[binhourly]

﹅ WELCOME. MEANIE - 20+ ! - SHE’HER

this isn't considerably different to what i've done before, just another section on the internet i'm cornering to help easily distribute my works. there's a definite chance I'll be somewhat quiet here (aside from posting), writing fan fiction majority of the time is a good stress reliever for me and a fantastic practice tool. please don't let that stop you from communicating.

INFORMATION | MASTERLIST

[binhourly]

﹅ STRAY - KIDS

→ cautionary words! as an adult with the knowledge that impressionable pre-teens have full access to just about anything, i'd like to prematurely state that everything written is fictional, an overdramatised characterisation made by me. it's purely for entertainment purposes & not to have the lines blurred. reader discretion is advised.

safe for work ☆ | suggestive or nsfw ★

© binhourly. all rights are reserved. copying, translation, or claiming of my writing or works as your own is prohibited.

# LEE KNOW

⟶ SANCTUARY — 4.1k ★

A princess bound between an indefinite pull of duty and forbidden love

[ 230425 ]

# HAN JISUNG

⟶ DO NO HARM — 18k (still ongoing) ☆

As the neighbourhood vigilante, Jisung believes he has the most effective decision-making skill. It's his personal oath. To make the absolute best choice to ensure peace on both sides without doing any harm.

[binhourly]

MEANIE — 25. SHE’HER. MIDDLE EASTERN. ☼ PISCES ☾ AQUARIUS ↑ AQUARIUS

𓇼 GROUPS . . . stray kids ( binnie & jeongin ) / bts ( taehyung ) / seventeen ( dokyeom ) / monsta x ( jooheon & kihyun )

𓇼 LIKES . . . korean dramas ( i deeply obsess over a lot of korean media and could potentially open up the possibilities of writing for them ) / embarrassingly a film frantic alongside music and reading, i’m the type of person who curates their personality so everything is sadly personal womp womp / anime / graphic design / a beginner in knitting, currently working on a sophie hood

SOCIALS — SPOTIFY. LETTERBOXD. KO-FI.

[binhourly]

something so enamouring with changbin looking like he can lift a tractor but can’t drill a nail, like yes baby those muscles are for love and hugs

[binhourly]

Do No Harm 🕷 Han Jisung (PT.1)

( continue to part ii )

Summary: As the neighbourhood vigilante, Jisung believes he has the most effective decision-making skill. It's his personal oath. To make the absolute best choice to ensure peace on both sides without doing any harm.

Pairing—Spider-Man!Han Jisung x Fem!Reader Tags—Super-hero Universe. Marvel Verse, Avengers Are Off Duty. Saviour Complex. Angst. Childhood Friends to Eventual Lovers. Failed Try At Slow-Burn. Heroic Dilemma. Typical Spider-Man Identity Reveal. Trigger Warning—Major Character Death. Mentions of School Bullying. Physical Abuse (Bullying/Violence). Cruelty & Violence. Offensive Language. Sexual Humor/Innuendo. Description of Grief & Late Stages of Mourning. Kidnapping. Blood. Description of Destruction. Hostage Situation. Heights. High Stakes. PTSD. Display of Panic Attack. Self-Destructive Thoughts/Thrill-Seeking. Parental Neglect / Family Conflict. Stalking (Humorous). Word Count—Part one ( 11,080 )

⠀⠀⠀⠀THE GYMNASIUM looks terrifying during the dead hours of the night.

Mid-Town High was supposed to be all about the wonders of STEM—the world of robotic clubs, animal dissections, and that one sensitive kid who always smuggles a frog out of biology class just in time. But somewhere along the way, the school’s soul was sold to the epic highs and devastating lows of high school basketball. Now, they've invested all their money building a gym big enough to host a mid-sized rock concert. 

And when it’s completely empty, it’s even worse.

The whole place thrums with an echo of a cheer, as if the air sits waiting for a buzzer-beater. The lined benches that swirl against the walls, which generally overflow with loving parents, now just carry the shadows of their smiles and encouragement. The court, still worn from their previous game, has the players' shoe marks printed across the floor, all messy with the evening's desperation, the air still streaked with sweat.

The salty smell trips and spills everywhere, running across and sullying the boy who lies with his limbs spread out in the middle of the court, a basketball wedged between his legs, and his school shirt carrying the afternoon's so-called “adventure”.

Calling it an adventure makes it less than what it really is. The reality? Rough fists colliding with cheeks. It's football kicks landing touchdowns on the shell of his ribs. It's stolen chemistry notes and nosebleeds, everything uglier than an adventure, but Jisung's big heart—one that selfishly takes up half of his small frame—makes him think otherwise.

So, Jisung tries his best to forget about the pain pulsating from his left eye and his bloody, crushed lips, and instead focuses all his attention on the static buzzes coming from his phone.

He’s listening in on police reports and the occasional marriageable bickering that an officer is still hung up on from the previous nights. It has taken him exactly one red-bull can and an uneventful Friday to hack into the system and reroute it to his phone. It’s illegal, sure—which he’s generally against, he might add—but he’s willing to let this one slide for heroic purposes.

Jisung’s mind drifts to those nights spent mounted on the highest storey buildings, just waiting for crime to bleed into the city. Back then, he didn’t have a cheap little electronic device to rely on, which could tell him precise coordinates; no, he had to put up with watching the city on a ledge below his feet, where the blinking cars replaced the stars, swinging whenever he heard sirens. The doe boy handled it well at first, but along with his charitable personality, he is in all forms cocky. Jisung likes to get to the felons first, play around with them a little before the cops pull up minutes too late, left with the boy's childish scraps.

He is an ass of a superhero—but it should be expected from a dude in red and blue latex.

Jisung's heightened senses alert him about the pair of shoes padding in his direction. He knows its you before you hook your fingers around the wire of his earphones, tugging them from his ears, and his annoyed eyes are finally met with an even more sour expression.

Your hair drapes like curtains as you stare down at him, taking into account the discolouration on his cheeks and on the junction between his shoulders and his delicate collarbone.

"Idiot," you mutter. He was more than just an idiot, and you have every intention of reminding him of that. But your eyes don’t quite harden all the way, because you’re too busy worrying if the bruises hurt. “This is what? The fourth time this week, Jee?”

It's only the second. Jisung doesn't feel the need to explain the massive one welting just under his pelvis. He isn’t sure how you’d react to the idea of him getting caught in the crossfire of an afternoon superhero brawl involving Iron Man—who wasn’t in the mood to play nice—and an awkward dodge that ended with him catching the rough edge of Captain America’s vibranium shield. (He’s still waiting patiently for the apology). 

"We're really bonding." The hero humours you, leaning back with his eyes closed, wearing his smile like a trophy—the kind purposefully plucked out from the highest shelf in his internal bedroom, where the rest of his expression sit, all defaced and untrue. 

Jisung could sum up only one down-side of becoming Spider-Man: the debilitating feeling of being alone.

Well, that wasn't true. Jisung has been riding solo even before everything, (with the exception of you, but you're too clingy to accept being shaken off) but now the decision feels necessary.

Prior to the web-slinging and mutated strength, he was a freshman trying to navigate the middle stages of boyhood with its own share of problematic rules and taboos. Jisung was already growing into an avoidant child, but anyone who kept a close eye on the Han family knew it was bound to happen. With two absent parents and a dead uncle, everyone in that godforsaken neighbourhood pre-planned his future, it was all the matter of waiting for that siren to blare.

The young boy knew he needed to live quietly to make his aunt's life easier. He tried all sorts of things to combat the need for any help from family and friends. God, if Jisung had known that having a eight-legged obsession could bring him to purchase a radioactive spider on eBay, he would have taken up butterfly collecting… though the rates of Lepidopteran experts turned psychopath were too common, so maybe the spider-to-superhero pipeline wasn't too bad.

But that isn't the point. Ever since he was bitten (right on his cheek, might he add), Jisung has felt himself sinking further into his body each year from then on, the new secret too big of a responsibility to allow him to seek support.

At times, he tries to void the isolating feeling by catching the thrill, swinging between the tall buildings and rounding up the low-life scums. But Han Jisung hasn't turned 18 yet, and walking into school each morning is literal hell.

Besides, Jisung thinks the attention he would gain if he ditched the tech-savvy ski mask would be suffocating. With government interference and amateur goons easily targeting his every move, he couldn't do it.

Not to his aunt. Not to you.

As a result, he will be alone, dealing with the secret spinning him in a tight web, pulling him further away from everything normal until the suit gets stored away.

Trouble is, Jisung falls asleep with it on very often.

“Bonding, my ass.” You make a noise in the back of your throat—half a scoff, half exasperation.

The superhero feels incoming pain. He barely has time to evade before your hand twists his nipples with an almost comical precision. Jisung yelps, flinging himself upright and cupping the two swells around his chest like you’ve walked in on him mid-changing.

“Did you—did you seriously just twist my nipples?” he stammers, eyes blown wide with a hint of red creeping into his cheeks.

“Why are they so perky?” you shoot back, brows pinched together like your question outweighed the validity of his.

Jisung’s trying to rub away the burn. “Maybe because there’s a... cold draft in here. Or, because you know—with elevated stress levels it—it probably inflated them...” he mutters unconfidently, finding it hard not to play into the awkwardness slicing between the two of you.

Not satisfied yet, you move to the underside of Jisung's knees with pincher fingers, watching him quickly jerk his legs over, the basketball still wedged skilfully between his ankles.

"That's a flawless logic to have, be so concerned about me that you decide to beat me up.” he argues, trying to scuttle backward but only managing to awkwardly spin in a circle on the gym floor.

Jisung pauses, catching his breath as he observes the flicker of frustration rising in your eyes. He knows what you’re doing is pointless—caring. No matter how hard you push, he’ll never let you in.

Jisung’s has always been the kind of guy who could walk past a mirror and never see his own reflection in it, but can recall from memory every scar on your body since the 2nd grade. He’s made it his job to know them, to discipline you about taking care of yourself, like it might somehow make up for all the missing pieces of their friendship.

“So gentle. So caring.” Jisung tries to lighten up the mood, grinning softly when he sees it work as you playfully lift your hand, pretending to wind up for a swing, but instead, you lightly brush your knuckles against his arm.

"How have you been hiding this from your aunt, anyway?” You ask, nodding at his bruises.

“Uh... she thinks I'm at your place playing Counter-Strike.”

You blink, followed by a short scoff. “Even when you break the rules, you still make it remotely geeky."

The superhero shoves his hand in the crown of his head, ruffling it frivolously to dry out the sweat clumping his locks together, before sweeping it away from his eyes, leaving his forehead and the open gash above his eyebrow exposed. “Gaming is a profitable industry. Do you even know how much people pay for skins? Give it a month, and I’ll be rolling in so much cash, you’re gonna wish you were nicer to me.”

Without looking, he flicks the remaining droplets from his fingers in your direction like some kind of toddler.

You wrinkle your nose, leaning away. “Right, but present you is still geeky."

“At least my hobby isn't obsessing over a dude in skin tights,” he fires back, switching to lie onto his side, hunching over to retrieve the ball before comfortably resting it under his head like a pillow, stretching out with that lazy, confident ease that’s always made you want to smack him and hug him at the same time.

The shuttered camera dangling around your neck moves inanimately, tapping against your chest as if it's aware it's being called upon.

Your cheeks instantly heat up, readjusting your stance and pushing out your chest with a bit of false confidence. "I'm capturing history in real-time, don't downplay how iconic that is." Your eyes soften, the memory of the superhero deescalating your anger.

Jisung knows you've spent your afterschool hours cooped up in the newsroom. You practically live in a streamline of camera lenses to written documents. At first, your column for the school paper was mainly about study tips, but soon after one stupid incident (Jisung managed to drop his bag stuffed with his clothes from a high story building, and somehow the cartridges cuffed to his arms holding the web fluid conjointly emptied. So, with little dignity, the superhero rode the building elevator down, not knowing seconds after, you would haphazardly join him in the same carriage, each floor more awkward and quiet), and then everything circled back to Spider-Man.

Well... him.

“Wait,” you tease, tilting your head. “I sense a little jealousy. I mean—it totally adds up. With a new guy in my life, you’re basically a second contender for everything.”

Jisung’s eyes narrow in mock offence. “Please,” he says, though his voice rumbles too deeply, like the actual thought irritates him. “You make it sound like I was originally trying to compete for first place.”

“Okay,” you start, keeping your composure to a minimum despite the incensed need to reach over and pinch the spongy parts of his cheeks. “Then you wouldn’t mind me talking about him, and how he can be... just so—I don't know, amazing.” Jisung's holding his breath, sensing the emotion in your voice.

"No, doesn't bug me—"

"I mean, I was right there.” You cut him off, words spilling out faster than you can stop them. “There was this hostage situation downtown not too long ago. Cops were scratching their ass, completely out of ideas—honestly, they couldn’t even keep reporters out, it was a mess. And while this was happening, Spider-Man was already inside, turning the whole place upside down. He came out, and I just thought he looked so cool. Like, effortlessly cool.”

The boy is trying to figure out where to go from here. Obviously he can't dismiss what you say, but going along and being aware that he'll speak about himself in third person feels awkward, and maybe overhearing how vulnerable you sound knowing you were talking about him makes it worse.

“It just felt... nice, you know?” You’re looking off to the side now, like you’re seeing that moment all over again. “Knowing there’s someone out there who’s not just following orders, not just doing what they’re told. He’s living life on his terms, doing things his way. That’s... rare.”

“Uh... yeah,” he stammers, tucking his hand into the sleeve of his shirt, scratching. “Dude’s... something else.” God. For someone who can solve complex equations on three hours of sleep, he’s really tanking this whole conversation.

"You're such a jerk.” He doesn't need his enhanced hearing to catch the words—they're laced with just enough frustration to pierce the silence. “You always have something to say, and now you’re just... what’s so heroic about looking like you face-planted on a treadmill, huh? Are you going to keep letting him beat the crap out of you?”

Jisung tries to laugh it off, but it comes out choked. “That’s ... kind of the plan, yeah.”

You lean back, putting more weight on your splayed-out hands. "I know why you won't stop it." Jisung shifts his attention, his round eyes pleading with you to not take it further. It's that first crack in his infuriatingly calm facade that makes you want to push further. "Yeonjun's not getting along with his dad, and because he's deranged, he's acting out because he doesn't know how to ask for help. He's one step away from getting expelled, and you're not saying anything to protect him, which is honestly pretty pathetic."

Hearing it out loud makes Jisung shrink. Maybe it is true. Being blessed with powers doesn't polish away the need to please people. It just makes him believe his skin has turned into an impenetrable shield, making him feel it was his responsibility to successfully take every hit and sorta walk it off like it never happened.

Jisung's shoulders slump forward. "It's not just about protecting him," he murmurs. "It's about giving him a chance. Everyone deserves a chance to be better."

"You've given him enough chances to clean up his act, and he still doesn't care. That's my whole point, Jee. You think playing hero will make Yeonjun change, but he's laughing in your face. People have to choose to change on their own, and sometimes bad people won't. That's completely out of your control. You can't save everyone, and it's not your responsibility to try."

