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moonjxsung · 3 months

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No Guts / No Glory

Read part 1 here.

Pairing: Bang Chan x fem reader

W/c: 18.2k

Warnings: nipple/breast play, clitoral stimulation, fingering, unprotected sex, sex in a semi-public establishment (no one is around), creampie, spitting during sex, depictions of bodily harm, descriptions of blood

Synopsis: Bang Chan competes in the biggest title boxing fight of his life, terrified at the prospect of losing two things now- this match, and you.

18+. Mdni!

•

“The whole world’s watching him. I don’t blame him for wanting to walk away from all of this- I would, too.”

•

Contrary to the truths of a boxer, a trainer’s punctuality is typically admirable.

And Mr. Seo is no different, you quickly learn, as he enters the interviewing studio at a whole five minutes prior to his call time.

He’s a bit hesitant to approach you at first, the same way Chan once was, bowing politely as you gesture to the folding director’s chair across from you. And when he finally takes his seat, smoothing down a sleek black blazer he wears paired with a silk blue tie, you take notice of the way his jacket seems to constrict around the broad muscles he flaunts, the buttons of his shirt practically clinging onto the fabric that hugs his chest.

“Thanks for having me,” he says respectfully, giving you a small nod as his lips pull into a closed-mouth smile.

“Thanks for being here,” you say nervously, scanning his gaze in hopes of reading him better.

But he’s entirely unreadable, evident in the way his eyes don’t leave yours, awaiting some form of instruction as you toy with the camera and ensure it’s begun recording.

“Could you state your name, and relationship to the subject for the camera?” You begin, swallowing a lump in your throat as he folds his hands in his lap and shifts his gaze to the lens.

“Mr. Seo,” he begins, clearing his throat before continuing. “Bang Chan’s personal trainer.”

To which you then nod, satisfied with the introduction, as you begin the interview.

“How long have you been training Bang Chan?” You inquire, observing the way he furrows his brows in concentration.

“Gosh,” he begins, exhaling a sharp breath before beginning his response. “Around ten years now. It was just a hobby for him, when we initially began. I don’t think either of us figured he’d be participating in a title fight one day.”

“What’s it been like, watching him grow so quickly?”

“Exhausting,” Mr. Seo admits, slouching back in his seat as he now crosses his arms across his chest. “He loses his winning streak, I lose all my credibility.”

He chuckles as he finishes, shaking his head and gesturing with a wave of his hand. “I’m kidding. Chan’s great. He’s a perfectionist, and he’s as stubborn as they come, but he’s very talented. It’s all him.”

Your gaze remains on his in a passing moment of silence, desperate to ask him all the burning questions heavy on your mind this evening; how Chan had reacted to the agonizingly transparent rendition of his docu-series. What he’d spoken to Mr. Seo about, upon the realization that the private conversations you’d shared with him had now been broadcast to thousands of anticipatory viewers. His most vulnerable emotions on display for the whole world, your betrayal made apparent with the sweeping number of viewers the episode had garnered. And especially how he’s doing now, considering he’s failed to answer any of your calls since the episode’s broadcast.

Your heartbeat quickens in your chest as you think back to the series, and you shake your head as you’re brought back to the present moment once more, Mr. Seo sat across from you as he awaits another question.

“Could you tell us how your relationship to Bang Chan first started?”

Mr. Seo thinks it over briefly, his eyes scanning the ceiling, and then he nods once before beginning.

“He was only fourteen. Walked into our gym like he owned the place. I watched him from outside the ring, and he caught my eye because he seemed so angry, the way he threw uppercuts like a pro. I suggested he softened his hits a little- work on his form, instead of just his strength. He kept coming back, and I took him under my wing.”

Mr. Seo sighs, and then he uncrosses his arms, grasping his knees lightly before continuing.

“Maybe I should’ve seen it back then,” he finishes.

You furrow your brows, cocking your head as you observe his gaze fall to the floor.

“Seen what back then?”

He shrugs lightly, as though he’s unsure of his response, and then he delivers an answer much harsher than you’re anticipating.

“That he doesn’t want to do this.”

There’s a silence in the room as he shuffles around in his seat, and then his eyes flicker over the lens of the camera before you can utter a response.

“You mean… the fame,” you question, your eyebrows knitting together as you ponder his words.

“Boxing,” he clarifies.

The silence grows louder the second time around, and your back rests flat upon the back of the back of the chair as you allow yourself to get a little more situated in your seat.

“He doesn’t want to box anymore,” Mr. Seo repeats, pursing his lips and nodding to affirm his statement. He seems to think for a moment, as though carefully recalling Chan’s words, before elaborating.

“He’s wanted to quit for years now. He gets in these mental slumps, where I can’t get him to do anything. Nobody can. At first, I thought it was just for fear of losing that damn winning streak. I’ve since realized it’s more than that.”

He seems to fix on something in the distance beyond your seated figure, and you shift in your seat nervously, waiting for him to elaborate. When he doesn’t, you nod meekly in his direction, gesturing for him to continue.

“What is it, then?”

Mr. Seo is quiet again, chewing on the inside of his lip as he deciphers an adequate response.

“Tell me,” he begins. “You ever stood in the middle of that ring?”

You think back to all those times with Chan, staring out at the rows of punching bags that line the walls, the gallery of famous boxers peering down over the vast space and the suffocating confines of the wired rope that lines the four corners.

“Yeah,” you say to him. “Few times.”

“What’d it feel like to you?”

Nerve-wracking. Entirely too large- and yet somehow still claustrophobic, all at once. Intimidating, daunting. Voyeuristic.

“It’s awful,” you voice back, swallowing a knot in your throat. “It’s so… public.”

He nods understandingly.

“Fourteen years,” he echoes back. “He’s been under that pressure. On an unbroken winning streak since he started professionally. He’s been dubbed ‘miracle athlete’, ‘athletic genius’- you name it. I’ve never seen him more miserable.”

You don’t say anything just yet, realizing this is exactly what Mrs. Bang couldn’t seem to coax out of him. The harsh reality that although it’s his passion, his lifelong dream to win this title fight, perhaps boxing just doesn’t serve the same purpose it once did for him. It’s now accompanied by the constant expectation to win, the all-consuming fear of what it means to lose, more eyes on him as his private life is publicized and monetized. And now the crushing reality that his reservations surrounding the sport have been televised, much to his utter dismay.

As you make sense of his words, your gaze snaps to the camera, at the blinking red light that indicates this conversation is being recorded, too. Your hand darts out to the shutter release, in an effort to not repeat the same mistakes, and Mr. Seo chuckles when he takes notice of your urgency.

“It’s fine,” he says simply, eyes fixed on the lens again. “He knows I’m airing it all out. It was his request, actually.”

Your motions come to a halt as he speaks of Chan, and you turn to catch his gaze once more, eyebrows arching in an apologetic expression as you find the words to say.

“How is he?” You ask, completely veering off your list of required questions, as you inquire about Bang Chan’s whereabouts.

“It’s been days,” you continue. “I didn’t know they were going to televise all of it. He trusted me, and I get if he doesn’t want anything to do with all of this-”

“He was a little taken aback,” Mr. Seo interjects. “I haven’t heard too much from him, either.”

“You haven’t?” You echo, feeling a pit form in your stomach at the fact that he’s even chosen to distance himself from his trainer in the aftermath.

“Not aside from his request to be as honest with you as possible,” he affirms. “Relay whatever he’s unable to say.”

You’re quiet for a moment, and then you gesture to the camera again.

“You mean… he wants this to be broadcasted?”

He nods, pursing his lips.

You can’t fathom why he’d want this conversation part to be televised, knowing very well that even Chan himself has trouble opening up about the subject. And now he’s urged Mr. Seo to relay these truths to the viewers- the truths that boxing has kept him in a mental slump for the better part of his whole career now. That his favorite sport is just another burden he bears, alongside a long list of fancy titles and recognitions. And that he simply doesn’t want to be a boxer anymore. Confessions that could hurt him preceding the title fight- and may only indicate one final outcome.

“He can’t quit,” you voice quietly. “He wouldn’t just leave all of this behind him… right?”

“It’s hard to say,” Mr. Seo responds. “He’s in another one of his slumps. He’s missing schedules, the fight’s just around the corner. Chan’s done this before, but it seems pretty serious this time around. The whole world’s watching him. I don’t blame him for wanting to walk away from all of this- I would, too.”

The pit in your stomach seems to grow tenfold as he speaks, and despite his assurances to record the conversation, your hand darts out to stop the recording anyway.

“He can’t quit,” you say again. “This is his life’s dream. He said it himself- losing scares the shit out of him. Doesn’t forfeiting fulfill the same thing?”

“I’m sure it does,” he counters, a breathy chuckle escaping his lips. “I’ve talked him out of it a dozen times before. Unfortunately I can’t get through to him this time around.”

Your eyes dart over the camera, and then back to Mr. Seo, as you ponder Chan’s words tirelessly.

Maybe you should’ve seen this coming long before it got to this point- his desire to walk away from all of this has been evident for as long as you’ve known him. The anger that festers deep down inside of him as he throws uppercuts in the ring, the way he gets so fixated on his sport, he shuts out the rest of the world around him. His fear of losing, but also a hatred for winning so consistently. Putting greater trust and vulnerability in a journalist rather than the people he’s known all his life.

Mr. Seo seems to take notice of your distress, cocking his head to meet your gaze which falls onto the tiled floor beneath his leather shoes.

“Hey,” he voices gently. “None of this is your fault. Somebody who’s that down on himself is bound to come to terms with it eventually. He doesn’t resent you, if that’s what you’re so worried about.”

He shuffles in his seat once more, and then he sighs a little before speaking again.

“He has a training session tomorrow, in the evening. If he makes it, you can swing by after and get a word in with him. Just don’t say I sent you.”

You nod at his words, swallowing nervously as you fiddle with the sleeves of your sweater in your lap. And then you meet his gaze once more, furrowing your brows before speaking.

“Mr. Seo,” you begin. “Why wouldn’t he resent me? I’m no better than the spectators. If anything, I’m worse. Chan probably wants me dead as we speak.”

He chuckles lightly before shaking his head.

“You’re just doing your job,” he explains. “Everybody is well aware of that.”

He thinks for a moment, before continuing.

“I haven’t seen him come to terms with his own emotions like this before- maybe ever. All he knew was anger for so long- I saw it from the moment I met him at the tender age of fourteen. He’s finally being honest with himself about what’s causing these mental slumps. It’s a level of vulnerability I’ve never witnessed in him before- it’s hardly possible when he’s constantly being told to ‘man up’ by the rest of the world. Did you know he cried in front of me the other day?”

Mr. Seo shakes his head and crosses his arms over his chest.

“He did, if you can believe it. He really cried.”

And you say nothing, in response, simply thinking back to the sight of Bang Chan crying in front of you first, back at his apartment. The way tears cascaded over his hurt expression, and the way he had sniffled in between shaky confessions that losing is what scares him. Losing a boxing match, losing his passion, losing sight of his future in the careful process of finding himself. Forfeiting the biggest title fight of his life, and walking away from all of this as nothing more than a loser.

And perhaps losing you, too- the one person he still finds some semblance of sacredness in.

“Thank you,” you voice to Mr. Seo, as you reach out to shake his hand. “I’m going to talk to him. I’m going to make this right.”

The following evening lulls by painfully slow, as you wait for word from Mr. Seo. Your work doesn’t see you in for the afternoon, as you dismiss yourself early to prepare for the conversation at hand in the comfort of your apartment.

And realistically, what can you say to Bang Chan, to convince him not to walk away from this title fight?

I’m sorry nothing is sacred to you anymore. I’m sorry you’re held to such unsustainable standards. Your mom is right to be worried about you, as is Mr. Seo. But that doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to be frustrated with all of this at the same time. Thank you for letting me bear witness to the real Bang Chan, not just the perfect boxer. You’re far more to me than just a video subject.

It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before, or probably assumed already- but perhaps the future of his career depends on this conversation, and it weighs just as heavy on you, too.

As the evening draws to a close, you’re relieved to hear that Mr. Seo confirms Chan has indeed shown up to his scheduled training session like he’d promised.

“He’s a little down tonight,” he details in a short text to you. “But he’ll be here after hours, if you care to swing by.”

And there’s nothing you would miss the opportunity for, you think to yourself, as you shoot him a quick text back and begin toward the training gym.

Your mind runs rampant with endless possibilities of how the conversation might play out. Perhaps he’ll be angry with you, and send you off with a curt wave of his hand. Maybe he’ll be just as emotional as he was with Mr. Seo, assuming the same disposition he did when he first cried to you that night in his apartment. Or maybe he’ll actually listen to what you have to say, the same way you lent a kindly ear to his vulnerable display of emotions.

It’s hard to say- he’s certainly not an easy read, the way you once presumed him to be.

The gym is void of its usual commotion- in fact, if not granted entry by Mr. Seo first, you’re not sure you would've assumed it to be occupied at all. The entrance is dark, as is the hallway, and you can just barely make out his silhouette when he approaches with a gym bag slung over his shoulder.

“Hey,” Mr. Seo remarks in a low voice. “He’s in the back.”

He looks exhausted, mentally and physically, and though he flaunts a sheen layer of sweat on his forehead from training, he wears it somberly, as though Chan’s emotions have now extended to him.

“How is he?” You inquire cautiously, and Mr. Seo shrugs in response.

“I couldn’t say. He’s hardly talking.”

Your heartbeat quickens suddenly at his words, at the thought that you’re trying to talk him out of something he’s already practically set on, even to his trainer’s standards. Realistically, there’s nothing you can say to change his mind- so does it even make sense to try? Is there a good reason to make an appearance, if at all?

“Y/n?” Mr. Seo questions, taking note of the way your gaze fixes beyond his standing figure at the darkened hallway, almost tuning out his presence.

“Yeah,” you say simply, giving him a small nod. “Thanks for letting me in. I really appreciate it.”

He just nods in response, standing aside to grant you full access. And then he’s off without another word, the low hum of his engine starting up in the parking lot.

The gym has never felt more uninviting than in the current chilling atmosphere, as you stride down the hallway and glance around nervously. The gallery wall of boxers is almost indistinguishable amidst the darkness, except for the beaming white smiles of their prideful expressions staring you down. You’re quickly overtaken by discomfort, as your eyes scan the dark gray walls, at the neat rows of boxers that mimic each other with their wide grins. The winners are hard to tell from the losers, and the losers might as well resemble just any normal spectator. Even the greats are unrecognizable to you, despite your proximity to their elegant portraits. And as hard as you squint at the array of frames above you, Baik Hyun-Man could be any of the boxers on this dreary wall.

It’s not until a loud thump echoes in the distance, that you’re brought back to reality, snapping your head in the direction of the boxing ring. It’s dark, like the rest of the gym, with the exception of the dimly-lit recess lights over the punching bag.

And stood in front of it, knees bent, fists positioned to deliver an uppercut, his jaw clenched and heavy bags under his eyes, Bang Chan.

He produces another hard punch to the bag as you take a reluctant step toward him, and then he hits two more times, the contact echoing around the room in tandem with your strides.

Thump. Step. Thump. Two more steps.

When you’re finally behind the ring, your knees grazing the raised platform, you hoist yourself over the edge, finding your balance to resume approaching him. And Chan’s punches finally come to a halt, his chin tucking over his shoulder as he attempts to catch a glimpse of you without turning around fully.

“Hi,” you say simply, halting your actions of nearing him.

Chan remains like that for a passing moment, scanning your standing figure out of his peripheral vision, before turning back toward the bag. He doesn’t deliver another punch, nor does he make any efforts to distance himself from you. He simply exhales deeply, before speaking.

“What do you want?”

“I want to talk.”

“I don’t have answers for you right now.”

“I’m not interviewing.”

It’s only then that he pivots cautiously on his heels, facing you now, a resigned expression on his face. He’s damp with sweat, glistening under the recess lighting, his thin white tank top practically glued to the convexes of his torso with perspiration.

“Then what do you want?”

“I told you,” you say to him, taking a single step toward him now. “I want to talk.”

His gaze flickers to your hands, which toy nervously with loose threads under the sleeves of your shirt. His lips part to say something, and then he scoffs lightly, before speaking once more.

