minhui896

[minhui896]

[NANA TOUR with SEVENTEEN] Highlight Clip #1 – The Kidnapping

~~ ‧₊˚ ⛵️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪

The final concert in Japan had been a whirlwind of dazzling lights, roaring crowds, and adrenaline, leaving everyone spent with sore legs, full hearts, and just enough time to breathe again - especially so after Dokyeom’s Left&Right time.

Back at the hotel, you’d opted to return to your hotel room after an hour of drinking with the members – and the moment your head hit the pillow, you were gone. 

Buried deep under blankets, cocooned in the comforting darkness, finally sleeping peacefully after days of relentless performing.

But of course - Na PD had other plans.

In the early hours of the morning, a hushed conspiracy brewed in the hallway outside your room.

The members, wide-eyed with mischievous excitement and barely contained laughter, huddled together together with the producers. "How do we get her?" Seungkwan whispered, bouncing on the balls of his feet. 

The camera turned again, revealing Minghao rubbing sleep from his eyes as he walked out his room with the crew - his room being the second-last infiltrated by cameras and members that were waking everyone up to prepare for their surprise trip.

“She’s still sleeping?” Dino asked, shocked.

“Like a rock,” Hoshi yawned, adjusting his shirt.

“Her room didn’t even budge when we banged on the other doors,” Jeonghan added, a chuckle playing out. “She's probably dead to the world.”

“Can’t blame her,” Vernon muttered. “She danced like three people yesterday.”

The group huddled outside your door, eyes glancing between each other.

“We can’t just burst in,” Woozi reminded, “she’ll kill us.” Mingyu nodded gravely.

Seungcheol, ever the responsible leader even in the midst of a ‘kidnapping,’ nodded as he pushed himself off the wall he was leaning on. "Let's send a female staff in first. Just to check."

With that, a kind staff opened the door slowly with the master key, peeking in. The room was dark aside from a glow from the hallway. The soft sound of your sleepy breathing filled the air.

She moved with practiced stealth, gently flipping on a single, dim bedside lamp to cast a soft glow. The room was still mostly dark, but enough light filtered in for her to see your form; a small bump in the blanket, you were curled up, almost completely swallowed by the duvet. Your hoodie was pulled halfway over your head, only a part of your cheek and the top of your hair peeking out.

You stirred slightly, hand twitching for a second before settling again.

The staff member smiled, a silent confirmation. You were covered shoulder-down under the blanket, clearly undisturbed. The staff nodded to the waiting members, giving them the green light to enter.

Slowly, the sound of slippers shuffling their way in filled the room. The usual boisterous energy was replaced by muffled giggles and exaggerated tiptoeing. 

They spread out. Silent, grinning, gathering around your bed. The soft clicks of the cameras, ever present, blended into the background. Seungkwan crouched near the edge of the bed, careful not to touch you just yet.

“She’s still knocked out,” Hoshi whispered, amused.

“She cursed at me the last time I woke up her…can’t we just leave her?” Dokyeom joked.

“No,” Seungcheol deadpanned, waving his hand lightly from his crutch. “Wake her up. Softly.”

You stirred, a small hum escaping you when the sudden whispers disturbed your peaceful slumber.

Then, a weight pressed down on your body - hands hugging you over the covers. 

Seungkwan's voice came from your right, barely above a whisper, but still loud in the quiet - breaking through your dream-filled haze. "Wake up…you gotta wake up. They say we have to go now."

A groggy sound escaped the lump of blankets. One of your eyes peeked open. Blinking once, twice. 

Then you saw it - the first thing being a blur of faces hovering over your bed, all of them too close, staring directly at you. 

The second thing you registered was the distinct, unsettling glint of cameras in your room, light beaming into your barely-awake eyeballs.

Your brain, still half in dreamland, short-circuited as reality slammed into you. The faces, the cameras, the unexpected intrusion - it was too much to handle at once.

So– you screamed. 

“AHHHHHH!”

A high-pitched, startled shriek that ripped through the quiet room, suddenly awake and alert. A few members right by your bed flinched - Seungkwan included - recoiled to the other side of the bed, covering his ears instinctively.

"What the?!" You cried out, a mixture of shock and utter bewilderment while jolting upright in alarm. 

“OH, What the hell—!”

Your immediate response was to hide, to burrow deeper into the safety of your covers, pulling it up over your head. Your mind raced, still trying to process the surreal invasion of your peaceful sleep.

The room erupted in laughter, Dino and Dokyeom falling into each other for support while they clutch their stomachs. You, still a figure under the duvet, let out another muffled groan of protest.

Their earlier stealth and quiet had utterly dissolved into pure amusement.

"Calm down, calm down!" A new voice, jovial and booming, cut through the laughter. Na PD, a wide smile on his face, finally stepped forward, his camera crew still behind him. "Good morning! Or should I say, good surprise! We have to get up now, this is ‘Youth Over Flowers’."

“Oh?” Your confused voice came from under. A few of the members, still chuckling, reached out and gave the blanket a playful tug. "Come on! We have to go!" Dino pleaded, a wide, excited grin on his face.

You, however, were unrelenting. Voice unclear from beneath the layers of fabric, wafted out in a series of complaints. "This can’t be, I just woke up! I'm not wearing any makeup! My hair’s a mess!" The thought of cameras capturing you in such a raw, unkempt state was almost as terrifying as being woken up by an entire group of strangers.

“Get dressed.” Jeonghan yelled, already pulling out a jacket from your luggage to toss at you.

"We were just surprised too!" Seungkwan countered, pushing himself forward, his own hair sticking up at odd angles. "Look at us, it's fine!" Dokyeom nodded vigorously, running a hand through his equally disheveled hair. "Yeah, this is the real us! Embrace it!" Dino placed a hand on your shoulder, shaking you lightly. “You know, I’m still drunk from earlier too.”

You revealed from the edge of the blanket, hand instinctively coming up to cover the bottom half of your puffed up face – leaving only your slightly bewildered, sleep-swollen eyes visible. Your hair was flattened on one side and sticking up on the other.

“You guys are the worst.” You slowly took in Na PD, the shiny camera lenses, and the giggling members around the lit room.

With a sigh, you pushed the duvet down to your waist and left the bed to stand properly - a habit ingrained from years of training. “Hello, nice to see you all!” Your voice cracked as you coughed out, giving Na PD and his camera crew a small, almost formal bow - a polite greeting even in your disoriented state.

“Oh, you’re too kind. Your broadcast voice is finally out, I see.” The PD commented, taking your hand in for a firm handshake.

You slipped back down onto the bed quietly right after, the temperature difference from outside the blanket finally kicking in, sending a shiver down your spine.

Na PD had begun briefing everyone about the rules and schedule - all while your posture remained still, as if you were dissociating in real time.

Almost immediately, a few of the members subtly moved closer to you.

Jeonghan casually leaned in, his hand subtly pulling the blanket up while placing the fallen jacket around your shoulders in reverse - back facing front. 

It was only then did you notice your attire: a loose crop that barely touched your hips, and simple sleep shorts. While not entirely revealing, it was clearly not what you'd normally wear in front of cameras, especially un-styled.

Mingyu, too, with a gentle motion, passed you a heat pack he’d stolen from Wonwoo while you talked to Na PD, having noticed your shaking from the cold.

A small, tired smile bloomed on your lips, gaze conveying everything you couldn't say aloud to them - your heart lurched with gratitude for their action.

The unspoken understanding passed between the three of you, a quick flash of connection amidst the surreal chaos. Then, with a deep breath, you turned your gaze back to Na PD and the whirring cameras.

The morning chaos was still there, and it had only just begun.

--

a/n posts for this off-series are going to be placed in my original works m.list so my series' don't get too long :))

[minhui896]

A 14th member request .All the members are performing on the stage (outdoor one) and it's too windy and the stylish gave reader a short skirt, which is making her uncomfortable to perform because she has to hold on it , because every time the wind passes by her the hem of the skirt keep flying and reveling her safety shorts (this had happened with so many female idols) , what will be the boys reaction to it .

Not like This | SEVENTEEN x 14thMember | fluff, angst

The bass hit hard beneath their feet, shaking the outdoor stage with every beat. Light flooded the crowd, signs waving, fans screaming — the usual chaos of a summer festival. But not everything was going smoothly.

It was the wind.

From the very first verse, it had been strong. But by the second chorus, it was downright aggressive. And that became a problem — a very visible problem.

Every time a gust passed, the hem of her skirt lifted.

Not slightly. Enough that her black safety shorts underneath flashed with every movement. Enough that she had to break from choreo, reach down mid-dance, and press the fabric down with one hand.

She tried to keep performing — face bright, steps clean — but she was clearly tense. Eyes darting. One hand glued to her skirt. It wasn’t just annoying. It was humiliating.

Jeonghan noticed first. During a formation shift, he turned his head just slightly, caught her stiff posture, the way her jaw was locked. He didn’t ask anything out loud. Just moved a little closer, shoulder brushing hers as they switched places.

Behind him, Seungcheol caught the gesture. And then he saw it, too — her yanking the skirt down again as another gust hit, trying to keep dancing like it was nothing.

His face didn’t change. But his entire body stiffened.

He looked toward the side of the stage. The stylists were standing just out of view. Without missing a step, he crossed his arms in a sharp X in front of his chest. A silent message, but a firm one. Not part of the choreography. Not for fans. This was for staff.

Unacceptable.

No one moved.

Mingyu, farther down the line, noticed the same thing. And without even blinking, he pulled off his overshirt and tossed it across the stage toward her — smooth, fluid, like it was just another part of the show. She caught it, stunned, then quickly tied it around her waist.

Their eyes met. He didn’t say anything. Just nodded once.

She exhaled, barely.

The rest of the members started shifting, instinctively adjusting formation. Hoshi leaned in slightly behind her during a spin. Joshua, next to her during the final verse, drifted closer — no longer standing side by side, but just a little ahead, blocking the cameras’ angle.

And still, she kept dancing. Even as her cheeks burned. Even as her throat tightened.

The song ended with synchronized final poses. The crowd roared. They bowed, smiled, waved — all perfectly rehearsed.

But the moment they stepped off stage, that polish cracked.

Behind the curtain, the mood was different. Tense. Silent. The wind didn’t follow them back here — but the frustration did.

Seungcheol was the first to speak.

“Change the skirt,” he said, voice low but firm.

A stylist blinked. “She had safety shorts—”

“That’s not the point,” he snapped, still calm, but colder now. “She couldn’t perform properly. Everyone saw it.”

She tugged at the tied flannel around her waist, still catching her breath. Her eyes dropped to the floor. “It kept flying up,” she said, finally. “Every few seconds. I—I couldn’t focus.”

Jeonghan’s voice was sharper than usual. “She said she was uncomfortable with it earlier. You told her it’d be fine.”

“It wasn’t,” Mingyu muttered, jaw tight. “She had to keep pulling it down. That’s not fine.”

Hoshi threw a towel over his shoulder, arms crossed. “You’re lucky she didn’t trip. She couldn’t even lift her arm half the time. She had to hold her clothes down.”

“I tried,” she mumbled, swallowing hard. “I really tried to keep going. But it felt like every time I spun, the whole stage could see—”

She stopped. Blinked hard. Shook her head.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t cry over a skirt.”

“Hey.” Joshua stepped forward, soft but serious. “You’re not crying over a skirt. You’re crying because you were uncomfortable in front of thousands of people and had to pretend like everything was okay.”

Dino sat down beside her on the bench, offering a bottle of water. “You still did amazing. I mean it.”

“I didn’t feel amazing.” Her voice cracked just a little. “I felt like I was constantly fixing something instead of dancing. It was so distracting, and I kept wondering if someone was gonna screenshot it, or if fancams would—” She cut herself off again.

Vernon leaned against the wall, arms folded. “We all saw it. No one’s blaming you.”

“The outfit should’ve never been cleared,” Wonwoo said simply. “Especially not with this weather.”

The stylist tried again. “She looked fine from the front—”

“That doesn’t matter,” Seungcheol said. “She didn’t feel fine. That’s the line.”

No one dared to argue after that.

The room went still again, filled with the hum of the speakers outside and the sound of fans screaming for the next act.

“I’m changing,” she said after a beat. She stood up, wiped under her eyes with the sleeve of Mingyu’s shirt still tied at her waist. “Give me pants. Anything. I don’t care if it doesn’t match.”

“You’ll get something proper,” Jeonghan said. “And next time, if they don’t listen to you, we’ll make them.”

“Next time I’ll say it louder,” she replied quietly.

Seungcheol’s expression softened, just a little. “You shouldn’t have to say it more than once.”

There was a knock — stage staff calling them to standby for the next group photo segment.

As she walked toward the dressing room, Mingyu fell into step beside her. “I tied that thing like garbage, by the way.”

She gave him a weak smile. “It saved me.”

Hoshi called after them. “If anyone posts fancams zooming in on the wind, we’re reporting every single one!”

Seungkwan added dramatically, “Petition to ban the weather.”

Everyone laughed.

And for a moment, it felt a little less heavy.

But Seungcheol didn’t laugh. He stood at the back of the group, watching quietly. Already replaying everything in his head — what was missed, what should’ve been caught earlier, what needs to change.

Because he’s the leader.

And his team is his responsibility.

And no one performs like that again.

Not on his watch.

[minhui896]

okay we love that yn and wonu are in the supporting each other phase no matter wtf is going on in their lives and also I don’t like shua’s mom and I hope Shua isn’t going to tell Wonu to back up just because yn tells wonu more than Shua because technically those two have been together since forever can’t change that

📲 Raising Us | wonwoo x f!reader | (5) the fourth year | 003

Paring: wonwoo x f!reader. Genre | tags: smau, series, non idol!au, best friends (idiots) to lovers, unexpected pregnancy, slow burn, angst, pinning, fluff, humor/comedy. Warnings: Swearing, talk about virginity, YN is mistreated.

Summary: On the night of your eighteenth birthday, you and Wonwoo made a pact to lose your virginities together. Ten years later you're co-parenting your unexpected child while figuring out where you stand with each other.

A/N: Is eating me alive not to use dividers 😵‍💫 but I needed the space to put everything out today. Btw, I know what you're going to think but it's not it, but let me know anyway!!

Status: on-going.

―📝 Series masterlist.

― Taglist

--- # NAVIGATION | MAIN MASTERLIST | PERMANENT TAGLIST ---

Every ask & comment gives me life 💗 If you’re enjoying it, don’t forget to reblog—helps so much and gets the fic out there!! Sharing is caring before you scroll!

💌 SERIES TAGLIST: @eisaspresso, @christinewithluv, @armycarat2612, @ziidino, @vernons-wifey12, @jihoonsbbygirl, @wonvsmile, @smiileflower, @lukeys-giggle, @my-atiny-kookie-rkive, @toplinehyunjin, @skz-elle, @ateez-atiny380, @aeerio, @paranoid-borderline-insane, @chariseiswriting, @blxcknwhite-lady, @maryseesthings, @max-1404, @minhui896, @jembem, @blaycke, @livelaughloveseventeen, @butterfliesliving, @callmehoweveruwatblog, @junnhuisworld, @ameliamirabela.

© VERNONVERSE. I do not condone reposting, plagiarizing or translating my work in any form.

[minhui896]

ANYTHING DINO PLS🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

OMG YASSSS I LOVE WRITING FOR DINOOOO!!

here u go hehe enjoy:)

Lee Chan || even more bf texts w/ dino

genre: fake texts, one shot au, smau, fluff, humor, idol!bf

warnings: suggestive jokes, cursing, lmk if i missed anything else!

[minhui896]

the way I have received so many of those posts from my own bff I hate it so much it is the bane of my existence 😭😭 but I love my bff so I have to watch them

LIKES FOR YOU (PAGE) ౨ৎ kim mingyu

౨ৎ just because you blocked mingyu after the breakup doesn't mean he can easily give up on you. luckily, he knows you follow those initials slideshow accounts run by 13 year olds.

contents ex! mingyu x f! reader smau (oh brother this guy STINKS) romance comedy exes to lovers mentions of beer🤤 cliffhanger...

from rianca, heavily inspo by my bff who plans on winning back her man (i hate this man btw but i will support whatever my queen kayama does 🙏) ALSO DID U GUYS HEAR THAT QUAN MILLZ IS MAKING A MOVIE FOR THIS HOE GOT ROACHES IN HER CRIB!!

svt masterlist .ᐟ

[minhui896]

i think jun would be one of the biggest acts of service guy ever...he's quiet but caring all the time

oh the way i ate my fist at this photo of his oh my lawd JUNJUNJUNJUNJUNJUNJUN - im 100% an acts of service girlie and HELL YESSSS

-- જ⁀➴°⋆

The supermarket was quiet at this hour. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a sleepy hum in the near-empty aisles. The only sounds were the faint echo of soft music playing overhead and the gentle rumble of a shopping cart's wheels across smooth tile.

All it took was a midnight craving - one that had you knocking on his hotel door at 2 am. Jun didn’t question it, just grabbed a jacket and left with your hand in his.

He looked over at you, your eyes were slightly puffy from laughter, cheeks flushed from the cool breeze outside. You tugged your hoodie tighter around yourself and pointed at a nearby snack shelf.

“Should we get those jelly cups?”

Jun didn’t even hesitate. He reached out, grabbed two flavors, and tossed them into the basket.

You giggled and leaned over the cart.

“You’re really just gonna get whatever I look at, huh?”

Jun shrugged with that lazy smile of his, the one that crept up more on one side. “We’re on vacation. No rules. You want it, you get it.”

You hummed, pretending to be in deep thought as the both of you rounded the corner into the drinks aisle. “Okay...then can I sit in the cart?”

He blinked at you.

“You’re joking.”

You smirked. “Obviously.”

But he’d already stepped towards you.

Before you could take the words back, his hands were on your waist. “Okay, up you go.”

“What– Junhui!”

