Noon 20+

Mostly Seventeen and Ateez fic recs and re-blogs. Sometimes also TXT and SKZ 💚🤍💜

[novocainenoon]

Fic recs

Last update: 16 Mei 2026

I try to update either every month, or when my queue is nearly empty.

I’m not good at leaving comments, so I made these lists as my show of support and appreciation,

Please let me know if a link does not work!

f=fluff, m=mature (minors dni), a=angst, h=humour, Colour=new

If you are reading NSFW fics, please put an age indicator on your blog.

Story Genres

Seventeen

Ateez

Tomorrow x Together

Stray Kids

Nct

Extra

Formula 1

Harry Lewis 2

Reading tip

Banners by @cafekitsune

I use my likes as a list of what I still want to read. And reblog when I finished reading and enjoyed the fic!

[sithskz]

『 the revenge game 』

୨୧ summary: you hate chan because your boyfriend hates chan, and you’re pretty sure he hates you too. so when he proposes a fake dating arrangement after you get cheated on, you accept only for the revenge plot. but that doesn’t exactly go as planned, because maybe you two never really hated each other after all. ୨୧ pairing: student!bang chan x fem!student!reader ୨୧ genre: college!au, enemies to lovers / fake dating, a lil fluff, a lil angst, smut MINORS DNI ୨୧ word count: 20.6k ୨୧ featuring: jaehyun of nct and mina & jihyo of twice ୨୧ warnings: 18+, cheating (not between reader and chan), mentions of alcohol, explicit language, poor communication, some arguing, overuse of italics (sorry!), oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected sex (pls dont do it), breast play (+ one slap !), creampie, multiple orgasms, spitting, dirty talk, teasing, pet names (baby, princess), afab reader ୨୧ author's note: let's play a game of how many tropes can i fit into one fic! i did all of my college courses online so not too much on me and my unrealistic depictions pls… also obviously this is not an accurate portrayal of jaehyun, i love that man down okay!! and i got a lil lazy midway through this and rushed it to get to the smut lmao sorry!

You hated parties.

You hated parties because they were loud, because spaces with that many bodies on top of each other were too suffocating, because men always tried to hit on you with boozy breath and wandering eyes.

Now you hated parties because they made your boyfriend want to stick his tongue down other girls’ throats.

Jaehyun had managed to destroy nine months within three minutes – that’s the length of time you’d convinced yourself you’d spent standing there, unable to avert your gaze from the horror unfolding in front of you. Three whole minutes that he hadn’t even noticed your presence, too preoccupied. Too focused on kissing this random girl like he had something to claim, as if you weren’t enough. And worst of all, he hadn’t even cared enough to bring it somewhere private. They were in a corner of the living room, tucked away but not hidden. It had only taken a little bit of squeezing between partygoers and quick apologies to make your way to them. 

They had gathered a crowd, too. A few spectators, voices meant to be whispers – drunk people can’t seem to mind their own volume. 

“Yo, is that Y/N?” 

“Nah, I just saw her getting a drink.” 

“Shit…she’s gonna be so pissed.”

At least the alcohol hadn’t made them completely brainless. You were, in fact, pissed. There was the unmistakable heartbreak too, but you weren’t going to let anyone see that. Instead, you blinked back your tears and cleared your throat to make sure the words didn’t get stuck. Each step you took towards him made it more real, until you were close enough that you knew he could hear you over the raging music.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you hiss, far from an actual question. Your voice still broke on the last word, and you hoped he hadn’t noticed. As soon as he registers that it’s your voice, his girlfriend, Jaehyun tries to push the girl away, feigning disgust. It’s almost pathetic in a way, his little act. 

“Shit, Y/N,” he curses. “I didn’t mean to – fuck, I didn’t mean for this to happen, I just – ”

He stumbles on his words as if his mouth wasn’t working perfectly fine just seconds before. When he tries to inch towards you, you step back, refusing to allow him the comfort. 

“You’re fucked, Jaehyun,” you say flatly. That’s as much of your energy as you would give him, at least for now. He’d embarrassed you enough by kissing another woman in the middle of a party; you decided against escalating your humiliation by shouting at him and causing a scene. You turn on your heels and begin pushing through bodies again, away from him, and you can tell he’s following. You can hear your name, barely reaching your ears but definitely there. 

Once you make it out of the most concentrated pool of people, he staggers soon after and latches onto your wrist. The same fingertips that used to run across your skin so gently now felt like betrayal and poison. 

“Let me go,” you snap. His grip loosens slightly, but he still holds you there, determined to defend himself. 

“I fucked up, I know, but please just hear me out,” he begs, as if he has the right to. His excuses are the last thing you want to hear right now, and you know that’s all they would be. Stupid excuses for a stupid “mistake,” and it makes you sick to even think about listening to him explain why and how he ended up making out with another woman in the corner of a party he asked you to go with him to.

“No! Fuck you, seriously,” you spit, words laced with venom you prayed would hurt him even a fraction of the way he hurt you. 

And perhaps they did, or at the very least stunned him, because he drops your arm entirely. Now, you take the final steps towards the door, reaching for the handle. He tries to follow you again, unsatisfied, unrelenting. “And if you follow me out this door, I promise you I’ll never speak to you again.”

That stops him in his tracks. Maybe gives him some hope that if he just lets you cool off for the night, you’ll let him explain in the morning. Regardless of how he perceives it, you lunge at the opportunity to escape, finally making it out the door and into the crisp night air. It hits your skin viciously, your skirt and halter top offering little protection from its bite. You’re cold, heartbroken, and, worst of all, not even nearly drunk enough to mask it. 

Without the vivaciousness of the party, you can only see Jaehyun kissing her in your mind, can only hear the hushed whispers of the onlookers, replaying on a torturous loop. You’d only made it down the steps of the house before the tears began to fall. Now you let them, assuming you were away from prying eyes. 

Unfortunately, you hadn’t noticed someone standing right next to the door while you and Jaehyun had your little spat. A certain someone who would get far too much enjoyment out of such a scene. You had been followed once more, but this time not by your stupid cheating ex boyfriend, but by his equally as stupid “rival.” It was still a mystery to you why they hated each other, and at this point, you didn’t care at all to find out.

“Those were some harsh words,” he chuckles, and you don’t even need to turn around to recognize the voice. The same way you don’t need to turn around to know he’s smirking. You hurriedly wipe your eyes, careful not to smudge your makeup; the last thing you need is him to see you crying, another thing for him to derive sick pleasure in. You wouldn’t dare grant him that.

Because it was an unspoken relationship rule that an enemy of your partner is an enemy of your own. So, for no real reason other than the fact that Jaehyun hated him, you hated Bang Chan. 

“Fuck off, Chan,” you snarl, quickening your pace. It doesn’t matter, since he catches up to you in a few short strides. “Why the hell did you even follow me out here?”

He steps in rhythm with you, making it clear he had no intentions of leaving. Not until he got what he wanted, whatever that may be. The satisfaction of seeing you broken? The chance to remind you how shitty Jaehyun is and how great he is? You aren’t sure, but you keep walking anyway.

“I just didn’t expect to hear you say such things to your boyfriend,” he answers. His emphasis of “boyfriend” makes you both angry and repulsed, then bitter and devastated. Nine months of your life gone in minutes, and now you had the displeasure of dealing with Chan on top of it.

You scoff and finally stop, turning to face him for the first time. His eyes twinkle with something devious, and it infuriates you. “He’s not my boyfriend. Not anymore.”

“Oh?” he draws his head back in shock. He’s silent for a moment, and you fold your arms across your chest, glaring at him in a way he finds cute more than intimidating. “I’m surprised you two lasted this long, actually. Figured it was about time for Jaehyun to do what he does best.”

You blink at him incredulously, his careless words cutting deep. There’s no reason anything he says should bother you, but there’s something about it that stings. And Chan notices, too, watching your entire face shift from rage to sorrow. Your features soften in a way he’d never seen before – you’d only ever looked at him with hatred and annoyance – and it deflates him. 

“I don’t know why you two don’t get along. Seems like you should be best friends – you’re both fucked up,” you retort quickly, though it comes out as a strained whisper. 

Chan hates being grouped with him, especially in your mind where Jaehyun now seems to be synonymous with evil. He never expected to be giving you of all people an apology, but he figures he needs to. For his own consciousness, of course. Definitely not because he felt an odd pang in his chest when you looked at him with something other than disdain for once.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said all that. Are you alright?” he asks cautiously. He never thought he’d be so relieved to see someone roll their eyes, but when you do, he swears he feels ten times lighter. Your hostility he could navigate, but your sadness was uncharted territory; he was glad to be back to familiarity. And since you hadn’t walked away from him yet, he takes the chance to dig deeper. “What did he do?”

“Like I’d want to talk to you about it. Just give it a few hours, you’ll hear about it from someone, I’m sure,” you shrug, trying to pretend that you’re unbothered. That you don’t care that you’ll likely be the talk of campus, the woeful ex-girlfriend people will look at in that pitiful way they look at small, broken things. 

As much as you hate Chan, you’re grateful he isn’t looking at you like you’re small or broken. He’s looking at you the same as always, like you’re a challenge, a puzzle he hasn’t yet solved. Maybe that’s why you decided to keep standing there, holding more of a conversation with him than you’d likely ever had before.

“Probably. But I want to hear it from you. So tell me, what happened?” he asks again.

He doesn’t say it with demand or snark. It sounds almost unsettlingly genuine. It sounds like someone that isn’t Chan, or at least the Chan you’re familiar with. You hesitate, conjuring up another smart remark, but you let it die in your throat. 

“He fucking cheated on me. He was making out with some girl in front of everyone. Can you believe that?” you chuckle sarcastically, forgetting who exactly is standing before you. “Nevermind…I’m sure you can believe it. God, I’m so stupid.” 

“No, you’re not stupid,” he says adamantly. “He’s stupid. An even bigger idiot than I thought, actually.”

It angers him more than it should that you’re degrading yourself over Jaehyun’s horrible decisions, and he has a fleeting thought of going back and telling him off for it. And as the thought passes, he can’t understand why. He knows you hate him. He knows you have likely been fed lies and half-truths by Jaehyun for months. He knows he shouldn’t care about any of this. He can’t seem to figure out why he does. 

“I just can’t get that image out of my head. It’s making me sick,” you mumble, and it replays all over again. The ear-splitting music, the crowd, his lips on hers, that look on his face when he saw you. All your emotions bubble back up to the surface and come out as a loud groan, though internally you just want to scream until your throat is raw. “I wish I could make him feel even half of what I feel right now.”

The idea that pops up sounds ridiculous in his head and likely even more so said aloud, but his mouth opens before he can stop himself. “Well, maybe you could,” he trails. 

“I know it may be hard for you to believe, but I’m actually a good person,” you sneer. “I would never cheat.” 

He laughs dryly and you furrow your eyebrows in confusion, awaiting an explanation. “Believe me, I know you’re just a perfect princess,” he mocks, and you’re certain if you roll your eyes any harder they’ll get stuck like that. “But who said anything about cheating? Besides, you’re not together anymore,” he reminds. “And there’s only one thing I can think of that would drive him just as mad.”

You’re intrigued now, though doubtful there’s anything that could reflect the same level of hurt you currently felt. Anything rational, at least. Still, you wanted to hear whatever silly idea Chan had, if not for your own amusement. 

“Which is what?” you question.

“Being with me,” he answers, too quickly, too plainly, as if it was something entirely normal and not an absolutely insane statement. When your eyes widen, he continues, waving his hands urgently to indicate you had gotten the wrong impression. “Okay, not for real, Jesus. Like faking it, you know? Just for him to see and lose his mind.” 

That was quite possibly the last thing you expected, and you’re forced to laugh at the absurdity of it. You wait for him to join in, to tell you he was joking just to fuck with you. That would have been the Chan thing to do. Instead, he stares at you, a half-smile playing on his lips. 

“Yeah, okay, you’re insane,” you scoff. 

“Is it that insane?” he says smugly, poking his tongue in his cheek. “Think about it, imagine how pissed he’d be seeing us together.”

For a moment, you can’t help but realize how attractive he actually is. It’s not that you hadn’t noticed before – you had perfectly functional eyes – but now being single and also inches away from him, it was an unavoidable fact. It made you almost begin to consider his idea. Almost.

“Yes, it’s insane! Just because I gave you five minutes of my time on a shitty night doesn’t mean I want to talk to you ever again, let alone pretend to date you.”

“Oh, Princess Y/N gave me five minutes of her precious time, thank you so much,” he quips, and this time he’s the one to roll his eyes. “Whatever, I gave you a guy’s perspective on how to get back at him. You’re not gonna get any better revenge than that.”

“And what do you get from it?” you ask, certain there must be some mutually beneficial aspect beneath it. There’s no way he would suggest something so outlandish without thinking of his own gain, and you know that’s true when he grins wickedly.

“Just the satisfaction of seeing his face when he realizes he lost his girl to the one person he hates more than anything.”

You aren’t sure why you hadn’t grasped that from the beginning. All Chan wanted, as always, was to get under Jaehyun’s skin, to take something of his, to win. The idea is still crazy, and far more theatrical than you’d usually approve of, but you’re a lover scorned.

Then, you think back to the unspoken rule, the sole reason and origin of your hatred for Chan. Jaehyun hadn’t even followed relationship rule number fucking one: don’t cheat on your girlfriend. So, you figured you could break some rules and allow some theatrics.

“Okay. Okay, fine, I’ll fake date you or whatever,” you huff, trying to ignore his triumphant smirk. “But nothing weird, alright? And once it’s all over, we go back to hating each other.”

He throws his hands up like it’s offensive you’d even insinuated it. “Believe me, that’ll be no problem,” he agrees.

“Good,” you say simply, a forced tight-lipped smile on your face.

“Good,” he repeats.

The silence that falls over you two is uncomfortable, only disrupted by the sound of the wind lifting leaves along the sidewalk and the faint thumping of music. You can still see the house down the road, and it makes you wonder if Jaehyun is still inside and if he went right back to her. Suddenly, you feel the need to get home and cry in the shower with your carefully-curated sad music playlist. 

 “Well…I’m gonna go back to my dorm now,” you finally speak, shifting on your feet awkwardly.

“I’ll walk you,” he offers without a second thought. 

You can’t help the way you exhale a little too harshly. Truthfully, you just wanted a short walk on your own to process all of the nights’ events, including the proposal you’d just accepted. And you had already spent more time than you’d like with Chan for one night (although you know you’ll have to spend much more now).

“Uh, no thanks. I don’t think we need to start the whole fake dating thing right now,” you reject bluntly. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head, trying to stop himself from saying the wrong thing. He’s just trying to do a nice thing, the right thing, but you have a way of getting under his skin. The next few weeks are surely going to be a challenge. “It’s not for that, Y/N,” he sighs. “It’s late and dark out. Just let me make sure you get home safe, please?”

The roads are lit only by streetlights and the moon shining above, and you shiver from both the chilly air and the thought of making the walk to your dorm alone. You’d expected to be going home with Jaehyun, definitely not on your own in the middle of the night. 

“Fine,” you agree reluctantly. “But can we just walk in silence? Not really in the mood to talk anymore.”

You deliberately exclude that you feel like if you keep talking, you’re going to break. You’d kept a relatively strong front – far stronger than you thought you’d be after being cheated on – but it was slowly crumbling. Maybe it was all the adrenaline that kept your emotions contained, because now everything was slowing down and soaking in. 

“Sure,” he nods, following closely behind when you turn and begin taking steps forward. Your dorm is ten minutes away, and you walk side by side, arms occasionally brushing against each others. You only make it about two minutes in before he stops, shrugging off his jacket. Then, he holds his hand out, gesturing to it when you stare dumbly. 

“Here,” he offers. “You’re freezing.”

There’s no denying that he’s right, but that didn’t mean you were going to wear his jacket. You could survive a few more minutes of the cold, even though your skin was covered with goosebumps that hadn’t gone away since you’d first left Jaehyun at the door. “I’m not wearing your jacket, Chan,” you shove his hand back. 

Before you can start walking again, he drapes it around your shoulders, ignoring the glares you send his way. 

“Do you always have to be this stubborn?” he groans. “You’re literally shaking, but God forbid you wear my jacket.”

You click your tongue and pull your arms through the sleeves anyway, mumbling a grudging “thank you.” The newfound warmth was a great comfort, and you’re so wrapped up in it you don’t notice the way he steals short glances over at you. His eyes drag down your body, drinking in how his jacket sits on your shoulders like it belongs there. How the sleeves fall past your wrists and the hem lines your thighs, still mostly exposed from your skirt length of choice. How you look good wearing something of his.

And then he curses himself for even thinking it, tearing his eyes away even though he really doesn’t want to. He clears his throat loudly, awkwardly, trying to ground himself, and you look over wordlessly. Any words you were going to say get caught in your throat when you notice how muscular his arms are now that they’re no longer covered. 

Still, neither of you speak again, both thinking silent thoughts that you’d never let the other know. Once you arrive at your dorm building, he walks you all the way to your door despite your protests, muttering something about you being stubborn yet again. 

“Thank you for walking me home,” you force out, gratitude sounding like exasperation. Your back is pressed against the door, hand wrapped around the handle. All you want is to throw yourself in bed and sob and sleep at this point, but Chan’s presence keeps you in the hallway.

He nods, combing a hand through his hair, wondering when it became so difficult to think of the right words to say to you. “Try not to think about him too much tonight, alright?” he sighs. “I know that’s hard, but just try to get some sleep or something.”

Such gentle advice sounds odd coming from his mouth, and he waits for your sarcastic reply. Counts on it, actually. 

It doesn’t come. Instead, you smile at him weakly, telling yourself you simply don’t have the mental capacity to go back and forth with him anymore. Not that you were actually hating him a little less. 

“I’ll try,” you assure. “Oh, yeah. Here.” 

You pull off his jacket, the one that had begun to feel a little too comfortable, and fold it over your arms towards him. 

“Keep it. You can wear it around or whatever,” he suggests indifferently. It would make your fake relationship more believable, but beyond that, it would appeal to that small part of him that enjoyed seeing you in it. 

Fuck, what had gotten into him?

“I won’t,” you sass, bringing the jacket back to your chest anyways. 

He runs his tongue along his teeth, chuckling. “Of course you won’t. So stubborn.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Stop being that,” he shoots back.

Seemingly, you’d met your match. Someone who could keep up with your quick retorts, your mouthiness. And it came in the form of a man your ex boyfriend hated, a man you hated. You weren’t sure why that made it all the more exciting for you. 

His gaze lingered, a curious glint in his eyes. He was trying to piece you together bit by bit, but you were a more difficult puzzle than most. 

“Have a good night, Chan,” you say, finally turning the handle. When the door swings open, he finds himself looking around unintentionally, another opportunity to figure you out. He can see a few plushies on your bed, posters lined on the walls, and framed photos he can’t quite make out. There’s probably some of you and Jaehyun, and he hopes those are long gone by the next time he ends up at your dorm.

You slip inside hastily, and he realizes he’d been too engrossed in examining your room to respond. The door comes to a close in front of him.

“Yeah, you too,” he breathes out when you can’t hear, standing there just a few moments longer.

Once inside, you wait to hear the sound of his footsteps padding away, and when you do, you crack. The pictures of you and Jaehyun sit on your bedside dresser, mocking you, and you slam them down against the wood. You’re partially inclined to throw them against the wall and hope they shatter, but you don’t particularly feel like cleaning up glass shards through tears. 

At least you let the teddy bear he gifted you stay on your bed, unharmed. An innocent soul caught in the crossfire, a child of divorce even. 

“Fuck Jaehyun, fuck parties, and fuck this whole night,” you curse, though it comes out in choked sobs. And fuck Chan, your brain wants to say, but you bite it back. He had walked you home, given you his jacket…and become your fake boyfriend (soon to be, anyways) within the span of thirty minutes. Still, he was annoying, arrogant, impossible-to-deal-with Chan.

 As much as every fiber of your being yearned for the soft comfort of your bed, you trudge to your bathroom and start the shower, making sure to put on your playlist while the water warms. Because if you were going to be heartbroken, you were at least going to be heartbroken while listening to Cigarettes After Sex.

After thirty minutes of crying and scrubbing your body of any traces of Jaehyun, you finally step out and decide to check your phone for the first time since everything had completely unraveled. Apparently getting cheated on was all you needed to reduce your screen time, so maybe that was a positive?

Naturally, there’s a few texts from people you could hardly consider friends but would now act like you were with feigned sympathy, full nosiness. Among them, however, is a text from a number you hadn’t saved.

y/n? 

who’s this?

I’d say the guy you hate the most but i think someone else might’ve taken that spot

Chan. It was almost impressive that he managed to sound annoying even through texts.

ha. and how’d you get my number…?

I asked someone for it. you think they’ll take the bait?

they’ll probably just think you’re a freak who goes for recently heartbroken girls.

Nah. that’s not really my type.

oh yeah? what’s your type then?

You watch as the typing bubble pops up and disappears a few moments later, and then nothing. Minutes pass and you assume he’s leaving you on read, and that’s fine. It’s late, anyway, and after such a thorough cleansing and crying session, you’re exhausted.

So it’s no surprise when your phone buzzes again just as you manage to get comfortable in bed. 

Just because that’s not my type doesn’t mean i have a type

“Liar,” you mumble to yourself. Whatever, it’s not like you care who or what he’s into. In fact, you’re glad he didn’t answer. Who knows what kind of weird things he’d come up with, if not just to irritate you. 

okay, boring

What about you then? what’s your type?

You’re torn between giving him a genuine answer or something along the lines of “basically the antithesis of you.” Then, you realize you can probably do both at once, since you don’t consider Chan to align with any of your dating criteria.

i like someone who’s warm, attentive, and can make me laugh. someone who notices the little things, too

Yeah, definitely not Chan. But then again….

That can’t be right. i mean, you ended up with jaehyun

Also not Jaehyun. That was something you could admit now, but it was different coming from someone else. Like you were the only one who couldn’t see the flaws, the incompatibility. You feel stupid all over again, trying to ignore the way your throat began to tighten once more.

i’m going to sleep.

Hahaha Aw man. i was having fun.

goodnight, chan.

Goodnight princess

The nickname might’ve been a term of endearment from anyone else, but from Chan, it was a thinly veiled taunt. You save his contact with a very fitting eyeroll emoji just to spite him, finally drifting off to a surprisingly peaceful sleep soon after. 

“What an asshole,” Jihyo hisses. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there, you know I would have ripped into him.”

With all the craziness of the night, you hadn’t even thought to text any of your friends. It was one of the rare times none of them could make it out with you, and now you were being inundated with questions over lunch.

You wave her off, poking at your plate idly. “It’s fine, I promise,” you sigh. 

“Has he texted you today?” Mina asks, glancing down at your phone on the table. You look down too, half-expecting to see another flurry of messages from Jaehyun – he’d already sent about twenty since the morning, all going unanswered. 

“Yes,” you groan, unlocking your phone and passing it to the two girls for them to read the same desperate pleas you’d been spammed with. They scroll through, mouths slightly agape. “Should I answer? I’m worried he’s gonna end up showing up at my dorm if I don’t.”

“Here, let me answer,” Jihyo says, and you reach over and snatch the phone out of her hands before she can type. It wasn’t that he didn’t deserve whatever insults she’d send his way, but that you worried any response would entice him at this point. 

To satisfy her, you finally text him back, telling him to leave you alone and that you would let him know when you were ready to talk. You truly had no idea when that would be, but any more silence from your end would inevitably have him tracking you down on campus. 

Then, you remembered the other half of the night, the part where you agreed to fake date the same man your friends had heard you complain about more than once. There was no way you were going to keep that from them, nor would you be able to, but you weren’t even sure how to approach the subject. 

Hey, by the way, I’m pretending to date that guy I hate. For the revenge plot of course.

“There’s actually something else that happened last night,” you begin, studying their reactions. They wait expectantly, eyes wide with curiosity. “Chan heard us arguing and we…talked a little.”

“Yeah, well, that sounds like Chan. He basically feeds off of Jaehyun’s misery,” Jihyo chuckles.

Mina catches onto the end of your sentence, the words you had said just a little too quickly and quietly. Intentionally so. “What do you mean you talked? You can’t stand him.”

Now, both girls are staring at you, disbelief etched on their faces. You and Chan had never talked. You insulted, glared, and mocked. Talking? They weren’t even sure you two were capable of holding a conversation without spitting names at each other.

“It’s stupid…” you trail. “He had this idea, and…I don’t know, I guess I just agreed to it because I was so angry and emotional.”

You’re stalling, obviously, and they’re growing more impatient with each delayed sentence.

“He suggested we pretend to be together to get back at Jaehyun.”

It’s quiet for a few seconds, and then Jihyo laughs, a full-body laugh that has tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. Mina just blinks at you, unamused. “Y/N! You can’t make me laugh like that while I’m eating, you know,” Jihyo scolds, still releasing occasional giggles.

“You’re not joking,” Mina says flatly. “Are you?”

Realization strikes both their faces when you don’t answer, swirling your straw around absentmindedly. Next comes their looks of disapproval. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you groan. But what did you expect? You had just thrown into question a fact they knew more concretely than grass being green or the sky being blue: you hate Chan. So did your need for revenge trump your hatred, or was your hatred truly never that deep after all? They suspected the latter – they always did, especially when you would go on about how insufferable he was while eyeing him from across a room.

“Like what? Like you’re crazy? Because clearly, you’re crazy,” Jihyo whisper-shouts.

“And with Chan of all people, seriously?” Mina adds. 

Okay, neither of them were wrong, but they’d also never been cheated on to understand all the complex thoughts and feelings you’re experiencing right now. And yes, with Chan, because the plan simply wouldn’t work with anyone else (nor would anyone else be stupid enough to go along with it). It just had to be your ex boyfriend’s worst enemy.

“I know it’s crazy and you know I’d never agree to something like this, but – ” 

“ – but she just couldn’t resist me,” someone interjects from behind you. Then, he throws himself next to you, leaning back against the table on his elbows.

You aren’t sure how long he’s been there or how much he heard, though you guess not much since one of them definitely would have warned you. Either way, add his stupidly good timing to the list of things that piss you off about him. 

He hadn’t texted you in the morning –  not that he was supposed to, or that you expected him to –  and it almost made you wonder if the whole night was a fever dream. Evidently not, seeing as he was sitting a few inches away with a wide grin plastered on his dumb face.

“Are you stalking me across campus?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

He huffs out a hollow laugh. “You wish. You guys sit in the same spot almost every day.”

Is he right? Yes. Does it make sense for him to know that? Not really. Unless he’d been paying more attention to you than you thought, which also didn’t make sense. 

“Okay, so you’re not stalking me,” you conclude. “Just watching me.”

“Why does it have to be you? There’s two other lovely ladies here.” 

“Ew,” Mina says.

“Don’t be gross,” Jihyo adds.

Now it’s your turn to laugh, though Chan is unamused. You want to poke him further, to find out why he knows the specific time and place your friends typically eat lunch, but you decide to save it for another time. Especially since those two are sitting right across from you and would hang onto every stupid thing he says, pestering you about it later. 

Chan spins forward, now facing Jihyo and Mina. “Do you girls mind if I steal Y/N for a bit?”

“I mind,” you scoff, but he ignores you entirely.

The two girls look at each other suspiciously, knowingly. Then, Mina shakes her head, basically sending you off to your demise (another uncomfortable walk with Chan  – two in less than twenty-four hours has to be considered cruel and unusual punishment). “Sure,” she shrugs. “We were just finishing up, anyways.”

Were you, though? The conversation hadn’t shown any signs of slowing down until he arrived. 

With the approval of your friends, not yours, he clasps his hand around yours and stands up, trying to bring you with him. You can’t move, you can’t function at all with his hand holding your own, and once it hits you, you yank it away from him. 

And then you stand anyway, as if your body was betraying you and doing everything your brain said not to. 

“I hope you don’t plan on hurting her, too,” Jihyo cautions, an unspoken threat behind her words. 

Her intentions are sweet, but you can’t help but feel the need to chide her for making it seem like you two are actually together.

“I’m not going to cheat on her, if that’s what you’re implying,” he jeers, picking up your bag and slinging it over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, princess, you’re the only fake girlfriend in my life.” 

He must think he’s so funny, putting on a show in front of your friends, but you’re not laughing. However, Mina and Jihyo are. Snickering under their breath, actually, and probably going to gush all about this odd interaction after you leave. 

The three of you exchange goodbyes, Chan already walking away from the table. You have to take larger strides to catch up to him, and when you do, you reach for your bag, trying to pry it from his arm. 

“Is it going to kill you if you let me be nice and carry your stuff?” he huffs, readjusting the strap. 

“It might,” you glare, but you can tell he’s not budging, so you resign. You wait for him to speak, to offer an explanation. Instead, he scans your face like he’s looking for something beneath the surface. “Is there a reason you took me from my friends just now?” 

“Are you okay?” he asks, answering your question with…a question? So. Annoying. 

But it sounds sincere coming from him, unlike how everyone else had asked you since last night. You can tell the difference now between girls who asked because they wanted to know if they had a chance with Jaehyun, guys who asked because they wanted to know if they had a chance with you, the complete randoms who asked just to be in the know, and now…this. Someone who genuinely wanted to know if you were okay, nothing more, nothing less, no underlying motives. 

“I’m alright,” you shrug, “just numb, I think.”

He swallows hard, then nods. And suddenly the Chan you recognize is back. “Well, you look good for someone who just got cheated on.”

Maybe the compliment would have felt good if he hadn’t tacked on the last part. You had enough reminders throughout the day, so much so that your phone had been on DND for hours. And the reminders came in other forms, too, like your lonely walk to your first class in the morning, the one Jaehyun would always accompany you on. Or the song that came on shuffle that you two had once added to a shared playlist (which you now had sole custody of). 

“Do you know how to give an actual compliment?” you snap, already knowing the answer. Chan would probably drop dead before he complimented you. 

“So you’d rather I just say you look good?” he questions.

Yes, yes you most certainly would. But there was no way in hell you would tell him that and make him think his words actually mean something to you. You can just picture his smug look of satisfaction already. 

So you lie through your teeth.

“No.”

He chews the inside of his cheek, carefully mulling over what he says next. “You do though. Look good, I mean,” he states matter-of-factly. And to your surprise, he doesn’t drop dead afterwards. 

What should you say in return? Thank you? No, that implies you’re appreciative, grateful he complimented you, which you aren’t. You look good too? Absolutely not, unless you want to have him use that against you for the foreseeable future. Ew, don’t say those things? You’re not even sure you can feign disgust like that. 

You end up not saying anything at all, but your face says a lot. Too much. It heats up and your cheeks dust with red, a far worse response than any of the others you’d contemplated. 

“Aw, you’re blushing,” Chan teases, bumping against your shoulder lightly. “Getting all shy on me, where’s that smart mouth?” 

“Shut up,” you grumble, and then you realize you’ve been following him blindly for the past minutes. You see that he’s led you to the heart of campus, the vast field of green where couples, friends, and classmates alike all congregate. He heads straight for a bench, pulling you down next to him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“When’s your next class?” 

You don’t answer.

“You took me away from my friends to bring me here?” And then you look around, convincing yourself everyone’s eyes are on you. “People are staring.” 

He looks over at you, your bag now acting as a barrier between your bodies, and quirks an eyebrow. “Is that a problem?”

“I just don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.”

“Yeah, well, newsflash, princess. We’re doing this so they do get the wrong idea,” he reminds, tucking your bag by his side. With the new space, he hooks his arms around your thighs and shifts you towards him, pulling your legs onto the bench and draping them over his lap.

“Chan!” you hiss, trying to move, but he holds you there. 

If you thought people were staring before, they must be drilling holes through you now. Realistically, you’re just being dramatic  – everyone is too entrenched in their own problems, their own conversations, their own world to really notice you. But you know people will talk, because that’s what people do, especially when it involves two individuals who are quite well-known on campus. 

“Relax. The more obvious we make this, the quicker people will see, the quicker Jaehyun will see. And then it can all be over, right?” he explains, and you huff in response. You sit there like that long enough that it becomes comfortable, his fingers tapping idly on your leg while he scrolls on his phone. At the same time, you trace mindless shapes onto the bench, pretending you weren’t melting into him slowly. 

No.

Being like this with Chan shouldn’t feel this normal, and you refuse to accept that it does. So, naturally, you have to say something to ruin it. Almost like an innate reflex.

“I should’ve just stepped out in a revenge dress, but nooo, I had to agree to your stupidity,” you mumble. He laughs, and then his face contorts to something more serious.

“You have a revenge dress?”

He says it hopefully, a glimmer of interest in his eyes. 

“If I do,” you begin, leaning in to whisper in his ear, “you’ll never get to see it.”

His entire body deflates, and you take the opportunity to pull yourself off of him. You had a class across campus to get to and also needed a serious mental debrief to process the last twenty minutes. He hands over your bag, lifting off the bench as well. “Do you want me to like, walk you to your classes and stuff?” 

“Nope,” you decline easily. “Unless you’re willing to walk me to my 8:30 on Tuesdays.” 

It’s supposed to be a joke, and he must know it because he scoffs, shaking his head like you’d just said the most egregious thing ever. You laugh and start in the direction of your class, the feeling of his body so close to yours still lingering.

The weekend comes and goes quickly, with you swearing off any more parties for the time being despite Mina and Jihyo’s pleas. They both mention something about alcohol and loud music being the perfect remedy for a break up. But you already only really went to parties to appease your friends (and Jaehyun, previously), who dubbed them an “essential part of the college experience.” Now, you had the perfect excuse not to. Even Chan texts you to ask if you’ll be going out, though he doesn’t have nearly the same level of disappointment as your friends when you say no.

Instead, you spend your days clearing your camera roll of pictures of your cheating ex boyfriend and boxing up all the things of his you no longer wanted to have in your possession. Maybe you could get Chan to burn it all for you (except for the teddy bear, of course). 

And then Tuesday morning rolls around and there’s an incessant knocking on your door, which is not only irritating but unusual, given the time. You’re in the middle of getting dressed when you answer, top half still in a tank top, bottom half in jeans. 

This person is about to feel all your morning wrath, until you blink a few times and register that it’s Chan of all people.

“What the hell?” 

“8:30, right?” he confirms, leaning against the doorframe. 

You fold your arms across your chest, resisting his charm as best as you can. “That was a joke,” you groan, opening the door wider. “I’m not done getting ready and it’s gonna look weird if you’re waiting outside.”

He steps inside happily, immediately noticing the now barren space on your dresser. You had gotten rid of the pictures, good. He also recognizes his jacket draped along the back of your chair in a way he knows you’ve worn it, or at least moved it recently. It hangs off a little unevenly, one of the sleeves wrinkled in on itself. 

“Yeah, because it’ll look so much better if we come out of your dorm together at eight in the morning,” he chuckles while you walk into the bathroom to change shirts in peace.

“Don’t even think like that,” you shout. Then, you walk out, throwing the tank top at him (which he catches, unfortunately), feeling emboldened. “Everyone knows I wouldn’t fuck you.”

The smirk on your face is wiped away immediately when he grabs your wrist as you bend down to reach your bag. “Yeah? Do you know that?” he whispers. His whole demeanor shifts, gaze intense, grip strong but not painful. You attempt to force out a stammered reply, but admittedly, you’re flustered. Your own body is a traitor, clearly. 

Thankfully, he releases your wrist and breaks the tension with a devilish laugh. “You’re so easy to fuck with,” he says, sounding completely like his usual irksome self. 

Now that you had a glimpse of a different, enticing side of Chan, you craved more and hated yourself for it. After all, you had just said you would never fuck him. And you wouldn’t. 

But can’t a girl just think about it?

You grabbed your bag successfully this time and slipped on a pair of shoes, heading out the door with him right behind. 

“So why did you do this, exactly?” you question, still fighting off sleep yourself. 

“When I commit to something, I go hard,” he explains, though it sounds like a double entendre. “So if we’re going to fake date, I’m gonna be the best damn fake boyfriend you ever had.”

How wonderful. You thought you were agreeing to get revenge against Jaehyun, not to fuel Chan’s ego. Maybe you’d need another fake boyfriend down the line just to knock him from the top spot.

“Well, good thing we probably won’t need to keep this up for very long. I’ve already had people text me asking what’s going on between us,” you click your tongue. “No Jaehyun though.”

“Poor guy’s probably losing his mind thinking his fuck-up made you realize you had repressed feelings for me all along.”

“Oh, I had feelings for you?”

“Well, yeah,” he shrugs. “That’s how my story goes, anyways.”

When you make it outside, he wraps his arm around your shoulder, pulling you just a little bit closer. And now that you understand there’s no reasoning with him, you let him. It’s too early to argue, anyways, but you still roll your eyes where he can’t see. 

“God, you’re insufferable. Can’t even give me some dignity in our fake love story,” you sneer. 

“Okay, fine, I had feelings for you,” he relents, and for a second, it sounds like a fact, not a fabrication. “That sound better?”

You hum in approval, satisfied with the change. Whether he would actually follow through with it, you weren’t sure. 

“So, are you gonna stay cooped up in your dorm this weekend, or are you going out?” Chan wonders, seemingly forgetting why you didn’t want to go to another party in the first place. They were kind of ruined for you at the moment, especially when you never really enjoyed them to begin with. 

“I’m put off of parties for a while,” you wave your hands. “And I need to study, anyway.” 

He squeezes your shoulder, displeased with your answer. “C’mon, Y/N, don’t let him ruin your fun,” he urges.

It was too late for that, though; all “fun” had been sucked out the moment you caught your boyfriend sucking face, and you knew he would probably be there, too. Just because he was playing the regretful, devastated ex in your texts didn’t mean he was depriving himself of his favorite pastime. You wouldn’t even be surprised if one of his “please forgive me, I’m so sorry, I miss you so much” texts had come while he was balls-deep in another woman.

“I’ll have plenty of fun in the library, thank you,” you shoot back.

“Oh? In public? Wow, princess, I didn’t know you were into stuff like that,” he grins, and you shove his arm off of you, staring at him in disgust.

“Oh my god, you’re a fucking freak!”

“I’m the freak? You’re the one that’s going to – ”

“Chan. Stop talking.”

“Okay, okay,” he throws his hands up defensively. “But just so you know, I don’t judge, and if you want some company…”

Fuck this smug bastard, and more importantly, fuck the way he was starting to get into your head. 

The rest of the walk is relatively normal, at least in the sense there’s no more talk about public sex, and you reach your class promptly at 8:28. 

“Well, have a good day,” he says a little awkwardly. “Let me know when you’re planning on grabbing lunch?”

“Unlikely,” you scoff, leaving him open-mouthed as you head inside.

So how you end up with Mina, Jihyo, and Chan at your usual lunch spot, you’re not sure. 

“You guys missed it. Then she goes ‘fuck you, Jaehyun!’ and he looked terrified,” Chan laughs, and your friends join in, loving the cheater lashings. 

“He did not look terrified,” you correct. 

“She’s being modest. Even I felt a little intimidated,” he draws in a sharp breath, “but it was kinda hot, too.”

You’re not sure where that came from, and you kick his foot under the table where Mina and Jihyo can’t see. In return, he places his hand on your thigh, squeezing. 

“You guys sure you’re faking this?” Jihyo questions, her chin resting on her hand while her eyes flicker between the two of you. Like she would be able to figure you out if she just looked hard enough. Impossible, considering you couldn’t even figure out what was going on at this point. He was still annoying, painfully so, but he was also alluring, and the heat between your legs was starting to do most of the thinking.

“Yes,” you and Chan say simultaneously, almost rehearsed. 

“Right,” Mina nods, drawing out the word. “As long as you believe that.”

His hand moves now, rubbing along your thigh softly, and you have to grit your teeth to not snap at him. “I do believe it, because it’s true,” you say harshly (but not convincingly). “I’d rather drink a jean jacket through a fucking straw than actually date him.”

Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop his wandering hand; in fact, it only pushes him further, now sliding lower until his fingertips brush along the inside of your thigh. You shift awkwardly, keeping your eyes locked on your friends. You wouldn’t let him see that he was undoing you. 

“I’m not particularly fond of you either, but a jean jacket through a straw is insane,” he smirks, finding enjoyment in your fidgeting. 

“Then I guess it does a good job of conveying how much I can’t stand you.”

This time, you do snap your head towards him, eyes shooting daggers into him. They gave a silent warning, a threat he didn’t quite think you truly meant. After all, your body had a different message with the way your thighs clenched and shoulders stiffened. 

“So sweet, isn’t she?” Chan smiles sarcastically, drawing his hand back. And you’re grateful – at least, that’s what you tell yourself, ignoring the small voice that said you wanted more. He reads something on his phone before typing quickly and rising from his seat. 

“Anyway, thanks for the invite Y/N, but Minho’s locked himself out of the apartment, so I’ve gotta swing by before class,” he sighs dramatically.

“I absolutely didn’t invite you.”

“Sure you didn’t,” he winks, already gone before you can argue. 

Once he’s out of earshot, Jihyo groans, covering her face with her hands. “God, I think if I’m subjected to that level of sexual tension again, I’ll actually pass away,” she huffs, muffled. 

Bad time to take a sip of your drink. 

“Sexual tension?!” you repeat, nearly choking, completely stunned by her words. 

“We weren’t sure of it when you were with Jaehyun, but now it practically radiates through the air whenever you’re around each other. It’s suffocating,” Mina agrees, only adding to your embarrassment. Your face is heating up quickly, and it makes it hard to deny their accusations. 

“Can you just hate-fuck and get it over with? Maybe you’ll find out you actually do get along in some ways,” Jihyo adds, exasperated. 

You laugh dryly. “Oh my god, do you guys hear yourselves? I’m not having sex with Chan, that’s disgusting.”

“Well then can you two at least not make lunch feel like the build-up of a porno?”

Needless to say you would be informing him he could not join you and your friends for lunch anymore, lest you get lectured again on your “radiating” sexual tension. 

By the time Friday comes, things have quieted. Chan listens when you tell him Mina and Jihyo requested your lunches stay reserved for the three of you (it’s not quite true, but the best excuse you could come up with without mentioning that your friends think you two want to fuck each other). So, you don’t see him much, aside from the couple of times he shows up outside your classes.

His texts, however, are frequent. They’ve developed into something expected, a normal part of your days. You talk about mundane things like grades and annoying lab partners. You talk about personal things like favorite songs and future goals. Each conversation is still filled with sarcastic quips and quick insults, but they don’t hold the same edge they once did. It felt more like comfort – like if you kept up the hatred act, you could protect yourself from what it was becoming.

And at the same time, the texts from Jaehyun had resumed because, although he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he had heard that you and Chan were seen together. On multiple occasions. He had even shown up at your dorm finally (the week of freedom you’d had was far longer than you’d expected), and you had slammed the door in his face, telling him it wasn’t any of his business who you hung out with anymore. 

After that encounter, you were grateful for some peace – which was becoming rare in your life – throwing yourself nose-deep in your notebook. With your headphones on and such intense focus, you don’t notice anyone else’s presence.

Until someone makes their presence impossible to ignore. 

“Hey, princess,” Chan greets, a cup of coffee in hand. He slips into the seat in front of you, placing the cup down and sliding it over. You have to pull your headphones back to hear him, eyebrows knitted in confusion.

“What are you doing here?” you ask. 

He shrugs. “You said you were studying, I thought I would bring you some coffee to help your brain.”

He says it so calmly, and you have to fight against the way your heart swells at the simple act of service. Though really, it wasn’t so simple, because this was Chan showing up to the library unannounced on a Friday night, when he would usually be far away from anything academic. For you.

“Well, thanks, because I feel like my brain has basically disintegrated,” you complain, taking a sip. It was your favorite, too – he must’ve asked Mina or Jihyo for your order. “Did you skip out on the party?”

“Yeah, I wasn’t feeling it. Kinda just wanted to chill tonight. I thought a library date might be fun,” he muses.

You scoff, watching his lips curl into a satisfied smile. “Date?” 

Chan blinks at you like you’ve wounded him, although you know it’s all part of his (perfected) act to get into your head. 

“You wouldn’t call it that?” he says, disappointedly, leaning his head against the palm of his hand. 

“No, I’d call it me studying for hours and losing my mind and you showing up uninvited.”

He points behind him with his thumb, turning halfway in his seat, an empty threat. “So, should I leave then?” he challenges.

This is probably the part where you should say yes. You should demand it, actually. But he had brought you coffee, liquid gold for your overloaded brain, and the chances of him listening to your request were slim to none regardless. 

“It’s fine,” you concede, hoping it sounded indifferent. You even shift your focus back to your laptop to play up the act, writing down “notes” that don’t quite make sense. Chan accepts this, tapping his fingers on the table obnoxiously, purposely so. After a few minutes, he straightens in his chair, leaning forward against the table.

“I must say,” he whispers, “I’m a little disappointed to find you actually studying. You had my hopes up the other day.”

It takes you a moment to recall that conversation, and once you do, the realization spreads across your face in red hues. “There is something seriously wrong with you,” you frown.

And there may have been something seriously wrong with you for enjoying it.

“Maybe. But I think you like it. You were basically writhing when I touched you at lunch.”

Now you know you definitely should have told him to leave. He pokes his tongue in his cheek, in that way that could drive you crazy if you let it (which you weren’t). 

“No, I wasn’t,” you argue weakly.

He finds your denial cute, truly, since he remembers your body’s responsiveness so vividly. It was essentially engrained in his mind, spinning it in circles. He could elicit that reaction from just touching your clothed thigh, and it made him feel powerful. And curious.

“Oh, you weren’t?” he chuckles. “So if I come sit next to you now, that’d be fine? And if I touch you like that again, you wouldn’t start to melt under my fingers?”

“I did not melt under your fingers.”

“But you would have,” he says confidently. He drops his voice to a whisper again. “If your friends weren’t there, and I kept going, you would have.”

You’re staring at each other now, wondering who will break first, though his eyes shine with excitement and yours narrow with annoyance. Or rather, desire that you try to disguise as annoyance. 

“You think too highly of yourself,” you snort, scribbling gibberish into the margin of your notebook. 

He releases a small, humorless laugh. “I don’t need to think it,” he corrects. “You’ve shown me.”

You snap now, slamming your laptop shut a little too aggressively. Because you refused to allow him to continue talking with so much confidence, like he knew what you were thinking better than you did.

“I’m sorry, did you forget the part where none of this is real? All of your little touches and stupid remarks have nothing to do with what we agreed on.”

But your boldness only encourages him, biting his lip subconsciously. “No, they don’t. That’s just for my enjoyment. Like I said, you’re easy to fuck with.”

“That's why you decided to come see me in the library on a Friday night instead of going out? To ‘fuck with me?’” you say pointedly, to emphasize how unreasonable it sounded. 

“Well, you didn’t tell me to leave.”

“I asked a question.”

Chan drags his hand along his face, suddenly far less arrogant. For once, he looked like he was struggling to conjure up a smart response. And he was. But you were refusing to back down, finally having a sense of control. 

“I don’t know,” he finally says, and you glare at him. “Really, I don’t. I just wanted to see you.”

You scoff, shaking your head in disbelief. “Don’t be dumb.”

Because there was no way he meant it. Or maybe you had misheard him entirely. But his whole demeanor had changed, and you no longer recognized the Chan that sat before you without his smugness.

“Right. If I tease you, I’m ‘insufferable,’” he recites, “if I’m honest with you, I’m dumb. Tell me, princess, what can I do then?”

You swallow harshly, trying to ignore what his words entailed. Honest. He said that he wanted to see you and he meant it. The air around you had shifted now, thicker, heavier, falling on your chest in a way that almost made your voice get caught in your throat.

“Are you fucking with me again?” you grimace, waiting for him to laugh in your face. To snap back into the version of him you’re familiar with.

But he doesn’t laugh. “You tell me. Am I?”

“You can’t do that!” you groan, exasperated. “You can’t say these things and then act all cryptic after.”

You cross your arms across your chest, and he relents. “Okay. Yes, I wanted to see you. Is that bad?”

“Yes.”

Yes, it was bad. Very bad, actually. Because you were supposed to hate him, and you thought he hated you. Because none of this was supposed to be real, and once you’d gotten vengeance against your shitty ex boyfriend (however dramatic it may be), things would go on like nothing had ever happened.

But is that what you wanted? It should be. It had to be. 

“Huh. I guess I don’t care,” he breathes. “Do you?”

He awaits your answer, though he already knows what it will be. You had become easy for him to read now; he had studied you like you were his favorite subject. The unsolved puzzle he had finally pieced together. 

And though you try to force yourself to lie and say yes, you simply cannot. All your resolve has vanished since he made such an unexpected confession, leaving you dazed.

“No,” you mumble, and your breath hitches. 

His smirk returns, though it’s different now. Less of an attempt to get under your skin, more of an acknowledgement that one day he’ll get to touch every inch of it. 

“Didn’t think so,” he reaches across the table, trailing his fingers along your hand. You snatch it back, ignoring his snickers. 

He would be the death of you, you were certain. And for some reason, you find yourself thinking that it may not be such a terrible way to go out.

Neither of you are sure how to proceed after that night in the library, an obvious tension lingering between the two of you. You knew you weren’t going to be the one to address it, but you were growing exhausted with pretending that it had never happened. 

It seemed like Chan was perfectly content with that, however. He hadn’t even mentioned it once, continuing to text you and show up outside your dorm and classes like it was all still part of a plan. And maybe it was. Maybe he was a great liar, but that didn’t explain the rift that had settled between you two. If he had lied that night, why could he hardly meet your eyes now?

You didn’t ask, because you feared the answer – both possibilities. Though when you turned to Mina and Jihyo for advice, they were adamant. They were convinced they were right all along, that there was a budding romance beneath the hatred. So, it was quite hard to get any sort of unbiased guidance from them. This was something you’d have to navigate on your own.

And by navigate, you meant continuing to avoid it. Hopefully Chan would crack before you did.

After almost two weeks of letting the unspoken words nearly suffocate you, you had begun to believe you really would have to forget it had ever happened. If he wanted to speak on it, he would. Nevermind that he could say the same thing about you; it was him that had started it, so he had to be the one to acknowledge it. It was only fair.

Your phone rings in the middle of the afternoon, during your thirty minute interval between classes. It’s Chan, which isn’t the surprising part (he had learned your entire schedule by now). 

“Let me take you to dinner tonight,” he says only a few seconds after you pick up. 

You roll your eyes, hardly registering his proposal. “A ‘hello’ might be nice.”

“Hi,” he utters. “Let me take you to dinner.”

