#jeon wonwoo x oc | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hoshifighting · 4 months ago

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idk if someone asked you this but i’m a new reader and I REALLY REALLY LOVE YOUR WORKS!!!

can you please make wonwoo, the nerdy president who u thought was innocent and sweet but he’s the one behind ur fave nsfw audio creator???? AND HE’S A HARDFUCKER.. not what u expected tho..

i don’t know if i make sense but please pretty please 😭☝️

Synopsis: where you discover that the nerdy class president is the one man who creates the most nasty NSFW audios that you spend long nights listening to. WC: 2.8k WARNINGS: smut, audio porn, masturbation, hard fuck, dirty talk (obviously), bad sleeping habits (because of wonwoo), fingering, spanking, dirty talk, pussy eating, penetrative sex, protected sex, wonwoo whining, a lil invasion of privacy.

you’ve been running on fumes all day, the hazy buzz of sleep deprivation clinging to your brain like static. it’s no surprise, really. your night had gone the way it always does: you got home, flopped into your chair, threw on your headphones, and let onyx_lens—your favorite nsfw asmr creator—drag you under with that stupidly deep voice of his.

it was kind of pathetic, actually. you barely remember what the script was about—something about obedience or whatever—but you do remember the sound of his voice sinking into your brain like warm honey, making you cum so hard that you blacked the fuck out right after. now here you were, bleary-eyed and trying to stay upright in literature class, the regret of last night’s poor choices catching up with you.

wonwoo, the class president who was somehow both effortlessly chill and annoyingly observant, had been glancing at you every few minutes. you could feel his eyes on you as your head dipped forward for the third time, only to snap back up like a busted bobblehead.

but, in true wonwoo fashion, he didn’t say anything. no scolding, no judgmental sighs—just quiet observation.

when class finally ended, you were ready to yeet yourself into a nap for a solid 72 hours. you were shoving your stuff into your bag when wonwoo’s voice cut through the noise.

“you good?”

you froze. his voice wasn’t the same as onyx_lens’s, obviously, but it had that same deep, smooth timbre that made your brain short-circuit for a second. it didn’t help that his question sounded so much like something out of an nsfw script. you turned to face him, hoping your face wasn’t giving away how flustered you suddenly were. “uh—yeah,” you said, shaking your head a little too quickly. “just tired.”

wonwoo raised an eyebrow. “not sleeping well?”

your brain screamed. your tired, half-horny brain screamed louder. the overlap of his voice and onyx_lens in your head was un-fucking-bearable. you managed to nod, muttering something about late nights and deadlines, hoping he wouldn’t pry.

he didn’t, but his next question wasn’t much better.

“think you could help me with the sci-fi project? your last lit analysis was good, and i could use the extra pair of hands.”

you blinked at him. “me?”

he nodded, adjusting his glasses. “you. unless you’re too busy with...whatever’s keeping you up.”

oh, you mean my nightly sessions with onyx_lens and my vibrator?

you swallowed hard and tried to play it cool. “nah, i can help.”

and that’s how you found yourself standing outside wonwoo’s apartment later that evening, clutching your bag. his place was exactly what you’d expect from him—minimalist, neat, and smelling faintly of coffee.

“come in,” he said, holding the door open for you. “make yourself comfortable.”

easier said than done. you perched awkwardly on his couch as he set up his laptop on the coffee table, your eyes darting around the room in an attempt to ignore how nice his voice sounded in person.

“so,” he began, sitting across from you, “any ideas for the project?”

you cleared your throat, trying to focus. “uh, maybe something about robots and humanity? like, exploring ethical dilemmas or something.”

wonwoo nodded thoughtfully, his gaze fixed on you in a way that made your skin heat. “good idea. we could tie that into the main themes from class.”

he leaned forward slightly, scrolling through a document on his laptop, and you couldn’t help but notice how his glasses slipped down his nose. you were so not prepared for this level of proximity or his stupidly deep voice.

“you okay?” he asked again, glancing at you.

you blinked, realizing you’d been staring. “yeah, just...thinking.”

his lips twitched into a small, knowing smile. “good. let me know if you need a break or...anything.”

the way he said anything sent a shiver down your spine. you weren’t sure if it was exhaustion, residual arousal from last night, or the sheer presence of wonwoo in his element, but your brain was a mess.

you were supposed to be helping him with this project, but all you could think about was the way his voice would sound whispering in your ear, saying things that would make onyx_lens blush.

you were so close to winning the “most pathetic college student of the year” award it wasn’t even funny. after much back-and-forth with wonwoo, class president of your downfall, you somehow convinced him to let you walk home alone. except the man still went all soft and paid for a taxi anyway, which, like… thanks? but also stop being so nice, what the hell.

it was nearing 11 p.m. when you got home, and as if on cue, your phone pinged with a notification: onyx_lens’s weekly live is starting.

you stared at it for a second, blinking in disbelief. today’s theme? "neon circuits and orgasm denial (a cyberpunk experience) 8d audio"

sci-fi-themed. of fucking course.

you almost laughed at the audacity of the universe for this one. was this some sort of cosmic joke? was wonwoo onyx_lens?! no way. no goddamn way. you shook off the thought as delulu nonsense and dragged yourself to the bathroom for a quick sponge bath.

by the time you flopped into your chair, headphones on, the live was already in full swing. that voice—that stupidly deep, velvety voice—flooded your ears as the chat buzzed with unhinged comments. onyx purred, and you were done for.

you couldn’t even focus on the sci-fi plot he was spinning, something about rogue androids, monster cock, neon vibrators and human experimentation. his voice wrapped around you like a silk chokehold, and you were gone—just a vibrating mess in your chair, coming undone embarrassingly fast.

fast forward to the next morning: you woke up feeling like a used dishrag. again. headphones still on, your phone dead, and the memory of last night’s live replaying in your brain like a broken record.

by the time you dragged yourself to class, you were running on fumes and vibes. your hoodie was scrunched up around your face, making you look like a cross between a gremlin and an overgrown baby.

wonwoo noticed. you could feel his eyes boring into you as you tried—and failed—to stay upright. you were so close to just giving in and laying flat on the floor. honestly, it might’ve been comfier than your chair at that point.

wonwoo, sitting two rows away, looked like he was internally debating whether to intervene or let you rot in peace. when the bell rang, you startled awake like you’d been electrocuted, nearly knocking your stuff off your desk in the process.

“you okay?” he asked, falling into step beside you as you shuffled out of the classroom like a zombie.

“i’m fine,” you mumbled, voice muffled by your hoodie. “just need food. like, now.”

you detoured to the convenience store on the way to his apartment, snagging an entire kimbap roll and tearing into it like a starving animal. wonwoo followed behind, holding your water bottle with a look that was equal parts judgment and amusement.

“you couldn’t wait?” he asked, watching as you ate half the roll in one bite.

“bro,” you said around a mouthful of rice, “if i didn’t eat this, i was gonna pass out on the cold asphalt. your problem now, mr. class president.”

he rolled his eyes but didn’t argue, just handed you your water like the reluctant babysitter he was.

this was going to be a long afternoon.

you couldn’t help yourself. the suspicion had been eating away at you for weeks now, ever since you first heard his voice in class and that nagging sense of déjà vu set in. wonwoo had escaped to the bathroom, and you had the perfect opportunity to snoop.

your fingers hovered over his notebook, but then your gaze darted back to your own screen. back and forth, back and forth. his notebook. yours. the coincidences were piling up like a conspiracy wall in your head. the voice, the specific vocabulary choices, even the cadence—how did i not notice this earlier?!

“fuck it,” you whispered to yourself, grabbing his notebook and quickly pulling up the site where you normally streamed your favorite asmr creator. just to check. just to confirm your theory.

your heart pounded as the site loaded, every second dragging like molasses. the channel page opened, and at first, it seemed normal. too normal. you almost clicked away, feeling stupid for even suspecting anything.

but then you saw it: edit profile. analytics.

your breath caught, and a sharp scoff escaped you as you crossed your arms. oh, my god. the realization hit you like a freight train. it’s him. wonwoo. class president. sci-fi nerd. “how the fuck did i not notice?” you muttered, half impressed by his audacity.

you were so lost in your spiraling thoughts that you didn’t hear him return—until his voice, practically kissed your earlobe.

“what. do. you. think. you. are. doing?”

you jumped so hard your knee slammed into the underside of the desk. whipping around, you found wonwoo standing over you, his expression unreadable but his jaw tight.

“uh—nothing?” you stammered, trying to slam your laptop shut, but his hand darted out and stopped you.

“‘nothing’ doesn’t look like you snooping through my computer,” he said, his voice dangerously calm.

your cheeks burned. “okay, fine, maybe i was curious—”

“you were curious?” his tone sharpened. “curious enough to invade my privacy?”

“invade your—bro, you’re literally whispering dirty robot sex fantasies to the entire internet. how is that private?”

“that’s different!” his ears flushed a deep red, and you couldn’t tell if it was from anger or embarrassment. “that’s content. this—this is personal.”

you rolled your eyes, leaning back in your chair. “oh, please. you’re mad i figured it out. admit it.”

he leaned closer, towering over you now, his hand pressing down on the desk beside you. “what do you want, huh? blackmail? are you gonna tell everyone?”

you laughed, loud and incredulous. “tell everyone?! dude, relax. i’m not gonna expose your little side hustle. besides…” you smirked, tilting your head to look up at him. “you should be thanking me. clearly, i’m a fan.”

wonwoo’s eyes darkened, and his lips parted as if to say something, but no words came out.

“you’re a what?” he asks, your pulse skyrocketing as he stepped even closer, crowding you against the chair.

“did i stutter?” you whispered, the challenge clear in your tone.

his mouth crashed onto yours, teeth and tongue and frustration. you barely had time to process it before he was yanking you out of the chair, his hands rough as they gripped your hips and spun you around.

“you want to act like a brat,” he growled into your ear, his voice so reminiscent of his asmr persona that it made you roll your eyes back slighty, “then you’re gonna get treated like one.”

he bent you over the desk, the cold surface pressing against your chest as he yanked down your college skirt and underwear at once. his fingers slid through your folds, already slick just from being around him.

“so fucking wet,” he muttered, almost to himself. “you get off on this, don’t you? knowing it’s me.”

“shut your mouth,” you gasped, but it came out more like a moan as he pushed two fingers inside you, curling them and pressing them hard on your front wall.

“make me,” he challenged, his other hand coming down sharply on your ass. the sting made you gasp, your hips jerking against his hand as you tense on the desk.

the pace of his fingers was relentless, his thumb circling your clit in time with the thrusts. every part of your body was starting to be feveirsh, and you hated—hated—how easily he was unraveling you. you spent nights thinking about how it would be if onyx fucked you, and here you are. of course you would be a mess in a second.

“sorry” he mocked you. “am i too much for you?”

you clenched around his fingers, your nails digging into the desk as you tried to hold back a moan. “you talk too fucking much actually wonwoo,” you hissed.

“yeah, that's what's paying me at nights” wonwoo chuckled darkly, pulling his fingers out and flipping you onto your back with his big arms. before you could protest, he was kneeling between your legs, his mouth suddenly hot and insistent against your core, better than any other vibrator you insisted on using at night.

the sounds—the wet, obscene sounds of his tongue—mixed with your whimpers as he devoured you like a man starved. his hands gripped your thighs, holding you open as you tried to squirm away from the overwhelming sensation.

“stop—”

“stop?” he looked up, his chin glistening. “not until you admit i’m your favorite.”

you glared down at him, breathless and defiant. “you’re such an asshole.”

“and yet…” he smirked, diving back in and flicking his tongue against your clit until your head fell back, a broken moan spilling from your lips.

it didn’t take long before you were coming undone, your body shaking as his mouth pulled your clit. wonwoo didn’t stop, didn’t even slow down, dragging out your orgasm until you were a trembling, incoherent chaos beneath him.

wonwoo doesn’t waste a second after pulling back, his hands flipping you over again so you’re bent over the desk, your cheek pressed to the cool surface as he grinds against you. the thick outline of his cock rubs against your dripping folds, still covered by the soft fabric of his grey sweatpants. you gasp, your hips jerking back involuntarily, and his pearly-white smile flashes above you.

“look at that,” he murmurs, almost smug, as a dark spot begins to spread on his sweatpants from your slick. “you’re soaking me through.”

the way he emphasizes the word makes your back contort in shivers, but you’re too far gone to care. your fingers claw at the desk as he keeps humping against you, his pace quickening. when he finally pulls back, you hear the shuffle of fabric as he yanks down his sweatpants and briefs. the soft clink of a drawer opening catches your attention, and you crane your neck to see him sliding on a condom.

“you’re still melting all over my desk,” he rubs a hand over the curve of your ass. “can’t even wait for me, huh?”

before you can respond, his hand comes down sharply on your ass, the sting making you gasp. he doesn’t stop, spanking you again and again until your skin is flushed and burning.

“you look so pretty like this,” he says, his hand smoothing over the heated skin before gripping your waist and lining himself up. “all messy and desperate for me.”

when he pushes in, stretching you inch by inch until you’re full and breathless, pussy trying to clench at his big grith to adjust. wonwoo groans, his head falling forward as he sinks in to the hilt.

your walls flutter around him, and he moans at the feeling, the sound so real and raw that it sends a jolt straight to your core.

“talk to me,” you manage to gasp, your voice muffled against the desk.

he chuckles, his pace picking up as he leans down to whisper in your ear. “you want me to talk dirty? you want me to tell you how tight you are? how good you’re taking me?”

you moan in response, your hips bucking back against him as his words send you curling.

“yeah, you like that, don’t you?” he continues, his voice thick with lust. your moans grow louder, and he suddenly remembers the videos you must’ve listened to—the whining, the moaning. the thought makes his stomach flip, and he decides to give you exactly what you want.

he starts letting out soft whimpers, his voice breaking with each thrust, the sounds spilling out almost involuntarily. “fuck, babe, you’re gonna make me cum—”

the genuine desperation in his voice drives you wild, and your body clenches around him, pulling him deeper. he groans, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you’re sure they’ll leave marks, but you don’t care.

“please,” he moans, his voice high and strained. “let me cum for you. let me—fuck—”

you push back against him, meeting his thrusts as your own climax builds, your breaths coming in short, broken gasps. the room is filled with the wet, obscene sounds of your bodies moving together, and the tension snaps all at once.

you come hard, your body shaking as you cry out, and wonwoo isn’t far behind. his hips stutter, a guttural moan escaping him as he spills into the condom, his body trembling with the force of it.

he collapses over you, his chest heaving against your back as you both try to catch your breath. after a moment, he presses a soft kiss to the back of your neck, his voice still hoarse as he murmurs, “guess i’m a little better live, hm?”

you just let out a defeated moan, the coldness of the table soothing your hot cheeks.

“keep quiet about this, and i'll keep giving you more.” well, it's just an excuse that wonwoo said to fuck you over again.

2K notes · View notes

kathaelipwse · 23 days ago

Text

The Fine Print || J.Wonwoo

Pairing: CEO!Wonwoo × Fashion Mogul(CEO Of A Fashion Line)!Fem Reader

Trope: Enemies to Lovers | Fake Dating | Revenge Pact | Forced Marriage Fallout

Warnings: Mentions of material coercion, non-consensual marriage, sexual assault (not with wonwoo), trauma (not with wonwoo), alcohol, revenge, corporate manipulation, and emotional healing, WORK OF FICTION, NO PROOF READING WAS DONE

Word Count: 9525 words ; Reading Time: 35-ish mins

Synopsis: In a world driven by power and appearances, a successful fashion CEO finds herself trapped in a toxic, loveless marriage for the sake of reputation. After discovering her infertility and surviving the cruelty of her husband, she walks out—scorched but not shattered. To destroy him completely, she calls on her old university rival, Jeon Wonwoo—now a ruthless tech tycoon and her biggest critic. His help comes with a condition: pretend to be his girlfriend. What begins as public spectacle spirals into nights of vulnerability, unspoken truths, and a romance neither saw coming. Because sometimes… even the coldest rivals can burn the brightest together.

Author’s Note: Writing this helped me cope with the reality that Wonwoo’s enlistment in the military hasn’t given me an ounce of peace. Instead, I poured my delusions into this fierce, messy, powerful enemies-to-lovers fic to survive the drought. To everyone else feeling the same? This one’s for us.

Request's are closed <3 I will be working on the requests I have got in my inbox!!

The weight of the midnight blue silk dress felt like a cruel mockery against your skin. It was the centerpiece of your latest collection, a flowing testament to the fierce, independent spirit you poured into every design, every meticulously stitched seam of your burgeoning fashion empire.

Yet, tonight, the luxurious fabric felt less like the armor of a CEO and more like the suffocating drapery of a gilded cage. You stared at your reflection in the antique, gold-framed mirror of the ballroom’s powder room, the soft, strategically placed lighting doing little to mask the subtle shadows of exhaustion that clung to the corners of your eyes. (Y/N), CEO of a fashion house whose innovative designs were rapidly gaining global recognition, your name a whisper of power and creative vision – a stark and bitter contrast to the carefully constructed role you were forced to inhabit within the confines of your marriage.

Your husband, Julian Thorne, the formidable CEO of OmniTech Industries, a colossus straddling the international tech landscape, was the architect of this elaborate charade. Your marriage, a highly publicized union touted as a groundbreaking synergy of fashion and technology, had been conceived in the sterile environment of boardrooms, fueled by ambition and sealed with a handshake that felt colder than any winter frost.

Your father, a man whose own dreams for your fashion legacy had become intertwined with the allure of Thorne’s immense technological might, had championed the union with a relentless enthusiasm that still left a bitter taste in your mouth. He had seen potential, synergy, an elevation of your brand to unprecedented heights. He had failed to see the steel in Julian’s gaze, the calculating glint that spoke of acquisition rather than partnership.

Julian was a man sculpted from ambition and devoid of genuine warmth. His interactions were precise, his words measured, and his affection, if it could even be dignified with such a term, was strictly conditional, tethered to his almost obsessive desire for an heir. He spoke of children with a possessive gleam in his steely blue eyes, viewing them as another meticulously planned acquisition, another crucial element in securing his legacy, a tangible extension of his power.

You, on the other hand, felt a cold dread coil in your stomach every time the topic surfaced. Your energy, your passion, your very being was poured into your company, into the tangible beauty you created from sketches and swatches. Motherhood, especially under Julian’s cold, controlling gaze, felt like a distant, blurry concept, a role you were profoundly unprepared and unwilling to embrace, not with him, not yet.

The memory of that night, months prior, still had the power to send icy tendrils of fear snaking through your veins. It was a violation that had stripped you bare, leaving you feeling hollowed out and irrevocably tainted. The forced intimacy, his relentless insistence despite your whispered protests, the chilling certainty in his eyes that your body was his to command – it was a deep, festering wound that no amount of time seemed capable of fully healing. He wanted a child so desperately, the cruel thought would surface unbidden, a bitter reminder of your powerlessness, he didn’t care about you, only the outcome.

The subsequent months crawled by with agonizing slowness, each one marked by Julian’s increasingly impatient inquiries, his subtle pressure escalating into thinly veiled accusations. The hopeful anticipation that had initially laced his voice slowly curdled into suspicion, then resentment, and finally, outright hostility.

The air in your shared penthouse apartment grew thick with unspoken tension, punctuated by his sharp demands and your increasingly strained silences. Finally, the sterile, impersonal environment of the doctor’s office confirmed your deepest anxieties, though the revelation was far more complex and devastating than you had ever imagined. You were infertile.

The diagnosis, delivered with a clinical detachment that mirrored Julian’s own emotional landscape, landed like a physical blow, knocking the breath from your lungs. But the true agony wasn’t the medical pronouncement itself; it was the volcanic eruption of Julian’s rage that followed.

His disappointment twisted into a venomous fury, his words sharp and cruel, like shards of glass tearing at your already fragile sense of self-worth. “Useless,” he had spat, his face contorted with contempt, his eyes devoid of any semblance of human compassion. “Barren. You can’t even fulfill the one fundamental purpose of a wife. You’ve failed me.”

Those brutal, unfair words, delivered with such cold conviction, finally shattered the last vestiges of your carefully constructed composure. The fear that had kept you compliant, the ingrained obligation you felt towards your family’s carefully laid plans, all crumbled into dust under the crushing weight of his unfeeling cruelty. That night, as Julian slept in the master bedroom, oblivious to the seismic shift within you, you had quietly contacted your most trusted legal counsel. The divorce papers were drafted with swift, efficient precision, a silent declaration of war, a decisive act of rebellion against the suffocating confines of the gilded cage you had allowed yourself to be trapped within.

Now, standing amidst the opulent yet suffocating atmosphere of the farewell party your parents had insisted on hosting – a final, polite, and utterly insincere nod to the spectacular failure of your “strategic alliance” – you felt a strange, unsettling mix of liberation and lingering pain.

The forced smiles and empty congratulations of the guests felt like a surreal performance, a final act in a play you were desperate to escape. You were bruised, emotionally and mentally battered by the relentless onslaught of the past months, but beneath the surface, a core of resilience remained unbroken. The chains, though they had left their mark, were finally, irrevocably severed.

