somebody feed me corns

Someone who only loves out of guilt.

Growing up, there was never a stable place for affection to land. No safety net. No room to be careless.

When their parents checked out—emotionally first, then entirely—love stopped being a feeling and became a role Hajun had to step into. He didn’t get to ask whether he was ready. He just became the one who stayed standing.

His brothers—the little ones left behind—are proof of that. He loves them, genuinely. He works himself raw for them. Breaks knuckles, bleeds, does things he knows are wrong because the money still spends the same. He becomes the breadwinner by default, the shield, the replacement parent. And no one questions it, because someone has to do it.

But the truth he never says out loud is this: his love for them is inseparable from guilt.

Guilt for being older. Guilt for surviving better. Guilt for having a body strong enough to trade for cash when they don’t.

Would he still love them the same way if he weren’t their protector? If he weren’t needed?

And then there’s you.

You notice the pattern long before he does.

How he equates care with sacrifice. How every kind thing he does for you comes with exhaustion behind it. How he gives until he’s hollow and calls it devotion. How he looks most at ease when he’s working for someone.

Hajun loves you—but not lightly. Not freely. He loves you the way he learned to love everything else: by paying for it with his body, his time, his safety. He fights harder, works longer, pushes himself further than necessary, as if being with you requires proof. As if affection alone isn’t enough to justify staying.

Sometimes it feels like his love comes from guilt, too.

Guilt that you chose him. Guilt that he can’t give you softness without seeing his roughness. Guilt that his life is pathetic and pulls you into the mess by association.

So he compensates the only way he knows how—by providing, by enduring, by making himself indispensable. He doesn’t say, I love you because I want to. He says it with bruises, with overtime, with silence swallowed whole so you don’t have to carry it.

And that’s what hurts the most.

Because love that’s rooted in guilt doesn’t know how to rest—it doesn’t know how to just be.

You start to wonder—quietly, guiltily yourself—if he would still choose you if he didn’t feel responsible for you. If he didn’t think loving you meant protecting you at the cost of himself. If he didn’t believe that without sacrifice, affection doesn’t count.

Hajun doesn’t love wrong. He loves the only way he was taught.

But love that begins as obligation can slowly turn into a cage—for both the one who gives it, and the one who receives it.

And the cruel irony is this: he deserves a love that isn’t a debt.

Wooin’s place was never meant to be decorated.

Not when he barely stayed long enough to justify it—the kitchen cupboards perpetually empty, meals outsourced to takeout containers and delivery bags. The couch was the largest piece of furniture he owned, rivaled only by his bed, because all he ever needed was somewhere to sit, somewhere to lie down, somewhere to exist between leaving and coming back again.

It was a house—four walls, a lock, a place to crash.

Never a home.

“Hey! Don’t just stand there holding the balls like a weirdo!”

He snorted—well, never a home until now, anyway.

“Come here, put it on top! I can’t reach it!”

Because somehow, his once-empty place had you in it.

You who stood in the middle of his living room on your tiptoes, arms stretched, trying to hook another Christmas ornament onto the ridiculous seven-foot tree you’d made him buy while you were out on what was supposed to be a simple date. Simple. Right. Your idea of simple apparently involved tinsel, warm lights, and turning his carefully neutral space into something… lived-in.

He should’ve said no.

He usually did.

But then you looked at him—eyes bright and unguarded, sparkling like you’d just spotted Santa in real life, like this empty space already meant something. Like it was already warm. Like it was already worth believing in.

And that was his first mistake.

So he sighed and gave in, dragging his socked feet across the floor with practiced laziness, like this didn’t matter—like he wasn’t already caving.

He stopped just behind you, reached out, and covered your hand with his—steadying your fingers and the ornament. He ignored the strange warmth curling low in his gut, the way his chest felt a little too tight over something so stupid, so insignificant, as he helped you hang that single ornament onto the tree.

“Getting real worked up over this thing,” he snorted, breath close, easy tease slipping into place like armor. “You dating the tree—or me?”

You glanced up at him, brows knitting into that playful little frown, nose scrunching right as your head bumped lightly under his jaw—and that was it.

He was fucked.

Fucked because that was the most adorable thing he’d ever seen.

Fucked because it wasn’t the tree doing this to him—making his stomach churn warm and stupid and unfamiliar.

It was just you.

“I’m gonna drown this place in Christmas,” you huffed, leaning back against his chest like he wasn’t the same guy who used to lounge around clubs until sunrise, dodging attachments and collecting names he never bothered to remember. “I’ll turn that Joker of yours into Santa Claus when I see him ’round here!”

You trusted him like that.

His arms wrapped around you without him even thinking about it, muscle memory kicking in before his brain could catch up. He let you settle against his chest, stupid matching hoodie and all—the one you’d insisted on because it’s cute—knowing damn well he would’ve called all of this pathetic just a few months ago. Swore off relationships. Promised himself he’d never get soft.

And yet.

Right now, standing in his living room with a Christmas tree and you tucked against him, he was pretty sure he was the stupid one.

You tilted your head up once more to raise a brow at him; looking at him like that—expectant, unguarded—and he scoffed quietly, like he wasn’t already done for.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, cocky even as his hand slid up your waist. “You know I cave.”

He dipped his head just enough to press a kiss to your forehead—quick, almost casual. Then another to the bridge of your nose, lingering a second longer, like he was testing how far he’d let himself go.

When he finally kissed your lips, it was slow and deliberate, smug in that familiar way of his—like he knew exactly what he was doing to you, like this was still his game even if he was losing it.

Pulling back just slightly, his forehead resting against yours, he breathed out a quiet laugh.

“Bold of you,” he murmured, voice lower now, softer despite himself, “to assume I’d ever say no to you.”

He’d never decorated his place before—but fuck, if this was how it started, he wasn’t stopping now.

Holidays were just another day to him.

The same hours, the same routines—only louder. More discount signs screaming from storefronts, more red and green lights strung across the city like it was all one massive stoplight, pretending to slow him down while he kept cycling from one place to the next anyway.

The only real difference in Hyuk’s life during the holiday season was the clutter. More flyers shoved into his hands as he walked down the street. And sometimes—once every few months—his “dad” would send a half-hearted greeting, followed by a casual check-in to see whether Hyuk needed bailing out again.

Other than that, he spent his holidays the same way he spent everything else: asleep at home, or hanging around Sabbath, knocking punks off their bicycles.

Both were equally entertaining.

He barely cared either way.

“Hey—my mom said we can get any topping we want." you huffed, tugging at his sleeve. "Come on, I need more mini marshmallows!”

So why the hell was he standing there in something that definitely wasn’t his usual dark, oversized jacket—clad instead in a matching pajama set with you and your family?

Why was he being dragged across the length of your family’s living room and into the dining area, oversized Christmas mugs warming his hands as he sipped hot chocolate like this was normal—like he’d been doing this for years, like he belonged here?

Like he hadn’t spent every other holiday treating the day as something to sleep through or scrape his knee out on asphalt.

Hyuk glanced down at the ridiculous print on his sleeves, then at you, laughing over something your mom said, already reaching for another handful of marshmallows.

When the fuck did this happen?

“Hey!”

He blinked out of it, eyes dropping to where you stood beside him, already scooping another spoonful of colorful marshmallows into your mug. There was a crease between your brows—a worried frown that didn’t belong on a face usually so bright.

Great—he was killing the mood.

“You okay?” you asked, softer now, cautious. Your hand pressed to his forehead, and he leaned down on instinct, making it easier for you to reach him without even thinking about it.

“…I’m the only stranger here, y’know,” he snorted, like turning it into a joke might shove the doubt back where it came from. Like it’d stop that tight feeling in his chest from spreading. “Didn’t even get to prep a gift,” he added, quieter.

The words sat there between them—too honest, too close—wrapped up in a laugh that didn’t quite land.

That quiet laugh didn’t last though.

“Ow—”

He hissed when you flicked his forehead, reflexively wincing as he squinted at you through already hooded eyes.

Yeah.

That look.

He knew it well—the little crease between your brows, the disapproving frown you wore every time he did something stupid and tried to brush it off like it didn’t matter.

You probably thought he was being stupid now, too.

“My mom invited you,” you huffed, clearly unimpressed. “Why would she invite a stranger? You’re my boyfriend. You’re mine. You’re family—stupid.”

He blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Family.

The word didn’t hit him like a punch—more like warmth spreading somewhere it wasn’t supposed to reach. Subtle. Uncomfortable. He scoffed lightly, rubbing the spot on his forehead like that was the real issue.

“Real convincing argument,” he muttered, deadpan. “You flick everyone in your family like that?”

But his gaze drifted anyway—to your mom bustling around the kitchen, humming under her breath. To the way your dad was pretending not to watch the two of you while very obviously watching. To the cluttered warmth of the house: mismatched décor, half-melted marshmallows and chcolate chips stuck to the counter, laughter bleeding in from the other room.

