Hi pookie c:
Could I request the members reacting to readers fan tumblr/ fanfics if it is possible? (go wild)
PAIRING: OT8 X READER (separately)
SYNOPSIS: your boyfriend find your tumblr account and it's got some things on there
GENRE: CRACK, SMUT
CONTENT: GN!READER, HEAVILY IMPLIED READER WRITES FANFIC ABOUT THEM,
SS: 8
NOTE: Thank you for this mattie. deep down i've been wanting to write something like this but didnt know what 🫶🏻
18+ work!! minors and ageless/blank blogs DNI! you will be blocked, put an indicator on your blog somewhere that you are 18+ before interacting with this work/blog
☾ ━━━━━━ 𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍 + 𝐋𝐄𝐄 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖
☾ ━━━━━━ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐁𝐈𝐍 + 𝐇𝐘𝐔𝐍𝐉𝐈𝐍
☾ ━━━━━━ 𝐇𝐀𝐍 + 𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐗
☾ ━━━━━━ 𝐒𝐄𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐌𝐈𝐍 + 𝐈.𝐍
M.LIST TIP JAR WANNA JOIN MY TAGLIST?
please support writers by reblogging and/or leaving feedback
➺ content: gaming buddies, online chatting, developing feelings, pining (already), felix is a genji main, y/n plays support, slight angst about idol life vs reality.
➺ summary: after the boy in the hoodie leaves a mysterious receipt with a gaming username on it, y/n has a choice to make. she discovers exactly who 'felix' is, but when she logs onto overwatch at 2am, she realizes the global superstar might just be a lonely guy looking for a player two.
➺ author's note: ahhh i'm so excited, another chapter for this series. i'm finally back home and have so much planned for the future. reblogs, likes and comments are appreciated, they keep me going!
My apartment was only a ten-minute walk from Whisk & Moon, but that night, the walk felt like a fever dream. The rain had stopped, leaving the streets slick and reflecting the neon signs of the convenience stores like oil on water.
I climbed the three flights of stairs to my studio apartment, tossed my keys into the bowl, and immediately slumped onto my sofa without taking off my coat.
In my hand, the receipt was already softening from the damp air.
BBokari_915.
I stared at the scrawl. It was messy, hurried. The handwriting of someone who didn't have time to write things down often, or perhaps someone whose hands were shaking from exhaustion.
"Lee Felix," I said aloud, testing the weight of the name in the safety of my own living room.
I pulled my phone out and did what any rational person in the 21st century would do. I opened Google.
The search results populated instantly. Millions of hits.
Stray Kids Felix deep voice compilation.
Stray Kids Felix 'God's Menu' killing part.
Is Felix the sunshine of K-pop?
I clicked on the first video. The screen filled with bright lights, cheering crowds, and aggressive camera cuts. And there he was. Sharp eyeliner, silver jewelry, moving with a precision that looked lethal. He rapped with a growl that rattled my phone speakers. He looked untouchable. Dangerous, even.
I paused the video and looked at the receipt again.
The boy who had sat in my bakery an hour ago had apologized for dripping water on my floor. He had looked at a brownie like it was a holy relic. He had laughed at a drawing of himself holding a whisk.
"It's the same person," I muttered, trying to reconcile the two images. The idol on the screen and the wet kitten in my shop.
I tossed the phone aside. It felt invasive to keep looking. If he wanted to be the idol, he would have stayed at the dorm. He had come to Whisk & Moon to be... well, just Felix.
I walked over to my desk, where my PC setup hummed in sleep mode. I woke it up, the monitors bathing the dark room in a soft blue glow. I loaded Overwatch, the familiar theme music swelling through my headset.
I hesitated over the "Add Friend" button.
What if it was a joke? What if he gave me a fake ID? Or worse, what if he wakes up tomorrow morning, realizes he gave a random baker his private gaming handle, and blocks me before I can even say hello?
I typed it in anyway. BBokari_915.
Sent.
I expected it to sit in limbo for days. I expected him to be asleep, or practicing, or being an idol.
Ding.
Friend Request Accepted.
My heart did a traitorous little flip against my ribs. Almost immediately, a chat invite popped up.
BBokari_915: You’re the brownie girl, right? Or did I just add a random stranger?
I smiled, my fingers flying across the mechanical keyboard.
Y/n_Banana: I’m the brownie girl. And you’re the guy who owes me for a towel.
BBokari_915: I’m good for it. I promise. You up for a match? Can’t sleep.
Y/n_Banana: It’s 2 AM.
BBokari_915: Is that a no?
I sighed, pulling my headset over my ears.
Y/n_Banana: Invite me.
Two seconds later, I was in a lobby. I saw his mic icon light up.
"Hello?" The voice was unmistakable. Even through the compression of the voice chat, that deep rumble was there. But it sounded different now—lighter. Less burdened.
"Hey," I said, leaning back in my gaming chair. "You know, usually when people say they can't sleep, they drink herbal tea. They don't log on to shoot people."
"Shooting people is therapeutic," he replied. I could hear the click-clack of his keyboard in the background. "I'm going Genji. Please tell me you play support. I need a pocket healer. My usual team... they let me die on purpose. It's tragic, really."
"I play Ana," I said, locking in the sniper healer character. "But I don't pocket. You want healing, you stay in my line of sight. If you dash behind a wall, you're on your own, sunshine."
There was a pause. A beat of silence where I worried I’d been too casual, too familiar with someone who had millions of fans screaming his name.
Then, a low, delighted laugh filled my ears.
"Yes, ma'am," Felix said. "Let's win."
We played for two hours.
He was good. Surprisingly good. He played with a hyper-focused aggression that contrasted steadily with his polite demeanor in the bakery. He called out enemy positions, cheered when I landed a sleep dart on a charging tank, and groaned theatrically when he got eliminated.
We didn't talk about his job. I didn't mention the Google search, the music videos, or the fact that I knew exactly why he was awake at 3 AM (probably jet lag or adrenaline from a schedule).
We just existed in the game.
"One more," he pleaded around 4 AM. "We're on a winning streak. You can't break the streak, Y/n. It's bad luck."
"My eyes are burning," I said, rubbing my temples. "And I have to open the shop in five hours."
"Ah." The energy in his voice deflated instantly. "Right. The shop. The real world."
"The real world," I echoed. "Some of us have to knead dough."
"I wish I could help," he said, and he sounded strangely sincere. "I'd rather knead dough than... do what I have to do tomorrow."
"What do you have to do tomorrow?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.
A pause. "Dance practice. Seven hours of it. Then a fitting. Then recording." He sighed, a heavy sound that crackled the mic. "My legs hurt just thinking about it."
I stared at my screen, at his username glowing in gold. "Then go to sleep, Felix. The game will be here later."
"Yeah," he murmured. "Okay. Goodnight, Y/n. Thanks for... you know. Carrying me."
"I totally carried you," I teased.
"In your dreams. Night."
He logged off instantly.
The silence that rushed back into my apartment was deafening. I sat there for a long time, staring at the offline status of BBokari_915.
For the next three days, I didn't see him.
He didn't come to the bakery. He didn't log onto Overwatch, or at least, not when I was online.
I tried to convince myself I didn't care. I was a 23-year-old woman with a business to help run and an art portfolio to build. I didn't have time to pine after a K-pop idol I had met once.
But every time the bakery bell chimed, I looked up.
I found myself falling down the rabbit hole of "Stray Kids" content during the slow hours at the shop. I learned their names. Chan, the leader who looked like he carried the weight of the world. Hyunjin, the dramatic artist. Han, the all-rounder.
And Felix.
I watched interviews where he smiled so bright his eyes turned into crescents, radiating happiness. I watched him comfort the other members. I watched him do aegyo that made me cringe and laugh at the same time.
It was disorienting. The Felix on the screen was Felix the Idol. He was performing. He was giving pieces of himself to millions of people.
But the Felix who had sat at table four, dripping rainwater and eating a brownie? That felt like something rare. Something he didn't give away often.
And I realized, with a sinking feeling in my gut, that I wanted to protect that version of him.
It was Friday night when he returned.
The weather was clear this time, the Seoul sky a hazy purple from the city lights. It was late, just past 11 PM, and I was in the back kitchen, finishing up the prep for the weekend rush.
The chime rang.
I wiped my flour-dusted hands on my apron and walked out, my heart doing a stupid, hopeful flutter.
It was him.
He wasn't wearing the hoodie this time. He was wearing a black bucket hat pulled low, a grey flannel shirt over a white tee, and a mask covering half his face. But I recognized the eyes. And the blonde hair peeking out from under the hat.
He was standing by the display case, looking at the empty trays.
"We're closed," I said, leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen.
He turned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. I could tell he was smiling behind the mask.
"I heard a rumor," he said. The voice was just as deep as I remembered, sending a shiver down my spine. "That this place has the best brownies in the city. But the service is terrible. The baker forces you to dry off before she feeds you."
I couldn't help the grin that spread across my face. "Only the stray cats. They track mud everywhere."
He pulled his mask down, revealing that scattering of freckles. He looked tired again, but not as desperate as the first night. He looked... comfortable.
"I brought you something," he said.
He reached into a paper bag he was carrying and pulled out a small, rectangular box. He placed it on the counter and slid it toward me.
I approached cautiously. "What is it?"
"Payment," he said. "For the towel. And the carry."
I opened the box. Inside was a brand new, high-end gaming mouse. It was sleek, black, and definitely more expensive than my rent.
My jaw dropped. "Felix, I can't accept this."
"You have to," he said simply. "I heard you clicking the other night. Your switch springs are dying. It was driving me crazy. I can't have my support playing on faulty hardware."
"My hardware is fine! And this is... this is too much."
"It's spare," he lied. I knew he was lying. "Please. Just take it. Consider it an investment in my future wins."
I looked at him, really looked at him. He was leaning against the counter, looking at me with an expression of hopeful expectancy. He wanted me to take it, not because he was rich and could throw money around, but because he wanted to contribute to the thing we shared.
"Fine," I sighed, closing the box. "But only because my left click actually is sticking."
"I knew it," he whispered triumphantly.
"So," I said, crossing my arms. "Are you here to critique my hardware, or do you want a brownie?"
"Actually," he said, glancing toward the kitchen. "I was hoping I could help you bake."
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I have two hours," he said, checking a sleek watch on his wrist. "Manager thinks I'm at the gym. I'm not supposed to eat sugar, and I'm definitely not supposed to be baking it. But..." He looked around the empty, quiet shop, inhaling the scent of vanilla and yeast. "I really need to not be Lee Felix for two hours. Can I just... help?"
It was a terrible idea.
If anyone saw him back there, I’d be in trouble. If he burned himself, his company would sue me into oblivion. It was risky, stupid, and illogical.
I looked at his hands, twitching slightly at his sides. Hands that were used to clutching microphones and signing albums, now itching to hold a whisk.
"Wash your hands," I said, nodding toward the back. "And here. Put this on."
I tossed him a spare apron. It was bright pink and had a cartoon strawberry on the front.
He caught it, held it up, and stared at it.
"Pink with strawberries?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"It's the only spare I have," I lied. "Take it or leave it, Sunshine."
He huffed a laugh, tying the apron around his waist. "Fine. But if we're doing this, we're making brownies. And we're doing it my way. No folding the eggs like they're sleeping."
"Get in the kitchen, Felix," I laughed, pushing the swinging door open.
As he walked past me, smelling like expensive cologne and rain, I knew I was in trouble. Big trouble.
"Where's the flour?" he asked, rolling up his sleeves.
"Top shelf. Don't make a mess."
"I never make a mess," he said, grabbing the jar.
Five minutes later, he dropped the measuring cup, sending a plume of white flour exploding into the air, coating his black shirt, his eyelashes, and the tip of his nose in white powder.
He froze, looking like a deer in headlights.
I stood there, covered in the collateral damage, staring at him.
Slowly, a grin spread across his face. A mischievous, boyish grin that belonged entirely to him, not the idol.
"Oops," he whispered.
I grabbed a handful of flour from the counter and threw it right at his chest.
"You are cleaning that up," I declared.
He laughed, the sound echoing off the tile walls, loud and free. And for the next two hours, the world outside—the fans, the cameras, the pressure—ceased to exist. It was just flour, sugar, and the boy who smiled like the sun.
permanent taglist: @theartisticlibrarian
series taglist: @mysticetti @diekleinesuesse @akindaflora
➺ content: fluff, strangers to lovers, bakery au, idol x non-idol, rainy nights, comfort, felix is a tired kitten, midnight snacks.
➺ summary: y/n loves the silence of her bakery at midnight. It’s the only time the world feels quiet. but when a soaked boy in an oversized hoodie stumbles in looking for shelter from the seoul rain, her quiet routine is interrupted. she doesn't know he's a global superstar; she just knows he looks like a lost kitten who desperately needs a brownie.
➺ author's note: wooo first fic on this account! i have written fics before for skz but never published them. they are not skz x reader so idk if people would be interested in them, so i decided to create a new blog and post skz x reader works. hope you enjoy this short thing i wrote—it might turn into a small series if people like it. likes, reblogs, and any interactions are appreciated! <3
chapter 1: the sanctuary of sugar and rain
« [Masterlist] | [Next Chapter] »
The rain in Seoul that night didn’t just fall; it felt like it was trying to drown the city, washing away the neon grit of the day until nothing was left but grey puddles and the sound of rushing water.
Inside Whisk & Moon, the world was muffled and warm. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of caramelized sugar and yeast. It was a smell that usually comforted me, but tonight, at 11:45 PM on a Tuesday, it just smelled like exhaustion.
I leaned my hip against the cool marble counter, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. My sketchbook lay open next to the register, a half-finished charcoal drawing of a cat sleeping on a windowsill smudged by my flour-dusted sleeve.
"Twenty minutes," I muttered to the empty shop. "Just twenty minutes until I can lock the door and pretend the world doesn't exist."
My aunt, the owner of the bakery, liked to say that late-night shifts were 'romantic.' She claimed that the most interesting people bought pastries at midnight. So far, my 'interesting people' consisted of drunk salarymen looking for sobering carbohydrates, university students running on caffeine and panic, and the occasional stray cat scratching at the glass.
I picked up my rag and started wiping down the espresso machine for the third time, purely for something to do. The silence was heavy. The only sound was the hum of the display fridge and the rhythmic thrum-thrum-thrum of rain against the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I liked the solitude, usually. As an illustrator struggling to find her style, the quiet hours were supposed to be my creative peak. But lately, the silence just felt lonely. It felt like I was waiting for something to happen, but I had no idea what.
I walked over to the display case to pull the unsold items. We usually donated them to the local shelter in the morning, but there was a batch of brownies on the bottom shelf that I had accidentally over-baked. They were perfectly edible, just a little too crispy on the edges to sell at full price. I plated one for myself, staring at its cracked, chocolatey surface.
Ding.
The brass bell above the door cut through the rain, startling me so bad I nearly dropped the brownie.
I snapped my head up. "I'm sorry, we're technically clo—"
The words died in my throat.
The figure standing in the doorway looked like he had been spat out by the storm itself. He was drenched. Absolutely soaked. He wore an oversized black hoodie that swallowed his frame, the hood pulled so low it cast a shadow over his entire face. His baggy grey sweatpants were dark with water up to his shins, and his sneakers squeaked pitifully as he shifted his weight on the welcome mat.
He didn't move further inside. He just stood there, dripping onto the tile, shivering slightly.
"I... I saw the light," he said.
The voice stopped me cold.
It didn't match the pitiful image of the boy in the hoodie. It was deep. Startlingly deep. A rich, resonant baritone that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards and settle somewhere in my chest. It was the kind of voice that should be narrating a noir film, not apologizing in a bakery doorway.
I blinked, recovering my wits. "The light is on," I agreed, my voice sounding thin compared to his. "But the registers are closed."
He slumped visibly. It wasn't an angry slump, or an entitled one. It was the body language of someone whose last thread of hope had just snapped. "Ah. Right. Okay. Sorry to disturb you."
He turned to leave, his hand reaching for the brass handle.
I looked at his shaking shoulders. I looked at the relentless deluge of rain smashing against the glass outside. I looked at the lonely, rejected brownie on the plate in my hand.
"Wait," I called out.
He froze, hand on the door.
"You're dripping on my floor," I said, softening my tone. "If you go back out there, you're going to catch pneumonia, and I don't want that on my conscience. Come in. I'm not selling anything, but... I have rejects."
He turned back slowly. "Rejects?"
"Pastries," I clarified, gesturing to the counter. "Ugly ones. They taste fine, they just have low self-esteem."
