Hi I had a request if possible: It’s about the reader dating Seungmin. He’s super jokey and teasing, but one day he makes a joke about her being “hideous,” and she takes it to heart. The story would be pretty angsty but with a happy ending.
And for a specific scene (if possible 🙏): I’d like a moment a few days later where he’s trying to make it up to her; maybe he texts or talks to her and says something like, “Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?” but she thinks he’s joking or someone’s pranking her with the other members. It adds a little twist to the emotional stuff.
Have i ever told you how beautiful you are?
Synopsis: she’s pretty, everyone knows it – except her.malicious comments + a careless “hideous” joke from seungmin are enough to crack everything open. now it’s up to him to fix what his words broke and prove that when he calls her beautiful, he means it.
Cw: insecurity about appearance, offhand joke taken badly, mentions of toxic/jealous fans, crying, miscommunication, happy ending
a/n: tysm for requesting this!! it’s a bit different from how i usually write seungmin (i don’t really think he’d ever say something as bad as “hideous”), but i really wanted to try and make it work in a way that still felt like him while keeping all the angst. i promise i love getting asks like this and playing with your ideas, so pls don’t ever be shy to send more! hope you enjoy <33
You don’t think of yourself as ugly.
You think of yourself as… fine. Decent. Pretty on a good day if the lighting is kind and you’ve actually slept.
You definitely don’t think of yourself as “idol’s secret girlfriend” pretty.
Apparently, neither do some of his fans.
You only open the thread because someone sends it to you with a “don’t read the comments lol” attached, which of course means you absolutely do.
It’s the same blurry street photo that’s been going round for weeks now: Seungmin in a mask and cap, head ducked, laughing at something. You, next to him, in an oversized hoodie and a beanie, caught mid–turn so your face is only half–visible.
is this the girl from the last rumour??
maybe she’s nice but damn the visuals are not visual-ing
i’d cry if my idol really chose HER
You lock your phone so quickly your thumb hurts.
Your heart is pounding, loud in the quiet of your flat. It’s stupid. They don’t know you. They’ve never actually seen you properly; half your face is hidden, for god’s sake. You’d sworn you weren’t going to go looking for this stuff.
But seeing it typed out, in black and white, against your own face—
Plain. Average. Not good enough for him.
You drag a hand over your eyes and breathe in slowly through your nose, out through your mouth.
It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. They’re jealous and bored and hiding behind anonymous accounts. Seungmin loves you. That’s all that should matter.
Only… he’s an idol. He’s surrounded by people whose job it is to be beautiful. Sometimes you still can’t quite believe that he chose you out of everyone he could have had.
And now his fans are saying it out loud: he could have done better.
Your phone buzzes on the worktop, making you jump.
16:01: finished practice early
16:02: the guys are being loud and i want to die
You stare at the messages for a moment, thumbs hovering. Then you type:
He replies with a flurry of celebratory emojis and a voice note of dramatic cheering. You can’t help the small smile that tugs at your mouth.
He loves you, you remind yourself. That’s the truth. Not a handful of nasty comments from people who don’t know either of you.
You grab your bag, pull on the biggest hoodie you own, and try not to think about how you look as you head out.
The dorm is its usual sort of chaos when you let yourself in.
Someone’s music is blasting down the corridor, there’s a pile of trainers by the door, and you can hear two different arguments happening at once. It’s a familiar sort of noise now; you could probably pick Seungmin’s voice out blindfolded.
“You came,” he says, appearing in the hallway with socked feet and messy fringe, eyes lighting up in that way that never fails to loosen something in your chest.
“Of course,” you say, holding up the plastic bag. “I brought bribery.”
“My favourite kind of love language.” He leans in for a quick kiss, then pulls you further inside. “We’re just finishing some stupid game Chan made up. You can watch me destroy everyone and then we’ll hide in my room, yeah?”
You nod, letting him tow you into the living room.
There’s a camera set up, but pointed firmly at the boys, who are sprawled around the coffee table arguing over cards. You’ve been strict about that rule; you don’t appear in official content, not even as a blur in the background. Rumours are one thing, confirmation is another.
Chan lifts his head when you come in. “Oi, no girlfriends on camera, you know the rules,” he says, but it’s fond, already reaching over to flip the screen so it’s just on them.
“Relax, hyung,” Seungmin says, rolling his eyes as he drops down onto the floor. “She’s not going to appear. She’s just here to witness my victory.”
“You mean your loss,” Changbin pipes up.
