woogilicious

[woogilicious]

didn't think i'd fall here ꒰ mingi ꒱

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ rating: 18+ (MINORS DO NOT INTERACT) ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ pairing: song mingi x female!reader ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ word count: 6.5k ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ genre: strangers to lovers, comfort, virgin!reader, virgin!mingi, friends-to-lovers energy, soft angst, smut, fluff ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ warnings: emotional manipulation, toxic friendship, crying, anxiety, self-esteem issues, first time sex, consensual sex, safe sex, soft dom!mingi vibes, realistic first time awkwardness, condom run to the convenience store lol, mentions of blood during sex (light), aftercare, mingi being obsessed with you, reader threatening to chop mingi's dick off lovingly ♡ ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ author's note: it's been a while y'all. hope you enjoy this smut, and also I've been trying some new layout lol cuz i'm not satisfied with my previous layout.

You didn't even want to come here today.

Lotte World was supposed to be fun—cotton candy, carousel selfies, maybe something gentle like bumper cars. But with Yujin and Hana, it was never about fun. It was about appearances. About pushing you into situations just to get a reaction, to laugh behind their hands at how you squirmed.

"Ugh, you're seriously scared of this?" Yujin groan, snapping a photo of the massive Atlantis roller coaster ahead, the steel tracks twisting like some cruel maze in the sky. "It's not even the scariest ride here."

"Right?" Hana chimes in. "God, you're so boring sometimes, Y/N. No wonder no guy ever looks at you."

You laugh. It's hollow.

It doesn't stop the sting.

The queue is already packed when they drag you towards the entrance. You hesitate, but Yujin latches onto your wrist like you're a toddler about to run into traffic.

"Don't be a baby. It's just a ride."

"But I really don't—"

"Do not make a scene," she hisses, smiling too widely as a group of boys glance over. "You're already embarrassing enough. Come on."

The line inches forward. Every step closer makes your chest tighter, like the straps of an invisible harness locking you in. Your stomach churns, hands tremble. But you don't say a word.

Yujin and Hana are too busy taking selfies to notice. Or care.

You stand behind them, quiet, small, barely existing.

"Swear to god," Yujin mutters at one point, "you're going to die single if you keep acting like this. You gotta be brave. Guys hate weak girls."

Hana laughs way too loud. "She needs a guy to knock some sense into her. Or just knock her up. Either one might fix it."

Your ears burn.

You try to laugh again, just to keep up the illusion. It sounds like you're choking.

And still, the line moves.

You're maybe five people from the platform when the operator suddenly shouts, "Two seat available now! Anyone here riding as a pair?"

Yujin doesn't even ask. Doesn't even glance back.

She and Hana leap forward.

"We're two!"

They disappear up the stairs in a blink. The group in front of you steps forward. And just like that, you're alone.

You don't cry, not yet.

But your body's reacting—shaking hands, clenched jaw, vision blurring at the edges. You're aware that walking backward through the crowded line would be more embarrassing than just riding the damn thing. At least, that's what your brain tells you.

The panic bubbles anyway.

You suck in a sharp breath, eyes glued to the track. It creaks and rumbles as the next cart wooshes by in a blur. Someone screams in delight. You're going to throw up. Right here, in front of everyone.

And then—

"Hey."

You jump.

The voice is gentle, low, curious. You turn around.

Three boys stand behind you, next in line. The tallest one—broad shoulders, brown hair—tilts his head at you.

You blink. "...huh?"

He offers a small smile. "You look like you're about to faint."

You open your mouth, then shut it.

The second boy, shorter but muscular with sharp features and a piercing stare, cuts in. "She was with those girls, right? They just ditched her."

The third guy, softer looking with black hair and pretty eyes, nods. "That's messed up."

You look between them, startled that they even noticed.

"I'm—fine," you lie. "I'll just... I was gonna leave."

"Back through that crowd?" The tall one says, gesturing behind.

"...yeah."

He glances at the operator, then back at you. "Well, you don't have to ride alone. I'll go with you."

You blink. "What?"

He smiles again, this time more reassuring. "I mean—if you want. We can ride together. No pressure."

"...why?"

He shrugs. "You look like you need a buddy."

The one with the sharp stare grins now. "This guy's Mingi. He's annoyingly a gentleman sometimes."

"I'm Jongho," he adds, giving you a little nod. "And that's Yeosang."

Yeosang gives you a tiny wave.

"Thanks," you mumble, feeling overwhelmed but... oddly warm. "I'm Y/N."

Jongho snorts. "Yeah, we heard your friends being total assholes. Y/N, you seriously deserve better than that."

You swallow. The words hit harder than they should.

Mingi gently touches your elbow. "You okay riding the roller coaster with me?"

You look at him—his soft gaze, his open posture, the zero judgement in his tone. And for once, someone isn't making you feel like a burden.

"...yeah," you breathe. "Okay."

The staff waves you forward.

Mingi lets you take the seat first, then slips in beside you, pulling the safety bar down. He's close—his knee brushes yours, and his scent is something clean and warm, like citrus and sun.

He glances at you.

"You're brave for doing this."

You almost laugh.

The ride jerks forward with a lurch.

Your fingers grip the bar.

Mingi's hand moves, gently resting on top of yours.

It's warm. Your fingers twitch beneath his at first, unsure, but then the roller coaster jolts forward with a hiss of steam, and you instinctively grip him back like your life depends on it.

He chuckles low under his breath. "That tight already? We haven't gone up yet."

You shoot him a panicked glance, knuckles going pale. "I'm not gonna survive this."

"You will," he says, voice soft. "You've got me now."

The ride starts its slow, agonising climb. Your heart funds like it's trying to launch itself out of your chest.

Mingi doesn't let go. Not even once. His thumb strokes over your knuckles in lazy circles, like he's trying to distract you from the threatening death drop ahead.

"Deep breath," he murmurs. "You've got this, Y/N."

The cart tips.

You scream.

It's not even cute. It's pure terror.

And Mingi just laughs—not at you though, but in joy, throwing his hands up as you fly down the track, wind whipping through your hair, your body tossed left and right.

You never let go of his hand.

By the time it slows and returns to the platform, your voice is gone, and your legs feel like jelly. You stumble forward a little when the bar lifts, but Mingi's hand on your back steadies you.

"You alright?" he asks, eyes scanning your face.

You nod, breathless, dazed.

He smiles, wide and proud. "You did amazing. Seriously! That was brave as hell."

You want to say thank you, but you're still processing the fact that your heart is beating and your limbs are still attached. You let out a small laugh instead, cheeks flushed, the adrenaline not quite fading yet.

Then you hear it.

"Wait, where's Y/N?"

Your stomach sinks.

You turn your head toward the exit ramp and spot them—Yujin and Hana—posing near a churro cart, phone angled high, lips puckered in matching fake smiles.

The voice is unmistakable.

"Probably chickened out and left the roller coaster," Yujin mutters, loud enough that you catch every word.

Hana scoffs, adjusting her hair. "We should find her, I guess. We did come with her car, after all."

"Ugh," Yujin groans. "So annoying. I hate her sometimes."

Hana snorts. "Sometimes?"

They both burst into laughter.

It hits you harder than the drop on the coaster.

You freeze. The sting behind your eyes burns hot, and you blink rapidly, refusing to let the tears win. Not here. Not in front of Mingi, Yeosang and Jongho.

But Mingi heard it too.

You feel the shift in his posture beside you, the way his jaw clenches just slightly. He glances back at Jongho and Yeosang, who both clearly clock the situation. A silent nod happens between them.

Then, without warning, Mingi gently grabs your wrist.

"Come on."

You look up, startled. "Wait—what? Where are we going?"

He's already walking you in the opposite direction.

"I—I need to go to them," you say, stumbling to keep with his pace. "I need to send them home—"

"Are they your close friends?" he asks, cutting you off calmly.

You stop walking. "Huh?"

"Do you hang out with them a lot?"

"…No. We used to be close in high school. But now… not really. We're all in different universities and barely meet up anymore."

Mingi hums like that’s exactly the answer he expected. "Good. So you can cut them off."

You blink. "What?"

He turns to face you properly, his expression serious but not harsh. "Why spend the rest of your day with people who treat you like that? Just hang out with us."

You open your mouth to argue, but then Jongho jogs up beside you, slinging an arm over your shoulder like you've been besties for years.

"You didn't hear what they said? They're literally using you for your car and shitting on you behind your back."

"Yeah," Yeosang says, catching up, a rare frown on his usually passive face. “That's not what friends do. That's just… sad."

"I don't wanna ruin your guys' day though," you say quietly, unsure.

Mingi shakes his head. "You're not. I asked you to stay. You're not an obligation. You're a choice."

That line makes your heart skip.

Jongho smirks. "Besides, Mingi's in his hero mode now. You're stuck with us."

Yeosang chuckles. "He only gets like this when something really pisses him off."

You glance at Mingi, who's pretending not to listen, but the way he nudges your arm with his elbow says otherwise.

And for once… it feels okay to be pulled in a different direction.

You're still holding your tray with half-finished tteokbokki when Mingi takes a seat beside you at the picnic table. Jongho and Yeosang are opposite, poking fun at each other while stealing bits from the fishcake skewer pile.

"You okay?" Mingi asks quietly, sipping from his soda.

You nod. "Actually… yeah. Thanks to you guys."

He hums. "Good."

It feels so normal, sitting here with them. You were smiling. Genuinely smiling. For the first time in weeks, maybe.

The stand nearby is selling fresh corndogs and hotteok. You notice Jongho eyeing them, and your stomach grumbles too.

"I'll grab some more snacks," you say, standing. "My treat."

"Are you sure?" Yeosang asks.

"Yeah," you smile. "You guys saved me today. Least I can do."

You approach the snack cart, debating how many corndogs to grab when—

Shove.

It's not hard enough to knock you down, but enough to make you stumble forward a step. You turn, startled.

"Oh my god, we knew we saw your big back over here," Yujin says with a laugh, like it's the funniest thing in the world.

Hana smirks, standing beside her, arms crossed.

You step back, lips parting. "You guys left me."

Yujin rolls her eyes. "No we didn't? We were waiting for you by the churros stand."

"I was standing alone in line," you reply, your voice still soft, careful not to escalate anything. "You jumped ahead without even checking on me."

"Please," Hana mutters. "You probably didn't see us because you were too much of a pussy to ride."

They both burst into laughter.

You feel it again—that familiar sting in your chest. But this time, before you can say anything, another voice cuts through the air.

"Hey, Y/N. Is there a problem here?"

You look to your side.

Mingi's there, standing tall, eyes dark, jaw clenched. And when he looks at Yujin and Hana, the playful energy around them dies instantly.

Yujin straightens up, adjusting her top. "Oh heyyyy~" she says, her tone suddenly flirty. "And who might you be?"

"Do you know him?" Hana adds, nudging you.

"Yes," you reply clearly. "He offered to ride the roller coaster with me."

Yujin raises an eyebrow. "Really now…"

Then Mingi steps closer, resting a firm hand around your wrist—not hard, just protective.

"If you don’t have anything decent to say to Y/N," he says, voice sharp like a knife, "you can leave. She's hanging out with me and my friends now."

He doesn't wait for them to respond. He gently pulls you away, guiding you back toward the table where Jongho and Yeosang are already watching with narrowed eyes.

You think it's over—until Yujin and Hana follow you.

"Oh my god, Y/N," Yujin says loudly. "Don’t be such a whore and take three guys at once~ At least leave one for us."

You freeze mid-step.

"…Excuse me?" you blink slowly, not even sure you heard her right.

Yujin grins, proud. "Sharing is caring, babe."

You glance at Hana, who won’t meet your eyes.

"…Yujin," you say softly. "You have a boyfriend."

"So?" she scoffs. "You're being a greedy whore with three guys up your ass. You're no better than me."

Your breath catches. You stare at her, shocked. Embarrassed. Ashamed, even though you've done nothing wrong.

Hana still won't look at you.

And that's when Mingi steps forward.

"You know what's actually disgusting?" Mingi says, his voice suddenly cold. "That you think humiliating someone publicly makes you funny. That mocking someone you call a friend is just a joke. That dragging her down is the only way you feel better about yourself."

Yujin's face stiffens.

"And calling her a whore?" Mingi scoffs. "Girl, she's more decent than either of you. If having three people care about her makes her a whore, then maybe you should ask yourself why no one treats you that way."

Hana lets out a tiny breath like she's been slapped.

Mingi turns to them fully now, shielding you with his body.

"Don't talk to her again," he says firmly. "Don't call her. Don't look at her. Don't even think about her. Got it?"

Yujin crosses her arms. "Oh really? But she's our ride. She drove us here."

Jongho suddenly stands from the table. "Then go ask your boyfriend to pick you up."

The silence is loud.

Yujin's mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Hana still won't look at you.

You don't say a word. You just follow the boys as they walk away, head high, shoulders squared. Mingi's hand brushes yours. You don't pull away.

Behind you, you hear Yujin groan like a spoiled brat not getting what she wants.

And you don't look back.

You're quiet as you sit back at the table. You feel small again—not because of what they said, but because of how much it still hurts.

Jongho passes you a drink without a word. Yeosang silently offers you the hotteok you didn't get to buy.

Mingi sits beside you again, elbows on the table, glancing sideways at your face.

"You okay?" he asks for the second time today.

You nod, eyes glassy.

"You don't have to be," he adds softly.

"…I don't get it," you murmur. "I never did anything to them. I was always… trying to be nice."

"You were too nice," Yeosang says, voice calm. "Some people take kindness as weakness. That's not on you."

"She was jealous of you," Jongho adds bluntly. "Both of them were. You're quiet and kind and people like you without having to perform for it. That's threatening for girls like them."

You stare at your lap. "…I just hate that it got so ugly in front of everyone."

Mingi leans in closer, dropping his voice low. "If anything, you should be proud of yourself. You stood your ground. And you have three guys now who will never let anyone talk to you like that again."

You look up, eyes wide, lips parting.

Yeosang raises his soda. "To cutting off shitty people."

You laugh, finally.

And Mingi… he just watches you.

Like he's proud.

Like he’s already planning to keep you close all day.

The sun had dipped low by the time you all wandered back to your car, arms full of leftover snacks, plastic bags rustling with street game prizes and bottled drinks. The entire afternoon had gone by in a blur. One that smelled like honey butter corndogs and felt like safe hands holding you up.

