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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.

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[valkyriexo]

I MISS YOU BAD 🫤🫤🫤🫤

STOPPPP I MISS U MORE. WHERE HAVE U BEEN.

YOU KNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO FANGIRL OVER CHAN IN SILENCE 😭

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Me seeing @dwaekkicidal in my mentions :(( tysm for readingg and im glad you enjoyed it

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.

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Do Not Answer | Hyunjin

ᑉ³pairing; Joker Hyunjin x Reader

ᑉ³genre; Thriller, lightly Suggestive

ᑉ³warnings; lightly suggestive , knives, mentions of blood, mentions of death, mentions of murder, darker theme overall,

ᑉ³Authors Note; 1k event Commisson giveaway winner @linocvp1d (sorry it took so long :((( ) Thank you for beta reading @kisskissbanggang ! i appreciate you so much

The television flickered in the dimly lit room, the chaotic hum of the nightly news filling the space. You sat cross-legged on the worn velvet couch, your head tilted with fascination as the anchor recounted another crime spree. The footage cut to a shaky video of a man standing amid a scene of mayhem—cars ablaze, shattered glass strewn across the pavement, and panicked faces blurred in the background.

He stood out against the chaos like a twisted masterpiece, his lanky frame wrapped in mismatched layers that defied logic yet demanded attention. A deep violet blazer, scuffed and torn, hung loosely over his narrow shoulders. Beneath it, a bright green shirt peeked out, its garish color streaked with dark stains. The golden tangle of his hair fell over his forehead, sticking to his pale skin, streaked with what looked like sweat—or maybe blood.

But it was his face that held you captive. Pale as porcelain, the corners of his mouth curled unnaturally high, splitting his expression into an almost painful grin. Dark rings encircled his eyes, smudged kohl blending into streaks of grime, making the wild gleam in his gaze all the more unsettling.

His presence was magnetic, the kind that drew you closer even as every sane fiber of your being told you to run. He turned toward the camera, cocking his head in a gesture that felt like both an invitation and a threat.

“They’ll never catch me,” his voice crackled through the speakers, low and smooth, laced with deranged amusement.

You tilted your head to mirror his, a slow smile creeping across your lips. There was something… fascinating about him, something that made your heart race for all the wrong reasons.

The anchor’s voice pulled you back, but this time it was tinged with barely concealed fear. “Authorities are urging all residents to remain inside. Lock your doors, secure your windows, and under no circumstances should you engage with strangers. This individual is considered extremely dangerous.”

The screen cut to footage of the aftermath of his latest crime—a burning building, emergency lights flashing against the smoke-filled night, and paramedics rushing stretcher after stretcher into waiting ambulances. “He’s been known to target random victims, often at night,” the anchor continued, her voice cracking slightly. “And—” she hesitated, glancing off-screen before swallowing hard and regaining her composure. “There are reports of him taunting his targets before striking. If you receive a call from an unknown number, do not answer. Repeat: do not answer.”

Your gaze remained locked on the screen, the anchor’s panicked words a distant hum in your ears. They didn’t understand him. Not really.

Your phone buzzed suddenly, jolting you out of your thoughts. 

It sat face down on the coffee table, the vibration rattling against the surface. You froze, your pulse quickening, but you didn’t move to pick it up.

The ringing continued for a few seconds before stopping, leaving the room in heavy silence. You exhaled shakily, trying to steady your breathing. It was probably nothing. A butt dial call. Or—

The phone buzzed again, breaking your train of thought. This time, you reached for it with hesitant fingers, flipping it over to see the name glowing on the screen:

Mom.

You let out a small breath you hadn’t realized you were holding and answered. “Hi, Mom.”

“Hey, sweetheart. Are you watching the news? It’s terrifying. Please tell me you’re home and have the doors locked.” Her voice carried that familiar mix of worry and love that she’d perfected over the years.

