ꨄ

𝑺𝒕𝒂𝒚 𝑫𝒊𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 is 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗒 𝘽𝙚𝙚𓆤 𝘐𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝙮/𝙣 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝙎𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙮 𝙆𝙞𝙙𝙨． 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝙎𝙆𝙕𝙏𝙀𝙓𝙏.

[staydiaries]

ꨄ’s 𝑵𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒈𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝒀𝒔’ 𝑫𝒊𝒂𝒓𝒚

𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝑵𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔

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𝑬𝒎𝒐𝒋𝒊 𝑲𝒆𝒚

❤︎ fluff ✘ NSFW ★ comfort ☁︎ angsty

𝑫𝒊𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝑬𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔

▬ Bang Chan | Christopher Chahn Bahng

▬ Lee Know | MinHo Lee

▬ Changbin | ChangBin Seo

▬ Hyunjin | HyunJin Hwang

▬ Han | JiSung Han

▬ Felix | Felix YongBok Lee

▬ Seungmin | SeungMin Kim

▬ I.N | JeongIn Yang

[staydiaries]

Thursday's New Tradition

ꨄ 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝒀𝒔’ 𝑫𝒊𝒂𝒓𝒚 ꨄ

Entry Name: Bang Chan

pairing: Boxer Bang C. ✕ Single Mother Reader

genre: romcom · fluff · boxer AU · slow burn · slice of life · single parent AU

note: insomnia and boredom makes me creative. all for kicks and giggles. apologies if i misrepresented chris and the members. for context read 𝕮𝖍𝖗𝖎𝖘'𝖘 𝕮𝖗𝖊𝖊𝖉, 𝖆 𝕭𝖔𝖝𝖊𝖗 𝕬𝖀 𝕭𝖆𝖓𝖌 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓 Ｘ 𝕾𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖑𝖊 𝕸𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝕾𝕸𝕬𝖀. this is clearly isn't meant to be taken seriously. 

📲 Previous Message: The Message That Started It 📲 Next Message: Late Night Calls

warning(s): single parenthood// child with a very active imagination// implied social anxiety// fluff// meet-cute chaos// ALL Fictional

setting: Thursday afternoon at 3RACHA Gym, where your son's very first Baby STRAYs boxing class turns into the beginning of an unexpected routine. Later that evening, an innocent exchange of whispered voice messages accidentally opens the door to something much bigger.

word count: 2.291

❝ 𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚔𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 "𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛!" 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚍𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎. ❞

The following Thursday arrived with a tension that felt personal. The walk to 3RACHA Gym was quieter. Your son’s small hand was a vise-grip around your fingers, his earlier bravado replaced by a wide-eyed anxiety. He wore his shark shirt again, for luck, he said. You’d triple-knotted his shoes.

“What if he’s mad?” he whispered for the tenth time, his steps slowing as the gym came into view.

“He’s not mad, lamb. He was just surprised last time, like you were.”

“But I yelled ‘stranger danger’ at the Wolf of the Ring—Then killed him for five minutes,” he whined, as if confessing a capital crime. “Tiger says I’m doomed. Moonbeam says to offer him a rock as a peace treaty.” He patted the pocket of his shorts, which bulged ominously.

You pushed through the heavy doors, the wall of sound and sweat hitting you anew. This time, the chaos was more organized. The Baby STRAYs area was set up with colorful mats, miniature agility ladders, and a pile of bright red foam mitts. A few other parents milled at the designated seating area—a row of benches just outside the taped boundary. Some mothers being entertained by some half dressed men wearing the 3RACHA Gym logo on their sweats. A blonde with freckles had offered a mom with a baby on her hip a free two week session with him. 

And there he was. Bang Chan was across the gym floor, demonstrating a footwork drill for a pair of teenage STRAY. They were a junior boxer under Jisung and Felix’s coaching, Chan helped whenever he could. His movements were economical, precise, a lesson in controlled power. He finished the sequence, clapped the younger boxer on the shoulder, and turned. His gaze found you both immediately, as if pulled by a thread.

For a second, his expression was unreadable—the same focused intensity. Then, his eyes softened. He didn’t smile, but he gave a single, slow nod in your direction, a slight bow of his head. An acknowledgment. An apology held within a simple gesture. Then his attention shifted to your son, who was trying to become one with your leg. Chan’s gaze held no trace of laughter, only a quiet, steady regard before he turned back to his students.

We settled everything last week, but why does it feel off? Is it me? It’s probably me—Should I ask the guys—No they would make it worse. What if her son things I’m a zombie—No that’s…Well he does have imaginary friends so I guess…Are they still looking at me? Should I go over and talk to them—

“Do not speak to her,” Minho appeared at his side, making Chan flinch. The latter stared at the other with a frighten look—

“Was I speaking—“

“No but you are very transparent, Chan-ah. Just let the fox handle the parents and you coach the ankle biters.” Minho clapped a hand heavily on Chan’s back, making him hiss from the contact. 

“See, he’s alive and…Well?” you murmured, gently prying your son loose. “Not mad.”

Coach Innie—Jeongin—bounced over, his fox-like smile kind and disarming. “Oh thank god you’re back—I mean, Hey! You came back! Ready for some fun?” He held out a fist to your son, who, after a moment’s hesitation, bumped it with his own tiny knuckles. The spell of fear broke, just a little.

You settled on the end of a bench, pulling your hood up slightly, a futile shield against the overwhelming sensory tide of the place. You watched as Jeongin corralled the dozen or so children towards Chan. The others had shifted to Seungmin, who remained on the far side of the gym. You were focusing solely on your son, but you couldn’t help to notice Chan. His presence was a low hum in the space, a magnetic north you were unconsciously aware of.

The session began, boxing basics—were transformed into a game. Chan, with infinite patience, had them mimicking his movements—“Jab like you’re popping a giant bubble! Step-step, like you’re sneaking past a sleeping dragon!” Your son, initially hesitant, watched the other kids. Then he threw a tentative jab. Then another. When Chan praised his “dragon steps,” a grin broke through, brilliant and unguarded. You saw him lean and whisper, “Did you see that, Rocket? I’m popping bubbles!”

After the initial demonstration Chan let Jeongin take lead on watching the kids technique.  He didn’t retreat to his office. He leaned against the ropes of the main ring, arms crossed over his chest, observing. His eyes tracked the children’s chaotic progress, but too often, their path drifted. They drifted to the bench. To you. They would flicker over your profile, the way you worried your thumbnail, the faint, anxious smile that appeared when your son succeeded. Each glance was quick, a stolen snapshot, but it carried a weight that felt anything but casual.

During games and activities, an obstacle course was assembled—built by Hyunjin and Minho. Your son, now fully unleashed, scrambled through tunnels and balanced on low beams with shrieks of joy. He high-fived a little girl after a relay race. He was, for the first time in weeks—years if anything, not talking to his imaginary friends. He was present, here, in a world of real, sweating, laughing children.

And still, Chan watched. 

You could feel it like a sunbeam on your skin—warm, persistent. You kept your eyes forward, glued to your son, but your periphery was full of him. The way he stepped forward each time a kid almost lost their balance, or when one fell and he was the first on by their side. His voice was soft, a kind smile and his dimples comforting the child, “Ah mate. If you get knocked down, you always try to get up again and give it your best. Yeah?”

Then his gaze would return, always return. Only for a second or two, to your solitary figure on the bench. It wasn’t predatory. It was… contemplative. Hungry in a way that had nothing to do with anything physical. But in a way that craved specific approval.

The final segment, life skills, had both Chan and Jeongin sitting the kids in a circle. They talked about teamwork, about helping your partner. “Like how Coach Bang helps all of us,” the younger coach said, gesturing. Your son’s head swiveled, looking at Chan with the same stars in his eyes, but they seemed significantly brighter. Like a little universe in his eyes as he silently praised his idol.

The hour and thirty minute session ended. Children spilled back toward their parents, buzzing with energy. Your son ran to you, cheeks apple-red, hair plastered to his forehead. “Mama! I did a real jab! And I didn’t even tell Tiger what to do, he just copied me! And Coach Bang says I’m a natural!” He was breathless, vibrating with a pure, uncomplicated joy that made your own anxious heart swell. As you helped him gather his water bottle, you felt a presence approach. Not the light, bouncy energy of Jeongin. This was denser, a shift in the atmosphere. You looked up.

Chan stood a respectful distance away, holding a small, black 3RACHA wristband. He crouched down, bringing himself to your son’s eye level, moving with a deliberate slowness this time.

“You worked really hard today,” Chan said, his voice deeper, softer than it had been with the other kids. “You listened to Coach Innie and I. That’s important.” He held out the wristband. “This is for good focus on your first day. Official STRAY gear.”

Your son stared, utterly starstruck. He looked at the wristband, then at Chan’s face, then at you. You nodded. With trembling fingers, he took it. “Thank you, Coach Bang,” he whispered, then blurted, “I’m sorry for yelling stranger danger!! You’re not a stranger! You’re the Wolf of the Ring! And I’m sorry I killed you!! Thank you for not eating my brains!! You’re really good for a zombie!!”

A real, genuine smile—wide and undeniable—touched Chan’s lips. It transformed his face, carving pools in his cheek, I knew he thought I was a zombie. 

“It’s okay. We’re friends now, zombies don’t mess with friends.” He gave another small nod, this time to your son, before his eyes lifted to meet yours. In that brief, silent exchange, everything was conveyed. The apology from last week, the acknowledgment of your quiet vigil on the bench. It was a look that acknowledged a line existed—coach and parent, the chaos of his world and the quiet of yours—and simultaneously wondered, with a restless, disciplined curiosity, what it would feel like to cross it.

Then he stood, the moment broken. “See you next Thursday,” he said, the words meant for both of you. You exhaled a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. Your son chattered excitedly, fastening the wristband with clumsy fingers. As you led him out, back into the fading afternoon, the ghost of that look stayed with you. And beneath the pounding music and the echoing shouts of “1…2…3RACHA!” Chan had watched you both walk down the sidewalk with a blush taking over his ears first before it painted the rest of his face.

“So…” Changbin and Minho looked at their hyung, their dumb, lovestruck, hyung. Changbin continued, “Are you going to rewrite your creed?”

“I think the pabo already did.” Minho added with a dry amused huff and a smirk growing.

Chan waved them off, “Shut up… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

   ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

[___] sent you a message

▶ ııııılıl||llıllılıl||lıllıl||ıııı  0:25 *𝗉𝗈𝗈𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀* 𝗁𝗂 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗆𝖾 𝖨 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗆𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾 *𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾* 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗄𝖺𝗒 𝗇𝗈 𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝗒 𝖿𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗑𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗒 𝗉𝗎𝗉 *𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾* 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖾 𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 *𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾* 𝗈𝗁 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝖺𝗇𝗀 *𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾* 𝗎𝗁𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖻𝖺𝗇𝖽 *𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗅𝗒* 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗀𝗂𝖿𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋

Chan stared at his phone, his hand tighten around it hearing the last few seconds of the audio message. He could tell [__] was getting choked up over the gift, it made his heart ache. He sighed softly, wanting his own voice to be steady before he pressed the mic to record the message. 

▶ ııııılıl||llıllılıl||lıllıl||ıııı  0:15*𝖺𝗅𝗌𝗈 𝗉𝗈𝗈𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 [__]* 𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝖽𝖽𝗒 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝖨 𝗐𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗆 *𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾* 𝗂𝗍𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗋𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝗄𝖺𝗒 *𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖼𝗁𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾* 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗅𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗆 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖻𝖺𝗇𝖽

▶ ııııılıl||llıllılıl||lıllıl||ıııı  0:18*𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅* 𝗈𝗁 𝗎𝗁𝗆 𝗂𝖿 𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗒 𝗉𝗎𝗉 𝖨 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 *𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾* 𝖽𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗑𝖾𝗋𝗌

Chan set his phone down on his chest, he laid on the couch in his apartment. He was rewatching an anime, background noise to fill the otherwise empty apartment. A small peaceful smile formed on his lips, “He’s a sweet kid… She's so lucky…” He mumbled to himself, a second later a chime dinged with a vibration humming on his chest. He picked up his phone immediately—

▶ ııııılıl||llıllılıl||lıllıl||ıııı  0:42 *𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾， 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝟣𝟢 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝟣𝟢 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽𝗌*  𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗁 𝗆𝗒 𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗈𝗇𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗇 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖼𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 *𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽； 𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝗒 𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾* *𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖾* 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺 𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗎𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 *𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽； 𝗅𝖺𝗆𝖻 *𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾* 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇* *𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗌* 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝖽𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗇𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗎𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖨 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖨 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝖼𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇 *𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽； 𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗇𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾*

You ended the recording, intending to delete it but it sent anyway. You sighed, looking down your son who was hugging a pillow with a pout that melted your heart. You sighed, sitting beside him and pulling him into your arms, “My sweet little lamb. You need to go to sleep, I’m sure Coach Bang and Coach Innie go to sleep on time.”

“You don’t know that—“ he argued but cut himself off. His eyes lit up with a mischievous gleam as he reached for your phone, “let’s ask Coach Bang!!” 

You pulled the phone out of reach, “Not so fast little one.” You laughed, stretching your arm more with him giggling as he still tried to reach for it. You lowered your arm enough to let him win, he took it from your grasp when it dinged with a notification.

▶ ııııılıl||llıllılıl||lıllıl||ıııı  0:14 *𝖼𝗁𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾* 𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝗈𝗄𝖺𝗒 *𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾* 𝗎𝗁𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗒𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗎𝗒𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽

▶ ııııılıl||llıllılıl||lıllıl||ıııı  0:25 *𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗂𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍* 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖿𝗎𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 *𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗎𝖽𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖾， 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽； 𝗅𝖺𝗆𝖻 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗄𝖺𝗒* 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺 𝗐𝖾 𝗀𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 *𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽， 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁； 𝖨 𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝗅𝖺𝗆𝖻 *𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾* 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗎𝗍𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁* 

▶ ııııılıl||llıllılıl||lıllıl||ıııı  0:13*𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖼𝗁𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌* 𝗈𝗁 𝗎𝗁 𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝖺𝗆 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐 *𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾* 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 [__] 𝖻𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗁 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎

▶ ııııılıl||llıllılıl||lıllıl||ıııı  0:11 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗈𝗈 *𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾； 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽* 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽night 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆𝗌 

C. Bang has loved a voice message.

━━━━━━━━

ᴇᴘɪʟᴏɢᴜᴇ | sᴋᴢᴛᴇxᴛ

[staydiaries]

The Lambs And The Wolf

ꨄ 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝒀𝒔’ 𝑫𝒊𝒂𝒓𝒚 ꨄ

Entry Name: Bang Chan

pairing: Boxer Bang C. ✕ Single Mother Reader

genre: romcom · fluff · boxer AU · slow burn · slice of life · single parent AU

note: insomnia and boredom makes me creative. all for kicks and giggles. apologies if i misrepresented chris and the members. for context read 𝕮𝖍𝖗𝖎𝖘'𝖘 𝕮𝖗𝖊𝖊𝖉, 𝖆 𝕭𝖔𝖝𝖊𝖗 𝕬𝖀 𝕭𝖆𝖓𝖌 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓 Ｘ 𝕾𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖑𝖊 𝕸𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝕾𝕸𝕬𝖀. this is clearly isn't meant to be taken seriously. 