And just like that, you were lifted clean off your feet and gently placed into the shopping cart. The metal felt cool against your legs, and you instinctively folded them up, startled laughter bubbling out of you.

He took off his jacket, draping it across your lap like a blanket. “There. Comfy?”

You blinked up at him, warmth creeping into your cheeks. “You actually did it.”

“You looked tired.” Jun leaned over the cart handle and grinned.

You scoffed, grasping onto the sides of the cart, “I looked normal, thank you very much.”

“Exactly.”

You stuck your tongue out at him, but the corners of your mouth were curled into a smile impossible to hide. He moved, tugging the cart forward by the front grills while you leaned back, resting your chin on the jacket.

He steered you around like some absurd midnight chariot, dressed like a true knight, too. A simple light grey sweatshirt, dark joggers, and those sneakers he always insisted were “still fine” despite the worn soles - but on him, it all looked unfairly good. His 182 frame filled the space like he was made for the world to revolve around him. Every few steps, the hem of his sweater shifted, hinting at the casual strength in his arms as he tugged the cart forward with one hand.

Your chest fluttered at that, looking away quickly, down at the sleeves of his jacket in your lap, fingers curling around the fabric.

You drifted slowly through aisles of snacks, noodles, and bottled drinks. Jun made it a point to reach for anything your gaze lingered on for longer than a second. Even a pack of panda-shaped biscuits.

“Jun–”

“Shh,” he said. “Your eyes have spoken.”

“We can’t finish all this!”

“It’s fine. Besides,” he said, tossing in another packet. “I want to make sure you can last through the night without knocking on my door again.”

You pursed your lips, a smile-frown plastering on your face. The both of you stayed like that for a while - soft, quiet, unreal - floating through a half-lit store like it was your own little pocket of the world.

Somewhere between the freezer section and the self-checkout, you wondered if maybe, just maybe, things could stay like this for the rest of your life.

And maybe you didn’t mind if it did.

--

[minhui896]

Bunny hybrid!Joshua | Treats fluff | 0.9k | gn!reader A/N: look away this is my annual self-indulgent fic EDIT: BIBI LOOK AWAY!!

“Can you stop that?” you click your tongue and lightly smack the hand creeping towards your basil plant innocently sitting on the window sill. More like half of your basil plant. The mint next to it doesn’t look much better, half gone.

“Sorry,” Joshua smiles at you, ears hanging low sheepishly. Like you can’t see his other hand plucking yet another leaf off the abused plant. You give him a look that clearly says seriously? but he doesn’t seem to take it so. “To be fair, you knew what to expect.”

He’s right. You did indeed know - after all you only got into this mess because a certain bunny was eating all the flowers that bloomed on the display in front of your friend’s flower shop. Since he didn’t exactly look like a wild hare, and because you were looking for a pet anyway, and because he looked pretty malnourished and all bones and skin, and because, in hindsight, you were a dumbass, you came up with a plan to catch him. It was surprisingly easy. That should’ve been the first red flag.

The second red flag should’ve been that he was a little too tame and smart. 

The red flags just kept piling on after that, especially once a very confused and concerned vet told you that what you’ve just brought to him was in fact not a bunny but a bunny hybrid. One of those that could fully embrace their animal form. 

Why haven't you just kicked him out then? You have no idea. You ask yourself that every day.

There’s quite a few blank spaces in your memory after that. It was too chaotic and stressful, but you made it work somehow. And at least Joshua turned out to be pretty helpful and actually nice. When it counts anyway.

“I swear if you kill my plants I’m not getting new ones,” you warn him, sighing as you keep stirring the lunch bubbling on the stove, “And your stomach will hurt and you’ll be crying the whole night again.”

“You? Settling for anything less than fresh herbs?” Joshua smirks, leaning forward with his chin resting on his palm, “I’d love to see that.”

“Watch me,” you mumble. 

Maybe you should’ve just left him to fend for himself in your apartment. Cook for himself. If you’re trying so hard to be mindful of his sensitive stomach and adjust the meals for him, only for him to then turn your effort completely pointless by snacking, then you maybe don’t have to try at all.

You don’t pay any attention to him while he gets up and moves to stand behind you. You ignore him when he makes a small noise to ask for your attention. But you do sigh when you sense the shift in his energy and when the inevitable quiet stomp follows. 

“Hey,” he immediately frowns. You can hear it in his voice. Despite yourself, your lips twitch up. “I’m not eating them anymore.”

Silence. Because that will work better than anything.

“Hey,” he says, softer now, finally stepping close and hugging you more like a bear than a bunny. Though true to his nature, he rests his chest on your shoulder. “I’m careful not to eat too much.”

You feel him cuddling up to you. Soon he’s gently nudging your neck with his nose. He huffs, his foot again quietly stomping against the floor. At least he keeps in mind he’s not a tiny bunny but a grown man and he can’t annoy the downstairs neighbours anytime he’s dissatisfied with something.

“I really am,” Joshua starts getting whiny. You finally relent and turn your head enough to kiss his forehead. His ears shoot up.

“Leave them alone until they recover, okay?” you still give him a playful glare over your shoulder. 

“Deal,” he grins.

It’s in the evening when you’re relaxing on the sofa, comfortably wrapped in a blanket and scrolling mindlessly while the tv plays in the background, that you feel something small hop up and then land on top of you. The something makes his way over your body until he headbuts your hand.

You set your phone aside, knowing you won’t need it for the foreseeable future unless you want the bunny to throw a tantrum on top of you. The sight in front of you makes you frown.

“How the fuck did you get on the table?” you’d love to sound more angry and less impressed but you can’t help it. At least Joshua has the decency not to look too proud of himself.

You take the poor, half-chewed mint leaf from him and raise an eyebrow at him.

“Did you seriously just come to ask me if you can have a treat?” you deadpan.

He takes a step forward, nudging his fluffy head against your hand again. You sigh.

“You know I was more concerned for the plants than you, right?” you tease. 

And you pay the price, groaning in pain as the bunny thumps right under your ribcage. To be fair, he quickly apologizes by giving your fingers a few kisses. He doesn’t even take his stupid treat.

“Hint taken,” you take a deep breath as you offer the leaf to him. He chews it a little too fast for all the effort he had to put into getting it.

Instead Joshua now seems more interested in apologizing to you, making himself comfortable on your chest with his ears hanging down, begging for your love. You chuckle and shake your head.

“You’re so annoying, bunny,” you inform him. Still you ignore your phone in favor of stroking the fluffy creature resting on top of you, slowly melting. 

You pull the blanket over both of you, cooing at him when he happily grinds his teeth in his little imitation of purring.

[minhui896]

just wow… yk the guys are doing their best with aera and they really tried to make sure she was okay but all 13 confronting her in the morning I would’ve immediately ran away once Hannie said something at the front door 😭 but that would’ve just made it worse and then confronting Dino like yeah I get that Dino was trying to protect the girl he likes but in doing so he gave up the day one friend who has been in a relationship for the past 5 years so a lot of conflicting feelings going on…

Who Said Best Friends Don't Break Up?

Part 6: She Was Never The Threat

The soft chime of your alarm buzzed through the room—gentle, rhythmic, a familiar pull from sleep into reality.

You blinked slowly, eyes adjusting to the soft morning light slipping between the curtains. The weight of the night before still clung to your limbs, but your body moved on instinct. You didn’t hit snooze. You didn’t bury yourself under the covers.

You just turned the alarm off… and stared.

Joshua lay beside you, still asleep.

One arm had found its way loosely around your waist sometime during the night, his other hand resting near yours on the mattress. His face was close—soft, peaceful, his breath slow and even, completely unaware of the weight in your chest or the storm behind your eyes.

You didn’t move him.

You just lay there for a second, taking it in—his quiet presence, the warmth beside you—and then you slowly shifted his arm away and slipped out of bed.

Joshua stirred faintly but didn’t wake.

The rest of the apartment was quiet.

In the extra guest room, Jeonghan and Mingyu had claimed the floor with two mattresses pushed together—Jeonghan lying on his back, hair spread across the pillow like he hadn’t moved all night. Mingyu was curled up beside him, blanket over half his face, one leg hanging off the edge.

In the living room, it looked like a carefully disorganized sleepover.

Seungcheol and DK had taken the larger couch, DK curled against the armrest while Seungcheol sat leaned back, one hand resting protectively on DK’s shoulder as if still standing guard even in sleep.

Seungkwan, Vernon, and Jun had formed a mess of blankets and limbs across the carpet, sprawled like brothers who’d stayed up late talking and simply passed out mid-conversation.

Minghao and Wonwoo had taken the far corners—Minghao stretched out near the window where the sun filtered in faintly, and Wonwoo sitting against the wall, arms folded, chin resting on his chest, glasses slipping a little down his nose.

Woozi had passed out in your reading chair, his laptop closed now, glasses folded neatly on the side table. His expression was peaceful, but his fingers were still curled, as if tense even in rest.

None of them had left. Not one.

You walked past them all quietly, stepping into the bathroom without waking a soul.

Inside, you stared at yourself in the mirror.

Eyes swollen. Skin pale. Mouth pressed into a flat, unreadable line. You looked tired—but composed.

You went through your routine without a word. But everything was different.

No humming. No checking your phone. No moment of fixing your collar with a little smile.

You wore a sharp outfit today—professional, clean, precise. Black blazer. Slacks. Low pony. A little concealer to hide the puffiness.

You didn’t bother with breakfast.

You didn’t write the little sticky note you sometimes left for Joshua.

You just moved. Quietly.

You picked up your bag. Slipped on your watch. Checked the time: 7:38 a.m.

Then, without saying a word or making a sound, you reached for the front door handle.

The door clicked softly as you opened it—barely a sound, just the faintest shift of air.

But it was enough.

You’d barely stepped one foot outside when a quiet voice—groggy but alert—cut through the silence behind you.

“…Where are you going?”

You froze.

Turning slightly, you saw Jeonghan in the hallway, his long frame leaning against the wall just outside the guest room. His hair was messy, eyes half-lidded from sleep, but sharp enough to clock everything in one glance.

The outfit. The bag. The stiff shoulders. The too-neutral face. And the way you didn’t say goodbye.

He didn’t move at first.

Just stood there, arms crossed now, voice lower.

“It’s your work day?”

You gave a faint nod, saying nothing.

Jeonghan’s jaw clenched slightly. He sighed through his nose and stepped forward a bit—not blocking you, but standing closer now, eyes scanning your face.

“You slept four hours at best.”

Another step.

“You look like you're about to fall apart again the second someone asks if you're okay.”

He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t use anger.

Just facts. Truths.

He looked down at your bag, then back at you.

“…And you weren’t even going to say anything?”

From the living room, soft movement could be heard—Mingyu sat up groggily, rubbing his eyes, while Seungcheol stirred from the couch, his eyes opening slightly at the sound of voices.

You remained silent.

Jeonghan stepped closer, finally near enough to gently—but firmly—rest a hand over the doorknob, keeping the door half-closed between you both.

His voice dropped even lower.

“Are you really okay to go to work, Aera?” he asked. “Or are you just trying to act like last night didn’t happen?”

Behind him, Joshua’s door creaked open faintly—he was awake now.

But Jeonghan didn’t look back.

He only looked at you. Waiting.

Not letting you run this time.

The moment your words left your mouth again—steadfast, composed, like a soldier reporting for duty—they hit the room like bricks.

“I can’t,” you repeated, firmer this time. “You know I need to give prior notice for a leave even if it's a day. A new project is in line and as the team leader, I need to be present.”

You weren’t raising your voice.

But they could hear the desperation laced under the structure.

The plea behind the professionalism.

“You think we don’t know that?” he said, his tone still calm, but colder now—firmer. “You think we don’t know how responsible you are? That you’ve got a job to run to?”

Behind him, Joshua was fully awake now, stepping into the hallway quietly. He didn’t say anything—yet—but his brows were pulled together in concern as he watched.

Jeonghan leaned a little closer, voice lowering.

“But Aera—this? Walking out like nothing happened? Like last night didn’t exist? That’s not responsible. That’s running.”

You didn’t answer.

So he kept going.

“You’re exhausted. You didn’t eat. You barely slept. You’ve got the weight of everything that happened sitting on your chest and now you’re stepping into a boardroom like it’s just another Tuesday?”

Mingyu was up now too, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked between you both, tension in his jaw.

Seungcheol sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, watching in quiet silence, while Seungkwan peered from behind the kitchen doorframe, his mouth pressed into a tight line.

“You always put on this face,” Jeonghan continued, softer now—but sharper. “The calm one. The composed one. Like you’re fine. Like you’re always fine.”

He took his hand off the doorknob slowly, but didn’t move back.

“You’re not.”

Joshua stepped up beside him then—his voice quiet, barely a breath.

“We’re not asking you to collapse. We’re asking you to stop pretending you didn’t.”

There it was. The wall. Hit.

You could hear the rest of the house waking now. Woozi stepped into the hallway quietly, Minghao peeked in with tired eyes, and Vernon leaned silently against the living room wall.

They weren’t here to stop you from working.

They were here because last night wasn’t just about you.

And if they were going to protect you, they needed to do it even when you thought you didn’t need protecting.

Especially then.

And then Seungcheol—calm, serious, unshakeable Seungcheol—stepped forward.

"Fine," he said, voice low and dangerously even. “Then you eat. Now.”

You blinked.

“And if you don’t,” Seungcheol continued, arms folding across his chest, “I swear I will call your office myself.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he cut you off instantly.

“I’ll tell them Kim Aera had a breakdown last night. That she hasn’t slept. That she drove like a maniac, almost lost control. That twelve people had to calm her down before she wrecked herself.”

Seungkwan spoke next, arms crossed. “And they’ll understand. Because mental health is an emergency.”

“I’ll dial the number,” Woozi added, not blinking. “Don’t think I won’t.”

Joshua spoke, his voice was soft. Almost too soft.

“Please don’t make us protect you from yourself, Ari.”

That was when you realized.

They weren’t mad at you. They were terrified for you.

This wasn’t about respect or control or rebellion. This was about twelve people—your brothers, your family—standing in front of a girl who always smiled, always worked, always carried every storm quietly.

And finally reached her limit.

"Okay", you sighed softly.

The breakfast was simple.

Warm toast, soft eggs, a little fruit on the side—Mingyu’s silent way of saying “I know you won’t eat much, so I’m making sure what you do eat counts.”

You didn’t say much.

But you ate. Slowly. Quietly. Bite by bite.

Joshua sat beside you the entire time, occasionally nudging the fork closer when you paused too long. He didn’t talk, didn’t ask questions. Just existed with you, steady as a breath you didn’t realize you needed.

Jeonghan sat on the armrest of the couch, watching you from a distance. His arms crossed. One leg bouncing faintly—but his eyes never left you.

Minghao passed you a napkin when you zoned out with food still on your lip.

Seungcheol answered a call on silent and stepped outside briefly, but you noticed the glance he gave you before leaving—still in command mode, always in control, but his worry hadn’t left.

Wonwoo stood near the kitchen, reading something on his phone. But you knew—he was listening to every sound you made.

Jun and DK had quietly cleaned up the scattered bedding from last night.

Vernon scrolled through his phone on the far end of the couch, head low, foot tapping quietly on the floor.

And Seungkwan kept casting you little side glances from the hallway, lips pursed, like he was holding himself back from giving you one of his infamous “I’m just saying” rants.

It was normal. But it wasn’t.

Nothing was quite normal this morning.

You were still too quiet. Too slow. Too heavy in your movements.

But no one pointed it out.

You placed your fork down gently. The plate was half-empty—more than enough, by their standards.

Joshua glanced at you and gave the smallest nod, “You done?”

You nodded once.

He took the plate, moving silently to the sink without asking. Woozi passed him a towel without looking up from the news alert on his phone. The movement was seamless. Practiced.

Jeonghan stood from the couch, finally stepping forward again, arms folded loosely across his chest.

“You’re not driving today,” he said firmly.

You opened your mouth—but one look from him told you it wasn’t up for debate.

“I’ll drop you,” Joshua added, already moving to grab his own keys and wallet.

“I’ll go with,” Mingyu offered casually, patting your head lightly as he walked by. “Gotta make sure you don’t stress-sulk in the passenger seat.”

Seungcheol returned inside just in time to hear that, giving Joshua a nod. “You have her location on all day. If anything feels off, just bring her back.”

“Got it” Joshua said quietly.

You stood slowly, grabbing your bag—which Jeonghan handed you with a slight look—and made your way to the door.

The room stayed full behind you.

But the weight… wasn’t as sharp anymore.

Maybe it still hurt.

But this morning, you weren’t carrying it alone.

It was later in the day when they finally returned to their own schedule—reluctantly.

After Joshua and Mingyu dropped you at your office, staying long enough to make sure you actually walked inside, ate the mint Joshua handed you, and smiled faintly at the receptionist, they circled back in quiet silence.

No one said it, but all of them kept their phones close, volune full, ringers on.

Back at the company, the atmosphere wasn’t the same as usual.

They’d been through a lot as a group. Arguments. Burnouts. Tears.

But this wasn’t routine. This wasn’t stage fatigue or comeback stress. This was one of their own breaking quietly, and no one even noticed until it was almost too late.

The practice room felt cold today.

Seungcheol stood with a clipboard near the speakers, checking schedules, but his eyes flicked to the door every few minutes.

Jeonghan leaned against the mirrors, arms folded, unreadable expression in place—but everyone could tell his silence wasn’t his usual smug quiet. It was heavier.

Seungkwan was quieter than usual, barely teasing Minghao, who was already half-tuned out with his headphones.

Joshua kept glancing at his phone—not because you texted (you hadn’t), but just in case you might.

When Dino finally arrived, walking in with his usual backpack—something shifted.

The room felt still. Almost stiff.

Dino moved to his spot quietly. But his gaze lingered—on Joshua.

He could feel it now.