"This your car?" Jongho asks, tapping the roof lightly.

You nod, unlocking it. "Yeah. It’s not fancy, but she gets me from A to B."

"It's cute," Yeosang says, popping a piece of candy into his mouth. "Matches you."

You glance at him, surprised. "Matches… me?"

"Yeah." He shrugs, smiling. "Kind of cozy. And a little beat up, but still standing."

You laugh. "Are you calling me emotionally damaged?"

"Absolutely," he says without blinking.

Mingi chuckles, watching you giggle as you swing the backdoor open to stash the snacks.

Jongho leans against the trunk, stretching. "We should hang out again sometime."

"Seconded," Yeosang says.

You smile. "I'd like that."

Mingi steps beside you and pulls out his phone. "Give me your number."

You blink. "Just like that?"

"Yeah," he grins. "No games. Just want to be able to text you."

Your heart skips.

You rattle off your number, and he saves it under Y/N 🎢, making you groan and hit his arm.

"What? You survived that roller coaster like a champ."

"I screamed."

"And held my hand the whole time," he says, low and teasing.

You turn away before your face gives too much away.

They all pile into their own car a few minutes later—Yeosang at the wheel, Jongho arguing over aux cord rights. Mingi rolls his window down just before they drive off.

"Hey, text me when you get home."

You glance up. "You too."

He smiles. "I will."

One week later.

You're sitting under a shady tree, picking at your sandwich while scrolling on your phone. Midterms are creeping up and your brain is half-fried. You barely notice the tall figure walking toward your bench until a shadow falls across your lap.

"Hey."

You look up—and blink.

"…Mingi?"

He grins, hands in the pockets of his bomber jacket. "Surprised?"

"Uh—yeah?? What are you doing here?"

"Your university's not that far from my dorm. I was in the area… and I was hungry."

You raise a brow. "So you decided to find me?"

"Obviously," he shrugs, plopping down beside you like this is the most normal thing ever.

Your heart does a backflip. "You're really bold, huh?"

He leans back on his palms, tilting his head toward you. "I just wanted to see how you were doing. After all… I haven't heard much from someone."

You flush. "I—I've been busy…"

"I know. I'm just teasing."

There's a pause.

The breeze rustles the leaves above. He's looking at you again, but this time with something softer in his expression.

"You seemed kinda quiet that day when we left," he says. "Was worried."

You glance down at your hands. "I was just… processing everything. It felt weird cutting someone off like that."

"They deserved it," Mingi says, voice firm. "You don't need people who treat you like garbage just because they've known you for a long time."

"…I know," you admit. "It just takes time to process all that."

He nods slowly. "Makes sense. Still. You're stronger than you think."

You smile, small. "You really don't have to keep being this nice to me, you know."

"But I want to."

That makes your breath catch.

He sits up straighter, taking a bite of the snack he brought—some triangle kimbap from the uni convenience store.

"Anyway, what's your major again?" he asks, chewing.

"Communications," you say. "Why?"

"Just wondering what kind of power you'll have in the future. I gotta make sure I stay on your good side now."

You laugh. "What about you?"

"Dance," he says proudly. "But I'm also thinking of minoring in theatre. I like performing."

"That… makes sense. You're kind of a natural."

"At performing?"

"At… pulling attention," you admit, looking away. "You make people feel comfortable."

He hums. "Not everyone. But I guess I try."

There's a comfortable silence again.

Then Mingi glances at your phone screen, noticing the time.

"You have class soon?"

"Yeah. In twenty minutes."

"Damn," he says, standing slowly and stretching his long arms. "Time flew."

"It did," you say. "I didn’t think I'd talk to anyone this long today."

"Lucky you. I'm charming."

You roll your eyes.

He steps a little closer now, towering over you just slightly—but he's not intimidating. He's playful. Easy. Gentle.

"Hey," he says, voice low.

You look up. "Yeah?"

"Do you wanna go out Friday night?"

Your heart skips a beat.

"Like… just us?"

He smiles. "Yeah. Just us."

You swallow, trying not to look too flustered. "Sure. That sounds nice."

He winks. "It's a date then."

And with that, he turns and walks off toward the exit gates, hands still shoved in his pockets like nothing happened.

You just sit there, dumbfounded, heat crawling up your face.

You're pretty sure you don't taste your sandwich after that.

Friday.

When you open the door, the last thing you expect to see is Mingi in all black—loose button-up tucked into slacks, gold necklace glinting faintly under the porch light—and a massive bouquet of pastel flowers in hand.

Your mouth opens. But nothing comes out.

He smiles. "Too much?"

"I—no, no," you sputter, staring at the bouquet. "These are gorgeous. Are those peonies? Wait… are these imported?"

He glances at them. "I dunno, I just told the florist I wanted something that looked like you."

Your face burns instantly.

"Stop saying stuff like that so casually!"

Mingi laughs, handing you the bouquet as you step aside to let him in briefly. "It's true though. Pretty, soft, and a little expensive-looking."

You glare, trying not to melt.

Once the flowers are safely in a vase, you both head out. He opens the car door for you like a damn drama male lead, and you have to mentally scream at yourself not to act too giddy.

The drive is filled with music, light banter, and the occasional glance that lingers too long at red lights. When he pulls up to a high-rise building with a fancy valet and dim chandelier lighting peeking from the glass walls, you blink twice.

"Wait," you say slowly, reading the restaurant sign. "We're eating here?"

"Yeah," he says, unbuckling his seatbelt casually. "Why?"

"Mingi… this place is expensive. Like, minimum 5-digit bill expensive."

"So?" He laughs, turning to look at you. "It's not every day I take someone out on a date. Plus, I invited you. I can't just take you to the food court."

You stare at him. "You're rich…"

He snorts. "Does that make you look at me differently?"

You shake your head. "Of course not. It's just… I grew up thinking that when people date, it should be fifty-fifty. I feel kinda guilty when someone spends too much on me."

Mingi looks at you for a second, soft but amused. "That's cute."

Your cheeks flush.

He continues, voice warm, "But seriously, Y/N, today's my treat. Maybe in the future you can treat me. But for now… your presence is already more than enough."

You make a face. "You're such a flirt.”

He grins. "You haven't seen the half of it."

Dinner is unreal. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the Han River, and your seats are by the glass. The food is plated like art, the conversation flows effortlessly, and the wine Mingi orders (which you swear costs as much as your monthly internet bill) is surprisingly good.

At one point, you both laugh over nothing, and Mingi leans his cheek on his hand.

"You know," he says, "Jongho hasn't shut up about that day."

"Really?"

"Oh yeah. For someone who's a year younger than me, he sure loves teasing me like he's older."

You pause. "Wait—Jongho's younger than you?"

Mingi blinks. "Oh, we didn't clarify that, huh?"

"Oh my god, I thought he was the oldest!"

Mingi bursts out laughing. "You're not the first person to say that! Everyone thinks that! He's just too mature for his face."

"Or," you smirk, "maybe you and Yeosang are just too immature."

He gasps. "Hey! I'm mature!"

"I stalked your tagged photos on Instagram," you say nonchalantly. "Your friends call you a big princess."

He chokes on his drink. "You what?"

You grin. "That's right. I did my research."

Mingi leans in closer, voice suddenly low and playful. "Why were you stalking me, hmm? Miss this princess that much?"

Your heart slams in your chest.

"Mingi, stop it," you say, rolling your eyes to hide your very real flustered state.

He chuckles, pleased. "I love teasing you."

"And you're way too good at it."

He shrugs. "Only with people I like."

That line hits harder than it should.

By the time you finish eating, the staff clears your plates and refills your glasses with water. You sit back, full, sipping slowly.

You glance at him. "So… where are we going next?"

Mingi raises a brow. "Someone's excited."

You smirk. "I mean… I haven't been on a real date in a long time. This already beat my expectations."

He leans forward slightly, tilting his head. "Wanna do something more relaxed? We can go for a walk near the river. There's a quiet park close by with lights and benches."

You nod. "That sounds really nice."

"Cool," he says, standing and reaching for your coat. "Let's go. I've got a playlist ready and everything."

"You have a date playlist?"

"I might have made one last night."

You stare at him.

He shrugs. "What? You make me nervous."

Mingi walks you to your door, still chatting about some guy from his dance class who tried to moonwalk in socks and almost dislocated his knee.

You laugh softly, fingers brushing your keys, reluctant for the night to end.

"Y/N?"

You glance up. "Yeah?"

He leans in quickly, and before you can process it, he presses a soft kiss to your cheek. Warm. Quick. Sincere.

He pulls back, eyes wide, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sorry if that was too sudden. You can tell me if you're not okay with it—seriously."

You blink—then laugh, cheeks warm.

"Thanks. I don't mind."

He exhales, a tiny puff of relief, then smiles as he starts walking back toward his car.

"Wait—Mingi!"

He turns around. "Yes?"

You grin, still standing by your door. "Let's go out next week. My treat."

His smile stretches so wide it almost splits his face.

"Okay, princess. See you next week. Update me always, okay?"

He winks, hops into his car, and drives off—while you stand there, clutching your warm cheek and thinking about nothing but him.

A few months later.

You've gone on more dates than you can count now.

Some were cute and simple—arcades, cafés, late-night convenience store runs. Others were more put-together, gallery dates, dance showcases, even grocery shopping for dinner you'd cook together. There's a comfort between you and Mingi now.

Tonight, it's just a Netflix night.

It's Saturday, you're at your place, and Mingi's stretched out on your couch, arm around you while a movie plays. You're curled beside him, blanket over both of your legs, a half-finished bag of popcorn resting on his thigh.

And then—on screen—an erotic scene plays out. Soft moaning, slow kissing, heavy breathing.

Mingi shifts slightly.

"Are you okay watching this?" he asks, voice low, cautious.

You scoff, barely glancing at him. "Uh, yes? I'm not a child, Song Mingi."

He laughs, head tilting. "Well, excuse me. Just making sure."

There's a beat.

Then he glances down at you again. "What are your thoughts on doing this kind of stuff… y’know, as a couple?"

You pause for a second, then answer honestly.

"Um… I don't mind, honestly. Everyone's different, right? But for me—it's about trust. It doesn't matter whether it's before or after marriage. What matters is… being safe, knowing the risks, and being sure you're with someone who respects you."

Mingi nods slowly. "Yeah. I feel the same way."

You turn your head slightly. "Have you done it before?"

That question slips out faster than you meant.

Mingi blinks.

Your eyes go wide. "Oh my god—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make that weird. You don't have to answer—"

"No, no!" he says quickly. "It's just surprising coming from you. But nah—I haven't. I'm a virgin. And I'm not embarrassed."

You smile. “There's nothing to be ashamed of. Some people just use sex like it's a status thing. Like if you're not doing it, you're behind."

"Exactly!" Mingi grins. "It's such a stupid mindset."

He turns slightly toward you. "What about you?"

"I'm a virgin too," you admit. "But I've always been curious. Just never wanted to give that part of me to someone random. One-night stands never appealed to me."

Mingi nods, biting the inside of his cheek. "It's so weird that we both feel the same."

You squint. "Are you just saying that to get on my good side? Trying to look all respectful and boyfriend-of-the-year?"

Mingi gasps, dramatically offended. "What?! I would never! I swear I mean it!"

You elbow him lightly, both of you laughing.

Then—

"…Do you want to try it together?"

You freeze. Eyes wide. "Wait. What?"

Mingi blinks hard. "In the future!! I meant—in the future! Not now—God, Song Mingi, you're an idiot—"

You laugh. Full-on giggle that makes your shoulders shake.

Then you lean in, gently place your hand on the back of his neck, and pull him into a kiss.

It's deep. Soft. Lingering.

He stiffens slightly at first, surprised, but then relaxes—his hand finding your cheek as his lips move slowly with yours. His eyes shut. The world fades.

When you pull away, your forehead rests lightly against his.

"I trust you."

His eyes flutter open and you can see the blush rising to his ears.

You also can't help noticing the very obvious bulge forming in his pants.

You smirk.

"Are you hard just from kissing?" you tease gently.

"…Yeah," he admits shyly. "And because I love you so much, that's why."

He kisses you again, deeper this time, one hand stroking up your back, careful and slow like he's memorizing the shape of you.

And your fingers start to tighten around his shirt.

You're kissing him.

You don't remember when the shift happened—from sitting side by side, to lying down with your fingers gripping his shirt, his hand on your waist, mouths moving together slowly. But you don't care. Mingi's lips are hot, breath a little shaky, body pressing against yours like he wants to crawl inside your skin.

You moan softly when he licks into your mouth—hesitantly at first, then with more confidence as you whimper and tug at his hair. His hand slides under the back of your shirt, fingers brushing up your spine. It's slow. Careful. Nervous.

He pulls back, panting slightly. "Is… this okay?"

You nod, cheeks flushed. "Yes."

"I mean, we can stop anytime."

"I know."

He hesitates, and you see it in his eyes—nervousness, excitement, a little disbelief. You lean forward, kissing his jaw, then whisper in his ear,

"Let’s keep going."

That makes him groan.

Mingi's hands start to explore more freely—stroking your thighs, up your shirt to caress your sides, then cup your breasts over your bra. He's still tentative, like he's worried he's doing it wrong.

"Touch me," you whisper.

"I am," he says, confused.

"No—touch me for real, Mingi."

You guide his hand under your shirt, placing it over your bare skin. He swallows hard, fingers trembling just a little. When he finally cups your breast fully, brushing your nipple with his thumb over your bra, you arch into his touch with a quiet moan.

He gasps. "Holy shit…"

You laugh breathlessly. "What?"

"You feel… really good."

"You're cute when you're this overwhelmed."

"You're evil," he groans.

You switch positions slightly, tugging your shirt off and tossing it aside. He stares at your chest, clearly enchanted.

"You can touch more, you know," you tease.

"Permission granted?" he raises a brow, smiling.

"Permission granted."

His hands roam—soft kneading, lips kissing between your breasts before he pulls your bra down and takes one nipple into his mouth. You gasp, threading your fingers through his hair, while he moans against your skin.

"You're a quick learner," you mumble, breath hitching.

"Porn and imagination," he replies.

You snort. "Didn't you learn this in school?"

