#minho fluff

chan

The hospital elevator doors slid open with a soft ding, revealing a long hallway lined with numbered doors. You shifted the greasy paper bag in your hand, still warm against your palm, and stepped out.

Room 097. You nudged the door open with your elbow, balancing the food and a soda cup. Chan was exactly where you’d left him, propped up in bed in a 45 degree angle, eyelids heavy, hair messy and slightly curlee. The heart monitor beeped steadily beside him, its rhythmic pulse filling the quiet room.

“Brought fries,” you announced, shaking the bag a little. His head lolled toward the sound, reaction delayed.

“Fries?” Chan repeated, the word slow and dragged out. His expression suggested that anesthesia hadn’t quite worn off yet.

Chan's fingers twitched toward the bag before his hand even fully registered the movement, his wrist drooping mid-air.

You walked over and perched on the edge of his bed, the paper crinkling as you unfolded the top with exaggerated care — partly to keep grease off the sheets, partly to watch his face slowly crumple into anticipatory delight. His nose scrunched first, then his mouth fell open slightly, his whole body tilting towards you.

You handed him the bag, and his fingers curled around it carefully, then he pulled out a single fry, holding it up between thumb and forefinger, then, with a slowly, he took a bite.

The change was instantaneous. His eyes widened, fully awake now, and the heart monitor stuttered, skipped, then kicked into a faster rhythm. Beep-beep-beep.

You could practically see the dopamine hitting his bloodstream, his pupils dilating further as he chewed. “Oh,” he breathed, voice hushed with reverence. “Ohhh. this is goooood”

he attacked the next fry, fumbling slightly as his anesthesia-slowed reflexes struggled to keep up with his enthusiasm.

A fry slipped from his grip, landing on the blanket with a quiet *plop*. Without thinking, you picked it up and held it out to him. Chan leaned forward, mouth open, and let you pop it between his lips. His teeth grazed your fingertips, and he hummed around the bite.

“You—” he started, then paused to swallow, his tongue darting out to catch a stray grain of salt from his bottom lip. “You made these.” It wasn’t a question. It was a declaration, delivered by your boyfriend who’d just discovered the meaning of life in a paper bag of fast food fries.

You opened your mouth to correct him—Chan, I literally got these from the drive thru— but he was already rambling ahead, “S’why I love you,” he slurred, gesturing vaguely with a fry clutched between his fingers. “Magic hands. Could marry you. Would marry you. Right now.”

His head lolled to the side, “Do they do weddings here? In hospitals?” he paused, slowly reaching a finger to point at you "do you do weddings? like, as the bride?"

You couldn’t help it—you laughed, the sound bubbling up uncontrollably as Chan blinked at you with solemn, drug-dazed sincerity.

The heart monitor’s tempo increased another notch after he heard your laugh, keeping time with the way his free hand pawed clumsily at yours, "Pretty sure you're not legally allowed to consent to marriage while hopped up on anesthetic drugs," you said, plucking another fry with your free hand from the bag and holding it out.

Chan's mouth opened automatically, eyes crossing slightly as he focused on the fry's approach. "Mmm, but I mean it, though" he insisted around the mouthful, cheeks puffing out.

He brought your joined hands to his mouth, pressing a greasy, exaggerated kiss to your knuckles. "you make amazing fries,” he mumbled against your skin, "you'd make an amazing wife too"

minho

Did I...hic... swallow a lightbulb?" Minho's voice was thick with confusion, syllables sliding together. His eyelids fluttered against the ceiling light's glare, and somewhere to his left, a machine beeped in what felt like slow motion.

The old nurse's chuckle was warm but professional. "No, sweetheart, that's just the anesthesia. You're in recovery." She adjusted his IV with practiced ease.

Minho's fingers twitched against the stiff hospital sheets, his brow furrowing deeper when they met empty space. "huh—" He exhaled sharply, arm flopping sideways with alarming lack of coordination. "Where's—?"

Your hand caught his just as panic started creasing his forehead. The instant your skin touched his, his whole body sagged back into the pillow in relief, "Oh," he murmured, thumb clumsily stroking your knuckles. "There you are." His smile was lopsided, pupils still blown wide from the drugs.

The nurse leaned over him with a penlight, her scrubs rustling from the movement. "Mr. Lee, can you tell me where you are right now?"

Minho blinked at the ceiling tiles, his gaze drifting. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again. "No," he admitted finally, his voice scratchy with sleep and drugs. Then his fingers tightened around yours, "But my girlfriend's here so it's probably okay."

You bit back a laugh as the nurse's eyebrows shot up. She turned to you with a smile. "He's adorable when he's high, isn't he?"

Minho made a noise of protest, or at least tried to, but it came out as more of a drowsy hum, his fingers flexing weakly around yours. "Not high," he mumbled, his tongue slow and heavy. "Just..." His head lolled toward you, eyes struggling to focus. "wait," he squinted at you "you brought pudding?"

You hadn't even taken the lid off yet, but somehow, he'd already caught the scent of vanilla from the little plastic cup in your bag.

The nurse chuckled again and patted his shoulder. "I'll leave you two to it," she said, slipping out of the curtained area with a final rustle of scrubs.

Minho's face lit up when you finally pulled it out and peeled back the foil seal, his drowsy expression shifting into something close to glee.

"You know me," he sighed dreamily. His hands twitched uselessly in his lap — still too uncoordinated to hold the spoon — so you scooped up a bite and guided it toward his mouth.

He accepted it with a happy noise, eyes fluttering shut as he savored it. "That's crazy," he said around the mouthful, "How do you always know?"

You were about to tease him, something about how it wasn't exactly a secret, given the way he hoarded pudding cups in your fridge — when his expression abruptly sharpened. His brows furrowed with sudden intensity, his gaze oddly serious as he squinted at you.

"Did you feed the cats, too?"

You blinked. Of all the things for him to latch onto in his anesthesia haze, that was what his brain had zeroed in on.

"Yes," you assured him, fighting a smile. "Automatic feeder’s working, water bowl’s full, and I gave them extra treats before I left."

Minho exhaled like he'd been holding his breath, his shoulders slumping in relief. "Good," he murmured, already drifting again. His eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks, heavy with exhaustion. " 'coz sometimes they get..." His words slurred together, the sentence trailing off into silence as his grip on your fingers loosened.

You watched him for a moment, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his lips parted slightly as his breathing evened out. he hadn't even finished his pudding cup.

A soft snore escaped him, and you couldn't help but laugh under your breath. the nurse was right— he is adorable like this.

changbin

"Ow," Changbin muttered, his voice gravelly, his eyelids felt glued shut, but when he finally managed to pry them open, harsh lights stabbed his vision. He groaned, squinting at the blurry figure sitting beside him. A person, vaguely familiar, holding what looked like his phone and wallet in their lap.

He blinked. Once, twice.

The person— you —looked up instantly, pocketing your phone with a soft smile. "Hey, Binnie. How’re you feeling?"

His pupils were still blown wide from the anesthesia, giving him the dazed, unfiltered honesty of someone who hadn’t quite remembered how to censor himself yet. He blinked at you, slowly , then exhaled a quiet, awed, “…Whoa.”

You stared back at him, “What?”

“You’re really pretty.” The words came out rough, slurred at the edges but painfully earnest. He tilted his head slightly, hospital blanket pooling around his waist as he squinted at you. “Are you a nurse?”

You nearly choked on your own spit trying not to laugh. “No,” you managed.

Changbin frowned, his brows knitting together in confusion. “But you’re here,” he pointed out, “And you’re holding my stuff.” He gestured vaguely at his phone and wallet in your lap.

You bit your lip to keep from grinning. “Yeah, because I came with you.”

His head snapped up so fast his IV line wobbled. “Wait.” his eyes widened slightly “You chose to be here?”

You nodded, watching as his expression cycled through disbelief, delight, and something dangerously close to smugness in the span of three seconds.

He opened his mouth — probably to say something ridiculous — but then his gaze dropped to his own hospital gown, and his face did a complicated little twist. “Do I… look okay?” he asked, voice suddenly small.

“You're drugged,” you said with a shrug.

He pouted. “That’s not what I asked.”

Before you could answer, he made a valiant attempt to flex his bicep under the thin blanket, but the effect was ruined by the way his elbow buckled halfway through.

The IV tugged at his wrist, and he hissed, dropping his arm with a grumble. Still, he managed a wobbly grin. “Still got it,” he mumbled, more to himself than to you.

“You can barely keep your eyes open,” you teased.

“But the muscle is there,” he insisted, patting his own bicep with a sleepy sort of pride.

The nurse chose that moment to walk in, clipboard in hand, and Changbin immediately perked up like he’d been waiting for an audience. “Do I look strong right now?” he asked her, voice dripping with hope.

She barely glanced up, “Sure.”

Changbin turned back to you, triumphant, but then his expression faltered. He bit his lip, suddenly shy, fingers picking at the edge of the blanket. “So…” he started, then stopped, swallowed, tried again. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

You blinked. “Changbin. I am your girlfriend.”

Then his eyes went huge.

“WHAT?”

You burst out laughing as he stared at you in utter, slack jawed disbelief, his head whipping between you and the nurse like he needed a second opinion. “You’re serious?” he demanded, voice cracking.

“Yes.”

“You’re my girlfriend?”

“Yes, Binnie.”

His entire face turned red so fast, then he dropped his head back onto the pillow with a muffled thump, hands covering his face as he started giggling, a high-pitched, disbelieving sound that dissolved into breathless, giddy laughter.

“No way,” he wheezed, peeking at you through his fingers. “No waaay.”

The nurse turned to you, and before she could even open her mouth, Changbin jabbed a finger in your direction, grinning so wide his cheeks must’ve ached. “That’s my girlfriend,” he announced.

“I know,” she said.

“No but like—” He grabbed your hand, squeezing your fingers like he needed proof you were real. “She’s mine.”

You squeezed his hand back, rolling your eyes but unable to hide the way your cheeks warmed at his dopey declaration. "Yes, yes, we've established this," you teased, but Changbin wasn't having it — he tugged your hand closer, his grip surprisingly strong for someone who'd just woken up from surgery.

"Wait, wait—" His eyes narrowed suddenly, a suspicious wrinkle forming between his brows. "Prove it."

You arched an eyebrow. "Prove what?"

"That you're my girlfriend." He crossed his arms over his chest, the IV line got tangled in the blanket halfway through the motion.

You leaned forward before he could fumble with the IV any further, pressing a quick, soft kiss to his lips — barely a brush, just enough to shut him up.

he froze, eyes wide, his breath hitching audibly against your mouth. When you pulled back, his entire face was slack with stunned silence, his fingers hovering in mid air.

“…Oh,” he said finally, voice hushed. the tips of his ears turned red, then he swallowed hard, and nodded once, “Yeah. That checks out.”

You snorted, nudging his shoulder lightly. “Satisfied?”

“…Can you do that again?”

hyunjin

"Hyunjin, you're drooling on the pillow," you said, poking his shoulder.

Hyunjin blinked slowly, his eyelids, the anesthesia still clinging to his thoughts. He smacked his lips once, twice, then frowned, "M'not drooling," he mumbled, his words slurring together. "M'a gentleman. Gentlemen don't drool." He lifted a hand to wipe his mouth that, sure enough, had a little spit trail down to his chin.

Then the nurses approached either side of his hospital bed, One of them had a pair of scissors in her hand, which, in his state, seemed vaguely threatening until he realized they were just for cutting off the hospital bracelet. The other nurse held a neatly folded stack of clothes. His clothes.

"Alright, Mr. Hwang, let's get you changed," one of them chirped, her voice far too cheerful for someone about to strip him bare.

she reaching for the flimsy ties of his gown. Hyunjin's reflexes were delayed, but he managed to clutch the thin paper fabric to his chest just as she gave it a tug.

"Ladies, ladies, calm down!" he giggled, his words still thick. His eyes darted to you, wide and pleading, as if you alone could shield him from this indignity. "I have a girlfriend!" he announced.

The nurses only laughed, unfazed, and the one holding a fresh set of clothes— soft sweatpants and a hoodie —tried to reassure him. "We see naked people every day, sweetheart. Yours isn't special," she sighed, reaching for the gown again.

Hyunjin gasped dramatically, twisting away just enough to escape her hands, his cheeks flushing pink, "No, no, she'll get mad!" he insisted, jerking his chin toward you. His voice dropped to a whisper, though it was still loud enough for everyone to hear. "She’s scary when she’s jealous."

You couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all — Hyunjin, bleary eyed and pouting, clinging to his dignity (and his paper gown). “I’m not gonna get mad,” you said, shaking your head as you stepped closer.

It was true— you'd seen him in far more compromising positions, and besides, the nurses were just doing their job. But Hyunjin's face crumpled, his lower lip jutting out in a pout so exaggerated it could've been comical if it weren't for the genuine hurt flashing in his eyes.

"You don't care," he accused, his voice wobbling. The nurses exchanged amused glances, one of them muffling a snort behind her hand.

Rolling your eyes, you plucked the stack of clothes from the second nurse’s arms. “I care enough to dress you myself, you big baby,” you said, shooing the nurses away with a mock-stern wave. They retreated, still giggling, as you perched on the edge of the bed. Hyunjin blinked up at you, his drowsy defiance softening into something fond.

“You’re gonna…?” he slurred, and you nodded, already untangling the sleeves of his sweater. “Yeah, unless you want them to strip you.” His gasp was scandalized. “No! You’re my girlfriend. That’s your job.”

The paper gown crinkled as you peeled it away, Hyunjin’s arms flopping obediently when you guided them into the sweater. He swayed a little, forehead bumping against your shoulder, and you could feel his warm breath through the fabric.

“You’re heavy,” you grumbled, half heartedly, as you wrestled the sweater over his head. He hummed, nonsensically pleased, and muttered into your neck. “S’cause I’m a gentleman,” he mumbled, and you snorted, tugging the hem down over his hips. “Sure, keep telling yourself that.”

jisung

"Baloney," Jisung mumbled, his tongue heavy against the roof of his mouth. "Absolute…..baloney."

His eyelids fluttered, still glued shut with the weight of whatever they’d pumped into his veins. Around him, machines beeped in lazy intervals.

