and your arms are folded tightly around yourself.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you murmur.

His breath catches. “Me neither.”

For a long second, the two of you stand like that, inches apart, both unsure of what to say. Then Jeonghan steps back and pushes the door open wider.

“Come in.”

You don’t hesitate. You pass him with a soft rustle of fabric. He closes the door behind you and watches as you climb onto his bed without a word. 

You’ve done something like this before. Too many times to count. But tonight, there’s no laughter. No quiet jokes. Just the hum of something deep and heavy.

You lay down on your side. Jeonghan crawls in after and faces you.

Usually, you’re the one who pulls him close when he startles awake from a nightmare. Usually, you’re the one whispering him back to sleep, pressing your fingers to his hairline and reminding him that he’s safe, he’s here. There’s no fire, no forest, no bloody bracelet. 

Tonight, he wraps an arm around you instead.

Your nose brushes his collarbone. He feels your breath, warm and steady, and he shuts his eyes.

He wants to say it.

That he loves you. 

That he has loved you from the moment you first yelled at him in the fields for cheating. That he has spent years loving you in silence, nursing the shape of your name in his chest like a prayer.

But the words rise to his throat and die there. They taste too much like a goodbye.

So instead, he presses a kiss to your forehead. This one, he thinks, is for the notes you two passed each other back in school. 

Then one to your temple. For your parents, who he will now never be able to look at. 

Then your cheek. For the time you threw out all the alcohol in his home and yelled at him until he agreed to only drink on special occasions. 

A soft one to your eyelid. For your singing—the best in the goddamn district. 

He kisses every part of your face except your lips. He doesn’t think he’d be able to stop, if he ever started there. 

When you whisper his name, when you tuck yourself tighter into his arms like you mean to mold yourself into his very body, Jeonghan only holds you closer.

In a few hours, he will have to let you go.

But not yet.

Not yet.

V. YOON JEONGHAN, THE SINNER. 

The arena comes into view and Jeonghan feels his stomach turn.

It’s a swamp.

Endless, waterlogged land choked with moss and trees heavy with rot. Mud so thick it might as well be quicksand. A heat haze distorts the sky in a way that makes it seem closer, like the clouds might melt onto the kids below. 

The air looks like it stinks. Jeonghan knows it does. He’s smelled swamp before in the southern end of District 11, in the marshlands after the harvest. Stagnant water swallowing the weeds whole. 

But the Capitol has made it worse. Of course they have.

The swamp is dotted with platforms. On screen, the tributes rise, one by one, as the countdown begins. All of them retch. A few are already shaking. One kid—the boy from 10, maybe—looks like he’s crying. Good. He won’t last an hour.

Jeonghan doesn’t look for Barley. He looks for you.

Your vitals blink steady on his monitor: elevated heart rate, but within reason. No signs of panic. Your face is unreadable on the screen, jaw set, eyes cutting ahead toward the Cornucopia or what passes for one in this muck. 

It’s a wrecked fishing trawler, run aground in the center of the swamp, half-covered in algae and rust. Supplies are lashed to the deck with ropes, weapons tucked into fishing nets. Booby-trapped. Jeonghan knows it. The Gamemakers always hide teeth under the sugar.

“Swamp,” Seungcheol says, appearing beside him. The District 4 mentor. Tall, sun-weathered, wearing that half-smile Jeonghan used to think was charm and now knows is armor. “Our kids might actually stand a chance this year.”

“Let’s hope so,” Jeonghan replies without looking up.

He stares at your vitals. At your small figure on the screen. Still not moving, not even a twitch of hesitation. Just watching, waiting. The same way he’s seen you watch the sky from the train window, like you’re searching for something worth staying for.

The countdown hits zero. The gong sounds.

The Games begin.

The cameras flicker between chaos and slaughter. Screams crack the air, tinny and sharp over the Control Center’s monitors. Blood is spilled in less than five seconds—twin blades from District 1 find the neck of a smaller boy, and the Career pack forms with terrifying speed. 

Jeonghan’s eyes scan screen after screen until he finds you.

You’re running—not to the Cornucopia, thank the gods—but to the left, where a pile of knapsacks and canteens are scattered among debris. You duck, swipe two, and pivot just as another tribute lurches at you. 

Jeonghan’s heart stutters. You use the knapsack like a flail, slam it into their face, and bolt toward the trees. 

Fast. Smart. Alive.

Barley is slower. He lingers too long, fumbling with a coil of rope. He nearly loses it when someone charges at him, but a girl from Six takes the hit instead. Her scream rises—then cuts off abruptly. 

Barley scrambles, barely escaping with a dented pot and a bottle of water. He doesn’t make it far, but he’s alive. For now.

A cannon fires. The first.

The room of victors stills as the screen flashes the casualty to them.

District 12’s girl. 

Jeonghan glances to his right, where Hansol is already on his feet. The victor doesn’t say a word. He just unplugs his data pad and walks out, the steel door hissing shut behind him. Jeonghan watches him go. 

No one says anything. They rarely do.

District 12’s boy goes down not long after. Another cannon. Another name. Hansol won’t be back.

The bloodbath drags on. It’s brutal, but not long. Six tributes die before the hour is up. Jeonghan leans forward, tracking the green blip that marks you on his pad. You’re tucked in the trees, breathing hard. You’ve stopped to bury yourself beneath leaves and branches, taking a note straight out of Jeonghan’s playbook. 

Next to Jeonghan, Seungcheol lets out a breath and mutters, “Good luck.”

“I don’t need luck,” Jeonghan replies, voice hoarse. “I need a miracle.”

Your green blip continues to blink.

Please stay that way, Jeonghan thinks. 

You eventually make your slow, measured way through the muck of the arena. The swamp is vast, ringed with spiny trees, their roots like skeletal hands clawing out of the fetid water. Fog coils through the underbrush. Every few hours, something hisses or howls from the shadows. It's hell in technicolor, broadcast to every screen in Panem.

You move with caution, dragging your left leg slightly—favoring the ankle you twisted on the first day, slipping on moss-covered stone. He winces every time he sees you falter.

Capitol patrons have been generous. 

You’re pretty, and that counts for something. The dress they stuffed you into during the Tribute Parade did what it was meant to do. More importantly, you spoke like someone worth listening to during the interview. You’ve earned your sponsors. Jeonghan watches the pledge count climb.

But the funds dwindle faster than he likes. Bandages, food, painkillers—they cost more than you’d think. The sponsors pay for entertainment, not mercy. And half the job of being a mentor is making the calls no one else wants to make.

Barley hasn’t eaten in two days.

Jeonghan sees the boy stumbling along the banks of the stagnant pond, mouth cracked dry, trying desperately to chew a reed that isn’t remotely edible. His heart twists. Barley’s vitals flicker. Pulse dropping, dehydration setting in. 

Jeonghan’s finger hovers over the interface. He has enough to send a protein bar. It’s not much, but it’ll get the kid through another day.

Then, you scream.

It’s sharp, sudden, a sound that guts him. On-screen, you go down hard, hand clutching your side. Blood blooms at your waist, seeping into the saturated soil. A mutt. Something you had gotten away from through the skin of your teeth. 

A silver parachute of life-saving supplies cuts through the arena. It is not for Barley. 

The cannon fires that night. A low, guttural boom. It is not for you. 

Jeonghan closes his eyes. He can imagine it already. The projected photo of Barley, lighting up the night sky. Announcing his death. Broadcasting Jeonghan’s failure. 

He exhales slowly, jaw clenched. It should never have come down to a choice.

But it always does.

He doesn’t check your reaction. He doesn’t think he’d survive it, anyhow. 

Hours later, the camera feed switches to your sector. For the first time since the Games have started, you’re not alone.

District 7’s boy—the one with the heavy shoulders and steady hands—and District 9’s wiry, sharp-eyed tribute fall into step beside you. Glances are exchanged. Supplies are shared. It’s enough. For now.

Jeonghan doesn’t like it.

“She always this trusting?” Jihoon asks from where he’s perched near one of the monitors, arms crossed tightly.

“Not usually,” Jeonghan replies, cool. “Must be desperation.”

Seokmin leans against the paneling, softer, more optimistic. “They seem like they’re good kids. Maybe it helps her chances.”

“Or maybe they’ll gut her in her sleep.”

Jihoon frowns. “They’re not like that.”

Jeonghan doesn't respond. He watches you divvy up some dried fruit, offering the larger portion to the boy from Nine, who grins and says something the cameras don’t pick up. You smile back, faint. Tired.

A part of Jeonghan wants to tell you to run, but he also knows you won’t get too far. 

The tentative truce lasts for three nights.

On the fourth, you’re the one on watch. Jeonghan knows you haven’t slept more than a couple hours at a time. You’re running on adrenaline and stubbornness.

At midnight, the boy from Nine rolls over. Pretends to murmur in his sleep. You lean in to listen, and Jeonghan nearly screams at his screen.

The boy from Nine pounces. 

The boy from Seven follows a second later. They work in tandem, practiced. 

They hold you down, your legs thrashing against the swampy ground. You’re muffled by the palm of a hand over your mouth. 

These things happened. Jeonghan watched it year in, year out. But never to one of his, never to—

The cameras zoom in just in time to catch the glint of your blade as it drives upward into the shoulder of District 9’s boy. Always keep your weapon within reach, Jeonghan had advised you. Even when you’re half-awake. I had a rock. Have—anything. 

Seokmin’s tribute howls. You break free.

Jeonghan’s fists are clenched. He doesn’t breathe until you’re sprinting through the trees again, bleeding but alive.

A couple of seats away—Jihoon and Seokmin share twin looks of horror. 

“I didn’t know,” Jihoon croaks. 

“Neither did I,” Seokmin murmurs, paling. “Jeonghan, I’m—”

But Jeonghan rounds on them like a storm breaking over the Control Center. He’s up on his feet in the next moment, angry in a way that nobody has ever seen. It confirms the rumors that had been swirling, puts down the cards that he’s held so close to his chest. 

“Didn’t know? That’s all you’ve got?” Jeonghan snarls as he yanks Seokmin away from the panel, nearly sending the victor to the ground. “You raised these motherfuckers!”

“They’re tributes, Jeonghan,” Jihoon snaps back, maneuvering so he can also face Jeonghan’s rage. “They’re just trying to survive.” 

“So is she!”

Bauble grabs Jeonghan by the elbow before he can do any more damage. “Enough,” she commands. “Outside. Now.” 

Jeonghan shakes her off but lets himself be steered out of the room. The door shuts behind them with a heavy click. He presses his back against the cold wall, jaw clenched.

Bauble doesn't say anything. Just waits. Escorts typically didn’t interfere at this point in the Games, but Bauble had taken it upon herself when she seemed to realize how much of a hold you had on the man that was supposed to be keeping you alive. 

Jeonghan covers his face with his hands. He doesn’t cry. He just breathes like he might come apart.

Inside the Control Center, the screens roll on. You’re alone again.

When Jeonghan returns, nobody talks about his outburst. There have been worse. Actual physical alterations. Victors spewing cusses, calling each other monsters. Forgiveness always came after the fact, but Jeonghan chooses peace and refuses to look at anyone else for the next hour. 

The swamp only grows crueler. 

There’s a haze that clings low to the ground, thick with spores and heat, and it makes the cameras flicker with static. 

The Gamemakers let it linger. They always do when the numbers dwindle. Suffering looks better through distortion.

Jeonghan leans forward in his seat, eyes locked to the primary monitor. Your figure stumbles into frame—mud-caked, limping, one arm clutched uselessly to your ribs. The blood there isn’t fresh. He knows what that means.

The camera’s too far to see your expression, but he doesn’t need to. You’ve gone quiet. No more traps, no more clever distractions. No more running. You’re just trying to stay upright.

Something shifts in the mist behind you. Fast. Deliberate. Another tribute.

Jeonghan’s fists slam into the console.

He doesn’t hear the rest. The monitor blares as the tribute from Two emerges—a heavyset girl with a jagged blade and fury behind her eyes. You try to run, but your body gives out two steps in. Your knees hit the water first.

It’s not a fight. It’s a beating.

Jeonghan’s knuckles go white. He watches you crawl, desperate and drowning, as the girl drags the blade across your calf to slow you further. The water goes dark. You barely scream.

The camera cuts to a tight shot. Your face, smeared in blood and mud. Mouth slack. Eyes unfocused.

Then—

Your lips move.

Tiny. Cracked. Fragile.

But he sees it. He swears he does.

His name.

Hannie, you’re mouthing, pleading, praying. 

Bauble says something behind him. A warning. A reminder. Jeonghan doesn’t hear it.

Jeonghan stands too fast. The chair clatters to the floor behind him. His hands press to the screen like he could reach through it, like if he could just touch you, anchor you, you’d remember how to live.

But the screen stays cold, and you go still.

Jeonghan’s breath shudders in his chest. He turns wildly like he might find something in the corners of the room to fix this. 

The remaining victors pointedly ignore his panic. They can’t do anything, either. They’re not about to waste their few resources on a tribute that isn’t theirs, even if Jeonghan begged and bled himself dry at their feet. 

There’s nothing. Jeonghan has given you everything he has, and it wasn’t enough.

Until the vitals blink. 

Once. Twice. Slow, but there.

A faint pulse.

You’re alive.

Jeonghan stares, disbelieving. The tribute has already vanished into the haze, too bloodied to check if you’re breathing, or cruel enough not to care. Either way, it’s a mistake. One Jeonghan won’t let stand.

He reels back from the screen. “Stay with her,” he tells Bauble, voice rough. “Monitor everything.”

Bauble looks up. “What are you—”

But he’s already moving. Out the door, down the corridor. The Peacekeepers outside the Control Center don’t stop him. 

There had always been whispers. 

That Jeonghan was the victor they couldn’t market. The one with the too-sharp tongue and eyes that didn’t flinch when Capitol cameras pressed too close. 

He smiled wrong. Loved wrong. Didn’t cry when his family died in that fire. 

Too clean. Too convenient.

It had given him nothing to lose.

But now—

Now he has you.

He finds her at the champagne bar just off the Viewing Floor. Gilded, powdered, draped in silk. The richest woman in the Capitol within arm’s reach. Her name doesn’t matter.

Jeonghan takes a breath. Thinks of you.

Then he smiles.

The kind of smile they remember. The kind that sells promises he’ll never keep. His voice is velvet when he approaches, belying the desperation thrumming through his veins. 

“You wanted to know what it was like to be wanted by a victor,” he says in lieu of a proper greeting, brushing her wrist with his fingertips. “How lucky. I’ve just remembered how to want.”

The socialite laughs. Bright, predatory.

He keeps smiling, even as his stomach turns. Even as the shame claws at the inside of his throat.

Her room reeks of expensive perfume and debauchery.

It’s in a suite at the top of one of the Capitol towers, walls made of glass and floors of velvet. It's the kind of place meant to make you feel small, make you grateful. Jeonghan doesn’t feel anything at all.

She kisses like she wants to devour him—painted nails digging into his back, her breath warm with wine and old longing. He lets her.

He performs.

Every soft sound, every graze of his lips, every practiced flick of his tongue—he gives it like it means something. He moans where she wants him to, touches her the way she’s probably imagined in her loneliest hours. He thinks of your face, dirt-smudged and bloodied, of the shape your mouth made when you whispered his name.

It’s not her he’s kissing. Not really.

He imagines it’s you beneath him. Imagines you needing him like this, touching him like this, loving him like this.

It doesn’t help.

She arches beneath him and calls him beautiful. He’s a bit clumsy, having never done any of this before, but it only serves to make him more endearing. A gorgeous thing that had to be broken in. 

He had wanted it so badly to be you. He can almost picture it, can almost taste it. How you’d laugh in between kisses. How you’d moan as his hands roamed. How you’d be everything and more.

When the woman cries out, Jeonghan doesn’t answer. His eyes are already on the ceiling.

It’s over in minutes. A quick, efficient transaction wrapped in silk sheets and false gasps.

She sprawls beside him, sated, smug. Jeonghan slips from the bed before she can say anything else. She doesn’t ask him to stay. She already knows how these things go, having sampled her fair share of male victors who were just as desperate. 

Jeonghan doesn’t shower. Doesn’t have the time for it. 

He just dresses in silence, pocketing the cred-chip she leaves on the table beside a crystal flute of champagne. He doesn’t drink it.

The elevator ride back down is quiet. His hands tremble.

By the time he returns to the Control Center, his mask is back in place. Bauble doesn’t say anything, just glances at the chip he slides across the desk.

“Enough for a full care package,” she confirms. “Weapon, medicine, some soup. We’ll drop it.”

Jeonghan nods and looks back to the monitor.

You’re still breathing. 

He presses his palm to the screen again and thinks of the myth you had loved so much as a child. The one with the fool—Orpheus, his name might have been—trying to lead his lover out of hell. 

“Wait for me,” Jeonghan croaks to no one in particular. To you. Always to you. “I’m coming.” 

The silver parachute lands. You reach for it with quivering fingers. 

You live for two more days. 

In those days, the swamp falls quiet. 

No more cannon fire. No more mutts. Just you and the girl from District 4, standing ankle-deep in water that smells like rot and victory.

Your blade is slick in your grip, hands trembling. You don’t even know where you’re bleeding from anymore. Every inch of you aches. Your body doesn’t feel like your own. 

The girl sways on her feet. She’s young. Too young. Her cheeks are streaked with mud and old blood, her breathing ragged. Her eyes are empty.

You both know it ends here.

“Please,” you choke out. It takes a moment to register that you’re not begging to survive. 

The words come with tears, with all the wreckage of what’s been done to you. “Finish it,” you rasp, your fingers tight around your scythe not with the intent to strike. Just to have something to steady you. 

Your opponent doesn’t move.

Up in the Control Center, it’s just Jeonghan and Seungcheol. 

Everyone else has gone. The other victors. The escorts. This is between two districts, two tributes, two victors. 

Jeonghan doesn’t look at Seungcheol. He can’t.

Back in the arena, you crumple to your knees, exhausted beyond belief. The swamp laps at your legs.

“Please,” you whisper again. “Please.”

The girl’s hands tremble. She looks at you like she’s seeing something else—someone else. She takes one step forward, then stops. Her fingers close around the handle of her knife.

You don’t flinch.

Then she speaks.

“You know Seungcheol, right?” 

You blink, confused.

She forces a smile, small and broken. “My mentor,” Seungcheol’s tribute offers. “Tell him—tell him I’m going to miss him the most.” 

Manipulated footage makes it look like you pushed her backward.

Jeonghan and Seungcheol see it as it happens. How the girl takes an intentional step back. How you reach for her, trying to stop her, only to watch her sink in quicksand that has been exacerbated by the Gamemakers. 

The arena swallows her up. 

The cannon doesn’t fire for several long seconds. 

The sound, when it comes, is muffled. Like the swamp itself is mourning her.

You scream. You scream until your throat gives out. You’re still screaming as you’re declared the victor, as you sob into the wetlands, as you’re lifted out. 

In the Control Center, Seungcheol’s hands curl into fists in his lap. 

His eyes fixed on the screen. Dry.

Jeonghan finally turns to him. “Cheol—” he starts, but Seungcheol shakes his head. 

“She’s coming home,” Seungcheol says, flat. “There’s your miracle, Yoon.”

And Jeonghan is sorry for it, sure, but he’s still much more grateful. 

V. YOON JEONGHAN, YOURS. 

Jeonghan doesn’t remember the walk to the Capitol hospital. He remembers leaving the Control Center. He remembers running.

The hallway is sterile and humming when he gets there. He knows where they’ve taken you. Of course he knows. He’s watched every moment of your suffering. He could trace the outline of your wounds with his eyes closed.

The nurse outside your room says something—protocol, maybe. He doesn’t hear her.

He shoulders his way in.

The lights are dimmed, the machines are quiet, but the sight of you lands like a gut punch. Jeonghan falters in the doorway.

You look like you’ve been hollowed out. 

There’s barely anything left of the tribute he watched fight through blood and betrayal. Bandages snake around your limbs and torso. Your face is pale beneath layers of grime they haven’t scrubbed away yet. Your lips are split. Your eyes—

You don’t even blink.

He takes a step closer, slow, careful, like approaching a wild animal. His hand lifts, fingers reaching for your cheek, like he might cradle it the way he used to in the dark of the Control Center, whispering to your image like you could hear him.

But the second he touches you—

You flinch.

Hard.

Jeonghan’s heart stops. His hand drops back to his side like it’s been burned.

You don’t look at him. You just tremble, shoulders curling in, your breathing shallow, your eyes still fixed on something beyond him. Beyond the room. Beyond now.

It’s the first time you’ve ever pulled away from him.

He doesn’t know what to do with that.

Part of him wants to fall to his knees. To apologize. For what, he couldn’t name. For not stopping the Games? For not being able to keep you from breaking? For still being here when so much of you has been scraped raw?

The silence presses in like swampwater, like a forest fire. Suffocating, unforgiving.

Jeonghan turns and lowers himself into the corner of the room. The floor is cold. The chair is too far. He needs to be here, close, even if you can’t stand his touch.

He wraps his arms around his knees and stares at you.

Your stare doesn’t move. Not to him. Not to anything.

He’s seen this look before. He wore it once, too.

Jeonghan swallows past the ache in his throat and speaks, barely audible. “I’m here. I’ll stay here. As long as you need.”

You don’t respond.

He doesn’t expect you to.

He settles into the silence like a penance and waits.

He waits for you to go through all the medical procedures. He waits for you to get an entire day's worth of sleep. He waits, even as the stylists dress you up like a doll.

Gossamer fabric, soft pastels to soften your image. Something that whispers vulnerability, not violence. They work in silence, careful around the raw edges of your skin, the lingering bruises. 

You don’t wince anymore. You just endure.

Jeonghan watches from the wings of the stage, heart in his throat.

The stage lights bloom too bright. Caesar’s teeth gleam under them like weapons. The audience cheers. Applause swells. 

And you? You walk out on trembling legs.

There was a time your smile could light up a room. Now it flickers, half-formed, and dies before it reaches your eyes.

Caesar catches your hand, holds it up for the crowd. You don’t pull away, but Jeonghan sees it—the way your fingers twitch, like they remember what it’s like to hold a weapon.

“Our newest victor!” Caesar announces. The crowd roars. 

Jeonghan leans forward in the shadows. He wants to run to you. To shield you from the cameras, the crowd, Caesar’s well-meaning questions that twist into knives.

“How are you feeling?” Caesar asks.

Your voice is soft. Hoarse. “I’m alive.”

A ripple of awkward laughter. Caesar tries to coax something out of you, a joke, a quip, the spark you once had. But it’s gone. Buried so deep, not even you know where to look.

Your fingers keep trembling. You tuck your hands in your lap to hide it.

Jeonghan watches every second.

They want a victor. A hero. A darling. But all they get is a shell.

And Jeonghan can’t do anything but watch.

They crown you in front of Panem.

Golden laurels rest atop your bowed head, catching the light like a final joke. President Snow stands behind you, hand heavy on your shoulder. 

You don’t shirk. You don’t cry. You barely breathe.

Jeonghan stands at the lower steps of the stage, jaw clenched tight.

The crowd is euphoric. Flashbulbs pop. Your name chants through the air like a war cry, over and over, and all Jeonghan can think is how hungry they look. Like they want to eat you alive.

You rise slowly when Snow lifts your chin. He presents you as the Capitol’s newest sweetheart—shattered and bloodstained and beautiful.

Jeonghan’s stomach twists. He hates it. The theatrics. The flowers. The falseness. The way they cheer for your trauma.

Later, at the afterparty, the music swells and champagne flows. You sit somewhere under a too-bright chandelier, being toasted by strangers with leering eyes.

Jeonghan tries to keep to the fringes, but he doesn’t escape for long.

The President finds him near the garden terrace, glass of something untouched in Jeonghan’s hand. The air stills around them like the world knows something dangerous is coming.

“Quite the victor,” Snow says mildly. “She’s memorable. Fragile in a way that sells well.”

Jeonghan says nothing.

Snow steps closer. His smile is polite. Tight. “You should be proud. The Capitol hasn’t felt this invested in years.”

A beat.

“Of course,” Snow adds, sipping from his flute, “such devotion comes at a price.”

Jeonghan’s throat tightens. 

Snow glances at him, all cool amusement. “Do thank that patron of yours again. Very generous. Desperation makes strange bedfellows, doesn’t it?”

Jeonghan goes cold. His skin prickles. He can’t move.

“She’s lovely, your girl,” Snow goes on, seeming unconcerned by the conversation that has been one-sided insofar. “I do hope she doesn’t become... inconvenient.”

And with that, the devil leaves.

Jeonghan stumbles through the crowd, past gilded dancers and glass towers of champagne. He finds a bathroom, locks the door behind him, and falls to his knees.

He vomits until there’s nothing left.

Even then, he doesn’t stop heaving.

He empties himself out and drinks some more until he’s sick again. He thinks of what it means to be a victor—what you stand to lose if you don’t bend to the Capitol’s will. 

Will you blame him for doing his job as a mentor? Will you wish you could’ve been like Seungcheol’s tribute, could’ve ended things clean and quiet like Barley? 

On the way back to District 11, the train hums softly beneath the two of you. A lullaby for no one.

You sit by the window, forehead pressed to the glass, eyes on the blur of passing scenery. Home. Whatever that means now.

Jeonghan sits across from you. Not too close. Not too far. Just... there.

It’s been hours since either of you spoke. Days, really, because the most you’ve given Jeonghan are pleasantries and nods and thousand-yard stares. 

Sometimes, a cruel part of him thinks it’s a fate worse than death. 

Your voice breaks the silence like a match in the dark.

“I’m sorry.”

Jeonghan blinks himself out of his hungover stupor. His fingers tighten around the edge of his seat as he looks towards you, searching. “Why?”

“For flinching.”

His chest caves around the answer. “No,” he says quickly, too quickly. “Gods, no. I should be the one apologizing.”

You turn to him. Just barely. But he sees it in your eyes. You know.

He swallows. Tries to laugh, like it might smooth the sharp edges.

You don’t smile in return. 

Jeonghan’s heart beats like a war drum. He wants to say something that makes it okay. That makes any of it okay.

But there’s nothing. Just the soft hum of the train. The ghost of everything that can never be undone.

“You saved my life,” you whisper.

He looks at you, really looks at you this time, and it almost ruins him.

Because he did. And he didn’t. Not really. 

He pulled you out of the arena, but the arena never left. It will never leave. It lives in your eyes now. In your silence. In the way your shoulders curl inward like you’re still waiting to be hurt.

This is it.

Your lives now.

This train. This distance. Mentorship, and memory, and never quite touching because love is too heavy a thing to carry on top of nightmares and broken backs.

Jeonghan turns his gaze back to the window. He tucks his love for you deep, where it can’t rot anything else. It won’t do you any good now. 

You may warm up to him one day, may come to forgive all he did to keep you around for longer. But as the song once did go—

Nothing will ever grow quite the same. 

The train speeds on.

Outside, the sprawling fields of District 11 come into sight. 

[diamond-reads]

tagging the biggest 8stars i know bc y’all….

@haologram @studioeisa

loving minghao is like the sight of stars on a pristine night kind of love. loving him is akin to a boundless stretch of deep black velvet dotted with innumerable tiny lights, extending infinitely. loving him inspires a sense of awe at the vastness of the cosmos. loving him ties with something magnificent. loving him spawns a timeless beauty. loving him engenders a feeling of marvel and reverence. loving him comes with layers and dimensions that always continue to unfold. loving him shines bright for ages. loving him is constant in life that transcends the everyday. loving him connects to a deeper sense of purpose. loving him maintains individuality while being part of a beautiful shared existence, like the expansive galaxy.

[diamond-reads]

wasteland, baby! | x.mh

⭐starring: xu minghao  💌 genre: angst | wc: 1.4k 💬preview: they say love can cure infection.

cw/tw: character death, heavy angst, true love and soulmate trope, descriptions of suffering and wounds, a countdown of time, apocalyptic world

🪽fic rating: pg 

☁️ masterlist & a/n: i only have one thing to say: @studioeisa (kae), this one’s for you. thank you so much to @lovetaroandtaemin (ally) and @chanranghaeys (haneul) for beta reading <3

now playing: wasteland, baby! by hozier

this is an addition to the angst olympics: click here to read the masterlist!

They say love can cure infection.

Scratch that—true love can cure infection. 

The silent countdown had started in Minghao’s head five minutes after the first bite. It burned and smelled of rotten flesh, as he peeled back his tattered shirt to reveal the charred teeth marks embedded in the side of his chest. 

Minghao keeled over and threw up at the sight. What was the longest survival rate for infection again? Minghao couldn’t think straight. 

Right. 10 measly days. 

As he stumbled out of the ruins and onto the grassy field surrounding him, Minghao tried to gather his bearings. Turning left, towards the oncoming horizon, would take him back to base—towards the medics and his best chance of survival. 

But Minghao was never an avid believer of science. He knew the millions of dollars the government had put into finding the cure was a hoax. 

10 days to live. The countdown in his mind ticked on. 

Minghao stubbornly turned right and began his trek to you. 

“You love me, right?” Minghao’s battered and bruised face enters your line of sight. His lips are cracked and tinted with blood, his left eye sporting colors of purple and blue—yet he had never looked more handsome. 

“I do.” It was a fact, as plain as could be. 

“Then we have nothing to worry about.” 

Minghao was resilient and strong-willed, all great characteristics for surviving the ongoing spread of disease, a strange infection that was eradicating humanity, nation by nation. He had ranked top of his class in the military, and his commanding officer had given him a 98% chance of survival. 

But Minghao was also filled with misguided hope and optimism. And that cut his chance of survival down to 0.03%. 

After all, the infection was brutal, cruel, and left no space for such futile things. 

“Of course.” You reply, threading your grimy fingers through his own blackened ones. “We’ve got true love on our side.” 

Your commanding officer had given you a 78% chance of survival. You were a realist, weak-willed but full of wit and life. Then he had given one glance at the way you looked at Minghao and changed your chance to 0.01%.

The infection might have no space for hope and optimism, but it actively choked out love. 

9 days. Minghao had always been a patient person, yet with his journey still leading nowhere close to you, he began to panic. 

He used to laugh at the prospect of dying, saying he’d welcome death with open arms and laugh in his face. But everyone says they’ve made peace with death until it’s actually time to go. Minghao stares at death’s face before falling asleep, and the laughter chokes down his throat. 

He passes fields of flowers and drying grass on his trek towards you, the sun beating down torturously on his back. He stops only to sleep. 

He sees your face in his dreams. 

8 days. Fighting past a pack of the undead barely drained his energy. He plows on, through the snaking river and across the rickety wooden bridge. 

He hallucinates your figure walking ahead of him and nearly falls in the water trying to reach you. 

“Y/N!” He calls, and the birds on the trees fly off from the sound. It echoes, and Minghao is suddenly too aware of how he is utterly alone for miles. 

He watches as you run towards the edge of the bridge, your summer dress flowing in the wind. You lean over, and his heart catches in his lungs. 

He’s about to warn you to be careful, but you turn and smile, and Minghao’s brain goes quiet. No loud thoughts. No annoying drone. No hum. 

“Come look.” You beckon to him with your hand. The ring on your finger catches the light and glitters. It becomes the only thing he can focus on. You bring him next to you, and he watches the ducks follow their mother home on the rippling water. 

He blinks and remembers the waters have long since been dry. 

7 days or so. Minghao can feel that he’s close to home, to you. He wonders for a moment if you’re missing him, and a weak laugh escapes from him. What a silly thought. Of course you miss him too. 

The landscape around him has transitioned from the drying fields to a cracked desert. He’s parched but hardly feels it. One foot in front of the other. Again, again. 

Minghao counts down the days left in his life and when he can see you. 

6 days, or is it 5? He can hardly remember anymore. He whispers your name in his sleep, his lips cracked and his throat as dry as the world around him. 

He counts the amount of breaths he takes and wishes he could store them in a bottle for later. He doesn’t know how much of those he has left. 

He feels your fingers run through his hair like phantom pains. 

“We’ll see each other again.” He had promised you before leaving. “I’ll return to you.”

You nodded, running your hands through his growing hair. “I’ll be waiting.” 

One of the undead growls from behind him and interrupts your parting. Minghao barely flinches when you aim your pistol over his shoulder, and a gunshot rings out. 

You frown up at him. “That could’ve killed you.” 

He smiles. “But you had my back. You always do.” 

“I won’t be with you out there.” You shake your head at his easy going nature.

He presses a firm kiss to each of your hands. “Don’t worry about me. I beat you in training, didn’t I?” 

You nod. He wraps his arms around your waist and holds you close. 

Neither one of you mentions how 97.8% of people who leave the encampment don’t ever return. 

Minghao hates statistics. They’re never in his fucking favour. 

4 days. Minghao continues to walk, ignoring the fact that he’s utterly lost. Somewhere along his journey he had lost nearly half of his vision, and he could no longer see more than a few steps ahead of him. 

He could feel it so very clearly that he was dying. 

“It’s just wasteland, baby.” Minghao murmured into your hair as the two of you laid down on your bunk. “Just wasteland.” 

“I miss all the pretty things we used to have.” 

He hums. “You’re the prettiest thing in this wasteland, baby.” 

You laugh, smacking his arm gently. “That’s cheesy.” 

He laughs too. “No, but I’m being serious. The world might be ending, but at least it’s ending with me next to you.” 

“Just wasteland.” You echo his words from before. His finger draws circles on your arm. “True love can cure infection, anyways.” 

That was his lifeline. He had to believe reaching you could save him. 

Minghao stopped to gather his bearings. He turned around. It was a wasteland all around. 

3 days. 

“Minghao!” He hears his name coming from you and spins around to greet you. He spins too fast and stumbles, falling to his knees. 

“Y/N?” It comes out as a hoarse whisper, barely uttered. “Y/N?” 

He wants to believe you’ve come out to find him– that you’ve met him halfway, because he knew he was nowhere near home. 

Minghao uses the last of his energy to raise his head up towards the sky. The clouds are dark and unmoving. He doesn’t see you.

He doesn’t move. 

2 days. 

You’re waiting by the castle tower. You haven’t moved from your spot on the lookout for the last 5 days, eagerly looking out towards the stretch of barren land for your lover. 

“He’s not coming back.” Someone gently places a hand on your shoulder. 

You raise your gun as a warning. “Shut up.” 

They leave. 

You keep waiting. 

1 day left. 

Minghao gets up from his spot on the desert floor. He keeps walking. He walks and walks until he sees the outline of a decrepit castle. 

You see him from afar before his face is even visible. It’s a speck of a person, stumbling towards the castle, their steps uncoordinated and slow. 

You squint, and you can’t tell if it’s really him.

You run out to meet him. Just in case. You know from the way he’s moving that something’s wrong. You know you’re the only one who can save him. If it really is him.

You skid to a stop a few meters away. 

An undead stares back at you and continues to walk closer. He has the growing locks of hair and eyes of your lover. 

And for the first time, you don’t raise your gun. 

[diamond-reads]

keeping score ⚽ mingyu x reader.

hating mingyu is easy. seeing him in any other light takes work, and you’re tired of trying to figure that out.

⚽ uni soccer player!mingyu x reader. ⚽ word count: 20.4k ⚽ genre: alternate universe: non-idol, alternate universe: university. romance, light angst. offshoot of @xinganhao's soccer team!hhu verse. ⚽ includes: mentions of food, alcohol consumption. cussing/swearing. frenemies to ???, looots of bickering, slowburn, pining!! yearning!! tension, idiots in love, feelings realization/denial. reader is a fashion major, mingyu is a goalkeeper. hhu ensemble (mingyu’s soccer teammates). other idols make a cameo. ⚽ footnotes: this entire piece of work— all 20k words of it— is dedicated to @maplegyu. this couple is our magnum opus, and i owe so much of this vision to her; i can only hope i’ve done them justice. my favorite gyuldaengie! iyong iyo ‘to. ily. <3 🎵 the official keeping score s01 playlist.

▸ S01E01: THE ONE WITH THE MONTHLY FAMILY LUNCH. 

The bane of your existence arrives like clockwork every month, complete with a three-course meal, polite conversation, and the insufferable presence of Kim fucking Mingyu.

You love the Kims. Really, you do. 

His mother is an absolute angel, his father tells the best stories, and his sister is one of the few people in this world you can actually stand. But Mingyu?

Mingyu is a menace. A thorn in your side. A perpetual migraine dressed in a soccer jersey and an overinflated ego.

And yet, because your families are close, you’ve had the misfortune of growing up with him. There has never been a time in your life when he wasn’t there wreaking havoc, getting on your nerves, making these monthly lunches a test of patience and endurance.

You barely step through the Kims’ front door before he spots you, and the smirk that spreads across his face already has you bracing for impact.

“You spend all your money on clothes, don’t you?” Mingyu drawls, gaze sweeping over your carefully chosen outfit. This month’s best attempt at dressing to impress. “Do you ever buy anything useful, or is it just fabric and brand names at this point?”

You flash him a saccharine smile, one wide enough to make your cheeks hurt. “I would ask if you ever spend money on anything besides soccer cleats, but then I remembered—” You snap your fingers. “You don’t. Trust fund baby, right? Still trying to deserve that, Kim?”

He clutches his chest dramatically, as if wounded. “Low blow.”

You step past him, muttering, “Not low enough.”

The act drops at the dining table, of course. Because despite the mutual irritation that fuels your every interaction, you both have the social awareness to play nice in front of your parents. 

Mingyu is seated next to you, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to roll your eyes when he oh-so-helpfully pulls a serving dish closer. To himself, obviously.

“Let me guess,” you say, resting your chin on your hand. “You’re carb-loading for a game?”

Mingyu, mid-scoop of mashed potatoes, doesn’t even blink. “Nah, just loading up so I don’t wither away listening to you talk about… what was it last time? The ‘psychological complexity of lipstick shades’?”

His mother lets out a dramatic sigh, though there’s no real dismay behind it. “Mingyu, be nice.”

“I am nice,” he says easily, flashing his mother an innocent smile before turning back to you, tone all too sweet. “And personally, I think you’re more of a soft pink girl than a red one.”

It’s a direct dig at your choice of makeup for the day. You know he’s just speaking out of his ass; he doesn’t know the first thing about shades, and red is definitely your color. You take a slow sip of your drink before matching his tone. “That’s funny. I was just about to say you’re more of a benchwarmer than a starter.”

His father chuckles, far too used to this by now. “Oh, come on,” he chuckles. “You two have known each other since you were in diapers. When will you stop with the little jabs?”

“Maybe they’ll finally get along,” your mother says amusedly, “now that they’re graduating.” 

You and Mingyu exchange a look, one perfectly in sync despite how much you loathe the idea of ever being on the same wavelength.

Nose scrunch. Head shake.

Not in this lifetime.

There was a time— brief, fleeting, and foolish— when you thought you might actually be friends with Mingyu.

You must’ve been, what, eight? Nine? Young enough to still believe that people could change overnight, that rivalries were just a phase, that some friendships took time to bloom.

Back then, it was silly competitions: Who could swing higher at the playground, who could run faster in the backyard, who could stack the tallest tower of Lego before the other knocked it over. It was childish, harmless, even fun at times— until you saw his real colors.

And now, over a decade later, nothing has changed.

He still finds new and inventive ways to drive you up the wall. 

Case in point: Your families’ traditional group photo.

You don’t know why you still expect him to behave. You should’ve known better.

Just as the camera shutter is about to go off, you feel something tickle the back of your neck. You tense immediately, but it’s too late. Mingyu, standing behind you, has flicked the ribbon of your dress like an annoying schoolboy pulling on a pigtail.

You whirl around, shooting him a sharp glare.

“Don’t,” you warn through gritted teeth.

He gives you a wide, infuriatingly innocent grin. “Don’t what?”

You turn back, forcing a pleasant smile for the next shot. And yet— there it is again. A slight tug, barely noticeable, but just enough to let you know he’s doing it on purpose.

The camera clicks.

This time, you whip around so fast he actually takes half a step back.

“I swear to God, Kim Mingyu—”

“Kids,” your mother calls, barely looking up from her phone. “Let it go.”

“We’re not kids,” you shoot back.

Mingyu nudges your side with his elbow, leaning down ever so slightly to murmur, “You’re right. We’re adults now. Which means you can use your words instead of glaring at me like you’re trying to set me on fire with your mind.”

You retaliate by elbowing him in the ribs. He squeaks and begins to whine to his mother. 

There is no universe in which you and Mingyu will ever get along. No amount of family lunches, no shared childhood history, no forced photo ops can change that.

And you’re perfectly fine with that.

▸ S01E02: THE ONE WITH SOCCER PRACTICE. 

Mingyu is having a good practice session— until Seungcheol ruins it.

“Yo, loverboy,” the team captain calls out, grinning as he jogs up beside him. “You’ve got an audience today.”

Mingyu frowns, breath still heavy from his last sprint across the field. “Huh?”

Seungcheol subtly tilts his head towards the stands.

And there you are— looking as out of place as a flamingo in a snowstorm.

You’re sitting as far from the field as possible, like being too close might infect you with ‘sports’. Your arms are crossed, your pink-clad form nearly swallowed by the ridiculous sun hat and oversized sunglasses shielding you from the very concept of nature. A frilly umbrella is propped up beside you, even though there isn’t a single drop of rain in sight.

The sheer disgruntlement on your face is almost impressive.

Mingyu groans. “Oh, come on.”

“Who’s that?” Vernon asks casually, appearing beside Mingyu and Seungcheol like a curious puppy. He’s the newest, youngest guy on the team, so he can’t be blamed for knowing the semi-constant fixture in Mingyu’s life. 

Wonwoo, stretching nearby, lets out a knowing hum. “That,” he responds, “is Mingyu’s one true love.”

Vernon blinks. “Oh.” 

Seungcheol laughs, slinging an arm around Mingyu’s shoulders in a way that always ticked the latter off. “The love of his life. His childhood sweetheart. The Juliet to his Romeo,” the older boy sing-songs. 

Mingyu scowls. “Shut up.”

Vernon looks at you again. The way your expression barely changes as you sip from an offensively fuschia thermos makes him squint in confusion.

“She doesn’t seem too happy to be here,” the youngest notes, and Mingyu holds back the urge to snort. 

You’re fidgeting now, glaring at a single blade of grass that’s found its way onto your lap, as if deeply offended by its existence. He’s half-tempted to dump an entire barrel of dried leaves on you, just to see you screech. 

For now, though, Mingyu settles with shoving Seungcheol’s arm off him. “You guys are so annoying,” Mingyu grumbles. 

Wonwoo pushes his glasses further up his face. “We’re just stating facts.”

“They’re not facts,” Mingyu snaps. “And she’s not here because of me. Trust me, if she had any choice, she’d be anywhere but here.”

Vernon looks between Mingyu and you again, then back at Mingyu. “…So?” 

“So, what?”

The younger player shrugs. “Why is she here?”

Mingyu rolls his eyes. “She’s waiting for me.”

Seungcheol lets out a dramatic gasp. “Oh? Waiting for you? Just how deeply are you entangled with this woman, Kim Mingyu?”

It’s a story that Seungcheol and Wonwoo already know. Mingyu knows they’re just being difficult for the hell of it, trying to goad him into reacting. He focuses on indulging Vernon, knowing the longer he avoids it, the longer he’ll be picked on. 

“I owe her family,” Mingyu says through his teeth. “It’s not some stupid love story— her parents basically helped raise me when mine were busy working. You think I want to drive her places? I don’t. But my mom guilt-trips me into it every time.”