As the polite chatter and forced pleasantries of the departing guests swirled around you, a sense of profound isolation settled in your chest. You longed for the quiet solitude of your own space, away from the judging eyes and hushed whispers. Your fingers instinctively brushed against the small, unassuming business card you had almost forgotten, tucked away in a seldom-used compartment of your elegant clutch. The stark black ink on the crisp white paper was a stark contrast to the pastel hues of the ballroom.

“Jeon Wonwoo – CEO, Stellaris Technologies.” A ghost of a wry, almost cynical smile touched your lips. Wonwoo. Your intellectual sparring partner from university, the infuriatingly brilliant mind who had challenged your every assumption, whose sharp wit and relentless drive had both exasperated and secretly impressed you. Your rivalry had been legendary, a constant clash of intellect and ambition across lecture halls and late-night study sessions. He was, without a doubt, the last person on earth you would ever have considered turning to for help.

But as you looked down at that simple card, a flicker of a desperate, audacious idea began to take root in the barren landscape of your despair. He was ruthless, undeniably brilliant, and possessed a strategic mind capable of dissecting complex systems and exploiting their weaknesses with surgical precision.

He was also, you vaguely recalled, known for his…unconventional methods. And right now, dismantling Julian Thorne’s smug, self-satisfied world, piece by calculated piece, was the only prospect that offered you even a sliver of the peace you so desperately craved.

With a newfound resolve hardening your gaze, a spark of something akin to grim determination igniting within you, you slipped the card into the deeper recesses of your pocket. The cool, smooth edge against your fingertips felt like a promise of a different kind of power – the power of retribution, wielded not through tears and pleas, but through strategy and calculated moves.

The chapter of forced obedience and silent suffering was finally, irrevocably closed. The next chapter, you vowed, would be written entirely on your own terms, even if it meant forging an alliance with your most formidable adversary.

The phone felt heavy in your hand, the polished glass a stark contrast to the nervous tremor that ran through your fingers. You stared at the contact name displayed on the screen: "Jeon Wonwoo." It was a name that had been relegated to the dusty corners of your memory, a relic of late-night study sessions fueled by lukewarm coffee and the adrenaline of looming deadlines, heated debates that often devolved into playful (and sometimes not-so-playful) intellectual sparring matches, and a rivalry that had defined your university years.

You hadn't spoken to him in years, not since the somewhat stiff and formal handshake at graduation, when your paths had diverged with a palpable sense of finality, his towards the fiercely competitive world of tech startups and venture capital, yours towards the intricate and equally demanding tapestry of the fashion industry, a world of silk and strategy, of aesthetics and sharp business acumen.

Taking a deep breath, a conscious effort to steady the frantic rhythm of your heart, you pressed the call button. The line rang, each electronic pulse echoing the profound uncertainty that gnawed at your resolve. Finally, after what felt like an agonizingly long wait, a voice, smooth as polished steel and laced with a familiar, almost infuriating hint of intellectual arrogance, answered. "Jeon Wonwoo speaking."

"Wonwoo," you began, your voice surprisingly steady, a testament to years of projecting confidence in high-stakes negotiations, despite the tempest of raw emotion churning within. "It's (Y/N)."

There was a brief pause, a beat of stunned silence that stretched into an unnerving eternity. You could almost hear the gears whirring in his sharp mind, processing the unexpectedness of your call. "Well, this is…unexpected, (Y/N). Haven't heard your voice in…what, five years now? To what do I owe this sudden, nostalgic outreach? Did you finally realize my thesis on neural networks was superior?" His tone was carefully neutral, betraying little, but you could detect a subtle undercurrent of amusement, a ghost of the old competitive spark that had always simmered between you.

You ignored his characteristic jab. "I need your help, Wonwoo." The words felt foreign on your tongue, a humbling admission to the one person who had consistently pushed you to your limits, the one person you had always strived to outsmart.

Another pause, this one heavier, laced with a newfound seriousness. "Help with what, (Y/N)?" His voice lost its playful edge, replaced by a cautious curiosity.

You laid out your proposition, the words tumbling out in a rush, a torrent of pent-up anger, pain, and a desperate need for retribution. You spoke of the calculated betrayal of your marriage to Julian, the cold, clinical nature of your interactions, the forced intimacy that still haunted your sleep, leaving you feeling violated and irrevocably scarred. You detailed the casual cruelty that had chipped away at your self-worth, the subtle manipulations and outright lies that had become the foundation of your life with him.

You then moved on to OmniTech, the seemingly impenetrable fortress of his success, hinting at the intricate web of lies and deceit, the carefully constructed facade of ethical business practices that underpinned its flawless reputation, the whispers you had overheard in hushed boardrooms, the inconsistencies you had noticed but, in your naivete, had dismissed. And then, you made your request, blunt and direct, stripping away any remaining pretense. "I need your help to destroy him, Wonwoo. I need you to dismantle OmniTech, piece by agonizing piece."

There was a longer silence this time, heavy with unspoken implications, the digital connection crackling faintly in your ear. You could almost hear the intricate cogs turning in his brilliant, ruthlessly calculating mind, analyzing the situation, weighing the potential benefits and drawbacks, assessing the sheer audacity of your request. "And why me, (Y/N)?" he finally asked, his voice low and dangerous, a silken threat that sent a shiver down your spine despite the distance. "Why come crawling to your sworn enemy for help? Surely, a woman of your considerable resources has other avenues she could explore. High-powered lawyers, disgruntled former employees…"

"Because you're the only one who can do it effectively," you admitted, the stark truth echoing in the tense silence of your apartment. "You have the specific skills, the intricate network within the tech world, the understanding of how these corporations truly operate. You have the resources, the intelligence, and the…the ruthlessness necessary to pull something like this off. You understand the intricacies of the tech world in a way I never will, and frankly, in a way that would take me years to even begin to grasp."

Wonwoo chuckled, a low, sardonic sound that sent a different kind of shiver down your spine this time, a prickle of something akin to reluctant admiration mixed with apprehension. "Ruthlessness? You wound me, (Y/N). I prefer to think of it as…strategic efficiency. But I digress. Even if I were inclined to indulge your…vendetta, what makes you think I would risk my own reputation, my own company, to take down a behemoth like OmniTech? What's in it for me? What could you possibly offer that would make it worth my while to go to war with a company the size and influence of Julian Thorne's?"

You had anticipated this, of course. You had spent hours crafting your counter-offer, trying to anticipate his motivations, what could possibly tempt a man who already possessed considerable wealth and power. You offered him a significant percentage of your company's shares, a stake in your rapidly expanding fashion empire. You proposed a substantial sum of money, an amount that would likely raise even his perfectly sculpted eyebrows. You even dangled the prospect of exclusive partnerships and collaborations within the high-stakes world of luxury fashion, connections that could open doors to a different kind of influence, a world beyond algorithms and microprocessors. He listened patiently, a faint air of detached amusement in his tone, and then dismissed each offer with a dismissive wave of his metaphorical hand, a slight curl of his lip indicating his utter disinterest. "I don't need your money, (Y/N). And I certainly don't need a piece of your empire. I have my own, and it's doing quite well, thank you. As for fashion…let's just say my aesthetic leans more towards functional than flamboyant."

There was a beat of silence, the weight of his rejection hanging in the air. You had played your strongest cards, and they had fallen flat. Desperation began to gnaw at the edges of your resolve. "Then what, Wonwoo? What do you want?"

He paused, the silence on the other end of the line stretching taut. When he finally spoke, his voice had dropped to a low, almost conspiratorial murmur. "I want something else, (Y/N). Something…more interesting. Something that appeals to my…sense of the dramatic."

You waited, your breath held captive in your chest.

"I want you to be my fake girlfriend, (Y/N)."

The words hit you like a physical blow, stealing the air from your lungs. You could only manage a stunned, disbelieving whisper. "What?"

He chuckled softly, a low, knowing sound that sent a shiver down your spine. "A mutually beneficial arrangement," he explained, the smirk practically audible in his tone. "We play the part. Public appearances, carefully staged dinners, strategically leaked photos at clubs, the whole glamorous, scandalous shebang. It'll give me a certain kind of leverage in some…ongoing business dealings that require a certain…public image. And it'll give you the perfect, utterly believable cover to execute your…plans without raising suspicion. Everyone will be far too busy dissecting our 'relationship,' speculating on the salacious details, to notice what you're really up to."

You hesitated, the sheer audacity of his proposal leaving you reeling. It was outrageous, bordering on insane. But as the initial shock wore off, a strange, unsettling intrigue began to take hold. It was undeniably clever, a high-stakes gamble that played perfectly into the public's insatiable appetite for scandal. It was a dance with the devil himself, a pact forged in mutual need and a shared, albeit unspoken, desire for…something beyond mere revenge. "And what exactly happens when this…arrangement is over, Wonwoo?" you asked, your voice tight with a mixture of apprehension and a flicker of something akin to reckless excitement.

"We go our separate ways," he said, his dark eyes, you imagined, glittering with an unreadable emotion, a flicker of something that might have been amusement, or perhaps something far more complex. "No strings attached. No lingering expectations. It's purely business, (Y/N). A transaction of appearances. Think of it as…mutually assured destruction for our public images, if either of us deviates from the script."

You considered his offer, the chaotic whirlwind of the past few months suddenly focusing into this one, bizarre, yet undeniably compelling proposition. The thought of Julian's smug downfall, the sweet, intoxicating taste of revenge, was a powerful lure, almost impossible to resist, especially now that a viable, albeit unconventional, path had presented itself. "Fine," you said, your voice firm, a newfound resolve hardening your tone. "Deal."

"Pleasure doing business with you, (Y/N)," Wonwoo's voice held a distinct note of satisfaction. "I'll have my people coordinate our first 'public outing' by the end of the week. Be prepared for the paparazzi."

The line went dead, leaving you staring at the silent phone in your hand. You had just made a deal with your greatest rival, agreeing to a fake relationship as a means to orchestrate the downfall of your ex-husband. The sheer absurdity of it all almost made you laugh. But beneath the surface of the shock and the swirling uncertainty, a seed of grim determination had been planted. The game had begun.

The week that followed your phone call with Wonwoo felt like stepping onto a brightly lit stage, the spotlight unforgiving and every move scrutinized. His "people" – a slick, efficient team you only interacted with via email and carefully scheduled phone briefings – orchestrated your public debut with the precision of a military operation. The first "sighting" was at a newly opened, ultra-exclusive restaurant, the kind where reservations were booked months in advance and privacy was a myth. You arrived separately, a deliberate tactic, only to "coincidentally" meet near the maître d's stand, the ensuing conversation captured by strategically placed paparazzi.

The photos the next morning were exactly as predicted: you, looking stunningly composed in a sleek black dress, a hint of a smile playing on your lips as you spoke to Wonwoo, who exuded an effortless charm in a tailored suit. The accompanying headlines screamed: "Fashion Mogul Finds New Flame?" and "Tech Titan and Style Queen Spark Romance!" The internet buzzed with speculation, your past marriage relegated to a footnote as everyone focused on this unexpected pairing.

Over the next few weeks, the carefully constructed narrative continued to unfold. There were "intimate" dinners where you and Wonwoo were photographed laughing, a shared box at the opera where his hand briefly rested on your back, a late-night exit from a trendy club, looking slightly disheveled but undeniably together. Each carefully curated appearance fueled the fire, pushing your "relationship" into the realm of scandalous obsession. Julian's name rarely surfaced in the gossip columns anymore, his downfall seemingly old news compared to the sizzling chemistry between you and Wonwoo.

Beneath the veneer of public affection, your interactions with Wonwoo remained strictly business. You met occasionally in neutral locations, his penthouse office a stark, minimalist space overlooking the city, or a quiet corner of a high-end hotel bar. Your conversations were clipped, focused on strategy. He provided you with information, subtle hints of the rot within OmniTech that his own sources had unearthed. You, in turn, played your part flawlessly, the sophisticated and alluring woman captivated by his intellect and power.

Then came the evening at the secluded Italian restaurant, the air thick with the aroma of truffle oil and hushed conversations. You had just returned from a particularly grueling photoshoot, the weight of the public charade beginning to feel heavy. Wonwoo was already seated at your usual table, a glass of amber liquid swirling in his hand. He looked up as you approached, a flicker of something unreadable in his dark eyes.

After the initial pleasantries, a comfortable silence settled between you, a byproduct of the weeks spent navigating this bizarre performance. Then, Wonwoo reached inside his jacket and slid a thin, folded piece of expensive, textured paper across the polished mahogany table. "I've been working on something," he said, his voice low and smug, a hint of predatory satisfaction in his tone. "A little…expose. Something I think you'll find…amusing."

You unfolded the paper he had passed, the crispness of it a stark contrast to the damning content it held. It was the draft of an anonymous article, the prose sharp and incisive, meticulously detailing the shady business practices and deeply unethical dealings that had become the bedrock of OmniTech's success. It spoke of manipulated quarterly reports that had artificially inflated the company's stock price, of aggressive and often illegal tactics used to stifle competition, of the exploitation of overseas labor masked by glossy corporate social responsibility campaigns, and of a series of suspiciously lucrative government contracts secured through means that were, to put it mildly, ethically dubious. The article even hinted at a culture of intimidation within OmniTech, where dissenting voices were swiftly silenced. It painted a devastating portrait of Julian Thorne, not as the visionary leader the public admired, but as a ruthless and manipulative businessman who had built his empire on a foundation of lies and exploitation.

As you read, a cold satisfaction bloomed in your chest. This was more than you had even hoped for. "This is…thorough," you commented, your voice low.

Wonwoo leaned back in his chair, a knowing smirk playing on his perfectly sculpted lips. "I pride myself on my thoroughness, (Y/N). Especially when it comes to dismantling my competition…or in this case, yours."

"And the anonymity?" you asked, your eyes scanning the carefully worded paragraphs.

"Crucial," he replied, taking a sip of his drink. "It lends credibility, makes it harder to trace back to a single source. It will plant seeds of doubt, create a groundswell of suspicion that Julian won't be able to easily control." He tapped the paper with a manicured finger. "I'm publishing it online anonymously tomorrow morning, through a source with a decent following and a reputation for investigative journalism. Consider it…the opening salvo in our little war."

The next day, the internet exploded. The anonymous article detonated like a carefully planted bomb, its shockwaves rippling through the financial markets and the court of public opinion. OmniTech's stock plummeted, the red numbers on the ticker screens a stark visual representation of Julian's crumbling empire. Investors, suddenly wary of the exposed underbelly of the company, began to pull out en masse. News outlets, initially hesitant due to OmniTech's powerful legal team, soon picked up the story, the anonymous claims gaining traction as more sources began to corroborate the information. Julian's carefully cultivated reputation, once gleaming and seemingly untouchable, was dragged through the mud of public scrutiny, his denials ringing hollow against the detailed accusations.

You watched the unfolding chaos from the cool, detached distance of your own office, a sense of grim satisfaction washing over you. It was a start, a significant blow that had clearly rattled Julian. That evening, you found yourself back at the same Italian restaurant, the atmosphere subtly different, charged with an unspoken energy.

Wonwoo raised his glass of deep crimson wine as you settled into your seat, the candlelight reflecting in his dark eyes. "To beginnings," he murmured, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

You met his gaze, a silent understanding passing between you. You lifted your own glass, the rich color mirroring the burning desire for justice that still simmered within you. A small, almost imperceptible smile touched your lips.

One down, you thought, the taste of revenge, sharp and intoxicating, sweet on your tongue. More to go.

A week after the digital bomb of the anonymous article detonated across Julian's carefully constructed empire, the tension between you and Wonwoo had shifted, a subtle undercurrent of something volatile simmering beneath the surface of your strategic alliance. His text that evening was curt, demanding: "Zenith. Now." The possessiveness, however implied, sent a shiver of something akin to anticipation down your spine.

Club Zenith was a decadent assault on the senses. The bass vibrated through your stilettos, the air thick with the mingled scents of expensive liquor and raw desire, the flashing lights painting the gyrating bodies in fleeting, lurid hues. You spotted Wonwoo in the VIP section, a figure of dark, controlled elegance amidst the vibrant chaos. His gaze, sharp and possessive, locked onto yours as you navigated the crowded space, a silent acknowledgment of your arrival.

The initial conversation was a cool dissection of OmniTech's rapidly unraveling state, a strategic mapping of the next phase of your calculated takedown. But the celebratory edge you had anticipated was absent, replaced by a palpable tension that mirrored the knot in your own stomach. As the night wore on, and the champagne flowed freely, its bubbles mirroring the dizzying swirl of emotions within you, the carefully constructed dam of your composure began to show cracks.

You found yourself leaning closer to Wonwoo, your laughter a little too loud, a little too brittle. The world around you seemed to soften at the edges, the faces in the crowd blurring into indistinct shapes. You knew you were dangerously close to the edge of coherent thought, a state you rarely, if ever, allowed yourself. "I'm perfectly alright," you insisted, your voice carrying a playful slur as Wonwoo's dark eyes narrowed with a hint of concern when you stumbled against his arm. "Just…celebrating our little victory."

Later, the music a primal pulse against your skin, the weight of the past week and the strange intimacy of your current arrangement with Wonwoo coalesced into a potent cocktail of vulnerability and reckless abandon. The memory of Julian's violation, the cold, dehumanizing act that still haunted your quiet moments, resurfaced with brutal clarity, a wave of pain and fury threatening to overwhelm you.

You reached out, your hand finding the smooth, cool silk of Wonwoo's shirt, your fingers clenching, a desperate need for physical connection overriding your usual reserve. Tears welled in your eyes, blurring the sharp lines of his face. You leaned close, your voice a broken whisper against his ear, the confession raw and laced with unshed tears. "He…he forced himself on me, Wonnie," you choked out, the shame and lingering trauma a bitter taste on your tongue. "He just…took what he wanted. Like I was his property."

Wonwoo went utterly still beside you, the sardonic mask he often wore dissolving, replaced by a stark, almost violent intensity. His jaw tightened, a muscle in his cheek twitching rhythmically. The hand not cradling his drink clenched into a white-knuckled fist. He didn't speak, but the air around him vibrated with a silent, furious protectiveness that resonated deep within you.

He gently steered you away from the throng, his hand surprisingly firm on the small of your back, guiding you to a more secluded corner of the booth. He didn't offer empty platitudes. He simply sat beside you, his presence a dark, solid anchor in your swirling emotions. He didn't touch you further, but the heat of his gaze, the barely leashed anger radiating off him, felt strangely…cathartic.

Then, fueled by the alcohol and a sudden, audacious impulse, you turned to him, your hand finding the sharp angle of his jaw, your thumb tracing the faint stubble. You tilted his face towards yours, your gaze locking with his dark, unreadable eyes, and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the corner of his lips. You lingered there for a breath, tasting the faint trace of whiskey, before trailing a languid series of kisses down the sensitive curve of his neck, inhaling the intoxicating blend of his expensive cologne and his own unique scent.

Finally, you reached his mouth, your lips parting slightly as you pressed against his, a silent invitation. You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, your own eyes heavy-lidded, a blatant challenge in their depths. "Kiss me back, Wonnie," you whispered, the alcohol stripping away every last vestige of your usual carefully constructed composure. "Show me what you really think when you look at me. Please."

For a heartbeat, he remained frozen, his expression a turbulent mix of surprise, something akin to reluctant desire warring with his usual guardedness. Then, with a low growl that seemed to emanate from deep within his chest, he gave in. His lips met yours, the initial contact hesitant, then deepening with a sudden, almost desperate intensity. His hand, which had been hovering near your waist, now snaked around your back, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. The kiss was no longer tentative; it was charged, electric, a raw exploration of the unspoken tension that had been simmering between you. Your own hands found their way to his hair, your fingers tangling in the dark strands, pulling him closer, demanding more.

But just as the kiss threatened to escalate into something far more consuming, your eyelids grew heavy, the alcohol finally claiming its due. You mumbled something against his lips, a slurred, provocative whisper. "That…cocky look you get…" you murmured, your fingers tightening their grip on the fabric of his shirt, a sleepy, undeniably suggestive smile curving your lips. "It's…surprisingly…doing things to me…..like turning me on even while we are on the verge of a damn argument" And then, you were gone, your head lolling against his broad shoulder, the world fading into a soft, black oblivion, the taste of whiskey and Wonwoo lingering on your lips.

Wonwoo watched you, his expression a fascinating study in conflicting emotions – disbelief warring with a dark, possessive hunger, amusement battling a tenderness he likely wouldn't admit to. He carefully scooped you up in his arms, his movements surprisingly gentle despite his imposing frame. He navigated the crowded club with an air of quiet authority, the bouncers clearing a path with respectful nods.

He carried you to your apartment after driving there, the city lights a blurry kaleidoscope through your unconscious vision. He used the keycard you had somehow managed to produce, his movements surprisingly deft despite the late hour and your dead weight. He laid you gently on your bed, his gaze lingering on your flushed face, a strange possessiveness flickering in his dark eyes before he pulled the soft covers over you. As he turned to leave, a hand, surprisingly strong despite your inebriated state, snaked out and gripped his wrist, pulling him back with unexpected force.

