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forlix · 2 months

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𝐚𝐜𝐞・h.h.

— volleyball superstar and your personal hell hwang hyunjin proposes a trade-off you can't refuse: his matchmaking services for a passing anthropology grade. the plan is foolproof in theory; in practice, it is something else entirely.

words・15.2k

pairing・volleyball player!hyunjin x tutor!reader (gn)

genres・college!au, sports!au, fake enemies to friends to lovers, fluff, humor, hurt/comfort, slice of life, mutual pining, slow burn. two polar opposites sharing one soul. a seungjin fic if u squint. loosely inspired by the manga/anime haikyuu!!

warnings・mentions of anxiety, fear of failure, heartbreak, loneliness, and self-image. course language and callous banter (as always) ft. suggestive flirting and one kms joke. some of the referenced players and coaches are real; this fic is not.

playlist・collision by stray kids・value by ado・waiting for us by stray kids・eternity by bang chan・dreaming by smallpools・fly high!! by burnout syndromes

a/n・writing this felt like returning to my roots tbh. i love volleyball and i love sports aus and i love, love hwang hyunjin. thank u to my sahar for bringing this fic to life with me, as always; i can no longer write for him without also writing for you. i hope u guys enjoy reading this as much as i adored writing it. happy late birthday, our jinnie, our hyunjin, our forever ace; you are so unbelievably loved ♡

“Not a word out of you,” you say, tossing your backpack onto the floor of the lecture hall with a heavy-handed flick. “I’m serious.”

Hyunjin glances up at you with a frown. “When did people stop saying good morning?”

Your lack of an immediate comeback tells him the situation is dire. He observes you for a moment, his mouth falling open, hanging still, then curving into a slow, serpentine smile.

“Look at me.”

“No.”

“Look at me.”

“No.”

“Please, angel.”

“No! Leave me alone.”

Hyunjin slumps back into his seat, thinking hard. The solution occurs to him with a poke of his tongue into his cheek. “Coffee on me for a week.”

At this, your hands stop rummaging in your bag. You cock your head, your interest piqued. Got you.

When you finally humor him and turn around, you’re flinching like you’re in pain, eyes closed and breath held and all. He giggles and leans in for a closer look. Tendrils of your body spray reach him from here, floral and light like a tropical coastline. He could’ve counted your eyelashes if he wasn’t so flummoxed by the state of your forehead.

“What the hell did you do?”

“Tried to cut my own bangs,” you sigh. “It didn’t go very well and now I look like Rock Lee.”

Hyunjin lets out a forceful laugh. “You’ve seen Naruto?”

You open your eyes. Only then does Hyunjin remember how little distance he left between your faces, when he’s staring straight into them and all the strange, starry speckles they hold.

The air between you curdles like sour milk.

Things are awkward between you often, he’s realized recently. What’s more, he didn’t think he was capable of being awkward with anyone anymore until he met you. It was your ill-fated seat that he chose to sit next to on the first day of ANTH 111, your ill-fated lap onto which he chose to spill his Americano, and the rest was history (or, in this case, anthropology). His tongue ends up in sailor’s knots with every smart-aleck comment and pitiful laugh you’ve given him since. Maybe there’s more to it, maybe there isn’t—Hyunjin doesn’t think about it much. He doesn’t like thinking in general.

You pull away from each other in unison. You clear your throat, glancing elsewhere.

“Of course I’ve seen Naruto,” you quip, and everything is normal again. “Why do you seem surprised?”

“Because you’re so scholarly.”

“I am not scholarly.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You go to a park to play chess with old people on weekends.”

“I need to get my steps in somehow.”

“You didn’t know what Urban Dictionary was until I told you to look up—”

“God, I learned so much about you that day."

“Your favorite social media platform is Quizlet,” he bursts, exasperated. “Quizlet.”

“It is not.” An introspective pause. “Or is it?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Hyunjin throws his feet up on the chair below him, jabs in your direction with a bandaged finger. “There is no way you enjoy watching 2D men beat each other up in your free time. I don’t buy it.”

“Honestly, I thought you’d have more to say about my current appearance than my hobbies.”

He does, though. Matter of fact, he’s been curating a list since this conversation started: Vector from Despicable Me, Dora the Explorer’s hot older sibling, Spock. You face-planted into a lawnmower. You mistook a paper shredder for a hat. It goes on.

But then his head turns. Your eyes meet again. He’s reminded that it’s hard to sustain an inner monologue and look at you at the same time, Vector resemblance and all.

He reaches up, nudges a lock of your hair over a centimeter or so, and gives the patch of forehead a gentle flick.

“Watermelon,” he mumbles with a sickening smile.

You divert your attention to your lecture notes with a disappointed click of your tongue. “You’re getting soft.”

He spends the entire lecture daydreaming about tropical coastlines.

“I only get coffee from that one place on the east side of campus, by the way,” you say as you’re strolling out the building together, “and I get it a very specific way. Can you handle it?”

“Your faith gets me out of bed in the morning,” Hyunjin deadpans. “I’ll handle it, love. Text me your order.”

All of a sudden, you position your hands close to your stomach, the lapels of your jacket casting them in shadow. Your fingers begin to move in a sequence that he’d recognize anywhere.

“Body flicker jutsu,” you whisper, and then you’re scurrying off without another word—but you do glance back at him to gauge his response. Your smile is purely effulgent, your laugh but a faint sigh against the main quad’s busy thrum.

Hyunjin gapes at your retreating figure for so long that phosphenes start prancing around his field of view. Then he heads to the gym. His heart is pounding against his ribs like a battering ram.

“Hwang, I need you in my office.”

Hyunjin stops lacing up his shoes to see Coach Bang standing on the court’s sideline with a grim air about him. He glances at his captain, confused.

“Don’t look at me,” Minho says mid-stretch. “Godspeed.”

“Thanks, cap.” Useless.

Head volleyball coach Christopher Bang’s workspace reminds Hyunjin of a morgue. It’s all fluorescent lights and spotless white walls, the only decorative fixture a picture of his siblings, parents, and dog in front of the Sydney Opera House, framed and facing him atop his desk. Hyunjin once snuck the thing into the bathroom, an innocent plot to satiate his curiosity, and promptly discovered the man’s propensity for violence. He’s packing beneath those dry-cleaned polos, by the way.

Hyunjin closes the door and takes a seat. Bang taps a knuckle against the tempered glass of his monitor. “You can read, right?”

“Yes, coach,” he sighs. Everyone’s expectations for him are subterranean.

From: Park Jinyoung «[email protected]» To: Bang “Christopher” Chan «[email protected]» Subject: Not good See email from Hwang’s antopology professor below . He submitted the complete script of the Trolls movie instead of his mid term paper and now he’s failing the class . Not good . Sort out ASAP JP Sent from my iPad

Bang snatches up his mouse and scrolls, his ears turning scarlet. “Wrong email.”

“Yep.”

From: Kim Kyeyoung «[email protected]» To: Park Jinyoung «[email protected]» Subject: Regarding Hwang Hyunjin To Director of Athletics Park, I am writing to inform you that, as of yesterday, Mr. Hwang Hyunjin has a D- (64.9%) in ANTH 111: Cultural Anthropology, due to his submission of the complete script of a kids’ movie instead of his midterm paper. It is disappointing to see Mr. Hwang trivialize and ridicule my class to such a degree. Please see to it that he reorganizes his priorities lest his Student-Athlete Participation Agreement do so for him. Regards, Kim Kyeyoung Professor of Anthropology

“That’s bullshit!”

“We’re in agreement there.” Bang folds his arms over his chest, throws his foot over his knee. “Do you know what your Student-Athlete Participation Agreement says?”

“Does anyone?” Hyunjin scoffs. Bang whips out a form and brings it to eye level, the thing covered from top to bottom in microscopic Times New Roman. “No way you just had that.”

“I had it delivered ten minutes ago,” Bang confesses, then clears his throat and begins to recite. “All student-athletes must complete the academic term with a C or higher in all courses, should they wish to continue their participation in athletics thereafter.”

Hyunjin stiffens. “What the fuck? I’ve never heard—”

“If any Department of Athletics personnel,” Bang continues, raising his voice, “have reason to believe that a student-athlete will not be able to satisfy this requirement, they are encouraged to utilize resources such as academic advising or peer tutoring in guiding said student-athlete back onto the correct path.”

He shoves the piece of paper across his desk. “Read that name aloud for me.”

Hyunjin stares at the signature at the bottom of the page, scrawled so carelessly that most of it deviates away from its designated line. There is a rare hollowness in his chest that he recognizes as anxiety. With it comes a glimpse of a life without volleyball, the question of what little of him would remain.

“Hwang Hyunjin,” he says under his breath.

The office goes silent. Bang tucks the form back into his drawer. It closes with a gentle click.

Then comes the yelling.

“The Trolls movie? Trolls?! Are you fucking with me, Hwang?”

“It was a cultural reset! The pinnacle of modern media! How’s that for anthropology?”

“BAD!” Bang explodes, gesturing to the email emphatically. “VERY, VERY BAD!”

Hyunjin slumps over, dejected.

“You’ve never had trouble with school before.” He leans over his desk imposingly. “What the hell happened this semester? What changed?”

Nothing is the first answer that comes to mind, but Hyunjin’s pulse spikes like a lie detector. Upon the inside of his eyes replays a scene of a certain someone with watermelon bangs doing teleportation jutsu at him from a few yards away, wearing a smile made of some kind of space dust that astronomists haven’t discovered yet.

He grits his teeth, annoyed. This is what happens when he thinks.

“Beats me,” he fibs. “Typical junior year stress, maybe.”

“Does any of it have to do with Piazza?”

Hyunjin shudders.

It just might, actually.

Modesty has no place in the career he’s had: high school national champion turned ace hitter in both the South Korean U21 roster and regular rotation for Seoul National University, the best collegiate volleyball team in the country. His name has lived at the top of ranking lists and the center of gold medals since he turned old enough to qualify for them; the press believes him the instigant of South Korea’s imminent volleyball revolution. It’s a mouthful, he knows.

It was never a question that he would go professional; the question was who he should talk to and where he would go.

At the start of the school year, Bang, acting in place of the agent he was advised to find and never bothered to, gave him a list of people to reach out to. On the very top was none other than Roberto Piazza, the chairman and head coach of Allianz Milano, one of the most eminent club teams in the world—and current home to Hyunjin’s personal idol, outside hitter Ishikawa Yuki.

Hyunjin thought his poor coach had finally succumbed to his old age. The thought of stepping onto the same court as Ishikawa felt sacrilegious, let alone donning the red, white, and navy blue of Allianz Milano with him. But Bang slapped him on the back of the neck and reminded him that going professional was equal parts preparation and opportunity; he was never going to know the answers to questions he didn’t ask. Hyunjin was coerced to fire off an introductory email despite his reservations.

Piazza replied within the week.

For the last five months, Hyunjin has been fighting with tooth and nail to manage his expectations. He scrolls past the team’s social media posts like they burn his eyes. He replies to Piazza’s emails right before working out with Changbin under the assumption that whatever the shredded libero does to him will eviscerate his brain. If his world is made of dreams, this is the one at its very core, imbued with destructive potential the second it became attainable.

But that’s the last five months. The last five weeks have been you kicking him in the shin because he’s laughing (or trying to make you laugh) and the professor is staring; you listening to him rant and rave about volleyball when he knows you couldn’t care less about the sport; you relaying the contents of your class readings like hot gossip, your eyes wild and hands flying around because you can’t contain your excitement. You, you, you.

He cards a hand through his air, regaining focus. “You know how I feel about Piazza.”

“Expect the worst, hope for the best.” Bang’s chair skids backwards as he stands up. “I think it’s a good approach.”

Suddenly, he is directly in front of Hyunjin, low enough to meet his eyes. His hands rest upon his shoulders firmly.

“But hope is hungry, and it will consume you if you let it,” he says. “Do not let it, Hyunjin. I’m not asking.”

Even while being squeezed to a pulp and regarded with the cold intensity of a statue, Hyunjin can’t help but feel anchored, somehow, to the floor of this miserable office. Protected.

Bang lets go of him. “I’m not asking you to find a tutor by the end of the week, either.”

Hyunjin groans. “Yeah, yeah. I’m on it.”

A set of bandaged fingers appear in your periphery to place a paper cup onto your laptop. Accompanying the smell of fresh coffee is that of smoky rose, as decidedly douchey as ever.

“I thought you said your order was complicated.”

You look up from your phone to see Hyunjin plop into the adjacent seat. His long, caramel-colored hair is damp and unstyled in the aftermath of a morning shower, droplets of water pearling on the lapels of a navy blue windbreaker, layered over a white long sleeve. You recognize the outfit by now as game gear.

“Was it not?” You ask.

“It was an Americano, love. I walked up to the cashier and placed an order for an Americano.”

“Well, I wasn’t sure if you could handle that much.” He flips you off as you squint at the cup. “Someone wrote their number on the lid, by the way.”

“What? Really?”

“No.”

He shoves you hard enough for your upper body to drape over the opposite armrest; you’re still cackling by the time you’ve straightened up again.

“Why did you get this, anyway?” Hyunjin grumbles. “I thought you had a sweet tooth.”

“I do, but you don’t.”

Only then does the fool understand that you had no intention of charging him in coffee just for a haircut reveal. He takes back the coffee hesitantly.

“Thanks,” he says at last. “Nice of you.”

“I know, right? Hated it,” you respond, and he almost chokes on his first sip.

You almost choke on nothing when Kim Seungmin materializes in the aisle adjacent. He holds out a hand in Hyunjin’s direction. “Yo.”

Hyunjin dabs it up mid-sip. “I fully forgot you were in this class.”

“Well, I’m due for my weekly appearance.” Seungmin slips into the seat directly below you, glancing at you over his shoulder. “Hey, Y/N.”

“Hi,” you say, somehow managing to stumble over the single syllable the word has. You thank your lucky stars that you fixed your hair yesterday.

You like Kim Seungmin. Not just in the cutesy, crushy way, but in the “I would relinquish all of my rights for you” way where you spend every waking moment cursing out whatever stroke of misfortune placed Hyunjin in the seat next to you instead of him. He’s funny, gorgeous, and talented—a vocal performance major with a student-athlete contract—and you think your infatuation is more than justified. Hyunjin thinks it’s hilarious.

You side-eye your blonde adversary, prepared to see one of three things: a suppressed laugh, a dramatic eye-roll, or a mature kissy face that usually results in the first option. You’re met with something far more worrisome.

He’s thinking.

That can’t be good.

Suddenly, his phone screen lights up with a text that temporarily wipes the conspiratorial gleam from his eye. Hyunjin scans it over and groans. “Can this guy do his fucking job?”

“He wouldn’t have to if you didn’t quit,” Seungmin answers. “I’ll never forget you, Manager Hwang.”

“Shut up.” You peer at Hyunjin, silently requesting an explanation. “Our captain is forcing us to help him look for a new team manager. We need one for playoffs because of some stupid U-League rule—Seung, why do you look morose?”

“I’m mourning.” Seungmin does look morose indeed. “Hyunjin committed larceny last year and our coach punished him by making him our team manager for the rest of the season. It was so funny.”

Hyunjin slides down his seat. “It was the worst experience of my life.”

Neither man seems inclined to elaborate on the mention of larceny. You choose to digress. “Can I ask why?”

“He had to be responsible,” Seungmin whispers. “For other people.”

The top of Hyunjin’s head stops right next to your armrest. You reach over and pat his hair in faux sympathy. “Poor thing.”

“Hardass refused to do it again this year, so now we’re recruiting.” Seungmin props an elbow upon the back of his chair, looks at you contemplatively. “I don’t suppose you have four hours to spare every day.”

Hyunjin scoffs from below you. Loudly. “This one? Team manager?”

“I can see it.”

“I can see killing myself, maybe.”

The next time you reach for him is to hit his forehead. A crisp smack resounds around the barren lecture hall. Hyunjin cusses into his seat cushion.

“Seems like a great candidate to me,” Seungmin muses, and the warm smile he gives you mirrors onto your face before you can think better of it. God, it’s pretty. You wonder how it would feel pressed against your own.

Hyunjin is now completely out of sight and halfway onto the floor. “I miss when you didn’t come to class, Seungmin.”

Eighty minutes later, you’ve just emerged from the classroom when Seungmin calls out to you. You come to such a sudden halt that Hyunjin almost trips over you, but you barely notice him stumble, utterly enraptured by the hand Seungmin brings to the strands of hair by your ear, the fingers that dust your cheek as they pluck a small piece of lint from out of the tresses.

“Sorry.” He flicks it away with a sheepish smile. “I couldn’t unsee it.”

You manage to thank him just before your whole body ceases to function. Hyunjin sidesteps the two of you, yawning.

Seungmin excuses himself not too long after you reach the main quad. You also turn to leave, sparing Hyunjin a curt farewell in the process. He hooks his pointer finger around the handle at the top of your backpack and lugs you backwards with infuriating ease.

“I didn’t like that at all,” you say.

“I don’t care. I have something to tell you.”

“You have a kid, don’t you?”

“Wha—huh? Who do you think I am?”

“The one-night-stand’s poster child. The champion of the contraception industry.”

“Yeah, contraception industry. It’s right there in the name.”

You can’t argue with that. “What do you have to tell me?”

A shadow of hesitation flits across Hyunjin’s face. Your smile falters. Is it possible that you’re about to have a serious conversation with him for the first time? Maybe you should’ve saved the secret son bit for another time.

“I’m failing anthro.”

So much for a serious conversation.

“Come again?”

He repeats the mystifying statement.

“You’re joking.” The look on his face says otherwise, though, and your eyebrows disappear into your hair. “You’re failing anthro?”

“I just said that, yes.”

“You’re failing anthropology?”

“Mhm.”

“Just so we’re clear—you’re failing Introduction to Cultural Anthropology?”

“Yes. I’m glad you’re having fun.”

This is the best day of your life. “I didn’t even know that was possible.”

“Yeah, well, our professor has no media literacy,” he mutters.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Hyunjin clears his throat. “Anyways, I was thinking—”

“Wow! Congratulations. That’s a big—oomf—”

Hyunjin puts his entire hand over your face. Your mangled noises of protest go unacknowledged.

“I was thinking,” he continues, pushing your head around like a stick shift, “you and I can work out some kind of deal.”

You shove his wrist off you with a revolted groan. “I think I just ate some athletic tape.”

“Happens. You wanna hear the deal or not?”

“Does it involve ingesting more sports equipment?”

“Do you want it to?”

“Just tell me the deal, boy.”

“Alright.” He takes a deep breath. “If you help me pass this class, I’ll set you up with Seungmin.”

Your head performs a triple-axel on your neck. You are unable to respond for what feels like multiple hours. Finally: “I’m gonna need you to elaborate.”

“On which part?”

“All of them. Everything.”

Hyunjin sighs, then scans the courtyard. His gaze settles on the student union a little ways off. “Are you hungry?”

You pick up a sandwich and a smoothie in a state of nervous stupor. One would think it’s the prime minister you’re about to have lunch with and not an imbecilic left-side hitter eating from three different entrees at the same time.

He’s chosen a table a few yards away from a planter of flowering cherry blossom trees. You feel jealous eyes on the side of your face as you take a seat across from Hyunjin, but they don’t know that his telephone pole legs still bump against yours even with them drawn as close to your body as anatomically possible. Or that he’s drawing up a literal Ponzi scheme on your sandwich wrapper. You wager you’ve had better company.

“You like anthropology. I like listening to you talk about anthropology.” He traces over the wrapper’s left corner. “And I kinda want you to boss me around. That weird?”

“Yes, definitely,” you mumble around a mouthful of bread. “Go on.”

“Conclusion one: you should be my tutor.” He taps in place as if applying a finishing touch, then swaps to the opposite side. “You also like my teammate, but he’s neck-deep in volleyball and music this semester, which makes him hard to get a hold of—for most people.”

“Let me guess. Not for you.”

“Ten points to Ravenclaw.” His British accent is nightmarish. “Seung and I live in the same building. We get dinner when we go back from practice together. Conclusion two: you should come with us.”

“To dinner or to practice?”

“To both. Which brings us to my third and final conclusion—”

He slams a fist onto the center of the wrapper.

“—you should manage our team.”

“I knew it!” You slam the table as well, your smoothie wobbling upon impact. “You’re trying to swindle me! You can’t pay for my labor with more labor. What do you take me for?”

“It’s not labor, dumbass! Ask our last manager! He didn’t do shit!”

“Yeah? Who was your last manager?”

“Me!”

Oh, right. “But you hated it!”

“I hate everything that isn’t playing volleyball. Try again.”

You fold your arms over your chest. “You said you’d kill yourself if I managed you.”

Hyunjin starts balling up your sandwich wrapper. “It’s true. I thought about you and my coach getting along and promptly got a rash. But it makes so much sense: you do whatever you want during practice, tutor me afterwards, and then you and Seung can eyefuck over ramen or something. My coach hops off my dick, you hop on Seung’s—”

“STOP!” A girl drops her receipt not too far away, startled by your outburst. “Stop right there. I get it. Stop.”

“It’s a good plan.” He slings the paper ball towards the nearest trash can. It drops into the hole without so much as a brush against the rim. “You know it is.”

You’re loath to admit that you do. “When did you even come up with all this?”

He flicks a thumb in the direction of your anthropology class. No fucking wonder he’s failing.

“What is this, mock trial?”

The owner of this voice is the third man you’ve seen today donning that navy windbreaker, white long-sleeve combo. He has a face that reminds you of your neighbor’s cat from back home, sleek and sharp and only slightly sinister. There’s a dash of humor in his expression as he approaches your table like he’s enjoying the company of a court jester.

“Slamming tables like fuckin’ tariff lawyers,” the cat-man hums, lifting a hand in Hyunjin’s direction. “I could see it from all the way inside.”

“Captain!” Hyunjin crows, dabbing him up without missing a beat. They really do that like breathing. “Just the man I was hoping to see.”

“Really? I thought you’d be avoiding me like the rest of our homunculus team.”

“I would never.”

“You did. Yesterday. When you saw me and started running in the opposite direction.” He pauses for emphasis. “As fast as possible.”

“Well, that was yesterday. Today is a new day.” Hyunjin tosses you a proud glance. “And today, I bring you a new team manager.”

You stiffen. “I haven’t—”

“Is that so!” When the stranger smiles at you, you feel the same satisfaction you did every time the cat let you scratch her on the chin. “Music to my ears. What’s your name, cutie?”

You catch Hyunjin’s eye across the table; he nods enthusiastically as if saying go on, then. You briefly picture yourself strangling him with his own athletic tape. You then picture yourself hopping on Seungmin’s—

Rigidly, you throw a hand out to the cat-man, your face aflame.

“Y/N,” you grumble. “I’m looking forward to working with you.”

He shakes on it heartily. “Likewise. I’m Minho. Welcome to the team.”

“Yes, welcome to the team,” Hyunjin parrots, looking positively jolly. You gnash your teeth together so hard your jaw throbs.

He’s lucky that his proposal holds so much water. He’s lucky that you don’t plan to strangle him until after you try that eyefucking thing.

You do kick him under the table, though.

The team has five weeks to prepare for the Korean University League, the biggest college-level volleyball tournament in the country. You have five days to learn how the hell athletic tape works. You can’t tell which is the bigger endeavor.

“I’m going to cause him irreversible skeletal damage,” you tell Changbin.

The team’s libero is twice as kind as he is talented, a full-time sweetheart working part-time at the university’s sports medicine clinic. Only your first week on the job and you’ve already decided he’s the only person on Earth you would permit to usher you through the gym at 6:45 A.M., a roll of athletic tape pressed to your back like a pistol.

“You will not,” Changbin answers. “One, because this won’t involve his skeleton, and two, because I wouldn’t ask you to help if it did.”

“You’ve misunderstood me,” you return as the two of you stop in front of an examination room. “I want to cause him irreversible skeletal damage.”

“Oh.” He opens the door with a frown. “Oh dear.”

Inside, Hyunjin is sitting cross-legged on top of a taping table, fitted in a loose gray tee and athletic shorts. He watches in pessimistic silence as you enter the room and beeline straight towards the shelf on the right. You slip a thick binder into your hands and bury your nose inside it without so much as a greeting.

“I am going to get maimed,” Hyunjin tells Changbin.

“Have some faith, both of you,” Changbin replies sternly. You find the pages you’re looking for and begin poring over them like you’re cramming for an exam. “You’ll be fine, Jinnie. Y/N studied.”

“Studied?” He repeats. “For this?”

“I’m pretty sure Quizlets were made.”

“Three, to be exact," you interject, sticking out your hand. “Now tape me.”

Hyunjin mouths the words tape me in baffled silence. The latter obliges your request with a smile. “See? What could go wrong?”

The answer to that, actually, is a lot. Especially after Changbin gets called away to help stretch out a teammate named Felix who allegedly “sprained his ass,” leaving Hyunjin to you and your binder.

You detect no smoky rose in the air around him today, just the subtle smells of cedar and cypress—laundry detergent or shampoo, maybe. Figures he doesn’t wear that insufferable cologne to practice.

“Go easy on me, yeah?”

While Hyunjin’s tone is teasing, yours is downright somber.

“I can’t promise anything.”

With that, you turn your palms face-up in a silent request for his hand.

A few strands of hair fall into your face as you lean in for a better look. It’s the first time you’ve seen his fingers untaped; they’re pretty, long and slender and surprisingly manicured, but also battered in their delicacy, the veins running over the back of his hand and forearm prominent, his bottom knuckles discolored from the healing bruises they bear. His hard work is palpable upon the smooth skin as evidently as if tattooed.

Hyunjin says your name in close proximity. You respond with an absent hum.

“You’re not nervous, are you?”

“No. Maybe a little.” You let his hand fall free and go to rummage for supplies. “Fine, yes. Very.”

“But you made Quizlets. You’re prepared for anything.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” You realize only after spotting the gentle smile on his face that he’s making fun of you. “I hate you.”

“Actually,” he hums, “I think you care about me, love. That’s why you’re nervous.”

“Nonsense—I care about disappointing Changbin. That’s it.”

“And me. And hopping on Seungmin’s dick. All these things don’t have to be mutually exclusive.”

You try to tackle him. Hyunjin catches your hands a few inches away from his face, fingers closing around your wrists with obnoxious agility.

“Have you lost your mind?” You whisper-shout, your face on fire. “Don’t bring that up here. I’ll maim you for real.”

The laugh that explodes out of him throws his entire body backwards, turns his eyes to crescent moons and his mouth into a little rectangle. You hate that you don’t hate when that happens.

“My bad, my bad. It slipped out. I won’t—”

One incremental shift of Hyunjin’s body later, you find that you’re precariously, alarmingly close to one another.

So much so that you notice the mole beneath his left eye for the first time, that you're nearly cross-eyed looking at it. That the tip of your nose actually brushes against his before you pull away with a quiet intake of breath.

