#phe1narchives

Pairing: Yoo Wooin × fem!reader

Genre: Dark fluff, psychological romance, slice of life

Rating: T

TW: manipulation tendencies, possessiveness, mild vulgar tone, suggestive intimacy

A/N: I’ve got a new fic :) Feel free to vibe out to the music while you read. I can't really promise the lyrics will line up perfectly with the one shot since everyone reads at their own pace anyway. So just lean into the mood and enjoy it however you like! ✨

(@dzvelinaskebiyars @i-nssomniia @shintaru @sylith)

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HCs: He isn’t just sharing the silence with you; he’s using you to fill his empty, goddamn silence.

He never asks—he just takes. Wooin grabs the AirPod from the case like he’s the one who paid for it. He twirls it between those long, annoying fingers before flicking it back to you with a look that says "Listen. Don't argue." He’s already made every decision for you.

He always claims the right ear. The reason? He once leaned in and whispered against your ear in that deep, gravelly voice: “This right side... it’s for catching you whenever you lie to me.”

He adjusts the volume without asking a single word. He always cranks it up a bit too loud... just enough to force you to move in closer to complain. But that’s the plan. Eventually, your shoulders are pressed so tight together that there’s no air left between you. “Too loud? Then get closer so I can hear you bitch about it.”

He isn’t even listening to the music—he’s listening to you. Behind those really, really yellow glasses, he isn’t looking at the birds or the trees in the park at all. He’s been hunting your face from the second the song started. He’s watching how your eyelashes flutter, how your expression shifts when your favorite part hits... It’s creepy as hell. But god... it’s so hot.

He loves leaving you hanging. Right when the song hits the absolute peak— Click. He pauses it. Just like that. Just because he wants to see you turn around and pout at him. Then he just stretches out and smirks like a prick, looking down at you as if to say "Yeah, I did it on purpose. So what?"

He’ll never give the earbud back first. If you want it back, you have to be the one to move toward him. You have to reach in and try to pull it out of his ear yourself... while he just sits there, dead still like a stone. He’s waiting for the exact moment you lose your balance and fall—straight against his chest. That’s the only time he’ll ever let go.

📍 location

Pin color: muted orange

Name: City Park

Time: 5:43 PM

This bench is way too small... Or maybe—it’s just because he’s sitting way too close. Your knee is pressed tight against his thick thigh.

You don’t move away. And of course... he knows.

“...There you go again.” Your voice is faint... cautious. You’re not looking for a fight. You just... wanted to say something.

“Why? What did I do?” Wooin doesn’t even bother to look at you.

“Crossing the line... you’re crowding into my space.”

Everything goes dead silent for a heartbeat. Until—that wicked smirk slowly creeps onto his face.

“...But you didn’t move away, though.”

“Maybe I just didn’t notice...”

“Liar.”

You don’t argue. Because he’s dead right, and he absolutely loves it... the way you don’t even try to talk back to him.

Click

Open.

Close.

Click—

He snatches the earbud case right out of your hand. No warning. No permission.

“Hey—”

Too late... The AirPod is already in his right ear. As for the other one—he flicks it toward you. You barely catch it in time.

“...You didn’t even ask me yet.”

“I don’t have to.”

Your phone is already in his hand—who knows when he grabbed it—and it’s already unlocked.

“...How did you know my passcode—?”

“Because your code is fucking easy to guess.”

“Wooin—”

“Shh...”

Press play. 

Sweet Emily, my bride to be… 

You almost forget to breathe. You didn’t think he’d pick this song. You didn't think he’d choose—a song like this.

“Did you choose this song?”

“No, I didn’t choose the song.” Silence for a heartbeat. “I chose to watch your face while you listen to it.”

You frown. “...What?”

Finally, he turns to look at you. That gaze isn't gentle. It isn't kind. It’s pure—fixation. 

Just how long will you stand next to me?

The music is a bit too loud... You shift your weight. “...Can you turn it down a little?”

He doesn't answer. But he reaches out—his fingertips brush against yours, lingering right there.

The volume drops. —Then he cranks it right back up immediately.

You glare at him. “...That didn't get any quieter.”

“It is now.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It’ll be quiet enough... if you just sit a bit closer.”

Everything goes dead silent. He locks eyes with you, not even blinking once. 

“...You’re so damn annoying.”

“Yeah?” He tilts his head. “But it’s this 'annoying' guy you’ve been putting up with for a whole year.”

That hit you hard. Too direct... too much for you to take. You’re the one who looks away first. And of course... he notices, just like always.

 “...Do you really like this song?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Why not?”

“...Because you like it.”

Your heart beats so hard it actually hurts.

It’d break my heart but I’d understand…

“...You’re being weird today.”

“Just today?”

“...Weirder than usual, I guess.”

He lets out a low hum in his throat, almost a laugh...

Everything goes silent for a heartbeat—then the music cuts out. Sharp. Mid-verse.

“...Hey!”

“What?”

“Why’d you stop the song?”

He leans in toward you, so close that—your breath hitches.

“I just wanted to hear you bitch about it.”

Silence...

“...That’s so stupid.”

“Keep insulting me.”

“No.”

“Go on. Do it again.”

“I said no!”

Tap. Tap.

His fingertips drum against your thigh. Lightly... but with pure, deliberate intent.

“Keep insulting me.”

You brush his hand away. “...Just stop it.” But it’s so soft. Irritatingly soft... He lets out a wicked smirk.

“Say it again.”

“...You’re so damn annoying.”

“There it is... that’s the one I wanted to hear.”

Press play. 

Please do not lean on me, I’m unstable… 

The lyrics drift between the two of you. The air starts getting heavy.

You don’t even realize it—but you’re leaning into him, bit by bit. And of course... he notices it instantly. 

You’re all you need, I’ve seen it, you’re able…

“...And if the dosage is too high, it becomes—”

You move your hands around as you ramble about your studies, tracing diagrams in the air. He isn’t even looking at your face. He’s just staring at your hands.

“—So it’s not that it’s toxic, it’s just—”

“Your middle finger.”

You freeze. “...What?”

“It moves the most.”

“...Huh?”

“When you talk.”

You immediately ball your hands into fists. “...You’re just making stuff up.”

“I’m not.”

“You totally are.”

“I’ve been staring at it for twenty minutes now.”

“...That’s so creepy.”

“Yeah.”

He admits it just like that. Not a shred of shame. 

Sex in the air, deep in despair… 

He leans in even closer. Closer. Until—

“Keep talking.”

“...Why?”

“I like it.”

Your heart completely skips a beat. “...You’re not even listening to what I’m saying.”

“I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I know enough.”

“Then what was I talking about?”

Silence for a heartbeat. Then that winning smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth.

“...Something about a dosage.”

“Wooin—”

“You’re pretty cute when you’re serious.”

The world stops spinning. “...Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“...It’s not fair.”

“How is it not fair?”

“...Because you don’t actually mean it.”

 Silence...

Please understand, I’m just a man that's nearly figured out his master plan

Click. The music stops. But this time, you don’t say a single word. You just—give him the cold shoulder.

And it’s that exact silence—that starts making Wooin restless.

“...Hey.”

Silence.

“Listen to me.”

Still silence. Your fingers ball into tight fists, sitting perfectly still. He starts to shift around. Fidgeting... a side of him that’s fucking rare to see.

“—Fine, okay. Just wait a second. I didn’t mean it like that—”

You look up at him, blinking slowly. “...Why are you so flustered?”

“I’m not.”

“You totally are.”

“...Shut up.”

But his voice is quieter... like someone who’s lost the strength to argue. He ruffles his own hair aggressively, frustrated.

“...I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Which way?”

“The way where you claimed I didn’t actually think what I said.”

“...Then what did you mean?”

He clicks his tongue, turning his face away. 

Just stick around and you gon’ see…

“...You’re so damn annoying.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“For me, it is.”

“No, it’s not.”

“...I’m serious.”

You freeze. “...What?”

“I said... I meant exactly what I said.”

He turns back to look at you. No smirking. No mind games. “You’re pretty cute when you’re serious.”

Your heart beats so hard it actually hurts. “...Oh.”

That’s it. Just—Oh.

Please do not lean on me, I’m unstable

You're all you need, I've seen it, you're able

He lets out a long sigh, leaning back against the bench. “...There. Satisfied now?”

“...A little bit.”

“You annoying brat.”

“Mean guy.”

“Softie.”

“...You have a way worse personality.”

“Yeah?” That smirk starts to crawl back onto his face. “But you’re still here with me anyway.”

“...Yeah, I am.”

The more that we both try to fight it

The harder it's gon' be

The music keeps playing.  And this time—he doesn’t press stop. Not again.

Your shoulder is still pressed firmly against his. Your hands lie between the two of you, not touching, until—his fingers hook into yours. Loosely. Acting like it’s an accident. He doesn’t look at your face when he does it, but he doesn't let go either. 

I wish that we could stand united...

“Wooin.”

“Hm.”

“...You haven’t even eaten your lollipop yet.”

He looks down. It’s still in the wrapper.

“...Don’t want it anymore.”

“...That’s weird.”

“Yeah.”

“...Why?”

Silence for a heartbeat. Then he turns to look at you—looking for real this time. 

If I am the sky (if I am the sky, if I am the sky), you are the sea

His thumb brushes over your knuckles. Slowly. Deliberate as hell.

“...I’m busy.”