A pause. Then, a low, breathy sound came from under the hood. A chuckle. "Low self-esteem pastries," he repeated. The deep voice curled around the syllables. "Sounds like my kind of crowd."
He stepped fully inside, and the door clicked shut, severing the noise of the storm.
"I'm Y/n," I said, walking around the counter to the small seating area. I pulled a chair out at the corner table, the one furthest from the window and hidden from the street view. "Sit here. It's the warmest spot."
He hesitated, seemingly wary of being seen, but he took the seat. He kept his hood up.
"I'm... Yongbok," he said quietly, then paused. "I mean... Felix. You can call me Felix."
"Two names?" I asked, walking back to the kitchen to grab a clean towel.
"Complicated life," he murmured.
I returned and held out the towel. He took it with hands that were slender and pale, his fingers long and elegant. As he dried his face, the hood fell back slightly, and I finally got a look at him.
I sucked in a small breath.
He was striking. There was no other word for it. Even with wet, blonde hair plastered to his forehead and dark circles under his eyes that spoke of bone-deep exhaustion, he was beautiful. Ethereal, almost. But what caught my attention wasn't the sharp jawline or the delicate features; it was the freckles. A constellation of them dusted across his cheeks and nose, raw and uncovered by makeup.
He looked up, catching me staring. He flinched, almost imperceptibly, as if bracing for a camera flash or a scream.
I blinked and turned away, focusing on the espresso machine. "I can't make coffee," I lied. I could, but he looked like he hadn't slept in three days. Caffeine was the last thing he needed. "But I can steam milk. Do you like chocolate? Or honey?"
The tension in his shoulders dropped an inch. "Chocolate," he said softly. "Please."
I got to work. The familiar ritual of steaming milk, the hiss of the wand, the clink of the ceramic mug—it filled the awkward silence. I mixed in a generous amount of dark cocoa powder and a drop of vanilla, creating a hot chocolate that was thick enough to be a meal.
I brought the mug over, along with the plate of two "ugly" brownies.
"On the house," I said, sliding them toward him.
He wrapped both hands around the mug, closing his eyes as the heat seeped into his palms. "Thank you," he whispered. "You have no idea."
"Rough night?" I asked, pulling out the chair opposite him. I sat down backward, resting my chin on my arms. I didn't treat him like a customer. At this hour, we were just two tired people escaping the rain.
"Rough week," he corrected. He took a sip of the cocoa and let out a long, satisfied sigh. "Rough month, actually."
"I get that."
He looked at me over the rim of the mug. His eyes were dark, intense, and surprisingly observant. "You're an artist?" he asked, nodding toward the sketchbook I'd left on the counter.
"Trying to be," I admitted. "Currently, I'm a professional flour-duster who draws cats on napkins."
He smiled. It was a small thing, but it transformed his face. The sunshine quality of it was at odds with the deep voice and the storm outside. "I like cats. And I like flour." He broke off a piece of the brownie and popped it into his mouth.
His eyes went wide.
He chewed, swallowed, and stared at the brownie as if it had personally offended him. "Who made this?"
"I did," I said, suddenly defensive. "I told you, the edges are burnt, it's not my best work—"
"It's perfect," he interrupted, his voice serious. He took another bite, larger this time. "It's not too sweet. It’s dense. Fudgy. Did you use sea salt?"
"A pinch. To cut the sugar."
He looked at me with a newfound respect. "I bake," he said, shifting in his seat, leaning in closer. The wariness was melting away, replaced by genuine enthusiasm. "Or, I try to. When I have time. Which is never. But my brownies never turn out like this. They get... cakey."
"Too much baking powder," I diagnosed instantly. "Or you're over-beating the eggs. You have to fold them. Gently. Like you're tucking them into bed."
Felix laughed. It was a bright, airy sound that made the empty shop feel less lonely. "Tucking them into bed. I'll remember that."
For the next twenty minutes, we didn't talk about why he was walking in the rain at midnight without an umbrella. We didn't talk about why he looked so familiar, though my brain was starting to itch with the recognition of a face I’d seen on billboards or YouTube ads.
Instead, we talked about sugar ratios. We argued about whether white chocolate was valid chocolate (he said yes, I said absolutely not). He told me about a video game he was stuck on, and I sketched a quick, caricature doodle of him fighting a boss monster with a whisk, which made him laugh so hard he nearly choked on his cocoa.
For a moment, in the bubble of Whisk & Moon, he wasn't whoever he was out there. He was just a boy with freckles and a sweet tooth.
The rain eventually slowed to a drizzle. The spell broke when his phone, hidden somewhere in the depths of his wet hoodie, began to buzz.
It wasn't a normal vibration. It was a frantic, continuous buzzing that suggested someone on the other end was losing their mind.
Felix’s face fell. The light in his eyes dimmed, replaced instantly by the exhausted mask he had worn when he walked in. The walls went back up.
"I have to go," he said, his voice dropping back to that low, formal register.
"Duty calls," I said, standing up.
He stood too, pulling the damp hoodie back up, hiding the blonde hair, hiding the freckles. He looked at the empty mug and the crumb-dusted plate. "How much do I owe you? Really. For the towel, the shelter... the best brownie of my life."
I shook my head. "It was a reject batch, remember? You did me a favor by eating them. Consider it a garbage disposal service."
He paused, looking at me. He seemed to be searching for something in my face—maybe recognition, maybe judgment. He found neither.
"Y/n," he said, testing the name.
"Felix," I replied.
He reached into his pocket, but instead of a wallet, he pulled out a small, slightly damp piece of paper. It looked like a receipt from a convenience store. He grabbed the pen from my apron pocket—a bold move—and scribbled something on the back of it.
"I can't pay you," he said, placing the paper on the table face down. "But... thanks for not asking."
"Asking what?"
"For a photo," he said simply.
Before I could respond, he turned and pushed out into the night. The bell chimed, ding, and the door swung shut.
He was gone as quickly as he had appeared.
I stood there for a moment, listening to the fading rhythm of the rain. The shop felt twice as empty as it had before. I walked over to the table to clear his mug. The ceramic was still warm from his hands.
I picked up the receipt he had left. On the back, written in a hurried, angular scrawl, was a short list.
1. Don't over-beat the eggs. 2. Use sea salt. 3. Overwatch username: BBokari_915. 4. I'll be back for the non-rejects.
I stared at the paper, a laugh bubbling up in my throat.
I walked over to the window, pressing my hand against the cool glass. The street was empty, the boy in the hoodie long gone, swallowed up by the Seoul night.
I finally realized where I knew him from. My cousin had a poster on her wall. Stray Kids. The one with the voice that didn't match his face.
"Lee Felix," I whispered to the empty bakery.
I looked down at the username on the receipt.
I locked the front door, flipped the sign to Closed, and for the first time in months, I wasn't just going home to sleep. I was going home to log into Overwatch.
Summary: While watching Minho practice late into the evening, you accidentally stumble upon a breaking news article about a celebrity couple who secretly married; sending your thoughts spiraling about your own hidden relationship with him. One heated moment turns into another as Minho pulls you into his lap, teasing you with kisses and sensual heated bites until the two of you are interrupted and dragged to the studio, where the boys immediately spot the marks he left on you and spiral into chaotic, ridiculous theories. Despite the group’s cluelessness, Minho smugly revels in winning the bet that they’d never figure it out, pulling you close as the two of you leave together, already planning your secret getaway.
A/N: Divider was created by @adornedwithlight, thank you for sharing your dividers with tumblr!
Part One: Mark My Words (And My Shoulder), Part Three:
The sound of squeaking shoes fills the dance practice room where you sit up against the mirrors idly scrolling through social media on your phone. Minho had asked you to come visit with him after work while he practiced a new song choreography for a music awards show that they were going to be performing at soon. The two of you were trying to soak up as much time together as you possibly could as his busy schedules loom over him in the near future. Your eyes dart up from your phone when you hear a particularly loud squeak and you watch as Minho shifts and dances with precise movements that have you stunned and in awe of his skill. His body twists and turns in such a fluid yet strong sharp way that it makes you dizzy.
“Goodness.” you mutter softly as your eyes trail his sharp steps. Heat forms in your stomach as your eyes trail him being reminded of how he moves against you when you’re both alone and Minho smirks devilishly at you as if he heard you over the music and his shoes. You quickly look back down at your phone knowing that you had been caught staring at your boyfriend and daydreaming of him when you’re alone with him. You know you have only a few moments before he becomes your problem and you try to distract yourself before it happens hoping to soften the blow of his teasing.
Your thumb scrolls through your feed and you easily lose yourself in the blur of brightly colored advertisements and bold news article headlines. But suddenly something catches your eye and you gasp as you click on the news article. It was then that there was a lull in the music and Minho turned his head towards you after hearing your sharp gasp. He continues dancing but his eyes stay focused on you while you’re swiftly reading the news article that you had just found. Secret Relationship Revealed, Completely Out Of The Public Eye. Your eyes race down the article that details two of your favorite kdrama celebrities announcing their marriage to each other. The thing that’s so surprising is that they had never actually been linked at all in any way shape or form beforehand. Shock and surprise consume you at the news before you’re racing to the comments to see what all the fans are saying wondering if this news broke the internet.
And like you had thought it would, the fans and netizens are absolutely going bonkers over this news. There’s fans who are giving out well wishes to the happy couple, there’s netizens who are hopeful for a long happy relationship for the two of them and some collaborative works from them, and then there’s the sasaengs who have listed out conspiracy theories as well as timelines of when these two started dating and how long they’ve been together. Your eyes widen as your mouth falls open slowly in shock as you glance over the thousands of comments on the article. You’re actually shocked that the website hasn’t crashed with how many comments and no doubt traffic on the article it’s gained. You’re so lost in the article and the comments that you don’t hear the song end or hear Minho’s footsteps as they come walking over to you.
“Wait…these two were dating this whole time? There weren’t even any rumors!” you say to yourself bewildered.
“Who are you talking about?” Minho asks breathlessly as he plops down on the floor next to you. You lean into his side unconsciously and show him your phone so that he can read the article as he looks down at you with a soft smile. He quickly reads the article and some of the comments before chuckling softly as he hands you back your phone.
“Guess they’re better at hiding things than we are.” he jokes and you shoot him a soft glare.
“Technically we haven’t been found out yet. If only someone would control himself and stop leaving bite marks all over me. It’d be a little easier to keep our relationship to ourselves.” you tease him and he grins wickedly at you before shrugging his shoulders as his eyes dance over you heatedly.
“Can’t help it when my girlfriend is as attractive as you are.” he quips back and you laugh at him while rolling your eyes and leaning further into his side. He smirks softly down at you before pressing a kiss to the skin behind your ear as his breath pants out against your ear making you shiver slightly. “You drive me wild.” he husks out before nipping gently at your ear lobe causing you to flinch away.
“You think that’ll be us? Quietly dropping the bomb one day?” you ask him softly as you turn and smile widely at him. Minho scoffs before taking a sip from his water bottle and then shakes his head.
“Us? Please, we almost got caught by Jisung last week.” he bites out goodnaturedly and you frown at him softly as you thought back to that night. You had been leaving Minho’s bedroom after going out to dinner and then coming back to his place to cuddle for a little bit before having to head home since you had work the next morning. You had barely been paying attention as you left his room, your mind foggy and dazed from the lazy heated kisses he had been giving you. The cuddle session you had come back to his apartment for had quickly turned into a lazy hot makeout session between the two of you and that had quickly clouded your mind until you couldn’t think of anything besides Minho and his lips. When he had begun pressing a few deep kisses into the skin just below your collar you knew you had to leave or you wouldn’t be leaving at all that night. So with a heavy heart and an even heavier sprawled out Minho you had started the process of disentangling yourself from him.
As you had finally made it to his bedroom door and opened it to step out and leave, Minho had quickly grabbed you by the wrist and yanked you back into his chest before pressing you up against the wall next to his door. He stared sultrily into your eyes for a moment before looking through the open doorway with a furrowed brow as he heard the key in his front door. Quickly guiding you back behind the door he smiled softly as he greeted a very tired Jisung who stumbled through the front door from a long studio session.
”Hey Hyung, what are you still doing up?” Jisung asks sleepily as he shuffles into the apartment and down the hallway towards his bedroom.
”Just getting ready for bed when I heard you coming in.” Minho answers him softly and you press your lips together to keep yourself from making any noise. You heard Jisung shuffling further down the hallway mumbling something about a song and Minho nodding his head along with his words before he followed Jisung down the hallway to his bedroom doorway. You peered around the door at him and Minho gestured with his hand for you to leave which had you nodding your head at him before slipping out of his bedroom. Just as you were beginning to walk down the hallway towards his front door he yanked you back by the wrist and pressed a sensual heated kiss to your mouth that had you gasping and melting against him. “I’ll see you later Jagi.” he whispered into your mouth before gently pushing you away and towards the door. You dazed and confused walked quietly down the hallway and slipped silently out the door catching one last look at him before you gently closed the door behind you.
“Honestly I’m surprised we didn’t get caught that time but when Jisung is tired he doesn’t notice much around him.” you mused softly and Minho chuckled softly as he pressed another heated kiss to your ear.
“It was still worth it though. Those little gasps you make have been starring in my dreams at night.” he tells you sultrily and you smile softly at him before turning your body to slide into his lap, your arms come up around his shoulders and your hand card through his hair causing him to groan out loudly as his head tipped back in pleasure.
“Is that so?” you ask in a soft husky tone that makes his mouth drop open and his eyes to open at half mast as he watches you.
“Yeah.” he gasps out and you smirk down at him before gripping his hair tightly for a second and tugging softly making him gasp and groan loudly.
“Well if Kitty didn’t have a biting problem then maybe he could hear more of those little gasps he likes to hear.” you teased him and Minho smirked wickedly before his arms latched around your waist and dragged you further into his lap while his head shifted forward towards you. You gasped loudly and Minho smirked even more as he settled you firmly in his lap while he gazed up at you heatedly.
“You like my biting problem.” he tells you huskily as he leans forward and nips at your collarbone lightly which makes you suck in a breath harshly before you whimper softly as you sit fully in his lap gazing at him softly. “You know,” he starts suddenly as his eyes take you in with a soft look that’s a stark contrast to the heated wet kisses he’s peppering along your collar bone and the base of your neck. “I like hiding you, having you to myself without any expectations or interruptions, but eventually…” he says honestly before trailing off. “I’m gonna tell them. Not anyone else, just the guys. I want to show you off even while I like having you all to myself.” he finishes honestly.
You’re too distracted to respond properly as his thumb brushes along the edge of your jaw and tilts your head up as his mouth moves along the skin under your jaw. He pulls away for a moment and gazes at you for silent heated beat before diving in, his lips meet yours in a slow claiming dizzying kiss that has your mind unfocused and clouded.
“You make it hard to stay patient.” he says in between kisses before his lips begin trailing down the side of your face and back to latch onto the skin under your jaw.
“Mi-Minho” you gasp out as he sucks harshly at your skin.
“Hmm?” he hums out and you whimper when you feel his tongue glide against your skin.
“What about the bet?” you gasp out when his teeth nip at the base of your neck. Minho laughs against your skin, deep and sinful, at the mention of the silly bet he made you about the boys not finding out about the two of you dating. He suddenly takes a solid bite at the juncture of your neck and shoulder and you keen loudly with pleasure at his movement.
“Getting greedy for that vacation, are you?” he asks teasingly, his voice husky as his eyes gaze up at you from his spot at your neck. You barely manage a sound to respond before he finds the spot just beneath your jaw, the one that makes your head tilt back and your breath hitch in your throat. His teeth graze your skin before his mouth closes over it in a hot, claiming suction.
“Minho-” you gasp out at him.
“Shh, consider it motivation.” he murmurs, lips still pressed to your pulse. “If they don’t figure it out, I’ll still take you away. Just you and me. No secrets.” he promises you and your breath catches before your eyes flutter open just as his phone starts to ring on the floor beside you loudly. “Shit.” Minho curses softly as he jolts from underneath you mostly in shock but also in desirous pleasure at having you in his lap. You both recognize the ringtone and groan together as your head falls forward to tap his forehead with your own. “It’s Changbin, of course. Biggest cockblock in the group.” Minho grumbles and you chuckle softly as you tilt your head to the side.
“I thought that was Jisung with how he hangs on you all the time.” you tease him and he glares playfully at you before he darts his hands out, one to tickle at your side while his other reaches out and grabs his cellphone effortlessly answering the call as you let out a peal of laughter.
“Minho hyung! Are you with Noona again?” he whines out and Minho smirks at you while you blush softly.
“Yah, don’t be a jealous brat.” Minho scolds Changbin softly who cries out loudly in protest.
