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PLEASE make more I have been waiting for more PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

ʚ KANG WOOYOUNG - Training You. ɞ

꣑ৎ― all characters depicted are 18 years or older consenting adults. │ wc: 9,8k cw (please read & proceed with caution): adult content / s*xual themes / consensual adult intimacy / fluff build-up / established relationship / attitude reader / semi public intimacy / kissing / boyfriend wooyoung / rough / with plot kinda / slight spit play / d*grading / attitude taken care of / making it fit / you will take it / p in v / finish inside / you scratch / slightest mention of bl*od / aftercare pairing: boyfriend! kang wooyoung x female reader

⤷ sypnosis: wooyoung takes you to the mma gym with him as he trains. seeing your boredom, he takes it upon himself to teach you a few fighting moves. till that leads to something else. leaving you a complete mess.

۶ৎ author message ﹕hi my loves, i've been kind of off tt for the time being as i fix some things but u ask and mommy vanta shall deliver. i hope you enjoy this oneshot. worked hard on it and did my best to portray wooyoung how i see him. let me know if you have any requests or characters you'd like to see. also your comments are much appreciated, i read them all on both tumblr and tt :) enjoy <3

reblogs, likes and comments are appreciated ♡ + ↻

੭﹕﹒AGAIN, MDNI 18+ 彡

masterlist . ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

ᴺᵒʷ ᵖˡᵃʸᶦⁿᵍ ♬⋆.˚ M a k e I t T o T h e M o r n i n g - PARTYNEXTDOOR ᴺᵉˣᵗ ᵁᵖ ♬⋆.˚ Don't Make Me Wait - Sabrina Claudio

The gym felt completely different at night. Without the usual crowd filling the space, every sound seemed louder than it should have been. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, and the only thing cutting through the silence was the steady impact of gloves against a heavy bag.

The owner had trusted Wooyoung with spare keys months ago. Something about being responsible enough to lock up after and dedicated enough to actually train and use the place even when everyone else was asleep.

And as expected, Wooyoung put that spare key to good use. Even after spending his afternoons at the gym with everyone else during scheduled training, he'd still find himself back here late at night, unable to stay away for long before convincing himself he needed a few more hours.

And since the two of you had been dating for a couple of months now, Wooyoung had made a habit of dragging you along whenever he came. It was his way of spending time with you even when his schedule was packed and most of his free hours somehow ended up revolving around training.

You complained every single time. Told him it was boring. Reminded him that watching someone punch things for hours wasn't exactly quality entertainment.

Yet somehow, every now and then, you'd still end up here anyway. Like today.

You were sprawled out on your stomach on the mats off to the side, completely removed from whatever he had planned for himself. Pajama shorts exposed your legs to the cool air of the gym, and an oversized hoodie, one of Wooyoung's that had mysteriously found its way into your closet months ago, nearly swallowed the rest of you whole. Even after countless washes, traces of his cologne still clung stubbornly to the fabric.

Which you secretly loved, even if you’d never say it out loud.

Your phone rested in your hand as you scrolled aimlessly through social media, barely paying attention to anything on the screen. The repetitive sound of gloves hitting a heavy bag echoed through the otherwise empty gym.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

You glanced up briefly.

Wooyoung was still at it. Still moving like he had all the energy in the world despite the fact that it was pushing midnight.

You looked back down at your phone with a sigh.

A few moments later, the steady sounds of impact suddenly stopped. Curious, you glanced up again.

Wooyoung had finally stepped away from the heavy bag. Sweat darkened the neckline of the shirt he had on underneath his zip up hoodie and dampened the hair sticking to his forehead. Climbing through the ropes and into the ring, as he pulled off his gloves and hoodie, tossing them aside, he headed straight for the corner where he'd left his water bottle.

He bent down, unscrewed the cap, and took several long chugs. Downing the bottle in one go. Some water trickling down his chin and neck. Your eyes followed the movement of his throat as he swallowed.

When he finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before setting the bottle down. Then his attention shifted to you. A grin immediately spread across his face.

He leaned over the ring ropes, his forearms settling across the top one as it dipped slightly beneath his weight. Still warm from training, the lines of muscle were more defined under his skin, with faint veins tracing along them in a way that showed exactly how long he’d been working out. The look he gave you was pure amusement. He’d heard every dramatic sigh you’d let out over the last hour.

“You look miserable,” he said simply from above.

“I am,” you murmur, turning onto your back as you look up at him from the mats. He looks so good in the ring, like he belongs there more than anywhere else, all controlled strength and ease in the way he holds himself.

Letting out a soft “pfff,” he rolls his eyes, clearly teasing you. He looks more amused than anything, like your dramatics are something he’s quietly fond of even when he pretends not to be. It was cute to him.

“Come here,” he says, softer this time.

You get up slowly, taking your time as you walk over, still a little lazy with it.

“Put some pep in your step.”

You walk slower on purpose.

“What,” you say, more attitude than question when you reach the ring.

He huffs a small laugh through his nose, shaking his head.

“Get in, dummy,” he says, tilting his head toward the ring in an invitation, already reaching out a hand like he’s done it a hundred times before.

Looking at him with a look that could only be described as a mix of confusion and quiet disbelief, you give in and take his hand as he pulls you up effortlessly. He lifts the ropes for you so you can climb in.

You stumble slightly as you get in, your foot catching on one of the ropes, and he catches you before you fully crash into him. You land against his chest anyway. He lets out a breathless laugh, trying and failing to hold it in. You immediately hit him over the arm.

“I was going to teach you some moves,” he says, still laughing under his breath, “but after that? I think you’d be safer bubble wrapped in a box.”

You roll your eyes, arms folding across your chest.

“Great, because I’m not doing that with you,” you say, already turning to climb out of the ring.

Before you make it a step, he catches your wrist and pulls you back into him with an ease that steals the momentum right out of you. You end up pressed against his chest again, his breath still slightly uneven from training.

He looks down at you with a soft grin, whisker dimples deepening as he holds your gaze for a second too long. Sweat still clings to his skin, hair slightly messy, cheeks faintly flushed from the strain of punching a bag for an hour. There’s something almost unfair in how good he looks even like this, worn down but still effortlessly put together in his own way, in that familiar Wooyoung way you’ve come to recognize and adore without even thinking about it.