"But if I don't help, who will?"

An unknown feeling stirs in your stomach when your eyes find his sweet brown ones falter, a bottomless set of anger replacing what you're so used to. Just at this slight difference, it was like Jisung embodied something else.

You finally hit the wall of this caged lifestyle and didn't want to stop until you got more.

"Maybe no one." You say, almost breathless at the suffocating tension.

Jisung sits up, moving the basketball underneath him, and sets it inside the gap of his crossed legs. "Then what's the point of having these pow—“ He pauses momentarily to catch himself from slipping. "I have an advantage in all of this, Yeonjun doesn't. If I snitch on him, it'll cost him his last chance of living a better life. I'm pretty tough, I can handle his throws."

You raise an eyebrow, clearly disappointed in his answer. "But that's impossible. You're human and that usually comes with limits." Jisung wants to interject. To explain that whatever happened to him that eventful night a few years ago turned him into the definition of impossible. A blessing. A curse.

He hides the small grimace, sitting with a sickening feeling tying him up in knots from the inside.

"What would you do if something happened to me?" You challenge, your voice rising in octaves. "Are you going to sit there and waste all your time trying to think of a way to settle both situations, despite having a chance of losing me in the end."

The question, in retrospect, was an example: an over-dramatic clause you added into his 'Do No Harm' rule. You knew from how inconsequential both of your lives have been that this was something that needed no immediate thought behind it.

Because it would never happen.

But it makes the air around Jisung turn unusually stern. You catch yourself flinching.

The boy staring directly into your eyes didn't necessarily mean he sees you, rather something else painted over a chipped mural in his memory, resetting a forgotten feeling deep within him. It was about his uncle. But it was also about something else, and perhaps about someone just delicate enough to protect from that wretched fate.

"Out of everyone, you should know you're like an annoying reflex to me. I can make the best choices to keep everyone else happy. But if you needed my help, I'll know before you even call out my name. But I can't just stop helping people because it's too risky. That's not who I am."

You hold onto that thought while feeling the invisible burn of his eyes tracing along your face, a longing drag that starts from your eyebrows to the slope of your chin. It was clarifying and perplexing.

The set of friends fall into a mutable silence. After the second beat of awkwardness, you abruptly stand up dusting the back of your pants, willing it to end. “Wanna play ball? I could use a good distraction."

As you approach Jisung with an outstretched hand, the boy doesn't misinterpret it as a form of harm. He jokingly smacks it away, “Are you sure you want to play?” he says, a boyish grin oozing back out. "I mean, my tininess is just a disguise for my seven-foot ego."

"Won't believe it until I see it, kid." You reach between his legs, yanking the basketball out of his thigh-autonomy death cage. You dribble the ball in front of you, back turned while cautious of Jisung, who takes defence behind you with his arms open, a technique to box you in.

"I'll go easy on you, don't wanna make you cry," Jisung whispers near your ear, his breath warm against your neck, the gymnasium amplifying every word and the sound of your sneakers squeaking against the floor. The tall scoreboard with its frozen points suddenly feels alive, witnessing the game.

You grin each time his chest presses lightly against your back, and the feeling of sweat that sits in-between the shrinking gap feels too personal to share. You see a small opening and take it, running wildly towards the hanging hoop, not waiting to give Jisung a chance to catch up.

You’re about to dunk the ball, victory inches away, when out of nowhere, a strong hand whacks it, sending it crashing to the floor. The sound echoes through the gym, momentarily freezing you in place, milliseconds drawing into minutes. Something about the impact resonating through the ball felt like a hair fracture of power that shouldn't come so easily to a 17-year-old boy.

So caught up with your own thoughts, your body jeers away, enough to misplace your footing. You shut your eyes bracing for the fall, but slowly a warm feeling crawls around the front of you, pulling in the opposite direction to keep you upright.

You open your eyes, your view overwhelmed by nothing but the brown bulbs of Jisung's own, dribbling back and forth in worry. They were the same ones moments ago, yet the intensity of the game fades into the background as you realise it was so different in many ways. It causes you to falter for a moment, his presence overwhelming and comforting at the same time.

"Woah, hey. Look at me." Jisung dips his head lower to get a better look at your face. You obviously shimmy around, too uncomfortable to let him see you up close. Regardless, the boy's eyes, brown and slicked with so much moisture it sparkles, follows you. “You good? Did you hurt yourself?”

The air is streaked with sweat. His hold was tight and protective. You can feel the way his fingers dig into your waist bunching up the fabric of your shirt, the way the small basketball match leaves him winded, his breathing uneasy and heavy, washing your face completely. The way all his weight presses into you.

The only thing you can muster to break the ice was, “With reflexes like that, you could almost pass for Spider-Man.'"

He smiles mischievously, his face so outrageously boyish and his chest so god-damn hard.

“Sorry, red and spandex isn't my thing.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀JISUNG HAS the sudden urge to jump.

It's his first instinct once he sees the winking city smudge below his feet. The careless appetite moves like fire ants, trooping up his delicate skin, into his mask pressing down on his nutty hair. It's an irritation that won't quiet down no matter how harshly he itches at it with his nails. The teen wonders in the snoring hours of the night if the hunger gurgles over the idea that death now has one less possibility to defeat him. Buildings high, the ticking clock he currently crouches on touching the spreading fog—he could jump now, with no fear of ever landing.

He feels his veins tingle at the stimulating thought, lathering and preparing the venom that encodes his DNA now. It excites him, and not only do the hairs threaded down his spine stand, but the little picks needling his fingers that help him grip and climb buildings are raised as well, just waiting for action. It's going to happen one way or another; it has to result in a way that leaves him with at least a fractured rib for him to walk away from this a happier person.

But Jisung is growing impatient, and the cop cars are silent for once in this crime-infested city, tucked away into leaking alleyways.

He stands up, grimacing at the passing crackle of pain shooting from his knees, the result of being bent over for long, uneventful minutes taking effect. Jisung jumps from the protruded leverage where the clock circles bright, his padded feet meeting even cement where his bag and all his other belongings are squashed.

Jisung digs his hand inside the front flap, fishing out a plastic baggie filled with cookies. He lifts his mask halfway, taking a generous chunk in his mouth which bloats out his cheeks, before glancing at the cropped-up messages on his phones lock screen. A few are from his auntie, guessing to be a photo reel of homemade recipes she's whipped up while he's been gone.

The woman hates invading his space. She frequently resists the urge to ask him questions about his whereabouts by sending him food pictures every hour he was gone. Like clockwork, it serves as a gentle reminder that he was on her mind, starting at 5 PM and continuing until midnight, though she'd stay up past those hours. Jisung only knows about her late night activity because he crawled around the wall on all fours inside their apartment, his attempt to get into his bedroom through the kitchen window landing him to float above heaps of unwashed dishes, the smell of something burnt freshly singeing his nose hairs.

He presses his thumb upwards, spreading out the messages. Jisung watches your name pop up four times. Keen with interest he opens it after removing the red mask over his head.

You: [Sent Location] You: [Photo Attached] You: with MJ at the kebab shop. need to oil up, we're spider watching rn You: undercover spy-ider's get it??

Jisung smiles like a doofus. He moves to type back, huffing under his breath at the struggle that comes with getting across the keyboard with a singular cookie wedged between one hand. The superhero figures the conversation held enough importance to move it fully into his mouth.

Jisung: got it stalker Jisung: you understand you might be the first person ever to get a restraining order from a superhero Jisung: make sure ur hanging off the side of a building 500 feet away from him

The boy watches the sudden appearance of a typing thought-bubble on the corner of the screen. Jisung admittedly didn't expect you to respond so quickly. Neither to the unexplainable excitement that bubbles inside his belly waiting for words to form.

You: boring bland and predictable. You:  don't you want to know why i'm out atm!? Jisung: to catch crotch bulge from a sexy insect You:  NO DUDE UR GROSS You:  I'm trying to prove a point to MJ Jisung: oh yeah, what's that stalker? You: it's something huge You: I'm still deciding whether or not i should tell you or leave you in the dark until you start questioning the legitimacy of our griendship You: **friendship Jisung: that's fine i can just ignore you until you break You: wtf Jisung: ............ You: you're using my parents disciplinary tactics on me Jisung: ......... You: jee Jisung: sorry sorry go ahead  You: okay so you know how the new school paper is coming out this upcoming Monday right? so me and MJ were finalising the spreads this afternoon when she got caught up on my spider man shots You: she pointed out how well timed they always came out which is weird when you compare it to New York Times who might i add hire professional photographers who can't get anything besides a blur You: it made us both spiral until we thought of something so far strung but not completely silly and i don't want any mean comments or snarky one liners or even that dorky deep dive you do i mean business here

The superhero swallows the soggy chunk of crumbs in his mouth before sucking in his bottom lip between his teeth, as he does when he's deep in thought. You usually come up with the most unusual theories, so it's undecided for Jisung whether your line of thinking is as plain as boasting about the camera quality and its function.

A grey thought bubble floats on his screen.

You: it’s weird, but... i think spider man might know who i am. i mean, how else could i keep getting these perfect shots of him? it’s like he’s... singling me out or something.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Oh.

Jisung can feel his heart climb up into the back of his throat, or maybe the stewing pain around his stomach was synonymous with the organ falling and floating in a heap of his own acid, slowly peeling apart. This was certainly not his doing. Actually, the superhero with an unrelenting ache wedged between his butt-cheeks comes to an abrupt conviction after thinking it over that maybe this was his fault. 

The boy can admit he is a port of constipated emotions, but lays the line at delusion.

"Shit, fuck me. Shit!" The boy with a full set of brown curls jumps back on the ledge, pacing back and forth in hopes the balcony with a foot width of space to walk around could help him breathe better.

Maybe he does incessantly keep track of all the hot spots you frequented while swinging around. How else was he supposed to sedate the guilt of not being able to hang out? But he never visits much to ring alarm bells. After the second stalk, the push-pin on that location usually gets taken down.

And okay, while you ready yourself behind cautionary tape with a camera in hand, he can allegedly claim that sometimes the villain's fists are uncharacteristically strong where he's eating enough punches to humiliate himself... near you.

But it isn't as though Jisung seeks after you to make sure you were safe. He just has to do the school paper a favour after years of trash headlines.

The text message makes the superhero spiral enough that when he regains alertness, he somehow uncovers that he has slipped to the underside of the ledge, patrolling upside down. At this angle, the glass window squared directly in front of him gives a mirror to his flustered—very unmasked—features. Crap. Jisung briskly corrects his stance, lest someone walks past and goes into cardiac arrest over finding a floating 17-year-old boy's head.

With his phone still in hand, the small device vibrates, filling up the screen with a photo he took of you at a school excursion. 

The Chemistry class took a trip to a specialised research laboratory, and because they handled dangerous chemicals, it was warranted to wear lab coats. You'd forgotten yours. But before you could sulk in the corner about missing out, Jisung lent you his, assessing that whatever was inside couldn't be significant enough for him to care. The teenage boy took the picture behind the screen protector while you posed by pointing at his name scrawled above the breast pocket.

Sometimes, the memory replays at random times. He thinks the part where you leave the building, a wide smile kicking up your lips about being only referred to by his name by the workers who naively went along with anything detailed in writing, is burnt inside his brain like a tattoo.

It isn't just a normal call. After the third try, the phone was practically a fish out of water, jumping at him to accept a Face-time call.

Jisung grimaces, hesitating before pressing the green button, building up more tension. "Hey... you!"

"Oh, wow," the voice halts. After another entire minute of silence, the superhero can covertly imagine you trying to work around what body part was being shown. "You're not that old and decrypt to answer a Face-time with your ear. Show me your face, I can see your eardrum and it's making me uncomfortable."

Definitely not. Even though his mask was left desolated beside his backpack, Jisung is still bottom heavy in red gear. Add that with how the stars looked above, like he could throw a hand over his head and gauge the black sheet and probably bring back a shimmering planet as a souvenir. It would just give you permission to unload a handful of questions.

The boy pulls the phone alarmingly closer to his ear, the depth only a cotton swab has gotten. "I can't. It's just... uh, really bad timing."

"Bad timing, huh? I call bullshit. What is it? Do you have a girl over? Han Jisung did I interrupt happy hour!"

Jisung pulls air through a narrow plastic straw, trying to sound casual despite his voice straining. "No, Jesus... I’m—I’m in the bathtub."

Once again, silence relapses and the two friends are back teetering on an actual land line, deciding who was supposed to initiate a conversation first to dispel the awkwardness.

“Wait... were you texting me naked?”

The boy laughs incredulously, air blowing past his mouth. If Jisung knew what he was doing absentmindedly, kicking around small pebbles on the ground with a splitting smile which could be the same ratio to a person twirling a phone cord, he would abruptly stop, look ahead and dissociate in shame. But his head is full of you, literally. Your voice close to his ear makes it resound.

"Is that what you're thinking about, stalker?"

Jisung can practically see you blinking at his posing question. "No, pervert. Why would I want to blind myself with that mental image? Gross," came your reply, sounding a bit exasperated now.

"You sound pretty persistent. I mean now that you're resisting I kinda wanna flash you." Amidst the bustling city below his feet, the mutant vigilante in his red and blue suit, lowers himself into a casual crouch, one hand grazing the stone to steady his stance.

"Do it coward, and watch Yeonjun's fist marks over-shine your penis."

The superhero can’t help but roll his eyes. “Please. I’m practically buried in manly, rose-scented bubbles—nothing’s gonna peak out down there.”

Before Jisung can continue taunting you, a sudden burst of commotion is heard down the line. 

Something breaks into tiny little pieces, several metal chairs scrap back against floors, and a cacophony of layered conversation is being had. "Hey! What's going on? (Y/N)? Hello?" To an untrained ear, or to anyone that didn't constantly have the weight of the universe give them chronic back pains, this could have been brushed off. But to Jisung, the noise surges through him like a ceremonial gong, deeply unsettling his bones awake, alerting him to move.

Without a second thought, or a minute to wait for a reassuring comment that you are perfectly fine, Jisung swiftly throws his phone back into his bag, grabbing his mask and slipping it over the curly strands of his hair before diving headfirst into the air.

The wind tugs his suit upwards as he focuses on plummeting closer to the ground, feet and arms pressed to the side of his body. Once the sound of New York is deafening enough, Jisung shoots a web at a street post, pulling his wrist closer to propel himself forward. And then he's off, swinging between buildings heading up north, a whispered prayer squeezing past his busted lips.

Jisung can see every memory shared with you play out in panic behind his eyes. It is like his brain understands that the incremental parts of him that often thinks about you will cease to exist if he didn't make it in time, and it needed him to be desperate. Reckless.

With one last leap, the superhero is half expecting to fall in the middle of the action, with thieves in black ski masks holding sacks of money. So, he makes a mental apology for literally catapulting into the door (his distress makes him lose the ability to devise a good plan), which rips it right off their hinges.