Something had changed.

And none of them were ready to pretend everything was fine anymore.

The click of a vending machine. A water bottle thudding onto the counter. Footsteps.

Dino had just finished a run-through when the others filed in—not all at once, but with intent that was impossible to miss. Seungcheol first. Then Joshua. Jeonghan. Mingyu. Woozi. No words yet. Just a look that said this wasn’t just a break.

Dino didn’t need to guess. He already knew what this was about.

He took a slow sip of water, then said flatly, “Is this gonna be a lecture?”

“We’re done lecturing,” Jeonghan said, voice cold. “We’re here to make you listen.”

“Hyung,” Dino groaned. “Can we not do this?”

“No,” Seungcheol answered firmly. “Not after last night.”

Dino pressed his lips together, eyes flicking away.

“You sat there at dinner like everything was normal,” Joshua said sharply. “Like your girlfriend didn’t just act like Aera was some outsider.”

“She didn’t act like that—”

“She called herself Aera’s friend and then disrespected her,” Woozi cut in. “That’s worse.”

“You really didn’t see it, huh?” Mingyu added. “That fake smile. That feigned ‘politeness.’ She wanted Aera to snap, and you let her.”

Dino’s jaw clenched. “Yeri wasn’t trying to provoke her—”

“She succeeded,” Jeonghan interrupted. “And when Aera left, did you follow? Did you stop her? You just sat there, Chan.”

“She was overreacting!”

“She nearly crashed her car.”

Dino stopped.

“…What?”

Joshua stared at him. “She drove off in that state. Angry. Shaking. Speeding. You know what that means for Aera. You know what she’s done before when she’s angry.”

Dino’s face paled. “No one told me that.”

“She refused to pull over. We had to stay on call with her the whole time, giving her speed checks, directions. Every damn turn,” Seungcheol said, jaw tight.

“And she still wouldn’t stop until we ordered her to,” Jeonghan added bitterly. “She was past breaking, Chan.”

“I didn’t know,” Dino whispered. “I didn’t know she was that bad.”

“But you still let it happen,” Woozi said flatly. “Because Yeri didn’t like your friendship with her.”

“She was scared,” Dino snapped. “She’s been lied to before, cheated on—”

“Aera has been in a relationship before Yeri came along!” Joshua yelled. “For five years! With me! And Yeri still treated her like a threat.”

“Because you guys don’t see what I see!” Dino shouted, frustration peaking. “You see her as your little sister or girlfriend or whatever—but from the outside, it’s different. It's too close. Too comfortable.”

“And what did you see, Chan?” Jeonghan snapped. “Because from where we sat, it looked like you dropped her without a second thought.”

“I didn’t!” Dino’s voice cracked. “I didn’t drop her—I just tried to make my girlfriend feel safe! I didn’t know it would cost me—everything.”

Silence fell.

For a second, they saw it. That flicker of realization. That crack in his voice. But then—

“I love Yeri,” he said, quieter but with steel in his tone. “She’s trying. She’s insecure, yeah, but she wants this to work. I’m not going to tear her down for something that wasn’t her fault.”

Seungcheol looked at him long and hard. “It was her fault. But it was yours too.”

Dino looked away. “I can’t change what happened.”

“No,” Jeonghan said. “But you could’ve stood for Aera. Just once. And you chose not to.”

Dino’s fists clenched. “I chose not to hurt the girl I love.”

“And you hurt the one who loved you without ever asking for anything,” Joshua said bitterly. “Just your time. Your friendship.”

“You all act like I’m a villain!” Dino shouted. “I didn’t ask for this to happen. I didn’t want to hurt anyone!”

“But you did,” Woozi said simply. “And now, you’re just trying to justify it so you can sleep at night.”

Dino stayed quiet.

Not because he didn’t want to speak—

But because all his words suddenly felt too heavy.

Still, he didn't back down.

He didn’t apologize.

And he didn't ask about Aera again.

Because deep down, even if it was killing him—he had already made his choice.

And it wasn’t her.

[minhui896]

warning: descriptions of drowning

Bright lights reflect off the water tank in the center of the studio. A large transparent aquarium-like structure, filled with filtered blue water, stood tall on the set.

A haze of mist clung to the air around it, warm from the studio heaters but unable to hide the goosebumps rising on your arms.

Stylists bustle in and out with towels, combs, and waterproof makeup. The hum of the camera crew fills the space, click-clicking away as each member takes their turn plunging into the tank, draped in gauzy fabrics and iridescent details for the “Spill the Feels” concept.

You stand at the edge of the shooting area, barefoot on set, arms wrapped around yourself as you watch Joshua submerge with fluid grace. The other members clap and shout in encouragement.

One by one, each of them emerge from the tank after their shots, dripping and laughing, breathless from their takes.

“Woah Shua hyung, you were handsome in there!” Seungkwan punched his soaked shirt lightly.

Joshua only grinned, rubbing his hair with a towel.

“Who’s next?” The photographer called out.

You force a smile, raising your hand up in acknowledgement. But your stomach twists.

You weren’t afraid of water. Never have been.

But the pressure of needing the shots to turn out right; the way fabric floats awkwardly, how your hair would swirl into your eyes, how the oxygen in your lungs might run out too quickly - it all gnawed at you.

With fists clenched, you walked up the stairs barefoot, the chiffon-like dress fluttering lightly behind you.

You’ve practiced the poses. The concept. The emotion. You could do it all.

But underwater - anything could happen.

You smile faintly at the members waiting for you on the other side of the glass, taking a breath before stepping onto the tank ladder.

Water curls around you like a second skin.

First take: you sink gracefully, arms reaching forward. You float, eyes open, lips parted just slightly.

But when you comes back up to hold onto the rod above, you shook your head.

“I think that was too stiff. Let’s try it again.”

On the next try, the photographer’s voice sounds thin under the water. “Eyes open more! Let the fabric move around you– yes, like that! Ah, let’s do one more?”

Each time, your expressions get tighter. The breaks between takes get shorter.

On the fourth take, your lips paled a little more than usual. And by the fifth, the chill starts setting in, and your fingers began to go numb under the water.

Frustration brewed quietly in your chest.

The sixth take:

You let the rod go again, diving downwards - the long flowy costume dragged against your limbs. Eyes opening against the stinging liquid, your lips parted slightly, limbs floating in sync.

It was strangely quiet down here - a slow, heavy silence that blanketed everything.

The water dulled the set’s noise into a distant hum, like you had slipped into some hidden pocket of space. The light beams from the tank’s top fractured into soft rays, dancing around you through the water and catching on the white threaded into your dress. Your hair fanned out around you like smoke.

For a second, it was beautiful. Almost peaceful.

Your arms floated upward, fingers trailing through the water with delicate grace. Your expression softened, body flowing just as the photographer had asked.

But this time, your body’s just that bit slower.

And then—

Thump.

The first warning knock of your lungs. A clench in your chest.

You tried to hold it, just a little longer.

One more second.

This shot might be the one, and you could get out of this dreadful place. So you pressed your lips tighter, cheeks puffed slightly, kicking lightly to stay in position as the fabric swirled around you.

But the need to breathe surges stronger than before.

Your head began to buzz faintly, like static crawling through temples. Your muscles slowed.

You push toward the surface - but something slips. It came as instinct when your mouth opened to exhale–

—but a mouthful of water rushes in through your parted lips instead.

The burn came next.

It seared up your nose - that sharp, acidic sting of water that punches through your sinuses. Your lungs clamp shut in rebellion, but not fast enough.

You gagged, the movement triggering a sharp feeling in your chest.

Panic.

A reflexive gasp, your arms flailed. The world spun, lights above the water blurring, the clarity of the tank now distorted in your eyes. Your legs kicked out, but you weren’t rising fast enough. The fabric tangled briefly around your calf.

The sharp splashes draw everyone's attention instantly.

You tried to scream, but all that came out were bubbles.

Your vision dotted, limbs feeling heavy.

Somewhere above the surface, you could hear a muffled voice - someone yelling your name - but it was as if you were underwater in more ways than one.

.

“Wait. She’s—!”

“She’s choking!”

Mingyu drops his phone without hesitation, making a beeline up the steps towards the tank.

He dives in just as a staff member follows, the rest of the members rushing to the tank’s edge.

Beneath the water, strong arms gripped you from behind. One push, and the momentum shifted.

Hands wrapped beneath your arms, kicking with strength you didn’t have. A second pair of hands joined at your waist - a staff member helping angle you and Mingyu both upwards.

The moment your head broke the surface, you gasped violently, hacking and coughing. The air teared at your throat as you tried to breathe, only to choke again.

The cold bit harder now.

At the top, Seungcheol, Seokmin, and Jun leaned over the edge, arms out. Voices shouting around you.

Right as your fingertips touched the ledge, their hands - warm, dry, desperate - pulled you up together from the tank, dragging you onto the solid platform.

“Get her up– come on–!”

“We got you!”

You cough hard, retching the water out, body trembling.

Someone wraps a towel around your shoulders, but you don’t register who - too busy coughing, gasping, and blinking through the burn in your eyes and lungs.

“You okay? You– breathe. Just breathe.”

You nod, water dripping from your chin, vision blurred and spinning.

You finally lean into the towel, feeling the warm grip of someone - probably Seungkwan - rubbing your back.

“I’m okay…I’m okay now.”

.

You sat on a warm bench, breathing into the towel pressed to your mouth. Your hair is dripping wet, shoulders shaking slightly.

Mingyu sat silently by your side, clothes drenched, hair plastered to his forehead. He hadn’t said a word since he pulled you out of the water, only watching as one of the stylists rubbed warmth into your hands, whispering something soft that you didn’t catch. The set around you had gone oddly quiet.

“Why didn’t you stop earlier?” Seungcheol’s voice was soft, strained, threaded with that kind of frustration that only came when he was genuinely scared.

You let out a shaky breath. “I…I just wanted to get the shot.”

Silence. Not judgmental. Just heavy.

Joshua reached for one of your hands, wrapping both his hands over to give it warmth. “You scared the hell out of us, don’t do that ever again.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. The words cracked in the back of your throat.

Jeonghan crouched down in front of you, pressing a hand to your shoulder. His touch was feather-light - like he was still scared you might break. “It’s okay. You’re out, it’s over. You did well, don’t push yourself anymore, okay?”

Your eyes welled. You hadn’t realised how tightly your hands were clenching the towel until Mingyu gently pried it away from you. Wordlessly, you leaned into him, every muscle in your body finally giving out now that the adrenaline was fading.

His arm curled around your back, drawing you in. No words, no pressure. And for the first time since being pulled out of the tank, your body finally relaxed.

And slowly, the others began to gather - Dokyeom crouched by your knee with a worried frown, Woozi stood behind the bench with a hand braced on the railing, like he couldn’t step closer without shaking.

It was warm, all of it. The way they surrounded you, instinctively forming a barrier between you and the lingering buzz of the crew, the lights, the voices. You were wrapped in the quiet hum of care, of unsaid affection.

You blinked up at them, eyes glassy, throat tight.

“...Thank you,” you murmured.

In that small moment, soaked and shivering, you smiled, knowing you’d never been more protected.

--

[minhui896]

“They Know You’re a Good Person” || Lee Jihoon x You

Jihoon x Reader | Soft Reveal

Request are open!^^

It wasn’t planned — not exactly.

You and Jihoon had always kept things quiet. Not secret, not hidden. Just… yours.

No anonymous Instagram posts. No blurred-out selfies. No matching bracelets with obvious hashtags.

Just tiny things like

Jihoon’s hoodie in your laundry basket

Your playlist cued up in his studio

A post-it on his desk that said “Don’t forget to eat — I love you.”

You never asked him to lie.

He never asked you to shrink.

But the line between “ours” and “theirs” was delicate — and he’d never wanted to risk pulling you into the chaos.

At least… not until the interview.

It was nothing major. A variety show. Lighthearted questions. A game of “Describe your ideal type in three words.”

Seungkwan went first: “Funny. Independent. Considerate.”

Jeonghan: “Cool. Smells good. Good at games.”

Then they got to Jihoon.

And he paused. Smirked a little.

Then, in that calm, matter-of-fact tone of his, he said:

“Understands me. Laughs at my jokes. And makes me proud.”

The room went quiet for a second — not awkward, just surprised.

Then Mingyu let out a very suspicious cough. “Oh… interesting.”

Soonyoung raised a brow. “That sounds familiar…”

Jihoon didn’t blink. “It should.”

And just like that, it was out there.

He didn’t say your name. Didn’t even confirm anything. But the fans?

They’re smarter than people give them credit for.

Clips of that moment made the rounds online. Paired with older moments — little smiles, offhand comments about someone who “grounds” him, that time he said he’s dating someone “who keeps him humble… and fed.”

Speculation started.

Then guessing.

Then something softer.

Because the more fans pieced together — the less they were mad. And the more they just… got it.

You weren’t flashy. You weren’t fame-hungry. You didn’t leak things, hint at things, try to ride the attention.

You just loved Jihoon.

And it showed.

You, on the other hand?

You were terrified.

“I didn’t want people looking at me like that,” you admitted one night, curled up on the studio couch as Jihoon fiddled with the EQ knobs, pretending not to watch you too closely.

“I didn’t ask for attention. I’m just… me.”

He glanced at you. Quiet. Thoughtful.

Then set his headphones down, walked over, and crouched in front of you.

“You know what’s funny?” he said. “That’s the part they love the most.”

You frowned. “What?”

“That you’re not trying. That you’re not some curated version of a person. You don’t show off. You don’t speak for me. You just let me be myself — and that makes you more real than anything.”

You didn’t answer right away.

So he took your hand gently and added, “They know you’re a good person.”

You blinked. “How?”

“Because I am,” he said. “And I’d never fall for someone who isn’t.”

That shut you up for a moment.

And Jihoon — ever the introvert, ever the understated one — leaned forward and kissed your forehead before settling beside you on the couch.

“They’ll adjust,” he murmured. “And I’ll never let them turn you into something you’re not. I promise.”

He didn’t suddenly start gushing about you in public.

But he didn’t hide you anymore, either.

In a fan call, someone asked what made him happiest lately.

He said, “Waking up to the same message every morning. Even if it’s just ‘eat something.’”

On Weverse, a fan asked what kind of people he respected most.

He wrote back:

“The ones who work hard without asking for applause.”

And then added: “I live with one.”

The fans caught on.

And this time… they cheered for you.

Not because they knew your name. Not because they saw your face.

But because they saw how he changed around you.

How Jihoon — famously private, famously guarded — smiled softer now.

Laughed a little more.

Looked at the camera like he had a secret he wasn’t afraid to protect anymore.

And maybe, just maybe —

The fans realized that loving someone like you… made him better.

So no, it wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t a headline.

It wasn’t some dramatic reveal.

But it was real.

And gentle.

And lasting.

And when Jihoon looked at you backstage after another exhausting performance, flushed and happy and tired down to his bones, he pulled you close and whispered, almost shy:

“I think I’m proudest of myself for choosing you.”

And you?

You didn’t need to say anything back.

He already knew.

[minhui896]

oh my goddd damn yn and cheol you would think things are getting better but I feel like we just went a whole lotta steps back like guys cmon now they’re both stubborn and definitely need a lot of communication before anything truly does happen but like damn this was a good read

of silks and steel (pt 2)

pairing: duke/commander!seungcheol x daughter of duke!reader (arranged marriage au) wc: 12.4k warnings: fighting, drinking, p in v, lowk dubcon bc it's never really said outright, you losing your virginity, fingering probably i dont really remember... a/n: hi guyss!!! im so so so sorry for the delay in literally everything i swear i was actually busy and not just fucking around... i'll try to get to all your requests in at least 3 weeks... <3 much love

TAGLIST FORM HERE

masterlist | prev (part 1) | next (part 3)

part 2 seungcheol 

The wind bites. 

It cuts through silk, through composure, through the thin veil of formality that has iced over you like frost since you crossed the last valley into the north. Into his north. 

Seungcheol watches you from the corner of his eye as the palanquin slows in front of the estate’s outer courtyard, the stone path slick with melting ice, the pines still crusted white despite the sun of early spring. 

The gates swing open with ceremony. Heavy wood, carved with the emblem of Choi line, something Seungcheol had never expected to inherit, parting with the groan of age and authority. A long line of attendants bows in silence. Robes dark and heads lowered. Past them, his countless hanoks stretch in neat formation, curved roofs dusted faintly in snowmelt. The daemun, tall and looming, stands wide open as though to swallow you both whole. 

Even now, years after he has inherited the very estate that felt like a prison his entire childhood, Seungcheol shuddered at the thought of stepping foot into the ancestral lands, so to speak. 

You step out after him.

Not of your own volition – you’re guided, led, half-carried down by a maid whose accent you probably already clocked as northern. You walk with your chin tilted up too high, spine straight, even as the wind lashes at the hem of your crimson hanbok, and your embroidered sleeves flutter like dying banners. 

Your fingers twitch in the cold, tips turning slowly bleeding white. 

He catches it – you, curling your hands tight into the folds of your skirt. He catches the tremble in your breath as it leaves in a puff of mist. He catches the way you glance, just once, at the faraway peaks crowned in snow like deadly knives, and how your mouth sets immediately afterward – like regret. Disappointment. Or revulsion. 

You hate it. 

He can see it. 

The cold, the mountain air, this place. 

Him.

He can see it clear in your eyes. 

Without thinking, like something possessed him, Seungcheol shrugs off his cloak. His shoulders bare to the wind, his raised and faded scars exposed to the spring’s cruelty, he crosses the distance to you. With firm (and trembling) hands, he deftly clasps the fur-lined garment around your narrow and shivering shoulders. 

Note to self: buy her thicker gowns and cloaks.

He doesn’t say a word. Just a firm grip over the buckle, leather clasp against silk hanbok, hands lingering for a half second longer than they should as he pretends to dust off the shoulder pads. 