None of it felt forced.

None of it felt temporary.

He took another sip of the hot chocolate, heat seeping through the mug and into his palms, grounding him. Funny. He’d spent years thinking holidays were just louder days—more lights, more noise, more excuses to ignore the calendar.

But this?

This was… different.

Warmer than he expected. Quieter in a way he was used to.

He exhaled through his nose, eyes drifting back to you, his tone still flat like always. “You’re real confident for someone who just assaulted me.”

But instead of letting the thought linger, his gaze dropped—then steadied. Something quiet shifted.

“…Guess I should’ve brought a gift—but I just thought of a good one right now.”

The words barely finished leaving his mouth before he leaned in, fingers catching at your sleeve as he pressed a brief, unceremonious kiss to your lips. Warm. Soft. Unannounced. Like he hadn’t overthought it—like he didn’t want to.

There—problem solved.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, one brow lifting, mouth twitching. “That counts, yeah?” he muttered. “Pretty sure your dad’ll still stuff me in a Christmas sack for it, though.”

But even as he said it, there was no edge to his voice—no usual distance. Just him standing there in borrowed pajamas, hot chocolate cooling in his hands, surrounded by a family that hadn’t asked him to earn his place.

Not because he had to.

Not because he owed anyone anything.

Just because, somehow, he was already part of it.

Hajun had entered the palace as little more than a name scrawled in the narrow margins of a roster—ink so thin it might as well have been a passing mistake.

A newly appointed knight: competent, silent, dutiful.

He carried no illustrious lineage, no storied banner. He had been raised on the far rim of the kingdom, where fields bowed low beneath the winds and the clang of his father’s hammer was the only sound that dared echo across the plains. His birthright was the scent of iron and coal; his inheritance, a pair of calloused hands.

He expected to remain invisible—one more armored shadow among many.

But on the first morning he stood in attendance behind her throne, the world—his world— shifted, all because she turned toward him.

Not by accident, not through idle curiosity—but with the calm precision of someone who measured the weight of their every gesture. Her gaze landed on him like a ray of morning sun slipping through a shuttered room, revealing dust specks he did not know were there.

And then—she smiled.

The princess of the realm.

The king’s only heir.

A woman spoken of in hushed admiration throughout courts for her wisdom far beyond her years, for her restraint, her clarity, her unwavering composure.

Yet—

She smiled at him—a knight of no name—as though bestowing an honor.

It was not a soft, girlish thing—crafted, dignified, as though shaped by tutors and tempered by diplomacy. Yet it held warmth—subtle, intentional—offered like a quiet lantern in a dark hall.

“Sir Hajun,” she greeted, her voice steady as a drawn bowstring, refined as a courtly seal. “You stand with such clarity of presence—I am glad to have you among my ranks this time.”

Her words bore the weight of lineage—each syllable released with the poise of a woman raised not merely to rule, but to endure the storms that came with power. She spoke like one accustomed to kingdoms bending beneath her decisions.

Hajun bowed so swiftly he nearly disrupted the fall of his own cloak—his head bent lower than required, as though his body instinctively understood the gulf between them. Which is probably—definitely—the truth.

“My blade is yours to command, Your Highness.”

She inclined her head, her movements measured, but her eyes lingered—just a moment too long. Long enough to suggest she was reading something unspoken beneath the armor he wore like a second skin.

“Yes,” she murmured, her tone quieter, yet carrying the clarity of a bell. “I look forward to your time by my side, sire.”

And in that instant—between the echo of her words and the quiet thrum of his pulse—Hajun felt something shift.

Like a lock unlatched inside him.

A chamber of his heart that had long stayed sealed flickered open, betraying him with a warmth he had no armor prepared to withstand.

Princesses were meant to move like silk drawn across marble—untouched, untouchable, their lives a choreography scripted long before their birth.

Meanwhile Knights were meant to stand like stone—guarding, unseen, unfeeling, their hearts tempered into quiet obedience.

And yet fate, in its quiet, indifferent cruelty, allowed them slivers of proximity—fleeting, accidental, ruinous.

In the library’s narrow aisles, she would reach for a scroll at the same moment he shifted to allow her passage, her fingertips brushing the ridge of his knuckles. A touch so light it might have been an error—yet it lingered his memory like a pressed flower.

In the courtyard, she would descend from her carriage with no lady-in-waiting nearby, placing her hand—gloved or bare, it did not matter—into his. She stepped down with absolute trust, her weight a brief, silent confession that she relied on him more than protocol allowed.

In the council chamber, she would pass behind him, her robes trailing in her wake. The brush of silk against metal sounded like a whisper that had no business being heard—soft, deliberate, perilously human.

Each moment was small enough to be excused.

Small enough that she could maintain the illusion of perfect decorum.

Small enough that Hajun could convince himself he had imagined the warmth that lingered long after her hand slipped away.

But he noticed everything.

He learned the faint curve of her fingertips—calloused ever so slightly from years of steady quill work. He learned the coolness of her touch during winter nights spent reviewing decrees. He learned the way her movements held restraint, not fragility—grace shaped by responsibility rather than indulgence.

She touched him the way one might graze the cover of a sacred text—careful, reverent, restrained. Never enough to breach propriety, yet never so little that it went unfelt.

And Hajun, in turn, mastered the art of breathing without allowing hope into his lungs— for hope, he understood, was the most treacherous luxury a knight could possess.

Their unspoken rhythm—those quiet, forbidden moments of proximity—wove themselves into the fabric of their days. None were bold enough to be named, yet each one carved a place in the spaces between them.

She learned to notice his presence before she sees him; the soft metallic shift of his armor, the measured cadence of his breath as he stood guard. He learned her silences among the noise—the ones she wore like veils, heavy and thoughtful, often more revealing than speech.

What grew between them grew without acknowledgment.

Not in words.

Not in confession.

Simply in the way two lives—once parallel—began to lean.

And just as the current beneath a river moves unseen until it drags a branch beneath the surface, their bond shifted—quietly, irresistibly—toward something neither dared claim.

It was during this fragile, unspoken balance that the kingdom’s decree fell.

The day her betrothal was announced dawned cold and unsparing.

Frost clung to the palace stones like a warning, and the sun rose begrudgingly, thin and pale behind heavy clouds.

Inside the hall, courtiers assembled in waves—gold-threaded garments, trained smiles, voices in delicate diplomacy. They glittered like jeweled masks, polished for spectacle. Whispers of alliances, of strengthened borders, of shared future triumph floated like smoke above their bowed heads.

Hajun stood where he always did—behind her right shoulder, half a step back.

A sentinel. A shadow. A silent witness.

She stood immaculate—draped in layers of royal silk, spine regal, gaze distant in a way that made her seem carved from moonlight—here, yet untouchable. Her chin lifted not with pride, but with resignation tempered into grace.

When the king declared her engagement to the Prince of a neighbouring kingdom—an alliance meant to bind nations—cheers erupted like a storm breaking, jubilant and deafening.

But Hajun saw it.

The one thing no other soul noticed.

A tremor. Thin as a thread. Barely a quiver in the fingers resting against her gown.

That was all—the lone fracture in her flawless composure.

She did not turn.

She did not seek him—not when to look his way now would have been to betray every vow she had ever upheld for the sake of her people and the title she was bestowed.

He remained stone.

But inside him, something ancient and wordless cracked.

When the hall finally emptied—courtiers drifting out in satisfied clusters—she stayed where she was.

Still.

Unmoving.

Like a figure carved into the vast stained-glass windows that framed her silhouette. Light pooled around her, gentle and mournful, gilding the edges of her sorrow as though Heaven itself tried to soften it.

Only when the last echo faded and the heavy doors shut did she speak.

“Hajun,” she murmured without turning. Her voice was soft, but its softness held weight—like a blade wrapped in velvet. “Tell me… is it the burden of royalty to bear a life not of one’s choosing?”

Hajun’s breath stilled.

His hands curled into fists behind his back, leather gloves creaking with tension. He should have given her comfort. He should have soothed her with perfumed lies, the kind nobles fed each other to ease heavy hearts.

But she was not a woman built for illusions.

And he was not a man who could dishonor her truth.

So his answer emerged raw, unadorned.

“Yes, Your Highness,” he said quietly. “Fate is… often merciless to those born to crowns.”

Her inhale faltered—barely, but he heard it.

A shiver of emotion she would never allow another soul to witness.

“Then let me be its example,” she whispered.

Her tone was composed.

Her poise unbroken.

But her sorrow clung to every syllable—thin as frost, cold as sacrifice.

Hajun bowed his head, knowing that in this moment, silence was both his only shield and his only offering.

His duty chained his tongue. His heart begged for rebellion. And between the two, he chose the only path a knight could—

To break quietly, unseen.

Before war ever called for him, Hajun had already been fighting a quieter, crueler battle.

He had begun to yearn.

A glance held a second too long.

