“You are here and so am I, maybe millions of people go by but they all disappear from view and I only have eyes for you” -The Flamingos
A/N: I'm back after being MIA for ages, life has quite literally been a roller coaster but I’ve finally had the energy and motivation to finish this draft >_<!
Being with Chan just... makes sense. It’s the kind of comfort that’s hard to put into words, but you feel it in your bones. It’s like finally finding a rhythm that works. Dating him feels like that first real breath of summer air on your skin, or the way your body finally stops shaking the second you step into a warm house after being out in the freezing cold. It’s as soothing as a mug of tea when your throat is raw—it’s just the relief you didn't know you were desperate for.
He doesn’t just "care" for you; he’s completely devoted. If you’re even a little bit under the weather ,your nose stuffed, eyes puffy, feeling like a total mess ,he’s right there and gets this frantic, worried look in his eyes, fussing over the blankets and the temperature of your soup like it’s a life-or-death situation. Even though he’s seen you get through a cold a dozen times, he still handles you like you’re the most fragile, precious thing in the world.
But loving someone like him comes with a price. It’s the "idol tax" you never wanted to pay. He’s brilliant, he’s talented, and he’s honestly too handsome for his own good.
You try to be the "chill" partner. You tell yourself you’re overreacting and that your brain is just being dramatic. You know, logically, that his heart is yours—he makes sure to tell you that every single day. But logic doesn’t stop those itchy, nauseating thoughts from creeping in when the house is quiet and he’s at the studio.
It’s a bitter pill to swallow, but you’ve always known that "fan service" is just part of the job description. It’s a performance designed to feed the fantasies of people who hope for a one-in-a-million shot at him. Usually, you can brush it off, but lately, the performance has started feeling a little too real.
You aren't a hater,you’re actually grateful for the fans. You see how they boost his confidence and how much he genuinely loves their support. But let's be honest—who wouldn't feel a little sick to their stomach watching thousands of attractive people worship the man you go home to?
The shift really happened after the last tour. The explosion in their popularity was incredible, but it meant your "secret" boyfriend was now being shared with millions more people. More eyes, more fan events, more moments where he belongs to the world and not to you.
You’ve seen the clips. You’ve scrolled past the edits of him leaning in close to a fan, flirting back, holding their hands, and blushing at their compliments. Logically, you know it’s a script. You know it’s his job to make them feel special. But seeing a line of stunning people shooting their best shot with your man makes you feel incredibly small. It’s hard to feel like the "only one" when the internet is filled with videos of him giving that same intense, melting gaze to a stranger in the front row.
The "itchy" feeling turned into a dull ache during his most recent live stream. He was reading comments, his face lit up by the glow of the screen, laughing at a suggestive joke a fan made. He handled it with his usual grace, but the way he bit his lip and looked away,a habit you thought was reserved for your private moments sent a jolt of genuine physical nausea through you.
That night, when he finally crept into bed, smelling like the studio and exhaustion, he reached for you in the dark. His touch was familiar and warm, but for the first time, you found yourself stiffening.
"You okay?" he whispered, his voice thick with sleep. "You're all tense."
The words were right there, hovering on the tip of your tongue.”No,I saw the fansign clips, Chan. I saw how you looked at your fans and I HATE it”. But how do you tell the man who literally worships you that you’re jealous of a ghost?
You felt the mattress shift as he propped himself up. Even without looking, you knew he was wearing that look—the one where his brows were pinched and his entire focus was anchored on you.
"You’re doing it again," he whispered, his voice raspy with exhaustion but laced with that steady, calm patience. He reached out, his thumb catching a stray tear you didn’t even realize had escaped. "I can practically hear your brain working from here. Talk to me. What happened?"
"Nothing, Chan. It’s late," you mumbled, pulling the blanket up to your chin. "You’re exhausted. Just sleep."
"I’m not going to sleep while you’re lying three inches away from me feeling like this," he countered. He moved closer, his warmth seeping through the duvet. "I know that tone. It’s the one you get when you’ve been scrolling too long. Did you see something? Did someone say something mean to you?"
The fact that his first instinct was to protect you—to assume someone else had hurt you—was the breaking point. You rolled over to face him, the frustration finally bubbling over.
"It wasn't a comment, Chan. It was you."
He flinched, just a tiny bit, his hand hovering near your cheek. "Me?"
"I saw the clips," you said, your voice shaking. "The fansign edits. The livestream from today. I know it’s the job. I know you have to be 'Bang Chan' the idol. But I’m the one who has to hide in the kitchen when you take a work call. I’m the one who has to stay five paces behind you in public. And then I see you holding hands with strangers, blushing at their jokes, and giving them that... that look."
You took a shaky breath, the "itchy" feeling in your chest turning into a sharp ache.
"You bit your lip, Chan. The exact same way you do when we’re just hanging out here. It’s like you’re giving away pieces of us to anyone who pays for a ticket. It makes me feel... small. Like I’m just the girl who gets the tired, stressed version of you, while they get the version that treats them like they're the only person in the world."
Chan didn't say anything for a long moment and just sat there, the weight of your words hanging between you like a physical wall. When he finally spoke, his voice was defensive, though it lacked any real bite,he sounded more like he was trying to convince himself as much as you.
"It’s... it’s just the fans, baby," he started, his hands moving restlessly over the duvet. "You know how it is. It’s a role. When I’m there, I have to be what they need me to be. If I’m cold or if I don’t lean in, I’m 'ungrateful' or 'tired.' It’s all just... part of the machine. The hand-holding, the eye contact—it’s muscle memory at this point. It doesn’t mean anything."
He looked at you, searching for a flicker of understanding, but your expression didn't soften.
"The lip-biting thing," he continued, his pace quickening as he tried to find the right words to fix it. "I don't even realize I’m doing it. It’s just a habit. It’s not like I’m thinking about it or trying to be intimate with them. It’s just 'Bang Chan'—the version of me that belongs to the company. I'm trying to keep the lights on, to keep the group going. I have to play the part."
But as the words left his mouth, he seemed to realize how hollow they sounded compared to the tears in your eyes. He saw the way you flinched when he called it a "part," because to you, those were the same gestures he used to tell you he loved you.
The defensive tension drained out of him all at once. He slumped, looking less like the world-class leader and more like a man who realized he’d accidentally stepped on something precious.
"I’m an idiot," he whispered, the justification dying in his throat. He reached out again, this time more tentatively, waiting for you to let him touch you. When you didn't pull away, he pulled you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you so tightly it was like he was trying to merge your bodies.
"I’m so sorry," he mumbled into your hair, his voice muffled and thick. "I get so caught up in the 'job' and the 'performance' that I forget how it looks to the person who actually knows the real me. I'm so focused on making sure the world loves the group that I’m being careless with the one person whose love actually matters."
He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, his gaze intense and remarkably clear.
"They get the 'version,' yeah. They get the three-minute interaction and the edited clip. But they don't get this. They don't get the person who stays up late worrying about them. They don't get to see me when the makeup is off and I’m falling apart. That 'look' I give them? It’s a mirror. I’m reflecting what they want to see. But when I look at you..."
He kissed your forehead, his lips lingering there for a long beat.
"When I look at you, I’m not performing. I’m home. I’ll be more careful, I promise. I don’t want you to ever feel like you’re just one of a million, because you’re the only one I’m actually coming home to."
He didn't wait for you to answer. He reached out, his large hand cupping the side of your face, his thumb brushing over your lower lip with a desperate sort of reverence. When he leaned in, it wasn't the tentative, careful kiss of a first date; it was the kiss of someone who was terrified of losing his gravity.
The initial contact was hard, a hungry, breathless collision that spoke of everything he couldn’t put into words—the guilt, the possessiveness, and the sheer relief that you were still there, in his arms, where he needed you. It was a deep, grounding pressure, his lips moving against yours with a frantic intensity as if he were trying to memorize the very feel of you to drown out the noise of the rest of the world.
I’m four drafts into The Things You Don’t See with a complete subplot overhaul, but it’s still giving nothing. Everything I put down feels mid and formulaic. I’m at a total breaking point with this project.
She stood rooted in the doorway, the warm weight of the basket resting in her arms. She stared at the closed door of Room 201—the now silent, infuriatingly polite Chan.
"Just blueberries," she muttered, mimicking his earnest tone. He had actually baked. The sheer domesticity of the gesture felt like a bait-and-switch.
She finally stepped back into her apartment, gently kicking the door shut behind her.
"Who was that?"
The voice, sharp and immediate, belonged to her best friend, Manon, who was perched on the edge of the sofa, nursing a cup of tea and watching a documentary. Manon’s eyes were wide, fixed on the closed door.
"That," Y/N said, walking into the kitchen and dropping the basket onto the counter with a loud thud, "was the devil himself."
Manon immediately got up, drawn less by the drama and more by the smell of fresh baking. She walked into the kitchen and immediately spotted the note and the magnificent muffins.
"Hold up," Manon said, picking up one of the muffins. "The devil bakes? And he's that fine? That jawline belongs in a museum." She glanced at the letter. "And he writes apology letters? Who is this mythological creature?"
Y/N sighed, running a hand through her hair. "That is Chan. The resident of Room 201. The source of the Friday night noise."
Manon’s eyes widened, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Wait. That was the guy? The one you called a 'sonic weapon' ?The one you were telling me sounds like he's filming porn? He's that guy? Holy fuck, he’s actually hot. Like, too hot for this building"
"He's a menace," She corrected sharply. "A menace who just spent hours being extremely humble and quiet while making lemon-blueberry muffins because I basically sent him a formal restraining order."
Manon took a careful, admiring bite of the muffin. "Okay, first of all, these are incredible. Second of all, you need to elaborate. You two had a full-on spat in the elevator yesterday, and now he's delivering gourmet baked goods? What happened?"
Y/N leaned against the counter, suddenly feeling the need to confess the whole humiliating saga.
"Okay. So, last Friday, I hit my breaking point," She began. "I was so tired of listening to him—all the yelling, the demanding voice, the... the whimpering—" She shuddered. "—that I wrote the nastiest noise complaint I could, detailing all his sounds. I literally shoved it under his door the second he finished.."
Manon stared at her, muffin halfway to her mouth. "You... you sent him a detailed review of his Friday night climax?"
"Essentially, yes! I told him his performance was disruptive, and I referenced his 'breathless whimpering' specifically." She covered her face with her hands. "I was trying to shame him into silence."
Manon let out a choked laugh. "Oh my God, Y/N! That is legendary! I love you! So, he got the note yesterday, right? And then we ran into him last night in the elevator."
"Exactly," Y/N continued, dropping her hands. "We had this tense, silent descent, and then he finally broke the silence by calling me '202'! And I got snappy, telling him he needed to invest in soundproofing, and he... he just looked utterly mortified."
"He looked hot when he was mortified," Manon offered helpfully.
"That's irrelevant!" She insisted. "The point is, he was clearly shocked that his online persona bled into real life. And now, he's here. With muffins and a formal apology letter promising sound mitigation. It's a bribe."
Manon picked up the note. "A bribe that shows remorse, good handwriting, and advanced baking skills. Honestly, this is the most romantic thing that's ever happened to you. You threatened him into becoming a considerate, domestically skilled golden retriever."
Y/N just stared at the high-quality muffin. "He's not a golden retriever. He's a highly possessive man who was just told his most intimate sounds are public property."
"A highly possessive man who is now in your debt," Manon corrected, taking the small container of batter.
"Or an attempt to shut me up with carbs," She muttered, but she found herself picking up the apology letter and rereading the signature: Chan (Room 201). The silence had been bought, but the awkwardness was only just beginning.
A/N: I’m really sorry for disappearing. Life’s been pretty hectic lately, and I’ve been dealing with multiple health issues. Everything’s felt a bit overwhelming.
Chan watched the door to the lobby swing shut behind her, the brief, sharp argument leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He leaned back against the cool elevator wall, running a hand over his face.
God, that was terrible.
The snappiness, the precision of her annoyance—it was unsettling. He wasn't used to anyone talking to him like that, much less someone who knew the intimate details of his performance. He realized, with a heavy sense of defeat, that he couldn't simply dominate his way out of this. He was in the real world now, and the Resident of 202 was an immediate, structural problem.He finally stepped out of the elevator and headed toward the street, but his mission had changed. He wasn't just getting snacks; he was trying to reset his reputation from "Loud, Obscene Neighbor" to "Regretful, Competent Adult."
Sunday Afternoon, 3:00 PM
Chan spent Sunday morning glued to his laptop, researching acoustic panels and sound-dampening drywall, horrified by the cost and complexity. He quickly realized soundproofing would take time, money, and potentially involving management, which he desperately wanted to avoid.
He needed a buffer. A temporary peace offering.
He switched tactics. If he couldn't fix the source of the noise immediately, he could address the mood. He didn't want to bake her store-bought cookies. He wanted to show her he was serious, capable, and, most importantly, not just a yelling beast.He spent two hours in his kitchen, meticulously preparing a batch of lemon-blueberry muffins, using the complex recipe he usually reserved for his members' fan events. They were perfect: golden-brown tops, plump blueberries, and a drizzle of homemade glaze.
He placed two muffins and a small, sealed container of the remaining batter (for "future emergency cravings") in a small basket, covering it with a napkin. He then sat down and drafted a new note—one that was stiff, polite, and completely divorced from any sexual undertones.
To: The Resident of Room 202
Please accept this small, non-obscene offering.
I apologize unreservedly for the excessive noise disturbance from Room 201 on Friday nights. I understand the disruption this has caused to your sleep and studies.
I have begun looking into sound mitigation options, but these solutions will take some time to implement. I will ensure that going forward, the noise level is significantly reduced.I trust these muffins, at least, are satisfactory.