📲 Previous Message: Asked and Answered 📲 Next Message: The Message That Started It

warning(s): single parenthood// child with a very active imagination// secondhand embarrassment// fluff// mild language// protective parent// meet-cute chaos// the kids betting on chan’s failure// the gym being over run by kids// ALL Fictional

setting: District 9’s beloved neighborhood record shop, Starlight Records, and the bustling halls of 3RACHA Gym, where one imaginative five-and-a-half-year-old accidentally meets his favorite boxer in the most memorable introduction ever. Between imaginary friends, untied shoelaces, and an unfortunate case of “stranger danger.”

word count: 2.736

❝ 𝙾𝚗𝚎, 𝚝𝚠𝚘, 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎—𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚘𝚕𝚏 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐. ❞

Three days ago…. The bell above the door of Starlight Records jingled like a distant, off-key piano note, cutting through the low hum of a crackling jazz vinyl spinning in the back. Sunlight slanted through the wide front windows, casting hazy, golden pools on warped wooden floors and shelves crammed with colorful album sleeves. The air smelled of dust, old paper, and the faint, sweet tang of incense from a stick smoldering in a seashell on the counter. A failed attempt to mask the scent of decades. Beneath it all, the constant, warm hiss of a needle in a groove.

You straightened from alphabetizing a bin of 00s K-pop, you glanced up, expecting another college student hunting for an album not in store. Instead, your son burst in like a pint-sized tornado. He marched straight down the central aisle, his kindergarten backpack bouncing wildly against his small frame. He wore his usual uniform: scuffed sneakers, cargo shorts stuffed with mysterious treasures (a shiny rock, a plastic robot arm, a half-eaten lollipop wrapped in a receipt), and a faded T-shirt with a cartoon shark he'd declared his "battle armor." His cheeks flushed pink from whatever adventure had occupied him during the walk home from school.

"One-two-three left, right foot,” he chanted at full volume. His voice pitching high and off-key, fists pumping like he was shadowboxing invisible opponents. "No, Tiger, you're marching wrong—left foot first, like this!" He stomped dramatically, veering around a listening station with giant headphones, then halted to whirl on empty air. "Moonbeam, stop whispering! The big boss will hear you!"

Your lips twitched into a fond smile, your heart doing that familiar, tender squeeze. His imaginary friends were legion today—a whole platoon, by the looks of his corrections. You set down the record you were holding and leaned on the glass counter, watching him. A couple of customers—a man in a leather jacket flipping through blues. A girl with headphones already around her neck, lost in her phone—paused to watch, their faces lighting up with quiet amusement.

“Hey my little lamb, what’s in your hand?”

He froze mid-argument, staring at his hand as if it had betrayed him. His big eyes—mirror images of yours—widened in pure bafflement. "Huh?" He uncurled his fingers slowly, peering at the paper clutched there like it had teleported. "Oh. Uh..." He squinted, then spun to berate the void. "Moonbeam! Did you put this in my hand? No? Then who—? Fine, but if it's a trap, you're sleeping outside tonight!"

You bit your lip to stifle a laugh. The man by the blues section chuckled softly into his hand. Your son huffed, crossing his arms, then marched up to the counter with world-ending purpose. He look at the paper for a good minute before he thrusts the flyer forward. His face deadpanned into the most serious expression a kindergartner could muster. “Mama. I can't read this. Too many words.”

The record store, already warm with sound, seemed to swell with the moment. You snorted, clapping a hand over your mouth as giggles bubbled out. The man’s chuckle turned into a full, rumbling laugh. The girl by the new releases smirked, shaking her head. Your son blinked rapidly, processing the betrayal.

"What? What's so funny?" His voice pitched defensive, tiny fists balling at his sides. He whipped around, jabbing a finger at thin air between a rack of city pop and another of hip-hop. "Was that you, Rocket? Saying I'm too little? I heard you! Take it back!"

“No, no, no, baby. it's okay, Rocket didn’t say anything about you,” you soothed. Reaching over to scoop him onto the stool behind the counter before he could launch into full tantrum mode. You smoothed his hair, your touch light—always light. You unfolded the flyer he’d surrendered.

The flyer had advertised something named, "BABY STRAYS CAMP." It was program providing free boxing lessons for children 12 and under at 3RACHA GYM. The flyer outlines a daily schedule from Thursday to Sunday at 1525, with specific age brackets for each day ranging from ages 5 to 12. 3RACHA Gym, you knew that place, it was a block away. You walked passed it a few times, each time you told him that to stay clear of the weird men. But he loved watching them on the tv.

"Boxing lessons," you read aloud, your voice softer than the music. You traced the line-art illustration of a boxer with your fingertip. "At the gym, I told you to stay away from.”

His eyes lit up like fireworks. He screeched—a piercing, joyful wail that cut through the jazz—"3RACHA?! MAMA! PLEASE! I wanna go! I wanna be a STRAY!"

You winced, rubbing your ear, but your smile lingered, helpless. "Whoa, slow down, champ. Boxing? You sure?"

He nodded so hard his whole body wobbled on the stool. "Yes! 3RACHA's the best gym in the world! The STRAYs win everything! They're right here in District 9, Mama—like superheroes! Please? They’re weird but soooo cool!”

You hesitated, glancing at the flyer again, you heard the chants. The roar of "1…2…3RACHA!" during open spars, the STAYs mobbing the doors, a tidal wave of noise and sweat and fervor. A world of impact and collision. Not your world of quiet corners and whispered lyrics but his eyes pleaded, wide and unblinking. His face you saw a chance for something solid, something with rules that might contain all that glorious, terrifying energy.

"Alright," you sighed, the word leaving you with a quiet exhale. Your heart twisting with that familiar mix of love and a quiet, formless dread. "We'll check it out."

He launched himself at you, hugging your legs with a victory yell that vibrated through your bones. "Yes! STRAY power!"

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

The following Thursday, the air in Dokryeon-gu carried the first hint of approaching summer. A sharp contrast to the furnace you knew awaited you. You stood in a line that stretched down the block, a river of eager children and weary parents snaking from the polished steel doors of 3RACHA Gym. The building was a monolithic presence of dark glass and exposed industrial beams, the roaring rooster logo lit from within, pulsating like a heartbeat.

Your son vibrated beside you, a live wire in untied sneakers. You’d double-knotted them three times at home; they were already loose, laces dragging like tired serpents. He wore sweatpants and a white t-shirt he’d decorated himself with fabric markers. A lopsided, fiercely grinning shark with “BABY STRAY” written beneath it in chaotic, enthusiastic letters. You’d let him decorate your shoes, too—old canvas sneakers now sporting green lightning bolts and shaky stars. In your oversized hoodie and basketball shorts, you look more like his slightly overwhelmed older sister than his mother.

“Tiger says the line is moving too slow,” he announced, tugging your hand. He then turned to address the empty space by the lamppost. “I know, Rocket, but we can’t just fly over them. Mama says it’s rude. So we have to wait our turn. It’s the rules by the big boss.” He nodded sagely at the nothingness, then gasped. “Moonbeam! You can’t say that about the lady’s hair! That’s rude.” He shot an apologetic look at the woman in front of you, who glanced back, bewildered.

You offered a weak, awkward laugh—that high, breathless sound—and a shrug. “Imaginary friends,” you mumbled, feeling your cheeks heat.

Finally, the steel doors swallowed you whole, the inside was a cathedral of controlled chaos. The sound hit first—a symphony of pounding rap beats from towering speakers. The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of heavy bags being punished, the sharp smack of leather on leather. And beneath it all, the grunts and shouts of effort. The air was thick, warm, and smelled profoundly of sweat. Disinfectant, vinyl flooring, and something else—the sharp, clean scent of determination. It was three stories of open space, with a central ring on the ground floor visible from the elevated running tracks that circled the second and third levels. Everywhere you looked, there were bodies in motion: sculpted, glistening, moving with a lethal grace that felt utterly foreign.

A young man with a soft, fox-like smile and kind eyes wearing a white jersey with 3RACHA Gym over his right peck. The back in block orange letter read, The Maknae Phenom but his lanyard said—Coach Innie. His short chopped brassy looking hair was spiked from him running his hands through it. He was herding a group of wide-eyed children into a cordoned-off area with mats and tiny, colorful gloves. Your son’s gaze locked onto the scene, his earlier narration ceasing in pure awe.

“Go on,” you said, giving his shoulder a gentle nudge. “I’ll be right back. Just going to the bathroom. Stay with the group, okay?”

“Okay, Mama,” he breathed, already drifting toward the other kids like a planet pulled into a new orbit. You watched him for a second, this tiny piece of your heart walking fearlessly into the roar. Then you turned to find a restroom, needing a moment to steady your own breathing. Inside the stall you pulled out your phone to read through 3RACHA Help Center thread. You read it five time since you asked your question, Coach Bang’s response had brought an odd sense of comfort to you.

Back on the gym floor, the scene had evolved—Your son was standing directly in front of Jeongin. His head tilted, he’d apparently been studying the coach’s face with the intense scrutiny of a five-year-old art critic. The surrounding chatter from the other STRAYs, the regulars who worked out and trained there. Then the group of terrifyingly handsome, sweaty men lounging by a water cooler—They were waiting for the inevitable fuck up of either their maknae or hyung. The betting pool was on the latter.

“You look like a fox,” your son declared, his voice carrying perfectly in a momentary lull between songs.

Jeongin blinked, then his smile widened, genuine and bright. “Thank you. I get that a lot.”

The group by the cooler erupted softly with muffled chuckles. A man with an elegant grace and a freshly undercut, Hyunjin covered his mouth with his towel. Another, with a mischievous but bright grin, Felix—leaned against the heavy bag, where he hid his face. A shorter but muscular man with a small scar on his chin, Changbin—turned completely to hide the smile growing on his face. It was at this moment that Bang Chan emerged from a glass-walled office on the mezzanine level. A stack of parent waivers in his hands. He was dressed in simple black gym shorts and a black tank showing off the defined musculature of his arms and shoulders. His hair was damp, his expression one of focused calm, the laughter drew his gaze downward.

He saw the kids, saw Jeongin’s amused face, and then he saw your son. The boy, energized by the laughter he’d caused, had taken it as a starting pistol. With a whoop, he began running laps around the mat, arms outstretched like an airplane. “C’mon, Tiger! Race you!” he yelled to his phantom friend. The other children, catching the fever, joined in. Jeongin’s smile fell immediately, his hands frozen in the air with hesitation. Like he didn’t know whether or not to stop them or let run wild for the time being.

Chan descended the steel stairs, a faint, amused quirk on his lips. He moved to intercept the ringleader, stepping smoothly into his path. Your son, not looking where he was going, ran face-first into Chan’s legs. Large, steady hands caught him by the shoulders, preventing a fall. Your son looked up, and up, and up. Into the face of the man whose posters were on his bedroom wall, whose fights he watched with rapt silence on your laptop. His little mouth formed a perfect ‘O’. He leaned to the side, toward where he perceived ‘Rocket’ to be, and failed spectacularly at a whisper. “It’s him. The best boxer ever. It’s the Wolf of the Ring CB…”

Chan heard every word. His brow furrowed, confusion and deep amusement warring in his dark eyes. He crouched down to his level, the movement fluid and powerful. “Hey there, little man. What’s your name?”

The direct address, the proximity of his idol, short-circuited your son’s brave front. The panic was instant and total. His eyes went saucer-wide. He took a gasping breath and screamed, at a decibel that cut through every other gym noise, “STRANGER DANGER!” He wrenched himself out of Chan’s loose hold and took off, a blur of terrified tears and untied laces, sobbing incoherently.

Chan remained crouched, frozen in place, utterly dumbfounded. The laughter from his STRAYs reached a new, painful crescendo. Jisung was on the floor, wheezing. Minho watched with dry, sparkling eyes, shaking his head. Seungmin simply held out his hand with a smile tugging at his lips. Hyunjin, Felix, Changbin and the other two placed won bills the palm of the smug palm of the Mighty Pup Seungmin.

Your son crashed into you just as you exited the hallway, his small body colliding with your legs. You instinctively scooped him up, his arms locking around your neck, his face burying into your skin, hot tears and frantic, wet breaths against your collarbone. “Whoa, baby, what’s wrong? What happened?” you asked, your voice low and soothing, one hand cradling his head. You looked over his shoulder, searching for the threat.

And you saw him—Bang Chan was striding toward you, his earlier confusion replaced by a palpable, flustered panic. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to— he just ran into me and I—” The words tumbled out, but then his eyes met yours, and his sentence died. He stopped a few feet away, close enough that you could see the faint sheen of sweat on his temples. The dark, concerned depth of his eyes, the way his throat worked as he swallowed.

He was… immersed.

Not physically. Though the sheer presence of him, the width of his shoulders, the defined lines of his chest under the thin fabric, made the air feel thinner. It was the intensity, the disciplined focus usually directed at opponents. His stare was now entirely, uncomfortably, on you. He stared, taking you in—your worried face. Your protective hold on your sobbing son, your lightning-bolt shoes. The stare lasted a beat too long, crossing from concern into something else, something heavy and quietly arresting. The silence between you stretched, filled only by your son’s diminishing hiccups and the distant thump of the gym’s heartbeat.

From the sidelines, the spectacle was complete. The laughing STRAYs had fallen into a silent, agonized parody of mirth. Hyunjin was bent over, clutching his stomach, shoulders shaking soundlessly. Felix had tears streaming down his smiling face as he leaned against Changbin, who was biting his own fist, his eyes screwed shut. They were all watching their usually composed head coach, the disciplined cornerstone of their world. Just standing frozen and flustered before a tiny, crying child and a woman in a hoodie—Who looked increasingly uncomfortable by the second.