“What, no camera this time around?”

Your heartbeat quickens at his words, feeling a suffocating sense of guilt as you realize he’s still upset with how the series unfolded in its last broadcast.

“I’m sorry,” is all you can say to him, dropping your hands at your sides in defeat. “I understand you’re angry. I would be, too.”

Chan is quiet for a moment, eyes narrowed as though he’s challenging you.

“I promise I asked them to omit the footage,” you assure him nervously. “It got into the wrong hands.”

And then you take a sharp breath, before continuing.

“I became obsessed,” you say to him. “With the film. With you. I just wanted to know you better. And when I found that you weren’t this superficial shell of a person like I assumed you were, I couldn’t stop myself from feeding into their asks for this voyeuristic glance at your life.”

Chan’s expression seems to soften as he registers your apology. A part of him knows you’re right- and just like Mr. Seo had conveyed, he doesn’t resent you. Because a part of him is a little relieved he got it out there, for the whole world to comprehend just how scared he is of losing. And in turn, how to go about coping with it.

“Well it doesn’t matter anymore,” Chan remarks, his head hanging a little as he toys with the bandages around his wrists. “Because I quit.”

You can feel the room spin around you as his words pierce through your chest- you’d assumed that an apology would perhaps change his mind about the brash decision. Maybe Mr. Seo was wrong about him, and he is still keen on carrying through with a lifelong dream. But as he stands here before you, his gaze locked on his wrists and his shoulders sagging with shame, you know Mr. Seo had the correct read on him, after all.

“You can’t quit,” you utter reluctantly. “You can’t give up your life’s work because you’re afraid of losing.”

“And be made to look like a complete idiot? Yeah, great idea. I’ll be the first boxer to lose a winning streak to a title fight in over 20 years. That makes me a loser in every sense of the word.”

“This fight isn’t about winning it,” you counter. “It’s about showing up. You think your role models won anything by forfeiting?”

“You don’t get it,” He retorts, a frustrated scoff leaving his lips. “You never will. You’re just here to write some story for your own benefit.”

He seems to regret the words when they escape his lips, evident by the way he meets your gaze and toys with the hem of his shirt awkwardly. And he begins to apologize, but not before you’re interrupting him again.

“Write a story?” You repeat with a scoff, taking a single step toward him and narrowing your eyes. “You think I’m just here to write a story? Is that what you think this is?”

“I could never even begin to explain it to you,” Chan says finally, lowering his head in defeat. “Just… forget it.”

The words pierce through your miraculously still-beating heart, and you can almost feel your blood boil when you see him pivot away from you to make his departure.

Your eyes force themselves away from him, far too agitated with the sight of him to even warrant a brief glance in his direction. And as you stare past him at the gray gallery wall, your gaze meets the familiar sight of the monochromatic photograph, the subject beaming down at you while you search for a final word.

“You know what?” You voice to him, sounding much calmer now as you find the confidence to speak. “You are a loser.”

“What?” He questions, halting his steps to turn his head in your direction.

“I called you a loser,” you emphasize, observing the way he turns to face you now. “Any respectable boxer would know that I’ve always been here to tell your story, not conjure up some sensationalized version of it. Forgive me for caring so much about all of this. About you.”

Chan remains quiet, interest piqued at the way you manage to reach a stalemate with your carefully chosen words. And then he plants two feet on the floor, toying with the straps of the boxing bandages around his knuckles, as he turns away from you and begins toward the back of the gym.

“I’m talking to you,” you practically shout, following in his footsteps and pulling yourself through the gap off the raised platform. You stumble as your feet plant themselves onto the floor, and then you walk briskly behind him, eyebrows furrowed crossly as frustrated tears brim your eyes.

“Sure, just walk away from all of this,” you shout at him, growing increasingly irate at the way he struts down the hallways in front of you, not even switching on the lights as you trail behind him.

“And you know what? Your mom is right,” you voice at him loudly. “You are so fucking preoccupied at being the best at what you do, and that’s exactly what brings you down. It’s like pulling teeth trying to talk to you. I’ve seen it in all you pretentious athletes before, but you’re by far the worst.”

Chan turns a corner, still silent at your remarks as he makes his way into a narrow tiled hallway and into the gym showers. The thought crosses your mind to leave, knowing that you have no business following your video subject into the men’s showers. And yet you don’t, maintaining your stance confidently as you watch him toy with the faucet handle on the wall.

“You don’t even realize the way being so cold affects the people around you. The way they so clearly worry about you- and all you can do is dismiss them, and lie to their fucking faces. Everybody’s walking on eggshells around you.”

Chan pushes the steel lever to the right, and you take a step back when the shower head begins to run with a steady stream of water, cascading over his lean figure as he remains standing. You stutter to speak as you watch Chan pull the black t-shirt he wears over his head, discarding it onto the now wet tiled floor and running two hands through his dampened hair.

And your eyes make every effort to refrain from staring too hard at the toned body he reveals to you- dripping in beads of sweat and water alike, trickling down the muscular contours of his chiseled abs and finding purchase along the elastic waistband of his shorts.

The etched convexes of his pectorals flex with subtle movements as his head hangs, brows furrowed in deep concentration as he pulls on the tightly-bound bandages around his knuckles- to no avail, the water drenching them as he continues to tug on them frustratedly.

“I hope you know that the silent treatment won’t do anything for you,” you admonish, approaching him with a single step.

You recall his strong aversion to getting his bandages wet, so instinctively your hands find his, pinching the nylon fabric between your fingers and beginning to undo the bandages around his bruised fingers as his gaze fixes onto yours.

He says nothing, the damp ends of his hair dribbling warm droplets of water onto your shirt as he towers over you, the running shower drowning out the sounds of his heavy breathing as he admires you at this proximity to him.

Your ears are flushed a deep shade of red, still riddled with clear frustration as you rant to him about all his shortcomings- and yet he can’t shake the endearing fact that you’re still helping him, despite the callous words you throw at him.

“Asshole,” he hears you utter, amongst his own deafening thoughts of you. “You can go your whole life running away from all of this whenever you feel the slightest bit threatened, and you might be fooling everybody else, but not me. I know boxing hasn’t inhibited you to be this shell of a human. Good luck with everything,” you snap, pulling the last of the bandage off from around his hands.

“But I hope you know that not even a trophy could refute the fact that you’re a fucking loser.”

Chan lets a breathy chuckle escape his lips, eyes flickering over your pursed lips when you finally crane your neck to look up at him. He’s properly drenched now, strands of hair falling into his face as his expression grows serious.

Neither of you say anything, heavy breaths escaping your parted lips and swirling into each other as he waits for you to make your departure. And yet you don’t, your chest rising and falling with labored breaths as you observe the way his eyelashes glisten under the cascading water. You watch the way the water collects along his philtrum, fusing into one reflective sphere along his top lip and dangling as he searches for the words to say- and he can’t find them, simply shutting his eyes as the water streams over his eyelids, practically forcing them shut.

He waits for the sound of your departing footsteps, or maybe for the shower to shut off if you’re even the slightest bit keen on talking things out.

And yet his body relaxes down into yours when he feels you heighten your still-standing figure, shifting your weight onto the tips of your toes so that you can brush strands of wet hair out of his face.

He shivers in your touch, exhaling a breath he hasn’t realized he’s been holding in this whole time. And then he works against you with ease when you finally press your lips to his, allowing the water to transfer from his open mouth to yours, the salty flavor of his sweat still present on your tongue.

Chan doesn’t say anything when you pull away once more, mentally preparing himself for you to scold him, slap him, something to confirm that you loathe him the way he believes you now do. But it’s the last thing he expects when you cup his face between your hands again, pulling him down toward you and allowing his troubled expression to meet your gaze.

You think to kiss him again, your eyes flickering briefly over his- but you don’t, simply giving him a short nod when you finish speaking.

It’s Chan who opts to kiss you again, with more intensity the second time around, his hands finding the small of your back when he pulls you in against him and allows his lips to work against yours. Your hands press to his toned stomach, grazing fingertips along his flesh as he pulls you a little closer, and you make no effort to push him away or halt your forbidden actions,

Your head is in a daze- somewhere between seething and perhaps also roused as a result of it, knowing very well that this is possibly the worst way you could handle the situation.

He’s stubborn and dejected, and though he knows that being vulnerable is the only way to come to terms with what boxing has become for him, he only seeks resolution by opting to put a lifetime of work behind him. And it’s driving you mad, to practically beg him to let you in like this- yet it feels like the only way to shut yourself up from negotiating with the shell of the man he’s become is to remain exactly like this, your lips on his, hands all over each other, letting gasped breaths escape your lips as he works his kisses along your jawline.

“I missed you,” Chan confesses with a groan as he tilts your face further up between the gentle hold of his thumb and index finger.

You say nothing back, shutting your eyes as you allow his lips to travel down the column of your neck, his hands lowering to find yours and take your wrists in his grasp. He resumes desperate little kisses down your neck, walking you back along the tiled flooring, until your body is effectively slotted between Chan and the wall below the shower head. And when he pulls back momentarily to let his thumbs caress the curves of your hips, the water cascades over you, too, engulfing you in a steady stream of water and wetting the clothes you still wear. Chan watches, mesmerized, as the white fabric of your blouse clings around your body like cellophane, outlining every convex along your flesh, your hair dripping with beads of water and hanging loosely into your face as you look up at him.

“What are you thinking about?” He inquires softly, tucking a strand of hair out of your face.

You pause for a moment, your eyes locked on the droplets of water that trickle down the tiled wall across from you. He scans your expression as he awaits an answer, using his index finger to tilt your face toward him again. The shower seems to drown out in white noise for a moment, Chan’s gaze flickering over your trembling eyes as he waits. Your mind goes back to the feeling of being in that boxing ring- far too big, and yet claustrophobic, at the same time, especially at the thought of hundreds of eyes on you. You think of your camera, and the sight of the little red light blinking to indicate it was recording him, and how it remained angled at him for hours at a time most days, capturing every little movement he produced. You think of the newspaper publications, the faces of the viewers who recognize him in public, even the worried expressions of the people closest to him as he bites back from indulging them in the truth about all of this.

And then you swallow, confidently straightening your posture, as you finally provide an answer.

“I think about you a suffocating amount.”

He cocks his head, rolling his tongue against the inside of his cheek, visibly satisfied with your response.

“Yeah?” He questions. “Missed me that much?”

You let out a small gasp when he lowers his lips to your chest, and then he places a single, open-mouthed kiss on the curve of your breast, his pupils flickering to hold eye contact as he does.

“Maybe,” you breathe back to him, feeling your throat still bubble with vexation. “Of course maybe I was just looking forward to watching your fight.”

He places another kiss, and then another, and then several more, traveling inward until he’s just between the valley of your breasts. And then he lifts his head up again, grazing over your parted lips, but not yet kissing you.

“I’m afraid of what will happen,” he says in almost a whisper, toying with the damp hem of your blouse.

And Chan smiles between the tender kiss when you pull him back down and indulge him anyway, allowing the indignation you feel at the hands of him to be replaced by the pulsing sensation between your legs, shutting up your thoughts with the erotic sight of him shirtless, hands all over your wet body as you melt into his touch.

“Then do it afraid,” you tell him.

You breathe between heavy kisses as his hands snake down to your blouse, rolling buttons between the pads of his fingers to undo them. He hums into the kiss when you do, letting your hands tangle in his hair as the final button is undone, your blouse hanging open loosely and exposing your chest to the cold water that continues to streamline over your desperate bodies.

You can feel Chan smirk into the kiss, entirely too satisfied with the method you’ve both chosen to adjourn this prolonged chapter of tension that seems to exist every time he’s near- of words unspoken, knowing looks and stories that barely scrape the surface of who he really is. And though you’re still peeved at his reluctance, it feels right to be all over him like this- perhaps this is the closest you’ll ever get to him, when he’s looming over you with every desire to undress you and know the curves of your body as intimately as you long to know his mind.

The thoughts agitate you the more you ruminate on them, and yet every annoyance is shut up by the sensation of his mouth working against yours, hands snaking down to the small of your back again where he sprawls his fingertips out over the goosebumps raised along your skin.

Of course Chan will never admit that perhaps this is the closest he’s ever gotten to letting somebody into the innermost complexities of his mind- but still, he’s well aware that the desire to let you in is heightened by the reality that he wants you to know him fully.

“Is this okay?” he breathes again, as his fingers graze a little lower, his touch sending shivers down your spine.

The audible groan you emit practically relays an answer to him already, yet he smiles devilishly in response to your clear frustration, your hand tracing eagerly along the waistband of his shorts. You don’t have to advance any lower to know that he’s definitely hard for you- it’s clear in the way he whimpers at the near-contact, his breathing growing ragged when you hum softly into his mouth and tug at his hair a little.

“Answer me,” Chan commands, his hands finding their way to your pants and toying similarly along your waist. Your hand rests atop his, guiding him to pull them lower as if granting him permission, and then he wastes no time discarding them entirely, tugging the soaked fabric that clings to your thighs harshly down your body and allowing them to pool around your ankles.

“Yes, it’s okay,” you gasp, moaning softly when his lips reattach to your neck.

Your lingerie is already soiled, clinging tightly against the outline of your body, and Chan’s clothes now clearly outline his fully-erect cock, strained against the thin fabric of his shorts and desperate for some release.

The shower temperature seems to have risen several degrees with the passing time, cascading over you with almost scalding water as you feel Chan’s hands lower to take yours in his. He caresses your wrists as he pulls away from your lips momentarily, and then he spins you around to press you gently against the wall, his lips finding purchase in the shell of your ear as he prods into your lower thigh from behind. He feels big against you, his whole body indicating his clear desire to take you right here, in the hardly-private environment of the gym showers, and you shiver when you feel him work kisses down the column of your neck once more, now latching your flesh between his teeth to suck a line of bruises where his lips trail.

The reality crosses your mind again, briefly, that you’re definitely not supposed to be getting physically intimate with an interview subject for a second time now. But when his hands trail down to trace behind the strap of your bra, tugging on the fabric until his nimble fingers are working over the clasp, you don’t dare utter a single word of protest at him.

Unlike the way he retracts from opening himself up to you, his movements now are purposeful. He knows what he wants in the way he so skillfully undoes the clasp of your bra, letting it fall to the floor in a puddle of water as his hands now find the mounds of your breasts. And he has clear intentions when he then slips his hands into the sides of your panties and tugs harshly, letting those pool around your ankles too, now, his hands massaging the curves of your ass as you arch instinctively and wait for him to continue.

“Will you let me return the favor now?” Chan asks boldly when his hands travel back to his own shorts. He touches himself over the fabric of his shorts, cupping a hand around his own hard girth to then stroke himself with just enough pressure to coax a heavy exhale from the back of his throat. And when you nod beneath his touch, swallowing the shower water that dribbles from between your lips to rest upon your tongue, his fingers find your face, tilting just enough to meet your gaze with his.

“I didn’t hear you,” Chan states, not yet undressing himself. “Say it.”

“Yes,” you breathe back, hoping the impatience in your voice isn’t picked up so easily in your tone. You’d beg him to fuck you if you weren’t already begging him to let down his stubborn walls.

He smirks at your near-desperation, and then his hands resume the action of gliding upon the grooves on the elastic waistband of his shorts- only this time, he tugs them down in tandem with his boxers, allowing his exposed erection to grow against his abdomen as his clothes fall to the tile beneath him. His hand wraps itself around the base of his cock, positioning himself behind you and pumping himself a few times. And then before he makes any move to enter you, his hand slots itself between your legs, resting along your upper thigh as he presses a chaste kiss to your shoulder.

“I still think you’re a loser,” You say to Chan, for the second time now, gasping when you feel his fingers graze your clit and rub in circular motions. “If you walk away from all of this.”

“Yeah?” he says with a breathy chuckle, pressing a series of open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder. “Is this your way of saying you care about me?”

“Hardly,” you breathe back, eyebrows arching in pleasure when he quickens the pace of his movements.

“I see the way you look at me,” Chan whispers against the shell of your ear. “Either you’re really passionate about this story,” his fingers prod against your entrance, gathering the slick of your arousal onto the pads of his fingers before dipping them into your cunt and smiling when you gasp in response. “Or you’re just as drawn to me as I am to you.”