It makes your annoyance slip for half a second before you catch it again.

“Too late,” he says.

He finally lets you go, just enough to reach down and pick up extra gloves resting by the corner. Red gloves.

He gently takes your hand and starts sliding the gloves onto it. They’re a little big, clearly made for the men who usually train here, but he works them on carefully anyway, adjusting your fingers so they sit right before tightening the velcro strap.

He gives it an extra tug, like he wants it to feel secure, then steps back to look at you properly.

A quiet laugh slips out of him, soft and unguarded, as he takes in how the gloves swallow your hands.

You hold up a bitter middle finger and he brings your hand up to his lips before placing kisses against your manicured fingers.

“You look ridiculous,” he says playfully, but his smile gives him away, lingering a second longer as if he’s trying to memorize the sight of his girl looking annoyed and out of place.

“Are you serious?” you mutter, holding your hands up to study the gloves.

He takes a moment to crack his knuckles before he leans down and grabs his black pair. His usual gloves.

In the leather of his, your name is embroidered cleanly. He got them custom made a few weeks ago, not saying much about it at the time, just bringing them in like it was nothing. He wanted a piece of you wherever he was, even in his matches.

And you try to hide the smile creeping onto your face as you notice it again, that softness he never really puts into words. The part of him that shows through in small things like this, even when he’s all sharp edges and tough around everyone else.

“Baby,” he starts, voice a little lower now, softer, “you should let me teach you a few self defense moves.”

“Why would I need that? I have you,” you say, like it’s obvious, like it solves everything. What was the point of having a boyfriend with biceps the size of your face if he didn’t use them to be your personal bodyguard after all.

The corner of his mouth lifts into a soft smirk, but it doesn’t quite reach how he’s looking at you. His eyes stay on yours a moment longer.

“I know,” he replies gently, stepping closer without even thinking about it, “but I’m not always gonna be right there.”

There’s no distance in his tone, just something steady. He’s already decided it matters even if you’re trying to brush it off.

“And I’d rather you be able to defend yourself,” he continues, voice calm but firmer now, “even though I’ll still go find the person myself.”

He says it like it’s already decided, like your safety isn’t something he’s willing to negotiate on.

You let your shoulders slump slightly and roll your eyes, already acting like you’ve lost before you’ve even started. Already deciding this is going to end with you regretting it.

He raises his hands into a proper fighting stance, gloves framing his face, eyes focused but still calm in that way of his that never really feels intimidating when it’s just you.

“Fists up, baby,” he says.

And you do. A little awkward at first, then steadier as you mirror him properly, your stance matching his as best as you can manage. He smiles across you, clearly enjoying how adorable you looked trying to match his moves.

“First thing,” he says, a little more focused now but still soft around the edges, “when someone swings, you don’t freeze. You don’t just stand there and take it.”

His voice stays calm, almost gentle in the way it always is with you, like it’s instinct for him to soften the moment he’s talking to you. There’s truly no version of him that fully switches that off when it’s you he’s looking at, no matter how serious he’s trying to be.

“When someone swings from either side, you either move your head out of line, or step out of it. Simple,” he puts a glove up mimicking the movement to illustrate what he meant.

“If it’s a hook coming in like this,” he continues, demonstrating a slow left hook, “you keep your guard up, tuck your chin, and either slip under it or step back just enough so it misses clean.”

His eyes flick back to you, checking if you’re following.

“Try it. Hands up. Imagine I’m throwing it at you.”

You put your hands back up in the position he taught you, trying to match his stance as closely as you can.

He shifts his weight and brings his glove into that same slow left hook, deliberately controlled, careful, holding back every bit of force on purpose so it doesn’t even come close to hurting you.

Something his teammates could only wish for, the kind of restraint he never really shows in training or matches, where he’s usually all brutal focus and impact. But with you, it’s different without him even thinking about it.

As the hook closes in, you lean your upper body back just like he taught you, the glove barely missing you, but still cutting through the space right in front of you without ever making contact.

“Good job,” he says immediately, his voice bright with praise as a smile spreads across his face, clearly pleased in a way he doesn’t bother hiding when it’s you. “Good girl.”

“See, I can defend myself,” you say, almost cocky as you straighten up.

He lets out a breathless laugh, shaking his head like he can’t decide if he’s proud or amused.

“Alright, simmer down,” he says, still smiling.

Your grin only widens, entirely too pleased with yourself. The praise had gone straight to your head. One successful dodge and suddenly you were ready to retire Wooyoung and take over for him yourself. He just smiles. There was something ridiculously endearing about the way you wore your pride so openly. One compliment and you looked ready to conquer the world, and he loved every second of it.

“I think I’m a natural.”

“You are,” he plays along.

Wooyoung lets out another breathy chuckle, as he takes a step back. The black gloves come up near his face again, though there isn't a single intimidating thing about him right now. If anything, he looks entertained. Like he's watching a kid show off a drawing they were way too proud of.

“Okay, Conor McGregor,” he teases, “Let’s see if you can throw one.”

“Throw one where?” you echo confused.

He lifts a glove and taps the center of his chest. “Here.”

Your eyebrows shoot up and you shake your head.

“I’m not punching you.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No.”

“Baby,” his tone gains that firmness to it.

“No.”

The corner of his mouth lifts higher. His hair slowly falling down over his forehead again. Throat moving as he swallowed. “You think you’re gonna knock me out?”

“No.”

“Then hit me.”

You just stare at him suspiciously. You'd watched enough of his matches by now to know exactly what one punch from him could do. Seen people hit the mat from a single clean shot. Seen entire fights end before they really had the chance to begin. Not that you believed for a second you could ever do that to him, but it still sat in the back of your mind every time he told you to hit him. Still made you hesitate.

Yet despite it, you lift your gloves anyway. Because beneath all the teasing, beneath the laughter and the way he seemed to enjoy getting a rise out of you, you knew he was only teaching you for your own good. And if there was one thing you'd learned since dating Wooyoung, it was that when it came to keeping you safe, he was serious.