Seungcheol and Wonwoo share an unimpressed look.

“Uh-huh,” Wonwoo says. “Poor you. Forced to chauffeur a beautiful girl around in your nice car. Sounds awful.”

Mingyu fights the urge to sulk. “It is. She’s unbearable.” 

“She seems pretty quiet,” Vernon grunts as he double knots up his cleats. 

“That’s because she’s sulking.” Mingyu isn’t sure why, but once the explanation starts, it just keeps going. “Normally, she never shuts up—always going on about useless crap, complaining about things normal people don’t even think about. Like, oh no, her new nail set doesn’t match the vibe of her outfit, or God forbid a restaurant uses the wrong kind of parmesan.”

He realizes he’s said too much when he notices Wonwoo fighting back a smirk, and Seungcheol biting the inside of his cheek. The latter pushes it further with a drawl of, “So, what I’m hearing is… you listen to her. A lot.”

Mingyu groans, rubbing his temples. He really had to learn how to keep his mouth shut. “No, I suffer through her,” he insists. “There’s a difference.”

Wonwoo folds his arms. “You know, it’s funny. You talk all this smack, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard her rant about you.”

“That’s just because she’s stuck-up. Always has been,” scoffs Mingyu. 

His mind flashes back to childhood— when he was seven and you were six, and you turned your nose up at his scraped knees, saying, Only boys who don’t know how to run properly get hurt like that.

When he was ten and you were nine, and you refused to eat a slice of pizza at his birthday party because you only liked the fancy kind with real mozzarella, not whatever that was. 

When he was fifteen and you were fourteen, and he caught you scoffing at his old sneakers, telling your mom some people just have no concept of ‘aesthetics.’

And yet, despite everything, your families had always forced you together.

Mingyu was never given the option to just avoid you. Your parents and his were practically inseparable, and since childhood, he’s had to deal with your high standards and exasperated sighs and perpetual disapproval over whatever nonsense you deemed worth being mad about that day.

“I promise you, she’s the worst,” Mingyu mutters, stretching his arms behind his head.

Vernon, still watching you, tilts his head. “So, what does she think of you?”

That one’s easy. 

“She hates me,” Mingyu says simply. Like it’s a fact. The sun is warm, the sky is blue, and you hate Kim Mingyu. 

Seungcheol grins, his smile a little too sharp and knowing for Mingyu’s liking. “Oh, well. At least that’s mutual, right?”

Mingyu doesn’t answer, but he does glance back at you just in time to see you struggling to shove your umbrella back into its case. You catch his eye and stick your tongue out at him, the act so childish that Mingyu can only roll his eyes and flip you off. 

The feeling was most definitely mutual. 

The practice goes as usual— drills, passing exercises, a scrimmage where Mingyu manages to nutmeg Wonwoo (which earns him a half-hearted shove after the play). By the time they’re finishing up with cool-down stretches, the sun is dipping low in the sky, casting the field in warm golds and oranges.

Mingyu runs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair and chugs the last of his water bottle before chucking it at Seungcheol’s back. “Captain,” he calls mockingly, “we done?”

Seungcheol catches the bottle before it can hit him. “Yeah, yeah. Go, be free.”

Mingyu doesn’t need to be told twice. He grabs his bag from the bench and jogs off the field, presumably heading toward you, who is still seated cross-armed, looking thoroughly unimpressed with the entire practice.

The three boys watch the interaction from a distance. Mingyu says something; you scowl. He nudges your knee with his foot; you swat at him.

Wonwoo rolls his shoulders. “You think today’s the day?”

Seungcheol lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Not yet. Give it another few months.”

Vernon furrows his brows. “What?”

“The bet,” Wonwoo says simply. 

Vernon blinks. “What bet?”

“We’ve had a running bet for years about how long it’ll take those two to get together,” supplies Seungcheol. 

Vernon looks between them, then at you and Mingyu again. The two of you now seem to be engaged in some sort of bickering match. Mingyu pulls at the edge of your pink cardigan, and you swat his hand away with increasing irritation.

How long it’ll take the two of you to get together? 

“You guys are insane,” Vernon says flatly.

Wonwoo snorts. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I mean, look at them.” Vernon gestures vaguely in your direction. At this point, you’re looking like you’re five seconds away from pouncing Mingyu. “They hate each other.”

Seungcheol and Wonwoo do it again. That shared look, that quiet understanding. 

“Look again,” the team captain urges, and Vernon does. 

He as Mingyu steps back, laughingly avoiding your physical assault. You— despite your obvious frustration— fight a smile before rolling your eyes.

There’s something there. Some spark of familiarity, of knowing each other too well, of a connection that might just be a little too deep for pure hatred.

Huh. 

A beat. And then Vernon digs through his pocket and procures a couple of loose bills. 

“Before the year ends,” he declares, making Seungcheol and Wonwoo chuckle. 

▸ S01E03: THE ONE WITH THE JANKY ELEVATOR. 

You don’t know why you always end up here.

Actually, no. You do know why. Because your parents insist you wait at Mingyu’s place whenever they’re running late to pick you up, since apparently his apartment is safer than a café or a mall. Nevermind that the biggest threat to your wellbeing is standing right beside you, scrolling through his phone with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Was a functioning lift too much to ask for when you were looking for apartments?” you say, eyeing the rickety metal doors of his apartment building’s elevators. 

Mingyu doesn’t even look up. “Oh, sorry, princess. Next time, I’ll make sure to move into a high-rise penthouse with gold-plated buttons just for you.”

You make a noise of disgust, jabbing at the button with unnecessary force. “As if I’d ever step foot in your place again after today.”

“You say that every time.”

You open your mouth for a comeback, but the elevator doors groan open just then. The lights flicker ominously. There’s a suspicious stain on the corner of the floor. You step in with a sigh, Mingyu following behind you.

The doors shut. The elevator lurches upwards with a wheeze.

“You know,” Mingyu says, “if you hate coming here so much, you could always just Uber home.”

“Oh, believe me, if I didn’t have to be here, I wouldn’t. But my mom insists you’re—” You pause, making air quotes, “—‘trustworthy.’”

He smiles like he’s some God-given gift. “I am trustworthy.”

“You once stole my fries in front of my face and claimed I was hallucinating.”

“Okay, but—”

Before he can finish, the elevator gives a violent jolt.

And then everything goes black.

For a moment, there’s silence. Just the quiet hum of the emergency light kicking in, the faint creak of metal settling.

Then, Mingyu takes a sharp inhale.

“Uh.” His voice is suddenly tight. “No. Nope. No way.”

You blink, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. “Oh, great,” you grumble. “Fantastic. This is what I get for stepping into this death trap of a building.”

“I think— I think I need to sit down,” Mingyu mutters, lowering himself to the floor.

You huff. “Be so for real right now, you lumbering idiot.”

But then you actually look at him.

The usual cocky tilt of his head is gone. His fingers are gripping the fabric of his joggers, his breathing coming in short, uneven bursts. His eyes are darting around the elevator, as if checking for an exit that isn’t there.

Oh.

Oh.

He’s genuinely scared.

A new, unfamiliar kind of concern settles in your chest. “Wait,” you say, kneeling beside him. “You’re not actually—”

“I just—” Mingyu swallows. “I hate elevators. And small spaces. And, you know, the whole getting stuck thing.”

And then it clicks.

You remember being kids, when the power went out at the Kim’s summer house during a thunderstorm. You remember little Mingyu, barely taller than you, sitting stiffly on the couch with his knees pulled to his chest, trying— and failing— not to let his fear show. You remember the way his face twisted when the room was swallowed by darkness, how his mother had to light candles and sit beside him until the power returned.

He never admitted he was scared, of course. Mingyu never admitted anything.

But you knew.

Looking at him now— his face pale, his jaw tight— you realize some things don’t change.

Without thinking, you place a hand on his arm. “Hey. Breathe, okay? It’s fine.”

Mingyu exhales shakily. “I am breathing.”

“Yeah, like a terrified chihuahua,” you mutter. “Deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

He gives you a look, squinting at you through the darkness, but he obeys. Inhale, exhale.

You squeeze his arm. “See? Not so bad.”

He closes his eyes, focusing on his breathing. You sit beside him, fingers still on his arm, grounding him. After a few beats, his breathing evens out. His shoulders relax. 

“… Don’t tell anyone,” he finally says, voice barely above a whisper.

“Oh, I’m definitely telling the team.”

“I will murder you.”

An unbidden laugh escapes you. You nudge his knee with yours. “See? You’re fine.”

“Still hate this,” Mingyu exhales, rubbing his face. 

“You are kind of pathetic.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He leans back against the wall. Then, like it pains him to say it, he adds, “Thanks, though.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t remove your hand from his arm.

With a sudden jolt, the elevator whirs back to life. The overhead lights flicker before settling into a steady glow, and the quiet hum of movement returns beneath your feet.

Mingyu exhales the biggest sigh of relief you’ve ever heard. “Oh, thank God.”

He’s on his feet before the doors have even fully opened, practically leaping into the hallway like he’s just escaped certain death. You follow him with a disbelieving huff. 

It isn’t until you’re several paces into the hallway that you realize you’re still holding onto him. 

Your fingers are curled around his forearm, right where they’d been when you were calming him down. Mingyu, ever the opportunist, notices right before you can subtly let go.

He tilts his head. “Aww, you care about me,” he coos, but there’s a hint of something in his tone. You think it might be genuine appreciation; you’re not about to dwell on it, though. 

“Shut up,” you snipe. You want to shove him back in the elevator and see just how cocky he can be when it crashes out again. 

“Admit it,” he sing-songs, trailing after you toward his apartment. “You were worried about me.”

“I was trapped in an elevator. I was worried about myself.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

You choose not to dignify him with a response, striding ahead until you reach his door. Mingyu unlocks it with a beep, stepping aside to let you in.

As soon as you enter, you do what you always do— make yourself at home. You toe off your shoes, toss your bag onto his couch, and march straight to his kitchen. The years of forced proximity have made this something as good as a routine. 

“You got anything to eat?” you ask. The question is rhetorical; you’re already prepared to rob him of whatever he has in his pantry.

Mingyu scoffs as he kicks off his sneakers. “This is not a restaurant.”

“Clearly,” you huff, swinging open his fridge. The contents are bleak. A few eggs, a half-empty carton of orange juice, a suspiciously old container of takeout, and at least three protein shakes.

You make a face. “Be serious.”

He sprawls onto the couch. “What?”

“You live like a caveman.” You shut the fridge with an exasperated sigh, turning to scan the apartment. Your gaze lands on a new decorative shelf against the wall, filled with an assortment of mismatched trinkets. They’re all atrocious and generic. 

You’re inclined to tease him that it’s why he’s bitchless, this sheer lack of consideration for aesthetics. You reel that in, though, opting instead for a lighter, “Since when did you care about home decor?”

Mingyu props his feet on the coffee table. “It’s called having taste,” he shoots back. 

“You don’t have taste.”

“Excuse you—”

“This,” you gesture at the shelf, “is ugly.”

Mingyu grabs the nearest throw pillow and chucks it at you.

You barely dodge it. It whizzes past your head, and once again, you think this is exactly one of those things you should’ve expected from Mingyu. He’s immature, and obnoxious, and unbelievably rude. 

“Did you just—” you’re gaping, but then another pillow flies your way. 

You snatch it out of the air, and then you catch the way he’s already scrambling for another ‘weapon’. “You are such a child!” you screech, except you’re not above retaliation. 

What follows is a semi-violent pillow war that neither of you are willing to concede. It’s ridiculous, and loud, and it feels exactly like every argument you’ve ever had with him. Full of unnecessary dramatics and zero real malice.

Just like that, the moment in the elevator— the quiet, vulnerable, human side of him you’d glimpsed— disappears into the back of your mind. A moment of weakness, never to happen again.

Because Kim Mingyu is still the same as he’s always been.

▸ S01E04: THE ONE WITH THE NIGHT OUT. 

Mingyu swears he’s going to kill you. 

He’s probably made that threat dozens of times in the past years, but tonight, he’s fairly sure he’ll actually do it. 

He should be in bed right now, getting some much-needed shut-eye for tomorrow’s game. It’s the type of do-or-die match where scouts will be in the audience, after all, and while Mingyu doesn’t really give two damns about going pro, he wouldn’t mind the validation.

Alas, instead of being in his bed, he’s stuck in traffic en route to wherever the hell you’ve gone drinking tonight. 

If it had just been you that asked to be picked up, Mingyu would’ve ended the call without question. Probably would have told you to get off his case and book a cab yourself. 

But it’s your mother who’s asking, who has entrusted your safety and well-being in Mingyu’s allegedly capable hands. He’s not about to turn down the woman who practically helped raise him. 

Disgruntled, Mingyu pulls into the parking lot of where you said you’d be drinking. Some swanky club with thumping music and neon lights. 

“So help me, God,” Mingyu grumbles underneath his breath as he stomps out of his car and toward the establishment. When the bouncer charges him an entrance fee— an entrance fee!— Mingyu’s urge to cause you bodily harm only triples. He coughs up the fee and marches into the club, fully prepared to give you grief for this little stunt. 

The club is alive, full of sweaty bodies pressing against each other and questionable house remixes that everyone is pretending to like. It’s an assault on the senses, and Mingyu absolutely loathes it.

He wasn’t about to act holier-than-thou. He’s had his fair share of drinking escapades, had even been to this very club himself once or twice. Still, it’s different when you’re ready for a night out and when you’ve been forced out of your restful evening because of a person you can barely even consider a friend. 

It takes him all of three minutes to find you. 

Take away the history, the tension, and fine. Mingyu would willingly admit: You’re gorgeous. Sometimes. When you tried. 

It’s more than the sinfully short dress, more than the ankle-length boots that no one else would pull off. It’s that laugh of yours, so bright and open and loud as you let one of your friends twirl you around on the dance floor. The sound reaches Mingyu over the din of debauchery, and he feels a muscle in his jaw tick. 

He hates it. He hates you. 

He wants to be home, back in his bed, instead of standing five paces away from a stunning you. A you that he will have to drag down because of responsibility, because of his blasted pride. Whether or not he cares to admit it, he hates that, too. 

Mingyu weaves through the crowds of dancing people until he’s reached you. He’s just about to call your name when the DJ plays a song that you seem to like, because you let out a loud squeal and try to jump. 

Key word: Try. You’re just a little off-balance from your choice of shoewear and the alcohol running through your veins, because your attempt has you stumbling. 

Instinctively, Mingyu reaches out to catch you. His palms land on your waist as your back falls against his chest, and it nearly kills him— the sound of your drunken giggle. You tilt your head back to look up at him.

It starts off as a half-lidded, hazy expression, one that shows off just how intoxicated you already are. But there’s something different there, too. A heat. A hunger. One that shows you’re out for something, someone tonight. Mingyu hates that the most. 

He hates how that look on your face disappears when you realize who caught you. Immediately, your unchaste expression gives way to something more akin to sulky discontent, like Mingyu is the bearer of bad news. 

And he is, really, because his fingers squeeze at your waist as he glares down at you. 

“It’s past midnight, Cinderella,” he says, pitching his voice just loud enough above the music. “Time to head home.”

Your reaction to him is always a good litmus test of how intoxicated you are. When you jut out your lower lip and whine out a petulant “Mingyu!”, that gives him the idea that you’re pretty damn gone. 

“You’re no fun,” you whine, trying to wriggle free from his grip. “This is my favorite song—” 

“And it’s one in the fucking morning. Let’s go.”

Somehow, you manage to peel away from him. One of your friends links arms with you, the two of you bursting into laughter of giggles. Mingyu is tempted to leave you then and there. There’s nothing funny about this situation, and he’s already planning to tell you off for how this might affect how he plays tomorrow. 

“One more song!” You put up one finger, practically shoving it up to Mingyu’s face. “Pleaseee?” 

He’s only halfway through saying something like no, let’s go before your friend is dragging you further into the throng of dancing people. Mingyu can already feel a headache blossoming beneath his temple. 

Resigned to his fate, he steps to the fringes of the crowd. He isn’t in the mood to scream to All I Do Is Win with all of these strangers; the least he can do is keep an eye on you. 

You, scream-singing the lyrics. You, whose dress rides up with every little sway. You— laughing, dancing, still several paces away from Mingyu. 

He crosses his arms over his chest and briefly closes his eyes, exhaling through his nose. A voice snaps him out of his reverie.

“Hey, handsome. Want a drink?” 

Mingyu’s eyes flutter open. He hadn’t noticed the girl sidling up to his side. She’s a bombshell, sure, with a lecherous gaze and a barely-there dress, but Mingyu trips up over the fact that the two of you kind of smile the same. 

“No, thank you,” he says curtly. “I’m driving.” 

The girl throws her head back and laughs. Mingyu’s headache feels like it’s worsening.

“You’re too good-looking to be the designated driver,” the stranger purrs. When she reaches out to run an innocent finger over Mingyu’s crossed arms, his lips tug into a slight frown. He’s no stranger to girls coming on to him. He’s entertained a couple, even, in settings exactly like this. 

Tonight, he’s not in the mood. That’s it. That’s all there is to it, he thinks— as if he’s trying to convince himself. 

That’s how he builds the courage to lie through his teeth. 

“I’m here to drive my girlfriend home, actually.”

In the morning, he will justify it like this: He wanted the stranger to leave him alone. He wasn’t exactly lying. You were a girl, and you were��� kind of his friend. And he was driving you home. That much was true. 

In that very moment, though, his heart— the treacherous fool that it is— skips a single, infinitesimal beat at the prospect of calling you his ‘girlfriend’. 

The stranger is undeterred. It’s a common throw-off, after all. The lie about having a significant other. 

“Where’s this girlfriend of yours?” she asks, one eyebrow cocked upward in amusement. 

Mingyu’s eyes flick over the throng of dancers. Right. He had been watching for you. He opens his mouth, about to mention some notable feature of yours, when the words stick in his throat. Because he’s looking right at you— 

You, with your arms over the shoulders of some guy. You, tilting your face upward to kiss said stranger. 

The strobe lights cut Mingyu’s vision into strips. He sees each moment like a flashbulb blinking on and off: Your eyes fluttering close. The stranger’s hand slipping to the small of your back, right over the curve of your ass. Your body, arching upward a little bit more.

Mingyu, still paces away. 

By the time you’re pulling away from the man, Mingyu is already at your side. He’s still ever so gentle as he yanks you away from the stranger’s grasp.

“We’re going,” he announces.

The guy you had just been kissing lets out some strangled sound, something to the effect of “what the hell, man,” but Mingyu can’t be bothered to stick around and clarify. He focuses on hauling your ass away, even as you begin to kick up a fuss. 

“But he said I was pretty—” you’re whining, the tone of your voice grating on every single one of Mingyu’s nerves. 

“Because you are pretty!” he snaps as he guides you through the crowd. “Don’t go around making out with anyone who compliments you. Jesus!”

Somehow, the two of you manage to spill out of the club. Mingyu has a white-knuckled grip on your shoulders as he attempts to push you forward, towards his car. 

You only add to his mounting annoyance when you dig the heels of your boots into the ground, keeping him from going any further. 

“For fuck’s sake—” Mingyu grumbles. “I swear to God, I will leave you. I’m going to leave you to your own devices in this parking lot, you leech.” 

“You wouldn’t,” you say shrilly. “You would never leave me!”

“I would,” he shoots back. He contemplates just throwing you over his shoulder and being done with it. 

That train of thought is swiftly interrupted by you spinning around to face him. You plant your hands on your hips, speaking surprisingly evenly for someone who looks drunk out of their mind. “I was having fun,” you sniffle. 

“And I was supposed to be asleep four hours ago,” he seethes. “Instead, I’m dealing with your bratty ass—” 

“I didn’t ask you to—” 

“Your mother asked me to—” 

“Well, she can go and—”

“Please!”

Mingyu huffs out the word with his whole chest. Honestly, at this point? He’s not above begging. He runs his hands over his face before wringing them together. 

“Can we just go home already?” he pleads. “I have to be up by six, and the student manager will have my neck if I’m late one more time. Please, please, please just get in my car already.” 

You only stare him down with that steely expression of yours. Once again, Mingyu toys with the idea of manhandling you into his backseat, until you speak up. 

“He said I was pretty,” you repeat, like that’s somehow the most important fact of the night. 

“You are,” he responds exasperatedly. 

“You’re lying,” you insist. It might be a trick of the light, a fleeting moment in the darkness of the otherwise empty parking lot, but Mingyu swears he sees a flicker of insecurity in your eyes.

You go on, “You’re just saying that. Unlike the guy back there, you don’t actually think—” 

“Oh my God. Fine. Fine. I don’t think you’re pretty!” Mingyu throws his hands up in the air in a gesture of defeat. 

You look like you’re about to deflate, but then he barrels on, going absolutely insane over this whole stupid affair. “I think you’re breathtaking. I think you’re the most gorgeous girl in the world,” he bites out. “But, holy shit, are you the most annoying one, too!”

If you’re surprised, there’s no indication of it in your expression. But your hands do drop from your sides, and you’re looking at Mingyu with a little less disdain than a couple of seconds ago. 

A beat. And then—

“You think I’m breathtaking?” you ask, the ghost of a smirk on your lips. 

To hell with it. Mingyu surges forward and wraps his arms around your waist, hauling you off the ground. 

You’re squealing and raining punches down his back the entire way to his car. 

▸ S01E05: THE ONE WITH THE MORNING AFTER. 

You wake up to the distinct smell of something warm and buttery wafting through the air, the scent tugging you out of your heavy slumber. 

Your head is pounding, and your throat feels like you swallowed a gallon of sandpaper, but worst of all, there’s a familiar sense of displacement— the kind that comes with waking up somewhere that isn’t your own bed.

Cracking one eye open, you’re met with the soft glow of morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains. It takes you a second, but then you recognize the room instantly: Mingyu’s apartment.

The realization doesn’t startle you as much as it should. In fact, you sigh, rolling onto your back and rubbing at your temple. It isn’t the first time you’ve found yourself here after a night out, though it’s usually because of some family event that went on too long rather than Mingyu being forced to drag your inebriated ass home.

Still, the headache and vague memories of last night are enough to sour your mood. You groan, sitting up and taking in your surroundings. Your shoes are neatly placed by the door. A bottle of water and a pack of painkillers sit on the nightstand, which you’re quick to grab. 

And then, there’s the smell. The one that pulled you out of sleep in the first place.

You shuffle out of bed and into the kitchen, where you find an actual, plated breakfast waiting for you on the counter. A plate of eggs, toast, and— because you assume Mingyu is still an insufferable health nut— a side of fruit. Stuck to the rim of the plate, a bright yellow Post-it with the worst handwriting known to mankind.

Stop drinking. -KMG

You find yourself staring at the plate longer than necessary. No matter how crude the note is, the fact remains: Mingyu cooked this. For you. Before his game.

There’s an uncomfortable flutter in your chest that you quickly stomp out.

Because sure, Mingyu cooked for you. Sure, he bought you medicine. But he also had the gall to leave you a rude Post-it note like the patronizing asshole that he is. You grab the note and crumple it in your fist before popping one of the painkillers in your mouth. You mutter “fuckin’ bitch” to no one in particular, but it lacks real venom.

Your thoughts are interrupted by your phone ringing. You frown before spotting Mingyu’s charger plugged into the wall, your phone attached to it. You don’t have time to unpack whatever that means, because your mother’s name flashes across the screen.

With a sigh, you answer. “Hello?”

“Where are you?” she asks, voice sharp with concern. “I tried calling last night, but your phone was off.”

“I was…” You hesitate, glancing at the breakfast on the counter. “With Mingyu.”

There’s no need for your mother to know where you really were dancing, who you’d spent the night flirting with. Hell, all of that is pretty much a blur at this point. The only thing left in your alcohol-addled mind is Mingyu calling you Cinderella, Mingyu’s hands on your shoulders, and… Did he carry you to his car? You’ll have to wheedle that information out of him later. 

Your mother’s reaction to your white lie is immediate. Her sigh of relief is so loud you have to pull the phone away from your ear. “Oh. That’s good,” she breathes. “At least I know you were in good hands.” The food in front of you suddenly looks much less appealing. Of course. Of course that’s all it takes for her to drop her interrogation. You could have told her you spent the night at any of your friends’ places, and she still would have had a million questions. But mention Mingyu, and suddenly she’s appeased.

“Yeah,” you say flatly. “Great hands.”

You don’t like it. You don’t like feeling indebted to him. You don’t like that he has that effect— not just on your mother, but on you, too.

As much as you want to brush it off, you can’t help but glance at the plate again, at the neatly arranged breakfast that he didn’t have to make, at the medicine he didn’t have to buy.

And that flutter? That stupid, tiny, treacherous flutter in your chest?

You shove it deep down where it belongs.

Meanwhile, Mingyu fights his own battles. On the field, he’s a wall. A force of nature.

His muscles burn. His mind is sharp. Every time the ball nears his goal, he’s already two steps ahead. The opposing team is relentless, throwing every tactic they can at him, but it doesn’t matter. Not today.

Today, Mingyu is untouchable.

The scouts on the sidelines are nodding, murmuring to each other with increasing interest. His teammates are exhilarated, feeding off his energy. Seungcheol is the first to voice it, panting as he jogs past the goal. “You’re playing like a fucking monster.”

Mingyu doesn’t answer, just adjusts his gloves and keeps his gaze locked on the field. Wonwoo watches him a beat longer, brow furrowed. “You’re not usually this aggressive.”

Mingyu exhales sharply. “Gotta keep the scouts entertained, don’t I?”

It’s a good enough excuse. No one questions him after that.

But the truth is, he knows exactly why he’s playing like this.

Because across the field is him— the guy from last night. The guy who got to kiss you, to touch you while Mingyu watched.

And the jerk looks perfectly fine. Well-rested, even. Ready to play.

Mingyu’s jaw tightens. 

When the next shot comes, he doesn’t just block it. He slaps it out of the air with enough force to send it soaring toward midfield. The sound of his palm meeting the ball echoes across the stadium. The forward who took the shot looks stunned; the murmurs from the scouts grow louder.

Seungcheol lets out a low whistle. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I like it.”

Mingyu exhales, flexing his fingers inside his gloves. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, but he’s locked in, focused. He doesn’t care how many more shots they take. None of them are getting past him today.

You’re not even here, but you might as well be by the way Mingyu thinks of you the entire damn time.

And if, after the final whistle blows and his team secures the win, he happens to walk past him with just a little too much shoulder in his stride? Well.

That’s just the cherry on top.

He feels proud. Vindicated. He revels in it for a full minute before— much like you— shoving the feeling as far away from him as possible. 

Now it’s even. Now, he doesn’t owe you a thing. 

▸ S01E06: THE ONE WITH THE PERFUME. 

Mingyu isn’t sure how he ended up in the fragrance section. 

The trip to the mall had a purpose— find a birthday gift for their student manager, someone patient enough to handle their chaos. Seungcheol was atrociously down bad for the girl, and was still trying to prove himself worthy of her time. 

Seungcheol, Wonwoo, and Vernon debate between a sleek planner and a wireless charger.

“The planner will help her deal with us,” Wonwoo pushes, “we’re always bombarding her with our schedules, anyway.” 

Vernon butts in. “Getting her a gift that benefits us is a shitty thing to do.” 

The man of the hour— Seungcheol, who is balancing the two gifts in his hands— gives the world’s shittiest suggestion. “Let’s just get both!”

As the three try to argue the merits of the gifts, Mingyu wanders off. For some reason, he finds himself drawn by the gleam of glass bottles and the faint hum of different scents in the air.

He has no business being here. Cologne isn’t something he puts much thought into; he has his one bottle, the same one he’s used for years, and it does the job. 

Still, his fingers ghost over the display, picking up a tester bottle without much thought. The label is understated. Minimalist design, black serif lettering against a frosted background. Expensive-looking. He presses down on the nozzle, sending a fine mist into the air.

The scent unfurls slowly. First, there’s a burst of something citrusy— bright, crisp, and fleeting. Then it settles into softer notes, something warm and clean, like white musk and fresh linen. 

But underneath, lingering just at the edge, is something else. Something vaguely floral, but not overpowering. A hint of jasmine, maybe, softened by vanilla.

His grip tightens around the tester. He’s suffered through this scent before.

It clings to his couch cushions, stubborn even after airing out his apartment. It lingers in his car, filling the spaces between his words when you're in the passenger seat. It’s in his hoodie the morning after you crash at his place, making his head turn before he remembers you’re already gone.

Mingyu frowns, inhaling again, as if the scent will offer up an explanation for why it pulls at something deep in his memory. 

Could it be your own perfume? Could your shampoo have the same notes? 

He debates it for a second. Buying the bottle, testing if it really does smell the same. If it would fade the same way, settle the same way. If it would remind him of you just as much.

And then— what the hell is he doing? 

Mingyu sets down the tester bottle, clicking the cap back on. He tries to chalk it up to curiosity. That has to be it. He’s a man of logic, someone who likes to confirm hypotheses like whether this inconspicuous bottle of perfume is the same as his arch rival’s. 

That’s all there is to it, he thinks, as he stalks back over to his teammates. A verdict has been reached: Seungcheol will get her the planner. The charger will be halved three-way by Mingyu, Vernon, and Wonwoo. 

“Where’d you go?” Wonwoo inquires. 

“Nowhere,” Mingyu answers, even though his mind is still on the stupid smell. 

He wipes at his wrist like that might help him get rid of the thought of you. 

(In the other side of the mall—) 

▸ S01E07: THE ONE WITH THE SHOPPING TRIP. 

You love shopping. 

Not just for the thrill of it or the satisfaction of walking out of a store with a new find, but because it’s part of your studies. As a business major with a minor in fashion design, you don’t just see clothes. You see craftsmanship, marketability, trends, and the little details that separate the exceptional from the ordinary.

Which is why you don’t take it lightly when a saleslady looks down on you.

It starts with the way she barely glances at you when you step into the boutique, her gaze flickering from your casual outfit to the more expensively dressed customers lingering by the racks. She doesn’t offer a greeting, doesn’t ask if you need help, just wrongly assumes that you’re not worth her time.

You brush it off at first. It’s not the first time someone has made a snap judgment about you, and it won’t be the last. But then, as you pull a dress from the rack, inspecting the stitching along the seams, you hear her scoff.

“That one’s a little out of budget, don’t you think?” she says, her voice coated in artificial sweetness.

You arch a brow, turning the dress over in your hands. It’s a designer piece, sure, but it’s not about the price. It’s about the construction, and this one? Overpriced for what it offers. You could name at least three brands that do a better job at a fraction of the cost.

Instead of rising to the bait, you hum thoughtfully. “The stitching here is uneven,” you muse, holding the fabric up to the light. “And the lining? They cut costs with synthetic blends when they should have used silk. The structure won’t hold up after a few wears.”

The saleslady falters, clearly unprepared for an actual critique. You don’t stop there.

“For the price, I’d expect better craftsmanship. If you’re going to charge this much, at least make sure the dress can justify it.”

A beat of silence. Then, another voice chimes in— a stranger, another customer, who suddenly looks interested in what you have to say. “That’s actually a good point,” she murmurs, inspecting her own dress more closely.

The saleslady’s expression tightens, and she suddenly looks less inclined to speak. You hide a smirk, setting the dress back on the rack.

You love shopping. But more than that, you love knowing exactly what you’re talking about.

The next store is quieter, more minimalist, with racks of clothing spaced out deliberately to give each piece a sense of importance. You skim through them idly until something catches your eye.

A shirt. Simple, well-tailored, the kind of thing that would sit well on broad shoulders. 

Mingyu’s shoulders.

You wrinkle your nose at the thought. The idea of picking something out for him makes your stomach turn, and yet… you keep looking at it. It’s a nice color, something that would complement his skin tone. The fit would be flattering. It’s practical, stylish, something he could wear effortlessly.

You chalk it up to habit. It’s the same as when you find a cute piece that would suit a mannequin perfectly. Just another exercise in styling. Nothing more.

Besides, if you bought it, it wouldn’t be for him. It would be for the sake of aesthetics. Like dressing up a doll. Or— better yet— like charity.

Yes. That’s all it is. You like knowing what you’re talking about, and this is just a manifestation of it. 

You grab the shirt, holding it up for a final once-over before tossing it into your basket. If anything, you can pass it off as a Christmas gift. That’s reasonable. Normal, even. No big deal.

But then you see a sweater that would pair well with it. And a jacket that’s undeniably his style. And before you know it, your basket is full.

It’s only when you’re standing in line to pay that it truly hits you.

What the hell are you doing?

Your grip tightens around the handle of the basket, heart hammering in your chest. You stare at the pile of clothes— clothes for Mingyu— and feel a wave of unease creep up your spine. This is not normal. This is not something you do.

You were supposed to get one thing. One. Now you’re standing here like some deranged personal shopper, about to spend money on a man you claim to tolerate at best.

No. Absolutely not.

You step out of the line, return to the racks, and unceremoniously dump the basket’s contents back where they belong. One by one, you rid yourself of every last piece until there’s nothing left.

Your heart is still racing by the time you exit the store. You need a spa day. Desperately.

▸ S01E08: THE ONE WITH THE GAME. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Mingyu stares from across the field, frozen in place as his teammates jog past him. The pregame warmups blur into the background because there you are, sitting in the stands. Willingly.

It shouldn’t be a big deal, shouldn’t mean anything, but it does. Because in all the years he’s known you, you’ve never voluntarily attended one of his games. Not without some level of coercion. Not without at least thirty minutes of complaining.

And yet, here you are.

Unfortunately, you also stick out like a sore thumb.

He sees you draped in obnoxiously bright colors, layered in mismatched school merch like someone who got dressed in the dark— or someone trying too hard to look like they belong. The cap, the oversized hoodie, the scarf, all of it is excessive.

The worst part? It works.

Because even from across the field, even as his teammates stretch and the crowd chatters, Mingyu sees you. And now he can’t unsee you.

He ignores the cheerleaders calling his name. Ignores the people waving at him, the fans holding up banners with his number. Ignores the way his coach is probably going to yell at him later for getting distracted before the game.

Instead, he heads straight for you.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demands, stopping just short of the stands.

You lower your phone, where you’d clearly been snapping photos, and peer down at him like he’s the one acting weird. “Your mom asked me to take photos of you,” you reply, voice maddeningly nonchalant. “Don’t lose.”

Mingyu scoffs. “Don’t tell me what to do.” Then, a beat later, he petulantly adds, “Also, I never lose.”

You roll your eyes, already angling your phone for another shot, but Mingyu doesn’t move just yet. The fact remains; you’re here, looking infuriatingly good, and he’s going to spend the next 90 minutes fighting for his life. He can’t decide if that’s a good or bad thing. 

Either way, he knows one thing for sure: He really, really can’t afford to lose.

But he does.

It’s a hard-fought game, and Mingyu plays like a man possessed. He dives for impossible saves, yells orders at his defenders, and shuts down shot after shot. The crowd roars every time he denies the other team, and for most of the match, it looks like his team might just scrape by with a win.

Then, in the final minutes, everything falls apart.

A miscalculated pass. A stolen ball. A breakaway that happens too fast.

Mingyu sees it unfold in real-time, feels the moment slip through his fingers before it even happens. He charges forward, determined to cut off the angle, to make himself big, to stop the shot. But the ball soars past him, hitting the back of the net with a deafening thud.

The stadium erupts. The other team celebrates. And Mingyu, chest heaving, fists clenched, can only stare as the scoreboard confirms it.

A one-point lead. Game over.

He barely hears the whistle. Barely registers his teammates patting his back, muttering things like You did great and We’ll get them next time. None of it matters. Because he lost. Because he let that shot in. 

Because somewhere in the stands, you saw him fail.

He drags his gloves off, jaw tight, shoulders tense. He doesn’t want to look up. Doesn’t want to see if you’re still watching. 

Against his better judgment, his gaze lifts toward the stands anyway.

There you are, camera in hand, expression unreadable. Of all his losses that day, that was the one that inexplicably ticked him off the most. The fact that you weren’t smiling, weren’t frowning. You were just… watching. He’s never been able to read your mind, but he despises that inability the most today. 

Mingyu exhales sharply, looks away, and storms off the field.

He doesn’t expect you to wait for him outside the locker room. You’re there anyway when he steps out, your arms crossed and your lips pursed. He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t acknowledge you beyond the look he shoots your way; you have to take large steps in your ridiculous heels just to keep up with his pace. He feels like a hurricane— one that’s about to sweep through your stoicism, about to leave significant collateral damage. 

“Come on, then,” he mutters, shoving his duffel strap higher onto his shoulder. “Tell me just how shitty I am.”

“Excuse me?”

He lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “You must be dying to rub it in my face. Go ahead. Get it over with.”

You frown. “What the hell is your problem?”

That sets him off.

“My problem?” he snaps, finally stopping in his tracks to glare at you properly. You follow suit, and it amuses him for a fraction of a second— just how easily he towers over you. “I just lost a game, in case you missed that part while taking your stupid pictures.”

You scoff, fully displeased now. “Are you serious? You think I came here just to laugh at you?” 

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” His voice is sharp, low. “You’ve never had a problem making fun of me before.”

Your jaw clenches. 

“No need to make me your punching bag, Kim.” In turn— your tone is piercing, almost hurt. “I came here to comfort you. I’m not the fucking devil you make me out to be.”

The words hit harder than they should.

The weight of the loss still clings to him, frustration simmering beneath his skin. His hands are still balled into fists, his shoulders locked up so tight they ache. But the way you say it, the unexpected offense in your voice, makes something in him falter.

He rubs a hand over his face. The hurricane in him quiets, runs out of rain. “Yeah.” His voice is quieter now. “Sorry.”

You roll your eyes. Really, you have every right to give him more shit; he knows he deserves it. “You I should just leave you here to wallow.” You make a grand show of turning away— really, you have every right to give him more shit; he knows he deserves it. 

But then you glance at him over your shoulder. “Since I’m feeling benevolent, I’ll treat you to a meal.”

Mingyu stares at you like you’ve lost your mind. “You?” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “Treating me? Are you dying?”

“Maybe,” you deadpan. “From secondhand embarrassment.”

He lets out a sharp exhale, something between a huff and a chuckle. “Wow. Real comforting.”

You shrug. “I never said I was good at comfort,” you snipe, and he knows that much is true.

Somehow, that’s how he finds himself behind the wheel of his car, hands gripping the steering wheel. He’s still mildly dazed as he glances over at you in his passenger seat. He doesn’t remember actually agreeing to this. He doesn’t remember deciding to take you to his favorite restaurant. And yet here you are, scrolling through your phone like this is the most normal thing in the world.

For the first five minutes, the drive is quiet. Mingyu fiddles with the AC, rolls his shoulders, frowns at the road ahead. But the longer you sit there, humming under your breath, mindlessly playing with the hem of your sleeve, the more it starts to sink in.

This is the first time the two of you have willingly shared a meal together.

Not because of mutual friends. Not because of a group project or an event neither of you could get out of. Not because your parents forced you into it.

Just… because.

It’s the strangest possible way for Mingyu to have possibly ended the night. 

He spares you another glance as he pulls into the parking lot. “You better not complain about the food,” he warns, “or I’m leaving you here.”

Of course, that gives you the leeway to complain, bitching about things like sanitation and standards for cuisine. He tunes it out like he often does, instead trying to figure out how the hell he ended up here. 

Here, sitting across from you in a restaurant that he usually only visits with his teammates. It felt like a fever dream to approach the host stand and ask for a table for two; his voice had come out a little too uncertain, like he couldn’t quite believe the words himself.

The host had seated you without question, handing you both menus before disappearing, leaving Mingyu to sit there and take in the absurdity of the situation. You, sitting across from him, elbows on the table, flipping through the menu like this is any other meal with any other person.

His mind flickers, unbidden, to a thought: Are you like this on all dates?

Then, he scowls. No. This is not a date.

“Alright, what am I getting?” you ask, still scanning the menu. “You’re the one who dragged me here, might as well give me a solid recommendation.”

Mingyu raises a brow. “I dragged you here? You were the one who insisted on treating me.”

“Tomato, tomahto.” You shoot him a sharp glare, as if his insolence was something that caused offense. “Just tell me what’s good.”

He studies you for a second like he’s waiting for the punchline. When you just blink back expectantly, he sighs, resigning himself to whatever surreal alternate reality this is. “Get the beef stew,” he finally says. “And the garlic rice. You’ll thank me later.”

To his surprise, you actually listen. He half-expected you to ignore him just to be difficult.

The conversation that follows is easy in a way that confuses him. You bicker, naturally, but it’s mostly over trivial things— your tragic lack of appreciation for his taste in sports documentaries, the way he insists that pineapple on pizza is a crime against humanity. Nothing about the game, nothing about his loss, nothing about the way frustration still lingers in the tightness of his jaw.

Instead, you seem content commenting on the restaurant itself, mentioning how you like the warm lighting, how the playlist is surprisingly good. And then there’s the way you eat. Without rush, without any of the absentmindedness he sometimes sees when you’re multitasking with your phone. You actually appreciate the food, nodding approvingly after each bite like you’re mentally scoring it.

Somewhere between your satisfied hums and the way you swipe an extra spoonful of his rice when you think he’s not looking, Mingyu realizes something strange: You’re actually enjoying this.

And, maybe, so is he.

It’s disorienting, how quickly the irritation from earlier has faded.

He tries to remind himself of the reasons you’re infuriating. That you’re picky about things that don’t matter, that you have a bad habit of being late, that you roll your eyes too much, that—

But every thought is immediately met with another. That you actually care about things enough to be picky. That you only run late when you’ve lost track of time doing something you love. That you roll your eyes, sure, but you also laugh, also banter, also make things more interesting.

Mingyu stares at you for a moment, something warm settling into his chest.

By the end of the dinner, he’s forgotten why he was so upset in the first place.

▸ S01E09: THE ONE WITH THE HIGH SCHOOL REUNION. 

The party is already in full swing by the time you and Mingyu arrive. 

It’s the usual reunion scene— too many people packed into a house slightly too small for the occasion, music loud enough to drown out the conversations but not enough to stop them altogether, and a lingering smell of something fried mixed with overpriced cologne.

You’re still annoyed. Annoyed because Mingyu had, with all the grace of a wrecking ball, insulted your outfit on the drive here. Something about how your skirt was too short and your heels were impractical for a house party. As if he was some kind of fashion authority.

“Thanks for the unsolicited advice, asswipe,” you had snapped back, crossing your arms and staring out the window. He only scoffed in response, muttering something about not wanting to be responsible if you tripped and broke your ankle.

Now, hours later, you’re still disgruntled about it. You refuse to think about how, deep down, it had been less about disapproval and more about the way his gaze had lingered. 

That would be a problem for another time. Maybe never.

You make your way to the kitchen, eyeing the assortment of drinks lined up on the counter. A bottle of something expensive-looking catches your attention. You grab it, twisting the cap with determination, but it refuses to budge. You try again, gripping it tighter, but all you manage is an embarrassing squeak of effort.

“Seriously?” you mutter under your breath, frustration bubbling up.

Before you can attempt another futile try, a large hand appears in your periphery. The bottle is plucked effortlessly from your grip. In one swift motion, Mingyu twists the cap open like it was nothing. No struggle, no hesitation, no unnecessary flexing. Just pure efficiency.

He doesn’t even smirk. Doesn’t gloat or tease you like you expect him to. He just hands the bottle back to you before turning away as if it had never happened.

You blink. Then blink again.

The room suddenly feels a little warmer. Must be the alcohol in the air. Or the heater. Or—

Oh, God.