"Yeah," he scoffs. "As if the teacher taught us about sex positions and nipple sucking."

You both burst into laughter—even mid-makeout—and it's oddly comforting how fun this is. Messy, awkward, real.

Your hands slide down his chest, under his shirt, feeling lean muscles flexing under your touch. When you unbutton it, he lets you strip it off—his skin warm, his face flushed, his body trembling just slightly.

You reach between his legs, palm cupping the hard bulge in his pants. He jerks.

"Fuck—Y/N…"

You kiss his throat, voice low. "Wanna keep going?"

He pauses.

Then—his eyes widen. "Shit. I—I don't have a condom."

You blink. "Wait, seriously?"

"I didn't think—fuck—I'll go get one!! There's a 7-Eleven like two streets down—"

"You're gonna run to the convenience store right now??"

He's already scrambling off the couch, grabbing his t-shirt with his chest still bare. "I'll be back in ten minutes! Don't fall asleep!!"

You burst into laughter, watching him panic-shuffle into shoes and sprint out the door like a man on a mission.

12 minutes later.

He returns, slightly out of breath, holding a small plastic bag.

You arch a brow. "How many did you buy?"

"Three boxes."

"…Why?"

"I panicked!"

You're both half-laughing when you strip again, kissing between giggles, settling back into each other's arms. But this time, it's different. Calmer. More focused.

Mingi slowly pulls your shorts down, kissing your thighs, his breath hitching when he sees your panties already damp.

"Y/N…"

"Don’t be shy," you whisper.

He slides them down and tosses them aside. His fingers brush between your legs, and when he finally touches you—fingers stroking through your folds—you whimper and press into his hand.

"You're so wet," he says, awed.

"For you."

He swears softly under his breath.

You moan louder when he finds your clit, gently rubbing, unsure at first—then more confidently as your hips twitch under his touch. You reach down, palm cupping his erection through his boxers.

"You're hard again."

"Yeah. You're kinda ridiculously sexy."

You roll him onto his back and tug his pants off.

And when his boxers come down—you both freeze.

"…Oh," you blink.

"Too big?" he teases nervously.

"Guess we'll find out."

Condom's on.

You lie back, legs spread, heart pounding.

Mingi positions himself between your thighs, hands on either side of your face, eyes locked with yours.

"You sure?" he whispers.

You nod. "I trust you."

He lines himself up and pushes in slowly.

It hurts.

Not unbearable, but a deep stretch, an ache that makes your body tense.

Mingi stops instantly.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Just go slow."

He pushes in again, carefully, slowly—

And then you both freeze.

"…Is that… blood?" Mingi asks, voice rising slightly.

You look down. Just a bit. But enough.

Mingi freaks. "Oh my god. Are you okay?? Did I hurt you?!"

You put a hand on his cheek, trying not to laugh at his horrified expression. "Mingi—it's normal."

"But—are you sure? Should we stop?"

You smile. "Let’s just take a break. Five minutes. You're overreacting."

"I'm not overreacting! You're bleeding. I've seen horror movies that start like this!"

You burst into laughter, gently shoving his shoulder.

After a short pause (and a lot of overthinking from Mingi), you kiss him again—slow, soft, grounding.

"I still want to keep going," you whisper. "If you're okay."

He nods, exhaling. "Yeah. Just don't die on me."

This time when he slides in—it's easier.

Your body's more relaxed, your hands are tangled in his hair, and Mingi is whispering "so beautiful" and "you feel amazing" into your skin like it's the only language he knows.

The pace is slow, careful. You moan under him, hips rolling together, your bodies finally syncing.

He kisses your neck, your lips, your forehead. You're both sweaty and shaky and a little uncoordinated—but it's perfect.

You're his first. He's yours.

You cling to each other like the world is too small to contain what you're feeling.

And when you come—whimpering his name, shaking underneath him—Mingi follows right after, burying his face in your neck with a moan so sweet it makes your heart throb.

Afterward, you lie tangled on your couch, barely covered by the throw blanket.

Mingi's still red in the face. "I think I panicked like ten times."

You giggle. "It was cute."

"Was it… good?"

You nod, nose brushing his cheek. "It was more than good."

Mingi's breath is still a little shaky as he pulls out of you carefully, rolling the condom off and tying it, tossing it into the little trash bag beside the couch. You hiss faintly at the sudden emptiness and sensitivity.

He notices immediately.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Just sore. And… wow."

He lets out a soft laugh, brushing your hair out of your face.

"We should clean you up," he murmurs. "Don't want you to get an infection."

You nod, and he helps you sit up slowly. Your thighs are sticky, a little shaky, and you wince slightly as you stand.

"Shit," Mingi mumbles, catching you. "Are you hurting?"

"Not really. Just sore and, you know… my pussy probably looks like a war zone."

Mingi laughs, even as he scoops you up bridal-style without warning.

"MINGI—!"

"We're washing you properly, princess," he says, grinning as he carries you into your bathroom like some romcom idiot boyfriend. "Gotta take care of my girl."

He helps you sit on the toilet, then kneels in front of you, helping you clean. Every touch is gentle now—damp tissue wiping your thighs, warm water trickling slowly, his hands making sure not to rub too hard.

"Sorry if this feels weird," he mumbles.

"It doesn't," you whisper. "I like this."

He smiles at you, so soft, so genuine it makes your chest ache.

Once you're clean and dry, he carries you again—back to your bed this time, gently laying you down before slipping beside you under the blanket.

Your head rests on his bare chest, legs tangled, fingers tracing random patterns on his stomach.

Mingi shifts a little, looking down at you.

"You're so beautiful, Y/N."

You glance up, smirking. "Took you long enough to say that."

"I was busy panicking."

You both laugh.

But then he kisses your forehead.

"I'm serious," he says quietly. "You're so fucking beautiful. Your body… your heart… your whole existence. I've never felt this way before. Not even close."

You blink slowly, heart beating in your throat.

Then he murmurs—

"We're a thing now."

You grin. "We better be a thing. If not, I'll chop your dick off."

Mingi wheezes out a laugh, pulling you into a kiss. "God, I love you."

"Thank you for coming into my life." His arms tighten around you.

"No, you saved me," you say, brushing your nose against his. "Thank you for coming into mine."

You breathe in deeply, warm and full in his arms.

A few minutes later, while cuddling in silence, you shift a little.

"Mingi?"

"Mm?"

You glance up at him, playful sparkle in your eyes.

"…Should I satisfy you more?"

He blinks. "Huh??"

You smirk. "You’re still a little hard. I can feel it against my leg."

He flushes red instantly.

[woogilicious]

"I'd burn the city for you" SO GOOD it got my head thinking "what if it turned angsty" like??

Seonghwa has that Lloyd Foger material in him- what if he's anOTHER trap? What if he's been a dealer for like- years is to get close to reader??? Maybe he did catch feelings but what if he ALSO coincidentally turn reader in???

He doesn't really mean for it to happen but they got him.

Funny how it took the government decades of work- from planning, harvesting, networking, and making sure each men know which path they're carving in the whole operation. It wasn't easy- no, no- It's YOU they were trying to catch.

All for it to come down one evening- after a night spent in your arms Seonghwa woke up to a nagging feeling, his heartbeat a tad too quick, and head racing a mile a minute- as if trying to remember something he has long forgotten.

You lay on his chest, body relaxed without the heavy frown on your features, muscles absorbing all the rest it can to face another stressful day tomorrow.

He slid carefully from you, a voice in his head urging him look outside the door-

His hand on the knob- he tried to remember why he needed to open it 'what for?', 'for who?' and 'why?' lingering in his head- his curiosity dampened by the voice opposite to him.

The door wide open, a bulky man with full black gear, night vision goggles on connected to his helmet, a static voice called out to Seonghwa-

"Good job Mr. Park; Operation M-A-T-Z, undergoing all men move to their respective areas-"

'Right.. this was why..'

---

BUT!! I'm way more happy knowing they actually are willing 2 die for eo, reader is precious (seonghwa knows it) for him to treat her like that 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

anon I'M SO SORRY for not replying sooner 😭 i got caught up w stuff but omg... you absolutely ate with this one

seonghwa being lloyd forger but evil energy is so crazy because YEAH??? HE DOES??? like i 100% see the vision.

ok. but hear me out. if we're going w your AU i feel like there's two endings.

ending 1: he opens the door, hears the voice. realize the op is on. looks back at reader still asleep, completely trusting him, and just freezes. he doesn't even get the chance to run so they barge in. reader wakes up to chaos and betrayal and the last thing reader sees in seonghwa standing there, stunned, like he didn't think it'd actually happen. like his heart broke the same time reader did.

ending 2: seonghwa slams the door shut, grabs reader, wake them up like "don't ask, just trust me" and they run. he betrays the betrayal. takes reader and vanishes, goes rogue, leaves the mission behind.

ANON PLS LMK WHAT DO U THINK OR U WANT TO ADD UP SOMETHING MORE LOL...

[woogilicious]

was it worth the fight? ꒰ yeosang ꒱

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ pairing: kang yeosang x gn!reader ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ word count: 1.8k ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ genre: angst, heavy themes. ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ warnings: major character death, curse words, emotional breakdown, grief, guilt, suicide (read responsibly). ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ a.n: it's been a while guys! got busy with stuff, i didn't have the energy to write anything, but finally be able to finish this one that has been dusting inside my draft. anyways, hope you guys enjoy and also, happy pride month!

"I fucking hate you!"

The words snap out of your mouth before you can even think, venom-coated and loud, sharp enough to pierce through bone. They echo in the living room, bounce off the walls like they're mocking you. And he just stands there. Kang Yeosang. Not yelling back, not even flinching.

Just... quiet.

His eyes flicker, once. That's it. No fury. no dramatic outburst, no slamming doors or throwing shit, just silence. He looks at you like he's already tired. Like he's already gone.

You wish he'd yell, or scream, or even do something. Because this? The silence? It feels worse.

"Say something," you bite, suddenly desperate. Your chest is heaving. Your throat hurts. Your fingers are clenched so tight they ache. "Are you really just gonna stand there? After everything—"

"What do you want me to say?" Yeosang's voice is hoarse, not angry. Quiet, but the kind of quiet that sounds like giving up.

You feel the tears coming, fast and hot, but you refuse to cry. Not now and definitely not in front of him.

"Anything. Lie to me. Tell me you still care," you snap.

"I do," he says, almost too fast. "I always have."

And fuck, that absolutely ruins you. Because it's too honest, too soft. It cuts through all your anger like it's nothing.

But it's too late.

Because you already said it.

"I fucking hate you."

He exhales, finally. Looks away and runs a hand through his hair like he doesn't know what to do with himself. Then grabs his keys from the table like it's muscle memory.

"I need some air," he mumbles.

You don't stop him.

You should.

You know you should.

"Fine, go."

And he does.

You hear the front door shut, and you hear his car start. Then, it's just you, alone, in a room full of everything that just went wrong.

You whisper, barely audible. "I didn't mean it."

You just stand there, staring at the door like maybe he'll walk back in any second, hoping that maybe he was just bluffing. Maybe he's still in the driveway, waiting for you to come after him, and hoping you'll say "I didn't mean it" out loud. Like, really out loud this time.

But you don't.

You just sink to the couch like your legs gave out. Arms crossed, stubborn. Face twisted into something half-mad with emotion and half-exhausted from pretending you're not hurting.

Your phone's right there, on the coffee table. Screen lighting up once, then twice. A group chat ping, a calendar notification, but nothing from him.

You tell yourself you're fine. He just needs to cool off. You need to cool off. It wasn't even that serious, right? People fight. Couples argue. It's normal. Yeosang's probably driving around, maybe to the river or that late-night convenience store he always ends up at when he needs to think. He'll come back.

But still—

You keep glancing at the door, then at the phone.

It's 11:20 PM.

You open the messages app, click on his name. Your last text is from earlier that day—"don't forget the oat milk lol."

You type out something.

"Are you okay?"

No. Delete.

"Where are you?"

Too clingy. Delete.

"Come home."

Your thumb hovers over send.

You backspace it all.

Because your ego is high. It wraps around your chest like barbed wire and whispers, he should text first. he left. he made you say it.

But your gut won't shut up. It twists tighter. Something's wrong, and you feel it in your bones.

Your phone buzzes.

But it's just your screen time report.

You nearly throw it across the room.

Instead, you just sit there, phone in hand, pretending the silence isn't getting louder. Pretending your heart isn't racing every time headlights pass the window. Pretending you're not dying to hear his key in the lock.

It's 11:50 PM.

He's still not back.

But you wait.

And wait.

And wait...

You tell yourself he'll come back.

He always comes back.

You must've fallen asleep at some point.

The TV's still playing some random tv shows. The room is dim, lit only by the soft flicker of the TV screen. The sky outside is pale grey. Your neck aches, your back is stiff, mouth dry.

Your eyes burn like hell.

When you sit up, you realize your cheek is crusted with dried tears. Your shirt is slightly damp near the collar. Your face feels swollen, like you cried yourself straight into unconsciousness.

You check your phone immediately.

No texts.

No missed calls.

Not from him.

Until...

Incoming call from Yeosang's sister.

Your heart sinks before you even answer.

Your thumb shakes as you swipe up. "...hello?"

Her voice is choked, trembling.

"Y/N, you need to come to the hospital. It's—it's Yeosang. He got into an accident last night. On his bike, please come."

You don't even answer, but you just go.

Everything happens in a blur. Cold water on your face, shoes on the wrong feet. Your phone clutched in your palm so tight it might crack. You run out of the apartment without brushing your hair, without changing your shirt—the one still soaked with tears.

The drive feels like it's too long, or maybe it's too short.

Your legs barely carry you through the hospital doors. The air smells like sterile. Someone behind a desk is asking you for a name. You say his. Voice trembling.

His sister is already there, waiting. Her eyes are red and swollen. The same way yours feel. When she sees you, she breaks.

She walks straight into your arms and clings to you.

"He's in critical condition," she sobs.

"They're trying... but it's really bad. He lost so much blood—"

You hear the words but they don't land.

Like your brain is floating.

Like this isn't real.

You turn your head.

His parents are in the corner. His mom is crying quietly into his father's shoulder. He's holding her with both arms, face grim and pale.

You walk toward them, slow and hesitant. His mother looks up and the moment she sees you, her bottom lip wobbles.

