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valkyriexo · 1 day ago

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Omg tysm for your kind words <3

Friday Night Lights | Lee Know

ᑉ³pairing; Jock Lee Know x Nerd Reader

ᑉ³genre; Fluff, Smut

ᑉ³warnings; SMUT MDNI ,dirty talk, swearing, oral m reciving,

ᑉ³Authors Note; 1k event Commisson giveaway winner Louie <3 (sorry it took so long :((( )

You’re used to staying in your lane.

In college, that means your nights are spent at the library, working on assignments, attending study groups, or listening to the whispers of people about crushes, weekend plans, and sometimes, the star athletes on campus. You don't usually pay much attention to that last one—until the whispers turn to Lee Minho. Lee Minho is… different. Confident, popular, and utterly untouchable. He’s the star of the football team, the guy people can’t stop talking about, but also somehow your friend.

Well, sort of.

You met through Jisung, your mutual friend, who has a way of pulling people together. You’ve spoken a few times—mostly polite hellos and small talk whenever Jisung ropes you into attending his hangouts—but every time you do, you find yourself tripping over your words.

You tell yourself it’s nothing—he’s just another guy, after all. But the way your heart races every time his attention flickers to you says otherwise.

“You’re coming to Minho’s game this Friday, right?” Jisung’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts.

You blink, caught off guard, and turn to face him. “What?”

Jisung leans back in his chair, balancing it on two legs like he always does, completely unfazed. “The game. This Friday. You’re coming, right?” He grins, as if your attendance is already a done deal.

“I don’t know...” you trail off, trying to avoid his expectant gaze. Crowds aren’t really your thing, and the idea of sitting through a packed football game is enough to make your stomach churn.

“Oh, come on,” he groans, dropping the chair back onto all four legs with a loud thud. “You’ve been holed up in this library all week. You need a break.”

You frown, shuffling your notebook to pretend like you’re busy. “I don’t really do... games.”

“You don’t have to ‘do games.’ You just have to show up. Cheer a little, look cute, and maybe—just maybe—have fun.” His tone is light, but the sly look he shoots you suggests he’s up to something.

Your suspicion grows. “Why do you care if I go?”

“Because it’s the homecoming game,” he says. “You know, one of the biggest games of the year? Minho’s going to kill me if you don’t show up.”

When you don’t respond, he rolls his eyes. “You know, Minho? Our mutual friend? The guy you can barely form a sentence around?”

“I do not—”

“Yes, you do,” he interrupts with a smile, leaning forward on his elbows. “And I think he’d appreciate the support. He’s been working really hard this season, and besides...”

You tilt your head, confused. “Why would he care if I’m there? I’ve never even been to one of his games.”

“That’s exactly why he’d care!” Jisung groans, throwing his head back dramatically. “Do you know how many times he’s asked me why you never go? He thinks you hate football or something.”

“I don’t hate football,” you say defensively, though the thought of navigating the chaotic energy of a packed stadium doesn’t exactly fill you with joy. “I’ve just... never really had a reason to go.”

Jisung smirks, leaning forward on his elbows. “Well, now you do.The entire campus is going to be there—students, alumni, even the marching band’s pulling out all the stops. It’s a whole thing. You have to come.”

You hesitate, nibbling on your bottom lip. It’s not like you don’t want to support Minho—he’s always been kind to you in his own aloof, confident way. But showing up at a game, where everyone’s eyes will be on him—and by extension, anyone he cares about—feels overwhelming.

“I don’t know, Ji. Crowds aren’t really my thing.”

“Crowds aren’t the thing,” he says, cutting you off with a sly grin. “Minho is."

Your stomach flips at the thought. You’ve never seen him play before, never witnessed the version of Minho everyone talks about when they say his name with awe. The star athlete, the leader on the field.

“I’ll think about it,” you mumble, quickly shuffling your papers as an excuse to avoid Jisung’s knowing look.

“Uh-huh,” he says, sitting back with an exaggerated shrug. “Just don’t be surprised when I text you the details anyway. You’re not getting out of this that easily.”

So, somehow, you find yourself in the bleachers that Friday night, bundled in your warmest jacket, pretending you’re not scanning the field for one particular player. It doesn’t take long for you to find him. Even among his teammates, Minho stands out, laughing with them, helmet under one arm as he warms up. It’s a little surreal, watching him from here; he’s all focus and intensity, so different from the relaxed, teasing guy you usually see at Jisung’s hangouts. You can’t help feeling your heart race a little faster.