Chan finally broke the gaze, looking back at your son with a helpless, earnest softness that seemed to fracture his severe exterior. “I really am sorry. I just asked his name.”

You adjusted your grip on your son, feeling the protective walls inside you rise, tall and swift. “It’s okay,” you said, your voice quieter than you intended. “He’s… a lot. And he knows who you are. It was probably overwhelming.” You were apologizing for his panic. The absurdity of it hung in the thick air.

Chan nodded slowly, his eyes flicking back to yours for a fleeting, electric moment. “Right.” He took a careful step back, giving you space, a gesture that felt oddly respectful in the middle of the bedlam. “The, uh, sign-in and waivers are over there. With Coach Innie… Uhm…. The classes start next week.” He gestured vaguely, his usual command completely absent as he muttered.

“Thank you,” you murmured, and you turned, carrying your son—your little lamb—toward the fox-like coach. Feeling the weight of six silently laughing eyes, a stare of a genuinely confused Jeongin and the one stare that didn’t feel like laughter at all. The burning hole between your shoulder blades that made you lift your shoulders to your ears. It was a stare that felt like a touch you hadn’t asked for, and a promise of something you definitely shouldn’t want.

━━━━━━━━

ᴇᴘɪʟᴏɢᴜᴇ | sᴋᴢᴛᴇxᴛ

[staydiaries]

Oh Little Heart Of Mine

ꨄ 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝒀𝒔’ 𝑫𝒊𝒂𝒓𝒚 ꨄ

Entry Name: Bang Chan

pairing: Idol Bang Chan ✕ Female Kindergarden Teacher

genre: romcom · fluff · neighbor AU · comfort

note: all for kicks and giggles. apologies if i misrepresented chris and the members. for context read ABCs Of Love; a Idol Bang Chan x Kindergarten Teacher SMAU. this is clearly isn't meant to be taken seriously.

📲 Previous Message: Super Simple Song 📲 Next Message: 9 Til Forever

warning(s): petnames// implied pregnancy// fake lullaby// fake skz song// excessive sweetness// color coded lyrics// use of SKZOO names over the members// ALL Fictional

setting: A kindergarten classroom during afternoon nap time, where fourteen sleepy five-year-olds become the first audience for a lullaby Chan secretly wrote for your unborn baby. Joined by the rest of Stray Kids disguised as their SKZOO mascots, what begins as a special classroom performance turns into an emotional love letter from a father to the child he hasn’t met yet—and to the woman carrying them.

word count: 1.979

❝ 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛. ❞

The afternoon sun slanted through the paper-butterfly windows, dust motes dancing in the beams, and her stomach gave a flutter—Early pregnancy nerves or intuition… Y/n couldn’t tell anymore. But Chan proudly claimed that it was the former—Based on hopes and dreams alone. The school chimed to life at 1:45 PM, right as Y/n was attempting to coax fourteen overstimulated five-year-olds onto their nap mats.

“Hana, dul, ses—Please dance along to the Storybook Theater!” She announced, receiving twirls, hops or a mix of both from her giggling students. A smile grew sweetly as she watched them with a fond gaze, “Special guests have arrived for nap-time entertainment. Repeat, special guests in the theater.”

Min-seung sat up from his mat, clutching his stuffed rabbit. “Is it Santa Claus?!”

“No, sweetie,” she chuckled, smoothing her cardigan. A round of ‘boos’ erupted from the kids, making her chuckle even more. She shook her head, sighing contentedly. The Storybook Theater wasn’t more than a corner she had transformed for the kids, it had small stage curtained in felt suns and moons. She watched them settling onto their mats with their pillows and blankets, the lights dimmed to a soft indigo blue.

The door opened, eight figures appeared making the kids gasp and ooh. Eight adorable mascots. Not just any mascots— the SKZOO mascots, life-sized. Plush and absurdly vibrant, wearing the ‘Stay In Our Little House’ fanmeet shirt.

A wolf, who the kids immediately recognize from his last visit, walked in first like he owned the room. Wolfchan was flanked by a white bunny who—As one of the kids pointed out, “looked evil.” Which of course had Leebit look at the kid with a quick head turn. Making said kid squeal and hide under their blanket.

Beside Leebit was a pink little bunny-pig who instantly grabbed the kids attention. Part in awe, part in curiosity, and part in slight fear. Though the sweet Dwaekki greeted the students with both hands. Jiniret was next in line, standing next to the pink little creature, he gasped seeing one student with his teddy bear version.

Flanking Chan’s opposite side was Han Quokka—Who almost tripped over a chair. Helping him steady himself was a yellow chick with freckle, “BbokAri!!” A couple of little girls squealed in excitement as they clenched their own BbokAri plushie. Felix awed, waving to them and bumping into Jisung in the process.

The last two to walk in were the class favorites—Meaning they were Y/n’s favorite. She had PuppyM and FoxI.Ny over her desk—(Now with Wolfchan in the mix since they were dating.) The students cheered seeing them, waving their hands and plushies in the air. Seungmin stared, for a moment before he waved. Jeongin twirled then bowed making the children erupt in laughter Sung-ji screamed delightedly into his blanket. Min-seung fell sideways hiding into his bunny who the others said looked like a nicer version of Leebit.

Wolfchan—Chan who had his shoulders squared but hands trembling slightly—stepped forward. He waved using both hands, “Annyeong~ Are you ready for today’s song!” He asked putting the gray mittens of the costume on his hips. His voice was muffled but still clear enough for Y/n and the kids to hear him.

“Annyeong!!” “Sing!!” “Please Wolfchan-ssi!!”

The seven others turned slightly as if to hide their already hidden faces.

Chan waddled over to Y/n, she tilted her head to where he could see out of the mesh covered eyehole of the headpiece. She could hear the soft giggles coming from Chan—Likely cuteness aggression already. She placed a soft kiss on to Wolfchan’s nose, “I’ll play the song from your phone, yeah?” She said holding her hand out for him.

“Wahh~ Thank you baby,” he whispered to her as he placed his phone in her hand. He waddled back to his position, she connected his phone to the mini Wolfchan speaker she had on her desk. She didn’t know which song he decided to sing for her class, she assumed maybe it was ‘Youitful’ or maybe ‘Stay.’

It had been seven weeks since Chan had composed the little lullaby in the hotel room. Though in the others’ opinions the ‘little lullaby’ might as well been a full single. He made it in the quiet hours of 3 AM, thinking to himself that he was writing a manual for their kid. Like he confessed to Jeongin after drinking one to many espresso martinis—

“It’s so they know how much they’re love before they even get here.”

When the intro began, soft violins with the gentle chords of the piano just behind it, “Ohhhh.” The eight voices harmonized, soft and sweet despite the muffled vocals. Wolfchan stepped forward, arms opening wide, “A is for the arms that hold you through the night.” He closed his arms, giving the class a big hug. In response, they mimicked the gesture.

He continued, “B is for the blue moon that shines so soft and bright,” he sang doing—well attempted to do, a big circle over his head with his arms. Again, the students mocked the gesture with giggles. The next gesture was a ‘C’, “C is for the chorus, I’m singing when—”

“The night is so calm,” FoxIn.Y—Jeongin, harmonized with him easily as he sang the pre-chorus. “The stars are so bright. The world is tucked away.” Chan joined in again, "When every letter, every rhyme, wraps you up at bedtime.” They all randomly hugged each other—Bumping headpieces, Hyunjin almost lost the Jiniret head, making the kids giggle even more.

Though PuppyM ignored the chaos of the SKZOO mascot and sang the chorus. “A-B-C, can you see? Love is all around, in the whisper of the trees, in every little sound.” The children were silenced, eyes wide, lulled by the melody. He swayed liked a metronome set to a heartbeat tempo, “A-B-C, close your eyes, sail the silver sea. The alphabet of love tonight will sing to you so calmly.”

“Ohh~ Little heart of mine.” Leebit joined in to sing the last part with him, their voices harmonized together. The kids hand now snuggled under their blankets, holding their plushies or pillows tightly. Y/n was mesmerized by the lyrics already, she was sitting in her chair holding a Wolfchan teddy bear.

The music shifted to a minor key, delicate piano notes dropping like shooting stars. For the first verse, Jiniret’s smoothing voice sang with Han Quokka and BbokAri vocals behind his: “Drifting dreams of dancing through starlight, star bright, the star that shines tonight. Every sweet whisper the night winds impart, fills little corners and hallways of your heart.”

They had moved around, sitting next to the kids or in spaces near them. Some students snuggled up with them, sharing their blankets or resting their heads on their legs. BbokAri’s raspy but comforting voice sang next with Hyunjin and Jisung's vocal behind his, “Golden are moments when time settles slow, holding you close wherever you go. Inside the heavens the stars seem to play, joyfully twinkling till night fades away. Kind are the wishes the moon sends above the oceans—”

The children’s eyes drooped, Chan sang the chorus this time. Moving to where he could sit close to Y/n, he rested the headpiece against her. He sang to the class, though they both knew who he was really singing too, “A-B-C, can you see? Love is all around, in the whisper of the trees, in every little sound. A-B-C, close your eyes, sail the silver sea. The alphabet of love tonight will sing to you so calmly.”

Seungmin added his voice quietly, him and Chan sang together, "Oh~ Little heart of mine."

Y/n felt tears pricking. Chan—Wolfchan—was looking up at her, or trying to. Even through the mesh eyes, she could see the shape of his smile. the tension in his shoulders as he poured every ounce of compositional love into this moment.

The tempo picked steady, gentle but still soft. Chan sang with quiet giggles, “Elemenopee you’re my favorite little melody, my love for you is big as a manatee.” His voice went up and down for the second verse, soft sleepy giggle slipped from the children before Dwaekki join in.

His voice was sweet, sound small but full of love as he sang to a group of kids who decided that he made a better sleeping mat. “You mean the whole wide world to me. Little one, drift off to sea. Close your eyes and count to three. Sleep, my love, so peacefully.”

Minho who walked among the kids, gently patting heads, guiding them to lie back on their pillows. Sang the chorus again, the song breathed here, slowing down. “A-B-C, can you see? Love is all around, in the whisper of the trees, in every little sound. A-B-C, close your eyes, sail the silver sea, the alphabet of love tonight will sing to you so calmly.”

Chan sang with him, "Oh~ Little heart of mine."

Night sounds began to play through the speakers—crickets, gentle wind. The lighting shifted to deep blue-purple. The mascots moved slower, heavier, as if sinking into sleep themselves. FoxI.Ny who was swaying by himself sang quietly, “Quiet is the moonlight resting on the sea. Rising with the rhythm of your gentle dreams to be. Softly sings the starlight through the willow tree.”

Han Quokka who leaned on BbokAri sang while the two swayed in unison,“Tender are the wishes drifting so sweetly. Underneath the heavens, you're safe and warm with me. Velvet skies surround you in their sweet tranquility.”

BbokAri: “Winds of wonder carry sleepy thoughts afar. Xanadu is waiting just beyond the brightest star. You are my forever joy, my sweetest melody. Zzz's now fill the nighttime, sleep so dearly."As he sang the final letter, the other seven mascots had now all been sitting down.

The children, mirroring them, had succumbed to the lullaby—fourteen small bodies breathing deep, clutching their paper moons and stuffed stars. Jiniret, Dwaekki and PuppyM had sang the final chorus, their voice dropped to a whisper. “A-B-C, can you see? Love is all around, in the whisper of the trees, in every little sound. A-B-C, close your eyes, sail the silver sea. The alphabet of love tonight will sing to you so calmly. Oh~ Little heart of mine.”

The piano played now in a lullaby of its own, Wolfchan didn’t move for a long moment. Then, slowly, he reached up and removed his mascot head. Chan’s hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, his eyes red-rimmed and shining. He looked at her—really looked at her—and then down at her stomach, where his hand rested.

The rest followed, taking their headpieces off, now they were just singing to her. As the others harmonized with the piano, Seungmin sang: “Now the alphabet can rest, the stars will keep their glow.And dreams of love from A to Z, will follow where you go.”

Chan placed his forehead on her stomach, “Sleep, my dear, and dream so sweet. Till morning comes anew, the ABCs of love will shine forever over you.” The piano played quietly until it faded out and all they could hear was the soft breathing of the sleeping children.

“Hi,” he breathed, voice cracking slightly. “How do you like their song?”

Behind him, Minho’s hair was static-charged from the bunny interior. Changbin was grinning, wiping his eyes. Hyunjin was already posing for a selfie with a sleeping child. Felix was wiping tears away—hiding from Seungmin who was trying to take a picture of him. Jisung was trying to not accidentally wake a kid while he moved to get closer to Hyunjin for the selfie. And Jeongin—Jeongin smiled, mouthing, “Love you noona.”

Y/n laughed, the sound wet and overwhelmed, “The whole alphabet?” she whispered.

“Every letter,” Chan promised, standing up to kiss her temple, then bending to press a kiss to the top of her belly, “From A to Z. And back again. Forever.”

━━━━━━━━

ᴇᴘɪʟᴏɢᴜᴇ | sᴋᴢᴛᴇxᴛ: ABCs of Love: R is for Rabbits

[staydiaries]

Not So Quiet Reflection

ꨄ 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝒀𝒔’ 𝑫𝒊𝒂𝒓𝒚 ꨄ

Entry Name: Bang Chan

pairing: Idol Bang Chan ✕ Female Kindergarden Teacher

genre: romcom · light angst · neighbor AU · slow burn · implied smut · comfort

note: all for kicks and giggles. apologies if i misrepresented chris and the members. for context read ABCs Of Love; a Idol Bang Chan x Kindergarten Teacher SMAU. this is clearly isn't meant to be taken seriously.

📲 Previous Message: Quietish Reflection 📲 Next Message: R is For Rabbits

warning(s): dramatic and sassy kids// profanity// stray kids? no, nosy kids!!// petnames// implied possessiveness// implied jealousy// implied smut towards the end// implied voyeurism// SUGGESTIVE COMMENTARY// MINORS TREAD LIGHTLY// ALL Fictional

setting: Your apartment, with dramatic Chan putting on a show for his members and you trying not to lose your mind. While the next door apartment is suspiciously quiet (because they are definitely eavesdropping after Jeongin snitched on Chan for yelling at you).

word count: 2.215

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

The knocks came softly at 10:11 PM. Y/n cracked the door open, peaking her head out, her eyes landed on Chan who was already pouting. He leaned in, “I’m about to do something very dumb, but I promise you… I will make it up to you later.”