You were barely conscious, your eyes fluttering open like a drowsy invitation, but your grip was surprisingly tenacious. You tugged, and he lost his balance, a surprised grunt escaping his lips as he tumbled onto the bed beside you. Before he could fully process the situation, you had instinctively curled into him, your limbs tangling together with a shocking intimacy. Your head nestled perfectly in the crook of his neck, your breath warm and soft against his skin, your body molding against his with a familiarity that belied the briefness of your…interactions.

He lay there for a long, suspended moment, stiff and utterly still, the unexpected intimacy a palpable force in the dimly lit room. Then, with a sigh that seemed to carry a weight of both resignation and a dark, undeniable desire, he adjusted his position, his arm instinctively wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer as if claiming you in your unconscious state.

The next morning, you woke slowly, a dull, insistent throb behind your eyes and fragmented, intensely mortifying memories of the previous night’s brazen behavior. You were tangled in the soft duvet, and something warm, solid, and undeniably masculine was pressed intimately against your back. You shifted slightly, a low, husky groan rumbling beside you.

Your eyes snapped open, your breath catching in your throat. Jeon Wonwoo was lying next to you, his dark hair adorably tousled against the pillow, his sharp features softened in sleep. His arm was draped possessively across your waist, his hand resting low on your hip, his fingers splayed intimately against your skin. Your leg was thrown casually over his, and your hand was buried in the soft fabric of his expensive shirt, dangerously close to his bare chest.

A gasp escaped your lips, and you instinctively tried to pull away, a wave of mortification washing over you, hot and suffocating. Wonwoo stirred, his dark eyes fluttering open, still clouded with sleep. "Don't move," he mumbled, his voice a low, delicious rasp that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine. His grip on your waist tightened almost unconsciously, pulling you closer against his warm, undeniably hard body.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the backdrop of your racing thoughts and the lingering sensations of his lips on yours, your hands on his body. The vivid memories of your drunken boldness, your blatant come-ons, flooded your consciousness. The intimacy of the present moment, the tangible evidence of your utterly uninhibited behavior, was overwhelming, mortifying, and yet…a tiny, rebellious part of you couldn't deny a flicker of something akin to…satisfaction?

Finally, Wonwoo's eyes fully focused, and a flicker of surprise, quickly masked by a cool, almost detached composure, crossed his face. He slowly, reluctantly, released his grip and backed away, creating a sudden, charged space between you. A strange tension, thick with unspoken words, lingering sensations, and the undeniable aftermath of your drunken boldness, filled the small room.

You scrambled out of bed, your cheeks burning with a heat that had nothing to do with the lingering effects of the alcohol. You mumbled a hasty, incoherent apology, avoiding his gaze, and practically fled to the sanctuary of the bathroom, the vivid image of his sleepy, rumpled form, the possessive way he had held you, and the memory of your own shockingly forward actions, seared into your mind.

When you finally emerged, dressed in a robe that felt more like a shield than clothing, the apartment was silent. Wonwoo was gone. On your bedside table, however, sat a tall glass of water, a blister pack of high-strength hangover relief tablets, and a small, folded note.

You picked it up, your fingers trembling slightly despite your attempts to appear composed. The handwriting was sharp and angular, undeniably his, and surprisingly elegant. It simply read: "Drink these. Don't mention last night, you talk a lot when you are drunk. - JW."

You stared at the stark black ink on the crisp white paper. A small, unexpected flutter stirred in your chest, a sensation entirely unfamiliar, a feeling that defied logic and your carefully constructed defenses. It was a confusing mix of embarrassment, a lingering thrill from your own boldness, and a surprising warmth directed towards the man who had witnessed your most vulnerable and perhaps most uninhibited self. Your heart, it seemed, had a penchant for the dramatic, capable of the most inconvenient and unexpected of reactions.

The following days were a blur of news reports and online outrage. A second anonymous article had dropped, this one far more insidious and personal. It detailed numerous previously unreported cases of harassment and discrimination within OmniTech, painting a toxic work environment fostered by Julian's own dismissive attitude towards employee well-being and, more damningly, implicating him directly in silencing several victims. The article included leaked internal emails and anonymous testimonies that painted a horrifying picture of fear and abuse.

The fallout was swift and brutal. Major deals that OmniTech had been on the verge of closing evaporated overnight. Investors, already skittish after the initial financial exposé, fled in droves. The carefully constructed image of a progressive, innovative tech giant shattered completely, revealing a rotten core of systemic abuse. Julian's public denials were weak and unconvincing against the weight of the mounting evidence. His empire, once seemingly invincible, was crumbling with terrifying speed.

That night, a frantic, insistent pounding echoed through your apartment. A hopeful smile touched your lips as you hurried to the door, your heart inexplicably lighter than it had been in months. You had grown accustomed to Wonwoo's unexpected appearances, his silent check-ins, the unspoken understanding that had developed between you. You peered through the peephole, your smile widening in anticipation… only to freeze, the blood turning to ice in your veins.

It wasn't Wonwoo. It was Julian. His face was contorted with a furious desperation, his eyes wild and bloodshot. Before you could react, before you could even think to lock the deadbolt, he was hammering on the door again, yelling your name, his voice laced with a manic edge.

Terror seized you. You stumbled back, your breath catching in your throat. He knew where you lived. He was here.

Suddenly, the flimsy barrier of the door shuddered under a violent kick. The lock splintered, and the door flew inward, crashing against the wall. Julian stood in the doorway, a dark, menacing figure silhouetted against the hallway light.

"You!" he roared, his eyes locking onto you with a venomous glare. "This is your fault! You and that…that snake Wonwoo!"

Before you could speak, before you could even scream, he lunged at you, his hands grasping your arms with brutal force. He shoved you back against the wall, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. His face was inches from yours, his breath hot and reeking of desperation and alcohol.

"You think you can ruin me?" he snarled, his grip tightening until you cried out in pain. "You think you can get away with this?"

Panic clawed at your throat. You struggled, kicking and pushing against him, but he was stronger, fueled by rage and a terrifying sense of entitlement. He pinned you against the wall, his body pressing against yours, the familiar, sickening feeling of violation washing over you.

"Please," you choked out, tears streaming down your face. "Just…leave me alone."

"Leave you alone?" he spat, his voice thick with fury. "You destroyed everything! You think you can just walk away after what you've done?" He leaned closer, his words a disgusting whisper against your ear. "You were always useless. Couldn't even give me a child. Now you'll pay for it."

His hands moved, and a fresh wave of terror washed over you. You screamed, a raw, desperate sound that tore through the quiet of your apartment building, you knew no matter how hard you tried its always a man's physical power winning against the women in most of the casses. "Help! Someone, please help!"

Just as his touch became unbearable, the doorframe behind him exploded inward with a deafening crash. A figure filled the doorway, silhouetted against the dim hallway light, radiating a raw, incandescent fury.

It was Wonwoo.

His eyes, dark and blazing, locked onto the scene before him. The carefully cultivated coolness he usually exuded was gone, replaced by a primal rage that was terrifying to behold. With a guttural roar, he launched himself at Julian, yanking him off you with a force that sent your ex-husband stumbling backward.

What followed was a brutal, visceral display of fury. Wonwoo, his face a mask of pure rage, rained down blows on Julian, each punch landing with sickening force. You watched in stunned silence, tears still streaming down your face, as your tormentor was finally met with a force that matched his own brutality. You had never seen Wonwoo like this, this raw, untamed fury a stark contrast to his usual controlled demeanor.

The sounds of the struggle were brutal – grunts, curses, the sickening thud of fists against flesh. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the sounds subsided. Julian lay on the floor, bruised and bleeding, whimpering in pain. Wonwoo stood over him, his chest heaving, his knuckles raw.

The sound of sirens grew closer, their wail piercing the tense silence of your apartment. Moments later, the police burst through the shattered door, their weapons drawn. Wonwoo, his rage slowly receding, raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

As the officers moved to apprehend Julian, Wonwoo turned to you, his eyes softening with a raw concern that mirrored your own shattered state. He rushed to you, his arms wrapping around you in a tight, protective embrace. You clung to him, your body trembling uncontrollably, the sobs finally wracking your frame.

"Why didn't you call me?" he murmured against your hair, his voice thick with a mixture of anger and worry. "I told you…you could always call me."

You buried your face in his chest, the familiar scent of his cologne a strange comfort amidst the lingering stench of Julian's desperation. "I…I thought it was you at the door," you choked out, your voice barely a whisper.

"Shhh," he soothed, holding you tighter. "It's over now. He can't hurt you anymore."

You clung to him, the reality of what had just happened slowly sinking in. Your body ached, your spirit bruised, but in Wonwoo's arms, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, a fragile seed of safety began to sprout.

"Thank you," you mumbled, the words inadequate to express the wave of gratitude and a burgeoning, unexpected emotion that washed over you. Your heart ached with the fresh trauma, but at the same time, a strange sense of healing had begun. You no longer saw Wonwoo as just an enemy, a rival, or a co-conspirator. You saw him as the man who had burst through the door, a furious protector, your rescuer in the darkest of moments.

Closing your eyes, you leaned further into his embrace, the steady beat of his heart a grounding rhythm against your ear. For the first time in a long time, surrounded by the wreckage of your shattered door and the lingering echoes of violence, you found a fleeting moment of fragile peace in the unexpected safety of Jeon Wonwoo's arms.

Three weeks had passed since the harrowing night at your apartment. The physical bruises had faded, but the emotional scars were still tender, a constant reminder of Julian's violation. Wonwoo had been a silent, steady presence in the aftermath. He hadn't pushed, hadn't pried, but he had been there, a quiet strength you found yourself increasingly relying on. The fake relationship had morphed into something…more. The lines between business and something far more personal had blurred, a consequence of shared trauma and unexpected acts of fierce protectiveness.

One afternoon, a text message from Wonwoo appeared on your phone: "Client meeting at the City Art Museum next Thursday. Accompany me?" It was phrased as a request, but there was an underlying expectation, a comfortable assumption that you would agree. And you did.

Thursday arrived, and you found yourself standing before the museum, the grand facade a stark contrast to the nervous flutter in your stomach. You had chosen a wine-red dress, the rich color a bold statement, the elegant cut accentuating your figure. You had taken extra care with your hair and makeup, a renewed sense of confidence blooming within you, a defiant refusal to let Julian's actions define you.

As you stepped inside, you spotted Wonwoo near a Rodin sculpture, engaged in conversation with a distinguished-looking older gentleman. He hadn't seen you yet. You took a moment to simply watch him, the way his dark hair fell across his forehead, the intensity in his gaze as he spoke, the subtle authority in his posture. A warmth spread through you, a feeling entirely new and unexpectedly tender.

Then, his eyes lifted, catching yours across the crowded gallery. A flicker of surprise, quickly followed by something that looked suspiciously like…awe, crossed his features. He literally paused mid-sentence, a slight choke in his voice as he finished his thought. He recovered quickly, a practiced coolness returning to his expression as he excused himself from his client and walked towards you.

"You look…" he began, his usual smooth delivery faltering for a fraction of a second, his eyes lingering on the curve of your neck exposed by the dress. He cleared his throat. "…appropriately dressed for an appreciation of fine art." It was a classic Wonwoo deflection, but you caught the genuine admiration that had flashed in his eyes.

As Wonwoo resumed his conversation with his client, you wandered through the museum, losing yourself in the brushstrokes of a Monet, the stark lines of a Picasso. You found a quiet corner admiring a collection of contemporary sculptures when a man approached you, his smile a little too wide, his eyes lingering a little too long.

He started a conversation, his tone overtly flirtatious, complimenting your dress, your eyes, his words dripping with a practiced charm that felt instantly insincere. You offered polite, brief responses, subtly trying to disengage, but he persisted, his compliments becoming increasingly bold. A familiar unease began to settle in your stomach.

Just as you were formulating a more direct way to excuse yourself, you felt a warm, possessive hand settle on your waist, pulling you gently against a familiar solid form. Wonwoo was suddenly beside you, his arm a firm, undeniable claim around your waist. He turned to the flustered man, his usual cool demeanor firmly in place, but with an underlying edge that sent a clear message. "Excuse us," he said, his voice smooth but with a hint of steel. "She's taken."

The man, clearly recognizing Wonwoo, stammered an apology and quickly retreated. You turned to Wonwoo, a teasing smile playing on your lips. "Possessive, are we?"

He shrugged, his arm still firmly around your waist, his gaze lingering on your face. "You looked…uncomfortable." His tone was casual, but the possessive grip on your waist spoke volumes. The air between you thickened, the unspoken tension simmering just beneath the surface.

The next eight months passed in a blur of shared moments, both public and private. The "fake relationship" had taken on a life of its own, evolving into something undeniably real. The tabloids still followed your every move, fascinated by the unlikely pairing, but the scrutiny felt less invasive now, more like background noise to the genuine connection that had blossomed between you and Wonwoo. You shared quiet dinners, late-night conversations that stretched into the early hours, comfortable silences that spoke volumes. He was still Wonwoo – brilliant, sharp-witted, occasionally infuriatingly cocky – but you had also seen his fierce protectiveness, his unexpected tenderness, the vulnerability he rarely showed.

The day of your Paris fashion show arrived, a culmination of months of relentless work. The Grand Palais buzzed with anticipation, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume and nervous energy. You scanned the crowd from the stage, a familiar wave of pre-show jitters washing over you. You looked for Wonwoo, a small part of you hoping to catch his eye, even though he had explicitly told you that a crucial, unavoidable meeting would keep him away. A pang of disappointment, quickly masked by professional composure, tightened in your chest.

Your speech went smoothly, your voice confident as you presented your latest collection to the discerning eyes of the fashion world. The applause was enthusiastic, the reviews promising. But as you walked backstage, the adrenaline slowly fading, a wave of quiet disappointment washed over you. He hadn't been there.

Suddenly, as you turned a corner in the bustling backstage area, a hand clamped over your mouth, and another pinned your hands playfully above your head, effectively trapping you against the cool wall. A familiar, husky voice whispered in your ear, laced with a teasing arrogance that sent a thrill through you. "Someone missed me?"

Your heart leaped. You knew that voice. You smiled beneath his hand, relief and a surge of unexpected joy flooding through you. You nodded enthusiastically against his palm. His hands released yours, sliding down to cup your face, his thumbs gently stroking your cheeks. You turned in his arms, your gaze meeting his dark, smiling eyes. Without a word, you reached up and kissed him, a rush of pure happiness bubbling up inside you.

He grinned against your lips, a flash of his signature cockiness. "Missed me that much, huh?" He pulled back slightly, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Be ready by seven tonight, ma créatrice." He winked, a promise of something special in his gaze, and then, just as suddenly as he had appeared, he slipped away, leaving you breathless and grinning like a fool in the middle of the backstage chaos.

You shook your head fondly, a warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the Parisian air. Your earlier disappointment vanished, replaced by a giddy anticipation. Seven o'clock in Paris with Wonwoo? You had a feeling tonight would be anything but ordinary. You rushed to get ready, your mind already racing with possibilities.

A sleek, black car pulled up to your hotel, the Parisian twilight casting long shadows across the cobblestone street. The driver door opened, and Wonwoo emerged, looking impossibly handsome in a dark suit that accentuated his sharp features. His eyes held a playful glint as he approached you, a soft, silk blindfold dangling from his fingers.

"Ready for your Parisian adventure, ma belle?" he asked, his voice a low murmur that sent a shiver down your spine.

You raised a curious eyebrow. "Adventure? Or are you finally going to reveal your secret life as a notorious art thief?"

He chuckled, a deep, resonant sound. "Only one way to find out." He gently reached out, and you tilted your head, allowing him to tie the blindfold securely, plunging you into darkness.

As he guided you into the car, your playful banter continued. "You're not planning on taking me to some secret underground catacomb, are you? Because I am not dressed for subterranean exploration."

"Relax, mon amour," he replied, his voice laced with amusement. "Though the thought of you in the catacombs…intriguing. But tonight's destination is a little more…elevated."

The drive was filled with your teasing questions and his deliberately vague answers. "Are you going to kill me, Wonwoo? Is this some elaborate revenge plot for all those times I beat you in debate club?"

He squeezed your thigh reassuringly, his touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary. "Darling, if I were going to kill you, it would be far more creative than a simple car ride. Besides," his voice dropped to a husky whisper, "I have far more interesting plans for you tonight."

The squeeze on your thigh, however brief, sent a jolt of anticipation through you, effectively silencing your playful accusations. You settled back in your seat, a sense of excitement bubbling beneath the surface of your blindfolded anticipation.

The car finally came to a stop. You could hear the muffled sounds of the city, the distant hum of traffic, but there was a different quality to the air here, a sense of vastness. Wonwoo carefully guided you out of the car, his hand firm on your elbow. You could feel the cool night air against your skin, a gentle breeze whispering around you.

He led you slowly, the sound of your heels clicking softly on what felt like stone. You could sense a change in elevation, a gradual upward climb. "Wonwoo, where are we going?" you asked, your curiosity reaching its peak. "This is straight out of a horror movie. Are there chains involved?"

He chuckled again, a warm sound close to your ear. "Patience, mon cœur. The grand reveal is almost upon us."

The ascent continued, the air growing thinner, the city sounds fading into a distant murmur. Finally, Wonwoo stopped. "Alright, ma voleuse," he whispered, his breath warm against your temple. "Prepare to be amazed."

His fingers gently untied the knot of the blindfold. As the darkness receded, your eyes struggled to adjust to the breathtaking panorama that unfolded before you. You were high above the city, the sprawling lights of Paris twinkling like a million scattered diamonds. The Eiffel Tower stretched majestically above and below you, its intricate ironwork illuminated against the vibrant canvas of the sunset. Hues of fiery orange, soft pink, and deep violet painted the sky, a breathtaking masterpiece that stole your breath away.

You were speechless, your earlier playful banter completely forgotten. "Oh," was all you could manage, your voice filled with awe. "Oh, Wonwoo… it's… not murder, at least. It's beautiful."

There was no response. Confused, you turned to look at him, your heart suddenly pounding in your chest. And there he was, bathed in the soft glow of the Parisian twilight, down on one knee. In his outstretched hand, a small, velvet box lay open, revealing a stunning platinum ring, a delicate yet substantial band set with a single, brilliant-cut diamond that caught the fading light.

Your breath hitched. You felt a wave of shock, disbelief, and an overwhelming surge of emotion wash over you. You could only stare, your mind struggling to process the reality of the moment.

Wonwoo's gaze was intense, his dark eyes filled with a vulnerability you had never seen before. He took a deep breath, his voice slightly husky as he began to speak. "From the moment I first saw you in that ridiculously oversized 'Intro to Philosophy' class, arguing passionately about existentialism… I was captivated. You were brilliant, fiery, infuriating… everything I never knew I wanted."

He continued, his voice gaining strength as he confessed the long-held secret of his heart. "All those years in university, the constant rivalry, the need to challenge you, to spar with you intellectually… it wasn't just competition, (Y/N). It was the only way I knew how to keep you close, to keep you talking to me. I was too arrogant, too afraid to admit how deeply I felt."

He paused, his eyes searching yours. "Even after… after your marriage to that… that man," his voice hardened with a flicker of the old fury, "I couldn't let go of the memory of you, the fire in your eyes. Pretending to just want to destroy him… it was partly true, but mostly it was about clearing the path back to you."

He took another deep breath, his gaze unwavering. "So, (Y/N) (Your Last Name), my brilliant, beautiful, fiercely independent thief… may I be yours completely? May I finally stop pretending and love you, truly and without reservation?"

"Thief?" you asked, a shaky laugh escaping your lips, tears welling in your eyes.

A genuine, heart-melting grin spread across his face. "Yeah. You stole my heart years ago, remember? You've been holding onto it ever since."

More tears spilled down your cheeks, but this time, they were tears of pure, unadulterated joy. You took a moment to gather yourself, your heart overflowing with a love you hadn't fully realized until this moment. "Fine," you managed, your voice thick with emotion. "Be my Mr. (Your Last Name)." You watched him, a playful glint in your tear-filled eyes.

He stood up, his gaze never leaving yours. "I don't mind having your last name," he shrugged, a hint of his old cockiness returning, but softened with pure adoration.

You giggled, wiping away a stray tear. "Though… I rather prefer yours after mine."

His grin widened, and he reached out, cupping your face in his hands, his thumbs gently stroking your cheeks. "Take whatever you want then… my thief."

And then, with the breathtaking panorama of the glowing city stretching out beneath them, Wonwoo kissed you deeply, a kiss that spoke of years of unspoken feelings, of shared battles and unexpected tenderness, of a future finally, beautifully, beginning. The cool Parisian air was filled with the warmth of their embrace, a promise of a love that had weathered storms and blossomed in the most unexpected of circumstances. Your heart, finally safe in his keeping, soared with a joy that illuminated the Parisian night even brighter than the city lights below.