“Doing what?”

He tilts his head just a bit, those yellow lenses reflecting the last light of the day. “...I’m busy staring at you.” 

Starin' back at me... (Me...)

You almost forget to breathe. He tightens his grip—just a little more. Not enough to hurt, but enough to say: Don’t be the one to let go first.

If I am the sky… (if I am the sky, if I am the sky), you are the sea

“...Don’t you dare ignore me. You hear me?”

“...I wasn’t ignoring you.”

“You were just about to.”

“...No, I wasn’t.”

“You always do that when you overthink.”

“...I’m a pharmacy student, Wooin. Overthinking is literally part of the job, isn't it?”

“Yeah.” That smirk finally shows up. “But don’t you dare think about leaving me.”

You blink slowly. “...I wasn’t—”

“Good.” He doesn’t let you finish. 

Starin' back at me... (Me...)

“...Stay like this.”

“...Like what?”

He leans in closer—until your foreheads are almost touching. “...This close.”

Your voice drops to a whisper. “...We’re already sitting close.”

“...Closer.”

You don’t move away. He doesn't back down. And for the first time—he isn't trying to force or pressure anything. He’s just there.

If I am the sky… … (if I am the sky, if I am the sky), you are the sea

“...You’re so weird.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“...But I like you anyway.”

Everything goes dead silent for a heartbeat. He lets out a soft, low laugh... faintly, like he can barely believe his own ears.

“...You’re even more messed up than I am.”

“...Yeah, I know that too.”

And even so—you don’t move an inch. 

Starin' back at me…

His fingers tighten their grip once more. He doesn't let go. And he sure as hell will never be the one to let go first.

Pairing: Kwon Hyuk × Fem!Reader

Genre: Soft-dark romance, slice of life, subtle obsession, quiet fluff, character-driven, intimacy through small actions

Rating: teen (non-explicit, emotionally intimate)

TW: Obsessive tendencies, emotional dependency undertones, Hyuk’s distorted mindset (lightly present), contrast behavior (soft vs. ruthless)

A/N: haven’t written Hyuk in sooo long🥹 feel like im kinda out of ideas but i still really wanna write if anyone’s got ideas pls drop them for me

(@dzvelinaskebiyars @shintaru @i-nssomniia @zyart-jpg @sylith)

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Most people only get to know Kwon Hyuk through the jagged shards he leaves behind.

They know him through the chilling rumors whispered in the dark. Through the catastrophic accidents no one dares to look at twice. Or through the high-pitched screech of metal grinding against asphalt until sparks fly.

But you? You know him in the silence—with a hair tie clenched between your teeth.

"Stay still."

"...I am staying still."

"No, you aren't. You keep tilting your head back and forth."

"I haven't moved once."

"There—you just did it again."

Silence fell over the room for a heartbeat.

"...Oh."

You let out a small, sharp huff of frustration—that specific kind of annoyed-but-smitten sigh. Your fingers threaded through his surprisingly soft black hair, tugging just enough to pull him back into the exact angle you wanted.

"See? Moved again."

"...Sorry."

The apology was so faint it was practically a ghost of a sound. It was flat. Emotionless. Yet, it sounded like an automatic reflex he saved exclusively for you.

You went quiet for a second. Because every time you were with this man, the atmosphere felt like it had been flash-frozen.

Kwon Hyuk—

The man they call the 'Grim Reaper.' The monster people instinctively back away from.

He was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of you, bowing his head just enough for you to mess with his hair, acting like this was the most mundane thing in the entire world.

No mask to shield his gaze.

No bucket hat to hide his identity.

Just the real him—a version of the Reaper the world is never allowed to see.

And that’s exactly what the rest of the world will never fucking understand.

To everyone else—Hyuk is a jagged blade, sharpened and ready to draw blood.

He has hands as cold as a corpse and a mind even colder than death itself. He’s the racer who never hesitates to ram an opponent off the track just to seize a victory.

This is the same man who once said, in a voice devoid of emotion yet dripping with perversion—“I really want to hear the sound of your wings when they finally snap.”

And the look in his eyes back then? It wasn't just a threat. It was a "desire"—a dark urge to actually follow through.

But for you?

“...Doesn’t this feel weird?” he muttered, his voice low and raspy.

You blinked. “...What’s weird?”

“Having someone mess with my hair like this.”

You didn't answer right away. You just hummed a soft tune, your fingertips threading through his jet-black strands, sectioning his hair with meticulous care as if working on a masterpiece.

“...Well, you’re the one sitting here letting me do it. I just figured you liked it.”

A heavy, weighted silence hung in the air for a long moment... before the confession finally slipped out. “...I wouldn't let anyone else touch me.”

You let out a small smirk at the accidental honesty. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”

He didn't pull away. His body, usually as tense as a drawn bow, relaxed in a way that defied logic. The eyes that usually scanned the world with lethal suspicion and bloodlust went completely blank...

Instead—

He just sat there. Still as a stone. Silent as a ghost. Letting you touch his "vitals" however you pleased.

Like a feral wolf surrendering its predatory instincts, simply because it recognized the 'scent' and 'touch' of the only pair of hands it ever trusted... the only hands he’d allow to pet his head without ever thinking of biting back.

It started without a damn rhythm or reason. Just like everything else between them.

You had complained to him once, purely out of annoyance. "Your hair is a disaster, Hyuk. Always."

"...It’s normal."

"It’s not. You look like you fought a hurricane and got your ass handed to you."

A pause. "...I usually win against hurricanes."

You shook with suppressed laughter. "Not today. Sit down."

And against all logic—he actually dropped to the floor in front of you.

From that day on, it became a routine that seeped into his marrow. No schedule. No written contract.

Just a silent, mutual hunger communicated through the stillness. Some days, you’d find him already waiting. His bucket hat tossed aside. His dark hair slightly damp—like he’d showered specifically for this ritual.

He was waiting for your touch.

"You're here," you noted.

"...You told me to come."

"That was an order from yesterday, Hyuk."

"...It’s still in effect today."

You stared at his broad back, let out a long sigh, and dropped down behind him as usual.

"God, you are so weird."

"...And yet, you’re still doing it."

"Yeah, well, if I didn't, you’d look so hideous even a stray dog wouldn't look at you."

A moment of silence... "...Liar."

The Evolution of the Reaper

He learned faster than you ever anticipated. Then again... he is Hyuk.

At first, he just sat there like a statue, letting your fingertips work their magic. But then—

"...Teach me."

You blinked in confusion. "Teach you what?"

"How to make a braid like that."

You hesitated, suspicious. "...Why do you want to learn?"

"I want to try it."

"...On who?"

A pause. "...On you."

And that was how the roles flipped. You were the one sitting in front of him now. The sensation was jarringly different. His fingertips were rougher, calloused from the track and the tools, but they were unexpectedly burning hot.

He wasn't clumsy—he just... didn't know how to be gentle with something so fragile.

"...Hyuk, you’re pulling too hard. It hurts."

"...It does?"

"Yes."

A split second of silence. "...Sorry."

He adjusted his grip instantly. This time, he was more careful, handling your hair as if he were touching the most brittle glass in existence.

"...Like this?" he asked softly, unsure.

You went quiet for a moment. He was actually trying for you.

"...Yeah," you murmured. "That’s better."

Hyuk was an unnervingly fast learner. Not because he was born for it, but because he mastered it in the blink of an eye. Too fast. It was almost haunting.

"How do you remember the pattern so quickly?"

"I’m just good at patterns."

"Sure, Mr. Genius Racer."

"...Don't you remember them?"

"I go by the vibe, Hyuk."

"...That sounds incredibly inefficient."

You burst out laughing. "Whatever! Mine still looks better than yours."

"...Only for now."

Within a single week, he wasn't joking. The braid he made for you was neat. Tight. Precise at every angle. It was... perfect. A piece of art that looked almost lifeless in its sheer flawlessness.

"You made it too tight. It’s pulling on my scalp."

"...No, it isn't."

"It's too tight! It hurts!"

Silence. Then, his fingertips softened, gently loosening the tension. "...Better?"

"...Yeah. Much better."

To the rest of the world—Hyuk is an unreachable void.

He is cold. Distant. Beyond the grasp of anyone.

Even Wooin couldn't help but let out a low, mocking chuckle while watching from a distance.

"The world’s gone mad," Wooin muttered.

"What are you talking about, Wooin?"

"I've never seen Hyuk sit still like a goddamn doll for anyone this long. It's unnatural."

You glanced at Hyuk. He didn't even spare a look toward his friend. He didn't care who was watching.

"...Maybe he's just too lazy to get up," you offered.

Wooin snorted, a sharp, disbelieving sound. "Yeah, right. Hyuk? Letting a girl play with his hair? This is the guy who finishes a race and doesn't even stick around for the trophy or the praise. He disappears before the engine even cools."

But with you? He was lingering. Blatantly. Pathetically.

"Are you leaving?" you asked when you saw him shift.

A beat of silence. "...Not yet."

You blinked. "...Oh."

This was the new reality you had to get used to. He was developing a... "Silent Craving."

He didn't demand your attention loudly. He didn't throw a fit. It was just—Presence.

He chose to orbit you. He walked beside you instead of vanishing into the crowd. He stood closer than necessary... until your shoulders were practically fused together.

And sometimes— "...Don't go that way."

You frowned, confused. "Why not?"

"...It’s too dark."