You smile and curl up at the very edge of the sofa, out of the shot. You’re used to this positioning now: close enough that Seungmin can glance back at you, far enough that no one watching later will be able to tell you’re there.
The game is simple and ridiculous and results in a lot of shouting. You mostly watch Seungmin, the way his whole face goes scrunched when he laughs, the way he keeps half–turning to you as if to check you’re still there.
It helps. The comments fade a little at the edges.
Halfway through a particularly heated round, Jeongin glances up at the camera and grins. “Hyung, you’re being too noisy. Your girlfriend is going to break up with you if she sees you like this.”
Seungmin huffs, eyes still on the table. “She already knows I’m like this. She knows all my worst sides and still sticks around.”
“So she’s a saint,” Minho says dryly.
“Obviously.” Seungmin leans back on one hand, twisting slightly to look towards the sofa. Even though the camera isn’t pointed at you, habit makes you shrink a little further into the cushion.
You forgot, for a second, what you were wearing.
Big hoodie. Old joggers. No make–up. Hair scraped back out of the way. You’d dressed for comfort, not to sit five metres away from a group of very pretty idols and a filming camera.
Seungmin’s eyes scan over you, warm and familiar, a smile curling at the edge of his mouth.
“Look at her,” he says lightly, jerking his chin in your direction. “She’s sat there in that ridiculous disguise looking absolutely hideous, and she’s still my favourite person. That’s how you know it’s real love.”
He says it in the same tone he uses when he calls you “gremlin” or “monster”, the familiar lilt of long–running banter. He’s grinning, eyes soft, clearly amused by the fact you’ve turned up looking like you’re trying to sneak past paparazzi.
“It’s not a disguise, it’s fashion,” Changbin argues on your behalf.
“She looks fine,” Chan adds, without glancing up. “Keep playing, Min, it’s your go.”
The moment passes for them.
The word slams into you harder than it should. Hideous. It bounces around your skull, sticks to the inside like glue.
You know, logically, that he’s teasing. He called your outfit hideous, not your face; the fondness in his eyes is obvious. Objectively, you know that.
But all you can hear is the thread from earlier. So plain. He could do better. Average at best.
And now the person you’re most afraid of secretly agreeing with them has used almost the same word.
The room feels suddenly too warm. You force a laugh you hope sounds normal, fingers gripping the cushion until your knuckles ache.
Seungmin glances back at you, smile still there, as if waiting for you to roll your eyes and call him a menace.
You paste on a weak grin. His shoulders relax, attention turning back to the game.
You spend the rest of the filming trying not to cry.
You make your excuses as soon as they’re done.
“Early start tomorrow,” you lie, shoving your phone into your pocket before he can see your hands shaking.
“I’ll walk you down,” Seungmin says immediately, already half–standing.
You almost tell him not to, but the hurt is starting to feel irrational even to you. The last thing you want is to turn it into an obvious sulk.
“It’s fine,” you say. “Stay, you’re still filming, right? I can get myself home.”
“It’s just packing up,” Chan says. “Go.”
Seungmin hesitates, then follows you into the hall, closing the door quietly behind him.
“Hey,” he says, voice gentler now that you’re alone. “You really okay?”
You stare at your shoes. “Yeah, just tired.”
He studies you for a second. Then he tips your chin up with his fingers, eyes searching your face.
“You’re sure?” he presses softly. “You seem… I don’t know. Far away.”
For a moment you think you might actually tell him. That the stupid comments got under your skin and then his stupid joke dug the hole a bit deeper. That you keep looking in the mirror and seeing “not enough” written across your forehead.
Instead, you force a tiny smile. “I’m fine, Min. I promise. Just sleepy.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he leans in and kisses your forehead, lingering there for a second.
“Text me when you’re home, yeah?”
You get home, shower, and stand in front of your bathroom mirror, dripping water onto the tiles.
You try to see yourself how he sees you. You really do. You think of all the little ways he’s called you pretty over the months, the unposed photos he’s taken of you grinning over street food or curled up reading on his bed.
But your brain keeps circling back to that one word.
You don’t cry. You just turn the light off.
The next couple of days, you pull back without meaning to.
You still text him, you’re not a monster. You reply to his memes and his random dog photos, but you don’t send selfies back when he asks. You dodge video calls with excuses about work and bad Wi–Fi.
He tells you he believes you, and a horrible part of you is almost relieved when he doesn’t push.
Because if he sees your face, what if he realises the comments are right?
Seungmin notices, obviously.