“Yes, I’m home,” you said, moving toward the kitchen as you spoke. “Doors are locked. I’m fine, Mom. Promise.”

“You’d tell me if you weren’t, right? I just—these things are happening so close to home, and that man…” Her voice trailed off, and you could practically see the way she’d be wringing her hands, pacing the living room.

You balanced the phone between your ear and shoulder as you pulled open the fridge. “I’m fine. Really. I’m about to make dinner. Nothing to worry about.”

“Okay, okay. Just… call me if you need anything. And don’t answer any strange calls, okay?”

You bit back a smile. “You’ve been watching too many horror movies.”

“This isn’t funny, honey. Just be safe.”

“I will. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The call ended, and you set the phone down on the counter. With a small shake of your head, you turned your attention to dinner, pulling ingredients from the fridge and cabinets. The steady rhythm of chopping vegetables and the sizzle of oil in the pan brought a sense of normalcy to the evening.

The man from the news lingered at the edges of your thoughts, though. His image seemed burned into your mind—the wild glint in his eyes, the way his crooked smile exuded both danger and charisma.

You stirred the pan, letting the aroma of cooking fill the room. And then, just as you were plating your food, the phone buzzed again.

You glanced over, expecting another call from your mom, but the screen read:

Unknown Caller.

Your hand froze on the fork, your stomach knotting. The words of the anchor came rushing back:

 Do not answer.

The buzzing continued, persistent and jarring in the quiet apartment. You licked your lips, wiping your hands on a towel as you moved toward the phone.

You hesitated, the warnings running laps in your mind. Your fingers hovered over the screen, but before you could decide, the call stopped. The screen went dark, leaving an eerie stillness in the room.

You stared at the phone for a moment, your breath shallow. 

It’s nothing, you told yourself. Probably a mistake or a spam call.

But then, it buzzed again. The same Unknown Caller.

Your heart raced as you watched it vibrate on the counter, your feet rooted in place. You didn’t move, didn’t answer, and after a few seconds, the ringing stopped again.

The silence that followed felt heavier this time, pressing down on you like a weight. You exhaled shakily, wiping your palms on your jeans, trying to dismiss the growing unease twisting in your chest.

And then it buzzed a third time.

The screen glowed, Unknown Caller staring back at you like a challenge.

Your hand trembled slightly as you picked it up. Something inside you stirred—curiosity, defiance, or maybe something darker. Whatever it was, it overrode the warnings in your head.

With a deep breath, you swiped to answer.

“Hello?”

For a moment, there was nothing but silence on the other end. And then, a low, smooth chuckle, warm and unsettling all at once.

“Well, well,” the voice purred with amusement. “Third time’s the charm. I was beginning to think you’d never pick up.”

Your breath caught in your throat, the voice sending a shiver down your spine. It was unmistakable—him.

“I don’t usually make house calls,” he continued, his tone playful but laced with malice, “but you… you’re an exception.”

You gripped the phone tighter, your pulse pounding in your ears. “Who is this?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady, though the crack at the end betrayed you.

He laughed again, the sound rich and unnerving, as though he was savoring your reaction. “Oh, come on. Don’t play coy. I think you know exactly who I am.”

You were silent.

 “Oh, come on now,” he purred, as though savoring your confusion. “Don’t tell me you don’t recognize the voice.”

You swallowed hard, your mind racing. Was he toying with you? But it was impossible—how could he know who you were?

“Why are you calling me?” you demanded, trying to regain control, but your heart was hammering in your chest.

“Because you’re so… interesting,” he said, dragging out the word, the tone heavy with meaning. “You’ve been home all day, haven’t you? Just sitting there, waiting for something to happen. Nothing ever changes, does it? Same routine, same quiet apartment.” His voice lowered, almost whispering, sending a chill down your spine. “I can hear the silence. It’s deafening.”

The panic surged in your chest. “How—how do you know that?” you choked out, your voice barely above a whisper.

