Stray Kids Bang Chan - Blog Posts

Curious little thing, aren't you?

Skz: 3RACHA

Vocalracha - Danceracha

Summary: Their unique abilities and how they affect people around them.

Bang Chan: Pain Transfer

Chan would have a natural instinct to others emotions, especially his members. So when he finds that he can relieve them of their inner turmoil and doubts, even if it's temporary, he makes it his main mission.

All he needs is the slightest touch to see if someone was in pain, whether it be mental or physical. To take it from them though? He needs to be holding on longer.

On a daily basis without the members realizing, he checks in with them, brushing his fingers against his own or just plain out hugging them from behind.

He needs to know that they are at peace to be their best selves and idols.

He's constantly helping Han, due to his anxiety. And although it's released to him, he knows how to keep it under wraps.

Changbin: Light Absorption

We all know that Changbin gets embarrassed easily and turns red on a daily basis, right?

But what if he didn't turn red?

What if his skin cells absorbed the surrounding light, inflating like fire flies, making his skin glow so bright it would be difficult to look directly at him?

When he'd get embarrassed, he'd look away with his down turned smile and shine brighter than the sun.

It would happen more often than not, and because his cells would have the affinity to absorb light anyway, he would always shine slightly.

He would look even more breath taking on camera, his skin appearing whiter than it should be.

Han: Fruit eyes and Glowing Tattoos

Han is a natural enigma. He could be all over the place, and then nowhere at once. It was a skill.

When he got his tattoos, they were normal. Nothing out of the ordinary.

But one day, he woke up, and his vision stung, eyes watering with a citrussy scent lingering in the air.

He rushed to the sink, the blurred reflection stared back, except something was different.

Parts of his body were glowing orange.

More specifically, where his tattoos were.

He used water to flush his eyes, only to be met with orange yet again. Except... Oranges?

Why were there fruit in his eyes?

He touched them as he would for contacts, and the surface still felt like an eye should, but he wasn't wearing contacts.

What was going on?

He went to Chan, and he could feel the youngers distress. He reassured him that it was okay, that none of the members would be bothered or judge him.

From them on, he was orange quokka.

Notes:

glad to finally start with this series. Its been on my mind for months! Hope you all enjoy, and if you have any ideas on the connecting parts, lmk!!

Warning:

Language, smut mentioned, fluff

You sighed as you walked to your local GameStop. It had just been too long since you've had a real connection, and you were desperate for anything.

Your friend who worked there had told you that they had a game donated that resembled a dating simulator, and that she set it aside for you. She did it mostly to tease you, but honestly, you really needed this.

You didn't know if it was truly a dating game or not, but you couldn't care less at the moment.

You came in, grabbed it, and paid.

You rushed home after stopping for lunch, starting your PC. You let it warm up while you showered and changed into your lounge clothes, rubbing your temples at the bright light in the dark room.

Your computer ate the disc, accepting it just as well as you did. The loading screen appeared, and you watched the sphere spin.

It seemed to last hours before you finally heard a ping.

It's done loading!

You quickly clicked the icon, watching the screen fall black before switching to a pale blue.

As it drifted to the logo,you noticed how it looked extremely pixelated but in a 90's Mario game way.

The title read, 'Stray Kids: Together'

Some clouds jumped in the background, the Play and Settings buttons appearing after a few seconds.

You admired the pastel aesthetic before moving your cursor to click on Play.

Gently clicking on your mouse, it sent you to yet another clouded screen with a small sunset.

Logs set 1

>Bangchan Last opened ?

>Lee Know Last opened ?

>Changbin Last opened ?

>Hyunjin Last opened ?

What type of names are these? You thought.

You noticed that each one didn't have a date log, so you were unsure if they were even opened yet.

Curious, you clicked the first name.

Then, your computer crashed.

You scoffed, cursing the damn old seeming cartridge. The pixels in the opening screen made it seem like it was made in the 90's, but the labeling date was scratched off so you didn't really know.

You were about to shut off your computer before the screen boosted, a light gray flickering against the screen.

You weren't sure what was happening before you saw the command,

Allow microphone access?

> Yes No

You clicked yes.

Allow camera access?

> Yes No

You clicked yes again, and that was when you heard a click, and then the spinning of a disc.

"Hello?"

You heard a voice from nowhere. You bristled, turning around to look in your room. Was someone here?

"Over here,"

Your head whipped back to the screen, only to be met with the most prettiest guy you had ever seen.

"Woah," you mumbled.

He grinned.

"What's your name?" He asked again. Did he have an accent?

"Y/n. You're...Bangchan?" You ask, pulling your chair closer to the desk.

"Your a quick learner,"

You blinked. What now?

"So...are you like an AI? Or, like, how are you speaking to me?" You question, resting your arm on your hand.

His eyes widen. "Uhh, I'm not actually sure. Honestly, I feel real, but I'm not? I don't know if that helps?" He cleared his throat. "But what I do know is that you need someone. You wouldn't be here otherwise,"

"How would you know that?" You jolt. He was spot on.

"I know what I was created for. We all do,"

Wait what?

"Who's we?"

He smiled, his eyes turning into crescents. So beautiful

"You saw the other names, right? There are more of us...more of me," He explained slowly. "Here I was thinking you were a quick learner,"

"Hey!" You both laughed at his comment, then you sighed.

"So, are you all the same? Just look different? What's the deal?"

He spinned, the back of his neck revealing a code. CB97

"No, we are all incredibly different. We couldn't be the same even if we wanted. Different code. I'm the first, so they consider me like...a big brother? We all serve different purposes for whatever you need," he scratched his head, and his hair moved so smoothly.

It was then that you realized that the screen was no longer pixelated like the opening screen, it was now hd, smooth. You could almost see his pores.

"Different purposes? What the hell does that mean, Chan?" You let it slide past, not realizing.

"Chan?" His eyes glistened. "I like it," he grinned, watching your face heat up.

"Purposes Chan," you remind quietly, twirling a piece of your hair.

"Right. Well me, I'm a comforter. I help you when your stressed. Lee know? He's kinda...sexual? He can help with those needs, but he can comfort too. Uhh Changbin, he's more of an amuser. Hyunjin, a relaxer and comforter. Han? He can do literally everything. He's the ace of the group. Felix, comfort. Seungmin? Amuser and sexual. Jeongin, all. You know?"

It was a lot to take In. You didn't even know what half of this meant. At least not yet.

"So if I were horny-" he cut you off.

"Han, Lee Know, Seungmin or Jeongin are your guys." He said, his eyes staring into your own.

You felt yourself flush.

"Are they all as pretty as you?" You whisper, making his face freeze.

"Uh, they are, if not prettier, y/n," he gently smiles, placing his hand flat against the screen.

"You couldn't help me?" You brought your own palm to rest against his, only to be met with a cold surface.

"I wasn't given that programming. If you need help, just log out and meet with one of the others," he explained, his eyes tracing your hand, almost as if to memorize it.

"Oh," was all you could say. "I'm okay, for now," you say with a cheeky smile, making him chuckle.

"Good to hear. You tired yet? It's dark," he asked, making you blink. You turned to look out your window.

Holy shit, it's dark!

"Oh my god i work tomorrow!" You curse yourself, jumping up from your chair.

You heard Chan laughing in the background.

"Can I jump on tomorrow?" You asked him after cleaning up a bit.

"You don't need to ask, y/n. We're yours!" He gleemed, his eyes shimmering in the light.

"Mine..." You repeat. You never really thought if it that way.

"Yes, y/n. Completely and utterly yours. I'm sure the rest will fall for you just as I did," he said.

You looked at him.

"How does a computer fall for me?" You were baffled at this point. What did he mean?

"This computer was coded with feelings," he grinned. "Goodnight, y/n!"

You didn't get to respond before he disappeared.

You were kicked to the opening screen, the pixelated clouds taunted you as they jumped up and down.

You absolutely felt so lucky to have found this game.

Connection found. Now you just need to pursue all eight men.

Tag list: @estella-novella @deadpool15

I'm glad to be included 🤎

1. Heyday by SKZ

2. Desire by Meg Myers

3. Heartbeat by 2pm

4. Darkness at the Heart of my Love by GHOST

5. Runway walk by demrick

Tags: @faunandfloraas @puppyplayhouse @bbokicidal @leenooooooo @writingforstraykids

rules :: when you get this, list 5 songs you’ve been listening to & tag people!

one take me home, ateez

two burning desire, lana del ray

three woke up, xg

four andromeda, gorillaz

five mmmh, kai

tags: @mingtinysworld | @hwakakeri | @songmingisthighs | @xuchiya // tagged whoever came to mind first sorry idk many people here .. 🫠 (not compulsory ofc ^^)

This was so sweet 🥺 Cramps are honestly the absolute worst, hope you’re feeling better 🫶 Sending you lots of positive energy 💕

📺 SAFE HAVEN ( stray kids )

❛ Chan takes care of you while on your period.

𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧 + female reader ೯ ( 𝐨𝐧𝐞-𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭 )

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.6k 𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞: 6 mins

꒰ 💌 ꒱ ミ This was so sweet to write 🥹 I hope you guys enjoy, reblogs and feedback are much appreciated! Requests are currently open! ── ( 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 )

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Reader is on her period, Chan takes care of you, you’re both visiting Chan’s family in Australia, very brief mention of guilt, let me know if I missed anything!

( 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 ) ( 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 & 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ) ( 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ) ( 𝐭𝐢𝐩 𝐣𝐚𝐫 )

The soft murmur of your favorite show played faintly in the background, each line of dialogue blending into a soothing yet distant hum. The television’s glow cast a gentle light across the room, but its usual comfort eluded you today. Instead, you lay in bed, curled into a tight ball, desperately seeking relief from the relentless, gnawing cramps that seemed to seize your body from within. Your limbs wrapped around yourself as if trying to shield against the waves of pain that rippled through your core.

Your face contorted with each sharp pang, your expression a silent testimony to the agony that had besieged you since morning. The familiar script of your monthly torment played out with a cruel consistency, each episode bringing no closer respite. The same story, month after month, had woven itself into the fabric of your existence, a bleak narrative of suffering that refused to grant you reprieve.

No matter the remedy you tried, the painkillers, the herbal teas, the hot water bottles – all seemed powerless against the merciless grip of your cramps. It was as if your body had built an impenetrable fortress against relief, immune to every effort to ease your suffering. This miserable reality hovered at the edges of your thoughts, mocking your attempts to find solace. The knowledge that nothing seemed to help only deepened the sense of helplessness that accompanied these moments, leaving you to endure the pain in a seemingly endless cycle of discomfort and despair.

A groan brushed past your lips as you shifted in bed, trying to find a more comfortable position amid the relentless ache. The door to your boyfriend's childhood bedroom creaked open, revealing Chan's cautious form as he slowly made his way inside. In his hands, he held a paper bag filled with various items from the nearby convenience store. The room filled with the gentle rustling of the bag and the soft creak of the wooden floor beneath his feet.

Opening one eye, you saw Chan's gentle smile, his concern palpable even in the dim light. But the sight of his kindness brought a sudden wave of guilt crashing over you, and you quickly closed your eye again, unable to meet his gaze. Today was supposed to be filled with joy and family, a rare chance for Chan to spend a full day with his loved ones. Yet, your unexpected period had left you bedridden, tethered to the soft confines of his old bed.

Despite your insistence that he go on without you, Chan had refused to leave your side. You should have known better than to think he would actually listen when he knew you were struggling. His unwavering presence, while comforting, only deepened your sense of guilt. You felt like an anchor, keeping him from the family he so seldom got to see. The thought weighed heavily on you, intertwining with the physical discomfort in a cruel dance of emotions.

Chan moved quietly around the room, placing the bag on the nightstand. The contents clinked softly together: a mix of your favorite snacks, a bottle of water, pain relievers, and a few other thoughtful items he hoped might bring you some relief. His every action spoke of his care and love, a gentle reassurance that he was here for you, despite your own feelings of inadequacy.

"I told you I would be okay, Channie," you whined, your voice laced with exasperation. He responded with an adorable chuckle, the sound like a soothing balm to your frayed nerves, as he took his spot beside you on the bed. His strong arms wrapped around your torso, their embrace offering the perfect comfort you couldn’t resist, even as you continued to pout.

"I know you did, baby, but I couldn't leave you behind like this," he replied, his voice filled with the gentle reassurance you had come to love. His words were expected, yet they still carried a warmth that made your heart ache with gratitude. "I went out and got you some goodies instead. We can cuddle and watch your show for a while. I promise my family understands."

Despite his comforting presence, you huffed at him, furrowing your eyebrows in a show of disapproval. Still, you allowed him to turn you around, positioning you so that his warm thigh pressed against your lower abdomen. The combination of pressure and warmth brought a sigh of relief from your lips as the pain subsided a little, eliciting a light giggle from him.

His laughter was a melody that soothed your soul, and though you tried to maintain your disgruntled demeanor, the comfort of his touch and the relief from your cramps were undeniable. His presence was a reminder that you were cherished, that he was willing to sacrifice his day to ensure you felt loved and cared for.

As you nestled closer to him, the room filled with the soft sounds of your favorite show and the quiet hum of shared contentment. The guilt and frustration began to melt away, replaced by a serene gratitude for the man who held you so tenderly. In this moment, wrapped in his embrace, you felt a deep sense of peace, knowing that even in your weakest moments, you were never alone. His love was a steadfast anchor, grounding you amidst the storm of your discomfort, and for that, you were eternally thankful.

"Still, your family barely gets to see you, so I feel bad for taking you away from them when you're finally here," you mumbled shyly, a frown forming on your lips at the mere thought. The weight of your guilt pressed heavily on your heart, clouding the joy of having Chan by your side. His presence was a comfort, yet you couldn't shake the feeling that you were stealing precious moments from his family.

Chan shifted closer, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. His hand found its way to your stomach, his thumb tracing soothing circles on your skin. The gentle motion was a balm to your frayed nerves, easing the tension that had settled in your muscles. "Do you really think my mother would have let me go out with them?" he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice. "She would've lectured for an hour about how she raised me to be a gentleman and how it would make me a jerk if I left you here, anyway."

You both chuckled at the vivid truth in his words, the sound a shared moment of lightness in the midst of your discomfort. You could almost see the scene unfold in your mind's eye: Chan, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly as his mother delivered her heartfelt lecture. Despite being a grown adult who had lived in another country for a good half of his life, his mother still held a significant sway over him. It was a testament to the deep respect he had for her, a trait you found profoundly admirable.

The thought of his mother’s gentle scolding brought a small smile to your lips. It spoke volumes about the kind of man Chan was – considerate, respectful, and deeply loyal to those he loved. The room seemed to warm with the shared laughter and the soft murmur of your favorite show playing in the background.

As you lay there, cocooned in the soft blankets and Chan's tender embrace, the guilt began to ebb away, replaced by a serene gratitude. His hand continued its comforting motion on your stomach, each circle a silent promise of his unwavering support. In these quiet moments, you felt the depth of his love, a love that transcended the miles between his family and the life you shared together.

The room, filled with the gentle hum of the television and the soft rustle of your shared laughter, became a haven of peace. In Chan's arms, you found a sanctuary from the world, a place where you could let go of your worries and simply be. The guilt that had once plagued you now seemed distant, replaced by the comforting knowledge that you were cherished beyond measure.

Eventually, you came to terms with the fact that the day would have unfolded just the same regardless of your wishes. Accepting this reality, you cuddled up to Chan's warm body with a contented sigh, letting your eyes flutter closed. The weight of the day seemed to lift as you nestled closer, finding solace in the gentle rise and fall of his breathing.

Chan's fingers moved through your hair absentmindedly, each stroke a tender caress that soothed your frayed nerves. His attention was fixed on the show playing softly in the background, a familiar comfort that you had watched so many times you were sure you could act out every scene if asked. The gentle serenity of his presence was a balm to your senses, distracting you from the dull ache of your cramps, which had already begun to subside with the warmth of his thigh pressed against you.

Your arms wrapped around his torso, pulling yourself closer to him, seeking the comfort and security that his embrace always provided. The world outside faded away, leaving only the cocoon of your shared warmth and the soft hum of the television. Chan's steady heartbeat became a lullaby, each beat guiding you closer to the edge of sleep.

As sleep began to drape over you like a warm blanket, you felt a profound sense of peace. The weight of the day, the guilt, and the discomfort all melted away, replaced by the serene tranquility of being held by the one you loved. The soft whispers of the show, the rhythmic motion of his fingers in your hair, and the warmth of his body all conspired to lull you into a restful slumber.

It wasn't long before you drifted off, enveloped in the safety of Chan's arms. In those final moments of wakefulness, you felt a deep gratitude for his unwavering presence, a silent promise that you were never alone. Sleep claimed you gently, and you surrendered to it with a heart full of love and a body finally at ease, cradled in the sanctuary of his embrace.

꒰ 🏷️ ꒱ ミ Permanent taglist: @agi-ppangx @sunnyrisee @jisunglyricist (Click on the link to join! All you have to do is answer a few questions to help me stay organized!)

🍉 FROM THE RIVER TO THE SEA, PALESTINE WILL BE FREE! DAILY CLICKS!

can i please have channie taking care of reader during her period? 🥺🥺🥺🥺

Hey lovely! It took me a little bit longer than I expected BUT I hope I delivered! Thank you so much for the request! ── ( 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐲 𝐤𝐢𝐝𝐬 )

📺 SAFE HAVEN 📺

( 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 ) ( 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 & 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ) ( 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ) ( 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 ) 1.6k

📺 SAFE HAVEN ( stray kids )

❛ Chan takes care of you while on your period.

𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧 + female reader ೯ ( 𝐨𝐧𝐞-𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭 )

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.6k 𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞: 6 mins

꒰ 💌 ꒱ ミ This was so sweet to write 🥹 I hope you guys enjoy, reblogs and feedback are much appreciated! Requests are currently open! ── ( 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 )

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Reader is on her period, Chan takes care of you, you’re both visiting Chan’s family in Australia, very brief mention of guilt, let me know if I missed anything!

( 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 ) ( 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 & 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ) ( 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ) ( 𝐭𝐢𝐩 𝐣𝐚𝐫 )

The soft murmur of your favorite show played faintly in the background, each line of dialogue blending into a soothing yet distant hum. The television’s glow cast a gentle light across the room, but its usual comfort eluded you today. Instead, you lay in bed, curled into a tight ball, desperately seeking relief from the relentless, gnawing cramps that seemed to seize your body from within. Your limbs wrapped around yourself as if trying to shield against the waves of pain that rippled through your core.

Your face contorted with each sharp pang, your expression a silent testimony to the agony that had besieged you since morning. The familiar script of your monthly torment played out with a cruel consistency, each episode bringing no closer respite. The same story, month after month, had woven itself into the fabric of your existence, a bleak narrative of suffering that refused to grant you reprieve.

No matter the remedy you tried, the painkillers, the herbal teas, the hot water bottles – all seemed powerless against the merciless grip of your cramps. It was as if your body had built an impenetrable fortress against relief, immune to every effort to ease your suffering. This miserable reality hovered at the edges of your thoughts, mocking your attempts to find solace. The knowledge that nothing seemed to help only deepened the sense of helplessness that accompanied these moments, leaving you to endure the pain in a seemingly endless cycle of discomfort and despair.

A groan brushed past your lips as you shifted in bed, trying to find a more comfortable position amid the relentless ache. The door to your boyfriend's childhood bedroom creaked open, revealing Chan's cautious form as he slowly made his way inside. In his hands, he held a paper bag filled with various items from the nearby convenience store. The room filled with the gentle rustling of the bag and the soft creak of the wooden floor beneath his feet.

Opening one eye, you saw Chan's gentle smile, his concern palpable even in the dim light. But the sight of his kindness brought a sudden wave of guilt crashing over you, and you quickly closed your eye again, unable to meet his gaze. Today was supposed to be filled with joy and family, a rare chance for Chan to spend a full day with his loved ones. Yet, your unexpected period had left you bedridden, tethered to the soft confines of his old bed.

Despite your insistence that he go on without you, Chan had refused to leave your side. You should have known better than to think he would actually listen when he knew you were struggling. His unwavering presence, while comforting, only deepened your sense of guilt. You felt like an anchor, keeping him from the family he so seldom got to see. The thought weighed heavily on you, intertwining with the physical discomfort in a cruel dance of emotions.

Chan moved quietly around the room, placing the bag on the nightstand. The contents clinked softly together: a mix of your favorite snacks, a bottle of water, pain relievers, and a few other thoughtful items he hoped might bring you some relief. His every action spoke of his care and love, a gentle reassurance that he was here for you, despite your own feelings of inadequacy.

"I told you I would be okay, Channie," you whined, your voice laced with exasperation. He responded with an adorable chuckle, the sound like a soothing balm to your frayed nerves, as he took his spot beside you on the bed. His strong arms wrapped around your torso, their embrace offering the perfect comfort you couldn’t resist, even as you continued to pout.

"I know you did, baby, but I couldn't leave you behind like this," he replied, his voice filled with the gentle reassurance you had come to love. His words were expected, yet they still carried a warmth that made your heart ache with gratitude. "I went out and got you some goodies instead. We can cuddle and watch your show for a while. I promise my family understands."

Despite his comforting presence, you huffed at him, furrowing your eyebrows in a show of disapproval. Still, you allowed him to turn you around, positioning you so that his warm thigh pressed against your lower abdomen. The combination of pressure and warmth brought a sigh of relief from your lips as the pain subsided a little, eliciting a light giggle from him.

His laughter was a melody that soothed your soul, and though you tried to maintain your disgruntled demeanor, the comfort of his touch and the relief from your cramps were undeniable. His presence was a reminder that you were cherished, that he was willing to sacrifice his day to ensure you felt loved and cared for.

As you nestled closer to him, the room filled with the soft sounds of your favorite show and the quiet hum of shared contentment. The guilt and frustration began to melt away, replaced by a serene gratitude for the man who held you so tenderly. In this moment, wrapped in his embrace, you felt a deep sense of peace, knowing that even in your weakest moments, you were never alone. His love was a steadfast anchor, grounding you amidst the storm of your discomfort, and for that, you were eternally thankful.

"Still, your family barely gets to see you, so I feel bad for taking you away from them when you're finally here," you mumbled shyly, a frown forming on your lips at the mere thought. The weight of your guilt pressed heavily on your heart, clouding the joy of having Chan by your side. His presence was a comfort, yet you couldn't shake the feeling that you were stealing precious moments from his family.

Chan shifted closer, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. His hand found its way to your stomach, his thumb tracing soothing circles on your skin. The gentle motion was a balm to your frayed nerves, easing the tension that had settled in your muscles. "Do you really think my mother would have let me go out with them?" he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice. "She would've lectured for an hour about how she raised me to be a gentleman and how it would make me a jerk if I left you here, anyway."

You both chuckled at the vivid truth in his words, the sound a shared moment of lightness in the midst of your discomfort. You could almost see the scene unfold in your mind's eye: Chan, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly as his mother delivered her heartfelt lecture. Despite being a grown adult who had lived in another country for a good half of his life, his mother still held a significant sway over him. It was a testament to the deep respect he had for her, a trait you found profoundly admirable.

The thought of his mother’s gentle scolding brought a small smile to your lips. It spoke volumes about the kind of man Chan was – considerate, respectful, and deeply loyal to those he loved. The room seemed to warm with the shared laughter and the soft murmur of your favorite show playing in the background.

As you lay there, cocooned in the soft blankets and Chan's tender embrace, the guilt began to ebb away, replaced by a serene gratitude. His hand continued its comforting motion on your stomach, each circle a silent promise of his unwavering support. In these quiet moments, you felt the depth of his love, a love that transcended the miles between his family and the life you shared together.

The room, filled with the gentle hum of the television and the soft rustle of your shared laughter, became a haven of peace. In Chan's arms, you found a sanctuary from the world, a place where you could let go of your worries and simply be. The guilt that had once plagued you now seemed distant, replaced by the comforting knowledge that you were cherished beyond measure.

Eventually, you came to terms with the fact that the day would have unfolded just the same regardless of your wishes. Accepting this reality, you cuddled up to Chan's warm body with a contented sigh, letting your eyes flutter closed. The weight of the day seemed to lift as you nestled closer, finding solace in the gentle rise and fall of his breathing.

Chan's fingers moved through your hair absentmindedly, each stroke a tender caress that soothed your frayed nerves. His attention was fixed on the show playing softly in the background, a familiar comfort that you had watched so many times you were sure you could act out every scene if asked. The gentle serenity of his presence was a balm to your senses, distracting you from the dull ache of your cramps, which had already begun to subside with the warmth of his thigh pressed against you.

Your arms wrapped around his torso, pulling yourself closer to him, seeking the comfort and security that his embrace always provided. The world outside faded away, leaving only the cocoon of your shared warmth and the soft hum of the television. Chan's steady heartbeat became a lullaby, each beat guiding you closer to the edge of sleep.

As sleep began to drape over you like a warm blanket, you felt a profound sense of peace. The weight of the day, the guilt, and the discomfort all melted away, replaced by the serene tranquility of being held by the one you loved. The soft whispers of the show, the rhythmic motion of his fingers in your hair, and the warmth of his body all conspired to lull you into a restful slumber.

It wasn't long before you drifted off, enveloped in the safety of Chan's arms. In those final moments of wakefulness, you felt a deep gratitude for his unwavering presence, a silent promise that you were never alone. Sleep claimed you gently, and you surrendered to it with a heart full of love and a body finally at ease, cradled in the sanctuary of his embrace.

꒰ 🏷️ ꒱ ミ Permanent taglist: @agi-ppangx @sunnyrisee @jisunglyricist (Click on the link to join! All you have to do is answer a few questions to help me stay organized!)

🍉 FROM THE RIVER TO THE SEA, PALESTINE WILL BE FREE! DAILY CLICKS!

𑁍ࠬܓ 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐁𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 ( stray kids )

❛ In which the members of Stray Kids navigate the world of fatherhood without you.

𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐲 𝐤𝐢𝐝𝐬 + female reader ೯ ( 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ) 4.4k

꒰ 💌 ꒱ ミ This request was absolutely devastating to write, thank you! I hope you guys enjoy, reblogs and feedback are much appreciated! ── ( 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 )

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Y/N has passed away, each member is a single father still in love with you, mentions of grief, some of the kids fall under the LGBTQ+ community.

( 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 ) ( 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 & 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ) ( 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 ) ( 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 )

꒰ 🫙 ꒱ ミ Tip Jar!

방찬 ── BANG CHAN.

Chan's office was bathed in the soft, amber glow of the desk lamps, casting a warm yet somber light across the room. The gentle hum of the night time silence was broken only by the rhythmic, soothing breaths of his three-year-old daughter, who lay peacefully on the worn leather couch. Her tiny face, so serene in slumber, was a haunting mirror of your beautiful features, stirring a profound ache in Chan's heart.

As he watched her, tears began to silently trace their way down his cheeks, each drop carrying the weight of his sorrow and longing. He could still hear your final, trembling words: "Love her twice as much in my absence." The memory was a dagger, twisting with the relentless guilt and grief that had become his constant companions. The sight of his daughter's innocent face, so reminiscent of you, only deepened his anguish.

Today had been especially trying. Chan had promised his little girl a joyous outing to the park, a precious respite from his hectic work schedule. But the day took an unexpected turn when Changbin called in a panic, frantically searching for the nearly completed recording of their latest song. What Chan had hoped would be a swift resolution morphed into hours of desperate searching, only to end in the devastating realization that they would have to begin the recording anew.

All the while, his daughter’s patience wore thin. She had no toys, no distractions, just the suffocating boredom of waiting. Her disappointment was palpable, a silent reproach that cut deeper than any words could. Chan felt like he was failing her, failing in the promise he had made to you. Driven by the need to make amends, he gently woke his daughter. Her initial crankiness gave way to curiosity as he apologized for breaking his promise and proposed a sleepover at home. Movies, games, a fort, and endless cuddles — her eyes sparkled at the thought, and her frown dissolved into giggles.

At home, they transformed the living room into a magical fortress of pillows and blankets, a sanctuary just for them. They watched animated tales, played games, and reveled in the simple joy of being together. Wrapped in the cozy embrace of their fort, she eventually succumbed to sleep once more, nestled against him. Her hair, a tousled mess, and a small trail of drool on his shirt were endearing reminders of her tender age and boundless trust in him.

Chan held her close, his heart swelling with love and a bittersweet yearning. She was the living embodiment of his heart, and as he gazed at her, he whispered a vow into the stillness of the night. He promised to love her with all his might, carrying the weight of both his love and the part of you that would forever reside in their lives. In that quiet moment, amidst the echoes of his promises, he felt a fragile sense of peace, knowing that as long as he held her, he was keeping your memory alive.

이민호 ── LEE MINHO.