Inside the restaurant, Jisung, who can't keep proper footing standing upright on the door, can perfectly assess with his Spidey tingles that there is absolutely, most definitely no trouble in the Kebab Shop. To make matters worse, the live feed built inside his mask kept flittering around the whole shop, scanning each customer's face to detect any trouble, and one by one they all come back with 'Unthreatened' shooting up in green, bold lettering.

The superhero can feel the stillness in the air practically screaming at him. It doesn’t help it smells like sizzling meat.

Jisung still intently looks for you without necessarily being aware of it. And he catches you, staring at him like he's sprouted two heads, tissue in hand trying to tame a stain on your shirt mid- swipe. So, he confused mundane commotion like a crying baby flinging kitchen utensils around to... murder.

"Oh, God—" The boy moves around in a frenzy, his body language short-circuiting. "I can explain—actually, no, yeah, this is really unexplainable." Why was he being so edgy and off-balance? Usually switching places from Han Jisung to the great Spider-Man required little to no effort. "It's not bad. It's bad, but not really bad. I could fix it, save you from being overcharged because maintenance fees are...a big yikes, um—yeah, sorry about the door." His stance makes it look like he was acting out the wrong character, like he was sure his suit must be extra translucent today from some technical error.

He keeps working on latching the door back upright. Jisung doesn't even realise he's murmuring to himself before he shoots four massive globs of web fluid on the broken edges, the adhesive working by gluing it back onto the adjacent wall. Whether or not it'll ever swing shut again is not his concern. If they keep it leaning against the wall, it'll still serve its purpose in welcoming people inside.

Jisung rests his chin on his finger, inspecting the damage, before motioning with large dramatic hand gestures. "I could totally sign the door and have you sell it for double the profit—yeah, that'll work." He spins back around, aimlessly walking around the store hoping that maybe doing something other than posing on the floor will deter their laser point stares that were searing right through him. But he could still feel them all, especially one. 

He leans his torso onto a table, bending over inspecting a customer's wrap, who looks to be stuck on the first two bites before vigilante disturbance. "That looks really good,"

The young boy beside her, who was presumably her son, can't ward off the excitement and disbelief in his eyes. Slowly, his stubby finger folds out from his closed fist, pointing at Jisung. "Mummy... spider."

Jisung goes to touch the nape of his neck, his sheepish smile still traceable underneath his mask. "Don't put a name to a crime, kid."

The situation didn't feel like a huge problem. But it still makes him feel incurably light-headed. It wasn't as if he worried over the fact that his perfect image was ruined. Jisung was pretty sure the onlookers snapping out of some kind of daze and suddenly fleeing from their seats had one important mission: to commemorate the friendly neighbourhood vigilante through photos. In due time, they will gloss over the micro-information, the whys, and hows, and blearily explain to their friends that it was fate that led them to Spider-Man rather than a false alarm call for help.

But Jisung's heart is beating. And it's louder when he picks up movement beside him. He turns and finds you staring openly, unashamed with the level of admiration you had welled up in your eyes for him. Well, for Spider-Man.

"Hi," you squeak. Your lips downturn upon realisation. "I'm— I'm a—I'm a big fan of yours." It shocks the boy to watch you uneasily stare up at him through your eyelashes, the nervous pull of your lips between your teeth catching him off guard. Supposedly, you have always looked at Jisung like that, and the boy was too foolish to realise it.

"Ah—we...we have this newsletter for school and I'm always first to be in charge of you—no...wait, that sounds wrong. I mean I'm in charge of covering your stories, because I'm the club's main journalist—not professional yet of course, but just trying to build up a portfolio for college...when I go to college—which is...like soon because I'm getting older." Your awkward laugh encompasses him.

Jisung hates this. He hates the squeezing feeling in his chest. He hates that with the amount of power surging through him after the spider bite, it still can't clog up the capacious hole filled with guilt.

Jisung is still half-distracted by your face when he says, "Oh, wow, I'm so honoured! So you're the one giving me all the good press, huh?" He chuckles nervously, his cheeks turning a bit pink underneath the mask. "God knows I need it."

Your face drops a little. Jisung instantly remembers your conversation when he was patrolling on the building balcony. Whatever he said doesn't align with what you were hoping to hear. Or it didn't confirm what you assumed was true.

The set of friends (unknown to you, of course) have a brief pause of silence. Just a back and forth staring contest with equal levels of shock. Suddenly, you perk up, abruptly moving back to your table without saying a word and grabbing your phone. "This could be really inappropriate—you can obviously say no, consent is important—I just was wondering...only if you wanted to—"

"Yeah, of course! Sure!" Jisung answers within milliseconds, physically wincing with embarrassment at how loud and squeaky his voice comes across. "Ah... we can do that." He tries to correct himself, accidentally pitching his voice so deep that he sounds like he was doing a bad impression of Dark Vader, not that it helps to clear his probable cause that he was a giant mess around you. His stomach continues to roll with nausea.

The superhero takes an involuntary step forward, so accustomed to what's deeply embedded in him. You sidestep though, making sure a stranger's distance sits in between your shoulders. Then MJ appears to take the picture for you, leaving you both standing awkwardly close and apart at the same time.

"Smile, you two," MJ says, canonically grumpy.

Jisung forces a grin, the two lenses on his mask following the squint of his eyes underneath. He doesn't understand what pulls him to glance at you. "So, um... what's it like writing for me? In—in a non douchey, but interested to see your lens on things sorta way..." he stammers, trying to fight off the weird mood he's sure he's creating. The boy looks up at the camera again, before peering down to check that he's definitely far from you. "I always wondered if I sounded, like cooler on paper, or maybe less cooler. I'm open for constructive criticism."

You giggle, relaxing a bit. "It's pretty exciting, actually. I mean, it's something the world needs, not some stupid celebrity covers." There's so much genuine excitement in your voice. "Sometimes when I'm sitting at me desk, I think about the things you do—how even the smallest thing deserves your attention, and...it's those qualities that make you my favourite hero and—a...a super cool person."

Jisung's heart literally does somersaults. Did he seriously feel prideful that you find him interesting? You always care about him—sometimes a little too much—and your fan girl behaviour wasn't really new to him, so why did he delude himself into thinking you spoke further into the super suit. Holy shit, get a grip.

"That's, uh, really nice of you to say." He's trying to keep his cool. Jisung doesn't believe it's working. "Basically helped me off the edge there from going through with my bad boy re-brand."

Your laugh is there again and it's strange how his senses single out everything you do.

A blinking light spews out from the camera lens. He's pretty certain that the random peace sign he makes quickly saves him from being caught out, knowing how suggestive it'll look if you did publish the photo in the school paper and he'd been too much of a goof to stop staring at you. The photo is taken, and Jisung feels a little less like the world is on his shoulders. Or maybe it was, just beside his shoulders.

"Thank you—this is—it's a dream come true. Not that I dream about you...that'll be so weird and obsessive, two things I'm not...I'm not a stalker."

The superhero has to stop himself from laughing out loud, knowing now that his little nickname for you did bother you. "No problem. I hope it comes out well," Jisung gently speaks, the oxygen in his chest never filling up enough.

"Um... while we're doing the whole fan service thing, I was wondering if you might—possibly consider granting me a—a, ah personal interview? I know you're super busy saving the world, and I swear it won't take up too much of your time."

"I can't. I'm sorry, that's not something I do," he says firmly. This was completely true. Jisung didn't do one-on-one interviews with anyone who might leak details about his life to the public, especially trained journalists. Even with his identity masked, the boy was pretty much the last overly pacifist, nosy teen in New York City, where the main motto bedazzled in theatre lighting was basically, "Act like ya ain't heard nothin' if ya wanna enjoy the sun tomorrow." Needless to say, the line-up would be pretty short.

The stilted awkwardness to your smile fades, and you look up like you're scrutinising him. He has easily trained himself to memorise that look, the slow prowl of eyes trying to work out the best equation to fix something. But Jisung to you was Spider-man now, not the bruised and beaten boy in the school's gymnasium who could be easily pinched by you.

You walk over to the counter before politely asking, "Can I get a chicken and lamb mix, with extra garlic sauce and tzatziki. No tomatoes, add mushrooms." The employee, an olive-toned middle- aged man with a long hanging, perfectly trimmed beard, still manages to write down the ingredients despite being in disbelief.

"I just bought you a wrap. Now if we're talking about repayments, we can figure out the details to my interview." You look to your side, quirking a brow, a silent dare to challenge you. 

All Jisung can muster up as a thought was how fitting your desperation was. That there will always be this recycled need to learn about him, even when you just unconsciously recited his kebab order perfectly to recommend to a complete stranger, who wasn't a stranger. The complexity to this layered metaphorical onion of life gives him a headache.

What Jisung says sounds native, the boy you know sitting heavy on his tongue.

"Shoot me a time and place."

⠀⠀⠀⠀EVERYTHING WAS going to plan. All Jisung needed to do now was shuffle down the corridor with his head down and hope his gym bag would perfectly explain his whereabouts for the next few hours to his aunt.

She has become more restless about his constant disappearances. Now her usual walks near his door to check for a lump of human inside his bedsheets have turned into a silent staring contest across the dining table. The boy could practically feel the edge of a conversation on the other end of that long silence; he just made sure to scrape his chair back and run off before she fully commits to talking to him.

Turning around, to no one's surprise, Mrs. Han is lying on the couch with her feet up against the armrest, her body facing his bedroom door. Her unusually stern expression sends a cruel twist of panic through Jisung. "You're leaving again?" Her voice, though casual and far gone, carries a heavy emphasis on “again,” making his shoulders tense up.

Somehow Jisung forgets that wanting to be invisible wasn’t part of the plethora of abilities he has. If only it were.

Jisung grips the strap of his gym bag, the feeling of it chafing down his abdomen bothering him. "Yeah... not for long, though," he tries his best to reassure her, but the lie was still obvious.

His aunt stares at his hands with one of those looks. The kind that needs to settle on something other than the bulbs of his brown eyes to make whatever statement easier to say. "Am I supposed to take your word, or should I stay up worrying just in case?"

"You can do whatever," Jisung snips, the strange bite of attitude making him walk into the tiny entryway in a hurry, shuffling into his sneakers rather than slipping them on. He needs to leave, but his aunt was already on his tail, suddenly tugging at his hood and throwing the fabric down his shoulder.

"What are you doing?" Jisung's face reddens as he swats her hand away impulsively. His body is convinced he'd finally been exposed with how sharp his reaction was. Luckily, he'd been feeling extra lazy that afternoon, deciding to stash his suit inside his gym bag instead of wearing it. But it only helps give his aunt a good glimpse at the purpling bruises on his skin.

"It's true. Oh God, I was hoping it wasn't..." Her wide, frightened eyes were fix on him, her hands resting on her chest as if knowing that her nephew is harmed makes her own pain physical, traceable. "I was going through your laundry, and I saw dried blood. It was everywhere—I...I don't think I've ever seen so much before, and I thought it couldn't be from you because you're fine, right? You're fine?"

Jisung squeezes his eyes shut, a surge of frustration mingling with guilt washing over him. "I told you not to snoop through my things. I'm old enough to take care of my own dirty laundry—" He inhales sharply, losing his words. Was it fair to be angry at her when he was the one keeping secrets?

"This is my house!" She angrily points at him, the shake in her voice ricocheting inside her body, leaving a small quake in her finger. "My house with my washing machine. You can forget I exist out there, but not in here. Everything here belongs to me." Her finger further presses into his chest, a different meaning echoing now.

Jisung feels an ache spread in his feet, the bent-over heel of his sneakers pressing deep into his skin. It distracts him enough to stare blankly down at them rather than into her eyes, where he always has the tragedy of witnessing another sparkle dim.

"It's nothing. Trust me, I've got it handled. All you need to know is I'm safe and okay."

"Safe? You're coming home bruised and bloodied, and if it ever turns south... I won't know, because you won't tell me anything, and I'll be at home—oh God, I'll be at home making those —those stupid cakes," her voice is worn down. She just imagined her nephew bleeding out on some unknown corner in New York City, the pavement always wet from some waste leakage somewhere, with his phone taunting him with messages from her, doing nothing to help him from dying out.

His aunt did her best to get him to focus on her, hands clamped on either side of his cheeks. "No, I'm gonna need more from you. Tell me who it is? Jee, you don't have to be embarrassed to ask for my help. I can go down to the school early tomorrow so no one can see me, and talk to your principal—"

Jisung pulls her hands away from his face, holding them down, speaking so desperately. "Stop! Please."

"Does (Y/N) know about this? You're always at her house, she must know something. Both of you are lying to me, aren't you?"

"No, she doesn't. Leave her out of this." The comment feels like it'd been accidentally sprung from a catapult, the instinctive need to save you first from everything balling up and out of his mouth.

At the mention of your name, Jisung's eyes dart around the dimly lit entryway trying to find the high strung clock in the lounge room. It's 10 minutes past 9:00 pm. The superhero is sure that the cold has crept closer into your jacket now from waiting. He had to find a way to end this conversation and get out.

Her grip on his hands tightens, refocusing him on her fear- stricken face. "That just makes me worry more. If no one out there knows, then how can we protect you?"

"I'm not the one that needs protecting." Jisung whispers, a wince tinging his words, but the harsh intake of air betrays him. He has given her a piece of his world. "There are things out there... things that aren't supposed to be real, and sometimes people get hurt by those things. But I can handle it. Whatever I've become has given me the opportunity to fix it. I have to handle it."

"What are you saying? Jisung, that's crazy. I understand wanting to help, but you're just a boy. You're my boy.

Jisung's jaw tightens. "You don't get it."

Her eyes soften, the worry etched in every line on her face. It strikes Jisung then that while he has been growing up, his aunt has been growing older too. He feels a sting of fear and maybe grief that it took him so long to understand she hasn't remained frozen in time since he first came to live with her at the age of seven. "Help me understand," she pleads. "Stop shutting me out. Let me in. Let me help you."

The superhero takes a deep breath, struggling to find the right words. "It's not something you can fix."

"Oh, yeah! How did you come to that conclusion when all you do is ignore everyone. You're being so selfish, y'know that? Why do you get to decide how others feel about you. How we should treat you. I'm not okay with it. I'm not happy watching you shut everyone out because you think keeping us at arm's length will keep us safe. Because you're some sort of curse that can't be loved without hurting people in the process," her voice was firm but filled with sorrow. She still sees the little boy, the brown strands of hair as long as it is now, falling around eyes that cried for his uncle to wake up from underneath the casket. "It's not your fault."

But it was. No one sees the world like Jisung does. Everything comes with two options: destruction or healing. If he hadn't whined about a stupid beverage from the convenience store, his uncle wouldn't have stepped outside in his torn slippers in the middle of the night and gotten knifed for his money. Jisung made the wrong choice, and it cost him the dense load of his soul.

"If you won't believe me, and you're clearly stupid enough to outrace that guilt by putting yourself in more danger, then the only way to keep you safe is to keep you under my watch."

He throws her hands away, a headache already approaching. "Are you serious? I was just heading to the gym."