“Not my face.”

You roll your eyes. “I wasn’t even aiming there.”

The gloves still feel strange. Too bulky. Too big. Every movement feels delayed by half a second because of the extra weight around your hands.

Before you can do anything, Wooyoung steps forward.

“Relax your shoulders.”

Immediately, you tense them.

His laugh bounces around the empty gym.

“Not the opposite.”

“I'm trying.”

“I can see that.”

“Alright,” he says, stepping back again. “Small punch. Right here.” He taps his chest once more.

You pull your fist back, hesitation still lingering stubbornly in the back of your head. The glove feels heavier now that you're actually expected to use it. A few moments ago you were just copying whatever Wooyoung told you to do. Now he was standing there waiting for you to hit him.

You pause. Then pull your fist back even further. Like that’s gonna help.

“Baby.”

His voice cuts through your concentration immediately. You glance up. The smile already threatening his face tells you everything. There was nothing intimidating about you.

You looked ridiculous.

Standing there with your fist pulled halfway back, body stiff as a board, looking less like someone about to throw a punch and more like someone trying to calculate a math equation and the likelihood of your punch actually doing any damage.

“I'm thinking.”

“Don't think.”

“I don't want to hurt you.”

That earns a look from him. A very specific look. One eyebrow lifts, the corner of his mouth twitching as he fights back a smile. Like he knows exactly how dramatic you're being. Like he already knows every thought running through your head without you having to say a word. He tilts his head slightly, and the smile finally wins, turning teasing as he looks down at you.

“Just punch me.”

You huff loudly through your nose and finally swing.

The glove lands square against his chest with a satisfying thud. And nothing happens. Nothing. Not a stumble. Not a flinch. Not even a tiny shift backwards.

The impact disappears into him like you'd thrown the punch into a brick wall. The only evidence you'd actually hit him at all is the slight movement of his shirt beneath your glove.

How dare he? Not even a grunt? Not a sound? This was insulting.

“Are you serious?”

A laugh immediately escapes him.

“Was that it?”

“Alright, fuck yourself.”

“Again.”

Your eyes narrow. A bitter expression washing over your face.

“Don't piss me off.”

“Then hit harder.”

The grin on his face only makes it worse. You pull your hand back again, determination replacing the embarrassment now. This time you actually want to hit him. Actually wanting to prove a point. Wooyoung notices instantly. His smile softens.

Before you can throw it, he reaches forward and gently adjusts your stance. One gloved hand settles on your shoulder while the other nudges your elbow.

“Turn your shoulder.”

His hand taps it.

“Use your hips.” his gloved hand slides up your waist. “And waist. Don’t just throw your arm and expect damage to be done, dummy.”

His touch lingers for only a second before he steps back again, giving you room.

You take a breath, adjusting your feet and turning your shoulder. Mentally checking off every single thing he'd just told you, running through the instructions in your head one by one like an imaginary checklist. Then swing.

The second punch lands much cleaner. The impact echoes through the ring. And immediately Wooyoung takes a step backwards in fake defeat like you had just successfully knocked the air out of him. Your eyes light up. Pride immediately washing over you.

“HA!” The victory leaves your mouth before you can stop it.

Wooyoung bites the inside of his cheek so hard trying not to laugh that it almost hurts.

This liar. This absolute liar.

This man had spent the last hour pounding heavy bags hard enough to shake their chains. Had trained with fighters double your size. Had walked into amateur matches and come out looking annoyingly unbothered. Spent afternoons wrapping his bruised split open knuckles like they were just another part of his routine and yet here he is, pretending to be hurt.

There was no universe where that punch had actually did anything to someone like him. But he saw the way your entire face brightened. Saw the pride immediately bloom across your features.

And just like that, the fake step backwards had been worth it.

“Getting stronger, baby,” he says, grinning.

Your smile grows even wider. So unbelievably proud of yourself. Like you'd just won a championship belt instead of successfully punching your boyfriend.

Something about it makes his chest ache a little.

Without warning he reaches forward and catches your face between both gloves. Your cheeks immediately squish together.

“Wooyoung!” you say pushing him away in a failed attempt.

The complaint comes out ruined. Your lips forced into the world's most pathetic pucker.

“Look at you.”

“Stop.”

“You're scary.”

“Stop.”

“You almost killed me.”

You try to glare. The squished cheeks completely ruin the effect.

His smile softens into something warmer as he looks at you. Hair messy. Oversized gloves swallowing your hands. Looking entirely too pleased with yourself over a punch that barely would've moved a shopping cart.

Before you can swat him away, he leans forward and presses a quick kiss against your puckered lips.

The kind that lasts barely a second.

The kind that still somehow leaves you smiling long after he pulls away.

And like that, you continue.

The gym feels further away again. The hum of the lights, the echo of earlier punches, all of it fading into something distant. Outside, it’s already fully dark, midnight long passed, the city reduced to nothing but blurred reflections in the windows. And still, you’re here. Still, it’s just the two of you in a place that was never meant to feel this quiet.

But somehow it doesn’t feel out of place. Not with him. Not with you. It feels settled in a way you don’t really question anymore, like the space has learned your rhythm, the way he moves between training and you, the way you linger just close enough to always be part of it without having to try.

Like the gym belongs to you both in these hours when no one else is around.

You both drown in repetitive punching self defense movements. His hands hovering over your waist, wrists, shoulders, neck. Him constantly adjusting your position. You constantly complaining.

“Let’s try something a bit more real.”

He steps closer again, but there’s no tension in it anymore. No stance, no guard. Just Wooyoung being Wooyoung in your space, like the ring doesn’t separate anything between you.

He tosses his gloves aside, you follow his que, doing the same.

“Not everything is punches,” he continues. “Sometimes someone grabs you. Pulls you off balance. Tries taking you down.”

His hands come up slowly, giving you time to see it coming, and he takes your wrist lightly. Not harsh, just showing. Where contact starts. Where control begins.

“If I grab you here,” he says, gently tightening just enough for you to feel the shift, “your first reaction isn’t to panic. You stay with your feet.”