-- The End <3

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itssunshinetoday · 11 months ago

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~ the boyfriend pictures series

boyfriend pictures

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archivegyu · 23 days ago

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masterlist

unspoken, yet known

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

AUGUST 8 — SEUNGCHEOL’S BIRTHDAY

A soft sigh escaped your lips when you unlocked the apartment door. The click of it closing behind you was familiar and comforting. The scent of morning coffee still lingered faintly in the air, left from the to-go cup you prepped earlier—his, not yours. You slipped off your shoes, dropped your bag by the wall, and padded into the kitchen, hair slightly tousled from the afternoon sun and a long half-day at uni.

Your phone buzzed.

A video call.

Incoming call from Drunk Gyu

You picked it up, leaning lazily against the counter. “Let me guess, you’re calling to interrogate me.”

Mingyu’s face popped into view, sweat-slicked hair pushed back with a towel around his neck. “We’re just checking in. Totally normal. Definitely not to say someone is pouting.”

Joshua leaned over from behind him, sitting on the floor of the practice room. “He waited until 12:03. You didn’t call. Or text. He thinks you forgot.”

You blinked, stunned. “Wait, he stayed up that late?”

“Correction,” Joshua said, raising a finger. “He was already up. He was with Woozi, in the studio. Jihoon was working on a new arrangement, and your sulking best friend sat there staring at his phone in the dark like he was waiting for a prophecy.”

Mingyu chuckled. “At 12:03, he sighed so loud we thought something broke. Said, ‘She must be tired…’ Then walked out like a rejected K-drama second lead.”

“Oh my god,” you groaned, running a hand down your face.

“And,” Joshua added, “Cheol told us that he came home at, like, 3 AM. To quote him ‘I woke up three hours later annoyed’ then, found your note next to a packed breakfast and thought you were avoiding him.”

“I had class” you said defensively, though your voice softened. “Today’s a half day, I swear.”

“Then why does he think you’re gone till night?”

“Because I might have told him my schedule was full just to buy time for the surprise?”

Joshua gasped dramatically.

Mingyu leaned in closer. “So you’re cooking something up. I knew it.”

You smirked. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Your eyes flicked briefly toward the empty tote bag by the front door. You hadn’t even bought the ingredients yet. There was dinner to prepare, decorations to set up, and a cake to pick up. Your window was tight, but you were determined.

Joshua wagged a finger. “Well, better make it count. He’s been sulking all day. Even Minghao told him to go lie down somewhere.”

You laughed, already heading for the door again. “Then I’ll make it worth the wait.”

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

The city was golden and bright, dusted with the warmth of a late summer afternoon. You strolled with Kkuma trotting happily beside you, her new pink bow bouncing with every step.

First stop: the bakery.

A quaint spot tucked into a side street, lined with ribboned boxes and pastries that sparkled under glass. You stepped inside, the bell above the door chiming.

“Back so soon?” the baker greeted with a knowing smile.

“It’s his birthday,” you said, crouching to pat Kkuma. “I need a cake that’s… not plain. Not white. Not boring. He pouted for an hour last year because I gave him a minimalist one.”

The baker laughed. “Sounds like he’s particular.”

“He’s sentimental,” you corrected. “And dramatic.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “So... something cute? Thoughtful?”

“With effort,” you added. “Like, it has to look like I lost sleep over it.”

“Got it. Leave it to me.”

You left the shop with a receipt and a promise to come back in two hours. Kkuma trotted beside you, her ears twitching.

Next was the gift shop. You wandered between shelves of candles and accessories before settling on a simple silver bracelet. Not flashy. Just… sincere. You had it engraved with the words:

“with you, always.”

You turned the small box in your hand, heart fluttering at the thought of his face when he’d open it.

On your way out, you spotted a set of pastel hairpins: lavender, peach, and daisy-patterned. You looked down at Kkuma.

She stared back with resigned eyes.

“I know,” you said. “You thought Cheol was the shopaholic in this house.”

She sighed (you swear she did), and followed you anyway.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

By early evening, the apartment had transformed.

The lights were dimmed. Soft fairy lights strung along the ceiling glowed in a warm hue. You lit a few candles, small ones, nothing too dramatic, just enough to give the room a flicker of intimacy. You cooked carefully, triple-checking the taste, adjusting the plating. Bulgogi, kimchi pancakes, soft egg rolls, seaweed soup.

You set the table, added a handwritten note under his plate that read:

“For the one who never lets me feel alone. Happy Birthday !!”

Kkuma sat by your feet, freshly brushed, with one of her new pins clipped into her fur.

You held the cake, tiny candles flickering, and stood by the entryway, the soft hum of music playing low in the background.

The door clicked open.

Seungcheol stepped in, shoulders slumped from exhaustion. He froze the moment he looked up.

You.

The lights.

The food.

Kkuma, who immediately barked and ran to him.

He picked her up with one arm, still staring.

You smiled, lifting the cake gently.

“Happy birthday, Cheol.”

His expression cracked, eyes glassy, smile shaky.

“I thought you forgot.”

“I never forget,” you said softly. “You just had to wait a little.”

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Dinner passed in a haze of warm lights and quiet laughter. The living room, usually scattered with Kkuma’s toys or forgotten laundry, had transformed into something soft and thoughtful: dim lights, a candlelit table, the faint scent of soy and sesame oil wafting through the air.

Seungcheol was glowing under it all. Not from the candles, not from the wine, but from something gentler. His eyes were crescent-shaped from smiling too much, and his shoulders had lost that weighted, practice-room tension.

“You really made all of this?” he asked again, looking at the food like it had just told him a secret.

“Mhm.” You fought the grin tugging at your mouth as you refilled his bowl. “Twice, if you keep asking.”

He scooped another helping of rice with exaggerated reverence. “I’m serious. This is…” He took a bite, chewed, and let out a dramatic groan. “Okay, no. This should be illegal. You could honestly take over the world with this marinade.”

You shook your head, laughing. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“No, I’m being realistic. If you ever betray me, please do it after dinner.”

You tossed a napkin at him, and he dodged it with a smug smile, eyes twinkling under the golden light. Then came a quieter beat, one that didn’t need to announce itself. He lowered his chopsticks and looked at you with a kind of fondness that made the room feel smaller.

“I didn’t realize how much I missed this,” he said, voice softer now. “Coming home to you. Just… being here.”

You paused mid-reach for the pitcher of water, surprised. “You’ve only been gone a day.”

“Yeah,” he said, smiling faintly. “Felt longer.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that. So you looked at him a moment longer, then rose from your seat.

“I got you something.”

His gaze followed you as you crossed the room. You came back with a tiny wrapped box, not flashy, not extravagant—just you, wrapped in care. You placed it gently in front of him.

Seungcheol blinked. “You didn’t have to—”

“I know.”

He opened it slowly, carefully peeling away the tape like he was afraid to ruin whatever was inside. When the lid came off, he stared.

It was a silver bracelet. Simple. Clean. The kind he could wear every day.

His thumb grazed the small engraving on the inside.

“with you, always.”

He didn’t speak right away. Instead, he closed the box gently, like sealing in something delicate. Then he stood up from his seat, the chair legs scraping softly against the floor, and walked toward you.

When he wrapped his arms around your waist, it wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud.

It was quiet. Steady. Honest.

His head lowered, resting gently against your shoulder. He didn’t say anything for a moment, just let out a breath, like this was what he’d been waiting for all day without realizing it.

“I really love it,” he murmured. “Thank you.”

You placed a hand gently on the back of his head. “I’m glad.”

He stayed there a little longer, his grip loosening just a bit, but his thoughts only tightening.

If only you knew how much of me is already yours.

He didn’t say that part out loud.

Instead, he let the silence speak for him, and held on a little longer.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Later that night, the three of them— Seungcheol, her, and a half-asleep Kkuma— ended up in his room instead of the living room like they’d originally planned. The shift was unspoken, effortless. His room always felt warmer anyway, a little smaller, a little softer. Familiar.

The bedside lamp was dim, casting golden shadows across the room. Outside, the city moved quietly beneath them, but in here, everything had settled into something quieter. Safer.

She was curled up next to him under a shared blanket, legs tucked beneath her and sweater sleeves pulled past her wrists. Kkuma was nestled in her lap, already asleep, little breaths even and steady.

Seungcheol scrolled through the movie options with one hand, trying to ignore how close she was. How she smelled like vanilla and clean laundry. How his heart had been pacing with a quiet urgency ever since dinner ended and they sat down together like this was just another normal night.

It wasn’t.

He turned to her with a small, knowing grin. “Let’s watch Made of Honor.”

She groaned. “Why this one again?”

“It’s funny and chaotic!” he said with a shrug, like it didn’t mean more than that.

She narrowed her eyes at him.

His heart stalled for a beat, but his smile didn’t falter.

She threw a handful of popcorn at him, laughing. He caught one piece in his mouth and grinned like an idiot, like this, her laughter, this version of home. It was something he could hold onto. Something he wanted to.

Eventually, her laughter faded into a soft, comfortable quiet. She leaned into his side, her head barely brushing his shoulder, but it was enough to make him forget the movie had even started. His body went still. Not rigid, just focused. Aware of her warmth, her presence, the weight of how easy this felt.

The movie played on, but his attention kept drifting. He’d seen this film enough times to memorize the lines, but tonight, the only thing he could memorize was the slope of her cheek in the golden light and how her fingers absentmindedly stroked Kkuma’s fur.

There was a part of him, maybe the reckless part, that wanted to reach for her hand. Just to hold it. Just to know how it felt to be allowed that much.

But he didn’t.

He never did.

By the time they were halfway through the second movie—Love, Rosie—her head had gently slipped onto his shoulder. Her breathing slowed. Eyes closed. Sleep found her easily.

Seungcheol turned his head to say something about the scene. He had a joke on the tip of his tongue. But the moment he looked down at her, words disappeared.

She was asleep, soft and unguarded. Kkuma had shifted, curling closer into her chest.

And he just… looked.

There was no other way to put it, he looked at her the way someone does when they’re trying to hold a moment still. Trying to memorize every detail so they could carry it through time.

She didn’t know.

She didn’t know how many versions of this moment lived in his memory. How many times he’d chosen silence just to keep things the way they were. How many times he’d wanted to say something and instead, just like now, said nothing at all.

But he loved her.

He loved her the way you love someone you never want to lose.

Quietly.

I hope you always feel how much I love you, he thought, staring at the way her face softened in sleep. Even when I say nothing at all.

He reached for the remote and clicked the screen off. The room dimmed into stillness. He adjusted the blanket, pulling it gently over her shoulder, tucking it beneath her chin like she’d done for him once months ago, when he’d fallen asleep on the couch after a rough night at practice.

Then he lay back, careful not to jostle her or wake Kkuma, and settled beside them.

He let himself stay like that. Close, quiet, content.

And just before sleep started to pull him under, he turned his head, eyes still on her.

“Goodnight,” he whispered. A pause. A breath.

“I love you.”

Soft. Gentle.

A secret tucked into the dark.

One she’d never hear.

Not yet.

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amyzworldds · 1 month ago

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Part two: Weight of Words

Masterlist | Part 1

After a wave of online hate and a painful misunderstanding with Seventeen, Y/N locks herself in her vibrant apartment, leaving the 13 boys anxious and restless. Pairing: Seventeen x 14th member Genre: Heavy angst, Fluff, Humor

Y/N sat motionless on her living room floor, surrounded by the vibrant chaos of her personality—pink pillows, green rugs, quirky trinkets—but it felt like a stranger’s space now. Her tears had dried up, hours of crying leaving her empty, eyes red and swollen, staring blankly at nothing. The room was silent, suffocatingly so. Normally, she’d be video-calling the boys, cackling over how they’d never escape her—“You’re stuck with me! New houses, new families, I’ll still haunt you!”—her voice bouncing off the walls. But tonight, the quiet pressed in, a heavy shroud over her shattered confidence. She felt hollow, a shell of the Y/N they’d always known.

The doorbell jolted her, sharp and insistent. She blinked, sluggish, and glanced at the monitor—13 familiar faces crowded her doorstep, their expressions tense. Her heart lurched, but she didn’t move, frozen by the weight of seeing them. Then the knocking started—loud, relentless—her phone buzzing with calls, texts pinging. Seungcheol’s message flashed: “Answer or we bang this door ‘til your neighbors hate us. Open up, Y/N-ah.” The threat wasn’t empty; she knew they’d do it.

She dragged herself up, legs shaky, and cracked the door open, avoiding their eyes. “Hey,” she mumbled, turning fast, shuffling to the kitchen. “I’ll… get water.” Her voice was flat, a flimsy shield. She didn’t want them to see her—puffy eyes, messy hair, the wreck she’d become.

They filed in, the air shifting with their presence, but she kept her back to them, fumbling with glasses. Seungcheol’s voice cut through, low and steady. “Y/N-ah, stop. The manager showed us your text.”

She froze, glass clinking hard against the counter, her breath catching. “What… text?” she croaked, but she knew—“Do I need to leave the group?”—and dread coiled tight in her chest.

“Turn around,” Jeonghan said, softer but firm. “Look at us.”

She didn’t want to—couldn’t—but Hoshi stepped closer, voice trembling with urgency. “Y/N-ah, please. We’re not leaving ‘til you hear us.”

Reluctantly, she turned, eyes on the floor, hands gripping the counter. Seungcheol stepped forward, holding the manager’s phone out, her message glowing accusingly. “This,” he said, voice thick. “You think we want you gone?”

Her lip quivered, but she held it in, staring at her feet. Woozi spoke, sharp with guilt. “You heard us, didn’t you? That day—‘tone it down, act your age.’ You walked in and caught the worst part.”

“We know you misunderstood,” Joshua added, gentle but pained. “You didn’t hear us worrying—freaking out ‘cause the hate was killing you.”

“We didn’t mean change who you are!” Mingyu burst out, stepping closer, voice cracking. “We were scared—scared you’d break under it all!”

She shook her head, voice small. “But you said it—‘lay low, feminine, mature.’ I tried—I toned it down, I acted my age, whatever that means—and they still hate me.” Her eyes lifted, glassy, brimming. “I saw the video—me dodging Jeonghan oppa. They called me fake, a flirt anyway. I can’t win—I’m dragging you down—”

“No!” Seungkwan cut in, loud and fierce. “You’re not dragging us anywhere—you’re us! The bashers? We’ll handle them—screw what they think!”

“You think we want you gone?!” Hoshi yelled, eyes wide, stepping right up to her. “You’re our maknae—our chaos! We’d fall apart without you!”

Tears spilled then, hot and fast, and she couldn’t stop them. “I don’t know what to do!” she sobbed, voice breaking into a wail. “I tried—I changed, I hid, and it’s still not enough! They want me out—say I’m a disgrace, your weak spot—I trained so hard, and they—” She crumpled, hands flying to her face, crying like a child, raw and unfiltered. “I feel so alone—I can’t even be me anymore!”

Seungcheol surged forward, pulling her into his arms, tight and unyielding. “You’re not alone,” he said, voice rough with emotion. “You’re never alone—hear me? We’re right here.”

Jeonghan joined, wrapping around her from the side, voice soft. “We don’t want you different, Y/N-ah. We love you—wild, loud, clingy, all of it.”

“You’re not a disgrace,” Mingyu said, kneeling in front of her, tears in his eyes. “You’re our strength—our heart. Don’t you dare think otherwise.”

She sobbed harder, clinging to Seungcheol, words tumbling out. “I was so scared—you said ‘tone it down,’ and I thought… I thought you were ashamed of me! The hate—it’s everywhere—I can’t escape it!”

“We’re not ashamed,” Jun said, stepping up, voice firm despite the crack. “We were idiots—said it wrong. We wanted to protect you, not change you.”

“We’ll fight the hate,” Hoshi vowed, gripping her shoulder. “Post, call them out—whatever it takes. They don’t get to touch you.”

“You’re not leaving,” Seungkwan said, fierce, wiping his own tears. “Not over this—not ever. You’re stuck with us, got it?”

She nodded, a broken whimper escaping, and Dino piled in, hugging her waist. “You’re our Y/N-ah—our crazy, perfect maknae. No one’s taking you.”

Joshua’s voice was steady, warm. “You don’t have to pretend—not with us, not for anyone. Be you—that’s all we need.”

Her cries softened, trembling against Seungcheol’s chest as the others closed in, a protective circle. “I… I missed you,” she whispered, voice raw. “I didn’t know how to say it—I thought I’d ruin everything.”

“You could never ruin us,” Minghao murmured, ruffling her hair, his voice a lifeline. “You’re our family—cracks and all. We fix this together.”

She looked up, puffy-eyed, surrounded by them—her loud, messy, unshakable oppas—and the weight lifted, just a little. “I’m sorry,” she hiccupped. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Don’t be,” Wonwoo said, squeezing her hand. “Just don’t shut us out again—we can’t lose you.”

“Never,” she promised, a shaky laugh breaking through. “You’re stuck with me haunting you forever.”

“Good,” Hoshi grinned, wiping her tears. “That’s our Y/N.”

They stayed like that—huddled in her colorful chaos—comfort settling over the storm. She cried out her fears, they held her through it, and for the first time in days, the quiet wasn’t suffocating. It was home.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Y/N sat nestled in the middle of her living room, still sniffling but steadier now, wrapped in the warmth of her 13 boys. The tears had slowed, her sobs replaced by shaky breaths, their arms and words a cocoon of comfort. She leaned against Seungcheol’s shoulder, Wonwoo hand still squeezing hers, the others sprawled around her like a chaotic guard. The silence wasn’t suffocating anymore—it was soft, safe. Then, a loud, unmistakable growl rumbled from her stomach, cutting through the tender moment like a foghorn.

She froze, eyes widening, then looked up at them, puffy-faced but indignant. “I’m hungry,” she announced, voice small but firm, blinking at their startled faces. “Where’s the food?”

The boys blinked back, caught off guard. “Uh…” Seungcheol started, scratching his neck. “We… didn’t bring any.”

Her jaw dropped, dramatic as ever, and she pulled back, staring at them like they’d committed treason. “What?!” she yelped, voice pitching up. “You didn’t bring food?!”

“We were worried!” Mingyu protested, hands up. “We saw that text and bolted—food wasn’t exactly on our minds!”

“Yeah, Y/N-ah,” Hoshi chimed in, grinning sheepishly. “We were too busy panicking about you leaving us!”

She stomped her foot—full maknae mode—pouting hard, her old spark flickering back. “That’s no excuse!” she wailed, crossing her arms, lips jutting out. “You know I’m sad—you know I’m a mess—and you show up empty-handed?! What kind of members are you?!”

Seungkwan snorted, trying to hide a laugh. “The kind who drove across Seoul at 8 p.m. to save you from yourself!”

“Save me with food!” she shot back, thumping her foot again, her pout deepening into a masterpiece. “I’ve been crying all day—my stomach’s screaming—and you didn’t even grab a ramyeon pack? A chip bag? Anything?!”

Jeonghan chuckled, ruffling her hair. “We thought you needed hugs, not snacks, drama queen.”

“Hugs and snacks!” she corrected, swatting his hand but leaning into it anyway. “I’m starving—I could die right here, and it’d be your fault!”

“Don’t die!” Dino yelped, clutching her arm, half-serious. “We’ll get you food—just don’t faint on us!”

“Too late,” she groaned, flopping back against Seungcheol with a theatrical sigh. “I’m fading… betrayed by my own family… no food, no hope…”

Seungcheol laughed, steadying her. “Alright, alright—calm down, you little monster. We’ll fix it.”

“Fix it now!” she demanded, sitting up, eyes glinting with mock fury. “You can’t just storm in, make me cry more, and not feed me! I deserve ramyeon—spicy ramyeon—and ice cream! And gummies!”

“Gummies too?” Joshua teased, grinning. “You’re pushing it, Y/N-ah.”

“Yes, gummies!” she huffed, pointing at him. “I’ve suffered—suffered!—and you owe me!”

Mingyu smirked, pulling out his phone. “Fine, princess—what’s your order? I’ll get it delivered.”

“Everything,” she declared, arms flailing. “Ramyeon, fried chicken, tteokbokki, ice cream—chocolate, not vanilla, disgusting—gummies, chips—spicy chips, not the lame ones—and soda! Lots of soda!”

“That’s a feast,” Woozi said, raising an eyebrow but smiling. “You’re back to bossing us around already?”

“Damn right,” she sniffed, wiping her nose with a pout. “I’m sad and hungry—you messed up, so you fix it!”

“Okay, okay!” Hoshi laughed, throwing his hands up. “Mingyu, order it—our maknae’s gonna riot if we don’t!”

“On it,” Mingyu said, tapping away. “But if you eat all that, you’re not fitting through the door tomorrow.”

“Then carry me!” she shot back, sticking her tongue out. “You’re tall—use it!”

The room erupted in laughter, the tension melting as her tantrum—dramatic, pouty, pure Y/N—filled the space. Seungcheol grinned, pulling her into a side hug. “There’s our girl—whiny and all.”

“Don’t call me whiny!” she protested, shoving him but snuggling closer. “I’m justified! You starved me!”