Chan (Room 201)
Armed with the basket and the note, he walked the two short steps to her door and knocked, gently but firmly.
———
She yanked the door open, already frowning, expecting a maintenance worker or a solicitor. Her jaw dropped when she saw who was standing there.
Mr. Bang. The man whose most vulnerable moments she had critiqued. He looked completely different in the daylight: cap off, hair fluffy, wearing a simple gray t-shirt. He looked earnest, nervous, and annoyingly domesticated.
He held the small basket out awkwardly.
"Hi," he said, his eyes darting everywhere but directly into hers. "It's, um. It's Chan. From 201."
She crossed her arms, blocking the doorway. "What do you want, 201? Is this about the soundproofing already?"
"Not yet," he said quickly, offering the basket further. "This is an apology. I made muffins. Lemon-blueberry." He shifted his weight. "And this."
He handed her the folded note.
She took the note and the basket simultaneously, her expression unreadable. She glanced down at the golden-brown muffins, then back up at him.
"You baked," she stated flatly, as if accusing him of a crime.
"Yes. It seemed... less aggressive than yelling through the mail slot," he murmured. "I truly am sorry. It won't happen again at that volume."
She slowly unfolded the note, her eyes scanning the formal language. The stiff politeness was almost funny, given the subject matter of their argument yesterday.
"These look professional," she said, nodding toward the muffins, a flicker of appreciation breaking through her defensive posture. "They better not be laced with anything."
Chan gave a tiny, relieved, almost boyish smile—a look she’d certainly never seen during his Friday night performances.
"Just blueberries," he confirmed. "I know this doesn't fix the walls, but it buys me time. Also... is your name Y/N?" he asked, suddenly switching the subject, his tone cautious.
She hesitated, surprised by the unexpected pivot to basic civility. She looked at the muffins, then at his earnest, hoping expression.
"Yes," she admitted grudgingly.
"Okay. Well, Y/N]," he said, dipping his head slightly. "I'll keep you posted on the soundproofing. Enjoy the muffins."
He didn't wait for a reply. He simply turned and retreated the two steps back to Room 201, leaving her standing in her doorway, holding a basket of expertly baked goods and an awkward, formal apology letter.
A/n: I’ve gotten tons of messages about wanting longer chapters, so once the prewritten ones are all posted, I’ll start putting out longer ones. Promise!🤍
Chan was in the kitchen, half-dressed in a low-slung towel, the cold tile a welcome anchor beneath his feet. The quick shower had helped wash away the lingering intensity of the stream. He was humming softly, basking in the familiar, heavy physical exhaustion that followed his Friday night ritual. His plan was simple: cold brew, then a quick, late-night meal.He padded across the hardwood toward the pantry. That's when he noticed it.
Near the base of the door, half-hidden by the edge of the throw rug, was a stark white envelope. It looked too neat to be junk mail and too thin to be official. It had clearly been slid under the door.
What the hell?
He crouched, the towel shifting precariously, and snatched the envelope up. He tore the seal open carelessly and pulled out the folded sheet. The harsh, black ink was the first thing to demand his attention, followed by the capital letters of the subject line.
To: Room 201
Dear Mr. Bang,
Chan froze. The stainless steel spoon he’d been holding clattered onto the granite counter. He barely noticed. His gaze was locked on the furious, tightly-packed paragraphs that followed.
...Your weekly noise is absolutely unacceptable. I can hear every single part of your 'vigorous personal life' through the wall...
...demanding yelling, the high-volume groans, and your specific, breathless whimpering at the end.
A slow, hot flush of profound, immediate shame crept up his neck. He, Bang Chan, the master of controlled exhibitionism, had just been called out—not by a mod, not by a troll, but by his quiet, real-life neighbor. The control he thrived on was shattered. This wasn't the voyeurism he directed; this was a mandatory, non-consensual audience of one.
The specific detail made his jaw clench hard. The resident of 202 had heard the whimpering. His most vulnerable, animalistic, unfiltered sound had been documented and used against him.
He reread the final ultimatum, the anger in the print scorching his fingertips.
I am not your unwilling audience... having to listen to your entire pornographic scene every week has moved past crazy and into outright disruptive.
He imagined the quiet girl he sometimes saw in the hall, head down, now staring at the wall, forced to listen to his breakdown. The thought twisted the post-release euphoria into a knot of sudden, sharp anxiety.
He stared at the signature: The Resident of 202.
Chan ran a hand roughly through his wet hair, leaving droplets on the paper. The crumpled envelope felt heavy in his hand, a tangible record of his failure to keep his two lives separate. The commanding alpha persona he cultivated online dissolved, leaving only a 20-something man who had just been publicly shamed for being the worst neighbor on the floor.
He tossed the note onto the desk with a frustrated sigh and stared at the shared wall. Well, he thought grimly. She definitely knows who's in charge now. And it's not me.
He had to respond. But the question remained: how?
She pressed her palms hard against her temples, wishing she could physically block the sound bleeding through the thin drywall of her apartment. Exhaustion was a dull ache in her bones, yet sleep was impossible.
The reason? The man in Room 201, Mr. Bang, and his stupid, weekly escapade.
Was he a player, cycling through an endless roster of conquests? Or was he just... that loud? It couldn't possibly be that good, could it? The volume he reached was obscene—yelling, moaning, carrying on like a top-tier porn star. Every. Single. Friday.
"Stupid fucking MAN," she muttered, violently punching her pillow. The meager foam was useless against the acoustic invasion. It felt less like bedroom and more like she had a front-row seat to a Porno. For the love of God, just finish!
The sounds were currently in the demanding phase. His voice—deep, roughened, and vibrating with conscious authority cut through the wall. It wasn't just noise, it was an act of possession.
“You hear that? You hear what you’re doing to me?”
She flinched. The words felt too close, too directed. Then came the high-pitched, almost desperate noise—not his or maybe it was… it was sharp ,an undeniable cry that made her ears burn. A new partner maybe? She mentally rolled her eyes for the third time.He was a weapon, and her study hours were the victim .
Ten-page paper due Monday. Enough was enough.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed. Forget death metal; she was too tired for a protracted noise war. She grabbed her notebook, pulled out a fresh sheet and her pen furiously.The Letter. It was professional, precise and laced with absolute spite.
To: Room 201 (Mr. Bang)
Dear Mr. Bang,
Your weekly noise is absolutely unacceptable. I can hear every single part of your 'vigorous personal life' through the wall: the demanding yelling, the high-volume groans, and your specific, breathless whimpering at the end.
It is impossible to sleep or function. I am not your unwilling audience, and frankly, having to listen to your entire pornographic scene every week has moved past crazy and into outright disruptive.
Get soundproofing. Fix the volume. Immediately
The Resident of 202.
She folded the paper with the meticulous care of a surgeon, creating sharp, permanent creases. It wasn't a casual note; it was a formal grievance. She slipped it into a plain envelope, sealing it with a final, firm press. A quick peek confirmed the hallway was clear. She slipped out, every movement quiet and controlled. Two steps. That was all it took to reach his door, Room 201, currently bathed in the thick, heavy silence of aftermath.
She knelt quickly on the soft carpet. Lining the envelope up perfectly with the thin crack beneath the wood, she gave it a firm, aggressive push. The paper slid across the threshold and vanished into Chan’s apartment.
Job done.
She stood, took one deep, stabilizing breath, and retreated back into the safety of Room 202, closing the door as quietly and definitively as she could.
Warning:smut, Voyeurism, Masturbation, Use of Sex Toys (Fleshlight), Dom/Sub, degradation and praise
A/N: I saw people talking about my blog and my Chan headcanon (in a TikTok comment section, of all places??), so I’ve decided to actually make this a thing! I’ve been on a pretty long break because of health stuff and other things going on in my life, but I’m back for now.
Part 1
!MDNI!
Chan never thought of himself as someone ashamed of his sexuality—or of himself, really. He just wasn’t the type to sleep around.
Well… that’s not entirely true.
He’s young, in college, and very much a guy in his early twenties. Of course he’s had his share of hookups—and, inevitably, porn. Still, there’s something about being watched that gets to him, something he’d rather not admit out loud. That thrill led him down the rabbit hole of cam sites—girls, boys, all of it.
9:00 p.m. Friday.
The tiny letters glow on his screen. By now, it’s practically ritual. Fridays are sacred: his live sessions, his fans, and the exquisite, twisted satisfaction that comes from letting strangers watch him come undone.
Chan gave the camera a final, dismissive adjustment before hitting "live." The anonymity was calculated, designed to funnel all attention away from his identity and onto the singular focus of his body—the magnificent object he held absolute power over.
“How are my little lovelies tonight, hm?” he drawled, the low, smooth tone dripping with conscious authority as the praise flooded the chat. He never wasted time with immediate gratification. He enjoyed watching them beg. He deserved the prelude.
“Your day been good? That’s nice. If it’s been bad, you can forget about it now. I'll make it better in no time, sweetheart.” His voice was a demanding command through the speakers as he carelessly shrugged off the zip-up, the sound amplified for effect. Every carefully chosen piece of his wardrobe was merely a tool for the strip tease. His hands began to move, slow and deliberate, a possessive trail over his chest, down his torso, and across his defined abdomen. He smirked, reading the fervent comments – the desperate bids for his attention, the pleas for him to take control, to ruin them. He finally hooked his fingers under the edge of his shirt, his eyes narrowed with self-satisfaction. “How badly do you want to see me, hm? Remember who’s in charge.”
“You get what I decide to give you, when I decide to give it. You’ll learn to appreciate the restraint.” He placed the bottle down with a sharp thud that echoed slightly in the mic.
He finally yanked the tank top up, drawing it over his head in one fluid, decisive motion. The ambient lights caught the immediate, sweat-slicked definition of his shoulders and chest, and the chat immediately detonated in a riot of adoration. He let the discarded fabric fall to the floor without a glance. He knew exactly what they were looking at.
His eyes never left the screen as his right hand lifted, fingers splayed. He ran his palm in a slow, possessive slide, starting just below his collarbone and dragging it downward across the ridged muscle of his pectoral, pausing briefly over his nipple—a cruel, tantalizing fraction of a second—before continuing its descent. His thumb brushed the indent of his hip bone as the rest of his fingers splayed wide over the flat expanse of his abdomen.
“Oh, what’s this?” he murmured, a low, husky sound that made the mic crackle slightly. He leaned in, his lips close to the device. “You like that, don’t you? The hard work. The proof that I’m worth your time.”
He repeated the motion with his left hand, the contrast of his skin against his dark bottoms pulling the gaze inevitably lower. He curled his fingers slightly, gently pressing the pads against the tight, warm muscle of his rectus abdominis. He felt a genuine spike of satisfaction as the comments about his 'abs' and 'V-line' became illegible in their speed.
He tracked a specific comment: @pinkyprincess: God, ruin me please.
He laughed, a rough, throaty sound, and pointed a commanding finger at the camera. “You think you can handle that, sweetheart? You think you know what you’re asking for?” He pressed his fingers harder into his abdomen, tilting his head. “You want me to take control? Then you’ll sit there and watch me take my time. This is my show. And you’re just here to admire the view.”
He deliberately turned his torso, giving the camera a sharp view of the line of his back and the faint ridge of his spine before settling back to face the camera, breathing slightly heavier now.
“Good boys and girls get rewarded,” he purred, leaning forward so his voice was almost a dangerous whisper. “And tonight, you’ve all been very, very good.”
He let his gaze fall from the camera, shifting it pointedly lower. His left hand moved, not to the clothes he wore, but directly to the taut fabric stretched across his lap. He didn't hesitate. His fingers closed over the undeniable thickness beneath the material, the shape of him clear and demanding. He palmed himself, once, with a rough, heavy motion that had his knuckles whitening against the dark cloth.
A collective audible gasp seemed to travel through the feed, momentarily silencing the rapid-fire typing.
He watched the chat's reaction with a satisfied smile. "You sound surprised," he teased, his voice dropping another octave, laced with pure dominance. He ground his hand against himself, slow and deep, a deliberate, agonizing pressure. The fabric strained, protesting the sudden movement.
“I can feel every single pair of eyes on me right now. Tell me what you see.”
He didn't wait for the answer. The initial pressure intensified, his grip becoming insistent beneath the grey sweatpants. He closed his eyes momentarily, letting the rush of energy from the frantic, desperate comments feed the rising tension in his body. A low, involuntary sound—a rough, deep groan—escaped his throat, caught perfectly by the mic. The sound was raw, undeniable proof of his rising need.
He opened his eyes, now dark and hungry, scanning the chat which had completely devolved into a storm of pleading: Please, Chan. We’re begging you. Let us see, Master. Don't stop, but hurry!
He let out a sharp, commanding breath, using the control he possessed to halt the movement just when it became unbearable. He pulled his hand away, the sudden release of pressure making the fabric of his sweatpants fall back into a less revealing shape.
“Beg harder,” he demanded, his voice slightly uneven, thick with the effort of holding back. “You want this? You earn it.”
He watched the chat fill with increasingly desperate pleas, fulfilling the final prerequisite he needed. The satisfaction was overwhelming.
"That's enough," he announced, his voice snapping back to a sharp, dominant clarity.
He hooked his thumbs aggressively into the waistband of the loose grey sweatpants. His gaze locked on the camera, holding every single viewer captive. With one swift, decisive motion, he yanked the material down to his knees. The camera was framed high enough that the sudden reveal was still a carefully managed flash, exposing the dark, tight boundaries of his modesty—the final barrier to the spectacle.
He didn't move for a long moment, simply standing there, chest heaving slightly, letting the sight settle over his audience, letting the chat burn itself out with explosive reaction.
"There," he declared, the single word heavy with finality and promise. "Now we begin."
“I can feel every single pair of eyes on me right now. Tell me what you see.”