"I had a dream," he announced to no one in particular, louder this time, though his voice cracked midway. His fingers twitched against the stiff hospital sheets. "I had a girlfriend. Like, a whole girlfriend. Not just a ‘we held hands once’ thing. A full romcom montage girlfriend." He sighed, dreamy and dramatic, as if the memory alone was enough to melt him back into the mattress. "She laughed at my jokes. Even the bad ones. The really bad ones."

A quiet chuckle came from beside him. it was warm, familiar. "Yeah?"

Jisung's eyebrows shot up, his face twisting into a mix of confusion and exaggerated offense. "Yeah?" he repeated, dragging the word out like it personally wronged him.

His head lolled toward the sound, still fighting to pry his eyes open. "Don't 'yeah' me like that. This was cinematic. We—" He hiccuped, the motion making his IV tube sway. "—we fed each other and....cuddled..The whole cliché shebang."

The chuckle came again, softer now, closer. A hand brushed his wrist, fingers skimming the edge of his hospital bracelet. "Sounds serious."

"Dead serious," Jisung insisted, nodding so vigorously his neck protested. He winced, "I think she might’ve been a ghost."

The hand on his wrist squeezed, just enough to pinch. "Ow—hey!"

"Definitely not a ghost," you said, your thumb rubbing slow circles over the inside of his wrist where you'd pinched him.

Jisung's fingers twitched again, curling weakly toward your touch. His eyelids finally unstuck, blinking rapidly, he squinted up at you, pupils blown wide, the brown of his irises nearly swallowed by black.

Jisung stared at you for three full seconds before his lips parted in a slow, lopsided grin. "Oh," he said, dragging the syllable out, "You're real." His head flopped back against the pillow, a delirious laugh bubbling up from his chest.

"That's wild. I thought you were, like. A metaphor. Or a side effect. Or—" He hiccuped again, one hand flailing vaguely toward the IV drip. "— drugs."

You caught his hand mid-air, lacing your fingers through his. His skin was warm, slightly clammy, but his grip tightened instinctively around yours. "Nope," you said, popping the 'p' right in his face. "Just me. Your very real girlfriend."

Jisung blinked at you, like he was trying to commit every detail of your face to memory before the drugs wiped it clean again.

His grin widened, dopey and unfiltered, “Holy shit,” he breathed, his free hand lifting to poke your cheek— once, twice —as if testing for holographic resistance. “You’re solid. Like, actually solid. not a...ghost”

You snorted, catching his wandering fingers before they could migrate to your nose. “Ghost girlfriends don’t usually pinch,” you pointed out, squeezing his hand again for emphasis.

“Fair,” he conceded, then leaned in, “But listen,” he whispered, “If you were a ghost, I’d still be into it.

You burst out laughing, the sound bouncing off the walls. Jisung’s eyes lit up at the noise, his entire face softening at the noise. “You’re so gone”

Jisung’s happy expression turned into confusion. “Gone?” he repeated, tilting his head. “Nah. I’m here. Like, physically here.” He wiggled his toes under the thin hospital blanket for emphasis, then immediately winced. “Okay, maybe not all of me is here. My feet are kinda… zoning out.”

“They’ll come back,” you promised. “Just give the drugs time to wear off.”

felix

Felix blinked awake, eyes wide and unfocused, his face still slack. He looked around, then his head turned toward you, and his lips curled into a grin so sudden it was like someone had flipped a switch.

"There she is," he murmured, voice thick with sleep and whatever cocktail they'd pumped into his veins. "C'mere, c'mere." His hand flopped against the hospital bed sheets, patting the space beside him, " You're so... shiny right now. Like a... a disco ball, but softer. And smaller. And—" He squinted. "Are you glowing, or is that just me?"

You laughed, "I'm not glowing, lix" you stepped closer to him, sitting at the edge of the bed and planting a kiss on his forehead.

"I missed you," he announced solemnly, as if you'd been gone for years instead of the twenty minutes it took to wheel him out of surgery and back. "I missed you too, baby," you answered with a smile

Then, abruptly, he tensed. "Wait." His fingers tapped your arm, "Did you eat today?"

You laughed, "Yes, Felix. I ate."

His voice had lost its drowsy slur, "Are you sure you ate? fruits?.." He paused, holding a hand up to count on his fingers "like carrots, cucumbers, and also...yogurt"

"I had a sandwich," you said slowly, "and an apple. And yes, yogurt, if that’s what you’re worried about." You smoothed a hand down his arm, feeling the tension coiled there. "Felix, what’s—"

He exhaled sharply, his body sagging back against the pillows. "Good," he muttered, more to himself than to you. His eyelids fluttered, heavy with residual drowsiness. "That’s good." His grip loosened, fingers sliding down to lace clumsily with yours. "Gonna make you brownies when we get home," he mumbled, the words slurring at the edges.

"Brownies with walnuts," he clarified, because this was vital information. His voice was thick, half lost in the cottony haze of fading anesthesia. "And—and extra chocolate chips. The kind you like."

You smiled, squeezing his hand gently. "You're gonna burn them," you teased, "Like last time." The memory of smoke alarms and Felix waving a dish towel like a surrender flag made your chest ache with something fond and familiar.

Felix made a noise of protest, his head lolling toward you. "Not gonna burn them," he insisted, words smudging together at the edges. "Gonna use the timer. The one with the—" He gestured vaguely with his free hand, fingers sketching shapes in the air. "The beep. The loud beep."

seungmin

The first thing Seungmin noticed was the ceiling. It was off white, with large square lights glaring down at him. The second thing he noticed was the dryness — his throat felt like it had been stuffed with cotton balls, then set on fire. He tried to swallow and winced.

"Ugh," he croaked, his voice barely louder than a whisper. The word came out rough, scraping against his raw throat.

He blinked slowly, his eyelids heavy as if someone had glued weights to them. The lights above him cast a harsh glow that made his head pound. He squinted, turning his face away.

"Someone turn that shit off," he mumbled, but no one answered. The room was quiet except for the steady beep of a monitor nearby. He tried to lift his arm to shield his eyes, but his limbs felt like wet noodles. A dull ache radiated from his shoulder down to his fingertips.

Then he heard laughter — soft, familiar. His brows furrowed, and he turned his head toward the sound. You were sitting in a chair beside the bed, grinning at him like he’d just told the funniest joke in the world.

Seungmin’s smile was slow, the kind that started at one corner of his mouth and crept upward until it reached his eyes, crinkling them at the edges. "You're here," he said, voice still scratchy but suddenly brighter, as if your presence had flipped a switch in him.

"My throat hurts," he murmured, pouting in a way that would've been ridiculous if it weren't so endearing. "My head hurts, too. And the lighting in here is ugly." His voice was thin, frayed at the edges, but the way he said it made you laugh again.

The sound seemed to startle him, his eyes widening slightly before his expression melted into something unbearably fond. "Oh," he said, as if surprised by his own realization. "You're laughing. That's nice." He blinked slowly, his gaze drifting over your face like he was memorizing it.

Then, he added abruptly, "Actually, I might be dying. Can you check?"

You rolled your eyes (fondly) and reached for the water bottle on the bedside table, twisting the cap off with one hand. "You're not dying," you said, sliding a straw inside and guiding it toward his lips. "You're just dramatic."

He opened his mouth obediently, letting you guide the straw between his teeth. The first sip was tentative, but the second was greedy, his throat working as he swallowed.

Seungmin exhaled sharply through his nose, water droplets clinging to his lower lip as he pulled away from the straw. His eyes — still hazy from anesthesia — locked onto yours with sudden, startling clarity. The corners of his mouth twitched, and then, his entire face softened.

"Actually," he murmured, his voice still rough but lighter now, "things are looking up. The lighting is better now." and then, because Seungmin had never been subtle a day in his life, he added, "Or maybe it's just you."

You snorted, but your fingers tightened around the water bottle anyway. "Wow," you deadpanned. "You're so smooth post surgery. Do they pump you full of charm with the anesthesia, or is this just your natural state?"

Seungmin's laugh was a quiet, breathy thing, more vibration than sound. "Natural talent," he croaked, then winced. "Ow. Laughing hurts. Stop being funny." He reached for the water again, but his hand wobbled mid air, his fingers twitching toward yours instead.

You guided the straw back to his lips without comment, watching as he took another slow sip. His throat worked, Adam's apple bobbing, and when he leaned back against the pillow, his expression was smug. "See? Told you. Better already."

You arched an eyebrow. "The water or me?"

"Yes."

jeongin

The nurse who worked at the hospital was old. she had seen it all before — confused Post-operation patients, disoriented trauma cases, people who swore they were Napoleon. But this was different.

She checked Jeongin's chart again, tapping her pen against the clipboard. "And what's your name, sweetheart?" she asked, though she already knew the answer. Standard procedure. Always a standard procedure.

Jeongin blinked up at her, pupils still dilated from the anesthesia. His hair was a mess, sticking up in three different directions. He opened his mouth, hesitated — then his eyes slid past her shoulder, and his entire face transformed. A slow, dopey grin spread across his lips, so wide it looked like it might hurt. "You,"

You hadn't even said anything yet. You'd just walked into the recovery room holding a paper cup of water, freezing cold from the vending machine down the hall.

The nurse glanced between the two of you, eyebrows rising. "Do you know who this is?" she asked Jeongin, nodding toward you.

Jeongin didn’t even glance at the nurse. His gaze stayed locked on you, dopey and adoring.

“Of course I know,” he said, voice slurred but certain. “That’s—” He paused, brow furrowing, then brightened. “That’s my...girlfriend!”

The nurse’s pen hovered over her clipboard, her lips pursed in amusement. “Alright, Mr. yang,” she said, “What year is it?”

Jeongin blinked at her, his grin faltering for the first time since you’d walked in. His brow scrunched up, the effort of concentration visible in the way his fingers flexed against the sheets.

Then, with a sudden, helpless laugh, he turned his head toward you, his eyes pleading. “You tell her,” he said, then turned his head back to the nurse and whispered “She knows everything.”

You couldn’t help it — you snorted, pressing the back of your hand to your mouth to stifle the sound. and he beamed back at you.

the nurse chuckled, there was a fondness in it as she scribbled down in her clipboard. “Uh huh, and does ‘she’ know what planet we’re on, too?”

Jeongin’s face went blank for a second, then lit up again. “Earth,” he announced proudly, then, he added, “But I think she could tell you about the other ones. If you asked nice.”

The nurse’s pen paused mid scribble. She gave you a look — half exasperated, half amused — before sighing and flipping her clipboard shut. “Alright, Romeo. You’re officially the most charming post-op I’ve had all week.”

She patted Jeongin’s shoulder, then nodded toward the door. “He’s all yours. Just don’t let him try to walk yet” and she left with a final smile, the door clicking shut behind her.

Jeongin’s head turned to your direction, he tried weakly to reach for you, and you reached out and let him clumsily intertwine his fingers with yours.

“You’re real,” he murmured, he’d half convinced himself you were a hallucination.

You squeezed his hand, biting back a laugh. “Pretty sure. Unless we’re both hallucinating, which would be—”

“Awesome.”

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You’d been friends for so long that boundaries like this didn’t exist between you. He was gay, after all. Out and proud, a top through and through, with zero experience or interest in women. Or so you’d always believed. His stories were always about men: the chase, the dominance, the raw power of it. You’d listen, tease him, and share your own hetero escapades without a hint of awkwardness.

But that evening, as the wine warmed your veins and loosened your tongue, you dove into the details of your best sex ever.

"It was with this guy I met at that bar downtown," you started, your voice dropping low as you painted the picture. "We barely made it to his place. He pushed me against the door, kissing me like he was starving—slow at first, lips brushing mine, then deeper, his tongue teasing until I was melting. His hands slid under my shirt, fingers rough on my skin, tracing up to my breasts, pinching my nipples just hard enough to make me gasp. Then he dropped to his knees, hooked my leg over his shoulder, and... god, Minho, his mouth on me. Licking slow circles around my clit, sucking it gently while his fingers slipped inside, curling against that spot that makes everything tighten. The wetness, the heat—it built so slow, like a fire you can't control, until I came undone, shaking against him. And when he finally fucked me, it was deep, rhythmic, his body pressing mine into the mattress, every thrust hitting just right. That mix of tenderness and force... that's what makes hetero sex addictive."

Minho had gone quiet, his dark eyes fixed on you with an intensity you’d seen before, but only when he was dissecting a problem at work or eyeing a guy across the room. His fingers, which had been tracing absent patterns on your ankle, stilled. He shifted slightly under your legs, and you felt the subtle tension in his thighs.

"Sounds... vivid," he said, his voice a low rumble, almost thoughtful. He took a slow sip of his wine, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. "But I don't get it. With guys, it's all about the edge—the control, the friction. No... softness or mystery. What's the appeal of that? Of... women?"

You laughed, nudging his side with your foot. "You'd have to try it to know, Mr. Gay-and-Proud. But you've never even looked at a girl that way. Vaginas probably terrify you."

He didn’t laugh back. Instead, his gaze lingered on you, curious, almost analytical.

"Never have," he admitted, setting his glass down with a soft clink. "But now... I'm wondering. Seriously."

His hand moved up your calf, just a fraction, his palm warm against your skin. It wasn’t sexual—not yet—but there was a spark in it, a question. "What if we... explored? Just to satisfy the curiosity. No expectations, no labels. Show me why it's 'addictive'."

Your breath caught. Was this a joke? His eyes were serious, that sharp jawline set in determination, but there was uncertainty flickering there too—the way his brows furrowed slightly, like he was second-guessing his own words. Your heart pounded, a mix of thrill and nerves. You’d always found him attractive in that objective way: tall, lean-muscled from the gym, with tousled dark hair and a smirk that could disarm anyone. But he was gay. This shouldn’t be happening. Yet the idea ignited something in you, reckless and hot.

"You're sure? This could be weird."

"I'm curious," he repeated, his voice steadier now, though his hand trembled just a bit as it rested on your knee. "But only if you want to. Teach me."