A heartbeat that stumbled when she spoke his name.

A warmth that lingered on his armor long after her hand had withdrawn.

But yearning—true yearning—does not come all at once. It seeped into him like winter through stone, slow and merciless.

Day by day, he found himself memorizing her: Not her beauty—that was something the whole kingdom sang of—but the details no poet bothered to write down:

The faint strain in her shoulders after council.

The way her breath softened whenever she read in dim candlelight.

The nearly silent sigh she released when she believed no one was listening.

He lived in those fragments. He hoarded them like a starving man with crumbs. And with each passing dawn, he felt the fault lines inside him spread.

For he was only a knight—

Born of iron and soil—

and she was a woman carved from dynasty and duty.

To want her was a sacrilege. To reach for her would be treason.

Yet he yearned.

Gods, how he yearned.

There were nights he pressed a fist to his chest to dull the ache she left there. Nights when he stared at the ceiling of the barracks and cursed the stars for placing him in her orbit yet binding him to distance.

Nights when he realized—terrifyingly—that if he stayed by her side any longer, he would become something reckless, something desperate.

He would betray his oath. He would betray her kingdom. He would betray her.

And so he came to a brutal truth, one that split him open:

If he did not step away, he would do something unforgivable. If he stayed, he would love her out loud. If he stayed, he would reach for her—and ruin everything she bore.

Thus he made his private vow:

Better to die on a battlefield than live long enough to harm her with his desire. Better for his blood to stain foreign soil than for his love to stain her name.

He chose death before he ever lifted a sword.

And he believed it would be simple enough to slip away—

to depart like any other soldier at dawn, unseen, unremarked, upheld only by the last shreds of his pride and the quiet dignity expected of a knight sworn to her.

Yet Hajun knew not how.

On the eve of his departure, she summoned him.

Her chambers were dim—lit by a single lantern whose flame wavered like a breath held too long. The scent of parchment lingered in the air, threaded with a soft trace of jasmine, familiar and ruinous.

She stood by the window, her silhouette framed in moonlight.

Not as a princess this time, not as a royal heir—

but simply as a woman standing alone beneath the pull of fate.

When she turned, something small glimmered in her hand.

A pearl hairpin—small, delicate, luminous like a tear that had solidified long ago.

She approached him with slow, deliberate steps—robes whispered across the floor, too soft for a woman carrying the weight she bore.

“This,” she said quietly, “is all I can give you without betraying the kingdom.”

Her hand rose.

Her palm trembled.

Slightly—barely—but to Hajun it felt like the world itself was shaking.

She placed the hairpin into his gloved hand. Her fingers brushed his. Warmth struck him like lightning.

“It has never left my side since childhood,” she whispered. “May it serve as… a companion on your journey.”

Companion.

A word that slashed through him.

For knights did not bring companions to war, not unless the object was their last tether to life—or their final tether to love.

His breath fractured.

He understood it crystally—more deeply, more painfully—than she could ever speak aloud:

She was giving him a piece of herself. Her past, her heart, her silent confession wrapped in pearls.

He bowed, hiding his face—yet it did not stop the tear that burned down his cheek and vanished beneath his jaw.

“If I look upon you again,” he murmured, voice shaking against all his discipline, “I fear I will never leave your side.”

Her breath caught.

Ans he heard it—sharp, shattered, swiftly smothered by duty.

“Hajun…” she breathed.

Just his name.

Bare.

Unarmored.

Wilted with longing she could not voice.

He stepped back—not for decorum, not for her, not for the kingdom—but because if he remained one heartbeat longer, he would fall to his knees and worship her.

He left before he could damn them both.

Before her trembling hands could steady on his chest.

Before he could reach out, pull her into his arms, and destroy the world for a woman he could not have.

He walked out with the pearl pin clutched so tightly in his fist it left a crescent-shaped bruise—

and with a heart that had already chosen her,

even as he marched toward death.

Hajun fought with the kind of ferocity only a man courting oblivion could muster.

To the soldiers around him, it looked like valor—a warrior unafraid of death.

To the commanders, it looked like brilliance—a knight whose instincts bordered on divine.

To the King, it was unwavering loyalty.

But Hajun knew the truth—

He hurled himself into each clash not out of courage, but desperation.

Because the thought of surviving—of returning only to stand in the shadows and watch another man claim her hand, her future,her life—was a torment sharper than any blade drawn against him.

Better to die with her memory seared into his heart than to live long enough to hear her vow herself to another.

He kept her hairpin always with him, wrapped in cloth, pressed against his chest— a fragile relic of the only warmth he had ever allowed himself.

During long marches, he touched it to remind himself he was still alive. During frigid nights, when breath turned to frost, he held it to feel something human.

In moments of terror, when he feared forgetting the sound of her voice, he closed his eyes and relived that night—the lantern glow, the trembling in her hand, the sorrow she dared not speak.

It became his pulse.

His faith.

His final tether.

And when the battle turned, when the line broke and steel flashed in a brutal arc.

When the world jerked sideways in a single, merciless instant—

Hajun felt no fear.

Only regret—that he would never see her again.

He fell to the earth, the soil beneath him slick with the violence he had embraced. The sky wavered above him—a pale, distant haze—and his senses began to unravel, loosening one thread at a time.

But before they faded, they returned to her.

The lantern-light framing her figure in soft gold. Her eyes—calm but carrying storms no court would ever see. Her poised grace, carved by duty yet softened in his presence.

The ghost of her touch on his knuckles—light as moonlit water.

And her voice.

Steady, composed, trembling only when she believed he could not hear:

“May this accompany you.”

The hairpin pressed against his chest, now slick with the warmth of his own blood, seemed to pulse with memory.

He felt the ache in him swell, then soften—becoming something like peace.

He wished—vainly, tenderly—that somewhere in the deep chambers of her guarded heart,she had allowed herself one silent moment to love him.

Just one.

His fingers loosened around the hairpin.

The world darkened, slow and gentle, like a curtain being drawn at dusk.

And with his final breath—no louder than the wind skimming over the field—

When he first met you, he never expected you to sway him into what people called love.

Love wasn’t in his plans. 

Love wasn’t in his reach. 

It wasn’t something he allowed himself to even think about. 

All his life, he had carved out space only for fists, grit, and survival. Love belonged to stories, to people softer than him, to fleeting things that never lasted. He had convinced himself he didn’t need it—maybe that he didn’t deserve it. 

The only person he ever felt capable of giving anything close to love to was maybe his mom. 

She was the exception—she always would be.

But you? 

You were nobody to him—just a random stranger who patted his back after a race, your touch light and fleeting, as if you weren’t afraid of the sweat and the heat radiating off him. You smiled then—too easy, too gentle—and he dismissed it. 

People smiled all the time—smiles didn’t mean anything.

Except yours lingered, you lingered.

You weren’t supposed to—not when you laughed at him later, standing with your crew just outside the track. Not when your teasing sparked his temper and he snapped at you, sharp and defensive, only to see you laugh harder instead of flinch. It irritated him, unsettled him, the way you looked at him with eyes that seemed to understand something he didn’t want to admit.

And yet—somehow—he began to notice.

The curve of your grin when you thought no one was watching. 

The sound of your laughter, cutting through the noise of a crowd like it was meant for him alone. 

The careless way you carried yourself, but also the small, deliberate kindnesses you slipped in when you thought they would go unseen. 

You offered warmth without asking for anything back, and it left his chest aching—burning with a thump he couldn’t explain, a weight he wasn’t used to carrying.

He never expected it—never expected you.

Never expected to find himself falling, piece by piece, into something so dangerously close to love.

And yet, the truth clawed its way in, no matter how hard he tried to push it down—he was in love with you.

And the strangest part? The part that rattled him the most?

He didn’t hate it.

Not even a little.

So when you opened the door that night—when he was too lost, too tangled in the mess of his own thoughts and insecurities to reach out to the ones he stubbornly called friends—he let himself fold into you. He let himself be pulled into your arms, let himself breathe against the steady comfort of your chest, his fists tightening into the back of your shirt as if you were the only rope keeping him from sinking under.

He let himself be yours, if only for that moment—and in return, he let you be his.

And it wasn’t as terrifying as he imagined it would be.

No—strangely, it was… light.

Almost fun.

Fun in the way your hand slipped into his like it belonged there, warm and steady. Fun in the way you curled against him without hesitation, as if his arms were the only place you ever wanted to be. Fun in the way his shirt hung off your frame, in the way your hair ties clung to his wrist like little reminders of you.

With you, life didn’t feel like a fight to the bone—it felt like something he could actually live.

Through the shadow of his mother’s uncertain tomorrow, he found himself daring—just a little—to look ahead.

And in that small flicker of light, he could almost see a future not filled with loneliness—but with you by his side.

Yours and his, together—if the world would be kind enough to allow it.

And he was happy.

Really, he was.

Happy with you.

With the Hummingbirds.

With cycling.