Another laugh, sharp and unnerving, echoed through the line. “I told you. I’ve been paying attention. It’s… entertaining, watching you go about your little life. You get so comfortable, so predictable. But that’s about to change.”

Your blood ran cold. He was right. You had been alone all day, just the television and the hum of your thoughts. But how could he know? There was no way he was here… no way he could have been watching.

“You’re making a mistake,” you snapped, trying to hide the fear rising in your throat. “I don’t know who you are, but—”

“Oh, I know you’re scared,” he interrupted, his voice turning colder. “I can hear it in your voice. But you don’t have to worry. I’m just getting started.”

The line went silent for a moment, and you held your breath, your pulse thundering in your ears. The words didn’t make sense—none of this made sense. How could he possibly know all this?

Your knees threatened to buckle, but you forced yourself to stay upright. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re intrigued,” he shot back, not missing a beat. “Why else would you still be on the phone with me?”

Before you could respond, there was a faint sound in the background—a door creaking open. Your blood ran cold as you spun toward your front door.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he drawled lazily. “I’m not much for formal invitations.”

The phone slipped from your hand as the doorknob turned slowly, the lock you thought was secure clicking open.

There he stood, a twisted smile curling across his face, the same one burned into your memory from the screen. Up close, he was even more unsettling—the gleam in his eyes alive with chaotic energy, like he was drinking in your shock.

“Well, well,” he said, stepping inside and letting the door swing shut behind him. “Dinner and a show. How thoughtful.”

You backed up instinctively, your heart hammering against your ribs. “How—how did you get in here?”

He tilted his head, feigning innocence as he slipped his hands into the pockets of his tattered blazer. “You’d be surprised what doors open when you knock hard enough.”

Your eyes darted to the kitchen counter, where the knife you’d been using lay within reach.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” he said, noticing your glance. His voice dipped into a mock pout. “I came all this way to see you, and you’re already thinking of cutting me out of the fun?”

“What do you want?” you managed, your voice trembling despite the defiance you tried to muster.

He grinned wider, his teeth glinting in the dim light. “Now that,” he said, taking another step toward you, “is the question, isn’t it?”

He moved closer, the heavy silence of the room pressing in around both of you. His eyes gleamed with excitement, watching your every twitch, your every nervous breath. He didn’t need to rush; he was savoring this moment—this perfect mix of fear and control.

"You don't have to say anything," he purred, his voice smooth as velvet. "I already know how this goes." His words dripped with a mock sympathy, the kind that made your skin crawl. "You’ll beg. You’ll plead. But that won’t matter."

His steps were slow, deliberate, like a predator circling its prey. Every footfall echoed in the quiet, reminding you that there was nowhere to run, no escape. His hand reached out, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear, the touch cold and deliberate.

"Please," you whispered, your voice breaking, trying to hide the tremor that rattled your body. "Don’t… don’t hurt me." You couldn’t stop the pleading from slipping out. It was instinct, raw panic clawing at you from the inside. You wanted to disappear, wanted to be anywhere but here, but your body refused to listen.

He stood inches from you now, close enough for you to feel the heat of his presence, his breath warm against your face. "Oh, sweetheart," he said softly, almost mockingly. "I don’t want to hurt you. Not yet, anyway." He let that hang in the air for a moment, like a question you didn’t want to answer.

You flinched as he took another step, your back hitting the wall behind you. The tears welled in your eyes, the overwhelming sense of helplessness seeping in. "Please," you sobbed, "just leave me alone. I’m begging you."

He smiled then, a cruel, twisted thing that sent ice through your veins. "Begging. There it is." His voice dropped lower, more sinister, a soft laugh rolling off his tongue. "I could watch you beg for hours. It’s almost too easy."

He leaned in closer, his breath warm on your ear. "Do you know what happens to people who beg?" His lips brushed your skin as he spoke, sending a shiver through your whole body. "They break. They start losing themselves. And once you break, there’s nothing left to stop me."