“Am I right?” He says when you arch back against him, gasping as he moves his fingers in, and then out, swirling them around your clit and back inside of you once more. “Tell me,” he continues. “Do you always get this wet for the people you interview?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you breathe back, your chest rising and falling with every labored breath as he resumes his thrusting motions in a rhythmic pattern. “You’re the one who drags me everywhere with you like I’m your fucking assistant.”

“You could’ve declined,” Chan says plainly, his tongue finding your neck and tracing along your throat in one long stripe, before latching his teeth around the flesh as he had previously. “I think you just like me.”

You begin to respond, quickly unable to as he thrusts his fingers at a particularly fast pace now, your words coming out as a series of high-pitched moans, instead. You silently pray he can’t tell you’re enjoying this entirely too much.

He pulls his fingers out again, and you spread your thighs a little to grant him access to your clit once more, yet he doesn’t indulge you, simply letting his hand find your waist again and caressing your damp skin.

“Why’d you stop?” You say a little too abruptly, earning a chuckle from him as his hand wraps around the base of his cock.

“Someone’s eager,” Chan remarks, and you mentally scold yourself for audibly sounding it.

“Just hurry up, will you?”

His hand caresses the vein that runs along his shaft, thumb toying with his pink tip as he hums in response to your anticipation. And then he pauses again, before tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

You watch as Chan’s neck cranes up, too, his adam’s apple bobbing outwardly as he faces up at the shower head that continues to shoot a steady stream of water over your tangled bodies. He shuts his eyes momentarily, allowing the water to cascade in two streams down his cheeks now as it makes contact over his pronounced nose bridge. And then you watch his plump lips part above you, the flow of water merging into one steady stream once more as he lets it fill his mouth, his chin almost trembling as he struggles to take it all in one mouthful, quickly spilling over and dribbling down his chin. He doesn’t swallow the mouthful, he doesn’t dispose of it as he turns to meet your gaze again. Instead, he angles your face toward him with the gentle maneuver of his thumb on your chin, his lips pulling as much as they can into a cocky grin as he cups your face and allows your mouth to remain agape for him.

No words are exchanged as he partakes in the lewd action of allowing the water to dribble down into your mouth, strings of saliva accompanying the salty taste of his sweat and the metallic taste of gym shower water. He allows his mouth to fully empty into yours, guiding strings of saliva back between your parted lips when your respective mouthful begins to spill over, too. And then as the caress of his thumb along your chin instructs you non-verbally to swallow it, to let the concoction dribble down to the back of your throat and glide with ease past your trembling lips, he’s guiding himself inside of you at the same time, his hands spreading your thighs as he guides his cock into your entrance and holds it there for a still moment.

You want to verbally remark how big he feels inside of you, but you can’t speak just yet as you swallow the remainder of his saliva, gasping for a breath when he pulls back to then thrust into you with a little more force. And then his hand reaches around to your clit once more, the pads of his fingers working you in circles again as he begins to move with rhythmic motions.

“Are you okay?” Chan asks in a gentle voice, as he gathers your hair with his vacant hand, draping it over your shoulder to press a chaste kiss against your neck.

You nod quickly in response, far too overcome by the sheer pleasure of his flesh working in and out of your glistening walls to give him a proper answer, and he takes the heavy panting that escapes your lips as answer enough.

“God you feel so fucking good,” Chan remarks, as he gives your hair a little tug. “I’ve been thinking about this. About you.”

He lets his eyes shut in a blissful state of euphoria as he fucks you, satisfied groans escaping his lips as his fingers grasp at your flesh eagerly, careful not to loosen his hold on you as though he might lose you.

And then before he can ponder the implications of his breathless speech, he’s breaking the silence again, regret overtaking his dizzied state the moment he speaks again.

“What are you thinking about?”

The words are near insensitive as it now stands, and Chan knows very well that he’s going to be met with some version of dispute from your breathless figure. But you surprise him for the second time this evening, when you don’t argue against his callous actions, instead letting your lips part in pleasure as you breathe out a response.

“You,” the simple answer conveys. And Chan can feel his cock twitch inside of you at the admission, another groan escaping his parted lips as he feels himself grow twice as roused at the fact that he consumes your thoughts just as much as you do his.

Between the rhythmic sounds of his groans that precede your gasps for air, muffled by the steady stream of the shower that nearly drowns out your voices the same way the pleasure nearly drowns out your thoughts, you feel his hand reach around to grasp your fingers between his. He gives it a gentle squeeze as he angles your parted legs toward the shower stream, letting the water cascade in a pulsing vibration directly on your clit. And the dizzying sensation of your joint frustration and pleasure only reminds you that the thoughts are not limited to just him.

Thinking about Bang Chan extends far beyond just the charming public figure he now is- they exist in a capacity much larger than a longing to know him for the purposes of any stupid docuseries. The thoughts of him transcend the superficial established connection of a subject behind a camera lens- instead, you long to know the very intricacies of his consciousness, to pick his mind and comprehend his real fears, his hangups, his shortcomings and his plan for a life beyond this one. It’s a longing to know him beyond just his tales of guts and glory, and this life he’s so scrupulously centered around his boxing career.

He’s purposeful- in his strategy and his movements, and you’re quickly brought back to the gym locker showers when you feel him spread your lips a little wider toward the shower stream, earning a fervent moan from you as you feel his cock twitch again inside of you.

“Fuck,” Chan exhales, through gritted teeth, as he staves off his orgasm momentarily.

He observes the way your eyebrows arch in sheer pleasure, all fucked-out as you take him so obediently and allow the shower to pleasure you where he can’t. And then he angles your face toward him as he indulges you in one final sloppy kiss against your parted lips, the lewd remnants of sweat and spit and water still exchanging from his body onto yours.

“I’m sorry,” is all Chan can breathe against your lips, as he assists you in reaching your finish, giving your hand an affirming squeeze as your legs tremble in his touch, your walls contracting around his cock, as the shower water that cascades onto the floor is now mixed with your juices and and the echoing sounds of your high-pitched moans. And Chan nibbles on the lobe of your ear, confessing a string of apologies as he reaches his finish now, too, filling your still-aching body with his load and not loosening his grasp around your fingers.

Before pulling out, his trembling hand finds the steel handle of the shower, which he pushes into an ‘off’ position once more, before relaxing his figure against yours, hands finding purchase on your hips as you both catch your breath.

The tiled room grows much quieter now as heavy breaths escape both of your parted lips, chests rising and falling against each other as his chin rests on your shoulder.

The stream of the shower has now reduced to the repetitive tap of dripping water along the floor, echoing in the near-silence of the steamy room as you remain pressed against each other, bodies languid and far too drained of your frustrations to speak.

And yet amidst the eerie silence of the room, Chan speaks in a voice above a whisper, his fingertips intertwining with each other as he tightens his grasp around your frame.

“I’ll do it,” he says breathlessly, taking your hand in his and bringing it up to his lips for a tender kiss to your knuckles.

“Do what?” You challenge, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair out from his eyes.

He chuckles softly, cocking his head as you await a response.

“Say it,” you reiterate, and he rolls his eyes playfully before answering.

“I’ll do the fight,” Chan says finally, his shoulders seeming to relax when he comes down to rest his forehead against yours. “I’ll show up, and I’ll do this match.”

His head hangs as his figure towers over yours, fingers giving yours a little squeeze before he finishes speaking.

“And we can finish telling this story together.”

And the gentle gargle of the shower drain succeeds his words, disposing a mix of sweat and water and arousal alike.

GOLDEN GLOVES CHAMPIONSHIP TITLE FIGHT- BANG CHAN VS. KANG-DAE

It’s not unusual for boxers to flaunt a long list of rituals on fight days. Some have particular food specifications the night before, others ensure a strict routine of stretches. You distinctly recall a few playlists shared by previous athletes you’ve interviewed, and even lucky articles of clothing for others.

For Bang Chan, sherbet popsicles are a considerable factor in his pre-boxing rituals. And yet for the first time in his career, they’re unavailable to him.

“You tried the convenience stores on the south side?” He asks again, pacing back and forth as Mr. Seo slings his belongings into a gray storage locker.

“All sold out,” Mr. Seo explains. “There’s a few similar ones in the freezer at the back. Not sure if you wanna give those a try.”

Bang Chan thinks it over momentarily, electing not to respond as frustratedly as he wants to. And then he shoves his hands in the pockets of his gym shorts, hanging his head in defeat.

All around him, the hallways of the stadium are teeming with movement- from security in black jumpsuits traversing the rooms, sports commentators readying their equipment, makeup artists organizing their respective supplies. Even Mr. Seo seems to be heads-down in his own tasks, hardly uttering words of consolidation as he makes his way over to another staff member.

And all Chan can do is simply wait, in the green room, for further direction, as he tries his best not to get in the way. Mr. Seo had once described this part of the process as a “hurry up and wait” sort of phenomenon- something Chan never fully understood until he was participating in some of his biggest fights to date. The makeup artists will usher him to a swivel chair, where they’ll begin with a base of primer on his face, and then they’re gone again, disappearing to retrieve more supplies from beyond the green room. Staff members will begin to explain the timeline of this evening’s events, and then they’re quickly caught up in an entirely different conversation, not even completing their sentences before they’re a whole room away from him.

Even Mr. Seo will begin a pep talk, reminding Chan to “loosen up”, and that “whatever happens, happens”- and then he’s absent once again, too, quickly reminded of something he’s forgotten back at his designated locker.

So all Chan can do is wait, his eyes scanning rows of photographs that line the unfamiliar walls of this foreign stadium.

He’s entirely riddled with fear, the way he always is before a fight. Yet his thoughts are also plagued with you, and you, and more of you, as he recalls the way all of his previous evenings alongside you had unfolded.

Perhaps all of the desperate kisses you’d exchanged, and the now several times you allowed him to return the favor, served as pre-ritual enough for Chan, who practically bites back a smile when he remembers the way your delicate fingers weaved between his, reassuring him for one final time that he’s not a loser for showing up.

All of your sagely words circle his mind as though he’s indulging himself once more in the sacred moment of a boy and his favorite sherbet popsicle- apologetic confessions that he’d become an object of fascination for you. A myriad of shaky words detailing a sheer gratitude for allowing you to know him this intimately, the way he’s been withholding from the people closest to him. And although his truths had been publicly broadcast, a newfound appreciation for this level of vulnerability.

And he’s quickly brought back to reality when Mr. Seo makes his entrance again, folded blue satin grasped tightly in his hold.

“Robe’s here,” Mr. Seo explains, as he nears Chan’s seated figure. Chan cranes his neck to catch a glimpse of the familiar article of clothing- blue, upon his mother's particular liking to his first pair of sparring mitts.

The whole room seems to halt their actions and stare when Chan finally rises from his seat, pulling his ribbed white tank top off over his torso with the swift motion of a hand. And beneath the bright lights of the green room, a series of camera flashes illuminates the space around him, as they capture the first moments he’s finally undressed.

“Arms out,” Mr. Seo commands.

He assists in pulling the robe over Chan’s broad shoulders, smoothing down the silken fabric as Chan adjusts the collar.

Another staff member unbeknownst to Chan gestures for his hands, where she begins to wrap nylon around his knuckles. One more readies his boxing gloves, pulling open the velcro from around the closure strap.

Makeup artists begin to circle him again, brushing powder along his nose and instructing him to pout his lips for chapstick.

As they prepare him for the biggest title fight of his career, Chan can still only think of you.

He knows you’re prohibited from interacting prior to the fight- rules which you mutually opted to establish, knowing it would be entirely too difficult to conceal your emotions in the presence of each other. But the fact stands, that he misses you, and that in the absence of his typical pre-fight ritual, you’re the only other means of instilling a sense of calmness within him.

“Kang-Dae’s already here,” Mr. Seo then says, as he fastens the strings of Chan’s robe.

“He’s here?” Chan echoes, eyes widening as the realization sets in.

He pictures the green room opposite to his in the stadium; it’s probably just as busy, with staff members working to prepare Kang-Dae for what will also be the biggest fight of his career. Chan realizes for the first time that he’ll be face to face with the same figure he’s spoken so highly of, the same person he’s made strategic efforts not to run into, and the same person he’ll now be facing in the ring- not just a practice match against Mr. Seo, or even a punching bag.

“He arrived not long ago,” Mr. Seo explains. “We have 15 minutes until entrance.”

Chan rotates his hands, at the staff’s request, as they fasten the black sparring mitts around his fists. And then his gaze falls to the mirror across from him as another stripe of powder is brushed along his nose.

His eyes scan his own standing figure for a moment- he looks taller than usual, and stronger, his shoulders pulling back as the blue satin robe hangs loosely around his toned body. His hair is smoothed back again with a gel comb, his shoes knotted three times at the laces.

And then his gaze falls to the standing figure behind him, as you make entrance into the green room at last, a colleague by your side and a team of cameras filing in after you.

“… you can begin setting up in ten,” a staff member directs them, gesturing to the hallway beyond them.

You do your best to register the instructions, nodding your head as they speak right past you, yet completely unable to do so, as Chan’s lips pull into a closed-lip smile.

He can say nothing at the sight of you, simply admiring the elegant black double-breasted dress you sport, your hair pulled back to flaunt a sophisticated makeup look. And your eyes remain locked with his for a passing moment, as you examine his appearance in all its glory- the way the blue satin robe falls loosely around his chiseled abs, the glow of his makeup under the bright lightning, even the new sight of his gelled hair, pushed out of his face to reveal his handsome features to you.

He hardly looks familiar to you this way- much less like the Chan you know at the proximity of his lips on yours, and more like renowned boxer Bang Chan, the way the rest of the world refers to him.

Mr. Seo seems to take notice of Chan’s eyes on yours, his gaze flickering over Chan’s intense stare in the mirror and then around to you, who scrambles to face your camera crew once more. He smooths down the collar of Chan’s robe one last time, giving him a pat on the shoulders, and then he calls out to the nearby staff in a moment of understanding.

“Let’s give Bang Chan a moment,” he says, gesturing to the hallway with a cock of his head. “We’ll make entrance in ten.”

The makeup crew packs the last of their belongings, shuffling out with briefcases of pallets and brushes. Security assume their positions just past the door in the hallway, shutting the heavy steel door behind them, and Mr. Seo leads the rest of the crew out, shooting Chan a small wink as he observes you maintain a safe distance from Chan.

When the green room is finally cleared, the steel door shutting fully with an echoing thud, Chan pivots to face you, leaning back on the vanity, his hands shoved into the pockets of his robe.

“Hi,” he muses curiously.

You take several steps toward him, arms crossed at the elbows, and then you halt in front of him, tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

“You look cool,” you tell him, the corners of your lips pulling up into a smile. “Like a winner.”

He chuckles softly, standing up straight now, his broad figure towering over you as he maintains an amused smile. He begins to close the gap between your smiling figures, but you reach a hand out to stop him, sprawling your fingers out across his stomach and pushing him away lightly.

“You can’t kiss me,” you say to him. “It’s bad luck.”

“Oh really?” Chan questions. “Says who?”

“Says me,” you voice back, chuckling softly in response. “You just got your makeup done. And I don’t want to run the risk of being seen by somebody.”

“There’s nobody around,” he emphasizes, taking your hands in his. “Besides, the makeup’s going to get ruined enough as it is.”

“Still,” you say to him, reaching up to run a finger along his gelled hair. He searches for the words to refute your argument again, but instead he’s silent, cocking his head to observe your expression.

“If I can’t kiss you,” he begins. “I think it’s only fair that you indulge me in a story. For good luck.”

You smile up at him, thinking it over a second. He rubs his fingers over yours tenderly as he awaits a response, and then his expression grows serious again when you begin to produce one.

“In 1988, Baik Hyun-Man was the first heavyweight boxer of his kind to make it to the Olympics. He trained for an incredible amount of time, and he swept in his division that same year.”

Chan nods as you speak, recounting the tale in his own mind.

“Two years later, he retired. And the world didn’t know what to make of him. In his final speech to the world, he detailed his reasoning- that maybe through tales of his, of guts and glory,”

“… we find our footing in the knowledge that we tried,” Chan finishes.

He says nothing as your lips pull into a smile, mirroring his.