"You can do your manly sit-ups in your room. That's the luxury of accessible workouts," she responds, walking confidently back to the couch, knowing he'd inevitably follow her. And he did, Jisung powering into the lounge room with panic and urgency written on his face.

"No, no! Unground me now. Look, you can put a lock on my door tomorrow—or pay to install security bars on my window, just...just not today. I have plans with (Y/N)."

Recognition dawns on her face, eyes bunching. "So, you were lying to me."

Jisung nods, the movement stiff as if the muscles in his neck haven't been properly de-tangled. "Yes, but I'm telling you the truth now...and—and that counts for something. I'll be with someone you know, so it'll be easier to check in and get my well- being report," he says. His words seem to resolve in thin air as his aunt's eyes harden with decision.

They keep staring at each other, pride gnawing away at them, each hoping the other could feel the pull to confess and accept their mistake so they can live another day without the suffocating awareness that they needed to play out their resentment for each other.

But the room holds and stretches the silence until it shatters. "I'm still going, even if I have to wait until you're asleep.”

What is he saying? Jisung could quite literally see his aunt teetering on the brink of insanity because of him. Even with that very visual proof, he can't stop himself from testing her. The superhero feels sick to his stomach, wanting nothing more but to stick a syringe in his vein and purge all the venom inside him, because if he feels total ease in disrespecting her, there is no point in living a life holding gratification saving people.

Jisung's thoughts drift to his parents, to the life they had left behind. They had entrusted him to his aunt, believing he would be safe, that he would find stability. And here he is, spiralling out of control, dragging her down with him.

Jisung made a destructive decision. He could simply explain that he won't go, that he'd stay and offer to wash the dishes for her, but he's uncomfortable with his guilt. And maybe his aunt knows that, but her eyes fill with tears regardless.

The superhero slumps back into his bedroom without arguing, the soft click of his door closing behind him eerily loud. He sinks into his bed, pinching off his hoodie from the back, before resting above his sheets in nothing but skin that at times feels indestructible, despite the thrumming pain that wrecks his body.

His eyes dart to the window, the night beyond it calling to him. Jisung could be out there in seconds, suit up and disappear into the dark. But he was grounded. Trapped.

Jisung can't remember the last time someone else made a decision for him. He should be thankful that he was finally allowed to rest, forced to heal. But his mind is a tight guitar string, and any pull sends the relentless noise of someone screaming for his help vibrating within his brain.

The room suddenly feels smaller, the air growing thicker. And then the noises come like he expects. Jisung can't block out the sounds. The sickening chorus of a knife piercing through flesh, the meat squelching followed by a nauseating crunch from the bone. They are there even when he tries to tuck his ears into his knees, there over the dry heaves he let out. Always the sharpest knife. The constant torture of the blade retracting and diving in again. The gurgling gasp of someone desperate to breathe normally. Jisung can't get away from it, the sound becoming a looming shadow above him, spindly hands clawing at his body.

This isn't him.

Spider-Man doesn't panic. Spider-Man doesn't falter. Jisung is the world's beacon of hope, the last chance at feeling safe again, which means he can't afford to feel anxious and afraid. If he shows any sign of being unwell then who will everyone depend on. There was no space for comfort or failure in his life. He has to remain strong. Even inside his own bedroom, because the world is still watching, waiting.

It goes on like that for minutes, Jisung trying to ground his breathing. Hearing the rattle inside his chest. Before the superhero knows it, the itch to jump out of his window and escape is won over by his swollen eyes and his achy chest begging him to sleep.

His phone buzzes beside his head, the screen casting a white glow on his tired face. He can't ignore it.

Today 10:12 PM You: wanna come over?

The superhero instantly takes notice of the time. There was no doubt in his mind that you probably talked yourself into staying longer, a few minutes over an hour longer at the meeting place.

He doesn't like to admit it, but the voices from before, desperate for him, sound so much like you more than anyone else.

Jisung: can't Jisung: got grounded

All his energy was spent from his previous breakdown, but something raw and vicious still creases his eyes, willing him to muster the last of his strength.

Jisung throws his phone across the room, his power shattering the screen against the wall. It doesn't faze him that he has just ruined the one thing connecting him to the world. He'd probably thank himself the next morning for not being able to check the news and see the crimes he'd missed.

He doesn't want to see how much he'd disappointed everyone for the first time.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“I’VE BEEN trying to contact you since first period. If your plan was to ignore me, the least you could do is shoot me a text.” In the corner of Jisung’s eye, he watches you sink down beside him on the cafeteria stool, all your frustration coming out in the way your bag practically flings out in front of him.

The superhero purses his lips, shrugging his headphones down to his neck. “Would love to, but I think ‘ignore me’ might auto correct to ‘I’m gorge me.’” Jisung sighs, holding up his cracked phone that was still on, but looks barely functional.

You make a horrified face, snatching away his device as if your hands hold the ability beyond human capacity to repair anything. Maybe they do. He can imagine them pressed up against his chest, soothing last night’s ache—but then again, he’d never know, because the stupid spider-bite got to him first. “What the hell, Jisung! You literally just bought this phone.”

“It’s fine,” he groans out quickly, swiping the electronic back before pocketing it into his sweatpants. “It was an older model that kept acting up anyway.”

You nod unconvincingly. Jisung watches your eyes drift to his spiral notebook, clearly considering a question that most likely doesn't relate to his global studies homework. “Did it happen to break... after the text you sent me last night?”

“No!” Jisung rejects your statement with rapid speed, which warrants your eyes to round in surprise. “I mean—not after that. Just this morning. The elevator wasn’t working, so I had to take the stairs, and it slipped from my hands.” He tries to keep his tone casual, but the underlying frustration from last night is there, leaking through.

There’s a beat of awkward silence, before Jisung attempts to change the topic, not after lazily drawing a dozen of superman symbols to prepare him. “How was it? Yesterday, I mean.” The boy can’t tell if he’s helping his cause or setting off a catastrophic chain reaction that a future version of himself in a parallel universe is already regretting.

“The interview?” you confirm. “Well, it didn’t happen, but that’s fine with me. Spider-Man doesn’t exactly have a free roster.” Jisung feels immobilised by the sheer, debilitating indifference laced into your comment. He doesn't expect you to throw a temper tantrum, but for someone who practically pledges their life with one hand over a strip of comic books instead of a Bible, he figures a few colourful words would’ve been fitting—something to serve as the discipline he deserves—needs to hear.

Jisung feels the anger curl inside him—electrifying and cold, leaving him dizzy—and he hates it. He hates that you’re making it worse without even realising. That you’re forgiving someone who doesn’t deserve it in the slightest. That maybe, if the world ever figured out who Spider-Man really was—who Han Jisung really was, the bones behind the flesh—they wouldn’t forgive him either. 

They’d look at him exactly the same way his uncle must have in his last seconds of life—that cruel disappointment that he wasn’t coming to swoop in somewhere to protect them. And at that point, they’d already held on fast with hope, so when the light started pulling from their eyes, they couldn’t properly brace themselves in front of death.

His fingers clench tightly around his pen, the plastic casing digging into his palm, a sharp reminder that the sudden slicing sounds ringing in his ears—like a knife being sharpened—couldn’t possibly be real in the middle of an open school courtyard.

"You’re not pissed?" he asks, voice a little rougher than before.

Not noticing the shift in Jisung’s mood—or the way his hair sticks to his now damp forehead—you just continue mindlessly. “I mean, yeah, it’s kinda embarrassing after hyping it up in the newsroom all day... but I still got my photo! That’s solid evidence, right? Wait, have you seen it yet? It’s so cute! MJ doesn’t wanna admit it, but I swear you can totally catch him staring at me.”

It isn't Jisung’s intention to sound bitter, but the moment you whip out your phone, the brown-haired boy can't stand to look at the obvious mid-turn capture—because the only thing running through his mind was—

"That doesn’t make sense. (Y/N), he failed you. That’s supposed to make you angry. He made you wait in the middle of the night, just to not show up. The bastard put your fucking life on the line when he’s supposed to be helping people."

You blink, still holding your phone awkwardly in the air. “Jee, It’s fine,” you say, letting out a nervous laugh. Your eyes flick around the hallway, catching the way a few students start glancing over as Jisung’s voice gets a little sharper. “I’m fine, really. I wasn’t expecting much anyway. He’s got a million people depending on him every day. If he actually showed up for my silly little interview, it’d probably make him look bad or something.”

Jisung’s heart is throwing itself against his ribs, so violent that he’s sure there’s at least some bruising “You don’t get it.” A momentary lightness flickers back into the superhero’s eyes, because he remembers that you did in fact, know nothing.

Not about the way he sits on the edge of a rooftop at three in the morning on a school day, blood tacking his skin and suit together, evidence of places he didn’t move fast enough. Not the way a city could scream, sirens ringing straight through Jisung’s ears long after he begs for fragments of normality as he peels the mask off.

And you especially don't know how heavy guilt could swell —how it could curl in his chest, until the weight of not being able to save people builds higher and heavier, bending his spine, until the only thing he could see when he finally lifted his head was a gravestone with his uncle’s name on it.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Slice.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Slice.

You don’t respond quickly, but that doesn’t stop the defiant pull to comfort him, reaching out to take his hand. “Jisung, what’s going on?”

Abruptly, the mutant boy rises up. He gives a single, embarrassed look, like he’s been caught submitting to something that’s not made for him, and Jisung’s sure you sense it from the way his fingers clumsily loop around his headphone band, shakily yanking them off his neck and placing them back onto his ears.

It’s a quick fix to muffle out your continuous yells of his name as he walks away, but it by no means clears the stinging ache in his chest, and Jisung wants nothing more than to reach deep and root out his heart—wondering offhandedly if that’s also where the spider venom sat.

[seochangbingifs]

Seo Changbin performing Ceremony via MBC (25.08.23)

[seochangbingifs]

Seo Changbin in Stray Kids "KARMA" UNVEIL : TRACK "CREED" (2025.08.12)

[hyunpic]

uh.. do u want to go by the pool and play mermaids?

[binhourly]

SNIPPET / from ‘Do No Harm’

[linolinoing]

HAN — SKZ-TALKER GO! S.5 EP.07 MACAU

[binhourly]

[230425] — .ᐟ

word count: 1255 | member: lino

“I BLAME you for this,” you say to Hyunjin—or rather, to the kitchen countertop you’ve rested your forehead against—the hangover from last night’s partying making the sun filtering through the window feel like your brain is swelling past your skull.

The freshly buzz-cut boy sharply exhales through his nose, before continuing his reign of terror on your migraine by slamming the cabinet doors shut as hard as possible to grab your attention. “That’s sad,” he starts, waving off your scowl with an equally bratty lip scrunch and a single eyebrow raised. “With how much alcohol you were downing, I thought you’d be cool enough to at least brag about it.”

“No, I can’t,” you tell him, melting instantly at the sight of your favourite Snoopy mug being filled with freshly brewed coffee. So on brand for Hyunjin. One second he’s terrorising you, while simultaneously doing something so tooth-achingly sweet. “What I did yesterday was embarrassing and potentially fatal. And can I say it’s really annoying that I’m like this—" you motion vaguely at yourself—"and you’re just... fine!”

Hyunjin's smile tilts crookedly, leaning forward before splaying his very sleeveless arms out on the kitchen counter. “It’s the protein, baby. I’m so jacked up with it, it basically makes me bulletproof.” He gives you his best alpha-male impersonation, adding the obvious bicep flexing to piss you off further.

Despite your daily hatred for your best friend, Hyunjin still manages to pull the first laugh out of you that morning, before settling back into a peaceful cycle— you sipping your drink, him humming some song he’ll probably file away on his phone with all the other hidden gems.

“Do you even remember what you did after we got home?” the blonde boy questions, his dazed expression practically giving away his lack of paternal instincts last night–assuming that once he got the chance to shove his shoes off, one toe against the heel of the other at the entry door, Hyunjin basically called it quits and let you run wild in the apartment you shared with your other roommates until you tire yourself out. Naturally.

You squint at him, racking your memory folder. “I…” you trail off, snapping your fingers once a cohesive image starts forming behind your eyes. “I went to kiss the cats goodnight.”

“Dude, do you just choose to forget how much Minho hates it when you do that?” Hyunjin argues, never letting his irritation falter as he smooths a hand behind his back to stretch out the bed kinks in his shoulder. “Your lipstick stains their fur. Like, I’m sure it defeats the whole ‘animal cruelty’ aspect of the product.”

This was another reason why no one should ever advocate for a drink to be put in your hands. While alcohol seemed to settle some people, the sour bite of it ripped away every bit of confidence you carried during the day, leaving you flinging head first to affection as proof that people actually wanted you around.

It was partially the reason why you only went out drinking with Hyunjin. The man had been a constant reassurance in your life, so the overwhelming feeling barely crept up on you. Minho was different. He was an extension of Hyunjin (a close friend from his dance crew) which meant it was inevitable that your two worlds would collide, but somehow he never felt inclined to open up the same way Hyunjin could.

And it sucked more than you liked to admit. Soon, with enough accidental run-ins around the living room or squeezed bathroom times in the morning, you found yourself holding onto every small detail about the black-haired man. Until the practice of seeking acceptance wasn’t just a drunk habit—you were already doing it sober.

“But they’re so cute! If they don’t want to be loved, then they shouldn’t be the size of babies — it’s misleading,” you muse, swivelling the kitchen chair around, fingers protruding out in the ready position to coax a cat to come to you.

Right on time, the first cat, Dori, pads into the kitchen, his stomach smothering closer to the ground with clear signs of his future refusal of pick-ups or any form of affection. With his coat obviously dark, there’s no indication of your lipstick marks on him.

Then, a few beats later, Doongie trots in—the obnoxious white patch amongst his layering orange tint still fluffy and perfectly lipstick-free. Odd. Hyunjin rounds the corner, equally confused. “Huh? Maybe Soonie got the short end of the stick.”

You sit up straighter, flicking your gaze towards the long hallway where Minho’s bedroom occupied the first door. Soonie definitely was the victim. You didn’t like to vocalise this often, especially in front of the feline brothers, but he’d always been your favourite. And when the familiar orange-to-white ratio cat appears, you're almost celebratory—until you realise, tail high, strutting in insecure, maybe aware of the many eyes on his newly licked coat—that not a single smear of lipstick is on him either.

Nothing. Clean.

“What the fuck.” Hyunjin’s brows furrow, his increased stress levels making his hands find his hair, running them up and down against the short bristles. “Did you make out with the wall again?”

“No,” you start, smacking his side to shut him up, catching a sliver of skin from his deep-cut muscle tee. “I remember kissing something. It was really soft and it kept moving around—”

The door flings open, and the soft bare feet cushioning the cold floor makes you so flustered it almost stops your heart dead in your chest. “I’m not going to repeat myself again.” His voice is naturally sultry, like his speaking cords are meant to be washed with a glass of champagne rather than gargled water, and the shift wasn’t all the more subtle in the peakest of mornings where it drops so low. “I closed my door on purpose because the cats get hyper at night. I understand you guys were drinking, but fuck, maybe drink enough to abolish your fine motor skills.”