Your heart pounded harder as his hand rested on the side of your face, his fingers lightly tracing your cheek in a gesture that should have been comforting but only deepened your terror.

But then, just as you felt the breath leave your body in a sob, something inside you shifted.

You stopped crying.

His fingers stilled on your cheek, sensing the change in you. You met his gaze, and for the first time since he'd walked in, you weren’t afraid. At least, not the way he thought you were.

You smiled, but it wasn’t the terrified grin of someone who had given up. No, this was different. It was sharp. It was knowing. And in that instant, his cocky, dangerous demeanor faltered for the briefest moment.

"Oh Hyunjin..," you said, your voice steady, almost affectionate.

The moment his name left your lips, everything around you seemed to freeze. His breath caught, his eyes wide, locked on yours, and for the first time, he was the one who faltered. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe. His fingers, still resting on your cheek, remained perfectly still, as though the very mention of his name had shattered the illusion he’d so carefully crafted.

His gaze flickered, confusion clouding his features as he took a step back, the momentary vulnerability in his eyes like a crack in his carefully constructed façade.

His grip on your chin tightened, and he leaned in, his face inches from yours. "What game are you playing, huh?" His voice was low, threatening, but the edge of uncertainty had crept in, making it even more unsettling. "You think you can scare me back?"

You leaned closer, your lips brushing his ear as you whispered, "I’ve been waiting for you to find me."

His breath hitched as you leaned even closer, your lips just grazing his ear, the intimacy of the moment sending a jolt through him. You could feel the tension thickening in the air, the battle between control and the unsettling connection that was forming between the two of you.

"I've been waiting for you to find me," you repeated, your voice soft, almost like a lover’s whisper.

The words sank into his skin, and for a split second, he pulled back just enough to study you, eyes narrowing, trying to comprehend what you meant. But there was something in your gaze—something that unnerved him, something that spoke of obsession.

He'd known women like you before. Women who thought they could twist themselves into something he would desire, something that would draw him in. But as he watched you now, he realized it wasn't just imitation. It was a deep understanding, a disturbing knowledge of him that made his skin crawl.

"Oh?," he muttered, but even his voice was strained, as if he was both fascinated and horrified by the truth he was starting to uncover. "What... what are you trying to do?"

You didn’t answer him immediately. Instead, your eyes wandered over his face, studying every line, every scar, every little detail as though you were committing it to memory. Your gaze was unsettling—intimate in a way that only someone who had watched him for too long could achieve.

"You think I’m just like the others," you said, your voice flat but somehow laced with something darker, something dangerous. "But I'm not. I know you. I know exactly what you like, Hyunjin. I know who you choose. And I knew if I made myself like them..." You paused, the ghost of a smile on your lips, "you couldn’t help but find me."

His eyes widened in disbelief, but then a twisted smile slowly curled at the corners of his lips, as if he were finally seeing you for who you really were. "So that's it," he said, the words slipping from his tongue like venom. "You thought you could lure me in? Make yourself a perfect little victim? Pathetic."

Your gaze never left his as you shrugged, unphased by his harsh words. "You came right to my doorstep, didn't you?" Your voice was a low hum. "You always do when someone like me is waiting. You can't help it. You’re drawn to what you don’t understand."

His grip on your chin tightened again, and this time, there was no pretending. He was beyond the point of merely intimidating you. He was starting to lose control, the realization that he wasn’t the one in charge anymore sinking in.

"You're out of your fucking mind," he hissed, but there was something about your quiet smile—something unsettling in the way you leaned in even closer—that made him pause. 

You didn’t flinch, didn’t back away. Instead, you pressed in even closer, until your faces were mere inches apart. His eyes searched yours, desperate to figure out where the line was, where he could draw it and finally break you. 

But the truth was, there was no line. You had crossed it a long time ago.

"I’ve always known, Hyunjin," you whispered, the words dripping with something far darker than admiration. "I’ve always known what you needed. And I’ve been here, waiting for you... just for you."