At first he tells himself he’s being paranoid. People get busy. Sometimes you go a few days without proper face–time when your schedules clash.
But you never used to hesitate to show your face. He’d got used to random photos of you half–asleep, or with a sheet mask on, or with a new lipstick that you “needed an opinion on”. You’d always rolled your eyes at his teasing and called him dramatic when he told you you were beautiful.
Now, every time he asks, he gets a sticker instead.
On the third day, he overhears his own name and yours in the same sentence and stops outside the studio door.
“She looked really upset,” Jeongin is saying inside. “I mean, I could be wrong, but… she went really quiet after that.”
“The whole ‘hideous’ thing,” Jeongin replies. “I know he was obviously joking, but still. If my partner called me hideous I’d cry.”
Seungmin’s hand tightens on the door handle.
Chan hums. “You think that’s why she’s been distant?”
“I dunno,” Jeongin says. “It’s Y/N, she’s normally chill, but… I just have a feeling.”
Seungmin pushes the door open before he can talk himself out of it.
“Hyung,” Jeongin blurts, guilty. “We weren’t—”
“You think I upset her,” Seungmin says, ignoring the twist in his stomach, the way his voice comes out rough.
Jeongin winces. “I’m not saying it like that, just… that word is harsh if you’re not used to the way we joke?”
Seungmin drops into the chair opposite them, rubbing a hand over his face.
He sees it now, replayed in his head. The way you’d gripped the cushion, the way your laugh had sounded a little off, the sudden rush to leave afterwards.
“You don’t know about us,” he mutters, staring at his shoes. “Not properly. You only see the banter, not the… everything else.” The late–night phone calls, the soft kisses, the way he touches your face like it’s the nicest thing he’s ever seen.
“Talk to her,” Chan says simply. “Don’t sit here guessing.”
Seungmin nods, already reaching for his phone.
You decline his first call because you’re in the shower. You miss the second because you’re sat on your bed staring at yourself in the black screen and you can’t make yourself hit accept.
He texts almost immediately.
20:11: are you avoiding me?
20:11: is this about something i said
You sigh, guilt churning.
you: sorry was in the shower
you: i’m not avoiding you i promise
You stare at the three little dots, then at your reflection in the dark window. Your hair is still damp, your eyes ringed with tired shadows.
20:15: can we meet tomorrow?
20:15: somewhere near you
Saying no feels cruel. Saying yes feels terrifying.
you: there’s that café near the station
The next day, you arrive five minutes early and spend the entire time fighting the urge to flee.
The café is cosy, humming with low chatter and the hiss of the coffee machine. You choose a table in the corner and order a drink for you and Seungmin, and pick at a napkin until the paper starts to tear.
He comes in two minutes past three, hood up, mask on, but you’d know him anywhere.
The relief on his face when he spots you is almost painful.
“Hi,” you say, hating how small your voice sounds.
“Hi,” he replies, tugging his mask down as he reaches the table. There are faint smudges under his eyes; he looks like he hasn’t slept well.
He sits opposite you, hands wrapped round his own cup as if he needs something to anchor him. For a moment neither of you speaks.
Then, out of nowhere, he says, “Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?”
It’s so abrupt, so ridiculously cheesy, that your first instinct is to laugh. Your second is suspicion.
You narrow your eyes. “All right, what did you do?”
He looks genuinely confused. “What?”
“Did you lose a bet?” you continue.
“No,” he says, eyebrows drawing together. “Y/N, I’m being serious.”
You shake your head, a bitter little laugh catching in your throat. “You don’t have to say stuff like that just because you feel bad.”
His fingers tighten around his cup. “So you are upset.”
You stare down at the table. The wood is scratched near your elbow, little white lines where the stain has come off.
“Don’t say you’re tired,” he cuts in, gentle but firm. “You’ve been saying you’re ‘just tired’ for days. You’re not sending me photos, you won’t pick up my calls, and when you do talk to me it feels like I’m texting a polite stranger. Something happened. Please… let me fix it, if I can.”
“It’s stupid,” you say. “You’re going to think I’m being dramatic.”
You swallow, pick a spot on the table to focus on, and force the words out.
“Someone sent me a thread,” you begin. “With those street photos. The ones where people think we’re… whatever they think we are.”
“You read the comments,” he guesses quietly.
You laugh humourlessly. “I know I shouldn’t. I know they’re jealous and bored and projecting. But I read them, and they were…” You exhale sharply. “They were nasty, Min. Talking about how plain I am. How you could ‘do better’. How I’m not on your level.”