You freeze so dramatically Seungcheol almost laughs. 

The servants around you pause mid-bow. Your chin tilts up ever-so-slightly, and your mouth curves again into that sharp-edged smile. The one you wear like jaded armor. The one that nags him – that you’d rather shiver and freeze to death in the cold than ask for warmth. 

Your delicate fingers go up to brush against the fur. Seungcheol racks his brain if he asked Minwoo to wash it before he wore it. He’s not too sure. Worry flashes through his mind at the thought of you possibly touching remnants of someone else’s blood. 

“...Thank you,” you finally say, voice clipped. 

He doesn’t answer. Just steps back, gloved hands falling to his sides, and nods stiffly. A soldier. A duke. A man carrying the weight of a woman he doesn’t have the slightest clue how to protect other than shower you with the things he wishes you had. 

He leads you forward, past the bowed servants, rock-still as his cloak trails on the ground as you walk elegantly just a pace behind him. He walks slightly ahead, like he’s shielding you, though he knows it’s useless. These people lining the great hall know what the Capital has sent him. They’ve seen the letters. The proclamations. The red ink of imperial parchment. 

A bride from the South. 

A war prized all bedazzled in silk. 

He hates the way they look at you: curious, careful, taunting. Like you might shatter if spoken to. Or break everything in return. 

The inner hanok is warm, at least, and lanterns flicker from the eaves. Incense curls through the openings of the doors. 

When he pushes open the sliding panel, there’s a man waiting. Seungcheol barely even remembers Jeonghan telling him about the officiator. 

“Just for the formalities, Cheol.” 

Grey-robed, ink-stained hands. He looks vaguely Northern, and is kneeling by a lacquered writing table with scrolls unfurled and a brush horizontal over the top of an ink tray. Seungcheol doesn’t need to read the characters on the scroll to know what it says. 

Apparently, neither do you because he swears your face pales at least a shade lighter at the sigh in front of you. 

You hesitate at the threshold. 

Seungcheol thinks it ironic that this is what stops you: the official stamp. The seal of marriage. 

Your fingers press to the fur at your throat. Not delicately. With restraint – almost as if enough force around your larynx would push your fingers in and you’d die on the spot. 

When you don’t move, staring wide at the room (and him), Seungcheol turns towards you. His voice comes low. Controlled. 

“This is only to legalize what they’ve already announced.” He’s not too sure if it’s supposed to sound like a relief but it’s the only thing he can say. 

You look at him, finally, eyes cool, steady. Almost frightening, the way they train unwaveringly on his. 

“And after?” you ask. 

He pauses. 

“After, I will escort you to your quarters.” 

A beat. 

“You will not be disturbed,” he adds, and there’s a light of pride in him that is almost immediately extinguished when you look more pained at his last statement than everything else thus far. 

Your brow twitches and you step inside. 

He follows, sliding the door shut behind you, trying not to flinch at how finalizing everything sounds. 

The officiator hands him the scroll first. The characters of his name written in half-dried ink are familiar – the war notices, the Imperial scrolls, the King’s edicts, over and over again. And then yours: dainty, clean-cut, pretty (just like you), characters lined up neatly as if they were made for you and for you only. 

As he signs his name, he doesn’t watch the ink dry. He watches you. 

He watches you as you sit across the table like someone carved from the old stone cliffs of Hanyang – proud, untouchable, wrapped in red silk like a war flag too red for actual war. You don’t belong in this cold, unused, unoccupied house. Hell, even he lives away from this estate if he can help it. You belong in a hall of mirrors and moonlight. Somewhere war, somewhere beautiful. Somewhere where someone can match the regality of you and where the things you touch will turn as breathtaking as you. 

Not here. 

Not in this house.

And not in his life. 

Yet, your hand flows over the parchment, signing the contract. Your hand trembles less than his did and your eyes don’t waver as you hand the scroll back to the clerk, who looks only ever-so-surprised at the fact that you gave him the scroll and not Seungcheol. 

But even the clerk doesn’t say a word. He simply bows and leaves, like this is any other duty. Like sealing your fate away to him was just another to-do task in a day’s worth of an officiator’s salary. 

When the door slides shut, there is a thickening silence that is almost choking. 

He sits with it. With you. 

The brazier flickers but the heat doesn’t reach and you still look awfully cold in your Southern silks. Seungcheol wishes he could bring the sun down closer. Or flip the Earth so that you were back where you belong – where incense and citrus curls around you like perfume. Here, in the North, everything is sharp – stone, pine, and frost. You hate it already, he’s sure of it. And there’s a part of him that hopes you do. 

Almost. 

To save you from your misery, he clears his throat, straightening. 

“You can have the west wing,” he says. It’s surprising, the way his voice is even. Distant, almost, like he’s speaking to a fellow officer. He wonders when he can ever allow himself the privilege of calling you his wife without guilt, remorse, regret. 

“I’ll keep to the east.” 

You look at him, head tilted. There’s a familiar glint behind your sharp lashes that he remembers from the Academy. 

“How generous,” you muse. “I’ll need a compass to see my husband.” Your pause is almost threatening. “Go figure.” 

Seungcheol has to bite his tongue to not say something stupid. He doesn’t take the bait. He never does – something he learned the hard way. You’re too good with words and he’s too clumsy with his own feelings for any dignified response to make any sense. 

“It’d do us both good to be left alone.” 

He means it, really. You deserve to be left alone. You deserve peace. Time away from him. 

And yet, when you rise too quickly, and you sway on your feet, something cold in his chest cracks wide open. Before he can even blink, his legs are straightening and he’s out of his seat before both of you realize. Arms encircle your waist, hands large and gentle against your figure. The silk under his rough, calloused palms is almost like water – flowing, soft, clear. 

You’re warm. 

You smell like the sea and the tea you didn’t drink. 

Seungcheol swears you still use the same perfume from your Academy days. 

You freeze. 

So does he. 

You turn in his grasp, eyes locking. And in them, he sees some sort of confusion and unspoken ache swirling around in your orbs, like the way panic shoots through his body and nestles in his eyes. He blinks to try to get rid of whatever’s in his eyes that he’s tried to bury under five years of blood and command. 

He drops his hands almost immediately, too quickly, like he touched something sacred – like he’s unworthy. He tries to ignore the emptiness in his arms when you straighten, brushing a piece of your hair behind your ears, fixing the folds of your skirt with surgical grace. 

The distance between you expands like helium to a balloon. 

“You shouldn’t dress heavy for people you don’t want to impress,” he mutters, voice lower, softer. Internally, Seungcheol cringes at how stuck-up and self-absorbed that sounds, eyes drifting to the wall behind your head. He can’t bear to look at you in your face. 

Mid-step, you turn, looking over your shoulder. Your smile is almost blood-cutting. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you snipe, and then as an afterthought, you add, “Commander.” 

He flinches at the title. He’s not your commander (let alone the husband you deserve, now). His throat feels itchy with the words building up in his chest and as his brows furrow, he’s relieved, at least, that you didn’t call him “your grace” or something like that because that would’ve been far worse of a delegation. 

Staring at the back of your head, he wants to talk. There’s a deeply hidden part of his soul that wants to reach out to grasp your wrist, pull you backwards so that your back meets his chest and bury his nose in your hair and tell you how much he misses you. How he used to time his dueling practices to your afternoon tea sessions. How he used to walk through the Academy’s library with Jeonghan to pass the windows just as you crossed the courtyard for your drawing group by the lake. He wants to tell you how he wrote a letter once – before everything – and couldn’t ever send it. Instead, he took it with him to his first campaign and then burned it in the barracks firepit with tears trailing down his cheeks when the campaign turned bloody because he couldn’t ever keep the thought of you in the same place as hot, irony blood. He doesn’t tell you how Jeonghan used to make fun of him for calling out your name every time he went under any mild painkiller.

You move towards the door. 

He follows and tries to ignore how it doesn’t feel like a husband following his wife but a soldier escorting a far nobler guest. 

When the door opens, the wind cuts colder. Your arms reach for his cloak around your shoulders (he deludes himself into thinking instinctively) and he can see your shoulders tighten when you realize you’re touching the same fur that used to sit atop his shoulders. 

The servants outside the door bow low as he follows you – you, walking ahead, the hem of his cloak dragging behind. 

And it’s almost stupidly, painfully ironic the way he’s always one step behind. 

He’s supposed to be leading you, except it feels like you’re leading him through the silence of a long, lantern-lit corridor of the estate, servants flanking the two of you. Your steps are quiet beneath the heavy drag of his cloak, the fabric pooling around your ankles like an unwanted shadow. As he gently murmurs out the directions, you don’t ask questions. Not about the layout, the history, the route, and definitely not about him. What he’s been doing for the past eight years. The campaigns he’s been on. The thoughts he had. And, fair, he didn’t either. 

And it’s fine. He isn’t in the business of answering questions anymore anyways. 

At last, he stops you before a tall set of polished redwood doors. The servants gently lower their lanterns to light the pathway. The fires burn almost immediately, yellow light glowing from the rice paper panels, soft and warm. It’s a poor imitation of the southern sun but he still slides the doors open for you. 

And your new prison opens itself, wrapped in northern silk, cold to the touch. 

Your room is massive. He made sure to organize it that way. Ordered the servants to clear the west wing for his “future wife’s” use and told them to periodically heat the floors. And now, the air is warm with the heat of the ondol wood. A folding screen carved with cranes and flowering plums separates the main chamber from your sleeping quarters. There’s a plush floor couch against one wall, a lacquered chest near the doors, and an antique writing desk that seungcheol pulled from his stepmother’s old room placed precisely before the wide rice paper windows. In the spring, he hoped you would open the windows to look outside at the gardens. 

Another screen sits folded in the corner – to separate you from guests, should you wish to host any. 

It’s so quiet it unnerves him. You can hear the koi pond outside. Past the sliding doors, a long porch looks out over the private garden – pines and stones and plum trees in early frosty bloom. Snow still clings to the edges of the tiled roof. The moonlight makes the slow fish glow beneath the pond’s still surface. 

Past this hanok, fifteen more wait for you, all of them part of your dowry in name. Seungcheol wonders if it’ll be enough for you. 

He stands beside you in the doorway, arms folded behind his back. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t know what exactly to say. His jaw works slightly, and he catches your eyes when you glance up at him, your eyes just a little wide in surprise. 

He looks back at the room. 

When you still stare up at him, he clears his throat. 

“I’ll have someone sent up to light the braziers near the bath,” he says finally, voice rough. 

You turn to him slowly, expression blank.

“Why? You don’t think I’m capable of lighting a fire myself?” 

He lets the jab pass. Though it hurts that you’d think he thinks of you that low. 

“It’s tradition,” he sighs, “for the steward to tend to the bride’s quarters on the first night.” 

You scoff. “And here I thought we’d forgone any tradition when we legalized the marriage without a proper ceremony.” 

Your words are biting, your expression even more so. But your eyes flicker down with some emotion he can’t properly place: guilt, maybe. Regret. Maybe just anger. At him, the king, the world. You were always hot tempered. 

He steps back but not before muttering, “Didn’t know you wanted a ceremony,” under his breath. 

You catch it, obviously, and it earns him a nasty glare as you slip his cloak off your shoulders. 

“If there’s anything you need-” Seungcheol is cut off when you fold the cloak gently and then shove it into his chest (a little too harshly for comfort). In the lighting, your eyes seem red-rimmed, though he doesn’t know why. 

You avoid his searching gaze. “I’ll be sure to send someone across the courtyard to your wing, Commander,” you respond, turning, letting the cloak go in his hands. Your fingers don’t even graze. 

Seungcheol swallows, rooted in place. “Don’t call me that,” he musters. He wills for you to not see the way his fingers dig into the fabric he’s holding. 

You give him a look, brow raising mid stiff bow. “Call you what? Your title?” You cock your head like he’s a piece of jewelry you’re studying to auction off at one of your father’s summer charity feasts. You give him a smile. “Should we revert back to names, then, Seungcheol? Just like old times?” 

The words hurt more than the way your face drops. 

But his heart thuds in his chest when his name rolls off your tongue. 

He doesn’t know what to say. 

You stare at him for three seconds, no more, before turning back. Half-way back into your room, you stop. 

“Let’s keep us where we are. None of us wants this anyways.” 

And with some cruel finality, you slide the door shut with a loud BANG!

Seungcheol leads himself back to his own wing with a bitter smile, breathing in the still mountain air like it’ll stop his lungs from burning and smoking from the inside.

–

y/n Tuesday lunch. 

Of all the days to see your newly-wedded husband, it’s a fucking Tuesday. Not even a meaningful Tuesday – like the first of the month, or his name day, or some ancestral observance. Just…Tuesday. And not even at an elegant hour like noon, high sun. It’s closer to when the shadows begin to cross the courtyard stones. At fucking 2 PM. Who eats lunch at two in the afternoon? 

And, sure, maybe it’s all your fault for asking, once, days after arriving (“Should I prepare for any shared meals?”), but he had to have known that it was a formality. A formality. As a wedded couple. 

He was silent, the only sound being his pen scratching his papers before he said, “Tuesdays. Lunch.” without even looking you in your eyes. 

You hadn’t meant to ask it that way – like you expected him to allot time away for you. You meant to ask if he was going to be your husband. And if he wasn’t, if he was going to at least pretend to act like one. Or maybe you just wanted to know if he hated you. 

Instead, you got monotone words, a dismissive gaze, and Tuesday lunch. 

You arrive a minute early to the dining hall to find him already seated at the head of the long table on the plush floor couch. His porcelain cup is filled already and there is a slight scent of flowers from the opened wooden panel doors. You can hear the insects chirp and feel the cold air cool the stuffy room, the 2 pm sunlight illuminating the brass plates. 

The table is too long for you to sit at the other end.

At least that should be the case, yet there is a place mat set up at the other end of the table, utensils and porcelain cup set up perfectly. In the middle of the table, there is an arrangement of low flowers and burning incense. 

When Gareum, the maid assigned to you by Seungcheol, slides open the door, you see his hand still from flipping through a stack of scrolls. 

When you step in, he looks up, blinking like he doesn’t know why you’re here until it finally dawns on him like a lightning strike. 

Seungcheol doesn’t speak when you survey the room and dismiss Gareum with a gentle word. You pretend not to care that she doesn’t move from her position until Seungcheol nods, dismissing her after you dismissed her already. She leaves the room in a low bow and a small thud of the wooden doors. 

You swallow, nails digging into your palms. 

The third week and still the estate’s servants were delegating you below them. 

With an incline of his head and a silent gesture for you to sit opposite him, he sets aside the scrolls. 

As if he’s even going to talk to you. 

If anything, he would just brood in silence and then ask an awkward question when the silence gets too tense for him. 

But you sit. 

And when you do, skirts still too thin for the chilly spring air of the north, you want to squeeze your heart until it pops and explodes. Because when you sit across from him, something in you still jolts painfully at the sight of a scar curling along the edge of his jaw, pale even midst the natural pale of his face. And your heart thuds to know that it wasn’t one that was there eight years ago. 

The door slides open. 

Footsteps. 

Servants. 

Clinks as two people set platters of food before the two of you. Your portion is ridiculously too much. And you’re unsure whether to think of it as an insult or something else. 

When Seungcheol dismisses them, you see the hard callouses decorating his palm, the skin around his knuckles slightly bruised. 

You swallow, looking down at the heaping portion of steaming white rice. The grilled fish sitting on the brass plate with its eye staring dead towards the ceiling. 

You have an overwhelming urge to throw your flat chopsticks at him. 

Instead, you bring a hand to your cup, taking a sip of your tea. 

When Seungcheol lifts his chopsticks, the two servants come back in with a soft knock. They bow before kneeling, gently placing steamed tofu and scallion pancakes in front of the two of you. 

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip. 

They’re your favorite. 

And from the way Seungcheol looks mildly guilty and embarrassed, you can tell that he didn’t mean to remember. Or maybe he did and your own eyes are just fucking with you. 

So you don’t ask. 

And you don’t thank him either. 

You just try to convince yourself that this is the least he could do. As your husband. And you stare at your food as Seungcheol eats. 

A beat. 

“Do you think me large? Or malnourished? Underfed?” you suddenly say, head lifting. 

There is a small bubble of pride when Seungcheol chokes on his rice at your words, coughing and spluttering, chopsticks falling to his tray. 

A servant hurriedly brings him water. 

You cock your head, studying his reaction. 

His eyes are wide when he looks up at you, incredulous. “What?” 

You gesture vaguely to the tray set in front of you, pointing at each dish. “This entire tray can feed at least three of your soldiers,” you comment. 

And maybe you’re being unfair. Maybe he just wanted to give you a good lunch. But you’re feeling petty, so you continue on. 

Your arms cross as you sigh. “So?” 

Seungcheol blinks owlishly, lips parting before closing like he’s at a loss for words. His eyes dart to the ceiling like he’s saying a quick prayer before he clears his throat. “Uhm I assure you that your meal is not enough for even one of my soldiers.” 

And then he looks back down at his own food as if ready to eat again after your outburst. 

“Is that supposed to answer my question?” you say, hands folded in your lap again. You don’t know why you’re still talking, especially in front of the servants who are now whispering from behind the sliding doors. 

Seungcheol stifles a sigh. “Y/n, can we just eat?” He looks up at you with tired eyes and you try not to flinch at the way he says your name. “If the portion is too much for you, just eat as much as you can. I promise I didn’t mean anything by it.” 

Any words you were going to say die in your throat. Seungcheol’s words are almost cathartic in the sense that it quells whatever feelings in your brain to almost complete silence. Miffed, you just sniff and pick up your chopsticks.

When you take your first bite of the fish and the rice, along with some marinated herbs, you see Seungcheol visibly relax. Especially when you nod appreciatively. 