If you agree too easily, he’ll know you had been waiting for him to say something like this. And with how straightforwardly he had asked (or stated, rather), he clearly expected your agreement. You could make him grovel just a little bit. 

“You wanna see me again?” you quip, the most you’d allude to the library incident. 

But Chan could match your attitude ten times over, so he has a quick retort. “I just figured if we go to dinner you could post a picture on your story, really commit to the bit,” he explains flatly, and then laughs when you’re silent. “What? You wanted me to say I want to see you?”

“Fuck you.”

“You said you wouldn’t,” he reminds. “Remember?”

If he could see you, he would undoubtedly point out how flustered you were, then follow it up with a dumb joke about how the offer was always open. And you would have to hold back from taking him up on it. 

“Really doing a good job of making me want to say yes,” you chide.

“Please let me take you to dinner. I’ve been thinking about our library date, and I wanna take you on a real one.”

You huff loud enough for him to hear over the phone. “That wasn’t a date,” you correct. “And I’m busy tonight.”

A lie, but he didn’t need to know that yet. There’s shuffling on his end, and then his voice comes out sharply. 

“Busy with what?”

“That’s really none of your concern,” you can’t help but grin at your own mischief. “But if you must know, I’m seeing someone tonight.”

“Y/N,” he growls, and it’s hot. You try to imagine the look on his face (why couldn’t he have FaceTimed you?), and it makes you weak. 

“So, what time are you picking me up?” you ask, voice syrupy sweet despite your antics. Like honey masking poison. 

He exhales loudly, and you can hear all the unease release from his body. If he was going to be so wound up about you even potentially seeing someone else, why had he taken so long to address your ever-present tension?

Maybe he was just as confused as you. 

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he groans. “I’ll be there at seven.”

He hangs up before you can hound him about the first half, not even sparing a second to confirm the time. No, you don’t know what you do to him, but it was inevitable that you would find out. And he would make sure that you understood to the fullest extent. 

It’s difficult for you to decide on an outfit for dinner with Chan, one, because you’re still tossing with the idea internally and two, because you aren’t sure what’s an “appropriate” amount of dressed-up. If you look too good, he’ll think you’re trying too hard to impress him, and you’ll never hear the end of that.

Though, you had already agreed to going to dinner with him, so you probably wouldn’t hear the end of that, either.

Mina and Jihyo choose an outfit over FaceTime (and so kindly remind you to “at least make him wear a condom”), one that teeters right in the middle of simple and dressy, and you’ve fixed your hair at least a dozen times by the time he’s knocking on your door.

When you open it, he stares at you, and then tears his eyes away to roam all over your body. He draws in a sharp breath, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“Wow,” he rasps. “You’re beautiful.”

The compliment comes with no snarky follow-up, and he doesn’t even tease you when you feel your face heating up. He takes your hand and holds it the whole way to his car, only letting go to open the door for you; you would have never taken him for such a gentleman.

He doesn’t tell you which restaurant he’s picked, but the drive isn’t long before you arrive and are seated, his hand finding its way back to yours while you walk through the aisles.

As you sit there scanning the menu, you can’t help but realize you’re at fucking dinner with Bang Christopher Chan. And he’s staring at you like you wouldn’t notice.

“What?” you question, and he drops his head, chuckling.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just can’t believe how much things have changed.”

“You’re still annoying, don’t get it twisted.”

“Yeah, well, you still agreed to get dinner with me,” he shrugs.

He thinks he’s won with that, turning his attention to the menu. But even if he’s right, you aren’t letting him shame you so easily. “You would’ve begged me if I didn’t,” you smirk.

His eyes snap back to yours, the mischievous glint forcing him to fight back the more impure thoughts. “You know, that mouth is going to get you in trouble one day.”

“Yeah? By who?”

“Careful, Y/N,” he warns, words coming out through clenched teeth. 

You flash him an exaggerated smile, thanking the waitress when she returns with your drinks, and Chan curses himself for being turned on by how quickly you switch from a temptress to the sweetest angel. He stumbles over his words while giving his order, and you giggle softly without even knowing you’re the cause of it. 

Considering Chan had brought you to dinner, you felt confident enough to bring up the subject of what the hell was going on between you two. Specifically the Friday night you’d left unaddressed. “So, is it finally time we talk about it?”

“Talk about what?”

“This,” you motion between the two of you.

He doesn’t even pause to think about it. “We’re having dinner,” he replies coyly.

You figure admonishing him for his feigned ignorance won’t bring you closer to an answer, so instead you push further. 

“But why?”

“I told you, you can post it on your story or whatever. I’m sure Jaehyun still stalks your socials.”

You’d seen quite a few random spam names in your story viewers, so you knew it to be true, but you also knew that couldn’t be his reasoning. 

“You also told me you wanted to take me on a ‘real date,’” you mention, and he throws his head back against the booth.

“Jesus, Y/N,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can we just have a nice dinner and worry about the semantics later?”

Obviously, the answer was a resounding no, which he should have expected since he understood your stubbornness better than anyone. “Oh, for you to pretend it never happened and leave me wondering for weeks? Sure thing, Chan,” you sneer.

You probably should have excluded the part where you admitted you’d still been thinking about that night, because he latches onto it and uses it to evade answering any more questions.

“I really get in that pretty little head of yours, huh?” he grins.

“Or maybe I get in yours,” you shoot back. “What did you say? Something about ‘I don’t know what I do to you’?”

He rubs his jaw, exhaling through his nose loudly. Because you really didn’t know what you do to him.

“Princess, you don’t get into my head. You’ve never fucking left it.”

Your food is brought over moments later, right on cue, leaving you sitting idly, stunned. Chan pretends not to notice, already moving past his previous admission. 

“God, I am starving,” he groans. He takes a bite of his meal, and then blinks at you when you haven’t even slightly shifted. “What’s wrong? You wanna take that picture for your story now?” 

If you heard the word “story” one more time, you were convinced you’d actually implode. And you’d take him with you, just to annoy him in the afterlife. 

“Don’t do that,” you hiss. “Don’t act clueless.”

“Well sorry for trying to be a believable fake boyfriend.”

Nothing about this felt fake anymore, and when he says it, it feels like a harsh reminder. That vicious awakening from the middle of a good dream, pulled to the surface of reality when you’re in such a deep slumber. 

“That’s all you are, right? My fake boyfriend? So why do you say and do all these things that make it feel so real?” you demand. 

Your meals are all but forgotten now, and the booths around you are probably getting more of your argument than any of you would like. You swear you can see the lady in the booth to your right staring at you and then leaning over to whisper in her daughter’s ear. Hopefully she’d give her some advice to never get involved with idiotic men like Chan. 

He rubs his temples, growing more exhausted by the minute. “I’m trying to figure that out. I came up with a stupid plan, and somewhere along the way the lines got blurred.”

“You blurred them!” you whisper-shout, eyes widening in disbelief.

“You let me,” he says simply, and you can’t deny it. Though he’s still far more culpable for your current situation. “Listen, we can talk about it more on the way home, yeah?”

It’s his cop-out, and you should know this, yet you relent anyway. You aren’t surprised when he refuses to discuss it further in the car, either, and when he tries to put his hand on your thigh, you push it away. 

He deserves that, but it still makes him sulk internally. If he couldn’t offer you answers, you wouldn’t offer him any more of yourself. At least, you’d try your best not to (easy to say, harder to do). 

When he drops you off, you hardly give him a goodbye, so he knows he’s fucked up. His chest tightens at the thought of not being able to make it right. Of letting you go without telling you everything he’s been thinking for the last month. 

He isn’t even sure you’ll give him another chance, but he figures he needs to sort his mind out before he faces you again, for both of your sakes. 

The texts slow and then stop altogether, and you don’t see him at all for another week. Maybe you had pushed him enough that he had been scared off (still, he could at least fake break up with you). Though you had never taken Chan for someone who could be scared of anything, especially with his constant arrogance. 

“That’s just how men are. They run when shit gets too real,” Jihyo says, fixing her top. 

The three of you were currently getting ready in your dorm, because the minute you had texted the groupchat stating that you were desperate for a night out, they were basically busting your door down. And you couldn’t blame them, because you were never the one to initiate, but right now, it seems like the only distraction you have left. 

“I think he’s just a little confused,” Mina adds with more eloquence. “I mean, do you even know what you want?”

“Yes,” you grin. “I want to go out, have a good time, and forget about all of this.”

Mina rolls her eyes at your avoidance, and Jihyo clutches her heart dramatically. “My Y/N is so back, I could cry right now.”

You know very well that a party is not the magical cure for all your problems – in fact, it’s the indirect cause of nearly all of them – but your other option was to spend another weekend in your dorm preparing an internal monologue about Chan’s cowardice. So, yes, you were going to a party. 

“You know they’re both probably going to be there, right?” Mina advises. Both of the banes of your existence, though for drastically different reasons. 

“It’s fine,” you wave her off. “I won’t even notice that they’re there”

Between the three of you, there’s not a soul that believes your lie, but nobody questions it. 

Though perhaps they should have, because maybe it would have made you reconsider before you ended up in your current situation. Which was searching through a sea of bodies for one particular person, even if you weren’t sure what you would do if you found him. 

Mina notices, too, watching as your eyes sweep all along the room while nodding every once in a while, pretending to be engaged in the conversation. You really hadn’t caught a single word she’d said for the past three minutes. 

And although there were plenty of people there, you were confident you’d be able to spot Chan out of a crowd. But so far, there was no sign of him, and you couldn’t decide if you were relieved or disappointed. 

Unfortunately, however, you had spotted Jaehyun. In the back of the room, looking completely untouched, sipping on a drink with his friends on one side and a girl on the other. But he looked disinterested, not paying her any mind, nodding along indifferently. He looked like you, searching for someone amidst the chaos.

“Y/N!” Mina barks, and you turn to her immediately. “Are you even listening at all?”

“Uh, yeah,” you lie. 

She throws her hands on her hips, eyebrows raised. “Really? So what do you think, should I go over there and talk to him?”

She points to the left of you, but there’s at least five guys in the general vicinity she could be referring to. Of course, you’d know who she meant if you hadn’t been so checked out while looking for Chan.

“Um, who?” you ask carefully, and she groans, frustrated. “I’m sorry! I think I need another drink. To clear my head.”

You take off for the kitchen before she can argue, the counters covered in discarded solo cups and half-empty bottles of alcohol. Tempting. Instead, you open the fridge, pulling out one of the remaining unopened cans. 

When you turn around, you’re stuck in place, a firm chest blocking you from walking away. You’re about to complain, to remind whoever it is that there’s a thing called personal space, but one look up has the words refusing to come out. It’s Jaehyun, of course. 

“Y/N,” he falters, studying your face as if he’d forgotten your features. 

Your heart races, not from anything other than the discomfort of confronting someone who you once thought the world of.

“Leave me alone, Jaehyun,” you spit, and he steps back, granting you some space and the freedom to walk away if you so choose. But you don’t, not yet. 

He takes note of your stillness, encouraging him to speak again. “I will,” he nods. “But you haven’t given me a chance to explain, and I need you to know how much I regret what I did.”

“Yeah, well, good for you.”

He sighs, and a quiet moment passes between you, one that makes you picture him kissing that girl all over again. 

“Are you with him?” he asks, under his breath. You stare at him with feigned confusion, lips pressed in a taut line. This time, he speaks louder, intentionally. “Don’t play dumb, Y/N, please. Are you with Chan?”

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“You don’t. But I owe you an explanation, and if you’re with Chan…” he trails, and it sends you over the edge. You tell yourself your anger rises up solely because of Jaehyun, but it’s undeniable that half of it comes from all you’d bottled up during the days without Chan around.

“Then what? Then it doesn’t matter? You cheating on me just gets justified because I’m with Chan?” you snap, voice increasing in volume with each word. “Guess what, Jaehyun, your fuck-up is to blame for all of it.”

Even with the thumping music, your voice carries throughout the room, and a few people glance over, intrigued. Someone pushes through the crowd, entering the kitchen right as Jaehyun opens his mouth to argue back.

“Is everything okay over here?”

Both of you look over, though you don’t need to to recognize the voice. It had become your favorite, even when it was teasing you or whispering innuendos just to unnerve you. 

“Chan,” you whisper, and he heads straight for you, ignoring Jaehyun’s unwavering glare. 

In a few quick steps, he’s beside you, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and pulling you into him like he hadn’t ignored you for a week. “Hey, baby. Are you alright?” he asks, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. 

Baby. That was a new one. He had called you princess more times than you could count, but it had started as a taunt and never really felt like anything more than that. Baby, however, had your heart pounding and mind racing. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you swallow, finding more interest in the ground now. For a second, you forget all about Jaehyun in front of you, and it reminds you that Chan’s actions are probably directly correlated. After all, the original plan was to get back at Jaehyun, and what better moment than right now? The final act to your months-long play.

“So you two are together,” Jaehyun concludes, frowning.

“Don’t look so upset,” Chan grins wickedly. “I’ll treat her better than you ever could.”

Try not to take his words seriously, you remind yourself. He doesn’t mean it. This is all for show. But as always, he makes them sound real, adding a layer of intensity you can’t ignore. 

“You’re not good enough for her.”

You’re about to chime in, to remind him he has no say in what or who is good enough for you, and that it was rich hearing that from him of all people.  

“And you were?” Chan laughs humorlessly. “C’mon, baby, let’s get out of here, yeah?”

He squeezes your shoulder, looking down at you, waiting for your agreement. And as you glance between him and Jaehyun, something takes over you entirely. You pull his face towards yours, hesitating briefly to gauge his reaction. When he closes the final inches, your eyes flutter closed, his lips crashing onto yours.

It’s quick, soft, restrained, and not at all like what you expected (or wanted) kissing Chan to be, but it serves its purpose. 

Jaehyun stands there, wordlessly, the most satisfying look of outrage plastered on his face. Chan sees it, too, a small chuckle leaving his parted lips. He’ll probably burn the image in his mind to remember it whenever he needs a pick-me-up. 

And while you’re a blend of emotions between the kiss, facing Jaehyun, and Chan’s declaration, you keep yourself together for now, yanking Chan’s hand to lead him away. “Yeah, let’s go.”

You maneuver through bodies, making it to a noticeably more empty section of the house before you finally release his hand. If you’re lucky, he’ll go back to ignoring you, and you won’t have to discuss whatever just unfolded.

Unfortunately, you haven’t had much luck recently.

“Bold move there, baby,” he quips.

There it was again. Only this time, Jaehyun’s not around, so there’s no explaining away the pet name. Does that make it better or worse? You aren’t sure.

“Shut up,” you mumble, “I really don’t want to be here anymore.”

Your night out had been ruined, and you swore you’d be done with parties for good. At least in your dorm you could save yourself from running face to face with anyone who either cheated on you or refused to share their feelings. 

“I’ll take you home,” Chan states, not offers. 

“I’m not getting in a car with you. You’ve been drinking.” 

It was an assumption, but a reasonable one. Though clearly incorrect, because he quirks an eyebrow and shakes his head immediately. “I haven’t had a drop of alcohol, actually,” he refutes, now pulling his keys out of his pocket and swinging them around his finger. 

So much for that excuse. 

“Whatever.”

He takes this as your reluctant surrender, now grabbing your hand and leading you to his car which was only a little ways down the street. And despite the kiss, you still had nothing to say to him –  or rather, way too much to say to him, and no desire to say it if he wouldn’t talk first. So a thick silence falls between you, leaving you with just the lingering feeling of his lips on yours.

“Quiet today,” he comments, stealing a glance you don’t return. You keep your head pressed against the window, a dull headache already forming from the night’s events and the alcohol. 

“I’m still mad at you,” you grumble. 

His hands grip the steering wheel a little tighter, tongue swiping across his teeth. “I know,” he mutters. 

“And I think I hate you again.”

“Well, the ‘again’ gives me some hope,” the corners of his lips tug upwards. “Means I had you on my side for a little, at least.”

“You did. Until you wouldn’t talk to me and ran like a coward,” you insult, watching his shoulders drop and smile fade as fast as it had come. You almost regret saying it. Because all your insults before had been quick, meaningless jabs that he could brush off. This one came with intent, a bitterness that wouldn’t be forgotten seconds later. 

“Yeah, I deserve that,” he sighs. “We’ll talk soon, okay? When you’re not tipsy and overwhelmed.”

“I don’t believe you,” you say flatly, still not lifting your head from the glass. 

He reaches across the console for your hand, rubbing his thumb against your skin. “I mean it this time. Because I’ve been going crazy without you. And that kiss just sealed the deal.”

“Please,” you scoff, forced. “It was hardly a kiss.” Hardly. Your minimization of it wasn’t wrong in a literal sense; it was short-lived, lacking the passion you knew you both had within. But regardless, it had completely hijacked your brain, so clearly it wasn’t hardly anything. 

“I know. That’s the problem. I need more.”

Now, you turn towards him, trying to decipher his expression. It’s unreadable for once, devoid of that familiar smirk. You want to tell him if he needs more to take it, that he can have everything he wants if he just says the words. But those words don’t come, not tonight, and you close your eyes against the window once more.

Before you leave for your dorm, he reaches for your hand again, pulling it to his lips. 

“Soon, I promise.”

You nod, trying to believe him, though you wonder if it would hurt less if you don’t. 

You didn’t particularly like loose ends.

That’s why after weeks of dangling a fake relationship in Jaehyun’s face and the culmination of it all at the party the night prior, you decided to confront him fully and at least hear what he had to say before you closed the chapter for good. You didn’t owe that to him, certainly not, but you felt like you owed it to yourself. An explanation for why he did it to quell the thoughts that had never completely gone away. Which he also said he owed you, anyways. 

And perhaps this was all amplified by the fact that most of the day had passed and there was no text, no call, no anything from Chan. He had only said “soon,” not “tomorrow,” but still. Some form of acknowledgement would be enough to placate you, but he hadn’t even spared you that.

So, with a final layer of lipgloss, you considered your makeup complete and mentally prepared yourself for the impending doom. You looked irresistible at least, everything Jaehyun could never have again. 

But nothing could ever go to plan (once again, luck hadn’t exactly been on your side), so you aren’t shocked when a knock on your door disrupts your evening. 

“Hi, princess,” Chan grins when you swing it open. Then, his eyes trail down your body, tugging his lip between his teeth subconsciously. “You look good.”

Well fuck. Why did he have to show up now? A text in advance might have saved you from unintentionally double-booking yourself, or maybe you’re at fault for assuming Chan was ghosting you again today.

“Thanks,” you smile half-heartedly, heading back to your mirror to look yourself over once more. It’s far too awkward to face Chan knowing you’re about to go see your ex, especially when you and Chan had almost established…something. Something real, beyond the pseudo-relationship. 

He senses that you’re withholding something, watching you suspiciously. “Going out?” he questions, and you curse under your breath. Bracing for the storm.

“Something like that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

His tone is already accusatory and you hadn’t even dropped the bomb yet, so you really had to prepare yourself for his reaction. At best, he would storm out and you could deal with it later, after you had dealt with Jaehyun. At worst, you’d have a full-blown argument in your dorm right before the other inevitable argument you’d have with Jaehyun. 

“I’m going over to Jaehyun’s,” you say softly, guilt washing over you when his face drops instantly. But you didn’t need to feel guilty – you were allowed to seek closure, especially when Chan hadn’t yet granted you transparency. Still, you can’t help but wonder if you were making the right choice.

Chan’s blood runs cold, and he waits for you to laugh in his face, to tell him how dumb he looks when he’s angry. Something snarky, something annoying. Something. Anything. He doesn’t care, as long as it means you aren’t currently getting dolled up to go see your cheating fuck of an ex boyfriend.

Instead, you say nothing, shifting on your feet uncomfortably.

“Y/N, you can’t be serious.”

“I’m just hearing him out,” you say flatly. “I don’t think that’s a crime.”

“No, it’s not a crime, but Jesus fucking Christ, you’re looking like that to go ‘hear him out?’”

You look down at yourself, a lacy bodysuit and skirt adorning your body – not to appeal to him, not at all, but to remind him what he had lost. Was it a little melodramatic? Maybe. Were you allowed to be melodramatic when confronting someone who had made you question if you weren’t enough? Definitely.

“Yes! What’s wrong with that?!” 

“Everything is wrong with that!”

“Oh my god, Chan, you got what you wanted,” you throw your hands up in frustration, “I’m sure you’ll never forget the look on his face when he saw us kiss last night.”

“You think his face is what I was thinking about after we kissed, Y/N?” he asks incredulously. “I was thinking about you, only you, and how right it felt.”

Was this his confession? It was beginning to feel like it. If only it hadn’t come at such a horrible time and in such a horrible way, maybe you would be happier. Now, the words sucked the air out of your lungs, leaving you speechless and uncertain. 

“So fuck what I wanted back then. What I want right now is for you to realize you deserve better than someone who broke your heart and your trust in the worst way possible,” he finishes, holding himself back from pulling you into his arms and screaming that it’s him. He’s the one who will give you everything you deserve; he’ll make it his life’s purpose to do so.

“I’m just hearing him out,” you repeat again, emphatically, though no matter how true it was or how believable you made it sound, Chan refuses to accept it. 

“Right,” he scoffs, running his hand through his hair. “Can’t wait to see you two all over each other in the corner of every party again.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he’s already heading for the door, unable to take another second of seeing your face and knowing you won’t be his. 

“Hope it works out, Y/N.”

The door rattles as he slams it shut, and the room feels colder, emptier. And not just because of Chan’s physical absence, but because of what it entails. The same man who you hated - and who you swore hated you - had made you feel more seen and valued in not even two months than Jaehyun had in nine. He had put more effort into a fake relationship than Jaehyun had put in a real one. You were letting that go for some semblance of closure from someone who broke you.

Previously, you had tried to convince yourself your feelings had never become real. That of course your heart would beat a little faster when Chan would remember things about you, that of course you would like the way pet names fell from his lips, that of course you couldn’t stop thinking about him in every single way possible, from pure to downright filthy. This all made sense, of course, because he was the hot guy you were faking a relationship with. It had nothing to do with Chan, and everything to do with your body and mind being too receptive of what you’d been deprived of before.

But you simply couldn’t lie to yourself any longer. And that’s why, for once, you knew what you needed to do. You type out another message to Jaehyun, deliberating each word carefully. It would be the last you’d ever give him, at least in this capacity, where he still felt like he had a small chance at getting you back.

actually, i’m not coming over. i thought about it, and nothing you say can make me forget what you did…i didn’t deserve that, jaehyun.

i know what i deserve now.

i hope you learn from this and treat the next girl better. 

His texts come in quick succession, frantic pleas and apologies and then the angry ones regarding Chan. You don’t answer him or even give him the solace of knowing you’d read them. Instead, you turn your phone on DND and throw it behind you, hoping it’ll get lost in your bed sheets. 

And though you’ve done the right thing, there’s still the unavoidable grief over something that once was. The only person you want comfort from right now is Chan, but you know you should give yourself the space to reflect and process properly. He probably wants some time away from you, anyways. 

So you don’t call or text him. You avoid all the spots you know he frequents. You make yourself as nonexistent to him as possible. And worst of all, he doesn’t even come searching. 

There’s no way for you to know how badly he wants to see your name pop up at the top of his screen, or how he waits for you outside the library on days he knows you usually study. You don’t know that he stayed up late that first night, hoping you’d call him. Each notification made his heart jump, and after the eighth one that wasn’t from you, he finally turned his phone off completely. 

He didn’t want space, nor time. He wanted you. And beyond that, he wanted you to know you deserved more - that he would give you more. But he can’t fault you for any of this; he can only blame himself for not telling you sooner. 

When a week goes by and it’s still silence on your end, he figures you’d forgiven Jaehyun and taken him back. And that’s just something he’d have to live with. 

The days pass by slowly, monotonously, and though you argue with Mina and Jihyo that it’s healing, they complain that you’re just wallowing in needless despair (“Girl, get your man,” had been the phrase of the week). 

And you wanted to, but you weren’t sure how to face him after the way you’d left things. There was a gnawing worry that he wouldn’t answer your calls or texts, so you don’t even try. No, you decide you’ll just have to show up at his apartment, and yes at nine o’clock at night, because you couldn’t put it off any longer. The yearning was almost consuming you. 

Though Chan had been to your dorm multiple times, you had never been to his apartment; it was way less convenient to go off-campus where he lived. You had to get Chan’s address from his roommate, Minho, who you had already known from a shared class last semester. And he had also texted you a few times begging you to do something about Chan’s moping, because it was “making his life miserable.” 

While it was off-campus, it wasn’t far, and your determination was enough to ward off the apprehension of walking alone at night (though Chan would definitely not be pleased). Still, you kept Jihyo on the phone for the whole fifteen minutes, slight reassurance for both of you. 

You can barely bring yourself to knock when you arrive, feeling much less composed now that you were actually there, separated from Chan by only a door and thin walls. Your fist meets the wood without you fully realizing it, and it swings open with ferocity moments later. 

“Hi,” you choke out, all of your composure gone when he’s standing before you.

“Y/N?” he asks, blinking in awe to confirm that you’re real. He’d started to accept that your presence in his life was a thing of the past, a treasured memory he’d hold onto. “What are you – Jesus, it’s so dark out. Come on, get inside.”

He reaches for your arm and drags you inside, leading you all the way to his room; Minho’s home, and Chan doesn’t quite want him to hear the moment the girl he’s been losing his mind over ends things for good. Is “end things” even the right term, since there had never been a defined “thing” in the first place? 

His room is not much different from any other college student’s room, with books and papers sprawled on the desk and empty energy drink cans filling the trashcan. But it’s his, and that makes your heart swell a little. 

“I can’t believe you walked all the way here this late,” he scolds. He gestures for you to take a seat on his bed, and when he sits in his chair across from you, you deflate a little at the distance.

“I had to see you,” you whisper.

He clicks his tongue, trying not to melt at your words. Because to him, you’re with Jaehyun, and there’s probably some other rational explanation for why you’d shown up at his apartment at nine o’clock. He doesn’t know what it could be, but it exists, surely. “You know if you had texted me I would’ve been there in minutes,” he asserts.

“Actually, I didn’t know that,” you correct, folding your arms over your chest, “considering the way you stormed out last time we saw each other.” Which may have been justified, but still. 

“Can you blame me? You told me you were going to see your ex boyfriend who cheated on you, by the way. And then you didn’t even bother to call or text, so what was I supposed to think?”

“You could’ve called or texted me!” 

“I thought you went back to him!” 

He stands, chest rising and falling heavily, and he looks so distraught your anger fades. “I didn’t,” you say, softer now. “I didn’t even see him that night. We haven’t even spoken since. Or I guess that’s not totally true, he’s spammed me and I’ve ignored him.”

His eyes soften, and he crosses those few feet to sit beside you, mattress dipping under the added weight. “Why?”

There’s a million ways to answer that question, and you aren’t sure which is the right one. So you go with what flows naturally, not giving it a second thought.

“Because I realized I need more too,” you confess. “No more pretending, no more lies.”

Though your chest feels lighter with the confession, the room feels smaller and your throat tighter because Chan doesn’t speak, or move, you don’t even think he blinks. He doesn’t mean to stare at you like this, but you’ve left him stunned with words he’d only ever heard in his dreams, and he worries if he speaks he’ll wake up and you’ll be gone again. 

You start to rise from the bed, fighting back tears of rejection and humiliation. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come  – ” 

His hand latches around your wrist, gently yet firmly, and you fall back to the bed with a quiet gasp.

“I haven’t been pretending. Not for a while now,” he breathes, and now you’re the silent one. “You’re right, I was a coward. I’ve wanted you so badly and I didn’t know how to say it.” He cups your cheek, thumb brushing along the skin faintly, confirmation that you and this moment are very real. “I should’ve told you everything. How much I think about you, how much I hate it when you’re not here.”

There’s hardly any space between you now, foreheads nearly touching, breaths intertwining. 

“How I can’t get that kiss out of my head,” he exhales. “How selfish I feel for wanting more.” 

You shake your head. “You’re not selfish,” you whisper, and the corners of his lips twitch into a smile. 

“I am, because I want you all to myself.”

“Then you have me,” you say simply, as though such a claim wouldn’t change everything. You’ve had me without even knowing. 

He can’t hold back anymore – he’s done enough of that over the past month – because those words are his absolute undoing. 

“Can I kiss you right this time?” His eyes drop to your lips, awaiting, begging for your permission. 

You nod eagerly, and that’s all it takes for him to place his hand along your jaw and draw your face towards his. His lips melt into your own, this time with all the passion you’d both held back before. 

And while the kiss starts soft, tender, moving against each other with the carefulness of a blooming love, it quickly plunges into desperate desire. Your fingers thread through his hair, delicately at first, until you tug at the roots and he groans into your mouth.

That sound. That devilish, sinful sound. It causes the heat within your core to grow tenfold, and you kiss him more fervently now, tongues swirling together. He sucks your bottom lip between his teeth, tugging gently, then drops his head to your neck.

And when your head tilts instinctively, offering him more skin to mark as his, he can’t help but smirk because he loves having this effect on you. He’d realized it that day at lunch, when he couldn’t do anything but skim your thigh under the table. But you were offering, so who was he not to take? He nips at the skin and runs his tongue along each spot afterwards, soothing, claiming. 

“Mine,” he mumbles against your neck, and then he kisses his way back up to your lips, mouth hovering over your own.

“Chan,” you rasp, “I want you.”

His lips crash against yours once more, because he can’t help himself when you’ve just said you want him so desperately. “Yeah? You want me, baby?” he asks, breathless.

You shiver when his fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, tracing circles along your waist. “Yes,” you sigh, and then louder, “yes, God, I want you.”

He grips your waist, only sheer will keeping him from ripping off your clothes and fucking you right then and there. Because he wants to savor every last moment of this, but some small part of him is going feral – not a devil on his shoulder, but his throbbing cock trying to push through the seams of his boxers. So actually not a small part, because he’s big, you can see the imprint in his sweatpants.

 “Are you sure?” he questions. “Because if you want me, that’s it. There’s no more Jaehyun, no more anyone else.” 

Was he genuinely asking, or just trying to make you fall apart? You can’t tell, but you’re so needy, you answer regardless. 

“I don’t want anyone else.”

His hands hook under your shirt while he guides you onto his lap, and you raise your arms for him to pull it off while you settle against him. He pauses, drinking in the sight – you haven’t even taken your bra off yet – and then his palms find your breasts, massaging through the fabric.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, thumbs flicking over your covered nipples. The moan it elicits is so delicious that he does it again, and then again, cock twitching in his sweatpants.

“You only think that ‘cause I’m shirtless,” you quip, toying with the hem of his like you needed to make things even.

“No,” he says firmly. “Always thought you were the prettiest fucking girl ever.” He reaches behind his neck, yanking his tank top up and over his head, and you swear your breathing stops momentarily. This is what he’d hidden behind t-shirts and hoodies (and that jacket you still hadn’t given back to him), and honestly, how dare he?

But you can’t focus on that a moment longer, because he dips his head down to press his lips against the tops of your breasts hungrily, dragging wet kisses all the way to your sternum. “So fucking pretty,” he repeats, fingers unclasping your bra and tugging the straps down. 

His mouth is on you again before it even hits the ground, like he’ll keel over and die if he isn’t tasting you, and right now, he really thinks he might. So, for survival, he wraps his lips around your perked nipple, tongue swirling around it, then flicking. 

Each careful movement of his tongue causes your breath to hitch, hips rutting against him for any sort of friction, and he moans against you. His hands grip your waist, stilling your movements, and as a punishment – if you could call it that – he bites gently and tugs the sensitive bud between his teeth.

“Chan,” you moan, and when you feel the curl of that signature smirk, you become emboldened. “Who knew your mouth could actually be useful?”

Because although you definitely didn’t hate him now, you could at least reflect on that history, if not just to drive him a little wild. And hopefully he’d fuck you just a little bit harder. 

He growls then, his hand sweeping along your side to squeeze your other breast, kneading the soft skin in his palm. And when you least expect it, his hand comes down, slapping your breast with enough force to make you gasp.

“Fuck, I’m gonna miss that smart mouth of yours. Always thought it was so hot the way you’d act like you actually hated me,” he chuckles, now massaging the skin.

“I did hate you,” you rasp. You aren’t even sure if that’s true anymore, because you can’t think. His cock pressing into you has your mind in a frenzy. One where your only thoughts are of having him inside you, stretching you open, filling you up. 

When he lifts his head from your breasts, his eyes are dark, lidded, and boring right through you. Daring you to say it again. To lie and see where it gets you.

“You sure?” he whispers, tauntingly. “Because I always saw that look in your eyes.” His fingers dip lower, slipping into your panties, and he laughs when you shudder. “Deep down, you wanted to know all the filthy things I could do to this gorgeous body.”

Maybe you did. It matters little what you wanted back then, because you could only think of what you wanted right now, and his fingers were drifting dangerously close to it. But he was playing with you, not bringing them any further, waiting for your admission. 

“You flatter yourself,” you whisper. The wrong answer, clearly, because he pulls his fingers away, gripping your chin now. Forcing you to look at him, because he knows you won’t be able to keep up the act if he’s staring at you so intensely. 

“Say it’s not true then,” he orders.

You should be able to say it. You should be able to look him in the eyes and tell him he was once everything you wanted no part of. But he starts peppering open-mouthed kisses along your neck again, unfairly, and your voice betrays you. “It’s not true,” you mumble weakly.

Your fingers fly to his hair and tangle at the strands, but he won’t let you off that easily. Of course not. He grabs your face, squeezing your cheeks between his fingers. 

“No,” he growls. “Say it like you mean it.” 

His commands only add to the ache between your legs, and you accept that you can’t win. Your silence tells him everything, and he releases, hand patting your cheek like he pitied you. “That’s what I thought,” he hums, satisfied.

Your breathing becomes ragged when his hand trails down again, and this time you’re sure that he’ll relent and give you what your body was craving. Or maybe that was just you trying to convince yourself. 

“You never hated me. You hated that you knew I was better than your boyfriend,” he smirks, slipping his fingers into your jeans. They drag down, slowly, finally stopping right at your core. “You hated that you wanted to know what it would feel like if I touched you here,” he taunts, rubbing your pussy through the soaked fabric of your panties. 

“Shit, you’re this wet for me?” he groans, fingers gliding up and down, pressing harder when they pause at your clit. “I guess I was right, then.”

Any other time you would have been able to throw something sarcastic right back at him, but not now, not when he was teasing you like this. It was the closest he’d gotten to touching you where you so desperately needed him, and your hips buck unwittingly again. “Please, Chan. Need you,” you moan.

“Yeah, I know baby,” he coos. “Don’t worry. I’ll show you everything I’ve been dreaming about doing to you.”

And then you’re pushed off of him and onto the bed, hitting the sheets with a quiet squeal. The same fingers that had been rubbing your clothed pussy now hurriedly unbutton your jeans, and you lift off the bed slightly to help him drag them down along with your panties.

Once you’re completely naked before him, his movements lull, now taking in every inch of exposed skin. 

You feel like you’re drowning under his eyes, because the last person to see you like this had betrayed you, had touched someone that wasn’t you. This was the reality of infidelity – the insecurity, the nagging, cruel insecurity that seeped into places it shouldn’t. Because Chan would never.

And he sees it, too. The way you begin to falter and drift elsewhere. Your head turning against the pillow, refusing to face him.

“Hey,” he whispers, cupping your jaw, pulling your face back towards him. “Where’d you go, baby? Don’t hide from me, please.”

You swallow harshly, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Not hiding. Just…worried I’m not enough,” you mumble, and the words break him. He hated Jaehyun before, but he despises him now, because he made you  – who he considered the most beautiful girl to ever grace the earth, even when you were calling him an idiot – feel less than. And that’s something Chan would spend the rest of his life undoing if he had to.

His thumb strokes your skin now, trying to wipe away the remnants of anyone’s touch that wasn’t his. “No, stop that. You’re more than enough. You’re perfect,” he says. 

Your cheeks heat up from the affirmations, and he kisses you to cement them. But it's short, subdued, as he moves further down, lips grazing your neck, your chest, then your navel. He sinks lower, hovering right above your cunt, spreading your legs apart. 

“So perfect for me,” he breathes, and you can feel the air hitting against you. “You’re mine now. You won’t have to worry about anyone else ever again.” 

The words can barely sink in before his tongue is on you, licking a slow, tantalizing stripe between your folds. It’s so sudden that your hips lift off the bed, and his hands come quick, wrapping around your thigh and pinning you down. He swipes his tongue again, and then he takes as much of your pussy into his mouth as he can, devouring what had been kept from him for too long.

“Fuck, Chan, please,” you moan, grabbing at his hair for something to ground you. He groans into you, both from your fingers tugging and the sound of you moaning his name like that. 

“You taste so fucking good,” he rasps. His lips wrap around your clit, sucking the sensitive nub hard, tugging, releasing. Then, he swirls his tongue, creating a pattern that has your back arching, threatening to come undone. 

You’d thought about this. Lonely nights in your dorm, touching yourself at the thought of how he would look between your legs, about how his tongue would feel against you. But there was no way to anticipate this. He lapped at your pussy like he was starved and you were the only meal he’d get again. He’d like that, truthfully.

Your body is trembling by the time he draws his head back, and the lack of his warm tongue causes you to whine. “Patience, princess,” he coos. 

Before you can beg him to touch you again, he spits directly onto your cunt, letting his fingers spread it as if your slick wasn’t enough. And the action is so erotic, so filthy that your thighs clench involuntarily and he has to hold them open.

Two fingers push inside you, and his tongue is back, flicking your clit with urgency. He pumps them languidly, curling them against your g-spot and then pulling back until you’re almost empty. His name leaves your mouth through choked cries and it only drives him further, because he needs you to unravel just like this. His tongue circles your clit in rhythm with his fingers, hitting your sweet spot with each pump, and his pace quickens when he can tell you’re close. 

“Chan, please don’t stop!” you pant. “Fuck, I’m so close.” 

It’s all too much - his fingers, his tongue, the lewd noises of them bringing you to the edge. “Go on, baby, give it to me,” he coaxes. “Come on my tongue for me, just like that.”

With his permission (which was much more of a plea), you let go, throwing your head back against the pillow. Your whole body comes alive with the intensity of your orgasm, ripping through you in currents while he continues lapping at your pussy lazily. It’s only when he pulls his fingers out for the final time and sucks them clean that you come down, chest heaving. 

“My mouth sure is useful, huh?” he teases, laughing when you roll your eyes. 

His laughter is cut short when you sit up on your knees and tug at the waistband of his sweatpants, head lowering. Your intentions are clear, but he grips your shoulder, halting your movements. 

“No, no, princess, it’s okay,” he huffs, using his last bit of self-restraint. He can’t believe he’s turning down head from you, but right now, being buried inside you is his priority. 

You can’t believe it either, blinking up at him sweetly, eyes wide with confusion. “But I wanna return the favor,” you pout.

Jesus, were you an angel from above or a succubus from the depths of hell, he wonders?

“Fuck, I know, baby,” he groans. “But I need to be inside you, right now.”

He sounds so desperate that you feel like you’re in control now, and you reach for his cock through his sweatpants. Wrapping your fingers around it, stroking softly. “You wanna fuck me, Channie?” you purr. 

“Yes,” he growls, grabbing your wrist – all your control, gone. “You want it too, don’t you baby?” He stands, ridding himself of his sweats and boxers at once. His cock springs free, precum beading on the tip, and he cages you against the bed. “Or can you not take it? Hm? Is one all this pretty pussy can give me?”

The flip switches in you instantly, arms slithering around his neck, yanking him to you. His lips crash onto yours, all teeth and tongue, both of you at your neediest. When your hand slips down to stroke him, thumb spreading precum along his length, he lets out a low guttural sound into your mouth. 

“Baby, shit, you’re killing me,” he rasps.

“Can you die inside me, at least?” 

That he could do. Happily. Willingly. He reaches over you, pulling open a drawer and rummaging inside. And though you shouldn’t, you bring your hand to his wrist, stopping him. 

“I’m on the pill, if that helps,” you whisper. “I need to feel you, nothing else.” Your words are sinful but your eyes are so sweet, looking up at him like you’d break if he denied you. 

“Fuck, princess, you’re trouble,” he groans, shoving the drawer closed and bringing his hand to your cheek instead. He swipes away a few strands of hair that had fallen, trying to soak in every inch of your perfect face. 

“You love it,” you giggle.

“God, yes I do.”

He grasps his cock and fists it a few short times, then guides it along your pussy. Your slick coats his shaft immediately, slow drags making your head spin. And when he slaps the tip against your clit, you know he’s doing it just for that. To drive you crazy, to hear your whines, to see you writhing for it. For him. Would it be appropriate to call him a smug bastard again?

“Stop teasing,” you beg, your voice a strained whisper.

“But you’re so cute like this,” he says. “What’d you say again? ‘Everyone knows I wouldn’t fuck you?’”

You buck your hips against him, a poor retaliation, and he laughs, positioning himself at your entrance. “Well look at you now, princess.”

He presses into you just the smallest bit, enough for the tip to slip inside, still teasing when all you wanted was for him to plunge inside you and fuck you senseless. That small amount of pressure is gone in an instant, leaving you empty once more. 

“Chan,” you whimper. “Please just fuck me, I can’t take it.”

You might cry if he keeps this up, still sensitive from your last orgasm but so desperate for another. And while he wouldn’t mind driving you to that point, his cock is painfully hard. Even he’s at his limit. 

“Oh, baby, you’re gonna take it,” he taunts, thrusting forward in one swift motion. He bottoms out and stays there, immobile, reveling in your cunt stretching around him. “Fuck. Jesus Christ, you feel amazing.”

“Would feel more amazing if you would move,” you hiss, and he actually listens. His hips snap against you with a purpose, slow and deep, watching every inch sink further. 

Each thrust reaches that sweet spot that has your back arching and nails digging into him. You can already feel the fire building inside you again, clenching around him in a way that has him wondering if you’re a dream. “Fuck, your pussy was made for me,” he groans, hips bucking faster now. Less restraining and savoring, more adhering to his primal urge to fill you up entirely.

“Funny. Jaehyun said the same thing,” you pant. You aren’t sure where the confidence comes from, especially when he’s the one pounding into you; maybe he’s fucking the attitude back into you. But you know it’ll get you into trouble, the good kind of trouble, the kind where Chan wrecks you mercilessly. 

And oh, he does. He thrusts wilder, rougher, almost carelessly, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing throughout the room. 

“Yeah? Well he fucking lied, baby,” he growls. “Because you feel that?” His hand presses down on your stomach. “That’s all me. My cock you’re squeezing like a fucking vice.”

His hand slides down, thumb rubbing tight circles against your clit. The added sensation brings you closer to the edge, and he’s nearly there as well. “Chan, oh my god,” you moan, nails dragging along his bicep. 

“You’re so tight,” he grunts. “Did he ever fuck you right?” He won’t even say the name, because it holds no meaning now. You’re his, and he’ll fuck you enough times that you won’t remember anyone else. 

Your walls clench harder around him, his thumb circling relentlessly. “No,” you cry. “Not like you. Not like this.” That answer satisfies him, and he pulls back all the way just to slam into you harder.

“I didn’t think so,” he muses. He leans down, nipping at your neck. “Forget about him. All you need to remember is me and my cock ruining you like this.” 

You’d already forgotten, only able to think about how Chan was the one currently fucking into you like he had something to prove. You’re so close to release, strangled cries of his name escaping your lips while your thighs clench around him. “Ah, Chan, I’m gonna come!” you whimper.

“Fuck, me too, baby,” he grunts. “You want me to fill you up? Leave your pussy leaking with my cum?”

His words are your final propulsion, and he emphasizes them with each rut of his hips. Your back arches off the bed, face contorting in pure euphoria, and Chan commits the image to memory. It matters little that he knows he’ll see it many, many more times; he wants to watch you ride every single high until the end of time. 

Your orgasm washes over you, setting every inch of your body aflame, and you want more. More of him. All of him. “Yes! Please fill me up, please,” you beg, voice breaking from the overstimulation. 

He can’t deny you, doesn’t want to deny you, and he couldn’t anyways. You’ve basically sucked him in, legs keeping him held in place. He thrusts into you one final time, a low groan emitting from someplace deep within, hips jerking erratically as thick, white strings of cum spurt inside of you.

When you’ve milked every last drop from him, he pulls out from your spent heat and falls to the bed dramatically, limbs flopping as if he’s dead. And maybe he is, because that was definitely heaven. 

You lay there side by side, chests rising and falling in sync, staring at the ceiling like it might offer an explanation for what just happened. How you ended up like this, his cum dripping from you, your scratches welting along his back, when just months ago you couldn’t stand each other. Supposedly. 

Then comes a knock on the door, and you both are struck with the realization that you’d forgotten Minho was home, in another room, hearing everything. Or rather, Chan had forgotten, and you’d never known. Never even considered it. 

“Are you two done in there?” he calls from outside. You lift your head and look at Chan with wide eyes, and he shrugs like he’s just as clueless.

“Uh, yeah,” Chan shouts back. You bury yourself under the sheets, expecting the door to swing open. Thankfully, it doesn’t. But the alternative might be worse.

“Y/N, when I asked you for help, I didn’t mean by moaning loud enough to wake the neighbors in my apartment.”

Minho’s footsteps pad away from the door, and you pull back the sheets, horrified. “Was I really that loud?!” you exclaim. He hadn’t said anything about your volume or even tried to quiet you, and you were far too consumed to notice. 

“A little…” Chan rubs his neck sheepishly.

You wish you could melt into the bed and disappear forever, because how would you ever face Minho again? And their poor neighbors, no less. The walk of shame was going to be unbearable. “Oh my god, that’s so embarrassing!” you groan. 

He shakes his head vehemently and kisses your forehead, a small reassurance. “No! No, baby, it was so hot,” he coos. And then it hits him. “Wait. Minho asked you for help?”

“I guess you were going crazy without me,” you smirk. This time he groans, and you laugh, nuzzling into his neck. “Don’t worry. You’re not getting rid of me now.”

“Like I’d ever want to,” he whispers. 

His lips press into your hair, and you can’t help but sigh against him. Because any remnants of hatred, if they even truly existed, are gone, and you’re left only with the peaceful acceptance that this was a glimpse of countless days to come.

[zeroseuniverse]

Mutually Beneficial

Word Count: 922 Summary: “Do you believe in fate?” he asked, the question tumbling out before he could stop it.Her brow furrowed. “Are you seriously trying to turn a coffee spill into a pick-up line?” Pairing: Johnny X Fem Reader

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Johnny adjusted his tie in the reflection of the café window, the tight knot at his throat a stark reminder of the weekend he had ahead. The dreaded family reunion—two days of nosy relatives prying into his personal life, throwing out unsolicited advice, and, of course, trying to set him up with someone they deemed "perfect" for him. He sighed, reaching for his coffee.

That’s when it happened.

A sharp jolt. A splash of coffee. And a string of muttered apologies from the woman who had bumped into him, her laptop bag hanging precariously off her shoulder.

“Oh no! I’m so sorry!” she said, grabbing napkins from the counter and thrusting them at him.

“It’s okay,” Johnny replied, dabbing at the spill on his shirt. His eyes flicked to hers, and for a moment, the world quieted. She had the kind of presence that pulled you in—focused, determined, with an edge of frustration as she wrestled with her laptop bag.

“Are you sure? That looks expensive,” she asked, motioning to his shirt.

“It’ll survive,” Johnny said, flashing his trademark grin, the one that usually disarmed anyone.

But she didn’t melt under the charm. Instead, she just offered a curt nod and started gathering her things.

“Wait,” Johnny blurted, surprising even himself.

She paused, raising an eyebrow.

“Do you believe in fate?” he asked, the question tumbling out before he could stop it.

Her brow furrowed. “Are you seriously trying to turn a coffee spill into a pick-up line?”

Johnny laughed, holding up his hands in surrender. “No, I swear. But I do have a proposition.”

She crossed her arms, intrigued despite herself. “I’m listening.”

And that’s how Johnny found himself explaining his dilemma to her—his meddling family, the relentless blind date setups, and the lie that had slipped out at his last family dinner: that he already had a girlfriend. The moment he said it, his mother’s face lit up, and before he knew it, he’d promised to bring his “girlfriend” to the reunion.

“So you… want me to pretend to be your girlfriend?” she asked, skeptically.

“Yes,” Johnny said. “Just for the weekend. You’ll get free food, a place to stay, and in return, I can help you with… whatever you need.”

She snorted. “What makes you think I need help?”

Johnny gestured to her laptop bag, the frazzled way she had barreled into the café. “Call it a hunch.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the slight smirk tugging at her lips. “Actually, there is something,” she admitted. “I’m a writer—a romance writer—and I have a pitch meeting with a big publisher coming up. I could use some tips on… you know, exuding confidence and charm.”

Johnny leaned back, his grin widening. “Deal.”

The reunion was, predictably, chaotic. Johnny’s siblings were relentless, teasing him about finally “settling down,” while his parents beamed at every affectionate glance and touch he and his “girlfriend” exchanged. For her part, she played the role perfectly, slipping seamlessly into conversations, charming his aunts, and even winning over his skeptical grandmother.

But it wasn’t all pretend. Between the stolen glances and shared laughter, something shifted.

Johnny started noticing the little things—the way she scrunched her nose when she was thinking, the quiet determination in her voice when she spoke about her writing, and the rare but radiant smiles that lit up her face.

And she saw through the golden-boy façade he’d perfected. Beneath the charm and easygoing demeanor was someone who carried the weight of expectations, who always put others first but rarely stopped to think about what he wanted.

One night, as they sat on the porch under a blanket of stars, she turned to him. “Why do you do it?” she asked softly. “The whole golden boy act?”

Johnny shrugged, staring out at the horizon. “It’s easier. People have this image of me, and it’s… comfortable. For them, at least.”

“But not for you?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “Not always.”

She reached over, placing a hand on him. “You don’t have to live up to anyone’s expectations, Johnny. Not your family’s, not mine. Just… be yourself.”

Her words stayed with him, lingering like an echo in his mind. And as the weekend went on, Johnny found himself opening up in ways he hadn’t in years.

The lines between real and pretend blurred, the carefully constructed walls around their hearts crumbling bit by bit. By the time the reunion ended, they both knew they were in too deep.

It all came to a head on their last night. Standing under the twinkling fairy lights in his parents’ backyard, Johnny took a deep breath.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he said, his voice shaking slightly.

“What wasn’t?” she asked, her heart pounding.

“You,” he said simply. “I wasn’t supposed to… feel this way. But I do. And I can’t pretend anymore.”