With absolute horror, you realize Mingyu was kind of hot for that.

You take a generous swig from the bottle, hoping it burns away whatever ridiculous thought just took root in your brain. Unfortunately, the warmth spreading through you has absolutely nothing to do with the alcohol.

You take another sip, then another, letting the burn of the drink ground you. It’s fine. It’s whatever. You’ll drink and have fun and not think about the way Mingyu’s hand had so easily dwarfed yours when he took the bottle from you.

You wander back toward the living room, where clusters of people are chatting, laughing, reliving the glory days. Just as you settle into the buzz of the atmosphere, you catch Mingyu’s name being thrown around in a conversation nearby. You don’t mean to eavesdrop— okay, maybe you do a little— but something about the way his voice carries through the room makes you pause.

“Not drinking tonight?” You hear someone ask him.

“Nah,” Mingyu replies, nonchalant. “I’m her designated driver.”

Your stomach does a weird little flip.

Well, then.

If that’s the case, if Mingyu’s already consigned himself to the role of responsibility, then there’s absolutely no reason for you to hold back.

You tilt your head back, take another sip. Then another.

A warmth spreads through your limbs, but whether it’s from the alcohol or the fact that you now have free rein to drink without consequence, you’re not sure. You tell yourself it’s definitely the alcohol, though. Because the alternative— the thought that it has anything to do with Mingyu— just isn’t an option. Not tonight.

The alcohol has settled comfortably in your veins by the time the dancing starts. The living room has been cleared to make space, furniture pushed against the walls. Now the music pulses louder, the bass vibrating through the floor. 

You’re laughing with old friends, moving with the rhythm, when you feel a sharp tug at the hem of your skirt.

You whirl around, already prepared to snap at whoever dared, only to come face-to-face with Mingyu. He’s standing there, a frown on his face. He leans in slightly, voice low but clear over the music. “I told you it was too short.”

You blink at him, thrown off by the way his fingers had just been on you, tugging fabric downward like it was some sort of personal mission. Something fizzes beneath your skin, something that has nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the fact that Mingyu— annoying, overbearing Kim Mingyu— is looking at you like that.

It’d been such a boyfriend move. You force yourself not to dwell on it. 

You don’t know what compels you, but maybe you’re just tipsy enough. Maybe you want to make him suffer. 

You suddenly reach out, looping your arms around Mingyu’s neck. His whole body goes stiff, his eyes widening in immediate suspicion.

“Dance with me,” you say, tilting your head, voice syrupy with tipsiness and mischief.

Mingyu shakes his head, already taking a step back. “Absolutely not.”

You grin and pull him right back in. “You sure? ‘Cause I know things, Kim. Lots of things.”

“Are you blackmailing me?” he squeaks. 

You sway closer, pretending to consider it. “It’s more of a… strategic incentive.”

A battle wars in his eyes. But then, with a low ‘tch’ and a mutter of “You’re insufferable,” Mingyu lets your grip pull him in. 

The moment is bizarre. 

His hands find their place— one cautiously at your waist, the other hovering near your shoulder like he’s afraid to touch too much. You move to the beat, feeling the heat of him through his shirt, the solid press of his frame against yours. 

It’s ridiculous. It’s stupid.

It’s also the best decision you’ve made all night.

The song shifts into something heavier, the bass thrumming through your chest, the kind of music meant for bad decisions and blurred memories. Mingyu hasn’t bolted yet, which is a miracle in itself. He’s actually keeping up with you, moving in sync, matching your rhythm with ease. It’s unexpected, the way he doesn’t seem like he hates this, like he’s maybe— God forbid— having fun.

You scoff at the thought, but the amusement lingers. The insults come easy, natural, tossed between the two of you like a ball neither wants to drop.

“You dance like an old man,” you tease, voice warm with liquor.

“And you dance like you’re trying to summon a demon,” he shoots back.

You laugh, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. Maybe it’s the dim lighting or maybe it’s the alcohol, but Mingyu’s gaze doesn’t seem as sharp as it usually does. His grip on your waist is firm but not forceful, like he’s not entirely opposed to being here, to this, to you.

It’s too easy to forget that this is Mingyu, that this is the same guy who has made a sport out of getting under your skin. Because right now, he’s just a tall, ridiculously handsome man who happens to be an unfairly good dancer.

The thought sneaks up on you before you can fight it. If he wasn’t Mingyu...

The words slip out before you register them. “I wonder what I’d do if you weren’t you.”

Mingyu’s eyebrows raise. “What?” His voice is a little rough around the edges, and far too sober.

Shit. 

You blink rapidly, force a laugh, and shake your head as if you can brush it off. “Nothing. Ignore me.”

But the thing is— you can’t ignore it. 

Because somewhere, in the back of your mind, you’re already picturing it. A world where Mingyu isn’t Mingyu, where he’s just some stranger with sharp eyes and broad shoulders who smells good and dances well, who looks at you like he’s actually seeing you.

A world where you wouldn’t have to fight every instinct telling you to lean in.

Eventually, your feet start to protest. You’re wearing heels that were never meant for this much standing, much less dancing. You haven’t even said anything about it, but your expression must be reflecting your discomfort and your frustration. Mingyu sighs like you’ve personally ruined his night before crouching down and unlacing his sneakers.

“What are you doing?” you ask laughingly as he kicks them off, right there on the fringes of the dance floor. 

“Giving you my shoes,” he says, like it’s obvious, shoving them toward you. “I’m not carrying you to the car.”

You snort. “You’d probably drop me anyway.”

“Exactly.” He watches as you swap out your heels for his much-too-big sneakers, which make you feel ridiculous but are, admittedly, a godsend.

You don’t realize until you’re halfway to the car that Mingyu is walking in only his socks, completely unbothered. You slide into the passenger seat, tipsy and warm and just self-aware enough to realize something terrible is happening.

You are warming up to Mingyu.

It hits you like a truck.

Mingyu, your mortal enemy. Mingyu, who has annoyed you since childhood. Mingyu, who insults your outfits and steals your food and opens your drinks without a second thought.

Your head lolls against the seat as you stare at him in horror, combing through the memories, trying to pinpoint exactly when this started going wrong.

By the time he pulls up in front of your house, you’ve made a decision.

You need to stop being too nice to him.

▸ S01E10: THE ONE WITH THE TEAM LUNCH. 

Mingyu is halfway through his second helping of rice when he hears it— the unmistakable sound of his personal hell approaching. 

He doesn’t even have to look up to know it’s you. The dramatic click of your heels, the way the conversation at the cafeteria table shifts just slightly, the exasperated sigh that escapes Wonwoo before you even arrive.

And then, as expected—

“Kim.”

Mingyu exhales sharply through his nose. He doesn’t know what you want, but if the past few weeks have been anything to go by, it’s nothing good. Ever since the high school reunion, you’ve been nothing short of a menace.

He still doesn’t know what changed that night, but suddenly, you’ve taken it upon yourself to be the most irksome person in his life. There was the time you texted him an obnoxious amount of links to ugly sneakers after he’d lent you his at the party. The time you “accidentally” swapped his shampoo for some floral-scented one that lingered in his hair for days. The time you sent him a video of him losing his last match, edited with clown music in the background.

He finally looks up from his food, expression already set in a scowl. You’re standing at the edge of their table, arms crossed, a shit-eating grin plastered on your face. Seungcheol, Vernon, and Wonwoo all look between the two of you like they’re watching a horror movie unfold in real-time.

“What do you want?” Mingyu asks, voice flat.

You feign offense, placing a hand over your chest. “Can’t I just stop by to say hello?”

“No.”

Vernon snorts, covering his mouth with his hand. Seungcheol nudges him under the table, but he’s grinning, too.

“You wound me, Kim.” You pull out the chair beside him and sit down like you belong there. “But fine, I do need something.”

Mingyu rolls his eyes, shoving another bite of food into his mouth before jerking his chin at you. “Then spit it out already.”

“I need a favor.”

Mingyu groans. “No. Absolutely not.”

“You don’t even know what it is yet!”

“I don’t need to know what it is.” He glares at you. “It’s a no.”

Wonwoo sighs, setting his chopsticks down. “Just let her talk, Mingyu. We’d like to finish our meal in peace.”

Mingyu gestures wildly. “I would like to finish my meal in peace!”

You pat his shoulder condescendingly. “This is more important than your third bowl of rice.”

He swats your hand away. “It’s my second bowl—”

“Not the point,” you cut in. “Listen, I just need—”

Mingyu groans again, slumping back in his chair, already regretting every choice that led to this moment. He knows, deep in his soul, that whatever you’re about to ask is going to be something ridiculous.

And yet, for some godforsaken reason, he doesn’t immediately tell you to leave.

“I need help moving some furniture.”

Mingyu blinks. “That’s it?”

“Yes, that’s it,” you deadpan. “Are you going to help or not?”

He stares at you. It’s one of those things that’d be a given for anybody else. Mingyu was the type of friend who would drive someone to the airport, would help someone move, would cook if someone was sick. Those were things he’d do for someone he was friends with— something the two of you were decisively not.

“And why, exactly, would I do that?” he challenges. 

“Because you owe me?”

He lets out a laugh. “I owe you?”

“Yes, for—” you flounder for a reason, “—for existing, Kim Mingyu. Do you know how exhausting that is?”

Unconvincing to a fault. Mingyu is half-tempted to call you out for being a spoiled brat, but he’s not interested in escalating this argument in front of his team. 

“Not my problem,” he settles on saying. 

“You’re the fucking worst.”

“And yet, here you are.”

The two of you go back and forth like that, the jabs mostly inoffensive and subjective. Mingyu is vaguely aware of Seungcheol pinching his nose like he’s nursing a , Vernon sipping his drink as if watching a spectacle, and Wonwoo calmly chewing his food, unfazed.

Finally, Seungcheol decides he’s had enough. 

“Both of you,” he interjects, voice firm. “Can you stop fighting for five minutes?”

To Mingyu’s shock, you actually fall silent. You roll your eyes but begrudgingly listen, arms still tightly crossed. 

Mingyu scoffs. “Oh, so you can listen to people,” he mutters. “Didn’t know you were capable of being nice.”

Your head snaps toward him. “I am capable of being nice. Just not to you.”

“Right, because you’re a little devil sent from hell just to ruin my life.”

“Your life was already in shambles before I showed up. Don’t blame me.”

The bickering immediately picks back up, much to the dismay of Mingyu’s teammates. Vernon exhales dramatically. “Mamma mia,” he sing-songs jokingly to Wonwoo, “here we go again.” 

You suddenly reach out, snatch a piece of Mingyu’s pork right off his plate, and pop it into your mouth as you ready to leave. His jaw drops; he’s stolen your food a fair amount, but you’ve never done it to him. “Hey—”

You’re already turning on your heel and walking away, not sparing him another glance. “Thanks for absolutely nothing,” you chirp.

Mingyu watches, speechless at the petulant display.

“Did she—” he starts, then stops. His grip tightens around his chopsticks. None of his teammates push, all too wary of the dark look that passes over his expression. Seungcheol promptly tries to change the topic. 

Mingyu finishes his meal in a foul mood, stabbing at his food with unnecessary force.

He doesn’t understand why you’ve gotten so absurd with him lately. Every interaction with you feels like a new test of patience, like one day you just woke up and decided to amp up all the ways you could make him miserable. He had almost started to believe, for one fleeting second, that maybe, maybe you weren’t that bad.

But no. The night at the reunion was just a fluke— when you’d danced together and he’d privately thought it was something he could get used to.

You were always meant to be his worst nightmare, and he resolves that he’s not waking up any time soon. 

▸ S01E11: THE ONE WITH THE REASON. 

The joint family meal is as lively as ever, voices overlapping in conversation, laughter ringing between bites of food. You, as always, have taken it upon yourself to make Mingyu’s life difficult today.

“Wow, even you managed to show up on time for once,” you remark as he slides into the seat across from you. “Did hell freeze over?”

Mingyu shoots you a deadpan look, clearly not in the mood for your antics. “Not today, Satan.”

You grin, but there’s something off about him. He doesn’t come back with anything more biting, doesn’t engage in the usual back-and-forth. His shoulders are tense, and there’s a blankness to his gaze that makes you wonder.

Your mother places a generous serving of food onto your plate, and you idly push some rice around with your chopsticks, gaze flickering toward him again. “What, got scolded for being too slow on the field?”

Mingyu finally looks at you properly. His frustration is clear. “Can you not today?” His voice is quieter than you expect, worn at the edges. “I had a shitty day at training, and I really don’t have the energy for you right now.”

The words catch you off guard. You could leave it at that, let him have his peace for once. A part of you— one you stubbornly refuse to acknowledge— almost wants to ask why, wants to pry into what’s bothering him and offer something resembling comfort.

Instead, you shove that impulse down. Whatever this is, whatever softening that night at the reunion did to you, needs to be stomped out immediately. 

So you double down.

You spear a piece of your meat a little too forcefully. “Right, because I’m the problem here. You always find a way to suck at things all on your own.”

Mingyu’s expression shutters. For the first time ever— in all of your interactions with him— you feel something unpleasant coil in your stomach. He shakes his head and then goes back to eating without another word.

There’s a small, screeching voice in the back of your head that wants to demand an explanation. Not for Mingyu’s dismal mood, no, but for that flicker of disappointment that’d passed his face when he shook his head. 

Why would he be disappointed over your cruelty? Why would he expect anything else from you? 

The rest of the meal passes without his usual jabs in return, and you tell yourself that’s a victory. It feels like anything but.

As dessert is doled out, your mother calls out to the pair of you. “You two, go somewhere else for a while. The adults need to discuss business.”

You open your mouth to protest. You’re both adults already; surely you and Mingyu could sit in, rather than be forced into yet another awkward situation neither of you can run from.

But Mingyu is already pushing his chair back with a grumbled “fine.” The look your mother shoots you indicates that this is not about to be up for debate. You follow Mingyu out, both of you stepping into the cool evening air. 

The restaurant’s outdoor area has an old playground— rusting swing sets, a chipped slide, and monkey bars that have seen better days. You walk ahead and hop onto a swing, the chains creaking slightly as you push off the ground.

Mingyu stands nearby, watching you for a moment. “Didn’t take you for the type to get sentimental,” he snorts, and that slight edge in his tone gives you just a bit of hope that he doesn’t completely despise you. 

“I’m not. I just need somewhere to sit that’s far away from you,” you say matter-of-factly. 

He huffs but doesn’t argue. Instead, he heads towards the monkey bars. He grips one, testing his weight against the metal. “Remember when you got stuck on these in second grade?” he asks as he free-hangs. 

“I wasn’t stuck,” you sniffle in protest. “I was strategizing.”

Mingyu lets out a bark of laughter. “Strategizing how to fall on your ass?”

You drag the tip of your shoe against the dirt, narrowing your eyes. “If I recall correctly, you weren’t any help. You just laughed at me until my dad had to come pull me down.”

“Hey, in my defense, it was funny.” He swings himself onto the lowest bar, legs dangling. “You had snot running down your face and everything.”

You lunge half-heartedly to kick at his shin, but he pulls his leg away just in time. There’s a beat of silence, the air filled with the distant chatter of your families inside. It’s strange, this reminiscing. The usual bite to your exchanges is still there, but it’s smooth around the edges, tinged with something dangerously close to fondness.

Mingyu exhales, gaze fixed on some nondescript point in the distance. You think he’s gearing up for his next jab about something. Probably your embarrassing high school days, or that one summer vacation you hate talking about. Instead— 

“Why aren’t we friends?” he asks. His voice is quiet, thoughtful. 

You blink. The question is so absurd it momentarily stuns you. “What?”

“I mean,” he shifts, “we’ve known each other our whole lives. Shouldn’t we— I don’t know— be close?”

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was teasing. But the question doesn’t sound rhetorical, and he seems almost wistful. 

You hate it. 

You hate him. 

Your chest tightens, unbidden memories surfacing. There were plenty of reasons. The bickering, the competition. But at the core of it, there was one moment. One day that cemented everything in place, whether Mingyu realized it or not.

You were seven. It was summer, the sun blazing high as the neighborhood kids gathered for a game of soccer. Everyone had been split into teams, and you had waited, jittery with anticipation, as Mingyu— the fastest, the strongest, the boy everyone wanted to follow— started picking players. 

One by one, he called out names, grinning as kids ran to his side. You had stood there, heart pounding, willing him to say your name next. You were family friends! Sure, you were a girl, but surely Mingyu could see how fast and strong you were, too. 

In the end, Mingyu had picked everyone but you. When there was no one left, you had been shuffled onto the other team by default. You still remembered the sting of it. The two of you were already acquainted, and yet he hadn’t even seen you as an option. 

It was stupid. It was petty. And yet, that wound had never quite healed. Everything that came after was just a domino effect after that. 

If you were a little meaner to Mingyu than you had to be, if you were much more curt and snappy with him than you were with anyone else? It all came back to that. That moment where Mingyu hadn’t seen you— worse. 

He had pretended not to. 

You swallow, dragging yourself back to the present. Mingyu is watching you expectantly, waiting for an answer.

“Because you didn’t pick me,” you say at last, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “That one time.” 

Mingyu’s brows knit together. “What?” he asks, and it feels like a punch in the gut. 

The look of confusion on Mingyu’s face— you don’t know if it’s a curse or a blessing. He doesn’t remember. Of course he doesn’t. Why would he? 

But you do. You remember, and you hold on to it for the lack of a better thing to hold on to. 

Hating Mingyu is easy. Seeing him in any other light takes work, and you’re tired of trying to figure that out. 

Mingyu opens his mouth. For a second, it looks like he might protest. His brows pull together, his lips part, and there’s something foreign in his expression— something that makes your stomach twist uncomfortably. But before he can say anything, you hear your mother beckoning for you from the restaurant. 

You stand up and brush nonexistent dust off your clothes. “Well, that’s my cue,” you say airily, praying to any higher power at all that Mingyu won’t call out the way your voice shakes. Just a little bit. 

Instead, he remains by the monkey bars, watching you with an impassive look on his face. You can feel the weight of his stare even as you turn away. 

You hesitate for half a second before glancing back at him. “We’re probably better off this way,” you say, because you always have to have the last word. 

His grip tightens around the swing’s chains, knuckles going white. There’s a pause. 

Then, finally, he nods. A jerky, forced thing.

“Yeah,” he says, voice strangely even. “Probably.”

You don’t acknowledge the way the word sits heavy between you, don’t let yourself linger on the way it sounds more like reluctant acceptance than agreement. Instead, you pretend not to hear it at all, turning on your heel and walking back toward the restaurant. 

Hating Mingyu is easy. It’s all you’re good for. As you leave him standing alone, you hope it feels a little bit like that day in your childhood— when you’d been the name he hadn’t called. 

▸ S01E12: THE ONE WITH THE SMILE. 

Mingyu doesn’t get it.

He’s been off his game for days. 

It’s not an injury. It’s not exhaustion. He’s been training the same way, eating the same meals, sleeping the same hours. And yet his shots don’t land the same. His passes are sloppy. He misses easy blocks he could have made blindfolded.

It pisses him off.

The ball soars past him yet again, hitting the back of the net with a dull thud. Vernon cheers and Wonwoo does a victory lap. Mingyu just stands there, hands on his hips, jaw locked tight. His fingers twitch at his sides, itching to punch the goalpost out of sheer frustration.

Seungcheol, ever the captain, jogs over. “That’s enough,” he barks, voice edged with authority. 

Mingyu bites the inside of his cheek. He knows what’s coming for him, and yet he still tries to protest.  “One more round.”

“No. You’re done.” Seungcheol’s tone leaves no room for argument. “Go home. Figure out whatever’s got you playing like shit and come back when your head’s on straight.”

Mingyu has to bite back the retort that he’s not playing like shit, that he does have his head on straight. The numbers don’t lie. There’s no talking his way out of this one. With a sharp exhale, he yanks off his gloves and stalks off the field, muttering curses under his breath.

As he grabs his bag and heads toward the exit, he runs through every possible reason for his sudden slump. 

Training? No. Diet? No. Stress? Maybe, but it’s never affected him like this before.

You?

You’ve been distant ever since that night at the playground. The constant quips, the snarky remarks, the way you always seemed to find a reason to pester him— it’s all dialed down to nearly nothing. 

It should be a relief. He should be thriving with all this newfound peace and quiet.

Instead, he’s a goddamn mess. 

Mingyu kicks a stray rock on the pavement as he walks to his car. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get you. And worse, he doesn’t get why it bothers him so damn much.

It’s entirely by accident, how he ends up spotting you. Maybe it’s some form of twisted divine intervention, some cruel twist of fate. 

He’s at a red light, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, when he happens to glance to the side. And there you are, ripped right out of his scrambled brain, standing outside a café with a group of friends.

You’re wearing one of those preppy outfits he always mocks you for, all pristine pleats and crisp collars. It’s the kind of thing he’d usually say makes you look like you stepped straight out of some rich kid catalog. He tucks away the insult in his mind, filed for the next time you annoy him.

But then—

You’re laughing. Your head tilts back; your eyes crinkle at the corners. The street lights catch on the soft highlights in your hair, the gentle slope of your nose, the flush on your cheeks from whatever ridiculous joke was just told. 

You look light. At ease. So effortlessly happy.

Mingyu watches, unseen, his grip tightening on the steering wheel.

He’s seen you smirk, seen you grin in that infuriating, self-satisfied way when you get under his skin. He’s seen you scoff, roll your eyes, pout. But he doesn’t think he’s ever seen you smile like that in front of him.

And what’s worse—

Why does he want it?

He presses on the gas pedal once the light turns green. By the time he pulls into his parking lot, his mind is still spinning. He kills the engine but doesn’t move, just sits there, glaring at the wall in front of him.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees it. A stray hair tie, wedged between the seats. One of yours.

He stares at it, his brain stalling. The last time you sat in his passenger seat… when was that? His mind scrambles, trying to pinpoint the moment, but he comes up empty. The fact that he doesn’t know unsettles him more than it should.

Something else comes, too. A stupid, fleeting burst of happiness. An excuse to message you, to return it, to say something anything just to get you talking to him again.

The realization slams into him all at once.

His frustration. His inability to focus. The way your absence has been gnawing at him. The way your happiness without him made his chest ache.

Mingyu slumps forward in his seat, his forehead resting against his steering wheel. 

Not even the screeching sound of his horn is able to drag him out of the horrific realization that he’s off his game because he likes you.

He likes you, the one person in the world he shouldn’t. The one person in the world he can’t have. 

“Fuuuck,” he grouses, banging his head on the steering wheel so that the beeps come in sporadic bursts. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

He’s fucked. 

▸ S01E13: THE ONE WITH THE PLANNING. 

You don't know when it started— this weird, drawn-out awkwardness with Mingyu.

It’s not like you’ve stopped arguing. You're still giving him shit for his stupid hair, his dumb socks, his loud chewing habits. But lately, he’s... off. Slower to snap back. Not quite meeting your eyes. 

Worst of all? He’s barely even tried to make fun of your outfit today.

It’s part of the Mingyu playbook. Some wisecrack about your clothes, some comment about how you should be running hell in Satan’s place. If he’s feeling particularly inventive, he even deigns to bring your course into it. 

Today, though, it’s all painfully polite. Curt answers and absentminded nods. You know you’ve frozen him out since that night on the playground, but you didn’t expect to get the same chill in return. 

“So what I’m hearing is,” you say, tapping something into your phone, “you’re fine with anywhere as long as there’s pasta. Are you five?”

Mingyu squints at you like he's struggling to come up with a comeback. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Shrugs.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Wow. Riveting. Have you always been this dull or did I finally break you?”

He laughs, but there's no real bite to it. “I’m just being agreeable,” he offers. Even the snark in that is half-hearted, hesitant. “You should try it some time.”

“Oh, don't get all mature on me now,” you scoff, scrolling through the list of local restaurants your parents emailed. “God forbid you grow a personality overnight and forget how to argue.”

Mingyu mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “still better than yours.” He seems distracted, for the lack of a better term. The two of you have the unfortunate task of deciding on the next joint family meal’s venue, and he’s been uncharacteristically civil throughout it all.

Somehow, it unnerves you more than when he’s being an insufferable asshole. 

“Seriously, are you okay?” you press, a touch of concern making its way into your tone. “You're kinda giving... robot with a mild software glitch."

“Yeah, ‘m fine,” he grumbles. “Just tired."

“Tired or scared I’ll beat you in the battle of wits today?”

“Not scared. Letting you have the spotlight for once.”

“Touching. Very generous.” You know a lost battle when you see one, so you scroll down the list again before turning your phone so he can see it. “Okay, vote: Overpriced fusion place with truffle everything or rustic hipster café that serves lattes with art so complicated it should be in a museum?”

Mingyu squints. “The second one has better lighting.”

“... Lighting?”

He raises his shoulders in a shrug. “For your parents’ photos. You know how your mom gets.”

Something twists in your stomach. 

The fact that Mingyu is considering your mother’s happiness, that he knows how she is and he’s not complaining— instead accommodating? 

You feel almost grateful, almost admiring, but you shake it off with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Hipster café it is. Let’s go, then.”

“I’m literally only here because you begged me to come.”

“Yeah, but I begged louder. So I win.”

There it is— the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Not quite a comeback. But closer.

It doesn’t quite explain why his ears have turned pink, but that’s a can of worms you decide you’re not ready to open up just yet. Instead, the two of you go to scope the venue, lest your parents call you out for not fulfilling your duty-bound obligation to this godforsaken tradition. 

The café is aggressively quaint. All pastel walls and potted plants and menus printed in cursive. A waitress greets you at the door with a bright smile and a clipboard in hand.

“Table for two?”

“Yeah,” Mingyu says.

She glances between the two of you, then beams. “Perfect! You're just in time for our couple’s lunch special. It comes with two entrees, a shared appetizer, and dessert for only half the price.”

For a moment, you wish you could see yourself through the waitress’ eyes. You can’t imagine a single thing that might give off the impression that you and Mingyu were a couple. There’s too much space between the two of you, and the look you two share is enough for you to gleam that he’s equally flabbergasted. 

He turns to look back to the unassuming waitress. “Oh, we’re not—”

The world’s most brilliant idea strikes you then. You act on it before you can develop a semblance of shame.

“We'll take it,” you cut in smoothly, linking your arm through Mingyu’s before he can ruin it. You smile sweetly at the waitress, completely ignoring the way Mingyu goes rigid beside you.

As you’re led to a corner table by the window, he leans down to frantically whisper, “What the hell was that?”

“A good deal,” you respond cheerfully. “Unless you want to pay full price just to protect your ego.”

He glares. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You knew that when you got in the car.”

The waitress sets down your menus and tells you she’ll be back shortly for your order. Mingyu slumps in his seat, looking very much like you’ve told him he can never play soccer ever again. 

“Cheer up,” you say, nudging his shin under the table. “If you play your cards right, I might even feed you.”

His eyes narrow. "You wouldn’t dare."

Ah, but you would dare. The moment the pasta arrives, you’re already grinning. You twirl the noodles with your fork; he tries to communicate with his gaze that he wants you dead. 

“Say ahhh, loverboy,” you sing-song. 

“Absolutely not.”

You kick him again. He hisses mid-sip of water. “Just pretend, Mingyu,” you say through the teeth of your smile. “God, have you never faked a relationship for free food before?” 

“I have not, actually,” he retorts. “Fuckin’ cheapskate.” 

Begrudgingly, he opens his mouth. He at least seems to know that you’re not about to let up. You shove the fork into his mouth; he retaliates by ‘feeding’ you some chicken piccata, though it’s more of him forcing the bite into your mouth even after you’ve protested the presence of peas. 

The next half hour is full of increasingly absurd couple behavior. You fake gasp when he offers you water. He pretends to be offended when you steal his garlic bread. You stage-whisper pet names across the table just loud enough for the waitress to hear, coos of baby and sweetheart in between eye rolls and grimaces. 

And through it all, there are moments— brief, fleeting— when his eyes linger on yours just a second too long. When his smile is a little too soft. When his hand brushes yours and he doesn’t pull away immediately.

You tell yourself it’s all part of the act.

But maybe that’s not the whole truth.

The meal ends as it should. Mingyu foots the bill, and he does it without complaint. On your way out, the waitress smiles at the two of you like you’re some couple to be revered. 

Pride sparks like a flint in your chest. You douse it as quickly as you can manage. 

Outside, the sun is bright and the sidewalk smells like coffee and car exhaust. With your joint scoping done, the two of you walk a little slower than usual. You’re unsure why you’re not rushing to get back to the car.

“Well,” you say casually, “you make a convincing boyfriend. Color me shocked.”

Mingyu gives you a flat look. “Glad to know my fake relationship skills impress you.”

“What can I say? Low expectations,” you chirp, then jab him lightly with your elbow. “Now that I think about it— you're pretty single, huh. Why is that, again?”

It’s a jab that you’ve delivered far better in the past. Jokes about him being unable to pull. Remarks of him not knowing the first thing about romance or women. 

Today, though, it comes out as a query of genuine curiosity. One you typically might throw at someone you wanted to gauge interest in, and my God, how damning was that?

Mingyu doesn’t make a big deal out of it. He answers your question with frustrating casualness, toying with his car keys as he drags his feet. “Busy. Not looking. The usual.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Lame excuse. Try again.”

“What about you?” he counters, the attempt at evasion only driving you a little more crazy. “Still turning down anyone who doesn’t meet your god-tier standards?”

You tilt your chin up, mock-offended. “Absolutely. Only the best for me.”

“Yeah? What does that even mean?”

It’s obvious. You know the answer to this.

“Someone who’s funny. Smart. A little annoying but not, like, murder-worthy,” you ramble. “Tall, but not weird-tall. Knows how to argue without being a total asshole. Kind to animals. Can cook. Probably has nice hands.”

The words come out easily, too easily. You mean to keep it jokey, casual, but the list tumbles out before you can really filter it. It’s only when you hear it out loud that it hits you.

You know someone like that.

Your mouth goes dry. A beat passes.

You realize, too late, that you've gone quiet. That the silence between you has shifted. It’s not awkward, but it’s charged. 

Mingyu bumps your shoulder with his, snapping you out of your reverie. “That’s oddly specific,” he taunts. “Anyone I know?”

You scoff and shove him away. “Shut up.”

From the corner of your eye, you can see him fighting down a teasing grin. You can feel your pulse thudding in your ears, can feel the heat creeping up the back of your neck.

You don’t dare look at him.

You hope Mingyu doesn’t know. You hope he doesn’t realize you just described someone that sounds suspiciously like— 

▸ S01E14: THE ONE WITH THE WORST SEVEN MINUTES OF MINGYU’S LIFE. 

Mingyu knows better than anyone, just how true the platitude every second counts is. 

He plays soccer. Of course he knows the value of a ticking clock, of a last-minute save, of seconds that tick by arduously slow.

The clock has always been his enemy. But, today, it’s his friend.

Every second that ticks by moves the hands on the clock. Every movement on the clock will end this game faster.

He had this coming, really. When Ryujin dared him to kiss a girl— any girl— in the circle, he had known he was being baited. They all wanted him to choose you, to confirm whatever stupid assumptions they’d made about your complicated relationship.

Mingyu lived to defy expectations, so he leaned over and pulled Chaeyoung into his lap, and he kissed her like it meant something. Did his eyes briefly flicker open to check if you were watching? Did he feel some sort of sick, perverse triumph when he saw that you looked annoyed?

He should have known that karma would bite him back fast. You had the tendency to do that— knowing just how to piss him off right back.

It’s been two minutes and thirty-five seconds since you stepped into that goddamn pantry with Yugyeom.

“Seven minutes in heaven,” Jinyoung had teased when the bottle landed on you, giving you free rein to choose anyone.

And Mingyu knew immediately that it wouldn’t be him. 

Your high school friend group had jeered and laughed and teased when you reached for Yugyeom. Mingyu was not an inherently violent person, but he wanted so badly, in that moment, to wipe the smug smirk off the other man’s face.

You didn’t even look at Mingyu as you slinked away with Yugyeom. 

Mingyu is nursing a new bottle now. 

Trying to focus on the game. Trying to ignore the empty spaces in the circle. Someone’s daring something scandalous, a strip tease of some sorts—

You’re wearing his jacket, Mingyu realizes. From the little spat earlier this night when yo’'d spilled rum down the front of your shirt. Before you could throw a hissy fit, he’d shoved his varsity jacket in your arms and told you to suck it up.

The thought of Yugyeom unbuttoning that piece of clothing— that one thing on your body that might mark you as Mingyu’s, if it mattered at all— has the keeper clenching his beer bottle a little tighter. 

It’s been three minutes and twelve seconds. Mingyu doesn’t know why he’s counting it down, but he also doesn’t know how to keep his cool.

His brain keeps supplying him with images of what he might do if he were in Yugyeom’s place.

The realistic answer: You’d sulk, probably. Find a way to blame him for the situation. The two of you would bicker the entire seven minutes and then come out of the secluded pantry in foul moods. Seven minutes in hell, he would say sarcastically, when asked, and you’d flip him off. 

Underneath the realistic answer, though, is something that’s close to a fantasy. His hands resting at your sides, his touch warm over your— his— jacket. Your fingers entangled in his hair. The way he'd have to lean down, to tilt his head.

Would you taste like all the alcohol you’d drank that night?

Would you taste like everything he’s ever dreamed of?

Mingyu shakes his head and takes a sip of his beer, his fingers trembling around the bottle. Eunwoo is stripping as part of a dare; Mingyu tries to focus on that, and not on the fact that it’s been five minutes and fifty-two seconds.

Jungkook lets out a loud squeal. The sound pierces through the pre-drunk migraine that Mingyu already feels coming on. The sound—

What would you sound like?

In his arms. Against his mouth. Underneath—

“Fuck,” Mingyu cusses lowly, the word spoken mostly to himself. 

He’s drunk. He’s riled up. And you’re just so pretty tonight—

“Oi, lovebirds!” Jinyoung calls out in the direction of the pantry. “Seven minutes are up!”

Mingyu barely registers the sharp ring of the seven-minute alarm going off, or the jabs that everybody else throws out. His gaze is now fixed on the pantry door, the one he has to fight every urge to approach. Every second that ticks past the required mark has his head spinning with thoughts, with ideas that he would rather not dwell on.

Yugyeom emerges first, that smirk of his still in place. You come out right after, looking unruffled as you smooth out the front of your shirt.

You don’t waste a single beat. Your eyes find Mingyu’s face, where he’s poorly concealed just how much more intoxicated he's gotten in your absence.

A corner of your mouth tilts upward in a vicious smile. The action you give him next is so brief, he could have imagined it. 

You pucker your lips.

A flying kiss.

Mingyu has never wanted you so badly.

▸ S01E15: THE ONE WITH THE WORST SEVEN MINUTES OF YOUR LIFE. 

Seven minutes.

You could do anything in seven minutes.

Say something stupid. Say something brave. Let someone kiss you. Let someone else go.

You step into the pantry and it smells like cinnamon and dust and maybe a little bit of regret. Yugyeom’s behind you, grinning like this is just another game. And maybe to him, it is. A dare. A kiss. A story to laugh about later.

The second the door shuts, the world dulls. Muffled cheers and drunken cackles blur into the walls, and it’s just the two of you in this cramped little time capsule. His hand grazes your arm. Your breath catches, but not for the reason it’s supposed to.

“Hey, pretty,” Yugyeom greets, and there’s some sort of vindication in knowing he actually does think you’re pretty. 

This was an evening of unepic proportions, of high school friends coming together for a birthday party and bad decisions. In your head, there’s some small consolation to the fact that there’s not much light in the pantry.

Just the hint of fluorescence flooding through the door crack, reminding you of a loose circle where Mingyu is seated. 

The thought of him makes your skin crawl. It’s bad enough that you don’t know how to act around him anymore. But then he went in to make out with Chaeyoung of all fucking people— 

“Let’s get on with this, Kim,” you tell Yugyeom, trying to sound convincing, sultry.

Your voice wavers just a bit on the surname. Wrong Kim. 

To give Yugyeom some credit, he laughs softly before leaning in. His lips are warm. Kind. And you think, briefly, that he must be good at this. The kind of guy who gets picked in these games a lot. The kind of guy who smiles and means it.

You wonder if you’ll feel anything when he kisses you.

You don’t.

It’s not bad. It’s just not… anything.

You try. You really, really do. Your fingers curl at the front of Yugyeom’s shirt; his own hands dance over your sides. Over the jacket, over Mingyu’s jacket, and you wince because you’re thinking of him, of the way he’d introduced himself to the unfamiliar faces with that winning smile and that nickname of his, the stupid Gyu you never get to call him— 

“Mmm,” Yugyeom hums against your lips. He pulls back, eyes still closed, a lazy grin on his face. “Did you just say ‘Gyu’?”

Fuck.

You blink at Yugyeom, your brain slow to catch up. “No, I didn’t,” you sputter. 

He opens one eye. “You totally did.”

You could say you said Gyeom. You could simply shut Yugyeom up with a fiercer kiss, maybe a little more action.

But it’s there, out in the open, curling in the space between you two like something dangerous and damaging 

The slip wasn’t just a slip. It was your heart showing its cards. A royal fucking flush you can’t even begin to run from.

Your hand falls to your side. Yugyeom steps back. 

No annoyance, no dramatics— just something soft in his smile that makes it worse. “You wanna try that again? With the right guy’s name this time?”

You cover your face with your hands. “Yugyeom,” you groan, because while you can’t bring yourself to try making out again, you can at least say the right name. “Please don’t make fun of me.”

“Never,” he chirps. He shifts to lean on one of the pantry’s low shelves, hands tucked in his hoodie. “So. Mingyu, huh?”

You don’t answer right away.

Because what is there to say? That you’ve spent more than half your life wrapped in arguments and almosts and the kind of tension that should’ve burned out by now but hasn’t? That the sound of your name in Mingyu’s mouth makes you want to scream or kiss him or both? That he gave you his stupid jacket and you’re still wearing it like it means something?

“It’s complicated,” you gripe. 

Yugyeom cackles. “That’s the most girl-who’s-in-love thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Shut up.”

He doesn’t. “You know he was watching the door like a lovesick puppy, right?”

That shouldn’t make your heart flutter. It does anyway. “He was?” you ask, and you could kick yourself for just how giddy you sound. 

It’s as close to a direct confirmation that Yugyeom is going to get. You think that he might be grinning, but it’s not something you can be sure of in the darkness. It’s something you hear instead, bleeding into his words. “Pretty sure he was ready to fight me.” 

You sit beside Yugyeom. The shelf creaks. Your hands are cold in your lap, but your face is burning.

“Do you love him?” he asks, and it’s so straightforward you want to laugh.

You don’t say a thing. It’s one of those silence-means-yes moments, one of those things that should go unsaid. 

The sun is warm, the sky is blue, and you’re in love with Kim Mingyu.  

Despite how much the fact has simmered underneath your skin, it’s something you can’t bring yourself to say out loud. Because it’s not that easy. Because it’s him. Because you know the way he is— impulsive and stubborn and so good at pretending he doesn’t care when really, he cares too much.

And so you don’t answer Yugyeom. The two of you kill the remaining minutes in silence; it’s almost like your friend is letting you sit with the truth, the realization.

After a long moment, he leans in to press a chaste, friendly kiss to the top of your head.

“Whatever it is,” he mumbles into your hair, “he’s one lucky bastard.” 

You let out a watery laugh. You hadn’t even realized you were tearing up— the sheer fear of the reality overwhelming you. 

Jinyoung’s voice echoes from outside. “Oi, lovebirds! Seven minutes are up!”

“Come on. Gotta act like we had some fun in here,” Yugyeom urges. “You picked me to make him jealous, right? Let’s make it look like that.” 

“I owe you my first born child,” you respond, genuinely grateful despite everything. 

“Hopefully the one you’ll have with Ming—” 

“Let’s not go there.” 

He messes with your hair. You rumple up his shirt. It’s all a farce, a show, and Yugyeom is kind enough to play along. He throws you a conspiratorial wink as he steps out, that smirk of his slotting right back on to his barely-swollen lips. 

You take a deep breath, and then you follow. 

It’s almost like a magnet, how your eyes seek out Mingyu. He looks just a little more drunk; a feat, considering the fact you’ve been gone for only seven minutes. 

You can’t help it. Your mouth twitches in a fond grin. The way his gaze is burning into you, the way he’s clutching his beer bottle just a little too tightly? 

That might be what compels you. It’s a flicker of an action, a ghost of a tease. You throw him a flying kiss, giggling to yourself when his face flushes a shade of red. 

You have never wanted Mingyu so badly. 

▸ S01E16: THE ONE WITH THE ‘MISTAKE’. 

He doesn't want to be mad.

Truly. Logically. On paper— whatever. Mingyu knows he started it. 

He kissed Chaeyoung first. He played the game. He played you. And now here you are, sitting cross-legged on his couch in your usual over-the-top family dinner outfit. Like that one night at the party didn’t end with him counting down seconds that felt like drowning.

You’re humming some song under your breath. You’re so calm, so nonchalant. 

Mingyu is not. He stomps and clenches his hands into fists and slams his drawer with more force than necessary.

You glance up from your phone. “Damn,” you say with a low whistler. “Did the closet offend you or something?” 

He doesn’t answer. He’s pulling clothes out of his dresser like they all personally insulted him. Button-down, slacks, watch, socks. All too formal for something that’s supposed to be casual, but tonight everything feels like a performance.

He ducks into his room and dresses quickly. By the time he emerges, you’re already standing by the front door. It shoots a momentary panic through him, the thought of you leaving.

But then you’re quipping, “You said we had to leave at seven. It’s 6:55. Just reminding you before you start blaming me for being late.”

“I’m not blaming you,” he grunts, padding across his living room in search of his wallet. 

He can see you looking skeptical in his peripheral vision. “Sure feels like it,” you huff.

“Can you not?”

“Can I not what? Breathe in your general direction?”

Mingyu exhales sharply. He should stop. He should apologize. He should not make this worse.

He does.

“Yeah?” His tone drips with derision as he finally shoves his essentials into the pocket of his trousers. “Maybe if you weren’t so good at pretending nothing ever touches you, I wouldn’t have to.”

You laugh; the sound is incredulous, sharp. Offended? 

“Right, because clearly you’re the one who’s been suffering,” you jeer. And then, completely out of the left field—

“I forgot how hard it must’ve been for you, kissing Chaeyoung like your life depended on it.”

There’s so much to unpack. The way you’re bringing this whole thing up days after it happened, even after you and Mingyu have just kind of… bristled at each other a lot more. Mingyu wanted to think your patience was just a lot thinner than usual— as was his— but he hadn’t imagined it would be related to that night. Or to Chaeyoung. 

It makes his heart, the traitor that it is, practically stop in his chest. 

He knows where you’re getting at. He knows what this could mean. He just has to make sure, and it’s in the way he tries to keep up with his rage when he snaps, “What does that have to do—” 

“Why didn’t you kiss me?”

And there it is. 

The question cuts through everything. Your voice— loud at first, angry— is suddenly small. Wounded.

Mingyu’s head spins. 

You wanted him to kiss you. 

You wanted him to kiss you. 

His mouth opens then closes. Your face is incandescent, burning with shame. He knows this about you, knows you’ve never been able to deny yourself a thing. You’re an open book, a heart-on-the-platter type of girl. As badly as he wants to try and figure out all the signs he might have missed, he’s more concerned with the fact that you’re already trying to take it back.