But life had never been kind—not once in the nineteen years he’d been crawling through it—

So why would it start now? Happiness had never been his.

It was borrowed, stolen, something temporary that the world would always snatch back. And somewhere deep down, he’d known from the start it would end.

So he told himself he just needed space—just a day or two to get his head on straight, to cage the bitterness gnawing at his chest before it bled into you.

Because the thing inside him—the sharp, ugly thing—didn’t just sit quietly.

It clawed, it roared, it poisoned.

And it lived right where the fragile piece of love for you had taken root—and it scared him. Scared him enough to hide. Because he knew you didn’t deserve to carry the weight of it.

Crying into your shoulder once had already felt like too much—letting you see him unravel, even for that single night, had made his throat burn with shame.

He didn’t want your arms around him because he was breaking. He didn’t want your fingers laced through his just to keep him from shaking apart.

No.

He wanted you to hold him the way you always did, with that quiet, natural warmth he’d grown addicted to. He wanted to fall asleep with your laughter still clinging to his shirt, to feel your hand in his without grief pulling down on it.

He wanted his time with you to be clean, free of his demons, untouched by the shadows gnawing at his ribs.

And so, a day turned into a week.

A week into two.

And then the month swallowed him whole.

By the time he surfaced enough to see the damage, it was already too late—his phone glowed with your name over and over, each unread message burning into him like a brand.

Questions.

Worry.

Hurt.

A small plea for reassurance.

But he didn’t.

Couldn't.

Because what could he give you, really?

More silence. More shadows. More broken pieces pretending to fit together.

The only thing he was certain of—the only thing he was good at—was ruining what little light had managed to touch him.

So he did what he knows best—

He let the space stretch wider and wider, until the ache in his chest became a punishment he thought he deserved.

Because if losing you was the price of keeping you safe from the rot inside him, then maybe that was love.

Or maybe it was just cowardice.

Either way, it left him with nothing but silence—and he told himself that was what both of you deserved.

The first time you tried to find him, you waited outside his school.

You lingered by the gates long after the final bell rang, watching faces stream past until the crowd thinned into nothing. But he never came—he hadn’t been coming for a while, you realized only later, as if he’d cut ties with that part of his life before you even knew to look for him there.

The second time, you sought him out at his part-time jobs.

Places you knew he drifted between—small shops, restaurants, corners where he’d worked late into the night. Instead of him, you were met with sharp looks and sour mutters from his former managers. He’d walked out without warning, left behind uniforms, shifts, whole responsibilities like they meant nothing, like vanishing was the only thing he knew how to do.

The third time, you went to his home.

The same house you’d spent countless afternoons in, where your laughter and his scoffs once filled the quiet as the sky outside deepened from afternoon to dusk. But when you knocked, when you waited, there was nothing. The windows were dark, the rooms hollow—emptiness where his warmth used to be.

It was only after those three fruitless attempts, after days of chasing ghosts, that you finally sent a hesitant message to Dom—because if anyone would know aside from Sung who refuses to heed your questions, it would be him.

And the reply you got back made your chest sink heavier than silence ever could.

It wasn’t just you he’d left behind.

It was everyone.

Every thread of connection he had carefully woven, every place he once existed in—he had cut himself out of all of it. And you were left staring at the pieces, realizing the truth you didn’t want to admit: he hadn’t disappeared from you.

He had disappeared from the world he was only just starting to build.

His silence wasn’t the same as before—not the sharp-edged kind he used to wield when he wanted distance, when he dismissed people because connections seemed pointless. No, this time it wasn’t pushing people away. It felt like Vinny was pulling back instead—folding in on himself until there was nothing left to reach for.

And your heart hurt.

Not in the selfish way you expected, not just because he’d left you hanging in the quiet. No—it hurt because somewhere out there, he must be hurting too.

Maybe even worse than you.

You could feel it in the absence he left behind, in the spaces where his rare smiles used to be. He was suffering in silence, because that’s what he knew best. Enduring without asking for a hand. Carrying everything without ever asking for help. Refusing pity like it was poison.

And you knew it wasn’t pride keeping him away.

Vinny didn’t have much of that left.

If anything, he would’ve thrown whatever scraps of it remained to the ground if it meant saving his mom—you knew that. And maybe that’s what made it cut so deep—because his silence wasn’t stubbornness, it was surrender.

A surrender that left you aching in places you didn’t know could hurt.

So even when it felt like the world had folded in on top of you, even when your eyes burned at the memory of nights with your head resting on his shoulder, you never tried to drag him back.

Not a single please.

Not a whispered take me with you.

Not even the smallest word that could be mistaken as you holding him down.

All you ever did was ask.

Are you okay?

Is your mom doing well?

Do you need anything?

And you kept the heavier questions locked away in your chest, letting them fester into quiet insecurities. You swallowed the sting of being left behind, but you never turned that pain into blame. No—Vinny didn’t deserve that.

Not him.

Not when the world had already been merciless enough.

You swore, if nothing else, you would be the one thing in his life that didn’t demand more from him. The one thing that stayed soft, stayed simple, stayed easy.

Even if it hurt.

Maybe it was pity.

Maybe it was guilt.

Maybe it was something in between—something he couldn’t name but couldn’t ignore either.

Either way, Vinny showed up.

You don’t even remember how long it had been since you last saw him—one month? Two? Long enough for your chest to bruise with waiting, long enough for your hope to thin into something brittle.

But he came.

And he looked different.

Still Vinny—still tall, still sharp around the edges, but there was a polish on him now, a veneer you weren’t used to. Dressed in luxury brands he never used to care about, hair pushed back from his face instead of falling into his eyes like it used to—letting you remember how you used to tuck those strands back for him, laughing when he pretended to hate it.

Now there was nothing to tuck away. Nothing soft to reach for. He looked composed when he sat beside you, like the weeks of silence had built a wall around him.

The spot wasn’t unfamiliar—it was yours, once, a place you dragged him to on a whim before he had even trusted you. You remembered his scowl then, the way his arms were crossed and his words clipped, but how his mismatched eyes had softened for just a moment when you told him he looked beautiful with the sky reflecting the shade of his hair.

Back then, that flicker of warmth had felt like a victory—like a secret he accidentally gave you.

But now—now it was gone.

Or maybe not gone, but dulled—smothered beneath exhaustion that clung to his face, his shoulders, the way he breathed.

Vinny didn’t look at you—he kept his gaze forward, fixed on the skyline bleeding red and gold right by your eyes. The distance between you wasn’t much—just a hand’s span—but it felt like an ocean. And you didn’t close it.

You didn’t reach out—didn’t dare.

Instead, you sat exactly where you had been before he arrived—knees pulled close to your chest, cheek pressed against them as you stared out at the horizon.

The same horizon where you once sat with him and felt a fragile, trembling kind of happiness.

Now that memory pressed against your ribs, aching, making this reunion feel more painful than you ever imagined it would.

“Let’s break up.”

His words struck like a fist against your chest, knocking the breath from your lungs before you could brace for it. For a fleeting second you thought you had misheard—maybe the evening wind had twisted his voice, maybe your own mind had conjured the worst.

But no.

He had said it, steady and deliberate, like someone placing a glass of water on the table. No trembling, no anger.Your eyes prickled, but tears did not fall—not yet.

For a long while, neither of you moved. The silence stretched between you, heavy and taut, as though even the air was waiting for you to speak first.

“…That’s it?” your voice came out softer than you meant, thin around the edges.

Not a plea. Just a question. Always just a question.

Vinny shifted at last, elbows braced against his knees, his mismatched eyes pinned to the horizon instead of you. He looked different, you admitted—older, worn down, like the boy you once knew had been buried under layers of exhaustion you had no map to peel away.

“What do you want me to say?” His tone was flat, stripped of inflection, as though the weight of your years together wasn’t enough to stir even a ripple of care.

Your head blurred, or maybe it was your vision, but your eyes refused to rest on him. Your throat felt raw, your chest swollen with words you’d wanted to say for months—words that would spill if you weren’t careful. But in the end, you bit them back and offered only the smallest thread of yourself.

“How have you been?”

It probably startled him.

You saw it—the flicker of his eyes going wide, caught off guard, as if the gentleness in your question cut sharper than anger ever could. He turned to you then, quickly, like he couldn’t help himself. It was a snap, a surprise—to be honest, you couldn’t tell anymore.

You only knew that, for the first time since the words let’s break up left his mouth, he finally looked at you.

“That’s what you wanna ask?” His voice cracked against the quiet, a scoff dragged rough from his chest. Not sharp, not condescending—just tired. So tired. “You don’t have to keep pretending you don’t hate me right now.”

“Yeah,” you breathed, the word slipping out before you could stop it. Your lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile, wasn’t quite bitterness. “I hate you—so much.”

But your voice was soft, thin. Unlike the fire he was trying to pull out of you.

