#confident reader

“Can you all get your asses together for five minutes?” Keeho’s voice cut clean through the noise. The room dropped into stunned silence. “We’re here to work. Not mess around. Let’s act like it.”

Everyone froze, eyes wide. Even the air felt startled.

You watched him, pulse kicking, and bit your lip without thinking. There was something magnetic about the way he stood his ground, eyes sharp, posture rigid with control barely held in check. He exhaled hard, turned back to the console, and the session finally moved forward.

Recording went smoothly after that. Too smoothly. Keeho stayed focused, professional, like he had locked the earlier tension in a box and shoved it somewhere deep. You stayed quiet, watching him from the couch, replaying the moment in your head.

When it was done and the others scattered, he walked toward you with slow, deliberate steps. His expression softened before he even spoke.

“Hey,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to snap like that. I just got frustrated. I shouldn’t have—”

You stood up.

Before he could finish, you fisted your hand into the front of his shirt and yanked him toward you. Hard. His breath left him in a sharp sound as your lips crashed into his, all heat and intent. It was not gentle. It was not careful. It was decisive.

For a second, he did not move.

Then he melted.

His hands came up instinctively, steadying himself against your sides as he kissed you back, slower but no less intense, like he was grounding himself in the moment. When you pulled back just enough to speak, his eyes were dark and searching.

“I liked it,” you whispered. “That bossy attitude of yours...”

You felt him swallow. His grip tightened just slightly, like he was restraining himself. A crooked smile tugged at his mouth, equal parts disbelief and danger.

Without another word, he turned around, keeping one hand on you like a claim, and faced the rest of the room.

“We’re leaving,” he said.

A chorus of protests erupted instantly.

“What?” “Seriously!” “We just finished!”

Keeho shot them a look. Sharp. Unyielding. The same one from earlier, but quieter now. The room went dead silent.

“Have fun,” he added calmly.

No one argued.

He grabbed his jacket, laced his fingers with yours, and walked you straight out of the studio, head high, tension finally replaced with something far more satisfying.

Theo

Theo sat on the stool in the studio box, guitar resting against his thigh like it belonged there, like it had always known him. His fingers moved with practiced ease, sliding, pressing, bending strings until the solo spilled out warm and sharp all at once. The room quieted on instinct. Even the members stopped messing around, eyes drawn to him.

You leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, watching.

He looked good. Too good. Sleeves pushed up just enough, jaw set in focus, lashes low as he listened to his own sound. There was something intimate about watching him play, like you were seeing a private language unfold. Your gaze lingered longer than necessary. Your thoughts followed dangerous paths. Your expression darkened without you realizing.

The solo ended on a clean note that hung in the air.

Theo glanced up, smiling a little shy, a little proud. “So?” he asked. “What do you think?”

Cheers broke out immediately. Compliments flew. Someone clapped way too loud. Theo laughed, ducking his head, eyes bright as he looked around the room.

Then he looked at you.

You said nothing.

You just stared.

His smile faltered, then shifted into curiosity. Before he could ask, you pushed off the wall and walked toward the studio box. The others quieted again, watching you join him inside the glass-walled space.

Theo raised an eyebrow, amused. “What,” he asked lightly, “you want to hear it better?”

You shook your head.

Your hand grabbed his belt and yanked him forward, hard enough that he stumbled a step closer, guitar thumping softly against his hip. His breath hitched, surprise flashing across his face before it twisted into a slow, knowing smirk.

He leaned in just enough to murmur, “You know they’re still here, right?”

You did not look away from him.

“Guys, take a twenty-minute walk,” you called out, voice steady, eyes locked on Theo’s.

There was a beat of stunned silence.

“Huh? Why should we?” someone started.

You kissed him before anyone could finish a sentence.

Hungry. Decisive. Your grip stayed firm at his belt as your lips claimed his, leaving no space for doubt. Theo froze for half a second, then let out a quiet sound that melted straight into the kiss. His hand came up to your waist, guitar forgotten, fingers pressing in like he needed the anchor.

Outside the box, chaos erupted.

"We're in the middle of recording!"

Theo pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead resting against yours, eyes dark with amusement and heat. “Yeah, leave us alone,” he called calmly.

More protesting. A lot of shuffling. The door finally opened and closed. Footsteps faded down the hall.

Silence settled.

Theo laughed softly, breath still uneven. “You planned that.”

You shrugged, thumb hooking tighter into his belt. “You were provoking me.”

He smiled at that, slower now, something deeper flickering beneath the teasing. “Yeah?” he said, voice low. “You watching me like that didn’t exactly help either.”

He leaned in again, kissing you properly this time, unhurried but intense, hands warm and sure at your waist. The studio lights hummed overhead. His guitar pressed between you, inconvenient and ignored.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours again, grin lazy and dangerous. “Next time,” he murmured, “you could just ask.”

You smiled back, already knowing you would not.

Jiung

The bowling alley was loud in the comfortable, chaotic way that came with neon lights and too much laughter. Shoes squeaked against polished floors. Pins crashed in distant lanes. Someone was yelling about a spare that absolutely was not a spare.

Jiung stood at the ball return with his arms crossed, scowl sharp enough to cut glass.

“I swear this lane is cursed,” he complained, pacing a step. “There’s no way that curve made sense.”