And then he gives you an understanding nod, as a knock is heard on the steel door, indicating time for his entrance.

The arena is almost deafening with heavy anticipation when you finally make your entrance, assuming a reserved spot at the front, amidst the rows of occupied seats. Spectators sport face paint and signs, balancing buckets of popcorn in their elbows and chugging gargantuan cups of soft drinks and alcohol. The chatter of sports commentators can already be heard overhead as they detail the sight to viewers at home. And as you glance around the arena, you can’t help but worry for Chan, who you know already feels suffocated enough in the confines of the practice gym.

The same emotions you harbor when staring out at the gym are elevated- perhaps tenfold, as you lose sight of the rows in the shadows beyond the bright white recess lighting. Your cameras are set up alongside you by the crew, who assemble the tripods and angle the lens toward the ring.

And you watch nervously, waiting for sight of Chan’s entrance. Your eyes scan the sea of people, who talk excitedly amongst themselves, and then back to the boxing ring, which seems to glow under the blinding white lights- and then your attention is drawn back to the seat beside you, as a figure shuffles past toward you.

“Mrs. Bang!” You exclaim, bowing graciously as she mirrors your action.

“So good to see you again!” she states, a warm smile on her face. “We’re sitting just that way.”

She points to the right of your spot, and beyond rows of fans, you can clearly locate what appears to be the rest of Chan’s family, who greet you with smiles and excited waves.

“Wow, there’s so many of you,” you say back to her, chuckling lightly as you wave them down.

“We’ve never missed a match,” she explains. “He always knows where to find us.”

The statement is comforting to you, as you recall how nervous Chan is to have hundreds of eyes on him at any given moment- at least among a sea of spectators, he can always still count on a few familiar faces rooting for him.

“Listen,” she begins to say. “I wanted to thank you for this whole film. We had a long conversation about it, following the second part of his series. I always knew it was taxing for him- I guess I just hadn’t realized how scared he was of all this.”

She lowers her voice to just above a whisper, glancing nervously at her side, before continuing to speak.

“It was eye-opening for all of us, to view it from a different perspective. We all want him to win- just not at the cost of his well being.”

You’re quick to shake your head, shooting her an understanding smile.

“I wanted to apologize to you- I didn’t know they were going to air a lot of it,” you tell her. “I didn’t mean for his secrets to be so… televised.”

“Don’t apologize,” Mrs. Bang reassures you. “It’s the kind of honesty nobody’s been able to coax out of him before. Sure, it reached a lot of people. But it was bound to, considering how long he’s kept all of this from us. Sometimes when we’re most vulnerable, it’s the only time we’re able to truly understand what we want.”

You ponder her words momentarily, not yet separating from her gaze, as her lips pull into a small smile. You see a lot of Chan in her- restless when she’s distressed, and yet a robust willingness to decipher a meaning from all of the pain. She’s enchanting the same way Chan is- it’s no wonder he holds his family so close to his heart.

“Thank you,” is all you can utter in reply, as she reaches out a hand to give your forearm a squeeze.

“Whatever happens tonight,” she voices. “I’m glad we got to tell this story. I think you’ve done a fine job at knowing him.”

You return her words with a smile of your own, your eyes darting back to the ring, where staff members circle about and make their final preparations.

“It’s not over yet,” you remind her. “We’re still telling it.”

And she shoots you a knowing wink, as she bows graciously and begins back toward her designated seating.

When the spotlight illuminates over the west wing of the arena, the rest of the venue goes dark, crescendoed chatter making itself known all around you as fans eagerly await the entrance of both athletes.

“… tonight’s biggest match of the year here at the Golden Gloves Championship,” you can hear a commentator announce from the platform far above you.

“Bang Chan vs. Kang-Dae, a battle of undefeated superstars, scheduled for 12 rounds of boxing. Ladies and gentlemen, I introduce to you our participants in tonight’s main show.”

All eyes seem to shift nervously over the west wing, squinting amidst the contrast lighting to make out whose entrance will precede the next. And when the commentator begins to speak again, your heart practically drops in your chest, when you observe the first.

“Introducing to you first, on my right, fighting out of the red corner, wearing red mitts,” he begins. “A campaign record of 23 wins, 19 coming by way of knockout. Please welcome the hard-hitting, former lightweight champ of the second division, boxer Kang-Dae.”

Your eyes fall to his looming figure on the left, observing the way he jogs in place, a bright red robe draped over his muscular build as he wears a cocky smile on his face.

He sports a shaved head, cracking his neck with a jerky movement of his neck, his buff build flexing beneath the overhead lights. If you’d previously assumed Chan to assume the appearance of an arrogant athlete, Kang-Dae’s definitely broken that record now, made even more clear in the way he raises his fists to the audience and circles the ring as they cheer for him.

“And on my left,” the commentator begins, your head snapping to the other side of the ring.

“Fighting out of the blue corner, wearing blue mitts, completely undefeated in his division on a rampant winning-streak. A total of 40 wins, 26 coming by way of knockout, we welcome the electrifying king of boxing and rising star to fame, champion boxer Bang Chan.”

The lights are illuminated over Chan’s standing figure now, and your heart skips several beats when you witness his powerful stance in all its glory, for the first time in a professional setting.

Chan adjusts the velcro around his wrists, pulling it taut between his teeth, craning his neck out at the audience, before raising a single fist and shooting the spectators a nervous, closed-lip smile.

The crowd is much louder this time around, the entire arena erupting in a sea of applause and cheers, as he rolls his shoulders back now, his gaze finally falling onto Kang-Dae’s.

You reckon you could cut the tension with a knife when they make visual contact, their eyes darting over each other’s statures and mentally relaying words of self-righteousness at one another. Although Bang Chan is visibly nervous, he looks angry, the same way he does when he’s throwing punches in the practice ring. As they approach each other at the center, your gaze is drawn back to the referee, who holds a hand out in front of each of their figures, beginning to voice a list of rules.

“Touch ‘em up,” he tells them, as you watch them raise their mitts to make contact just once, before retreating to their respective corners.

The noise is drowned out momentarily amidst your own thoughts, eyes scanning nervously over Chan’s figure, as you watch Mr. Seo fit a mouth guard over his teeth. He talks loudly over the deafening cheers as he relays some form of instruction to him, giving his shoulders an affirming tap and gesturing to Kang-Dae.

Your own gaze falls to your camera crew, who meticulously adjust the lenses to not miss a second of Chan’s movements, and you chew the inside of your lip nervously as you wait for him to assume his position. On the overhead screen, you crane your neck up to catch a glimpse of their names in flashy text, illustrating ROUND 1 alongside a headshot you’ve never seen of Bang Chan.

And then before your gaze falls over his figure once more, the double chime of a boxing bell fills the room loudly, indicating start time for the two.

It happens faster than you were prepared for, when Kang-Dae lunges forward to deliver a harsh hook, just barely missing Bang Chan as they begin to circle around each other.

Both sides of the arena are equally deafening, fans practically rising from their seats to cheer for either member. Chan’s movements to dodge Kang-Dae are swift, yet sharp, as his blue mitts conceal his serious expression, his tongue rolling once over the harsh blue color of his mouth guard.

“Approaching the midway point of a cautious start to the first round,” a commentator states. “There’s a jab, from Bang Chan in the blue. Who just barely misses Kang-Dae’s dodge- folks, do you see that footwork?”

The screen overhead now displays a timer- 45 seconds left of round one, and you turn to your own cameras when you take note, observing the way Lin fidgets with the pan arm.

“He’s being careful,” Lin comments. “We should start seeing more action by round 3.”

Your lips part to say something, but you simply turn back to the ring again, eyes darting briefly over the screen.

20 seconds, 19, 18…

“It’s neutral,” another commentator states. No one’s attempting to put the other out just yet.”

14, 13, 12…

“Listen for that bell, gentleman,” the referee announces.

“A landing jab, from Bang Chan on the right! And time, right there.”

As both boxers return to their places, you can see Mr. Seo approach Chan, who assumes a spot on a little stool in his corner, exhaling sharply before he’s quickly surrounded.

“Perfect start,” Mr. Seo tells him, pulling the mouth guard out from between his teeth. “He’s gonna start making some hard moves at you. We’re looking for counters, right? Just be relaxed, and be light on your feet.”

Bang Chan nods, as somebody to the right of him brings forward a sports water bottle and gestures for him to take a swig. When he pulls away once more, they reach out to wipe a drop from the corner of his mouth. Another figure behind him runs what appears to be a bag of ice over the back of his neck, giving him a quick massage, before retracting.

Chan doesn’t say anything for the duration- he simply nods, seemingly regulating his breathing and focusing on Mr. Seo’s advice.

And when the break is called to an end, both parties meet at the middle of the ring again, as the referee ushers for them to start round 2.

The boxing bell is just as jarring the second time around, a double chime echoing loudly throughout the arena. And this time, Chan doesn’t waste a second lunging at Kang-Dae first, his fist making robust contact with his opponent’s stocky build, a loud thump revertebrating from the hit.

Kang-Dae seems to duck as he does, his fists coiling around Chan’s waist, as he holds him tightly in his grip and shoves him forward, earning the attention of the referee, who holds out two hands to stop them both.

“Stop, stop,” he calls out. “Not another until I say go,” he explains. And the two shoot furious looks at each other, before the referee announces “go!” once more. Kang-Dae dodges a series of quick punches from Chan, whose footwork remains light and skillful, as he circles the perimeter of the ring.

“Bang Chan utilizing lateral movement along the ropes,” a commentator says loudly. “Now, Kang-Dae is still excellent coming off the ring.”

Kang-Dae quickly coils his mitts around Bang Chan a second time, swiftly pushing him forward once more, and the referee is louder when he admonishes a second time.

“Back,” he tells Kang-Dae aggressively. “Can’t tie him in a hold.”

At a minute-thirty into the match, Chan delivers another punch, this time landing hard.

And with bated breath, you watch as Kang-Dae takes a harsh tumble to Chan’s left hook, quickly pulling himself off the floor again and retreating to his corner.

The audience erupts in roaring cheers as Chan adjusts the waistband of his shorts, rolling his tongue again over his mouth guard. The referee says something indistinguishable to Kang-Dae, who nods furiously in response, and then they meet in the middle of the ring again.

“After a slow start to round 1, Bang Chan drops Kang-Dae in round 2, marking only the second time to occur in his career,” the commentator announces. “We’re at 15 seconds left now.”

Both continue dodging a series of punches and circling each other, with neither delivering another jab as ceremonious as Chan’s for the remainder of round two. And then the referee calls time again, as the boxing bell chimes five times now, and they retreat to their corners once more.

While their respective teams make haste to tend to both athletes, the large screens overhead project highlights from round two in slow motion. You watch proudly as the recap shows Chan deliver a particularly harsh jab to Kang-Dae’s chest, lunging him backward until his footing is lost, his muscular thighs making contact with the floor of the ring. While he’s quick to get back up again, his expression is irate, and Chan does a perfect job of maintaining his stance when he attempts to hit back ten times harder.

“Focus,” Kang-Dae’s trainer tells him, as another member dabs at the beads of sweat that line his brow. “Don’t think about his campaigns. This is about you. Remember- he’s scared. Take advantage of it. Get up. Man up.”

Kang-Dae hardly produces an answer, simply grunting, as the mouth guard is pulled from between his teeth.

“He’s fast,” he says between labored breaths.

“Then be faster.”

On the opposing side of the ring, Mr. Seo pats Chan’s knee, pulling out his mouth guard and allowing him a swig of water.

“Atta boy,” he says to him. “Don’t overcommit. Perfect energy.”

Chan simply nods, rolling his shoulders back, as he’s massaged in the remaining seconds. And then they’re at the center of the ring once more, as the referee calls for round three.

Five rounds in, Bang Chan continues to take lead of the match, delivering a sharp uppercut to Kang-Dae’s jaw, which precedes another series of smaller punches.

The crowds seem to be much louder for Chan, his punches eliciting excited reactions from all over the arena as he throws hit after hit, and Kang-Dae’s expression appears defeated each time he retreats to his corner.

“Keep it coming,” Mr. Seo tells him. “Watch for those counters. Your hooks are perfect.”

He appears more breathless each time he hoists his body over the little stool, simply nodding in response to the praise around him. And right before the sixth match, he cranes his neck, as though he’s looking for somebody in the crowd of people. His eyes tremble as he scans over the east wing, and then the west wing, his staff members practically pivoting his body back in place to hydrate and clean him of sweat.

“Focus,” Mr. Seo says, forcing his gaze back upon him. Chan nods sheepishly- but Mr. Seo is well aware that Chan seems to be seeking you out amidst the crowd, a sort of desperation present within him like he’s never observed before.

He’s competent in this evening’s fight, but he also appears distracted, like there might be something more important to be found in your presence rather than the biggest fight of his life.

And ten rounds in, Mr. Seo’s theory proves correct when Chan’s performance begins to falter.

He fumbles a little in response to Kang-Dae’s swift attempts at a landing jab- and consequently, just enough to permit contact, failing to dodge when he produces a sharp uppercut to Chan’s left side.

It feels as though it’s another slow-motion replay when you watch it unfold, observing the way Chan’s whole body jerks to the left, his eyes squeezing shut and a stream of saliva escaping from between his parted lips. He successfully dodges another one at 10 seconds to the round’s conclusion, but he’s visibly rattled when they finally call for a break.

“Easy,” Mr. Seo instructs the staff who assist him onto the stool and pull his mouth guard away, strings of saliva finding purchase on his chin and then swiftly wiped off.

“What was that?” Mr. Seo questions. He’s stern, but still gentle in his speech, and Chan just shakes his head in response.

“Spit,” a staff member chimes in. Chan turns his head to expel a thick mix of saliva and bright crimson blood into a bucket, and then he holds it agape for a swig of water, swishing it over a deep cut on his inner lip before swallowing.

“Listen, you’re getting shaky out there,” Mr. Seo tells him. “What’s going on?”

“Where’s y/n?” Chan interjects, earning a deep sigh from Mr. Seo, who simply shrugs with his hands on his hips.

“Doesn’t matter,” he counters. “Don’t get distracted now. We’ve got three rounds left to win this thing.”

Chan’s shoulders seem to sag in disappointment, attempting to peer over his shoulder again for a glimpse of you, but Mr. Seo is quick to force Chan’s gaze back to him again.

“Listen to me,” he says sharply. “Get your head back on. You start getting distracted, and you’re practically handing him the belt. Focus.”

Chan hangs his head again, and then he nods understandingly, extending a hand to hoist himself back up.

“Two rounds,” Mr. Seo repeats. “Two more rounds, and you can take home the title. Knock him out.”

Chan nods again, as staff members tighten the velcro around his wrists once more, and then the timer reduces by the seconds, as he prepares to meet Kang-Dae in the center ring again.

When the boxing bell chimes twice for round eleven, Lin turns to you, arms folded at the elbows as she leans in to speak loudly above the chatter.

“Hey,” she says, and your head turns to meet her gaze.

She watches the match for a moment, admiring the sight of Chan dodging a hard jab, and then she resumes speaking.

“I know this series didn’t necessarily follow the footing you were expecting.”

You remain quiet, wanting for Lin to conclude her speech before producing any sort of response.

“But I wanted to say thank you. As of…” she glances at a wristwatch briefly, and then back to you, folding her arms again. “Fifteen minutes ago, we’re officially the most tuned-into channel for this fight. All because of your series.”

Your eyes widen when you meet her gaze properly, mouth parting in disbelief at her words.

“Are you serious?”

“I’m dead serious. Numbers are in, too- he averaged 15.2 thousand fans per broadcast. That’s more than twice of what we pulled in the last series.”

A breathy chuckle escapes your lips at the fact- it’s no secret this series was predicted to be huge for the channel, but you were hardly expecting to outdo your last by more than double the viewership.

Both your gazes fall to the ring, distracted momentarily at the sight of Chan delivering another hard jab to Kang-Dae’s side.

“I wanted to propose an offer,” Lin continues.

Your heartbeat quickens when she begins to speak the next part- perhaps she’ll convey to you that she knows broadcasting the moments which weren’t meant to be aired was wrong- and subsequently, it’ll be an offer to pull it from the channel entirely. Maybe she’ll acknowledge that you haven’t cared for this genre of series in a long while now, and suggest a transition to another topic.