Vinny sluggishly turned then, restless, like his body didn’t know whether to stay or run. His hands clenched, then released. When he finally spoke again, there was something rawer in it, something close to begging though he’d never admit it.

“Say something,” he pushed, gaze still fixed forward. “Stop giving me that quiet. Get angry. Tell me everything I know you’ve been holding back over those fucking messages. I know those were lies.”

Your heart lurched.

He wanted you to unravel here, wanted you to spit it all out so he could take the blame, maybe even convince himself you’d be better without him—but all you did was stare at the skyline, still watching the fading bleed of pink and orange giving way to bruised indigo.

“Would that make it easier for you?” you asked finally, your voice steady, though your hands trembled where you had them locked around your knees. “If I screamed at you? Told you I hated you for real? If I told you you’re selfish and cruel and everything else you probably already call yourself when you’re alone?”

His jaw tightened, a muscle twitching there.

“Don’t do that,” he muttered.

"You told me to say something—"

"Don't play with me." his voice came out with a weak grit.

“No,” you turned at last, finally letting your gaze land on him. “Don’t play with me, Vin.”

Your face wavered, betraying you before you could hold it still. Gone was the gentleness, gone was the calm you had clung to like armor.

The prickle in your eyes blurred your vision, until at last it broke—first one tear, then another, quick, burning trails you swiped away with your palm before they reached your cheeks. As if erasing them fast enough might undo what he saw.

But he saw.

“You left me hanging.”

Your voice cracked, broke apart into a sound you didn’t recognize—half sob, half confession. The kind of sound you’d choked down for months, the kind that had sat in your chest like a stone, unspoken while you typed out messages that pretended you weren’t unraveling.

This was the first time it had ever slipped free.

“You left me right there,” you said again, your words tumbling, gasping, as though the weight had grown too heavy to hold in.

“No call, no word, no clue if you were even alive or you finally got dumb and killed yourself. Do you get that? I had no clear idea what happened to my boyfriend—what happened to us—” your voice cracked harder, breaking around the edges until the sob took over.

“You left me.”

It wasn’t accusation.

Not really.

It wasn’t even anger—it was just the naked truth, pulled out of you the way a wound bleeds when finally touched.

"You think I wanted to?”

His voice came like a whisper, brushing the air between you, like it didn’t know whether it wanted to be confession or apology. He leaned closer instinctively, as if this wasn’t weeks of silence between you, as if being near you was the only thing he remembered how to do.

And maybe he didn’t even notice—didn’t notice the way his body betrayed him, the way his hand sought yours, trembling through the stone-cold armor he’d wrapped around himself.

The luxury on his skin looked borrowed. The front he wore looked heavy. But his hand on yours was bare.

“Fuck—” The curse hissed out of him, sharp with panic.

His fingers tightened around yours like he had to make sure you were real, like he couldn’t believe he’d touched you until he felt you clutch back.

Your sobs caught, stalled, as if his touch froze you in place. You looked up, vision blurred with tears, throat constricted by how close he was—by the danger of remembering how it used to feel.

Time stuttered.

Or maybe it was just you slipping into a cruel illusion.

Because in that moment—with his hand wrapped around yours, his eyes holding you with the same warmth you’d once lived in—it almost felt like nothing was broken.Like it was just the two of you again, tangled beneath that old blanket in his room, arguing over nothing on the floor he refused to trade for a bed.

Like you were still his, like he was still yours.

Like this was how it was supposed to be.

“I beat up people again.” The words landed like a stone dropped in water—sinking heavy, pulling the air down with them. “I extort money. I race illegally. I made a deal with someone who’s using me—sponsorship, strings attached, whatever you want to call it.”

His voice clipped, rapid-fire, like spitting out the filth might make it harder for you to hold onto him. Like if he stacked the ugliness high enough, it would finally crush whatever softness you had left for him.

“I’m not—” he dragged a hand over his face, laughless, bitter, “I’m not someone you wait for. I’m not someone you should’ve been crying about.”

Your tears clung stubbornly anyway.

“I’m so fucked up right now I can’t even think straight when it’s not about my mom—” his chest shuddered with the exhale, harsher than he meant, like he was snapping just to keep from breaking. “She’s really dying—do you get that?”

His words cracked then, just slightly, but he forced them sharper, as if volume could disguise how close he was to splintering.

“Do you get it? Every race, every fight, every filthy thing I’ve done—it’s because I can’t stop thinking about how she’s slipping away and I can’t save her. And you—” his throat tightened, words fraying, “you don’t deserve to get dragged down into that.”

He let his gaze hold yours, mismatched eyes hard with the weight of everything he’d done, but underneath—buried in the cracks—you could still see it.

His love for you.

You wavered, chest heaving, lips parting like you wanted to speak—but nothing came. Not at first. Because every word he spat was meant to cut you off, to leave scars wide enough that you’d never want to come back. But his hand still held yours, tight, trembling, like he didn’t believe the things coming out of his own mouth.

It would’ve been easier if he’d let go. It would’ve been easier if he didn’t look at you like that—like you were the only light left in a world too dim for him to see through.

“You think I care about any of that?” your voice broke, rough with disbelief. “Do you really think that’s enough to make me stop—make me hate you?”

His jaw clenched. His eyes flicked away. He tried to release your hand, but your grip caught, stubborn.

“Let me go,” he muttered, voice hoarse.

“No.”

The refusal cracked between you, louder than anything you’d said that night.

“I’m telling you what I am,” he snapped suddenly, eyes flashing with something wild. “I’m a fucking mess. A criminal. A coward who hides from his friends and uses his fists like that’s the only language he knows. I’m not worth this—worth you—don’t you get it?”

Your tears blurred his sharp edges, softened the fury in his tone until all you heard was desperation. Until all you saw was a boy burning alive inside himself, trying to convince you not to reach for him while silently begging that you still would.

“Then why are you here?” you whispered.

The question pinned him, raw and unrelenting. His lips parted, closed again. The silence stretched, shaking under its own weight.

You swallowed, voice splintering as you pushed again, softer, sharper. “If you wanted to be rid of me so badly, you could’ve stayed gone. But you didn’t. You came back. You sat here. You held my hand. Why?”

His breath hitched, uneven, betraying him before his words could catch up. For a fleeting second, his mask cracked—the sorrow in his mismatched eyes flickered, naked and unbearable.

And then he broke it himself, choking out the only thing he could manage.

“Because I’m selfish.”

The words shattered in the air, hollow and trembling. “Because even if I don’t deserve it, I still wanted to see you again—just once.”

Your heart tore clean down the middle—the words cracked between you, jagged and trembling, and they sat there, poisoning the air.

Just once.

Like he was already gone. Like everything you’d been holding onto for months—the waiting, the hurting, the stupid hope that maybe, maybe he’d come back for real—was already over before it even began.

The first drops of rain began to fall then, sharp and cold against your skin. You startled, blinking up at the sky as it broke open, the drizzle quickly swelling into a curtain of water that blurred the city lights into smears of gold and red.

Vinny didn’t move.

He just sat there, rain slicking over his shoulders, soaking through the clothes that made him look so unfamiliar to you. His mismatched eyes lifted once more, meeting yours, and the look in them shattered you worse than the words had.

Because he was looking at you like someone starving. Like someone who’d been drowning for weeks and had just broken the surface, gasping, desperate for air—

But knowing he wasn’t meant to survive it.

And when his hand slipped up to your jaw, when his thumb brushed away the rain on your cheek, you realized—this wasn’t him staying.

This was goodbye.

You leaned forward anyway.

The kiss landed soft at first, tentative, like testing a wound that hadn’t healed. His lips were cold from the rain, trembling, but they moved against yours with a hunger that burned through all the emptiness. His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you in, and you clung to him like you could stop him from unraveling if you just held tight enough.

The storm raged harder, soaking both of you through, but his mouth was warm—his mouth was desperate. He kissed you like someone memorizing, like someone stealing pieces of you to keep when you weren’t there anymore.

And you let him.

You let him bruise your lips with the urgency he couldn’t put into words. You let his forehead rest against yours when he broke away just to breathe, his chest heaving like he’d run a marathon. You let yourself trace the line of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the mismatched eyes you’d once called beautiful.

You let yourself give him everything, even if it could be the last time.

The kiss started again—harder, needier, teeth and breath and trembling urgency—like the two of you were slipping underwater and he was trying to memorize the shape of you before he drowned.

The rain blurred everything into a mess of cold and heat, thunder and heartbeat, but Vinny kissed you like none of it existed. Like the world wasn’t ending. Like he wasn’t the one ending it.

His mouth moved against yours with a desperation he’d never let you see before—messy, uneven, almost clumsy. His fingers dug into your cheeks, holding you like if he let go, he’d fall apart entirely. And for a moment—for the briefest, cruelest moment—you could almost believe it was enough.

Almost.

But then something in him broke—you felt it.

A tremor in his breath.

A shudder in his hands.

A soft, ruined sound caught between his teeth.