He didn't wait for the answer. The initial pressure intensified, his grip becoming insistent beneath the grey sweatpants. He closed his eyes momentarily, letting the rush of energy from the frantic, desperate comments feed the rising tension in his body. A low, involuntary sound—a rough, deep groan—escaped his throat, caught perfectly by the mic. The sound was raw, undeniable proof of his rising need.
He opened his eyes, now dark and hungry, scanning the chat which had completely devolved into a storm of pleading: Please, Chan. We’re begging you. Let us see, Master. Don't stop, but hurry!
He let out a sharp, commanding breath, using the control he possessed to halt the movement just when it became unbearable. He pulled his hand away, the sudden release of pressure making the fabric of his sweatpants fall back into a less revealing shape.
“Beg harder,” he demanded, his voice slightly uneven, thick with the effort of holding back. “You want this? You earn it.”
He watched the chat fill with increasingly desperate pleas, fulfilling the final prerequisite he needed. The satisfaction was overwhelming.
"That's enough," he announced, his voice snapping back to a sharp, dominant clarity.
He hooked his thumbs aggressively into the waistband of the loose grey sweatpants. His gaze locked on the camera, holding every single viewer captive. With one swift, decisive motion, he yanked the material down to his knees. The camera was framed high enough that the sudden reveal was still a carefully managed flash, exposing the dark, tight boundaries of his modesty—the final barrier to the spectacle.
He didn't move for a long moment, simply standing there, chest heaving slightly, letting the sight settle over his audience, letting the chat burn itself out with explosive reaction.
"There," he declared, the single word heavy with finality and promise. "Now we begin."He intensified the motion of his right hand, driving a sharp, ecstatic groan from his chest. The raw sound was met with a literal explosion of notifications. The donation counter at the top of the screen went ballistic—a flashing, non-stop stream of currency pouring in from his desperate viewers. He didn't slow his pace, letting the influx of money serve only to fuel his performance. He was demanding everything from them: their attention, their submission, and their wealth.
“You’re all so generous,” he ground out, the words squeezed between ragged gasps of effort. “Yes… keep sending it. Keep telling me how much you need this, how much you need me.”
He was close—too close. The pleasure was becoming overwhelming, pushing him toward the edge of control. Just as the sensation peaked, threatening to drown out his focus, he wrenched his right hand away, severing the connection abruptly. He leaned over, hands braced on his desk, his breathing harsh and uneven as the physical need pulsed through his body. He was shaking, the restraint a conscious, agonizing effort.
The chat went into immediate meltdown: demands, frustration, and fresh waves of donations begging him to finish. He reached for the lube. No preamble. No slow-burn tease this time—the audience had earned the right to watch him prepare. He spread the slick gel across the fleshlight with a single, dark-skinned thumb. Clinical. Cruel. He watched the donation stream explode, acknowledging their money with only the icy focus in his eyes.
He thrust in. Hard.
The first sound wasn't a growl of dominance. It was a sharp, loud, wet squelch that sliced through the speakers. And then, from his own throat, a shocked, straining “Nngh! Ah…” It was a near-whimper. Proof that they were breaking him down, that the sensation was too much even for the one in charge.
His left hand slammed onto the desk. Anchor. Control. His right hand was a desperate vise around the base of the fleshlight. He wasn't gripping the toy; he was gripping the sensation itself.
The sound of his hips pounding against the synthetic sleeve was disgusting. Squelch-squelch-SQUELCH.
His head fell back. He stopped looking at the camera. He couldn't. “You hear that? You hear what you’re doing to me?” he choked out, forcing the words out around the rhythmic gasps. His voice was utterly ruined now, raw and high-pitched. “Mmmh-mh… for every penny. Every. Single. Comment.”His body locked up, a final, shuddering spasm against the toy.
And then, with a choked, guttural cry of pure surrender, he came.
He felt the hot, pulsing surge deep inside the chamber of the fleshlight. He kept his hips pressed hard against the device, paralyzed, his entire body trembling violently from the sheer force of the climax.
The squelching sounds had stopped, replaced only by his own ragged, loud gasping.
He didn't pull out. He couldn't.
His head stayed thrown back, eyes squeezed shut. He let out a long, heavy exhale, the sound rasping over the mic. His chest was heaving uncontrollably, sweat dripping from his hair onto his bare skin.
He focused on the intense, internal warmth of the toy clinging to him, basking in the physical proof of his excess and their devotion. He remained utterly still, soaking in the sensation of the tight, satisfying containment, savoring the immediate, heavy quiet that followed the storm.
He slowly pulled his head back down, opening his heavy, half-lidded eyes. He looked directly into the camera, his expression vacant, post-climax euphoria warring with his usual arrogant command.
He finally eased the device away, the separation making a wet, sticky schlick sound. He dropped the fleshlight onto the desk without a sound, the grey sweatpants still bunched around his knees.
He didn't say thank you. He didn't promise to come back.
He reached out a shaking hand and, with a last flicker of his self-possession, hit the disconnect button.
Warning:smut, Voyeurism, Masturbation, Use of Sex Toys (Fleshlight), Dom/Sub, degradation and praise
A/N: I saw people talking about my blog and my Chan headcanon (in a TikTok comment section, of all places??), so I’ve decided to actually make this a thing! I’ve been on a pretty long break because of health stuff and other things going on in my life, but I’m back for now.
Part 1 > Part 2
!MDNI!
Chan never thought of himself as someone ashamed of his sexuality—or of himself, really. He just wasn’t the type to sleep around.
Well… that’s not entirely true.
He’s young, in college, and very much a guy in his early twenties. Of course he’s had his share of hookups—and, inevitably, porn. Still, there’s something about being watched that gets to him, something he’d rather not admit out loud. That thrill led him down the rabbit hole of cam sites—girls, boys, all of it.
9:00 p.m. Friday.
The tiny letters glow on his screen. By now, it’s practically ritual. Fridays are sacred: his live sessions, his fans, and the exquisite, twisted satisfaction that comes from letting strangers watch him come undone.
Chan gave the camera a final, dismissive adjustment before hitting "live." The anonymity was calculated, designed to funnel all attention away from his identity and onto the singular focus of his body—the magnificent object he held absolute power over.
“How are my little lovelies tonight, hm?” he drawled, the low, smooth tone dripping with conscious authority as the praise flooded the chat. He never wasted time with immediate gratification. He enjoyed watching them beg. He deserved the prelude.
“Your day been good? That’s nice. If it’s been bad, you can forget about it now. I'll make it better in no time, sweetheart.” His voice was a demanding command through the speakers as he carelessly shrugged off the zip-up, the sound amplified for effect. Every carefully chosen piece of his wardrobe was merely a tool for the strip tease. His hands began to move, slow and deliberate, a possessive trail over his chest, down his torso, and across his defined abdomen. He smirked, reading the fervent comments – the desperate bids for his attention, the pleas for him to take control, to ruin them. He finally hooked his fingers under the edge of his shirt, his eyes narrowed with self-satisfaction. “How badly do you want to see me, hm? Remember who’s in charge.?”
“You get what I decide to give you, when I decide to give it. You’ll learn to appreciate the restraint.” He placed the bottle down with a sharp thud that echoed slightly in the mic.
He finally yanked the tank top up, drawing it over his head in one fluid, decisive motion. The ambient lights caught the immediate, sweat-slicked definition of his shoulders and chest, and the chat immediately detonated in a riot of adoration. He let the discarded fabric fall to the floor without a glance. He knew exactly what they were looking at.
His eyes never left the screen as his right hand lifted, fingers splayed. He ran his palm in a slow, possessive slide, starting just below his collarbone and dragging it downward across the ridged muscle of his pectoral, pausing briefly over his nipple—a cruel, tantalizing fraction of a second—before continuing its descent. His thumb brushed the indent of his hip bone as the rest of his fingers splayed wide over the flat expanse of his abdomen.
“Oh, what’s this?” he murmured, a low, husky sound that made the mic crackle slightly. He leaned in, his lips close to the device. “You like that, don’t you? The hard work. The proof that I’m worth your time.”
He repeated the motion with his left hand, the contrast of his skin against his dark bottoms pulling the gaze inevitably lower. He curled his fingers slightly, gently pressing the pads against the tight, warm muscle of his rectus abdominis. He felt a genuine spike of satisfaction as the comments about his 'abs' and 'V-line' became illegible in their speed.
He tracked a specific comment: @pinkyprincess: God, ruin me please.
He laughed, a rough, throaty sound, and pointed a commanding finger at the camera. “You think you can handle that, sweetheart? You think you know what you’re asking for?” He pressed his fingers harder into his abdomen, tilting his head. “You want me to take control? Then you’ll sit there and watch me take my time. This is my show. And you’re just here to admire the view.”
He deliberately turned his torso, giving the camera a sharp view of the line of his back and the faint ridge of his spine before settling back to face the camera, breathing slightly heavier now.
“Good boys and girls get rewarded,” he purred, leaning forward so his voice was almost a dangerous whisper. “And tonight, you’ve all been very, very good.”
He let his gaze fall from the camera, shifting it pointedly lower. His left hand moved, not to the clothes he wore, but directly to the taut fabric stretched across his lap. He didn't hesitate. His fingers closed over the undeniable thickness beneath the material, the shape of him clear and demanding. He palmed himself, once, with a rough, heavy motion that had his knuckles whitening against the dark cloth.
A collective audible gasp seemed to travel through the feed, momentarily silencing the rapid-fire typing.
He watched the chat's reaction with a satisfied smile. "You sound surprised," he teased, his voice dropping another octave, laced with pure dominance. He ground his hand against himself, slow and deep, a deliberate, agonizing pressure. The fabric strained, protesting the sudden movement.
“I can feel every single pair of eyes on me right now. Tell me what you see.”
He didn't wait for the answer. The initial pressure intensified, his grip becoming insistent beneath the grey sweatpants. He closed his eyes momentarily, letting the rush of energy from the frantic, desperate comments feed the rising tension in his body. A low, involuntary sound—a rough, deep groan—escaped his throat, caught perfectly by the mic. The sound was raw, undeniable proof of his rising need.
He opened his eyes, now dark and hungry, scanning the chat which had completely devolved into a storm of pleading: Please, Chan. We’re begging you. Let us see, Master. Don't stop, but hurry!
He let out a sharp, commanding breath, using the control he possessed to halt the movement just when it became unbearable. He pulled his hand away, the sudden release of pressure making the fabric of his sweatpants fall back into a less revealing shape.
“Beg harder,” he demanded, his voice slightly uneven, thick with the effort of holding back. “You want this? You earn it.”
He watched the chat fill with increasingly desperate pleas, fulfilling the final prerequisite he needed. The satisfaction was overwhelming.
"That's enough," he announced, his voice snapping back to a sharp, dominant clarity.
He hooked his thumbs aggressively into the waistband of the loose grey sweatpants. His gaze locked on the camera, holding every single viewer captive. With one swift, decisive motion, he yanked the material down to his knees. The camera was framed high enough that the sudden reveal was still a carefully managed flash, exposing the dark, tight boundaries of his modesty—the final barrier to the spectacle.
He didn't move for a long moment, simply standing there, chest heaving slightly, letting the sight settle over his audience, letting the chat burn itself out with explosive reaction.
"There," he declared, the single word heavy with finality and promise. "Now we begin."He intensified the motion of his right hand, driving a sharp, ecstatic groan from his chest. The raw sound was met with a literal explosion of notifications. “I can feel every single pair of eyes on me right now. Tell me what you see.” The donation counter at the top of the screen went ballistic—a flashing, non-stop stream of currency pouring in from his desperate viewers. He didn't slow his pace, letting the influx of money serve only to fuel his performance. He was demanding everything from them: their attention, their submission, and their wealth.
“You’re all so generous,” he ground out, the words squeezed between ragged gasps of effort. “Yes… keep sending it. Keep telling me how much you need this, how much you need me.”
He was close—too close. The pleasure was becoming overwhelming, pushing him toward the edge of control. Just as the sensation peaked, threatening to drown out his focus, he wrenched his right hand away, severing the connection abruptly. He leaned over, hands braced on his desk, his breathing harsh and uneven as the physical need pulsed through his body. He was shaking, the restraint a conscious, agonizing effort.
The chat went into immediate meltdown: demands, frustration, and fresh waves of donations begging him to finish. He reached for the lube. No preamble. No slow-burn tease this time—the audience had earned the right to watch him prepare. He spread the slick gel across the fleshlight with a single, dark-skinned thumb. Clinical. Cruel. He watched the donation stream explode, acknowledging their money with only the icy focus in his eyes.
He thrust in. Hard.
The first sound wasn't a growl of dominance. It was a sharp, loud, wet squelch that sliced through the speakers. And then, from his own throat, a shocked, straining “Nngh! Ah…” It was a near-whimper. Proof that they were breaking him down, that the sensation was too much even for the one in charge.
His left hand slammed onto the desk. Anchor. Control. His right hand was a desperate vise around the base of the fleshlight. He wasn't gripping the toy; he was gripping the sensation itself.
The sound of his hips pounding against the synthetic sleeve was disgusting. Squelch-squelch-SQUELCH.
His head fell back. He stopped looking at the camera. He couldn't. “You hear that? You hear what you’re doing to me?” he choked out, forcing the words out around the rhythmic gasps. His voice was utterly ruined now, raw and high-pitched. “Mmmh-mh… for every penny. Every. Single. Comment.”His body locked up, a final, shuddering spasm against the toy.
And then, with a choked, guttural cry of pure surrender, he came.
He felt the hot, pulsing surge deep inside the chamber of the fleshlight. He kept his hips pressed hard against the device, paralyzed, his entire body trembling violently from the sheer force of the climax.
The squelching sounds had stopped, replaced only by his own ragged, loud gasping.
