[moonlightdreamzz]

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[moonlightdreamzz]

hope you guys are doing okay. I was actually just about to post the next chapter of crimson ring and some other fun stuff before we got the news. let me know when it’s okay to post again

[moonlightdreamzz]

crimson ring is so good i feel like that pic of peter griffin tweaking in a straight jacket

part 3 out now hehehehehge😂😂😂😂😂

[moonlightdreamzz]

CRIMSON RING ──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !! ── CHAPTER THREE

chapter one. chapter two.

★ genre , vampire au | boxer au | reincarnation | soulmates | trauma healing | fate with blood on its hands | second chances. ★ pairing , vampire!boxer!ni-ki x reader. feat, enhypen. ★ warnings , reader is a dv survivor, and it will be mentioned, violence, blood, death, eventual smut

★ SUMMARY

you walk into crimson ring because you’re tired of being afraid. tired of flinching. tired of taking hits you never deserved. all you want is to learn how to fight back. but this gym…isn’t normal. the men who train there are too strong. some of them are kind. funny, even. some are terrifying without trying. but all of them carry something in their silence.

what you don’t know is that crimson ring isn’t just for fighters. it’s where vampires go to relearn control—to train their bodies to stay still when blood hits the air. a front for humans. a discipline for immortals. a place to feel everything—without giving in to it.

the one they call ni-ki won’t even look at you. he trains alone. never speaks. and when he finally does, it’s to say “you shouldn’t be here.” you don’t know why he hates you. you don’t know why he looks at you like he’s already lost you. but he does.

because you look like the girl he loved. the one he lost control with. the one he killed centuries ago—fangs in your veins. and now, you’re here again. same eyes. same voice. same scent that haunts him in his sleep. you don’t remember him. but he does. and this time, he’s not sure if he’ll save you. or ruin you all over again.

it rains for three days straight.

a cold, miserable, unrelenting rain that turns the city into a watercolor painting of gray and black.

ni-ki hates the rain.

it masks scents. it dampens sound. it makes the world feel slippery and unreliable.

but for the last seventy-two hours, he has lived in it.

he sits on the edge of a gargoyle-lined rooftop, legs dangling over a drop that would kill a human, water soaking through his black hoodie until it clings to his skin like a second layer of flesh. he doesn’t shiver. vampires don’t get cold. they just get… still.

his eyes are locked on the street below.

specifically, on a figure moving through the downpour.

y/n.

you’re walking fast, hugging a beige trench coat around herself, struggling with an umbrella that keeps threatening to flip inside out in the wind.

ni-ki watches you.

he shouldn’t.

he knows he shouldn’t.

every instinct he has—every lesson heeseung drilled into his head over the last century—is screaming at him to turn around. to run. to go back to the gym, punch a bag until the chains break, and forget he ever saw the ghost of the girl he murdered.

but he can’t look away.

it’s a sickness, he decides. a fever in his blood.

he needs to know.

he needs to know if you’re her.

but the more he watches, the more confused he gets.

caroline loved the rain. she used to run out into the storms in 1894, spinning in the mud, laughing until she was breathless, daring him to join her. she was wild. untamed. loud.

this girl?

this girl is terrified of getting wet.

she walks with her head down. she flinches when a car honks too close to the curb. she checks her phone every thirty seconds. she buys black coffee, bitter and dark—caroline used to drink milk with enough honey to make his teeth ache just smelling it.

you’re not her, ni-ki thinks, the thought bitter on his tongue. you’re just a cruel joke.

he watches as she turns the corner, heading toward the subway station.

he stands up, water sluicing off his shoulders.

he intends to leave. he really does.

but then you stop.

you pause at the entrance to the alleyway that cuts between 4th and main. it’s a shortcut. he knows it. you know it.

but tonight, the alley is pitch black. the streetlight at the other end is busted, flickering ominously.

ni-ki goes still.

his senses flare.

he can smell it before he sees it.

stale alcohol. unwashed skin. fear. not yours—theirs. the adrenaline of predators waiting for prey.

don’t do it, ni-ki wills her silently. don’t take the shortcut. just walk the extra block.

you hesitate. you look at the long way around—dark, wet, windy. then you look at the alley.

you sigh, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder.

and you step into the dark.

“idiot,” ni-ki hisses.

he doesn’t even think. gravity is just a suggestion to him now. he steps off the ledge.

the alley smells like rotting garbage and ozone.

you’re regretting this immediately.

your sneakers squelch in a puddle that looks suspiciously like oil, and the wind tunnels through the brick walls, turning your umbrella into a useless sail. you snap it shut, frustrated, shoving it into your tote bag.

just get home.

just get home, lock the door, and pretend you didn’t spend the last three days feeling like someone was watching the back of your neck.

paranoid, sydney had called it. trauma response.

maybe she’s right.

ever since that day at the gym—ever since that boy with the dead eyes looked at you like he wanted to eat you alive—you haven’t felt right.

you hear the scrape of a boot against concrete.

you stop.

the sound didn’t come from behind you.

it came from in front.

a silhouette detaches itself from the wall.

then another.

two men. thick coats. faces obscured by the shadows, but you can feel their eyes. heavy. sticky.

“evening, sweetheart.”

the voice is wet, slurred.

your stomach drops through the floor.

“i don’t have any cash,” you say immediately. your voice is steady—you practiced this in the mirror after your ex, hoping you’d never have to use it—but your hands are shaking.

“didn’t ask for cash,” the second one says.

he steps forward.

the streetlight glints off something in his hand.

a knife.

not a big one. just a switchblade. rusty. jagged. enough to ruin your life.

“phone,” the first one demands. “and the bag.”

you can’t breathe.

the air in your lungs turns to cement.

you reach for your bag, fingers fumbling with the strap. just give it to them. just survive.

“c’mon, slowpoke,” the guy with the knife sneers. he lunges forward, just a step, to scare you.

he reaches for your arm.

you scream.

it’s a reflex. a sharp, terrified sound that rips out of your throat before you can stop it. you squeeze your eyes shut, flinching back, waiting for the grab. waiting for the pain.

but it doesn’t come.

instead, there is a sound.

thud.

a heavy, meaty sound. like a sack of flour hitting a wall at fifty miles per hour.

followed by a wet crunch.

the air around you shifts.

violently.

a gust of wind hits you, smelling of rain and… something ancient. something cold.

you open your eyes.

the man with the knife is gone.

literally gone.

you look left.

he is twenty feet away, slumped against a dumpster in a heap, groaning, his leg bent at an angle that makes you nauseous just looking at it.

the second man is standing there, frozen. his eyes are bulging out of his head.

and standing between you and him… is a boy.

no.

not a boy.

a shadow.

he’s wearing a black hoodie, soaked through. his back is to you. but you recognize the posture. the wide shoulders. the lethal stillness.

it’s him.

the guy from the gym.

ni-ki.

the second man makes a noise—a whimper, really. he stumbles back, raising his hands.

“i—i didn’t—”

ni-ki tilts his head.

it’s a twitch. a glitch in reality.

he moves.

you don’t see him take a step. one second he’s standing still, the next he is right in the man’s face.

ni-ki’s hand shoots out. he grabs the man by the throat.

he lifts him.

one hand.

he lifts a two-hundred-pound man off the ground until his boots are dangling six inches above the wet pavement.

the man claws at ni-ki’s wrist, choking, legs kicking uselessly.

ni-ki doesn’t even strain. he looks bored.

“leave,” ni-ki whispers.

the sound of his voice vibrates through your bones. it’s not human. it’s too low. too layered.

he tosses the man.

tosses him like he’s a crumpled piece of paper.

the man flies backward, crashing into the wet cardboard boxes near the alley exit, scrambling to his feet, and sprinting away into the night without looking back.

silence crashes back down.

you are standing alone in a dark alley with a monster.

you can’t move.

your brain is trying to process what you just saw. physics doesn’t work like that. people don’t move like that.

ni-ki stands there for a long moment, staring at the spot where the man ran.

his chest heaves once. deep. ragged.

then, slowly, terrifyingly, he turns around.

the streetlight flickers above him, casting half his face in shadow.

but you see enough.

you see his eyes.

they aren’t dark brown anymore.

they are red.

a deep, glowing crimson, like fresh blood illuminated from within.

and his mouth…

his lips are parted.

fangs.

sharp, white, undeniable fangs resting against his bottom lip.

you stop breathing.

“what…” you whisper. the word comes out as a ghost of a sound. “what are you?”

ni-ki flinches.

the red in his eyes flares, panicked. he brings a hand up to his mouth, as if to hide it, but it’s too late.

you saw.

you take a step back. your heel hits a puddle. splash.

“stay back,” you gasp.

he drops his hand.

“y/n,” he says.

his voice is broken. desperate.

“don’t come near me!” you scream, panic finally overriding the shock. you turn to run.

you don’t make it two steps.

a cold breeze rushes past your ear, and suddenly, he is in front of you. blocking your path.

you stumble back, heart hammering so hard it hurts.

he reaches out.

“don’t!” you cry, throwing your hands up to protect your face.

he catches your wrists.

his grip is iron. immovable.

but his hands are cold. ice cold. dead cold.

“shh,” he hisses. “look at me.”

“let me go! please, i don’t have any money, just let me—”

“look at me!”

he pulls you closer.

you’re forced to look up. forced to meet his gaze.

and the moment your eyes lock with his, the world stops spinning.

literally.

the rain seems to freeze in mid-air. the sound of the distant traffic fades into a dull hum. the fear in your chest—that screaming, frantic terror—suddenly goes quiet.

it’s like sinking into warm water.

his eyes are endless. pools of red and black swirling together, pulling you in, drowning you in a calm that feels artificial. heavy. drug-like.

your body goes slack in his grip.

you’re still afraid, somewhere deep down, but you can’t move. you can’t look away. you are pinned by his will.

ni-ki stares down at you.

his face is inches from yours. you can feel his breath on your skin—it doesn’t carry warmth. just the scent of rain and sorrow.

he’s shaking.

you realize, through the haze, that he is trembling.

“who are you?” he whispers.

his voice is agonizingly soft.

“y/n,” you answer. your voice sounds flat. robotic. you can’t lie. your tongue feels heavy, compelled to speak only the truth.

“do you know who i am?” he asks, searching your eyes.

“ni-ki,” you say. “from the gym.”

he closes his eyes for a second. a spasm of pain crosses his face.

“look deeper,” he commands, opening his eyes again. the red is swirling faster now. “look at my face. look at my soul. do you remember the willow tree?”

you stare at him.

the words mean nothing to you.

“no,” you whisper.

“do you remember the night you died?” his voice cracks. tears—actual tears—well up in his unnatural eyes. “do you remember the blood? do you remember me holding you?”

you search your mind. you try. because he is commanding you to. you dig through every memory you have.

but there is nothing.

just your childhood bedroom. your high school graduation. your crappy apartment.

“no,” you say. “i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

ni-ki lets out a sound that is half-sob, half-laugh.

it’s the sound of a heart breaking all over again.

“you’re not her,” he whispers.

he lifts a hand. his cold fingers trace the line of your jaw. his thumb brushes your cheekbone.

it’s a lover’s touch. intimate. familiar.

but you are a stranger.

“you’re really not her,” he says again, more to himself.

he stares at your lips for a second.

for a terrifying moment, you think he’s going to kiss you. or bite you. the hunger in his eyes is palpable—a starving thing looking at a feast it cannot touch.

but then he pulls back.

the red in his eyes fades, bleeding back into a dark, bottomless brown.

“listen to me,” he says. his voice hardens. becomes commanding again.

“i’m listening,” you say.

“tonight didn’t happen like this.”

he steps closer, his grip on your wrists tightening just enough to ground you.

“you were walking home. the alley was dark. you got spooked by a shadow. just a shadow. nobody attacked you. nobody saved you.”

he leans down, his forehead resting against yours. the contact is freezing, shocking against your feverish skin.

“you didn’t see me,” he whispers into the space between you. “you never saw me. i am just a stranger at a gym you went to once. nothing more.”

he pulls back, locking eyes with you one last time.

“forget,” he commands.

the word slams into your mind like a physical blow.

a white light flashes behind your eyelids.

ni-ki lets go of your wrists.

he steps back.

and then, he is gone.

vanished into the rain.

you blink.

you stumble, catching yourself against the brick wall.

your head is pounding. a sharp, throbbing ache right behind your eyes.

you look around.

you’re standing in the alley. it’s raining. you’re soaked.

“what…”

you touch your forehead. it feels cold.

why are you standing here?

you look down at your feet. there’s a puddle.

right, you think, shaking your head to clear the fog. shortcut. bad idea. too dark.

you feel a lingering sense of unease—a tightness in your chest, like you just woke up from a nightmare you can’t remember—but you shake it off.

“creepy,” you mutter to yourself.

you grip your bag tighter and hurry toward the end of the alley, toward the safety of the streetlights and the busy road.

you don’t look up at the rooftops.

you don’t see the figure standing on the edge, watching you go.

you don’t see him wipe a tear from his cheek before turning away into the night.

ni-ki doesn’t go home.

he can’t.

he goes to the bridge. the old stone one overlooking the river, where the noise of the water drowns out the noise in his head.

he grips the railing, stone crumbling under his fingers because he isn’t checking his strength.

he pulls out his phone.

his hand is shaking.

he dials.

it rings once.

“ni-ki?” heeseung’s voice. alert. worried.

“i did it,” ni-ki says. his voice sounds dead. hollowed out.

“did what?”

“she was attacked. i stepped in. she saw my face. she saw… everything.”

heeseung swears softly. “did you compel her?”

“yes.”

“and?”

ni-ki looks down at the dark water churning below.

he remembers the way she looked at him. the fear. the absolute lack of recognition.

“she doesn’t know,” ni-ki says. “i asked her. i pushed deep, heeseung. there’s nothing there. no caroline. just… her.”

he hears heeseung let out a long breath.

“that’s good, ni-ki. that’s… that’s for the best.”

“is it?” ni-ki asks.

“yes. it means we’re safe. it means you can let it go.”

ni-ki closes his eyes.

he can still feel the warmth of her skin on his fingertips. he can still smell the rain in her hair.

forget, he had told her.

but he knows, with a sickening certainty, that he never will.