Hyunjin keeps cutting his eyes back and forth between Minho and you, like the answer might magically evolve itself in the space between. But you’re stuck staring at the man who plagued every part of your brain. And if this were a game of Spot the Difference, the version of him you kept tucked away in your mind just got a full rebrand.

The Minho in your head was clean-cut. Every edge is sharp and emotionally unavailable. But Minho standing in front of you now? He looked kissed within an inch of his life.

It starts at his T-zone, the close-knit shape that’s undoubtedly your mouth giving away just how desperate you were in taking him in—some marks deep and damning, others smudged like you’d lost focus halfway, paying close attention to the corners of his lips that were not salvaged in your reckoning. And following along his jawline, there’s a loving beeline down to the curve of his neck, the shape less puckering and more open-mouthed.

You were absolutely mortified. So the softness you recounted was really Minho’s skin, and the animalistic movement was just from Minho shimmying around in his sleep under you.

An incomprehensible noise escapes Hyunjin this time, which could best be categorised as something between a yell and a manic laugh. Either way, it’s obnoxious enough to yield Minho to stare at the wall mirror beside him, catching what was on the other end of the buzz-cut boy’s pointed finger.

“Oh… so, not a cat.”

[ note: ] wrote this under 10 minutes after being inspired by this meme. please know lino is unravelling lowkey in the best ways, he's just awkward with feelings.

[binhourly]

Coming To Terms (+18)

Summary: What could go wrong when your love life involves bad sex, good imagination, and a best friend who seems like the answer to all your unspoken desires?

Word count: 11k

Tags: College Setting / Rom-Com / Slice of Life / Friends to Undecided

Pairing: Baseball Player!Kim Seungmin x Fem!reader

Trigger Warning:  Emotional Distress / Harassment / Stalking / Physical Intimidation (Seungmin is captain of the baseball team, his bat is practically his weapon) / Explicit Content / Men Being Pathetic / Aggressive & Threatening Behaviour / Vanilla Intercourse In The Beginning & Middle / Protective Sex / Crude Language / Character Re-imagined / Underwear Play / Verbal Aggression

Songs: i. Look At That Woman by ROLE MODEL ii. Love Is Embarrassing by Olivia Rodrigo

ALSO READ HERE

NOTE: Shoutout to the jerk who inspired one part of this scene—who wouldn’t leave me alone after he rejected me, got angry because I was unaffected by it, and alluded that if I cared about him enough, I would be heartbroken. Then he proceeded to trap me inside the girls’ bathroom. Hope campus security tasers you next time, you fucking weirdo. / excuse the ending. I was sadly a victim of school work overload and anything I wrote fell flat and I can't be bothered trying to re-work it the 100th time. so, yes it doesn't make a whole lot of sense and seems really rushed . . . live laugh love seungmin.

NO ONE was completely perfect—hell, if there was one thing you were sure about, it was that your own crappy life meant you also counted toward that same damn list too.

It wasn't about being uncritical, either. You had a lot to be angry at, starting with your new project partner, Felix, who insists he's clinically diagnosed with a gaming addiction, so it's crucial he takes 'Call of Duty' breaks in between studying.

It just came down to being hopeful, and having a lot of it.

For instance, if someone had waved a bunch of red flags in your direction, you'd notice it, maybe indulge in a small wiggle of your fingers back, because for some stupid reason, you have a bad habit of thinking their flaws, (controlling, inability to take accountability, lack of empathy) would magically iron themselves out over time. Or, your personal favourite—they'd burn the cloth enough it changes the alarming colour.

Spoiler alert: they never do. And now you're stuck with your mistake literally punching you in the gut—but more literal than metaphorical.

“Making you feel so good,” your boyfriend slurs into your shoulder, his awkward thrusting between your legs making the sentence appear as if he's hiccuping. “Changing—argh—your life.”

Dongmin was that small wish you sigh out at the end of a grace, something you know you're not supposed to say but get overwhelmed with the selfish need to want more. When he showed up, it was almost like the universe had heard you and decided, without any strings attached, “You know what? Sure, here's your dream guy.”

And god, was he absolutely perfect—and clearly your karmic invoice.

The first few weeks, he practically won your heart over by carefully remembering tiny details about your interests and insisted on carrying you on his back to ease the digging pain in your shin after your first date. (Looking back now, you can admittedly say you brought down your impenetrable wall too quickly, because the only way he changed the trajectory of your life was finding out he had the bedroom finesse of a teenage boy who giggled at genital diagrams in health class.)

Then the lights flick off, and he transforms into something clumsy but not inexperienced... just one-sided.

You've tried everything to loosen him up—lingerie, role-play, and toys—but at this point, sex to Dongmin was sticking it in, swirling it around a few times trying to chase his own high, and you're stuck watching a firework fizzle out just as the show's supposed to start. You know, a little “oh” that quickly becomes a “wait, that's it?”

He lifts himself up off you, a sheen of sweat clearly building down his chest after what has been barely two minutes. It gives you a better view of Dongmin, though, and you think to yourself you could work with this. Watching him rest his hands firmly on your raised knees and press them further apart to spear deeply into you would definitely build up that sweet pressure.

And sure enough, whines sob out of you so desperately, like a starved woman thankful for a grain of salt. “Baby, f—feels so good.” Your face flops to the side, mouth agape and drying the drool that slides down your chin. "Right there—ah uh!—keep it like that," you instruct him, hoping for what could possibly be your first orgasm.

This was it, his redemption arc; all it needed now was a friendly push. So, your fingers tickle past your bouncing breasts, landing at the base of your clit where you planned to rub circles while he fucked you into the mattress.

“Don't do that,” Dongmin objects through a grunt, swatting your hands away despite your quiet gasp of disappointment, entrapping them both above your head. He leans forward, stopping his thrusts. “I can make you cum with just my cock.”

Sadly, that hasn't happened yet, and it was hard to be hopeful when you knew exactly how it was going to end. He resumes, and just like you expected, Dongmin repositions himself, and the tight lull around your pelvis disappears, literally fucking retreats back into a little cobwebbed corner.

With him snuggled back into your shoulders, it allows you to catch sight of the ceiling, dissociating into several different thoughts. One that whispered loud asked if this was your punishment. Six months he made you wait. Six months of feeling like a princess before he finally gave in, and by then, you were so locked in emotionally that there was no way out. You liked him—loved him, even.

Damn.

“So close! Gonna... uh ah—cum." Dongmin grips your hips hard enough it leaves an unwanted ache, and before you could mouth out profanities for getting carried away, a hot feeling stews inside you along with a huff of air that sounds like he's struggling to breathe.

He came, how shocking.

He doesn't collapse next to you, just opts to awkwardly move over at the edge of the bed before treading to the rubbish bin in the corner, ripping the condom off his softening penis. It leaves you naked, swaddled in sheets, just quietly taking in that his day had now just become more bearable, while you'll spend the next week coming up with excuses to keep him away from any spacious surface to fuck against.

Dongmin climbs back by your side, his presence now not so pressuring. “You were so good, baby.” He trails his hands up your arm, making a shiver slither down your bare spine. “How was it? Was it any good?”he adds, his voice soft and hopeful.

For a brief moment, you consider telling him the truth—that he could touch up on a few areas to get better in bed. But even thinking about it made you shrink, like you were holding a fuse you lit yourself, waiting for the wick to burn the last inch before selfishly handing it over to Dongmin.

But, like always, at the last second when your people pleasing tendencies kick in, you throw all your weight to soften the explosion.

“It was perfect,” you whisper, the lie slipping out smoothly. His hands squeeze your thigh in response, a splitting grin spreading across his face.

“Really?” His eyes light up, pressing kisses into your cheek.

If life has taught you anything, it's that perfection is a myth. You knew that before Dongmin, and you sure as hell know it now. Sure, Dongmin was bad in bed, but who’s to say there wasn’t something about you that bothered him just as much? Maybe he loved you enough to let it slide. Maybe you were willing to do the same. And maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t about love at all, but about not knowing if you’d ever find something better.

“Yeah! You were amazing,” you lie again, and this time, it comes a little easier.

Spoiler alert, your mind whispers.

SEUNGMIN misses the next pitch, the ball ricocheting off the chain-link fence surrounding the batting cage with a hollow clang. "Wait—hold on." He turns toward you sitting cross-legged outside, eyes narrowing in focus at something other than his baseball training. "I'm sorry, did I just hear you complain about your boyfriend's... swing?"

You couldn't even remember when you let that secret slip.

One second, you were watching Seungmin wind up his bat over his shoulder for another hit, the end-of-the-day heat tinting his white ace uniform a baked yellow, and the next, words were tumbling out like you were in some kind of truth-telling trance. Shit.

Trying to act as nonchalant as possible, you shrug your shoulders. "I'm being serious."

Seungmin rests the length of his bat across his shoulders, arms slung causally over each end, trying his best to look moderately stern—or at least like he's mulling it over and coming up with helpful solutions. "What makes you think I'm not?" he says, raising his eyebrows in mock confusion.

But you weren't fooled for a second. You'd known the athlete for a total of three years, which gave you enough time to spot the signs—the barely-there twitch at the corner of his mouth, the bite down on his bottom lip.

"Relax..." Seungmin drags out his words, adding to his infamous bratty attitude with a classic eye roll that basically says you really should know better. "I'm not that evil to make fun of you for something that's—y'know... beyond your control. If I'm going to shit on someone, it'd be him for underperforming."

"But I don't think I want you throwing jabs at him," you start by saying, holding off from speaking further until Seungmin repositions himself away from you on the plate, giving you the perfect sight of his messy brown tuffs sticking out from under his cap rather than his judgy eyes, as he takes another practice swing. "It's wrong when he's been nothing but sweet to me."

Then came the ball shooting out the machine, a sharp clang, and instead of his usual clean hit, the ball bounces off his bat at a crooked angle, spiralling down into what could've been foul territory if this was a real game.

Seungmin spins back towards you, a clear sign of disbelief in his eyes at his second out ball. "See? This is what happens when you say stupid shit," he mutters, adjusting his cap backwards to give you the full extent of his annoyance. "It's like you're sucking all my talent away, one word at a time." He raises his bat, taking a few loose swings in the air as if to shake off your bad luck.

“Am I not allowed to defend my boyfriend?" you reply, an ache of defensiveness prickling your chest.

Seungmin lets out a low laugh, the kind that’s meant to sweetly correct your faults without fully crossing the line into being a downright douche—and maybe the way his teeth peek halfway underneath his pink lips could make you forget it was supposed to hurt. Or that it only came after you announced Dongmin was, in fact, your boyfriend.

“You can," he says, his tone a sharp lash despite its simplicity. Now that you think of it, Seungmin does seem more affected by your troubles than you expected. "But maybe save it for when he's worth defending. Like, when you can move past telling people he makes you happy just because he makes you laugh."

What the hell did Seungmin know about relationships? If this were any other Friday night—where the summer heat feels thicker from the countless bodies pressed up against each other and the cold beer does nothing but flush everyone's faces, the only contribution to a committed relationship Seungmin could get behind was being with a girl long enough until the song blaring out from the speaker ended. And then? Onto the next, all blurring together, sifting through the entire alphabet as the night dragged on.

Was she a Bora? Maybe a Susan? Not that it mattered. It always played out the same—Seungmin weaving through the crowd, a little disheveled, a little fucked-out, his familiar scent of citrus clinging to his skin like an afterthought. And then your heart tucks, knots, flips, only for you to turn around and realise—no, he’s not looking at you. Just another random girl brushing past drowning in his cologne.

So yeah, maybe Seungmin had a point. But what weight did his opinion really hold when it’s coming from someone who valued blowjobs over real, tangible connections. 

You press your hands behind you, leaning back slightly with a pouty lip, confused about what you were really frustrated about. "Not everything has to meet your weird, unrealistic expectations with your perfect checklist."

Seungmin scoffs, “No, but it’s the one thing you’re spiralling over right now.”

You sit up abruptly, mouth open, ready to argue—because obviously, he’s wrong—but nothing comes out. Because, unfortunately, he isn’t.

Seungmin smirks, like he was waiting for you to get caught in your own logic. “Oh? No defence? That’s new.”

You scowl, picking your legs up before hugging your knees to your chest. “I just—” You huff, looking away. “You don’t know everything, okay?”

“I don’t need to know everything. I know you.” He points the bat at you like it’s an extendable pointer in some lecture you definitely didn’t sign up for. “And I never said anything about being perfect. But he’s not exactly giving you something that sticks. Y’know, the stuff you can’t let go of.”

Your brows pinch together. “That makes no sense. People let go of bad things all the time.”

Seungmin snorts. “Right. But people still go back to their exes just to fight, or hate-fuck each other into oblivion. Not because it’s good for them—because it’s unforgettable. It gets under your skin and stays there.”

You blink, caught off guard by the weight of his words. He steps back onto the plate, kicking his cleats into the ground, clearing out the backed-up dirt trapped inside the rubber.

“Dongmin has it all backwards,” he continues, more thoughtful now. “He gave you perfect first. No mess, no complications.’” He tilts his head. “And you think that’s a good thing?”

Your lips press together. “It is a good thing,” you insist, but even you hear how defensive it sounds.

Seungmin scoffs, unamused. “No, it’s suffocating.” He flicks his gaze back to you. “Or in your case, it’s got you sitting here, trying to convince yourself you’re the problem. Like you should be grateful to be with him.”

Your stomach twists—because, again, damn it, he’s not wrong.

"You sound pretty sure about that," you say, almost smiling but finding yourself hesitating. "Where's the perfectly formatted, alphabetical citation to all these theories, huh?"

Without missing a beat, Seungmin turns to you, his eyes—typically the blackest jade—now transforming into the softest chestnut under the sun, properly toasted to taste so sweet and earthy. "I am the citation. A living, breathing, walking HTTPS link."

You don't disagree; it's not like you can with his never-ending scroll of experiences. Of course, he knew more than you—the baseball player practically had every single girl on campus twirling their hair, waiting for the chance he might pick them again (the same crowd you were once among, quietly shoved in a corner—before you met Dongmin)

While Seungmin prepares for the next hit, you take a minute to fully come to terms with what's been said. Dongmin did give you everything, and you were more than grateful for that, but did he do anything that really snagged at your mind constantly? Sure, he occasionally bought you things or always let you eat the last bit of every delicious sweet because he was kind, thoughtful, and never gave you a reason to doubt him—but that was just it.

Sometimes, there'd be moments where you'd get so caught up in studying you'd forget to call or text him for days at a time, and it didn't bother you. When a girl was clearly flirting with him at the library—right there, barely a shoulder away from you—it didn't make you feel a thing—not jealousy, not irritation, not even the faintest twinge that the world could shift off its axis if he did ratify her advances.