The others lost it instantly.

“Hyung, you just threw it straight into the gutter.” “That was the lane’s fault?” “Do you want bumpers?”

Jiung groaned, running a hand through his hair, passion igniting instead of cooling. “I am not bad at this. I just need one good round. One.”

You leaned against the seating area, watching him spiral with a fond, dangerous sort of interest. His brows knit together. His jaw tightened. He gestured wildly as he argued his case, voice rising, competitiveness fully unleashed. The more the others teased him, the more animated he got.

And the more irresistible he became.

You bit the inside of your cheek, eyes tracking him as he grabbed another ball and tested its weight like he was preparing for battle. He muttered under his breath. Someone laughed again. Jiung snapped back with mock outrage, shoulders squared, pride wounded but loud.

You let it go on for a few minutes, enjoying the show. The way he cared too much. The way he hated losing. The way his energy filled the space around him.

Then you stood.

Jiung noticed you approaching and sighed, already bracing himself. “Are you telling me to calm down?” he asked, half-amused, half-defensive. “I know I’m crashing out, but—”

You grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him toward you.

His words died instantly.

Your lips crashed into his, all heat and intent, kissing him hard enough that he stumbled back half a step. His hands hovered in shock for a breath, then came down firmly at your waist as he kissed you back with just as much passion, like he had been wound tight and you had finally cut the string.

The world narrowed.

Laughter and noise blurred into background static as you kissed him again and again, quick and hungry, his grip tightening, his frustration burning off into something warmer. Intak wolf-whistled from nearby. Soul loudly pretended not to see.

Neither of you cared.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathing harder. Jiung’s eyes were dark, lips flushed, expression caught between disbelief and thrill.

“…shit,” he said quietly.

You leaned in close, fingers still curled in his shirt. “Fuck this stupid game.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lifted again, a slow grin spreading like he had just lost and won at the same time.

You brushed your lips near his ear and whispered, “Want to play with something else instead?”

He laughed under his breath, low and dangerous, forehead dropping briefly to yours. “Fuck you are crazy” he murmured.

Then he straightened, glanced back at the lane, and waved a careless hand. “I’m done,” he announced.

The others erupted in noise again, but Jiung only looked at you, competitive fire redirected, smile sharp and satisfied as he let you pull him away from the game entirely.

Intak

The photoshoot was controlled chaos, lights flashing, stylists moving like a well-rehearsed dance, outfits rotating through the members at rapid speed. Someone laughed every few seconds. Someone else complained about layers. The photographer kept clapping, urging more energy, more attitude.

You stayed just off set, watching it all unfold.

Intak disappeared behind the changing screen and came back out a moment later wearing a white button-down shirt, crisp and clean, the first few buttons left open on purpose. The fabric clung just enough. His collar sat loose. A glimpse of skin caught the light every time he moved.

Your patience thinned instantly.

He looked unfair. Bright smile, relaxed posture, confidence slipping into every pose like it was second nature. When he laughed, the shirt shifted, revealing more than it should have, and your attention locked onto him whether you wanted it to or not.

You forced yourself to wait.

The set eventually calmed. Adjustments were made. The other members stood near the monitors, reviewing shots. That was your opening. You walked toward Intak with a calm you did not feel, lifting your hands like you had a perfectly innocent reason to be there.

“Hold still,” you murmured, fingers brushing the front of his shirt as if fixing the collar.

He glanced down at you, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Oh?” he said. “Did I mess it up already?”

You leaned in closer, voice dropping just for him. “You look really good.”

His lips curved into a slow smirk. “Why thank you,” he said softly, then winked at you like he knew exactly what that praise was doing.

That was it.

You grabbed his shirt and pulled him down to you without warning, kissing him hard and hungry, all restraint finally snapping. His surprised inhale turned into a quiet groan as he kissed you back immediately, hands finding your waist like muscle memory. The kiss was warm and full, brief but intense, enough to make the world tilt.

Jiung nearby gagged dramatically.

You pulled back reluctantly, breath uneven, foreheads almost touching. Intak laughed softly, eyes bright, completely unbothered by the audience. He leaned in just enough to murmur, “Worth it.”

He straightened, hands still resting at your sides for a second longer than necessary before letting go. “I’ll try to behave,” he promised lightly. “I’ll finish this as fast as I can.”

You raised a brow. “You better.”

He nodded seriously, then smiled again, softer this time. “So we can go home.”

The photographer called his name, and Intak stepped back into position, slipping easily back into work mode. But every glance he shot you afterward carried a quiet promise, the kind that made waiting feel dangerous and delicious all at once.

Soul

You were used to Soul in bright colors and soft smiles. Used to the way he bounced on his heels, laughed easily, leaned into sweetness like it was his natural state. Cute. Warm. Almost harmless.

That was why the outfit caught you so off guard.

Minutes before the concert, the backstage area buzzed with last checks and rising adrenaline. Staff moved fast. Earpieces were adjusted. Someone counted down time in sharp, clipped tones. And there was Soul, standing under harsh white lights in his new concert fit.

Dark. Sleek. Sharp lines where there used to be playful ones.

Your eyes traced him before you could stop yourself. The way the fabric hugged his waist. The way the neckline dipped just enough. The way confidence sat on him differently tonight, heavier, quieter, undeniably dangerous.