Things are awkward between you often, you’ve realized recently. You’re both professional yappers, always quick to digress, quick to find a new topic to bicker about before the awkwardness marinates. But hours later you’ll look back on the interaction and still remember how the air shifted: like a layer of dust had been blown away and something untouched and unknown was discovered just underneath.

Since you’ve met him, Hyunjin has spent more time on your nerves than on your mind. You’re not exactly losing sleep over such a circumstantial acquaintance; you know that his presence in your life will end the way it began, naturally and anticlimactically and inside the ANTH 111 lecture hall. Still, it doesn’t go unnoticed when your heart and stomach launch into an elaborate gymnastics routine in the wake of something he says or does, just as they’re doing now.

Hyunjin glances into your right eye a moment, then your left. The mole just below his left eye disappears when he smiles, the expression soft, saccharine, and sincere. How anyone casually looks the way he does is beyond your abilities of comprehension.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

Your face continues to burn, now perhaps for different reasons. “What for?”

He lets go of your wrist, sweeps the lock of hair that keeps getting in your eyes behind the cuff of your ear.

“Caring about me.”

Then he flicks your forehead. You recoil with a quiet ow.

“Now stop stalling and tape me, dumbass.”

“Okay,” you mutter, rubbing the injury tenderly. “No need to get violent.”

It turns out the arduous taping procedure described in the instruction manual is for serious hand injuries. Hyunjin splints his fingers together for support, not rehabilitation, so it takes all of five minutes for him to talk you through his process. You finish taping both of his hands with nineteen minutes to spare. So maybe the Quizlets were overkill.

As you’re walking him down to practice, you take his hand and lift it to eye level, scanning your craftsmanship dubiously. “It’s not too tight, is it?”

“It’s perfect.” He swivels the hand around and grabs onto your entire face, the sensation by now eerily familiar. “Want another taste?”

You shove him down the stairs that remain. Unfortunately, there are only two. “You are truly grotesque.”

The gym has come to life since you arrived earlier this morning, now illuminated by shining ceiling lights in addition to the sun spilling through high, narrow windows. Most of the team has yet to step onto the court, still stretching or jogging along the sidelines: Minho and Coach Bang are talking strategy on the bench, the coach taking notes on a handheld whiteboard every now and then; Changbin is leaning over a recumbent Felix below the scoreboard, presumably trying to fix his ass.

The only one already with a ball in hand is Seungmin, setting to himself by the net. Once, twice, thrice straight up in the air, and then he glances in your direction and sends the fourth towards the left side of the court in a buoyant arc.

You only glean bits and pieces of the next few seconds. Hyunjin is at your side one moment, making a break for the net the next. His arms draw backwards in perfect synchrony. Feet hit the floor with laserlike intent. His entire body unravels like a fraying chrysalis as he rises to meet the ball, pounds it over the net and into the ground at an angle so clean that the sound of its landing resounds within your ribcage. It rebounds over the railing of the second floor and barely misses the doorway of the examination room you just emerged from.

Hyunjin drops lightly back onto his feet, following the ball’s tumultuous trajectory with proud eyes. A leftover breeze tosses a strand of hair over the bridge of your nose, and time starts moving again.

“Oi, this isn’t your backyard! Go pick that up!” Their coach booms, though his words lack their usual bitterness after what he just witnessed his ace hitter do.

Hyunjin swivels towards Seungmin first. “Crazy bitch. What the fuck was that?”

“Lower and faster. Further from the net too,” Seungmin returns. “How’d it feel?”

The grin on Hyunjin’s face reminds you of a wildfire, untamed and all-consuming and frightening in its fervor. “Like we just won everything.”

He tousles your hair as he jogs past you and back up the stairs to fetch the volleyball. Seungmin waves at you with one hand and palms another ball into his other. His face is warm and bare, his slim build flattered by his volleyball gear. You’ve witnessed few people so nice to look at and even fewer things as elegant as his setting form. But you are still thinking about Hyunjin—and you can’t move.

It is debilitating, watching somebody do the very thing they were destined for.

A little less than a week later, Hyunjin is approaching hour three of spewing hot garbage into a Word document when he decides to give up and call you.

“Hello?” He immediately starts laughing. “Where the fuck are you?”

You poke the top of your head into the shot of your ceiling, gesturing to your headband. “My face is preoccupied at the moment.”

“Oh, you have to show me. Please.”

You flip your phone up for no more than half a second. A camera shutter goes off, followed by a shriek so loud that it peaks your mic.

“Motherfucker!”

He basically sprints to his camera roll. His prize: you with your face slathered in cleanser, hair pinned back by a Miffy headband, looking like the abominable snowman if he liked cute merchandise.

“Thank you,” he says earnestly. “I’ll treasure this forever.”

“You’ll be punished, Hwang.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

You brandish your middle finger at him in response. He props his phone up against his computer screen with a chuckle.

“Aaanyways, I have a thesis statement to run by you.”

The first thing you did as Hyunjin’s tutor was help draft an email to Professor Kim, begging her to let him resubmit the two essays he royally botched. She replied with a lengthy quotation from her syllabus, specifically the section that talked about (and prohibited) resubmissions, but ended up making an exception for Hyunjin on account of the “truly piteous timbre” of his email. You fell out of your chair laughing when he read you her response.

“You should’ve opened with that.”

“I tried, hello? Someone distracted me!”

“Read. It. Before I change my mind.”

You spend a few minutes at most on the thesis itself, advising him to avoid passive voice, answer the prompt, establish a refutable argument, the works. Then he asks you a question about the research topic itself, allusions to the afterlife in Ancient Egyptian artwork, and the tutoring session takes a turn into what feels like a podcast episode.

You talk about the God of Death, Anubis, and his connections to the underworld; the elaborate, lavish funerary rituals intended to ensure the souls of the dead traveled safely; the vibrant murals that flanked their final resting spots as pictorial requests for divine protection. And you talk about them all with such confidence, such eloquence, that it’s as if you’re leading him through a history museum rather than talking to your phone as you do your skincare. He could listen to you for hours. He does, actually.

Around 1 A.M., Hyunjin stops typing mid-sentence when you come into frame for the first time, collapsing into your bed with a sigh of relief. Your eyes are soft and sleepy as they blink at your screen, strands of damp hair clinging to your cheeks. He feels his heart physically shift inside his ribcage when your mouth stretches into a yawn. It is the same sensation as the time you shot him a smile over your shoulder and he couldn’t move for ten minutes.

With that, his attention span has run its course.

“Baby,” he interrupts gently. “Let’s stop here, okay? You seem tired.”

You open your mouth as if to protest, only to yawn again.

“I suppose I am. Will you keep working tonight?”

“I think so. I hit my stride.”

“Text me if you have questions, then. I’ll respond when I wake up.”

“Okay.”

Your lips curve into the smallest of smiles. It copies onto Hyunjin’s face incurably quickly.

“I had my doubts about this tutoring thing, you know.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, you told me this class was the closest thing to daily naptime you’d experienced since preschool.”

“It really is.”

“You also told me you would rather slam your tongue in a car door than read more than three sentences in one sitting.”

“I really would.”

“And you once referred to academia as ‘Virgin Village.’”

“Didn’t you come up with that?”

“No, hello? I live in that village.”

He grins. “I know. I just wanted to hear you admit it.”

“Fuck you.”

“Ah, don’t threaten me with a good—”

“What I’m trying to say is that I didn’t think you would take this seriously, but I’m happy to be proven wrong.”

Hyunjin leans back. “Well, turns out I might give a fuck about anthropology after all.”

“Really?”

“No.”

You pretend to punch him through the screen. It’s so cute that he forgets to think before he opens his mouth next.

“But I do give a fuck about you.”

There’s nothing crazy about the statement. You’re friends, sort of. You manage his team. It would be strange if he didn’t. But the seconds that follow are terrible, a silent prophecy of something disastrous, like a cloud of rubble before an avalanche, the standstill during a star’s final breath. And Hyunjin’s heartbeat is hounding against his ears like a performance of traditional taiko.

He says good night in a haste. The call ends. He stares at the wall of his bedroom in a muddled haze for who knows how long.

Then he opens his texts.

Hyunjin: We have team bonding tomorrow btw Hyunjin: Don’t forget Y/N: i forgot. Y/N: pick me up at 6:45? Hyunjin: 🫡

He picks you up at 7:53.

You approach his car with your fists balled and your eyebrows knitted together like a mean old curmudgeon and he’s walking too close to your lawn.

“His fault,” Hyunjin says before you start yelling.

Minho simpers at you through his open window. “Hey, you! So glad you could join us!”

You fix the man with a judgmental glare as you slide into the backseat. “Aren’t you the captain? Why are you this late?”

“Whoa, okay. I would’ve scheduled this for earlier if I knew right now was honesty hour.”

“You did schedule it for earlier,” you say. “You scheduled it for way earlier.”

“Yeah, well, you’re fired.”

“You can’t fire me, Minho.”

“I can too. Tell ‘em, Hwang.”

“I want nothing to do with this.”

When you step through the doors of the arcade, you’re met with a surge of sensory input that you haven’t experienced in years. The air hangs thick with the smells of greasy concessions; everywhere you look are flashing screens and neon signs, stuffed animals and fading posters; clamoring against your ears are the sounds of games being won or lost, of balls being pocketed or launched, and of a horde of fully grown men spectating a match of Dance Dance Revolution so passionately (and loudly) that they’ve scared everyone away from that side of the room. You recognize the current competitors as Changbin and Jeongin.

“I’ll go pay,” Hyunjin says. “How much time do we want?”

“Infinity,” Minho answers. Hyunjin doesn’t move. “Two hours.”

He flashes him a thumbs-up. “And you?”

“I’m okay, I think.”

“No you’re not,” the two men answer in perfect unison.

You glance between them warily. “I don’t mind watching, seriously. I don’t even know how most of these games work—”

“There’s Tetris,” Hyunjin cuts in.

You purchase an hour.

One would imagine the point of the evening is to break the SNU men’s volleyball team, not to bond them. You’ve never seen so many strained blood vessels in your life. Nor have you heard of half the insults they spew at each other as the night goes on. Felix has to pay a fee for lodging an air hockey puck in the side of the MarioKart machine. Changbin loses at skee-ball and has to down an XL slushie like it’s a shot. It’s a scary amount of boyishness expressed in scary ways.

But they’re happy. You’ve picked up on it when they’re on the court, noticed the raw elation they emanate just from playing together. Yet, their closeness has never been more evident to you than tonight. The men are either laughing or making someone else laugh, arms draped over each other at all times, equally happy to celebrate victories as they’re eager to punish losses. It dawns on you at some point that you’re glad to be here with them, grateful to be a part of something so special—especially because there’s Tetris.

“Have you ever considered going pro?” Hyunjin asks over your shoulder.

You waited until most of the team was distracted to slink off to your beloved machine. Hyunjin tagged along, undoubtedly with the intention of making fun of you, only to be rendered speechless by your mastery. He’s been watching in a state of stupor, forearms propped against the back of your chair.

You don’t respond for a while, too focused on a precarious patch to even blink, let alone partake in conversation.

“I already did,” you finally answer.

“Sorry, what? You played professional Tetris?”

“In middle school. Then I got bored and switched to backgammon.” You pause. “Then I got bored again and switched to chess.”

“How do you look like this with these hobbies?”

Your run ends a few minutes later with a somber sound effect. You turn around in your seat with an anguished groan. “I think I’m washed.”

He looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. “You just set a new record by three hundred thousand points.”

“It’s a small pond,” you say, and an idea occurs to you. “Do you wanna try?”

“I get the feeling I don’t have a choice.”

“Then you’re smarter than you look.”

“Well, you look—”

His eyes move between your shoes and your face, and then his voice is an inaudible mutter as he sinks into your seat. You think you hear something along the lines of unfair.

“What was that?”

“Ugly. I said you look ugly.” He cracks his knuckles. “Now let’s break some fuckin' blocks.”

When Hyunjin learns that the pieces can be rotated (so six or seven attempts later), a man walks into the arcade.

He has hair the color of dark chocolate, the face of a fairy prince—and he’s with someone. The two of them appear arm in arm, laughing at something he said. He looks at this person the way astronomers do to the sky.

Something shatters inside you like old porcelain.

Your hands loosen around the back of Hyunjin’s chair. You can’t watch. You can’t think. You can only feel a void of disappointment rip open, stretch over you like an elongating shadow.

“Seung!” That’s Jisung, you think. “You made it!”

“Yo, sorry we’re late.” That’s Seungmin. That is undoubtedly Seungmin. “Dinner took longer than I thought.”

“Min, are you sure I’m allowed to be here?” You don’t know who this voice belongs to and you’re not sure you want to. “I feel like I’m intruding—”

“Hwang,” you say suddenly. “I have to go.”

He turns around, confused. An unattended block falls into a terrible spot on the screen behind him. ”Already?”

“I forgot I had an important call to make.” You turn away, training your eyes on the patterned carpet. “Sorry. I’ll see you around.”

You have touched Hyunjin’s hands many times. He’s asked you to tape his fingers every day since the first; he likes the way you cut off his circulation, says it helps him hit harder. But you never hold his hand so much as you examine it, the act stiff and unfeeling, cordoned within the professional pretense of athletic treatment.

Now, Hyunjin catches your hand like a gardener repotting their favorite flower: delicately, careful of leaving its roots intact and petals untouched, but firmly, securely, so the flower continues to stand tall even when it’s been extracted from the soil, not even a speck of dirt slipping through the cracks between their fingers. That is the image you conjure when he slips his between yours, his metal rings cold where his fingertips are warm.

He says your name. There is a pinch of pain in the word, and you know that he knows.

“Do you want to be alone?”

You have never been asked such a thing—you have never asked to be asked such a thing—but, for some reason, the question brings tears to your eyes.

“Yes, please,” you whisper, and you pull your hand away.

When you stalk past him, you hear Jisung notice you, call out to you, a note of worry in his question. You also count three pairs of eyes on your back: one concerned, the next confused, and the last you are wholly incapable of meeting.

Unknown to you is the fourth pair fixed upon the top of the Tetris machine, where you’ve left your phone.

You emerge into the parking lot. The frigid air stills your mind for a fraction of a second, the last moment of mental quietude you will allow yourself that night.

Hyunjin’s right; the team manager doesn’t have to do much.

Coach Bang allows you to come to whichever practices and games you feel like, during which you might at most lug around a ballbag or fill someone’s waterbottle before holing up somewhere to do your own thing. But you like the people you work for too much to do so little for them, so you attend everything your schedule allows.

Last week, you could be found helping Minho put up the volleyball nets before practice, your laughter echoing throughout the spacious gym as he complained to you about his biochemistry professor’s distinct “cabbage scent.” Or running to grab materials for Changbin as he treated his teammates’ injuries like you were assisting an orthodontist giving someone a root canal. The dinner invitations you extended to Seungmin were always turned down, but his teammates were more than happy to assist you and Hyunjin in your quest to establish the best kimbap joint in the area once and for all. You even had a heart-to-heart with Coach Bang during one of the team’s water breaks, in which you managed to get half a smile out of the guy; Hyunjin was convinced that was his way of asking you to elope. You spent more time in the gymnasium those ten days than you had your entire college career.

Then came the arcade.

Five days have come and gone. You haven’t attended practice since, but you still see Hyunjin every morning at anthropology. The two of you sit in uncharacteristic silence for most of the lectures. You’ve taken the best notes of your life. He doesn’t mention the previous weekend; he doesn’t mention much of anything.

In person, that is.

That Friday afternoon, you’re reading on the terrace of the library when you receive a text. It’s from Hyunjin, a two-minute voice note. You hesitate for a moment, stick a pencil into the gutter of your textbook to save your place, and slip your earbuds in. You listen to it.

Then you listen to it again.

And again as you wrap up your study session and go home. Again as you cook yourself dinner and load the dishwasher. Again as you shrug on a jacket and pocket your keys, setting off on the familiar trek to the gym.

As for what you plan to do there on a Friday night, long after the team has finished practice, you haven’t the slightest clue. You continue to move regardless, fueled by the feeling that there is where you need to be.

Coach Bang is leaving the building just as you’re approaching it. He halts in his footsteps and raises his eyebrows when he notices you. The man has always been difficult to read, but his face is exceptionally opaque now. Maybe it’s the shadowy landscape; more likely it’s the uneasiness that began to mount within you once you noticed the lights in the gym were still on.

“It’s been a while,” he greets.

“Coach,” you return, lowering your head. “I want to apologize for—”

“Save it,” he says, not unkindly. “There’s nothing to apologize for, alright? The team is lucky to have you.”

You manage a grateful smile. “I’ll be back starting next week.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He starts to walk away, stops himself, and glances into the illuminated building. “I would give him some space, by the way.”

Your uneasiness morphs into anxiety as you watch his broad back retreat into the shadows. You remain outside the gym for a few minutes more, accompanied by the distant melodies of cricket chorales and the muffled squeaking of shoes against laminated hardwood, the harsh sounds of flesh meeting leather.

Briskly, you walk home, rummage around, and return to the gym ten minutes later with your textbook tucked beneath your arm. This time, you unlock and enter the building without a moment of hesitation.

Hyunjin is positioned multiple yards behind the service line, rotating a volleyball in his hands. A high toss, two resounding steps, and a collision like the crack of a whip. The previous ball has barely landed in the furthest corner of the court when he’s picking up the next, retreating to the same spot to do it all again. His tank top is the color of charcoal over his sweaty skin, his hair auburn where it’s plastered to his neck. He’s alone.

You only catch sight of Hyunjin’s face when you descend the stairs. His expression is crystalline, hardened with concentration and fortified by courage, but fragile all at once, rendered delicate by fatigue and fear, spilling from his every seam and splintering off his person like a broken vase. You recognize it as clearly as if you were looking at a picture of yourself from the worst years of your life.

“I was told to give you space,” you call out, and Hyunjin drops the volleyball he’s holding.

His lips fall apart. Nothing comes out of them. The only sounds to follow are your footsteps as you make your way towards the bleachers, a vertical wall of plastic now that they’ve been retracted for the night. You fold your legs into a criss-cross as you take a seat at their base.

“Is this enough space?”

More silence. You gesture to the volleyball nervously.

“Don’t make me go further, please. I’m not ready to die.”

Finally, this earns you a smile. It’s not much, but it loosens the nervous coils in your heart, permits your lungs to contract once more, and it remains on his face as he swipes the ball back into his hands. You open your textbook.

The rest of the night elapses in turning pages and soaring volleyballs. You don’t care for minutes or hours; you give him all the time in the world, as he did you.

The only time you glance at the clock on the wall is around midnight, when Hyunjin hobbles to the middle of the court and collapses. You’re worried at first. Then he rolls onto his back and releases a guttural groan into his hands, and your held breath comes out a laugh. You set down your book and stand up.

There’s a lake of perspiration forming around him. You pay it no mind and flop onto the floor, your eyes instantly narrowing beneath the fluorescent lights.

“How do you see under these things?”

“I don’t,” he returns. “I complained about it to Coach once.”

“And?”

“He made them brighter.” Sounds about right.

Hyunjin spends the next few minutes catching his breath, his chest rising and falling in your peripheral vision. You sift through your mind for phrases of consolation or gestures of support and come up empty. You wish you had Hyunjin’s way with words.

But you think about the way his smile reached his eyes as he thanked you for caring about him, the tenderness with which he caught your hand at the arcade, the I give a fuck about you he blurted before ending the study call. You think about the voice note. It’s not that Hyunjin has a way with words; it’s that he’s brave enough to break the silences that you can’t, like he perceives your anxiety for the aftermath, shouldering the responsibility so you won’t have to.

This cannot be his burden alone.

You inhale. “What’s on your mind?”

Hyunjin doesn’t answer right away. You give up on squinting and close your eyes. The lights are still bright enough to dance around the murky darkness.

“I don’t think I know how to put it into words.”

You nearly laugh; you know how that feels. “Don’t think, just talk. I’m here.”

The same advice you gave yourself seems to work on him as well.

“Do you remember Ishikawa Yuki?”

His role model.

“He’s currently playing for a club team in Italy called Allianz Milano.” He blows out a deep breath. “I’ve been talking to their coach, Roberto Piazza, for the last six months.”

The gears in your head creak in their effort to process the implications of these words. “Holy shit, Hwang.”

“He emailed again, this morning. Said he was coming to the tournament later this month, he’s excited to see me play in person, whatever. And it hit me, finally, that this is all real. Like, this is actually happening to me. I spent all of today freaking out and asked Coach to let me stay back after practice. Usually, it wears out my brain if I tire my body, but it only half-worked today. I couldn’t wrap my head around anything. I still can’t.

“I am who I am because of that man, and now…I have a shot at playing with him. I keep asking myself why I’m not—not happier. I should be bouncing off the fucking walls, no? If I told my past self that this would be happening to him one day, he—he would—”

You open your eyes, confused by the sudden silence.

Hyunjin is sitting up next to you, staring intensely into the bleachers. You first notice the tip of his tongue prodding into his cheek, then his shuddering breath. He lifts a hand to his face, pressing against his eyes.

You stop thinking after that.

You sit up with him. When you settle your fingers around his wrist, he allows you to pull his hand back to his side. But he turns away as if trying to hide from you; he squeezes his eyes shut as if that would obstruct your view of his pain.

You reach to cradle his face, bringing him back to you. The cuff of your sleeves wipe at the saltwater on his cheeks, push the hair off his forehead with gentle sweeps. The two of you are close, close enough that your lips would meet the space between his eyes if you so much as lost your balance. His gaze traverses to your face, but you resolve not to meet it. You know you will traipse into uncharted territory the moment you do.

“Don’t fight it.” You trace over the hill of his cheek. “Healing becomes easier if you let yourself hurt. Trust me, Hyunjin.”

His first name should feel foreign on your tongue, yet you suspect the syllables have accompanied you all your life.

“You don’t have to continue if you can’t.”

“S’okay.” Hyunjin lifts your hand away from his face, presses a kiss to the base of your palm. “I want to.”

You feel yourself stumble ungracefully into the uncharted territory from before; does he do the same?

“I used to play volleyball on this expanse of cracked blacktop, behind my primary school. It was pretty brutal on my feet—I blew through so many different pairs of sneakers my mom almost made me quit.” He smiles at the memory. “But every time I came close to quitting, I’d go home and rewatch the same USA vs. Poland match from the 2008 Summer Olympics I asked my dad to record, and I’d promise myself it would be me on some other kid’s screen someday.

“That kid would tell everyone who’d listen about how cool I am. That I’m a secret superhero. That I’m living proof humans can fly if they really, really try—just like I talked about the volleyball players I grew up watching on my TV.

“The other day, Coach told me that hope would consume me. I thought it was just some senile drivel at the time, but..I think I get what he means now. I would do anything and everything to make that kid proud—even if it meant losing myself.” He lowers his head, auburn strands falling into his eyes. “That’s what’s on my mind.”

Amidst the ensuing pause, a storm approaches. It does not come in the form of rain or snow, sleet or hail, no; it is a gathering of words unsaid and emotions unacknowledged, all emerging from the deepest chambers of your heart in synchrony. The same entities you used to scapegoat for all the times things were awkward between you and Hyunjin when you were the culprit all along. You and your blind cowardice.

The storm tears open the seam of your lips. You do not resist; it’s long overdue.

“Every time Changbin sees you, he turns into a smitten schoolgirl,” you say. “He is physically unable to contain how endearing he finds you. He told me so himself.”

Hyunjin looks at you with widened eyes. You think you can see your own reflection in them, and you are the spitting image of a lighter dropped into gasoline, unstoppable in your vehemence.

“Jeongin comes to you for advice before anyone else,” you continue, “even for things related to school—which I still find hard to believe, I’m not gonna lie. But you have his best interests in mind, and it shows in everything you do for him. Of course your opinion matters more than anything in the world.

“I know you think he can’t stand you, but you are the reason Coach Bang loves this job, why he loves this sport. It’s written all over his face every time he calls you something mean, every time he makes you run another lap, every time he looks at you. You’re like a son to him. Everyone sees it but you.”

“Then there’s me.” You pause to catch your breath. “When I think about what my life used to be, I remember a lot of things. I remember loneliness. Insecurity. I remember my books and my backgammon boards and the way I taught myself to disappear inside them so the world would never find me. I remember avoiding mirrors like a vampire because I didn’t like seeing my own reflection. I remember feeling like I had to put on someone else’s personality every time I left the house because nobody would want to know me for me. All I ever wanted was a place where I could be myself, love myself, without consequence. I have yet to find that place.

“But I found a person. Someone who wouldn’t know time and place if they kicked his dick into his body. Someone who thinks instant ramen is high in nutritional value because it comes with dried vegetables. Someone who sweats the same amount of rain the Sahara Desert receives yearly—your body is not normal, by the way.”

Hyunjin giggles; it is soft and short, a small, tearful huff into the quiet air that makes you feel like you’re flying.

“Don’t get me wrong,” you say. “Your sense of humor sucks and your taste in coffee is so boring and you are the one with no media literacy, not Professor Kim. But I love spending time with you. I love who I am when I’m around you. And none of that has to do with volleyball.”

The next time you blink, you discover that he’s not the only one with tears in his eyes. How long has that been going on?

“There’s so much about you to be proud of, Hyunjin.” You give him a watery smile. “That kid will be spoiled for choice.”

When Hyunjin pulls you into his arms, you fall into each other like going to bed after a long day. Your face burrows into the crook of his neck in your embarrassment; he is laughing and crying at the same time when he mumbles something into your shoulder: “I knew you cared about me.”

You are so happy for the comedic relief you could sob. It helps that you already are.

“How the fuck are you still sweaty?” You choke out, and you think you like his cologne after all.

Six days later, Hyunjin opens the door of his apartment.

A fun-sized flurry of black and white barrages into the hallway outside and almost runs headfirst into the figure waiting there. You fall to your knees like you’ve just been gravely wounded, emitting an ear-piercing wail to match. All it takes is a few good head scratches for Kkami to stop yipping bloody murder and start whining for attention instead.

Upon minute five of watching you and his dog cuddle in the hallway directly outside his home, Hyunjin sighs.

“Can you come inside, please? My RA will think I’m doing some freaky shit again.”

You side-eye him as you walk into his apartment, Kkami perched happily in your arms. “What, exactly, does freaky shit entail?”

He smirks as the door falls shut. “You want me to tell you or show you?”

You turn to Kkami, disgusted. “Your owner’s a bit of a pervert, my dear.”

Kkami licks you on the chin. Hyunjin’s eyes narrow to slits.

“Traitor.”

Naturally, Hyunjin’s parents chose the eve of his final anthropology exam—and the week before the tournament that will determine the trajectory of his career—to ask him to look after Kkami for a few days. He nearly canceled their plane tickets himself, but his impromptu roommate is currently ransacking your face with kisses on his couch, and he thinks your laugh complements his studio better than any decoration.