His grip on your chin tightened again, but his movements were no longer about power. There was a flicker of something else—something almost... excited. “You think you’re some kind of challenge, huh?” His words were laced with a hint of amusement, like he couldn’t quite believe what was happening.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. You didn’t even blink.

His lips curled into a smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes. It was more a test now—seeing how far you’d go. He took a step back, dropping his hand from your chin, and without saying another word, he moved toward the far wall of the room. He reached for the knives lined up on the counter nearby, the cold steel glinting in the dim light. The air between you two felt thick, charged with something dangerous, something raw.

You didn’t move, didn’t even seem to acknowledge him as he grabbed the first knife, expertly flipping it in his hand, his eyes still locked on yours. With a flick of his wrist, the blade flew through the air, embedding itself into the wall just inches from your face. It would’ve been too close for anyone else, but you didn’t flinch. 

You didn’t even blink.

He threw another, then another, each one grazing the edge of the wall near you. The room filled with the sharp thuds of metal hitting the hard surface, but still, you remained completely still. Unshaken. Your eyes remained fixed on him, watching, waiting, almost... entertained.

"Are you done?" you say.

Hyunjin’s breath grew heavier, the fascination in his gaze deepening. No one had ever dared to remain so calm, so unmoved in front of him. Most people were terrified by the chaos he created, by the danger he so freely wielded. But you? You were something else entirely.

He took a slow step toward you, his eyes never leaving your face. The silence between you both was suffocating, a heavy tension that only seemed to grow with every passing second. He wasn’t sure if he was testing you or if he was just trying to understand you. Could someone like you really be real? Or was this all just an act to survive?

You broke the silence first, not with words, but with a simple gesture. You didn’t flinch. Instead, you turned toward the TV, flicking it on with a calmness that only made his heart beat faster. As the screen lit up, the news anchor’s voice cut through the silence of the room.

“Breaking news tonight: a series of brutal killings in the city have been linked to an unknown assailant. Authorities are urging citizens to remain cautious as they investigate the disturbing pattern...”

The screen flashed a picture of the victims, the same faces he had seen on the news before. But now, there was something different. Something far more intimate. 

They were your victims.

Hyunjin froze, the knife in his hand trembling slightly as he turned to look at you. You met his gaze with a knowing smile, your eyes now gleaming with something dangerous—something he hadn’t expected.

“Did you think I was just waiting for you to find me?” you asked softly, your voice almost teasing now. “I’ve been watching. I’ve been planning... learning. Everything you’ve done, everything you’re capable of... I’m not afraid of you, Hyunjin. You’re exactly what I’ve been waiting for.”

He swallowed, the words getting caught in his throat as he took another step back, his eyes flickering between you and the TV screen. The truth was right there. You were real. You were every bit as dangerous as he was, and maybe, just maybe, you were even more unpredictable than he’d ever imagined.

His smirk returned, though this time, it was something darker, a mixture of amusement and raw desire. "Well, well," he murmured, his voice low, almost a growl. "You’re insane. But damn, if that doesn’t make this interesting."

He dropped the knife onto the table, and for the first time since he'd walked in, he didn’t look like the predator. Instead, he looked like someone who had just met their match.

Hyunjin's heart raced, but it wasn’t from fear. It was something far more thrilling, something that tightened in his chest with every word you spoke. The way you watched him, the cold calculation in your eyes, sent a shiver down his spine, but also made something dark stir in the pit of his stomach. This was the moment he'd been waiting for.

But instead of backing off, you stepped closer. You didn’t even flinch at the knives, didn’t even seem to acknowledge their deadly proximity. Your gaze was locked on his, not with fear, but with anticipation.

You reached up, your fingers trailing along his jawline, the touch almost gentle. He leaned into it, despite himself. There was something about your proximity, the way you were pulling him in, that was impossible to resist.

“You’re dangerous,” he whispered, voice low, almost a growl. “But you’re also exactly what I wanted.”