“yeah,” ni-ki lies. “i can let it go.”

“come home,” heeseung says gently.

“in a bit.”

ni-ki hangs up.

he stares at the city skyline.

he knows he should stay away. he knows heeseung is right.

but the hunger is there now.

not just for blood.

for her.

because even if she isn’t caroline… she is the only thing in this godforsaken world that has made him feel alive in a hundred years.

and he has a feeling—a dark, twisting feeling in his gut—that this isn’t over.

not by a long shot.

you work at the grind, a coffee shop that smells perpetually of burnt beans and oat milk. it’s not glamorous, but it pays the rent, and the customers usually leave you alone if you wear your "don't talk to me" face.

usually.

“large iced americano. four shots. black.”

you look up from the register, sharpie in hand.

jay is leaning against the counter.

he looks out of place in the warm, cozy lighting of the shop. he’s wearing a leather jacket that probably costs more than your car, and he’s looking at you with that same calm, observational gaze he had at dinner.

“you trying to give yourself a heart attack?” you ask, writing jay on the cup.

“i don’t sleep much,” he shrugs. “figured i’d come see if you were still alive.”

you pause. “why wouldn’t i be?”

he watches you. closely.

“you left the gym pretty fast the other day. sydney said you were upset.”

you blink.

you remember leaving the gym. you remember walking home in the rain. but the details feel… fuzzy. like trying to recall a movie you watched half-asleep.

“was i?” you ask, genuinely confused. “i mean, yeah, it was intense. but i wasn’t that upset.”

jay’s brows knit together. just a fraction.

“ni-ki,” he says slowly. “the guy in the hoodie? he said some pretty messed up stuff to you.”

you rack your brain.

you have a vague image of a tall, blonde boy. sharp eyes.

“did he?” you laugh, grabbing a cup. “i just remember him being kinda… quiet. intense. maybe a little rude? but honestly, i’ve dealt with worse customers before 8 a.m.”

jay goes still.

he’s staring at you like he’s trying to solve a math problem that doesn’t have an answer.

he leans over the counter slightly.

“y/n,” he says, voice low. “he told you to leave. he told you that you were weak.”

you stop making the drink.

you look at jay.

“he works at the gym, right?” you ask, tilting your head. “the tall one?”

jay doesn’t answer immediately. his jaw tightens. he looks down at the counter, then back at you. his eyes are dark, swirling with a realization you can’t read.

compulsion, he thinks. he didn’t just make her forget the alley. he scrubbed the fear. he took the instinct to run.

“yeah,” jay says finally. his voice is tight. “yeah, he works there.”

“well, tell him he doesn’t have to worry,” you say, capping the lid on his drink. “i’m not made of glass. i’ll be back.”

you slide the drink across the counter.

“see you at three?”

jay takes the cup. he looks like he wants to say something—maybe warn you, maybe stop you.

but he just nods.

“see you at three.”

you go home for a quick nap before your session.

sleep comes fast. heavy. black.

and then, the green starts.

you’re not in the forest this time. no fire. no smoke.

you’re under a tree.

a willow tree.

the branches hang low, swaying in a breeze that smells like summer and river water. the sunlight is dappled, warm on your skin.

you can’t see yourself. you can’t see anyone. you’re just a consciousness floating in the memory.

but you can hear them.

“you’ll never catch me,” a girl’s voice laughs. it sounds like your voice, but lighter. happier. uncluttered by rent and trauma.

“i don’t have to chase you,” a boy answers. his voice is deep. velvety. smooth. “you always come back.”

“maybe i won’t this time. maybe i’ll run away to paris.”

“then i’ll follow you to paris.”

“what about london?”

“then london.”

“what if i go to the moon, ni-ki?”

a pause.

a rustle of fabric. the sound of a hand catching a wrist.

“then i’ll learn how to fly.”

the girl laughs again. soft. breathless.

“my shadow,” she whispers. “you’re obsessed with me.”

“eternally,” he answers.

and for a second, you feel it.

love.

not the movie kind. the earth-shattering, soul-binding, terrifying kind of love that burns you from the inside out.

and then—

the sky turns red.

the willow tree catches fire.

the laughter turns into a scream.

“NI-KI!”

you wake up gasping.

you sit up in bed, sheets tangled around your legs, heart hammering against your ribs.

you touch your face.

you’re crying.

“jesus,” you mutter, wiping your cheeks. “need to stop eating cheese before bed.”

the gym feels different today.

maybe it’s because you’re not scared anymore. maybe it’s because jay is smiling when you walk in.

“ready for round two?” he asks, tossing you a pair of wraps.

“try not to go easy on me this time,” you tease, catching them.

training is brutal. jay doesn’t baby you today. he makes you work until your arms feel like lead and your lungs are burning. but it feels good. it feels like reclaiming something.

you’re halfway through a set of hooks when you feel it.

eyes.

the hair on the back of your neck stands up.

you pause, wiping sweat from your forehead with your shoulder, and glance toward the back of the gym.

he’s there.

ni-ki.

he’s standing near the free weights, but he isn’t lifting. he’s just… standing.

he’s wearing a black tank top today, and oh.

oh, wow.

you didn’t realize how… built he was. lean muscle, defined veins, skin pale and perfect. he looks like a statue carved out of marble and bad attitude.

he’s staring right at you.

intense. unblinking. almost painful.

most people would look away.

but you’re tired, you’re pumped full of endorphins, and for some reason, the sight of him doesn’t make you want to run. it makes you want to step closer.

you finish your set and grab your water bottle, walking straight past jay.

“take five,” you tell jay.

you walk over to the free weights.

ni-ki doesn’t move. he watches you approach, his eyes tracking your every step. he looks… tense. like he’s waiting for you to scream.

you stop a few feet away from him, leaning your hip against the rack of dumbbells. you take a sip of water, eyeing him over the rim of the bottle.

“you know,” you say, lowering the bottle. “if you keep staring at me like that, i’m gonna think you’re a fan.”

ni-ki blinks.

shock registers on his face. genuine, unfiltered shock.

“what?” he rasps.

his voice is deeper than you remembered. it sends a little shiver down your spine that definitely isn’t fear.

“you’ve been watching me for twenty minutes,” you point out, smirking a little. “what’s the matter? intimidated by my form?”

you flex one arm—which is currently shaking from exhaustion—as a joke.

ni-ki doesn’t laugh.

he stares at your arm. at the sweat on your skin. at your smile.

he looks like he’s in physical pain.

his jaw clenches. his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

“you shouldn’t be talking to me,” he says. quiet. strained.

“why? are you contagious?”

he looks at your eyes. searching for something. maybe the fear he put there.

he doesn’t find it.

“i’m dangerous,” he says.

you roll your eyes. “yeah, yeah. ‘danger’ is your middle name. i got it. you’re very brooding and mysterious.”

you step a little closer.

you catch a scent off him. rain. ozone. and something sweet, like jasmine?

“seriously though,” you say, your voice dropping a little, softer now. “are you okay? you look… kind of wrecked.”

ni-ki flinches.

he looks down at you.

and for a second, the mask slips.

you see such profound sadness in his eyes that it knocks the wind out of you. he looks at you like he’s starving. like he wants to reach out and touch your face but is terrified his hands will burn you.

“i’m fine,” he lies.

“you don’t look fine.”

you tilt your head, smiling playfully. trying to lighten the mood. trying to make the hot, sad boy smile.

“maybe you just need a hobby,” you tease. “besides staring at people from the shadows. ever tried knitting? or… i don’t know, buying a girl a coffee?”

ni-ki’s eyes widen slightly.

“are you…” he starts, then stops. he looks completely bewildered. “are you flirting with me?”

you shrug, feeling your face heat up but committing to the bit.

“depends. is it working?”

ni-ki stares at you.

his mouth opens slightly. closes.

he looks at jay, who is watching from the ring with his head in his hands.

then he looks back at you.

and lets out a breath that sounds like a defeat.

“you have no idea,” he whispers, “how much trouble you’re in.”

“i like trouble,” you counter.

ni-ki closes his eyes. a pained, bitter smile touches his lips.

“yeah,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. “you always did.”

[ktarotttt]

enhypen energy check :) wow…a lot is happening

okay besties, I know the video above is 40+ minutes long because the everything was literally overflowing, and I had to get into every detail. ☕️

but for the people who don’t have the attention span for a documentary right now (I feel you), I got you. I wrote out a summary of the main points below so you can get the tea quickly.

⚠️ BUT PLEASE: If this resonates, watch the video linked above! There is so much nuance, intuition, and specific details that I couldn't type out here without writing a novel. This is just the summary.

anyway, let’s get into the mess...

• overall group energy

although they are in the midst of a really, really amazing comeback/album, there is still a very large cloud over the group right now. the timing feels 'off' or unlucky for them right now. usually, you can ride out bad luck if you have a strong support system. the problem is, their support system, their home, their group dynamic, also seems to be unstable currently. so they have nowhere to rest. It’s an energy of having no safe space to decompress.

usually, if work (external) is going badly, you go home (internal) to recharge. or if home is stressful, you escape to work. but because they both have tension, they have no escape. they feel like their career/trajectory is stalled, and their safe space/dorm/team dynamic is hostile.

• how they feel about the comeback

making the album itself doesn’t feel like it was an easy or joyful process for them. like the 'fun' was sucked out of the studio. there was frustration tied to creation—wanting to express more, wanting to contribute creatively in a deeper or different way, but feeling limited or blocked in that process. It felt like there were ideas, emotions, or creative directions they wanted to explore that didn’t fully make it through.

however, the energy shifts. even though the process wasn’t enjoyable, there was still hope and belief in the album. and now, seeing how deeply fans are connecting to it is genuinely healing that earlier frustration. the love from Engenes feels like confirmation, like “okay, maybe it was worth it.” whatever doubts or creative tension they carried while making it are slowly being left behind as they move forward and focus on the emotional response the album is getting.

so it’s not that they hate the album. it’s more like: making it was hard, but watching it be loved is softening everything.

• energy towards the company

there’s a strong sense of effort being put in over a long period of time and feeling like the return hasn’t grown the way it was supposed to. Like seeds were planted, patience was exercised, promises were believed in—but the results don’t match what they expected or what they were led to believe was possible.

what really stood out is that this doesn’t feel one-sided. they don’t see success as being only on their backs, and they don’t see failure as being only their fault either. there’s an awareness that yes, they carry a huge responsibility, but there are also things the company could have done differently or better. support, strategy, resources, timing. it feels like a push-and-pull of “if you want us to reach this level, we need to be given the tools to do that.”

i also kept getting comparison energy. looking at other groups, both within the company and outside of it, and questioning why the effort and investment don’t feel equal. not in a jealous way, but in a very logical, “what’s not clicking here?” way. at the same time, there’s still an attempt to stay balanced and patient. they’re trying to meet the company halfway, to work with what they have, even while feeling unfulfilled with the growth that’s come from everything they’ve put in.

• group dynamic currently

they have been exhausted from constant bickering or passive-aggressive tension and decided that they’re gonna just have to agree to disagree on certain things. for a long time, I think members were moving in silence, hiding their true feelings, or maybe even talking behind each other's backs (Seven of Swords energy). But recently, that stopped.

they are working hard, but the "car" isn't moving forward the way they want. They feel powerless over their own direction, like someone else is driving or the engine has stalled. they all want the same success (the end goal). but because they are stalled (Chariot Rx), they are arguing about how to get there. one member thinks they need to go left. another thinks they need to go right. another thinks they need to wait. because they can't agree on the direction and they feel stuck, they start snapping at each other. it’s "cabin fever." they are trapped in this stalled car together, getting frustrated, and taking it out on each other. the fighting isn't because they hate each other; it’s because they are anxious about not moving.

they forced a "Come to Jesus" moment. They sat down and aired out the dirty laundry. No more lies, no more "I'm fine." It was messy, but it was honest. with the 7 of Swords Reversed and 6 of Cups, they finally got honest about their issues and are leaning on their history together to get through the rough patch. they love eachother.

• individual members

heeseung (empress reversed)

his energy feels creatively frustrated and blocked. not insecure, frustrated. there’s a strong sense that he knows what he’s capable of artistically, but doesn’t feel like he’s been able to fully access or express it lately. this feels tied not just to the group’s album, but to his own personal creative ambitions as well. it’s the kind of tension that comes from having ideas and emotional depth, but not enough space or freedom to let them breathe yet. that can be exhausting for someone like him.

jay (king of wands reversed)

he feels like they have lost his grip on something in his life. because he feels powerless or like things are slipping out of his hands, he may be overcompensating by being domineering, stubborn, or controlling. his energy rn may be very arrogant or rigid. he is likely shutting down other people's ideas because his ego is bruised. he is so focused on proving is "right" or "the king" that he is becoming impossible to work with. It’s a clash of ego vs. reality.

jake (queen of wands reversed)

this person usually knows they are "that guy," but right now? they are feeling small. they feel overshadowed, ignored, or like their sparkle has dimmed. they are struggling to find their confidence, so they might be shrinking into the background or acting out to get attention. the Queen of Wands Rx often looks at everyone else and thinks, "why do they get the praise? Why are they the favorite?" it’s a very envious energy. In a group dynamic, this person feels like they aren't getting the credit or the spotlight they deserve, and it’s making them bitter.

sunghoon (10 of cups reversed)

the Ten of Cups is usually the "happily ever after" card. family, joy, connection. reversed, that picture-perfect image is shattered. he feels disconnected from his support system. whether it’s distance from his actual family or feeling like the group isn't the "family" it used to be, he’s feeling incredibly isolated. it’s that feeling of being in a crowded room of people who are supposed to love you, but still feeling alone.

sunoo (the moon)

sunoo is wandering through a fog right now. the Moon is the card of illusions, confusion, and anxiety. it’s that feeling of waking up in a fever dream and asking, "Is this real life?" he is completely disoriented by the group's energy. stressing, sunoo is just standing there thinking, "we’re supposed to laugh at the drama, not BE the drama."

he hates this. the moon represents "shadows" and heavy, unspoken vibes. sunoo thrives on fun, lighthearted energy. he just wants the fog to lift so they can go back to kiki-ing like normal friends. he feels like he entered the twilight zone.

jungwon (9 of swords)

it seems like he is experiencing, mental anguish, guilt, and the kind of anxiety that wakes you up at 3 AM. as the leader, he is internalizing all of the group's problems. he feels trapped in a mental loop of "what if this fails?" or "how do I fix this?" he’s likely not sleeping well and is mentally beating himself up over things that aren't even his fault.

ni-ki (the high priestess)

while everyone else is freaking out, Ni-ki has gone totally silent. the high priestess is the most intuitive, spiritual card in the deck. it means he has detached from the drama and is trusting his gut. he isn't fighting (Wands) or spiraling (Swords); he is just knowing. he likely has secrets or opinions he isn't sharing because he knows it’s not the right time. he’s protecting his energy and moving with a weirdly calm, spiritual maturity that seems beyond his years right now. he’s trusting the universe, not the company.