He nudges your stance with his knee, correcting you without really thinking about it, as if he knows where you’re off balance before you do.

“Feet under you,” he repeats, quieter now.

“And if you do get taken down,” he adds, eyes flicking up to yours, soft in a way that doesn’t match the lesson at all, “you don’t go limp. You don’t just fall and hope for the best.”

He shifts closer, and for a moment it stops feeling like instructions, just the two of you standing too near in an empty ring.

“You learn how to land,” he says.

His grip loosens slightly on your wrist, but he doesn’t let go right away.

“Go on,” he murmurs. “I’ll go slow. I’ve got you.”

You nod, trying to copy what he showed you. Trying being the important word.

He moves first, just enough to guide you off balance, not enough to actually throw you. His hand shifts, your footing adjusts wrong for half a second, and then everything happens a little too fast for you to recover cleanly.

Instead of a controlled fall, you stumble right into him, grabbing onto his shirt as you instinctively pull him with you.

Your shoulder hits his chest, his arms come up on reflex to catch you, and despite trying to keep you up. He ends up losing balance as well. There’s a short, surprised sound from him before you both go down onto the mat with a soft thud that echoes through the empty gym.

A beat of silence.

Then he starts laughing.

Amusement hangs loosely in the air as he turns his head slightly, still half tangled with you on the floor. One of your hands is gripping his forearm, the other caught in the fabric of his shirt, while his hands stay steady at your waist without really letting you go.

“You’re not supposed to crash into the floor, baby,” he says through it, trying and failing to sound serious.

You let out a frustrated noise, but it only makes him laugh harder. One of his arms is still loosely around you, keeping you from fully rolling away, and you can feel his chest moving with each laugh, warm and vibrant against you.

“You said you’d go slow,” you mutter, trying to shift the blame onto him as embarrassment dawns on you anyway, heat rising in your face at how easily it all fell apart. Of all things, you’d messed up something that was supposed to be controlled, simple, almost impossible to get wrong.

The way your foot slipped at the exact moment it shouldn’t have. The way you turned a clean demonstration into both of you on the mat in under a second. Your eyes flick away in pretend annoyance, but it’s more humiliation than anything else, like you can’t quite meet his face right now without feeling it all over again.

“I did go slow,” he says, still smiling, eyes closing for a second like he’s trying to catch his breath from shamelessly laughing at you. “That was on you,” he pokes at the side of your stomach and you jolt slightly.

You huff, genuine annoyance slipping into it this time. Your earlier attitude settles right back into place, stubborn and familiar. It only seems to amuse him more.

A laugh still lingers in his chest, quieter now, softer. Your clumsiness isn't something he's frustrated by, but something he's already accepted as part of you.

Above, the fluorescent lights hum steadily. The surface beneath you is warm where the two of you had gone down moments ago, the air carrying that familiar mix of leather, his cologne, and the lingering aftermath of training. His laughter gradually fades, leaving behind a comfortable silence.

Neither of you moves right away.

One of his hands remains at your waist, absentmindedly holding you even though there's no need anymore. The pressure shifts slightly as his fingers settle more comfortably against your side, and you hate how quickly it affects you.

The irritation you'd been holding onto begins to unravel.

Like it always does with him. Somehow he always finds a way to make you forget what you were pretending to be upset about in the first place.

Suddenly, he pulls you up, guiding you until you’re straddling his lap. His hands rest at your waist, familiar, like they’ve always known where to go. He looks up at you with that same teasing warmth in his eyes, the kind that always manages to undo your attitude before you can properly hold onto it.

You glance down at him with a faint scowl, trying to keep your expression firm, but it doesn’t land the way you want it to. More forced than convincing.

Because your stomach is already doing that annoying, traitorous flutter again at the smallest shift of his hands, at the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth paying attention to.

“You wanna keep pouting?” he murmurs from below in that soft, velvety tone that always manages to make your resolve wobble and your knees buckle under you.

“I’m not pouting.”

“You very much are,” he says, a smirk tugging at his lips. And those damn dimples show up again, completely ruining your attempt at staying annoyed.

“You messed it up.”

“You’re right, baby. I’m sorry,” he says, far too easily, with obvious sarcasm tucked under the apology.

Before you can even gather another complaint, his hand slides to the back of your neck and pulls you down toward him, your chest flush against his, his other hand ghosting down to cup your ass. The space between you disappears in an instant.

He presses a kiss to your lips, soft and uncomplicated.

When he pulls back, he’s still smiling like he won something.

“There,” he says quietly. “Fixed it.”

You pause for a moment, acting unimpressed, even as your hands settle against his chest to steady yourself properly on his lap. You look down at him, his hair spread slightly beneath him, back resting comfortably against the ring floor like he belongs there just as much as he belongs standing.

And just like that, the gym doesn’t feel like a gym anymore. It doesn’t really matter where you are, whether it’s here under the buzzing lights or anywhere else in the world.

Because in this moment, even being on the moon in space would mean nothing, you needed him.

“No, do better.”

His smirk only widens. Knowing exactly what was going on. And he was loving it. Loved when you got needy like this. In your own way.

“Mm, yes ma’am,” he simply says, pulling you down by the back of your neck again.

There’s no warning in it this time, no teasing, just certainty. Like he already knows exactly where this is going the moment your lips meet his.

And the second kiss lands.

Not soft. Just pure hunger. It’s immediate, almost greedy in the way it pulls you into him, like something in him finally stops pretending to be patient. Every second of teasing, every laugh, every slow correction from earlier training folds into it all at once.

A hard smack lands across your ass. Making you gasp into his mouth. He swallows your noise.

His hands slide up to your hips, slow, on purpose. Trying to see just how much resolve he can loosen with a mere mundane touch.

Steadying you where you’re straddling him, holding you there with a grip that isn’t rough but isn’t gentle either. Just intentional and familiar. Feeling like he knows exactly how to touch you without needing to think about it.

The kind of touch that makes your confidence from earlier feel stupid in hindsight.

Because this is what actually gets to you. Not the training. Not the jokes.

Just him, holding you like he’s been doing it long enough that it’s second nature now, and still somehow makes your chest tighten every time.