“Do you want anything to drink?” He calls from the kitchen area.

You meander over, Kkami (still) perched happily in your arms. “What do you have?”

“Alcohol.” He opens his fridge far enough so you can peer over his shoulder. “Americanos.”

He stops speaking.

“Is that all?”

“Yes. Wait—and apple juice.”

“You are about to be a professional athlete.”

“What the Italians don’t know won’t hurt them. You want apple juice, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes.”

“Maybe. Can you open it for me? My hands are full.”

Hyunjin does so with far less reluctance than he feigns. You thank him jubilantly, popping the straw into your mouth.

“Let’s get this over with.”

At 10:32 P.M., all is calm. You are sitting on the floor, your back against the side of his mattress. Hyunjin is where the universe intended: curled up in bed, both him and his laptop lying on their sides. You have studied eight out of ten units in only two and a half hours, and the night is still young. Kkami is but a fluffy, sleepy Oreo by your waist.

At 10:33 P.M., the Oreo begins to retch.

You startle a foot into the air. Hyunjin is out of bed and on his feet in the blink of an eye, the very image of a dog dad on duty. He grabs three different things off the kitchen counter with one hand and scoops up the long-haired chihuahua with the other, and then he’s kicking open the door.

Seungmin appears out of thin air carrying two heaping bags of groceries. Hyunjin nearly knocks him and a month’s worth of fresh produce down four flights of stairs.

“Hyun—Kkami?” Seungmin swivels. “Yo, what the fuck is—”

Hyunjin is already out the door.

A few minutes later, Hyunjin squats off to the side, pouring fresh water into a portable dog bowl. A little ways away, Kkami is throwing up ebulliently; a set of footsteps approaches.

“What is this thing?” Seungmin squats down next to Hyunjin, picking up the piece of patterned fabric lying on the grass.

“Kkami gets sad after throwing up,” he sighs. “His blanket makes him feel better.”

Seungmin watches the chihuahua for a few moments, a soft flinch crimping his features. “He ate too fast again?”

Hyunjin rakes a hand through his hair. “I don’t get it. Nobody’s gonna take his food from him.”

Seungmin laughs. “I didn’t even know he was on campus.”

“I picked him up last night. My parents are traveling for work—they say hi, by the way.”

“I say hi back. I miss your mom’s cooking.”

“Me too,” Hyunjin says, smiling. “She would love to cook for you again—she’s always saying you’re too skinny.”

“She really is.”

A beat passes; it is then that Hyunjin has an epiphany.

Seungmin was the one who put a volleyball in his hands for the first time. Back then, Hyunjin was the lesser troublemaker between the two of them—a concept that neither of them can wrap their heads around to this day. Seungmin suggested they use the clotheslines in Hyunjin’s backyard as a makeshift net, despite Hyunjin’s dissuading; half of Hyunjin’s father’s wardrobe caught on fire, Seungmin had a black eye for a week, and nobody knows what happened to that volleyball. The two of them have been attached at the hip ever since.

It is a crazy thing, having your best friend as a teammate; a singular flick of the wrist or a point of his shoe and Seungmin will know exactly Hyunjin wants the ball down to the net’s fraying fibers; Hyunjin will be exactly where Seungmin needs him down to the flecks of paint on the volleyball court. Hyunjin has always been Seungmin’s hitter—Seungmin, always Hyunjin’s setter. Nothing will ever change between them so long as that remains the case.

At least, that’s what Hyunjin used to think.

Learning that Seungmin was in a relationship was as much a wake-up call for Hyunjin as it was for you. At first, he was just fucking pissed; how could Seungmin be so stupid as to turn down someone like you, especially when Hyunjin had shot his mouth off about his wingman services? More importantly, how long had his best friend of eighteen years been in love, and why was he the last to know?

Only now, as they wait for his nine-year-old chihuahua to finish barfing, does Hyunjin realize that he can’t remember the last time he and Seungmin talked. Not “talked” as in a brief exchange inside the locker room or the lecture hall, about a new approach he wants to try or what Seungmin got on number four or if he wants a ride to practice—“talked” as in talked, about Hyunjin, about Seungmin, about the eighteen years they shared, about all the years yet to come.

Hyunjin sees his setter every day; he stopped looking for his friend a long time ago.

“Yeonwoo, right?”

He senses surprise in Seungmin without having to look at him. But he also senses a smile, a subtle show that Seungmin recognizes what he’s trying to do—and forgives him.

“Yeonwoo,” Seungmin affirms. “We’re in the same songwriting intensive this semester.”

“Also a singer?”

He shakes his head. “Piano player. Performed at the Carnegie Hall in the United States at, like, seven years old. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone so talented.”

“Wow, that’s—hi, old man. You done?”

Kkami walks over with his head hung low and tail between his legs, and Hyunjin hurries to drape the pup in his favorite blanket, pulling the bowl of water in front of him in tandem. Seungmin runs a hand over the top of Kkami’s head as he hydrates.

“You’ve suffered,” he tells him solemnly, and Hyunjin snorts.

“As I was saying—that’s crazy to hear, coming from the most talented person I know. You guys looked so good together.”

“Thanks. It’s weird. I’m happy.”

“You deserve it. You really do, Kim.” They exchange smiles, and Hyunjin gives Seungmin a playful nudge. “When are you introducing us?”

“The arcade wasn’t enough?”

“Don’t insult me.”

“Whenever you want, then.”

“Dinner with my mom, dinner with Yeonwoo,” Hyunjin recounts. “I’m holding you to it.”

“Bet.”

They shake on it. If Hyunjin wasn’t already reassured by Seungmin’s smile, he knows by his clasp around his hand that they’ll be okay.

“What about you?” Seungmin asks. “Are you together yet?”

Hyunjin knew this was coming. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” Seungmin strings his hands together, letting them dangle in the space between his knees. “Someone you have questions for that you’re too scared to ask. Someone who’s lived in your mind since the day you met. There’s someone like that, isn’t there?”

Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek.

Ever since that night on the gym floor, Hyunjin’s been having these dreams. By the time his alarm goes off in the morning, every detail of the dream has eluded him, leaving behind only a ghost of emotion, akin to the breeze that grazes your face moments after walking past another person.

But then he’ll get out of bed, and walk to that café on the east side of campus, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. There, he’ll order a vanilla latte with extra sweetener, then turn around to see you standing five feet away, holding an Americano and trying not to laugh. And he’ll just know, with everything in him, that you are where his head goes when he’s not keeping watch.

He still addresses you by the pet names you hate. He still finds any excuse to be close to you; he still pesters you like a child with a crush. But now, he calls you his baby like one wishes on a star; his eyes drift to your lips every time you’re within two feet of each other; he makes fun of your likes and dislikes only because he’s happy to know about them at all. Ever since that night on the gym floor.

It’s impossible for nothing and everything to change at once. Two people teetering on the precipice of something cannot withstand a gust of wind so powerful. He’s already hanging off the ledge, losing his grip; where are you?

Next to him, Seungmin lets out a soft laugh. “There is.”

Hyunjin doesn’t know what to say.

“It might’ve been me, at some point,” he hums, returning his hand to scratch the back of Kkami’s ears. “But it has always been you, Hyun.”

Four floors above them and inside Hyunjin’s place, you are pacing between his fridge and his bed, nervously awaiting his and Kkami’s return.

Something catches your eye, wide and flat and hung on the wall by his bathroom door. You approach it curiously, your lips pulling into a fond smile the moment you realize all that’s in front of you.

Many of the photographs are of Hyunjin: him in his preteens, dead asleep in bed while dressed head to toe in volleyball gear, braces visible because his mouth is open; an action shot taken at what must’ve been a U21 match, the South Korean flag stitched into the shoulder of his jersey; him with half a birthday cake in front of him and the rest smeared all over his face. There are headlines, too: Underdog team earns district’s first high school volleyball state title; Hwang Hyunjin proves himself worthy of “ace spiker” label at South Korea V. Croatia U19 match; Coach Bang “Christopher” Chan leads Seoul National University to second consecutive KUL championship. There’s one—Who is Hwang Hyunjin? Meet the twenty-year-old instigant of South Korea’s imminent volleyball revolution—beside which he’s written the singular word “mouthful.” You laugh; you agree.

But pinned to the corkboard is also a photograph of Minho, surrounded by stray cats in the alleyway outside a K-BBQ restaurant; his parents cradling Kkami in an apple costume; his high school volleyball team silhouetted against a pretty sunset. Him and Seungmin as kids, covered in grime and scrapes but beaming nonetheless; him and Seungmin at age nineteen, stadium lights on their backs, unadulterated elation on their faces as they charge towards each other, beaming still. Changbin piggybacking Felix through the hallways of the gym, neither of them wearing a shirt; Jisung offering Coach Bang a beer while the latter looks direly unamused (you make a mental note to ask about that one later); what looks like a Rock Lee cosplayer grimacing in the middle of your anthropology classroom.

You rush forward as if decreed by gravitational force. Not too far away is another picture of you, in which you boast a Miffy headband and a face full of foaming cleanser. Then another, your eyes narrowed like that of a sniper taking aim as you’re playing Tetris; you with so many volleyballs piled into your arms that you can’t see your own face; your cheeks squished by a bandaged hand after you lost a bet about pandas (they can swim); you clutching your stomach on the library floor, brought to hysterical tears by Professor Kim’s email. You, you, you.

You bring your pointer finger to this last image, tracing it over the curve of your own cheek. You see a dimple on your face you didn’t know you had. You realize it only comes out for him.

It has always been him.

The front door opens. A man with telephone poles for legs and a long-haired chihuahua in his arms appears behind it. You sense in him that something has changed since you last saw each other. The two of you lock eyes.

It’s not awkward this time.

Multiple yards behind the service line, Hyunjin is rotating a volleyball in his hands. It feels solid and sentient, an extension of himself held in cotton-clad fingers. He knows how this story will end.

He moves his eyes to his best friend’s back. Four fingers flash back at him twice, signaling a high lob set to the left, the very play they’ve practiced tirelessly for the last five weeks. The breath Hyunjin blows out of his cheeks seems to crystallize in the air, almost solid in all its exhilaration.

He bends low and throws high. His arms drop behind his body like a spread of feathered wings; his feet fall into place below him like a meteor shower, two consecutive strikes against the earth that fissure its mantle. The lights overhead are bright. His palm pulls taut when it slams into leather. He knows how this story will end.

The volleyball tears towards the ground. It trembles as if scared by all that it holds: the guarantee of a flawless denouement, the catalyst of a radiant future. Hyunjin’s heart is beating hard enough to crack his ribs when he lands back on the ground, when the volleyball lands in the furthest corner of the court. He’s not scared at all.

He balls his fingers into fists.

“JUST LIKE LAST YEAR, BACK TO BACK ON AN ACE—”

An arm seizes Hyunjin’s neck; another drags him onto the floor. His head thuds onto the hardwood with a sound he hears over the whole world detonating. His vision fills with the faces of the people he cares for most, some covered in tears and others rivaling the ceiling with their blinding smiles. He can’t feel most of his body; his sweat drips into his mouth. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care.

“—DEFENDING THEIR TITLE FOR THE THIRD CONSECUTIVE YEAR—”

His eyes find Seungmin’s among the fray. Their hands clap together with such force that Hyunjin cusses at the impact. Seungmin’s gaze burns into his with a ferocity that Hyunjin plans to take to his grave. His setter. His best friend.

He says something inaudible, but Hyunjin reads the words off his lips, and his eyes fill with tears: we win everything.

“—YOUR NATIONAL CHAMPIONS: SEOUL NATIONAL UNIVERSITY!”

Hyunjin’s post-game interview is a lawless affair. He is allowed at most half an answer before a new teammate is barreling over with an animalistic screech or a new friend is screaming congratulations from out of frame.

The reporter is visibly agitated by her final question, unpursing her lips to ask: “Is there anyone you’d like to thank?”

Hyunjin exhales. “You want the short answer or the long—”

Changbin seizes him by the head. Hyunjin bursts into a peal of high-pitched laughter as the libero litters kisses all over his face, nearly crumpling to the floor in his attempt to escape.

“Love you,” he yells before hurrying off.

“Love you too, Bin.”

Hyunjin turns a sheepish smile to the reporter.

“The short answer,” she deadpans.

He starts counting off his fingers. He thanks his family—his first and last teammates, his eternal anchors. His other family, his actual teammates, the best boys he’s ever known. His coach, who will let him call him Chris someday. His best friend and setter, Kim Seungmin, who set a clothesline on fire once and changed his life forever.

In the distance, a figure emerges from the locker rooms. There’s a navy blue SNU banner draped over your shoulders, two overflowing duffel bags in your hands. Jisung and Jeongin run over to take them from you, and the smile you give them is wide and flushed, a remnant of the elation you shared from afar. The three of you start walking out of the gym.

Hyunjin thanks you.

You didn’t ask for the position, he tells the reporter, but some idiot roped you into it, and they’re all so grateful that you decided to stick around. You know the team better than they know themselves—it’s hard to believe you’ve been with them for five weeks instead of five years.

What are you like? What aren’t you like, is the better question. You’re caring, smart, strong; you see so much goodness in the people around you, all while unaware that it is your warmth that brings it out of them. Flowers only bloom in the sun’s doting radius, and so did he.

You have the sort of soul that incurs the scorn of the stars. They are the only ones to deserve you, they'd argue; you’re wasting your potential among humans when you belong to the sky, and they’d be right.

Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek, suddenly annoyed.

“Why the fuck am I still talking to you?”

“Pardon?” The reporter returns, but Hyunjin is already vaulting over the bleachers, making a mad dash for the exit. She gives her cameraman an affronted glare. He shrugs.

He explodes onto the concrete, looking around in a frantic haze. He finds the blue banner heading toward the team bus and flanked by his teammates with ease.

He calls out to you.

You glance backwards. Your smile is purely effulgent, your laugh but a faint sigh against the area’s busy thrum. His heart is pounding against his ribs like a battering ram again, but he’s used to this feeling by now. Jeongin and Jisung make themselves scarce.

You’re beautiful. God, you’re fucking beautiful. That was the first thought to enter his mind when he spilled an iced Americano on your lap all those months ago and you looked at him like he hailed from another planet. And it is the first thought to enter his mind now, when he runs up to you and cradles your face in his hands, his touch infinitely, impossibly gentle, and you look at him like he’s everything that has ever existed, everything that ever will.

Tendrils of your body spray reach him from here, floral and light like a tropical coastline. He could’ve counted your eyelashes—if he didn’t have something far better to do.

“Tell me now if you don’t want me to do this,” he whispers.

A stupid smile crosses the face of the smartest person he knows. “My lips are sealed.”

Hyunjin kisses you. He kisses you until the banner around your shoulders is wrinkled under his touch, until your hands are tangled in his hair and aching his scalp, until the breaths you take are breaths you share, passed between your mouths like a puff of smoke before they’re colliding again.

He kisses you until he’s crying, again, until he’s no longer tasting your lips but your grin, and he kisses you only harder when those scornful stars start to dance before him, for you are his, not theirs, and he’s really won everything, now.

“Hwang, I need you in my office.”

Six months later, Hyunjin sees Coach Bang standing a few yards away with a grim air about him. He stops in his footsteps and glances at his captain, confused.

“I know nothing,” Seungmin says, walking away. “Good luck!”

“Thanks, cap.” Hyunjin swears he’s had this exact exchange before.

Head volleyball coach Christopher Bang’s workspace still reminds Hyunjin of a morgue. But there are two picture frames on his desk now: one of his family in front of the Sydney Opera House, the other of a band of boys clad in navy blue, draped over one another in exhausted bliss. The latter lends the room a much-needed sense of vitality. Too bad it still houses a rusty cyborg.

Hyunjin closes the door and takes a seat. Bang taps a knuckle against the tempered glass of his monitor. “Read.”

From: Nicola Daldello «[email protected]» To: Bang “Christopher” Chan «[email protected]» Subject: Re: Allianz Milano V. Pallavolo Perugia practice game Christopher, Allow me to apologize for my delayed response as I shared your request with Chairman Piazza. It is my great pleasure to inform you that we would love for Mr. Hwang Hyunjin to participate in our practice game versus Pallavolo Perugia. The match is scheduled for Monday, October 7th, 5-7 P.M. CET in the Giurati Sports Centre in Milan. Mr. Hwang will be playing for Allianz Milano as an outside hitter alongside Mr. Matey Kaziyski, Mr. Osniel Mergarejo, and Mr. Ishikawa Yuki. Please let me know of your availability to call regarding Mr. Hwang’s travel logistics. His transportation and lodging costs will be paid for by the club. I’m looking forward to speaking with you and welcoming Mr. Hwang to Italy once and for all. Yours, Nicola Daldello Assistant Coach, Allianz Milano

“I told you, some opportunities just present themselves,” Bang says, turning his monitor back around. “As for next steps, I need a holistic calendar view of your entire month of October, including social ev—Hwang, is that foam coming out of your mo—NOT ON MY CARPET! HWANG!”

In a park about a ten minute walk away, a small crowd of elderly people are scattered across a few stone tables, hunched over the fading chess boards painted into the granite surfaces. Mrs. Choi whisks away Mrs. Baek’s king with a triumphant yelp.

“I knew it, I knew it, I knew it! That opening is unbeatable!” She swivels towards you, shaking a fist threateningly. “You! Get over here. Your reign is over.”

You are sitting cross-legged in the shade of a broad magnolia tree, clearing out your storage. You tried to take a picture of a particularly rotund pigeon to send to Hyunjin earlier and couldn’t even do that. It was then you decided you couldn't live like this anymore.

“As excited as I am to beat you again, Mrs. Choi, I need ten more minutes,” you call back.

She presents you with an unpleasant hand gesture. You turn your attention back to your phone, grinning. Two new notifications sit at the top of your lock screen.

Hyunjin: Omw now. Sorry had to talk to Chris Hyunjin: Same park? Y/N: yes Hyunjin: Who’s our opponent today Y/N: mrs. choi Hyunjin: Not that bitch again Y/N: ?

He’ll be here in eight minutes.

You return to the task at hand. You’ve already cleared out your apps, your documents, and videos; all that’s left is the audio files. You conduct a quick mental review. Surely you’ll live without your downloaded music and accidental voice memos.

Instead of hitting the “delete” button, you extract a pair of tangled earphones from your jacket pocket.

You go back to your texts with Hyunjin, open the shared attachments tab, and scroll for a long time before you find the voice note he sent you seven months ago.

He finds you a sobbing mess.

“Hey, hey, whoa.” He’s on his knees in an instant, gathering your hands into his, a world of concern in the brown of his eyes. Your earbuds fall out and clatter onto the cement below. “Baby, what’s happening? Are you okay?”

“Yes,” you say in a flustered haste. “Yes, I’m okay. I don’t—I don’t really know what’s happening.”

“Did that hag do this to you?” He asks this question so seriously. “I’ll beat up a senior citizen, I don’t give a fuck—”

“No!” You let out an ugly laugh through your tears. “No, no. Leave Mrs. Choi alone.”

“Then what is it? What’s wrong?”

Eventually, your vision clears enough for you to look at the man kneeling in front of you. His roots grow out longer every day, his hair by now nearly equal parts gold and black. A spot of sunlight infiltrates the magnolia leaves and lands on his left eye, turning it the hue of melted bronze.

Your fingers drift to the sides of his beautiful face as you lean in close; he smells like a combination of smoky rose and tropical coastlines.

“I’ll tell you later,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to his hairline.

He is dissatisfied with this, hooking a pointer finger beneath your chin, guiding your face back to his. He laves the saltwater from your lips, your tongue, and then you’re smiling again, barely able to remember why you cried in the first place.

You rest your foreheads together. “Have I told you that you look like a bumblebee these days?”

He smiles. “Does that make you my flower, then?”

“Because you’re irresistably drawn to me?”

“No, because I wanna put my pollen in—”

You shove him away. “You are grotesque.”

He returns in a flash. “You love me.”

You kiss him again. And again. And one more time for good measure, during which you mumble I do against his lips, and then you remember something.

“Why did Coach hold you back, by the way?” You pull away, tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. “Are you in trouble again?”

“No, no. The opposite, actually.”

Your brow furrows. “The opposite? What—”

“In this lifetime, please,” Mrs. Choi hollers from the chess tables. You roll your eyes. Hyunjin smiles helplessly.

“Duty calls, my love.”

“Tell me your thing later too?”

“Of course.”

You dust yourself off and stand up, making your way to the battleground. But not before you whisper to Hyunjin, “now watch me beat up a senior citizen.”

He laughs with his whole body, his eyes the shape of crescent moons, his mouth a little rectangle.

“Hypocrite.”

Hyunjin: [1 Audio Message]

This is my seventh take and I’m not recording an eighth. What you get is what you get. I don’t care anymore.

I understand if you don’t wanna talk about what happened at the arcade. I wouldn’t, either. I just wanted to say that you don’t have to do this tutoring thing anymore. I won’t be able to fulfill my end of our deal, so…yeah, it wouldn’t be fair to you. You’ve already done so much for us. For me.

As for team manager, you’ll have to talk to Minho and Coach Bang if you wanna quit. Doesn’t sound like a fun conversation, I know—but if that’s what you decide, I’ll have your back. They don’t scare me. Well, they do. Sometimes.

You’ve been…distant, this week. I’ve known peace and quiet for the first time since we met, and I fucking hate it. I realized I couldn’t care less if you’re my tutor or my team manager or whatever—I just don’t want you to be a stranger. Maybe that’s selfish of me to say, but I’m tired of pretending the idea of losing you doesn’t terrify me. It does. It truly fucking does.

I’m gonna end this here, because I almost just stopped recording on accident and I would’ve committed first degree murder if I had to do this all over again. Sorry that this got so long, and…I’m sorry about everything. You deserve better.

Come back to me whenever you’re ready, okay? I’ll be waiting.

🔖 (send an ask to be added)・@astraystayyh・@like-a-diamondinthesky・@fire-08・@starsandrqindrops・@txtxlz・@laylasbunbunny・@strayghibli・@nuronhe・@seungminsapuppy・@vivisoni・@moon0fthenight・@sweetpickledjins・@svintsandghosts・@nhyunn ・@ur-boyfiend・@liknws・@hotgorloikawa・@randomwimp・@automaticpersonabatpaper・@aceofvernons・@linos-kitten・@newhope8・@weedforthoughtz・@hyunverse

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jenosbigtoe · 7 months

Text

brother’s best friend!lee jeno x reader

minors dni

summary: your overprotective big brother's best friend is just too irresistible. too bad you have to keep your relationship a secret from him. established relationship au!

warnings: jeno is a freak lowkey, creampie, breeding kink, possessiveness, unprotected sex, size kink (if you squint), mating press, jeno fat cock, jeno is a simp, squirting, pussy eating, literally just pwp

wordcount: 2.4k

a/n: intentional lowercase (i hate autocaps) and not proofread so if you see any grammar mistakes lmk. IK THIS IS A WORN OUT TROPE BUT IDC BROTHERS BEST FRIEND JENO FTW this is just so self indulgent so if its ass um ☠️

pretty pink lip gloss, fresh set of french tip acrylics, short white mini skirt, strawberry scented lotion, and a pink lacy camisole. you, na y/n, were going to be the death of lee jeno.

"dude stop looking at my little sister like that you freak," jaemin threw a dirty sock laying around at his best friend's face as jeno stared at your plump ass like a piece of meat while you were in the kitchen making yourself a snack.

"shut the fuck up man," jeno grumbled as he proceeded to knock jaemin off course in moo moo meadows in mario kart.

you smirked knowingly with your back turned. you knew exactly what you were doing. it was 10 pm on a friday night, meaning jeno and jaemin were having their weekly guys night and would crash in the living room, playing video games, drinking beer, and eating pizza.

and it also meant you would get to dangle yourself like a piece of meat in front of your boyfriend and oblivious brother as you watch your hungry boyfriend try to behave himself.

"jaem let me have a turn," you whined, inviting yourself into the living room, and sat between the two boys on the verge of beating the shit out of each other over mario kart.

"y/n you know damn well you're shit at these types of games now why would i let you play when im about to rock jeno's shit," jaemin didn't even look over at you and continued to focus on the screen. "FUCKKKK JENO THOSE GODDAMN SHELLS. FUCK YOU DICKFACE”

jeno on the other hand glanced over at you, eyes never looking once at yours and instead focused straight on your plump titties popping right out of your push up bra. and he drove right off course, leaving jaemin to yelp in victory as he finished in 1st place.

"fuck you jaemin. here y/n you can play on my controller," jeno rolled his eyes and passed his controller to you. his character was already pink yoshi, making your heart melt because he knew that was your go to.

“thank you, jeno. at least some people are actually nice and considerate,” you rolled your eyes at your older brother.

"well okay you asked for it. prepare to get your ass kicked like our dear jen over there, y/n," jaemin said with an evil glint in his eyes.

as the game was about to start, you suddenly had an idea and paused the game. "wait jaem, i don't really know how to play. can you go easy on me?"

"hell no. you wanted to play with the big boys so now you gotta face the consequences."

you turned to look at jeno, who was very obviously just staring at your tits the entire time. "jeno, jaemin is being a bitch to me. can you teach me how to play since he doesn't want to go easy on me?" you tilted your head and pouted your lip in a way that you knew he liked.

you knew damn well how to play and beat the shit out of jaemin at mario kart but you also knew how good you looked right now and how this would be the perfect opportunity to tease your sexy boyfriend.

"aw hell no that's cheating, y/n," jaemin whined.

“too bad. it ain’t up to you, sore loser.” you gave jeno a smirk with a knowing look in your eyes.

"well i don't mind. plus you won the last round anyways, jaem," jeno spoke up, shifting around and subtlely fixing his sweatpants. you were teasing him so bad and it was going straight to his cock.

jaemin looked at jeno, then you, then right back at jeno, narrowing his eyes a bit. "hey since when did you two get so chummy?"

"jaemin stop being a bitch and let's just play. i don't even know how to play and jeno helping me isn't going to suddenly make me become a mario kart god."

jaemin rolled his eyes. "whatever man."

jaemin unpaused the game and the race started. you pretended to freak out, not knowing where to go as jaemin left you in the dust.

jaemin started laughing his ass off as he quickly climbed the ranks as you were left in dead last. "kiss my ass, y/n."

jeno leaned over to show you the controls but you took this opportunity to yank him to sit behind you, causing you almost be sitting in his lap as his arms wrapped you. "now show me the controls," you grinned evilly and shifted around so your ass rubbed against his dick.

jeno was stunned. doing this literally right in front of your brother? who forbade you two from ever seeing each other? he could just smell your sweet strawberry perfume, which had him wanting to just gobble you up. and your cute little outfit, god he just wanted to rip it right off of you and mark your body up, claim you as his. and not gonna lie, the thrill of being right next to your brother and his best friend had his heart pumping blood straight to his boner.

you both were lucky jaemin had tunnel vision when it came to video games, his face literally glued to the screen. otherwise he would've seen how your little white skirt rode up your thighs and your panties were literally grinding against his best friend's cock.

you let jeno take the controller and pretended to still be the one playing, occasionally screaming out curses at your brother and let out cheers when you hit him with shells. meanwhile you were really just shifting around on jeno's cock through his sweat pants as you ran your manicured nails up and down his veiny arms that were wrapped around you. his hands just looked so big and meaty on that controller, had you fantasizing about what they would be doing to you tonight.

as you neared the final lap, you in 6th place and jaemin in 2nd, you suddenly grabbed the controller out of jeno's hands and shoved him back beside you. he let out a loud grunt as he fell to the ground. jaemin suddenly took 1st place and finished the round. you were 8th. you gave jeno a fake apologetic look as he glared at you.