• advice

I’m not gonna sugarcoat this one they’re basically being told to go get laid. 💀 Or at the very least, go on a date, fall in love for a night, or experience some actual human pleasure. and the fact that it’s coming out tells me they’re not doing these things. the group is so pent up, so stressed, and so restricted by the rules they set for themselves that they are about to snap. they have too much fire (fighting) and too much air (anxiety)—they need Water (Cups) to balance it out.

they are being called to stop living like monks. whether it’s hooking up, dating, or just prioritizing their own physical satisfaction, they need a release. and they’re gonna be okay. they’re being called to find their inner strength and know that they can get pass this weird phase.

[moonlightdreamzz]

CRIMSON RING ──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !! ── CHAPTER TWO

chapter one.

★ genre , vampire au | boxer au | reincarnation | soulmates | trauma healing | fate with blood on its hands | second chances. ★ pairing , vampire!boxer!ni-ki x reader. feat, enhypen. ★ warnings , reader is a dv survivor, and it will be mentioned, violence, blood, death, eventual smut

★ SUMMARY

you walk into crimson ring because you’re tired of being afraid. tired of flinching. tired of taking hits you never deserved. all you want is to learn how to fight back. but this gym…isn’t normal. the men who train there are too strong. some of them are kind. funny, even. some are terrifying without trying. but all of them carry something in their silence.

what you don’t know is that crimson ring isn’t just for fighters. it’s where vampires go to relearn control—to train their bodies to stay still when blood hits the air. a front for humans. a discipline for immortals. a place to feel everything—without giving in to it.

the one they call ni-ki won’t even look at you. he trains alone. never speaks. and when he finally does, it’s to say “you shouldn’t be here.” you don’t know why he hates you. you don’t know why he looks at you like he’s already lost you. but he does.

because you look like the girl he loved. the one he lost control with. the one he killed centuries ago—fangs in your veins. and now, you’re here again. same eyes. same voice. same scent that haunts him in his sleep. you don’t remember him. but he does. and this time, he’s not sure if he’ll save you. or ruin you all over again.

the air in the back room always smells like copper.

it’s better than what it used to smell like—death and rot and the wet earth of a grave—but heeseung still hates it. he hates that he’s used to it.

he sits at the heavy oak desk, staring at a stack of gym waivers he isn’t reading. a half-empty glass of dark red liquid sits near his elbow. he hasn’t touched it. he’s been trying to stretch the intervals between feeds. trying to remember what hunger feels like without giving in to it.

it’s his penance.

his secret.

“you’re brooding again,” jake says, tossing a crumpled paper ball at heeseung’s head.

heeseung doesn’t flinch. he catches the paper without looking up.

“i’m thinking. you should try it sometime.”

jake laughs, kicking his feet up onto the leather couch. he’s wiping a smear of blood off his bottom lip with the back of his hand, casual as if it were ketchup.

“thinking is boring. feeding is fun. you missed out tonight, hyung. tourists. downtown. nobody missed them, and they tasted like expensive vodka.”

“disgusting,” sunghoon mutters from the corner. he’s checking his reflection in a knife blade, tilting his head to inspect a hairline fracture in his porcelain skin. “alcohol thins the blood. makes it bitter.”

“adds flavor,” jake argues. “you’re just a snob.”

“i have standards,” sunghoon corrects. “unlike you and jungwon, who would eat a rat if it had a pulse.”

jungwon, who is currently hanging upside down from a pull-up bar in the doorframe like a bat, grins. his teeth look sharper when he’s upside down.

“rats are fast,” jungwon says. “fun to catch.”

heeseung sighs, rubbing his temples.

this is his family. his burden.

he remembers when they were human. he remembers sunghoon skating on ice, not hunting in alleys. he remembers jake struggling with math, not with bloodlust. he remembers jungwon as a kid who scraped his knees, not a predator who could rip a throat out with a smile.

he did this to them.

he saved them from death, yes. but he damned them to this.

and that’s why he spends his nights reading ancient texts, scouring the globe for witches, for alchemy, for anything that might reverse the turn. he wants to give them the one thing they don’t even realize they’ve lost.

humanity.

the heavy metal door swings open.

the temperature in the room drops.

jay walks in.

he doesn’t look at the trio. he walks straight to heeseung’s desk, planting his hands on the wood.

he looks rattled. and jay never looks rattled.

jake stops chewing on his lip. jungwon drops from the bar, landing silently on the balls of his feet. sunghoon puts the knife down.

the shift is instant. the predators sense a disturbance.

“what?” heeseung asks, voice low.

“she’s coming tomorrow,” jay says.

heeseung goes still.

“we talked about this, jay. it’s not her.”

“it is her,” jay snaps. rarely does he raise his voice at heeseung, but tonight, his composure is cracking. “i looked her in the eye. i heard her voice. i asked her about the past and she froze. it’s caroline.”

the name hits the room like a grenade.

jake sits up straight, legs swinging off the couch. “caroline? as in... dead caroline? as in, pile of ashes caroline?”

“impossible,” sunghoon says, standing up. “ni-ki drained her dry. we buried the body ourselves. there was nothing left to reincarnate.”

“nature balances the scales,” jungwon whispers, eyes wide. “maybe she came back for revenge.”

“she’s not a vengeful spirit,” jay says, turning to them. “she’s human. completely human. she doesn’t remember us. she thinks she’s just a girl named y/n who needs boxing lessons because her ex was a piece of shit.”

heeseung stands up slowly.

the room goes quiet.

he walks around the desk, his presence filling the space. heeseung is the oldest. the strongest. the sire. when he moves, the others naturally make space.

“reincarnation,” heeseung says, testing the word like it tastes like poison. “it doesn’t happen. not for people who die the way she did.”

not when i’m trying so hard to find a cure, he thinks. the universe wouldn’t be cruel enough to send her back right when i’m failing.

“i know what i saw,” jay insists. “and if she walks into this gym tomorrow and ni-ki sees her...”

he doesn’t have to finish the sentence.

they all know.

ni-ki hasn’t been the same since 1894. since the night he lost control. he is a volatile, silent weapon of guilt. if he sees the face of the girl he murdered walking around in gym shorts?

he’ll break.

and a broken vampire is a dangerous thing.

“he can’t see her,” heeseung decides instantly. “keep him out of the gym. change his schedule. tell him the pipes burst. i don’t care.”

“he trains at 3 a.m. usually,” jake points out. “she’s coming during the day?”

“3 p.m.,” jay confirms.

“then we’re good,” sunghoon says, leaning back against the wall. “day shift vs. night shift. they’ll never cross paths.”

“unless he decides to come in early,” jungwon points out unhelpfully.

“he won’t,” heeseung says. tone final. “i’ll make sure of it.”

he looks at jay.

“i need to see her first.”

jay nods. “that’s what i thought.”

“if she’s really a doppelgänger... or whatever this is... we need to know. we need to know if she’s a threat to our exposure. or a threat to ni-ki’s sanity.”

heeseung walks to the door, grabbing his coat.

“wait,” jake calls out. “what if she is her? like, really her soul?”

heeseung pauses at the threshold. his hand tightens on the frame.

“then we have a bigger problem than bloodlust,” heeseung says softly.

because if caroline can come back... if death isn’t permanent... then maybe the curse isn’t permanent either.

or maybe, it just means they are destined to kill her all over again.

“keep ni-ki away,” heeseung orders. “i mean it. if he smells her, it’s over.”

he walks out.

the door slams shut.

in the silence left behind, jungwon looks at the others.

“ten bucks says ni-ki finds out by wednesday,” he says.

jake smirks, fangs glinting. “i give it twenty-four hours.”

sunghoon just sighs, picking up his knife again. “this is going to be a disaster.”

the building looks like a bruise against the skyline.

red brick. industrial. grim. it sits on a corner of the city that feels forgotten, sandwiched between an auto body shop and a closed-down warehouse. there’s no neon sign. no "summer special" banner. just a heavy metal door painted a shade of red that’s a little too dark to be cheerful.

crimson ring.

you stand on the sidewalk, gym bag slung over your shoulder, checking your phone.

2:58 pm.

you’re early. you’re always early. anxiety does that to a person.

you consider turning around. sydney would understand. destiny would probably drive the getaway car. you could go home, make pasta, and pretend you didn’t just sign up to get punched in the face for therapy.

but then you remember the dream.

the fire. the shadow. the feeling of being hunted.

power, you tell yourself. you need power.

you push the door open.

the smell hits you first.

it’s not the gross, stale locker room funk you expected. it smells like iron. old leather. bleach. and underneath it all, that same metallic sharp scent you smelled in your kitchen when jay cut his finger.

the air inside is freezing.

like, ac-cranked-to-the-max freezing.

you shiver, stepping fully inside. the gym is cavernous. high ceilings, exposed pipes, rows of heavy bags hanging like carcasses. there are two boxing rings in the center.

and it’s quiet.

not silent—there’s the rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of gloves hitting bags, the skip of ropes against rubber mats—but there’s no talking. no music. no laughing.

the men training here are massive. shadows in motion. moving with a speed that makes your eyes hurt if you try to track them too closely.

“you showed up.”

you jump.

jay is leaning against the front desk, arms crossed over his chest. he’s wearing a tank top today, and you try not to stare at the fact that his arms look like they were sculpted out of marble.

he’s smiling, but his eyes are scanning you. carefully.

“told you i would,” you say, gripping your bag tighter.

“most people say that and then ghost.” he pushes off the desk. “glad you’re not most people.”

he gestures for you to follow him.

you walk deeper into the gym, conscious of the way the air seems to ripple as you pass. heads turn. not many. just a few.

a guy with cat-like eyes pauses mid-sit-up to watch you. another one near the water fountain stops filling his bottle, his gaze heavy and unblinking.

you feel like a rabbit walking into a kennel of wolves.

“ignore them,” jay says, voice low. “fresh meat is a novelty around here.”

“comforting.”

“this is heeseung,” jay says, stopping by the first ring. “he runs the place. and he’s the one you have to impress if you want to stay.”

heeseung is inside the ring, unwrapping his hands.

he’s terrifyingly handsome. sharp features, doe eyes that somehow look predatory, and a stillness about him that feels unnatural.

he stops unwrapping. looks up.

locks eyes with you.

and for a second, you feel like he’s reading your entire history. every scar. every fear. every nightmare.

he inhales. slow. deep.

his eyes widen—just a fraction.

he looks at jay. jay gives him a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

it’s her.

the silent communication is loud enough to deafen you.

“y/n,” heeseung says. his voice is smooth, melodic. “jay says you want to learn how to fight.”

“i want to learn how to not be afraid,” you correct.

heeseung tilts his head.

“fear is good,” he says, walking to the ropes. he moves too gracefully. like gravity doesn’t apply to him. “fear keeps you alive. we don’t teach you to lose it. we teach you to use it.”

he leans over the ropes, looking down at you.

“have you ever hit anything before?”

“no.”

“good. no bad habits to break.” he points to a heavy bag in the back corner, shadowed and isolated. “jay will get you wrapped. show me you can throw a jab without breaking your wrist, and maybe i’ll let you come back tomorrow.”

twenty minutes later, your knuckles ache, your lungs are burning, and you’re pretty sure you’re sweating enough to drown.

jay is a patient teacher. almost too patient.

he touches you like you’re made of glass. correcting your stance with gentle taps, guiding your elbow up without actually grabbing you. his hands are cold. distractingly cold.

“snap it back,” he instructs. “don’t push the bag. hit it and retract. like a whip.”

you throw a jab. the bag barely moves.

“better,” he lies.

“i suck at this,” you pant, wiping hair out of your face.

“you’re new. you’re supposed to suck.” he hands you a water bottle. “take five. breathe.”

you lean against the wall, sliding down until you’re crouching. you close your eyes, trying to center yourself.

the gym has gotten louder. more bodies. more heat.

but then—

it stops.

not the noise. the feeling.

the air in the room drops ten degrees in a single second.

the hair on your arms stands up. your stomach drops, instinct screaming at you to run.

you open your eyes.

across the gym, the back door has opened.

a boy walks in.

he’s tall. lanky. blonde hair falling into his eyes. wearing a black hoodie with the hood up, headphones around his neck.

he doesn’t look at anyone. he walks with a strange, lethal fluidity. like a ghost haunting his own body.

the energy in the room shifts toward him. gravitational.

jay goes stiff beside you.

heeseung stops talking to the guy in the ring.

the boy—ni-ki, your brain supplies, though no one has said his name—walks straight to the furthest corner. he drops his bag. starts wrapping his hands.

he hasn’t looked up once.

but you can’t look away.

there’s something about him. something tragic. something angry.

“y/n,” jay says. his voice is sharp. urgent. “let’s call it a day.”

you blink, turning to him. “what? i just got here.”

“you’re tired. form’s getting sloppy.” he’s already reaching for your gloves, trying to undo the velcro. “come back thursday.”

“jay, i’m fine—”

thud.

the sound echoes through the gym like a gunshot.

you turn.

ni-ki has hit the bag.

he didn’t just hit it. he decimated it. the heavy bag, which must weigh a hundred pounds, swings violently, the chain rattling against the ceiling beam.

he freezes.

his head snaps up.

he breathes in. sharp. audible.

and then, slowly, terrifyingly, he turns.

across the gym, through the dust motes and the smell of sweat, his eyes find you.

time stops.

literally.

your heart stops beating. your lungs stop working.

it’s him.

the shadow. the tilted head. the feeling of fire and forests and teeth.

he stares at you. his face drains of color—what little color he had. his eyes are wide, blown with something that looks like horror. and underneath the horror?

hunger.

he takes a step toward you.

jay steps in front of you. a shield.