All you could explain is the way the morsel memories managed to only piece together when you remember Seungmin happened to be there at that time, slithering right down into the seat beside her in his beige trousers and white dress shirt (his knight in shining armour away from his usual baseball uniform), hair clipped short and skimming the top of his forehead, stealing her attention away from Dongmin. And it worked, aggravatingly enough.

The girl completely forgot about your boyfriend. And you... well, you couldn't remember much else because you were too prickly from anger to realise the crack of a notebook slamming shut, echoing throughout the library, was from your own. Heads all turned. Yours stayed on the way her fingers had drummed on the empty space of his forearm where he rolled up a fourth of his sleeve, needing nothing but to leave before you flat out collapsed.

Later that night, Dongmin kissed your lips swollen, breathlessly mouthing how much he loved seeing you jealous over him. And if he believed it, you let yourself believe it too, because of course that's why you were so sensitive.

You move closer to the fence, letting your fingers curl around the wires. "Okay, what's your controversial hot take on this? What would you want me to do?"

Quickly, Seungmin replies—"You dump him. Obviously."

You reel back. "Have you not been listening to me this past hour?"

"I have. That's me taking everything in as your very supportive friend and giving you the most logical advice," he says with a deadpan expression.

Crossing your arms, you stare at the side of him, letting it trail down to his uniform tucked into his white trousers. "I don't like that one."

Seungmin adjusts his grip on the bat, keeping his eyes trained on the ball machine, waiting for the next surprise. "Okay... because you're basically teetering on the edge of sexual insanity, you can have my next thought free of charge."

You arch an eyebrow, hating the way he pauses for dramatic effect.

Seungmin bends his knees further apart, his voice dropping just enough you can feel it pulsating in-between your legs.

"Next time, think of me during sex."

You choke on absolutely nothing.

What the actual fuck? You weren't too sure you heard him correctly, and it explained through the way you racked your eyes to the side inconspicuously to see if anyone else had overheard and displayed an equally horrified look to his statement, just a smidge of utter disbelief. But you were the only one short-winded, a little hypnotised.

"That's... That's really gross—and seriously, just—weird, and wrong... you can't be—"

If he wasn't so focused, Seungmin would've done his infamous shrugs, completely unbothered as usual. "Just saying, I've got a 99% success rate of giving people what they want."

You barely have room to retaliate before the machine fires, the sound of his bat whooshing into your ear and a crack echoing across the field instantly playing out. Unlike the last two, the ball soars higher—farther—and as you follow the little white comet in the air, it hits the end trails of the field which felt weirdly coincidental to Seungmin's statement, because if this was like any other game where the fence wasn't placed around the playing ground, with an arena filled with students, the ball would have been called out as a—

“Home run,” someone mutters from another section, greatly impressed at his swing.

THE NEXT time you have sex with Dongmin is right after your last class on a late afternoon.

It wasn't spontaneous nor romantic, but you figure that being with someone for as long as you have it's already given proof that he loves you, which cancels out the need for heart-shaped petals on the bed and replaces grand gestures with stale, pre-planned texts.

Dongmin: Need you right now, baby

Dongmin: Think you can make it in 10?

Your eyes flick quickly between the two messages, your nose scrunching the lines of your face, which suggested your clear irritation at his wish. But as natural as it came, so did that same nauseating feeling that you were being too judgmental—a little too mean when he hadn't done anything even mildly wrong for you to turn him down.

You: If I run I could probably get there in 6

You: But I won't do it without a little please ;)

Shoving your phone into your back pocket without checking his response, you start walking to the student dormitories, appreciating that, even though the bigger problem is only minutes ahead, it still leads you under the campus's brick arch into the sprawling oval field where students lounge on the grass during their breaks. It gives you a moment of false peace—that maybe, just maybe, you're like everyone else, heading out to do anything but have mediocre sex.

When you slip inside his room, it only takes a quick peck on the lips to kick-start his libido. You'd barely leaned back before he nudged closer, his hands racing to your face before smothering you in a deeper, hungrier kiss.

It completely took you by surprise how feverish he was being. It was impossible to think straight when his tongue was basically poking every corner of your mouth, while his hands were sneaking under your shirt, ignoring the sweat build-up on your back from your little walk.

Dongmin had just sat through a three-hour lecture about marketing strategies—did product placements make him this horny?

You giggle into his mouth at the ridiculous thought, and it's like someone shoved a drain stopper into Dongmin's rushing sink of hormones.

He pulls back, frowning slightly, eyes wandering in a way that showed he was clearly offended that you weren't taking his sexually aroused state seriously enough. "What's funny?"

Your face heats. "Nothing! I'm just—" you hesitate, bringing his face closer, peppering the trace of his lips with quick kisses to coax him out of thinking too deeply. "I'm just being silly."

It works in your favour because Dongmin gets caught up in the web of your so-called addicting taste, his arousal taking over without a second thought. His hips fall into this automatic rhythm, rutting into the open space between your legs like it's instinctive—like he doesn't even realise he's doing it.

You sigh into his mouth, deciding to enjoy the little bits and pieces of pleasure you can grab before things inevitably go south. If you were going to make this work, foreplay would have to be your life line. Because the biggest misconception about sex is that it's rarely as groundbreaking as foreplay. What most girls really want is the build-up. The kissing, the grinding, the maddening tease of never quite getting there.

It's the burn without the release.

"But I want to know," he insists with an incredulous look, head angling away, leaving a huff of an aggravated moan in the air from you.

You bite your lip, stalling, before blurting, "I'm just trying to figure out what got you so..." Your words trail off as your hands flap in the useless space between the two of you, miming something you can't quite put into words. "Like... this."

Dongmin lets go of you, the feeling from earlier while briskly walking around campus—free—climbing back into your chest. Without a word, he moves to the bed, slumping down with his legs parted just enough to make the tent in his pants... obvious, arms bracing behind him on the mattress.

"It's Seungmin," he says finally, voice low and dejected, like the mental image of the baseball player pained him.

You blink. Seungmin? Your Seungmin?

The statement hits you like a curveball to the face, the hard-stitched leather completely derailing whatever thoughts were left swirling around in your pretty but concerned brain. The confession was so unprompted that it left the words tumbling out of your mouth without proper discretion.

"Seungmin made you hot and bothered?"

"What? No!" he blurts, eyes widening in complete horror. "That's not—how did you even come to that conclusion?"

"I don't know!" you rush in, pointing an accusatory finger towards Dongmin. "We were just swapping spit, and I asked you a question—I mean, you can't really get the wrong idea when you build it up like that."

You hadn't intended to be funny, but the response made the hard marks in Dongmin's features soften enough before he lets out an involuntary exhale that borders on an amused laugh.

Still, something lingered. The sight of Dongmin, typically so composed, with an endless amount of patience in his tool belt, sitting there so visibly nerved and upset felt... different. The open window that haloed a buttery tint above his head couldn't pin back that same warmth.

You pad across the room, steps deliberately slow, allowing yourself to stop between his parted thighs. This was a new experience. Within the time frame of your relationship—which would be exactly a year, a month from now—you'd never really had to deal with this. And that's not to say you were unwilling to help swat away the eventual clouds raining above his head, it was just that after spending so many perfect days, having something other than that unsettled you, like seeing a flower wilt at its peak in the middle of spring.

And maybe that's why you didn't ask him what was wrong. You weren't sure how. Instead, staring down at him, you nudge your knee into his open ones. Once. Then again. A little harder each time, until his lips twitch slightly, smearing back that familiar smile.

"You're annoying." Dongmin clasps his hands around the back of your knees, murmuring softly, and it's supposed to reach deep—the feeling of his touch—but it barely tingles.

"And you're a little grumpy," you shoot back, nudging him again for good measure, and before you can process it, Dongmin uses the leverage of having his hands at your weak point to his advantage, and in one fluid motion, he lifts you up slightly despite being in a sitting position and pulls you down onto the mattress with him, a familiar weight pressing above you.

This would've been the perfect moment to capture inside a cute mason jar and hold up as a reminder each time you got that nagging poke in your gut that doubted if you had any real connection with your boyfriend. But despite the compromising position, the only thing disrupting your thoughts was how you could bring the conversation back to Seungmin without indirectly implying anything.

"What does Seungmin have that I don't?" you say playfully, intending for his reply to be as predictable as the baseball player not having a set of perky tits—the typical train of thought for boys in their early twenties.

"He has you."

There's a beat of silence. "What?"

To keep the mood moderately light-hearted, Dongmin blows hot air onto your face, the rush gently moving a strand of hair away from your eyes. "I bumped into him earlier today," he answers finally, voice dazed, keeping his stare trained on the roundness of your lips as if they're the most fascinating thing in the room. "It was weird because he usually avoids me, but he wanted to talk to me about something."

You nod your head in a vague attempt to look attentive, but your mind escapes this current reality and transports itself back two days ago at the baseball field, where Seungmin looked aggravated by the combination of the sun and the coach's reliance on his skills, and you happened to carve the first smile into his lips after telling him how Dongmin has failed to make you cum.

It wasn't like Seungmin would've told Dongmin. He was many concerning things, but the most valuable quality he had was the tendency to lock your most humiliating confessions behind an impenetrable vault. But that didn't mean his unprompted hangout with your boyfriend was sheer coincidence. It was a built idea, one that probably came to him in the morning and continued to amuse him for hours before he spoke to Dongmin. You can picture it so clearly—every little comment Seungmin would've made laced with his trademark brand of backhanded politeness, each one just toeing the line between friendly banter and deliberate belittling—enough for him to fully relieve himself of his quiet hatred for your boyfriend.

"There's a fundraiser his team needed help promoting to get sponsors, and apparently I have just the right qualifications for it," Dongmin explains, the request shockingly normal.

"And that should explain this?" You blink up at him, his weight growing more suffocating the longer it's pressed into you.

Dongmin chuckles lightly, his fingers lazily coiling a strand of your hair as he speaks. "Yeah—well... the conversation somehow, kinda drifted... towards you."

There it was. The sudden rush of tingles sweeping through your body, sitting uncomfortably hot on your cheeks at being mentioned when you weren't present, wondering what Seungmin had possibly said. And why you grew more lightheaded at the sound of each syllable in Seungmin's name being spoken in your thoughts. No, it's definitely not from that.

"How come you never told me you spent last Christmas holidays with his family?" Dongmin's voice cuts through. From the way it squeezes past his lips, it tells you more than enough that the question was only a placeholder for something else he was worried about.

You fidget slightly under his gaze, your fingers playing with the silver pendant dangling from his necklace. "Because... I didn't think it was important. We weren't together then, and Seungmin and I were already good friends. It wasn't unusual for us to do things like that with our families."

The furrow of your brow appears at seeing the bare distaste on his face at hearing about your friendship with the baseball player. "Hey... if I could go back in time, I totally would've said no. Like, 'Sorry, I can't come. Why? Well, it's because the gravitational pull of my future boyfriend's aura is too strong and he wouldn't want me there.'"

Dongmin was never possessive. He was more the type to find pleasure in flaunting you rather than keeping you hidden, so hearing the comical inflection around the scenario made him feel sheepish enough to drop down and smush his face into your neck.

"That's not what I meant," he mumbles, his lips brushing against your skin. It takes a moment for him to string together what really made him upset—or rather horny. "Just with the way he talks about you... it's different. Like he's known you forever, and will forever know you better than I do." Dongmin huffs, the pout in his voice strong. "I can't compete with that. All the stuff we do now—getting coffee together, staying up late to help you study—it doesn't feel like it's enough in comparison. I know it sounds stupid, but I'm supposed to be your boyfriend, but wherever Seungmin is, I'm... falling short somehow."

That's why he was bothered. The stories made Dongmin jealous, which led him to do the only thing that could reassure him that Seungmin couldn't follow—sex.

"Why would you think that?" you ask, voice gentle but angry. "That's far from the truth, or—or the reality, even." Holding onto his head, you pull Dongmin up enough to look at you. "Have I known Seungmin a lot longer? Sure. But I've never thought of him that way. If anything, me choosing you should already tell you who I wanted."

Dongmin smiles faintly, the soft, content look on his face a dizzying comparison to his sharp canines. He believes you like he always does. But that's the problem, isn't it? With everything you've said behind his back, the lie should be apparent. Because within your boyfriend's insecurities, there's a truth to it—not consciously at least, just in the way there's always been a stupid crack that opens wider every time Seungmin is mentioned, and you've done nothing but ignore the water at your feet.

Yet he stares at you with so much unguarded affection, it twists your stomach into a knot that will never unravel.

"I love you," he says then.

Overwhelmed by the sudden confession, you pull him in, pressing your mouth to his in a kiss so desperate it puts his previous hormones to shame.

It's not like you weren't expecting this—how could you not? You'd spent the last few months rehearsing those same three words in your head, tonguing around each letter to get rid of the uncomfortable taste it came with. And maybe he was ready for that, but you weren't. So, this was the best you could do for now without giving him something flimsy, and like so many other times, you squeeze your eyes tight, trying to find that trapdoor in your mind and disappear down it, to a wonderful place where all the memories of Dongmin should fill in.

Seungmin. Your thoughts whisper.

The next few minutes, there's a hurried struggle to remove all of your clothes, and by the time your underwear rolls up in a ball beside his bed, Dongmin is already inside you, huffing pleasurable moans into your gaped mouth each time he feels you clamp around his cock.

"God! Keep doing that," he urges you.

You had no control over why you kept tensing around him—whether it's your body's intrinsic search for something more. And you don't figure it out until your mind slips again before you can stop it, and, like a metal detector, the thought of Seungmin's name is the sand-crusted jewellery, and you clamp down once more.

No, it's not about Seungmin. You're sure of it. Absolutely, hundred fucking percent.

Dongmin presses closer, his pace less magnifying and more like he couldn't commit to finishing a thrust. "You're so perfect," he whispers into your shoulder, but the words barely ignite anything.

Perfect.

That word was the bane of your existence. All you did your whole life was believe that every relationship dripped down to one single thing—perfection. But maybe Seungmin was right. Perfect didn't leave room to grow. Perfect didn't let you argue over the dumb things, laugh too loudly, or cry over the important ones. Perfect didn't let you mess up and make it better. Perfect was a plain room, and Dongmin had locked you inside it, too afraid to decorate.

Imperfection meant freedom, and you felt it in every harsh word Seungmin ever threw your way, in every argument that left you winded, in every moment you ached for him to pull you back. That heart-wrenching need to keep him close, to hear the rawness in his voice when he asked for your forgiveness.

Seungmin.

You shut your eyes, wrestling back your brain tooth and nail to focus on the moment—on Dongmin rutting into your core with a determination to leave a clear indent of his cock inside you, on his hands on your hips, his soft grunts—

Seungmin.

Again, his name skids into your head like a car caught spinning in the rain. But it's too late to banish the thought, because your mind has already conjured up the image of Seungmin at the batting cage—cap backwards, sleeves rolled up, arms flexing each time he swings his bat, with the lethal combination of his slit eyebrow and that cocky little smirk lingering after every comment.

