purploozi

[purploozi]

17 things lee jihoon does

lee jihoon x fem!reader

cw: 18+ mdni, domestic fluff, smut, explicit language requested!

he prioritizes your wishes over his own preference “only because it’s you”. want him to go shopping with you for a bit? well, he should be working on this new idea that came to him last night but because it’s you… “alright fine let’s go.”

he casually picks up a guitar and tunes it. every instrument too but electric guitar specifically, and the way his fingers move over the strings. it’s just <3333!

he tries to explain to you how vocal mixing works. he reaches across you to point something out and then suddenly the two of you are really close!! or when he’s just explaining something and he just sounds smart. you don’t get a thing but it’s fascinating.

he’s super protective and defensive of you. “text me when you get home so i know you’re safe” + will fight anyone who tries to cross you in any way.

he compliments you without hesitation. he’s not a demonstrative person but he makes up for it with the songs he writes. the words falling from his mouth never fails to fluster you.

he tries to add a sense of light-heartedness after an argument; in an attempt to make the atmosphere less awkward and heavy. it rarely lasts long because he just wants to make up and move on from it as quickly as possible.

he’s naturally good with kids it’s kind of ??? surprising ??? he’s not awkward and is so smooth when it comes to communicating with them. it’s just so endearing watching him there’s no way you wouldn’t wanna marry him.

he says stuff like “hm?” “oh yeah?” “mhm.” even though it’s incredibly bare minimum, something about his voice and those words sends you into orbit.

he laughs so fully and seal-claps. it’s loud and contagious and sticks out in the best way. bonus if he's also shaking/gently nudging you beside him or excitedly pointing toward the thing he's laughing at. very endearing.

he’s really hard to wake up and get out of bed. he’ll grumble, dragging you back in his arms like a lost teddy bear.

he makes casual pda more affectionate and passionate. always puts his arm over your shoulder without saying anything or takes his hand out of his pockets to hold yours when you approach him.

he sometimes asks for the occasional stress-relief sex. he’s always so busy and tired so you have to bare with him though, but he’ll make sure the pleasure is mutual and your needs are always fulfilled.

he fucks you on his studio equipment. your moans gets used in a backing track.

he puts his hair in a bun while he’s taking you from behind—nearly falling over onto you in surprise when you push back against him as he pauses momentarily to keep his hair out of his face.

he closes his eyes when you’re on top of him. silently whispering to himself, urging his body not to let go too quickly.

he slaps your clit after you’ve finished cumming around his fingers. it makes him smile maniacally when you squeal as a result.

he always takes aftercare very seriously if there was a lot of strength behind each of his thrusts. you’re never surprised when you feel a little achy after—even when his muscles are sore and fatigued, you’re still his first priority.

[purploozi]

Review written for @k-fic-collection 💜

One word. HOT.

At the start I was laughing because I have no doubts that Seungcheol would have behaved like that right after his surgery. Too stubborn to ask for help. Too proud to let others do things for him. But then? I was gasping because…whiny Seungcheol is a whole genre and I live for it. Definitely something I will re-read from time to time.

let me...

pairing: idol!seungcheol x gn!reader word count: 1.2k synopsis: you can tell that seungcheol is frustrated by his injury. if he would just let you...you'd be happy to help take his mind off of it. themes: SMUT, MDNI, squirmy/whiny scoups, oral sex (reader giving to seungcheol), explicit descriptions of oral sex, idol au, established relationship, comfort-ish?. (lmk if there are others to add)

a/n: my brain is fully rotted out these days. thanks @the-boy-meets-evil for instigating/encouraging this behavior🫶

You snuck a glance at Seungcheol again and exhaled sharply. He had been in the wheelchair for nearly a week now and you were officially concerned. You imagined it would be tough for anyone to adjust to the change, but it seemed particularly challenging for him. He was, after all, the capable, strong, and self sufficient leader of Seventeen and despite his doctor’s orders, he seemed intent on refusing to ask for help.

“Hey! I said I would get things for you!” you yelled, concern rising as you watched Seungcheol try and fail to stand from the wheelchair.

“I can do it!” he insisted stubbornly, trying again.

Your hand shot out to his shoulder, pressing down as you rounded on him, pinning him with a stern look.

“It has not been that long since your surgery. If you tear something again I will truly kill you,” you narrowed your eyes at him menacingly. “Now what is it that you need?”

Seungcheol’s words died in his mouth as you turned from him to look at the cupboard. Even after months of dating you, the sight of your shape from behind never failed to drop his jaw. His brow furrowed. Yet another reminder of this godforsaken injury hindering him from the things he needed and wanted to do.

“Cheol? What was it you needed?” you turned your head to question again. His eyes shifted quickly back to the top shelf of the cupboard, but the hungry look in his eyes did not escape you.

“Tupperware from the top shelf. The blue one,” he answered.

“Okay,” you nodded, standing up on your toes, arching your back to reach for the item. You grinned as you did so, pushing your hips back towards your boyfriend because you could absolutely feel his eyes burning into you.

“Got it!” you chirped, letting yourself fall back into your heels and your ass to bounce gratuitously.

“This is killing me,” Seungcheol groaned, shifting in the wheelchair.

“Baby,” you turned to him with a simpering smile, “I know you hate asking for help, but what if you just let me…” you trailed off, tracing your fingertips up the brace on his leg.

Conflict played across Seungcheol’s brow as he considered your words. You knew it was tough for him to relinquish control, but you hoped he would so you could take his mind off of things, even if just for a while.

“Help me how?” he finally spoke, eyebrow raising expectantly.

You chuckled softly.

“You know I'm always good for you,” you smiled, tongue touching the corner of your lips playfully.

“Go ahead,” he nodded, giving his permission.

Your eyes lit up at him as you sank to your knees before him. You reached around the chair to lock the wheels before trailing your hands back over his hips and down his thighs.

He inhaled sharply and your pulse raced with pride. You leaned forward and started nuzzling your lips gently up the inside of his thigh. He squirmed as you drew closer and closer to the apex of his thighs. You were poked in the cheek by his tented erection when you finally arrived. Grinning at him, you nuzzled your cheek against him through the fabric of his sweatpants and Seungcheol was surprised at the way he reacted. Possessiveness and pride surged through him as you knelt between his legs, nuzzling his heavy cock eagerly.

“Someone’s eager,” you teased as you pushed the hem of his shirt up above his belly button. You kissed and lapped at the exposed skin above his waistband, knowing that this would drive him wild. The cool trail of your thin saliva set Seungcheol’s nerves alight and his hand found familiar purchase in your hair.

“Ah ah!” you shook your head, pulling his hand away. “I said…let me.”

Seungcheol’s eyes smoldered at you, but he gestured for you to continue.

“Good boy,” you teased and returned to the task at hand. Your hand stroked him over fabric as your lips continued their foray across his midsection. The feel and sound of him gasping and squirming underneath you was dizzying.

“YN, please,” he finally choked out. He felt ready to burst.

You hummed up at him before tugging at his waistband. He shifted his hips up, allowing you to pull it down around his thighs. You were mesmerized at the way his cock bounced when he sat back down, your eyes transfixed on the swollen, thick head.

In fact, many things about this moment were hypnotizing. The slight tension of elastic biting into Seungcheol’s thick thighs, the way the weight of his cock caused it to rest against his tummy, and the sturdiness of aforementioned midsection as the complimentary backdrop. After several moments of ogling, you literally had to shake your head to clear it of thoughts.

“You’re practically drooling,” he teased wryly, head cocked slightly as you regarded him. It was nothing short of a boost to the ego and he allowed himself to enjoy it. After a week of feeling frustrated and helpless, he let himself bask in your attraction and the power it made him feel.

“And?” you challenged him, lacing the fingers of one hand in his as the other grasped his thick cock eagerly at the base.

“Nothing,” he shook his head, eyes widening a hair as you started trailing kisses up his inner thigh.

At first through the fabric of his sweatpants and then on the bare skin of his upper thigh, Seungcheol was squirming by the time you closed your lips around his cock, sucking him hungrily into your mouth.

“Fuck,” he exhaled, voice breathy as he slouched slightly in the chair. You chuckled as you drew back up, lips stroking along the ridges and veins of his shaft. Seungcheol’s hands fisted as you began bobbing up and down, stroking him with your tongue.

“Feel good?” you asked when you came up for air. You nuzzled and nipped at his wet erection and he nodded.

“Fuck! Your mouth feels so good,” he let out a strangled groan as you shifted lower to suck on his balls. They were heavy and hot in your mouth as you sucked gently. You rolled them around on your tongue and were delightfully surprised at the whiny noise that Cheol let out. 

“Oh?” your eyebrows raised with delight. You licked a long, wet stripe up his length before swallowing him whole again, this time relaxing your throat to take him entirely.

Seungcheol let out another breathy whinge as you swallowed around the part of him that was lodged firmly in your throat. His whines grew louder and more frequent and you knew he wouldn’t last much longer. Pulling back, you fucked him with your mouth and throat as he panted your name desperately and repeatedly.

“Close,” he cupped your chin and warned you.

You nodded as well as you could with your mouth full and you reached down to cup his balls, tugging gently as you increased the suction with your mouth.

“Fuck! Shit. Fuck,” Seungcheol’s entire body tensed.

You watched with hungry eyes as his thick brows knit together and his eyes squeezed shut before he emptied himself into your ready and waiting mouth. You enjoyed the way his chest heaved with deep breaths until he came back down to earth and met your eyes.

“Thank you,” he pulled you up for a kiss. “Thank you, thank you. You always know what I need.”

[purploozi]

Review written for @k-fic-collection 💜

I need this to be a Going Seventeen episode for real. It would be so good and full of chaos.

Spoilers under the cut.

Not only Seokmin is a fool but I am too, because at first I knew that it was a joke but then…half way through it the joke wasn’t showing up and I was like…”is this real?” And I started to panic because what do you mean she actually killed him!!! Really, I’m 100% a fool. Overall this was really fun and enjoyable to read and even if I thank Jeonghan for exposing Seokmin crush I did want to punch him at the end.

help me hide a body - lsm

pairing - seokmin x f!reader

genre/warnings - college au, non idol au, comedy, fluff, death scenario, mentions of blood, mentions of murder/killing, jeonghan (menace) cameo, boosoon cameo, one mention of jihoon and two of wonwoo, seokmin is a simp for reader, use of petname (min/minnie for seokmin), kissing, cursing, nothing serious is happening in here <3

wc - 5K

summary - seokmin never thought you'd ask him to help you hide a body. worse, he never thought he'd agree.

A/N - this is an idea of my friend who sent me a reel where somebody was asking which kpop idol would you not trust with helping you hide a body and someone answered dokyeom ಠ⁠﹏⁠ಠ thanks to her for making this come to life! also i really did not think it'd be this long but haha, i hope it doesn't flop 🤍🤍🤍

huge thanks to both my babies @hannah81141418 & @kissbyoon for being my ultimate support through the writing process <3

“Help me hide a body.”

The liquid nearly shot from Seokmin’s mouth, a spray that thankfully missed you. You stood beside him, your heart drumming loud in your chest.

"That's hardly a joking matter," he stated, turning to you, expecting the relief of laughter that would signal a prank. Instead, your expression remained starkly serious.

"I'm not joking, Seokmin," you insisted, and the glass halfway to his lips stilled as he faced you again.

"Come on, Y/N, that's really not funny."

Your bottom lip jutted out, your eyes holding an insurmountable desperation that tightened a knot of anxiety in Seokmin's gut.

He was truly fucked.

✦ ⎯⎯ㅤִㅤ୭ ୨♡୧ ৎ ㅤִ ⎯⎯ ✦

Seokmin clung to the belief that this was an elaborate deception as he followed you towards the college's forgotten storage room. Surely, any moment now, you would burst into laughter, mocking his obvious fear.

But the sight that greeted him shattered that hope: a familiar figure sprawled on the dusty floor, a dark red pool blooming around his head.

Seokmin's breath hitched. His eyes widened, fixed on the still form. Beside him, you looked like you were on the verge of collapse.

A raw, high-pitched scream tore from his throat, making you jump. He turned to you, disbelief etched on his face. Then, a shared scream echoed in the confined space before your hand clamped over his mouth.

"SHUT UP! Do you want the entire building to know!?"

He wrenched your hand away. "Y/N, are you insane?! There's an actual dead person here! You actually killed someone?! And it's Jeonghan, for God's sake, he's our friend!"

"YES, I KNOW! I KNOW!" you exclaimed, your voice trembling with terror and disbelief.

"IT WASN'T deliberate! I swear! I don't know how or when it happened! We... we were just fooling around and... and I... I pushed him, and he... ahggg! What do I do, Seokmin? What do I dooo?"

"Oh my God... oh my God..." Seokmin began to pace the cramped room, his hands raking through his hair in frustration. "No..."

"No, tell me this is some twisted prank you two planned."

"Tell me that's just spilled paint, and he'll sit up laughing at my foolishness."

"TELL ME HE'S NOT DEAD, Y/N!" He gripped your shoulders, shaking you with a desperate force that made his heart ache.

You shook your head, your gaze defeated. "I'm not joking."

"He won't wake up." Tears began to well in your eyes, causing him to recoil, staring at you in utter disbelief. "No... no, this can't be real... no, I..." His gaze flickered back to the lifeless body of your common friend.

"Have you called for help? What if he's not actually gone?" he demanded, moving towards the body despite the nausea rising in his throat. He had always had a weak stomach for blood.

"He is."

“No. He could be— wait, he’s smiling!”

Your eyes shot to Jeonghan’s still figure, his face barely visible under the dim light. For a cruel second, you believed Seokmin, but Jeonghan was indeed not smiling. “You've gone insane, Seokmin.”

“No! He was smiling just now! I swear I saw it!” Seokmin’s neck craned to look at him again, and his face fell. Was it an illusion?

He shook the image out of his head, still in disbelief. “What if— what if he's alive?”

"Seokmin, are you for real? Just look at the blood, damn it!"

Seokmin’s eyes narrowed at the still body—thick red liquid illuminated under the moonlight streaking through the window. Seeing Jeonghan’s bloodied body sent a wave of revulsion through him, a painful lump forming in his throat. He couldn't suppress it.

You had to rub his back as he vomited into the nearby bushes. And then you both sat in the oppressive silence of the storage room, Jeonghan's form covered with a soiled white blanket.

"No... no, this is very wrong," Seokmin suddenly declared, rising to his feet. "This is terribly wrong. We need to come clean. We need to call for help, get him to a hospital."

Your face drained of color and you stood quickly, "Are you out of your mind! I could go to jail! We can't do that!"

"Well, what alternative do you propose?! We can't just... for God’s sake, Y/N, he was our friend!"

"I KNOW! Which is precisely why I'm saying he wouldn't want this!"

"Please, Min. I can't endure that. My entire future will be extinguished before it begins! How will I face his parents? His sister? I'll be branded a murderer! I'll be imprisoned, Seokmin! Do you want that for me?"

"But, you... he... I..."

You grasped his arm, your eyes pleading with an intensity he found difficult to resist. He always did. "Please, Min. Please. Just help me this once, hmm? Just help me bury him, and I will never burden you with another request."

Seokmin stared at you, really looked at you, his jaw tight with conflict. He had never done anything more immoral than cheating in his test once. Burying a dead body of his friend who was murdered by his best friend wasn't something he could allow himself to do.

But you were there, looking at him with your beautiful eyes that were filled with tears—a sight he hated. You pouted at him, and begged him like your life would be over if he didn't help you, and for once, it really would be.

Seokmin decided that he couldn't do that to you. Not when you were looking at him like that, not when he was your only hope.

A frustrated groan escaped him. He nodded, and your arms were instantly around him, rambling words of gratitude. He hated how his heart still quickened at your touch, even now.

Even now when he had to help you hide his friend's dead body.