"He was on his way home," she whispers, like it's a secret.

Your knees almost give out.

You sit with them, or maybe you just collapse there. Time loses all shape, minutes blur into hours. Every time footsteps echo down the hallway, you flinch.

Finally, a doctor approaches.

His face says enough, tired.

"We've stabilized him, for now. He's unconscious, but you can see him."

His parents go first, and you sit there. Alone.

Your fingers are shaking again, staring at the floor tiles. Trace every crack. You can't stop thinking about that last moment—"I fucking hate you."

And he left like that.

He got on that bike like that.

His sister comes back, pale. Silent. She grabs your hand.

"They said you can go in."

You nod.

You don't breathe.

You walk in.

And there he is.

Machines beeping softly, wires attached to his chest. His face is bruised, lip split, gash above his eyebrow. His hand limp on the blanket, IV tape holding his skin down.

You break.

You stumble forward, and drop to your knees beside the bed, head bowed over his arm.

"Fuck," you whisper. "Fuck, Yeosang—baby, no. I didn't mean it. I swear to god, I didn't mean it."

Your voice shakes so bad it barely counts as speaking.

"I was mad. I was so mad and scared and stupid and you—you didn't deserve that. You never did."

His chest rises slowly.

He doesn't respond, so you reach for his hand, holding it like it's made of glass.

"Please wake up. Please... I can't let that be the last thing you remember. I love you. I love you so much it hurts. I was just scared... scared of how much you mean to me. I'm scared of fucking it up, and now I did."

You bend forward and press your forehead to his.

"Please, come back. I need you to come back. Yell at me, tell me I'm an asshole. Tell me I broke your heart, anything. Just don't stay like this..."

But then—

The monitors start screaming.

A flat, high-pitched sound slices through the room like a blade.

"No no no no no no—" You sob, grabbing his face, shaking his shoulder, "Yeosang—please—please—wake up—I love you, I love you—please—!"

Nurses rush in, and doctor follow. Someone pulls you back, someone else shouts medical codes.

You scream, you scream like your lungs will collapse.

You scream like you're trying to force time to go backwards.

His mother comes in and holds you, sobbing. You can her his sister's wailing into the hallway.

"Don't let him die—please!" You sob, reaching for him. "He can't go—he can't—"

But he does.

Yeosang dies at 9:42 AM on a Wednesday morning.

And all you can think is—

Was it worth the fight?

It's been four months.

Since he died.

Since your world cracked down the middle.

Since everything started tasting like cardboard and sounding like static.

You moved.

Somewhere far, somewhere without the constant buzzing of city streets or the sound of motorcycles roaring past your window. No packed subways, no chance of accidentally passing his favorite coffee shop. No risk of running into anyone who knew.

You changed your number, deleted all your socials, left everything in the dust.

Even Yeosang's parents.

You didn't want to. God, it nearly broke you since you loved them like your own. His mom once kissed your forehead and said she was glad Yeosang found you. His dad helped fix your heater in the winter. They always made room at the table.

But they didn't know.

They didn't know you fought that night. Didn't know he died thinking you hated him, that you screamed it.

And if they ever found out—

If they ever looked at you with blame in their eyes... you wouldn't survive it.

So you stayed away.

You live in a tiny house now. Tucked near a forest with no name. It's peaceful, and there's a river nearby. Clear water. A waterfall not far from it, tall and quiet, tucked away behind a hill.

You go there sometimes.

To breathe.

To remember,

Today, the sky is beautiful. All soft clouds and gold light. Birds chirping, people laughing by the river, splashing around. You stand near the edge, close enough to feel the mist. Your fingers trail through tall grass.

You close your eyes.

"You'd love it here," you whisper, voice caught in the wind. "I wish you saw this place."

Your chest aches. But it's quieter than it used to be.

"I tried," you mumble. "Tried to be okay, tried to forget, tried to forgive myself but it won't leave. It won't."

Your eyes flicker open, and you look up at the sky.

"Do you hate me?" You ask. To no one. "Do you know how sorry I am?"

You let out a shaky breath, then a smile.

"I'll come to you, baby."

Your voice is softer now.

"I don't think I'll be able to follow you into heaven, but I hope there's a chance we could meet up there."

You step forward, shoes off, toes curling at the ledge.

"I'm sorry..."

You close your eyes.

And jump.

[woogilicious]

better luck next time, detective ꒰ woosan ꒱

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ pairing: criminal!san x detective!wooyoung. ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ word count: 2.3k words. ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ genre: smut/crime AU | minors DNI. ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ warnings: nsfw, rough sex, handcuff bondage, dom!san, sub!wooyoung, criminal/detective dynamic, consensual non-consent themes, manhandling, dirty talk, light edging, brief aftercare, mild blood mention, voyeurism/masturbation mention, language. ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ a.n: my first ever smut!! took me awhile, but i think i did pretty well, hehe lmk if you guys like it!

"Don't move!" Wooyoung yells, tripping over a trash can lid as he skids into the alley.

Classic. So classic.

Choi San doesn't move. Not really. He just tilts his head. Slow, deliberate. That signature unimpressed stare boring right into Wooyoung like he's some kind of bug he's considering squashing.

"You again," San mutters, deadpan. "Didn't you sprain your ankle last time?"

"Pulled a muscle," Wooyoung huffs, straightening up and yanking his badge out of his coat like it'll suddenly make him look more intimidating. It doesn't. "This time, I've got you. No escape routes. No subway tunnel tricks. No rooftop jumps—seriously, how did you even do that?"

San shrugs. His hands are in the pockets of his dark jacket. There's blood on the corner of his sleeve, but it's not his. Wooyoung knows that. And the fact that it's not... should be terrifying. But all Wooyoung can focus on is how unfairly good San looks under the flickering streetlight. Jaw clenched. Eyes sharp. Like he;s made of ice and doesn't give a damn about anyone's rules.

"You're always two steps behind," San says, stepping forward. Not running—just closing the distance slowly and casually. "You know that, right?"

"I'm getting better," Wooyoung shoots back, lifting his chin. "I almost had you at the train station."

San hums, unconvinced. "Almost isn't good enough."

"Well it was close enough to scare you," Wooyoung says, crossing his arms then uncrossing them because he realizes that just makes him look nervous. "You did run."

A smirk could be seen on San's lips. He actually smirks at that. Which is unfair because that stupid smirk short-circuits Wooyoung's brain for half a second.

"I meant," Wooyoung tries again, flustered but stubborn, "you better start worrying. I'm catching up."

San looks him up and down. "Yeah?" he says, eyes sharp. "Guess we'll see."

Wooyoung tightens his grip on his taser. He's not even sure it's on. "Okay, okay, look. You've cornered. You're caught. Let's skip the part where you do something cool and I eat concrete. Just... hands up. Let me win this one."

San's smile is slow and wicked and infuriatingly attractive. "Let you win?"

"Dude, please. I've lost, like six times. I still have bruises from the museum incident."

"You fell down the stairs."

"You pushed me down the stairs."

San doesn't deny it. He just keeps walking forward. Calm. One boot scuffing softly on the pavement like this is just a casual stroll.

Wooyoung holds his ground. Mostly. His knees are doing a tiny little fear bounce but he tells them to shut up.

And then San stops right in front of him. Barely a foot of air between them.

"You ever think maybe you don't want to catch me?" San says, voice low and soft.

Wooyoung blinks. "What?"

"You keep chasing, and you keep failing." San leans in just a fraction. "And I'm so nice that I keep letting you get close."

"That's not—" Wooyoung swallows. "You think this is what, some kind of game?"

San doesn't answer. Just reaches out and gently taps the front of Wooyoung's coat with one finger. Right above his heart, "You always come running when it's me."

"And you always run," Wooyoung whispers back, eyes locked on his.

"Do I?" San murmurs.

Something presses against Wooyoung's waist. Cold and sharp.

His hands shoots down instinctively—but by the time he gets there, the handcuffs are gone, and so is San.

"Nope nope nope—" Wooyoung spins around, heart thudding like a bass drum. "San!"

He hears laughter echoing down the alley, light and cruel and beautiful, like the win itself is making fun of him.

There's a folded scrap of paper on the ground where San had been standing.

Wooyoung picks it up.

Better luck next time, detective. You're cute when you're mad.

He groans. Loudly. And kicks the wall. Immediately regrets it because ow.

"SON OF A—"

It's almost 3AM when Wooyoung stumbles into his apartment, coat barely hanging on one shoulder, taser dead in his pocket and a half-eaten convenience store kimbap shoved in his mouth.

The alley encounter with San earlier keeps playing on repeat in his head. That look. That smirk. That note.

"Better luck next time." God, is he flirting? Who flirts through petty criminal mind games?

Wooyoung throws his coat onto the couch, drags himself into his room, and faceplants on the bed.

His forehead thumps against the pillow. "Maybe I need a new job."

"You'd be terrible at anything else."

Wooyoung freezes.

He lifts his head slowly. Very slowly.

There's someone sitting on the edge of his bed.

San?

Choi. Freaking. San.

Leaning back, legs crossed, in the same dark jacket. Boots kicked off neatly by the wall like this is his damn house.

Wooyoung scrambles back so hard he falls off the bed. "WHAT THE—"

"You should lock your window." San says it like he's giving actual home security advice. "Not that it would've stopped me."

"You—how did you—why are you—" Wooyoung gropes for his phone. "You're not supposed to be here! This is breaking and entering—urgh! I'm calling backup!"

San doesn't move.

Wooyoung dials. Hits the call button. "Dispatch. I—"

click.

Something tightens around his wrist.

He stares down at his hand. The phone clatters to the floor.

There's a pair of handcuffs. Not his. Shinier. Tighter. Connected to the metal frame of his bed.

His bed.

"...You brought your own cuffs?"

San hums as he climbs over him. "Yours are flimsy."

"You—San—this is a felony—"

"You love when I commit felonies."

"The fuck? I don't—"

"You're hard."

Wooyoung shuts up.

San's fingers trace along the line of his jaw, his throat, his chest. It's infuriating how calm he is, how in control. How he looks at Wooyoung like he already owns him.

"Do you know how easy it is to follow you?" San murmurs, breath hot near his ear. "You go to the same shitty corner store every night. You drink the same energy drink. Your light's always on past midnight. You sigh so dramatically when you jerk off."

"What? I.. I don't jerk off.."

San slides his thigh between Wooyoung's legs and grinds just slightly.

Wooyoung lets out a breathy, involuntary noise and curses himself for it.

"There it is," San says softly. "That sound. I wanted to hear it from you this time."

"You're a criminal—"

"Mm. And you're not stopping me, aren't you?"

San's mouth brushes his. Not a kiss. Just enough to make Wooyoung shiver and lean up into it.

His other wrist gets cuffed.

He's spread open, back pressed to the mattress, cheeks burning, breath shallow. His shirt gets unbuttoned like San has all night to savor the process. And maybe he does. Because Wooyoung sure as hell isn't going anywhere.

"You think I've been running," San murmurs against his neck, tongue flicking just beneath his jaw. "But I've always been circling."

"You talk like a—" Wooyoung gasps when San's fingers slip under his waistband. "—like a villain."

"I am a villain," San whispers. "But you? You're mine."

San says it low, right into Wooyoung's ear as he palms him through his pants, slow. It's barely any pressure but Wooyoung's hips jerk up helplessly.

"Y-you're insane," Wooyoung pants.

San hums, like that's a compliment. "Probably. But you're the one with both wrist cuffed, hard, probably horny for me. So what does that say about you?"

"I hate you," Wooyoung spits, even as he writhes in the hold, chest flushed, breath getting choppier with every second.

"No, you don't, detective," San murmurs, dragging his tongue across Wooyoung's collarbone. "You keep chasing me. You like when I make you lose."

Wooyoung lets out a breathy, frustrated groan, bucking up. "If I wasn't tied up—"

"You'd what?" San's hand finally slides inside, knuckle brushing against Wooyoung's skin. "Arrest me? Tackle me? Ride me while swearing you're doing it for justice?"

"Wooyoung's moan is half choked, head tipping back against the mattress.

San watches him—soaked in moonlight, chest heaving, skin burning under his fingertips. "God, you're so easy, detective."

"Are you going to fuck me or keep yapping?" Wooyoung bites, voice hoarse and wrecked.

San grins. "Say please."

"Go to hell."

San squeezes—hard—and Wooyoung gasps like it knocks the air from his lungs.

"Try again," San purrs, licking the curve of Wooyoung's neck. "Or I'll edge you til sunrise."

Wooyoung's entire body arches. "Fuck—please."

"There's my good boy," San says, low and pleased.

San's hand slides down, unfastening Wooyoung's pants with ease. There's a sharp inhale from Wooyoung as cool air hits his skin, boxers tugged just low enough for San to cup him fully.

"You're so hard," San murmurs, eyes locked onto his flushed, twitching dick. He wraps his fingers around the shaft, slow and deliberate, dragging a moan out of Wooyoung that makes his spine arch against the mattress. "Didn't even have to di anything yet."

"S-San—"

The grip tightens.

Wooyoung harks in the cuffs, the metal clinking above his head. "Fuck—!"

San strokes him, shaft to tip, dragging his thumb across the leaking slit. "Every time I've seen you," he whispers, "I wondered if you'd fall apart like this. So loud and so messy."

"Y-you're crazy—"

"But you love it." San leans in, dragging his tongue from the base of Wooyoung's throat to his ear. "Tell me you don't want this."

Wooyoung's head thrashes. His cock is already pulsing in San's hand, every nerve lit up. "I hate how good it feels," he gasps. "I—ah—fuck, San—!"

San pulls away just long enough to strip, his dick already hard, glistening at the tip. Wooyoung stares, wide-eyed, lips parted, breath ragged. And San smirks.

"You gonna take it like a good little detective?" he taunts, stroking himself just above Wooyoung's bare thigh. "Beg for it."

Wooyoung groans, eyes fluttering. "Please. San—please—just fuck me."

"That's more like it."

He reaches down, slicks his fingers with spit, then presses one between Wooyoung's legs without warning. The first slide is fast, too fast, and Wooyoung gasps, back arching hard.

"God—!"

"You've been thinking about this too, haven't you?" San mutters as he works him open, finger pumping in and out, curling just right. "Jerking off at night, pretending it was me. Wishing I'd break in and ruin you."