You gave him a teasing, provocative smile. "You know I like the dark, Hyuk."

A heavy, weighted silence followed. "...But I don't like it. (Because you won't be able to see me)."

You stared deep into his eyes. You looked past the stillness, hunting for the truth buried under that frozen exterior.

"...Are you worried about me?"

The silence swallowed the room... before a single, blunt syllable escaped his lips. "...Yeah."

That’s Hyuk.

He doesn't hide anything from you. When it comes to his feelings for you... he’s practically standing naked.

To the outside world—he is the Reaper, the herald of death.

But to you? He is something far more complex. It’s not that he’s become weak. It’s not that he’s lost his sting. It’s "Restrained Power." Like a bloodthirsty wolf choosing to sheath its claws simply because he doesn’t want to catch you in the crossfire of his own darkness.

You saw that side of him clearly one night.

A drunkard stumbled out of the shadows, slamming into you so hard you nearly lost your footing.

"Hey! Watch where you're going!" you snapped instantly. "You're the one drifting into me!"

The man spat a curse, his ego bruised. He stepped into your personal space, looming over you with a jagged, threatening edge.

"You got a problem, brat? You looking to get hurt?"

You didn't back down. You gave him a defiant, razor-sharp grin.

"Yeah, I do! Come on then, try it!"

You didn't even see Hyuk move.

One heartbeat—he was standing bored behind you.

The next—his massive, obsidian shadow had completely swallowed you whole, blocking the drunkard's view of you entirely.

He didn't scream. He didn't lunged.

He just stood there. The sheer atmospheric pressure of his killing intent turned the air so heavy it was impossible to breathe.

"…Back off, man," the drunkard stammered, his voice suddenly trembling. Hyuk tilted his head just a fraction. The gaze that usually looked at you with a trace of softness was gone. In its place was a hollow, soul-chilling void.

"...No."

One word. That was it.

And believe it or not—that was enough to make the entire world stop spinning.

The man turned sober in an instant. He didn't just walk away; he scrambled, bolting into the night without a single backward glance.

Hyuk didn't chase him. He didn't finish the job.

He just stood there like a monolith in front of you. Stiff. Lethal. Frozen.

Until you reached out and gave his arm a tiny, playful poke.

"…Hey, Hyuk."

A beat of silence. "...What?"

"You're doing that face again."

"...What face?"

"The one where you look like you're about to systematically erase someone's entire bloodline."

A pause. A heavy breath escaped him. "...Sorry."

And with just that one apology—the bloodthirsty wolf was back, crouching quietly at your side as if the monster from a moment ago had never existed.

Hyuk never learned how to give a normal compliment.

"You’re good at this," he muttered.

You looked at him, confused. "...At doing hair?"

"Yeah."

"Is that... a compliment, Hyuk?"

A beat of silence. "...It’s a fact."

You let out a dry laugh. "Wow. Fucking romantic, Mr. Grim Reaper."

"...I wasn't trying to make it sweet."

But sometimes—the feelings leaked out anyway.

"...It looks good on you."

You blinked. "...What looks good?"

"That braid."

You reached up, lightly touching the pattern he had woven into your hair. "...Oh. Thanks."

He looked away instantly. The tips of his ears turned a faint, dusty red. Just a fraction. Just enough for you to see the crack in the ice.

You had heard the stories from the others. The whispers in the pit. "Hyuk is a fucking psycho," they’d say.

"Why?"

"Do you know what he did to that dragonfly he liked?"

You had frowned, curiosity piqued. "What did he do?"

They told you about a dragonfly tied to a thread. About wings stripped of their freedom. About a fixation so suffocating it was morbid.

You didn't show fear then. But later, when it was just the two of you in the heavy silence...

"...Did you really do that? To the dragonfly?"

You were sitting beside him. No touching. No braiding. Just a raw question flung into the void. The silence lasted an eternity.

"...Yeah."

No denial. No excuses. Nothing but the naked, ugly truth.

"Why?"

The air grew heavy. "...Because it was interesting."

You swallowed hard, your throat feeling like sandpaper.

"...You really are a psycho, Hyuk."

"...I know."

You looked into his bottomless eyes, searching for the subtext, for the monster hiding in the dark.

"...And would you do that to a 'person' you liked?"

A pause. "...Only if they let me."

Your heart skipped a beat, a sharp physical pang in your chest.

"...And what about me?"

The silence this time was heavier, longer, more suffocating than ever before. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a jagged, microscopic tremor.

"...No."

You frowned. "Why not?"

He turned to face you fully. No mask. No bucket hat. Just the Reaper, exposed.

"...Because I don't want to see you break in my hands."

He went still, his gaze locking onto yours with a terrifying intensity.

"...I just want to see how far your wings can carry you. I’ll be right here, watching from below. That's enough."

And somehow—that "kind" answer felt a thousand times more chilling than the story of the dragonfly.

In the end, it became a golden shackle that bound them together.

You did his hair. He did yours.

The long stretches of silence. The touch of fingertips so tender it was almost agonizing. A thousand unspoken emotions hanging in the air like heavy, unrefined silk.

"You missed a strand right here," you whispered.

"...Where?"

"Here. Right here."

You leaned in close—so close you could catch the faint, masculine scent of his skin, a mix of cold wind and something distinctly him. You reached out to tuck the stray lock of hair back into place.

Hyuk didn't move a single centimeter. He didn't even seem to be breathing. It was as if he were terrified that if he inhaled too deeply, the dream would shatter, and you would dissolve into the air.

One evening, the ritual reached its peak.

You finished braiding his hair, the neat patterns a stark contrast to his lethal aura. You gave his head a playful, affectionate pat—the kind you'd give a massive, dangerous hound.

"Done. You can go now."

But he didn't move. He sat there, anchored to the floor.

"...Hyuk?"

"...Wait."

You blinked, confused. "Wait for what?"

The silence stretched, thick and pulsating with a tension that felt like it could snap.

"...Stay like this. Just a little longer."

You hesitated. "Why?"

His voice was a ghost of itself—thin, fragile, and more vulnerable than you had ever heard it.

"...It’s... quiet. I’ve never felt this kind of peace before."

A small, complicated smile tugged at your lips.

"God, you really are a freak, aren't you?"

But even as you said it, you didn't leave. You didn't pull away.

And Hyuk—

Kwon Hyuk—

The Reaper who lives to crush the most beautiful things until they're dust in his palms—

He chose to be a statue.

He leaned his head toward you, inch by agonizing inch, until he could feel the radiating warmth of your skin.

He chose not to destroy.

He chose not to steal your freedom.

Pairing: Yoo Wooin x fem!reader Genre: dark romance, psychological tension, soft control vs soft resistance Rating: R TW: manipulation, power imbalance, emotional pressure, verbal teasing

(@dzvelinaskebiyars @i-nssomniia @zyart-jpg @sylith @shintaru)

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"He never lost a bet... until he met you."

Yoo Wooin never had to scream to win an argument. That’s what the idiots always got wrong about him.

It wasn’t about aggression. It wasn’t about violence. It wasn’t even about death threats—those things were just... accessories.

Ornaments he pulled out to show off when he was bored, or when someone needed to be slapped back into their place to remember exactly where they stood.

None of that mattered.

What made him truly dangerous was the "Stillness." The way he’d tilt his head just a fraction, the yellow lenses of his glasses reflecting the light until his eyes were completely hidden, and speak like a man who already held the finale of the story in the palm of his hand.

Because usually, he actually did.

Humans are pathetically predictable.

They have stupid reactions. They trip over their own words. The moment they get emotional, their eyes well up, and they start defending themselves until they look pitiable.

And Wooin? He just watched. And then he’d slowly dissect them, piece by piece.

You should’ve been easy to chew.

You looked exactly like that type.

A soft, velvety voice. A kind demeanor. You chose your words with such caution, as if you were terrified of accidentally scratching someone’s wound.

A first-year Pharmacy student—organized, polite, and so quiet that people usually looked right over your head.

You never interrupted. You never threw a fit. You never pushed back.

So why—

Why the fuck was arguing with you so goddamn irritating that the veins in his head felt like they were going to snap?

"Wooin... that’s not what you said a minute ago."

Your voice was still soft. Still polite. Still kind. But your eyes—they didn't flicker once.

And that right there? That’s something he’s never had to deal with.

He leaned back, draping one arm lazily over the back of his chair. The lollipop in his mouth clicked against his teeth, slow and rhythmic.

"I didn't say that," he replied. His voice was dead flat, dismissive, already moving on like he’d already won.

Normally, that’s where people fold. They start doubting themselves. They get flustered, they backtrack, and they end up apologizing for even bringing it up.

But not you.

"...Yes, you did."

A beat of silence. Then, your voice dropped even lower, steady as a heartbeat—

"I remember."

Inner monolouge: Are you for real? Is this girl actually trying to test me right now?

His gaze sharpened instantly—just a fraction. Too subtle for anyone else to notice, but more than enough for you to feel the temperature in the room drop. He was starting to get pissed.

"Keeping a scorecard just to check me out later?" he asked, his voice laced with a brand of "amusement" that was dangerous as hell.

He was pressing. Pushing. Crushing the space between you to make you retreat.

You just shook your head.

"No."

A tiny pause.

"I just don't like it when you try to distort the truth."

Inner monologue: That’s not how this works, sweetheart. You’re supposed to shut up and accept that I’m the one running the show.