“You know,” you said, stepping closer, voice low, “you look… really hot.”

He blinked, surprised, then laughed softly. “Hot?” he repeated, clearly amused. “That’s new.”

Before he could say anything else, a staff member called out, “Five minutes!”

The energy shifted instantly. The members started moving toward the stage entrance, stretching, hyping each other up. Soul reached for your hand out of habit, ready to follow.

You stopped him.

He turned back, brows knitting slightly. “What’s wrong?”

You did not answer. You grabbed his belt and pulled him flush against you in one sharp motion. His breath caught, then he grinned, slow and delighted, eyebrow lifting like he had just been let in on a secret.

“Well,” he murmured, “this is unexpected.”

You kissed him before he could say more.

Hungry. Greedy. Your hands roamed his upper body, fingers splaying over warm fabric, memorizing lines and muscle like you had been waiting all night for permission. He kissed you back immediately, hands settling at your hips, smile melting into something darker, more intent.

For a few seconds, the world shrank to heat and breath and stolen time.

Then a familiar voice cut through the moment.

“Guys,” Keeho said awkwardly, already half-turned away, “we really have to go. Like. Now.”

Soul broke the kiss reluctantly, forehead dropping to yours as he exhaled, frustration clear in the tight line of his mouth. “Bad timing,” he muttered.

You smiled softly, brushing your thumb along his belt. “Be good out there.”

He laughed under his breath, eyes lingering on you like he was making a promise he intended to keep. “I’ll try,” he said, then leaned in just enough to whisper, “But I’m definitely taking care of you later.”

Another call echoed. Louder this time.

Soul stepped back, shoulders rolling as he slipped back into performer mode, but his grin stayed just a little sharper as he joined the others. Before disappearing behind the curtain, he glanced back at you one last time, eyes bright with anticipation.

The stage lights flared.

And you knew the show was about to be unforgettable.

Jongseob

The backstage hallway still buzzed like it had not quite accepted reality yet. Voices overlapped, laughter burst and faded, staff congratulated them as they stumbled back with the trophy gleaming under harsh white lights. Someone almost dropped it. Someone else hugged too hard. The win still felt unreal, like it might vanish if everyone stopped moving.

Jongseob stood in the middle of it all, eyes bright, smile wide, energy crackling under his skin.

You watched him from a few steps away, heart full and head dangerously empty. His suit jacket sat a little crooked now, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly mussed from too many hands ruffling it. Then he reached up and loosened his tie, tugging it down in a rough, careless motion that made your attention snap painfully into focus.

You inhaled slowly.

The tie hung loose around his collar, shirt open just enough to look intentional, confidence rolling off him in waves. This was not the composed, thoughtful Jongseob you were used to seeing behind notebooks and microphones. This was victory-warmed, adrenaline-soaked Jongseob, flushed and glowing and lethal.

He spotted you then.

His smile widened as he walked over, trophy handed off to someone else without thought. “Did you see that?” he started, voice bright with disbelief. “We actually—”

You grabbed his tie.

Pulled him against you hard enough that his words vanished between your mouths.

The kiss was aggressive, hungry, born from too much emotion and nowhere to put it. His surprise lasted exactly one breath before he melted into it, a soft moan slipping out as his hands found your waist, gripping like he needed the grounding. The tie tightened between your fingers as you kissed him deeper, stealing the air from his lungs.

The noise around you blurred. Cheers turned into static. All that mattered was heat and closeness and the way he kissed you back like he had been waiting for permission to lose control.

He tasted like champagne and adrenaline.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathing hard. His forehead hovered near yours, eyes dark, lips flushed, tie still clenched in your hand.

“I’m sorry,” you said softly, thumb brushing the fabric at his throat. “I couldn’t help myself. Congratulations. You deserve it.”

He laughed quietly, chest still rising fast, and leaned in to kiss you again, slower this time but no less intense. When he pulled back, his voice dropped low, warm against your ear.

“You’re lucky,” he murmured, fingers squeezing your waist, “that we have an after party to get to.”

You felt his smile more than saw it. “Oh?”

He kissed you once more, quick and deliberate, then rested his forehead against yours. “Because if we didn’t,” he continued, voice calm but dangerous, “I would finish this in a very different way.”

Someone called his name.

Jongseob exhaled, stepped back reluctantly, and adjusted his tie just enough to look presentable again, though the glint in his eyes promised trouble later. He picked up the trophy, glanced at you one last time, and smiled like a secret only the two of you shared.

The celebration moved on.

Your handwriting is clean. Confident. Your number scrawled across it like you meant it. Like you saw him, pointed, and thought: Yeah. That one.

Bucky’s still staring when you slide onto the barstool beside him without asking, like you’ve already decided proximity is your right.

He’s six-foot-something-of-muscle-and-manners, and he still swallows nervously when you smirk.

“You dropped this,” he manages, holding up the napkin like it’s incriminating evidence.

“No,” you say, resting your elbows on the bar. “I gave it to you.”

Your confidence is… disarming. And Bucky should not like that as much as he does, but God help him, he does. His stomach dips. His neck warms beneath his collar.

Back in the 40s, women didn’t do this. They didn’t look him dead in the eye and offer themselves like he was the prize.