✦ ⎯⎯ㅤִㅤ୭ ୨♡୧ ৎ ㅤִ ⎯⎯ ✦

Then came the enormity of your task. How could you possibly execute this without being caught?

Seokmin perched on a wooden crate, with you leaning heavily against him from a higher one, the glow of a phone screen illuminating your faces as you frantically searched online for methods of body disposal.

Seokmin suggested a remote location, telling you that that's where they hide bodies in novels and movies.

“Yeah, and they always get caught." You countered, rolling your eyes at him.

"Well, do you have a more effective idea!?"

"No!? How would I have such knowledge? I don't murder people everyday!"

"Are you planning to murder people everyday!?"

"NO!? What the hell is wrong with you!"

Before Seokmin could respond, your hand clamped over his mouth, your senses alert to the sound of approaching footsteps.

Someone was directly outside the storage room.

Oh hell no.

You gestured frantically for him to silence his phone. In the dim light filtering through the cracks, Seokmin's eyes seemed to bulge with a silent 'what now!?'

Then, the familiar bickering of Soonyoung and Seungkwan drifted through the door. Their argument revolved around the late hour, a consequence, according to Seungkwan, of Soonyoung's procrastination on their shared project.

"What do we do?!" Seokmin hissed when you removed your hand.

"Don't worry, the door is locked from the inside," you whispered back.

"Hey, this is locked," Soonyoung's voice announced as he tested the handle.

"The CR said it was unlocked and that Y/N and Jeonghan were in here earlier and hadn't returned the keys," Soonyoung explained, earning a skeptical look from Seungkwan.

You were certain Seokmin could feel the frantic hammering of your heart. Unbeknownst to you, his own heart drummed against his ribs, a cold sweat slicking his skin.

"Brilliant, genius. We are definitely failing.” Seungkwan muttered.

"Hey, don't say that. I'll plead with the professor to extend the deadline. Maybe we can do something."

"You do realize that Jihoon is likely going to kill us, right?”

Soonyoung groaned. "Yeah, but why were we cursed to be paired with him!"

"Why were we cursed to be paired with you?"

Soonyoung pouted. "Alright, fine. Let's go back and think of something else instead of arguing here," he said, allowing the two hidden figures to release a collective, shaky breath.

"Move, you idiot," Seungkwan commanded, pulling out a set of keys from his pocket.

"You had the keys this entire time!?" Soonyoung's voice held a note of betrayal. You and Seokmin both froze in stress as you heard the jingle of keys against the lock.

"Yes. I’m always prepared unlike you," Seungkwan retorted, making Soonyoung roll his eyes. "Yeah, Boo Seungkwan, the supposed genius of this college, still manages to rank second last."

"At least I don't rank last."

The lock clicked open.

Panic surged within the storage room. Your eyes darted around, seeking some sort of escape. Maybe you would prefer jumping out of the window than being caught with your friend’s dead body in your college’s storage room.

Realizing the dread of your situation, you moved suddenly and desperately. It was stupid, and wrong, but you had to save yourself and Seokmin. You had to distract the boys. You knew they'd instantly run away. You had no other choice.

You gripped Seokmin's collar, pulling him close. He hardly had time to register his reality when your lips crashed against his.

All of Seokmin’s senses numbed. He sat frozen like some statue of disbelief, his eyes wide as your lips stilled against his, your own eyes squeezed shut.

"That hardly makes you any smar-" Soonyoung's sentence fractured as he took in the scene and Seungkwan jaw already hung slack.

"What in the actual hell-" Soonyoung's hands flew to his mouth, his gaze fixed on his two very platonic friends locked in an intense embrace in the dark storage room where the only source of light was the moon peeking in through the window.

Realizing your impulsive act wasn't having the desired effect, and your friends remained rooted to the spot, you slowly pulled away, facing a thoroughly flustered Seokmin. His cheeks were flushed red, and you could feel the tremble in his body.

Well, there went nothing. You swallowed hard and took a hesitant step back.

"What the hell do you two think you were doing!?" Seungkwan demanded.

"I would very much like to know the answer to that myself," Seokmin mumbled under his breath, his gaze unfocused.

“Oh, he seemed to be enjoying it."

"Shut up, Soonyoung!" Seungkwan snapped, turning to you for an explanation. You merely cleared your throat, avoiding eye contact with the three bewildered faces.

"Are you two... together!? Since when!? I thought Y/N liked Wonwoo!"

Seokmin felt a poisonous bubble rise up his throat at the mention.

"Yeah, and wasn't Seokmin secretly-" Soonyoung's breath hitched as Seokmin's large hand clamped over his mouth, silencing him. You looked from one to the other, your mind fogged with confusion. You couldn't really tell why Seungkwan was face-palming, and why Seokmin looked like he had seen a ghost. Well maybe because you just kissed him out of nowhere.

It was then that Seungkwan's attention snagged on something in the shadows at the back of the room: a white sheet partially covering an indistinct shape, with a disturbing patch of red visible.

"Is there something at the back!?" he asked, squinting his eyes to look better in the dim light. Oh no no no.

You couldn't be doomed. Not like this.

"It's nothing!"

"It's a project!"

The contradictory responses from both you and Seokmin echoed in the room. You slowly craned your neck to glare at him, and he still refused to outright meet your eyes. His gaze was trying to focus on the slight movement he saw under the sheet, but Soonyoung's voice snapped him back to reality. It must be an illusion again.

"I know!" Soonyoung exclaimed, as if struck by a sudden realization. "They're hiding something!"

You swallowed hard, a sheen of sweat breaking out on your forehead. You couldn't really tell how Seokmin looked like, but the years of knowing him could give that much away: he must be scared shitless.

"That much is obvious," Seungkwan deadpanned. “They're obviously trying to hide their special effects makeup project so we don't steal their concept. Did you also really kiss him to scare us away, Y/N?!”

You stood in stunned silence, unable to know what you should be feeling. You were relieved, and if you heard it right, Seokmin also let out a breath. You did not want to answer Seungkwan. While your friend lay dead and his body was rotting, a kiss stemmed from extreme distress was not your major concern.

What, however, was your concern was kicking your two friends out. You ushered them out somehow, confirming that you were indeed preparing for your special effects project and you'd like it if they kept their noses out of it. Once they were out, you collapsed against the closed door, a shaky breath escaping your lips.

Seokmin was still numb, staring at the floor when you turned to him. "You kissed me."

"I know! I'm sorry, Min. My mind went blank; I couldn't think of anything else-"

"You just kissed me," he repeated, his tone flat. He really looked like he'd seen a ghost. Maybe being kissed by your best friend of years was more terrifying than seeing a ghost.

"I swear I will make it up to you later. We don't have time for this right now. Please, let's focus, hmm?"

He looked up at you, managing to mask the sting of your casual dismissal. He understood that your mind was clearly occupied with more important matters like burying your dead friend.

"Okay," you said, rubbing your temples. "Think. Where? Where can we put him where nobody will ever find him?"

Seokmin chewed on his lip, shaking the feeling of your lips on his own away from his mind. But whatever he said still sounded absurd. "What about... the woods?"

You stared at him blankly. "Seokmin, we live in the middle of the city. The nearest woods are like an hour away. And how exactly are we going to carry a dead body through the entire college campus and then into a car without anyone seeing?"

“Oh. Right."

You paced the small storage room, your mind racing and your heart hurting. You could feel tears prick at your eyes anytime your gaze drifted towards the body, but you had to hold on. You had to save yourself. Jeonghan wouldn't want you to go to jail for killing him accidentally.

"What about... outside? Somewhere on campus?"

Seokmin's eyes widened again, this time with alarm. "Are you crazy?! Someone will find him for sure!"

"But where else, Min?" you pleaded, throwing your hands up in frustration. "We can't just keep him here! He's... he's going to..." You trailed off, unable to say the word. Your eyes filled with the tears you'd been holding back, but you didn't let them fall.

Then, your eyes landed on the dusty window overlooking the back of the storage room. It was overgrown with vines and looked like it hadn't been opened in years. Beyond it, you could just make out the very edge of the college grounds, a patch of uneven, untended land bordering a high brick wall.

"Wait," you wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, walking towards the window. You peered through the grime. "What about... right there?"

Seokmin followed you, squinting through the dusty glass. "Right where? Behind the storage room?"

"Yeah," you said, pointing. "That little patch of land right against the back wall. It's the very end of the campus. Nobody ever goes back there. Remember? We used to sneak back there to... you know..." You trailed off again, the memory of happier times feeling like a joke now.

Seokmin looked doubtful. "But... wouldn't it be too obvious? Right outside?"

"Not if we do it right," you argued, your mind starting to form a plan. "It's hidden by all these bushes and that broken fence. If we dig a grave deep enough, and then cover it up really well... nobody would ever know."

“Dig a grave? Y/N, we've never even planted a proper flower, let alone dig a grave for a..." He swallowed hard, unease settling over him once again. What was he supposed to say? Dig a grave for our friend? The thought alone gave him a fresh wave of nausea.

You looked at Jeonghan’s covered body for a while, pursing your lips together to not burst into tears. You second guessed your proceedings for about half a second before your future played like movie in front of your eyes—cold, grey walls closing in, the heavy clang of a metal door, the judging eyes of strangers, the endless, empty days stretching out before you.

You saw yourself in a drab uniform, the vibrant colors of your life fading to dullness. The faces of your parents, etched with disappointment and shame, swam before your eyes. The thought of never laughing freely again, never feeling the warmth of the sun on your skin without bars in between, made your stomach clench.

“No!” You yelled to yourself, shaking your head violently. The desperate urge to avoid the ugly future took over you. There was no turning back now.

Seokmin was in front of you before you knew it, his hands on your shoulders as he looked down at you in concern. “What happened?”

"We have to do this. It's our best shot, Min. We can't risk trying to move him off campus. This is close, it's hidden, and hopefully, nobody will ever think to look there."

Seokmin bit his lip again, his gaze flicking between you and the window. He looked pale, almost like he was about to be sick again. "But... digging sounds hard. And what if someone sees us from a window?"

"It's late," you reminded him. "Most people are in their dorms. We'll be quick, and we'll be careful.” You looked at him, your eyes pleading again. "Please, Min? Just like you said, you'll help me?"

Seokmin sighed, the fight draining out of him. He looked at your pained face, your tear-reddened eyes, and the sheer desperation radiating off you. He knew this was wrong, so incredibly wrong. But the thought of you facing this alone felt more wrong.

"Okay," he said finally, his voice barely a whisper. "Okay, Y/N. We'll... we'll dig a grave behind the storage room." He swallowed hard again. "Just tell me what to do.”

✦ ⎯⎯ㅤִㅤ୭ ୨♡୧ ৎ ㅤִ ⎯⎯ ✦

Now came the most agonizing part: digging a grave.

You both were bound to be inexperienced. It wasn't like you dug graves everyday, but you hadn't ever thought you'd be this bad.

Somehow, Seokmin managed to carve a shallow pit from the hard earth. And then you both stood outside the window, staring at the blood stained sheet that Jeonghan was wrapped in. All that was left was carrying him to his grave. The final act of separation.

You shook your head, tears rolling down your cheeks. "No."

"No, I can't do this. This is wrong."

Seokmin shut his eyes tight, letting his own tears fall. He could feel the immense pain in his heart, but he had to be strong for you. His hand found it's place on your back, rubbing softly. “We can't turn back now, Y/N. We have to."

"But what if they find out!? What if... what if my parents discover this! They'll hate me! Jeonghan’s parents will never forgive me for... for this. And Wonwoo... he'll never want anything to do with someone like me." Seokmin's hand dropped away as if burned.

"Seriously? That's your primary concern right now? His potential disapproval? Not the fact that one of your friends is dead, and the other is now your accomplice!?"

Your jaw tightened at his tone, your tears blurring your vision of his teary face. "Well, who forced you to help me if it was such an unbearable burden!?"

"YOU! YOU'RE THE ONE WHO BEGGED ME TO HELP YOU!"

"WELL, I DON'T NEED YOUR HELP ANY LONGER! YOU ARE FREE TO LEAVE! I WILL MANAGE THIS ALONE!"

"ARE YOU INSANE!? I CAN'T LET YOU DO THAT!"

"WHY NOT!? WHY DO YOU CARE!? WHY DID YOU AGREE IN THE FIRST PLACE!?"

"BECAUSE I—" Seokmin's confession was abruptly cut short by the distant wail of police sirens, growing rapidly closer. Something close to a flashlight shone through the dirty windows of the old room.

You could hear some voices, and if you could, you'd lie down beside Jeonghan and drop dead yourself too.

"Shit," Seokmin muttered before he held your hand, pulling you into the shallow grave he had just dug.

"Jeonghan! Jeonghan is still in there!" You gasped.

"Oh my God, we are going to get caught red-handed," Seokmin shook his head in horror. Your voice cracked, and your fists involuntarily tightened onto Seokmin's shirt. "No, I am too young to go to jail.”

Seokmin felt his heart clench painfully. Apart from seeing his friend dead, the sight of you trembling in fear and crying was the single most haunting sight he'd ever had to see.

He didn't know where he found his voice when he softly wiped your tears. "Don't worry. I won't let you go to jail."

You looked at him, your eyes watery and your lips trembling, as you heard the distinct sound of footsteps. Seokmin began to cry with you, his own fear escalating despite his big talk. "What do we do now, Minnie? What do we dooo? We're so dead," you sobbed as he pulled you into his arms, trying to hide you. "Don't worry. I am with you. I am with you in all of this. I won't leave your side, no matter what."

"Really?" You looked up at him with tear-filled eyes. You knew he was far too kind for the horrific situation you had dragged him into. He nodded, sniffing, before you buried yourself in his embrace, and he held you tightly.

"Let's... let's just turn ourselves in," you whispered as the voices came closer and closer. "Alright... let's do that," Seokmin choked out.

"We'll be okay, right?" You asked, looking up at him with a tearful pout. He replied with an equally tearful and pouty face, nodding. "As long as we're together, we will be alright."

"What is going on here?"

The voice was oddly familiar and close. Seokmin and you stood up from the hole together, raising your hands in the air and squeezing your eyes shut as you began to murmur pleas for mercy.

"Please forgive us! We didn't—"

"It was me! I did it! I killed him! I forced her to be an accomplice! Arrest me!" Seokmin blurted out, cutting her off, making her stare at him in disbelief. "What are you—"

"What are you doing! Arrest me quickly!" he repeated, his eyes still shut tight, as he extended his hands to be cuffed.

"What are you doing, Seokmin! That is not—"

"Shush! Don't say anything!"

"No, I can't let you do that!"

"I said don't say anything!"

"How dumb do you both have to be?" The two of you fell silent as you heard the chillingly familiar voice again. When you both opened your eyes, you saw your dead friend standing in front of you with his arms folded.

The air was crisp with stunned silence before it was shattered by the simultaneous, high-pitched screams of you and Seokmin.

Jeonghan burst out laughing, a loud, hearty sound that echoed in the silence. He clutched his stomach, tears of mirth streaming down his face. "Oh my god! Y/N, you literally did not even check my pulse! Exactly like I predicted. I know you so well."

You and Seokmin stared at him, your mouths agape, still trembling from the adrenaline and fear.

“I didn't think you'd bring this dummy in, but God, are you both dumb?! You made it all so easy!”

Jeonghan wiped his eyes, still chuckling. "How does it pay you for hiding my phone in the literal refrigerator, Y/N?”

Seokmin’s knees buckled, and he fell back into the shallow hole he'd dug up. His illusions from earlier slapped him right across his face. He wished he could just bury himself right here and never see the sun again.

Jeonghan waved his phone that played the police siren for a second before pocketing it. His hair were still red, painted in fake blood that you only now realized was paint.

Paint from the tins that were lined up right where Jeonghan hit his head.