“oops,” you whispered, sticking your tongue out.

jaemin looked over at you and gave you a triumphant look. "now what did i tell you?"

you rolled your eyes and stood, your skirt rode up almost all the way and on the verge of exposing the little cream panties with red hearts on them that you knew jeno loved. the way jeno was sitting, you standing up gave him the perfect view of the way your puffy pussy fit in your little panties, making him even harder than before.

"whatever loser i'm heading back to my room. have fun being bitchless on a friday night." jaemin threw a pillow at your turned back. you sauntered back to your room, making careful sure to sway your hips as you knew jeno's eyes were trained straight on your ass.

it was 1 am and you were still up, bored out of your mind and scrolling through your phone. he should've been here by now, you pouted. you got frustrated and started ripping your clothes off, leaving you in just your push-up bra and panties when a voice from behind startled you.

"baby, you already starting without me? i'm hurt," jeno wrapped his arms around you, pressing his body against yours, and whispered softly in your ear, causing you to shiver.

you puffed out your cheeks. "waited for so long. was about to go to sleep because my shithead boyfriend left me needy over here."

jeno started groping at your body, squeezing your juicy tits and lightly grinding his erection against your barely clothed ass. "sorry sweet girl. jaem wouldn't fall asleep because that girl from his econ class finally texted him back, corny ass." he left a trail of kisses down your neck and sucked at a particular spot on your collar bone that had your knees weak.

you smiled to yourself. you couldn't pretend to be mad at him for long, not when you're so whipped for him. you turned around and looked up at him, admiring your sexy boyfriend. he finally listened to you and dyed his hair back to black, leaving it long and messy just how you like it. he was wearing a black compression shirt and grey sweatpants with the simple gold chain you bought him for his birthday. he knew just how you like it. what a fucking manwhore. you were ready to devour him whole.

you smashed your lips on his, messy and hot, tongue everywhere and spit dripping down your connected mouths. suddenly, you pushed him down on your bed and started straddling him, grinding your pussy directly on his cock through his sweatpants, causing him to groan into your mouth. one hand gripped at your hair and the other groped your ass.

"baby i need you. i missed you so much," you whispered, looking into his eyes.

he connected his lips to yours with a renewed fervor. clothes started flying off as you kissed each other passionately. he reached for a condom in your nightstand but you stopped him.

"raw baby. i need you in me right now." you grinned at him.

he cursed, flipped you over on your back and used his weight to press you against the mattress. his thick, muscular body pressing you to the mattress had you breathless and in need for more. "is my baby needy? is my baby needy for this cock?"

he reached down and began to lightly caress your pussy, gathering your leaking juices and spreading it around. his fingers teased your hole, rubbing circles around it and occasionally deciding to stick one in for one pump before going back to rubbing and teasing.

"had me thinking about this pussy all night. fuck. love you so much baby. you're so sexy and you get me so hard. no one does it for me like you. you looked so cute today, just wanted to eat you up. didn't care if that shithead was there, just wanted to love on my girl." he continued to tease your little pussy and alternate between fingering and rubbing you.

then he crawled down until he was facing your wet pussy directly. staring at your pussy like a piece of meat in front of starved lion, he gave one long lick all the way up your cunt and started sucking, making sure to make lewd noises. your legs were shaking with need as you gripped his hair.

"fuck you taste so good. all wet just for me. this pussy is mine," he groaned into your cunt.

at this point, your pussy was gushing so much you felt a puddle beneath you. his fingers and lips felt so so good on your pussy but you were tired of his teasing. you got up and suddenly looked down at him seriously. "jen if your cock isn't in me in the next 5 seconds i'm seriously going to break up with you and fuck haechan or something."

this lit a fire within jeno, whose eyes darkened. he lifted his body and gave his impossibly hard cock a few pumps, rubbing your juices all over his massive cock. he grabbed your thighs, lifted your legs over his shoulders, and shoved his cock into your little pussy with one big thrust.

you both moaned out, your pussy leaking happily as he bottomed out, balls deep. he set out on a fast past immediately, pounding your pussy deeper and harder with each thrust. you could feel his heavy balls slap against your ass.

"yes, jen yes yes yes! oh god more more! love you so much baby," you grabbed at his hair as he pounded your pussy into oblivion. in the deep mating press he had you in, you could feel the tip of his cock kissing your cervix with each thrust. his cock was just so so big, you could never get enough of it.

you could see the veins pop out of his neck and his beefy arms were pinning your hips down as his hips were pounding you with each powerful thrust. he looked so so so sexy and he was all yours.

"god baby your pussy was made for me. love you so so much. mine. all mine. everything about you all mine, just for me," jeno kissed you passionately, both moaning into each other mouths.

he used one of his hands to press down on your lower belly, making your pussy leak and throb around him. "you feel that, princess? you feel me deep in your tummy? only i can do that to you, only me."

your mind was blank at this point, body completely numb to everything except the pleasure he was giving you. you could feel yourself about to get sent over the edge, your pussy spasming and clenching hard around every vein on his cock.

"bout to cum baby don't stop don't stop!!" you orgasmed with a loud scream, pussy squirting all over his stomach.

jeno continued fucking you through your orgasm, grunting at the feeling of your little pussy spasming all over his cock. "baby m close too, fuckkk."

fat tears rolled down your face at the overstimulation of pleasure. "jen please cum inside please."

jeno groaned, thrusting every harder and deeper than before. "such a slut. you like that huh? you want your boyfriend to knock you up? you want to have a baby with your brother's best friend? fuck. how about you just get pregnant? he wouldn't be able to disapprove of us when you're already round and waddling around with my baby."

with one loud groan, he bottomed out inside of you and let out his thick load. he collapsed on top of you, cock still balls deep inside, crushing you under all his weight with your face pressed against his sweaty chest.

you stayed like that for a few seconds before you tapped on his back, signaling that you couldn't breathe. still keeping his cock deep inside your leaking pussy, he flipped you over on your side and cuddled your back, wrapping one arm around your waist and the other pushing your hair out of your face. you panted, eyes closed in bliss. jeno drew circles on your arms and left kisses up and down your jaw and neck.

"just saying, you would look sexy as fuck pregnant with our baby." jeno whispered.

you opened your eyes to turn back and swat at his chest but what you saw made your blood run cold in horror.

it was your brother standing right in the open doorway staring at your naked bodies with a look of fury, surprise, horror, and shock that you had never seen before.

the three of you screamed at the sight of each other in unison.

a/n: i intentionally wrote the ending like that because i'm unsure if anyone would even want to continue reading this lmaooo so lmk what you think

#nct smut #jeno smut #jeno x reader #nct dream x reader #nct dream smut #lee jeno smut #lee jeno x reader #jeno #lee jeno #jeno lee

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sunboki · 24 days

Text

— THE ALCHEMIST. a Lee Minho fiction

Lee Minho x f. reader

TROPE. historical! au, set in 1940’s Korea, alchemist! au, friends to lovers, fluff, angst

WARNINGS. abusive behavior toward women, impoverished communities, overall sexist beliefs of the time, reader dresses as a man, mentions of death & disease, smoking (not reader or minho), war conflict, making out??

WORD COUNT. 9.6k words

AUG'S NOTES. although it was a bit out of the blue, i had such a great time writing and shaping this universe, thank you to all the love and support thus far<3 also, huge thanks to @comet-falls for instilling the peaky blinders/historical! minho vision in my head with how incredible tooth and claw was, i truly owe it to you :)

SYNOPSIS. Cities stricken with poverty, the lack of male presence in your home while surviving in a male-dominated society leaves meager food on the table and a piling debt. Left no choice but to make a risky decision, you decide that, if biology wanted to fail you, you’d simply try another approach.

alternatively :

In which deception introduces you into an entirely new reality, and The Alchemist.

It’s one thing surviving with the knowledge you can change something, whatever it may be that’s wrong.

It’s another when that problem isn’t merely changeable, but biological.

Your problem? You’re a woman.

Not as easy to fix, right?

With your father lost in the war, fruitlessly straining to support a family of girls, the household is left helpless.

Representation is nonexistent, and merely walking outside frets harassment and laughter struck in your face at the mention of working.

A woman, working? Hilarious.

Or, apparently to the men in pubs it certainly is.

Some things you can’t change, yes, but there are always alternatives. And as for now, you’re helplessly searching high and low for that alternative, whatever it may be.

Selling yourself is possible, though the inability to remain connected to your family eliminates that option.

When you get so desperate, there’s no incentive in guarding your pride. Because being called derogatory names isn’t as bad as losing them, the people you call home.

October welcomes little warmth, biting your fingertips and sending a tremor of chills cascading down your spine. Minimal sunlight peers through dense clouds, shrouding the atmosphere in a depressing haze.

You’re on your way to the apothecary, but not to purchase anything. The pennies in your pocket won’t amount to anything in the face of medicinal prices, which happens to be one of your many alternatives.

Since day one, you’ve had a rock to rely on.

Medicine.

Lack of money meant improper living conditions, entailing sickness.

Constantly.

Whether it was your mother, your younger sister, yourself, an infection of some sort occupied your respiratory system, wreaking havoc for wallets and mental health altogether.

Purchasing necessary medication became impossible the further you drowned in your debt, to the point drastic measures needed to be taken in order to prevent death from infesting itself in the household as well.

Then came the question. If you couldn’t purchase the medicine itself, why not collect the ingredients?

Alternatives.

Behind the apothecary you discovered mint hedges that, if mixed with wormwood and balm, could aid in curing Sun-ja’s current sickness, colic.

Although, you’d have to be swift in your efforts, ensuring the shop owner didn’t notice your presence.

Too many times had you nearly been caught, risking a good beating from the red-haired, burly man regarded as Mr. Myeong.

Fiery red hair complimented an equally unruly personality you aimed not to cross by. Ever.

Yet, unlike Mr. Myeong, his wife was the polar opposite, an ideal magnet. She was petite and soft-spoken, but out of her appealing traits, you found her resilience to be most attractive.

Mrs. Myeong is stubborn. She’s strong in what she believes, sporting an unquestionably vocal opinion that can’t be quenched.

The woman is, likely, the only woman capable of sealing her husband’s mouth shut.

Hidden between thorn ridden weeds sits your desired leaves, abundant in supply.

You clutch your satchel closer, plucking as quickly as possible whilst crouched to the ground, maneuvering through tickling grasses and itchy reeds.

Your mission remains successful, until the wretched sound of a doorknob rips your head upward, the red-haired man in question standing nonplussed, arms crossed.

He wears a cocked brow, examining what you’re desperately trying to veil away.

Your heart leaps into your throat.

“Stealing, are we?” Black boot clad frame thumping closer, you immediately prepare to run, hair standing on end like an agitated feline.

Instead, his huge hand swoops down to grab your collar, other evidently ready to land a harsh slap to your face.

Instinctively cringing, you brace for the stinging impact.

That is, before a saccharine, lullaby-worthy voice rings from the cracked doorway, belonging to none other than Mrs. Myeong.

“Honey! Have you seen the new envelope that came in?”

Heels clicking whilst padding over cobblestone to where you two stand, her husband fixates you with a stern, threatening glare.

Finally dropping your frame to the ground, you slump forward, pulse pounding loud enough you fear your chest may implode.

Mrs. Myeong, though wearing a taut expression, ushers him off, delivering a curt nod your way, intentional brows furrowed in place.

‘Thank you’ You wish to say, but hold your tongue, watching them disappear inside.

Another time.

Walking home was rather uneventful (much to your delight), left to enjoy the crisp, cool air sifting through your lungs in steady rhythm, the lazy billows of cigar smoke dwindling from gaping doorways.

Calm.

Nothing calm ever lasts long.

Stashing the house key back into your decrepit leather draw bag, your footsteps still upon entering, struck terror-filled.

Your mother, strawn across the floor, hacks amongst her rampant coughs, body convulsing in desperate shivers, skin drenched a ghastly blue.

Sprinting to her side, you kneel down, rolling the woman over to find her face utterly battered, new black eye beginning to swell, cheek bruised a mawkish purple against hollowed cheekbones.

Sharks.

To your left Sun-ja hides in the corner, rags for a blanket pulled to her chest, shielded between the wall and a tipped cabinet.

Over and over they’ve begun visiting, to the point your mother became recognizable by her continuous black eye, her torn clothing and stooped posture.

Exhausted, she was exhausted.

Yet, she took the beatings. The torturous punches. Jarring slaps, traumatic insults, tarnishing. Your mother took it so you wouldn’t, so you and Sun-ja could live.

And it’s at that moment you make up your mind, discover this occasion’s alternative.

“Cut it off.”

“Cut.. Cut it off?” Hyunjin gapes, fingers stalling their descent down a strand of your hair.

You smile, grimacing the longer consideration poises.

No point in thinking too much.

“Yep. Give me the most boy-ish haircut you can.” You emphasize, gesturing toward his scissors expectantly.

Hyunjin, your personally appointed hairstylist, doesn’t seem too convinced. He’s debating, expertly reading your features.

Currently, you’re holed up in his room, a miniature apartment located near the furthest section of town, close to the coast.

In wee hours of morning you boarded the train here, inhaling salty, ocean-smelling breeze. Back in your old residence you met him, your neighbor Hwang Hyunjin. It’s a miracle you still stayed in contact, bond aging like the finest of wines over countless years.

Enough to where you trusted him to help you enact this alternative of yours.

Starting with a haircut.

The man stares at you through the mirror, dark, inky hair matting the longer he runs his hands through it.

Thoughtfully trying to figure out your reasoning, he evidently catches on the moment you witness his eyes roll, releasing a heaving sigh.

“You cannot be serious.”

A torrential truth keeps you from responding, gaze directed at your feet.

“Y/n,” He uttered, eyes filling with a concern you avoid meeting, avoid regarding in a whole. “You don’t have to do this, the war is going to end soon and your father will come ba—“

“He’s dead.”

Silence engulfs the room.

Collecting yourself, you scorn his frown.

“He’s dead and gone. Now I need to protect them, provide for them.“

You deny the shakiness of your voice.

“So, Hyunjin. Cut off my hair.”

Accordingly, he does without another word. Snip by snip, tress by tress falling below, scattering the tile floor in endless strands.

By the time you see yourself, it’s hard to recognize the person in the reflection. Never had you considered your hair a viable source of identity, but now that it’s so sparse, the effect is eminent.

Failing to see yourself in your own reflection beckons a different kind of sadness. For the person you’ve introduced yourself as reigns no more. She’s been replaced.

Hyunjin pulls you into his arms, embrace just as comforting as you remembered. His hand reaches to caress your cropped hair, rocking back and forth on his heels, chin resting on your head.

“Be careful, okay?”

Nodding into his shoulder, you wipe salty streaks from your cheeks.

Hurts.

“And if you need a place to take shelter, I’ll be here.”

Steadying in his hug again, you pull back, cherishing his kindness with a chaste kiss to the cheek.

“Thank you, really.”

Shaking his head at your gratitude, urging you out and lingering by the doorway till your figure retreats in the distance.

Next stop, Mrs. Myeong.

If anyone has any idea how to source the clothing you’re needing, your best chance would be thanks to her.

An hour later you arrive in familiar avenues, creeping out of sight into the apothecary in hopes the woman you’re looking for is working the counter.

Much to your pleasure, after a few unsuccessful attempts do you grasp her attention, edging forward under the guise of a regular hoping to converse.

“I need your help.”

Initially, she carries that sternness, wordlessly lifting your hooded head a bit to notice the latest adjustment. Shock written over her face, Mrs. Myeong drags you along with her, closing the door to a back room.

“My child, what is going on?” She whispers, tone urgent. You can’t help but feel fond of the affectionate nickname.

“I need male clothing and,” You hesitate, teeth nipping at your bottom lip. “something to bind my chest with.”

Similar to Hyunjin, she steps back, assessing the situation at hand. Spending a brief few seconds roaming your figure, the woman works hastily toward fetching a petticoat, meticulously fitting each article atop your stock-still frame.

“You’re conceited,” she grumbles. “And foolish.” Carefully peeling off your upper-wear, she’s managed to cut a piece of thick cloth to use as a make-shift binder, assembling the fabric over your breast.

The experience, although strange, wasn’t as painful as anticipated.

“But be careful, and stay in contact.”

Your response is hushed.

“Breathe in,” The older woman instructs, securing her creation with a threaded pin before moving onto other aspects, like a proper coat and pants.

Mr. Myeong’s trousers, though having to be sewn to fit, make do, and you’re reminded to return tomorrow for shoes. Otherwise, the attire is completed, paired with a curved hat to finish.

Sure, the entire male concept is foreign, but given time, you’ll gradually acclimate.

Oh, right.

Your alternative?

Since medicine is what you know, you’ll stick with that. Difference being medicine is a men’s occupation, and so, if you can’t be a female working in the field, why not become male?

Well, somewhat become male.

It’s a risky wager, easily placing your life on the line in the process.

For your mother and Sun-ja, however, it’s your turn to take the beating. Your turn to endure.

Observation is a virtue. It can save and preserve, heed to oncoming danger, and simultaneously (and discreetly) supply useful information.

Today, seated on a bench in Daegu Station, your first observation is the abundance of people scurrying like mice.

Some tall, some short. Distinct moles, eyes. Upturned and downturned lips. Mustaches, beards. Much to see.

Your legs cross and uncross, Mr. Myeong’s oversized heeled shoes beginning to sink at your ankles. Hat strung low enough to peer out without attracting attention, your gaze is magnetically drawn to a magazine held on the adjacent side of the train tracks, title on display.

Prized Alchemist Lee Minho suspected of being the lone survivor of the Red Plagu—

Ignorant to your surroundings, your senses posed numb to the incoming train, blocking off the last few words of the title from view the moment it soars past—nearly sweeping the fedora off your head.

By the time the last few train cars passed, the man honing said magazine had disappeared, and you were left wondering if the experience was merely a figment of your imagination.

Although, you did have one lead. A name.

Lee Minho.

Where you’d find him remained unknown, deciding to rely on a magazine parlor first and foremost for more intel.

To no surprise, nearly every magazine rack lay lined with haughty opinions regarding the war and its evident cruelty.

Many onlookers of both Americans, Koreans, and foreigners alike chatter amongst themselves about their own take between gossiping hands and fumes of tobacco.

In this town, located far off in the business district by a ship port, people are everywhere.

Wives of sailors, families of soldiers off at war. Women honing gleaning parasols and ivory gloves reaching to their elbows.

Languages you’ve never heard before utter their enunciated syllables, vocabulary petulant with accent—all shrouded in dismay.

Roaming the store endlessly to no avail, you prepare to adventure back through dusty streets and battered wooden stall-shops before a peculiar name pauses your footsteps.

His name, The Alchemist, Lee Minho.

“Bring ‘em home I tell ‘ya,” An aged man by the deepened grooves of his face, hollow cheekbones and bunched wrinkles grumbles.

A fat cigar hangs loosely from thin lips, pale baker boy cap adorning a bald head.

Some sentences estranged, you identify his sentences as French, heavy in dialect, throaty and broad.

And although your fluency stay patchy, exposure from French immigrants who’ve relocated near home allow minimal understanding as to what they’re talking about.

“Say, did you hear that Lee Minho chap was a Red Plague?” His counterpart offered past his own leering cigar, foot tapping incessantly.

The other hacks his bewilderment, feeble fist pounding on an equally feeble chest.

“The Alchemist?”

The man’s astonishment returned with a nod, you lean closer, pretending to be consumed in an article.

“Said he was only nineteen when it happened. Shipped ‘em off only for disease to kill them all. One survived, now people are speculatin’ it’s him.”

Either of them sigh out long drags.

“Well I’ll be damned.” Is all the other huffs in disbelief, and upon recognizing the conversation approaching an end, you stir to action, willing your voice to deepen an octave.

Attempting to appeal in your broken French, you stall the two, cautiously claiming you’re in need of his whereabouts for an esteemed business transaction to which, through confused stares, you’re given loose directions.

Loose, but feasible.

80 Kent Avenue, dark blue doors.

Directions that, according to the sudden blank of streetlights, would have to wait until tomorrow. As for now, the world beckoned you to rest, and any progress would prove futile and rather impossible in the dark.

Luckily, a run-down Inn gifted good few hours of shut-eye before dawn peered through the windowsills and you were begrudgingly forced to your feet.

Fitting the binder snug across your body and fastening your trench coat through minuscule belt loops, you’re taught with much haste the stark difference of men’s prestige entitlement.

First access to everything, the ability to have their way with a woman whether she willingly obliges or not, and just about ten billion other things someone of your hidden status couldn’t fathom.

A man’s world is a world only possible through disguise. Yours just happens to be a last resort.

Charming the mistress at the front desk was unexpectedly effortless, not to mention how easily she spilled the details as to where Kent Avenue would be located.

Another noticeable attribute of your new appearance, no one asked as to where you were going nor your intentions, they merely dipped their heads and wished you off.

Adjustments.

Adjustments that, if you’d been born different, would be normal.

Kent Avenue lay twisted in shadows. The surrounding area brims in barely flickering labels and creaking doorways leading to who knows where. Quaint isn’t the word for it. More ancient, all-knowing.

This place has been here for centuries with many stories to tell, most just haven’t heard them yet.

Significantly dark blue doors make the Alchemist’s residence easily noticeable, starkly contrasting with wooded architecture. Massive doorknobs engraved with lions, windows shielded by moth-eaten curtains. Grand, in its own form.

You swore each door stood eight feet tall, the left in particular left slightly ajar.

Wait, ajar?

Doing a double take to ensure your vision wasn’t playing tricks on you, you inch forward, widening the dark gap exponentially until all you faced was a black abyss—apart from the miniature lamp beaming yellow light in a far corner.

Carefully tiptoeing into said black abyss, the further you explore, the greater the visibility increases. Leather cushioned furniture, clean, polished desks. The desk the lone lamp rests upon is a chestnut wooden, ink feathers residing in the upper corner.

Somehow, the matter grants envy, resentment grating your nerves. This man lives comfortably while other’s are beaten for possessing nothing. Maybe it’s a petty, unnecessary thought; and maybe you’re foolish, but all odds are against you, your disposition seems righteous.

Getting too lost in your head turned out foolish as well.

“What’s this?” A voice behind you whispers, voice ghosting chills tickling your neck at an alarming pace.

Whipping around, eyes struck wide in shock, the person responsible for the remark comes into view, his stature opposing the tone muttered in your ear seconds ago.

Not a plump business man like you imagined, not adorning a spectacle, no pipe in sight. Instead, one lone button right below the chest fits snug white sleeves cuffed by his elbows, black vest hugging a slim torso.

Conniving, cat-like eyes analyze your expressions while dark brown hair parts to the side, loose strands covering his right eyebrow. And when he reaches up to brush a few frayed tresses to the side you note sleek gloves covering long, pale fingers.

If anything, this man is more similar to a Vampire.

“Trespassing, are we?”

Collect yourself. This is your opportunity.

Swiftly brushing off your clothes, you clear your throat.

“I have an offer.”

“An offer?” A smile belonging to that of a Cheshire cat adorns his lips, one leg propping itself over the other, fingers intertwining in front of him.

Ensuring your voice is clear and concise (while keeping the deeper, male-ish tone), you state your claim, despising how utterly debilitating it feels being caught under his observative stare.

Like he sees through you.

“I would be a valuable asset to your studies in alchemy. I know about herbs and their uses better than anyone else, and where they’re located.”

Sure, the bargain might’ve sounded arrogant, but you were technically cosplaying as a man when most men of your time couldn’t shut up about themselves, arrogance was the least of your problems.

Gnawing at his cheek as you spoke, he pauses a moment, then laughs.

Amused.

Dark lashes dust above equally dark eyes, nearly black as they study you.

“You want to be my apprentice? Is that it?”

You remain close-lipped.

“I’ll tell you one thing, kid. This world is all about money,” He raises a cane from where he reclined, using the end to tip your chin up and meet his eyes.

“No?”

To which you simply stare back at him, refusing to avert eye-contact.

“I’m sure that’s what you’re here for anyways.” Rising from his place, he sighs heartily. “But see, I’m a greedy man, not a good man.”

Abruptly, his countenance falls flat.

“And my job isn’t fun, so you’re out of luck.”

Immediately, you’re frantic, trying your hardest to ignore his obvious statement to leave. The last thing you need is to run out of luck, run out of options.

And so, you hastily wrack your mind for a solution, an excuse, whatever keeps you in this dimly lit room.

“You- You were part of the Red Plague, weren’t you?” Spitting out words from the depths of your racing mind, The Alchemist stops, fixing you with an unreadable look.

Red Plague as in, the group of young men enlisted during the war that all died of a deadly disease but one. One who, many speculate is the man before you.

Breathe in.

“I may not know much about you, but I know what it’s like to want to save somebody.”

Breathe out.

Now it was his turn to stand there, and for a second you swore you saw a flash of sympathy cross his face.

You wet your lips. “I’ll run your errands and wash your clothing, I’ll clean this place spotless. Plus, it’s not like I’m a woman asking for a job, so please, give me a chance.”

Slowly, The Alchemist raises a brow, laugh disbelieving.

“Since when did being a woman have anything to do with this?”

Huh?

How.. odd.

If anything, the majority would wholeheartedly agree, likely hiring you on the spot with how impalpable such a jest seemed.

He would’ve laughed, maybe slapped your back. Would’ve wrapped an arm around your shoulders, proclaimed you his friend.

Yet, you almost feel flattered. Flattered in a strange, unrealistic manner.

Basking in a deplorable quietness, The Alchemist sighs, combing a gloved hand through silken strands.

“I have a spare room around that corner.” He points, leather gloves narrowly highlighted by orange lighting. “Make yourself useful, hm?”

And like that, even if it was a long shot, you landed it. More specifically, landed a job.

How preposterous.

How exciting.

Yet, it began hesitantly. As if he was initially testing your usefulness. Sending you on runs to the nearby gardens, having you make sure a concoction didn’t derange itself while he fetched better flasks. Easy things.

However, you didn’t complain. A boring job was better than no job, and as long as a few coins were emptied into your pocket afterward, you’d continue to work without whining.