“ni-ki,” jay warns. low. dangerous.

ni-ki doesn’t hear him. he’s looking right through jay. right at you.

“caroline?”

the name is a whisper, but it carries across the room like a scream.

you frown, stepping out from behind jay because you’re not the kind of girl who hides, even when every cell in your body is telling you to.

“who?” you ask.

ni-ki flinches. like you slapped him.

he looks at your face. your confused, modern, very alive face.

he looks at the pulse fluttering in your neck.

his hands clench into fists at his sides. tight enough to turn his knuckles white. tight enough to draw blood from his own palms.

the emotion on his face shifts.

grief vanishes. coldness slams down like a steel shutter.

he looks at jay.

“get her out of here,” ni-ki snarls. his voice is rough, unused.

you bristle. “excuse me?”

he looks back at you. eyes dead. cruel.

“you shouldn’t be here,” he says.

“i paid for a membership,” you snap back, adrenaline making you stupid.

he walks toward you.

he moves so fast you don’t even see him cross the floor. one second he’s across the room, the next he’s standing two feet away.

he towers over you. up close, he’s beautiful. and terrifying. he smells like rain and something burnt.

he leans down, right in your face.

“this isn’t a playground,” he whispers. venom dripping from every word. “you’re weak. you’re fragile. and if you stay here...”

his eyes drop to your throat. dark. dilated.

“...you’re going to get hurt.”

he pulls back, shoving his hands in his pockets, and turns his back on you.

“leave.”

he walks away.

you stand there, heart hammering against your ribs, cheeks burning with humiliation and anger.

jay puts a hand on your shoulder. “y/n…”

you pull away.

“i’ll see you thursday, jay,” you say, voice shaking but chin up.

you grab your bag and walk out.

you don’t look back.

if you had, you would’ve seen heeseung holding ni-ki back by the shoulder.

and you would’ve seen ni-ki staring at the door you just walked through, looking like he was about to fall to his knees and weep

the door to the gym slams shut behind you, cutting off the smell of iron and the sound of your own humiliation.

you don’t stop walking.

you don’t even check to see if jay followed you out. you just put your head down, shove your hands in your pockets, and go.

the air outside is hot, heavy with exhaust and city noise, but you feel freezing.

it’s the adrenaline crash.

it’s the way his voice sounded. you’re weak. you’re fragile.

it wasn’t just an insult. it sounded like a diagnosis. like he looked at you and saw every bruise you’ve ever hidden, every time you didn’t fight back, every time you made yourself small to survive.

you hate him.

you’ve known him for five minutes, and you hate him.

you turn the corner, walking faster, your sneakers slapping hard against the pavement.

your vision blurs.

“dammit,” you whisper, wiping your eyes aggressively with your sleeve.

you’re not a crier. you survived him—the ex who put you in this mindset—without crying in front of people. you’re not going to let some lanky, emo boxer with a god complex break you down in the first round.

but the tears come anyway. hot and stupid and angry.

you walk the twelve blocks home in a fugue state, seeing nothing but the sidewalk cracks and the memory of those eyes.

caroline.

who the hell is caroline?

and why did he look at you like he wanted to kill you and save you at the same time?

by the time you get to the apartment, your face is dry, but your eyes are puffy.

you unlock the door and step inside.

it’s quiet. destiny isn’t home.

but sydney is on the couch, laptop open, working on a paper. she looks up, smiling, ready to ask how it went—

her smile drops instantly.

“woah,” she says, closing the laptop. “what happened? are you okay?”

you drop your bag on the floor. “i’m fine.”

“you don’t look fine. you look like you just fought a war.”

“i’m quitting,” you say, walking straight to the kitchen to get water. your hands are shaking. “i’m not going back there.”

sydney gets up, following you. “wait, slow down. did you get hurt? did jay—”

“jay was fine,” you snap, opening the fridge. “it’s the other guys. specifically one of them. complete asshole.”

sydney frowns, confused.

her phone buzzes on the counter. once. twice. three times in rapid succession.

she glances at it.

“it’s jay,” she says softly.

you stiffen, chugging the water so you don’t have to speak.

sydney picks up the phone, reading the texts. her eyebrows furrow.

“he says… he’s really sorry,” she reads, looking up at you. “he says ni-ki—that’s the guy?—is… complicated. apparently he has ‘issues’ and didn’t mean to scare you off.”

“he told me i was weak,” you say, slamming the water bottle down. “he told me i didn’t belong there. and then he kicked me out.”

sydney winces. “okay, that’s bad.”

“it’s not just bad, sydney. it’s… it was weird. he knew my name. or he thought he knew my name. he called me caroline.”

sydney pauses, thumb hovering over her screen. “who?”

“i don’t know. an ex, probably. or some girl he traumatized before me.” you laugh, but it sounds brittle. “jay is texting you because he knows he brought me to a place that isn’t safe. and he’s right. i’m not going back.”

sydney looks at the phone again.

“jay says he’ll handle ni-ki. he says heeseung—the owner?—wants you to come back. he says you have potential.”

“tell him to save the sales pitch.”

you push past her, heading for your room.

“y/n, wait—”

“i’m tired, syd. i’m gonna shower.”

“jay’s asking if he can call you,” she calls out to your back. “he sounds really stressed about it. he says please don’t quit over one bad day.”

you stop at your bedroom door.

you think about the gym. the way the air felt. the way heeseung looked at you like a riddle. the way ni-ki looked at you like a ghost.

you’re weak.

maybe he’s right. maybe you are.

maybe walking away is the smart thing to do. the safe thing.

“tell jay,” you say, voice flat, “that i’m over it. and tell his friend he doesn’t have to worry. i won’t be back.”

you shut the door.

you lock it.

you lean your back against the wood, sliding down until you hit the floor.

your phone buzzes in your pocket. probably sydney. probably jay.

you don’t check it.

you just sit there in the dark, knees pulled to your chest, trying to ignore the fact that for the first time in a year, you didn’t feel just fear.

you felt seen.

and that is the most terrifying part of all.

[moonlightdreamzz]

baby…i’m ovulating! — enhypen (s) 🌺

summary. you just got off your period and you’re ready to attack. genre. ovulation. smut. the animal has awakened themes. established!relationship. author’s note. currently feral. you’re welcome

part one: baby…it’s that time of the month

[moonlightdreamzz]

crimson ring part 2 when 😓😓

OTW BAE!

[moonlightdreamzz]

okay guys … the next smut I write CANNOT be about jungwon. I need to write on the other members for you guys because my bias is showing I know. so this is the game

• I want you to send me your requests of any enha member you want, and what you want it to be about.

• We all will vote on the one I choose. Because I always want to do all of your requests but I get so overwhelmed trying to pick one over the other. This is a democracy!!

[moonlightdreamzz]

folded. ; yang jungwon (s)

everything about you drives jungwon crazy. it’s not just the way you talk—it’s the way you look at him, the way you move, the way you say his name like you already know he’d fold for you. so when you invite him over for some kimchi jjigae… he knows better. he has some confessions to make. and you? you’ve got a few things to show him—with your body, of course.

pairing <𝟑 .ᐟnotmuchexperience!jungwon x experienced!reader, genre <𝟑 .ᐟ fluff + smutty smut, warnings <𝟑 .ᐟ 18+, nothing crazy or too freaky. but very descriptive smut and dirty talk. jungwon is in heat going crazy lmfaooooo.

the thing about jungwon is...he’s known for always being sharp, clean, put-together. the kind of person who walks into a room and somehow already has it handled without even saying a word. he’s quiet, but it works for him. serious when he wants to be. funny when you’re lucky enough to catch it. the type people think they know just by looking. but they don’t.

some people though—you—get to see the other side.

the part that’s sweet, shy, and a little awkward when he’s caught off guard. the part that overthinks before he answers. that notices every small detail. that’s still discovering pieces of himself he didn’t know existed until you showed up.

like this part of him.

he’s in his dorm room. lights low. hoodie on. he’s already tried not to think about you tonight. really tried. but it’s useless. it’s been four months now—four months since you first met—two months since you two became more than friends—and every day since, you’ve made it harder to pretend.

you just posted a selfie. nothing wild. just you, looking like you. boho braids, glossed lips, white tank top—he doesn’t even mean to stare, but his thumb freezes mid-scroll.

he always sees your stories first.

always likes them first.

sometimes sends a heart-eyes emoji just to see if you’ll reply. you always do.

but tonight? tonight’s different. because you look good. too good. like that’s what you look like when you’re alone? like he could be there right now, next to you on the couch, your legs over his lap, your laugh echoing down the hall?

he scrolls down.

then back up.

his thumb hovers like not moving will undo what’s already happening in his chest.

or lower.

his palm settles between his legs, not moving yet—just pressing. feeling how hard he’s already getting.

he tells himself not to.

you’d think he was disgusting if you knew.

he never feels like this. he always can ignore it. distract himself. but still… his hand slides under the waistband. fingers wrap around himself, slow. cautious. his eyes flick back to your picture, and his breath catches as he strokes once. again. a little firmer this time.

he thinks about the way your laugh gets softer when you’re tired. how your perfume still lingers on his hoodie from the last time you hugged him. how your tank dips just low enough to show that delicate chain on your collarbone—the one you only wear when you’re home, the one he swears you wore just for him once.

his head tips back.

“fuck… y/n,” he breathes.

he strokes faster now, each thought of you making his grip tighten. his hips lift without meaning to. his mind gets hazy—blurred between memory and imagination.

you, leaning over him.

you, giggling into his ear.

you, moaning his name with that same voice you use when you tease him.

he’s close before he realizes it, jaw clenched, breath short. and when it hits—sharp, fast, sudden—it feels like relief and regret all at once. the feeling of himself spilling out is shameful and relieving all at once.

he exhales hard, hand slowing until it’s done.

he just sits there, hoodie askew, chest heaving.

your selfie still open.

he feels guilty.

he feels good.

he knows he’s going to do it again.

the next day, he sees you before you see him.

just a few seconds. but it’s enough to feel the air punch out of his lungs.

you’re standing in the hallway, talking to someone, smiling that easy smile, hair falling over your shoulder like it’s never had to fight for attention. you look casual—tank and jeans again—but you pull gravity with you when you walk. every eye lands. including his.

especially his.

and then your eyes meet his. and they light up.

“is that my favorite person?”

he tenses. barely holds in a sigh. because he knows—knows—that you mean it playfully. but after last night, after what he did, it lands different.

you step closer, all confidence and teasing charm. “yang jungwon,” you grin, like his name is a song. “you missed me?”

he should say something back. should joke. should flirt. but all he can think about is your picture. your skin. his hand. and the blanket he had to wash this morning.

“you’re underdressed,” you tease, fingers adjusting his hoodie like you always do.

“so are you,” he says before he can stop himself.

your smile sharpens. like you caught the flicker in his voice.

you lean in. “what are you doing tonight?”

“nothing, i guess.”

“good,” you say. “you’re coming over. i’m cooking.”

“what?”

“kimchi jjigae,” you say. “without mushrooms. i remember you don’t like them.”

he blinks. he’s sure he only mentioned that once.

you’re already walking away, bracelets clinking, hips swaying. “i’ll even get that baby beer you drink. because i’m nice like that.”

he can’t breathe.

💌 you okay wonnie? you said you were here right?

jungwon swipes up on the notification, breath shaky and visible in the freezing cold. of course—of course—right as he’s trying to gather himself before stepping into your apartment, you call him baby.

he’s been standing outside your door for a whole fifteen minutes, forehead pressed to the wood like it might give him answers. it’s pitiful. he knows he’s young. he knows your relationship—the weight of its intimacy, the constant tension, the way you exist so effortlessly beautiful—would make anyone stumble over their words. but this? this is something else. it’s overwhelming. it’s suffocating in the best and worst ways.

he feels powerless. and that’s new. that’s scary.

“lock in, jungwon,” he mutters, fogging up the cold air with his breath. one hand on his chest, trying to calm his racing heart. the other hovering near the waistband of his sweatpants, willing himself to chill the hell out. “and you … lock in too,” he whispers, glaring downward like it’ll help.

three light slaps to the cheeks—for luck. he shakes out his arms, shifts his posture, tries to embody someone who isn’t spiraling. someone cool. confident. maybe even sexy.

he takes a deep breath and presses the doorbell, the cold metal stinging his fingertips.

inside, your soft laughter leaks through the door, tangled with the hum of a movie in the background. his chest tightens at the sound, the warmth of you already pulling him in.

“who is it?” you sing-song, teasing.

jimmy chew—your fluffy companion—barks like he’s on security duty, little tail thumping. “is it wonnie? hmm?” you coo.

the door cracks just enough for you to peek out. even with half your face showing, jungwon feels like he’s about to collapse. how is someone like you even real?

you swing the door open fully, letting the cozy glow of your apartment spill into the icy night. he hesitates before stepping in, like he’s scared to ruin the sanctuary of your space.

“hi,” you whisper, and it sends a full-body shiver down his spine.

“hi,” he breathes, voice soft, smile even softer. he lingers near the doorway, clearly unsure of how to close the space between you.

so you do it for him.

your arms wrap around his waist like second nature, pulling him close. he stiffens at first—like his body forgot how to be held—but slowly, slowly, he melts into you.

“you okay?” you murmur, eyes sweet and teasing, hands featherlight against his back.

he laughs, shaky and quiet. “yeah. totally fine,” he lies, and you both know it.

you brush your thumb across his cheek, grounding him. “you’re adorable when you’re nervous, you know that?”

“adorable?” he repeats, like the word personally offends him—but the pink climbing up his ears gives him away.

“mm-hmm.” you press a kiss to the tip of his nose. he blinks, stunned, like even the smallest parts of him being loved are too much to take in at once.

then you kiss him again, and again—tiny kisses on his cheeks, his jaw, his forehead—until he’s burying his face in your shoulder, flustered beyond belief.