You didn’t rush, instead you nodded, and he stood first, offering a hand to pull you up. His palm was calloused from weights, warm and firm, and as you both walked to his bedroom, the hallway seemed longer than usual, each step building this electric tension. The room was dimly lit by a bedside lamp, the sheets rumpled from where he’d napped earlier, carrying a faint scent of his cologne—woody and masculine. He closed the door softly, and you stood there, facing each other, the air humming with unspoken questions.

"Start slow," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. You stepped closer, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw. His skin was smooth-shaven, warm under your fingers, and he didn’t pull away. Instead, he watched you, his breath shallow. You leaned in, brushing your lips against his tentatively. He hesitated, his mouth firm but unresponsive at first, like he was processing the sensation. Then, slowly, he kissed back, his lips parting yours with a gentle pressure. It wasn’t passionate yet; it was curious, his tongue flicking out to taste you, a soft hum escaping him as if he was analyzing the difference.

His hands found your waist, gripping lightly through your shirt, and you pressed closer, feeling the solid wall of his chest. "What does that feel like?" he murmured against your mouth, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. There was genuine wonder there, mixed with a flicker of doubt.

"Like I like it," you whispered, sliding your hands under his shirt, tracing the ridges of his abs. His skin was hot, taut over muscle, and you felt him tense—not in rejection, but in surprise. He wasn’t hard yet; you could tell from the way your bodies brushed. He was gay, after all—this wasn’t instinctual for him. You had to earn it, draw him in with patience.

You guided his hands to the hem of your shirt, encouraging him to lift it off. He did, slowly, his eyes widening as he exposed your bra, the lace cups hugging your breasts.

"Soft," he said, almost to himself, his fingers brushing the curve tentatively.

He cupped one, thumb grazing the nipple through the fabric, and you arched into him with a soft moan. That sound seemed to intrigue him; his touch grew firmer, pinching lightly, watching your face for reactions. "Does that... feel good?"

"Yes," you breathed, reaching behind to unhook your bra, letting it fall. His gaze dropped, curious and appraising, like he was seeing a woman's body for the first time in this light. He touched you again—bare now—his palms rough against your sensitive skin, rolling your nipples between his fingers. The sensation shot straight between your legs, making you wetter, but you held back, letting him explore at his pace.

He leaned down, hesitantly pressing his lips to your collarbone, then lower, trailing kisses that were more experimental than heated. When his mouth closed over your nipple, it was gentle—a flick of his tongue, then a suck that made you gasp. He paused, looking up. "Too much?"

"Perfect," you encouraged, threading your fingers through his hair. He grew bolder, alternating between licks and nips, his free hand sliding down your side to your shorts. But he stopped there, fingers hovering at the waistband, uncertainty clouding his eyes again. "I don't... know what to expect," he admitted, voice husky but vulnerable.

"Trust me," you said, guiding his hand lower. He slipped under the fabric, fingers brushing your panties, feeling the damp heat through the lace. His breath hitched—a mix of surprise and intrigue.

"You're wet," he murmured, almost in awe, pressing gently against your folds. The pressure sent a jolt through you, but he was slow, rubbing in tentative circles, learning the shape of you.

You moaned softly, rocking against his hand, and that seemed to spark something. He pushed your shorts down, kneeling as you stepped out of them, his face level with your core. His eyes darkened, curiosity winning over doubt.

"Show me," he said, voice low.

You spread your legs slightly, pulling your panties aside. He stared, transfixed, then leaned in, inhaling your musky scent, getting aroused. His tongue darted out experimentally, a light lick along your slit that made you shudder.

"Salty... sweet," he whispered, tasting again, slower this time. His uncertainty shone through in the way he paused between licks, but each one grew more confident as your breaths turned ragged. He found your clit, circling it with his tongue, sucking gently while his fingers probed—sliding one inside you, feeling the slick tightness.

"Oh god, Minho," you whimpered, your hands gripping his shoulders. He hummed in response, the vibration intensifying everything, but he wasn’t fully there yet—his body responding, but not overwhelming him. You could feel him half-hard against his jeans as he pressed closer, but it was the curiosity driving him, the puzzle of your reactions.

After what felt like an eternity of building pleasure—his mouth devouring you now, fingers curling deep—you came with a cry, clenching around him, your juices coating his lips. He pulled back, licking them clean, his eyes wide with a mix of satisfaction and lingering question.

"Now your turn," you said, dropping to your knees, hands on his belt. He hesitated, standing still as you undid it, pulling down his jeans and boxers. His cock was semi-erect—thick, veined, but not fully aroused. "It's okay," you assured him, wrapping your hand around it, stroking slowly. He groaned softly, his hips twitching, but his eyes held that uncertainty. "Feels... different," he admitted, watching you.

You took him in your mouth, slow and teasing—tongue swirling the tip, tasting the salt of his pre-cum. He hardened gradually under your touch, his breaths deepening, hands fisting in your hair. "Fuck," he muttered, curiosity turning to heat as he grew fully erect, throbbing against your lips.

When he couldn't take it anymore, his hands gripped your arms with a surprising firmness, pulling you up from your knees. Your mouths crashed together in a fierce kiss, his tongue delving deep, tasting the remnants of himself on your lips mingled with your own lingering flavor. It was messy, urgent—the tension that had been simmering finally snapping like a taut wire. His body was alive now, every muscle coiled with that newfound heat, his cock fully hard and straining against your thigh as you both stumbled toward the bed.

He broke the kiss just long enough to grab a condom from the nightstand drawer, his fingers fumbling slightly in his haste, a remnant of that earlier uncertainty. But his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with lust, as he tore the packet open and rolled it on with steady, deliberate strokes.

"I want to feel it," he growled, his voice low and rough, pushing you back onto the bed with a gentle but insistent shove. The sheets were cool against your heated skin, a stark contrast that made you shiver. He hovered over you, positioning himself between your spread thighs, the tip of his cock nudging your entrance. He sank into you inch by inch—slow, so agonizingly slow—his face a mask of wonder as your warmth enveloped him.

"Fuck... so tight, so... different," he breathed, his brows furrowing in concentration, hips rocking forward tentatively. The stretch was delicious, filling you completely, every ridge of him sliding against your inner walls, slick from your earlier orgasm.

You both started gentle, your bodies finding a rhythm—his thrusts shallow at first, exploratory, like he was mapping how you clenched around him. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and whispered, "Like this—slow and deep at first. Feel how I respond."

He nodded, sweat beading on his forehead, his hands bracing on either side of your head as he sank in fully, bottoming out with a groan that vibrated through his chest into yours.

But as the pleasure built, that curiosity in him ignited into something feral. His pace quickened, thrusts turning harder, more insistent, his top energy surging forward like a dam breaking.

"Teach me more," he demanded between breaths, his voice husky, eyes locked on yours with an intensity that made your core tighten.

"Okay," you gasped, pushing at his chest until he pulled out—reluctantly, with a frustrated growl. "Flip over—missionary's basic, but let's try doggy. It'll hit deeper." You turned onto your hands and knees, arching your back, presenting yourself to him. He hesitated for a split second, his hands running over your ass appreciatively, squeezing the flesh before aligning himself again. When he thrust in, it was with a sharp snap of his hips, burying himself to the hilt in one go.

"Oh god, yes," you moaned, the angle letting him stroke that sensitive spot inside you perfectly.

Minho's control slipped then, he went feral, gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks, his fingers digging into your skin as he pounded into you senselessly. The room filled with the wet slap of your bodies, his balls smacking against your clit with each brutal thrust.

"Fuck, this... this is insane," he panted, his voice breaking as he leaned over you, one hand sliding up your back to tangle in your hair, pulling your head back just enough to expose your neck. He bit down lightly, sucking a mark there while his other hand reached around to rub your clit in frantic circles.

You pushed back against him, meeting every thrust, your breasts swaying with the force of it. "Harder—don't hold back," you begged, and he obliged, fucking you with a raw, animalistic fervor you’d never expected from him. His cock dragged against your walls, thick and unrelenting, building that coil in your belly tighter and tighter. Sweat dripped from his body onto yours, your scents mingling—musky, aroused, intoxicating.

"Another one," he grunted, pulling out suddenly and flipping you onto your back again, his strength surprising you. "Show me how to make you ride me." You straddled him eagerly, guiding his cock back inside as you sank down, taking him deep. His hands roamed your body, gripping your thighs, then your breasts, pinching your nipples as you rocked your hips in slow circles at first, grinding your clit against his pelvis.

But he wasn’t content to let you lead for long. With a feral snarl, he bucked up into you, his abs flexing as he took over, thrusting upward with powerful, erratic strokes that made you bounce on him.

"Like this?" he asked, but it was rhetorical—his eyes were wild now, lost in the sensation, one hand clamping on your ass to guide your movements faster, harder. You leaned forward, your hands on his chest, nails scraping down his skin, leaving red trails that made him hiss in pleasure.

The tension peaked, your pussy clenching around him rhythmically, milking him as another orgasm ripped through you, waves of ecstasy making your vision blur.

"Minho—fuck, I'm coming," you cried, your body shaking uncontrollably. That pushed him over the edge; he went utterly senseless, hips slamming up into you with a few final, brutal thrusts before he came with a shuddering roar, his cock pulsing deep inside, filling the condom as his body tensed and released.

You both collapsed together, him still buried in you, your breaths ragged and synced. His arms wrapped around you possessively, that feral edge softening into something tender, but the air still hummed with the aftershocks of what you’d unleashed. Curiosity had turned into chaos, and you knew you’d both crave more.

—••

The days after that night felt like walking on a live wire—every glance, every casual touch between you carried an undercurrent that hadn’t been there before. Minho didn’t pull away like you’d half-expected him to. No awkward "that was a one-time thing" speech, no sudden distance. If anything, he leaned in closer. His texts came faster, his teasing sharper, laced with something new: heat.

You both didn't talk about it outright at first. You just... existed in the aftermath. Movie nights where his arm draped over your shoulders felt heavier, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm that made your skin prickle. Late-night calls where his voice dropped lower when he asked about your day, lingering on details like he was memorizing them. And the way he’d look at you sometimes—dark eyes flicking over your lips, your throat, the curve of your hips—felt like he was seeing you for the first time.

It built slowly, that realization in him. You could feel it in the way his breath hitched when you stretched in front of him, shirt riding up just enough to show skin. Or when you’d catch him staring at your mouth while you talked, like he was replaying the memory of it wrapped around him. He was still Minho, still the same sharp, confident guy who’d never once questioned his identity, but cracks were forming in the certainty he’d carried for years.

One evening, about two weeks later, you were both back on his couch. Rain hammered the windows, the room dim except for the glow of the TV you weren't really watching. You’d kicked off your shoes, legs tucked under you, wearing one of his old hoodies that swallowed you whole. He sat closer than usual, thigh pressed to yours, beer bottle dangling from his fingers.

"You've been quiet," you said, nudging him with your elbow.

He huffed a laugh, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Thinking."

"About?"

He set the bottle down, turned to face you fully. His gaze was intense, unguarded in a way you’d rarely seen. "About how I can't stop thinking about that night. About you." He swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing. "I thought it was just curiosity. One and done. But it's not. It's... more. And it's fucking with my head because I was sure—sure—I was gay. Full stop. No room for anything else."

Your heart thudded hard against your ribs. "And now?"

"Now I look at you and my dick gets hard. I hear your laugh and it hits different. I smell your shampoo on my pillow and I want to bury my face in your neck while I—" He cut himself off, exhaling sharply through his nose. "I don't know what label fits anymore. Bi? Pan? Something else? All I know is I want you. Badly. And not just once."

The admission hung between you, raw and vulnerable. This was Minho laying his confusion bare because the pull was stronger than his old certainties.

You reached out, cupping his jaw, thumb brushing the sharp line of it. "You don't have to have it all figured out tonight. But if you want to explore... I'm here."

His eyes darkened, pupils swallowing the brown. "I want to explore. Everything." He leaned in slow, giving you time to pull back if you wanted. You didn't.

The kiss started tentatively, your lips brushing, testing you like he was still learning the shape of this desire. But when you parted your mouth, inviting him deeper, something in him snapped. His hand slid to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head exactly how he wanted. The kiss turned hungry, tongues sliding, teeth grazing your bottom lip hard enough to sting. He groaned into your mouth, low and wrecked, like the taste of you was unraveling him.

You both didn't rush to the bedroom. You stayed on the couch, making out like teenagers discovering fire. His hands roamed under the hoodie; palms hot on your bare back, tracing your spine, cupping your breasts through your bra. When he thumbed your nipples, rolling them slow and firm, you arched into him with a whimper. He broke the kiss to watch your face, fascinated, like every reaction was new data.

"Still wet for me?" he murmured, voice gravel-rough.

"Always," you breathed.

He slid a hand down, cupping you over your leggings. The pressure made you grind against his palm instinctively. "Fuck. I love how you feel. So soft... so ready." There was wonder in his tone, mixed with that feral edge from before. He rubbed slow circles over your clit through the fabric, watching your hips buck. "Tell me what you want."

"Touch me properly," you begged. "Fingers. Mouth. All of it."

He didn’t hesitate. He tugged your leggings and panties down in one go, spreading your thighs wide on the couch. The cool air hit your soaked folds, making you shiver. Minho stared, transfixed, his breathing ragged. "You're dripping," he said, almost reverent. Two fingers slid through your slickness, coating them, then pushed inside; slow, deep, curling just right. You moaned, loud and shamelessly.

He watched his fingers disappear into you, then leaned down, tongue flicking out to taste. One long, slow lick from entrance to clit had you jolting.

"Still tastes like heaven," he muttered against you, before sealing his mouth over your clit and sucking hard, insistently. His fingers pumped steadily, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room. You tangled your hands in his hair, grinding against his face, chasing the edge.

When you came, it was explosive; your back arching off the cushions, thighs clamping around his head as you cried his name. He didn't stop, lapping through the aftershocks until you were trembling, oversensitive.

He pulled back, chin glistening, eyes wild. "I need to be inside you. Now."

You both stumbled to the bedroom, clothes shedding in a trail. Naked, he pushed you onto the bed, slid a condom on in record time. But this time, there was no hesitation, no uncertainty. He flipped you onto your stomach, yanked your hips up, and thrust in deep—one hard, claiming stroke that made you both groan.