“We didn’t starve you,” Jeonghan teased, poking her cheek. “You starved yourself—big difference.”

“Semantics!” she huffed, swatting him again. “You’re all terrible—I should’ve known you’d forget food!”

“We’ll never forget again,” Seungkwan vowed, mock-serious, hand over his heart. “Next time, we’ll bring a buffet!”

“You better!” she grumbled, but a small giggle slipped out, her pout softening. “I’m still mad, though.”

“Mad and cute,” Hoshi said, pinching her cheek ‘til she yelped. “Welcome back, Y/N-ah.”

“Stop it!” she whined, flailing at him, but her smile broke through, bright and real. She looked around—13 goofy, worried, loving faces—and her stomach growled again, loud enough to make them laugh harder.

“Food’s on the way,” Mingyu announced, pocketing his phone. “Fifteen minutes—don’t die ‘til then.”

“I might!” she groaned, flopping onto the floor, arms spread. “Hurry it up, oppa—I’m fading!”

“You’re so dramatic,” Seungcheol chuckled, nudging her with his foot. “But we love it—don’t ever change.”

“Never,” she mumbled, grinning up at him, her old self peeking out, loud and unfiltered. The room buzzed with their banter, sweet and silly, the night turning warm again—food or not, she was home.

--------------------------------------------------------------

The food had long been devoured at Y/N’s apartment—ramyeon bowls empty, chicken bones scattered, tteokbokki sauce staining the table, and a half-melted tub of chocolate ice cream abandoned after Y/N’s dramatic brain freeze wail. The boys sprawled across her vibrant living room, a battlefield of wrappers and laughter—Hoshi swiping her gummies, Mingyu tipping soda on Seungkwan, who shrieked like a banshee. Y/N was back to her old self—pouty, loud, thumping her feet when DK teased her—but the shadow of hate lingered in their minds, a fight unfinished.

By midnight, they’d cleaned out the snacks, and Y/N dozed off mid-rant about Hoshi’s chopstick fumbles, her head drooping onto Seungcheol’s shoulder. The boys traded looks, the quiet settling heavy. “She’s okay here,” Joshua whispered, smiling softly. “But out there? It’s still a war.”

“She thinks she’s our weak link,” Woozi said, voice low, guilt sharp. “We can’t let that stick.”

Seungcheol nodded, jaw tight. “We shut it down—tonight. All 13 of us.”

“Weverse,” Jeonghan said, pulling out his phone. “Blast the haters—show them she’s ours.”

“With pics!” Hoshi grinned, eyes glinting. “She was a disaster crying—perfect ammo.”

“She’ll murder us,” Mingyu laughed, scrolling his gallery. “Got one—puffy eyes, snot central.”

“Gold,” Seungkwan snickered, leaning in. “She’ll hate it, but it’s peak Y/N.”

They huddled, phones glowing, drafting as Y/N snored softly, oblivious. Seungcheol kicked it off, typing with resolve: “To anyone hating on our Y/N—stop now. She’s our maknae, our sunshine, and you don’t get to tear her down for being her.”

Jeonghan smirked, adding: “She laughs loud, clings hard, cries messy—that’s Y/N, and we love it all. You’ve got no right to judge.”

Hoshi cackled, typing fast: “Chaos queen—keeps us alive with her madness. Hate her? You’re blind—check this!” He attached a photo—Y/N mid-sob, eyes swollen, mouth gaping, tissues jammed up her nose.

“She’ll kill you,” Dino wheezed, laughing. “I’ve got her pouting over food!” He added it—Y/N stomping, cheeks puffed, glaring teary-eyed.

Mingyu grinned, typing: “Weak spot? Nah—she’s our strength. Keeps us laughing when we’re dead. Back off.” His pic—Y/N flailing at Hoshi, mid-tantrum, hair wild.

Seungkwan smirked: “Not fake, not a flirt—just Y/N. Twist it, that’s your problem. We’ll fight for her—always.” His shot—Y/N sprawled, “dying” from hunger, tongue lolling.

Woozi kept it sharp: “She’s not leaving—ever. She’s SEVENTEEN. Deal with it.” His pic—Y/N mid-rant, pointing fiercely, face red.

Joshua softened it: “She’s our light—don’t dim her with hate. We love her loud, goofy chaos—always.” His shot—Y/N giggling, ice cream on her cheek, hugging him.

Minghao stepped in, calm but firm, typing: “She’s real—raw, unfiltered. That’s her power. You don’t get to break it.” His photo—Y/N mid-laugh, sprawled on the couch, soda can tipping in her hand.

Jun grinned, adding: “She’s our wild card—makes every day fun. Hate’s got no place here!” His pic—Y/N fake-wrestling him for the last gummy, her grin huge.

Wonwoo’s voice was quiet, steady: “She’s our spark—don’t snuff it out. We need her, just like this.” His shot—Y/N napping earlier, curled against Seungcheol, a tissue dangling from her fist, peaceful but messy.

Vernon typed coolly: “She’s real—hate’s fake. Let her shine.” His pic—Y/N mid-chip-steal, smirking at Mingyu.

DK laughed, adding: “Her laugh’s our anthem—don’t mute it!” His shot—Y/N fake-sobbing over spilled soda, theatrical as ever.

Dino finished the lineup: “She’s my twin maknae—hands off! We’re 13 plus 1—complete.” His pic—Y/N dangling gummies from her mouth, grinning like a gremlin.

Seungcheol capped it, fierce: “She’s ours—13 of us say so. Hate her, you hate us. Stop—now.” His photo—Y/N asleep now, puffy-faced but calm, nestled against him.

“Post it,” Jeonghan said, grinning. “All 13—complete.”

They hit send in unison, 13 Weverse accounts flaring to life, a goofy, fierce fortress of love. Comments flooded—Carats roaring support, haters reeling—but they ignored it, watching Y/N twitch in her sleep, mumbling something about “ramyeon.”

“She’s gonna lose it over those pics,” Hoshi whispered, stifling a laugh.

“Let her,” Mingyu said, smirking. “She’ll yell, but she’ll feel it.”

“Feel what?” Seungkwan asked, grinning.

“That she’s ours,” Seungcheol said, brushing her hair back. “Exactly how she is.”

“Even when she’s a snotty mess?” Jun teased, nodding at Hoshi’s photo.

“Especially then,” Wonwoo said, a rare smile tugging his lips.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Overnight, SEVENTEEN’s Weverse post exploded, rocketing to the top of every trending list. The 13 boys’ unified defense of Y/N—complete with her snotty, teary, tantrum-filled photos—lit up the internet. Carats went wild, flooding comments with laughter and love: “Hoshi posting her with tissues up her nose—ICONIC!” “Mingyu’s ‘weak spot? nah’ with her flailing—kings defending their queen!” “This is a real group—13 plus 1, no fakes here!” They booed the haters mercilessly—“Cry more, antis—SEVENTEEN said NOPE!”—and turned the goofy pics into memes, Y/N’s wails and pouts plastered everywhere with captions like “When your members love you but roast you too.” The fandom reveled in it—real, raw, unfiltered Seventeen shining through.

By dawn, it was headline news—“SEVENTEEN Slams Haters in Viral Weverse Post, Defends Maknae Y/N With Hilarious Photos”—every article featuring the boys’ words alongside shots of her mid-cry, mid-tantrum, mid-“dying” from hunger. The tide flipped fast. Netizens who’d bashed her now backpedaled, drowned out by a wave of support. Videos surfaced—Y/N cackling with Mingyu over a spilled drink, pranking Woozi with a water gun, hugging Jeonghan so hard he toppled—proof of her light, her chaos, her heart. Posts multiplied: “She’s not a pick-me—she’s their sunshine,” “This is why SEVENTEEN’s untouchable—real family.” The narrative shifted—her laugh, her wildness, her tears celebrated, not cursed.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Morning broke at Y/N’s apartment, the boys crashed across her living room—Seungcheol on the couch, Hoshi sprawled on the rug, Mingyu half-off a chair, the rest a tangle of limbs and snores. They’d stayed, too tired to leave after their midnight mission, Y/N tucked into her bed after nodding off mid-ice-cream rant. Then—

“WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!” Her scream shattered the peace, piercing enough to rattle the walls. The boys jolted awake, groaning, blinking as Y/N stormed in, phone in hand, eyes blazing.

“Y/N-ah, what—” Seungcheol started, rubbing his eyes, but she cut him off, waving her phone like a weapon.

“YOU POSTED THESE?!” she shrieked, scrolling through Weverse, her voice hitting operatic heights. “My crying face?! Snot everywhere?! Tissues up my nose?! HOSHI-OPPA, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”

Hoshi cackled, sitting up. “It’s cute! Look—Carats love it!”

“CUTE?!” she bellowed, stomping her foot. “I look like a gremlin! And you—all of you—put it EVERYWHERE! HEADLINES, OPPA! ‘SEVENTEEN DEFENDS Y/N’—WITH THIS?!?!” She shoved the screen at them—a news article with her wailing, captioned “Maknae’s Tears Win Hearts.”

Mingyu smirked, stretching. “Worked, didn’t it? Haters are gone—fans are obsessed.”

“OBSESSED WITH MY UGLY FACE!” she wailed, flopping onto the couch, dramatic as ever. “I’m complaining all day—you’re all dead to me!”

“Aw, Y/N-ah,” Jeonghan teased, grinning. “You’re alive again—yelling means you’re back.”

“Back to haunt you!” she snapped, pointing at him. “You let them post me looking like a drowned rat!”

“It’s not that bad,” Joshua said, laughing. “You’re adorable—snot and all.”

“ADORABLE?!” she screeched, clutching her head. “I’m a disaster! And now the world thinks it’s AI—I mean, it’s not me, right? That’s not my face!”

“Totally you,” Seungkwan snickered, dodging her swat. “Carats are calling it ‘peak maknae energy.’”

“I hate you all!” she groaned, burying her face in a pillow, muffled. “Why didn’t you use pretty pics? I’m cute sometimes!”

“You’re always cute,” Dino said, patting her back. “Even crying.”

“LIES!” she shouted, popping up, pout in full force. “I’m fixing this—right now!” She grabbed her phone, furiously tapping, muttering, “Stupid oppas—stupid headlines—AI my foot…”

She stormed to her room, slamming the door, and the boys erupted in laughter. “She’s posting,” Woozi said, smirking. “Bet it’s a revenge glow-up.”

Minutes later, her Weverse pinged—Y/N’s post: “Since my members think THESE are okay [screenshots of their pics], here’s the REAL me. News people—USE THESE. That crying mess? AI, not me. I’m pretty, see?!” Attached were her best shots—smiling with coffee, winking in stage makeup, laughing in sunlight—zero snot, all shine.

The boys crowded Seungcheol’s phone, howling. “She’s savage!” Hoshi said, wiping tears. “AI—not her!”

“She’s delusional,” Mingyu laughed. “Those crying pics are 100% her—I took half of ‘em!”

“She’s back-back,” Jun grinned, scrolling Carat replies—“Y/N said NO to the snot pics!” “Queen reclaiming her throne!”

Seungcheol chuckled, leaning back. “Haters are toast, she’s yelling—she’s good.”

“She’ll still kill us,” Minghao said, smirking. “But it’s worth it.”

“Totally,” Wonwoo added, rare grin flashing. “She’s our mess—pretty or not.”

Y/N burst out, still pouting. “You’re all on dish duty for this! And I want more chicken—payback!”

“Yes, ma’am,” Seungcheol saluted, grinning as they groaned. The room buzzed—her tantrum, their laughter, the world flipping to her side. The headlines could keep the tears; she’d claimed her shine, and her 13 members had her back—goofy pics and all.

--------------------------------------------------------------

an: hello again! I’m trying my best to mention all the members, but I keep losing track—oops! I’m also trying my best to capture their personalities in each dialogue HAHAHAHA! Thank you so much for reading—I hope you enjoy it!🫶🏻

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kooqitas · 6 months ago

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have you ever tried this one? - svt hiphop unit fav positions 🔞

★ m.list | inbox

scoups: all fours/dog style

cheol loves to fuck you anyway, but when you put your face in the pillow and stick your ass up as much as you can he fucks you like an animal, spanks your ass calling you a whore, pushes your head even further against the pillow, suffocating you there, and then pulls your hair hard. he likes to see you grabbing the sheets while you moan his name, he likes to bring his mouth close to your ear just to whisper that he's going to make you leak his cum.

wonwoo: sideways

they say that to fuck sideways you need to have a big dick, and well... wonwoo has that, he loves to fuck you sideways, feel your whole ass glued to him while he thrusts you faster and harder, he always alternates what to do with his hands, sometimes he plays with your nipple, sometimes he touches your clit, sometimes he chokes you and sometimes he puts some fingers in your mouth for you to choke, and every time you cum screaming his name, cum hard while he calls you a 'dumb bitch'.

vernon: ride

hansol is always in control of the situation, except when you're on top of him, the man seems to lose all and any sense when you ride him, he never knows whether to grab you and encourage you to go faster and harder or just let you have fun on his cock, fuck, he cums so fast in this position that it's pathetic, but damn, he can't resist seeing your tits bouncing in front of him while you moan like a slut, and you also cum embarrassingly fast, feeling how completely desperate vernon is with your pussy

mingyu: standing

mingyu doesn't go to the gym for nothing, damn what he likes to do most is to hold you in his arms while he fucks you, without the support of the wall, without the support of a table, chair, or anything, he likes to see you completely held by him, the way his arms move along with his big dick to go deeper and deeper, you always see stars when this happens, mingyu using all his strength just to eat you, making a point of saying all the time how much he's opening you, how deep he's going, that he's going to destroy your pussy, damn, mingyu is insane...

!! join my taglist

@highvivvy @bath1lda @unlikelysublimekryptonite

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ktownshizzle · 28 days ago

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Nerd & Nerdier | Finale

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x reader, Jeon Wonwoo x reader; endgame? x reader ✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluff, Attempt At Comedy, Roommates au, Love triangle

✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: Moving in with two introverts should have been easy. Not when it’s Min Yoongi and Jeon Wonwoo, who decide they both want you. Unhinged, awkward, and nerdy as hell, they proceed to compete for your attention in the most unnecessarily dramatic fashion that culminates into a… rap battle.

✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: Wildly gratuitous, 100% chance you’ll fall in love with both of them so that’s a problem, no mxm dynamics to be expected (kinda)

✎ ˎˊ˗ Chapter Warnings: MDNI 18+, overuse of the word fuck, yoongi GOING THROUGH IT!, pop culture references (pokemon, inzoi), drunken shenanigans, second hand embarrassment, unprotected sex (be smarter tho), everybody gets a happy ending

✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 6k hooray! ✎ ˎˊ˗ Posting date: April 1, 2025

✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Not a joke! The finale is here!

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 | Ch 4 | Ch 5 | Ch 6

Yoongi yeets himself out of the apartment. Gets the fuck out of there and walks to the ends of the earth for all he cares.

He stuffs his hands inside his pockets. It’s freezing but the wind feels like a welcome punishment against his face. He needed to be numb.

Shit. He’s already down to his last cigarette, and he’s barely halfway through the block when he lights it with shaking fingers.

The smoke burns. His throat burns.

And still, not as bad as what he saw. And in his own home no less.

Granted he shared it with you and Wonwoo. But that doesn’t give you fuckers the right to….

He stops and knocks his forehead against a lamp post. Twice. Thrice.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He’s gonna kill Namjoon for forcing him to go to that songwriting retreat. And Hoseok for sending Namjoon that email invite.

The last 10 minutes stick in his brain like gum—right on the amygdala, where all the worst things like to linger.

The way you kiss Wonwoo like he was it. Like he was the one. Like the last few weeks meant nothing. Like your message yesterday meant nothing.

He doesn’t know why he stood there long enough to register the way Wonwoo touched your face, the way you let him.

The way you said you knew it was him from the beginning. He didn’t wait to hear the rest.

Didn’t need to. Couldn’t bear to.

Fuck that shit, honestly. Wonwoo wasn’t the only gamer in that house. You played him, too.

After walking around, picking up stuff (alcohol, cigarettes), Yoongi ends up at Genius Rkives.

The place is empty—blessedly, quietly empty as Namjoon is probably just getting settled in his own home. As he should.

The studio smells like incense and a bit like old wood. It’s comforting, in a way. At least this place hasn’t changed even if everything else fucking has.

He slumps onto their old leather couch and stares at nothing for a long, long time. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink (probably).

Just sits there, hoodie over his head, cigarette ashes still clinging to the smell of his skin, contemplating how the hell he got blindsided.

Before he blacks out he does one thing that he’ll regret in a few days. He blocks you.

He spends the next few days in the studio, hunched over tracks he is unable to finish. Everything sounds hollow now. Like someone else made it. Like none of it fucking matters.

He doesn’t eat. Drinks more coffee than water. Doesn’t sleep unless he passes out from sheer exhaustion.

“You look like shit,” Namjoon says casually, tossing a banana on the table. “Eat something.”

Yoongi doesn’t even look up. He does take the banana, peels it, and scarfs down half in a single bite.

Namjoon studies him for a second. “Wanna talk about it?”

Mouthful of fruit, Yoongi exhales a humorless laugh. “Nah.”

And that’s that.

On the fourth night, when the silence is too loud and even his own thoughts start sounding like white noise, he opens Instagram. You’ve posted something a few minutes ago.

Just a dim photo of the living room. One mug on the table.

The photo is accompanied by a single word: Empty

Yoongi stares at it and his throat dries up.

It’s his coffee mug. The same one he uses everyday because he is a creature of habit.

“Shit,” he mutters to no one.

Because he doesn’t know what it means. Doesn’t know if it’s about him. Doesn’t know if he wants it to be.

All he knows is that he hasn’t stopped thinking about you.

About how you said you missed him. (And the fact that he misses you, too. So damn much.)

About how he thought—really thought—he was the one you wanted.

But all he can picture is the way Wonwoo held you like he probably had every night he was gone.

And now he’s feeling just like your caption.

He hasn’t been getting your texts. But he has been getting Wonwoo’s.

Wonwoo: Hyung. Can we talk?

Yoongi stares at the notification.

Nah.

Talk?

Talk about what?

Talk about how he was standing there—hands on your waist, mouth on your lips—the girl Yoongi was in love with?

Yeah, no thanks.

He doesn’t answer. Just slips on his headphones and drowns himself in half-finished mixes until the sky turns pink and the ache in his chest numbs into something dull and half-dead.

The next morning, another message comes in.

Wonwoo: Unblock her

Yoongi scoffs, almost laughs. Who the fuck does he think he is, barking orders like that?

He’s ready to swipe and block his ass too when another message lands.

Wonwoo: She chose you Wonwoo: Not me

That one stops him cold.

He stares at the screen until it fades to black.

He doesn’t reply.

Not right away.

Not until five hours later, halfway through a bottle of Cass, a dull burn crawling up his throat, your voice echoing in the hollow of his skull like some stubborn loop he can’t mute.

He types.

Deletes.

Types again.

And finally hits send.

Yoongi: Didn't look like it

Then shuts his phone off completely.

Because if he sees one more message tonight, he might actually break.

He’s pissed. And hurt. And yeah, maybe Wonwoo doesn’t get to boss him around. But he followed the instruction anyway.

He unblocks you.

And then passes the fuck out.

The moment he opens his phone. A barrage of pings irritates his eardrums. He’s mildly surprised it’s all from you.

You: Yoongi. Are you okay? You: Please come home You: I miss you You: It was a mistake

You: I’m sorry

He wishes he had it in him to hate you.

It would be easier. Cleaner. Simpler.

But all he feels is the ugly twist in his gut. That soft ache behind his ribs. That voice in his head that still wants to believe there’s a version of the story where you picked him first.

He throws the phone across the couch and covers his face with his hands.

His chest rises, falls. Rises, falls.

He breathes like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

You’re drunk.

Not a little tipsy. Not that cute, flirty kind of drunk. You’re talking full-blown, slurred speech, bit of drool on your chin drunk.

And the worst part?

So is Wonwoo.

“Where the fuck is he?” you whine from the floor, your head tilted back dramatically against the couch as you shovel cold ramyeon into your mouth with chopsticks.

Wonwoo lets out a groan from where he’s collapsed half-on, half-off the bean bag. “You think he died?”

You blink at him. “He viewed my Instagram story three days ago.”

Wonwoo nods solemnly. “So not dead. Just dramatic.”

You groan and roll onto your side. “God, he’s such a little bitch.”

“Agreed,” Wonwoo mutters, clinking his empty glass against your half-full one. “Still hot, though.”

Present-you accepts that as a drunken truth. But future-you would look back and wonder—Did Wonwoo just call Yoongi hot?

“Stupidly hot,” you mumble to your drink anyway.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then you both burst out laughing. Hysterical, ugly, half-sobbing laughter. You’re crying into your noodles. Wonwoo is hugging an empty soju bottle like it owes him money.

You sit up suddenly, noodles still hanging from your mouth.

“I’m texting him again.”

Wonwoo lifts his head. “Do it.”