“i’m not good at this,” he mumbles, voice muffled in your hoodie.

“that’s okay,” you say gently, pulling back just enough to look into his eyes. “you don’t have to be.”

and wow—he thinks he could live in this moment forever.

but then you take his hand, lacing your fingers through his and guiding him to the couch. the feel of your palm against his is grounding, but something in his stomach twists—nerves and longing colliding in a way he doesn’t fully understand yet.

it’s all too much. the warmth of your presence, the softness of your touch, the casual way you make him feel like he belongs here.

“i’ll go warm up the food,” you say, giving his hand a gentle squeeze before slipping away. “you’ve probably been starving all day.”

as you turn toward the kitchen, he can’t help it—his eyes follow every step. there’s an ache forming deep in his chest, low and insistent. he reaches out, fingers hooking onto the hem of your hoodie.

“jungwon,” you warn, raising a brow with that fake-serious look that never really works on him.

“yes?” his grin is lazy, playful, fingers still gripping the fabric.

before you can react, he darts forward, fingers brushing against your side in a light tickle.

“don’t you dare!” you squeal, twisting around to swat at his hands.

he laughs—boyish and breathless—as he lunges again, catching you off guard. you both tumble onto the couch, a mess of limbs and laughter, completely losing it.

“jungwon, stop!” you gasp, trying to wriggle away, giggles spilling from your mouth like you can’t help it.

“stop?” he repeats, mock-thinking, eyes glinting with mischief. “mmm… nah.”

chaos. complete chaos. he tickles every sensitive spot he can find while you squirm and squeal and laugh like it’s the best thing in the world. but then—something shifts.

you move just a little. trying to escape. and that slight friction—hips brushing just right—sends a jolt straight through him.

time stops.

jungwon freezes. breath caught. his whole body going still.

his face floods with color as he quickly pulls back, eyes anywhere but yours.

you feel it too. the tension, thick and undeniable now.

“…the food,” you blurt, voice suddenly shaky.

“right. the food,” he echoes, throat dry.

neither of you moves for a second, the silence charged.

then, slowly, you stand, smoothing your hoodie and letting out an awkward little laugh.

“i’ll… uh. be right back,” you say, trying to sound light but clearly rattled.

as you slip into the kitchen, jungwon sinks back into the couch, a shaky exhale leaving his lips. his hand hovers over his lap, not even daring to touch. the ghost of your body lingers, burning into his skin.

jungwon stares at the ceiling, heart pounding and dick standing at full attention. he doesn’t know how he got here. doesn’t know how you got him here.

he palms himself lightly, jaw clenched. just trying to take the edge off. but one stroke in and he’s panicking. this isn’t normal. this isn’t him.

he yanks his hand away like it’s burned him and throws the nearest blanket over his lap like he’s being exorcised. folds his hands on top of it like some well-behaved sunday school boy. he’s spiraling.

and then you come back.

totally unfazed. like you didn’t just send him spiraling with a giggle and a kiss. you sit down beside him and hand him a bowl, pulling your legs up and settling in like it’s just another movie night.

but it’s not.

you look… unreal. boobs perked perfectly beneath that tiny tank top, pink juicy shorts hugging your ass like they’re clinging for life. jungwon’s pretty sure you’ve been sent to personally torment him.

you scroll through netflix casually, like you don’t know what you’re doing. but when you lean over to grab the remote—reaching just far enough that your shorts ride up—he can’t help himself.

his hand finds the small of your back. he rubs soft circles there without thinking, like touching you will somehow calm the chaos inside him.

you glance back, smiling so sweetly it makes his stomach flip. then—without a word—you lean down and press the softest kiss to his lips.

just a taste.

then another.

and another—this one deeper, slower, your lips lingering like they mean something. he kisses you back without thinking, lips parting just slightly.

but before he can chase more, you pull away.

that same sweet smile on your lips.

you put on a movie. something random—neither of you really pays attention to what. the screen glows in the background, voices mumbling over soft music, but neither of you is watching.

you lean into his side, your head resting gently on his shoulder. one hand slips beneath the blanket, fingers brushing lightly against his arm. his whole body stiffens under the touch, like he’s trying not to combust.

and still—he doesn’t say a word.

because this? this is uncharted territory. for all the kisses and the teasing and the closeness, you and jungwon haven’t gone there yet. not all the way.

it’s never been talked about.

you’ve been so careful. so patient. you’ve never wanted to make him feel pressured, never wanted to put that weight on him. even though you want him—you’ve always tried to respect where he might be. because he’s your baby, yeah, but he’s also your man. and you don’t want him to think you see him as anything less.

so you don’t ask.

you let him lead. let him have his pace. and you just… wait. quietly.

what you don’t know is that jungwon isn’t a virgin—but he wishes he was.

there was someone before you. just one person. one time. it happened fast. he didn’t even think about it. everyone around him had already done it, and he was tired of carrying around this invisible weight, this pressure to prove something he didn’t really understand.

so he did it.

and afterward, all he felt was… wrong. like something sacred had been taken without care. it didn’t hurt, exactly. but it also didn’t feel like anything. just a hollow blur of skin and breath and the knowledge that he didn’t want to do it like that again.

he remembers lying in bed that night, staring at the ceiling—wishing he’d waited. wishing he’d saved himself for someone who made him feel the way you do.

and now here you are. right next to him. smelling like citrus and wearing those damn shorts. your laugh still lingering in the air. and he can’t help but think how much he wants to give himself to you—for real this time. no shame. no confusion. just all of him, in a way he never has before.

but he doesn’t know how to say that.

so he just sits there. breathing you in. letting your touch settle into his skin. letting the silence stretch, warm and full of everything neither of you is ready to say yet.

on screen, the characters talk. a scene shifts. the music swells.

and still—nobody is watching.

you shift slightly, adjusting the blanket as you settle deeper into his side. the heat of his body under the fabric is obvious—tense, nervous, waiting. your fingers brush against his arm again, this time lingering, tracing gentle shapes against the soft cotton of his sleeve.

and then you feel it—that change in the air. that shift.

you glance up.

jungwon’s looking at you.

not with that usual shy smile. not the playful smirk he wears when he’s teasing you or the flustered pout he pulls when he’s overwhelmed.

this is different.

his eyes are softer now. slower. like he’s searching your face for something he can’t put into words. like he wants to say something but doesn’t know if he should. like he’s trying to hand you a piece of himself and isn’t sure if you’ll want it.

you don’t speak.

you just tilt your head slightly, hand still resting against his arm, your thumb now rubbing slow, grounding circles into his skin. you don’t rush him. you just wait.

and after a long moment, he swallows hard.

“there’s something i should probably tell you,” he says quietly, voice barely above the hum of the movie. “about me. about… this.”

your heart skips. but you stay still. open. safe.

“i’m not—” he pauses. looks down at his lap, where the blanket hides the quiet chaos happening underneath. “i’m not a virgin.”

there’s a beat of silence. not because you’re shocked, but because of how he says it. carefully. like it’s something shameful.

“but it wasn’t…” he sighs. runs a hand through his hair, eyes flicking toward the ceiling like it’ll help him find the right words. “it didn’t mean anything. it was just… something i did because i felt like i had to. everyone around me was already talking about it, and i didn’t want to be the only one who hadn’t. so i just… did it.”

your heart aches.

“i did like her” he admits, the words heavier now. “i don’t think she liked me though. it was quick. and when it was over, i felt… gross. like i gave something away that i wasn’t ready to give. and i’ve never told anyone that.”

he looks back at you.

“and then i met you. and i wished—” his voice cracks, just a little. “i wished i waited. for you.”

you don’t even think. you just reach up and cradle his face in your hand, your thumb brushing the side of his cheek. he leans into it like it’s instinct, like he’s been waiting for this moment since the beginning.

“thank you for telling me,” you whisper.

you don’t say “it’s okay.” because it is, obviously—but that’s not what he needs to hear. what he needs is to feel safe. to feel seen. to know that whatever happened before you, it doesn’t change how you feel about him now.

so instead, you press a kiss to his forehead. then to the tip of his nose. then finally to his lips—soft, slow, reverent.

he kisses you back like he’s learning how to love for the first time. and maybe he is.

you pull away just enough to look at him, eyes still locked.

“you don’t have to do anything,” you murmur. “not until you want to. i’m not going anywhere.”

and wow. the way he looks at you after that?

it’s like he’s already given you everything.

for a moment, the room is still. your words hang heavy between you, gentle and grounding.

but jungwon… he doesn’t look relieved. he looks desperate.

his breath hitches. his brows pull together slightly, like he’s trying to hold back something too big to say.

and then, softly—barely above a whisper—

“but i want you.”

your heart stutters.

his eyes flicker between yours, wide and glassy and so full of feeling it makes your chest ache. “i need you,” he says, firmer this time. “right now. i don’t wanna wait anymore.”

your lips part, but before you can speak, he takes your hand in his. carefully. like it’s breakable.

and then—slowly, nervously—he guides it under the blanket, down the soft slope of his stomach, until your palm rests against the thick, hard outline pressing through his sweats.

he’s burning up.

his other hand cups the back of your neck, his touch still gentle even as his breathing turns shaky. “see?” he whispers, eyes locked on yours. “it’s all for you.”

your fingers twitch against him instinctively, and he lets out the quietest moan—half relief, half disbelief.

“i’m yours,” he says, voice barely holding steady. “i want you to touch me.”

your heart is thudding, mouth dry, blood rushing in your ears—but your body? your body knows exactly what to do.

you press your lips to his again, deeper this time, your hand slowly, teasingly tracing the length of him over his sweats. he shudders beneath you, hips twitching slightly, like he can’t believe this is real.

and you can’t either.

because this is jungwon. your jungwon. sweet, shy, responsible. always in control.

but right now? he’s unraveling under your touch.

and he’s never looked more beautiful.

your kisses trail down to his jaw, his neck, tongue flicking against his skin as your hand works him slowly, patiently. his head drops back against the couch, mouth falling open, breath growing heavier with every second.

“fuck,” he whispers, one hand gripping your thigh now, needing something to hold onto.

“you feel so good, baby,” you murmur against his throat, your voice low and sticky-sweet. “been wanting to make you feel good for so long.”

his whole body tenses. “me too. i just—” he sucks in a sharp breath when your palm presses harder. “i didn’t know it could feel like this.”

your heart clenches at that. because you know he’s not just talking about the physical.

and neither are you.

you pull back just enough to look at him—eyes flushed, lips swollen, chest heaving—and you know.

he’s ready.

so when you whisper, “let me take care of you,” he nods, eyes fluttering closed.

because for the first time in his life, giving himself away doesn’t feel like a loss.

it feels like home.

you don’t rush.

you stay right there with him—lips brushing his, fingers moving slow, careful, teasing just enough to keep his breath hitching in his throat. your other hand slides beneath the blanket, resting on his bare stomach now, skin warm and trembling under your palm.

he lifts his hips instinctively, needing more, but he’s still trying to be good. still holding back.

“relax, baby,” you whisper. “let me.”

and he does.

his muscles ease beneath your touch, his head falling gently to the side, exposing more of his neck. you take your time with him, kissing a slow trail across his collarbone, up to the corner of his jaw. you want him to feel it all—not just the pleasure, but the care.

every touch is deliberate.

you slip your hand under the waistband of his sweats, and he chokes on a breath, hips jerking up slightly.

“okay?” you murmur.

he nods fast, too fast. “yeah. yeah, just—fuck.”

you grip him fully now, warm and firm in your hand, and the sound that escapes his throat is broken. his hips buck against your palm, breath shuddering as he throws an arm over his eyes like he can’t even handle being seen like this.

you smile.

“pretty,” you whisper, stroking him slowly, your thumb teasing the sensitive tip. “so pretty like this.”

he groans into his sleeve, the tips of his ears flushed deep red. “you’re gonna kill me.”

you laugh, low and sweet, lips brushing his ear. “not yet.”

he whimpers.

you kiss him again, this time slow and deep and all tongue—your hand working him in long, steady strokes as he melts into the couch. his moans are quiet but constant, like he can’t stop them even if he tried.

he’s not used to being wanted like this. not used to receiving.

and it shows.

every time you praise him—you’re doing so good for me, baby. you’re so perfect. i’ve got you—his breath stutters, his thighs shake, his hand grips your waist a little tighter.

he’s holding on like he’s scared to let go.

and then, breathless, voice breaking—“can i see you?”

you pause.

your heart squeezes in your chest because he sounds so earnest. like he’s not asking to get off—he’s asking to feel closer.

so you nod.

you sit up slightly, fingers slipping under your tank top, and slowly pull it over your head. his eyes widen, mouth parting like he’s seeing something extinct.

you’re bare to him now, chest rising and falling as you let him take you in.

“fuck,” he whispers, sitting up a little, hands moving like he wants to touch but doesn’t want to rush.

you guide his hand to your waist.

“you can touch me,” you say, voice low. “however you want.”

his fingers graze your skin like it might vanish. he palms your chest gently, reverently, and leans in to kiss the top curve, then your collarbone, then between. he takes his time, like he’s mapping you.

“you’re so beautiful,” he breathes.

you whisper back, “thank you.”

and just like that, you’re both shedding pieces of yourselves—layers of clothing, layers of fear. the couch is small, the movie forgotten, the blanket half-fallen.

but the way you’re wrapped in each other? the way he looks at you like you’re both the answer and the question?

it’s everything.

and when he finally slides his hand back down between your thighs, wanting to touch you the way you touched him?

you let him.

you don’t let go of his hand.

even as he touches you. even as his fingertips glide over your waist, your ribs, the curve of your chest. even when his lips trail softly after them, kissing over skin like it’s new, like it matters.

you keep holding on.

because you want him to know—he’s not doing this alone.

his hands shake a little. not from fear, exactly, but from everything else. the weight of this. the quiet ache that’s been building for months. the fact that it’s you—you—and this time, it means something.

your fingers brush his hair back gently as he leans down to kiss you again. slower this time. deeper. his tongue licks into your mouth like he’s hungry but scared to ask for too much. his hips shift against yours and you can feel him, hard and aching, pressed to your thigh. he tries to pull back, tries to be polite, but you don’t let him.

you wrap your legs around his waist and hold him there.