Y/n raised her eyebrow in confusion, “Chris why are you whispering? What are you talking about?”

Chan whined quietly, his shoulders slumped, “Just please… Please baby, just go along with it.”

She sighed, shaking her head softly with a barely noticeable smile formed on her lips. She nodded, opening her door more for him to walk in. He didn’t even get the chance to fully explain when he heard the faint thud coming from next door. She pressed her lips together to hide the laugh.

Chan sighed like an exhausted father, which was partly true. He dragged his hands through his hair, “YAH!” He let the single explode from his diaphragm, in return they heard a startled scream from Jeongin. 

“Iyenah! Get out of my room and go to sleep!” He scolded watching Y/n covered her mouth. Chan rolled his eyes playfully as he closed the door behind him. He watched her sit on her couch, her arms crossed–waiting for him to explain. 

“Yah!! Don’t walk away from me when I’m talking to you!!” His voice ricocheted off the walls. Which was impressive for someone who usually spoke to her in the vocal equivalent of a hesitant whisper. He pointed a finger at her—shaking, dramatic, and stomped forward.

Y/n blinked. Staring at him like he just told her chicken had meat in it. 

He fell to his knees immediately, bowing with his forehead slammed on the hardwood floor. Chan sat up, kneeling in front of her, turning a bit to gesture towards the wall. He held up seven fingers and then made a not so subtle, frantic gesture toward his ear. 

Listening. They’re listening.

She looked at the wall. She looked back at him, watching him stand up. The way his “angry” stance had him perched on the balls of his feet like a nervous meerkat. He mouthed, slower, exaggerating the shapes.

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Play along.

Y/n pressed her lips together. Her shoulders began to shake, hearing footsteps, hushed bumps and faint arguing.

“Christoper, do NOT raise your voice at me! Are you crazy!?!” She responded, jumping to her feet–her hands flying to her cover mouth, stopping the laugh threatening to slip out.  

Chan broke out into a wide grin, his dimples framed his smile seeing her playing along with him. He took a step closer, his voice cracking slightly on the high note, “Are you!?! Letting another man touch you, in front of my kids! In front of–of–CHILDREN!?!”

“Chris—” she started, her voice trembling, stifling her laughter through her hands.

“DON’T YOU DARE INTERRUPT ME!” Chan shouted, his hands shot out to grab her waist, yanking her close to his chest. Her arms wrapped around him, hiding her face on his chest to muffle her laugh. Chan lifted her chin up, his grin turned wolfish as he leaned in close. His nose nearly touched hers, and dropped his voice to a furious whisper that was somehow still loud enough to carry. 

“You… you allowed that… that handsome… tall… dermatologically gifted man to place his… his filthy hands upon your—”

His hand rubbed soft circles on her lower back, “—your person!” he finished.

She bit her lip, hard to suppress the overwhelming urge to giggle. Because Chan—her Chan, who had once fainted because she’d texted him a picture of himself half shirtless. Who stared down waiters and then pout afterwards. Who had to take specifically 8 minutes to reboot after kissing—was currently attempting to be dominant. 

He was trying to yell at her. 

He was trying to be the alpha male.

And he was failing spectacularly.

“YOU are being so damn dramatic–” she started, her voice cracking with suppressed laughter.

He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear, a breathy and desperate whisper, “Babygirl stop laughing.”

That did it. Y/n buried her face in his chest again, her body shaking silently with convulsive laughter. Her shoulders heaved, she made a noise that sounded vaguely like a sob.

From the other side of the shared wall, they heard faint shouts: 

“Did that old ass man make her cry?!?” “Should we go over?” “I think we might need to drag his ass out of Tearchr-nim’s–?” “GUYS! This could possible lead to the best make up sex–” “His virgin ass would faint.” “Yah! Shut up you dumbasses! I can't hear!!” “Do you think they could hear us?”

Chan sighed, mumbling against her hair, “I can not stand them..” He stood with his arms tightening around her waist, inhaling the scent of her shampoo. He pressed his lips on her crown, “you smell really good, princess.”

Her arms slipped around his neck in a gesture to bury her face in his shoulder and muffle her giggles. She pitched her voice high, theatrical, absolutely dreadful acting. “Stop overreacting, drama queen!”

He “angrily” nuzzled his face into her hair to hide his own grin. “I am NOT, you are UNDER reacting. Do you like his poreless skin! And his… his biceps! Which are… are adequate! But not… not superior to mine!”

Y/n sob-laughed into his collarbone. “Yours are… are superior!”

Chan whispered into her hair “Can we move to your bedroom? I think I might pass out if I don’t lay in your arms soon…”

Y/n lifted her head up to look at him, “Take me to the bedroom. So we can… can argue more privately,” she demanded in a teasing tone.

Chan straightened, his face set in grim, dramatic determination. “WE WILL CONTINUE THIS… THIS DISCIPLINE… IN YOUR CHAMBER!”

“Why word it like that–” She laughed into his collarbone.

Without warning, he bent and scooped her up—bridal style, one arm under her knees, one around her back, “I’m committed to my roll.”

“Chan—!” she squeaked, genuinely surprised.

“SILENCE, WOMAN!” he commanded, his voice cracking again. He marched toward her bedroom, “YOU HAVE BEEN… NAUGHTY! AND I MUST… PUNISH YOU! WITH… WITH WORDS! AND… AND LOUD NOISES!”

He kicked her bedroom door open, carried her inside, and set her down with surprising gentleness. Then, with the flair of a stage magician, he slammed the bedroom door shut—click—and turned the lock. The apartment fell silent, Chan pressed his ear against the wood, listening. From the other side of the shared wall, they could hear a faint, muffled thump—Hyunjin falling off Chan’s bed in his haste to press closer to the wall.

Chan held up a finger. Wait. He counted to ten on his fingers, then twenty. 

“I told you!” “You read too much fanfics.”

Then a collective, “Shh!!”

Chan slammed his hand on the wall, earning various startled shrieks from the other side of the wall. The “furious” mask melted off his face like wax, sliding away to reveal the reality beneath. He walked over to her, red-rimmed eyes, trembling lower lip, and the desperate, exhausted vulnerability.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered—really whispered, barely audible. “I’m so sorry, Y/n…” He trailed off, his shoulders slumping. He looked small, suddenly, despite the broadness of his chest. He looked like a boy who’d been caught pretending to be brave.

“You’re an idiot,” Y/n said softly. She stood up slowly, cupping his face in her hands. His skin was warm from the exertion of his theatrical rage. His eyes fluttered shut at her touch, his breath hitching.

“I know,” he breathed.

“You grabbed me at the play, you growled at Mr. Choi, and then you didn’t even give me a proper kiss goodbye earlier. I thought you were angry at me.”

“I was angry at myself,” Chan said, his voice breaking. He leaned his forehead against hers, his hands coming up to grip her wrists, holding her palms against his cheeks. “I… I saw him touch you, and I saw you smile at him—just a friendly smile, I know, I know it was friendly—but he was so… he was tall, Y/n. And he looked like he sleeps a complete eight hours a night, drinks plenty of water, and has never once had an existential crisis in a studio at 3 AM.” 

Chan paused, pulling away a bit to really look at her, “And I just… I acted like a caveman. And I was so ashamed. I thought… I thought you’d realize he was better. That you’d want a teacher instead of an idol who has anxiety attacks every eight minutes.”

Y/n pulled back just enough to look at him—really look at him. By the way his hands were shaking again, just like that first night in his room, “Christopher,” she said, using his full name like a charm. “I don’t want a man who sleeps eight hours and has good skin. I want you who faints when I send him pictures of himself. I want you who keeps dinosaur stickers in his wallet. I want you who loves getting gold stars to ease his anxieties on dates. I want you who performs ridiculous fake arguments."

Chan’s breath shuddered out of him, “But he was touching you,” Chan whispered. “His hand was on your back. And I wanted to let Minho and Seungmin bite his fingers. I wanted to… to bite you, mark you. Right there. In front of them. In front of everyone. I wanted to be so… undeniably yours.”

“So bite me,” she whispered back.

The air shifted, Chan’s eyes darkened, the amber flecks in his irises catching the dim light of her bedroom. His grip on her wrists tightened—not painful, but grounding. Chan moved—not with the jerky, panicked energy of their first time, but with a deliberate intent. He backed her up against her bedroom wall—thud—but this time it wasn’t for the eavesdroppers. This time his hips pinned hers, his hands sliding down to grip her thighs and hitch her up, wrapping her legs around his waist.

“Say you’re mine,” he pleaded. His voice was soft, contradicting the hold he had on her.

“Yours,” she agreed, arching into him.

He kissed her then, and it was nothing like the tentative, trembling kisses of their first night. Of every night since then, with eight minute breaks to calm his libido. His tongue swept into her mouth, claiming, tasting, his teeth nipping at her lower lip with just enough pressure to make her gasp. His hands splayed across her back, pressing her into him, erasing any space where another man’s touch might have lingered.

“Say it again, please baby,” he demanded, pulling back just enough to breathe.

“I’m yours,” her fingers tangled in his hair. Pulling hard enough to make him groan, “I’m only yours, you brat.”

“Hey…” He made a sound like a wounded animal—relief and desire braided together. Then he was moving, carrying her away from the wall and toward her bed. He laid her down with a gentleness as she lay back against the pillows, “I thought about this,” he confessed. His voice muffled against her skin as he kissed her, “You’re so beautiful.” he said.

From the other apartment, where the seven other men were listening in. Each in ridiculous positions as they tried to listen to the conversation. Minho was starfished against the wall with his ear pressed against it. Changbin sat on the edge of the bed, “It sounds like the issue has been resolved, maybe we should leave.” 

“SHHH!!” Hyunjin and Felix shushed in unison, both with cups pressed against the wall and their ears.

Jeongin and Seungmin stood on Chan’s desk–after clearing it off, they leaned on the wall. Reaching up to be closer to the vent, “The bed is squeaking, I think we should stop listening now,” Seungmin said.

“No wait, what to hear if he panics!” Jeongin argued. 

“Do you think we could sample the bed squeaking?” Jisung asked, walking in from raiding the kitchen.

“Y/n,” Chan choked out, “You feel… you’re so… warm… I can’t… I’m n-not gonna last, I’m sorry—”

The seven of them went pale–then red, not from embarrassment of listening in. No, they went red from holding back their laughter. They heard it all, the bed squeaking—loudly. Chan’s groans were loud, carrying through the wall. The rhythmic thumping of the headboard that had Jisung pulling his phone out to record, capturing the exact moment he came with a strangled cry. 

Back in her room, on the other side where the two laid on her bed panting. They heard it very faintly, they heard a thump—then the distinct sound of bodies dropping, followed by distant, muffled cries of laughter.

Chan lifted his head, his eyes still dazed, his hair sticking up in every direction. “I’m going to kill them…” he started, his voice raspy.

“I’ll help you hide their bodies,” Y/n added smiling lazily.

Chan groaned, hiding his face in her pillow. “They’re never going to let me live this down.” He pulled her closer, tucking her against his chest. 

“YAH!! YOU BETTER HAVE USED PROTECTION!!’ “Oh, yeah… I think they made up.” “Yeah, no shit, Bin.” “HYUNG YOU BETTER HAVE PULLED OUT!! I WANT TO BE THE BABY!!” “MY INNOCENT EARS!!” “I KNEW FANFICS WERE REAL!!” “YOU NEED TO TOUCH GRASS!!”

━━━━━━━━

ᴇᴘɪʟᴏɢᴜᴇ | sᴋᴢᴛᴇxᴛ: ABCs of Love: R is for Rabbits

[staydiaries]

C is for Comforting Chan 

ꨄ 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝒀𝒔’ 𝑫𝒊𝒂𝒓𝒚 ꨄ

Entry Name: Bang Chan

pairing: Idol Bang Chan ✕ Female Kindergarden Teacher

genre: romcom · fluff · neighbor AU · slow burn 

note: insomnia and boredom makes me creative. all for kicks and giggles. apologies if i misrepresented chris and the members. for context read ABCs Of Love; a Idol Bang Chan x Kindergarten Teacher SMAU. this is clearly isn't meant to be taken seriously. it is currently 5 am, i read over this three times half asleep so sorry if i made mistakes or have typos.

📲 Previous Message: Breakfast, Pics, & Panics 📲 Next Message: Gold Star Type Of Date

warning(s): dramatic and sassy kids—via text// profanity// awkward flustered chan// shy chan// noisy jeongin// jeongin eavesdropping// jeongin misinterpreting and misinforming the chat// SUGGESTIVE COMMENTARY// chan hitting first and second base then panicking// reader comforting chan// overlooked confession// ALL Fictional

setting: Midnight in Seoul, inside the Dimple Dorm aka the JeongChan apartment —— specifically his bedroom with the door closed and locked. The rest of the apartment suspiciously quiet (because Jeongin is definitely eavesdropping while live texting the group—after kicking Chan out of the chat and adding 2Miin back in).

word count: 3.252

❝  𝙷𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚞𝚖𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚊𝚗𝚜—𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚛𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝-𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐. ❞

A. JEONGIN: He tripped again Attachment: 1 video Attachment: 20 images

A. CHANGBIN: Was that documentary necessary?

A. HYUNJIN: A SHOT BY SHOT OF CHAN BRINGING TEACHER NIM INTO HOS ROOM !???

A. HAN: I WANT A NIECE

A. FELIX: ME TOO HOP TOO IT NOW

A. MINHO and A. SEUNGMIN has left the conversation.

The lock on Chan’s bedroom door clicked shut with a finality that echoed through the silence of the shared apartment. Sealing them inside a cocoon of warm amber lamplight and the faint, lingering scent of his cologne and body wash. The sound was a silent exclamation mark on a sentence Chan had never intended to write. He stood with his back pressed against the wood, palms flat against the surface as if he could physically hold back the mortification that was currently liquefying his spine.

Why?