You fish your phone from the couch cushions, squint at the screen, and thumb open your messages.

You don’t even think about your words before hitting send… multiple times. Afterwards, you throw the phone onto the couch like it’s on fire and collapse into a giggling mess.

“I did it,” you whisper, horrified and proud all at once.

Wonwoo lifts his fist for a drunk high five. “You’re so brave.”

The phone remains silent.

But somewhere in the dark, you hope Yoongi is reading those texts—and that maybe, just maybe, he’ll find it in his heart to give you a chance.

Yoongi isn’t drunk, but he is a little buzzed.

The kind of buzzed that makes the edges of his thoughts feel a little cottony, blurry.

He’s sitting on the couch in Hoseok’s apartment—legs kicked up on the coffee table, one hand holding a beer, the other lazily scrolling through his phone, until your name pops up. And it’s not one text. It’s… a flood.

You: yo You: yoongi You: yoooooooongiiiiiii You: you crusty sexy neckless bastard You: why did you ghost me You: your flowers are DEAD You: i’m DEAD You: wonwoo’s crying You: not really You: but i am You: pls COME HOME You: i can explain You: im sorry You: IDIOT You: i miss youu

He groans.

Hoseok in the kitchen calls out, “What’s going on, hyung?”

Yoongi just grunts, because what the fuck.

He reads the messages again. And again. He scrolls up and down like the words might rearrange themselves into something easier to process.

His thumb hovers over the keyboard.

Then pulls back.

Then hovers again.

He should ignore it. It’s drunk nonsense. He can hear your voice in the excess vowels.

But it’s the last one that fucks him up.

He swipes a hand over his face and exhales sharply, the sound catching somewhere in his throat.

Yoongi doesn’t melt easily. He’s not the type. He gets pissed before he gets soft. Gets silent before he gets sentimental. But goddamn you. Goddamn the way your words still manage to punch through the walls he’s put up.

He opens your text thread and coincidentally another message slips through.

It’s a gif. A Pokemon gif of all things. Of Ash throwing a poke ball saying: Pikachu I choose you.

God you are so fucking WEIRD. But saying that did not endear him to you further would be a vicious lie.

He groans. Stares at the blank message and finally types..

Yoongi: you idiot Yoongi: i’m coming home

Then he grabs his coat, slides on his headphones, and steps into the night.

He misses you too. Bad. But he doesn’t say it back. At least not through text.

Yoongi doesn’t expect a grand homecoming when he pushes the door open. But a little groveling wouldn’t have hurt.

Instead, he’s greeted by the sight of you passed out on the couch, limbs tangled in a blanket, lips parted in the softest little snore. Wonwoo’s slumped nearby, equally unconscious, an empty soju bottle balanced dangerously on his knee.

A cornucopia of soju and ramen, and chips lie in the center like it was The Hunger Games and these two lost.

He shakes his head, sighs. He should be angry. But all he feels is that he missed you. Both of you. Being here and being home.

First order of business: get Wonwoo to his room. Yoongi somehow manages it, half-dragging, half-guiding the much taller man down the hall. Tucks him in, even takes off his glasses and sets them gently on the bedside table so he doesn’t roll over them in his sleep.

Then there’s you.

Still curled up on the couch, one sock half off, hair a mess, hugging an unopened bag of shrimp chips like it’s a stuffed animal.

Yoongi runs a hand through his hair and exhales before crouching down beside the couch.

You’re drooling a little. And your shirt is halfway riding up your stomach.

He mutters a curse under his breath, hooks one arm beneath your knees, another around your shoulders, and lifts you up—bridal style. You’re actually heavy and your limbs flop like you’re some tranquilized wild animal (in some ways you are), but he grunts and tries his best not to drop you.

You stir slightly as he wobbles toward your room.

Then you blink. And blink again. Before your eyes go wide. “Oh my God.”

Yoongi pauses. “…What?”

“Are you—are you real?” you whisper, voice raspy and full of awe. “Is this really you, Yoongi?”

He blinks. “Yeah?”

“You look so gooood in person.”

Yoongi huffs a laugh. “Shut up.”

“Your arms are so toned, oh my god. Did you work out when you were away?”

“You’re drunk.”

“You’re hot.” You grin. “I’d totally hit that.”

He mutters a very pained “Jesus Christ” as he kicks your door open.

But he’s smiling. He can’t help it. He’s so fond.

You look up at him with those glassy eyes, and your voice softens, barely a whisper now. “I love you, you know. Like, a lot. I cried every night you were gone.”

Something in his chest squeezes. Almost painfully. Before mild annoyance settles with it. This is not how we thought he would hear those words for the first time. Why are you like this?! But fuck, you love him.

“You’re drunk,” he says again, but this time his voice is lower, shakier.

You nod solemnly. “And honest.”

He lays you down gently on your bed, pulling the covers over you with the same care he gave Wonwoo earlier.

He disappears into the bathroom for a second, comes back with a warm washcloth, and kneels by your bed to wipe the sheen of soju from your cheeks and the corner of your mouth.

You hum under your breath. “Stay.”

Yoongi pauses mid swipe.

“Stay forever,” you add, breath catching. “Please, Yoongi?”

He looks at you. Really looks at you.

And maybe it’s the way your voice broke when you said his name, or the way your fingers weakly reach for the sleeve of his hoodie, or the way you look so impossibly small and soft in the dim light—but he knows he’s not going anywhere.

Not tonight.

Not if he can help it.

“Okay,” he whispers.

He climbs in beside you, lets you curl into him without hesitation. Big spoon to little spoon, arms wrapped around your middle like he’s willing to protect you from all kinds of harm.

You sigh. Melt into him like you were made to fit there.

And finally—finally—Yoongi sleeps.

Not the restless kind. The kind he can only get when he’s home.

The first thing you register is the headache.

The second is the unfamiliar weight around your waist.

You blink blearily at the soft morning light spilling through your curtains, your mouth dry as sandpaper and your brain moving at the speed of a buffering livestream. Everything hurts. Your body, your stomach, your eyeballs.

You shift slightly—just enough to turn your head.

Shit.

Yoongi. Yoongi is in your bed.

Your erstwhile missing roommate, Yoongi.

Your potential boyfriend but you fucked it up by getting caught making out with another man, Yoongi.

Yoongi, whose legs are tangled with yours beneath the blanket, one arm snug around your waist like it belongs there.

Mild heart attack. Bile threatening to rise up. You need to get out of bed.

But before you can do that, a deep, groggy voice rumbles behind you. “Stop squirming.”

You freeze like an Inzoi character on pause. You don’t even breathe so you're starting to get lightheaded.

Yoongi inhales deeply against your hair, retracts his arm.

“Drink your aspirin,” he murmurs. “It’s on the table.”

Your eyes flick to the nightstand. Sure enough, a glass of water and a single pill sit waiting. Your hand trembles slightly as you reach for it, trying not to disturb him, which is hard because the bed is tiny and he’s very much in your space.

You wash it down in one gulp. Set the glass back.

“You’re awake,” you whisper.

“No shit,” he grumbles, still not opening his eyes. “You elbowed me in the ribs three times.”

You wince. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he exhales, the air warm against your nape. “Was worth it.”

Your heart stutters.

And then—

“Holy shit,” you whisper, panic climbing in your throat as some memories start to flood back in–lots of junk food and soju with Wonwoo, laughing and then crying, Yoongi’s face close to yours, telling him you love him. “Did I—what did I say last night?”

Yoongi’s silence is a little too smug, and he shifts to roll away from you.

“Yoongi,” you hiss, trying to turn him, but he is immovable.

“You were drunk.”

“I know. I mean, did I—” You bite your lip. “Just tell me what I said.”

A beat passes.

“You said I was hot.”

You groan, burying your face in the pillow. “Please tell me that was it.”

“You also said you’d totally hit that.”

“Oh god.”

“And,” Yoongi continues, drawling now, “you confessed your undying love.”

You shut your eyes. “Kill me.”

He chuckles. “Nah.”

He shifts to face you back and this time you’re the one to pull away but the weight of his arm around you sinks in. You’re both lying there, warm, drowsy, tangled up in the morning haze.

“…You stayed,” you whisper.

He hums. “You asked me to.”

Your fingers curl into the edge of the blanket. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just presses a gentle kiss against your clothed shoulder, his breath slow, steady.

“Go back to sleep,” he murmurs. “We’ll talk later.”

You want to ask what later means. Want to know where this is going. But for now, your head is pounding and Yoongi’s body is warm against yours and it feels like the safest place on earth.

So you let him hold you.

And you close your eyes.

You must’ve dozed off again because the next time you wake, Yoongi’s no longer spooning you (sad)—he’s sitting on the edge of your bed, elbows on his knees, face in his hands.

He looks like he’s been sitting there for a while.

“Yoongi?”

He doesn’t look at you immediately, just rubs a palm down his face. When he does glance your way, his expression is hard to read—tired, maybe. A little wrecked around the edges.

“We should talk,” he says quietly.

You sit up, pulling the blanket around you like armor. “Yeah.”

Silence stretches for a few seconds.

Yoongi looks down at his hands.

“I saw you,” he says. “The night I came back.”

Fuck. You knew this fact, but shame pricks at you anyways as he says it.

“Wonwoo.” His jaw clenches. “You. In the living room. You were saying things to him.”

Your stomach sinks.

He exhales through his nose, sharp and fast. “You said you loved me. But what was that?”

You bite your lip. Hard. “Yoongi…” You move forward, reaching out—slowly—until your fingers graze his wrist. “I didn’t pick him.”

His eyes flick to you, guarded.

“I know.” You nod, guilt curling tight around your ribs. “I know what it looked like. And I don’t blame you for leaving.”

You swallow hard, gathering the words you’ve been holding back.

“He asked me to pretend. Just for a second. Just to know what it felt like to be loved back. And I—I should’ve said no. But he looked so hurt, so I just… I should have said no.”

Yoongi doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t pull away either.

“It was wrong,” you continue. “It wasn’t fair to you. Or him. But I swear, that night, and even before that, I already knew it was you. I was just waiting for you to come home to tell you. But yeah, that happened, and, fuck, I’m so sorry.”

Yoongi is quiet. Too quiet. His face was unreadable. God you royally fucked this up.

You shift closer, your voice softer now. “I love you, Min Yoongi. It’s not a drunk confession, it’s not a mistake. I wanted you from the start. I still want you. And I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

You hold your breath. Wait.

Then—

“Fuck,” Yoongi mutters, running both hands through his hair. “How do you say shit like that and expect me to stay mad?”

You let out a breathy laugh, relief washing over you.

He turns to face you fully now, his gaze softer—still raw, but softer. “You’re lucky I’m obsessed with you.”

You blink. “Obsessed?”

“Biblically,” he deadpans, lips forming a straight line.

Your laugh bubbles out before you can stop it.

Yoongi leans in, pressing his forehead to yours. “Don’t do that again.”

You shake your head.

Then he kisses you, just lightly, before pulling you back into the cushions with a grumble, “if Wonwoo ever asks to roleplay as me again, you tell me and I’m gonna kick his ass.”

You snort, settling into his arms. “That feels fair.”

“Damn right it is.”

And with that, Yoongi wraps you up like he’s never letting go again.

It takes a couple days.

Yoongi doesn’t go out of his way to avoid Wonwoo—but he doesn’t go out of his way to talk to him either. They move around the apartment like polite strangers. It’s getting super awkward and depressing. You almost wanted to start scheduling the bathroom in shifts.

But you give them space. Let them figure it out. Because before you came into their lives, they were good friends, almost brothers even. And you know they’re both good men whose love for each other runs deep despite their stoic facades.

Sometimes you’d leave Yoongi’s favorite album quietly in the background whenever you’re in the living room, because you know Wonwoo still lingers near the door when it’s on. You know he misses him too.

The truce finally comes on a Wednesday.

You’re out grocery shopping—on purpose—when it happens.

Yoongi’s in the kitchen, a mug of black coffee in hand, when Wonwoo walks in wearing a hoodie two sizes too big and the face of someone who’s been up editing for twelve hours straight.

They stand in silence for a second.

Then Yoongi gestures to his mug. “You need this more than I do.”

Wonwoo blinks. “Hyung...”

“Yeah, yeah, just take it.” Yoongi waves his hand dismissively.

Wonwoo’s fingers finally close in on the mug, bringing it towards his lips. “…Thanks, hyung.”

Yoongi hums, looking out the window.

Wonwoo hesitates. “I’m sorry. For… all of it.”

Yoongi doesn’t look at him. Just stares into space. “I know.”

Wonwoo exhales. “Shoulda taken the L like I promised. But I just—liked her. I thought maybe I had a shot. Thought I could handle it. But I didn’t expect to care about you both this much.”

Yoongi finally glances over, eyes tired but not unkind. “Big mad I had to see that shit, though.”

Wonwoo cringes. “Yeah. I know.”

“You kiss sloppy.”

“I was crying, hyung.”

Yoongi smirks. “I’m just saying.”

They stare at each other for another beat.

“We good.” Yoongi tells him, and the stress on Wonwoo’s shoulder eases tenfold.

Wonwoo grins, “good.”

And just like that, the tension breaks—fragile but real. Not erased. Not forgotten. But healing in the way only true friends can.

When you get home an hour later, you find the two of them huddled over Yoongi’s laptop, arguing about which 8-bit sound effect is better for Wonwoo’s Youtube channel’s opening beat.

Yoongi looks up briefly when you step in, bags at hand. “Why do you take forever in Olive Young?”

“You two are talking again.”

Wonwoo motions you to be quiet. “Shhh. Don’t jinx it, noona.”

Yoongi just shakes his head, clicking away.

“Chimaek, tonight?”

Two thumbs ups.

Ah. It feels good to be finally home.

One month later…

Wonwoo’s already at the table, sipping his coffee. His hair is still damp from a shower, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose as he scrolls through something on his phone.

Yoongi’s plating up some eggs, bacon already looking crunchy and so good on another plate on the counter.

You glance between them, heart tugging at the sight.

It feels almost like the early days again—before all the mess and the pining and the rap battles and the ghosting. Just three roommates, slightly chaotic, mostly functioning.

Wonwoo clears his throat. “So… I have some news.”

You and Yoongi both look up.

“I, uh—so my channel’s been blowing up.”

You smile. “I know…”

Wonwoo nods, lips twitching into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. One of my compilation clips hit a million views. Then two. It’s a little crazy that I’m getting millions of people watching my streams. And now this creator house in Osaka, they’ve reached out. They want me to join them full-time.”

Silence.

You blink once. Twice.

Yoongi’s egg slides off his chopsticks and hits the table with a soft splat.

“You’re moving?” you ask quietly.

“In two weeks.”

The words hang heavy in the air, like steam that won’t quite dissipate.

You swallow. “Wow. That’s… amazing, Wonwoo. Really.”

He chuckles softly. “Yeah. I’m still trying to process it. But I think—I think I want to go. It’s a big opportunity. They’ve got a deal with Netflix and everything. It’s wild.”

Yoongi doesn’t speak. Just stares down at his bowl, jaw set.

Wonwoo looks at both of you, his expression soft. “Also… I think it’s for the better.”

You frown. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs lightly, but there’s nothing careless about his words. “You two need space. Real space. I’ve seen how careful you’ve been around me—like you’re always tiptoeing, trying not to… like, I get it. But it’s okay.” He smiles then, genuine and a little bittersweet. “I don’t want to be the third wheel anymore. I want to see you guys figure this out for real.”

You open your mouth to disagree, but nothing comes out. Because he’s right. You have been walking on eggshells around him.

Yes, you and Yoongi have had the talk, have shared the quiet moments and the whispered promises—but living with Wonwoo meant holding back. Kisses stolen in the hallway. Frantic touches under the covers. Making out like teenagers afraid to get caught by their parents. You haven’t even fucked—not properly—because you don’t trust yourself to stay quiet. And the last thing you want is to make things more uncomfortable than they already are for Wonwoo.

You sigh, reach for his hand, squeezing it. “We’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you both, too. But we’ll still game. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

“Thank god,” you say. “I need someone to carry me in Valo, ‘cause this one’s useless.”

Yoongi still hasn’t said a word even as you maligned him. But when you glance at him, his head tilted toward his bowl, you notice the way he lifts a hand—just briefly—to brush beneath his eye. Subtle. Almost imperceptible.

You don’t call him out for it.

Instead, you quietly nudge your foot against his under the table.

He looks up, finally, and you offer a soft smile.

He exhales, then lifts his head, trying to school his expression. “Congrats. You deserve it.”

Two weeks later, Wonwoo’s bags are packed. Two suitcases by the door, gaming headset carefully wrapped in a hoodie and tucked into his carry-on. His favorite mug is still in the drying rack. You hope he forgot it, just so you can have something to hold onto.

He’s still coming back in a month’s time to wrap up everything else he wasn’t able to box or sell before he flies out. Some equipment he won’t need because they’re giving him a new system, plus a couple of odd items here and there. There’s still his bed, some clothes, old games, some extra cameras—it honestly still feels like he lives here and has just gone away for college.

You walk him to the door.

He turns to face you, lifting his brows like he’s expecting a lecture.

You step closer, fixing the strap on his backpack. “Keep up your Duolingo streak. Get that English sharp. The fans are gonna eat it up.”

“‘What’s up, guys, it’s your boy, Wonwoo, welcome back to the stream,’” he deadpans in a flat accent.

You snort. “Exactly.”

For a moment, you both just stand there, silence pressing in around the edges.

“I know hyung will take care of you. Probably even better than I could.”

You reach for his hand, squeezing it once. “You’ve taken care of me more than you know.”

He smiles—small, sad, but grateful. “Don’t be a stranger.”

“Oh I am sure you’ll forget me what with all your new fangirls… what do you call ‘em? Your baby chocolats?”

He laughs, a short, bright sound that makes your throat sting a little. Then he leans in, pressing a quick kiss to your temple.

“I’ll text you when I land.”

“You better.”

And with that, you step back and let him go.

You go towards the window where you see him meet up with Yoongi on the street, helping the driver lug his boxes on the compartment of the SUV.

You don’t hear what’s said. Don’t try to.

But you do see them stare at each other for a second too long, then—awkwardly, almost reluctantly—move into a hug. A real one.

Two introverts. Two non-huggers. And still, there they are, arms around each other, no jokes, no snark.

Just something soft. Something understood.

Damn. You never thought you’d see the day.

When the car finally drives off, Yoongi looks up and your eyes meet. There’s sadness in it but there’s also something else.

Like something new is finally about to begin.

Roommate Rule #5: Always check for blinking lights… you’ll know why…

It was weird at first when Wonwoo left.

It was the lack of him being there between you and Yoongi. Because no matter how close you and Yoongi had gotten, the space between you was always padded with caution.

Too careful.

Too considerate of the younger one in the house. You loved Wonwoo, and Yoongi loved him too—in the gruff, brotherly, could-murder-you-but-won’t kind of way. But the care you had for him, the quiet hesitance of not wanting to hurt him, made everything feel just a little restrained.

Now, with just the two of you, it’s different.

Better.

There’s a fluffy kind of freedom in being able to kiss Yoongi whenever you want. To drape yourself across his lap on the couch and whisper the dumbest shit just to hear him chuckle against your neck. To argue about which records to play, who left the light on, how many mugs he’s used and not washed. You fight more. You make up more. You say what you feel. You say it often.

And tonight? Tonight, you finally said you wanted him.

Really wanted him.

Like inside you.

Bad.

So now here you are, stumbling into the apartment after a romantic dinner, laughing between messy kisses, giddy and tipsy and so stupidly in love it’s honestly embarrassing.

You yank his silly leopard hat off somewhere near the entryway.

“Wait,” you murmur breathlessly, lips brushing his jaw. “Where?”

Yoongi, already halfway out of his shirt, pants, and possibly his mind, blinks at you.

“My room?” he offers.

You hesitate. “Your bed’s too far from the wall. I can’t brace myself if we’re—”

He stares at you, smirking. “You’ve thought about this.”

You don’t deny it. You also don’t even justify why your feet take you to Wonwoo’s room.

“Neutral ground?” Yoongi says, tilting his head.

You shrug. “Yeah. Feels… fair.”

You don’t talk much after that. Because Yoongi, goddamn him, is rendering you speechless. The way his mouth trails kisses along your neck, breathing softly against your skin. You arch into him, fingers curling into his hair, his shoulders, wherever you can touch and pull and hold.

Yoongi lays you down on Wonwoo’s bed gently. His mouth never leaves yours, just soft kisses turning messier and dirtier as the tension finally, finally unravels between you.

“You’re so beautiful,” he rasps into your neck, trailing his tongue towards your earlobe. “Been thinking about this for so fuckin’ long.”

Your hands tangle in his dark strands, tugging lightly, and he groans—rough, needy. The sound of it punches heat straight through your core.

More clothes come off in a haze of giggles and curses, until you’re naked, flushed, and sprawled beneath him. Completely exposed. Completely his. But you don’t feel shy. You feel… safe. Because that’s how he has always made you feel.