He clears his throat. “This usually go well for you?”

“Usually,” you shrug. “But you’re different.”

His eyebrows lift. “Different how?”

“Because you blush so easy,” you tease, thumb brushing the rim of your glass. “And you look like you’d kiss someone stupid if they asked you nicely.”

Bucky almost chokes on absolutely nothing.

You lean in, warm breath tickling his jaw. “Am I wrong, Sergeant?”

Oh, that’s dirty. That’s laughing-while-sinning dirty. His pulse spikes.

He tries—tries—to be smooth. “Depends,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough that your lips brush the ghost of a smile off his. “You usually this forward?”

“Only when I want someone.”

“And you want me?” he asks, voice embarrassingly soft.

“Yes,” you say simply. “I want you.”

The air between you melts. Thick. Honey-slow. Bucky’s sure if he put a finger to his throat, he’d feel the fluttering panic of a 20-something kid again.

“You bought my tab, too?” he asks, because it’s the only coherent thought left in the universe.

You tilt your head. “Didn’t want anyone else trying to impress you.”

“And this impresses me?” he asks, chest rising steadily—not calm, but trying.

But your fingertips trace his metal knuckles where his hand rests on the bar. “Oh, I don’t need to impress you,” you whisper. “I just need you to want me back.”

His breath stops. Just—stops.

Your hand stays there, warm against cool vibranium like you’re not afraid of the man, the soldier, the myth. Like you’d take all of him if he let you.

He thinks he’s supposed to be leading this. He thinks he’s supposed to be the one initiating, courting, knowing what to say.

But you’re staring at him like you’ve already imagined him between your thighs and you’re just waiting for him to catch up.

“Bucky,” you murmur, sliding off the stool so you stand between his knees. He looks up at you, stunned. Obedient. “Ask me to stay.”

His jaw drops. “Doll, I—”

“Ask,” you repeat, slow and seductive, eyes locked with his like you’re pulling the words right out of his lungs.

He grips the edge of the stool to ground himself. Men don’t usually get seduced like this. He doesn’t usually get seduced like this. And yet—

“Stay,” he whispers, because he can’t not. “Please. Stay.”

You smile like he just gave you the world. Like he doesn’t realize he’s the one being hunted.

And then—you settle onto his lap.

Not straddling him, not deeply, just… perched. Close enough that your chest brushes his, close enough he can smell your perfume, close enough that if he moves an inch he’ll groan.

“Good boy,” you whisper.

His spine stiffens. His fists clench. His pupils blow wide.

And that—that’s when it shifts.

That’s when Bucky Barnes, confused and flustered and very much turned on, finally exhales a low, hungry little sound that tells you you’ve poked a wolf long enough.

Your breath catches.

He lifts one hand—slow, deliberate—and curls it around the back of your neck, pulling your forehead to his until your lips barely brush.

“You’re playin’ a dangerous game, doll,” he murmurs, voice deepened to something feral. “Takin’ charge like that.”

“You don’t like it?” you ask, soft, teasing.

He chuckles. Dark. Delicious. “Oh, I fuckin’ love it.”

You shiver.

“But,” he goes on, thumb brushing your jaw as he tilts your chin up, “you flirt like this, sit on my lap like this—then you better be ready for what it does to me.”

You swallow. Hard.

“What does it do to you?” you whisper.

His metal hand curls around your hip, pulling you flush against the very obvious hardness beneath his jeans.

“That,” he says low, “should answer your question.”

Your breath stutters. Your fingers curl into his shirt. Your confidence cracks—not gone, just molten.

He smirks, nose brushing yours. “Still wanna take me home, sweetheart?”

You nod.

He kisses you—slow, savoring, like a man starved who just realized dinner has been chasing him. Your teeth catch his bottom lip, your fingers tangle in his hair, and Bucky groans like you’re rewriting his brain chemistry.

When he pulls back, he presses the napkin into your hand.

“You gave me your number,” he murmurs. “Now give me your address.”

You grin. “Why don’t I give you directions instead?”

“Well,” you say as he puts down his quill and bends to pick up his bag. “In Herbology this morning when we were cracking Wiggentree nuts, Lucy Grollen had this horrible allergic reaction and her feet swelled up so much that her shoes burst.”

“And this affects you how?” Tom drawls, diligently rubbing a Spellfriends eraser across his parchment.

You give him a scandalised look. “She’s my friend, Tom.”

He gives you a very dry look and then flips the eraser over to the purple side. “I hardly think you’d be tempted to leave the school because your friend is allergic to nuts.”

“Well she’s also my greenhouse partner,” you say dramatically, throwing yourself back in your seat, “and because she had to go to the hospital wing I had to finish the rest of the assignment alone­, and obviously by the end of class I didn’t have all our nuts cracked so Beery made me stay late to finish them. And that meant that I missed the sign up for the fieldtrip to the Menagerie of Mirabilia.”

Tom throws down the eraser and exhales in frustration. The ink remains unmoved. “You have been talking about that fieldtrip for six weeks,” he says in a clipped tone, pulling his wand from his bag. “And I have been telling you for six weeks that it was going to fill up quickly. Evanesco.”

The eraser shavings on his parchment vanish and leave both of you staring at the tenacious line of ink—which if anything, now just looks a little smudged.

His little comment about the whole six weeks thing has not left you feeling very sympathetic for him. “Wow. You have got to tell me what kind of ink you buy,” you say with a smirk as Tom tosses his wand onto the desk in frustration.

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” he says hotly, folding his arms and finally looking at you properly as he leans back in his chair. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“What happened with the fieldtrip?” he prompts irritably.

“Oh – so as I’m sure you remember, I promised Madeline I’d go with her on the fieldtrip because she’s obsessed with magizoology at the moment, so then I had to tell her I wasn’t going, and she was so upset, and I couldn't stop thinking about it because I felt so bad. So then I was really distracted in Transfiguration and of course Dumbledore notices and asks me to recite the whole definition of Amandation’s Command in front of everybody.” You sigh loudly. “So I can’t do it because I hadn't been paying attention, but then he points to the board and the definition is written right there and I just hadn’t noticed, and everyone laughed at me.”

You cross your arms too, feeling sorry for yourself. “The only solution is to drop out,” you reiterate moodily.

“This is one of your jokes,” says Tom delicately.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Yes well spotted.”

“You’ve ruined my assignment,” he says, nodding at it.

“You ruined your own assignment. With your callousness.”

Rather surprisingly, Tom snorts a laugh. “I would loathe to be my friend, to hear you describe it,” he says with suspicious ease as he extracts a new roll of parchment from his bag. “It begs the question as to why you persevere.”

“Very occasionally, you do something really nice,” you say, watching him with suspicion. Tom’s irritability rarely fades this quickly. “I just kind of zone out all the bits in-between where you’re weird and sarcastic.”

“Weird and sarcastic?” Tom repeats, lips curling. “Have you been listening to yourself since you sat down?”

“My life is ruined, and you’re worried about an assignment.”

“Your life is not ruined,” he says monotonously as he begins diligently copying over his work.

“I’m upset about this and all you care about is telling me that it’s not a big deal!”

Tom sighs curtly and looks up at you, leaning forward a bit and resting his forearms on the desk. “Your life is not ruined. Lucy Groggen is going to be fine, Wiggentree nut allergies are fairly common and the reaction doesn’t last more than an hour, the worst she’ll have to deal with is buying a new pair of shoes. Beery should never have made you complete a two-person task by yourself and it’s ridiculous that he kept you late because of his own poor class management. If Dumbledore was half the teacher that he claims to be, he might have noticed that you were upset about something and think to ask you about it, but his mistake is made all the more egregious given that he chose to single you out in front of the whole class with what sounds like a very silly little trick. And I wouldn’t worry about upsetting Madeline if I were you, because I signed you up for the fieldtrip.”

He resumes writing without another word. You stare at him, dumbfounded. A full ten seconds passes before you can rouse yourself to speak again.

“You signed me up for the fieldtrip?

Tom’s eyes remain level on his work—he’s writing at lightning speed like he’s trying to make up for the lost time. “You have been talking about it for six weeks. It seemed odd that you failed to show up.”

You look at your bag still lying dejectedly on the table in front of you and attempt to process the glowy, warm feeling spreading up through your chest. “Thanks,” you say blandly.

He just looks up at you with a glint in his eyes about halfway between wry and cynical.

“I feel bad about your assignment,” you announce.

Tom slowly smiles, this time very wryly indeed. “You have certainly changed your tune.”

You grab your bag and pull out your water bottle, placing it emphatically on the desk beside him.

Tom’s dark eyes flick from it to you, and he lifts a brow. “Is this supposed to mean something to me?”

“You have to wet a Spellfriends for it to work,” you mumble, folding your arms and resting forward on the desk.

He stares at you in a sort of frozen state of disbelief. “You mean you let me suffer through all of that for absolutely no reason?” he demands in half-subdued outrage.

“There was a reason!” you protest, smiling at him again. “It was funny.”

He blinks once, and then snatches the drink bottle off the desk, shaking his head. “You are extremely irritating,” he says icily, twisting the bottle open.

“Huh, sounds like a nightmare being my friend to hear you describe it,” you parrot back at him with a grin. “One wonders why you persevere, Tom.”

Tom pauses, and instead of the scathing look of irritation or perhaps a biting remark back, he just looks at you with an unplaceable expression like you’ve caught him off guard.

“What?” you frown, sitting up a little in concern.

Tom blinks slightly and then holds out his hand. “Pass me the Spellfriends,” he says colourlessly.

You arch a brow right back at him, and retrieve the eraser from where it’s been lying discarded for the last few minutes in front of you. “If you were wondering what I meant by the weird part in weird and sarcastic…” you say to him pointedly, placing it in his hand.

Tom silently erases the offending ink stain with a taut jaw and an irascible look darkening his eyes.

“Hey,” you say.

He ignores you entirely, sweeping the fresh shavings off his parchment and setting the eraser aside.

“Hey,” you repeat, reaching out and taking his arm.

Tom’s gaze immediately flashes to you and he goes entirely still.

“Thank you,” you tell him sincerely. “For the field trip.”

He does not immediately reply. A second later his lips part like he’s going to say something, but they close like he thinks better of it. He blinks, and then pulls his arm from yours to reach for another book. “Are you intending on actually doing work this evening, or was this visit’s entire premise just to disrupt me?”

You roll your eyes, and reach for your bag again with a smile.

Your hand hovered near his elbow, ready to correct but not crowding. He adjusted and pushed through another rep.

“Better,” you said simply.

Changbin let out a breath, relief softening his face. “Thanks. I’m always worried about messing up with all the dance routines and stuff.”

You shrugged, no fuss. “Your body’s the instrument. Play it right.”

You pulled out your shaker bottle. “Try this. It’s plant-based protein. No meat, but it works.”

He took a cautious sip, eyebrows raised. “That’s actually good.”

You smirked. “Told you. Can’t trust just any protein.”

He laughed, a little awkward but genuine. “Strong like the trainer, huh?”

You shrugged again, easy. “Something like that.”

Changbin started coming more often. Sometimes with Bangchan or Jisung, but mostly he found reasons to check in with you. A spot on a heavy lift, a quick question about nutrition, or just to hang while cooling down.

One afternoon, he was winded halfway through his set. You handed him a small container. “Here. If you don’t want a full meal, this’ll keep you going.”

He looked at you, a bit shy but honest. “You really got this figured out.”

You didn’t bother with compliments or softness. “Had to. Not the usual diet in Korea.”

His eyes lingered, warm and a little vulnerable. “I admire that about you. You’re not pretending.”

You nodded once, cool as ever. “I don’t do pretending.”

He gave a small smile, the kind that said he wanted to hold onto that for a while.

The world noticed when a blurry photo surfaced online—Changbin and you walking out of the gym together, your arm casually brushing against his. The image was unpolished, candid, but it spread fast.

Korean fans flooded the comment sections, their disbelief obvious. “They’re just friends,” some insisted, clinging to the familiar. Others whispered doubt, unable to accept the idea of Changbin dating someone so different from what they expected. The disbelief wasn’t harsh but carried an uncomfortable edge, like a quiet refusal to see what was right in front of them.

Meanwhile, international fans exploded with excitement. They celebrated the quiet strength in your connection, praising Changbin for breaking boundaries and choosing someone unapologetically herself. Their messages were loud and clear—love doesn’t have a single mold.

You saw the sideways glances when you went out, the cautious stares. You read the comments too—the cautious skepticism mixed with surprise. But you stayed steady, grounded in your truth and in what you and Changbin shared. It wasn’t a spectacle or a statement; it was real life.

Changbin, never one for grand gestures, handled it quietly. He dropped subtle hints during interviews—calling you his favorite training partner, praising the support you gave him behind the scenes. He never shouted it from the rooftops, but when he spoke about you, there was no hiding the warmth in his voice.

One night, long after the gym had emptied, you found him there, alone and tired, the weight of rumors hanging between you like thick air.

“They’re talking,” he said softly, eyes downcast.

You met his gaze, steady and unwavering. “Let them,” you replied calmly. “We know what’s real.”

He hesitated a moment before reaching for your hand, fingers slightly trembling—a rare show of vulnerability. “I’m glad you’re here,” he admitted quietly.

You squeezed back firmly, the confidence in your grip reassuring. “I’m not going anywhere.”

For a moment, neither of you said more. The gym’s quiet walls held your secret, your strength, and your unspoken promise.

Two months in, you and Changbin had settled into a rhythm that felt natural — no grand declarations, no rushed confessions, just a steady build of trust and easy companionship. You trained side by side, pushing each other without pressure, sharing small moments that said more than words ever could.

One late afternoon, the gym was quieter than usual, the fading sunlight casting long shadows across the weights. You finished your set and noticed Changbin struggling with his breathing after a particularly hard circuit.

You didn’t say much, just stepped closer and rested a hand lightly on his back. His shoulders relaxed under your touch like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Need a break?” you asked, voice low and steady.

He shook his head but didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned into your presence, like he was drawing strength from it.

You didn’t have to say it aloud, but he knew: here, with you, there was no performance. No expectations. Just two people, honest and unguarded.

Changbin glanced up, eyes softer than usual. “Thanks for sticking around.”

You smirked, shifting your weight but keeping your hand steady. “You’re the one who’s been showing up.”

He laughed quietly, the sound a little shy, a little relieved. “Yeah. Guess I can’t get enough of my personal trainer.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips was real. “Keep it up, then.”

As the sun dipped lower, the gym lights flickered on, bathing everything in a warm glow. You stayed close, comfortable in the silence that said everything.

No rush. No pressure. Just this — steady, calm, and enough.

|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||

“And that,” you declared, pointing vaguely across the room as if addressing an invisible opponent, “is why I would have won that duel if the universe wasn’t fundamentally biased against brilliance.”

Across from you, your twin brother Jaden didn’t even bother looking up, casually chewing as if your theatrics were background noise he had long since accepted as part of his life. “Or,” he said, far too calmly, “you misplayed your last turn.”

You turned to him slowly, narrowing your eyes with exaggerated betrayal. “Traitor.”

“I’m literally your brother.”

“Exactly,” you shot back without hesitation, hopping down from the table with far more grace than your performance suggested. “You should be on my side.”

Chazz had watched just long enough to decide you were insufferable.

Loud, dramatic, completely lacking discipline—everything he associated with Slifer Reds, wrapped up in one person who seemed to enjoy being exactly that.