By the time the last course is served – persimmon slices dusted with ground pine nuts – the silence has thickened into something unbearable. You chew slowly, carefully, wondering if he’s avoiding your eyes on purpose. He probably is. 

Of course he is.

You watch the way he lifts his cup – steady and slow. The way he doesn’t take a single bite of dessert. The way he glances at the folded screen behind you but never meets your eyes. 

“Don’t pity me,” you say quietly, placing your chopsticks down. 

That gets his attention. But barely. A twitch in his brow. A quick glance at your idle hands. 

“I don’t,” is his response. 

You raise your chin. 

“Then stop treating me like I’m made out of glass. Or regret, guilt, whatever you think I am.” 

He stiffens. The shadows move slowly across the floorboards. Even the servants’ whispers have hushed. 

He opens his mouth to say something. And then closes it. 

“You’re free to explore the estate,” he says instead, eyes flickering over to the opened windows. “Ride the forest path, visit the observatory, walk the garden, whatever you want. My steward will answer anything.” 

You think he means it as kindness. As an offering of sorts, maybe. No, you know he means it nothing as a snipe from the way his fingers drum on the table. 

But it sounds like distance. Like avoidance. 

As: I don’t want to see you.

As: I never wanted this.

As (and this is the scariest out of all of your thoughts and what-ifs): be the ceremonial wife you were meant to be.

So you don’t answer. And you don’t touch the rest of your persimmons. Your small fork stays clean until all the dishes are cleared and the last of the servants leave the dining room. 

You rise to your knees. And then your feet. 

A low bow that makes Seungcheol uncomfortable. You know he sees the deep crescent marks on the backs of your hand and the way you bite the inside of your cheek. 

You don’t even have it in you to say anything as you leave. 

And he doesn’t even stop you. He does watch you, though. You feel it on your spine all the way down the hall. 

–

The west wing is beautiful – too beautiful. Untouched in its purity. It’s made of smooth hinoki wood and warm-toned tatami mats, low sloping rooftops and shaded porches that overlook private gardens. 

Fifteen hanoks. 

All for you. All yours. 

One is a bathing house, another a study, another a small private tea hall with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves with a book collection that cannot be Seungcheol’s. Save your personal hanok, the other are so lavishly unused that they feel haunted by the ghosts of Seungcheol’s ancestors. 

Several of them are, ironically, bedrooms. 

If you and Seungcheol were still on the kind of terms you once were, you might’ve joked. About the sheer magnitude of his wedding gift. Of the empty hanoks. 

“Shall I prepare the empty rooms for lover auditions?” 

You would have said it with a smile. And he would have choked on his tea. Maybe said something with a stiff and awkward laugh. Or something stiff and jealous like, “Don’t tempt fate,” or “You think I can share?” 

And for a second, you have an urge to pull that shit again. Now. 

But you can’t. Because that was years ago. 

Now, if you said that, you’re certain he’d just look through you. Maybe blink and walk away. Or worse – he’d go stone cold, distant, detached like how he’s been since you arrived. 

Yuna, your one handmaid you were allowed to bring up from the South, keeps trying to cheer you up, walking beside you with her sleeves tucked into her hanbok skirts. She points out flowers in the gardens that you’ve never seen when the only gardens you cared to walk were in the south. She laughs louder as to force you to also laugh with her and offers you candied chestnuts like it’ll fix the thousand li between your hear tand this cold, dreary place. 

Yuna suddenly clear her throat, stopping. “My lady, you should avoid the east wing,” she says, glancing nervously at the carved wood and stone gate that marks the line between your wing and his. “The Commander’s men are everywhere. If one of them see you–”

You wave her off, stepping over the raised threshold without flinching. “Yuna,” you sigh, straightening you skirts, “what can they even tell me? To not step a foot in my husband’s home?” 

Yuna sighs like she agrees and follows you in, though nervously. “My lady, you know it’s not proper–”

“--Proper,” you interrupt, “has never brought me much peace anyways.” 

Yuna groans, long-suffering, and you’re glad that she isn’t facing you to see that it’s the first thing she does that pulls a real smile out of you. 

The moment you step foot onto the eastern courtyard, the energy shifts. Imperceptibly but still. Servants pause mid-sweep, mid-step, mid-conversation. You hear a tiktiktiiiiiiiiik of a broom falling to the stones placed into the ground. A group of laughing maids suddenly have their laughter stuck mid-throat and their heads drop. 

It’s like walking into sacred ground barefoot and dressed in night silk. 

They look at you like you don’t belong. Like you’ve taken the place of someone more deserving. 

A lone servant drops into an uncertain bow. 

So you ignore them – just like how you have ignored every and all insults thrown your way in the past. 

You step and step and step until you’re toeing off your shoes on the stone block, climbing three short steps to enter the main hall. 

And you come to a realization: the east wing is nothing like the west. 

Ironically (and unbelievably), it’s colder, less used. The smell of dew-crested wood is much more prevalent here, though you think that there are almost three times the number of servants stationed in the east wing than yours. Each wooden floorboard either creaks or bends with your weight and you can almost feel the oozing of generations from the ceiling beams. 

You find the library by accident. 

It’s a low, sprawling structure, half-covered in ivy and pine needles from the outside. The wooden doors are heavy and the sliding and hinging rice-paper windows are pushed open to let in the cool spring air. From the ceiling beams are hanging scent pouches that fill the wide room with the faint scent of lilac and lilies. 

Inside – really inside the library – it’s more austere than yours. There are countless towering shelves of ledgers, war records, tightly bound scrolls. There are books bound in leather and parchment, velvet and cotton, and scrolls sealed with imperial stamps. Right below a portrait of a man (presumably dead now), is an old ceremonial sword, maybe from three generations ago, perhaps used in battle. But you guess it was most likely given as an imperial gift. It rests on its holder, refracting rare beams of sunlight leaking in through the opened doors. 

Yuna worries over your shoulder, peaking every-so-often into the hallway. 

“My lady–” 

“-The halls are empty, Yuna. Come inside,” you sigh, padding over to a bookshelf filled with what looks like textbooks. 

Yuna mutters something to herself before finally following you inside, albeit reluctantly. 

You run your fingers across the spines, scanning the titles. And then you hear it – a dull, rhythmic impact. 

Thump.

Crack.

Pause. 

And then again. 

Your eyebrows scrunch together, scanning the room. 

Nothing. No one – save you and Yuna. 

So you cross to the far end of the room where a window overlooks the lower courtyard. 

And that’s where you see him. 

Seungcheol. 

He’s shirtless and his bare chest, muscles rippling, is slick with sweat. His hair is tied back and when he turns, back towards you, your hand goes to rest on the windowsill at the sight of his God-given back muscles. A blade slashes through the air and then it all comes into focus:

There are more than a thousand of soldiers in formation, slashing and parrying in formation drills across the courtyard. Training yard, probably. 

But his skin is gleaming, steam rising from his body as though even the cold air can’t even quite touch him. Now, he walks between his soldiers – and you try to quell your flushing cheeks at the way his brows furrow, arms cross, and then he says something low and imperceptible to a soldier. He moves like he’s training his half-shirtless men for another war. Like they’re playing with controlled fire, not some wooden sword. 

With each step he takes, it’s like he takes your breath away with him. 

Closer now, you can see his scars, worse than you imagined. 

One new slash marks his ribs, another on his lower back. You can count more than three on just his shoulder alone. The one on his jaw ripples with every clench of that muscle. 

And then he moves to the middle, soldiers parting around him. 

He unsheaths his sword, the metal gleaming in the afternoon light.

With the same sword, he thrusts the point at a soldier standing in the circle, hair pushed back with sweat, cheeks a little red, tan skin shining. 

The same soldier points at himself as if to ask Me?? And then steps forward with Seungcheol’s nod. 

Around him, the soldiers pair off into twos. 

And then he starts. 

A lunge, a parry, a yell in the general direction of his partner’s head, a side-step, and then a jab. 

The soldiers follow in synchrony. It looks more than just a drill – like an advancing force. 

Your hand tightens on the windowsill. 

Chaewon’s words ring in your head: Y/n, they send the Capital soldiers to his winter trainings. Apparently. 

You knew the Capital send their young officers north to train with him. You saw it, even, with the boys choosing the military path in the Imperial Academy being sent off in their final years to the north in your grade. You saw it when you danced before other men in the Capital, hearing complaints of young military officers at imperial feasts about the grueling winter trainings up north. 

You just didn’t realize what it meant. 

What kind of man the boy you had once known had become. 

There’s a small light of pride that flickers in your stomach, even through the pain you had buried it under. 

Your weight is now almost solely on your hands, body leaning out the window, basically. 

Yuna rushes beside you, eyes flickering down at what – or who – you were looking at. 

“My lady!” she gasps, hand lightly hitting your shoulder repeatedly. “We mustn’t! This isn’t-” 

But you barely hear her. 

Because just then, almost in slow motion, you see Seungcheol straighten, bark an order to the side, sheath his sword, and lift his head. 

And like something possesses him, he scans the courtyard before his gaze collides directly with yours. 

He freezes. 

Your eyes widen, body stuck half-outside of the opened window. 

Steam curls off of his shoulders, his chest heaves, and his brows furrow as if trying to decipher whether it is really you. 

You swallow. 

For a breathless moment, he does nothing. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t move. There is a small part of you that curls into yourself with fear – would he yell at you? Lecture you? Scold you for coming into his personal space? But his face twitches in confusion – like he had never expected you to ever be where he was. 

He stares at you like you’ve just walked straight into his pulse and punched his jugular. 

It’s almost cinematic – all the soldiers around him move in fluid precision, sweating bullets even in the chilly weather, yet he stands in the very middle, stock-still, eyes locked on yours. 

When the tan soldier drops his sword mid-parry, the clatter of the wood breaks the focus. 

Seungcheol blinks as if clarity washes over him. And without breaking eye contact, he bows. Not at his waist but with just his head. The same way he does when he passes a court official. 

You don’t know why your heart hurts when he does that. 

Only that it does – painfully. 

That and the fact that you can’t bring yourself to look away. 

When his gaze drops and he turns away, you stumble back from the window with a choked gasp, cheeks hot, breath uneven, fingers clenching the folds of your skirt. 

Stupid. 

Stop reacting like this. 

Why do his eyes still make you feel like you’re the only thing in the room he sees – even when you know he resents having to. Even though you can feel something else in his gaze that’s deeper than just guilt or regret or pity. 

Yuna hovers by the door, nervously glancing back towards the corridor. Her lips are straightened in a tight line as she wrings her hands. 

“My lady…” she trails off, glancing back at the corridor. 

You sigh, waving her off. “Go on,” you murmur, looking outside the window again. Soldiers are now on benches, laughing and playfully hitting each other, drinking water with desperate gulps. “I’ll be fine,” you mumble. 

Yuna gives you one last worried look before she listens to you, slowly padding out of the library backwards, bowing low to you before rushing down the hallway towards your wing. 

You stay. 

The library smells like cedar and ink and dried herbs. The windows still let in the spring air that’s edged with frost. You can still hear the soldiers’ laughter echoing from the courtyard as you run your fingers along the spines of the old textbooks. You drag your fingers along the shelf until you find a stack tucked half behind an old box of correspondences – thick books bound in dark leather. Some of them are cracked with age, the spine creased and bent. 

At the top of the stack is a record of old military formations. The second is a well-annotated copy of The Ethics of War with Seungcheol’s name scrawled in the top corner with his handwriting, strokes long and rushed. The third is a mess of loose sheets tied together with faded twine. Papers jut here and there, and most of them – at second glance, you realize – are half-written letters, receipts, doodles. 

Curious now, you pull one free. It’s a note – scribbled musings – with half-translated proverbs from old philosophy texts and quotes about destiny and desire. 

You go through the whole stack. Skimming through most of them, entirely reading through only a few pages. 

And then you find it. Near the middle – something different. 

It’s different from the rest, torn from what appears to be fine stationery. It’s slightly wrinkled like it had once been stuffed somewhere – like a pocket or a bag. You recognize the script almost instantly – his. His from when he was still nineteen and prideful and confused – maybe. 

The words written on top are what make you stop. 

Dearest Y/n. 

Y/n. 

You. 

It’s addressed to you. 

So you read it. 

Once. 

Twice. 

And then a third time. 

Dearest Yn, I don’t know what to say that won’t sound like pure cowardice, but I keep replaying what I said to you. It’s all I can think of. How you flinched, how I made you cry, how much I regret everything that left my mouth that day.  All I wanted, I think, was to be someone you would like to look at – to be worth something to a soul like you.  I keep hearing your voice when I’m supposed to be studying. Whenever someone says your name in the hallways, I’m turning like they’re calling for me. I see your eyes in my blade and your smile in the morning water. I see you even in my dreams.  And I know this isn’t anything. It’s too late and too much but if I don’t say it somewhere, I’ll forget how it felt to mean it.  Just know this: you are the only thing I ever wanted that didn’t feel like duty – that wasn’t forced onto me.  Yours always.  C.S.C.

Your hands shake and your eyes scan the words over and over again, so desperate to find more than just his words on paper. More than his past-tenses. 

And so you don’t hear him until it’s too late. 

Until he’s already slamming the library doors open, wind and heat following him like a storm. 

Choi Seungcheol – half-dressed, skin flushed and steaming from exertion, eyes sharp – sees you standing in between the shelves with the note in your trembling hands and papers scattered on the wooden floors. 

He sees the note. 

He sees you. 

And he’s across the room in seconds. 

His brows furrow as he snaps, “What the hell are you doing?” 

You swallow, slowly looking up, the half-written letter still between your fingers. “Reading. Obviously.” 

He scoffs. “That’s private.” 

“It has my name on it,” you counter, stepping back when he comes forward. 

He grabs for it but you pull back, just out of reach. It feels weirdly good to taunt him like this. 

“Why didn’t you send it? Because you thought I’d laugh at you?” you ask, voice too calm. 

His jaw ticks. “Give it to me.” He stretches out a hand at you. 

“Why?” you laugh, the paper of the letter crumpling. “You’ve kept it for years. Hidden it like everything else.” 

“Because it’s fucking mine,” he growls, step forward. “And you don’t get to read something just because it has your name on it that I wrote when I was nineteen and pissed off and–” 

“-and in love?” you jab, head tilting up to look at him in the eyes. 

You can see the way that lands like a blow. His mouth snaps shut. 

The silence between you pulses. Outside, the wind rattles in the paper doors. His scent is overwhelming. 

You hold up the letter, leaning back to read it properly. “You are the only thing that I ever wanted that didn’t feel like duty.” Your voice cracks as you laugh softly at the words. “Is that a joke now? Or just a lie?” 

“Don’t do that.” 

“Don’t do what, Seungcheol?” you scoff out. He flinches at the call of his name. “Quote you to yourself? Remind you that for one fucking second, maybe you felt something that was real? Or maybe that whatever you use to excuse yourself from feeling like a human being is leaking onto others?” 

“I said don’t, y/n.” His voice is louder now. Not a yell but it hits like one. His body basically has you trapped between him and the bookshelf behind you. 

So you lean forward, shoving the letter into his chest, hearing the paper crumple. “I never asked for this marriage,” you hiss, eyes sharp. “But I never asked to be treated like a stranger either.” 

He scoffs. “You think this is easy for me?” His laugh is bitter and humorless. “You think I wanted this?” 

“Then why keep that letter? Why write it at all?” 

“Because!” he barks. “‘Because I wanted something that I had no right to want. And I ruined everything.” 

You freeze, hand pressed against his chest through the letter, breath stuck in your throat. 

He breathes heavily, chest rising and falling under your palm like he’s still training. His fists are clenched and one hand rests on yours. 

He looks at you with pained eyes. 

You let out a mirthless laugh. “You still think I’m too good for you,” you whisper. 

He’s quiet. 

You step closer. He flinches. So you take another step. 

“Do you know what’s worse than being called a prize, Seungcheol?” you say, soft and shaking. “Being worshipped and then fucking abandoned. Like you’d rather turn to stone and kill yourself than admit you fucking loved me.” 

Your voice cracks and something flickers in his eyes. Pain maybe. Or regret. 

But he doesn’t reach for you. 

Instead, he gently pries your hand off of the letter, taking it off his chest and shoving it into his pocket, stepping away from you like you burn him. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispers. 

“Why? Do I make you uncomfortable? Full of emotions you can’t name?” 

He opens his mouth like he’s going to respond but then shuts it, turning on his heel and leaving. The door slams shut behind him. 

And you’re left standing pressed against the bookshelf, in the wreckage of words you should never have read and said. And the feeling that maybe he’ll never be brave enough to finish them in front of you. 

--

You’re barefoot. 

Yuna begged you not to wander, but your rooms feel like cages. Gilded cages that are too warm and filled with useless things you feel like you can’t touch. You need air – something you’ve been realizing more and more often as the hours pass by in this godforsaken estate. Silence. A reason to stop thinking. Anything. 

But you didn’t mean to end up in the north wing again. 

And yet…

Choi Seungcheol, in a black robe, hair damp from the storm that passed only minutes ago, stands before you beneath the overhang like something carved out of the dark. 

He hears you. You know he does. 

But when you step closer and closer, socks padding on the wooden floor, he stays silent, facing out towards the bonsai trees that were flung this way and that minutes prior. 

When you get close enough to smell the cologne on him, he sniffs. 

“The west wing not enough for you?” 

His voice is cool, detached. 

Your foot stops mid-air before coming back down. A scoff. 

“I was walking.” 

Seungcheol hums. “You’ve been doing a lot of that.” 

You don’t dignify him with a response. And the space between you two turns thick with rain and unsaid things. 

You sigh. “Why did you keep that letter?” 

He doesn’t answer immediately as his breath catches. Like he didn’t expect you to say what you said. 

“Because it was unfinished,” he mumbles. 

“You could’ve burned it. Or given it to me.” 

“There was no point.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because whatever I felt then, it doesn’t matter anymore.” 