Y/n—the woman who had just inadvertently caused him to fall out of bed, moments before her arrival—stood three feet away. She was clutching her phone and looking at him with those wide, caring eyes that he both worshipped and feared.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asked, stepping closer. Her voice had that particular cadence it got when she was slipping into teacher mode—soft, reassuring, the vocal equivalent of a Band-Aid and a juice box. And like the soft melody of ‘Cover Me’, to Chan’s ears.

“That was a really loud thud, Chris. Like, unsettlingly loud.”

Hearing his name slapped him across the face with the force of a wet fish—as it did each and every time. He felt his knees buckle, the memory of his recent unconsciousness flickering behind his eyes in high definition.

He’d fainted.

Like a Victorian maiden.

Because she’d texted him a picture of his own abdominal muscles—a picture she’d deliberately saved from the fan page from the fanmeet. His brain had simply blue-screened. One minute he’d been standing to leave his room to grab water, then the darkness. Now she was here. In his room.

“I’m fine,” Chan wheezed, sliding down the door until he was sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, face buried in his hands. “Perfectly fine. Just… had a momentary… gravitational disagreement. With my center of mass.”

From somewhere beyond the room—specifically in Jeongin’s room. The maknae pressed his ear to the wall, his eyebrows pushed together in a judgmental upturn. His thumbs typing a mile a minute:

A. JEONGIN has removed BANG CHAN from the conversation. A. JEONGIN added A. MINHO and A. SEUNGMIN in the conversation.

A. JEONGIN: OKAY HYUNGS TEACHER-NIM IS IN THE ROOM AND I THINK CHAN SOMETHING ABOUT HIS ASS?????

A. CHANGBIN: WHAT?!?!?

A. HYUNJIN: AS HE SHOULD ⁉️⁉️ HAVE YOU SEEN IT ⁉️⁉️

The two locked in the room were blissfully unaware that their every word was being wrongly transcribed into a group chat. She crouched down in front of Chan. Her hands accidentally brushed against his shins. She smelled like lavender hand sanitizer and a specific scent that he couldn’t place. But the scent compromised Chan’s blood pressure.

“Let me see your head,” she commanded gently, reaching out.

Chan’s survival instincts screamed at him to retreat, but his motor functions had apparently decided to unionize against him. He let her tilt his chin up with cool fingers, her thumb brushing along his hairline where a tender, egg-shaped bump was already forming.

From the neighboring room, Jeongin went slack-jawed:

A. JEONGIN: SHE JUST SAID “LET ME GIVE YOU HEAD” ⁉️⁉️⁉️

A. FELIX: WHAT⁉️⁉️

A. HAN: SHES SLUTTING HIM OUT⁉️

In the room, Y/n’s touch was clinical, kindergarten-teacher-checking-for-injuries clinical. Chan’s hindbrain was screaming that a beautiful woman was touching his face… In his bedroom… At midnight while he was vulnerable.

“You’ve got a bump,” she murmured, leaning in. Her breath ghosted over his cheek. “You really took a dive, huh? All because of… this?” She held up her phone. The screen illuminated her face in soft blue light, and there, in high-definition, soul-scarring clarity, was Chan.

Chan made a noise that was not human. It was the sound a teakettle made when it was being strangled. Like one of the adlibs 3RAHCA would add onto a track.

“I didn’t—You—I told you, that Chris is an imposter!” he stammered, trying to look anywhere but the phone. “STAYs posted plenty of photos—you’re not supposed to look at the ones like that! I mean, you can! You’re allowed! But I’m not prepared! I need notice! Like, a two-week notice! For my emotions!”

Y/n laughed. It wasn’t a cruel laugh; it was the laugh she used when one of her five-year-olds tried to explain an argument in elaborate detail, complete with hand gestures. She tucked the phone away and shifted closer, her knees knocking against his. “You’re ridiculous,” she said softly. “You perform in front of thousands of people wearing less than that. I’ve seen your fancams, Chris. I’ve seen the ‘Railway’ performance—I’ve seen you half naked coming from the gym.”

“That’s different!” Chan protested, his voice cracking in a way that would have gotten him bullied by his own members for the next decade. “That’s…This is—It’s different! And you’re…”

A. JEONGIN: OKAYYY idk if he’s getting head but he’s yelling “THAT’S DIFFERENT” And I think he whimpered— 👀🤷.

A. SEUNGMIN: Is Topher a virgin?

A. MINHO: That makes so much sense.

Chan sighed, he’s head falling back against the door, you’re here, he didn’t say aloud. You’re real. You’re touching me. You’re looking at me like I’m something precious instead of something staged, and I can’t handle it because I’ve wanted you to look at me like that for almost two years and now that you are I’m going to die.

He gestured helplessly at her instead, his hand flopping in the space between them like a dying fish. Y/n caught his hand. She did it so naturally, so like she was stopping student from grabbing a crayon to eat it. Chan’s brain short-circuited for the second time that night. Her fingers interlaced with his, inspecting his knuckles for injury—

Chan felt his soul attempt to astral project through the ceiling.

“Come on,” she said, tugging. “Up. You need to lay down. You might have a mild concussion. I’m putting you to bed, mister.”

'I’m putting you to bed.'

Those five words, delivered in her sweet, slightly bossy teacher voice, detonated in Chan’s spinal column. He let her pull him up—he was a literal bag of flour with anxiety—but allowed himself to be guided toward his bed. Chan realized with sudden, stomach-dropping clarity that he was about to be horizontal.

In his bedroom.

With her.

While Jeongin was definitely listening through the wall with a glass pressed against the drywall.

A. JEONGIN: SHE SAID SHES GOING TO BED WITH HIM OMG IM SUCH A MIRACLE WORKING THE BEST WINGMAN EVER

“I can’t,” he whispered, panic mounting. “Y/n, I can’t lay down with you here, I can’t—”

“Why not?” She turned, hands on her hips, and in the lamplight she looked like an avenging angel of domestic care. “Are you afraid I’ll take advantage of you? After you fainted like a damsel in a romance novel?”

“I’m not a damsel!” Chan yelped, then ruined it by swaying on his feet, the blood rush from his earlier faint making the room spin. “I’m just… I’m… you’re…”

You’re everything, he thought desperately. And I’m going to ruin this by vomiting affection all over you or by actually vomiting because I’m so nervous… Again—

She took mercy on him, or perhaps she was just tired of watching him vibrate with anxiety. She placed both hands on his shoulders and pushed. Chan collapsed backward onto the mattress with an oof, bouncing once on the springs, and before he could scramble away in shame,—Y/n was kneeling on the bed beside him, leaning over him with that infernal, patient, loving expression.

“Stay,” she ordered, pressing a hand to his chest to keep him down. Her palm settled right over his heart, which was currently attempting to break the land speed record. “Breathe. In, two, three. Out, two, three. Good boy.”

Good boy.

Chan’s vision tunneled. He was simultaneously dying and having the best moment of his life, which felt like a very on-brand way for this night to go.

A. JEONGIN: SHE CALLED HIM A GOOD BOY AND THE BED SQUEAKED

A. HYUNJIN: OH HOW I YEARN TO BE HIM

A. CHANGBIN: He’s going to vomit on her, I feel it in my biceps

A. HAN: SHES TOPPING HIM

A. FELIX: Mate abot to get pegged and start cooking her dinner

A. MINHO: He already cooks her breakfast

A. SEUNGMIN: Hyung acts like an alpha but is an omega

He stared up at her, at the way her hair fell in a curtain around her face, at the way her pupils dilated, in a way that overtook the color of her irises. She was so close. So close. He could count her eyelashes. He could—

He reached up without thinking. His hand cupped her cheek, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth, and they both froze. The air in the room shifted. The lamp seemed too dim. Outside, a car rattled past, but inside, there was only the sound of their breathing and the distant, faint bump against the wall. (Jeongin trying to get closer to the wall—as if that was possible.)

“Chan,” Y/n whispered. Her lips moved against his thumb. “Your hand is shaking.”

“I know,” he breathed. “I can’t stop. You’re… you’re here. And I’m… I really like you. I’ve liked you since you gave me that sticker when I helped you carry your groceries. The dinosaur one. I kept it. It’s in my wallet. I’m pathetic. I’m so pathetic. I-I’m—”

She kissed him.

It wasn’t a dramatic kiss, it wasn’t a K-Drama kiss with swelling orchestral music and took three seasons. It was soft, and tentative, and tasted like the peppermint tea she’d been drinking earlier when she’d been looking over art projects on her couch. It was gentle, reassuring, but with a current of something deeper running underneath.

Chan’s brain emptied out like someone had pulled the plug on a bathtub. His hand slid from her cheek to the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair, and he made a noise against her mouth that was half-sob, half-prayer. First base. They were at first base. In his bedroom. At midnight. And he was definitely going to slip into a coma…—

What a way to go.

A. JEONGIN: OMG ITS TOO QUIET HE EITHER PASSED OUT OR—

A. MINHO: Damn we’re literal stray kids now…

Y/n pulled back just enough to speak, her forehead resting against his. “You kept the sticker?” she asked, breathless.

“The T-Rex,” Chan confirmed, delirious. “It’s in my wallet. Right now. I can show you. It’s... It’s my most prized possession. I’m not weird. I’m normal. I’m so normal.”

“You’re… So normal,” she said playfully. Kissing the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then the bruise on his forehead. “You’re my favorite neighbor. My favorite idol. My favorite…”

She trailed off, but Chan didn’t notice the hesitation, the almost-confession that hovered in the air like dust motes. He was too busy panicking, because her hands had migrated from his shoulders to his waist. Slipping under his hoodie to rest against the bare skin of his sides—the same abs that had caused this entire catastrophe.

Second base had arrived like a freight train with no brakes.

“Wait,” Chan gasped, his back arching off the bed as her thumbs traced the lines of his hip bones. “Wait, Y/n, I can’t—I’m going to—this is too fast—I’m not prepared—I need a permission slip—I need—”

“You’re panicking,” she observed, not stopping. Her hands were warm, possessive in a way that made Chan want to crawl out of his skin and also never leave this bed. “You’re panicking, Channie. Breathe. Remember? In, two, three…”

“Out, two, three,” Chan chanted automatically, gripping her wrists but not pulling her away.

“Oh god. Oh my god. Your hands. Your hands are on my—why are they on my—I didn’t agree to this—I mean I did! I do! But I’m going to embarrass myself! I’m going to do something stupid! I’m going to tell you that I think about you when I write lyrics and that last week I wrote a song about your hairclips and it’s probably terrible because I can’t stop thinking about how you smell like—like—”

“Like what?” she suggested, leaning down to press her nose into his neck. Her hands slid up his torso, mapping the muscle there with devastating curiosity.

“I don’t know,” Chan whined, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m 60% panic right now. And 30% arousal. And 10% genuine fear that Jeongin is live-texting this.”

From the other side of the wall, as if on cue, something thumped—likely Jeongin dropping his phone in shock at whatever he was hearing.

A. JEONGIN: HE JUST SAID “THIS IS TOO FAST” BREATHING EXERCISES AND HIM BEGGING???? THERE WAS ABOUT FIVE “OH MY GOD’S”

A. SEUNGMIN: I NEED MORE CONTEXT

A. FELIX: SHE PEGGING HIM I KNEW IT

Back in the room, Chan was currently in a freefall. His hands had flown to Y/n’s waist, gripping her in a desperate manner. He was making a sound that was genuinely pitiful—half-moan, half-wail—as she tried to calm him down. It wasn’t that he didn’t want her hands on him; it was that he wanted it so much that his body didn’t know how to process the information.

Resulting in a full-system shutdown that manifested as trembling and verbal diarrhea.

“I’m sorry,” he wheezed, face buried in her shoulder, his hoodie rucked up to his ribs where her hands had wandered before he’d seized up. “I’m so sorry. I’m broken. I’m malfunctioning. You’re too pretty and your hands are too soft and I’ve never done this with someone I actually—actually—”

“Actually what?” Y/n asked, stroking his hair. She’d shifted to sit properly on the bed, pulling him into her lap like he was one of her bigger, more emotionally distressed kindergarteners. Chan’s head rested against her chest, her chin on his hair, and one of her hands rubbed slow circles on his back while the other held his hand—his sweaty, traitorous hand—against her heart. “Actually liked?”

Chan nodded frantically, the movement jostling them both. “Yes. That. Exactly. I’ve only ever done this for work. For… for fan service, I guess. But you matter. You matter so much that I can’t even kiss you without feeling like I’m going to explode. And I really want to kiss you. I really want to do more than kiss you. But I’m going to faint again, or cry, or possibly both, and it’s not very sexy, and I want to be sexy for you, I want to be—”

“Shh,” Y/n interrupted, pressing a kiss to his temple. She could feel his heart hammering against her palm where she held his hand to her chest. She could feel her own heart doing something similar—something tender and terrified and overwhelming. “You don’t have to be sexy, Chris. You just have to be here with me. I’m not going anywhere, you know. I’m right here.”

Chan stilled, the trembling slowed as he lifted his head from the sanctuary of her chest, his eyes red-rimmed and wet and devastatingly earnest. “I know,” he whispered. “I noticed the first day you moved in. You had a box of books and a box of stuffed animals, and you smiled at me and I forgot my own name for twenty minutes. I’ve been noticing every day since. That’s why I can’t… that’s why this is so hard. Because I don’t want to mess it up. I don’t want to be the idiot neighbor who hits on you and gets rejected and then we have to share a hallway for the next three years while I die of shame.”

Y/n’s expression softened into something Chan couldn’t read—something sad and fond and frustrated all at once. She cupped his face in both hands, wiping his tears with her thumbs with a gentleness that made Chan want to crawl into her pocket and live there forever.

“Channie pabo,” she said lovingly. Chan blinked, his brain, sluggish with emotional exhaustion and the lingering adrenaline.

“I have anxiety,” Chan offered weakly.

“I know,” Y/n said. “That’s why I’m comforting you instead of making fun of you. Though Jeongin is probably doing enough of that for both of us.”

As if summoned, the wall rattled with a loud thud following with a ‘ssibal’ from Jeongin (he hit his head on the wall.)