He didn't pull out. He couldn't.
His head stayed thrown back, eyes squeezed shut. He let out a long, heavy exhale, the sound rasping over the mic. His chest was heaving uncontrollably, sweat dripping from his hair onto his bare skin.
He focused on the intense, internal warmth of the toy clinging to him, basking in the physical proof of his excess and their devotion. He remained utterly still, soaking in the sensation of the tight, satisfying containment, savoring the immediate, heavy quiet that followed the storm.
He slowly pulled his head back down, opening his heavy, half-lidded eyes. He looked directly into the camera, his expression vacant, post-climax euphoria warring with his usual arrogant command.
He finally eased the device away, the separation making a wet, sticky schlick sound. He dropped the fleshlight onto the desk without a sound, the grey sweatpants still bunched around his knees.
He didn't say thank you. He didn't promise to come back.
He reached out a shaking hand and, with a last flicker of his self-possession, hit the disconnect button.
Pairing: Former Boxer!Changbin x Medic!femReader (mention of Jisung and Chan)
Word Count: 5114
Summary: Freedom doesn’t come easy. You learn that when Changbin first moves into your apartment, the silence of a life without fights leaving him restless and adrift. But as you remind him of the boy who once dreamed of music, you watch him heal, grow, and finally step into a future built on melodies instead of bruises. And somewhere between late-night practices, shared laughter, and shy confessions, he realizes he's falling for you.
Warnings/Tags: angst, fluff, comfort, jealousy, 3Racha, slow burn, domestic life, found family (Chan/Jisung), strangers to roommates to lovers, first kiss, references to past violence and exploitation, mention of bruises, emotional trauma, insecurity, low self-worth, first date
Freedom didn’t come with fireworks. Changbin woke in your apartment to silence. There was no trainer banging on his door, no schedule to obey, no fights looming. At first, it felt like relief. But as the days stretched, the quiet grew heavier. He spent hours sitting on your couch, staring at the ceiling or scrolling aimlessly through his phone, his body restless but his mind blank. You cooked, worked, patched him up when the bruises faded slow, but you could see it building in him. The way his fists twitched like they needed something to hold onto. The way his eyes slid away when you caught him doing nothing.
On the fourth evening, he finally said it. “I feel useless here.” You glanced up from your tea. He was leaning against the window, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, his jaw clenched. His voice was low, almost ashamed. “I don’t know who I am without the ring. At least there I had a purpose. I was good at something. Now, I’m nothing.”
You set the mug down and stood, crossing the room until you were close enough to see the shadows under his eyes. “You’re not nothing, Bin.”
His laugh was bitter, sharp. “Feels like it.”
“Then maybe it’s time to find out what else you can be,” you suggested gently. He frowned, meeting your gaze for the first time. You held it steady. “You told me once that, when you were younger, you wanted to do something with music. Or writing. That you dreamed about it before all of this swallowed you up.” He froze, lips parting like he’d forgotten he’d ever confessed that. “What if we looked for something?” you pressed gently. “A school, a program, even a class. Somewhere you could learn, sharpen what’s already in you. You’ve carried everyone else’s expectations for years. Maybe it’s time to chase your own.”
His brow furrowed, and for a long time, he didn’t answer. The weight of disbelief sat heavy in his eyes, disbelief that it could be real, that he could want something without paying for it with blood. But slowly, something flickered there. “You think I could do that?” His voice cracked, so quiet you almost missed it.
You reached out, brushing your fingers lightly against his sleeve. “I don’t just think it. I know it. And I’ll help you look.” He swallowed hard, his shoulders sagging as if a piece of the burden slipped away.
-
Six months later, the underground felt like another lifetime. You hadn’t been back since the night Changbin walked away. It hadn’t been easy, letting go of the place where you’d first found your purpose after your friend died, where you’d sworn no one would die on your watch. But staying would’ve meant dragging his past into every moment of his future, and you refused to let him be chained to it through you. So you left it behind, just as he did. Now, your apartment felt lighter. The sharp smell of antiseptic had been replaced with coffee and candle wax, the only bandages on the counter the ones you occasionally needed for clumsy kitchen accidents.
And Changbin…Changbin was different. His body healed first. The bruises faded, the stiffness eased, the tension in his shoulders no longer permanent. He ate better, slept deeper. The restless way his fists used to clench slowly gave way to something else: tapping rhythms on the table, humming under his breath, scribbling words on scraps of paper. Then, his world opened wider. He applied for a music program at a local arts school, nervous as hell but determined, and got in. It became his new ring — not one of blood and fists, but of keys, chords, and notebooks. And there, he met two friends who pulled him in with open arms: Chan, patient and sharp-eyed, always ready to listen, and Jisung, all laughter and restless energy, dragging Changbin into late-night studio sessions until the three of them stumbled out into dawn.
You saw him come alive with them. His voice, once quiet, now lifted in shared melodies. His laugh, once rare, now came often, unguarded. He was still Changbin, still strong, still carrying shadows, but he was also something more. Something freer. And with that freedom came something else.
The way his gaze lingered on you longer than before, soft and searching. The way he brought back pastries after class because he thought you’d like them, or how his texts had shifted from quick updates to little jokes, casual words that warmed your chest late at night. You caught yourself, too, looking at him differently. Not just as the fighter you’d stitched together, not just the broken boy clawing his way out of a cage, but as a man who was building something new. And as someone you wanted to be part of that newness with.
One evening, you sat on the couch, papers in your lap, when he came in from class, hoodie tugged over his head, eyes bright. He dropped his bag with a thud, hair mussed, and grinned at you a little shyly. “Guess what?” he asked, breathless with excitement.
You raised a brow, smiling despite yourself. “What?”
“Chan says we’ve got a shot at performing one of our songs next month. At an actual showcase. People are going to hear it.” He rubbed the back of his neck, chuckling nervously. “Feels unreal.”
Your heart swelled. “That’s amazing, Bin. I’m proud of you.”
His gaze softened at that, lingering, and for a moment, the room felt smaller, warmer. Like the distance you’d both held carefully was quietly thinning. He looked away first, but not before you saw the faint flush rising in his cheeks.
-
The small auditorium buzzed with energy, every seat filled. Students and strangers alike crowded the rows, waiting for the next group to take the stage. You sat somewhere near the middle, program clutched in your hands, eyes darting down to the name you’d read a dozen times already. Seo Changbin.
You weren’t sure who was more nervous. Him, about to step into the spotlight, or you, sitting here with your chest tight and your heart threatening to jump out of your ribs.
The lights dimmed, and the next act was announced: “3RACHA.” The name pulled a smile from you. He hadn’t told you much, only that it was him, Chan, and Jisung; his closest friends from the program, the ones who had pushed him to believe his music was worth being heard.
Then, they walked out. Changbin looked different up there. The hoodie and cap were gone, replaced by something simple but sharp. Dark jeans, a black shirt, his hair styled back just enough to reveal the hard lines of his face. He carried himself taller, steadier. Still the fighter, but this time, he was fighting for something else.
The beat started, rolling low and heavy through the speakers, and then his voice cut through. Deep, rough-edged, and commanding. It was electric. The room leaned forward as he rapped, words spilling fast and sharp, each syllable landing with the precision of fists he no longer had to throw. Chan’s voice soared above, Jisung’s energy sparking between them, but it was Changbin who pulled your focus. He was alive in a way you’d never seen. Every movement, every breath carried a certainty that made your skin prickle.
And when his gaze swept over the crowd, for one brief second, it found you. It wasn’t long, just the flicker of a glance, but it hit hard. His eyes softened, and the corners of his mouth lifted — small, almost secret, but undeniably there.
By the time the song ended, the room was on its feet, cheers echoing off the walls. Changbin’s chest rose and fell with exertion, sweat glinting at his temples, but his grin was wide and unguarded. You clapped until your palms stung, pride swelling so big it hurt.
Later, when the crowd spilled into the lobby, you found him leaning against a wall, flushed and breathless, Chan and Jisung buzzing nearby. When he spotted you, his grin faltered into something softer, almost shy. “Well?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck.
You stepped closer, smile bright. “You were incredible.”
The tips of his ears flushed red. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you said, holding his gaze. “You looked like you belonged up there.” For a moment, the noise around you seemed to fade, leaving just him and you, and the warmth of what was quietly growing between.
The showcase buzz followed you both out into the night. The air was crisp, city lights reflecting off the river as students spilled onto the sidewalks, still chatting about the performances. Chan and Jisung disappeared into the crowd with promises to meet later, leaving you and Changbin walking side by side.
He was still glowing, adrenaline humming in the restless way his fingers tapped against his thigh, but his voice was quieter now. “Thanks for coming.”
You glanced at him, smiling. “You really think I’d miss it?”
He ducked his head, embarrassed, the tips of his ears pink under the streetlamps. “I don’t know. Guess part of me thought…maybe this doesn’t matter to anyone but me.”
You nudged his arm gently. “It matters. To me. You were incredible, Binnie. I’m not just saying that.” The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was warm, filled with the sound of your footsteps and the faint hum of the city.
By the time you reached the Han River, he stopped, hands tucked into his pockets. “I used to come here when I was a kid,” he admitted, staring at the water. “When everything at home got too much. I thought, maybe if I stared long enough, I’d see a way out.”
You tilted your head, studying him. “And now?”
He hesitated, his jaw working. “Now I think I see a way forward. For the first time.” Your heart clenched at that. You wanted to reach for his hand, but held back, afraid the moment was too fragile to risk breaking. He turned then, eyes locking with yours, and for a second, it felt like the world stilled. His lips parted, his breath catching, and you thought— maybe this is it. But instead, he looked away, swallowing hard. “We should get home, you have an early shift tomorrow.”
The walk back was quiet, but softer than before. When you reached your bedroom door, he lingered, shifting on his feet like he wanted to say more. “Thanks,” he murmured, his voice low. “Not just for tonight. For everything. If you hadn’t been there-” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “I don’t know where I’d be.”
You smiled gently, heart tight. “You don’t owe me anything. Just keep fighting. That’s enough.”
His eyes lingered on you, warm and searching, before he finally nodded and stepped back. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” you whispered.
-
Living together had started as a necessity. A safe place, a roof, a way to give him distance from the world he had fought in for too long. But months in, it felt natural. Almost inevitable. Mornings were quiet but warm. You’d wake to the smell of coffee and the soft thrum of low bass beats leaking from Changbin’s room. Sometimes you’d find him at the kitchen counter already, notebook open, hair a mess, humming half-formed lyrics as he scribbled them down between bites of toast.
“Morning,” he’d say, voice still rough with sleep, and push a mug toward you without looking up, because he’d already memorized how you liked it.
Nights carried a different rhythm. He’d stumble home late from the practice rooms with Chan and Jisung, tired but buzzing, and collapse onto the couch with his laptop open and headphones askew. You’d end up there too, reading or scrolling beside him, legs brushing in the shared space. Sometimes, he’d pull one side of his headphones off and offer it to you. “Want to hear?”
The first time, you’d blinked at him, surprised. But when you leaned in, pressing the foam against your ear, the music that filled you was raw and sharp — his voice layered with Chan’s and Jisung’s, a world they were building one note at a time. “It’s good,” you’d whispered.
He’d smiled faintly, that shy curve of his mouth that never failed to tighten something in your chest. “Not finished. But thanks.”
Small things piled up quietly. His hoodie draped over the back of your chair. The way he reached over you in the kitchen, grumbling about your knife skills before slicing vegetables with absurd precision. The way he always waited to walk home with you when your shifts ended late. The lines blurred without either of you naming it.
One night, rain pelted against the windows, steady and relentless. You curled up on the couch with a blanket, exhausted, when Changbin padded in from his room. He hesitated only a second before dropping down beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed. “You look tired,” he murmured.
You laughed softly. “Says the one who’s been up since six and just came back from a ten-hour practice.”
He huffed, but didn’t argue. Instead, he reached for the edge of the blanket and tugged it over his lap too, settling in with a sigh. For a while, you both just listened to the rain, the quiet between you heavier than words. Then, softly: “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this normal before.”
You turned your head, finding him gazing out the window, eyes reflecting the city lights. His tone wasn’t sad, just thoughtful, almost awed. “You deserve normal,” you said.
His lips curved, a ghost of a smile, and he finally looked at you. For a second, your breath caught at the warmth there, at the unspoken weight in the way he held your gaze. Then he shifted, tugging the blanket higher and muttering, “Don’t hog all of it,” like the moment hadn’t just brushed the edge of something more. But your heart knew better.
-
It started with something small. You had agreed to meet a coworker after your shift — nothing unusual, just dinner to catch up. But when you walked into the café that evening, Changbin was already there with Chan and Jisung, laptops spread across their table, cups of coffee long gone cold. He looked up at the sound of your voice, smiling before he could help himself. But then he noticed the man beside you. Tall, polished, laughing a little too easily as he held the door open for you. Something sharp twisted in Changbin’s chest.
You spotted him and waved, grin bright. “Bin! You’re here?”
“Uh, yeah,” he said, voice stiff, fingers curling into fists under the table. “Working on some stuff.”
Your coworker glanced his way, brows raised. “Friend of yours?”
“Roommate,” you explained simply, your tone casual, too casual, before following the man to the counter.
Changbin tried to focus on the screen in front of him, on Chan muttering about mixing levels and Jisung bouncing lyrics off the page. But his eyes kept darting toward you, laughing softly at something your coworker said, brushing his arm without realizing it.
A heat built under his skin that had nothing to do with jealousy and everything to do with realization. He wanted that laugh aimed at him. He wanted to be the reason your eyes sparkled like that, the one leaning close, not some stranger in a pressed shirt who had no idea what you’d given up, what you’d fought for, what you meant.