A surge of irritation shot through his ribs—a flicker of something raw and invisible. It wasn't because you were wrong.

It was because you refused to submit.

This time, he leaned in. Close. So close your breaths tangled together.

"Think I’m bullshitting you?"

Normally, this is the part where people crawl.

Between the suffocating proximity, the shift to that lethal, low tone, and the heavy pressure in the air—it’s usually enough to make anyone bolt, offer a nervous laugh, and stammer, "No no, sorry, I must have remembered it wrong."

You hesitated. Just for a micro-second. And his brain caught it instantly.

Inner monologue: There it is. Good. Now bow your head and back the fuck off.

"…No," you finally said.

Then came the follow-up, steadier than before—

"But you’re changing the subject."

Inner monolouge: … What? Are you kidding me? That is not the answer I wanted.

He stared at your face. Not just a look—a glare intended to draw blood. It was like he was trying to peel back your skin layer by layer just to find the exact spot where you were supposed to be trembling with fear.

But you just sat there. Hands neatly interlaced on your lap. Your expression was as still as a pool of water so deep he couldn't even see the bottom.

"You look pretty cute when you’re being this stubborn," he drawled, letting a trashy, provocative smirk crawl across his lips.

Plan B: The Diversion. Distract. Tease. Twist the power dynamic into something flirtatious. It works on everyone... except you.

You blinked. Once. Twice.

And then—"

"This is incredibly unfair, you know."

Inner monologue: ...?

"The subject of 'cuteness' has absolutely nothing to do with our conversation," you continued. Your voice was still soft, but it cut like a surgical blade.

"But you do this all the time."

Inner monologue: I do what? What the fuck am I doing?

"You say things to make people feel small instead of just giving a straight answer to finish the conversation."

The silence in the room was deafening.

For the first time in his life—Yoo Wooin was speechless.

Inner monologue: ...Okay. This is some brand-new territory.

He tilted his head, studying you as if you were doing something incredibly dangerous.

"Who taught you to talk like that?" he asked, his voice dropping to a bone-chilling low.

You just shrugged. "...I just observed it."

Inner monologue: Yeah, I bet you did, you little brat.

A tight, uncomfortable sensation started twisting in his chest. It wasn't anger. Not exactly. It was the feeling of being stripped naked—like you were reaching inside him and pulling out his guts just to see how they worked.

He fucking hated this feeling. So, he doubled down. He went for the kill.

"Then observe this," he whispered, his lips inches from your ear. "You’re picking a fight with me."

There it was. The moment he starts killing people with words. The threat. Usually, this is the breaking point. People remember exactly what kind of monster they’re talking to, what Wooin is capable of, and what happens when he gets bored of being "nice."

But you didn't even flinch. "I’m aware."

Inner monologue: Then why aren't you shaking? Why are you still staring me in the eye?

"But I'm not trying to pick a fight," you added quickly, as if genuinely worried he’d misunderstand—yet your eyes still held zero fear. "I just want you to tell the truth."

Inner monologue: The truth? If I told you the truth, could you even handle it?

He let out a slow, sharp breath through his nose. He lowered his gaze for a second before snapping it back to yours, his eyes shifting into something darker, heavier.

"You think I'm lying?"

You hesitated again. But not out of fear. You were 'evaluating' him.

"Sometimes... you don't tell the whole truth," you confessed. "And sometimes you do, but you hide it behind being a prick every single time."

Inner monologue: ...Goddammit. She sees everything.

That hit him harder than any punch he’d ever taken in a street fight. It went deep—so deep he felt like he was running out of air. So, he laughed. He had to. It was the only way to save face, the only way to ignore the fact that you were dead right.

"You're overthinking it," he said, waving it off like it was nothing but dust.

You shook your head. Soft. Gentle. But stubborn as hell. "I know I’m not."

Inner monoogue: You are. You have to be. Because if you aren't... then you can see every single weakness I've ever buried.

The silence returned. Long. Suffocating. A standoff where neither side was willing to retreat. And in that quiet, everything started to crumble. Wooin realized a terrifying truth: He was losing.

Not because you were louder.

Not because you were better.

Not because you were aggressive.

But because you were immovable. A stone in the middle of his storm. And he had no weakness left to attack.

Inner monologue: ...This is fucking pathetic. It’s just a conversation with a freshman. Why the hell is my heart racing like this?

He felt the power in his own kingdom slipping away. It was subtle. It was faint. But it was everything he had. He leaned back again, finally being the one to break eye contact first.

"You're so goddamn annoying," he muttered through gritted teeth.

You blinked. And then... you smiled. A smile that felt like being scalded by hot water. "You always say that, Wooin."

Inner monologue: Because it’s true, you lunatic. Because you're annoying. Because... you never break for me. Not once.

"Most people wouldn't dare do this to me," he added, his voice colder but dripping with a raw, ugly curiosity.

You tilted your head. "Should I stop?"

Inner monologue: Stop. Yes. Stop right now. Before I lose it and pull you in just to shut you up.

"...No," he blurted out. His jaw tightened immediately. What the fuck did I just say?

You looked at him, confused. "No?"

He clicked his tongue, so frustrated with himself he wanted to punch a hole through the wall. "At least you aren't boring like everyone else."

Inner monologue: Liar. That’s not the reason at all. The truth is... I don't want you out of my sight for a single second.

Even if it meant losing to you again and again. Even if it meant you’d keep staring at him with those eyes that knew every single one of his secrets—eyes that weren't afraid. Eyes that were... terrifyingly sincere.

Inner monologue: ...You're dangerous. You're a fucking hazard.

Pairing: Vinny Hong x fem!reader

Genre: Slice of Life, Mystery-Romance, Slow Burn

Rating: PG-13

TW: Mentions of past bullying, class disparity

A/N: New Fic Alert! 🐈‍⬛🧡 This one follows Vinny (my favorite black cat) and Y/N (the stubborn orange cat who won't leave him alone).

Timeline: Set right after the League of Street finals, but before the bike-selling arc. (Yes, I’m stretching the timeline a bit for the plot!)

The Vibe: High tension and stubborn energy. Y/N has been by Vinny’s side for five years. He tries to push everyone away, but being neighbors means she isn’t going anywhere. If talking nicely doesn’t work, she’ll just out-stubborn him.

Updates: Expect a new part every 4–5 days. I’m currently balancing the English version here with the Thai version on another app, so I’m working hard to get every detail right!

I’ve put so much heart into this—writing until my eyes water—so I really hope you enjoy the intensity. Don't forget to add this to your collection! 💕

(@dzvelinaskebiyars @i-nssomniia @zyart-jpg @sylith)

______________

The sun was bleeding out. The sky bruised over into a sickly, muddied purple-pink, cut sharp by the jagged shadows of the skyscrapers huddled in the distance.

It was beautiful…

But Vinny Hong wasn't looking.

He was hunched low over his pink Bridgestone, bones practically rattling with it. The wrench in his hand slammed against the iron—clack, cluck, clack, cluck—a frantic, jagged rhythm that sounded just as pissed off as he was. His knuckles were stained pitch-black with grease; his back was a map of salt and sweat from a literal day of hell on the pedals.

He didn’t stop.

Or maybe, he just didn’t dare to.

Because the second his hands went idle… her face would drift back. His mother, gaunt and wasted, drowning in a hospital bed. That hollow, whistling wheeze of the ventilator cutting through a silence that made his soul rot. And those numbers—the thick, heavy stack of medical bills sitting mockingly on the dining table. Numbers that no matter if he pedaled until his legs snapped, he was never going to outpace.

It sat heavy on his chest with every goddamn breath, no matter how hard he tried to look away.

His hand faltered—just a tremor—shaking so bad he had to white-knuckle the wrench until the metal bit into his palm.

Then, he started cranking again.

Harder.

More stubborn.

As if by fixing this piece-of-shit bike… he could fix his entire godforsaken, too.

Then, the "noise" he loathed with every fiber of his being began…

Shhhhh… Hummm… Splosh…

The sound of the fountain from the glass house side rose up, humming through the suffocating silence. Vinny didn't even need to look up. He knew exactly why You turned it on. He knew, down to the inch, that You were standing exactly nineteen paces away, watching him through the gaps in that obscenely expensive cedar fence.

"Staring at that derailleur won't make it fix itself, Vinny."

Your voice drifted on the breeze—a tone far too bright, far too melodic for his current mood. It sliced through the gloom in his head like a dull blade, intentionally dragging across an open wound.

Vinny went rigid. He let out a sharp, jagged exhale of pure annoyance. His left eye—bloodshot and weary—narrowed as he finally forced himself to look up.

You were leaning against the gate, still in that crisp Grade 11 Gangnam-style uniform, though the blazer was gone, replaced by an oversized cream cardigan—one he guessed cost more than his entire bike frame.

"Get lost," he rasped, his voice a dry scrape. "And turn that fountain off. It’s grating."

"It’s white noise, actually! They say it lowers your cortisol levels."

You shot back instantly, stepping right over the 'invisible line'—the unseen border where his jagged gravel met Your seamless polished stone.

You held out a small wooden bowl. Inside were strawberries—vibrant red, so plump and perfect they looked fake.

"Try one. I grew them in the backyard myself."

Vinny narrowed his eyes at the strawberries in the wooden bowl before his gaze drifted, settling on Your hands—pale, soft, pristine. Not a single scar or a patch of thickened callous like his own.