“baby,” you murmur, voice low, “i want you.”

his breath stutters against your lips.

“are you sure?” he asks, barely above a whisper. “i—i don’t wanna mess it up.”

you shake your head. “you won’t.”

“but what if—”

you cut him off with a kiss. then another. and another. soft and slow until he forgets what he was worried about. until all that’s left is how your body feels underneath his. how your hands feel on his skin. how badly he wants to be close.

“we’ll figure it out,” you whisper. “together.”

he nods, eyes glassy.

you help him take the rest of his clothes off, slow and careful, like you’re unwrapping something delicate. like you want him to feel beautiful while it happens. and he does. because you look at him like he’s art. like he’s not just enough—he’s everything.

he slides your shorts down next. his fingers trail slowly along your thighs, then pause.

“can i?” he asks, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

you nod, hand over his.

he touches you like he’s studying you. like he wants to learn every way your body says yes. his fingers slip between your thighs, teasing first—just the outside, gentle and exploratory, until your breath catches. until your hips lift to meet his hand.

and then he finds it. the way you like to be touched.

your soft moan confirms it, and his lips part like he’s stunned.

“you’re… so wet,” he says, voice shaky.

you nod, eyes heavy, mouth parted. “because of you.”

his whole body shivers at that.

you press your palm against his chest—his heart’s pounding so hard it rattles your ribs. he leans forward, forehead resting against yours. your hands roam his back, grounding him as he presses two fingers inside you, slow, steady, watching your face like a prayer.

“does that feel good?” he asks.

“yeah, baby,” you breathe, eyes fluttering. “so good. just like that.”

he keeps going until you’re gasping, until your hips are rolling against his hand and your nails are digging into his shoulder. he watches every second like he wants to remember this for the rest of his life.

and then you’re pulling him in, whispering, “i want you now.”

his breath catches. “yeah?”

“yeah,” you say. “you can have me.”

he swallows hard. nods. you pull the drawer open beside the couch and hand him the condom.

“you came prepared?” he says, blushing.

you smirk. “just in case.”

he tears it open with shaky hands. you help him, gently, rolling it down over him while his eyes squeeze shut like he can’t believe any of this is real.

you kiss his stomach, his chest, his neck—reassuring him with every inch.

and then you guide him between your legs.

he lines himself up, looking down at where your bodies meet.

“are you okay?” he asks, again.

you nod. “come here.”

he pushes in slow.

so slow it almost hurts.

not physically—emotionally.

because you can feel every second of it. every inch. every hesitation. every breathless gasp that leaves his mouth as he sinks into you for the first time.

he hides his face in your neck, panting.

“oh my-,” he whispers. “you feel…”

you kiss his shoulder. “it’s okay. you can move.”

he starts slow. rocking into you gently, trying to stay in control, but the feeling of your body wrapped around him has his hips stuttering almost immediately.

“fuck—i don’t think i’m gonna last,” he says, voice broken.

“it’s okay,” you whisper, holding his face. “just feel me.”

he kisses you again. harder this time. like he needs to. his hips snap forward a little faster. your nails dig into his back.

you wrap your legs tighter around him and he moans into your mouth.

you can feel him unraveling. all the tension, all the longing, all the feelings he’s never said out loud.

and when he finally breaks—shuddering inside you, whispering your name like it’s the only word he knows—you hold him through it.

his body goes still.

his chest rises and falls against yours.

he stays inside you for a long moment, catching his breath, forehead pressed to your cheek.

“sorry,” he whispers. “i wanted to make it last.”

“baby,” you say softly, brushing his hair back. “you don’t have to say sorry. it was perfect.”

he lifts his head just enough to look at you—still breathing hard, lips parted, a little flushed and glassy-eyed.

but there’s something stubborn in his expression now. like he’s not done yet.

before you can say anything else, he’s already shifting down, hand trailing slow over your stomach. he kisses the inside of your knee, your thigh, dragging two fingers through the mess between your legs and letting out a quiet breath like he already knows exactly what he’s about to do.

“just let me,” he mumbles. “i wanna make you feel good too.”

your hips jump at the first touch. sensitive. overstimulated. but not enough to stop him.

his fingers start slow—two, maybe three at first, moving in soft, deliberate circles. it’s different now. more focused. not hurried or clumsy. just pure attention. pure effort. he watches every reaction, every twitch and gasp and stuttered breath, adjusting the pressure like he’s learning you in real time.

“still so wet,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. “you gonna cum for me?”

you moan—half a yes, half a sob—and grip his forearm as your back arches.

“come on, pretty,” he coaxes, voice low, thick. “give it to me. let go.”

and you do. you finish hard—hips rolling up into his palm, legs shaking, breath caught in your throat as you cum all over his fingers. loud, messy, so damn wet he can feel it drip down his wrist and it only makes him move faster.

you whimper, eyes fluttering shut, hand still gripping him as your body pulses through it.

he kisses your thigh again. doesn’t even wipe his hand yet. just stares at you like he’s never seen anything so perfect.

and when your breath finally slows, when you open your eyes again, he’s still right there—resting his chin on your stomach, fingers still lazily brushing your skin.

“feel better?” he asks, smiling.

you just nod, dazed and glowing. and this time, he doesn’t say sorry.

because now he knows. it’s not about lasting forever. it’s about getting you there—no matter what.

he smiles. sleepy. dazed. overwhelmed.

and for the first time in his life, jungwon doesn’t feel like he gave something away.

he feels like he finally found it.

[moonlightdreamzz]

i don't even know who you are, i barely open tumblr, but i saw your video about that comment and i laughed so hard i dropped my phone. i haven't laughed like that in weeks. thank you, i'm following you.

so happy I could be of service today ☺️

[moonlightdreamzz]

👀👀👀👀👀👀…nipple play vampire sex???????? but I’m wrong??? hide your likes next time but also … if you don’t like what I post, block me. xoxo 😆

[moonlightdreamzz]

I’m drunk and need to write some smut. pick a member (please pick jungwon or sunghoon 😏😏😏)

Heeseung

Jay

Jake

Sunghoon

Sunoo

Jungwon

Ni-ki

Voting ended onAug 21, 2025

[moonlightdreamzz]

i <3 boobies! — enhypen (f)(s)

your boyfriend sees your boobs for the first time and doesn’t know how to act.

heeseung

you’re a little drunk.

like warm-tummy, loose-shoulders, stupid-giggle drunk.

heeseung’s lying on your bed, scrolling, talking about something dumb — a dream he had, maybe. you’re sitting on the floor, half-listening, sipping from your glass, and then suddenly—

you stand up. pull your shirt over your head. no warning. no speech. just tits.

he looks up. and he freezes. scrolling finger mid-air. lips parted. expression blank. like you just slapped him with a gospel truth.

“bro,” he whispers.

you raise a brow. “bro?”

“oh my god.”

you just stand there, shirt in one hand, boobs out. vibes immaculate.

“are you for real?” he says, sitting up so fast he nearly drops his phone. “are those— are they always like that?”

“like what?”

“like fucking perfect?”

you laugh so hard you nearly fall over.

and he just keeps blinking at them. like they might change shape if he stares too long. like they’re a hallucination.

“you’re not real,” he mutters. “i’m in a dream. this is a simulation.”

you roll your eyes and sit on the bed, pulling the blanket around you lazily.

“okay, enough,” you giggle. “you saw them. you can stop worshipping now.”

he doesn’t move.

“no. no i can’t. this changes everything. i saw the light and now i’m different.”

jay

he doesn’t mean to look.

you thought he wasn’t paying attention.

but the moment your shirt lifts — before you even have time to toss it in the hamper — you hear him go quiet. like, dead silent.

you turn around, confused.

he’s sitting up now, remote in one hand, lips parted. just… staring. his entire soul left his body.

“what?” you ask, blinking. “why are you looking at me like that?”

“you…” his voice breaks.

he coughs. clears his throat. blinks like he just came back from war.

“you’ve been hiding those from me?”

you glance down, realize you’re still topless, and laugh — “i thought you weren’t looking.”

he puts the remote down slowly. reverently.

“i wasn’t. and now i’m being punished for it.”

you start reaching for your shirt again, but he stops you.

“no. no, you don’t get to take them away. i just met them.”

you laugh even harder, grabbing a hoodie, but he just looks betrayed. hand on his chest. like he needs a moment.

he’s so serious.

“i’m gonna write about this in my notes app. i just need a second to process. they were so pretty. like. aesthetically. artistically. spiritually.”

you roll your eyes. “you’re being so dramatic.”

he just nods slowly. “i know. and i’m right.”

and later that night, when you’re finally in bed, hoodie zipped to your chin, back turned…

you feel his hand on your waist. his lips near your ear.

“next time… warn me. or don’t. i’ll survive either way. i think.”

(he won’t.)

jake

he was laying on your stomach.

like full face-planted. arms around your waist. humming into your skin, half-asleep, talking nonsense between every other breath.

you thought he was dozing off. so when you finally sit up, lifting your shirt over your head, you don’t think twice.

you’re just changing. grabbing a hoodie. your back’s to him, and it’s dark. no big deal.

until you hear him choke.

“oh.”

you glance over your shoulder. “what?”

he’s sitting up now. like—straight up. eyes wide. cheeks red.

“did i—did you just—i mean, did i see that?”

you pause. blink. realize what he saw.

“oh. yeah,” you say casually. “sorry, i didn’t think you were looking—”

“NO i mean—it’s okay i just—wow.”

you laugh, pulling your hoodie on, but he’s still sitting there like he witnessed a miracle.

“you’re just… walking around with those? like… they’re real?”

you look at him.

he looks at you.

then covers his face with both hands and groans.

“i’m gonna have dreams about this,” he mumbles. “like not even in a gross way. just in a i saw something sacred kind of way.”

you crawl back under the blanket and he immediately wraps himself around you like a koala. kisses your collarbone like he’s trying to prove his love to god.

“you know i’d die for you, right?”

“because of my boobs?”

“yes. but also your soul.”

sunghoon

he just wanted his charger.

you’d taken it earlier. said he left it in your room. told him to come grab it when he needed it.

he didn’t knock. he thought you were in the kitchen.

so when he pushes the door open and sees you — topless, glowing, towel low on your hips, hair still damp, hand frozen mid-lotion — he doesn’t speak. doesn’t move. just. stares.

your eyes meet. for a second, you both just blink. like a standstill.

and then—“oh my god—” you gasp, arms flying up to cover your chest.

he flinches so hard he nearly drops his phone.

“i’m sorry—i’m so sorry—i thought you were—i didn’t know—i didn’t—”

he steps back, slams the door shut, and stands there. outside your room. in silence. breathing heavy.

you call through the door.

“did you at least grab the charger??”

his voice cracks.

“no. i… i blacked out a little.”

you start laughing, and he wants to crawl into the floor.

he walks back to the living room like he just got hit by a bus. plops on the couch. face flushed. head in hands.

his phone buzzes.

you: “they were nice though right 😌”

him: “don’t do this to me rn”

you: “i’m just saying”

him: “i’m spiraling”

he doesn’t talk about it again until a week later.

you’re cuddling. watching something dumb. his hand on your waist. and he whispers— “i wasn’t trying to see you like that.”

you smile. “i know.”

he exhales.

“but i think about it every day.”

sunoo

he knew you were a little drunk. and he loved it.

you were glowing — cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, giggling at nothing, spinning in his room like the floor was made of clouds.

“this song is so cute,” you hummed, dancing barefoot in your loose, but cropped tee. “you like it?”

“you’re cuter,” he said automatically, phone in hand, recording you from the bed like a proud dad. or a smitten boyfriend. or both.

and then you twirled. just once. dramatic. shirt lifted. boobs out. fully. jiggled in the light.

he screams. like, not a little gasp. a full-bodied, hands-flailing, dramatic-ass scream.

you freeze.

he drops his phone.

“what was that?!”

“what do you mean?” you blinked innocently.

“you just showed me your entire whole everything!”

you laughed. “it was like half a second!”

“HALF A SECOND TOO LONG!.”

he turned his back like it was a crime scene. hands on his hips. pacing.

“do you know what that did to me? i can’t just see those and go back to normal?? i have to live with this memory now???”

you’re still giggling, flopping on the bed.

“are you mad?”

he turns back slowly. shakes his head with deep, dramatic disappointment.

“i’m not mad. i’m… changed.”

you smile at him, hair messy, shirt hanging off your shoulder now, and he just sighs.

“your boobs are pretty,” he said, soft.

“thank you,” you whisper back.

ten minutes later, he’s cuddled into your side, face buried in your chest like nothing happened.

“just so you know,” he mumbles, “those are mine now.”

jungwon

he wakes up slow.

sunlight leaking through the curtains. sheets warm. room still. his head hurts a little, but it’s dull — the kind of ache that tells him he slept too hard, not too little.

your back is to him. face tucked into the pillow. one arm curled under your head, the other hidden beneath the blankets. hair a mess. tank top clinging to your shoulder, twisted near your ribs.

he yawns, stretches, blinks a few times—and then sees it.

he doesn’t even mean to look. he just happens to glance down as he shifts closer. and it’s there.

the curve of your breast. soft in the light. warm against the fabric. and your nipple. completely out.

his breath catches. eyes widen.

he goes still. so still. his body locks up like if he moves too fast, he’ll ruin the moment—or combust.

he stares for maybe two seconds too long. just enough to memorize the shape, the color, the way it’s pressed to the blanket. then he flips over and stares at the ceiling like a freak.

his brain short-circuits.

“you weren’t supposed to see that.”

“but i did.”

“you need to act normal.”

“i can’t.”

he’s spiraling. breathing too carefully. sweating for no reason. his heart’s beating like you just kissed him, but you’re not even awake.

he hears you shift. the blankets rustle. he wonders if you’re about to wake up and ask why he’s being so quiet.

so he gets up. fast. grabs his phone off the floor. stumbles into the kitchen like he’s being chased by demons.

ten minutes later, you walk out half-asleep, tank top still traitorous, rubbing your eyes.

“morning,” you mumble.

he can’t look at you. he sips his tea like it holds the answers.

nods once. “morning.”

you pause. tilt your head. “you okay?”

he nods again. eyes still fixed on his mug.