"Like this?" he growled, setting a punishing rhythm. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you back onto his cock with every snap of his hips. The angle was brutal, hitting that spot over and over until stars burst behind your eyes.

"Yes—fuck, Minho—harder."

He went feral again, but different now—possessive, like he was staking a claim on this new part of himself. One hand slid around to rub your clit, the other fisted your hair, arching your back so he could lean down and bite your shoulder. "You feel so fucking good," he panted. "Tight. Wet. Mine."

You pushed back, meeting every thrust, the slap of skin loud and filthy. "Come inside me—want to feel you lose it."

He roared when he came, hips stuttering, cock pulsing deep as he filled the condom, body shaking against yours. You followed seconds later, clenching around him so hard he cursed under his breath.

You collapsed, sweaty and spent. He didn't pull out right away; instead, he wrapped around you from behind, lips brushing your neck in soft, almost reverent kisses.

"Still figuring it out," he whispered after a long silence. "But I know one thing—I want this. You. Whatever label ends up fitting... I'm in."

You turned in his arms, kissing him slow and deep. "Then we're figuring it out together."

And in the quiet after, with his heartbeat steady against your back, you felt the shift settle—not just in him, but between you. His bisexual awakening wasn't a lightning bolt; it was a slow burn that had finally caught flame. And neither of you was letting it go out.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Authors note: Happy New Year guys ❤️ I’m just dropping this here as proof of life lol. I deleted the app over the holidays because i wasn’t really feeling connected anymore and also because i didn’t want distractions writing my novel (which is finished by the way 🤩) I won’t be releasing that till mid year though, because its going through all the processes… DON’T WORRY GUYS, I HIRED A REAL LIFE EDITOR, I LEARNED FROM MY MISTAKES LOL! I cant wait to show you guys my book 😭😭❤️❤️❤️. It ain’t fanfic by the way.

Anywho! Whenever the urge comes to write some skz smut, I’ll definitely come make a post 😉🥰

Comment if you wanna be added to the taglist just in case. I love you!

“Oh, you should’ve just said that then! He’s snackish,” you reply, as if it’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for why you’re positioned between Felix’s thighs, back to his chest, head lolled, letting him nibble on your neck as he pleases. The numbing agent in his saliva makes you feel slightly floaty. 

He is not actually putting any effort into it, like he does when he feeds. He just passively lets trace amounts of blood travel through his fangs every so often. Enough to satiate. Enough to satisfy neediness. 

Jeongin, sprawled across a couch and paying zero attention to you, mutters, “This is such a stupid show.” It’s the first time he’s spoken in over an hour, too enthralled to interrupt the stupid show beforehand. It’s not enough to dissuade you from chucking a throw pillow in his direction. 

Turning back to Chan, you reiterate, “Come join.” He opens his mouth to refuse, but you speak first. “You were up until noon yesterday, at least take a break. With us, preferably.” 

Against your neck, Felix nods his head as much as he can in his position. 

“No. I have work to do,” Chan replies. He doesn’t make a move to go do his work, though. It’ll be a back-and-forth conversation, then. He always breaks, nobody knows why he still insists on putting up a squabble over things like this. Appearances, probably. 

It takes a few seconds to fish the remote out of your pile of blankets, but eventually you find it and lower the volume. Everyone resolutely ignores Jeongin’s protesting groan. 

Felix finally disconnects and licks over his puncture marks. Their saliva contains healing properties, and it’s a general house rule that they don’t leave visible marks anywhere on your skin. A smattering of bite marks decorate your inner thighs – it’s a point of pride for a few select members. 

“Tastes good.” Felix says. He’s behind you, but you can hear the pout in his voice. “Get over here.” 

“It’s not healthy for more than one person to feed from you at a time. You’ll lose too much blood.” 

“He’s not sucking that hard,” Jeongin interjects, apparently now committed to the conversation  now that he can’t hear your cartoon. “Don’t,” a pointed look at you, “It’s too easy of a joke.” 

“You don’t like how I taste?” 

Chan throws a mirroring pointed look at Jeongin, his own silent plea not to take the bait. Then he turns back to you. “Honey, you know that’s not what I meant, but you’ll get lightheaded without food.”

Felix grabs a strawberry off the brownie-and-fruit plate beside the two of you. 

“You’ll get cold.” 

You shift to get comfier in Felix’s embrace and adjust the blankets draped across your lap. 

Twin pairs of footsteps creaking down the staircase interrupts any other argument Chan could put up. Han and Minho appear – Minho looking smug, while Han is smoothing down his hair. They’re both too enamored with each other to notice everyone else staring at them, watching their grand entrance. 

A few more steps down, one instance of Han nearly tripping down the stairs, and Minho finally looks up. He surveys the scene. Studies Chan’s stance. Glances over you and Felix. “Oh, are we snacking?” he asks.

Instead of verbally answering, you hold out your closest arm in offering. 

Han emits an incomprehensible noise that might not be words at all, then immediately turns into a blur. One moment he is still descending the stairs, the next he’s diving onto the floor and crashing into your side. 

For all his eagerness, Han takes great care not to harm you. 

He grasps your arm in his cold fingers, careful not to bend it uncomfortably, then sinks his fangs into the crook of your elbow. A slight prick of familiar pain sprouts in the seconds before his saliva takes effect. Soon enough, Han’s snuggling into your side, while Felix pulls you in closer with a gentle hum and reattaches himself. 

Minho follows Han to the ground, as he tends to go wherever Han goes. There’s another pinprick on your wrist when he joins in. 

The four of you settle into each other while a new episode’s introduction begins. Much to Jeongin’s delight, Felix reaches around to grab the remote off your lap and turn up the volume again. 

Chan releases a disbelieving sigh, but gives in anyway, just like everybody – including himself, if he’s honest – knew he would. It’s common knowledge he never stands a chance against any of you. As much as he would deny it if asked, he will actually do most things you want. 

He announces over the theme song, like it’s news, “Fine, but I still won’t feed. It’s the principle of it.” 

“You have too many principles of things,” Jeongin murmurs. 

It was barely audible, but Chan heard it just fine. Jeongin doesn’t realize what’s happening until it’s too late. 

Chan crosses over to where Jeongin is splayed out, pauses in front of the couch, and lets his entire body weight fall on top of the youngest. A slight kerfuffle breaks out while he tries to take up as much of Jeongin’s real estate as he possibly can. Jeongin relents, accepting fate, and allows himself to be cuddled. 

The couch is definitely not big enough for two grown men to lay horizontal, but they make it work. While everyone else is distracted watching the screen, Jeongin presses a kiss into the top of his head and begins playing with the ends of his hair. Chan isn’t the only one whose appearances crumble nearly instantly. 

Over time and more episodes, Changbin, Hyunjin, and Seungmin all wander into the living room. Seungmin wordlessly takes up post with your other wrist and stays there, batting away Changbin when he tries to squeeze in. 

It’s comfortable, steady, domestic in a way that makes your thoughts fuzzy if you think about it too long – which might have something to do with the four vampires attached to you, but that’s neither here nor there. 

An hour later, Chan’s snores ring out through the room. They nearly drown out the speakers. Jeongin insists you pause the show for him while he carries the oldest to bed. Hyunjin insists he’s too old to be this invested – notably, it’s also the first time he’s spoken since he joined the cuddle pile. 

Now that he’s started talking, though, he keeps at it, whining to Felix, “You’ve had her neck forever! I wanna turn!” 

Felix’s grip on you tightens. His thighs move upwards to cage you further into him. Hyunjin gets the message. 

Night evolves into dawn, and the beginnings of early light seep through your curtains around everyone’s yawns. The living room divulges into darkness when a half-conscious Felix turns off the screen. Your marathon is finally over. Nobody paid any attention to the last few episodes anyway.  

Minho jostles Han awake, fangs still sunken in your skin. Sleepily, Minho licks over both his and Han’s marks and whisks away the younger man to bed. 

You don’t even realize you’re moving until Felix has you pressed against his chest. He whispers, “C’mon, love, let’s go to bed,” into your ear, just for you to hear. 

Truthfully, he could have yelled it from the highest rooftop. He could have screamed it into a microphone. It wouldn’t make a difference. You’re the only person he wishes to hear him. Everything he speaks is for you and the other seven members of his house. And he’ll spend the rest of eternity grateful that you’re his.

☆ note: wrote this between clients, so if it's ass do not tell me, ty love u

the dorm is a trap.

that’s the first thing you realize when you step through the front door and spot the first sprig of mistletoe dangling innocently above the entryway.

the further you wander into the dorm the more you find. there’s another over the kitchen doorway. and another in the hallway. and—fucks sake, there's one over the bathroom door too.

"jisung," you say flatly, dropping your bag by the door.

he looks up from the couch and his expression gives him away immediately. he’s far to pleased with himself, lips pressed into a smug smile. "yes?"

"why."

"holiday spirit?" he offers, but the grin splitting his face tells you everything you need to know.

hyunjin pokes his head out from the kitchen, also grinning. you feel a part of you shrivels and die because of course hyun is in on it, too. "we thought it would be fun."

"fun for who, exactly?"

"for us, obviously." hyunjin says cheerfully. "now every doorway is a potential romance zone."

you're about to respond when you hear footsteps behind you, and your entire body goes rigid. you don't need to turn around to know who it is—you can feel minho's presence like a gravitational pull.

"romance zone?" minho's voice is low, amused. he's close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. "interesting."

“you guys,” you start, taking a very deliberate step to the side. you’re careful to avoid the mistletoe overhead as you make a beeline for the living room. “have so much fun. i am not participating in whatever this is."

the evening proceeds exactly as you'd feared. you map out the mistletoe locations in your head like some covert tactical operation, calculating safe routes through the dorm like your life depends on it.

kitchen? go around through the living room. bathroom? hold it. bedroom? you'll just... stay in the living room forever, actually.

the problem is that minho notices.

of course he notices. minho notices everything.

you’ve learned over the time you’ve known him that he has this uncanny ability to pick up on the smallest details, the slightest shifts in behavior. and you've been painfully obvious in your efforts of avoiding doorways for the past hour.

you catch him watching you when you take the long way around to reach the couch. his eyes track your movement with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. when you awkwardly squeeze past felix to avoid the kitchen doorway, minho's lips quirk up at the corner.

he's onto you.

worse, he seems to find it entertaining. that’s what the little sparkle in his gaze says, anyways.

"you okay?" changbin asks at one point, when you've been sitting in the same spot for forty-five minutes. "you need something from the kitchen? water?"

"nope," you say too quickly. "i'm fine. very comfortable. not moving."

across the room, minho smirks.

you last another twenty minutes before your bladder betrays you. you eye the bathroom door from your position on the couch, weighing your options. the mistletoe hangs there like a threat. maybe you can just... duck under it really fast?

you make your move during a commercial break, when everyone's distracted. you're fast, efficient, ducking your head as you approach the doorway and—

walk directly into a solid chest.

"going somewhere?" minho asks.

how the hell did you not notice he’d also gotten up??

you look up to see him (and you) standing directly under the mistletoe. you don’t even have to question the fact that he's absolutely done it on purpose. his eyes are bright with mischief, his smile lazy and confident.

"move." you say.

"can't," he gives a small gesture to the door frame above you. "mistletoe rules."

"that's not- those aren't real rules."

"ji and hyunjin seem to think they are." he glances over his shoulder, where the two culprits are watching with unconcealed glee. "and it would be rude to waste their hard work."

"minho, when have you ever cared about what they’ve said?"

"just one kiss," he presses. "that's the rule, right? then i'll let you pass."

you could push past him. you could duck under his arm. you could do a lot of things that aren't meeting his gaze and muttering, "fine. one kiss."

minho clicks his tongue in a way that screams satisfaction. he leans down to kiss you, and it's supposed to be quick, just a peck, just enough to satisfy the stupid mistletoe rule.

except minho's hand comes up to cup your jaw, tilting your face just so, and his lips are softer than you expected, warm and sure against yours. and instead of pulling away after a brief press of lips, he lingers.

you linger.

his thumb strokes along your cheekbone, and you make a small sound in the back of your throat that you'll definitely be embarrassed about later.

later. because right now, minho is kissing you deeper, his other hand sliding to your waist to pull you closer. when you grab onto his shoulders for balance and feel him smile against your mouth.

"that's not a quick peck," you manage to say once you break apart for air.

"no," he agrees, and then he's kissing you again.

someone in the living room wolf-whistles. someone else—probably jisung—says something that sounds like "i knew it," but it's hard to focus on anything except the way minho kisses like he's been thinking about it for a while, like he's got all the time in the world to explore the curve of your lips and the angle of your jaw.

you end up pressed against the doorframe with both of minho's hands framing your face. you're pretty sure you're supposed to be doing something—going somewhere—but you can't remember what. can't remember anything except the weight of his attention focused entirely on you, the way he hums low in his throat when you kiss him back with equal fervor.

"okay, okay, that's enough," hyunjin's voice breaks through the haze. then a little quieter he grumbles "we created a monster. we created two monsters."

minho pulls back just enough to speak, his forehead resting against yours. "you're the ones who hung mistletoe everywhere."

"we didn't think it would work this well," jisung mutters.

you're breathless, flushed, incredibly aware that you have an audience. minho doesn't seem to care, not with the way he's still holding your face like something precious, his eyes searching yours.

"you've been avoiding me," he says quietly, just for you.

"i was avoiding the mistletoe."

"why?"

because you knew damn well if you kised him once you wouldn't want to stop. because you’ve been trying very hard not to think about kissing minho for months now. because he’s minho and you’re you and it all seemed so complicated.

"seemed safer." you say with a shrug.

his smile is soft, almost fond in a way you’ve only seen when he’s playing with his cats. "and how's that working out for you?"

"terribly."

minho laughs and then he kisses you again, gentle and quick this time. "good," he whispers against your lips. "because i've been trying to get you under the mistletoe all night."

"you have?"

"mm. you're very good at evasion. made me work for it."

and suddenly your face feels like it's on fire. "i really do need to use the bathroom."

"okay." but he doesn't move, just looks at you with those a knowing look.

"minho."