He hated it.

He hated how You looked like some pampered princess from a luxury Gangnam condo, yet somehow ended up living next door to him since middle school. He hated how You made the world look so damn easy, insisting on growing your own kale and calling it "living simply."

"I don't like sweets," he muttered, his voice cold as he turned his back to obsess over the bike spokes again.

"Liar. You love them," You shot back instantly, popping a strawberry into your mouth. "You’re just so busy trying to be a 'freak' that you think people like you aren't allowed to eat fruit."

Then You smiled—that same crescent-moon eye smile that had been haunting him for five years.

"I’m heading to GS25. Come with me—we’ll pick out some ramyeon. My treat. My brother just wired me an 'emergency fund' for 'farmhouse survival' or whatever."

Vinny gripped the wrench so hard his hand shook. Emergency fund. To You, this neighborhood was just a playground, a little adventure to kill time. But for him… it was a cage with no visible exit.

"Your brother is out of his mind, letting a girl like you live here alone," he grumbled, fuming at the sheer unfairness of fate. But then, his traitorous stomach betrayed him, letting out a loud, shameless growl that cut right through the silence.

You let out a bright, genuine laugh—the kind of sound that made him grit his teeth until they ached.

"He’s not crazy. He’s just scared of me… exactly like you are," You said, spinning around to lead the way. "Five minutes, Vinny. Go wash that grease off."

Vinny walked half a step ahead, hands buried deep in the pockets of his favorite Adidas track jacket. He didn’t even glance back, yet he could feel Your gaze tracking his every move like a shadow.

"You’re doing it again," he snapped, cutting through the quiet.

"Doing what?"

"Staring at me… staring at my eye."

You didn’t flinch. Instead, you hummed a strange, unfamiliar melody—something elegant, like a French art song. "I’m not staring. I just think that under these streetlights… it looks like a ruby. Just like the rubies in my mother’s old jewelry box."

Vinny stopped dead. You nearly collided with his back.

That sentence struck him with a force that left his entire body numb.

“It looks just like a ruby,” a young girl’s voice whispered in a fading, sepia-toned memory inside his head. “Don’t let anyone steal your ruby away, okay?”

He stood frozen, staring at You—the Grade 11 neighbor he’d branded as nothing but an "annoying brat" for five years. You were smiling at him… a smile so innocent and playful it was terrifying.

No… it was impossible.

You only moved here in Grade 7. You were from another city. He’d only known you for five years.

Right?

"What… what did you just say?"

Vinny forced the words out, his voice a low, jagged rasp that bordered on a threat.

"I said it looks like a ruby," You repeated, tilting your head to catch the orange glow of the streetlamp. "Why? Do you have to look so scary just because I said that, Officer Hong?"

Vinny stared at you for a long, heavy moment. His heart hammered against his ribs like a panicked bird thrashed in a cage. Inside his pockets, his hands shook so violently he had to ball them into fists. He wanted to reach out, to grab your shoulders and shake the truth out of you—where the hell were you ten years ago?

But looking into your eyes—that kind of kindness he’d never received from anyone—it felt like a physical weight, a burden too heavy to carry.

"Shut up," he muttered, snapping his head away to hide the flush creeping up to his ears. "Just move. The spicy ramyeon sells out fast."

Inside the GS25

You hummed a cheerful tune, drifting through the aisles. Your small hands reached for the most expensive milk, three bags of premium jerky, and those gold-leaf chocolates that Vinny knew for a fact cost more than a week’s worth of his lunches. You tossed it all into the basket he was carrying without a second thought.

"Hey! I thought you said we were just getting ramyeon," he hissed, watching the numbers on the digital display climb to a terrifying height.

"I’m just picking out the toppings."

You argued back, leaning in so close the scent of lemon and expensive soap hit him full-on. You reached across his shoulder to grab an extra packet of ghost-pepper flakes.

"You need the energy, Vinny. You look... beyond exhausted," you said with a small smile, but for a split second, your eyes went dead serious. "And I’d hate to see my 'favorite view' collapse before his time."

"I’m not your 'view'."

Vinny growled through gritted teeth, but deep down, he knew arguing with you was a losing game. In the end, he didn't put a single bag of that jerky back on the shelf.

Standing at the counter, you didn't even glance at the total. You pulled out a black credit card—the kind with no limit—and tapped it against the scanner with a casual flick of the wrist.

It looked so easy… so effortless that the man standing beside you had to clench his jaw until it ached.

"See? Easy," you said, handing him the heavy plastic bag. "Think of it as a thank-you for fixing my fountain last month."

"How many times do I have to tell you, I didn't 'fix' it," Vinny snapped back instantly. "I was just annoyed by the noise, so I kicked the damn thing once. It just happened to start working again on its own."

"To me... it’s exactly the same thing."

The night wind picked up, cutting through the air with a sudden chill. Vinny caught a glimpse of You shivering slightly under that thin cardigan. He kept walking for a moment before coming to a dead halt.

Without a word, he dropped the heavy grocery bags to the pavement. He yanked the zipper of his Adidas track jacket down and hurled it at Your head with enough force to bury your face in the fabric.

"Put it on," he commanded, his voice gruff. "If you get sick… your mother will nag me until my ears go numb."

You let out a soft laugh as you pulled the oversized jacket on. The sleeves were so long they swallowed your hands entirely.

The moment it was on You… Vinny’s scent became vivid. It was the smell of cold air mixed with the faint, metallic tang of the machine oil he’d been covered in all day.

You tucked your face into the high collar, your eyes crinkling into those crescent moons once again.

"Thanks, Vinny."

As the two of you reached the 'invisible line,' the divide between your worlds sharpened. Your glass house glowed with a warm, golden light, pulsing with life. It stood in stark contrast to Vinny’s home—shrouded in darkness, save for the rhythmic, flickering light from his mother’s room.

"Goodnight, Vinny."

You stepped onto the seamless, polished stone of your porch, but paused at the door to look back one last time.

"Vinny, don't give up and sell that bike yet. I have a feeling your luck… it’s about to change."

He didn't say a word. He just stood there, watching You disappear into your private, "simple" paradise.

Vinny lingered for a long time, gripping the heavy plastic bags until the handles bit into his palms. He stared down at the ground—at the exact point where his jagged gravel met Your smooth, polished stone.

It was a boundary he never intended to cross.

Vinny stared at the screen as it went black. He looked up, catching his own reflection in the dark windowpane. Slowly, his hand drifted up, his fingers tracing the edge of his left eye—the red one.

A ruby…

Finally, he reached into the plastic bag, fumbling for the gold-leaf chocolate he’d mocked for being overpriced. He ripped the foil open and took a bite.

The taste was cloying—sickly sweet. Far too sweet for someone like him.

But he stood there in the dark, chewing slowly, considering the taste.

And he ate the entire thing.

Morning arrived with a brightness so aggressive Vinny felt like cursing the sky.

The sunlight hacked through his thin gray curtains, stabbing at his face with relentless persistence until even a sleeper as deep as him couldn't take it anymore. He let out a low, guttural groan, rolling away from the light. But then, a scent—something fresh, not the usual exhaust fumes or damp asphalt—drifted through the open window. It was the smell of wet earth, mint, and a faint, lingering sweetness like premium honey.

He knew exactly what that smell was… or rather, whose it was.

Vinny sat up, his flame-red hair a tangled mess of a mane. He rubbed his eyes, the two beauty marks beneath his left eye standing out sharp against his pale skin. He grabbed his phone: 06:50 AM.

"Who the hell is crazy enough to be up at 6:50 on a Saturday?" he rasped, his breath hitching in his throat.

He hauled himself up, his tall, athletic frame casting a long shadow over the peeling wallpaper of his cramped room. He stomped to the window and looked down.

There You were.

In the middle of that perfectly manicured garden of your two-story glass house, You were crouching between rows of kale and tomatoes. You were wearing blue rubber boots and a wide-brimmed hat that looked like it had been ripped straight out of a high-end travel magazine. You were humming—the same French melody from last night—while your hands delicately pruned a lemon tree.

"The fountain's too loud," Vinny barked out the window, his voice still thick and gravelly with sleep.

You didn’t flinch. You didn't even look surprised. You simply looked up, your eyes crinkling into that signature crescent-moon shape that made Vinny’s chest feel tight for no goddamn reason.

"Good morning, Sunshine! I only have the fountain at twenty percent. You’re just grumpy because you haven't had any caffeine yet," You called back brightly, accidentally smearing a streak of dirt across your cheek. "I’m making breakfast. Real food, not that cardboard-flavored cereal you live on."

Vinny bared his teeth, leaning his elbows on the windowsill. "I don’t have time for some fancy-ass breakfast. I’ve got a shift at the chicken shop, and I have to go practice with the guys after."

"The chicken shop doesn't even open until nine, and the Sabbath Crew won't drag their sorry asses out of bed until the sun is licking their heels to hide their dark circles," You countered, standing up with a basket full of fresh greens. "It’s only nineteen paces, Vinny. I’ve already set the table."

Ten minutes later, Vinny found himself plopped down on Your terrace. He felt like a giant who’d blundered into a dollhouse. Clad in an oversized white tee and slides.

He watched You move through the kitchen. They called it the "Glass House" for a reason—the walls were floor-to-ceiling panes, revealing high-end appliances that looked like they belonged in a design catalog. A Sub-Zero fridge, a Wolf range… it was a world away from the grit of this alleyway. And so was the girl frying eggs in expensive silk pajamas tucked under a gardening apron.