Burdock, oregano. Motherwort that would erupt billows of chemically-infused air when added to oils or sugars.

Then you noticed The Alchemist. His quirks, his characteristics.

He shifts between a long trench coat or tight vests, his hair is always styled a certain way, though some days, when he just wakes up, he has this tiny bird nest of hair atop his head, it’s charming.

He yawns a lot.

He wears heeled shoes, maybe from his shorter height, maybe preference.

And rather peculiarly, the longer you stay in his lair, the greater you notice the many scars littering his forearms, collarbones. Miniature cuts and imprints left on porcelain skin.

Those observations, conjoined with his reactions, make for a truly interesting character.

Reactions being his dislike toward loud noises, the matter in which his shoulders scrunch at a loud clap outside, eyes blown wide, fearful.

The longer you stay in his lair, the more you notice him, nonetheless his fears. Whether suspicion clarifies anything in specific, there’s no denying he’s a man of war.

Lee Minho has secrets, and as badly as your nosiness itches to uncover them, you, as you had promised earlier, will keep your lips sealed.

And it makes you wonder, what’s life like on your side of the street? What throng of unfairness left you awash, left you both suffering?

You wonder about your oppositions and similarities in different points of each other’s lives. Minutes, decades before you ever met.

Certain stones shall stay unturned, but you hope, maybe one day, those questions will be answered.

Interestingly enough, he never asked about your name; not even when you gingerly introduced yourself as your last name, a rather awkward fit.

Likewise, you don’t complain. There’s only two of you in the house after all.

A week in, you’re finally introduced to something new.

The Alchemist plans to have you tag along with him to Port Nova, a docking station located on the outskirts of Busan.

Business thrives in ship ports, the sole source of connectivity for a growing country like Korea. Each day, millions of shipments come in from countries you can’t name, so you’re not surprised in the slightest he’s headed there for a transaction.

You are surprised he decided to have you tag along.

Even more so that, as you hop off the transit, hurriedly tailing his left, he veers off a sharp turn, approaching a worn Burlesque Club, glittering sign halfway dangling from its perch on a scarlet red awning.

English letters spell out Nova Burlesque, a few missing letters left astray to the side, electrical bulbs spasming with sporadic lighting on the dusty ground below.

In the daylight, the place appears ordinary, blending in with its crumbling, desolate surroundings.

Although, you have no doubt this place utterly delights in the eve, pink-neon inviting enough to lure unaware foreigners upon first arrival.

“Mr. Lee,” You utter, returned with a short scoff from the man who insisted you refer to him by his name, Minho.

“Where are we going?”

It’s hesitant, unsure of whether to intervene, but Minho only smirks, whispering a not-very-assuring “You’ll see” you begrudgingly go along with.

Inside is the last of what you anticipated.

Oh dear.

You’ve only been to minimal Burlesque Clubs, but the ornery perspective of faux jewelry, a glittery, hallucinatory stage, and the constant rendition of Why Don’t You Do Right whirling on scratchy records isn’t present here.

Alternatively, there’s stools scattered around a marginally illuminated clearing, some upturned, others occupied by burly men with equally burly beards.

And in the middle, a boxing ring is situated. The stench of sweat and blood soaks the air in a metallic, pungent aroma.

A brisk realization crosses your mind, a conclusion of a sort.

Play a fool’s game, earn a fool’s reward.

Only you, Hyunjin, and Ms. Myeong know the lengths you’re willing to go to secure your family's well-being, and now, at odds you can’t compromise, you have to do everything in your power to maintain your act.

This is a test.

Sifting behind you, he murmurs a hushed: “Cover your ears.” That you begrudgingly oblige to, cupping either hand over your ears as Minho clutches his leather holster, concealed within the confines of a frequently worn coat.

In a split second, a gunshot is fired to the ceiling, the bullet's shell casing dropping atop the welt of his pointed shoe.

Stunned silence ensues.

Arm still extending the revolver in the air, you haphazardly remove your hands, dragging the hat further over your face as more eyes focus on the both of you.

“I’m looking for Reiner and Manfred.”

The longer the tension rises, the further you grow self conscious.

“Already?” A man bellows from inside the ring, breaking the awestruck spell whilst gripping his opponent by the collar, fist poised and ready to strike.

Unusually, they seem to know each other.

Minho merely exhales a loud sigh through his nose, practically two times smaller than his apparent acquaintance.

Said acquaintances grumbles.

“Leave it to our champion to interrupt the show.”

And with that, he hooks the contender in the jaw, sending him pummeling down to the tarnished mat where hoards either cheer or groan, hustling money left and right over the victor.

Champion of the show? You’re adding that to your collection of never ending questions that’ll likely stay unanswered.

From the crowd arises two men. The victor from the ring and another from the crowd, dressed lavishly opposed to his white tank top-wearing counterpart.

Reiner and Manfred, you assume.

Serving as a mere shadow in The Alchemist’s wake, the four of you hustle outside, met with a nonplussed Minho and two, mildly confused (and enormously tall) men.

Foreigners, certainly.

“..Care to introduce the pipsqueak?” Reiner presumably more talkative, piques, beady eyes scouring your figure enough to where you scorn the beads of sweat collecting upon your temple.

Pipsqueak my foot.

You stave down the retort, inhabiting Minho’s shadow as the three discuss matters of a hospital transaction. Almost like you weren’t there at all, as it’s always been.

If it weren’t for the technicalities, you would’ve interjected, made your presence known. Except, other than herbal instances, you’re a novice in the business department. You’ll leave that up to your current mentor to arrange.

Again, lips sealed.

Minho, ignorant to the previous victor’s question, continues to sign legal documents supplied by the calmer individual, Manfred. You internally thank the gesture.

Well, before Reiner’s sordid gaze becomes too stifling to brush off.

“I’m Mr. Lee’s apprentice, L/N. Nice to meet you,” You initiate, fearlessly reaching out a hand he heartily shakes, features graced with amusement, massive hand practically engulfing yours.

Pardoning a gruff “Likewise”, he nearly sends you flying from the timbre of his voice alone.

“Say,” Reiner mutters, finally completing the last of the package transfers. “Don’t you think this one seems a bit feminine?”

Your jaw ticks, nervousness shrouding your being like an unrelenting fog. Minho’s fingers close around your elbow, pulling you closer, brows knit.

“Perhaps you need your eyes checked, Reiner,” He offers, tone nonchalant opposed to the vice-like grip latched to your arm.

Heftily chortling, the man only pats your back, causing your entire body to surge forward upon impact.

“Well regardless, it’s a cute little thing ain’t it?”

Manfred simply grunts his acknowledgment while you bite your tongue, coveting your retaliation when he referred to you as “it”.

No use growing angered. The feeling is futile.

Luckily, your irritable arrangement comes to a hasty close, more than gleeful to have an understandably annoyed Minho steer you from Port Nova onto a short train back to Kent Avenue, to your newly established home.

A home, but not really a home. Semi-permanent, unofficial.

Either way, you wouldn’t complain. Despite the constant efforts in diminishing your past identity, you didn’t feel as conscious when around Minho.

Safer.

As if, in an alternative reality, you could tell him. Your truths, your burdens.

No. You won’t jeopardize this opportunity. You can’t.

At least, not yet.

“I’ll be back Mr. Lee!” You shout, wielding a briefcase bag to your person, nudging the ghoulish door open using your hip.

As usual, you’re headed off on a restocking trip.

Except on this occasion, the restocking consists of hunting down a peculiar herb: Chinese Chrysanthemum. It’s an appealing plant with fluorescent leaves and a constant need for sunlight.

It’s no surprise he’s sent you to fetch such goods. After two months, you soared in and out of the residence routinely, scouring Korea while Minho hunched over a wildly diverse array of vials and flasks, glasses propped on his slightly hooked nose, hands firmly resting on a wooden exam table.

Studious. He is very studious.

However, a catch diverts itself from eye view. A catch you hadn’t considered until your two feet stepped from squealing train tracks.

Somehow, although unusually intentional, you wound up in a rather peculiar area. An area you never imagined paying a visit to in your wildest dreams.

In the midst of economic outrage and warring circumstances, you’re standing in one of Korea’s most unstable, informal districts. A place that, according to your overhearing ear, was where your precious Chrysanthemum lodged.

This district had an infamous name.

The Den.

A fitting name in actuality, where a person didn’t realize they were stuck till it was too late, unable to see where they’re going, living in belief there’s an incentive to the finish line in a race run in circles.

Also, a place the Sharks who torment your family report to.

You can hear your heart thrumming in your ears, nearly ricocheting out of your chest with its horrid cacophony.

Calm down.

Calm down. Think of the goal.

All you have to do is find a flower.

Grounding yourself, you pinpoint some viable resources.

Fertile soil, maybe even sandy, likely in the inner portion of The Den.

Plus, you’re dressed as a man, you might as well act outrageously boisterous.

But you’re not, you’re afraid. Perhaps not external, but inside, your lungs feel as if they’re being violently crushed, sinking deeper in an unsteady submersible to the very bottom of the ocean. And for a second, you truly contemplate going back, telling Minho you’re incapable of the task.

Yet, what would you say? You’re haunted by a vision that hasn’t happened? Fearful for a future event with no guarantee? If you had ever done something so horrid, they would’ve found you ages ago.

This time, you’re in their domain, invading what’s theirs as they’ve done to you.

Greater. You aren’t who you used to be, in more ways than one.

Genuinely, what is there to lose?

That’s it. You’ll complete the mission and return. No run-ins, no fear barricading your job.

In and out.

Initially, you scout out your surroundings, regarding the faint sound of voices funneling in the distance, the smell of mixtures you hate being able to identify, far off machinery croaking before smoke spurs from rusted screws and bolts.

Amongst the chatter of street vendors and the many, notorious gang members patrolling in and out of abandoned shops, you roam avidly, keeping as low a profile as possible.

Number one priority is to not be noticed. Drawing attention to yourself is a one way ticket to failure, and the last thing you need is to arrive back to Minho empty-handed.

However, through the blinding clouds of smoke billowing from exhaust pipes, a specific building, shrouded in the shadows of charcoal residue, douses your peripheral.

A Greenhouse.

Bingo.

Quickly looking around, you shrink low to the ground, racing forward to carefully creak open glass double doors and slip inside.

It feels as if you’re enclosed in a furnace. Mere seconds in and sweat already begins gathering upon your temples.

Though that becomes the least of your concerns after assessing what lies inside.

Hundreds, maybe even thousands of flowers and herbs. Rare species, some critically endangered, just sitting here.

It’s strange.

Why would, in the case such an abundance existed, not be used? Why hadn’t this Greenhouse been raptured from the inside out for such valuable items?

It’s not until a commotion stirs ahead of you that you understand the answer to the question.

With about five plucked Chinese Chrysanthemums expertly sealed into their coordinating bags, a piercing hiss followed by multiple shouts and hollers cause you to shrink back, gazing around haphazardly.

A hiss?

From your perspective nearly kissing the dirt, your vision allows a minuscule glimpse of multiple backs turned, boisterously amused men gathering around something in the front of the Greenhouse.

You feel the need to know more.

Inching forward tip-toe by tip-toe, amidst the roaring crowd, you spare a look between the sea of legs to find an utterly deplorable sight.

A cat.

No, not just a cat, cat fighting. They’re watching cats maul each other for the fun of it. As if they aren’t living creatures, but toys for their entertainment.

And perhaps it’s a foolish decision, perhaps laughable being worried, being angered, but you are and you refuse to leave knowing you could’ve done something to help them.

Hastily scouring the floors, a can of Spam discarded below Foxglove stems proves useful enough, tossing it as far as possible where it whacks against the glass wall, immediately averting their attention.

This is your chance.

As dark clouds and incoming rain thunder outside, you don’t waste the opportunity, sprinting forward while the men make toward the direction of the sound and hoisting the first cat you see into your arms.

Sprinting past narrow pathways and dimly lit streets, you force your eardrums numb to the threats they call after you, mind trained on one thing besides getting as far as possible from here.

To Minho to Minho to Minho.

A hand grabbing your shoulder causes you to shriek, swiftly dragged off where you swear your last breaths will be taken, the feline in your arms scrambling with panic.

“What are you doing?” Your captor furiously whispers, hidden in the low lighting of an apparent alleyway.

Wait. You recognize that voice.

“Hyunjin?”

How does he recognize you?

Just then does a breeze swipe past your head, sending chills trickling down your rain-soaked neck.

Your hat is gone. Must’ve fell off while you were running.

“Wh.. what are you doing?” Slipping from his grasp after the men’s hushed conversation becomes inaudible, you regard the man with an incredulous stare.

“Answer my question first,” He reprimands, and as the cat resounds a pained meow do you assess the dire nature of the situation.

You need to get this cat to Minho, and fast.

“Can’t- Can’t talk right now I’ve got to go—“

“Wait!”

Though, as your footsteps breach the security of the alley, the placating cry of crows mock your left, hurried footsteps belonging to those occupying the Greenhouse heading toward you in rampant haste.

Hyunjin’s hand holding your wrist, you grace a tight-lipped smile his way.

“Let’s not see each other like this again, okay?”

He returns a miniature grin, teeming with mischief.

“Agreed.”

Upon letting go, you race off, attempting to speedily navigate back to the train station whilst torrents of streaming droplets cascade down your face.

“Good luck!”

“Thanks, I’ll need it!” You respond back, voice permeated against the rain, eyes frantically searching for a place to evade.

Finally, a crowd appears, swarming amongst diners and flickering street lights.

Your perfect hideaway.

Swimming through the hive of people, you catapult yourself into the nearest phone booth in sight, fumbling through deep pockets before cashing a coin into the metal slot and jarring your index over slippery metal numbers.

Praying the combination is correct as you hold the wired telephone to your ear, you’re consumed with utmost relief upon hearing The Alchemist’s voice answer on the other side of the crackling line.

Amidst roaring rainfall drowning the booth, you differentiate shouting a ways off, likely belonging to the men from earlier.

“Mr- Mr. Lee?”

“Yes? Where are you?”

“Are you.. Are you allergic to cats?”

Never in your life did you think you would be so overjoyed seeing blue doors.

Clambering inside—the rather upset cat in your arms hissing their dismay—you’re overwhelmed with an unexplainable happiness seeing Minho’s face peer from the guest room.

Relief.

“L/N wha..”

Words dying in his throat as he gives you a speechless once over, your urge to hug him dissipates instantly, beckoning a new set of garments upon realizing how utterly drenched your precious disguise is.

Simultaneously shoving the cat his way before rushing to your room, you thankfully strip of your fretfully cold attire, welcomed in the comforting embrace of clean clothing.

A mere five minutes later you exit, greeted by Minho’s stockstill frame. Hand half-raised, evidently about to knock.

You forcefully clear your throat, praying the momentary awkward tension is alleviated.

Luckily, The Alchemist takes it upon himself to break the spell, eyes dancing across the floorboards in order to avoid your own.

“Well, she’s stable. Her vitals are fine, nothing too critical apart from a few cuts here and there. Just shaken up.”

Your stare of astonishment earns a confused tip of his head.

“That fast?”

Said (apparently female) cat rubbing her body along your calf with an obviously delighted purr, you appear nearly concussed, crouching down to pat the soft, striped fur lining her back.

Minho snorts.

“What can I say, I get work done.”

Maybe he is a vampire after all.

Mirroring your crouch, he watches your interaction, similarly feline-like inspection unnoticed till glancing up.

And for a swift moment, you swear he saw through you. Lips parted, eyes scrutinizing. Piecing together the building blocks to a wavering structure you’d strived so hard to build, to protect.

No. You’re overthinking. He couldn’t possibly know.

You failed to notice the forlorn look on his face, one that ushers to ask if you’re okay, fetch a hot beverage to warm your evidently cold hands.

“Might I ask how you ended up bringing this one home?”

Leave it to him to take the title as your greatest ally and worst enemy at the same time.

Ah. Right.

“Y’know I was about to get to that-”

You pause, deriding the high pitch of your voice into something more appropriate. He cocks a brow.

“As I was saying, it wasn’t my intention to bring her back, but the place she was trapped at, the place with the men- the plants..”

According to his expression, you’ve grown two heads.

…

“Go on.”

“Look, the place I found the Chrysanthemum was having cat fights. Do you remember hearing about the dog fights in Gangwon? It’s the same thing. We can’t just sit still while they’re torturing innocent animals.”

“I don’t know what you got yourself into, but I’m an Alchemist, not a hero,” He sighs, and your hand stalls its petting, face falling while the cat in your lap flicks her tail back and forth expectantly.

He has a point. You got yourself into this, you went into the Greenhouse. It’s not his duty to clean up after your messes, but perhaps you can convince him, even by a small margin.

Play a fools game, earn a fools reward.

You’ll mop the floor of your own mess.

“Minho, please. Just this once and I won’t rope you into anything ever again, okay?”

Stifling silence making an additional appearance, you nervously await the verdict, perched rather hilariously outside of your bedroom door.

Chewing the skin of his cheek, he scolds himself for falling so susceptible to you, though you won’t ever know that.

“Fine, but you’d better have a plan.”

Ah. Great.

You don’t.

At dawn’s arrival you’re swept upward, fixing a hasty bout of tea and toast prior to dressing in the privacy of your appreciated quarters.

You don a much-needed hat, hopping aboard the first train of the day with a well-dressed Minho in tow.

Retracing your steps turns out easier than you anticipated, The Alchemist tailing you as you had done him at Port Nova.

Though, just when the task seemed a cake walk, you manage a meager detour, regarding your unimpressed mentor.

“From what I can remember, it’s around here somewhere. But I might be wrong, I stumbled upon it by accident and it looks a bit scary but I think—“

“Stop! Stop- Stop talking. Please.”

You quickly shut your mouth, allowing the man to lead instead till the sight of familiar landmarks becomes a gradual reassurance of your location.

Perhaps now it’s safe to talk.

“Mr. Lee, what did Reiner mean by calling you a champion-“

Shoved against the brick wall, your sentence dies instantly, panickedly glancing in all directions assessing the all too familiar pistol Minho‘s drawn, conspicuous in close proximity.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” He enunciates, tone unusually gruff whilst scanning your surroundings.

Your face warms an involuntary pink you clamber to ward off, drawn to the sight of his tense jaw and the feather-like arrangement of long lashes, focused on something elsewhere.

Your retort dies not only from his beauty, but upon the familiar Greenhouse coming into view.

“Looks like we found where your little friends are playing.”

Though, as the man begins forward, you grab him by the sleeve.

“Wait! We can’t just waltz in.”

His hand, slipping from the warmth of his pocket, cups your chin, unbearably close to your face to the point you can feel his breath on your nose.

Curse the butterflies.

“Well there’s no need for an introduction, so let’s listen this time, shall we?”

Left at a loss for words either from your slack mouth or the concerning amount of sweat building upon your palms, you don’t argue back, lingering right outside the door, craning to hear voices.

By the sound of it, at least four people are inside at the moment, and the longer you stay out here, the more ample time becomes for additional threats to show up.

As if reading your mind, he slips through the rugged door, gesturing for you to follow while silently navigating through dense, humid underbrush and overgrown foliage.

However, your quiet voyage is quelled when a twig, unbeknownst to the two of you, cracks under the pressure of his foot.

“Shit,” He mutters, cringing back at the immediate quietness that ensued.

The Alchemist curses as well.

Interesting.

Amidst the men bearing closer, Minho turns to you, tone urgent.

“When I get up, you run and free the cats. Don’t look back, just go.”

Nodding hastily, you reacquaint yourself with the area, ensuring a dead set beeline to where the cats were held without interruptions.

Minho, a split second before you can ask a question, whips the gun from his coat pocket, the sound of bullets whipping through the air enough indication it’s time you go.

Finnicking hands make it hard to unscrew the wired cages, surges of adrenaline helping speed up the rescue as you double check every feline has escaped.

Heeding to instruction, you don’t look for The Alchemist, solely driven to freeing the cats and fleeing the scene. No more problems.

Almost an exact replica to your last visit here, a hand drags you off right as you exit the Greenhouse doors, back pressed against his (whom you realized was Minho, not Hyunjin, thanks to the leather gloves) front.

And perhaps from running, perhaps from something else, you can feel his heartbeat, oscillating in a nonstop orchestra that sends your own heart pounding from the confines of your rib cage.

Stifling a shaky inhale you’d held in as the last of the perpetrators scattered elsewhere, you instantly step back, denying every urge to coddle him like a child, fretfully check him for injury.

A certain fondness lay reserved for Lee Minho, a fondness you can’t discern of at the moment.

“C’mon, quick, Soonie might get scared if we’re gone for too long,” He ushers, crashing your tunneling train of thought right off its rails in the process.

“Yeah-“

You stop.

“Soonie?”

“Yeah, Soonie.”

“You named her?”

“..Yes.”

It’s a genuine struggle hiding your laugh.

“I didn’t find you the type to take in cats.”

“Today you’ve been proven wrong, apparently.”

A sort of giddiness you never experienced fills your chest, wishing nothing more than to look back at the man and swoon.

How could you not? He was very much dexterous, and attractive without a doubt, that much was known to anyone who laid eyes on The Alchemist.

Your trek home proved relatively easy, able to skillfully get to the station away from prying eyes and trod along a mixture of gravel and dusty roads without issue.

Silently celebrating your success, you nudge your counterpart's hip, the unimpressed side-eye he grants doing little to dull your happiness.

“Aren’t you an Alchemist? How come you’re oddly good with a gun?”

He clicks his tongue.

“Aren’t you my apprentice? How come you’re getting yourself into trouble when your only instruction was to fetch herbs?”

You conceal a smile he obviously catches, glare failing to quiet your bubbling laughter, his own lips tugging upward.

“It was necessary Mr. Lee! And you know you love Soonie.”

“Unfortunately.”

Nearly a month into her residence, and Soonie has become an effervescent force to be reckoned with. Although initially sassy and wary, she’s transformed into the most affectionate cat you’d ever met.

You have to give it to her, she’s grown on the both of you, a lot.

Plus, you might just have to thank her for unleashing Minho’s tender side, whether that’s the two of them cuddling on the couch while he naps or him picking her up and treating her like a baby while you watch from afar.

Over the course of the five months you’ve been here, you’ve sent countless checks back home—enough to where dues could finally be paid and the hope for a good life came into view.

Everything seems right, seems ideal.

But of course, on an equally ideal Thursday evening, a thousand pounds of bricks drops right on top of your head.

“How long were you planning to keep it from me?”

He, Lee Minho, The Alchemist, voices.

Simultaneously, your stomach plummets to your feet, peeking over your shoulder to find his back facing you, hunched over a straus flask.

Then the bomb drops.

“You being a woman, that is.”

Abruptly pausing, you don’t reply, worried you’d say the wrong thing, unintentionally summon the catalyst to this arising catastrophe.

Yet, you can’t stay quiet for too long. And a fear lingered inside, a fear that if he looked at you, you would break.

“Forever.”

Doing just what you dreaded, he turns to you, wearing a horribly serious expression.

You avoid eye-contact.

“Because you thought I would fire you?”

A nod.

“And that’s why you said that, when you first came to me? That you weren’t a woman asking for a job?”

Another nod.

He sighs, pulling glasses from atop a hooked nose. You remain staring at the floor.

“I don’t decide who to hire based on what they are. If you can do your job and do it well, you’re worthy enough to work.”

Minho spoke softly, the dim, orange lighting of his lamplight doing little to shake how overwhelming the occasion is, how it feels as if your disguise is wearing, thinning to an impossible degree.

Except, your world isn’t ending like you thought it would if someone found out, so why do you feel so heartbroken? So overstimulated with realization?

“How did you..” you trail off, raging tears longing to spill.

No, you can’t afford to cry now. You’ve held out so far, it will stay that way.

Should stay that way.

Minho dips his head lower in order to fully see you in all your lip-chewing, anxiety-ridden glory. The ghost of a smile rests upon his lips.

“It was impossible not to tell. You’re unusually tiny, those shoes are massive, and, um, I do the laundry.”

Watching his once bemused expression dissipate, you mark this as the first time you’ve ever seen him genuinely flustered—and, upon realizing he’d likely seen more than necessary as well, you’re also diminished to a bright red.

The room wilts in stillness before he exhales, stepping a bit closer to where you linger by the bookshelf, your heels tapping against the frame.

Tone minimizing itself terribly gentle, The Alchemist carefully collects your cheeks in his hands, urging you to see him, see those terribly thoughtful brown eyes granting a terribly kind disposition.

“It’s been scary, hasn’t it?”

Well, you had held out thus far.

Cracking into pieces, you melt like droplets of honey in his fingertips. He perfectly catches them in the jar.

Out of anyone in this world, you can’t help but be grateful he was the one who found out, found you.

Chest bubbling with breaking sobs, Minho’s thumbs caress your under eyes, swiping away the many salty droplets in their continuous descent.

Own hands shakily reaching up to hold his resting on your face, you stand there, soaking in his wooded, earthy scent and the soft hums he occasionally emits as if a reminder he’s still there, listening to your cries without intent to leave.

“Mr.. Mr. Lee… It was so scary, I’m so tired Mr. Lee,” You hiccup, mentally berating the endlessly freefalling tears, how your once staved emotions reduced your strong, dutiful voice into nothing but a stuttering mess.

Carefully swiping drool from your chin, he leans forward, planting a kiss on your forehead.

“I don’t know why you did it, but I promise it’ll be okay, we’ll be okay.”

Then another kiss to your forehead, staying there until your sniffling and breathing calms.

Gathering yourself if only slightly, you wrap your arms around his waist, pulling him into a warm hug he gradually accepts after a beat of shock.

“Thank you, Minho.”

And just when he thought the shock faded, he’s struck again from the sound of his name leaving your mouth.

Minho.

Mr. Lee had been charming, but Minho, it was different. A good kind of different.

He particularly favored the way it sounded falling off your lips, two syllables he’d replay over and over, savoring each a little bit more than the last.

More so, he wished to substitute his nagging thoughts with you, have you narrate the phrases bouncing inside his skull.

Perhaps then everything wouldn’t be so loud, if he had your voice to nullify the battlefield.

Unfortunately forced to separate, Minho adjusts his tie, clearing his throat in a manner you can’t help but feel nervous about.

You like this flustered Minho.

“I’ll.. I’ll run you a bath.”

You wince at the rawness of your skin when your face wrinkles in a chuckle.

“Do I smell?”

Minho, frantically scrambling for an excuse, rubs his temples, exasperation evident in the grooves of his face, the curve and dip of prominent cheekbones portraying a mature visage.

“No I-“ He grumbles. “It helps calm you down.”

Merely able to halfway staunch your irrevocable glee, you call his name as he begins stepping out, ears an adorable pink.

“Y/N. My name is Y/N. L/N is my last name.”

Not allowing you view of his front-side, you listen to his whispering with delight, testing the newly discovered title on his tongue as if to memorize it.