She stared at him, her breath hitching. “Johnny…”

“I know this started as a lie,” he continued, stepping closer. “But it’s not anymore. Not for me.”

Her resolve crumbled, and with a shaky laugh, she said, “It’s not for me, either.”

Johnny’s grin returned, softer this time, and as he leaned in, the world around them seemed to fade away. The kiss was everything their weekend had been building toward—soft, genuine, and completely unscripted.

In that moment, they both knew that what had started as a fake relationship had turned into something real, something worth fighting for. And for once, Johnny didn’t care about anyone else’s expectations. All that mattered was her.

[arilevenatz]

Ironheart

Pairing: captain!hongjoong x reader

Genre: Angst, action

Word count: 13.3k

Warnings: Child Abuse, Blood, injury, graphic Description of Injury, gore, pirate king hongjoong, lethal face card of the cameos (there will be two surprise cameos)

A/N: so yeah captain hongjoong is here. Not gonna lie, I cried while writing this. It has been in the back of my mind for a long time and I have finally written it.I don't know if it's good or not you guys will be the judge of that! and please like and reblog, it really motivates me to write, thank you!!

Masterlist

The sea was a vast expanse of restless waves and ominous clouds as the pirate ship Halazia sliced through the water like a predator on the hunt. Its sails, black as midnight, bore a crimson emblem—a snarling dragon that struck fear into the hearts of all who dared cross its path. At the helm stood the notorious Captain Hongjoong, a name whispered in fear across the seven seas.

Draped in a long, tattered coat with gold embroidery, Hongjoong’s piercing eyes glimmered with a mix of cunning and menace. His voice, sharp as the crack of a whip, commanded respect—or death. To defy him was to invite the unforgiving depths of the ocean.

The Halazia's crew, a motley band of cutthroats and thieves, worked with disciplined chaos. They revered Hongjoong, not out of loyalty, but out of fear. He was a man who showed no mercy; betrayal was met with the sharp edge of his blade, and failure was punished with cold indifference.

“Land ahead, Captain!” called Yunho, the ship’s navigator, from the crow’s nest.

Hongjoong’s lips curled into a sinister grin. “Prepare to drop anchor,” he barked. “Tonight, we take what’s ours.”

The crew scrambled, each man knowing his role as the captain’s plan unfolded. The small port town ahead was quiet, its people unaware of the storm about to descend upon them. Hongjoong’s reputation was built on raids like this—swift, brutal, and leaving nothing but ruin in his wake.

Below deck, the Halazia's armory gleamed with weapons. Seonghwa, the ship's relentless quartermaster, handed out cutlasses and pistols to the crew. “Make it quick and clean,” he growled. “The captain doesn’t like loose ends.”

As the Halazia approached the shore under the cover of darkness, Hongjoong unsheathed his sword, its blade catching the faint light of the moon. His voice cut through the night like a blade.

“Tonight, we remind the world why the name Halazia is whispered with terror.”

The crew roared in agreement, their bloodlust ignited. For Hongjoong, it wasn’t just about gold or glory—it was about power. And no one, not kings or gods, would stand in his way.

The Halazia glided silently into the small port under the shroud of night. The unsuspecting town, nestled on the edge of the island, was quiet save for the distant crash of waves against the shore. Its residents were blissfully unaware that terror had arrived at their doorstep.

“Lower the anchor,” Seonghwa ordered in a hushed tone, his sharp eyes scanning the darkened town. The crew worked swiftly, the only sounds were the creak of ropes and the splash of water.

Hongjoong stepped onto the gangplank, his boots striking the wood with deliberate force. “No mercy,” he commanded, his voice cold and unforgiving. “Take everything. Leave nothing behind.”

Yunho and Mingi led the first group ashore, their movements swift and calculated. Mingi’s massive frame carried crates of supplies with ease, while Yunho mapped their route through the maze of narrow streets.

Wooyoung darted through the shadows, his nimble hands prying open doors and snatching valuables with practiced ease. He hummed a quiet tune to himself, a stark contrast to the fear he left in his wake.

San, ever eager for a fight, kicked down the door of the local tavern, sending its patrons scrambling. “Hand it over, or face me!” he roared, his blade gleaming in the dim light.

Jongho remained by the cannons, his sharp eyes fixed on the town. He was ready to unleash hellfire at the first sign of resistance, though he doubted any would dare.

Yeosang followed the raiding party at a measured pace, his medical kit in hand. He had no illusions about the chaos that would ensue, and he was prepared to patch up the crew—or anyone foolish enough to stand in their way.

By the time the town's alarm bell clanged in desperation, it was too late. The Halazia's crew moved like a storm, looting every corner of the town. Gold, food, weapons—nothing was spared.

Hongjoong stood in the center of the chaos, his sword drawn, a chilling smile playing on his lips. The flames of a burning warehouse reflected in his eyes as he declared, “Let this be a lesson to all who think themselves safe. The sea belongs to us.”

As dawn approached, the Halazia sailed away, its hold overflowing with stolen treasures. Behind them, the once-thriving town was left in smoldering ruins, its people haunted by the memory of the dragon-emblazoned sails.

As the first rays of morning sun illuminated the island of Aphynx, its streets bore the grim evidence of the night’s raid. Doors hung off their hinges, market stalls lay in splinters, and the blackened remains of a warehouse sent tendrils of smoke spiraling into the pale sky. The townsfolk gathered in silence, their faces etched with disbelief and despair.

In the center of the town, Mayor paced nervously, his finely embroidered coat now stained with soot and sweat. His eyes darted over the wreckage, his mind racing. Every crate of provisions, every ounce of gold, every weapon had been stripped away. Aphynx was defenseless, vulnerable, and utterly at the mercy of the sea.

“This was no ordinary band of thieves,” he muttered, clutching a scroll of parchment in his trembling hands. “It was them... the crew of Halazia.”

A young messenger arrived, breathless and pale. “Sir, the kingdom must be informed,” he urged. “Without help from Wonderland, we won’t survive another raid.”

Mayor nodded grimly. He knew there was no time to waste. “Prepare my fastest horse,” he commanded. “We ride to the capital immediately.”

By midmorning, the mayor and his escort departed, the sound of hooves echoing through the barren streets. Their destination: Wonderland, the kingdom under whose banner Aphynx pledged fealty. The crown would not take this insult lightly—piracy threatened their trade routes, their reputation, and their wealth.

As the mayor approached the towering gates of Wonderland’s capital city, he steeled himself for the audience with the royal court. He would demand justice, but deep down, he feared that even the kingdom’s might might not be enough to face the legendary Halazia and its fearsome captain.

The kingdom of Wonderland stood as a beacon of strength and unity, its influence stretching across the seven seas. Its towering white walls and majestic spires reflected the brilliance of its rule, and its bustling streets were a testament to the prosperity its people enjoyed. At the heart of this mighty kingdom sat King Eldred, a ruler beloved by his people for his wisdom, fairness, and unwavering commitment to protecting his land.

But what truly set Wonderland apart was its secret weapon: the Nishi. These elite warriors operated in the shadows, their faces concealed behind eerie white masks with two eye slits. The sight of a Nishi was both reassuring and terrifying—they were symbols of the kingdom’s unyielding resolve and its ability to strike from the shadows. Trained in combat, strategy, and espionage, the Nishi were unmatched on the battlefield and in the murky world of subterfuge.

As Mayor Alden stood before King Eldred in the grand throne room, flanked by banners bearing the kingdom’s sigil, he recounted the horrors of the raid. “Your Majesty, Aphynx has been stripped bare,” Alden pleaded, bowing low. “The people have nothing. The Halazia will return unless we act swiftly.”

King Eldred leaned forward on his throne, his sharp eyes narrowing as he processed the report. “The Halazia,” he repeated, his voice measured. “Captain Hongjoong and his crew dare to challenge Wonderland’s peace.”

From the shadows, a figure emerged, silent and imposing. The Nishi wore their signature mask, their presence sending a chill through the room. “Shall we mobilize, Your Majesty?” the Nishi asked in a calm, almost mechanical tone.

The king rose to his feet, his regal robes flowing around him like the waves of the sea. “Not yet,” he declared. “The Halazia is cunning, and we will not be drawn into a hasty response. I want information—where they’ve gone, who their allies are, and what they seek.”

He turned to the Nishi. “Deploy your finest. Track the Halazia. And when the time comes, we will remind the pirates why Wonderland is unchallenged on the seas.”

The masked figure bowed and disappeared as silently as they had arrived. The king’s gaze returned to Alden. “Fear not, Mayor,” Eldred assured him. “Aphynx will be avenged, and the Halazia will pay for its crimes.”

A few days after the raid on Aphynx, the Halazia anchored in a secluded cove to divide their spoils. The crew was in high spirits, reveling in their success, but the mood shifted when a small, unmarked vessel approached their ship under a flag of truce.

A lone messenger, dressed in simple but pristine clothes, was rowed aboard. He carried a scroll sealed with the royal insignia of Wonderland. The sight of the mark immediately put the crew on edge.

Seonghwa was the first to intercept the messenger, his sharp eyes scanning the man for signs of treachery. “State your business,” he demanded coldly.

The messenger bowed respectfully, his voice steady. “I come with a message from His Majesty, King Eldred of Wonderland.”

Hongjoong, seated on a barrel nearby, motioned for Seonghwa to step aside. “Give it here,” he ordered, his voice low and commanding. The messenger handed him the scroll with trembling hands.

Breaking the seal, Hongjoong unrolled the parchment. His eyes scanned the elegant script:

> To Captain Hongjoong of the Halazia,

The Kingdom of Wonderland invites you to discuse the recent events at Aphynx. We believe diplomacy may resolve this matter without further bloodshed or hostility.

You are offered safe passage to the island of Eletheris, where a representative of Wonderland will await you.

We hope you will consider this opportunity to avoid unnecessary conflict.

Signed,

His Majesty King Eldred*

Hongjoong’s lips curled into a faint smirk as he handed the letter to Seonghwa. “Diplomacy?” he mused. “From Wonderland? Either they’ve grown soft, or they’re planning something.”

San, ever eager for confrontation, crossed his arms and scowled. “It’s a trap. No kingdom invites pirates to talk unless they’ve got blades hidden behind their backs.”

Mingi, thoughtful but cautious, shrugged. “Could be a way to buy time. They might not know where we are and want to stall while they gather their forces.”

Wooyoung, leaning against a mast with a sly grin, added, “Or maybe they’re scared of us. That raid shook them up.”

Seonghwa handed the letter to Yunho, who studied it carefully. “The location is Eletheris,” Yunho noted. “Neutral ground, but also isolated. Perfect for an ambush.”

Jongho, standing by the cannons, spoke up in his usual calm tone. “We should assume the worst. If we go, we prepare for a fight.”

Hongjoong tapped his fingers on the hilt of his sword, deep in thought. Finally, he stood. “We’ll go,” he decided, his voice cutting through the murmurs of the crew. “If Wonderland wants to talk, we’ll give them a show. But we’ll be ready for anything.”

A sinister grin spread across his face as he turned to Seonghwa. “Prepare the ship. We’ll make our move at nightfall.”

The crew exchanged uneasy glances, but none dared question their captain. Suspicious as they were, they trusted Hongjoong’s instincts. The Halazia would sail for Eletheris—not for peace, but for the opportunity to show Wonderland just how dangerous a cornered pirate could be.

As the crew debated the letter, Yeosang emerged from below deck, wiping his hands clean with a cloth. His sharp eyes scanned the gathered group, noting the tension in the air.

“What’s going on?” he asked, his calm voice cutting through the discussion.

Seonghwa handed him the letter without a word. Yeosang read it quickly, his expression unreadable. “An invitation to ‘talk,’” he said, his tone skeptical. He folded the parchment carefully and looked at Hongjoong.

“If this is a trap, which it likely is, I hope you’ve accounted for the injuries we might sustain. I’m running low on supplies after Aphynx, and if Wonderland has their warriors, this won’t be a simple skirmish.”

Hongjoong’s smirk remained steady as he met Yeosang’s gaze, his voice laced with confidence. “Prepare for the worst, but we’re not backing down.”

Yeosang nodded, handing the letter back to Seonghwa. “I’ll do what I can. Just try not to get yourselves killed unnecessarily. I’d rather not have to stitch anyone back together because of bad decisions.”

With that, he turned and disappeared below deck again, leaving the others to their discussion.

The Halazia arrived at Eletheris under the cover of twilight, its black sails stark against the fading light. The crew stood ready, their hands brushing weapons as they prepared for whatever awaited them. The island, a neutral ground known for its wild forests and rocky shores, seemed unusually quiet as they approached the dock.

As the crew disembarked, they were met by a contingent of Wonderland’s warriors. At the forefront stood a tall, imposing man clad in gleaming armor, a crimson cloak flowing behind him. His sharp features radiated authority, and his piercing gaze swept over the pirates like a hawk assessing prey.

“I am General Kael of Wonderland,” the man announced, his voice steady and commanding. “Welcome to Eletheris, Captain Hongjoong. His Majesty extends his gratitude for your willingness to meet.”

Behind Kael stood a line of warriors, their stances disciplined, their weapons polished to a deadly sheen. Among them were four figures that immediately caught the pirates’ attention—the Nishi.

Clad in flowing black cloaks, their white masks with two eye slits were hauntingly featureless. The presence of the Nishi sent a ripple of unease through the Halazia's crew.

Hongjoong stepped forward, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. “A grand welcome for pirates,” he remarked with a faint smirk. “I wonder if this is hospitality or intimidation.”

Kael’s lips curled into a small, humorless smile. “Perhaps a little of both. The king values peace, but Wonderland does not take threats lightly.”

Seonghwa exchanged a glance with Hongjoong, his hand hovering near his sword. San, standing nearby, muttered under his breath, “They’re itching for a fight.”

Kael gestured inland, toward a path that wound through dense forest. “His Majesty awaits you at the royal outpost further inland. You will be escorted there. I trust you and your crew will conduct yourselves appropriately.”

Hongjoong inclined his head, his smirk unyielding. “Lead the way, General.”

As the crew followed the warriors into the forest, the Nishi flanked them silently, their presence a constant reminder of Wonderland’s power. The forest was thick and eerily quiet, save for the crunch of boots on the dirt path.

Yeosang walked near the rear of the group, his gaze flickering between the Nishi. “If this is a trap, they’ve gone to great lengths to set it,” he murmured to Seonghwa.

Seonghwa nodded subtly. “Stay sharp. If they wanted us dead, they’d have done it already. This is a show of strength.”

As they neared the outpost, the imposing silhouette of a fortified structure came into view. Wonderland was not just extending an invitation—it was making a statement.

As the crew of the Halazia trudged along the forest path, flanked by the silent Nishi and Wonderland’s warriors, tension hung thick in the air. Despite their outward composure, the pirates exchanged quiet whispers, their curiosity about the masked figures overwhelming their usual bravado.

Wooyoung leaned closer to Yunho, his voice barely audible. “What’s with the creepy masks? Who walks around like that?”

Yunho shrugged, his brow furrowed. “I’ve heard rumors, but nothing solid. Some say the Nishi are assassins, trained from birth to kill without hesitation.”

San, walking ahead, glanced back with a scoff. “Assassins? They look more like ghosts. It’s the quiet ones you’ve got to watch out for.”

Mingi, ever the practical one, muttered, “I’ve never seen anyone move like them. It’s unnatural. Did you see how they didn’t make a sound, even on the dock?”

Jongho, his tone calm but wary, added, “If Wonderland brought four of them here, they must be expecting trouble. No kingdom wastes resources like that for a simple meeting.”

Seonghwa, catching their murmurs, spoke softly but firmly. “Focus. Whatever they are, we’re not here to fight them. Not yet.”

Yeosang, his keen eyes studying the Nishi out of the corner of his vision, finally chimed in. “I’ve heard whispers in ports about them,” he said. “The Nishi are Wonderland’s shadow—their secret weapon. They’re not just warriors; they’re spies, assassins, and strategists. Their masks are said to symbolize detachment from emotion. No mercy, no hesitation.”

Wooyoung shivered, his usual smirk replaced by unease. “Sounds like a nightmare. You think they’re human under those masks?”

Yeosang gave him a faint, enigmatic smile. “Human, yes. But how much humanity is left in them? That’s another question.”

Hongjoong, walking slightly ahead, glanced back at the group with a sharp look. “Enough,” he said, his voice low but commanding. “Whatever they are, we’ll deal with them if we have to. Until then, keep your wits about you. Wonderland’s trying to intimidate us, and we won’t give them the satisfaction.”

The crew fell silent, their unease replaced by steely determination. The Nishi remained as still and silent as statues, their masks giving nothing away, but the pirates knew one thing for sure: they had entered a world far more dangerous than they’d imagined.

The grand hall of Wonderland's palace was an imposing sight, with high arches and intricate tapestries adorning the walls. The crew of the Halazia stood before King Eldred, whose presence filled the room with an unspoken weight. His regal attire shimmered in the light of the chandeliers, his eyes sharp and calculating as he regarded the pirates.

"Captain Hongjoong, welcome to Wonderland," King Eldred said in a calm, steady voice, his gaze briefly sweeping over the crew before settling on their leader. "You've been quite the thorn in my side. But I believe diplomacy is the best course now."

Hongjoong, arms crossed, met the king's gaze with a wry smile. "I'd agree, Your Majesty. But let's not pretend this is anything but a show of power. You want to make sure we don't think we can walk away from this, don't you?"

Before King Eldred could respond, a sudden movement drew the attention of everyone in the room. A man-seemingly a servant-lunged toward the king with a dagger in his hand. The room fell into stunned silence as the assassin's target became clear.

But before anyone could act, one of the Nishi moved with blinding speed. In a single motion, the Nishi unsheathed a gleaming blade and, with flawless precision, cut the assassin's hand clean off at the wrist. The dagger fell to the floor, and the man screamed in agony, collapsing to the ground as blood pooled beneath him.

The Nishi stood motionless, their white mask revealing nothing-no satisfaction, no hesitation, just cold efficiency. Without a word, the other Nishi advanced, securing the would-be assassin and dragging him away, the severity of the moment leaving no room for mercy.

The room remained still, the only sound the heavy breathing of the wounded man as he was pulled out of the hall. King Eldred, unfazed by the attempt on his life, turned his eyes back to Hongjoong.

"Do not mistake this for weakness, Captain," Eldred said, his voice unwavering. "My kingdom is protected by those who do not falter, no matter the circumstances."

Hongjoong's gaze shifted to the Nishi, his interest piqued. He had seen many warriors in his time- skilled men and women, each formidable in their own right-but the way the Nishi moved, the speed, the precision-it was something entirely different. These were not mere soldiers. They were something else.

"The Nishi," Hongjoong mused, his voice low enough only for his crew to hear. "What are they? You say they protect this kingdom, but what are they truly?"

Seonghwa, standing beside him, spoke quietly. "Rumors. They're said to be more than just fighters. Spies. Assassins. Trained from the moment they can walk."

Hongjoong's eyes flicked back to the Nishi, who stood motionless at the king's side. His curiosity deepened. "Trained from birth... and no emotion. Just warriors without hesitation."

Yeosang, who had been silently observing the Nishi, nodded. "That's what they say. They wear those masks for a reason-to erase any trace of humanity. They're tools, not people."

Hongjoong's smirk returned, though it was tinged with something new-respect, perhaps even admiration. "Fascinating," he said quietly. "They're more than just soldiers. They are something beyond. And it seems Wonderland's power lies in them.”

King Eldred observed the pirates with a slight tilt of his head. "Indeed. The Nishi are the foundation of my kingdom's strength. Without them, Wonderland would be but a memory. And now, Captain, I suggest we return to the matter at hand."

Hongjoong's gaze lingered on the Nishi, but he returned his focus to the king. "Of course. Let's talk."

But as he spoke, the feeling in the room shifted. There was an unspoken understanding now, one that Hongjoong had picked up on, and he couldn't shake the thought: Wonderland had more to offer than riches. Its true strength was in its shadows- the Nishi. And that, more than anything else, was what intrigued him.

The grand hall of Wonderland fell into a tense silence after the attack on the king, the lingering unease palpable. The pirates stood with guarded expressions, while King Eldred’s steady gaze remained fixed on Hongjoong. The Nishi, ever silent, returned to their posts, their white masks as unreadable as ever.

The king cleared his throat. “Captain Hongjoong, let us return to the reason we are here. Your recent actions on Aphynx have caused great suffering. Wonderland cannot allow such acts to continue.”

Hongjoong, unshaken, stepped forward, his tone casual yet laced with authority. “You want us to stop raiding your lands? That’s fair, Your Majesty. But pirates don’t sail away empty-handed. If you want our respect, you’ll have to offer something in return.”

Eldred’s jaw tightened. “And what is it you seek, Captain? Gold? Resources? Wonderland is not a kingdom that barters with thieves.”

Hongjoong smirked, his gaze shifting to the Nishi. “I don’t want your gold, Your Majesty. I want your shadows—your Nishi.”

The hall erupted into murmurs, and even the ever-stoic Nishi seemed to shift slightly. King Eldred’s expression darkened, his voice rising. “You dare demand my kingdom’s most sacred protectors? The Nishi are not pawns to be traded!”

Hongjoong didn’t flinch, his smirk unwavering. “You want us to stop touching Eletheris and your other territories? Then give me three of your Nishi. And not just any—I want the best. Warriors who can ensure my enemies fear the Halazia as much as they fear Wonderland.”

The king leaned forward, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the arms of his throne. “Do you think I would sell my kingdom’s greatest weapon to a pirate? You overestimate your position.”

Seonghwa, calm and calculating, stepped in. “Your Majesty, consider this: Wonderland’s resources remain untouched, and the Halazia becomes an ally rather than an enemy. You lose nothing, but gain peace.”

The king hesitated, the weight of the decision evident on his face. He turned his gaze to General Kael, who stood at his side. “What do you make of this?”

Kael frowned, his voice low. “Risky, but tactically sound. Better to have them as allies than adversaries.”

Eldred’s eyes returned to Hongjoong, his reluctance clear. “You ask for much, Captain. The Nishi are not merely soldiers. They are trained from birth, their loyalty bound to Wonderland alone.”

Hongjoong’s smirk softened into something more serious. “I don’t need their loyalty, Your Majesty. I need their skill. Three Nishi, and I swear Wonderland’s lands will never again know the Halazia’s wrath.”

The king sat back, his expression one of defeat. “Very well,” he said reluctantly. “But you will not choose. I will decide which Nishi to send.”

Hongjoong’s smirk returned. “No, Your Majesty. If I’m to trust my life and crew to them, I will choose. Send me your best, or the deal is off.”

Eldred’s fists clenched, but he finally nodded, his voice heavy with resignation. “You will have your three Nishi. But know this, Captain: should you betray this agreement, their blades will be the first to find your throat.”

Hongjoong chuckled, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “We'll see about that.”

The crew of the Halazia had been granted an unexpected stay in Wonderland, a rare opportunity to explore the fabled kingdom and observe its famed Nishi up close. The palace guards kept a watchful eye on the pirates, but Hongjoong and his crew were far from intimidated.

On the second morning, they were led to a large training arena within the palace grounds. The space was surrounded by high walls and overlooked by balconies, where nobles and soldiers often gathered to witness the Nishi in action.

“This,” General Kael announced as the pirates entered, “is where you will decide. The Nishi you seek are among the finest we have. Observe them well.”

The Nishi, clad in their signature black cloaks and white masks, were already in the arena, demonstrating their skills. They moved with an elegance that was almost otherworldly, their swords flashing in the sunlight as they sparred. Each strike was calculated, every movement a testament to their rigorous training.

Hongjoong watched with keen interest, his arms crossed as he leaned casually against a stone pillar. His sharp eyes darted from one Nishi to another, assessing their movements, their precision, and their lethality.

“These aren’t just warriors,” he murmured to Seonghwa, who stood beside him. “They’re artists of war.”

Seonghwa nodded, his gaze fixed on the display. “Efficient. Deadly. They don’t waste energy or time. You’re choosing weapons, not people.”

San, standing nearby, grinned. “Weapons or not, I wouldn’t mind seeing what they’re like in a real fight. Sparring’s one thing. The heat of battle’s another.”

Yeosang, ever observant, added, “Their discipline is unmatched. But loyalty is another matter entirely. They’ve lived their lives for Wonderland. You think they’ll follow us?”

Hongjoong’s smirk returned. “They don’t need to follow us. They need to obey orders. And I intend to make sure they see the Halazia as worthy of their blades.”

As the demonstration continued, one Nishi stood out. Their movements were impossibly fluid, their strikes faster and more precise than the others. Even among the elite, this figure commanded attention.

“That one,” Jongho said, his tone firm. “They’re the one I’d trust in a fight.”

Wooyoung tilted his head, watching another Nishi with blade, who moved with a deadly rhythm. “I like that one. Quick, unpredictable. My kind of chaos.”

Mingi, ever practical, gestured toward a Nishi with a massive glaive. “That one’s strength could turn the tide in a skirmish. We need power as much as speed.”

Hongjoong listened to his crew’s observations, his mind already working. He approached General Kael, his smirk never wavering. “We’ll need more time to observe. But I already have a few in mind.”

Kael nodded stiffly. “Take your time. The king’s orders are clear—you may choose three. But remember, Captain, they are not yours to break. They serve Wonderland first.”

Hongjoong chuckled, his gaze drifting back to the arena. “We’ll see about that.”

The days passed with the pirates watching the Nishi train, each session revealing more of their deadly skills. By the end of their stay, Hongjoong and his crew were ready to make their choices—Nishi who would become part of the Halazia’s legend, and perhaps its greatest weapon.

As the sparring sessions continued, Hongjoong’s sharp eyes scanned the arena, observing the Nishi with a mix of curiosity and calculated intent. His crew murmured among themselves, pointing out impressive maneuvers or debating the merits of strength versus speed.

But then, something—or rather, someone—caught Hongjoong’s attention.

Standing at the far edge of the arena, away from the other Nishi, was a lone figure. The Nishi wasn’t participating in the training but instead stood silently, its posture rigid, observing the others much like Hongjoong and his crew. The way it leaned slightly, arms crossed, almost mirrored Hongjoong’s stance.

This one wasn’t like the others. Its stillness was different—not passive, but deliberate. The air around it seemed to hum with an invisible tension, as if it were assessing not just the Nishi in the arena but the pirates themselves.

Hongjoong tilted his head, his smirk fading into something more thoughtful. “Who’s that?” he asked, his voice cutting through his crew’s chatter.

General Kael followed Hongjoong’s gaze and frowned. “Ah, that one. It is not a combatant today. A senior Nishi, more involved in leadership and strategy.”

“Leadership?” Hongjoong’s curiosity deepened. “What’s its name?”

Kael hesitated. “Nishi do not use names. They are referred to by rank or designation.”

“Then give me its rank,” Hongjoong pressed, looking bored.

“Second Blade,” Kael said reluctantly. “One of the most skilled among them. But it is not intended for this... arrangement.”

Hongjoong’s interest was piqued further. The detached aura of the Second Blade, combined with its air of quiet authority, intrigued him in a way no other Nishi had. There was something magnetic about the figure—a mystery that demanded unraveling.

“That one,” Hongjoong declared, pointing at the Second Blade. “It’ll be my first choice.”

The general’s expression darkened. “Second Blade is not for sale, Captain. It serves the king directly.”

Hongjoong’s smirk widened, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “You said I could choose. And I choose it. If the king values peace with the Halazia, he’ll agree.”

Kael stiffened but said nothing, knowing this matter would ultimately fall to the king.

The Second Blade, as if sensing the attention, turned its masked face toward Hongjoong. Even with no visible expression, the intensity of its gaze was palpable. For a moment, the pirate captain and the enigmatic Nishi seemed locked in a silent exchange, one that neither his crew nor the other warriors could decipher.

“I like it,” Hongjoong said, more to himself than anyone else. “There’s something about it. A spark I haven’t seen in anyone else here.”

Seonghwa, standing nearby, raised an eyebrow. “You’re sure about this? It doesn’t seem like the type to take orders easily.”

Hongjoong chuckled. “That’s what makes it interesting. I want the best, and that one’s the best.”

As the pirates continued to watch, Hongjoong knew he had made his decision. He wanted the Second Blade—not just as a warrior for the Halazia but as a puzzle to solve, a force to understand. And he wouldn’t leave Wonderland without it.

After days of observing the Nishi, the Halazia crew finalized their choices. True to Hongjoong’s word, the first pick was the enigmatic Second Blade, the senior Nishi who had caught the captain’s eye with its silent yet commanding presence. The other two selections were equally skilled—strong, agile warriors with ranks just below the Second Blade.

When General Kael informed the chosen Nishi of their new roles, the Second Blade simply nodded, its white mask betraying no reaction. The other two Nishi, larger and imposing, accepted the news with quiet compliance.

As the three assembled before the pirates for their departure preparations, something became strikingly apparent.

“Wait a minute,” Mingi said, breaking the silence. He squinted at the lineup, tilting his head as if trying to reconcile what he was seeing. “Is it just me, or is that one... shorter?”

The crew turned their gazes toward the Second Blade, and sure enough, it stood a full head shorter than the other two Nishi.

Wooyoung snickered, elbowing San. “You picked the shortest one, Captain. Thought you were all about power and presence.”

San crossed his arms, frowning slightly. “Size doesn’t matter if it can fight. You all saw what it did to that attacker in the throne room. Fast and precise.”

“It’s true,” Jongho added, his voice calm but analytical. “Height isn’t everything. If anything, it might make it more agile.”

Still, the contrast was hard to ignore. The Second Blade’s stature seemed almost diminutive next to the hulking forms of the other two Nishi. Yet, despite its smaller frame, there was something undeniably commanding about it.

Hongjoong, who had been quietly observing the exchange, finally smirked. “You’re all looking at this the wrong way. It’s not about size. It’s about presence. And that one,” he gestured toward the Second Blade, “has more presence than anyone else here.”

The crew exchanged glances but didn’t argue. They’d seen enough to trust their captain’s instincts, even if the choice seemed unconventional.

Yeosang, ever the practical observer, leaned toward Seonghwa and murmured, “Smaller frame or not, it’s still the most intriguing of the three. The way it carries itself... it’s like it’s always thinking three steps ahead.”

Seonghwa nodded in agreement. “If anything, the contrast makes it even more dangerous. People underestimate what they don’t fully understand.”

As the crew prepared to leave Wonderland with their new recruits, the Second Blade remained as silent and enigmatic as ever. Despite its shorter stature, it exuded an undeniable authority that seemed to silence any lingering doubts.

Hongjoong glanced back at it one last time before boarding the Halazia, his smirk growing wider. “Short or not, you’re exactly what I was looking for.”

In the dimly lit barracks where the Nishi rested, the Second Blade stood by a window, its white mask catching the faint moonlight. Across the room, the two newly chosen Nishi, seungcheol and Mingyu, sat on a bench, their masks placed neatly beside them.

Seungcheol, the elder of the two, crossed his arms, his brows furrowed as he broke the silence. “I don’t understand it. Of all the Nishi, why pick you first?” His tone wasn’t hostile, but there was an unmistakable hint of curiosity.

Mingyu, chuckled softly. “Come on, Seungcheol. It’s obvious, isn’t it? The captain likes the mysterious ones. Second Blade’s got that whole ‘silent and deadly’ vibe going on. You can’t compete with that.”

The Second Blade turned slightly, its masked face tilted as if considering whether to respond. After a moment, it spoke, its voice low and measured. “The choice was the captain’s. Not mine. Does it bother you?”

seungcheol sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not really. I just think it’s strange. You don’t even interact with anyone, and suddenly, you’re the captain’s favorite.” He leaned back against the wall, his gaze narrowing. “But I guess that’s part of the appeal, huh?”

Mingyu grinned, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Honestly, I’m just glad I got picked. Can you imagine staying here, doing the same drills every day, while the three of us get to see the world? Feels like a promotion to me.”

seungcheol rolled his eyes. “You would see it that way.”

Mingyu shrugged. “What? It’s true. Besides, the Halazia crew seems... interesting. They’re not exactly the kind of people we’re used to, but they’ve got their own kind of charm.”

The Second Blade returned its gaze to the window. “They are unpredictable. That makes them dangerous.”

“Dangerous to us?” seungcheol asked, his tone more serious now.

“To everyone,” the Second Blade replied, its voice calm but firm. “But that is why we were chosen. To ensure their chaos is controlled.”

Mingyu leaned back, resting his arms on the bench. “Controlled, huh? I don’t think those pirates are the type to take orders. Especially not from us.”

The Second Blade turned fully now, its posture straight and commanding despite its smaller frame. “Then we adapt. As we always have.”

seungcheol watched it closely, his expression softening. “You’re really something, aren’t you? No hesitation. No second-guessing. You just... do.”

Mingyu nodded, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, that’s what makes it so cool. Honestly, I think we’ll learn a lot from this one. Even if it’s shorter than both of us.”

seungcheol snorted, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Don’t let the captain hear you say that. He might have your head.”

The Second Blade didn’t react to the teasing, instead walking toward the exit. Before it stepped out, it paused and said, “Rest while you can. Tomorrow, everything changes.”

As it left the room, seungcheol leaned toward Mingyu, his voice low. “I’m not sure if I admire it or if it gives me the creeps.”

Mingyu laughed, patting seungcheol on the shoulder. “Why not both? Keeps things interesting.”

The two fell into a comfortable silence, both wondering what lay ahead as the newest recruits of the Halazia.

The following morning, the Halazia crew and their newly acquired Nishi stood at the gates of Wonderland, preparing for departure. The Second Blade stood slightly apart from seungcheol and Mingyu, as stoic and silent as ever, its mask firmly in place.

The pirates were busy securing their belongings and discussing the logistics of integrating the Nishi into their operations. Hongjoong, however, couldn’t shake the lingering curiosity he felt toward the Second Blade. Something about it was different—unreadable, yes, but also magnetic in a way he couldn’t explain.

As the group prepared to board the Halazia, Hongjoong lingered near the Second Blade, his curiosity still piqued. He turned to her, gesturing for her attention. “Second Blade,” he said, his tone casual but firm, “before we leave, there’s something I need to clarify. You’ve barely spoken a word since we met. Let’s change that.”

The Second Blade paused, tilting its masked head slightly, and finally spoke. “What do you wish to clarify, Captain?”

The voice caught everyone’s attention. It was soft yet sharp, calm yet commanding—a voice that held the kind of authority forged through years of discipline. But what stood out most was its unmistakable femininity.

Hongjoong’s eyes widened briefly before his expression settled into his usual smirk. “Well, well. You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

Mingi, standing nearby, blinked in surprise. “Wait a second... That's a woman?”

A crew member laughed nervously. “A woman? On a pirate ship? Isn’t that, like... bad luck or something?”

The atmosphere tensed for a moment as some of the crew exchanged uncertain glances.

Another chimed in, “I’ve heard the stories. Women on ships are supposed to bring misfortune.”

Before anyone could respond, Hongjoong’s voice cut through the murmurs like a blade. “Enough.”

The crew fell silent as their captain stepped forward, his sharp gaze sweeping over them. “Bad luck? Misfortune? Since when have we, the crew of the Halazia, believed in such pathetic superstitions?”

He turned to them, his smirk hardening into a glare. “Do you think the Halazia have survived storms, battles, and betrayals because of luck? No. We’ve made it this far because we’re the best. And I’ll take anyone who proves their worth—man or woman.”

Hongjoong’s gaze then shifted to the Second Blade. “And this one? This one’s already proven it’s better than half of you just by standing there. So unless you’d like to challenge that, I suggest you keep your mouths shut.”

Wooyoung scratched the back of his neck, glancing at the Second Blade. “Honestly, after seeing her fight, I’m not about to argue.”

Hongjoong turned back to the Second Blade, his smirk returning. “You’ve already got my respect, Second Blade. And that’s not something I give out lightly.”

The Second Blade inclined her head slightly, her voice calm and unbothered. “Respect is earned, not given. I will continue to prove myself, Captain.”

Hongjoong chuckled, stepping back. “I like you, Second Blade. You’re full of surprises. But if you’re going to serve on the Halazia, you’ll need a name. I can’t keep calling you by rank.”

She hesitated, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to her. Finally, she said, “Call me whatever you wish. It makes no difference to me.”

Hongjoong’s smirk widened. “Then I’ll think of something fitting. Welcome aboard, Second Blade.”

She inclined her head slightly, a gesture of acknowledgment.

As the crew of the Halazia made their final preparations to set sail, the Nishi stood off to the side, silent and unreadable. Seungcheol and Mingyu exchanged glances, each wondering what life aboard the infamous pirate ship would hold for them. The Second Blade, as calm and composed as ever, remained still, watching the pirates as they moved about with practiced efficiency.

Hongjoong returned to the main deck, his sharp eyes scanning his crew. “Alright, let’s get moving. Wonderland’s hospitality is wearing thin, and I’d rather not linger where too many eyes are watching.”

The crew murmured in agreement, their movements quick and purposeful as they cast off from the docks.

Seungcheol leaned slightly toward Mingyu, his voice low. “This crew is... different. They don’t seem to operate on any rules I’m familiar with.”

Mingyu shrugged, his tone light but curious. “That’s what makes it exciting, don’t you think? We’ve been stuck in Wonderland for too long. It’s about time we see how the rest of the world works.”

The Second Blade didn’t join the conversation, but its masked face tilted ever so slightly, suggesting it was listening.

As the ship drifted farther from the port, Hongjoong approached the three Nishi. “I’ll be clear with you now. You’re no longer in Wonderland. On this ship, you follow my orders. I don’t care about ranks, titles, or protocols from your past. You’re part of my crew now, and that means loyalty to me and me alone.”

Seungcheol and Mingyu nodded in unison, their movements precise and obedient. The Second Blade simply inclined its head again, its silence speaking volumes.

San, standing nearby, crossed his arms as he eyed the trio. “Can they fight in real battles, though? Wonderland’s training is one thing, but out here, it’s chaos.”

Hongjoong didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turned to the Second Blade. “What do you think? Can you handle the chaos of the seas?”

The Second Blade’s voice was calm and unwavering. “Chaos is an opportunity. It reveals the weaknesses of those unprepared. I have no intention of being unprepared.”

Mingyu chuckled under his breath. “I think that’s the most poetic way I’ve ever heard someone say ‘yes.’”

Seungcheol shot him a look, though there was a hint of amusement in his eyes.

Hongjoong smirked, clearly satisfied. “Good. Then let’s see how you adapt to life on the Halazia. You’ll have plenty of chances to prove yourselves.”

As the ship gained speed, Wooyoung called from the galley, “Captain! If they’re part of the crew now, they better learn how we eat. Mingyu looks like he could finish off the week’s rations in one sitting!”

Mingyu glanced toward Wooyoung, his posture relaxed. “Only if your cooking’s as good as you claim.”

Wooyoung grinned, leaning out the doorway. “You’ll regret challenging me, rookie. Dinner’s in a few hours. Let’s see if you survive it.”

The crew laughed, the tension from the earlier departure easing. The Nishi, while still enigmatic, were beginning to feel less like outsiders and more like the newest pieces of the Halazia’s puzzle.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, Hongjoong stood at the helm, his eyes flickering between the horizon and the Second Blade. That strange pull toward her lingered, growing stronger with every interaction. He couldn’t quite place it yet, but one thing was certain—this journey was about to get far more interesting.

As the crew of the Halazia made their final preparations to set sail, the Nishi stood off to the side, silent and unreadable. Seungcheol and Mingyu exchanged glances, each wondering what life aboard the infamous pirate ship would hold for them. The Second Blade, as calm and composed as ever, remained still, watching the pirates as they moved about with practiced efficiency.

Hongjoong returned to the main deck, his sharp eyes scanning his crew. “Alright, let’s get moving. Wonderland’s hospitality is wearing thin, and I’d rather not linger where too many eyes are watching.”

The crew murmured in agreement, their movements quick and purposeful as they cast off from the docks.

Seungcheol leaned slightly toward Mingyu, his voice low. “This crew is... different. They don’t seem to operate on any rules I’m familiar with.”

Mingyu shrugged, his tone light but curious. “That’s what makes it exciting, don’t you think? We’ve been stuck in Wonderland for too long. It’s about time we see how the rest of the world works.”

The Second Blade didn’t join the conversation, but her masked face tilted ever so slightly, suggesting it was listening.

As the ship drifted farther from the port, Hongjoong approached the three Nishi. “I’ll be clear with you now. You’re no longer in Wonderland. On this ship, you follow my orders. I don’t care about ranks, titles, or protocols from your past. You’re part of my crew now, and that means loyalty to me and me alone.”

Seungcheol and Mingyu nodded in unison, their movements precise and obedient. The Second Blade simply inclined its head again, its silence speaking volumes.

San, standing nearby, crossed his arms as he eyed the trio. “Can they fight in real battles, though? Wonderland’s training is one thing, but out here, it’s chaos.”

Hongjoong didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turned to the Second Blade. “What do you think? Can you handle the chaos of the seas?”

The Second Blade’s voice was calm and unwavering. “Chaos is an opportunity. It reveals the weaknesses of those unprepared. I have no intention of being unprepared.”

Mingyu chuckled under his breath. “I think that’s the most poetic way I’ve ever heard someone say ‘yes.’”

Seungcheol shot him a look, though there was a hint of amusement in his eyes.

Hongjoong smirked, clearly satisfied. “Good. Then let’s see how you adapt to life on the Halazia. You’ll have plenty of chances to prove yourselves.”

As the ship gained speed, Wooyoung called from the galley, “Captain! If they’re part of the crew now, they better learn how we eat. Mingyu looks like he could finish off the week’s rations in one sitting!”

Mingyu glanced toward Wooyoung, his posture relaxed. “Only if your cooking’s as good as you claim.”

Wooyoung grinned, leaning out the doorway. “You’ll regret challenging me, rookie. Dinner’s in a few hours. Let’s see if you survive it.”

The crew laughed, the tension from the earlier departure easing. The Nishi, while still enigmatic, were beginning to feel less like outsiders and more like the newest pieces of the Halazia’s puzzle.

The Halazia loomed over the coastline of a small, unsuspecting island, its black sails striking a foreboding figure against the azure sky. Hongjoong stood at the bow, his piercing gaze fixed on the settlement below.

“Alright,” he said, turning to his crew. “We go in quick and clean. Take only what we need—gold, weapons, supplies. Leave no loose ends.”

The main crew gathered around him—Seonghwa, Yunho, Yeosang, San, Mingi, Wooyoung, Jongho—all ready for the raid. Beside them stood the three Nishi, their white masks gleaming ominously in the sunlight.

“This time,” Hongjoong continued, his smirk sharp, “it’s just us. No extra hands, no distractions. Let’s see how well our new recruits handle the chaos.”

San grinned, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “Finally. Let’s see if they’re as good as they looked in Wonderland.”

Wooyoung chuckled, glancing at Mingyu. “Think you can keep up with us, big guy?”

Mingyu tilted his head slightly, his voice calm. “I think the better question is if you can keep up with me.”

Seungcheol sighed, ever the level-headed one. “Let’s focus on the task, shall we?”

The Second Blade, as always, said nothing, but its presence was palpable.

As the crew descended on the island, chaos erupted. The inhabitants, though armed, were no match for the seasoned pirates. And then there were the Nishi.

The Second Blade moved like a shadow, weaving through the fray with unnerving precision. Its twin blades flashed, striking down attackers before they could even raise their weapons. Every move was deliberate, efficient, and terrifyingly silent.

Seungcheol, meanwhile, was a powerhouse. His strikes were methodical and brutal, each one designed to incapacitate swiftly. He moved in sync with the others, covering blind spots and ensuring no one was overwhelmed.

Mingyu, despite his easy going demeanor, was a force of nature. His sheer strength was undeniable, and every swing of his blade sent opponents flying. Yet, there was a grace to his movements, a calculated elegance that belied his size.

The Halazia crew couldn’t help but notice.

“Did you see that?” Mingi shouted, fending off an attacker. “That’s insane!”

Yunho, navigating through the chaos, grinned. “I think we made the right choice bringing them along.”

Jongho, in the middle of taking down a group of armed guards, smirked. “Not bad for newcomers. But let’s see how they handle the next wave.”

The fight raged on, but it became clear that the Nishi were unstoppable. By the time the dust settled, the islanders had been subdued, their weapons confiscated, and the pirates stood victorious.

Hongjoong, standing amidst the wreckage, surveyed the scene. His eyes lingered on the Second Blade, which was wiping the blood from its swords with calm precision.

“Well,” he said, his voice carrying a note of satisfaction. “I’d say you’ve all more than proven yourselves.”

Seungcheol, ever the professional, inclined his head. “We’re here to serve, Captain.”

Mingyu leaned on his sword, grinning. “That was fun. When’s the next one?”

The Second Blade remained silent, but the way it sheathed its blades with a flourish spoke volumes.

San, catching his breath, clapped Hongjoong on the back. “You weren’t kidding when you said they’d be useful. I don’t think we’ve ever had a raid go this smoothly.”

Hongjoong chuckled, his sharp gaze still fixed on the Second Blade. “Useful? They’re more than that. They’re exactly what we’ve been missing.”

As the crew gathered their spoils and prepared to leave, the bond between the pirates and their new allies had grown stronger. The Nishi had not only earned their place on the Halazia but had also become a force to be reckoned with—one that the seas would soon learn to fear.

As the crew regrouped on the beach, the spoils of their raid piled high behind them, Wooyoung let out a dramatic sigh, collapsing onto a barrel.

“Well,” he said, wiping imaginary sweat from his forehead, “that was easy. Almost boring, actually.”

Mingyu, standing nearby, chuckled. “You call that boring? You screamed when that guy lunged at you.”

Wooyoung pointed a finger at him, indignant. “It was a battle cry. You wouldn’t understand.”

San smirked, shaking his head. “Pretty sure it sounded more like a dying seagull.”

“Seagull?” Wooyoung gasped, clutching his chest as if wounded. “You wound me, San. I’m the voice of this ship!”

“More like the noise of this ship,” Jongho muttered under his breath, earning a laugh from Yunho.

As the crew bantered, Hongjoong stood slightly apart, his eyes fixated on the Second Blade. She was meticulously cleaning her twin swords, every movement precise and deliberate. Despite the chaos and bloodshed of the raid, her calm demeanor remained intact, and Hongjoong couldn’t help but find it fascinating.

Seonghwa, noticing his captain’s lingering gaze, sidled up to him with a knowing smirk. “You’ve been staring at her for a while now.”

Hongjoong didn’t look away, his voice low and thoughtful. “There’s something about her, Seonghwa. The way she moves, the way she fights... it’s mesmerizing.”

Seonghwa raised an eyebrow. “Mesmerizing? Or are you just—”

“Don’t,” Hongjoong interrupted, shooting him a sharp look. “Don’t even start.”

Seonghwa chuckled, raising his hands in surrender. “I didn’t say anything, Captain.”

Nearby, Wooyoung leaned toward Mingi, whispering loudly enough for everyone to hear, “I think the captain’s got a crush.”

Mingi snorted. “Yeah, good luck with that. She’s not exactly the talkative type.”

Hongjoong turned sharply toward them, his glare cutting through their laughter. “Focus on the loot before I throw you both overboard.”

The crew burst into laughter, but it quickly subsided when the Second Blade stood and approached Hongjoong. Even under her mask, her presence was commanding, and the air around them grew quiet.

“Captain,” she said simply, her voice steady and calm. “Your orders?”

Hongjoong cleared his throat, straightening his coat as if caught off guard. “We’ll load the spoils onto the ship and set sail immediately. Good work today, Second Blade.”

She inclined her head and turned to help with the loot, her movements fluid and efficient.

As she walked away, Hongjoong couldn’t help but watch her again, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

Seonghwa leaned in once more, his voice barely a whisper. “You’re obsessed.”

Hongjoong didn’t deny it. “Maybe. But there’s something about her, Seonghwa. Something I can’t quite figure out.”

San walked by, overhearing their conversation, and quipped, “Careful, Captain. You keep staring like that, and she might think you’re planning to challenge her to a duel.”

Hongjoong chuckled, shaking his head. “If I did, I’d probably lose.”

The moment the words left Hongjoong's mouth—"If I did, I’d probably lose"—the deck went completely silent.

San, mid-step, froze. Wooyoung dropped the sack of loot he was carrying. Yunho, who was tying down a sail, turned so quickly he nearly tripped over the rope. Even Jongho, typically stoic, looked like someone had just smacked him in the face with a fish.

Seonghwa stared at Hongjoong, his jaw slightly slack. “Did you... did you just say you’d lose a fight?”

Hongjoong blinked, realizing what he’d said, and immediately tried to backtrack. “I mean... hypothetically. It’s not like I—”

But Wooyoung wasn’t about to let this go. He clutched his chest dramatically, stumbling backward. “The great Captain Hongjoong, admitting defeat? To anyone? Oh, this is historic! Someone write this down!”

Mingi, trying not to laugh, nudged Yunho. “You think the world’s ending? This feels like one of those moments.”

“Maybe he’s sick,” Yunho said, pretending to inspect Hongjoong from a distance. “Captain, should I call Yeosang? You might be delirious.”

San, smirking, crossed his arms. “Or maybe... you’re just that whipped.”

The entire crew burst into laughter, the kind of loud, boisterous laughter that echoed over the waves. Even Seungcheol and Mingyu exchanged amused glances, clearly entertained by the pirates' antics.

The Second Blade, however, remained silent, standing as still as a statue. Her head tilted slightly, as if she was processing the conversation but chose not to comment.

Hongjoong, trying to salvage his pride, raised his hands. “Alright, enough! You lot have had your fun. Get back to work before I start assigning punishment duties.”

But his threat only made Wooyoung laugh harder. “You can’t scare us, Captain! Not when you’re this close to writing poetry about the Second Blade!”

“I do not write poetry,” Hongjoong snapped, his cheeks faintly red.

Seonghwa smirked, leaning in just enough to whisper, “If the mask comes off and she turns out to be beautiful, you’re doomed.”

Hongjoong glared at him but didn’t reply, his mind briefly wandering to what might be beneath that mask.

As the crew slowly returned to their tasks, still chuckling under their breaths, Seungcheol spoke up, his tone even. “Is this how your crew normally behaves, Captain?”

Hongjoong sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Unfortunately, yes. They’re skilled, but they have no sense of decorum.”

Mingyu grinned. “I like them. Feels more... lively than Wonderland.”

Seungcheol hummed in agreement, but his sharp eyes flicked to the Second Blade. “Though I’ll admit, I’ve never seen someone affect a group so quickly.”