"Why the hell are you even here?" Vinny blurted out, his voice harsh. "You’re a silver-spoon kid. This house is made of materials I can’t even name. Why this street? Why live next to me?"

You paused, spatula hovering over the pan. You didn't look back at him. "I told you, I wanted to live my own life. My parents were going to ship me off to boarding school in Switzerland, but I told them I wanted to grow my own food. I wanted to see the 'real world'."

"The real world doesn't come with heated floors and private fountains," Vinny snorted. There was no venom in his voice now—just a deep-seated exhaustion.

You turned around, carrying two plates piled high with avocado toast, poached eggs, and smoked salmon. You set one in front of him.

"The real world is wherever you choose to stand, Vinny," You said softly, sitting across from him. You looked at him with an intensity that forced him to avert his gaze. "And I chose to stand here. Five years ago, I saw the 'For Sale' sign on this lot, and I just knew… I just knew."

Vinny took a bite of the toast. It was delicious—annoyingly so. He ate in silence for a moment, the only sounds being the fountain and a car alarm wailing three blocks away.

"You’re a freak," he said suddenly, eyeing Your soil-stained hands. "Most girls your age are busy blowing their parents' money on bags or whatever. But you… you buy all this to grow kale."

You laughed out loud, your eyes crinkling into those signature crescents. "Homegrown veggies are an investment, Vinny! Besides, I like the quiet here… well, except for 2:00 AM when you’re standing outside cursing at your bike chain."

Vinny’s expression softened for a split second before he quickly pulled his scowl back into place. "The chain was loose."

He scanned the terrace, his gaze landing on an old ceramic cat figurine sitting near the fountain. His heart gave a sudden, violent jolt. It looked exactly like a prize from the claw machine at the old playground he used to frequent. Identical. He shook the thought away—it had to be a coincidence.

"Just eat your damn eggs," he muttered. "Before I chuck them into the fountain."

After breakfast, you walked him to the gate. Vinny’s mind had already drifted back to the crushing weight of his mother in that hospital bed and the mountain of debt that kept him awake at night. Today, he planned to scrap some old bike parts just to cover this week's medical bills.

"Wait," you called out, catching his sleeve. You handed him a brown paper bag, surprisingly heavy. "I grew too much spinach and kale. There’s no room left in the fridge, and if you don't take it, it’s just going to rot and feed the worms. Do me a favor and take it off my hands."

Vinny peered into the bag. Beneath the pile of greens, he spotted a bottle of expensive organic multivitamins and an envelope that looked suspiciously like a "referral discount" for a local pharmacy.

"I don’t need—"

"It’s for your mom, Vinny," you cut him off, your voice brooks no argument. "It’s not for you. Don’t let your pride gamble with her health just because you’re too stubborn to accept something I went out of my way for."

Vinny looked at you—really looked at you. You were only seventeen, a Grade 11 student who should be worrying about exams or boys. Yet here you were, playing a psychological war with his dignity just to make sure his mother got her vitamins. He knew you must have spent hours tracking down that "discount," or maybe nagged your brother to pull some strings.

"You really are a piece of work," he grumbled, snatching the bag.

"Me? I'm the best 'piece of work' you’ll ever meet," you shot back, leaning casually against the gate.

He began to walk away, wheeling his trusty pink Bridgestone past the house. After a few paces, he stopped and looked back.

"Y/N?"

"Yeah?"

"The eggs... they weren't half bad."

You flashed that wide, crescent-moon smile again. "I knew it! See you at seven—I'm making Jjamppong!"

[ Part 1, Part 2 ]

Part 3

Morning at Gunn High was never a word synonymous with 'peace.'

The screech of sneakers on the floor and the violent bang-bang of lockers were the city’s uninspired soundtrack. Vinny walked into class late—as per usual. Hands shoved deep in his pockets and that shock of crimson hair acting like a neon sign that made the teacher sigh before he even opened his mouth.

"Your exam scores this time... they're interesting, to say the least."

That sentence was never a good sign.

"Some of you clearly put in the effort..." The teacher paused, eyes scanning the room. "Others... clearly didn't."

“This is out of 20 raw points. Evaluate yourselves.”

Vinny tilted his chair back, acting like he didn't give a damn. At least, that’s what he told himself.

The papers started sliding onto desks. Whispers began to ripple through the room like a fever.

"Shit... I failed."

"I only got a 9."

"Man, that ATP question was such a bitch..."

Vinny tapped his pencil against the desk, a slow, bored rhythm. Then, a sheet of paper slid across the wood and landed in front of him.

Face down.

The teacher didn't say a word, just walked past. Vinny stared at the back of the paper for one second... two... and then he flipped it.

16/20

The red ink bled into the page, bold and undeniable.

Vinny blinked, his eyes widening just a fraction.

"...What the hell?"

He stared at the '16’ as if it might suddenly dissolve or transform back into a 4 or a 7.

And then, like a ghost in his ear, your voice came crashing back—loud, annoying, and painfully bright:

“The more surface area, the more ATP you get!”

He clicked his tongue, a faint sound of annoyance. “Loud-mouthed brat...”

But despite the insult, a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—completely involuntary and impossible to suppress.

“Hey.”

A voice from the next desk broke his trance. Sung, his friend, was leaning over with a look of pure mischief.

Vinny reacted instantly, shoving the exam paper under his notebook like it was top-secret intel. “What?”

Sung narrowed his eyes, scanning Vinny’s face. “You’re acting sus.”

“My face always looks like this.”

“Nah.” Sung leaned in closer, invading his personal space. “That’s the face of someone who just had something good happen to them.”

Vinny stared back, deadpan. “You’re delusional.”

Sung’s grin widened into something predatory. “Let me see the score then.”

“No.”

“Holy shit... you actually passed, didn’t you?!”

Vinny’s silence was the loudest confirmation in the world. Sung let out a dramatic, over-the-top gasp that probably reached the front of the classroom.

“No way! It’s a miracle! The world is ending!”

“Shut it.”

“VINNY HONG PASSED BIOLOGY, EVERYBODY—!”

Thud! Vinny kicked the leg of Sung’s chair hard enough to make him rattle. “Say one more word and I’m cutting your bike chain.”

Sung immediately threw his hands up in surrender, though the shit-eating grin didn't move an inch. “Alright, alright! My lips are sealed.”

When the final bell rang, the classroom erupted into the usual chaos of students packing up, but Vinny stayed rooted in his seat for a moment. He pulled the paper out from under his notebook one last time.

16 / 20

His eyes skimmed past the score and landed on the short-answer section: Explain how cristae help increase ATP production.

Right next to it was a comment from the teacher in red ink: ✔ Excellent explanation.

Vinny let out a dry, breathy chuckle. “Yeah... congrats,” he muttered to the empty air.

But he wasn't talking to himself. He was talking to you.

After School

After the final bell, Vinny stepped out into the fading light. The sky was a pale, dusty grey, and the distant hum of traffic felt like a low-fi backing track to his thoughts. He leaned his bike against the metal railing, pulling his phone from his pocket with a practiced flick.

He opened your chat. The cursor blinked, waiting. He started typing...

Delete. He tried again.

Delete. Finally, he just sent it. Short and blunt.

Vinny: Bio scores are out.

The three dots started dancing immediately. You were online. Waiting.

You: AND?? HOW WAS IT???? TELL ME NOW!

Vinny watched the screen, a small, stubborn tug at his lips before he typed back.

Vinny: 16 out of 20.

The typing bubble appeared... disappeared... then came back with a vengeance. And then—the floodgates opened.

You: SIXTEEN????

You: VINNY! That’s actually insane!!

You: Omg, I’m literally so proud of you right now! 🥹 YESSSSS

Vinny’s brow furrowed at the sheer volume of text making his phone vibrate like it was having a seizure. He typed back, trying to stay cool.

Vinny: Chill out. It’s just a test.

The dots were back instantly.

You: We. Are. Celebrating.

Vinny rolled his eyes, but his hands were already unlocking his bike, preparing to head your way before he even realized it.

Vinny: No.

Instant reply—

You: WE ARE! Ramyun tonight! My treat! ✨

Vinny swung his leg over the saddle.

Vinny: Fine.

Vinny: But you better explain DNA replication while we eat.

You: DEALL

Vinny shoved the phone into his pocket and started to pedal. The wind rushed past his ears, sharp and cool, but for the first time in years, school didn't feel like a total waste of time.

Somewhere in this city, a loud-mouthed, chaotic girl was probably already planning a "Study Party Celebration," and strangely enough...

[ Part 1, Part 3 ]

Part 2

One week later — Gunn High.

Vinny hated exams.

Not because they were hard. They were just… stupid.

At least, that’s what he told himself as he sat in the very back of the classroom—a place he hadn’t shown his face in for two weeks straight. The air was thick with the smell of cheap disinfectant and pencil lead. Dust settled on the sun-drenched windows. Right in front of him, the Biology paper lay face down.

Vinny twirled his pen, bored out of his mind. The room was a mess of nervous energy. Nerds whispering to themselves, feet tapping against the floor like a death march. Formulas being mumbled in every corner.

Vinny leaned back, his chair creaking. What a joke…

Then, her face flashed in his mind.