"one more?"

you should say no. you should definitely say no, except you're already leaning in, already meeting him halfway for another kiss that's supposed to be quick but somehow isn't.

from the living room, someone groans. "they're going to do this at every doorway now, aren't they?"

"definitely," felix snorts, sounding delighted.

you break away with a breathless laugh, pushing lightly at minho's chest. "bathroom. now."

"don't take too long," he says. "there's mistletoe over the bedroom doorway too."

your heart does something incredibly complicated in your chest at the same moment your stomach swirls with an unlabeled heat. "is that right..?"

"mm." he hums, smirk far too dangerous for just a random tuesday.

you flee to the bathroom before you can do something stupid like kiss him again in front of everyone.

so here you are now, crouching on a folding stool at the edge of a chain-link cage, knuckles wrapped in tape and chalk dust still on your palms—not because you’re fighting, but because it looks more official that way. the air reeks of sweat, spit from thrown punches, and something metallic you try not to identify until it crosses over into your medic corner. adrenaline thrums like a constant heartbeat through the dimly lit warehouse, where the overhead bulbs buzz in protest and gaggles of fans shift in the stifling late-night heat.

your eyes scan the fighters as they dart in and out of your corner, logging vitals, noting ragged breaths, checking small cuts before they turn serious. each grunt, each slip, each jab demanded attention— and you gave it, professional instinct kicking in, even if your stomach twists at some of the violence.

he was there, of course. he always is.

he’s leaning against the far corner tonight, just beyond your reach but impossible to ignore. lee know. a fighter, an enigma, and somehow entirely predictable in his unpredictability. the first time you noticed him, he’d barely spared a glance at the corner; a flick of his gaze, a quirk of the brow. that was all you got. and yet somehow the moment had carved itself into memory.

he’s utterly recognizable wherever he goes in the warehouse, with that dark hair like a raven river sweeping across his forehead, sometimes fluffy, sometimes matted with sweat; and those broad shoulders always pulling deliciously at whatever tank he’s thrown on, arms lined with muscles that serve to power punches like nothing you’ve ever seen before.

he never spoke much whenever he deigned to let you patch him up after some of his rougher fights. just stared up at you with those piercing eyes that could make even the worst sinners blush like a saint. he was as stoic as he was skilled, but you tried not to let it deter you.

you filled the silences with your own chatter; if he minded, he never let on. but he always kissed his knuckles before throwing a punch after letting you bandage him up.

tonight, like always, his eyes find yours in the crowd. he doesn’t wave. he doesn’t smile. his presence is just… there, looming taut, dangerous, a little too magnetic. and when one of the fighters in the match preceding his takes a heavy blow in the ring, your pulse spikes— not for the fight, not yet— but for the quiet certainty that he’ll be there, watching, assessing, seeing the way you work against the damage he inflicts.

your coworker is dragging the sore loser of the last fight toward the small med station, murmuring reassurances you only half-register. your eyes stay locked on the ring. the fight is over, but a new one is about to begin— and the moment lee know steps in, the world shrinks.

he moves like water held in check: precise, controlled, but with the underlying promise of force ready to spill. you catch him stretching first– the slow rotation of his shoulders, the flex of his forearms, wrapped fingers splayed like he’s mapping the air itself. calves shift, heels rise, then land solid against the canvas, measuring distance with muscles you didn’t know could move that cleanly, that tautly.

he bounces lightly on the balls of his feet, a rhythm that’s both a warm-up and a warning. every shift of weight, every flick of his head, is deliberate. his eyes sweep the cage with surgical attention, noting angles, distances, posture, every detail that could become a weakness— or an opportunity. you swear you can see calculations running behind his gaze, lightning-quick, merciless. ready to win.

the air seems to bend around him. there’s heat, yes, but it’s not from exertion yet— it’s the aura he carries: taut and charged, a predator in pause. he traces imaginary punches midair, elbows slicing diagonals, wrists flicking out to test the arc. each movement is fluid, effortless, but it carries threat; the kind that makes your stomach tighten and your pulse spike even if nothing has touched you.

your notebook— meant to log vitals— is forgotten on the bench. your hands itch to touch, to reach out and feel how controlled every muscle is, how he could crush or protect with the same motion. the way his back flexes, the lines of his shoulders, the subtle twist of his torso as he shifts from one stance to another— he’s poetry, danger wrapped in sinew and solid intention.

he stops for a moment, eyes narrowing, scanning the cage. your chest aches for the briefest acknowledgment, some sign that he knows you’re watching. the corner of his mouth quirks up; not quite a smile, but almost. 

it’s enough. you smile despite yourself.

then he loosens his fists, lets them fly in slow, deliberate shadow punches as he warms himself up. the sound of air slicing past— almost a hiss— draws your full attention. every punch has purpose, and you can see the lines connecting shoulder, elbow, wrist, knuckles, snapping back into guard. it’s motion honed to a razor’s edge, and your chest tightens with each strike.

and then he pauses at the center of the ring. stance perfect, posture relaxed but primed, gaze sweeping the space, measuring, calculating. the aura shifts— it’s less warm-up now and more for intimidation. he breathes, slow, steady, but every inhale seems to draw the air tight around you. you feel it. the temperature rises. the buzz of anticipation makes your fingers curl around your pen.

your coworker nudges you back to reality with a quiet, “you should be taking notes,” but the words barely register. all you can see is him: fluid, precise, unshakable.

and in that moment, you’re caught completely. enthralled, heart hammering, notebook abandoned, the taste of adrenaline sharp on your tongue. 

he’s a fighter, yes.

but he’s also a storm, a controlled one; and you’re already teetering dangerously close to being pulled in.

—

the fight has been dragging on for the better part of an hour now. 

the crowd’s roars are a distant hum in your ears, but the impact of each hit thuds through the cage, vibrating up your spine. lee know moves like water cutting stone— smooth, fast, lethal— but his opponent refuses to crumble. every jab, every hook, every measured strike is met with stubborn, ragged resistance.

you know you’re not supposed to be partial to any of the fighters; your job is to patch them up no matter what. but you can’t help it.

you clutch the edge of your bench, knuckles white as you watch him duck under a wild swing, pivot, and land a sharp hook to the ribs that makes his opponent grunt and stumble— just slightly, never enough to finish. sweat glistens along lee know’s jaw, the muscles in his neck flexing with every rotation, every strike controlled, purposeful, like he’s a hurricane contained in sinew.

then it happens. 

a flash of movement you almost miss: the opponent counters with a sharp uppercut that snaps lee know’s head back, then rakes his nails across his jaw in a split-second scrape. you gasp, heart in your throat, as crimson beads bloom along the pale skin of his handsome face. the referee jumps in instantly, shouting for a time out.

lee know drops to the bench next to you like a wolf finally acknowledging the muzzle, shoulders sagging but still radiating danger. you jump to your feet, grabbing madly for your kit; he lets you cradle his head in your hands without protest, and suddenly all the chaos of the fight is replaced by this small, charged pocket of closeness.

“you’re a mess,” you murmur, reaching for the damp cloth; but there’s a tension in your voice, a flutter in your chest that betrays your calm exterior. your fingers trace the lines of his jaw, dabbing at the cut on his nose, pressing gently to stop the blood from dripping onto his shirt.

he smirks faintly, eyes glittering with mischief and sweat, even in pain. “only for you,” he rasps, and it’s just enough to make your heart pound ever harder in your chest.

you bite back a laugh, returning to the task. you wipe at his temple, cradle his cheek with care, adjusting the antibiotic cream before you lay little white bandages over the scrape. your hands linger a fraction longer than necessary, fingertips brushing against tense skin, memorizing the curve of his jaw and the tilt of his head.

“you always this careful?” he asks softly, voice hoarse, teasing in the barest of ways.

“someone has to keep you in one piece,” you reply, tone clipped but your heart racing. the words are professional enough, but your pulse betrays your growing awareness of just how close he is.

he tilts his head into your touch, eyes closing briefly. “maybe i like it when you fuss,” he admits quietly, almost shy if you didn’t know any better; but there’s heat in his chest and throat that you can feel through your palms.

the time-out bell is ticking down, the distant hum of the crowd returning. you give him one last dab at the wound, press the cloth to the scrape along his jaw, and lift your gaze. he watches you with an intensity that makes the air between you electric, his near-smirk returning as he grips the bench. you rewrap his knuckles with lightning speed– just to be sure.

“am i all patched up, y/n?” he murmurs, voice low, dangerous, teasing, the ghost of a smile playing at the corner of his lips.

you smile back against your better judgement and nod. “go get ‘em, tiger,” you say softly, and he raises his freshly wrapped knuckles to his mouth, kissing them once with a smirk before the bell rings and the fight resumes.

— 

the gym is almost empty now, the crowd thinned to the last few diehards who shuffle toward the exit, shouting their goodbyes or slapping each other on the back. the overhead bulbs hum low, casting long shadows across the sweat-slicked canvas. your coworker has already packed up, leaving you alone with him, the quiet settling like a second skin.

lee know is still sitting on the bench, shoulders tight from the fight, knuckles still wrapped in your white tape, sweat glistening along the sharp lines of his forearms. you crouch in front of him again, kit open at your side, fingers brushing against the newest shallow cut along his cheek as you dab at it with antiseptic. his jaw is tight, lips pressed together; but he leans into your hands, just enough to tell you that your touch doesn’t feel like an intrusion.

“you should ice this one,” you murmur, careful, tracing the curve of his jaw where a faint bruise promises to bloom later. it’s only yellow for now, but it’ll brighten into an ugly purple soon enough if he’s not careful.

“i’ll live,” he answers lowly, his eyes flicking up to meet yours for a fraction of a second before returning to where he’s slowly unraveling the wraps around his fists.

“you always brush your injuries off,” you press, tone soft but insistent, wanting to hear more than the clipped surface. you smooth out the tiny white bandage across his nose, whispering a soft sorry when he winces ever so slightly.

“habit,” he murmurs with a shrug, letting the word hang. it’s neutral enough; but the tilt of his head, the way his gaze keeps catching yours, says otherwise.

your fingers linger, brushing gently over the edge of his cheek where the blood has dried in a faint line. his eyes are half-lidded, chin tipped just so that your touch reaches the curve of his jaw. he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t jerk away; he just lets you patch him up, stoic, silent, like he’s anchoring himself to the moment. like he’s letting you anchor yourself to him.

“does it hurt?” you ask softly, though you already know the answer– he always says no. your hand hovers over the still-healing cut on his temple from a previous fight, your thumb brushing the edge of his skin as if testing for a reaction. he doesn’t lean in, but he doesn’t pull back, either.

“not like it did last week,” he murmurs, voice clipped, but there’s something in the tone— barely perceptible— that tells you he’s amused by all your fussing. a flicker in his eyes betrays it.

you dab lightly at the last little scrape, antiseptic cooling against his warm skin, tracing the line of the cut with care. your pulse hammers a little harder in your chest with each brush of your fingertips. he shifts subtly, just a fraction, trusting you to take care of him. you always do.

“you’re quiet,” you murmur, brushing the damp cloth across his temple again. “usually you’d be muttering complaints or some cryptic advice.”

“not tonight,” he says flatly, gaze dropping to the floor. the words are short, yes, but there’s weight to them. he doesn’t want to speak, but he also doesn’t move away. he allows this— he allows your hands on him; allows your focus, your presence.

you tilt your head, studying him. there’s a faint sheen of sweat along the curve of his jaw, along his neck, and the muscles beneath flex gently under your fingertips when he adjusts his posture. your eyes trace him with care, memorizing the lines, the tension, the way his body moves even when he’s still. you press the damp cloth to his forehead once more.

“you let me do this too easily,” you say; your voice is almost a whisper, your fingers still lingering over the scrape along his cheekbone.

he meets your eyes, and you swear you forget how to breathe. “yeah, well. someone’s gotta keep me from falling apart.” he leans his head into your hand for a fraction more than necessary, and you swear you can feel his heartbeat through his skin. it’s steady, strong, almost mocking your own racing pulse.

“how do you do it?” you ask suddenly, voice low. “how do you keep so… precise? so controlled in there?”

“practice,” he answers, clipped, eyes finally meeting yours, “years of it.” his gaze is sharp, calculating, but something softer flickers in it— respect, acknowledgment, maybe even a trace of humor.

“come on. there’s more to it than just practice,” you press, leaning in just slightly, your hand brushing over his shoulder as you adjust a bandage you’ve fussed over too many times already. 

and then the words crystallize before you have time to think about them: “teach me.”

he freezes. for a fraction of a second, his expression remains unreadable, lips pressed tight. then his eyes flick down to your hands, brushing against his skin, brushing against him in ways that maybe aren’t just for clinical care. he swallows, subtle, and finally exhales. “maybe someday.”

you catch his eye with a spreading grin, “someday? c’mon, you’ve got to give me a starting point,” you pester, refusing to let him hide behind his usual stoicism. “just a little. just enough for me to understand. i’ll be careful, i promise.”

he glances away, jaw tight, fingers flexing. the faintest smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “mm…you’re relentless, you know?” he murmurs, voice low, almost indulgent, almost a warning.

“if you’re trying to flatter me into dropping it, that was a miserable failure,” you say teasingly, eyes locking with his. the heat between you thickens, silent and charged. your hands hover near his temple again, touching nothing yet holding everything. your fingers squeeze the cloth still in your grasp like it’s a tether to reality.

he finally leans back slightly, that smirk firming into something more real. “fine,” he concedes eventually— but the weight in his tone is enough to make your chest lift. “i’ll teach you. step by step. but not now; i apparently have some injuries i need to ice tonight.”

you smile despite yourself, pulse still fast, savoring the victory hidden in the concession. “deal,” you say firmly. the promise of learning how to hold your own hangs heavy in the quiet gym, louder than any fight you’ve watched tonight.

he watches you a beat longer, expression still revealing too little, but the faintest warmth in his eyes betrays some small part of him that’s already anticipating the lesson. your fingers twitch, itching to trace the lines of his face again, but you no longer have any real reason to do so. nothing professional, anyways. 

so you step back, careful; letting him remain ever the enigma, the storm, the controlled force that yields to you in small and stolen moments.

and as the last of the sparse crowd files out, the gym hums low, filled only with the two of you, the quiet aftermath of chaos, and the unspoken promise of what’s to come.