“…did i say something weird in my sleep?”

“no.”

you raise a brow. he finally glances up—but the second he sees your shirt slipping again, he FLINGS his gaze back down.

“jungwon,” you laugh, catching on. “did you see something?”

he says nothing. just takes a breath and murmurs, “i shouldn’t be seeing this. pausing a bit more before he whispers, “but it was beautiful.”

and that’s all he says.

for the rest of the day, he can’t look at you without blushing.

and for the rest of his life, he never forgets it.

ni-ki

you’re in his room, lights low, legs tangled under the blanket with a half-eaten bag of spicy chips between you.

the tv’s playing something dumb neither of you are watching — both too busy side-eyeing each other between jokes, limbs inching closer, pretending the tension doesn’t exist.

“you’re literally so bad at arguing,” you mutter, tossing a chip at his chest.

he catches it. eats it. shrugs.

“because i’m never wrong.”

you scoff. dramatic. lean back against his headboard like he didn’t just say something delusional.

it’s hot. too hot. the hoodie you’re wearing feels like it’s suffocating you. so you sit up. lift it over your head mid-sentence, not even thinking — just pull it off and toss it to the floor.

you don’t notice how your tank top rises too. you don’t notice how loose the armhole is. you don’t notice that for a split second, your left tit literally says hello to the room.

but he does.

he goes still. chip mid-air. eyes locked on you like he just saw a solar eclipse and isn’t sure if it was real.

you look at him.

“what?”

nothing. no answer. just him blinking.

“…what?” you laugh.

he points at you. expression unreadable. voice low.

“you did that on purpose.”

you blink. “did what?”

“you just flashed me.”

your face scrunches. you look down. your shirt is back in place.

“i didn’t flash you.”

“you did.”

“it was like—maybe a second.”

“that’s all it took,” he says, leaning back. “i’m a changed man now.”

you roll your eyes, dragging the blanket back over you, acting unfazed.

he turns away for a second. exhales. then you hear him mutter, mostly to himself—

“they were so pretty.”

you freeze.

he doesn’t take it back.

just grabs another chip and pops it in his mouth, chewing like he didn’t just say the most devastating sentence of your life.

“you’re annoying,” you say quietly. your voice cracks.

“no, you’re annoying ,” he fires back. “don’t take your clothes off around me if you want me to act normal.”

you laugh. loud. flustered.

he smiles. like he meant to do that. like he’s proud of himself.

and then he says—

“do it again.”

[moonlightdreamzz]

I’m about to post something filthy…

[moonlightdreamzz]

you look too good to leave ๋࣭⭑ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 enhypen

you try to make it out the door, but your boyfriend makes it really, really hard to go.

heeseung ⨾༊󠀺

he watches you from the couch, pretending not to be watching. but he’s quiet now. too quiet.

you’re standing by the mirror, twisting your hoops into place, wrist glinting with perfume. hair perfect. outfit devastating.

he’s trying so hard to be mature about it. he really is.

but when you bend slightly to buckle your heel—he snaps.

“that’s what you’re wearing?”

you glance back, amused. “yeah. why?”

he shrugs, lips tightening. “nothing. it’s cute.”

then, after a beat:

“who else is gonna be there?”

you turn slowly, brow raised. “you’re not even coming, hee.”

“i know,” he says, getting up. “but that doesn’t mean i want everyone else staring.”

you stare at him for a second too long. he knows that look you’re enjoying this.

“you never say anything when i dress like this,” you tease.

“yeah, because you usually take it off for me before anyone else gets to see it,” he mutters, walking over.

now you’re biting back a grin. his hand ghosts over your waist as he stands behind you, looking at your reflection in the mirror.

“you really tryna do this to me tonight?” his voice drops. “you know how you look right now?”

you shrug. “like i have plans.”

his eyes narrow. you… always picking a fight in silk. but it’s your patience that kills him—the part of you that knows exactly what you’re doing, and takes your sweet, dangerous time doing it.

“i don’t think you understand,” he says quietly, “how much it takes for me to not get possessive.”

you lean back into him a little. like it’s innocent. like you don’t know.

“then don’t,” you whisper.

he exhales slowly. then? his hands slide to your thighs. not rushed. not aggressive. just steady. the kind of touch that builds, and builds, and builds—until it has to be let out.

“you’ve got ten seconds to tell me you don’t want to stay,” he says.

you don’t say anything. your breath hitches when his lips touch the side of your neck.

“…five seconds.”

your phone buzzes on the table. a ride outside. your name lighting up the screen.

but you don’t reach for it. not when his hands are under your dress now. not when his voice is this low. not when he murmurs, “you really think i’m letting you walk out looking like that, with all that softness that’s mine, all that heat you won’t give anyone but me—?”

he stops himself. pulls you in tighter.

“nah,” he says. “you’re not going anywhere.”

and just like that, your night out becomes a night in.

jay ⨾༊󠀺

you’re at the mirror, fixing your earrings, when you catch his reflection on the couch behind you.

he’s not scrolling anymore. not pretending to be busy.

just sitting there, elbow on his knee, watching.

“what?” you ask.

he shrugs. “nothing.”

you roll your eyes, grabbing your bag. “i told you, i’m meeting the girls.”

“yeah,” he says, leaning back, “you did.”

but he doesn’t stop watching. his eyes follow you as you walk past, lingering in a way that makes your skin warm.

you’re halfway to the door when his voice comes again.

calm. low.

“you really think you’re walking out like that?”

you pause. “what’s wrong with what i’m wearing?”

“nothing,” he says, standing now. “that’s the problem.”

he closes the space between you without hurry.

his gaze drops to your neckline, then down the curve of your waist, then back up to your face.

“you’ve got the perfume on,” he says quietly. “the one that makes people turn around.”

a beat.

“lip gloss too. new dress.”

you swallow. “and?”

he smirks, just a little. “and you’re going somewhere without me.”

you try to brush past him, but his hand comes up, palm on the doorframe, blocking you.

not hard—just enough to make you stop.

“i’m not telling you not to go,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “but you’re not leaving like this.”

you tilt your head. “so what do you want?”

his free hand slides to your waist, thumb brushing the side of your ribs.

“give me something to think about while you’re gone.”

you laugh under your breath. “you’re ridiculous.”

“probably,” he says, leaning in, “but you still want to.”

it’s not a question.

and he’s right.

you let him kiss you—slow, sure, the kind that makes you forget you’re supposed to be somewhere.

he tastes faintly like coffee, his grip on your waist tightening just enough to pull you closer.

when he pulls back, his thumb wipes a smudge of gloss from your lip.

“now you can go.”

you reach for the handle.

he steps back, but his eyes stay on you.

“don’t make me come get you,” he says, half a warning, half a promise.

jake ⨾༊󠀺

you’re barely at the door when he speaks.

“wait.”

you pause. look back.

he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, hair messy, still warm from the nap he just woke up from.

he’s not glaring. not pouting. just staring at you like he’s trying to memorize the way your skin catches the light.

“where are you going again?”

you blink. “i told you. brunch.”

he nods. “right. with the girls.”

you laugh. “yes. with the girls.”

but his eyes drop to your legs. the soft fabric of your sundress. the sheen on your collarbone. the gloss on your lips that smells like peaches.

your phone is in one hand. your little purse in the other. you’re not even wearing heels. you’re not trying to be extra. but still— he sighs.

“you look too good,” he mutters.

you smile. “thanks.”

“no,” he says. “like… too good to be seen by other people.”

you raise a brow. “so i should change?”

he leans back on his hands, tilting his head like he’s thinking.

“nah,” he says finally. “you just shouldn’t go.”

you scoff. “jake.”

he shrugs. “what? what am i supposed to do? sit here while you walk out smelling like that?”

you roll your eyes. “it’s just brunch.”

“and you chose that dress for it?” he asks, voice getting quieter now. “you chose to smell like that… for them?”

you blink. “they’re my friends.”

he exhales hard through his nose. doesn’t say anything at first. then—

“can i just say something before you go?”

you nod slowly.

he gets up. walks over. he doesn’t touch you. not yet.

just looks you up and down, lips parted, eyes soft but dark underneath.

“you know how i feel about you, right?”

you nod again.

“so you know how it feels,” he whispers, “to watch the only person that makes me feel safe, wanted, seen—walk out looking like that… and not know who’s gonna get to see her smile today.”

you swallow.

his hands find your waist. gentle.

“i’m not asking you to stay.”

his voice drops.

“i’m asking you not to leave like this.”

you don’t answer right away. because it’s jake. and he always does this—asks without asking. hurts without trying.

you tilt your head. “how do you want me to leave then?”

he doesn’t blink. doesn’t hesitate.

“with my hands on your thighs. lip gloss on my neck. something to remind me you’re coming back.”

you set your purse down. you step in closer. and this time—you kiss him. soft. slow. like a promise. like you’re saying, you’re still the only one.

he holds you there for a second too long. because letting you go never gets easier. even when he knows you’ll come back.

sunghoon ⨾༊󠀺

you walk into the room, grabbing your lip gloss from the side table.

he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling on his phone. he doesn’t look up at first. just says:

“where you going?”

“out,” you answer, casual. “sydney’s picking me up.”

he hums. then finally looks up. and that’s when it hits him.

his phone drops to the mattress.

“like that?”

you blink. “what?”

he stands. walks toward you. slow. quiet. his eyes never leave yours.

“you’re wearing that out?”

you raise an eyebrow. “it’s just a dress.”

he laughs once. but it’s not funny. it’s the laugh of a man trying not to lose his shit.

“you’re dressed like that, and you expect me to sit here?”

you try to lighten the mood. “i’ll be home by midnight.”

he doesn’t smile. doesn’t budge.

“you want people looking at you?” he asks, voice low.

you frown. “it’s not like that.”

he tilts his head. “but you know they will.”

you open your mouth. close it again.

he steps closer. his hand slides to your hip. grip tightening.

“you know exactly what you’re doing,” he mutters. “you want to be seen.”

you breathe out slow. “sunghoon…”

“nah,” he cuts you off. leans in. his mouth brushes your jaw.

“you don’t get to walk out looking like this without paying for it.”

you shiver.

“paying how?”

his lips curl.

“however i want.”

sunoo ⨾༊󠀺

you’re brushing setting powder off your cheeks when he spots you.

he’s laying on his stomach, scrolling through his ipad, but the second you walk out of the bathroom? he sits up.

“okay—where are you going and why do you look like you’re about to go on a date?”

you laugh. “i told you—brunch.”

he narrows his eyes. “brunch doesn’t require looking like that.”

you shrug. “i just felt like dressing up.”

he flops dramatically back onto the bed. arms stretched wide. like he’s been wounded.

“you felt like dressing up… and you didn’t invite me?”

you roll your eyes. “you’re the one who said you were too tired to come.”

he props himself on one elbow, watching you adjust your necklace.

“okay. but i didn’t know you were gonna step out looking like this.”

“it’s not that serious,” you mumble, biting back a smile.

he squints at you.

“…is it a rooftop brunch?”

“…maybe.”

he gasps.

“you’re gonna be in direct sunlight looking like that?! are you trying to start rumors? you want people to fall in love with you on the street?!”

you laugh again, walking past the bed to grab your shoes. “you’re being dramatic.”

“am i?” he says, rolling to follow you. “because from where i’m sitting, it feels like you’re cheating on me.”

you bend to put on your sandal. he stares. stares like you’re not real.

“that’s insane,” you mutter, grabbing your purse.

he just sighs. leans in the doorway as you walk past.

“you could’ve at least kissed me like you meant it before walking out looking that edible.”

you pause. turn around slowly.

“you want a kiss?”

he smiles.

“i want at least three,” he pouts. “and one of them better ruin my whole mood so you feel guilty the entire time you’re gone.”

you roll your eyes. but you walk over anyway.

kiss him once—soft.

twice—lingering.

then one more, deep and slow, lip gloss on his mouth, hand in his hair.

you pull back. he blinks up at you, dazed.

“there,” you whisper.

he grabs your wrist before you can move.

“cancel the brunch.”

you snort. “no.”

“then at least come back with dessert.”

“you are dessert.”

his face breaks into a grin.

“okay… you can go now.”

jungwon ⨾༊󠀺

you’re slipping on your earrings when he walks in.

“you’re ready?”

you nod. “yep. they’re already downstairs.”

he hums. but he doesn’t move.

he just leans against the doorway, arms crossed, watching you tuck your phone into your bag.

you’re wearing a sundress. nothing crazy. but the back dips a little. your shoulders are bare. and your skin looks is exactly how jungwon likes it — soft and sweet.

“it’s just lunch,” you say, glancing at him.

he nods again. “sure.”

but his jaw’s tight. his eyes are fixed on your lips now—glossy, slightly parted.

you raise a brow. “you good?”

“mhm.”

a beat. then—

“can i ask something?”

you pause. “yeah?”

he uncrosses his arms. walks toward you. slow. deliberate.

“do you… ever think about how i feel?”

you blink. “about what?”

“about you walking out like this. dressed like this. looking like that.”

you stare.

he exhales, eyes flicking down your body once—then right back to your eyes.

“i’m not mad,” he says softly. “i just…”

he trails off. his hand grazes your waist.

“it’s hard. knowing other people get to see you like this. want you like this. when i’m the only one who knows how you taste.”

your breath catches.

“jungwon—”

“it’s okay,” he whispers. “you can go.”

but just before you turn to leave— his hand slips under your dress.

soft. possessive. right at the base of your spine.

“just… leave something with me first,” he murmurs, pulling you closer. “a reminder.”

you kiss him once.

he pulls you back for a second. a third. until your lip gloss is smeared and his hands are fully under your dress now.

he finally lets you go. but just before the door closes behind you, he calls out—

“be careful.”

you know he’s saying it as in, protect yourself. but also he’s telling you to remember who’s at home waiting for you as well.

ni-ki ⨾༊󠀺

you finish tying the strap on your shoe. nothing crazy—just a cute little dress. light makeup. earrings.

you stand. check the mirror.

behind you, he’s laying on the bed, one arm tucked under his head.

he’s been watching you get ready this whole time. quiet. unreadable. phone in hand but barely looking at it.

you grab your purse.