“… for you to direct the next few parts, this time about his post-win life.”

You pause from viewing the match when she speaks, turning slowly to face her again, your expression visibly dropping at the proposal.

“Next… few parts?”

“That’s right. Seeing as he’s definitely going to win this thing, it’ll be huge. I’m thinking we can pivot to some… sports reality show, about Bang Chan only.”

She wears an amused smile on her face, nudging you with her elbow, as your gaze remains fixed on the match.

Below you, you watch Chan skillfully dodge a series of hooks, stumbling back on his feet.

And then in one swift movement, Kang-Dae delivers a strong uppercut to Chan’s left side, striking him hard in his jaw. You can hardly make out Chan’s demeanor when his whole body contorts to the left, his mitts coming up in an attempt to hold his jaw. But you can make out the unsightly image of blood and saliva trickling down the side of his mouth, and the way his eyes squeeze shut in a pained manner.

When the bell chimes five times to call for an end to round eleven, you shuffle quickly past Lin to the stairs, beginning your way down to where Chan’s team prepares a bucket and a towel. You don’t have any sort of plan devised, knowing very well that you’re prohibited from congregating in the midst of a match, but you make your descent anyway, overtaken with sheer panic at the sight of his weak silhouette.

“Hold that thought!” You call out to her, assisting yourself down the banister with the swift brush of your hand.

“What- where on earth are you going?” She calls, being met with no response, as she watches you near the blue corner of the ring.

“Is he okay?” You call out to Mr. Seo, quickly shuffling past Chan’s team to where he’s hoisted over the stool. His body lies limply back on the surface, chest rising and falling with short, sharp breaths as they dab blood from the corners of his mouth with a white towel.

Several members grant you entry to make your way closer to him, until you’re standing just behind his slouched figure, your hands coming up to grasp the ropes as you raise your voice.

“Chan!” You call, and he seems to straighten his posture, finally pivoting around to meet your gaze. His lips pull into a hazy smile, exposing his blue mouth guard, which drips with thick, stringy saliva, mixed with the harsh contrast of bright crimson blood. A single hand comes around to pull it out of him, instructing him to spit into a bucket. It’s Mr. Seo’s hand, you quickly realize, as Chan complies and swishes a mouthful of water over his wounds.

His brow appears bruised, a gaping cut being cleaned by several pairs of hands, and his shoulders look weak, you notice, as they work to loosen them up in massaging motions.

There’s no time to position him back into place, so Mr. Seo simply lets the conversation unfold between you two, dabbing at Chan’s bloodied wounds and understanding that leading you away is only going to distract him even more.

“I still haven’t been fully honest with you,” Chan begins to say to you, between labored breaths. Blood continues to dribble out from out between his lips, wiped away as fast as possible while the timer counts down until his return to the match.

“What?” You question, confused at the direction of his speech. You shake your head, aware he may simply be concussed, as your eyebrows arch in concern. “Chan, are you okay?”

“About what scares me,” Chan continues. He chuckles as he speaks, sounding almost crazy, as the etches of his gums are outlined again by deep crimson, dribbling onto his chapped lips.

“Losing scares the shit out of me,” Chan says to you. “But not just losing a match,” he clarifies.

Your eyebrows furrow as you watch a hand come around to dab at the gash on his brow again, the fresh white towel turning a dark shade of red as his blood soaks right through it.

“I never told you that I loved you,” Chan finishes.

You halt speaking, and perhaps also breathing, as his lips pull into a satisfied smile. “And that losing you is what scares me the most now.”

His team members glance at you curiously as they work to get him cleaned up, some of them just having seen you for the first time. A few of them know you to be the “filmmaker”, a little perplexed at his admission of romance to you. But before you can respond, Mr. Seo is shoving a guard back into his mouth and gesturing to the ring.

“Let’s go,” Mr. Seo commands. “Last round and we can bring this thing home. Let’s finish this at round twelve.”

Although Chan remains weak, he rises from the stool, kicking it aside and rolling back his shoulders. His gaze doesn’t leave yours for a moment, shooting you a saccharine smile, before pivoting back toward the ring and tapping his mitts together.

“Let’s finish this at round twelve,” he repeats, eyeing Kang-Dae’s figure from across the room.

And you say nothing- somewhere between dazed and also in love, as you begin back toward your seat.

The boxing bell rings just twice to indicate the start to round twelve- or otherwise the start of what could be the very last round in this match.

“And so we begin round twelve of this historic confrontation, between undefeated champ Bang Chan and his opponent Kang-Dae,” an announcer echoes loudly over the arena. Chan coming in again with strong jabs, appeared to be fully re energized as he corners Kang-Dae in the ring again.”

Your view of him is much more intimate than it was prior to being stood here on the outskirts of the ring. You can now observe every minuscule bead of sweat that flies off either member when the other produces a hit, and the thumping echos of their jabs are much louder at this proximity.

“This is certainly an adjustment by Kang-Dae,” the announcer states. “He seems to be quicker on his footwork. Chan seems like he’s resuming with heavy punches like before, but he’s still stumbling a little bit.”

Your heart races at their words, taking note of the way he visibly falters when Kang-Dae delivers a punch to his chest.

At the sight of Chan pivoting to dodge an uppercut, you glance around at the spectators, observing the sea of people whose eyes all remain set on his stumbling figure. They gasp when he gets hit once more, and they seem to laugh when he regains his balance, his arms darting out to strike Kang-Dae’s torso.

They flaunt colorful face paint, parade signs with images of his smiling face and shout for him to “fight, win!” as though their discoordinate voices may somehow be the defining factor of tonight’s outcome. And upon closer inspection, they even twirl sherbet popsicles around in their grasp, devouring them with such desperation, as though they could ever begin to comprehend the sacredness of Bang Chan’s favorite dessert- something entirely out of his reach now, unattainable. Much like a life not tainted by the pressure to win is.

It’s only then that you realize the deep sense of discomfort the sight instills within you- it’s entirely unnerving to be entertained by his fear- and even his pain, like this. To consume the sacred intricacies of his life, to know him at such proximity and put him on a pedestal like some higher power. Only to rob him of all things sacred, televise his secrets and serve as a stepping-stone into a life he never wanted for himself. Whether it be the relativity of a spectator to his public image, or of a lover to his vulnerability, it feels wrong. You can make sense of why Chan hadn’t wanted to do this for a good amount of his life now- it feels entirely too voyeuristic.

“… The current unofficial score reads 10-9, still in favor of Bang Chan,” the announcer reads. “Who’s keen on uppercuts- but Kang-Dae certainly isn't far behind with his jabs.”

Chan dodges another harsh jab, producing a strong hit to Kang-Dae, who appears breathless as he regains his composure.

“Folks, this could be the night Bang Chan maintains his unbroken winning streak, putting him ahead of all boxers in the Golden Gloves Championships for the last 20 years.”

The audience erupts in another wave of cheers when Chan hits Kang-Dae again, and again, producing repeated, robust punches to his torso.

You shift your weight onto your toes to catch a better glimpse of him, admiring the way he clenches his jaw angrily, fists spread to shield his face.

And at just 30 seconds to the conclusion of round twelve, Kang-Dae strikes again, lunging forward to deliver a harsh uppercut to Chan’s lower right jaw.

At first he stumbles backward a little bit- and then he seems to loose his balance entirely, collapsing onto the ground beneath him, his mitts outspread to soften the landing.

Although the arena is louder than ever before, it seems to grow almost silent as you hold your breath.

You approach the ring a little closer, your eyes scanning over Chan’s lying figure, his eyes blinking in a dizzied state as the recess lights illuminate his glistening torso.

He’s bloodied, in several more areas now, a generous stream of crimson growing in a patch on the side of his right eye.

You call for him once, and a second time, and then a third time- to no avail.

Perhaps your screams only escape from between your lips as whispers, if at all- that, you can’t tell, as the sound of your own heartbeat drowns out the physical noise of the arena.

A comforting hand is felt on your back, quickly realized to be Lin, from out of your peripheral vision, who watches equally as paralyzed.

The referee makes his way to Bang Chan, beginning to count down aloud, as the audience scream from all sides of the room at him.

“Get up!” They say, making erratic motions with the wave of their hands.

“You can still win!” Another is heard shouting, their voice in a clear state of panic.

“10, 9, 8…”

And as Chan lies, his back parallel to the floor of the ring, he remembers the feeling of this beside you, your languid figures silently relishing in the presence of one another.

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?

“6, 5 …” the referee continues.

From well beyond his position, he can hear something about the historic event of watching a boxer lose his winning streak for the first time in his career, amidst the crescendoing sounds of simultaneous cheering and booing alike.

Kang-Dae jogs in place, tapping his own mitts together as he awaits Chan’s next move, mentally pushing for the second hand on the timer to move faster than 2mm per second.

“4…”

Yet Chan remains there, parallel to the floor of the ring he was practically raised in, letting a gush of crimson now conceal his sight, as his head cocks to one side in defeat.

“3, 2, 1.”

The word “loser” is uttered somewhere in the announcement of his loss, as Kang-Dae’s fist is raised victoriously in the air by the referee, preceding the loud blow of a whistle and another uproar of cheers.

And although the word rings throughout his ears like he’d always feared it would, it doesn’t sound nearly as scary as he imagined it might.

In fact, you’d have thought he won the match, by the way his lips pull into a satisfied smile, as the weight of a lifetime is lifted off his shoulders at last.

EPILOGUE

Calloused hands adjust the lavalier microphone a little higher up onto the collar of Chan’s button-down shirt, his fingers easing through the process, as he’s already done this a dozen times now.

He raises his index finger up to his right brow, running it along the row of butterfly bandages still adhered to the gaping wound he boasts, and your hand darts out instinctively to stop him, lowering his wrist back onto his lap.

“I said don’t touch it,” you instruct him.

He seems to wear an amused smile for the millionth time today, as though maybe he’s doing it on purpose to elicit a reaction from you.

Chan observes as you scribble something onto a stack of papers, your head lowered in concentration to review a long list of questions.

And then you meet his gaze finally, mirroring his smile with one of your own, as you gesture to the camera.

“I’m going to ask you a few questions,” you say to him. “Just answer as honestly as you can.”

“Are we rolling?” Chan asks, and he’s swiftly met with a nod of your head.

“Yeah,” you say to him. “We’re rolling.”

His hands fold in his lap, the jingle of his silver bracelet making itself known as he fiddles nervously, and then you start with the first question.

“Chan,” you begin. “You recently lost your first boxing match ever.”

He nods, not appearing disappointed, but rather contented, as he crosses his legs at the ankles.

“Can you tell us how you’re feeling?”

His eyes scan the ceiling momentarily, chuckling softly, before he speaks again.

“Nobody wants to lose,” Chan admits. “When I started boxing fourteen years ago, all I wanted to do was win. And I won consistently- at some point, losing ceased to even feel like a possibility. I hadn’t considered it very seriously.”

You nod as he speaks, and then Chan swallows nervously, before continuing.

“And then I began to think about losing,” he says. “And I couldn’t stop. The thoughts consumed me, to constantly imagine putting myself in the shoes of somebody who had to walk away from something so… unvictoriously.”

He sighs, and then he shrugs his shoulders just once.

“And now I’m a loser,” he finishes. “And I realize that there’s a lot more to boxing than just winning or losing. In fact, there’s more to the word than simply being a person who didn’t come out of it unvictorious.”

“What do you mean by that?” You say to him.

“Well,” he begins. “Prior to this event, I was fully set on forfeiting the whole thing. It’s something I had wanted to do for a long time- something I felt was right, in the midst of my aversion to this… vulnerable version of myself, that I kept tucked away from the public for my whole life.”

His expression grows serious now, brows furrowed as best as he can manipulate them, in deep concentration.

“And I realized that walking away from something you’ve always wanted, in response to a fear of your vulnerability- that’s unvictorious. I was scared for people to see me as any less than a strong, consistent winner. But that’s not realistic.”

You nod as Chan speaks, shooting him a proud smile- he’s allowing himself to be vulnerable on camera for the first time since you’ve met him. And though his voice shakes a little as he speaks, he conveys his truths so elegantly, the same way he did when you first interviewed him. He upholds this new image of him with such dexterity, careful not to accidentally portray a version of himself which might somehow contradict all that he’s learned. Yet it’s easier than he assumed it would be, he quickly realizes, when he finishes with a small nod of his head.

“I might be a loser in the sense of a boxing match,” he explains. “But relative to everything else I’ve gained along the way, I feel pretty victorious.”

You glance down at your papers, brushing your fingers over the next set of printed questions, and then you disregard them entirely when you meet his gaze again, producing your own now.

“You’re stepping down from being a boxer for the first time in your life,” you say to him. “Are you scared?”

Chan thinks it over momentarily, and then he shakes his head.

“I used to get punched by people for a living. There used to be so little that actually scared me.”

Your lips pull into a smile, recalling this conversation from long before his championship match.

“That being said-” he continues. “I’m terrified. But I guess that’s just a part of being honest with yourself. I’m just going to do it afraid.”

A soft chuckle escapes your lips, your eyes not leaving his as he observes the way you smile back at him. He’s just as charming as the day you met him- but he’s also real, and fascinating from this distance, made more perfect by extension of all his very human traits. His fears, reservations, embarrassments, frustrations- they’re all a part of who he is- not some “perfect boxer”, or a “born winner”, but simply Bang Chan- an imperfect boxer with one hell of a story to tell.

“Chan- what’s next for you?” You ask Chan, cocking your head slightly as you speak.

A breathy chuckle escapes his lips, his eyebrows raised curiously as he ponders the question.

“I’ll return to boxing someday,” he confesses. “It’s been an honorable 14 years here. I’m just going to find what else makes me tick. Maybe… pick up a thing or two about journalism?”

You laugh lightly when he does, shaking your head in response.

Of course he jests on the topic of journalism, knowing very well that you too, are set to take a break from this line of work following the air of the final interview.

With Chan losing the fight, Lin had begged you to rope him into another series, knowing that the general public had not faulted Chan for his broken winning streak. In fact, they had taken a larger liking to him than ever before, publishing raving reviews about his persistence to compete, despite his fears. And though you’d been offered a hefty pay to film another voyeuristic series into some new athlete’s life- a fencer, so you’ve heard, the offer was politely declined, as you opt to follow Chan on to the next chapter.

“Only if you teach me a thing or two about boxing,” you say to him, and he holds out a hand to shake on it.

“Deal.”

“That’s a wrap,” you tell Chan, as you press the shutter release one last time, detaching your camera from its tripod and stowing it away into its leather casing.

“Last time, huh?” A voice says from behind you.

You pivot on your heel to meet the gaze of Mr. Seo, who shoots you a kind smile as he makes his entrance, giving Chan a friendly pat on the back.

“Hey!” Chan exclaims, turning around to deliver a warm hug to him, instead.

“I was just leaving for the evening,” Mr. Seo tells you both, his hands on his hips. He then raises his eyebrows knowingly, glancing around at the gym, before gesturing to the wall with a cock of his head.

“Come on,” he says. “I wanna show you one last thing.”

You both exchange confused looks, and then oblige to follow him down the hallway into the ring, where he halts just in front of the gallery wall.

You crane your necks up to the portraits- all the familiar faces remain in their respective positions, except for the addition of one new photograph, concealed by a white sheet.

Before Chan can inquire about the recent addition, Mr. Seo pulls it off ceremoniously, letting the white fabric drape onto the floor of the gym to unveil a brand new photo.

This one’s in color, for the first time, the stark contrast of the bright blue mitts against his tanned skin drawing the attention of all your eyes. It’s a still shot of Bang Chan, his fists extended into a mean uppercut, eyebrows narrowed into a stern expression as he strikes at his opponent. You recognize it to be from the night of Chan’s title fight, and although he hadn’t taken home the title that evening, the photograph is no indication of any form of loss. In fact, he’s entirely indistinguishable from the rest of the winners housed on the wall- including Baik Hyun-Man, who now lives just to the left of him.

“You’re kidding,” Chan exclaims through tearful laughter. Mr. Seo just smiles, shrugging casually in response.

“All the greats are meant to live here,” he tells Chan. “Especially the winners.”