So he turned away, dismissing you as nothing more than another distraction.

The second time he noticed you, however, you were standing in the duel arena, and there was nothing dismissible about you at all.

The Obelisk Blue student across from you had started the duel with the usual confidence that came from status alone, but that confidence didn’t last long, because you dismantled it piece by piece with a kind of ease that didn’t look forced or lucky—it looked intentional. Every move you made was clean, aggressive without being reckless, and, most frustratingly, you looked like you were enjoying every second of it.

Chazz had been watching from a distance, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his expression carefully neutral even as something sharper settled beneath it.

Because you weren’t supposed to be this good.

You were supposed to be chaotic, sure, maybe even clever in an unpredictable way, but not precise, not controlled, not capable of reading the field three steps ahead and acting like it was second nature.

And yet—

there you were.

When the duel ended, you didn’t celebrate in any grand way; you simply stretched your arms above your head as if you had just finished a light workout instead of taking down an Obelisk Blue, and then you flashed a grin at your opponent.

“Next time,” you said lightly, almost teasing, “try thinking three turns ahead. It helps.”

The Obelisk student left without a word, pride clearly wounded, and that’s when you turned—and your eyes landed on Chazz.

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Then your lips curved, sharp and knowing.

“Oh,” you said, tilting your head slightly, “Princeton.”

Something in his posture stiffened immediately. “Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?” you asked, all innocence that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Like you’re about to insult me.”

You smiled wider. “I am about to insult you.”

After that, it became almost impossible to avoid you, not because you were actively following him—though he was starting to suspect you might be—but because you had a way of appearing exactly where he didn’t want you to be, inserting yourself into moments with that same infuriating confidence, as if titles and ranks meant absolutely nothing to you.

You leaned casually against the railing one afternoon while he was going through his deck, your gaze flicking between the cards and his expression as if you were studying both at once. “Careful,” you murmured, tone light but edged with something sharper, “wouldn’t want you to lose your reputation.”

“I don’t lose,” he replied instantly, not even looking up.

“Everyone loses.”

“Not to Slifer Reds.”

That made you push off the railing, stepping a little closer, your presence suddenly more deliberate as your eyes met his. “Wanna test that theory?”

He shouldn’t have accepted.

He knew that, even as the word fine left his mouth, sharp and immediate, because something about the way you looked at him—like he wasn’t above you, like he wasn’t untouchable, like he was simply another challenge waiting to be taken apart—got under his skin in a way he didn’t quite understand.

“One duel,” he said firmly.

Your grin returned, bright and unapologetic. “Try not to cry when you lose, Princeton.”

“I won’t lose.”

“You might.”

“I won’t.”

“You will.”

“Would you just—” he exhaled sharply, irritation snapping through him, “duel.”

From the very first turn, it became clear that this wasn’t going to go the way he expected.

You weren’t just skilled—you were unpredictable in a way that made it difficult to anticipate your next move, because while he relied on structure and calculation, you moved like the duel itself was something fluid, something you could reshape in real time. You adapted constantly, shifting strategies mid-turn, turning situations that should have cornered you into opportunities instead.

And you talked.

Constantly.

“Oh, bold move,” you mused at one point, watching his field with clear interest. “Risky though.”

When he didn’t respond, you continued anyway. “That card again? Really? We’re repeating strategies now? I thought you were supposed to be impressive.”

“Would you stop talking?” he snapped, finally looking up.

You smiled sweetly. “No.”

By the time the duel reached its final stretch, the tension had shifted into something heavier, something sharper, because despite himself, Chazz had started to realize that this wasn’t just a match he could dominate through skill alone.

It came down to your turn.

You glanced at your hand, then at the field, then back at him, and there was something in your expression—something calm, almost assured—that made something tighten in his chest.

Not fear.

Never fear.

But anticipation.

“You know,” you said casually, as if you weren’t holding the final move in your hand, “you’re better than I thought.”

“I know,” he replied automatically.

You tilted your head slightly. “Still losing though.”

“I’m not—”

“Relax,” you cut in smoothly, your tone soft but firm in a way that didn’t invite interruption. “It’s not a personality flaw. Happens to everyone.”

Then you made your move.

And just like that—

it was over.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Your Life Points were barely holding on, a thin line between victory and defeat, while his had dropped cleanly to zero.

You looked at the field, then back at him, as if confirming it yourself.

“…huh,” you murmured. “That worked.”

Chazz stared at the result, at the cards, at you, trying to reconcile what had just happened with what should have happened.

“You—”

“Won?” you offered lightly.

“You got lucky.”

That made you laugh, not harshly, not mockingly—just genuinely, like the idea itself amused you. “Sure, Princeton.”

“I’m serious.”

“And I’m not?” you asked, your tone shifting slightly, something more grounded slipping in. “You miscalculated. Third turn. You committed too early.”

His jaw tightened.

Because he knew you were right.

The change wasn’t immediate, and it wasn’t something either of you acknowledged out loud, but it was there nonetheless, settling quietly into the space between you.

Respect.

Reluctant, unwelcome—but undeniable.

“You’re staring again.”

Chazz blinked, pulling himself out of his thoughts. “I’m not.”