Your tongues find each other and move in the same rhythm with him setting the pace. The sounds of wet kissing echoing off the gym walls. One of your hands rests against his jaw, thumb moving gently against the warm flush of his cheek, while the other stays on his chest, fingers curled into his shirt like you’re holding onto something solid without meaning to.

His grip on your hips firms, fingers digging into your bones making your breath hitch slightly, as he rocks you gently back and fourth. He’s steadying you there and setting a pace. Your bodies grinding into each other slowly, unhurried, every shift of movement deliberate in the way it builds between you without needing anything said.

Dry humping? Really? Childish. At least that was what you tried to convince yourself with. Despite how good it felt.

Your shorts already riding up as the movement forces it higher, fabric catching with every small adjustment of his hands, every slight pull of his hold as he keeps you close. The heat of him is constant beneath your palms, beneath your attention, something you’ve already stopped trying to separate yourself from.

“Do you need anything?” he pulls away just enough to whisper against your mouth, his warm breath brushing your wet lips.

Despite already folding under almost zero pressure, you squint at him anyway, stubbornly holding your ground. “No.”

He smiles against your lips before fully pulling back, your mouth chasing his for half a second before you catch yourself.

“Really?” he murmurs, eyes flicking down for the briefest second before meeting yours again. “Because I can feel you throbbing on me.” You swallow, embarrassingly enough feeling that familiar sense of a slow, throbbing ache building low in your body, making it hard to sit still.

But what made the embarrassment easier to deal with was what you felt under you. You were clearly not the only one affected by this closeness. It was in the way he held you a fraction tighter with each passing second, the way his breath didn’t quite stay as steady as his voice tried to sound, the way his focus kept flickering for just a second too long before he looked back at you again.

Oh, and the undeniable hard outline in his sweats settled right between your legs.

He shifts slightly on the floor, unbothered, as if he has all the time in the world. Then he pulls one of the bulky gloves and slides it under his head, propping himself up on it with an ease that makes the whole situation feel even more unfairly relaxed.

Fully prepared to ruin you.

Your hips roll for a brief second on their own, a small, involuntary movement you can’t quite hide, like your body refuses to stay still on top of him. Whatever frustration or need you were trying to keep tucked away slips through in the simplest, most obvious way.

He notices. Of course he does.

His hand comes up, slow and unhurried, brushing your hair back behind your ear with care. His fingers linger there for a moment longer than necessary, as if he’s memorizing the shape of you in this position, before letting the touch settle back into something quieter. Lazily tracing your thighs up and down. Goosebumps rising against his palms.

“All that sulking from earlier… where’d it go?” his fingers tug at the hem of your shorts. “Say it again. ‘I’m not pouting.’ Go on.”

He watches the way your hips rock back and forth on their own, subtle and unthinking, your body reacting before your mind has time to catch up. Instinctive movement chasing some relief for the aching need between your thighs.

And it only makes it worse that it’s happening right here, in the middle of the boxing ring, under the hum of the gym lights. He just felt too good for you to actually give half of a fuck. Which he didn’t mind himself. This was the place he won multiple matches, it only makes sense to ruin you here.

Your fingers catch on the strings of his sweatpants, pulling them loose in one quick motion. Whatever restraint you were trying to hold onto disappears just as fast as it came.

He just looks up at you with that easy smile of his, completely unbothered, watching something he already expected. Amused, fond in a way that makes it worse. He loved seeing you lose control. Taking what you need from him.

“Pull them lower, baby, go on,” he says smoothing his palms against your thighs. And without a second thought, you do. His sweatpants lower, his hard length straining against his boxers.

And even though his own need was eating away at him, he lets you strip him entirely on your own accord. Something about your hands urgently pulling him apart layer by layer only made it better. He loved watching you do it, watching the impatience take over, watching you unwrap him piece by piece like a Christmas present you'd been waiting all day to get your hands on.

“Easy,” he teases, knowing it only drove you crazier.

“Oh, shush,” you bite back and slowly tug at his boxers, freeing his length, immediately noticing that familiar side curve it had, the one you’d already become used to seeing far too often in just a few months of dating. Him and his crazy libido that matched yours perfectly.

His tip was leaking a thin layer of precum.

“Stop looking, perv,” he teases.

“Right,” you say, annoyance slipping through your voice, your hoodie gets shoved off in the same breath, landing somewhere on the floor beside you and forgotten almost immediately.

His hands leave your thighs, ghosting up your stomach until they settle against the lace fabric of your bra. Unintentionally, the bra was a deep navy blue. Wooyoung's favorite color. Not that it was a thought that had crossed your mind when you got dressed.

But clearly it worked in your favor now.

His eyes catch on the color almost immediately, a smile pulling at his lips as he looks at it. Then at you.

“My favorite,” he murmurs, the smile in his voice impossible to miss.

His thumbs brush absentmindedly against those familiar sensitive peaks beneath the fabric, the touch so casual yet deliberate. A soft breath slips from you before you can stop it, and the look on his face immediately tells you he noticed.

“It wasn’t intentional,” you say immediately, needing him to know that.

He raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, it’s like that?”

You nod once. A grin slowly spreads across his face.

“Don’t care,” he says, almost laughing, “I'd still fuck you no matter what you're wearing.”

And with that, his fingers find the clasp at the back of your bra. Months of familiarity make the movement effortless, and within seconds it comes undone beneath his hand.

He carelessly tosses it somewhere to the side, not bothering to look where it lands. Freeing your chest against the cold air of the gym.

The second his eyes find your boobs again, his mouth parts ever so slightly in quiet admiration. Not enough to be overly obvious, but enough for you to catch it.

Like he'd just been handed his favorite candy.

This man was the biggest fan of your boobs.

Your chest is left fully on display in front of him as you instinctively try to cover yourself with one arm across it, the movement more clumsy than effective. The sudden exposure makes your confidence falter for a second, heat creeping up your neck as you glance away, suddenly very aware of how he’s looking at you.

“No, don’t cover up, come here.”

He quickly removes your arm, pinning it behind your back by your wrist, his grip firm but familiar. His other hand finds your upper back and guides you slightly lower, steadying you so you stop fidgeting away from him.