“We need to lay down your verse, so come to the studio Minho hyung. Chan hyung is waiting so bring Noona with you so we can see her too!” Changbin calls out loudly and you laugh when Minho glares at the phone while yanking it away from his ear at the loud voice. He grumbles while he hangs up the call before looking over to you.
“You heard him Jagi. Field trip.” he tells you before swatting your ass to get you off his lap. Minho helps you gather all of your things before guiding you out of the practice room. Just as you’re leaving the room you look over at the mirror and gasp loudly as you spot not only the large hickey on the underside of your jaw but also the distinct bite mark on the bottom of your neck. Minho smirks devilishly at you in the mirror before pushing you out of the room, not giving you any time to survey the damage he caused.
When Minho opens the door for you and you walk inside the studio your eyes quickly dart around the room spotting each of the boys. Jisung is sprawled out on the couch with his head in Felix’s lap on one side while Jeongin sits on the opposite end of the couch bickering with Seungmin who stands next to the couch. Hyunjin is sitting at one of the tables drawing in his notebook next to Changbin who’s looking down at a lyric and music sheet. And finally Chan is sitting at the producer’s table bouncing his attention from his laptop to the mixing board with his large headphones firmly over his ears. You smile softly at the sight of them sprawled out in the room before Jisung looks over and calls out loudly in greeting causing everyone to turn to you and Minho.
“Hey Noona! Did Minho finally drag you out of hiding again?!” Jisung calls out and you burst out in happy laughter as you stand to the side letting Minho walk into the room as well.
“You say that like she doesn’t willingly show up.” Minho grumbles out as he rolls his eyes at Jisung who just grins widely at him. Minho slips into the recording booth and quickly puts his headphones on before looking over to Chan, effectively leaving you to face the chaos of the boys alone.
“Noona, come sit next to me and protect me from Seungmin hyung. He won’t leave me alone.” Jeongin whines loudly and you chuckle softly as Seungmin glares at him with wide eyes and an incredulous look on his face.
“You’re the one who’s been arguing with me!” he protests loudly and you chuckle again as you move to take a seat next to Jeongin to create space between the two men. “Noona, don’t believe a word that fox says. He’s a liar.” Seungmin snips out and you give him a kind reassuring look.
“Easy you two.” you try to placate them as you get settled next to Jeongin, your hair falls back with your movement and that’s when the dark marks Minho left on your neck are uncovered. You don’t see it but Jeongin’s eyes narrow on the mark underneath your jaw only being able to see a part of it from the angle he’s sitting at. He gently reaches out and lifts your jaw which causes you to flinch back slightly.
“WAIT.” Jeongin says loudly as his voice cracks and you feel dread begin to fill you. “Is that a hickey?!” he shouts bewildered and six other faces turn towards the two of you while a seventh one smirks dangerously from the studio booth as his eyes dart over to your panicked ones. You know what’s coming. First there’s silence and then absolutely pandemonium as seven men all begin yelling loudly as a few of them get up from their spots further away from you.
“Noona’s in her scandal era!” Hyunjin yells delightedly as he watches you from his seat at the table with sparkling eager eyes. “Drop the deets Noona. You were very tight lipped last time. We deserve answers now.”
“You deserve nothing, you nosy busybody.” you shoot back at him and he bursts out in gleeful laughter before he teasingly puckers his lips at you while you roll your eyes at him.
“Not again! Did we tell you that whoever he is needs to treat you gently?” Felix asks teasingly as he wiggles his eyebrows at you.
“Do we need to order a mold kit again?” Chan asks teasingly as he eyes with a quiet look of respect that has you blushing at the implication. Seungmin scoffs softly from beside you and eyes you with a disgusted look on his face before he’s smirking softly at you.
“Noona’s got a wild side.” Seungmin teases and you flinch back away from him, surprised at the switchup in his attitude.
“Nah, at least this one’s not shaped like teeth!” Jisung retorts as he stares at you with wide eyes.
“Yeah,” Changbin says softly as he gently grips your chin and tilts your head up to get a better look at the mark already wincing as his eyes race over the mark. “Was it a different guy Noona? Someone more gentler, maybe?” Changbin asks you softly and worriedly before his eyes spot the bite mark that Minho had left further down your neck and lets out a low long whistle. “Nevermind, it’s the same guy. Chan order that mold kit, this one is more distinct than the last one.” Changbin says and all the boys turn and look at the two of with wide surprised eyes. Changbin shows them all the bite mark and chaos erupts once again.
“NOONA!” shouts Felix and Seungmin loudly both men have wide eyes but Felix winks at you afterwards which makes your stomach drop with embarrassment.
“YOU. ARE. NOT. A. CHEW. TOY!!!!” Jisung yells each word into the room and you flinch back at his loud tone.
“Don’t worry I ordered three mold kits!” Chan calls out with a grin on his face and you huff at him as he chuckles softly. Your face burns with embarrassment as you sink further into the couch.
“Please just let me die already.” you mutter softly.
“Chan order five more and put it on my card!” Minho calls out as he watches from behind the booth glass and you shoot him the ugliest glare he’s ever seen you muster. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
“You sure you’re okay? Because this is like, what? The second time someone’s-” Chan begins to say as he looks over at you from the mixing board.
“I’m fine.” you hiss softly trying to get him to stop talking as embarrassment floods you completely as you duck further into the couch. Chan smiles softly at you with a warm knowing look before he nods his head once and turns back to the mixing board. You see movement out of the corner of your eyes and turn to see Jisung tilting his head as a pensive look falls over his face.
“That must’ve happened recently, though. Like earlier today because last night you were on the phone laughing with Minho for like an hour.” Han says curiously and all of the boys freeze before they all look slowly over at Han causing your breath to hitch in your throat as you see the gears in each of their heads turning. And then as if in sync they all swing their heads towards Minho, who without missing a beat keeps singing into the mic like he hasn’t just been outed. You wait with bated breath wondering if you’ve just won the bet against him.
”Wait…Minho? No…he wouldn’t.” Felix says softly before turning his head to Jeongin. “Would he?” He asked softly.
”Noona,” Hyunjin’s voice calls out in a singsong tone and your eyes dart over to him waiting for him to connect the dots, hoping against all hope that he’ll be the one to do it. “Why would you string Minho Hyun along like that?” He asks softly with a soft pout on his lips. All hope evaporating within you and you hang your head for a moment before tilting your head back to gaze up at the ceiling.
As the room dissolves again, this time into wild accusations and disbelief flying around the room from each of the boys you stare at them all bewildered and amazed how clueless they actually were. When you hear Changbin ask Han in a soft voice if Minho has noticed these marks you sigh defeated knowing that they’ll never get before your bet date.
Your eyes dart over to Minho who’s still in the booth listening to Chan’s guidance about the lyrics and song as he nods his head. Just as he’s about to go back to singing his eyes swing over to you before darting to the boys and then back at you. A wicked smirk slowly slips across his face as you silently glare at him. That smirks means only one thing to you, you’re mine, and it’s further proven to you as his gaze turns dark and victorious as he stares at you.
Later on that evening as the recording session comes to a close you stand near the door of the room watching as the boys all begin to pack up. They’re all still buzzing with excitement and energy from recording and from the spotted hickey and bite mark on your neck. They’re throwing around wild theories about who you’re secretly dating and why you’d be so adamant about keeping it a secret.
”Maybe she’s dating a government spy! You know like one in the movies and he’s sworn her to secrecy for his protection!” Chan blurts out and you stare at him with wide eyes wondering where his brain cells had gone. And you silently worried that maybe he had been working for too long lately.
”Or maybe it’s another idol from a different label and they don’t want it to get out to the public and fans.” Changbin says with a tilt of his head and you cross your arms as you lean back against the wall. You have to admit that’s the closest any of them have gotten to the actual truth so you gotta give it to Changbin for being the one to almost get it.
You don’t bother looking over at Minho as he packs up his stuff because you can already feel the teasing grin on his face. He’s eating this all up and you know he’s going to gloat but you refuse to give him that time yet. Just then he walks past you to the door and whispers out to you which causes your eyes to dart up and connect with his.
”I told you they’d never figure it out. Clueless, every one of them.” He whispers and you scowl at him softly.
”Changbin got close.” You whisper back and he smirks before shaking his head and then turning to look at Changbin over his shoulder before turning back to you as you both hear Changbin start listing off names of different idols that you could be dating and you sigh softly. “You’re insufferable.” You tell Minho softly and he grins while slinging his arm over your shoulders and guiding you out of the room.
”You love it.” He replies before pressing a quick kiss to just behind your ear that no one catches and makes you shiver in his hold.
”Minho hyung! Do you and Noona want a ride back?” Chan calls out as they all start spilling out into the hallway outside the studio. Minho turns to him with a soft smile before shaking his head as you look around at the group all watching the two of you.
”Nah, I owe this one dinner tonight.” Minho says with a soft uplift in his voice. “We’ve got plans to make for a trip soon.” Minho says teasingly and you roll your eyes at him.
”Noona, is your secret boyfriend alright with spending so much time with Minho hyung?” Hyunjin asks suddenly and you look over at him curiously. “I mean you and Minho hyung are so close, does that make it awkward for your boyfriend?” He asks confusedly and you smile softly before shaking your head.
”Nope, the boyfriend is very confident in himself.” You say teasingly as Minho tugs you closer with a soft chuckle. As the two of you walk off together with a wave from Minho you can hear the boys all talking quietly behind you.
”You really think it’s another idol?” Asks Felix softly.
”Or could it really be the dance instructor?” Han asks softly. Minho chuckles into your ear and you flinch away from him as your own soft smile slips onto your face.
”Told you,” Minho murmurs as he crowds you closer to him. “Idiots. But let's go and plan that trip Jagi, you deserve it after having to deal with them.” He tells you softly and you lean in close to him, your cheeks warm with embarrassment as he smirks down at you, his eyes dancing with mirth.
Summary: While watching Minho practice late into the evening, you accidentally stumble upon a breaking news article about a celebrity couple who secretly married; sending your thoughts spiraling about your own hidden relationship with him. One heated moment turns into another as Minho pulls you into his lap, teasing you with kisses and sensual heated bites until the two of you are interrupted and dragged to the studio, where the boys immediately spot the marks he left on you and spiral into chaotic, ridiculous theories. Despite the group’s cluelessness, Minho smugly revels in winning the bet that they’d never figure it out, pulling you close as the two of you leave together, already planning your secret getaway.
A/N: Divider was created by @adornedwithlight, thank you for sharing your dividers with tumblr!
Part One: Mark My Words (And My Shoulder), Part Three:
The sound of squeaking shoes fills the dance practice room where you sit up against the mirrors idly scrolling through social media on your phone. Minho had asked you to come visit with him after work while he practiced a new song choreography for a music awards show that they were going to be performing at soon. The two of you were trying to soak up as much time together as you possibly could as his busy schedules loom over him in the near future. Your eyes dart up from your phone when you hear a particularly loud squeak and you watch as Minho shifts and dances with precise movements that have you stunned and in awe of his skill. His body twists and turns in such a fluid yet strong sharp way that it makes you dizzy.
“Goodness.” you mutter softly as your eyes trail his sharp steps. Heat forms in your stomach as your eyes trail him being reminded of how he moves against you when you’re both alone and Minho smirks devilishly at you as if he heard you over the music and his shoes. You quickly look back down at your phone knowing that you had been caught staring at your boyfriend and daydreaming of him when you’re alone with him. You know you have only a few moments before he becomes your problem and you try to distract yourself before it happens hoping to soften the blow of his teasing.
Your thumb scrolls through your feed and you easily lose yourself in the blur of brightly colored advertisements and bold news article headlines. But suddenly something catches your eye and you gasp as you click on the news article. It was then that there was a lull in the music and Minho turned his head towards you after hearing your sharp gasp. He continues dancing but his eyes stay focused on you while you’re swiftly reading the news article that you had just found. Secret Relationship Revealed, Completely Out Of The Public Eye. Your eyes race down the article that details two of your favorite kdrama celebrities announcing their marriage to each other. The thing that’s so surprising is that they had never actually been linked at all in any way shape or form beforehand. Shock and surprise consume you at the news before you’re racing to the comments to see what all the fans are saying wondering if this news broke the internet.
And like you had thought it would, the fans and netizens are absolutely going bonkers over this news. There’s fans who are giving out well wishes to the happy couple, there’s netizens who are hopeful for a long happy relationship for the two of them and some collaborative works from them, and then there’s the sasaengs who have listed out conspiracy theories as well as timelines of when these two started dating and how long they’ve been together. Your eyes widen as your mouth falls open slowly in shock as you glance over the thousands of comments on the article. You’re actually shocked that the website hasn’t crashed with how many comments and no doubt traffic on the article it’s gained. You’re so lost in the article and the comments that you don’t hear the song end or hear Minho’s footsteps as they come walking over to you.
“Wait…these two were dating this whole time? There weren’t even any rumors!” you say to yourself bewildered.
“Who are you talking about?” Minho asks breathlessly as he plops down on the floor next to you. You lean into his side unconsciously and show him your phone so that he can read the article as he looks down at you with a soft smile. He quickly reads the article and some of the comments before chuckling softly as he hands you back your phone.
“Guess they’re better at hiding things than we are.” he jokes and you shoot him a soft glare.
“Technically we haven’t been found out yet. If only someone would control himself and stop leaving bite marks all over me. It’d be a little easier to keep our relationship to ourselves.” you tease him and he grins wickedly at you before shrugging his shoulders as his eyes dance over you heatedly.
“Can’t help it when my girlfriend is as attractive as you are.” he quips back and you laugh at him while rolling your eyes and leaning further into his side. He smirks softly down at you before pressing a kiss to the skin behind your ear as his breath pants out against your ear making you shiver slightly. “You drive me wild.” he husks out before nipping gently at your ear lobe causing you to flinch away.
“You think that’ll be us? Quietly dropping the bomb one day?” you ask him softly as you turn and smile widely at him. Minho scoffs before taking a sip from his water bottle and then shakes his head.
“Us? Please, we almost got caught by Jisung last week.” he bites out goodnaturedly and you frown at him softly as you thought back to that night. You had been leaving Minho’s bedroom after going out to dinner and then coming back to his place to cuddle for a little bit before having to head home since you had work the next morning. You had barely been paying attention as you left his room, your mind foggy and dazed from the lazy heated kisses he had been giving you. The cuddle session you had come back to his apartment for had quickly turned into a lazy hot makeout session between the two of you and that had quickly clouded your mind until you couldn’t think of anything besides Minho and his lips. When he had begun pressing a few deep kisses into the skin just below your collar you knew you had to leave or you wouldn’t be leaving at all that night. So with a heavy heart and an even heavier sprawled out Minho you had started the process of disentangling yourself from him.
As you had finally made it to his bedroom door and opened it to step out and leave, Minho had quickly grabbed you by the wrist and yanked you back into his chest before pressing you up against the wall next to his door. He stared sultrily into your eyes for a moment before looking through the open doorway with a furrowed brow as he heard the key in his front door. Quickly guiding you back behind the door he smiled softly as he greeted a very tired Jisung who stumbled through the front door from a long studio session.
”Hey Hyung, what are you still doing up?” Jisung asks sleepily as he shuffles into the apartment and down the hallway towards his bedroom.
”Just getting ready for bed when I heard you coming in.” Minho answers him softly and you press your lips together to keep yourself from making any noise. You heard Jisung shuffling further down the hallway mumbling something about a song and Minho nodding his head along with his words before he followed Jisung down the hallway to his bedroom doorway. You peered around the door at him and Minho gestured with his hand for you to leave which had you nodding your head at him before slipping out of his bedroom. Just as you were beginning to walk down the hallway towards his front door he yanked you back by the wrist and pressed a sensual heated kiss to your mouth that had you gasping and melting against him. “I’ll see you later Jagi.” he whispered into your mouth before gently pushing you away and towards the door. You dazed and confused walked quietly down the hallway and slipped silently out the door catching one last look at him before you gently closed the door behind you.
“Honestly I’m surprised we didn’t get caught that time but when Jisung is tired he doesn’t notice much around him.” you mused softly and Minho chuckled softly as he pressed another heated kiss to your ear.
“It was still worth it though. Those little gasps you make have been starring in my dreams at night.” he tells you sultrily and you smile softly at him before turning your body to slide into his lap, your arms come up around his shoulders and your hand card through his hair causing him to groan out loudly as his head tipped back in pleasure.
“Is that so?” you ask in a soft husky tone that makes his mouth drop open and his eyes to open at half mast as he watches you.