No, you couldn't have been so dumb.

“It was so hard to stay still and act dead while listening to all of your foolishness. You both are funny.”

“Yoon Jeonghan.”

“No no no,” Jeonghan clicked his tongue, “Do not even think of turning this against me. Not only did you guys kiss over my dead body, you were also literally going to bury me?! Without even holding a funeral?!”

"Shut up Jeonghan, or you will actually be dead in the next few seconds," you snapped, your jaw clenched and your voice still trembling slightly. Your head spun with the sudden proceedings and if you weren't rooted to your spot from the shock you just experienced, you would've choked Jeonghan to death.

"Wow, so I was the one who was killed and you guys are traumatized instead of being thankful that I'm actually not dead? Were you happy that I died!?" Jeonghan continued, his tone laced with mock hurt.

"GO AWAY, YOON JEONGHAN! YOU SCARED THE LIFE OUT OF ME! I DON'T EVEN WANT TO SEE YOUR STUPID FACE! DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT I HAD TO DO BECAUSE OF YOU? I FREAKING KISSED SEOKMIN!" you exploded, the memory still vivid and mortifying.

"What did hiding my body have to do with you kissing Seokmin!? Why would you kiss him!?”

"Did you hate it that much?" Seokmin interrupted, a visible ache painting his face while he stared at the sky. It looked beautiful from the grave. He really wished to never get up after all that he went through for the night.

But you weren't listening to him, your focus solely on the 'not-so-dead' culprit.

"UGH JUST- JUST DISAPPEAR FROM MY SIGHT RIGHT NOW OR I MIGHT REALLY KILL YOU THIS TIME.” you yelled, throwing your hands up in exasperation.

"Fine! I am going," Jeonghan huffed, turning towards the door. "You better apologize, or I might report you two to the police for trying to bury me alive!"

“Entitled fucking bastard.” You muttered under your heavy breath, trying to calm your nerves. But all you wanted to do was rip your hair out and maybe tie a rope around Jeonghan’s ugly neck.

You sat down on the ground, your legs giving up as you stared into nothingness. All that happened in the past two hours flashed before your eyes, and you couldn't help but grow more and more hatred towards Jeonghan. However, the boy right behind you, slowly climbing out of the hole made your entire being shudder.

"Why did you do it?" you asked, not realising how weak your voice came out. Your eyes were still fixed ahead, as if looking at Seokmin would somehow stab your heart.

"What?" Seokmin asked, sitting beside you with a sigh.

“Why did you take the blame upon yourself? You could've gone to jail for something you did not do," you elaborated, finally craning your neck to meet his eyes.

Seokmin felt like his heart would leap out of his chest. "I would do it again if I was faced with a similar situation. I would do it if it was a real situation too.”

"Why?” You looked at him intently, searching his eyes for an answer. “Why would you do that far for me? Am I that important to you?"

“Yeah, you are," he replied nonchalantly, as if stating a simple fact. His face turned to look away as he wiped any remaining wetness from his eyes.

"Why?" You pressed, talking in a daze.

"Because I love you," he whispered, unable to hold it in any longer. Seokmin had kept his love as a secret for years, but now that he experienced an extremely overwhelming situation, all of his hidden emotions oozed out of him easily.

You felt your blood run cold.

"And I'm not saying it as a friend," he added, his voice a little rougher now. "I hate it when you keep swooning over Jeon Wonwoo. I hate it when you can see all the guys in the world but never me," he confessed, his gaze holding something indecipherable as he looked at you.

"I don't care if you stop being friends with me anymore. I can't keep pretending to be just a friend.”

"I want to date you."

Your breath hitched in your throat. Your heart beat in your ears, and you feared this was another overly ugly prank. You couldn't be fooled twice in a day. You would've liked to believe this wasn't real, but your eyes stayed wide open as he leaned in, his hand gently cupping your cheek, and placed a quick, tender kiss on your lips.

"This is for the kiss you stole from me," he said softly, pulling back slightly but still close, a light blush dusting his cheeks as he looked ahead. You, however, remained frozen, staring at him in utter disbelief.

"Hey! We promised no dating among ourselves!" Jeonghan's voice boomed from the window. He had a comical look of disapproval plastered on his face, forcing Seokmin to pull a little away from you.

“Yoon Jeonghan.” You gritted your teeth, eyes not leaving Seokmin’s face but speech addressed to the menace you had as a friend. “I told you to get the fuck out of here. I'm really going to bury you the next time I see you, but right now I have some important business going on. SO LEAVE.”

Your sudden yell startled a reddened Seokmin, and Jeonghan just laughed, proceeding to close the window. “You both should thank me and my genius brain for tonight. Otherwise Seokmin would've forever fooled around and you would've stayed oblivious.”

You didn't know why in the world was Seokmin’s side profile suddenly attractive, and why was he glowing a little in the dark. But you knew that you wanted to kiss him again. And you also knew that you were going to do it.

Seokmin and you walking hand in hand a few days later at the campus wasn't a surprise to anyone.

[purploozi]

· 3 ·

[purploozi]

He is such a cutie~🥺

peak jihooie right here

[purploozi]

svt fic recs list <3 - jeon wonwoo b'day edition - sfw & nsfw ver.

summary: 4 sfw & 3 nsfw wonwoo x reader insert fics :)

contains: sfw section contains potential suggestive content, nsfw section contains 18+ content (mdni), majority is afab!reader

key: (a) = angst, (f) = fluff, (h) = humor, (sc) = suggestive content, (s) = smut, (smau) = social media au

✩ svt writing & fic rec masterlist ✩

✩ sfw section ✩

❥ bf!wonwoo x chronically online!reader (f, h) - @xinganhao ~ reader is me i am reader we are one. i need a lil chronically offline!partner like wonwoo here PLS PLSSS (also....🎵I GOTTA GO MY OWN WAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY🎵🎤🎤🎤)

❥ wedding weekends with wonwoo (f) - @suhnshinehaos ~ OMFG THE FULL CIRCLE ENDING!!! THE FALLING FOR EACH OTHER!! AHH

❥ wonwoo bf texts (a, h, s) - @odxrilove ~ LMAO THE CHAN JEALOUSY IS SO REAL (bro look at me the way you look at him??!! PLS) i love how he just goes along with everything reader wants 😭😭

❥ bf!wonwoo thoughts (f, sc) - @boorines ~ oh i'm with you on him being subtly flirty that it'd drive you insane ARGHHHH also, ooop that ending thoooo?👀

✩ nsfw section ✩

❥ scrawled in sand (a, s) - @toruro ~ the ending.... :(

❥ Wonwoo as your boyfriend texts (f, sc) - @vernonverse ~ LET ME WIN ONE (1) GAME PLS 🙏...the whiplash to the sc was insane omfgjekfb

❥ Ghost Face (s) - @hoshifighting ~ HEHEHE >:) I ENJOYED THIS

bun note: HAPPPPPYYYYYY WONWOO DAYYYY!!! thank you for 2k followers??!?? and thank u to 1 year (tomorrow) of posting svt content on this account :3 i am so so so grateful to everyone on here <3

[purploozi]

The Margin Theory - Wonwoo

pairing: Wonwoo x librarian!reader synopsis: The boy who once loved you in parentheses is leaving his heart in the margins—hoping you’ll read between the lines and come back. wc: 2.4k genre: Angst, Happy Ending, Slowburn, Second Chance warning: Emotional Miscommunication, Past break up, Healing After Emotional Distance a/n: HAPPY BIRTHDAY WONWOO!! Had alot of fun thinking of meaning full quotes that reader and wonwoo could relate to, was the easiest part to write. This banner is also the best banner i think i’ve made.

The rain came down in ribbons, tapping gently against the library’s front windows like a polite reminder of the world outside. It was nearing closing time—just you, the dull flicker of overhead lights, and the quiet hum of book returns sliding down the metal chute.

You liked this hour. It felt suspended. Still. Like the universe paused for a breath before turning the page.

The cart creaked under your hand as you wheeled it toward the return bin. You were halfway through sorting textbooks and novels when your fingers brushed against a familiar texture. The spine was cracked, the cover creased. The gold-foiled title had long since faded.

Winter of the Lantern.

Your hand froze.

You knew this copy—not by the barcode, but by the worn corner, where you'd once spilled tea in sophomore year. The dog-eared pages, the ink-smudged notes. The indentation on the back where a heavy keychain had once pressed against it in your backpack.

It was your book.

You opened it slowly, like muscle memory. Page 1.

There it was.

Your handwriting, looping and small in the top margin: Annotation on “He left without warning.” Is it still abandonment if it’s silent? Or does silence make it worse?

Below it—one you hadn’t written.

Faint pencil. Angular strokes. Annotation on your note: Worse. Because you imagine kinder reasons than the truth.

You swallowed.

It was his.

Wonwoo.

You hadn’t seen him in two years. Not since he left the campus early, not since you sat in that café for 40 minutes past the time he said he'd come. Not since he stopped replying to your messages with no explanation other than time and space—neither of which had ever felt as cruel until they were used as reasons to disappear.

You turned to the title page.

A new message was scribbled in small, apologetic letters just beneath the author’s name:

I kept it longer than I should have. I’m sorry. —W.

You sat down at the return desk and stared at the book.

He could have written you a letter. Sent a message. But of course he wouldn’t. Not when he knew what this book meant. Not when this had been your shared language—underline, margin, pencil, thought.

And now here it was again, returned not to the shelf, but to you.

You ran your fingers along the edge of the page, and in that moment, you remembered something he once told you:

“People leave bookmarks in books they plan to finish. Not the ones they abandon.”

You never did finish this one.

And now?

Now you weren’t sure if you were being asked to pick it up again—or if he was simply returning what he owed.

But one thing was certain.

He’d spoken. In ink. In margins. To you.

And maybe—just maybe—you would reply.

—

You don’t open the book again until two nights later.

It waits on your nightstand like it’s always belonged there. You tried to shelve it with the others, but your fingers hesitated at the spine, then quietly placed it next to your lamp instead. Familiar weight. Familiar ache.

Winter of the Lantern begins slowly—lush prose, snow-drenched metaphors, grief between every comma. You know how the story unfolds: a girl and a boy in a seaside town, speaking in glances but never at the same time. Misunderstood silences. Love letters never sent.

You hadn’t realized it then, but it had always been about you and him. Or maybe you made it that way.

At page 17, you find it: Your old note, scribbled in haste years ago under a particularly sharp piece of dialogue.

“You never said anything.” “You never asked.”

Your handwriting in the margin:

Annotation: How can two people be so close and still miss each other?

Beneath it—new, precise:

Annotation on your note: Because one assumes silence means safety, and the other thinks silence means indifference.

You pause. Pencil smudged just slightly, like he’d hovered too long. You read it again.

Because one assumes silence means safety, and the other thinks silence means indifference.

Which one were you?

You flip ahead.

Page 28. No notes. Page 33. Your underlines. Page 41. Another one.

Quote: She watched his figure blur behind the lantern-lit fog and wondered which was heavier—words unspoken or words too late.

Your annotation back then: Annotation: Late. Always late.

His reply, quietly tucked under yours:

Annotation on your annotation: I didn’t know it was already too late. I thought I had time.

A lump forms in your throat.

You close the book gently and let it rest on your chest, the weight of paper and memory pressing against your ribs. Maybe this is his way of talking again. Quiet. Careful. Like always.

And maybe this time, you could talk back.

You pull open the drawer by your bed and find an old mechanical pencil. The eraser is hardened and cracked. You open the book again, return to page 41.

You add:

Annotation on your annotation on my annotation: Then say what you would’ve said, if time hadn’t run out.

And you leave it there, like a dare.

Like an invitation.

You close the book, not all the way—just enough to mark the page. You don’t need a bookmark. Not yet.

If he comes back to the library—if this was more than a return, more than an apology—you’ll know.

You’ll know if he picks up the story again.

—

You leave the book on the return cart.

Not the shelf, not behind the desk. Not somewhere obvious. But not hidden either.

You’re not sure what that says about you. Maybe that you still want to be found, just not caught.

Three days pass. You don’t check.

On the fourth day, you come in early. A nervous habit leads you to the cart. The book is gone.

Your hands hover over the gap it left on the metal rack. A notch of empty space where he must have stood, reached out, taken it with that same quiet certainty you used to hate. Not because it was cold. Because it was always unreadable.

You spend the rest of the day pretending not to hope.

That night, the book is back on your desk.

You recognize the page before you even open it. The corner of page 52 is slightly folded — a mistake he wouldn’t usually make. You smooth it out. You remember what’s written here.

Original line (highlighted): “If I tell you now, will it make up for all the times I didn’t?”

Your margin note, years ago: Annotation: Only if it sounds like the truth.

This time, no note beneath it.

But halfway down the page, beside a quieter line—almost a throwaway sentence in the story’s dialogue—there it is.

“I used to think we were reading the same story.”

His handwriting is smaller here. Slanted. Less sure.

Annotation on the line: I think I read ahead. I think I misunderstood the ending.

Your breath catches.

You turn the page slowly, like it might vanish. Page 53. A note tucked beneath a taped corner.

He’s left something this time. Folded once, trimmed from a torn piece of graph paper. Not a full letter—just one sentence:

If you were the one writing the ending, would you still leave?

No name. But you know it’s him.

And you know, suddenly, how this book will go. Not the story inside it, but the one stitched between ink and pencil.

He’s reading back through what you left behind.

You’re not the same people who wrote those first annotations. But maybe you’re not so far gone either.

You take the paper, press it flat. Find your pencil. Right beneath his question, you write:

No. But I didn’t know you’d want me to stay.

You close the book. Not with finality, but with the kind of silence that asks to be filled.

You place it gently in the staff returns box. Maybe he’ll find it tomorrow.

You hope so.

Because tomorrow, you might be brave enough to ask:

If we start from the same page now—can we rewrite the ending?

—

You don’t leave a letter this time.

You go back to the language you both understand best: margin notes and underlines. No explanations. No defenses. Just a pencil and enough space between the lines to finally say what you couldn’t before.

Page 77 is quiet. Not a major plot twist. Just dialogue between the book’s couple—characters who once mirrored the two of you so well, you’d laugh in disbelief. Now they feel like ghosts of what you had. Or maybe what you almost had.

Original line (underlined): “You never said anything.”

You underline it twice.

Then, in the left margin:

Annotation: I was scared you'd say, “I know.”

Beneath it, like a response arriving days later:

Wonwoo’s Annotation: I would’ve said, “Me too.”

You trace his words with your thumb, not because you need to feel them — but because you need to believe he meant them.

A few pages later, you find another note from him. This time not near a sad line. Just a throwaway phrase where the characters are laughing again, after too long apart.

“It’s still you,” she says, “even when you’re awful.”

His handwriting leans more open here:

Annotation: Sometimes I waited for you to get tired of me. I think I got there first. That’s the part I regret most.

You stare at it for a long time. That line doesn’t belong to just the book anymore.

In the margin across from it, you finally answer:

Annotation (yours): I was never tired. I was just waiting for you to come back.

On the next page, you find he’s already circled a phrase:

“Let’s just start where we left off.”

Underneath, a hesitant pencil scrawl:

Wonwoo’s Annotation: I don’t know where that is anymore.

You write back immediately.

Your Annotation: Then let’s start somewhere new.

—

The book is winding toward its climax now — the characters are still talking past each other, misunderstanding motives, assuming the worst. You wonder if they’ll make it in the end.

Wonwoo has underlined an entire paragraph this time, the first time he’s done that.

“I thought if I said something, I’d lose what little I still had of you. And silence… silence at least let me pretend nothing had changed.”

In the margin, his note:

Annotation: This is how I lost you anyway, isn’t it?

Your breath catches. You can picture him writing this—slowly, like it hurt. You almost don’t want to reply. Almost.