You smiled, that same knowing, dangerous smile that made his pulse race. “I’m not afraid of you,” you whispered, the words heavy with meaning. “In fact, I think I’m starting to enjoy this... maybe even more than you are.”

And before he could say anything more, you closed the distance between you, your lips crashing against his in a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was hungry, desperate—two predators finally giving in to their shared hunger. His hands flew to your back, pulling you in closer, deeper, as if he couldn’t get enough. You responded with equal ferocity, your body pressing into his, hands threading through his hair, pulling him in until there was no space left between you.

His mind screamed at him to regain control, to pull away, to remind you who was in charge. But the heat of your kiss, the wild, untamed energy that sparked between you both, left him speechless. It was a game now, but not one he had planned. He had underestimated you, and that, more than anything, turned him on.

As he pulled away from the kiss, both of you breathing heavily, the moment seemed to stretch, thick with tension and something more primal. His eyes searched yours, as if trying to decode every part of you that he hadn’t yet understood, that still eluded him.

He smirked, his voice still low and rough, a trace of amusement dancing in his gaze. “What’s your name?”

You tilted your head, considering the question, your lips curving into a knowing smile. There was something unsettlingly confident about you now, like you were no longer trying to hide who you were—who you had always been.

“Harley Quinn,” you answered, your voice sweet, but with a dangerous edge.

He froze, his heart skipping a beat at the mention of that name.The look in his eyes was a mixture of intrigue and caution, as though he was beginning to understand exactly what kind of monster he was dealing with.

"Harley Quinn," he repeated, testing the name on his lips. The idea of you being a version of him—crazy, unpredictable, and dangerously charming—was a twist he hadn’t expected. You weren’t just some fragile victim. You were something else, something much more volatile.

"You like it?" you teased, watching him with a playful glint in your eyes, completely unfazed by the weight of the moment.

He chuckled darkly, stepping back slightly, but his eyes never left yours. "I think I’m starting to like you, Quinn." The way he said your name, with both amusement and an underlying hunger, made it clear he wasn’t talking about anything as simple as affection.

You smiled, leaning in just enough to brush your lips against his ear once more. "Careful, Hyunjin... you might find out I'm more dangerous than you think."

He exhaled slowly, his smirk widening as he pulled you back into another kiss, a kiss that promised there was no going back.

And just like that, the Joker had found his Queen.

ઇଓ M.LIST | Ko-Fi | Taglist | Thank you for your support ♡ | Consider leaving a comment, reblog or like ♡ | © 2024 Valkyriexo 

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꒰Collections꒱ؘ

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ Kinktober ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

ઇଓ Masterlist ⤷ in collab with @dandelions-143

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ 1k Celebration ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

ઇଓ Commissioned Fic Giveaway

ઇଓ Invisible Ask Game Master list ⤷ Skz Texts

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ He helps you when.. ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

ઇଓ You Faint | Bang Chan ⤷ Sickfic, Comfort, Fluff,

ઇଓ You Have an Injury | Lee Minho ⤷ Sickfic, Comfort, Fluff, angst if you squint

ઇଓ You're drunk | Seo Changbin ⤷ Sickfic , Comfort, angst with a happy ending

ઇଓ You get your period | Hwang Hyunjin ⤷ Sickfic, Smau, Comfort, Fluff,

ઇଓ You get surgery | Han Jisung ⤷ Sickfic, Comfort, Fluff

ઇଓYou have the flu | Lee Felix ⤷ Sickfic, Comfort, Fluff

ઇଓYou have a migraine | Kim Seungmin ⤷ Sickfic, Comfort, Fluff

ઇଓYou accidently hurt yourself | Yang Jeongin ⤷ Sickfic, Comfort, Fluff, angst if you squint

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ DIVERGENT ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

ઇଓ What Faction would they be in? | OT8 ⤷ headcannon

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꒰OT8꒱ؘ

╰┈➤ headcanons.