“Yeah.” he gasps out and you smirk down at him before gripping his hair tightly for a second and tugging softly making him gasp and groan loudly.
“Well if Kitty didn’t have a biting problem then maybe he could hear more of those little gasps he likes to hear.” you teased him and Minho smirked wickedly before his arms latched around your waist and dragged you further into his lap while his head shifted forward towards you. You gasped loudly and Minho smirked even more as he settled you firmly in his lap while he gazed up at you heatedly.
“You like my biting problem.” he tells you huskily as he leans forward and nips at your collarbone lightly which makes you suck in a breath harshly before you whimper softly as you sit fully in his lap gazing at him softly. “You know,” he starts suddenly as his eyes take you in with a soft look that’s a stark contrast to the heated wet kisses he’s peppering along your collar bone and the base of your neck. “I like hiding you, having you to myself without any expectations or interruptions, but eventually…” he says honestly before trailing off. “I’m gonna tell them. Not anyone else, just the guys. I want to show you off even while I like having you all to myself.” he finishes honestly.
You’re too distracted to respond properly as his thumb brushes along the edge of your jaw and tilts your head up as his mouth moves along the skin under your jaw. He pulls away for a moment and gazes at you for silent heated beat before diving in, his lips meet yours in a slow claiming dizzying kiss that has your mind unfocused and clouded.
“You make it hard to stay patient.” he says in between kisses before his lips begin trailing down the side of your face and back to latch onto the skin under your jaw.
“Mi-Minho” you gasp out as he sucks harshly at your skin.
“Hmm?” he hums out and you whimper when you feel his tongue glide against your skin.
“What about the bet?” you gasp out when his teeth nip at the base of your neck. Minho laughs against your skin, deep and sinful, at the mention of the silly bet he made you about the boys not finding out about the two of you dating. He suddenly takes a solid bite at the juncture of your neck and shoulder and you keen loudly with pleasure at his movement.
“Getting greedy for that vacation, are you?” he asks teasingly, his voice husky as his eyes gaze up at you from his spot at your neck. You barely manage a sound to respond before he finds the spot just beneath your jaw, the one that makes your head tilt back and your breath hitch in your throat. His teeth graze your skin before his mouth closes over it in a hot, claiming suction.
“Minho-” you gasp out at him.
“Shh, consider it motivation.” he murmurs, lips still pressed to your pulse. “If they don’t figure it out, I’ll still take you away. Just you and me. No secrets.” he promises you and your breath catches before your eyes flutter open just as his phone starts to ring on the floor beside you loudly. “Shit.” Minho curses softly as he jolts from underneath you mostly in shock but also in desirous pleasure at having you in his lap. You both recognize the ringtone and groan together as your head falls forward to tap his forehead with your own. “It’s Changbin, of course. Biggest cockblock in the group.” Minho grumbles and you chuckle softly as you tilt your head to the side.
“I thought that was Jisung with how he hangs on you all the time.” you tease him and he glares playfully at you before he darts his hands out, one to tickle at your side while his other reaches out and grabs his cellphone effortlessly answering the call as you let out a peal of laughter.
“Minho hyung! Are you with Noona again?” he whines out and Minho smirks at you while you blush softly.
“Yah, don’t be a jealous brat.” Minho scolds Changbin softly who cries out loudly in protest.
“We need to lay down your verse, so come to the studio Minho hyung. Chan hyung is waiting so bring Noona with you so we can see her too!” Changbin calls out loudly and you laugh when Minho glares at the phone while yanking it away from his ear at the loud voice. He grumbles while he hangs up the call before looking over to you.
“You heard him Jagi. Field trip.” he tells you before swatting your ass to get you off his lap. Minho helps you gather all of your things before guiding you out of the practice room. Just as you’re leaving the room you look over at the mirror and gasp loudly as you spot not only the large hickey on the underside of your jaw but also the distinct bite mark on the bottom of your neck. Minho smirks devilishly at you in the mirror before pushing you out of the room, not giving you any time to survey the damage he caused.
When Minho opens the door for you and you walk inside the studio your eyes quickly dart around the room spotting each of the boys. Jisung is sprawled out on the couch with his head in Felix’s lap on one side while Jeongin sits on the opposite end of the couch bickering with Seungmin who stands next to the couch. Hyunjin is sitting at one of the tables drawing in his notebook next to Changbin who’s looking down at a lyric and music sheet. And finally Chan is sitting at the producer’s table bouncing his attention from his laptop to the mixing board with his large headphones firmly over his ears. You smile softly at the sight of them sprawled out in the room before Jisung looks over and calls out loudly in greeting causing everyone to turn to you and Minho.
“Hey Noona! Did Minho finally drag you out of hiding again?!” Jisung calls out and you burst out in happy laughter as you stand to the side letting Minho walk into the room as well.
“You say that like she doesn’t willingly show up.” Minho grumbles out as he rolls his eyes at Jisung who just grins widely at him. Minho slips into the recording booth and quickly puts his headphones on before looking over to Chan, effectively leaving you to face the chaos of the boys alone.
“Noona, come sit next to me and protect me from Seungmin hyung. He won’t leave me alone.” Jeongin whines loudly and you chuckle softly as Seungmin glares at him with wide eyes and an incredulous look on his face.
“You’re the one who’s been arguing with me!” he protests loudly and you chuckle again as you move to take a seat next to Jeongin to create space between the two men. “Noona, don’t believe a word that fox says. He’s a liar.” Seungmin snips out and you give him a kind reassuring look.
“Easy you two.” you try to placate them as you get settled next to Jeongin, your hair falls back with your movement and that’s when the dark marks Minho left on your neck are uncovered. You don’t see it but Jeongin’s eyes narrow on the mark underneath your jaw only being able to see a part of it from the angle he’s sitting at. He gently reaches out and lifts your jaw which causes you to flinch back slightly.
“WAIT.” Jeongin says loudly as his voice cracks and you feel dread begin to fill you. “Is that a hickey?!” he shouts bewildered and six other faces turn towards the two of you while a seventh one smirks dangerously from the studio booth as his eyes dart over to your panicked ones. You know what’s coming. First there’s silence and then absolutely pandemonium as seven men all begin yelling loudly as a few of them get up from their spots further away from you.
“Noona’s in her scandal era!” Hyunjin yells delightedly as he watches you from his seat at the table with sparkling eager eyes. “Drop the deets Noona. You were very tight lipped last time. We deserve answers now.”
“You deserve nothing, you nosy busybody.” you shoot back at him and he bursts out in gleeful laughter before he teasingly puckers his lips at you while you roll your eyes at him.
“Not again! Did we tell you that whoever he is needs to treat you gently?” Felix asks teasingly as he wiggles his eyebrows at you.
“Do we need to order a mold kit again?” Chan asks teasingly as he eyes with a quiet look of respect that has you blushing at the implication. Seungmin scoffs softly from beside you and eyes you with a disgusted look on his face before he’s smirking softly at you.
“Noona’s got a wild side.” Seungmin teases and you flinch back away from him, surprised at the switchup in his attitude.
“Nah, at least this one’s not shaped like teeth!” Jisung retorts as he stares at you with wide eyes.
“Yeah,” Changbin says softly as he gently grips your chin and tilts your head up to get a better look at the mark already wincing as his eyes race over the mark. “Was it a different guy Noona? Someone more gentler, maybe?” Changbin asks you softly and worriedly before his eyes spot the bite mark that Minho had left further down your neck and lets out a low long whistle. “Nevermind, it’s the same guy. Chan order that mold kit, this one is more distinct than the last one.” Changbin says and all the boys turn and look at the two of with wide surprised eyes. Changbin shows them all the bite mark and chaos erupts once again.
“NOONA!” shouts Felix and Seungmin loudly both men have wide eyes but Felix winks at you afterwards which makes your stomach drop with embarrassment.
“YOU. ARE. NOT. A. CHEW. TOY!!!!” Jisung yells each word into the room and you flinch back at his loud tone.
“Don’t worry I ordered three mold kits!” Chan calls out with a grin on his face and you huff at him as he chuckles softly. Your face burns with embarrassment as you sink further into the couch.
“Please just let me die already.” you mutter softly.
“Chan order five more and put it on my card!” Minho calls out as he watches from behind the booth glass and you shoot him the ugliest glare he’s ever seen you muster. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
“You sure you’re okay? Because this is like, what? The second time someone’s-” Chan begins to say as he looks over at you from the mixing board.
“I’m fine.” you hiss softly trying to get him to stop talking as embarrassment floods you completely as you duck further into the couch. Chan smiles softly at you with a warm knowing look before he nods his head once and turns back to the mixing board. You see movement out of the corner of your eyes and turn to see Jisung tilting his head as a pensive look falls over his face.
“That must’ve happened recently, though. Like earlier today because last night you were on the phone laughing with Minho for like an hour.” Han says curiously and all of the boys freeze before they all look slowly over at Han causing your breath to hitch in your throat as you see the gears in each of their heads turning. And then as if in sync they all swing their heads towards Minho, who without missing a beat keeps singing into the mic like he hasn’t just been outed. You wait with bated breath wondering if you’ve just won the bet against him.
”Wait…Minho? No…he wouldn’t.” Felix says softly before turning his head to Jeongin. “Would he?” He asked softly.
”Noona,” Hyunjin’s voice calls out in a singsong tone and your eyes dart over to him waiting for him to connect the dots, hoping against all hope that he’ll be the one to do it. “Why would you string Minho Hyun along like that?” He asks softly with a soft pout on his lips. All hope evaporating within you and you hang your head for a moment before tilting your head back to gaze up at the ceiling.
As the room dissolves again, this time into wild accusations and disbelief flying around the room from each of the boys you stare at them all bewildered and amazed how clueless they actually were. When you hear Changbin ask Han in a soft voice if Minho has noticed these marks you sigh defeated knowing that they’ll never get before your bet date.
Your eyes dart over to Minho who’s still in the booth listening to Chan’s guidance about the lyrics and song as he nods his head. Just as he’s about to go back to singing his eyes swing over to you before darting to the boys and then back at you. A wicked smirk slowly slips across his face as you silently glare at him. That smirks means only one thing to you, you’re mine, and it’s further proven to you as his gaze turns dark and victorious as he stares at you.
Later on that evening as the recording session comes to a close you stand near the door of the room watching as the boys all begin to pack up. They’re all still buzzing with excitement and energy from recording and from the spotted hickey and bite mark on your neck. They’re throwing around wild theories about who you’re secretly dating and why you’d be so adamant about keeping it a secret.
”Maybe she’s dating a government spy! You know like one in the movies and he’s sworn her to secrecy for his protection!” Chan blurts out and you stare at him with wide eyes wondering where his brain cells had gone. And you silently worried that maybe he had been working for too long lately.
”Or maybe it’s another idol from a different label and they don’t want it to get out to the public and fans.” Changbin says with a tilt of his head and you cross your arms as you lean back against the wall. You have to admit that’s the closest any of them have gotten to the actual truth so you gotta give it to Changbin for being the one to almost get it.
You don’t bother looking over at Minho as he packs up his stuff because you can already feel the teasing grin on his face. He’s eating this all up and you know he’s going to gloat but you refuse to give him that time yet. Just then he walks past you to the door and whispers out to you which causes your eyes to dart up and connect with his.
”I told you they’d never figure it out. Clueless, every one of them.” He whispers and you scowl at him softly.
”Changbin got close.” You whisper back and he smirks before shaking his head and then turning to look at Changbin over his shoulder before turning back to you as you both hear Changbin start listing off names of different idols that you could be dating and you sigh softly. “You’re insufferable.” You tell Minho softly and he grins while slinging his arm over your shoulders and guiding you out of the room.
”You love it.” He replies before pressing a quick kiss to just behind your ear that no one catches and makes you shiver in his hold.
”Minho hyung! Do you and Noona want a ride back?” Chan calls out as they all start spilling out into the hallway outside the studio. Minho turns to him with a soft smile before shaking his head as you look around at the group all watching the two of you.
”Nah, I owe this one dinner tonight.” Minho says with a soft uplift in his voice. “We’ve got plans to make for a trip soon.” Minho says teasingly and you roll your eyes at him.
”Noona, is your secret boyfriend alright with spending so much time with Minho hyung?” Hyunjin asks suddenly and you look over at him curiously. “I mean you and Minho hyung are so close, does that make it awkward for your boyfriend?” He asks confusedly and you smile softly before shaking your head.
”Nope, the boyfriend is very confident in himself.” You say teasingly as Minho tugs you closer with a soft chuckle. As the two of you walk off together with a wave from Minho you can hear the boys all talking quietly behind you.
”You really think it’s another idol?” Asks Felix softly.
”Or could it really be the dance instructor?” Han asks softly. Minho chuckles into your ear and you flinch away from him as your own soft smile slips onto your face.
”Told you,” Minho murmurs as he crowds you closer to him. “Idiots. But let's go and plan that trip Jagi, you deserve it after having to deal with them.” He tells you softly and you lean in close to him, your cheeks warm with embarrassment as he smirks down at you, his eyes dancing with mirth.
you were only in the street fighting industry for the internship hours.
paramedic training had its ups and downs, sure, but the best perk by far was the freedom to pick where you logged your hours. the last thing you wanted was to spend your days shadowing clinical rounds in some sterile hospital, or twiddling your thumbs in the back of an ambulance bay.
so here you are now, crouching on a folding stool at the edge of a chain-link cage, knuckles wrapped in tape and chalk dust still on your palms—not because you’re fighting, but because it looks more official that way. the air reeks of sweat, spit from thrown punches, and something metallic you try not to identify until it crosses over into your medic corner. adrenaline thrums like a constant heartbeat through the dimly lit warehouse, where the overhead bulbs buzz in protest and gaggles of fans shift in the stifling late-night heat.
your eyes scan the fighters as they dart in and out of your corner, logging vitals, noting ragged breaths, checking small cuts before they turn serious. each grunt, each slip, each jab demanded attention— and you gave it, professional instinct kicking in, even if your stomach twists at some of the violence.
he was there, of course. he always is.
he’s leaning against the far corner tonight, just beyond your reach but impossible to ignore. lee know. a fighter, an enigma, and somehow entirely predictable in his unpredictability. the first time you noticed him, he’d barely spared a glance at the corner; a flick of his gaze, a quirk of the brow. that was all you got. and yet somehow the moment had carved itself into memory.
he’s utterly recognizable wherever he goes in the warehouse, with that dark hair like a raven river sweeping across his forehead, sometimes fluffy, sometimes matted with sweat; and those broad shoulders always pulling deliciously at whatever tank he’s thrown on, arms lined with muscles that serve to power punches like nothing you’ve ever seen before.
he never spoke much whenever he deigned to let you patch him up after some of his rougher fights. just stared up at you with those piercing eyes that could make even the worst sinners blush like a saint. he was as stoic as he was skilled, but you tried not to let it deter you.
you filled the silences with your own chatter; if he minded, he never let on. but he always kissed his knuckles before throwing a punch after letting you bandage him up.
tonight, like always, his eyes find yours in the crowd. he doesn’t wave. he doesn’t smile. his presence is just… there, looming taut, dangerous, a little too magnetic. and when one of the fighters in the match preceding his takes a heavy blow in the ring, your pulse spikes— not for the fight, not yet— but for the quiet certainty that he’ll be there, watching, assessing, seeing the way you work against the damage he inflicts.
your coworker is dragging the sore loser of the last fight toward the small med station, murmuring reassurances you only half-register. your eyes stay locked on the ring. the fight is over, but a new one is about to begin— and the moment lee know steps in, the world shrinks.
he moves like water held in check: precise, controlled, but with the underlying promise of force ready to spill. you catch him stretching first– the slow rotation of his shoulders, the flex of his forearms, wrapped fingers splayed like he’s mapping the air itself. calves shift, heels rise, then land solid against the canvas, measuring distance with muscles you didn’t know could move that cleanly, that tautly.
he bounces lightly on the balls of his feet, a rhythm that’s both a warm-up and a warning. every shift of weight, every flick of his head, is deliberate. his eyes sweep the cage with surgical attention, noting angles, distances, posture, every detail that could become a weakness— or an opportunity. you swear you can see calculations running behind his gaze, lightning-quick, merciless. ready to win.
the air seems to bend around him. there’s heat, yes, but it’s not from exertion yet— it’s the aura he carries: taut and charged, a predator in pause. he traces imaginary punches midair, elbows slicing diagonals, wrists flicking out to test the arc. each movement is fluid, effortless, but it carries threat; the kind that makes your stomach tighten and your pulse spike even if nothing has touched you.
your notebook— meant to log vitals— is forgotten on the bench. your hands itch to touch, to reach out and feel how controlled every muscle is, how he could crush or protect with the same motion. the way his back flexes, the lines of his shoulders, the subtle twist of his torso as he shifts from one stance to another— he’s poetry, danger wrapped in sinew and solid intention.
he stops for a moment, eyes narrowing, scanning the cage. your chest aches for the briefest acknowledgment, some sign that he knows you’re watching. the corner of his mouth quirks up; not quite a smile, but almost.
it’s enough. you smile despite yourself.
then he loosens his fists, lets them fly in slow, deliberate shadow punches as he warms himself up. the sound of air slicing past— almost a hiss— draws your full attention. every punch has purpose, and you can see the lines connecting shoulder, elbow, wrist, knuckles, snapping back into guard. it’s motion honed to a razor’s edge, and your chest tightens with each strike.
and then he pauses at the center of the ring. stance perfect, posture relaxed but primed, gaze sweeping the space, measuring, calculating. the aura shifts— it’s less warm-up now and more for intimidation. he breathes, slow, steady, but every inhale seems to draw the air tight around you. you feel it. the temperature rises. the buzz of anticipation makes your fingers curl around your pen.
your coworker nudges you back to reality with a quiet, “you should be taking notes,” but the words barely register. all you can see is him: fluid, precise, unshakable.
and in that moment, you’re caught completely. enthralled, heart hammering, notebook abandoned, the taste of adrenaline sharp on your tongue.
he’s a fighter, yes.
but he’s also a storm, a controlled one; and you’re already teetering dangerously close to being pulled in.