“So pretty,” says the fanboy.

As he guided you to lean lower, his hand closed gently around one of your breasts, holding it with warmth. His mouth found it without hesitation, enclosing it slowly, unhurried, as if testing the moment itself.

The damp heat of his mouth wrapped around your peak, drawing a sharp, quiet gasp from you before you could stop it. When he looked up at you, his eyes stayed unnervingly calm, steady and composed, as though he didn’t literally have your tit in his mouth. Sucking on it like at any moment milk might actually come out.

“Mm,” he hums softly around it, the sound vibrating faintly through the air between you. His other hand lingers at your wrist, still holding it gently pinned behind your lower back, thumb brushing slow, absentminded circles into your skin.

This man had you straddling his lap in the middle of an empty MMA gym, your body leaning over his like it was the most natural thing in the world, like neither of you had thought to question it in the first place. Your boob sat in his mouth with that same careless ease, while his hands stayed steady on you, warm and grounding in a way that made you not think twice over it.

His tongue flicked out briefly, licking a slow and deliberate vertical line from your underboob up to your nipple where the wet tip of it swirled around, before he sucked it back in with unhurried ease. For a moment he held it there, then let it slip free again with a soft, loud ‘pop’ that echoed faintly in the quiet gym, matching the cadence of your breathless sounds

It felt like he was mapping out the exact shape of your boob using his tongue only.

He places a wet kiss against your already drenched peak.

“Perfect,” another kiss. “All mine,” jiggling it greedily in his hand like a toy. Completely in a trance.

His hand finds your other boob, giving the exact same treatment. Taking every part of it unhurried. He sucks red bruises onto your chest. He loved the way the marks deepened, a lingering echo of him in his absence. A reminder to you.

“Take this off,” he says under his breath, fingers hooking onto your shorts and pulling them down. With a quick tug, they slid down and get tossed aside.

His grip tightened on your hips, fingers digging into yielding flesh as he anchored you precisely where he wanted you. The thin barrier of your panties—damp from anticipation—slid between your slick inner thighs, offering no real resistance as his bare, heated length pressed insistently against your core.

He settled into a slow, devastating rhythm, grinding your clothed heat directly against the rigid length of him until your panties were utterly soaked.

The deliberate friction dragged a desperate sound from your throat, leaving you breathless and trembling as he worked you over his cock. The throbbing between your legs only becoming more evident. His own body pulsing back.

“Feel that?” He hooked his fingers into your panties, tugging it aside to expose your slick center. The heavy length of his shaft settled directly against your folds, skin to skin, the prominent veins adoring it dragging lazily through your wetness without pushing inside. Denying you the fullness you craved.

Moments later, your panties are off. Continuing to grind you against himself.

“Fuck, I’m so hard,” he groans. “Keep those eyes on me.”

Your hands dart aimlessly against his shirt, sneaking past it and under the fabric, against the hard outlines of his bare abs where the muscle rippled beneath your touch. Your hips worked themselves into the movement he set.

“Don’t tell me that’s enough to mess you up,” he teases from below, voice edged with amusement that doesn’t match the position he’s in. As if his groans weren’t eating at the walls of the gym too.

He might be under you, but it doesn’t matter. He’s still got you exactly where he wants you, through the way you keep reacting, the way your focus slips whenever he speaks. You’re losing the thread of your own thoughts, attention narrowing to him alone, stuck on him in a way that makes it hard to breathe properly.

“Put it in…” You let out something barely there, almost inaudible, but not quite. Like you wanted him to catch it without you having to say it properly.

Your voice sits just above a whisper, fragile at the edges, already slipping out of reach. One octave lower and it would’ve disappeared into the space between you.

His smirk only deepens, calm and knowing.

“Go on, baby, it’s in your name,” he says, letting go of your hips. “Use it. Use me. You’re the one on top, aren’t you?”

His tone is light, teasing, too calm for someone who just put you on the spot. He knows exactly what he’s doing, stepping back just enough to make it feel like the responsibility is suddenly yours, watching to see how you’ll handle it.

You push yourself up onto your knees, rising just enough to hover directly above him.

"Spit on it," he commanded, his tone insanely casual.

You obeyed without hesitation, letting a string of spit fall directly onto his flushed head. It glistened against his tip before he took himself in hand, smoothing the slick moisture down the rest of his shaft.

"Mm, fuck," A low, breathy groan tore from his throat as he coated his length in your mess. "Again."

He held his palm flat directly beneath your lips, catching the saliva as it dripped from your mouth. Without a second thought, he smeared it over his shaft, using your own spit as lube so casually. Nothing you did disgusted him, everything about you turned him on.

And with one hand resting at the base of his shaft, he steadies it for you without hesitation. You lower yourself carefully, his tip brushing against your entrance, making you hold his shoulders for balance. The thin layer of precum that dotted his tip smeared on your heat.

You tense at the feeling of his tip pressing against your entrance, instinctively bracing yourself for it.

“You got it, you can take it,” he encourages nodding slowly.

A whine escapes your throat as your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving crescent-shaped indents behind.

“It’s too big.”

“You’re gonna take it one way or another,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing slow, gentle circles against the small of your back. “I can gladly use your mouth instead.”

Working your slick heat over his thick shaft, he struggled to make it fit, his thumb finding your clit trying to soothe you. He pressed and circled right there, right against your sensitive nerve, using the hand that had been resting on your inner thigh to stretch and coax you open while he guided his stubborn girth against your entrance.

"Too much?"

You shook your head no, eyes glassy and pleading, refusing to let the stretch deter you. You needed him inside, even if his girth strained against you despite being soaked. This was always how it was at first, a desperate, needy struggle to accommodate him, your body aching and ready yet still having to work to take every thick inch.

A faint wet slick lingered between your bodies as his hand remained on the small of your back, applying gentle pressure as he eased you down his shaft.

His head fell back uncontrollably, giving way to a raw, unfiltered sound. A deep, guttural groan that rumbled through his chest and escaped him completely unchecked. He never held back his noises.

That's how Wooyoung operated.