But you do. In the smallest handwriting you’ve used yet:

Annotation (yours): No. This is how we hurt each other.

A few pages later, he writes again. This time it’s beside a line where the female lead says, “I reread your old texts, even the ones where you said nothing. I made them mean something.”

Wonwoo’s Annotation: I still have your voice memos. You never said much. Just street noise. Humming. Once, you said, “Come home soon.”

You stare at that line so long, you forget to turn the page.

Eventually, you find the courage to write beside it.

Your Annotation: I meant it. I didn’t know how else to say I missed you.

The next margin is blank.

Not empty — just waiting.

And at the very bottom corner of page 110, almost tucked under the printing:

Wonwoo’s Annotation: Can we finish this one together? Just the last chapter. I’ll bring snacks. You bring whatever you forgave me with.

You don’t write anything back this time.

But you dog-ear the page.

—

Page 112 — A Line from the Male Lead: "I thought absence would make the heart grow fonder. Instead, it only made me forget the sound of your laugh."

Wonwoo’s Annotation: Funny how I remember the silence more than your laugh. I think I stopped listening.

Page 115 — Female Lead’s Confession: "I was scared of being vulnerable. So, I built walls of words I never said."

Your Annotation: I built walls too. Not with words — with quiet.

Page 118 — A Scene Where They Almost Talk: "If only I had said what I meant, maybe we wouldn’t be here."

Wonwoo’s Annotation: If only I could rewind just one conversation. I’d say I’m sorry differently.

Page 120 — A Simple Question from the Female Lead: "Do you still want to try?"

Your Annotation:I want to. But scared.

Wonwoo’s Annotation (written just below yours): Me too.

Page 122 — Male Lead’s Thought: "Love isn’t perfect. It’s messy, quiet, loud — it’s everything in between."

Wonwoo’s Annotation: Maybe that’s what we need to learn — to live in the in-between.

Page 124 — Male Lead’s Thought: "I never realized how much I missed the ordinary moments until they were gone."

Wonwoo’s Annotation: I miss the small things, too — your sigh when you’re tired, your smile after coffee.

Page 127 — Female Lead’s Whisper: "I thought you stopped caring. Maybe I was wrong."

Your Annotation: I stopped trying to hear you. Maybe I was wrong.

Wonwoo’s Annotation: We both were.

Page 130 — A Scene of Distance: "We were speaking, but never really listening."

Wonwoo’s Annotation: That’s the hardest part — to hear the silence between words.

Page 133 — Female Lead’s Hope: "Can we start over? Or is this just another ending?"

Your Annotation: I want to try, even if it’s messy.

Wonwoo’s Annotation: Me too. Messy is better than silent.

Page 135 — Male Lead’s Regret: "I should have held your hand tighter, instead of letting go."

Wonwoo’s Annotation: |I’m still holding on — just hoping you’ll take it again.

Page 138 — Male Lead’s Thought: "Maybe the hardest part is saying ‘I’m sorry’ first."

Wonwoo’s Annotation: I’m sorry, for all the words left unspoken between us.

Page 140 — Female Lead’s Whisper: "Sometimes the first step is the hardest, but also the most important."

Your Annotation: Then let’s take that step — together.

Page 143 — Male Lead’s Hope: "We might fall, but at least we’ll fall forward."

Wonwoo’s Annotation: If you reach out, I’ll catch you.

Page 146 — Female Lead’s Promise: "No more silence, no more distance."

Your Annotation: I’m ready to talk, to listen, and to be here.

Page 149 — Final Line in Book: "Love is imperfect. It’s messy. But it’s ours."

Wonwoo’s Annotation: Our story isn’t over yet — can we try, for real this time?

Your Annotation (written last): Between these pages, I found the courage I lost.

If your heart still whispers my name,

then let us write the next chapter,

not in silence, but together.

masterlist ♪

[purploozi]

“wedding dress.” ₍ h.js ₎

───── ABOUT you weren't a fan of big proposals, but you hadn't even put on your best outfit today!

⋆ 𝒘𝒄: 0.5k ⋆ 𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒆: fluff, est. rs, humour ⋆ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: bf!joshua x gn!reader ⋆ 𝒄𝒘: skinship, kissing (pecks), petnames (baby, princess (sarcasm))

A/N: inspired by my fav second couple jiang jia and guran 🥹🤍 always manifesting a guran for me!! It's been a while since my last shua drabble, and after seeing him with hannie yesterday I felt like writing for him too!

The exhaustion from shopping for wedding dresses for your best friend nearly the entire day had become nothing as soon as Joshua, your boyfriend, arrived to pick you up. And although you whined about him not bringing his car, he was well aware that you'd end up wanting to walk down the pretty streets and he'd have to abandon his car.

As expected, he was right.

Now, as you two walk hand-in-hand, you begin ranting about the pretty dresses at the mall, showing him a picture of each of them on your phone.

“This one is my favourite!” you say, sliding another picture on your phone. Joshua hums, a fond smile playing on his lips.

“And this one too! I want to wear this one so badly.” You sighed dramatically, putting your phone in your pocket.

“You want to?” Joshua looked at you, a soft smile grazing his lips as he saw your small pout. Without glancing at him, you nod, tightening your grip on his hand.

“But it's a wedding dress.” You sigh.

A twinkle of mischief flickered on his eyes as he thought of his next words. Without warning, he pulled you closer to his side.

“Don't worry, you’ll be wearing that very soon.” he teased, and when you snapped your head, he winked flirtatiously with a smile.

With widened eyes, you tried your best to stop the twitching of your lips. You looked away, acting normal (or trying to).

“Very bad flirting skills.”

“Hm? Really?” He teased again, dropping his voice to a much gentle and softer tone because that's how you like it.

“Well, I was thinking…” he began, his eyes never leaving your face. “Don't you think we should also—”

“No, no! You can't propose so casually! I'm dressed so awkwardly right now!” You gasped, putting your hands over your ears and picking up your pace to walk ahead faster. Joshua stood there dumbfounded, his hand that held yours frozen mid-air.

He registered your words, a chuckle escaping his lips as he turned to look at you, who was mumbling things about how “this wasn't your best outfit” or “you would've atleast took extra minutes getting ready”.

Joshua immediately caught up behind you, and the next thing you know, he pulls you right against his chest, trapping you in his hold.

“First of all,” he pecks your lips. “You look ethereal even without being in your best outfit or spending extra minutes to get ready.” He states as a matter of fact.

“And secondly,” he pecks the tip of your nose. “I wasn't proposing, baby. But if you want me to, I can do it right now.”

Your lips curved into a smile at his words. He mirrored your smile, his hand reaching to cradle your head.

“You don't need to. Because from the way you're sounding so down bad for me, I might wife you up right here.”

Joshua threw his head back in laughter, his eyes literally twinkling with amusement and love. You stare as he laughs with a grin, your hands instinctively reaching out to squish his cheeks.

“Then you’ll carry me in bridal style instead?” He chuckles, his silly question causing you to laugh too.

“Ofcourse, wifey, ofcourse.” You tease, pulling him down slightly to peck his lips.

“Oh wow, princess treatment, huh?” He remarked sassily as you pulled away, earning another laugh from you.

Whether it's Joshua giving princess treatment to you, or you giving him princess treatment—he’s happy with anything as long as it's your wish. For you, he's willing to become a housewife.

© KISSBYOON 2025. All rights reserved.

[purploozi]

Hiiii ! I'm so sorry I've been requesting a lot lately I know it's exam period so you can delay this all you want or just refuse it ❤️ can you do when you first started dating cheol after getting out of a toxic relationship and you weren't used to this kind of good treating( like him having the exact lipstick you usually put on in his pocket and also has a double of your exact perfume etc ) that you suspected him for cheating then apologising a 10000 times after finding out that he just cares about you and has a double for everything you own ? I'm so sorry I wrote a lot and good luck with your exams ❤️❤️❤️

Anonnn thank you for the good wishes (it worked) and never apologise for writing 😭 it took me a long time but the request is posted hope you enjoy it and that it was want you wanted~💜

[purploozi]

Three-Months Rule | Choi Seung Cheol

Pairing: Bf!Seungcheol X Reader

Genre: fluff with a bit of angst

Warning: mention of toxic past relationships, hurt but comfort right after it, petnames (babe, love)

Summary: Healing from old wounds takes time—and Seungcheol is willing to wait. But when love feels too good to be true, do you trust it…or run? W.Count: 1.187

You couldn’t be happier. Choi Seungcheol was the man. The way he treats you—gentle, attentive, thoughtful—it makes your heart feel full in ways it never did before. You catch yourself gushing about him more often than you realise…replaying the sweet things he says and does, the way he brushes your hair behind your ear and the look he gives you when he thinks you’re not watching. But the bubble popped the moment your friend casually asks “How long have you two been dating?”

And that’s when it hits you. Three months—it only has been three months. A chill creeps up your spine, draining all the warmth in your body. You swallow hard, fidgeting with the straw in your iced coffee as you try to laugh it off, but in your mind the clock started ticking. The infamous three-month mark. The breaking point. The test.

You excuse yourself from your friend, toss a bill on the table and walk out. The sunlight feels colder now. A familiar tightness coils in your chest as the ghosts of old relationships trail behind you—cheating, manipulation, control. You tell yourself Seungcheol is different. He’s never given you a reason to doubt him. But neither did the others—at first.

“She’s just a friend” he said, and you forgave him. Again and again…until forgiveness became a routine. “Stop being so paranoid!” he screamed before storming out. A few days after you found the texts, the lies.

His apartment door opens with a soft click and, without even thinking, you check the shoes at the entrance. Only his are there—and a few of yours that you sometimes leave there. No strange sneakers. No random heels. Your shoulders relax unconsciously as you step in. But then you see it, a lipstick on the coffee table. One that is not yours.

Did he buy it? Or did another woman leave it there?

“You’re being dramatic! My sister probably left it” but he didn’t have a sister. You cried with someone else’s earring on your hand as your ex just laughed it off.

You’ve seen this movie before. You know the twist. As your mind sinked in a spiral of memories the bathroom door clicks open and Seungcheol steps out, shirtless, towel slung low around his hips, hair damp, muscles flexing as he dries it. He looks like sin—and maybe he is.

“Babe…why didn’t you call me? I could’ve picked you up” Your heart tightens. Is he being controlling? Or just considerate? You point at the lipstick and your voice comes out sharper than you intended. “What is that, Seungcheol?”

He pauses mid step and looks between you and the table. “It was supposed to be a surprise…I remember you said you liked that one, so I got it for you.”

You remember showing him that lipstick in a store once, joking about how it was too expensive. But more than a gift it looks like some kind of trap now, is he trying to distract you? Your eyes narrow. “Don’t lie to me. It won’t work.” His expression changes, not defensive or angry…just, hurt. He was about to speak but you did before him, the memory of your past was pushing you to react. “Some girl left it, didn’t she? I thought you were different.”

He walks over slowly, careful, calm but firm. “Love, look at it. It’s sealed. Brand new. I bought it for you with the flowers…”

“Flowers?” And then you see them. Right next to the lipstick, a bouquet…still wrapped. Your breath stutters in your throat as shame floods your chest. You swallow hard. “I…I didn’t see them. I’m sorry. I just thought…”

“It’s okay” he cuts you softly with a gentle smile. “I understand the confusion. It does look weird…next time I’ll prepare your gifts better.” He kisses your forehead, but the guilt lingers inside of you.

He’s the kindest man you’ve dated. He explains things instead of exploding. He’s patient even when you accuse him. And what do you do in return? You doubt him. You tell yourself to relax, to let love feel safe for once—but even if you repeat it in your mind like a mantra, the seed is planted. As the days pass by the incidents like this keep repeating.

He’s driving now. One hand on the wheel, the other resting on your knee.

“You’ve been quiet, is something wrong?” he says gently, not even an ounce of accusation on his voice. You hold up a hair tie, one that you didn’t leave there.

“What is this?” he glances over quickly and then back to the road. “An extra. I keep it in the car in case you forget yours” You scoff and toss the hair tie towards the glovebox as if it were poisonous. You move your leg away, his hand falling off your knee.

“Babe…” his voice stays soft, calm. “You always forget them, and you get irritated when your hair falls in your face. You said it ruins your whole mood.” You stay quiet, because he is right, you did say that.

“You are just forgetful” and you are but that doesn't mean you are stupid. He had two girlfriends, you found out months later.

Your chest aches. You want to believe him, to trust again and give this love a fair chance…but the past has claws and it digs deeper every day.

You pretend to sleep for the rest of the ride, arms crossed and curled against the window. You feel his gaze in you but you don’t want to face him now, not because you are mad, but because you are scared. What if you are not able to love without waiting for the catch?

Later, you are sitting on his couch with one of his hoodies shielding you from the old shadows behind you. He gently sits by your side and his hand lays on your leg, it was strange but that gesture feels grounding. “You want to talk about it?”

You exhale slowly and shift to face him. You don’t want to talk about it, but there’s no sense in delaying the inevitable, right? If this is going to end better do it quickly. “Just…please tell me truth” Your voice is low, vulnerable.

“The truth is that I love you,” he said without wasting a second, no doubt in his voice “and because of that I want to understand. Why do you think I’m hiding things?”

You bite the inside of your cheek to stop the tears forming at the corner of your eyes. He keeps breaking all your fears with his steady demeanor, with his kind words and gentle way to treat you—and when you open your scars to him, he doesn’t scare away but instead he hugs you tightly.

“For now…could you trust me enough to let me try? Let me show you that love can be safe” he says and you melt into his embrace, he doesn’t rush the moment and he doesn't make promises either. He only asks you for a chance, for the trust you can give him now and no more. You want to try, because you feel that you don’t have to carry the weight of the past all alone, not anymore, not with Seungcheol by your side.

This was a request from anon. A small message for anyone who needs it: you don’t have to stay in something that hurts. Please keep yourself safe. You deserve love that feels like peace~💜

[purploozi]

I love rockstar Woozi so much 😭💜

oh woozi, never stop performing (⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠)⁠♡

[purploozi]

HXW — ECHO! (250711)

[purploozi]

I’M BACK (went missing for a few days but will start posting again) and also I’m finally on vacation so probably going to post (or at least try) more than once a week so send your requests~💜

[purploozi]

WONWOO Maestro @ MuBank (240503)

[purploozi]

S.COUPS ⚡️THUNDER stages

[purploozi]

UNTIL YOU KNOW ME

PAIRING: lee seokmin x f!reader | WC: 5.7K GENRE: reincarnation au | soulmate(?) au | angst with a happy ending | time is non-linear and also not real don't read into it too much imo.... WARNINGS: major character death, discussions of blood and weapons, heartbreak x 10000, Seokmin Just Needs A Hug.... A/N: for the 100 collab! thank you to @gyubakeries, @eclipsaria, @nerdycheol, and @shinysobi for hosting such a wonderful collab! | first fic in over a month! sorry I've been gone so long work SUCKS! but writing this was actually so refreshing. I really do enjoy putting Seokmin in Situations (i'm sorry darling boy)

SUMMARY: Seokmin has loved you 99 times. But in this life, just like every other, you don't remember. You never do. But Seomin? He remembers everything. Every goodbye. Every loss. Every time he almost kept you.

On the 47th time Seokmin fell in love with you, he realized it would be the 47th time he lost you, too.

For the first 46 times, he had been foolishly optimistic. For the first 46 times, he still thought himself a king, like he was the first time, his first life. But here, in the 47th (or what could have been his thousandth at this point), Seokmin watched you drop his hand—king of nothing, loser of everything.

He had thought the 47th time would be different. But then again, he had thought that about the 46th. 

In the 46th, he first saw you at the market, laughing—loud, unabashed, bright enough that every head turned toward you. You were tucked between crates of peaches and dried herbs, a smear of pomegranate staining your bottom lip, the sunlight catching in your lashes. A leather satchel hung from your shoulder, worn at the edges, and you walked like someone with places to be and time to waste. You didn’t even glance at him.