Hongjoong ignored the comment, instead turning his focus back to the horizon. But as the laughter of his crew faded into the rhythm of the ship’s movements, he couldn’t shake the faint heat rising to his cheeks.

He stole a glance at the Second Blade, who was quietly inspecting her weapons near the mast. The sight of her—silent, enigmatic, and completely unbothered by the chaos she caused—only intrigued him more.

And though he would never admit it, not even to himself, Hongjoong knew one thing: he was whipped, and he wasn’t entirely sure he minded.

As the days turned into weeks, Halazia sailed through the vast oceans, leaving a trail of fear and fascination in its wake. But amidst the looting, planning, and endless chaos that came with being the pirate king, Hongjoong found his thoughts increasingly occupied by one thing—or rather, one person.

The Second Blade.

She was unlike anyone he’d ever encountered. Her movements were a study in grace and lethality, her silence spoke louder than words, and her presence was magnetic. Hongjoong had always viewed his crew and allies as tools to further his goals, weapons to carve his path to dominance. But the Second Blade… she was different.

She wasn’t just a weapon; she was a treasure. And as the self-proclaimed king of the seas, Hongjoong always took what he wanted. Right now, he wanted her.

He often found himself watching her, more openly than he intended. Whether she was sharpening her blades, silently observing the crew’s antics, or simply standing at the bow of the ship, her mask reflecting the sunlight like polished ivory, Hongjoong couldn’t look away.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and red, Hongjoong leaned against the railing, his sharp eyes fixed on her.

“She’s something, isn’t she?”

The voice didn't startle him, and he turned to find Seonghwa standing nearby, a knowing smirk on his face.

Hongjoong scoffed, crossing his arms. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Seonghwa said innocently, though his tone was laced with amusement. “I’m just pointing out the obvious.”

Hongjoong sighed, running a hand through his hair. “She’s not like the others, Seonghwa. There’s something about her… something I can’t quite figure out.”

Seonghwa raised an eyebrow. “You mean besides the fact that she could probably kill us all in our sleep without breaking a sweat?”

Hongjoong chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “Exactly that. She’s a mystery, and you know how much I hate not knowing things.”

“Maybe that’s why you’re so drawn to her,” Seonghwa mused. “You’re used to being in control, Captain. But with her, you’re not.”

Hongjoong didn’t respond, but the truth of Seonghwa’s words lingered in his mind.

Later that night, as the crew gathered for their usual round of rum and storytelling, Hongjoong found himself drawn to her again. She stood apart from the group, leaning against the mast with her arms crossed. Even with the mask, he could feel her sharp gaze cutting through the revelry.

He approached her, his boots clicking softly against the wooden deck. She didn’t move, didn’t even acknowledge him, but he knew she was aware of his presence.

“Why do you always stand alone?” he asked, his voice quieter than usual.

She turned her head slightly, the white mask catching the moonlight. “I’m not part of your crew, Captain. I’m here because I was ordered to be.”

Her words were cold, but Hongjoong detected a faint crack in her usual stoic tone.

“Maybe,” he said, leaning casually against the mast beside her. “But you’ve proven yourself more than just an order. You’ve earned your place here.”

She didn’t reply, and the silence stretched between them. For once, Hongjoong didn’t mind.

Finally, she spoke. “You’re different than I expected.”

“Oh?” His lips curled into a smirk. “What did you expect?”

“A tyrant,” she said simply. “Someone who rules with fear and takes without thought.”

Hongjoong chuckled, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “I am those things, Second Blade. But even a tyrant can appreciate something extraordinary when he sees it.”

Her head tilted slightly, as if she were studying him, trying to unravel his words.

“Goodnight, Captain,” she said finally, her voice softer this time.

As she walked away, Hongjoong watched her disappear into the shadows, a strange sense of longing settling in his chest.

For the first time in his life, the pirate king found himself wanting something he couldn’t simply take. But he was determined to have her—one way or another.

The clash of swords and the thunder of cannons filled the air as chaos reigned on the Halazia. The navy had come prepared, their ships surrounding yours with ruthless efficiency. The crew fought valiantly, their cries of defiance rising above the din of battle.

You moved through the fray like a shadow, your twin blades cutting through enemies with practiced precision. Every movement was deliberate, every strike lethal. You had faced battles like this before -chaotic, bloody, and merciless-and you thrived in them.

But then, a presence caught your attention.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw a man moving toward you, his stance predatory and his sword glinting under the sun. He was no ordinary soldier; the way he carried himself spoke of years of training, and his eyes locked onto you with singular intent.

You met his first strike with one of your blades, the force of the clash vibrating through your arm. He was stronger than most, but you didn't falter. Instead, you pushed back, twisting to deflect his follow-up strike with your second blade

“You're nothing more than a masked puppet” the man taunted.

The two of you exchanged a flurry of blows, each one testing the other's limits. For a moment, you thought you had him, your blade finding an opening in his defense. But then, he sidestepped with surprising speed, his sword coming down in a powerful arc.

You raised your blades to block, but the force of his strike was immense. His sword slammed into yours, the impact sending a shockwave through your arms. Before you could recover, his next strike came, aimed high.

His blade scraped against the edge of your mask, and you felt it-the sharp crack of the material breaking under the pressure.

For a heartbeat, time seemed to slow. You felt the pieces of your mask splintering, the fragments falling away from your face and scattering onto the deck.

The man froze for a split second, his eyes widening in shock as he took in your uncovered face. The noise of the battle seemed to fade for an instant, the world narrowing to just the two of you.

You didn't hesitate. Using his momentary distraction, you surged forward, your blade slicing through the air. The fight wasn't over-not yet-but you knew one thing for certain: the secret you had guarded for so long was now exposed.

The man fell before you, your blade driving cleanly through his chest as he crumpled to the deck. You pulled your sword free, standing over him, but the usual sense of victory that came with a kill was absent. Instead, a cold weight settled in your chest.

Your mask was gone.

You could feel the open air against your face, the stares of those around you. The battle continued to rage, but in your world, time seemed to slow, every sound muffled as if you were underwater.

Your hand instinctively twitched toward your face, but there was nothing to cover it with. The scar- the mark that had defined you in more ways than one-was exposed to the world. It stretched from the corner of your lip to the middle of your cheek, a cruel, jagged line that almost mimicked a half-smile.

A mockery.

You didn't need to look around to know what they were seeing. A warrior, unmasked, scarred, and vulnerable. The thought alone made your stomach churn, a bitter taste rising in your throat.

You could feel their gazes-some fleeting, others lingering. Enemies paused mid-battle, caught off guard by the sight. Even your crewmates, the ones who had fought beside you for weeks, faltered for a moment.

"Second Blade!"

The sound of Hongjoong's voice snapped you back to reality. He was fighting his way toward you, his sword cutting down anyone who stood in his path. His eyes, sharp and calculating, locked onto yours.

For a split second, you saw something there- surprise, yes, but also something else. Something softer.

You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to focus. The battle wasn't over, and neither was your duty. You turned sharply, ignoring the weight of the stares, and threw yourself back into the fight.

But no matter how many enemies you cut down, that feeling of exposure wouldn't leave you. The scar wasn't just a mark on your skin-it was a reminder of what you'd endured, a testament to your survival. And now, everyone on this cursed ship could see it.

You had always been the Second Blade, a faceless warrior, a weapon to be wielded. But now, stripped of that anonymity, you felt exposed. Vulnerable.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt defeated.

The battle raged on, but your focus wavered, a rarity for someone of your skill. Each strike of your blade felt mechanical, detached, as though the strength you once carried had been siphoned by the shattering of your mask. The scar burned—not from pain, but from the weight of being seen.

You cut down another attacker, breathing hard as the chaos around you began to subside. The navy soldiers were retreating, their numbers dwindling under the relentless force of the Halazia crew.

"Second Blade!"

Hongjoong’s voice rang out again, this time closer. You turned to see him approaching, his sword slick with blood, his expression unreadable. Behind him, the rest of the main crew was regrouping, their faces a mix of triumph and exhaustion.

And curiosity.

You stood still as Hongjoong stopped in front of you, his sharp eyes scanning your face. He didn’t speak at first, his gaze lingering on the scar.

“Your face…” he started, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

“I know,” you interrupted, your tone clipped. You turned your head slightly, as if to shield the scar from his view, though you knew it was pointless. “It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” San commented, stepping up beside Hongjoong. His eyes flicked to your scar, but there was no malice there—only curiosity.

“Looks like a story,” Yeosang chimed in.

Wooyoung, leaning on his weapon with an almost playful grin added,“And you know how much we love stories around here.”

“Enough.” Hongjoong’s voice was firm, silencing the murmurs of the crew. His gaze hadn’t left your face. “Are you injured?”

“I’m fine.”

“Good.” He took a step closer, lowering his voice so only you could hear. “You don’t need to hide from me, Second Blade. Not here. Not with us.”

His words caught you off guard, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to respond. Before you could find the right words, Yunho called out.

“Captain, we’ve got their ship retreating! What’s the plan?”

Hongjoong straightened, his commanding presence returning in an instant. “Let them run. They’ll spread word of what happened here. That’s enough for now.”

The crew began to cheer, their energy renewed despite the toll of the battle.

Hongjoong turned back to you, his voice quieter but no less authoritative. “We’ll talk later.”

With that, he moved to rally his crew, leaving you standing amid the aftermath of the fight. The scar on your face still felt like it burned under the weight of their gazes, but there was something about the way Hongjoong had looked at you.

Not with pity. Not with disgust.

But with something else entirely.

You exhaled, steeling yourself. There was no room for weakness on the Halazia, but maybe—just maybe—there was room for something else.

The dining hall of the Halazia was alive with the usual banter and clinking of cutlery. Plates of food were passed around, and the crew reveled in the aftermath of their victory against the navy. Yet tonight, there was an unusual air of curiosity lingering in the room, all eyes subtly drifting to the three Nishis seated among them.

You sat at the table, your mask broken and discarded, your scar fully visible under the warm light of the lanterns. To your left, Seungcheol and to your right, Mingyu sat quietly, but the absence of their masks drew more than a few glances.

San finally broke the silence, gesturing toward the two Nishis. “Alright, I have to ask—what’s going on here? I thought the masks were, like, sacred or something.”

Mingyu, ever the more casual of the two, shrugged nonchalantly. “They are. But when an upper rank removes their mask, it’s tradition for the lower ranks to do the same. Out of respect.”

Seungcheol nodded in agreement, his tone more formal. “It’s a symbol of unity. If one’s identity is exposed, the others stand with them. It’s the least we can do.”

The room fell quiet for a moment, the weight of the explanation sinking in.

“So, you’re saying it’s because of her,” Mingi said, gesturing to you with a nod.

“Obviously,” Wooyoung chimed in, grinning as he leaned forward on his elbows. “Makes sense. She’s the top dog, after all.”

“Second Blade,” Jongho spoke up suddenly, his voice cutting through the chatter. His expression was unusually curious, his gaze fixed on you. “How did you get that scar?”

The room fell into an awkward silence, the air heavy with tension. Hongjoong, seated at the head of the table, immediately narrowed his eyes at Jongho.

“Jongho,” he said sharply, his tone carrying a warning. “That’s not your place to ask.”

But before he could continue, you raised a hand, stopping him. “It’s fine, Captain.”

You set your utensils down and leaned back slightly in your chair, your gaze sweeping over the expectant faces of the crew. It was rare for you to speak, let alone about something personal, but tonight was different.

“If you want to know, I’ll tell you,” you said, your voice steady despite the weight of the memory.

All eyes were on you now, the room completely silent as the crew waited for you to begin.

The house was cold when the men came for you. Your mother’s hands trembled as she clutched the doorframe, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. Your father stood stiffly behind her, his jaw tight as if forcing himself not to speak.

You tried to hold back the fear clawing at your chest as the soldiers stepped inside. Their uniforms were spotless, their movements brisk. You’d heard the stories—families giving up their children to the military for better housing, steady food, and money. You just never thought it would happen to you.

“Come along,” one of the soldiers said, his tone curt but not unkind.

Your mother’s lips moved, forming silent words. Maybe a prayer, maybe an apology. She didn’t look at you as she gently pushed you forward.

“Why?” you whispered, your voice breaking.

Your father’s eyes flicked to you for the briefest moment before he turned away. “It’s for the best,” he muttered.

The soldiers took you by the arms, and as they led you out of the house, the weight of abandonment settled heavily on your chest. You didn’t cry, but your throat ached from holding it back.

The training camp was a harsh, unfeeling place. From the moment you arrived, you were thrust into a world of grueling drills, barked orders, and punishments for the smallest mistakes. It was exhausting, but you pushed through, clinging to the faint hope that surviving this would lead to something better.

But then, the whispers started.

“She’s got potential,” one of the camp hosts murmured, their eyes lingering on you.

“For more than just combat,” another added, their tone making your skin crawl.

At first, you didn’t understand what they meant. But when you were summoned one evening, it became clear. The hosts eyed you like a prize, their polished appearances and honeyed words hiding something far uglier.

“She’s got a face that’ll sell,” one said, their gaze raking over you.

“Such a waste to send her to war,” another added with a smirk.

The realization hit you like a punch to the gut. They didn’t see you as a soldier in training—they saw you as a commodity.

When the general was informed of their plan, you were dragged to his quarters. General Rael was an imposing figure, his towering frame and sharp eyes making him impossible to read. The hosts explained their intentions, their voices sickeningly eager.

“She could make us a fortune,” one said, as if you weren’t standing right there.

The general listened in silence, his expression unreadable. Then he turned to you.

“You,” he said, his voice like gravel. “Come here.”

You hesitated, fear and anger warring within you, but the sharp tug of a soldier’s hand forced you forward.

Rael’s gaze bored into you for a moment before he spoke. “They think you’re too pretty to be a soldier.”

His words made your stomach churn. “I don’t care what they think,” you said, your voice trembling despite your attempt at defiance.

“Good,” he replied, pulling a dagger from his belt.

Your breath hitched, your heart racing as he stepped closer. “W-what are you doing?”

“I’m fixing the problem,” he said flatly.

The blade was cold against your skin as he pressed it to the corner of your lip. The first cut was searing, a pain so intense that you couldn’t stop the scream that tore from your throat.

“Stop!” you cried, tears streaming down your face as he dragged the blade across your cheek. Blood poured down your face, warm and sticky, soaking into your shirt.

“Stop struggling,” Rael barked, his grip like iron.

When it was over, he stepped back, tossing a rag at you. You caught it with shaking hands, pressing it to your wound as sobs wracked your body. Your legs felt weak as they gave out and collapsed on the floor.

“Still think she’s worth more off the battlefield?” Rael asked, turning to the pale-faced hosts.

They left without a word, their greedy smiles replaced with wide-eyed shock.

You sat there trembling, blood dripping onto the floor, the rag clutched tightly against your face. Rael said nothing as he turned away, leaving you alone in the dimly lit room.

That night, you lay in your bunk, the pain of the wound throbbing with every heartbeat. Silent tears slid down your face as you stared at the ceiling, your mind racing with anger, humiliation, and despair.

You weren’t just scarred—you were marked. A cruel reminder of what had been taken from you. And yet, somewhere deep inside, a spark of resolve burned.

They had tried to break you. But you would not let them win.

The room fell eerily silent as you finished speaking, the weight of your story settling over the table like a heavy fog. Your hands were still clenched tightly, the memory of the pain and humiliation as fresh as if it had happened only moments ago.

The crew, usually so brash and unfiltered, seemed almost reverent in their silence. Their eyes locked onto you, no longer the fierce, untouchable warrior they’d seen before, but a person—a woman with a past far more painful than they could have imagined.

Hongjoong’s gaze softened, his usually sharp and calculating eyes filled with something different—sympathy, perhaps, or understanding. But before he could speak, you lifted your chin, your voice cutting through the quiet like a sword.

“You wanted this,” you said, your tone firm and unwavering. “You asked. So I told you.”

The crew exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of shock, admiration, and something else—something that mirrored your own unspoken resolve.

Jongho, usually the most forward of the bunch, was the first to break the silence. “I... didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I was just curious.”

You nodded once, sharply. “Curiosity has consequences. But you wanted to know, so I told you.”

Hongjoong leaned back, his gaze thoughtful. “You’re not just some weapon, are you?”

You looked at him, eyes hardening slightly. “I never was.”

A heavy silence passed between you all, and for the first time, the crew seemed to understand you better. Not just as the deadly, cold warrior they had seen fighting beside them, but as someone who had been broken and reforged into something stronger. Something they couldn’t quite fathom, but now respected even more.

“Let’s eat,” you said, your voice cutting through the tension. “We’ve got work to do.”

And with that, the crew reluctantly returned to their meals, the weight of your story lingering in the air as they silently processed what they had learned. The bond between you had shifted, subtly but unmistakably.

The bond between you and the crew had grown stronger with each passing day, but there were moments when things shifted, when the air between you and Hongjoong became a little heavier. He noticed the way you held yourself—how you kept your distance, how you threw yourself into your duties with a fierce intensity, but never allowed yourself to relax, never allowed anyone to get too close.

One evening, as the crew settled around the ship’s deck after a long day of sailing, Hongjoong approached you. You were leaning against the mast, staring out at the horizon, your arms crossed over your chest in that familiar defensive posture.

“Second Blade,” he said quietly, standing a few paces away from you, his voice low enough not to draw attention from the rest of the crew.

You didn’t turn to face him, but you acknowledged his presence with a slight tilt of your head. “Captain.”

He hesitated for a moment, then spoke again, his words measured and thoughtful. “You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you? More than anyone should have to endure.”

You didn’t respond, your gaze still fixed on the endless ocean. You could feel the weight of his eyes on you, but you weren’t ready to let the walls down, not yet.

“I get it,” he continued, a slight edge of frustration creeping into his voice. “You’re protecting everyone else. The crew, the ship, the mission... but who’s protecting you?”

The question hung in the air, but you kept your silence. You couldn’t afford to let anyone protect you. You couldn’t afford to need anyone.

Hongjoong stepped closer, his presence a comfort and a challenge all at once. “You don’t have to do it alone, Second Blade. You’ve been protecting everyone around you, but what about yourself?”

You finally turned to look at him, meeting his gaze for the first time. There was an intensity in his eyes, a longing that you couldn’t quite place. “I don’t have time for that,” you said, your voice quiet but firm. “I have to protect the people who matter. The ones who can’t defend themselves.”

His gaze softened, and a small, understanding smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “I understand,” he said, his voice low and serious. “But while you’re out there protecting the world, let me protect you.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest at the simplicity of his words. It wasn’t just a promise—it was an offer. A chance to be seen, to be cared for. Something you hadn’t allowed yourself to consider in a long time.

“I don’t need protecting,” you said, though your voice was quieter now, less certain.

Hongjoong’s expression softened even more, his eyes holding a quiet intensity. “Maybe not from the world. But from yourself, Second Blade. Maybe you need someone to look out for you.”

For a moment, the world seemed to fall away, leaving just the two of you standing there in the soft glow of the evening. The crew continued their chatter behind you, unaware of the subtle shift in the air.

You swallowed, the weight of his words sinking in. Could you really let someone protect you? Could you allow yourself to lean on someone else for once?

But before you could speak, Hongjoong gave you a small, almost teasing smile. “I’m not asking you to let your guard down completely. Just... let me take care of you when you need it. It’s what a captain does, right?”

A small part of you wanted to refuse, to keep your distance, to push him away. But another part of you, the part that had spent so long alone, finally relented.

After a while, you sighed, “But don’t expect me to make it easy for you.”

Hongjoong chuckled, a rich, warm sound that made your heart beat a little faster. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

And as you stood there with him, the weight of his words still lingering between you, you realized something. You had always been the protector. But maybe, just maybe, it was time to let someone else guard your back for a change.

[sanjoongie]

ᵣₑᵥₑₙgₑ ₒf ₜₕₑ ₙₑᵣdₛ

🤓Pairing: Math Genius! Kim Hongjoong x Chemistry Whiz! Reader (f) x Gamer Boy! Jeong Yunho 🤓Au: university, reversal 🤓Trope: bully love 🤓Rating: 18+, MDNI 🤓Word Count: 1,957 🤓Warnings: ⚠️dubcon/noncon⚠️ degradation kink, sadist! Hongjoong, sadist! Yunho, oral fixation, drug usage, sex drugs, sex without protection, oral (m), clit play, hair pulling, face fucking, choking, dacryphilia, cum eating 🤓Summary: in a school where the smart and geeky rule, you find yourself at the bottom of the totem pole and bullied because of it. What ensues after you attempt to sell a panty-wetting drug to your peers and your inability to stop lowering your year's average is nothing short of panty-wetting itself. 🤓Author's Note: i'm not one for uni aus, i usually avoid writing them and reading them, @potatomountain inspired me with an idea for the centerpiece of this banner, and with @anyamaris influence with nudging me to read make it hurt by elle mitchell, this is what became of writers helping writers 😆 🤓divider by @/cursed-carmine

Your hip hit the first row desk of an empty lecture hall as Jeong Yunho shoved your reluctant body. You cast a hurt glance behind you but your heart hammered inside your chest because of the picture of pure intimidation Yunho cast with his hood up and his mask over his lower half.

“Move it,” he grunted.

You pushed on further into the lecture hall, if only to see Kim Hongjoong follow suit, closing the door behind him with a foreshadowing noise.

Hongjoong clucked his tongue in disappointment. “Why are we here again, Loser?”

You surged forward to get into Hongjoong’s face but Yunho’s large hand descended on your shoulder and halted you. And like that you melted into a quivering ball of anxiety and something else you’d rather not look at right now. “I tried my best.”

Hongjoong let out a loud sigh. “Well your best isn’t good enough. Our year’s average is down again.”

A small tremor began to echo through your entire body. Yunho used his other free hand to chuck your chin up to meet his gaze. He cocked his head and you could tell his eyes were crinkled in malicious glee.

Hongjoong started to walk towards you and Yunho, arms held behind his back. “You know what I told you would happen if you failed us again.”

Flashbacks to your wanton cries and skin slapping against skin made you swallow your own tongue. “Please, Hongjoong. That’s the reason I couldn't raise my grade. How was I supposed to study when all I was thinking about was--”

“Keep her quiet, Yunho, I'm already tired of her weak excuses,” Hongjoong ordered.

Yunho’s large hand encompassed your face and you had more unbidden flashbacks of-- you shook your head as tears began to prick the corners of your eyes. There was no winning this, you knew already.

“How they let you into this school is still a wonder to me,” Hongjoong continued voicing his thoughts out loud. “Just because you’re a whiz at chemistry and are most likely to create the next drug that makes a gadrillion dollars and adding prestige to our alumni doesn’t seem like a good investment to me. But what do I know?”

Hongjoong stopped in front of the professor’s podium and hauled himself up until he was sitting on it. He crossed his legs and finally zeroed his sharp gaze on you. Then his eyes flickered towards Yunho. “Well, get it over already. I’ve got better things to do than doling out punishment to the dumb.”

Yunho’s hand on your mouth left to dig around in your shoulder bag until he found the plastic container where you kept your failed creation. “Say ‘ah’!” Yunho instructed.

Your eyes were back on Hongjoong, who was scrolling on his phone now.

“I raised my GPA. I'm doing better. I can do better! We don't need to do this!” You insisted.

“If I don’t come through with the punishment then you’ll never get better.” Hongjoong raised his eyes off the screen of his phone and looked back at you. “Don't pretend like you're not already wet.”

Your shoulders drooped in defeat. You opened your mouth and stuck out your tongue. Yunho deftly pulled a paper-thin square from the plastic container and pressed it to your tongue. You brought your tongue into your mouth and closed your lips, but Yunho’s fingers remained, trapping the drug on your tongue. It melted the minute it touched moisture regardless but you figured by now that Yunho had an oral fixation.

It wasn't long before your pupils dilated and your body was prepped for sex. You had attempted to make a drug that tapped into your intellect, made it easier to study and perform tests. But you had tapped into your libido instead.

It wasn’t bad enough that Hongjoong found out that you were selling the drug in exchange for other students to do your homework without his permission. Even worse, he found out the drug's properties. That’s when he found you the first time, alone in the science center’s chem lab, demanding you show just how good your drug is. Of course, it was below him to fuck you himself. But Yunho…

“Yunho has a thing for dumb sluts,” Hongjoong said derisively.

You despised Yunho. He was good at everything. Including sex. The first time Yunho had to pin you down on the chem lab bench, cheeks smooshed against the cool marble. You wanted to fight. But you were afraid of pissing off the two most powerful guys in the university. They had the power to make your life an even more of a living hell than it already was.

And besides… Yunho had fucked you good. He hadn't even needed to touch your clit. He made you come untouched. No man had ever done that before. You weren’t exactly happy it was Yunho that taught you such pleasures, drug or no.

You braced yourself against the podium, hands on Hongjoong’s legs, preparing for the fuck of your life. Hongjoong lifted a corner of his lip in a sneer. “Lay on the floor, Yunho. I want her to fuck you. That’ll be more punishment for her, to do all the work herself. Seeing as how she can’t do enough work to get our classes average up.”

Yunho shrugged his broad shoulders and laid down on the floor in front of the podium. His long fingers deftly undid his belt and he was shoving his jeans down to his thighs. He stroked himself while he waited for you.

You sighed and took your thong off from under your short skirt. You gave it to Hongjoong, whose hand was already open and waiting for it. He took your underwear last time, saying it was the only way to keep track of how many times they’ve had to punish you. Then you maneuvered until you were straddling Yunho, facing him.

“Not that way, you idiot! You think I just want to see your ass? Turn around. I want the full view,” Hongjoong snapped.

Your face and chest heated up in embarrassment. Hongjoong made you feel so dumb. You turned around and put your hands on Yunho’s thighs to get ready. You raised your ass as Yunho directed his cockhead to your indeed wet lower lips. You bit on your lip as he rubbed himself against you.

“Look at you. Dick’s not even in you and you’re already anticipating,” Hongjoong clucked his tongue again.

Yunho suddenly thrusted upwards and was enveloped in your tight, wet heat. “The drug’s still holding true,” Yunho grunted.

“Good.” Hongjoong leaned forward, an elbow on his knee, eyes eager for the show.

You cried out as Yunho set a drilling pace, hitting the end of you each and every time he fucked up into you. You quickly began to work your hips, slamming downwards to meet Yunho’s thrusts, otherwise Hongjoong would complain that you weren’t working hard enough.

“That’s it, such an eager slut for that cock, aren’t you?” Hongjoong purred.

The fact that the side effect of the drug you had created to purposely make you sharper actually had you dumb around a man’s cock you despised didn’t go over your head. But you truly had an empty head, only the feeling of your cunt being fucked good by Yunho and the pleasure it created.

“She’s dripping down my balls,” Yunho said in a tone that sounded like wonder but couldn't be. The man always had his hood up, his mask on, and a sharp push for you.

“I swear to Einstein's theory that if she created the woman’s version of Viagra accidentally I’m going to throw up,” Hongjoong said with an eyeroll.

Yunho’s hands dug into your hips, holding you in place so that he could keep the pace that he wanted. You were plenty happy to remain in this position until you found your orgasm but Hongjoong was an impatient fucker.

He checked his phone and then hopped off the podium. “I’ve got class in twenty. Let’s finish this so I can go get an iced americano.”

You watched with wide eyes as he began to undo the button to his shorts. He smirked. “Seeing as how it’s taking you so long to come, sounds like you need all your holes filled, huh?”

You shook your head, trying to lean back but Yunho simply sat up to stop you. “I’ll help her out.”

Yunho dipped two fingers into your wetness, his cock still sliding in and out of you seamlessly. With the wet digits, he rubbed your clit hard and you fell back against his shoulder with the pleasure of it all.

Hongjoong grabbed a fistful of your hair to get you ready for his thick cock. He shoved it unceremoniously into your mouth and you moaned as it passed over your tongue. Maybe you were the one with the oral fixation???

“That’s it,” Hongjoong murmured, pumping himself into your eager mouth. “This is where you belong, isn’t it? Just a fucktoy for the rest of us with brains to use. You shouldn’t be in a classroom, you should just be a cum bucket for all of us. What do you think, hmm? Wanna drop out and give us the formula to your drug? At least you wouldn't be struggling.”

Anyone dumb enough to not understand how much Hongjoong was looking to take away from you would have agreed to that. You made non-commitmental noises as your tongue swirled around the head of his cock when he pulled out.

Then, true to Hongjoong’s theory, you came undone with the untold pleasures given to you. You screamed around Hongjoong’s cock as your walls clamped down on Yunho’s. Yunho let out a loud moan as he released inside of you, not a condom in sight.

And when you were panting and Yunho’s cum dripping out of you, Hongjoong held your head as he face fucked you. His cock made you choke and tears streamed down your face. He came down your throat, holding you against his pelvis until he was done.

Only then did he release you, gasping and coughing, to slump against Yunho once more.

You despised the pat to your hip from Yunho, whether it was to comfort you or to tell you nonverbally it was a job well done. You despised yourself more for coming undone for these two bullies.

“You've got a chemistry midterm coming up. Surely you can do well in the one apparent subject you're allegedly good at?” Hongjoong said while tucking himself back into his shorts.

Yunho pushed your shoulder to get you off him and you fell over onto your face. You barely caught yourself before you broke your nose. Yunho laughed under his breath as he dressed himself. “Doubt it. She couldn't even create a drug to get her out of her current situation.”

This time, ugly tears of embarrassment pooled up in your eyes. “I'll ace it. Just watch,” You said through gritted teeth.

“What's that?” When you looked up, Hongjoong had his head cocked curiously.

You plastered on a simmering smile. “Why would I do better if I just get to come?”

Hongjoong narrowed his eyes down at you. You could see the gears turning in his head; the future revealing itself with several forks. Then he grinned triumphantly. “See you later, Loser.”

Yunho let out a mean cackle, his head thrown back and his hood momentarily thrown off as he followed Hongjoong out.

Who knows what Hongjoong had decided or planned. You knew it wasn't good for you, either way.

Why in the world did you live during an era when the nerds ruled the world and were making your life a living hell?

[maunologue]

𝙎𝙏𝙊𝙇𝙀𝙉 𝙈𝙊𝙈𝙀𝙉𝙏𝙎

𝘀𝘆𝗻𝗼𝗽𝘀𝗶𝘀 — he thought bringing his girlfriend to practice meant more time with her, until his members stole the spotlight.

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 — park jisung x female reader

𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲 — fluff

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁 — 894

your boyfriend has been busy these past few weeks preparing for their upcoming concert. he often comes home late due to endless rehearsals, back to back shootings, and late night recordings. by the time he gets home, exhaustion is already written all over his face. however, one thing about jisung is that he always makes sure that not a single day goes by without the two of you talking. whether it’s a quick call on his way to the studio, a short text just to say he misses you, or a little facetime call before going to bed.

and today, they have a practice at the stadium where they will be performing. he can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt knowing he can’t spend time with you because of his hectic schedule. at the same time, he’s missing you more than usual. which is why he wants you to come to their practice today.

at exactly 7 in the morning, jisung arrives at your place, carrying a paper bag.

“good morning, pretty,” he says softly, pressing a quick kiss on your lips before stepping back. “i thought you might need some fuel before starting your day.”

you blinked, surprised by his arrival. “good morning… don’t you have rehearsals today?”

jisung grins, “we do, actually.”

“why are you here then?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

he shrugs, eyes twinkling as he steps a little closer. “i actually wanted to ask you something…”

he carefully wraps his arms around your waist from behind, resting his chin lightly on your shoulder. you can feel the warmth of his breath on your ear.

you instinctively lace your fingers around his hands, holding them gently. “what is it?”

“would you come with me to rehearsal today?” he asks, the words muffled slightly against your hair. “it’s your day off and i really want to spend time with you…”

“the members miss you too,” he added.

you can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. the way he holds you, the warmth of his body against yours, and the soft sounds of his voice makes it impossible to say no—though you had no intention of saying no.

“alright,” you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his hand. “i’ll come with you.”

“you have no idea how happy that makes me,” he murmurs.

you nudge him lightly. “and what if i said no?”

he stiffens for a moment, pretending to think, then smirks. “then i’d probably have to carry you there myself,” he teases, giving your waist a gentle squeeze.

you laugh, “oh, really? you think you could manage that?”

“absolutely,” he answered with mocked confidence. “now, come on. let’s eat before i force you to carry me instead.”

when the two of you arrive at the stadium, the members immediately recognize you and come over to greet you warmly. but before the greetings can go on any longer, the choreographer calls everyone over to start the practice.

this is not your first time, but watching jisung in his element fills you with a warm, almost fluttering feeling. even from a distance, your chest tightens at how dedicated he is, how effortlessly he carries himself despite the early morning rehearsal.

when the choreographer finally calls for a ten minute break, the boys scatter—some grab their water bottles, others flop on the floor. jisung walks over to you right away, wiping the sweat from his neck with a towel.

“tiring, huh?” you say, smiling as you hand him his water bottle.

he exhales a laugh, leaning slightly against your shoulder. “you have no idea.”

you grin, “you still look good though.”

he shakes his head, laughing softly. “you always know exactly what to say, huh?”

before you can say anything else, renjun suddenly calls out. “you have to film a tiktok with us! it will take two minutes, promise.”

you didn’t even have the chance to protest before someone’s already showing you the dance challenge that they want to film with you. they replayed the video a few times, explaining and copying the moves before actually filming it.

“okay, that’s a wrap!” haechan says after a few takes, clapping like a proud director.

“at this rate, you can replace jisung on our next comeback,” chenle teases.

the members burst out laughing.

“oh, really?” jisung says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “can i borrow my girlfriend now or should i book an appointment?”

haechan smirks, “go ahead, lover boy. five minutes max!”

the others couldn’t help but laugh at haechan’s teasing, while jisung just rolled his eyes before tugging you away from his members.

you giggled when you saw his sulking face, “they were just having fun, ji.”

“i know… i just wanted to spend our break with you.”

your heart warms at his honesty. you step closer, slipping your fingers between his. “you’re getting clingy.”

he shrugs, a shy smile forming. “three years in, i think i’m allowed.”

you rolled your eyes, but your lips smiled anyway. jisung chuckles under his breath, then reaches out to brush a stray strand of hair away from your face. your heart skips a beat, and before you can tease him back, he leans in and presses a soft kiss to your forehead. for a moment, the world suddenly feels soft. the noise, the lights, and the tiredness fades away, leaving only the two of you.

𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗮𝗸𝗲𝗿’𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲 — inspired by chasing summer! i really enjoy writing fluff these days... anyway, thank you for reading. ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡

[iclimbjungwon]

[chew toy] — nicholas wang

genre ㆍㆍ smut

description ㆍㆍsucking on the charm of nicholas’ chain while he fucks you ───── contains mentions of breeding, oral fixation, tummy swelling, dadanicho

⿻ vi’s note ㆍㆍSEALNON. SEALNON CAN U HEAR ME. it’s him. my life cannot function properly without dadanicho . iclimbnicho omg who said that?? must’ve been the wind

you’ve never been deft in mastering the art of maintaining eye contact with nicho — unless, of course, he’s looming above you, reeling your eyes toward his own with nothing more than the unspoken ‘don’t take your eyes off me’ beneath his gaze. not that a command from him ever required words, as you are deft in the subject of understanding how he’ll command you next before the breath of it even reaches his lips. in the current moment, the steel within his eyes was just as hard as the steel of his necklace’s charm, dangling atop your lips. and just as hard as his cock, which was embarking on a languid journey inside of you. a journey spurred by the forward surgence, and backward withdraw of his hips.

“that’s it, baby. let me see those pretty eyes,” the pattern of his hips continues, though now accompanied by pressured snaps against your skin as he hastens the pace. “you like that? come on, i need your words baby.”

ever the usual tease from him. spoken in such spite of the relentless gasps and moans emerging from your throat, and the frantic dig of your nails into his shoulders — as though the cues alone didn’t suffice in communicating just how much you ‘liked’ his current treatment of you.

“like… like it, weno… love you, weno,” each syllable escapes you in sounds hardly distinguishable from your raptured cries. though just as they do, the lock shaped charm of his necklace takes full advantage of the open space you’ve disclosed, abandoning its comfort atop your lips and resting upon your tongue instead. pure instinct encourages you, almost as if it were reflex — or more accurately, by autonomy — and you welcome the metal with a gentle envelopment, gentle suckle of your mouth. as you see it, a hug is the only appropriate way to ignite that welcome feeling — and as nicholas has taught you, anything from him should receive the same hospitality, only from your mouth instead. whether it’s his fingers, his cock, his belt — if he’s bringing it to your mouth, you see it as encouragement to suck. you’re only doing what you know.

“i know you do, baby. i love you.”

that beautifully low, graveled tone of his sends a gentle chuckle toward your face in a huff. as his hand abandons the safety of the blankets beneath you, it cascades along your forearm before ending its travels with an embrace of your own hand. his lips cuddle your palm in a tender kiss, the tension it received from clinging to his shoulder dispersing upon contact. the metal upon his rings shrouds you in such comforting familiarity, mimicking the metal within your mouth. regardless of the cold, all your body truly seems to recognize is the warmth accompanying it — a reminder of the safety adorning every facet of him, laced into every thread of every entwinement of the bond you share.

“mmm… you’re adorable. how’s it taste, baby? you always need your mouth full, don’t you?”

the snap, snap, snapping of his hips refuses to cease, each movement cloaked in a precision that only practice could forge. he pistons with such control, such measured intent, you find difficulty in absorbing the fact that it’s instinct for him — or at least you would, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s dedicated years to reaching expertise in the subject of your pleasure. in that subject, he’s certainly a seasoned veteran.

he leans closer, the silk of his cheek nearly fusing with yours in a gentle caress. by result of his movements, the steel charm shifts in your mouth, though still remains enclosed by your lips. his lips nestle against your ear, the contact and proximity urging a soft shudder to travel through you, ripples of your skin in tow. he notices — just as he does with even the most discreet reactions your body offers in response to him.

“you love it when i fuck you like this? you like showing me love with that pretty mouth?” he insists on teasing you in that signature deep inflection, even with the knowledge that you cannot mutter a single syllable with your mouth full, nor could you navigate through your moans to offer a single word aside from a narrow mutter of his name. the breath behind his voice seemed to cloak you ear — it only seemed to send you further into manic descent, for the fact that it seemed to decrease so drastically in volume while speaking to you, from the pressure of the intimacy and the squeeze of your pussy which only seemed to tighten around him with the constriction of a vine as he spoke.

“fuck, you do like it baby. squeezing my dick so fucking hard,” his eyes relent to the pleasure as they narrow for a moment, the furrow of his brows urging them to close. as they open, they only muster the strength to gaze upon you with half of their full potential, his lids hooded. “who am i, hm? who am i, baby?

the sudden command woven into his words seems encouraged by the sudden increase in the bliss your pussy gives him — as does the sudden escalation in the pressure behind each thrust, kneading the spot within you that causes the sparks of pleasure to flare even further with each pass of his hefty tip. though even with such a staggering distraction, you still know exactly what he’s asking of you.

the lock-shaped charm spills from your lips, stumbling along your cheek with gentle bounces as it endures the plows of his hips rattling each bit of you. the moisture of your own saliva adorns your face, glistening upon each patch of skin the charm makes contact with.

“daddy! my daddy… weno, my daddy…”

the gravel behind his beautiful voice only intensifies as it shapes into a groan, even through his attempt to conceal it within your mouth as he kissed you. his lips tug themselves from the plush of your own, though not with enough distance to part them entirely — with each syllable that passes his tongue, his lips prod yours with the ease of a petal.

“mhm… mhm, that’s right, baby,” he ushers his head to dance with a subtle nod, the huff behind his words increasing in succession, though still remaining gentle. his brows travel closer as though magnetized, and his expression morphs as his cheek creases from the nudge of his lips — they parted enough to disclose a glimpse of those teeth which you’ve always adored. just as you adored the manner in which the absolute delight performed along his features.

“ah fuck… come on, baby… you’re almost there, i got you.”

the encouragements propel you further toward the destination you were always guaranteed to reach when he had you. even in the absence of his words, you knew he was beginning to reach the peak, just as you were — the slight distraction behind his words has become distinct to you. though even as his own pleasure distracted him, he still trained his focus to the task of amplifying yours.

that, he certainly does. as though the graze of his lower abdomen against your clit wasn’t enough to offer you more than an abundance of pleasure, his hand abandons its hold on your own as he tasks his thumb with providing you incessant circles there. each pump of his hips sends you closer toward the direction of your inescapable bliss — it’s never up for debate with nicho, though you’d never want to escape it anyway. each of his movements prove his strength, his virility to you — though even with the movements, every facet of him made you so aware of both traits.

you cum, spiraling into an ascent of immobilizing rapture which never became simpler to process, no matter the number of times he’s sent you toward it. your body can only devolve into a descent of strained, unbridled cries, jolts, and shudders as his hand settles you with its warm pressure on your tummy — a presence which anchors you, secures you onto the surface of earth — because you’d certainly sail high enough to roam the domains of heaven without it — and more importantly reminds you of your own presence in the moment with him.

“you’re okay… you’re okay, baby… my beautiful, beautiful girl.”

the phrase brings the surge of his own orgasm, and his lips chase yours once more, pouring the heftier portions of his groans into your mouth as their demand to escape his throat becomes much too insistent to resist any longer. his cock jolts, pulses inside of you, battling against the constrictive latch of your pussy as you seem to lock him into position, prohibiting him from doing anything other than remaining nestled exactly where he is. though he knows it’s not voluntary, and regardless, it’s a lock he’d never even want the passcode for. he’s more than elated to be where he is.

the gushes of his release fill your womb, satiating the yearning you hold towards all of his liquids. your tummy swells with the overabundance he pours into you, obscuring the otherwise unmistakable shape of his cock sculpting your skin into a mold of him.

the silk of his lips meet yours once more, remaining stubborn until they retreat with reluctance to allow the space for his words to reach you, his palm meeting your cheek with sways of his thumb as it does. “i take it you like my necklace, baby. or is it just that you like having my things in your mouth?”

a chuckle from him joins the air as he admires your pout in fond annoyance. of course, he knew the answer, though he also knew the directions to arrive upon that reaction. “shut up.”

“it’s alright, baby. i’ll always keep your mouth full.”

[97latte]

request for vernon high sex drive but like make it nonchalant but it becomes too high he just breaks??

high sex drive!vernon headcanons

high sex drive!vernon is suuuuuper nonchalant. like maybe sometimes too nonchalant. to a point where it seems like his willpower is godlike—but in reality, it is not.

high sex drive!vernon doesn’t seem to bat an eye when you wear those short, short skirts of yours, when he “accidentally” catches you naked after your shower.

high sex drive!vernon lets you have your way during sex, letting you dictate whether you want to be on top, or be a pillow princess for the night. it seems that he simply does not care.

high sex drive!vernon, in truth, has been holding back his sex drive and his sexual fantasies from you.

high sex drive!vernon who clenches his fists so hard in his jean pockets when he sees you in those skirts. Oh how he just wanted to bend you over the dinner table and fuck you raw in front of all of your friends.

high sex drive!vernon who tries so hard to keep the image of your naked body burnt in his brain for days so when he is fucking his fist for the third time that day, he can pretend he’s cumming deep inside of your gummy walls again and again.

high sex drive!vernon who simply just cannot hold himself back anymore. he sees you get up to shower off his cum off of your back and his cock twitches—a signal that he is not done, yet.

high sex drive!vernon who has your arms pinned behind your back as he pistons himself in and out of your pussy, grunting and breathing raggedly in your ear. “fuck—you have no idea how much i’ve been holding myself back from fucking you like this. breaking you like this.”

high sex drive!vernon who cums for the second time, now making it a point to do so inside of you so he can watch it ooze out of your swollen lips as he roughly jacks himself off. he’d use his middle finger to scoop up the dripping cum, then pushing it right back into you again.

high sex drive!vernon who instructs you on how to move your hips as your knees give out from beneath you. he’d let out a moan when your sloppy movements rub his cock just right - gripping your hips hard as he tried to recreate that sensation without asking too much from you. he’s pinching your nipples, caressing your cheek, smacking your ass—his hands never leave your body.

high sex drive!vernon who feels his high coming for the third time and gets a little whiny. “y’gonna milk me dry baby? you gonna let me fill you up again?” he’s making eye contact with you, eyebrows scrunched up slightly, lips parted in breathy moans. pulls you down to messily make out with him as he filled you up for the second time.

high sex drive!vernon who is panting now, both of you slumped on top of your wet bed sheets—“fuck, i’m hard again.”

a/n: why is he so goddamn hot???!!! also i did not proofread this 😌 ty for the request, i had so much fun with this one 😛 <33

[notnctu]

ridin’ club: dream series 🏎

welcome to the street racing club of mischief and devious schemes! you’re about to embark on a series of the wildest adventures at lightning speed. Late night drives with maxed out speedometers, better sit back and buckle up your seat belt! because this is a ride with no brakes, skrrt skrrt

a nct dream ‘00 line smut series 💨

genre ➠ smut/mature content series, pwp (kinda?), dark themes, angst, fluff?

details ➠ streetracer!au, badboy!au, college!au, flirt!dreamies (a lot of sensual tension), very teenage dirtbag vibez, leather jacket wearing men

warnings ➠ explicit/vulgar language, smut themes, toxic behavior, mentions of violence, illegal stuff, alcohol consumption, drugs, close to death experiences???

a/n ➠ this is author doie ❀!! each story is not connected lol you can fuck each of them if u wanted to. this was originally for aesthetic/play on words purposes (& jaemin in a leather jacket makes me nut) but like now ive taken it too far (like every joke we make on here). honestly its just a lot of car sexy time and crudeness. warnings will be continuously updated as i start writing. cannot guarantee i will upload in this order lol let me know if i should make a tag list???

BACKSEAT CHRONICLES - na jaemin

“You guys probably fuck in the backseat of his car.”

“Why don’t you stay to find out?”

━ details: where Jaemin brings you to his club races as his arm candy.

━ warnings: explicit language, overstimulation, flirty banter, pet names, softdom!jaemin, car sex, praise kink, hittin it raw (y/n on the pill), oral, fingering, slight corruption kink, daddy kink

━ synopsis: There is no reasonable explanation as to why or how you always end up in the backseat of Na Jaemin’s beloved car. Almost routinely, he picks you up around ten in the evening with the stereo blasting the raunchiest lyrics for your entire suburban neighborhood to hear. The entire night remains purely friendly, a dabble of flirtatious comments because well, it’s Jaemin for fuck sakes. But all it takes is one suggestive gaze from his dark, lustful eyes and a drop in his voice that rumbles your core to have you climbing over the seats to get to the back.

━ status: drive

SWITCHIN’ LANES - lee jeno

“Stay in your lane, Jeno.”

“But your’s seems much more fun.”

━ details: where you and jeno are in a relationship, but not with each other.

━ warnings: explicit language, cheating, flirty banter, pet names, alcohol consumption, mentions of drugs, yall at a party, physical fighting (not with you), mentions of cuts/bruises, fingering, public dry humping

━ synopsis: If your boyfriend didn’t decide to join such a stupid unofficial club, then maybe you wouldn’t be in such a sticky situation where Lee Jeno is literally knuckles deep in your sticky situation as he drives you home. Or maybe if your boyfriend actually touched you, then you wouldn’t be seeking it from someone else, who can’t keep his hands off of you.

━ status: drive

SHIFT GEARS - huang renjun

“Can you drive?! It’s not bumper cars out here.”

“No, because I’d rather be bumping something else.”

━ details: where you and renjun hate each other’s guts, but still want to fuck the shit out each other.

━ warnings: explicit language, hate fucking, renjun is a little mean, degradation kink, choking kink, oral receiving and giving, dom!renjun, public sex, clothed sex, big dick renjun

━ synopsis: The main goal of joining the club is to make friends who share your same enjoyment of racing, but Huang Renjun will not let you live. The self proclaimed best racer is nothing, but good at shifting gears quickly because he’s the only one who drives stick shift. Competitiveness has never been in your nature, but you’d do anything to shut him up — even if it means kissing him.

━ status: drive

SLIDE THRU - lee haechan

brattychan: want me to slide thru?

you: why do you sound like a fuckboy?

brattychan: oh, so suddenly, i’m ur type…

━ details: where you and haechan are best friends with very heavy sexual tension.

━ warnings: explicit language, flirty banter, name calling, hickeys, bratty af, hair pulling, oral, brief moment of public sex, a lot of teasing, possessiveness, switch!haechan, slight degradation kink, spanking

━ synopsis: Lee Donghyuck, goes by Lee Haechan, is your literal ride or die. From high school to college, you two are best friends for the long run. While your relationship has always been platonic, there is something about the wind in his brown locks and the thrills drawing donuts in an empty parking lot that causes butterflies to jump down below. Have you always been attracted to him or did he finally grow up to be your type?

━ status: drive

[notnctu]

slide thru - l.hc | ridin’ club

━ welcome to the ridin’ club smut series

genre ➠ slow burn, ya dis one actually has some plot, smut, fluff? wordcount ➠ 9.3k details ➠  fem!reader, streetracer!haechan, badboy!haechan, college!au ━ where you and haechan are best friends with very heavy sexual tension. warnings ➠ explicit language, flirty banter, name calling, hickeys, bratty af, hair pulling, oral (deep throat), brief moment of public sex, a lot of teasing, possessiveness, switch!haechan, slight degradation kink, spanking synopsis ➠ Lee Donghyuck, goes by Lee Haechan, is your literal ride or die. From high school to college, you two are best friends for the long run. While your relationship has always been platonic, there is something about the wind in his brown locks and the thrills drawing donuts in an empty parking lot that causes butterflies to jump down below. Have you always been attracted to him or did he finally grow up to be your type? taglist ➠ @rabbit-doyochi​​ ; @darkneogotmyback​​ ; @im-lame-irl​​ ; @p-mini​​ ; @niniluvsmarkhyuck​​ ; @saniahmichael​​ ; @jaehy9ngs​​ ; @danyxthirstae01​​ ; @jaehyunoos​​ ; @pikijaemin​​ ; @suhweo​​ ; @dearlyminhyung​​ ; @yunoyeol​​ ; @lanadreamie​​ ; @ta3ilmoon​​ ; @legendnct​​

a/n ➠ hi yall its author doie❀!! THIS ONE IS FLITHY YALL i need to cleanse my soul after writing this omgg !! also heres my attempt at writing dirty talk yikes yall already know, feedback is highly appreciated esp after getting so much attention for this series (which i am more than grateful for and happy about), i do hope people can leave me something motivating! i am struggling to finish these long fics lmao

Stupid Lee fucking Haechan. Haechan pulls up sheepishly and rolls down the passenger window to reveal your crossed arm stance and very agitated expression. “Look who finally decided to show up.”