It hit him then — hard and unrelenting. He’d spent months circling around the edges of it, brushing past moments that lingered too long, looks that said more than words. But watching you there, with someone else, stripped away every excuse. He cared. Too much. More than a rommate, more than a friend.
When you came over to their table later, takeaway cup in hand, your smile easy as always, Changbin forced himself to meet your eyes. But there was a weight in his chest he couldn’t shake. “Heading home?” you asked him lightly.
“Yeah,” he muttered, standing a little too quickly. “See you there.” He left before you could say more, his heart pounding in his ears. That night, he sat awake long after you’d gone to bed, staring at the ceiling. His ribs no longer hurt, his knuckles no longer bled, but the ache inside was deeper than any fight had ever left him. Because for the first time, he couldn’t lie to himself. He was in love with you.
-
It didn’t take long to notice the change. At first, it was subtle. He came home later from practice, retreating to his room more quickly than before. He stopped lingering in the kitchen with his headphones half-off, stopped sliding you bites of whatever new snack Jisung had shoved at him that day. He still smiled, still laughed when you teased him, but the warmth that once lived in those moments felt muted, tucked away. And it hurt.
You found him on the couch one night, laptop open but untouched, fingers drumming restlessly against the armrest. The TV was on, low volume, some variety show flickering across the screen, but his eyes weren’t on it. They were distant. “Binnie?” you asked softly, leaning against the doorway.
He glanced up, startled, then forced a quick smile. “Hey.”
You stepped closer, frowning. “You’ve been quiet lately.”
“I’m just tired,” he said quickly, gaze dropping to the laptop again.
But you knew him too well by now. You crossed the room and sat beside him, folding your legs under you, your shoulder brushing his. “No, it’s more than that.”
His jaw tightened. He shook his head. “It’s nothing.”
“Changbin.” You tilted your head, catching his eyes with yours. “Talk to me.”
The silence stretched, heavy, his fingers clenching into fists against his thighs. For a moment, you thought he might retreat again. But then he exhaled, long and shaky, and whispered: “I don’t know how to do this.”
You blinked. “Do what?”
His eyes finally lifted to yours, and the rawness there made your breath catch. “Be around you. Pretend like I don’t-” He broke off, teeth sinking into his lip. “…like I don’t feel more than I should.” Your heart stuttered. He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “You’ve done so much for me. Saved me. Gave me a home. The last thing you need is me screwing it up by-”
“By what?” you asked, your voice low.
He swallowed, shoulders tense, words trembling on the edge of his lips. “…By wanting more than you ever asked for.”
The room fell quiet, the soft murmur of the TV filling the space he left behind. You could feel the weight of his confession pressing into the air between you, fragile and real. And for the first time, you saw it clearly: the truth that had been weaving through every late-night walk, every shared blanket, every lingering glance. He wasn’t pulling away because he didn’t care. He was pulling away because he cared too much.
The words hung between you, raw and trembling, and for a moment, neither of you moved. Changbin’s shoulders were tight, his gaze locked on the floor as if he regretted letting it slip the second it left his mouth. His fingers dug into his knees, restless, braced for rejection.
You let the silence breathe. Then, slowly, you reached out, your hand brushing his. “Bin,” you said softly. His head snapped up, eyes wide. “You don’t have to pretend around me,” you continued, voice steady though your heart raced. “Not about how you feel. Not about anything. I never wanted you to carry that weight alone.”
His throat worked as he swallowed hard, something unsteady flickering in his expression. “You don’t… hate me for it?”
You shook your head gently, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “No. Not even close.” The tension in his frame eased just slightly, though he still looked uncertain, almost boyish in the way his eyes searched yours. “I can’t promise I have all the answers,” you admitted, thumb brushing lightly against his knuckles. “But I know I want you here. That hasn’t changed.”
For a long moment, he just stared at you, as if trying to decide whether he could believe it. Then his hand turned, palm brushing yours, a tentative pressure that felt more intimate than anything spoken.
-
After that night, something unspoken settled between you. Changbin didn’t retreat anymore. If anything, he seemed to drift closer — not in big, dramatic gestures, but in quiet, careful ways that added up. He lingered in the kitchen when you cooked, chopping vegetables at your side even if you hadn’t asked. He carried your groceries without being told, grumbling about the weight but never once letting you take the heavier bag. He started knocking on your door before bed, just to mumble a soft, “Goodnight,” like the words themselves anchored him.
And touch… touch became different. At first, it was small. His knee brushing yours when you sat on the couch. His hand steadying your elbow when you stepped off a curb. The way his palm would graze your back when he passed behind you, light enough to be excused as accident, deliberate enough that you knew it wasn’t.
Then came the night you fell asleep watching a movie together. You woke to find yourself slumped against his shoulder, blanket tangled around the both of you. For a split second, you started to pull away — but his arm shifted, tightening around you, holding you there without a word. His cheek rested against the top of your head, his breathing slow and steady. You stayed.
After that, it became normal. Sharing a blanket on the couch. Sitting shoulder to shoulder at the table, his notebook open between you as he asked for your opinion on a lyric. Sometimes, when you laughed, he’d lean closer than necessary, his eyes crinkling in a way that made your chest ache. It was never rushed. Never forced. Just two people finding comfort in closeness, like your bodies already knew what your hearts were still catching up to.
One rainy evening, you both ended up in the kitchen, him perched on the counter while you stirred a pot on the stove. He watched you quietly, legs swinging like a boy, until you finally looked up. “What?” you asked, amused.
His lips curved into that small, shy smile you’d grown to love. “Nothing. Just feels good. Being here like this.”
You turned back to the stove, but warmth bloomed in your chest, spreading until you couldn’t stop your own smile.
-
It was past midnight when the front door clicked shut. You stirred from the couch where you’d been dozing, blinking sleep from your eyes. Changbin stood in the doorway, shoulders slumped, hood pulled low. Not the usual late-night energy he carried back from practice sessions — tonight, he looked weighed down, like every step was too heavy. “Binnie?” you asked softly.
He didn’t answer right away, just toed off his shoes and dropped his bag with a thud. His hoodie sagged with rain, damp at the edges. He ran a hand over his face, then finally muttered, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t.” You sat up, patting the cushion beside you. “Come here.” He hesitated, then sank down beside you, elbows braced on his knees. For a long moment, he said nothing, his breath uneven. “What happened?” you asked gently.
His laugh was short, bitter. “Everything. We had a review today — professors, other students, everyone in the room. And I…” He shook his head, fists clenching. “I choked. Couldn’t get the words out right, couldn’t hit the flow the way I practiced. Watched their faces drop like I wasn’t even worth listening to.”
“Changbin—”
“I’m not cut out for this.” His voice cracked, raw. “Maybe the ring’s all I’m good for. Just fighting until I can’t stand anymore. Because this—” He gestured vaguely, swallowing hard. “This feels like I’m reaching for something that’s not mine to have.”
Your heart twisted. Slowly, you reached over, laying your hand over his. He stiffened at first, then let out a shaky breath, his fingers curling under yours. “You’re wrong,” you said softly but firmly. “This is yours. The way you light up when you make music, the way you can lose yourself in it for hours — that’s real, Bin. One bad day doesn’t erase that.”
His shoulders hunched, and for the first time in months, he looked small again. “What if I’m just kidding myself?”
You leaned closer, pressing your voice low. “Then let me believe for you. Until you can again.”
His breath caught, and he finally looked at you. His eyes were glassy, vulnerable in a way he rarely let anyone see. The silence between you stretched, charged, until you could feel the words he wasn’t saying balanced right there on the edge of his lips. Instead, he swallowed them back, whispering, “You always know what to say.”
You squeezed his hand, smiling faintly. “That’s because I know you.”
For a moment, he just stared at you, like he was memorizing your face, like he wanted to speak but couldn’t yet. His thumb brushed against your skin, tender and hesitant.
-
It was a Saturday afternoon when he asked. You were sitting at the kitchen table, sorting through a stack of paperwork, when Changbin walked in. He hovered by the doorway for a moment, his hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair mussed like he’d run his hands through it a dozen times. His lips pressed together before he finally cleared his throat. “Hey,” he said.
You glanced up, smiling. “Hey yourself. You okay?”
Instead of answering, he moved closer, planting his palms against the table as if to anchor himself. His eyes met yours, steady but nervous. “I want to take you out.”
Your brows lifted. “Out?”
“Yeah.” He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Like…properly. Dinner, maybe a walk. Not just grabbing street food after class or splitting leftovers at home. A real date.”
The word hung there, heavily. For a second, your breath caught. You studied him — the tension in his shoulders, the flush creeping up the curve of his ears, the way he was bracing himself for rejection. A smile tugged at your lips. “So, you finally admit it?”
His eyes widened. “Admit what?”
“That you want this to be more than late-night ramen and borrowed hoodies.” You tilted your head playfully. “You’re asking me on a date, Binnie. That’s not nothing.”
Color spread across his cheeks, but he didn’t look away. “Yeah. I am. Because I can’t keep pretending it’s just friendship. Not when every time I look at you, it feels like—” He cut himself off, shaking his head, frustrated. “Feels like everything I’ve been fighting for finally makes sense.”
Your chest tightened. Slowly, you set the papers aside and stood, closing the small distance between you. “Then I’d love to,” you said softly.
For a moment, relief and disbelief warred on his face. Then, slowly, a grin spread, shy and boyish, but so bright it nearly undid you.
That evening, he took you to a little restaurant tucked between side streets. Nothing fancy, but warm, with soft lights and dishes he admitted he’d saved up for. He was quieter than usual at first, fiddling with his chopsticks, until you reached across the table and brushed your hand against his. After that, it felt easy.
Dinner turned into a walk under the city lights, shoulders brushing, laughter spilling between you. And when you stopped by the riverbank, the same one where he’d once told you he had no hope of escaping, he turned to you, eyes reflecting the glow of the water. “This feels different now,” he whispered.
You smiled, heart pounding. “Because it is.” And when his hand found yours, warm and sure, you both knew there was no going back.
The city stretched quiet around you, the hum of traffic fading as you and Changbin lingered by the riverbank. Neon lights shimmered on the dark surface, broken into ripples that seemed to dance with the night breeze.
His hand was still in yours. Solid and warm. Every time his thumb brushed against your skin, your chest ached a little more. He hadn’t let go since dinner. For a while, you stood in silence, the comfort of it almost enough. But then he shifted, his grip tightening ever so slightly. “Can I tell you something?” His voice was low, rougher than usual, like the words were dragging themselves out of him.
You turned, nodding gently. “Of course.”
He exhaled, gaze fixed on the river, jaw working like he was bracing for a fight. “I’ve been trying to find the right time. Or the right way. But I don’t think there is one. Not really.”
“Binnie, there's no rush-”
“I’m in love with you.” The words spilled out, raw and unpolished, but heavy with truth. His shoulders tensed immediately, as though he was already regretting it, already expecting you to pull away. “I know I don’t deserve you,” he rushed on, voice shaking now. “I know my past is a mess and I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for you. But every time I look at you, every time you smile at me, it feels like-like I’m alive again. And I can’t pretend it’s just gratitude anymore. It’s more. It’s everything.”
Your breath caught, heart hammering. He finally looked at you then, eyes dark and terrified but burning with something deeper. You didn’t answer with words. Not at first. Instead, you reached up, cupping his face gently, forcing him to see the truth in your eyes. “I love you too,” you whispered.
For a moment, he froze, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. Then his breath shuddered out of him, relief breaking over his face so raw it nearly brought tears to your eyes. “Yeah?” His voice cracked, disbelieving.
“Yeah,” you said firmly, smiling. “You don’t have to doubt that.”
Before either of you could second-guess it, he leaned in, closing the space between you.
The kiss wasn’t practiced or perfect. It was hesitant, trembling, his lips pressing against yours like he was afraid you might disappear if he held on too tight. But it was also warm and aching for more.
When you finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath uneven. “I don’t want to let go,” he murmured.
“Then don’t,” you whispered back.
And with the river at your side and the city lights shimmering above, you both knew: this was the start of something that had been waiting to bloom all along.
MASTERLISTS | PROMPT LIST | GUIDELINES
PART ONE
Taglist (Please let me know if you want to be added to or removed from the taglist):
The way Binnie was so torn up and worried about messing things up felt real ngl. And her being all caring and supportive? Ugh, my heart. I also really loved how the pacing flowed nothing felt rushed and that kiss wasn’t dramatic or over the top, but it meant everything. And the ending? It was soft, real, and just perfect.
Okay hear me out. After watching the KARMA trailer, I can’t stop thinking about Changbin as an underground boxer. He’s all tough and quiet, throwing punches like he’s trying to outrun something heavy. Maybe he’s doing it for the money, to protect someone, or just because it’s the only thing that makes him feel in control.I was thinking it’d be interesting if someone(reader) outside the ring slowly starts to get through to him,maybe a medic who patches him up after fights, or someone who stumbles into his world and doesn’t back down. They have this push-and-pull dynamic, emotionally conflicted because neither of them is really ready for a relationship, even though the tension is there.Also, I thought it could also be fun to throw in a boxing “rival” who’s into her too and tries to steal her away, just to make things messier.(This is a little extensive but I couldn’t bring myself to actually think about the plot so I hope your amazing brain makes use of this.)
-🎀
Pairing: Boxer! Changbin x Medic!femReader
Word Count: 4399
Summary: By day you’re a doctor, but by night you stitch together the broken bodies of underground fighters in Seoul. That’s where you meet Seo Changbin, a boxer whose fists and silence have made him a legend. Yet under your care he begins to soften, to share pieces of the boy who once dreamed of music. As you patch his wounds and stand against his demons, you two grow closer than either of you thought possible.