As the game starts, you find yourself getting drawn in, caught up in the energy around you. The team is good, and Minho, even better. It’s not hard to see why he’s the star. Every play he’s part of feels....different. He’s practically flying across the field, tackling opponents, calling shots, making everything look effortless. You can’t keep your eyes off him.

And then it happens.

It’s fast—too fast, really—and at first, you’re not sure what’s wrong.

One second, Minho is sprinting down the field, his face set with determination as he cuts through defenders like they’re nothing. The next, there’s a collision, hard and brutal. The sound of it echoes in the stadium, a collective gasp rising from the crowd.

Your breath catches as you see him go down, gripping his ankle. For a moment, everything else disappears—the noise of the crowd, the whistle from the referee, even Jisung’s voice shouting something beside you. All you can see is Minho on the ground, pain written across his face.

Your heart pounds as players gather around him, the medics rushing onto the field. He tries to get up, but it’s clear he can’t put any weight on his leg. The sight twists something deep in your chest, and before you realize what you’re doing, you’re halfway to your feet.

��Hey,” Jisung says, grabbing your arm and pulling you back down. “He’ll be okay. It’s probably just a sprain or something.”

But Jisung’s words do little to calm the panic bubbling inside you. From this distance, you can’t hear what the medics are saying, but the way Minho shakes his head and slams his fist into the ground tells you it’s bad.

The game pauses as they help him off the field, his arm slung around a teammate’s shoulder, his usual confidence nowhere to be found. Your stomach churns, and for the rest of the game, no matter how loud the crowd gets or how exciting the plays are, you can’t focus. Your eyes keep drifting to the sideline, where Minho sits with his head down, his ankle wrapped in ice.

And all you can think about is how you wish you could do something to help him.

The rest of the game feels like a blur. The energy in the stadium surges back eventually, but not for you. Your eyes keep flicking toward the sideline, where Minho sits with his injured leg propped up, his arms crossed and a stormy expression on his face. Even from a distance, you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he’s forcing himself to stay composed despite the obvious frustration simmering beneath the surface.

Jisung nudges you with his elbow, breaking your trance. “Relax. Minho’s tough. He’ll be fine.”

You nod stiffly, not trusting your voice enough to reply. Jisung’s probably right—Minho is strong, the kind of guy who shrugs off pain like it’s nothing. But something about the way he looked when they carried him off the field makes your chest feel heavy.

When the game finally ends, with your school securing a narrow victory, the crowd erupts in cheers. Students flood the field to celebrate, but you can’t seem to share their enthusiasm. Instead, you find yourself lingering near the bleachers, watching as the team huddles together, Minho still sitting apart, his helmet resting forgotten at his feet.

“Come on,” Jisung says, tugging on your sleeve. “Let’s go check on him.”

Your heart skips. “What? No. He’s probably surrounded by people—he doesn’t need me there.”

Jisung rolls his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re his friend too. Besides, if you don’t come, I’ll just tell him you were too shy to say hi, and then he’ll feel bad.”

You glare at him, but the teasing glint in his eyes leaves you with no room to argue. Before you know it, you’re weaving through the lingering crowd, your pulse quickening with every step closer to the team’s bench.

When you reach him, Minho is leaning back against the bench, his jaw clenched and his eyes distant. His ankle is now heavily wrapped, a crutch resting beside him.

“Minho!” Jisung calls, grinning as if nothing’s out of the ordinary. “You okay, man? That hit looked brutal.”

Minho glances up, his expression softening slightly when he sees Jisung—and then landing on you. His gaze lingers for a moment, and you suddenly forget how to breathe.

“I’ve been better,” he mutters, managing a wry smile. “But I’ll live.”

“You scared the crap out of them,” Jisung says, jerking his thumb in your direction. “They were about to jump the fence and carry you off the field themself.”

“Jisung!” you hiss, smacking his arm, but Minho chuckles, the sound low and warm despite the situation.

“You were worried about me?” he asks, tilting his head as he looks at you.

Your cheeks burn, and you scramble for a response that doesn’t make you sound ridiculous. “I mean... you went down pretty hard. Anyone would’ve been worried.”

His smile widens, a hint of his usual confidence returning. “Well, thanks for caring.”