Before Mr. Seo makes his departure, the same black duffel bag hoisted over his shoulder, he stops in his tracks, turning to Chan with a sense of urgency in his voice.

“I almost forgot,” Mr. Seo exclaims. “Popsicles!”

“What?” Chan questions with a small chuckle.

“I found them finally, in the convenience store on the south side! I left them on the table for you toward the gallery wall, though. You’d better eat them before they melt.”

And then he’s off at last, the setting sun outlining his departing figure beyond the glass gym doors.

Chan does as he’s told, retrieving what are indeed his favorite sherbet popsicles from the table by the gallery wall, and providing you with one this time.

“You’re gonna love these,” he says to you, undoing the wrapper of both your popsicles and discarding them both on the gym floor.

“You’re making a mess!” You exclaim, as Chan shoves one into your grasp, instructing you to devour it entirely.

You bring the bright orange dessert up to your lips, taking a small lick, and Chan eagerly awaits your reaction.

“Well?” He questions, beginning on his own in the process.

“That’s phenomenal,” you say to him with a chuckle, taking another lick, and then another, and several more, the dessert quickly melting in your grasp and finding purchase along your forearms.

Chan laughs, too, bringing his lips down to your arm to trace his tongue along the trail of sticky sherbet and leaving a trail of tender kisses as he cleans you up. And then he kisses you just once when he’s finished, a sweet mixture of sherbet present on both your tongues as you bite back a smile.

When he pulls away to resume working on his popsicle, he cranes his neck up at the gallery wall once more, cocking his head to examine the rows of portraits.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks, the way he always does, and you chuckle lightly in response.

“No need to interview the interviewer,” you say instinctively. And then you hum softly as you crane your neck, too, remembering you’re no longer an interviewer relative to Bang Chan, but rather comfortably in love with him, as you move onto the next chapter alongside each other.

“I’m thinking about all these boxers,” you opt to say instead. “Like, where do you think Hyun-Man is now?”

Chan hums in response, shrugging at your question. It’s a strange thought when he remembers how future spectators will be pondering his whereabouts someday, as they hold their respective gazes on this very wall.

“I don’t think he’d want us to know,” Chan confesses. “I think he purposely left us only with tales of guts and glory to remember him by.”

He tilts his head the other direction now, working his tongue along the base of his popsicle, before speaking again.

“Through tales of mine, of guts and glory,” Chan voices deeply, mimicking the renowned boxer’s famous last speech. And then his words are pacified by his popsicle, as he relishes in the flavor of something finally sacred to him once more.

But neither of you need to utter another word to conclude his sentence, mentally finishing it on your own.

“… we find our footing in the knowledge that we tried.”

473 notes · View notes

setsugekka · 1 year

Text

❥hedonism (m)

↳ Spring break with your boyfriend Jisung was supposed to be relaxing, except for the fact that you desperately want to fuck his best friend, Changbin.

han jisung x fem!reader, seo changbin x fem!reader — friends with benefits, drama, porn with plot, explicit sexual content. [10,2k wc] cws: infidelity!! themes of sexual incompatibility, bad decisions, alcohol consumption, penetrative sex (protected), rough sex, dirty talk, praise, Changbin has a Big Dick, play possessiveness.

Jisung was kind.

Kind is enough, isn’t it?

Really, Han Jisung was so much more than the absolute, resounding kindness that he showed you, and everyone else, equally. He was attentive — so interested in you and everything that made you, you. All of your bizarre, niche interests, Jisung was always there to listen. In the early months of the relationship, many late nights were shared together talking about your goals, your futures, your dreams — both individually and in a potential state of togetherness. An almost blind, hopeful optimism that he showed that admittedly; you hadn’t shared, but being with Jisung changed you in small ways. Very particular ways. Ways that you thought made you a better person.

For yourself. For him, maybe?

A man that physically, perhaps strayed a bit from your usual type of interest. Not bad, far from ugly, but not the usual visual appeal that would have piqued your interest in an instant. You considered that this was perhaps a bit of the oil on the proverbial flame of your love for him, and you did love him — quite early on, at that. Only weeks into the relationship, that the L-word was dropped from your lips — holding hands and stargazing one humid, summer night. Jisung reciprocated with what felt like the absence of a second thought about it, as if he had already known long before you had, and still, only weeks into your partnership with him.

Within the throes of the honeymoon stage, everything seems surmountable — if even paid the smallest modicum of acknowledgment to begin with.

But you loved him. You loved the way he smiled at you and was tirelessly into you and all of the quirks that came with. It was easy to discuss the future with him; timelines for marriage, kids, careers…all of the future life goals that would result in the make or break of any relationship. The concept of “insurmountable”, never an issue with Jisung. He was on board with you, with anything that resulted in you.

And in the bliss of new relationship energy, it’s easy to miss the warnings — when someone looks at you with all of their love and adoration, sometimes it’s easy to tell yourself, “we can get past this,” about anything. Everything, even. “We can work through that,” “it’s not a big deal, I can live with that.”

You always want for it to be true, and we’ll do everything to make it such. Everything to compartmentalize our wants, our needs. We tell ourselves that no one will ever, truly, be perfect — that we will always have to give something up for all of the other shining attributes of someone.

Jisung could never make you come.

It wasn’t necessarily inexperience, at least, not based on his tellings. Not a lot of experience, but plenty — and the same for yourself, you knew how to make yourself come, and ultimately, that’s always what it would come down to. In the beginning, hours could be spent in the attempt; a ready and absolutely willing partner, trying to learn the ins and outs of your body and preferences, only to fall flat every time. Multitudes of failure eventually beginning to weigh heavy on him — not by his own admission, but you could tell — sessions began running shorter and shorter, with less emphasis on attempting to reach a place that was seemingly unreachable altogether, for him.

The two of you gave up talking about it, supplemented with toys. Both of you happy enough with the arrangement — but neither thrilled by it.

Spring break rolls around the corner and Jisung tells you that he and seven of his guy friends are renting a large home for two weeks — partying and lounging and other such debauchery to take place, you sigh and smile at him — Jisung’s youthful enjoyment of the world always being such a bright spot to your otherwise regular outlook on the world around you. It’s not that you were negative, or dull — Jisung just shone so brightly in comparison. It was a light that you never wanted to see go out, and to the best of your ability, this was your goal.

And you loved him, as he loved you — what else could there be?

Around the eight month mark of your partnership, Jisung invites you out to dinner with all of the guys he would be sharing a place with for the upcoming weeks. Most of them you had already met in smaller groups or circumstances; Jisung conning them into third wheeling a date of yours that you later had to apologize for, and your wonderful, hopelessly optimistic boyfriend having only realized the error of his ways after the fact. Naturally. It was so Han Jisung of him.

Gripping tightly to his hand as the two of you enter the establishment — a large BBQ joint halfway across town — a bit closer to where the shared home would be, but not far out from your own apartment, either, Jisung strokes your thumb with his own in an effort to share his positivity with you through contact. He pushes the door open and motions for you to enter ahead of him, only whispering “it’ll be fine, don’t worry, you know most everyone already, just be yourself” as you walk by him. Smiling at the words, you catch eyes with one of the friends you are familiar with, and thankfully, the one that you had gotten along with the best, as well.

“Get over here already,” Minho says, quickly standing upon seeing you and shouting across the restaurant, so loudly that it’s almost embarrassing. “We’ve been waiting!”

“You know Jisung takes forever to get anywhere,” you respond when you finally reach the large table, reaching towards the man and hugging him as a hello.

“Hey!” Jisung retorts, but unable to refute the claim. He instead opts for introducing you around the table. “You know most of these dummies already, but the two you haven’t met—” he pauses to point at them, as if you’re incapable of the process of elimination yourself. “Seo Changbin, Kim Seungmin”

“Nice to meet you,” you say, and the two of them allow for the same in response.

Everyone is kind, which you expect. You don’t take Jisung for the type of man who could involve himself with the type of people that weren’t — despite all of the varying personalities present, everyone was more than happy to welcome you — include you, invite you back to the house to show you around. You explain that you have work in the morning and thus can’t, but that you’re sure you’ll be over soon, and everyone begins talking amongst themselves about how to plan for the welcoming party, as if you were moving in, or something. It’s heartwarming, being so welcomed into a group of strangers.

Jisung’s hand moves to your thigh as he sits next to you, laughing with his friends, and squeezes it lightly — affirmation that he’s there and he’s proud of you, that you’re doing great and he always knew you would. It feels nice.

It also feels bad.

You hate to admit it, so you wouldn’t even consider doing such — gun to your head and all — but it’s the man sitting on the other end of the lengthwise table that unfortunately catches your eye a bit more than you had liked. The truth was, that all of Jisung’s friends were good-looking men; in fact, you wondered how he managed to wrangle up so many to begin with, but the thought is fleeting and replaced by the attention served on Changbin. Black t-shirt and short, brown hair, nice lips and even nicer arms. Certainly a man that works out, cares about the way he looks, and wants everyone to notice it.

And you are, much to your guilt.

But you figure — nothing wrong with looking. Everyone looks. A common and damaging misconception within a relationship that ones libido simply dies for all others upon entering a monogamous partnership with another person — that both parties are to never see, experience, acknowledge the existence of another attractive human being ever again; and if you do, that you’re wrong, you’re broken, you’re a bad person. It’s bullshit.

However, suppose it does become a bit trickier when the object of your admiration is one of your partners best friends.

The part that you do allow yourself to experience guilt over, is the subtle wishing in the back of your mind — that maybe Jisung had looked like that. That yes, all things considered, Jisung was the perfect match — and yet, you can’t help but yearn for more.

A starkly human flaw, the innate pursuit of perfection. Of pleasure.

You’ve lost count by now, how many times Jisung has been unable to get you there, without battery powered assistance.

And you want nothing more than for this to be enough, so much so that you’re willing to lie, and pretend — to him, to yourself — that it is, that you’re happy with this, that you’re fulfilled.

When Jisung asks in one particularly low moment, unable to deny himself of the desire to seek the praise that he feels deep down he does not deserve, you cave and grant it to him.

‘Do you miss it?’

The feeling of coming around hands or mouths or other such appendages that were not your own, and in these moments of complete vulnerability, what is one to do but lie?

Are you strong enough to bear the burden of the truth? Be the deliverer of it?

And you believe in the moment, that the both of you are simply agreeing to exist in the fairy tale of satisfaction, because the alternative is far too great to take on.

But you do remember what it’s like — a memory brought closer and closer to the forefront of your mind each and every time that your loving, wonderful, boyfriend fails. Each and every time.

“Hey uhh—” you shout into the front door of the home, seemingly empty despite you having been invited to be there. “Is anyone…home?”

You hear vague sounds akin to a television in the living room and take it upon yourself to enter — you were invited, after all. Kicking your shoes off and dropping your bag, you carefully tiptoe through the hallway entrance towards the sounds of people talking through a speaker — and turning the corner, you’re delighted to find someone, after all.

Not who you’re looking for, however. far from it.

“Oh shit, sorry, I didn’t hear the door,” he says, sitting up from the couch and fumbling for the remote to turn the volume on the television down. “Our door bell is broken, so—”

“It’s fine, sorry for just walking in, Ji—”

“Nah, it’s cool,” he says, waving a hand without a care in the world about who walks into their home, seemingly. “It’s spring break, we figure people are just gonna be coming and going anyways.”

Seo Changbin. He apparently only owns black shirts that fit his figure exquisitely.

You wish that you could be a bit more vague about your carnal interest in the man, however, when he catches the way you watch him. The two of you make eye contact for a moment and you can feel your ears pick up heat. Changbin doesn’t break eye contact first — peculiar — a game to him, perhaps?

You’re not happy about the way this situation is already beginning to get out of hand, either.

“You want a drink?”

Words so sudden, you barely even hear them over the sound of your thoughts of Changbin bending you over the back of the couch he’s currently seated on and turning you out. Guilt. You shouldn’t. You can’t. Stop.

You stutter for a reply, “um, water is fine, yeah,” and watch as Changbin chuckles to himself as he stands — walking towards, and then right by you on his way to the kitchen.

But not before flashing you a knowing raise of his eyebrows as he passes.

“Do you know when Ji will be back?” you ask, tone far more wobbly than you had wanted it to be. Pathetic.

You watch Changbin move through the kitchen, opening numerous cabinets in an attempt to find a glass before eventually locating one and heading into the fridge thereafter. “Probably like, 10-15 minutes? He and Hyunjin ran to the store for alcohol and shit, shouldn’t be long it’s not far.”

Raising the glass as if to inform you of it’s ability to be retrieved, you head over to the kitchen island and take it from his hand, sipping gently from the rim, attempting to ignore the way the man is watching your every move as you do.

“Are you staying the night?”

It shouldn’t be that jarring of a question — in fact, it’s a pretty normal one for a housemate to ask, but your thoughts running rampant in all of the directions that they shouldn’t be has you far more susceptible to the horrors of, well, Changbin saying anything to you at all.

“Yeah, think so,” you reply, sheepishly. Since when are you sheepish, you wonder?

“Cool,” is all he says, grabbing a sweater off one of the swiveling chairs and heading towards the staircase — presumably up to his room. You think for a moment, that you made it out relatively unscathed from this interaction.

“Y'all keep it down then, alright? My room’s right across the hall”

And it’s cheeky, based on his tone. Likely not meaning anything by it, but the thought of Changbin being able to hear Jisung fuck you makes your skin run hot. Would he listen? Would he want to listen? Would he…jerk off to it? Then the thoughts of him touching himself, hand wrapped tightly around himself at the sounds of you…not coming.

A bit of a damper on the impromptu fantasy.

But it’s just in that moment that you hear Hyunjin and your man barreling through the front door, with what seems like twenty bags of assorted alcoholic beverages, bottles and mixers, with more still in the car, as Hyunjin happily informs.

There’s a certain moment that night, when Jisung is grinding into you — lips pressed against your neck and a hand wrapped in your hair — that his pelvis hits just right and you’re so close; so, so, close that you just about resort to begging for him not to stop, to please get you there, please topple this one issue that grows and grows but can’t be spoken about. You think again, about Changbin telling you to keep it down, and in a moment of weakness you cry out louder, and it truly does almost get you there.

Almost, which unfortunately only counts in horse shoes and hand grenades.

Music booming, red solo cups littering the lawn like flowers on a cool autumn day, the nine of you arrive to the home of the party — with no idea who anyone is, including the host. Typical for spring break — almost an alternate reality that plays by completely different rules.

Quickly, everyone ends up off in different directions, the majority off to talk to someone that strikes their fancy, leaving you and Jisung together as the only couple in the “house.”

“Guess it’s just you and me tonight, babe,” Jisung says with a smile, “let’s get drinks.”

Unfortunately, one of the positives of Jisung being such a social butterfly, also tended to ring negatively in scenarios such as this. The type of man to make friends with any and everyone in his immediate proximity, and with alcohol added to the mix, meant that you often found yourself on your own and making due with the time. This wasn’t necessarily a problem — as a woman being entirely capable of taking care of yourself — but it was a tad bit frustrating, heading out into the back yard through the sliding glass doors of the massive home to find a makeshift dance floor, and dozens of people sloppily dancing to house music on the destroyed lawn beneath their feet.

Having not yet had enough to drink, dancing would not be in the cards for you.

…Unless?

“Where’s Ji?”

A familiar voice, not always welcomed.

“Last I saw, he was upstairs with a group of people discussing whether or not the US government has been hiding the knowledge of having found intelligent life on other planets from it’s citizens.”

You watch Changbin pause before raising an eyebrow and giving a sort of assured nod, “yeah, that sounds right.”

“What’re ya drinkin’?” you ask, and you think it’s the alcohol that allows you to play it so cool. Maybe you weren’t even that hot for the man after all, finding yourself perfectly capable of being normal in his presence now.

“Gin, you?”

“Straight?” you ask, stricken with horror. Visibly taken aback.

“Yeah, I’m cultured.”

“You’re insane.”

“I can be both. Want to dance?”

The abruptness of the question takes you aback again, because the two of you were not talking about this so where did it come from? But Changbin just watches you — completely straight faced, waiting for a reply.

“Yeah, I guess.”