“You are,” you insisted, arms loosely crossed as you leaned back against the wall, watching him with that same knowing look. “It’s getting weird.”

“I’m observing.”

“Creepy.”

“Strategic.”

You huffed out a quiet laugh. “Sure.”

There was a pause, softer this time, less charged.

Then, after a moment—

“Rematch?” he asked.

Your eyebrow lifted, interest flickering instantly. “Already addicted to losing?”

“I don’t lose twice.”

You studied him for a second longer, as if weighing something, before your lips curved again. “Alright.”

You stepped closer, closing the space between you just enough to make the shift noticeable.

“Try to keep up this time.”

Somewhere in the distance, Jaden’s voice cut through the moment. “LOSER BUYS LUNCH!”

You groaned immediately, throwing your head back in exasperation. “Stay out of this!”

“I’m invested!”

“You’re annoying!”

“I’m your brother!”

“UNFORTUNATELY!”

Chazz exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly despite himself, because as frustrating as you were, as unpredictable and chaotic and entirely outside of anything he was used to—

he didn’t look away this time.

“…you’re smiling,” you said suddenly, catching it before he could stop it.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“You like this.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

He hesitated for just a fraction of a second.

“…shut up.”

You didn’t, of course.

But you did take your position, your movements smoother now, more focused, the playful edge still there but layered with something sharper underneath.

Your cards were ready, your gaze steady, bright with that same challenge he had come to recognize.

“Come on, Princeton,” you said, your voice softer now, but no less certain. “Let’s see what you’ve got this time.”

And this time - he was ready.

Or at least, he wanted to be.

Because somewhere along the way, this had stopped being about proving you wrong.

And started being about proving that he could stand on the same field as you.

content warnings: voyeurism, male masturbation, afab reader, no specific pronouns used, pet names are used but they’re gender neutral, little bit of a surprise 👀, cockwarming, dirty talk, overall explicit, cervix fucking? unedited w/ typos probably

“Are you sure he can’t h-hear us?” You whispered as you laid beneath Tengen who’d been cockwarming you for the last ten minutes, his thick length buried into your heated core that sucked him all the way into you just the way he liked it. He grunted lowly and glanced over to his sleeping roommate’s bed, seeing the fury of flame colored hair smushed against his pillow, his back facing the two love birds who were currently going at it.

“Pretty sure he can’t. He sleeps through anything. Don’t even worry about it baby,” he whispered back to you, moving his hips around in a swirling motion, “We haven’t even done anything flashy yet. I’m sure you can quiet yourself down if you start getting too loud, right?”

He gave you no time to answer him, his body moving up so that he could pull almost all the way out before slamming back down into you. Watching in astonishment at the jiggle of your body, he nearly came at the sight of the waves of your body reacting to his harshness. You’d barely managed to cover up the yelp that came from your mouth but you somehow managed, lightly smacking your hand against Tengen’s chest in a bit of rage as you whisper shouted, “Warn me next time! I nearly screamed!”

Flashing you an innocent, yet knowing smile, he whispered back, “Sorry doll, I just couldn’t help myself. You’re milking my cock so well, I might just cum from being inside you.~ But where’s the fun in that?”

You have no say in what comes next, forced to watch as he’s suddenly leaning back to sit on his knees and grabbing at your legs, pulling your lower body down so he could line himself back up with your entrance. Giving you no time to protest yet again, he’s back inside of you, the tip of his unrealistically pretty cock brushing up against your cervix.

Your back arches off of the bed and you put a hand over your mouth to muffle the cry that threatened to spill from your lips. You had glared at Tengen for a split second but that lasted no time when he started moving, snapping his hips into you with a quick yet harsh rhythm. Tengen placed his hands onto your ankles and then lifted both of your legs up with ease, pushing them firmly against each other until he can feel his own length being squeezed even more thanks to this new position he’d been wanting to try. He then pushes your legs to your body as much as he can which nearly knocks the wind out of you, eliciting a low whine from your lips, “T-too much, I haven’t stretched!” You barely managed to whisper that time, too focused on the sudden stretch of your legs and back that was oddly satisfying yet suffocating as your legs pressed down onto your plush tummy, forcing you into a mating press.

Tengen is pleased by your reaction, deciding to say nothing. Instead, he eagerly bottoms out and starts to assault your poor gummy walls, listening to the sound of your squelching pussy that’s drooling all over his bedsheets.

If poor Rengoku wasn’t aware of the activities going on in the bed that was merely five feet away from his own then he was surely aware of it now. But, little did you know, this was all planned. It was no secret that he found you intriguing, despite dating one of his best friends. He just couldn’t help himself when you came around, looking so cute and round, watching your body resonate in waves with each movement. The way you carried yourself with so much unforgiving confidence and poise further made him aroused. But alas, Tengen got to you first, much to his dismay. However, Tengen soon got a whiff of his best friend’s little crush and decided to give him an opportunity he never thought possible.

As you were getting fucked into Tengen’s mattress, each thrust more relentless than the last, Rengoku had slyly turned himself around to face the both of you and discreetly started to rub one out.

You were to focused on the immense pleasure that coursed throughout your veins to notice the other man who was so obviously palming himself through his pajama shorts. Tengen had you too fuzzy in the head to acknowledge the obscenity taking place nearby.