The simplicity of his words, paired with the way his eyes soften when he looks at you, sends your heart into overdrive. You want to say more, to ask if he’s really okay, but the weight of his gaze and the teasing grin tugging at his lips leaves you tongue-tied.

“Anyway,” Jisung cuts in, oblivious to the tension hanging in the air, “you should let them take care of you. They're great at worrying—practically a professional.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands as Minho chuckles again.

“Noted,” he says, his tone lighter now, almost playful. “Maybe I’ll take you up on that.”

And just like that, you realize you might be in deeper than you ever thought.

Over the next two weeks, Minho’s injury changes things. He’s benched for practices, forced to watch from the sidelines while his teammates run drills and scrimmage. The ever-present crutches are a constant reminder of his temporary setback, though he still somehow makes them look effortlessly cool.

The trouble starts when Jisung complains one afternoon, flopping dramatically into the seat next to you in the library.

“I can’t keep babysitting Minho,” he groans. “We don’t even have the same classes, and Coach keeps glaring at me every time I’m late because I’m helping him to practice. You should do it.”

You frown. “Me? Why me?”

Jisung grins slyly, clearly enjoying your discomfort. “You’re the only other person he talks to as much as me. Besides, you’re better at dealing with his diva moments.”

“Diva moments?” you ask, incredulous.

“Oh, you’ll see.”

Despite your protests, Jisung isn’t one to take no for an answer, and by the next morning, Minho’s waiting for you outside your lecture hall, leaning on his crutches with an easy grin.

“Hey,” he says casually, as if this is the most normal thing in the world.

You blink at him. “What are you doing here?”

“Jisung said you’d help me get to practice,” he replies, his grin widening when he sees the look on your face. “Don’t worry. I’m not that high-maintenance.”

You sigh, already feeling like you’re in over your head. “Fine. Let’s go before I change my mind.”

Helping Minho quickly becomes a routine. Every afternoon, you meet him after his last class to walk—well, technically hobble—to the field. At first, it’s awkward, mostly because Minho seems determined to act like his injury isn’t a big deal, even when he’s obviously struggling. But over time, the walks become... easier.

Minho, for all his bravado, is surprisingly easy to talk to. He asks you questions about your classes, your favorite things, even what made you decide to go to the homecoming game. His teasing is still there, but it’s lighter, less guarded, and you find yourself opening up to him in ways you didn’t expect.

One afternoon, as you’re walking back from practice, Minho turns to you suddenly.

“You don’t have to keep doing this, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

He gestures to his crutches, his expression unusually serious. “Helping me. I know it’s a hassle.”

You stop walking, frowning at him. “It’s not a hassle, Minho. I don’t mind.”

He looks at you for a long moment, something unspoken passing between you. Then, he smiles—soft and genuine, the kind that makes your heart skip.

“Thanks,” he says quietly.

You’re about to keep walking when he doesn’t move, shifting his weight awkwardly on his crutches. His expression tightens like he’s debating something with himself, and before you can ask, he speaks again.

“You know... I'm not kidding,” he says, his voice lower now.

“Kidding about what?” you ask, genuinely confused.

“About this being a hassle,” he replies, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “But not for the reasons you think.”

You tilt your head, frowning. “Minho, that doesn’t even make sense.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound more nervous than amused. “What I mean is... it’s a hassle because I’m trying really hard not to screw this up.”

Your heart skips. “Screw what up?”

“This,” he says, his dark eyes locking on yours. “Us. Whatever this is. Because, honestly? I like you.”

The words hit you like a wave, and you’re left standing there, staring at him as your brain scrambles to catch up.

“You… like me?” you echo, your voice barely above a whisper.

Minho nods, shifting his grip on his crutches as if they’re the only thing grounding him. “Yeah, I do. I’ve been trying not to make it obvious, but these past couple of weeks? Spending time with you, talking to you... it’s just made it harder to ignore.”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you’re not sure what to say. “Minho, I—”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he interrupts, his tone gentle but firm. “I just needed you to know. Even if you don’t feel the same, I... I couldn’t keep pretending I didn’t care about you like this.”

The raw honesty in his voice takes you by surprise, and before you can second-guess yourself, the words tumble out.

“I do feel the same,” you admit, your cheeks burning as you look at him. “I just didn’t think you would.”

Minho blinks, clearly startled, before his lips curve into a slow, disbelieving smile. “You mean that?”

You nod, unable to stop the small smile creeping onto your face. “Yeah, I do.”