You realize shortly after agreeing to this — reaching the dance “floor” and feeling Changbin’s strong hands on your hips, that this was a mistake — and all of that stuff that you thought not all that long ago about being totally fine about this man, were in fact, alcohol-induced psychosis, because you were not fine, and not even a little bit.

Changbin turns you around to face away from him, ass pressed up against his groin, and you know that realistically you can’t feel his dick, but you can feel the natural hardness of the bulge from wearing tight jeans, and you swear it makes you dizzy. Fingers digging into the natural divots of where your hip bones are and strong, tight chest pressed up against your back, you can feel the heat of his breath against the back of your ear — your neck, and your skin burns from the contact — from the closeness.

From how much you shouldn’t be indulging in this right now, because your wonderful, loving boyfriend is just inside.

And he feels you tense beneath his grip, leaning down closer to your ear, “are you alright?”

You consider it confirmation that you should pull away from the man, so you do. You apologize, citing how he did nothing wrong and you just need some fresh air from the crowd and quickly make way from it, nearly running off and to the side of the house — dark, much fewer people — only a handful there to partake in other such party substances not allowed inside of the home: hosts request.

Back up against the wall, and finally a moment to breathe, you gasp for the air that you feel you had been starving yourself of the entire time you were in Changbin’s grip, but it’s only moments later that you find the same familiar visage having followed you, slowly popping from around the corner to find you, but stopping quite distant from your own stature.

“Look,” he says, hands in the air as if surrendering to whatever fate you have in store for him and his misdeeds, “did I do something wrong? I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable—”

“No,” you cut him off, swallowing hard, “but we…we shouldn’t do that.”

“What? Dance?” he asks, surprise lacing his tone as he slowly steps closer to you again. “Is Ji that jealous?”

You don’t know the answer to that question, you don’t really want to have to find out.

“No, that’s not it,” and you pause, because you hadn’t thought the answer to this question through beyond this point, and are now left searching for it in the moment. Not ideal.

“We just shouldn’t.”

Watching Changbin watch you in silent response, you think that you can literally see him come to the obvious conclusion. Finally. Much to your disappointment. You had wanted to get away with this for a little bit longer; only exchanging hurried glances towards the man, his body, his build. Wasn’t thinking about him during sex with your boyfriend punishment enough, and for everyone involved?

And yet, he chooses not to say anything. Breathing heavily through his nose and dropping his head down with a smirk before raising it again only slightly to look up at you in the dark through his eyelashes — you can’t help but think of how unbelievably sexy he looks right now, in this moment. About how none of the other people here know who either of you are — or Jisung — how easy it would be to get away with something, anything. Just to scratch the itch. Just to get it over with. It could be enough, maybe, to never have to deal with this ever again. Would that be so bad? So wrong? To put this to bed…and not even literally.

You hate the way that you want it so badly — him to come to you, press you into the wall and lips into yours. To feel his strong hands on your body again, maybe even a little more. You know, just to get it out of your system, of course.

But Changbin remains firm in his stance, playfully pointing at you and grinning.

“Be good,” he tells you, before turning back from where he came, and leaving you in the darkened shroud of the side of the house, breathless and embarrassingly wet.

A couple of nights later, when the nine of you go to dinner again, it’s not intentional — you ending up sitting across from him, with Jisung to your right, but here you are, regardless.

It’s evident from a lack of change in the overall atmosphere, that Changbin had mentioned nothing to your boyfriend about that night at the party — of which you are thankful, not quite sure how to explain that one away, but your personal, and quite specific atmosphere with him, seems irrevocably different. Slouched in his chair carelessly with arms crossed, it makes him look massive for a man that all-in-all, is not that large in stature — but still, the positioning of his arms over his chest certainly makes aware all of the muscle and veins in his forearms. For your viewing pleasure, but likely not purposefully. 'Be good,' you remember. It echoes in your mind ever since that night. Be good. Be good. Behave.

But it’s the knowing glances that the two of you share over the table, eye contact that lingers a bit longer than it should — than it does with any of Jisung’s other friends — something shared only between the two of you. A secret. A longing, albeit, maybe only one-sided. Changbin knows that you want him, that you desire him. The word “crave” comes to mind, and you’re guilty just at that, with your boyfriend sitting just beside you, a loving hand on your leg — completely unaware of all of the ways that you wish it were Changbin’s hand — splicing together memories from the other night in your thoughts in an attempt to experience what it would feel like if it were him instead.

You tell yourself it’s normal, to desire others. It is. But you worry that everyone has a breaking point, eventually.

“Since you’re part of the group now—”

The words shake you from your fantasies, realizing that you’re being addressed, and your attention turns to the man speaking — Chan — reaching towards you in an effort to get your phone from you, and you recognize the gesture immediately despite having only just been lost in your own mind.

“Might as well add you to the group chat, so you know what’s going on at any given time, yeah?” he finishes, typing into the front of your phone as you watch him. You don’t respond, not much time to before he’s already handing your device back to you and you look at it; indeed, it’s a group chat, and everyone is there.

By phone number.

You want to be better, stronger than this, you think to yourself as you leave the restaurant, heading to your own home this evening with work in the morning. Jisung kisses you goodnight and thanks you for coming out and tells you how happy he is that you get on so well with his friends. How it means so much to him that all of the most important people in his life are good together.

You feel bad, but not bad enough.

Sitting in the drivers seat of your car and watching Jisung head back inside, you pull your phone out and go through the contacts of the group chat, locating Changbin’s number right away. It feels bad, it truly does. You keep reiterating this in your mind — and begin to wonder if you’re trying to convince yourself of the fact, rather than truly experiencing the guilt you once did.

Taking a breath, you open an empty message box with Changbin’s number — it only takes you a moment to think of something to say. Something to lie. It’s pathetic how desperate you are for interaction, for attention from this man, this man who is not your partner.

>hey, I think I left my bag in the restaurant, can you check for me?

Only a few short moments pass before the screen illuminates with the speech bubble to indicate one typing up a reply. Your heart leaps into your throat, and you take the time to contemplate the blurred lines of what constitutes an affair, and how surely they were blurred.

>you didn’t, and you know that, didn’t I tell you to behave?

Humiliating is the only word that comes to mind upon being so easily seen through by this man, this man that you barely know, have barely interacted with.

You find it intriguing, however, that not once has he threatened to tell Jisung. Perhaps there’s nothing to tell, after all. It’s always so easy to convince oneself that there is a perfectly reasonable explanation behind every sinful, wrongdoing.

You don’t respond. figure, that’s enough disgrace for one evening.

Coming down from your own, self-induced orgasmic high, Jisung rolls off of you and to the side, chest heaving and grinning as he looks over at you. You pretend to be as worn out as he seemingly is. You wish you were. He kisses you, lovingly, able to taste all of the adoration he has for you on his tongue and you know it’s times like that and in spite of everything else, this is the man that you love. This is the man that you admire.

But you do not desire him. Is everything else enough? Is lust that heavy and all-consuming?

"I’m gonna run for a drink, do you want anything, babe?” you say, rolling off of the bed and pulling your socks back on. You watch Jisung shake his head slowly, post-orgasmic smile still gracing his features. You loved the way he was so absolutely enthralled by you. You wished you felt the same, but maybe this is enough.

2:37am reading on the clock in the hallway, you tiptoe out of the room and down the stairs towards the kitchen with the only lights on being from the stove top, as to not leave the unfamiliar home completely pitch black in the depths of night. Pulling your over sized hoodie down and a bit over your panty-clad behind despite being in the company of no one and look around for a clean glass among the numerous filthy ones strewn about the counter tops.

"Looking for this?”

the words startle you so much you just about scream, heart dropping into your stomach at the sound of another human being accompanying you, even worse, when you recognize them better than you had hoped.

Changbin stands up from his previous squatting position, handing you an empty cup that he had found rifling through the cupboards where the pots and pans were typically held, another in his other hand.

“No one does dishes,” he laughs, “you might wanna wash that before you use it, though, it was pretty far back there.’

"So it seems,” you respond, normally, turning towards the sink and running water through the item in your hand.

“There’s cold water in the fridge.”

“Tap is fine,” you answer, finally filling it and turning back towards the man, pressing the rim to your lips and taking a sip. You laughed to yourself in silence — about how much the current scene reminded you of the first in this house. The atmosphere, however, had certainly shifted since then.

You allow yourself a moment to gaze upon him during a few of the minutes he spends looking down and at his phone. White tank top hugging his torso paired with gray sweatpants that you found yourself eyeing a little bit too much, you’d have been lying if you said you weren’t curious. Obviously.

He looked unbelievable. Broad, strong, masculine.

“Have fun?”

It takes you a moment to follow the question — what he was inferring, and once you do, absolute horror takes you — visually, physically, mentally. Oh God, he heard? you think to yourself.

You wonder if that’s why he’s awake right now, but it’s the least pressing matter on your mind, surprisingly.

“Oh my God, you heard us?” you gasp into the plastic cup, it echoing your sounds in a somewhat humorous way, and Changbin chuckles under his breath.

He doesn’t answer for a few seconds, finishing up with his phone before dimming it and slipping it back into his pocket. Chewing on his bottom lip, he finally graces you with a response.

You sort of wish he hadn’t, though.

“I heard him, not you.”

It’s a somewhat innocuous statement on the surface level. Jisung isn’t a quiet lover by any means, that much is true, but it’s the implications beyond that, that really pain you — and also ring painfully true. Does he…know?

You swallow hard, the sexual tension building once again, and with how little clothing the both of you are currently wearing, now certainly needs not be the time for these kinds of games. You apologize to him hurriedly, insisting that you’ll be more mindful next time and keep it down and in rush turn towards the refrigerator next to you — half in an attempt to release the strain on the situation, and half because you really fucking need that cold water now. Bending over and reaching in, you seek peace inside the iciness of the container — taking a deep breath of relief inside of it before reaching for what you had intended to retrieve.

But the devil waste no time in doing evil deeds.

Pressing up against you from behind, Changbin reaches into the icy box as well — your entire body stiffening beneath him at the contact, and any relief that the cool air had granted you — be it long gone, now, replaced with fiery hot contact of very few layers of clothing between two people.

You had almost forgot what desire felt like, and it was engrossing.

Changbin feels heavy and hard against you, his body heat immediately engulfing you and setting fire to your skin — the feeling of him on top of you like this, his pelvis pressed firmly into your back side — you think for a moment that you’re absolutely not strong enough for this, that you cannot handle this torture. Your mind races at all of the ways that Changbin could have you right then and there, and you wish that he would. Imagery of being bent over the counter top with panties around your thighs; held down, in place, unable to move or escape or do anything except take him — the thoughts presenting a dull throb between your legs when surely — it’s only been seconds before Changbin is pulling back and away from you with the container of butter in his hand.

“Sorry, needed to grab this.”

The thing about guilt, is that it becomes easier and easier to manage the longer that one is forced to do so. You realize that this rings true as you tell your boyfriend that you don’t feel well, and that you’ll be in the bathroom — you’re hopeful that your completely adoring, attentive boyfriend let’s you be without checking up on you just this one time — as you quickly rub your fingertips into your panties, chasing a high that comes all too quickly for your liking, and given the circumstances. Biting back your moans as to not allow them space to echo while you come, you realize that the only person you hope to hear you, is Seo Changbin.

A pool party, how incredibly frat of them, you think.

But it’s charming, and all in good fun. People from all around the neighborhood come over bringing food and drinks and all sorts of different things for fun — some bring party hats — who knows why, others bring floaty pool toys as if they’re children, and one couple even bring a llama, no one entirely sure what for, but not willing to ask any questions about it, either.

Holding Jisung’s hand as he attempts to light one of the barbecues, you sort of chuckle at his inability to manage such a menial task — watching him huff and puff in discontent at all of the ways the charcoal won’t catch flame for him, he finally pulls his hand from yours to look around the vicinity for something in particular.

“Have you seen the thing for the lighter fluid?” he asks, already flustered and whipping his head about in an attempt to locate it. “It’s like a…uhhh…like a red canister…”

“It should be in the side house,” Minho pipes up from the pool, “that’s where all that shit is kept.”

“I’ll get it, babe,” you assure, kissing him on the mouth before running off towards the direction dictated to you.

Reaching the old, worn down shack, the door inside rests ajar, but you scurry inside all the same.

And it’s becoming comical all of the ways in which you find yourself in this situation.

Changbin looks up and behind him from his squatting position, emptying ice into coolers and placing beer bottles inside of them.

“What’s up?” he asks, and you explain the charcoal debacle.

You’re reminded of his body pressed up against your own again. You think of what the two of you could get away with right here, right now, party guests being none the wiser.

And it must have been obvious, when he stands up, wiping his hands on a nearby towel before turning towards you.

“What’s going on with you and Ji?”

The question just about knocks you on your ass.

“Wh-what—”

“Come on, this isn’t…” and he pauses, thinking through his words perhaps a bit more delicately. “This isn’t…right, so what’s…”

It feels bizarre, the sudden coming to head of the situation at hand. Changbin acknowledging in words that there is, in fact, a this, and that whatever this was, was wrong. Not okay. Well upon it’s way to being extremely fucked up and morally reprehensible — on both of your parts. You’re Jisung’s girlfriend, but Changbin is his friend. There’s no innocent party, there.

Suppose, for the first time in a long time, honesty may be the best policy.

“I love Jiji, I really do—”

“But…”

“But…he doesn’t—” and now you pause, also thinking of how to delicately word this. You don’t want to humiliate your boyfriend, it sounds so pathetic when you try to say the words to someone else. To someone else you want to do all of the things for you that your own man can’t, at that. More salt in the wound.

“He doesn’t get you off?”

You don’t say anything, just a disheartened shrug of the shoulders, and Changbin’s expression Changes from concern to confusion. “He’s selfish? I never would have expected—”

But you cut him off, “No, no! He’s not, it’s not that, it’s just—”

And then his face switches back. Back to concern. “Oh — oh, he can’t.”

“Yeah.”

The two of you stand in silence for what feels like forever, and you laugh internally, thinking about how it’s the first time you’ve been in the presence of this man and not been thinking about all of the ways you want him to fuck you. The irony being, of course, that the conversation topic be about sex.

“I mean, that’s tough,” he starts again, visibly uncomfortable and likely unsure how to help. You think that Changbin might have realized just a bit too late that he was out of his depth with this one. “Sexual compatibility is a big deal in a relationship, y'know?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t think I should tell you to break up with my best friend,” he says, trying to lighten the mood, “but I don’t know…has it gotten better at least? Over time?”

And you’re reminded of that time that Jisung almost made you come — the time you were thinking about Changbin, instead.

“A bit.”

Upon an awkward lull in the conversation, the two of you exit the side house with the items that you had both entered for. Hyunjin walks by at just the same time and makes a passing comment about what were you two doing in there in a joking manner, to which you playfully slap his arm and tell him to shut up. Changbin acknowledges it little, only looking down to you with what you can only deem as sympathy.

But you don’t want to be pitied, you want to be fucked.

After the party and upon returning home, you dig your phone out from your bag to find a notification — a text from Changbin, much to your surprise.

>I won’t rescue you

You know what that means. You also know that dick can’t save you. It doesn’t stop you from wanting it, anyways.

Two hours into your attempted home improvement escapades, with a puddle on the ground in your bathroom and what you can only suspect is something or another missing from this tubing, you decide to call it quits and ask The Men if they can make themselves useful to you.

>do any of you know anything about plumbing or can you only do beer bongs?

Hyunjin: come on that shit was cool

Jeongin: idk if we told you but he puked for like two hours after that btw, it ruled so hard

Hyunjin: dude shut up

Chan: @Changbin knows some shit about plumbing, he’s fixed some stuff for me before

Changbin: yeah whats up, gimmie your address i’ll take a look at it in like, an hour

You send your address and dim your phone, only to receive another notification immediately after, but it’s another text from Changbin — this time, privately.

>this better not be a ploy to get me alone in your apartment, I told you to behave.

And it wasn’t, but now you can’t help but acknowledge the fact.

When Changbin inspects the scene, he apologizes for assuming the worst of you, making a joke that he actually wishes you were just trying to fuck him, because the drainage situation is a disaster. The two of you laugh, but in only about twenty minutes of work, the man has everything under control, your drainage fixed, and even wiped up the floor for you. A true gentleman.