—

the practice room is half-dark by the time lee know wanders in, the overhead light buzzing like it’s on its last leg. the stale air smells like chalk dust and old sweat, concrete floor stained where gloves and knuckles have bled out. you’re perched on a low bench, knees bouncing. 

you catch his eye as he approaches, smiling faintly; he doesn’t grant you one back, but you do catch his lips twitching once before he drops onto the stool in front of you without a word. 

he’s holding a roll of hand wraps. 

“give me your hand.” his voice is flat, the kind that doesn’t bother making room for argument; you have half a mind to ask why. but you find the words die out on the tip of your tongue. 

you hold a hand out for him, palm stiff, like you’re not entirely sure what you signed up for. he catches it, and his hand dwarfs yours— skin rough, knuckles scarred, but grip steady. the cloth stretches as he threads it around your wrist the way you’ve done for him so many times; tight, but not too tight. his fingers brush the inside of your palm when he anchors it between each of your fingers, and you swear your heart hits the ceiling. 

he doesn’t look at you, only at the slow rhythm of wrap after wrap, like you’re another fight he’s breaking down into steps. “you’ll break your thumb if you tuck it wrong,” he mutters. when you shift into making a fist with the hand he’s wrapped, he huffs through his nose— annoyed— and repositions your grip himself. 

his touch is clinical. it shouldn’t feel like anything. but it does. 

he removes your thumb from inside the fist and nudges it to the side, then presses over your closed fingers once to check your strength. he sighs, but doesn’t move you any further; you must’ve done something right. he moves on to wrapping your other wrist. 

by the time he finishes the second hand, he’s close enough that his knee knocks yours when he straightens. he nods sharply toward the bag hanging in the corner. “stance.” 

you copy what you’ve seen him do a hundred times from your side of the ring— feet planted, fists up. it earns you nothing but his signature exhale. “too wide. weight’s off.” he says shortly. he taps your heel with the toe of his shoe until you shift. then he presses your shoulder, making you bend just slightly. “lower.” 

you roll your eyes. “are you always this bossy?” 

his gaze flicks up, unreadable. “depends, princess. you always this sloppy?” 

you should fire back. you should. but his chest brushes your back when he steps in to adjust your form, and your brain blanks out completely at the touch. his hand closes over yours, angling your wrist until the punch feels like it could actually land.

he doesn’t move away once he’s done fixing your stance; just stays there, breathing steady, the air between you far too heavy to ignore. finally, he steps back, allowing you to drive a jab into the bag. 

the sound is satisfying—sharp, solid. you think it’s a decent enough punch. 

but before you can pull back for another, his hand flashes out and catches your fist mid-air, sparks humming to life in your veins. the cloth’s tight against your skin, your pulse hammering into his palm through it. 

he studies you for a beat too long. “not bad.” the praise comes low, almost reluctant. and then he lets go like he’s been burned, stepping away before you can ask what the hell that look in his eyes was. 

“you need more weight behind it though,” he says, “throw your body into it.” he jerks his chin toward the bag again. “punch.” so you do. or— you try. 

your fist thuds against the bag, more of a sloppy swing than a clean strike. the bag barely shivers, and you hear that sigh you could recognize anywhere from behind you once more. “again.”

his voice is clipped, but not wholly unkind. just focused– like you should be. 

you throw another. you’re still off. 

he exhales yet again, the sound closer to a growl this time, and steps in. one scarred hand circles your wrist, the other steadying the back of your elbow. he guides you through the motion slow, almost painfully slow, showing you the correct form. 

“straight line, no curve. your shoulder leads.” he pushes until your arm extends exactly the way he wants it, knuckles brushing the bag. “you don’t throw with your arm. you throw with everything.” 

you crane your head back to blink at him, confused. “everything?” 

he doesn’t bother explaining; instead, his palm finds your hipbone, nudging it until your stance shifts, then taps your core with two fingers. you think your eyebrows can’t possibly fly any higher up your forehead. “here. start here.”

the touch is fleeting but it leaves heat under your skin nonetheless, like he’s markimg you through the fabric. you feel like if you were to peel the material away, you’d see his handprints branded over every place he’s touched you tonight. 

“try again.” 

this time you hit the bag with the full twist of your body. the sound is louder, cleaner. you look back for his reaction; his mouth barely twitches— approval, maybe— but he doesn’t linger on it.

he circles around, pacing. “give me some combinations. one-two, right-left.” you follow his example after he punches the bag in demonstration, jabbing twice after him. the second throw slips, and your fist collides weakly with the bag. 

he catches your hand before you can reset. “stop aiming for power, y/n. aim for precision. power comes later.” 

you want to snap at him— you’re trying, damn it— but he’s already moving, standing directly behind you now, one arm guiding yours through the motions again like a puppeteer. your back presses flush with his chest every time you extend, driving you slowly mad. the bag sways gently with the echo of your punches. 

the room has gone too quiet, still except for the drag of wraps with every punch, the smack of fabric on canvas, the rasp of both your breaths. finally, he steps back, eyes narrowed. “spar it.” 

your jaw threatens to drop. “you mean… spar with you?” 

he shakes his head, gaze unreadable. “with the bag.” then, after a beat, “i’ll push.” he braces the bag with his forearms, those muscles lining his arms pulled taut, waiting. 

you hit it again— jab, once, twice. each strike drives the bag into him, but he doesn’t budge. just stares at you over the top of it, sweat beading along his temple, absorbing your every move like it’s nothing. his mouth is a firm line, just as unyielding as the rest of him. 

“harder.” 

you grit your teeth and throw another set, putting your whole body into it. your knuckles sting under the wraps, your lungs burn, your muscles protest loudly; but the feeling is liberating, addictive. you keep going under his neverending gaze. his voice cuts in low, steady: “better. go again.” 

by the time your arms ache to the point of screaming, he finally lets the bag swing free. it collides back into your chest harder than expected, knocking you back a step with an ungraceful ‘oomph’. 

he lets out a chuckle; it might be one of the first you’ve ever heard from him. you think he should laugh more. “maybe i should teach you dodging next,” he mutters. 

you roll your eyes, taking the chalk he’s offered from his outstretched hand. “shut up, minho.”

–

you find yourself back in the gym the following week, lee know at your side as he shows you how to block incoming punches.

the lights overhead flicker faintly, buzzing like they’re the only other ones awake this late. sweat and chalk hang heavy in the air, and the bag sways idly from its chain as if it’s already bracing for impact. you’re jittery with anticipation, fists balled, ready to swing like last time.

but before you can even so much as cock your arm back, his palm flattens firmly against your wrist, halting you mid-motion.

“guard first,” he says evenly, eyes cutting to yours in a way that makes the order sharper than the words themselves. “you’ll get wrecked if you can’t protect your face. fists up.”

you frown, but obey, raising your hands. they hover somewhere near your cheeks— close enough, you think.

apparently not.

he huffs through his nose, stepping closer until his shadow nearly swallows you. his fingers slide over your knuckles, nudging them higher into a more protective position. the rough drag of his hard-fought calluses over the back of your hand sends sparks down your spine.

“too low,” he mutters. “like this.”

he curves your elbow inward with a guiding press, his touch patient but unyielding. your chest tightens. he’s not even really looking at you, more focused on your stance than he is on the deep blush rising to your cheeks, but every adjustment has you fighting to keep your pulse steady.

you drop your guard instinctively just to catch your breath. big mistake.

his hand darts out, quick as a strike, flicking you lightly on the forehead. “dead,” he says simply, smirk curling at his lips.

your jaw drops. “you didn’t even—”

“exactly.” he interrupts smoothly. his gaze finally flickers up, that same half-grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “block, or take a hit. there’s no in-between in a fight.”

you groan but reset anyways, throwing your hands up again. he doesn’t look impressed.

when he raises his own hand, curling it into a loose fist, you realize belatedly that he intends to test you. “ready?”

you nod, determined this time— only to flinch when his knuckles ghost slowly toward your cheek, the barest shell of a punch meant only to simulate reality. your hands fly up too long after they should’ve.

he catches your wrists midair, holding them in place. “you’re distracted,” he murmurs observantly. “can’t afford to be distracted in a real fight, though. if you ever get in one.”

your pulse is erratic against his grip– you are distracted, far too caught up in how his hair is falling into his eyes and not worried enough about your less-than-perfect guard form. he doesn’t squeeze your hands, doesn’t fully restrain; but somehow the steadiness of his grip feels stronger than anything.

“again,” he orders, releasing you.

this time you plant yourself, knees bent, fists tighter. when his hand comes forward, you meet it with your forearm. the block isn’t clean, but it’s contact.

a quiet hum escapes him, low in his throat— approval, maybe. he takes your elbow then, shifting the angle. “closer. you don’t want space for anything to slip through.”

his chest brushes your shoulder as he leans in to demonstrate, his own arm lifted in a perfect guard. the proximity alone makes your head spin.

“copy it,” he tells you, voice steady, but you can feel the heat radiating off him where he lingers.

you mimic his posture, and he adjusts slowly, one fingertip tapping the dip of your ribcage to tell you to tighten up; then a palm steadying your wrist, his other hand ghosting over your jawline just to tilt your face into the right alignment.

you’re melting. completely. utterly.

he notices— of course he notices— but his expression doesn’t betray more than the faintest twitch of amusement, of awareness, before he drops his hand back to his side.

“better,” he says simply. then, after a beat, “again.”

you block the next slow jab cleaner. the one after that is even sharper. he doesn’t praise, not outright; but his eyes linger a little longer on your stance, and when his hand comes to reset your elbow once more, it feels less like correction and more like… confirmation.

“you’ll get there,” he murmurs, almost too low to catch.

your chest is tight, your fists trembling— not from the exertion, but from the way every brush of his hand leaves an aftershock. a trail of fire zips down your skin, radiating, spreading from each point of contact.

lee know doesn’t comment on it. doesn’t have to. the twinkle in his dark eyes says it all.

when the bag sways in the corner, begging for more strikes, you glance at it eagerly; but his voice cuts through. “not yet. you should work on your guard until it’s second nature.”

you pout petulantly, “but punching is the fun part.”

his lips twitch again, fleeting amusement warming the otherwise cool set of his features. “punches are only fun if you’re still standing to throw one.”

and then his fist comes toward you again in slow motion, testing, relentless— forcing you to block, to feel the weight of his presence in every correction, until your muscles ache and your chest heaves.

by the time your arms feel like lead and your guard’s trembling more than holding, he finally steps back, head tilting as he studies you. his gaze flickers from your fists to your flushed face, then back again. if you didn’t know any better, you’d think there’s an appreciative glint behind those dark eyes you’ve become so fond of.

“…good enough,” he says at last, almost begrudging. “you’ve earned a swing.”

you don’t bother hiding your grin as he jerks his chin toward the bag. the thing sways gently, chain creaking overhead like it’s mocking you.

you draw back your fist, exhilaration rushing your veins— only to feel his palm flatten lightly between your shoulder blades. you jolt.

“not like that.” his voice rumbles close to your ear, his breath grazing the side of your face. “reset.”

your knees nearly buckle, but you obey, planting yourself again.

his hand doesn’t leave. it slides down, pressing at your spine, coaxing you to square your shoulders. the heat of him is everywhere— his chest just behind you, his knee brushing the back of yours when he nudges your stance narrower.

“weight here.” his palm finds your hip, guiding until your balance shifts. “drive through it.”

your throat goes dry. you’re barely listening to the words— only the cadence of them as they brush past your ear from behind, steady and close. the hand on your hip is purely instructional; but it’s not. right now, it’s so much more. it leaves you dizzy and exhilarated, fighting for your next breath as much as you’ve been fighting to keep a perfect form.

he doesn’t wait for you to ask. his hand covers yours over the wraps, guiding your arm back into position. “again. with me this time.”

you punch forward, his hand slowly directing your line and then releasing as you put power behind it. the bag shudders weakly.

“better,” he mutters. but he doesn’t move away. instead, his other hand lands lightly on your stomach, fingertips just grazing your abdomen as he presses. “tighter here. everything comes from here– all your strength and power.”

you swallow hard, pulse hammering. your whole body feels strung taut between his steady hands, splayed almost possessively over your skin– shoulder, stomach, everywhere.

the next strike lands sharper, cleaner. the sound echoes with a satisfying thwack across the empty gym.

his approval doesn’t come in words, not at first; only in the way his grip lingers a fraction longer than necessary before falling away, and you find yourself missing it instantly. 

finally, he circles around with an arm that trails your waist too gently, sliding himself in front of you. his own fists rise, demonstrating a quick one-two against the bag. the muscles in his arms shift, smooth and powerful, and you swear you forget how to breathe.

he lowers his fists and cocks his head at you. “copy.”

you mimic his form, your punch colliding with the bag. this time, when it rebounds, it drives into his forearms where he braces it, his body catching the weight of your throw; off-kilter, but not wholly bad. a solid enough punch that he nods, just once.

your knuckles throb. your chest heaves. you can’t look away from the faint smirk curling at his lips, from the way his eyes pin you steady to the spot.

“see?” he says, low and even. “power’s nothing without control.”

you’re not sure if he’s talking about boxing anymore.

you drop to a bench, arms shaking, chest heaving. your fists still wrapped, sweat stinging your eyes from exertion and— honestly— how close he’s been.

he steps up to you, quiet. no words yet, just presence. his fingers brush your forearms, and you freeze, looking up into those captivating eyes.

“hand.” his voice is clipped as always, but there’s a softness beneath it you catch only because you know him.

you hold out both your fists. he cups your wrist in one hand with a touch so soft you could cry and gently starts to pry the tape free, rolling it down your wrists with care, each tug deliberate but tender. his thumbs brush lightly over the back of your hands as he inspects your knuckles, eyes scanning smudges of chalk and faint bruises from your swings. it’s an odd thing to be the one receiving care instead of giving it, especially from him; but you’re far from complaining.

“you’re raw in a few spots,” he murmurs, almost to himself, but loud enough for you to hear. he presses a fingertip to a tiny scrape at the base of your knuckle, testing the sting. “not bad. pretty clean for a beginner.”

you tilt your head back, letting him work, marveling at the way his hands are confident and careful all at once— like he’s simultaneously checking and protecting.