You finally look up, and his expression is somewhere between furious and heartbroken.
“Then I came to the dorm,” you continue, voice wobbling. “And you called me hideous.”
He flinches, like you’ve slapped him.
“And I know,” you hurry on, before he can speak, “I know you were joking, I know you meant my outfit, I know that’s just how you tease. But all I could hear was them, and I thought… maybe that’s what you really think, too. You just finally said it out loud.”
Silence falls between you, heavy and taut.
Seungmin’s eyes are shining now. “Y/N,” he says, and your name breaks in the middle. “No. No, no, that’s not— God, I’m such an idiot.”
You blink at him, thrown.
“I was talking about your disguise,” he says, words tumbling over each other. “You were all bundled up in that massive hoodie and hat and I thought you looked like a tiny grumpy marshmallow. I was trying to tease you because I— because that’s how we always… I never, ever meant you. Not your face, not your body, not any part of you.”
Your throat feels tight again. “You still said it,” you whisper. “About me.”
“I know,” he says miserably. “And I’m so sorry. I thought it was obvious I was joking. I thought you’d see my face and know I was being dramatic on purpose.” He drags a hand through his hair. “I forget sometimes that you don’t see yourself the way I do.”
You look away, blinking hard.
“You’re used to looking at idols,” you mutter. “At people who are actually stunning. Of course next to them I’m going to look—”
“Don’t,” he says sharply.
He exhales, softer this time. “Don’t talk about yourself like that,” he says. “Not in front of me.”
“Have you seen the comments?” you ask, anger finally bubbling up past the hurt. “They’re brutal, Min. They screenshot my face and pick it apart like I’m some kind of… of before photo. They call me average and plain and—”
“They’re jealous,” he cuts in. “They’re jealous and cruel and they think because they’re fans they have the right to dehumanise the people in our lives. It’s disgusting, and it has nothing to do with you not being pretty enough.”
You give a shaky laugh. “You have to say that, you’re my boyfriend.”
“No,” he says. “I have to say it because it’s true.”
You scoff, but he leans in, elbows on the table, gaze unwavering.
“Do you know what I thought when I first saw those rumours?” he asks.
“I thought, ‘Wow, even when someone’s taken a grainy photo from across the road, she still looks gorgeous.’” His mouth twists. “And then I wanted to break everyone’s phones for looking at you without your permission, but that’s a separate issue.”
Despite yourself, you huff.
“I’m not just saying you’re beautiful to make you feel better,” he goes on. “I’m saying it because it’s the first word that comes into my head when I look at you. Even when you rock up to the dorm in a hideous hoodie and questionable joggers.”
You sniff. “So you admit the hoodie is hideous.”
He manages a tiny smile. “The hoodie is hideous. You are not.”
The insistence in his voice makes something crumble in you.
“I couldn’t stop hearing it,” you confess quietly. “In your voice, in theirs. Every time I looked in the mirror it was just… there.”
His expression crumples. “I hate that I put that there. If I could go back and slap the word out of my own mouth I would.”
You let out a wet laugh. “That would be a weird thing to watch.”
“I’d do it,” he insists, squeezing your hand. You hadn’t even noticed when he’d reached out; his fingers are warm, solid, grounding. “I will never, ever mean something like that about you. If I tease you and it hits something raw, that’s on me, not on you. I don’t care if it was a joke—if it hurt you, then I’ve got to do better.”
You stare at your joined hands. His thumb is stroking lightly over your knuckles, back and forth.
“I don’t want you to feel like you can’t joke with me,” you say eventually. “That’s one of my favourite things about us.”
He smiles faintly. “We can still joke. I’ll just… retire ‘hideous’ from my vocabulary when it comes to you. Put it in a bin, set fire to it, stomp on the ashes.”
He shrugs. “I’m an idol, what did you expect.”
The tension in your chest eases, just a fraction. Your eyes are still stinging, but the panic has ebbed enough to let something else in.
“You really think I’m beautiful?” you ask, hating how small you sound.
He looks at you like you’ve just asked if the sky is blue.
“Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?” he repeats softly. “Because I feel like I say it all the time in different ways. When I take photos of you for no reason. When I stare at you until you get embarrassed and throw a cushion at me. When I refuse to let you delete a picture you hate because I think you look perfect in it.”
“I know you don’t see what I see,” he says. “But I’m going to keep telling you anyway. Not because of the rumours, or the comments, or to prove anything to anyone. Just because it’s true, and you deserve to hear it louder than those voices in your head.”