That life, Seokmin had sold ink. Hand-ground, bottled in glass, sealed with wax. You visited his stall every week, even though you barely needed supplies. You’d spend long minutes just standing there, brushing your fingers over the shelves like they were familiar somehow. You never lingered on him—but you always lingered.

You asked questions you already knew the answers to. You always added a little extra money to the pile of coins. Once, you’d looked at him for a second too long and said, “It’s strange. You feel like a face I dreamed about.”

Then you’d smiled, tossed a coin onto the table, and left.

You weren’t his, not in that life. You married a cartographer—a good man, Seokmin remembered. He hadn’t hated him. Smelled like cedarwood and carried maps that curled at the edges like flower petals. He’d watch you walk back to the cartographer’s booth, the hem of your skirts catching the breeze, your satchel bouncing against your hip, and think—at least she’s happy.

You died giving birth to your second child. Seokmin found out from a friend of a friend. He didn’t go to the funeral.

And still, your absence gnawed at him in ways he never admitted aloud. He hated himself for thinking it stung a little less that time. Like grief was something you could grow used to.

He closed the stall early the next day. Burned every ledger with your name in it.

This time, in the 47th, you had been the one to say his name first. In this life, you were a singer. Jazz, mostly—low, smoky notes that curled through the air like perfume. He heard your voice before he saw you, carrying out the back of a bar he hadn’t meant to stop at. It had been years—lifetimes—since he last found you, and hearing you again hit him like a blow to the chest.

He’d stepped outside to clear his head. The alley behind the bar was quiet except for the scrape of a match. When he turned, you were already leaning against the brick wall, a cigarette balanced between your fingers.

“You got a light?” you asked.

He fumbled with his lighter. “Yeah. Here.”

Your fingers brushed his as you took it. Your touch felt exactly the same. You lit your cigarette, exhaled a ribbon of smoke, and looked at him for a beat too long.

“What’s your name?” you asked.

“Seokmin.”

You smiled. “Seokmin,” you repeated, like it tasted good on your tongue. “I feel like I’ve said that before.”

Later that week, you sang for him alone. After the last show, after everyone else had gone. You stood barefoot in the dressing room, still in your stage makeup, and sang something soft and unhurried. He watched you from the chair, hands clasped between his knees, trying not to hold his breath.

In that life, you let him stay.

You fell asleep with your hand curled into the front of his shirt. You let him make you breakfast. You danced with him barefoot on cold tile floors, laughed at his terrible jokes, pulled him into bed when you were too tired to talk. You never once said the word soulmate, but some mornings you looked at him like you were starting to remember.

He almost believed the curse was lifting.

Three weeks later, he read in the paper that the bar had been raided. Police found illegal opium stashed under the floorboards. One casualty. Female. Unnamed. Mid-twenties.

He read the sentence again. And again. The words didn’t change.

He didn’t even finish the article. Just threw the paper into the fire and stood in front of it until the smoke made his eyes sting. He didn’t speak for days. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t breathe without hearing your voice in his ears.

The worst part was that it was different, this time. You’d let him love you. You’d leaned into it. And for a moment—just long enough to hurt—he’d thought you might stay.

When the fire burned low in the hearth, and your scarf still hung on the back of the chair, Seokmin realized he was already mourning the 48th.

The first time he had known you, truly known you, he had worn a crown made of thorns and gold.

The thorns were metaphor, at first: guilt threaded through power, a boy-king raised too fast, carved sharp by grief and coronation. But over time, the weight grew real. Heavy. Gilded. Cutting. On colder nights, he would remove it and find faint red grooves across his temples, like the memory of someone’s fingers pressing too tight.

You had never touched the crown. You never bowed, either, not when the court looked on, not when his voice carried over the fields and froze armies in their march. Your head only ever inclined out of habit, not reverence.

You were not a queen. You had never wanted to be. You had been his warhound. His iron nerve. His blade and the hand that steadied it. You walked three steps behind him in court: silent, precise, eyes ever-moving. But in battle, you rode so close your knees brushed. He had memorized the rhythm of your breathing beside him: steady as the northern wind, sure as thunderclouds in spring. He trusted you more than he trusted his gods.

You bled for him, once.

An assassin’s blade had found its mark, but not the one it sought. He remembered the scream—his own—and how it had barely broken free before you collapsed. Steel had kissed your ribs. You had grabbed the attacker by the hair and run them through before falling.

That night, he paced the length of the war tent, blood soaked through his hands, staining the floor in places the servants would scrub for hours. The physicians had whispered, muttered things about odds and infection and prayers.

But you had lived.

And he had never again worn his crown without hearing your ribs break beneath his fingers.

He never said thank you. You never asked him to.

After, something shifted.

He began reaching for your wrist before any decree. You no longer waited to be summoned. He told his advisors he did not dream. You knew he did. (You were the only one who stayed when he woke screaming.)

And then, the witch came. 

Not cloaked, not veiled, not smoke and shadow. No, she came clothed in grief. In mourning black, with a spine stiff from loss and a voice that broke on the names of her sons. She stood in chains before the court, and the king stood tall as justice was read to her face.

But he flinched when her eyes found you.

Because the witch saw it. The way his gaze darted to you first. Always first. The way he moved closer to you without realizing, even now, even here. The way his hand curled—not around his crown—but around the hilt of his sword, every time her voice rose.

“You strung my children in your gallows,” she said, voice dry as sand. “For every son I buried, you will live a life. And in each one, you will find her again.”

The court murmured. The king stilled.

“And in each one,” she whispered, “she will not know you.”

He tried to kill her then. Blade unsheathed, a scream tearing from his throat. But the magic had already rippled through the chamber, warping the air. By the time his steel reached her, she had turned to dust.

He fell to his knees in it. In her. In the curse that still trembled on the marble floor.

He had dreamed of you, every night before the curse. After, he dreamed only of losing you.

He never told you what the witch said. Maybe he should have. Maybe you would’ve believed him. But how could he? How could he say, I think I’m going to lose you for a hundred lifetimes, and still hold you like it wasn’t already happening?

He tried to make the most of it. He held your hand longer. He stole minutes, lingered in rooms just to watch you fasten your cloak or pull your hair back with a cord. He memorized the scar on your collarbone, the way your mouth curved when you were amused but trying not to show it.

And when the end came—when a blade meant for him found your heart instead—he didn’t scream.

He only whispered, “Please. Not yet.” And somewhere, in the distance, the witch laughed.

The next time he woke, he was in a crib. Small hands. Weaker lungs. No crown.

But still, even as a child, he dreamed of you.

And he remembered everything.

In the 19th life, you had been a lighthouse keeper’s daughter.

A quiet girl, born of fog and brine, made of solitude and wind-whipped cliffs. You spoke with your hands more than your mouth. You hummed sea shanties under your breath and slept in a narrow bed beneath a round window that framed the moon like a portrait.

The nights were long. You were used to ghosts.

That life, Seokmin came to you in a storm; not a man so much as a memory trying to remember itself. His ship had shattered itself against the rocks sometime before dawn. You found him tangled in a net of driftwood and broken oaths, sea-foam in his lashes, a gash on his forehead like something the ocean had kissed and bitten in the same breath.

You dragged him inland, breathless and barefoot, the hem of your nightgown soaking in salt. He coughed up seawater and a name you didn’t recognize.

When he woke, it was to the sound of your fire and the creak of old wood settling in your cottage walls. He bled on your sheets. He slept in your father’s clothes.

You fed him soup without asking questions. He answered them anyway.

“My brother,” he said, fingers twitching against the wool blanket. “The sea took him.”

You didn’t tell him the sea takes everyone, eventually.

He watched you when you weren’t looking. You always were—looking, that is. Out toward the rocks. Up at the sky. Across the slow breath of the sea. But never at him.

Still, you brought him what warmth you could: your silence, your bread, your presence. And he, in return, gave you stories of constellations; of stolen ports and stars that guided without mercy; of the ship he had sailed, black-flagged and silver-rigged, bearing the symbol of your father’s enemy.

He didn’t know you had kept the flag.

Your father did.

He found it three days later, soaked and tangled in the wreckage like a secret unraveling.

He came home with the wind behind him and blood already in his eyes. The storm had passed, but it howled still in the bones of your home.

You stood between them — the man you had nursed back into life, and the man who had given you yours.

“Please,” you said, your voice cracking like driftwood underfoot. “He didn’t come here to fight.”

But your father had known too many men like him. Men with soft eyes and hidden blades. Men who flew foreign flags and left entire villages burning in their wake.

Seokmin tried to stand. He was still weak. Still foolish. Still yours.

“I would never hurt her,” he said, voice hoarse, hands raised as if in prayer.

But prayers are no match for grief. And your father’s blade was already moving.

The hunting knife sank in just below the ribs. 

Small. Cruel. Inevitable.

Seokmin tasted iron. Then salt.

Then the press of your hand over the wound, trembling, desperate, too late.

You cradled his face like something fragile and fading. Like driftglass worn smooth by time.

“Why does it feel like we’ve done this before?” you whispered, tears carving salt lines down your cheeks. “Why does this feel like an ending I already know?”

He opened his mouth.

He wanted to tell you: Because it is. Because I’ve loved you this way before. Because I always lose you.But his lungs were filling, and your hands were shaking, and the candlelight was flickering like it knew what came next.

So instead, he closed his eyes and let the sea take him again.

Death came easy, the 19th time. Almost like falling asleep to your voice.

He never woke from that dream. Not until the 20th.

In the third life, you had been a thief, laughing as you ran, skirts hiked, hair wild like a storm had fallen in love with you.

Seokmin had been a soldier then: duty-bound, spine straight, boots loud. He’d seen you first at the edge of the market square, slipping an apple into the folds of your shawl with a wink at the grocer. You’d moved like a secret, like the city itself was built to part for you. You were sunlight in the cracks of stone, mischief bottled in human form.

He hadn’t meant to follow you.

But that’s the thing about you. You happened to him. Like falling. Like gravity.

He chased you through alleyways for reasons even he didn’t understand—at first because it was his job, then because it was you.

You let him catch you once.

Once.

You turned around in the dark, lantern light catching the gold flecks in your eyes. “You’re not very good at this,” you told him, grinning as you pressed him to the wall. “A real guard would’ve cuffed me by now.”

“I forgot the cuffs,” he’d said, heart stuttering.

You laughed into his collarbone.

You were made of quick fingers and quicker stories. You never told him your real name.

You whistled as you walked. Stole buttons from his coat just to stitch them into your own. Called him “soldier boy” until he stopped asking you not to.

He kissed you like he didn’t know it would end. Like maybe it wouldn’t. And you let him. You let him want you.

The last time he saw you, your laugh echoed too far ahead.

You had stolen something you shouldn’t have—something political, or dangerous, or cursed. He couldn’t remember now. Only that you had turned and run, and he had followed.

You were already bleeding when he caught up.

A blade between your shoulder blades. A pool of red blooming at your spine like the worst kind of flower.

You collapsed in his arms, breath catching like it didn’t know whether to stay or go.

Even then, you looked up at him and smiled. Like he was the one who had stolen something. Like he was the lucky one.

“You almost had me,” you whispered, voice broken but bright.

He pressed his forehead to yours and lied. “I’ll find you next time.”

You died before he got the last word out.

In that life, he carved your name into the hilt of his blade. Even though you never gave it to him. Even though you never said it once. Even though he wasn’t sure it had been real.

Still, he wrote it in the steel.

Seokmin thinks the lives where he doesn’t see you die are the worst of all.

When death comes suddenly—when he holds your body in his arms, when your final breath stutters against his skin—there is at least a shape to the grief. An ending, cruel and sharp, but certain.

But the lives where you just fade? Where you disappear in the blur of traffic, or laughter, or time? Where you leave without knowing him, without ever realizing what you meant, who you were—those are the ones that ruin him slowly.

There’s no body to mourn. No grave to kneel before. Only the ache of unfinished things. Unkissed mouths. Unspoken names. An entire love story dissolving like fog in morning sun.

He tells himself it’s mercy, that maybe not seeing the end means there wasn’t one. But deep down, he knows better.

The 88th time, he’d been your professor.

He knew it the second you walked into his lecture hall: late, breathless, a pen tucked behind your ear, hair still damp from the rain. You slid into a seat near the back, opened your notebook with fingers that trembled from the cold. You didn’t look at him once that entire hour. Not when he stammered over a line of Yeats that reminded him of the 9th life, or when he dropped his chalk mid-sentence because you had tilted your head in the exact way you used to when you were a queen’s ghost in his bed.

He pretended not to notice you. Tried to be good. Tried to be just a man teaching literature to a room full of strangers. But you weren’t a stranger. Not to him. You were the poem.

You stayed after class one day, weeks in, to ask about a line in The Waste Land. You tapped your pen on the margin like you always did when you were thinking. He watched the ink smudge on your thumb, the same way it had when you'd written him battle reports by candlelight in your first life. You said, “It’s funny, this part—about memory being a kind of burden.” And you laughed.

He forgot how to breathe for a moment. Because for him, memory was everything. And it was crushing him.

He resigned two weeks later. Left behind a half-finished syllabus and a note to the department chair. You never saw him again. But he saw you, from a distance, months later, laughing in the courtyard with someone else, your copy of Eliot annotated to death. You had underlined the line "These fragments I have shored against my ruins."

So had he.

The 72nd time, he was your neighbor. Third floor, two windows across.

You liked to play music late at night—old jazz, mostly. Sometimes rock. Sometimes nothing at all, just the clink of a spoon against ceramic as you stirred your tea. He watched the glow of your lamp through the blinds, a moth to something warm and unreachable.

You passed each other in the hallway every morning. You wore headphones, always. He would nod. You’d smile, distracted, polite. Once, you left your laundry basket in the communal room and he guarded it like a temple, sitting cross-legged in front of it with his back against the dryer until you returned. You thanked him with a granola bar and said, “You’re sweet.”

He wanted to tell you that once you had sewn up the wound in his side with your bare hands. That once you had taught him how to peel mangoes with a knife curved like a crescent moon. That once you had died cradled in his lap, whispering a name he hadn’t used in that life—but it was his all the same.

But all he said was, “Anytime.”

You moved out six months later. He never saw where you went.

But for years after, he still left his window open at night, waiting for the sound of your record player.

The 91st time was different.

You met in a secondhand bookstore. It was raining, the kind of rain that turned the city soft and slow. You were in the classics aisle, thumbing the cracked spine of a copy of Wuthering Heights like you couldn’t decide whether to take it home. You looked up when he reached for the same shelf.

He should’ve walked away.

Instead, he picked up the book and offered it to you, holding it out with a sheepish grin. “You look like you’d like this.”

You tilted your head at him. “That obvious?”

He didn’t know what came over him then—maybe it was the scent of the rain in your hair, or the shape of your mouth on a word like obvious—but he said, “You just remind me of someone who once loved tragic things.”

Your eyes narrowed. “And how’d that end for her?”

He could’ve said: with a sword through her chest in a burning chapel or: with your hand in mine on a battlefield, dying with your mouth full of my name or: you don’t want to know, not really.

But instead, he smiled and shrugged. “She loved anyway.”

You paid for the book. Wrote your number on the receipt. Said, “Just in case you have any other doomed recommendations.”

For three weeks, you met in quiet corners of the city. Cafés, museums, bookstores with creaky floors. You kissed him in a park under a jacaranda tree, your hands in his hair, and he thought—please, this time. Just this once.

But the dreams came.

You woke up one night, tangled in his sheets, your breath short, a name you didn’t recognize on your lips. You stared at him like he was a ghost. And maybe he was.

The next morning, your number stopped working.

He never returned to that bookstore.