Minho lay in the dim, soft glow of his bedroom, shadows whispering across the walls as the twins slept peacefully beside him. Their tiny forms had claimed your side of the bed, filling the void where your presence once brought warmth and comfort. The night he returned home with the babies, he had attempted to sleep alone, but the emptiness was unbearable. He tossed and turned, haunted by the silence, until one of the babies began to cry, inevitably waking the other. In his desperation to soothe them, he gathered every pillow he could find, crafting a makeshift crib in his bed. Their delicate features softened in the calm of his presence, and they finally drifted off to sleep.

As Minho gazed at their angelic faces, hands entwined even in slumber, his heart ached with the weight of your absence. How could he begin to process this loss? You had spent almost ten months nurturing these little miracles, only to be taken away before you could revel in the beauty of their existence. Ten months of creating life, and you would never witness the serene way they held hands in their sleep. Ten months of dreams and hopes, and you would miss their first birthdays, graduations, weddings. It was unbearably cruel, and Minho’s soul was tormented by the thought.

You wouldn’t even be here to laugh about the pregnancy mix-up that had both of you convinced it would be a boy and a girl, only to welcome two beautiful baby girls into the world. His friends had offered to stay and help, but he had declined, needing the solitude to grapple with his grief. Now, in the stillness of the night, he questioned if he had made the right choice.

Tears welled up and spilled down his cheeks as the full weight of his new reality settled over him. He was to raise these precious little princesses on his own, and the responsibility felt crushing. Yet, as he watched their peaceful slumber, he knew he had to summon every ounce of strength for them. They were his world now, the living, breathing remnants of your love. He vowed to cherish them, to love them fiercely, and to guide them through life with unwavering dedication, for they were all he had left of you, and he was all they had.

In the hushed silence, he whispered promises into the night, pledging to be the best father he could be. He would ensure they knew how deeply you loved them, even if you couldn’t be there to tell them yourself. And as he held them close, feeling the rise and fall of their tiny chests, a fragile peace washed over him. He knew that in every laugh, every tear, and every milestone, you would be there in spirit, guiding him, loving them, always.

서창빈 ── SEO CHANGBIN.

The sun was setting, casting a warm, golden glow over the park as Changbin and his 13-year-old son sat on a weathered wooden bench, savoring their ice cream. The park buzzed with the laughter of children, their joy mingling with the gentle rustle of leaves in the summer breeze. Parents lounged on the grass, basking in the last light of day, while Changbin watched his son’s face light up with a blush as he received a message.

Changbin couldn’t resist teasing him. "Who’s got you smiling like that?" he asked, his voice laced with playful curiosity.

His son’s cheeks reddened further, and he looked away, trying to hide his smile. "Just a girl from school," he mumbled, glancing at his phone. "She texted to congratulate me on today’s soccer game."

Changbin’s interest was piqued. "A girl, huh? Do you like her?" he inquired gently, but his son just rolled his eyes, keeping his thoughts to himself.

After a while, his son broke the comfortable silence with a question that took Changbin by surprise. "Dad, how did you know Mom was the one for you?"

Changbin's heart swelled with a bittersweet mix of love and nostalgia. He took a deep breath, the memory washing over him like a tender wave. "Well," he began softly, "it was before you were born. Your mom and I had only been dating for a few months. One evening, we decided to take a ride on my motorcycle to grab some food. On the way back, she spotted a bookstore and got all excited. She tapped my shoulder and pointed it out, her eyes sparkling like a child's. I couldn't say no to that."

He smiled, lost in the memory. "We stopped, and I handed her my card, telling her to get whatever she wanted. She promised she’d come out empty-handed, but I knew better." He chuckled, remembering your sheepish yet triumphant expression as you emerged with a bag hidden behind your back. "She ended up buying two books and couldn’t stop talking about them, her excitement contagious. When I told her I was glad she found something, she did this little dance of joy before climbing back onto the bike. She had to hold the bag since her backpack was already stuffed with our food, but she was too happy to care."

Changbin’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. "That’s when I knew she was the one. It wasn’t some grand gesture; it was her pure joy in the little things, her passion for life. I wish you could have known her. She loved you so much, even before you were born."

His son’s eyes mirrored his own longing and admiration. "I wish I’d known her too," he said softly. "My goal in life is to find my soulmate, like you found Mom. I want to love someone as much as you loved her."

Changbin’s heart ached with pride and sorrow. "You deserve to have someone by your side for a long time," he said, his voice thick with emotion. Then, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, he added, "Who knows, maybe this girl from school is your one."

His son groaned, a playful smile tugging at his lips as he nudged Changbin, causing his ice cream to topple onto the ground. Changbin laughed, a deep, hearty sound that echoed through the park. His own ice cream slipped from his grasp, joining his son’s on the pavement, and they both burst into laughter, the joy of the moment a soothing balm to their hearts.

In that golden hour, surrounded by the simple pleasures of ice cream and shared memories, Changbin felt a profound sense of peace. Despite the heartache and loss, he and his son would continue to find love and joy in the little things, just as you had taught him. And in those moments of laughter and connection, he felt your presence with them, a silent guardian watching over their journey, smiling at their shared happiness.

황현진 ── HWANG HYUNJIN.

Hyunjin sat alone in the dimly lit room, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting a warm, golden hue over the familiar surroundings. The air was thick with memories, each piece of furniture and every stroke of paint a testament to the love and labor he had shared with you. His heart ached with a bittersweet nostalgia as he looked around, his mind filled with the echoes of laughter and the whispers of cherished moments.

He remembered the countless hours spent building the furniture, the frustration and triumph mingling as he struggled with stubborn screws, while you sat nearby, reading the instructions with a patience that never failed to calm him. The nursery walls, painted in a tapestry of happy themes, bore the marks of your combined artistic talents, creating a sanctuary for the new life you both awaited with eager anticipation.

The night he returned home with the baby, your absence a gaping void beside him, was etched into his soul. He had sat in the rocking chair, the one he had bought especially for you, cradling the fragile bundle in his arms, paralyzed by the fear of being alone. Many nights, he had dozed off in that chair, too afraid to leave its comforting embrace, haunted by the silence that your departure had left behind.

A wistful smile tugged at his lips as he recalled the day he found your child drawing on the walls, their tiny hands busy creating a colorful mural over your delicate paintings. It had pained him to see your work altered, but the sight of their concentrated little face, so much like yours, had softened his heart. He had chosen to let them be creative, to express themselves freely, even if it meant sacrificing a piece of you.

He thought of the time his six-year-old had cried in his arms, their tiny body trembling with confusion and hurt because they didn't fit in with the boys or the girls. Hyunjin had held them close, whispering reassurances, his heart breaking at the familiar pain. It had been a long journey, but he had worked tirelessly to make their home a sanctuary of love and acceptance.

The memories came in a flood, each one a cherished gem: the summer in middle school when they returned home with bags of new clothes and put on a fashion show, proudly displaying their androgynous style; the pride parade, where he meticulously placed sticky rainbow gems on their face, their giddy excitement lighting up the day; and finally, the day they graduated and moved out, leaving behind an empty room filled with the ghosts of the past.

Tears rolled down Hyunjin’s face as he sat in the rocking chair, now old and creaky, thinking of all the moments he had cherished yet wished he could have shared with you. The weight of the memories pressed down on him, a heavy, inescapable burden.

Suddenly, his phone rang, startling him from his reverie. He hastily wiped his tears and saw it was a FaceTime call from his child. He answered, and their beaming face filled the screen, the excitement in their eyes mirrored by the twinkling fairy lights in their new apartment's bedroom.

“Hey, Dad! Look at my new room!” they exclaimed, panning the camera around to show off their new space, their voice bubbling with pride and joy.

Hyunjin’s heart swelled with pride and love. “It looks amazing, sweetheart,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

“I miss you,” they confessed, their eyes shining with unshed tears. “Can we spend the first night together, through the phone?”

Hyunjin chuckled softly, trying to mask his lingering sadness. “Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of moving out?”

They laughed, a sound that was pure and unfiltered joy. “Maybe, but I know you’re in my old room crying already.”

He laughed too, the heaviness lifting just a bit. “You got me there.”

They didn’t hang up, staying connected through the screen as the night deepened. Hyunjin lay back in the rocking chair, his child propped up in their new bed, both finding solace in the familiar presence of each other. As they talked and laughed, Hyunjin realized that though you weren’t physically there, your spirit lived on in these moments, in the love that continued to bind them together. And for now, that was enough.

한지성 ── HAN JISUNG.

Jisung found his seven-year-old child hidden within the treehouse that the three of you had built together. This small wooden sanctuary, once filled with laughter and joy, now bore the heavy weight of sorrow. They were still in their funeral attire, the black clothes contrasting sharply against the soft glow of the setting sun. The murmurs of the guests lingering in the backyard became a distant, indistinct hum as Jisung climbed into the treehouse, his heart burdened with grief and a simmering anger at the universe for taking you away so cruelly.

His son's youthful face was etched with a grief that seemed too profound for such a young soul. Jisung felt a surge of helplessness as he reached out, pulling his child close, wrapping him in an embrace meant to shield him from the cruel world outside. “I miss Mom,” came the soft, heart-wrenching whisper, each word a dagger to Jisung’s already shattered heart.

“I miss Mom too,” Jisung murmured, his voice thick with unshed tears. They sat together in silence, the weight of your absence pressing down on them like an insurmountable force.

It had been nearly a year since you had fallen ill, the sickness so severe that the doctors had given you only a few months at most. Yet, you had defied their grim prognosis, your spirit burning brightly despite the frailty of your body. Jisung remembered the countless nights spent by your side, swallowing his fears and anger as you spoke of your impending death with a calm acceptance that had always made him furious. To him, it felt as though you had given up, but he knew deep down that wasn’t the case. You hadn’t wanted to waste what little time you had left fighting an unwinnable battle. Perhaps if he had truly listened, if he had embraced those fleeting moments instead of railing against them, he might have cherished your final days more deeply.

His son, too young to fully grasp the concept of death, struggled with the finality of it all. He understood that you would never return, yet accepting it was a different matter entirely. Jisung’s heart broke anew each time he saw the confusion and sorrow in his child’s eyes, a mirror of his own torment.

Holding his son tighter, Jisung wished he could find the right words to ease the pain, to make sense of a world that had suddenly lost its light. But words failed him, crumbled under the weight of their shared grief. Instead, he let the silence speak, hoping the strength of his embrace could convey the love and comfort his words could not.

The treehouse, once a symbol of their shared joy, now held their sorrow. The walls, which had echoed with laughter and dreams, now seemed to absorb their pain, standing as silent witnesses to their loss. But within this small, sacred space, surrounded by the memories of happier times, Jisung hoped they could begin to heal. He would be there for his son, a steadfast presence in the storm of their grief, guiding him through the darkness with a love that, while tested, remained unbroken.

As the last light of day faded, Jisung held his son close, both finding a semblance of solace in each other’s presence. In the quiet, grief-stricken aftermath, they began to forge a new bond, one tempered by loss but strengthened by their enduring love. And in that silent communion, Jisung found a glimmer of hope that they would eventually find their way through the darkness together.

이용복 ── LEE YONGBOK.

In a home where the relentless energy of three young girls and their single father painted every day with hues of joyous chaos, peace was a fleeting visitor. The air thrummed with the symphony of exuberant laughter, the vibrant discord of simultaneous chatter, and the relentless rhythm of youthful exuberance. Yongbok would never trade this tempestuous world for anything, yet a hollow ache lingered for the presence of the one who had been the steady heartbeat of their lives.

Your sudden departure had cast a profound shadow over their once lively abode, transforming it into a quieter realm where your laughter’s echoes were replaced by an oppressive silence. As time wove its delicate fabric over the jagged edges of grief, the house gradually adjusted to a new cadence, yet the weight of your absence hung heavy in every corner.

Despite this, Yongbok discovered fragments of you embedded within the fabric of their daily lives. He saw your essence in the selfless nurturing of his eldest daughter, who had seamlessly stepped into the role of co-caregiver. Her quiet acts of love and responsibility were a poignant echo of the devotion you had always shown, a continuation of your spirit in her every gesture.

In the middle child’s vibrant monologues about obscure topics, Yongbok glimpsed your enduring influence. Her unquenchable thirst for knowledge mirrored the intellectual curiosity you had nurtured, each passionate explanation a living testament to your legacy.

The youngest, with her mischievous gleam and boundless spirit, kept Yongbok perpetually on his toes. Her playful antics and joyful mischief were a vivid reminder of the vivacity you had infused into their home, a living echo of the light you had brought into their lives.

In the quiet moments, Yongbok could still feel your presence. The post-it notes left in his lunch bag by his eldest daughter, each inscribed with a simple message of love, were imbued with your warmth. The tender strokes of his middle daughter’s fingers through his hair during their movie nights were a silent connection to you. And in the gentle inquiries of his youngest, her head peeking around the door to ensure he was alright, he felt the deep compassion you had instilled in her.

Though you were absent from the milestones and daily rhythms, your essence lived on through them. In the small, tender acts of affection and love, you continued to be a cherished part of their lives, an enduring presence in their hearts.

김승민 ── KIM SEUNGMIN.

Seungmin had been absent through the vast expanse of your pregnancy, the relentless demands of touring keeping him away. He returned just in time to witness the birth, only to be swallowed by the crushing weight of your absence. The pain of missing those precious moments with you, of not being there to share in the miracle of your last days, was a wound that never healed. This haunting regret followed him, a constant reminder of a future lost.

The day you passed, Seungmin left Stray Kids, unable to bear the weight of the stage without you by his side. He couldn’t find solace in the bright lights or the rhythms of his music. Instead, he focused on his two sons—an older one, now sixteen, and a younger one, now twelve. The older boy, once a vibrant spirit, had retreated into the shadows of his room, his once lively demeanor replaced by a sullen silence. The baseball games that had once bound them together now lay abandoned, and Seungmin, despite the storm within, knew he had to reach out.

Determined to bridge the chasm that had grown between them, Seungmin planned a day just for the two of them. He left the youngest with his closest friend, Jeongin, and took his older son out. The car ride was a quiet procession of unspoken thoughts, the weight of their shared grief hanging heavily between them. When they finally arrived at their destination, Seungmin braced himself, ready to face the tender fracture of their relationship.

It took patience, but eventually, the silence broke. The older boy revealed his feelings for a boy at school, emotions that he struggled to understand. Seungmin was taken aback, but he remained calm, his heart aching with a blend of surprise and concern. As his son’s tears fell freely, Seungmin pulled him into a tender embrace, his own heart aching with a mixture of empathy and love. He whispered reassurances into his son’s hair, promising acceptance and protection, vowing to stand by him no matter what.

The boy, still tearful but comforted, then showed Seungmin a small journal. Inside was a song he had penned, a poignant melody woven with the threads of his conflicted feelings for the boy at school. The song was hauntingly beautiful, a reflection of his son’s delicate soul and burgeoning talent. Seungmin’s heart swelled with pride and love as he listened, recognizing the echoes of his own musical spirit in his child’s creation.

As the day drew to a close, Seungmin received a snapshot from Jeongin—his youngest child, covered in dirt and beaming with the joy of a day spent playing baseball. The image was a burst of pure happiness, a vivid reminder that even amidst the sorrow, moments of light and joy persisted.

As the sun set, Seungmin felt a renewed connection with his older son, a fragile yet precious bond rekindled through their shared experiences and heartfelt conversation. Though the regret of not being there for you lingered, he found solace in the fact that he was striving to be the father you would have been proud of. In the quiet moments of the evening, he hoped, with all his heart, that wherever you were, you watched over them and felt a deep pride in the man he was becoming—a father striving to honor your memory through the love and strength he gave to your family.

양정인 ── YANG JEONGIN.

Jeongin’s youngest daughter was a restless spirit, her stubborn yet carefree nature a constant reminder of the love she once shared with you. Each burst of laughter, every defiant flicker of joy, was a living echo of your vibrant presence. In contrast, his oldest son was a mirror of Jeongin’s own meticulous nature, his life meticulously ordered, each ambition carefully planned.

Lately, Jeongin’s heart had been heavy with worry. His daughter, brimming with reckless exuberance, frequently dashed off to meet a boy Jeongin knew was unworthy. The thought of her entangled with someone without a future gnawed at him, leaving him adrift in a sea of concern. As he lay awake at night, the silence seemed to taunt him, and he often found himself wondering how you would have navigated these troubled waters if you had still been there to guide them.

One night, as the moonlight spilled softly through the window, Jeongin was wrenched from sleep by the unmistakable sound of muffled sobs. His heart raced as he followed the cries to his daughter’s room. He paused at the door, the murmur of his son’s voice cutting through the silence. The room, once a sanctuary of dreams, was now a cocoon of whispered regrets and stifled tears. His daughter’s voice wavered with the weight of her shame, confessing her feelings of foolishness for having trusted the boy. His son, with a soothing calmness that mirrored your gentle strength, reassured her that she wasn’t foolish, merely swept up in the exhilarating tide of young love. He told her she deserved better than a boy with no future, his words a soft balm to her wounded spirit.

Jeongin’s heart ached with a mixture of pride and sorrow as he heard his son’s comforting tones, the echoes of your nurturing spirit resonating in his voice. After a few moments, he gathered the courage to step into the room. His eyes were tender with understanding as he took in the scene: his daughter’s tear-streaked face, her hands buried in her lap. Her cries grew louder as she saw him, her embarrassment palpable as she shielded her face with her hands.

Jeongin knelt before her, his expression a blend of love and compassion. Gently, he reached for her hands, drawing them away from her face to hold them in his own. His touch was a lifeline, a silent promise of unwavering support.

“You told me so, I know,” she choked out, her voice a trembling whisper.

“I would never say that, my love,” Jeongin murmured, his voice rich with tenderness. He wrapped her in his arms, pulling her close against his chest. His gaze met his son’s, a shared understanding passing between them.

“I know it hurts,” Jeongin whispered into her hair, his voice a soothing melody against her ear, “but this isn’t the end.” His embrace was a warm cocoon, a sanctuary of love amidst the storm of her emotions. The night unfolded in a delicate tapestry of comfort and hope, a testament to the enduring love that bound them together, even in the quiet absence of your guiding presence.

꒰ 🏷️ ꒱ ミ Permanent taglist: @agi-ppangx @sunnyrisee @jisunglyricist

꒰ 🏷️ ꒱ ミ Post taglist: @bowsnbang @nothinginterestingtoshowhere

🍉 FROM THE RIVER TO THE SEA, PALESTINE WILL BE FREE! DAILY CLICKS! STAYBLR FUNDRAISER!

WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD (but guys it’s so good you HAVE to read it IM BEGGING ON MY HANDS AND KNEES CRYING SCREAMING THROWING UP ABOUT IT)

hands-down, undoubtedly, definitely my favorite chan fic ever 🥹 i can’t even begin to explain just how much i absolutely LOVED every single word of it. i loved the message behind this story: it’s okay to lose sometimes, it’s okay to be imperfect, it’s okay to fail. i think these are things that we as a society really struggle to accept especially when it comes to ourselves and there was something so beautiful about him finding himself in the end and coming to terms with the fact that yeah, he’s a loser and what about it?

SPOILER OVER (but again y’all READ THIS MASTERPIECE PLEASE)

and to star, i just wanna praise-bomb you so bad because you so so so deserve it. you’re such a phenomenal writer and i honestly just always enjoy your writing, WELCOME BACK! thank you for sharing your work, and thank you for the comforting advices you’ve offered through this fic, i love you so so much MWAH 🩷

No Guts / No Glory

Copyright Ⓒ 2023 by Moonjxsung

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner. Doing so will result in a legal takedown per the Digital Millennium Copyright Act and is subject to legal action.

Read part 2 here.

Pairing: Bang Chan x fem reader

W/c: 26.2K

Warnings: depictions of bodily harm, descriptions of blood, mentions of drinking, dry-humping, oral sex (male receiving)

Synopsis: Conducting a series of interviews about up-and-coming boxer Bang Chan leading up to his title fight puts you in a complicated situation when you begin to develop feelings for him.

18+. Mdni!

•

“I believe the second most intimate thing you can do with a person is interview them. If I can’t kiss you, I think it’s only fair you indulge me in a story.”

•

Calloused fingers adjust the lavalier microphone a little higher up onto the collar of his button-down shirt- knees bent, legs spread to occupy a generous amount of space, even for a guy as big as he is. A gentle noise emits from the silver chain around his wrist as he interlocks his fingers together, twiddling thumbs and placing them neatly onto his jeans. And then he takes a deep breath, as the door across the room swings open, outlining your intimidating figure.

The room is tense when you finally saunter in, clipboard balanced in the crook of your elbow as you do your best to avoid eye contact with the subject of the video while you assume your position on the chair across from him.

Your hand darts out to greet whom you can only assume to be a manager of some sort, giving him a closed-lip smile and a polite nod before taking your seat again. And when there’s nobody else in the room requiring your attention, you let your gaze fall to him at last, doing a once-over of his intimidating figure.

Warm tan skin complements his lightened brown hair, swept neatly out of his face to reveal his narrowed honey eyes. His sharp eyebrows seem to straighten, pulling down into a stoic expression as he observes you right back. His wide nose flaunts a sharp bridge, much like the masculine jawline that clenches as he remains quiet- and juxtaposed against all of it, soft, plump lips, which form into a smile as he greets you, pulling back to expose a dazzling set of teeth.

“Christopher Bang Chan,” he says to you, reaching a hand out and clasping his fingers around yours. His grasp is firm, but intentional, like he’s making every effort to seem professional. And it’s nothing you haven’t seen several times before- in wrestlers, and swimmers and boxers alike.

“I’m going to ask you a few questions,” you say to him, omitting any form of introduction entirely. “Just answer as honestly as you can.”

“Are we rolling?” Chan asks, gesturing to the camera with a wave of his index finger.

“This is just a test for my use,” you explain to him. “You don’t need to acknowledge the cameras.”

He gives an understanding nod, sitting up a little straighter and clearing his throat. And then, as the little red blinking light indicates that the camera is indeed recording, you begin to speak.

“Could you state your name for the camera? In a full sentence, please.”

“Hi,” he begins with a nervous chuckle. “My name’s Christopher Bang Chan. You guys know me as Bang Chan- or just Chan, really.”

“And you’re a boxer.”

“I am a boxer,” he affirms.

“How long have you been boxing?”

“I’ve been boxing for…” his eyes roll up to the ceiling, hand finding its way to his chin as he remains lost in thought for a moment. “About fourteen years. Started when I was twelve, never looked back. Still have my first pair of boxing gloves hanging in my mom’s house, if you can believe it.”

Amused laughter fills the room, Chan’s eyes forming little crescents as he thinks back to the bright blue Kanpeki sparring mitts that hang on a single nail in his parents’ living room.

“Chan- why boxing?”

“Why not?” He retorts with a cheeky smile. “Nah, I’m just messing with you. Seriously, boxing…boxing is… something that makes me feel alive. When I’m in the ring throwing punches like I’ve been trained my whole life to do, and people are standing behind me who’ve been there the whole way and I can hear them cheering, I’m alive. There’s nothing else that matters in that moment. It’s just pure skill, pure passion for what I do. I don’t feel that way about much else.”

His accent is thicker than you’d anticipated it to be- a sultry, Australian accent accompanies his serious intonations, and he speaks as though he’s telling a story, pulling you in captivating you with his entire being. He sounds smarter than the other athletes you’re used to, as though he could have done a variety of career paths if not for boxing. At least something relating to speaking, you’re sure, as he concludes his response with a gentle nod.

“And you’re just months away from the biggest fight of your career,” you then say, cocking your head slightly.

“Can you tell us about where you’re at with that, mentally?”

“Yeah, I mean, it’s really nothing I haven’t trained for before,” Chan replies candidly. “I’m at the gym training every single day, we’re working around the clock to make sure I’m at my best for this event. And at the same time, I’m new to title fights- I really have no expectations going into it. I just want to do my best.”

Chan’s lips purse together as he scans your expression for a reaction to his statement, but all he’s met with is a nod as you gesture to the cameras.

“That’s all we need for now,” you call out to the camera crew. “You can wrap up while we finish discussing.”

Chan’s eyebrows are raised as he glances around the room curiously, staff members conversing amongst themselves as expensive-looking cameras are disassembled and stowed away into leather casing.

“I’ll give you a minute,” his manager says, rising from his spot to rush after another staff member. And just as you’d feared, it’s just Chan and yourself at a painfully close proximity.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Chan chimes in from his spot on the chair, observing the way you shuffle through a stack of papers.

“Y/n,” you say plainly. “The interviews and filming will take place over the next month. Think of it as a sort of docuseries for sports fans- the next hottest thing since last year’s boxing burnout.”

“Hottest thing?” he repeats curiously. “That’s a generous compliment, I wouldn’t call myself the hottest-”

“Up-and-coming,” you correct him. “New, fresh. Fascinating to the masses. They love you now, they’ll be itching to see how you perform. And then you’ll be in the big leagues with all the other athletes. It’s the sort of people I interview.”

Chan purses his lips together again, scratching the back of his head awkwardly and shoving his hands into his pockets.

“How long have you been interviewing?”

“No need to interview the interviewer,” you say sternly. “I don’t expect anything from you. Just show up, give me answers and don’t be late. Anything else I can assist with?”

Chan searches for something to say, wanting so badly to work some of his classic athlete charm on you the way he has for his entire career thus far. But as you pull off your glasses again, tucking them into the pocket of your blouse, he realizes he’ll just have to come to terms with the professional dynamic you’ve so boldly established here with him already.

“That’s all,” Chan says finally. “I’ll see you at the next one, then?”

“Don’t be late,” you say again.

And he can still catch a glimpse of your ponytail as you exit, swaying side-to-side in tandem with purposeful strides as you disappear from his sight.

*

“How’d it go?”

“Standard.”

“Anything notable?”

“He’s a boxer, Lin. Just like anything you’d expect from them- immersed in his sport, rich, not much substance to him.”

“Then I presume the docuseries is going to be smooth sailing from here.”

Lin prods at a particularly thick piece of lettuce in her salad, an obnoxious crunch filling the silent space that falls over you both amidst the otherwise loud cafeteria. Of course it’s natural for her to draw this simple conclusion- one of the lead producers, she’s always heads down in the editing portion of your films, trimming out unnecessary dialogue and uploading B-roll to accompany the complex story behind your subjects. But it’s always the same story- soulless, busy men, far too consumed by their own masculinity and an insatiable appetite to win, no matter the cost.

At first it’s the local media who take a particular liking to them, publishing flashy articles about all their grand endeavors and illustrating the glass shelves of trophies their parents flaunt. And then by some “miracle”, sometimes a “gift from god himself”, they land a title fight- describing the opportunity with stars in their blank eyes, all the while still media trained to project a humble image. That’s where you come in, a journalist with a keen eye to see right through them, still earning the big bucks as you assist in upholding the headache-inducing humble image they’re so set on. And following a series of interviews, once they’re far too gone to even assimilate with normal folk like yourself, they’ll win said respective fight, make it on to the biggest blogs and television publications, and then effectively lose themselves to the new celebrity title. You’ve seen it several times now- in tennis players, wrestlers, swimmers. And boxers- especially boxers.

As you watch Lin poke around at the remainder of her salad, you glance at the room beyond her seated figure, where your colleagues are busy with their own lunches and still heads down in their work, laptops propped open and hands typing away as they chew. It’s always like this when a new series of yours is in its early stages of filming, everybody scrambling to prepare their notes and film work as the schedule is finalized. Not a minute can be wasted on a project like this- the subjects’ time is more valuable than anything right now. Every minute Chan graces the studio, every word he utters is footage, publication- more money.

“Y/n?” Lin questions, snapping you out of your visible trance.

“Hm?”

“I asked if you have everything you need.”

You ponder her words for a moment, thinking back to your itinerary, to the list of printed questions still secured on your clipboard and even Chan, the image of the lavalier mic hanging loosely from the collar on his shirt replaying in your head.

“I think so,” you say finally, shrugging and prodding your index finger at the still-wrapped sandwich that rests upon the table.

“Come on,” she says with a sigh. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. You just have to suck it up for a few weeks, and the pay-off will be worth it. Remember the last one? People are still crazy about that guy, and it’s all thanks to you.”

“Yeah, I remember. I’m just tired, I guess. It’s all so voyeuristic. It’s exhausting trying to learn the details of somebody’s life like this.”

“Voyeurism can be a good thing,” she interjects. “The more intimate this process is, the better. We want the people to know every inch of him.”

“I know,” you reply sheepishly. “You’re right.”

“We have to see right through ‘em,” she responds, securing the lid on her Tupperware and rising from her seat. “Hey, I have to go edit another thing. I’ll see you when the next set of footage is done, though?”

“Yeah,” you say to her, watching as she stuffs her belongings into a canvas bag and hoists it over her shoulder.

“This could totally be another big break,” she states, as she begins in the other direction. “This could be huge for us all over again.”