And when he finally tore himself away, it felt like a physical wound. His lips lingered against your cheek—just barely—trembling, brushing you like he was giving himself permission for one last stolen second before ripping himself back with a shaky inhale.

He didn’t look at you.

Not when his hands fell heavy from your face.

Not when his knees straightened.

Not when the storm soaked through every part of him, flattening his red hair to his forehead, turning him into the very picture of someone who had already left.

Your body stayed frozen where he’d held you, water dripping from your chin, your breath shuddering in and out of your chest. Your palms still tingled from where his warmth had been, the ghost of his touch lingering like a cruel afterimage.

“...Stay.” The word slipped out of you in a broken whisper before you could stop it. “Please.”

It wasn’t just a question this time. It wasn’t just hope.

It was a beg—small, shaking, fragile enough that even the rain tried to drown it out.

And something in him reacted—his body went still, shoulders locked, hands curled tight into trembling fists at his sides.

You saw it.

That single, impossible moment where he almost turned around—where he almost chose you.

But hope is cruel.

And Vinny had always been louder in his self-destruction than in his love.

“I can’t,” he whispered, voice raw and sanded down to something barely human.

It cracked, quiet, like he was afraid it would hurt you more if he spoke any louder.

His back was already turned.

And then—

He walked.

Away.

No umbrella.

No hesitation.

No last glance.

Just his silhouette dissolving into the storm, swallowed by sheets of rain until he wasn’t a person anymore—just another shadow fading into the city.

All that remained was the damp heat of his mouth against yours, fading second by second with the cold.

The last thing he left you with wasn’t his love. Wasn’t his apology. Wasn’t even his words.

It was the ghost of a kiss in the middle of a storm—warm, desperate, fading.

Sometimes you were embarrassed to be his girlfriend.

Joker was the antithesis of weakness, not just physically, but also emotionally. This man was a mountain of stoicism and silent strength. It didn't matter his choice of fashion was potato sack like oversized clothes; anybody can see from his tall stature and wide shoulders that he was carved from danger and destruction.

Not to mention how the added responsibilities as the eldest child only heightened his image further. An unbeatable fighter and a protective, nurturing brother? He was every woman's dream.

Yet only your reality.

A reality you didn't believe you deserved.

You had spent hours holed up in your room before he forcibly barged in, prompting you to hide your tear-stained cheeks with damp pillows – witnesses to your quarterly life crises that had your self esteem in shambles. Neither were you athletic, neither were you weak, neither brave, nor responsible — just nothing at all.

And yet he still had the audacity to demand an answer from you. To demand your love, your attention, your deepest confessions.

So when you refused, he gave you the biggest shock of your life by making you cry again.

But for a completely different reason

“Aah–Ah! Hajun–wait–”, your breaths were rapid and relentless, matching the pace of your erratic heartbeat as long fingers tickled bare inner thighs. Faded bleached locks caressed the soft curls framing your pussy, another whine escaping your lips as his tongue played with the sensitive entrance.

Your pussy was damp and swollen, the combination of his spit and your essence gliding his tongue seamlessly into your hole, teasing the soft gummy walls with his agonizingly slow pace.

He liked to savor the sweet moments in life.

Dull aches raced up your thighs as he pushed them up in the air, giving him better access to savor your juices whilst simultaneously locking hands; his trademark method of offering comfort.

A soft slap against your ass snapped you out of trance, causing you to hiss sharply as his lips sucked on your clit.

“What did I tell you to do?”

It was less of a question and more of an order. “To—haaa—to praise myself…”

Another slap. “And what were you doing?”

You swallowed thickly, chest shuddering with a mix of nervousness and excitement. “N-Not praising me myself.”

This time, he slapped your pussy softly. “So, do you agree that you're a good girl?”

Another slap, followed by a fresh wave of tears, “Y-Yes.”

“And that you're a pretty girl?”

Slap. “Yes.”

“A really hard-working and intelligent girl?” His voice was steady and slow as thick fingers massaged circles around your swollen clit. White spots danced around your vision as your eyes rolled into the back of your head. It was getting harder and harder to stay still, to hold onto yourself as something dark and dangerous was fighting to escape from your womb.

It was him, your brain screamed in alert as it once more registered his relentless attack on your pussy. He was dragging out all your darkest and deep-seated sexual fantasies, coaxing you to give in to your filth, to fuck all the sadness and anxiety out of your body, until the only thing that remained was his name falling from your lips.

That was the most despicable thing about your boyfriend. He knew how to set things straight, how to solve things in a jiffy, how to fuck you senseless, be it through long languid thrusts that resulted in hot cum painting your body, or terrorizing your clit until you saw stars during daylight.

But you couldn't help it, could you? Your boyfriend was just that good, just that intuitive and receptive to your emotions. Because no matter how much you beat yourself up, you were just a sweet, beautiful princess and he was the rugged knight prepared to defend you from the world.

“Oh—Oh!” Your mind went blank, nerves tingling with adrenalin, body shivering despite a clear sheen of sweat covering your perky tits as they bounced with every tremble. Your fingers instinctively found your nipples – so soft and tiny, hardening immediately as you groped and massaged greedily. He'd pushed two fingers in your tight cunt, curled to hit the right angle, teasing you with the sweet release you craved — your favourite kind of torture.

“Baby—please!” Your voice was broken with tears, but he wasn't one to show mercy.

“What's the magic word?” She could spot his mischievous glint through his bangs.

“I—I'm a good girl—AH!”

It felt like fireworks exploded in your womb, body arched upwards as your eyes widened to saucers, your vision blackened out from hot white spots as a torturous orgasm perforated your mind, numbing all senses as a violent tremble overtook your limbs. Joker watched with pride, a dark type of pride as you squirted generously, struggling to break free of his strong hands pinning your convulsing body down.

“Ah–ahh–hng–ah–Ha-Ha-j-jun-ngh…” you bit your lips, tears streaming from your eyes as your boyfriend wiped a damp cloth down your soaked limbs.

“Good job, princess.’ He kissed your tears away, a possessive hand spread across your womb, one he couldn't wait to pump it full with his cum, “You did so well for me.” Her lips parted, a shaky moan escaping as if on cue as he caressed her cheek, “I'm so proud of you.”

While Sangho was often busy, he budgeted his time wisely so he can attend to every aspect of his business and balance personal care at the home - including gym time prior to meetings, which is a couple of hours of cardio and lifting in the early hours of the morning before the day begins for everyone else.

His personal gym at home is equipped with thousands of dollars worth of gym machines and extensive space to move. More than once, has Sangho put those machines to use for other purposes in a joint (horiziontal) workout with you during select hours when the house is empty, knowing damn well how your voice carries (not to mention the repeated, squeaky noises of the machines and his barely contained groans while he touches you.) In fact, this morning was one of those very scenarios. 

You were currently recharging in the private gym shower and sauna room connected to the workout room because you had convinced Sangho to pursue you in the middle of the night after tumbling out of the sheets, barely covered and with a peal of soft laughter. Not often did you encounter the opportunity to have the house to yourselves, but Aria was having a sleepover and a mad dash through the halls, without panties, would incite Sangho to chase you. 

And once the chase was on… any and all mischief to come would be illustrious and oh so worth it.

______________________________________________________________

After giggling through the hallway and letting Sangho catch a glimpse of your unclothed body as you skipped away - Sangho had given you a headstart. With no warning, he'd be on you instantly with his strong physique and calculating mind, but the build-up to the conclusion was always controlled by him. The teasing, the delibrate give-and-take of his touch, his voice, his kisses… 

You'd only escape him for so long, all under the guise of growing the anticipation and need for him (even though you had equal power to make him crumble with your seduction, countless ways to slip in between the cracks of his armor and make him melt - which he could never admit to a living soul, the clutches you had on his heart and body.) 

Something stirred deep in his belly at the sight of you, egging him on with your melody of laughter. He pulled on a pair of boxers and athletic shorts before silently padding out of the doorway into the hall.

You'd taken a few corners and led him towards the private gym area. His body was responding quicker than his imagination could create scenarios of you folded over a bench or spread on the floor, pinned underneath him. Sangho felt his pulse quicken, his neck and face warmed by the idea of exerting himself in the most intimate way with you, his shorts tighter by the second. 

Each measure of distance away causes more demand for your touch. The closer he gets the more relief his mind feels, but the more worked up his body feels. 

______________________________________________________________

You've perched on the edge of the bicep curl bench in the corner of Sangho's gym sanctuary. The pristine white sheet is loosely hanging from your shoulders and hips, letting your man get a glimpse of the curve of your body and hints of your figure but not the whole picture - something you know gets a reaction from him (as well as a low groan while he drags a hand over his face in an uncharacteristically boyish and unrestrained way.) Truly, you were a minx for Sangho's touch, making a scene nearly every week that ended in marathon sex.