A. JEONGIN: False alarm, she was comforting him because he panicked again. Grab the stones.

A. CHANGBIN: Poor hyung

A. MINHO: Is he really tho?

A. FELIX: YK there’s a book called ABCs of love, I feel like if he read it… It might help—

A. HAN: OR WE WRITE A SONG THAT HELPS HIM A IS FOR ACCEPTING THE ANIXTEY

A. HYUNJIN: B IS FOR BUILDING UP THE SLOW BURN

A. SEUNGMIN: C is for Comforting Chan when the anxiety crashes

“Also,” Y/n added, leaning in until her nose touched his, “I really, really like you. Even when you’re a disaster. Especially when you’re a disaster. It makes me feel less alone in my own disasters. Plus you know… You are only human Chris, don’t be too hard on yourself.”

Chan’s breath hitched. He overlooked confession—the one he’d been too busy panicking to hear properly. The one she’d slipped in like a secret between the lines—sailed right over his head, lost in the static of his relief. He heard her last sentence, ‘you are only human Chris, don’t be too hard on yourself.’

He focused on the immediate, tactile reality: her hands were still on his face. Her body was warm against his. The door was still locked and the panic was subsiding, replaced by a giddy, floating sensation, like he felt when he gave Jeongin a surprise kiss on the cheek on during the Maknae's birthday live.

“Can I try again?” he asked, his voice small but steadier. “The kissing? Without the… the meltdown after?”

Y/n smiled, the one that crinkled her eyes and made his ribs ache. “You can try. But if you faint again, I’m calling an ambulance.”

“I won’t faint,” Chan promised, and leaned in.

This kiss was different, it was still soft, still careful, but there was intent behind it now—the intent of a man who had survived the first wave of battle and was ready for the second. His hands settled on her waist more confidently, thumbs hooking into the belt loops of her jeans. Y/n responded by sliding her fingers into his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. Chan sighed into her mouth, a sound of pure, exhausted relief, and let himself be guided down onto the pillows, Y/n following to lay half-sprawled across his chest.

They stayed like that for a long time, trading kisses that slowly lost their desperation and gained a lazy, exploratory sweetness—learning the shape of each other’s mouths. The way Chan liked to nip at her lower lip when he got overwhelmed, the way Y/n hummed when he kissed her jaw. The panic didn’t return, though Chan’s hands did shake a little when he traced the curve of her spine. He did whimper when she tugged his hoodie up to access bare skin again, but he didn’t freeze. He just held her, and let her hold him, and tried to believe that this was real.

━━━━━━━━

ᴇᴘɪʟᴏɢᴜᴇ | sᴋᴢᴛᴇxᴛ: ABCs of Love, Gold Star Type Of Date.

[staydiaries]

ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀᴋɴᴀᴇ ᴘʜᴇɴᴏᴍ

ꨄ 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝒀𝒔’ 𝑫𝒊𝒂𝒓𝒚 ꨄ

Entry Name: Yang Jeongin

pairing: Boxer Yang J. ✕ PR Manager

genre: sports romance · very light angst (?) · jealousy · hurt/comfort · slow burn · soft power reversal · boxer au

note: insomnia and boredom makes me creative. all for kicks and giggles. apologies if i misrepresented the group and the members. for context read Behind The Headlines, a Boxer AU Yang Jeongin x PR Manager SMAU. this is clearly isn't meant to be taken seriously.

Happy 25th Birthday to the Maknae on Top!! With lots of love obviously, may all his wishes come true to the best fox ever 🧡🦊

📲 Previous Messages: Press + Punches = Timeout

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warning(s): jealousy// profanity// raised voices// attitude// suggestive positioning// slight risk kink// dry humping// teasing// low-key bottom Jeongin// high-stress fight environment// fake boxing match after the locker room scene// ENHYPEN's Lee Heeseung mentioned respectfully// ALL Fictional

setting: Fight night at a packed indoor arena in Busan, South Korea, buzzing with cameras, chants, and birthday banners. Backstage corridors heavy with sweat, tape, and nerves. A fluorescent-lit locker room moments before Jeongin’s birthday bout.

word count: 3.072

❝ 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎. ❞

The air in Busan was thick with salt and anticipation. The arena, a concrete beast by the sea, throbbed with a bassline of ten thousand voices, a chaotic symphony undercut by the sharp, sterile smell of industrial cleaner backstage. It was Jeongin’s birthday. Banners written in Hangul swung from the upper balconies:

WELCOME HOME YANG JEONGIN

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MAKNAE PHENOM

BUSAN BIRTHDAY BOUT

3RACHA HWAITING

3RACHA moved through the back entrance together, pace even and unspoken, like they’d done this a hundred times before. Not rushed, not slow—just steady, purposeful, and familiar. From afar, you watched the team dressed in blue and black athletic gear. You were used to them being loud and unhinged. Seeing them like this—measured, composed—made you blink, recalibrating the image you fought to protect.

Oh—So those jerks can behave.

Jeongin stood in the center between Seungmin and Chan, he looked older but as he felt the familiar, cold focus settling over him, a second skin of pre-fight clarity. Until he saw you—and his nerves wrecked him like an uppercut. He wanted to steer away from the group, greet you first before the fight but there in a junction of corridors buzzing with media passes and camera cables, you stood.

His PR manager. His anchor. His noona.

Or as Seungmin called you—“3RACHA’s PR Demon.”

You stood in a sleek, black skirt and white blouse with a 3RACHA’s sports coat on. His nickname ‘Maknae Phenom’ is printed along the back in black block letters. Seeing that made something primal and possessive tighten in his gut.

You were smiling, talking to a cluster of reporters, your laugh—that light, professional sound—carrying down the hall. He slowed, his steps faltering. The others walked around him, right into the locker room with the gym’s name on it. His nerves kicked into high gear, the same feeling he got just before sending a text or waving to you at the gym when you did visit.

Then the group of reporters dispersed, all but one. A man. Tall, wearing a designer blazer too sharp for this sweat-and-tape environment, leaning into your space with a familiarity that sent a jolt of white-hot ice through Jeongin’s veins. He’d never seen him before. He stepped closer, just a few feet closer to squint at the lanyard he was wearing:

JYP SPORTS PUBLISHING

He watched your head tilt, another smile—softer, more engaged—and your hand came up to briefly touch the man’s forearm. A gesture of politeness, nothing more. But too Jeongin who was hyped on adrenaline…

On energy drinks, he had chugged in secret…(Yes he was still on an energy drink ban.)

On desperate want…(That he didn’t hide all too well.)

And the fact that the other man was the enemy who stayed hidden behind the screen…

His vision tunneled. The chants from the arena became a distant roar. He saw you nod, the man finally walking away with a last, lingering look. You turned, your expression smoothing into professional readiness as you spotted him.

Your eyes found his. And he looked right through you, his jaw set like stone, before pivoting on his heels to walk into the assigned locker room. The room was filled with the usual loud chatter. Jeongin sat on a bench, back to the door, violently taping his own knuckles, while his leg bounced at what felt like 100mph—the others wrote it off as his normal anxiety.

He felt your presence the moment you entered, a shift in the atmosphere, a scent of your soap cutting through the smell of menthol rub and testosterone.

“Yang,” your voice was calm, steady. The PR voice. “We need to go over the post-fight statement points. The charity angle is strong tonight, with it being your birthday.”

He didn’t turn. He finished one hand, started on the other, the tape pulling too tight.

“Yang Jeongin.” A firmer note. You stepped into his line of sight. He kept his eyes on his hands, on the stark white tape over his knuckles. “Excuse me, I’m talking to you.”

He stood up abruptly, the bench scraping against the concrete floor. “Not now.” His voice was rough, gravelly with suppressed emotion. He made to move past you towards the door, a wall of simmering, hurt pride.

That’s when your patience snapped.

Your hand shot out, not to his arm, but to his chest. A flat-palmed shove, direct and surprisingly strong, fueled by a fury he hadn’t anticipated. He stumbled back, off-balance, and landed sitting hard on the bench again. Before he could even process the shock, you turned to the room.

“Out.” The word wasn’t loud, but it was absolute. “Everyone. Now. Give us five minutes.”

A beat of stunned silence.

Hyunjin opened his mouth to make a joke, but Changbin was quicker. His arm hooked him into a headlock, hand covering his mouth, “Not the time nor place, Jinnie.”

Chan caught the look in your eyes—a look that had made seasoned promoters back down—and simply nodded, shepherding the rest of the team out with a jerk of his head.

“Oh, he’s so getting his ass chewed out.” Seungmin’s voice carried just before the door clicked shut, leaving a ringing quiet.

Jeongin surged to his feet again, the ego and pride rising like a shield. “What the hell is your problem? I fight in forty-five minutes, I don’t have time for—”

You didn’t let him finish. You stepped into him, and he instinctively backed up until his calves hit the bench.

You didn’t yell.

You just stared up at him, your gaze holding his, unwavering, a silent challenge that stripped every ounce of his false toughness bare. Then you pushed him again, both hands firm on his shoulders.

He went down.

He fell back, lying lengthwise along the hard bench, looking up at you with wide, bewildered eyes, his breath coming in short gusts. And then you were moving, hiking your skirt up just enough for practicality, and straddling his lap, settling your weight firmly over his hips, pinning him to the vinyl cushion.

All the air left his lungs in a whoosh.

Not from the impact.

From the feel of you.

The heat of you, even through the layers of his sweats and your skirt.

The intimate cage of your thighs.

The dreams he had of you for a month straight—The weirdly accurate fanfiction Hyunjin had read aloud to him, Jisung, and Felix on the ride over.

He was suddenly, acutely aware of every point of contact. His hands flew to your hips—whether to push you away or pull you closer, even he didn’t know. His eyes widened into what you could only describe as boba orbs, his ears turning a deep red as the blush crept up from his neck to his face.

“Talk,” you commanded, your voice low and deadly calm. “Now. What crawled up your ass and died?”

He swallowed, his throat dry. The fight was gone, evaporated under the devastating reality of your position. “I didn’t…Nothing…What are you talking about?”

“Don’t lie to me. You ran away. Then you pulled that little stunt in front of your hyungs. What, did Seungmin-ssi finally rub off on you or something?” You leaned forward, bracing your hands on the bench on either side of his head, caging him further. Your face was inches from his.

“N-No,” Jeongin mumbled, “It doesn’t matter…”

It did.

It mattered so much that it was a physical ache to the maknae.

“Iyenah.”

“You were smiling,” he whispered, the admission torn from him, laced with a vulnerability that confused him. “You touched his arm.”

The anger in your eyes softened, just a fraction, into something more understanding.

And a flicker of something else.

“You jealous pabo,” you murmured, but the tone wasn’t cruel. It was almost… fond.

“You’re getting bent out of shape over a professional courtesy?”

He blinked up at you, his brain short-circuiting. His grip on your hips tightened unconsciously.

You are made to move, to get up. “You’re unbelievable...”

Immediate panic rushed through him.

His hands slid around to the small of your back, holding you in place.

“Wait.”

The word was a plea.

“Noona, wait. I’m… I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I was stupid. I just…” He couldn’t express it. The fear that you saw him like how you saw the others. The bigger fear was that you saw him as nothing at all and the past three weeks were just you playing with him.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊⪩. .⪨₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

He was achingly, unmistakably hard beneath you. The thick fabric of his training sweats did nothing to hide the rigid line of his erection pressing insistently against the junction of your thighs, separated only by the silk of your underwear and your skirt. A hot flush spread from his neck to his hairline——again.

He was mortified. And utterly, completely hypnotized.

You went very still.

A slow, knowing smile touched your lips.

Not the PR smile.

A real one. Dark and playful.

You shifted your weight, a subtle, deliberate roll of your hips that made him suck in a sharp, shaky breath, his eyes squeezing shut.

“Oh, Iyenah,” you purred, your voice dropping to a whisper meant only for him in the sterile, silent room. “Is this how you deal with your nerves? By picking fights and getting yourself worked up?” You did it again, another slow, grinding circle that had his fingers digging into your back.

“You do realize you’re only making things worse for yourself, right? You’re still in time out from the other week, remember?”

You rolled your hips again earning a quiet gasp from him, “You have to walk out there and fight Heeseung. I know he’s your friend and all but he’s not going to care if you’re… distracted.”

A helpless, choked sound escaped him—a whimper. His hips bucked up involuntarily, seeking more friction, more of the delicious, torturous pressure. “Noona,” he gasped, his composure in tatters. “Please. I’ll… I’ll be good. I’ll be so good. I promise.”

“You’d better be,” you whispered, and then you began to move in earnest.

It wasn’t frantic. It was slow, controlled, and devastatingly thorough.

You rode him through the clothes, the layers of fabric creating a maddening, rough friction that was somehow more intense for its denial.

Your skirt rucked up around your thighs. His sweats grew damp.

You set the pace. You controlled the rhythm. You watched him come apart beneath you, this powerful athlete reduced to a trembling, pleading mess by your hands, your weight, your will.

His hands roamed from your back to your ass, clutching you to him, his face buried in the curve of your neck, breathing in your scent, muffling his broken, embarrassingly pathetic moans against your skin.

He was putty in your grasp, and you were molding him back into the weapon he needed to be. He was muttering a stream of apologies, promises, your name, all blending into a single, desperate devotion.

His climax hit him like a body blow, tearing a ragged groan from his chest as he arched under you, his whole body tensing before collapsing back onto the bench, boneless and spent, shuddering through the aftershocks. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of his ragged breathing. Then you gracefully dismounted, smoothing your skirt down. You plucked a few clean towels from a stack and dropped them onto his stomach.

“Clean yourself up,” you said, your voice back to its professional calm, though your cheeks were flushed. “Re-tape your hands. Hydrate. I’ll send only your coaches back in.”

You turned to leave, a queen exiting her domain.

You paused at the door, looking back waiting for his response.

He was sitting up now, wiping his face with a towel, avoiding your eyes, a beautiful, ruined mess. A faint, dazed smile touched his lips. “Yes, ma’am.”

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊⪩. .⪨₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

The walk to the ring was a blur of lights and noise. But Jeongin felt clear. Sharper than a razor. The nervous energy was gone, replaced by a deep, humming certainty.

He barely heard his introduction.

He saw Heeseung across the ring—Lee Heeseung, his close friend outside of the boxing world—but didn’t change the fact that they were opponents tonight.

The bell rang, a sharp, clarion call cutting through the noise of the arena. Jeongin stepped forward, his black gloves raised, his eyes locked on Lee Heeseung across the ring.