*

It’s typically recommended to arrive at least 15 minutes early to every studio interview. In some cases, 30 is more favorable. And yet it’s a notion athletes just can’t seem to comprehend most days, sauntering in well past the starting time with a duffel bag slung over their broad shoulders, not so much as an apology uttered as they assume their spot across from you.

And Chan, you learn very quickly, is no different from the rest.

“Sorry,” he says as he finally enters, your gaze fixed on the wall across from you as the floodlights illuminate his muscular figure in your peripheral vision.

You say nothing in return, gently tapping a capped pen on the exposed flesh where your skirt meets your upper thigh. And Chan takes reluctant strides toward you, cocking his head slightly as he glances around the room and gestures to the vacant chair across from you.

“Is this… should I sit down? Or…”

Your figure remains turned away from him, giving a small nod as you remain in your spot, ushering for Chan to take his seat. And he does, slinging his bag onto the floor and leaning back in his chair.

“Wow, it’s bright in here,” Chan remarks, chuckling lightly.

“You’re late.”

He’s quiet for a moment, swallowing nervously as he scans your cold expression. Narrowed eyes meet his, not a hint of a smile present on your pursed lips as you convey your vexation.

“I’m sorry,” Chan says nervously, his eyes softening in attempts to reconcile the tension he’s brought upon you. “My training ran a little longer than I hoped. I tried to leave early, but my coach-”

“Look,” you interrupt, finally letting your gaze meet his and sighing frustratedly. “I interview guys like you on the daily. You show up late, zero regard for my time or my effort, play the game and then win all the prizes that come with it. This is just a stepping stone in your career- I get that. Just please, could you at least try to make this as easy as possible for both of us so that we can be done faster? We’re gonna be stuck with each other for a while, let’s not make this any harder than it needs to be.”

Chan falls silent when you finish speaking, smoothing a loose strand of hair down with his index finger and nodding politely.

“I’m sorry,” he voices for the second time today. “It won’t happen again. This series is really important to me.”

“I would hope so,” you tell him. “Now state your name for the camera. Full sentence, please.”

“This camera?” He inquires, pointing at one straight across from him. “Or that one over there?”

“Just state your name,” you repeat. “I have you at all angles. It doesn’t matter where you look.”

“Can I look at you, then?”

You sigh for what feels like the millionth time today, pinching the bridge of your nose in annoyance and crossing your legs at the ankles. You can’t quite tell if he’s doing this on purpose, or if he genuinely hasn’t conducted a formal interview like this prior to yours.

“Yes, you may look at me. That’s typically how a conversation goes.”

“Right, then. My name is Christopher Bang Chan.”

“And you’re a boxer.”

“I am a boxer,” he affirms with a grin.

“Chan, in just three months you’ll be competing in the biggest fight of your life- the Golden Gloves Championship, against your counterpart Kang-Dae, a competitive boxer who’s been training almost as long as you have. In a recent interview, he told me the two of you are making a deliberate effort not to meet just yet, despite training at some of the same local spots. Can you tell us your reasoning for that, as well as what that’s felt like up until now?”

A short breath escapes Chan’s lips, his eyes rolling to the ceiling as he thinks it over.

“I’ve heard remarkable things about Kang-Dae,” Chan begins. “It was something we made a mutual decision to follow through on. You know, just being mindful of training techniques and respecting each other’s space. It feels a little weird sometimes when I remember while I’m training- it’s like, was he using this bag before I was? I’ve sort of built him up to be this really dedicated player to the game, in my head at least.”

Chan smiles back when you do, taking note of the way your shoulders seem to visibly relax in his presence. He lets his ankles uncross, twiddling his thumbs as his legs spread loosely in front of him.

“So uh… yeah, it’s been… it’s not easy, knowing we’re going head-to-head in just one month. But I’m training really hard, and I know he is, too. I have a lot of respect for him.”

You nod at his words, glancing down at the clipboard of questions and notes on your lap in front of you.

“Chan, you’ve mentioned several times how hard you’ve been training for this. From the gym, to practice with your coach, to mentally preparing for all of this. What are you doing when you’re not training?”

The question marks the first of a series of personal ones, ones that really seek to tear down your subjects’ walls and reveal their true identity to audiences. They love the voyeuristic aspect of gory details- and your subjects love to talk about themselves.

“I’m hardly ever not training,” Chan says with a shrug of his shoulders. “But I guess I just sleep as much as I can. If not maybe… running, doing stretches, all that. I’m at the point where I have to be physically pried away from the gym by my coach. It’s that bad.”

He laughs lightly as he speaks, his eyes forming little crescents the way they always do when his plump lips pull into a grin. And then you mirror his expression, lips pulling into a smile as you pry for more answers.

“Can you tell us how you first got into boxing? What was that like?”

“First time,” he echoes. “Was when I was 12 years old. My dad bought me a pair of gloves after I saw this series about Baik Hyun-Man, an Olympian boxer who swept his category in… 1988? 89? God, he was phenomenal.”

“A docuseries?” You chime in, furrowing your brows together.

“Yeah. Think it was like, 4 episodes where they interviewed him following his sweep at the Olympics that year. I remember him being so well-spoken and fascinating.”

A small smile tugs involuntarily at your lips as Chan speaks, a sort of glint present in his eyes as he recalls the events. He seems so full of passion when he speaks of his source of inspiration, the same way he speaks of his own craft.

“That was made by our network,” you say finally. “That was one of the first series I saw, too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” you reply, maintaining a keen smile. “It made me want to get into interviewing. He had such a way with telling his story.”

The room falls quiet as a sharp breath escapes Chan’s lips, a look of disbelief painted upon his chiseled features. He begins to say something, and then he’s quiet again, craning his neck at the camera to the right of your seated figure.

“Sorry,” you say with a sheepish shake of your head. “I don’t mean to get off topic here.”

“No, it’s… that’s really fucking cool. I mean, what are the odds, you know?”

It’s really not some miracle that you happened across the same formative media- you’re pretty sure every parent had Baik Hyun-Man’s docuseries playing on television on repeat shortly after it aired. The way he spoke of his achievements, so self-assured in the way he gestured directly into the camera and urged kids to chase their dreams, too. Inspiring journalists and athletes alike- it was the network’s biggest thing the year it aired. And evidently, a boxer’s dream, to put the sport on pedestal for the whole world to admire.

“Anyway,” you say finally, glancing back down at your clipboard. “You were indulging me in the details of your start to boxing.”

“Right,” Chan voices. “I was 12, with these clunky boxing mitts- blue ones, just like I asked for. And one of those inflatable punching bags hanging in our garage. At first, it was just jabs, I wasn’t really interested in classes or anything like that. It wasn’t until I started boxing with my dad, that’s when he pushed me to keep this going. Said I threw punches like a pro- at least the best I could do at age 12. I owe a lot of this to my dad, I don’t think I would’ve pushed myself to do any of this without him. And to chase this dream, of winning a title fight.”

“Well your dream doesn’t sound very far out of reach, by the sound of it,” you say to him, raising a singular eyebrow and cocking your head.

Chan just smiles, an earnest expression washing over him, and you take note of the way his ears flush a deep shade of red. He’s not one to take compliments very well- he falters somewhere between confident, yet flustered, and it’s endearing, like much of his persona is. Though it may be well-crafted, it’s still charming.

“I dunno,” Chan says with a click of his tongue. “Losing is always a possibility.”

“It is,” you affirm. “But I’m sure you’ve faced your share of losses in the past, too. What does losing mean to you?”

Chan furrows his brows together, a little thrown off by the question posed to him. He’s not sure he’s ever carefully dissected the implications of what it means to lose something- to funnel your entire being into what defines you, only for the tangible payoff to slip from your grasp and dissipate into a void of nothingness. And consequently, to familiarize yourself with the suffocating emotions of regret, pain, loss- even shame. It’s never been an option for him- it’s never even been an occurrence.

“I’ve never lost,” he says finally, a soft chuckle emitting from his lips.

“You’ve never lost?”

“I’ve never lost,” he repeats. “I’ve played matches that weren’t as good as others, or just barely scraped by with a win. But I’ve never lost.”

“So losing isn’t something you’ve even considered.”

“No, I’ve definitely considered it,” he contends. “Some matches, you take a good long look at the guy across from you, and it’s sort of like staring your future in the face. Like, this is it, this is the guy I’m going to lose my streak to.”

“Yet it’s never happened?”

Chan clicks his tongue again, crossing his legs at the knees this time and cocking his head, the same overconfident expression painting his chiseled face.

“I don’t lose,” he states simply. “There’s always the chance that I may lose. But I never do.”

A simple nod of your head signifies the end of this portion of the interview, and Chan finally exhales a breath he hasn’t realized he’s been holding all this time.

“I think I have all I need for today,” you say to him, avoiding the meticulous eye contact he seeks from his spot across from you. “Could you just leave your mic on that table over there?”

“Did I sound a little cocky there?” Chan queries as he fidgets with the lavalier microphone. “I didn’t mean to, it’s just a stupid fact I like to toss around.”

“Facts are facts,” you respond, toying with your own lavalier microphone, yet not moving from your spot. “You’re permitted to say whatever you want. This is your series, after all.”

“Yeah, but I’m not trying to scare people here. I’m just-”

“Frighteningly competent?” You interrupt. “Well-versed in the art of boxing? Aware of the power you hold?”

He’s quieter now, lips pursed together and eyes scanning your expression for a hint of forgiveness. But you don’t grant him any- in fact, you’re admittedly a little disenchanted by his words, which seem to put him right up against all the other boxers you’ve interviewed. Impetuous words which detract from his character as a whole, emphasizing only his worst traits. Self-righteous, self-centered, disdainful, even.

“I’ve interviewed a lot of people like you,” you explain to him, for what feels like the second time this evening. “If you sound cocky, it’s because you are cocky. You’re allowed to be, though.”

“But that’s not what I want people to get from this series.”

“Then what is it that you want?” You ask Chan, rising from your seat and gathering your papers, his gaze fixed on yours still.

He’s quiet, no adequate wording passing him by that may sum up what he seeks to put out into the world. Perhaps he’s never looked so introspectively like this before- perhaps he hasn’t even considered what he wants the world to make of him.

“I’m telling your story, not writing it,” you continue.

His lips part to say something, but a silence overtakes the room once more, words which seek to defend himself dissipating in the back of his throat much like his thoughts do.

“Just something to think about,” you conclude, the lavalier microphone rolling around between the pads of your fingers as you meet his gaze finally.

His eyebrows arch in an almost pleading manner, as though he hopes you might have a change of heart and take some mercy on a skilled boxer like himself. But you don’t- not when you have the ability to see right through him like this, the same way you do with all the others.

An arrogant athlete, on an exponential and unbroken winning-streak, complete stranger to the concept of losing or being humbled.

“Losing isn’t something you’ve even considered,” your words replay in his head. “What is it that you want?”

He ponders, to no avail, as the floodlights outline your departing figure.

*

“So he’s just never lost a match?”

“Never. And he’s a cocky prick about the fact.”

“That’s unprecedented. I don’t think we’ve ever interviewed somebody with a winning streak like his.”

Lin’s fingers hover over the keyboard of her laptop, slicing footage and importing b-roll as you assume the spot next to her. She moves quickly as she always does, hardly even needing to decipher whether the clips flow into each other adequately- it’s second nature for her to know.

“This looks good,” she voices, pupils rapidly scanning the bright screen which reflects against the lenses of her wireframe glasses. “But the network agrees we need to get a little more personal.”

“What do you mean?”

She pauses her actions, pulling off her glasses and snapping them closed between her teeth before she speaks.

“You guys had a moment somewhere in there. It’s undoubtedly the most interesting bit. There’s a bit of chemistry when you’re relating to him.

“What?” You question, furrowing your brows together as she continues to work.

“Baik Hyun-Man,” she remarks. “I mean, it’s remarkable you found something in common with the guy. Knackered journalist and devoted boxer set aside their differences to agree on one thing- ‘The Iron Gentleman’ really was a sight to marvel at.”

“We didn’t have a moment, Lin. He’s watched a series almost every athlete did when it aired.”

“I’m just saying there’s something… very human, about the whole thing. Try to get to get closer to him. Corner him- find out what makes the guy tick. I need you to read him like a diary and publicize it to the masses. It’s not going to be easy- that’s why you’re doing it.”

Your gaze remains on her computer screen, eyeing the footage you vividly remember having filmed alongside him. It’s paused on a still-shot of you sitting across from him, transfixed on his chiseled features as he explains something indistinguishable to you, playing back at Lin through the chunky black headphones she wears around her neck.

The thought is migraine-inducing, to attempt to get any closer to Bang Chan than you already are. Upon your two interactions, you’ve already taken him to be as arrogant, conceited and obsessed with his sport as you’d assumed him to be. And while it rings true that there may be more to him than meets the eye- a story trying to reveal itself to you, a truth yearning to make itself known among all this superficiality, it’s likely one he’s not keen on making known to you.

“First part airs this Friday,” she states, nodding her head to some electronic background tune as she resumes her editing. “Just promise me you’ll try to get more personal with him. Find out where he trains, scope out the spots he frequents.”

“I’m not stalking the man for the purpose of a series, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“It’s not stalking,” she counters quickly. “It’s familiarizing yourself with the video subject.”

You chuckle lightly at Lin’s request, holding your hands up in surrender and rising from your spot beside her.

“Sure, fine.”

Lin’s hands cup the speakers of her chunky black headphones, finally adjusting them over her ears as she continues working. And she shoots you one last thumbs-up before you retreat from her office.

*

For several days thereafter, the thoughts consume you, to recall Lin’s requests for a more personal relationship to the interview subject. There hasn’t been an instance yet in which you’ve been made to falsify the closeness of a subject to you- in fact, you’re usually encouraged to keep your distance, knowing very well that a story can get compromising when the lines between boundaries are almost blurred.

You think back to her suggestion to scope out the spots he frequents, which seems like an impossible task when you’re already bearing the burden of trying to know him at all. And one evening, as her words replay in your troubled mind for the umpteenth time, the solution finds you first- in the form of said cocky athlete himself.

The streets are eerily dark at the hour, nothing more than the occasional pass of a car along the blackened road as you keep to the sidewalk, hands shoved in the pockets of your coat and your gaze fixed on the towering buildings ahead. It’s not uncommon to depart the office at ungodly hours during the process of filming a docuseries like this one, especially since you usually opt to keep Lin company while she makes final edits. The neighboring buildings are already cleared out for the night, the parking lots are mostly empty, and the world is quiet as you trudge the short walk back to your apartment.

At the corner of the intersection, a small convenience store, dimly lit by the ominous flicker of street lamps, and largely uninviting to the fleeting passerby. But one you’re familiar with, often opting to make a quick stop for a bite to eat before you go home for the night.

The chime of a bell on the door announces your arrival, making your way past shelves of baked goods to where the pre-packaged foods lie. And aside from the slow lull of jazz music over the muffled speakers, it’s quiet in the convenience store, nothing except the faint sounds of shuffling surrounding you as a cashier stocks produce by the register.

“Do you guys have them in yet?” A voice calls loudly as the door swings open, the bell ringing erratically with its movement. It’s piercing- obnoxious, even, to disturb the once much-appreciated peace of the shop like this. And who else present to disturb the peace at this hour, except for an athlete, a black duffel bag slung over his shoulder as he takes long strides toward the fridge.

“Oh, you do!” he emphasizes, pulling open the handle of the fridge in a hasty motion, as he begins to pile armfuls of what appear to be popsicles in the desperate grasp of his toned arms.

“Did you know these are like, three times the price if you purchase them online?”

The cashier says nothing, giving the athlete a small bow as he continues stockpiling and talking his ear off to no one in particular- and then the athlete pivots on one foot, locking his gaze with yours, a soft chuckle emitting from between his plump lips.

“Are you following me?”

“Me?” You counter, scoffing lightly at him. “I was literally in here before you.”

“I always come here after practice. I’ve never seen you around before.”

“I’m always here after work,” you argue, crossing your arms and maintaining your stance. “I could say the same.”

He rolls his eyes, gesturing to the counter with a nod of his head. “Put it down. I’ll pay.”

“What- no, there’s no need to pay for me. I’m just leaving.”

“Come on,” Chan protests. “You’re trailing after me as though I might be in here buying something seedy. It’s clever- I’ll give you that. Let me pay for you.”

Your eyes narrow in response, reluctantly approaching him and setting down your own dessert of choice onto the counter by the register. The cashier begins to scan your items, the rhythmic beep filling the awkward silence that overtakes you two as Chan keeps his gaze fixed on your standing figure. And then he pulls a black leather wallet out from the loose-fitting gym shorts he wears, grasping a card between his middle and index finger and handing it to the cashier.

He says nothing still, maintaining an almost satisfied expression on his face as the cashier bags his horde of popsicles, and then he gestures to the door once again with a nod of his head.

Chan assumes a spot on the curb by his parked car- a fairly humble two-seater. And the plastic convenience store bag sits open between the two of you as he works on his first popsicle of the evening, twirling the wooden stick between his slender fingers as the sticky residue trickles down and houses itself on the concrete below.

“How’s it coming along?” Chan breaks the silence, eyeing you out of the peripherals of his big brown eyes. “The series, I mean.”

“Fine,” you reply, doing your best not to mirror his mess as you work on a small cup of vanilla ice cream. “The first interview is all set to air.”

“I heard. I hope you didn’t have to edit out too much of my awkward conversation.”

A light chuckle escapes your lips, shaking your head as you dip the wooden spoon back into your cup.

“No, you did well. I’m actually surprised at how genuine you come off to the cameras.”

“Surprising that I’m genuine? I’ll do my best to take that as a compliment.”

“It’s hardly one,” you voice back. “All you athletes are the same. But I suppose you are well-versed in the art of boxing and media-training alike.”

You’re quiet for a moment as you observe the quiet streets across from you both.

“I’ve always said the second most intimate thing you can do with a person is interview them. You make an impressive subject.”

“All me, thank you very much.”

Chan chuckles and shakes his head as he practically chews through the remainder of his popsicle, toying with the bare wooden stick as a silence overtakes you both.

He studies the concrete for a moment, the gentle scrape of the wooden popsicle stick on the ground making itself known as he searches for the words to say. And then the soft rustle of the plastic convenience store bag, as he digs through and collects his second popsicle of the evening.

“Are you scared?” You query, your voice a little quieter than before as you prod at your vanilla ice cream with the wooden spoon.

“Scared?”

“Yeah, for the series to air. People are going to start recognizing you when you go out. It always happens.”

Chan cocks his head in response, a satisfied smile pulling onto his lips as he ponders your words. And then his expression seems to drop again, grasping the popsicle stick between his fingers as he observes the way it melts in his touch, the residue trickling gently onto the pads of his fingers and down the bases of his wrists.

“I’m not scared,” Chan says finally. “I get punched by people for a living. There’s so little that actually scares me at this point.”

You think back to Lin’s request to get a little more out of him, pondering his words for a moment as you inhale before speaking once again.

“Then, if I may ask- what does scare you?”

And deep down, you know it’s unlikely you’ll receive a substantial response- it’s like pulling teeth searching for honesty from an athlete, and Chan is evidently no stranger to this phenomenon of insincerity and projection.

The low hum of a car engine is heard as the only other car in the parking lot begins to exit. You take note of the still-flickering street lamps, the vacant roads across the convenience store. And the way Chan’s breath hitches in the back of his throat, as if he’s conjured up an answer far too heavy to relay from between his parted lips, letting it instead dissipate once more as he laps at the sticky popsicle residue on his inner forearms.

“What scares me,” he begins, tongue tracing the outline of sherbet liquid along his veiny arms. “Is the rest of these popsicles melting. Come on, I have a freezer back at the gym.”

“Are you asking me to go with you? I’m going home, not to some sweat-ridden gym with your stash of popsicles.”

“I’m not letting you walk home at this hour, if that’s what you think you’re doing. Come on, it’s just a two minute drive from here and then I’ll take you back to your place.”

“I’m fine, thank you very much.”

Chan waits for you to say something else, silently hoping you’ll just agree without protest. But when you don’t, he gathers the plastic bag by the thinning handles, steadying himself with one hand on the concrete and standing up beside you.

“I’ll meet you in the car,” he says plainly, brushing his shorts off and averting your gaze.

The blinding glow of his car’s headlights reflect off the convenience store windows across him, and Chan watches as you bring a hand up to shield your eyesight while you rise from the curb. You can’t make out his expression in the flood of light that now surrounds you, but Chan’s lips curl into a knowing smile as you approach the passenger’s side, letting yourself in beside him and shifting the bag of popsicles out of your spot.

Of course, he’ll never know that you’re only agreeing to tag along in the unique instance you can gather something of substance for the purpose of your series, the way the network is now pushing you to do.

“Two minutes,” you voice back to him. “And then I want to be dropped off at my place.”

“Seatbelt?”

Your hands find their way to the buckle, pulling it across your torso and fastening it with a frustrated sigh.

“Two minutes,” you emphasize again.

Chan just chuckles lightly, extending an arm behind your headrest as he begins to pull out of the parking lot. And then he begins toward his training gym, in the same direction as your place of work.

*

“Don’t touch anything. I’m just gonna pop these in the freezer.”

Chan takes long strides down the gym with his plastic bag in hand, flipping on a series of light switches as he passes and illuminating the space with harsh white lighting.

At one end of the room lie rows upon rows of heavy weights, scattered carelessly and in no particular order along the rubber carpeted flooring. The other end of the room houses a long line of punching bags, cylindrical black leather masses that hang from metal chains and adhere to the dark gray walls that border the gym. And in the corner of the gym, your eye is drawn to a large boxing ring, elevated onto a black square surface, with tight black ropes that line the perimeter.

Though you’ve interviewed your fair share of athletes, you’re not sure you’ve ever been so intimately close to their place of work like this before, and it’s admittedly fascinating to finally visualize the gym he speaks of when he interviews.

Your hand caresses the rope which lines the boxing ring, looped around and pulled taut around each metal pillar at four of the corners, and you wonder how many times Chan has ducked to traverse beyond these ropes in a practice run or even a match. It’s the same ring which plays a role in his winning streak- and the same ring his opponent, Kang-Dae practices in, making strategic entrances around the clock so as not to accidentally run into each other.

As you admire the boxing ring, you fish a small digital camera out from the purse slung around your shoulder, snapping a generous set of photos and zooming in to all the intricate details.

“It’s been around since the 80’s,” a voice says, startling you amidst the silence. “Home to some of the greats. I practically live here.”

Chan’s hands are stuffed in the pockets of his shorts, the plastic bag now absent as he examines the boxing ring, too.

“The same one Kang-Dae practices in,” you reply.

“Exactly.”

He nods toward the back of the room, the curls of his hair largely concealed by the black beanie he wears on his head falling loosely into his eyes as he glances over at a boxing bag.

“I’m told he’s partial to the ones at the back of the room. I never use those ones- it’s weird using the same equipment he does.”

You nod slowly at his words, imagining what you envision Kang-Dae to look like, throwing punches at the bag in the back of the room. He’s probably similar to that of Chan’s stature- lean, muscular, chiseled features. And maybe even a handsome face to go with all of it.

“Which ones do you use, then?”

Chan chuckles lightly, meeting your gaze as he answers. “Middle of the ring,” he states with a shrug. “Gotta get used to standing in it.”

You observe the way Chan glances back at the boxing bag hanging in the center of the boxing ring, the chain fastened along a metal track so that it can be moved in and out of the vast space. And then you toy with the camera in your grasp once more, your fingers delicately grazing over the shutter release as you eye the space ahead.

“Could I…record you in it?” You ask him hesitantly, averting his curious gaze when he turns to look back at you.

“For the series?” He asks, a growing smile making itself known as he gestures to the ring.

“Yes, for the series. I’m not really looking to have a personal collection of photos of you, if that’s what you think is happening.”

Chan tosses his head back in amused laughter, and then he gestures to the ring with a wave of his hand, bowing a little and instructing you to lead the way.

The ring is considerably more intimidating from the center of the elevated platform. A glance around the room feels like you’re in the middle of an active match, and you can’t possibly comprehend how Chan does this with hundreds of eyes on him, analyzing his every move and holding him to the standard of a consistent winner. In fact, you can’t imagine how anybody could muster up the courage to be stood here on their own accord.

“This is where the magic happens,” Chan says, his hands on his hips as he cranes his neck to examine the top of the punching bag.

You bring the camera up as he speaks, shutting one eye and snapping a photo of Chan next to the punching bag, adjusting the zoom a little to more closely capture the scene as you snap a few more photos. When you’ve gathered an adequate amount, you then transition to record the scene, holding the camera in front of your chest as you watch Chan position himself in front of the punching bag.

“Can you show us a few tricks?”

Chan’s eyes form little crinkles as he smiles, cocking his head and stretching his arms up above him in preparation. His black tank top rides up a little as he does, exposing the toned strip of flesh between his waistline and the hem of his shirt, and you shake your head a little when you take notice, forcing your attention back on his upper body.

“Anything?” Chan asks, glancing at the camera.

“Yeah,” you shrug in reply. “Just show us a few moves.”

His hands form fists in front of him, knees bent slightly and his legs angled toward the punching bag. And then he pulls back, chin tucked against his upper body, swiftly pushing his fist forward and hitting the bag with an echoing thump.

“That’s a cross,” Chan explains, glancing back toward the camera. “Just a straight punch.”

He pulls back once more, delivering another harsh punch to the bag, and then his right arm bends out at the elbow, striking at an entirely new angle.

“That one’s a hook,” he says a little louder this time. “Sort of how you get in from the side.”

“Show us your hardest,” you call out to Chan, adjusting the lens to capture his full stance. “Imagine it was somebody you hated.”

Chan cocks his head slightly, an overconfident smile on his chiseled face as he positions his arms in front of him. And then he retracts again, throwing a much stronger punch this time, his hand shooting upward from waist-level, a harsh thud echoing around the ring as his fist makes impact. He throws another one with the other hand now, and then another, and then several more, teeth gritting as sharp breaths escaping his lips while he throws punch after punch, the bag swaying with every firm strike.

Your camera lens adjusts as he moves, capturing the entirety of his swift movements, zooming into his skilled hands and then panning up to his face, where his nostrils flare and his eyebrows seem to slant into a frown.

He looks passionate as he moves, his whole being seeming as though it’s being overcome with intense emotion, namely some form of resentment, you think, as he strikes the bag over and over again. You watch through the viewfinder of the camera as he keeps his angry gaze on the bag, growing irate when it sways back toward him, where he proceeds to hit back ten times harder. You study his face through the grainy film, at an expression you’ve never studied on him before this. He looks different- almost scary.

“That’s good,” you call out, to no avail, as Chan delivers another robust hit to the bag.

“I got it,” you call out a little louder, and after one last strike from the angle of the exposed flesh on his stomach upward to the bag, he finally stops, catching the bag when it sways back toward him and grasping it firmly in both hands.

Chan keeps his head down, looking a little ashamed as he catches his breath. You can hear the heavy pants that escape his lips when he turns to meet your gaze at last,

his eyebrows narrowed sternly as he looks at you. And then he brings a bruised knuckle up to his forehead, wiping off beads of sweat that trickle down his temple and flicking them off to the side with a wave of his hand.

“Uppercut,” he says hoarsely.

“Hm?”

“The move,” Chan continues. “Good for opponents.”

And then he hangs his head once more, flipping up his shirt to wipe off the remainder of sweat that accumulates on his tanned skin. You force your gaze onto his concealed face, not daring to examine the toned set of abs visible to you at this proximity.

“Best for people you hate,” he then speaks into the fabric of his shirt. And you simply nod meekly in response, stuffing the camera back into the pocket of your coat.

*

“Say it again, but to the camera this time” You say to Chan between laughter, as he brings another wooden stick up to his lips, working his tongue around the base with a harsh sucking noise.

Two minutes at Chan’s training gym have quickly turned to two hours, and in all his persuasive athlete ways, he’d somehow convinced you that he required another popsicle before drawing a close to the evening.

“These are the best popsicles in the city,” Chan states, holding the half-melted treat up by his face as though he’s advertising it.

“It’s just the right amount of sherbet. Not too much, but just enough to satisfy a sweet tooth. I’m genuinely convinced there’s not a single thing that couldn’t be cured with one of these things.”

“Got fired at work,” you challenge.

“Easily cured by a popsicle.”

“Fight with your spouse.”

“Popsicle.”

“Lost a boxing match,” you voice to him, almost doubling over in laughter when he sucks in a sharp breath and cocks his head.

“It’s a tough one. But with the right amount of sherbet, I promise you’ll make it out unscathed.”

Shared laughter fills the room as he laps up the remainder of his dessert, and then he tosses yet another popsicle stick aside, swinging his legs off the ledge of the raised boxing platform and wiping his lips with the back of his hand. As you set aside the camera once more, he hoists himself up a little further as he grasps the taut strings that surround the ring, and then he lies back entirely on the smooth surface, shutting his eyes briefly as a silence washes over you both.