"No— shut up—!"

Another finger joins the first, scissoring him open, and Wooyoung's protest melts into a groan. "Fuck—"

"You want it rough? I'll give you rough."

San lines up, presses the tip against him, and thrusts in—hard, fast, all at once. Wooyoung cries out, thighs trembling, eyes wide and desperate.

"F-fuck—San—!!"

"That's right." San hisses through his teeth as he thrusts his dick. "Tight. Fuck, you're perfect."

He doesn't wait.

The thrusts start fast and brutal, each one slamming Wooyoung against the mattress with enough force to rattle the frame. The cuffs clink in rhythm with every snap of San's hips, and Wooyoung's moans get louder, wilder, completely lost in it.

"God—you're deep—"

"Say my name," San grunts. "Let the whole fucking building hear who owns you."

"San—! Ahhh—San—please—"

Sweat slicks their skin. San's hand grips Wooyoung thigh, spreading him wider, angling deeper, until he hits the spot that makes the detective sob beneath him.

"There it is," San growls. "That little sound I've been wanting to hear."

Wooyoung's dick is flushed, aching, leaking over his own stomach. San wraps a hand around it again and strokes in time with his thrusts—hard and fast, overwhelming.

"I'm gonna cum," Wooyoung pants. "F-fuck—I can't take it anymore—!"

"Do it," San snaps.

And Wooyoung does, with a scream, his whole body locking up as he spills across his chest, white-hot and blinding. The orgasm wracks through him, violent and raw, leaving him twitching and soaked.

San fucks him through it, chasing his own release. He buries himself completely one last time, groaning into Wooyoung's neck as he releases his load deep inside him, hips jerking through the aftershocks.

The room goes quiet, save of their gasping breaths.

San slumps forward, lips pressed to Wooyoung's temple.

"You're mine," he murmurs. "Every inch of you."

Wooyoung's too dazed to respond. He just lies there, wrecked, cum scared across his stomach, San's dick still buried deep inside him.

And then—softly, breathhlessly—Wooyoung mutters, "Fuck. I think I need a shower. And therapy."

San laughs against his skin. "You need another round."

San's chest is pressed against his, arm slung lazily over his waist like he owns the bed. Like this is his place. Like this wasn't breaking and entering followed by the most intense sex of Wooyoung's life.

"Are you... cuddling me?" Wooyoung asks, voice still scratchy.

San's voice is sleepy and smug. "Yeah."

"Don't criminals usually, I don't know, flee the scene?"

"Hmm? I already got what I came for."

"Urgh, so annoying," Wooyoung mutters, though he can't help the embarrassed little smile twitching at his lips. "Also, uncuff me!"

"Mmm." San yawns. "Nah. You're cuter like this."

"I hate you."

"Sure you do," San mumbles, burying his face into Wooyoung's neck.

And it's almost—dangerously—sweet. For like ten seconds.

Until, "Detective Jung, report your location. Dispatch has received an incomplete distress call from your number."

The radio on the floor crackles to life.

San blinks.

Wooyoung blinks.

"...Didn't you hang up your phone before?" San asks, slow horror hit his face.

"I THOUGHT I DID!" Wooyoung shrieks, jerking at the cuffs.

"Are you kidding me right now?!"

"I was distracted!"

The sound of distant sirens starts to build outside.

San bolts up, fully naked, yanking his shirt over his head mid-sprint towards the window.

"San—wait!" Wooyoung yells, struggling against the cuffs. "UNCUFF ME YOU ASSHOLE!"

"I literally can't, I dropped the key somewhere under the bed!"

"You're leaving me like this?!"

"I'll come back for you!" San yells over his shoulder, halfway out the window.

"You are such a jerk!"

San smirks as he climbs out. "I'll see you soon, detective."

And just like that—he's gone.

Wooyoung collapses back against the pillow, one arm still stuck, body sore, hair a mess, and definitely not wearing any pants.

He sighs.

"Yeah.. I definitely need a new job."

[woogilicious]

rent's cheap, ghost included ꒰ wooyoung ꒱

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ pairing: broke college student!wooyoung x ghost!reader (gender neutral ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ word count: 2.4k words ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ genre: comedy, fluff, hurt/comfort, supernatural au, soft angst ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ warnings: curse words, discussions of depression, suicidal thoughts, mentions of death (non graphic), wooyoung being an annoying little shit sometimes ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ a.n: this oneshot is more casual than the others and it's actually my favourite, lol. i know it sounds cliché, but i just really love this type of storyline so much.

You don't know who the hell decided to rent out your house to another human so soon. It's been, what? Two months since the last one moved out? And you were this close to getting peace and quiet.

But nope. Now you're stuck with watching some college kid struggle to drag in a suitcase twice his size and sad looking rice cooker into your kitchen.

You float near the ceiling, arms crossed, frowning hard enough to wrinkle the ghostly air around you.

He's muttering under his breath the whole time. "God, finally," he says, wiping sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his hoodie. "I don't even care if this place is haunted. It's cheap, and I'm broke, so I've accepted death."

You narrow your eyes. He's accepted death? Oh, honey. We'll see about that.

You watch as he dumps his stuff in the middle of the dusty living room, sighs deeply, and flops onto the floor, face first. You wait for a bit.

...now.

You blow a cold breeze past his ear. He shivers, shrugs his hoodie up to cover his head like a turtle, and immediately starts snoring.

What?

No screaming? No running away? He's just... asleep?

You float down closer, staring at him. He's cute, you guess. A little stupid, maybe. Who sleeps on the floor without a blanket?

Fine, you'll step it up.

Later that night, after he wakes up and shuffles into the kitchen to cook himself some instant noodles, you slam the cupboard doors. Not once, not twice, but eight times.

He doesn't even flinch, just stands there, stirring his sad little noodles, muttering, "Me too, buddy," like he's the one haunting YOU.

You rattle the windows, and he throws a thumbs up at the ceiling.

You drag a chair across the floor with an awful screech and he shouts, "Sounds good, friend!" and keeps eating.

You...

You don't know what to do with this guy.

He's ruining your reputation as a ghost.

You float around, sulking, until you finally decide that if he won't be scared of invincible ghost you, then you'll just show yourself.

You remember the last tine you showed yourself. An old man had almost died of a heart attack and you felt so bad that you cried.

But Wooyoung? He deserves it.

You focus real hard, pulling your form together. It's a little tricky since you haven't done it in a while, but you manage. A little translucent, and a little floaty, but you look decent.

You drift right in front of him while he's standing by the sink, trying to get the hot water to work.

"Hi," you say, your voice a little echoey and spooky on purpose. "I'm the ghost haunting this house."

He blinks, dropping the mug he was holding which thankfully, was empty. He tilts his head a little. Then, with all the enthusiasm as if someone finding out their favourite ramen flavour was back in stock, he grins and goes, "Cool!"

You stare at him and he stares back, so genuinely delighted that you actually float back a little, suspicious.

"So―" he sets the mug on the counter carefully. "Are you, like, a real ghost? Or, like, a stress hallucination? I mean, either way it's fine, but it'd be sick if you were real."

You blink at him, a little thrown off. "...I'm real."

He pumps a fist in the air. "Hell yeah! This house is awesome, cheap rent and I get a new friend? Awesome!"

You don't even know what to say to that. No one's ever been happy to see you before. You're kinda... weirdly flattered?

After that first night, everything gets... weird.

Day by day, Wooyoung just keeps talking to you. You don't even have to show yourself anymore. Half the time, you're just floating somewhere near the ceiling, watching him live his life like he's got an invisible roommate.

And oh my god.

He. does. not. shut. up.

You kinda thought he would calm down after a while. Maybe get tired of talking to a ghost who barely replies.

But, nope! Turns out, for someone who is constantly tired and has panda eyes and sighs like he's carrying the weight of the world on his back... he's got a lot of mouth energy.

"Today I dropped a whole box of paper towel at work and my manager looked at me like I committed a crime," he tells you one afternoon, kicking his shoes off and throwing himself face-first onto the couch. "Like dude, calm down? It's just a paper towel, not some fragile diamonds."

You hover over the lamp, just blinking slowly.

He waves a hand in the air, half heartedly. "Yeah, yeah. I know. Your silence is valid too, and you're so real for that."

Some nights, he sits cross-legged on the floor, eating cup noodles as usual and watching weird documentaries on YouTube. All of a sudden, he tells you some random facts.

"Did you know that octopuses have three hearts?" He says, pointing the noodle cup at you like it's a microphone. "And they can just vibe with no bones. Just, squish around."

You just float nearby, dead silent.

"I think you'd like being an octopus," he adds thoughtfully. "You're kinda floaty too."

Sometimes you wonder if you're the one who is getting haunted by this loud, chaotic, tired human.

Not that you mind, exactly. It's just new.

But one night, it's different.

You know the second he walks in.

He slams the door harder than usual. He doesn't kick his shoes off, doesn't mutter a tired "I'm home" like he always does.

You drift down from the ceiling, watching.

He throws his work apron onto the floor and his hands are shaking a little.

"Fucking―" he starts, then cuts himself off, dragging his hands through his hair. "Customers are the worst!"

He paces the living room in circles. You follow him slowly, floating just a few feet away.

"This one guy today," he says, voice getting louder, "This asshole―he yelled at me for like, five minutes straight because the yogurt he wanted was sold out. Like I fucking make the yogurt myself, right?"

You float quietly.

He's not really talking to you. He's just letting it all pour out.

"I hate it," he mumbles. "I hate this stupid job. I hate that I'm broke. I hate that I'm killing myself for college when I'm not even smart. I'm just doing it because―" he stops, swallowing hard. "―because if I don't, my parents will be disappointed. Tsk, like they aren't already."

You reach out without thinking―your hand passing through his shoulder gently―trying to comfort him, even if he can't feel it.

Wooyoung laughs a little, but it's not the funny kind. It's broken.

He sits down hard on the couch, staring at the floor, then he looks up, right at you.

Even though you're invisible, somehow, he knows where you are.

"...Hey," he says, voice small. "Is it fun? Being a ghost?"

You blink.

"Like... is it better?" he keeps going, softer now. "Do you get to just... stop worrying about stupid shit? Like bills and parents and yogurt?"

He huffs a breath that's almost a laugh.

"I mean, if it's better," he says, looking back at the floor, "Maybe I should just―you know? Join you."

The room goes very, very quiet.

And you.

You feel something deep in your chest, something you haven't felt in a long time. Fear.

Not for yourself.

For him.

You don't even hesitate to pull your form together. No more floating half-there, no more hiding. You focus until you're solid enough that he can see you clearly.

You step forward, right in front of him, and say―out loud, real and desperate―"No. Don't do that."

Wooyoung's hand snaps up. His eyes go wide, so wide and then―just like that, he breaks.

He lets out this raw, awful sob and crumples forward, burying his face in his hands. It's not loud, or dramatic. It's quiet, like it hurts too much to even cry properly.

"I'm so tired," he chokes out between broken gasps. "I'm so fucking tired of pretending."

You kneel down in front of him, trying to catch his gaze, but he just keeps talking, keeps pouring it out like a dam that has finally broke.

"Everyone thinks I'm―" he waves a hand weakly. "The funny guy, the loud guy, the one who never shuts up. And I guess you probably think that too."

Well, that is true.

"But I'm just..." he presses his hands harder against his face. "I'm just filling up the silence so I don't have to think about how empty I feel. I'm trying so hard to make life feel like it's worth living."

He looks up, and god, his face is so red and wet and messy that it hurts to look at.

"But to me... it's nothing."

Your chest aches.

You don't think. You just move.

You wrap your arms around him, and somehow, somehow, for the first time, he can feel you.

His body stiffens in shock for half a second. Then he breaks even more, grabbing onto you like he's drowning.

He doesn't care that you're supposed to be a ghost.

He doesn't care that you're supposed to be scary.

He just needs to be held.

"Let me," he whispers, voice totally wrecked. "Let me join you."

You shake your head hard. You pull back just enough to cup his tear streaked face in your hands, forcing him to look at you.

"No," you whisper. "Please. Don't waste your life."

He shudders.

"I know it's hard," you say, your voice shaking. "I know it feels like there's no point sometimes. But you're still here. You're still breathing. You're still fighting, even when it sucks."

You swipe your thumb under his eyes, wiping a tear.

"…and that's brave, Wooyoung. Braver than anything I ever did."

He frowns, confused through the tears. "What do you mean?"

You exhale slowly.

"I became a ghost," you say, "because I gave up."

His eyes widen.

"I thought… if I stopped trying, the pain would stop too. And it did. Kind of? But now I'm stuck."

You glance around the living room, the cracked walls, the flickering lightbulb.

"I'm stuck here, watching life go on without me. Watching people laugh and cry and live—even when it's messy, painful and unfair and I can't be a part of it anymore."

You look back at him, and your voice cracks.

"I would give anything to have another chance. To eat bad noodles, to get yelled at by annoying customers. To walk down a street and feel the sun."

You grip his shoulders tighter.

"And no matter how bad I want to have another chance, I can't. But you still can."

He stares at you, breathing hard, hands still clutching your sleeves like he's scared if you'll disappear if he lets go.

"Please," you whisper. "Don't throw it away. Not like I did."

You don't know how long you stay like that, holding him. But slowly, Wooyoung's breathing starts to even out. He blinks up at you with swollen eyes and puffy cheeks and somehow still manages a tiny, tired laugh.

"You're kinda… a terrible ghost," he croaks. "Aren't you supposed to scare me away or something?"

You smile a little, brushing his messy hair off his forehead. "Maybe," you whisper. "But I think you're scarier."

He snorts. "Fair."

You squeeze his hand, gentle but firm.

"Wooyoung," you say softly. "You're not alone."

He swallows thickly.

"I'm here," you say. "I'll be here. As long as you need me."

You press your forehead lightly against his. Your voice drops to a whisper.

"Let's heal together."

He squeezes his eyes shut, tears leaking out again—but this time, they feel lighter.

"Yeah," he breathes. "Let's do that."

He pulls you into a hug again. Tight, real, so full of feeling you almost forget you're supposed to be a ghost. You hug him back just as hard.

After a long moment, he mumbles into your shoulder. "You gotta promise me, though. Promise me you won’t leave me."