Heeseung was a respectful opponent, a technical marvel with a work ethic that commanded respect. His gym—BE:LIFT BOXING trained their boxers like none other. Strict rules, high standards and big achievements to keep up with.

But 3RACHA—as unorthodox as they were, were pushing limits, gaining champions back to back because Chan ran them like a military op. Changbin kept them together like a family. And Jisung brought in the laughter to ease the pressure.

Heeseung moved first, a flurry of precise jabs testing Jeongin's defenses. Jeongin absorbed them, his stance solid, his guard high. He didn't return fire immediately. Instead, he watched, learning, his mind a cool, calculating machine—Just the way Seungmin drilled it into him for the past three long weeks.

Heeseung was fast, his combinations tight, but there was a pattern to his attacks.

A tell in the flicker of his eyes before he committed to a big hit.

Jeongin waited for it.

When it came—a brief, almost imperceptible flash—he was ready.

He slipped the jab, the hook, and countered with a crisp right cross that snapped Heeseung's head back. The crowd roared, a tidal wave of sound crashing against the ring.

“Let’s fucking go!!” Felix’s cheers from his corner was loud in his heavy Australian accent.

“He’s recovering! Keep your guard up!” Chan shouted.

Heeseung recovered quickly, shaking off the hit, his expression never wavering from its intense focus. He pressed his attack, his moves more cautious now, testing Jeongin's response to his new strategy.

Jeongin mirrored him, his own steps measured, his punches calculated. The fight was a dance, a deadly ballet—a lesson Minho taught him, each man seeking an opening, an advantage.

In the second round, Heeseung landed a solid body shot, a left hook that would have put lesser men on the canvas.

That still didn’t stop Seungmin from screaming obscenities that made even the Australians and Minho stare in shock.

Jeongin grunted, the breath forced from his lungs, but he didn't falter. Instead, he channeled the pain, let it fuel the fire burning in his gut. He saw an opening in Heeseung's stance, a moment of vulnerability. Jeongin struck, a rapid-fire combination of jabs and crosses that had Heeseung backpedaling, his guard scrambling to keep up.

“Fuck yeah!” Jisung and Hyunjin cheered.

The bell rang for the end of the round, saving Heeseung from further punishment. He retreated to his corner, his coach barking instructions, his cutman working furiously to stem the blood flowing from a cut over his eye.

Jeongin returned to his own corner, accepting the water and stool offered to him, but his eyes weren’t on Heeseung, they were on the front row.

On you—but not for long, Seungmin popped the side of his head, “Ya! Lover boy, eye fuck the PR demon afterwards.”

“I wasn’t-! Don’t make me get your wife on you!” Jeongin threatened before Chan shoved the mouth guard back in his mouth.

The third round began with a flurry of punches from both men, a test of strength and will. Heeseung was undeterred by the punishment he'd taken, his attacks as precise as ever.

But Jeongin could see the fatigue in his eyes, the slight hesitation before he committed to a big hit.

He was tiring.

And Jeongin, with the fire of your touch still burning in his veins, was just getting started.

Heeseung feinted left, then threw a right hook. Jeongin saw it coming, the tell unmistakable now. He ducked under the punch, coming up inside Heeseung's guard, his own right hook already in motion. It connected with Heeseung's jaw, a solid, satisfying crunch that sent the other sprawling.

The referee began the count, but Heeseung was already moving, his hands pushing against the canvas, his eyes finding Jeongin's.

He was down, but he wasn't out.

Not yet. Not ever.

Jeongin with his heart pounding with a primal, exhilarating rhythm still managed to help Heeseung rise at the count of eight. They both locked arms around each other’s neck, lightly giving one another a gently headbutt.

You were a bit confused but none of 3RACHA said anything about it, a smile tugged at the corner of your lips. He was a good man, that was admirable—you could respect that.

Heeseung’s stance was wobbly but his eyes bright with determination that matched Jeongin’s own eyes.

The crowd roared, a primal, eager sound, sensing the turning point in the fight.

Heeseung came at him, a desperate, all-out attack, his punches wild, his defense forgotten. Jeongin absorbed them, his head moving from side to side, his body twisting to avoid the worst of the blows.

He waited, biding his time, until Heeseung's attack faltered, his strength waning.

Then Jeongin struck.

A series of brutal, precise punches that had Heeseung reeling, his guard shattered, his eyes glazed.

The final punch, a left hook that landed with the force of a sledgehammer, sent Heeseung crashing to the canvas.

The referee's count was a formality. Heeseung didn't rise.

The bell rang, signaling the end of the fight, but the arena was already erupting, a storm of sound and confetti and waving banners.

Jeongin stood, his hands raised in victory, his chest heaving, his body aching, his heart pounding with a triumph that was more than just a win.

You were helped over the barrier by Changbin, you stayed off to the side observing. Jeongin had helped Heeseung up, the latter with his arm around Jeongin’s shoulders. They shared a private conversation, it was beyond sportsmanship that you witnessed. Not only with the fighters but with the two teams as well.

When Jeongin exited the ring, he walked straight to you like a puppy awaiting praise. He lifted his eyebrows slightly, a silently awkward way to ask what did you think.

You smirked giving him a fond eye roll, “Maknae Phenom,” you started while handing him, his 3RACHA hoodie.

“You live up to the name, Iyenah.”

“Thank you, noona!” He accepted the compliment a bit too fast but you didn’t call him out on it.

━━━━━━━━

ᴇᴘɪʟᴏɢᴜᴇ | sᴋᴢᴛᴇxᴛ: Behind the Headlines, Next Message "Unanswered Questions & Bad Advice."

[staydiaries]

Who Is Ghostface? ✘

ꨄ 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝒀𝒔’ 𝑫𝒊𝒂𝒓𝒚 ꨄ

Entry Name: Lee Know

pairing: Lee MinHo x Gender Neutral Reader | friends to lovers |

genre: NSFW ▐ Dark Romance

note: this entry is based off of the birthday message on the blog sᴋᴢᴛᴇxᴛ. ⚠️‼️MDNI‼️⚠️ insomnia and boredom makes me creative. all for kicks and giggles. apologies if i misrepresented the group and the members. this is all just a head canon of how i think he would act with his secret crush (you). this is clearly isn't meant to be taken seriously.

𝙷𝙰𝙿𝙿𝚈 𝙱𝙸𝚁𝚃𝙷𝙳𝙰𝚈 𝚃𝙾 𝙾𝙽𝙴 𝙾𝙵 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙱𝙴𝚂𝚃 𝙳𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙴𝚁𝚂, 𝙱𝙴𝚂𝚃 𝟺𝙳 𝙿𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙾𝙽𝙰𝙻𝙸𝚃𝚈, 𝙱𝙴𝚂𝚃 𝙲𝙰𝚃 𝚃𝚁𝙰𝙿𝙿𝙴𝙳 𝙸𝙽 𝙰 𝙷𝚄𝙼𝙰𝙽 𝙱𝙾𝙳𝚈, 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆, 𝙸 𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆, 𝚆𝙴 𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆--𝙻𝙴𝙴𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆!!

warning(s): AGAIN MINORS DO NOT INTERACT ⚠️ NSFW 🔞 profanity// mask kink// breath play// cnc themes// fake knife// slight deception// fake blood// minor blood mentioned// ALL FICTIONAL// I cannot stress this enough… ALL FICTIONAL

setting: Club Limbo — a neon-lit Hondae nightclub pulsing with bass, sweat, and fog. blacklight shadows twisting over masked faces, bodies pressed together on the dance floor, and somewhere among them, Ghostface waiting in silence, watching the one person who ever mattered.

word count: 1.776

❝𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚔. 𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚜.❞

It was Minho's birthday, or so Hyunjin had decreed, transforming the crowded space into a masked frenzy—horns curling from devilish heads, porcelain dolls staring blankly, and ghosts slipping through the throng like whispers of regret.

Minho moved among them, his own disguise a sleek black robe draped over lean muscle, the infamous white mask of Ghostface pulled taut over his face, ‘fucking hell this is so pathetic’ he thought with a long disapproval sigh exhaling through his nose. He didn’t tell anyone what his costume was—hell he flat out said he wasn’t going to show.

The guys didn’t let him live in peace for the past week—worse they had Y/n to back their play. The one person he hated saying no too, the one person whose casual words had ignited this reckless plan days ago. They'd been childhood friends, tangled in a web of shared secrets and unspoken tensions, Minho's crush on them a quiet storm he'd never dared face.

From their text conversation days prior to the late night talk last night, "You know," Y/N had murmured, “Don’t start your weird shit,” Minho had interrupted. Y/n’s eyes glinting with mischief as they scrolled through horror clips on their phone as they continued, "that Ghostface costume? Imagine it as foreplay. The mask, the chase, the knife play—edgy, right? Could lead to the most amazing sex." Minho's pulse had spiked, heat flooding his chest, he stared at them with the most dumbfounded expression. Y/n glanced up from their phone, their lips pressed tightly into a thin line to suppress their laughter. Minho blinked, looking around his room—for what? He didn’t know—then he looked at them again, “Yah! In front of SoonieDoongieDori?! Really?! What is wrong with you?!?” Y/n busted into a heavy fit of laughter, while Minho still looked horrified.

Now, on his birthday, Hyunjin and Felix had ambushed him with this themed party at Club Limbo, masks mandatory. He saw the opportunity like a predator scenting blood. No words, no reveal. Just the mask, the deception, and the touch he'd craved for years.

Y/N arrived fashionably late—they put together a last minute costume, weaving through the entrance in a simple white ensemble splattered in red paint to make it look like blood. A headband with bunny ears, one with a notch on it and the other bent. A bunny tail clipped to the back of their shorts, to make it more apparent that they were a bunny they wore boots covered in white fur. Fingerless gloves that had a paw print on the palms and their makeup done with a drawn on pink nose, with more fake blood on them.

They scanned the crowd, spotting familiar silhouettes amid the chaos: Jisung in a clown getup, howling laughter as he spilled drinks; Felix with his angelic wings, grinding against a stranger. But Minho? Nowhere in plain sight. Seungmin—who just had a cape on walked over with an amused look, “Did you really cosplay Minho-hyung?”

“I’m a killer bunny!!”

“That’s literally what I said,” he gave them a deadpanned expression before nodding his head to the crowd, “Birthday boy show up yet? Hyunjin is having a tantrum.”

“I haven’t seen him. I’m kinda excited to see his costume.” Y/n mumbled.

Bodies pressed close, anonymous hands brushing hips, the masks turned it all into a game where desire blurred with danger.

Y/N sipped a glowing cocktail, the liquor burning sweet down their throat, and let the rhythm pull them onto the dance floor. Hips swayed, shoulders rolling, the crowd a living organism swallowing them whole. Their eyes studying everyone who was on the dance floor, hoping to spot Minho out there.

Whereas Minho watched from the corner, people—his friends walking past him like he was decor.

His breath fogged the inside of the mask, heart pounding against ribs like a caged animal. This was pathetic—stalking his best friend in a sea of strangers—but the need had rooted deep, fed by years of stolen glances, of nights imagining their body arching under his. The knife at his belt, a prop from the costume shop, felt heavier now, its dull edge a promise of the fantasy they'd described. He waited until the song crested, the lights dimming to a predatory red—no doubt Chan’s doing, then slipped behind them.

A gloved hand grazed Y/N's waist first, light as a phantom's touch, sending a shiver racing up their spine. They turned, but the crowd surged, pressing them back against a firm chest. The figure loomed cloaked in black, the Ghostface mask inches from their face, its hollow eyes swallowing light. No words, just the press of presence, hot breath seeping through the fabric. Y/N's pulse quickened, a thrill twisting low in their belly.

‘Oh Minho would lose his mind if he saw me right now,’ Y/n thought.

"Hey," they said, voice low over the music, half-laugh, half-challenge. "You always this bold under red lights?"

The figure didn't respond. Instead, the gloved hand tightened, fingers splaying possessively over Y/N's hip, pulling them flush against the hard line of a body honed by years of restless energy.

Minho's mind raced—‘Don't speak. Let the mask do the talking—This fucking babo just lets anyone hold them like this?!?’

The dance floor became their arena, bodies grinding in the fog as Minho guided Y/N's movements, one hand sliding up their side to trace the curve of their ribcage. Y/N's breath hitched, turning to face the mask fully, "Playing the part, huh?" they murmured, lips brushing the air near the mask's jagged mouth. The figure's free hand emerged from the robe, the prop knife glinting under blacklight, its plastic blade catching neon like real steel. Minho pressed it lightly against Y/N's throat—not cutting, but the cool pressure evoked the fantasy.

Y/N's eyes darkened, pupils dilating in the low light. The club's pulse matched their own, sweat beading on their skin as the knife trailed down, ghosting over collarbone, dipping down. They grabbed the masked wrist, not to stop, but to guide, pressing the blade's flat side against their stomach. "You gonna make a move, or just stalk me all night?"

He didn't hesitate. The knife clattered to the floor—forgotten prop—and Minho's hands were on them, gloved palms rough against bare skin as he backed Y/N toward a dim alcove, the crowd parting. The alcove was a velvet-curtained nook, semi-private amid the club's labyrinth, fog machines hissing nearby to cloak them in ethereal mist. Y/N's back hit the wall, the impact jolting a gasp from their lips—"Ah"—as Minho loomed, mask head tilting in silent dominance.

The first kiss was through the mask—or as close as it could be. Minho pressed the fabric to Y/N's mouth, the texture abrasive against their lips, while his hands roamed, one grabbing the back of their neck, the other shoving up the top to expose more skin. Y/N moaned softly, "Mmm," the sound muffled, their body arching into the touch. The mask's anonymity fueled it, turning hesitation into hunger; they clawed at the robe, fingers finding the hard planes of Minho's chest beneath.

Minho pulled back just enough to yank the mask up—exposing only his mouth, keeping the eyes hidden in shadow—and claimed their lips in a bruising kiss, tongue delving deep with years of pent-up need. Y/N responded fiercely, nipping at his lower lip, tasting sweat and desperation.

"Fuck," they whispered against him, hands fumbling with his belt as he ground his hips forward, the evidence of his hard on pressing insistent against their thigh. The robe parted, cool air hitting heated skin, and Minho's glove ripped at their jeans, buttons popping like gunfire in the muffled space.