Your hand is on the door handle. You’re about to make a run for it, Mingyu realizes, and that’s not something he’s going to let happen. 

Before you can get too far, his fingers are wrapping around your wrist and tugging you back.

When you look up at him, his expression is contorted into a mix of torment and want. You’re not looking any better yourself; you look caught between desire and fear, like all the years you’ve shared are bearing down on the two of you. 

You look as crazy as Mingyu feels. 

“I was waiting,” Mingyu breathes, his eyes wide and wild. “I was waiting—”

“For what?” you bite out. “What were you waiting for?”

His sharp response is softened by the desperation edging his tone. “For the perfect moment,” he snaps.

Mingyu tugs you into his space. He’s gentle, still, as he snakes an arm around your waist and pulls you closer until you’re chest to chest. He has to tuck his head to press his forehead against yours, and he can’t breathe. 

You’re holding your breath, too, like you’re fighting every instinct to kick up a fuss at how patient he’s being. He has to be. He has to be, or else he’s going to give you everything when the two of you have to meet your families for the night. 

His breath ghosts over your lips, which are already parted so beautifully for him.

“But I guess,” he whispers, his heart in his throat, at your feet, in your hands, “my shitty apartment is as good as any for a first kiss, huh?”

Mingyu doesn’t even wait for you to answer. 

He closes the distance and presses down into you, enough that you end up taking a step back. When your nails sink into Mingyu’s shoulders to hold yourself steady, he lets out a low hiss against your mouth but refuses to pull away.

He kisses you like he’s thought about doing it for years. 

And maybe he has. Maybe it’s always been there— this prospect, this possibility, and he could’ve gone his whole life just wondering what it might be like.

Now that he has it, has you, he doesn’t know if he can go without it.

It might be a mistake. He knows that. 

He’s crossed a line you’ve both danced around for too long. There's a part of him— rational and careful— that screams this could ruin everything.

But then you kiss him back.

You kiss him back like you mean it, like you’re angry about all the years wasted not doing this. Like you want to climb into the marrow of him and stay there. 

Mingyu doesn’t know how long it lasts. Doesn’t care. Eventually, the space between you pulls taut again, and you're both left staring, dazed, stunned, as if the world has shifted under your feet.

His fingers ghost over his lips. They’re swollen, just like yours, and he knows there’s no going back from this. There’s no way he’ll ever be able to convince himself that you’re some annoying pest instead of the love of his goddamn life. 

“We— we should go,” Mingyu says hoarsely, barely above a whisper. It’s all he can manage.

And for once, you don’t fight him.

▸ S01E15: THE ONE WITH THE PROMISE. 

The bane of your existence drives you to your family’s monthly lunch in his beat-up car with one working speaker and a half-eaten protein bar wedged into the cupholder.

You complain about the lack of legroom. He snarks back about your giant tote bag taking up all the space. It’s almost impressive how easily the two of you slip back into the familiar routine of bickering. 

If someone were to eavesdrop, they’d never guess you’d made out half an hour ago. That he’d kissed you like you were the only thing keeping him breathing; that you’d kissed him like he had all the answers to the questions you’ve been afraid to ask. 

Mingyu parallel parks like an asshole— too far from the curb— and you mutter something under your breath as you slam the door shut behind you.

“You could say thank you,” he says, locking the car.

“Thank you,” you echo. “For the trauma.”

He almost smiles. The sight of him fighting that back reminds you of his lips, how they’d been so soft against yours despite the heated, desperate way he moved. 

Your brain is going to be in the gutter the whole evening. You’re sure of it. 

Your families are already there at the vouchsafed hipster café when the two of you walk through the door. For a treacherous moment, everything feels like clockwork again. The smell of garlic bread wafts through the air. His mother greets you with a warm hug. His dad already has a story locked and loaded. Your parents give him the same doting affection. 

It’s so normal you almost forget what’s changed.

Almost.

Mingyu sits next to you instead of across from you. He offers you the breadbasket first, tops your glass when nobody else is looking. 

At one point, you arch a brow at him, suspicious. He says nothing.

It’s all suspicious.

Conversation flows easily enough. Your families are familiar, loud, opinionated. There’s some rapport between you and Mingyu; if your parents notice that it’s not as scathing as usual, they don’t point it out. 

Under the table, something changes.

You feel it before you see it. Mingyu’s hand, careful and tentative, resting on your knee. His touch is featherlight, like he’s giving you a chance to move away.

You don’t.

It’s hidden by the table cloth, and you think you might be imagining it until you glance at him.

He’s already looking at you.

His expression is half-agony, half-hope.

And that’s the thing about Kim Mingyu. He’s always been too much and never enough. Too loud, too cocky, too frustrating. Never thoughtful enough, never serious enough, never willing to make the first move until now. 

You’re done keeping score. This isn’t a battle of wits, a challenge of who can hold out better. This is a game neither of you will win. 

No. This is a game you no longer have to play. 

You lace your fingers through his. 

Mingyu’s shoulders drop like he’s been holding that breath for years. He squeezes your hand, and you think you could get used to this, to him. You’ll have to talk about it later, to decide; for now, though, the promise of it is more than enough.

You used to think there was no universe in which you and Kim Mingyu could ever get along.

But maybe— just maybe— this one will do.

[diamond-reads]

forever is a feeling ♾️ l.sk [m]

synopsis: your 'stay-at-home' husband knows your job means a lot to you, but he knows he means twice as much. genre: established relationship au ; fluff, sprinkle of angst, suggestive. pairing: husband!lee seokmin x fem!wife!reader word count: 1.7k rating: 18+. minors do not interact. warnings: ...okay so seokmin is a liar BUT JUST TRUST ME? reader works a lot, reader is tired. reader is slightly self-depricating but this is literally lee seokmin, that doesn't fly here aaaand kissing ! maybe some soft petting. what to listen to: is this love - xg ; every kind of way - h.e.r ; nothing's gonna hurt you baby - cigarettes after sex. author's note: this was originally going to be much longer but sometimes you just gotta shut the hell up! seokmin, my boy <3 welcome to the haologram blog, and i hope you enjoy this little thing.

YOUR SHOES MAKE A SOUND WHEN YOU ENTER THE APARTMENT.

It doesn't matter where Seokmin is, he hears it. Not the door, not the sound of your bag hitting the floor in defeat. He hears your shoes, the click of the low heel on the foyer tile before you stand still for two minutes and twenty seconds. He'll hear the soft thud of them being kicked off, and he can feel the tension in your calves dissipate as he closes his eyes. He'll remember the way you roll your ankles twice to the right, once to the left before you sigh.

Tonight? The burgundy loafers you wore to work are sticky against the tile – they're never sticky, they're slippery. He's in the home office, slotted deep into the recliner you'd kept from your college days. The worn leather feels like you – it feels well loved.

Your sigh bounces off the walls, before the sound of your shoes being kicked off rings in the foyer. Your bag hits the floor once more, and the thwip of your coat being haphazardly pulled off is heard.

The patter of your feet on the carpet isn't as distinguishable. He waits quietly, slotting a Taco Bell receipt into the book he's reading to hold his place. He hears the jingle of your bracelets against each other as your hand grabs the knob of the bedroom door, twisting carefully.

You're shuffling around, he can hear you still. Muttering something unintelligible as you likely pluck at the buttons of your blouse, or the buckle of your belt. He hears the drag of the heavy mahogany drawers, the creak of the hamper, the jingle of your jewelry box. He hears another sigh, bitter on your tongue as the bedroom door opens.

You clear your throat softly, but say nothing as you walk into the hallway bathroom. Clunking of bottles, running water, the soft clank of your toothbrush against the marble holder. The click of the light switch.

Your fingers rap softly against the office door, and he hears the thump of your forehead on the wood.

"Seok? Please, please tell me you're home."

You open the door with your eyes screwed shut, your breathing shaky as he peers at you. "Seok?" "I'm here, baby."

You nod silently, closing the office door behind you. The lock clicks quietly, and he watches the way your fists clench slightly. His eyes trail you carefully – his t-shirt, his boxer shorts, his socks.

Wedding bands on your left hand, and the watch he bought you in college on your right wrist.

You're tired. You're defeated, you're solemn. He lets you approach him on nights like this. It's like approaching a deer: any sudden movements could make you flinch, could make you swallow your horrible day and just ask if he wants dinner. Of course he wants dinner, but he doesn't want to eat dinner when you're not okay. It's not the same, eating with you when you're not really there.

"Can I–" "Yes. Come." He slides the book onto the side table, his eyes glued to you as you slink his way. Your shoulders are tense as his knees brush yours, your foot pushing his ankle and making him press them together. Your legs slide on either side of his, his hands ghosting over your skin. He doesn't touch you, not yet.

You settle carefully in his lap, your arms gently wrapping around his shoulders. He settles his palms against your thighs as your body sags in his hold. Your lips brush his temple, before you settle your face into the crook of his neck. He leans his head back against the recliner, letting you nose at the skin. He lets his skin prickle as you press a kiss to the dip of his shoulder.

His hands slide up and down your thighs softly, "Hi." "Mmh."  "Long day?" "Mmh." He smiles inwardly as you move impossibly closer to him, his fingers barely breaching the hem of his boxers on your body. "I love you." "I love you, honey." "She speaks." "Mmh, barely." It's okay. It's okay that you don't want to say anything, that you just want to float in the endorphin rush of being held softly, tenderly by your husband. It's okay that you just settle into him, like a puzzle piece, because the feeling of you is a feeling of forever.

"Dinner?" "Mmh." "Wonderful, I also want pizza. God, baby, you just get me." "Mmh."

He feels your lips curl against his skin, his fingers squeezing your hip softly. "Missed you today, you know. Didn't get my kiss this morning." "Mmh, I'm sorry." "You should be, you've been gone for fourteen hours. So long without my girl." "Mmh. Mmh?" "Yes, yes I did take the trash out." Your lips brush against his clavicle, making him gasp.

"You're evil." "Mmh?" "...Okay, I also did the laundry. And I washed your green sweater, the one with the star on the shoulder." You nod, trailing your lips up his neck, your teeth nipping at his earlobe. He shudders, patting the side of your leg. "Stop." "Tell me more about the things you did today." "You just wanna get in my pants. You won't even eat dinner with me."

You scoff, landing a soft smack to his shoulder as you push back to look at him. He smiles, his hands squeezing your thighs softly. 

"You're pretty." "So are you." "Oh, you like me so much." "I do." You roll your eyes, your hands rubbing his shoulders lightly. You cradle his face softly, "I like you so much, I think I love you." "You think?" "I know." "Oh, you should marry me then." "I should, shouldn't I? But who wants a wife that leaves at six in the morning and gets home at eight at night and complains about how her feet hurt–" His hands move to your wrists, pulling them off his face and interlacing your fingers with his.

"I do. I want a wife who works hard for the things that she wants. I want a wife who lets me rub her legs all night long and not just because her feet hurt. I want a wife who likes to eat an entire pint of Ben & Jerry's Half Baked in one sitting, I want a wife who just says mmh, and I understand. I want a wife, matter of fact, who tries to sneak into the house every night as if I'm not just waiting for her to get home like a devoted dog. I. Want. You." "Devoted husband." You attempt to correct him, but he only plants a kiss on your cheeks.

"You keep this roof over our heads, you keep us warm, clean, fed. I don't like that you're gone for so long, but you insist you don't need help. I can't force you to let me help you, but I can and I will always try and make things easier for you. Even if that means I make breakfast you forget on the table, or if I press your slacks at the ass crack of dawn." Your lip is jutted in a pout, trembling slightly as he leans forward.

"I love you, okay? I'd do anything for you, forever." "Even if I forget to give you a kiss goodbye and I accidentally hit you in the face when I move in my sleep?" "Even then. You know, you last kissed me at nine yesterday. It is..eight-fifty-two." "Wow, you're a trooper." You nod, resting your forehead against his, closing your eyes. "So brave, so strong." "It is eight-fifty-three." "Mmh?" "You just want me to kiss you first." "Mmh." He rolls his eyes, brushing his lips against yours. "I missed you, baby." He doesn't let you respond, kissing you softly. You smile into the kiss, moving his hands to your waist. His fingers grip the back of your shirt before splaying across your hips, feeling your tongue gently lick into his mouth.

"Nope, don't. We need to have dinner before we–" "I have three weeks of paid vacation time starting on Monday, we can literally have dinner any other time." He gapes, "You're kidding. That's literally, like, forever." "Forever is a feeling, you know. So…do you still want to have dinner now?" "...You know that we should, right?"

You only giggle as he peppers your skin in kisses, sighing before you run your hands through his hair. "Fine, fine. We'll have dinner. But–" "Yes, we can fool around while we wait for the delivery." "Mmh?" "And I'll rub your feet after." "You are an angel." And yet another night goes on, with Seokmin proving once more that forever is, in fact, a feeling. Sure, you'll be in his hands for three solid weeks – right in reach, melting for him over and over again. And sure, he'll miss you terribly when you inevitably go back to work, for fourteen hours a day. A fourteen-hour day where he cleans the entire apartment from crown molding to baseboards, where he shops for groceries, where he preps your lunches for the week.

A fourteen-hour day where he silently, secretly, works from home.

A secret you won't ever know about, not until you're ready to admit you want help. So he'll save the money, he'll keep quiet about the stress in his back. He'll rise with the sun, he'll kiss you goodbye every morning. He'll miss you, he'll yearn for the smell of your face cream until you lie down next to him at night, he'll hope the hours go by fast and he'll feel the weight of your leg on his hips as you fall asleep.

And he'll listen for your shoes, for the noises they'll make when you step into the apartment. 

It won't matter where Seokmin is, he'll hear it. He'll hear the comfort of it, of you finally coming home to him.

Not the sound of the door, not the sound of your bag hitting the floor in defeat. He'll hear your shoes, the click of the low heel on the foyer tile before you stand still for two minutes and twenty seconds to realize that you are home. He'll hear the soft thud of them being kicked off, and he will feel the tension in your calves dissipate as he closes his eyes. He'll remember the way you roll your ankles twice to the right, once to the left before you sigh.

It's all a routine, and a routine he's going to love forever.

After all…forever is a feeling.

haologram © 2025 || no translations, reposting or modifications are allowed. do not claim as your own. viewer discretion is advised. your media consumption is your responsibility.

[diamond-reads]

the final defense of the dying (teaser).

0.2k words, est. 5k+ in full. alternate universe: the hunger games; part of the angst olympics collaboration. no warnings for now. footnotes in the end.

“Ladies first,” Bauble warbles. 

And perhaps that’s Jeonghan’s first mistake— that he does not worry. He’s so sure, so certain, riding on the high of this Reaping being your final one. His mind is already halfway into next week, into the special brand of kindness you afford him in the aftermath of the Games.

You were always a little softer to him whenever he came home from the bloodbath. A consolation, he had thought during his first year as a mentor. Perverse as it is, he soaked it all up. The nights you’d spend at his home in the Victor’s Village. The cooked meals and the reassuring touches. The words you’d murmur whenever he woke up screaming from his nightmares; your sweet nothings of you did what you could and no one blames you and it was just a dream, Hannie, you’re safe here. 

He’s thinking of those, of you. And so he nearly misses the way Trinket calls out your name. 

The very name he had screamt as a child when the two of you played games in the corn fields and rice paddies. The very name he had murmured soundlessly while he was delirious and sick in his own arena. (The thought of you, the only thing that kept him alive.) 

It’s your name, but everybody in the crowd— from the farmers to the ranchers to the Peacekeepers, even— know you as something else. 

Jeonghan’s darling. Jeonghan’s sweetheart. 

The love of his life, now sentenced to die.

footnotes: i'm not really the type to post teasers, but i want it on record that i read sunrise on the reaping in one sitting and it absolutely wrecked me. i always knew this mentor!jeonghan x tribute!reader fic would be devastating; sotr has only affirmed and emboldened that. kicking my writing into high gear and expecting this to be out within the next week or so. the odds will not be in our favor.

[diamond-reads]

from the vantage point of death

summary. when the lord of the dead meets the goddess of spring, all his plans are derailed. pairing. hades!choi seungcheol x f!persephone!reader genre/tags. fantasy/mythology, reverse hades and persephone au, bastardizing mythologies to form my version of it, unhinged mc (a little, but we love her), NO STOCKHOLM SYNDROME, v little contractions in speech, implied weirdo suitors, like one crude joke, slow burn?, yearning, suggestive esp at the end wc. 13.8k suggested listening. arsonist's lullabye, hozier // nfwmb, hozier // would that i, hozier // 난 (me), 에스쿱스 (s.coups) // me and my husband, mitski // dust to dust, the civil wars // my love will never die, hozier // work song, hozier

notes. sorry for the delay hnnng—it was a mix of bad timing (again) and overshooting the wordcount (again). not fully satisfied but this is probably the best i can manage atm. hades!csc is suprisingly pouty and morally upright. shoutout to hozier, my main sponsor for this videyow.

It is true what they say about whispers thriving in darkness.

Seungcheol hears them constantly, finds them woven into the fabric of the air, waiting to be unraveled. The whispers crawl in from the edge of his realm, carried by the rivers and into his ears. They keep him abreast of what is happening above ground, sometimes even more than the news Jeonghan would bring when he reports news from the Pantheon.

Some days, he tells himself it would not do to listen. The job of the King of the Underworld is endless; the dead do not stop dying. But listening to the whispers from elsewhere is the only way to distract him from the ones that plague his own mind; the curling, insidious darkness that is not the one he has made a home in, but rather one that threatens to consume him. So he finds the whispers, entertains the rumours that find the darkness. Seungcheol beckons them forward, pushing his own demons to the back of his mind. 

One of them is particularly persistent, sneaking past even the drapes of his chambers, the one place all the other whispers should not reach. It curls around him, flirts with the curve of his earlobe. The message is the same, every time it comes:

The Goddess of Spring is sick.

The first time he had heard it, he called Jeonghan immediately; as the God of Death, he was more in touch with its threads than even he. Despite the gold thread that marks one as immortal, the luster is slowly and surely fading. Both of them confirmed this, even as Jeonghan had mused that it did not make much sense. Seungcheol agreed.

There are precious few things that make immortals fall; for minor deities, it is almost always the lack of devotion, the slow death that comes with the fickle memory of mortals. Yet a goddess of spring would not have the same problem, even if she were not one of those graced to have a seat at the Pantheon. There are still temples undoubtedly to this Goddess’ name, incense and wine poured to honor the first sowing of seeds before the planting season.

The whisper soon reached his other trusted companions. It was Jisoo, the ferryman, who reported what he heard by the riverbank: by some mistake, the Goddess ingested mortal food, and the disease was now infecting her immortal blood.

The urge of duty beckons him, a voice in his ear reasoning that if a Goddess were indeed about to cross over to his realm, the least he could do was be the one to escort her there. He could ask her how this happened, if she were ready to speak to him, perhaps even bring her case to the High Palace to ask how the balance of the world were to be maintained.

Decided, he grabs his travelling robes.

For the first time in millennia, Seungcheol walks above ground. 

As expected, the Goddess of Spring’s domain is a lush garden, nothing but Life as far as the eye can see. He enters much more easily than expected; the wards have weakened concerningly so, even as the lingering magic in the air hint at their former strength. 

As he ventures in, the leaves sway to some invisible wind, a smidgen more alive-seeming than they would be in the mortal realm. Still, there is yellowing on some trees. Dead petals litter the floor, and he feels the crunch of leaves under his shoe as he moves forward—further pieces of evidence that point to the weakening of the Goddess’ magic.

“Goddess, are you here?” He calls.

In the distance, he hears a hacking cough. 

Seungcheol breaks into a jog, alarmed. He plucks at the threads of death that he senses, filtering them out until a single golden string remains, though its luster seems to dull with every minute that passes. He follows it forward.

“Goddess?”

“Here,” he finally hears a weak voice croak, and he turns, finding you sprawled on the floor, a few feet shy of what is evidently your bed. 

Seungcheol does not hesitate to lift you in his arms, walking up the steps you were collapsed on. Your breath escapes your mouth in reedy pants, eyes hazy as you gaze at him without recognition. His heart aches.

“Oh Goddess, how did this happen to you?” Seungcheol lowers you onto your bed, fluffing and adjusting the pillows the best he could. He finds a jug of water and a cup resting on a nearby table. Filling the cup, he helps you tilt it up your lips. “Here. Drink.” You take small sips, holding not the cup, but his hands as he feeds the water to you. He feels your fingers trembling. Once a small noise of protest leaves you at the water still falling past your lips, Seungcheol quickly sets the cup aside, swiping the droplets on your chin with his sleeve and easing you into a lying position. 

You close your eyes, breathing finally steady. Sorrow tugs at his heartstrings as he dabs at the sweat off your brow with a cloth he had conjured.

It has been many centuries since the last time an immortal crossed the River. He wonders if the Underworld would be to your taste, absent of Life as it is. Only the lands of the blessed are lush with any kind of greenery, as it is near enough to Life, housing souls getting ready for reincarnation.

Lost in his thoughts, he does not notice the string of death that guided him to you suddenly wink into brilliant gold and disappear.

The Goddess’ eyes snap open, and Seungcheol startles. All too quickly, he feels strong hands grasp at his forearms and push. He stumbles back, almost tripping over his robes, but before he is able to resist, he lands in the middle of what he realizes is a ritual circle. The runes around his feet burst into brilliant gold light, washing the world in their glow. Vines rapidly begin to sprout, curling, tangling, and twisting above and around him. From beyond the light, he hears a faint voice chanting. 

It is magic, but one entirely foreign to his eyes. 

Finally, the glow fades. That same force he sensed earlier seems to be binding him in place, making his limbs ten times heavier than normal. Seungcheol fights to stand, grasping at the structure in front of him to help himself up. A great tangle of vines surrounds him; despite their flimsy appearance, they refuse to break or wilt with any amount of magic he forces into them.

In fact, they only seem to grow stronger.

Confusion gives way to realization, and then dawning fury. He zeroes in on the woman on the other side of the cage. The haze in your eyes has disappeared, replaced with a sharp gaze and a triumphant smirk. Around you, the air crackles with power.

“Caught you.”

“Goddess,” Seungcheol begins, raising his hands, palms up. “I mean you no ill.”

Everything had happened so quickly that he could not get a good look at you. Now, he not only feels, but he sees. Your magic lingers in the air, a sharp crackle of citrus undercut by the heavy, warning weight of wood. When he first saw you, you had been seconds away from becoming another shade to bring to the Underworld. Now, power thrums from you everywhere, even on the thin skin under your eyelashes. Your robes almost seem to glow.

You approach his cage with a fluid, almost feline grace. He feels your eyes cataloguing him, taking in his garb and the stiff, straight-backed posture he carries himself with, even outside the throne room. “I had certainly many assumptions of whom my trap would attract, but even this is unexpected. Let us hear it then: what brings the Unseen One into my domain?”

“I had received word of your illness, goddess, and thought it a duty and courtesy to escort you to my realm.”

“Escort me into your realm? Duty? I’ve heard of dowries and courtesy, but never duty,” you muse. Your eyes remain ever-scrutinizing; he resists the urge to squirm. Has he been so out of touch with the Pantheon norms that he no longer knows how theoi treat each other? Heat rushes to his ears at your intent gaze. “It must be true that there is no love in the Underworld. Your attempts at wooing are unconventional, but ineffective.”

“Excuse me?”

“Certainly new,” you continue, almost to yourself. “Out of all the suitors sent my way, or the ones that would take advantage of the rumours I had spread, your approach is the most unique.”

“Have your plants overtaken your mind?” His mouth twists in derision. “I have told you; I am here only out of my duty.”

“Not a suitor then? Hm.”

“As there seems to have been a misunderstanding,” he sighs, already tired, “If My Lady would be so kind to release me, we can leave this all behind us.”

You stare at him, head tilted. After a moment, a small smile pulls at your features. “I think not.”

Disbelief floods him, and he cannot hold back the scowl that pulls over his features. Seungcheol’s eyes flash dangerously. “That was not a request, Goddess.” He expects you to give in; no being of the Pantheon can bear to be around Death for so long, much less a minor goddess.

Then you do something entirely unexpected; you throw your head back and laugh.

“My, you are interesting! I do not think you are in a position to make your demands in my domain.”

For fuck’s sake—he inhales through his teeth, biting back the anger that has been steadily rising with the length of his stay in this vined cage. He tries phasing into shadow—you could not keep him here if he could simply slip back to his realm—but more vines wrap around him, absorbing his magic, rendering it null. Your grin just stretches wider. 

“On what grounds do you keep me?” He hisses.

“First, as I said, you are interesting.” You shrug. “Second, perhaps your presence will ward off all the other suitors the Pantheon has been attempting to send my way. Third, my domain seems to react to you in interesting ways.” You look pointedly at his hand, the locus where his magic seems to be siphoning into your realm.

“My powers are those for the dead,” he informs you. “They will do nothing for Life, certainly nothing for the Goddess of Spring.”

“Well, we shall not know until we conduct some more investigation, no?” 

He tries a different tactic. “Goddess, you must let me return. The Underworld cannot be parted with its King.”

You wave a hand, dismissive. “Oh please. No one misses Death. Perhaps those poor souls will even be glad for their judgement to be postponed.” The thought seems to please you, as you release a satisfied little huff.  “It is settled. You are mine for the time being, Lord of the Dead.”

Seungcheol tried phasing into shadow again, only for the realm to absorb his magic. It seems that being held by a being that controlled Life, any magic relating to his return could not work. You had informed him, somewhat gleefully, that the wards of your realm have been refashioned to mimic a smokescreen—drawing from some of the magic that the realm had absorbed from him. It does not block visitors; rather, you boasted, it was a mix of concealment and compulsion charms to urge them to respect your privacy as you suffer through your malaise.

His magic, aside from this strange new affinity to life, is most prominently for keeping the barrier between his realm and the rest of the world intact. If you had borrowed from that…he is well and truly stuck.

It could be worse. He could have been captured with the intent of harming the Underworld, or weakening the barrier between the living and the dead. It could have been someone who demanded he give up his hound.

But he cannot call himself an oppressed prisoner. The heaviness of his limbs had quickly been resolved after a modification of the runes outside his prison. You also insisted on ensuring all his needs are met, including bedding, pillows, water—both for bathing and drinking—and food, which you have taken to cooking in front of him, to prove there is no poison.

He accepts the bedding and pillows, as well as the water; he pours the drinking water into the same basin he uses for his baths. But nothing passes his mouth. Seungcheol is not sure why you are putting in the effort; your kind need little food and rest, after all. He does not know how much time has passed, only that he is utterly miserable. He considered yelling, crying out for help, but no one would hear him. 

Meanwhile, he feels your realm draining away at his reserves. Vast as they are, even a drop of water against a rock eventually wears it down. He could only imagine what Jeonghan must be thinking now, at his prolonged and unplanned absence. Seungcheol grits his teeth, resisting the urge to lay down at the ever-creeping fatigue that grows as his magic wanes. He found out the hard way that the more of his body was in contact with your realm, the faster he would waste away. It is a battle to just stay awake.

“Your Grace!” He hears, and it feels vaguely far away. You are running to him, robes fluttering around you as you move, light-footed, across your realm. Seungcheol bites back a grimace, self-conscious of the way his draining magic must make him look paler and sicklier than usual. “Please hold onto a vine.”

At his refusal, you roll your eyes. “Let me try something, Your Grace. I think I know how to replenish your magic; I swear on your River that I mean no ill.”

Seungcheol’s distrustful stare does not cease, but he does relax his shoulders and hold out his right hand, palm facing up. Taking a deep breath, you wave a hand.

A thorn grows from where his hand is gripping the vine. Though ichor drips from his wrist down to his elbow, golden and oozing, Seungcheol refuses to flinch. Even as he bleeds, his palm is already beginning to heal, the tissue stitching itself around his wound and ejecting the thorn from his skin. Your focus is not on him though. As you watch, his blood is absorbed into the vine. 

Almost immediately, moss begins to grow under his hand. Flowers bloom at his feet from where the ichor drips onto the earth. Excited, you move a few steps closer, touching the new life now growing on your vines.

“This is…” he removes his hand from the vine, eyes flitting from between his now-healed hand and the vine he had held earlier, which now had not only moss, but flowers blooming from where his blood had touched the plant. He opens his mouth, but no words come.

“It worked,” you murmur, almost wondrously. “Ha! It cannot be true that your magic is only for the Dead.”

Seungcheol is stunned.

Certainly not an emotion he has ever felt very often, much less to this degree. You don’t seem to be done. Stepping forward, you clasp his hand in between yours. He startles, feeling the Life-magic from you rush into him. Slowly, he feels his reserves begin to return. When you let go, his magic has not fully returned to its full capacity, yet there is enough that he feels sufficiently energized.

“Spring,” you declare, looking at the astonished god, “is simply Life that follows after Death, after all. Wouldn’t you agree, Your Grace?”

“A clever trick,” he says eventually. “You have had your fun, then. Now release me.”

You just smile. “Actually, this little experiment has just proven an interesting point. You are not my prisoner, Your Grace. Though it would be a shame to let you go, I will not keep you here against your will. The Lord of the Dead must be busy, after all.”

The change in your script has him dizzy. “I am not your prisoner?”

“It would seem so. That is what my investigation says.” You shrug. “I made a mistake with my earlier oath to the River, and now I have to mean you no ill in everything. So I can no longer lie to you. Not that I have, ever, anyway.”

Seungcheol tugs at the vines, ignoring how they now curiously seem to sway into his touch. But even as they do, no matter what he tries, they do not break. “So release me, then.”

“Now, where is the fun in that? I have given you a clue on how to release yourself, did I not? Spring is Life that follows after Death. And I have replenished some of your reserves, since you do not wish to bother with my cooking.”

At his confused silence, you huff a little laugh. “Oh, Your Grace, what am I to do with you?”

Seungcheol tucks his irritation behind his teeth, exhaling long and slow. “You could release me.”

“I told you, Your Grace is no prisoner of mine. You can very easily break this cage if you wished to. That is no longer my problem.” You shrug. “I swear it on your River and my magic. But do send messages to the Underworld, should you feel your absence take even longer. My wards will accommodate the correspondence.”

Days pass. He does indeed end up sending messages to the Underworld. To Jeonghan, to be exact.

While concerned, the God of Death’s immediate reaction is one of amusement, even admiration. It does nothing to quell Seungcheol’s irritation, especially when Jeonghan points out that you were right, the River binds you to tell only the truth, and mean no ill. He is just unlucky that no ill is not the same as goodwill.

Meanwhile, Seungcheol watches as you tend to your gardens, conversing merrily with the spirits as you move around your domain. The spirits are curious of him too, yet he bats them away with impatient huffs and vaguely imperious commands to leave him alone. They do, but he feels faintly guilty for the way they seem to wilt as they drift away.

He still cannot claim to be an oppressed prisoner. You reminded him that he is not—and arguably has never been—the latter, and correctly guessed that releasing him from the cage after swearing that he can get out himself would hurt his pride. He is also not the former, as your constant providing of bedding, water, and food has continued. Seungcheol’s practice of accepting everything but the food has also continued. True enough to your claim, the lack of sustenance in your realm seems to be correlated to his dwindling reserves, though it seems his blood had satisfied your domain enough to be much slower in dwindling your reserves.

Still, nothing passes his mouth. After every meal, you wordlessly claim the untouched bowls of your cooking—whether stew, bread, meat, vegetables, or rice. Even the casket you had received from the God of Wine and deigned to share with him is refused, even as you remind him repeatedly that you cannot harm him.

At each refusal, your lips would purse tighter and tighter.

Finally, one night, you have had enough. Standing at the other side of his cage, you do not move to get his untouched dinner.

Instead, new vines wrap around his wrists and legs, pulling him forward to the edge of the cage. Seungcheol’s choked exclamation of surprise cuts itself short as you grab his robes from the other side. He has to slam his hands, bound as they are, against his cage to brace himself. Your face is a mask of barely-controlled fury.

“I remember telling you, Your Grace,” you snarl, “you are not my prisoner.” The air around him crackles with magic. The smell of grapefruit fills his nose—but incredibly bitter, as though the taste of its pith became a scent. Your face is twisted in anger, and dare he say hurt. “I swear a vow of no malice. I show you the potential of your power, and promise freedom is within your grasp. I offer you kindness. I allow you to send your correspondence in good faith, not knowing if you have actually been plotting your revenge against me. I give you food from my garden, and cook it in front of you!

“And you repay me with distrust,” you spit. “You refuse the fruits of Spring and her goddess’ labor. My Lord must know that only realms of the major theoi have enough latent magic to bind those who partake of its bounty. But if your strategy to free yourself is to anger me to oblivion, I will simply allow my realm to suck the magic out of you. The Lord of the Dead, my personal fertilizer. See if you like that.” Your voice cracks.

Any response boiling behind his throat dissipates at the sight of tears rimming your lashes. Weakly, he tries to rebut. “You cannot. You swore no ill will.”

“And yet you do not eat.” Suddenly, it seems the strings have been cut from your body, and you release his robes with nothing more than a half-hearted shove. Turning away, you pick up his untouched food. Despite your anger moments ago, you remain gentle with the bowl of cold stew.

Seungcheol watches, the weight in his chest growing, as you set it in front of your table and grab a spoon. With a wave of your hand, the stew is warm again, steam rising in gentle spirals from the bowl. The guilt he had felt spurning the innocently curious spirits is nothing compared to seeing the Goddess who had brought him to his knees fighting back her tears, spooning his dinner into her mouth.

“I did not know you could warm it again.” He speaks quietly, unable to raise his voice above a murmur.

“Why,” you reply dully. “Would you eat it if I did?”

Seungcheol does not reply, despite the apologies crawling up his throat. As you leave for your evening ablutions, he calls for you softly.

“Do not bother apologizing,” you reply, without stopping or turning back. “Just eat the food tomorrow.”

And so he does.

After another handful of days, a visitor arrives. 

“Erm, Lord Seungcheol?” He looks up, trying to place the voice. Your head pokes up from a hedge, vaguely panicked. A figure alights by the gazebo, where he had first found you. He recognizes the messenger god by the dark red hair and winged sandals on his feet. 

He is about to call out, but your hand closes into a fist quickly. The air clamp his lips shut, and silences the muffled shout that escapes his mouth. The god looks around, realizing Seungcheol is not there. Realizing this, the god slumps, calling a different name instead with a mix of exasperation and concern. Seungcheol tilts his head, wondering whose it is, until he sees your head snap to the god’s direction. 

With a jolt, he realizes he only knew your title—Goddess of Spring—but not your name. The messenger god begins to rant.

“I only just managed to sneak past the Lord Father’s nose—said you were not to be disturbed while the Lord of the Dead tended to your illness, but I had to see you, if only to confirm which rumours are true—what on earth happened to your wards, by the way, I had to ask a sprite for help in removing the soot—”

The god parts the curtain by your bed, and promptly swears. “Shit!”

Seungcheol watches, mildly bemused, as the god flutters from one nook to the next, looking more and more distressed as you are nowhere in sight. Any amusement he feels vanishes the moment the young god finds him, tending to a patch of plants a few feet away from your bed. Seungkwan trips as he stumbles backward in shock.

“L-Lord Seungcheol,” he stammers, stumbling to his feet. “I—Your Grace—”

“Seungkwan,” Seungcheol inclines his head with all the dignity he can muster.

“Seungkwan,” you finally call. He whips around, a noise of both agitation and relief escaping him when he catches sight of you.

“You! What in hell’s name are you doing out of bed?! Er,” he glances sheepishly at Seungcheol before turning back to you with a wide-eyed glare, expression clearly demanding you to explain.

“Surprise!” You chuckle feebly. “Whatever happened to ‘I am glad you are well’?”

“Last everyone has heard, the Lord of the Dead was preparing for your passage to the Underworld—” Seungkwan begins, before his expression morphs, the pieces coming together in his head in real time. He looks as though he is one revelation away from pulling his hair out. “Tell me Lord Seungcheol is not your prisoner and this is all in my head.”

“Lord Seungcheol is not my prisoner and this is all in your head,” you parrot obediently. 

“Is this why you were so sick? You were saving your magic for—for ransoming the God of the Underworld?”

“That is not why I—”

“You know everyone will realize he is missing, do you not? There are already whispers that the Underworld is without its King.” He waves his hands, emphasizing his words. Your voice remains genial.

“This is all harmless fun,” you wave a hand. 

Seungkwan’s eyes narrow. “Is it? The Underworld—”

“I have allowed correspondence between him and his comrades—”

“Some already think your illness is too convenient,” he warns. “You will not be able to hold this charade for long.”

You snort. “The fact that gossip of both my faked illness and impending death coexist speaks to the stupidity of the divine rumour mill.”

Exasperated with your blasé responses, Seungkwan turns to Seungcheol. Biting his lip, his fingers fidget at his staff. You just watch, eyebrow raised at the sudden change in demeanor. “My Lord, do you, erm, need help—that is, if you are held against your will—”

“I shall be free soon enough,” he says shortly. “The Underworld will not be long without me.”

“You will hurt his pride, ‘Kwan,” you interject, smothering a laugh. “He needs to free himself for his ego’s sake.” 

Seungcheol levels a glare at you, thoroughly unamused. You just raise an eyebrow, daring him to say otherwise. Seungkwan’s gaze flits between the two of you, cycling through numerous expressions of skepticism and concern.

Eventually, the god just sighs, running a hand again through his hair. The tension in Seungkwan’s shoulders returns; his sandals flutter restlessly, picking up on the unease of their master. “The Pantheon only knows that you have been wasting away from eating mortal food, and that there is something strange about the Underworld because of His Grace’s absence. The others may start putting the pieces together.”

Your gaze shifts from rage into something more calculating. “Let them, then. See if they can outsmart a goddess that outsmarted the Unseen One.”

Seungcheol does it again and again, slicing his hand and watching the growth from where his ichor drips on the earth. Since first time he tried it without you to interfere in any way, the same result were yielded. Yet there is no more understanding with this attempt than any other before it.

Frustrated, he looks at you. “My blood does not cause life, and nor does my magic. Millennia have proven this. Your garden must be an anomaly.”

From the other side of his cage, you huff, not looking up from your pruning. “You are not listening to me, Your Grace; I said Life follows after Death, not that Death causes Life. Perhaps, yes, your blood dripping onto mortal soil would yield different results. But this is my garden, the Heart of Spring. Life is constantly following after Death. An endless loop.”

“The ichor,” he tries. “The things Godly blood can do, even now, have never been fully known.”

“Your Grace, you say your magic is one of Death, yet not a single blade of grass has wilted in your footsteps,” you point out. “It is not just your blood that can bring Life, but your magic itself. I am the Spring that follows after Death. You carry the power of Death itself.”

“No, Death is Jeonghan,” Seungcheol murmurs absently.

Evidently, you had not been expecting that, as you pull up short and twist to face him, face contorted in surprise. “Jeonghan? Oh my. Do I have the wrong god?”

“No! No.” Seungcheol pauses, surprised at his own vehemence. Clearing his throat, he continues in a more subdued tone. “I am Lord of the Dead. Jeonghan is the God of Death, the Reaper.”

“Oh,” you wave a hand dismissively. “Spring does not come immediately after the reaping. My point stands. Spring is the Life that follows from Death. My realm has already been responding to you, gaining life from your power.”

Seungcheol has felt, since getting into this cage, the power draining from under his feet, as though the earth were a great straw drinking from his reserves. He had assumed it to be because of the runic circle at his feet. “Is this not you draining my power to keep me prisoner? You said so yourself.”

“I lied. Oh, don’t look so surprised,” you roll your eyes at his expression. “I swore to mean you no malice, not to speak the truth. Not at that point yet, anyway. It is true that your power is feeding mine, but that is not just mydoing. My domain has latent magic, though the runes augment it. It has been responding to yours, making more Life out of Death. Pushing your magic outward will only make it worse. And why do you think my magic flowed so easily into your reserves?” You give him a gaze that is both meaningful and exasperated.

A thought strikes him then, one so obvious now that Seungcheol wonders why it had not occurred to him earlier. He lays his hand back onto the vines in front of him. Instead of pushing, however, he pulls, bringing magic inward and back to himself. 

The realm responds in kind.

His prison’s vines begin to weaken under his touch, the tangled cords thinning until the braids barely hold together. Above him, the great ceiling of his cage falls as a wilted mess. Instinctively, Seungcheol lifts his hand, and the wilted stems disintegrate, falling around him like ash. The air smells distinctly earth-like.

He stands before you, dead leaves in his hair, more invigorated than he has been in a long, long time.

“Well, it took you long enough,” you rest your hands on your hips, utterly pleased with yourself. “Aren’t I a splendid teacher? I imagine if you do the same thing with your feet, you will no longer be so drained in my domain.”

“Of course,” Seungcheol murmurs to himself. “Death claims Life, not the other way around. It has been so long since I left the Underworld that I have forgotten.” 

Something in your expression softens. “Then remember with me. If it cannot be remembered, we shall find out more. You felt it, did you not? Our magics are drawn to each other.”

Seungcheol cannot deny that. Even now, with you a little more than an arm’s length away, he aches to have you closer, to feel again that rush of Life, as though he were perpetually being reborn.

“So, what will it be, Lord of the Dead? Will you find out with me?”

Seungcheol resists the yearning that claws at his chest, tamps down the yes that instinctively rises up his throat.

“What do you get out of this?”

“Hm?”

“It seems terribly altruistic for you,” he drawls. “My captor caging me purely for her amusement, and now that I have passed, I am offered to learn of magic I did not know I could wield.” He narrows his eyes at you. “What do you get out of this?”

You tilt your head at him, confused. “Do you think you are the only one benefiting from this arrangement? My realm has never been stronger. Our magic’s compatibility is a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

“And your suitors?”

“Your presence would certainly deter the rabble, but I imagine the rumours of your capture alone will set me up for a good few millennia of quiet.”

“What of my duties? No matter how capable my brothers are, the Underworld falters without its king.”

“Return to the Underworld if you must, Your Grace, but contract with me the period of your stay. I will swear on the River that it shall be upheld.”

You snap your fingers, and a gentle breeze flutters over him, rustling his hair and clothes off the dead leaves and bits of stem. And though he is free, longing clings to his ribs, the offer not just of power, butcompanionship, of a kind that is different from the one he shares with his brothers belowground. It was only when Seungkwan had arrived that he remembered the usual demeanor leveled at him—the immediate fear and distrust, the whispers that had pushed him toward seclusion in the first place. Outside of his brothers in the Underworld, you had been the only other one to not treat him this way.

For so long, the thought of Life had left a bitter taste in his mouth. Seungcheol had never held it in his hands, never felt the rush of a beating heart nor a sapling’s head breaking from the soil. Yet he experienced all of that, numerous times, in this garden, without feeling like a harbinger of despair. 

“Well? What say you, Your Grace?”

Much planning is needed. His comrades were more receptive to the idea than he expected; he could not help but feel a little betrayed at their willingness to shoo him off and insist on a so-called vacation, even if the pretense remained to be that he was tending to a goddess at her sickbed.

To Seungcheol’s chagrin, you insisted on tagging along to the Underworld, brushing aside his protests that nothing alive can enter his domain. 

“Death claims Life; I am telling you now, the Underworld will take a much bigger toll on a minor goddess compared to the Lord of the Dead in your garden.”

“How unfair. We are partners, are we not? For all you know I could use some Death magic myself. We will not know until I am there.” You bat your eyes playfully. “The Lord of the Dead must have enough power to save a minor goddess, no? Especially in his own domain.”

He pinches his nose, a headache beginning to form. Surely there are much better ways of ensuring he upholds your arrangement.

“Fine. Fine, but if your magic is dwindling, you tell me immediately.”

You bounce on your toes, excited. Excited! Seungcheol does not bother to think about the teasing that he is sure to receive. Once his brothers see him descend with a girl on his arm, much less one very much alive, he is never hearing the end of it.

True enough, the first to see them is Jisoo, on the edge of the riverbank. The twinkle in his eye bodes nothing good. “Oh? This is no dead goddess. Have you abducted her? I must remind you that I only ferry the dead. Unless you plan on finally taking a Queen.”

You merely smile. “Hello, ferryman.”

Jisoo smiles, eyes crinkled into crescents, charm dialed up much more than necessary. Seungcheol tamps down the grumble that crawls up his throat.

“Hello, Goddess. Blink twice if you need help.”

Seungcheol cannot help his scoff. “Oh, please. I am not holding her hostage. If anything, it was the other way around.”

“It is true.” You nod solemnly. “I would like passage, as the Lord of the Dead’s abductor. We are here to sort his affairs before he begins his contract in my domain.”

Jisoo blinks, taken aback. “My lady,” he begins, “As I mentioned earlier, I only ferry the dead. You are very much alive.”

“Even if I were the guest of your Lord?” He nods. “Hm. I suppose I could dip in the river, then?”

“Do not even joke about that,” Seungcheol snaps. “You will die. Anyone who bathes in the River, immortal or mortal, will die.”

“That is entirely the point.”

“The Pantheon will have my magic. Your mother will have my head. Poor Chan will be worse off, since it is his river you have chosen to bathe in.”

“Chan? Is that the name of your river deity?” Your eyes are alight with interest. “How fascinating.” Seungcheol rubs a palm against his forehead; the headache has taken over in earnest.

“Knowing the name of the river spirit will not help your case, my lady.” Jisoo gently pulls the conversation back. “I cannot let you cross.” You ponder the dilemma, crossing your arms and lifting a hand to your mouth in thought. 

“I have claimed to be on the brink of death before,” you muse, “Spring is…no, that will not work. Well then.” You turn to Jisoo, tilting your head. “Do you accept bribery, ferryman?”

Without missing a beat, he replies, “Certainly, if it came from a goddess as pretty as you.” 

Seungcheol chokes, looking at his friend with wide eyes. “Absolutely not—” In the blink of an eye, Jisoo’s smile shifts from charming to cheeky, and you respond with a bright grin of your own.

His protests are ignored. The familiar wildness of your magic tinges the air, and in your hands, three daisies emerge, their white and yellow colors a stark contrast to the blackish-brown mud of the riverbank. “For you, ferryman. Three is a magical number, after all.”

Jisoo’s expression is surprisingly soft as he accepts the flowers. “Oh. I have never received flowers before.”

“Never?” you frown. “That simply will not do.” With a deep inhale, your eyes scrunch shut. The scent of your magic grows stronger—the mix of florals and citrus already in the air is joined by the bite of wood, and something else, distinctly earth-like. Soil. A collection of flowers bloom where your hands are cupped: pink and purple roses, daisies, azaleas, and a whole slew of plants Seungcheol has seen before but cannot name. You tie the bouquet with a long piece of leaf, presenting it to him with a flourish.

“The daisies were my bribe, but this is a gift. What do you think, ferryman?”

Jisoo’s smile is the widest Seungcheol has seen in a while. “Come aboard, my lady.”

For the first time in a while, you are wrong; the Underworld is too much. You feel the magic rapidly draining from you, even as Seungcheol asks you to stay outside his bedchambers while he gathers his things. You bite your lips to force color back onto them.

As you wait, the presence of another makes itself known. Two others, you realize, turning to see a man—a god—and a dog-creature in his arms. The god tilts his head. 

“You must be the goddess Seungcheol was supposed to collect, then.” You hedge a guess.

“Jeonghan?”

The god’s eyebrows raise. “Indeed, lady.” 

The God of Death is intimidatingly beautiful. His magic pulses around him, eerily similar to the Lord of the Dead. Yet where you find solace in Seungcheol’s, even a sense of excitement, this man’s magic makes you vaguely uneasy, even as it has some synergy with your own.

Where Seungcheol reigns over the Dead already put to rest, Jeonghan’s domain is the reaping itself, the act of claiming. So close to Seungcheol’s, yet very far from yours.

He observes you, gaze knife-sharp. “If our Lord is to stay with you, I ask that you adjust your wards to let me in as well. He may need to communicate regularly with the Underworld.”

“Everyone is alright with this?” you ask, surprised. “I was prepared to fight for his temporary transfer.” The ferryman was one thing, especially since he could simply not grant you passage out, but his closest lieutenant agreeing so easily is unexpected.

“Our Seungcheollie needs a vacation,” Jeonghan waves a hand, deceptively dismissive, but his eyes burrow holes into your confidence. “And I trust his judgement, even if I have my own concerns.”

The dog in his arms barks, and Jeonghan’s tone shifts to a soothing coo. “Kkuma-ya, shh.” 

Tentatively, you reach a hand out, ignoring Jeonghan’s disapproving stare. Kkuma sniffs at your hand, pauses, and begins to lick with great aplomb. Jeonghan’s eyes widen slightly.

“I think she recognizes His Grace’s magic,” you murmur, a little embarrassed. Yet with every pass of Kkuma’s tongue on your fingers, you feel some magic return to you.

“Perhaps, but she only does that if she really likes you.”

“Or she senses my magic weakening. May I?” You hold out your hands, and Kkuma is quick to paw at Jeonghan’s arms, impatient. You accept Kkuma, giggling as she licks your cheek, still transferring magic to you.

Jeonghan’s gaze remains sharp, but considerably less cold. “You are not dead. But you are dying.”

“Indeed, it seems I miscalculated my entrance into his domain.”

“The living cannot stay,” he agrees. “I will tell Seungcheol to hurry.” Jeonghan excuses himself with a short bow.

“Your Goddess is growing weaker.”

Seungcheol starts, whipping around to see Jeonghan striding into his chambers. “What?”

“We spoke briefly outside. The Underworld is rejecting her presence.”

Seungcheol purses his lips, quickly packing the last of his essentials before lifting his bag over his shoulder. “She would have been less tired had she not made that huge bouquet for Jisoo.”

“He is quite endeared, by the way. Planted them by the riverside almost immediately, at the edge of the Isles. Chan likes them too.”

“And you?”

“Hm?” Jeonghan’s tone is too innocent. Seungcheol groans.

“Do not tell me you scared her.”

The God of Death shrugs, a little pout on his face as he reproaches him. “How little you think of me. I like her, actually. Finally a woman with a spine, though it is funny to know that you were her prisoner. How did you solve her puzzle?”

Seungcheol explains the direction of flow as the deciding factor, how claiming life was the answer and not pushing magic outward. “Though of course, you probably already know that, being around Life magic as often as you are,” he concludes.

Jeonghan listens, interested. “I have been told that our magic is similar. Perhaps—”

“I asked that too,” he interjects quickly. “She said something about Spring not coming right after the reaping.”

“Oh? Clever girl.” Jeonghan’s eyes gleam. Seungcheol points his finger at him, warning.

“Do not.”

“Goodness, how long have you known her? So protective already. I like her more and more.”

Absently, he runs a hand along the fine cloth of his pillowcase, already missing the luxury of his bedsheets. “I will not be away for long.”

“Of course.” Jeonghan inclines his head. As he leaves, his friend calls out from behind him, “Do try to have fun, though!”

It is decidedly not fun.

“Again.”

Seungcheol kneels down, brushing the tips of his fingers against the sapling. “Agh!” The little plant explodes with a wet pop, scattering little pieces of green on top of the dirt.

“Too much.”

Seungcheol looks up, meeting your eyes from where you stand, right across him. You tilt your head, holding his gaze before gesturing to the next sapling. He uses a single finger this time, focusing on letting out a steady stream of his power. The little plant blooms, briefly, until it too explodes.

“Too much, still.” Amusement colors your voice. “Trickle your magic in. Do not let it flow so strongly.”

“I am trickling it.” Frustrated, he curls his power inward, watching the little sapling wilt and then rot into the ground. Around him, the spirits titter, some small voices letting out soft squeaks of dismay. You tut.

“Your control over your magic is lacking, Your Grace. When was the last time you had to use your power like this?”

“I cannot look back on the day.” He grits his teeth. You merely hum in response, remaining where you are, arms crossed and leaning against a nearby tree bark. Your patience too, is much longer than his.

“It could be either your control or the size of your reserves. It could also be both. Though I suppose kings do not have to work to hone their magic if they can overpower others through sheer force.” He grits his teeth, glaring holes into your impassive stare. “Again.”

“Can you teach me?”

“Hm?” You look back, meeting his gaze. His eyes are fixed on the knife on your hand. Right now, there is rice bubbling by the fire, and you are readying an array of vegetables and meat to be mixed in with the freshly-cooked rice. It had always been just you cooking while he applied himself to continuous attempts at controlling his power.

“It seems remiss to leave you to hostess’ work,” he clarifies. At your blank stare, he feels the foreign sensation of heat rushing to his cheeks, and the urge to raise his shoulders and hunch them inward.

Eventually, you offer him the bowl of sliced cucumbers in your hand. Your eyes are clear of any judgement; the tension in his shoulders ease somewhat. “Here. Drizzle some oil, then a spoonful of the garlic and a pinch of salt.”

Eager for an easier task than honing his paltry control over his magic, Seungcheol accepts the bowl. You continue like this, him following your instructions until two steaming bowls of rice with overlaid meat and vegetables are laid before you. The cucumbers are in a separate dish, seasoned by him and with your guidance. You reach for one, popping into your mouth with a thoughtful hum.

He mirrors your movement, but makes a face almost immediately. He put too much salt. Nonplussed, you eat your third cucumber, shrugging even as he picks at his work. He gives you a skeptical frown, which you only respond to with a smile.

“You will learn.” No shred of doubt can be found in your voice.

Seungcheol does not respond. Instead, he digs into his rice, allowing warmth to fill him.

“Perhaps,” you begin, “we have been looking at this wrong.” You cup his hands between yours.

His magic sparks at your touch, and the power under your skin responds in kind. Seungcheol’s knuckles brush against your wrist, and he startles a little at the strength of your pulse. Almost immediately, a bud grows, fed not by soil, but your joint magic. In seconds, a fully-bloomed daffodil rests on his hand. He stares at the yellow petals, mouth parted in wonder.

“Concentrate on your magic, Your Grace. How does it feel?” You prompt him gently. Reluctant, he shakes off the awe, pursing his lips as he feels the flow of the magic. Seungcheol marvels at the feeling of it, how alive it feels to have your magics intertwine. It feels—

“Like dancing,” he murmurs, gazing down at your joined hands. Another daffodil has already begun to bloom.

“I see.” you murmur, gazing down at your hands, a soft smile on your features. Your fingers trace the ridges of his palm almost affectionately. Despite himself, Seungcheol revels in the touch; he is sure that even without your magic meeting and intertwining, his skin would tingle at the novelty of any kind of contact with Life. The flowers remain on his hands, but he feels the loss of warmth on his skin as you release him and step back. Your bare foot twists in the soil, and a sapling pops up from the ground. 

“Remember the feeling, Your Grace. Not pushing nor pulling, but dancing.” You gesture to the little stem popping from the ground. “Now try.”

He kneels down, resting his pinky on the little shoot. He exhales slowly, narrowing his world to the point where his finger touches Life. It grows a few inches, shedding its first, small leaves and allowing new, larger ones to grow. His success doesn’t last long, however, and the plant promptly pops into small pieces of greenery scattered around the dark soil. He twists his up head to you, eyes wide, lips pouted in dismay. You are already clapping delightedly. 

“Yes!” You clasp his hands again, excited. Despite himself, he revels in the touch; “That is much better than all the other attempts thus far! That is the answer, then. Life and Death dance together.” Magic buzzes under his skin, already reaching out to yours on instinct. You must feel it too, as the smell of flowers and citrus spikes in the air. At your feet, a small patch of bouvardia bursts into bright bloom.

Grinning, you just grasp his hands tighter.

Seungcheol yanks a few carrots out, wiping the soil away with a spare rag before laying them beside the other vegetables. They join the peppers and lettuce already filling the basket.

“You are different from what they say.” He looks up, meeting your eyes. You nestle a head of newly-harvested cabbage. “Gloomy, perhaps. But there is nothing cruel about you.”

“How magnanimous of you to say,” he responds dryly. You gesture to his part of the harvest. 

“I imagine this all must be very new.”

“It has been many millennia since I have been with Life this long,” he acknowledges. They are only distant memories, blurred and softened by the passage of time.

“What is the Underworld like?”

“Have you not seen my domain, goddess?”

You wave a hand dismissively. “Oh, but that was just your River and the Palace; it must be much more vast than that.”

“Nothing grows in my realm, except the lands of the blessed, which houses those shades to be reincarnated.” 

Your nose wrinkles as you try to imagine it. “No sunlight makes for a dreary place indeed. Truly nothing grows?”

“Well…” An idea occurs to him, and he places his hand on the soil, concentrating. Sure enough, the earth pushes up a fist-sized emerald onto his waiting palm. He presents it to you. Your eyes sparkle as you accept the gift, turning it this way and that, observing how the uncut jewel gleams as it reflects the sun. You turn back to him, inquisitive.

“Do these grow on your trees? Or do you just will them from the ground?”

“Oh! No, I merely—” Seungcheol clears his throat. He feels heat burn his ears red. “We have these, as well. It is not just an expanse of grey despair.”

You look at him curiously, likely catching the way he squirms under your gaze. Eventually, you just level him with a grin.

“I’d forgotten that the Lord of the Dead is also the God of Wealth. I would like to see this…jeweled garden of yours next time.” The emerald reflects a small, bright spot of green light on your cheek, like a little divine dimple. Somehow, he thinks he would not mind if you visit again.

Meals have quickly grown to be his favorite time. You are softer here, the less forgiving mask of researcher and instructor having been traded in favor of the genial goddess.

Today, he finally mastered his first dish—not merely balancing the seasoning ingredients like you had asked him with the cucumbers, but a full-blown, steaming bowl of stew. He did not expect to be filled with so much satisfaction at the smile that bloomed on your face at the first bite.

“This is perfect, Your Grace.”

He just nods, suddenly bashful, picking up his own spoon. As he eats, you watch him, particularly bright-eyed. There is something almost like wonder in your gaze—and he doesn’t know what to do with it. No one has ever looked at the Lord of the Dead with wonder, of all things.

Seungcheol is not quite sure what your duties are, only that you have not left your domain since your trip to the Underworld. Even while he was your captive, he had only seen you here. It is only when you flit around, uncharacteristically restless, that he even realizes you have obligations outside your realm.

“I received a message from Seungkwan yesterday,” you confess, catching his questioning look. “The mortals’ fields are suffering from my absence. Harvest is my mother’s domain, while Spring is mine; at this rate there will be little bounty.”

“You have been neglecting your duties.” His tone is more disapproval than a question.

“It would be strange for a sick goddess to be out and about, would it not?” Pointedly, you raise an eyebrow. “If I attend to them now, the gossip mill will grind anew. Not that the Pantheon is not already suspicious.”

Seungcheol glares at his feet. He hates those voices more than anything else. They were the reason he chose to sequester himself in his realm in the first place—the domain of the dead had always been regarded with fearful reverence, and Seungcheol had never bothered to contest those narratives. Even if it did mean the occasional offering from mortals who seem to think that more death will come if they do not worship, or worse, that he can have killed specific people if they bribe him with enough sheep.

“Will you be alright alone?”

He scoffs, shooing you away with a hand. “I am no blushing bride.” You look at him askance; something in your eyes tells him you are not persuaded by his act. Still, you sling your rucksack over your shoulder. 

Your disbelieving gaze shifts into something more teasing, though it seems slightly strained, as though you yourself are reluctant to leave your realm. Foolishly, he hopes that it is you being reluctant to leave him.

“Do not miss me too much, Your Grace.”

Idly, you weave gerberas and little chrysanthemums into a crown, inserting some daffodil blooms as you go. Once you are satisfied, you gesture at Seungcheol, and he hunches down, allowing you to nestle the crown on his head. It has become your routine between your return from your duties and the start of supper preparations, and always under the cherry tree that is your pride and joy—the first and largest thing you had grown with your combined powers.

“Your turn.” Against his will, Seungcheol feels heat creep up his ears and cheeks.

“It is poorly done, goddess—” You tut, cutting him off.

“I will be the judge of that.” Expectantly, you lower your head.

His own creation is much clumsier, the ranunculus drooping from where he left the weave loose in fear of the soft stems breaking. You had suggested he pair it with roses, so that the structure could be reinforced, but the romantic implication had flustered him too much.

He arranges it carefully, maneuvering the blooms to something a bit more dignified. When there is nothing more he can do to salvage it, he steps back, breath catching a little when you look up at him from where you are seated under the tree. Hastily, he looks away, praying that the flowers hide the red creeping up his ears.

Perhaps you don’t, as you waste no time, standing up and tugging his sleeve until you reach the edge of the pond. Looking down, you admire his work, turning your head this way and that, a delighted smile on your face.

Your reflection’s gaze shifts to him.

“The gerberas match your robes, Your Grace.”

“Seungcheol,” he corrects. “Please.” 

“Seungcheol,” you echo, even as your eyes briefly widen at his request. At the pointed raise of his eyebrow, you repeat yourself, amusement coloring your voice. “The gerberas match your robes, Seungcheol.”

He smiles, inclining his head. “So they do.”

The petals tickle his scalp, but he does not mind.

You tell him of your flowers—what each one means, and how to care for them, pointing out how sprites gravitate toward certain flowers depending on their tastes and even moods. He tells you of the rivers—it is not just the Styx, no matter how people like to just call it the River—and the fields, how each shade is assigned their place after they are tried before him and his Council. He tells you stories of Jeonghan and Jisoo, including how they came to be his comrades and closest friends in the Underworld. You are a better listener than he had expected.

It is a gentle existence.

Seungcheol should have known that it would not last forever.

A visitor arrives while you are away.

The thunder startles nearly all the sprites in the grove. For the first time in months, the patch of asters he had been trickling his power into explodes with a leafy pop, scattering bits of stem and purple petals into the air. Seungcheol scowls, recognizing the figure before him. King of the Pantheon he may be, but at the end of the day, his little brother remains to be a coward. And rude, to boot, swaggering in while the mistress of the realm is absent.

“Baby brother,” he acknowledges.

“It is true then,” he muses. “You are contracted to remain in her realm. She must be truly ill if even I cannot feel her presence.” 

Seungcheol does not bother to correct the assumption. He only says, “she is well enough to begin attending to part of her duties, but not to the extent of her full power.”

“Did she trick you into staying here?”

“She did not,” he replies shortly. 

“How…quaint. And clever, since the girl cannot be punished if it happens that you are here by your will.”

“My domain has remained functional in my absence, and I have attended to the concerns that have been brought to me by my comrades.”

“Indeed,” the thunder god muses. He begins to walk; Seungcheol notes the flowers trampled under his brother’s heavy footsteps, already planning how he will coax them back to life. “But what you did not anticipate was the frailty of the kingdom itself.”

“What?”

“Oh yes,” his brother seems pleased to have caught him off-guard. “It will take a while to set in, but your prolonged absence will crumble your kingdom, especially one so elaborate as yours. Your expansion projects will not hold for long, brother. The magic grows thin.”

Seungcheol grits his teeth, eyes flashing with warning. “We three have sworn an oath not to meddle in the realm affairs of another. I suggest you honor your part before the River forces that choice upon you. I will be conferring with my men on whether your observations are indeed true.”

The god before him just shrugs. “Do what you must. But do not think you can renew your contract here just because you could not heal her enough to bed her. Or even, heavens forbid, fell in love.”

Before he can reply, the god has left.

“Do you miss the Underworld?”

It has been just over three months since he had left. The Underworld is not just his domain; it is his home, the one he had ruled over for most of his existence. He chooses his words carefully. “I am needed there, just as the balance between the realms of Life and Death is needed for this world.”

“If you could,” your voice is quiet, “would you leave it?” There is the faintest tremble as the words leave you. You do not look up from the lake, eyes fixed on the still rippling surface. Your reflections remain distorted, even as he sets a gentle hand on your cheek, coaxing you to face him. He has gotten better at the flower crowns; the pink cherry blossoms resting above your brow, woven together with baby’s breath, is one of his favorite sights yet. 

“My place is there, dear Goddess, just as yours is here,” he reminds you softly. 

Even as your face is held to face him, your eyes dart away. The silence lasts entirely too long.

He bites back the urge to tell you of his conversation with his brother, and the one he had with Jeonghan right after—it is true that the Underworld, in a few months, will be in a precarious position. He cannot stay longer than what he had agreed to; he was just lucky that he did not have to breach your terms. The sunset paints the white flowers orange and your face golden. Perhaps it is for the best that there is no sun in the Underworld—the warmth will only make him remember you. 

Eventually, you sag, leaning into his touch with a sigh.

“Very well.” 

Not agreement, but acquiescence. He wonders which would have hurt more.

With every day that passes, your contract’s end creeps ever closer. You say as much, laying beside him under the cherry tree, watching the blossoms sway gently in the wind. The moon peeks from behind the flowers, pale and lovely.

“I would not mind if you visited every once in a while,” you admit. “It would be an honor to have some of the Lord of the Dead’s time, in between his busy functions as King.” 

“Consider it done,” he finally says. After a beat, his lips quirk upward into a faint smile. “And if you send my way any poor suitor that dared touch you, they will suffer Punishment tenfold,” he promises. You laugh, the sound soft against the night.

“I can handle my honor myself. Life can be much crueler than Death, Seungcheol. I have no qualms making fertilizer of lesser men.” Your grin turns into something wicked. “It is the only use I would have of their seed, after all.”

It takes a moment for the joke to land, but when it does, Seungcheol chokes on a startled laugh. You know you are toeing the line of what is acceptable banter with one of the Three Kings, but here, he is just your Seungcheol. You glance at him from the corner of your eye. While no sunlight in the Underworld is a shame, you think that it is equally a loss that no moon shines its glow over his domain; where the sun turns him golden and godly, night renders him achingly beautiful.

In the moonlight, he is almost just a man. 

“Well then,” he says, “if they are coming to my domain either way, you may find solace in the fact that there will be no love lost once they face judgement.”

You laugh again, though it sounds already wistful. 

“When Your Grace leaves, I shall keep that in mind.”

You try steal a glance, only to find that he is already looking at you. 

“We could marry,” he offers suddenly, breaking the silence. “You need not worry about suitors any longer.”

You blink at him for a moment, wondering how to respond to that. Even he does not seem to have expected the words that left his mouth. He does not seem drunk, either. For a moment, you both just stare at each other, the air charged with something that is beyond any magic.

Eventually, you exhale with an almost obnoxiously loud laugh. “You would make a fine God of Spring, Your Grace.”

Seungcheol just blinks, amused and lost in equal measures. “God of Spring? Not Queen of the Underworld?”

“I am no queen,” you brush the notion away, perhaps a little too quickly. “Me? On a throne? I would be more annoyance than ruler.” Seungcheol’s brow furrows. Instead of replying, responding to your bait, he regards you thoughtfully. You try not to fidget under the weight of his gaze. 

Surely this is alright; a non-serious offer must merit a non-serious response. Surely even he must know that the offer is absurd, even as your heart had jumped traitorously at his words. 

“For what it is worth,” he murmurs, entirely too sincere for a god whose domain is Death, “you would be a wonderful Queen.”

Tears prick at your eyes, and you look away abruptly, fighting back a sniffle. He is being entirely unfair. Blue camellias have already begun to bloom around you, encircling the entire tree. Hope is the realm of mortals, not of the gods. Or perhaps hope is the realm of love, and you had just been too foolish to dig yourself too deep into the soil. Now there are roots.

“You must marry for love, Your Grace, not for misplaced selflessness. Besides, we each have our own roles, do we not?”

Seungcheol gazes at the flowers, and then at you, a knowing look in his eyes even as your words betray the part of your heart that your realm had laid bare.

“Very well, dear Goddess,” he eventually murmurs. Your heart clenches painfully at his voice, so quietly defeated.

Not agreement, but acquiescence. You wonder which would have hurt more.

He leaves past the bloom of the cherry tree, just in time for the first batch of its fruits. The sprites flutter around him, distressed even as he attempts to make his goodbye. As you approach, they finally release him from their tittering.

“My realm will always be open to you, Your Grace.” He accepts your proffered basket of cherries with a quiet thank you, even as his body and magic screams in protest at the notion of leaving. Seungcheol feels torn in two—a part of him ready to return to the familiarity of his domain, and the other insisting that there is too much of home here for him to turn his back to it. 

There is a spot of dirt right by your cheek that he cannot seem to tear his gaze from. He thumbs it away, catching the hitch in your breath as his fingers ghost past your lips. 

It really cannot be helped. 

Seungcheol leans in, close, so close, feeling the magic thrum down to his bones. Still, he pauses, eyes flicking up from where they had been focused on your lips to ask this silent question. Instead of answering, you close the distance for him. He had meant for it to be sweet; a goodbye kiss, just one sip at the forbidden fruit before he was to part ways. He had hoped that he could have the kind of love that worked better at a distance.

He was a fool for thinking that could ever happen with you. 

You arch against him with a gasping moan, nipping at his lip with a vicious tenderness that prompts an answering groan. His hands grasp your hips, greedy, demanding, crushing you even harder against him. He had forgotten the wild goddess, the one who had first captured him by way of magic before even setting sights on his heart.

“Say my name,” he gasps.

“Seungcheol—Cheol—” He swallows your whimper into his mouth. 

Later, he will wonder how much of it was him, and how much was the magic that had burst to life when he kissed you. Later still, he will be reminded that there is no relevant distinction between the two in that moment. The smell of grapefruit lingers, faint, but notes of bergamot and blackcurrant, undercut by wood and patchouli, dominate the air.

“Follow me if you dare, goddess,” he whispers it against your lips, breath ragged.

“That is—” You break away with a gasp, your next words muffled by the second kiss he steals from your lips, “mm—entirely unfair. How am I to let you go now? There will be no other God of Spring but you.”

“It is the same for me,” he confesses. You close your eyes, burrowing yourself against his chest. Your hands grip at his robes. For a long moment, you do not speak. 

“How cruel of you to kiss me right as you are about to leave me behind.” He feels your shuddering inhale against his chest, the subtle hitch in your breath that could only come from a sob. It takes a few seconds before you release him, taking a step back. 

This has made him weak; it is what he would have said, months ago, before he understood what the humans in front of him must have felt when they begged on their knees in the name of love. Already blooming at your feet are patches of forget-me-nots and heliotropes, cruel reminders of what he is leaving behind.

“My tending to your malaise has ended, goddess. I have fulfilled my terms under the contract.”

You straighten, schooling your features into a stoic expression, even as tears linger at your eyelashes, and your lips are still swollen. Your voice is steady, almost steel-backed, as you end your River-sworn oath.

“I release you, Lord Seungcheol, from your contract, and attest that all terms have been fulfilled. I and my realm thank you for your help, Your Grace.”

As his body phases into shadow, right past the edge of your realm, you call his name, then five words that make his heart leap in hope despite himself. “And I accept your challenge.”

Jeonghan, uncharacteristically, refrains from teasing him about you, even when he had returned that day with red-rimmed eyes and a still slightly swollen lip.

Since your first encounter, there was a niggling thought at the back of his mind; that you are oriented toward some pursuit. You understood Life magic, applied yourself to it, sought more, and did not let even his position in the Underworld deter you from testing your hypotheses. In contrast, his knowledge of Death’s magic indeed rivals yours, but he has not once tried to expand it past what he already knew from millennia ruling his domain.

But if there is anyone who can solve that riddle, it would be you.

He tells himself this even as he immerses himself back into the monotony of being King, judging souls and plotting expansion projects as the need for more space grows. Hope is the realm of mortals, or, indeed, for places the sun touches. Yet he cannot help but hold onto it, amid his familiar darkness, calling on the warmth to keep the old voices at bay.

Moons later.

Seungcheol wakes by way of being hoisted up from his bed and slammed into the ground. He blinks his eyes open, groaning. If Seungkwan had enough strength to harm him, he would likely be in real trouble. As it is, the messenger god looms before him, looking more terrifying than he has ever been in all the time he has known him. Behind him are Jeonghan, Jisoo, and Chan, who all watch with varying degrees of horror and concern.

“Where is she?”

“Seungkwan, she is not—” Jisoo is there, pulling back at his robes, but Seungkwan holds fast, ignoring the God of Death. The caduceus floats dangerously near; he is not interested in finding out what he could do with it.

Amid all this mess, he still does not know what anyone is talking about. “What in the Fields is all this?”

Seungkwan’s lips pull back in a snarl. “Stop playing dumb, Your Grace,” he spits out the last word. 

“It is not Seungcheol’s fault,” Jeonghan interrupts firmly. His face is uncharacteristically grim. “He did not know of this.”

Dread begins to gnaw at him; there are precious few reasons why Seungkwan would be here, and even fewer things that would make him so angry. But it must be impossible—he parted ways with a challenge, but surely—

“She is dead?” He wrenches Seungkwan off him, breath coming out in harsh pants. “Impossible. I would have felt it.”

“Well she most definitely is not in her realm. No one has been able to reach her. There is only one other place she could be.”

Behind Seungkwan, Chan is shaking like a leaf. Seungcheol’s eyes move to him, and he shrinks under his gaze. He turns his head to look at Jeonghan and Jisoo. Jeonghan looks unsure, but defiant, while Jisoo averts his gaze, guilty.

“Where is she?” Fury and sorrow war over his heart.

“The throne room.” It is Jisoo who speaks. “She insisted that her first audience be with you.” Seungkwan turns his fury on him, already shouting something, but it is all mush in his ears. Seungcheol leaves them all, stumbling out of his bedchambers and breaking into a sprint.

“Took you long enough.” 

It’s a voice he never thought he’d hear, never so soon. Shock lances through him like a bold of lightning.

You are seated on his throne. Draped across it, more like, knees slung on one armrest and your back leaning against the other. The bowl of cherries he had been keeping beside his throne rests on your stomach. In place of your normal garments, you’re wearing a deep red robe, which shimmers like fine satin under the torchlight.

His magic sings in a way he never thought possible again. It is as though his dreams had decided to form his own version of temptation as punishment.

“What,” he croaks. “—are you doing?” 

“Sitting, of course.” 

“You are not supposed to be here.”

“No? You issued a challenge. I merely responded. You should know better than to underestimate me.” You tsk. “Jeonghan helped. Unlike your synergy with my domain, I needed to be reaped first. Death before spring, as it were. Then Chan and Joshua stepped in for the rebirth.”

You hold your hand up high, letting the sleeve of your robe drop, revealing your arm. Seungcheol inhales sharply. Spidery cracks run across your skin, pulsing gold with godly blood, but lined with mud. Looking more closely, he notices more about your appearance. The color of your irises is more faded than usual, almost translucent. A lock of hair from behind your ear is now brilliant white.

“You survived the River?” Seungcheol should have known that you would surprise him.

“Well, dear Chan planted Joshua’s flowers on his riverbank. Did you know?” Yes, he did; he visited them every day, tended to them as much as he could with the new wielding of his magic that he learned from you. “There was enough of myself for the River to recognize me. Enough in the soil to help me push the fragments of my spirit together.” 

Picking a cherry from the bowl, you hold it to the torchlight for inspection. A beat passes. You promptly pop the cherry into your mouth. 

Seungcheol lunges forward. “Stop—!” 

Your eyes narrow at the bowl of fruit as you chew thoughtfully. “Are these the cherries you stole from my orchard? I could have sworn they were a much better batch than this.” You pop the seed out onto your fingers. Red stains your lips as you lick the juices that spill from your mouth, thumb catching the drop that spills to your chin before your tongue flicks out to get that as well.

He almost falls to his knees then and there. 

Seungcheol watches, in panicked and confused desire, as you swing your legs from the armrest and stand, holding the bowl of cherries. There is a bulge on your cheek where the meat of the fruit remains. 

“It is such a shame,” you begin, his robe swishing down the steps as you descend, “that the Goddess of Spring’s illness, even with the Lord of the Dead’s tending, never did abate.”

The fabric moves like water over your body, flowing and dipping into curves he has been aching to touch for months. Stopping in front of him, you tug Seungcheol in by his robes, slotting your lips against his. He gasps, and you push the meat of the cherry into his open mouth, urging him to accept it. As the fruit lands on his tongue, you pull away, smirking when he chases your lips unconsciously. You run your tongue along the seam of your mouth, savoring his taste as you speak again.

“In his wisdom and compassion, he proclaims that the only way to preserve as much of her life as possible would be to stay with her for six months, as death is where Spring begins.” You pop another cherry in your mouth, maneuvering the fruit until another seed pops from your lips.

Seungcheol begins to see where this is going, his smile growing until his cheeks ache with the force of it. Oh, you glorious, glorious goddess.

“So the goddess blesses her fruit, mimicking the latent magic of his realm—” His mouth is already open as you lean your weight into him, accepting the fruit with a teasing nip at your bottom lip. Seungcheol revels in the way you whimper against him, the knowledge that in matters of desire, you are evenly matched. He grasps your hips, pulling you toward him while walking you backwards. Your mouths part with a soft smack.

Hoarsely, you continue, “—And he eats six cherries to bind himself to her and her realm for half a year, as the God of Spring.”

You startle as your knees hit the edge of his throne, but he makes sure to ease you down gently. The remaining four kisses are a blur of lips, teeth, and tongue, and he swallows each pitted cherry right alongside your gasps and moans.

As the sixth passes his throat, he picks up the bowl before looking at you with a wicked smirk.

“But the Lord of the Dead, who also was her lover, could not bear to be away from her. So,” he waves a hand at the fruit, releasing your spell and allowing the latent magic of his realm to bind it to him, “he asks her, in turn, to rule with him in the Underworld for the remaining six months, as Death cannot exist without Life.”

Out of all reactions you could give, Seungcheol does not expect you to be quiet. There is something terribly vulnerable about your gaze, made all the more devastating by the slightly translucent quality of your irises. “Really?” you ask, voice small. As though you had not expected him to do this.

Seungcheol melts. “I am wholly yours, darling,” he whispers, resting his forehead against yours. He grasps your waist with both his hands, thumb tracing reverent circles on your stomach. “If you want to, stay with me too. Be my Queen. Or just be with me, as my love.”

You kiss him deeply, twisting your fingers in his hair, the cherries in his hands forgotten. “My King,” you murmur against his lips. “My God of Spring. My Seungcheol. You are all the same to me, I love you as you are.” He surges against you, crowding you against his royal seat, too busy reveling in the fact that you are here, in all your cunning and wild beauty.

It takes much longer than before, each cherry-bearing kiss dragging out much more than strictly necessary, but eventually twelve pits are scattered around you, even as your hands remain in his hair and his fingers dig bruises into your ribs.

When you finally pull away, the cracks on your skin are fully gone. Your eyes have returned to normal. The only thing that remains different is the lock of hair by your ear, so white it almost glows in the low light of the throne room. He runs his fingers through it gently, and you lean into his touch with a blissful sigh.

Seungcheol cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. “How I have missed you, my darling.”

“None of that,” you murmur,  “Did I take too long?”

Later, you will face Seungkwan, hands clasped, and he will see the white streak in your hair and demand answers—later, you will talk of whether the story you had spun will be what is known, or if you will both come out with the whole truth—later, you will debate on what ritual he must fulfill for your realm to accept him—and later still, he and you will have to face the Pantheon, loath as you both are with their rules—

But that is later. Nothing could come before this—the magic the hums against his lips as he drags them across your skin, realizing he has time, so much of it, to learn, even as he has already loved you before he could keep you. And you have him, claimed him first, found a way for all the fragmented parts of him to fit, even if it meant reshaping your soul in the process. There is only one response to that: Devotion. Completely. Utterly. You have always been entirely too lovely for him to know what to do with. But he has forever to try his damnedest.

Seungcheol leans his forehead against yours, finally content. “It does not matter. We are here now.”

“The way to see how beautiful life is, is from the vantage point of death.” — Ursula K. Le Guin

notes. quote is extremely out of context so if u read dispossessed dont come at me. with given enough persuasion i would not mind making a) an nsfw epilogue throne sex, and/or b) a shorter but slightly more morally questionable version

[diamond-reads]

the quiet world 🍜 minghao x reader.

minghao saves his words for you.

★ word count: 1.6k ★ genre/warnings: alternate universe: non-idol, romance/fluff, dystopia -ish. mentions of food. established/long-distance relationship, minghao-centric. based off of jeffrey mcdaniel's the quiet world, with some reference to phil kaye's repetition. ★ footnotes: this is my entry for keopihaus' spring event 2025, specifically for the moretta/servetta muta mask :'-) it's been a while since i've written for svt (sorry!), but this idea grabbed hold of me and i couldn't shake it. my favorite poems for my favorite boy. this one has a lot of my heart in it, so... 🫴

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺ quiet by jason mraz. bawat daan by ebe dancel. streetcar by daniel caesar. the days ahead by the scene aesthetic. whoever she is by the maine. hold onto me by mayday parade. if i'm lucky by state champs. start a riot by banners.

In an effort to get people to look into each other’s eyes more, and also to appease the mutes, the government has decided to allot each person exactly 167 words per day.

This is why Minghao no longer wants to dream. 

Dreams are a trap, a reason to talk in his sleep. Dreams take his words, unbidden and unwarranted, and he’ll wake up with four or seven less than he might have wanted. It annoys him to no end. 

And so a good sleep is when he doesn’t dream. When he’s just taken from one day to the other in the blink of an eye. A good day is when he wakes up with 167 allowables on the tip of his tongue. 

Minghao’s morning routine is clinical. There is no room for mistakes here. Once or twice, he had accidentally mumbled an ow or an aw, come on, and it had ruined his entire day. 

Not today. Today, he does everything right.

Brushes his teeth, showers, puts on clothes without so much of a whisper. 

He runs into Mingyu in the apartment elevator. The two exchange nods. 

Mingyu tilts his phone screen towards Minghao. The Notes app has been pulled up. Have a good day!, Mingyu had typed out. It’s the same note every morning, the same platitude delivered in this roundabout manner.  

Minghao offers him a smile and another nod. One he hopes will communicate you, too.

The streets aren’t devoid of sound. Dogs still bark; cars still beep in traffic. The world’s natural order of things doesn’t care for the state of affairs. It is a rebellion in its own right, led by the rustle of the leaves and the chirping of the birds. 

As usual, Minghao seeks out the auntie often stationed outside his office building. He finds her resting underneath the shade of a tree, her visor drawn over her eyes. He doesn’t greet her. He doesn’t have to.

She’s used to these transactions. People standing idly by until she notices them. People pointing out their order instead of saying it out loud.

Minghao points at the photo of the chicken noodle soup. She nods and goes through the motions— thermos, styrofoam bowl, plastic bag. He presses his payment into her withered, wrinkled hand, and gives out the first two words he speaks on a good day like this. 

“Thank¹ you²,” Minghao says, because the government can take his voice, but it will not take his manners. 

The auntie smiles up at him, her grin all gums and decaying teeth. She reaches out to gently pat Minghao on the elbow, and he accepts it like the blessing of goodwill that it’s supposed to be.

There’s no way of predicting what kind of day it will be in the office.

Sometimes, Minghao uses up more than half of his words arguing with stubborn clients— often ones who have the status to buy more words, to twist the government’s arm into bending the system a bit. Then there are days where Minghao doesn’t have to speak at all, and he clocks out with 165 still on his plate. 

No one at work particularly misses Minghao’s voice.

Not the same way some of them lament the loss of Seokmin’s singing or Junhui’s stand-up comedy. No, Minghao fell in with the likes of Jihoon and Wonwoo, who all knew how to play this game rather well. 

It’s no surprise that by the time lunch is rolling around, Minghao is still going strong while others are already down for the count. 

“You¹⁵³ know¹⁵⁴ what¹⁵⁵ I¹⁵⁶ miss¹⁵⁷?” Soonyoung announces. 

Half the break room looks up at him, their expressions caught between amusement and exasperation. It was just like Soonyoung to squander his words like this, to command everyone’s attention so he can proclaim, “Karaoke¹⁵⁸! I¹⁵⁹ miss¹⁶⁰ karaoke¹⁶¹, man¹⁶²!”

Seungcheol rolls his eyes. Hansol pulls a face. 

“What¹⁶³?!” Soonyoung demands. “I¹⁶⁴ used¹⁶⁵ to¹⁶⁶ slay¹⁶⁷—” 

His tongue clicks. 

The words are stolen right from him; the song Soonyoung once supposedly ‘slayed,’ now a mystery. 

Minghao shakes his head. Soonyoung is red-faced but undeterred, already reaching for his phone so he can pull up Spotify and subject everybody to what was once his go-to karaoke track.

Music nowadays is mostly instrumental. Maybe there’s a phrase or two in the chorus, but artists bear the brunt of this new world’s order. 

Lunch ends. Minghao is still comfortably in the 160’s range. A feat in itself. 

But then the telephone at his desk rings. It’s a sharp, shrill sound. One he’s come to hate. His lips tug into a frown and— for a moment— he considers not answering. 

It rings a second time, and Minghao concedes he would rather not get fired for being stingy. 

He picks up the phone.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t greet the other person with hello or how are you or what do you need. 

The person on the other end pauses for a beat. Then, as if realizing this is Xu Minghao they’re phoning, they break the silence. 

“Update¹⁰³ on¹⁰⁴ the¹⁰⁵ Kim¹⁰⁶ account¹⁰⁷?” Chan asks, his voice crackling over the line. 

One thing Minghao has started to do is to compare and critique. 

To compare— the Chan of a couple of years ago would have definitely not gone straight to the point. Pre-decree, Chan had been the type of person to offer an entire backstory before finally getting at what he needed or wanted from you.

To critique— the question is two words too many. Minghao would have simply said the Kim account, or even just update? if he was feeling particularly spiteful. It’s a twisted, holier-than-thou mindset that has no place in this world that’s already taken so much, but he can’t help it. 

Minghao is not wasteful with his words anymore. Repetition is a felony; all unnecessary conversation, a transgression. 

He grits out the updates, each phrase carefully chosen and weighed as if there’s an invisible scale in his mind. The entire time, he thinks to himself: This could have been an email.

Once again, he ends the conversation with a murmured “thank⁵⁸ you⁵⁹” and that cruel, smug impression he’s somewhat better than his coworkers. 

Work crawls to its eventual conclusion. Minghao practically flies out of the office, communicating with his coworkers through glances and gestures. A wave of his hand. Goodbye. A tilt of his head. Have a good weekend. A hint of a smirk. Thank fucking God it’s Friday.

He gets home and kills time.

A silent film on the television. Microwave pizza and a can of cola. Afterwards, he puts on a playlist of old songs, the ones made when words were still a luxury that could be taken for granted. 

There was a time where Minghao might’ve belted along. Nowadays, he just dances. 

He weaves through the furniture. He taps his foot along to the beat. He is sand in an hourglass, an ellipsis at the end of a sentence…

His phone rings.

This time, it’s a sound he loves. 

He practically stumbles over his couch in his excitement. His screen has lit up with your name, with a photo of you from your first date. You had talked his ear off, then, and he had hung on every word. You’re smiling sweetly up at the camera. It’s a reminder of the things that have changed, and what hasn’t. 