Time no longer moved straight for him. It twisted, coiled like smoke in a sealed jar, writhing just out of his grasp. It folded in on itself, looped through seams he couldn’t stitch shut. Days became out-of-order photographs, blurred at the edges. Sometimes he woke with dirt beneath his fingernails and someone else’s name on his lips. Other times he woke mid-sentence, his voice hoarse, body trembling, your name already half-formed in his throat before he could stop it.

He’d come to in the middle of moments he hadn’t yet earned.

One time, he opened his eyes and your hand was in his. Candlelight flickered across your features, dancing shadows onto the wall, and you were laughing. Your smile was soft and wine-stained, and he thought, pleasepleasepleaseplease don’t let this be the middle or the end. Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease let this be the beginning.

But then the world exhaled, and so did you. And just like that, you let go. The wax had melted too far. The moment was already behind him.

He was always late. Or far too early.

Once, he walked past a street performance in a rainy city, the smell of chestnuts thick in the air, and a violinist was playing your song. You were in the crowd, arms linked with someone else. You didn’t look his way. That was the 59th life. You’d been happy. He’d gone home alone and carved your name into the baseboard with a penknife.

There were lives where he found you on accident: caught in laughter in a passing car, your head tipped back, wind in your hair. He'd pull over. He’d get out. He’d run after you. By then, it was always too late. Always.

And then there were lives where he lived entire decades without knowing you were there. Lives where your name never passed his lips, but his dreams were full of you anyway. Your eyes in faces of strangers. Your laugh hiding behind glass storefronts and voices on the radio.

Once, he met you on the first day.

He had blinked into existence and there you were, leaning over a record store counter, your chin in your palm, chewing a pencil that had no eraser left.

You didn’t even look up as he entered. “New here?” you asked, thumbing through a crate of old CDs.

He couldn’t speak. Could only nod.

You turned then, slid him a mix tape in a clear case with handwritten words across the label: for the sad boys.

You raised an eyebrow. “You look like one of them.”

And then—God, then—you smiled.

Not the kind of smile made for anyone else. The kind he remembered from lifetimes ago, before curses, before loss. The kind you gave him when you’d collapse into a tent after battle, dirt on your cheek and blood on your blade, and he would press his forehead to yours and whisper, you made it. That smile.

He didn’t breathe until he was out the door.

In his 98th life, he kept that tape in the top drawer of his nightstand. Even when the store burned down. Even when you left before winter. He never played it. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to know what songs you’d chosen. He didn’t want the sound of your past to be louder than your memory.

And still, some nights, when the silence stretched thin and the moonlight spilled like milk across the floor, he’d take it out of its case. Run his fingers over the letters, worn down by time and hope. He'd hold it to his chest and listen, not to the music, but to what was missing.

You always felt just out of reach. Like a word he once knew. A breath he hadn’t finished taking. A promise made on a night neither of you could remember.

And the worst part was this: You didn’t know he was waiting. You never did.

By the 99th, he no longer prayed for you to remember.

He didn’t beg the stars, didn’t barter with fate, didn’t scream into the ocean the way he had in the 57th life. Didn’t offer up his name like a chant or a wound. No, by then, Seokmin asked for nothing more than time. A brief stay. A held breath. A quiet life, even if it flickered out too soon.

In the 99th, he found you behind a glass door painted with chipped celestial decals, a crescent moon flaking off the ‘o’ in “OPEN,” a trail of stars skimming the corner of the window like they were escaping. The bell chimed as he stepped in, sharp and unkind.

You looked up. You wore a threadbare tank top and boredom like armor, curled on a stool, a single earbud tucked under your hoodie’s drawstring. The whir of a needle hummed from the back room. He thought, just for a moment, that he’d walked into a dream stitched together from old memories. But no, it was you, older, sharper, your smile missing. You hadn’t seen him yet.

He didn’t know what compelled him to speak. Maybe it was the ache in his chest. Maybe it was the way his heart clenched like it always did when it sensed you in the room.

“I don’t have an appointment,” he’d said, voice unsteady.

You glanced at the empty chairs, then at him — his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve, his breath shallow.

“No one does anymore,” you replied, voice dry. “Sit.”

He lowered himself into the cracked leather chair like a man about to confess.

You set your gloves on with the kind of efficiency that told him you were good at this — careful hands, precise eyes, the kind of focus that once won wars in other lives. You didn’t ask many questions. Just raised a brow as you prepped the machine.

“What are we doing?”

“A sun,” he said. “Small. Over the heart.”

You didn’t laugh. Just nodded.

“Bold placement,” you murmured, your touch ghosting across his chest as you wiped the spot clean. Your fingers were cold. He felt his ribs shudder under them.

When the needle buzzed to life, he barely flinched. Pain was easy now. Familiar. It grounded him, steadied his breathing. He focused instead on your face: the soft crease between your brows, the way your mouth tugged slightly to one side in concentration. The same mouth that had once commanded armies. That had once kissed him behind a curtain of falling snow. That had once whispered his name as you drowned in the 34th life.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to.

The silence between you was velvet-lined, thick with memory he could not share.

But then, when it was over—when the ink had settled beneath his skin, permanent and small like a secret—you lingered.

You stared at the sun, your thumb brushing gently around it, not quite touching.

You tilted your head.

“Feels familiar,” you said.

The words weren’t soft. They were hushed. Like they didn’t belong to the present at all. Like they’d spilled out from another life by accident.

Seokmin’s throat tightened.

He wanted to say, It’s because you’ve drawn it before. On my wrist, in the 18th life, when we were both seventeen and on the run. Or the 42nd, when you painted it in the sky for me with fireflies. Or the 65th, when you carved it into the bark of an apple tree and told me you’d always come back.

But he didn’t say any of that.

He just nodded. Quiet. Reverent. Grateful.

And you didn’t press.

He left with a bandage over his heart and the ghost of your fingers still clinging to his skin.

He didn’t ask for your number.

He didn’t need it.

You were always a life away.

And this one was almost over.

When his 100th life comes, Seokmin almost forgets.

Time, by then, is waterlogged: bloated, heavy, slipping through his fingers before he can name it. He wakes sometimes and feels seventeen. Other days, he’s all of them at once: soldier, scholar, ghost, god. There are lifetimes he can no longer separate from dreams. Some where he knows he died before you. Others where you didn’t die at all, just vanished, like smoke trailing from the edge of a candle, leaving him in the dark.

But in this life—in his 100th—Seokmin finds himself with a crown on his head and your hand in his.

It startles him. The symmetry. The cruelty of it. Or maybe it’s mercy. He hasn’t decided yet.

The palace is quieter than he remembers. Not the gold-dripping empire of his first life, where bells tolled and sycophants bowed. This one is quieter. Older. Cracks in the stone. Ivy on the columns. A throne made of wood instead of war.

He looks down, and there you are: fingers woven between his, knuckles familiar.

You’re not in armor this time. No blood on your boots. You wear blue. The soft kind. The same blue as the ink that once stained your hands, satchel heavy with pomegranate. The same ink you dabbed on his trembling skin as he told you he wanted a sun on his chest. Permanent. Just above the heart. The fabric sways when you move, like you’ve never known a battlefield. 

But your gaze?

Your gaze is sharp as ever. It slices through the years. Finds him like it always does.

And this time—this time—it lingers.

There’s something different in your eyes. Not just fondness. Not just fate.

Recognition.

He swallows.

You smile. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’ve seen you,” he says, and it’s the closest he’ll ever come to falling to his knees.

You smile at him as the court rises, as banners are unfurled above their heads.

He lifts his eyes to the crest on the silk.

A sun.

Gold and jagged and familiar, encrusted in diamonds atop your crown.

You wear it differently than he ever imagined. Not like royalty. Not like a symbol. You wear it like it’s always been yours. As if, somewhere in you, your hands remember what it was to trace its shape onto his skin. Onto tree bark. Onto war maps. Onto history.

He turns to you, and for a moment, you're no longer queen—you’re the daughter of the man who had once stood on a gallows, made martyr by the very flag Seokmin now rules under. You had screamed that day—not words, just grief. And even as they pulled you away, he had met your eyes. In that life, his 23rd, you never forgave him.

But in this one, your palm finds his. And stays.

You lean in, as the crowd dissolves around you, a blur of robes and oaths and rustling pageantry.

“I had a dream last night,” you say, soft and faraway. “We were in a forest. I had a sword. You were bleeding. I held your face and told you not to die.”

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Did I?”

“No,” you whisper, brushing your thumb across the inside of his wrist, where he swears the skin still remembers the kisses you pressed there 43 lives ago. “You came back.”

The throne behind you is carved wood. No gold. No fanfare. Ivy spills from its corners like it’s always been part of the earth. And maybe it has. Maybe this kingdom is a little quieter, a little humbler, shaped by all the lives he never got to finish. All the ones he watched you slip through like sand.

But here—in this 100th, his last—he thinks maybe it was all worth it.

Because when he looks at you now, all the pieces come together. You laugh with the same mouth that once kissed him behind a bookshop, that once shouted orders on horseback. You smile like a thief who never got caught. You hold his hand like a promise.

And when you kiss him,  it tastes like ink and salt and rain.

He feels it then: every life pooling into this one.

Every sun he ever wore.

Every name you ever said, even when you didn’t know why it made your chest ache.

Every version of love that wasn’t enough—until now.

Until you.

Until you knew him.

And this time, he doesn’t need to pray.

This time, he just stays.

[purploozi]

𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗺𝗲 | k.sy

a/n: i kid you not. this fic was busted out in like 24 hours. dont ask how im capable of this sorcery bcs idk myself. on a much more angsty note, soonyoung im so sorry ilysm :( writing angst is my default mode, and i had literally no other ideas. writing this fic was a wild journey, and a little part of me broke because of all this angst, but maybe im just dramatic

thank you ro ( @shinysobi ) for telling me i should twin with our fics, because writing angst is like second nature. thank you rae ( @nerdycheol ) and yuki ( @eclipsaria ) for jumping onto this shipwreck with me and helping me save it (also for being my personal google throughout this fic) major shout-out to kirsten ( @naniwatig3r ) for coming in clutch with the finishing touch i needed to end this monster of a fic.

lastly, thank you bella ( @bella-feed ), sana ( @sanaxo-o ) and catalina ( @dokyumms ) for hosting this event and giving me a chance to write this fic! im usually always writing mingyu, so this was a good challenge :)

word count: 7.8k contents: soonyoung x f!reader , idol!au , idol!soonyoung , designer!reader , inspired by the song if you leave me by seventeen , angst , lots of angst , two (2) angsty rain scenes because rae encouraged me , friends to maybe lovers to wtf is happening dawg , reader is not likable , reader lives in self destruct mode , hurt no comfort , no happy ending , sorry hoshi my tiger baby

soonyoung is never the first one to leave the practice room. he’s the one that stays back after everyone’s gone home, practicing every step of the choreography down to it’s finest details.

lately, however, jihoon has been noticing the way soonyoung is the first to pack his things and leave the practice room, and it confuses him.

he doesn’t probe into this unusual behaviour. the smile soonyoung has on his face as he runs out is something he hasn’t seen much of either, so he lets it slide.

today, too, jihoon sees seungcheol walk up to soonyoung to invite him over for dinner and drinks, but soonyoung barely gives much of an explanation before he’s shaking his head, grabbing his bag, and leaving the room.

“weird boy,” seungcheol mutters to himself, and jihoon couldn’t agree any less.

. . . . .

“y/n! wait up!” a loud yell stops you in your tracks, and you turn to see someone run towards you, their hair covered with a cap, and a mask hiding their face.

other people walking past you on the sidewalk wouldn’t be able to recognize the person, but you could easily tell from the worn-out pink flannel shirt and the expensive sneakers that it was kwon soonyoung, a.k.a hoshi from seventeen, calling out your name.

“you idiot! why are you yelling in the middle of the street,” you whisper-yell when soonyoung is close enough to hear you. “what if someone recognizes you?”

“don’t worry, i’ll take care of it,” he replies, as enthusiastic as ever. “i’m sorry i’m running late, dance practice took a lot of time to wrap up. shall we go?”

it takes you a split second too long to realize that soonyoung is now holding your wrist and gently tugging you along with him towards the restaurant you both are now very familiar with. any other day, you would’ve told him to stop instantly, but today for some reason, you let your hand be held by the person you want but can’t have.

seokmin is sure he’s never seen soonyoung like this: prescription glasses hanging off his nose, new tablet clutched in his hands, and his tired body sprawled across the couch in his apartment. even his flatmate, hansol, shrugs his shoulders when seokmin silently gestures towards soonyoung.

“dokyeom-ah, i need your help with something,” soonyoung calls out, and seokmin warily approaches him, taking a seat on the couch and leaning over soonyoung’s shoulder to take a look at his screen.

“what are you doing?” seokmin asks, thoroughly confused by the poster displayed on soonyoung’s screen. “don’t tell me you’re leaving seventeen to become a graphic designer.”

“and leave you in BSS with seungkwan? no chance,” soonyoung laughs. “you have a good eye for designs and stuff, so i needed your opinion on this. doesn’t it look like it’s missing something?”

“what is this even for?” seokmin questions, eyes running over the words on the poster. “do you have a side hustle at a magazine?”

“it’s…. for a friend,” soonyoung says, not revealing much. “i told them i’d help them out, and i need you for that. i’ll buy you dinner tomorrow if you help, please?”

seokmin agrees easily, but he can’t help but wonder which friend of soonyoung’s is so close to him that they have him designing posters. he also can’t stop thinking about how soonyoung’s face had turned pink at the mention of this ‘friend.’

seokmin wonders if soonyoung’s friend is just a friend.

. . . . .

“this is genius,” you say, looking at the file soonyoung sent you. in the seat across from you, soonyoung squirms with happiness, his chest swelling with pride. “you really didn’t have to do all this, soonyoung. i thought you said you were only going to look for inspo pictures on pinterest.”

“i just had a random stroke of creativity,” soonyoung shrugs. “it’s not that big of a deal. besides, i haven’t forgotten about our deal.”

your shoulders deflate with the sigh you let out. “soonyoung, i never agreed to that deal. you know we can’t— we can’t be like that. and if you’re getting the wrong idea from all this, we can’t keep meeting anymore.”

you don’t think you’ve seen this much fear in soonyoung’s eyes, not since his trainee days, when he wasn’t sure if he’d even debut. but today, he looks scared, almost desperate, when he places his hand over yours just as you’re about to leave the table.

“don’t. don’t leave,” he shakes his head. “i’ll stop with the deal and everything, i promise. just don’t say you won’t let me see you anymore.”

you don’t hesitate to agree, not when every muscle in your body keeps you rooted to the chair at the restaurant that has seen you more than your parents have.

when soonyoung walks you home later that night, you almost blurt out an apology, but you know that apologizing for your own cowardice only proves that it’s real.

“are you done taking what you need?” junhui asks, looking down the aisle to see soonyoung waddling towards him, arms full of snacks and drinks.

“yep! all done,” soonyoung nods, carefully placing all the items in his arms in the basket junhui is carrying.

“when i said i’d pay for you, i didn’t intend on buying out the entire snack aisle,” junhui sighs, carrying the basket over to the cashier and placing it on the counter with a loud thud.

“you love me, and so does your wallet,” soonyoung replies with a cheeky grin, making exaggerated pouty faces at junhui.

junhui only rolls his eyes at soonyoung. he watches the cashier scan every item, when he notices something unfamiliar.

“wait, did you accidentally get the sour lemon gummies? i thought you didn’t like sour stuff?” junhui asks, and soonyoung’s eyes widen like he’s been caught stealing food off mingyu’s plate.

“it’s not for me,” soonyoung replies awkwardly, scratching the back of his head. he’s saved from further questioning when the cashier reads out the total bill amount and junhui fishes his wallet out from his pocket.

later, when they’re outside the convenience store, junhui reaches into the grocery bag to retrieve the lemon gummies. “so, who is this for? is it your token of appreciation for me?”