ઇଓ They comfort you when you overwork yourself | OT8 ⤷ comfort

ઇଓ They confess in your sleep | OT8 ⤷ fluff

ઇଓ How Skz would ask you to be theirs | Hyung | Maknae ⤷ fluff

╰┈➤ texts.

ઇଓ Needy Texts | OT8 ⤷Skz texts, Suggestive MDNI

ઇଓ Groupchat | You're a teacher | OT8 ⤷ fluff, smau

ઇଓ Best friends skz accidentally confessing when they're jealous/mad | OT8 ⤷ fluff, smau

ઇଓ They break up with you | Part 2 | OT8 ⤷ angst, smau

ઇଓ They want you to meet their parents | OT8 ⤷ fluff, smau

ઇଓ Confessing to another member's girlfriend | part 2 | OT8 ⤷ fluff, angst, smau

╰┈➤ humor.

ઇଓ Who in skz? ⤷ video

ઇଓAt the met gala ⤷ skzoo

╰┈➤ other.

ઇଓ Met Gala Sketches ⤷ Sketches by Tommy Hilfiger

ઇଓSkz at the met ⤷ video

ઇଓ picture of your bias ⤷ post a photo

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꒰Yang Jeongin꒱ؘ

╰┈➤ one-shots.

ઇଓ Behave ⤷Smut MDNI⤷You misbehave.. so of course you deserve punishment

ઇଓ Cake tasting ⤷fluff⤷You and your fiancé Jeongin go cake tasting

ઇଓ You accidently hurt yourself ⤷Sickfic, Comfort⤷Part of the "He helps you when.." Collection

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꒰Kim Seungmin꒱ؘ

╰┈➤ one-shots.

ઇଓ Sweet Like Honey ⤷Smut

ઇଓYou have a migraine ⤷Sickfic, Comfort ⤷Part of the "He helps you when.." Collection

╰┈➤ humor.

ઇଓFalling down the stairs ⤷Humor

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꒰Lee Felix꒱ؘ

╰┈➤ one-shots.

ઇଓYou have the Flu ⤷ Sickfic, comfort ⤷ Part of the "He helps you when.." Collection

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꒰Han Jisung꒱ؘ

╰┈➤ one-shots.

ઇଓ 5 minutes ⤷ Smut

ઇଓ You get surgery ⤷ Sickfic, comfort ⤷ Part of the "He helps you when.." Collection

╰┈➤ texts.

ઇଓ “I tried to get over you, but I just couldn’t do it.” | 1k Celebration ⤷ smau, Angst

╰┈➤ thoughts.

ઇଓ Late night thoughts 003 | ⤷ angst

╰┈➤ humor.

ઇଓDating Han is like ⤷ Humor

╰┈➤ moodboards.

ઇଓSpiderman x han moodboard ⤷ Moodboard

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꒰Hwang Hyunjin꒱ؘ

╰┈➤ one-shots.

ઇଓ Do not answer ⤷ thriller, lightly suggestive ⤷ joker hyunjin x reader

ઇଓ Trust Issues ⤷ Smut MDNI

ઇଓ Work of Art | ⤷ Smut MDNI ⤷Best friend hyunjin x reader

ઇଓ At the Beach | ⤷ Fluff, comfort , Suggestive MDNI ⤷ Plus sized reader x Hyunjin

ઇଓMy Favorite Princess | ⤷ Fluff ⤷ You and your husband Hyunjin celebrate your daughter Areum's Birthday

ઇଓ One + One = Three | RE-WRITE IN PROGRESS ⤷ Angst, Fluff ⤷ In the serene world of a rising K-pop star, you find solace in the quiet moments shared with your boyfriend, Hyunjin. Their love is carefully concealed, known only to a select few. But when a scandalous article surfaces, threatening to expose their carefully guarded secret, Y/N must navigate the treacherous waters of fame, loyalty, and betrayal.