Which only made you less embarrassed about the throaty gasp that slipped out as you felt him disappear inside you, filling you completely in this position that allowed him to reach intimate depths. His thick length stretched you open, his tip pushing against your innermost walls like it was trying to burrow into your stomach.

“Look at you, swallowed it whole,” his tone was so cocky in that familiar Wooyoung way. The way he spoke when he knew he had you where he wanted you. Like he knew exactly where he stood with you. No shame. No second guessing. Nothing carefully filtered or held back. Just him, saying it exactly how he thinks it, like whatever slips out of his delicious lips was always meant to be said that way.

His hands begin moving you up and down like his own personal toy, holding your hips. Setting the pace himself. Agonizingly slow. Making you feel every single ridge of his shaft double, your eyes holding that deep gaze. Except his eyes dropped up and down your face and between your bodies, watching intently how you connected.

You bounce matching his hands guiding you.

“Fuck,” he mutters, eyes following his shaft as it disappears repeatedly inside you and then returns looking noticeably messier. Wetter. “Taking that shit like your life depends on it, huh?”

You fold over him, hands fisting the fabric of his shirt into tight bunches as you let out small, broken sounds you don’t fully mean to make. Your back arches away from his palm where he held you, in reflex, every careful movement still hitting sharper than expected. Even at that slow, controlled pace, it’s overwhelming. Because Wooyoung knows exactly how to get a reaction out of you without pushing too far.

You can feel it everywhere at once, in the way your grip tightens on his shirt, your neatly manicured fingers holding on harder matching the grip of his hand on your hipbones.

The pace picks up, a little faster, and the pressure catches you off guard—your body jerking away on instinct as a sharp, overwhelming shock of pleasure runs through you.

“Ah, shit,” you curse, sounding choked.

Before you can fully pull back, your hips are guided right back into place again, his grip firmer now, steadying you through it without giving you room to slip out of his hold.

“Move again and watch how I’ll fuck your brains out,” he says, barely able to get the words through his uneven breathing, voice rough. Jamming you back into the same pace without hesitation like a ragdoll, secure enough to stop you from shifting away again. He sinks back inside with a curse. “Keep taking it for me.”

His hand struck down on your ass, the impact leaving a red mark on contact. You wince slightly at the feeling. Your hips begin moving on their own, rolling slowly back and fourth seeking to double the pleasure you were feeling. And as his tip makes contact with your cervix deep inside, you grind your clit against his lower abdomen.

“You’re soaking wet, it’s cute,” he smiles, his bottom lip jammed between his teeth sharp enough to almost draw blood. You manage a sound in protest. “No? Then look at the mess you’re making all over my cock.”

Your moans and his uneven rhythm of air lingered in the space between you, the gym quieting into something almost unreal. And each time he bottomed out inside you, a gentle slap against your ass is earned.

He reached up, his large palm splaying across your sweat dampened chest, roughly kneading the soft bouncing flesh until it spilled from between his needy, greedy fingers.

Pressing you lower, he captured a nipple in his mouth, his tongue swirling as his hips snapped upward from below, driving his cock deep into your core while you attempted to ride him. He wasn’t waiting on you to make an effort, he was taking it how he wanted.

The sound of wet, squelching movements fills the air. Shamelessly.

He removes his mouth. Your breaths mix and mingle in the small space between you, your chests close enough to feel each sharp exhale rise and fall against the other. Your faces hover near, lips mere inches apart, every breath shared in the same air between you, into each others mouths.

His hand wraps around your throat gently as he slows his pace down a little more, adjusting the movement carefully to match and maximize your reactions.

Even slow strokes helped undo you.

You sit up again, leaning back on your palms that rest on his thighs.

Giving him access to wreck you further.

He thumbs your clit with the other hand, making you shudder at the sudden feeling. The repeated in–out motion of his shaft had eventually stirred you into a creamy mess. His cock growing stickier with each pass, each redraw leaving it heavier and uneven. It started to take on a faint milky tint, as if something had been worked too far, too many times.

“What a mess,” he says aimlessly, doubling down on his movement. Actually loving it.

“Wooyoung…” you breathe out, walls clenching tightly around him drawing a sharp inhale from him.

“Mhm, baby,” he coos back, “you got it,” he adds, his voice dropping into an encouraging whisper as he keeps going. “You can take all of it.”

“Deeper, please,” you plead.

And without missing a beat, Wooyoung, still moving inside you, flips you onto your back, reversing the roles.

Your back lands purposefully against his zip up hoodie that was tossed on the floor a long time ago, instinctively protecting your bare body from making direct contact with the floor, like you’re a precious diamond in his hands, careful enough to keep your soft skin from ever meeting the ring surface.

He pins your thighs back and keeps you grounded, driving his cock deeper. Practically pounding into you like a jackhammer by now. Earning soft, broken gasps from you in response.

“Like this?”

You aren’t even able to reply.

And in this angle, it hits deeper, the force of him pressing through your center making it feel like he settles right in your guts.

He licks a quick, teasing line along your skin starting beneath your tits to your neck, lingering just long enough to make you flinch and shudder in protest before he sucks a spot right under your ear, leaving a stubborn mark as if to prove a point. Nibbling slightly at your earlobe before pulling back.

Your body wasn’t the only thing he was ravaging, your mind followed right behind in that same queue, unable to keep up. He was deliberately doing everything in his power to keep you caught on him, tuned in to the way he had your preferences memorized. What made you tick, what made you lose your composure.

“Wooyoung…” You cry out again, moving your hips. Squirming underneath his pinning.

Which makes him press his hand firmly against your lower stomach so you could feel every inch of him register through you. Keeping you steady beneath him, reducing you to a shaking, whining wreck as you struggle to keep taking his pounding. The sticky, creamy mess between your bodies only growing more noticeable with each ruthless thrust.

“You go crazy for this, hm?” His voice comes out a little whiny there, edged with tease. “Love getting fucked into the floor like a slut?”

You nod back pathetically, barely registering what you’re admitting to, your thoughts still lagging behind you. He mirrors it instantly, nodding with a smile tugging at his face, clearly amused, copying your dazed little state as if to show you exactly how you look right now.