Keep reading

[daemour]

◇Pairing: tyrant emperor! Wooyoung x advisor! gn! Reader

◇Genre: royal au, angst, hurt/no comfort, toxic relationship, M for mature

◇Warnings: Wooyoung hurts the reader (not super graphic, just grabbing and throwing them into an armchair so they sit down), manipulation, mention of death and war, brief implication of sex but not shown or spoken about after that.

◇Word count: 2362

◇Summary: Wooyoung has changed. You don’t recognise him.

This is part of a deal with @sanjoongie ! An attempt to get me out of writing block (I wrote all the fics within 1 week of the deadline because I am big dumb)

-

The council chamber reeks of sickly-sweet incense. Golden torches flicker against the carved stone walls, throwing Emperor Wooyoung’s shadow long and jagged across the floor, as if the room itself bows to him. He lounges on his throne with a predator’s ease, wine-dark silk spilling around him like blood, and his smile sharp enough to cut.

“You hesitate again,” he murmurs, eyes narrowing on his most trusted advisor, you. The one voice in the empire who dared speak against him, the one he could never bear to silence. The one who stood by him since he was a mere farm boy ready to die for his land that was ravaged by a king who cared for none of it. “Tell me, do you mistake caution for wisdom? Or are you simply too afraid to admit that I am right?”

Your lips part, but Wooyoung is already rising, every movement deliberate. He steps down from the dais, closing the distance until there is barely a breath of space between you. Silently, the council filters out of the room, knowing they would be killed if they dared wait a moment longer.

“War is not madness,” Wooyoung continues, his voice low and coaxing, almost tender. “It is inevitable. It is the fire that will burn away the rot choking this world. And I—” his gaze softens “—I want you to be at my side when the flames begin.”

You frown. “But Your Highness, this war is not necessary. We have a strong, faithful alliance. A war would break trust.”

The emperor’s eyes flash dangerously at your words, a muscle twitching in his jaw. In an instant, the tender look vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating stare. “Trust breeds complacency, YN. Our strength has made us soft, forgetful of what it takes to maintain power.” He turns to pace, each step measured and purposeful. “Those alliances are chains, binding us to the whims of lesser men. War will remind everyone why they fear our name. Why they need us.”

Wooyoung stops abruptly, whirling to face you again. His gaze rakes over you, possessive and assessing. “You question me because you lack vision. But I see the future clearly—an empire forged in blood and fire, with me as its unchallenged master. And you…” his voice drops to a purr. “You will stand beside me as we reshape the world. Your mind, your counsel, they are tools I cannot afford to lose.” His long, slender fingers brush along your jawline with deceptive gentleness. “Don’t fight it, YN. Embrace your place at my side.”

Your hands curl into your heavy robes. “A war waged in hunger will not unite the empire—it will break it. How many lives must burn to satisfy inevitability?” you ask quietly. “The empire is prosperous.”

Wooyoung’s laughter echoes through the chamber, a sound both familiar and terrifyingly foreign now. One hand reaches up to cup your cheek, forcing your attention back to him. “Prosperity,” he scoffs, pulling away just as quickly, turning to the window where blood red light spills over distant mountains from the setting sun. “Prosperity is an illusion, painted by those who profit. If the countries are ours, we will not have to rely on other men.”

His words grow smoother, laced with venom as he whispers, “But tell me, advisor—you’ve always had such faith in the kindness of men. What makes you believe the other kingdoms’ alliances aren't merely a shield behind which they plot betrayal? They wait, watching.”

“Your Highness,” you swallow hard, trying to find the right words. “I know there are those who would seek to undermine you. But war breeds nothing but more enemies. If we take over their kingdom, they will hold more resentment. Keeping away from war will protect you in the long run.”

Your voice trails off as you see the hardening glint in his eyes, and you step closer, reaching out hesitantly. “Wooyoung, please. Remember why you fought in the first place. To make things better, not to destroy what’s left.” Your touch barely grazes his arm before he jerks away, as though burned. His jaw clenches tight, as if he is a caged beast sensing weakness. For a moment, raw fury flashes beneath the mast. But then, just as swiftly, it vanishes, replaced by something colder than ice.

“Why did I fight?” he repeats softly, stepping back into the shadows cast by towering tapestries. “For power? No. For justice? Not anymore.” His fingers tighten around empty air. “And certainly not for some hollow ideal of ‘better’.”

He turns sharply, face half-hidden in darkness. “You talk too much about the past, YN. Too much about remembering who I once was. But people change.”

And somehow, that hurts more than anything else. “I…” your voice trails off. “Then I believe my time working with you is over, Wooyoung. I cannot, in good conscience, sit idly by.”

Silence falls thick and heavy. Then, his entire body tenses. Not in anger, but in something darker, more calculated. A slow, predatory smile spreads across his face, teeth glinting in the dim light like knives ready to strike. “Oh, no,” he hums, circling slowly, arms spread wide as if welcoming you to a trap. “That can’t be true, can it? After everything we’ve built together? All the secrets shared under moonlight? All the whispers exchanged late into the night?” His steps stop inches from you, breath warm against your skin. “You wouldn’t leave me alone now, would you,

sweetheart?”

You shudder at his closeness, at the promise in his words. “Those were different times, before the weight of the crown changed you. This path you’re choosing, it leads to ruin. For yourself, for the empire,” you manage to say, voice trembling slightly despite your best efforts. “Please Wooyoung. I don’t want to abandon our dream, but…but if I must, then I will.”

His expression shifts subtly, pupils dilating. For a heartbeat, there’s a flash of something vulnerable again, something human buried deep beneath layers of manipulation and cruelty. Then it’s gone before you can blink, swallowed whole by whatever monster has taken root inside of him.

“I’m not asking for permission,” he growls, grabbing your wrist with bruising force. “You’re mine, whether you realise it or not. And I don’t let go of what belongs to me. Not ever.” His grip tightens painfully, knuckles whitening against your skin.

You gasp in shock at his sudden roughness. “Wooyoung! You’re hurting me!” you try to pull away, but his grip is like iron. “Please, you have to listen to reason! This isn’t you—the man I fell in love with would never—” You break off your words, your free hand coming up to cover your mouth. In that moment, seeing the cold, possessive look in his eyes, you’re truly terrified of how far he’s fallen from the man he used to be.

Wooyoung doesn’t say anything at first. His thumb presses cruelly into the pulse point of your wrist, feeling the frantic beat of your lifeblood. The action sends painful pressure up your arm, but he doesn’t release you, instead savouring the way your flesh will bruise beneath his grasp. “That man,” he says flatly, dragging you closer until your bodies press flush against each other. “That man died years ago. Just like everyone else who thought they knew me. Don’t pretend you loved anything real.” His other hand lifts to trace your cheekbone, fingertips trailing across your skin.

You shake your head frantically, fresh tears springing to your eyes at his cruel words. “No, that’s not true. I loved you, the real you. The kind, compassionate man who wanted to help people!” You summon your courage and meet his gaze defiantly. “You may have changed, but I haven’t. I still care about you, even now. Even like this.”

A harsh laugh escapes Wooyoung, devoid of warmth or amusement. His fingers dig deeper into your skin, scraping painfully against your skin. “There’s nothing good left,” he sneers, leaning in to hiss into your ear. “Only the strong survive, and I’ve become stronger than anyone could imagine. Stronger than you ever believed possible.”

His hand releases your wrist abruptly, sending you stumbling back a step. As you catch your balance, he crowds you once more. “You should be grateful,” he continues, voice low and menacing. “Grateful that I allow you to serve me still, that I permit you to share my bed. You’re nothing without me, YN. Nothing at all.”

You stagger back until you hit the wall, trapped between cold stone and his seething presence as you stare up at him in despair. “I won’t be your prisoner,” you whisper hoarsely, shaking your head. “I won’t let you twist me into someone I’m not. If serving you means losing myself, then I chose to leave.”

With a burst of desperate strength, you shove past him, ignoring the way he reaches for you. You stumble for the door to your chambers in desperation, for a reprieve of the nightmare version of the man you once loved. But you don’t get far. Wooyoung’s hand slams against the doorframe mere inches from your fleeing form, blocking your escape. The wood splinters beneath his grip, shards raining down onto the marble floor. “Leave?” he echoes, incredulity dripping from his tone. “You think you can just walk away after everything we’ve shared? After all I’ve given you?”

His gaze rakes over your trembling figure, drinking in the sight of your unshed tears, your fear, your defiance. A twisted smile curls his lips. “No, my dear advisor. You belong to me. Body and soul.” With a vicious tug, he drags you down to your room. “You won’t see the light of day for as long as you continue these treacherous thoughts, YN. You’re mine.”

The heavy wooden doors slam shut behind you as Wooyoung throws you into your chambers, the rooms almost as opulent as his, but like a gilded cage now. The faint glow of candles scattered throughout casts eerie shadows on the walls, making the furnishings seem sinister and foreboding.

Wooyoung hauls you across the room, your feet scrambling uselessly against the plush carpet as you struggle to stay upright. “Wooyoung, please,” you sob as he shoves you down into the armchair, “Youngah. Please…don’t do this to me. Don’t keep me here. If you love me—if you ever loved me, let me go.”

Wooyoung’s breath hitches, just for a fraction of a second—an imperceptible crack in the armour he’s built around himself. “You…you still call me that. After all these years. After everything I’ve done.” He leans down, capturing you between his arms. “Do you know what that meant to me? Before the crown, before the rebellion, before…”

His gaze snaps back to you, sharp and hungry once more. “You think you can toy with me like this? Play on the past to soften my resolve?” He leans in close until his breath ghosts over your lips. Any other day in the past, this would have made you exhilarated. But now, you just recoil, pressing back against the chair, trying to put as much distance between you as possible.

“Wooyoung, please. I’m scared, okay. Scared of what you will do. You’re not thinking clearly, not acting like the man I once knew. This obsession with power, conquest…it’s destroying you, destroying us.” Your voice cracks on the last word, the weight of your desperation and sorrow threatening to consume you. “I love you, Wooyoung. Please don’t take that away from me.”

Tentatively, you place a hand on his shoulder in a futile attempt to calm him. Although his

muscles tense, he remains still, frozen by the sheer audacity of your words, the raw emotion

pouring from your voice. For a long, aching moment, he simply stares at you, his expression an impenetrable mask. Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, his shoulders begin to tremble. At first, you think it’s with rage, but as the seconds tick by, you realise he’s laughing. A silent, mirthless laugh that shakes his entire frame.

“Love me?” he finally manages, voice rough with disuse. “You dare speak of love when I am drowning in blood and betrayal?”

You let out a soft breath. “I…I don’t know all of what you’ve seen, what you’ve lost,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “You’ve saved me from those realities. But I’ve seen the man you used to be. The one who cared, fought for others.” Your hands tremble as you grip his arm tightly. “I want to keep fighting for you, Wooyoung.”

His laughter dies as suddenly as it began, leaving behind a heavy, suffocating silence. For a long moment, he remains utterly still, hardly seeming to breathe. Then, with a movement so swift it’s nearly a blur, he grabs your wrists and throws them off himself. “You foolish girl,” he hisses, face inches from yours. “Still clinging to hope, to faith in a man who ceased to exist long ago. I am not the farm boy you once knew. I am the emperor, and I will do whatever it takes to maintain my power.”

And yet, even as he speaks, you feel a tremor run through him, a second of hesitation. His eyes search yours, dark and fathomless, as if seeking something long lost. And his gaze remains, even as he backs away from you.

“You…you will stay here until you see reason. That war is inevitable,” he mutters soullessly, as if convincing himself. “Do not defy me again.”

With that, he slams the door shut behind him, leaving you in your room alone. You don’t know what will happen, and you don’t know when you will see him again. But a spark of hope ignites in you.

You had seen it. Even for just a moment, he faltered, and you were returned to that moment ten years ago, when he looked at you with love and life in his eyes, and promised he would make the then-kingdom a better land to live in. And as you remember, you know that he was right.

You wouldn’t leave him alone, for as long as you continue deluding yourself into believing he could change. And Wooyoung knows it.

[neochan]

≡ 𝐍𝐂𝐓 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐏𝐔𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐂 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘’𝐃 𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔 !

「 MEMBERS 」 ⋮ mark lee, huang renjun, lee jeno, na jaemin, lee haechan, zhong chenle, park jisung

≣ content warning ⋮ explicit smut, public sex, outdoor scenes, semi-risk of getting caught, exhibitionism.

≣ a.note ⋮ idk what’s wrong with me but dream would absolutely risk it all. (anything to procrastinate editing this triple j fic)

⩩ mark lee ⋮ rooftop mark’s hands shake as he props you against the edge, the city lights sprawling below like a thousand eyes. “god, what if someone—” he starts, but the thought dies when you tug him closer and his cock slides into you. he muffles his moans against your neck, fingers digging into your hips as the night air bites your skin. the height terrifies him, but the risk makes him lose control.

⩩ huang renjun ⋮ classroom renjun locks the door behind you, desk already dragging across the floor as he pushes you over it. “wrong place to be bad,” he mutters, tugging your hair back until your mouth falls open. his thrusts are merciless, echoing off the empty walls like a scolding all on their own. chalk dust coats your cheek, his breath hot in your ear, “don’t think i won’t make you cum in here over and over until you learn.”

⩩ lee jeno ⋮ swimming pool jeno shoves you up against the tiles, chlorine stinging your nose as the water sloshes around both of you. your moans are muffled against his shoulder, arms clinging to his slick skin while he drives into you, hard enough to splash. “hold on to me,” he growls, nails biting into your thighs. his stamina is endless, water dripping down his jaw as he fucks you like he owns you.

⩩ na jaemin ⋮ alleyway jaemin pins you to the brick wall, shadows swallowing the two of you whole. the streetlight flickers at the corner, close enough that anyone could turn down and see. his smirk is greedy, one hand holding your jaw as his hips grind rough, filthy. “you like this, don’t you?” he purrs, lips brushing yours, “being fucked like a slut where anyone could find us.” and the way your body shudders answers for you.

⩩ lee haechan ⋮ elevator the emergency stop button is still glowing red when haechan cages you against the mirrored wall. the space is cramped, heat building fast as his cock fills you deep. “thirty floors,” he laughs breathlessly, sweat dripping down his temple. “think i can make you cum before the doors open again?” every thrust makes the cables rattle above, every moan bouncing back twice as loud in the mirrored box.

⩩ zhong chenle ⋮ tour bus curtains drawn, the bus rumbling under you as chenle holds your legs open on the narrow seat. his smirk never falters, not even when your moans rise too loud and he slaps a hand over your mouth. “shhh,” he teases, voice low but cocky, “hyung’s sleeping two rows back.” his hips piston harder, rocking the seat until it squeaks. “better keep quiet, baby, or they’ll all know who i’m fucking.”

⩩ park jisung ⋮ balcony jisung swears it’s crazy, swears he can’t do it here, but the second you tug him outside, he’s got you bent over the railing. night air cools the sweat on his neck, his moans trembling as his hips snap forward. “what if someone sees?” he whines, eyes darting to the windows across the way. but his cock twitches inside you, his grip tightening, and it’s clear part of him wants exactly that.

[onlymingyus]

All Good Girls Go To Hell

pairing; jeon wonwoo x f reader

genre; smut, angst, toxic, dark romance

content warnings; lucifer!wonwoo, morally gray (possibly black)!wonwoo, hell, souls sold/taken, mentions/descriptions of torture (including skinning), kidnapping, being sold/traded

smut warnings; fingering, thigh riding, oral (f recieving), begging, pet names

w/c; 3.5k (halloween special drabble)

summary; My Lucifer is lonely... Waking up somewhere you don't recognize, you find yourself with a man who claims he owns you now.

song inspo; all good girls go to hell - billie elish

a/n;  thank you sweet @sluttyminghao for betaing! I love you. I hope you guys have had a wonderful Halloween! I hope you enjoy a very morally gray Wonwoo. For more drabbles and more subscribe to my Patreon.

before continuing remember reblogs are incredibly important and please read how to support me here

The bed feels different—softer? 

Sighing under your breath, you stretch on the mattress until a whine slips from between your lips. Had your bed always been this comfortable? 

No. It must be how well you slept. That happens sometimes. You wake up after a particularly good night’s rest and everything feels better. The sheets start to feel like satin under your bare skin. The mattress hugs you like a cloud, urging you to reach for your fiancé and curl yourself into his side. Only when you slide your hand along the sheets but that's all you feel. Ben got up before you and didn’t even say goodbye. 

Typical. 

Rolling towards the middle of the bed, you smile to yourself, feeling the sheets caress your lower back. God, it feels nice just to lie here. It feels nice to not rush yourself out of bed and back into another meaningless workday. There’s no telling how long you have before your alarm will go off… would it be so bad to just drift back off for a while? 

Another sigh leaves your lips and your brows furrow. How long had you drifted back off for? Your mouth feels like cotton and your stomach is beginning to complain for food. Reaching once more across the bed in search of Ben, your lips turn down.  

Things haven’t been perfect for you and your fiancé, but you do your best to make him happy. With that in mind, you finally pry your eyes open and whisper his name, only for the word to die on your lips as you notice where you are—where are you? 

The sheets undercovering your body aren’t your own. This bed isn’t yours. This bedroom isn’t yours. Panic begins to rush through you as you sit up in the bed and tug the sheet up to your chest, realizing you were feeling the sheets on your skin because you’re naked. Where are your clothes? 

“Ben?” Your voice echoes around the room and a feeling of dread settles in your chest. Looking around the room and towards the nightstand, your heart thumps loudly in your chest when you realize not only are you somewhere else but your phone isn’t next to you. In the place of your phone, you find a single red rose as if it were left for you to discover. 

Tears prick at your eyes even as you force yourself to tug the sheet from the bed and wrap it around you in an attempt to cover yourself. How could something like this happen? You rack your brain trying to remember the night before. 

Ben had to work late. You were upset with him, but you still made him dinner, promising to heat it up for him once he came home. You remember opening a bottle of wine. Was that the problem? You rarely drink but one glass of wine wouldn’t knock you out so heavily someone could come in and steal you straight from your bed. You couldn’t have been so drunk you’d sleep through someone taking you from your house, stripping you, and putting you in this bed. 

The tears sit on the rim of your eyes until you blink, causing them to spill over and run down your cheeks. You are trying to force yourself to think—to figure out what to do once you make it to the large black door across the room from you—when a knock sends a shiver down your spine. 

“Y/N? Are you awake?” 

Who is that? The voice is smooth and deep. It’s unfamiliar and yet he knows your name. Shaking your head, you scold yourself for caring if he knows your name. Of course your kidnapper would know your name. Is that what happened? You were kidnapped? 

Or is this something else? Have you finally snapped? Was the pressure of everything too much and now this is a delusion? Is the person behind that door a doctor? That could happen. Your fragile mind finally broke and this is a bougie hospital that your parents placed you in. 

Then again—why would they? It has been years since you spoke to your parents. You have separated yourself from their lives and sworn to become a better person. You had found a new home and a church where you felt comfortable. That was where you met Ben. You had fallen in love so quickly that you made yourself overlook all of your fiancé's questionable habits. You were—are going to get married in a year in the church that at first offered you safety and stability. 

“I know you’re awake. I’m going to open the door.” 

Taking a few steps back towards the bed, you feel your heart in your throat at the idea of whoever is on the other side of that door opening it. You only have a sheet to cover your body and you still have no idea who they are or where you are, but you only get a few seconds of panic before the door does open and a tall man steps through it. 

His eyes find you immediately and your breath gets caught in your throat. You had hoped for half a second that you’d know who it was. Maybe it was Ben forcing his voice lower, but that was a stupid wish because this man sounds nothing like Ben. Like his voice, his eyes are deep—so brown they almost seem black. You swallow hard and take another step back as he takes one towards you, letting the door shut behind him. 

“I know you’re confused.” 

That is an understatement. 

Whining under your breath, you stop walking backward when your butt knocks into the nightstand, causing the lamp to fall over behind you. “Wh—where am I?” Even your voice sounds different. It sounds strained and laced with fear. You swallow hard, trying to make more saliva to coat your overly dry tongue in hopes of sounding less small. “Who are you?”

The man smiles at you but it isn’t a normal polite smile. His lips form more of a smirk than a smile as he pushes his hand into the pocket of his black dress pants as he smooths his black button-down over his stomach. “You can call me Wonwoo.” 

That was one answer and yet not the one you desired more. Your eyes follow Wonwoo as he turns his eyes from you to glance around the room, his feet moving a few steps towards you until he sighs patiently. “As I said, you must be confused.” 

“Very. Tell me where I am. Why—did—did you kidnap me?” 

Smooth, Y/N. Like the kidnapper would just tell you if he did it. Cursing yourself under your breath, you hold the sheet tighter around your chest as you meet Wonwoo’s eyes once again. His laugh triggers a chill up your spine that has your skin erupting with chill bumps. He shakes his head and lifts the hand from his stomach to his head as he scratches his eyebrow, seeming to think carefully on his next words. 

“No, Darling. I simply collected what was mine.” 

Your pulse begins to beat loudly in your ears as your blood runs cold. Heat licks behind your eyes as you force yourself not to close them even as the world seems to spin in front of you. “Wh—what? I wanna go home…” You aren’t sure the words are spoken aloud. Finally closing your eyes, you whine at the sick feeling building in your stomach and rising up your throat as fear rips through your soul. 

Watching you start to sway, Wonwoo tilts his head and takes another step towards you. Humans are weak. There is no denying that. It doesn’t take much to see you are on the verge of passing out. There is sweat gathering on your temples and your skin has begun to take on an unnatural color when finally your legs give out. A rush of emotions pushes through Wonwoo as he closes the space between you and him just in time to sweep you from your unsteady legs and into his arms. 

You are so fragile. A mixture of intrigue and disgust worms its way through Wonwoo’s body before he turns to place you back on the bed, readjusting the black satin sheet around you so you are covered. The very act seems foreign to him. He has never attempted to protect anyone's modesty before and yet as he looks down on you now as your breathing begins to settle, Wonwoo finds himself not only keeping you covered but also pushing your hair back from your face. 

It’s just so he can look at you. At least that’s what he tells himself as his fingers stroke along your cheekbone down to your parted lips. The color has started to return to you; your lips, while cracked from dehydration, are the right color again. 

Settling onto the bed next to you, Wonwoo studies you silently. His eyes moving along every bit of you that is exposed to him. You are beautiful—so stunning that it makes him uncomfortable. Humans shouldn’t look like you. When God created all things—humans included—he attempted and failed at creating perfection with Adam and Eve. Their flaws… the free will that they were permitted left them scarred inside and out—but not you. If Wonwoo didn’t know better, if he couldn’t literally see your soul clinging to your body, he would think you were an angel like him. 

Fingers trail along your shoulder, causing you to sigh happily at the contact. It was a dream. Ben is home and you have been home this entire time. Turning towards the touch, your lips turn up in a small smile at the brush of soft lips against your neck.

“Mmm, I had such a weird dream.” Your smile pulls at your lips as the kisses walk the length of your neck to your jaw. The breath against your skin causes chill bumps to spread in anticipation. 

“Tell me about it…” The voice isn’t what you expected yet it keeps you calm as you lift your hand, running your fingers through soft hair. 

“I was taken.” Gasping into your words, you arch your back when teeth nip at your sensitive skin. “Mmm, taken to hell. I was there for weeks. I lost track of time.” 

A soft hum of understanding from the lips now brushing over the shell of your lips has you gripping at the hair under your fingers. You could open your eyes but something tells you to wait. This feels too good. “Yeah… There was a man. He watches me but…” Your voice lowers as the memories come back to you and you know who is kissing you. You should hate it. He took you from your home. He took you from your fiancé. He took you from Ben but he hasn’t told you why beyond saying he took what was his. 

“Wonwoo…” You whisper on a soft gasp, feeling his lips pull up in a smirk.  

“Yes, little angel. Keep telling me about this dream. Was it a bad dream?” 

Tears press behind your eyes as you keep them shut tightly, your hand starting to loosen in Wonwoo’s hair only for his hand to rest over yours, tightening your fingers once again. Using your hand, he tugs on his hair hard enough to make you wince before you arch against him, feeling his thigh press between your legs. 

“It—” You struggle to find your words, feeling not only confused but also aroused when you roll your hips over the hard thigh resting against your bare cunt. “Mm, I don’t know. I’m—please? I want to go home.” 

Your words say one thing but your body another as Wonwoo traces your jaw up to your ear with his tongue. He had done so well for weeks. He had barely touched you but he had waited long enough. “Home? Darling, you are home.” Hearing you whine his name, tears rolling down to his lips now at the corner of yours, Wonwoo rocks his thigh against you and hums in appreciation. “Do you want me to tell you the truth? You want me to break your little heart?” 

When you don’t answer with more than new tears for him to lick from your skin, Wonwoo growls low under his breath. You are stubborn and infuriating in ways he has never dealt with. Others pray to him. Some pray with hate in their hearts, others with devotion—yet you give him your sorrow. You pray for what you’ve lost. What you think was taken from you. 

“I’ll break your heart. I’ll watch it shatter and then, sweet little one… I will bind it to me.” Leaning back to look down at you, Wonwoo narrows his eyes as you keep your eyes shut tightly. “Look at me when I’m speaking to you, Y/N. Open your eyes and face the truth you so desperately want…” 

Forcing your eyes open, you blink through your tears to meet Wonwoo’s eyes. You know you should try to push him away. His words already make you feel like you want to die—but aren’t you dead already? You are in hell. That much you know to be true. You’ve been here for so long now that you can’t keep lying to yourself about that much. As for Wonwoo… you’ve figured him out too. The name Wonwoo is there to make you feel better about the situation, if that were even possible; the man, the being looming over you now, he’s not human. He’s something you’re terrified to even name in your own head because you know who he is. 

Watching you closely, Wonwoo hums under his breath, once again sliding his hand along your head so carefully that when you flinch, it causes his brows to furrow in pain. He deserves this reaction from you, but he also deserves the way your hips move over his thigh chasing pleasure as if you are trying to distract yourself from what truth he is going to ruin your life with.  Moving his eyes along your body, Wonwoo tilts his head and slides one of his hands over the sheet loosely draped over your waist, watching the silk slide from your skin as he speaks low and calm. “He sold you, Y/N. He had a choice and this is what he chose. The man you pretend to yearn for. Your precious fiancé. He wanted more than he could afford, yet instead of offering his own body and soul as payment, he gave me you.” 

Meeting your eyes, Wonwoo gauges your reaction before continuing as realization settles in your eyes. “He never loved you. He loved what you gave him. A doting woman who would look past all his sins as you prayed for them for him. Do you think my father heard your prayers, darling?” Shaking his head, Wonwoo sighs resolutely as he traces your belly button, feeling you suck in your stomach under his touch. “No, sweet girl. He doesn’t listen, but I do. So when Ben asked for too much, I came and I took.” 

The painful truth sends an ache through your body before resting over your heart. Closing your eyes as if you can make it go away, you stop moving completely and lift your hands to your face. You hope that Wonwoo will leave. You hope that he will let you suffer here in silence, but that doesn’t happen. 

Lips press to the back of your hands before he gently pulls them away and wipes your tears from your cheeks as he whispers close to your cheek. “I should have killed him instead, but humans, especially selfish ones like your fiancé, only learn through true pain. He will live out the rest of his years with the price in the forefront of his mind. He will think of you when he wakes up. He will dream of you. He will never find peace and when he dies, little angel, he will suffer at my hands further.” Wonwoo’s words should hurt you more, but instead you find yourself listening to each one as the pain in your heart shifts into something else. 

“I will tear his miserable skin from his body every single day for eternity. He will beg me to stop and to let him rest but there is no rest for the wicked, not even in hell. Every single moment he will feel the flames lick at his exposed muscles and tendons, only for the price he paid to remain in the forefront of his mind.” Smirking at his own words, Wonwoo laughs darkly as your eyes meet his once again and this time he sees understanding in them. “Yes, darling, he will think of you even in death. I will fuck you over his body, never letting him touch you. I’ll let him hear you scream my name in pleasure as pain overwhelms him.” 

The idea of Wonwoo’s plans for Ben should frighten you and perhaps deep down they do, but you feel a flutter in your chest—excitement. “Promise me.” 

Your voice is so quiet that Wonwoo furrows his brows in confusion before you repeat the same words louder this time. The demand goes straight to his cock before he rocks his hips towards you, feeling your wet pussy against his pants as you start to soak through the fabric. “I promise. I’ll give you anything you ask for.” The moment the words are out of his mouth, Wonwoo laughs as you start to speak, only for him to cut you off. “Except give you up and let you leave. You are mine, Y/N. I don’t abandon things that belong to me, especially something like you.” 

The finality in Wonwoo’s tone causes your heart and mind to race. Thoughts flood your mind along with pleasure when he rolls his hips towards yours once again. This is the first time he’s touched you like this in the many weeks since he took you. He watched you every single day. He’d sit by your bed and attempt to soothe you, but he never took from you—until now. But is that what he is doing? 

Pleasure jolts through you as his fingers slide to your hips, pulling your hips down over his thigh. This isn't taking; this is giving. More than you could ever say for Ben—for the man who sold you for his benefit. Lifting your hips into Wonwoo’s hands, you whine his name and relish in the feeling of your clit grazing the fabric covering his muscular thigh. You realize that you want this, perhaps more than you could have ever anticipated, but the look in Wonwoo’s eyes tells you his patience had been running thin. With one more content sigh slipping from your lips, he begins to take. 

Wonwoo’s kiss burns with his intensity. His hands dig into your hips as he lifts you from his thigh and fingers trail between your legs. With a growling breath, Wonwoo breaks the kiss to meet your eyes as his fingers slide between your wet lips and over your already throbbing clit. “You are mine. This—” He emphasizes his words with a pinch to your clit before his fingers slide to your waiting entrance, where he eases two fingers into you. “Is mine.” 

Your hands flail for a moment as pain mixes with your pleasure as Wonwoo’s fingers begin to stretch you. One of your hands finds Wonwoo’s wrist as the other grips the bedding under you in an attempt to ground yourself. He doesn’t wait for you to adjust; instead, Wonwoo curls his fingers inside of you and traces a circle over your clit, enjoying the feeling of your pussy tightening. 

Soft moans slip from between your lips only to be swallowed by Wonwoo as his tongue slides along yours. Even as you try to lift your hips, attempting to chase your pleasure, he easily pushes you back down on the bed, fucking you hard and fast on his fingers. You want more. You need more, but all of that fades to the background as your walls begin to clench down on his fingers and your orgasm rips through you like a tidal wave. 

A dark chuckle tickles your skin as Wonwoo’s lips work from your lips to your breasts. His eyes flick up to yours and for a brief moment they are completely black. Any trace of white around his dark irises seems to have been swallowed until he blinks and the color returns. 

“Wonwoo—” 

“Shh, little angel. I’m not done with you. You owe me so, so, so much more.” 

You start to speak, to form some retort to his claiming words, but then his lips find your clit even as his eyes stay fixed on you. Teeth tip at your soft skin and the throbbing bundle of nerves before he laughs again, leaning back enough to lick your cum from his lips and speak. “Beg me like a good girl to fuck him out of your mind. Your soul is mine, Y/N; now let me have the rest of you…” 

Sobbing in pleasure, you buck your hips towards Wonwoo’s waiting mouth, feeling his smile against your skin as you do just that. Numerous pleas leave your lips as you feel your mind, body, and soul latch on to the man, the devil between your legs binding you to him forever. 

© onlymingyus - all rights reserved. Reposting/modifying of any fic, or pieces of original writings posted on this blog is not allowed. Translations not allowed.

[gildedsilk]

“𝐇𝐈𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍” 𝜗℘ 범규.

𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𓈒 bearhybrid!gyu X deerhybrid!reader 1k+ words angst

ᝰ.ᐟ kissing established relationship separation anxiety emotional distress crying hybrid au forced separation seasonal depression mention of medical monitoring

𝜗𝜚 𝐆𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐞’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 ៹ I hope this does well because I’ve been wanting to write hybrid au stuff 💔. So here’s my favorite teddy bear 🐻.

You notice long before he says anything.

The shift is subtle at first — Beomgyu yawning more, curling into blankets earlier, clinging to you longer in the mornings. His appetite grows, his pace slows, and his usual mischief softens into something quieter… gentler.

At first, you think it’s just the cold.

Bears love warmth.

Bears love cuddling.

Bears love their partners even more.

But there’s something else beneath it.

Something heavy.

Something sinking.

And every time you ask him, he smiles a little too quickly and says,

“I’m fine. Just sleepy.”

You know better.

You’re a deer hybrid — instincts read emotion like a second language.

And Beomgyu feels… sad.

Tender.

Determined.

And fragile in a way that terrifies you.

The trees turn orange.

The air grows sharp.

And one evening, as you sit on the couch with him curled against your side, his nose buried in your collarbone, he finally whispers:

“I have to go soon.”

Your heart drops.

“Go?” Your voice is small. “Go where?”

He exhales shakily against your skin.

“The hibernation center.”

Everything inside you freezes.

Your species doesn’t hibernate.

You don’t have a cycle that tears you away from people.

You don’t have months of disappearing… months where people miss you.

But bears do.

And your boyfriend is a bear.

You hear yourself ask, barely audible, “When?”

Beomgyu’s fingers tighten in the fabric of your shirt.

“Next week.”

Silence swallows the room whole.

Next week.

You swallow hard, blinking down at him. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

He lifts his head, eyes already glossy.

Those round bear eyes — warm, sleepy brown — look almost guilty.

“I didn’t want you to spend the whole season worrying.”

“I’m already worrying,” you breathe out, voice cracking.

He flinches.

He pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping around you tightly — almost desperately.

“I’m sorry.”

You cling to him without meaning to, fingers curling around the soft fabric of his hoodie. “I don’t— I don’t want you to go.”

“I know.”

His voice is quiet, trembling.

He strokes your hair, his claws carefully retracted so he won’t accidentally scratch.

“Baby, I have to. I won’t survive winter if I don’t.”

You bite hard on your lip.

“I know,” you whisper. “But I hate it.”

He lets out a breath — sad, soft, full of longing.

“I hate it too.”

A few days later, he shows you the hibernation center brochure.

It feels like the death sentence to your winter.

Modern, warm facilities.

Forest-themed rooms.

Medical monitoring.

Temperature control.

No visitors.

Because disturbing hibernation is dangerous.

Because waking them is impossible anyway.

You stare at the glossy page until your eyes blur.

“So that’s it?” Your voice wavers. “You sleep for three or four months and I just… wait?”

Beomgyu shifts closer, thumb brushing your wrist.

“You can send things. Letters. Pictures. The staff will keep them near me.”

“But you’ll be asleep,” you whisper.

“I’ll still feel you around me.”

That’s when your tears spill.

Quietly, painfully.

Beomgyu instantly cups your cheeks, panic flashing in his eyes.

“Don’t cry— don’t— please.”

“I’m trying,” you choke out.

He pulls you into his arms again, burying your face in the crook of his neck.

His scent — warm, earthy, familiar — only makes the ache sharper.

The week passes like slipping sand.

Beomgyu’s voice gets heavier.

His movements slow.

He curls against you constantly, as if he’s trying to brand your warmth into his bones.

Sometimes you wake at night and find him awake too, staring at you like you’re a star he’s trying to memorize before the sky goes dark.

One of those nights, in a whisper barely louder than breath, he says:

“I’m scared to leave you.”

Your heart bends, cracks, shatters. “Why?”

“Because…” He swallows, thick and aching.

“…you’ll be alone for too long.”

You kiss his forehead, breathing shakily into his hair.

“I’ll be okay,” you lie.

He knows you’re lying.

He doesn’t call you out.

He just pulls you closer.

You hate the suitcase on the bed.

You hate the folded clothes.

You hate the list the center sent.

You fold his sweatshirt — the one he wears when he’s cold and sleepy.

He watches you, eyes following your every movement.

“Want me to help?” he asks softly.

“No.”

Your voice breaks.

“I don’t want any of this.”

Beomgyu looks like he’s been stabbed.

He steps behind you, arms wrapping around your waist, chin on your shoulder.

“I’ll come back to you.”

“You won’t even know time is passing,” you whisper, tears dripping onto the fabric you’re folding.

“That doesn’t matter,” he murmurs.

“What matters is that I’ll open my eyes in spring and you’ll be the first person I look for.”

Your shoulders tremble.

Beomgyu presses soft, slow kisses to your neck.

“Tell me you’ll wait.”

“I’ll wait,” you breathe.

Then softer.

“Even if I hate it.”

He holds you tighter.

He doesn’t sleep.

You don’t either.

He lies on top of you, head on your chest, arms around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear before morning.

You run your fingers through his soft bear ears.

He shivers every time — sensitive, emotional.

“You’ll dream of other things,” you whisper.

“Warm caves. Rivers. Forests. Things your body remembers.”

He shakes his head against your chest.

“I only want to dream of you.”

Your breath catches.

Your eyes burn.

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

A shaky laugh leaves you, half broken.

“I’m scared you’ll forget what my voice sounds like.”

He lifts his head, eyes fierce even through the sleepiness.

“Never. I’ll wake up still loving you.”

You cup his face with both hands.

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

You kiss him — slow, lingering, aching.

He kisses you back like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth.

He falls asleep like that.

In your arms.

Breathing shallow.

Body already preparing to shut down.

You cry until morning.

The sky is cold and gray.

The world feels like it’s holding its breath.

You hold his hand all the way to the center.

He leans on you, barely awake.

The staff is gentle — used to this, familiar with the heartbreak.

Beomgyu sways, vision foggy.

Instinct taking over.

“Stay,” he murmurs to you.

Voice slurred, small.

“I’m right here,” you say, clutching his hand.

His eyelids heavy.

His breathing slow.

He manages one last sentence, soft as falling snow:

“Don’t forget me.”

Your heart collapses.

“I won’t,” you choke out. “I could never.”

He tries to lift his hand to your cheek — misses — tries again —

and then he’s gone.

Eyes closed.

Breathing slow.

Body limp.

Asleep for the season.

They guide you gently out of the room.

You keep your eyes forward.

If you look back, you’ll break.

The door closes behind you with a soft click.

And the world suddenly feels too quiet.

Too cold.

Too empty.

Winter has barely begun.

And you’re already missing him like he’s been gone for years.

𝜗𝜚 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐤𝐢𝐞𝐬 ៹ @mfcherry @hyunj00 @chocomoas @mayarichives @all-of-kpop @gyuuchuuu @yeosayang @slut4heespam @jaedacore @swangyu @seungluver @ijustwannareadstuff20 @angelhyuka @nanilis @vanillakirstein @kkyubear @minjsui

𝐖𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐣𝐨𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ? 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 !

[naniwatig3r]

EIGHT COUNT (18+) 🥊

Boxer!Hoshi x Trainer!FemReader

Synopsis: Hoshi the Tiger Kwon, one of south korea’s best boxers from the 90s. Before that, he was just the annoying guy you trained.

Pairing: Boxer!Hoshi x Trainer!FemReader

Word Count: 24.4k

Genre: Action, Romance, Smut

Warnings: Slow burn, boxing lingo and fight scenes, misunderstanding, angst, Hoshi and reader can be really mean to each other :(, kissing, unprotected intercourse, panties for safe keeping lol

A/n: LONG TIME NO SEE! <3 thank you to @svthub for being a great resource and community, @nerdycheol, @facethesunflower and @shinysobi for being there during its writing process. Also @supi-wupi and @hanniehaeo for corrections and beta reading ^^

💥 💥💥💥💥💥💥💥

“KWON ON THE ROPES, CAN HE DO A COMEBACK BEFORE THE END OF THESE 40 SECONDS?”

The stadium is a frenzy. Your ears ring as you look up through the ropes of the boxing ring. Your eyes focused on Soonyoung’s back, sweat shining on his taut muscles from the harsh lights, the sound of the rubber boxing gloves of his opponent colliding in dull hits to Soonyoung’s tight defense.

Heart beating, eyebrows furrowed as you grip onto the white towel in your hand. Stained with blood, his blood, from the earlier timeout.

“OH! — A COUNTER LANDS ON KWON’S RIGHT CHEEK!”

Your eyes widen as you watch Soonyoung’s mouth guard shoot out of his mouth, a mix of spit and blood splattering in the air as you see the outline of his face. His side profile crushed by the weight of the glove and force.

You hold your breath.

Your mind can’t help but hurl you back to your prior memories. The days, the months, the years, before all this.

When you were wiping down the worn ropes with a cloth. Face sour as you squeeze the handle of the Lysol, disinfectant spraying onto the leather ropes as you gently wipe it off. You don’t even blink an eye when the sound of the gym door opens, the familiar sound of loud men infiltrating your ears.

This gym was like a second home to you. Your father, an ex-professional boxer turned coach, used all his money to open a boxing gym while you were still learning how to walk on your own two feet.

It shouldn’t be surprising that one of your first words, well, according to your father, was weave! Weave! — Much to your late mother’s dismay.

As much as hanging out with friends was a pastime for most girls your age, yours was helping at your father’s gym. Cleaning the ring, sweeping the floor, and disinfecting the equipment. Anything really, so you could crane your neck to listen in on the practices. Like father, like son daughter, you were as interested in the sport as he was. His genes were, well, unfortunately, strong.

“Y/n, you still here?” Your dad chimes, curiosity in his low voice as he walks out of his office. Alerted by the sound of boxers falling in, from amateur ones practicing for their license, to the very few professional ones your father was training personally.

You look up, nodding with a sigh, “Yeah, well, the ring was looking rough.” You reply. Omitting the fact that you did have plans. A boy you were talking to asked you out last week, which you were incredibly giddy about. Until you heard through the grapevine that he was also talking to another girl.

Safe to say, he cancelled the plans after you threw a punch straight at his eye.

“Great! Because I need you to watch the new boy,” your father says lightly, hands on his hips as he walks up to you.

You raise your brow, putting the cleaning supplies down at your side as you face your father. “New boy? Thought you weren’t accepting any new fighters?” You remind him, throwing the rag into the bucket of supplies next to your feet.

Your father shrugs, “Seemed promising. Young, too. Your age, actually,” he says with a smile, “But I need to focus today on Seungcheol. His match is two weeks, so we have to —“

“Yeah, yeah, work on his slugging.” You say not skipping a beat. You were there when your father was going crazy in his office, trying to figure out strategies for Seungcheol’s next match. It ended up boiling down to something that matches the guy perfectly — just slugging it out.

Your father grins, “Hm, yeah. So you got this!”

You narrow your eyes.

Your father sighs, “Just give the kid a few exercises to go through,” he says, waving you off.

You nod, grabbing the bucket of cleaning supplies, as you greet all the fighters in the gym coming in.

It wasn’t long until Soonyoung came in, still baby-faced, skinny compared to everyone else. Huffing and puffing as he pushes the boxing gym door open, stumbling in. Probably running from whatever train station, as you checked the time on the clock. He was ten minutes late to what your father informed you he’d arrive by. And not to mention, his shoe laces were untied, dragging against the floor haphazardly.

You narrow your eyes, shaking your head. He definitely knew nothing about boxing, not yet, at least. Hell, what did your father see in this kid? He just looked like every guy at school.

“Hey!” You yell out, getting his attention. His head perking up like a dog being called, as he points to himself. You sigh, “Yes, you.”

He walks over to you, still surprised, catching his breath as he grips his bag. Clearing his throat, “Um, hi, I’m Kwon Soonyoung.” He introduces himself before glancing at the boxing ring in the middle of the gym. Your father in the middle of coaching Seungcheol.

He points with his thumb behind him, “I need to talk to uh, coach —“

You shake your head, “No need. He’s busy, I’ll be helping you today.” You say lightly, crossing your arms.

He turns back to you, brows raised, “You? I mean… you’re, uh, you’re a trainer or something?” He asks skeptically, eyeing you.

Your hair in a low ponytail, in a loose t-shirt, and grey sweatpants. Basically drowning in the clothes with your feminine figure, you looked like a sore thumb in the gym filled with muscular older men.

Before you can respond, your father yells out from the ring. “Oh, you finally showed up!” He muses, holding a hand up as a welcome. Taking the few seconds of Seungcheol emptying his water bottle to address Soonyoung.

“Listen to y/n, okay? She may seem unassuming, but she knows what she’s doing.” He says, before turning back to drag Seungcheol through more drills.

Soonyoung looks back at you, still hesitant, making you roll your eyes.

“Come on,” you say, heading to the shelf to grab some boxing mitts.

Soonyoung hastily follows after you, almost bumping into you when you turn back around. Making him stumble back in slight panic, before speaking.

“Uh, so you are a trainer? You look around, my age or something like that…” he starts, looking at you like a spectacle at the zoo. You roll your eyes, opening the mitts and sliding your hands in.

“I know enough to deal with you.” You respond back roughly, before glancing down at Soonyoung’s hands, realizing they aren’t even wrapped yet.

You huff, ripping the mitts off. This guy really knew nothing.

You gesture to the back, “Go to the locker room. Get dressed and wrapped.”

“Oh, okay!” He starts, nodding his head, eyebrows furrowed. “Uh, but what do you mean by wrapped?”

You can’t help but step down on one of his loose laces, making it stretch tight as he walks. “Oh what – hey!” The boy toppling over a bench and someone’s bag.

The first few weeks of training went like that.

Soonyoung knew absolutely nothing, yet when you asked, “Why are you still doing this?”

He’d catch his breath, barely keeping his legs from shaking with his hands, finally having a chance to breathe as you grace him with a minute of rest.

Your voice is stern, “Obviously, by now you can see boxing isn’t as simple as throwing a punch and winning. How haven’t you quit yet?”

Taking a deep inhale of needed air, he looks up at you. His eyes had a sparkle to them, despite how he’s starting to form bruises from training. You could see sweat seeping into his t-shirt from the cardio, yet he still had energy to waste. His eyes said so.

“I want to box! I love it!” He’d say with a tired grin, sweat dripping down his forehead, as you sigh.

“Huh, right.” You say a bit unnerved, eyeing him. What kid would still be smiling after 3 miles of running? “Enough sprints, let’s finish your roadwork with another mile.” You add on, already sitting back down on your bike, ready to ride right on top of his ankles.

He jogs next to you; maybe, deep down, his enthusiasm was making you just a teensy bit soft. Making your pace slower for him to catch up, maybe even his breath.

He pants, “You want to do this stuff too, huh?” He attempts to say as you pedal.

“You mean boxing?” You ask, glancing at his sweating frame.

He lets out a strangled mhm that you assume means yes.

You shrug, your hands letting go of the bicycle handles to grab the water bottle from the holder. You take a few sips, and watching makes Soonyoung's mouth drier than he thought was possible. “You think I’d be doing this if I didn’t?” You respond, as you let out a sigh. “I don’t know. Just focus on your breathing.”

“Ah — wait!” He pleads, when you increase the cadence of your bike, his footsteps getting heavier to catch up.

You can’t help but snicker, “Come on, Kwon! The faster we get this last mile done, the faster you can go home!” You yell out as he pushes further to run parallel with you.

“I don’t get it,” He breathes. Trying to keep his eyes open and his feet moving. “You love boxing, yet you always want it to end.”

You stop your bike.

It takes Soonyoung a second before he stills his momentum, stopping a few feet in front of you. Hands to his knees as he takes long, deep breaths.

“Hey, watch your mouth.” You say firmly, “I’m just trying to motivate you.”

He straightens up, hands on his hips as he takes a deep breath. “Yeah?” He starts, “Well, that's not motivating to me.” He says, turning to face you. Face covered in sweat, dripping down his jaw to his neck.

He was soaked, that was for sure. The way the setting sun beams on the running path, warming both your and Soonyoung’s skin, the light outlining his torso through the thin fabric of his sweat-soaked t-shirt.

“You say you love it, but you never have a smile on your face.” He points out, his eyes flickering across your features. You had a noticeable scowl, not liking his random prodding.

You straighten up on your bike, gripping the handlebars tightly. “I love boxing,” You say simply, “It doesn’t mean I like it. Especially when I have to watch someone as annoying as you.”

He furrows his eyebrows in confusion. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You’ll understand later.” You huff vaguely, putting your foot back on the pedal. “Now one more mile, so I don’t have to deal with you anymore.”

"Can I have some water at least?" He calls after you, dragging his heavy feet to follow after your bike.

"Nope!"

And then it was almost the end of high school, and surprisingly enough, Soonyoung was still going to the boxing gym basically every day. And he was shaping up, slowly but surely.

He had a talent for doing things over and over again until his form was perfect. Sharp, efficient, and fast enough that the other guy couldn't even see it coming.

You didn't spend the last few years idling around either. Honestly — in all those interviews in the future, you were credited in everything. Safe to say, you were the reason he consistently improved. You didn’t let your studies suffer while helping out at the gym. Impressively, you found a good balance.

While memorizing flashcards for your school final? You reviewed them while with Soonyoung, throwing a card at the back of Soonyoung's head when he would doze off during match tapes. When you had that science project about egg drops? You taped the excess eggs to the bottom of Soonyoung's feet. Forcing him to perfect his footwork without making a mess in the boxing ring, while also seeing what random contraptions could prevent shells breaking.

This wasn't against his will, by the way. You'll say that to the end of your days, because strangely, Soonyoung took everything like a champ.

Once, you even felt a little bad as you made him throw punches until he stopped telegraphing. Your father nudged you, throwing you out of that state of pity.

"You know, you might be even harsher than me." Your dad would chime, "Is it safe to say you think he has what it takes?"

You scoff, "After two years of training? He's okay – I think he’s getting restless though." You mutter, focusing on Soonyoung's form, as he begins another set of ones and twos.

You tilt your head. He was shaping nicely. Was he always this toned?

"Hmm, well, I don't disagree." He says, nodding. "Since we got his license just a bit ago, I think it’s time we put him in an amateur tournament. I think I'll have him and Seungcheol spar a bit while training. It'll be a good warm-up for Seungcheol too."

Your heart twists, so soon? Sure, Soonyoung was improving a lot. But a little part of you wanted him to be hidden just a bit longer. But you wouldn't say that out loud.

"Right, that'd be good. Soonyoung's stamina can help with Cheol oppa's training." You muse, "And then a good jab at Soonyoung's head will rattle him a bit. Remind him how the pros are."

"You really are more ruthless than me." Your father snickers, which you respond to with a playful sticking out of your tongue.

"Careful though," He starts, his usual playful tone dissipating as he pats your back. Firm, like you're one of his many boys. It only makes you stand up straighter.