—
the fight has been dragging on for the better part of an hour now.
the crowd’s roars are a distant hum in your ears, but the impact of each hit thuds through the cage, vibrating up your spine. lee know moves like water cutting stone— smooth, fast, lethal— but his opponent refuses to crumble. every jab, every hook, every measured strike is met with stubborn, ragged resistance.
you know you’re not supposed to be partial to any of the fighters; your job is to patch them up no matter what. but you can’t help it.
you clutch the edge of your bench, knuckles white as you watch him duck under a wild swing, pivot, and land a sharp hook to the ribs that makes his opponent grunt and stumble— just slightly, never enough to finish. sweat glistens along lee know’s jaw, the muscles in his neck flexing with every rotation, every strike controlled, purposeful, like he’s a hurricane contained in sinew.
then it happens.
a flash of movement you almost miss: the opponent counters with a sharp uppercut that snaps lee know’s head back, then rakes his nails across his jaw in a split-second scrape. you gasp, heart in your throat, as crimson beads bloom along the pale skin of his handsome face. the referee jumps in instantly, shouting for a time out.
lee know drops to the bench next to you like a wolf finally acknowledging the muzzle, shoulders sagging but still radiating danger. you jump to your feet, grabbing madly for your kit; he lets you cradle his head in your hands without protest, and suddenly all the chaos of the fight is replaced by this small, charged pocket of closeness.
“you’re a mess,” you murmur, reaching for the damp cloth; but there’s a tension in your voice, a flutter in your chest that betrays your calm exterior. your fingers trace the lines of his jaw, dabbing at the cut on his nose, pressing gently to stop the blood from dripping onto his shirt.
he smirks faintly, eyes glittering with mischief and sweat, even in pain. “only for you,” he rasps, and it’s just enough to make your heart pound ever harder in your chest.
you bite back a laugh, returning to the task. you wipe at his temple, cradle his cheek with care, adjusting the antibiotic cream before you lay little white bandages over the scrape. your hands linger a fraction longer than necessary, fingertips brushing against tense skin, memorizing the curve of his jaw and the tilt of his head.
“you always this careful?” he asks softly, voice hoarse, teasing in the barest of ways.
“someone has to keep you in one piece,” you reply, tone clipped but your heart racing. the words are professional enough, but your pulse betrays your growing awareness of just how close he is.
he tilts his head into your touch, eyes closing briefly. “maybe i like it when you fuss,” he admits quietly, almost shy if you didn’t know any better; but there’s heat in his chest and throat that you can feel through your palms.
the time-out bell is ticking down, the distant hum of the crowd returning. you give him one last dab at the wound, press the cloth to the scrape along his jaw, and lift your gaze. he watches you with an intensity that makes the air between you electric, his near-smirk returning as he grips the bench. you rewrap his knuckles with lightning speed– just to be sure.
“am i all patched up, y/n?” he murmurs, voice low, dangerous, teasing, the ghost of a smile playing at the corner of his lips.
you smile back against your better judgement and nod. “go get ‘em, tiger,” you say softly, and he raises his freshly wrapped knuckles to his mouth, kissing them once with a smirk before the bell rings and the fight resumes.
—
the gym is almost empty now, the crowd thinned to the last few diehards who shuffle toward the exit, shouting their goodbyes or slapping each other on the back. the overhead bulbs hum low, casting long shadows across the sweat-slicked canvas. your coworker has already packed up, leaving you alone with him, the quiet settling like a second skin.
lee know is still sitting on the bench, shoulders tight from the fight, knuckles still wrapped in your white tape, sweat glistening along the sharp lines of his forearms. you crouch in front of him again, kit open at your side, fingers brushing against the newest shallow cut along his cheek as you dab at it with antiseptic. his jaw is tight, lips pressed together; but he leans into your hands, just enough to tell you that your touch doesn’t feel like an intrusion.
“you should ice this one,” you murmur, careful, tracing the curve of his jaw where a faint bruise promises to bloom later. it’s only yellow for now, but it’ll brighten into an ugly purple soon enough if he’s not careful.
“i’ll live,” he answers lowly, his eyes flicking up to meet yours for a fraction of a second before returning to where he’s slowly unraveling the wraps around his fists.
“you always brush your injuries off,” you press, tone soft but insistent, wanting to hear more than the clipped surface. you smooth out the tiny white bandage across his nose, whispering a soft sorry when he winces ever so slightly.
“habit,” he murmurs with a shrug, letting the word hang. it’s neutral enough; but the tilt of his head, the way his gaze keeps catching yours, says otherwise.
your fingers linger, brushing gently over the edge of his cheek where the blood has dried in a faint line. his eyes are half-lidded, chin tipped just so that your touch reaches the curve of his jaw. he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t jerk away; he just lets you patch him up, stoic, silent, like he’s anchoring himself to the moment. like he’s letting you anchor yourself to him.
“does it hurt?” you ask softly, though you already know the answer– he always says no. your hand hovers over the still-healing cut on his temple from a previous fight, your thumb brushing the edge of his skin as if testing for a reaction. he doesn’t lean in, but he doesn’t pull back, either.
“not like it did last week,” he murmurs, voice clipped, but there’s something in the tone— barely perceptible— that tells you he’s amused by all your fussing. a flicker in his eyes betrays it.
you dab lightly at the last little scrape, antiseptic cooling against his warm skin, tracing the line of the cut with care. your pulse hammers a little harder in your chest with each brush of your fingertips. he shifts subtly, just a fraction, trusting you to take care of him. you always do.
“you’re quiet,” you murmur, brushing the damp cloth across his temple again. “usually you’d be muttering complaints or some cryptic advice.”
“not tonight,” he says flatly, gaze dropping to the floor. the words are short, yes, but there’s weight to them. he doesn’t want to speak, but he also doesn’t move away. he allows this— he allows your hands on him; allows your focus, your presence.
you tilt your head, studying him. there’s a faint sheen of sweat along the curve of his jaw, along his neck, and the muscles beneath flex gently under your fingertips when he adjusts his posture. your eyes trace him with care, memorizing the lines, the tension, the way his body moves even when he’s still. you press the damp cloth to his forehead once more.
“you let me do this too easily,” you say; your voice is almost a whisper, your fingers still lingering over the scrape along his cheekbone.
he meets your eyes, and you swear you forget how to breathe. “yeah, well. someone’s gotta keep me from falling apart.” he leans his head into your hand for a fraction more than necessary, and you swear you can feel his heartbeat through his skin. it’s steady, strong, almost mocking your own racing pulse.
“how do you do it?” you ask suddenly, voice low. “how do you keep so… precise? so controlled in there?”
“practice,” he answers, clipped, eyes finally meeting yours, “years of it.” his gaze is sharp, calculating, but something softer flickers in it— respect, acknowledgment, maybe even a trace of humor.
“come on. there’s more to it than just practice,” you press, leaning in just slightly, your hand brushing over his shoulder as you adjust a bandage you’ve fussed over too many times already.
and then the words crystallize before you have time to think about them: “teach me.”
he freezes. for a fraction of a second, his expression remains unreadable, lips pressed tight. then his eyes flick down to your hands, brushing against his skin, brushing against him in ways that maybe aren’t just for clinical care. he swallows, subtle, and finally exhales. “maybe someday.”
you catch his eye with a spreading grin, “someday? c’mon, you’ve got to give me a starting point,” you pester, refusing to let him hide behind his usual stoicism. “just a little. just enough for me to understand. i’ll be careful, i promise.”
he glances away, jaw tight, fingers flexing. the faintest smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “mm…you’re relentless, you know?” he murmurs, voice low, almost indulgent, almost a warning.
“if you’re trying to flatter me into dropping it, that was a miserable failure,” you say teasingly, eyes locking with his. the heat between you thickens, silent and charged. your hands hover near his temple again, touching nothing yet holding everything. your fingers squeeze the cloth still in your grasp like it’s a tether to reality.
he finally leans back slightly, that smirk firming into something more real. “fine,” he concedes eventually— but the weight in his tone is enough to make your chest lift. “i’ll teach you. step by step. but not now; i apparently have some injuries i need to ice tonight.”
you smile despite yourself, pulse still fast, savoring the victory hidden in the concession. “deal,” you say firmly. the promise of learning how to hold your own hangs heavy in the quiet gym, louder than any fight you’ve watched tonight.
he watches you a beat longer, expression still revealing too little, but the faintest warmth in his eyes betrays some small part of him that’s already anticipating the lesson. your fingers twitch, itching to trace the lines of his face again, but you no longer have any real reason to do so. nothing professional, anyways.
so you step back, careful; letting him remain ever the enigma, the storm, the controlled force that yields to you in small and stolen moments.
and as the last of the sparse crowd files out, the gym hums low, filled only with the two of you, the quiet aftermath of chaos, and the unspoken promise of what’s to come.
—
the practice room is half-dark by the time lee know wanders in, the overhead light buzzing like it’s on its last leg. the stale air smells like chalk dust and old sweat, concrete floor stained where gloves and knuckles have bled out. you’re perched on a low bench, knees bouncing.
you catch his eye as he approaches, smiling faintly; he doesn’t grant you one back, but you do catch his lips twitching once before he drops onto the stool in front of you without a word.
he’s holding a roll of hand wraps.
“give me your hand.” his voice is flat, the kind that doesn’t bother making room for argument; you have half a mind to ask why. but you find the words die out on the tip of your tongue.
you hold a hand out for him, palm stiff, like you’re not entirely sure what you signed up for. he catches it, and his hand dwarfs yours— skin rough, knuckles scarred, but grip steady. the cloth stretches as he threads it around your wrist the way you’ve done for him so many times; tight, but not too tight. his fingers brush the inside of your palm when he anchors it between each of your fingers, and you swear your heart hits the ceiling.
he doesn’t look at you, only at the slow rhythm of wrap after wrap, like you’re another fight he’s breaking down into steps. “you’ll break your thumb if you tuck it wrong,” he mutters. when you shift into making a fist with the hand he’s wrapped, he huffs through his nose— annoyed— and repositions your grip himself.
his touch is clinical. it shouldn’t feel like anything. but it does.
he removes your thumb from inside the fist and nudges it to the side, then presses over your closed fingers once to check your strength. he sighs, but doesn’t move you any further; you must’ve done something right. he moves on to wrapping your other wrist.
by the time he finishes the second hand, he’s close enough that his knee knocks yours when he straightens. he nods sharply toward the bag hanging in the corner. “stance.”
you copy what you’ve seen him do a hundred times from your side of the ring— feet planted, fists up. it earns you nothing but his signature exhale. “too wide. weight’s off.” he says shortly. he taps your heel with the toe of his shoe until you shift. then he presses your shoulder, making you bend just slightly. “lower.”
you roll your eyes. “are you always this bossy?”
his gaze flicks up, unreadable. “depends, princess. you always this sloppy?”
you should fire back. you should. but his chest brushes your back when he steps in to adjust your form, and your brain blanks out completely at the touch. his hand closes over yours, angling your wrist until the punch feels like it could actually land.
he doesn’t move away once he’s done fixing your stance; just stays there, breathing steady, the air between you far too heavy to ignore. finally, he steps back, allowing you to drive a jab into the bag.
the sound is satisfying—sharp, solid. you think it’s a decent enough punch.
but before you can pull back for another, his hand flashes out and catches your fist mid-air, sparks humming to life in your veins. the cloth’s tight against your skin, your pulse hammering into his palm through it.
he studies you for a beat too long. “not bad.” the praise comes low, almost reluctant. and then he lets go like he’s been burned, stepping away before you can ask what the hell that look in his eyes was.
“you need more weight behind it though,” he says, “throw your body into it.” he jerks his chin toward the bag again. “punch.” so you do. or— you try.
your fist thuds against the bag, more of a sloppy swing than a clean strike. the bag barely shivers, and you hear that sigh you could recognize anywhere from behind you once more. “again.”
his voice is clipped, but not wholly unkind. just focused– like you should be.
you throw another. you’re still off.
he exhales yet again, the sound closer to a growl this time, and steps in. one scarred hand circles your wrist, the other steadying the back of your elbow. he guides you through the motion slow, almost painfully slow, showing you the correct form.
“straight line, no curve. your shoulder leads.” he pushes until your arm extends exactly the way he wants it, knuckles brushing the bag. “you don’t throw with your arm. you throw with everything.”
you crane your head back to blink at him, confused. “everything?”
he doesn’t bother explaining; instead, his palm finds your hipbone, nudging it until your stance shifts, then taps your core with two fingers. you think your eyebrows can’t possibly fly any higher up your forehead. “here. start here.”
the touch is fleeting but it leaves heat under your skin nonetheless, like he’s markimg you through the fabric. you feel like if you were to peel the material away, you’d see his handprints branded over every place he’s touched you tonight.
“try again.”
this time you hit the bag with the full twist of your body. the sound is louder, cleaner. you look back for his reaction; his mouth barely twitches— approval, maybe— but he doesn’t linger on it.
he circles around, pacing. “give me some combinations. one-two, right-left.” you follow his example after he punches the bag in demonstration, jabbing twice after him. the second throw slips, and your fist collides weakly with the bag.
he catches your hand before you can reset. “stop aiming for power, y/n. aim for precision. power comes later.”
you want to snap at him— you’re trying, damn it— but he’s already moving, standing directly behind you now, one arm guiding yours through the motions again like a puppeteer. your back presses flush with his chest every time you extend, driving you slowly mad. the bag sways gently with the echo of your punches.
the room has gone too quiet, still except for the drag of wraps with every punch, the smack of fabric on canvas, the rasp of both your breaths. finally, he steps back, eyes narrowed. “spar it.”
your jaw threatens to drop. “you mean… spar with you?”
he shakes his head, gaze unreadable. “with the bag.” then, after a beat, “i’ll push.” he braces the bag with his forearms, those muscles lining his arms pulled taut, waiting.
you hit it again— jab, once, twice. each strike drives the bag into him, but he doesn’t budge. just stares at you over the top of it, sweat beading along his temple, absorbing your every move like it’s nothing. his mouth is a firm line, just as unyielding as the rest of him.
“harder.”
you grit your teeth and throw another set, putting your whole body into it. your knuckles sting under the wraps, your lungs burn, your muscles protest loudly; but the feeling is liberating, addictive. you keep going under his neverending gaze. his voice cuts in low, steady: “better. go again.”
by the time your arms ache to the point of screaming, he finally lets the bag swing free. it collides back into your chest harder than expected, knocking you back a step with an ungraceful ‘oomph’.
he lets out a chuckle; it might be one of the first you’ve ever heard from him. you think he should laugh more. “maybe i should teach you dodging next,” he mutters.
you roll your eyes, taking the chalk he’s offered from his outstretched hand. “shut up, minho.”
–
you find yourself back in the gym the following week, lee know at your side as he shows you how to block incoming punches.
the lights overhead flicker faintly, buzzing like they’re the only other ones awake this late. sweat and chalk hang heavy in the air, and the bag sways idly from its chain as if it’s already bracing for impact. you’re jittery with anticipation, fists balled, ready to swing like last time.
but before you can even so much as cock your arm back, his palm flattens firmly against your wrist, halting you mid-motion.