Especially when Yoongi looks like he’s staring at the fucking Mona Lisa. His eyes rake over your nude form, before he exhales a soft “fuck,” and lowers himself to mouth at a taut nipple. He swirls his tongue over the bud before giving it a long suck, encasing it between his teeth with a slight tug.

“Shit,” you arch your back, electricity surging from your chest.

When his hands slide between your thighs and his fingers slip inside, your head falls back with a gasp.

“Yoongi—”

“I got you, baby,” he whispers, voice hoarse.

And he does.

You’re already shaking when he finally slips it in, filling you inch by inch as he whispers praise against your ear.

“Fuck,” he mutters, warm breath seeping into your moist skin. “You feel—God.”

He moves like he’s laying down the beat of his life. Every roll of his hips perfectly in sync with your ragged breaths, every soft moan you make dragging curses from his throat.

Your nails make crescents into his milky skin. Your legs wrap tight around his waist like a vice grip.

And when you come, it hits you so hard you think you’ve gone blind. He groans your name desperately and follows right after, buried deep, falling apart against you with one final buck.

You lay there after, chest to chest, sticky and hot, your heart pounding..

He brushes your hair back from your forehead and plants kisses all over your face. Butterfly kisses that leave you emotional at how gentle he is.

“I love you,” he murmurs, pressing his lips against yours.

You smile, boneless. “I love you, too.”

He hums low. “So we’re doing that again. Obviously.”

“I can’t feel my legs,” you confess.

He smirks. “That’s how you know it was good.”

You swat at his chest. “You’re the worst.”

“And you’re… welcome.”

You both fall into a comfortable silence, staring up at the ceiling, smiling at nothing.

Until—a soft blinking red light catches your eye on the corner of the room.

You frown. “Yoongi.”

“Hm?”

“…Is that—?”

You both sit up, squinting at the CCTV camera that’s starting you down like an evil eye.

Your stomach drops. “No. No fucking way.”

Yoongi squints. “That better be off. That better be—”

Your phone vibrates. Then Yoongi’s.

Both of you freeze. You already know what it is. Actually, you already know who it is.

And there goes the single message in the “Roomies” group chat to confirm your suspicions.

Wonwoo: Thanks for the nudes 😉

The End (Or is it?)

A/N: And another K series done and dusted. I am gonna miss these 3 honestly. They’ve been such a joy to work on. I loved being in their world and writing this unhinged and chaotic plot line that all started because I wanted to write a silly little rap battle.

Thank you so much for reading, you lovely, beautiful human! Xo

Serve safe and serve well, Wonwoo my baby chocolat! <3

Let me know in the notes what you thought! A reblog would be an amazing gift if you enjoyed reading :) Love you, guys!

Permanent Taglist: (the rest to follow in a reblog)

@wonh0oe @woozuzu @glossdebut @kiki-zb @kookiewithluv

@agustblog @maryhopemei @perfectiondazesworld @kimsaerom @kam9404

@00-sleepdontweep-00 @tea4sykes @mggv97 @marnz1990

@whydoeyecare @pastelmin @tarahardcore @minjenna @chimmchimmm

@aaclariww @mar-lo-pap @tinytan-gerine @vesperbells @butterymin

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Divider by: @cafekitsune (thank you!)

231 notes · View notes

yaeverse · 11 months ago

Text

Dinner Date | j.ww

pairing: class president! wonwoo x playgirl!reader

summary: going on a date with your class president who actually have had a secret crush on you for a while

warnings: slight nsfw, fluff, a few wet kisses

a/n: helloo nyxies, i'm still new to writing so deepest apologies if there some grammatical errors found in my fanfic. anyways, enjoyyy

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You could say you were hell ass surprised when he asked you out to dinner after winning the school art competition. Your class president, Jeon Wonwoo, also known as the campus heartthrob had a secret crush on you for sometime now. The man was undeniably handsome, hot, smart and basically a walking wet dream that had every girl or boy drooling over him

Walking and pacing around your room, figuring out on what to wear, making sure to not look like you're whoring yourself on your first date with Wonwoo, your mind brings you back to the moment he asked you out.

(flashback)

"y/n, will you go on a date with me..?" he asks as he looks at you with a stoic face. Wonwoo actually had this all planned in his head but things didn't really go as well as he thought it would, "I'll pick you up later at seven.." he continues, leaving no space for rejection.

(end of flashback)

"Dammit, Jeon Wonwoo.. you got me nervous over a date.." you sigh, deciding on wearing a turtleneck croptop partnered with a skirt. Yeah, you've had your past relationships and flings, but oh damn, did Wonwoo got you this nervous.

Hearing your phone ring, you immediately sat up answering the call.

"Hey.." you said,

"I'm outside.." he says in a husky voice, sending shivers down your spine,

"Alright, I'm heading out.."

This was absolutely the very first moment of you being nervous of stepping out your apartment. I mean, we are talking of Jeon Wonwoo, who wouldn't be nervous.

Stepping out your door, your eyes meet Wonwoo's gaze as he stands awestruck at your beauty.

"You look.." he stutters, "beautiful, y/n.."

"oh hey, we're twinning!" you smile excitingly at the adorable coincident

He stares at you, his heart fluttering at the sight of your smile. You had quite a reputation around campus, 'Playgirl Y/N', but couldn't care less. He just saw you for who you are.

The drive was comfortably quiet. Exchanging a few glances and questions to lift the awkward tension.

"so, congrats on winning earlier.." he says, glancing in your direction,

"thanks" you smiled back, "i never thought i'd win, i messed up a few paints due to nervousness.."

"what are you talking about?" he lightly chuckles, turning the steering wheel as he talks with you, "yours was the best one there, so of course you'd win.."

You can't help but smile at his words. "thank you, wonwoo.."

After a few minutes drive, you two finally arrive.

"We're here" he says, stepping out of the driver's seat to open your door

You can't help but your eyes widen and mouth drop in agape at how beautiful, and to say expensive the place looks. He really went all out for a first date, and you think you don't deserve this kind of treatment.

"Let's go..?" he asks, guiding you by your waist, "don't be nervous, y/n, be yourself.."

"Y-you didn't really have to do all this..." you look up to meet his gaze

"Well, I wanted to"

Dinner was mostly filled with a few exchanged talks and warm conversations. Getting to know each other, and finding a few interesting facts that none of the two of you thought to be possibly real.

Spending time and getting to know him made you realize that he is everything you could ask for a guy. After having failed relationships, and jumping from one guy to another, you finally conclude that Jeon Wonwoo is YOUR TYPE OF MAN. You now can see why almost everyone in campus say the he's the perfect ideal boyfriend a girl can ever ask. He's a complete gentleman, smart, handsome, hot, a walking wet dream, like everything. You just know that after this date, you will never be the same. You could already feel the effects this guy has over you.

"Did you enjoy the dinner, y/n?" he asks,

"Of course, I did," you smile, as you took out your wallet "Oh- I can pay the dinner-"

"You're not paying dinner, princess," he chuckled, gently pushing your hand back to yourself, "I already payed anyways.."

"Y-you're too much, won.." you smile warmly at him,

"Nothing's too much, y/n," he smiles back, "You ready to go home..?"

You nod and as a gentleman he is, he escorts you outside, holding your waist. The warmth of his palm on your waist was enough to send butterflies bursting to your stomach, making your heartbeat crazy.

"So, uh, this is goodnight i guess.." he mumbles as he walks you to your door, "good night, y/n..."

"wait-" you pause, realizing what you just said

"yes..?" he immediately looked back, giving you all his attention

he walks closer to you, leaning in as he sees your eyes laid on his lips, making him chuckle.

"my eyes are up here, princess.." he smirked, "may i..?"

No words came out but you just nodded. He slowly leans in. Your heart beats in anticipation as you close your eyes, ready to feel his lips on yours.

But, oh damn, was he soft like feather.

You tensed up feeling his lips on yours. 'Get a grip, y/n, it's not like it's your first time kissing someone' you mentally scold yourself. You then feel his hand settle on your waist as the other settles behind your neck, pulling you closer to him.

You two pause for a moment to catch your breaths as he rested his forehead on yours. You smiled, and you know he's smiling as well. He then leans in again with more affection.

"Mmhh.." you hear him moan to the kiss as he swiftly licks your lower lip, begging to get in. With pleasure, you open your lips partly and he slide his tongue in immediately.

You two get lost in the moment, feeling waves of pleasure and adrenaline rush through every inch of your body at the sensation of his tongue dancing with yours. His hand grip your neck a bit tighter as he pulls you closer to give him more access inside your mouth as he makes out with you.

The kiss slowly calms down as you two pull back, gasping for air, foreheads resting against each other.

"We're going for a second date then..?" he asks with a light chuckle, his thumb caressing your waist,

"You're a good kisser, by the way.." you laugh, "And yes, a second date would be fucking great.."

He pecks your lips as he replies, "Next time, you'll receive more than a kiss, princess.."

Your face becomes a blushing mess as he smirked at your reaction

"W-Wonwoo...!" you whine playfully as you hit his chest,

"God, I'll make you scream my name next time.." he smirked, chuckling in a low tone,

"See you around, princess..." he greets you goodbye as he drives his car away

You just know that there'll be no more next guy after Wonwoo.

And you just know that in the next date, you'll end up being unable to walk

417 notes · View notes

sweetiesicheng · 10 months ago

Text

wonwoo - all-nighter

word count : 532

happy happy birthday to wonu >.<

as you go through some flashcards, you feel someone tap the top of your head. you turn your head around and see your boyfriend standing behind you. you put the flash cards down and take your earbuds out. "what are you doing here?" you whisper.

"you didn't answer my texts, so i came to check up on you," wonwoo answers. "it's almost three," he mentions.

"i'm already set on staying up, so don't try to take me back to my dorm," you say to him.

wonwoo sighs and walks away to pull up a nearby chair. you resume studying while wonwoo sits down next to you. he takes his tablet out of his backpack and starts working on something, most likely something for one of his projects.

after you finish going through your flashcards, you go through a few sections of your notes. you peek at the time, realizing how committed you are to pulling an all-nighter. then, you look over at wonwoo, who is editing photos and watching an episode of a show via spilt screen.

wonwoo glances up and notices you looking at him. "yes?"

"just wanted to see what you're up to," you reply.

"i have photos to submit for class," he mentions while starting to work again. "i know i'm your handsome boyfriend but get back to studying," he says to you.

"i can't help it. you're a distraction," you say to him. he smiles and reaches forward to kiss your cheek. you face forward again and start studying again, pulling out more notecards and writing new flashcards to help you study later.

—

after awhile, you manage to finish studying all of the material you had planned on looking over. the wooden chair is not helping your body, so you stretch your arms and sigh in relief. you look out of a window and notice that the sky had brightened up a bit, but it was still before sunrise.

you look over at wonwoo, who is still on his tablet. you peek over and see him no longer working on editing but just watching a show. wonwoo notices you and pushes you away, trying to get you to study again. you lean towards him again, but he pushes you away again.

"i'm done studying," you mention.

he takes one of his earbuds out, "do you want to head home?" he asks.

"at this point, we might as well get breakfast at the dining hall," you reply.

"it's too early still. let's go to your dorm, and i'll cook breakfast for us. you should get some sleep," he says to you.

"but you haven't slept yet either. you need to sleep," you say to him.

"i don't have class today. that's why i came to the library to find you in the first place," he explains. "come on, let's go."

you two pack up and leave the library. the dining hall isn't too far away, and you see a few runners going through their routes around campus as you walk together.

"hey," you call out to wonwoo, "thanks for keeping me company."

wonwoo smiles, "no problem. glad i could be with you," he says and kisses your cheek.

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shiicheol · 11 months ago

Text

silent converstions ~ 2

‣ pairing: jeon wonwoo x oc

‣ summary: Maxine found comfort in regularly sending messages to the number of her deceased ex, seeing no harm in it—until she received a response from a persistent stranger named Wonwoo. What are the chances of forming a connection with this unexpected stranger? How will their story unfold?

‣ genre: strangers to lovers. angst.

‣ chapters:

one

‣ disclaimer: The ideas and personalities depicted in this Alternate Universe (AU) do not reflect the actual views or characteristics of the artists. Their names are used purely as placeholders. Please remember that these stories are fictional and do not represent reality. Thank you!

NOTE: Text messages are in italics, while non-italicized text represents thoughts and narration

Wonwoo's POV

Texting Stranger

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry for being a bother. I'm sorry because you have to put up with a stranger persistent enough to message a person who is no longer here.

What life do you live that makes it feel like you should apologize for grieving?

Texting Stranger

Please, don't respond anymore. You will never hear from me again. Thank you for your time.

There's so much I want to say but in respect to you, I will hold back.

No messages from you? I said to myself, as I observed the lockscreen of my device.

I'll assume that you're in the process of moving on. I hope you're doing well wherever and whoever you may be.

However, as if one cue, the name of the Unknown sender had flashed on my screen again.

Texting Stranger

Hi, love. I told myself that I'll stop messaging you but here I am with a bottle of alcohol and a million emotions running through my heart.

I remember you used to commend me for having exceptionally good typing skills despite being drunk. It once used to be a memory I hold dear to my heart but now the thought of it wrecks me in unimaginable ways.

I was fine. I've been fine. Or maybe I thought I was.

How can I ever be fine, right? How is it possible for me to move on? You've managed to move on but why can't I do the same?

Fuck.

I'm rambling again, aren't I? I remember every time I would be in talkative mode, you would interrupt me and it would lead to an argument. Believe it or not, I miss it so much.

Please, love, stop me from rambling again. I promise I won't get mad at you. Just, please.

I don't know you personally but why do I feel your pain?

Texting Stranger

Can I call? Please?

Her message had been surprising, yet my response was beyond me. The next thing I knew, I was waiting for the call, not hesitating to click the answer button, as if the panic i had felt previously had been abandoned.

As soon as I picked up the phone, a sense of regret flashed through me as I was met with mere silence at the end of the line.

I thought that maybe she had fallen asleep.

Seconds passed.

Minutes passed.

Nothing.

I released a breath of relief I didn't know I was holding upon realizing the possibility of her being in a drunken state.

"Hmmm," I heard a soft groan from my device just as I was about to click the end button.

I looked at it with wide eyes, waiting for her to speak again.

"Love... I miss you, love," the voice slurred out.

"P-please, come back," said the soft voice again.

I couldn't seem to do anything but listen.

That was until I heard a whimper.

"Shhhhh," I tried soothing her.

What could I do, right? What can I say?

For a time, it became a cycle. She would repeat words such as "Love." "I miss you." "Please, come back." Then I would try to calm her down.

Until she asked a question that caught me off guard.

"C-can you please sing me a song like before?" She said with a voice that showed zero signs of sobriety.

Me? Sing? That was something kept private between me and the confines of my own space.

"Please."

But declining would be too selfish when I know the state she was already in.

I sigh.

With no second thought, I started humming a lullaby.

"I can't hear you." she slurred.

With another sigh, I made my voice louder but not too much for it to disturb next-door neighbors.

Just when I was about to finish singing the 3rd song, I heard silent snores from the other end of the line.

I released another breath of relief I realize I was holding.

I looked at the clock and it read, 4:30 am.

We've been on call for 2 hours.

I considered ending the call but it didn't feel right. I thought of staying the entire time but it didn't feel right either.

So after much contemplation, I decided to wait 20 minutes before hanging up.

That way, I'll know that she's in the middle of her deep sleep.

As I waited for time to pass by, I wondered why I was doing this in the first place.

I'm not one to do favors for others.

I'm not one to do phone calls late at night.

I'm not one to sing a song.

I'm not one to empathize.

But why?

I would say out of pity but is it really?

If it was simply out of pity, I would feel nothing but sorry for her.

So, why?

Why do I care so much?

Why do I feel the need to be there for her?

Why do I want her to feel happy?

Why does it hurt when I hear her cry even though I don't know who she is?

Why?

Why do I see myself in her?

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hoshifighting · 7 months ago

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wonwoo!best friend's brother

— your best friend's older brother, the guy who dropped out of university a long time ago but still shows up once in a while at your and your best friend's dorm. the thing is, she's in a tutoring class right now, leaving you and him alone after all these years of having a huge crush on him.

WARNINGS: +18, smut, making out, almost getting caught, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, fingering, blowjob, spiting.

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST

you hear the door click as you wipe down the last bit of the counter, the smell of cleaning products lingering in the air. wonwoo’s here again—because of course, he is. once a year, like clockwork, he pulls up outside your dorm building, car keys in hand, sipping some energy drink like he’s the busiest man alive, even though he’s been out of university for, what? two years now? maybe more. it’s almost funny, how he thinks showing up in his beat-up car, leaning against the doorframe, makes him look cool.

your best friend’s not even here. she’s in some tutoring session because she "really needs to pass this bio class." but, of course, she told you, warned you, that wonwoo might drop by.

“hey,” he says, leaning against the doorframe like some kind of model, downing a sip from the can like it's giving him more life than it should.

“she’s not here,” you say, wiping your hands on your shorts. you’re pretending like you’re not even thinking about the way they’re barely covering anything right now. it’s just cleaning clothes, but you catch his eyes flick down for half a second, and your heart skips a beat.

“oh? what, she ditch me or something?” he teases, eyes sparkling with that casual cockiness he always carries around.

you laugh, shaking your head. “nah, she’s at a tutoring session. bio, i think? she’s stressing hard. she said she’d be back in a couple hours, so you can wait if you want... or leave. i won’t stop you.”

“tutoring? she actually studying? i thought she gave that up ages ago,” he snickers, leaning against the couch, tapping his foot like he’s been there forever. “reminds me of my sister, always freaking out about school... only she actually tries.”

you snort, rolling your eyes. “yeah, well, not everyone’s like you, mister ‘dropped out but still thinks he runs the place.’”

“i’m just here for the vibes,” he shrugs, eyes settling on you for a little too long, way too comfortable. way too focused. “plus, i wouldn’t call it ‘dropping out’... i just, y’know, found my path elsewhere.”

you shake your head, pretending not to care. but fuck, that grin? dangerous. absolutely dangerous. the guy is too good-looking for his own good, and the fact that he’s here, all casual like he’s just dropping by, is making your heart race in a way you’re desperately trying to ignore. and those eyes—yeah, you can feel him looking at you.

you turn, grabbing a water from the fridge to cool down because jesus, he’s looking right through you. you twist the cap and take a long gulp, trying to ignore the heat rising in your cheeks, trying to play it cool.

“you good?” his voice cuts through the silence. casual, like it’s no big deal.

you choke a little on the water and turn around, trying not to look flustered. “yeah, yeah. why wouldn’t i be?”

he raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “dunno, just... you’re kinda tense. cleaning stress?”

you laugh it off, but the sound’s more nervous than you want it to be. “something like that.”

fuck, why is this so hard?

he takes another sip of his red bull, his eyes flicking over your legs again, slower this time. it’s like he knows exactly what he’s doing, and you’re just... standing there, pretending you don’t feel it, but inside, you’re absolutely losing your mind. freaking out.

“you always this... jumpy around me?” he asks, smirking like he already knows the answer.

“shut up,” you toss a dish towel at him, more as a distraction for you than him, but he catches it easily, his grin widening.

“what, can’t take a little teasing? you’ve been dodging my questions all day.”

all day? he’s been here for twenty minutes. still, your stomach flips at the way he’s just standing there, so confident, so sure. it’s unfair how hot he is when he’s like this, leaning against the counter, arms crossed like he’s just waiting for you to crack.

“i’m not dodging anything,” you lie, crossing your arms, even though you know your face is giving you away. “you’re just being annoying.”

“am i?” he steps closer, his voice dropping slightly. “or am i just... distracting you?”

“wonwoo,” you start, your heart’s pounding, your skin tingling. “don’t.”

“don’t what?” he’s closer now, and fuck, he’s standing way too close, his breath brushing your cheek as he leans in. “i’m just talking, y/n.”

just talking, but the way his eyes drop to your lips says otherwise, and you’re not sure how much longer you can pretend this isn’t happening.

you’ve never been this close to him before, and it’s making your pulse race, your head spin. his hand hovers near your hip, like he’s waiting for permission, waiting for you to crack. it’s not fair how good he smells.

“you used to play dolls with my sister, you know,” he mutters, his lips brushing your ear. “now look at you.”

his fingers graze your waist, light at first, but the way his eyes lock on yours? there’s no going back. you shiver, heat pooling in your gut, and his hand slips lower, gripping the curve of your ass like it belongs to him. he laughs softly when you gasp, his other hand trailing up your side, fingers brushing the thin fabric of your top.

“wonwoo, you can’t just—” your words cut off as he cups your tit, thumb running over your nipple through your shirt, the sensation making your knees go weak. it’s so subtle, but you feel everything—his breath on your neck, the rough texture of his palm, the way his body presses against yours like he can’t stand the distance anymore.