You try your best to hide the way his words hurt. But either way, his words knife down your throat and you can feel traitorous tears well up in your eyes. 

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid. 

Stupid for thinking you were over him. Stupid for thinking he wasn’t over you. Stupid for thousands of reasons but the stupidest for gaslighting yourself into believing that him not caring wouldn’t hurt. 

“So that’s it?” you murmur, scoffing. “You hate me.”

That finally gets a reaction out of him. From slightly behind him, you can see the way his jaw tightens, his brows drawing slightly closer. Like you had just slapped him. 

He rises to his feet. 

“You think this is about hate?” 

You bite the inside of your cheek. “You avoid me. You can’t look at me. You act like I’m some weight on your shoulders that you never asked for.” Your voice rises with every word you say. 

“Because you are!” he snaps. Just for a second, his own eyes blow wide at his words as your face twists into aghast. “This marriage wasn’t supposed to happen.” 

The words are sharper than any blade and you flinch at the volume of his voice. You feel the uncomfortable hotness behind your eyes as you try to calm yourself down. 

Your voice breaks before you can harden it again. 

“Then say it,” you whisper. You can’t quite clearly see him now from behind all of your tears that have invaded your space into your eyes. “Fucking say it. Say that you don’t want me here.” 

He looks down at you. Really looks at you – hair damp, robes wrinkled, trembling, tears coating your cheeks, standing barefoot in his world that you had surreptitiously barged in. 

And he says nothing. 

So you scoff, the backs of your hands brushing away the remaining tears from your eyes. 

“That’s what I thought.” 

You turn to leave, shoulders rigid, heart pounding so loud that you can’t hear anything else except for your own loud breaths. 

There’s a sudden tug on your shawl and you come to a stop as you feel a hand wrap around your shoulder. 

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he says, voice low. “You’ll get sick.” 

You wrench free from his grasp, shooting him a glare. “Don’t pretend to care now, Commander.” 

Your title for him is bitterness wrapped in audacity. It’s final and it hangs between you like a slammed door. 

Still, he reaches back for you, fingers grasping your wrist. 

“I never pretended,” he mutters. 

But then he does what he always does. He lets go too fast and step away like the distance could erase what just happened. 

You stand frozen, now facing his chest. 

You see him swallow. 

“Good night,” he says. It’s cold and distant like he can’t bring himself to say anything more. 

And with that, having said his last words, apparently, he walks away. 

You don’t have it in yourself to stop him. 

So, instead, you stare after him, eyes tracing the outline of his back and flowing robes. You stare after him with your heart thudding an irregular rhythm in your throat and your breath locked behind your ribs. 

His good night sounds like good bye. Like he’s reiterating the fact that you feel like he’s already gone. 

Like he wants to forget you ever came and try to convince you that you want the same. 

——

It’s Tuesday. 

The one day he promised. 

A useless little peace offering: a midday meal. To him, something to distract him from the incessant sweat pooling at his back from late-spring training. 

A midday meal. Nothing more. 

But for some reason, you clung to it. 

Stupid, maybe. But in a house built on so-called duty and ghosts of the dead, it was the only thing that felt close enough to a choice. 

So you get ready.

You wear a soft pink hanbok. You pin your hair with the comb your father bought for you in the Capital. The one with the cherry blossoms carved into the bone. You even fucking paint your lips. 

And you sit. 

And you wait. 

The foot comes. Steam curls from brass pots. Dishes lie in symmetry. Your place is set. His is empty. 

The doors stay silent, unmoving. 

Minutes pass. 

Then an hour. 

Yuna keeps glancing at you from the corner she’s standing in. You can feel the pity radiating off of her. 

You opt to say nothing. Just sit silently, staring at his empty seat, hands folded politely in your lap, knees aching from the way you kneel. 

By the second hour, you’re sure the tea has cooled. And you’ve stopped checking the clock. 

By the third, you don’t have enough rage in you to feel an ounce of humiliation. Only cold. Cold from his empty seat, from the opened window, and the long-gone echoing cries of the soldiers. 

Your voice is monotone as you murmur, “Clean it,” to the servants. “Throw it all out.” 

Yuna hesitates from her corner, stepping closer. “My lady, he may still–”

“-he won’t,” you snap, words final and flat. 

You don’t look back to confirm the shuffling of socked feet. Instead, you rise without a word and return to your chambers – a long walk back in the warming weather. 

You pass by soldiers and servants who avoid your gaze like they know something you don’t. Something your own fucking husband won’t tell you. And as your door slams shut behind you, you blink back the tears welling in your eyes. 

And until near midnight, you stay seated on your floor couch, brush firm in your hand and scratchy parchment beneath your palm. 

And then the murmur of low voices. Yuna’s is distinct. Something about you sleeping. 

Heavy footsteps. 

A knock. 

One. 

Two. 

Pause. 

You don’t bother answering. 

It’s him, anyways. 

You don’t move, just continue painting. 

You hear him sigh. 

“It’s me.”

His voice is muffled by the wooden door. 

He says that as if you wouldn’t know it’s him. As if you had anyone else in this godforsaken place who would come visit you at the dead of night. 

So you stay quiet, dotting stars on the parchment. 

“I forgot,” he mutters. 

You slowly turn your head when the door to your bedroom slowly slides open. He’s standing in the threshold, hair damp with sweat and dust marks on his socks. You wonder if he even went inside all day or if he simply buried himself in drills, patrols, punishments, and anything else that let him forget you existed. 

You scoff. “Three hours.” Your voice is quiet. Not angry. Just hollow. 

He looks down at the floor, hands behind his back. “I got pulled into-”

“-don’t give me your bullshit lies,” you snap. 

His head snaps up, eyes wide. Whether at your tone or at the curse word, you’re not too sure. 

You set your brush down. Your sleeves are streaked with ink. So are a couple of your fingers. You stare at your supposed husband like you’re instinctively trying to memorize how disappointment wears on his face. 

You purse your lips. “It wasn’t important to you. Just say that.” 

“It was.” 

You’re so sick of his lies. 

“You didn’t even send a message, Commander.” 

“Don’t call me that,” he mutters. 

You make a face. A laugh, soft and bitter. 

“You always do this,” you say. “You keep me at arm’s length and then expect me to read your fucking mind. As if I haven’t spent years trying to understand you already.” 

“Because it’s better if you don’t,” Seungcheol snaps. “If you knew how much of me is already ruined–” 

“-You’re assuming I don’t?” 

That shuts him up. 

“You think I don’t know what blood smells like, Seungcheol?” his name slips off your tongue by habit. “What men say when they think I can’t hear them? What it’s like to be passed from one noble hour to the next like a prized vase, only to end up in a horribly ironic marriage with a husband who can’t even look me in the eyes for more than three seconds?” 

A flicker of something crosses his face as he swallows hard. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” 

You shrug. “But you did.” 

A beat. 

When he doesn’t say anything, you let another pass. 

“God,” you mumble to yourself, fingers digging into the bridge of your nose. You lift your head back up with a strained smile. “Go,” you say quietly. “Or stay. But stop making me wait for you.” 

You turn back towards your screened window before you can see the guilt that cracks across his face. The way his hands flex like he wants to reach for you. Before you can feel yourself crack under the pressure of everything. Before you do something stupid (because as much as you don’t want to admit it, he looks handsome in the candle-lit lighting of your room. And because as much as you don’t want to tell him, the first thought that shot through your head in the welcome feast was relief – that he was unhurt – and then longing – for the relationship you once had.). 

He doesn’t leave.

You feel his presence — tense, breathing heavy — just behind you. 

One step. 

Two.

You don’t turn around.

“Don’t do this now,” you whisper.

“I missed it because I didn’t want to want it,” he says. The words come out rough. “I thought if I stayed away, it would be easier.”

You close your eyes.

It would be easier, you think, if he hated you. But he doesn’t. And somehow, that hurts more.

You wait for the sound of retreating footsteps.

But instead—you suddenly feel his hand, tentative, at your shoulder, brushing your silk.

It’s quiet. 

Just him behind you, watching as the moonlight pools over your lap like spilled milk. 

And then you hear the faint clink. 

In his hands: a bottle of sake. Not just any sake. The kind from your school days. Expensive, imported. Creamy label, a name you used to murmur like prayer when you'd scrape coins together for one stolen sip.

“I had them bring this up from the cellar,” he says quietly. “Was saving it for something else, but...” He trails off.

Of course he remembers.

You wish he hadn’t.

“Can I take a little of your time?” he asks.

You should say no.

But something in you — pride, ache, hunger — nods instead.

He pours. The sake is clear and cold, almost sharp. The kind that stings before it soothes. You lift the cup to your lips and drink before he even sits.

It burns beautifully.

“I thought I was the one who drank more,” he murmurs, watching you.

You shrug. Your second cup goes down quicker.

“Maybe I’m trying to forget.”

“Forget what?”

“Take your pick,” you say, looking away with a bitter smile. “The marriage I didn’t choose. The home I didn’t want. The husband who didn’t show.”

His shoulders tighten. He doesn’t answer. Just pours again, slower this time. His own cup barely full.

“You’re not drinking,” you say, quieter now.

“I don’t need to,” he says. “You’re right in front of me.”

You blink, cup halfway to your mouth. You don’t know if that’s meant to be sweet or cruel. Or maybe he’s just saying it because he knows you won’t remember it the next day – an excuse to be vulnerable, maybe. With him, it’s always hard to tell.

You drink again.

“Why are you here, Seungcheol?”

Ah, shit. His name again.

“To apologize.”

“You already said that.”

“Not properly.”

You scoff. “There’s a proper way to apologize for abandoning someone at lunch?”

“For abandoning you in general.”

That stops you.

Definitely because you’re drinking. He wouldn’t say that if you were sober.

He’s still looking at you. Not like you’re delicate. Not like you’re distant royalty. But like you’re something he's scared to break by reaching for too soon.

“You’ve changed,” he says.

“Everything has.”

“Not everything.”

“No,” you agree bitterly. “Just me. Just the life I wanted.”

He looks down.

“You’re angry,” he says, not as a question.

“Would you like me to smile instead?” you ask, pouring again. “Would that make it easier?”

He doesn’t flinch. But you can feel the words hitting their mark.

“They all treat me like a relic,” you say. “You. The court. The king. Something precious to be kept quiet and still. I’m a marriage. I’m a treaty. I’m a name on parchment. I’m not a person.”

“You’re a storm,” he says suddenly. “You always have been.”

You freeze. “What?”

He looks you in the eye.

“You talk like you’ve been silenced, but you’ve never been quiet a day in your life. You walk into a room and it stops. You fight for your place. You curse when you’re angry. You drank me under the table when we were nineteen and then beat me in archery the next morning. You laughed like you didn’t care who heard.” He swallows. “You are everything they don’t deserve.”

The silence after is deafening.

You wish you weren’t tipsy. You wish your heart didn’t betray you every time he says something like that.

“Does that statement apply to you too?”

He looks down, fiddling with the cup in his hands. “ I don’t know how to keep something – someone – that good,” he finally says. “Not after what I’ve done. Who I’ve become.”

Your breath catches.

And his eyes — dark and steady — don’t waver.

“I remember you,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Before all of this. I remember the way you used to look at me. And I remember how it felt. Like I was worth something.”

Your hand trembles.

The ache in your throat swells until it nearly chokes you.

Because you remember too.

You remember the way you used to light up when he entered a room. How it felt to have your chest flutter just because he smiled. That long-ago version of yourself, soft and untouched, untouched by all of this.

But he doesn’t smile now. He stares like he wants to reach across the table and break every wall you've rebuilt since.

And you let him.

The kiss is hard. Messy. Open-mouthed and breathless and angry.

You taste the apology in his mouth, even though he hasn’t said it. You taste regret and guilt and sake and everything else that’s lingered between you for years.

It’s not a kiss of love.

It’s a kiss of devastation.

You tug him closer, fisting his collar like you're trying to wring the truth from his bones. He exhales roughly, hands braced on your waist, dragging you up and over the table like he can’t stand another second not touching you. The bottle tips, sake spilling, but neither of you care.

The futon behind the screen is a blur.

He lifts you with barely restrained urgency, arms hooked beneath your thighs. Your robe parts. The silk of it pools uselessly at your hips. The lamp flickers low, oil nearly out.

You feel the way he still holds back. His hands tremble just slightly as he kneels above you, letting you down onto your mattress like you’re something sacred.

But you’re not. Not to him. Not anymore.

“You don’t have to pretend,” you murmur bitterly.

“I’m not,” he says. His voice breaks somewhere in the middle. “I just—fuck. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Too late.” You say it too fast, too low.

But he hears it anyway.

And still, when he touches you again — fingers gentle where his mouth was not — you shiver like you want it, like you need it.

And maybe you do.

You part your legs for him. Just a little. Just enough.

His breath stutters, a hand tracing the inside of your thigh like a prayer.

“This isn't...” he begins.

But you shake your head. “Just do it.”

And so he does.

He pushes in slow — slower than his own body wants, slower than what the tension demands — but it's not slow enough.

You silently thank the blown-out candles.

You gasp — no, cry out — the burn tearing through your spine as your body stretches around him for the very first time. Your nails rake across his arms, grabbing at anything, everything, because the pain is white-hot and sudden, like you're being split apart from the inside out.

He freezes immediately.

“Shit,” he breathes, eyes wide, chest heaving. “You're—?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

Your trembling is enough. The way you screw your eyes shut. The way you turn your face into the pillow and try to muffle the sound of yourself.

“You should’ve told me,” he says, pained. Like he just committed some great sin.

“Would it have changed anything?” you bite out.

He doesn’t respond. But his hand cups the back of your neck, forehead pressed to yours like he’s sorry. Like it matters now.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Then move,” you hiss. “Make it count.”

He does.

Slowly, achingly, he rocks into you, each movement a push and pull of pain and something deeper. The burn dulls — slightly — into a throbbing ache, but it's still too much. Not enough. Everything.

You grip at his back, nails leaving red slashes, legs trembling, tears slipping down your cheeks before you can stop them.

And he sees. He feels it.

“I didn’t want this to happen like this,” he breathes.

But you only tighten your grip around him. “It was always going to happen like this.”

Because this isn’t love. Not the kind you dreamed about when you were younger and untouched and full of hope.

This is what it means to break.

And he’s the only one who ever had the power to do it.

He buries his face in your neck, lips pressing there as if to offer something gentler — not with words, but with presence. With skin. With weight. He thrusts deeper, slower, until the sting blends into something else, something that coils in your belly, something warm and unrelenting.

“You’re—fuck,” he gasps. “You’re still so—”

But you kiss him again, cutting him off, refusing to let him say anything that sounds like love.

He picks up the pace, just enough to make you whimper.

He groans into your mouth, the sound torn and guttural, and it makes your stomach twist. His pace picks up—shallow, urgent thrusts now—just enough to make your breath hitch, your thighs tremble, your fingers dig harder into his slick back.

His forehead presses against yours, sweat dripping from his temple as he murmurs your name like he’s praying, like he’s not supposed to say it this softly. Not in the dark, not in this hidden room, not while his hips keep driving into you like he’s trying to lose himself.

“Fuck—I'm close. Where—”

“—Wherever,” you breathe, eyes screwed shut.

And when it happens—when your body clenches around him, the heat of your orgasm cresting so violently that you cry out into his shoulder—he’s not far behind.

A rough moan tears from his throat, deep and raw, and he thrusts in once, twice, then holds you flush against him. He groans your name like a benediction and thrusts through his own release. His entire body shudders above you. You feel it—the exact moment he lets go, when he finally surrenders. His hips press down, burying himself inside you, and then he’s spilling into you with a low, broken sound.

You can feel him pulse deep within—warm and insistent—each wave of his release stretching the moment unbearably tender. His breath catches. His chest heaves.

You cry.

Not just from the overwhelming ache between your thighs, or the heat in your gut, or the soreness that tells you you'll feel him for days.

You cry because everything hurts.

Because his voice shakes as he breathes out your name again, over and over, like he’s clinging to it. To you.

Like he doesn’t want to let go.

And maybe, for the first time, he holds you like it’s allowed to. Even though you both know this won’t fix a thing.

Your thighs still tremble when he pulls out, and you hiss at the sting. The mattress shifts as he leans up, propping himself on an elbow. For a long moment, there’s only the sound of your ragged breathing and the weak flicker of the oil lamp as it sputters near its end.

You push your hair out of your face, damp with sweat. There’s a thickness in your throat that hasn’t gone away. Your hands curl in the sheets when he moves to sit up beside you.

“Don’t,” you say quietly, not looking at him. “You don’t have to.”

Seungcheol doesn’t respond. He shifts anyway, rising to his feet, and you hear the quiet rustle of him pulling his robe back over his bare skin. You sit up slowly, pulling the blanket over yourself with shaking hands. There’s soreness everywhere.

He disappears behind the screen for a second. You think maybe he’s going to leave — maybe it’s easier that way.

But then you hear the sound of water being poured into a basin.

He returns with a damp cloth. Kneels beside you without a word.

You try to flinch away when he touches your inner thigh.

“Don’t,” you repeat, this time sharper. “You don’t owe me anything.”

He still doesn’t speak. He just wipes away the mess between your legs with maddening gentleness — like you might break if he breathes too hard.

You clench your jaw, staring at the ceiling, eyes glassy.

“I can do it,” you murmur.

“Let me,” he says.

And you let him.

When he finishes, he rinses the cloth and sets it aside. Then he stands, but only to turn his back.

“I won’t look,” he says quietly.

You blink at him. “What?”

“You should change.”

You stare at the muscles of his back, the tension in his shoulders. He’s stiff, hands clenched at his sides like he’s still trying to contain himself. Maybe he is.

It takes effort, but you finally rise on wobbly legs and walk behind him. Slowly, awkwardly, you undo the ties of your hanbok and let the silks fall, then pull your nightgown over your head. The fabric scratches against your sore skin.