“guard first,” he says evenly, eyes cutting to yours in a way that makes the order sharper than the words themselves. “you’ll get wrecked if you can’t protect your face. fists up.”
you frown, but obey, raising your hands. they hover somewhere near your cheeks— close enough, you think.
apparently not.
he huffs through his nose, stepping closer until his shadow nearly swallows you. his fingers slide over your knuckles, nudging them higher into a more protective position. the rough drag of his hard-fought calluses over the back of your hand sends sparks down your spine.
“too low,” he mutters. “like this.”
he curves your elbow inward with a guiding press, his touch patient but unyielding. your chest tightens. he’s not even really looking at you, more focused on your stance than he is on the deep blush rising to your cheeks, but every adjustment has you fighting to keep your pulse steady.
you drop your guard instinctively just to catch your breath. big mistake.
his hand darts out, quick as a strike, flicking you lightly on the forehead. “dead,” he says simply, smirk curling at his lips.
your jaw drops. “you didn’t even—”
“exactly.” he interrupts smoothly. his gaze finally flickers up, that same half-grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “block, or take a hit. there’s no in-between in a fight.”
you groan but reset anyways, throwing your hands up again. he doesn’t look impressed.
when he raises his own hand, curling it into a loose fist, you realize belatedly that he intends to test you. “ready?”
you nod, determined this time— only to flinch when his knuckles ghost slowly toward your cheek, the barest shell of a punch meant only to simulate reality. your hands fly up too long after they should’ve.
he catches your wrists midair, holding them in place. “you’re distracted,” he murmurs observantly. “can’t afford to be distracted in a real fight, though. if you ever get in one.”
your pulse is erratic against his grip– you are distracted, far too caught up in how his hair is falling into his eyes and not worried enough about your less-than-perfect guard form. he doesn’t squeeze your hands, doesn’t fully restrain; but somehow the steadiness of his grip feels stronger than anything.
“again,” he orders, releasing you.
this time you plant yourself, knees bent, fists tighter. when his hand comes forward, you meet it with your forearm. the block isn’t clean, but it’s contact.
a quiet hum escapes him, low in his throat— approval, maybe. he takes your elbow then, shifting the angle. “closer. you don’t want space for anything to slip through.”
his chest brushes your shoulder as he leans in to demonstrate, his own arm lifted in a perfect guard. the proximity alone makes your head spin.
“copy it,” he tells you, voice steady, but you can feel the heat radiating off him where he lingers.
you mimic his posture, and he adjusts slowly, one fingertip tapping the dip of your ribcage to tell you to tighten up; then a palm steadying your wrist, his other hand ghosting over your jawline just to tilt your face into the right alignment.
you’re melting. completely. utterly.
he notices— of course he notices— but his expression doesn’t betray more than the faintest twitch of amusement, of awareness, before he drops his hand back to his side.
“better,” he says simply. then, after a beat, “again.”
you block the next slow jab cleaner. the one after that is even sharper. he doesn’t praise, not outright; but his eyes linger a little longer on your stance, and when his hand comes to reset your elbow once more, it feels less like correction and more like… confirmation.
“you’ll get there,” he murmurs, almost too low to catch.
your chest is tight, your fists trembling— not from the exertion, but from the way every brush of his hand leaves an aftershock. a trail of fire zips down your skin, radiating, spreading from each point of contact.
lee know doesn’t comment on it. doesn’t have to. the twinkle in his dark eyes says it all.
when the bag sways in the corner, begging for more strikes, you glance at it eagerly; but his voice cuts through. “not yet. you should work on your guard until it’s second nature.”
you pout petulantly, “but punching is the fun part.”
his lips twitch again, fleeting amusement warming the otherwise cool set of his features. “punches are only fun if you’re still standing to throw one.”
and then his fist comes toward you again in slow motion, testing, relentless— forcing you to block, to feel the weight of his presence in every correction, until your muscles ache and your chest heaves.
by the time your arms feel like lead and your guard’s trembling more than holding, he finally steps back, head tilting as he studies you. his gaze flickers from your fists to your flushed face, then back again. if you didn’t know any better, you’d think there’s an appreciative glint behind those dark eyes you’ve become so fond of.
“…good enough,” he says at last, almost begrudging. “you’ve earned a swing.”
you don’t bother hiding your grin as he jerks his chin toward the bag. the thing sways gently, chain creaking overhead like it’s mocking you.
you draw back your fist, exhilaration rushing your veins— only to feel his palm flatten lightly between your shoulder blades. you jolt.
“not like that.” his voice rumbles close to your ear, his breath grazing the side of your face. “reset.”
your knees nearly buckle, but you obey, planting yourself again.
his hand doesn’t leave. it slides down, pressing at your spine, coaxing you to square your shoulders. the heat of him is everywhere— his chest just behind you, his knee brushing the back of yours when he nudges your stance narrower.
“weight here.” his palm finds your hip, guiding until your balance shifts. “drive through it.”
your throat goes dry. you’re barely listening to the words— only the cadence of them as they brush past your ear from behind, steady and close. the hand on your hip is purely instructional; but it’s not. right now, it’s so much more. it leaves you dizzy and exhilarated, fighting for your next breath as much as you’ve been fighting to keep a perfect form.
he doesn’t wait for you to ask. his hand covers yours over the wraps, guiding your arm back into position. “again. with me this time.”
you punch forward, his hand slowly directing your line and then releasing as you put power behind it. the bag shudders weakly.
“better,” he mutters. but he doesn’t move away. instead, his other hand lands lightly on your stomach, fingertips just grazing your abdomen as he presses. “tighter here. everything comes from here– all your strength and power.”
you swallow hard, pulse hammering. your whole body feels strung taut between his steady hands, splayed almost possessively over your skin– shoulder, stomach, everywhere.
the next strike lands sharper, cleaner. the sound echoes with a satisfying thwack across the empty gym.
his approval doesn’t come in words, not at first; only in the way his grip lingers a fraction longer than necessary before falling away, and you find yourself missing it instantly.
finally, he circles around with an arm that trails your waist too gently, sliding himself in front of you. his own fists rise, demonstrating a quick one-two against the bag. the muscles in his arms shift, smooth and powerful, and you swear you forget how to breathe.
he lowers his fists and cocks his head at you. “copy.”
you mimic his form, your punch colliding with the bag. this time, when it rebounds, it drives into his forearms where he braces it, his body catching the weight of your throw; off-kilter, but not wholly bad. a solid enough punch that he nods, just once.
your knuckles throb. your chest heaves. you can’t look away from the faint smirk curling at his lips, from the way his eyes pin you steady to the spot.
“see?” he says, low and even. “power’s nothing without control.”
you’re not sure if he’s talking about boxing anymore.
you drop to a bench, arms shaking, chest heaving. your fists still wrapped, sweat stinging your eyes from exertion and— honestly— how close he’s been.
he steps up to you, quiet. no words yet, just presence. his fingers brush your forearms, and you freeze, looking up into those captivating eyes.
“hand.” his voice is clipped as always, but there’s a softness beneath it you catch only because you know him.
you hold out both your fists. he cups your wrist in one hand with a touch so soft you could cry and gently starts to pry the tape free, rolling it down your wrists with care, each tug deliberate but tender. his thumbs brush lightly over the back of your hands as he inspects your knuckles, eyes scanning smudges of chalk and faint bruises from your swings. it’s an odd thing to be the one receiving care instead of giving it, especially from him; but you’re far from complaining.
“you’re raw in a few spots,” he murmurs, almost to himself, but loud enough for you to hear. he presses a fingertip to a tiny scrape at the base of your knuckle, testing the sting. “not bad. pretty clean for a beginner.”
you tilt your head back, letting him work, marveling at the way his hands are confident and careful all at once— like he’s simultaneously checking and protecting.
“don’t laugh,” he warns softly as he tightens the last wrap around your wrist, “but i’m actually a little impressed. you’re a fast learner.”
you grin, chest pounding with how loudly your heart has taken to calling his name. “a high compliment, coming from you.”
he smirks faintly, but the tension in his shoulders softens just a fraction. “i’ll teach you more next time. but for now…” he trails off, brushing a hand over the back of yours one last time before letting go, lingering long enough that the warmth presses into your skin.
you glance down at your hands, pulse still high, and back up at him. “thank you.”
he meets your gaze, eyes flicking to your flushed cheeks. “you don’t have to thank me, y/n.”
you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, smiling despite the ache in your arms, the fire in your chest, and the pull of him so close, so careful. “if you say so.”
he steps back finally, giving you a little space— but not too much, not entirely. you can feel the residue of his presence, the weight of him in the quiet gym, the soft insistence that he’ll be there, guiding, teaching, protective… his eyes say that he’s nowhere near immune to all your small, stolen moments.
and as you stretch your sore fingers, rubbing at the knuckles he just checked with such tender care, you can’t stop the grin spreading across your face.
he’s addictive.
and you’re already hooked.
—
the bell rings sharply, echoing through the packed warehouse, and the sound is electric. lee know moves like a hurricane trapped in the ring— controlled and fluid, every step sure, every pivot deliberate. he circles, eyes scanning his opponent, reading angles and posture and intent. his opponent shifts, tries to bait him into throwing an early punch; but lee know is untouchable, a predator already three moves ahead.
your eyes are glued to him, heart hammering, chest tight. every flex of his back, every tight rotation of his shoulders, it all screams power and precision. the world shrinks to the canvas beneath his feet and the rhythm of his body moving like liquid steel.
then the dam breaks.
in a flash— too fast to fully process— his opponent lands an unfair elbow to the face, a strike meant to sneak past defenses. lee know’s head snaps back, blood spurting from his nose. the sound hits your ears like a physical blow. your stomach drops.
“no!” you shout instinctively, leaping to your feet, kit forgotten, muscles coiled to charge in– only to realize you can’t. you’re frozen in the medical corner, eyes locked on him.
lee know hits the mat— just for a heartbeat— and everything around you stops. silence presses against your ears, thick and suffocating. the referee starts a countdown.
then he’s rising slowly after the second count, flicking the blood from his nose with a tilt of his head; he’s deadly calm, controlled, unshaken. every movement is deliberate, measured; nothing betrays the sting of the strike. your chest swells with relief and something else, something like fierce admiration.
he resets exactly the way he’s been teaching you to do in practice: stance perfect, hands guarding, weight balanced evenly on the balls of his feet. his opponent hesitates, suddenly aware of the storm standing before him. lee know’s eyes sweep, calculating, laser-focused, pupils sharp, measuring the tiniest shift, the slightest weakness.
the first punch is clean, precise, a snapping jab that makes the opponent flinch. lee know doesn’t overcommit, doesn’t rush— each strike is surgical. the crowd barely registers the rhythm, but you can feel it in your bones: this is more than just punching. it’s choreography, deadly and beautiful.
he pivots, fluid, whipping a combination of hooks that land exactly where he wants— rib, shoulder, side of the head— enough to unbalance without overextending. his footwork is hypnotic, a dance of power and grace.
the opponent swings wildly, anger breaking his form, desperation cutting into technique. lee know reads it instantly, sidestepping, slipping punches that would floor anyone else. the thick blood trickle down his face glistens under the harsh gym lights, sweat and red mingling, but he moves as if nothing weighs on him but the fight itself.
he sets up— his stance lowering, weight shifting, muscles coiled. the precision is art. jab, uppercut, hook; every motion exact, every strike timed with the calculation of a master. the opponent wobbles, staggered, realization dawning.
and then— he unleashes the final move.
a combination that’s all him: three hits, pivot, snap. every strike lands clean, deliberate, the last punch folding the opponent onto the mat, finality in the thud. silence fills the gym, only broken by the countdown climbing until it hits ten, a bell ringing to declare a knockout. lee know stands, chest heaving lightly, eyes scanning the ring, the canvas, the aftermath.
the crowd roars. the bell rings again to signal the end of the match, and lee know graces the audience with a smile– small, but real. deadly sharp. a little proud.
your own breath comes in bursts, heart thundering. you can’t stop staring, frozen by the violence, the beauty, the precision, him. he wipes at his blood again, calm and composed; your hands ache to reach out, to cradle that jaw, to steady that proud, stubborn head.
finally, he steps toward the ropes, glancing at you. a flicker of acknowledgment. a twitch of a smirk until that smile softens; and just for a fraction of a heartbeat, the storm that is lee know becomes something more tender in your chest. kingly and untouchable, yes, but tethered to you in ways that leave your pulse electric.
the fight is over. victory is his. and you know, you know, you’ve just witnessed something rare: controlled chaos, lethal grace. a man who fights not just with skill, but with the full weight of his presence.
he steps out of the ring, sweat still dripping down the sharp lines of his face, blood from his nose streaking in slowly-drying lines that aren’t nearly enough to mask his intensity. every motion is controlled, deliberate, even as exhaustion tugs at the edges of his posture.
your kit is open in your hands before he even reaches the bench, your fingers itching to touch him after watching that display of raw, calculated power.
“that was insane,” you murmur, voice a mix of half-scolding, half-admiring. “i’ve never seen anyone move like that. like.. a storm on the mat.”
he doesn’t respond right away, just lets the words hang, eyes flicking up to meet yours. a glint of something soft, almost shy, flickers there— a brief flicker of flattery, humility, before his stoic mask reasserts itself. “storm’s not the word i’d use,” he says lowly, voice clipped, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “just… precise.”
you step closer, crouching beside him as he lowers onto the bench. your fingers hover over his jaw first, brushing away a bead of blood from a lesser scratch along his chin. he tilts his head slightly into your touch the way he always does; never quite enough to admit vulnerability, but always enough to let you in. the contact sends molten heat straight to your chest.
“you haven’t had a bleed this bad in a while,” you murmur, dabbing at the thick gush of blood from his nose with an antiseptic towelette. your touch is gentle, almost reverent against his skin, warm beneath your palms, muscles taut even as they finally start to release some tension. he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t jerk away, and you feel that quiet trust settling between you like a dust cloud.
“don’t make it sound like i’m delicate,” he murmurs back, just above a whisper, but the edge is gone. there’s no sharpness— just acknowledgment, and maybe even relief that he can lean on you, even a fraction.
“i’m not saying that,” you reply softly, eyes tracing the line of his jaw, memorizing the tilt of his head, the tension in his shoulders, the sweat-slicked muscles that move under your fingers when he shifts slightly. “i’m just saying…you’re something else.”
he lets out a short breath, half a chuckle, half a sigh, and leans just slightly closer, enough to let you cradle the back of his neck while your other hand smooths out the wraps over his knuckles. each adjustment is slow, careful; you linger just a fraction longer than necessary, fingertips brushing the sharp planes of his hand, memorizing him.
“you always fuss like this?” he asks, tone teasing just enough to make your heart stutter.
“someone has to make sure you survive your own fights,” you murmur, brushing the last streak of blood off the bridge of his nose. your fingers linger on his cheek, tracing the scar from last week, feeling the warmth of his skin against yours.
he tilts his head into your touch again, eyes closing for the briefest second, and your chest hammers. you swallow, heart racing, and finally reach for the final act of care: undoing the knuckle wraps. your fingers work slowly, teasing the tape away, revealing the scarred, steady hands beneath. he flexes his fingers gently, letting you examine each knuckle as if you were checking him under a microscope.
then, almost on impulse, you bring his hand to your lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his rough knuckles. your eyes lift shyly to his, cheeks warm. “speeds up the healing process,” you murmur, voice almost lost under the weight of the moment. “or at least that’s what i’ve heard.”
he freezes, chest rising slightly faster than normal, pupils dark, molten, unreadable— before the faintest smirk tugs at his lips. “should’ve had you kiss it to make it all better ages ago,” he says quietly, a little teasing and a lot more appreciative. you feel your ears flush bright red.
your pulse threatens to burst out of your chest, but you can’t help smiling, lingering just a moment longer, fingers still brushing his. he doesn’t pull away— doesn’t move a muscle, letting you claim this small, stolen tenderness.
finally, you set the hand down, both of you catching breaths. for a heartbeat, the gym feels like it’s shrunk to just the two of you: quiet aftermath of chaos, the hum of distant lights, and the weight of unspoken promises. lee know’s stoic front is cracking, just a fraction, revealing the man beneath— the one who lets you in, who yields, who lets himself be cared for.
and you? you wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.
—
the gym smells of sweat and anticipation tonight. you bounce on the balls of your feet, fists up, heart hammering— not just from exertion, but from the thrill of being here with him. lee know stretches casually in front of you, chest rising and falling steady, the muscles in his arms flexing with every small movement. he looks effortless, untouchable… and yet, somehow, he’s about to let you punch him.