“I want you addicted to it.”

Catching you off guard he pushes his thumb between your lips, stretching your mouth to the side a little. Completely toying with your sweaty face.

“My girl loves getting pounded, doesn’t she?” Tracing the pad of his thumb, he smears your spit on your cheek, delivering a few light, mocking smacks to your flushed skin “Can’t talk? That’s okay. Just keep whining for it.”

You feel a subtle twitch inside you and he pulls back, deliberately resetting his orgasm. His head tips back slightly.

"I'm gonna cum inside, that okay?" he asked, looking down at your connected bodies, his eyebrows scrunched together in concentration as he felt the overwhelming pleasure building. You just nodded mindlessly, too far gone to care.

His thumb finds your clit from above again, circling it gently as he watches closely, taking in the way your tits bounced with the rhythm of his thrusts.

Back arching slightly off the surface beneath you, you let out a sharp, breathless gasp, your thigh twitching in response. And he just smiles, watching you with quiet satisfaction. Like he always did. Loving the moment he got to admire the way you came undone from his doing, his work, touch, attention. Loving being used for your pleasure.

“All over my cock,” he encourages, tone needier, “fucking drench me.”

He pressed harder into your lower abdomen, applying firm pressure that finally tipped you over the edge.

“There it is.”

Your orgasm erupted in a violent, gushing squirt that drenched his lower stomach and the hoodie beneath you. A shocked, high pitched cry ripped from your throat as your nails clawed into the forearm that held you pinned, your walls fluttering around his shaft.

“Oh, fuckkk,” he curses. His lower abdomen tensing as it glistened with your fluid beneath the light.

He followed right after, his hips stuttering as he emptied his warm load deep inside, just like he'd promised. You winced at the sudden rush of heat and the feeling of the sticky mess coating your walls. Your eyes widened in slight surprise as you realized you were falling apart at the exact same moment, your bodies working together so beautifully. The moment far too intimate.

"No, don’t stop now," he groaned, pounding into you with relentless, unforgiving strokes while his thumb worked your clit in small circles, coaxing out every last pulsing squirt until your body went limp and weak. Despite being absolutely ruined himself.

He milked you dry until you collapsed onto the surface beneath you, a trembling, crying mess with nothing left to give, completely emptied yet filled to the brim simultaneously.

Still buried inside but not moving, he leaned down, bracing his hands on either side of you. His breathing had turned so heavy, so uneven, it looked as though he was struggling to stay conscious.

Your breaths mingled in the space between you, neither of you moving for a moment as you waited for the dizziness clouding your vision to settle.

You could feel him gradually soften inside you. His forehead flush against yours.

The shift was almost jarring.

One second he’s all confidence, all control, knowing exactly how he had you completely figured out. The next, it’s gone so fast it nearly gives you whiplash.

“Mm,” he manages a whimper, the sound slipping out far softer than intended, almost embarrassing in how quickly it betrays him. His eyes squeeze shut for a second, one hand settling on your waist. “Don’t move.”

The words come out strained, stripped of every ounce of cockiness he had a moment ago. The sudden sensitivity in his body clear.

But you weren’t one to talk. You were just as sensitive, if not worse, and it showed.

In the way every movement seemed slowed down, delayed by a second. In the weak trembles that kept running through your legs no matter how still you tried to stay. And in the fact that you couldn’t even put together a proper sentence, every thought dissolving before it could make it past your lips.

Pushing himself up onto his palms, he scatters lazy kisses across your face. One to each cheek, another to your forehead, one to the tip of your nose, and finally a soft kiss pressed to your lips.

“Breathe, baby,” he whispers, gently brushing the hair off your sweaty forehead. “I’ve got you. You did good.”

He waits a few more moments, giving you space to recover. Your breathing steadies, your legs relax, and eventually your eyes meet his, glassy and slightly red from exhaustion

“I’ll pull out slowly,” he reassures, drawing his completely soaked shaft out with gentle care so you don’t react sharply. You let out a quiet whiny breath, shuddering, shoulders tightening briefly before easing.

And as soon as you lose that satisfying full feeling, his cum starts leaking out of you in a slow, steady stream. Your body gradually emptying itself, feeling the thick ropes leaking out and onto the surface beneath you. His gaze falters slightly, fixed on the mess, clear satisfaction flickering in his eyes as he watches the evidence of his release trickle down your spent core. Clearly loving the sight of how well he put you to use.

Putting his hand up, he studies the red scratches running along his forearm. A few of them had broken the skin enough to draw the faintest trace of blood. Not that he cared. He hadn’t even noticed them until now

If anything, the sight makes the corner of his mouth twitch. Physical proof of just how overwhelmed he had you, written across his arm for the next few weeks he guessed. A reminder he’ll be far fonder of than he probably should.

“How does it feel?” he asks. You look up curiously. “Y’know, getting fucked where people usually beat the shit out of each other?” he teases, snickering as you smack his shoulder weakly.

“Thought this was supposed to be an educational course on self defense,” you say, rolling your eyes as you catch your breath.

“We’ll try harder next time,” he grins, all easy confidence again, “just don’t distract me.”

And although this wasn’t the ideal spot, it was more than enough. The kind of closeness that didn’t need perfect conditions, just the two of you fitting into each other the way you always did. It winds down in soft teasing and quiet care as he helps you clean up, careful hands and steady focus, easing you back into reality at your own pace. He keeps talking to you in that low, reassuring way of his the whole time, grounding you without ever making you feel rushed or alone in it.

Even on the way home, his hand keeps finding you without thinking. A steady touch on your back, your hand in his, his fingers brushing your hair away from your face whenever it falls there. That familiar look of absolute devotion never leaves him, the one that says he’s right there with you no matter what. Deeply in love with every bit of you. Even carrying you a good chunk of the way.

At home it softens further, slower and warmer. He stays close through everything, helping you shower without making it feel like anything other than care. And when it’s finally quiet, he pulls you into bed with him, arms wrapped around you like it’s second nature, leaving small, appreciative kisses here and there until everything settles into something safe and you doze off.

You guys were just lucky the gym owner was too cheap to install security cameras.

#attitude reader

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