The moment he answers the call, he’s already giggling.

“Hello⁶⁰,” Minghao breathes. “I⁶¹ only⁶² used⁶³ fifty-nine⁶⁴ today⁶⁵; I⁶⁶ saved⁶⁷ the⁶⁸ rest⁶⁹ for⁷⁰ you.⁷¹” 

You don’t respond.

He hears the huff of your laugh.

The click of your tongue. 

Ah.

It can’t be helped. As much as he wants to be selfish, to demand that you save at least three words for him, he knows these things are inevitable. It doesn’t happen often, anyway. You’re usually just as careful and cautious.

He’s sure he’ll get the full story over text. Some complaint about how work had demanded a little too much of you, how you had no choice but to give. 

So, now, it’s Minghao’s turn to give; yours, to take. 

“I⁷² love⁷³ you⁷⁴,” he says. 

Depending on what kind of night it is, he might say the words differently. I love you with an over-the-top British accent that has you chuckling below your breath. I love you in sing-song, reminiscent of the days he could once still afford to hold a tune. I love you sleepily, while lying in bed, like it’s the last words he wants on his lips. 

Tonight, he says it in a slow, reverent whisper. “I⁷⁵ love⁷⁶ you.⁷⁷” 

He enunciates every word, letting them mean something new each time. 

“I⁷⁸ love⁷⁹ you⁸⁰,” he says, because he means to say, It’s me, Minghao, Myungho, whatever you want to call me, and I love you. It’s me. I’m yours. All of it, all of me. 

“I⁸¹ love⁸² you⁸³,” he says, in a way he hopes you understand that the verb is interchangeable. He loves you, yes, but he also adores you. He reveres you. He worships you, and misses you, and wants you. He packs all of it in that single four-lettered word and prays it is enough. 

“I⁸⁴ love⁸⁵ you⁸⁶,” he says. 

You, long-distance lover. You, the only one he would waste his words on. You, you, you.

He says I love you thirty-two and a third times. 

He’s cut off with an unceremonious “I¹⁶⁷—,” his tongue clicking to signal his quota. The day ends, quietly as it began,—

Minghao lies on his couch and stares at the ceiling, his phone pressed in between his cheek and his shoulder.

You stay on the other end of the line. 

The two of you listen to each other breathe. 

[diamond-reads]

im here to harrow you.

thinking about f1 minghao crashing out on radio…. idk why… its burned in my mind…

crash and burn 📟 minghao x reader.

★ mercedes driver!minghao x reader ┆ word count: 1.8k ┆ includes: profanity, slight Trivia 承: Love reference. ┆ footnotes: oh, you are CRUEL for preying on my hyperfixation like this. how i ended up writing this much is anybody's guess.

For a moment, the entirety of Mercedes falls quiet.

You could hear a pin drop. The pit wall, the operations room, the garage. Deathly silent. 

Xu Minghao never swore on the radio. 

He could have. He’s certainly had his fair share of instances where a cuss or two would have been acceptable. The time he crashed into Williams’ Vernon on the final lap of the Australian Grand Prix, for example. Or the Singapore race where he ended up in the barriers after battling his teammate, Wonwoo, for podium position. 

Minghao hadn’t cussed then. Everybody liked to joke that his face often did the talking for him— his expressions post-race landing him on the front page of every sports media outlet. 

The Chinese racer was calm, cool, and collected under pressure. Critical without being cruel. Demanding without being demeaning. 

And yet, today, in Monaco— 

“Why do I have the penalty?” Minghao screeches, his voice crackling over the radio. “Hello?”

“Track limits, turn nine,” his race engineer says, voice carefully measured.

“You’re kidding!” Minghao downshifts aggressively as he rounds the next corner. The tires wail, the car jolts, and the telemetry lights up with data that makes the pit wall wince. “I stayed within the white line! You saw it, everyone saw it!” 

The pit wall scrambles. Engineers replay the footage frame by frame, dissecting every pixel of the contentious corner. The commentators speculate wildly, cameras cutting to Minghao’s onboard view. Sky Sports plays the radio message on repeat, the words for fuck’s sake! echoing through living rooms worldwide.

But Minghao doesn't care about the broadcast. Doesn't care about the headlines already being written. His pulse hammers, hands locked around the steering wheel like a vice.

“Box this lap, Hao. Serve the penalty,” the team calls. “Then push. We can still fight for points.”

Minghao murmurs something incoherent, though it doesn’t take a genius to guess that it’s probably another curse. He lifts off the throttle, coasts through the last sector, and dives into the pit lane. The Mercedes crew swarms the car, stoic and efficient, every second ticking down with excruciating slowness. 

The lollipop stays down.

Ten seconds feel like an eternity.

Minghao slams the throttle as soon as he’s released, launching back onto the track with a cloud of tire smoke.

“Gap to P10?” he demands, his tone unusually biting. 

“7.3 seconds to Boo. But DRS is enabled—” 

“I can catch him,” Minghao decides on his engineer’s behalf. 

Nobody doubts it, really. 

Minghao takes the next lap like a man possessed. Nailing apexes, brushing curbs, deploying battery in the perfect spots. Purple sector times flash on the screen; the crowd roars as he slices through the field like a scalpel.

Clean. Precise. Ruthless. 

Minghao pushes right past Alpine’s Seungkwan, who screeches into his own radio about this reckless man, trying to kill him with the way he faked to the outside. It doesn’t matter to Minghao. Not when he’s through. 

“P10, Hao,” his engineer says, relief bleeding into his voice. “Keep it up.” 

“Don’t—” Minghao cuts himself off. Everybody can more or less guess what he was about to say. Don’t tell me what to do, he had planned to snap, and it only drives the team into a deeper state of confusion. 

It’s even worse in the press room. 

Minghao sits in the middle, flanked by Aston Martin’s Seokmin and Red Bull’s Jihoon. Minghao’s Mercedes suit is still speckled with sweat, and his jaw is tight, hands clasped in front of him on the table.

The moderator introduces them. “We’ll start with questions for the drivers. First, to Mercedes’ Xu Minghao. P9 after serving a 10-second penalty. Can you walk us through your race?” 

A muscle in Minghao’s jaw ticks. Not a good sign.

Minghao leans into the microphone and very simply states, “It was bullshit.” 

Again, that stunned silence. Seokmin balks like he had been physically struck. Jihoon fights back a grin. 

The moderator blinks. “Uh,” she stammers. “Could you elaborate on that?” 

“The penalty,” Minghao says plainly. “It was bullshit. I’ve seen the footage. I stayed within track limits. And even if I hadn’t, we both know there were other drivers exceeding limits all race who didn’t get penalized.” 

A reporter from BBC Radio pipes up. “You’ve been known for keeping a cool head in difficult situations, but we heard your radio messages. Do you regret your reaction?” 

The question draws a humorless laugh from Minghao. Today, his wit is razor-like in its sharpness. The claws are out, so to speak, as Minghao answers the query. 

“Regret? No. I regret not pushing harder after the penalty. I lost ten seconds and still clawed my way back to points.” He pauses, letting the fact sink in. “What does that tell you?”

Somebody from Fox Sports pushes the envelope. “Are you implying bias in the stewarding?” the journalist calls out. 

Minghao’s eyes flash, making even the most fearless of the media personnel shrink back a bit. 

“I’m saying there needs to be consistency,” he hisses. “That’s all.” 

Mercedes’ PR manager shifts uncomfortably in the background; one can assume they’re already drafting damage control statements in their head. The list of people to apologize to only grows when a ballsy ESPN journo dares to ask, “Do you think this will affect your relationship with the FIA?” 

There’s no reason for the FIA— the Formula One’s governing body— to be dragged into this. Or maybe there is, with the way Minghao is crashing out in public. 

The racer smiles coldly. “Maybe,” he answers, “but I’m not here to make friends.” 

“Okay,” the moderator interjects. “I think it’s time for us to move on—” 

Minghao concedes, leaning back into his chair and pushing the microphone over to Jihoon. There’s the slightest of miscalculations, though, when Minghao grumbles something to the Red Bull driver.

The microphone catches Minghao’s snide side comment, supposedly meant solely for Jihoon’s ears. “You should ask the FIA why they’re so scared of drivers who fight back,” the Chinese driver huffs. 

The room explodes. Minghao doesn’t flinch. 

Mercedes’ PR manager accepts that it’s going to be a long, long night. 

Even Wonwoo doesn’t have an answer for his co-driver’s uncharacteristic behavior. Wonwoo frowns when the team principal brings it up. 

The driver runs a hand through his dark, sweat-slicked hair, as if contemplating what he witnessed pre- and post-race. “Hao was already a bit… off when he came in this morning,” Wonwoo admits. “Maybe he woke up on the wrong side of the bed or something.” 

“Drivers like Minghao don’t just wake up one morning and decide they’re going to be the devil reincarnated,” the team principal says tentatively. 

Wonwoo takes a moment to contemplate. “Trouble in paradise, maybe?” 

“Drivers like Minghao—” 

“Don’t let their personal lives affect their racing,” Wonwoo finishes before waving his hand dismissively. “Well, I don’t know, then.” 

Except— for once— Wonwoo is right. 

The team doesn't press Minghao to celebrate, not when he’s a walking PR disaster in a foul mood. He heads straight back to his apartment, shedding all his rage on the way home. 

It’s the only reason he manages to gently open the front door. He toes off his shoes at the doorway and shrugs off his hoodie, each action deliberate in its intent and slowness.

He finds you in the kitchen.

You’re seated at one of the bar stools, forearms leaning against the island. Minghao doesn’t come close. Not at first. He lingers a couple of steps away, stock still as the two of you lock gazes. 

You open your mouth. Minghao beats you to the punch line. 

“I know,” he says, his voice the most gentle it’s been the entire day. “Trust me, I know.” 

“I wasn’t going to tell you off.” 

Minghao lets out a derisive snort of laughter, though he’s quick to look chastised when he catches the shift in your expression. “Alright,” he says tiredly. “What were you going to say, then?” 

You hop off the stool. Minghao holds his breath. 

He still feels like he isn’t breathing by the time you’re standing right in front of him. Where others might hesitate, you don’t. 

Your hand reaches up to cup Minghao’s face. Your palm is warm against his cheek, but your words are much warmer. 

“I was going to apologize,” you say slowly, enunciating each word, “for breaking rule number three.” 

Rule number three. To have it brought up now is comedic. Minghao thinks of the restaurant tissue framed in the living room, the one bearing the silly list the two of you had jotted down when you first started dating. 

The very rule you’re referring to right now had been in Minghao’s loopy handwriting, underlined twice to emphasize its importance. 

#3: No fights on race weekends. 

It had come with an asterisk, a couple of caveats. Still, it was one of those ‘rules’ the two of you tried to see through the most. For not only Minghao’s sanity, but Mercedes’ as well. 

Minghao sighs, the tension in his shoulders easing with the heavy exhale. He can’t help it; his cheek nuzzles into your palm, seeking the familiarity of your touch after being without it last night. 

(That was his choice, admittedly, after he opted to sleep in the guest room instead of your shared bedroom. He left in the morning without all of his usual routines— his 30-minute meditation routine, his good luck kiss from you.) 

The fight— God, what was the fight even about? Minghao is embarrassed to admit he can barely remember. 

By the way you’re looking at him, though, it looks like you’re also ready to put it past the two of you. 

“Did you watch?” he asks. 

The corners of your lips twitch upward. “What’s the right answer?” you shoot back, half-teasing as Minghao’s arms gingerly wrap around your waist. 

“I think I’d prefer that you say ‘no’,” he says wryly. “I was a monster out there. I’ve got so many people to apologize to.” 

You give a low hum of approval. Minghao tugs you into his space until he can bury his face in the top of your head.

For a moment, the two of you bask in the aftermath. The bittersweet race, the shaky reconciliation. Minghao breaks the silence. 

“I said fuck,” he mumbles, horrified, “on the radio.” 

“You did,” you confirm. “Twice, actually.” 

Minghao groans. “And at the press conference—” 

“You told the FIA they could take it up their a—” 

“I did not,” your boyfriend says shrilly, “say that!” 

You break out into giggles. Minghao can’t help it; his arms tighten around you, and he holds you like he’s trying to erase the past 24 hours through touch alone. 

Tomorrow, Minghao will be back to his usual self. He’ll play the PR game— waxing poetics about mental pressure, apologizing to the FIA for his conduct. He’ll pay the fines and promise to do better, be better. 

Tonight, Minghao softens all his edges and loves you. 

[diamond-reads]

a lesson in begging 🚇 soonyoung x reader x jihoon.

jihoon learns the art of saying 'please', courtesy of his best friend and his best friend's girlfriend.

★ word count: 3.7k ★ genre/warnings: 18+ content. smut with 🤏 pinch of plot; jihoon-centric after the intro. established relationship (soonyoung x reader), mentions of female anatomy, pet names (s: ‘baby’, ‘goddess’, ‘good boy’). exhibitionism, voyeurism, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, so much begging, both soonyoung and jihoon are kind of pathetic [lovingly] in this one.  ★ footnotes: once again, when your biases release a song single album, you write the goddamn smut (2). shoutout to urbano latino & reggaeton music for getting me through this, and to @gyubakeries, @gotta-winwin & @diamonddaze01 for the hand-holding.

Soonyoung likes to think he’s a pretty generous guy. 

He’s never selfish about what he has. He shares when he can to anyone who asks. You, in particular, never have time to want anything; your darling boyfriend is attune to anything your heart might ever desire.

And if that just so happens to be his best friend Jihoon? Well, like we’ve established: Soonyoung is always going to give. 

You hadn’t really been discreet about it. You’d been guilty, maybe, but you were a language that Soonyoung was fluent in. He saw the way you’d watch Jihoon while the latter worked out, saw the way your face would light up when you’d hear the other man was coming over for one reason or another. 

A normal boyfriend would have been alarmed, might have thrown a fit. But Soonyoung was never normal to begin with. 

And— he never admitted this to you, did he?— he’d rather it be Jihoon than anyone else, anyway. 

You’re mortified when Soonyoung first brings it up. You’re ready to apologize for thinking Jihoon is sex on legs, but then Soonyoung makes his proposition. 

“I promised I’d give you everything, baby.” His voice is sweet and earnest. There’s no hint of maliciousness in it; he’s not using this as leverage. “Let me get you this, too.” 

That’s another thing about Soonyoung: It’s always been so hard to say ‘no’ to him. 

Jihoon is convinced this is some form of elaborate prank.

The words that just came out of Soonyoung’s mouth have yet to register to him. After ‘not a threesome’ a couple of sentences ago, Jihoon just kind of blanked out. 

You’re sitting on the edge of the bed you share with Soonyoung. You look pretty, Jihoon thinks, but then he corrects himself. You’re always pretty. 

Crap. That’s what got him in this situation, isn’t it? 

Jihoon takes a steadying breath when he realizes that you and Soonyoung are waiting for a response. “I’m sorry,” says Jihoon, keeping his voice as even as possible, “but what the actual fuck?” 

Soonyoung snickers. You look a little less amused. You elbow your boyfriend, a look of mild horror crossing your expression. 

“You didn’t warn him before inviting him over?” you seethe.

Soonyoung rubs the side you’d hit.  “I thought we could all talk about it together,” he shoots back. “You know, like a proper discussion.” 

“A discussion,” Jihoon echoes. He’s not sure if it’s you or him that’s going to throttle Soonyoung first. 

Jihoon’s mental list of how he intends to physically harm Soonyoung comes to a temporary pause. You’re looking at Jihoon, now, with an expression that’s almost apologetic. It makes something seize up in the man’s chest. 

“I didn’t mean to put you in an uncomfortable situation,” you say. “I just thought…” 

You trail off, and it’s the cruelest cliffhanger Jihoon has ever witnessed. “Thought what?” he prompts, shoving his hands in his pockets. That way, you wouldn’t have to see how he’s started shaking. 

Soonyoung finishes what you started. “We thought you wanted this.”

As if to explain what this was, Soonyoung reaches over from behind you and places his hand on your thigh. Jihoon’s eyes flick to the movement, but he looks away just as quickly. 

Soonyoung gives your thigh a light, reassuring squeeze. His eyes never leave Jihoon’s face. There’s a bit of a challenge, a hint of something serious. Like Soonyoung is daring Jihoon to deny his wants, deny this, deny you.

You— looking criminally lovely, watching Jihoon with caution and concern. There’s an undercurrent of distress in your expression, mixing with the annoyance at Soonyoung’s lack of tact. 

Jihoon swallows around the lump in his throat. He says something. It’s barely above a whisper. 

“Pardon?” you call out.

To hell with it, Jihoon thinks. To hell with it all.

He tries again, pitching his voice a little louder. “I do,” he says, wavering a bit on the words, “want this.” 

Want you, he had meant to say, but he chickened out at the last moment. It doesn’t matter. You and Soonyoung hear it anyway, and both your expressions shift into something more pleasant. Soonyoung looks smug. You, reassured. 

The room suddenly feels a lot warmer. There’s still considerable distance between Jihoon and the two of you. It’s the only thing keeping him sane, really. 

“That’s good.” The sheer relief in your tone could drive Jihoon crazy. You go on, “I would have hated to misread.” 

Misread which part, Jihoon wonders. The way his eyes always lingered a little too long on the hems of your shorts and skirts? The way all his sharp edges would soften when it came to you? 

Jihoon wants you, has wanted you for months. He had convinced himself that he was The World’s Worst Best Friend Ever, even. But Soonyoung is now looking at Jihoon like the latter is the opposite of that. The World’s Best Best Friend Ever— for agreeing to please you.

This arrangement would undoubtedly have consequences, even if it were a one-time thing. Jihoon can’t bring himself to care, though. He’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

He closes the distance, reveling in the tension that crackles with each step. You tilt your head back ever so slightly in a bid to never break eye contact with Jihoon. 

“You didn’t misread,” Jihoon says quietly. “I— you’re pretty.” 

He had hoped to soften the blow with I think, but why deny himself of the plain and simple truth? You’re so soft as you look up at Jihoon, the gratitude written all over your face. The tender moment is short-lived, though, because Soonyoung inevitably butts in. 

“Just pretty?” Your boyfriend sounds offended on your behalf. “Is that all you’ve got, Jihoon?” 

“Soonyoung,” you chide, but the older man barrels on. 

“Pretty isn’t enough,” Soonyoung insists. His hand slides up your thigh, tugging your dress up a little higher. This time, Jihoon lets himself watch, lets himself appreciate your skin as it’s revealed to him. “Do better, Jihoon.” 

“What might you suggest?” Jihoon asks, unable to look away from the hint of red lace underneath your dress. 

Soonyoung hums lowly. He leans forward, his teeth catching at your earlobe as he keeps your back pressed firmly against his chest. 

“Ethereal,” Soonyoung whispers reverently. “Gorgeous.” 

There wasn’t a doubt in Jihoon’s mind that Soonyoung adored you, practically worshipped the ground you worked on. This made the whole situation even more surreal, but Jihoon can’t look away— at how your eyes flutter close, how your breath hitches ever so slightly.

You’re so damn responsive. Jihoon’s heart thunders in his chest. He can’t imagine how this will end, and it hasn’t even begun. 

“Baby,” you say, and Soonyoung quits his teasing. 

He rests his chin on your shoulder and fixes his gaze on Jihoon. “If you want something,” Soonyoung drawls, “you’re going to have to beg for it.” 

For the first time that night, Jihoon’s facade of calculated calmness crumples. Beg for it? Jihoon wasn’t about to beg Soonyoung for a thing. Soonyoung was the one calling in for a favor, technically. As badly as Jihoon wants you, he can’t imagine himself ever being on his knees for Soonyoung. For anything. 

Soonyoung notices Jihoon’s agitation. The blonde’s face breaks out into a shit-eating grin, the kind that promises trouble for days. 

“Like this,” Soonyoung chirps, and then he pulls the rug underneath Jihoon’s feet. 

Soonyoung shifts on the bed, moving around until he’s at your side instead of cradling you from behind. He presses his knees into the mattress and he wrings his hands together, his face tilted towards yours. 

“Please,” Soonyoung tells you sweetly. “Please, please, baby?”

Jihoon’s brain short-circuits. He barely has time to think holy shit before Soonyoung ups his act, showering you with compliments about how perfect you are, about how badly he needs— needs, not wants— you.

You smile a bit before putting Soonyoung out of his misery. It’s not the first time Jihoon has seen the two of you make out, but it’s the first time that you open your eyes mid-kiss to glance at Jihoon, as if checking to see if he’s still watching. 

Soonyoung isn’t dealing the cards tonight. You are. 

Noted, Jihoon thinks, as he watches you lick into Soonyoung’s mouth. Your boyfriend lets out a sound between a guttural moan and a happy hum. He pulls away a moment later, his grin dopey and his gaze unfocused. 

“Good boys get rewarded,” Soonyoung tells Jihoon matter-of-factly.  

Jihoon winces. God, he’d rather die than be called a ‘good boy’ by Kwon Soonyoung, of all people. Jihoon is mentally weighing the pros and cons of this whole situation when Soonyoung shuffles backward, leaning against the headboard. Now, it’s just you and Jihoon at the foot of the bed. 

He doesn’t know what he should do. Sit? Kiss you senseless? Soonyoung answers for him— 

“Beg, Jihoon.” Soonyoung’s tone brooks no argument. “Tell my girlfriend what you want from her.” 

You look expectant. Jihoon hadn’t noticed that earlier. So much of you was unassuming, from your perceived shyness to your sundress hiding the red lingerie that was undoubtedly hugging all your curves right. The thought of it makes the front of Jihoon’s jeans feel a lot tighter. 

He clears his throat. He got this far; he might as well. And nobody outside this room would have to know, right? 

“Please,” Jihoon mumbles. 

He expects Soonyoung to speak up, so he’s a bit thrown when you’re the one who goes for the jab. “What was that?” you ask, and it would be innocent if it weren’t for the hint of a smirk on your lips. 

Jihoon inwardly prays for the ground to swallow him whole. When that doesn’t happen, he instead grits out his next words. 

“Please,” he says through his teeth. “May I kiss you?” 

It’s a piss poor attempt, but you’re nothing if not benevolent. Your fingers close around the front of Jihoon’s shirt and you tug him downward. 

He nearly stumbles when he feels your mouth against him. Jihoon isn’t sure if he can touch, whether he can even manage, so he ends up grabbing fistfuls of the sheets beneath you as you give him what he asked for. 

You kiss him so sweetly. It’s a dangerous thing, one that Jihoon fears he could grow addicted to if he wasn’t careful. Your tongue traces Jihoon’s bottom lip as if testing the waters, and he fights the urge to grab you by the waist and show you exactly how that makes him feel. 

The kiss breaks with the two of you gasping for air. Jihoon doesn’t know when he leaned further into your personal space, but he can feel your heaving chest against his own and it’s maddening. 

Jihoon had been so lost in the moment he’d forgotten Soonyoung was there, even. The latter pipes up, acutely aware that the kiss hadn’t been enough. That you’d pulled away too soon, leaving Jihoon in absolute shambles. 

“If you want more,” Soonyoung says, “you’re going to have to beg harder, Jihoon.”

This is either the best or the worst thing that has ever happened to Jihoon. He’ll decide later, he thinks to himself, as his hands finally find purchase at your hips.

Miraculously, Jihoon finds his voice. “Let me taste you.” Every moment in this room is chipping away at his pride, if the way he whines out the next word is any indication. 

“Please,” Jihoon says desperately, despairingly. 

It was the very first thing Jihoon remembered learning as a child. Say please, he had been taught. It’s the polite thing to do. It shows you have good manners. 

There’s nothing polite about the way Jihoon finds himself in between your thighs. There’s nothing good-mannered about the moans he tears out of you, about the way your fingers tug at his hair in a way that’s almost painful. 

You’re on your back, your head in Soonyoung’s lap as Jihoon works on you like a man starved. Your dress is pushed up your chest; Soonyoung could take the opportunity to play with your breasts. Instead, he keeps your hair out of your face and lovingly gazes at you as you thrash underneath Jihoon’s assault. 

“Enjoying yourself, baby?” Soonyoung coos.

Your response— something between yes and fuck you— breaks off into a keening whine when Jihoon doubles his efforts. He diligently laps up the slick of your sopping cunt before introducing his fingers; the two digits slide in with little to no resistance, and he rewards you by sucking on your clit. 

“Jihoon,” you cry out, your back arching off the bed. “Oh my God, Ji— hng— where did you—?” 

“Learn all that?” Soonyoung interjects. You’re too preoccupied to care about your boyfriend interrupting, too focused on Jihoon who has started crooking his fingers. “You know what they say, baby. It’s always the quiet ones you have to look out for.” 

Jihoon isn’t about to try and contest Soonyoung, not when you’re writhing so beautifully underneath his mouth. It’s borderline painful, the way Jihoon is grasping your hip like his life depends on it. 

An obscene slurp and the tease of another finger is all it takes to have you falling over the edge. Jihoon slows his ministrations, enjoying the feel of you tightening around his fingers. 

He pulls away as you come back down to earth. The entire lower half of his face glistens with your slick. Jihoon is obnoxious enough to dart his tongue around his mouth and smack his lips, as if trying to taste as much of you as possible. 

Soonyoung cackles. He’s enjoying this far more than he probably should. You can tell, though; there’s a tent in your boyfriend’s sweatpants, his clothed hardness pressing against your cheek. 

You nuzzle closer to it, a wordless whine escaping you. Soonyoung gets the message.

“Come on, baby,” he coaxes, guiding you further up the mattress. As he helps you out of your dress, Jihoon situates himself a bit better at the foot of the bed. 

He’s in desperate need of friction himself. Absent-mindedly, he palms himself over his jeans, watching as Soonyoung guides you to get on all fours. 

Soonyoung’s clothes join yours on the floor. It isn’t the first time that Jihoon has seen Soonyoung’s cock— a story for another time— but there’s still a moment where the younger man is jolted. Having experienced, now, just how tight you are, Jihoon can’t even fathom how Soonyoung can fit inside you. 

If either of you notice Jihoon’s attempts to relieve himself, you’re both graceful enough to not comment on it. Soonyoung focuses on bracing himself behind you, one hand resting at your waist while the other gives his cock a couple of leisurely pumps. 

You’re already primed to be fucked, but Soonyoung is taking his time. No, Jihoon realizes. 

Soonyoung is putting on a show. 

There’s a lazy smirk on Soonyoung’s face when he locks eyes with Jihoon. For a moment, Jihoon is tempted to stop touching himself, but it’s like he physically can’t stop himself. Meanwhile, Soonyoung is busying himself with rubbing the length of his cock against the curve of your ass— giving you time to recover from your orgasm while also making Jihoon suffer. 

“Wanna fuck my girlfriend, Jihoon?” Soonyoung taunts. “Want her greedy cunt around your cock, hm?” 

You let out a low hiss of warning as Jihoon bites back a moan. Soonyoung reels in his bravado, sliding his hand up to entangle his fingers in your hair. 

“Sorry, baby,” he says soothingly. “Didn’t mean to talk about you like that.” 

Soonyoung pushes your hair over your shoulder so he has better access to your back. He places a couple of kisses across your shoulder blades before glancing back up at Jihoon, the earlier mischievousness considerably dialed down now. 

“You know what you have to do,” Soonyoung tells Jihoon. “She’s in charge. Ask.” 

The remnants of Jihoon’s shredded pride hold him back. To ask for a kiss, to ask to eat you out— what the hell, sure. To ask if he can fuck you into next week? 

Jihoon squeezes himself through his pants, his gaze fixated on the way you’re looking up at him with dazed anticipation. He almost salivates at the thought of your soft, warm walls trying to accommodate him. 

Alas, his blasted pride. Jihoon opens his mouth then promptly clamps it close, unable to bring himself for this. 

Soonyoung lets out a low ‘tch’ of disapproval. “Suit yourself,” he huffs. 

Like a switch that had been flipped, Soonyoung now focuses all his attention on you. “Goddess,” your boyfriend says against your skin, his tone so loving that Jihoon feels like he’s intruding. “Can I make you feel good? Make you finish a second time tonight?”

You give a jerky nod, canting your hips backward until Soonyoung is lined up with you. “Yes, baby,” you whimper, keeping your eyes on Jihoon despite the fact you’re seeking out Soonyoung. “Want you inside me right now.” 

“I know, I know,” Soonyoung groans like your words have brought him pain, like it physically hurts him to hear you plead for anything. “I’ll give, baby. I’ll give.” 

Soonyoung slides home, benefiting from the slickness of your first orgasm. The two of you let out twin moans. It takes everything in Jihoon not to come on the spot. 

Jihoon never thought he’d been into this. He’s frozen, incapable of moving or looking away, as Soonyoung plows into you with practiced thrusts. Your fingers twist into the sheets below you and you struggle to keep your head up, your eyes open. 

Your gaze is half-lidded as you watch Jihoon’s slack-jawed expression. It has you fluttering around Soonyoung, who squeezes the flesh of your ass in retaliation. 

“Shit.” Your boyfriend picks up his relentless pace, his free hand carefully pressing between your shoulder blades. You sink a little further into the mattress and Soonyoung takes advantage of it, driving himself deeper into you. 

“You like having an audience, baby?” Soonyoung breathes.

Somehow, you manage to nod. Jihoon’s fingers close a little tighter around the outline of his jeans and, slowly, tentatively, he goes back to rubbing himself through the rough material. It’s equal parts painful and pleasurable but he figures it’s what he deserves for getting off to his best friend’s girlfriend. 

“Tell me what he looks like,” Soonyoung urges, his hands tangling into your hair again. He clutches at your roots and pulls your head back enough so that you have a better view of Jihoon. “Describe it for me, please.” 

Soonyoung is always so polite and tender when it comes to you. Jihoon gets you, now; he really does. That doesn’t help the way his dick twitches when he sees the blissed out look on your face, like being stuffed with Soonyoung’s cock had somehow fucked all the thoughts out of your head.

Jihoon must not be looking any better than you, because there’s a ghost of a smile on your face as you fulfill your boyfriend’s request. “He looks desperate,” you mewl, your fingers flexing around the crumpled sheets underneath you. “Looks like he needs something, baby.” 

Soonyoung chuckles. “And what does he need?” 

“Dunno.” You roll your hips to meet one of Soonyoung’s thrusts, drawing a heated cuss from the man. “He isn’t asking.” 

A muscle in Jihoon’s jaw ticks. Oh, this was a different kind of torture. He has half the mind to pull his pants down and shove his dick in your mouth to shut—

“Be nice, baby,” Soonyoung warns, “or else I won’t let you finish.” 

It’s an empty threat. Even Jihoon knows that much. You have Soonyoung wrapped around your little finger, and your boyfriend will go to the ends of the world to please you. 

Still, you play along. You attempt to apologize, but the word breaks off when Soonyoung slides his fingers over to your clit. His thrusts are uncoordinated with the circles he draws over the sensitive nub, but you don’t seem to mind. 

Your eyes are watery from the onslaught of sensations, your legs are shaky, and your lips are parted in a perpetual gasp. Jihoon thinks it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

A sound finally escapes him. It’s a quiet thing— barely a moan— but Soonyoung catches it anyway. 

“You’re already on your knees,” Soonyoung tells you quietly, conspiratorially. “How about you show Jihoon how we ask in this relationship, hm?” 

It’s so quick, so sudden. Jihoon barely has time to catch on and prepare himself before you’re surging forward, your fingers wrapping around his wrist. You replace his hand with your lips, mouthing his hardness over his jeans. 

You’re just as sloppy as Soonyoung. There’s no method to the way you clamp your lips over Jihoon’s clothed cock. It’s all drool, a hint of teeth. A crude imitation of what it’d be like if you actually took him in your mouth. 

And Jihoon— he’s surprised he’s still breathing, actually. His hands find purchase at your shoulders, torn between pushing you off and keeping you in place. He settles for the latter, his eyes blown wide as he watches you give him this perverse blowjob.

“Fuck,” Jihoon rasps. “Fuck, fuck, fuuuck—” 

You look up at him then. It’s not your eyes that does him over. Not your sweat-slicked forehead or your flushed cheeks. No, it’s the way you pull away ever so briefly, your entire body rocking as Soonyoung continues to pummel into you. 

Your breath is warm over Jihoon’s crotch as you whine a single word. 

“Please?” 

He doesn’t even know what you’re asking for. Regardless, he busts his load with a pained grunt. It’s uncomfortable to come undone in his boxers, with his pants still on, but he can’t help himself.

Soonyoung follows not long after, emptying his load into you. He hisses as he finishes, his own climax bringing you to your second high.

You slump forward, your mouth instinctively latching back onto Jihoon’s waning hardness. He’s so sensitive, but he makes no effort to pull you away from his front. Soonyoung doesn’t seem keen on moving yet either, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles into the skin of your hips.

“See?” Soonyoung says, his voice wrecked but his grin as annoyingly smug as ever. “Good boy, Jihoon.” 

[diamond-reads]

blurring the lines (teaser)

❝Why learn the complexities of desire all by yourself, when your dearest friend can merely teach you?❞

bridgerton! au | friends with benefits! au | smut, fluff | approx. 30k words (1.6k words for teaser)

s u m m a r y : you think you know everything about your best friend, dashing bachelor joshua hong. when you stumble upon his suggestive literature from his recent travels, however, reading even an extract is enough to make you question everything. unsure of your newfound feelings, you turn to your confidante, unaware of just how much knowledge—and experience—he has to offer.

c o n t e n t : best friend! joshua, best friend! soonyoung too, references of real erotic literature from the 1700s because this is not an amourcheol fic without historical accuracy, references of other members, lady whistledown will be present, soonyoung is the real mvp in this fic, shua acts like a man </3 mature warnings -> tons of sexual tension, making out, fingering, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex (regency protection is goofy mb), mc experiences crazy overstimulation, corruption kink (!!!), more tba

a u t h o r ' s n o t e : bonjour hola bridgerton s4 sneak peak dropped which means i ofc had to drop a sneak peak of my own !! even tho i am over a week late !! send an ask if you wish to be tagged! hope you enjoy the teaser ;)

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"WHERE DID YOU FIND THIS?"

Involuntarily your eyes flickered to the table, and he followed, turning his head to the study, which he noticed immediately was tidied—tampered with. "You went through my things?”

“I did not mean to!” you exclaimed, gaping at his sudden charge towards the desk, you hot at his heels. “I just thought it looked like a mess, so I tried cleaning it—”

“You are not a servant,” he cut off, darting over the new order of his account books, as well as the fiction which you had assembled. “You are not required to look after me like that.”

“I know, but—”

“And sneaking out with my possessions? Without my permission?” He smacked the book on the table, making you flinch. “I thought you better than that.”

You were better than that—well, at least until tonight. You ransacked your mind for an excuse, any form of escape, except your words were absolutely pathetic. “You have never minded me reading your novels before,” you attempted. “In fact, you encouraged me to scour your shelves.”

He looked at the book again—a moment too long—and went back to set a slight glare upon you. “Well, my journal is not a trivial novel. It was private…not meant for you.”

You knew that. What did not settle well, though, was that your dearest friend, who had shared his every worry, his every confession to you, had been doing things you had no inkling of, things that incited such…extraordinary feelings from you. 

You had to know what more lay in those pages—and why you had felt the way you felt in those pages which your eyes did scour. “I read it.”

His glare faltered. “How much?”

That question was answered with another. “What was it, Joshua?” You stepped forward, a timid gesture, so you could catch a look at the hardback again. “I…I read some pages, and…what was she doing?”

His hand on his journal pushed it back. “I do not know.”

“Liar,” you got out, and he pursed his lips. You knew him irritatingly well. “You are keeping things from me.” 

“It is not keeping things from you,” he countered, frustration rising in his voice. “It is…protecting you from those…things.” 

“Tell me what those things are, Joshua,” you demanded, quietly but not softly. “It has rattled you enough. That has never happened to you.”

But he was silent. Eerily quiet, merely the rustle of his clothes, the soft thunk of his novella settled back with the French novels which raised your suspicions. A boundary made—a rejection established. 

Perhaps you would have respected it in another lifetime—in a world where you had not indulged your curiosity, set your eyes upon entities which were not for you to explore. Perhaps you would have respected it even if Joshua had offered to enlighten you—maybe blushed and ran away, and vowed never to look through his possessions again. 

The writings had rattled you, though, more than he realised. Social etiquette—good common sense would have expected you to respect his opinion, opinions of society, and drop the subject. 

Joshua Hong, however, was your greatest friend. No societal expectation could change that. 

So you opted to push the limits. Refuse the silence to be the end of this matter.

“I read enough, you know. To feel…” A pause. “I cannot even describe to you how I felt, because I have never felt that way before.” You tried to find the right words, a single confession out of order and he would stop listening—or so you thought. “There was an extract you wrote, Joshua, which had certain…descriptions…” Burning. Pleasure. Naked. Fire. Ecstasy. “There was a girl who was doing something. I am unsure what she was doing specifically, but…what she felt watching them…”

A soft exhale released from you, and almost instinctively Joshua released his own breath. “I think I…um, I think I felt a remnant of it.” 

He blurted out, barely a whisper, “You what?”

You looked at him—barely managed a nod. “I do not…don’t even know what she was doing with her fingers—” Joshua’s sudden coughing interrupted you, holding a fist to his lips to stop himself—“But whatever it was…I want to know what it was.” 

You watched the man stay deathly still, yet the emotions racing behind his face were certain. Not only were you rattled, but had passed this strange sensation to him. Had he never felt it before? You wondered, surprised by the similarity of his reaction to yours. 

He then responded to you, and you realised your mistake. “You cannot.”

Another boundary. Another opportunity to cross it. “Why?” This time, you stepped closer to him. “Why can I not know?” He was silent once more, and this time, you would not accept it. “Why are you hiding from me?”

“Because you are a lady!” he finally cut out, an agitated sigh coming straight after. “You are not to know such…such material.”

A lady…that you were aware of, but that still did not answer the question. Joshua watched, Joshua did whatever he had done to a lady. The answer was not good enough.

Judging by the increasing agitation in your friend’s countenance, he knew it too. It was at that point, though, when you truly noticed his harsh sighs, the tight fists—one at his mouth now trudging to the table, and the other secured at his hip—figure rigid. How affected he was by your questioning.

As if he mirrored the same sensations as you experienced.

“Is it…” You pursed your lips. “Is it because you were feeling them too?” 

A blink back—the only recognition of shock. You held onto this, continuing, “Tell me the truth, Joshua. You said yourself, no? That a lady cannot know, but you did not say a gentleman cannot either. You were feeling it too, were you not?”

His eyes were widening with your every word, and he stepped back, almost as if to run away. You did not need an answer from him now—it was abundantly clear that he had undergone such passions, as if it was not certain as you read it. There was only one question left in your arsenal now.

Joshua could have collapsed to the study floor. He heard the questions, and suddenly all he could do was gape at you. The determined curiosity in your eyes, the resolute stature of your body, closer than he last remembered. Oh, he would die before answering such a thing to you. He could not. He could not. 

“_____, it is late,” he began after a long time. The slight hope on your face leaving instinctively dampened his spirits. “It is already rash that you came here without a chaperone and I refuse to let you become the centre of ill conversation.”

And there it was. The supposed end. 

You did not realise how disappointed you were until you found your voice again, much graver than you expected. “So that is how it will be.”

Fine. If your best friend would not entrust you with such information, you would find the next person who would not be so apprehensive. A fortunate situation that you already had a man in mind.

As you turned on your heel, you heard him ask, “Where are you going?”

You did not stop your walk away, looking over your shoulder as you retorted, “To Soonyoung. At least he will be honest with me, if you choose not to be.”

He must have said something, but you did not deign to hear, only looking to the door, which was slightly ajar. You held your hand out, ready to open it further. 

Another force—another hand, larger than yours, slammed the door shut, jumping you out of your skin. Quickly you swivelled to see Joshua, breathing slightly uneven as his hand stayed right beside your head, resting against the wood. “Good God,” you got out, “What was that for?”

“You cannot go to Soonyoung,” he said instead, gaze frantic. 

You furrowed your brows. “Why?” 

He frowned. He could tell from your irritation that you assumed it was jealousy, a worse morphing of cowardice. It was not jealousy—nothing like that. Soonyoung was like a brother to him, and he knew that if there was anyone else you could have gone to without eliciting scandal, then it was that eccentric. He would explain everything to his friend, and be done with it without furthering his own curiosity. 

With that in mind, he would also tell you everything. Joshua was aware that there were skeletons in the closet of such matters, and your door was already slightly ajar. Should you go to Soonyoung to seek counsel, he would break down the doors, and suffocate you with the bones of such sensitive information.

What you asked was no normal feat. What you asked was sensitive. Precious. Soonyoung was trustworthy, but he was not careful. 

Joshua, on the other hand, was careful. Very careful, if he thought so himself. 

“He would not…explain it properly,” he offered instead. 

“At least he will explain it,” you countered, twisting your mouth. “I’d rather something than nothing at all.” 

His brows knitted together, desperation rising. “You have to understand me, _____.”

“Not after this.” You tried to avert his gaze, but his eyes—for the very first time—were incredibly hard to ignore. “Let me out the door.”

His reply, although perturbed, was clear. “I cannot.”

“Then tell me, Joshua,” you demanded. “Tell me what she was doing.” 

He should have stayed silent forever. What he should have done—as a gentleman, as you yourself had deemed him—was keep his mouth shut. 

A semblance of his sanity slipped once he uttered the fated words.

“She was touching herself.”

s e r i e s t a g l i s t : @hyuckworld @smiileflower @ourkivee @alyssa19123456 @xylatox @lexyraeworld @fancypeacepersona @tjjth @zezedoesshit @ochidize @sankriin @okiedokrie-main @reiofsuns2001 @gyuguys @livixxn @livelaughloveseventeen @peepeepoopooharrie @shinaely @uhdrienne @maple249

[diamond-reads]

the subtle art of stirring the pot —- l.sm

⭑.ᐟ pairing: lee seokmin x fem!reader ⭑.ᐟ theme: coworkers to lovers, annoyances to lovers, sous chef!seokmin ⭑.ᐟ w/c: 9k ⭑.ᐟ warnings: 18+ MDNI, mentions of food, stressful work environment, insults, jealousy, switch!seokmin, switch!reader, semi public make outs, protected sex (that's a yes yes), marking, fingering, multiple orgasms, slight angst, miscommunications ⭑.ᐟ a/n: written as part of the Lonely Hearts Café collab put on by @camandemstudios - make sure to check out the full collab masterlist here send over some love! (haha get it) thanks a million to my lovely beta readers: @tomodachiii and @lovetaroandtaemin and a special shoutout to @seungkw1 for betaing and overall keeping me sane

Ring ring ring

The chaos of a kitchen is only aided by the sound of orders being put in.  Saturdays are statistically the busiest days of the week, and being a restaurant in New York City, Quartz and Serenity is no exception.  You had been frantically chopping carrots for the better part of an hour.  

“Y/N!” The head chef called out to you, “Go get more mushrooms, chicken, and sherry for me please.”  Without another word you jogged toward the walk in refrigerator to retrieve the ingredients.  The last few years you’ve spent in this kitchen has allowed you to map it all out to a science, which in a way it was.  You felt like a part of this well oiled machine and you handled the pressure with ease.  

You piled the ingredients in your arms and pushed out of the walk in.  You began to unpack the items on the counter next to the chef.  He instructed you to take them out of their packages and begin chopping them for him.  While the dinner service ran smoothly, there was an air of stress that always comes with being short staffed. You always pulled it off though, and tonight was no different.    