Chan’s hands fold over his chest, atop the thin fabric tank top that rides up again to expose the band of his boxers, and when he feels you staring, one eye opens to meet your gaze again, a curious smile on his face.

“What?” He asks.

“Nothing,” you reply quickly, shaking your head to avert his stare. Your fingers loop around the taut rope, too, plucking at the wired material and watching it vibrate with the recoil.

Chan maintains the smug smile for a moment, a little amused at your evident shyness. And then he pats the spot behind you, beckoning you to join him in assuming a spot on the floor of the boxing ring. You begin to tell him that you should really be heading home, well aware of how long you’ve already occupied the gym, likely committing some form of trespassing by staying here. But as your eyes scan his lying figure, you think back to the interviews- it’s a miracle you’ve gotten him to loosen up even this much around you. Maybe if you stay, you can coax some form of truth out of him; a story worth telling.

So with a gentle sigh, your fingers loosen their grasp around the rope, lying flat against the smooth surface of the ring, at a close proximity alongside Chan’s languid body. It’s probably prohibited somewhere within the unspoken rules of being an earnest journalist, to lie down beside an interview subject like this. But when your hands finally fold over your own chest, the only feeling present is that of calmness, of unwavering stillness, as the low buzz of the overhead lights emits from above you.

Chan keeps his eyes shut for a while, and amidst the deafening silence, it’s almost too loud when he finally swallows a knot in his throat and speaks in a voice just above a whisper.

“Sometimes I wish I could just turn my brain off,” Chan admits quietly. “I feel like I can still hear the commotion all around me.”

Echoes of training ring through his ears as though they’re lullabies engrained deep into his memory- the strikes to hanging leather bags, the heavy grunts that escape parted lips as men lift weights three times their size, the hot showers that run around the clock as athletes relish in their wins and dwell all their losses. Even with eyes shut tightly, Chan swears he can still see pairs of eyes observing him carefully, analyzing his every move and holding him to the standards of a consistent winner.

Angle your fist upward. Quicker on the footwork. Harder. Faster.

Atta boy. Be a man. Be a winner.

It’s only when his coach has gone home for the evening, when the other athletes file out of the training gym one by one, towels slung over their broad shoulders and duffel bags packed with spare gloves and changes of clothes. It’s when he’s the last shower of the night, letting scorching water roll off his toned body, steam fogging the mirrors until his own reflection is indistinguishable to him once more. And it’s when he’s concluded throwing practice punches in the now-empty ring, his muscular back parallel to the floor of the ring just like this, and his eyes fixed on the gray industrial ceilings and recess lights. It’s only then that he isn’t so easily defined by a winning streak.

In fact, his wins mean nothing in the absence of other athletes, who are also defined by the numerical realities of trophies gained and matches lost. The world feels much clearer to him like this, no longer clouded by the gym chatter and bruised knuckles that seek permanent shelter in his conscience. He’s just Bang Chan- not a winner, not even a boxer. Just Chan.

And though he allows it to consume him entirely, often replacing his curiosity for the world around him and a lingering loneliness with the insatiable appetite to fight, win, conquer- he knows deep down that it’s still not all of him. There remains a sort of fragility tucked somewhere beyond all this rigidness- there’s still a heavy humanness underneath these conjectures that he’s the ‘perfect boxer’.

What is a winning streak relative to an empty boxing ring? What is a spectator relative to a participant? What are concealed identities relative to a lifetime of falsifying new ones?

“What does it feel like?” You ask Chan, and he opens his eyes to examine the gray pipes that run along the ceilings once more.

For a fleeting moment, the dual identity he keeps tucked away makes its way to the forefront, silently admonishing how this all really feels to him- how the sounds that ring throughout his ears are far too loud at times, among a myriad of other admissions.

“It’s a bit much,” Chan responds with a deep sigh. And then he sits up once more, gesturing to the wall of photos across you, neat rows of famous boxers who once inhabited this ring so triumphantly assuming a spot within these gym walls permanently.

“See that?” Chan queries. You sit up, too, following his gaze to the largest photo in the middle, a confident smile painted on the monochrome subject’s face.

“Baik Hyun-Man,” you voice from beside him. “The boxer.”

He’s a little impressed when he turns to face you again, perhaps not having taken you very seriously the first time you dubbed yourself a fan of his, too.

“I want to be like him,” Chan confesses, his voice just above a whisper. “I want to be a winner. I want people to view me like that- always.”

Your words don’t make it past your tongue, which you bite impassively, instead nodding your head and letting a silence fall over you both. You don’t grant him the encouragement he seeks- in fact, you don’t even grant him a proper response.

You simply hum- and whether the verbalization serves as a form of agreement, or as utter dismay for concealing anything beyond the most predictable version of him he brings to you- that is for him to decipher.

*

Part one of Chan’s docuseries is aired that same week, just after five, on your network’s channel.

You watch on your television, completely immersed, as the familiar tune of your intro starts up, your phone already flooded with texts from colleagues who also tune in to the event.

“He’s so charming,” one texts you, as Chan appears on the screen, recalling stories of his early boxing days and verbally admiring the efforts of his opponent, Kang-Dae.

“Great start to the series,” your boss relays in her message to you, as Chan details his impressive his winning streak, a cocky smile plastered on his handsome face.

“I feel like you bring out something special in him,” Lin’s text reads- one which you read over several times, while your shared moment with Chan plays in the background, both of you reeling over the old documentary which preceded your careers. The very same clip you requested Lin cut out of the docu series- a clip that wasn't planned.

Your attention falls entirely on the way his face lights up as he speaks of the Iron Gentleman, contrary to the rest of the interview, where he delivers otherwise predictable responses and maintains a polite disposition. There’s a lighter tone to his voice when he’s made aware that you’ve also seen the series- and a visible sparkle in his eyes when he looks at you, impressed by the niche similarity you both share. Although unplanned, Lin is right- it’s undoubtedly the highlight of the interview, to watch him break down his walls and give the audience a glimpse into something beyond his boxing career. Part one of his series is certainly not a complete story- but it alludes to the notion that he does harbor a much more complex version of it, somewhere deep down inside of him.

And when the first reviews begin to roll in , Lin is the first to greet you, a piece of paper grasped firmly in her hands as she rushes up to meet you before you’ve even made it to your desk.

“The people love him,” she says enthusiastically, trailing beside you as you shuffle past to your desk.

“Listen to this,” she continues. “The network follows up-and-coming boxer Christopher Bang Chan as he prepares for the biggest fight of his life- in what just may be the biggest docuseries since that which preceded Hyun Man’s championship ring fight.”

“What?” You exclaim, halting your motion of digging through your purse to lock eyes with her ecstatic expression.

“I know!” she replies, practically shoving the paper toward you and directing your gaze upon the printed words. “Read the rest of it!”

Your eyes scan the dark black ink printed along the top of the newspaper, Lin’s finger directing you to where the paragraph continues with the gesture or her manicured finger.

“We were immediately captivated not only by Bang Chan’s remarkable looks, which seem to give models a run for their money, but by the essence in which he speaks of his craft- educational, yet alluring. It’s hard to ignore the chemistry in which interviewer y/n maintains as she tells his story, and we’re equally as satisfied with both subjects’ visible passion for the athletes which once dominated the network’s airtime. The series, which will air until Bang Chan’s Golden Gloves Championship fight, will follow his tale to stardom- and the underlying story he seeks to share with the world in the process.”

Lin lets out an excited squeal when you conclude speaking, patting your hand as she retrieves the paper once more and scans the bold text for the nth time this morning.

“People are seriously into him,” she emphasizes, raising her eyebrows in a knowing manner. “All these intimate looks at his life have people talking like crazy. I mean, we haven’t seen ratings this high since I can’t even remember when.”

You chuckle lightly, fishing around again for your phone in your purse and shrugging in her direction.

“Sure, he’s a little charming, I’ll give him that. People are just sorta drawn to people like him, I suppose.”

“Sorta?” Lin questions. “There’s other networks calling us to request they take over the series from here. They’re dying to know everything about him. Especially because of his winning streak.”

With your phone in hand, you pause again, meeting her gaze and furrowing your brows.

“Really? Why’s it so special to everybody?”

“Because,” she begins. “There hasn’t been an athlete competing in the Golden Gloves Championship with a winning streak like his in maybe 20 years. It makes his title fight appealing to everybody that way, not just to sports fanatics. He’s a handsome boxer and who never loses- and our network’s about to capture the biggest win of his life.”

You finally assume your spot on the swivel chair by your desk as she hovers over you, trying your best to make sense of the words as they leave her lips.

All around you, the office seems particularly busy today, colleagues chatting amongst themselves, sauntering quickly by your desk with video equipment and manila envelopes in hand. The sounds seem to crescendo as you take note of the phone lines that ring nonstop, filling the space with a constant shrill sound as colleagues rush to take messages. Amidst the overlapping voices, you can hear them conversing about ratings, requests for interviews and plans for the remainder of the series. And as you turn back to Lin, you also take note of the big smile plastered across her face- an expression you don’t typically see on an otherwise aloof producer like herself.

“You took my advice, and look where it’s gotten us already,” she says to you. “If you can manage to pull more out of him, I think we’ll have something really good here. Get closer- dig deeper.”

“I’m really trying here, but I don’t know how much closer I’ll be able to get,” you tell her.

Lin shrugs as she watches you glance at your phone, your eyes widening at the sight of several missed calls and texts.

“Took a message for you,” she says with a subtle purse of her lips. “He asked you to swing by the gym. Get out there- and bring every camera you have. He doesn’t take a breath before the camera shoots it.”

You glance past Lin’s standing figure at the giant glass windows of the office, the sun largely obscured by the cloudy weather and the towering buildings that surround it. It’s suffocating at this hour, just a little too busy for your liking, the atmosphere looming with talks of Chan and Chan and more Chan.

You know stopping by the gym will likely just irritate you more, and yet when Lin’s eager expression scans the paper in her hands once more, pupils dancing over written accounts of Chan’s passion for boxing and an underlying story the general public is somehow convinced you’ll unveil to them, you let out a frustrated sigh, gathering your purse once again and pushing your chair back in against your desk.

And Lin shoots you a small, yet knowing smile, as she observes you make your way back to the office entrance.

*

“Harder. No hooks this time.”

Hit.

“There you go! Now let’s see it all together.”

Chan ducks as his trainer throws a hit, and then his left fist darts out to deliver a harsh jab as he maintains his quick-paced footwork around the ring.

You watch from the entrance of the gym as he circles around the ring, eyebrows furrowed in deep concentration and beads of sweat trickling down his clenched jaw. His punches echo thunderously around the gym, his sneakers squeaking along the floor as he ducks again to evade another hit. And then he delivers one more hard punch to the palm of his trainer’s mitt, pulling away when his trainer gives a simple nod in response.

“Very good. Take five.”

Chan lets his head hang loosely as he catches his breath, his trainer undoing the velcro mitt straps around his wrists and making his way to the equipment room with them. You approach cautiously, one hand clutching the strap of your purse over your shoulder, as the other fiddles nervously with the hem of your shirt.

Chan takes note when you approach, his head snapping in your direction from where he remains standing. And then he approaches, too, a smile on his lips as he struts toward you and adjusts the black bandages around his knuckles.

“You actually showed!” Chan remarks with a chuckle.

“You asked me to stop by,” you say in response, observing the way he pulls the wires border apart to duck and hoist himself off the platform, now standing in front of you as he leans casually against the ring.

“I know. I just didn’t think you’d actually come.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t have much of a choice. What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion,” Chan chuckles lightly. “I just like your company.”

“That’s it? You know I’m supposed to be working, right?”

“Relax,” Chan assures you. “I called your office this morning. Told them we needed you here to collect some boxing paraphernalia of the sort. Didn’t get any protest from the big boss.”

Your eyes narrow as Chan reaches behind him and brings forth a plastic water bottle, bringing it to his lips and taking a generous swig. You observe the way he downs half of the bottle in one guttural swallow, his adam’s apple bobbing twice as he now finishes off the water, and then pulls it away from him once more with a gentle pop as the suction from between his lips is broken. A single drop of water trickles down beside his plump lips, and he brings one veiny arm out in front of him to wipe it with his inner wrist, careful to avoid making contact with his bandages.

When Chan notices you staring, he gestures to his bandaged hand with a nod of his head as he speaks. “They get all gross when I wet them,” he explains simply. “Ever had athlete’s foot on your hands?”

“Ew, no,” you say with a small laugh.

He holds your gaze for a moment, as though he wants to ask something, and then he rejects the idea entirely, standing up a little straighter when his coach returns from the equipment room at the back.

“Who’s this?” The man asks, a stern expression on his face as he approaches.

“Oh, uh… sorry, I’m-”

“This is y/n,” Chan interjects. “She’s the interviewer we’ve been talking about.”

“It’s you!” His coach exclaims, scoffing as does a once-over of your timid figure. He’s much broader than Chan is, his buff arms folding over themselves as he leans back against the ring beside Chan. You quickly recognize him as the gentleman who accompanied Chan during your first introduction to him.

“I watched the first part when it aired,” he states. “You somehow make him seem interesting. Didn’t know that was possible.”

Chan laughs and shakes his head, a pink blush creeping upon his cheeks as you laugh, too.

“You can call me Mr. Seo,” his coach says finally, extending a calloused hand to you, his fingers grasping firmly around yours as you shake. “I’ve been training the guy since he was just a little shorter than he is now.”

“Alllll right,” Chan interrupts with a chuckle. “You’re free to go.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mr. Seo retorts sarcastically. And then turns to face you once more, furrowing his brows as he points a finger in your direction and cocks his head slightly.

“You’ll be at the fight, correct?” He inquires.

“We’re televising it,” you respond with a nod. “I’ll be there to watch.”

Chan’s eyes flicker over your gaze momentarily, and then over Mr. Seo’s expression as he nods.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Mr. Seo says with a chuckle. “I think there’s still a person somewhere deep inside there.”

Chan shakes his head sheepishly and then averts your gaze when you turn to look at him again.

“We’re done for the day, yeah?” He asks in a low voice, practically begging Mr. Seo to make his departure from the gym.

“Yeah,” Mr. Seo responds, his eyebrows raising in your direction as he cocks his head again. “I’m on my way out. It was great meeting you!”

You nod at Mr. Seo, watching as he gathers a black bag off the floor and hoists it over his shoulder.

Chan keeps his head hung as Mr. Seo gets further away from both of your still-standing figures, and then he glances up only when he hears the heavy door push open to indicate his exit.

For a moment, neither of you say anything, a heavy tension making itself known between you. You wonder briefly what could have offended Chan about Mr. Seo’s remark- and then you make a mental note to badger Chan about it later, when he’s properly on camera.

“I need to make a little day trip,” Chan finally says with a click of his tongue. “So you’re coming with.”

“Depends where we’re going.”

“About an hour up north. I left some boxing equipment, and I need it back.”

You hold back a smile as Chan leans back against the ring once more, his eyebrows raised at the same time his lips pull back into a smirk. He maintains a knowing grin as he holds your gaze, as though he already knows you can’t decline the offer. And he’s right- despite fulfilling the role of a work subject, and being forced to spend time with him at practically all hours of the day, there’s something about him you just can’t bring yourself to say no to.

You also can’t help but wonder what’s in this for him- sure, he maintains the fact that you need video footage. And you do, still finding yourself eager to capture all the intimate moments of his life which you already know contribute to his charming persona, one which audiences have been captivated by after just one episode of his series. But you can’t help but feel as though he may possess more motives for keeping you around this closely. Maybe it’s a product of the series’ early success- and maybe it has something to do with the truths he can’t seem to utter.

*

True to the way he lives his life at full-speed, Chan drives fast. He keeps one hand on the steering wheel, making smooth turns with the palm of his hand as he sits slouched comfortably in the driver’s seat, his vacant hand resting over the center console between you.

The conversation flows with ease, as though you’ve always known him, and Chan details all the mundane intricacies that come with being a boxer for the entirety of the car ride. He doesn’t speak of anything more personal than his start to boxing, yet he upholds his privacy with such dexterity, making cautious attempts to reroute the conversation when it steers any closer to him than he intends it to. And though he makes himself out to be one of two things at any given moment, chuckling lightly as he defines himself somewhere between “perfervid and steadfast”, there’s an underlying tenderness to him, the kind you can observe only in the transient moments in which he doesn’t speak of his work.

You catch a glimpse of it when he laughs at his own jokes, eyes forming little creases under his temples when he fills the space with the melodic sound of “ha ha’s” at tales of his childhood. You notice it in the way he speaks of the people he holds close to him, dubbing Mr. Seo a “lifesaver”, a “best friend” and a “hero” in the same breath. And it’s present every time he asks you a question, his eyes full of concentration as he waits for you to detail your work to him in return, usually met with the gentle reminder that he need not interview the interviewer. Yet he remains the first athlete to try and do so in your presence- a fact you’re undoubtedly charmed by.

When Chan announces your arrival at the undisclosed location, you do a double-take, furrowing your brows in confusion when he comes around to open the passenger’s car door for you.

“Where are we?” You query, stepping out and glancing at the scenery which surrounds you both.

You’re knee deep in the suburbs and well on the outskirts of city life, the clean-paved roads lined with modest-sized homes and yellowing lawns. The overcast skies are much clearer without the obstruction of skyscrapers and billboards, and in the far distance, you can make out the euphonious hum of a mourning dove’s coo.

“I told you,” Chan replies. “Here for some equipment.”

He gestures for you to follow up the cement steps that lead to a single painted door at the front, and once you’re both positioned at the entrance, he rings the doorbell confidently, glancing down at the coir doormat and prodding at it with the sole of his shoe.

“Mom bought new ones,” he says simply, and your head snaps in his direction.

“Mom?”

Before he can properly answer, the door is swung open with the heavy creak of the latch, and you’re met with who you can only presume to be Chan’s mother, a warm smile on her face as her arms extend out to him for an embrace.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming!” She exclaims, wrapping her arms around his broad shoulders and laughing lightly. Her eyes form little crinkles the same way his do, and her features robustly resemble all of his.

“And you,” she now says as she pulls away. “Must be the movie-maker.”

You smile politely at her, eyes flickering over Chan momentarily before you nod in response.

“I’m just the interviewer,” you say in response. “I do get a few pieces of footage here and there, too. It’s nice to meet you.”

Your invitation for a handshake is interrupted by her arms embracing you, too, which you reciprocate in a warm hug.

“I left my training gloves,” Chan voices to her. “Did you see them anywhere?”

“I left them on the console table. You’re always forgetting something.”

Chan smiles in response, and then he kicks off his shoes when she gestures for him to come inside. You mirror the action, following his lead into their house, and then you trail after Chan to the console table where a pair of black boxing gloves lie.

As he collects them, you take in the atmosphere, eyeing the decor curiously as his mom assumes a spot on the couch.

It’s a humble little household, no bigger than any of the other houses on the street, but there’s clear indication that it’s lived-in, from the framed photos that line the walls, to the cabinets of trophies that accompany the furniture. You thumb over the strap of your camera as you walk in strides, knowing the network will be elated you managed to get this close to your interview subject. From the photos in frames atop the glass coffee tables, to the collection of medals that decorate the space by the cabinets, every reward and heirloom is more footage, more praise, higher ratings.

And above the couch, a pair of bright blue boxing gloves hung on a single nail, exactly like Chan previously mentioned.

“Are those your first boxing gloves?” You ask suddenly, drawing attention from Mrs. Bang as she cranes her neck to look at them. Chan gives a half-smile as he turns to look at them, too, and then he nods before speaking.

“Yeah, that’s them. They were a little too big for me when I bought them.”

“I was so proud of him,” Mrs. Bang chimes in. “I had to buy a second pair just to display his first.”

You smile in her direction as she folds her hands in her lap, and then your hands run over the bag you wear slung over your shoulder.

“Could I possibly film you answering a couple questions?” You ask Mrs. Bang suddenly, fishing around for the digital camera you brought along with you. “Just a few basic ones about Chan. I promise it won’t take long.”

Your gaze turns to Chan to gauge his reaction, and you’re met with an encouraging nod as he gestures to his mother.

“Of course!” his mom says, smoothing down her dress as she beckons you over. “I’m an open book.”

You take the seat across from her, running your index finger over the release shutter as you fidget with the settings. And then you catch Chan’s gaze once more, your eyes flickering at his anticipatory expression and then beyond his figure into the hallway.

“Chan, do you mind if I interview her… alone?” You request, heartbeat quickening in your chest. “These are really basic questions. I just find that people are a little more detailed when the film subject isn’t directly present.”

Chan shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants awkwardly, chewing nervously on the inside of his lip as he glances at his mother. A silent few seconds go by, and you conclude that his lack of response indicates disapproval of the request.

“I can also just not conduct the interview if that’s better for you-”

“No, that’s fine,” Chan says finally. “I’ll wait out in the garage.”

He gives a small nod in the direction of his mother, as if to request that she uphold the self-contained image he projects, and then he pivots on his heel, disappearing past the hallway toward the direction of his once makeshift gym.

“I wanted to ask you about what Chan was like growing up,” you begin as you turn toward her again, positioning the camera on a side table and adjusting to fix on her face. “Was he always so set on being a boxer?”

“Oh, precisely,” she says, folding her hands over her crossed knees. “I couldn’t get him to do nearly anything outside of going to the gym. At age 12, he was lifting weights twice his own. And by 14, he was training with Mr. Seo. Did you know he missed his own graduation ceremony to participate in some fight?”

“I didn’t know that,” you say with a chuckle.

“He did. He’d also box himself inside that little garage every summer, just practicing. I had to drag him inside for dinner most days.”

“So he’s always had this sort of tunnel vision.”

“Yes, I think so. He was never outside with the other kids, never really had many friends. It wasn’t for a lack of making them- he just found more joy in training with Mr. Seo than doing anything else a typical kid his age would do.”

You nod as she speaks, and then you watch as her lips curl into a small smile.

“In the summer, he would practice all day long in our dingy little garage. It was always scorching hot, so I’d bring him his favorite ice cream to cool down. I think watching his excitement for those ice cream bars is the last time I can recall him feeling like a little kid. He grew up so fast.”

“Sherbet ones,” you voice to her, and she points to you with a cheerful smile on her face.

“Yes, those ones!”

You chuckle as you think of the ones she speaks of, not having guessed they were a staple which preceded his career, and not just some random fixation of his.

Mrs. Bang shakes her head as she recalls memories, and then she cranes her neck to eye the hanging boxing gloves again.

“Sometimes I worry about him,” she confesses in a low voice.

You observe the way her eyebrows furrow into an expression of concern, and you tilt your head when she hangs hers, trying your best to make sense of the shift in tone.

“What do you mean?” You ask, knowing very well these aren’t in fact, the basic questions you promised Chan you would be aiming at her.

“He gets so wrapped up in it- especially when he has a fight around the corner. It’s all he does, all he thinks about.”

Mrs. Bang shakes her head for a moment, and then she meets your gaze again, speaking in a rushed tone.

“He didn’t sleep for three days once,” she announces. “Do you know how hard it was to see him like that?”

You don’t reply immediately, taking note of the visible tears that brim her eyes, which she wipes away with the gentle stroke of a manicured finger.

“He’s so down on himself all the time,” Mrs. Bang continues. “He’s so preoccupied with being the best at what he does. And I can’t help but think there’s something keeping him down.”

“Like what?”

She sniffles loudly once, shrugging her shoulders and flickering her gaze over the camera, as though suddenly remembering she’s being recorded.

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Bang admits. “Maybe you’ll figure it out for us.”

She purses her lips sheepishly when she concludes speaking, resuming the action of wiping off her runny mascara, and then you turn to the camera quickly, shutting off the recording and collecting it in your grasp once more.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make it so depressing,” she says in a frail voice.”I think a lot of us are just worried about what this fight could mean for him. For his future.”

“No, please don’t apologize,” you say to her quickly. “It’s admirable that you’re so preoccupied with his career. I can just cut out that last part.”

Mrs. Bang just folds her hands neatly in her lap, but she says nothing to you, no verbal request to omit the footage or steer clear of publicizing the concern she houses for her own son. The thought passes you by, momentarily, to ask her if she’s okay being this vulnerable on camera- but when Mrs. Bang clears her throat and speaks again, you swallow your words, straightening your posture and turning your attention onto her seated figure once more.

“He’s a born winner,” she finishes. “I guess that comes at a cost.”

And the cost isn’t so easily visible to you at such proximity to Chan, who spends the duration of lunch shoving food around his plate with the tip of his fork, uttering a simple “yes” when asked if he’s been sleeping, and “maybe” when asked about his interest in a family trip after the big match. And then he turns the attention back to you, with a nod of his head in your direction, urging you to detail your career back to Mrs. Bang, the same way he does.

“I’m a journalist,” you tell her, politely dabbing at the corners of your mouth with a napkin. “I interview a lot of athletes. Your son’s just one of many.”

“How riveting,” she says back, resting her chin atop her folded hands. “So I assume you’ve grown rather close in the process, then?”

You chuckle lightly, biting back from divulging her in the fact that you’ve only agreed to be here because your network is keen on the confidentialities of Chan’s personal life.

“You could say that. I always joke that the second most intimate thing you can do with a person is interview them.”

Chan keeps his chin tucked, eyes glued to his plate as you glance over at him as Mrs. Bang lets out a laugh.

“He’s very talented, though,” you continue. “It’s an honor to know him like this before his biggest win.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Mrs. Bang chimes in. “And so the purpose of this is to capture his life before the title match?”

Chan’s head lifts a little to look at you, knowing very well that he’s the defining factor in all of this, and yet he doesn’t take the liberty of making it known to his mother.

“The purpose is whatever he chooses it to be,” you explain to her. “It’s a story- more like a message of sorts. Really anything that defines him as a person, not just an athlete.”

Mrs. Bang nods once more, and then her eyes flicker over Chan as he evades her eye contact.

“I’m excited for part two,” she finishes. “I think you’re doing a fine job at knowing him."

*

“He took you to meet his mom?”

“It’s not what you’re thinking,” you reply quickly, as you gesture to the camera Lin grasps between her hands. “He needed to get some equipment. It just happened to be at his mom’s place.”

She scoffs as she thumbs over the camera buttons, her lips pulling into a smile as she observes the thumbnails of your various clips.

“It’s a fucking gold mine,” she emphasizes. “This is exactly what we’re looking for.”

Lin watches curiously as one of the clips begins to play, an indistinguishable dialogue emitting from the camera as a close-up shot of his mom is shown.

“What’s the gist of them?” She inquires, toying with the camera strap.

“His mom seems worried for him,” you remark, pulling the sleeves of your sweater over the palms of your hands as you speak in a reluctant tone. “She alludes to something he’s hiding- maybe some sort of double life he leads. Of course I don’t think he’s that interesting, but he’s definitely a little closed-off when he wants to be.”

“She couldn’t say more?”

“She doesn’t know more. He’s a mystery to his own family, it seems.”

Lin lets out a singular breathy chuckle before ejecting the memory card and grasping it carefully between her fingers.

“Nice work,” she voices. “Part two is finally going to get personal.”

You think over her words momentarily, envisioning the way Chan so confidently brought you along with him that evening, allowing you to photograph the cherished corners of his childhood home, from the blue boxing mitts his mother held onto all those years, down to the sacred conversations of his mother in clear distress. And although you weren’t explicitly ordered not to publicize the footage, it feels wrong- just a little too… voyeuristic, to pass along to the network like this.

“Wait,” you say to Lin, uncovering the palms of your hands and gesturing to the memory card. “There’s a few clips on there I meant to delete.”

“Like what?”

“Just some extra footage we didn’t need. I’ll delete it and give it right back-”

“We can sort it out later,” Lin says, with a shake of her head. “I’ll give you a once-over before we publish the next part. Don’t worry about it.”

You meet her gaze as she finishes speaking, and she shoots you a small smile before setting the memory aside on her desk.

“Tell me,” Lin begins, leaning back in her desk chair. “What’s he like?”

You chuckle softly, leaning back in your own chair, as you shrug in response.

“I don’t know. He’s a perfectionist, that’s for sure. And he’s a little hesitant to be honest about himself.”

And then you sigh, locking eyes with the ceiling as you avert her gaze. A small smile creeps upon your face, as you think of Bang Chan, and the charming way he recounts stories of his career, always keen on asking about yourself in turn and maintaining his polite composure.

“He’s not as bad as I thought,” you then admit to her, after a brief moment of silence. “Of course he’s still an unbroken winner, at the end of the day. And that has its own implications. But I suppose he’s not all bad.”

Lin smirks a little at your confession, nodding as she folds her hands in her lap and raises her eyebrows.

“He seems to have taken a liking to you,” she teases. “He requests for you an awful lot these days.”

And you shake your head in response, your gaze falling to the memory card still placed on the desk in front of her.

“He just wants company,” you say to her, thinking back to the footage of him that exists on the little plastic card. “He just likes good company.”