“you wish,” soonyoung scoffs, snatching the packet out of junhui’s hands. “it’s for someone else.”

“and is this ‘someone’ the ‘friend’ you were helping out last week?” junhui raises an eyebrow at him. “seokmin told me about it.”

“how does it matter even if it is?” soonyoung crosses his arms defensively. “they’re just a friend, that’s all.”

the sigh that leaves soonyoung’s mouth after that sentence makes junhui think that maybe a friendship isn’t what soonyoung wants from his ‘friend.’

. . . . .

“wait, you remembered i like these?” you gasp, seeing the packet of lemon-flavoured jellies in soonyoung’s hands when he meets you at your usual restaurant. 

“well, friends remember things about each other,” soonyoung states matter-of-factly. “good friends do at least, because you don’t seem to remember a thing about me.”

“i never said i was going to be a good friend to you,” you retort, holding back a laugh at soonyoung’s unconscious pout when you tease him. “anyway, i didn’t say i needed any help today. why did you ask me to meet you for dinner?”

“you came, didn’t you?” soonyoung challenges. “it’s a routine for me now, anyway, and i didn’t feel like breaking it.”

you feel taken aback momentarily, realizing that no matter how much you’re always shutting down soonyoung’s advances, you almost always say yes to him. clearing your throat, you say, “since you called me, it’s your treat.”

“i don’t mind paying,” soonyoung chuckles. “go on, order whatever you want.”

after dinner, and after soonyoung has walked you back to your house, you lay in bed and stare up at the ceiling. your phone is lazily clutched in your hand, fingers itching to pull up soonyoung’s contact and text him, i remember. i remember things about you. i remember the way you scrunch your nose when you want to stop yourself from sneezing, the way you push your hair back with your hands when you feel frustrated, the way you smile at someone when you’re in love with them.

—

to: kwon soonyoung

i remember how much i loved you| i remember how much|

i remember|

dinner on monday? need to design the monthly magazine’s cover page

sent at 2:46 a.m.

from: kwon soonyoung

i’ll be there :) 

sent at 2:47 a.m.

“what are your dinner plans?” minghao asks soonyoung. the fitting for their upcoming tour outfits just got over, and all the members are leaving in groups for dinner.

“nothing much,” soonyoung shrugs. “want to go get kimchi jjigae?”

there’s a good restaurant at a walking distance from the hybe building, but the heavy rain pouring down when they’re about to exit the building makes minghao and soonyoung take one of the company cars to the restaurant instead.

they’re in the elevator alone, going down to the basement, when minghao decides that it’s a good time to interrogate soonyoung on his recent behaviour.

“you know, everyone’s been thinking you’re acting… different,” minghao starts casually, not wanting to alarm soonyoung abruptly. “is everything alright?”

“what? i’m still the same,” soonyoung laughs. “more importantly, why have you all been discussing me?”

“we’re not discussing,” minghao shakes his head, the elevator doors opening to the basement. “you’re just acting unusual, and we’re noticing it. if you wanna talk about it, you can—”

“wait, what date is it today?” soonyoung interrupts him just as they’re about to open the doors to the car. 

“uh, the twenty-eighth,” minghao says, checking his phone, and he watches how soonyoung’s face drains of all color as he realizes something important.

“shit, i need to go,” soonyoung mutters to himself, pulling out his phone and rapidly typing something on his screen.

“go where? i’ll drop you off,” minghao offers, but his words fall on deaf ears. soonyoung is already running back to the elevators, which take him up to the lobby of the building, and out on the street.

the rain doesn’t let up in the slightest, but soonyoung doesn’t seem to care much about it as minghao watches him run like a madman when the car pulls out on the street.

he should lower his window and yell at soonyoung to get in the car, but he’s never seen him this frantic to get somewhere. minghao decides to trust soonyoung’s crazy antics this time, and silently shakes his head at the driver when he asks if soonyoung needs to be picked up.

. . . . .

“is this what good friends do?” a scoff from you has soonyoung’s heart crumbling. “you left me waiting here in the rain, on my birthday, and you couldn’t even call, or text—”

“it’s not like you’re waiting for it!” a cornered soonyoung isn’t a rational one, and the words leave him before he can process them. “you’re always telling me how i shouldn’t be meeting you, have feelings for you, or contact you, yet you’re the one giving me shit for not texting you?”

“i just—i assumed you’d show up,” your voice is considerably softer, now that you really understand what soonyoung is saying. the loud rain doesn’t do much to mask your voice, however, because soonyoung hears you loud and clear.

“well, that’s where you’re wrong,” soonyoung chuckles mirthlessly. “you’ve just taken me for  granted all over again, y/n. you think that you can get me to do whatever you want just because i like you and you know i’ll never say no. i’m really fucking tired of all this.”

“soonyoung, it’s not like that—”

“i don’t want to hear another stupid explanation from you, not when you’re always deflecting whenever we get close to being something real,” soonyoung cuts you off. “you’re always the one making decisions for me, for us, and i’m done with that. my feelings for you are my own, and you can’t tell me i’m wrong or that i can’t have them.”

at this point, the salty tears running down your face can’t be differentiated from the raindrops hitting your skin, but you keep your head bowed down, so that soonyoung can’t see your tears. despite not looking at him, you can still tell that soonyoung himself is crying, if his choked voice and hurt tone are anything to go by.

“you’re not going to say anything?” soonyoung tries, and he sounds like he’s giving up now. “why can’t you just take the chance with me? why won’t you trust that i’ll do anything to keep you safe?”

“go home, soonyoung,” is all you say, gathering the courage to look him in the eye. “you’re going to get sick, and with the tour—”

“you don’t give a fuck about the tour, and you certainly don’t care for me either, so cut the crap,” soonyoung sounds angry, and you know he has all the right to. “if i go home now, without anything from you, it’s the last you’re going to see of or hear from me.”

those words have you snapping your head up. you look at soonyoung, fists clenched and teeth gritted together. the image of an younger, much happier soonyoung is superimposed on top of the version of soonyoung you see in front of you, and he looks entirely different. 

you don’t see the carefree, happy, and silly soonyoung anymore. you see a man who you’ve managed to break with how much you’ve pushed him away. you see a man who’s scared to love you, even though that’s all he’s done for all these years.

you see the results of your own cowardice, and you know that the bravest thing you could do is end things, right then and there.

“goodnight, soonyoung,” you say, not caring that you’re letting your facade finally slip in front of him when your voice cracks under the weight of your emotions. “i won’t bother you anymore.”

you don’t have to look at him to visualise the look of betrayal and heartbreak on his face, but you sneak a glance anyway, and it’s just as heart-wrenching as you expected it to be. still, despite every inch of your body wanting to stay here, with him, you force yourself to turn around and walk away.

you’re not sure if soonyoung sees the way your shoulders shake when you finally give in and sob loudly. you’re not sure if soonyoung hears the thousands of apologies leaving your lips in broken whispers. but you do hope that soonyoung doesn’t; you’ve already hurt him enough.

“where have you been?” seungkwan gasps when he sees soonyoung at his front door, soaked in water from head to toe. “minghao-hyung told me you suddenly ran away, and all of us have been trying your phone but you—”

“seungkwan-ah,” the tremble in soonyoung’s voice makes seungkwan pause his rant. “i’ve lost her for good, this time.”

“lost who?” seungkwan furrows his eyebrows. “i don’t know what you’re talking about, just come in quickly and shower. i’ll get you some dry clothes.”

within fifteen minutes, soonyoung is now seated on the couch, clean and dry, and seungkwan hands him a cup of warm milk. he sits down next to soonyoung and notices how soonyoung just stares off into space, eyes filled with a kind of sorrow he hasn’t seen before.

“is it her?” seungkwan asks, and soonyoung turns his head to meet his eyes. “the girl you were talking about when you came here?”

“y/n, yeah,” soonyoung nods. “i didn’t know you guys were talking again,” seungkwan says. “i mean, we all thought that during the break when we were trainees, she randomly disappeared without a trace.”

“i thought so too,” soonyoung admits. “but we happened to bump into each other a few months back, and—god, i feel like such an idiot for thinking that we could ever go back to the way we were before.”

“wait, backtrack,” seungkwan holds his hand up. “you’ve been seeing her for the last few months? is that why the members keep saying you’ve been acting different? tell me the whole story, kwon soonyoung.”

the last thing soonyoung wants to do is recount the details of everything that’s happened, but he doesn’t stand a chance against seungkwan’s inquisitive gaze, and so he caves.

. . . . .

you’re definitely going crazy. it’s the only rational explanation for the situation you’ve found yourself in. 

three days ago, after you left soonyoung in the rain, you had received a text from an unknown number, which went like: this is seungkwan. hyung is down with a fever. i thought you should know.

you wanted to reply and argue that you shouldn’t know about soonyoung’s health, not when your heart and mind were both ready to drop everything at once and meet soonyoung, no matter how stupid the excuse. instead, you left the message on read and spent the next three days driving yourself crazy while contemplating if you should go and apologize to soonyoung.

in the end, the part of you that craved the comfort soonyoung brought you with just his presence won, and you found yourself in front of soonyoung’s house, plastic bag filled with medicine gripped tightly in your right hand.

you raise your left hand to ring the doorbell, but something in you makes you pause. what if soonyoung doesn’t want to see you? you wouldn’t blame him, after everything you’ve put him through, but seeing disgust or hatred for you in his eyes might just be the thing that shatters your heart for good.

the thoughts running in your head are chaotic, and you wish you just had the courage to knock on his door, face him, and apologize so that he actually hears you, but you’re a mere slave to the crippling fear that fills you at the thought of wanting something real with soonyoung.

you decide against facing him. you place the bag of medicine by the door, ring the doorbell, and run towards the end of the hallway as fast as you can, hiding behind the wall to make sure soonyoung won’t see you. it’s childish and immature, but you’ve come to realize that you’re never rational when it comes to soonyoung.

you need to cover your mouth to muffle the cries leaving you when you hear soonyoung open his door, step out, and call seungkwan to ask him if he sent him any medicine.

you take that as your sign to leave, but the burning question doesn’t leave you: what would soonyoung think if he ever finds out that you were the one who brought him medicine but didn’t even have the courage to hand it over to him yourself?

your relationship with soonyoung had started many years ago, when you both were still in middle school and trying to understand long division.

back then, soonyoung was your best friend. he was the boy who always asked for an extra serving of rice at lunch, because you were too shy to. he was the boy that made sure you walked on the sidewalk when you were going back home after school. he was the boy who choreographed silly dances to make you laugh whenever you were sad.

he was the first boy you fell in love with. 

it all had happened very quickly; all the girls in your grade had started discussing crushes and boyfriends, and soonyoung was the only boy in your life who made you feel ‘butterflies in your stomach’ and ‘fireworks whenever he’d touch you.’

after that revelation, it felt like the entire world had become much sweeter. you had exchanged your glasses for rose-tinted ones, and with every moment you spent with your best friend, you only fell in deeper.

one evening, under a starry night sky, fifteen-year old you had taken the leap of faith and pressed your lips against his. it was clumsy, and his nose bumping into yours hurt, but it was the best thing to ever happen to you.

what had followed the kiss was the worst news you’d ever receive.

—

“i’m moving to seoul,” soonyoung says, his hand holding yours gently while he drops a bomb.

“what for?” you ask, and you feel a lump forming in your throat. although soonyoung hadn’t revealed much, you could tell from the way his eyes were welling up with tears that the news couldn’t be good.

“i’m leaving taekwondo for good,” he starts. “i recently got into dancing, and i love it. i want to get better at it.”

“there’s dance studios in namyangju,” you point out. “why seoul?”

“i…. i auditioned for a few companies,” soonyoung confesses, the words spilling out after weeks of being kept secret. “i got into some, and i want to…. train professionally.”

you might just get an award called ‘worst best friend in the world’ for your reaction to soonyoung’s words. you barely stop yourself from saying, “that wasn’t our plan. we were supposed to stick together, even if we got sick of each other.”

what you do say is, “oh. that’s… that’s really cool.”

“you don’t look too excited,” soonyoung’s smile falters a bit. “why aren’t you excited?”

“i mean, of course i’m happy for you,” you laugh, although there’s nothing you find funny in this situation. 

“i feel like there’s a ‘but’ that’s going to follow,” soonyoung looks at you warily. “what is it?”

there’s so many things you want to say, but you bite your tongue. you just shake your head with a smile. “no ‘buts.’ i’m happy for you, i really am.”

“really?” soonyoung asks again, just to be sure, and you nod. he seems convinced with the act you’ve put up, because he smiles brightly at you, and your heart skips a beat.

you try to bring up the kiss, and what it would mean for the both of you, but soonyoung says, “i should go home, it’s getting late.”

“yeah, it is,” you reply, swallowing down the urge to tell him to stay. “goodnight, soonyoung.”

—

for years to come, you regretted everything you did that night. you regretted letting him go that easily, not telling him how you felt, even the fact that you kissed him.

this regret had such a chokehold on you, that after soonyoung had packed up his things and moved to seoul, you cut off all contact with him.

you didn’t reply to his emails and didn’t answer his calls. whenever his parents visited your house, you’d lock yourself in your room, scared that they’d ask you about soonyoung and you’d have nothing to say.

it was your first heartbreak, and it was messy and painful. you would cry yourself to sleep every night and wake up in the morning, fighting the urge to call soonyoung and ask how he’s doing.

you had managed to convince yourself that now that soonyoung had left, there was no chance of him coming back, much less to meet you. it took you a year to make peace with it, and another year to try and move on, but one night set you back on your progress and had all your walls breaking down.

—

it’s a rainy night and you’re alone at home. your parents are out of town for your dad’s colleague’s wedding, and you couldn’t be bothered to join them.

you’re on your phone, watching pixelated figures on your screen laugh and scream. you’d never admit this to anyone, but you had secretly kept up with soonyoung’s activities ever since he’d left for seoul. for the last few months, he’d been part of a tv show along with other trainees, practicing in a room with green walls and awaiting the day their names would be picked to be a part of a new boy-group.

seeing him dance and goof around with other trainees always made your heart sink a little, but you were glad that at least one of you were enjoying their youth.

you’re in the middle of a compilation of funny moments from said tv show, when your doorbell rings. you’re skeptical as to who would show up in front of your house in the middle of the pouring rain and this late in the evening, so you equip yourself with a tennis racket and head to the front door.

you slowly twist the door knob and pull the door open, but when you see who’s standing at the door, the tennis racket slips from your hands and clatters loudly against the floor.

“what—what are you doing here?” you ask, suddenly feeling weak in the knees.

“did i do something wrong?” soonyoung fires back. he’s completely drenched in rainwater, and his shoulders seem to droop, not just with the weight of the wet clothes clinging to his body.

“soonyoung, that’s ridiculous. what do you mean?” you sputter. “i think you should be telling me why you’re miles away from seoul, in front of my house, soaked in rain. what were you thinking?”

“it’s been two years, y/n,” soonyoung scoffs. “two years since i left and you never called, texted, nothing. did you really not care about me leaving?”

“i just got busy,” you lie, looking away from him. “school got tough, and unlike you, i need to actually focus on—”

“wait, pause,” soonyoung cuts you off, and you wish you could slap yourself for letting those words slip out. “what do you mean ‘unlike me’? what, you think you’re better than me because you’re going to school and i’m training to be an idol? is that why you cut off all contact with me?”

“i didn’t mean to say that, and you know i’d never do anything like that,” you deny. 

“do i? do i know you anymore?” soonyoung runs a hand through his damp hair, just like he does whenever he’s annoyed. “i thought we were best friends, but all of a sudden, you go radio silent and give me no explanation at all.”