You smile.

"I promise," you say.

Life doesn't magically fix itself overnight.

Wooyoung still comes home with bags under his eyes. He still has days where he slams the door and mutters about rude customers.

But he doesn't cry alone anymore, because you're there.

You're there when he drags himself into bed and mumbles goodnight to the ceiling. You're there when he rants about dumb professors and overpriced cafeterias food. You're there when he laughs too loud at memes on his phone and shows you even though you can't actually hold his phone yourself.

But slowly, you see the light coming back into him.

He even starts bringing back little cheap snacks from the convenience store. He leaves them on the counter with a little sticky note that says, "For ghostie" even though you physically can't eat them.

It makes you smile anyway.

Tonight is movie night.

You're curled up on the couch, or well, floating while cross legged slightly above the couch. While Wooyoung got three blankets wrapped around himself like a burrito, clutching a giant bowl of popcorn.

"Okay," he says, eyes shining. "We're watching a horror movie. A real one. None of that jumpscare baby stuff."

You raise an eyebrow at him. "You sure about that?"

He scoffs. "Pft. Yeah! I live with a ghost so I'm built different."

You smirk. "Right."

He picks some indie horror movie that looks grimy and messed up. Lots of dark woods, and creepy faces in mirror. Within fifteen minutes, Wooyoung is already sitting suspiciously closer to you. Within thirty minutes, he's gripping the popcorn bowl like his life depends on it.

You nudge him in the side.

He yelps so loud he throws a handful of popcorn straight into the air.

"Oh my god—!" he gasps, clutching his chest.

You stare at him.

"You," you say, pointing at him, "are scared of this?"

He scowls, cheeks turning red. "It's spooky, okay?!"

You float a little closer, crossing your arms.

"You literally live with a whole ass ghost. A real one." You jab a thumb at yourself. "Me. Hi. Real ghost."

He huffs. "Yeah, but you're not scary! You're—" he waves his arms vaguely. "You're you!"

You stare. He stares back, defensive.

Then you burst out laughing.

"Unbelievable," you snicker. "Wooyoung, living with a real life ghost, defeated by a low-budget horror film."

He grins, wide and stupid and alive.

And for the first time in a long, long time, you both feel it. Hope.

Real, stubborn, stupid, wonderful hope.

And maybe that's what living is, you think. Even if you're technically not breathing anymore. Just being here, together.

It’s messy and imperfect.

It's life.

[woogilicious]

same time tomorrow ꒰ hunter ꒱

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ pairing: hunter x gn!reader. ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ word count: 611 words. ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ genre: fluff. ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ warnings: none.

The rain started an hour ago and hasn't let up since. It's the kind that sounds like static on the windows, soft and persistent. The coffee shop is quiet, save for the hum of indie music and the occasional hiss of steamed milk. You're learning against the counter, half-asleep with boredom, when the door swings open and someone stumbles inside like they just lost a fight with a hurricane.

You blink.

He's tall, and dripping wet. His hoodie clings to him like it's part of his skin, and his shoes squish with every step. He looks around the café like he's expecting a welcome party.

Well spoiler alert, it's just you and some jazz music playing too softly through the speakers.

He hesitates near the door, checks his phone, checks the room, checks his phone again.

You watch as he makes his way to the window seat after he orders a cup of latte and sits down, clearly trying to play it cool, though the puddle forming under his shoes isn't helping. His shoulders are tense. Phone in hand. Typing something. Waiting.

You leave him alone.

For the next hour and a half, he barely moves. Just stares out the window, types, stares again, occasionally brings his phone to his ear and listens. Waits. You can tell he's trying to act unbothered, but the nervous tapping of his fingers against the table gives him away.

Call. No answer. Text. No reply.

You can practically hear the disappointment settling in from behind the counter. And maybe it's none of your business, but something about him sitting there—soaked, silent, trying not to look crushed—makes you want to do something.

You walk over, wiping your hands on a towel. "Hey."

He looks up, startled. You gesture toward his empty cup.

"You want a refill? Or maybe just... someone to talk to you so you don't spiral into full heartbreak in public?"

He blinks, surprised, then lets out a breath that sounds like a laugh, even if there's no real humor in it.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Only to everyone within a two-meter radius," you say, smiling.

He leans back in his seat, finally relaxing just a little. "I guess I got ghosted."

"How long have you been waiting?"

"Almost two hours," he says, then glances down at his phone again. "I kept thinking maybe they were just running late, or maybe I got the time wrong. But nope. Full-on ghost."

You nod. "That sucks."

"Yeah, kinda."

There's a pause. Rain tapping against the windows. The café's quiet again, and in that soft space, you ask, "You want to hang around a bit? Talk about something that doesn't suck?"

He smiles, for real this time. It's a little sheepish, but warm.

"Sure. Why not? It's not like I've got anything better to do right now." He holds out a hand. "I'm Hunter."

You take it. "Nice to meet you, Hunter. I'm Y/N, your barista-turned-into-a-temporary-therapist."

"Perfect," he says. "I think I owe you a tip already."

You end up talking for the rest of your shift. It's easy. He's funny in this soft, surprising way, and he listens like he actually cares—not out of politeness, but curiosity. You forget about the time, and so does he.

Eventually, he glances at the door and sighs. "Rain's stopped."

"Tragic," you say. "You'll have to go be dramatic somewhere else."

He laughs, then scribbles something quickly on a napkin and hands it to you before he leaves.

Same time tomorrow?

You look up, but he's already halfway to the door.

You fold the napkin and tuck it into your apron, smiling to yourself.

"Same time tomorrow," you whisper.

[woogilicious]

haii ! i just read ur seonghwa dealer au and it was so good to read i love it 😍 i hope u will write smth similar for the other members 🙏🤍

hiii hiii! thank you so much, glad u like it! i actually have a few wip that is quite similar to seonghwa’s dealer au but quite lazy to continue due to writer’s block lol 😭 i’ll try my best to upload it during my semester break next month 💗

[woogilicious]

cooking stream ꒰ yunho ꒱

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ pairing: streamer!yunho x gn!reader. ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ word count: 1.05k words. ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ genre: fluff. ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ warnings: hate comment, protective yunho, subtle flirting. ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ first part: offline messages. ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ a.n: got suggestions from my friend that i should do a part two to this so... enjoy <3

"Okay," Yunho says, pressing his palms together pretending to be serious, "first rule of cooking with me―don't question the chef."

You raise an eyebrow at him, holding up the kimchi container. "You mean don't question the guy who once set off his smoke alarm trying to microwave a boiled egg?"

The chat instantly floods with laughing emotes and chaos.

hamsterteeth3: lmao don't expose him like that y/n pls xghe99: can't wait to hear this married couple fight

Yunho lets out a dramatic gasp. "First of all, I didn't do that on purpose, it was supposed to be an experiment. And second―" he leans toward the camera, voice dropping to a fake whisper, "―I won't invite you to my stream again."

"You invited me!" you laugh, nudging his shoulder. "You literally begged me to come to your first IRL stream."

"I didn't beg," he mutters.

You just smile at him, because yeah, he did. And it was kinda cute.

You and Yunho move around the kitchen with surprising ease. He's mostly doing the chopping (badly), and you're trying to make sure he doesn't cut off his fingers. The plan is to make kimchi fried rice. Simple, comforting food type of dish. Plus, you've both eaten enough takeout lately to make a home-cooked meal feel like a small miracle.

The chat is still thriving, filled with emotes and inside jokes from long-time viewers. It feels so nostalgic, like the early days―before the fame, the chaos.

"Okay, time for eggs," Yunho says brightly, opening the fridge.

You glance at the camera, then at him. "You did buy eggs, right?"

"I..." he trails off, bending down to check.

There's a long pause.

You turn to the camera. "Guys, he forgot the eggs."

The chat explodes, making fun of Yunho.

Yunho closes the fridge slowly. "So, uh... kimchi fried rice... no egg?"

You shake your head, laughing. "This is a disaster."

"Hey, it's just an egg. I bet you the rice itself tastes amazing!" he corrects.

You're both still grinning when a new comment pops up on screen, this one in bold font―probably a high tier member or something.

But this time, your smile falters.

dogbackwards: y/n is so annoying lol why do you keep inviting them? they're just clout-chasing now that you're famous

There's a second of silence.

You stand still.

And Yunho... Yunho sees it.

Your instinct is to laugh it off, to brush it aside like you always do. But Yunho steps closer to the monitor, eyes narrowed, mouth tight. The soft, goofy smile is completely gone.

"Alright," he says, voice low and cold. "Let's get one thing straight."

"If you think you can come on my stream and talk shit about someone who's literally been here since the beginning, you can get the fuck out."

You blink. He never curses on stream.

"I don't care if you're a subscriber, a tier three member, or if you drop fifty gifted every week. You're not entitled to disrespect my friend. Y/N isn't some random guest I picked up for views, they're the reason this channel exists in the first place."

You try to cut in, "Yunho, it's fine―" but he shakes his head.

"No. It's not." He looks straight at the camera, jaw clenched. "If you think Y/N is annoying, then fucking leave. Unfollow. Block me. I don't need any negativity or support from someone who thinks tearing other people down makes them important."

pawpew: HE SAID WHAT HE SAID dejavumonkey3777: protect y/n at all cost! pointyfishiessss: get out of here dogbackwards!

You're still frozen, wide-eyed, fingers curled around the countertop.

Slowly, Yunho turns back to you, voice softening. "Sorry, I just―I'm not gonna let anyone talk to you like that."

You blink at him, trying to brush off the sudden swell in your throat. "You know I don't care what people say."

"I care," he says. "I care a lot."

And that's the part that makes you look away―because the way he says it doesn't feel like just caring.

You finish plating the food, setting two mismatched bowls on the counter. The kimchi fried rice is steaming, glistening slightly from the sesame oil and bits of crispy rice stuck to the bottom—Yunho’s accidental masterpiece. You hand him a pair of chopsticks and grab your own.

"Moment of truth," you say, lifting a spoonful.

"Be honest," he warns, already blowing on a bite, "but not too honest. I’m emotionally fragile."

You laugh, taking a bite, and immediately blink in surprise. "Wait. This is actually good?"

Yunho looks smug as he chews. "You doubted me."

"I always doubt you."

"And yet here you are," he says, gesturing to the rice, "feasting on my food."

You nudge his bowl with your chopsticks. "You forgot the egg, genius."

"But I added extra kimchi to make up for it."

You can’t help but smile as you take another bite. The flavors are simple, comforting. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s familiar. Warm like an old memory. Or maybe that’s just what it feels like sitting here next to him again, after all the distance.

Yunho leans back slightly, watching you with a small, unreadable smile. "It tastes better because you’re here."

You nearly choke. "What?"

"I’m serious," he shrugs, picking at a piece of rice. "Feels like the old days. Just… nicer now."

You glance at the camera. The stream’s still live, chat still active, but for a second, the world narrows to just the two of you at this tiny counter, sharing burnt rice and low-key confessions.

"You’re getting sentimental," you tease, even though your voice is quieter now.

He nudges your foot under the table. "You bring it out of me."

You pause for a second, gaze dropping to your bowl. You try not to think too hard about how soft his voice got, or how long his eyes linger when you’re not looking. Instead, you focus on the food.

"Okay, I’ll admit it," you say eventually. "This is kinda the best fried rice I’ve had."

Yunho lights up like you just gave him an award. "See? Say thank you to Chef Jeong."

"You’re annoying."

"And yet—" he tilts his head toward you, eyes shining "—you’re still here."

And just like that, your heart is warm again.

This time, it’s not just the food.

[woogilicious]

i'd burn the city for you ꒰ seonghwa ꒱

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ pairing: drug dealer!seonghwa x boss!reader (gender neutral) ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ word count: 3.7k words. ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ genre: slow burn? + action + mild romance ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ warnings: violence, blood, guns, murder, criminal themes, intense tension, emotional vulnerability, possessiveness, jealousy, subtle seduction, suggestive themes, mentions of past betrayal, hyunjin is the bad guy lol. ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ a.n: i'm so happy to see my last yunho's oneshot got a lot of likes and reblogged, so here i tried to write something way out of my comfort zone, so hopefully you guys like it because it does look a little bit cliché in my opinion lol. love ya!

The alley smells like blood and wet asphalt.

You lean against the car, cigarette burning low between your fingers, eyes flicking toward the broken neon sign overhead. Red light pulses over Seonghwa's face like a warning. His knuckles are scraped, lip split, and there's a streak of something dark―definitely not his―on the collar of his shirt.

He's quiet. He always is.

"You weren't supposed to go inside," you say, voice flat.

"I know."

"You weren't supposed to touch anyone."

A pause. Then, "I know."

You sigh like he's inconvenienced you, like this entire situation is more tedious than dangerous.

"Then explain to me," you say slowly, "why you left your post, broke protocol, and nearly killed the client."

Seonghwa doesn't flinch. He just looks at you with that same unreadable calm, that same infuriating stillness.

"He pulled a weapon on you."

"I was armed."

"You didn't reach for it."

You flick the cigarette to the ground and crush it beneath your boot.

"I didn't need your protection, Seonghwa," you say coldly. "You're not my bodyguard. You're a dealer. You move weight. You don't play the hero."

His jaw tightens at that, but he doesn't respond. Not yet.

You step closer, slow and deliberate. Your presence has always been ice―quiet, sharp, unforgiving. Most people stumble over their words when you look them in the eye. But not Park Seonghwa.

"You could've burned that entire deal to the ground," you murmur. "And for what?"

Still, he says nothing.

So you push.

"Why?"

His voice is low when he finally answers, like he's choosing every word too carefully. "Because I didn't like the way he looked at you."

That makes your brows lift―just a fraction―but it's the closest thing to surprise you've shown all night.

"You don't get paid to care how people look at me."

"No," he agrees. "I don't."

His tone isn't challenging, it's something more quieter. Deeper.

Your eyes narrow, not out of anger, but calculation. There's always been something dangerous simmering under Seonghwa's calmness―an edge you haven't touched yet.

And tonight, he got too close.

The car door clicks open behind you, one of your drivers waiting for your signal. You glance back, then look at Seonghwa one last time.

"We'll talk later," you say coldly. "Don't disappear."

"I won't."