He doesn’t move until you clear your throat.

“I’m done,” you say.

He turns, steps close again. You think maybe he’s going to say something — maybe now is when he’ll give you some excuse, an explanation, an apology.

But he just guides you back to the bed, quietly tucks the blanket around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your heart stutters when he brushes your hair off your face.

“You can go,” you whisper, not looking at him. “You don’t need to stay.”

“I know,” he says. And sits down beside you anyway, back against the wall, knees up to his chest.

You close your eyes. You don’t want to feel this. You don’t want to want this — the warmth of someone staying. Him staying.

It shouldn’t matter. He made his choice, long ago. He always makes it.

But when your lips part on a tired breath, a single slurred thought escapes, barely audible: “You’ll leave anyway.”

You don’t think he hears you.

But he does.

He doesn’t say anything. Just remains seated beside you, quiet. Present. And when your breathing finally evens out into sleep, he brushes your knuckles once with his thumb.

Just once.

And stays until the lamp goes out.

—

You wake with a jolt.

The cold hits first — the blankets have shifted, and your skin prickles with chill. Then comes the ache. A deep, dull throb between your thighs, spreading through your hips and lower back. You shift slightly and flinch. It's not unbearable, but it’s raw — like you’ve been hollowed out.

The oil lamp is long extinguished. Moonlight filters through the rice paper windows. A breeze slips through the cracks, rustling the outer screens of your hanok.

And he’s gone.

You turn your head, half-expecting his silhouette beside you, maybe curled up at the edge of the mattress or sitting at your writing desk with that furrow in his brow he always wears when thinking too much.

But there's nothing.

Not a fold in the bedding. Not a sound.

Nothing from last night.

You sit up, slowly, hands trembling as you press your palm to the space he once occupied.

Still faintly warm.

You change in silence and sit by your vanity, brushing your hair without looking at your own reflection. Your hands are careful, but you can’t ignore the slight soreness in your body, the reminder of how deeply he’d taken you — the way your first time had been marked by his absence just as much as it had been by his presence.

By the time you make it to breakfast, it’s already closer to noon. The courtyard is quiet. The servants greet you with practiced warmth, but Yuna’s brow furrows when she sees your expression.

“Should I prepare the pavilion for your tea, my lady?” she asks softly.

You nod. “Yes. Thank you.”

Usually, around this time, you can hear Seungcheol. His voice carries through the east wing corridors — low, steady, sharp when he speaks to advisors. Sometimes you can catch pieces of military jargon, strategy talk, the clipped, disciplined edge of a man born for war.

But today — nothing.

No steps. No hushed conversations. No heavy door closing as he disappears into the war room. Not even the sound of him training in the courtyard.

You spend most of the day reading in the pavilion, stretched out on one of the cushioned benches, surrounded by a soft breeze and the sound of koi rippling through the pond. You almost want to fall asleep again, if only to forget the silence.

He doesn’t eat lunch, by the words of the kitchen staff you overheard.

Doesn’t come in by midafternoon.

You pace the veranda once, twice. You debate sending a servant, just to ask where he went — but the thought makes your pride clench like a fist in your chest.

He left. Again. Let him.

So you sit. Wait.

Something you’re getting good at doing, you’ve realized.

Evening comes and passes. The sun dips behind the western hills. Lanterns are lit one by one around the estate. And still, no sign of him.

Until—

Just past the ninth hour, as you’re seated once more in the pavilion with your tea gone cold, you hear the unmistakable sound of hooves on stone.

You don’t turn immediately.

But you hear the main gate — the daemun — creak open. The sounds that follow are quiet but certain: boots hitting the stone walkway, leather and steel rustling as someone passes the perimeter guards.

You lift your gaze.

And there he is.

Seungcheol, returning under the veil of night, half-shadowed by the flickering lanterns lining the eastern wall. His haori is undone at the neck, hair mussed, cheeks wind-bitten pink, dirt smudged along his sleeves, a scroll tucked under one arm, eyes locked forward.

Like nothing happened.

Like he hadn’t been inside you just hours ago.

You watch him pass through the courtyard without even glancing at your direction.

He doesn’t look for you.

Doesn’t even fucking pause.

You wonder if you were just another obligation. Another compromise.

You don’t say a word. Just sip the tea that’s long since gone bitter.

And feel the ache in your chest become worse than the one between your thighs.

: ̗̀➛ of silks and steel

@gyuguys ; @theidontknowmehn ; @gyuhao365 ; @heelariously ; @asyre ; @peachytokki ; @chisskaa ; @vnstennis ; @armycarat2612 ; @living0livia ; @hanniehq ; @minhui896 ; @Syluslittlecrows ; @reiofsuns2001 ; @madywoopz ; @sillygoosegoose ; @idubiluranghae ; @seniorbarbie ; @arshiyuh ; @denimtangerine ; @cherrymoonchild ; @jungkookisthetypeto; @dutchelfandkpoplover ; @nahyuckism ; @so-da-1

[minhui896]

Seungcheol SMAU || outside your door (pt. II)

Ship: seungcheol x female!reader Summary: seungcheol loves to spoil you for no reason on a daily basis. add some guilt into the mix, and congratulations, you're now receiving princess treatment like never before. a/n: i've gotten some requests (like by @mmessier31) to do a part II to my first fic, so here it is!

[minhui896]

Seungcheol SMAU || outside your door

Ship: Seungcheol x female!reader Summary: On the rare day off Seungcheol had, you had planned a fancy dinner date at an upscale restaurant. You had made a reservation for 6pm, and had gotten all dressed up. This was the first official date you've had in 3 months!

My first post ever!

[minhui896]

I love the footnote like we see that Joshua is technically a third wheel when wonwoo and yn and vice versa with wonwoo when shua and yn are together so it’s a pretty complicated for those three….

And I also agree with everyone else yn is surprisingly handling this well I would think with the job, handling Hyunwon and (possibly her own feelings) she would be hella stressed out but GIRL BOSS YNNNNN

📲 Raising Us | wonwoo x f!reader | (5) the fourth year | 002

Paring: wonwoo x f!reader. Genre | tags: smau, series, non idol!au, best friends (idiots) to lovers, unexpected pregnancy, slow burn, angst, pinning, fluff, humor/comedy. Warnings: Wonwoo is quite insecure here, mentions of poop, swearing, suggestive, a lot of denial and pinning.

Summary: On the night of your eighteenth birthday, you and Wonwoo made a pact to lose your virginities together. Ten years later you're co-parenting your unexpected child while figuring out where you stand with each other.

A/N: Don't hate me... and please make sure you read the foot notes !

Status: on-going.

―📝 Series masterlist.

― Taglist

⫶ FN: Joshua is not the bad guy of Wonwoo's story. Every story has two sides 👀

--- # NAVIGATION | MAIN MASTERLIST | PERMANENT TAGLIST ---

Every ask & comment gives me life 💗 If you’re enjoying it, don’t forget to reblog—helps so much and gets the fic out there!! Sharing is caring before you scroll!

💌 SERIES TAGLIST: @eisaspresso, @christinewithluv, @armycarat2612, @ziidino, @vernons-wifey12, @jihoonsbbygirl, @wonvsmile, @smiileflower, @lukeys-giggle, @my-atiny-kookie-rkive, @toplinehyunjin, @skz-elle, @ateez-atiny380, @aeerio, @paranoid-borderline-insane, @chariseiswriting, @blxcknwhite-lady, @maryseesthings, @max-1404, @minhui896, @jembem, @blaycke, @livelaughloveseventeen, @butterfliesliving, @callmehoweveruwatblog, @junnhuisworld.

© VERNONVERSE. I do not condone reposting, plagiarizing or translating my work in any form.

[minhui896]

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ forgiveness is derived from mistakes

You didn’t cry right away.

Not when you walked down the hallway.

Not when one of the staff nodded politely as you passed by.

Not even when you sat in the quiet back stairwell and pulled your knees to your chest.

It was only when you thought about how hard you’d fought - for the group, for yourself, for your damn place in a room that was never built for you - that the tears finally came.

.

It had been seven days since the fight.

Seven days since Seungcheol called you desperate for attention - a careless phrase thrown out in the heat of frustration.

Seven days since you stormed out of the room, eyes blazing and jaw clenched, leaving nothing but stunned silence in your wake.

And in those seven days, you hadn’t spoken a peep to him, nor even looked remotely in his direction.

Not when you crossed paths during the day. Not when you were seated beside each other during meetings. Not even when he’d deliberately linger behind in the practice room, hoping you’d say something.

Anything.

You didn’t - it hurt too much.

And it sure as hell made Seungcheol lose a little piece of himself inside as well.

.

The first intervention came from Jeonghan, naturally.

Pulling you aside into the company’s pantry after practice, he sat across you with a drink between his hands.

"You know he didn’t mean it," Jeonghan said plainly, voice a mix between tired and calm. His gaze fixed on yours. "But you also know you’re being a little unfair too."

You blinked. “Unfair?”

“He was wrong, no one’s excusing that,” he said with a shrug. “But shutting him out like he’s nothing to you? I know that’s not who you are.”

You grit your jaw, the sting of tears already prickling your throat.

Jeonghan softened. “He’s a good leader, but a terrible communicator when he’s panicked. He was scared. That show would’ve made you the center of a spotlight you weren’t ready for - he overreacted. But you did too.”

You had no words.

He nudged the drink toward you. “I just want you to know…the moment you walked out that door, you didn’t leave alone.” Jeonghan hesitated, the weight of his next words lingering in the air. “You took something from him as well.”

.

It took the relentless nagging from the members – mostly Minghao, Mingyu, and Seungkwan – before Cheol finally stoped pacing around the living room like a caged animal.

Twenty minutes.

Sat silently still on the couch, just to wait for Dino to leave your room for the bathroom. And another five, to work up the nerve to knock on your door.

But it was already open. Ajar, just slightly. Almost like a test.

He pushed it gently, peeking inside.

And there you were. Laid on the bed, hair tied back messily, movie on pause as you scrolled through your phone.

Your eyes looked up at the sound - face lighting up for a second, soft and expectant.

“Chan?” You called out, smiling.

But the moment your gaze landed on Seungcheol, the warmth dropped from your face like a curtain. You scrambled, already moving to shut the door and shove him out all at once.

“What are you doing here? Get out.”

But he didn’t budge; hands reached out - not to hurt, but to stop you. His fingers curled gently around your wrists, halting any movement.

“Wait,” he breathed out, his voice low and thick with regret. “Just— wait. Please.”

You tried wriggling free, frustration flashing in your eyes. “You don’t get to talk to me like that and then just walk in here like nothing happened.”

“I know,” he said, quietly. “I know I messed up.”

Coups’ eyes met yours, raw and unguarded. “I didn’t mean what I said. I was angry. Not at you - at everything. At how people treat you. At how they laugh and nod and flirt and cross lines on national TV and think it's okay because you’re a woman in this industry. I didn’t want them to get the chance to do it again.”

Silence.

“You’re not desperate. You’re the furthest thing from it. You’re brave. You’re fierce. You’ve fought ten times harder than I ever have. And I should’ve told you that instead.”

You swallowed thickly.

“I know it’s not enough,” he added. “But I’m sorry. I’m so—”

“Stop.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper, but it hit harder than a shout. Your hands pulled free from his grip, and with all the force of your bottled-up emotions, you struck his chest with your fist. Once.

Then again. Again. Again. Again—

—Until your hands started to hurt.

But Seungcheol didn’t flinch. Jaw clenching harder just to take every hit, breathing steady, letting you pour it out.

He knew it wasn’t to hurt - but to say the words you couldn’t get out.

“I trusted you,” you muttered, voice cracking. “And you made me feel like a joke—”

“I didn’t mean it,” he said, shaking his head, chest aching. “God, I never meant to do that to you. Never you. And I took my frustration out on the last person I ever should’ve.”

Your arms dropped, heavy. Your eyes shimmered, but no tears fell. “Then why did it feel so easy for you to say it?”

Seungcheol exhaled hard, biting his bottom lip.

“Because I’m a flawed leader,” he whispered. “And because I care too much about you. I’d rather have you mad at me than see you get used and spit out by people who don’t see you like I do.”

You looked up - and with a quiet sigh, stepped forward to wrap your arms around his waist, face burying into his chest.

“I’m sorry too,” you mumbled, voice muffled by the fabric. “For being stubborn. For not letting you explain.”

His hands hovered before finally settling on your back, holding you like you were the most fragile thing in the world. “I just wanted to show them I could handle it.”

“You can. You do. Every single day,” he whispered into your hair. “I’ll make it happen. However long it takes.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

Your arms just tightened a little more around him.

.

“…I’m still mad,” you muttered, pushing yourself off him.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I’d be worried if you weren’t.”

--

[minhui896]

THAT ISNT LEAVING, kim mingyu.

plot. in searching for a place to study, mingyu meets you, a deaf schoolmate who manages to catch his eyes. he soon realizes that no matter what he does, you cant hear nor understand him truly. | pairings. college!kim mingyu and deaf!reader notes: italicized parts are sign language | genre: angst (?) | more: my first mingyu fic! i really did my best to research about writing sign language in means to represent in a way that isnt rude nor portray them in ways that seems caricatured. lowercase intended!

the study hall was busy as always.

mingyu looks around, holding a stack of books in his arms— balancing it once in a while from how heavy it is. his eyes scans the entire space, in search for somewhere to sit and begin his academic dwelling.

a frustrated sigh leaves his lips upon realization that its a full house. the final exams were rapidly approaching— some students opted to stay at school to study rather than get distracted in their homes or even the busy city.

mingyu looks around the study hall once again. his eyes lit up seeing you sitting all by yourself. the tables were average in size; definitely could accomodate him and his stuff. from his observations, your stuff were neatly placed near you— leaving lots of spaces for someone like him who is in need of a study table.

he gathers his courage and approaches your direction. there was a subtle hint of peace in your side of the world. the sunlight illuminating from the big window infront of you shone brightly— little bits of silhoutte landed on your stuff as you continued to write.

clearing his throat, mingyu points to the empty space in front of you— "hi, is someone sitting there? could i maybe join you?"

no response. mingyu's polite smile turn to confusion as he flutters his eyelids. he reaches his finger over to the fabric clothed on your shoulder, giving it a small light tap.

you turn your head rapidly, a surprised look on your face— "is someone sitting here with you?", mingyu asks again.

instead of a quick 'yes' or 'no' response, your hands moved quickly, elegantly:

“i’m deaf. i can’t hear you.”

he blinked, momentarily surprised. you signs? mingyu thought.

'AH' a flicker of surprise crossed his face, setting down his books in the table. like muscle memory, his hands moved too—hesitant at first, but clear:

“oh… i didn’t know. i just needed a seat. may i?”

you froze. caught off-guard and flustered. you could nod your head in response— amazed. mingyu sat in front of you, adjusting his seat.

“you know sign language?”

he nodded. “i would say its okay. my aunt is deaf so we all had to learn”

you observe mingyu sprawling his books on the table, taking his colored pens as he began working. the way you looked at him wasnt 'admiration'— it was a sort of belonging.

as a deaf person, it is still a surprise to you whenever someone is able to communicate using sign language. there is happiness and relief everytime; and mingyu was one of those people today.

your finger tapped on the table close to him, he looks up at you— his head tilts a little bit, beckoning for your question— "what's your name?"

mingyu lifts his hand up, puzzled and confused. you laugh, realizing that he might not know how to properly sign his name. in defeat, mingyu sighed and lend his id— 'kim mingyu', you thought.

"how about you?" he asks in return. a smile etched on your lips as you softly pushed forward one of your notebook, pointing to your name written on the page— 'kang [yn]'

mingyu responds with a thumbs up, biting his lip nervously trying to hide the giggles trying to escape.

you both return to your studies. and for a moment, it was just the two of you in a world of sunlight and scribbled thoughts. no awkwardness, no need to fill the quiet.

you would look up once in a while just to catch him taking glances of you—amused, as if trying to read something between the lines.

some beginnings don’t need noise.

some just need someone who knows how to listen—even when no words are spoken.

---

first interactions often ends at that moment.

but lucky for mingyu, that wasnt the last he'd seen of you.

would he call it a crush? or maybe genuine interest? or could it be just exam preparatory blues; seeking solace in another struggling student. but one thing was certain in mingyu— he wanted to see you.

after every class he would jog quick to the study hall even if he had nothing to study about. you slowly had noticed his sly movements and gestures— choosing to sit with you even if the rest of the tables werent occupied.

mingyu would also 'stare' intently; often catching him stealing glances, hiding behind his book whenever both your eyes meet.

was it a crush? of course it was a crush. but deep inside, there were doubts that clouded your mind.

today was another usual day. except—it wasn’t your usual day.

instead of spending another afternoon tucked away in the study hall with textbooks and silence, mingyu had shown up beside your desk, eyes bright, fingers fumbling a little as he signed:

“want to get ice cream?”

you almost declined—out of habit, maybe—but there was something soft in the way he asked, something unspoken. so you nodded.

and now here you both were, sitting on a worn picnic bench under a shy sun, the air warm and still; racing to eat your ice cream before the heat had got to it first.

you caught him watching you as you licked a drip from the side of yours. you smiled—not with your voice, not even with your hands, just your eyes. a small thank you. he returned it like it was something precious.

"how was your exam preparations?" he asked aloud, then paused—remembering—before signing the same thing slowly, with a furrow of concentration.

you answered with a nod and a slight shrug: “its okay.”

he grinned. “you’ll do great.” then added in a playful, crooked sign, “you’re smarter than me anyway.”

mingyu could only laugh, the sound light, pulling the tension from his shoulders. but then something shifted in the quiet. not discomfort—just the kind of silence that comes when someone is thinking too hard.

his fingers tapped nervously against the paper napkin beside him. you noticed.