For a moment, he just looks at you, his expression soft and full of something you can’t quite name. Then, he exhales a laugh, shaking his head.

“Well, that’s a relief,” he says, his grin widening. “I was starting to think Jisung would kill me if I didn’t say something.”

You laugh, the tension between you melting away. “He probably would.”

Minho straightens up, his confidence sliding back into place. “So, does this mean I can keep making you carry my stuff to practice? You know, since you like me and all.”

You roll your eyes, already regretting this. “Don’t push your luck, Minho.”

The days blend together, and somewhere in the middle of it all, you realize you’ve started looking forward to your time with him. The walks, the conversations, the way he glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking—it’s all so much more than you ever thought it could be.

But today feels different.

When you show up to meet Minho after practice, the field is empty. His crutches aren’t propped up by the bench where he usually waits, and there’s no sign of his teammates. You glance around, your chest tightening with a mix of confusion and unease.

“Minho?” you call out, but the only answer is the faint hum of fluorescent lights from the building nearby.

Frowning, you decide to check inside. The locker room is usually bustling after practice, but as you step in, it’s eerily quiet. The air smells faintly of sweat and detergent, and the echo of your footsteps makes the space feel even emptier.

You turn a corner, and that’s when you see him.

Minho is sitting on one of the benches, his crutches leaning against the wall beside him. His head is bowed, his hair falling into his face as he stares at the ground. There’s a tension in his posture, his shoulders hunched like he’s carrying the weight of the world.

“Minho?” you say softly, stepping closer.

He doesn’t look up right away, but you see the subtle way his shoulders relax at the sound of your voice. “Hey,” he mutters, his tone lacking its usual spark.

You sit down beside him, your knee brushing against his. “What’s going on? I thought we were meeting outside.”

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I just... needed a minute.”

You wait, giving him the space to speak. When he finally looks at you, his eyes are shadowed with something you don’t see often—uncertainty.

“I hate this,” he admits quietly, gesturing to the crutches beside him. “Sitting out, watching everyone else practice, knowing I can’t do anything. It’s... frustrating.”

Your heart aches at the vulnerability in his voice. “Minho, it’s okay to feel that way,” you say gently. “But this is temporary. You’ll be back out there before you know it.”

He scoffs, his lips pressing into a thin line. “What if I’m not? What if I come back and I’m not as good? Or worse, what if I get hurt again?”

“Then you deal with it,” you say firmly, surprising even yourself. “Because you’re Minho. You don’t let anything stop you. And besides...” You hesitate, your voice softening. “You’re more than just football. At least, to me you are.”

He blinks, his eyes searching yours. “You really mean that?”

You nod, reaching out to brush a strand of hair away from his face. “Of course I do. You’re amazing, Minho, even when you’re not on the field.”

For a moment, he just stares at you, his expression unreadable. Then, he reaches for your hand, his fingers warm as they curl around yours.

Minho’s thumb traces over your knuckles in gentle circles, and he looks down at your intertwined hands with a soft, almost shy smile.

There’s something unspoken hanging in the air between you, a feeling that’s been growing with every passing day, but now, in the quiet of the locker room, it’s impossible to ignore.

You feel it too—the shift, the tension, the undeniable pull drawing you closer. His gaze lifts from your hands to your face, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that makes your breath hitch.

For a moment, neither of you moves. The world outside seems to fade away, leaving just the two of you in the stillness of the locker room, the soft sound of his breath mingling with yours.

“You know,” Minho starts, his voice low, almost hesitant, “I’ve been wanting to do this for a while.”

Your heart beats faster, your pulse quickening. “Do what?” you whisper, even though you already know.

Minho doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he leans in slowly, his face inching closer to yours, his lips barely brushing against the air between you. His hand moves to your cheek, his fingers warm and gentle against your skin.

And then, without another word, his lips are on yours.

It’s tentative at first, soft and uncertain, as if he’s waiting for you to pull away, but you don’t. You tilt your head, your free hand reaching up to rest on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips. When you kiss him back, it’s like everything clicks into place—like this was always meant to happen.

The kiss deepens, slow and explorative, as if you’re both savoring the moment. His lips are soft, warm, and he smells like freshly cut grass and the faintest trace of cologne. His hand moves to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and you respond in kind, your other hand finding its way to his waist, holding him against you.