*

And perhaps “good company” really is all which Chan seeks, you grow to realize, as the occurrences in which he’s dragging you along to some mundane task grow tenfold during part two of his series’ filming sessions. You familiarize yourself with his gym, his childhood home, even the leather interior of his two-seater when he’s speeding down the highway and indulging you in stories of his days spent training. Always a camera aimed at him, always a frame-by-frame analysis of how much he’s grown to love heavy lifting days the most, or how he’s partial to darker clothing because it offsets the paleness he flaunts when he’s been inside training all day. The monotonous setting of your office is quickly transitioned to that of Chan’s training gym, where you’ll typically occupy a bench by the gallery wall while he throws punches with Mr. Seo in the ring.

Chan is well aware of your tendency to film him during training sessions, earning the new title of a “show-off” by Mr. Seo’s standards, when he’s perfecting all his jabs in front of you, keen on his footwork and lifting weights three times his normal. And from behind the lens, you often hold his gaze a little too long, cocking your head to observe the way his brown tresses cling to his chiseled face with sweat. Or perhaps the way his thin athletic t-shirts seem to ride up his body with every punch, exposing the thin strip of flesh where his toned obliques grace your presence.

And the high ratings mean the network is eager to get more out of him, encouraging you to stay a little longer where you can, or to ask questions that scrape below the surface of who Chan really is.

Be intentional with your questions. Get him vulnerable.

And you certainly make attempts to, especially persistent at following all of his intimate moments with a camera in and hand a series of follow-up questions.

Of course Chan certainly won’t admit it, far too caught up in the pressure to maintain the image of a “perfect boxer” to let his guard down around you, but he is comfortably vulnerable in your presence, fascinated with the prospects of the series as it pertains to his winning streak, and often immersed in thoughts that don’t only involve himself.

As a memory card remains plugged into your laptop, importing clips of Chan’s conversations of carefree footage for Lin- laughing, smiling, your eyes scan the still frame of him, beaming, one popsicle in hand and a hand outstretched to the camera. He looks lighter this way- in fact, you’re not sure you would take him to be a boxer at all if not for the knowledge you possess.

When Chan concludes his round of punches, he makes his way toward you in purposeful strides, hoisting himself off of the ring and wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

“What are you thinking about?” He queries, assuming a spot on the bench beside you and slouching back comfortably.

“You don’t need to interview the interviewer,” you remind him, fingers hovering over the mousepad of your keyboard. He shoots you a knowing smile, the flesh by his lips creasing as he holds it there momentarily.

When you look up to meet his gaze, he holds it- a little too long to feel appropriate, but not in a way that begs you to cease your actions. He’s still just as charming as you’d concluded him to be following your first interaction- but he’s also real, tantalizing. The look is almost dizzying when a soft hum emits from the back of his throat, as though he’s laughing at you, as though he knows he drives you mad in more ways than just one.

And his intense brown eyes seem to soften as he flickers his gaze over your contented expression.

“Let’s do something tonight,” Chan says in a mellow tone. It’s hardly a question, and more of a command, as he drums on his knees with the pads of his fingers.

“Why, you need another grocery run?” You retort with a smile, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as he holds your gaze.

“I like your company,” Chan confesses. “This gym wears me out.”

You turn your attention back to your computer as a blush creeps on your cheeks- Chan knows very well that your camera is now well saturated with footage- in fact, you could probably go several days in his absence and still have enough footage to pull together the next part.

“And by ‘do something’ you mean what, exactly?”

“There’s a bar down the street.”

“I don’t like bars.”

“Me either,” Chan says quickly, followed by a soft chuckle.

You turn to hold his gaze once more, narrowing your eyes a little as though you’re challenging him.

“Bad practice for athletes,” he states simply.

“Then I guess we’ll have to forfeit.”

Chan pauses for a moment, and then his lips pull into another smile, a small blush making its way on the tips of his ears before he speaks again.

“Come to my place,” he says plainly. It’s a request perhaps too bold for somebody who’s meant to serve the sole purpose of a video subject, and yet the offer is nothing short of tempting- for video purposes, and possibly for your own interest, too.

He thinks it over a moment, not having devised any form of a plan for the evening, but holding onto his hopes that you’ll agree, nonetheless.

“Just… indulge me in your presence, yeah?” he finishes.

You begin to tell him that you can’t, that this is probably going too far as it stands, to be spending every waking hour with him the way you now do. But the reminder lingers, that you’re meant to be breaking down his walls, gathering all of his private affairs for the purposes of this series. And perhaps, also, because he’s still hard to say no to.

“Can I bring my camera?” You ask him, and Chan nods, amused.

“You can bring your camera,” he affirms. “Film whatever you want.”

He keeps his gaze on yours again, his brown eyes flickering over your pursed lips as you observe him at this painfully close proximity. A single bead of sweat trickles from his temple down to his cheek, and as your hand instinctively reaches out to wipe it off of him, the echoing sound of footsteps interrupts you, your head snapping in the direction of a voice as it calls out to you both.

“Popsicles are out,” Mr. Seo says when he appears, boxing mitts grasped firmly in his grip. “I’m out of here for the evening, but you’re free to go restock if you feel so inclined.”

Your bodies almost force themselves away from each other, and you rise from the bench to give Mr. Seo a small bow when he’s stood in front of you.

“Hi Mr. Seo,” you say nervously. “I can make a quick trip-”

“We’ll go together,” Chan interrupts.

Your gaze snaps in his direction, where he’s now standing, too, and he nods again to affirm his answer.

Mr. Seo glances at you briefly, perhaps at just enough of an angle to presume that he knows your emotions are a little elevated. But then he simply shrugs, nodding affirmatively in your direction.

“Yeah,” he says plainly. “I’ll see you for tomorrow’s session.”

That same evening marks the first instance in which Bang Chan is reminded that he’s now perceivable to the masses- in the form of sold out popsicles. You watch as he cluelessly questions the cashier, furrowing his brows and recalling how they had restocked just days prior.

“Why would popsicles be sold out so quickly?” Chan voices, staring down the freezers against the wall as though his favorite dessert might somehow materialize from nothing.

And as your eyes remain fixed on the A4 paper that hangs loosely from the glass door, detailing “no popsicles” in scribbled handwriting and adhered by a single strip of masking tape, you make sense of it before you can even verbalize it.

“Because of you,” you voice with a chuckle.

“Me? That’s a stretch, I bought, like, three the last time I was here. That’s hardly enough-”

“Your series,” you interrupt, approaching the fridge and giving it a once-over. “You mentioned them in the first part. I think your fans have taken a liking to them.”

Your gaze meets Chan again, waiting for him to say something along the lines of what the athletes typically do when they’ve had their first brush with newfound fame. And yet Chan doesn’t smile back- in fact, the expression he wears on his face is anything but content, his lips pulling into a frown you can only describe as somber.

The chime of the door indicates the arrival of more people, and suddenly Chan can feel pairs of eyes boring into his soul from every corner of the convenience store, the undivided attention of customers analyzing his every move and holding him to the same impossible standard he’s become so accustomed to.

He’s aware that they’re picking apart his appearance, his mannerisms, translating his pixelated figure into the real-life tangibility of his broad stature. The girls seem to laugh into their sleeves as they traverse the store, and the men shoot him envious looks, as though any one of them might be Bang Chan’s opponent in the flesh. He thinks back to his opponent, who he knows trains in the same gym near this very convenience store. And then his eyes scan the room nervously, calculating the chances that one of these men may indeed be Kang-Dae. The men he rules out are paired against the likelihood that they’re either for him, or entirely against him, like they might actively be rooting for his downfall. Like they may eagerly be awaiting a broken winning streak.

And if the sight of an empty freezer isn’t soul-crushing enough, he may very well mistake this to be a boxing match, by the way his heartbeat quickens in his chest, eyes on him eagerly awaiting his next move and silently commentating as though they control him. The thoughts race through his mind once more, as he ponders the relativity of a winning streak to an empty boxing ring, a spectator relative to a participant. A city-wide obsession with popsicles for fleeting, superficial fame- and a voyeuristic fascination with the sacred intricacies of his personal life.

What are you so afraid of?

Your voice rings in his mind, and he cringes when he takes several steps away from your looming figure, averting the gaze of every customer in the store as his own heartbeat echoes loudly through his ears.

“Let’s go,” he says, beginning toward the door again.

“Already?” You question, glancing at the full shelves of alternative dessert options. “You don’t want to grab something else?”

“I want to go home,” Chan emphasizes through gritted teeth.

And when he’s exited the store before you, the blank stares shared amongst you, and the store clerk, and the customers who most definitely recognize him, seem to only affirm the discomfort he feels.

*

Home to Bang Chan isn’t always the one he grew up in- it’s also his humble apartment on the east side, up three stories high, the walls heavily resembling that of a bachelor pad’s. It’s not very hospitable, you quickly notice, as the room is only incrementally brightened by the on switch of a floor lamp in the corner. And as he gestures to a black leather couch across a luxurious flatscreen television, you can’t help but wonder how many girls he’s charmed into this exact position, comfortably sat on his couch as he makes his way over with two glasses of white wine.

“I’m impressed,” you say quickly, giving the living room another once-over.

“How so?”

“You have good taste in furniture. And your hosting qualities aren’t too shabby. Is white wine your go-to for journalists?”

“Very funny,” Chan says with a grin. “You’re the first to have made it this far.”

“Then can I ask what the occasion is?” You inquire, as he assumes the spot beside you. “Aside from indulging you with my company.”

Chan sets his glass down on the coffee table in front of you both, exchanging it for a remote control and switching on the television.

“Something I wanted to watch with you,” he says simply. You observe as he starts up what you think to be a movie at first, his arm sprawling over the back of the sofa as he sits back comfortably. And then, when the familiar sound of an introduction fills the room, you don’t have to wait long to know what it is.

“I should’ve guessed,” you say quietly from your spot next to him, as you bring the glass of wine up to your lips. Chan nods, a smile upon his face as renowned boxer Baik Hyun-Man assumes a seat in a studio much like yours, and then begins to speak.

“I’ve been boxing for ten years,” he says, following a brief introduction. “It’s my passion. My life’s dream.”

The peripherals of your eyes shift to Chan’s seated figure, where he’s watching intently, a sort of shimmer in his eyes as he indulges in the film for what may be the hundredth time now. It’s one you remember well, too, always having memorized his graceful responses to questions and his aversion to engage in any form of slandering his opponents.

And as Chan watches, you make careful movements to retrieve your camera from your bag, starting up a fresh recording and angling it toward him.

“God, isn’t he the coolest?” Chan remarks, and you chuckle lightly.

“Yeah, he’s pretty cool.”

He gestures to the television with his index finger, sitting up a little when Hyun-Man is filmed pulling on a pair of blue boxing gloves.

“Those are the ones!” Chan says excitedly. “That’s why I picked blue ones for my first pair.”

You chuckle at Chan’s enthusiastic reaction, and then you adjust the camera so that it’s zoomed into his face a little more.

“Chan,” you voice to him, and he turns a little to face you, humming in response. “What exactly is it about him you’re so fascinated with?”

He thinks it over momentarily, and before he can answer, you’re speaking again.

“He was only a championship boxer for a whole two years, you know. He holds one of the shortest-spanning careers in your field.”

Chan purses his lips, hanging his head as he thinks over your words.

“I know,” he responds.

And he’s very knowledgeable of the fact that although Baik Hyun-Man was the first heavyweight boxer of his kind to make it to the Olympics, he was retired and gone just two years after his biggest fight. Not a product of fading relevancy, but rather a personal choice of his, to step away from the spotlight, step down from his career and live a life beyond just the sport in which he excelled at.

“You will face your share of losses,” he had said in his final speech to the masses. “And you can’t let it retract from the rest of life you have to live. It’s been an honorable two years, I’m going to live the rest of it now.”

Chan looks at the television, and then at you once more, an indistinguishable expression painted across his face.

“He didn’t want all of this,” Chan says finally. “And sometimes I don’t, either.”

He reaches forward again, grasping the stem of his wine glass between his fingers and downing a generous mouthful.

“What do you mean?”

“All the fame,” he says, pulling the glass away from his lips again. “And pairs of eyes constantly watching your every move. It gets exhausting.”

He then slouches back a little further into the cushions, shutting his eyes momentarily.

“Made worse when you’ve never lost,” he finishes, opening his eyes again to meet your gaze.

His eyes flicker briefly over your lips, and then back up to your eyes, which carefully examine the state of him. You’re hardly ever at such intimate proximity to a video subject like this, but you can tell again that he looks tired, his eyes outlined by deep, purple bags and a sorrowful expression. You wonder when the last time is that he got a full night of rest, or even consumed something that wasn’t just a snack in between training sessions and interviews.

“Is that what you want for yourself?” You ask him boldly, the tips of your fingers tracing the shutter release on the camera.

He gets quiet, a little reluctant to answer the question- and rightfully so, never having seriously thought about letting go of all of this.

“I don’t know what I want,” Chan admits after a moment of silence. He turns to face you again, shrugging his shoulders and positioning himself to face you fully now. And then he cocks his head, furrowing his brows as you continue to toy with the shutter release.

“Are you recording?” He asks with a breathy chuckle, gesturing to the camera with the point of his index finger.

You chuckle in response, too.

“It’s just for my personal use,” you assure him. “It won’t make it past this memory card. I’m just picking your brain a little.”

He seems satisfied with the response, knowing too that he’s most transparent when he has a camera aimed somewhere at him. Chan sighs, exhaling once before folding his hands in his lap.

“Everyone wants me to tell my story,” Chan says in a shaky voice. “I feel so suffocated these days.”

“Rightfully so,” You echo back at him. “There is a lot of pressure on you leading up to the fight.”

“Something like that. The worship feels… well, it feels suffocating.”

He gets quiet again, eyebrows arched as he meets your gaze, in hopes you’ll make sense of his nervous conciseness.

“Like the popsicles,” you remark, nodding your head once.

You recall Chan growing strangely quiet at the knowledge that he had not only cultivated a loyal fan base after just one episode of airtime, but that just like the audiences at his matches, they were keeping careful watch of his every move, imitating him and placing him on a pedestal like he’s bound to experience for the remainder of his career.

“Yeah,” Chan affirms. “Like the popsicles. It’s like nothing is sacred anymore.”

The popsicles, you remember, have been a childhood staple of his since he still wore the blue mitts to matches that his mother now boasts so proudly. They’re out of reach now; unattainable. Much like a life not tainted by the pressure to win is.

You nod once at his words, and then you reach out to pat his knee encouragingly, smiling when you speak again.

“You said it yourself,” you say to him. “Not much scares you these days. Maybe this is just the product of the anticipation leading up to the fight. I mean, do you really think Baik Hyun-Man wasn’t scared when he was the first boxer to-”

“Losing scares me,” Chan interjects, the pupils of his eyes trembling when he speaks. A deafening silence falls over the room, and you can make out the sound of when he swallows nervously at his own state of vulnerability.

“Losing scares the shit out of me,” Chan repeats, and it’s when you meet his gaze once more that you take notice of the tears which brim his eyes, his lower lip trembling nervously as he struggles to speak.

The only other time you’ve seen him display any emotion besides than the charming, mesmerizing persona he flaunts, is when he’s boxing- and right now, juxtapositioned against his otherwise calm demeanor, he seems almost stricken with sorrow, tears beginning to cascade down his reddened cheeks and find purchase on the sleeves of his shirt.

“Sorry,” Chan breathes out amidst the silence, hiccuping when more tears stream down his face.

For a moment, you can’t find the words to say, simply observing his state and trying to understand where he’s coming from with all of this. Yet it doesn’t require a considerable amount of thought- perhaps somewhere deep down, you already know this of him, well aware of his tendency to pull away and shut himself off from the heavy emotions he harbors. It’s made clear when he diverts from the topic of fear, directing the conversation back to Mr. Seo, or his mom or even yourself. It’s evident in the way he seems to be bothered by his own solitude, dragging you along under the guise of “good company”. And it’s made painfully obvious in the way he’s so frightened at the notion of losing all things sacred to him- remnants of his innocence, the people around him and especially a commendable winning streak.

“What if I lose this match?” Chan ponders out loud, his eyebrows arching as he shrugs sheepishly. “What’s going to become of me? Of all this?”

Your hands are the first ones to beckon for his, palms outstretched as he reciprocates with the gentle placement of his fingers in yours. And then your thumb caresses his knuckles tenderly, cocking your head as you feel the smooth metal of his silver rings in your touch.

“So what if you lose?” You question back boldly.

“Then I’m a loser,” Chan says quickly. “And I don’t want to be a loser. I know I was born to win this thing- I’ve been training for this my whole life.”

“You’ve been training your whole life,” you echo. “But this is only a fraction of it. You’re still going to do remarkable things, whether you win or lose this. Everybody loves you.”

“I don’t,” he says quickly, a breathy chuckle involuntarily escaping his lips. He holds your gaze a moment, and then his expression grows serious again.

“I hate who this has turned me into,” he continues. “I’m a… I’m a coward. I shut people out, I can’t even be honest with them about how terrified I am of being a loser. And the only time I’m honest with myself is when I imagine it’s me I’m punching in that ring. Just a shell of who they think I am. A fucking loser.”

You think back to the way Chan delivers hits to the bag in that raised platform of the gym, teeth gritting and beads of sweat collecting along his brow, as he hits harder, and harder and harder, until the bandages around his knuckles can do nothing to shield the pain of self-inflicted wounds. One hit and a black eye, two hits and a cracked rib, a myriad of strikes and uppercuts and hopefully the numbness of all the self-loathing thoughts that follow.

“I’m so tired,” Chan then confesses quietly. “Can you tell I haven’t slept in days?”

And you say nothing back to him, your eyes flickering over the apples of his cheeks all glossed with tears, the bags under his eyes appearing an even darker shade of deep gray as his eyebrows slouch down into a sorrowful expression. He looks more vulnerable than you’ve ever seen him, almost miserable, as he waits for you to say something. And when you don’t, he quickly regrets the stream of consciousness, shaking his head as he pulls back his calloused hands from your grasp.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “You’re a journalist, not a therapist. I shouldn’t have been so honest-”

“None of that makes you a loser,” you interject with the shake of your head, and then a small smile. “All your fears, and your hangups and your reservations. They’re little burdens you carry with you- but they’re all human. You don’t have to apologize for any of it. They’re simply part of the story you’re telling.”

It’s Chan’s turn to get silent, his lips parted ever so slightly as he studies the way you gauge his reaction back. It’s unclear what he thinks, and you fear momentarily that you may have somehow offended him with your response.

Nothing is spoken for a passing moment as you exchange curious glances with each other. When the camera shifts a little in your lap, you shut off the recording, pushing down on the shutter release with the dip of your index finger and letting it rest atop the crack of the couch cushions.

And then before you can utter some form of apology to him for actions unbeknownst to you, he’s leaning in a bit closer, eyes nervously darting over your lips and back up to your trembling eyes.

Chan’s heartbeat quickens in his chest as he searches for the right words to say- perhaps some thanks for the reassurance, another apology, or even a confession of emotions he’s not fully come to terms with yet. An attractive athlete like himself is no stranger to the process utilizing his eloquent flirting skills, and yet the words escape him, as he understands finally that you don’t feel like a stranger to him at all.

Not when you’re accompanying him to the convenience store by the gym for late night popsicles, or observing the way he trains from behind the lens of your camera. Not when you’re in the intimate setting of his mother's house, graciously conversing with her as he stews in thoughts of self-deprecation. Or when you’re in the passenger’s seat of his car, laughing at tales of his summer days spent confined to that dingy little makeshift gym in his garage. Perhaps the words are lost to his own doubts when he begins to confess that you’re more than just “good company”- that his world doesn’t feel so centered around a sport when he’s in your presence. That for a fleeting moment, he feels like there is a life beyond that of an athlete on a rampant winning-streak, and that the thought of losing doesn’t feel half as scary when he’s sitting beside you.

You’re no stranger to Chan- a fact that rings true when he finally presses his lips to yours, his hand rising to caress your cheek gently as you kiss him back, eager and full of a soft yearning for him.

You remain like that for a moment, aware that it’s entirely wrong and you shouldn’t even be in a subject’s house at this proximity. The flavor of his salty tears mixed with white wine upon his lips is less noticeable as you work to kiss it off him entirely. And when you pull away once more, it’s not for a lack of enjoying it, more so than your guilty conscience weighing on you.

Chan observes your expression, worried he’s crossed a boundary when you pull back gently and give him a sheepish smile.

“What is it?” He asks, one hand coming down to rest on your knee, his thumb rubbing in comforting back and forth motions over the denim of your pants.

“You taste like wine,” is all you utter in response, and Chan chuckles, not moving his gaze off yours.

“I’m not drunk, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he remarks.

“I know you’re not,” you say simply. “But… what exactly are we doing?”

“You tell me,” he says, expression unchanging. “We don’t do anything if you’re not comfortable with it.”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s wrong,” you voice quickly, posturing yourself a little further from him now. “This is strictly a professional relationship. We’re not supposed to be wrapped up in this.”

Chan nods just once, making no effort to try and change your mind. He knows this is a possible outcome, having replayed it in his head several times since the moment he understood that his desire to kiss you was only worsening by the day. So true to the gentleman he is, Chan pulls away, too, sprawling the palms of his hands over his knee caps and pursing his lips.

“Yeah,” he says simply. “Okay.”

“I want to,” you interject, the sleeves of your sweater swallowing your own hands as you fidget nervously. He meets your gaze again, blinking just once as he waits for you to speak.

“I think you’re amazing,” you continue. “And I think in any other context, things might be different between us. But I can’t risk your career, my career- this whole series, and whatever’s waiting for you after all of this. You’re going to do great things after your big win. I’m just a stepping stone in it.”

And there’s an ounce of truth in your words- you do find yourself drawn to Chan, thoroughly enjoying the late night escapades alongside him and getting to know his character beyond that of just a boxer. But the truth stands, that this level of intimacy only exists to uncover his story, not because you’re destined for any sort of relationship to him. In due time, he’ll be in the big leagues with all the other famous athletes, and you’ll still be a journalist. You’re just the storyteller- not a part of the story.

Chan furrows his brows, shaking his head as he replays your words in his head. He begins to piece together the admission that he’s regretful these are the circumstances, and that reducing you to the role of a stepping stone feels like an injustice for the sheer honesty you’ve managed to coax out of him.

“You’re more than that,” is all Chan can utter, with the gentle shake of his head. He’s quiet for a moment when he locks his eyes with yours, letting out a sharp breath before speaking again.

“You’re the only person I haven’t felt inclined to shut out in years. I know it’s probably just this series, and I’m supposed to be telling a story. But having you here, being honest with you and having somebody who listens to me instead of praising me for all these fleeting brushes with fame- it feels so right. It feels so right here with you.”

His words are simultaneously like a pierce to your beating heart, and the catalyst for you to kiss him just once more, your hands finding purchase on the leather beside him as you waste no time pressing your lips to his, a small gasp escaping his lips into your mouth as he shuts his eyes and kisses you back. His hands find the small of your back, assisting you toward him and onto his clothed thigh, where your legs now straddle the denim fabric of his jeans as your fingers tangle in his hair.

Chan’s breaths are heavy against your mouth as he feels you rock your hips gently toward him, practically rutting against his toned muscle as his kisses move to the column of your neck. And as his calloused hands grip your waist tenaciously, moving your parted thighs back and forth along him, allowing the rough fabric to satisfy the rhythmic ache between your legs with every slight movement, you press two hands to his chest once more, pushing him away from you gently and watching as he halts his movements.

“What is it?” Chan asks again in a low, breathy voice. You can feel his quickening heartbeat as your fingers graze the thin fabric of his t-shirt, your gaze unmoving as you position yourself off his lap and onto your knees. His entire disposition is overtaken by nerves, afraid of losing two things now, as he waits for you to speak. You take note of the visible worry on his face, the way his eyes are still glossy from crying and outlined by a clear lack of sleep. His hair is tousled from the tangle of your fingers in it, his lips remain parted nervously as he observes the way you sit up a little straighter and scan his eager frame.

He’s already pitched a tent under the fabric of his jeans, his cock visibly straining against the confines of the denim fabric, cringing to himself when he sees you eye his crotch curiously from where you’re sat. His eyes then widen when you slot yourself between his legs, his expression appearing animated for the first time in weeks, as the gray bags under his eyes seem to deepen with his confusion.

“Just relax for me, okay?” you reply in a low voice.

Chan watches as you pull a hair tie from around your wrist between your teeth, simultaneously gathering your hair into a ponytail, and then securing it back tightly, looping it skillfully around just twice, until it’s pulled taut and effectively out of your face.

He begins to say that there’s no obligation to finish the job he initiated, and that he’s in no position to contradict the truth that he’s just a video subject to you, in what’s meant to be a strictly professional relationship. But when you shoot him a saccharine smile from between his muscular thighs, hands traveling to the waistband of his jeans and unfastening his belt buckle, he can do nothing except remain fixed on the sight of your manicured fingers undressing him. Chan sits up momentarily to allow his jeans to pool around his ankles, his belt hanging open at his sides, as the gentle clink of the buckle falls upon the leather sofa beside him. And then your hand finds his still-clothed erection, cupping a hand around him and meeting his gaze once more when he lets out a little gasp.

“Is this okay?” You whisper up at him, your hand distancing itself from his cock as you await his reply.

Chan nods before he speaks, swallowing nervously as he comprehends what’s about to occur. He’ll never tell you that he’s dreamt of this for so long- that he’s fantasized about circumstances in which you’re so much more than just a journalist to him. Circumstances in which he’s permitted to kiss you in front of all the watchful eyes, or make love to you right there on the floor of the boxing ring when the gym’s already empty for the night. Ones in which you’re a lover he’s brought home to meet his mother, not just an interviewer or a stepping stone in his career. And where you’re a part of his story, not just fulfilling the mundane task of telling it.

A journalist relative to its subject- the relativity of one storyteller to another. But your relativity to Bang Chan’s- the relativity of one lover to the next, of sweet nothings left unsaid and learning to embrace the intricacies of his own vulnerability.

“Yeah- yes,” Chan vocalizes back in a shaky manner, earning a small chuckle from you, as you loop your fingers in the waistband of his boxers and rid him of those, too.

He’s bigger than you’d anticipated, and harder, the tip of his cock flushed a bright shade of red as you observe it grow against his abdomen once he’s fully exposed. Chan takes a sharp breath when the cool air grazes his bare flesh, wincing, as he watches you sit up on your knees a little straighter. Your hand reaches out to grasp the base of his cock between your fingers, not yet moving, as you gather a generous wad of saliva between your pursed lips. And then Chan’s eyebrows arch in anticipation when you near him, a small dribble of spit already finding purchase on your lower lip.

“Close your eyes,” you tell him. Chan nods eagerly in response, shutting his eyes and leaning back a little further into the couch cushions. He takes a sharp breath when he feels you stroke his length just once, maintaining a light hold of him as you bring your lips to his tip. And then he gasps involuntarily, when he feels you press your drooly mouth against his flesh, pressing a single kiss to his cock and smiling against him while you feel him writhe in your touch.

His chest rises and falls with anticipatory breaths as he waits for you to do more- and in mere seconds, you’re taking him in your mouth, his girth stretching the corners of your lips as you work yourself down halfway and back up again.

“Fuck,” Chan breathes, his eyes trembling as he struggles to keep them closed, his thighs tensing when he feels you work your mouth down his length once more, this time a little bit further down.

His hands grasp desperately at his sides, searching for something, anything, to hold, practically clawing at the taut leather as he lets out another fervent moan. And with nothing within reach, he lets his hands fold behind his neck, throwing his head back in a state of pure bliss as you continue to work him so skillfully.

Your lips grow wetter as you do, a mix of his precum and your saliva glazing the length of his cock as you move down, and up, and down once more, picking up the pace when you hear him let out a heavy grunt at the sensation. He’s tense beneath you, but still in a blissful state of pleasure, breathing cuss words into the air above him and letting his mind stray far from the burdening thoughts that typically plague him. None of it matters when your mouth is working him to his finish, your hands gliding along his shaft in tandem with the rhythmic bobbing of your head along his hard cock, gulping desperately for air when you pull away from him momentarily. He can’t possibly lose when he’s shivering in your touch and letting little moans escape his plump lips- he’s nothing but a winner like this in your presence.

Strings of saliva connect you to him still, glistening under the dim lights the same way your runny makeup now does. He exhales little pleas for a release when you attach your lips to him once more, swirling your tongue around the base before trailing little kisses down his length. And then he feels his hips jerk forward just once, squeezing his eyes shut a little tighter when you hum around his shaft.

You smile with him in your mouth, still, knowing he’s on the cusp of release, his eyebrows knitting together as he makes every effort to stave off his orgasm. You take note of the way his fists clench, intertwined with each other behind the beads of sweat that graze his neck, and then his moans seem to heighten in pitch when you swirl your tongue around his base once more.