The moment you crossed from the hallway into your apartment, you dropped your bag to the floor and kicked off your shoes. You smelled like grease and sweat.  The apartment was bathed in the yellow light above your stove you left on this morning.  There were dishes in the sink and cook books stacked up around the kitchen.  

Sighing, you dragged yourself to the bathroom.  You dropped your chef’s coat into the laundry pile and waited for the water to get warm.  Once hot, the water ran over you, loosening your tight muscles.  You stood in the stall staring at the wall for several minutes, mind wandering to what ingredients you had in your refrigerator and whether or not you should just order something.  

The water sputtered and threatened to turn cold all too quickly.  You rushed through your routine, savoring the last few drops of warm water.  It went straight from warm to ice cold in seconds as you were rinsing your conditioner out of your hair.  

Clad in pajamas, you stared into the boiling water on the stove.  You dumped probably too much pasta into the water and turned to the other burner.  You mixed together ingredients in a pan over the fire to make a sauce. This was a typical meal for you after manning the kitchen at Quartz and Serenity because it was easy and not on the menu.  

No matter how much you enjoyed cooking, you always tended to get tired of the food that you worked around all day.  Customer complaints and repetitive pressure did that to you.  You wouldn’t change a thing though, this is what you loved.  

“Everyone!” You heard the booming voice of the head chef call through the kitchen, “I have someone to introduce you to!” The staff and yourself meandered to the center of the kitchen where Chef Choi was standing with a man you didn’t recognize.  He was around your age, maybe a bit older.  His features were so striking, you almost missed the chef’s coat he was wearing.   

“This is Chef Lee,” your boss smiled, clapping the man on the back, “He is our new sous chef!” You didn’t hear anything he said after that, you felt like the walls were closing in on you.  You could feel eyes on you but you stared straight ahead.  You could feel your jaw tighten as you bored a hole into Chef Lee’s stupid head with your eyes.  

Once you were dismissed back to your stations to prepare for dinner service you saw him hovering near your station out of the corner of your eye.  

“Can I help you?” 

“Oh!” He smiled sheepishly.  “I just wanted to introduce myself to everyone individually! You can call me Seokmin.” “Okay, can I get back to what I need to do, Chef Lee?” You looked back to your knife.  

“Uh, sure…what is your name first?”

“Y/N.” You gestured to the nametag pinned to your coat.  He nodded and wandered away towards the wait staff.  You rolled your eyes.  

Throughout the night you were tasked with showing your new coworker the way things run at Quartz and Serenity and much to your displeasure, he was very excited to be there.  Every so often he gave you room to breathe by floating around the kitchen, observing everything.  However, everytime he returned to your side you thought you might punch him.  

Somehow you made it through the dinner service.  It wasn’t your turn to clean up the kitchen tonight so you bolted to the bus station as fast as possible.  You didn’t say goodbye to anyone, knowing that you might get sucked into doing something with your coworkers.  

Once on the bus you check your class schedule on your phone, only to realize with horror that you have a test tomorrow.  Your stomach turned with the dread of having to be up all night studying, again.  

—-

“Need any help with anything?” Seokmin’s sickly sweet voice offered at your side.  

“No.” You were already on edge today, you made it through your test by the skin of your teeth and your professor made that abundantly clear.  You had no time, or patience, for him right now.  

“I saw you prep yesterday, I could do part of that for you,” he pushed.  

“No thank you, Chef Lee.” You asserted through gritted teeth.  “I would ask Chef Choi if I were you.” He slinked away like a kicked puppy while you continued chopping vegetables.  It’s not your fault that he is completely out of his element and didn’t know what he was doing.  

However, when orders came pouring in you noticed that his confidence seemed to double from last night.  He was able to keep up with different elements, even without knowing the recipes very well yet.  

The kitchen was louder than it had been in months, the new addition to your team taking it upon himself to fill the room with music, from his own mouth, to your dismay.  You weren’t sure how much of his relentless optimism you could take, especially today.  He floated around the kitchen with a carelessness that you would never be able to comprehend.  

To your horror, at the end of the night Chef Choi announced that tonight was the most efficient night the restaurant has had in several weeks.  

“You’re singing.” You deadpanned without looking up from the vegetables on your cutting board.  

“Y/NNNNN” Seokmin mused, “How was your dayyy?”

“Don’t ask me how I’ve been.” You forced your knife through a carrot, “Just do your job, and stop singing.” There were exactly three seconds of silence before Seokmin moved from singing to humming.  You slammed your knife down onto the cutting board.  “I’m taking a five!” You huffed and turned toward the walk-in. Seokmin stopped humming.  

The tears started as soon as the door closed behind you. Your back slid down the wall, the coldness biting through your clothes.  It was stupid to cry, but you couldn’t help it; he was so infuriating.  You had no idea what Chef Choi saw in him.  The tears sliding down your cheeks smudged the swipe of mascara you put on this morning? Yesterday? Couldn’t have been more than two days ago…

The door opened. 

“So, what’s up?” Seokmin asked softly, leaning against the wall next to you.

“Oh my god!” You cried, “Can’t you leave me alone for a single second?”        

“I did,” he blinked at you, “If I had it my way, I would’ve followed right away.”

“I’m in here because of you!” Your voice cracked, a new bout of tears threatening to spill, “I would have loved it if you didn’t come in at all!” 

“Well….technically, I’m…kind of your boss.”

“God, ew, no not really,” you scrunched your face in a look of disgust, “Chef Choi is our boss.” 

“Y/N, what did I ever do to you?”

“The kitchen ran smoothly without you!” You informed him, “Everything was fine without you!” 

“Now wait a minute,” there was an edge to his voice that you had never heard before, “I have never messed anything up.” 

“Well–” 

“No,” he cut you off, “Seriously, you may not like how I operate, that’s fine, but you aren’t going to sit here and tell me that I’m a problem in this kitchen.”  His words were firm but it was hard to miss the tears swelling in his eyes. 

“This is serious to me.” You hardened your gaze.  

“And it isn’t to me?”   

“Doesn’t seem like it.” 

“God,” He sighed.  “Y/N, maybe this can be a lesson for you.  No one is ever going to do things exactly as you expect them to.  That doesn’t mean they’re wrong.” He stood up to leave.

“You can’t just walk away after you talked down to me!” You shot to your feet. “You think I’m some dumb kid!” He turned to look at you, you chose to ignore the glimmer of a tear on his cheek. “I’m at the top of my class! I know what I’m doing!” 

“What are you trying to prove?” His voice rose now too, “I never said you didn’t know what you were doing! Do you want me to?” You blinked at him.  “You couldn’t even julienne the carrots today! Why? All because I was singing?”  He wiped the tear away from his skin angrily.  He moved toward you and crowded you against the wall.  The proximity forced you to look up at him, his face was stone.  “What’s your problem with me, Y/N?” He whispered, looking down his nose at you.  The cold of the refrigerator made the warm breath fanning across your cheeks even harder to ignore.

“We have a kitchen to get back to…” You tried to avoid looking at his lips.   

“You don’t think I’m serious about this,” he planted his hand on the wall next to your head, “So does it matter if I get back to that kitchen?” 

“You said I didn’t know what I’m doing! So I guess the kitchen doesn’t need either of us at this point!” You jutted your chin up defiantly.  He chuckled sarcastically.  

“You’re being so ridiculous right now, are you like this with every new hire?”   

“No, only the ones I find irritating,” and incredibly attractive, your thoughts wandered.  Rookie mistake, your eyes flit to his lips before you had time to think.  When your eyes returned to his he was looking at you, absolutely bewildered.  Then, in one swift motion he smashed his lips to yours.  The way he kissed you was just as angry as the way he was talking to you moments ago; his lips moved with a fervor that was almost malicious.  

Your fingers found the front of his chef’s coat, you attempted to pull him closer.  He whined into your mouth at the feeling of being wanted.  The sound awakened something in you and heat settled in your stomach.  You shifted your weight trying to ignore it.  Seokmin nudged you with his knee until you parted your legs slightly for him to slot his thigh between.  He was firm and muscular pressed against your core and it took everything in you to not rock against it.  

With a jolt you remembered where you were and who you were with.  You pushed against his chest until he moved away from you.  Eyes wide and cheeks flushed, Seokmin seemed as though he realized the same thing.  

“Come out when you're ready,” he nodded and left the walk-in without looking back.  You tightened your ponytail and took a deep breath before following him out.  You returned to your station and picked up the knife you abandoned before the ordeal.  “Thin as matchsticks, Y/N.” Seokmin reminded you through kiss-bruised lips.   

“Table 13 sends its compliments to the chef!” Soonyoung comes barreling into the kitchen carrying plates to deposit into the wash.  

“That was the last table right?” Seokmin breathed a sigh of relief.  

“Yup!” Soonyoung popped the “P” and punctuated the exclamation by dumping the dishes he was carrying into the sink.  You had the day off and Seokmin felt the pressure of your absence throughout the entire day.  

The encounter he had with you was heavy on his mind all day, the first day he’s spent in this kitchen without you by his side.  He still couldn’t figure out what it was that he could have possibly done to you in the short time you’ve worked together.  

“Hey Soonyoung?” He called without thinking.  Soonyoung turned to him with a questioning look on his face.  “You’ve been here a while right?” “Yeah, why?” Soonyoung reached around Seokmin and grabbed at the carrots, earning him a slap on the hand.  He winced and pulled his hand to his chest.  

“Can you think of any reason Y/N would dislike me?” 

“Hm? Y/N?” Soonyoung mumbled, “Oh! The scary one.  Yeah I try not to talk to her much.” 

“Because she scares you?” “Because she scares me.” Soonyoung nodded.  

“She wanted your job.” One of the waitresses, Jeongyeon, asserted from the doorway.  Seokmin switched his attention to her, almost begging her to clarify.  She sighed and adjusted her bag on her shoulder.  “She’s about to graduate, the position was vacant for so long that she was under the impression that Chef Choi had decided to hold it for her.” Seokmin moved across the kitchen to beg her to tell him everything.  

“Why would she assume that?” He pleaded.  

“You have no idea how long your position was vacant, do you?” She turned to leave, “She was acting as unofficial sous chef for almost a year.  In her opinion there’s no reason she shouldn’t have your job by now, diploma or not.”  He looked down at the floor. "Oh, and stop looking at her with those puppy dog eyes, she'll chop your fingers off."

Eventually, Seokmin dragged himself home.  His apartment felt too big, too empty.  He wished he could stop thinking about you, if he was honest.  He stared into his pantry and quickly decided he had no desire to actually cook.  He popped an instant ramen into the microwave and went to go change his clothes.  

The microwave was beeping four minutes later, he pulled the cup out and narrowly avoided burning his hand on the outside.  He set the ramen on the counter and dug through the refrigerator in search of something to drink.  There was not a lot to be found, besides a full pack of wine coolers he bought weeks ago in hopes he could invite some people from work over to celebrate working together, clearly that never happened.  

About two hours later, Seokmin was crying to the credits of Dear Evan Hansen with five empty wine coolers on his coffee table and a sixth to his lips.  Whether he was crying over the movie or something else entirely, he wasn’t sure.  

He still couldn’t stop his mind from wandering to you, he had new information to mull over, but he still couldn’t understand why you hated him.  He would’ve talked it over with you if you just came to him with the issue instead of giving him the silent treatment.  Even worse, he couldn’t stop thinking about the feeling of your lips on his.  

Your lips and the warmth of your body against his had been running through his mind since it happened.  He continued to sip from the bottle as he thought about you.  He admired you in a way, so headstrong and willing to go after what you wanted, even if that got him yelled at.  He didn’t really care, he realized you were pretty even when you were insulting him.  

Soon the bottle was empty and Seokmin’s eyes were closed thinking about your mouth.  He knew he would never live it down if you knew, but that didn’t stop him from delivering the soft initial touches over his shorts.  Eventually pulling them down, letting his semi hard cock spring free, and pumping himself until he was stiff.  

His voice surprised him, sounding foreign to his ears, whispering your name to his empty apartment. Everything became muffled as he heard the blood rushing in his ears, he felt his own hips sputter and he picked up his pace, fucking up into his hand.  He thought about the pretty way you said his name with an edge to your voice and he was quickly undone.       

You pushed the french fries around in the basket, the parchment paper soaking up the grease they left behind.  You barely got three bites into your burger before you felt sick again and resorted to just pretending to eat.  Maybe an entire bottle of wine to yourself last night and sleeping until 1 pm was not your best idea, but desperate times call for desperate measures.  

You checked the time, you have to be at work in a little over an hour, and you knew you had to eat something for your stomach to stop swirling.  You sighed and picked up the burger again, and took a bite.  Your body tried to protest but eventually you felt your stomach calming, thankful to have food.  You laid your head back onto the back of the booth and closed your eyes for a moment, taking deep breaths.  

“Rough night?” You cracked an eye open to see Seokmin standing over you, a basket matching yours in hand.  “Me too,” he lifted his basket in a gesture of comradery.  “May I sit?” You nodded, not having the energy to argue with him over it.  You sat up and studied his face briefly.  He had bags under his eyes like you, his hair was more askew than normal, and he was wearing the biggest hoodie you had ever seen.  

“What got you so hung up?” You asked, selecting another fry from your basket.  

“Oh,” he didn’t look at you, “I just have a lot on my mind, you?”

“You.” His eyes snapped to you, clearly surprised by your boldness.  

“What?” He sputtered around a mouthful of his burger.  

“I’m sure this isn’t the first time you’ve annoyed someone to the point of drowning in alcohol.” 

“I mean, maybe,” he dropped the burger into the basket, “but no one has ever been so bold as to tell me outright…” 

“Are you pouting right now?” Seokmin crossed his arms over his chest at your words, once again refusing to look at you.  “See!” You scoff, “this is what I mean, you get everything you want and when someone calls you out on your bullshit you can’t handle it!” You pushed your food away from you with a huff.  

“I get everything I want?” He raised an eyebrow at you.  “You know I graduated from culinary school, just like you’re about to?” He leaned his elbows on the table, getting closer to you.  “I worked hard to get where I am, and I was hired because I come highly complimented from previous bosses.” 

“What is this? Your resume?” 

“Let me show you, come to dinner with me on Thursday, we both have the day off” 

“So you can brag?”

“No,” he cracked a smile. “So we can get to know each other better, and maybe put this behind us.”

You stared up at the facade of the restaurant.  This building had been your dream for years, since you moved to the city.  Now, because of Seokmin, you were able to dine here? It almost doesn't seem fair. 

“Hey!” Seokmin’s voice pulled you out of your thoughts. “Sorry I’m late; I hope you weren’t waiting long!” You turned to him and shook your head.  “Oh good, shall we?” He ushered you inside, lightly touching the small of your back.  You tried to ignore the feeling in your stomach at the small gesture.   

Once inside, he let his hand drop but stayed close to you.  He leaned around you to speak to the man at the host stand.  “Table for two, the name Lee should be on your list?” The man flipped through a few sheets of paper before stopping to read through a short list of names. Seokmin’s hand returned to your back, pushing you to follow the man through the restaurant.  

The decor was almost enough to distract you from the warmth of Seokmin spreading through your body as he pressed his hand against you more firmly.  The ornate light fixtures bathed the room in a soft light, making everything feel more dreamlike and romantic.  

Seokmin pulled out your chair for you as the host was informing the two of you that a waiter would be with you soon.  As Seokmin took his seat, you had a moment to take him in.  You had never seen him wearing anything besides his chef’s coat.  He had the sleeves of his collared shirt rolled up, showing off his watch and his toned arms.  

“See anything you like?” 

“What?” Your eyes widened, and a blush creeped up your cheeks.  He pushes a menu towards you.  

“Anything?” He smiles, choosing not to bring attention to your obvious staring.  You shoved your face into the menu and began to study it intently.   After a few minutes of silence the waiter provided glasses of water and a promise to return in a few minutes to take your orders.  You laid your menu flat on the table and looked up at Seokmin.  

“What do you like?” You asked sheepishly.  He chuckled to himself and set his menu down.  

“Well,” he pointed at the wine selection, “I was going to order us wine. Do you like white or red?” 

“White, usually,” 

“Okay, so,” he looked at you over his glasses, “you know enough about wine pairings to know what dishes a white wine rules out.” You nodded. “They have a lovely creamy pumpkin penne dish that pairs nicely with chardonnay, and we could share a brie sampler for an appetizer?”  

“Honestly, that sounds wonderful,” you smile at him. You let him order everything for the two of you.  He lets the silence linger for a few minutes while you wait for your wine.  Once the glasses are poured, and he’s confident no one will bother you for a while, he breaks the silence he crafted.  

“You’re much more shy outside of the kitchen,” he observed.  

“I’m out of my depth,” you admitted quietly.  He raised an eyebrow and took a sip of his wine, inviting you to go on.  “I’ve been waiting to eat here since I moved to New York, and you just happen to have your name permanently on the list?”  

“I know the chef,” he muttered into his wine.  

“I know how highly qualified you are,” you informed him, “you’re experienced out of the ears and I’m just some kid in culinary school.” 

“Well,” he tipped his glass forward to clink it with yours, “you can legally drink, so you’re not a kid.” He watched you smile, “And for what it’s worth, I think you’re really talented.” 

“Oh don’t say stuff like that to me,” you rolled your eyes and picked up your wine glass, “You might get me to come around to you.”

“Oh God forbid, we can’t have that.”

“Where’s Y/N?” Seokmin was frantically moving through the kitchen.  “Dinner service starts in 40 minutes, why aren’t any of you telling me where Y/N is?” 

“She’s in the dining room, damn…” 

Seokmin knew that you closed the restaurant last night, opened this morning, and the two of you were closing together tonight.  So, when he found you asleep in a booth in the dining room, he wasn’t surprised.  You often used the few hours Quartz and Serenity was closed between breakfast and dinner to catch up on studying.  

Your head was resting on your arms, your ponytail was loose and strands of hair were falling in your face.  He reached to brush them away from your eyes but stopped short when he read the papers under your hand.  Application for Employment. He read it over and over with his hand hovering above your head.  He felt his stomach drop so fast he was afraid it would fall out of his ass.  

Taking a deep breath he let his hand settle on top of your head. He rubbed your hair softly with his thumb for a few moments, hoping that you would wake up.  When you didn’t stir, he moved his hand to your shoulder and shook you lightly.  

“Y/N,” he leaned closer to you.  Your eyes opened slowly.  “Hey,” he smiled, “dinner service starts in 30. I would let you sleep, but we need the table.” You jolted upright at his words, knocking his hand back to his side.  

“In 30?!” You began to shuffle your papers back into the folder and snapped your book closed, “why didn’t anyone grab me sooner?”  Seokmin didn’t have time to answer before you were breezing past him toward the kitchen.  He watched you until you disappeared into the back room, agonizing over what he would do if you actually left Quartz and Serenity.  

The entire dinner service was spent the same way, Seokmin becoming flustered when you assisted him.  If he was being honest with himself, he would be impressed with how easily you were able to bounce back to routine.  It was almost as if the hiccup from before didn’t even happen. 

You moved through this kitchen like you’ve been in it your entire life, Seokmin truly could not imagine this place without you.  He didn’t want to think about the fact that he didn’t want this kitchen to run without you.  But you deserved to run a restaurant in his opinion.  He wanted you to call the shots and to be successful, even if that meant he and Chef Choi would be competing against you after your graduation.  Then it hit him; he also wanted to be selfish and hide you away for himself.  

“Can’t you move any faster?” You shoved a soapy dish towards Seokmin.  The two of you were the only people left in the building after a successful Sunday.  You were eager to get home and sleep after the worst lineup of shifts.  You picked up a shift from a coworker because you desperately needed the money, but you didn’t think ahead to how your bones would ache after it all.  

“If you would rinse the soap off I could,” he sighed.  He pulled the faucet head toward the dish in your hand, spraying you lightly with the water.  

“Seokmin!” You squealed in annoyance. Grabbing the faucet back from him, you angled it towards him.  The water rolled off his exposed forearms, his coat sleeves long pushed up over his elbows.  He raised an eyebrow at you, almost like a challenge.   He plunged his hands into the sink filled with soapy water and splashed it up onto your coat. 

It wasn’t like you to sink to his level. Any other day, you would put a stop to this, get the dishes done, and go straight home.  However, you’re not stupid and didn’t miss a single look in your direction through the entire day.  Seokmin looked at you like a lovesick puppy everytime.  Something about those looks lit a fire in your belly, and you didn’t care to find out if it was anger or interest. 

So, you followed suit. You cupped your hands around a gaggle of bubbles, lifted it high above your head and smoothed the soap into his dark hair.  He stood motionless for a moment, looking down at you in disbelief as his hair dripped onto the floor.  Finally, he swiped his hands through his wet hair, slicking it back and exposing his forehead.  Somehow it seemed like his features became more sharp and striking with his hair pushed away.  Your eyes followed the sharp slope of his nose down to his lips and back to his dark eyes.  

He moved toward you quietly.  The tension hung thick in the air. He cupped your jaw with his wet hands, eventually moving to thread suds through your ponytail.  Any part of him that thought he might kiss you was dampened by the water you suddenly hurled out of the sink at that exact moment.  He yelped and moved away from you. 

“We have dishes to finish, Chef Lee.” You smirked.  The dishes in question were finished and dried in complete silence.  The water and the clattering of the glass were the only sounds in the room.  

“Let me take you home,” Seokmin broke the silence.  

“What?” You gaped at him.  

“No…” A blush creeped up his neck, “not like that.  You take the bus, right?” You nodded at him.  “You’re all wet, just let me drive you to your place.” 

“You don’t have to do that…” 

“I know,” he smiled sheepishly, “but I want to, please?” 

Somehow, he convinced you.  You were panicked, too panicked to even make fun of him for being the kind of person who lived in New York City and owned a car.  He passed his phone over to you and instructed you to put your address into the maps app.

The ride was silent, your leg bounced as you watched the location get closer and closer. You nearly threw yourself out of the car when he parked in front of the building.  

“Bye! See you Tuesday!” You blurted as you ran towards the lobby of the building.  Seokmin waved, confused, at the back of your head. 

“You need to stop telling people you live here.” The front desk attendant deadpanned.  

“I know, Jane,” you ducked to spy out the window.  

“Who is it this time? Bad date?” Jane was used to you showing up in her lobby every few weeks at this point.  You were lucky that she loved to gossip or else she would have banned you from the building months ago. 

“Ugh, no,” you watched Seokmin’s car pull away from the curb, “My coworker.”

“Why do you care if your coworker knows where you live?” 

“Honestly?” You stood up and moved toward her desk, “I’m not sure…”

“Hm,” she holds out a lollipop to you, “might want to unpack that.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” you unwrap the candy and pop it into your mouth, “whatever.” You exit the building with a wave and begin the short walk to your actual apartment.       

“Red wine this time.” Seokmin declared as you slid into your chair.  

“Feeling bold today are we?” 

“Well,” he chuckled, “It’s a steakhouse, so we have to pair correctly!” This was the second installment of what Seokmin had started calling Seokmin's Surely Spectacular Suggestions .  You were starting to realize that he knows a lot more than you thought he did.  He always seemed to know someone at every restaurant, if not multiple people.   

“Oh my god!” A woman’s voice pulled you from your thoughts.  You looked up and the waitress was smiling at Seokmin. “It is so nice to see you!” 

“Oh!” Seokmin smiled widely at her, “I didn’t think you worked on Thursdays!” 

“Ugh!” She put her hand on her hip, “I don’t usually! Dosie needed the day off and as a good friend I took the shift.” She laughed and rolled her eyes.  You watched Seokmin’s face contort into a laugh.  Something panged in your chest watching them laugh together.  Suddenly, you were extremely interested in the menu in front of you as you tried not to think about what that could possibly mean.  Seokmin and the waitress chatted for several more minutes before she bounced away.  She never looked in your direction the entire time she was at the table.  

“Ordered us wine, hope that’s okay.” Seokmin knocked on the table in front of you to get your attention.  You hummed affirmatively. “What’s wrong? Have you decided you hate me again?”

“No,” You didn’t look at him.  You felt him stare at you from across the table, you held strong and did not look up from the menu.  It didn’t matter that you had read the words 8 oz wagyu beef steak and garlic potatoes six times, you couldn’t look at him.

The same waitress from earlier came back with your wine and a basket of bread. She placed everything down on the table and turned to Seokmin again.  

“Are you ready to order?” She smiled.  

“No, we need a few minutes.” You snapped before you had time to stop yourself. Seokmin shifted his gaze to you.  

“Oh, uh…okay.” The waitress blinked at you and turned on her heel without a second look.  

“What was that?” Seokmin was looking at you like you had grown a second head at some point in the last thirty seconds.  

“Nothing, she was pushy.” You shrugged, feigning nonchalance.  

“No she wasn’t.”

“She was!” You finally looked at him, he looked like a confused puppy, “You just didn’t see it because she was flirting with you.”   

“What are you talking abo–” His face contorted into a smirk, “Are you jealous?” He dropped his voice to a whisper.

“I’m going to the bathroom.” You declared, pushing out of your chair.  You all but stomped all the way to the bathroom, mentally cursing yourself for being jealous in the first place. A hand encircled your wrist as you turned the corner to the hallway that housed the bathrooms.  You turned to find Seokmin latched on to you.  He pulled you into the bathroom and locked the door behind you.  Looking him up and down he looked almost as shocked at his own actions as you felt.   

“Were you jealous?” He whispered, “I have to know, because if you don’t tell me it’ll eat me alive for the rest of my life.” You couldn’t help but think he was being just a little dramatic. You slotted your hand into the hair on the back of his head and pulled his lips to yours anyway.  

It took him a few moments to respond properly.  When his brain caught up to what was happening he kissed you back hungrily.  His lips moved roughly and he wrapped his arms around your waist. He pulled you as close as possible and swiped his tongue along your bottom lip.  You deepened the kiss and allowed him to explore further with his tongue.  

Seokmin had a way of putting every emotion he was feeling into his actions, it was evident when he kissed you angrily weeks ago, and it was evident now.  It felt like weeks of anger and bickering had melted off the two of you and now what was left was want and attraction that was left unsaid.  

He detached himself from your mouth and moved to kiss over your pulse point.  You squeezed your eyes shut and threw your head back to give him better access.  Experimentally, he sucked gently on the skin below your ear, earning him a quiet moan.  He did it again. 

“Let’s go home,” he panted into your skin. “Please.”  

“Seokmin we’ve only had wine,” you whispered  

“I’ll make you pizza at home, I don’t care, I just need you.” He whined.  

—-

Seokmin fumbled with the key to his apartment, his thoughts were elsewhere at the moment.  Finally, he unlocked the door and ushered you inside.  You tried not to think about the fact that his apartment was about double the size of yours.  He kissed you again once he had the door locked and you both inside.  His hands found your hips and he pulled you closer as he was licking into your mouth.  He tasted like wine, the same one you knew was on your lips as well.  

“You owe me pizza, Chef Lee..” You whispered, breaking away from his desperate mouth. 

“Oh my god, Y/N,” he groaned, “I can make pizza with my eyes closed.” His confidence was attractive, it was rare for him to be cocky like that.  

“You didn’t buy me dinner, and I’m a lady.” He scoffed and rolled his eyes before grabbing and lifting you up, forcing you to wrap your legs around his trim waist.  You yelped in surprise, you had no idea he could do that.  He plopped you down on the kitchen island and moved to the other countertop.  You watched as he rolled out pizza dough.  His arm muscles bulged as he put in effort to flatten it.  “Not even homemade dough?” You teased, “Some chef!” 

He sent you a glare out of the corner of his eye, but the blush creeping up his neck gave him away.  Suddenly it clicked, “oh my god, do you get turned on when I’m mean to you?” You smirked.  

“Shut up…” Seokmin muttered while opening the pizza sauce.  

“Well…better hurry that prep…” You smiled wickedly, spreading your legs.  Seokmin glanced over at you and nearly moaned at the sight of your panties under your dress.  He frantically pressed the buttons to preheat the oven.  Once the pizzas were ready to be put in the oven he slotted himself between your legs and captured your lips once more.  

You guided his hand to your breast and encouraged him to squeeze.  He placed his other hand on your exposed thigh.  He trailed his fingers slowly up and up towards your center until the oven beeped.  He groaned and ran over to place the pans in the oven and set the timer. 

“Take your pants off.” You stated simply when he turned back to you.  He nodded and stumbled out of his jeans, the thin fabric of his briefs left little to the imagination as he was hard by this point.  He moved toward you and you ran a hand over his clothed cock, he hissed at the contact.  

“One second,” He blurted before disappearing down the hall.  You contemplated touching yourself while he was gone, but he returned in a rush before you had the chance.  He wiggled a small foil package in his fingers to show you why he left.  

“Who said you could hit?” 

“I–well I just figured…”

“I was about to start without you just now, I could still do that.” You could tell that Seokmin was weighing his options, knowing it would be so hot to see you get yourself off, but needing the feeling of being inside you.  

“No, no!” He sputtered, “I got you!” You grabbed his wrist and moved his hand to your clothed cunt.  

“Prove it.” 

He started slowly, the pads of his fingers circling your clit through your panties. His lips attached to the sensitive skin below your ear.  He kissed the skin slowly, letting his teeth graze your neck every so often.  He hooked his thumbs under your underwear and pulled them off gingerly, letting them flutter to the floor.  

He ran his fingers through your folds, savoring the wetness there just for him.  Experimentally he slipped a finger inside, earning him an arch of your back and a sound so delicious it could be the only thing he heard for the rest of his life and he would be happy.  

“C’mere,” he grunted, his voice deeper than you had ever heard it.  He moved you to the edge of the counter and inserted a second finger.  You couldn’t help but rock your hips against his ruminations.  He reached that delicious spot inside of you and you felt yourself hurtling off the cliff.  “You talk a big game, but you’re so desperate for me.” Seokmin snaked his free hand over his cock, teasing himself as he finger fucked you into an orgasm.  

Once you came back to Earth he slowly removed his fingers.  Before he had the chance to wash them off, you took his hand and guided his fingers into your mouth.  He watched with wonder as your tongue swirled around his digits, cleaning them.  You pulled them out, a string of saliva connecting you to him.  

“Who’s desperate now?” You breathed watching him continue to tease himself over his briefs.  

“Can I please fuck you?” He whined.  You helped him out of his briefs, you watched his cock spring free, the tip red and angry.  You leaned down and thumbed his leaking slit, earning you a delicious moan.  You spread the mess down his shaft.  

He opened the condom with his teeth, you watched as he rolled it down.  He pulled you to the edge of the counter again and lined himself up with your entrance.  He pushed himself inside of you slowly, allowing you time to adjust.  The stretch was delicious.  He slowly began to thrust, whining in the process.  

“You’re so warm,” he cried.  You felt every inch of him as he slid in and out of you. His hands anchored you to the countertop as you draped your arms across his back.  Seokmin found his rhythm once you wrapped your legs around his waist, he felt so surrounded by you.  He swore he could live with you wrapped around him for the rest of his life.  

“Why didn’t you fuck me in the restaurant?” You breathed.  His hips stuttered for a moment.  

“In public?” He bit his lip.  

“Yeah?” You swiped a hand through his hair and gave it a tug.  He moaned into the crook of your neck.  

“I uh-” He whined, “I didn’t think-I don’t know?” “Oh you really can’t think when your dick’s busy, huh?”  He whined into your neck again, the vibrations and the warm air fanning against your skin left goosebumps behind. Seokmin’s hands trailed down from your hips to your thighs and he began to knead your soft skin with his nimble fingers.  

You leaned your head back, enjoying the feeling of him all over you, inside of you.  With better access to you he experimentally captured your skin between his teeth.  Your sounds spurred him on and encouraged him to begin sucking and biting a bruise into your skin.  With this your hips bucked up to meet his thrusts.  

The idea of being marked by Seokmin would have appalled you just a few weeks ago, but now you couldn’t bring yourself to hate the idea of people knowing you have had him like this.  Like that stupid waitress.  “She wanted you.” You muttered between moans.  

“What?” Seokmin breathed into your skin.  

“That waitress, she wanted you.” 

“Oh well.” Seokmin bit you again.  He was marking you, even after you told him that another woman wanted him like this.  The coil in your stomach threatened to snap at that alone.  You could envision yourself falling off the edge soon.  Seokmin was still massaging the underside of your thighs, pinning your legs around his waist.  Suddenly everything was overwhelming, everything was him.  You felt like fireworks were setting off inside you.  He continued rolling his hips into you through your orgasm.  Shortly after he was releasing into the condom, moans rattled your throat the entire time.

He pulled back to look at you, his eyelids were heavy over his eyes, his lips puffy.  Before either of you had the chance to say anything the oven beeped.  Seokmin’s eyes grew wide, both of you obviously forgot about the pizza.  

“Get your dick out of me and turn that off!” You laughed.  He nodded and slowly pulled out of you.  You watched him slap the off button on the oven, trying not to laugh at him being naked from the waist down.  

Once both of you were cleaned up and clothed, Seokmin cut the pizza and put it on plates.  You were waiting on his couch, dressed head to toe in his clothes.  To him you looked like a dream.  

“Stay the night.” He handed you your plate and sat down next to you.  

“No.” You stated simply, picking up a piece of pizza.  After several seconds of silence you looked up at him, he was looking at you dumbfounded.  “We have work tomorrow.” 

“I’ll drive you!” 

“And walk past Jeongyeon after showing up with you and smelling like sex? No thanks.” 

“You can shower here, I’ll even walk in ten minutes later, please?” He looked like a puppy again.  

“I don’t have my work clothes, and no yours won’t fit me.” You gestured towards his clothes that were far too big on you.  

“There’s extras, you know that.” 

“Fine…” You wouldn’t mind showering in a nice apartment for a change. “You walk in fifteen minutes after me, and you shower with me.” “You have a deal!”               

Finals week was upon you.  The only week out of the year that work came second to school, you were so close to graduation you just had to make it through a week of practical exams.  You were confident in your ability to pass but your mind was elsewhere most of the time.  

You wondered how the kitchen was fairing without you, how Seokmin was doing without you.  As much as you hated to admit it, he did know what he was doing, but being absent was eating at you.  You flipped through the pages of your textbook without reading a single word wishing you could pick up your phone and hear about the days you’ve missed.  

Across town Seokmin was doing just about as well, he knew your name wasn’t on the schedule and he was dying to know where you were.  He was chopping carrots to have for dinner service when he decided to go straight to your apartment tonight.  He didn’t care if he had to get on his knees and beg the woman at the desk to tell him your apartment number.  

He all but sprinted out to his car once the kitchen was clean for the following day.  He parked on the curb in front of the building after the short drive.  He practiced what he was going to say to the woman at the desk on his way into the lobby.  He took a deep breath and approached her.  

“Can I help you?” 

“I’m looking for Y/F/N Y/L/N!” He blurted.  “She hasn’t been to work in a few days, she isn’t scheduled but she didn’t tell me she wouldn’t be here and I wanted to make sure I didn’t do anything wrong and I–” The woman was laughing.  Sure he went off script, but how would she know? He looked at her, confused.  

“She doesn’t live here.” Now he wasn’t expecting that.  

“What?” 

“I told her this would happen eventually, somebody would come looking for her and I would have to be the one to break it to them.” She sighed.  

“She just…lies to people?” 

“Yeah all the time.” She began digging in her desk for something.  “You said you worked with her?” “Yeah, I dropped her off here after work once…so I just thought..” Seokmin rubbed the back of his neck with his hand.  

“Oh you’re the one she was weird about!” “What?” “What? Nothing.” She began scribbling something on a slip of paper. “Here, this is her address, tell her Jane sent you.”  She handed him the paper and two lollipops.  

—-

A cautious knock rang through your apartment, which was confusing considering no one knew where you lived.  You unfolded yourself from the couch and padded to the door.  Seokmin was standing in the hallway and you almost slammed the door in his face.  

“What are you doing here?” You almost shrieked.  He held up two lollipops silently.  “Fuck, okay, uh…come in.” You stepped to the side allowing him entrance.  He shuffled past you, seeing another person standing in your tiny apartment was odd to say the least.  

“Hi,” Seokmin offered quietly while you were intently staring at the ground.  “It’s nice to see you.”

“I’m sorry my apartment is gross and cluttered and small.”  You muttered.  Seokmin looked around the apartment.  The cookbooks in the kitchen were piled almost as high as the refrigerator, the pink throw blanket on the couch made him smile, seeing a softness that no one else gets to see.  The living room was bathed in lamp light that made the shadows in the room look exaggerated and long.  The apartment was uniquely you and he loved it.  

“What?” He chuckled, “I don’t care what your apartment looks like, is this why you lied?” Your head snapped up at him calling you out so directly.  

“I never lied, I told you to drop me off there, not that I lived there.” You pointed out.  He gave you a look.  “I didn’t lie.”   

“Sure, maybe not,” he sighed.  

“I’m sorry,” You whispered, Seokmin had never seen you at a loss for words like this.  

“Look,” he took your hand, “that’s not why I’m here, it doesn’t matter.” You led him to the couch, moving the open textbook so that he could sit down.  Seeing him sitting on your couch was strange, seeing him here was not something you thought you would ever see.  “Are you okay?” He blurted out.  

“What?” You were taken aback, “of course, I’m fine.”

“You just haven’t been to work in a few days and after…the activities at my apartment I thought maybe you hated me, and–” “Woah!” You smiled, “why would I hate you? Seokmin, I took the week off to focus on finals week.”

“Oh.” He looked at you sheepishly. “Uh, well, how are they going?” You rolled your eyes.  

“Fine, I’ll pass, I miss work though.” You shrugged.  

“Just work?” “No, I miss the way Soonyoung runs out of the kitchen when he sees me.”

“Oh…” He dropped his gaze dejectedly.  “Hey!” He exclaimed as your fist connected with his arm.  

“I miss you, dumb ass.” “So you didn’t quit?” “No,” you looked at him, confused.  “You know you could have asked literally anyone where I was, right?”

“No one was talking about it! I thought we were all super sad about you quitting! I don’t know!” He gestured wildly with his hands.  “And…ugh, okay, you remember that one day like a month ago? When you were asleep in the dining room and I woke you up?”

“Yeah?” “I, uh, I saw what you were working on…the job applications.” He lowered his volume as if he was afraid you would explode.  “I thought you might’ve just up and left, you never liked me anyway, so you didn’t really have any reason to let me know.” 

“Oh,” you sighed.  “I’m sorry…” “Tell me you’ve changed your mind, you’re not leaving us.” “Seokmin….” 

“Is it because of me?”

“Maybe at first,” You started, you could see the tears well up in his eyes. “But now…if anything you’ve made it harder to leave.” 

“Where are you going?” He met your eyes again.  You reached out to swipe the tears that managed to escape.  

“I have a few offers, I don’t know yet.” 

“Of course you do,” he laughed sadly, took hold of your wrists,and rubbed the back of your hands with his thumbs.  “You’re so talented any restaurant would be stupid to not offer you a job.” 

“That’s not what you said a few months ago.” You pointed out. 

“Well, you know how to julienne the carrots now.” 

“Hey!” You tried to push him away but he held you in place.  He glanced at your lips before leaning in to kiss you.  He kissed you softly, his lips tasted vaguely of salt and honey chapstick.  He let himself linger without deepening the kiss until he suddenly pulled back, looking panicked.  

“Those offers are for sous chef positions right?” 

“Of course they are, watch out, Chef Lee.”    

Three years later

You stretch out on your couch after making the most of your day off.  With your recent promotion to head chef at Diamond you haven’t had a lot of time to relax.  With your new hectic schedule you were shocked that you were able to make it the entire day without getting a single call about the restaurant.  

A hand squeezed your calf gently.  You hummed at the contact.  

“I’ll make dinner tonight, love.” Seokmin mumbled sleepily from the other end of the couch.  

“No.” You stated simply.  

“Um, why not?” 

“‘The only thing worse than the tacky decor at Quartz and Serenity is the incompetence of the kitchen. If you’re looking for the exact opposite of what you asked for, this is the restaurant for you.’” You rattled off.  

“What are you doing?” Seokmin sat up, knocking your legs off the couch. 

“‘I would give them zero stars if I could!’” You stared at him, “‘I ordered a steak and it came out barely cooked at all! Will not be returning!’”

“Okay! In my defense on that one, she ordered a well done steak!” He threw his hands up.  “Who does that?” 

“MichelleJo1965, obviously.” You deadpanned.  

“When did you have time to dig through our Yelp reviews?” Seokmin scoffed, “I didn’t realize dating the competition meant I would have to defend myself at home.” 

“Step up your game, Head Chef Lee.” You shrugged.  “But seriously? She ordered a well done steak?” 

“She did! It’s not my fault she has no taste.” He shrugged.  “By the way I have plenty of great reviews, and I seem to remember my girlfriend really liking my cooking.” “You’re alright, I guess.” You shrugged.  “When are you going to ask me by the way?” 

“What?” He tried to stay calm, you could be talking about anything, certainly not the ring that has been staring at him from under his underwear for the last six months.  

“You really need to figure out where to hide things where I won’t find them” Wordlessly Seokmin got up from the couch and stomped into your shared bedroom.  For a split second you thought you might have pushed too far until he returned with the small velvet box.  

“I hope you at least left me one secret, you didn’t look at it did you?” He smiled sheepishly.  

“No, Min, I have no idea what it looks like, swear.” 

“Good,” to your surprise he sank down to one knee, right there in the living room. “You never were good at leaving well enough alone, I had a grander plan, but this seems much more our speed, huh?” You laughed.  “Will you marry me, even if my Yelp reviews suck sometimes?” He popped the small box open to reveal a ring.  

“Of course I will, you idiot.”   

[diamond-reads]

(𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋) how seokmin falls in love

⭐ starring: seokmin

💌 genre: fluff | wc: 1.8k

💬 preview: House SEVENTEEN grapples with the idea that their resident bachelor might be in love…as all the signs start to show up.

tw/cw: college au, inspired by the song ‘ when emma falls in love’, lowkey crack!seventeen

🪽fic rating: pg

☁️ masterlist & a/n: this is partly a homage to b0y - every sign you see in this fic has been something he’s done for me - yes, he has a fic with him written all over it. yes, he’s still on thin ice :) anyways...another instalment of our 500 followers event!

p.s thank you so much to @diamonddaze01 for beta reading <33

this is a part of my 500 followers event

When Seokmin falls in love, it’s fast-- nearly instant, exploding his world with color and song. Everyone around him is greeted by the sudden glare and it’s certainly hard not to notice. 

Seungcheol knew Seokmin had fallen in love when he started extending his bed time. 

Seokmin had always been an avid preacher of sleep early, wake early. He’s up by six in the morning making coffee for the rest of them and in bed by 10pm, his lights dimmed down and a satin eye mask over his face. 

So when it’s already past midnight and Seungcheol could still hear talking from Seokmin’s room, he paused.

“No, it’s great.” 

Seungcheol hovered in the hallway, his ears straining to hear past Seokmin’s closed door. 

“I think you look beautiful.” 

Seungcheol’s eyebrows raise. Seokmin was calling a girl, because no straight man would call a bro beautiful. 

Then Seokmin giggled and Seungcheol decided that was his sign to go to bed.

“No, I’m telling you, he fucking giggled.” 

Jeonghan shook his head, licking the residue of burger sauce off his finger. “Seokmin doesn’t giggle. He laughs, sure, but in a witchy cackle, not a giggle.” 

“It was definitely a giggle.” Seungcheol stood his ground. “I heard him last night when I got home from my shift at the bar.” 