Warnings/Tags: Physical violence (boxing/underground fights, beatings), blood and medical procedures (stitches, wounds), forced labor / exploitation / threats / intimidation by a trainer, emotional trauma and references to death (an off-screen friend’s fatal injury), slow af burn (wait for chapter 2😂😭), boxer!changbin, medic!reader, comfort, angst
A/N: Loved working on this. There will be a second chapter next week🖤 I hope you guys enjoy it. Thank you for your request 🎀-anon🖤
Seoul’s nights had their own kind of heartbeat. Somewhere between the flicker of neon signs and the narrow alleyways too dark for law to crawl into, it throbbed. A muffled rhythm of fists meeting flesh, the roar of voices demanding blood and victory, the bills exchanging hands faster than morals could keep up. The underground boxing rings were never advertised, but everyone who needed to know knew. Smoke hung thick in the air, beer spilled sticky onto concrete floors, and the crowd pressed shoulder to shoulder around the crude square made of ropes. Here, rules bent until they broke. No gloves, no rounds, no mercy. Just fists, sweat, and survival. And yet, despite the chaos, one constant had begun to emerge. You.
A doctor by day, threading needles through torn skin under sterile lights, patching up children with fevers or men with bad backs. But once the sun fell, you became someone else. Not quite legal, not quite criminal, a quiet fixture in the boxing world. Fighters found their way to you after matches, bloodied and bruised, limping into the cramped backroom you had claimed as your own. Word had spread quickly: the woman who didn’t ask questions, who stitched wounds cleaner than anyone else, who never judged. You were fast becoming indispensable.
Which was exactly why you were there tonight, leaning against a scarred wooden table cluttered with gauze, disinfectant, and sutures, waiting for the inevitable knock on your door. The crowd outside roared louder, signaling the next fight. You peeked through the small crack of the backroom door, catching sight of him for the first time.
Seo Changbin. Even among the sea of fighters, he stood out. Broad-shouldered, compact, built like a wall that moved with terrifying speed. His reputation preceded him — one of the best in the underground circuit, a man who took down opponents twice his size, fists like hammers, eyes like steel. People bet heavy on him, knowing he rarely disappointed.
The bell clanged, sharp and ugly, and the fight began. You watched, unable to look away. His movements weren’t wild, but precise. Every punch had weight, every step purpose. He absorbed blows to deliver harder ones back, his body swaying with the rhythm of the fight. But even the best bled eventually. A hook slipped past his guard, catching him hard along the cheekbone, splitting skin. Blood welled, fast and hot, painting his face as the crowd howled for more.
It ended not long after. His opponent collapsed in a heap, lungs wheezing, unable to rise. The ringmaster lifted Changbin’s arm in victory, but you could see it: the way he touched his side, subtle but telling, the crimson streak down his jaw.
Minutes later, your door creaked open. He stood there, slightly hunched, the ferocity of the ring replaced with a hesitant silence. Up close, he was different. Not the beast the crowd had screamed for, but a young man. His lashes were long, his jaw sharp even under the swelling bruise, and his lips pressed tight as though he wasn’t used to asking for help.
“Sit,” you said softly, gesturing to the chair. He obeyed without a word, his shoulders tense as though he’d rather be anywhere else. You cleaned the cut on his cheek first, dabbing gently as he flinched. He didn’t speak, didn’t complain, just watched you work with dark eyes that seemed far too serious for someone his age.
“You’re lucky it’s not deeper,” you murmured, threading the needle. “Could’ve used stitches, but you’ll get by without them. Keep it clean.”
Silence. Then, a faint hum of acknowledgment.
Your gaze drifted to his torso, where the fabric of his shirt clung damp with sweat and dark stains of blood. “Lift your shirt,” you instructed.
For a moment, he hesitated. Then, with a reluctant motion, he obeyed. Your breath caught before you could stop it. His body was as powerful as his reputation suggested, muscle carved into muscle, but what struck you more were the bruises blooming across his ribs, already turning a sickly purple. “Does it hurt to breathe?” you asked, pressing lightly. He winced, the first sound he’d made — a low hiss between clenched teeth. “Thought so. Might be a cracked rib. Nothing I can fix here, but I can wrap it to help you move until you decide to see a real doctor.”
His lips twitched, almost a smile, but not quite. “You’re real enough.” His voice was deeper than you expected, but quiet, like he didn’t use it often.
You focused on wrapping his torso, careful with every tug and tie. You were too aware of him — the heat of his skin under your hands, the way he kept still, respectful, almost shy despite his world of violence. When you finally tied the bandage off, you glanced up. He was watching you, eyes unreadable. “All done,” you said gently, forcing a smile to your lips. “You’ll live.”
For the first time, his expression softened. His gaze flickered down, and he whispered, “Thank you.” It was so quiet you almost missed it.
You smiled, the kind that reached your eyes this time, and waved him toward the door. “Go on. They’ll want their champion back.”
He stood slowly, giving you one last glance before stepping into the shadows of the hall. The crowd’s roar swallowed him up again, but the echo of his quiet gratitude stayed behind, humming warm in your chest.
-
It wasn’t the last time you saw him. In the weeks that followed, Changbin came back to your little backroom more than once. Sometimes with blood on his knuckles, sometimes with bruises swelling dark against his ribs, sometimes barely scratched at all. But each time he came, he sat in the same chair, shoulders stiff and words few, letting you patch him up like it was routine.
If anything, the silence between you became its own kind of language. You learned the way his jaw clenched when disinfectant stung, the slight twitch of his fingers when your hands lingered too long over a bruise, the way he dipped his head just enough to murmur a quiet “thanks” before leaving.
It was after his third fight since your first meeting that the silence cracked. You were swabbing a cut above his eyebrow, concentration narrowed to the thin line of blood, when he asked, his voice low: “How’d you end up here?”
You blinked, caught off guard. Usually he said nothing beyond the bare minimum. Meeting his dark eyes, you hesitated — but there was something in them, a quiet pull, that made you answer. “About a year ago,” you began, setting the cotton aside, “I lost a good friend to one of these fights. He collapsed in the ring. They called it exhaustion, but it wasn’t. He bled out internally, and no one here knew how to stop it. No medic, no help. Just people screaming for the next fight while he…” Your throat tightened, but you forced yourself to finish. “I swore that wouldn’t happen again. Not if I could do anything about it.”
His breath hitched, barely audible. For a second, he wasn’t the stoic fighter in front of you but just a man remembering something he wished he could forget. His jaw flexed, his gaze dropping to the floor. You knew then that he remembered. That he had seen it too. “What makes you stay in such a horrible place?” he asked, voice rougher than before.
You tilted your head, studying him. “That’s my question for you. Isn’t this a horrible environment to you as well?”
Pain flickered in his eyes. It wasn’t obvious, but it was there — quick and raw, before he managed to push it down again. He gave a small, bitter huff of a laugh, shaking his head. “It is. It only destroys people.”
You set the needle down and frowned, searching his face. “Then why are you here?”
For the first time since you’d met him, his body stiffened in a different way. His lips parted, but he shook his head firmly, like slamming a door shut. “I shouldn’t talk about that.”
Your brows furrowed. “Are you…kept here against your will?” The question hung heavy in the air. He didn’t move, didn’t speak — just stared at the floor, silent for what felt like forever. The tension twisted in your chest, but you didn’t push. You simply waited.
Finally, his eyes lifted to yours, something unreadable swimming in the dark of them. His voice was quiet, careful. “What are you doing in two days?”
You blinked. “I’m off work. Why?”
He hesitated again, then reached for the scrap of paper you always used for notes on medicine and care. Pulling a pen from your table, he scribbled down an address, his handwriting quick and slanted. When he handed it back, his fingers brushed yours, deliberate or not you couldn’t tell. “Come by. After my training.”
You looked at the paper, then at him. “What for?”
He didn’t answer. Just pushed himself up from the chair, still moving a little stiffly from the blows he’d taken. His gaze lingered on you for a long moment before he finally muttered, “You’ll see.” And then he was gone, leaving only the faint smell of sweat and antiseptic in the room, and the scrap of paper burning warm in your hand.
-
The gym was tucked into a side street, its windows fogged from the warmth inside. You hesitated at the door, the low hum of a speed bag thudding rhythmically against leather guiding you in. Inside, Changbin was in the ring. He moved differently here; not for an audience, not for the roar of gamblers, but for himself. Focused, every punch measured against the silence. Sweat ran down his temple, his muscles taut beneath his shirt as he ducked and swung, breathing rough but steady. You leaned against the wall, watching.
He noticed you the moment he paused to unwrap his hands. A flicker of something passed through his expression — surprise, then something softer, almost relieved. With a brief nod, he disappeared into the locker room, leaving you alone with the smell of chalk and leather. When he came back, hair damp from a quick shower, he lingered by the doorway before walking toward you. His eyes met yours, hesitant but earnest, and then he smiled shyly. “Hey,” he murmured. “Do you…want to grab dinner? There’s a place nearby.”
Your brows lifted. “Oh? So this was a date all along?”
Color rushed up the curve of his ears, creeping to his cheeks. He looked away, muttering, “You wanted answers. That’s what you’ll get.”
You couldn’t help but grin, nodding as you fell into step beside him. Dinner ended up being simple street food — tteokbokki and skewers, hot enough to burn your tongue, eaten straight out of their paper wrappings as you walked toward the Han River.
By the time you found a bench overlooking the dark sweep of water, the city lights glinting off its surface, he’d grown quieter again. He sat beside you, elbows resting on his knees, food container balanced loosely in one hand. “You can ask now,” he said at last, his voice low, almost lost to the breeze.
You turned toward him. “How did you end up in all this?”
For a long while, he said nothing. Then, slowly, he began. “Back when I was a teenager, I had this huge fight with my family. I was stupid, angry…I thought running away would fix things.” His jaw tightened. “I wandered the streets for days. No money, no place to sleep. And then I met him. My trainer.” He paused, staring at the river. “He gave me food, a roof, clothes. Said all I had to do in return was fight for him. Become his champion.” A bitter laugh escaped him. “Didn’t realize back then what that really meant.”
Your chest ached as he went on, each word heavier than the last. “I can’t get out now. Every fight, nearly all the money I make goes straight back to him to cover ‘expenses.’ The apartment, the training, the meals. I can’t leave the house without depending on him for something, which only means more debt I have to fight off. It’s a cycle. And he knows it. That’s why he keeps me close.” His voice broke softer at the edges. He stared down at the ground, food forgotten in his hands. “I gave up hope a long time ago. This is just what my life is.”
You swallowed, heart twisting. “But why don’t you go to the police? They’d see this for what it is.”
He snorted, shaking his head. “And tell them what? That I’ve been boxing illegally for years? That I let myself get tied up in this?” He rubbed his face with one hand, weary. “Doesn’t work that way.”
“You didn’t really have a choice,” you said firmly. “You were a kid. You were forced into this.”
At that, he finally looked at you, his dark eyes catching the shimmer of city lights. A muscle in his jaw flexed as he sighed. “I’m not a kid anymore, am I?” His voice was quiet, resigned. “Doesn’t change the fact that I’m still here.”
The river rolled on in silence, the night air heavy around you. And though you didn’t know how yet, you felt the weight of his words settle in your chest — a promise to yourself that if he had given up hope, you wouldn’t.
-
The days after your night by the river weighed differently. You carried his words with you, the way his voice had sounded when he said he’d given up hope. It haunted you more than you expected.
And yet, he kept coming back. Another fight, another round of bruises. By now, you’d grown used to seeing his shadow darken your backroom doorway, shoulders hunched, expression guarded. Tonight, though, he was worse off than usual. His lip split, his ribs badly bruised, one eye nearly swollen shut. You clicked your tongue softly, motioning him into the chair. “You let him hit you too many times.”
His voice came out dry. “Guess I’m not invincible.”
“You never were,” you countered, tugging on gloves. “You’re human. And that means you’re allowed to break sometimes.”
For a while, there was only the sound of cotton against skin, antiseptic stinging wounds, his occasional hiss of pain. But when you wrapped his ribs, your hands brushing too close to his bare skin, he spoke again, quiet, like he hadn’t meant to. “You asked me why I don’t leave.” His eyes stayed fixed on the wall, jaw tight. “It’s not just the money. It’s him. My trainer. He took me in when no one else would. Sometimes I hate him. But I also,” His throat bobbed. “I don’t know who I am without this.”
You froze for half a second, tape half-wrapped around his torso, before finishing the bandage. “You’re Seo Changbin,” you said firmly. “Not just a fighter. Not just a champion in some ring. You could be anything, if you weren’t shackled to him.”
He gave a humorless laugh, low and sharp. “Anything? Like what? I’ve spent half my life throwing punches. That’s all I know.”
“You know more than you think,” you said, tilting your head at him. “You think you’re trapped, but I see someone who hasn’t even tried to imagine something else. You say you gave up hope, but that doesn’t mean it’s gone.”
His eyes finally met yours, and for a heartbeat, the hardness cracked. He looked young. Tired. Vulnerable in a way he’d never let the crowd, or even his trainer, see. “You make it sound so simple,” he muttered.
“Simple doesn’t mean easy,” you replied softly. “But nothing changes unless you believe it can.” He looked away again, lips pressing together, and you let the silence stretch, knowing he needed it. When you finally stepped back, gloves stripped off, you gave him a small smile. “All done. Try not to let anyone punch you in the face next time.”
A huff of air left him, not quite a laugh, but close. He stood, moving carefully, his hand brushing the bandage at his ribs. “Thank you,” he said again, the same quiet gratitude you’d first heard from him weeks ago. But this time, there was something heavier underneath it. Something like a plea. And as you watched him disappear back into the shadows of the underground, you knew you couldn’t just let him give up on himself.