You glance up at him from between his legs, his adam’s apple bobbing with every slight noise emitting from the back of his jutted throat.

“Fuck, that’s so good,” he gasps in response to your quick movements. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna finish.”

And it’s already evident by his facial expressions, which contort into a desperate, silent plea for a finish, as his head jerks forward in a sudden motion.

His eyes squeeze tighter, heartbeat ringing throughout his ears in combination with the erotic, squelching noises of your lips gliding along his shaft. And then you pause for a brief second with his tip between your mouth, still.

“Chan,” you say to him tenderly. “Open your eyes.”

He obeys, eyes fluttering open to marvel at the sight of your hands with his length in their grasp, your pink lips continuing to work needy kisses down his dampened flesh. He exhales sharply at the sight of your mascara, now pooling beneath the apples of your cheeks as you stare up at him through hooded eyelids.

And when you take him in your mouth again, working your throat down to the base of his cock, his hips buck up toward the back of your tongue, earning a drooly gag as you struggle to keep him there.

He practically melts into the couch while your throat adjusts to the new position, his cock twitching upon your flattened tongue as you attempt to lick a stripe up his length. And then his heartbeat quickens when you begin a rhythmic bobbing action again, his mind dizzying at the erotic sight of you like this.

The room fills again with the sound of your tongue working his flesh. And he’s strangely brought back to the memory of popsicles, on a hot day- working his tongue around the base and gathering every last drop of sherbet between his wetted lips. Ridding himself of the sticky residue that finds purchase along the veins of his forearms, tracing his tongue along his skin, the same way you do along his shaft. When his hands come down to grasp his knees momentarily, his gaze falls to your face, and he admires the way you taste him with such desperation, as though he may be the one sacred thing left for you, too. There’s such a juxtaposition between the innocence he’s brought back to- carefree days spent collecting popsicle sticks along the pavement as the consumption of his favorite dessert was made with equal desperation. And the lewd sounds of you humming around his cock, the vibration of your throat sending delicious reverberations along his flesh and causing him to let out a breathy gasp at the sensation.

“I’m gonna cum,” Chan says, for the second time this evening.

“Yeah, cum for me,” you coo tenderly back at him, pulling away from him briefly to hover over his tip with your mouth. “Want you to feel good. Just relax for me.”

Chan’s hardly ever known relaxation- not in the sleepless nights he spends thinking about his career, or when he’s standing in the ring with copious amounts of eyes on him. Not when he’s filming a series for the whole world to scrutinize, or when he’s made aware of the publicity somewhere as unsuspecting as a convenience store.

But he knows it now when he’s with you, lying parallel to you in the same boxing ring after hours, his mind completely void of any self-loathing. He knows it when he’s imagining circumstances in which your careers don’t dictate the inevitable outcome of your relationship to each other.

And he knows it when he finally cums for you, his eyes not leaving the sight of your lips wrapped around his cock as he finds his release, shooting a thick, generous amount of his milky white load onto the flat of your tongue. At first he feels almost guilty, when you finally pull away from around his girth with a gentle pop. And then he muses curiously as he watches you swallow his arousal entirely, wiping the corners of your mouth with the backs of your hands and cleaning the remainder off your fingers with the lap of your tongue.

He almost grows hard all over again watching you devour him entirely, not letting a single drop go to waste, the same way he does with his popsicles. The gentle sounds of your tongue working along the pads of your fingers, swirling around the patterns of your fingertips like they’re just stained orange popsicle sticks. His mind at ease once more, nothing but a stillness in the air and the fleeting presence of another sacred moment to him- this time in the form of yourself.

His body drapes languidly over the couch, too exhausted to speak, simply getting clothed once more as you undo the hair tie and let your hair fall loosely over your shoulders again. Chan extends his hands, helping you off the floor again, and your sore knees straddle him once more, hoisting yourself onto his lap and letting your hands find the back of his neck.

For a minute, he says nothing, completely fascinated with this side of you, as his hands find your waist again.

“Let me return the favor?” Chan inquires just above a whisper, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. And you shoot him a small smile, shaking your head in response as he cocks his head to look at you.

“I… shouldn’t” is all you breathe back, hanging your head as he tries to meet your gaze.

He begins to ask why, but he stops himself, knowing that your previous statement still stands. This is wrong- you’re a journalist and he’s just a video subject. Not to mention, he’s just weeks away from the biggest fight of his life- and neither of you intend on ruining any of that for him. He knows all of this as much as you do- but he’s still disappointed that the circumstances appear to be unchanging.

Chan nods as you hoist yourself off his lap and back onto the leather of the couch, and then he reaches for his glass of wine again, scanning your expression in his peripheral vision as you fix your tousled hair. From beside him, your gaze meets his again, giving him a small shrug.

“I’m sorry,” you say to him, toying with the stitching on the leather of the couch. “You probably have tons of girls practically throwing themselves at you as it stands. I don’t need to be another.”

Chan chuckles, shaking his head and setting down his glass of wine. He fidgets with the lobe of his ear as he admires the blush upon your cheeks when you look at him once more.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he admits shyly. “But I’m sure you have your fair share of athletes trying to score a chance.”

It’s your turn to shake your head, chuckling softly as you avert his gaze.

“Not exactly,” you voice back at him. And then your gaze lingers on him, observing the way his lips appear to be smudged with your lipstick.

“Just one,” you conclude, hands finding purchase on your own knees as you maintain a comfortable distance from him.

Chan begins to say something, but then he’s silent again, awkwardly crossing his legs once more and forcing his attention on the television. Though the docuseries continues to play faintly in front of you, it’s painfully quiet between your breathless bodies, and Chan can’t seem to stop himself from catching glimpses of your seated figure while you try not to engage in eye contact with him. You know that if you do, it’ll only result in you practically throwing yourself at him all over again, so you remain facing the television, saying nothing in efforts to not warrant anything more between the two of you. It’s Chan who breaks the silence first, clearing his throat before grasping the remote between his fingers and lowering the volume to just above a muted speech.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks, not meeting your gaze as you sit comfortably beside each other.

“No need to interview the interviewer,” you say back to him, doing your best to evoke a nonchalant disposition. You bite back a smile, as does Chan, while he observes the interview that plays on the television.

“I beg to differ,” he then chimes in. “I believe the second most intimate thing you can do is interview somebody. If I can’t kiss you, I think it’s only fair you indulge me in a story.”

The docuseries fills the silence that overtakes the room with hushed chatter as Chan awaits a response from you, and he watches as you lean forward to grasp your glass of wine between your fingers before speaking again.

“I’m just a boring journalist,” you say to him, keeping your gaze on the television. “I collect stories the same way you do medals. There’s not much else to say.”

And the statement is only half true- there’s certainly more you can indulge him in pertaining to your career as a journalist. Details of past athletes you’ve interviewed, moments you’ve shared that permanently altered your life, for better or for worse. Restless nights spent gathering footage, following orders from the crew to get closer, be intentional with your actions. You’re as enthralled in your own career as Chan is- perhaps not at the same level, but devoted, nonetheless.

“Do you like all of this?” Chan inquires a little quietly.

You’re silent for a passing moment, and then you take another sip of wine before answering.

“It’s complicated. I like telling stories. Not always the process it takes to uncover one. Sometimes it’s a little…” you ponder the words briefly, and Chan takes a sip from his glass, too, his eyes darting in your direction as he interjects.

“Voyeuristic?”

You meet his gaze again, not having taken him as someone who could read you so carefully.

“Yeah,” you respond. “That’s exactly how it feels.”

Chan slouches back into the sofa, downing the rest of his wine, and then he sighs deeply, a level of contentedness present in his tone.

“I can’t believe you got me crying on camera,” he says with a chuckle.

You chuckle, too, mirroring his relaxed posture.

“Trust me, the footage isn’t going anywhere,” you say to him. And then you pause, before speaking once more.

“Thank you,” you continue. “For being so honest with me. And for what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re a loser.”

Chan turns his head in your direction, shooting you a small smile and a nod. He looks much more relaxed now, his once teary eyes now replaced by the glazed appearance of his blissful state. He looks comfortable like this- happy, even.

“Thank you,” he echoes. “For letting me be so honest. And for what it’s worth, I think you do a pretty damn good job at collecting stories.”

He turns back to the television, folding his arms over his chest now, as do you. And then he raises the volume on the television again, letting Baik Hyun-Man’s words echo in the otherwise quiet space between you.

“Sometimes we win, and sometimes we lose,” the familiar words play from the television.

“And knowing that, maybe through tales like mine, of guts and glory, we find our footing in the knowledge that we tried.”

*

Sherbet popsicles remain out for the foreseeable future. Convenience stores are cleared of theme entirely, every freezer in the city decorated with an impromptu sign detailing the status of them.

The environment of the gym seems to grow heavy with anticipation as every passing day brings you closer to Chan’s title fight.

And perhaps the only thing harder than unveiling the very real fears Chan harbors toward his title fight, is resisting the urge to kiss him again.

At first you’re not sure it ever happened, when Chan greets you at the gym with a casual salute, as though he’s greeting his trainer.

“My partner in crime!” He’d exclaimed, like you hadn’t been practically pleasuring yourself on his lap just days ago, mouths breathing hot gasps into each other and hands grasping desperately at his toned muscles. As though you hadn’t devoured him entirely on the sticky leather of his sofa, the flavor of his salty release still familiar to you when you graze your fingertips along your lips.

And with the passing days, he assumes the role of a video subject painfully well, detailing all of his best techniques behind the lens and keeping a comfortable distance from your camera. Part of you is relieved, of course, as you witness Chan do exactly what he’s promised- after all, mixing business and pleasure comes at a cost to the entirety of the project. But when he intentionally averts your gaze while he trains with Mr. Seo now, or refrains from speaking of anything more personal than the mundanes of his daily routine, you can’t help but miss the Chan that was only just beginning to grace you with the details of how all of this really feels to him.

How the sounds that ring throughout his ears are far too loud at times, or that he can’t stand the way his tangible memories seem to slip from his grasp when they’re no longer sacred to him. And a myriad of other admissions, including the painful truth that he’s taken a remarkable liking to you, and yet he’s forced to pretend it’s nothing more than his erratic emotions leading up to the fight when he’s intentionally ignoring you like this.

At just a little over two weeks left until his title fight, Chan is visibly distressed, though he makes his best efforts to mask the fact, growing quiet when you’re not asking him questions, and evading any talk of his fears. It’s worrying to see him like this, and you think back to when his mother previously detailed his tendency to shut himself off from the world in response to his heightened emotions.

“He gets so wrapped up in it,” she had explained somberly. “especially when he has a fight around the corner. It’s all he does- all he thinks about.”

It’s made clear to you now when Chan trails off from his sentences, staring off into the distance as though he’s being overcome with disdain for himself. You can see what he means about thinking of himself when he boxes, as he throws particularly harsh uppercuts at the bag in the ring, his face glazed with a sheen layer of sweat as he avoids your concerned gaze from across the room. And when you find yourself alone with him again, he doesn’t so much as crack a smile from beside you, simply lying parallel to the floor as his eyes scan the now dark ceilings of the gym at nighttime.

The photographs on the gallery wall are too shadowy to make out at this hour, except for the one in the middle, the pearly white grin of renowned boxer Baik Hyun-Man beaming down upon your languid bodies as you remain there, in complete silence. Chan thinks back to his schedule for what feels like the millionth time now- a training session tomorrow in the morning, a tour of the title fight ring in the afternoon, a series of smaller interviews to fill the week and a meeting with some of the sports directors leading up to his match. And following the eventful few days, part two of the docuseries’ broadcast. It’s one of the first times he’ll spend a few days without you in a while, and it feels admittedly unnerving to him, he realizes, as he chews on the inside of his cheek.

“What are you thinking about?” You break the silence, not breaking your eye contact from the pendant lamps that line the ceiling. He’s quiet for a moment, and then he shrugs casually.

“Not much,” Chan fibs.

Fulfilling the demanding traits of a perfect boxer. The fact that he hasn't slept properly in well over three days. Winning. Losing. Especially losing.

“Getting nervous for part two?” You query, and Chan’s eyes dart to your figure briefly.

He thinks back to the docuseries and all the interviews thus far, and then he shakes his head, furrowing his eyebrows as he speaks again.

“Nothing to be nervous about,” he lies again. “You’ll make me look like a winner.”

Chan’s chest rises and falls as he grows quiet once more. He thinks back to the success of part one, where he gained more respect than perhaps ever before, thousands of fans eagerly anticipating how he’ll perform on the evening of the title fight. And then he lets out a deep sigh, shutting his eyes momentarily.

“I miss popsicles,” Chan confesses.

You don’t find the words to reply for a passing moment, thinking back to the bright orange dessert he speaks of, perhaps not having realized he hasn’t consumed one in several weeks now. Chan sighs again, and then he repeats himself, his gaze now finding the wall, at Baik Hyun-Man’s beaming smile.

“I really fucking miss popsicles,” he says a little quieter this time around, and by the way he delivers the confession, you become aware that perhaps it’s not popsicles at all he speaks of.

Rather, Chan misses his innocence, his youthful days when none of this mattered so much to him. He misses training with Mr. Seo in his garage, a bright blue pair of kanpeki mitts around his bruised knuckles as he delivered much softer hits to the punching bag. He misses days spent at his mom’s house without these heavy burdens he bears- a lifelong promise to himself to make her proud, and simultaneously pushing her away, because he knows his obsession with boxing only brings out the very worst in him. He misses the summer days he lost to training sessions, he misses the life he knew before a winning streak was ever uttered in reference to him.

And he misses you, although you remain at this comfortable proximity to him- no camera in sight and a yearning to know him as intimately as he longs to know you. But the truth remains, that you’re just here to tell his story, not be a part of it. The relativity of a journalist to an athlete- new burdens he bears, new fears he harbors.

“I have an interview with Mr. Seo,” you voice from beside him. “Anything in particular I should ask about?”

Chan chuckles at your ability to ground him once again, and then his eyes scan the ceiling as he thinks it over.

“Anything you want,” he says simply. “He probably knows me better than anybody else.”

The cogs turn as you think over the seemingly endless possibility of questions for Mr. Seo- a voyeuristic journalist’s dream.

“I’ll see you after part two airs,” you say to him, sitting up from your spot on the ring. “And then we just have your final interview, following the match.”

Chan is quiet for a moment as he sits up, too, leaning back on the palms of his hands and observing the way you gather your bag from beside you. He thinks back to the start of this series, when you’d scolded him for being late, and when he first detailed to you his start to boxing. It feels like a lifetime ago that you were first stating your introductions to each other, and now you’ve quickly become just as important to Chan as boxing is.

“Everything’s going to be different,” Chan says, as you hoist yourself off the platform and sling your bag over your shoulder. You meet his gaze with furrowed brows, humming in response, as he brings his hands forward and toys with the taut bordering wire.

“Hm?”

“Things are just going to be different after this airs,” he concludes. “It happened the first time. It’s going to happen again. I can feel it.”

Whether he speaks of his upward trajectory to fame, the likeability of him to the masses, or his relationship to you, you’re unsure. But you entangle your fingers in the bordering wire across from him, too, letting your fingers caress the stringy metal as you meet his gaze.

The vibrating sound of the wire’s recoil fills the space between your bodies, so close to each other and yet worlds apart, as you let the pads of your fingers brush against his, and then you allow his fingers to intertwine with yours, the bruised knuckles of a boxer’s embracing the silky smooth flesh of a knackered journalist.

He brings your hand up as though he’s going to seal the action with a kiss, yet he doesn’t, simply letting your fingers graze along his lips as he waits for you to say something.

“Are you scared?” You ask him again, not yet moving your gaze from his tired eyes.

He doesn’t blink, or even let his racing heart produce another beat before he’s answering you truthfully this time, his breath tickling your knuckles as he exhales a breath he hasn’t realized he’s been holding in all this time.

“I’m terrified,” Chan confesses. And from the gray bags under his eyes, to the somber expression painted across his face, you catch a glimpse of the vulnerable state only you’ve had the pleasure of becoming so acquainted with.

*

The evening of Friday is the fourth day spent in the absence of Chan.

As he busies himself with smaller interviews, meetings with sports directors and preparations for his title fight, you occupy the office space with members of the network, the common area transformed into a makeshift theater as they project part two of Chan’s series on a large screen.

“A toast,” Lin says, grasping a glass of wine between her fingers as she holds it up to clink against yours. “To y/n, who managed to piece together a hell of a story from our stubborn boxer.”

Your colleagues fill the room with laughter and praise, and you shoot them a sheepish smile, shaking your head as they start up the series.

You think back to the reserved fears Chan carries with him, and the way he’d only uncovered the rest of his story to you- all of his worries, the reality of his exhaustion with boxing and how he’d taken a liking to the one person who made all of this feel a little less important in the grand scheme of things. And it’s a story that will never exist fully in its publication, per your promise to Chan to maintain its secrecy. It’s the one thing still sacred to him- the one thing that still belongs to him.

Lin mutters quietly as Chan’s interview plays in the background, leaning in to not disturb the careful focus that falls upon the employees as they watch him speak.

“Sometimes you have hundreds of eyes on you,” he voices on screen. “You have to be intentional with your actions. You have to know what to show people.”

As he recalls one of his early matches, Lin sets her glass of wine down on a table, folding her arms over her chest and leaning into the shell of your ear.

“Listen,” she says reluctantly. “You did a fantastic job getting all this out of him.”

“Thanks,” you say with a chuckle. “Wasn’t easy, but I think it’s sufficient.”

“We did manage to go in a… different direction, than what was originally passed along.”

You pause your actions of taking another sip of wine, turning to face her as she continues to face the projection screen.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s nothing personal,” Lin explains. “It just wasn’t the same without it. Of course we tried different angles, but the footage on those memory cards- it was a lot to work with.”

As she speaks, your gaze falls back to the projection screen, where Mrs. Bang appears, hands folded nearly in her lap as she details all of Chan’s tendencies to shut himself off from the world.

“He’s so preoccupied with being the best at what he does. And I can’t help but think there’s something keeping him down.”

And then just as you’d feared, and although you specifically requested the footage be omitted from the film, Mrs. Bang begins to cry, expressing her worry for Chan and his future.

“You kept that footage in?” You say out loud, earning a few glances from your colleagues around you.

Lin gestures for you to lower your voice, taking a sharp breath before explaining.

“It wasn’t me,” she voices in a whisper, fidgeting with a ring on her finger. “The network wanted it personal. It was still on the card when it was imported, and I was told to leave it in.”

“I can’t believe it,” you say, in disbelief as the footage continues to indulge a painful amount of personal information- albeit filmed, not intended for the docu series.

“What else did you keep in?” You say to her, heartbeat quickening in your chest when you remember your conversation with Chan. She scratches the back of her head awkwardly, failing to give an answer, and then without missing a beat, you lunge forward to collect the remote control, fiddling nervously with the buttons as you fast forward through the footage.

The room grows quiet as the footage scrolls rapidly through part two- candid shots of Chan in his car, more interviews, his blue boxing mitts, his training sessions in front of Mr. Seo.

And then before you can begin to ask her about it, your heart sinks in your chest when you’re met with the scene on-screen; one of Chan crying, his head hung in defeat as he sits on the familiar leather couch in his apartment.

“Losing scares the shit out of me,” he says between sniffles, as your camera captures him at a painfully close proximity.

All eyes are on you now, a heavy tension falling over the room as Chan continues to speak on the projection screen. He begins to detail the burdens of valuing his winning streak so much, and you can hardly make out his sentences as you practically toss the remote at Lin and gather your purse once more.

“I can’t believe this,” you say to her, scoffing as you meet her blank gaze. “That was supposed to be for my use. Not for the series. I mean, what the fuck were you thinking?”

“It wasn’t my decision,” she explains, trailing after you as you begin out of the common area. “They loved how personal it got. I’m just here to translate it into the series-”

“I should’ve known you wouldn’t listen to me. God, I should’ve checked the fucking memory card.”

“We wouldn’t have had the ratings we did for part one without this level of closeness,” Lin explains. She follows as you saunter to your desk, gathering a stack of papers and shoving them into your bag.

“I never should have listened to you,” you explain, as a stream of tears finally makes its way onto your reddened cheeks. “All this push to get closer to him, and for what? So you can get your stupid ratings? Well congrats, I hope you got what you were looking for.”

Lin pauses for a moment, and then she scowls in response. For a fleeting moment, you assume she’s going to apologize, or maybe offer to take the fall for you. But when she speaks once more, you’re disenchanted to find it’s the complete opposite.

“I hadn’t taken you to be one to put pleasure before business,” she begins. “He’s just a video subject. Unless there’s more we’re not seeing?”

“He’s a human being, first,” you interject. “His lows aren’t some sick form of entertainment for you to cash out on.”

“Then why were they filmed?” She wonders out loud, and you grow quiet at the question.

You want to argue back, and yet you can’t, not possessing a clear answer to the very fair question she poses to you.

She’s right, to some degree- perhaps in your desire to know Chan so intimately, you’d also begun to house a fascination for the way he opens up to you, recounting stories of his childhood and confessing to a long list of fears he harbors deeps down under the facade of a “perfect boxer”. The lines between business and pleasure had been blurred long ago- as were your intentions when you filmed him every chance you got. Perhaps in navigating the painful reality that you will never be more than a keen journalist relative to a charming boxer like himself, you’d put him on a pedestal the same way many now do. And now you’re no better than the voyeuristic tendencies your network pushed you to possess.

Bang Chan is not some “perfect athlete”, nor can he be reduced to the numerical value of trophies and medals. He doesn’t fit within the binary of a “winner” or a “loser”, and he certainly isn’t some cocky sports fanatic like you’d once taken him for.

He’s a human being- with tangible fears, and hopes for the future, and a profound love for the people who shaped him to be the person he is today. And though the fact remains, that he’s on an unbroken winning streak and about to participate in the biggest fight of his life, it’s just a fraction of who he really is.

“Did you really think this was going to end differently?” She voices. “You really don’t think that you played a role in his exploitation, either?”

“Stop,” you practically beg, glancing past her figure at the caravan of colleagues who’ve now exited the common room, too. They eye you curiously, whispering amongst themselves and awaiting your next move. For a moment, you’re reminded of the boxing ring in Chan’s gym- it’s as though you’re there on that raised platform, pairs of eyes eagerly anticipating your next strike from across your opponent. Your heartbeat echoes in your ears, glancing around the room with such desperation as her words play in your head over and over again.

“If I recall correctly, the second most intimate thing you can do is interview somebody,” Lin states, using your own words against you.

Her voice is like an uppercut to the jaw, leaving you breathless and full of disdain, as she gives you a small shrug. And then before you can strike back, she pivots on her heel, joining your colleagues once more as she departs from your trembling figure.

In the context of this docuseries, you’re entirely complicit in the unjustified publication of Chan’s vulnerability to the whole world.

And in the context of a boxing match- perhaps nothing more than a loser.

Part 2.

green’s announcement

hello lovely stays! i am very happy to inform you guys that i have joined the palestine stayblr fundraiser made by @astraystayyh!

for those of you who do not know what this means, it just means that while i am still going to accept everyone's requests, those who donate to the fundraiser linked in this post will be made a priority! i currently have sixteen requests that i am yet to complete, so if you've made a request and would like for me to get a move on with it, just send me proof of donation and i'll get started on it right away! whatever requests made from now until i say otherwise will automatically become a priority (if you have donated) and should be posted sooner than the rest, regardless of when the others had been requested.

you don't have to break the bank! if you donate $1, $5, $10 - whatever you can, it will be enough and qualify for the extra privilege! thank you everyone who helps!

here are the guidelines for requesting, here's my main masterlist as well as my taglist to stay updated on my works, and here is my kofi if you're feeling extra generous!

hi green, how are you doing ?? i hope everything’s alright<33

i hope you dont mind but i wanted to request something again >< i was wondering if you could write a smut with chan, but focus more on the aftercare ??

lets say he had a stressful week and during sex he decided to reselase his anger and stress on the reader, but they had a hard week themselves and just couldnt take it, so they decided to use their safeword and channie would be all like oh ?? and maybe the reader would even cry a little and be apologetic, because “i’m so sorry, i know you had a hard time, i just can’t do it today” saying that while clinging to him and seeking comfort >:((

and then chan would focus on making them feel safe, he would clean the up and reassure them that if completely fine and he's proud of them and just the whole aftercare part ><

if its too much then its completely fine !! please dont feel pressured to write it if its not your cup of tea<33

anyway, please take care !!😽

use of the safe word.

💭 GUIDELINES ‣ LIBRARY ‣ TAGLIST & ANONS ‣ IN PROGRESS ‣ REQUEST LIST ‣ PINNED

pairing: chan x female reader

content warnings: hurt/comfort, rough and overwhelming sex, crying, bloody lip, aftercare, not proofread

rating: 18+

summary: chan had always been the sweetest human ever, but after you’d both had a rough week, you both find out that you had different ways of decompressing.

His fingers found their way to your throat while he groaned in your ear, squeezing in a way you usually adored as Chan thrusted in and out of you at a brutal pace. He was completely lost in his own world, moaning about how tight you felt around him and how he’d been thinking about having you like this all day after the stress he’s had to deal with over the course of several days. It was difficult to breathe for you, though, all of your senses seemingly going haywire as you attempted to ground yourself by gripping the sheets below you and trying to focus on his babbles of pleasure. However, instead of enjoying this moment with your lover like you normally would, your mind was a storm of frustration and stress that only increased with Chan’s speed.

It was too much for you — everything about this was overwhelming, including the guilt that followed your distressed thoughts. Chan had arrived home and immediately pulled you in for a rough kiss, and you had followed along because you were well aware of how rough it’s been for him recently and you figured you’d let him release it all on you before talking. Although nothing could’ve prepared you for the complete disconnect that plagued you — you didn’t feel seen or loved, he barely managed to remember some of the things he knew you liked while he chased his own orgasm. It wasn’t to say that he was doing it purposely, you knew that Chan loved you to insanity because this was strange for him.

Unwanted tears rolled down your cheeks, and you bit your lip harshly so as to not let him know of your state since his face was buried into the nape of your neck. His breath felt hot on your skin, and sharp pangs of pain shot up your body with each time Chan bottomed out. Your eyes were squeezed shut so as to prevent any more tears from spilling, and a whimper escaped your lips as your teeth broke skin.

Too much. Too much. I don’t like this!

Chan’s movements became slightly more erratic, which signifies that he was close to achieving his orgasm. But the room was spinning and you didn’t think you could take this roughness any longer.

“Channie, stop, stop, red light!”

All movements halted, dizzying you slightly. Chan pulled back immediately as his grip on your throat loosened and his eyes scanned your face with concern. The sobs were pushing their way out of you and the tears rolled down your cheeks freely and stained the pillow below your head. “I’m so sorry, Channie!”

“Oh— Wait, no, no don’t apologize,” Chan quickly responded, slowly pulling out of you so as to not overwhelm you further. His brows were furrowed, catching sight of your bloody bottom lip and your anguished expression. “What happened baby? Did I hurt you?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” you continued to cry, your entire body shaking violently as you reached for your boyfriend. “I know you’ve been having a hard time, I just can’t take it today.”

He wrapped his muscled arms around your trembling body, kissing the top of your head as the beat of his heart seemed to ground you despite how erratic it was, bringing you back to reality. It was clear that he was still confused, and you were grateful that he wasn’t pushing for an explanation right away. Instead he shifted slightly so that he could place his calloused hand on your chest, applying a bit of pressure while inhaling and exhaling deeply. You followed his breathing pattern, slowly noticing that he’d pulled you into his lap at some point, cradling your body as though it was made of porcelain.

When your cries had slowed to a near stop, he moved his gaze onto your face — guilty eyes searching for any remaining distress. His thumb caressed your cheeks, drying your tears in the process as he attempted a soft smile.

“Baby?”

A shaky breath made its way past your lips, eyes glued to the crumpled sheets while you twiddle your thumbs in your lap. “I’m sorry.”

“No, angel, don’t apologize.” Chan spoke softly, yet his tone was stern. “Please don’t apologize, I’m proud of you for stopping me, okay?”

You could only nod meekly.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

Nothing was said, but the shame arose in the form of choked sobs and Chan pulled you back onto his chest while rocking from side to side. His fingers carded through your hair gently as he hummed a nearly inaudible tune to calm you. This time, you were able to pull yourself quicker.

“I’m going to get you some water, okay?” He didn’t wait for a response before he was lifting you up slightly and laying you on his side of your shared bed. The sound of his speedy footsteps that made their way to the kitchen were the only thing heard aside from your own ragged breathing.

You sat up when he returned with a cold glass of water in one hand and what looked like a warm, wet towel in the other. He handed you the water first, watching you intently as you hissed a bit as soon as your cut lip made contact with the coldness of your drink. You downed your drink in one go, your throat screeching in relief from how dry it had been until a moment ago.