The girl sitting criss-cross on the rug, swinging her pencil around like a damn sword, screaming right in his ear— "Mitochondria are the powerhouses of the cell!”

Vinny let out a short, dry huff through his nose. "…So damn noisy," he muttered to the blank paper.

The teacher walked in. "Alright, phones away."

The sound of paper flipping echoed through the room.

Game on.

Vinny flipped his sheet over.

Question one: Which organelle is responsible for protein synthesis?

Vinny stared at the ink. A low, sharp smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "…Ribosome."

The tip of his pen finally hit the paper.

Meanwhile — Your School. You shouldn’t be this nervous. You’d finished this material months ago.

But here you were, sitting at your desk, staring a hole through the wood while tapping your pencil in a frantic, uneven rhythm.

Your best friend leaned in, squinting at you. "Why do you look like you’re about to take the Bar exam or something?"

"I basically am," you whispered back. "Huh?"

You let out a dramatic, soul-crushing groan. "I’ve been tutoring someone."

"Since when did you become a tutor?"

You paused for a split second. "…Since Wooin introduced me to the most stubborn human being on the planet, I guess."

Your friend’s eyebrows shot up. "Oh?"

You ignored her look of suspicion. "He has an exam today."

"Wait…" Her eyes slowly widened. "That redhead cyclist guy?"

"How the hell do you even know about him?” "Please, everyone knows."

You groaned again, burying your face in your hands. Your friend nudged you, a devilish smirk on her face.

"You like him." "I do not.”

"But you're losing your mind over his exam?"

"That’s just… being a responsible tutor!" "Yeah, right." You sat bolt upright. "He didn’t even get ATP last week, okay?” "…That sounded suspiciously like a love confession." You slammed your notebook shut. Thud! "Shut up!"

But your brain only had room for one thought.

Did he remember anything I taught him?

Gunn High — During the Exam.

Vinny flipped to the next page.

Explain why the inner membrane of the mitochondria folds into cristae.

He stared at the question.

Your voice immediately echoed in his head. "More surface area means more ATP, duh.”

Vinny’s brows knitted together. "…Surface area," he muttered under his breath.

He started scratching down the answer. Then he paused. "…Powerhouse of the cell."

He crossed that part out. Too childish.

"…ATP synthesis." Yeah, sounds smarter.

He leaned back slightly, the chair creaking under his weight.

That annoying brat was actually right.

Across the room, someone let out a low, defeated groan. Vinny felt a faint, sharp smirk tug at the corner of his mouth.

Maybe this exam wasn't so bad after all.

Evening — Your Condo.

You were ready.

Two bowls of ramyun, a small plate of strawberries, and three highlighters scattered across the coffee table.

You checked the time. Again.

4:12PM.

By now, you were pacing around the room like a maniac.

"He should be done by now, right…?"

You picked up your phone. Put it down. Picked it up again. Set it back down. "Calm down, Y/N," you whispered to yourself. "He’s fine. He’s got this." Ding-dong—

You practically teleported to the door. You swung it open—

And there he was.

His school blazer was a bit wrinkled, bag slung over one shoulder, looking as unbothered as ever.

"Why are you panting? You look like you just ran a marathon," he said, deadpan.

You blinked, trying to catch your breath. "…How was it? The exam?"

Vinny brushed past you, kicked off his shoes, and plopped down on the sofa. He reached out and popped a strawberry into his mouth. "…It was okay."

Your eye twitched. "'Okay'?" "Yeah." "That’s it??" "Yeah."

"Vinny!" He kept chewing, completely unfazed. "You’re being loud again."

You snatched up your Bio notebook. "Tell me everything. What questions were on there?" "What for?"

"Just tell me.”

He sighed, shrugging his shoulders. "First one was about Ribosomes."

Your eyes lit up. "And you got it right, didn't you?" "…Yeah." "Okay, okay. Next one.”

Vinny leaned back against the sofa cushions. "The folding thing. For mitochondria." You froze. "…The cristae?" "That one." "And?"

"And what?" "What did you write?”

Vinny looked you straight in the eye. "…Increased surface area allows for more ATP production."

You gasped so loud it sounded like world peace had just been declared. "YOU REMEMBERED!"

Vinny flinched at your volume. "Of course I remembered."

A massive, ear-to-ear grin spread across your face. "Oh my. That’s it”

He shot you a look and grabbed another strawberry. "You’re doing too much, seriously."

"Vinny, you argued with me about that for twenty-seven minutes!" "And I got the answer right, didn't I?" You sank into the chair opposite him, glowing with pride. "Yes. Yes, you did."

Vinny turned his head away, hiding his face, but you caught it—a faint, barely-there tug at the corner of his mouth. A smile that looked a lot like he was actually… proud of himself.

That evening — At the desk.

You were double-checking the rest of the answers. Vinny leaned down, hovering over your notebook, pencil still in his hand.

"The last question was weird as hell," he muttered. "What did it ask?"

"Definition of ATP." You paused. "…And you wrote?" Vinny looked you dead in the eye. "…It’s the energy currency of the cell."

You froze, staring at him. Then, you threw both hands in the air. "YESSSSSS.”

Vinny’s brows knitted together. "What is wrong with you?" "You actually learned it! You really did!"

"I mean, it's right there, isn't it?" You leaned in closer, eyes sparkling. "You’ve actually gotten smarter, Vinny." Vinny let out a low, dry chuckle. "I just memorized it, whatever." "No, you didn't." “Yeah, I did."

"Vinny…" "What?" "This time, you asked me why it works like that. You didn't just memorize it. You understood it."

He went quiet. It was… true.

You caught his reaction, and your smile softened into something gentler. "That’s what real learning is."

Vinny looked back down at the notebook, avoiding your gaze. "…You're still as noisy as ever." But he didn’t argue with you again.

In the kitchen.

The ramyun was bubbling. Vinny stood leaning against the counter, watching you.

"You didn't have to do this," he said. "I always do this after an exam."

"Why?"

"To celebrate.

He crossed his arms. "You didn't take the test." "But you did."

Vinny watched you drop the noodles into the boiling water. "…You're a strange one."

You pointed your chopsticks at him. "You only passed because of me, okay?" "The results aren't even out yet."

"You passed. I know it." "How?" You gave him a cheeky grin. "Because I'm a genius."

Vinny snorted. "That’s highly debatable." You handed him the bowl. "Eat. Before it gets soggy."

Vinny took it. The steam rose in his face, and the smell made his stomach give a faint, traitorous growl. You heard it instantly.

"Hungry, huh?"

"I'm always hungry." "Classic Vinny."

"…Classic me?" "Never mind."

He took a mouthful of noodles, quiet for a second, before blurting out—

"…Thanks."

The word came out faster than he could stop it. You froze. Vinny froze.

Silence filled the kitchen for a heartbeat. Then, you smiled. "You're always welcome."

Vinny immediately looked away. "…Don't make it a habit."

You let out a little giggle.

Total black cat energy.

That night.

Vinny stood by the door, shoes on, bag slung over his shoulder.

"You have to tell me your results," you reminded him firmly.

"…Maybe."

"You have to!"

He opened the door, then paused for a second. "…What's the next chapter?" You blinked. "In Bio?"

"Yeah."

You checked the textbook quickly. "DNA replication."

Vinny gave a single nod. "…Okay." And then he was gone.

You closed the door slowly, then immediately screamed into a pillow.

Somewhere outside.

Vinny walked down the street, hands shoved deep in his pockets. The city lights flickered against the pavement.

He thought about the exam. The explanations. The high-pitched, annoying way you shouted about mitochondria. And without realizing it—

A small smirk pulled at his lips. "…So damn noisy," he muttered to himself again. But his footsteps felt lighter than they had in a long time.

And for the first time in forever, he felt like…

Maybe school wasn't a total waste of time.

Pairing: Vinny Hong × fem!reader

Genre: Fluff, Slice of Life, Academic Rivals Energy, Soft Slow Burn

Rating: Teen

TW: mentions of Vinny’s past struggles, mild teasing, academic stress

A/N: Hi guyss! This idea just randomly popped into my head late at night a few days ago. It’s gonna be more than one part 👩🏻‍❤️‍💋‍👩🏻 ill be posting them back-to-back since i already drafted three parts? Honestly I still have no idea how the ending will go yet, but for now just enjoy the ride! If you have any suggestions or feedback, feel free to tell me—this is actually my first time writing a multi-chapter fic. 🙆🏻‍♀️💕

(@dzvelinaskebiyars @zyart-jpg @shintaru @i-nssomniia @sylith )

[ Part 2, Part 3 ]

Part 1 Late Afternoon — Your Condo

Wooin was the caused of it all.

That was the first thing Vinny decided.

Because if it wasn’t for Wooin’s annoying smirk and his non-stop nagging, he wouldn’t be stuck at this irritatingly spotless glass table—with a massive biology textbook staring him in the face like this.

Biology... really?

He glared at the pages like they’d just insulted his mother.

Across the table was you. You were leaning in, your Japanese mechanical pencil tapping a cheerful rhythm against your notebook.

You’d been rambling about "cellular respiration" for seven minutes straight now.

As for Vinny? He’d understood maybe twenty percent of it. Tops.

“...And that’s why mitochondria are basically the powerhouses of the cell,” you concluded, looking incredibly proud of yourself.

Vinny just stared at you.

You waited for him to say something.

Silence filled the air...

“...You done?” he asked flatly.

You blinked.