“you know,” he said slowly, looking down at his half-eaten cone, “i’ve been thinking a lot lately.”

you tilted your head, watching his mouth move yet his message werent conveyed through sign. your eyebrows furrowed, eagerly pointing for him to use his resting hands.

he sighed nervously, signing— a little hesitant this time:

“thinking. about… you.”

you blinked. he smiled to himself, eyes still not meeting yours. mingyu then looked up. his gaze was steady, but there was a fragile edge to it— "thinking about you, always"

he stopped, shook his head slightly, like the words weren’t lining up the way he wanted. you felt the heat rising in your cheeks. mingyu dropped his hands to his lap for a second, then lifted again. slower now.

“i guess what i’m trying to say is—”

he looked directly at you now, vulnerable and sincere.

mingyu didn’t say the words. his lips didnt part and his mouth didnt move: “i like you.”

not exactly.

but they were there—in every pause, every sign, every glance.

you didn’t answer right away.

instead, you looked down at your ice cream, watched the puddle forming around the edges of the cone. then slowly, you reached over and nudged your napkin toward him, brushing your fingers lightly against his hand in the process.

your eyes met.

you didn’t sign anything.

but he smiled—small, almost relieved. like he understood anyway.

---

may it had been a few dates after that?

a casual after class stroll in the park, bike riding, taking pictures, eating ice cream, going to pop-up stores— mingyu would always take you.

after every end of the day, he would remind you how much he liked you. signing with all his humility and admiration— "i like you" was his message every single day.

but there was always something that gloomed you. mingyu may not have noticed occassionally but you always do. the way he would forget and just continue talking without signing, leaving you in confusion— and when he would snap back to reality, he'd sign a simple "nevermind all that"

in sharing his favorite songs, observing the certain sounds around the environment, calling out to you— he would sometimes forget, and that would leave you off the trail.

there werent any words that could describe the way youre feeling; literally.

its not like you dont like him. mingyu is nice, very nice. he seemed genuine and his actions shared his interest to get to know you better than just treat this like another way to pass his time.

he knew sign language for god's sakes.

thoughts are rushing in— amplifying the noise; not from the silence of your world, but from the heaviness of your heart.

its full of why's, how's, when, what, a lot of those things. it all pounced down one by one slowly; slow yet tormenting. "i like you", it repeated again and again. his actions, his gestures, his intentions— it was all too much.

besides, you both cannot understand each other. you cannot understand him— he disappears whenever he doesnt use his hands to communicate. and most of all, he doesnt understand you.

the emptiness of your apartment was a high contrast from the world you were introduced to when you're with him. it wasnt gloomy— it was warm and bright as he carried you through everything hand in hand.

but then again— you cant understand him and he doesnt understand you.

---

mingyu stared at his phone, your text thread glowing in the early morning light.

a simple good morning, sent over an hour ago. a few emojis scattered underneath—his usual attempt to keep things light, to make you smile through the screen like he always hoped to in person.

he saw the word 'seen' pop up a while ago yet no reply followed.

at first, he brushed it off. maybe you were busy. maybe your phone was in your bag. maybe you saw it half-asleep and thought you’d reply later. or maybe—just maybe—you typed something and forgot to hit send.

he turned his phone over, then back again. the screen lit up. still nothing.

the minutes stretched.

something in his chest felt tight, like a thread being tugged the longer the silence went on.

by midday, mingyu couldn’t focus. he told himself he wouldn’t be that guy—the one who overthinks a single unread message. but still, he found himself walking, when he didnt see you at the study hall, his feet moved almost on their own, until he was near your building.

he stood across the street for a few minutes, watching as people passed in and out, pretending he just happened to be nearby.

but he knew exactly why he was there.

finally, he crossed.

his phone buzzed. he checked it with hope that leapt too fast— not you.

mingyu glanced at the entrance, then looked down at his shoes, sudddenly unsure if showing up like this was a mistake. just as he turned to leave, the door opened.

it was you.

you stepped outside, head slightly down, hand gripping tightly on your bag.

his heart skipped once. he raised a hand instinctively, a soft wave—then he stepped forward, catching your line of sight.

you looked at him; but didn’t stop.

no smile. no sign. nothing.

you just kept walking, slipping past him like he wasn’t there.

his throat tightened. confused, he turned quickly and stepped in front of you, blocking your path gently. you stopped—but only because you had to.

he raised his hands, slow and cautious.

“did i do something?” he signed—you didn’t respond.

your eyes flicked to the side, your shoulders tense. you stepped to walk around him. mingyu's hand reached out—tentative but firm—fingers wrapping around your wrist, holding you in place.

you looked up, startled.

he signed again, this time slower, his brows knitting in quiet worry: “what’s wrong?”

you didn’t say anything—not with your hands. not with your eyes.

you just stared at his fingers on your wrist, like they weren’t supposed to be there. mingyu let go slowly, as if releasing something delicate.

his heart was pounding, but he tried not to show it. tried to stay calm, even though the silence between you was louder than anything he’d ever heard.

your gaze finally lifted—met his for half a second—then dropped again. your hands twitched slightly, as if considering a reply; but nothing came out.

“please,” he signed, his movements gentler now. “if you’re upset... if something happened... just tell me.”

a breeze pushed past the two of you, rustling the trees behind the building. someone exited through the side door. a car honked far off in the street. normal sounds. everyday life. but it all felt strangely distant.

"why are you doing this to me", you signed, for the first time in a very long silence. "doing what?", mingyu responds, confused and frustrated.

you didn’t move, nor reply. leaving him dumbfounded thinking that he was gonna get the answers he ached to have.

mingyu’s breath hitched, chest rising and falling as he stood there, helpless. the silence between you had never felt so loud before—so defeaning.

he signed again, lips quivering, this time slower, his hands trembling slightly: “i just want to understand.”

nothing.

your gaze flicked to the side, deliberately avoiding his hands now. you weren’t just silent. you were shutting him out.

his arms dropped to his sides; and something inside him—snapped.

it wasn’t anger. not quite.

it was heartbreak. the kind that builds quietly in the corners of your ribs, then crashes all at once. the kind that makes you want to puke, nauseous, sick, and disgusted.

mingyu took a step back. hands clenched at his sides. he opened his mouth and for once, he didn’t sign.

"why are you being like this to me"

he’s speaking now. words tumble out of him like something broken loose. his voice cracks; his hands stay at his sides.

you didn’t hear it— you cant hear it. your face remained still, unreadable. you saw his lips move but he didnt sign.

mingyu continues, more desperate now—“i wanted to be someone who could meet you there. in your world. but I can’t find the right signs. and when i speak… you don’t hear me.”

his voice cracked on the last phrase. his eyes burned, throat tightening with everything he couldn’t seem to say in the language you shared.

tears brim your eyes. shaking, your hands move; slowly and desperately— "i cant hear you"

he laughed once. short. bitter. and wiped at his eyes with the heel of his palm. you blinked, tilting your head slightly as a frown etches in the corner of your mouth— "i. dont. understand. you"

mingyu flinches, "it doesnt matter if i talk to you like this or speak, you dont choose to understand me anyways", he responds.

you didn’t move— "if that's what you feel then why dont you go"

his eyes flickers, an unfazed look in his face as he inches towards your direction. for a short while, mingyu couldnt think of a response. you both face each other, waiting for something.

may it arrive or not; it was all a damning question.

even in times like these, the crickets still sounded louder— accompanying the hearts of two people, beating and pulsating softly. the moon still shined brightly, lapsing the tears that adorned the longing eyes of those who seek for answers.

“if i go,” he signs, gentle and careful, “how will you call for me?”

“i’ll just end up looking back at you, terrified that maybe— maybe you’re trying to tell me something.”

“and that isn’t leaving.”

[minhui896]

Could you maybe write 14th member maybe with wonwoo (possibly romantic maybe platonic depending on how you think it would go and work), during the gose episodes of don’t lie 69 & 70 mafia game?? and them just both working together as mafias and as a team?

this took way too long 😭 but i was literally watching this ep when the ask came in so i had to do it :] the ending is literally my fav - hoshi taunting dino is so little brother coded he's so annoying 🫠 i love him

[GOING SEVENTEEN 2023] 돈’t LIE: CLUE #2

-- ᯓ★ˎˊ˗

“Right now, I’m suspicious of about six people–”

“Six people...that’s half of us??” Wonwoo laughed, looking over at Hoshi from his seat.

Woozi pointed his finger hastily. “You punk, two people are already out,”

“There are eleven of us, so that’s more than half already...” Vernon added, doubled over while chewing on his pie.

You sighed, leaning over to snatch his notepad out of his hands. “Just shut up and eat your pie, please!”

Hoshi slowly slid down from his seat, head tilted up to laugh manically - except it was doing absolutely nothing but painting him as a clown.

“Seungkwan, please enter the interrogation room.”

He moves from his place behind the couch, walking over to where you sat. “Come with me.”

Whistles and hoots echo as the rest of the members bang pillows and clap like it’s a trial in progress.

“Ooooh, She’s getting dragged into the hot seat too with you too.” Mingyu tapped, his pen making dot marks on the notepad.

“First Vernon, now her…I don’t know Seungkwan, seems suspicious to me!” Hoshi sang out, half-joking.

You rolled your eyes, giving Seungkwan a small nudge as the both of you walked up the stairs together to the quiet second-floor balcony where the interrogation will happen.

“Be honest. Do you think it’s Minghao?”

You tilt your head, faking a deep thought.

“No…Minghao’s too quiet today, but not defensive. Nothing has changed for me, my answer is still Dino.”

Seungkwan’s face twists in surprise. “Chan? Really?”

“Think about it. He’s been quiet this episode, just lurking around, but never actually pushing anyone. Plus, when you brought up him as Mafia earlier, he was super defensive.” You lean closer, voice low, persuasive as his brows furrowed.

He pursed his lips, then nods slowly. Convinced. “if I figure anything about the weapon, I’ll let you know then.” You nodded, giving him a small ‘hwaiting’ before turning away back to the stairs.

A small smirk bloomed ready on your face.

.

“It’s Vernon, let’s kill him.” Dokyeom holds his thumb up.

Everyone nods in unision. “We all get a point if it’s him.”

You clap once, speaking up. “So, Vernon-ie?” Your eyes locked onto his, giving him a frown - small enough so that none of the members noticed. “One, two, three.” All thumbs were down.

“Vernon’s identity is...a Mafia member. Night has fallen. Everyone, lower your heads.”

The lights dimmed. The civillians closed their eyes.

“Mafia, raise your heads.”

You, Wonwoo, and Dino slowly lifted yours, eyes gleaming.

The PD looked to the three of you.

You smirked just slightly, and mouthed:

“Seungkwan.”

Even Wonwoo’s brows twitched upward at that, but he didn’t object. Dino gave a silent shake of the head - half disbelief, half impressed.

Your heads go back down.

“Morning has arrived.”

Jeonghan slowly makes his way over to the couches, strolling behind the middle as Seungcheol watches. “Are you here to take Seungkwan?”

“The civillian who died is...Seungkwan.”

Half the members in the room had their eyes wide, hands flying to cover their dropped jaws, holding heads.

“WHO VOTED ME OUT?? ME? I WAS SO CLOSE TO WINNING, WHY ME!”

You covered your mouth, feigning shock - but the way you subtly leaned into Wonwoo’s shoulder, your body shaking in discreet laughter, betrayed you.

Wonwoo, calm as ever, let out a small breath of air - his version of a laugh.

.

“Wonwoo, please enter the interrogation room.”

Wonwoo didn’t say anything. He just turned his head slightly, eyes sliding to you, who sat cross-legged on the couch, sipping water while eating a brownie with the same calm you’d worn the entire game.

“I’ll take her, then,” he said simply.

You raised a brow, half in amusement, and stood without a word.

Wonwoo slowly came to a halt upstairs, arms folded over his chest. You leaned back with the same relax, leaning back on the raining, a grin replacing the netural expression you had.

The both of you didn’t speak for the first few seconds. Just exchanged a look - quiet, knowing.

Then:

Your voice, low and amused, “Jeon Mafia. How are we going to do this?”

Wonwoo tilted his head slightly, the same cunning smirk.

“I was thinking… we sacrifice Dino and get the points for ourselves.”

You chuckled under your breath. “You’re going to make our dear maknae cry, woo.”

“You’re smiling after killing someone, Dino?” Seungcheol’s voice called out from the first level, aimed at the lost boy.

You took another look at Wonwoo–

–And nodded.

“I’m just going to say the right answer.” Wonwoo leaned over the table. “Dino, Meeting Room, Candlestick.”

An ‘O’ appeared on the card.

You bit your bottom lip, pushing yourself up from the railing. “My turn is after his right? I’ll just do the same. Dino, Meeting Room. Candlestick.”

Another ‘O’. Both your points were confirmed now.

When you descended the stairs again, it was with perfectly neutral expressions.

Dino gave you a wary glance from where he was curled up on the couch with a snack.

“What did you guys talk about?” he asked cautiously.

You smiled kindly, picking him up to a head over into a corner.

“Justice.”

Wonwoo didn’t even blink.

“Righteousness.”

Dino squinted. “Why, why?”

“Why are they so calm. That’s terrifying.” Mingyu commented, watching the three of you walk off.

Seungkwan, from the floor where he was still dramatically sprawled:

“They’re playing chess and we’re out here arguing over who blinked too fast.”

.

The game was heating up.

With only a few rounds left, every glance, twitch, and wrongly timed cough became a potential red flag.

After the tense voting round, the group gathered in the first level again, trying to piece together what just happened.

Dino, pacing now, looked like a cornered animal - eyes wide, lips parted as he processed how quickly suspicions were falling on him.

He pulled Mingyu and Seungcheol aside first, whispering urgently.

“I made a deal with the Mafia. They asked me to cover for them, to pretend to be the Mafia.” Dino whispered into the crowd. Wonwoo ‘overhears’, following into the crowd.

“It has to be Woozi, definitely.” Mingyu glanced toward Seungcheol, giving a subtle wave. “He is saying it’s not him, but it is.”

Dino looks at Wonwoo, turning away with a sly smile plastering his face. He cheered inwardly, walking over to take a seat beside you.

You subtly bumped your knee against Wonwoo and Dino’s. Hand propped on the armrest going up to cover the feel of success you could taste on your tongue.

You didn’t say a word. But the grin you failed to hide told him everything.

The three of you were playing the members like a game piece.

And they were gleefully walking straight into it.

.

“Dino-yah, thanks to you, I’ll get some of that prize money.” Hoshi slaps a hand onto a bewildered-looking Dino’s shoulder.

The members burst into laughter, applause, ‘wahh’ and ‘aw’s filled the room. “That was so annoying, I’d be so annoyed.”

“I’m getting prize money~”

“Hoshi, what if they kill you here because you’re so annoying?” You cut in from the seat beside, half-laughing.

Hoshi screamed, palm cupping the lower half of his face in disbelief. “Wait...” His lips jutted out in a pout.

Then– he suddenly sat up straighter, slapping his thigh like a madman. “WAIT. Wait, wait, wait. Are you saying that because you are the mafia?”

You paused - blinking slowly, ‘confused’ at his sudden claim. “Me?”

“Yes. Think about it! Seungkwan was working with you. You’re too calm. That’s suspicious!”

You turned your voice low, almost sad at his gullibility.

“Hoshi…if I was mafia, why would I still be playing this quietly now? I even supported you when you suspected Dino earlier!”

Mingyu’s eyebrows raised. “...Wait, yeah. That’s true.”

“And remember when we were voting? Hoshi asked three times what the vote was before answering, he hesitated.”

Wonwoo narrowed his eyes at Hoshi “He did.”

“And you’ve been pointing fingers all game, but never leading the charge. That’s a sign of guilt, Hosh. Planting seeds but never watering them.” You tsk-ed, leaning back against the backrest while your head shook.

Hoshi’s eyes widened, shocked at how the tables suddenly turned. “N–No, I— That’s not— I was just trying to…wait—”

.

“There is at least one civillian who made the correct guess. From now, you must find the mafia.”

“Let’s just quickly kill Dino.”

Everyone raised their thumbs once again,

“One, two, three.” You called out, joining the rest in putting your thumb down.

“Dino’s identity is a Mafia member.”

No voting rounds left. No more accusations. The air was thick with curiosity.

The remaining members sat around, eyes bouncing between each other, trying to read any lingering guilt or celebration behind forced poker faces.

Dino, still slightly smug after successfully diverting suspicion, leaned back in his seat, relaxed with the air of someone who’d survived the worst.

Then, Wonwoo stood up.

A quiet shift.

Next to him, you pushed off your seat too, stretching slightly before stepping forward.

You crossed the seats, walking straight to Dino - who looked up at you, cheery.

“Thank you, my baby Dino~” You gave him a hug he swiftly accepted.

Wonwoo came up behind, placing a hand on Dino’s shoulder as he leaned down with you.

“Seriously. You helped us a lot.”

The room went still.

“Wait. Wait. WAIT—”

Hoshi, standing up with his mouth wide open:

“NO WAY. I WAS RIGHT.”

Minghao, deadpanned. “I knew it.”

Seungcheol pointed accusingly, eyes wide. “It was you all this while? I really thought it was Woozi!”

You laughed, a full-out one this time, your head dipping down to hide. While Wonwoo just gave a casual shrug, the picture of cool.

“We just needed a little help…and all of you gave it to us without even knowing.” You faked a sigh, moving to pat Woozi’s shoulder.

Jun, half-laughing, half-betrayed, called out. “You used Dino as a pawn!”

Dokyeom clutched his chest, “I don’t know whether to applaud or cry.”

You turned back toward the group and gave a playful bow.

“Thank you for playing. That’s a mafia win!”

Wonwoo simply crossed his arms, standing beside you as the rest of the room erupted into chaotic shouting and laughter, complaints of betrayal flying like confetti.

Game Over. Mafia Wins.

--

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