“I’m going to clean you up a little bit, and then you should pee.”

His rough hands touched your shoulder lightly, nudging you so that you would lay back and spread your lips. The jolt that occurred as soon as you felt the warmth of the towel touch your core had your ears turning red in shame, you knew he wouldn’t purposely hurt you so there was no reason to act like this. You didn’t miss the hurt that flashed across his face.

As you peed, Chan was quietly filling up the bathtub and adding a lavender scented bath bomb to soothe your anxiety. You watched him work from the toilet in silence, lips set into a deep frown.

“It’s done baby,” Chan announced, turning to face you with a benign smile. “We should take care of your lip first though.”

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled again as you pulled your knees up to your chest. “I haven’t done anything but add to your stress, and it shouldn’t have been like this. I could’ve lasted until you–”

“Don’t finish that sentence, Y/N.” Chan sounded so grave you couldn’t help but inhale sharply, eyes widening slightly. “Please don’t ever do that, we have a safe word for a reason. Always, always use it whenever you’re not having a good time. There’s really no hard feelings for me, what’s important for me is that you’re okay and that I don’t end up hurting you.”

You sniffed, bracing yourself as he neared you with a small cloth that had been dipped in antiseptics that made you hiss at the burn as soon as he dabbed it to your wound. He gently blew on your lip as an effort to lessen the pain.

“You’re so sweet to me.”

Chan pressed his lips against your forehead, lingering for a moment as if to make you feel his love through the simple action – and you did. A small smile made its way onto your face at last as his hands guided you to the bathtub, helping you get in before he knelt beside you.

The warmth of the deliciously scented water instantly relaxed your sore muscles, you sighed in relief. The light swishing sound of the water following your movements seemed to add to your newfound serenity, your eyes falling closed for only a second before the sense of something being missing began gnawing at your mind. You turned to find Chan sitting on the bathroom floor, eyes sparkling as he watched you while resting his chin on the edge of the bathtub. The corners of your mouth quirked up slightly at the sight, heart soaring.

“Join me.”

He shook his head, returning your smile.

“Channie,” you pouted. “You don’t have to feel guilty about what happened, I promised.”

He shook his head again, his smile remaining as he blinked rapidly as if to keep unshed tears at bay.

“Baby, please don’t feel guilty…you didn’t know.”

“No,” his voice cracked a bit. “I should’ve known, you bit your lip so hard you started bleeding. You were crying, you weren’t even able to tell me what happened. I should’ve noticed.”

Your hand touched the side of his face, droplets of water rolling down his smooth skin. “I should have told you I wasn’t okay as soon as I realized, baby. But we can still relax together, please, join me.”

Chan seemed hesitant for a few beats before sighing. He was already naked, so all he needed to do was take his place behind you. It was a tight fit, but you liked this kind of closeness as his arms wrapped themselves tightly around your torso and he rested his chin on your shoulder. Neither of you speak for a bit, basking in the tranquility of it all.

“I’m sorry.”

Not a word needed to be said, so you lifted his hand and kissed it once, twice, three times until he chuckled lightly. He pressed his own lips on your shoulder, and you felt a few tears grace the skin near his lips, so you reached up to his hair and scratched his head as a form of comfort.

“I knew that you were frustrated, stressed and all of that when you brought me to our room and I really thought I would be fine,” you finally explained, Chan had yet to remove his lips from you as he listened. “But I guess I didn’t take into consideration the shitty week I’ve been having too and it was just– a lot of it was just the new boss that arrived last Monday micromanaging every single breath I took, my workload was humongous compared to what I used to have before. He was so condescending, too, just doubting everything I said and asking my male coworkers to double check all the information I provided. I didn’t have a good time. And then we were having sex, and we barely exchanged a few words to each other before that, and it was just very overwhelming. I should’ve said something, so part of it was on me. I will make sure to be better next time, be more vocal about my needs and such.”

Chan lifted his head from your shoulder, cupping his hands to spill some of it onto your hair, massaging your scalp. “I’m sorry your new boss has been such an uptight dick all week…and I’m sorry I was so rough with you– especially without at least talking with you for a bit before, I’ll be sure to check in on you more often when we make love, especially if negative emotions are affecting either of us.”

“I really appreciate you, Channie.” You take his hands in yours, massaging them lightly and playing with his pretty fingers absentmindedly. “What about you, baby, what had you so worked up when you got here?”

Chan’s voice was soothing as he talked, the vibrations of his voice could be felt on his chest and it served as some kind of comforting sensation as you pressed yourself even more to him and closed your eyes.

word count: 1.9k 🛁 posted: 12 • 17 • 2023

💬 a note from green;

Thank you so much for this request, Merin. This was such an unexpectedly healing experience for me, and I thank you for it. You’ve only made two requests, but I can tell you that I’ve grown to love when you do since you always ask for such touching topics that aren’t mentioned or discussed enough. So please, request however many times as you’d like!

I hope you’re doing well, and I hope that you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it :)

( 🏷️ ) taglist: @grandpafelixx , @agi-ppangx

Bf!SKZ

Prompt: Random shit!pt.2

Taglist:@danceonmyheyday @stillwjk-channie-lixie @estella-novella

[🐺] Chan Masterlist

[🩸=Smut] [💋=Fluff] [⛓️=Angst]

[🐺] Drabble |🩸

[🐺] To be continued…

Boyfriend!SKZ Texts

Prompt: Calling them your husband

Hyung Line

My loves 😩

A little help and more

pairing: virgin!felix x virgin!afab!reader x experienced!chan

genre: smut, fluff

word count: 5.7k

description: felix and you need a little guidance and chris is more than happy to assist.

warnings: threesome(obviously), sub!felix, switch!reader, dom!chan, oral (f and m receiving), handjobs, cumshots, squirting, nipple play, fingering, unprotected sex (p in v), little bit of ass play, dirty talk, lots of pet names (lmk if i missed something)

a/n: chan is called chris in this fic, established relationship, this turned out a little more fluffier than i thought it would be ehehe, hope y'all enjoy this one too🤭🩷

~check out my: Masterlist

Dating Felix was one of the best things you've ever decided to do and you knew that, even if it's barely been half a year since he first asked you to be his girlfriend.

You were always a little shy when it came to relationships but Felix was even more shy than you and it took him a long time just to ask you out on a date or to hold your hand.

You found it endearing really, it made him seem more sweet and genuine, like he wasn't coming onto you too strongly and you liked that.

But in certain situations you wished he was a little more assertive even if you didn't mind taking the lead, you had a bit more experience than he did and you wanted to take your physical relationship to the next level, share that intimate moment with him.

But Felix would always back out before anything too risky happened, and you worried he didn't find you attractive so you decided to confront him about it.

He got so embarassed when you pointed it out, his cheeks blushing instantly as he avoided your eyes and played with his fingers.

He reassured you that it's not your fault, and confessed that you were actually his first girlfriend, that he never even kissed anyone before. You were shocked, thinking that there's no way that someone as beautiful and sweet as him was single until now.

Felix never told you that before, thinking you weren't gonna date him if you thought he was clueless and inexperienced, he felt so bad for withholding the truth from you that you could see his eyes become watery.

You were quick to comfort him, telling him that you understand and that it's okay, you don't mind him being a virgin, you actually found it kind of adorable. You weren't that much more experienced than him anyways, you only ever went to second base with a guy you dated briefly before Felix and he seemed relieved to hear that, you were going to get into it for the first time together and that made it even more special.

After that talk, you were sure your boyfriend was going to relax and maybe try not to always be so respectful with his hands and lips.

But, the next time you initiated a makeout session, as soon as your hand slid up his thigh, he jerked away from you, apologizing profusely after doing so.

"Felix, what's wrong?"- you asked, frustration building up inside you but he looked so panicked that you tried to be as gentle as you could with him.

"I'm- I'm sorry love, it's just- I don't know what to do and I'm scared that I'll do something wrong or that it won't feel good to you. I know it seems like I don't want it, but I really do. I really want you. I just don't want to disappoint you."- he rambles, fidgeting with his hands.

"Lixie, you could never disappoint me. I don't know what I'm doing either but we can learn together."- you try to reassure him, placing your hand on his.

"I wish we had some help."- he says and you chuckle as his ears become red. "I- I didn't mean it like that. Maybe we could- um... watch some porn together?"- he asks quietly and you giggle, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

"You're really cute, you know that?"- you ask, kissing his nose and he laughs. "We can try that."

And you tried it but Felix got even more embarassed when you found a video to watch, covering his growing erection with a pillow and avoiding your gaze.

The arousal you felt was once again replaced by the frustration, the only reason you were so patient with him is because you really cared for him and didn't want to do anything that would make him feel uncomfortable or unsafe with you.

But then, a little light bulb turned on above your head as you accidentally came across a threesome video, and the knowledge of Felix being the type of person to learn things best when they're hands on, you decided to ask him what if you actually had someone there to help you?

And Felix admitted he had the same exact thought before, but was afraid to suggest it in case you thought it was gross.

Both of you laughed at your predicament and together you brainstormed on how to approach this and who to ask for help.

Your best option was Chris, your mutual friend who both of you always went to for advice and comfort. You trusted him completely and you knew he had experience and could help you out without judging you.

He was surprised at your proposition but he wasn't opposed to it, Chris just needed some time to process what you were suggesting to him.

And when he accepted, the three of you sat down and discussed your boundaries, and came to the conclusion that it's best to start out with something vanilla. You were both kinda excited to see how this would go, but neither of you knew just how much you would get.

-

That Saturday evening, the three of you sit in your room and even though you tried to make the atmosphere as chill as you could with scented candles and dim lights, Felix was still vibrating with nervousness.

You were nervous too, more so excited and Chris chuckled at the both of you, finding you so adorable in that moment.

"Why don't you start with some kissing? Maybe it'll help you relax if you start like you normally do and act like I'm not here."- Chris suggests.

"Okay, sounds good."- you nod, cupping your boyfriend's face and pressing your lips into his. You can feel Felix slightly relax against you and kissing you back gently, one of his arms curling around your waist timidly.

Chris watches the innocent kiss shared between you and something stirs inside him, his eyes narrowing and tongue darting out to wet his lips.

You're just kissing slowly with your lips, no tongue yet and both of you are already getting hot and bothered. Chris observes the way you keep pressing your lips harder into your boyfriend's while he squirms, his hand grabbing at your shirt.

You run your tongue on Felix's bottom lip and he parts his lips, letting you in. The wet sounds of your tongues dancing together make Chris grow in his pants.

He doesn't want to just watch anymore, he wants to taste the both of you. You part for air and notice that Chris is now sitting closer to you, your heart skips a beat in anticipation.

His big hand rests on your cheek, and you can hear Felix breathing hard next to you. Your big eyes stare up at Chris as he leans in and captures your lips in his.

He's different than Felix, more dominant and sure of himself and you melt into him, letting him take control. The different dynamic makes arousal drip on your panties as your hands come up to grab at Chris's biceps.

Chris bites on your lip a little and you gasp, opening your mouth for him to push his tongue in. The way he swirls it around yours has you dizzy and you hold onto him, pressing your thighs together and moaning into his mouth.

Felix should be jelaous that another man is making you feel like that when he never did, but all he feels is arousal as his cock strains and twitches in his pants. He wants to touch himself so badly, but he's still embarassed and doesn't want to seem too eager.

When the two of you part, Chris turns to Felix who looks up at him with glassy innocent eyes and Chris smirks.

"You want some too?"- he asks and Felix nods fervently making you giggle at his cuteness.

Your boyfriend's face is flushed, the redness spreading to his neck as Chris cradles his head and starts kissing him. You notice the way Felix jolts and kisses back sloppily as Chris presses his lips into his roughly. Felix whimpers and Chris pushes his tongue in, tasting your boyfriend and making his eyes roll back.

The way Chris is leaning over your boyfriend, his head thrown back as he grabs at your friend's shirt make you feel extremely hot and your hand wanders between your legs as you gently press on your clit.

Your fingers move in circles as your eyes get hazy looking at the sight before you. Chris leans away from Felix who looks absolutely disheveled, his hair messy, eyelids droopy and a dribble of drool sliding from the corner of his lips.

"Baby, are you feeling neglected?"- Chris chuckles, beckoning you to come closer and you crawl closer to them, joining them in a kiss.

It's a mess of tongue, teeth and moans as the three of you kiss and touch each other.

"So, you never went any further than this?"- Chris asks.

"Well, after neck kisses is usually when we stop."- you say, and Felix looks down at his lap, feeling embarassed. You gently place your hand on his and squeeze and he looks up at you, giving you a sweet smile.

"Okay, show me."- Chris smirks and you lean in closer to Felix. He throws his head back as soon as your lips touch him, eyes shut tight as you leave wet kisses on his soft skin. Chris decides to join in and he kneels behind Felix, moving his hair out of the way as he starts kissing the back of his neck.

"Ah!"- Felix whimpers, his hands instantly grabbing at yours, it's too much stimulation for him already. Both of you are giving him all the attention right now as you place his hands on your waist, crawling even closer to him where you're almost sitting in his lap. Your hands are roaming on his chest and abs, and Chris places his hands on Felix's hips, pressing himself closer to your boyfriend, his teeth nipping at his sensitive skin.

Felix mewls between you, his head resting on Chris's shoulder as you sink your teeth in and start sucking on his skin, your hand sliding under his shirt, fingertips brushing at him.

"Mm- too much..."- Felix whines as Chris licks a stripe on his neck, then leaves little bites, his big hands gripping at Felix's thighs.

You lean back and look at your boyfriend and Chris smirks behind him.

"Why don't we give your beautiful girlfriend the same treatment?"- Chris asks lowly and you shiver, biting on your lip. Felix nods in a daze and you get comfortable as he leans in. His lips are gentle on your skin and he leaves sweet little kisses as Chris joins him, kissing the other side of your neck a bit more strongly.

The difference between their kisses and the stimulation you're receiving make you hot again and Chris notices you squirming around. His hand gently comes up to cup your breast, before he leans back and looks at Felix. Your boyfriend nips at your skin, like he's afraid to bite into it harder but you don't mind in this moment, you're already so turned on that even the smallest touch makes you crumble.

"Have you ever touched her breasts?"- Chris asks Felix and you feel your face burning as he gently squeezes you.

"N-no."- Felix whimpers, looking at Chris's hand.

"Do you want to?"- he smirks.

"Yes, yes, I want to!"- Felix nods fast and Chris takes his hand, placing it on your breast. You moan a little as Felix gasps and squeezes you.

"You can do it like this."- Chris says as he grabs your other boob, massaging it and running his thumb on your nipple that's now becoming perky and visible under your shirt since you didn't wear a bra.

Felix looks at Chris's hand like he's mesmerized and he repeats everything exactly as Chris is showing him.

You moan, arching into their touch, becoming desperate for more friction and more action.

"Do you play with your boobs when you touch yourself, y/n?"- Chris asks, leaving little kisses on your jaw.

"Y-yes."- you whimper.

"Show us."- Chris leans back, and Felix follows him.

You oblige, taking your shirt off and tossing it aside. Felix practically drools at the sight of your breasts and you don't waste any time as you start playing with your nipples, running your fingers on them and pinching them.

Chris can see how desperate Felix is to touch them, his eyes bulging out of his skull as he traces every movement you make with your fingers.

You moan quietly, eyes closed as you get into it.

"P-please..."- Felix says suddenly and you open your eyes.

"What do you want, baby?"- you ask.

"Your- your- i wanna touch-" - Felix mutters, clearly still embarassed.

Chris chuckles on the side, his hand coming up to touch Felix's cheek.

"Tell her what you want, Lix. Use your words."- Chris commands him and your boyfriend whimpers.

"Your titties- I want them in my mouth."- Felix whines, his eyes glassy and you smirk, arching towards him.

"Come here, baby."- you say and Chris presses the back of his head, gently pushing him towards your breast. Felix eagerly wraps his lips around your nipple and starts sucking.

"Mm."- you moan, staring at him as he looks up at you sweetly. Chris is getting incredibly hard in his pants and he accidentally grips Felix's hair.

Felix moans around you, sucking more harshly as his cock twitches in his pants.

"You like this, Lix?"- Chris asks curiously, pulling on your boyfriend's hair again.

He whimpers around you again, hands now gripping at your thighs as he trembles.

"I-I didn't know you liked it rough, Lixie."- you smirk at your boyfriend.

Felix closes his eyes, the attention is on him again and Chris can sense that he's getting embarassed again so he turns back to you, his hand on your other breast as he starts playing with it.

"You can use your tongue Lix, like this."- Chris leans in and starts flicking your nipple with his tongue. You mewl, gripping at the blanket under you and Felix follows suit, flicking his tongue just like Chris.

You almost fall apart at the double stimulation, more arousal gushing on your panties and you just want to be fucked, even if it's just fingers, you need someone to touch your dripping cunt.

You reach your hand towards Felix, tugging at his shirt and he leans back.

"Take it off."- you say and Felix becomes more red as he slowly takes off his shirt.

You've seen him shirtless already but in this moment of arousal it's like you're seeing him for the first time ever and the sight makes you drool.

"What about you?"- you ask Chris and he smirks.

"How about we all strip completely? I can see you're both so desperate to be touched."- he says and you nod, getting to it immediately.

"I- Can I stay in my boxers just for a little while more?"- Felix asks timidly.

"Sure."- you say and the three of you strip, Felix still in his boxers and his eyes are glued to your glistening cunt.

On the other hand, you gasp as Chris takes off his underwear, his cock springing out for the two of you to see.

"Oh... it's so big."- Felix gulps, almost mesmerized and Chris chuckles deeply.

"Yeah? Like what you see?"- he asks your boyfriend and you giggle, your hand on Felix's thigh, gently grabbing it and massaging it.

"I mean- yeah..."- Felix nods, looking at his lap again.

"Are you still feeling shy, baby?"- you ask.

"I'm sorry, it's just... I'm not as big as Chris."- he says quietly.

"That really doesn't matter, darling."- you say sincerely, your hands lifting up to cradle his face, making him look at you.

"Yeah, don't worry about it, Lix. This is a safe space, okay?"- Chris says and your boyfriend nods before taking a deep breath in as he hooks his fingers in his boxers.

He slides them down and his cock springs out, the tip pink and glistening with precum, it's smaller than Chris's but chubby and you instantly find yourself yearning to touch him.

"So pretty."- you say and Felix chuckles quietly.

"You think my dick is pretty?"- he asks.

"Very."- you nod and he laughs again, his cheeks becoming profusely red.

"I agree."- Chris comes closer to Felix, his hand resting on his thigh as he squeezes it and slowly slides it up. You can see his cock twitch the closer Chris gets to it.

"Is it okay if I touch you?"- he asks and Felix looks at you.

"If it's okay, I'd like y/n to touch me first."- Felix says timidly and Chris nods understandingly.

"Ofcourse, I'm just here to help out."- he smiles sweetly and you gulp, your hand lifting up as you scoot closer to your boyfriend.

You've never touched a dick before but you weren't scared, you were just nervous, wanting to make your boyfriend feel good. Your fingers wrap around him and Felix falls apart immediately.

Chris kneels behind him, his hands around Felix, fingertips brushing his skin as he tries to help him relax.

You slowly start moving your hand, only ever seeing how to do it in porn videos and you have no idea if you're doing it right but your boyfriend seems to be enjoying. He's arching into your touch, his head resting on Chris's shoulder again, eyes shut tight as sweet moans leave his lips.

Chris's hands come up to his nipples and he starts pinching them which makes Felix moan louder, his hips fucking his cock into your hand.

You're in awe at seeing your boyfriend a mumbling mess like this and his cock looks inviting to you, you want to taste him but you don't want to rush too much in case Felix gets embarassed again.

Chris notices the way you stare at Felix's cock hungrily and he smirks, his hands sliding down and grabbing a handful of Felix's ass.

"Oh my-"- your boyfriend whimpers, hips jerking forwards.

You're beyond turned on and you lean down.

"I wanna taste you, Lixie."- you say.

"Mm, yes please... Please..."- Felix whines and gasps as he looks down at you, desperation evident in his voice.

You lean in close, your tongue darting out experimentally to lick at his tip, licking off the salty precum. You would be embarassed to admit this but you researched how to give good head because you wanted to give your boyfriend the best blowjob you could.

You wrap your lips around him and start sucking as Felix mewls and grabs at your shoulders.

"Wow, babygirl knows what she's doing."- Chris smirks behind Felix and you smirk back at him with your mouth full of your boyfriends cock.

Chris finds you so pretty like that as you keep taking more of Felix's cock in your mouth and he needs some friction, so he presses his dick on your boyfriend's asscheek, one of his hands tangling in his hair and pulling his head back.

"Fuck-" - Felix jolts, accidentally pushing his hips into your face a little and making you gag from the sudden movement.

"Oh my god, I'm sorry love!"- he apologizes instantly.

"Lixie, it's okay, I don't mind."- you slide off of him to reassure him that he did nothing wrong.

"Relax, baby."- Chris whispers into Felix's ear, gripping his hair and kissing his neck as you take him in your mouth again.

Felix keeps whimpering and mumbling both of your names, falling apart between the two of you. Chris gently ruts against your boyfriend as you almost swallow him whole, quickly adjusting your mouth to his length and girth. You speed up, wetting his cock with your spit as Chris sucks a love bite into his skin.

"So much..."- Felix whines.

"Is it too much babyboy?"- Chris asks.

"Mhm."- Felix mutters.

"You love being sandwiched like this, don't you?"

"Yes, yes I do!"- Felix whines as Chris's hand curls around him to play with his balls. He jolts again and you take it sucking on him harder and Felix looks down at you and almost busts right then and there.

The sight of his sweet, beautiful girlfriend in a position like that with mouth full of his cock drives him insane.

"P-please... I'm close, I can't hold it in."- Felix whimpers, his hand gentle on your head as he tries to make you stop.

You moan around him as you keep going, your hands gripping at his thighs and Chris starts pinching Felix's nipples fast and hard and Felix can't hold himself together anymore. His moans get louder and louder, his hips timidly fucking into you, afraid that if he goes faster he might hurt you.

"Let go, baby."- Chris coos at him as he keeps playing with him and Felix shakes as his cock twitches, his cum shooting into your mouth and you swallow everything he gives you, savoring his taste and milking him dry as he whimpers, eyes teary and face red.

"Good boy."- Chris smirks and Felix shivers as you finally release him and sit back, licking your lips.

"Both of you did so well. How about you return the favor, Lix?"- Chris asks and you bite your lip.

"I want to!"- Felix nods eagerly.

"Lay down, sweetheart."- Chris coos at you, seeing how turned on you are from everything, aching to be touched, your eyes glassy and desperate.

You oblige, your legs falling open immediately and Felix moans just at the sight of your sweet cunt.

"Mm, please, wanna taste."- he whines as he leans in closer. "But I don't know what to do."- he adds, embarassed again.

"Do what feels natural to you. Kiss, lick, suck. I'll be here to guide you if you need it."- Chris tells him. "And y/n will tell you what she likes, right?"- he looks at you and you nod, anticipation making goosebumps rise on your skin.

Felix leans in, he's not that clueless, he knows what a clit is and how good it feels to touch, well at least from what he saw in porn so he tries, his tongue giving you little kitten licks.

Your legs jolt as he presses it into your clit and watches your reaction.

Chris lays on his side next to you, his hand running on your inner thigh as he leans in and kisses your collarbone and breast.

Felix is getting drunk on the taste of you, how you're getting more wet just from his tongue playing with your clit and he gently pulls open your folds before he pushes his tongue in, his eyes rolling back at the feeling. He loved you on your knees and sucking him in but he knows he loves this even more. Being between your legs, his tongue buried inside you as you look down at him, your body shivering, pretty moans coming out of your lips.

Chris's hand is on your breast, kneading and playing with your nipple, his other hand in Felix's hair as he pushes his head into you.

Felix moans into your cunt as Chris holds him down and your legs shake as Felix fucks you desperately with his tongue, lapping at you like your pussy is the tastiest treat he ever had.

You moan loudly, losing yourself in the pleasure, already close to the edge as your hands grip at the blanket below you.

Felix ruts his semi hard cock on the sheets below almost unconsciously and Chris thinks he looks so cute when he's desperate like that.

Chris leans in and starts sucking on your breast, his hand playing with the other one, his focus now on you, wanting to help bring you closer to your sweet release.

You're shaking under them, the stimulation is so much stronger than when you played with yourself and you can't take anymore, fireworks exploding inside you before you cum, your sweet juices covering Felix's tongue and lips.

He whines and laps at you, savoring your taste as his eyes close.

"Did so well, baby."- Chris praises you and leans in to kiss you as your boyfriend still makes out with your wet pussy. You're sensitive and your legs close around Felix's head making him groan into you.

"T-too much."- you whimper and Felix leans back, the look on his face completely fucked out as he stares at you. You know you probably look the same, your legs still slightly shivering from your orgasm.

Both you and Chris can see that Felix is fully hard again, but you turn to Chris, your hand finding his.

"Can we do something for you before we go further?"- you ask and Felix nods.

"Yeah, we wanna make you feel good too."- he licks his lips.

"Don't worry about me. This is about the two of you."- Chris waves his hand but you can see that he's painfully hard.

You sit up and push him down so his back leans on the headboard of the bed.

"Let us make you feel good."- you say, hands on his thighs as you lean down and start kissing his cock.

Chris grunts lowly at your cute innocent face as you wrap your lips around the head. Felix comes up next to you and Chris spreads his legs more to give you both more space. Felix gathers your hair in a makeshift ponytail, helping you as you slowly take more of Chris in your mouth, his cock too big for you but you're determined to try your best.

It's the least you can do when he indulged the two of you and accepted to help you in an intimate situation like this. You bob your head up and down, your hand working the rest of his cock and Felix watches closely as he holds your hair, drooling at the thought of tasting Chris's cock after you've sucked on it.

"Please, let me."- he begs and Chris chuckles at his eagerness as you pop off of him.

Felix wastes no time, engulfing him as much as he could, making himself gag immediately.

"Slow down, baby."- you chuckle and Felix whines around Chris, the vibrations making him shiver.

Tears gather in his eyes as Felix sucks on Chris fast, taking more and more in, his spit mixed with yours making everything slippery.

You don't think you've ever seen anything as hot as your pretty innocent boyfriend doing such dirty things, his eyes rolling back every time Chris's cock hits the back of his throat.

"Fuck- I won't last long!"- Chris moans, his thighs flexing under Felix's hands.

You're the one holding your boyfriend's hair now and a wicked thought runs through your mind as Chris's hips jerk up. You grip Felix's hair and push him down more making him gag and squirm as Chris explodes with a loud moan, shooting his cum into your boyfriend's mouth.

Felix gags but swallows as he has no choice but to do that, you're still holding him down and you notice how he ruts into the bed, obviously turned on by your ministrations.

You let him lift off only when he's done milking Chris's cock and then you grab his face making him gasp as you crash your lips into his.

Chris breathes hard, watching the two of you make out messily, the taste of him pouring into your mouth from Felix's lips.

"Lixie, I want you."- you mumble against his lips, your hand wrapping around his cock.

"Mm, I want you too love."- he moans.

He looks at Chris who's coming to his senses and Chris chuckles.

"W-will you help me out a little?"- your boyfriend asks timidly and you giggle as Chris nods and sits up.

You lay down against the pillows, your hands on the back of your thighs as you lift up and open your legs so your cunt is on full display.

Felix groans watching it clench around nothing.

"She feels empty, don't you baby?"- Chris asks and you nod fervently. His finger is on your clit as he slowly circles it and you moan pushing up into him.

"You have to prep her first."- he tells Felix and he nods, his fingertips on your folds as Chris keeps massaging your clit.

"P-please..."- you whine and Felix sinks two of his fingers slowly inside you, careful to be gentle as he grabs your breast and massages it.

Your eyes roll in the back of your head as the two men play with your pussy, Felix pushing in as deep as he can and moving slowly as Chris helps guide his wrist while he plays with your clit, flicking it and pinching it.

You're moaning loudly, letting go of everything as your slick drips down onto their hands and the sheets beneath you, making a mess. You've never been this wet or turned on and you start moving your hips up into their touch and Felix speeds up, fucking your pussy open for his cock.

"Oh my god, ah!"- you practically scream as you explode, squirting on their hands as Felix pulls his fingers out and gasps.

"Oh..."- you chuckle embarassingly at the sight, trying to catch your breath.

"That was so hot."- Felix whines, licking off his fingers. Before you or Chris can react he grabs Chris's wrist and puts his lips around two of his fingers, sucking on them and looking at Chris hazily.

"Lix loves his mouth stuffed, hm?"- Chris smirks as you lift up on your elbows and look at them.

Felix moans around his fingers before he pops off, tongue darting out to lick at his lips.

He turns to you and Chris kneels behind him as you grab your boyfriend's hands and bring him closer to you.

"Fuck me, Lixie, please! I can't wait anymore!"- you whimper.