He spun them then, face-first against the wall, the velvet curtain brushing their cheek like a lover's sigh. "Wait—who are you?" Y/N panted, but the question dissolved into a whimper as Minho's hand slipped between their legs, fingers teasing through fabric, finding them already slick with anticipation.

Minho's breath was hot on their neck, still silent, but his free hand wrapped around their throat from behind, applying just enough pressure to restrict air, breath play weaving into the obsession. Y/N's vision blurred at the edges, a rush of hormones flooding their system, body yielding as Minho freed himself, the blunt head of his cock nudging insistently.

The entry was rough, but careful, using his own spit as lube—Minho thrust in deep, a guttural groan escaping his hidden mouth, "Nngh," vibrating against Y/N's ear. They cried out, "Oh god—fucck," the sound raw, walls clenching around him as he set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping with possessive force. The alcove shook with each impact, the club's bass masking the wet slap of skin, the ragged breaths. Minho's hand tightened on their throat, stars bursting behind Y/N's eyes, oxygen deprivation heightening every sensation—the stretch, the burn, the dark thrill of surrender. His other hand gripped their hip, nails digging crescents that might draw blood, minor pricks blooming like forbidden flowers.

Y/N pushed back, meeting each thrust, lost in the haze of deception and desire. "Harder," they gasped when he eased the grip, air rushing back in a dizzying wave. Y/N shattered first, a keening "Fuuuck—ahh!" tearing from their throat, body convulsing around Minho in waves of release. He followed seconds later, burying deep with a stifled growl, spilling hot inside them, the mask slipping further as his forehead pressed to their shoulder. For a moment, they slumped together, breaths syncing in the afterglow, the club's chaos a distant roar.

Then reality intruded. Y/N turned, reaching to pull the mask fully off—only to get their hand swatted away. Minho fixed the mask over his face, Y/n’s eyebrows furrowed with a disappointed pout, “Keeping to the role?” The masked figured only nodded while pulling out slowly with a quiet hiss. As they fixed their clothes, Y/n spoke once more, “You haven’t seen Minho, have you?”

Again the masked figured only shook his head no, he leaned in to whisper in their ear, “You look cute but you a cat would of better,” he nudge their head with his before walking away. Leaving the other to stand alone, confused until the realization slowly hit, their frown twitched into a small smile. The headbutting was a feline trait, one that Y/n was far too familiar with since Minho picked up the habit a long time ago.

By the time they revisited the spot where Seungmin was, now with the others there in costumes and the birthday boy in cat ears and his usual blank expression. Y/n walked over, leaning on Minho and his arm hugging their waist with a smirk hitting at his lips. Y/n looked him, “Happy birthday Min-ah~”

“Thank you, babo.”

━━━━━━━━

ᴇᴘɪʟᴏɢᴜᴇ | sᴋᴢᴛᴇxᴛ; ᴡʜᴏ ɪs ɢʜᴏsᴛꜰᴀᴄᴇ?

[staydiaries]

𝓗𝓪𝓻𝓶𝓸𝓷𝓲𝔃𝓮𝓭 𝓒𝓸𝓷𝓯𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓸𝓷𝓼 ❤︎︎

ꨄ 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝒀𝒔’ 𝑫𝒊𝒂𝒓𝒚 ꨄ

Entry Name: A Song For You

pairing: Han Jisung (producer) x Reader (idol Kim Y/n) │equally obsessed but oblivious│

genre: Fluff ▐ Mutual Pining → Confession

note: this entry is based off of the mini series A Song For You on the blog sᴋᴢᴛᴇxᴛ. insomnia and boredom makes me creative. all for kicks and giggles. apologies if i misrepresented the group and the members. this is clearly isn't meant to be taken seriously.

warning(s): soft tension// suggestive comments// some awkward spiraling// heart-fluttering levels of sweetness// secondhand embarrassment// cute moment ruined// all fictional

setting: Han River, Seoul — past midnight. The city lights glitter across the water, and the sound of cicadas and faint traffic hum in the background. Both are too wound up, one about to explode from the hype he received in his group chat. The other a nervous wreck thinking about the questionable advice they received.

word count: 1.236

❝𝚃𝚠𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚝—𝚊𝚗 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎❞

They walked in silence, the pavement beneath the Han River lights had to be worn down by now. Their sneakers dragging along the lit trail, side by side. Jisung picked at the hem of his hoodie, his eyes casted low. Y/n tapped their index finger against their thigh in restless rhythm.

In Jisung’s mind the last few text in the 3ʀᴀᴄʜᴀ 🐓🌶️🔥 groupchat played in his head. It gave him a sense of courage and confidence that he desperately needed. Now more than ever since his anxiety was starting to bubble up in his chest.

Cʜᴀɴɢʙɪɴ | That’s a lie he’s working on a song for you and Y/n-ssi

Bᴀɴɢ Cʜᴀɴ | I AM

Jɪsᴜɴɢ | LETS FUCKING GO

Cʜᴀɴɢʙɪɴ | You’re so fucking obsessed | I LOVE IT | I WANT TO BE THE FLOWER BOY FOR THE FUTURE WEDDING

Bᴀɴɢ Cʜᴀɴ | IM LITERALLY KICKING MY FEET

Meanwhile inside the mind of the idol beside him was a different set of text messages from their team. The Y/n’s Babes ❤️‍🔥 groupchat was questionable to say the least.

Vocal King Innie | FOCUS ON THE CAR SEX

Stylist Hyunjin | TYPE SHIT ‼️‼️🙌💯

Y/n | THAT WON’T HAPPEN

Lixie ☀️🩵 | NOT WITH THAT ATTITUDE

Choreographer Lee M. | AIM FOR THE DICK OR THE NOSE

Kim Seungmin (Vocal Coach 😐🔫) | AIM FOR THE KIDNEYS

The two of them settled on the riverbank, their arms brushed slightly against each other. The cicadas hummed around them, and faint traffic noise carried from the bridge above. Neither spoke for a long moment. Jisung hugged his knees to his chest, his squishy cheek resting on top of his knee.

Y/n sat with their legs crossed, looking out over the water as it rippled under the moonlight. Finally, Y/n cleared their throat. “This is the quietest we’ve been together since we’ve started working together.” They spoke quietly with a soft chuckle at the end of their sentence.

Jisung’s eyes glided over to them, his silence lingered for a few seconds before he lifted his head. He crossed his legs, turning to face Y/n, a small smile on his lips. “Yeah I guess it’s easier to talk when there’s music involved.”

Y/n groaned, dropping their face into their hands. “I’m sorry, I’m really nervous—“ They peaked through their fingers, “More that usual.”

Jisung let out an incredulous laugh, half relief, half panic. “Oh thank Channie hyung—” He gave his sweetest gummy smile, “I thought only my anxiety was kicking my ass.”

They both broke into laughter, leaning into each other, their foreheads pressed against each. The contact sent a shiver down Jisung’s spine, and Y/n shut their eyes pressing their lips into a thin repressed smile to hold back further laughter.

They leaned on each other for a lingering moment, slowly pulling away to look at each other, his eyes dilated as he looked at them with genuine fondness. A look he’s always given the idol he gushed over, they never noticed until now. And for the first time the producer noticed that they gave him the same look. Their gazed lingered like they lost track of time gazing at each other.

The world around seemed to stop, no more cicadas buzzing around them, the traffic tuned out, the only background noise audible was their soft breathing and the soft ripples of the river flowing.

“You’re the most amazing person I’ve ever got the pleasure of working with.” He finally spoke, a gentle sigh with a smile resting peacefully on his lips. He added, confessing, “You know the, ‘falling faster than the beat’ line? That was—uh—not a metaphor. It was just—me—falling. For you.”

Silence. The kind that stretched, pulled, and threatened to drown him. Jisung’s pulse thundered in his ears. For a second he thought of taking back his words, maybe jumping into the water—or worse:

Pushing them into the water and running away.

Then Y/n’s lips curved. Not a smirk. Not a polite smile. A grin that was all warmth, spilling over like sunlight after a rainstorm, “You know I sang that line like if I was confessing to you.”

“…You what?!” He grabbed their shoulders bringing them close, a look of relief and horror washed over with his heart racing inside his chest.

Y/n lightly headbutted the other with a soft chuckle, “Yeah… I mean, like I said I’ve always been a big fan of yours Sungie,” they started. Shyly, eyes shifted towards the water, “I have a crush on you for the longest but wasn’t sure if you felt the same about me.”

Jisung buried his face in on their shoulder with a groan. “Kill me. Please. I can’t recover from this. I can’t believe I didn’t notice it sooner!!.” His hands slid down their arms, wrapping around their waist to fall on the ground. They both giggled shyly, lying on their sides as they looked at each other. Their cheeks were pink, but their smile didn’t falter. Jisung took a soft breath before he spoke again, “… I like you so much.”

Y/n leaned a bit closer, their voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ve been writing songs about you too. Just… never brave enough to let you hear them.”

Jisung’s brain short-circuited. “Waitwaitwait—hold on. You—ME? You wrote about—ME???”

They laughed, flustered, hiding their face in their sleeve. “Yeah, Producer J.One. About you.”

For a second, Jisung just stared. Then—like a dam bursting—he laughed. Loud, startled, breathless laughter that echoed over the river. He wrapped his arms tighter around them, pulling their beloved idol into his chest, “No way. No. WAY.”

Y/n tilted their head, half shy, half amused. “This funny to you?”

He dipped his head to look at him, still grinning like a fool, his voice cracking. “No, it’s—it’s insane. I spent months spiraling, thinking it was just me. And the whole time—you—you were—” He broke off with another helpless laugh. “Oh my god, I’m so in love with you.”

The words slipped out before he could catch them. Y/n’s breath caught. Their eyes softened as they thought:

Ah.. So this what the others meant when they said teased me about him

Y/n leaned closer, “You’re what?”

Jisung’s throat went dry. But the words were already there, trembling but true. “I’m in love with you.”

Y/n didn’t hesitate this time. “I’m in love with you too.” And then it was quiet again, but not the suffocating silence—never that. This one was warm, like a song resolving into its final chord. Jisung leaned forward, tentative. “Can I—?”

Y/n nodded before he could finish, their lips brushed, feather-light, tentative—like testing harmony for the first time. They pulled back just a breath, both of them smiling so hard it hurt. “That was…” Jisung exhaled shakily, “…better than the chorus.”

Y/n giggled, tugging his sleeve. “I think we should try another take, what do you think?” Jisung nodded, lower lip pout a bit as he looked solemnly. The feign expression of seriousness cracked as they giggled with one another. He pulled Y/n closer, kissing them slowly, a cute moment for the two until they heard:

“YOH!!”

“IN PUBLIC?!?”

“SOMEONE NEEDS PR TRAINING!!”

“I CANT BELIEVE WE WATCHED THE SLOW BURN EXPLODE IN REAL TIME!!”

“THIS IS BETTER THAN THEN ANY DRAMA OUT RIGHT NOW!”

“I think we ruined the moment—“

“Maybe we should stop yelling before we get caught—“

⸻

ᴇᴘɪʟᴏɢᴜᴇ | sᴋᴢᴛᴇxᴛ ᴍɪɴɪ sᴇʀɪᴇs A Sᴏɴɢ Fᴏʀ Yᴏᴜ

[staydiaries]

𝑫𝒊𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝑬𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒚 | 𝑰.𝑵

ᴊᴇᴏɴɢɪɴ ʏᴀɴɢ

𝓔𝓷𝓽𝓻𝔂 : ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀᴋɴᴀᴇ ᴘʜᴇɴᴏᴍ ☁︎ ✘ ❤︎ ★ ❝ 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎. ❞

[staydiaries]

𝑫𝒊𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝑬𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒚 | 𝑺𝒆𝒖𝒏𝒈𝒎𝒊𝒏

sᴇᴜɴɢᴍɪɴ ᴋɪᴍ

[staydiaries]

𝑫𝒊𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝑬𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒚 | 𝑭𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒙

ꜰᴇʟɪx ʏᴏɴɢʙᴏᴋ ʟᴇᴇ

[staydiaries]

𝑫𝒊𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝑬𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒚 | 𝑯𝒂𝒏

ᴊɪsᴜɴɢ ʜᴀɴ

𝓔𝓷𝓽𝓻𝔂 ：𝓗𝓪𝓻𝓶𝓸𝓷𝓲𝔃𝓮𝓭 𝓒𝓸𝓷𝓯𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓸𝓷𝓼 ❤︎ ❝𝚃𝚠𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚝—𝚊𝚗 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎❞

[staydiaries]

𝑫𝒊𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝑬𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒚 | 𝑯𝒚𝒖𝒏𝒋𝒊𝒏

ʜʏᴜɴᴊɪɴ ʜᴡᴀɴɢ

[staydiaries]

𝑫𝒊𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝑬𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒚 | 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒃𝒊𝒏

ᴄʜᴀɴɢʙɪɴ sᴇᴏ

[staydiaries]

𝑫𝒊𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝑬𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒚 | 𝑳𝒆𝒆 𝑲𝒏𝒐𝒘

ᴍɪɴʜᴏ ʟᴇᴇ

𝓔𝓷𝓽𝓻𝔂 ：𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐈𝐬 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞? ✘ ❝𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚔. 𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚜.❞

[staydiaries]

𝑫𝒊𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝑬𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒚 | 𝑩𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒏

ᴄʜʀɪsᴛᴏᴘʜᴇʀ ᴄʜᴀʜɴ ʙᴀʜɴɢ

𝓔𝓷𝓽𝓻𝔂 ：𝐂 𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧   ❤︎  ★ ❝  𝙷𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚞𝚖𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚊𝚗𝚜—𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚛𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝-𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐. ❞

𝓔𝓷𝓽𝓻𝔂 ：𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐒𝐨 𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐑𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧  ❤︎  ☁︎ ✘

𝓔𝓷𝓽𝓻𝔂 ：𝐎𝐡 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐎𝐟 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐞  ❤︎  ❝ 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛. ❞

𝓔𝓷𝓽𝓻𝔂 ：𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐨𝐥𝐟 ❤︎  ❝ 𝙾𝚗𝚎, 𝚝𝚠𝚘, 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎—𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚘𝚕𝚏 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐. ❞

𝓔𝓷𝓽𝓻𝔂 ：𝐓𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐝𝐚𝐲’𝐬 𝐍𝐞𝐰 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 ❤︎︎ ❝ 𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚔𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 "𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛!" 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚍𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎. ❞