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GUN PARK:

Your fist met his with a crack that echoed through the empty floor. The bones in his knuckles gave way.

Most men revealed themselves in the first exchange. The hesitant ones flinched. The overconfident ones pushed too hard. This one simply looked delighted.

Then, to your complete bewilderment, he reached for the hem of his shirt. You watched him pull it over his head and toss it aside.

In your eighty years of life, you had seen countless fighting styles. Street brawlers, assassins, martial artists, apostles. Never once had removing one's shirt improved a technique. Perhaps this generation was stranger than you'd thought.

His grin widened as he rolled his shoulders.

"Now we're talking."

He came at you again. His speed wasn't what caught your attention. It was his instincts. The way he adjusted mid-strike. The way he stepped into your space without hesitation.

Are you Raphael’s apostle?

Your fists collided again.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The muscles in his forearm tightened beneath your grip, veins standing out against his skin as he pushed back with everything he had. This is the kind of strength that youth grants you. Wild, reckless, and untested power.

You shifted your weight just enough.

Another sharp crack split the air. His wrist bends the wrong way.

The force behind his punch faltered. Yet instead of wincing, he laughed. Actually laughed. Perhaps he’s a masochist. It’s only natural in this line of work, you think. At some point, you learn to embrace the pain. Though you’ve never quite accepted it with open arms as this young gentleman does. 

His eyes shone with something dangerously close to joy.

"Yes," he said breathlessly. "You. Where the hell have you been all my life?"

You clicked your tongue.

Strong as he was, he remained a boy. And you didn't have time for boys. Never did.

Before he could recover, you stepped forward, hooked an arm beneath his shoulder, and sent him crashing onto the concrete. By the time he pushed himself upright, you were already sprinting toward the stairs.

Gun stayed where he was, one hand resting on his injured wrist.

His chest rose and fell quickly. Not from pain. From excitement.

The ache in his arm felt distant compared to the rush coursing through him.

You had read him perfectly. You hadn't hesitated.

And worst of all, you'd left.

He threw his head back and laughed. How long had it been since someone had made him feel this way?

His eyes drifted toward the stairwell where you'd disappeared. He replayed every second of the fight in his head. The calm look in your eyes. The confidence in the way you moved. The body that carried decades of skill with impossible ease.

Broad shoulders. A narrow waist. Muscle built for movement rather than show. Every strike had been efficient, every motion precise.

Beautiful. Your face wasn’t half bad either.

Gun grinned to himself. He wanted another fight.

Not later.

Not someday.

Now.

Why did you have to be in such a hurry?

GOO KIM:

The next floor was strangely quiet.

A blond man sat near the windows with one leg crossed over the other, carefully polishing a sword balanced across his lap.

You recognized the blade immediately. You had seen it before, though you'd never had the chance to test it yourself. A pity.

You walked past him without slowing.

"Hey."

His voice was light, almost lazy.

You ignored him.

"Did you just come from downstairs?"

You heard the soft click of metal being sheathed. Then footsteps.

A hand landed on your shoulder. Friendly at first. Then his fingers tightened. Not enough to hurt, but enough to stop you.

You turned your head slightly. Up close, he looked harmless. His smile was easy, his posture relaxed. But his eyes were watching you carefully.

You'd met enough men like him to know better than to trust appearances. 

"I'm looking for something," you said. "Don't become a problem."

His hands lifted immediately. "Easy there." He flashed you another smile. "I'm not an ass-kisser to the cause like Gun is. I won’t hold you back," His head tilted curiously. "I'm just interested." His gaze drifted over you openly.

"How'd you get past him?"

You considered the question. Then you shrugged. "He fights like someone who's never lost."

For the first time, his smile slipped. Only for a second. But you saw it. Enlightenment. Ah youth!

You stepped around him and continued toward the stairs. Behind you, silence lingered. Goo watched your back until you disappeared from view. He rolled your words around in his head.

Someone who's never lost. It sounded simple. Obvious, even.

But the more he thought about it, the heavier it became. Gun was stronger than almost everyone he'd ever met. Goo wants to say he’s stronger, but they’re about even, honestly. Though he does have to give it to Gun, the man was hungrier.

Yet strength had a way of becoming comfortable, dare he say even predictable.

You had seen that after exchanging only a few blows. The corners of Goo's mouth slowly lifted. He rested his sword against his shoulder and looked toward the stairwell.

Whoever you were, you hadn't looked at him with fear. You hadn't looked impressed, either. Just mildly inconvenienced.

He couldn't remember the last time anyone had done that.

JAMES LEE:

The office door stood open. Inside, a man sat behind an immaculate desk. He looked up the moment you entered. Sharp eyes. Sharp smile. Objectively speaking, he’s quite the looker. He could be an idol plastered on billboards advertising some ineffective energy drink. Too bad he works in the underworld.

Even the way he leaned back in his chair felt deliberate. Unlike the others, he wasn't wearing his emotions openly. Nothing about him invited trust.

"Hand it over," you said.

His gaze flicked briefly to your hands before returning to your face. "And what exactly am I handing over?"

"The branch records."

A small smile appeared on his lips. "You know where they are?"

"I know enough."

His expression didn't change, but you noticed the subtle shift in his posture. He’s interested in you, you can tell. Interest, carefully hidden, is still there.

"I'm afraid I can't help you."

You sighed, trying not to roll your eyes.

Young men. No matter the generation, they always thought they were harder to read than they actually were.

You stepped closer. He rose from his chair slowly as though he had all the time in the world. "You've caused a lot of trouble tonight."

"You'll recover."

His smile widened.

"Confident."

"You'd call it confidence."

The two of you circled each other carefully. He moved when you moved.

Every adjustment you made, he mirrored. He’s cautious, observant, and annoying.

Very annoying.

His eyes tracked every shift in your stance, every glance around the room. He was trying to understand you. Which meant he was already expecting an attack.

Fine. You gave him one. You lunged forward. His shoulders tightened as his weight shifted to intercept.

Exactly as expected. Instead of striking him, you pivoted sharply and drove your elbow into the glass wall behind you.

The window exploded outward, and cold air rushed into the office.

By the time he reached the shattered frame, you were gone. The files were gone too. He’d smack himself if he weren’t so impressed.

Far below, the city lights stretched endlessly into the night.

Nothing moved, and no trace remained.

For the first time since you'd entered, surprise crossed his face, not because you'd escaped but because he'd been wrong. He looked down at the broken glass glittering around his shoes.

Who were you? Come back here

He tried suppressing the teenage impulsiveness he’s long moved past. He almost jumped with you. You moved through Glory's defenses like someone who already knew every weakness.

That’s not the most abnormal thing ever… but he could’ve at least texted?

God! Why does Gun even care?! It’s the stupid omega brain worms getting to him. After his little bathroom rendezvous with his roommate, maybe it changed something in his brain chemistry. Too bad lobotomies aren’t legal anymore.

Well whatever. Goo will come home soon.

Gun sets off to do some laundry. He sticks to his designated chores since Goo would go manic if he saw Gun rearrange the wine collection, god forbid.

Gun enters Goo’s room to check if there is any blood-stained laundry that the blonde was too lazy to walk a grand total of 4 meters to the laundry basket for. Gun sifts through the mess of luxury blankets and limited edition decorative pillows before he finds—

his own clothes.

Of course, that hungry, thieving, lazy sack of indomitable greed would have his clothes. As he turns to inspect the damage, he briefly makes a small no-stakes bet in his mind of what desecrated his poor polo this time.

Food stains? Blood stains?

Gun’s calloused fingers feel out the wet spot that graced the entire center portion of his shirt, right where the buttons usually clasp together. It’s not colored. So immediately he lost the little bet. 

Gun’s nose scrunches to sniff the stain.

He immediately gets hit with a wave of intensely overwhelming pheromones. A pure dominant alpha. It’s strong enough to make even a recessive omega like Gun’s manhood stiffen.

For fuck’s sake.

Gun’s not too shocked that his friend jerked off. That’s kind of whatever. They’re both men after all. He doesn’t think too much about Goo using his shirt because it’s a pain to even spend precious brain cells on such an unproductive endeavor. Boys will be boys, as they say. Maybe it was the nearest available garment to cleanly release in. Whatever.

Gun’s more concerned about the fact that he never reacts to alpha pheromones ever. Or so he thought until he was staring at his own bulge, trying to fight through his sweatpants. Louis Vuitton for those who care, Goo’s pick.

‘Maybe having Goo help me through my heat was a terrible idea.’

Gun makes a mental note to finally research omega biology. He swore he’d never need it. He was always an exception. Until now, he guesses.

Where the hell is Goo anyway? 

Ah, who cares? Goo wouldn’t mind if Gun used his laptop for some much-needed… research.

Gun boots up Goo’s PC after taking an embarrassing and undisclosed amount of time trying to find the power button. It didn't help that the RGB was a complete assault on the eyes. He sits comfortably on the ergonomic chair, which his roommate invested a ludicrous amount of money in. 

Maybe I was too hard on him for spending so much on the chair. It’s not bad.

Gun makes a point to ignore the almost empty tissue box and half-empty lotion bottle on Goo’s desk. 

He uses his index fingers to type out his oddly detailed question.

What does it mean when a recessive omega, usually unreactive to alpha pheromones, starts reacting to one specific alpha?

Conveniently, there had already been a person who experienced this exact scenario. He clicks on the link leading him to a website called “Reddit”

What a shit name. What does that even mean?

Anyway, Goo’s account is already logged in, so he’s free to scroll through all the responses to the post.

You found your soulmate!

Eyeroll. Let’s look at the next response.

There's actually no such thing as a “recessive omega,” and I really wish people would stop using that term like it’s canon biology instead of outdated classification garbage. What you’re probably describing is a low-expression omega phenotype, which is NOT the same thing as being “recessive.” It just means your endocrine response thresholds are higher, so you don’t react to the average alpha’s pheromone output. People always jump to “omg soulmate bond” or whatever, but there are actual biological explanations for why you might suddenly react to one specific alpha and literally no one else. Pheromone compatibility is selective. Think of it like immunological matching or scent affinity. Some alphas produce a pheromone profile that can bypass higher resistance thresholds, especially if it’s unusually concentrated or chemically aligned with your own baseline. TL;DR: you’re not magically changing types, you’re just encountering an alpha whose pheromones your body can’t ignore. Congrats, I guess.

He pinches his nose. Useless. Let’s report this one.

Idk sounds like the alpha is going through some serious rut if they're releasing pheromones strong enough to affect you.

Huh. 

That would explain Goo's absence. 

Gun's unpracticed index fingers clumsily type out another question.

“Do alphas experience a different kind of rut after a… specific sexual encounter?”

This phenomenon is a lot more common, so Gun just had to click a well-trusted medical website. Finally. It seemed like the previous site was full of unreliable garbage before you get to the semi-decent info. Though it is concerning secondary gender discrimination. Why must alphas get easily accessible, reliable medical verification while omegas have to rely on strangers on the internet? But that's neither here nor there.

The article loads with a clean, sterile layout: white background, muted blue headings, and an almost suspicious amount of citations.

________________________________________________

Post-Encounter Rut Intensification in Dominant Alphas

Dominant alphas may experience an atypical rut cycle following close physical or pheromonal contact with a highly compatible omega. Unlike standard rut cycles, which are hormonally regulated and occur at predictable intervals, this phenomenon is stimulus-induced.

During such encounters, the alpha’s endocrine system may prematurely activate, responding to compatibility markers present in the omega’s pheromones. These markers are often undetectable to others and can override typical suppression mechanisms, even in well-regulated alphas.

Symptoms of this induced rut may include:

Heightened pheromone output, often more concentrated and persistent than in standard cycles

Increased territorial or fixation behaviors directed toward the specific omega

Reduced responsiveness to external suppressants

A marked deviation from previously established rut schedules

In cases involving “recessive” or low-reactivity omegas, this response can appear one-sided at first. However, continued exposure may trigger a delayed feedback reaction in the omega. This occurs when prolonged contact allows the omega’s system to gradually recognize and respond to the alpha’s specific pheromone signature, bypassing their usual resistance.

This dynamic is often misinterpreted as a sudden change in secondary gender classification, though current research suggests it is instead a case of selective compatibility response: a rare but documented pairing phenomenon.

While not inherently dangerous, unmanaged cases may lead to increased physiological strain for both parties. Temporary separation or controlled exposure is typically recommended until hormonal equilibrium is restored.

_____________________________________________________

Gun stares at the screen a second longer than necessary.

Selective compatibility response.

What a stupidly long name for something that sounds suspiciously like a problem.

His gaze flicks, unbidden, to the empty tissue box again.

…Yeah. A problem.

Gun leans back on the, again, very comfortable chair. Goo's never made his ruts a big deal at home. Maybe that was a part of Goo's twisted sense of politeness. Gun's now accepted that Goo definitely knew he was an omega, but to make himself scarce at this time! How would Goo just leave and isolate during such a difficult rut? How rude.

Gun does feel a twinge of guilt. He is technically partly responsible for Goo's rut happening so early and so intensely. But more than guilt is annoyance.

Gun exhales slowly, tapping the armrest once. Twice.

Honestly, what kind of idiot handles a rut like that?

Just leaves. No warning, no arrangement, no backup plan. As if disappearing into whatever hole he crawled into was somehow the responsible option. Goo, of all people, acting considerate now? That had to be a joke.

Gun’s lips press into a thin line.

Ruts aren’t… trivial. They’re not something you just “deal with” alone out of politeness. There are protocols for proper and healthy management. Even the most self-sufficient alphas don’t just isolate unless they’re—

He stops, brows knitting slightly.

—unless they think they’re a problem.

His fingers drum faster against the chair.

Tch. That’s still stupid.

If anything, leaving just makes it worse. Unregulated rut with no suppressant monitoring and no one to keep them grounded…it’s reckless. Sloppy. Completely unlike Goo (the sloppy part, the reckless is very him).

Gun shifts, irritation sharpening again to cover the brief, uncomfortable thought.

And what’s with the timing?

He clicks his tongue quietly.

Of course, it had to happen now. Right after that—right after that incident. As if his body needed more complications. As if Goo’s pheromones weren’t already—

Gun’s shoulders stiffen.

Irrelevant.

Completely irrelevant.

Whatever reaction he had was situational. A biological misfire, at most. That ridiculous article even said so—“selective compatibility response.” A rare case, nothing more. It doesn’t mean anything.

It definitely doesn’t mean anything about Goo.

Gun leans back further, crossing his arms.

Still… triggering a premature rut like that.

His gaze flicks, unbidden, toward the door.

What kind of alpha loses control that easily?

…And what kind of alpha runs instead of handling it properly? That medical article’s suggestion be damned! Those quacks don’t know shit anyway.

His jaw tightens.

If Goo thinks disappearing is the better option, then fine. It’s none of Gun’s concern. Not his responsibility to manage someone else’s instability.

Not like he cares where Goo went.

Not like he’s—

Gun clicks his tongue again, sharper this time.

Annoyed. That’s all.

Just annoyed.

Gun stomps over to where he figures Goo would be. Goo's rut has never been uncontrollable before. A dominant alpha dominates over his base instincts. Until now. Guess they're both experiencing weird changes. Across their shared apartment is…another apartment. Very convenient. 

They moved in together years ago, but believe it or not, the initial idea was just getting apartments right next to each other. For convenience, Goo said. They spent a huge chunk of one of their first big checks on two apartments on the highest floor of one of Seoul's most prestigious luxury residential complexes. 

But funnily enough, they never even got the chance to decide which was Gun's and which was Goo's. They entered the same empty apartment and just started… decorating it, filling it with all sorts of furniture and personal items. The other apartment stayed empty and barren, though it was still theirs. 

And if the article is right, Goo couldn't have made it very far in his condition. This is the only place he could be in

Right in the money, Gun could feel Goo's pheromones on the damn door handle. He punches in the predetermined code for the lock “1234”; they never even bothered customizing it the way they did their main apartment. There’s nothing to steal anyway.

He steps into the bare living room, bright only because of the sublight coming from the floor-to-ceiling windows. 

Goo is definitely here. But he can't see him. It's eerie. Goo's never not noticeable.

But the fact that Goo had enough self-awareness to even hide is impressive. 

‘I guess that makes him more capable than the average alpha. But that's not really a shock, that bastard has always been so-’

Ugh. Stupid pheromones were getting to him. Gun's never felt more like an omega in all his life. A slave to base instincts. Disgusting. Gun adjusts his boxers to hide the growing bulge.

Fuck, am I really getting hard from just the smell?

Gun, using his pent-up and unwelcome lust to fuel himself, opens every single door aggressively.

He's not in the bathroom.

He's not in the kitchen.

He's in neither of the bedroom spaces.

What the fuck, where is he?!

Gun's about to lose it. His breath hitches, a sharp, jagged sound that echoes too loudly in the barren, echoing expanse of the empty apartment. The air here is heavy, saturated with the thick, musky scent of Goo’s rut, a scent so potent it feels like a physical weight pressing against Gun’s lungs. It is overwhelming, a primal tide of pheromones that bypasses his intellect and strikes straight at his biology. His knees feel weak, a traitorous tremor running through his thighs as the scent triggers a violent, involuntary reaction deep within his pelvis.

A sudden, hot, damp sensation blooms between his legs, a heavy warmth that makes his stomach flip. It isn't just a trickle like it usually is; it is a sudden, heavy release of slick, a viscous flood of arousal that leaks from his base, soaking into the expensive fabric of his underwear with a shameless, wet heat. The sensation of the fluid spreading, thick and lubricating, sends a jolt of pure, unadulterated lust straight to his brain. It is a humiliating, undeniable sign of his body's submission to the atmosphere Goo has created.

"Fuck..." Gun hisses under his breath, his voice cracking. He feels the moisture pooling, the slickness acting as a warm, clinging weight against his most sensitive skin. It is thick, almost syrupy, and the sheer volume of it makes him feel exposed, as if the very air is mocking his lack of control. He can feel the dampness spreading down the inner curve of his thighs, a slick trail of evidence that he is reacting to Goo’s presence with a ferocity that borders on the obscene.

He tries to take a stabilizing breath, but the scent only intensifies, dragging him deeper into the haze. The slickness at his base feels heavy, a constant, pulsing reminder of the arousal he is trying so desperately to suppress. Every step he takes, every movement of his hips, causes the fabric to chafe against the wetness, creating a friction that is both agonizing and intoxicating. It is a sensory overload; the cool air of the apartment clashing with the feverish heat of his own dampened skin.

His heart hammers against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that matches the throb of his engorged member. He feels a desperate, clawing need to find the source of this scent, to find Goo and demand why his body is behaving like a wild animal. Gun tears through his own arousal and drags his way to the other rooms. Damn this stupidly large apartment.

The slickness at his base has become a heavy, dragging weight, a constant, wet reminder of his own traitorous biology. He is a man losing a war against his own instincts, his dignity dissolving with every frantic step he takes through the barren apartment.

He flings open the door to the final, dimly lit storage room at the end of the hall, expecting nothing but dust and shadows. Instead, the scent hits him like a physical blow, a concentrated, animalistic wall of pheromones so thick it feels like he is drowning in it. His eyes adjust to the gloom, and there, slumped against a stack of crates in the corner, is Goo.

Goo looks wrecked. His hair is a matted mess, his skin is flushed a feverish, angry red, and his eyes are glazed with a primal, unthinking hunger. Most damning of all, his hand is clamped tightly around his own engorged member, his knuckles white as he tries to find some semblance of relief from the agonizing tension of his rut. The sight of Goo reduced to this state of desperate, trembling need snaps the last thread of Gun's restraint.

Gun doesn't think. He doesn't weigh the consequences, nor does he consider the sheer impropriety of his sudden, frantic movement. He simply lunges. He dives toward the corner, his body moving on pure, unadulterated instinct, driven by the overwhelming need to bridge the gap between them. He collapses into Goo's space, his knees hitting the hard floor with a dull thud as he throws himself against the other man's trembling frame.

The collision is messy and uncoordinated. Gun’s hands, slick with his own arousal, grab at Goo’s shoulders, seeking purchase as he presses his heat against Goo's side. The contact is electric; the friction of their bodies meeting sends a jolt of pure lightning through Gun's spine. 

"Stop... fucking stop..." Goo’s voice is a wrecked, gravelly rasp, barely recognizable as his own. He tries to shove Gun away, his large hands trembling as they press against Gun’s chest, but the effort is half-hearted, lacking any real strength. His fingers dig into Gun’s shoulders, but instead of pushing him away, they seem to be clinging to him for stability. "You shouldn't... be here. Get out, you bastard. Before you... before you can't..." He gasps, his head lurching back against the crates as a fresh wave of heat rolls through him, his eyes rolling back for a fleeting, agonizing second.

Gun doesn't budge. If anything, he presses closer, his slicked thighs rubbing against Goo’s trembling legs. "Shut up," Gun snaps, his voice thick with a mix of irritation and desperate lust. "You’re being so goddamn stupid. You think you can just hide in here and act like a martyr? You're the one who triggered this. You need to take responsibility for the mess you've made." He reaches up, his fingers brushing against Goo's jaw, his touch firm and demanding. Goo, if he were conscious, would think that argument made no damn sense. But he’s horny, so he takes it as permission.

Goo stares at him, his pupils blown wide until his eyes are almost entirely black, shimmering with a frantic, unreadable emotion. For a moment, he looks uncertain, a flicker of his usual self fighting against the primal command of the rut. He looks like he might actually try to push Gun away again, to retreat back into his lonely, feverish shell. But the scent of Gun, the sharp, intoxicating smell of his arousal and his stubbornness, is too much.

With a sudden, violent movement, Goo reaches up and tears his glasses off his face, tossing them aside without a second thought. The world becomes a blur of shadows and heat, but he doesn't need sight to find Gun. He lunges forward, his weight shifting with a sudden, predatory grace that belies his exhaustion. He pins Gun to the hard floor, his large hands slamming down on either side of Gun’s head, trapping him against the cold ground.

"You want responsibility?" Goo growls, his face inches from Gun's, his breath hot and smelling of pure, unadulterated alpha. A dark, dangerous smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, though his eyes are predatory, gleaming with a feral light. "Then don't complain when you can't walk tomorrow. You said you wanted to handle this, so don't you dare try to run now."

He shifts his weight, his heavy, muscular thighs pinning Gun’s hips to the floor, forcing the smaller man to feel the sheer scale of his presence. The friction of their bodies, even through their clothes, is an agonizing tease. Gun can feel the hard, pulsing length of Goo’s member pressing against his own thigh, a hot, unyielding rod of flesh that seems to vibrate with the same desperation he feels in his own gut.

Gun lets out a sharp, shaky breath, his head lolling back against the floor as he stares up at the man looming over him. The intensity in Goo's gaze is terrifying, a raw, unbridled hunger that threatens to swallow them both whole. "I'm not... running," Gun manages to choke out, his fingers digging into the fabric of Goo's shirt, pulling him closer until there is no air left between them. "So just... do it. Stop talking and do it."

Goo’s response is a low, guttural sound, a half growl that vibrates through Gun’s entire chest. He leans down, his nose burying into the crook of Gun’s neck, inhaling the scent of his arousal with a desperate, starving greed. His teeth graze the sensitive skin there, a sharp, stinging nip that makes Gun's hips jerk upward in an involuntary, seeking motion.

The air in the small room is thick enough to taste, a cloying, heavy mixture of their combined pheromones. Every breath feels like a heavy weight, every movement a slow, deliberate descent into madness. Gun can feel the slickness at his base becoming even more frantic, a hot, viscous tide that coats his skin and makes his every nerve ending scream for the release only Goo can provide.

Goo’s hands move from the floor to Gun’s waist, his large palms squeezing the flesh there with a bruising intensity. He begins to work at the waistband of Gun’s trousers, his movements frantic and uncoordinated, driven by the singular, driving need to strip away every barrier between them. The sound of fabric straining and the wet, rhythmic squelch of their coupling.

The friction of skin against skin is a violent, beautiful chaos. As Goo finally drives himself home, the sensation is overwhelming a blunt, heavy intrusion that stretches Gun’s capacity to endure. It isn't the teasing, superficial glide of fingers or the smooth, artificial texture of a toy; it is the hot, pulsing reality of a man. The sheer mass of him fills Gun completely, a stretching ache that borders on pain before melting into a searing, white-hot pleasure.

Finally, Gun thinks, his head thrashing against the floor as his eyes roll back. Finally, something real. The sensation is too much, too thick, too visceral. Every thrust is a heavy, rhythmic thud that vibrates through his very bones, grounding him in the reality of Goo’s rut. The clumsiness of their bodies meeting, the frantic, uncoordinated lurching of their hips, only adds to the raw, unrefined intensity of the moment.

Goo is a force of nature, a desperate animal driven by the singular goal of relief. His movements are unrefined, driven by the fever of his rut, and he pins Gun down with a crushing weight that forces the air from Gun's lungs. Gun doesn't mind the lack of grace; he craves the brutality of it. He wants to feel the full weight of Goo's desperation, the way the alpha's muscles cord and strain with every lunge.

"It's... good..." Gun gasps out, his voice a broken, breathless wreck as he arches his back to meet the next heavy strike. "So much better... than just fingers... god, Goo..." He can barely finish the sentence before another wave of sensation crashes over him. The slickness between them has become a frothy, viscous lubricant, making every slide a wet, slapping sound that echoes in the small, cramped room.

The sounds in the storage room are primal the heavy, rhythmic slap of pelvis against pelvis, the frantic, stifled groans of two men losing themselves to instinct, and the wet, squelching noise of their combined fluids. Gun’s mind is a haze of gold and heat. He can feel the friction building, a tightening coil in his gut that threatens to snap at any second. He clings to Goo’s shoulders, his nails digging into the flushed, sweaty skin, anchoring himself in the blonde’s embrace.

Suddenly, the pressure against Gun's back changes. Goo’s large, calloused hands slide from Gun’s waist down to his thighs, hooking under his knees with a sudden, violent strength. With a guttural, animalistic grunt, Goo heaves Gun upward, lifting his entire weight off the floor. Gun’s breath is snatched from his lungs as he is hoisted into the air, his legs forced wide and wrapped tightly around Goo’s waist to keep from falling.

The change in position is devastating. Without the floor to brace against, Gun is entirely at the mercy of Goo’s momentum. Every lunge now carries the full, unbridled weight of Goo’s body, driving him deeper than before. The sensation is staggering; the stretching is so intense that Gun has to bite his lip to keep from screaming, his head lolling back as he feels the sheer mass of Goo filling him to the absolute limit.

"Fuck !" Gun’s voice is a broken, high-pitched moan, his fingers clawing at Goo’s sweaty back. He feels completely unmoored, suspended in a world of pure, unadulterated sensation. The lack of stability makes every thrust feel even more profound, a deep, internal pounding that seems to vibrate through his very organs.

Goo’s face is a mask of pure, unfiltered lust, his eyes hooded and dark as he stares at Gun. He doesn't slow down; if anything, the lifting of Gun’s body has only fueled his ferocity. He thrusts upward with a rhythmic violence, his hips slamming against Gun’s with a sound like wet leather striking skin. The air in the small room is thick enough to choke on, saturated in their combined pheromones.

As Goo’s breath comes in ragged, stuttering heaves, his gaze drifts from Gun’s blown-out, inverted eyes to the pale, vulnerable expanse of his throat. The skin there is flushed a feverish pink, slick with a fine sheen of sweat that catches the dim light of the storage room. To Goo, in the haze of his rut, that unmarked neck looks like a target, a blank canvas of porcelain skin waiting to be claimed, stained, and broken.

A low rumble vibrates in Goo’s chest, a sound that is more animal than man. He leans forward, his heavy, muscular frame pressing Gun even harder against the wall of his chest, and drags his tongue along the line of Gun’s jaw. The sensation is startlingly hot and wet, a long, slow lick that starts at the earlobe and drags all the way down to the hollow of Gun's throat.

Gun let out a sharp, broken gasp, his head snapping back as the wet friction of Goo's tongue sends a fresh jolt of electricity straight to his core. "Hey... what are you–" he starts to protest, but the words die in his throat as he feels the heavy, damp pressure of Goo's mouth settling over the sensitive skin.

Goo isn't thinking about the apartment, or the mess they are making, or the fact that they are in a barren storage room. Or the fact that this could mean a forever with his partner in crime, his beautiful omega. His mind has narrowed down to a single, singular, driving instinct: ownership. The rut has stripped away his civility, leaving behind only the primal need to mark, to claim, and to leave a permanent stain of his presence on the man beneath him. He wants to sink his teeth in; he wants to leave a bruise that will last till the day they bite the dust, a physical testament to the fact that Gun belongs to him in this moment of madness, and all the subsequent moments of madness he’ll undoubtedly have.

He licks the spot again, more hungrily this time, his tongue sweeping over the pulse point where Gun’s heart is hammering like a trapped bird. The saltiness of the sweat and the intoxicating scent of Gun's arousal act like fuel to the fire in Goo's veins. He can feel the frantic rhythm of Gun's pulse against his tongue, a rapid fire thudding that tells him exactly how close Gun is to the edge.

The tension in the room reaches a breaking point. Goo’s thrusts become frantic, uncoordinated stabs of pure, unbridled need, his body trembling with the effort of holding Gun aloft. Gun is a mess of sensation, his vision swimming in white sparks as his muscles coil tighter and tighter, his entire being focused on the rhythmic, heavy pounding that is driving him toward the precipice. A strangled, high-pitched cry escapes Gun’s lips, his back arching so sharply it feels as though his spine might snap, as he finally shatters, his release a hot, pulsing flood that leaves him gasping and limp in Goo's arms.

Seconds later, the dam breaks for Goo. He thrusts one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he spills into Gun, his entire body shuddering with the force of his climax. The sheer force of the release leaves them both spent, hanging in the heavy, scented air as their breathing slowly begins to sync in the aftermath of the storm.

But the rut is not finished with its claim.

In the hazy, post orgasmic silence, Goo’s instincts surge one last time. Driven by a sudden, desperate need to seal the bond, he tilts Gun’s head back, exposing the pale, sweat-slicked expanse of his neck. Without hesitation, Goo sinks his teeth into the soft flesh. The forceful bite draws a muffled groan from Gun’s throat. Goo licks the wound immediately after, his tongue soothing the sting even as he leaves a deep, darkening mark, a brand that screams of his ownership. Actually, scratch that. Their partnership.

Gun’s head lolls against Goo’s shoulder, his eyes half lidded and unfocused. His body feels heavy, jelly-like, and utterly drained, the ache in his hips a dull, pulsing reminder of the violence they just shared. His mind is a fog of endorphins and exhaustion, drifting aimlessly through the dim light of the storage room.

Preferably before he withers into a tragic, overworked academic ghost haunting the library’s third floor.

Because Shin, God, Shin is wasting it.

Jintae watches him now, seated across from him in the campus café, sunlight catching in his dark hair as he methodically stacks his books into neat, precise piles. Everything about him is composed. Controlled. Even the way he turns a page feels… purposeful. Like he isn't programmed to do anything that wastes time. A paragon of efficiency.

“You broke up with Lisa months ago,” Jintae says, slumping dramatically across the table, chin resting on his arms. “Why don’t you go to the club with me?”

Shin doesn’t even look up at first. Just finishes aligning the edges of his notes before finally glancing over, expression unreadable.

“It has nothing to do with Lisa,” he says calmly. “It’s just not my crowd.”

Jintae pouts. Actually pouts, lower lip out, brows furrowed, the full performance. When he was younger, Shin used to fall for it. He's sad to report it doesn’t work as effectively now.

Shin has dulled through the years. While he's never been a bright sunny day, it's so obvious that something in him just rotted and died.

Anyone would be, after losing a parent. Jintae knows that. He’s not heartless. But still...this quiet, distant version of Shin, buried in textbooks and silence, it doesn’t sit right with him.

Shin notices the look and exhales softly, the faintest hint of amusement breaking through.

“You know I’m not stopping you, right?”

“I know you aren’t,” Jintae mutters, straightening up, frustrated. “But still!”

Because what’s the point of having fun if your best friend isn’t there to witness how embarrassing you are?

Jintae crosses his arms, thinking. Then, lightbulb.

“Okay. Compromise,” he says, leaning forward. “How about you join a club, then?”

Shin raises an eyebrow, elegant, skeptical. “In college?”

“Yes, in college!” Jintae throws his hands up. “There is no shame in extracurriculars. This is literally the only time it’s socially acceptable to try random things and not be good at them.”

Shin considers him, silent.

Jintae presses on. “I just saw the fencing club open up again. They’re still small, so it’s easier to make friends. And I heard there’s this really talented guy there.”

Shin pauses.

Fencing.

It’s not unfamiliar. He’s held a blade before, felt the rhythm of it, the precision. He just… never needed it. Never saw the point.

But Jintae is looking at him all expectant. Shit, maybe the puppy eyes are still somewhat effective.

“…Alright,” Shin says finally. “I’ll stop by their club room later.”

Jintae’s entire face lights up.

“So don’t let me stop you from having fun,” Shin adds.

“Oh, I won’t,” Jintae grins. “But now I’ll have peace of mind while doing it.”

—

The fencing room is quieter than Shin expected.

No chatter. No crowd. Barely any facilities too.

Just the faint echo of footsteps against polished flooring and the soft, rhythmic shing of metal cutting through air.

Shin steps in, pausing near the entrance.

And then he sees him.

A man; tall, nearly Shin’s height, maybe a fraction taller. Light brown hair, slightly damp with sweat. Broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his shirt. Every movement controlled, deliberate, powerful without being wasteful.

He’s alone.

Practicing.

Shin watches.

The footwork. The stance. The transitions. There’s a fluidity there, a confidence born not from arrogance but from familiarity. Experience.

Before Shin even realizes it, he’s moving.

Reaching for a weapon lying haphazardly on the ground.

A sabre.

Not his usual preference, he’s always leaned toward foil, but the weight is familiar enough in his hand. Comforting, even.

The other man notices him then.

Stops.

Turns.

Their eyes meet.

No greeting.

No introduction.

Just an unspoken understanding.

The match begins.

Steel clashes with a sharp, ringing clang.

Fast.

Sharper than Shin anticipated.

The man moves aggressively, sabres favor that, after all, but there’s discipline in it. Control. Shin adjusts, matching his pace, testing his defenses, probing for openings.

They don’t speak.

They don’t need to.

The room fills with the sound of their blades colliding, sliding, breaking apart and reconnecting again. Footsteps pivoting, advancing, retreating.

Shin feels it, something he hasn’t felt in a long time.

Engagement.

Focus.

Camaraderie. Towards a man he has yet to speak to.

Finally, they break apart, weapons lowering almost in sync. The air between them hums with the remnants of motion.

A beat.

Then—

“Ryu Jihak.”

The man pulls off his mask, revealing sharp features, steady eyes.

“Kim Shin,” Shin replies.

Jihak nods once, gaze assessing. “You’re good.”

Shin shrugs slightly. “I’ve practiced before.”

There’s a pause.

Then, almost as an afterthought, Jihak adds, “You should come back.”

Simple.

Direct.

No pressure.

Shin glances down at the sabre in his hand.

Then back at Jihak.

“…Maybe I will.”

And distantly, in the back of his mind, he wonders,

What is Jintae up to right now?

—

Jintae, meanwhile, is thriving.

The club is loud, crowded, alive in all the ways he loves. Music pulses through the walls, laughter spills over itself, glasses clink in celebratory chaos.

He’s already made friends.

Of course he has.

He’s draped over someone’s shoulder one second, raising a toast the next, slipping effortlessly between conversations like he belongs everywhere at once.

“—and to bad decisions!” he declares, lifting his drink.

“To bad decisions!” the group echoes.

Jintae beams.

This.

This is what he lives for.

And then—

From the corner of his eye—

He sees him.

Tan skin.

A lazy, dangerous smirk.

Sharp eyes that seem to cut through the noise, locking onto him instantly.

Jintae’s smile falters.

“…Oh.”

Yoo Woosung.

That bastard.

And shit shit shit!

He’s moving.

Toward him.

Jintae straightens slowly, drink still in hand, heart doing something very inconvenient in his chest.

Because whatever tonight was supposed to be,

His mind drifts back to his younger years. When he was just a dog, part of a small pack of three. Admittedly, he had been squabbling for the affection of the lone girl in the trio, butting heads with his best friend over her.

“Bro, she’s freaking gorgeous! Did you see the way she smiled at me?” a passing student exclaims.

The one beside him, who we assume is his friend, only huffs. “You’re delusional. No way she’d go for you.”

Johan can’t help but think that what he and Zack went through with Mira should have ended their friendship.

But now, with his vision waning and his loneliness growing heavier, Johan looks back on those memories fondly.

At least we had each other.

But he can’t go back.

Or at least that’s what he tells himself.

When all is said and done, when Gun is finally in jail, he’s presented with an opportunity.

And yet…

There’s nothing he wants more in this life than to see his mother healthy. But secretly, he would never admit this to anyone, what he wants just as badly is to feel full again.

In the humble apartment he has rented, with the rage that once filled him now gone and replaced by a hollow, aching emptiness, he is taken back to the days he spent boxing with Zack.

He doesn’t dwell on it.

It’s not like he can’t see Zack. They saw each other just last week. It’s just that things have changed. They can’t go back.

There is no way he would—

A knock hits the door.

Johan freezes.

How the hell did he find this place?

Zack stands there with offerings, a bucket of fried chicken for six and a full liter of soda. He grins sheepishly. “Uh… I asked around.”

Right. Like that explains anything.

Johan lets him in with a sigh. After years of being alone, he has so much to say, but where does he even begin?

I’m sorry? I hope you’re doing well? I missed you?

What should he—

Zack interrupts. It’s not obvious, but he has always been more in tune with people and their feelings.

That doesn’t mean he isn’t a little callous.

“Your apartment is so small,” Zack says, looking around. “It’s like you hardly live in here.”

Johan shoots him a glare.

Zack still reeks of privilege.

Zack sets the bucket of fried chicken on Johan's cluttered coffee table, the grease already beginning to seep through the paper wrapper. He pops open the soda, the fizzing sound breaking the awkward silence that hangs between them like a physical presence.

"Yeah, well, I don't exactly have space for a mansion," Johan mutters, dropping into his worn armchair. The springs creak beneath him, a sound he's grown intimately familiar with over the past months. "I'm not exactly rolling in cash, Zack."

Zack settles onto the opposite end of the couch, stretching his long legs out in front of him. Even sitting down, he manages to look relaxed, comfortable in a way that makes Johan's jaw tighten. It's been like this since they were kids, Zack always had everything, and Johan had to fight for scraps.

"So what, you're just gonna sit there and sulk?" Zack asks, picking up a piece of chicken. "I brought food. We're supposed to be eating together."

"I'm not sulking. I'm just..." Johan trails off, realizing he doesn't actually know what he is. Lonely? Hurt? Both? He grabs a piece of chicken without enthusiasm, the hot oil burning his fingers slightly. The taste is familiar, nostalgic even—this is exactly the kind of shit they used to eat after their boxing sessions.

The memories flood back unbidden. Zack's wild punches, Johan's calculated counters. The way they'd collapse against the ropes, gasping for air, then immediately start planning their next round. The easy banter, the shared understanding that existed between them when it was just the two of them and a boxing ring. Okay, maybe a bit of bitterness on Zack’s part, but he’s a good sport overall.

"How are you?" was all Zack could manage. 

Johan doesn't answer immediately. He chews slowly, deliberately, buying himself time. Outside, rain has begun to patter against the window, creating a curtain of water droplets that obscures the view of the city beyond.

"I'm doing okay," Johan finally says, the lie tasting bitter in his mouth. "Just... taking things one day at a time."

Zack studies him with those sharp eyes that used to see through all of Johan's bullshit. He's not the same oblivious kid from their boxing days. He's gotten smarter, more perceptive. But there's something else there too, something softer that wasn't present before. Understanding, maybe. Or at least the desire to understand.

Before Johan can stop himself, Zack moves closer on the couch. The distance between them closes, and then—

Zack's arms wrap around Johan's shoulders in a hug that's all wrong and yet somehow exactly right. It's not gentle. Zack's always been too physical for gentle, but it's deliberate. Purposeful. His grip is firm, almost desperate, like he's trying to physically pull Johan back into his orbit.

Johan freezes, his own arms hanging awkwardly at his sides. This isn't what he expected. After all this time, after everything that's happened, he didn't think Zack would—

"I'm sorry," Zack continues, his voice rougher now. Zack doesn’t elaborate on what. There’s too much. There’s nothing at all. 

The words hang in the air between them, raw and unfiltered. Johan can feel his throat tightening, his carefully constructed walls beginning to crumble. He's spent so long telling himself he doesn't need anyone, that he's better off alone. But standing here in Zack's arms, smelling the familiar scent of his old friend's cologne, he realizes how much he's been lying to himself.

"I missed you," Johan finally admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "Every fucking day, I missed you."

Zack's grip tightens, and when he speaks again, his voice is thick with emotion. "Then don't make me leave. Please."

Johan doesn't know what possesses him, but he crashes into Zack's lips with a desperation he can't control. It's like a dog unable to stifle its own barks, a primal urge rising up from deep within him. He needs this, needs Zack, in a way he's never needed anyone before.

Zack kisses back, his lips soft and insistent against Johan's. He tastes like chicken and soda, a strange but not unpleasant combination. The flavors mingle on their tongues as they stumble back onto the couch, limbs tangling as they go.

Johan's hands roam over Zack's body, mapping out the hard planes and angles he remembers from their boxing days. Zack's muscles have only grown more defined in the years since then, a testament to his dedication and discipline. Johan can feel the strength in them as he pulls Zack closer, desperate to erase the distance between their bodies.

Zack's hands are just as busy, slipping under Johan's shirt to explore the skin beneath. His fingers are calloused and rough, a reminder of the hard work he puts in at the gym. But his touch is gentle as he traces the lines of Johan's abs, in part admiration, in part slight envy. Huh, I guess those two go hand in hand.

They break apart for air, chests heaving and eyes dark with desire. Johan can see the want in Zack's gaze, the hunger that mirrors his own. He knows they can't go back to the way things were before, but in this moment, he doesn't care. All he wants is to lose himself in Zack, to forget about the pain and the loneliness and the anger that's consumed him for so long.

"Bedroom," Johan growls, his voice rough with need. "Now." 

Zack chuckles, but before he can make another inappropriate comment about Johan's living conditions, the sound is cut off as Johan shoves him onto the cramped mattress and tears off his pants, tossing them to the side without ceremony. The bed frame creaks in protest, the thin mattress offering little support as Johan settles his weight onto Zack's lap. It's not ideal. Zack can feel the springs digging into his back, the mattress barely big enough for one person, let alone two. But he doesn't care. He doesn't stop Johan.

Johan moves like he is afraid of losing the moment if he slows down. His hands are everywhere at once, clumsy with urgency, his mouth too fast, his breathing already uneven. There is no teasing, no pause to read the room. It is all need, all now. Zack feels it instantly. The way Johan presses in, the way he does not look at him, just through him. Not wanting Zack so much as wanting the feeling of not being alone.

Something in Zack tightens.

Too fast. Too sharp. Too desperate.

He lets it go on for a second longer, just long enough to be sure.

Then Zack’s hands come up, stopping him mid-motion. His fingers dig into the muscle and skin, a desperate anchor in the storm of sensations. "Hey, wait—" Zack's voice comes out breathless, uncertain.

Johan turns his head, and Zack sees it, the glint of tears in his old friend's eyes. His chest is heaving, his body trembling slightly. For a moment, the aggressive energy that had driven Johan forward seems to evaporate. He's looking at Zack like he's seeing him for the first time, really seeing him, and the vulnerability in that gaze is almost too much. He looks like he did years ago. Long bangs and angry eyes.

Zack gently pushes Johan's bangs out of the way to see his greyed-out left eye, a condition he's inherited from his mother. He reaches out to brush some of Johan's brown hair back from his face, his touch tender despite the tension in the room.

"Shit," Zack mutters under his breath, noticing how tired Johan looks. When did he start looking so exhausted?

Before he can stop himself, Zack gently pushes Johan down onto the bed, his body covering Johan's in a way that's both protective and possessive. The position is intimate, and Zack is acutely aware of every point where their bodies touch: chest to chest, thigh to thigh, the heat of their skin pressing together.

"I'm sorry," Zack says, his voice thick with emotion as he continues to stroke Johan's hair. "I know I tried to keep it wholesome, but..." He trails off, his eyes drifting downward and widening slightly as he suddenly remembers that Johan had already taken off his own pants in his haste. Now, faced with Johan's bare ass, he feels his breath catch.

Zack's eyes widen, a mixture of surprise and desire flashing across his features. He swallows hard, his hand freezing mid-stroke in Johan's hair. "Fuck," he breathes, his voice dropping an octave.

Johan looks back over his shoulder, tears streaming down his face, his glasses slightly askew on his nose. His brown eyes are red and puffy, the grey in his left eye seeming even more pronounced. "I—" Johan's voice cracks, breaking on whatever he was trying to say. He stutters, whimpering softly as the tears come harder. "I didn't— I didn't mean to—"

Zack's expression softens despite the heat coursing through him at the sight of Johan like this, vulnerable, crying, exposed. He reaches around to cup Johan's face, gently turning his head so they're face to face, even if it means looking at those tears.

"Shh," Zack murmurs, his thumb brushing across Johan's wet cheeks.

Johan sobs and turns around to lift his hips, a silent plea in his tear-filled eyes. Zack gets the message loud and clear, his own desire surging at the desperation he sees in his friend's gaze. He leans down, pressing a trail of soft kisses along the curve of Johan's ass, feeling the way the firm muscle twitches beneath his lips.

Zack was about to ask if Johan had any lube, but he quickly realizes the absurdity of that question. Johan can barely afford air conditioning, let alone luxuries like lube or fancy bedding. So Zack resorts to Plan B, leaning down to gather a mouthful of spit, letting it pool on his tongue before he leans in to tease Johan's rim with it.

Johan gasps, his back arching as he feels the wet heat of Zack's tongue against his most intimate place. It's filthy, it's wrong, but god, it feels so good. He clenches around the intrusion, his body instinctively trying to pull Zack deeper.

"Fuck," Zack groans, the sound vibrating against Johan's skin. "You taste so fucking good, Johan. I can't believe I'm just now realizing it."

Johan lets out a choked laugh at that, shaking his head even as he pushes his hips back against Zack's face. "Shut up," he manages to gasp out, his voice thick with tears and desire. "Don't make me punch you."

Zack just chuckles, the sound muffled against Johan's ass. "You wouldn't mind," he retorts playfully, punctuating the words with a sharp nip to Johan's cheek.

Despite the humor in his voice, there's a tenderness to the way he touches Johan now, a gentleness that wasn't there before. It's like he's trying to make up for lost time, trying to pour years of friendship and longing into every caress.

Zack begins fingering Johan to stretch him out, his calloused fingers sliding into Johan's tight heat. Johan whimpers and whines, his body trembling with need as Zack works his way inside. The stretch is intense, a burning sensation that borders on pain, but Zack goes slowly, giving Johan time to adjust.

"Fuck," Johan gasps, his voice hitching. "Zack, that's—ah, fuck." His hands grip the sheets beneath him, knuckles white with tension. Tears stream down his face, but they're not entirely from the discomfort. It's the emotion, the vulnerability of being this exposed with Zack of all people.

Zack's fingers curl inside him, stroking that spot he knows drives Johan crazy. "You're so tight," Zack murmurs, his voice rough with desire. He can feel Johan clenching around his fingers, the rhythmic squeezing making his own cock throb with need.

Johan whimpers and whines, the sounds escaping his throat unbidden. "I— I can't—" His words dissolve into another sob as Zack hits that perfect spot inside him. His hips buck back, seeking more friction, more pressure, more of Zack.

Zack adds a second finger, stretching Johan further. The whimpers turn into full-on moans, Johan's voice breaking on every sound. "Oh god, oh fuck, Zack—" His body is shaking now, trembling with the force of his emotions and the building pleasure.

"Tell me if it hurts," Zack says, his thumb rubbing slow circles on Johan's rim. "I don't want to— fuck, Johan, you're so tight. I need to—"

"More," Johan gasps, surprising himself with the demand. "More, Zack, please. I need—" His words dissolve into another sob, his body arching off the bed as pleasure and pain and longing all crash together in a confusing tangle of sensation.

Zack, ever obedient to Johan's desperate pleas, takes out his hard, throbbing cock. Before he can line himself up, he leans in to tease Johan's rim with the swollen head, rubbing the leaking tip around the stretched out circle of muscle.

"Zack, you fucking—ah!—asshole!" Johan yells, his voice breaking as sobs wrack his body. Tears pour down his face, blurring his vision behind his glasses. But even through the haze of emotion and need, he can feel every ridge and vein of Zack's cock as it teases his entrance.

"Patience, babe," Zack murmurs, his own breath coming faster now. "Gotta make sure you're ready for me." He leans down to press a kiss to the small of Johan's back, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of his skin, the salt of his tears.

Johan can only sob in response, his body shaking and his cock throbbing against the sheets. It's too much, too intense, the buildup of years of longing and loneliness and regret all crashing down on him at once.

Finally, when Johan is a mess of incoherent apologies and pleas, Zack lines himself up and pushes forward, sinking into the tight, wet heat of Johan's body. Johan cries out, a sound that's half pain, half pleasure as he feels himself being split open, stretched wide around the thick girth of Zack's cock.

"I'm sorry," Johan sobs, his fingers digging into the mattress, his back arching as he takes every inch of Zack inside him. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry—"

"For what?" Zack asks, his voice strained as he starts to move, his hips rolling forward in a steady rhythm. "What are you sorry for?"

"E-everything," Johan chokes out, tears streaming down his face. "I'm sorry for—ah!—for leaving. For not—fuck—telling you how I felt. I'm sorry for—oh god, Zack—every bad thing I did. I'm sorry for not trying again, for not—fuck, you're so deep—"

Zack just groans, his hips snapping forward harder, driving into Johan with a newfound urgency. "You don't have to apologize," he says, his voice rough with emotion.

Johan's mind is a whirlwind of conflicting emotions as Zack starts to move inside him, each powerful thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure through his body. He can't believe how good this feels, how right it is to finally have Zack inside him like this, claiming him, owning him in the most intimate way possible.

Fuck, I can't believe this is happening, Johan thinks to himself, his eyes squeezing shut as a particularly deep thrust makes him see stars. I never thought... never dreamed...

Apologies spill from his lips like a prayer, a litany of sorries for every wrong he's ever done. I'm sorry for leaving you behind, he sobs, his voice breaking. I'm sorry for not telling you how I felt, how much you meant to me. Tears pour down his face, dripping onto the sweat-soaked sheets below. I'm sorry for not trying harder, for letting my pride and my anger and my stupid fucking stubbornness ruin everything.

Johan hasn't cried like this in so long, not since he was much younger. He's not a crier, not anymore. He's learned to bottle up his emotions, to shove them down deep where they can't hurt him. But now, with Zack moving inside him, touching parts of him that have never been touched before, he can't hold back the tears any longer.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry, Johan chants, his body shaking with the force of his sobs. Sorry for everything I did to fuck up our friendship, to push you away, to make you think I didn't need you.

Because the truth is, Johan realizes with a wrenching sob, he's always needed Zack. He's needed his laughter, his support, his unwavering loyalty. He's needed his best friend, the one person who's always had his back no matter what.

And now, as Zack's cock drives into him again and again, Johan feels like he's finally getting a piece of that back. A piece of what he lost, of what he threw away. It's not enough to make up for all the time they've wasted, all the words left unspoken, but it's a start.

Don't leave me again, Johan thinks desperately, his fingers scrabbling at the raggedy duvet. Please, let's hang out. Let's eat after class, just like old times. Let's go to arcades and make dumb mistakes, like challenging each other to see who can beat the high score on Street Fighter. Let's fight over girls and duke it out on the boxing ring. Let's watch movies on the couch, your arm around me, my head on your shoulder, the way it used to be. Let's kiss, let's kiss, let's kiss until we forget about everything else… 

A sad little laugh bubbles up in Johan's throat at the thought, but it's drowned out by a particularly deep thrust from Zack. Let's be kids again, he thinks, a wave of nostalgia crashing over him.

They don't speak anymore, but in this moment, Johan knows that Zack hears him. Knows that he understands the silent pleas, the unspoken apologies, the desperate longing for a second chance.

Zack doesn't speak as they finish, his body trembling with the force of his release as he buries himself deep inside Johan. He just stares down at his friend, his rival, his... everything, from this new perspective he's never had before. Johan looks beautiful beneath him, his face flushed and tear-streaked, his hair mussed and wild, his glasses askew on his nose.

For a long moment, Zack just drinks in the sight of him, memorizing every detail. The way his brown hair falls across his forehead, the way his grey eyes are hazy and unfocused, the way his chest rises and falls with ragged breaths. It's the first time Zack has ever seen Johan from this angle, never having "won" in their boxing matches enough to pin him down and look at him like this. Always before it was Johan looming over him, victorious and triumphant. But now, for the first time, there isn't a loser.

He lifts the skewer closer, hesitates, then gently nudges it toward your lips. You blink, startled, and for a moment he thinks you might refuse. Instead, you take it from him and bite down. The sugar breaks with a sharp, clean crack.

He waits.

“So,” he asks, voice pitched carefully light. “What do you think?”

You finish chewing before answering. “Oh. Yeah. It’s fine.”

Fine.

The word lands heavier than any ambush.

Thaddeus smiles anyway, the practiced kind that comes easily after years of surviving rooms that wanted him dead. “Well, you can have more later,” he says. “I made grapes too. Oranges. I’ll just finish them up.”

He leaves before the silence can stretch any further.

In the kitchen, he leans his palms against the counter and exhales. He does not let himself sulk for long. He never has. Kowloon taught him that dwelling is dangerous, that weakness invites ruin. He did not become what he is because of cruelty or darkness, but because he learned how to stand back up when everything worth loving was taken from him.

Still, this hurts in a way fists never did.

He had faced death without flinching. He had lost parents, mentors, an entire city that once called him its own. None of that prepared him for the quiet terror of wanting someone’s approval and feeling it slip through his fingers.

Maybe grapes will help. People like grapes. Grapes are safe.

He straightens, forces energy back into his movements, talks to himself as he works. “All right. Round two. Different texture. Different sweetness. We adapt.”

He straightens immediately, clapping his hands together as if morale itself might be summoned by noise alone.

He returns carrying the plate, already rehearsing a joke he hopes might make you smile.

And then he hears it.

Your laughter.

It stops him cold.

Apostle Simon is mid-joke, grinning shamelessly. “So I told him, if you’re going to lose an arm, at least make sure it’s not the one you use to clap.”

It is objectively awful.

You laugh anyway. Openly. Brightly. The sound lifts something in the room that Thaddeus did not realize had been missing.

Something inside him caves in.

He stands there too long, watching. His chest tightens, his thoughts turning sharp and ugly before he can stop them.

So that’s it. That’s what it takes.

Older. One-armed. Rough around the edges in a way that does not try so hard.

It hurts to think of you this way. He hates himself for it.

‘So… she just hates me,’ he thinks, quietly, unfairly, because it hurts less to assume rejection than to hope for something else.

He steps forward anyway. He always does.

“Hey,” he says, cheerful by sheer force of will. “I made more tanghulu. You can have some too, Apostle Simon.”

Simon beams. “Don’t mind if I do, dear nephew.” He bites into a grape and promptly forgets the rest of the world.

Thaddeus notices what Simon does not.

Your smile fades the second you see him. Your shoulders pull in. Your eyes drop, as if you have been caught doing something wrong.

Oh.

Understanding flickers, then dims under self doubt.

Right. Let me down easy, will you?

He laughs quietly to himself, the sound hollow. He does not need devotion. He does not even need requited romance. He would settle for a glance that lingers, for conversation that does not feel like an obligation for once.

Just… let me exist to you.

He does not see Simon pull out the bottle.

“Clearance,” Simon announces proudly. “Do not tell Peter.”

Drinking happens faster than Thaddeus expects.

He handles it fine. He always does.

You do not.

Your words soften, then tangle. At some point you drift closer to him, staring far too intently at his face like you are trying to solve a puzzle.

“It’s unfair,” you mutter.

“Uh,” he says carefully. “What is?”

Before he can react, you lean in and bite his cheek.

Not hard. Confused. Almost fond.

“Ow,” he says, more startled than hurt.

You pull back, mortified. “You look like a cute chipmunk when you eat,” you mumble. “I hate it.”

He blinks.

“Hate… it?”

Your face heats instantly. You turn away, voice small now. “Because if you knew I thought that, you’d never shut up about it.”

Something in him stills.

All the distance. The flat replies. The way you never quite met his eyes.

You were not indifferent.

You were hiding.

The realization hits harder than any blow he has ever taken. Warmth spreads through his chest, fragile and terrifying. He laughs, soft and breathless, like someone who has just realized he might not be alone after all.

It comes again, shorter this time. Intentional.

Jaeha exhales slowly through his nose.

A third poke lands, unmistakable now. Blunt. Almost playful.

He stiffens, counts to three, then turns sharply, irritation already rising.

Uijin stands directly behind him, eyes wide, frozen like he’s been caught mid-crime.

“I didn’t—” Uijin starts, then falters.

A finger taps Uijin’s shoulder.

Sigyeong stands beside him, expression carefully neutral, hand still half-raised. Uijin immediately points.

For a moment, no one speaks.

Sigyeong’s lips twitch.

The camera flashes.

Jaeha turns forward again, jaw tight, forcing his expression into something that could pass for a smile.

Maybe he shouldn’t have let it go.

Ever since they fought and all pretenses were stripped away, Sigyeong has been like this. Comfortable. Unfiltered. Somehow even more irritating than when he was secretive and backstabbing.

Though Jaeha definitely prefers this version.

That does not make it any less aggravating.

In the cafeteria, Sigyeong drags a chair over without asking and drops into it backward, arms hooked over the backrest. He nudges his tray closer with his foot and squints at Jaeha’s food.

“East Gangbuk fed us better,” he says lightly. “But this isn’t bad. You lobby for this?”

Jaeha huffs a quiet laugh before he can stop himself. He had, actually. Years of running bars and leading men had taught him that full stomachs made loyal ones.

West Gangbuk High serves ordinary cafeteria food now. Sitting there in uniform, eating beside someone his own age, Jaeha feels it for the first time. His age. The strangeness of it. They sit shoulder to shoulder like friends, like they had not been one blow away from putting each other into a coma not long ago.

Still, Jaeha holds no resentment. Once revenge is taken, he is satisfied.

This version of Sigyeong, however, is unfamiliar. Less guarded. Less sharp-edged. It is strange, having to learn someone again. They had never been especially close before the betrayal, but this feels different regardless. Like entering a room he’s walked through a hundred times, only to find the furniture rearranged just enough to catch him off guard.

Sigyeong does not wait for permission. Between classes, he falls into step beside Jaeha, matching his pace without thinking about it. He steals fries from Jaeha’s tray and offers half his drink in return. After school, he leans over Jaeha’s shoulder, phone already open.

“There’s an arcade by the station,” he says. “We should go. I’m bad at fighting games, so you’ll win.”

He says it like the answer is obvious.

No one stops Sigyeong as he moves through West Gangbuk. No one questions his place at Jaeha’s side. He laughs too loudly, stretches out where he shouldn’t, treats the place like it has always belonged to him.

Jaeha tells himself it is annoying. The closeness. The noise. The certainty.

But irritation does not usually make him linger.

And it certainly does not make him follow.

Jaeha does both without thinking.

_____________________________________________________________

Part 1:

“I wasn’t expecting a visitor so late,” Yujae says, smiling—slow, ominous.

“And yet you left an obvious weak spot in your stronghold,” Jaegyeon replies. “You know why I’m here.”

Yujae doesn’t argue.

Jaegyeon's mind raced with a whirlwind of conflicting emotions as he emerged from the shadows, water dripping down his muscular frame. The anger was palpable, burning in his chest like a raging inferno that threatened to consume him whole. How could Yujae have been so careless, so reckless? Leaving an opening like that, it was like he was begging for an attack. And yet, beneath the fury simmering in his veins, there was a desperate ache, a yearning to understand the enigma that was Yujae Seon.

But the ever-tight-lipped Yujae would give nothing away. Not then, not now, and possibly not ever.

"So, you've come to challenge me then?" Yujae asked, his voice dripping with false innocence. It made Jaegyeon's blood boil, the way he could stand there and act as if nothing was wrong, as if he hadn't torn their world apart.

Jaegyeon paused, realizing the tension in the air had shifted. The anger was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but there was something else now too. A different kind of heat, a different kind of tension. He could see it in Yujae's eyes, the way they flicked over his body, lingering on the water droplets that clung to his skin. He could feel it in the way the air seemed to crackle with an electric charge, the space between them shrinking with each passing second.

"You're not here to fight me," Yujae said, his voice dropping an octave, the mocking tone replaced with something else entirely. Something darker, something more primal. "Are you, Jaegyeon?"

He took a step closer, then another, until he was standing right in front of Jaegyeon. Close enough that Jaegyeon could feel the heat radiating off his skin, could smell the scent of his luxury soap mingling with the damp air. Close enough that he could see the gentle creases in Yujae’s closed eyes, the way they seemed to flex and twitch under Jaegyeon’s scrutinizing gaze.

Jaegyeon's heart raced in his chest, a staccato rhythm that had nothing to do with the exertion of his climb and everything to do with the man standing before him. He knew he should step back, should put some distance between them, but he found himself rooted to the spot. His body betraying him, just like it always did when Yujae was near.

They had never been brothers. Not really.

Speed liked to pretend it was a family, all of them packed together under borrowed roofs and borrowed jackets, but Yujae had always stood apart. Even as a kid, he kept distance like a habit; arms folded, eyes sharp, never fully leaning in. Where others bled loyalty, Yujae rationed it. Where Jaegyeon burned, Yujae watched.

Their rivalry had grown in that space. Fed by glances held too long. By contests that meant more than winning. By the quiet understanding that whatever this was between them, it was never going to be soft.

Jaegyeon had tried, once, to understand him. He’d failed then. He was failing now.

Yujae’s gaze didn’t waver. “You’re shaking,” he murmured, almost curious.

“I’m soaked,” Jaegyeon snapped.

A corner of Yujae’s mouth tilted. “Same difference.”

The words hung between them, heavy. The city outside the fortress roared faintly. Engines, voices, life going on without them. Incheon, split clean down the middle, still breathing.

Jaegyeon exhaled through his nose. “You always did this,” he said. “Turn everything sideways. Make it mean something else.”

“And you always needed things to make sense,” Yujae replied. “That’s why you lead Speed. That’s why you hate me.”

Jaegyeon laughed once, sharp and humorless. “You think this is hate?”

Yujae stepped closer. Too close. Close enough that the line between threat and invitation dissolved entirely. “I think,” he said quietly, “if you understood me, even a little, you wouldn’t be standing here.”

Jaegyeon swallowed. He didn’t move away.

Maybe that was the truth of it. Not then. Not now. Not ever. Understanding had never been in reach. All they’d ever had was friction—heat born from refusal, from everything left unsaid.

Yujae’s hand brushed his wrist. Barely there. A question, not a claim.

Jaegyeon didn’t answer with words.

Outside, Incheon stayed divided. Inside the fortress, the distance between them finally vanished, not because they had found common ground, but because some wars didn’t need understanding to keep going.

Jaegyeon's heart pounded in his chest as he stared into Yujae's intense gaze, the air between them crackling with a different kind of tension. He knew he should break eye contact, should look away, but he found himself mesmerized by the swirling abyss of Yujae's eyes. The anger that had brought him here began to morph into something else, something darker and more primal. A hunger, a desire that had been building for months, ever since Yujae had taken control and seized power.

Unable to resist any longer, Jaegyeon acted on instinct. He reached out, his calloused hand cupping the back of Yujae's neck, fingers tangling in the strands of his hair and effectively undoing his ponytail. He pulled him closer, until their faces were a mere inch apart, their breath mingling in the scant space between them. Yujae's eyes widened slightly in surprise, but he didn't pull away. If anything, he leaned in, his own hand coming up to grip Jaegyeon's hip, his fingers digging into the flesh there with a possessive squeeze.

"You're playing a dangerous game, Jaegyeon," Yujae murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down Jaegyeon's spine. Majorly disingenuous of Yujae. They’ve been doing this for months. 

"Shut up," Jaegyeon growled, his patience wearing thin. He was done playing games, done dancing around the elephant in the room. He needed this, needed Yujae, in a way that bordered on desperation. "I'm not playing, Yujae. I'm done playing."

With that, he closed the distance between them, his lips crashing against Yujae's in a bruising kiss. It was a clash of teeth and tongue, a battle for dominance that Jaegyeon was determined to win. He nipped at Yujae's bottom lip, demanding entrance, his other hand sliding down to grip Yujae's ass and pull him flush against him.

Yujae let out a soft grunt, caught off guard by the sudden show of aggression. But he quickly recovered, his own tongue delving into Jaegyeon's mouth, tangling with his in a filthy dance.  He tasted of whiskey and something worse, something indulgent and earned, and it sent Jaegyeon’s head spinning. So this is what you threw us away for? Expensive liquor. Rare seafood. A different kind of excess.

Jaegyeon's hands shook with a need he could no longer deny as he fumbled with the button of Yujae's pants, his fingers clumsy in their desperation. He could feel Yujae's eyes on him, watching him with that infuriating smirk, that unshakable air of control. It only fueled the fire raging inside him, the all-consuming hunger that demanded to be fed.

With a growl of frustration, Jaegyeon finally got the button open and yanked down the zipper, not bothering with finesse. He slipped his hand inside, his fingers wrapping around Yujae's hard length, feeling it throb against his palm. Yujae let out a soft hiss, his hips jerking forward slightly, seeking more of that touch. But his expression remained largely unchanged, that damnable smile still playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Like what you feel?" Yujae asked, his voice a low purr. He didn't sound winded or affected. No, he sounded amused, entertained by Jaegyeon's desperation. It made Jaegyeon want to scream, to roar with the frustration of it all.

Instead, he tightened his grip, stroking Yujae's cock with a rough, demanding rhythm. He pumped him hard and fast, his thumb swiping over the leaking tip, smearing the bead of precum that had gathered there. Yujae's breath hitched, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure, his smirk only growing wider.

Jaegyeon's other hand slid around to grip Yujae's ass, squeezing the firm globe, pulling him harder against him. He wanted to devour him, to consume him whole, to make him break apart in his arms. He wanted to shatter that infuriating control, to see him come undone.

Yujae just laughed, low and dark, a sound that vibrated through his chest and into Jaegyeon's. "You really shouldn’t be doing this," he warned, even as he rolled his hips forward, fucking himself on Jaegyeon's fist.

Jaegyeon glared up at Yujae, his eyes blazing with a feral intensity as he roughly tugged his pants and underwear down, leaving them pooled around his ankles. He wanted to see him bare, wanted to strip away every layer of armor until there was nothing left to hide behind. Yujae let him, stepping out of the discarded clothing with a casual grace that belied the charged atmosphere.

For a moment, Jaegyeon simply drank in the sight of him, his gaze raking over every inch of exposed skin. Yujae stood tall and unapologetic, his lean, muscular frame on full display—and yet there were no scars, no tattoos. No history carved into his flesh. As if nothing had ever touched him. As if it had all meant nothing. Speed was nothing. Yugang was nothing. Jaegyeon was nothing. 

His cock jutted out from a nest of dark curls, hard and thick, the skin flushed a deep, enticing red. It twitched under Jaegyeon's scrutiny, as if begging for his touch.

But it was Yujae's eyes that held Jaegyeon captive, that drew him in and refused to let him look away. There was a glimmer of something in their depths, a flicker of vulnerability that Jaegyeon had never seen before. It was gone as quickly as it had appeared, but it was enough to make Jaegyeon's heart race, to make his mouth go dry.

"Keep staring, and even someone like me would get self-conscious," Yujae muttered, his voice a low rumble. There was no mockery in his tone, no amusement. Instead, there was a hint of something else, something softer, almost tender. It made Jaegyeon's blood sing in his veins, made him want to reach out and touch, to caress, to claim. Let me in.

But he didn't. Instead, he surged to his feet, his own clothes joining the pile on the floor in record time. He wanted to feel skin on skin, wanted to feel every inch of Yujae pressed against him, wanted to erase the last of the distance between them.

Yujae watched him, his gaze heavy-lidded, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. He was naked, vulnerable in a way Jaegyeon had never seen before. It was a rare sight, a precious glimpse behind the mask he wore like a second skin. And it made Jaegyeon feel powerful, made him feel like he had finally found something he could take as his own, Incheon be damned.

Jaegyeon's hands gripped Yujae's shoulders, pushing him backwards until his back hit the wall, forcing him to slide down and sit, looking up at Jaegyeon. Yujae let out a soft grunt, surprise flashing across his face before it melted into a smirk. Jaegyeon didn't give him a chance to regain his composure, straddling his hips and grinding down against him, feeling that hard length slide between his cheeks.

"Careful now," Yujae warned, though insincere. His hands gripped Jaegyeon's hips, fingers digging into the flesh there, pulling him harder against him. "You think you can handle it?"

"I'm not afraid of you," Jaegyeon growled, his own hands sliding up Yujae's chest, feeling the hard planes and ridges of muscle beneath his fingertips. He leaned down, his teeth finding the juncture of Yujae's neck and shoulder, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark.

Yujae hissed, his head falling back against the wall, his grip on Jaegyeon's hips tightening. "You should be," he breathed, but there was no real threat in his words. If anything, he sounded almost... approving.

Jaegyeon lets out a pleased sound, his tongue laving over the reddening skin, tasting the salt of Yujae's sweat. He rolled his hips, grinding down harder, feeling Yujae's cock throb against him, leaking against his hole. He was so hard, so ready, and it made Jaegyeon feel powerful, knowing he could affect him this way. If not any other way.

He reached between them, gripping Yujae's length, lining it up with his entrance. He looked into Yujae's eyes, seeing the hunger there, the desire that matched his own. And then, with a swift downward thrust, he sank down onto him, taking him inside, feeling that thick cock split him open, stretching him wide.

"Fuck," Yujae groaned, his head falling forward, his forehead resting against Jaegyeon's shoulder. His hands slid up Jaegyeon's back, his nails raking down the skin, leaving red lines in their wake. "You're so fucking tight."

Jaegyeon just smirked, starting to move, rolling his hips in a slow, sensual rhythm. He rode him hard and fast, his body clenching around Yujae's.

Jaegyeon's hips snapped upward, then drove himself down onto Yujae's thick length with a force that bordered on punishing. The obscene sound of skin slapping against skin echoed through the room, mingling with their ragged breaths and guttural moans. Sweat slicked their bodies, making them glisten in the dim light, their chests heaving as they moved together in a primal dance of give and take.

Lost in the throes of passion, Jaegyeon's eyes fluttered closed, his head thrown back in ecstasy. But some instinct, some deep knowing, urged him to open them, to look at the man beneath him, the man inside him. And when he did, he stilled, his breath catching in his throat at the sight before him.

Yujae's eyes were closed, his brows furrowed in a way Jaegyeon had never seen before. It was a frown, but not quite. It was heavier, more profound, a weight that seemed to settle in the depths of his eyes. His full lips were parted, a soft gasp escaping them as Jaegyeon rolled his hips, grinding down hard against him.

But it was the guilt that caught Jaegyeon off guard. The way it mingled with the arousal, the pleasure, creating a complex cocktail of emotions that played out across Yujae's face. It was a rare glimpse behind the mask, a fracture in the armor he wore like a second skin.

Yujae's hands, those strong, capable hands, gripped Jaegyeon's hips with a desperate intensity, his fingers sinking into the flesh hard enough to bruise. He was holding onto him, anchoring himself, even as he seemed to be drowning in a sea of sensation. His hips jerked up, meeting Jaegyeon's downward thrusts, driving himself deeper, harder, as if he were chasing something, pursuing a ghost that only he could see.

"Yujae," Jaegyeon breathed, his voice rough with emotion. He leaned down, his lips brushing against Yujae's ear, his breath hot against his skin. "What are you thinking about?"

Yujae's eyes flashed open, his gaze locking with Jaegyeon's. There was a moment of vulnerability there, a raw, unguarded look that made Jaegyeon's heart clench. Then it was gone, replaced by a fierce intensity, a challenge thrown down between them. "Does it matter?" Yujae countered, his voice a low rasp. "This isn't about thinking. It's about feeling."

He surged up, rolling them over so that Jaegyeon was beneath him, pinned to the floor by his weight. His hips never stopped moving, pounding into Jaegyeon with a relentless rhythm, each thrust driving the air from his lungs and stoking the fire in his blood.

Yujae's hand slid between their sweat-slicked bodies, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of Jaegyeon's thighs. He circled it, rubbed it, teased it until Jaegyeon was writhing beneath him, his back arching off the floor, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the cold stone.

Yujae gripped Jaegyeon's throbbing length, stroking it in time with his powerful thrusts. His calloused palm slid up and down the hard shaft, squeezing and releasing, his thumb swiping over the weeping tip. Jaegyeon gasped, his head thrashing from side to side, overwhelmed by the dual stimulation of Yujae's cock pounding into him and his hand working his own. 

Yujae's hips snapped forward, driving into Jaegyeon with a force that bordered on savage. He could feel his own release building, his balls drawing up tight, but he gritted his teeth, holding back, determined to make Jaegyeon come first. He wanted to feel him lose control, to watch him shatter, to claim that victory for himself.

Jaegyeon's cries grew louder, more desperate, as Yujae worked him mercilessly. His hand flew over his cock, stroking, squeezing, twisting, pushing him closer and closer to the edge. Jaegyeon's body was on fire, every nerve ending alight with pleasure, every muscle pulled taut as a bowstring ready to snap.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Jaegyeon chanted, his voice breaking on each word. His hips jerked and bucked, trying to meet Yujae's thrusts, to drive himself down onto that thick cock splitting him open. He could feel it coming, that coil of heat in his gut winding tighter and tighter, ready to explode.

With a final, brutal thrust and a twist of his wrist, Yujae sent Jaegyeon hurtling over the edge. Jaegyeon screamed, his back arching clean off the floor, his cock pulsing and jerking in Yujae's grip as he came harder than he ever had in his life. Thick ropes of cum painted his chest and stomach, his body shaking with the force of his release.

Yujae groaned, feeling Jaegyeon's walls clamp down around him like a vice as he came undone. The sensation was exquisite, the way Jaegyeon's body gripped him, trying to pull him deeper, to milk him for all he was worth. But Yujae grit his teeth, his muscles straining with the effort of holding back his own release.

At the last possible second, he wrenched himself away, his cock slipping out of Jaegyeon's fluttering hole with a wet sound. He rolled onto his back, his chest heaving, his length throbbing and leaking, painfully hard and aching for release.

Jaegyeon lay there for a moment, dazed and trembling in the aftermath of his intense orgasm. He could feel the guilt rising up inside him, the shame of his own weakness, his inability to hold back. He had let himself go, had lost himself in the pleasure, in Yujae. And now, as the fog of lust began to lift, he felt the familiar weight of self-loathing settle over him.

But then he saw the look on Yujae's face. The same heavy frown, the same haunted eyes, the same guilt that he had seen before. It was a mirror image of his own feelings, reflected back at him in the lines of Yujae's face. And suddenly, the guilt turned to anger.

"Why did you pull out?" Jaegyeon snapped, his voice rough and accusing. He sat up, his naked body glistening with sweat and other fluids, his eyes flashing with a new kind of heat.

Yujae began to sit up, reaching for his shirt on the floor. He moved silently, not wanting to engage in the confrontation brewing. He had pushed Jaegyeon too far, had seen the anger kindling in his eyes, the frustration and confusion. He knew this dance all too well, knew the steps of the fight that was to come. But he was tired of the same old song and dance.

As Yujae slipped his shirt over his head, Jaegyeon lunged forward, shoving him back down onto the floor. The shirt fell forgotten from his hands as he landed on his back, his eyes widening in surprise at the sudden show of aggression.

Jaegyeon loomed over him, his face contorted with anger, his chest heaving with each ragged breath. "Don't you dare walk away from me," he snarled, his voice low and dangerous. "Not now. Not after... this."

He gestured vaguely to their naked, sweat-slicked bodies, to the mess between his legs, the proof of his release still painting his skin. His eyes flashed with a wild, desperate light as he pinned Yujae with a fierce glare.

"Talk to me," Jaegyeon demanded, his voice cracking with emotion. "Say something, damn it! I'm sick of your distance, your silence. I'm sick of you shutting me out, shutting everything out."

Yujae's expression softened for a moment, a flicker of something like regret or sorrow in his eyes. But it was gone as quickly as it had come, replaced by a hard, unyielding mask. He sat up slowly, not making any sudden moves, not wanting to provoke Jaegyeon further.

"I'm not going to apologize for this," Yujae said matter-of-factly. "I'm not going to make excuses or pretty words to make you feel better. This is who we are, Jaegyeon. This is what we do. "

Jaegyeon's anger boiled over, Yujae's stubborn silence fanning the flames of his rage. Without a word, he pounced, pushing Yujae back down onto the floor and straddling his hips. Yujae's eyes widened in surprise, but he didn't resist as Jaegyeon grabbed his wrists and pinned them above his head, holding them down with a bruising grip.

Jaegyeon's eyes blazed into Yujae's, his chest heaving with each ragged breath. He could feel the heat of Yujae's body beneath him, the hard planes and ridges of muscle that he had explored so intimately just moments before. But now, that heat only fueled his anger, that intimacy only making him feel more desperate, more out of control.

With his free hand, Jaegyeon reached between their bodies, gripping Yujae's hard length. It throbbed in his hand, hot and heavy, a testament to the desire that Yujae refused to acknowledge. Jaegyeon stroked him roughly, feeling the way it jumped and twitched at his touch, betraying the lust that Yujae tried so hard to hide.

Yujae's breath hitched, his hips jerking up into Jaegyeon's touch, seeking more of that delicious friction. But he remained silent, his jaw clenched tight, his eyes locked with Jaegyeon's in a battle of wills. He wouldn't give in, wouldn't give Jaegyeon the satisfaction of hearing him beg. And yet…

Jaegyeon's grip tightened, his strokes becoming more demanding, more punishing. He could feel the anger surging through his veins, the frustration and the hurt, all of it pouring out in the way he touched Yujae. He wanted to make him feel it, wanted to force him to acknowledge the connection between them, the undeniable chemistry that crackled in the air.

He could feel Yujae's body tensing beneath him, could see the strain in his face as he fought to hold back his own release. But Jaegyeon was relentless, his hand moving faster, squeezing harder, determined to push Yujae to the brink.

As Yujae's body began to shudder, his cock pulsing hard in Jaegyeon's grip, Jaegyeon knew he had him on the edge. With a final, brutal stroke, he released Yujae's length and positioned himself at his entrance. Yujae's chest was pressed to the floor, his ass up and presented, a silent offering despite his stubborn silence.

Jaegyeon lined himself up, the tip of his cock kissing Yujae's hole, feeling the heat radiating from within. He could see Yujae's body tensing, his muscles clenching in anticipation. Without warning, Jaegyeon thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt in one hard, deep stroke.

Yujae let out a choked moan, his back arching, his fingers curling into fists above his head. The sudden intrusion, the intense fullness, pushed him over the edge. His cock jerked and twitched, thick ropes of cum painting the floor beneath him as he came with a shuddering gasp.

Jaegyeon didn't stop, didn't slow down. He set a brutal pace, pounding into Yujae's spasming hole, chasing his own release. The obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with their ragged breaths and guttural moans.

"Fuck, Jaegyeon," Yujae gritted out, his voice a low, strained rasp. It was the first thing he had said since Jaegyeon had pinned him down, the first acknowledgment of the pleasure that consumed them both. "Harder," he demanded, his own anger and frustration bleeding into his tone. "Fuck me harder."

Jaegyeon complied, gripping Yujae's hips with bruising force as he slammed into him, each thrust shaking the floor beneath them. He could feel Yujae's walls fluttering around him, still sensitive from his intense orgasm, but he didn't let up. He fucked him through it, pushing Yujae to take every inch of his hard, throbbing length.

"Is this what you want?" Jaegyeon snarled, his voice rough with exertion and emotion. "Is this what you needed, you stubborn bastard?" He punctuated each word with a sharp, deep thrust, grinding his hips against Yujae's ass, pushing himself as deep as he could go

Yujae's eyes fluttered closed, accepting the punishment Jaegyeon dealt out, welcoming the pain that radiated through his body with each brutal thrust. He deserved this, deserved to feel the anger and frustration pouring out of Jaegyeon, deserved to be used as a vessel for his rage.

This was his penance, his penance for all the times he had shut Jaegyeon out, for all the silences and the walls he had erected between them. He had hurt him, had pushed him away, and this was the price he had to pay.

Yujae's mind raced with thoughts of all the things he had done wrong, all the chances he had missed to connect with Jaegyeon, to show him the depth of his feelings. He was a fool, a stubborn, prideful fool who thought he could keep his distance, who thought he could compartmentalize his life into neat, tidy boxes.

For a fleeting moment, Yujae let himself wonder if things might have been different, if, as a kid, he had tried harder, spoken more, stayed closer. If he had let Jaegyeon in instead of keeping him at arm’s length, maybe he would not be here now, paying for choices made long ago.

But the thought did not last.

Because Yujae knew the truth. If he and Jaegyeon had been closer, if they had truly been brothers, then Yugang’s death would not have just fractured Speed. It would have destroyed them both. The fallout would have been louder, bloodier, impossible to contain. Distance had not been cowardice. It had been damage control.

So Yujae let the regret go. Some losses were survivable only because of the space left between them.

But this, this brutal fucking, was a reminder of the consequences of his actions. It was a reminder that his silence, his distance, his refusal to engage, had led them to this moment. And in a strange way, it was a relief, a release, to finally feel the weight of Jaegyeon's anger, to finally face the repercussions of his own mistakes.

Yujae's body was a canvas, and Jaegyeon's cock was the brush, painting stripes of pleasure and pain across his skin, branding him, claiming him. He could feel every inch of Jaegyeon inside him, could feel the way his body stretched and accommodated, taking everything he had to give.

It was a cruel, beautiful punishment, a twisted form of absolution. Yujae surrendered to it, surrendering to the pleasure and the pain, surrendering to Jaegyeon. He had brought this upon himself, had earned this treatment with his thoughtless, careless actions.

As Jaegyeon's thrusts grew more erratic, his grip on Yujae's hips tightening, Yujae knew he was close. He could feel the heat building in his core, the pressure that could only be relieved one way. He braced himself, steeling himself for the inevitable, welcoming it like a long-lost friend.

Jaegyeon and Speed on one side. Yujae and the Black Faction on the other.

Incheon still loves Speed. Yugang is still dead. Yujae is still the architect of the explosion.

Nothing has changed.

The city does not soften. The lines remain drawn, clean and merciless, carved into concrete and blood. Whatever passed between them in the dark does not rewrite history, does not absolve, does not heal. It only exists in the narrow space facts refuse to occupy.

These are the facts of life in the torrid city of Incheon: fixed, constant, unyielding.