You slide into the backseat without another word. He watches the car pull away from the curb, hand still bloodied, eyes sharp in the rearview mirror until you're gone.

The headquarters aren't flashy. You hate flashy. It's tucked inside an old office building downtown―top floor, clean lines, cold walls. You don't need aesthetic when efficiency gets the job done.

You step into your office without looking back. It's silent. No assistants tonight. No eyes or ears but yours.

Until the door clicks shut behind you.

You don't turn around. "I didn't tell you to follow."

"I know," Seonghwa says quietly.

You walk to the liquor cart in the corner, pour yourself a glass of something expensive and sharp. Take a sip, slow. Let it bite your tongue before swallowing.

Still, you don't look at him.

"I should cut you off the schedule."

"Then do it."

That makes you pause.

You finally turn, drink still in hand, and lean back against the desk.

He's standing by the door. Posture straight, clothes a little damp, bruises starting to bloom at the edge of his jaw. But his eyes? Still steady. Still fixed on you like you're the only thing that matters in the room.

"Is this what you want?" you ask. "To be dismissed?"

"No."

"Then what do you want?"

He doesn't answer right away. Just studies you. And you hate―hate―how his gaze never slips.

"You took a risk," you say, slowly walking toward him. "For what? To make a point? To feel useful?"

"I already told you."

You're close now. Not close enough to touch, but enough to read the subtle change in his breathing. Slower. More careful. Like he's watching every single move you make.

"Say it again," you murmur.

His voice is low. Controlled. "I didn't like the way he looked at you."

You tilt your head. "You don't get to like or dislike anything when it comes to me."

He doesn't speak.

"You don't get to step in. You don't get to make decisions based on impulse. You're here to move what I tell you, when I tell you. Nothing more."

You wait. Let the silence stretch. Let it settle over both of you like smoke.

Then, softer―deadlier. "Do you understand?"

"I do."

Still so calm. So collected.

But his hands are clenched at his sides now.

You notice.

"You're good at your job," you say. "But you're not irreplaceable."

"I never claimed to be."

Another pause. Another sip from your glass.

"I could have you killed for disobedience."

"You could."

"And yet here you are."

He finally moves, just a step forward―enough to tilt the scale of the room.

"I'm here because you let me be."

Your lips twitch. Not quite a smile. Just a flicker of something between amusement and approval.

You finish your drink and set the glass down with a quiet clink.

"Go home, Seonghwa."

His jaw flexes, like he wants to say more―but he doesn't. Not yet.

"Yes, boss."

He slips out of the room without another word, quiet as a shadow.

But the weight of him stays long after the door clicks shut.

You don't see Seonghwa the next day.

Which isn't strange.

What is strange is the silence.

No update from the ports. No chatter from your usual network. No check-in from Yeosang, who's never more than a minute late to report. No word from the courier team either―the ones Seonghwa was supposed to meet this morning to finalize the next drop.

You're patient, but not stupid.

Something's off.

By noon, you've torn through three encrypted lines and six secure channels. Nothing. Only static. Dead air. Or worse―voices that sound just a little too rehearsed to be natural.

By 2:17 p.m., your headquarters is empty.

By 2:21, someone slips a plain black envelope under your door.

You don't move at first. Just stare at it―matte finish, no markings, edges sealed with wax. Unbranded. Old school. Only one person still uses wax in this industry.

You kneel slowly, pick it up with gloved fingers, break the seal.

Inside, a single photo.

Blurry. Grainy. Clearly taken through a scope or some high level surveillance rig.

But clear enough to see who's in the frame.

Seonghwa.

Cuffed to a chair. Head bowed. Blood running from a split above his eyebrow.

There's a message scribbled on the back in jagged, rushed handwriting.

"If he matters, come alone. Midnight. You know where."

You stare at the photo for exactly three seconds before you burn it.

Then you pick up your coat.

No calls. No texts. No backup.

You're not walking into a trap.

You're bringing one.

The warehouse is abandoned. Or at least, it looks abandoned.

You've driven past it a hundred times over the years―tucked between a shipping yard and a rail track, rusted shut, swallowed by weeds. But it's not the kind of place that gets forgotten by accident.

It's the kind of place people pretend to forget.

Midnight.

You arrive five minutes early.

No backup, just like the note said. No weapons visible, though you're never really unarmed.

The door's open.

Of course it is.

You step in.

And they're waiting for you.

Four men―armed. Unsubtle. Hired muscle by the way they stand, like they've never held a gun long enough to love it. The kind of men who pull triggers without knowing why. You keep walking anyway.

And there he is.

Seonghwa.

Still tied to that goddamn chair, head lifted now, blood dried at the corner of his mouth. His eyes flick toward you as you approach, but he doesn't say anything. Doesn't flinch. Doesn't call out.

He just watches you.

You don't speak either.

Not until the fifth man steps into view.

You know him.

His name's Hyunjin. Hwang Hyunjin. And you've left him alive exactly twice. Once out of pity. Once out of profit.

This time, you're not sure what it'll be.

"Well," Hyunjin says, all teeth and arrogance, "you came."

You stop a few paces away, hands in your coat pockets, expression unreadable.

"I'm flattered," he continues. "Didn't think a boss like you would walk into a pit like this over some street dealer."

"He's not just some dealer," you say coolly. "He's my dealer."

There's a small shift in Seonghwa's posture.

Hyunjin scoffs. "You still talking like you own people?"

You tilt your head. "You still acting like you're relevant?"

That gets under his skin, just a little. Enough that his jaw tics, enough that one of his men inches forward instinctively.

You flick your eyes toward him, slow and deliberate. He stops moving.

"You're bold," Hyunjin says. "I'll give you that."

"You're stupid," you reply. "I won't give you anything else."

He grins. "He messed with one of my shipments. Thought I wouldn't notice. You trains your dogs too well―they get ideas."

You glance at Seonghwa. "Did you touch his shipment?"

"No," Seonghwa answers, voice hoarse but stable.

You look back at Hyunjin.

"Then you're lying."

"I have proof."

"No, you have bruises on your ego and four walking liabilities with guns they don't know how to use." You take a step forward. "What do you want?"

Hyunjin snorts. "Want? I want leverage. I want you to owe me."

"You kidnapped one of my men to negotiate?"

"Well, you came, didn't you?"

You smile.

But it's the kind of smile that people don't walk away from.

"You're right," you say softly. "I did."

Your hand moves.

No one sees the blade until it's already Hyunjin's throat.

His men hesitate. One raises his weapon. Another steps back. But you're not even looking at them―you're looking at Hyunjin, calm as ice, the edge of your knife tucked just beneath his jaw.

"You think I'd come here unarmed?" you murmur. "You think I'd risk my dealer without knowing exactly how this would end?"

His breath catches.

Behind you, Seonghwa shifts again, but still says nothing.

"I'm going to walk out of here," you say, low and controlled, "and he's going to walk out with me. You're not going to stop me. Not tonight. Not ever."

"You won't make it out alive," Hyunjin grits.

You lean in, blade pressing closer.

"Neither will you."

For a beat, no one moves.

Then you pull the blade back, just enough to let blood bloom in a fine across his skin. Not deep. Just enough to prove you could've gone further.

You turn without waiting for his answer.

"Cut him loose," you order.

No one does.

Until Seonghwa stands.

He'd already freed himself.

You don't show surprise―but inside, something twists. You don't know when he got loose. Don't know if he was waiting for a moment to attack or if he trusted you enough to handle it alone.

Either way, he's on your heels as you walk out, silent as ever.

No one follows.

You step into the night like nothing happened.

The penthouse is silent when you return.

No lights on, just the city light bleeding through the glass wall, casting reflection across the marble floors. You keep it cold, minimalist. The kind of space that doesn't invite people to stay long.

But Seonghwa follows you in anyway.

He doesn't speak. Not when you motion for him to sit on the edge of the velvet couch. Not when you disappear into the bathroom. Not even when you return with a metal case full of antiseptic and gauze.

Only when you kneel in front of him, glove peeled from your hand, cotton pad pressed gently to the cut on his cheek―does he speak.

"I can do it myself."

You don't stop.

"I didn't ask."

He exhales, almost like a laugh, but not quite. You dab at the blood along his brow, eyes locked on his face, watching every subtle shift. He doesn't flinch. He never does.

"You're reckless," you mutter. "Coming to the drop point early. Unarmed."

"I wasn't unarmed."

"You were tied to a chair."

"I could've gotten out sooner."

You tilt your head. "Then why didn't you?"

His eyes flick up to meet yours.

"I wanted to see if you'd come."

That sits between you for a beat. Heavy, and unspoken. Then you move on to the split lip, gentle but detached, like this is just another task. Another mess to clean.

"Who is Hyunjin to you?"

You pause, fingers stopping.

"Why?"

"I want to know."

You sit back on your heels, gaze dark, expression unreadable.

"We used to be close."

He doesn't ask more. But you give it anyway. You don't know why, but maybe it's the silence. Maybe it's the way he asked―like he has a right to know.

You lean against the couch, reaching for a cloth soaked in antiseptic.

"Back then, he was different. Smarter. Controlled. He worked under me. Very ambitious, clean hands, doesn't complain about anything. He'd follow me into any fire without even flinching." A pause. "I liked that."

Seonghwa's jaw tightens, just a little.

"We were so good together. Built things fast. He knew what I wanted before I said it. Didn't care when I made choices others wouldn't touch."

"And then?"

"He got greedy." Your voice hardens. "Wanted the crown before he earned it. He thought betrayal would buy him power."

You press the cloth a little harder to his cheek.

"I almost slit his throat in his own office."

"But you didn't."

"No." A beat. "Once out of pity. He begged which was pathetic. And the second time..." You look away briefly. "There was profit in keeping him alive. A deal I needed. He was useful."

Silence again.

But then, "You hesitated tonight."

Your gaze snaps back to his.

"I didn't hesitate," you say coldly.

"You didn't kill him."

"I don't waste bullets on someone like him."

But Seonghwa doesn't believe you. You can see it.

There's something shifting in his eyes. Not anger, but something sharper. You could call it, jealousy. Though it's subtle, but you can feel it in the tension rolling off him.

You narrow your eyes, slow and calculating.

"You're jealous," you murmur.

He doesn't answer.

You lean in.

"I gave you everything tonight. Loyalty. Blood. I walked into a trap for you." Your voice drops lower. "And you're thinking about a man I should've killed years ago."

He grabs your wrist.

The movement is sharp, but not rough. His fingers wrap around you―tight enough to feel your pulse.

Then he pulls you down.

Your mouth crashes into his like it's inevitable. There's nothing gentle about it. Nothing soft. It's a collision. A demand.

Heat explodes beneath your skin, and surprisingly―you respond. You kiss him back. Hard. Like you've been holding back for too long and didn't realize it.

His hand slides behind your neck, holding you. The other grips your waist, pulling you closer like you're the only thing keeping him upright.

Your breath stutters when his teeth graze your lower lip.

Then he pulls back just enough―forehead pressed to yours, voice nothing more than a whisper.

"Would you kill him for me?"

You stare at him.

His thumb brushes your jaw.

"I'd burn the city for you," he says, soft and dark. "Would you do the same?"

You don't answer.

Not yet.

Because the question doesn't scare you.

What scares you is how quickly you want to say yes.

A week passes.

You never call it love.

You never call it anything.

But whenever you're alone, when the doors are locked, Seonghwa's hands are on you. In the shadow of your penthouse, in the quiet hush between plans and strategy, he kisses you like it's all he's ever known. And you let him.

Sometimes it's just kissing. Sometimes it's more.

Always, it's wordless.

But you feel it.

You feel it in the way he looks at you when he thinks you're not watching. The way his voice drops when he says your name. The way he treats your body like it's something he'd die to protect, something that he already has.

You don't say anything about it.

Neither does he.

Until the night you both end up in that empty park, 2:00 a.m.

You don't know why you walked this way. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was just the need to breathe after working. You're side by side, shoulders brushing. Seonghwa's hand slips into yours, calloused fingers cool against your palm.

It feels easy and calming for once.

And then―

bam―

The bullet hits him.

You feel the pull of his hand as he stumbles back. The sound rips through the night. You turn just in time to catch him by the waist, dragging him to the ground behind the empty bench.

Blood spreads fast across his side―his shoulder.

Your breath stops in your throat.

You look up, and there he is.

Hwang Hyunjin.

Gun still raised. Breathing hard. Eyes wild.

You rise slowly, rage rising with you. There's no fear, just fury.

He grins.

"You should've stayed dead," you hiss.

"You should've killed me when you had the chance."

You lunge, and before he could shoot you, you kick the gun from his hand.

No more knives. No bullets. Just fists. Raw, brutal, loud.

The fight is fast, messy, unforgiving. You land the first blow. Then the second. Then he slams your shoulder against the bench and your vision blurs.

You hit the ground. Hard.

He's above you, breathing heavy, smirking through a cracked lip.

"Funny," he spits. "You were always better with orders. Guess you lost your edge."

You almost believe him.

Until you hear Seonghwa call your name.

You look over and see he's bleeding, barely upright, but his eyes are on you like they never left. Like he knows you. Like he believes in you.

You push off the ground, panting, eyes locked on Hyunjin.

"Seonghwa," you rasp, still breathless. "You asked me once... if I could kill Hyunjin for you."

Hyunjin laughs, shaky. "Oh, please―"

You step forward.

And you don't blink.

"You should've shot me in the head when you had the chance."

You raise your gun and pull the trigger.

Once. Clean and instant.

He hits the ground, a final twitch, and doesn't move again.

Silence crashes down and you quickly run to Seonghwa―drop to your knees, fingers shaking as they press against his wound. Blood seeps through your hands, warm and sticky and terrifying.

"Don't close your eyes," you command, voice shaking in a way it never does. "Don't even think about it."

Seonghwa exhales, slow. "I'm not going anywhere..."

"You better not."

You press your hand to the bullet wound. Not fatal. But you know how fast blood can turn against you. His breathing gets more laboured eyes fluttering just a second too long for comfort.

You reach into your pocket with your free hand, pulling out your phone, speed-dialing without a second thought.

It rings once.

"Get to the park," you say. "Bring the car. Bring the med kit. Tell them to prep the safehouse. Now."

You hang up.

You can hear the engine five minutes later.