"I appreciate you picking up Soonyoung's training, but don't forget to live your life, yeah?" He points out, as he starts rifling through his pocket. You turn to him as you watch your father take out some rumpled bills.

You snicker as you hold out your hand. "Buy a dress or something. Or like, I don't know, go out with your friends and have a meal." He suggests with a shrug, as he drops the money into your open palm.

"Thanks, appa. I'll buy a dress and eat." You respond dryly. "I'll go on a date too, since I'm at it."

"Nuh-uh! Just the dress then!" He grins, snatching away one of the bills as you gasp in protest. "Well, give the boy a break. Enough reps." He adds on, using his coach voice as he nudges your shoulder. You can't help but nod in obedience as your father walks away.

You look back at Soonyoung, eyeing his form once more. After another punch, you can tell he was getting cleaner.

"Kwon, that's enough." You yell out as he catches the punching bag, stilling it with heavy breaths.

"Really? Alright," He sighs, looking over his shoulder at you, sweat dripping down his face like he was just in a sauna. He immediately rips the boxing mitts off.

You grab his towel next to his bag — "Coach said you're gonna be doing the local amateur tournament next month." You break, "You okay with that?" Asking like he has a choice.

And it was like hours of boxing drills never happened, as his eyes widened. Mouth turning in a wide grin as his cheeks rounded out against his eyes. "Seriously? Holy shit!"

You roll your eyes, "Don't get too excited. You’ve only done informal spars." You push the towel into his chest roughly, "Also, if you fail, I'm killing you for embarrassing me.” You pipe. “Got it?" Smiling sharply, making him shut up immediately.

He grips the towel, letting you step back, as he nods hastily. "Got it, don't worry." The smile finding its way back on his face. "I won't let you down."

You knit your brows, "Yeah, don't." You emphasize, pushing his forehead back with your finger, making him laugh in response. Grabbing your hand in his face, as he wipes the sweat off his forehead with the towel in the other hand. His hand tightening around yours to keep it in place. Which only makes your heart skip a beat.

Wait — a beat?

He moves to hold your hand properly, squeezing it firmly. "Seriously, don't worry. I'm gonna win, and you don't need to go to jail for murder." He promises, nodding at you with that assured look on his face, brows knitted and lips pursed into a tight line.

You wrestle your grip out of his hand before you overthink. "Okay, I get it, Kwon." You respond warily, "Drink some water and rest up. I'll see you next week."

"Yeah, next week!" He chirps.

But it didn't take the whole weekend to see him again. Per your father's suggestion, you do take the money he gave you to visit the shopping district.

You weren't an avid shopper, unless it was to help with restocking boxing supplies at the gym. It's not like you didn't value a cute outfit — it's just there weren't many instances when you could show one off.

Should you have asked someone to come with you? Sure, maybe, if it wasn't for the fact that most of your friends decided to spend their last summer of school on vacation. Unlike you, they were all heading out to university, out of the country, or at least out of the town. Using their grad money and the last summer before college to enjoy life before the inevitable.

But you realized all these years, boxing was your destined life path. You weren't the one in the ring, but nothing had beaten analyzing boxing matches, watching your father celebrate with his fighters after winning matches and belts, and wanting to do the same.

You wouldn't say you wanted to do this in the first place. It was like fate pulled you into it, no matter what. Especially when Soonyoung fell into your hands at the beginning of junior year.

"Ah, y/n, is that you?"

Speaking of the devil.

You turn around to the sound of your name, seeing Soonyoung at the entrance of an arcade. Clad in baggy pants and a flashy t-shirt that almost made you squint your eyes from its loudness. God, did you just manifest him right now just thinking of him?

You raise your brows, "Kwon?" You respond, as he grins.

A loud sound rings through the arcade machine as Soonyoung whips his head back at the screen, eyes wide-eyed. His face illuminated by bright red, with the words GAME OVER on the screen. "Dammit!"

He groans, before looking over at you, walking over until he's in front of you. His hands stuffed in his unbelievably baggy jeans as he drags his feet against the pavement.

You can't help but eye them. "I'm sorry, but you're drowning in those." You can't help but comment. But he doesn't take offense, smiling as he turns so that you can see the bright graphic patched onto them. Even a small tiger plushie was attached to where his belt should be.

"Cool, right? They're JNCOs, they're from America, they're super popular right now." He says giddily, as you nod at the unfamiliar brand. Popular with who? Maybe with those American artists Soonyoung always begged to play on the boxing gym's stereo. Might as well nod along like you understand.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, looking down at you, eyeing you curiously. The way you're out of your normal sweats, in the typical 90s outfit most girls your age were wearing. You glance at the Hello Kitty wallet in your hand, holding the crumpled money your dad gave you.

"Uh, shopping." You respond as you stuff the wallet back into your pocket.

"Oh, cool, where’s your friends?" He adds on, making you wince.

"I’m by myself." You sigh as you look away. "Well, don't let me get in your way. Seems like you're playing games anyway." You respond, already taking a step back.

Soonyoung shakes his head, "Hm, no, it's alright." He smiles, "I can't even get past the first level." He admits holding his hands up, "You think boxing would help with video games somehow, but nooo. Can't seem to remember the combos one of my friends showed me." He mutters as he scratches the back of his head.

He clasps his hands, "You know what, what if I tagged along?" He suggests, "We've never really hung out outside of the gym before. It'd be nice, you know." He starts, before he sees the wary look on your face. His volume quiets down, "Y-you know, if you want to."

You sigh, should you? I mean, you weren't that confident in shopping by yourself, especially with how crowded it was, with friend groups all over reminding you of how lonely you really were.

"Yeah, I mean... sure." You agree reluctantly, "You probably know this place more than me anyway." You fall into step with him, letting him guide you through the busy streets.

"Are there any good clothing stores you know, Kwon?"

The answer was no.

Especially when you found yourself holding up a gaudy reflective dress to the mirror, your face pale.

Soonyoung nods, looking at the piece like it might actually be a choice for you. "That's good, it reminds me of like, Lee Hyori or something."

"Lee Hyori?" you deadpan, looking over your shoulder to glare at him. "Do I look like Lee Hyori to you?"

He blinks, looking over you like it wasn't crazy to compare you to the most popular female idol in South Korea. "You could?"

You frown, throwing the dress back into the pile of clothes Soonyoung picked out, "You know what," you sigh, bringing your hand to your temples to massage them. "Forget the shopping, I don't need new clothes anyways." You conclude as Soonyoung picks up the pile to put them back.

He peeks his head out to the side to look at you, "Really? What are you gonna do with the money then?" He asks.

Shrugging, you cross your arms. "I don't know, save it?"

"What?" He whines, throwing the pile of clothes on top of the return rack. "Coach gave you all that money and you're gonna save it? Have you ever done anything fun in your life?"

You glare at him, shocking him back into remembering you're the one in charge of his conditioning for the next month. Your eyes giving: I'll make you do drills that make your head spin.

"Uh, I mean, good on you." He nods hastily, "Very respectable. Responsible."

You sigh, as you pat the Hello Kitty wallet in your front pocket. Your dad did say to have fun, and shopping was just a suggestion.

"You know what," Clearing your throat, "Let's go get barbecue or something. On me."

Soonyoung's eyes light up. "I like that more. I know a place!"

Once again, you don't know why you keep trusting Soonyoung's recommendations, as you walk into a small barbecue place. It was hidden in a corner near the end of the shopping district, where you could easily miss it. It was quaint, a little run down, with the smell of sizzling pork belly and a musk only old buildings could have.

"This place? Why this place?" You ask, as you step in with him. Soonyoung careful with his pants, holding them up so they don't drag against the greasy floor.

"Ugh, are you serious?"

You look up to see a shorter guy, seeming around both your and Soonyoung's age. With pale skin and short stature, with a white band wrapped around his forehead to push his hair out of his eyes. A scowl present on his face as he eyes Soonyoung’s entrance.

Huh, you recognize that look. It’s a similar one you make when you see Soonyoung as well.

"Jihoon!" Soonyoung greets, as he gestures for you to come sit at an empty table. Kicking a plastic stool out for you to sit on, as he readily plops down on one across from it.

He clears his throat, holding out his hand to introduce the guy. "This is Jihoon. We went to the same school together." He beams, "Which means he won't ID us for beer –"

"God, you gonna bring every girl here? I'm gonna stop serving you if you keep –"

"Every girl?" you question, raising your brow. Was Soonyoung popular? To you, he only existed within the boundaries of the gym. Was he some sort of ladies' man or something? In that flashy t-shirt and gigantic pair of pants?

Soonyoung's cheeks flush slightly, his mouth agape as he tries to find words. "Nuh-uh!" He refutes, shaking his head, "Um, besides. This is y/n, she's not really a girl."

Your palm makes contact with the back of Soonyoung's head, not enough to injure him but to make him jolt forward in surprise. Besides, even if you did, you’re sure his skull was hard enough to withstand it.

Jihoon snickers, "Deserved."

You roll your eyes as you throw up two fingers. "Bulgogi and some bone-in beef rib, please."

Soonyoung whistles, "You're really splurging, huh?"

"Oh, she's paying for you too. You really are something, Soonyoung." Jihoon adds on dryly, which you can't help but snicker at. "I'll bring it out." He nods, as he heads to the kitchen.

"Oh! A bottle of soju, too, please!" Soonyoung calls out as you shake your head.

"You shouldn't be drinking. It's bad for your body," You reprimand, as you settle into the plastic stool. "I'm gonna order some more water, and more banchan as well." You state, pushing the small plates of Kimchi and other vegetable side dishes towards him.

He pouts, "Even now, all you think about is boxing." He sighs, taking it upon himself to shove some kimchi in his mouth. "This is supposed to be fun! I'm sure you know how to have fun, right?"

"Mhm, but your first tournament is soon." You add on, "I'm still working out the kinks of your conditioning schedule. I don't think you need to learn any new techniques, just focus on improving and maintaining your agility. There's also the possibility that some rookies could be a problem. I need to check the fighters registered and —“

You're silenced by a piece of fish cake in your mouth. Eyes wide in surprise as Soonyoung jabs his chopsticks in your mouth. "Yeah, I appreciate that. Also, aren't the side dishes good? I swear, they put magic in these." He responds lightly, going back to pick at the different side dishes, as if he didn't just feed you. You know, like it's a date.

Hold on, is this a date?

“Besides,” He clears his throat, “I’m not worried. You and coach have been training me. What’s there to be worried about?”

You don't have time to calm your heartbeat, as Jihoon comes by with the plates of beef, settling them down and also swirling a bottle of soju.

"Right, here you go," he sighs, freeing his arms of the food. He flickers his eyes to you, "Careful. If he drinks too much, you’ll have to drag him home."

"Thanks for the warning." You say, still distracted by Soonyoung’s affection. Sure, you knew the guy for the past two years. And you’ve had your fair share of bonding, but outside the gym? Eating a real meal together? This was a whole different ballpark.

You look back at Soonyoung, who’s already piling meat onto the grill, as Jihoon grumbles — hey! Let me turn on the grill first at least!

You go quiet for a moment before clearing your throat. Chill out. This was Soonyoung for god's sake.

And as you watch him stuff his cheeks with kimchi like a chipmunk, you can’t help but wince at the sight. Right, this was Kwon Soonyoung.

“Hey, don’t forget water. Don’t choke!” You warn, as you pour some water for him, pushing it into his face, which he gladly accepts.

“Also, what the hell are you doing? That’s not how you cook meat.” You grumble, prying the tongs from his hand, in favor of flipping and spacing out the meat yourself.

He pouts, “Jeez, you’re already paying. Can’t I at least take over cooking the meat?” He complains, slouching over as he watches the smoke rise.

You shake your head. This was your expertise. “No, it’s fine. I’ve been doing this forever,” You say, “Coach always takes fighters out after matches for barbecue. I always take over and cook while they pig out.” You recount absentmindedly, the tongs being second nature to you at this point. The way boxers inhale meat, you knew how to keep up.

Soonyoung raises his brows, “You live and breathe boxing.” He states, “I like that about you.”

Your cheeks burn.

“You like boxing too, everyone at the gym does.” You mutter, focused on flipping the pork belly.

Soonyoung shakes his head, “Yeah, but you’re on the sidelines. Most of us are just dudes who like to punch.” He explains, “Sure, some guys are more involved, with knowing more technical things. But you’re boxing. Does that make sense?”

You stare at him in confusion, straightening up as you put the tongs down. “I have no clue what you’re saying. Are you saying I’m the sport? Boxing?”

He smiles as he picks up a piece of pork belly, popping it into his mouth.

“Don’t worry, you’ll understand one day.” He chimes, like he just graced you with profound words. The words themselves feel like deja vu.

“That’s not even done cooking!”

Another month passes, and you realize Soonyoung basically became your summer. Training never seemed to end. One day, you found yourself rooting your feet down into the floor, looking at him with slight hesitation.

Asking something simple like: Hey, you want to get ice cream? You know — because you finished your roadwork!

And it wasn’t a surprise when Soonyoung dominated the amateur boxing tournament, while you watched from between the boxing ring’s ropes. As much as you and fellow boxers at the gym teased him, the hard work was finally pouring out of Soonyoung’s fists.

Throwing the final punch, your eyes widen as you watch Soonyoung throw his arms up in victory, a stupid grin on his face. The bell rings as his opponent fails to get up after the count, another KO for him.

You don’t fail to push yourself up onto the ring, slipping through the ropes to reach Soonyoung, your father following in suit. Your father laughing heartily as he pulls Soonyoung into a bear hug, Soonyoung wincing but straining a smile with the mouth guard threatening to pop out of his mouth.

“Okay, tiger! Winning your first tournament — food on me, eh?” Your dad boasts, patting Soonyoung’s back hard enough to make him stumble over a bit.

But you’re there to catch him. A small smile on your face as the referee hands Soonyoung a championship belt. An amateur one — but one of the many he was gonna collect in his career.

“Good job.” You breathe, as he forces his muscles to hold onto the belt.

And in that moment, he looks at you. Like really looks at you, sweat dripping down his face, wiping his bloody nose with one arm.

Hurting all over, already feeling the throbbing of his face, where a black eye and busted lip was inevitable. He felt like it took his whole body to take deep breaths to fill up his lungs. But in the haze, the bright lights, his eyes narrowed in on you, your face coming into focus.

And he couldn’t do anything but feel at ease.

Amateur tournament after another, Soonyoung was making a name for himself. KOs, WPs, Soonyoung was keeping up a winning streak. This followed into the next few years, where your father had him get his professional license, after making a name in the amateur tournaments.

And around your twenty-second birthday, your father clinks his beer with yours.

“You know, Soonyoung may be training under my name,” He starts gruffly, “But he’s basically yours. I’ll admit that.” He points out, taking a swig of his beer.

You shake your head, joining your father by taking a sip of your beer as well. “No, you come up with his strategies during matches and his training regime.”

“Yeah, and who holds him up to it?” He smiles, “Thanks, buddy.” He laughs, moving in to mess your hair up, and even with your dramatic, annoyed look, your heart swells inside.

He sighs, taking another sip as he leans his elbows on his knees. “I know I’ve been gone a lot. Seungcheol’s been moving up —“

“And for good reason.” You tack on. Choi Seungcheol, your father’s favorite fighter under him, was taking championships left and right, making his way up in the IBF, and became the current IBF middleweight belt holder. “Oppa’s basically my brother at this point, the way you’ve raised him.” You chime with a smile.

Your father doesn’t dispute it, “Yeah, and then we’re looking into the WBA too. After this title defense, I’ll bring it up to him. It seems like his dream of holding multiple belts isn’t so stupid anymore.”

The way your father talks about Seungcheol’s future was something else. The way his eyes light up, and how he doesn’t care for the beer spilling from swinging his arms around talking about it, you can’t help but laugh.

You shake your head, sipping on your own beer. Your head might as well be in the clouds, too.

Could Soonyoung do that? Be as successful as Seungcheol?

You can’t help but feel your heart beat with the possibility of it.

“We’ll be gone for a month.” Your father points out, “Little retreat to train. Think it’d be good for his head to travel a bit, do his thing other than here.” He glances over at you, pointing his beer bottle towards your face.

“I need you to look over Soonyoung —“ you make a move to say that’s what you always do, but your father cuts you off, “— ah! Ah! I know. Like always. But this is his first pro match.” He says, his tone turning stern.

You close your mouth with a sip of your beer. Right. After getting the pro license with your father’s approval, Soonyoung’s been bouncing off walls waiting for a real pro match. Waiting almost every day for your father’s approval for a real match, not another small-time tournament. And this time, he finally has one scheduled near the end of your father’s trip.

“I should be here,” He sighs, “But, honestly, something tells me he won’t miss me that much.”

You scoff, “You should still be here anyway, it’s an important match for him.” You point out, a little bummed about it. Sure, your father was always gonna focus on Seungcheol’s career. But Soonyoung was from his gym too.

You lean back against the wall, holding the beer to your chest as you look over at your dad. Staring at the back of his head, his hair was starting to resemble salt and pepper.

“I know buddy, I know.” He says as he takes another swig. He looks over his shoulder, flashing you a smile. “The kid has you. That’s more than enough for him.”

You scoff, bringing a knee to your chest. Shaking your head, “It’s not the same.” You mutter, but your face softens. “But you have nothing to worry about. I’ll keep him in check like always.”

“Thanks buddy.”

And you aim to follow through with that. But you feel your patience start to run thin, as you open your door to Soonyoung a couple of days later.

Swinging it open after incessant knocks, he stands outside with his baggy hoodie on. Hiding his face under the hood, only illuminated by the light peeking from your house.

You take a breath, ready to berate him for whatever the problem is. Until well… he shrugs the hood off.

“It’s late, why are you here? I have you scheduled to do your roadwork at —“

Your voice fails you when you look up at him.

Stripes of yellow, orange, and what — green? Decorate strands of Soonyoung’s hair, as he lulls it down in embarrassment.

“I wanted a new look,” He starts, a tinge of sadness in his voice. “You know, before the pro match and the magazine reporter coming in this week.”

“Right, and is this the new look you wanted?” You say wide-eyed, watching him peek through his stringy bangs. “You look like a melted box of crayons a kid leaves outside.”

He stands there for a moment. Not even bothering to fight back as he accepts it, “I thought doing my hair would be easier.”

You shake your head, “Yeah, with what?” You say in awe, as you move out of the way to let him in, not missing the chance to trip him slightly with your foot coming in. “Did you use battery acid?”

He stumbles, only huffing in discontentment. He needed your help after all, he was gonna hold back his tongue until he didn’t look like, well… this.

He slips his shoes off, used to visiting your family’s house, as he places them next to the shoe rack.

“Well, I just wanted my pro debut to be cool!” He starts off, turning to face you, where he’s met with your amused eyes. You had to flip the main room’s light switch on right now, just to see the full array of colors on his head.

He runs his hands through his stringy, damp hair, “My noona had a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, so I just, you know! Did it!” He starts to explain, following you through the house to the bathroom.

His footsteps pattering behind you, “I was reading the new Dragon Ball while I waited, and then it started burning randomly? Like, my scalp was on fire, so I washed it, and then it was uneven! So I did another round, but I accidentally fell asleep while cuddling with Latte, and when I woke up, it was stiff straight! and so I washed it…”

Of course.

You let out the most tired, not-surprised-but-disappointed sigh you could muster.

Thank god you knew where your father put everything, as you grab the clippers behind the cupboard. Taking out a few guards and throwing them in the sink.

“Come on,” You start, making Soonyoung sit on the toilet cover as you browse through the different clipper guards, trying to figure out what length Soonyoung should go for. You take a glance over your shoulder to reassess the damage, before you had to bite down on your lip not to laugh.

He had to go short, no question.

You pick up the 16 guard. “Why come to me?” You ask, clicking it into the clippers.

He blinks. “Who else?”

You pause for a moment, “I don’t know. Like, Jihoon? Hell, your mom?” You list out, just trying to find an answer as you focus on the clippers.

“Jihoon would shut the door in my face. And eomma is sleeping, I don’t wanna wake her.” He explains, as he shifts on the toilet cover. He winces, “Besides, I can’t touch my hair anymore.” Pouting, “I’m scared, you do it.”

You plug the clippers into the socket next to the mirror. “Right, lean your head forward.” You start, “Also, how would you know I wouldn’t shut the door in your face?” You ask, as you gingerly hold the side of Soonyoung’s head to steady him.

You start buzzing away at his hair, a slow stripe down on the side. “I was kind of scared you would, honestly.” He admits, “But I would knock again. You would’ve helped me no matter what.”

He watches as his hair falls to the tiled bathroom floor, nudging it with his foot.

You roll your eyes as you pull back the clippers to check the length. “Shut up. I just don’t want you to embarrass the gym with hair like this.”

But there was some truth to Soonyoung’s words. Have you gotten a little soft over the years? Sure, you will always run his training like the Navy. But when it came to outside the gym — maybe there was something different there.

You fold Soonyoung's ear slightly, getting the clippers as close as you can behind his ear. “By the way, you’re sweeping all your hair after.” You add on as more hair floats to the ground.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” He sighs, before a yawn follows. You push down Soonyoung’s head, getting to the nape of his neck.

You turn the clippers off, the buzzing returning the quiet silence of the room, as you put the device down on the edge of the counter.

It’s just your breathing and his, as you simply dust off his cut hair from his shoulders and the side of his neck. His eyes are on you as you make that familiar face of focus, cleaning him up. Only squinting when you brush stray hair out of his face. Fluttering his lashes as he avoids the shaved hair, but not fully closing them. He needed to look at you.

It was weird to him that you were quiet, all soft touches and careful checking of his new haircut. How you tilted his chin to make sure everything was cut off and at the right length. He liked that about you. Under the initial berating and disapproval, when it came to helping out, you always did genuinely.

“Do you think I can stay over?” He asks, looking up at you hopefully as you dust your hands against your pajama pants.

“Stay over? Why?” You question. It’s not the first time Soonyoung has crashed. Your father always invited his boxers to the house before, and offered them dinner and a night’s sleep. But he wasn’t here.

He shrugs, “It’s late now, and…” He yawns again, “I’m tired. I’ll sweep and everything and even make some instant ramen.”

You raise your brow, “You mean make instant ramen from my pantry?” You correct, gaining a sheepish grin from him.

Shaking your head, you grab the unplugged clippers. Returning them to the cupboard, shutting it closed. “No, we don’t need to risk your weigh-in soon. You can stay, but that just means the second you wake up, we’re starting your roadwork here all the way to the gym, alright?”

“Yes ma’am.” He muses, standing up with a stretch. “Let me get the broom.” He adds on, moving past you. Using the side of your waist to squeeze behind you, disappearing past the door frame. Already knowing where the dust pan and broom were located in the familiar home.

It’s like autopilot, as you set up the living room for Soonyoung. Pulling out the couch into a mattress, grabbing the blankets from the storage closet, as soft music plays from the old stereo on the coffee table.

It’s not long until Soonyoung comes shuffling in, putting the broom back after cleaning. You’ll check that bathroom in the morning to see if he properly cleaned it.

“It’s really a bummer coach isn’t here,” He mutters, running a hand through his now short hair.

“I know. Sorry about that,” You sigh, straightening up as you finish the sleeping arrangements. “We talked about it. It’s the only time right now in the schedule they can do their little trip.”

You look up at Soonyoung, a frown present on your face. “Does it bother you that much?”

He shakes his head, walking up closer to you, “No, no. It’s okay. Hyung was always his favorite. Besides — He’s doing crazy things. Like, reaching the top of his weight class in the IBF? Fuck, I wish.” He muses, calming your concern. He pushes your arm affectionately, “Besides, you’re here.”

“Yeah, lucky you.” You say dryly, not missing the chance to poke Soonyoung between the eyes.

He hums, “Yeah, lucky me.”

You don’t catch the way his eyes stay on you for a bit longer than normal. He flickers his gaze away, taking a sharp inhale. “I mean, what about you? Like,” He starts as he pushes his hands along his knees. “Seems like you want coach here pretty badly.”

You frown, “Yeah, well, this is important to you.”

He cracks a smile, “It is.” He nods. “But it’s important to you too, I think.”

You swallow down the uneasiness in your throat.

The last few weeks have been quite easy. Keeping Soonyoung on track with his regimen, you even kept the gym running smoothly with the help of other boxers who were between matches. Nothing was wildly out of place. But you guess, if anyone could tell you were on edge. It’d be Soonyoung.

You sigh, sitting down on the plush couch. Soonyoung follows, the cushions under him dipping from his weight next to you. “He should be here,” you state quietly, “For you, obviously. It’s your first pro match.” You tense, “But also, my first time handling such a big responsibility.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. ‘Like,” You start, tilting your chin down until your head is facing the floor, “Am I saying all the right things while he’s gone? Did I miss anything at all with your training? And if I’m good, if I did everything right –” you turn to Soonyoung, “— Shouldn’t he be here? To say good job?”

He’s a little wide-eyed when you turn to him for advice. Despite him asking you how you felt, a little bit of him is surprised you actually did confide in him. Just even a little bit.

You narrow your eyes, maybe you shouldn’t have told him — “Wait, wait, no, hold on.” He starts, holding up his hands in defense, before looking for your hands. Gripping them in his calloused ones. “You’re right, he should be here.” He nods, agreeing with you.

He squeezes your hands as he furrows his brows in concentration. “And you are doing a good job.” He claims, “I don’t know how you could do any better!”

“The whole gym trusts you. I trust you. Coach — your dad — trusts you.” He says, each person mentioned with a pull of your hands. “And you know what?” He clears his throat.

“What’s one winning match out of a million?” He points out, “I’ll win, and I’ll win the next one too. He’s not missing anything, right?”

You bite down on your lip. Yeah, he’s right. “So you’re confident then?” You question, looking up at Soonyoung.

He nods, brows knitted with his lower lip jutting out in a confident pout. “In winning? Of course, with your demon training, who wouldn’t be?” He reasons. “Your dad will be proud of you no matter what. I’ll make sure of that.”

And Soonyoung kept his promise, after a few mistakes and a break where you shook him by the shoulders in the corner — DO YOU WANT TO WIN OR NOT KWON? you screamed, as your stand-in cornerman dabbed his forehead — one well-placed punch to the chin knocks out Soonyoung’s opponent, resulting in a KO.

This was only the start of Soonyoung’s rise. When your father and Seungcheol returned, you got a simple pat on the back. But that was okay, you thought, as you watched Soonyoung grin at the reporter taking his interview.

“Kwon Soonyoung, rising talent in the Korean pro boxing scene,” He begins, writing down in his notepad. “From your fights, it seems like you have a good handling on stamina and technique. But there's the problem with your impulsivity and your flashy gimmicks.”

Your eye twitches just remembering how he tried to show off flashy footwork in the first round. His idiocy was rewarded with a straight jab to the nose just for playing around too much.

He laughs, “Heh, well. I can’t help it. That’s just how I am.” He grins, but stops immediately. Suddenly turning serious as he leans forward. “It’s the tiger inside me, you know?”

“Tiger?”

You couldn’t take it anymore. You turn on your heel, deciding to go bother Seungcheol, currently sitting on a bench. Retightening the gauze around his hands.

He glances up, flashing you a polite, casual smile, his dimples on display.

“Ah, Soonyoung’s getting another interview, huh?” He starts. You can’t help but nod, crossing your arms as you watch the older boxer (only by a few years!) get ready. “He’s been talking to a lot of interviewers and magazines lately.”

Sighing, you sit down next to Seungcheol. “Yeah, trying to get a tiger agenda out too.” You huff, “Coach promised Soonyoung tiger print shorts if he wins his next two bouts.” Seungcheol laughs heartily at that, shaking his head as he straightens up next to you.

“He’s got promise though,” Seungcheol shrugs. He nudges your shoulder lightly, “He always had it. That’s why coach even accepted him in the first place,” He admits, “But it’s mostly because of you.”

“Me?” You question, turning to look at Seungcheol.

He nods, raising his thick brows. “Mhm, you. You know how to manipulate that guy’s crazy amount of energy into something productive.” You guys both look up. Seeing Soonyoung pose, raising his hands into claws. Baring his teeth as the flash of the camera goes off.

“It’s good for you too.” He adds, “You unload all your stress on that guy. God, I still remember finding Soonyoung after you made him do laps around the neighborhood until you felt like it. It felt like I was returning a fish back into the water when I gave him something to drink.”

You smile at that. Right, you did that once.

Soonyoung does another pose, this time throwing an upside down peace sign at the camera with his chin tilted up. Flash. “Yeah,” You mutter. “I’m still uneasy though. His next match is in two months, against this really strong infighter. We’re gonna have to work on his counterpunches, this guy’s known for cutting off the ring. We’ll have to —”

Seungcheol pats your shoulder, “And it’ll be fine, y/n. I don’t think I’ve ever seen coach reject the schedules you make for Soonyoung.”

“Hoshi!” Soonyoung yells out, making both you and Seungcheol perk your heads up. “My name from now on – Hoshi. Horangi and Shiseon: Hoshi! Cool right?” He beams, announcing his new stage name to the reporter and to everyone else in the gym.

You stand up from the bench, “Yah! Now who said you can just decide that?!”

Unfortunately, the name plagued the next few posters across town and in the newspapers. Hoshi vs. whoever-was-unlucky-enough. And despite your worries about this fight, Soonyoung wins it with a KO in the 2nd round, after his opponent runs into a timed counter punch, that you swear, made his head spin 360 degrees.

He was making a name for himself with his flashy blonde hair, tiger shorts, and taunting. Sure, you knew this came with proboxing, the more matches Soonyoung won, the more the spotlight increased.

Brand deals? Suddenly, Soonyoung was the face of an energy drink brand that you don’t even permit him to drink. Being stopped in the street? That only happened once – but still, it was enough to inflate his head for a few weeks.

Not to mention the women as well. You saw many girls around the gym before, especially for Seungcheol. And it was starting to develop with Soonyoung as well.

You remember the first time it started to happen, as he walked into the gym with proud hickeys on his neck. Or when he offhandedly talked about a girl he was going on a date later. If there was one thing, Soonyoung was wielding this new attention well.

And while the money wasn’t that impressive yet, it grew the more matches were held. And in Soonyoung fashion, he would show up the next day in new jewelry. A pair of expensive dunks the next week, and skipping the line to exclusive places a month later. Like the club.

You sour, seeing Soonyoung begging on his knees as you spray clean the bench from god knows how many sweaty butts.

“Please – just one night. It’s to celebrate the match I just won last week!” He says, rubbing his hands together in a plead. “My black eye is basically gone, and my ribs feels better –”

“But, they won’t heal as fast if you get black out drunk, Soonyoung.” You say plainly. Soonyoung’s been partying and clubbing more, which you don’t bother bringing up. If he came back to practice on time the next day, you had nothing to complain about. At least, in a way that didn’t come off as personal. But this time it was different.

He took a bit of a beating in that last bout, Soonyoung taking a sharp punch in the ribs when he angled his initial dodge wrong. His diagnosis was to rest for a few weeks, which you wanted to honor.

He pouts, moving to bunch up the hem of the large jersey you were wearing in his hands. “Y/n, but listen! I’m just going to go dance. And not even that hard. Maybe just some fist pumping? And at most, a beer. What’s wrong with a beer?”

You warily look at him, observing his busted lip that was already healing with a small slit, the dotted brusing around his eyebrow. You push your fingers into the side of his torso.

“Ow! Shit – what the hell?!”

“You’re not going.” You say immediately, as he shoots his hand up to where you poked him. He definitely was still bruised bad if he flinched like that.

Soonyoung huffs, pushing himself back up onto his feet. “Please? I promised Jihoon. It’s his birthday,” He reasons, “I can’t leave my best friend to celebrate by himself. Who does that? Don’t you remember how many soju bottles he served us for free back then?” He complains, making you shake your head.

“The soju bottles only you drank?” You ask with raised brows, “Of course I do.” You sigh, as you push your hair back with one hand. “You need to be resting though, Kwon.”

He frowns, before stepping closer, daring to grab your shoulders. “Please?” He asks, “Ah – hold on,” He starts, eyes lighting up. “Come. You should come!”

“Absolutely not.” You shoot down immediately, that it makes Soonyoung wince from how straightforward you are.

“Why not? We can get free drinks, since I’m kinda famous now. Last time I was there, they got me a whole bottle on the house.” He claims, “And when was the last time you went out? Like, truly out?”

He leans closer, squeezing your shoulders. “We’re only twenty-four, what's your twenties without partying?” He asks, making you groan immediately.

There he goes again, reminding you of the inevitability of growing old.

You feel your blood boil a bit with annoyance, as Soonyoung continues to blabber pros of going, not letting go of your shoulders as he shakes you around. You stop him, grabbing onto the side of his arms.

“Okay, fine. Only because it’s Jihoon’s birthday.” You give in, “And I’m watching you. No crazy drinks or dancing. If I see you try and do a backflip like that one time — “

“Yay! We’re going to the club!” He beams, pulling you into a tight embrace, making you squeal as he lifts you off the ground.

“Put me down! Don’t strain yourself!” You scold, jumping out of his hold. A small pout on his lips, as he reluctantly lets go.

The club is as loud and dark as you remember, not bothering to dress up for it. All you did was change out of the normal athletic clothing you wore as a trainer (you were an official one now, thanks to your father’s acknowledgement), into a simple ringer tee and jeans, feeling a little awkward standing next to Soonyoung. Proudly wearing his designer shirt he spent too much of his money on.

You follow him, as he stops every few seconds to greet someone you don’t know. Laughing and shaking hands like they’re lifelong friends, navigating the nightlife like it was second nature to him on your way to the bar.

“Two waters please –”

“Make one a whiskey on rocks.” You chime in over Soonyoung, making him snap his head at you in betrayal.

“A whiskey on rocks?”

You shrug, “I said you couldn’t drink. Doesn’t mean I can’t.” You answer, cracking a smile at Soonyoung’s offended frown. You grab the glass of whiskey slid to you, as Soonyoung weakly takes a sip of his water.

In the club lights, you can’t help but study Soonyoung. He really was starting to change, the way his face isn’t as full as you remember as high schoolers.

His eyes were sharper now, with some eyeliner he stole from his noona, his bleached blond hair gelled up into tiny spikes. His ears were littered with ear piercings he got during the rest period he had last year. In a tight expensive brand top accentuating his muscles, and a golden chain decorating his neck, he wasn’t the fresh-faced boy you once knew.

He sets the cup down, looking over at you. “Can I have a sip though?”

You nod, “Yeah, fine. Here,” You relent, holding out the glass for a happy Soonyoung to take a sip.

Handing it back to you, he looks out across the crowd, his eyes dancing already with excitement at the moving bodies in the crowd.

You sip your drink leisurely, “Come on, I can’t wait anymore!” Soonyoung exclaims, “Jihoon can find us. Screw it!”

You have to knock your drink back to not waste a single sip as Soonyoung pulls you into the crowd, as you barely manage to throw the glass back onto the counter.

Finally in the middle of the lively crowd, you can’t help but cling to Soonyoung, the bodies around you warm and sticky with sweat. Music pounding hard, you feel the bass bumping in your legs from the vibrating floor.

“Come on! Dance!” You hear faintly, knowing it’s Soonyoung trying to yell over the loud music.

And you try to follow, nodding your head to the loud techno, still not ready from being pulled in so suddenly. You can only hear a groan from Soonyoung, before you feel him entwining his fingers with yours. “Come on, don’t worry. Follow!”

He holds your hands out, raising them with a grin, as he starts moving both of you to the beat. Jumping along, pumping your arms to the instrumental music with Soonyoung’s help. Until you felt comfortable enough, unhooking your hands from his, starting to follow the current music with the sway of your hips.

He nods in approval, smiling as he watches you get looser, following you by getting closer, his own body thumping and moving to the beat. He leans into your ear, “Not that bad, huh?”

You can’t help the small smile crawling onto your lips. Maybe it was how the whiskey was warming your body, or how the bass infiltrates your senses, but you could understand why. Why Soonyoung liked this. He notices, only smiling widely, as he dances with you. Keeping you close, as one hand moves to your waist to stay in his eyesight.

It feels intimate, despite the loud music and the many bodies around you, it was like the music was flowing through both of you. Turning into dull background noise as it quiets the more you stare into Soonyoung’s eyes. First, focused on yours, before you find them drifting to your lips.

You don’t even know how it escalates, feeling an invisible pull towards Soonyoung, his hand resting on the side of your waist as you come closer, before your noses brush.

Then you’re there. Lips against his, warm and soft, as he takes your top lip gently. It’s not long, the way you both pull back slightly. Feeling his warm breath against your lips as you lean forward to connect small chaste kisses before – wait —

Are you kissing Soonyoung?

You pull away, eyes wide. Soonyoung himself, fluttering his eyes open at the sudden disappearance of your lips.

Your mouth goes dry, the lingering feeling of his lips on yours making your cheeks burn bright in the dark club, as you swallow down your throat hard. “Y/n?” He questions, eyes widening as he sees you freeze up.

And you do freeze up. Taking a small step away from him, as he looks at you puzzled. Searching your face for an answer as he gingerly lets go of your side, giving you space.

“Um, sorry,” You say, shaking your head in an attempt to shake yourself out of it. “I just —“

You can’t be here right now.

“Say happy birthday to Jihoon for me.”

“What? Y/n —“

You follow your feet mindlessly, your mind overwhelmed by the loud sound of your pounding heart. Escaping Soonyoung’s questions as you weave through the crowd of drunk dancers until you find a semblance of peace around you.

You didn’t find that feeling of peace for a while.

Especially the next few weeks, as the energy between you and Soonyoung started to twist into something you can’t even describe.

He tried to talk to you the next day when it happened, but you stayed quiet all morning. Going through the normal routine of conditioning, as he stared at you like you had a third eye.

It wasn’t until you were putting your hands through the mitts for his padwork, that he finally spoke up again. “Y/n,” He begins softly, walking a few steps to stand in front of you. Your eyes focused on tightening the velcro around your wrist so they don’t slip off.

“We should talk, it seems like —“

“Kwon,” You start, jaw tense as you glance up at him. Fuck, why did he have to look like that? Like he cares about your wellbeing?

“It’s fine, seriously,” You shoot down, “Lets just get back to practice. We only have a week to sort out the kinks in the strategy, so lets focus on your combos.”

He frowns, “That again. Can you stop deflecting?” He asks, annoyance rising in his tone. “I’m trying to talk to you, and all you’re talking about is boxing.”

Scoffing, you cross your arms. “We’re in the middle of training, Kwon. I thought you wanted to box?”

“Not like this,” He says tightly, ripping his own gloves off, “Not when you’re being a bitch.”

Now wait a fucking second.

Even though everyone else practicing in the gym was minding their own business, doing their drills or talking amongst themselves, the sound of Soonyoung calling you a bitch rang loud enough to stop everyone. The thumping of punching bags die down, conversations stop, as everyone turns to the boxing ring you both currently were in.

Like a play on stage, everyone looks at both of you.

“Bitch?” You repeat, your voice low.

He swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing. “Yes, a bitch. You’re being a bitch.”

You could probably hear a pin drop if you tried. The loud boxers around not even bothering to make a sound to disturb this commotion.

The only one daring, was your father, who comes out of his office with no clue of the stand down. Closing the door behind him, before his eyes shoot up to the middle of the boxing ring. Already feeling the tension in the gym, like lightning cracking through.

You let out a loud, humourless laugh. Taking the punching mitts off without breaking eye contact with Soonyoung, throwing them to the floor. “You crazy, stupid idiot — “ You start, clenching your fists, eyes wide, “ — I’ll clean out your fucking mouth with soap!”

Thank god for the trained boxers at the gym, because the second you lunge for Soonyoung, everyone else immediately sprung into action. Fighters immediately pulling into the ring, an arm around your waist, another pulling your arm back, and two more holding your flailing legs.

Soonyoung is being held back too, despite everyone knowing he’d never lay a hand on you. But he’s willing to taunt, his eyes also wide with anger, as two people hold him back by his arms.

“Yeah? Try it I dare you! Might as well, since you’re acting like nothing happened — wheres your stupid can of Lysol?”Oh, so he’s even going after your favorite cleaning product? Unbelievable!

You scream, almost deafening everyone holding you back. “Fuck you Kwon Soonyoung! You spoiled piece of shit!” You screech, straining against many arms.

“Fuck you, Y/n! Hurry up and do it!” He yells back, jerking against the hold against him as well.

“Whoa, whoa!” Your father bellows loudly, coming between the both of you. His face tense and shocked by the display you and Soonyoung created.

His loud voices does still both of you, as you stop struggling against the boxers holding you back. Letting them carefully set you back down, as you rip your arms out of anyone’s grip.

Soonyoung is let go too, as he throws daggers at you with his stare, jaw tight.

“What is going on?” Your father demands sternly, his voice loud and low, as he glances at both of you. When you finally make eye contact with your father, you can’t help but shrink.

He was mad. Like, mad mad. Something you haven’t seen in a while, other than a couple years ago when one of the fighters at your gym confessed to cheating in a match once.

You take a deep breath, “He called me a bitch.” You spit out, your voice a little shaky with hurt.

Regret flashes through Soonyoung’s eyes at the tremble of your voice.

“Kwon Soonyoung, apologize.” He orders roughly, “Thats not how you speak to y/n, no matter what happened.” He says, walking up to Soonyoung, towering over him. “Go. Apologize.” He doubles down.

Soonyoung swallows his pride down, but listens anyways. “I’m sorry,”

Your father nods, but his face doesn’t soften. He looks towards you, “Y/n, what happened? Tell me.”

Your own mouth goes dry. You glance around, seeing the amount of people really invested in the current scene. Many boxers listening and watching intently, before your father realizes your discomfort.

He claps his hands, “Everyone! Get back to what you’re doing!” He yells out, his voice reaching every corner of the gym. People immediately turning around to continue their drills at the command.

He looks back at you, “Buddy, you gotta tell me.” He starts, “So I know what to do with both of you.”

You bite down on your tongue. How could you tell your dad, hey, I kissed Soonyoung at the club, got extremely freaked out and ditched him by himself without warning? Answer is — you can’t.

“Y/n, you have to tell —“

“It’s my fault.” Soonyoung speaks up, both you and your father looking over at him. He scoffs, running his hand through his short hair. “It’s my fault, I thought there was something, but there wasn’t. I’m the idiot, so it’s my fault.”

Your heart drops.

Your father creases his brows, a frown on his face as he hears Soonyoung’s explanation. “Okay,” He starts, “I have no clue what the hell that means.”

“Either way, your next match is in two weeks. No more fighting, or I’ll kill both of you.”

Soonyoung’s next match was still another win for him, not breaking his winning streak. But it was different from his past ones. The whole prep from the locker room to the match, Soonyoung ignored you. Only listening to your father’s insight, as you faded back as just a cornerman.

At first it was looking grim — the first round, Soonyoung took a few hard hits immediately. Only being able to defend as the opponent does an onslaught of combos, trying to find a crack in Soonyoung’s defense.

And he broke his block at one point, landing a hit on Soonyoung’s cheek. It was enough for you to grip the towel in your hand tightly until your knuckles turned white.

Even when you went to put ointment on a cut on Soonyoung’s face, he jerks his head away from your touch. Only challenging you with his sharp eyes, as you attempt to do it again. Focused on just smothering the open cut with the ointment.

“Don’t worry,” He breathes, “I’m winning again.” He says, and that softens the nerves just slightly in you. “So stop looking so scared.” He adds on coldly, shrugging you off as the bell rings.

And in the end, Soonyoung prevailed. His speed finding its foot and rhythm in the ring, as he dodged all major attacks, finding times to do quick sharp jabs. The multiple well aimed sharp jabs caused a quick KO, after a failed ten count.

It was this insufferable for the next few months. Sure, you were still in charge of his training, but any semblance of friendliness halted the day you made the mistake of going to the club with Soonyoung.

He’d work out, go through drills with you, and listened to your instructions during spars. But right after training ends, he was out the gym like it was an office job.

He started going out a lot more too, just from the sightings you see in the magazines. The famous Hoshi “Tiger” Kwon, out at clubs, partying with girls and rappers.

It didn’t help your resentment either, that when he would show up hangover, or late to training, he still did well in matches. Except now, instead of to make you happy, it was to spite you. To prove he could win any match now without your real help.

It was infuriating, and even more, you still couldn’t wrap your head around the jumbled feelings in your gut.

You’ve known Soonyoung for years now — and yet this was really the first time he truly felt far away. Out of reach, with his eyes focused on his career, you were just there.

After having 5 pro matches, your father deemed it was time. Time to test of Soonyoung had what it take to aim higher, as he finally entertained the many match invitations from other gyms.

HOSHI vs. JEON WONWOO

You stare at the poster glued haphazardly on the wall, stilling you on your walk as you stare at it. Soonyoung’s flashy pose with his rebellious looking persona, contrasting with the man next to him. Tall and calm, arms crossed as he pushes a pair of glasses up the bridge of his nose.

Jeon Wonwoo, you’ve heard of him. Who hasn’t? Anyone who kept up with the latest boxing magazines knew who he was, and even rumored to become one of the many candidates for the national olympic boxing team. It was definitely a high profile fight, one Soonyoung’s been chasing since forever.

And it stressed you out immensely. While your father was doing a lot to train Soonyoung this time, you can’t help but need to research. Hell, as much as you could kill Soonyoung with your bare hands, he needed to win this fight.

“I’m gonna go and —“

“Yeah, whatever.” Soonyoung cuts you off, as he throws a punch at the punching bag, drowning you out with thuds of his fists.

You tense your jaw, “Okay.” You sigh, “I’ll be back in an hour or so. Finish your drills by then.” You say tightly, before making sure your bag is securely under your arm. Stomping out the gym with a huff.

You had to take the train all the way to Jeon Wonwoo’s gym. It was a little farther away by transit, but this was important. And the transit time on the train gave you time to draw Soonyoung on the notepad you brought, letting out your frustration with shitty doodles of him being set on fire.

FUCK KWON SOONYOUNG !!! — you scribbled this until the ink started bleeding into the next sheet.

A boxing reporter you were acquainted with let you know that a practice spar was happening today. And they were right, as you step into the boxing gym. Attempting to blend in with other journalists as the practice spar is being set up, you hold your notepad timidly in your arms. Jeon Wonwoo in the corner as his coach speaks to him.

Looking at him, he didn’t seem much. He was tall with broad shoulders, with a calm face, as he takes his glasses off and hands them over to his coach. Seems like he doesn’t fight with them on. Not really note taking worthy information, but you write it down anyways.

While maybe outside of the ring he seemed normal, when he finally takes a step towards the middle to start, the room felt colder.

He was calm, calculated, as he readies his fists. Well-mannered as they begin the spar with a simple acknowledgment of boxing gloves tapping each other, before getting into stance. Just a regular orthodox stance so far.

What happens next makes your pen stop, as you watch the spar play out. Despite his tall frame, Wonwoo was light on his feet. His eyes calm and focused as he dodges and dances around his sparring partner.

There was also the fact that his reach was long. No matter how far you thought the opponent threw Wonwoo off, his glove always made contact no matter what.

And when the spar ends with Wonwoo’s obvious win, you can’t help but feel a sense of dread in your stomach. Jeon Wonwoo was gonna be a tough one for Soonyoung.

You sigh, deciding you’ve seen enough as Wonwoo leaves the ring to speak to some reporters. Ready to turn on your heel, you hear your name.

“L/n y/n, right?” A deep voice calls out, making you stiffen. You turn around in slight confusion, locking eyes with the sharp-eyed man.

Well, he knows who you are. Too late now.

You walk up to him and his coach, as he dries his sweat with one towel. But his eyes focused on you like a hawk, as you nod.

“Hi, nice to meet you. Surprised you can see that far without your glasses on.” You decide to say.

He waves his coach off, leaving you both alone in the conversation. He cracks a smile, as he wipes his glasses with the towel before putting them back on his slim nose. “Hm, yeah. Well, how could I not notice you?”

You narrow your eyes, “What do you mean?”

He shrugs as he throws the towel back onto the bench. Taking a step closer to you, his hands on his hips. “You’re from the Pledis Gym. Specifically, you train Kwon Soonyoung.” He explains, flickering his eyes around your face. “I’m a fan of your work.”

“Work?” You question.

“Your work.” He reiterates, as he glances at your notepad. He doesn’t even ask before he nabs it from your hand. “I heard you’ve been training Kwon Soonyoung since high school. It’s impressive.”

You blink, not even noticing the theft of your notepad, “What — hey!” You start, but he holds it away from you. Flipping through your notes. You shake your head, “He’s actually under Coach l/n,” You correct, “I’m just second —“

“Hm, no. You train Kwon Soonyoung.” Wonwoo interrupts plainly, looking you up and down. “No need for technicalities. He’s yours.”

Wonwoo continues, “I’ve studied Choi Seungcheol, and all the other fighters under your father. He has a specific style, Kwon Soonyoung doesn’t operate like that.” He points out.

That was true, your father tended to flock to certain boxing styles. Soonyoung’s style of boxing was a lot different than Seungcheol’s, or any other boxer he mainly trained himself.

Soonyoung’s skills were nurtured with your utmost attention, ever since you met in high school. You took what he was good at and amplified it. Engaging in strategies you built Soonyoung to adapt to easily, all tailored to fit him perfectly. Every match suited to destroy whoever he was going against with small different adjustments. When it came to your father, he trusted in the skill of his boxers. But you always took in account the opponent’s abilities.

“You’re good. Honestly, underutilized.” He admits, “You’re barely mentioned in interviews. I learned your name in a pretty old one.”

Yeah, because Soonyoung hates me now. You shake your head, “Thanks for the praise, but I don’t do anything special.”

He chuckles, “That’s what you believe? That you don’t do anything special?” He asks, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “These notes say otherwise.”

“I had no idea I had such a fan.” You say dryly, Wonwoo’s praises getting tiring. What was he getting at?

“Really? Anyone who cares about the current scene has talked about you.” He informs, making you even more perplexed. “Up and coming trainer, inheriting your talent from your dad. It’s admirable.“

“You’re pulling my leg.” You respond fast. You? Talked about? That was hard to wrap your head around.

As much as you threw yourself into the boxing gym, you never perceived your presence in it at all. You’ve been helping out at matches with your father since you graduated high school, being there during some Seungcheol matches, and all there for Soonyoung.

You always ignored reporters when they turn to you, always redirecting them back to Soonyoung. And you kept to yourself, only talking to the nearest people around you. When you think about it, you never really thought of your reputation now as an adult. You weren’t just a little girl following her dad anymore.