Jeonghan frowned. “Didn’t you work closing? You would’ve gotten home past midnight and we both know Seokmin has never seen that kind of time on a clock before.” 

“That’s exactly my point.” Seungcheol set his cup down on the counter as if to emphasize his point. “He stayed up late on the phone with some girl and he also giggled. He’s in love.” 

Jeonghan shook his head again. “I still think you were just hallucinating. Seokmin doesn’t talk to girls.” 

Seungcheol knew he was right. The last time Seokmin had contributed to House SEVENTEEN’s love life was in elementary school, and anyone knew romances that young were meaningless. “Maybe I was hallucinating. I was pretty out of it last night-- some guy was mucking up the bar and I nearly lost it.” 

Jeonghan shot him a sympathetic smile. “Maybe you heard the ghost giggle.” 

“For the fucking last time-- our house does not have a ghost.” 

“Tell that to Chan, he still sleeps with the small light on.” 

“Did you hear the thing about Seokmin being on the phone with some girl a couple nights ago?” The word was spreading like wildfire around the house, Joshua being one of the last ones to hear it. 

“Yeah, man.” Soonyoung nodded. “We all heard from Seungcheol last night.”

“How come no one told me till today?” 

Chan shrugged. “You would’ve heard if you had come to beer night-- which you didn’t.” 

“Okay.” Joshua raised his hands in acknowledgement. “But I’ve been noticing some odd things about Seokmin for a while now.”

Joshua had accidentally taken a glance at Seokmin’s browsing history-- that one time he had been in the washroom taking the longest shit and had left Joshua unattended with his phone unlocked. 

“No single guy searches up ‘how to wrap a bouquet’ and ‘best pasta place in town.’” 

Soonyoung slapped Chan on the back. “Bro’s in love.” 

“Then why hasn’t he said anything to us?” 

Joshua laughed. “Maybe because he knows he’ll be teased for it?” Exiting out of his research paper and closing his laptop, Joshua got up to leave. “Got a shift at the library, I’ll see you guys at home.”

He fails to mention the fact that he had spotted flowers sitting in the back of Seokmin’s closet just last night-- a plethora of pink and red roses, carnations and baby breath. 

Jun liked to keep to himself as often as possible, although he couldn’t help but nose his way into Seokmin’s business when he stepped into his room and realized the place was spotless. 

“You cleaned your room?” He wondered aloud, noticing how the handful of empty cups and the usual heaps of clothes on the floor were gone. 

Seokmin nodded. “Yeah.”

“And you changed your bedsheets?” 

“Yeah…?” Seokmin glanced at Jun oddly from the corner of his eye. “What about it?” 

“Nothing.” Jun mumbled, sitting down on the crisp bed sheets, trying to shake the feeling that something was off about his housemate. “I just haven’t seen your floors this clean since…well, since we moved in.” 

Seokmin shrugged. “Thought I’d get my shit together, y’know?” 

“Yeah. Yeah.” 

Me: something’s wrong with seok. 

Hao (housemate #8): wdym? 

Me: i think he’s dating someone. 

Hao (housemate #8): ykw you might be right.

Minghao had caught Seokmin leaving the library late one night, his bag swung over his shoulder and an unusual pep in his step. He had never seen anyone leave a library looking that joyful, let alone Seokmin, who hated studying and anything scholarly. 

A girl had left with the same glowing look on her face just 10 minutes later. 

Minghao had chalked it up to mere coincidence, a million other reasons running through his head. Maybe Wonwoo had forgotten something at home and had employed Seokmin to get it for him. Maybe Seokmin had finally turned over a new leaf and decided school was worth working hard for. Or maybe, just maybe- Jun was right and Seokmin had been there to meet a girl. 

“No, you’re not listening to me.” Seungkwan waved his hands in agitation. “I saw Seokmin holding a girl’s drink after class today.” 

“How do you even know it’s a girl’s?” Mingyu questioned through a mouthful of soup, gently balancing a spoonful for Wonwoo, who was standing next to him. “It could’ve just been his.”

“Mingyu’s right, Kwan.” Wonwoo accepted the soup from Mingyu. “Don’t jump to conclusions.”

“It was a venti white mocha, quad shot, 2 shots on bottom, two on top. Almond milk, caramel drizzle.” Seungkwan recited. “Don’t tell me that isn’t a girl drink.”

Wonwoo frowned. “How do you even know all that?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Seungkwan brushed their questioning looks aside. “I’m telling you, Seokmin has a girlfriend.”

“He would’ve told us.” Mingyu defended his friend. 

“No, he wouldn’t.” Wonwoo muttered from the side, knowing full well Seokmin wouldn’t. He might be one of the more naive ones in the group but he was still smart enough to know that information like this was passed around at the speed of light. If he wanted any privacy with this girl-- Seokmin would keep his mouth shut. 

“Maybe we should just ask him.” Mingyu proposed the idea hesitantly. “What harm can it do?” 

“No!” Seungkwan shook his head, hitting Mingyu’s shoulder. “Not until we get more proof.” 

“Guys.” Chan walked in, waving various pieces of white paper in his hands. “I found something.”

Chan had gone through Seokmin’s trash, setting down three crinkled receipts onto the kitchen island. 

One to a fancy restaurant down the street, another for an escape room booking for two, and one for a We’re Not Really Strangers card game. 

“You went through his trash??” Seungkwan shot him a look. “What are you, a raccoon?” 

Chan shrugged. “They say you can really understand a man by looking through his trash.” 

“Yeah, in serial killer movies.” Wonwoo mentioned, although he had leaned down to check out the receipts for himself. “Oh yeah, Seok’s definitely not single.”

“He got the card game for us.” Mingyu offered. “Was talking about it for our next wine night.”

“Okay,” Chan wasn’t ready to give up. “But the restaurant and escape room were definitely dates, right?”

“I’m keeping these as evidence.” Seungkwan gathered the receipts up and folded them into his wallet. “Good job team.”

Wonwoo rolled his eyes. “This is not Brooklyn 99, Seungkwan.” 

Soonyoung and Vernon made it barely ten steps out of the house before they were both sprayed down with a garden hose. 

“What-”

Seokmin smiled at them apologetically through their blurred vision. “Sorry, guys. Trying to wash my car.”

Vernon frowned. “Why?”

“Picking up a friend and the car was kind of musty so I thought I’d rinse it down.” 

Soonyoung and Vernon exchanged a knowing glance. 

“A friend?” 

Seokmin nodded, redirecting the water jet to spray against the passenger door. “Yeah, from Physics 200.” 

“What’s their name?” Soonyoung pushed, and Vernon nudged him from behind. They had all promised not to broach the subject. 

Seokmin shook his head. “You wouldn’t know them.” 

“Washing his car to go pick up a friend.” Soonyoung mimicked Seokmin’s lovesick voice in an exaggerated rendition as they walked further up the street. “He’s so seeing a girl.”

Vernon frowned. “Maybe he was just picking up a friend.” 

“Friends other than us?” Soonyoung scoffed. “As if.”

“Wonwoo!”

The boy in question raised his head, pausing the music that was coming from his headphones. “What’s up, Seok?” 

Seokmin slid onto the bench directly opposite him, an imploring look on his face. “I need a book rec.”

Wonwoo blinked, pushing his glasses up with the back of his hand and closing his medical textbook. “You,” he paused, enunciating his words as slowly as possible. “Need a book. To read?”

Seokmin nodded. “Yes, to read. What’s the best book you can give me?”

Wonwoo thought for a moment, as his conversation with Seungkwan and the others resurfaced in his mind. “Seok, are you sure? I don’t think I’ve seen you pick up a book since…middle school.” 

Seokmin let out a huff of annoyance. “Just give me a book, please?”

“Okay, what genre of literature are you looking for?”

Seokmin blanked. “Um…just- a book?” 

Wonwoo sighed, an amused laugh escaping from his lungs. He had been skeptical about the whole ‘Seokmin in love’ theory at first, but now it was becoming increasingly hard to avoid. “Seok, be honest. Is this for a girl or something?”

“Yes.” Seokmin’s shoulders sagged. “I really need her to like me. And she loves reading so-”

“Go pick up Gatsby.” Wonwoo pointed Seokmin towards the section of the library that he knew the book was housed in. “It’ll work if she’s a girl worth chasing.” 

All this talk about Seungkwan and his silly theory about Seokmin being in love had left Jihoon with no option but to leave the house, too annoyed by all the delusional conversations and Seungkwan imitating Captain Raymond Holt. 

Maybe it was because none of them had ever seen Seokmin with a girl before-- not even remotely interested in one. For the longest time, they had been carrying a bet that he might just not like girls. Or maybe he didn’t like anyone at all. 

“Oh my fucking-” Jihoon dropped his protein shake, the contents spilling over the concrete floor. 

There he was, in the middle of the school courtyard, arms around a girl’s waist, a bright smile on his face. Jihoon watched, horrified, as Seokmin leaned in for a kiss, his lips meeting hers in a passionate embrace. 

Jihoon pulled out his phone to send exactly one message into the groupchat. 

Me: everyone owes Seungkwan $10. 

[diamond-reads]

𝗰𝗿𝗮𝘄𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗯𝗮𝗰𝗸 𝘁𝗼 𝘆𝗼𝘂 | h.vc

a/n: i tried something a little new by adding voicemail transcripts at the end of the fic! it'll help add on to the main plot :) please treat this as a late vernon day fic LMAO and dk, i will write for u soon, ily. i hope you guys like this one <3

thank you haneul ( @chanranghaeys ) and lou ( @tusswrites ) for beta-reading this for me <33

also tagging ro ( @shinysobi ) on my very late and angsty v-day fic for you 🤭

p.s. for fic purposes, the song "do i wanna know", originally released by arctic monkeys, is the song vernon has written for mc. i am in no way claiming this song as one of vernon's!

🏆 this fic is part of the angst olympics collab! check out the main masterlist here <3

word count: 3k contents: former vernon x f!reader , jeonghan is mc's current boyfriend , rockstar!vernon , post-break up , angst , no happy ending (for vernon at least) , mentioned drug and alcohol use , vernon is a jerk in this one

“hey, your phone’s ringing,” jeonghan tells you as you’re walking into the living room. “it rang two times already, i think you should answer it quickly.”

you frown at the thought of getting calls this late at night. who could it be?

you pick your phone up from where it’s wedged between two couch cushions. your phone starts ringing again, and jeonghan looks up at you with a curiosity-filled gaze.

the number isn’t a saved contact, but you’d recognize those digits anywhere.

the number isn’t a saved contact, not anymore, but it belongs to someone you tried to save your heart from, and failed.

“h-hannie, i need to take this call,” you gulp, grip on the phone tightening with each ring.

“yeah, of course, take your time,” jeonghan nods, always understanding and never skeptical. today, you feel a little extra thankful for it, yet you can’t help but feel a pang of guilt in your heart as you slip out of the living room and go to the balcony.

your phone is still ringing as you try to decide whether you should answer it or not. your brain tells you to decline the call and head back into the warmth of your apartment. your heart tells you to pick up and embrace the cold midnight air.

you have always liked the cold a little more.

just as the last ring ends, you answer the call.

silence. then,

“hello?”

you hear the rustling of papers and a sharp breath.

“hansol? is it you?”

“you actually picked up, i can’t believe it.”

the voice that speaks is so familiar, yet so distant. you feel a little stupid for the prickling sensation in your eyes, a tell-tale sign of the tears that may flow soon.

“i told you i’d let you call me one last time, didn’t i?”

“i never expected you to actually answer the call,” comes hansol’s response, which is when you notice that his speech is slurred, as if he’s been drinking.

there’s a bitter taste on your tongue, and you can’t believe you still feel something in your carefully bandaged heart crack, again, after all these years.

you can’t believe that the one phone call you’ve anticipated for the last four years was just a drunk mistake.

“i didn’t have any excuses not to,” you tell him, and judging from the way he inhales deeply, some part of his drunk mind has been able to detect the hidden meaning of your words.

“you know, this isn’t just a decision i made because i was drunk,” hansol says. “you know what the date is tonight, don’t you?”

“this date doesn’t matter to me anymore, hansol,” you let out a sarcastic laugh. “although i am proud of you for remembering it, even if it’s too late.”

“i didn’t call to bring up the past, y/n, i-”

“but that’s exactly what you’ve done, hansol,” you stop him from finishing his sentence. “you are my past now.”

“i- i know. i know what we had is over but, fuck, y/n, i miss you so much,” hansol persists, and you think to yourself, the universe is such a bitch.

four years ago, for months after the break up, you would’ve done anything for hansol to call you and tell you these words.

three years ago, when you were still crying yourself to sleep and dreaming of the milky skin and caramel eyes that you still loved, you would’ve done anything for hansol to call you and tell you these words.

but now, he’s too late. your heart aches like it would’ve four years ago, but not for the same reasons. in the past, you would’ve tried again with him. in the present, your love belongs to the man who is waiting for you inside your warm apartment.

“i think about you every night, y/n. every night for the past four years. it’s been hell without you.”

“you don’t get to say that now, hansol. not after everything,” your tone hardens and you grip the railing of the balcony tightly. “you can’t even imagine how hellish it was to be without you, despite the fact that we were together back then.”

“i fucked up, y/n,” hansol admits, but it doesn’t do too much to soothe the ache. “i was stupid. i didn’t realize that choosing my career over you was hurting you.”

“how could you not realize it? even after the multiple times i told you?” you scoff. “you’re making it sound like i just left when things weren’t enough anymore. but i did try, hansol. i tried to stay around long enough to become your priority, but you never came around.”

it hurts to remember all the dates hansol missed because he was holed up in his studio, busy perfecting another song. it hurts to remember all the times you’ve slept alone on your shared bed because hansol was out with his friends, partying and getting high to celebrate his successes. it hurts to remember all the times you’d call hansol and get sent to voicemail, all because he was too drunk to answer your calls.

yet here you are, picking up his call at once. 

“i accept all the mistakes i made, but-”

“this isn’t about apologies, hansol,” you interrupt him. “you’re too late for that. it’s been four years, so if you’re still waiting around for me to come crawling back to you just because you accept your mistakes, you should stop.”

“y/n, why can’t we just give it another chance?” hansol tries again, sounding desperate, and you can’t help but think that it makes him just a bit more pathetic in your eyes. “we were good together, before it all went to shit. isn’t that enough to give it another chance?”

“it isn’t. it’s not nearly enough,” you shake your head. “you’re wasting your time now, hansol. you’re too late now.”

“have you found someone else?” hansol asks, and it finally sounds like he’s accepting that no amount of pleading will get him another chance.

“i have,” you reply, without any hesitation. “he loves me as much as i love him, he meets me halfway, and he puts in the effort to make this relationship work.”

“so, the exact opposite of me then?” hansol chuckles, but it’s a sad sound. “i can’t lie, it hurts to know you’re with someone else, but at the same time, i’m glad you’re getting the love you deserve. i was never good for you, was i?”

“or maybe, you were what i needed to finally realize that i was looking for love in the wrong person,” your voice is strained as the words leave your mouth. “i always thought that love would be an adventure — wild, messy, unpredictable. but that was only because i thought you were love itself.”

hansol is silent for a while, and you consider ending the call then and there. right then, he speaks again.

“i know you said the apologies don’t matter anymore, but for what it’s worth, i’m sorry i was an asshole to you.”

“you really were,” you agree, and hansol laughs. the sound is so familiar, yet it’s something you don’t want to hear again. “i’m glad you finally realized it.”

more silence, and this time you anticipate that hansol has something else to say, which is why you resist the urge to hang up.

“i wrote you a song.”

“no, hansol,” you shut him down immediately. “i don’t want anything to do with-”

“i’m releasing it tomorrow morning. i wish i could lie to you, but it’s about you, every word is. i know we ended things a long time ago, but you’re still the melody that’s always in my head.”

“this isn’t—you shouldn’t be telling me all this,” you sigh.

“i have to. this is my last chance to hear your voice, y/n. i’m not gonna let it go,” hansol pushes on. “i used up my last phone call, which means it’s officially the end. i have to tell you that every song is for you, and it always will be. and i have one thing i want to request from you.”

you want to tell him that he’s in no place to make requests, but a selfish part of you wants to hear it. hansol deduces the same from the lack of response from your end, so he continues.

“i want you to listen to the song. just once, listen to it, so you know how i still feel about you.”

“no,” your tone is firm. “i won’t listen to the song. you, your songs, and your feelings are my past now, and i don’t want to remember it anymore.”

you want to tell him so many things. you want to tell him that he can’t ask you to listen to his song, not when he didn’t listen to all the voicemails you sent him. not when he was missing during all the times you’ve needed him to stay by your side.

it all goes unsaid. there’s a lot of things left unsaid, but this is the last phone call. there’s not nearly enough time, and it’s getting colder on the balcony now.

“i probably deserve that,” hansol has given up for good. somehow, he can hear all your silent thoughts, even after all these years.

“then i think this is the end,” you say, your words serving as a final conclusion to the whirlwind that was hansol’s painful love. “no more phone calls, and no more songs dedicated to me either. your fans won’t be happy to hear about it. it doesn’t go well with global superstar vernon’s image.”

“i’ve always hated it when you called me by that name. i still do.”

“you’re in luck, because it’s the last time i’ll be saying it.”

there’s a lull in the conversation, yet there’s an itch you can’t ignore. it’s what prompts you to ask, “will you remember any of this in the morning? you were never good at holding your alcohol.”

“i have a feeling that i will remember this time,” hansol laughs. “it’s gonna hurt like a bitch, but i’d rather remember this than forget. if i do forget, however, can i have another call?”

“drunk or not, your chances are over,” you refuse, and it feels a lot like closing the door to a house you’ve been ready to leave for ages. it feels good, but at the same time, it also hurts a little.

“got it,” hansol mutters. “this is goodbye then?”

you hang up before you say goodbye to him. it’s a little petty, but it finally helps calm down that one part of you that’s always felt unsettled ever since you left hansol without so much as a goodbye from him.

as if on cue, the door to the balcony slides open, and jeonghan steps out. he’s quick to wrap you up in his arms as he starts nagging.

“you shouldn’t be out for so long in the cold, baby,” he tuts. “need i remind you of who was down with a fever last week?”

you want to laugh and tease him for his motherly nagging, but you still feel a little disoriented from the phone call that just ended. all you can manage to say is, “won’t you ask me about who i was talking to?”

jeonghan only smiles at you. you know it’s genuine and doesn’t hide any underlying doubts. he presses a kiss to your forehead and mutters against your skin, “i won’t ask, but i have a feeling that whatever happened has been a long time coming. i’m proud of you for staying strong through it.”

“thank you,” you whisper, hugging jeonghan tighter. the cold air of the night makes you shiver, and you tug at jeonghan’s sweater, silently telling him that you want to go back inside.

that night, you sleep peacefully, knowing that you’ve left the haunting winter behind in the past.

the next morning, you wake up to a text from the familiar unsaved contact. the message is just a link to a song, and you don’t need much more to understand who it’s from.

you don’t listen to the song. you delete the message, and block the number for good. then, you join jeonghan in the kitchen to help him make breakfast.

there’s a song playing on the speakers; it’s one about missing someone who has left you. you recognize the voice all too well, but this time, you’re able to pretend that the voice singing doesn’t remind you of the cold.

you tune the song out, much like you deleted the text, and you embrace the warmth of jeonghan’s love.

you decide that the cold will find someone that craves the ache, but you are no longer that person.

PLAYING UNREAD VOICEMAILS TO: HANSOL VERNON CHWE ▶

From: Y/N mobile June 23, 2020 at 4:32 PM Transcription: “hey babe, i tried calling but got sent to voicemail, so i’m guessing you’re busy. it’s nothing important, just wanted to say that i love you, and i miss you. come back home quickly today, please? we can watch harry potter tonight.”

From: Y/N mobile July 5, 2020 at 11:49 PM Transcription: “hey hansol, i’m sorry i called you during the recording session. are you still at the studio? when are you coming home? it’s pretty late. we need to leave early tomorrow morning if we’re gonna make it in time for my mom’s birthday. your manager told me you never told him about taking a day off, but it must be a joke. you’re still coming with, right?”

From: Y/N mobile August 13, 2020 at 12:07 AM Transcription: “hi. i really try not to be the jealous girlfriend of a famous rockstar, but it really fucking sucks that you’re out partying with friends right now. it’s my birthday, hansol. at least, it was yesterday. i waited for you at our dinner reservation and you didn’t even tell me that you were at the club. i found out from your manager. text me when you’re leaving the club. i’ll pick you up. don’t drive home while you’re drunk.”

From: Y/N mobile September 16, 2020 at 9:17 AM Transcription: “hansol, you haven’t come home in three days. i know that you’re busy with the album, but i’m worried. call me, text me, whatever it is, please let me know you’re okay. i miss you so much. anyways, congratulations on the world tour announcement. thanks for having it in the summer, i’ve always wanted to travel the world, and maybe i’ll get to do it with you. i love you, sol. come home soon.”

From: Kwon Soonyoung mobile October 28, 2020 at 5:29 PM Transcription: “hansol? this is soonyoung. y/n’s calls always keep going to voicemail. please call or text back as soon as possible. y/n collapsed at work today and i’m taking her to the ER. i’ll text you the address. please show up quickly.”

From: Y/N mobile October 29, 2020 at 3:05 AM Transcription: “where are you hansol? i thought you said yesterday was a day off for you. did you even hear soonyoung’s voicemail? i need you here, hansol. i haven’t been eating or sleeping well, and the doctor says that i fainted because of fatigue and stress. i just need you back, baby. i miss you so much. can’t you take a few hours off and come visit me at the hospital? please respond, hansol.”

From: Y/N mobile October 30, 2020 at 12:30 PM Transcription: “don’t bother showing up to the hospital now. soonyoung has taken care of everything. i’m staying at his place for a week, just till i get my strength back. if you want to see me at all, i’ll text you soonyoung’s address. we need to talk, hansol. things have changed and i don’t like where we’re heading.”

From: Y/N mobile November 12, 2020 at 8:38 PM Transcription: “it feels like i can never reach you nowadays, hansol. you never pick up my calls and i keep leaving you voicemails you probably don’t listen to. i’m so tired of this. i can’t keep giving you so many chances, not when you fail to prove yourself every time. this is my last try, hansol. after this, i’m giving up on us. come home early tonight, please. i’ve forgotten what it feels like to be held by you.”

From: Y/N mobile December 10, 2020 at 1:56 AM Transcription: “happy anniversary, hansol, in case you forgot. i thought we were getting better, but clearly you don’t care about our relationship much. you seriously can’t expect me to be happy with you spending time with me for a few days and then go back to being distant. for the last six months, i’ve tried so hard to understand what went wrong, but the answer seems pretty simple; you don’t care for me as much as you care for your music. and i would’ve been ready to accept that fact and leave your life much earlier, but you gave me false hope. i was foolish to think that we could actually work out." "but i’ve realized my mistakes, and i also know that staying with you is slowly killing me, which is why i’m leaving tonight. when you come back home, you won’t see me, so don’t try calling or texting, not that i think you will anyways. i’m sorry it had to come to this, hansol, but i really am tired. i’ve spoken to your voicemail more than i’ve spoken to you recently. if you ever decide to call, i’ll let you call me one last time. whenever you call, i’ll pick up, but don’t expect any more chances after that. i wish you all the best for your tour; it’s a shame i can’t come. i would’ve loved seeing summer all around the world with-- [voicemail has reached its time limit.]

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[diamond-reads]

playing for your number 🎾 challengers!seokmin x reader x vernon.

“for about fifteen seconds there, we were actually playing tennis. and we understood each other completely. so did everyone watching. it's like we were in love.” lifts/rewrites from the challengers (2024) script, orig. by justin kuritzkes + happy seokmin & vernon day!

SET ONE

C. VERNON: 0 - 0 

L. SEOKMIN: 0 - 0

EXT. A TENNIS COURT IN GANGDONG, SEOUL  –  LATE EVENING. THE YEAR IS 2015. 

VERNON, 17, wearing a black Kenzo hoodie. He has a mop of wavy brown hair that he keeps pushing out of his face. You could almost be fooled that he’s bored, with the way he pointedly tries not to look at you. Almost. 

SEOKMIN, 17, wearing an orange sweatshirt with white stripes. His hair is kept better than Vernon’s, cropped closely to accentuate his features. He keeps glancing your way, as if checking to see if you’re still watching, or if you’re actually there. 

YOU, wearing a yet-to-be-released Adidas Tennis Y-Dress. You sit looking out at the court with one leg over the other, grinning with amusement at the sight of the two men looking like they are about to fight to the death. 

There is no one else in sight. No one to witness this allegedly load-bearing match, held between two men who are much more used to being on the same side of the court. The look on Vernon, Seokmin, and your face suggests that this is about something much more than tennis. 

YOU (exaggerated) Lee to serve. 

Vernon goes to serve. Thwackkk! The ball comes scorching off his racket. A rally ensues. Seokmin sends the ball out wide. 

YOU OUT!

SEOKMIN Aw, c’mooon!

YOU Fifteen - love. 

The two reset. Vernon sends in another scorcher. Thwackkk!

YOU Out!

VERNON Yeah, yeah. I hear ya. 

Vernon resets, steps back up to the line. Finally, finally, he looks at you. He doesn’t smile too wide, but there’s a hint of a smirk on his face as he readies to serve. 

SEOKMIN Any day now, ‘Nonnie!

VERNON Excited to lose, are you? 

Vernon doesn’t look away from you. When he throws the ball up, it almost looks like he’s going to serve it for you. In a way, he is. That’s the point of this ‘friendly’ match, anyway. The winner gets to text you. He’s intent on making sure that will be him by the end of the night. 

Thwwackkkkkkk!

CUT TO BLACK.

SNAP.

The crowd gasps. Seokmin gets to his feet. 

You are SCREAMING IN PAIN. A trainer is already on the floor with you, trying to calm you down. You writhe around, sobbing, holding your knee. You’d been off your game the entire match, and that was what led to the slight miscalculation. The slip. The attempt at correction. The crash. 

Seokmin pushes through the shell-shocked crowd. He feels the burn of his phone in his pocket, the one with the text from Vernon. “not coming. we had a big fight. it’s wtvr.” 

INT. SPORTS THERAPY ROOM  –  NIGHT.

Seokmin is sitting at your bedside. Neither of you are speaking. You stare at the wall, your expression devoid of emotion. You look like you just had the life sucked out of you. 

Vernon appears in the doorway, his face pale. You turn, see him.  

VERNON Babe— 

YOU (deceptively calm) Out. 

VERNON Hey—

YOU OUT. 

VERNON (distressed) Please, just— 

YOU OUT! OUT! OUT!

Vernon looks at Seokmin. Seokmin knows he has a choice, here. In this very moment. He chooses— 

SEOKMIN You heard her, Vernon. Get out. 

EXT. A TENNIS COURT IN YONGSAN, SEOUL  –  LATE AFTERNOON. THE YEAR IS 2025. 

VERNON, 28, wearing a dirty white tee. He is ranked 218 in the world. He has no sponsorship deal, no team to rep him. He’s just a guy playing tennis, aiming for the KRW11,000,000 tournament prize. At least that was the initial goal. Now, there’s something else to win. Something more. 

SEOKMIN, 28, wearing head-to-toe UNIQLO. He is the biggest men’s tennis star South Korea has seen in a generation. There are speculations he’s training to represent the country in the Olympics. (False.) There is no reason for him to be at this amateur tournament— except, maybe, for the man on the other side of the net, and you. 

YOU, wearing sunglasses. Seokmin’s head coach-slash-wife. You sit over by the bleachers with both feet planted firmly on the ground. You look somber. Like this is a funeral of some sorts. 

The spectators are tennis enthusiasts, tourists, and residents alike. Everyone is here to watch this weird matchup. Two men so different in status, supposedly dissimilar in their motivations. They are more alike than anyone would expect.

The look on Vernon, Seokmin and your face is the same as from a decade ago. This is about something much more than tennis.

THE NIGHT BEFORE —

› scroll through all my work ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ my masterlist | @xinganhao

[diamond-reads]

☀️ the boy who was the sun

How fitting that you meet him once again under a sky that casts a million colors, the same way that your life turned into a million colors all at once from the moment you first met him?

pairing: lee seokmin x gn!reader word count: 1.6k+ genre: angst to comfort to fluff rating: g tags: exes to second-chance lovers, implied breakup off the page, dk is like the sun :(, sunsets are also beginnings warnings: mentions of family and career pressure

a/n: this is completely inspired by @svtreverie and her words, in turn inspired by hozier’s “shrike,” so in turn i have lifted some passages from you and your brain. i love you, c. please note that i started this in april 2024 because of you, and i finally have the chance to finish it now. i dedicate this to you. dedications also to fellow cuties g @tusswrites and @miniseokminnies bc i can hehe. happy dokyeom day! ☀️

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ masterlist . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

The sunset came upon you suddenly as you turned the corner, the sun coming out from behind the buildings that shielded its setting rays. You always thought that the sun shined brighter when it set, as sunrises were always softer. Besides, you never really caught the rising of the sun as a self-professed night owl, waking up when it was already high above the world at its peak.

It was the peak of the golden hour. Today, it was a hazy rose gold mixed with pinks and purples that were still warm with the glow of day. You preferred sunsets this way, calmer and less harsh than the torrid streaks of red, yellow, and orange. You wondered what was so special about the past few hours for your eyes to be blessed with this sight.

You didn’t frequent this city often, but that has changed recently. In past years, you used to come here as a young adult starting out in the corporate life. You would wait for your father to fetch you after work so you could come home to a house that lacked a certain warmth, a warmth that you have only felt in numbered moments—memories that were branded in your mind, with some that you’d rather forget.

But time has changed you, and you now shadow your father’s footsteps as next in line to his company. It took a while for you to—as your parents put it—“come to your senses,” but fate had you surrender to it. Your feet moved on impulse as you followed your father’s footsteps, denying that it was against your will.

Besides, did you really have a choice in the matter? In the end, nothing did, anyway.

Today you were alone, and the end of the work day allowed you to finally take a deep breath in this corner green of the bustling business district. Some voice in your head told you to take a walk rather than book a car to take you straight home to the solace of your room in the cover of night.

Maybe subconsciously, you were also looking for the motion of your feet in a place separated from the confines of your comfort zone. Just for today.

The park was busier than usual, with more people both strolling and rushing on opposite sides of intersecting paths. Thankfully, you found solace in the anonymity that the crowd provided you; The joggers in their pace, the kids blowing bubbles at their parents’ faces, the dog walkers and cat lovers, the cliques that perched on their picnic blankets—no one knew who you were, the heir to one of the country’s largest conglomerates. A title whose weight you wish was never hung on your shoulders.

You looked up at the sky once more, savoring the brief moment that nature’s canvas was showing everyone before it was swallowed by the inevitable dark. Phones were raised and camera lenses pointed at the stunning scene in an attempt to capture the fleeting phenomenon. You decide to do the same.

You snap the sky at every angle, finding the best one you can while turning around in place. You realize that you must’ve looked so silly doing so, but again, no one knew who you were anyway. Just when you thought you were satisfied, you raise your phone once more for one final photo. You look at the screen and through the lens of your phone camera, you see him.

Wait a minute. You shake your head and lower your phone to look at the person with your own eyes, making sure that they aren’t deceiving you. They weren’t.

He was in front of you, a few meters away. He was transfixed by the colors above him, doing the exact same thing you were doing just moments ago—but you knew even until now that he’d work harder for the photo. He wasn’t using a phone, but his trusty mirrorless camera snapping away at the sky. He lowers the camera to eye level, capturing the chaos through his lens of calm.

His lens traveled, looking for the next subject to immortalize in a photo. Before you knew it, the lens was aimed right at you.

He froze.

You could just imagine the thoughts going through his head as he lowered his camera. You didn’t care if you were standing in the way because you couldn’t see anyone but him.

Him. The boy who was the sun—your sun. The boy whose light was so bright that it was blinding that it always hurt, but in a good way.

The boy whose light was so bright and blinding, that in the end it just hurt.

Instinct took over. And while it hurt your heart to do it again, you looked down and turned around, away from the only source of light to ever grace your life.

Because you could not do it any longer.

You could not burden him with pressures that were beyond his control. You could not bring him back into a world where the only words for him were, "You don't belong." You could not let him back into the darkness you have made for yourself. You could not protect him from yourself if he reenters the tall walls you have built around you.

In the corner of your eye, you see him start to move, and you begin walking as quick as you can. Your mind started to fill with thoughts you worked so hard to push away—thoughts, memories, unspoken words, and everything else that was for him and no one else.

You refuse to believe the heavy footsteps growing louder as they neared you. You refuse to believe that he would actually still reach for you after the way you pushed him away all those years ago. And even when you felt the grip of a hand on yours, you still refused to believe that it was his fingers and his palms that caught your wrist, how naturally it fit, closing around it as if was a sheath to your sharp edges.

You hear it—your name from his voice, so indelible in your mind, for all its lilts and tones when he both spoke and sang. His voice, that you have not heard in five years, immediately brought you back to the day you first met and all the days since then.

His voice that, in one second, immediately broke down the walls that you put up around yourself since that last day.

You find your voice, surprising yourself that you did. “Seokmin. Hi.” You were breathless, and your voice showed it.

“Hi.” He replied, and he smiled, the most beautiful smile you’ve ever seen, breaking out from his face, one that could not hide the pure emotion. “I’m so happy to see you here.”

Before you could register what happened, you found yourself replying involuntarily, “Me too.”

And with that simple statement, something shifted in you.

Five years have changed you, there’s no doubt about that. And in those five years, you’ve come to terms with the painful truth behind why you let him go, with the question of “Why?” still haunting your every moment of regret.

On the worst nights, you find yourself wrapped in the jacket he put around your shoulders for the last time, right before you parted. The one that granted you his faithfully unfailing warmth in the cold, grateful it was there to catch your tears.

On the best days, you absentmindedly hum the tune from the LUCY song he said was his favorite, the one that you came to love just as much as he did. Whether you knew it or not, he was still in everything you did.

Because one thing you knew and you were sure of—you loved him, with every piece and fiber within you. You loved him hard, too hard, so much so to the point that you had no choice but to let him go.

Yet here you are, with the life-shattering realization that you still love him, titles and labels and families and the whole world be damned, because the man standing in front of you was the same man who still had his heart on his sleeve. You could see it in his smile.

How fitting that you meet him once again under a sky that casts a million colors, the same way that your life turned into a million colors all at once from the moment you first met him?

In the midst of the crowd and the afterglow of the sunset, in a place where you could trust to remain unseen and unknown, you find once again the only person who was and is still the light in your darkest days. How could you have ever denied this plain and simple truth?

It was with his smile that you felt it again—it was so bright that it was blinding, and an ache in your heart spasmed at the warmth that spread from it. It hurt, as it always did these past years, but now…it was in a good way again.

The setting sun gave way to the dusk. Artificial light replaced the natural glow of the day to keep the surroundings lit. But underneath its canopy, you couldn’t help the light blooming again from within you, slowly making its way to the smile that formed on your lips.

With the glimmer of this newfound light, you resolve to fight every single instinct within you—to walk away, to move your feet in the opposite direction, to run from the feelings that you have always avoided.

You start small, with one, two steps towards him. You could whisper, and he would hear it because he knew that as long as it came from you, it didn’t need to be shouted. He knew that you’d fly like a bird to him now if you could.

Because nothing else but your truth can illuminate the path ahead of you. And your truth was standing right in front of you.

[diamond-reads]

(🍓) 218 | vernon x reader x seokmin

cw/tw: angst, based on the song the waiting room by phoebe bridgers wc: 1.5k

a/n: another angsty birthday celebration...don't come for me <33

tysm to ally @lovetaroandtaemin and haneul @chanranghaeys for beta reading <33

There was something irrevocably beautiful about the way Vernon and Seokmin stared at you. Your classmates would often call it the effect of the sun: the two boys were just planets, worshiping the ground you walked on, happy to orbit the sun. 

When people called them ‘down bad’ and ‘simps,’ Seokmin would smile and take the title with pride, while Vernon quietly shook his head in the background, embarrassed but with no evidence to refute the name.

They were down bad and simps for you— even the most blind could tell, yet you seemed completely unaware of it all. 

“Let’s just give up,.” Vernon mumbled, after the hundredth attempt of getting your attention. “She’s never going to like the both of us anyways.”

Seokmin was less easily dissuaded. “So, you’re just going to give up?”

“We tried your method all throughout high school.” Vernon recalled their elaborate plan, a plan that eighth grade Seokmin had deemed ‘fool proof’ and ‘ingenious.’ 

Seokmin and Vernon’s plan to get the girl: 

Step 1: Sign up for theatre and band. (why? Because she’s in both clubs, duh.)

Step 2: Casually mention the fact that we watched Hamilton 5 times together (it’s her favourite musical)

Step 3: Offer to help her rehearse for her lines (and if we get a part together that’s even better)

Step 4: Ask her to hang out after clubs (and pray she says yes)

Step 5: Tell her you really, really like her. 

“And it didn’t work, it only got us into the friend zone.” 

Seokmin sighed because Vernon was right. “We can’t just give up, though.”

“We’re graduating university in two months, Seok.” Vernon spoke out the truth they had both been sitting on, too afraid to speak it into existence. They both knew they didn’t have enough luck to keep you here with them after graduation. 

“She wants to see the world.” Vernon continued. “She wants to visit Paris and Greece, and to sing in the Amphitheatre, write stories from all four corners of the world. She isn’t going to stay.” 

Seokmin hated it when Vernon was right. “Shut up.” He mumbled, finally setting down the bouquet of lilies he had been holding onto. 

“Hey.” Vernon picked a single lily and held it up to the light. “It’s not like I want to be right, you know. I love her too.”

“Yeah. I know.” 

Seokmin knew Vernon would eventually move on. His planet would enter some other orbit and start spinning happily for another sun. But Seokmin just wasn’t like that. When he loved, he loved with every piece of him: the past, the present, the future. 

You would be both their first loves, but you’d be Seokmin’s last. 

“I love you.” The words came tumbling out of his mouth before he could even register them. 

“Vernon,” is all you said back. “We’ve been over this.”

“I know. I know.” Vernon knew the idea of the two of you was impossible, but he couldn’t help but be selfish. “But what if—”

You cut him off with a tiny shake of your head, pieces of your hair falling from where you’d clipped it. “The what-ifs will kill you, Nonnie.” 

Vernon knew that too. “I hate it when you’re right.” He mumbles, gently removing the clip from your hair and watching as you shake it out. 

“Me too.” Your lips pursed and Vernon fights the urge to kiss them. “But we can’t hurt Seok.” 

Vernon wanted to scream, cry, and throw something. “We can’t hurt Seok.” He agreed, bitterness hidden deep beneath his tight smile. 

“I love you too.” You said, squeezing his hand. “But—”

His chest clenched. “Yeah. I know.”

Sometimes, Vernon wished he had gotten to you first. 

Seokmin knew it was for the better, as he watched you walk across the stage at graduation. You held your head up high as you accepted your diploma, a bright smile across your face. He knew you were already thinking about your flight tomorrow, a plane that would take you out of the town you hated so much. 

He knew it was for the better, but it stung either way. 

“I can’t believe our schooling is just over.” You yell into his ear, trying to be heard above all the loud cheers and conversations after the ceremony. 

He shoots you a grin. “No more school sounds perfect to me.” 

You laugh, and the bitter sting shoots further, deeper. 

“I love you.” 

“What?” You yell it over the deafening cries of celebrating students. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.” He yells back, throwing an arm around your shoulder, ignoring how the words had sounded so perfect being said towards you. Ignoring how a part of him had expected you to reply. I love you too. 

He knew it was for the better. Your heart was set on brand new adventures that would leave him in the dust. Your dreams were too big, too grand for him—Seokmin had always known that. After all, goddesses were for admiring and not marriage. 

He knew it was for the better. 

“Don’t leave.” 

Vernon’s eyes beg at yours as he clutches onto your hand, feet away from the airport doors. “I love you.” 

“That doesn’t mean anything, and you know that.” 

Vernon fucking hated it when you were right. The both of you could love each other a hundred times over and still not have it work out. 

“I can’t stay.” You tell him, and a sense of deja vu washes over him. “And—”

“Seokmin.” He finishes your sentence. 

“Yeah.” 

“What if I said I didn’t care?” The words were brash and unthoughtful but he said them anyway.

You could always see through him like panes of glass. “You do care. He’s your best friend.” 

“But I love you. I’ll be the best you’ve ever had if you’d just let me.” 

He holds his breath when you pause at his words. Please. 

“I want to leave, Vernon.” The blunt words crash heavily against his heart. “You want to stay, and I want to leave.” 

“But you love me.” 

“I—” You shoot him a look he cannot decipher and you begin to walk away. “I’ll text you when I land.” 

But Vernon’s phone stays silent. 

Four years pass until the next time you see Vernon and Seokmin. They look older now, more put together and confident in their own skin. Seokmin shoots you his signature smile and Vernon nods in your direction. 

“Happy birthday.” You clink your glass gently against Vernon’s, ignoring how his eyes roamed across your face and your dress. “Thanks for inviting me.” 

“Of course.” He opens his mouth to say more but Seokmin slides up from behind him. 

“Y/N!” His eyes danced with mirth and the wobble in his step betrayed how tipsy he was. “You’re here!”

“Happy birthday, Minnie.” 

Vernon watches as Seokmin loops his arm into yours, dragging you onto the dance floor and into the crowd. He leans against the side of the bar, swirling his drink and watching as it spirals in his cup. 

He swears he’s doing his best, trying to think about you in a casual, friendship-like way, but Vernon can’t help but see you and immediately think about everything you could’ve had together. His mind spelt out I love you without any hesitation and it took everything in him to swallow the words back down. 

Seokmin had once told him that he would get over her faster than he could. “You’ll find someone else,” Seokmin had said. “You’ll fall in love many times over but she’ll always be the only one for me.” 

Vernon had believed him then, but he knew Seokmin was wrong now. 

After all, he could wish all that he wanted and it wouldn’t bring you any closer to him. 

So Vernon would invite you to all his birthday parties, if only as an excuse to keep you within arms reach. 

Seokmin still remembers the day he first laid eyes on you. He could recall it like that one recurring dream. 

“I’m Y/N.” You had yelled at him, over the loud speakers of the karaoke booth at him and Vernon’s 12th birthday party.

He had glanced down at your painted nails when the two of you shook hands, liking how the maroon red complimented your skin. 

“I’m Seokmin. It’s nice to meet you.” He yelled back, laughing when Vernon’s voice cracked while singing in the background. “You should come sing with us!” 

You glowed under the disco lights as he pulled you up on stage, handing you the second microphone and bumping up against Vernon. 

The two of them watched you belt out a messy rendition of Lady Gaga’s Poker Face and Seokmin knew he was in love. 

“I should go.” You peel yourself out of Seokmin’s arms on the sweaty dance floor. “Happy birthday. Tell Vernon I’m sorry I have to leave.” 

Seokmin nods. He’s used to it by now. Sometimes he thinks he sees more of your back, walking away from him than he sees your face. 

Seokmin watches you walk away, all the while repeating to himself that it’s all for the better. 

Vernon watches Seokmin watch you walk away, a bitter storm raging in the pits of his stomach, yet he pushes it down in the name of ‘it’s all for the better.’ 

And you walk away, slowly, your steps deliberate, pretending like you don’t feel their eyes watching you leave. You know it’s for the better.

After all, who are you to wish for more?