Ah, you’re falling in love.

Or maybe you’ve already fallen.

Hastily closing the door behind himself and letting you get situated in the bath, it’s not long into your relaxing that you notice a shadow seeping through the door’s crack, a figure standing there, debating.

“Minho?” You announce amusedly, watching the shadow jump and causing you to bite your frothing laugh whilst choosing what to say next.

“Would you like to join me?”

The Alchemist audibly chokes on his saliva outside the door.

Sparing a few seconds for him to collect his oxygen, you hadn’t been prepared for when he replies a quiet: “Another time”.

Your eyebrows shoot up with surprise.

Daring.

Then his shadow, after furious shuffling, disappears, serving as a reminder of your extended time spent bathing.

Assembling the copper drain and pulling foreign nightwear over dampened skin, opposed to your usual rush to your room, you allow the chilling air to grant its harsh greeting, leaving the steamy room in its wake.

No more secrets. What a breath of fresh air.

Minho, still cooped up at his desk like routine, barely moves when you place your hands on his shoulders, adorning those charismatic glasses, lips pursed thoughtfully.

“You should go get some rest Mr– Minho,” You beckon, response a sleepy blink of his eyes, obviously exhausted.

“...I really wanted to kiss you.”

The remark drifting off as a murmur, you crane to hear him, wondering if your mind was playing tricks on you.

“Hm?” Humming, you lightly push his back toward his quarters, the man begrudgingly following your inaudible orders.

At least he’s cooperating.

Abruptly, he turns around, evading your hands that ease his back forward, sporting a pout adorable enough you might just lose your mind.

How unfair that someone could behave like this and expect you to not go insane.

“When you started crying.” His eyes flicker to your lips, if only for a moment. “I really wanted to kiss you.”

A portion of your stock-still frame wants to blame his tiredness, but another so badly wants it to be true, wants those words to be irrevocably real.

Fighting the urge to scream with how stupidly childish he’s making you feel, you reject every ounce of sensibility, looping one arm around his neck, using your other hand’s index to tug him closer by the belt loop.

Trust, the feeling is mutual.

Why waste the opportunity?

“What’s stopping you?”

The utterance barely graces air, and in milliseconds he’s crashing into your lips, a wordless confession it is real, not a mere figment of your imagination.

Stumbling to loosen his tie whilst keeping your faces impossibly connected, you fall deeper and deeper into the manner he tilts his head, expertly diminishing you into puddy in his touch.

Back and forth, memorizing your taste on his tongue.

Clumsy footsteps lead to his sofa, your fingers tangled in his dark strands, his kneading your waist.

And it’s not until your lungs cry for oxygen that you pull apart, Minho’s bottom lip tugged and bitten, yours swollen with his feverish kisses.

Both of you avidly messy, you can’t bring yourself to care, too busy enjoying the afterglow, his dazed smile.

“Whoever you want to save,” He starts, carefully smoothing over your skin with his thumb . “I will save them, deal?”

Returning that same lazy smile he directs at you, the both of you lean back on the couch, a twine of legs and limbs flailing in every direction.

Close, closer.

A part of you aches at the thought, blinking up at such a stunning tragedy. Aches knowing you can’t return the favor, can’t say the same, promise him that same promise.

Because according to the Red Plague, he’s lost that person, those people. So you remain silent, merely hoping one day they’ll receive proper eternal rest.

That's something you might be able to promise.

Tipping your chin up to where it sits right above his heart, those brilliant eyes of yours blinking up at him do little for his well-being.

Has anyone told you you’re beautiful? Because he thinks you are, he knows you are.

Just this once and I won’t rope you into anything ever again, okay?

Minho grins deeper, brows creasing, expression doused in unadulterated adoration.

“And yet, you rope me into something else,” He whispers to himself.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, let’s run another bath. I’ll join you this time, hm?”

FIC TAGLIST. @linocz @foxinnie8 @wonniesverse

sunboki, may 2022 ©

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bloodmoonmuses · 3 months

Text

translation: i love you. | mark lee

genre: mark lee x reader, college au (not that important for the context tbh), friends to lovers, fluff, drabble (900 words)

summary: your friends referred to you as the mark lee interpreter. you weren't sure why, but you understood him- even the words he didn't say.

warnings: none!

To many, you were known as the Mark Lee Interpreter. Such was usually said in jest, but you couldn’t help the pride that swelled in your chest when the moniker was bestowed upon you. Sure, the guy rambles a bit, but if you listen- really listen- he has quite a beautiful outlook on the world.

You and Mark usually conversed in motion. You’ve divulged your deepest secrets to him while on aimless walks. You’ve cracked your wisest jokes to one another while biking. You’ve had entire conversations through your eyes while dancing in grimy bars.

Now was no different, though a more chill variation. It’s Spring, so the two of you are taking a stroll in between classes. The sun knocks the chill off an otherwise too-chilly day, its rays falling on your face like a smattering of kisses. Spring isn’t in its picturesque stage quite yet. The stasis of winter still lingers, trees barren and skies grayish amidst the light that peeks through the cloud coverage. It’s calming.

There’s a creek that runs through the center of campus, a little bridge arching over the widest part. This is where you stood now, watching the water trickle over stones.

“I think about rocks a lot,” Mark says out of nowhere. (Translation: Nature is so beautiful- even the most mundane and minute aspects of it. Even the parts that people forget. I think about forgotten things a lot, like rocks.) You believe it. Mark thinks a lot about a lot of things.

“They’re, like, soooo varied. Y’know?”

You do know. Large rocks. Mountainous rocks. Boulders. Stones. Pebbles. There are many types of rocks. “The ones in the creek look super smooth. It’s… hypnotizing.” Mark speaks as though he’s constantly in amazement, or on the brink of an epiphany. He’s the embodiment of potential, of the hypothetical, of what could be. You think a lot about what you and Mark could be.

Of the many possibilities, you conclude that as long as some form of togetherness is involved, you’d be anything for him.

“I think about water a lot,” you respond.

“What’s your favorite kind of water?” (Translation: Indulge me. How intently do you think about the minutiae of the world? Are you as crazy about water as I am about rocks?)

“Hm,” you say. “Good question. No one’s ever asked me that.” You assume he’s asking you to identify a particular body of water as your favorite. A memory comes to mind.

It was the summer after freshman year. You and Mark went to the beach everyday together. You think of the chilly water that rolled over your toes in the waking moments of dawn. You think of how beautiful the sunrise looked reflected on the ocean. You think of Mark waking up with you, despite not being a morning person. That wasn’t your favorite type of water, no. You specifically liked the sea water that danced on the ends of Mark’s hair. The drops that traveled down the follicle, forming shimmering beads, and dripped onto the sand below. You made a game of watching and counting them that summer. (The highest you got was 47.)

You’re not sure how to consolidate this memory into a sentence that doesn’t sound absolutely insane. You decide to omit the thought entirely. A conversation for a different day, you suppose.

“The ocean. Cliche, I know,” you say. Mark nods to himself, then hums.

The creek beneath you harmonizes with Mark’s humming. He begins walking again, taking your hand in his. This wasn’t too out of the ordinary for your friendship, but it makes your heart do this twisty thing you can’t quite place. It was the one action of his you couldn’t interpret. Mark doesn’t make a big deal about it, nor does he discuss the matter afterwards. It was almost like he was entitled to your hand, clasping his calloused fingers around yours without a second thought.

You’ve never actually looked at your intertwined hands before. The first time he grabbed it (during one of those days on the beach), Mark acted so nonchalant. You figured the gesture didn’t mean much to him. You were scared that, if provided with a visual, you’d never stop thinking about his stupid hands.

This time, you allow yourself a peek. The cuff of Mark’s jacket hangs over his fingers, and he squeezes your hand when he realizes you’re looking. (Translation: You’re finally acknowledging this. Are you here? Can you feel me?)

Your hand is getting sweaty. You pull away to wipe it on your jeans.

Mark can’t believe you’re nervous right now. You’re never nervous around him. The two of you have become accustomed to the wordless ease of your relationship.

Mark’s eyeing you again. You pretend you can’t see him in your peripheral vision. It doesn’t work. “Nervous?”

“Not even a little bit,” you say defiantly. You snatch his hand back into yours as if to prove your point. However, this only does the opposite as you begin to literally tremble.

“You’re so funny,” says Mark, running his thumb over the back of your hand. He slowly lifts your hand to his mouth, but he doesn’t kiss it. He simply presses your knuckles to his lips, maintaining eye contact while he does so. Your breath hitches.

“Mark-” is all you manage to say. You can’t meet his eyes, so you look at your conjoined hands as they swing between the two of you. Elation radiates off Mark’s skin. He’s grinning from ear to ear.

“Your hand is so warm,” Mark says. (Translation: I love you.)

a/n: feedback is always appreciated! thanks for reading!

#bloodmoonmuses #mark lee fic #nct 127 #nct 127 fluff #mark lee #mark lee x reader #mark lee fluff #nct dream fluff #mark lee drabble

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sluttywoozi · 7 months

Text

Kinktober Day 6: Dumbification + Dino

For 🦦

Rating: M | WC: 619

Pairing: Lee Chan x Reader | Genre: smut

Warnings: implied consent, dumbification, degradation, jealousy, possessiveness, affectionate use of slut, piv sex, cocky!chan, rough sex

Reader Notes: has a vagina

Chan hustles you into the bedroom, his blood fever hot in his veins and his cock rock hard in his jeans. He’s had enough, enough of watching the guys touch you and make you giggle and, worse, make you smile. He knows he should be happy you get along so well with his friends, but, being the youngest, he’s always made to share and he doesn’t want them thinking you’re something he’s willing to give up.

Why he’s taking it out on you, he doesn’t know, but it just feels right. Right to push you onto the bed, yank your pants down, and get you wet and ready with his mouth. To pull his aching cock out and feed it inside of you as slowly as he can manage, which is still double his normal speed. To snap his hips against yours as soon as you open up for him, a weak call of his name escaping you when he pulls back and sinks in again.

“Shhhh, baby, shhh, just take it,” Chan whispers, one hand pressed in between your shoulders to hold you down and the other clutching your hip to hold you up as he pounds into you. His thrusts are brutal, his thick cock spearing you open, and all you can do is lay there and, well, take it.

Which is exactly what Chan wants. He wants to fuck all the thoughts from your pretty little head, fuck you so dumb you can’t speak, fuck you so hard that he’s all you want, all you know. Then, you won’t have the mind to laugh at Seokmin’s jokes, or giggle at Jeonghan’s tricks, or play along with Mingyu’s fake flirting.

All you’ll care about is Chan, and his cock, and the way he fills you up, because you’re his.

“You’re mine, right? Just mine. My dumb little slut,” he says lovingly, smoothing his hand up your back to hold the nape of your neck, loosening his grip just enough for you to turn your head and whine, “Yours, Channie.”

He wouldn’t have minded hearing you call yourself his dumb little slut but he’ll take what he can get, knows he feels so big inside you it’s like he’s in your throat, knows it was hard enough just to get those two words out while he’s driving into you like this, knows that at this point, you can barely find two brain cells to rub together as he stuffs you to the brim.

“You fucking love this. Don’t you, baby? You love when I fuck you stupid, when I make you my dumb little slut, when I fill you up so good, you forget what it’s like to be empty.”

You squeeze down on his dick so hard, he can feel his veins dragging against your walls on the way out, moaning, “Love it, I love it, Channie.”

“Yeah, you do, sweetheart. I can fucking hear it, you’re so wet, shit,” he grunts, your arousal painting his thighs as his balls slap against your ass. All you can do is whimper in response, he’s going too hard for you to push back or form sentences or lift your head, and when he sneaks a hand between your legs to rub circles into your clit, your whimper becomes a keen.

He wants to feel you break around him, wants to feel you shatter, needs to know he’s fucked you as close to brainless as your brilliant mind can get. That’s when he’ll give in, give you the cum he knows you want, and give you a break before starting all over again.

Kinktober Masterlist

Taglist: @aaniag @shuabby1994 @gyuwoncheol @aestheticsluut @bahng-chrizz @princessjazzyjazz @8queenc8 @soonhoonietrash @carat-deobi-writes @chans-wife @scuzmunkie @hipsdofangirl @onlyoneofdeeznutz @charmante-mp3 @honestlydopetree @hyneyedfiz @ngengngeng @plskillme22 @5xiang @onedumbho3 @tigerhoshi25 @ener-energy @heavenly-mobo @kingleysworld @iammisstora @jadeblackwoll @gyuhanniescarat @horanghater @shuadotcom @crookedwolfruins @pegdenki @burningupp-replies @flickhurstyles @yearnoclock @yoonguurt @itza-meee @riiley @xxtingz @wonuqrtz @dkswife @onlyyjeonghan @northerngalxy @ikooca @replay-by-shinee @weebotakuboy @ellesmoon @tomodachiii @kyeominara @lissiesykes @thepoopdokyeomtouched @mixling-blog @jadeblackwoll @luvkpopp @tunaasan @sliceofwoozi @valentxi @bangantokchy @jacixbliss @98-0603 @jeanjacketjesus @leechanswhore @s00buwu @porridgesblog @taesungx @yunjinified @booshui @brattybunfornct @exo-saranghajaaa @euphoriaeli @bratty-tingz @mcarebearsstuff @freshdetectivenight @lexix001 @hoe4wooyoung @certifiedmoa @universefactory96 @i4kt

#dino smut #lee chan smut #lee chan fanfic #svthub #kvanity #lee chan x reader #lee chan imagines #lee chan x you #dino x reader #seventeen fic #seventeen smut #svt fanfic #svt x reader #svt imagines #svt smut #kpop smut #✨em's kinktober✨#✨emily writes✨

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juyeonszn · 8 months

Text

BAD IDEA RIGHT?

PAIRING lee juyeon x f!reader

WORD COUNT 4.10k

GENRES … smut

WARNINGS 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, literally porn with plot. like i’m so insane, enemies to “we fuckin” as reese put it 🥰, frat boy tbz again!!!, juyo is literally so irritating in the first half im not even gonna lie, he’s also a manwhore, making out, reader is a bit of a brat, juyeon has a dirty mouth, kinda dom!juyeon, vaginal fingering, oral (m! receiving), SHOWER SEX !12!1!, he’s hitting it from the back btw, unprotected sex, creampie, juyeon is actually… i don’t even know how to describe him writing his character made me want to claw at the walls lol

SUMMARY deep down you’re fully aware that you’re probably making a huge mistake by giving into juyeon just like every other girl on campus ever has. but paired with how intoxicating his mouth feels on your own and the steam filled bathroom clouding your head, you can’t seem to find a logical reason to stop.

MORE heheheh im back 🤭 oh my god this was actually the cause of a week full of sleepless nights. i genuinely drove myself crazy writing this bc NEED FRRRR like idk i’m so 😭 delusional. ANYWAYS. ANON. THIS ONE IS FOR U. U REQUESTED THIS AND I RAN WITH IT. u wanted more juyeon, i deliver more juyeon ;) also shout out to ally, moni, AND reese for beta’ing 🥺 i love u my cupcakes!! prompt used: 18 <3

PERM TAGLIST @winterchimez @maessseongs @itsbeeble

If there was anyone on Earth that you hated more than anything, it had to be Lee Juyeon.

To put things plainly, he was quite literally the bane of your existence. Being around him made your blood pressure skyrocket and gave you migraines that lasted for days. It was insane how one person could affect you so much by doing so little. It seemed as if he thrived off of getting under your skin.

Considering he was the captain and the pitcher of the baseball team, it wasn’t shocking. He was also a member of one of the most popular fraternities on campus. But he happened to be roommates with one of your best friends, and that made it ten times worse.

You’d known Changmin since third grade, along with Kevin and Chanhee. When he mentioned he’d be joining a fraternity in college, you were a bit apprehensive. All you knew about them was what you’d read in YA books and seen in movies. Neither gave them a good rep. Part of you wanted to talk him out of it, but you knew this was something you had to let him do, given you were adults and it was his college experience. At least you still had the other two under one roof.

The first time you met Juyeon was also the first time you attended a frat party. Changmin had just passed his initiation after waiting a year and he invited all of you to celebrate. You were excited for the most part since high school parties were more for an adrenaline rush due to the fact that your parents never let you go to them and you either snuck out or lied about going. You didn’t have to worry about the limitations of parents this go around.

The boys disappeared almost immediately upon arrival, leaving you to fend for yourself in the very crowded fraternity house. You could hardly pass through a room without bumping into somebody’s shoulder or elbow, huffing as you maneuver around the house equivalent to a sardine can. Your drink nearly spilled onto your top multiple times and you were glad you decided against the heels for the night.

You chugged the rest of the jungle juice in your cup as you stepped onto the patio, where it’s just as noisy and just as packed. You’re lucky enough to find an empty lounge chair near the house’s pool, unoccupied and calling your name. When your legs touch the plastic chair, you flinch at how hot it is, most likely from being in the sun all day.

“Woah, do you want a cushion?”

You look up at the source of the voice. You’ve seen him around campus before, and even at Changmin’s games. Lee Juyeon was just one of those people that you had to know, unless you’d been living under a rock. Just like everyone else in the world, you couldn’t deny how attractive he was. From this distance, you truly understood why girls would giggle like high schoolers over the guy.

“Uh, sure. Yeah, that would be great actually.” You nod, watching as he wanders towards the shed in the corner of the big ass backyard. He returns promptly, holding his red solo cup between his teeth and one hand on your lower back guiding you to a standing position so he could place down the cushion.

“As a thank you, can I get your name?” He gives you a cocky little smile that should’ve been a warning. And looking back on it, you should’ve seen his true personality sooner, to be completely honest. The way his lips curled at the corners, like a conniving bastard who got off on irritating others.

“It’s Y/N,” you say, messing with your empty cup. “I’d ask for yours, but I kinda already know.”

He laughs at that, scratching the back of his neck. “That’s not surprising.” It’s at this point that you’re starting to see through his sweet facade, but despite knowing better— despite always keeping your guard up— you let yourself fall for it just this once. All because you didn’t want to fuck things up for Changmin. He owed you big time.

“Well, you are a talented athlete.” You didn’t want to fuel what is probably already a massive ego, but you’d rather compliment his baseball skills than the fact that he was infamous for screwing around with half of the girls on campus. Technically, that was a feat of its own since he’d only been in school for a year.

“Oh, so you think I’m talented?” He rested a hand on your chair, leaning down to your level. Confidence oozed from every corner of his being and if you weren’t so self aware, perhaps you could’ve ended up like all those other victims of his charismatic behavior.

“I go to the games for Changmin,” you scoff, glancing away from his face to stop the heat rising up your neck. “I’ve only paid attention to you once or twice.”

“Yeah, sure. Let's go with that,” he bites his lip, blatantly checking you out. “I wouldn’t mind paying attention to you a little.”

“I’m unimpressed, Juyeon,” you snort, raising an eyebrow at him. “Does this shit really work on everyone?”

“I can drop the act if you want, baby. Just let me know when you’re ready to stop playing hard to get.” He stands upright, running a hand through his hair.

Every time you ran into Lee Juyeon after that, he was more and more insufferable. He knew his influence on you, too, if his smug fucking grin was anything to go by. You wish you could just slap it off of him. However, you stood by being the bigger person in any given situation, so that was off the table. (And half of you still felt a moral obligation to not get your friend into hot water.)

“Would it kill you to play nice every once in a while? I do live with the dude, you know.” Changmin whines, trailing you in the supermarket like a lost puppy.

“He’s got a point, N/N,” Kevin adds, humming as he tosses a boxed dinner into the cart. “I get that he’s a little bit of an overconfident douche, but rolling your eyes at him when he hasn’t even done anything just makes it worse on you. And JiChang, too, I guess.”

“Bro…”

You weren’t even sure why he decided to tag along with you and the other boys when you mentioned grocery shopping. In fact, he might as well have stayed his ass home if he was just going to gang up on you the whole time. Chanhee sighs dramatically, bringing your shopping cart to a halt.

“Can we not have a peaceful grocery trip? Is that impossible or something?” His lips form a thin line. “I swear, all we do is talk about how much Y/N hates Lee Juyeon. Can we please move on?”

“Thank you, Chanhee, I agree,” you nod along, walking backwards as you do so and ignoring the faces your friends make. “He makes me want to kill myself.”

“Who makes you want to kill yourself?”

You jump up, frightened by the sudden voice in your ear. Your friends all give you sheepish smiles, as if they’d already tried to warn you. (What shitty jobs they did.) With a hand over your heart, you turn around to meet— speak of the devil— none other than Lee Juyeon himself.

“What are you doing here?” Your eyes narrow and your arms cross over your chest. Luck could never be on your side when it came to this guy.

“Uh, last I checked, this was a public supermarket. Where I can publicly shop. I wasn’t aware that I had to run that by you. So sorry, sweetheart.” He pouts, his expression so theatrical you nearly give in to your constant urge to punch him in the face.

You feel your eye twitch, and it takes everything in you to step back and assess just how bad it would be if you committed murder right now. Changmin comes to your rescue, doing damage control as best as he can while Kevin attempts to talk you out of becoming a criminal.

The two frat brothers do their little fraternity handshake thing and then finally he’s out of sight, out of mind, allowing you to visibly relax. Chanhee purses his lips. “Okay, so maybe I do see where the anger comes from. And holy shit, Y/N, you have the patience of a saint.”

“The person you have called is unavailable! At the tone, please leave a message. When you have finished recording, you may—”

“Goddammit.” You curse, ending the unsuccessful call.

The downside of working far from campus, was working far from campus. You didn’t have your own car and usually relied on one of your roommates for a ride to and from. But now here you are, stranded at work while it’s pouring cats and dogs outside. Kevin was in class and Chanhee wasn’t picking up his phone. You could call Changmin, but you’re pretty sure he also had a class around this time.

Just as you’re about to succumb to your demise, you receive a text from Chanhee.

[2:57 pm] michael jackson: IM SO SORRY AJNSSJNW BUT SOMETHING CAME UP WITH A GROUP PROJECT

[2:57 pm] michael jackson: DONT WORRY THOUGH, IVE GOT IT COVERED UR STILL GETTING PICKED UP

“Could today get any worse?” You mutter to yourself, locking your phone and tossing it into your purse. As if your timing couldn’t be better, you spoke entirely too soon. Your eyes squint at the unfamiliar car rolling up under the carport. Your brows furrowed in confusion, because you had no idea who could be your saving grace. Chanhee was a wild card so who knew who he had on speed dial.

But then the passenger window rolls down and you wish the ground would just swallow you whole. Lee Juyeon grins that stupid fucking grin of his, beckoning you to his car as it unlocks when he shifts into park. You shake your head.

“No way. There is absolutely no way I am getting into that car.” You shout over the pelting rain.

Juyeon tsks, his eyes rolling when he reaches over the center console to open the door for you. “Is there anyone else who would drop everything they’re doing to pick you up in this weather?”

Your lips pull into a flat line. The answer was no, you didn’t have anyone else who would drop everything they were doing to pick you up in this weather. That was the reason Juyeon was here, you supposed. It didn’t mean you weren’t at least going down without a fight, though. Except, Lee Juyeon was a man who was all too comfortable with how expressive you were. Most notably towards him.

“What? Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?”

“Fuck you. I’d rather walk.” You seethe, starting straight in the direction of your apartment. Juyeon groans at first, your constant need to prove yourself getting on his nerves for once. Then his eyes widen slightly when he realizes you’re not joking.

The truth was that the rain was freezing and you’d love to be in the shelter of a warm car. In fact, you didn’t really care that Juyeon was the person driving. But you were too deep into the bit now. You couldn’t just turn around and get in the car, for you had a pride to protect at this point.

“Shit.” Juyeon swears under his breath, reaching into the backseat to grab an umbrella. Sure he loved to tease you and rile you up, but he wasn’t cruel. Your friends would have his head on a silver platter if he let anything happen to you.

You pause in your steps when you’re no longer being showered in rain water. Juyeon holds the umbrella over your head with a worried expression. You feel kind of bad for making him chase after you even though he’d already gone out of his way to pick you up. Sometimes you wish your ego wasn’t so fragile. Maybe then you could accept help when you needed it instead of making things worse.

“Can you please stop being so stubborn and just get in the damn car, Y/N? Do you have to make everything difficult all the time?” Usually, pissing you off made him over the moon, but you can tell he’s not exactly pleased at the moment. You swallow thickly, nodding quietly and following him back to his car.

The whole drive to your apartment is silent save for the song playing on his speakers. It’s not as loud in comparison to the storm outside, but you’re grateful that it’s filling the space between you. If only Lee Juyeon hadn’t done such an excellent job ticking you off like a bomb, then maybe you would’ve just hopped in the passenger seat with ease. But no, he had to goad you until you made an irrational decision and now here you are.

As he pulls up to your building, you say a little prayer that you don’t regret your next actions. He stops as close to the stairs as he can, but you turn to him before unbuckling your seatbelt. With a deep breath, you ask, “Would you like to— uh— come inside?”

He glances from you to the stairs and then shrugs, parking in the nearest empty spot. He holds the umbrella over both of you as you make your way to your unit, lightly sprinting so you don’t get anymore soaked than you already are. You figured the least you could do was invite the dude into your home and offer him some hot tea, just so he could warm up before heading back to the TBZ house. Your roommates not being here to make fun of you was also a plus.

There’s still an unspoken tension even after you’ve shed your raincoats and shoes by the front door, settling into your apartment and its coziness. Juyeon sits at the breakfast bar as you busy yourself with preparing the kettle and getting a couple tea bags. His watchful gaze is a little intimidating now that you’ve seen his serious side.

Once you’ve finished making the tea, you set his mug in front of him. You look everywhere but him when you say, “I’m gonna take a shower if you’re okay waiting out here by yourself.” He doesn’t respond verbally, so you take it as your cue to leave.

You turn on the water to let it heat up before gathering your essentials. When you’ve completed your back and forth trip from the bathroom and your bedroom, you’re finally ready to just relax in your shower and forget about today’s events. But how could you ever truly relax with Lee Juyeon in your space, permeating your peace?

As you’re shutting the bathroom door, a foot jams itself between the threshold and stops you. You glance up from the floor to meet Juyeon’s eyes. They’re darker than you’re used to, a deep shade of brown that has your stomach twisting into knots.

“You know, Y/N, this game of cat and mouse is starting to get old,” he takes a step into the steaming room, locking the door behind him and trapping you. “Just admit to yourself that you want me.”

You sputter at his bold words, because you don’t. You don’t want Lee Juyeon. Why would you want Lee Juyeon? “I’m not gonna lie to myself. I don’t want you.”

He laughs humorlessly, closing the gap between you just a little more. You don’t have it in you to back away from him. He reaches a hand up to tuck some damp hair behind your ear. You’re still wet and cold from your stupid idea to walk in the rain, but Juyeon plans to warm you up perfectly. “You sure?”

“Positive,” you breathe.