“i was having a hard time too, okay?” you raise your voice, and you hate how shaky it sounds. “it was tough for me to get used to living without you here, and—”

“don’t give me that bullshit,” he says, voice cracking near the end. “i needed you too, and you completely abandoned me. just like how you kissed me that night and never said anything afterwards. why do you always leave me in the dark?”

you’ve relived that first, innocent, clumsy kiss, multiple times in your head for the last two years, and hearing soonyoung bring it up makes the memory sting even more. 

“soonyoung, i—i tried to, but i didn’t think that it was the right time to bring it up,” you sigh, defeated. soonyoung’s gaze softens at that, and he inches forward to be closer to you. he raises his right hand to cup your cheek, and the contrast of his icy fingers against your warm skin makes you shudder.

“you think too much,” he says, looking into your eyes. “it’s just me; you can tell me whatever you want the second the thought crosses your mind. you know i’d always listen.”

“i know,” you nod, and the air between you two feels charged with tension that has been simmering for the last two years. your brain is working at full speed, trying to decide what your next move should be, and soonyoung seems to pick up on the hesitance in your eyes, because of which he exhales loudly and whispers under his breath, loud enough for you to hear, “fuck it.”

before you can predict what he’s about to do, soonyoung leans forward to crash his lips onto yours. you can feel soonyoung shivering in his wet clothes, but the kiss feels warmer than anything you’ve felt before. you give into your temptations and kiss him back. 

it’s not as awkward as last time, but it does take you a second to realize that in the time he’s been away, soonyoung has grown up from the lanky and lean boy he used to be. his shoulders seem to be broader, and arms considerably more firm from the constant, rigorous training he’s going through.

you take your time in running your hands up his arms, until they finally wrap around his neck, pulling him in close. the wet material of his hoodie meets your dry t-shirt, and the foreign cold sensation is what snaps you back into reality. you’re kissing the boy you tried so hard to move on from, and you’re kissing him despite knowing that you’ll never really have him.

pulling away from soonyoung hurts a lot more than you expected. he looks disoriented for a few seconds, but then his eyes focus on you, and he knows something has changed.

“we should talk about—”

“no,” you shake your head. “let’s just call this a weak moment, and forget about it.”

“are you being serious right now?” soonyoung huffs. “why are you doing this? am i just a mistake to you?”

if you were it wouldn’t hurt this much, you think to yourself. to soonyoung you say, “i think we’re better off as friends, soonyoung.”

soonyoung walks away again, but this time you’re the one who pushed him away, and he’s the one that wanted you to stay.

—

you didn’t think you’d ever meet soonyoung after that night. for months after, the pain you felt every time you thought of soonyoung was fresh and raw, but over the years, he moved to the back of your mind as you got busy with trying to cope with the real world.

you had decided to major in design in college, and with your degree, you managed to land a job at a famous magazine publisher as a designer, and you’re somewhat happy with it. it’s tough to get recognition in a creative field, especially as a new employee, but earning money easily outweighs the need for validation, which is why you gritted your teeth, plastered on a smile, and continued working for people who never acknowledge you.

that’s when life decided to give you another unexpected surprise.

—

you just got off work, and it’s almost midnight. you haven’t had much to eat the entire day, not when the company is downsizing and you need to work your ass off to keep your job.

your stomach grumbles loudly, and you feel frustrated too. you’re sick of eating convenience store food for most days of the week, but there’s not a single restaurant open at this hour in your area, and you may just have to settle for ramen again, when you stumble across your saviour.

it’s a hole-in-the-wall joint with a small LED sign outside it, displaying the name of the restaurant. there’s not more than four tables inside the restaurant, yet the aroma of delicious tteokbokki is enough to lure you in.

you push the door open, and an elderly lady with a kind smile welcomes you. “oh, my child, you look absolutely famished,” the lady coos. “come, take a seat, i’ll get you food.”

“thank you so much,” you gush, bowing deeply before sitting down at a table. while the lady brings you food, you take the time to rest your tired feet and exhausted eyes. you’re rubbing your aching forehead, when the door to the restaurant opens, indicating that another customer has entered.

out of curiosity, you look to the side to see the new customer, but when you see his face, you’re considering that the universe thinks you’re a joke. because, sitting at the table across from you is none other than kwon soonyoung.

memories from the past crash into you like a truck, and you’re almost ready to sacrifice a decent meal and flee from the restaurant, when the lady approaches your table with a huge tray in her hands.

“here you go, sweetheart,” she says, setting down bowl after bowl on your table. “enjoy your meal.”

you’re not sure how much of an appetite you’ve got left after you’ve literally faced your past. the shock on soonyoung’s face still hasn’t faded, and you’re debating if you should just avoid any further eye contact, finish your food, and leave the restaurant as quickly as possible.

it seems like that plan needs to be abandoned as well, because after a very awkward meal and paying for your food, the second you step out of the restaurant, soonyoung calls your name.

“y/n, wait,” you can tell that he feels awkward just from the way he’s fidgeting with his shirt, and it only makes you feel even more uncomfortable. “it’s… been a while.”

“it has,” you reply casually, as if he didn’t go on to become a worldwide sensation, while you’re stuck being mediocre. “it was great to see you again, but i really should—”

“let’s catch up some time?” he asks, chest heaving with anticipation.

“i don’t know if that would be a good idea, soonyoung,” you say, vaguely gesturing at the distance between the two of you. “after what happened last time…”

“you said we’d be better as friends, right?” he tries, still enthusiastic, and it makes you want to cry. “we should try again. to be friends, i mean. what do you think?”

—

agreeing with him had been simultaneously the best and worst decision of your life. meeting soonyoung nearly every night after work, eating dinner at the same table in the restaurant you both met at again, and spending hours listening to him talk about everything and nothing was something you never thought you’d get to experience again.

it had started to feel like he was your best friend all over again, just like all those years ago when you both were naive teenagers who could never imagine that their relationship would change this much.

the downside to all this was that your old feelings for soonyoung, feelings that never really faded away, had come to life again, and soonyoung smiling at you like an idiot in love, like an idiot who didn’t choose to run away from you the first time you hurt him, wasn’t helping either.

having to shut down his constant flirting, his abrupt confessions, ‘deals’ he’d strike with you to make you go on a date with him whenever he helped you with work, all of it was killing you slowly, and you didn’t know if you could tell soonyoung to back off without hurting him more than you already have.

as the weeks fly by, you started letting your guard down around soonyoung. he held your hand as he walked you home, carried your work bag even if you weren’t that tired, and even texted you first thing in the morning. you had promised to yourself that you wouldn’t let soonyoung get that close to you again, because dealing with the fallout was something you didn’t want to deal with again.

still, like icarus, you let yourself fly close to the sun that is soonyoung’s affections, selfishly hoping that the day your wings of wax melt didn’t come too soon.

it was all just wishful thinking, and the fragile bubble you had started to live in burst on the day of your twenty-ninth birthday. like every other day, you had expected soonyoung to meet you at your usual restaurant for dinner, but hours passed, and there was still no sign of soonyoung.

when soonyoung finally did show up, and after you left him alone in the rain, you couldn’t help but curse yourself for believing that something so flawed from the start could ever work out, no matter how much you tried.

“is it weird that i still feel nervous before concerts?” mingyu sighs, massaging his legs after their last rehearsal on the stage. 

“i don’t think that feeling will ever fully go away,” wonwoo chuckles, panting as he lays sprawled out on the floor of the green room some of them are gathered in. its the day before the first concert on their world tour, and backstage is buzzing with various members of staff running around, making sure everything is perfect.

“i don’t think soonyoung gets nervous, though,” wonwoo teases, nudging soonyoung’s leg with his foot.

soonyoung, too engrossed in his own thoughts, doesn’t even hear the jab. he’s busy staring off into space, and it puzzles the other members.

“hey, what’s on your mind?” mingyu asks, shaking soonyoung’s shoulder to snap him out of his trance.

“i don’t know,” he sighs. “i have a bad feeling about today.”

“hey! don’t jinx our concert with your negativity,” seungcheol quips. “whatever has you distracted, you need to get it out of your head. we need tomorrow to be perfect.”

the restless feeling that has been bothering soonyoung all morning finally makes sense when his phone buzzes with a notification.

it’s a text from you, after radio silence since your birthday, and soonyoung hates how he’s sprinting out of the green room towards the company cars at the drop of a hat.

in his rush, soonyoung leaves his phone behind, and when mingyu picks it up from the couch, the text displayed on the screen reads, can we talk? one last time, i promise.

everyone has a feeling that soonyoung doesn’t want to be meeting you for the last time.

. . . . .

soonyoung feels a little foolish for standing outside the restaurant alone, frantically looking around. he’s forgotten his phone at the concert venue, leaving him with no way to contact you to find out if you were even coming to see him.

but when he sees your figure at the end of the street, walking towards him, the anxiety he’d been feeling gets multiplied by ten.

when you come to a halt in front of him, you seem a bit surprised. “i didn’t expect you to come. not after…”

“i know it was you who left the medicine outside my house that day,” he says. “i decided to come so i could thank you for that.”

“you don’t have to,” you shake your head. “i didn’t do that as an apology.”

“so, you’re not going to apologize for any of it?” soonyoung tilts his head. “why’d you call me here? for your own amusement?”

“i called you here to tell you that i’m leaving for good, soonyoung,” you have to force yourself to blurt the words out, because the lump forming in your throat is slowly starting to choke you. “i got a new job, and i’m leaving korea. i’m not coming back.”

“what?” soonyoung doesn’t sound like he believes you. “what do you mean you’re leaving?”

“i need a fresh start away from all this, away from you,” you can’t hold your tears back anymore, and the thought of never seeing soonyoung again is a comforting yet terrifying thought. “this thing we have, whatever we’ve had for all these years, it hurts to live with. i know i was the one who went and messed everything up, but i—i didn’t know how else to deal with you leaving. i do apologize, soonyoung, for every time i’ve made you feel like i hate you, or i don’t want you, and i want you to know i didn’t mean any of it.”

“if you didn’t mean it, why did you do it?” soonyoung’s face is red with anger and the look of realization that he can’t do anything to salvage this situation is heartbreaking. “i told you, y/n, you don’t have to think so much when you’re with me. you don’t need to worry about everything that can go wrong, not when i’ve got your back. why could i never earn your trust?”

“how could i trust in something that was doomed from the start?” you let out the thought that has been gnawing away at you for years. “the moment i realized i loved you, you left, and i couldn’t do anything about it.”

“is that what the first kiss was about?” soonyoung asks. “you loved me since then?”

“i did,” you nod. “and don’t you dare try to apologize for leaving, because it’s going to make me feel even worse. there was no way on earth i would’ve asked you to stay for me, and you wouldn’t have listened anyway.”

“what about after that?” soonyoung says, and you notice how it’s his left hand rising up to push his hair back. it used to be his right hand before, and you will every cell in your body to stop thinking about what the difference means. “i came back to you, why didn’t you tell me then?”

“you had enough on your plate back then, soonyoung,” you shake your head. “i’ve always kept up with your journey, since before your debut, and i know that expecting a relationship from you then wasn’t right of me. it would’ve made things worse.”

“why not now, y/n?” soonyoung yells, tears of frustration running down his face. “do you have an excuse for that too? what, i’d be too busy touring the world which is why you never said anything? if you love me, and i love you, why couldn’t we just let that be the reason? was love never enough for you?”

“i can’t—i can’t answer that, soonyoung,” you sob. “all i do is hurt you, don’t you see that?”

“there you go, making decisions for me again,” he scoffs. “you can’t be the one to decide if i want you, even if you’ve hurt me.”

“i’m deciding for myself,” you sniffle, wiping your tears with the back of your hand. “we’re too far gone to fix things, and i don’t want you to get your hopes up for me. i don’t think i’ll ever be ready for anything real with you, and i feel like it’s the best way to leave things.”

“you’re leaving without even trying to fix anything,” soonyoung seethes. “your apology is just another slap to the face, and i can’t believe that i’d still do anything for you, no questions asked.”

“i’m asking you to let go, soonyoung,” you choke out. “it’s what’s best for us, and you know it too.”

“you make it sound easy,” soonyoung’s laugh is dry and hollow. “letting go of you means letting go of my heart. it’s not that easy, y/n.”

“i’m sorry,” you let your head hang low, too ashamed to look at soonyoung. you’re surprised once again when you feel his hands reaching forward to hold your trembling ones.

“is there nothing i can say to make you stay?” soonyoung tries again. his anger seems to have dissipated, and the look of desperation on his face matches the one on yours.

“i’m leaving tomorrow night,” you let yourself savor the feeling of his rough hands enveloping yours. “i can’t stay, you know that.”

“i’ll try anyway,” he exhales. “come to the concert tomorrow.”

“soonyoung, i can’t—”

“please.” he sounds dangerously close to begging. “i need to see you one last time, please. if it’s the last time i’m seeing you, i want it to be tomorrow.”

“i can’t make any promises, soonyoung,” you shut your eyes. 

“don’t make any,” he says. “i’ll get you a ticket, but if you don’t want to come, don’t. just know that i’ll be looking for you in the crowd.”

“don’t expect me to be there,” you say, looking up at him. he’s close enough for you to see his eyes glittering with tears, and the knife in your chest twists in deeper.

“can’t make any promises,” his words come out in a whisper, and before you can remind soonyoung of the consequences of kissing in the middle of a street, where anyone can recognize him, he pulls you in. 

the kiss doesn’t last long, but it makes you feel like your body is on fire. it makes your heart ache at the thought of losing this warmth forever, and it takes everything in you to stop yourself from pulling soonyoung closer to you.

he pulls away first this time, and you can see it in his eyes that he knows you won’t be there tomorrow. still, he says, “come tomorrow, please.”

he leaves before you can respond. which might be better for him. because you don’t know if you can handle the fact that the last thing you’ll tell him is no.

the opening notes of the song play, and now that all the members are finally sitting down after hours of dancing, soonyoung takes a moment to scan the crowd.

he thinks about the ticket he’d sent you through text, and how the message hadn’t even delivered. he thinks about the flight that’s about to leave the airport soon, taking you far away from him.

if you leave in the distant future i probably won’t be able to live

he thinks of the last kiss, and it’s enough to make his eyes water.

chan finishes singing the first two lines, and with a shaky hand, soonyoung lifts his mic to his lips.

it’s not in the distant future i just don’t want to think about it

you’re not in the crowd tonight, and even though you didn’t make any promises, the last look he had at you felt like a promise in itself. a promise that said, i won’t be there, no matter how hard you look.

still, soonyoung feels like you’re watching. he wants to imagine that you’re in the waiting room at the airport, waiting to board your flight, clutching your phone and watching the livestream of this concert. he wants to imagine that the tears in his eyes make you want to cry too.

if you leave me (what can i do?) all my days (you’re the reason i’m alive and breathing)

fans recording clips of this concert are going to share this particular clip of soonyoung singing the chorus of the song with tears streaming down his face. they’re going to say things like, who hurt him? and soonyoung is really professional; he pours so much emotion into each song.

they don’t know the truth behind the tears. they don’t know that soonyoung was once a boy, who was, and still is, in love with a girl. and they’ll never know, neither will you, that soonyoung will always continue to love you, even if you’re oceans away from him.

soonyoung won’t ever know this: you do watch the livestream of the concert. you’re sitting in the airport lounge, and soonyoung’s eyes staring straight into the camera feels like he’s really looking at you, after he failed to spot you in the crowd. 

he won’t ever know this, but ever since that first kiss at fifteen, you had doomed your own fate. even if you ever found love in any other person, you’d never love them as much as you love soonyoung, and you decide to continue being selfish and keep this secret locked away in your heart for good.

the airport speakers announce that passengers flying to new york may start boarding their flight, and you shut your phone just as the song ends.

i want to hold your hand, just stay with me.

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