-
It wasn’t after a fight this time. You were closing up your clinic for the night, slipping your coat on, when a sharp knock rattled the back door. You opened it expecting one of the usual fighters, but instead, Changbin stood there, swaying on his feet. His face was pale, lips pressed thin, and when he stepped inside the light you saw blood soaking through his shirt, fresh and ugly. “Changbin—”
“Not a fight,” he cut in quickly, almost defensive. His voice was rough, strained. “Not the ring.”
That almost made it worse. You pulled him toward the chair, fumbling for gloves and gauze, heart pounding. “What happened?”
He didn’t answer right away, only winced as you pressed into his side, revealing a jagged cut across his ribs. It was messy, not from a fist but something sharper. “Ran into some guys I shouldn’t have,” he muttered finally, eyes fixed on the floor. “They knew who I was. Knew I couldn’t hit back unless I wanted trouble. So I took it.”
Your jaw tightened. “They attacked you because of the ring?” His silence was answer enough. You stitched him up quickly, your hands steady even though your chest burned with frustration. He didn’t flinch much, just sat there like he was used to enduring worse. When you finally finished, you sighed, stepping back. “This can’t keep happening, Changbin. If your trainer’s putting you at risk outside the ring now—”
His eyes lifted, dark and heavy. “You don’t get it. He owns me. If I don’t fight, I don’t eat. If I push back, I don’t have a roof over my head. And if I lose, I don’t know what he’ll do.”
The words hit harder than any bruise. But before you could answer, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed down the hall. The backroom door slammed open, and his trainer filled the frame — broad, grinning, reeking of liquor and smoke. “There you are,” the man barked. His eyes flicked from you to Changbin. “Didn’t tell me you had your little doctor on retainer.” Changbin stiffened, every muscle in his body taut. The trainer stepped closer, voice booming. “He’s good enough to fight again. Wrap him up, get him in the ring tomorrow. Big bets lined up. Don’t let me down, boy.”
Your stomach twisted. “He’s not ready,” you said before you could stop yourself. “If he goes in with ribs like this, he’ll collapse.”
The trainer’s gaze snapped to you, sharp and mocking. “Didn’t ask for your opinion, sweetheart. He fights when I say he fights. That’s the deal.” He clapped a heavy hand onto Changbin’s shoulder, squeezing hard enough to make him wince. “Be ready tomorrow night. Or you’ll regret it.” And then he was gone, leaving the room colder than before.
Changbin sat there, silent, staring at the floor as if it might swallow him whole. His fists were clenched so tight his knuckles turned white. You knelt in front of him, voice steady but low. “You can’t keep letting him do this to you.”
His eyes lifted, and for a second, you saw it — not just pain, but a spark of something else. Anger, desperation, but also fear. “I don’t know how to stop him,” he whispered.
-
You barely slept that night. The trainer’s words replayed over and over, mixing with the image of Changbin sitting there bloodied and silent, too beaten down to even argue. By the time the sun rose, you’d made up your mind: if he wouldn’t fight for himself, then you’d fight for him.
Between your shifts at the hospital, you dug through everything you could find. Laws about illegal rings. Cases of forced labor. Stories of fighters who’d managed to escape. Every thread was thin, tangled in bureaucracy, but the more you read, the clearer it became — what his trainer was doing wasn’t just cruel. It was criminal.
Still, theory and practice were two very different things. And you knew Changbin. He wouldn’t just walk into a police station. Not while the weight of his past and the fear of consequences kept him chained. So when he showed up after another grueling night, bruised, but alive, you decided to try something different. You stitched him in silence at first, his face turned away, jaw locked tight. When you finished, you didn’t step back. Instead, you leaned against the table, arms crossed, watching him. “You don’t have to keep living like this,” you said quietly.
His eyes flicked to yours, wary. “You think I haven’t tried to imagine something else?”
“Have you?” you pressed. “Really? Because every time I ask, you shut down. You don’t tell me what you want. You just accept what he gives you. A roof over your head, food, and chains.”
His fists clenched in his lap. “What choice do I have?”
“You could leave.” The words came out firm, sharper than you expected. “Walk away. You were forced into this as a kid, Changbin. That doesn’t mean you have to die here.”
He laughed short and bitter, almost broken. “Walk away? And go where? With what money? What skills? What if he finds me?”
You softened your voice, leaning closer. “Then we figure it out. Together. I’m not saying it’s easy. I’m saying it’s possible. And you deserve more than this.”
For the first time, his mask cracked. His eyes shone, not just with pain, but with a longing he seemed terrified to admit. He looked down, swallowing hard, voice low. “I used to think I’d be somebody when I was younger. Before all this. Music, maybe. Writing. I didn’t care as long as it was mine.” He shook his head, bitterness returning. “But that was another life. He’s taken too much for me to go back.”
“Then don’t go back,” you whispered. “Go forward. Start new. Even if it’s small. Even if it’s hard.”
The silence stretched, heavy between you. Finally, he exhaled, a sound halfway between defeat and release. “You make it sound like freedom’s just sitting out there, waiting for me.”
“Maybe it is,” you said, holding his gaze. “But you won’t know until you try.”
He stared at you for a long time, his expression shifting. Then, almost too quiet to hear, he admitted: “I don’t think I can do it alone.”
Your heart clenched, but you didn’t look away. “Good thing you’re not.”
-
It was late, the air heavy with the damp chill of approaching winter. Changbin sat quietly on the chair in your backroom, ribs wrapped, knuckles raw from another fight. You’d grown used to the silence between you two, the way he spoke only when it mattered. This time, you broke it. “How much do you owe him?” you asked softly, wiping your hands on a towel.
His head lifted slightly, eyes narrowing like you’d just cracked open a door he kept locked tight. After a pause, he muttered the number. It was higher than you expected, enough to crush someone twice over. You only nodded, keeping your expression gentle. “Alright.”
His brow furrowed. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.” You gave him a faint smile. “I just wanted to know.”
But after that, he grew quieter around you. Hesitant. It was as if telling you the number had pressed too close to the heart of his cage, and he retreated back into himself. A distance grew, and though he still came after fights, he barely met your eyes. You didn’t push.
Not until a month later. When he showed up again, slumped in the doorway after another brutal match, you guided him inside as usual. But instead of reaching for your medical bag, you pulled an envelope from the drawer and pressed it into his hand.
He blinked down at it, confused, then slid a thumb beneath the flap. The sight of the bills inside made his jaw fall slack. “…What is this?”
“It’s yours,” you said simply. “No strings attached.”
He stared at you like you’d just handed him the moon. “I can’t take this.”
“You can,” you insisted, voice steady. “This is my good deed. For not being able to save my friend, I’ll save you instead.”
His throat worked, words caught there. Then his gaze flicked past you and froze. His trainer was outside, waiting in the hallway, eyes narrowing as he spotted the envelope in Changbin’s hands. Before you could react, Changbin was on his feet, striding out the door. He shoved the envelope at the older man, voice firm though it shook faintly. “Take it. I’m done. I quit.”
For a heartbeat, silence. The trainer looked down at the money, then back up at you, realization dawning like fire. His face twisted, fury boiling over as he rushed toward you, spitting venom. “You think you can buy him out from under me? You think you can take my champion? You’ll regret this!”
You stumbled back, heart hammering, but before he could reach you, Changbin stepped in front, arm braced out like a shield. His glare was cold, his body blocking the man’s path. “She’s not your problem,” he growled. “I said I’m done.”
The trainer’s curses echoed down the hall, but Changbin didn’t move until the man stormed off, swearing under his breath. Only then did he turn to you, shoulders tight, eyes wide with something raw.
That night, you took him home. Your apartment was small, cluttered with books and blankets, but as he stood awkwardly in your doorway, you saw the way his frame sagged, exhaustion finally winning. He wasn’t a fighter here. He was just Changbin — tired, hurt, and free for the first time in years. “Stay as long as you need,” you said quietly, ushering him in.
For the first time since you’d met him, he smiled without hesitation. “Thank you,” he whispered.
And when you closed the door behind him, you knew this was only the beginning...
PART TWO (coming soon)
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I loved the tension and the push-and-pull between them. Honestly, it’s both heartbreaking and sweet like the way everything feels so awful and sad, yet the reader steps in and becomes his light.I can’t wait for the next part🤍
A/N: I’m so sorry for being MIA lately! Life has been absolutely chaotic, and so much has happened over the past couple of months. The infamous AO3 writer’s curse and block hit me like a freight train. But don’t worry,I’m slowly getting back into writing!
SFW
•He tries to ease the tension by overcompensating — always offering to carry the groceries, opening doors, asking if you need anything. But sometimes he slips, his hand hovering on the small of your back a second too long before pulling away, his ears turning red when he realizes.
•He lingers outside your bedroom door some nights, fist halfway raised like he wants to knock — but never does. Instead, you’ll find little signs the next morning: an extra blanket folded at the foot of your bed, tea left in the kitchen with your favorite honey stirred in.
•When you argue, his Australian accent thickens, his voice low but firm: “I’m not just some roommate, you know. You’re my wife.” He regrets saying it so bluntly, but you can see the raw need in his eyes.
•He plays with his wedding ring when he’s nervous, spinning it around his finger while sneaking glances at you. You catch him doing it most when you’re laughing — like he’s thinking, this doesn’t feel fake anymore.
NSFW
• The first time, it starts rough. He kisses you like he’s trying to prove something, one hand gripping your jaw, the other holding the back of your neck. He only pulls back when you’re breathless, murmuring against your lips: “Say you want this… say you want me.”
• He loves pulling you onto his lap when he works in the studio , at first under the excuse of “just sit here with me.” But soon his hands are sliding under your shirt, his lips pressing hot trails up your throat, his laptop forgotten as he grinds you down against him.
• He’s vocal — growls, curses, groans. When he takes you from behind, he leans forward to growl into your ear, biting the curve of your shoulder as his hips snap harder: “Fuck, you’re mine… my wife, mine.”
• Afterwards, he turns soft ,peppering kisses over your back, rubbing circles on your hips, tucking you against his chest while whispering how long he’s been holding himself back.
Minho stands still as the cameras are finally turned off and shivers heavily at the wind blowing strongly. He can't move, not on his own and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment to try and calm down. A gentle hand finds his back and Felix's soothing voice rings in his ears. “Minho hyung?”
Minho can only hum in response, his hands curling up to fists at his sides, nails digging deep into his skin.
“We can leave now,” Jisung tells him gently. “We're done.”
“O-Okay,” Minho stammers and nods quickly, barely daring to open his eyes. He whimpers as he does, seeing nothing but the gray sky in front of him. Fuck, they're up high. Just for this stupid video. He can hear Chan arguing more or less politely with their video coordinator not that far away and gulps softly. None of them liked shooting up here, during the rain and in the cold. But it is him who's freaking out because of the height.
Hyunjin steps in front of him and flashes him an encouraging smile. “You did well, hyung.”
“Thank you,” he whispers and focuses on his friend instead of the view behind him.
“Let's get you back down,” Seungmin says gently and offers him his hand to hold onto. He more less softly drags Minho toward the elevator with Changbin’s help and pushes the button.
“Where's Chan?” Minho asks, barely audible.
“He said he'll join us in a bit,” Changbin tells him and watches with worry how his friend's face darkens with fear.
Jeongin glances at him suspiciously. “You want me to get him?” he asks.
“Yeah, go get him,” Jisung answers for Minho. They all know it's Chan he allows himself to show his true emotions around.
Minho takes a few shuddery controlled breaths and tries to stop himself from slipping into a panic attack. The elevator dings and the doors open, his friends step inside with him. Minho turns around panicked as Chan still isn't there and feels his breathing picking up. The view of the rooftop and cloudy sky is too much and he sinks down onto the floor with a tiny whimper. He curls up in the corner of the elevator, hot tears falling down his face and his body shakes heavily.
Felix gets down on his knees in front of him and gently takes his hand. “Minho hyung, it's okay,” he says soothingly.
Jisung’s chest tightens at the sight of Minho panicking and Seungmin quickly wraps him into a hug, making sure he's okay. The elevator starts its way down and Minho sucks in a sharp breath.
Hyunjin joins Felix on the floor and soothingly rubs Minho's back. “Deep breaths, hyung, we're almost back down, okay?”
Minho can keep it together more or less and lets Changbin help him up and out of the elevator as he's too shaky and dizzy to do so on his own.
He stumbles to the closest bathroom and throws the door close behind himself. He hugs himself with a soft whimper and bends over, squeezing his eyes shut. His heart is racing, his palms are sweaty and his hands are shaking. Hot tears pool in his eyes and make their way down his cheeks. He can't breathe anymore and feels dizzy, starting to see stars. The door opens a few minutes later but Minho has no idea who it is.
“Min, baby, I'm so sorry,” Chan's soft voice grabs his attention. Minho's knees give out and he sinks onto the floor with a sob. Chan's heart breaks at the sight as he rushes over and anger boils in his chest. He told them it would be dangerous. He told them it would be difficult for Minho. Chan gets onto his knees as well and his hands find Minho's, squeezing them. “Hey, Min,” he says softly. “It's okay, it's over now.” Minho whimpers his name in response and Chan pulls him into his lap. He wraps his arms around him and rocks him gently as he fondles his hair and back. “Deep breaths, Minnie, it's okay. You did so well.”
“I'm sorry,” he chokes on his words and Chan's grip around him tightens.
“Don't be, it's alright,” he assures him and kisses his cheek. “I got you, baby. I'm so proud of you for pulling this through.” Minho buries himself deeper in his boyfriend's chest and tries to remind himself he's safe now. Chan notices him growing more calm in his arms with every passing second. “You did good, baby,” he tells him and Minho squeezes him softly.
A few minutes later the door opens and the others join them on the floor for a group hug. Minho giggles and exhales softly, knowing his boyfriend and these kids would always have his back.