“Why don’t we test that theory?” Now he’s got you backed into the wall, his face a hair’s breadth distance from your own. “I have a feeling I can change your mind.”

You don’t know if it’s the heat of the bathroom or Juyeon’s lips being so close, but so far simultaneously that has your brain turning into static. Your head feels fuzzy, like you’re watching TV on an empty channel through a blurry lens. You lick your lips, vision trained on his. “Why don’t we?”

That’s all the confirmation he needs to press your mouths together in a searing kiss, hotter than the temperature of the room. You feel him smile against you when you make no move to push him away, instead carding your fingers through his hair. He groans when you tug a bit, twirling the longer strands around your index.

His hands slip under your top, thumbs rubbing circles into your waist. This is a terrible idea. Deep down you’re fully aware that you’re probably making a huge mistake by giving into Juyeon just like every other girl on campus ever has. But paired with how intoxicating his mouth feels on your own and the steam filled bathroom clouding your head, you can’t seem to find a logical reason to stop.

When you part for air, you both start stripping your top layers, resuming your attacks on each other’s lips once you’re left in nothing but undergarments. Juyeon trails kisses along the side of your neck, nipping and sucking wherever he feels fit. You gasp when he finds that particular spot that contributes to the butterflies fluttering about your stomach. “God, you’re so annoying.”

“Yeah?” And despite getting ready to give you the pleasure of your life, his grin against your skin still manages to irritate you. “You hate me so much, huh?”

“Mhm,” you whine as his fingers dip beneath the band of your panties, toying with your sensitive cunt. “Hate you so bad— ah…”

“You might wanna shut up soon, sweetheart,” Juyeon warns, sliding his ring finger between your lower lips. “Or else I’ll give that mouth something to do.”

“I’ll do whatever I want,” you pull his hand from your underwear, kneeling in front of him when he furrows his eyebrows in confusion. Your nails scrape lightly down his abdomen before hooking into the waistband of his briefs, freeing him from the material. It takes a lot out of you to not visibly react at the sight of his cock, hard and flushed to the tip. You couldn’t dare inflate his ginormous ego, the situation you were currently in already doing enough on its own. His size is impressive too, making you wonder just how he expects you to take him like a champ.

“What a fucking brat,” he hisses, your tongue swiping along the underside of his dick. “Always gotta have the last word, don’t you?”

“Mmmm,” you moan, mouth full with just the tip. You’d never been the type of person who cared about size. As long as they knew what they were doing and made you finish, you held no qualms with their length. In fact, you don’t think you ever even paid much attention to anyone’s dick in your life. But if there was anything to back Lee Juyeon’s cockiness, it had to be, well, his cock.

“You have no idea how many times I’ve imagined this moment,” he confesses, wrapping your hair around his hand into a makeshift ponytail. “But, fuck, this is so much better.”

The admission shoots straight to your core and you find yourself whimpering, the vibrations against his dick driving him crazy. He has to support his weight with one hand flat to the wall, the other still tightly fisting your hair. With every suck and flick of your tongue, he tugs a little more, the sting on your scalp providing you with more pleasure than pain. You pull off of him to take a breath, jerking him off as you do so.

“Am I meeting your expectations?” You bat your eyelashes up at him, drool sliding down your chin and makeup smeared under your eyes in tear streaks. He groans at the sight of you, forcing you to a standing position so he could kiss you again.

You start dragging him towards the shower, unhooking your bra and stepping out of your panties. He raises an eyebrow at you, amused. “You want me to fuck you in the shower, baby? Have you slipping all over my cock?”

“Duh,” you can’t help but roll your eyes at his question, practically pawing at his underwear to get him out of them fully. “Did you think I sucked your dick on the bathroom floor for fun?”

“That mouth of yours is gonna get you in trouble one of these days.”

He kicks them off, reconnecting your lips as you step into the shower. The hot water hits your back almost like a massage, synchronously getting in your mouth as you make out with Juyeon aggressively. It’s like he can’t get enough of you, big hands kneading and groping everywhere and nowhere all at once. You feel insane, especially with how good of a kisser he is. It’s like you’re on cloud nine and nothing’s capable of bringing you down.

When he’s finally lost his patience, he spins you around, pressing you cheek first to the shower wall. You feel him against your lower back, his lips leveling with your ear. In spite of acting as if he had himself under control, you can hear the pant in his breathing, deep voice a little desperate than usual. He has a hand gripping your thigh and picking up your leg.

“No protection?” He asks, his cock already gliding between your folds in anticipation.

“Mm-mm,” you shake your head as best you can with his body sandwiching you to the tiled surface. “Wanna feel you raw.”

“Fuck, you can’t say shit like that to me,” Juyeon groans into your ear, giving no warning as he spits down your front and hikes your leg higher, thrusting into your cunt. “You’ll make me wanna stay buried in you forever.”

You moan, hand coming up to hold the side of his head as he fucks you into the shower wall. If someone were to ask about this very moment, you weren’t too sure how you’d defend yourself. A moment of weakness, perhaps? But if a moment of weakness felt this fucking good every time, you might fall into a habit of judgment lapses.

He nuzzles his face in the crook of your neck, nibbling and biting your shoulder and the surrounding area with each snap of his hips. The angle he drives into you at has stars forming at the back of your vision, the tip of his cock brushing that one spot deep inside of you whenever he thrusts up. You don’t even think his entire dick is in you as he does this, but you also don’t really have the mind to care, way too focused on memorizing the veins of his shaft with your walls.

You’re far too gone to consider the consequences of your actions, the horizon of your release just beyond your fingertips now. You’d never needed someone so viscerally before, so carnally. Yet here you were, sucking Lee Juyeon’s cock in with your pussy like you were a damn vacuum. The sounds you’re making bounce back and forth on the walls, no doubt louder than the shower water itself.

“I— I-I’m so— fuck,” you mewl, words wobbling. “I’m so, so close, Juyo.”

“Yeah, baby?” He sighs in your ear, nudging your sensitive clit with his thumb while raising your leg as much as he physically can. “Me too, where do you want me?”

“Inside,” you don’t think you even make sense anymore, babbling as he continues to fuck you stupid. “Please. Want you to cum inside me.”

Juyeon grits his teeth, pleased with himself that he didn’t orgasm right then and there. He uses his last ounce of strength to get the two of you off together. “C’mon, sweetheart, cum for me.”

The fogginess subsides pretty quickly after you’ve finished, your brain registering what just happened almost instantaneously. If you weren’t so hypersensitive, you would’ve pulled him out yourself and scrambled to flee the scene. (And maybe even the country.) There are many more rational thoughts running through your head now. The entire trajectory of your life has just been changed, whether you realized it or not. But the biggest issue was:

What the hell do you do now?

#the boyz #the boyz x reader #the boyz smut #tbz #tbz x reader #tbz smut #the boyz juyeon #tbz juyeon #lee juyeon x reader #lee juyeon smut #juyeon x reader #juyeon smut #juyeonszn #juyeonszn.100🪩

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jjuyocatboy · 6 months

Text

me or the ps5? | lee juyeon

warnings: softdom!juyeon, subby brat afab!reader, unprotected sex (please don’t listen to me and use protection!!!!), needy reader, gamer bf juyeon, female masturbation, blowjob, size kink, lotsssss of dirty talk, pet names like babe, baby, princess

authors note: hi guys!! not sure if anyone’s even going to read this but just a note that this is my first smut so it’s kinda cringey and it might not be really good LOLOL but anyways i hope u enjoy :3

* .♡ *:･ﾟ✧ ⋆ ࣪.* ࣪.⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ✧ ⋆ ࣪.* ࣪.⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ✧ ⋆ ࣪.* ࣪.⋆

“Fuck!”

You watched your boyfriend cuss under his breath as his fingers make an aggressive clatter on his keyboard. The disadvantages of having a hot gamer boyfriend.

It’s been almost 3 hours you’ve been watching your boyfriend play on his pc while you’ve been scrolling through your phone on his bed, waiting for him to finish.

“Babe, when are you going to get off? I’ve been waiting for like 10 hours” You groaned obnoxiously, pouting as you cross your arms

“Shit, I’m really sorry y/n, just wait I have one more round—“

You already knew that was bullshit. He’s been giving you the same half-assed response for the past 3 hours.

Being the brat who craves attention that you are, you know that you’re going to get what you want and Lee Juyeon better give it to you.

But being honest….

He kind of turned you on.

His messy, sweaty hair falling over his face, his veiny hands decorated with silver jewelry as he clicked on his keyboard and mouse.

The way he had his legs spread to the point you could see his dick poking through his pants.

Cute.

Your evil hand started to crawl towards your thigh, then to your crotch, which was already soaking from the sight of your boyfriend.

“Let’s see how he’ll react to this” you whispered under your breath, biting ur lip as you pull your panties and shorts off, revealing nothing but your soaking, hot core.

Crawling under his desk, you caress his thigh as you say in the sweetest voice possible:

“Baby, I’m feeling pretty lonely…mind if I come cockwarm you a little?” You say, looking up at him through your lashes, knowing how much that would really turn him on.

You could already feel his dick turn rock hard from the sight of you.

“Are you really that needy?” Juyeon smirks at you. “But sure, just don’t be too loud. I’m on call with my friends.” He says as he mutes his mic.

You smile as you pull down his pants and his boxers to reveal a huge size as you gasp and your mouth waters. No matter how many times you’ve seen it, his size still fascinates you.

Rubbing the tip of his cock up to the body of it, you trace your tongue in circles on his tip, using the rest of your mouth to suck the body of it, wet and sticky sounds of your mouth as you breath heavily.

Looking up at your boyfriend, you can see his frustration level rise as his brows knit together and he bites down his lower lip.

Fuck.

Looking at him is already making you wet, your other hand reaching down and touching your wet pussy, all due to Lee Juyeon himself.

You whimper quietly while your lips are tight around his dick, sliding your mouth in and out starting slowly, then faster, your saliva coating his cock.

One of your hands now sliding in and out of your now dripping wet hole, moaning and whimpering around your boyfriend’s member.

You release Juyeon’s cock from your mouth, breathing heavily as he pulls you up onto his lap, giving you small kisses all over your face.

“Did sucking my dick really turn you on that much?” Juyeon looks at you with the most shit eating grin on his face.

You look down as you straddle him, a pool of your wetness soaking Juyeon’s white tshirt.

“Also, who said you could wear no panties huh? Were you really that wet for me? Hm?” Juyeon smiles at you.

You cover your face in embarrassment. This was not how it was supposed to go.

Juyeon gives you a peck on your lips. “C’mon baby, it’s okay. Just tell me what you really want and I’ll give it to you.” He says in a sweet voice as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Juyo…I want you…” You say as you stroke his dick, looking up at him

“C’mere” Juyeon breathes, rubbing his dick as you fit yourself on it, closing your eyes and whimpering.

“Is that good princess? Tell me when you need to stop.” Juyeon fixates his eyes, giving you a sugary , steady tone.

“Nono juyeon….that’s-perfect….” You whisper.

Juyeon smiles at your cuteness as he pulls your shirt off, your breasts bouncing as you pounce on his rock hard cock, moaning as loud as you can.

“Fuck…you’re doing so great baby, keep going.” Juyeon moans, his eyebrows knitting together.

You roll your eyes back to the back of your head, moaning and whimpering until you-

Fuck.

Your white liquid dripped all over you, Juyeon’s face, your tits, your stomach, and most importantly, Juyeon’s dick.

“It’s okay baby, come here, let me taste you.”

Juyeon says as he licks your liquid off your tits, sucking and leaving red and purple love bites all over.

“You taste so fucking good.” Juyeon groans as he positions his face on your tits, sucking, biting, and licking them as you continue to bounce up and down in his huge cock.

“I’m so proud of you my pretty baby” Your boyfriend smiles as he leans towards a kiss, pulling out of you.

“Let’s go to sleep now. I’m tired.” You say as your boyfriend carries you princess style to the bed, your naked bodies colliding together.

#tbz #the boyz #tbz x reader #tbz smut #tbz scenarios #tbz imagines #tbz juyeon #lee juyeon #juyeon #ljy #juyeon smut #juyeon x reader #juyeon imagines #smut #kpop smut #blowjov

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crusty-chronicles · 8 months

Text

Airheaded S/O Headcannons #13: Gaara (Naruto)

Legitimately hates you when you first meet

Which to be fair, he kinda hated everyone during the Chuunin Exams

But something about you amplified that hatred

Maybe it was the fact you always had a dopey smile on your face

Maybe it was how you won your match against the sound ninja by stumbling around (literally tripping or looking around last second so their attack barley missed you)

Or maybe, just maybe it was because you were so nice to him.

Didn't you have a clue what he was?

What he was capable of?

All the horrible things he was planning on doing to one of your peers? (That Uchiha kid really did get on his nerves.)

It was truly disgusting, that smile of yours filled with so much warmth.

Then you'd volunteered to be his opponent when Sasuke was late. Your own opponent he'd killed the night before.

"Why don't we fight each other since the people we're supposed to fight are missing? It's better than sitting here and doing nothing."

And it was the audacity of you to address him so formally that made him agree.

He was going to enjoy defeating you. Finally shut you up once and for all.

But when the fight started, something about your demeanor changed.

It was more focused, your chakra somehow stronger.

There was no longer a fool in front of him.

And when the match started, he once again found himself on the offense.

Sand barely able to protect him against your speed. It was like he was fighting Rock Lee all over again

And that made him mad.

So mad that he became more aggressive with his attacks.

You now the one being pushed back.

It would have been evenly matched. Key word: would've.

But like the fool you were, you mis-stepped and took a direct hit from his sand.

The granules wrapping around you and preparing to crush you into nothing.

But before he could put you down for good, you extended your arm out.

"I surrender." And that bright smile was back.

"That was a good match. It truly was an honor to fight you, Gaara."

He stopped his attack immediately out of sheer confusion.

You were the enemy.

He was supposed to help destroy your village

Yet here you were treating him like he was more than that.

Like he wasn't just a monster.

You called fighting him an 'honor'. Something you enjoyed rather than being a nuisance like he thought.

What was wrong with you

Gaara thought a lot about that day.

How he almost destroyed the Leaf

How Naruto had completely changed his perspective on life.

But more often than not, he thought about you.

And when he finally got to see you again during Rock Lee's battle with Kimimaro, the first thing he did was apologize.

"It's a pleasure to be meeting you again. I'd like to apologize for my behavior during the Chuunin Exams, especially towards you."

The way your face lit up had his own reddening.

"Thank you! And it's nice to see you're doing better."

He realizes he's actually grown fond of your dopey smile.

Because of Gaara's soft spot for you, you're constantly doing runs for the Hokage to the Sand Village

It's mostly to keep relations peaceful between the villages, Gaara being the new Kazekage and all.

But you don't have a clue. You just think you get a free trip to see your friend 🥺🥺🥺

It's during your time there that Gaara really notices your lack of brain.

No, you can't put a smiley face as a signature on important documents.

Please stop jumping from tall heights so his sand will catch you. He can only control it so much.

You cannot be lost at a time like this. You were just behind him five minutes ago????

He practically follows you around like a lost puppy so you don't get hurt.

That means being your personal escort between villages.

Even though he knows you're more than capable of protecting yourself.

He just can't risk something happening to you.

You're too precious. (Being one of his first friends alongside Naruto.)

After confiding in Kankuro once, it's then he's told all warmth he feels from being near you is love.

Something he never thought he'd ever experience.

Something he was told he never deserved.

And he figures you must like him too with how adamant you are to stay by his side, right?

Maybe not

He doesn't exactly know how these things work.

Courting you is a process he is extremely unfamiliar with.

Tries to ask for help from his siblings

Kankuro suggests buying you gifts and 'flirting'

Tamari suggests he just outright tell you his feelings.

Both prove to be a trial-and-error process.

You're thankful for the little things he gives you, but your face doesn't redden as his does with you.

He tells you he likes your eyes only for it to turn back to him when you tell him he has a kind heart.

How is he to top that?

Tries Tamari's method and just feels more defeated.

"I enjoy the time you spend here with me."

"I like being here with you two 😃"

"I should rephrase. I like you."

"Me too. I'm so glad we're friends!"

He decides to go about it his own way and maybe, just maybe you'll return his feelings.

"Do you remember how I was back then?" He asked as the both of you sat atop a building. The sun just beginning to set.

"Yup. You were a little mean at the Chuunin Exams. I thought you were gonna kill me for a second."

And that makes him panic for a second because if you thought that back then, there was no way you'd return his feelings. But he pushed on. No use going back now.

"There's a reason for that. When I was a child, I was told I was undeserving of love. That I was brought into this world hated. My only purpose was to live for myself, everybody else wanted me to die."

He was stunned when you placed your hand on his.

"You are deserving of love and happiness. I love you, you know?"

He was not expecting this turn of events. He planned of finishing his rant with 'Now I have plenty to live for. You are one of those reasons.'

Not for you to outright say you loved him

It was so unexpected that he didn't realize he started crying until you fussed over him.

"I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to make you cry!!! Please don't be sad!!!"

And he has to reassure you they're tears of happiness. That right now he was the most content he's ever been.

Because of your smooth brain, you ask him how he can be happy when he's crying.

He ends up pulling you into a kiss and that's where the dots connect for you.

Gaara has the biggest soft spot for you. It only makes sense that everything he calls you is with all the love he has.

Love, sweetheart, honey, dear, precious, my heart.

Not ashamed to call you all those things in public like some of the other candidates in this series.

Surprisingly, Gaara doesn't get jealous. He's very secure in his ability to make you happy and about your feelings for him. He doesn't doubt that for a second.

However, if you're gone too long on a mission, he might get a little insecure. The feeling is quickly gone as soon as you get back.

He is completely enamored with you and your heart. Your empty head is a quirk he's also learned to enjoy.

MASTERLIST

An: The final chapter to our main Airhead Stronk S/O series. That doesn't mean the series is officially over!!!! I'll be doing bonus chapters via requests or characters I think deserve love. They're probably gonna take a while tho so I can focus on finishing my Moon and Sun series. THANK YOU ALL FOR YOUR SUPPORT

#gaara x reader #gaara x y/n #naruto x reader #naruto x y/n #sabaku no gaara #naruto shippuden #x reader #x y/n #airhead s/o #stronk s/o

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lilykatelyn-blog · 7 months

Text

𝓓𝓪𝔂 1 - 𝓵.𝓶𝓱 - LILY’S KINKTOBER

Demon!Lee Know x AngelFem!Reader

theme: choking

pt. 2

genre: smut, ig fluff at the end? Idek.

warnings: ewb2l (enemies with benefits to lovers) choking, collars, reader has sensitive wings that can retract, penetration, monster cock, making out, fingering, drunk guy (for one second), references of Satan and the devil so if you are uncomfortable with that I would recommend not reading it, also they have telepathy??, Dom!Min, Sub!Reader, they’re both kinda switch towards the end of the smut scene, unsafe sex.

wc: 1.4k

MINORS DNI

smut under the cut

It’s been a while since you’ve last been to hell, or seen him. Every now and then when you were on earth, your brain would play tricks on you, making you think you saw him. Your human friends finally managed to drag you out of your apartment and into a club, full of drunkards and people looking for a good time. You just needed a few drinks and to unwind. “I’ll take a gin and tonic, on the rocks.” You told the bartender, he complied, making your order at the back while you waited. When he got back with your order, you heard a familiar voice order a familiar drink. “I’ll take a Manhattan, on the rocks.” He ordered, you tried to not turn around and look at him, opting to walk away, but his voice stopped you. “Long time no see, Angel.” You could practically hear the smirk in his voice, it made you wet and want to hurl at the same time. “Long time no see, jackass.” You replied, walking back towards him. “So, what you been up to? I hope you haven’t been sleeping around with anyone but me.” He asked, the last part making you pissed. “We’re not dating Lee.” You replied curtly, he simply smirked again. God, you wanted to slap that attractive smirk off of his extremely attractive face. “Oh, but you know if the big boss knew of what you did with me, you’d be removed. An ordinary human.” You tsked at the very obvious statement. “No shit, Sherlock. It was one time.” “It was 7 times that, darling.” He whispered in your ear, making you shudder. “See you, princess.” He grabbed his Manhattan and went to dance, leaving you speechless.

“So.. who was that hottie that you were talking to at the bar, huh?” Your friend nudged you after you got back with your drink. “It was no one, an old friend.” You lied, not thinking she would ask about schooling years. “Ooh! Primary or Secondary School?” “Neither. An old job, I quit it and haven’t seen him or kept in touch since.” They all went back to their own conversation after you explained it, you could practically feel Minho’s eyes burning holes in the back of your head. Meet me outside, princess. I own an apartment 2 blocks away. His voice rung in your head, you just agreed, knowing how this goes and that you will be back to strangers in no less than 12 hours.

“finally, you listen.” His annoying voice spoke from behind you as you exited the club. “Finally, you stop calling me ‘princess’.” You mock, his smirk returning. “I’ll never stop that habit, Angel. You should visit me down in hell sometime soon.” He winked, leading you into a cab. The entire ride, his hand was on your thigh, going up, only to go back to your knee. He was obviously riling you up, so you decided that two can play at that game. You slowly creeped your hand up his toned torso , and then his chest, and then his throat, lightly circling it as his breath hitched, only to bring it down to your lap. You got out, him paying and leading you to his apartment. As soon as he unlocked it, you were pressed against the door, his tongue being shoved down your throat. You moaned as he went down your jaw and neck, making sure not to leave any marks so that you could both keep your wings. “Bedroom,” you breathed, tugging his hair, he lifted you up, leading you to his bed. He sat down, making you straddle him, going back to your make out session. He pulled away, you chased his lips while pouting. “Hm, anyone ever been as good as me? Maybe that drunk guy that you ran away with for a few minutes?” He whispered, going back to his assault on your neck. “No-no one. I-I escorted him back to his car- Minho!” You choked out, throwing your head back as he found your sweet spot, mouthing at it for a few more seconds. “I want this off.” He tugged at your tight white shirt. You complied, letting him take it off of you, suddenly remembering you wore your black matching bra and panties set. “Shit.” He murmured, his mouth going straight to your chest, kissing them over the fabric while his other hand went to your other boob. “May I?” He asked, despite being a devil, still a gentleman. You nodded, giving silent confirmation. As soon as it was off, he went to your nipple, sucking harshly. “Nngh- please,” you whined, he just chuckled, pinching the other one. He pulled away despite your pleas, he silently asked to remove your skirt. You hummed, lifting your hips up for him to remove the garment. He pulled both your underwear and skirt down in one movement, flipping you onto your back.

he got in between your legs and spread your lips. “Beautiful..” he trailed off, giving a singular lick and then coming up to make you taste yourself. He sat on his knees, removing his shirt and revealing his beautiful abs and scars. Getting back over you, he kissed you again. While his tongue explored your mouth, you traced his abs and scars, the one that you kept coming back to was the one on his midriff, a result of a nasty encounter with his father before he became a demon. Finally, he pulled away and tugged his sweats down, leaving him in his boxers. He didn’t bother removing his jewelry, and walked over to the dresser, you got on your elbows and looked in confusion. “What-“ “it’s a collar, Angel. Chill, I’m not gonna leave you high and dry after how hard you got me.” He signaled to his huge cock, bigger than any dildo you’ve ever seen or felt.

“Wonder how you still have those beautiful white pearly wings after all we’ve done together, considering the wings are a sign of purity. I’d say your anything but after all we’ve done.” He went on as he fastened the collar around your neck. “Beautiful.. and it’s all mine.” He traced the collar around your neck, pushing you down. “Open your wings, gonna use them for your first orgasm.” He commanded, and obviously, you complied. Your wings were out and super sensitive as well, he slowly traced them with the tips of his fingers, resulting in a series of whimpers from you. His fingers circled your hole to prep you, only teasing, not going in. He had you distracted with your wings, taking you by surprise when his fingers pushed in and out at a brutal pace “Ah! Min-Minho!” You moaned, losing your ability to use your brain, the only coherent thing coming out of your mouth was pleas for him to keep going. Not long after your high, he took his fingers out and replaced them with his huge dick, only making your cries of his name speed up. He went at an ungodly pace, god, you were so close already that it was kinda embarrassing how quick he got you there. “Oh god, oh god, oh god- hnngh” your moans were soeeding up, as was your breath, your words got cut off by his tip hitting just the right spot. “Not god, baby. Lee Minho.” He whispered, getting you an intense amount closer to the edge. “I’m-“ “let it out for me, Angel.” That brought you over the edge, your orgasm hitting you like a boulder. “Shit, I’m close, getting close- mmph.” He started whining, his words interrupted by your hand shaking up his chest, squeezing his throat just hard enough to tip him over. “That’s it, Min. Let go..” you trailed off, feeling him spill into you. After he cleaned up and lay beside you, you both fell asleep in each others embrace.

The following morning, you woke up alone, to a note. Angel, I know you’re probably confused since I never leave, but I had to go to work for my ‘Human’ job. Do me a favor and stay, yeah? I’ll be back in a few hours, considering how late you wake up. I don’t have roommates and I still have a pair of your clothes from last time, either that or you can wear my button up and your panties, ya know, a little treat for when I get home? Anyways, stay there and here’s my cell: ***-***-****

P.S. I refrigerated breakfast, your favourite. Text me if you need anything, your dog was well fed before I left, so don’t worry. We’ll talk later, but you should consider moving in with me, at least until we have to go back. I love you! <3

This is gonna be fun.

note: send an ask if you want a part 2 because I, myself, wanted to write a part 2 that isn’t part of kinktober. Also I’m sorry that this is kinda half assed Love you guys! <333

TAGLIST:

@aaasia111, @hgema, @obeythemasters, @imwithurmother, @unlikelysublimekryptonite, @virluna148, @sanzusfavgf, @ivyisnotokay, @stanskzsstuff, @luvkpopp

#Skz #stray kids #skz Lee know #stray kids Lee know #skz smut #stray kids smut #Lily’s kinktober #Lee know smut #skz Lee know smut #stray kids Lee know smut #Skz x reader #stray kids x reader #lee know x reader

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seetangus · 6 months

Note

How about azula realizing she really likes the reader after they take a life-threatening injury for her?? Love me some angst

Fiery Care - Azula x Reader os

[masterlist]

Azula x gn reader, tw: blood, heavy injury

1.340 words, please tell me if you find any mistakes!

I hope I got the request right, enjoy :)

No-one had prepared you for this. Rocks were being thrown at you by an earthbender, accompanied by the combined magic of a waterbender, the treacherous, disgraced prince, some incompetent boy with a sword and the Avatar himself.

You had trained firebending a lot, because, even considering that you were born into them, one only got accepted in the upper circles of the fire nation if one was a good fighter, but normally you were kept far away from any actual, real fights by your family, as they valued you - or rather your appearance; they wouldn't want their "little prodigy" to enter the service under the fire lord with any "flaws" that originated from missteps in battles.