“i’ll be back before eight,” you say, heading to the door.

his voice stops you cold.

“you’re wearing that for them?”

you turn.

“what?”

he sits up now. still calm. still quiet. but his eyes are sharper. darker.

“the dress.”

you blink. “niki—”

“you’re glowing,” he says, almost like he’s stating a fact. “you know that?”

you shrug. “i just wanted to look good.”

“you do,” he says, standing. “you look….”

you laugh nervously. “okay—”

but he’s already walking toward you. and suddenly, the air shifts.

“you’re wearing that for people who don’t even know what it feels like,” he mutters, stopping right in front of you.

his fingers graze your waist.

“they don’t know how you taste. they’ve never heard the sounds you make.”

his voice is low now. dangerously soft.

“but they still get to see this version of you?”

you swallow.

“you said you didn’t wanna come,” you whisper.

“i didn’t,” he says. “but i also didn’t know you were gonna walk out looking like every single thing i’ve ever wanted.”

he kisses you before you can speak. slow. deep. he doesn’t rush. he lingers. like he’s trying to ruin your lip gloss just enough to leave a mark on whoever dares look at you.

his hand slides under your dress. just a little. just enough.

you gasp.

he pulls back. looks you dead in the eye.

“you can go.”

you stare. he smirks.

“but don’t forget who you looked like that for first.”

[moonlightdreamzz]

i hate it when we fight, but I love making up with you. — enhypen 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ (s)

making up with your man, in the best way.

𓂃۶ৎ HEESEUNG.

heeseung doesn’t even look surprised to see you.

he just leans against the counter with that unreadable face—the one that says he’s thought about this a hundred times.

his arms are crossed. jaw tense. already calculating. figuring out the smoothest way to get you to crack first.

“you look tired,” he says.

your eyes narrow. “don’t start.”

“not starting anything.” he shrugs. “just thinking about how you always get mouthy when you’re avoiding your feelings.”

you blink. slowly.

and that’s when you know—he’s baiting you.

you step closer. just to see what he’ll do. he doesn’t flinch. just watches you like he’s trying to memorize every second.

“you sure you wanna do this?” you ask, voice low.

heeseung tilts his head.

“we’re not done fighting, right?”

you don’t answer. your hands find his chest, fingers slipping under the collar of his shirt.

“no,” you whisper. “we’re not.”

but your mouth’s already on his before either of you can say anything else. his lips are soft. too soft. like he’s still holding back. but then you tug his bottom lip with your teeth—just a little. just enough.

and that’s when it shifts.

his hands grab your waist like he’s claiming territory. like he’s been waiting to do this. he lifts you to the counter, your knees parting instinctively.

you hate how easy it is to fall into this rhythm with him. how every touch feels earned. precise. like he’s studied the map of your body and knows all your shortcuts.

you moan into his neck and he huffs out a laugh, breath hot against your ear.

“you always talk so much,” he murmurs. “but i bet you’re not gonna say a word when i make you cum.”

you try to sass him back—of course you do—but he slides your panties down just enough to shut you up. and when he presses two fingers inside, slow and steady, you forget what the fight was even about.

his mouth finds yours again—this time rougher, hungrier.

“still mad at me?” he asks, fingers curling just right.

you nod, breathless.

he smirks. “good.”

𓂃۶ৎ JAY.

he doesn’t speak when you walk in. just stares—arms folded, jaw clenched, a vein ticking in his neck. like your presence alone makes him mad all over again.

you roll your eyes. “you’re still pissed?”

his silence answers for him.

you sigh, tossing your bag down. “okay. cool. be mad.”

he turns his head, and finally—finally—he looks at you. but the softness in his eyes? it betrays the sharpness in his voice.

“you act like i don’t fucking care about you.”

your breath catches. not because of what he says— but how he says it. like it hurts him to admit. like your distance has been eating at him all week.

"you think i like fighting with you?"

you’re quiet now. quiet and still, because the weight of his words hits somewhere you can’t ignore. but before you can speak, he’s already crossing the room. his hands hit your waist, hard. desperate. he kisses you like he’s starving. you try to keep up, but jay’s not giving you space to think. he bites your bottom lip, licks it after. pulls you close enough to feel the outline of everything he’s been holding back.

“you piss me off,” he whispers, kissing your jaw. “but fuck, baby—i miss you when you’re gone.”

your arms wrap around his shoulders, legs locking around his hips before you even realize it. he lifts you—effortless—and carries you to the couch. your back hits the cushions and he leans over you, hair falling in his face.

"you’re not gonna run again, right?"

"depends," you tease, but it’s breathless now. vulnerable.

he doesn’t like that answer. his hand wraps around your throat—light, but present. just enough to hold your gaze when he pushes your panties aside with his fingers.

"say you missed me."

you pause. he waits.

“…i missed you,” you whisper.

he hums. satisfied. then sinks to his knees.

𓂃۶ৎ JAKE.

you see him before he sees you. hoodie up, headphones in, pacing outside the studio door like he doesn’t want you to catch him being soft. like he wasn’t just in there listening to your voice in the demo on loop. you step out of the car and say his name. soft.

he freezes.

“you actually came?” he doesn’t mean it bitter. it comes out wounded. like he hoped you would, but didn’t believe it.

you nod. “we need to talk.”

he licks his lips. looks down at his shoes.

“nah. not unless you came to say you’re still mine.”

the way he says mine sends a chill down your spine. you take a step closer. he doesn’t move. you take another. his jaw clenches.

“jake.”

“don’t say my name like that,” he snaps—voice cracking just slightly. like it’s you who hurt him, even if he hurt you too. “you can’t say it like you love me and then disappear.”

your face softens. “i didn’t disappear.”

he laughs once. dry. then finally looks at you. really looks at you.

you know what’s coming before it happens. you see it in his eyes—dilated, dark, desperate. and when he grabs your hand and pulls you into the backseat of the car, neither of you says a word.

your lips crash like the apology’s in your mouth. your nails dig into his shoulder blades. his hands slide under your thighs and pull you on top of him like he’s starving. “you don’t get to run when you’ve got me like this,” he mumbles into your neck, voice thick.

he’s grinding up into you through your clothes—slow, deep, so much pressure it makes you whine.

“say it,” he breathes. “say i’m the only one who gets you like this.”

you nod, trembling. he doesn’t stop.

“i said say it, baby.”

you whimper, “you’re the only one…”

his hand sneaks down between you, cupping you with intention. “yeah,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth. “you’re not allowed to leave again.”

when he finally fucks you, it’s like he’s trying to write his name inside you. like he wants to be remembered next time you think about walking away. and just when you come, back arched, eyes rolling—

he holds you close and whispers:

“i forgive you.”

𓂃۶ৎ SUNGHOON.

he’s already there when you arrive. sitting on the edge of the bed. arms tense, jaw locked, that same unreadable look on his face.

“you came,” he says. not a question. a statement. smug. like he knew you would. like he wanted you to stay mad so he could make you sorry.

you cross your arms. “you gonna say anything real?”

he scoffs. “you want real? you ignore me for three days and walk in here like you’re the one who’s hurt?”

“don’t start.”

“don’t start?” he laughs—cold, sharp. “you don’t get to do that. not after the shit you said.”

your lip trembles, but you won’t let him see it. you shrug instead.

“guess i shouldn’t have come.”

you turn.

“don’t fucking walk out again.”

you freeze. his voice drops, low and steady. almost warning. you turn back—and that’s when you see it. his hand curled into a fist. his eyes glossy. his lips parted like he’s catching his breath.

you blink. “hoon…”

and then? he breaks.

he’s kissing you before you even reach him. rough. bruising. all tongue and teeth and frustration. his fingers dig into your waist, dragging your body against his.

“you make me so—fuck—so crazy.”

his mouth moves to your neck, biting down just enough to make you gasp. your hands slide under his hoodie, desperate. and when he feels you trembling?

“you’re mad at me,” he growls, “but your pussy’s telling a different story.”

you whimper, breath shaky.

he smirks, pressing his palm between your legs. "what? cat got your tongue now?"

you shove him, and he laughs—really laughs this time. because you’re still fire to him. and he likes that it still burns.

he flips you onto your back. “you gonna let me remind you why you stay?” his voice drops. “or should i make you beg first?”

you bite your lip. arch your hips up. he groans like he’s in pain.

and just before he pushes inside, he whispers it—so quietly, you almost miss it:

“don’t leave me again.”

𓂃۶ৎ SUNOO.

you catch him at the dorms. sitting on the couch, legs crossed, arms folded. airpods in, hoodie on, but that little pout on his lips lets you know he clocked you the second you stepped through the door.

“can we talk?”

he doesn’t look up. just chews his gum and pulls out one airpod.

“i’m listening.”

you sigh. “i didn’t mean to hurt you, sunoo.”

he shrugs. “but you did.”

you walk closer. “i didn’t want to fight like that.”

he finally looks at you. eyes sharp. "you didn’t want to fight, but you still left.”

the silence that follows is loud. tense. hot. your breath feels heavy in your chest.

so you kneel down in front of him—soft, real, vulnerable. and that’s when he finally cracks. just a little.

“you think you can just show up here, looking like that, saying my name like that…”

his voice drops. “you’re so annoying. i hate you.”

but when you go to stand, he grabs your wrist. pulls you down into his lap, fast. his hands are on your waist, your thighs, your face. he kisses you like he’s punishing you. like you made him wait too long.

“you’re not going anywhere,” he says between kisses, tone sharp but breathy. his lips trail down your neck, open-mouthed and slow. you’re writhing before he even pulls your shirt up.

“i hope you know i’m gonna make you cry.”

you gasp. “what?”

he smiles—sweet, wicked. “not sad tears, dummy.” his fingers brush your waistband. “i mean that kind of crying.”

and when he finally has you underneath him? when your back arches and you bite your lip trying to be quiet? he grabs your face gently and says, “nah. let them hear you.”

he’s whispering praise and dirty words in the same breath.

“you missed me this bad?” “you’re lucky i even let you come back.” “you’re mine. say it. say it.”

and when you finally break, hips trembling, lips parted?

he kisses your forehead, chest heaving, and whispers: “don’t ever leave me again. i won’t let you.”

𓂃۶ৎ JUNGWON

he opens the door like he wasn’t expecting you. but the way he looks at you? like he’s been waiting all week.

"thought you said you didn’t wanna see me again," he mumbles.

you shrug, stepping inside. “i didn’t.”

he scoffs a little, shutting the door. doesn’t say anything else. just watches you with that unreadable expression.

but then you take off your jacket. then you sit on his bed. and that’s when he breaks. just a little.

“do you even care how you made me feel?” his voice is sharp. quiet. but heavy.

you look at him. “do you?”

and that’s all it takes.

because one second he’s pacing, trying to stay calm— and the next, he’s in front of you. pulling you in. kissing you hard. angry. needy. desperate.

he doesn’t take his time. doesn’t ask if you missed him. he already knows.

his mouth moves to your neck and you gasp, tugging at his shirt.

“say it,” he whispers against your skin, “say you still want me.”

you try to stay quiet—try to be stubborn— but he’s already got you in his lap. hands gripping your hips, his forehead pressed to yours.

"i hate fighting with you,” you breathe.

he nods, voice low. “then shut up and let me fix it.”

you’re moaning his name before he even gets your bottoms off. back arching, thighs trembling, trying to keep your voice down—

“nah,” he grits through his teeth, voice strained as he rocks into you from behind, “you wasn’t quiet during the argument. don’t get shy now.”

his arm wraps tight around your waist. he’s pushing deeper, slower, rougher—like he’s imprinting himself inside you.

you reach back, grabbing his hand, guiding it between your legs.

he breathes out a low curse. “you tryna teach me something, baby?”

you don’t answer. you’re too far gone—face in the pillow, body shaking, already coming apart. and he just holds you there. lets you ride it out. lets himself feel it, all of it.

after? he cleans you up. lays beside you. holds your hand even when you're asleep.

he never says sorry with words. he says it with his body. with the way he pulls you in closer in his sleep. with the way he kisses your shoulder like he didn’t mean a word he said that night.

𓂃۶ৎ NI-KI

a little too nonchalant for someone who’s been losing his mind without you.

he doesn’t even look up when you walk in.

he’s on the couch, hoodie on, one earbud in. playing some game like you didn’t leave his last text on read. like you didn’t tell him to lose your number two days ago. like you didn’t cry.

but then you walk a little closer. and he finally looks at you.

“…you done being mad?”

you blink. “are you?”

he just shrugs. then tosses the controller on the table. leans back with his arms open like he knows you’re gonna come to him. like he always knew.

"c’mere. i’ll let you be mad on top of me.”

and that’s how it starts. not with an apology. not with closure. but with the curve of your mouth twitching when you climb on his lap anyway.

his hands are on your waist before you can even settle, and his voice is lazy when he says, “you’re really dramatic, you know that?”

but he’s already hard. already breathing heavier when you tug his hoodie off and roll your hips.

you’re kissing like you forgot how to argue. biting. moaning. pulling on each other like you didn’t both swear you were done.

“you missed me,” he says between breaths, smug and whispering into your skin.

you try to deny it. but you’re already grinding down on him, breathless and trembling.

and when he finally slides inside? you both pause. just for a second. because god it feels so much better than it’s supposed to. like too much time passed. like too many words were left unsaid.

you’re facing him now, arms around his neck, head falling onto his shoulder. and he’s whispering—

“you don’t get to leave again, okay?” soft. barely audible. but there.

he wraps an arm around your waist and starts fucking into you slow. like he has time. like he’s not in a rush. because in his mind? you’re not going anywhere.

you try to be tough. you really do. but it’s hard to talk shit when you’re dripping down his thighs and barely holding on.

and when he feels you clench up around him, eyes fluttering shut?

he mutters something against your lips like—“yeah…that’s my girl.”

and just like that, the fight’s forgotten. his hands are back on your hips. your nails are in his back. you’re both breathless and sticky and tangled up in all the feelings you pretended not to have.

and when it’s over— when you're lying on your back, leg draped over his, too tired to move—he finally says it, soft and sideways:

“i was mad too, y’know. i just… didn’t want you to see it.”

and that’s when you realize: he was hurting. he just didn’t know how to say it first.