“ready?” he asks, voice teasing just enough that your stomach flips. he shifts into his stance, weight balanced perfectly, feet planted like a predator. his hands hover— guarded, precise, like he’s daring you to even try.
“ready,” you say back, forcing your best glare, though your knees are bouncing and your pulse is racing. he chuckles faintly at your weak attempt to intimidate.
he lunges first, slow, exaggerated; it’s barely an attack, more like a suggestion of one. he meant it when he said he’d go easy on you. you throw a jab and it’s sloppy, more of a flail than a punch, and his eyes flick to yours, one eyebrow raised. “hmm,” he mutters, almost a laugh laced in the tone. “you’re trying for power too soon. focus on the footwork, y/n. balance comes first.”
you huff, frustrated, circling him, trying to anticipate, trying to land something. he moves like water, slipping and shifting just enough to make you swing too early or miscalculate. each near-hit sends your chest pounding, not just from effort— there’s something else in the way his eyes never leave yours, the way his body glides next to you, the brush of his shoulder when he shifts slightly too close.
“hey—hey! stop teasing me!” you snap, panting, swinging a left jab that he catches mid-air with just the tip of his fingers. your pulse rockets when his hand brushes yours, guiding, correcting, but there’s a treacherous weight in the touch.
“teasing?” he says softly, just a murmur; but the smirk pulling at his lips gives him away. “i’m just teaching.”
you glare, but there’s no real bite behind it— just embarrassment and attraction and frustration, all tangled in a tight knot rising to your throat. his cheek threatens to dimple with the hint of a real smile; and the smirk, the calm, the impossibly-still control, makes your chest ache.
he steps in, adjusting your elbow with one hand, nudging your shoulder with the other. his chest brushes yours, and your brain shorts out. “control,” he murmurs. “fists first, follow through second.”
you throw again, trying to put more into it, and this time he lets your fist hit him— the impact is soft, but it’s not nothing. the fleeting contact sends a shock straight up your arm. he barely reacts, but the faint twitch of his lips betrays him anyway.
“not bad,” he says, clipped, almost reluctant, and you glare at him but can’t deny the thrill.
you pivot, lunge, try for a sloppy roundhouse; he steps into you before you have the chance to execute, chest pressed tighter against yours, guiding your motion with firm, steady hands. his fingers brush over your ribs and forearm as he corrects your form, and you swear you’re melting under the sheer proximity.
“direct your body weight, y/n,” he instructs, his voice private, intimate even when he’s masking it as instruction. “power comes from stance. not just arms.”
you groan before reluctantly throwing another series, and he moves behind you, arms brushing yours as he guides each motion. you can feel the heat radiating off him. every pulse of his muscles under his skin, every adjustment, every gentle nudge feels like he’s imprinting himself on you.
“stop swinging blindly,” he mutters, leaning close enough that his shoulder grazes yours, his chest brushing your back. you inhale, and the air feels charged, humming with electricity. “precision first.”
“ugh, you’re so impossible!” you gasp, sweat running down your temple, hair sticking to your forehead, and he just chuckles softly behind you, the sound low, dark, intimate.
“i’m your teacher,” he says, voice clipped but amused, hand pressing flat and sure against your back to adjust your stance. “so pay attention.”
you throw a jab— too slow, too high— and he catches it, fingers brushing yours, and your heart skips a beat. his eyes flick to yours, molten and teasing; you trip over whatever words you’d been about to fire back.
he doesn’t let you go.
instead, he tugs– just a fraction, just enough to send you off balance; and suddenly your stumble tips you forward into him. his shoulders meet yours, solid heat pressing through the fabric between you; your hands falter in their guard, falling to land on that broad chest. every muscle dances under your fingertips, pulled taut, waiting.
your breath stutters, your own chest rising sharp against his. he doesn’t move back— doesn’t let you go. one wrapped hand rises to cup over yours, anchoring you to him; his weight holds you caged, steady, immovable as his fingers brush over your knuckles in secret rhythm.
his eyes flick down— too fast. too telling. the smallest shift, the barest tilt of his head, it all gives him away despite the stone set of his face. his heated gaze lands on your lips and stays there; and you’re suddenly sure he’s going to close the distance. heat coils low in your stomach, every nerve begging for the brush of his mouth.
lee know is about to kiss you. and you’re going to shamelessly let him.
he leans in closer, so close that the heat of him presses through the thin fabric, every inch deliberate. the sharp inhale he steals just before your lips nearly brush sets your blood roaring; your pulse hammers like it wants to break your ribs. his exhale feels like velvet when his breath canvasses across your lips.
his gaze flicks back up to your eyes, his own dark and deliberate, assessing, tasting the possibility. the space between you is electric, strung tight with want, your knees threatening to give under the weight of proximity. your chest is caught in a perfect trap between his restraint and your certainty.
your eyes begin to flutter closed, waiting, wanting.
and then— he doesn’t close the final millimeter.
he holds himself there instead, suspended, his mouth hovering just shy of yours. he’s so close; you can taste his breath, but not the kiss you’re aching for. your pulse hammers against your ribs in heady anticipation.
then, with precision so measured it’s almost cruel, he eases back half an inch. not enough to free you, just enough to smother the promise. his gaze lingers on your mouth for one last beat before it sharpens, cutting clean.
“keep your guard up,” he says evenly, as if nothing just happened; as if your knees aren’t about to give out. he releases your wrist and nudges at your stance like it’s any other spar.
you swallow hard, still reeling, every nerve screaming from the almost that just slipped through your fingers. he doesn’t look rattled at all, damn him— only that faint glimmer in his eyes betrays him, the one that says he wanted it, too.
“my guard is just fine,” you mumble hotly, trying to regain composure. you start swinging again. he dodges just enough to make you adjust– just enough to keep your focus on him, just enough to make you want to get closer, hit harder, be near him.
he steps back finally, letting you land a clean hit on the outside of his right arm. he yields to it, eyes narrowed, expression unreadable; but the faintest hint of approval is evident in the way he tilts his head.
“better,” he murmurs, voice soft, almost private, and your chest swells. you swing again, adrenaline and tension coiling together, heart hammering in time with every contact of your fists falling against him in sparring.
he moves in when you go for a new shot, adjusting, correcting, guiding— his body brushing against yours, hands resting lightly on your elbows, shoulders, even just a ghost of a touch across your back— and you can’t stop the heat rising in your cheeks. your brain knows he’s teaching, that he’s careful, that he’s professional; but every second, every brush of skin, every whispered instruction sends molten sparks through your chest.
finally, he steps back completely, allowing you to spar him more freely, your fists clean, your soft hits sharp, your body twisting properly. he watches your stance, the way your muscles flex, the sweat dripping down your neck. he doesn’t move in closer— doesn’t have to— but you can feel the intensity in his gaze.
“next time,” he mutters, voice low, clipped, but something softer flickers in his eyes, “we’ll spar properly.”
you grin, exhausted, exhilarated, and a little weak in the knees. “i’m holding you to that,” you tease. he smirks faintly, silent, controlled— but those searing eyes betray that he’s already anticipating it.
the gym hums low around you, your bodies still warm from more than just the exertion. the air feels thick, electric. almost like it’s charged with all the touches, the corrections, the proximity, the teasing, the heat— teaching, sparring, melting, all of it rolled into one chaotic, perfect storm.
—
the bell clangs for the third and final round of the night, sharp and unforgiving– the crowd’s roar swells with it, a tide that thrums through the ring and up your spine.
you’re pressed against the barrier, knuckles gripping the metal, heart in your throat. lee know circles his opponent like a king patrolling his domain: muscles coiled, eyes sharp, every movement calculated, fluid, lethal. sweat gleams along his forearms, along his jaw, catching the overhead lights like a blade. small scratches litter his cheeks, proof of the grueling first two rounds.
they trade blows like it’s a language only fighters can speak. the first few hits reverberate like drums beating in your chest. his opponent is skilled— fast, hungry for the win— but lee know is faster, smoother, reading each motion like it’s an open book. every counter, every pivot, every jab is poetry in motion; but there’s fire in it, raw energy that makes your chest ache with anticipation.
then— a hard, sudden jab lands square on lee know’s cheek. the crowd gasps in unison. your hand flies to your mouth. a thin line of red drips from the corner of his lip, and your stomach plummets. most people would stagger, maybe falter. maybe even fall to the mat.
not him.
his head snaps back, eyes flashing with the tiniest flicker of surprise— and then calm, razor-sharp control sets in. he shakes it off as if it were nothing, resets his stance like a predator, and the air in the ring seems to shift, dense with intent.
he pivots. he ducks a counter. his strikes come now— calculated, brutal, precise, every movement a testament to his years of mastery. the blows land on his opponent with the weight of a hurricane contained in muscle and sinew, each punch a statement: he’s still standing. he’s in control. he’s unstoppable.
the opponent stumbles. the audience leans forward, breathless, watching the reversal, the artistry in the violence. lee know doesn’t let up— he whirls, he pivots, he strikes. his face is a mask of focus and feral energy, lips pressed tight even as blood blooms red at the edges of them; his brows are furrowed with the force of his focus, every line of his body screaming discipline and raw power.
then— a crushing hook, a sharp uppercut, and the opponent collapses, breath wheezing, chest heaving.
lee know steps back with his fists raised, his own chest heaving too, sweat and blood streaking across his skin like war paint. he looks like some kind of god standing alone in the ring, opponent bowed before him in defeat.
the referee calls the match: it’s over. victory, earned. brutal. raw. hard-fought.
and you— heart hammering, knees weak, fingers trembling on the barrier over in your medical corner— feel every pulse of him in the aftermath. every strike, every dodge, every calculated blow is burned into your memory.
he lowers his hands finally, his face slick with sweat, lips parting just slightly, breaths coming in short, controlled bursts. his eyes sweep the crowd, but when they land on you… the intensity doesn’t break. it sharpens, sure and quiet and magnetic, and you know: he sees you.
only after the crowd roars fade and the adrenaline lingers does he step toward the edge of the ring, every movement measured, and your chest aches– because even bruised, beaten, bloodied, he carries himself like a king who’s just proven his reign. a king coming home to you.
the fight’s left him wrecked; the roar of the crowd is still echoing through the cement walls when lee know stumbles into the corner, sweat running down his temple, blood dripping from a split at his lip. his chest heaves like the air itself is burning him alive.
you’re already there with gauze in hand, jaw set tight, muttering under your breath as you start fussing over ever little cut and scratch before he can even sit down. “you could’ve dodged that one blow, you know. he almost had you on the ropes in the second round.”
he doesn’t answer. doesn’t even flinch when you press the gauze to his cheek, murmuring a soft warning for the sting of the antiseptic. he just stares down, eyes locked on you, that sharpness softening only for you even in the noise and heat of the crowd at every angle.
“you’re impossible,” you snap, voice shaking as the hand with the gauze trembles against his cheek. you cup his face if only to still your fingers, holding him upright. “one day you’re not going to walk out of that ring and—”
his hand shoots up, catching you mid-motion. his rough, bandaged fingers circle your wrist.
his voice is hoarse, ground down to gravel, but the words cut clean like a right hook to the heart:
“you’re a knockout.”
your brain blanks. air sticks hard in your throat, wedged deep by the shock of his composure breaking.
and then he pulls you in before you can find an answer.
the kiss is brutal and tender all at once— bloody and slick and desperate, his mouth crushing itself to yours like he’s been starving for it through every round he’s ever fought in this dingy warehouse. copper floods your tongue where his split lip works against you, but it doesn’t matter. not when his hand is steady at the back of your neck, holding you close to him like he’s terrified you’ll slip away.
his other hand snakes to your waist, pressing you impossibly close, letting you feel the tense pulse of muscle beneath skin. every ragged breath he steals vibrates against your lips, mixing with your own contented sigh, echoing in your chest like a drumbeat you can’t escape.
the crowd’s chants melt into nothing along with the sounds of the bell that signals the next match starting and the referee’s sharp whistle. nothing matters but this. the world has shrunk to this small, electric pocket where time has slowed, where only the press of his body and the desperate rhythm of your mouths exist.
your free hand clutches the damp wrap at his wrist like a lifeline, anchoring him back. the gauze you’d been pressing to his cut falls useless to the floor. your fingertips trace the tension along his forearm, memorizing every line, every hardened muscle, every twitch of effort as he folds himself into you, yielding fully, finally.
he tilts his head just slightly, deepening the kiss; it’s a slow, consuming kind of ache that spreads somewhere deep beneath your ribs. a groan— low, muffled, unintentionally yours— slips past his lips, and it rattles through your chest, your knees threatening to buckle beneath the weight of want and exhaustion and adrenaline.
the heat between you is suffocating, intoxicating; it coils hot in your bloodstream, threads along your spine, sets your pulse hammering in tandem with his. his tongue teases, claims, works you until you’re pliant in his arms, and you answer back with the same fierce urgency– desperate for every inch, every taste, every second.
his grip at the back of your neck tightens imperceptibly, a silent plea for proximity, and your hands— one planted on his chest, the other drifting up to cradle his jaw with tender fingers— draw him impossibly closer. sweat and blood mix at your lips, his heartbeat thrumming under your palm like a war drum.
a shudder runs through you both as his arms encircle you fully, silent but volcanic, and he doesn’t pull back— can’t, won’t— letting the moment stretch until it feels like the air itself is charged, trembling with the collision of want and the rawest kind of vulnerability.
finally, somewhere deep in the marrow of both your bones, the kiss loosens just enough to leave you gasping, noses brushing, breaths mingling, lips swollen and raw.
when he finally pulls himself back, he stays close. forehead pressed against yours, both of you panting, the air between you thick with sweat and heat and everything you’ve been refusing to say.
a beat of silence. then, rough, the corner of his mouth twitching in something almost like a smile— “told you.”
you shove him softly before he catches you and drags you back in for another slow, tender kiss.
and this time, you can taste how freely he smiles.
I cannot get on the ‘Baby Saja was a former noble/prince/was spoiled’ bandwagon because he is WORKING at that fan sign. He is the only one who DOESN’T get distracted by anyone or anything else. Abby is messing around with Mira, Mystery starts barking at a fan, Jinu is trying to prod Rumi into talking to him, and Romance isn’t doing SHIT. Romance is the former noble to me, he’s just staring at Mira the whole time.
Free my man Baby Saja, he’s the only one doing his job here, why is he deemed the lazy, spoiled, uncooperative one?
Romance doesn’t sit across from you; he takes the seat beside you, thigh pressed into yours, his knee turned toward your body as if that’s where it belongs. He stirs his drink slowly, distractedly. Every so often, his hand drifts toward you, brushing your wrist where it rests against the table. The touches are faint, not enough to register as anything more, but still enough to stay with you.
You could move. You could say something. But the warmth lingers, and you don’t.
It always happens this way. He leans in too close when he wants to whisper something in your ear. He drapes his arm across the back of your chair when someone asks for a photo. He drops his head onto your shoulder whenever he says he’s tired. None of it is explained, and none of it is questioned.
Because the moment you put a name to it, you risk losing it.
The night stretches long, and in the lull of conversation you notice him watching you. Not openly, not for long. Quick glances when he thinks you’re not looking. You catch him sometimes. When you do, he only smirks, shakes his head, and steals food off your plate as if nothing happened.
It should not make your chest ache the way it does.
Later, outside under the streetlights, you walk together. The others are gone. His hand brushes yours once, twice; the third time you wonder if it is deliberate. But he doesn’t hold on. He only tilts his head closer and speaks low.
“You’re quiet tonight.”
You shrug. “Just tired.”
He studies you for a moment as though he wants to press further, but he doesn’t. Instead, he takes off his jacket and slips it around your shoulders. The sleeves are too long, the warmth heavy, and it smells faintly like him.
You think about asking him what this means, what you mean. But the words knot in your throat, too heavy to risk breaking whatever this is.
So you walk beside him, your jacket wrapped close, your fingers brushing against him again and again. Touches without a name. For now, that has to be enough.
A/N: hi! So I did a part 1 as a test to see if people want more, so part 1 isn't fully fleshed out, but just suspend your disbelief if you get whiplash from part 1 to part 2 [:
Also, this is more of a filler/huntrix fluffy chapter! Part 3 WILL include our beloved Saja Boys though I promise
_________________~°•○•°~________________
Y/N slouched in her chair as she signed the last poster for the last fan. Finally. It had been a total of six long hours, stuck in between two saja boys - one who's infuriatingly faux nonchalant and loves getting under her skin, and thankfully one who's so obviously smitten by Rumi he paid almost zero attention to her.