“don’t laugh,” he warns softly as he tightens the last wrap around your wrist, “but i’m actually a little impressed. you’re a fast learner.”

you grin, chest pounding with how loudly your heart has taken to calling his name. “a high compliment, coming from you.”

he smirks faintly, but the tension in his shoulders softens just a fraction. “i’ll teach you more next time. but for now…” he trails off, brushing a hand over the back of yours one last time before letting go, lingering long enough that the warmth presses into your skin.

you glance down at your hands, pulse still high, and back up at him. “thank you.”

he meets your gaze, eyes flicking to your flushed cheeks. “you don’t have to thank me, y/n.”

you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, smiling despite the ache in your arms, the fire in your chest, and the pull of him so close, so careful. “if you say so.”

he steps back finally, giving you a little space— but not too much, not entirely. you can feel the residue of his presence, the weight of him in the quiet gym, the soft insistence that he’ll be there, guiding, teaching, protective… his eyes say that he’s nowhere near immune to all your small, stolen moments.

and as you stretch your sore fingers, rubbing at the knuckles he just checked with such tender care, you can’t stop the grin spreading across your face. 

he’s addictive.

and you’re already hooked.

— 

the bell rings sharply, echoing through the packed warehouse, and the sound is electric. lee know moves like a hurricane trapped in the ring— controlled and fluid, every step sure, every pivot deliberate. he circles, eyes scanning his opponent, reading angles and posture and intent. his opponent shifts, tries to bait him into throwing an early punch; but lee know is untouchable, a predator already three moves ahead.

your eyes are glued to him, heart hammering, chest tight. every flex of his back, every tight rotation of his shoulders, it all screams power and precision. the world shrinks to the canvas beneath his feet and the rhythm of his body moving like liquid steel.

then the dam breaks.

in a flash— too fast to fully process— his opponent lands an unfair elbow to the face, a strike meant to sneak past defenses. lee know’s head snaps back, blood spurting from his nose. the sound hits your ears like a physical blow. your stomach drops.

“no!” you shout instinctively, leaping to your feet, kit forgotten, muscles coiled to charge in– only to realize you can’t. you’re frozen in the medical corner, eyes locked on him.

lee know hits the mat— just for a heartbeat— and everything around you stops. silence presses against your ears, thick and suffocating. the referee starts a countdown.

then he’s rising slowly after the second count, flicking the blood from his nose with a tilt of his head; he’s deadly calm, controlled, unshaken. every movement is deliberate, measured; nothing betrays the sting of the strike. your chest swells with relief and something else, something like fierce admiration.

he resets exactly the way he’s been teaching you to do in practice: stance perfect, hands guarding, weight balanced evenly on the balls of his feet. his opponent hesitates, suddenly aware of the storm standing before him. lee know’s eyes sweep, calculating, laser-focused, pupils sharp, measuring the tiniest shift, the slightest weakness.

the first punch is clean, precise, a snapping jab that makes the opponent flinch. lee know doesn’t overcommit, doesn’t rush— each strike is surgical. the crowd barely registers the rhythm, but you can feel it in your bones: this is more than just punching. it’s choreography, deadly and beautiful.

he pivots, fluid, whipping a combination of hooks that land exactly where he wants— rib, shoulder, side of the head— enough to unbalance without overextending. his footwork is hypnotic, a dance of power and grace.

the opponent swings wildly, anger breaking his form, desperation cutting into technique. lee know reads it instantly, sidestepping, slipping punches that would floor anyone else. the thick blood trickle down his face glistens under the harsh gym lights, sweat and red mingling, but he moves as if nothing weighs on him but the fight itself.

he sets up— his stance lowering, weight shifting, muscles coiled. the precision is art. jab, uppercut, hook; every motion exact, every strike timed with the calculation of a master. the opponent wobbles, staggered, realization dawning.

and then— he unleashes the final move.

a combination that’s all him: three hits, pivot, snap. every strike lands clean, deliberate, the last punch folding the opponent onto the mat, finality in the thud. silence fills the gym, only broken by the countdown climbing until it hits ten, a bell ringing to declare a knockout. lee know stands, chest heaving lightly, eyes scanning the ring, the canvas, the aftermath.

the crowd roars. the bell rings again to signal the end of the match, and lee know graces the audience with a smile– small, but real. deadly sharp. a little proud.

your own breath comes in bursts, heart thundering. you can’t stop staring, frozen by the violence, the beauty, the precision, him. he wipes at his blood again, calm and composed; your hands ache to reach out, to cradle that jaw, to steady that proud, stubborn head.

finally, he steps toward the ropes, glancing at you. a flicker of acknowledgment. a twitch of a smirk until that smile softens; and just for a fraction of a heartbeat, the storm that is lee know becomes something more tender in your chest. kingly and untouchable, yes, but tethered to you in ways that leave your pulse electric.

the fight is over. victory is his. and you know, you know, you’ve just witnessed something rare: controlled chaos, lethal grace. a man who fights not just with skill, but with the full weight of his presence.

he steps out of the ring, sweat still dripping down the sharp lines of his face, blood from his nose streaking in slowly-drying lines that aren’t nearly enough to mask his intensity. every motion is controlled, deliberate, even as exhaustion tugs at the edges of his posture. 

your kit is open in your hands before he even reaches the bench, your fingers itching to touch him after watching that display of raw, calculated power.

“that was insane,” you murmur, voice a mix of half-scolding, half-admiring. “i’ve never seen anyone move like that. like.. a storm on the mat.”

he doesn’t respond right away, just lets the words hang, eyes flicking up to meet yours. a glint of something soft, almost shy, flickers there— a brief flicker of flattery, humility, before his stoic mask reasserts itself. “storm’s not the word i’d use,” he says lowly, voice clipped, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “just… precise.”

you step closer, crouching beside him as he lowers onto the bench. your fingers hover over his jaw first, brushing away a bead of blood from a lesser scratch along his chin. he tilts his head slightly into your touch the way he always does; never quite enough to admit vulnerability, but always enough to let you in. the contact sends molten heat straight to your chest.

 “you haven’t had a bleed this bad in a while,” you murmur, dabbing at the thick gush of blood from his nose with an antiseptic towelette. your touch is gentle, almost reverent against his skin, warm beneath your palms, muscles taut even as they finally start to release some tension. he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t jerk away, and you feel that quiet trust settling between you like a dust cloud.

“don’t make it sound like i’m delicate,” he murmurs back, just above a whisper, but the edge is gone. there’s no sharpness— just acknowledgment, and maybe even relief that he can lean on you, even a fraction.

“i’m not saying that,” you reply softly, eyes tracing the line of his jaw, memorizing the tilt of his head, the tension in his shoulders, the sweat-slicked muscles that move under your fingers when he shifts slightly. “i’m just saying…you’re something else.”

he lets out a short breath, half a chuckle, half a sigh, and leans just slightly closer, enough to let you cradle the back of his neck while your other hand smooths out the wraps over his knuckles. each adjustment is slow, careful; you linger just a fraction longer than necessary, fingertips brushing the sharp planes of his hand, memorizing him.

“you always fuss like this?” he asks, tone teasing just enough to make your heart stutter.

“someone has to make sure you survive your own fights,” you murmur, brushing the last streak of blood off the bridge of his nose. your fingers linger on his cheek, tracing the scar from last week, feeling the warmth of his skin against yours.

he tilts his head into your touch again, eyes closing for the briefest second, and your chest hammers. you swallow, heart racing, and finally reach for the final act of care: undoing the knuckle wraps. your fingers work slowly, teasing the tape away, revealing the scarred, steady hands beneath. he flexes his fingers gently, letting you examine each knuckle as if you were checking him under a microscope.

then, almost on impulse, you bring his hand to your lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his rough knuckles. your eyes lift shyly to his, cheeks warm. “speeds up the healing process,” you murmur, voice almost lost under the weight of the moment. “or at least that’s what i’ve heard.”

he freezes, chest rising slightly faster than normal, pupils dark, molten, unreadable— before the faintest smirk tugs at his lips. “should’ve had you kiss it to make it all better ages ago,” he says quietly, a little teasing and a lot more appreciative. you feel your ears flush bright red.

your pulse threatens to burst out of your chest, but you can’t help smiling, lingering just a moment longer, fingers still brushing his. he doesn’t pull away— doesn’t move a muscle, letting you claim this small, stolen tenderness.

finally, you set the hand down, both of you catching breaths. for a heartbeat, the gym feels like it’s shrunk to just the two of you: quiet aftermath of chaos, the hum of distant lights, and the weight of unspoken promises. lee know’s stoic front is cracking, just a fraction, revealing the man beneath— the one who lets you in, who yields, who lets himself be cared for.

and you? you wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.

— 

the gym smells of sweat and anticipation tonight. you bounce on the balls of your feet, fists up, heart hammering— not just from exertion, but from the thrill of being here with him. lee know stretches casually in front of you, chest rising and falling steady, the muscles in his arms flexing with every small movement. he looks effortless, untouchable… and yet, somehow, he’s about to let you punch him.

“ready?” he asks, voice teasing just enough that your stomach flips. he shifts into his stance, weight balanced perfectly, feet planted like a predator. his hands hover— guarded, precise, like he’s daring you to even try.

“ready,” you say back, forcing your best glare, though your knees are bouncing and your pulse is racing. he chuckles faintly at your weak attempt to intimidate.

he lunges first, slow, exaggerated; it’s barely an attack, more like a suggestion of one. he meant it when he said he’d go easy on you. you throw a jab and it’s sloppy, more of a flail than a punch, and his eyes flick to yours, one eyebrow raised. “hmm,” he mutters, almost a laugh laced in the tone. “you’re trying for power too soon. focus on the footwork, y/n. balance comes first.”

you huff, frustrated, circling him, trying to anticipate, trying to land something. he moves like water, slipping and shifting just enough to make you swing too early or miscalculate. each near-hit sends your chest pounding, not just from effort— there’s something else in the way his eyes never leave yours, the way his body glides next to you, the brush of his shoulder when he shifts slightly too close.

“hey—hey! stop teasing me!” you snap, panting, swinging a left jab that he catches mid-air with just the tip of his fingers. your pulse rockets when his hand brushes yours, guiding, correcting, but there’s a treacherous weight in the touch.

“teasing?” he says softly, just a murmur; but the smirk pulling at his lips gives him away. “i’m just teaching.”

you glare, but there’s no real bite behind it— just embarrassment and attraction and frustration, all tangled in a tight knot rising to your throat. his cheek threatens to dimple with the hint of a real smile; and the smirk, the calm, the impossibly-still control, makes your chest ache.

he steps in, adjusting your elbow with one hand, nudging your shoulder with the other. his chest brushes yours, and your brain shorts out. “control,” he murmurs. “fists first, follow through second.”

you throw again, trying to put more into it, and this time he lets your fist hit him— the impact is soft, but it’s not nothing. the fleeting contact sends a shock straight up your arm. he barely reacts, but the faint twitch of his lips betrays him anyway.

“not bad,” he says, clipped, almost reluctant, and you glare at him but can’t deny the thrill.

you pivot, lunge, try for a sloppy roundhouse; he steps into you before you have the chance to execute, chest pressed tighter against yours, guiding your motion with firm, steady hands. his fingers brush over your ribs and forearm as he corrects your form, and you swear you’re melting under the sheer proximity.

“direct your body weight, y/n,” he instructs, his voice private, intimate even when he’s masking it as instruction. “power comes from stance. not just arms.”

you groan before reluctantly throwing another series, and he moves behind you, arms brushing yours as he guides each motion. you can feel the heat radiating off him. every pulse of his muscles under his skin, every adjustment, every gentle nudge feels like he’s imprinting himself on you.

“stop swinging blindly,” he mutters, leaning close enough that his shoulder grazes yours, his chest brushing your back. you inhale, and the air feels charged, humming with electricity. “precision first.”

“ugh, you’re so impossible!” you gasp, sweat running down your temple, hair sticking to your forehead, and he just chuckles softly behind you, the sound low, dark, intimate.

“i’m your teacher,” he says, voice clipped but amused, hand pressing flat and sure against your back to adjust your stance. “so pay attention.”

you throw a jab— too slow, too high— and he catches it, fingers brushing yours, and your heart skips a beat. his eyes flick to yours, molten and teasing; you trip over whatever words you’d been about to fire back. 

he doesn’t let you go. 

instead, he tugs– just a fraction, just enough to send you off balance; and suddenly your stumble tips you forward into him. his shoulders meet yours, solid heat pressing through the fabric between you; your hands falter in their guard, falling to land on that broad chest. every muscle dances under your fingertips, pulled taut, waiting.

your breath stutters, your own chest rising sharp against his. he doesn’t move back— doesn’t let you go. one wrapped hand rises to cup over yours, anchoring you to him; his weight holds you caged, steady, immovable as his fingers brush over your knuckles in secret rhythm.

his eyes flick down— too fast. too telling. the smallest shift, the barest tilt of his head, it all gives him away despite the stone set of his face. his heated gaze lands on your lips and stays there; and you’re suddenly sure he’s going to close the distance. heat coils low in your stomach, every nerve begging for the brush of his mouth.

lee know is about to kiss you. and you’re going to shamelessly let him.

he leans in closer, so close that the heat of him presses through the thin fabric, every inch deliberate. the sharp inhale he steals just before your lips nearly brush sets your blood roaring; your pulse hammers like it wants to break your ribs. his exhale feels like velvet when his breath canvasses across your lips.

his gaze flicks back up to your eyes, his own dark and deliberate, assessing, tasting the possibility. the space between you is electric, strung tight with want, your knees threatening to give under the weight of proximity. your chest is caught in a perfect trap between his restraint and your certainty.

your eyes begin to flutter closed, waiting, wanting.

and then— he doesn’t close the final millimeter.

he holds himself there instead, suspended, his mouth hovering just shy of yours. he’s so close; you can taste his breath, but not the kiss you’re aching for. your pulse hammers against your ribs in heady anticipation.

then, with precision so measured it’s almost cruel, he eases back half an inch. not enough to free you, just enough to smother the promise. his gaze lingers on your mouth for one last beat before it sharpens, cutting clean.