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camboy!jeongin who flashes that gummy smile at the camera but lets his eyes darken when he says,“Did you really think I was this innocent? You’re so wrong.”
camboy!jeongin who wears oversized sweaters with nothing underneath and teases the chat by sliding his hands slowly down his body—then stops just before he gets to the good part.“Patience, baby.I‘m in control.”
camboy!jeongin who loves to mock his viewers for being too needy:“You’re already whining? I haven’t even started. Poor baby.”
camboy!jeongin who alternates between soft whispers and sharp commands, making the chat beg for more and fear getting punished.“Touch yourself? Only when I say. You’re not allowed to be messy without permission.”
camboy!jeongin who laughs when a viewer breaks the rules,“Didn’t I tell you no cumming without permission? You’re going to regret that.”
camboy!jeongin who loves the power play—he’ll give you just enough to keep you on the edge, then pull away and say,“Not yet. You have to wait for sir‘s approval.”
camboy!jeongin who finishes with soft, breathy moans, voice trembling as he whispers,“Good job, baby. You made me proud tonight.”
camboy!jeongin who ends streams by blowing a kiss and saying,“Clean yourself up, and don’t forget who owns you.”
Part 1 > Part 2 > Part 3 > Part 4 > Part 5 > Part 6
>Finale
A/N: I honestly wasn’t sure how to wrap up this series, so I decided to go with this ending since I wanted everyone to have a happy one. Also, I’m sorry for the late update. My WiFi was down for most of the day and kept disconnecting. Thank you so much to everyone who read and kept up with this series. I’m really grateful for all of you🤍!
2 Kids Room: “How It All Started” – Special 9 Members Episode
Filmed: Someday in the Future
Runtime: 2:01:43
Location: Stray Kids‘ home , Kitchen & Living Area
Opening Shot:
The camera floats slowly through the kitchen. A few plates with dried sauce sit in the sink. A notebook lies open on the counter, doodles and lyrics scribbled across the pages. The fridge door is plastered with random sticky notes: reminders, half-finished schedules, and one that reads, “THE JELLY BELONGS TO CHAN!.” A stray pair of headphones dangles over the edge of the table. Through the sliding glass door, the city lights twinkle in the distance.
Voiceover [Han]:
“So… yeah. This is probably not how anyone expected our story to be documented. It’s messy. Loud. Chaotic. And honestly… maybe a little heartbreaking. But it’s ours.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The camera clicks on. The room is dimly lit, the same small house they’d once shared, but everyone looks older now. There’s a weight in the air—not tense, but reflective. Chan sits cross-legged on the floor, Y/N leaning against him, her head resting on his shoulder. Minho leans back against the wall, Hyunjin sprawls on the couch, Felix fiddles with a pen, Han watches the ceiling, Changbin and Seungmin sit quietly in the corner, and Jeongin rests against the desk.
Chan exhales slowly. “I keep thinking about how we all felt that night. How every single one of us… unraveled in our own way. It wasn’t just Y/N.”
Y/N murmurs, barely audible, “I felt like I was dragging everyone down with me…”
Minho shakes his head, voice low and firm. “You weren’t. None of us were okay, and none of us blamed you. DV1 didn’t care back then, but we did. That’s what mattered.”
Hyunjin drums his fingers lightly on the floor. “People online turned it into a circus. Every theory, every screenshot, every stupid debate… it wasn’t just invasive, it was poisonous. And the poly thing? Ridiculous. They made it a scandal because they couldn’t understand normal… love.”
Felix leans back, spinning his pen. “The stage… every smile, every nod, every small brush of skin had to be calculated. And Y/N… you still almost broke in front of thousands. That panic in your eyes… I still see it.”
Han’s voice is quiet, almost breaking. “Hearing her whisper ‘I can’t do this’… no one could truly understand what that meant for us too. Every glance, every small reassurance… it was survival. Pure survival.”
Changbin’s jaw tightens, hands balled into fists. “DV1 treating us like robots, enforcing distance, schedules, rules… while she’s terrified of losing us. And we’re terrified too. Terrified for her, for all of us, for the love we didn’t even get to show.”
Seungmin’s calm tone carries weight. “We were spiraling, each in our own way. Hyunjin quiet, Felix unsure, Minho stiff, Chan pacing, Han forcing smiles, Jeongin… just lost. We were holding each other together, but we were falling apart inside.”
Jeongin’s soft voice finally cuts through the quiet. “People debating if we were all dating, if it was wrong… it never mattered. What mattered was surviving together. Keeping Y/N safe. Keeping each other safe. That’s all that counted.”
Y/N buries her face into Chan’s shoulder. “I was so scared… of losing all of you… and of losing myself in the chaos.”
Chan presses a kiss to the top of her head. “You didn’t. We didn’t. That night, that madness, the panic, the hate… we survived it. Together. Even when the world tried to break us, we held on.”
Minho shifts slightly, eyes soft. “People will always try to label things, put limits, judge love. But we… we just existed. And it was enough. Still is.”
Hyunjin chuckles softly. “Messy, chaotic, impossible for anyone else to understand. But here we are. Still together. Still us.”
Felix smirks. “And if anyone asks about the poly thing… it’s love. Pure and simple. Always was.”
Chan glances at Y/N, eyes heavy with memory. “That night taught us something. Love isn’t meant to be hidden. Sometimes we have to survive first. And surviving it together… that’s what makes us unbreakable.”
Felix breaks the silence, teasing quietly. “Remember how… the poly thing just kind of… happened?”
Y/N shifts, smiling faintly. “It felt natural. It wasn’t forced—it just grew. We’ve always been around each other, and suddenly… it made sense to care for all of you… more than friends.”
Hyunjin leans forward, tracing a doodle. “Yeah. Spending all day together, sharing jokes, teasing, supporting… it just happened.”
Chan nods slowly. “No one said, ‘Let’s date each other.’ We just… trusted each other. That trust became love.”
Minho drums his fingers on his knees. “Being around only each other—besides staff—made it inevitable. The closeness, the care, the little gestures. It became real.”
Han smirks softly. “Even when DV1 tried to control everything, the moments we could share… we clung to them.”
Changbin leans back, voice low. “We
weren’t thinking about labels or anyone else. We were surviving together. Protecting each other. Loving each other.”
Seungmin nods. “Even under pressure, even with the public watching, we had each other. And that’s what made it real.”
Jeongin chuckles softly. “I didn’t realize how natural it felt to love all of you at once. Now? I can’t imagine it any other way.”
Y/N leans closer to Chan, whispering, “It was scary… thinking about what people would say if they knew. But with all of you… I feel safe. I feel like I can love fully.”
Chan brushes her hair from her face. “We’ve always been each other’s home. Rules, cameras, hate—they don’t matter here. Here, we can just exist. That’s enough.”
Minho smirks. “Poly, labels, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that we love each other. Surviving together… that’s what makes it real.”
Hyunjin laughs softly. “Messy, loud, chaotic… confusing for anyone looking in. But to us? Perfect.”
Felix grins, rolling onto his side. “Sure, sometimes ridiculous, sometimes messy, but it’s ours. I wouldn’t trade a second.”
Chan glances at Y/N. “Love isn’t always tidy. But surviving it together, supporting each other… that’s what makes us unbreakable. That’s family.”
Minho leans back, smirking. “You know what’s still hilarious? That Minsung thing. DV1 told Han and me to just play along, and we were the most obvious ones, even though… well, all of us were dating.”
Han chuckles. “They thought ignoring everyone else would hide everything. Meanwhile, me and Minho were waving red flags for anyone paying attention.”
Y/N leans against Chan. “I remember the first time fans noticed little gestures. Terrifying, but also… reassuring in a weird way. They couldn’t see the whole picture, but they cared enough.”
Felix grins, scribbling in his sketchbook. “Online chaos was wild. Tweets, threads, jokes… some hilarious, some insane.”
Hyunjin nods. “Comments, hate, theories… DV1 panicked, we panicked. But we kept looking out for each other. That’s what mattered.”
Changbin shakes his head. “It wasn’t just about Minsung or whoever STAY were shipping. It was all of us, surviving together. Some dumb stuff online didn’t even scratch the surface of what we felt.”
Seungmin agrees. “People saw gestures and suspicious behavior, but they didn’t know what it meant. It wasn’t scandalous. It was love, trust, protection.”
Jeongin smiles. “Everything was and is pure adoration . people may have wanted us quiet, but we communicated… cared.”
Chan squeezes Y/N’s hand. “We survived the rumors, panic, hate, rules. Together. Every single one of us. Poly, complicated, messy, loud… together.”
Y/N smiles, teary-eyed. “If the world saw us like this… loving each other… I don’t care. I have all of you.”
Seungmin smirks. “DV1 freaked out, the public theorized, but here we are. Still messy. Still together. And yeah, Han and I were the most obvious, but it didn’t matter.”
Han nudges him. “Obvious, maybe. But loving? Definitely.”
Felix scribbles a heart. “Anyone wanting scandal… good luck. They’ll never understand the chaos, the trust, the love.”
Chan teases Y/N gently, “You’re stealing all the warmth.”
Y/N pushes back, snorting, “Good. You get it all. Don’t pretend otherwise.” Changbin grins as he adjusts her leg on his lap, “Hey! Save some for me too!”
Hyunjin smirks at Felix, “Don’t draw anything too scandalous this time.”
Felix leans closer, “Scandalous? Only if you ask nicely.”
Hyunjin rolls his eyes. “Okay, Mr. Tease. Let’s see how brave you feel later.”
Han leans against Minho. “Holding hands, teasing, sprawled like chaos incarnate. The old DV1 would lose it.”
Minho laughs, squeezing Han’s hand. “Meltdown incoming. Honestly, I‘d kinda want to see it.”
Changbin whispers to Seungmin, “Think we’re subtle enough?”
Seungmin snorts. “With us? Never. And who cares? We’re public figures.Chaos is our middle name.”
Y/N rests her hand on Chan’s chest. “I don’t care who sees. Being tangled with all of you… teasing, holding… perfect.”
Chan kisses the top of her head. “Messy, chaotic, ours. Anyone trying to stop it… deal with all nine of us.”
The camera lingers: Y/N leaning into Chan and Jeongin, Minho and Han holding hands, Felix and Hyunjin teasing, Changbin and Seungmin whispering. A tangle of bodies, hands, pens, laughter. Love—messy, complicated, alive, thriving, unashamed, and public.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
[Postscript | SKZ Two Kids Room – Special Episode]
“Some stories aren’t in words. They’re in the moments you survive, the hands you hold, the chaos you share, and the quiet knowing that here—right here—you are home.”
The screen fades to golden, behind-the-scenes footage: eight boys and one girl sprawled across the messy dorm floor and couch, a tangle of limbs, sketchbooks, pens, and scattered snacks around them. Some whisper jokes, some doodle absentmindedly, and some just lean against each other in quiet comfort. Laughter mixes with sighs, unpolished and honest.
Voiceover [Jeongin]:
“You don’t always need words to explain family.You don’t always need labels to know love.Sometimes, it’s just the warmth of someone next to you that tells you everything.”
The camera lingers on subtle gestures: Y/N nudging Seungmin, Felix flicking Hyunjin’s hair playfully, Minho and Han’s hands brushing together, Jeongin snuggling closer to Y/N, Changbin and Chan quietly observing, content. No staged smiles. No cameras. Just them.
Nerd bf!Lee Know pretends he’s totally composed, but you can tell he’s been thinking about it for weeks because he cleans his entire apartment before inviting you over. “What? No, it’s not for you— I just felt like cleaning. Stop looking at me like that.”
Nerd bf!Lee Know kisses you like he’s testing you at first — slow, intentional, eyes half-lidded. Then, when you kiss back harder, he smirks against your lips and mutters, “Knew you’d taste good.”
Nerd bf!Lee Know tries to play it cool when his hands slide under your shirt, but you catch the way his ears go pink. “Shut up, don’t look at me like that— you started it.” He’s still blushing as he slides your clothes off with surprising patience.
Nerd bf!Lee Know touches you like he’s studied exactly how to make you squirm, one hand cupping you through your underwear before whispering, “You’re already wet? Just from kissing? God, you’re cute.”
Nerd bf!Lee Know has zero hesitation about eating you out. He lays you down and mumbles, “I want to taste you—don’t overthink it.” Then he’s between your thighs, slow and deliberate, licking like he has nowhere else to be, humming low when your hips jerk. He only pulls away to smirk and whisper, “Sensitive, huh? Pretty.”
Nerd bf!Lee Know keeps teasing, pulling away when you’re almost there. “Relax, Jagi , I’m not done with you yet.” He grips your thighs tighter and goes harder, tongue circling until you’re gasping his name.
Nerd bf!Lee Know when he finally pushes in, does it slow, hand cupping your jaw so you look at him. “Breathe… good girl. Tell me if you need me to stop.” He stays buried for a second, forehead pressed to yours, whispering, “You feel unreal.”
Nerd bf!Lee Know moves deep and slow, one hand gripping your hip and the other holding your hand, his quiet groans slipping out with every thrust. He kisses your neck and whispers, “You’re perfect like this… look at me, yeah? That’s it.”
Nerd bf!Lee Know speeds up only when you beg, lips twitching into a smirk as he whispers, “You like it like this? Want me to go harder? Say it.” When you do, he really gives it to you, hips snapping as his breath stutters.
Nerd bf!Lee Know comes with a low groan in your ear, holding you tight like he’s scared you’ll vanish, whispering your name like a secret.
Nerd bf!Lee Know doesn’t even let you leave the bed after—he grabs water, wipes you down, and pulls you into his chest, kissing your hair softly. “You okay? You’re dangerous, you know that?” Then, in true Minho fashion, he adds, “Also, you look ridiculous in my shirt, but… kinda hot, so it’s fine.”
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