The problem lie in all of the very specific ways that Changbin’s muscles flex beneath his shirt as he work — turning nobs and forcing things back into place — undoing all of the nonsense you had inflicted, you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t sexy. It was incredibly sexy, almost painfully sexy watching him work. You try to ignore it. You have to ignore it.

Changbin stands, behind against the counter and arms crossed as he looks at you, just having finished his handyman work. You think of all of the ways that you could be better, should be better.

All of the ways that you’re not.

It’s accidentally forceful, the way you slam yourself into him and press your mouth against his own — months of pent up, sexual frustration finally snapping and it’s all that you can manage to not immediately reach for his belt and start unbuckling it. You settle for hands against his chest to feel the muscle beneath, the muscle you have been dying to feel this entire time, and it’s every bit enthralling as you knew it would be. Part of you wishes that Changbin had been stronger, strong enough to pull you off of him, to stop you, to not kiss back.

But he’s not.

There’s reluctance at first, you can feel it in the tenseness of his mouth as you kiss at him, before you melt it away and he begins meeting you halfway with equally sloppy, needy presses of his mouth into your own, and you’re surprised that he’s the one that quickly reaches for your pants — unbuttoning, zipping, and roughly pulling them down mid thigh — not even bothering to take your panties with them. Taking you by the arms, Changbin spins you so that the two of you switch places, just as hastily dipping his hand into the already wet fabric and finally getting to feel the effect he’s had on you in such a short amount of time.

It’s embarrassing how wrecked for him you already look, with him only now pressing two fingers inside of you, and you think that nothing has ever felt more heavenly.

Reaching his free hand up and around the back of your neck, he pulls the two of you closer as he settles into a fast pace with his fingers; the drag against your walls already allowing you to build a familiar burning in your abdomen, the muscles of your thighs tightening with the promise of finally getting what you’ve been wanting. He continues kissing you, hard, before dipping down and pressing lips against your neck — slowly dragging up against your ear, the hot breath of his arousal echoing into you. You know he wants it bad, you wonder if it’s just as bad as you do.

There’s something about telling a man that another man can’t make you come. Something primal. Ego.

"I wanna hear you so bad,” he finally groans, the first words spoken since the encounter started despite it only being less than a minute in. You cry out in response, it’s the promise of release that he’s bestowing on you, and that in and of itself is almost enough to tip you over the edge.

“But we can’t do this.”

The words take longer to register than the immediate feeling of emptiness in your core does. Changbin stops, pulling his hand from you and takes a number of steps back from you altogether, leaving you reeling, fucked out, and with a ruined orgasm on top of it all. Figure, you didn’t need to step out of your relationship for this.

That thought makes you feel bad.

Through messy hair you watch the man before you. The way his chest heaves, the way he closes his eyes in an attempt to gather himself. Gather his sanity. Gather his ability to make good choices.

You look down at the tenting in his pants, and you’re so sure you’ve never wanted dick this badly in your life.

If the topic before, prior to now, was ‘what constitutes the blurry lines of an affair?’ you were sure it was crossed now. It doesn't feel as good as you thought it would, but that might be because you didn’t finish.

“I’m gonna wash my hands, and then I’m gonna go,” he says, and it’s non-accusatory, with no particular tone to it at all. As if he is genuinely just informing one of his plans.

Once Changbin leaves, sitting on your couch and scrolling on your phone, you contemplate all of the ways in which you’re terrible, and once you stop scrolling long enough to make a decision, you realize there’s comfort in simply knowing, accepting.

Turning speaker phone on, the line rings a couple of times before there’s a sing-song answer on the other end. He’s always so happy, he really thinks he’s the luckiest guy in the world.

“Hey babe, can you come over?”

You’re a little bit thankful that the next few days are just working and being home, granting you much needed time to recuperate, but with the end of spring break now right around the corner, you knew you had one more house party to attend — held by your very own boys, naturally, it would be necessary that you attend.

And you haven’t seen Changbin since he was at your apartment, but with Jisung not mentioning a single awkward word about it, you can only assume that not a word was spoken in any direction on the matter.

Not one for dressing up, jeans and a t-shirt suit you just fine for this gathering, and it’s only natural that Hyunjin make some snide comment about it upon your entering — playfully, of course, the two of you had become much closer over the two weeks time, but he certainly always had something to say…a blessing and a curse, but mostly a curse.

When 3am rolls around and dozens of party attendees find themselves littered across the living room, dining room, and even kitchen floors — much to your disdain, as someone having planned to stay the night at that home.

Even Jisung — party extraordinaire, passed out early — in his own bed, of course, because he falls asleep to watching Parks & Recreation after three beers.

Slipping down the stairs and finding the scene before you, attempting to reach the kitchen for food or a drink is akin to braving a minefield; bodies thrown about every which way, and it’s only catching movement out of the corner of your eye that pulls your attention away and to the man you had hoped to get through this evening not seeing. You watch as he quietly dips down into a hallway that you’re unfamiliar with, and you question what he’s got hiding down there.

You know it’s a bad idea, maybe he’ll just tell you to fuck off, that would be the best outcome.

“Hey!” you whisper-yell down the hall towards him as he disappears into the doorway, but he hears you, popping his head back out to find out where the sound had come from, and immediately catching eyes with you. You motion a sort of “what are you doing” in sign language that doesn’t exist, and he motions for you to come with him.

So many mistakes begin with good intentions. It’s not about being stronger than your desires, it’s about never being in a position in which you have to be.

Hopping among strung out bodies, you finally make your way to the door that leads to what you now understand to be the basement. Changbin heads down first, turning an old lightbulb hanging from the ceiling along the way to illuminate the path, and the wooden stairs creak with every step taken on them.

“I had no idea this was even down here,” you say in amazement, finally able to gaze around the space once you reach approximately the third to bottom step.

“Yeah, it’s basically a whole other home down here,” he explains, pointing in directions as he does. “Kitchen there, bedroom over there, and a bathroom to your left.”

Changbin pulls ahead as you stop to take the sights in. Despite the stairs showing their age, the rest of the interior appears well taken care of — glossed and polished wood adoring the kitchenette, bar, and majority of the tables in the living space — along with comfortable looking plush couches and an enormous flat screen television on the other end of the room.

“Drink?”

You think it’s amusing the way Changbin likes to pretend nothing has ever happened, no matter the circumstances.

“Sure.”

Standing next to the man, you watch the way his hands work in twisting and shaking items to makeshift bar tend in the moment; how his forearms flex, veins protruding, and you feel bad at the way that you still want him so bad, even after everything. Even after last time. After him walking out on you due to guilt, shame. You still wanted it.

He slows in his movements, looking at you as you watch him, and when you raise your gaze up to meet his eyes — you find something different within them.

Suppose, that’s what broken resolve looks like.

In a flash, Changbin slams everything in his hands down, taking you by the arms again just like he had before, only turning you this time, and pushing you towards the other side of the kitchenette — shorter counter, shorter sink — but he bends you over it all the same.

It happens so fast that your head spins, him having you at his mercy like this — that you barely even have a moment to register his hands on your pants again, ripping your jeans down your legs again, and shoving his hand inside your panties — all just as he had the time previous. Pressing his middle finger flat between your folds but with no intent to penetrate you, he growls at the overwhelming wetness you’ve been harboring for him this whole time, though not much time at all, maybe ten or fifteen minutes between meeting on the staircase and now, and still…soaking for him. Maybe a better man could resist the temptation, but it’s not him.

"God,” he groans into your shoulder, using his body weight to hold you down and in place. “You want it that bad, huh? I get you this wet?”

You don’t answer, still reeling from the motions, feeling his finger against you, and now weak at the way that he’s talking to you — it’s devastating when you feel the loss of his hand from you again, and you think, “not a second time,” unsure if you can even survive being left in such a state again.

But your mind is put to ease, at the sound of his belt buckle clattering throughout the basement, alongside the gentle swoop of the fabric of your undergarment being pulled down your legs.

You feel him adjusting from behind you, going through all of the motions necessary to eventually fuck you, and you’re absolutely beside yourself at the thought of finally having it. Excitement, anticipation, all bubbling in your abdomen — alongside the pulsing ache between your legs of wanting him, you can hear him tear open the package of a condom, and it’s jarring in a particular sense. Not the existence of it, but what the condom entails.

“Did you bring that…for this?” you ask, shaky in voice from desire and also uncertainty of the reply following.

Changbin forgoes answering right away to instead focus on rolling the rubber along himself, carefully beginning to line himself up with you from behind with the tip of his cock gently prodding at your entrance before speaking. “Unfortunately.”

A man worn down. Disappointed, but a slave to desire all the same.

With the answer, his initial push begins. Slow, gentle — you realize in the moment that you’ve never seen his cock, and thus have no idea what you’re “working with” so to speak, but as he pushes deeper, with more force, the stretch of his girth becomes so quickly overwhelming, tears threatening the corners of your eyes, your fingers desperately dig into the metal of the sink in front of you — begging for any kind of purchase at all, before Changbin stills inside of you, buried completely, and presses his mouth against your shoulder. “God you’re—” he begins, needing a moment to collect himself a bit more before finishing his sentence. “Small.”

You don’t know if that’s the case, or the inverse, but either way, you’re sure you’ve never been this full — the way you can feel every pulse and throb of his cock against your walls, you relish in the thought of what it’ll feel like when he comes — you almost wish he hadn’t brought a condom. A heinous thought born of desire, the most wicked trait.

“Are you sure?” he asks, and it’s a little late by now you think, but you nod all the same; desperate, whiny requests for him to move following immediately after, and he’s more than happy to oblige.

Withdrawing almost fully, Changbin pushes back in again, slowly, feeling the drag of his cock against your insides and reveling in the warm wetness. Taking into account how easy the glide is before gaining speed, or force — but it’s easy, the way you’re soaking for him and have been for weeks — almost humiliatingly so, that it’s so easy to take him with how big he is and how there was no foreplay. Your body telling on you with how happy your cunt was to accommodate him, you wish in the moment that you could have feigned at least a tiny bit of disinterest.

Pulling his body off of yours, Changbin settles one hand down onto your waist, the other pressing upward and taking purchase into your shoulder for more leverage to pull you down, on, and against him — it’s then that you finally feel the full force of his drive into you, the first sound of skin against skin that you had been craving for so long, and already — between the painful crave of him leading up to now, the thick drag of his cock, how he pulls at all of your walls and nerves with every drive and withdraw. It’s so fast that you can feel the promise of orgasm bubble up within you, something the man had yet to grant you, and you could only pray that he would be so generous tonight.

“Can I fuck you harder?”

The question sounds stupid to you, but you don’t have it in you to discuss it, only answering in babbling “please's” that sound on the brink of tears and just the sound of it is enough to make his length throb inside of you with want — the scene of a woman so fucked out for his cock that she can barely even speak anymore.

So, Changbin makes the executive decision to stop asking you to. “Jesus, okay,” is all he answers at the sights and sounds before him, driving into you once hard and fast and eliciting the most obscene cry out from you.

Settling into a brutal pace, it’s not long before you feel the promising loom of orgasm approaching — your knees threatening to buckle beneath you — you reach one hand forward in an attempt to hold onto something proper, but Changbin only digs his hands into you harder. “I’ve got you,” he grunts, following with a “fuck,” as he feels the walls of your pussy clamp down around him. Your whimpers get shorter, louder, in almost an instant, and he has no choice but to fuck you through it without so much as a plan of how to help you get there — frankly, because he didn’t think it would be this fast, this easy.

“Already? Fuck, so tight,” he groans, still maintaining his drive against you, and it’s then that he says the words that you’re not sure would ever be spoken of ever again. Words so obscene, so reprehensible, that you didn’t even know Changbin had it in him. The man of relatively good, upstanding, morality. Better than you. Better than this.

“Can’t even tell Jisung’s ever touched you, fuck.”

You wish it weren’t the thing that sends you barreling over the edge, too. The absolute repulsion of it. So incredibly fucked up and unkind to a man that has done nothing deserving of it. Of this.

But nonetheless, you come, and painfully hard, at that. Muscles tightening against one another with such force that it feels stifling, like you can’t breathe. A breathless, almost silent orgasm ripping through your body as the object of your desire fucks you through it, hard and fast — little effort on his part, really.

“Miss it, baby?” Changbin whispers towards you, and you wonder what’s gotten into him now, not that you’re complaining, but the once docile, reluctant man has slowly fallen away for this aggressive, dominant man — a man taking great pleasure in claiming your body for his own cock, instead of your boyfriends. His friends. “Miss coming around a fat cock?”

You whimper out in affirmation, largely due to the fact that the way he’s talking and the relentless stretch of him is getting you close all over again, and at record speed.

Hearing the way your voice breaks, you hear him chuckle from behind you between hard thrusts, “close again?” and you nod. “How can I get you there?”

But you can barely speak, only the sound of “r-rub-” managing through your lips but thankfully it’s enough to get the message across — pulling his hand down from your waist and snaking it down your front and between your thighs — rubbing sloppy circles in the vague area in which your clit should be; not being familiar enough with your anatomy yet to be able to hone in on right where he need to press, but the effort is enough that your second is quickly approaching, and threatening to tear his first from him as well, his panting and groaning weighing heavier and heavier on your ears with each passing second.

“Close?” and you know he’s asking you because he is, but he wants to get you there first. You nod quickly, biting into your lip, begging for a second release to take you and that he can pull it from you.

And oh, can he.

“God, I want to come into this little cunt,” he growls, still fucking into you hard and fast, the sounds of impact radiating through the basement without a care in the world who could possibly here them. “It’s mine now, anyways, isn’t it?”

The question makes your head spin. Genuinely light-headed at the implications.

“Isn’t it mine? Shouldn’t I be able to come in what’s mine? Whose is it?”

Only a loud whimper escapes you, your orgasm now quickly threatening to rip through you, and you don’t want to say it. You don’t want to answer the question. You don’t want to…

State the obvious.

Changbin repeats the last question again, and with you teetering on the edge of orgasm, your resolve comes crumbling down.

“It’s yours, it’s yours, it’s yours!”

You repeat the chant a handful of more times as you come undone around his dick all over again, and it’s all that he needs to pull the same from him — walls clenching hard around him and stripping him of his release in a loud, throaty, groan. Changbin fucks you through the both of your highs, slowing with each thrust and pulling from you before he gets too soft — tying off and disposing of the condom in quick, record time.

You wonder if it’s because it signals all of his worst choices, in succession.

With so many packed suitcases and other such bags near the door, you find it nearly impossible to locate your shoes, but you’re happy about one thing, and that is the fact that you simply just get to slip your shoes on, and drive home to your comfortable apartment, without having to worry about doing any packing or unpacking.

The guys all crowd around the door to say goodbye, thank you for coming last night and spending so much time around — how much of an absolute pleasure it was to have you around so often. How much they love you.

How much Jisung loves you.

It causes a twinge in your stomach, hearing the words. Jisung pops up from the left side of you and curls his fingers in between your own just before kissing you on the side of your head and thanking you for spending so much time around these “losers” as well.

You can’t help but lay eyes on Changbin; leaned up against the wall, arms crossed, with the rest of the guys — quiet, but not any different than that of typical Seo Changbin. So cool, calm, collected — like nothing ever happened.

Like nothing was ever said.

Pulling you from your thoughts, you hear Chan make some off-hand comment about a girl that Minho had allegedly slept with during the week, and although denying it, Chan simply won’t hear it.

“Dude whatever, I know what I saw,” Chan says, stuffing a pair of basketball shorts in a bag of his, “Changbin was there, he saw it too.”

And Hyunjin laughs from the kitchen, still attempting to pack up left over drinks from the weekend. “Changbin won’t say shit though, that man is like a vault,” he starts, pausing only due to the fact that he just about drops a half full bottle of tequila on the tile floor. “That man is where secrets go to die, never to be heard from again.”

Your eyes pull towards the person in question again, slowly turning back towards you from his gaze at Hyunjin behind him — a smirk on his face, and just the ever so delicate presence of him chewing at the bottom of his lip to make eye contact with you before speaking.

“You have no idea.”

♡ send me your thoughts and feelings in my ask.

—this is a oneshot, there will be no part 2.

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