“keep your guard up,” he says evenly, as if nothing just happened; as if your knees aren’t about to give out. he releases your wrist and nudges at your stance like it’s any other spar.

you swallow hard, still reeling, every nerve screaming from the almost that just slipped through your fingers. he doesn’t look rattled at all, damn him— only that faint glimmer in his eyes betrays him, the one that says he wanted it, too.

“my guard is just fine,” you mumble hotly, trying to regain composure. you start swinging again. he dodges just enough to make you adjust– just enough to keep your focus on him, just enough to make you want to get closer, hit harder, be near him.

he steps back finally, letting you land a clean hit on the outside of his right arm. he yields to it, eyes narrowed, expression unreadable;  but the faintest hint of approval is evident in the way he tilts his head.

“better,” he murmurs, voice soft, almost private, and your chest swells. you swing again, adrenaline and tension coiling together, heart hammering in time with every contact of your fists falling against him in sparring.

he moves in when you go for a new shot, adjusting, correcting, guiding— his body brushing against yours, hands resting lightly on your elbows, shoulders, even just a ghost of a touch across your back— and you can’t stop the heat rising in your cheeks. your brain knows he’s teaching, that he’s careful, that he’s professional; but every second, every brush of skin, every whispered instruction sends molten sparks through your chest.

finally, he steps back completely, allowing you to spar him more freely, your fists clean, your soft hits sharp, your body twisting properly. he watches your stance, the way your muscles flex, the sweat dripping down your neck. he doesn’t move in closer— doesn’t have to— but you can feel the intensity in his gaze.

“next time,” he mutters, voice low, clipped, but something softer flickers in his eyes, “we’ll spar properly.”

you grin, exhausted, exhilarated, and a little weak in the knees. “i’m holding you to that,” you tease. he smirks faintly, silent, controlled— but those searing eyes betray that he’s already anticipating it.

the gym hums low around you, your bodies still warm from more than just the exertion. the air feels thick, electric. almost like it’s charged with all the touches, the corrections, the proximity, the teasing, the heat— teaching, sparring, melting, all of it rolled into one chaotic, perfect storm.

—

the bell clangs for the third and final round of the night, sharp and unforgiving– the crowd’s roar swells with it, a tide that thrums through the ring and up your spine. 

you’re pressed against the barrier, knuckles gripping the metal, heart in your throat. lee know circles his opponent like a king patrolling his domain: muscles coiled, eyes sharp, every movement calculated, fluid, lethal. sweat gleams along his forearms, along his jaw, catching the overhead lights like a blade. small scratches litter his cheeks, proof of the grueling first two rounds.

they trade blows like it’s a language only fighters can speak. the first few hits reverberate like drums beating in your chest. his opponent is skilled— fast, hungry for the win— but lee know is faster, smoother, reading each motion like it’s an open book. every counter, every pivot, every jab is poetry in motion; but there’s fire in it, raw energy that makes your chest ache with anticipation.

then— a hard, sudden jab lands square on lee know’s cheek. the crowd gasps in unison. your hand flies to your mouth. a thin line of red drips from the corner of his lip, and your stomach plummets. most people would stagger, maybe falter. maybe even fall to the mat.

not him.

his head snaps back, eyes flashing with the tiniest flicker of surprise— and then calm, razor-sharp control sets in. he shakes it off as if it were nothing, resets his stance like a predator, and the air in the ring seems to shift, dense with intent.

he pivots. he ducks a counter. his strikes come now— calculated, brutal, precise, every movement a testament to his years of mastery. the blows land on his opponent with the weight of a hurricane contained in muscle and sinew, each punch a statement: he’s still standing. he’s in control. he’s unstoppable.

the opponent stumbles. the audience leans forward, breathless, watching the reversal, the artistry in the violence. lee know doesn’t let up— he whirls, he pivots, he strikes. his face is a mask of focus and feral energy, lips pressed tight even as blood blooms red at the edges of them; his brows are furrowed with the force of his focus, every line of his body screaming discipline and raw power.

then— a crushing hook, a sharp uppercut, and the opponent collapses, breath wheezing, chest heaving. 

lee know steps back with his fists raised, his own chest heaving too, sweat and blood streaking across his skin like war paint. he looks like some kind of god standing alone in the ring, opponent bowed before him in defeat.

the referee calls the match: it’s over. victory, earned. brutal. raw. hard-fought.

and you— heart hammering, knees weak, fingers trembling on the barrier over in your medical corner— feel every pulse of him in the aftermath. every strike, every dodge, every calculated blow is burned into your memory.

he lowers his hands finally, his face slick with sweat, lips parting just slightly, breaths coming in short, controlled bursts. his eyes sweep the crowd, but when they land on you… the intensity doesn’t break. it sharpens, sure and quiet and magnetic, and you know: he sees you.

only after the crowd roars fade and the adrenaline lingers does he step toward the edge of the ring, every movement measured, and your chest aches– because even bruised, beaten, bloodied, he carries himself like a king who’s just proven his reign. a king coming home to you.

the fight’s left him wrecked; the roar of the crowd is still echoing through the cement walls when lee know stumbles into the corner, sweat running down his temple, blood dripping from a split at his lip. his chest heaves like the air itself is burning him alive.

you’re already there with gauze in hand, jaw set tight, muttering under your breath as you start fussing over ever little cut and scratch before he can even sit down. “you could’ve dodged that one blow, you know. he almost had you on the ropes in the second round.”

he doesn’t answer. doesn’t even flinch when you press the gauze to his cheek, murmuring a soft warning for the sting of the antiseptic. he just stares down, eyes locked on you, that sharpness softening only for you even in the noise and heat of the crowd at every angle.

“you’re impossible,” you snap, voice shaking as the hand with the gauze trembles against his cheek. you cup his face if only to still your fingers, holding him upright. “one day you’re not going to walk out of that ring and—”

his hand shoots up, catching you mid-motion. his rough, bandaged fingers circle your wrist.

his voice is hoarse, ground down to gravel, but the words cut clean like a right hook to the heart:

“you’re a knockout.”

your brain blanks. air sticks hard in your throat, wedged deep by the shock of his composure breaking.

and then he pulls you in before you can find an answer.

the kiss is brutal and tender all at once— bloody and slick and desperate, his mouth crushing itself to yours like he’s been starving for it through every round he’s ever fought in this dingy warehouse. copper floods your tongue where his split lip works against you, but it doesn’t matter. not when his hand is steady at the back of your neck, holding you close to him like he’s terrified you’ll slip away.

his other hand snakes to your waist, pressing you impossibly close, letting you feel the tense pulse of muscle beneath skin. every ragged breath he steals vibrates against your lips, mixing with your own contented sigh, echoing in your chest like a drumbeat you can’t escape. 

the crowd’s chants melt into nothing along with the sounds of the bell that signals the next match starting and the referee’s sharp whistle. nothing matters but this. the world has shrunk to this small, electric pocket where time has slowed, where only the press of his body and the desperate rhythm of your mouths exist.

your free hand clutches the damp wrap at his wrist like a lifeline, anchoring him back. the gauze you’d been pressing to his cut falls useless to the floor. your fingertips trace the tension along his forearm, memorizing every line, every hardened muscle, every twitch of effort as he folds himself into you, yielding fully, finally.

he tilts his head just slightly, deepening the kiss; it’s a slow, consuming kind of ache that spreads somewhere deep beneath your ribs. a groan— low, muffled, unintentionally yours— slips past his lips, and it rattles through your chest, your knees threatening to buckle beneath the weight of want and exhaustion and adrenaline.

the heat between you is suffocating, intoxicating; it coils hot in your bloodstream, threads along your spine, sets your pulse hammering in tandem with his. his tongue teases, claims, works you until you’re pliant in his arms, and you answer back with the same fierce urgency– desperate for every inch, every taste, every second.

his grip at the back of your neck tightens imperceptibly, a silent plea for proximity, and your hands— one planted on his chest, the other drifting up to cradle his jaw with tender fingers— draw him impossibly closer. sweat and blood mix at your lips, his heartbeat thrumming under your palm like a war drum.

a shudder runs through you both as his arms encircle you fully, silent but volcanic, and he doesn’t pull back— can’t, won’t— letting the moment stretch until it feels like the air itself is charged, trembling with the collision of want and the rawest kind of vulnerability.

finally, somewhere deep in the marrow of both your bones, the kiss loosens just enough to leave you gasping, noses brushing, breaths mingling, lips swollen and raw.

when he finally pulls himself back, he stays close. forehead pressed against yours, both of you panting, the air between you thick with sweat and heat and everything you’ve been refusing to say.

a beat of silence. then, rough, the corner of his mouth twitching in something almost like a smile— “told you.”

you shove him softly before he catches you and drags you back in for another slow, tender kiss.

and this time, you can taste how freely he smiles.

a real one; all for you.

all yours.

—

› chan : missionary

let’s be so fr hands down this is the most canon canon can get

“legs over his shoulder?” sign me UP!

also he loves to get not only a view of you but also your pretty little head and how it contorts with pleasure as he slowly drags his cock back and forth along your poor hole :(

› minho : slow grind / face-to-face

this guy lovesssss control but not in a loud way(?)

its all about eye contact — his forehead pressed to yours, hands firm on your hips, rocking you into him at a pace that makes your breath stutter

he watches your reactions too the little shit, taking in every breath hitch

adjusts based on your reactions (we love a gentleman??)

› changbin : cowgirl

contrary to popular belief, this man is a sub, THERE I SAID IT

he loves seeing you take the lead

hands on your thighs, thumbs digging in just enough to ground you while you move how you want 

he’s all praise ( i need him sb )

› hyunjin : standing / pinned to the wall

angsty sex final boss don’t fight me 

this man thrives on tension, the buildup

he CRAVESSS the way you gasp when he crowds your space

one hand on the wall beside your head, the other at your waist, moving slow on purpose just to watch you unravel slowly

jinnie baby one chance pls

› han : spooning

okay but y’all might think loser!han is an overexplored topic but dare i say it’s not explored ENOUGH

imagine him all curled up behind you, it’s warm, cute even

that is till he starts whimpering and grinding against you (let a boy have his wet dream)

and then slowly pushing your panties to the side as he lines up and pushes in

im salivating 

› felix : lap-sitting

you can pry gamer!felix out of my cold dead hands

but seriously, imagine throwing a tantrum while felix is playing so he finally finishes his game, gently places his controller on the table (those are expensive even for a kpop idol sorry) and letting you sit on him

your face buried in his neck, his hands steadying you while he lets you move at your own pace (service!skz too oof)

he’s sweet, breathy, a little shy but the grip gives him away every time lol 

› seungmin : missionary (but closer)

its so much more intimate than you’re thinking

because missionary allows everything to be dragged out like it’s so focused and you’re hyperaware of every single sound

every stroke isn’t rushed, not rough but focused

emotional support seungmin ftw 

he stays close, and your noses are brushing

thumbs wiping under your eyes if you get overwhelmed

› jeongin : cowgirl

this THIS

he’s a little flustered but very into it

his hands are unsure at first, then steady once he relaxes

soft dom jeongin i die on this hill 

✶ minho who uses your shyness as an excuse to be clingy. if you’re at a company dinner and he sees you looking overwhelmed, he’ll wrap an arm around your chair or hook his ankle with yours.

if someone asks why you’re being so quiet, he’ll cut them off with a dry, "she’s busy being prettier than everyone else here, leave her alone." he makes it sound like a joke, but he’s 100% serious.

✶ his physical affection is "blink and you'll miss it" but very grounding. since he knows you get flustered easily, he doesn't do big dramatic hugs in public. instead, he’ll just hook his index finger through your belt loop to keep you close, or he’ll give you a quick, firm squeeze on the back of your neck.

it’s his way of saying "i’m right here" without making a scene.

✶ it's the way he handles interactions. he's not impolite, minho's just blunt. if a salesperson is being too pushy or someone is making you uncomfortable, he just stares them down with that expression until they leave. he doesn't need to say much. he never does.

✶ he’s obsessed with your quiet hobbies, mostly because he can just coexist with you. if you’re embroidering or reading, he’ll just lay his head in your lap and demand you pet his hair while he looks at cat memes. he likes that he doesn't have to entertain you 24/7.

your presence is more than enough for him, even if he doesn't say it aloud that often.

✶ minho who's secretly your biggest protector against his own members. if the other guys are being too loud or teasing you too much, he’ll just give them one look, and they’ll immediately tone it down. he’s the only one allowed to tease you; anyone else tries it, and they’re on his list for the week.

✶ it's the way he reacts when you actually get bold with him, too. since you’re usually so shy and soft, the moment you talk back or pull a prank on him, he gets this specific spark in his eyes. he loves the challenge. he’ll grin and say something cheesy like, "oh, you’ve got claws today? be careful, i might have to bite back."

✶ he keeps a receipt of every time you’re brave. if you finally stand up for yourself or handle a social situation on your own, he won't give you a big speech. he’ll just buy you that expensive dessert you like or give you an extra-long forehead kiss before bed.

he wants you to be independent, but he’ll always be the safety net waiting if you fall.

✶ he loves your coquette style specifically because it makes you look his. he’ll buy you the most expensive silk ribbons or dainty jewelry, then act like he just "found them on the street" or "they were on sale so whatever." but he always makes sure the quality is top-tier because he thinks you deserve the best.

✶ minho who loves that he's the only one who gets to hear your "real" voice. he knows that when you’re out, you’re soft-spoken and careful with your words. but at home, when you’re ranting about your day or laughing at a meme, you’re loud and animated.

he lives for those moments. he’ll just sit back with a smile, watching you lose your mind over something small, thinking about how he’s the only person in the world who knows you aren't actually a quiet person at all.

✶ minho who shows his love through food. he knows you’re too shy to ask for seconds or to say if something tastes bad, so he just keeps an eye on your plate. he’ll casually slide the best piece of meat or the prettiest dessert onto your dish without saying a word. if you look at him, he’ll just say, "try it. it's good."

✶ minho who’s just completely obsessed with his girl, even if he shows it by being a bit of a brat. ...a brat that's the one person who never lets the world overwhelm you, even if he’s the one teasing you the most.