However, you had insisted on taking part in this battle for a very special reason.

< • ◇ • >

A few hours earlier:

Azula walked, or rather marched, through the courtyard, straight towards you. That was a very rare sight and an unnerving one too, as you had long been plagued by strong unrequited feelings towards the princess. You quickly arranged your armour to look even more orderly and clean than it already was, acting with a nervousness and anticipation that would have told anyone who saw you that it was not just, like with anyone else, fear, that Azula ignited in you, but also some much warmer feelings.

Well, it might have told anyone, but Azula wasn't anyone, was she?

Her two friends who always escorted her probably knew, but that was no matter to worry about as they seemed pretty reasonable and pitied you, because of your feelings, to a degree at which they didn't feel the need to worsen your emotional state anymore by telling Azula about your feelings.

Now Azula stopped pretty close in front of you - she could probably feel the heat your reddened face emitted, but she did not seem to care.

"Y/N. Our scouts have tracked down the Avatar. We will leave in a few minutes to confront him and his companions. Father says it would be a good first fight for you, but honestly I don't care wether you accompany us as it likely won't make any difference. So you can stay here if you want to."

With much more energy than fitting you immediately responded that there could be nothing more delightful for you than joining her in battle. Ty Lee grinned at you from behind Azula, making you blush even harder.

Azula seemed unimpressed at your enthusiasm, but you didn't care. What mattered was that you would be close to her - or at least closer to her than normally - for a little while.

Also, you should be able to convince your parents to let you go if you mentioned that the fire lord himself thought that it was a good idea.

< • ◇ • >

Well, maybe the reason you took part in the battle wasn't even that special. You wanted to impress Azula, that was about it. A pretty dumb thought, if you thought about it - she was more or less infallible, how was one, especially you, to impress her?

However, there was not much time to think about such matters, as the attacks coming from the people you were facing seemed to become faster by the second.

You dodged a fire bolt the filthy traitor prince sent towards you and melted a stone that flew towards you mid air, freeing you up for just one moment of looking around the battlefield.

The first thing you noticed was dramatic. A whip made from sharpened, magical water made its way to Azula and she, who was in any other moment completely aware of her surroundings, was just preparing to defend against an attack from the Avatar-boy - she could get killed by that whiplash!

From one moment to another, your brain was deactivated and your protection-instincts, and maybe a bit of love, took over: in an enormous leap you rushed over to Azula - for one moment, everything was red and pain, but soon relieving darkness enclosed you.

---

With an enormous wave of wind, the Avatar ripped two small trees out of the earth, throwing them at Azula. She laughed at that pathetic attempt to seize her, igniting the wood with such fire that only a drizzle of ashes arrived at her position. But that ominous rain not only consisted of the remains of the burned trees, but also of blood.

She quickly looked around herself to see from where the scarlet liquid could originate - the first thing she found was the origin of the terrible act: the waterbender-girl was retrieving a thread of water she had been bending for it to become sharp and deadly into the bottle she always carried around.

Continuing her search, she found, or rather stumbled upon you. You laid unconciously besides her feet, your shoulder bleeding furiously. Considering that you hadn't stood there a few moments ago and in which direction the whip had been flying, it did not take long for Azula to realise the whiplash had been meant for her.

Driven back by a continuously growing amount of fire nation soldiers, the Avatar and his partners fled the battlefield, giving Azula an oppertunity to lean down to you and inspect your barely breathing body further. The more she realised what had happened, the more irrational feelings rushed through her head.

Naturally, everyone would sacrifice themselves for her, right? She was Azula. She really should not feel bad for you, it had been your duty to save her. In fights, things like these happened. You had to live (or not, in some cases) with it.

Yet, she could not help telling the healers who soon arrived to be extra careful with you if they did not want to experience her wrath.

She also couldn't keep herself from waiting outside the healer's tent, anxiously expecting the moment you would leave it. You would leave it, after all. She demanded you did. There was simply no way you couldn't.

And, what was maybe the worst of all, your face did not want to leave her mind. The face she had seen so many times on the courtyard and that she had always taken for granted - and that had not lost any of its beauty even when tainted through your own dark blood.

Given the size of your wound the process of healing was a long and exhausting one, but each day Azulas hope of seeing you again grew with the increasingly positive reports of the healers she ordered them to bring her.

Quite a few times had Ty Lee told Azula, in a very subtle manner, that it was quite unusual for her to think about someone this much. To care about them, even. That it almost seemed as if she liked you.

Naturally, Azula refused to give such assumptions any credit. Romantic fantasies like this were for children, and she was the very confident princess of the fire nation, not some toddler, wasn't she?

Of course she had to admit that she valued your wellbeing a little bit more than everyone elses, but her liking you? How absurd. Ridiculous, even.

Anyways, the only thing she seemed to do the following days beside worrying about you was to emphasize that she did not in any way worry about you at all. Oh, she couldn't wait for the day you left the hospital so that she could ask you some serious questions about what you did to make her think about you.

When the day of your releasememt from the hospital came, though, any questions were quickly forgot. Alone the sight of your face made her see everything she could have ever asked for.

You too could not believe your luck when Azula was the first person to greet you after leaving the hospital; her inviting you to sit beside her at the royal dinner that evening exceeded all your dreams.

She stepped closer towards you, and your heart fluttered when you saw the same look in her eyes that you had been giving her for a long time.

#azula x reader #atla #atla x reader #azula #azula x y/n #atla azula #azula avatar #azula x gn reader #x reader #anon #avatar the last airbender

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dearharriet · 2 months

Note

Lover's rock by TV girl and Fred please!! Congrats on 150!!

thank you for the request lovely! i only realized after writing that the twins are born in spring, but we can pretend they’re summer babies for my sake ;( (wc: 1.4K)

The twins’ shared apartment is wearing an unusual intimacy tonight, shadowy and warm, with every window open to let the summer breeze drift through. Your friends are in the kitchen, which is a lovely thing to walk in on.

You’re just grabbing another coke to smuggle back to Fred's room, but you linger for a moment by the fridge. It’s the week of the twins' birthday, which will call for riotous celebration later, but for now they both swear they only want a small gathering of all their best mates. Angelina, Lee, Alicia, Katie, Oliver, and you.

Pressing the cool can to your flushed cheeks, you watch them all laugh, a bit faint with how much you want to remember this moment. It’s a testament to your awful crush on Fred that you pull yourself away at all, slinking down the hall into his room again.

“There you are,” says the man himself, bent over his old record machine. “Thought the girls might’ve persuaded you to abandon me.”

“Almost,” you tell him truly. “It’s hard to get us all together like this anymore.”

“It’ll just be a second,” Fred assures you, sifting through stacks of warped vinyls. “I know it’s in here somewhere.”

You take the moment of distraction to lay yourself out atop his cool bedspread, no doubt quilted by his mother.

“No rush.”

Your change of position takes Fred’s attention, and when he finds you, he can only blink. You stare back at him, feeling shy but not quite willing to show it.

“What?”

Fred shakes his head. “Nothing.”

You watch him resume his task, enjoying the way his shoulders fill out the casual tee he’s donned. All of you have known each other for so long, and yet you can’t quite pinpoint when Fred started looking so mature. It’s like it happened under your nose or overnight, a snap of a change just as you blinked your eyes.

“You’re staring.” Fred looks up to catch you, and you can only press your lips together.

“So?”

Neither you nor Fred seem to understand if this is a defense or an admittance, but the air in the room feels all the hotter for it. His eyes flash with a mischievous impulse you’ve seen a thousand times, and you expect some witty comeback. Instead, he just holds up a flimsy yellow square for you to see.

“Found it.”

Just like that, the moment diffuses, your aching chest deflating. You’re not sure if you’re relieved or disappointed.

“Finally,” you sigh. “Put it on, will you?”

He does, gently setting it into its cradle and starting the spin. By the time the song begins, he’s halfway onto the bed.

“Alright, if you don’t like it, you’re not allowed to tell me. It’s my birthday.”

“I like it already.”

Fred sprawls out on his back beside you, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. You can feel the heat radiating off of him in waves. He shoots a smile your way, boyish and sly. “That’s my girl.”

You try not to read too far into that—Fred says it all the time, and that’s just Fred—but it’s hard with the heat and the soft music. When it comes to feigning indifference, you’re something of a professional, except right now you’re hardly maintaining a regular color.

“I got you something really good for your gift,” you choke, desperate to change the subject.

“Did you, now?” Fred is still looking at you strangely, giddy like he’s waiting for a prank to pan out. Your heart is tumbling in your chest.

“Mhm. I think you’re really gonna like it.”

“I’m sure,” he agrees, his tone dulcet. “I’d like anything you gave me.”

“Oh, come off it,” you scoff breathlessly, cracking like an egg under his attention. Fred’s grin spreads wider, his eyes melting impossibly softer.

“What? I can’t say that?”

You shake your head, truly sick of his teasing.

“No. You’re being a tosser.” Fred’s disbelief rings out of him in a belly laugh. It’s stupid to let it hurt your feelings, but your reactions to Fred have never quite been rational.

“I’m complimenting you, pretty girl.”

The nickname sends a shock of heat through you, equal parts excitement and fury. “You’re making fun.”

“No,” Fred says, and though he’s still wearing a ghost of a smile, his voice is sharp and stern. You can’t bear to look at him, painfully aware of the fact that he’s peering right into the soft center you’ve been harboring for years.

The record plays like a drama now, some sort of cruel irony in its sweeping romanticism singing behind the end of a decade-long friendship.

“I can see you creating a tragedy in your head over there.”

Bracing yourself, you chance a look at Fred. He’s pushed onto one elbow, watching you carefully, knowingly.

“Am not,” you insist.

In response, he only chuckles lightly, like it’s fine that you are and it’s fine that you’re lying about it.

“I don’t play with feelings,” Fred says, “you know that. If I call you pretty, it’s ’cause you are.”

Thinking that can’t possibly be true, you argue, “You play with my feelings all the time.”

“Or you misunderstand me,” he implies, raising his brows, “all the time.”

You blink at him, unsure what to think of that. If Fred liked you, he’s not the type to let it go unsaid. You would know. Surely you would know. Unless, of course, you’ve been a complete fool.

“Really?”

Fred nods, exasperated fondness painted over his features. “Really.”

Covering your face with your hands, you ask, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Darling, trust me, I tried. You were too cussed to believe me.”

It’s all too much, you can’t believe your own ignorance.

“Fred,” you whine, face flushed for every reason but the heat. He takes your wrists, encouraging your hands down.

“Look, you know now,” he assures you, though he’s still much too amused for your taste, “so you don’t have to worry.”

Your tumultuous heart seems to settle, albeit aching like it’s been mauled by a bear.

“Will you ever forgive me?”

Fred squeezes your wrists as he smiles, and you can’t believe you hadn’t seen it before—the heat in his gaze, the rapt attention. Looking back through years of hazy memories, you realize you can’t pinpoint the beginning of that behavior from him, if there ever was one. Fred has always been Fred, horribly flirty and without boundaries, and you chose to assume he wasn’t serious.

“I’ll forgive you,” he says, “on one condition.”

The pitter-patter of your heart picks up again.

“Yes?”

Leaning close, Fred says, “you have to give me a birthday kiss.”

Your lips twitch with an unbidden smile. “You’re horrible.”

“I’m horrible?” Fred asks, stilling his descent on you. “You won’t do it then?”

“I’ll do it.” As you say so, your hands skirt up Fred’s arms and shoulders to weave into his hair, pulling him closer. “But not because I want to.”

“No,” he breathes, and your senses gather him and only him, “of course not.”

Your lips touch gently, just brushing and feeling against one another. You’re trying very hard not to smile, but it becomes a laborious task when Fred inches deeper, taking your bottom lip between his. After a moment, though, he pulls back.

“One sec,” he says, and slides off the bed.

You watch him move to the record player, which is spinning around the end of the vinyl. You hadn’t even realized it stopped.

“Freddie.”

Both your and Fred’s attention snaps to the door, locking on a very smug looking George. Having no other reference for how you might appear, you look to Fred, and it’s not promising. His lips are smudged pink from your lipstick, and his hair is a mess in the back. It would take an idiot not to know what you two were doing.

Still, George doesn’t object, he just inflates his words with enough self-satisfaction to kill.

“Cake and presents soon. Try to wrap up whatever you’re doing in here.”

Just like that, he’s gone.

Seemingly unfazed, Fred flips the vinyl in his hands and starts it again.

“Shouldn’t we go?” you ask.

Crawling back up the bed, Fred settles into your space again, much closer than before.

“Not yet. Let’s give the b-side a listen.”

thank you for reading! xx

masterlist

join the celebration!

#harriet’s 150 celebration #fred weasley #harry potter #wizarding world #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley x you #fred weasley x y/n #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley drabble #fred weasley one shot #fred weasley angst #fred weasley fluff #fred weasley fanfiction #fred gideon weasley #weasley twins #george weasley #request #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fandom

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sluttywonwoo · 3 months

Text

instead of you [part thirty-eight] || l.mh

pairing: [best friend’s brother] lee minho x college!reader ft. han jisung

summary: you didn’t expect to spend your summer pretending to be your best friend’s girlfriend- then again, you didn’t expect to fall for your best friend’s brother, either.

warnings: swearing, mentions of sex (18+ ; mdni)

word count: 2.8k

a/n: revamped my tom holland series from my main blog ( @wazzupmrstark ) to try and motivate myself to finish it!!

“You put sunscreen on, right?”

“Yes, dad.”

Jisung rolled his eyes. “I’m just trying to make sure you don’t burn.”

“Worry about yourself, lobster.”

“You need to come up with a new sunburn joke. That one is getting old.”

“I’ll go back to the drawing board, spitball a little bit,” you muttered.

Your best friend laughed. “Let me know when you land on something.”

“Aye, aye, captain.”

“Can you get my back, though?” Jisung asked.

“Sure, babe.”

You took the tube of sunblock from his hands and squeezed some into your palm. He yanked off his shirt and shoved it in his bag, turning away from you so that you could apply the sunscreen. He bent his knees a little to make it easier for you, even though he wasn’t that much taller than you.

You rubbed it in dutifully, making sure that it was all absorbed so that it wouldn’t stain his clothes when or if he put his shirt back on. When you were done, you handed the tube back to him.

“Will you do me?”

“Any day of the week,” Jisung replied, winking. “You know you don’t even have to ask, babe.”

“You two are disgusting.” You didn’t have to turn around to know who was complaining.

“We’re actually having a private conversation, Felix.”

“Well, you’re having it in the middle of a public area.”

Jisung rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything else, thankfully. It was too early in the morning to deal with their bickering.

You had woken up at dawn to make the drive over to Turtle Beach. According to the internet, the best time of day to see the sea turtles was in the morning, so that’s when you were going. No one was in a particularly good mood in the car on the way to the North Shore. It was silent. Dom tried turning the radio on at one point but Nikki immediately turned it off.

“We’ll be getting coffee after this,” Dom assured everyone, which seemed to lift the spirits at least a little bit.

It was already crowded when Dom found a parking spot on the side of the road. He was able to snag it as another car was pulling out.

People were clustered in groups around the rocks that lined the shore, holding their phones out to take pictures of what you assumed to be the turtles.

Minho had found a parking spot a little further away so he and Felix joined the rest of you a few minutes later.

That’s when the sunscreen was applied and promises of caffeine were made. You waited for your sunscreen to dry before putting your coverup back on and walking down to the beach with the Hans. You weren’t swimming at this beach, not many people did because they didn’t want to disrupt the turtles, but Nikki had made everyone put on sunblock anyway because you’d still be standing in direct sunlight.

The dropoff from the road to the sand was a bit steep and you stumbled trying to step down from the asphalt and tie the back of your coverup at the same time.

“Baby, let me,” Jisung said, pushing past his brothers to get to you. He chuckled. “That could’ve been bad. You should have just asked me to help you, or waited until we got down there.”

“I would’ve been fine,” you said, brushing it off. “Probably.”

“Knowing you, you probably would’ve hit your head on a rock or something.”

You ignored that comment because he was right and you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

The beach was kind of short even at low tide. Some mangrove trees offered a little bit of shade but that was already being monopolized by other tourists.

“I guess everyone read the same article we read,” Felix muttered.

“Seems like it,” Dom agreed.

“Should we go over there?” Minho asked, pointing to a moderately small crowd at the edge of the bay.

“I don’t see why not,” his dad said. “We can also split up if we want to. We don’t have to stay together.”

You looked at Jisung who just shrugged. “We can do whatever you want.”

“I don’t care,” you argued. “They’re your family.”

“Good point. Let’s go the other direction.”

You rolled your eyes and followed Jisung left while the other four went right. He wove in between the crowds, looking for turtles that the masses might not have spotted yet. You did the same, even though you were doubtful the two of you would find anything that the other tourists hadn’t.

You were shocked at how clear the water was. After the other beaches you’d already seen on this trip, you didn’t think it was possible for clearer water to exist. The visibility was insane. You could see every tiny detail, every bump and groove of the rocks, every grain of sand. The only thing diluting the view of everything was the white foam that washed ashore with the waves when they broke.

You took your phone out of your back pocket to snap a few pictures of the water and Jisung gave you a funny look.

“There aren’t any turtles here,” he said.

“I want a picture of the view,” you explained.

“Oh, that makes sense. Yeah, it’s beautiful.”

He watched you snap a few pictures and then offered to take some of you but you declined out of embarrassment.

“A bunch of people are doing it! Why would you be embarrassed?”

“I’m not good at posing for pictures! I always feel so awkward, especially when it’s just me.”

“Do you want us to take a picture together, then?”

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

Jisung pulled his own phone from his pocket and ushered you over to his side. You get close to him and rest your head on his shoulder, smiling softly. He waits for a good wave to appear in the background and then takes a couple selfies.

He taps on the gallery icon in the bottom left corner of the screen to check the pictures and shows you.

“Oh, these are cute. Can you airdrop them to me later?”

“‘Course.”

Then, Jisung squinted a little harder at his screen, zooming in on something.

“What is that?” he asked you, shoving the phone into your face.

“I don’t know, it’s so pixely- and your hands are shaking.”

Jisung took the phone back. “Is that...”

He didn’t even finish the question before he was whipping around and marching toward the water without explaining, leaving you to stay standing where you were like an idiot or follow him aimlessly. You chose the latter.

“We found one!” he exclaims when you catch up with him, pointing at a dark mass in the water that had also been in the back of your pictures. You replicated his position to be able to see whatever it was more clearly and gasped when you realized it was a sea turtle.

It was a little further out than the ones that everyone was already ogling over which was probably why no one else had spotted it yet. Their dark shells also tended to blend in with the rocks, adding another layer of difficulty to the search.

“Should we call your family over?” you asked.

“Only if you’re cool with a bunch of other people swarming us.”

“You’re right, that might not be great. Especially if people start recognizing Minho.”

Jizung nodded. “Then we’d never get out of here. I’ll go run and get them. You stay here with the turtle.”

He didn’t give you a chance to respond before he was off. Seemed to be a pattern today.

“She still here?” Jisung asked when he came back, the rest of his family members in tow.

You were confused before you understood that he was referring to the turtle. Apparently, he had decided its pronouns in the time he was gone.

“Yeah, she’s a little closer too,” you answered.

You pointed at the shadow in the water and all of the Hans craned their necks to see it.

“Holy shit, it's huge,” Felix commented.

“It must be really old,” Jisung added. “That’s a thing, right? The bigger a sea turtle is, the older it is?”

His brothers shrugged. “No idea.”

“Crush from Finding Nemo was like one hundred and five and he wasn’t that big,” Minho pointed out.

“You’re going off of Finding Nemo for your marine biology information?” Jisung deadpanned.

“You’re just making stuff up off the top of your head!”

“No, I heard it somewhere!”

“Does anyone have service? We could Google it,” Felix suggested.

“No, there’s none over here,” you muttered.

“Look, here she comes!” Nikki exclaimed.

You weren’t sure whether the turtle was actually coming closer or if she just wanted her sons to stop bickering, but they did and turned their attention toward the ocean.

Eventually, the sea turtle did come a little closer, close enough to be able to take pictures where people would be able to tell what they were looking at.

The six of you all standing at the edge of the water looking at the same thing was bound to draw attention eventually so you took pictures and videos until you were satisfied and then headed back to the cars.

“Minho, follow the directions I sent you to Waimea Falls,” Dom instructed. “We’re going to stop for coffee on the way over there so you should tail me but you should also have the address in case you lose us.”

Minho nodded. “Same cars?”

“We can switch it up, if you want. I’m sure Felix would love to be alone with his folks for forty-five minutes straight.”

“Wait, you said the drive was only twenty minutes,” Felix piped up.

“It is, but your mother and I could make it forty-five just for you.”

“We can all fit in my car,” Minho added, ignoring his dad.

“Wow, so I’m not good enough for you?” Felix scoffed.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I meant by that.”

“I’m good to ride with mum and dad but y/n, you should go with Felix and Minho to save them from each other.”

“You don’t want to come?” you asked, already knowing the answer.

“Nah. I mean, Minho’s right, we would all fit but it wouldn’t be that comfortable, especially for a long ride. Besides, it would be rude to leave Mom and Dad by themselves.”

“What are you talking about?” Felix muttered. “They love to be by themselves. Why do you think they keep ditching us at every possible opportunity?”

“It’ll be nice to have some time with Jisung,” Nikki counters, taking Jisung by his shoulders. “He’s been gone at uni for so long, we haven’t gotten to see him since Christmas.”

“You’ve been seeing me for over a month straight,” Jisung mumbled, sounding a lot like Felix just had.

“You know what I mean,” his mom said, exasperated.

You hadn’t really thought of that. You had been so focused on being the loving, devoted girlfriend that you always made sure to be around so that everyone could bear witness to your relationship. You hadn’t considered the fact that Jisung’s parents might have wanted to spend time with their son one-on-one, or two-on-one. You had unintentionally been hogging their son this whole time.

“Oh, that’s a great idea,” you agreed, just to let them know that you weren’t upset. “I’m sorry, I’ve been keeping him all to myself.”

“Nonsense, love,” Nikki assured you, “I didn’t mean it like that at all.”

“I know, I know, I just still feel bad.”

“Don’t feel bad. You’re his partner, you’re part of this family now too.”

You smiled appreciatively but couldn’t bring yourself to respond. Would you still be considered part of the family if you suddenly became Minho’s girlfriend? Broke one son’s heart and moved on to the next- it wouldn’t be a good look, that’s for sure.

“It’s settled then,” Jisung said, clapping his hands together in finality. “We’ll see you guys there.”

Minho’s rental car was still parked on the side of the road, but it was down the hill a bit. It was pretty steep, and the pavement was uneven. You could feel two pairs of eyes watching you as you made your way along the path. You wanted to tell Minho and Felix that they didn’t have to be so vigilant, that you weren’t that clumsy. But to be fair, you had almost just ate shit like twenty minutes ago walking in the sand. Okay, maybe they were right for that.

You made it to the car without incident and climbed into the back seat. Minho plugged the address into his phone’s GPS, which synced to the car’s ApplePlay, and reversed out of the spot. He drove up a ways and then stopped behind Dom’s car so that he could reverse without dealing with the traffic. It was a smart move on Minho’s part. He was ensuring he wouldn’t get cut off by someone else, that way he could follow his dad without having to guess which lane he was in or which car he was in front of, etc.

As the passenger, Felix was in charge of the music (as long as Minho approved of it, since the driver did have veto power). He turned it to a local island reggae station and all three of you seemed to enjoy that.

While Minho drove, Felix showed you pictures he’d taken on his camera at Turtle Beach.

“I’ve been taking them the whole trip, but I only have so much storage on an SD card, you know? I’ve uploaded the rest to my computer. We can look at them later, if you want.”

“I’d love to! Have you looked at them yet?”

“I’ve just skimmed them,” he answered. “But if they turn out anything like these I think I’ll have a pretty solid portfolio after this trip.”

“Yeah, these are incredible! You’ll have to show Minho when we stop.” Felix made a noncommittal noise. “What? They’re great!”

“I’m glad you think so. Unfortunately, when it comes to my photography and videography, the wow factor has mostly worn off for my brothers. Even Minho, who’s supposed to be an performer, can’t pretend to be impressed anymore.”

“Harsh.”

“You’re telling me.”

“I guess they picked Dunkin,” Minho said, entirely ignoring the conversation you and Felix were having about him as he turned into the shopping center’s parking lot.

“Fine with me,” you said.

“It was probably the quickest choice,” Felix mused. “I would like to try some local coffee shops, though. Hawai’i is known for their coffee.”

“Maybe tomorrow we can look for one,” you offered.

He grinned. “I’m down.”

The drive-thru line wasn’t that long, thankfully. Minho ordered for the three of you all on the same ticket to speed things along too. He pretended not to hear you when you offered to pay for yourself.

Dom waited for your car in a parking spot by the exit to the main road. Minho did what he’d done before and waited for his dad to pull out before following him.

“Make sure to drink all of that before we get to the park,” Minho said as he passed out the cups. “I don’t think we’re allowed to bring outside food or drink inside. Yo, I didn’t mean you had to chug it right now,” he clarified.

You pulled your iced coffee away from your lips guiltily. “Sorry.”

“The drive is like twenty minutes, remember? You have time to finish it.”

“I remember.”

“So then why-”

“I don’t know, it felt like the right thing to do.”

“You’ve been in uni for too long,” he decided, shaking his head.

“Maybe she just needs the caffeine to hit faster,” Felix suggested defensively.

“Exactly, thank you, Lix.”

He gave you a smile of acknowledgment in the rearview mirror and a thumbs up. You sipped your coffee slowly as Minho drove through the winding mountains of Oahu, resting your forehead against the window. You knew there’d be sunscreen residue to clean off of it later but the cool glass felt nice against your skin.

You tuned Minho and Felix out until you heard your name. That’s when you sat up again and rejoined the conversation.

“Hm?”

“Min just asked what I think Jisung is talking about with our parents right now and I said they’re probably giving him a lecture about not losing you,” Felix explained.

You made a face. “What?”

“You know, like telling him he better treat you well or whatever parents say to their kids when they want a son or daughter-in-law.”

Your eyes shifted to Minho before you could stop them. His grip on the steering wheel tightened just enough to make his knuckles turn white but he kept his expression calm.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” you mumbled.

“I bet they’ll at least bring it up,” Felix countered. “They love you!”

You forced a smile and sunk down in your seat. Not for long.

lmk what you think i always appreciate feedback!!

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sunboki · 27 days

Text

— THE ALCHEMIST. TEASER a Lee Minho fiction

Lee Minho x f. reader

TROPE. historical! au, set in 1940’s Korea, alchemist! au, friends to lovers, fluff, angst

AUG'S NOTES. trust.. there’s much more drama and minho from here… for now, tell me what you think of the teaser!!

alternatively :

In which deception introduces you into an entirely new reality, and The Alchemist.