For a long moment, it’s just the two of you, lost in the feeling of something new and exciting, something neither of you ever expected. And when you finally pull away, breathless and slightly dazed, Minho rests his forehead against yours, his smile lazy but full of warmth.

“I think,” he murmurs, his voice low, “I could get used to this.”

You smile, feeling a quiet thrill at the thought. “Then I guess we’ll have to make it happen.”

Minho's grin softens, his hand still warm against your cheek, and he leans in once more.

This time, the kiss is different—deeper, more certain. There’s no hesitation, no wondering if this is okay. His other hand slides to your waist, pulling you closer until there’s barely any space between you. His lips move against yours, gentle yet deliberate, as if he’s making up for all the times he’d held back.

You respond, feeling braver now, your fingers finding their way to his collar, tugging him just a bit closer. The locker room is completely forgotten; it’s just you and Minho, the world melting away around you.

You wanted him, of this you were sure.

"Darling, why don't you let me help you forget about it all?" You purred, as your hands made their way down his chest stopping at his waist. You pulled him towards you and kissed him harder, your need for him overpowering any doubt that was left in your mind.

You knelt between his legs, the anticipation building between you. You place both of your hands on his legs and slowly began to push them apart, allowing yourself to slide in between.

"Y/n…" he said, placing his hand on top of yours, almost as if to stop you. His fingers lingered, trembling slightly. "A-Are you sure? " he said "I don't want to pressure you"

"Shh... let me," you replied softly, as you began to unbuckle his belt, your eyes never leaving his. "I want you, Minho. I want this."

He groaned as you palmed him through his boxers. You could feel him getting harder under your hands.

"Y-you don't have to, baby" He said through his moans. You slowly pulled down his boxers, his erection springing free. "We can take it slo-OH," You leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to his pink tip.

You continued by placing a trail of kisses down his cock, keeping eye contact with him. You licked your way back up to the tip and took him in your mouth, your tongue swirling around the sensitive tip, tasting his pre-cum as it seeped from the top.

He couldn't help but throw his head back and lean further onto the bench. His breath caught in his throat as his ears began to turn a shade of red. You bobbed your head up and down, your tongue swirling around the sensitive head of his cock.

The only thing heard in the locker room is the lewd sounds coming from your mouth along with his whimpers.

Minho moaned loudly, his hips bucking involuntarily. You took him deeper into your mouth and sucking harder than before. You reached up to cup his balls, rolling them gently in your fingers as you continued to pleasure him.

"Fuck, Y/N," He moaned. "That feels so good. You're so good."

You responded with a low growl, taking him even deeper, his tip kissing the back of your throat.

Your lips were locked around his shaft. You choked slightly around his cock, tears beginning to fall from your eyes as his tip hit the back of your throat continuously.

He whined for more, almost sobbing when you completely removed yourself from around him, removing your lips from him with a pop.

You lick your way up his cock, once again paying extra attention to his swollen tip. His gaze locked onto yours, he began to thrust his hips forward, his thick, hard cock pressing against your lips. You parted them slightly, allowing him to slide inside once again.

He began to fuck your mouth roughly, his cock sliding in and out of your throat with each thrust. You could feel the saliva dripping down your chin, but you didn't care - the only thing that mattered was pleasing him.

"I'm go-gonna.... fuck.. gonna cum." he said, his thrusts beginning to slow down.

You feel the familiar slip of your glasses down the bridge of your nose, threatening to fall off completely.

Before you can react, Minho’s hand gently brushes against your nose, and with a soft chuckle, he reaches up, pushing your glasses back into place. His fingers linger just a moment longer than necessary, his touch warm against your skin. You felt his cock twitch in your mouth, your glasses sliding sending him overboard, and his cum paints your throat. You swallowed, your eyes never leaving his as you sucked him dry.

He pulled his cock out, and you pressed your thumb down onto his dripping red tip.

The lower half of your face glistens, your features wet with your his cum.

"Fuck you're pretty" he said hold your chin with his hand. “I didn’t know you knew how to do that," his voice a mix of amusement and admiration. “You’ve always seemed like the super nerdy type—guess I was wrong.”

You laugh, feeling a bit shy under his gaze. “Well, I do have my moments of... unexpected skills.”

Minho’s smile softens, and he brushes a strand of hair from your face. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” you reply, a grin tugging at your lips. “Guess you’ll have to stick around to find out more.”

He chuckles, leaning in again, and you both fall back into the moment, the world outside fading away once more.