You whine out loud, your body betraying you as it holds onto the memory of what Seungmin said, but to make it seem like you're putting in the extra effort to not commit mental infidelity, the "Next time, think of me during sex" line sounds a lot like an impression of Dobby the elf.

And, dear God, that doesn't even work,

"Oh—oh, fuck—fuck, fuck, fuck!" you gasp out, your voice higher in pitch than you'd like. The familiar feeling of a tight pressure builds low in your belly, but it doesn't ebb away like it normally does, and your whole body continues to roll in heat, before your back arches sharply, and the sudden crash of pleasure is unexpected but so deliciously good.

Dongmin finishes soon after, and whilst you both sit in complete silence on the mattress, bathing in your post-orgasm sweat, you shortly come to terms with two new predicaments in your life.

One, being that you actually came thinking about Kim Seungmin.

Two, being that you actually fucking liked it.

THE SUN was barely in the sky when Seungmin—who seemed to have been taught to express all of his frustration outwards—ordered the entire baseball team to run a hundred miserable laps around the campus field to make whatever was floating around his mind less pressing. They all fell behind one another but in disorientating lines, the soles of their cleats cutting into the damp morning grass.

On a normal day, Felix would've been out there too (doing his usual half-assed attempts at the warmups). Instead, he was currently lounging inside the dugout, relaxing his legs but firing his thumbs as they rapidly tapped on his phone screen.

No one—absolutely no one—was getting any sympathy out of Felix today.

"Eat a dick! Actually, eat two motherfucking girthy ass dicks and choke on it!" Felix curses with the volume of a grandparent on a phone call—just loud enough to reach beyond the glow of his fluorescent screen. In the blonde boy's defence, playing Call Of Duty was just as exhausting when you get teamed up with shitty shooters.

Seungmin, who had been monitoring the boys near the dugout, turns back to stare past his shoulder, arms still crossed in front of him with an intense scowl, as if to silently explain to Felix that whatever had pissed on his mood originally, he had managed to lift his leg and make it worse. "Remind me again why you can't practise today?"

"I actually woke up with a deadly cough," Felix responds, voice thick with offence and a badly constructed lie. "If you don't believe me, you can call up coach during his meeting and he'll tell you how it sounded pretty contagious. Enough to keep me benched until next week."

A muscle ticked in Seungmin's jaw. "Then why are you sitting here? Go be sick in your own bed."

"Can't," Felix says, a needle deep in his voice, as if the explanation to whatever he was doing should've already been threaded together by now. "If I go back now, I won't be able to use 'practice' as an excuse to get out of finishing the group assignment I've got with (Y/N). If I'm here? I'm sick but committed."

Even from where the blonde boy was sitting, he still caught onto the way Seungmin's mood turned into something closer to irritation, the kind that felt a little too personal. Now, Felix had seen Seungmin mad plenty of times (he had that one incident to refer to—when their actual pitcher, Jisung, threw out his arm right before a match and Felix had been shoved onto the mound as the last-minute replacement. And, well, as everyone could've guessed from someone with only shortstop experience, every ball he fired went sailing high and dangerously close to the batters' faces. After about the third near-decapitation, the umpire didn't buy the "bad aim" excuse anymore and disqualified their team for allegedly trying to take out the competition), but this was different, like he had forgotten Felix was naturally carefree because it seemed to involve a certain someone.

Oh. Now that's interesting.

"Did you ever pause and think she's basically running herself into the ground because you can't bother to lift a finger?" Seungmin presses further, his typical mask of pretending everything you did hadn't affected him one way or another slipping.

"Woah, I figured this reaction would've come out of Dongmin sooner or later." Felix grins, knowing better than to speak the devil's name within the circumference of Seungmin. Why? Well, nobody knew. Dongmin had been what most people called plain, from the way he looked down to his major. But there was a reason why the ace player always tightened his fist, ready to swing first at the mention of that name. And maybe Felix had his own suspicions.

Stepping back into the open field, Seungmin speaks quietly, but a dangerous sort that gives his words a bite. "Him? That asswipe is just another growing problem for her to deal with on top of everything else."

With a dismissive eye roll, Felix starts another round, the very obnoxious sounds of murder coming out of his phone not as loud as the barking orders Seungmin dishes out.

Whatever. The blonde boy was a nutrition science major, not a goddamn psychologist to pinpoint his issues. Actually, he did know, and thought that sleeping with every moving organism on campus because you can't have the one person you wanted was beyond stupid, but Felix had no intention of caring.

Suddenly, the shrilling vibration of a phone is felt underneath his thigh. "Someone's phone's ringing!" Felix announces, shifting slightly because, somehow, the rectangular object had ended up in the most uncomfortable spot, all while simultaneously concentrating on his game.

"Who is it?" Seungmin yells out, squinting his eyes at Felix.

"How would I know? I'm kinda in the middle of beating my highest kill score here," the blonde boy fires back, his tone making it sound like he's the one being inconvenienced.

There's a mere second of peace before the phone buzzes again, shooting tingles down Felix's leg.

"They're still calling, and it's vibrating against my ass," he grumbles. "Dude, if I move, it might buzz right into my rectum."

Shifting in the opposite direction to get the phone to slide out from underneath him, he manages to dislodge it just enough to catch the end pieces of the caller ID.

"Wait, hang on. The vibrations are spaced out. I think they're texting."

Exasperated, Seungmin responds, "Felix, I swear—"

"Oh, shit." From the awkward angle he twisted himself into, where he managed to support himself on the bench with only one butt-cheek, Felix finally reads out the mysterious caller, his interest piquing now that he knew whose phone was suffocating under him this whole time. "It's from (Y/N). Actually, scratch that—it's from (Y/N) with a red heart emoji."

That finally gets Seungmin's attention, immediately stopping his coaching. "What does she want?"

Something tells Felix he's about to interfere in the same business he pledged never to care about. But who could blame him for eavesdropping, or wanting small context clues? Felix swipes up and exits out of his screen, picking up the coverless phone.

Clearing his throat, he reads aloud: "Please, I need your help." Full stop. "Dongmin won't leave me alone." Full stop. "I'm in building 56 toilets. Meet me there and I'll explain everything." Full stop, end of text."

Felix hadn't noticed when Seungmin barged back into the dugout, eyes wide and laser-focused. He only realised the ace player was there when bags and equipment started getting thrown around in a frenzy.

Standing up with an alarmed look, Felix spoke with a quiver in his voice. "Whoa, whoa, what're you doing?"

Seungmin grabbed a baseball bat nestled inside one of the team's bags, and the blonde boy quickly jumped to his own conclusion. "Oh my god—wait, wait, wait! Is that for me?"

He swallowed and raised his hands defensively, finding Seungmin's hurried breaths through his nose far scarier than any horror movie Felix had ever watched—which, for reference, wasn't a lot.

“Look, I know what I said before about procrastinating and just being an all-around idiot, but I did start the project! I swear I'm halfway done, actually! And I don't have a problem with (Y/N). I think she's a really sweet girl—very studious—"

Seungmin levelled the bat to Felix's face, his withering glare the only restraint he had left. It conveyed all the anger he held for the blonde boy, wordlessly warning him that if he ever disrespected you again, Seungmin wouldn't take it lightly.

"That's great, Felix. Wanna test how far your responsibilities can go?"

Felix watched as Seungmin roped the coach's whistle off his neck before chucking it at Felix's chest, leaving him to instinctively put his hand out to catch it.

"Take over. Keep the team running laps until I'm back, or have them do drills."

"Wait, what? You're not serious?"

Perplexed by the new shiny toy in his hand, Felix's panicky eyes tread straight, following to where Seungmin jogs away, his hand fisting in the middle of the bat shaft. "Dead serious," Seungmin calls back, not even sparing a glance. "Don't let anyone stop."

The sun settled high into the sky, a summer morning more believable now with the widespread of uninterrupted blues. Jeongin, the team's known head case player, skids to a stop mid-lap, his chest heaving as he braces his hands on his knees, black hair glued down by his over-pouring sweat. "What's happening? Are we stopping?"

This morning, Felix happily skipped to practice with a fake cough and the dreams of playing electronic games until the afternoon. But now, the weight of his newfound authority felt a lot heavier than the stupid little whistle in his hand. "Maybe... no... I guess—look, I don't know how this works."

The baseball team surrounds Felix in seconds, centring him like a yolk inside an egg, and maybe that metaphor hit too close to base, because all their eyes glazed over with pure intent to pass on all their anger from Seungmin's morning boot camp onto Felix.

     Great.

SEUNGMIN COULDN'T stop feeling angry. Even with the very concerning text messages you'd sent, his skin tingled with so much annoyance as he rehearsed exactly how to bring up the fact that you'd been ignoring him for a week.

What made it worse was that the ace player was just the right type of insufferable—someone careless and casual with people's emotions because, well, they weren't his to deal with. He never chased after answers—God, nothing was more pathetic than running around trying to piece together an explanation. He'd much rather wait until they cracked first, coming to him with whatever drama they had bottled up.

But then he thought back to that day in the small theatre room no one used anymore. You'd been sitting in one of those carpeted red chairs out of a row of twenty, minding your business, before looking up, spotting him, and abruptly shoving your lunch back into your bag like his presence ruined your appetite. Then, just like that, you were gone, leaving without so much as a single word—except maybe for that hiss of pain after you missed a step and fell to the floor, giving yourself rug burns.

Now, the irony was that the same guy who swore he'd never run after someone, was practically chasing after you, breaking every one of his rules, because waiting wasn't an option.

When Seungmin reaches Building 56, he barely spares the elevator a glance—it would take too long. Instead, he flings open the emergency exit door and takes the stairs, skipping two steps at a time.

Coming up the last staircase, the noise of someone crying hits him first. Who it belonged to was hard to figure out, as a huge crowd of students flooded the main corridor, their curiosity clearly outweighing their need for personal space. The hallway was so packed that some had to squeeze past the emergency exit door, spilling into the stairwell just to get enough room to watch whatever was going on.

"Fuck... Seungmin's behind me."

The whisper was barely audible, only meant for that person's friend to hear. But like dominos, heads started turning, shoulders stiffening, and within seconds the crowd perfectly split down the middle. It might've been the bat clenched in his hand that scared them enough to move, but something told the baseball player they were shoving him out, knowing well enough he had something to do with whatever was on the other-side.

When Seungmin broke past the last person, the centre purposefully emptied out in front of him. All he saw was a sobbing Dongmin, hunched over on the floor like he'd taken a severe beating to his stomach. "I can't leave, not until you talk to me!" Dongmin yells out, inching his head upwards, noticing the low-hanging snot dribbling past his reddening lips.

This was so humiliating. Seungmin had to resist the urge to just turn around and leave Dongmin there to choke on his own spit. But he obviously couldn't—not when you were basically stuck inside the bathroom and Dongmin couldn't stop yelling at the door.

He immediately heads over, a glowered look on his face. "What did you do to her?" Seungmin speaks in an accusatory tone.

"To her?" Dongmin croaked out, the crack in his throat making it clear he couldn't believe Seungmin was so quick to point the finger at him even when he looked miserable. "What about what she did to me? She ruined me."

Seungmin shook his head in disbelief, his grip tightening on the bat as Dongmin lurched forward, finding his balance on his folded knees like a desperate man pleading his case. "All we did was have sex—really, really great sex—and then she broke up with me an hour later. Over text."

Dongmin motions to the bathroom door, his expression twisting wildly as if he were handing the ace player the key to some grander mystery. But Seungmin didn't care whether or not he was telling the truth. Not even a little.

"She's the fucking problem!" Dongmin spat, his voice cracking with frustration.

"Careful with the fucking swearing," Seungmin shot back, giving him a warning look—a little head tilt paired with a raised brow. "Now, I don't know what you thought was going to happen, but you're obviously not in the right headspace to fix this—not like this, and definitely not with half the school watching."

"If you're telling me to leave, I'm not going." Dongmin shook his head furiously, his fists clenching at his sides. "She needs to come out here and give me a good, believable reason why she broke up with me. Something that makes sense."

Seungmin's lips twitched into the faintest smirk, his voice dropping into a mutter as he leaned forward slightly. "I can think of one already."

Before Dongmin could respond, Seungmin took a step closer and crouched down, levelling their eyes. His tone turned dangerously calm, the edges of his words razor-sharp. "Here's what's going to happen. First, you're going to stop crying. Yeah, that's step one. And then, you're going to sit here quietly like a good boy while I go in there and talk to her. After that, we'll get to the bottom of this—without me having to use my bat on you."

Dongmin flinches a little, fear caught in his brown eyes. "That's a joke... right?"

"For now." Seungmin's response made the fight in Dongmin's posture cripple.

He stands up, walking towards the bathroom door. The door didn't have one of those outside handles you could yank on—just a push plate—but he could picture you on the other side, probably bracing it with your whole body, determined to keep Dongmin from slipping in.

Seungmin doesn't bother knocking. Instead, he leans in close, lowering his voice as he quietly calls out, "It's me. Can I come in?"

Quickly, the door flings open. "I'm so glad you came!" you exclaimed, not giving Seungmin the opportunity to see the state you were in before pulling him into a hug that was equally aggressive, as the ace player felt his back smack against the now closed door.

All his previous anger almost dissolved at the feeling of your body against his. Almost. You finally release Seungmin just enough to look at you, and it takes all his willpower not to visibly wince at the fact one of your false lashes hung unnaturally close to your cheek, and your lipstick was smudged enough to suggest either an emotional breakdown or a very aggressive make-out session. Or maybe a weird combination of the two.

"You got a little," he starts slowly, vaguely pointing to it, before giving up and motioning to your entire face. "Something everywhere."

You gasp, dramatically spinning to the bathroom mirror. "Oh, God." You peel off the struggling lash and place it delicately on the sink. "I didn't even notice until now—do you think I looked like this while talking to Dongmin?"

"Isn't he your ex-boyfriend now? You're way past the point of that being your priority." Seungmin says it pointedly. There's something unreasonably satisfying about saying it out loud—ex. He does it mostly for himself, but the way you react to it, how your hand stills mid-wipe as you clear away your messy eyeliner, meeting his gaze through the mirror like you're equally caught off guard, excites him.

You blink, exhaling sharply before turning back to him. "How much did he tell you?"

The baseball player shrugs, taking the opportunity to lean his bat up against the wall. "I just heard that you guys broke up."

"That's a lie." You quickly correct him, sounding breathless, like you still haven't caught up with the whole situation yet. "Dongmin’s been telling the whole school that I couldn't even let his post-nut clarity settle before I called it off. You know, just say you do..."

Seungmin doesn't answer right away. He's too distracted by how utterly out of place he looks here. The girl's bathroom mirror isn't even high enough for his build, cutting off the top of his head completely, but when you're reflected in it, everything frames you just right, allowing him to catch the way your fingers tighten around the sink behind you, white-knuckled, like you're holding onto your embarrassment there, over the idea of him knowing anything at all.

"Yeah, okay. But that's not why I'm here." Seungmin shifts against the doorframe, arms crossed, voice completely void of concern. "I couldn’t care less about his problems. I came here with a solid proof getaway plan, and it's yours if you tell me the real reason why you ghosted me for a week."