“what? can’t just what?” his voice is low, mocking, as he leans down, his lips inches from yours. “you’ve been staring at me like that for years, y/n. you think i didn’t notice?”

your brain short-circuits as he presses his mouth to yours, starting slow, teasing, like he’s waiting for you to snap. and when you kiss him back—hard, desperate, craving more—he groans against your lips, his tongue immediately slipping past them. he sucks on your tongue like he’s savoring the taste, his hand squeezing your ass, pulling you closer as you try to remember how to breathe. it’s wet, sloppy, and so fucking messy, the sound of your lips meeting, tongues sliding against each other, filling the small kitchen.

you moan into his mouth, gripping his shirt, trying to keep up with the way he devours you, his other hand now fully under your shirt, palming your bare tit. it’s so much—too much, and you arch into his touch, losing yourself in the heat of it all.

and then you hear it.

keys, fumbling at the front door. shit.

you push him away so fast he stumbles back, eyes wide, lips shiny and swollen from your kiss. his fingers are still brushing his bottom lip, eyes flicking to the door in disbelief as the knob turns.

“fuck,” you whisper, trying to catch your breath, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, but you can’t stop shaking. you dart back to the sink, pretending to scrub some nonexistent spot, heart racing a mile a minute.

the door flies open, and your best friend bursts in, barely even noticing the two of you. “i forgot this fucking book,” she mutters, rummaging through her stuff on the couch. her back is to you both, and wonwoo’s standing there, hands in his pockets, trying his best to look casual.

he smirks at you, and you glare back, your mind racing, heart pounding. does she know? she can’t know.

“you two good?” she asks, barely glancing your way as she grabs her stuff. “i’ll be back in like, fifteen minutes. sorry. tutor’s gonna kill me if i don’t bring this. see you in a sec.” and just like that, she’s gone again, the door slamming shut behind her.

the second the door clicks, wonwoo bursts out laughing, dragging a hand through his hair, and your face is burning.

“did you just shove me away?” he teases, stepping closer again, his hands now resting on the counter behind you, trapping you. “scared of getting caught, huh?”

you shove at his chest, but you’re laughing too. “you’re insane. she could’ve seen us, you idiot.”

“what, and ruin the fun?” he grins, biting his bottom lip, and your stomach flips at the sight. “you should’ve just let her. i think she’d approve.”

you roll your eyes, but before you can say anything else, his mouth is on yours again—rougher this time, more desperate. it’s like he’s making up for lost time, kissing you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted, hands roaming over your body like he’s been dying to touch you. you’re pressed back against the counter, trapped between him and the hard surface, and it feels so fucking good.

“wonwoo, the couch,” you murmur between kisses, pushing at his chest just enough to make him move. he gets the hint, pulling you toward the couch, his hand never leaving your waist, never giving you a chance to breathe.

the second your back hits the cushions, he’s on you again, kissing you so hard it leaves you dizzy, his hands wandering everywhere—your thighs, your waist, your tits. he’s fucking everywhere, and you can’t think, can’t breathe, all you can feel is him, everywhere.

his fingers slide under the waistband of your shorts, teasing the edge, but you grab his wrist, pulling him back. “not yet,” you whisper, eyes locked on his. “let me…”

you trail off, sliding off the couch, sinking to your knees between his legs. wonwoo’s eyes widen, the teasing smirk on his face replaced with pure shock. “wait—”

“shh,” you murmur, already tugging at his belt, pulling his jeans down just enough to free him. your mouth waters at the sight of him, long, hard and already dripping. you can’t help but smirk up at him before leaning in, taking him into your mouth in all in once, in the most greedy way.

wonwoo groans, his head falling back against the couch, his fingers threading through your hair as you start to move. you take him like your favorite popsicle, hollowing your cheeks, loving the way his hips buck up into your mouth, the way he can’t control the sounds he’s making.

he pants, his voice strained, and it only spurs you on, sucking harder, swirling your tongue around the tip before taking him all the way down again. the sound of your mouth, wet and sloppy, fills the room, and it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever heard.

he tightens his grip in your hair, guiding you as he thrusts into your mouth, his eyes squeezing shut as he moans your name again, louder this time. you can feel him getting close, his thrusts making you gag slighty, his hips jerking up more urgently.

“fuck, i’m—” he chokes out, but before he can finish, his hips stutter, and he comes with a loud groan, spilling into your mouth. you swallow every drop, not slowing down until he’s completely spent.

you pull back, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, grinning up at him.

his hand wraps around your wrist, pulling you back on his lap. “c’mere,” he mutters. and before you know it, his lips are on yours again, urgent, like he needs to taste you all over again. the mix of your spit and his cum lingers, and when his tongue swipes along the side of your mouth, to catch more of the taste of him.

his hands slide down to your shorts, fingers curling around the waistband like they’ve been itching to take them off from the second he walked in. you flinch when he pulls them off, showing your panties. his fingers brush against it, and then pulling to the side, and you’re already losing it, but then he spits.

right on your pussy.

you tense when two fingers slide inside you rough, curling just the way you like—coincidentally. you clench around him, moaning, but it’s not enough. you need more, and he knows it.

“so fucking wet for me,” he groans, his other hand pushing your legs open wider. “you’ve wanted this for how long, huh? wanted me to fuck you like this?”

you can’t even answer, your brain is mush, overwhelmed by the way his fingers pump in and out of you, quick and dirty, making you arch into his touch. and then—without warning—he pulls his fingers out and lines himself up, slipping inside you so easily, you gasp.

he’s still sensitive, you can tell by the way his breath catches, how his hips jerk forward a little too fast, but the way his dick stretches you out? it’s perfect. too perfect. your eyes roll back, a shaky moan leaving your lips as he starts thrusting, slow at first, like he’s trying to control himself, but that doesn’t last long.

you’re in his lap, legs spread, every little reaction of his face right there in front of you—the way his eyes squeeze shut, his mouth falling open, all the little groans and curses spilling from him as he fucks into you. it’s like he can’t hold back anymore, can’t resist, but still needs to fuck you, to please you.

he lays you, grabs your knees, pulls them up to your chest, bending you in half so he can get even deeper. the angle’s brutal, his cock hitting that sweet spot with every rough thrust, and the room’s filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin, his low grunts, your breathless moans.

you’re a wreck under him, fingers clutching at the couch cushions, barely able to keep up with the way he’s pounding into you. his thrusts are rough, fast, almost desperate, like he’s chasing something he can’t quite reach, and every time he slams into you, your whole body shakes.

“wonwoo—fuck, i’m—” you try to warn him, but the words don’t come out right. everything’s too much—the way his hands hold you down, the way he’s fucking you so deep, the pressure building low in your belly until you’re falling apart. you clench around him, your orgasm ripping through you hard, your back arching off the couch as you moan his name.

he watches you, watching that smile on your face, that one that you have when you win a prize, how satisfied you look by being fucked—especially by him, how your eyes roll in ecstasy, nd how you spasm around his cock. is enough for him.

and then it’s over. you’re both panting, bodies spent. he pulls out slowly, leaving you feeling empty. you’re barely conscious as he reaches over, grabbing the nearest blanket and draping it over you, his touch surprisingly gentle for how hard he just fucked you.

“don’t move,” he mutters, smirking at you as he gets up, still zipping up his jeans. “you look good like this.”

you’re too tired to respond, sinking deeper into the couch, eyes half-closed. the door opens again—shit—and your best friend barges in, completely unaware of what just happened.

“ugh finally,” she mutters, tossing it onto the table. “you two good?”

he just grins, wiping his bottom lip with his thumb as he leans against the counter, casual as hell. “just keeping y/n company, we were waiting for you” he says, winking at you when your best friend isn’t looking.

you’re still sprawled out on the couch, barely able to move, trying to act normal, like you weren’t just fucked within an inch of your life, like you weren't just fucked with jeon wonwoo. your best friend glances between the two of you, raising an eyebrow, but she doesn’t seem to notice the way you’re completely knocked out.

“whatever,” she mutters, grabbing her stuff. “i’m going to take a bath.”

the door of the bathroom slams shut, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. wonwoo walks back over to you, chuckling softly as he sits down beside you, leaning in to kiss your forehead, the teasing smirk never leaving his face.

“you should’ve seen your face when she walked in,” he murmurs, his voice low. “but don’t worry. you looked so innocent.”

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babyleostuff · 1 year ago

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PHOTOGRAPH | JEON WONWOO

based on "photograph" by Ed Sheeran

SYNOPSIS | Wonwoo knew dating as an idol would be almost impossible, yet he was ready to take the risk. Unfortunately, you were the definition of "right person, wrong time". PAIRING | idol!wonwoo x fem!reader GENRE | angst WORD COUNT| 2.8k

natalia's note | this is wonwoo's pov from this fic, though it can be read as a stand alone

Wonwoo never cared about relationships - he thought goodmorning texts were overrated, planning dates seemed too tiresome, and he didn’t see the appeal of letting someone else wear his hoodies and sweaters. Besides, he was too busy with work and it was hard to focus on anything else than the neverending schedules. He couldn’t remember the last time he got more than five hours of sleep.

At least that’s what he kept telling himself.

Dating in the industry was hell on earth, he knew that. Wonwoo had witnessed careers end and lifes get destroyed just because people fell in love. So, he made a promise to himself that that would never happen to him - he wouldn’t allow himself to fall for anyone, and spare himself the trouble of a broken heart and a ruined career. He didn’t care that he had no one to cuddle at night, no one to hug, no one to kiss, no one to call during tour.

And then you came, and changed his entire world. You became his everything, his little ray of sunshine - you were the first person he looked for in the crowd during their concerts, the first person he ran to on the backstage, the first person he called after they won an award. For the first time in his life he felt complete.

“I’m sorry. It wouldn’t have worked out either way.”

He didn't even want to imagine the look on your face when he said it. Through the fucking phone.

Wonwoo was on the verge of throwing up, but he knew that if he didn’t end it now, he’d never do it. He spent the last week crying before falling asleep from exhaustion in the night, and quickly wiping the tears that rolled down his cheeks during the day - he knew what he had to do, or both of your lives would get destroyed, and that’s something he’d never be able to live with.

“Wonwoo, can I talk to you?” He didn’t know what to expect when their manager approached him in the middle of their rehearsal, but he definitely didn’t expect to hear that he had to break up with you, or his work and your safety would be on the line.

Wonwoo pulled the phone back from his ear, and with a shaky finger pressed the red button.

That would be the last time he’d ever talk to you.

We keep this love in a photograph We made these memories for ourselves Where our eyes are never closing Hearts are never broken And time's forever frozen still

Wonwoo didn’t bother with picking up his suitcase from the trunk, he knew Mingyu would pick it up for him. It generally seemed that he couldn’t be bothered with anything other than drinking himself into oblivion and crying until he passed out from exhaustion ever since he broke up with you. All of that just so he'd try to erase every possible memory he had of you together.

With heavy shoulders, and a headache, Wonwoo shut the door to his room behind him, enveloping himself in the darkness. Usually, you’d already be there, dressed in one of his hoodies, lying on his side of the bed because you fell asleep while waiting for him. He’d tuck you in, making sure you were warm and comfortable, before he’d take a quick shower and unpack some of his stuff, so he wouldn’t have to worry about it in the morning.

The absence of you in his bed didn't hurt as much as what he saw on his bookshelves and desk, though - countless photos of you from trips, nights spent together in your apartment, photos from parties with the guys and their girlfriends, and pictures he took especially with you in mind.

His favourite one had to be the one from Japan, when you and the rest of the seventeen girlfriends flew out to Tokyo and surprised them after they won the daesang. You were all huddled on the floor of the hotel room, trying to fit in the picture, as all of you had your arms wrapped around each other, smiles on your faces. Wonwoo could practically hear your laughter, as DK almost knocked the table down, because Seungkwan pushed him to be sure he’d be in the frame.

“Move your ass, I want to be in the picture!” Seungwan yelled, digging his elbow into Seokmin's stomach.

“You are, you idiot. Can’t you see that half of your face is in the frame? Stop hitting me!” DK yelled back, pushing Seungwan in return.

Neither of you knew what was ahead of you at the time, and Wonwoo couldn’t stand the look of love in your eyes, he couldn’t stand the way he was shamelessly staring at you with nothing but adoration, like none of the other twenty people in the picture existed.

“Fuck!” Wonwoo yelled, slamming the photo against the floor, breaking the glass.

“Wonwoo, are you okay?” Mingyu knocked on his door a second later, making him wonder how long his friend had been standing there. “Just leave me alone,” Wonwoo said, his voice breaking, as the first tears started falling. He was surprised he was still able to cry, considering how much he was doing that for the past few days.

“Leave me… alone.”

So you can keep me Inside the pocket of your ripped jeans Holding me closer 'til our eyes meet You won't ever be alone

“I miss you.”

Wonwoo couldn’t see your face, but he knew you were pouting. He giggled to himself, and nuzzled his face further into the pillow like a lovesick teenager, smashing his glasses against his face in the process.

“I miss you too, baby,” he said, picking up his phone from the bed, as if it would make him feel any closer to you. “But I’ll be home in a week.” A week too long.

He could hear you sigh angrily, as you started your usual rant about why overseas schedules shouldn’t be longer than five days, giving him a recap of the list you have written down in your notes app. “You can laugh as much as you want, Jeon Wonwoo, but I’m suffering here.”

There was nothing else for him but to laugh at your sulking tone, he loved how you didn’t have any limits when it came to him and dissing his schedules. “Do you have the book I gave you before I left?” Wonwoo asked, and immediately heard some shuffling, as if you were getting up from the bed.

“Of course, but I’m not in the mood for reading,” you sighed. To be honest, you were rarely in the mood for reading - you preferred being read to. Specifically by Wonwoo. Definitely not because you were addicted to his deep and velvety voice, at least that's what you were telling him.

Wonwoo knew better.

“Go get it and open it,” Wonwoo said with a soft smile on his lips, laughing when he heard your annoyed groan.

He waited patiently for you to find the book and discover a photo booth picture you thought you had lost a while ago. You took it on one of your first dates, and Wonwoo knew how much you loved that photo, so he was over the moon when he found it laying under the bookshelf when he was cleaning your room.

“How? What? Wonwoo?” you gasped, and he couldn’t help but laugh at your surprised reaction.

“I found it some time ago, but forgot to tell you.”

He heard you sigh quietly, and from what he could judge it wasn’t a happy sigh. “Now I feel even more alone.”

“Baby,” Wonwoo murmured, his tone matching your sad one. “We only have a week left, you won’t even notice when I’ll be back.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

And if you hurt me That's okay, baby, only words bleed Inside these pages, you just hold me And I won't ever let you go

“You said you’d be home!”

This wasn’t how the evening was supposed to go, not at all. You had been planning this date for a while now - it wasn’t anything big, just a homemade dinner and a movie, but any moment spent together was special for you, so it didn’t really matter what you did. And what could be better than to prepare a nice meal together and then eat it cuddled under fluffy blankets, while watching a bad movie you could both make fun of.

If only Wonwoo’s practice didn’t run late.

“I’m sorry, but I told you my phone ran out of battery," he said, pointing at his dead phone helplessly. “And we really were busy, baby. You know how the comeback season is,” he sighed, and ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends.

“I know, but if you really cared about me you’d make sure to at least text me. I was waiting for four hours Wonwoo, it’s literally 1 am!” You said, your tone getting angrier and angrier.

Wonwoo understood why you were angry, he wasn't surprised, but he thought that maybe you would be a little more understanding. On the other hand, he knew how much you were looking forward to this date, he was waiting for it himself, and the fact that he didn't even text you certainly didn't make the situation better.

“Sweetheart, please,” he tried reaching for your hand, but the second his fingers touched yours you pulled away.

“You're a bad boyfriend Wonwoo, you ditched me like I was nothing.”

Your voice was full of venom and Wonwoo couldn't help the slight pain he felt in his chest. Your words when you were angry always hurt him like hell, but he didn't expect to hear something like that. He knew you didn't mean it, of course you didn't - you were angry, tired, hungry, and Wonwoo knew it was pointless to blame you for your words. He loved you too much to do it.

But before he could say anything, he felt your arms around his neck.

“I’m so sorry, Wonwoo. I didn’t mean it, I’m so stupid,” you mumbled into his neck. “I love you, I’m sorry,” you kept repeating.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he ran his hand over your arm, cradling the back of your head with the other. “We both messed up a bit, but it’s okay, baby.”

“I'm just afraid that one day I'll say something stupid enough to make you leave me,” you whispered, as if you were afraid that if you said it a little louder, your words would become true.

"Just hold me, baby, and I promise I'll never let you go."

Now Wonwoo would give anything to hear even the worst insults about him from you. He tilted the glass to his mouth, which turned out to be empty - just like the whiskey bottle he had taken from Mingyu, not that the younger minded. Or maybe he did, but Wonwoo didn't care much. He snorted and put the empty glass on the night table, from which he took a photo framed in a black frame instead.

Your faces were covered with a white face masks and your heads were adorned with pink cat headbands, and even though you were definitely too close to the camera, to the point where the photo was blurry and unclear, Wonwoo could still see your wide smile perfectly.

It was from the date Wonwoo surprised you with a few days after your failed one. It was one of the best nights of his life.

Oh, you can fit me Inside the necklace you got when you were sixteen Next to your heartbeat where I should be Keep it deep within your soul

“You know my ex boyfriend got me this, right?” You raised an eyebrow at him, looking at him sceptically.

“Baby, you were sixteen then,” Wonwoo flicked your nose. "I will not be jealous of your great love at the age of sixteen."

You muttered something under your breath, frowning at him adorably. “If you want, I can buy you a new one,” he said, pointing to your necklace.

“No,” you muttered, not looking at him. Cute. "I like it."

"Exactly, so stop whining and let me put the picture in," he couldn't help but smile as he looked at the photo of himself in your necklace, resting right above your heart.

“You picked out the worst picture of me there is, I hate you,” you groaned, hitting your head against his chest.

“Well, I love it, and that’s what matters. Now,” Wonwoo grabbed your hand, kissing your knuckles. "I’ll always be with you."

When I'm away, I will remember how you kissed me Under the lamppost back on Sixth street Hearing you whisper through the phone "Wait for me to come home"

Wonwoo looked around his bedroom with droopy eyes (was it from crying, alcohol or tiredness he didn't know), which less than three weeks ago was full of life - full of you.

The knowledge that he would never see you again weighed on him like a stone on his heart, but even so - Wonwoo didn’t want to forget you, no matter how much it hurt. He wasn't even sure he could even if he wanted to, you were present in every corner of this room - your pillow still smelled of your perfume, there were your skincare products on his desk, which you never kept in the bathroom for some reason, and your sweater was still lying on the back of the chair in the corner because you were too lazy to put it in the wardrobe.

Wonwoo grabbed his phone with a trembling hand, its screen lighting up and displaying a wallpaper with a photo of you that he took right before he left for the tour. You were in bed, your hair messy and dishevelled, your eyes still closed and your lips in a sweet pout - you didn't even know he took the photo, but Wonwoo couldn't help himself.

"Won, you said you'd wake me up," you mumbled, your voice muffled by the pillow and duvet that covered almost your entire head.

“But you're not sleeping,” he said quietly with a smile, brushing strands of hair from your face.

You murmured something, pulling the covers over your head. Wonwoo couldn't help but laugh at your silly antics - he loved how clingy you got whenever he had to leave early in the mornings, you were like a cuddly teddy bear that wanted all the hugs in the world. “You know what I mean. I wanted to help you get ready to leave,” you complained from under the covers.

"I love you, baby, and I love it when you help me, but right now I'd much rather have you get some sleep."

“But I'm going to miss you,” you groaned, poking your head out from under the covers.

“It's only a week and a half,” he said and kissed your forehead gently.

Unconsciously, Wonwoo raised his fingers to his lips. Was that really your last kiss?

"Fuck," he cursed under his breath, running a hand over his face. There was one more thing he had left of you - your voicemails. With a shaky finger he pressed on the last voicemail you sent him, a day before he broke up with you. The second he heard your voice it was like he magically sobered up - his mind was clear as day, and it immediately took him back in time to when the only thing he looked forward to was coming home to you.

"Hi baby, I know you’re sleeping already, but I just wanted to record a little message, so you have something nice to wake up to. These first few days apart are so hard, I really miss you, especially at night. I got so used to our little bedtime routine that the house feels so quiet and empty without you, like something is missing, you know? You’re going to call me a hypocrite, but you know what else I’m missing right now? The light from your computer when you game late at night and I can’t sleep because of it. Or how I have to beg for you to come to bed for at least two hours, before you finally do. (laugh). I really do miss your bed hair, though. Now with them being so long too, you look so cute. (laugh)."

"But you know, last night, and don’t make fun of me, but I had to put on your hoodie to sleep because I missed your smell, I thought about the first time you left for tour since we got together. I remember how you walked me home after our date because it was late, and you were so adorably awkward. You still are. Anyways, we stood under that lamppost right by my house, and we were talking for a bit, and I remember how sad I was that you had to leave. I know you were too but didn’t want to show it, my strong baby. And then you kissed me. (pause) I will always remember how you kissed me under that lamppost. And how you said “wait for me to come home”. "

"I’ll always wait for you, Wonwoo. No matter what."

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