Wonwoo shakes his head, “No, I’m not.” He says matter-of-factly, “Maybe if you weren’t always hiding behind your father and Kwon Soonyoung’s shadow you’d see it.”

“Excuse me?”

Wonwoo smiles politely, shaking his head, “I don’t mean to insult you. I think, if you took your talents to another gym, your effort would stand out.”

“I mean,” Wonwoo sighs, taking a leisurely step towards you. Looking down from his tall frame. “When was the last time Kwon Soonyoung mentioned you in those magazine interviews?”

Ah, so he noticed.

He then chuckles at a page, before handing the notepad back to you. “Nice drawings by the way. Can you do one where he’s eaten by sharks?”

His words stuck with you when you get back to the gym.

Your bag heavy with Wonwoo’s question, and with notes of his skill during the spar. Soonyoung was done with his drills as you expected, as you walk in on him gulping down water.

He shakes his head, his sweat flinging into you as you grimace in disgust. “Kwon — what are you a dog?” You scold with annoyance, as he sets his water bottle down.

He doesn’t respond, just glancing at you up and down before looking away.

“Finished the drills.” He says simply, “What now?”

You sigh, rummaging through your bag as you take out the yellow notepad of hurried notes, settling it against your arm. Soonyoung leaning over to look at the notepad upside down. “Ugh, you write like its a doctors note.”

“Shut up, just listen.” You snap, shooing him away. “Your stamina training is shaping up, but we need to address some things.”

“Some things?”

“Yes,” You nod, as you shift some weight on one foot. “Jeon Wonwoo is a technique-based outfighter. He’s gonna do his best to tire you out, and his reach is no joke. It’s gonna be one where you’ll have to in-fight, cut off his reach so he doesn’t have so much power behind his punches.”

Soonyoung feels his eyes glaze over. Turning away from you as he pushes his tongue against his cheek in boredom.

“Are you listening?” You huff, putting your notepad down. Is this guy for real? Is he ignoring you?

“It’s six pm now, can we discuss this tomorrow?” He suggests, scratching the back of his head. Tomorrow? The old Soonyoung would stay hours after training, listening to you yap about strategies.

You blink, “What? Why? Do you have plans?” You ask perplexed.

He crosses his arms with a sigh, “Yeah, I do. There’s a party later, some guys —“

“Who cares?” You frown, “We need to talk about this. Jeon Wonwoo isn’t a normal opponent. He’s higher skilled than the boxers in your recent fights and I don’t say this lightly. I visited his gym to witness his spar —“

“Oh, so that’s where you were?” He huffs annoyed, “You don’t trust me enough to win, you have to visit the guy? I can’t believe you.”

You grit your teeth. “You’re getting cocky, Kwon.” You say lowly, walking closer as you poke the center of his toned chest hard. “I’m not gonna entertain this anymore. You have to listen to me, you didn’t just get here on pure luck —“

“Bite me.” He doesn’t let you finish your lecture, as he pushes your hand away. Looking at you like you’re just a buzzing fly around him. You’re starting to forget the last time he looked at you warmly.

You’re speechless for a moment at his disrespect. Your mind goes blank. God, you’ve been training this guy since you were both teenagers. Who does he think he is? With his finger in your face, looking down at you like you can’t tell him what to do.

You take his advice.

Soonyoung yelps, as you bite down on his shoulder, “Jesus! What the fuck! Y/n!”

You don’t let down as he tries to shake you off, before you finally let go when you hear the footsteps of other boxers in the gym drop what they’re doing.

Soonyoung is wide eyed, slinging his arm around to shake off the pain as he looks at the damage you caused. Your anger still boiling inside you, as you wipe your mouth.

Red-faced, “Are you CRAZY? Did you just bite me?”

You glance at the bite. It didn’t even break skin, just hard enough that the imprint of your teeth rounded out his shoulder, the skin around it red. If only you had fangs or something.

Forget being in your mid-twenties, the teenager in you can’t handle it anymore. The same girl who had Soonyoung wrapped around her finger — she couldn’t take it.

“LISTEN TO ME!” You yell out, pushing Soonyoung roughly at his chest, making him take a step back.

You bundle your hands into fists, your voice echoing through the gym.

“I DON’T CARE WHAT STUPID RAPPER OR GIRL IS WAITING FOR YOU AT SOME DINGY CLUB — YOU’RE GONNA FUCKING LISTEN TO ME WITHOUT INTERRUPTING, YOU GOT THAT?”

You lean forward, your wild eyes meeting Soonyoung’s scared shitless ones.

“I said,” You grit, “You got that Kwon?”

He nods timidly.

Seungcheol’s on the other side of the gym, chewing on his protein bar as he watches the scene from the sidelines. Lee Chan, a new kid checking out the boxing gym has his mouth agape in shock.

Seungcheol pats his shoulder, “Don’t worry, that’s normal.” He deadpans, “Welcome to Pledis gym, by the way.”

Your outburst seemed to work though. Soonyoung was a lot less bratty the next few weeks, still as cold but no longer challenging you. Were you really that scary? Either way, it was tolerable.

On your day off, you can’t even shake off the boxing mindset you were in. You spent all of the afternoon writing down possible ideas for Soonyoung’s training. You have confidence in his stamina, but with Jeon Wonwoo’s way of aggravating opponents, you could see Soonyoung burning through all his gas before the 3rd round. It was no good.

You decide to go and check out that amateur tournament happening tonight. While Soonyoung and Seungcheol were now in bigger leagues, you can’t help but gravitate towards the same tournaments that used to intimidate you earlier in your career.

The stadium was quite bare, as it was early in the bracket tournament. You couldn’t see much of an audience as you slip into a seat, looking down to watch the amateur bout.

You remember Soonyoung being in that ring. It was vivid, even to the detail of how he taps his feet at the corner, a habit he picked up to make sure his shoes were tightly on. A hard lesson he learned when his own shoes slipped off when he accidentally stepped on his laces during a match.

The memory makes your stomach warm. Back then, he’d smile sheepishly, causing a break in the middle of the round to tie them back up. Your father having to pull you off the ropes from jumping in and strangling him for being an idiot.

Those days seemed far now.

“L/n y/n?”

You perk your head up, turning to your left. To your surprise, it’s Jeon Wonwoo. Clad in a simple zipped up hoodie and jeans, pulling his hood back to reveal his face.

“Huh? Why are you here?” You question, as he walks through the aisle of seats to sit next to you. And he sits right next to you, knocking his knee against yours as he settles down in his tall frame.

He gestures at the ring, “That’s my junior. Wanted to show up and support,” He informs, “Besides. You never know what talent shows up in the amateur tournaments.”

You glance at the boxing ring, as the two men have already started the second round. “Your junior, huh?” You mutter, “He telegraphs his punches too much. It’s fortunate his opponent doesn’t notice.”

Wonwoo chuckles, “Right.”

You lean forward, leaning on your cheek. Analyzing the fight in front of you. “Not even just that, you can tell what's going through his head. But he has promise. While I can tell what he’s gonna do, it’s a good idea.” You continue, “The other guy is too slow. When he pulls back, he takes too long to shift on his feet, it's the perfect time to aim for his jaw. Throw him off balance.”

And as you say, a few seconds later Wonwoo’s junior attempts just that, but only grazing the opponent’s jaw slightly. But it’s enough for the guy to jump back to recuperate.

You bite down on your lip in concentration. “If he just practiced his form to be more tight —“

You turn your head to look at Wonwoo, your voice trailing off as you see his sharp eyes focused on you. Not on his junior, but you.

“You’re wasted on Kwon Soonyoung,” He says lowly, flickering his eyes around your face as you straighten up. “You’ve barely been watching for two rounds, and you already know what to do with Mingyu.”

You turn away, crossing your arms. “Anyone could, he’s like an open book.”

“Hmm,” He hums, “Either way, you’re right. Mingyu’s been trying to improve his technique for the past few weeks.”

You shake your head, “It’s also his stance.” You say, “He’s obviously left handed. Why is he boxing orthodox?”

“Left handed?” Wonwoo questions, as he glances back at the ring. He didn’t notice it until now, but when Mingyu hands his water bottle back to the cornerman with his left hand.

“Yeah, left handed. Thats why he’s telegraphing so hard, he’s too weak with his right jab.” You observe, your eyes dancing around the ring. Watching as Mingyu throws another punch. “There it is,” You mutter, when Mingyu’s opponent falls in Mingyu’s blind spot and Mingyu braces a hit to the side. “It’s awkward. He should switch to southpaw. A lot of amateur boxers aren’t trained to handle southpaws either, it’d be a better strategy for him.”

Wonwoo blinks, “Are you free after this?”

You don’t even know how you got here. Walking with Wonwoo alongside the river, a cup of fishcake in your hand as he goes to town on a skewer himself.

You blow on the steam from the cup, before taking a tentative sip of the broth.

“I can’t believe Mingyu never brought up he was left handed,” Wonwoo speaks up, “Or at least, the fact no one caught onto the fact he was. He really listened to our coach with no objections on anything.”

You shrug, “Yeah, you guys are… idiots.” You can’t even sugarcoat it.

Wonwoo snickers, biting off another piece of fish cake as he turns to look at you. “Why were you at the amateur tournament anyways? You don’t know any of the fighters, do you?”

You shake your head, “No, I don’t.” You admit, “I just found myself there.”

“On a Saturday night, you found yourself at a random amateur boxing tournament?” He clears his throat, throwing his empty skewer into his cup, “Even with rookies like Mingyu you pay attention so seriously. Is it safe to assume you do this often, watch matches no matter the boxer?”

You wilt. Might as well call you a crazy obsessed boxing lady — you basically grew into that. Maybe you should get a cat just to become a crazy cat lady instead.

Wonwoo notices you shrinking back, as a soft smile creeps onto his face. He looks forward at the sidewalk, “It’s not bad. It’s impressive, honestly.” He says, “We need passionate trainers, you know? Sometimes it feels like you’re throwing punches at the air, not knowing where to aim.”

You look up at him. “Getting caught in trivial things, like interviews and money. It’s nice to have someone to ground you and give you structure.”

“I don’t know about that,” you say, “There’s that, and then there’s having no life. All I think about is boxing.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Wonwoo asks, knitting his brows. “You like what you like. Just embrace it.”

Soonyoung flashes in your mind. If only it was that easy.

You both stop, as the familiar building of your boxing gym comes into focus. You take another sip of the warm broth, before looking up at Wonwoo.

“Thanks,” You start, “I’ll think about your advice.”

“Yeah of course,” He nods, “Whatever helps.”

“What advice?”

A familiar voice makes you snap your neck to the side to chase it. Seeing Soonyoung across from the both of you, in sweats and a hardened expression on his face.

Crap.

“What are you doing here?” You question, perplexed, taking a few steps forward. Your eyes dart from him to Wonwoo, who stays calm behind you.

Soonyoung holds up his hand, keys jingling in the glow of the streetlights. “Couldn’t sleep.” He says gruffly, “Wanted to grab some tapes from Coach’s office.”

His eyes shoot to Wonwoo, jaw tense. “Don’t think he’s here for the same thing.” He says tightly.

Wonwoo clears his throat, walking up to stand beside you. His face cool, nonchalant as he smiles at Soonyoung. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Kwon Soonyoung, right?” He says lowly, “Nice to meet you. Didn’t think we’d really see each other until the weigh-in.”

Soonyoung narrows his eyes, walking up closer. “Me either. Let alone seeing you with my trainer.”

You frown at the impersonal way he mentions you.

Wonwoo chuckles, scratching the back of his head. “Ah, y/n. We ended up running into each other.”

“Yeah, running into each other.” Soonyoung repeats dryly, as he eyes the food both of you are holding. His stare makes you hold the cup of fishcake lower to the ground.

“Wonwoo was walking me back,” You decide to add in, “I was gonna rewatch some tapes too.” This wasn’t a lie. After the amateur tournament, you were gonna rewatch some matches. Soonyoung’s matches to be specific, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to mention that. You just had to hope Soonyoung believed you.

“Wonwoo, huh?” He says, before letting out a dry chuckle, “First name basis. You guys must be close.” He smiles, but there's no friendliness behind his smile. Actually, this might be the first time Soonyoung has made an active chill run down your spine.

You turn to Wonwoo, an apologetic look on your face. “Uh, thanks for walking me back. And for the fishcake.” You say awkwardly, “Um, goodnight.”

Wonwoo turns to you, like Soonyoung isn’t watching you both with the intention to burn holes through your heads. “Yeah, goodnight.” He nods, “Think about it though. You’ve got a lot of potential.”

You stiffen. You can already feel Soonyoung’s confusion from that vague statement already. “Yeah, thanks. Goodnight.” You say quietly, as Wonwoo starts making his way back. But not until he locks eyes with Soonyoung.

Eyes sharp, focused like he wasn’t just looking at you so softly a moment ago. “See you in the ring, Kwon.” He says, words heavy, simple, but enough to remind you that you were galavanting with the enemy.

“It’s Hoshi!” Hoshi yells out, as Wonwoo walks away. “Fucking asshole.” He mutters, stomping towards the boxing gym door.

You catch up to Soonyoung as he fumbles with the keys. “It doesn’t turn that way —“

“I know!” He snaps at you, as he jams the key into the lock, wiggling it roughly until it clicks into place.

The door swings open with the swift kick of his foot, banging against the wall as Soonyoung walks in. Footsteps heavy. You can’t help but follow after him, closing the door.

“I thought you had plans tonight.” You say, as you follow the angry Soonyoung into your father’s office, the cup of fish cake in your hand feeling like a burden as you find a surface to rest it on. “I heard you were going out with some of the new boxers from Seungcheol —“

“Well, I didn’t go.” He interrupts, as he takes his hood off. Turning around to look at you, as you switch the light on. The blinding fluorescent light flickering on, as Soonyoung stares straight at you.

“Why not?” You dare to question, “It’s not like you to turn down a night out.”

He scoffs, ruffling his hair with one hand, dragging it down his face with a groan.

“Well,” He starts, as he turns his body to face you properly, his movements sharp and dramatic. “I wasn’t aware you’d be on a date with Jeon Wonwoo, the guy I’m fighting in two weeks. Guess we’re both wrong, huh?”

You clench your jaw. “It wasn’t a date, we met —“

“Bullshit!”

You step up to him until your finger jams into his chest. “What the fuck did I say about interrupting me?” You hiss, “I don’t care what shitty hissy fit you’re throwing. I wasn’t on a fucking date, first of all. You would know if you would just fucking listen —“

Soonyoung chest pushes into your finger, leaning his head forward into your personal space. Eyes challenging, “Oh yeah? And why should I listen to you?” He responds back with equal bite, “You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve! For someone who I thought —“

“Thought what?” You ask sharply, “Come on, tell me. Are you gonna call me a bitch again? Or something new?” You say angrily, tilting your chin up to stare into Soonyoung’s eyes as intensely as he looks into yours.

His adam’s apple bobs, gritting his teeth as he searches your eyes. “For someone who I thought only had time for boxing.” He replies, his voice steady. “This whole time, I thought I mistook your interest in me for just wanting to be a good trainer.”

He sneers, “Guess I’m just a fucking idiot. You’re capable of dating someone, it’s just not me.” He swallows hard, “That your type then? Tall annoying assholes with glasses being begged to be snapped in half?”

Your face drops. “That’s not true, you’re assuming things.” You say hastily.

Soonyoung laughs humorlessly, “Really? Don’t think I am.” He claims, shaking his head. “How long have we known each other? Fuck, like eight years?” He recounts.

He furrows his brows, “You know how many damn times I told myself to wait for you?” He begins, taking a step forward, making you take one back. “Every single match — I think about confessing to you every single time. Every win, the first thing I think about is you.”

“W-what?” You choke out.

“Why do you think I never lose?” He asks, “It’s so I wouldn’t fucking disappoint you. Shit, no matter how much I wish you would disappear, your face shows up when I feel like I can’t stand up anymore.” He says hurriedly, his voice quieting down.

You’re rendered speechless. Is he being serious? Sure, you knew you hurt his feelings after ditching him at the club a few months ago. But this came out of left field, at least for you.

His breath hitches. “Don’t look at me like that.” He says pained, “Like you actually care.”

“Soonyoung, of course I do. Of course I care, why would I not care?” You say in disbelief, eyes widening as he shakes his head. “I thought you loved boxing. You can’t just say you’re doing all of this for me.”

“You’re boxing!” He basically yells at you. He lets his hands fall to his side as he groans, pacing around your father’s office as he tries to controls his outburst. “You’re boxing, y/n!”

He rushes towards you, this time his finger poking into your chest roughly. “God, for some boxing genius you’re really clueless, you know that? You think I’d be here if I didn’t see how much you love boxing?” He asks.

He sighs frustrated, “I was just some kid when I met you. All I did was mess around, before finding the gym. Sure, Seungcheol hyung was cool — but you?” He lets out a scoff, “I was gonna do a few sessions at most. But the way you pushed me, I believed that I could actually be something. That boxing was something worthwhile.”

He shakes his head, “It doesn’t matter. I could knock out Ray Jones Jr in one round and you wouldn’t blink a damn eye.” He mutters.

Clarity flashes in Soonyoung’s eyes.

“After Jeon Wonwoo, I’m moving gyms.” He states, “I’m not gonna train under you. Not anymore.”

It felt like your heart was breaking into two, the way it beats against your chest in panic. Your eyes darting around his face as your body freezes up at his words.

“You don’t mean that.” You say, your voice cracking. “Soonyoung, you love this gym.”

“Not with you in it.” He says shaking his head, “I’ve dealt with enough. You and your mixed signals, I can’t take it anymore.”

Your anger spikes, as you push Soonyoung’s chest with both hands. “Fuck you,” You hiss, “You’re gonna throw away eight years because of this?” You ask in disbelief, “I can’t believe you!” You push him again, with more force. But it barely makes Soonyoung stumble.

“I thought you were more than this Soonyoung, but you’re worse than I thought.” You say lowly, as tears gather at the corner of your eyes. “You think this has been easy for me?”

You take a deep breath, as you shove Soonyoung again. This time hard enough that the back of his legs hit your father’s desk. The old furniture rattling.

“I’ve been dealing with your mood swings, your disrespect, your lack of focus for months. Giving you space, because I felt guilty.” You say, trying to get all your words out before your voice fails you. “You think you’re the only one performing?”

You hold your hand out, the slight tremor obvious as you slam your hand onto your father’s desk. “I feel like I can’t mess up either. Disappoint my father, give you or anyone else in the gym the wrong advice. I’ve been up every night thinking about what to do with you, hell, what to do with me.” You grit, “I don’t know the answer. That's why I ran away.”

Soonyoung furrows his brows, “You don’t always need to know the answer. You think I would’ve judged you if you just admitted you were confused?” He asks, making you return his words with your own humorless laugh.

“Right, like how you’re just gonna run away because of what's happened between us?” You point out. “I don’t know who you are. Not for a while now.”

Soonyoung clenches his jaw. “I don’t know who you are either.”

You take a step back, as you move towards the office door. Gripping the doorknob tightly. “Also, you’re not leaving the gym.” You say firmly.

Soonyoung narrows his eyes, “And why’s that?”

“Because I’m leaving first.” You announce, as you swing the door open. You raise your head up, eyes cold. “I’m taking Wonwoo’s advice. I’m not gonna hide under you or my father’s shadow. You can stay at Pledis gym, I’m the one moving.”

“What?! That’s crazy —“

You glance at your father’s desk. “If you’re watching the tapes still, watch the ones marked with the blue sharpie.” You say tightly, “I taped them specifically for you.”

Soonyoung blinks, “What? Can you just — hold on, y/n —“

You slam the door closed, not giving Soonyoung a chance to finish his sentence. Bolting out the damn boxing gym, only the glow of your father’s office serving as a guide as you leave.

The next two weeks go by fast. Mainly due to the fact that you were dissociating like your life depended on it.

Your mind is anywhere else but the gym. Even to the point where when you were helping Lee Chan with his pad work, he almost hit you with an uppercut. Your heart basically popping out of your chest as you narrowly avoided it, your father on the sidelines scolding you — y/n! Watch it, you want to die before Soonyoung’s bout?

And honestly? You wish you could. Soonyoung could barely look at you, and when you told your father he could handle everything up to the match from now on, he looked at you skeptically.

“I don’t know y/n, this is an important match. I think Soonyoung would want you around, no?” He says warily, as you focus on getting rid of some sort of mysterious stain on the floor.

You shake your head as you aggressively mop the spot, “No. I have nothing else to offer, anyways. He needs your advice on something so high profile. I’ll just get in the way.” You reason.

“That’s wrong. You’ve been helping out since forever, you always have something to say.” Your father disagrees, as he stops your mopping by grabbing the hilt of the mop. “And stop it, will you? That spot’s been there for years. Your obsessive mopping right now isn’t gonna wash it away you know.” He says gruffly, shaking his head.

“Either way,” He sighs, “You’re attending the weigh-in. Just as my second, you have to.”

And you do so begrudgingly. Despite the fact both you and Soonyoung treated each other like ghosts, you find yourself standing to the side as camera flashes blind you. All documenting the weigh-in, as both Wonwoo and Soonyoung are checked for the weight limit.

They both were under the limit fortunately. And as a final end to the meet, both boxers stand beside each other for photos. Another influx of camera flashes, as you and your father stand a few feet away.

You catch Wonwoo’s eye, as he nods at you. You don’t respond back, but it’s enough for Soonyoung to narrow his eyes further at Wonwoo.

“Hey, eyes on me.” Soonyoung says firmly, “You get this distracted in the ring too? That’s fine, just means I can finish it early.”

Wonwoo flickers his eyes back at Soonyoung, before his lips curl into a mocking smile. “Confident as ever. Guess we’ll see if you’re bluffing tomorrow.” He muses. “Give y/n my regards yeah? Looks like you’re really stressing her out, are you really your best right now Kwon?”

The simple taunt was enough for Soonyoung. The sound of your name was enough for him to black out for a moment, only to come back to the sound of surprised gasps and yelling.

Your arms wrap around his waist as your father and other officials pull Soonyoung away, as cameras flash wildly until you could only see white.

“OH — WHOA! HOSHI, THE TIGER KWON, STRUCK JEON WONWOO DURING WEIGH-IN! WHAT WILL HIS PENALTY BE?”

“You idiot!” You yell, as you help drag Soonyoung away. Your eyes darting to Wonwoo, who has a smug smirk on his face as he stretches his jaw from Soonyoung’s strike.

The paper is slammed straight onto your father’s desk, the photo and title making you wince.

HOSHI “TIGER” KWON STRIKES JEON WONWOO BEFORE FIGHT!

It feels like you’re in the principal’s office. Sitting timidly in the worn out metal chair, next to Soonyoung. Wait, why the hell are you sitting here? You didn’t even do anything.

Your father sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know how much they’re charging us for that?” He asks, as he leans forward with his hands on the desk. Using one hand to press a finger right on the photo, onto Wonwoo’s face.

Both you and Soonyoung don’t respond.

“Four point five million won.” He states, emphasis on each number. “Four point five million won, because this idiot here can’t keep his hands to himself!”

Soonyoung grits his teeth, looking away as he slouches in the chair.

Your father lets out another deep sigh, “Soonyoung, no matter how much the other guy taunts, you settle it in the fucking ring.” He reiterates, “An amateur boxer knows that. Hell, a little kid knows that.”

Soonyoung starts to speak, but your father puts a hand up. “No, I don’t need an explanation.” He huffs, “Your match is in less than twenty-four hours. Focus on that.”

Your father checks the time on his watch, “Now I’m going home.”

Both of you start to stand, before your father holds his hand up again to stop you both.

“Not you two.” He says firmly, “You guys can focus on the match while mopping the floors.” He says roughly, “Then you can lock up the gym and leave.”

Your mouth drops agape. “Me? What did I do?” You ask in disbelief, as your father shakes his head, waving his hand.

“I don’t know, but I have a feeling this has something to do with you.” He adds on quickly. Soonyoung snickers.

“Don’t stay up too late.”

You mopped like your life depended on it. And maybe it did, since Soonyoung didn’t bother speaking to you the whole time. At most, he would gesture for a mop, or the bucket of water. And you would do so for the sake of wanting to bolt out the door.

But when you went to the bathroom after finishing the punishment, it felt like you were mopping up your own thoughts as you splash water against your face.

In the mirror, you saw the changes. The way your hair was longer, your face slimmed down with age, and the tired look in your eyes. You weren’t that teenage girl anymore, and yet, this whole fight with Soonyoung was making you feel like you were.

You bite down on your lip. This is ridiculous.

And you bring that energy when you walk back out into the gym, “Let’s lock up now.” You yell out, but you stop in your tracks when you hear the familiar grunts and squeaking from the boxing ring.

Looking up, Soonyoung throws a hook out, before jumping back and practicing some weaves. Considering the small beads of sweat on his forehead, he’s been shadowboxing since you went to the bathroom.

His fist snaps back with a crack of the wind, filling the empty gym as you take a step forward. “Take it easy, the match is tomorrow.”

Soonyoung stills after a few combos, eyes flickering to you. He takes a breath, “Like you care. You’re moving gyms anyways.”

You place your hands on the platform, pushing yourself up and slipping through the ropes. “Maybe, but you’re still under my watch. At least for now.”

“Lucky me.” He says dryly.

You walk up to him, stopping only a foot away. Folding your arms to your chest as you attempt your best to soften your eyes. You don’t want to fight. Soonyoung has enough fights to worry about.

“Why did you punch Wonwoo earlier?” You ask, “You’ve never started a skirmish before. You taunt, sure, but you never actually attack anyone.”

Soonyoung stiffens, “It’s called hyping up an audience, there’s more to boxing than —“

You roll your eyes, “Bullshit.”

He stills. Huffing, “You’re moving to Jeon Wonwoo’s gym aren’t you?”

You frown. What? Where did he get that from? “What? Says who?”

He scoffs, “Says him! It’s all over his face, poaching you like you’re some kind of prized animal. It’s stupid, it’s annoying — why him?”

“You don’t care about anything unless you have full control. Like, I’m just some sort of puppet to you. Everyone in the gym is.” He mutters as he takes a step forward, eyebrows furrowed as he stares into your eyes. “I despise it, I hate you.”

Oh, there it is. The three words you’ve never thought would come out Soonyoung’s mouth.

He expects you to say it back. Spit in his face, strike him across his cheek. Maybe knee him in the nuts.

But you don’t.

You’re quiet, still. Your face pensive, as you stare back up at him. Your silence is loud, filling up every corner of the gym, and every crevice in Soonyoung’s brain.

You finally speak up. “I don’t feel the same way.” You start, swallowing hard. “I could never hate you. No matter how insufferable you get,” You take a deep breath, “I can’t hate you. I never will.”

Soonyoung doesn’t know what to say, a look of confusion flashing on his face, his attitude faltering as he eyes you. “What?”

You sigh, unfolding your arms as you run your own hand through your hair. “If I hated you, I would never have dealt with you this long.” You say quietly, “So I can’t do it. I can’t play along and say I hate you too, because I don’t mean it.”

Soonyoung’s face contorts into a look of hurt, like your proclamation of being fond of him was more devastating than playing along. Why couldn’t you just say the same thing, dammit!

Soonyoung takes a deep breath, looking up as he collects his thoughts. “I just don’t understand you. You — you’re exhausting,” He says, his voice cracking. “You’re making me feel like a bad person. Hate me! Why can’t you hate me?”

You shrug, “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

He scoffs, “Don’t apologize, dammit. Fuck,” He groans, wiping at his face before grabbing onto your shoulders. He pulls you close, “Why do you make me feel this way?” He cries out.

“Same way for me.” You reply back, “I can’t explain it, how I feel about you.” Pained, you swallow back the nervousness threatening to escape through your throat. “It’s confusing and it’s scary. I know nothing about it, so that’s why I’ve pretended it doesn’t exist.”

“But you exist. And I can’t stop pretending you’re not in front of me.” You say firmly, “You’re loud, stupid, and the way you run through my head all the time makes me want to pull my hair out.”

Soonyoung searches your eyes, pulling you even closer to him. Until your breath fans his face, and his nose nudges yours. Eyes focused on yours as you speak.

“You understand, don’t you?” You say quietly, “I don’t hate you. I never felt hate towards you, in all these years.” The proximity of Soonyoung is intoxicating, like his presence is finally pulling out months of your jumbled thoughts.

You swallow hard. “I miss you.”

That’s all it took. Your own three words, and Soonyoung closes the distance roughly. Pulling you by the shoulders until your mouths collide.

At first, it doesn’t feel like a kiss. Could you count this as one? It was unlike the one at the club months ago under the hazy lights. This time, you could feel everything. The way his nose sits against your cheek, and how he pushes into your mouth. Forcing to fit his against yours, so impossibly close it felt like he was merging with you.

But then he’s warm. His mouth is, the way he kisses you back. His hand snaking up to hold the side of your face and gripping like you’ll slip out of his hands. And who says you won’t? To Soonyoung, it was a very real worry. You’ve done it before, and he’d die before letting you do it again.

His tongue pushing past your parted lips as you greet him with your own. Wrapping your arms around Soonyoung’s neck to deepen the kiss. He takes a deep breath through his nose, breathing in the scent of your skin as his hands move up to thread through your hair. Pads of his fingers against your scalp before pulling slightly.

Your head is pulled back by that, finally giving you a chance to breathe. Eyes fluttering open as you detach.

“If you run away now, I’ll chase you down and tie you to the corner post.”

Funny. “You have a way of ruining the moment, don’t you?” You reply with a narrow look of your eyes.

He nods, “Yeah, and I have a way of bringing it back too.”

He grips the back of your neck with one hand, pushing you back towards him until his mouth crashes against yours once more. It’s all encompassing, not giving you a chance to really think about how cheesy Soonyoung’s lines could be.

His other hand snakes its way around your waist, pulling you against him. Making your knees fold under you, Soonyoung follows the flow with no protest as he gently pulls you to the floor of the ring.

He cushions your head with the back of his hand, letting you down easily until his body weight rests against yours. Trapping you against the boxing ring floor.

You let Soonyoung guide you, following the curve of his mouth against yours, and deepening the kiss more with the push of your tongue against his. He groans into your mouth, before softly detaching himself from you.

“Where did you learn how to kiss like that?” He asks, flickering his eyes to your lips.

You shrug under him, “You weren’t the only one running around with girls all the time. You think I’ve been completely celibate the past few years?”

He frowns. “Stop, don’t say things like that. Especially when you’re under me.”

You take a deep breath through your nose as you both kiss once more, more hands moving to the sides of his face, caressing the short strands of hair near his ears.

He pulls away, taking your bottom lip into one more kiss before trailing down your jaw. Placing chaste kisses against your skin, before leaving an open mouthed one against the crook of your neck. You sigh in response, embracing Soonyoung’s soft touches as you tilt your head back against the canvas floor.

He grabs the zipper of your sports jacket, the pull of it making a sharp sound that fills the gym. You help shrug it off, revealing your tank top under it. He looks up at you with big eyes.

Ah, he wants permission.

You nod, your cheeks pinkening slightly, as you glance away flustered. As much as he wants to tease you, he doesn’t. In favor of pulling the hem of your tank top up, revealing your chest to him in the dim gym.

He sighs, grabbing your chest with both hands, supporting his body with his knees straddling you. A shaky breath leaving your lips when you feel his calloused thumbs rub gentle circles against your nipples. Hardening even more under the cold air conditioning, and Soonyoung’s touch.

“Pretty,” He mutters, “You’ve always been pretty.”

His lips graze against your breasts, goosebumps appearing against your skin from the gentle caress. Exploring across the valleys of your chest before circling his mouth around one of your nipples, lapping his tongue against the bud.

You gasp against his touch, arching your back to fill his mouth, and his other hand palming your neglected breast. It should be illegal how into your chest Soonyoung is. The way he massages them together, and sucks your nipple to make you twitch under him. You can even feel him smiling against your boobs.

You push him off, connecting your lips against his for a string of kisses, “What’s wrong with you? I swear, if I didn’t pull you off you would just be making out with my boobs forever.” You mutter against his mouth.

“Why can’t I?” He responds back, returning your kiss with a pucker. “What, you don’t like it?”

You roll your eyes, “I’d rather our first time being intimate be more than just about my boobs.”

“Well, that's just unfair. You know how long I’ve been wanting to do that?”

You shake your head, looking at him with surprise as you push yourself up, both you and Soonyoung changing your positions to sitting upright against the floor. “No, how long?” You ask, scooting closer to him, pulling his t-shirt off, tossing it to the side.

“Everytime you wear a sports bra,” He answers, “Or a tight top in general. Like when the ac was broken for a week that one time,” He answers, as you oggle Soonyoung’s abs in the dark room. Letting your hands be your eyes as you feel his warm chiseled abs under your fingers.

You blink, “W-what? You think about it that often?” You ask in confusion, feeling a bit flustered by his shamelessness.

He nods, “Yeah. I even broke the thermostat just to see you dress like that again.”

You still your hand, slapping Soonyoung’s arm. “That was you! Oh my god, we were trying to figure out how that happened!” You scold, but Soonyoung just grins smugly, no regrets in his eyes at all.

You shake your head disapprovingly, leaning forward to land a short kiss against his lips. “You’re gross.” You huff, but there's no bite in that.

Soonyoung leans back against his elbows as you lean forward, deepening the kiss into another series of long ones, opening your mouth to press your tongue against his with a moan. His lips stutter against yours as your hand travels down, slipping into his shorts. Feeling his hardening erection against your hand.

You palm slightly, feeling his size. Oh thank god.

He pulls away from your lips, letting out a deep breath through his mouth, before biting down on his lip. “Is this heading where I think it is?” He asks, and you can’t help but feel your heart flutter the way his eyes look hopeful.

You nod, “It is, if you want to.” I say, “Do you want —“

“Yes,” He nods hastily, “Absolutely. No problem here.”

“Have a little humility, Soonyoung.” You scold lightly, as you move from palming him to gripping his shaft, dragging your fist up at a slow pace, feeling him in your hand.

He groans, “In this situation? No,” He shakes his head, “You’re getting all of me. And that includes my desperation for you.”

Your stomach flips. God, how embarrassing, the way Soonyoung being so unapologetic is soaking your panties to the point of discomfort.

You bite down on your lip, “Just stay still. I don’t want you overexerting yourself when your match is in less than twenty four hours.” You say softly, kissing his cheek despite his sulking pout.

“We’re gonna have sex for the first time, and you want me to stay still?” he asks exasperated.

You pinch his side, making him yelp. Oddly, you feel him twitch against your hand. Oh, so he likes stuff like that. Of course he does.

“Just listen to me,” you mutter, pushing his chest so that he lays down against the ring floor.

You shimmy yourself out of your pants, tossing them across the ring. You feel your confidence falter slightly when he eyes your polka dot panties.

“To be fair, I didn’t think this was gonna happen today.” You defend poorly, sliding them off hastily.

Soonyoung shakes his head with a small smile. “It’s cute.” He reassures, as you help him pull down his shorts further. Seeing the sliver of tiger print on his boxers — guess there really was no point to feel embarrassed.

You smile. Right, this was Kwon Soonyoung. There’s nothing to feel scared about.

Seeing Soonyoung’s dick was something else. The way it stands proudly, already begging you to do something about it. Especially the way the tip blushes pink, slightly angled to the side as he uses his hand to grab it and do some experimental strokes of his own. Small breaths escaping through his mouth as he smears his precum down to the sides.

You feel your stomach flutter in anticipation, warm from the idea of him inside you. You straddle him, your knees digging into the canvas floor as you hover your core over the tip of his dick.

He takes a sharp breath, “Fuck, you look so good.” He moans, not being able to restrict himself to grab your breasts. Almost like they’re his handlebars for a ride. (Well, that's one way to describe it!)

You lead the tip of his penis with your hand, gently letting it graze against your dripping folds before finally sinking down onto him. The air in your lungs escaping through your nose as you slowly stretch yourself out onto him.

Soonyoung wasn’t huge or thick like the AV stars on the tapes your friend once lent you, but it seems to be a blessing. Because the way Soonyoung slides into you, your walls hugging his shape as it angles into the gummy spot that immediately makes you bite down on your lip — he was made for you.

And you assume he feels the same way. Especially with how big his pupils dilate under his heavy lids, his mouth agape in awe. Palms finding themselves to the meat of your ass, squeezing in anticipation.

He bottoms out, your knees digging into the canvas floor as you breathe through your nose. “Fuck, if you don’t move I’m going to.”

You shoot Soonyoung a glare, this man never shuts up. Not even with his dick inside you.

You lean forward, placing your hands against Soonyoung’s chest. One of his hands coming up to squeeze your wrist and cover your hand in support.

You rock forward, a shaky breath escaping your mouth at the sensation. The way he rubs inside you at the angle you push, makes your eyes flutter close in pleasure.

For once, he’s listening to you. Letting you take reign as you establish your own pace. Slow at first — but inevitably you succumb to how your body reacts. And Soonyoung does as well.

He sits up, adjusting as he wraps his arms around your waist. Your eyes opening at the new position, Soonyoung sitting up as his forehead rests against yours. His breath is warm and heavy, fanning over your face as he starts pushing into you with focus. Your breath catching at your throat at how deep he’s pushing in. How malleable you feel, as you wrap your hands around his neck in support.

“Jesus — Soonyoung,” you gasp, as he takes control. A hand gripping your hip roughly, pushing you down onto him as he pistons up.

It’s rhythmic, the sound of skin slapping on skin, the combined moans and panting. Echoing across the empty gym. Who knew you would sacrilege the boxing ring you’ve trained Soonyoung in since day one?

“Y/n, baby, you feel so good.” He can’t help but praise, a hand wrapping around the side of your neck, supporting your head as his thumb presses into your mouth.

You respond easily, enveloping his thumb into your mouth. Sucking and circling his thumb with the tip of your tongue before you let go with a pop. A string of saliva to his thumb that he swipes across your lips.

He pulls you into a messy kiss. A stuttering one, as you feel Soonyoung’s pace becomes less consistent.

You feel it too, the way you’re starting to squirm, your own movements stuttering as moans fall from your mouth. You tighten your grip on his shoulders, staying in place as Soonyoung’s efforts become faster. Your mind melting at the pace, until you feel the familiar build up in your abdomen.

“Soonyoung! I’m going, I’m going to —“

Soonyoung doubles down as he favors sacrificing one hand to circle your swollen clit, spiking the incoming release you were basically hurling towards.

You gasp, white hot feeling flaring up in you, as you shiver and squirm. Your hands shooting up to Soonyoung’s hair, grabbing for any support.

“Fuck, so tight, Fuck —“ Soonyoung breathes. He pulls his cock out as he lifts you slightly off. A groan escaping his lips as his eyes zero in on the sight, his hips twitching forward as he releases on your stomach. Painting you quite messily. It takes you a second to recover, finally back when you feel the hasty wiping Soonyoung’s doing to your stomach with his poor t-shirt.

You look up at him, “Soonyoung.”

“Hm?” He questions, focused on cleaning you up. Rumpling up the t-shirt once finished, meeting your eyes.

Your eyes soften. Despite the intensity of just only a little earlier, You can’t help but finally let out a little bit of your feelings you had for him. You pull Soonyoung in gently to kiss his lips. It’s simple, but genuine, pulling away to see a soft smile on Soonyoung’s features.

“You know,” He whispers, “Didn’t think it would go this way.” He admits sheepishly, “Next time, I’ll promise a pillow at least.”

You chuckle, “Win tomorrow’s match first, and then we can talk logistics.”

He tosses you your clothes. But as he grabs your discarded panties off the canvas floor, he holds them up. Not to give them back to you, no, but to bundle it up and stuff it into the pocket of his sweatpants.

“For good luck.” He says smugly, making your cheeks run hot.

The air in the dressing room is static the next day.

It felt like any bristle of movement sent a chill down your spine, the room quiet as Soonyoung prepares for the bout. Your father repeating strategies to Soonyoung as you sit on the bench, wrapping his hand.

It’s all you can do for now, as you tighten the wrap around his knuckles, your hands shaking slightly from nervousness. He notices.

He squeezes your hand, making you shoot your head up.

“Calm down,” He eases, “Just checking if the wrap feels okay.” Liar. He was making sure you feel okay.

You let out a deep breath, “Is it?” Clenching your jaw, “Okay?”

“Yeah,” He says softly, “Don’t worry about it.”

And you tried. You really tried. Walking behind him and your father, the familiar hype music and cheers of the crowd turn into dull echoes as you watch Soonyoung’s back. Strong and confident like always, his head held up high, his gloves up as he greets the greedy crowd through the stadium.

The stadium is packed to the brim, people pressed up against each other as they try to get a good look at Soonyoung. But yet, the combined sweat and body heat in this room could barely rival the sweat beading down your forehead.

You can’t even register anything, just going through the motions of it all. Helping Soonyoung shrug off his robe, the loud announcement of the fighter intros, hell, even making eye contact with Wonwoo you stared through him like a ghost. You weren’t here.

Your father nudges you, “Come on buddy, leave the ring.” He reminds you, snapping you out of it as you realize the fight is about to begin.

Soonyoung bounces on his feet, turning to you as you head for the ropes. “Y/n!” He calls out as your feet hit the ground.

You glance up at him.

He doesn’t do much, taking a deep breath before mustering the biggest smile he can. The corners reach his eyes, curving into the crescent shape you know and love. Holding out his boxing glove, pointed straight at you.

“Y/n!” He calls out proudly, “Just sit pretty and watch!”

Ah.

Of course, you expected something else… but you can’t deny the way the simple words warm you. Just easing even the littlest amount of anxiety built up.

You smile softly, “If you lose I’ll knock your teeth out.” A sweet tone to your voice, contrasting the shameless threat.

Soonyoung probably should’ve expected that. He grins, nodding. “That’s definitely not happening!”

The bell rings, and both boxers start moving towards the middle of the ring. Soonyoung, his feet light, as they both circle around to size each other up.

From this angle Wonwoo’s height was more intimidating than you remember. When was the last time Soonyoung went up against someone at 6 feet? And the way his eyes are dead focused on Soonyoung, you can’t help but hold your breath.

Soonyoung tests, feigning attacks to gauge Wonwoo, the two going at it back and forth until a real swing comes. And it’s a straight jab from Soonyoung.

Wonwoo’s guard is quick, blocking Soonyoung’s exploratory straight jab. God, you hoped Soonyoung actually watched those tapes you recorded for him.

The first round ends as quickly as it started, the two using it to test each other despite the audience’s disatisfaction.

Punch him! Why are they just dancing? I thought Hoshi would be throwing hard combos by now!

You can’t help but clench your jaw. Take your time Soonyoung, you think, play it smart.

It finally starts heating up.

“OH, ELBOWS TIGHTLY IN. THIS IS A GOOD MOVE AGAINST HOSHI “THE TIGER” KWON, WHO WILL SURELY THROW BODY SHOTS!”

Wonwoo blocks smoothly at every punch Soonyoung throws. Soonyoung testing his blind spots and tolerance as the round continues, and yet Wonwoo doesn’t really break.

Soonyoung’s no easy opponent either. Dodging anything Wonwoo throws his way, maneuvering around the ring like some sort of dance routine. His feet light, and starting to get a feel of Wonwoo’s patterns the way Wonwoo’s punches slip off him like water.

But you can tell this can’t drag on longer than a few rounds. If Soonyoung wants to finish this match in a KO, he’s going to have to start making bigger moves.

“SEEMS LIKE THESE VOLUME PUNCHES ARE GETTING TO KWON HERE, WILL HE START PUSHING FORWARD?”

The fourth round, and you could tell Soonyoung’s patience was waning. Wonwoo was using his reach to throw multiple punches, none very powerful, but enough to tick him off.

He finally surges forward, making you grip tightly onto the clean towel in your hand. He pushes a punch through Wonwoo’s defense, opening up his guard to place a swift blow to his side.

“OH — A SIDE BLOW TO JEON, WILL THIS GIVE KWON THE RIGHT OPENING?”

Soonyoung manages that side blow, but Wonwoo leans forward and clinches, stopping any momentum. Goddammit.

Separated by the ref, the round continues. Both trying to wear each other down with their individual styles.

You can see both, sharp and focused in both gazes, but their bodies are starting to become a little more sluggish. After consecutive rounds of constant moving around the ring, you anticipated this.

Your father calls a timeout, giving Soonyoung a second to catch his breath. Your body moving instinctively as you join Soonyoung’s side at the corner.

“Okay tiger, not doing so bad. But you can do better.” Your father starts firmly, aware of the short timeout as he tries to hammer his words into Soonyoung’s head.

He’s breathing hard, as you wipe down sweat from his neck and face with the towel. You wipe some blood from a graze on his right cheek, from Wonwoo’s glove barely grazing him in an earlier round. Gently slathering ointment onto the small cut.

He nods at your fathers words, his eyes focused on Wonwoo in the other corner. The bell rings again.

It seems like an equal stalemate for another 20 seconds. That is, until your focus shoots forward, and you catch Wonwoo’s change in stance in slow motion.

You can barely widen your eyes as you watch Wonwoo counter Soonyoung’s heavy punch.

“OH! — THE COUNTER LANDS ON KWON’S RIGHT CHEEK!”

Your eyes widen as you watch Soonyoung’s mouth guard shoot out of his mouth, a mix of spit and blood splattering in the air as you see the outline of his face. His side profile crushed by the weight of the glove and force.

Soonyoung stumbles back, hitting the ropes as he tries to tighten his guard. Wonwoo uses it as a chance to throw a sequence of punches, each one feeling like he’s punching you instead.

The cheers and screams are deafening, the announcers voices boom with excitement as you watch the love of your life get pummeled.

When Wonwoo’s movements slug, the referee interferes immediately. Pushing him away from Soonyoung, as you and your father jump into the ring immediately.

“FOLKS, A SMALL TIME OUT TO CLEAN THE MOUTH GUARD!”

Your father drags Soonyoung to the corner, sitting him on the stool the minute you set it down. You run to grab the bloody mouthpiece off the canvas floor, ignoring your shaky hands as you retreat back. Wiping the blood and saliva off of it with your towel.

Soonyoung swishes water in his mouth, spitting out the blood into the bucket your father’s holding. His breath heavy, small grunts escaping him as he tries and blinks back the pain and shock of the rattling counter.

You can’t look scared now. If you were a trainer worth your salt, the last thing you should do is show this — that you’re scared for him.

You rinse the mouthguard with the leftover water, crouching down to Soonyoung as you smack the side of his cheek a couple times (not the one where he just got punched).

“Hey,” You start, steeling your voice. “Look at me.”

Soonyoung turns his head towards you, and you can see how wrecked he is already. The graze on his cheek from earlier, the swelling of one of his eyes, and the way his hair sticks to his forehead with sweat. It even takes some effort to focus his eyes on yours.

“Soonyoung,” You call out firmly, “Snap out of it. You hear me?” You say, holding his face. “I know you can do this. That fucker may have gotten a good counter, but he doesn’t know how hard your punches can hit.” You say hurriedly, eyes boring into his, trying to grab hold onto anything behind his eyes.

“Push forward, hit him with those sequences. You know the ones.” You instruct. He knows this. You spent half of your lives together training said combos.

And for a moment, he registers you, nodding clumsily, giving you the a-okay to shove the mouth guard back into his mouth. Your father patting his back as he rushes back out into the ring.

“He’s got it.” Your father gruffs, “You got through him.”

You hope so.

The bell rings once more, and despite your confident words to him, your legs felt like they could give out at any second.

Sure, everyone’s focused on Soonyoung’s state, but Wonwoo wasn’t perfect either. You could tell he was tired, and that if he could last the next few rounds, he could win with a points decision.

But fuck that, that’s not how your gym rolls. Especially you and Soonyoung.

Soonyoung moves forward, immediately going in to make contact first. Wonwoo anticipating it, as he jumps back.

But he can’t avoid the ropes forever, and after fifteen seconds of constant avoidance, Wonwoo’s back hits the ropes.

Finally Soonyoung’s fist collides into Wonwoo’s guard, splitting it open and throwing two jabs to his face. Before using the momentum to uppercut Wonwoo’s side.

It doubles him over, and Soonyoung throws his other fist to punch. But he slips — on his own sweat on the floor.

“OH! — AND THE TWO SLIP AND TAKE EACH OTHER DOWN!”

The room gasps for a second when Soonyoung grabs Wonwoo as they hit the canvas floor. The ref comes in to pull them apart, and because of the last few seconds, end the round. You curse to yourself.

Even in crucial moments like this, Soonyoung manages to baffle you.

“END OF ROUND FIVE, AND AN INJURY TIMEOUT! CHECKING TO SEE IF ANY OF THE FIGHTERS ARE OKAY AFTER THAT UNFORTUNATE SLIP!”

The referee asks and examines both of them, and from where you are you can only make out Soonyoung apologizing profusely, his ears red from embarrassment.

But with one glance at Wonwoo, you can tell something’s shifted.

Soonyoung’s last minute punch affected him. Did Soonyoung’s fist graze the back of Wonwoo’s head when they slipped? Either way, it shattered Wonwoo’s rhythm.

Soonyoung noticed it too. Because the brief time he has in the corner, his sharp eyes lock with yours. And whatever you saw in his eyes — confidence, willpower, or psychic foresight — you didn’t feel so worried anymore.

“ROUND SIX — FIGHT!”

Soonyoung doesn’t waste time, moving inward to get as close to Wonwoo as possible once more. Wonwoo doesn’t give up easily, throwing jabs to push him back.

He eats them like no problem, taking Wonwoo’s punches like nothing as he surges forward. Throwing a messily large left hook, following it up with an uppercut that connects.

Soonyoung doesn’t miss the chance, swinging his other fist as hard as he can at the awkward angle for another uppercut at Wonwoo’s doubling over body.

Wonwoo keeps stumbling back at each punch Soonyoung throws, his body back at the ropes.

“KWON THROWING A FLURRY OF COMBOS, BUT JEON IS STILL UP!”

After a few more seconds Soonyoung lets up at the sound of the refs whistle, clumsily stopping his combos, briefly using the ropes to stop his momentum before giving Wonwoo time to recover.

And you hold your breath.

“SEEMS LIKE JEON IS — WHOA!”

Wonwoo stands tall, as you mentally ready another round in your head. But he doesn’t give you both the time to strategize, as his once proud head lulls forward. His body following in suit as he crumbles to the ground.

“DOWN GOES JEON WONWOO! 6, 7, —“

Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!

The stadium erupts in screams, and at the count of eight, you’re up yourself, rushing towards the ring, your heart pounding in your ears.

“8! A KNOCKOUT! HOSHI “TIGER” KWON HAS THE FINAL BLOW!”