Once he closes in, you drop the sheets and they pool on the floor while Sangho lifts you from your spot. You barely get a sentence out of your mouth before Sangho has you turned around and pulled back to his chest, hands wandering and lips curving on your neck in a satisfied smile. 

"I hope you stretched beforehand," Sangho's voice is a exhale on the shell of your ear, making a tingle run through your whole body, causing you to shiver deeper into his grasp. 

"Let me make you work for it, I promise you'll melt in my hands." 

______________________________________________________________

The morning comes before long, and Sangho has tucked you back into your bed just minutes before. The sheets had twirled around you and trailed behind him as you were carried in his arms, princess style.

After a quick kiss and cleanup, you were soundly asleep, so Sangho left to begin his morning workout. He's dressed in the same style of athletic short as before, and the cool air of the gym feels like a relief after the exertion from a few hours prior. You'd really made him put in the effort, lifting, squeezing, and man-handling you on top of the bicep curl machine, folded on the bench press cushion, and on the floors over the comfort of the yoga mats. 

Then you turned the tide and rode him senseless on the bench, clinging to him, nails making paths down his back, over his arms, and even biting into his thighs while he was behind you.

Fuck, the thought of you made his skin tingle all over. 

______________________________________________________________

It was earlier than Hwangyeon had intended to wake up - honestly, the body he had achieved with steroid use was spinning out of control some days. He'd be up at random hours, sweating and shaking but he'd never felt better being out of control and looking so good.

All those fuck-ass competitors would know better than to mess with him again, the races would humiliate them into never riding against him (if they knew what was good for them.)

But awake he was. So he might as well make use of the gym at home before anyone else woke up. 

The gym wasn't unoccupied though. His brother was there - the creak of the machines gave it away before Hwangyeon could see him. As long as he was here… he might as well look for the evidence.

Somehow Aria had gotten the idea that Sangho, the stuck-up workaholic and his fiancee had some wild sex life - as if Sangho could even spare the time! And you weren't exactly what Aria said you were, apparently. The way his sister had described the marks on Sangho in the kitchen made you out to be some mean-spirited nymphomaniac or sex-crazed possession victim of his brother (of all people, his brother.) 

Hard to believe someone was getting action if not himself. Like, his brother was more appealing than he was? Hwangyeon was made of the same genetics! If anything, you might just be after the fortune their parents left, or the properties, the company - whatever they were worth.

It left a bad taste in his mouth to puzzle out how he'd gone so long without any intimate touch, and his stingy brother had you at beck and call every night - ridiculous really. And it wasn't as if Sangho didn't take notice of Hwangyeon's curiosity… or judgment. 

More than once did Sangho glare at him if his eyes lingered too long in your direction, or whispered to Aria while trying to glean some more information on your schedule or habits - Sangho had even gotten physical once, shoving Hwangyeon out of his bedroom doorway and slamming the door in his face. To be fair, the sound of the shower running indicated you might be in a state of undress and needed privacy or some bullshit…

______________________________________________________________

And once Hwangyeon did see Sangho, the verdict was final. His brother was running on the treadmill, facing the large floor-to-ceiling windows, gleaming in the morning light. All over his back were angry, red scratches in the shape of nail marks, even on his thighs - accompanied by love bites on his shoulders and biceps! 

Hwangyeon cringed at the thought of what position you'd have to be in to access the various parts of his brother's body. Actually vomit-worthy.

But it isn't like you weren't an attractive woman.

Even so, it was sick to flaunt that around like Hwangyeon didn't live here. No one should imagine Sangho, the cold, unfeeling, unflinching prince of neglect and judgment to actually have a loving fiancee and awesome sex life!

Maybe he'd just come back another time… 

______________________________________________________________

Sangho continued running as if nothing had be discovered. It rarely made him smile, but getting to one-up Hwangyeon was always a small satisfaction, in a twisted way. The expression on Hwangyeon's face was worth the sacrifice of being shirtless and aching after last night. Sangho achieved so much more, given ten times the sweat, blood, and tears to sacrifice for this family. 

And his humble reward was a top-tier fiancee and mind-blowing sex, and the life you'd created with him wouldn't be spoiled by some immaturity and misperception, not from the likes of his brother. Hwangyeon was a true idiot of a man, never as intelligent or composed as he should be. It reflected poorly on the kid, making him leagues behind every peer - and that spurned jealousy and such.

Hwangyeon could stay jealous. You'd always be Sangho's, the future Mrs. Choi - and Sangho was yours.

A/N; eat up pookies, let me know what you liked best! Turned out longer than I expected, sorry if it was redundant at times. Also if Hwangyeon is upset that he doesn't get any coochie, I have a special message to him

HOES MADDDDDD 🤪🤪

MLEHHHHH HAHAHAHAHA 🤣

dividers by @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto

You had spent hours holed up in your room before he forcibly barged in, covering your tear-stained cheeks and damp pillows – witness to your quarterly life crises that crumbled your self esteem. Neither were you athletic, neither were you weak, neither brave, nor responsible — just not anything.

And he still had the audacity to demand an answer from you. To demand your love, your attention, your deepest confessions.

So when you refused, he gave you the biggest shock of your life by making you cry again.

But for a completely different reason

“Aah–Ah! Hajun–wait–”, your breaths were rapid and relentless, matching the pace of your erratic heartbeat as long fingers tickled bare inner thighs. Faded bleached locks caressed the soft curls framing your nether region, another whine escaping your lips as his tongue played with the sensitive entrance.

Your pussy was damp and swollen, the combination of his spit and your essence gliding his tongue seamless into your hole, teasing the soft gummy walls with his agonizingly slow pace.

He liked to savor the sweet moments in life.

Dull aches raced up your thighs as he pushed up in the air, giving him better access to savor your juices whilst simultaneously locking hands; his trademark method of offering comfort.

A soft slap snapped you out of your lustful trance, causing you to hiss sharply as his lips sucked on your clit. “What did I tell you to.”

It was less of a question and more of an order. “To—haaa—to praise myself…”

Another slap. “And what were you doing?”

You swallowed thickly, chest shuddering with a mix of nervousness and excitement. “N-Not praising me myself.”

This time, he slapped pussy, softly. “So, are you going to call yourself a good girl?”

Another slap, followed by a fresh wave of tears, “Y-Yes.”

“And that you're a pretty girl?”

Slap. “Yes.

What he didn't anticipate was the sheer marathon of neediness and desperate touching that lasted all night - never more than an inch from his skin was your lips, your hands, your everything - and with every gasp and moan and squeeze, you unraveled his careful exterior and goaded him into a frenzy of passion. The intoxication from the aphrodisiac might have transferred from your lips to his between the sticky exchange of kisses… but perhaps your presence alone or the erotic reactions from you were the real reason he lost himself in the sensations that night. 

Because the house would typically be occupied in the early hours by maids and personal chefs Sangho afforded for your comfort and his sister's too, he dismissed the staff to care for you personally instead. Never would he risk the sight of your vulnerable, unclothed body to someone besides himself - your comfort and respect was his highest priority in this relationship. When the light peaked from the curtains, Sangho sent a text that no one would have to appear until notified later. 

You were currently tucked into his left arm, drooling on his silk sheets with mussed hair and a peaceful expression while clinging to his shirtless form. The hints of sunlight barely illuminates the room, but Sangho's eye adjust to the low light to see the streaks of faint bruises on your collarbones and the slope of your throat covered in love bites in barely noticeable hues. Your tears had streaked little tracks on your face, and your lips were swollen from the amount of biting back moans and locking lips with Sangho previously. When he untangled his body from yours, you stretched much like a cat with a hoarse, muffled groan into the pillow at his departure. Even your unconscious self sought his warmth and the steady presence of your lover at every moment.

But to provide for you, he did need to go to the kitchen momentarily. You'd appreciate the gesture once you woke up to a warm cup of ceremonial grade tea and some indulgent breakfast snacks at the bedside table Sangho had set there for you. As he dressed himself in low-cut slacks while sat on the bed, you stirred soundlessly beside him. A small part of him regretted going so hard last night, but the memory of your reactions, the crawling heat down his spine, and ache on his body brought much more exponential satisfaction to come in the future than temporary restraint while you were begging him for more… just the imagination of you made him shiver in business meetings, so the actual memories to reminiscence on would be infinitely better. 

______________________________________________________________

In the kitchen, he prepared the hot water while setting out a porcelain tea cup and delicate tea leaves to brew. Unbeknownst to him, behind the doorway, his sister had rolled herself out bed and strolled down the hallway to the kitchen before being accosted by the sight of her shirtless brother! 

