#pezzy

some yapping:

“Alright y’all,” you said, giggling as you dragged another PNG into your cake tier list, “hear me out… Markiplier.”

“Oh GOD here we go,” one of your friends groaned over Discord.

“NO LISTEN,” you said, raising a hand to quiet the imaginary crowd. “That man is built like a Greek god and talks like a podcast host. He could be reading IKEA instructions and I’d be like ‘yes sir.’”

Your chat spammed: THE ARMS 🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️ "Hello everybody my name is Markiplier" is a mating call now idc MARK PLS CALL ME BACK

“I just know he smells like cedarwood and emotional trauma,” you added, sipping your drink.

Meanwhile—unbeknownst to you—Hongjoong was taking a break in his studio across town, headphones around his neck, half-watching your stream on mute with the captions on. He had smiled when you started streaming. His heart always warmed seeing you in your element. But that smile disappeared real quick once he read the captions:

"Markiplier could deadass choke me and I’d pay for the hospital bill myself."

He blinked.

Then, just as he turned the sound on:

“OKAY NEXT: Grizzy. I’m sorry but that hoodie-and-chain combo? That’s a straight-up fold. Like, this is pavement behavior. He’d call me ‘girl’ once and I’d black out.”

Laughter erupted from your friends. Hongjoong didn’t laugh.

He scrolled through the tier list. Smii7y. CoryxKenshin. Pezzy. ElasticDroid.

All ranked. All thirsted over.

You were giggling as you leaned into the mic. “Okay no but real talk? ElasticDroid gives throat demon energy. Like...he’s definitely the reason someone walks funny the next day. And I’d write a Yelp review about it.”

“Oh my god,” one of your friends wheezed.

The rest were dying. Chat was going absolutely feral.

And Hongjoong?

Silent.

Stewing.

You finally ended stream an hour later, exhausted from laughter and wired from sugar and adrenaline. Your friends had come over in-person too—your place was a cozy streamer nest, and you’d hosted tonight’s cake chaos like a pro. They hung around for a while, rewatching clips, roasting each other, snacking, and slowly filing out into the night.

“Thanks for letting us crash,” one of them said, pulling on their hoodie. “Sorry if we made your boyfriend jealous. He’ll live, right?”

You waved them off. “Joong? Please, he doesn’t care about stream stuff. It’s all jokes anyway.”

You closed the door behind them, still laughing.

You didn’t hear the second door open.

Not until you turned around, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hands full of half-finished bubble tea cups—and nearly dropped everything when you saw him.

Hongjoong, standing in the hallway. Keys in one hand. Expression unreadable.

You blinked.

“…Hey, babe. You’re home early.”

“Early?” he echoed, voice soft, deceptively calm. “I’ve been watching since Smii7y.”

Your smile wobbled.

“…Oh.”

He stepped forward, slow and quiet. He wasn’t angry—no, that would’ve been easier. It was the fact he looked completely calm that made your stomach flip.

“You’ve been real loud tonight,” he said. “Lots of opinions.”

You swallowed. “It was content—y’know, like a tier list—”

“Right,” he nodded, setting down his keys. “So when you said you’d let Pezzy ‘shut you up and ruin you,’ that was content?”

Your jaw opened. Then closed.

He walked forward again, crowding you against the kitchen counter. His voice dropped just slightly, barely a whisper. “You really think ElasticDroid could wreck your throat better than me?”

Your whole body lit up at the heat behind his words. “Joong—”

“‘Grizzy in chains makes you fold?’” he quoted, tilting his head. “You think anyone on that list could have you making the sounds I pulled out of you last week?”

You felt your knees threaten to buckle.

“That was stream stuff,” you said quietly.

“Oh?” He leaned in, brushing his nose against your cheek. “Then tell me now. Tell me with a straight face that you’d rather have any of them than me.”

Your hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt. “I—”

He didn’t let you finish. His hand tilted your chin up, gaze burning into yours.

“Try again.”

And something in you snapped.

You weren’t thinking. Just breathing, just wanting. Needing to be pulled apart, dragged to pieces, undone by the one person you knew could ruin you like no one else.

“I want you,” you whispered.

“Louder.”

“I want you, Joong.”

He kissed you hard—deep and punishing—teeth and tongue and heat. When he pulled back, his thumb swiped over your bottom lip, slick and possessive.

“You wanna rank me, baby?” he murmured, voice like sin. “I’ll make sure I’m the only one you even remember.”