The stadium erupts in screams and cheers, Soonyoung himself surprised, eyes wide before snapping his head around. Not to the crowd, but to you.

He runs to the corner where you are, climbing onto the post as he holds his fists up to the crowd. His name chanted in synchronized voices that shake the very building.

You climb onto the ropes, and with a grin, he leans forward and hooks his arms around you, pulling you over them. Stumbling into his sweaty arms as he swings you around.

“Soonyoung! You did it!” You scream, as he lets you down onto the canvas floor of the ring. Your father laughing heartily in the back, as Soonyoung spits out the mouthguard onto the floor.

He runs his tongue against his teeth before responding, his voice raspy and breathy, “I told you, didn’t I?”

For the first time, you don’t have the bite in you to be defensive. Your smile widening across your face as you look at Soonyoung in awe, “You did.”

He grins back. His sore muscles, aching body and screaming lungs don’t matter. Because the smile on your face was a soothing balm that made it all feel trivial.

The cameras, the reporters, the hundreds of people in the arena were drowned out as you both exchanged looks of pride and awe. His victory was as much yours as his.

Soon his arm is grabbed, as the referee pulls him to the middle, showing off Soonyoung to the huge TV camera.

You take a step back, proudly.

You beam as you watch Soonyoung being praised, and Wonwoo respectfully shaking his hand even after the taxing match.

Your father himself patting your back, “So you finally know how it feels,” He starts.

You snap out of your trance, glancing at him, your dad. “Huh?”

“Nothing better than seeing the guy you spent your blood, sweat and tears on winning a major match.” He says with a proud smile, “And even better, seeing someone you love happy.”

“What?” You say baffled, not expecting him to add on the last part. He nudges your side, an amused chuckle escaping him.

“Congrats, buddy.” He says vaguely, before walking forward to congratulate Soonyoung loudly, shaking the beat up guy with rough affection.

“Barbecue and drinks — on me tonight!” Your father boasts with a laugh.

Which he probably regrets, when an hour later the impromptu congratulatory party is held at a familiar run down barbecue place after hours. Courtesy of Jihoon, Soonyoung’s friend. Claiming — only this one time! Because he won!

Beers and soju bottles litter the table, as your dad grumbles on a plastic chair. Already nursing his head from too many drinks.

“Lee Chan, go and run off and get some hangover cures.” Your father orders, despite Lee Chan not being quite sober either. Lee Chan blinks in confusion as he points to himself, Seungcheol reacts with laughter.

He snaps his fingers lazily, “Jihoon, another plate of pork belly. Need ta’ soak this alcohol up.”

Jihoon nods, knocking back a shot of soju himself before tiredly heading to the kitchen, “Right, on the way.”

When Jihoon disappears to the kitchen, Seungcheol pats Lee Chan’s back, “You heard the old man, I’ll come with you.” He teases, before the two leave on their little errand.

You, on the other hand, are outside. Sitting on the curb near the restaurant’s entrance. Your head turns when you hear the sound of the door, Seungcheol and Lee Chan walking out, their hoodies on.

Seungcheols greets you with a small smile, Lee Chan bowing clumsily as well. “Going to get some more drinks, want anything?” Seungcheol asks.

You shake your head, “It’s alright oppa, I’m good.” You say, nursing the half full beer in your hand.

Seungcheol nods, “Alright.” He says easily, before clearing his throat. Keeping the entrance door open with his foot as he yells out, “Kwon, she’s out here!”

And you can hear Soonyoung’s voice — What? I thought she was in the bathroom! Hold on!

Seungcheol glances back at you, “Hey, be nice to him. He won today's match.” Seungcheol aims at you, “Everything seems fine now, but if Chan and I come back and you guys are —“

“It’s fine.” You shut down, “I’ll be nice.” You reassure, cracking a smile.

Seungcheol raises his brows in intrigue, but decides not to question it. Just taking the tipsy Lee Chan with him to walk to the convenience store.

It’s not long until Soonyoung burst out the door. Freshly showered after the match, in baggy sweats and his wounds bandaged up.

“Hey,” He breathes, as he adjusts the beanie on his head. “I really thought you were in the bathroom.”

“Well, I’m not.” You shrug, “Just needed some fresh air.”

Soonyoung settles beside you on the curb, his thigh practically glued to yours as he knocks his own beer to yours. “God, my face is killing me.” He mutters, “Say what you want about that guy, his fist is deadly.”

“I warned you that already.” You chime in absentmindedly, your instinct to correct Soonyoung was just too strong.

He pouts, “Yeah, well, I was too busy being heartbroken at the time. Forgive me for not listening.” He says, before cracking a smile. He takes a swig of his beer.

“I just want to say,” He takes a breath, “Thanks. I really thought it was over around the third round.” He furrows his brows, “Or fourth? Fifth? I don’t know, at one point everything was blurry.”

You snicker, “I didn’t do anything, that was all you.”

He shakes his head, “Nope, wrong. If you didn’t snap me out of it and reminded me of the basics, I would’ve crumpled there and then.” He says strongly, “You were my rock tonight.”

Your face softens at that.

“And,” He takes another big deep breath, “I don’t want to just spring this on you, but, since we’re already on this wave,” He fiddles with his fingers before meeting your gaze.

“I want to ask you to be my girlfriend.” He asks, like it’s the scariest thing he ever has had to say. The same man who fights professional fighters in front of thousands — just simply a guy in love when he looks at you.

And for a second you see that, the awkward bumbling kid that ran into the gym late that one day.

You set down your beer on the pavement, “Your girlfriend, huh?”

“Well — you can say no. No pressure. Just because I won today doesn’t mean you have to say yes, or —“

“Soonyoung.” You stop his rambling, grabbing his hand, the same one you were wrapping only hours ago. “Yes. I’ll be your girlfriend.”

He doesn’t register your words for a moment, but when he does, he grins wide. His eyes full of affection as he looks at you, soft as he studies your face.

He clears his throat, “Great, awesome.” He replies, “And most importantly, finally.” He adds on with a breath of relief, making you elbow his side. “Hey — ow! Not too much!”

“Oh sorry!” You say immediately, your hands shooting to his side, leaning forward in worry. But he catches you, a smug grin on his face as he matches your distance.

He catches your lips into a kiss, nothing like the ones you shared in the gym the night before. But this time, soft and comforting. Savoring the moment between the both of you before pulling away, his nose grazing yours.

“By the way,” He starts quietly, his breath fanning against your skin, “Your panties are still in my bag.”

Your face heats up, leaning back as you ignore Soonyoung’s injuries to punch his shoulder. Again, he just had to make use of his talent of ruining the mood of things.

“What — hey! I said you were my rock! It’s good luck!” He defends with a couple laughs, your punch turning into punches.

The late night street hums with the sound of the street lights, cicadas, and the buzzing of the telephone wires of the crowded alleys. Laughter and music from the celebration spilling outside, disapproving comments leave your lips while Soonyoung’s laughter carries through the streets. This night is just one of the many you’ll share together.

But one thing's for sure — you’re making sure Soonyoung omits this “lucky charm” in his interviews.

💥 💥💥💥💥💥💥💥

[notnctu]

shift gears - h.rj | ridin’ club

━ welcome to the ridin’ club smut series

genre ➠ slow burn, smut, some fluff if you squint wordcount ➠ 6.8k details ➠ fem!reader, streetracer!renjun, enemies to lovers, college!au ━ where you and renjun hate each other’s guts, but still want to fuck the shit out each other. warnings ➠ explicit language, hate fucking, renjun is a little mean, degradation kink, choking kink, oral receiving and giving, dom!renjun, public sex, clothed sex, big dick renjun synopsis ➠  The main goal of joining the club is to make friends who share your same enjoyment of racing, but Huang Renjun will not let you live. The self proclaimed best racer is nothing, but good at shifting gears quickly because he’s the only one who drives stick shift. Competitiveness has never been in your nature, but you’d do anything to shut him up — even if it means kissing him.

Since the day you joined the Ridin Club, Huang Renjun didn’t give you a break. Oftentimes, you wondered how much hatred fueled in such a tiny man. However, don’t let height be the telling part of who Huang Renjun is. His robust, loud, passionate personality speaks bolder than any part of his physical appearance. 

A boy with soft delicate features can turn sharp. It’s faster than anyone you’ve ever seen, the piercings that dot his upper cheekbone and adjacent eyebrow gives him a bit of an edge. One word. One move. And his warm smile can come falling down before you can get a glimpse.

For the longest time, you were unable to pinpoint why Renjun disliked you so much. There were many girl participants in the club, but even with the few, the boys never treated you all differently. The Ridin’ Club’s mission and sole purpose was to embrace friendly competition and to share a love for the thrills that come from racing.

When joining, you had been convinced by a few friends you had met through a car meet to show up for at least one race. Nevertheless, it wasn’t just the perfect club that called to your niche interest that had you signing up, but also the four main members that started it all. 

Keep reading

[seungari]

🗡𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐊𝐙 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 — SAFTEY MEASURES (BANGCHAN) 🗡 𝐀 𝐲𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞.

⚠️ Contains explicit sexual content, graphic violence, and psychological manipulation. All sexual acts are consensual within a coercive, obsessive relationship dynamic.

he promised he’d keep you safe. he never specified from who

You don’t hear the door open so much as feel the house change its breath.

The hallway draft stops dead, like the building itself is holding it in. The air that slides under the bedroom door is colder than it should be, damp in a way that makes your skin go pebble-fine. You are not drunk—just soft around the edges, the way a book looks when you thumb the corners too long. The sheets are warm from your legs. Your phone is face down on the nightstand, an accusatory square.

Keys. A low clink against the console dish. Leather whispering. The tiny rubber sound of shoes leaving your entry mat and finding the wood.

You close your eyes and pretend to be asleep.

“Bad actress,” Chris says from the doorway, voice so gentle you could cut your finger on it.

When you look, he’s a silhouette first: all black, the clean geometry of a high-collar jacket and fitted tee, dark jeans that drink the light from his silver hair. Wet where they shouldn’t be. There are splashes on the cuffs and a dull sheen on his knuckles, rubbed halfway clean and then abandoned. He smells like outside at midnight—cold metal, wet bark, the bite of something mineral.

He doesn’t turn the lamp on. He walks by feel in this place like it’s mapped under his skin. The bed dips—a slow, careful press by your shins. His hand finds your ankle through the comforter and closes, thumb smoothing along the bone as if taking your pulse.

“Hi,” you say, small. It comes out a little breathy, guilty by nature.

He hums. “You’re warm.”

“I—yeah.” Your tongue tastes like wine and citrus. “Changed my clothes.”

His thumb stops moving. “Before or after you stopped answering me.”

The hour before this—your coworkers, the loud bar, the way your phone kept lighting up like a heartbeat—rearranges itself in your head. You swallow. The ring of your glass on polished wood. Laughter. Someone’s sleeve grazing your bare shoulder. “My battery—”

He reaches over you. A quiet, unhurried theft. Your phone is in his hand before you can catch the thought of saying no. He doesn’t check it yet. He just rests it on his thigh and looks at you, the whites of his eyes milk-pale in the low light.

“Battery,” he repeats, but it isn’t a question. It’s a place he’s setting you down to see if you stay.

The apartment is too quiet. You can hear the tiny tick of the hallway thermostat. Somewhere in the pipes a neighbor’s shower shuts off. Chris sets your phone on the nightstand without looking away from you. Then he bends, and the scent of him gets sharper.

Your fingers move before your nerve can talk you out of it. You catch his wrist. His skin is cold and a little damp; there’s grit drying in the lines of his palm. “What… is that?”

His mouth tips. He turns his hand in yours and spreads his fingers. In the dark, the stains read as a palette of shadows—edges the color of violets and rust, a smear you could almost pretend is paint if your stomach wasn’t pulling tight.

“Nothing you need to put your hands on,” he says softly. “Not with your pretty hands.”

“Chris.” Your name for him folds itself around a small plea. “Where did you go?”

“Out.” He lifts one shoulder, the movement minimal, controlled. “You were out. I gave you space.”

“You were mad.” Your voice wants to make it an accusation. It only makes it to observation. “You were mad at me for going and then you left and…and now you’re back.” 

“I always come back.” He says. His knuckles skim your knee over the blanket; he’s not petting you. He’s measuring. “Did you have fun?”

The question is silk over wire. You hate how it snags. “It was just drinks.”

“Just.” He tastes the word as if it offends him. “With who.”

You tell him. Names that feel harmless in your mouth feel less so in the room with him: Anya with the chipped pink manicure, Lucas from accounting who laughs with his whole chest. Chris tips his head once, small, taking the list like a report.

“Your coworker touched your back,” he says. Not a question. “By the door.”

You feel your face heat. You hadn’t told him that. You hadn’t even fully registered it until now— a palm that landed too comfortably between your shoulder blades as the group spilled outside to call rides, a thoughtless guiding pressure. Harmless, you told yourself, even as goosebumps rose sharp across your skin.

“He’s handsy with everyone,” you say.

“Handsy.” The corner of his lips quirk at that and he flexes his wrist slightly. The sheen of wetness there flashes suddenly. “Well.”

He drags his thumb along his wrist where something has dried into the seam of skin, then wipes it on his jeans without looking. He tips his head, studying you, and the quiet stretches until you feel your heartbeat as a separate animal in the room.

“Some men,” he says at last, conversational, “don’t know where to put their hands.” His gaze lowers to where the blanket tents over your knees. “It gets them into trouble.”

You try to laugh like it’s a joke, but it comes out thin and papery. “He… he didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Intent is a bedtime story.” His eyes find your face again. They are very gentle when he’s being unkind. “Contact is a fact.”

He reaches—slow—and takes your right wrist the way a tailor takes a measurement. His fingers encircle, warm now, pressing just enough to feel the pulse under the skin. “Palms up,” he murmurs.

You turn your hands. Your palms look almost luminous in the low light, every line a map you don’t know how to read. He brushes over them like he’s checking for splinters, then flattens your fingers one by one, counting under his breath so soft you almost don’t hear it.

“One… two… three… four… five.” He lifts your left and does the same. “Six… seven… eight… nine…” He pauses on your smallest finger, thumb resting at its base like a promise. “Ten.” His mouth softens. “Good. Keep them.”

The relief is quick and mean; it makes you feel stupid. “Chris—”

He places your hands back on the blanket with exaggerated care, aligning your fingers together, smoothing the duvet where you’ve wrinkled it. “Don’t put them on strangers,” he adds mildly. “Not even on your ‘handsy-with-everyone’ coworker. Especially not him.”

Your tongue sticks to your teeth. “I didn’t— I wouldn’t—”

He nods, as if you’ve given the answer he wanted. “Tomorrow you’ll call off,” he says. “Headache. Or stomach. Something simple. I’ll write it for you.”

“I have a deadline.”

“Then you’ll meet it from here.” He glances toward your desk. “I moved the charger.” He has. The cord that used to live by the couch trails neatly to your nightstand, looped into a figure-eight. “You’ll stay home. That way your hands don’t… wander.”

The thermostat ticks over. Somewhere on the street a far siren winds down and disappears. He looks toward the window briefly, as if listening for his name in it, then unbuttons his cuff with precise, clean movements. The fabric peels back to show crescent-shaped indents deep into his skin, blooming red against his wrist. He smooths it with the other thumb, absent, soothing.

Your mouth moves before your sense does. “Did you… get hurt?”

He considers the question a moment, then shakes his head. “No.”

There’s a small, complicated silence. You think of the bar’s door, the way Lucas had skated his palm between your shoulders like he was steering a shopping cart; you think of the word harmless and how cheap it suddenly feels in your mouth. You think of how Chris’s cuff had been wet when he walked in, and the way the building itself seemed to hold a breath for him.

“He won’t touch you again,” Chris says, almost tender. “Or anyone.”

You look at the shape his words make. They don’t land like a guess.

“Is he—” You stop yourself on the brink. The question opens under you like a staircase to something you don’t want to see the bottom of. You try a different angle, smaller, more ordinary. “Is he okay?”

Chris’s expression does something minuscule—an eyelash shift of amusement, gone as soon as you name it. “He’s not going to be handsy for a while.” He says it like the weather. Like a calendar note. “Extended leave.”

Your stomach lurches. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he says patiently, “we won’t have this conversation again.”

He picks up your phone, flips it over, and presses the side button with his thumb.

“Location,” he says. You unlock it. He doesn’t have to ask twice.

He toggles the setting on with the same reverence he uses to smooth your hair when you’re shaking. He adds himself to a little white list of people who can always find you. He does not look triumphant. He looks relieved, like someone closing a latch.

He watches the little toggle slide green, then lets your phone dim on its own. The room seems to settle with it, like a lid finding its jar.                    

“Good,” he says. It isn’t praise so much as calibration. “That’s how we stop accidents.”                    

He reaches for your hands again, less like a lover and more like someone fitting a lid—checking the lips, the seal, the way things meet. His thumbs trace the pads of your fingers as if memorizing their texture for later, then pause at your ring finger like he’s counting future problems.                    

“Dry,” he notes. “You pick at the cuticles when you’re anxious.”                    

“I—sometimes.”                    

“I love you,” he says into your knuckles—each kiss a seal—and then, almost lightly: “I’m going to shower.”            

“Okay.”            

“Don’t move.” It’s gentle, which means it isn’t optional.            

The bathroom door clicks. A heartbeat; the pipes wake. Water hits tile in that hard first burst and then takes on a steady hiss. You hear the metal thrum of the knob easing hotter, the wet drag of a curtain pulled closed. Steam slips under the door and ghosts along the floor.            

You stay put for twenty seconds. Maybe thirty. Your pulse makes the counting slippery.   

Then you climb out of bed.         

The jacket waits where he left it, draped over the chair like a sleeping thing. Up close it smells like cold and soap and a thin, mineral thread the shower can’t quite erase. You tell yourself you’re just moving it, just… tidying. Your fingers find the collar. The fabric is heavier than it looks; the hem gives a little when you lift it.            

There’s a darker crescent on the inside placket, dried thin and matte. You swallow, carefully. Your hand finds the inner pocket and grazes something wrapped—paper or tissue gone dense with damp. It gives when you press it. Your stomach steps off a curb.            

You shouldn’t.            

You do.            

The paper sighs open. It isn’t a big thing. Not heavy. Just… definite. Pale where it shouldn’t be, a blunt little curve, the clean circle of a band biting soft tissue. The ring is the wrong kind of familiar—the cheap onyx square your coworker never took off, the one he rapped against doorframes when he was telling a story too loudly. L.M. engraved inside in bad block letters. You recognize it with the same certainty you recognize your own phone by weight in the dark.  Recognize the finger that is still attached to it, blood crusted at the end.           

Air forgets how to go in. You hear yourself set it down back into its cocoon—too careful, too late—your hands suddenly useless birds.

The shower keeps hissing—a steady white noise that makes the apartment feel far away from itself. Steam curls under the bathroom door, licks the floor, climbs the chair legs. You try to put the bundle back exactly the way you found it—edges kissing, soft layers aligned—but your fingers won’t listen. The tissue makes that papery sigh again. Your stomach pitches.

The bathroom door opens.

He’s there in the doorway, towel low on his hips, hair dripping in silent commas down his throat. The room smells like heat and soap and something faintly medicinal. He doesn’t look at the chair first. He looks at you. The angle of your shoulders. The way your hands hover, useless, just off your ribs.

“I forgot the razor,” he says, utterly ordinary, then sees the jacket lifted and your hands mid-guilt. The sentence folds itself away. His eyes take in the angle of your elbows, the loosened pocket, the counterfeit stillness you’re trying to wear.

“I told you not to move.”

“Chris—” Your voice splinters. Your heart is a spotlight that can’t pick a target. “I didn’t— I was just—”

“Bring it here.” Not unkind. Inevitable.

You shake your head before you can stop it. The world wobbles. Something helpless and high climbs your throat.

“Inside voice,” he reminds you softly, stepping closer, towel riding his hipbone, heat breathing off him in waves. “Neighbors.”

“It’s—” The word fails three times. You force it through. “His. That’s— it’s his—” You can’t say finger and not make it real.

“I know what it is.” He holds out the hem of the towel, palm hidden, offering fabric instead of skin. “Give it.”

You almost drop it. Instead, your hands betray you in the safest way they can: they obey. He receives the small weight without looking, wraps once, twice, until the shape is nothing again. He turns and sets it on the closed toilet lid, exactly where a folded towel might live and no one would notice.

Your breath is small and fast. “We have to call— we have to tell someone—”

“No,” he says, utterly calm. “We don’t.”

“He needs a hospital.”

Chris tilts his head, considering. “They won’t be able to help him much.”

He watches your mouth try to shape the argument and fail. The parcel sits obediently on porcelain. The shower keeps talking behind the curtain, a long even line of sound, as if the apartment could write over this with steam.

“They can’t help him,” he repeats, gentle as a correction.

Your breath scrapes. “You don’t know that.”

“I can.” He says. “And if you call anyone now, you’ll only move your fear from the chair to the door.” His gaze flicks there, to the latch, then back. “I prefer it where I can see it. Where I can fix it.”

You shake your head hard enough that black dots crowd the edges of the room. Your hands hover, then clutch the hem of your sleep shirt because you have to hold something or you’ll come apart.

“We have to—” Your voice thins. “Chris, we can’t have— that—here.”

Something flickers in his eyes then, and he softens considerably. He tilts your head back with a finger at your chin. “Are you trying to protect me?”

You flinch like he’s caught you holding a knife by the blade. “I—no— I’m trying to—”

“To make it smaller,” he says, kindly. “For both of us.” His thumb at your chin isn’t force; it’s gravity. “Sweetheart, you always do that. You hold the bad thing close and hope it stops being sharp, even as it’s digging into your chest.”

Your throat works. “This isn’t a bad thing, Chris. It’s—” You can’t say it. The word would sit in your mouth like a rock.

“It’s consequence,” he supplies gently. “It’s the shape safety takes when someone mistakes you for public property.” He leans closer, steam shining his eyelashes. “Listen to me. He put his hands on you like you were an aisle display. He’ll never do that again. Not to you. Not to anyone.”

“You don’t know—”

“I do.” He says it with that low, unarguable certainty that makes you feel both furious and steadied. “Because I removed the choice.”

Your eyes burn. “You can’t ask me to be okay with that.”

“I’m not.” The smallest smile ghosts across his mouth. “I’m telling you that you don’t have to hold it. Give me the part that shakes.” He taps your sternum with two fingers, precise and light. “Let me be heavy so you can be soft.”

It’s wrong that his voice makes your pulse calm. It’s wrong that his palm at your jaw—warm, damp, steady—makes your knees remember they’re attached. He watches the fight in your face without gloating, like a doctor waiting for a fever to break.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Shivering. Your skin’s trying to crawl away from itself.” He tips his head at the shower, still hissing behind the curtain. “Come wash it off.”

He doesn’t pull. He simply offers his hand, palm up, the way he does when he’s certain you’ll remember who you are with it. You stare at it, at the nicks and lines and the new marks, and hate that the relief is already cresting.

“You’ll keep looking at that chair if you stay,” he murmurs. “You’ll imagine stories that are uglier than the truth. Or kinder than it. Either way you’ll bruise yourself with it.” His fingers flex, inviting rather than demanding. “Or you’ll come with me, and I’ll soap your wrists and count you back into your body.”

“That’s manipulative,” you whisper.

He smiles. “It’s love,” he whispers back. “And I’m very good at it.” Softer. “You love me.”

You do. You love him so much, it’s ripping your heart into shreds. Your hand finds his. You tell yourself it’s to stop shaking, to anchor, to prove you can still make a choice. He laces your fingers, warm and certain, and leads you the three steps into steam. The air kisses your face wet; the mirror ghosts your outline.

He lets go of your hand to slip off his towel, stark naked and straight-backed in the way only a person completely confident in their skin can be. He glances up at you, still fully dressed, and smiles slightly.

“Clothes on the hook,” he says. “I’ll turn around.”

“Will you,” you murmur, but it’s almost an old joke between you, and you hate that too.

He does turn, though, despite the fact that he’s seen you naked a million times before. He faces the mirror, head bowed, palms resting lightly on the counter as if he’s bracing with politeness. You can see him in the glass, ears slightly pink, fingers fidgeting and you can see the parcel on the shut lid and you hate that you can hold both images at once.

You feel ridiculous for noticing how the lines of his back looks in the mirror. You hate that your skin already misses his hands.

You peel your shirt over your head. The steam eats the last of the bar-smell; shame sticks closer. Shorts, panties—gone, balled onto the hook by reflex. The curtain whispers when you pull it. He doesn’t look until you are inside with him and the water clasps your shoulders like a warm hand.

When he turns, it’s slow, like he’s letting you get used to the shape of him. His cock is heavy and dark where it hangs, unashamed of what it wants. Your stomach flips traitorously. You hate that your mouth waters more for him than for oxygen.

His fingers find your jaw. “Open,” he says, and you do, because that’s the muscle memory he’s installed in you. He kisses you lazy at first, uncoiling heat, then bites when you chase it. It’s filthy how quickly you melt. It’s filthy how your hips rock without your permission.

“Look at you.” His voice roughens against your mouth. “You were shaking for the wrong reason. I’ll fix it.”

“Chris—” It comes out a whine. You want to curse him. You want to be on your knees. You want both.

“Turn around,” he murmurs, and walks you into the tile until your nipples brush cool ceramic. His hand spreads at your nape, not pinning so much as arranging. “Hands on the wall.”

You plant your palms. Steam glosses them. Water drums your spine. The disgust curls low and glowing—how can you want this now, knowing what he——and then his other hand drags down your belly and sinks between your thighs and the thought scratches out.

He finds you wet like you’d been waiting for him all night. His breath breaks at your ear. “There she is,” he says, and the pride in it makes your knees tremble. Shame pricks; your body opens anyway.

His thumb circles your clit in slow, obscene laps, the kind that make heat pool and then surge. Two fingers press at your entrance and the groan you make when he pushes in is so relieved it’s almost a sob. He doesn’t thrust right away—he holds you full, spread, thumb grinding shallow circles until your hips start to chase, until you’re whining please without meaning to.

“Greedy,” he says, delighted. “After the little stunt you pulled.” He sets a rhythm designed to undo you—deep, dragging strokes that rub the rough pad of his finger against your front wall, the heel of his palm catching your clit on the exit. Your jaw goes slack; your cheeks go hot. Water slicks everything but his grip never slips.

You tremble. He hears it. “Say you need me.”

“I—need—” The syllables fracture around his hand. “I need it.”

“You need me,” he corrects, and crooks his fingers just so. The sound you make would embarrass you if embarrassment could live here. He does it again, patient, cruel, praising you with his breath. “That’s it. Make a mess on my hand.”

Your forehead thumps the tile when he speeds up—tiny, ruthless punches of pleasure that light your nerves like a fuse. You bite your wrist. He tsks and drags your arm down. “No hiding,” he says, and taps your cheek with his knuckles. “Let me hear you.”

You hate him; you love him; you’re coming up hard and bright around the fingers of a man you should be afraid of and you arch back into him like a sinner courting the flame. He feels your body seize and laughs, soft and pleased, and claps his palm hard against your clit on the downswing. You break. It rips out of you, filthy and helpless, thighs shaking, cunt milking his fingers like you were made to perform exactly this trick for him.

He doesn’t stop. He rides you through it, wringing the aftershocks until you’re keening, until your hands slip on the tile. “Too much?” he asks, not stopping, not interested in fairness. You shake your head because honesty would make you beg and you refuse to give him that—until his thumb flicks and you beg anyway.

He gentles. He always knows exactly when to. He drags his soaked fingers to your mouth and taps. You take them like a penitent. You lick your taste off him, eyes closing, shame burning hot as want. His voice goes ragged. “Good girl. Clean me up.”

He kneels.

The filthy punch of it—Chris on his knees in your tub like prayer—makes you dizzy. He hooks your thigh over his shoulder and eats you like he’s been starving for days. No teasing, no polite tongue; he gets messy immediately, mouth open, sucking your clit into the wet heat of him while his injured wrist braces your hip. You slap the tile, a smacking echo that makes you flush, and grind down because your body is done pretending it has standards.

He moans into you when you ride his face. The sound vibrates through your clit and you jerk; he does it again, greedy for the way you seize. His tongue fucks you shallow, sloppily, then drags up and flattens over you until your knees threaten to go. “Chris,” you gasp, and he answers by driving two fingers into you from below and curling them like a hook. The world whites out around the edges.

“You taste like you missed me,” he says against you, voice ruined, and devours you harder. His hand is a metronome between your legs; his mouth is chaos. You let him make you into a noise. You let him use your hips like handles. You hate yourself for how quickly the second orgasm winds you back up—and when it slams through, messier than the first, you cry out loud enough the pipes hum it back.

He stands in one smooth flex and kisses you, filthy, sharing the mess he made of you with a satisfied noise when you chase his tongue. You can taste yourself and him and something metallic you don’t want to name, and the wrongness of that reels you; your cunt clenches uselessly around nothing and he groans into your mouth like he felt it.

“Bed,” he says, hoarse, fumbling for the shower knob. “On your back. Legs open.”

You stumble out of the tub, dripping and boneless, and he follows, slinging water across the tile with his steps. You don’t look at the porcelain lid when you pass; his fingers at your wrist give you something truer to stare at. He throws you onto the sheets like you’re soft and expensive and his favorite problem.

He drags you down the bed so your hips kiss the edge and folds you open. “My pretty mess,” he says, and spits on you, quick and obscene. His thumb smears it in and your body thanks him before your brain can get a vote.

“Condom,” you start to say, and he’s already reaching the drawer, already tearing it with his teeth, already rolling it down with practiced, impatient hands. Consideration weaponized. You hate that relief loosens your spine.

He lines up and pushes—slow the first inch, watching your face, then down to the root in one long glide that makes both of you swear. Your mouth falls open. He holds there, deep, letting you feel how utterly inside you he is, how there is no getting him out now that he’s home.

“Fuck,” you whisper, and he smiles like he’s been paid.

He moves. Not fast, not yet; slow, dragging thrusts that grind him right where you’re still trembling from his mouth. His hands climb your body, mapping possession in a language your skin understands better than your head. One circles your throat—not squeezing, just fitting there—and the other lifts your thigh higher, folding you until you open the way he likes, until his hips can pin you to every inch of the bed.

“Eyes,” he says, and you drag them up to him. He looks down like he’s blessing you. “Say what you are.”

“Yours,” you breathe, because lying would be pointless, and his rhythm stutters sweetly, his composure cracked with a sound that curls your toes.

“You are,” he grits out, picking up pace. “Your mine.” He fucks you harder, deeper, the kind of stroke that turns words to weather. The slap of skin fills the room; the wet between you is obscene; your slick coats him and he groans, filthy and pleased. “Listen to yourself,” he pants. “God, you’re loud for me.”

Your nails carve his back. He hisses and drives you higher, the bed complaining. The shame surges, searing and numb all at once—how can you moan for him when you know what he did, how can you come on a man who——and then he pins your wrists over your head in one hand and grinds down exactly right and you choose the smaller sin: you let him.

It builds ugly and perfect. He keeps you there, right on the edge, with little mean circles of his hips that make your eyes wet. “Not yet,” he says when you reach for it. “Hold it. Be good.”

“I can’t,” you plead, and he smiles like that’s his favorite part, and slides deeper, angling to own that spot you can’t protect. Your back arches, your feet slip, your mouth falls open on a sound that feels like confession.

“Fine then,” he says, and the word is a key. You come like you’re being wrung out, like he’s turned you inside out over his hands, like every ugly thought burns away under the heat he’s made of you. You bite his shoulder; he grunts and fucks you through it, chasing his own end now, brutal and beautiful, the lines of his face cut with pleasure.

He’s right there—hips hammering, breath tearing out of him—when his rhythm breaks. A harsh curse rips from his throat; he wrenches out of you with a wet, obscene drag, condom snapping as he claws it off and flings it aside. His hand wraps himself like he means to bruise, wrist jerking, fist a blur.

“Fuck—fuck—look at me,” he snarls, voice gone raw. The sound he makes isn’t pretty; it’s guttural, animal, his head thrown back, throat working as he pumps, fast and mean, like every second not inside you hurts. His abs jump; his hips chase the air. He’s loud, louder than he ever lets himself be—deep, broken groans punched out of him, a helpless litany of your name and filthy, grateful curses.

You’re splayed open at the edge of the bed, slick everywhere, thighs shaking, and the sight of you ruins him. His jaw locks; he doubles over you, bracing one palm on the mattress beside your ribs, the other tearing at himself, desperate, frantic. “God, look at you—mine, mine—” It pitches higher on the last word, ragged and close.

“Channie,” you gasp, and that’s what does it. His whole body tightens; his hand stutters and he shouts—loud, uncontained—spilling hot and thick over your stomach in hard, messy stripes. The first hits your lower belly; the next lands higher, a wet heat across your ribs, your breasts, a warm splatter catching your throat. He keeps jerking through it, whimpering now, ruined and beautiful, painting you with it like he’s signing a contract he wrote in his own blood.

He yanks another breath, fist still working, chasing the last aftershocks out of himself until he’s empty. A final, helpless groan punches into your neck as the last spill drips over the swell of your chest and slicks down your side. He shivers, hand loosening, cock twitching in his grip as he milks the last drops onto your belly, smearing them with the flat of his thumb like he wants it everywhere on you.

“Fuck,” he laughs, breathless and wrecked, forehead falling to your shoulder. His chest heaves against your knees; his hips twitch like he can’t stop wanting. For a second there’s nothing but the sound of both of you trying to remember how to breathe and the obscene slide of his palm as he finally lets go.

He lifts his head, eyes blown and greedy, and stares at the mess he’s made—at your skin shining with him, at your nipples slick and peaked, at the milky line collecting at the notch of your collarbone. The look on his face is worship and victory tangled into something that scares you and softens you at once.

“Pretty,” he rasps, voice torn to threads. He drags two fingers through the warm spill on your sternum and rubs it slow over your skin, spreading it down, circling your nipple until you gasp again. His mouth follows, open and hot, licking it from you, sucking lazily like he can’t stand to waste a drop. He mouths a filthy path up your chest and licks the spot at your throat where it landed, groaning low when you shiver.

He noses the hollow of your throat and licks a slow, possessive stripe through the warm mess there like he’s tasting proof. A pleased sound rattles in his chest. “Mine,” he says into your skin, and then he’s chasing every slick line downward with his mouth open and greedy, tongue broad and hot.

He drags the flat of it over your collarbone and sucks the spill from the notch like he’s siphoning heat. It’s obscene, wet, noisy—he wants you to hear how he’s cleaning you. His hand pins your hip when you twitch. “Stay,” he mutters, and laps lower, patient and ravenous at once.

Your chest lifts helplessly to meet him. He takes his time there—circles one nipple with the tip of his tongue, smearing the milky shine until it coats you, then seals his mouth over it and sucks hard. Your back bows; a broken sound leaves you; shame bites; want eats it alive. He hums like he’s been given cream and moves to the other, mouthing it sloppier, licking until it’s slick again, sucking until your thighs tremble.

“Look at you,” he breathes, pulling back half an inch just to admire the spit-slick flush he’s made. He drags two fingers through the mess on your sternum and paints a crooked line down your ribs; his mouth follows, tongue working, teeth scraping lightly when you gasp. He cleans like a sinner making amends—thorough, reverent, filthy.

He gets to your belly and slows further, licking in lazy swirls that make your muscles flutter. He collects everything he finds with the soft edge of his tongue and swallows, then goes hunting with the tip, chasing it into your navel until you squeak. He laughs against your skin, low and wrecked. “All of it,” he promises, voice hoarse. “Every drop.”

He turns his head and bites the tender place beside your hipbone then soothes it with his tongue, lapping at a rivulet sliding toward the sheet. He won’t let it leave you; he catches it on the underside of his tongue and rolls it back up your skin into his mouth with a groan that ricochets through your gut. Your fingers fist in the sheets. You hate how your body melts under the worship, how your hips tip to give him more.

“Open,” he murmurs, nudging your knees wider with his forearms, but he doesn’t go there yet. He drags his cheek over your inner thigh, smearing shine into your skin, then licks it away in long, patient swathes like he’s polishing you. Every time you flinch, he follows the twitch with his mouth and cleans it, tongue insistent, lips soft, breath hot.

When he reaches the juncture of your thigh and pelvis he slows to nothing, holding your gaze as he flattens his tongue and slides it through the thin line he left on your lower belly, collecting the last of what he spilled and groaning like he’s starving for it. Your head tips back on a whimper; you can feel heat pooling low and mean again, traitorous.

“Almost done,” he lies, and you know he’s lying because his thumbs are already stroking into the crease where you’re slick for a different reason, and he’s looking at you like dessert is finally plated.

He bends and licks the inner curve beside your mound, not touching your clit, not yet, just cleaning your skin with obscene diligence. He chases a stray smear up and over, mouth open, licking slow enough to make you curse. He hums at the taste and your body answers, a little jerk that gives everything away. He follows it with the tip of his tongue, drinks from you again like he’s earned the right.

Then he finally drags the flat of his tongue up your slit in one long, deliberate stroke that leaves you shaking. He tastes you and the noise he makes is grateful and indecent. “So sweet,” he says, slurred, and seals his mouth around your clit just long enough to make your vision grit out. He pulls off with a wet pop, breath tearing. “I said I was cleaning.” A beat. “This is part of it.”

He spreads you with his thumbs and eats you again, deeper. He’s still loud—low groans and ruined little curses as he licks everything you give him, as if the only way to finish what he started is to pull you back apart with his mouth. Your hips climb his face; he lets them, one arm banding your waist, the other anchoring your thigh over his shoulder so he can get messy. He licks your entrance and fucks his tongue into you, sloppy and insistent, then drags up and sucks your clit in deep, obscene pulls that make your toes curl.

“Chris—” It’s a plea and a warning both.

“I know,” he pants, laughing breathlessly against you, and goes right back to it, tonguing you until your thoughts blur, until shame has nothing to hold onto. He cleans you and dirties you at once, lap after lap, swallow after swallow, until you’re soaked with his spit and your own slick again, until your thighs are shaking and your hand is in his hair trying to push him away and keep him forever.

He takes your wrist and plants your palm over your own breast. “Hold it for me,” he says, and when you do, he moans and licks harder, like the sight is gasoline.

You climb fast. He feels it and chases it, sucking your clit into the heat of his mouth and flicking his tongue exactly the way that breaks you. It hits sharp and hot—your hips stutter, your breath rips out in a cry, and he hums through your release like he’s proud of himself, like he’s finishing his plate.

He doesn’t stop until you shove at him, half-sobbing. He lets you, finally, lips shiny, chin wet, eyes black with want. He crawls up your body, dragging his mouth along your belly to catch anything he might have missed, then kisses your sternum, each breast, your throat, licking away the last ghost-stripes he painted there.

“All clean,” he says against your mouth, and kisses you slow so you can taste the truth of it—him, and you, and the ruin of the night turned into heat.

You hate that the taste makes you open for him. You hate that your hips lift again when his hand slides down, palm heavy on your belly, thumb stroking low like a promise that he isn’t done. He smiles into the kiss, feral and fond, and licks the corner of your mouth as if there were anything left to claim.

“Roll over,” he murmurs, voice gone velvet-dark. 

You roll, cheek to the cool side of the pillow, hips lifting because his hands have already found your waist. He palms you open, thumbs pressing into the dip above the swell of your ass like he’s fitting you to himself.

“Like this,” he says, low and rough, dragging his mouth down your spine in hot, open kisses. “Want you like this.”

You know what he means before he says it; your body knows it first. He nudges your knees wider, presses his chest to your back, breath hot at your ear. “No rubber,” he murmurs, filthy-soft. “Bare. Let me stay.”

A flare of sense—thin, sputtering—fights up your throat. It dies on the whine you make when he slides two fingers through your slick and pushes them into you to the knuckle. Your hips answer for you, pushing back, shame prickling uselessly under the want.

“Say it,” he grinds, teeth grazing your shoulder. “Tell me to fuck you raw.”

“Yes,” you breathe, burnt and honest. “God—yes, Chris. Bare.”

He groans like you untied something inside him. The sound vibrates in your bones. He drags his fingers out, slow, and you feel the blunt head of him notch against you—hot, heavy, hungry. There’s no latex drag, no barrier. Just him, thick and alive, pressing into your heat. Your breath shreds.

“Open up for me,” he rasps, and you do, the angle of your hips changing under his hands. He pushes. The first inch makes both of you swear, the stretch almost too much, the slick obscene. He holds there, panting against your neck. “Fuck, that’s it… you feel like you were made to keep me.”

He sinks the rest of the way in with a slow, ruthless grind that leaves you clawing the sheet. Full. Too full. Perfect. Your mouth falls open on a sound you don’t recognize yourself in. He groans into your hair, broken and grateful. “Bare,” he says again, almost a prayer. “So warm. So tight. Christ.”

He moves.

Not careful now—hungry. Deep, dragging thrusts that smack skin, that grind his pelvis into the soft ache of your clit each time he bottoms out. The bed knocks the wall in a steady, shameless rhythm. He’s talking without knowing it, filthy praise spilling like heat—good girl, take me, that’s it, all of me, fu–ck, I can feel you clutching——and every word makes you softer around him.

Your head is a riot. Some small, horrified part of you whispers you shouldn’t want this, not after tonight, not after what you saw, not after what you know—but the rest of you is a body on fire that only understands yes. He fills every argument with his cock, erases every edge with his hips. You break yourself against him and he thanks you for it, voice shredded, hands sure.

“Hands up,” he pants, and you give them, sliding your wrists to the headboard. He laces his fingers through yours from behind and bears down, changing the angle until you can’t do anything but feel. The new depth knocks a helpless moan out of you; he snarls at the sound and pistons faster, sloppy now, desperate, like he’s racing something only he can see.

“Look at what you do to me,” he grits, pulling out almost all the way just to slam back in, obscene and wet. “Listen to me.” He’s loud, uncontained—deep curses breaking on your name, harsh, wrecked little laughs when your body clenches and drags him in deeper. “Fuck, you’re milking me,” he gasps, losing composure on a groan. “You’re gonna make me—”

“Inside,” you choke, shocking yourself with how fast you say it. “Please, inside—fill me, Chris—”

He makes a sound that isn’t language. His grip on your hands tightens; his thrusts turn brutal, gorgeous, hips snapping, balls slapping wet against you. “Yeah? You want it?” he growls, ragged, almost gone. “You want me to breed this pretty pussy?”

“Yes,” you sob, honest and ruined. “Yes, yes—Channie, please—give it to me—”

That breaks him. He buries himself to the root and holds, shaking, and you feel the first hot pulse spill deep where he wanted it. He shouts—loud, dirty, unashamed—crushing your fingers in his as he empties himself into you, each convulsion dragged out by the tight way you clutch around him. He grinds through it like he can push himself further inside, like he can stay, like he can mark you from the inside out.

“Take it,” he snarls against your neck, voice wrecked to threads. “Take all of it—fffuck—” Another heavy pulse, another, heat spreading in low, molten waves that make you see static. Your body answers with a vicious, rolling aftershock, milking him, greedy, a drawn-out whimper tearing from your chest when you feel the spill and the stretch and the pressure fuse into something that obliterates thought.

He doesn’t pull out. Not yet. He stays fully sheathed, panting, mouth open against your shoulder. His hips give small, helpless pushes, like his body can’t believe it gets to keep going. You’re delirious enough to press back, to meet those afterthrusts with your own tiny rolls, the wet, messy slip of him inside you making both of you groan.

“God, look at you,” he gets out, laughing breathlessly, delirious and proud. “Keeping me. Holding me.” He lets one of your hands go and slides his palm down, splaying it low over your belly. The weight of it there, heavy and possessive, makes your eyes sting. “Right here,” he husks. “Right where you wanted me.”

When it finally wrings him empty, he stays, buried to the hilt, panting into your skin. His hands stroke over you like he’s patting down a fire—thighs, waist, belly—possessive and shaky. You feel him soften and twitch and he hums, sated and obscene, hips giving one last lazy push to seat it deeper.

He slides out slow and you gasp at the loss. Warmth follows, thick and undeniable; he hisses softly, enthralled, watching it. “Don’t move,” he says, and his voice is wrecked and gentle at once. He thumbs your folds open and groans at the glossy spill, at the way your cunt flexes reflexively against the emptiness. “Look at that.”

You can’t. You can only feel: the wet weight of him inside you still, the heat slicking your thighs, the filthy satisfaction in his tone.

He presses two fingers to your entrance like a stopper and leans down to kiss the top of your spine. “Hold it,” he murmurs. “Hold me.” Then he withdraws his fingers and uses his thumb to smear his cum up over your swollen clit, slow and obscene. You jerk; he laughs into your shoulder and does it again, lazier. “Greedy even when I give you everything.”

He rolls you onto your back. The mess slides and you gasp; his eyes go heavy-lidded at the sight. He pushes your knees up and apart, opens you to the night and to him, and watches another warm stripe slip out. He catches it with his fingers and pushes it back in, groaning like it hurts him. “Keep it.”

“Chris,” you whisper, dazed.

“I know.” He noses your jaw, voice gone velvet and rough. “You’re perfect. You took me so good. You’re going to keep me.” A slow, greedy kiss. 

His palm stays spread low over your belly, heat heavy and possessive. He stares at where he’s opened you, at the slow, warm slide he just pushed back in with his fingers, and swallows hard like the sight feeds him.

“Gonna sit right here,” he murmurs, pressing more firmly until you feel the weight of him inside shift deeper, “and let it take.” He kisses you—slow, drugging—and talks into your mouth like a secret. “Want you walking around full of me. Want you leaking when you get up for water. Want you thinking about it every time you move.”

Your breath stutters. “Chris—”

“Thinking about us,” he corrects himself softly, thumb dragging an idle circle just above your mound. “About me putting a future in you.” He nips your bottom lip and soothes it with his tongue, eyes hot and glassy. “Tell me you’d carry me.”

You should say something sane. Instead you whisper, “I’d carry you,” and his pupils go blown and dangerous.

“That’s my girl.” He noses under your ear, voice gone low and ruined. “Gonna have you all soft for me. Gonna watch you swell up pretty. I’ll hold your hair when you’re sick in the morning, rub your back when you can’t sleep. I’ll run my mouth to the pharmacy at 2 a.m. I’ll do the lists and the laundry and the dinners—” His hand cups your breast, thumb grazing your nipple as if he can picture it already. “—and I’ll kiss you right here when it kicks.”

A soft, shocked noise spills out of you. Your hips tilt into his thumb without permission; your body is a traitor and a shrine.

“Look at me.” You do. He looks wrecked and certain and yours. “You’ll tell me when you’re late.” His mouth ghosts your cheek, your jaw. “I’ll buy the test and wait outside the door, hands on my knees like a boy.” A breathless laugh catches. “Then I’ll drop to the floor when you show me and you’ll sit on my lap and I’ll promise you I won’t let the world put a finger on you again.”

His words sink under your skin like ink. You don’t know if you’re shaking because you’re scared or because you want it so badly your bones ache with it.

“Turn,” he whispers. You do, pliant and messy, thighs still slick. He slides down between them again, opens you with his thumbs, and stares at the wet shine he’s made. “So much of me,” he says, awed and filthy. “Stay open.”

You whimper when his tongue licks low, not to tease, not to play—just to gather what tries to slip free and push it back with slow, greedy strokes. He groans into you every time he manages it, as if he can solve biology with his mouth. “Keep… every… drop,” he mutters, punctuating each word with a push of his tongue that makes your toes curl.

When he looks up, his chin is slick, his mouth swollen, his eyes devout. “You’ll tell me when your breasts hurt,” he says, voice shot to velvet, kissing the softness at the inside of your knee. “You’ll wear my shirts when nothing fits. You’ll sleep with my hand on your belly so it knows me.”

“Chris.” Your throat is raw; your body is molten. “You’re—”

“Obsessed with you,” he finishes simply, crawling up until his weight blankets you. He nudges his cock back to your entrance, still heavy, still slick, the head bumping where he just left himself. “I should wait,” he says, and then he pushes in again, bare, with a wrecked little groan because he can’t. “But I can’t. Gotta pack it in.”

The stretch is even easier and somehow filthier; you feel your body swallow him like it’s been taught. He slides to the hilt and stays, hips pressed deep, as if depth alone could write the future he wants.

“Again,” you breathe, and he laughs against your mouth, dizzy with you.

“Hungry girl.” He draws back and gives you a slow, claiming thrust, then another, each push deliberate, grinding, designed to seat him high. His hand finds your knee and folds you open, angle obscene, his pelvis kissing your clit at the end of every stroke. “That’s it. Let me put it where it sticks.”

“You’re insane,” you say, but it breaks on a moan when he circles your clit with two fingertips and fucks deeper.

“For you.” His mouth opens against your throat, teeth scraping just enough to make your eyes roll. “You’ll text me pictures,” he pants, pace tightening, “of test strips on the counter, of sweaters you outgrow, of the crib I build wrong the first time and right the second.” He laughs, choked and bright. “You’ll sit on my lap while I read names out loud until you kick me and we pick the one you kick for.”

It shouldn’t soothe you. It does. It shouldn’t turn you on. It lights you up like tinder. You clamp around him and he groans, high and helpless, losing the last of his rhythm for a handful of messy, glorious thrusts.

“Say we’re trying,” he begs, near-delirious, thumb insistent on your clit. “Say it. Say it now.”

“We’re trying,” you gasp, arching. “We’re—oh God—we’re trying.”

He breaks. The sound that leaves him is deep and wrecked, and he drives in hard and holds there, grinding like he can bury the word inside you with his body. You feel the twitch, the hot spill again, raw and shameless, and your back bows off the mattress at the flood. 

“Take it,” he groans, shaking, “take it, take me—” And you do, legs locked around his waist, hands in his hair, lips on his open mouth, swallowing the sounds he can’t hold, letting him pour himself into you like he can fill the future in one long breath.

When he finally sags, it’s not collapse; it’s a settling. He turns his head and kisses your palm where it shakes against his cheek, then drags that same palm down to your belly and pins it there under his.

“Mine,” he whispers, reverent and fierce, pressing you like he can feel it happen under your skin. “Our secret for now.”

You could remind him about statistics and timing and the pill and sensibility. You don’t. You lie there with him inside you, messy and full, and watch his face soften into something you’ve never seen before—hope unclenching its fist.

“Sleep,” he says at last, lips on your temple. “I’ll keep you full.” He shifts deeper with a satisfied sigh, lazy afterthrusts that make both of you gasp. “In the morning, we try again.”