Felix groans as Chris gently pushes him closer to you. He reaches around your boyfriend's body and gently grabs his cock. Felix mewls as he melts between both of you and Chris pushes him down, massaging your wet pussy with Felix's cock.

"Mm feels so good..."- he whines and Chris smirks, his cock is getting hard again and he can't help himself as it slides between Felix's asscheeks.

Felix gasps and almost jolts away but Chris holds him.

"It's okay, I won't do anything you don't want, Lix."- Chris reassures him and Felix nods.

"Is this okay?"- he asks as his cock slides against him.

"Mmm it's good, so good!"- Felix whines as his tip catches on your folds.

"Put it in, Lixie, give me your cock!"- you whine, impatient and craving to be stuffed full of your boyfriend's cute chubby cock.

He moans and slowly pushes in, Chris holding his hips and rutting into him slowly.

You groan at the stretch, your little cunt opening up to take him fully. Felix lets out a deep growl as he bottoms out, hands gripping at your body. Your hands end up around his shoulders and you look into his eyes.

"Move, baby."- you moan and Felix starts fucking you slowly to let you adjust, Chris following his pace and rutting into his ass.

You fall into a rhythm, the three of you rocking together, moaning and praising each other, hands grabbing everywhere.

"Feels good babygirl?"- Chris asks you and you moan in response.

"See, she's going a little dumb on your cock, Lix."- Chris smirks.

"Mm fuck..."- Felix whines. "So warm and tight."- he keeps whimpering as he pushes his cock into you as deep as he can.

Chris is close as he rubs against Felix, his hand coming around to play with your clit once again as Felix fucks into you harder. You see stars as your eyes shut tightly, head falling back.

Felix is a mumbling mess, hips jerking harshly as he drools and Chris speeds up, jerking his cock so his head is massaging Felix's hole.

"Ah, ah, ah!"- Felix moans constantly, stimulated on both ends and Chris chuckles darkly, his head pushing against his tight hole, teasing his entrance.

"You want me to stretch your tight ass while you fuck your girlfriend's sweet pussy, hm?"- Chris growls into his ear as he pulls his head back harshly.

"Mm, fuck yes, daddy!"- Felix whimpers loudly and then freezes when he realizes what he said. Your eyes snap open and Felix panicks.

"I'm sorry, I-I don't know why I said that."- his lips tremble, eyes watering.

"Hey, hey, don't cry."- Chris soothes him. "You can call me whatever you want, it's completely fine and I don't mind."

Felix looks at you and you bite on your lip, your eyes hazy as you were close to your release.

"It was hot, love. I don't mind either."- you say and Felix melts, hips moving slowly into yours again.

It doesn't take long for the three of you to get back into your rhythm and your orgasm builds up once more, as does Chris's. You cum first, exploding all over Felix's cock, clenching around him as Chris spills his seed on your boyfriend's ass and the back of his thighs. Your pussy holding onto his cock and Chris's cum painting him makes him lose his mind and he pulls out, jerking his cock and exploding all over your stomach and pulsating cunt.

The three of you have to take a few moments to calm down and clean up, Chris helping you change the sheets you made a mess off.

As you and Felix get ready to cuddle up, you notice Chris picking up his clothes.

"Where are you going?"- you ask, lifting your head up.

"Well, I helped you out. I mean, I don't want to overstay my welcome. I'm sure the two of you would like some time alone now."- he says, scratching the back of his neck shyly, his demeanor completely different than moments before.

"Stay with us."- Felix says, and Chris's eyes soften.

"Yeah, come here."- you beckon him with your finger and he chuckles, coming closer to the bed and getting comfortable behind Felix, who was curled up in you, his arm and leg wrapped around you.

You press a gentle kiss on your boyfriend's forehead as he mumbles, already half asleep.

"I love you both..."- he mutters into your neck.

You and Chris lock eyes and smile at each other.

"We love you too."

✨Taglist: @moonchild9350 @janepg @velvetmoonlght @bookobsessedfreak

why do i keep getting attracted?

Your Lovely Wicked Soul

Witch au, Reader X Bang Chan feat. Stray Kids (Narrator's POV)

Summary: Y/N is well known and beloved amongst the people of her home village. Being a powerful Witch, she helps the people using her Gifts to increase crops, heal the sick, and protect the townsfolk and other favors. When her Grandfather sends her away to save her from the misfortune of becoming the awful King’s bride, he sends her across worlds into the hands of a man bearing an uncanny resemblance to the tyrant King.

Dhornna= Familiar of a Witch that manifests from the Witches powers in the form of an animal. They speak only when they deem necessary.

~Prologue~

“Take this twice daily to increase your vitamin intake. You’re with a child, so it's important that you stay healthy for the baby as well. I know it does not taste to your liking, but you cannot keep ‘forgetting’ to take it just because you don’t like it.” Y/N hands the mother-to-be the herbal mix with a stern look as she walks her to the exit of the small clinic that has doubled as her’s and her Grandfather’s home for the last nearly 21 years. On Y/N’s first birthday, her parents were killed by bandits while traveling to visit a neighboring village. Her Grandfather then took her in to raise her in her parents stead, training her to become the amazing Witch she is today.

“Thank you so much, Y/N! I feel so much more at ease knowing that you’re here to help me through these trying times.” The woman, named Gailee, responds with absolute relief. She is only two years older than Y/N, but she is already married and expecting her third child. She turns to put down Y/N’s Cat Dhornna, Nolai, and grabs the medicine pouch from her hands.

“I’m glad that you find comfort in my care this time around as well,” Y/N smiles, “I can’t wait to meet this little one! Something tells me you’ll be getting that little girl you’ve wanted.” Y/N giggles at the older woman’s reaction, her eyes going wide with glee and excitement. Being a Witch ment Y/N’s gender predictions were always correct, so the woman knows there is truth to the statement.

“REALLY!” Gailee exclaims. “Oh thank the stars! My little Ramson and Lornick are so rambunctious! I was worried I would be stuck with another boy just like them! Now I’ll have a little girl who will be soft with me!” Gaile embraces Y/N with appreciation, then turns to stroke Nolai’s head, and leaves.

Y/N sighs as she closes the door behind the pregnant woman. She turns and looks at her Cat Dhornna with a small smile and asks him, “Do you think I’ll be married soon, Nolai?” The Dhornna simply blinks at his master and gives a small, uninterested meow. Y/N shakes her head at the Cat, not surprised by his response, and heads to the kitchen to begin preparing for dinner. 

Y/N is grinding up some herbs for the chicken when she hears her Grandfather coming in from the back garden. “I’m here in the kitchen, Gaba!” she calls out.

“How was the appointment?” he asks with a conversational tone, walking into the kitchen sink to clean the dirt off his arms.

“Gailee is doing great, and her baby is healthy also, you can feel her kick in there!” Y/N says with a small smile on her face. Her Grandfather watches her happily as she goes on about how soon the village will see the joy of yet another baby this year. He absolutely adores his Granddaughter, for she is all he has left. He watches the light of the setting Sunstar from the window play with her eyes, her unusually colored eyes, the only visible indication of how powerful a Witch she really is.

“You do such a great job, Y/N. I’m sure your parents are beaming with pride amongst the stars at how wonderfully you’ve grown.” He steps forward to embrace her. Y/N never knew her parents, but according to her Grandfather, they were very powerful Witches as well, and held great standing amongst the Witch community. Witches are not common but are well known, and villages often rely on the help of a Witch’s Gifts for crops, medicine, protection, and other favors they may be inclined to request, although some Witches powers can go above and beyond those capabilities. “I have received a letter from the Royal Circle to inform us that someone from the Circle will be visiting us tomorrow at evetime. I think they are coming here to seek you out to be part of the Witch Society.” he finishes before stepping back and placing his hands on Y/N’s shoulders with a distraught look on his face.

The Witch Society is a group of the seven most influential and powerful Witches in the Kingdom, assigned by the King when he is crowned. The current King, unfortunately, is a tyrant who finds enjoyment in taking lands for himself and killing anyone who denies him anything he wants. Despite knowing this, many Witches still covet the positions of the Witch Society. Y/N is not one who is willing to follow the malicious King, for she knows that the King is demanding that the Witches of the Society use their Gifts to practice in the Dark Spells. The Dark Spells are a dangerous thing to practice, and each Spell casted from the Dark Spells shortens a Witch's lifespan, if it doesn’t kill them right then. Which is why King Talmas is looking for his fourth replacement since the start of his reign eight years ago.

Y/N shakes her head in denial, defiance in her features, “No! I will never work for that nasty tyrant who is unworthy of being called King!” Y/N’s Grandfather knows she hates the idea of working for a man willing to hurt his own subjects for his own personal gain, but he still convinces her to be cordial with their guest for tomorrow evening. Even so, he already has an idea for if things go as bad as he had foreseen for tomorrow.

~

The next morning, Y/N and her Grandfather wake with the rising Sunstar, and begin to prepare for the expected guest to arrive. While Y/N leaves to get what will be needed for dinner, her Grandfather stays behind to “tidy up the clutter of their home”. What he is really doing is preparing for what he knows is to come. Y/N’s 22nd birthday is in only 89 days, and on that day, a truth will be revealed to her that will put into motion a grand change to their world. He knows that she will be mad at him for a while, but she will come to forgive him when she understands the necessity of his actions. 

Y/N’s Grandfather, Lessio, is a rarity amongst his kind, a male Witch. Of the small population in the Kingdom of Trysolia, only six percent are Witch, and of that six percent, less than about one percent is male. And Lessio’s son, Alstar, was also a Witch. Alstar fell in love with Y/N’s mother, Ailynn, another Witch, who possessed vast power and knowledge of Spells. The pairing was rare due to the sheer number of female Witches to the small number of male Witches, and most, like Lessio, married regular human women in hopes to increase the chances of a son, even a non-Gifted one. Lessio was one of the lucky few. As a result of the pairing, Y/N was born to become one of the most powerful Witches in history, although she has yet to fully come into her powers, Lessio knows it’s only a matter of time. So he knew this day was coming. The day when members of the Royal Circle would seek her out. Lessio tried his best to postpone this inevitable event by moving Y/N to the small village called Old Stone Village, on the outskirts of the Kingdom, and raising her incognito. Being a Foreseer Witch, he knew what was to come, just like with his son and daughter-in-law. But this time he wasn’t going to be too late.

Y/N arrives back from town with what she needs for dinner, and a light lunch for her and her Grandfather, a little before noontime. She calls her Grandfather to come in from the back entrance to eat. After eating, they finish up the house work and Y/N goes out to meet her best friend since they were toddlers. Ember is a Witch as well, her mother is Witch and her father a human.

“Y/N!” Ember calls out when she sees her approaching the makeshift shelter they made using the trees when they were eight. Truthfully, Y/N did most of the hard work, much to Ember’s disdain.

“Ember!” Y/N runs up to her friend, Nolai running ahead to greet Ember’s Rabbit Dhornna, Makil. Y/N always loves spending time with her only friend growing up. Being the only Witch children in the village, they could understand each other how no one else could. So many memories made here in the trees they grew together. They had used their Gifts to intertwine the branches together well above their heads and around them, to shield from the Sun and harsh weather. Y/N hugs her friend and stands back with a smile. “I brought some of the herbal fruit tea blend your mother loves. I know your parents anniversary is in a few days, so your mother can make this for your father.” Y/N finishes with a bright look in her eyes, handing her the large jar of ground up, dried herbs and fruits she pulled from her Storage Cloak. The Autumn weather is cold so both girls have on cloaks and fur boots over their lady pants.

“Oh, Y/N,” she giggles, “you’re always so thoughtful! I’m so thankful to have you as my friend!” Ember pulls Y/N in for another hug. The girls then walk into the shelter to sit and converse comfortably, while their Dhornnas play together.

“How are you enjoying working with children?” Y/N asks her friend. Ember began working in the school to help nurture the minds of the children by making learning more entertaining for them using Spells. It was an idea presented by Ember at the community meet earlier this year to improve the learning rate of the children who seemed to be having trouble focusing. Many of the community members agreed instantly, but a plan needed to be established on how to use Spells to aid in the learning process for the children.

“It's going great! Now that we finally got our plan into motion, we are seeing great results!” She beams.

“Our plan?” Y/N’s brow raises questionably at her friend.

“Oh. Um... Erinnek and myself. He’s a brilliant man with revolutionary ideas. We’ve been working hard to get this idea in motion and we’re both really proud!” Ember finishes quickly with a slight blush on her cheeks.

“Uh-huh. And could the reason my best friend is getting flustered over mentioning this ‘Erinnek’ man be because she has developed somewhat of a liking for said man?” Y/N asks, her voice going up in octaves at the end to taunt her friend. Ember’s violet eyes go wide, and her face and neck flush scarlet at the mention of her possible feelings towards the older man she has been working closely with these last several weeks. Ember blushing was always Y/N's favorite Ember face, because it always highlighted the freckles on her face, lighter in color now due to the Autumn season. Y/N always envied Ember her freckles.

“I’ve told you! It's not like that! I simply have a deep respect for his intellectual outlook on matters!” Y/N can’t help but laugh out at her friend's reaction, making her friend chant a quick Spell to send a brief gust of wind just strong enough to ruffle up Y/N’s long, silky tresses.

“Hey!” Y/N laughs, wordlessly returning the gesture in kind. Y/N’s Gifts advanced beyond needing to use a chant to cast Spells a few years back. An astonishing feat which few Witches accomplish, and it gathered the attention of some of the Witches from the neighboring villages.

Ember laughs, and asks, “Is there anyone you like, Y/N?”

Y/N stops to consider her friend’s question. As she thinks about it, she realises that she has never really developed that sort of relationship with anyone of the opposite sex. She was always so busy helping with the sick and tending to the lands with the villagers and helping her Grandfather with any crazy, new Spells he wanted to try. And of course training. Y/N was already very powerful by any standards, but her Grandfather always told her that she has so much more potential than even he could imagine. She went along with it, even though she thought he lost his mind while trying to count the stars.

“No.” Y/N finally answers after a few moments of silence had passed while she pondered her answer. “I haven’t really interacted with anyone in that manner so I can’t say that I see myself with anyone in that sort of setting.”

Ember watches her friend and feels sad for her that her life has not been her own. “Well, I’m sure there is some handsome man out there waiting to capture your heart, Y/N. Look at you! You’re Stunning!” Ember arms gesture towards her friend in a wordless attempt to help her see her beauty. Y/N is tall for their kind, but still small by normal human standards. Her curvy body is slim and toned in all the right places from the multiple jobs she takes on, working her body in different ways. She has long, thick, flowy hair that reaches her hips and frames her form wonderfully. She has beautifully shaped lips, and delicately arched brows set above striking and unusually colored eyes. Ember sometimes envied Y/N for her eyes.

Y/N lets out a snort. She was always told that she is beautiful, that she looks exactly like her mother but with different eyes. “We’ll see how your theory plays out after tonight.” Y/N then turns to her friend with a serious face, “Gaba received a letter yesterday informing him that we are to be welcoming members of the Royal Circle. It does not state specifically who we are to be expecting or for what reason they come, simply that they will be here this eve.” Y/N finishes when she sees the questioning look on her friend's face.

Ember inhales and exhales audibly. She knows her best friend’s views on how the Royal Circle is currently operating. And Y/N would rather take her own life than to be forced to work for the awful and selfish King. “What are you going to do?” she asks, “You can’t decline him. Everyone knows what happens when he is denied what he wants.”

Y/N hangs her head, her heart feeling heavy. “I don’t know.” she states, sounding slightly defeated. “I know of all the things he has done, but I fear what will happen to Gaba if I run away. He is too old to go on the run and go into hiding.”

Ember hugs her friend in an attempt to comfort her, her heart reaching out to her best friend. She cannot imagine the turmoil Y/N is feeling at this moment, nor did she envy her in this instant, for she shares Y/N’s views on the corrupt Members and their King.

Ember finally releases Y/N and looks her in the eye, “I’m absolutely positive that your Gaba has something planned so you don’t have to live that awful fate.” she states reassuringly, stroking back some of Y/N’s hair. “Your Grandfather cherishes you too much to allow you to burden yourself with the weight of someone else’s malicious will.” Y/N looks up and smiles at her friend. Before she has the chance to respond to her encouraging words, the sound of a horn pierces the early evening air, indicating that the members of the Royal Circle have arrived in the village.

“Well that’s my sign telling me to head home before the Members arrive at my door.” Y/N stands and readjusts her cloak around her. Ember stands up to embrace her friend, then it dawns on Y/N. “This may be the last time I see you for a while,” She whispers to her friend. Both their hearts clench in pain at the idea and they tighten the embrace.

Ember is the first to reluctantly break the hug. With teary eyes, she looks at the greatest friend in the world and says, “I don’t think so. You’ve been stuck with me for almost 20 years, you’re not getting rid of me that easily.” She attempts to laugh but it comes out as a soft sob.

Y/N strokes her friend’s cheek and smiles warmly. “I’m absolutely sure about that as well. You’re my Star Mate.” With that, the girls say their farewells and head to their respective homes. Y/N runs all the way and makes it in time for the Members to arrive.

Y/N and her Grandfather both wait in their front lawn walkway while the carriage comes to a complete stop and is prepared for the members of the Royal Circle to exit. While it is being prepared, a man on a black stallion rides up to them and dismounts.

“Where shall we store our horses?” the man asks Lessio. Y/N’s Grandfather guides the man and a few others with horses to the small stalls that housed your horse and Grandfather’s Horse Dhornna, Maize, and helps them get their animals situated and returns in just in time for the Announcer to make the introductions.

“Announcing the King of Trysolia, His Royal Highness Talmas!” the man in royal red announces as the King descends the steps of the coach. Y/N eyes widen at the announcer's words.

‘What is the King doing here himself? Just for me?’ Y/N thinks to herself. It was almost never heard of for the King to leave his castle. It's unnerving for Y/N to see the King here himself, and it is her first time meeting him. He is young, only having been 15 when he ascended the throne, and undoubtedly, very handsome, with thick, curly locks of dark hair styled back to reveal a strong brow over piercing, brown eyes. He has a sharp, prominent nose and full lips with a perfect Cupid’s bow. Y/N may have fallen for him based on looks alone if she wasn’t already aware of his horrid personality.

The King steps away from the coach to allow three other persons to exit, three women. The man in red announces that they were Members of the Witches Society, Y/N forgets their names as soon as they are spoken. She is too focused on trying to keep her mind from wondering and thinking up worst-case scenarios.

After the Announcer finishes the introductions of each person in the coach, Y/N’s Grandfather steps forward to speak, “Welcome, Your Highness. This is quite the unexpected visit, to what do we owe the honor?” Y/N’s Grandfather speaks the question circling her head as well.

“Well, I heard that there was an extremely powerful Witch living on the outskirts of my kingdom and decided to have a look myself.” he says in an irritably attractive voice. He turns his head toward Y/N and looks her up and down. “And I’m glad I did. This little Witch is quite stunning.” he finishes with a dimpled smirk that Y/N would’ve found attractive if it were not for the words that accompanied it or the man who wore it. “I see the tales I’ve heard about your eyes are true. Although seeing them for myself, I’m still in disbelief at how strikingly beautiful they are to behold. You must be a very powerful Witch indeed to have eyes this rare in color.” His voice laced with something Y/N could not identify.

Y/N clears her throat to speak, “Thank you. I have dinner prepared for you and your party if you would like to eat. I made duck with potatoes, carrots, and onions with an autumn themed sauce.” She tries her hardest to hide the discomfort the King gives her with his leering eyes.

“I would be more than honored to eat your home cooked meal. We have been on the road now for three days to reach this village. I’m sure our stomachs will be appreciative.” The King states. Y/N nods and ushers the King and his entourage into her small home followed by her Grandfather.

Y/N’s Grandfather allows for the King to take his seat at the head of the table and takes the one on the other end. His party takes seats around the table, a guard on either side of the King, two of the females on one side and the other on the other side. Y/N is thankful that there is enough seating, with eight people to seat, one more person and someone would be stuck standing while eating. Y/N takes the duck and vegetables out to the table and goes back for the bread rolls and chilled tea she made earlier that day, then takes her seat on her Grandfather’s right. After dinner, the King requests that the business they came for be conducted in the sitting room. Everyone follows Y/N’s Grandfather out of the dining hall and into the sitting room. 

Once everyone is seated, one of the members of the Witch Society begins to explain their reasoning for their visit so far out from the comforts of the capitol. “We came here today to recruit Y/N into the Witch Society. We’ve heard many stories about what she has accomplished and, knowing her lineage, we know she would make a great addition to the Society in serving the King to better our Kingdom.”

“How would you know if I would be a great addition if you are not even certain of what Gifts I possess? For all you know, I could simply be able to communicate with animals or make plants grow.” Y/N states with purpose, her stubborn streak showing. “And in what ways, pray tell, are you and the King improving our kingdom? By denying the people the medicine that they need? By demanding they turn over all their crops and animals and leaving them starving through the winter?” Y/N finishes with heavy sarcasm lacing her tone and a fake smile on her face.

The King simply smiles at Y/N’s display at stubbornness, seeing it as a challenge he will gladly accept. “Y/N, I’m simply doing what I see fit to make sure my kingdom profits.” he states nonchalantly, like he is making a comment on the weather, then adds with more interest, “Plus, anyone could tell just by looking at the unusual color of your eyes that you’re no ordinary Witch, but one who possesses tremendous power. And I fully intend on having you as part of the Society,” King Talmas smirks upon seeing Y/N’s glare fully focus on him, “or as my wife.” he adds before she can respond, chuckling when her expression changes to one of complete shock.

“Your Highness, is that an offer?” one of the Members asks, a hint of disappointment in her tone.

“Oh, I never say what I don’t mean and always want what I say, especially on my birthday.” King Talmas says, his eyes never leaving Y/N’s face as she throws mental daggers at him. “The Kingdom doesn’t have a Queen, why shouldn’t it be a powerful Witch like Y/N? With a Witch like you by my side, I could expand my rule beyond the current borders with little resistance. And you could help me further by expanding my life span.” He finishes with a cocky tone.

“I do believe I will have to decline your offer. I have no interest in being a member of your corrupt Witch Society, nor do I desire to be married to a tyrant that plays with the well being of his people for his own personal gain. And lastly, I will not allow you to stay in my home and continue to speak to me as though I am an object to be used at your disposal. So I suggest you leave while I am asking kindly.” Y/N manages to maintain a steady tone despite her inner fury.

Everyone in the room is taken aback at Y/N tone towards the King. There are murmured responses from the other guest like “Is she stupid?” or “The audacity to deny the King in such a manner!”

The King narrows his eyes at Y/N, clenching his jaw and flexing it to show his distaste with her response. “Very well. I have no second thoughts on doing this the hard way. Forcing you should be easy enough. Take her.” the King demands of the guards.

Before they can complete their first step toward Y/N, her Grandfather casts a Spell to bring everyone in the room to a stand still to buy time to get his granddaughter out of there. “Hurry, Y/N! It won't take long for the Members to break the Spell and come after us!” He grabs her arm and leads her out the back door, Nolai following close behind. Lessio is one of the other few Witches of their time that is able to cast Spells without the use of a chant.

“Gaba? Where are we going?” Y/N questions when she sees her Grandfather leading them into the woods. The cold air makes their breaths visible in the waning light of the LunarEarth. Y/N is thankful she remembered to grab her Cloak before being led out the back door.

“Just trust me, Y/N. I’ve planned for this.” is all he responds. Y/N is slightly shocked at his response but doesn’t press further while he leads her through the woods. They walk for several minutes before coming to a clearing. The clearing seems to have an odd pattern at the center of it. “Take this book.” Lessio hands her a large book wrapped in elk skin. Y/N’s eyes widen when she realizes that it is his Grimoire. “Please stand in the center of the clearing, and grab your Dhornna.” Y/N places the Grimoire in her Storage Cloak and does as he asks. Picking up Nolai, she quickly walks to the center of the odd patterns. As she walks through, she attempts to make out the patterns she sees on the ground, but in all her studies, she’s never seen this combination.

Once at the center, she turns to face her Grandfather. As soon as she makes eye contact with his steel grey eyes, he puts up a barrier around her to keep her there. 

“What?!” Y/N exclaims, reaching her hand out towards the barrier, only to have it push her hand back. “What are you doing, Gaba? I’m scared!”

“I’m sorry, Y/N!” her Grandfather calls from the edge of the circular pattern, “I have to do this. This is the only way I can protect you and put you on the right path. I’ve always known you were destined for great and amazing things, but not here while that tyrant is after you. I hope you know I’ll always love you.”

Y/N eyes begin tearing up as realization dawns on her. He is sending her away. Away from her home, from her friends, from her life, and, worst of all, from him. Her only living kin. The one person she could always rely on. She fights back her tears and asks, “Where are you sending me to?”

Her Grandfather shakes his head, “I cannot say, only two people have travelled there before but didn’t live to tell of what was there. But I know I'm sending you to someone I know can help you.” Before Y/N could ask more questions, they heard the voices of the guards and Members approaching them. “We’re out of time! I’m going to begin the Spell!” Her Grandfather begins the Spell and light starts to come out of the patterns, which, unfortunately, helps lead the King and his entourage to find them.

“HERE THEY ARE!” One of the guards shouts. Soon the whole squad is surrounding them, followed by the Members and, lastly, the King.

“Thought you could get away did you, little Witch?” the King says with disdain in his voice. “You’re not being as obedient as I had originally hoped you’d be, but that's fine, I like a challenge.” King Talmas then instructs the head of the guard to command them to shoot down Y/N’s Grandfather.

Y/N sees the guards all raise their bows with arrows and aim them towards her Grandfather. “NO!” she exclaims, then wordlessly casts a protection barrier around her Grandfather, just in time to deflect the arrows already flying at him. “Gaba, let down the barrier! I’ll go with him!” Lessio ignores her and continues the Spell, even as arrows hit the barrier Y/N has up. “GABA! DON’T! HE’LL KILL YOU! I WILL NOT LET THAT HAPPEN!” Y/N shouts out, tears beginning to overflow freely. The pattern begins to glow brighter, indicating that the Spell has been initiated.

Lessio turns to his beloved Granddaughter to look at her one last time, giving her a smile filled with all the love and warmth he holds for her, “I will always love you, Y/N. I’m proud of who you have become. And I know you’ll change the world.” Y/N feels her barrier falter as the Spell begins to pull her away, giving out just before it can stop an arrow from hitting her Grandfather in the chest. The Spell finally pulls her through with great force, but not before she witnesses two more arrows hit her beloved Grandfather.

“NO! GABA!” Y/N yells just as everything goes black.

Only a brief moment passes before Y/N feels her body thrown down onto a hard surface, it gives out and collapses beneath her, causing her body to hit another surface just as hard. Y/N groans and sits up, rubbing her backside. She opens her eyes to be met with eight curious faces staring at her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Hi! I really hope you all enjoyed this Prologue to my first fanfic! There is so much more to look forward to, so I hope you all stay until the end!

Peach eyes and blue skies

I'll be with you on your ride~

Did y’all see the new Red Lights M/V by Bang Chan and Hyunjin?

(It came out 2 days ago and I’m kinda late but whatevs)

I FUCKING STOPPED BREATHING WTF THE VOCALS, THE ACTING, THE CHOREOGRAPHY,  EVERYTHING IS JUST SO PERFECT

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA HE LOOKS SO PRETTY

BOOTY SO BIG-

I’M GONNA FUCKING COMBUST!!1! 

I THINK THIS IS WHAT A SHIBARI IS OMG

I’M (S)CREAMING

BANG CHAN AND HYUNJIN REALLY LOOKING EXTRA FINE IN THIS M/V DAYUM

HAPPY CHAN DAY!!!

we love our best father, best leader, and best person fr <333

skz in their freaky era frfr (i’m all for it tho-)

“did we make it?”

“…yeah. yeah, we did.”

“stray kids everywhere all around the world,

you make stray kids STAY!”

happy birthday to STAYs everywhere ily guys 🫶

YOOOOO

gnawing at the bars of my enclosure rn🥰🥰🥰

BECAUSE AHKWUJJHWGNAJHWUJJUWIMAYNWGJHJWHJANUIMA9WMDYDTJA

chat, should i try writing fanfics again? i’m kinda bored rn and have nothing better to do soooo

same but different. (image credits to @lixiesflower on x/twitter)

(just woke up to a pleasant surprise lol)

skz on top fr cause they kept SLASH in their general style and sung most of the song in korean even tho its for a western movie. i love them sm im so proud omg

STREAM SLASH NOW!

Chan in the credits of ATE:

why are the teaser pictures serving so much cunt? /pos (im not complaining)

🎵MAKNAE ON TOP, OH WOAH OH, MAKNAE ON TOP, OH WOAH OH, MAKNAE ON TOP, AYY, OH WOAH OH, MAKNAE ON TOP, OH WOAH OH🎵

happy father’s day, chan!