Aria was speechless at the sight of red claw marks over the expanse of Sangho's back. How shameless were adults, to be doing that to one another during… well, y'know… the deed. It looked like he was mauled by something rabid in the dark, swinging wildly in the shadows with four-inch claws of steel! And it made her face srunch up at the idea of how he must have gotten those dark bite marks at his shoulders and hips, like, obviously from you… but, her sweet future sister-in-law and the woman who rocks Sangho in the sheets seem like two seperate people to Aria at the moment… 

As quiet and subdued as Sangho seemed now, absorbed in the task at hand, she wondered if opposites attract like the saying, because how could you have some hidden side like that? It looks like Sangho took a crowd surf onto concrete at full speed with the streaks of torn skin on his back in the shape of fingernails over the whole thing. Maybe Sangho really beat on you, for you to have clawed him like that! She'd have to investigate closely to find the truth of it, but when she saw herself having to explore Sangho's bedroom, or ask questions of the private moments, Aria decided against it. 

______________________________________________________________

When Sangho finished the plates and brought them to his room, he cleared his throat when passing her room to let Aria know she wasn't as discreet as she might think. He had barely contained the low chuckle when he heard her squeak in the doorway earlier, taken aback at what he could only imagine the damage from last night was. It was his error to not take in his appearance before coming to the kitchen… 

You'd have to let him explain himself later, once he'd gotten in a round two, stretching you in the sheets and rolling through esctasy once more while you clung to him… what a perfect start to the morning, allowing him a workout and worship of you all in one. 

dividers by @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto

At first, he brushed it off as you just being your usual airheaded self.

He didn’t think much of it when you started tossing random remarks his way—offhand comments laced with half-meant compliments or that teasing warmth you were known for. Saying he smelled nice when you leaned close enough to rest your forehead against his back, or that his hair looked like cotton candy whenever the sun caught it, soft curls gleaming in the light.

He never minded.

He’d just roll his eyes, flick your forehead, and call you an idiot—because that’s what you were. Vinny had known you long enough to recognize your quirks, one of them being how you said whatever came to mind. So he never stopped to think if maybe, just maybe, you actually meant any of it.

Not until you started getting clingy.

It happened so gradually he almost didn’t notice. The way your usual lazy slouch beside him turned into you inching closer, shoulder brushing his, until one day you were just—attached.

Hooking your fingers around his sleeve whenever you tagged along to his trainings with the Hummingbirds or when Sung dragged you both out. You’d trail behind him like a shadow, half-asleep, mumbling complaints about the heat or the noise, only to end up pressed to his side again as if that was your rightful spot.

At first, he tried to shake you off, muttering under his breath, “You’ve got legs, use them,” but you’d just hum and tug his sleeve tighter, refusing to move. During practice, you’d sit on the curb with your chin resting on your knees, eyes following him as he rode laps around the track.

It was ridiculous.

He didn’t know what got into you—his quiet, easygoing friend suddenly acting like some clingy koala who couldn’t stand being more than a few feet away.

Taken aback was an understatement; Vinny was straight-up flabbergasted. Watching you pout when he told you to stay behind, or whine when he told you to stop touching his arm—it left him genuinely horrified and, honestly, a little lost.

Because for the first time, he couldn’t just write it off as your usual airheaded antics. There was something about the way you’d cling tighter whenever he sighed or tried to leave—something small and needy that tugged at him in ways he didn’t want to think about.

Vinny hadn’t planned to bring it up. He never did—talking about feelings wasn’t exactly his thing, especially when it came to you. But lately, the clinginess had been… getting to him.

You were always there—holding onto his arm, resting your head against his back, acting like you belonged there. And he couldn’t decide if it was cute or if it was slowly driving him insane.

So, in his own awkward, roundabout way, he tried to ask.

It was late, practice long over, the streetlights casting long, soft shadows on the empty path. You’d fallen asleep again on the curb, chin tucked into your arm, waiting for him to finish his last lap. And, like always, he ended up crouching down in front of you with a sigh, muttering something about you being hopeless before hoisting you onto his back.

“Ugh—I told you to just stay home,” he grumbled, tone deliberately sharp to mask the way his hands adjusted carefully under your knees. “You always fall asleep whenever you watch us go around this route.”

He clicked his tongue, pretending to sound annoyed. It was easier that way—if he kept the gruffness in his voice, it wouldn’t sound like he cared that you came all the way just to wait for him.

You stirred slightly, mumbling against his shoulder, voice muffled and half-asleep. “...Wanted to see you.”

The words were simple. Barely even audible. But they slipped past all his defenses and hit somewhere deep in his chest, leaving a strange ache behind. His steps faltered for just a second before he forced himself to keep walking, scoffing under his breath.

“Yeah? You always wanna see me lately. What’s that even about?” he asked, trying to sound casual, though his voice came out rougher than intended.

You hummed faintly, the sound warm and careless. “Dunno—just… don’t like seeing you around other people, not with that girl.” A pause, then a huff. “You’re mine—Vin.”

Vinny froze mid-step.

For a moment, he thought he misheard you. But no—you said it like it was the most normal thing in the world, soft and sleepy and unaware of the small earthquake you just caused in his head.

He didn’t move, muscles tense, heart doing something weird in his chest. “What—what did you just say?” he asked, half disbelieving, half wanting to hear it again.

But you just yawned, already slipping back into that drowsy daze, muttering nonsense that made even less sense.

Vinny clicked his tongue again, more out of panic than annoyance, the back of his neck burning hot. “You’re outta your damn mind,” he muttered, adjusting his hold on you as he started walking again, voice grumpy but quieter this time. “Don’t say crap like that if you don’t mean it.”

You didn’t answer—just shifted slightly on his back, arms tightening faintly around his shoulders, breath evening out against his neck.

And maybe it was better that way—because Vinny couldn’t trust his voice right now, not with the way his pulse refused to calm down.

He told himself it was nothing.

For a while, Vinny just walked in silence. The night air was cool against his flushed skin, the quiet hum of crickets filling the empty streets as he tried—really tried—not to think about what you said earlier.

You’re mine.

It looped in his head like a broken record, every syllable replaying until he almost wanted to drop you just to shake it out. He clicked his tongue, jaw tight, brows furrowed in irritation that was more directed at himself than you. You didn’t mean it. You never meant half the things you said. He knew that.

He knew that.

But then, why did it feel like his heart was still racing?

“Idiot,” he muttered under his breath, shifting you higher on his back. “You’re gonna give me a stroke one of these days—”

“Vinny!”

Your sudden voice made him jolt. It wasn’t the sleepy mumble from earlier—it was bright, startled, awake.

Before he could react, you flinched and tried to get off his back too fast. Both of you lost balance instantly, tumbling onto the ground in a mess of limbs and curses.

“Ow—what the hell—” he started, but you were already scrambling, half sitting on top of him, eyes wide and shining with that kind of wild, panicked excitement that only you could manage.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, shaking him by the shoulders, “I just thought of something!”

Vinny blinked up at you, hair a mess, shirt wrinkled from your grip. “What? That maybe you shouldn’t jump off a moving guy?”

“No!” you cut in, still clutching him. “I just thought of—of wanting to kiss you right now!”

The words came out in one breath, loud, unfiltered, completely earnest.

The world went quiet for a beat.

Vinny stared at you, absolutely dumbfounded, every thought in his head flatlining for a moment along with your warmth against him. You, meanwhile, froze mid-shake, eyes widening as if you only just realized what you’d said.

“I—wait, I mean—uh—”

Vinny exhaled through his nose, one hand coming up to cover his face as he muttered, “You’re unbelievable.”

Then, before you could ramble yourself into a hole, his other hand caught your wrist, tugging you down—closer, steady. You landed softly against his chest, your breath hitching as you found yourself looking right at him.

His expression was unreadable, caught between a glare and a grin. “You can’t just say stuff like that outta nowhere,” he said, voice low, almost fond despite the scolding tone.

You blinked, lips parting. “So… I shouldn’t?”

He sighed, looking away for a second, then back at you. “No. I’m saying if you’re gonna say it—” his hand slid up, fingers brushing your cheek lightly before pinching at it, “—you might as well do something about it.”

Your made a soft protest, but it got caught anyway—the space between you suddenly felt small, charged. Especially with how his eyes were just on you—a silent dare, or maybe a plea. Whatever it is, he wasn't about to take a no.

So then, slowly—hesitantly—you leaned in. Letting your lips press against his, eyes shutting close while your head spun at the contact and the sheer intimacy of it.

The kiss wasn’t perfect.

You bumped noses, he chuckled against your mouth when your teeth caught his lip clumsily, but the warmth that bloomed between you was unmistakable—soft, dizzying, real.

When you finally pulled back, your face was pink, and his usual frown had melted into a rare, crooked smile as if trying to hide the same shade of embarrassment painting yours.

“You’re still an airhead,” he muttered, thumb brushing over your cheek.

“Yeah,” you huffed, breathless. “But I’m your airhead now! Officialy!!!!”

Vinny groaned, throwing his head back. “Yeah—fuck—that right, aint it?”

“Heh!”

And even as he clicked his tongue and pretended to be annoyed, his arm came around your waist, pulling you closer, his cheek brushing against your hair in a quiet, fleeting moment of surrender.