That's a lie. Obviously. He didn't have a plan—at least, not a good one. But he would've helped you regardless, no matter how much you refused to explain yourself. Because Seungmin knew you. And if you were willing to subject yourself to the absolute humiliation of having your sex life on display outside a public bathroom, then unlawful assault was about to be the least of your worries.

You don't miss a beat. "You're not being serious."

Seungmin cocks his head, cap pressing against the short strands of his fringe, an unimpressed scowl settling across his face.

"Need I remind you," you say, tone clipped, "that there's a fully grown man outside this door, crying so hard he stops momentarily to gag, and he won't let me leave?"

You throw a finger toward the entrance, as if the pitiful, hiccupping sobs weren't already obvious enough. As if on a comedic cue, Dongmin whimpers out a weak little, "Hello?" from the other side. Seungmin—who had, up until this point, been resting against the door—responds with a sharp kick against it.

The baseball player doesn't even acknowledge it before moving on. "Did he get jealous about our friendship or something? Told you not to talk to me anymore?"

—"What? No, god, no."

—"Did he... like... finish in seconds instead of minutes?"

—"That would've made you so happy."

—"Is he gay?"

—“No—stop it. I'm not answering anymore.”

—“If he didn't do anything, did you do something?”

—“What does that even mean?”

—“I don't know, you tell me.”

Seungmin had enough sparring words in him to keep going until you broke, but after his last comment, you didn't even try to reject him. That, combined with the heavy silence stretching between you in the already-cramped bathroom, was enough for the baseball player to come to his own conclusion.

You did, in fact, do something.

And from the looks of it—your real lashes clumped together with wetness, not from sadness, but raw, unrelenting frustration. Like you were pissed at yourself for trying so hard to hold yourself together, only to break anyway.

Seungmin sighs deeply. He decides he'll tuck his own stubbornness faraway for now. The baseball player pushes off the wall and reaches for your wrist, noticing a not so inconspicuous tug back from your arm, as if his very hands were lit on fire and even being mere centimetres from him could leave deep burns. Either that or you were still very much angry that Seungmin’s default setting wasn’t to help you, but to clear away his own agenda.

“We won't do this here." Seungmin grumbles, tugging the cap off his own head—it's his most worn item to date, safely perched on his nightstand every single day since freshman year, ready to grab whenever he heads out the door—and smoothly places it over yours. But he doesn't stop there. His fingers linger at the brim, purposely tugging it lower so the edge dips past your eyes, effectively working to block the view of anything really.

"There." He steps back, watching you awkwardly try to beam up at him from beneath the shadow of the cap. It stuns Seungmin for a moment when he notices his chest tightening. Oh. “That's your magical cloak. Now you don't have to see them, and they don't get to see any part of you."

You purse your lips, clearly thinking. "Okay, that solves one issue," you say slowly, lifting your hands and flailing them dramatically in the open space in front of you. “But, um... I can't see shit, which is terrible if I also need to, y'know... walk.”

“Just trust me.” Seungmin says it simply, darting his fingers out, keeping his growing irritation to a minimum as he watches you hesitate yet again. "Keep your head down and watch only my hands. Nothing else."

He moves closer to the bathroom door, but pauses when he feels a different kind of heat bloom against his palm. He whirls back with a final look of surprise, only to find the brim of his hat staring back at him—attached to what looks like a rather convincing Sim character, standing frozen, waiting for the next task.

“Ready?”

There's a large intake of air. “No... does that mean we're fucked already?”

THERE ARE shards of glass slicing up your lungs as you rest against a darkly coated wooden desk—metaphorically this time, of course. The whole idea of Seungmin being the school’s golden arm had momentarily escaped you the second he bolted with you in hand. If you had remembered—instead of worrying about Dongmin grabbing onto your ankles—you wouldn’t have agreed, and maybe you wouldn’t be here, tasting iron in the back of your throat. Stupid.

When you finally manage to look up, a hand pressed into your side to keep the stitch from fully forming, the setting around you forces a breathy laugh from your lips, thick with irony.

The boy’s locker room.

How fitting that just minutes ago, you had Seungmin trapped inside the girl’s bathroom, and now he’s returned the favour—stepping past rows of open lockers and the souring smell of sweat, just to lock you up inside the coach’s office.

“Was your boyfriend always this pathetic?” Seungmin is the forgetful one this time. He stands with his back against the door, as if the large window panel beside it hadn’t already given away the perpetrators inside the tiny room, with a certain weight in his eyes despite his joking tone. It makes you wonder whether it’s just another one of his calculated questions, designed to get you to say exactly what he wants.

You gulp before stating, matter-of-factly, “You mean ex-boyfriend.”

And saying it should hurt—should feel like a sharp reminder that there’s now a gaping hole in your chest. But instead, it gets mistranslated in the way you tip back to sit further up on the desk, letting your Mary Jane-clad feet swing from a table that’s probably seen more balled fists slammed down in anger than anything else.

“No. That’s why everything he’s doing now surprises me.” The second the words are out, they hang wrong in the air. You’re doing it again. Giving him the benefit of a doubt he’s never earned. Instantly, your mouth curls, and before you know it, you fall into Seungmin’s trap one way or another. “Actually, you know what? Yeah. He’s so fucking pathetic.”

You lock eyes with the baseball player, gripped by this strange urge to unload a year’s worth of frustration onto him—the same way his coach expects his bat to hit a home run every time. And you don’t know if it’s because he looks strong enough to take it, or because you want to see if he’ll break. See if he’ll finally get angry at you.

“Dongmin has been pathetic since the night I tried riding him and he panicked about me bending his shrivelling dick into some weird flesh origami. He’s selfish and stupid. Always has been… he just did a really fucking good job of making me think he wasn’t.”

You scoff, doing everything to stay light and calm under these weird circumstances. Though the room still clings to a quietness that leaves no room for peace—just an overbearing pressure that reminds you Seungmin is very much here, listening to you blurt out your sex horror stories—still watching you.

His face doesn’t shift. You regret ever taking his sarcastic nature for granted, because you would’ve killed to see his lips wobble with the control to keep himself from smiling. But there’s not a smirk.

Then he says it—low.

“Who was it?”

Your pulse stutters. It’s a vague question, and you could, all the more, ask him to explain himself clearer, but you knew what it had to be after the commotion in the toilet—so did your body, which involuntarily thinks about the time it stung with pleasure underneath Dongmin, thinking about Seungmin—and all you can muster as a response is… nothing.

You watch nervously, suddenly turning into a gladiator in an arena, eyeing the stalking lion that pushes off the doorframe, rounding around the desk. It was quite possibly the hottest Seungmin had ever looked. But you knew the reason why he kept walking closer—halting just where your knees tied close together—was because you had already given your confession in reverse, and all he was looking for was proof that he wasn’t going insane.

Instinctively, your mind wills your legs to part—just enough, a silent invitation for Seungmin to close the space between you. But he’s already made that decision himself. His hands brush the sides of your knees, guiding them apart before stepping in, like he’s been waiting for this moment longer than you’ve been dreading it.

The hem of your skirt hikes up with the movement, the cool air licking at the heat between your thighs—your body betraying you, aching to buck into the rough fabric of his pants.

“Seungmin,” you breathe, though you don’t know if it’s a warning, or a plea. It sounds too soft. Too wanting. Like you’re asking for something neither of you are ready to name.

His fingers haven’t stopped swiping at your skin. “What did I do?”

“Nothing. It was nothing.” That was a lie. But it felt easier than trying to explain the truth—that it wasn’t him fucking you senselessly into the mattress that pushed you over the edge. It was worse than that. It was the image of him smiling, soft and stupid. Or the quiet outline of his back turned toward you, relaxed and unguarded, like he was waiting for you to come wrap your arms around him.

That was what ruined you. Something so devastatingly ordinary that it cracked the floor beneath you wide enough to fall straight through it.

Straight into him.

He laughs, puffing hot air into your face. “Bullshit. You haven’t been able to look at me for more than a second.” There’s a note of patience in his throat. “I knew it was me… even before you got with Dongmin.”

By now, the desperate need for him to hold you is confused with the want to punish him.

“If you knew—” You shove him a little. He doesn’t budge, and it does nothing but anger you more when you feel him inch his fingers under your skirt, dizzyingly close to where your hips meet your thighs, like he’s testing how much you’ll let him take while you’re still mad at him.

And he takes, and takes.

“If you knew, then why’d you mess with me so much? You could’ve left me alone. But instead, you slept with every girl who looked your way. Paraded them in front of me like I wasn’t even—”

“Because I wanted you to stop looking at me like I was something you could actually love,” Seungmin says harshly. “I’m not good at this. I don’t know how to do relationships without disappointing someone. So yeah, I might’ve fucked girls who didn’t matter—sue me. You also used Dongmin to bury everything you felt for me.”

Your jaw is tight, glaring intensely. “I did love him.”

But by now, the button of Seungmin’s jeans is pressed firm against the heat of your core, and you can’t think back on any shared memory between your ex-boyfriend that had the opportunity to come this close to being this shattering. No, there had to be one. Was there?

When he speaks again—his voice barely a breath, inches from your wet mouth—it doesn’t sound like a confession.

It sounds like a fucking verdict.

“Enough to picture my face while he was fucking you.”

Then there’s a moment—just one—where your mouths finally collide (with the lone clumsiness of forgetting the baseball player’s hat and colliding with the brim first before anything, chucking it to the side), hands grabbing and kneading your body with such force. And Seungmin’s mouth—fuck—his mouth leaves a small cluster of fires that drop into your belly, igniting and burning down the lining of your stomach until all that’s left is a hollowed-out ache in the shape of him.

You whimper when his fingers dip low, hooking under the thin bands of your underwear. He tugs—up—and the fabric wedges tight between your folds, pressure zeroing in on your clit so sweet and sharp it knocks the breath out of you.

“Ngh—ah—” you gasp, legs twitching and opening wider. He settles back, eyes blown out and taking you in.

Then he drags one finger down. Slow. Feather-light. Tracing the tension he just created. From the peak, right over the swollen fabric, down, down—until he’s pressing deep over your clothed entrance, and it’s enough to break something loose inside you.

“Was this how you looked like thinking about me?” You moan in response to his lewd question, your hips jerking forward, chasing the friction like it’s the only thing that makes sense anymore. It’s pathetic how quickly you’re spiralling. How fast he reduces you to this before he’s even inside you.

And that terrifies you.

Because this was real. It wasn’t the dissociating images you conjure up to distract you from the stale rhythm of someone trying to love you the right way. It was Seungmin, with his teasing mouth and bruised heart, being consumed with his very own desires and satiating it the only way he knew how to.

It was imperfect.

“I can’t do this.” Your hand slips up, resting lightly against his arm—just enough pressure to still him. Seungmin stops, confusion flashing across his face, then fades into something softer. He doesn’t speak—just watches you, waiting.

“I trust you as my best friend. I always have.” You glance away for a beat, then back up at him. “But this... what we’re doing—I don’t trust you with it. Not yet. It has to grow naturally. I need to know it’s real. That this isn’t just... hormones or timing or some ego trip because I came thinking about you.”

There’s still an unclear want to give in to him while resisting him. “I don’t want 20 minutes of something intense that disappears by morning. I want to know we’re both in this for the right reasons. That we’re risking the friendship because we actually want each other... not because it feels good to be wanted.”

The silence stretches. “I’m not saying don’t try. I’m saying... if we’re doing this, I need us both to mean it.”

This is the part you forgot how to do. The part that got buried after a year of being Dongmin’s perfect ‘yes man’. Always agreeable, always softening your edges to fit the version of you he could manage. You spent so long smoothing over his messes that the idea of setting a boundary felt foreign.

So no—choosing yourself doesn’t feel like some glowing act of self-empowerment. It feels like rejecting the one thing you’ve been aching for. It feels like standing in front of someone you’ve loved in too many complicated, unspoken ways... and saying not yet.

“If that’s what you need, I’ll try.” It’s not a promise, but it’s enough. Seungmin leans back, helping you readjust your underwear, the wetness making sitting all the more uncomfortable, though it entertains the baseball player. Perhaps it’s a small payback from all the shitty treatment he’s gotten from his coach.

“Just… don’t hold the first three screw-ups against me,” he adds, mouth twitching into something not quite a smile. “I’m more practice than presentation. Not really the flowers and teddy bears type.”

A small laugh tumbles past your lips, appreciating the familiarity in his tone. “No. You’re more ‘boy’s locker room and lending your girl your baseball jersey after marking her up in it’ type.”

That gets him. A blink paired with a slow raise of one slit brow—like he’s filing the image away in his memory cabinet in real time, just in case he needs it later for inspiration.

Your phone buzzes with perfect timing, eliminating the growing awkwardness. Fishing it out and lazily flicking open your screen, Seungmin doesn’t ask at first. Just watches. But the second your features quirk—

“Who is it?” he says, not too casual, distracting himself by bending and picking up his baseball cap, dusting it off against his thigh that was too close to his growing bulge.

You glance up. “Weird... it’s Felix. He just sent me his part of the project. I’ve been chasing him down for a week.”

Seungmin leans back against the window, arms crossed again. “Guess guilt finally won.” He says it flatly, but there’s a flicker of something beneath his words—amusement, mostly. Like he’ll bring this moment up in a couple of days, preferably around Felix, coaxing him to outwardly say who had played a big role in successfully getting him to help you.

You type a quick reply, shooting off a sarcastic thank-you message with one hand. A beat later, your phone dings again. But this time, the sound doesn’t come from your device.

It comes from somewhere outside the door.

Seungmin pieces it together quickly. “Felix?” Craning his head back to peer out through the office window, the ace player watches parts of his fellow teammate become visible behind a row of lockers, hand poking out within the darkness, holding up a lit phone.

“I was gonna knock,” comes Felix’s unmistakable voice—a little nervous and rightfully grossed out for someone who eavesdropped from outside the coach’s office. “But things got wild really quickly… so I tried breaking the ice over text.”

[linolinoing]

HYUNIBINI ♡ SKZ CODE EP. 61

[binhourly]

update! I’m still trying to balance uni work and writing, but it’s not going too well hence the quietness, but i wanted to pop by and say I’m whizzing through a seungmin fic which was really unexpected but I’m really enjoying the voice of the story. it’ll probably be posted sometime this week but don’t quote me on it! (cautionary, it’s 18+ 👀) in the meantime, i wanted to thank everyone interacting with my post, it’s such a rewarding feeling and it brings me upmost joy. love you!!

[hyunpic]

fluffjin..

[binhourly]

New to Tumblr?? 🤭💗

hell yeah!!!! I’ve had one since i was 14 but pretty much reblogged movie related posts, so it’s my first time actively using one. the next boss level is ao3

[binhourly]

how do you edit your headers like that wow >.<

trust me when i say you can do so much with just picsart & phonto! the finish product is still one out of 100 dumps but if you’re patient enough you can make a photoshop dupe! 🤍🥹