“I just explained all of it to you.”

“That wasn’t an explanation,” he replied, his voice deadpan. “That was a sermon.”

Your jaw dropped. “Excuse me??”

From the sofa behind you, Joker burst out laughing, nearly choking on a piece of apple.

Wooin stretched, arms tucked behind his head as he murmured to the ceiling, "Told ya... tutoring Vinny is like talking to a brick wall."

Vinny didn't even bother looking back. "Shut up."

Hyuk, leaning against the window frame, watched the whole thing like it was a live sitcom. "Weren't you the one who agreed to come, though?"

Vinny clicked his tongue in annoyance.

Well... yeah. Technically, he did agree.

But only because Wooin had been pestering him for four days straight.

—You’re gonna have to go back to school anyway.

—You’ve missed two weeks already.

—You’re gonna flunk Bio, man.

And the last thing Wooin said was the real reason he ended up here.

—The kid I told you about is a genius at this stuff.

That "kid" was you.

An 11th grader from a nearby school—Sunny High, obviously.

It seemed you and Wooin had known each other for a long time. Maybe "long time" was an understatement? 

Wooin mentioned you’d been a straight-A student since primary school, so maybe... neighbors? Whatever.

Word was, you tutored him in Chemistry once back in 9th grade, and somehow, that idiot actually scored a 9 out of 10. Unbelievable.

After that, the Sabbath crew started crashing at your place more often.

The first time, Vinny was a ghost. Zero words.

The second time, you fixed everyone some ramyun.

The third time, you started low-key digging for info about his school life.

And now, here he was.

Staring at a diagram of a mitochondrion.

"...Run it by me again," he mumbled.

Your eyes snapped wide.

Vinny regretted it the second he saw your face.

"Oh my god, finally!" You snatched up your pencil.

You leaned halfway across the table, practically in his face. "See this?"

Your pen circled the diagram. "This is the inner membrane. It folds in on itself—it's called the cristae."

Vinny squinted. "...Why?"

You froze. "Why what?"

"Why the hell does it have to fold like that?"

You blinked. Once. Twice. Then, your face just... shifted. You looked impressed.

"...Wait. That's actually a damn good question."

Hyuk let out a low chuckle, while Wooin gave a single, mocking clap.

Joker almost choked on his apple again. Vinny snapped a sharp glare at the group. "What?"

You rested your chin on your palm. "The folding increases the surface area," you explained.

Vinny’s brows knitted together. "Why the hell does it need more surface area?"

"To produce ATP."

"...Speak human.”

You let out a dramatic groan. "To create energy!"

"Mm."

A beat of silence passed.

"...That’s it?"

You slammed your pencil onto the table. Thud. "Vinny.”

"What.”

"That’s literally the whole point!"

He shrugged. "Sounds pretty inefficient, honestly."

Wooin burst out laughing again. "Careful now, Vinny," he teased. "You’re disrespecting Biology right now, man."

Vinny leaned back in his chair, eyes rolling. "Ridiculous."

You stared at him for a second before snatching the pencil right out of his hand.

Vinny blinked, looking dazed as you pulled his notebook toward you. “What are you doing?”

“You’re holding your pencil wrong.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

Before he could snap back, you reached out to adjust his grip. Your fingers brushed against his, gently nudging them into place.

Vinny went stiff.

It was just a split-second movement.

A barely-there touch.

But the sudden closeness made him tense up instinctively.

You didn’t notice a thing. “You’re gripping it too tight,” you said, like it was no big deal.

Vinny looked down at the pencil.

Then he looked up at you.

“…I’ve been writing just fine my whole life.”

“Maybe. But your hand’s gonna cramp up during the entrance exam.”

“Who says I’m even taking it?”

You shrugged. “You never know.”

Silence settled over the table for a long moment.

The faint hum of evening traffic drifted in from outside.

Vinny looked back down at the page.

“…That folding thing. Run it by me one more time.”

A huge grin spread across your face. “With pleasure.”

[ 30 Minutes Later ]

Now, you were sprawled out on the rug, defeated.

“WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS” you groaned loudly.

Vinny was still at the table, his expression hadn’t budged an inch. “I got it right, didn’t I?”

“You guessed!”

“A right guess is still a right answer.”

Wooin was laughing so hard he nearly fell off the sofa. “Vinny, man… you’re literally bullying a five-foot-tall tutor right now.”

Hyuk added in his usual flat tone, “You lost, Y/N.”

You dramatically flipped onto your back. “I did not lose!”

You pointed an accusing finger at Vinny. “You’re the one who won’t learn like a normal person.”

Vinny flipped a page, nonchalant.

“I am learning.”

“No, you’re not!”

“I answered the questions, didn’t I?”

“You guessed!”

He just shrugged, completely unbothered.

You narrowed your eyes. “Okay…”

Vinny felt a sudden chill. He knew something bad was coming as you sat bolt upright.

“New rule.”

“Now what?”

“No more guessing.”

“That’s stupid.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It’s beyond stupid.”

“You have to explain your answers too.”

Vinny stared at you, deadpan.

“…Explain?”

“Yes.”

“To you?”

“Yes.”

“Waste of time.”

“It proves you actually get it!”

Wooin leaned forward, looking way too excited. “Oh, I like this.”

Joker nodded in agreement.

“Yeah, make him suffer.”

Vinny rubbed his temples.

“…Fine. Whatever.”

You flipped the page again. “Okay. Question two.”

Vinny scanned the line.

‘Which organelle is responsible for protein synthesis?’

He answered instantly.

“Ribosome.”

You held up a finger. “And…?” “…And what?”

“Explain it.”

Vinny glared at you. A long, painful silence followed.

“…It… makes proteins. Obviously.”

You took a deep, dramatic breath. “Vinny.”

“What?”

“That’s not an explanation.”

“That’s literally what the question means…”

You buried your face in your hands. “I’ve failed as a teacher. I’m a failure.”

Hyuk smirked. “You lasted longer than I expected.”

Vinny tapped his pencil against the table. “…You’re so dramatic.”

You peeked at him through your fingers. “Excuse me?”

“Over the top.”

You sat up straight, puffing out your cheeks. “Fine. Okay then, Mr. Genius Cyclist.”

Vinny arched an eyebrow.

“Explain ATP to me.”

Dead silence…

Wooin burst out laughing instantly.

Vinny squinted at you. "This isn’t fair."

"How is it not fair?"

"You just explained this like two minutes ago."

"Exactly!"

"So obviously I know the answer."

"Then explain it."

Vinny glared at the page. "…It’s energy."

You crossed your arms. "Wrong."

"It’s literally energy.”

"Nope."

Vinny leaned in close. "It—is—energy."

You leaned right back into his space. "It—is—not."

Wooin whispered to Joker, "They’re literally fighting over ATP."

Joker whispered back, "This is the weirdest date I’ve ever seen."

You and Vinny snapped your heads toward them at the exact same time.

"IT’S NOT A DATE!"

The whole room went dead silent.

You slowly sank back into your seat.

Vinny cleared his throat, looking everywhere but at you.

Hyuk looked like he was fighting for his life trying not to smile, while Wooin was grinning from ear to ear.

You reopened the book, trying to act normal. "…ATP is a molecule that stores energy for use in various cellular processes," you recited.

Vinny watched you quietly.

Your expression softened as you pointed to the diagram. "Think of it like… a rechargeable battery. Or a power bank. Something like that."

Vinny blinked. "…Okay, that actually makes sense."

You froze. "Wait, really?"

"Yeah."

Your face lit up instantly. "Oh my god, finally! You did it! Good job!"

Wooin groaned playfully. "Vinny, man… you’ve got the kid literally vibrating with joy."

You turned back to Vinny, practically shaking with excitement. "See! I’m a great tutor!"

Vinny looked away, hiding his face. "…You’re just loud."

But he didn't argue with the part about you being a great tutor.

Later that evening.

Joker and Hyuk had already taken off.

Wooin lingered by the door for a second, glancing between you and Vinny with a sly smirk. "Don’t kill each other, alright?"

"Get lost," Vinny snapped.

Wooin just laughed and finally disappeared.

The condo fell quiet again.

Just you and him.

You were sitting criss-cross on the rug, flipping through your notes, while Vinny leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on the ceiling. "…Why the hell do you study so hard?" he asked, his voice low.

You looked up. "To get into a good university, obviously."

"You're only in 11th grade." "Exactly."

"A whole year early?"

You shrugged. "I like being ready. It’s the perfect time, really—I can still balance my life. Half for fun, half for books."

Vinny stared at your notebook, messy with those complex diagrams. "…You’re weird."

You flashed a wide grin. "Well, this 'weirdo' is currently teaching you Bio. And you're the one sitting here learning it from an 11th grader."

"…Fair point."

A comfortable silence settled between you. "Are you really going back?" you asked softly, "To school?"

Vinny stared at the table for a long moment. "…Maybe."

You didn't push. You just nodded, understanding. "Then…"

You slid another worksheet toward him. "You should probably pass your exams."

Vinny looked at the paper, then back at you. "…You're serious? You're actually gonna tutor me?"

"Of course." "Why?" You gave a casual shrug. "Because you're Wooin's friend."

A beat of silence followed.

Then, you added in a whisper, "And… you’re fun to argue with."

Vinny stared at you, his gaze unmoving for a few seconds, before finally looking down at the worksheet to hide his expression. "…Explain this one."