Apart from that one fan who asked Baby, Y/n, and Jinu to take a selfie together, she hadn't interacted with the dark-haired leader of the Saja Boys.
She had to admit, though, Baby saja was a little funny. At one point he pulled out a lollipop from literally nowhere, and proceeded to stare down Abby Saja from across the table for seemingly no reason but to annoy the pinkette.
And talking of pinkettes, witnessing Romance, Mira, and Abby's constant flirting/bickering/barely restrained violence on the end of the table was infuriatingly hilarious. She felt bad for mira, but also, it was free entertainment.
The saja boys all stood up, leaving through the backstage hallway. They had piles and piles of flowers and gifts from fans, and they put most of the flowers in the recycling bin.
The four girls sighed in relief when they were finally rid of the devilishly attractive demons.
They finally relaxed, all four closing their eyes in bliss.
Rumi shot up. "Wait, we still need to kill them."
Oh crap, yeah. Forgot about that part. Zoey shot up in a panic, followed by Mira and Y/N, who followed rumi as all four girls sprinted in the direction they'd seen the saja boys go.
The girls gave up when they reached the other side of the building and there was no sign of any unnatural hair colours in the streets. They were all panting, out of breath from the sprint. Which didn't make a lot of sense because they were kpop Idols and demon hunters, so they should have near superhuman stamina, but pop off I guess.
"Damn it. I was looking forward to slicing them into dust." Mira growled in frustration.
Zoey slouched, basically folding herself in half as she pouted. "Stupid bangs. I was gonna cut them off with my daggers." Y/N side-eyed the group's maknae.
"You were...gonna give him a haircut?" Y/N questioned, tilting her head.
"Uhhh, I meant kill him. Yep! Slice his...back. off. That's what I said. Definitely not tryna see his face under all that hair. Hey, is that an aeroplane? Hahaa." Zoey stammered, word vomiting all over herself as her hands flew every which way.
"Uhuh. Stop simping." Y/N said, before turning to look dramatically out on the street.
Rumi stomped the ground. "How did we lose them again?? They were literally right next to us!" She yelled in frustration.
"Hey, it's okay! We'll get em next time." Zoey comforted their leader, placing a reassuring hand on her back.
Sighing, rumi nodded, taking zoeys hand in hers for comfort. "Thanks, Zo. Yeah, your right." Rumi took a breath. "We should head back to the tower." She decided authoratively, starting to walk down the street.
Mira blinked. "Other way."
Rumi turned straight back around, marching in the opposite direction to the one she just took. "Right."
Y/N and zoey shared a look, giggling, before following the other two down the street.
"Wait, we're famous. We have a limousine on call 24/7. Why are we walking??" Y/N brought up. All the girls froze this time.
"...oh. right. We're rich." Rumi pulled out her phone, dialling their chauffeurs number.
-----------------○●《《●》》●○---------------------
The girls were situated in their living room, cushions and snacks laid out all over the floor. Zoey was sitting cross legged on a particularly fluffy pillow, while mira had chosen to lay in a starfish position on the floor, turning her head only to talk to the other girls.
Rumi was propping herself up with her hands, one leg crossed under the other which was sticking out. Y/N was resting her head in rumi's lap.
"Ugh, today was the worst." Mira groaned.
Zoey nodded. "Those saja boys were so annoying! I can't believe they interrupted our fansign like that!" The girl pouted angrily.
Y/N raked her hands down her face in sheer frustration from the memories of the day. "Let's just say I'm never dying my hair light blue."
Rumi just laughed, but her mind was stuck on jinu. She huffed, standing up. "I say let's take our minds off of those boys." She looked around at the girls, who all sat up in intrigue. "Let's go for a night out. A girls night out. With no boy bands or demons to interrupt us."
She smiled confidently. Mira raised an eyebrow.
"You mean..go clubbing?"
Rumi blinked. "No?? I mean go to the fair. We still have those in the city, you know."
The girls all yelled in excitement, fists pumping.
"I wanna go on the roundabout! And the bouncy castle! And the helter skelter! And the-" zoey grinned.
"Yeah, okay zoey. We'll go on all of those things. And more." Y/N said, smiling. This is gonna be awesome.
------------------○●《《●》》●○-------------------
The girls approached the fairground. They had their disguises on so they wouldn't be recognised in public, and they were beyond excited. Y/N was most looking forward to all the food, like candied apples and hot dogs and giant pretzels and -
While Zoey just wanted to ride everything. She was their resident adrenaline junkie.
Rumi and mira were just gonna dabble in a bit of everything, whatever tickled their fancy.
"Yes yes yes! This is gonna be so awesome!" Zoey grinned.
"Yeah, and no demons to interupt our fun this time." Mira smiled.
Rumi and Y/N said nothing, but shared similar sentiments.
"Okay, let's do this!" Y/N yelled as they entered the gates. There was stands galore of totally not rigged fairground games, and lit up multicoloured bulbs on every ride.
There were games full of fluffy teddies for prizes, and stands full of delicious smelling food, the smell of popcorn and candyfloss wafting through the air, untangling with eachother to create a delicious buttery, sugary smell that practically made the girls salivate.
The girls rushed forwards, zoey looking at all the stalls just in case she walks past something really cool, Rumi and mira just enjoying bring able to have a day- night - out with no strings attached, and Y/N already holding a hotdog and munching contentedly.
"Ooh, ooh. Mira! Ride the Cyclone with me! Zoey grinned manically. Mira blinked.
"You wanna ride the tallest, fastest ride here already?" Mira deadpanned.
Zoey blinked.
Mira blinked.
"Let's go!" Mira yelled in excitement, zoey dragging her towards the giant ride that I totally didn't make up because it sounded fairgroundey and I couldn't be bothered to Google fairground rides.
Rumi watched the two run off fondly, a small smile on her face seeing her friends genuinely happy.
Y/N stood next to her, finishing her hotdog with great joy. "This is really good." She commented. Rumi laughed.
"Where'd you get it? I want one." Y/N happily led rumi to the hot dog stand.
°•☆•°
After about half an hour, all four girls met up again. They had kept separating to go on different things, changing groups. Zeoy and mira, zoey and rumi, y/n and mira, mira and rumi, etc.
At one point, Mira had completely shattered a vendor's 'shoot the glass bottles to win a prize!' Stall, because zoey had tried and even though she landed a direct hit every time, (all that target practice with small knives and demons paid off) the bottles didn't budge - they had been stuck together with glue.
Zoey happily clutched her giant blue tiger plushie mira had won her, as the four girls sat on a bench in the food court to take a breather.
"Hey, you know, this was a great idea." Y/N smiled at rumi.
"Yeah! I'm having sooo much fun. I forgot life wasn't all about slaying demons and writing songs." Zoey said, her shiny voice making the girls smile.
"Zoey! Keep your voice down. Demons are a secret, remember?" Rumi scolded, though there was no real malice in her voice.
Zoey giggled sheepishly. "Sorry!"
The girls continued the idle chatter, munching on a variety of fairground snacks they had brought, when out of the corner of her eye, Y/N spotted a weird pink flash from behind a tent. She narrowed her eyes, turning to look. "Uh, guys? I think the 'no demons' part of tonight just changed." She sighed.
"Seriously?? We can't even have one night??" Mira groaned exasperatedly.
"Yeah, I just saw one go behind the ferris wheel." Zoey sighed wistfully.
Rumi growled, before standing up. "Okay guys. Split up - they could be anywhere in this maze."
Mira looked at her. "Uh, are you sure splitting up is a good idea? Remember what happened In the bathhouse last time." She said uncertainly.
"It'll be fine. We can all handle ourselves. Meet back here in ten." Rumi assured.
The girls split up, each running through the crowds to chase down the four demons they spotted. Y/N frowned. It almost felt like they were trying to split them up.
She followed the demon - or, more accurately, the demon's tail - through the throng of people until she was running between striped stands and tents.
Coming to a stop when she reached the edge of the fairground, she paused. This area was almost completely dark compared to the bright, flashing lights behind her.
She looked around to make sure there wasn't any civilians watching, before pulling out her weapon from the Honmoon. A bow shimmered into her hand, along with a quiver full of arrows securing itself on her back.
Squinting into the darkness, Y/N couldn't see the demon. Damn it. She pulled an arrow from its quiver and rested it in the bow, ready to launch but keeping the bow by her side.
Turning around, she could only see the bustling of the fairground behind her. Not a demon in sight.
She sighed. Maybe it went back to the underworld. Got scared off. She began to walk back into the fair.
With a loud growl, she was abruptly lifted into the air. She yelped, attempting to pull her weapon on the demon. The arrow she had prepared loosed, but shot nowhere near the demon - it was impossible to shoot behind her at such close range.
She felt the beast's claws tighten around her throat. Crap. She kicked in the air, but her feet found no purchase. She clawed at its hands, trying to loosen its grip around her throat, but to no avail.
_________________°•○•°__________________
A/N - aaaand that's a wrap, folks! Had to leave it on a cliffhanger, keep everyone enthralled and entertained, you know how it is! Hope you enjoyed part 2, I had a lot of people asking for it! ...I spent two hours writing this from 3:00 to 5:00 AM. Help. Part three soon!
Context - You are Gwi-Ma's daughter as well as a famous leader singer of a k-pop girl band (SIREN), Baby seems to give in on your gorgeous features but never know you were a demon AND Gwi-Ma's daughter
You were a famous and well known k-pop girl band of SIREN and you were the famous lead singer of your group
You only had two girls including you and all of you were well demons..
No one knew that you three were demons here to get souls for your father.. Gwi-Ma
Though you never knew that you very own father gave in and got a demon boy band to fulfil your duties
Didn't you own father think you couldn't do this? But you were so famous.. getting the fame of your fans and even had a fandom
During you time performing the demon boy band known as the Saja Boys got real famous real fast after their street performance making everyone go crazy for them in one single day
Though the Saja Boys never knew you were under the influence of Gwi-Ma.. he never even told them he had a daughter
Now the Saja boys were doing their own things, chilling out and doing their own stuff but as always Baby was sitting on the couch on his phone scrolling away
That was until he came across a video of a group name SIREN, a k-pop girl band as you were in the camera focus
You were singing powerfully and sounded like a siren while your two other members were dancing behind you
"Yo guys! Check this out" Baby called out making everyone turn to him
"Look at this" Baby showed them his phone, every single one of them saw you
"Who's that?" Abby asked
"Dunno" Baby shrugged in response "But for all we know they have a huge amount of fans, maybe because of her" Baby pointed to you
You were beautiful, gorgeous, looked like an angel but you were a demon disguised as a singer to steal souls
"She looks oddly familiar" Jinu's voice spoke out, he intensely stared at the phone
"She does?" Baby asked, looking back at the phone, trying to catch a single glimpse of you
"Nah I don't see it" Baby boredly said as he scrolled
...
Now it was the next day as the Saja Boys went outside, Baby purposely waddled away as he stuck his face into his phone not seeing where he was going
"Oof!—" A voice called out
Baby raised an eyebrow as he looked down to see flashing yellow eyes that looked similar to his
"Watch where you're going" Your scoffed, then your eyes flashed back to normal eye colour, walking away to catch up with your other members
Baby just stood there trying to process everything
And he was defiantly going to tell the others about this
She was sitting at the table with the other three girls, waiting for the fans to start pouring in.
"My wrist is already aching with how many things I'm gonna have to sign." Mira groaned, sliding her elbows down the table before sitting back up.
"Ugh, I know right? But it'll be worth it for the fans!" Zoey replied, her usual optimistic grin brightening the atmosphere.
"For the fans." The four girls all agreed.
The doors opened, and y/n tried to keep her face still as she saw just how many fans piled into the room. Two hundred? Three? More. Definitely more.
"Okay." Y/N took a deep breath. The first fans approached the table, still cocooned in their sleeping bags. Awh, they slept outside all night just to meet them? That's so sweet.
"And who should I make this out to?" Rumi spoke, initiating the event as she scribbled down her signature on a picture of her own face.
Y/N did similar, writing down her signature on a poster of her own face. She looked up at the interestingly dressed fans, ready to initiate the conversation, when -
"To our biggest fans." The guy standing in front of Rumi spoke in a weirdly sultry voice. Y/N didn't clock why rumi pulled such a disgusted face. That was until the five sleeping bags were somehow shrugged off without getting caught on the way, revealing none other than the Saja Boys.
Y/N groaned. Seriously?? In front of all these fans, she couldn't even turn them into weirdly sparkly demon dust. She'd have to act...
Nice.
Eugh. She shuddered at the thought.
The saja boys, once they were done with their ridiculously over-polished posing, went to sit at the table pulled up for them.
Fans trickled over to their side - no, more like rampaged. "Half??" Mira murmured in angry disapproval.
Okay, not the best thing that could've happened, but at least she doesn't have to interact with the korean One Direction from hell.
Rumi slammed the table with her hands, causing a few glances her way.
"The Saja Boys will sit with us!" She announced.
"What?? Rumi, are you crazy??" Y/N muttered. Zoey and Mira both said something of similar value, all three girls looking incredulously at Rumi.
Rumi smiled awkwardly, before sitting back down. She shot the other three girls a look, her eyes wide and mouth cinched in a 'just go with it!' kinda face.
Mira sat with barely contained rage as both Romance and Abby Saja sat next to her, the two boys provoking her to no end.
Y/N looked on, half amused, half tempted to slash these boys back to whatever underworld they came from.
Zoey was loudly proclaiming her refusal of sitting next to the boys, but interrupted herself when Mystery saja sat down next to her. She giggled waving awkwardly and hiding her face. Y/N closed her eyes and sighed. Zoey...
But things got a lot worse when she opened her eyes and saw Baby Saja take a seat between her and zoey. She stared in absolute horror. She didn't even notice Jinu taking the seat next to her, separating her and Rumi.
Baby Saja eyed her up and down in distaste, before stating straight ahead, not even acknowledging her. Seriously?? Who does this pig-headed, dresses-like-barbie, infuriatingly cute, obnoxious, bottle-sucking demon think he is??
Y/N glared at the boy. She didn't even notice the fan standing in front of their table, grinning like a madman and taking a burst shot on his phone.
She sighed, grabbing a poster from the three different stacks by her side - one of the Golden cover, one of her, and one of all three girls posing together.
She attempted to make idle chatter with the fan, but to no avail. He just said "thanks for the poster bye!" And ran off. Y/N chuckled softly; she found it cute when fans got so flustered over meeting her.
Baby saja's icy blue eyes slid over to her as he sipped from a Saja Boy branded soda can.
"Cute laugh. Shame about the rest of ya." He whispered.
She elbowed him under the table. "Shut up. Your lucky I don't slice your head off."
He smirked.
Another fan approached, and she panicked, her glare melting away to a practised smile.
"Hii, so nice to meet you! Anything you'd like me to write?" She cooed to the next fan.
Baby saja snorted at her terrible cover up. Y/N ignored him, waving the fan off politely.
This continued for the next fifteen minutes. Baby saja acting nonchalant, occasionally signing a fan's photocard or something of the like, and Y/N trying not to punch his smug face in while interacting with the fans.
She was internally dying inside, her wrist aching just like Mira predicted earlier, and back straight, going through the same ten phrases with every fan. Most people were fairly normal, if a little giggly and obsessive, but of course there was always the people who just had to ruin it for everybody else.
A man approached, about nineteen or twenty, with unshaved ginger stubble and a smirk that did anything but make him look attractive.
Baby saja was just staring forwards, boredly sipping from his can of soda, and not a bottle because I'd feel way too icky writing that.
Already sliding another poster in front of her, she went through the motions, writing down her signature and repeating the same words she's said at least seventy times today.
"Hey! And who do I make this out to?" She spoke.
The guy leaned on the table, attempting to smile attractively as he looked Y/N up and down. "Dunno. Maybe..your future husband?"
Y/N narrowed her eyes. "Uh-"
But was interrupted by an obnoxiously bright soda can being slammed onto the table.
"Nah. Get movin." The mint-haired saja next to her said. Y/N looked up at Baby, confused. He was glaring at the guy, looking down at the ginger man with contempt in his eyes.
Y/N blinked as the guy scoffed and moved down the line. Uhm. Okay. That was weird. And slightly attractive. Okay, very attractive.
Baby didn't say anything to her, and nor did she to him. She pointedly ignored his constant gaze, instead brushing the interaction off and continuing with the event.
_______________~°•○•°~__________________
A/N- hello, its author here! I cut it off there because I thought It was getting a bit long. If this gets attention I might turn it into a proper fic. Hope you enjoyed!