Your crew pulls up fast―three cars, two of your most loyal at the front. They jump out, expecting anything. But what they see still freezes them.

You.

On your knees, holding Seonghwa like your whole world just cracked in half.

"Boss―"

"Help me get him inside. Carefully."

They obey instantly. No questions.

They always obey.

The drive to the safe house is tense. You don't say a word the whole way, your hand pressed against Seonghwa's, eyes fixed on him. His head is resting lightly on your shoulder, his breath shallow.

Your safe house is less a house and more a fortress―sterile floors, blackout windows, medical-grade everything. It's not your first emergency.

But it's the first one that makes you feel like this.

Your crew works fast. You sit beside Seonghwa on the cot while one of your top medics starts tending to him, gloves slick with antiseptic, voice calm. Seonghwa winces, but doesn't cry out.

He's too stubborn for that.

And you?

You sit there and watch the blood on your hands. You should be used to this. You've seen worse. You've caused worse. But right now―

You feel your throat tighten.

You stare down at your shaking fingers. At Seonghwa's pale skin. At the hole Hyunjin left behind.

Then, a tear slides down your cheek.

Then another.

You blink fast, furious with yourself, but they keep coming.

One of your subordinates stops moving. Another glances toward you, wide-eyed. No one says it, but it's clear.

They've never seen you like this.

Never crying. Never even cracking.

"Boss?" someone says cautiously. "Do you... need a moment?"

You shake your head. You're still clutching Seonghwa's hand. You feel it twitch against yours.

"I don't know why I'm crying," you whisper.

And that's the truth.

You don't.

Maybe it's shock. Maybe it's relief. Maybe it's the way he looked at you, even when he was bleeding out, like he knew you'd never let him go.

Seonghwa smiles.

"Maybe..." he rasps, voice hoarse but warm, "because you love me too much."

You look at him.

You want to laugh. You want to scream. Instead, a broken, silent breath leaves your chest, and you lean your forehead against his arm.

"You almost died," you whisper.

"But I didn't."

"You scared me."

You wipe your face on your sleeve. You don't care who's watching now. They're loyal, and they know better than to speak on what they've seen.

"I killed him," you murmur. "For you."

"I know."

"No hesitation."

Seonghwa reaches up―weak, shaky―and brushes your jaw with his fingers.

"I never doubted you, Y/N."

"I hate this feeling."

"What feeling?"

"This one," you say, raw. "Of being afraid to lose you."

He leans closer, still pale, but strong enough to kiss your knuckles.

"I won't leave you."

You close your eyes.

"I love you," you say. "I'm not saying it again."

"I'll say it enough for both of us," he teases, voice soft. "But I love you too."

The medics step out, leaving you alone for a moment.

You sit beside him, still holding his hand.

And for the first time in your life―you feel like having power isn't the most dangerous thing you've ever wanted. Love is.

And you'd do it all over again.

[woogilicious]

offline messages ꒰ yunho ꒱

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ pairing: streamer!yunho x gn!reader. ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ word count: 1039 words. ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ genre: angst + fluff. ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ warnings: mild angst, emotional neglect (unintentional), feelings of being left behind, fluff at the end.

You were there before the follower goals, and fancy mic setup. Back when Yunho streamed from a wobbly IKEA desk and his only viewers were you and that one random bot that kept posting shady links.

Back then, his face would light up when he saw your name in chat.

"Yo!" he'd grin, headset slightly tilted. "You're here!"

Of course you were. You always were.

You modded his streams before he even asked. Built his discord server from scratch. Stayed up past midnight helping him troubleshoot lag while playing Valorant. You even tolerated the scream fest during Lethal Company session with San, Mingi, and Wooyoung―all chaos, max volume, all the time.

And when things took off―when Twitch clipped him into the algorithm and the chat exploded with new fans, you celebrated with him. You were proud. You really were.

But you also started feeling... invisible.

It started small. A joke you made in chat went ignored. Then another. Then another.

You chalked it up, at first. That's what growing meant―more people, more chaos. But then he stopped replying to your DMs. Took hours to answer simple messages. And one day, you noticed your mod label was gone. No explanation. No "thanks for everything." Nothing at all.

You watched one of his streams that night, lurking, your name is grey in a sea of neon usernames. Someone made a crude joke. You called it out. Yunho didn't even notice, until a stranger timed you out.

That was the last stream you watched live.

You muted the server. Turned off notifications. Closed the tab. He never reaches out. Not once.

Months passed.

One night, you're scrolling through your phone, brain on autopilot, when you see his name. Yunho is live: Unpacking + chatting. You shouldn't care. You don't.

But you click.

He's streaming Unpacking, of all things. Soft music, quiet atmosphere, just him and the sound of cardboard boxes being emptied on screen. There's no Wooyoung yelling in the background, no San whining about being scared―just Yunho. Focused. A little tired. His laugh softer tonight.

You shouldn't message him.

But your fingers move anyway, finding his name in your message app.

Are you okay?

You send it. Regret it instantly. Consider deleting it, but then―

yunho: wait yunho: wait wait wait yunho: is this real?? yunho: y/n... i thought u blocked me or smth

You stare at the screen, looking at his stream while his attention turns to his phone.

you: figured you wouldn't notice either way yunho: ... yunho: okay. i deserve that. yunho: i miss you. a lot.

You don't reply right away, and you close the Twitch app.

The next day, he sends you a message privately in discord.

yunho: can we talk?

You call. It's weird, at first. The silence between you used to be comfortable, easy. Now it's cautious. Hesitant.

But he tries.

"I don't know when I started messing it up," he says, voice quiet. "I think... I just got caught up in everything. I didn't mean to shut you out."

You shrug, even though he can't see you. "You kind of did, though."

"I know. I just... didn't want you to feel like you had to carry my stuff forever. You helped me so much and I kept thinking, maybe you deserved to just... live your life. Not babysit my stream."

You snort. "You took away my mod role without saying a word. The least you can do is tell me."

He winces. "Yeah. That was stupid."

"You think?"

He laughs. It's small, and it is obvious that he is nervous.

"Let me fix it," he says. "Please."

It's not instant. It's not perfect.

But you start showing up again. Not as a mod, but just as his friend.

He messages you in the middle of the night about weird games you'd both like. Sends you dumb voices notes of Mingi farting on call. You hop into discord during late-night gaming, and he still screams in panic when he gets chased in scary games, but now, he screams your name too.

And one night, he messages:

yunho: do you want to do a stream together soon? you: what would we even play? yunho: idc. minecraft? stardew? anything. i just want to hang out with you on stream.

You agree, and the next night, it's Minecraft night.

The stream starts slow, chill lo-fi music playing in the background. Yunho decides to do a member only stream, which means the chat is smaller, cozier. The mods keep it clean. No chaos whatsoever.

"Special guest tonight, their name is Y/N" Yunho says, grinning. "My oldest friend. Like actual old. We've known each other since middle school."

You laugh. "You're few months older than me."

Chat, on the other hand, explodes with excitement:

xXxgamerraccoon12: brooo you can see yunho smiling like an idiot fluffyhorsie: their voice sounds so soothing!! i love them already!! bananapie481: we need more cozy game with y/n!!

You two fish, farm, fight monsters, collect materials. It's easy.

Halfway through the stream, you forget the camera's even on.

"You're different when it's just us," you say quietly.

Yunho hums. "Different how?"

"Less loud, less performative. More... you."

He doesn't say anything right away, just smiling while mining some woods for their house. Then, softly. "That's because you bring out the parts of me I actually like."

Your chest tightens.

"You know I was really scared," he adds. "That you'd never message me again. That I lost you for good."

You exhale. "You almost did."

"I know."

Silence.

Then, your character walks over and gifts his character a flower.

It's just pixels, but Yunho makes a sound that's a little too real.

"What?"

"What do you mean what? Maybe I just like giving you flowers."

His voice is barely a whisper. "God, I missed you so much."

The stream ends with your character standing next to his inside your finish small cozy wooden house.

Chat's spamming hearts. Fan edit already being posted. People are begging for another duo stream.

Once he turns off his stream, he says, "Don't log off yet."

You stay.

His voice is warm through your headset.

"Let's play another day?"

You smile. "Sure, Yunho. I'll be here."

This time, you know he believes it.

And this time, you do too.

[woogilicious]

one more surprise ꒰ minjae ꒱

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ pairing: minjae x gn!reader. ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ word count: 435 words. ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ genre: fluff. ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ warnings: minjae jokingly say he wants to break up with y/n. ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ a.n: happy birthday to our cutie minjae!!!

Minjae adjusts the collar of his button-up for the third time, glancing at you with suspicious eyes.

"Are you sure this place has food?" he asks, eyeing the dark road ahead from the passenger seat.

You keep your eyes on the road, biting your lip to suppress a grin. "Of course. You said you wanted something different this year, remember?"

"Yeah, but I meant, like... a five star fancy restaurant. Not... creepy back-alley energy," he mutters.

You pull up to the parking lot, where dim lights flicker above a building with peeling paint and a sign that reads: Nightmare Hollow. There's already faint screaming coming from inside.

Minjae blinks. "This... doesn't look like a restaurant."

"It's a themed dining experience," you lie, way too smoothly. "Dinner and screams."

His jaw drops. "You brought me to a haunted house?"

You pretend to check your phone. "Reservations non-refundable."

Minjae groans into his hands. "I'm so breaking up with you after this."

You just pat his knee. "Come on, scaredy-cat. You'll live."

Inside, it's everything Minjae hates: fog machines, eerie lighting, and actors dressed like ghosts who clearly live for jump scares. He clings to your arm like his life depends on it, flinching every time someone whisper too close to his ear or a hand reaches out from the shadows.

"I hate this. I hate this," he mumbles, practically dragging his feet.

You're trying not to laugh, but it's hard―especially when he yelps at a skeleton that definitely wasn't moving.

After a few more turns through dark corridors, you guide him into what looks like another creepy room, but this time, something shifts. The lights flicker... then glow warm. The eerie music fades out, replaced by soft, familiar tunes. The fog clears.

Minjae blinks.

The room is filled with fairy lights, candles, and decorations in his favorite color. Photos of you two are strung along the walls, and a small table in the center holds a cake with Happy Birthday Kim Minjae scrawled in neat frosting. There's even a little gift box with a note.

He turns to you, totally stunned. "Wait, what?"

"Surprise," you say, grinning. "There was never a restaurant. Or a ghost. Just this. And maybe a few minor heart attacks."

Minjae stares for a moment, then laughs―a breathless, brightt sound that fills the room.

"You're mean," he says, but he's already hugging you, burying his face in your neck. "This is actually perfect. I mean, you tricked me, but... perfect."

You smile, wrapping your arms around him. "Happy birthday, silly."

"I'm still a little piss about the skeleton, by the way," he mumbles.

[woogilicious]

masterlist ✧˖°.

ATEEZ ⋆˚꩜｡

hongjoong ⭑.ᐟ

seonghwa ⭑.ᐟ

⟢ i'd burn the city for you ⋮ you're cold and feared. as the boss of the most powerful syndicate in the city, you never let anyone get too close until park seonghwa―he's just your best subordinate. just a drug dealer kisses you like he's been waiting for years.

yunho ⭑.ᐟ

⟢ offline messages ⋮ you've been by yunho's side the very beginning, but when his stream takes off, you slowly fade into the background. months pass in silence until one messages brings you both back online. ⟢ cooking stream ⋮ after reuniting on stream, you and yunho take things offline and decided to do a cooking stream together.

yeosang ⭑.ᐟ

⟢ was it worth the fight? ⋮ you didn't mean it when you said you hated him. but he died before you could say sorry.

san ⭑.ᐟ

⟢ better luck next time, detective ⋮ when clumsy detective jung wooyoung gets too close to catching a notorious thief, choi san, he doesn't expect to be caught instead.

mingi ⭑.ᐟ

⟢ didn't think i'd fall here ⋮ a trip to amusement park with two toxic friends leaves you feeling humiliated and alone. until a stranger named song mingi steps in and rides the roller coaster with you.

wooyoung ⭑.ᐟ

⟢ rent's cheap, ghost included ⋮ wooyoung's broke, tired, and desperate enough to rent a suspiciously cheap house without asking why it's so cheap. surprise: it's haunted, but honestly? he's too exhausted to care. ⟢ better luck next time, detective ⋮ when clumsy detective jung wooyoung gets too close to catching a notorious thief, choi san, he doesn't expect to be caught instead.

jongho ⭑.ᐟ

XIKERS ⋆˚꩜｡

minjae ⭑.ᐟ

⟢ one more surprise ⋮ minjae thinks you're taking him to a fancy birthday dinner, until you pull up in front of a haunted house.

junmin ⭑.ᐟ

sumin ⭑.ᐟ

jinsik ⭑.ᐟ

hyunwoo ⭑.ᐟ

junghoon ⭑.ᐟ

seeun ⭑.ᐟ

yujun ⭑.ᐟ

hunter ⭑.ᐟ

⟢ same time tomorrow ⋮ he walks into your café, drenched from the rain and clinging to hope that his date will show. two hours pass with no text, no calls. just him, and you, behind the counter, watching him wait for someone who never comes... until you decide to say something first.

yechan ⭑.ᐟ

OTHERS ⋆˚꩜｡

coming soon...

WIP ⋆˚꩜｡

⟢ caught in 4k ⋮ park seeun ⋮ 26/06/25.

⟢ traitor ⋮ choi jongho ⋮ xx/07/25.

⟢ in theory, i hate you ⋮ kim hongjoong ⋮ xx/07/25.

⟢ fake dating was a bad idea and i'm actually in love with you ⋮ lee yechan ⋮ xx/07/25.

[woogilicious]

navigation ✧˖°.

hello gorgeous ♡

⊹ jay ⊹ she/her ⊹ 21 years old ⊹ request: slow update. ⊹ ateez and xikers enthusiast! ⊹ other account: @mint-gee.

welcome to my writing space! mainly i will write ateez & xikers, but if i ever get request for other group, i'll try my best to write it for you!

masterlist!

ps! english isn't my first language so i'm sorry if my writing is not as good as the other writers.

also! here's the rules for requesting.

⊹ if your request is leaning towards sensitive topic, i have rights to decline your request. ⊹ not accepting any gore types of stuff ⊹ please be patient with me since i am a student so i'm sorry in advance if i reply your request late!