ઇଓ You get your period ⤷ Smau, Sickfic, Comfort ⤷ Part of the "He helps you when.." Collection

╰┈➤ texts.

ઇଓ You feel insecure ⤷ Comfort, fluff

╰┈➤ humor.

ઇଓ Hyunjin driving ⤷ Humor

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꒰Seo Changbin꒱ؘ

╰┈➤ one-shots.

ઇଓ Pretty Pretty Princess ⤷ Fluff ⤷ The adventures of Dad Binnie and Daughter Ha-ri

ઇଓ You're Drunk | ⤷ Sickfic , Comfort, angst with a happy ending ⤷ Part of the "He helps you when.." Collection

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꒰Lee Minho꒱ؘ

╰┈➤ one-shots.

ઇଓ Nightmares ⤷ Angst, Comfort ⤷ Lost in a nightmare where Minho is gone, fear consumes you. Panic claws at your chest, each breath heavy with the weight of imagined loss. In the void left by his absence, shadows that dance mockingly in the corners of your mind. In this surreal realm of darkness, where reality blurs with the surreal, you're left grappling with the haunting question: where has Minho gone?

ઇଓ You have an injury ⤷ Sickfic, Comfort ⤷ Part of the "He helps you when.." Collection

ઇଓ Friday Night Lights ⤷ Fluff, Smut MDNI ⤷ 1k event Commisson giveaway winner

╰┈➤ texts.

ઇଓ If you could start over, would you still choose me? ⤷Skz texts, comfort

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꒰Bang Chan꒱ؘ

╰┈➤ series.

ઇଓ Invasion of Privacy Master Post | Teaser | Suspect Cards | ⤷ Smau, Fan fiction, Angst, Hurt, Comfort, mystery ⤷ In the dazzling world of fame, you have it all—a beautiful home, devoted fans, and Chan, the love of your life. But when cryptic messages start arriving, the line between adoration and obsession blurs. With each note, you feel increasingly unsafe. Now, you're on a dangerous journey to uncover the truth before it's too late.

╰┈➤ one-shots.

ઇଓ HEART OF HATE ⤷ angst, Smut MDNI

ઇଓ Silence ⤷ angst, Smut MDNI ⤷ 1k event Commisson giveaway winner

ઇଓ You're Scared of Thunderstorms ⤷ Comfort

ઇଓ I Volunteer ⤷ Smut MDNI ⤷ Chan comes home angry and frustrated and needs some release. ⤷ 500 Followers celebration ࿐

ઇଓ Microphones and Mistakes | Part 2 ⤷ Angst , comfort, fluff ⤷ The spotlight is calling, but your life behind the curtain is anything but glamorous. With your debut song with Stray Kids just days away, you’re battling tech glitches, wrangling a wild toddler, and trying to hold things together with your husband, Chan, as cracks begin to show. Can you keep it all from falling apart in time to own the stage—or will the chaos steal the show?

ઇଓ Broken Promises ⤷ Angst ⤷ You and your fiancé, Chan, are eagerly planning your wedding, envisioning a future together. But when doubts about your relationship's strength begin to emerge, you're faced to confront a choice; salvage what's left or walk away.

ઇଓ You Faint ⤷ Sickfic, Comfort, Fluff, ⤷ Part of the "He helps you when.." Collection

╰┈➤ texts.

ઇଓ You get scared playfighting ⤷ Comfort, fluff

ઇଓ "Please don't leave me" | 1k Celebration ⤷ smau, Angst

╰┈➤ thoughts.

ઇଓ Late night thoughts 001 ⤷ Comfort, angst

ઇଓ Late night thoughts 002 ⤷ fluff

ઇଓ Late night thoughts 004 ⤷ fluff, suggestive

╰┈➤ humor.

ઇଓ Channie at the met ⤷ Humor

ઇଓ confused chan ⤷ Humor

ઇଓ None of these thoughts are in the bible ⤷ Humor

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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.

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