A tear slips down your cheek. He reaches across instinctively, thumb catching it before it can fall further.
“Can you forgive me?” he asks quietly. “For being thoughtless. For not realising.”
“I do,” you say. “I just… might need a bit of time to untangle it.”
“That’s okay,” he replies immediately. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He squeezes your hand, then stands, coming round to your side of the table. “Can I hug you?” he asks.
You nod, and then you’re up, pressed against his chest, his arms around you firmly like he’s trying to hold you together and himself at the same time.
“You’re not a rumour,” he murmurs into your hair. “You’re not a blurry picture or a nasty comment section. You’re my girlfriend, and you’re so, so pretty it actually hurts sometimes.”
You snort into his hoodie. “You need to work on your compliments.”
“Never,” he says. “I’m being painfully sincere, this is hard enough.”
You laugh properly then, the sound muffled against him. The ache in your chest is still there, but it feels different now—less like something breaking, more like something slowly, carefully being stitched back together.
He pulls back just enough to look at you.
“Say it with me,” he says softly. “They’re jealous and wrong.”
You roll your eyes. “They’re jealous and wrong.”
“And I’m right,” he adds.
You hesitate, then: “And you’re right.”
He grins, triumphant. “Good. Now, homework: next time you want to go down a rabbit hole of horrible comments, call me instead and I’ll read you a list of everything I love about your face.”
“That sounds awful,” you say. “And a bit narcissistic.”
“That sounds like healing,” he corrects, leaning in to kiss your forehead. “And you deserve all of it.”
You breathe him in, let the warmth of him sink into your bones.
Hideous doesn’t echo quite as loudly in your head anymore.
And for the first time in a while, you let yourself think that maybe—just maybe—he’s not completely wrong.
A few days later, your phone buzzes while you’re half–asleep on the sofa, a drama playing quietly in the background.
You blink blearily at the screen.
23:41: have i ever told you how beautiful you are?
You stare at the message.
It’s not that he hasn’t said it since the café. He has—softly, in passing, tucked into other sentences. “You look beautiful today.” “That colour is beautiful on you.” Little things.
But this is… concentrated. Random. Suspiciously sweet.
Your first thought is not aw.
Your first thought is okay, which one of them stole his phone this time.
you: i’m not falling for whatever dare the guys came up with in the dorm
23:42: can a man not express his genuine feelings without being accused of crimes
You roll your eyes, but your mouth is already tugging into a smile.
you: you? genuine? sounds fake
you: send proof it’s actually you”
There’s a long enough pause that you’re sure you’ve caught them out—until a photo pops up.
It’s Seungmin, clearly snapped in a rush: hair messy under a cap, mask tugged down, headphones crooked round his neck. He’s in what looks like a practice room corner, fluorescent light doing nothing for him, eyes a little tired but still soft.
23:44: just me being disgustingly sincere on main
23:44: unfortunate for you
A quiet laugh slips out of you.
You zoom in on the photo, just because you can. Even grainy and badly lit, he still manages to look stupidly good. It’s unfair.
you: congrats on unlocking sincerity
There’s a tiny pause. Then:
23:46: me telling you the truth louder than the comments in your head
23:47: starting with: you’re beautiful
23:47: and i’m very very in love with you
Your chest does that complicated little twist again.
Part of you still wants to brush it off, make a joke, hide behind emojis and sarcasm. The old reflex is strong: he’s exaggerating, he doesn’t really mean it, it’s just him being nice.
But you remember the way he looked at you in the café. The way his voice shook when he apologised. The way he said I’m going to keep telling you anyway.
you: i’m… trying to believe you
It takes a second, and then:
23:49: that’s all i’m asking
23:49: i’ll keep saying it until you don’t have to “try” anymore
23:49: now send me a selfie so i can prove my case
You hesitate, then flip your camera, hair a bit messy, eyes a little shiny, no filters.
You take the photo before you can overthink it and hit send.
The response is immediate.
23:50: the most beautiful person i’ve ever seen
23:50: tell “average at best” twitter users to come fight me
You laugh, out loud this time, warmth spreading through your chest.
Hideous feels like a word from another life.
Beautiful is starting to sound, if not natural, then at least… possible.
you: my ridiculous though
23:52: goodnight, beautiful
You lock your phone, the screen going dark, your own faint reflection staring back at you.
For once, the voice in your head that answers isn’t a stranger’s.