Chapter Text
The confetti from the stage was still in his hair. It clung to his scalp and shirt collar, a sticky, metallic silver and blue that caught in the half-light streaming through the hotel window, mocking him with every shimmer. It was late, or it was early, or maybe he just no longer lived in a timezone. Time didn’t feel real anymore. Not after five games of hell, not after lifting the trophy, not after holding his breath through an entire arena’s worth of screaming.
Choi Hyeonjoon sat perched on the edge of his bed with his knees drawn up, staring at the shadowy glass reflection of himself. He should have been in the shower, or at the party next to his room, or at the very least answering the avalanche of DMs congratulating him, but instead he was suspended in this brittle, exhausted silence. He wasn’t sure if he was shaking from adrenaline or from the sudden, thunderous absence of it.
This was, objectively, the peak. He’d been chasing it for years: the confetti, the interviews, the crowds... And yet, watching his own hands tremor around the stem of the silver trophy, Doran felt light, untethered, like a helium balloon someone had let go in the stadium. He’d spent so long pretending to be invulnerable that now, when there was no one left to perform for, his insides felt like they might simply dissolve.
A sharp laugh rang out from the room next door, so loud it made the walls vibrate. The sound could only belong to Moon Hyeonjun. Oner. The so-called face of jungle dominance. If Hyeonjoon listened past the laugh, he could hear the muffled patter of feet, the clatter of a bottle cap launched across the floor, the squeak of a chair as Hyeonjun probably cajoled the team into some absurd, impromptu drinking game.
Hyeonjoon’s own room was a museum of stillness by comparison: lowered curtains, suitcases standing at attention, a thin layer of dust on the desk by the window. He’d spent the first hour after the match cycling through every possible permutation of how the post-finals night was supposed to feel—pumped, relieved, vindicated, maybe even cocky—but all he managed was a blank, thrumming unease. He stood, too abruptly, and let the world tilt for a heartbeat before his knees caught up with gravity.
His phone was dead. Worse, his charger was missing. He’d last seen it during the mad scramble to pack up for the afterparty, when Hyeonjun had appeared in the hallway wearing only a towel and his tiger necklace, raw laughter still echoing off the tile floors. It had felt normal, then, to let their chaos overlap. Now, rooting through his bags, Hyeonjoon realized he’d have to reclaim the charger from wherever it had ended up. Hyeonjun’s room, probably.
The hallway was a river of spilled beer and colored streamers, the distant roar of celebration still vibrating through the carpeted floors. As he reached the door to the next suite, Hyeonjoon hesitated, his hand hovering over the wood. He knocked—a light, rhythmic tapping—but only the hum of the mini fridge answered him.
"Hyeonjun-ah?" he called out, his voice barely a whisper against the silence. When no answer came, he reached for the handle. To his surprise, the latch clicked, yielding easily under his palm. He turned the knob and pushed the door open slowly, the heavy oak swinging back with a soft, expensive creak. The boundary between their rooms was usually as porous as the line between their lives, but as he stepped into the dim, private stillness of the room, he felt a sudden, sharp prickle of intrusion—like he was walking into a brush he hadn't warded.
Hyeonjun’s room was in a state of collapse. Bottles on every surface, ramen wrappers and confetti even here, a hoodie draped over the TV. The only order came from the neat, obsessive clusters of gaming gear: mouse, keyboard, headphones, each lined up with surgical precision. Doran scanned the mess for his charger and felt almost comforted by the chaos. Oner lived in entropy, but he always seemed to know exactly where the singular thing you needed was hidden.
Hyeonjoon took a step forward, then another, and—
He tripped.
Something heavy caught his ankle and rolled under his foot, sending him stumbling into the side of the bed. A dull thud, then a metallic click. Hyeonjoon looked down, half-expecting to find a bottle or a stray mouse, but what he saw instead was a squat, matte-black case, the kind you might use for a laptop. It was unlatched. The impact of his foot had knocked the lid wide open, exposing its contents to the dim, syrupy light of the city.
He crouched, intending to snap the case shut before Hyeonjun could make fun of him for snooping, but the contents gave him pause. There, nestled in custom-cut foam, were a coil of deep, [[blood-red silk rope]], thick and perfectly bundled; a set of stainless steel [[handcuffs]], gleaming even in the weak lighting; a [[collar of thick, black leather]] with a heavy silver ring at its center. And a [[blindfold]], the kind you might see in a movie but never in the actual homes of actual people.
Hyeonjoon’s brain struggled to process. It was a kit. A BDSM kit. In Oner’s luggage. In the room of the man who’d spent the entire season blurring the lines of their friendship. This was the same Oner who constantly invaded his personal space, habitually patting his backside to "cheer him up" after a tough set, always leaning into him to say that he’d done well. It was the man who spent their live streams relentlessly baiting him and cracking jokes until Hyeonjoon’s face burned a deep, helpless crimson in front of thousands of viewers.
He should have closed the box. He should have gotten up and gone back to his room and never spoken to anyone about what he’d seen. But he didn’t. He reached out, almost in a trance, and let his fingers brush the leather of the collar. It was cold, at first, but it warmed quickly to the touch. He found himself thinking about the way Hyeonjun’s hands always lingered on his back after a match, steadying instead of guiding, even though he was technically the older of the two.
His ears rang with the memory of Hyeonjun’s constant, casual praise. It was a permanent fixture of their season—the way Hyeonjun was always there, leaning over his shoulder after a chaotic teamfight or catching him in the hallway after a win just to tell him he’d done a good job. At first, Hyeonjoon had dismissed it as the typical, noisy energy of a teammate who didn't know the meaning of personal space. But Hyeonjun never stopped; he was relentless with his approval, always ensuring Hyeonjoon knew exactly when he was pleased with him. Somewhere along the way, those constant words of affirmation had shifted from simple encouragement into something far more potent. It had become a rhythm Hyeonjoon unconsciously craved, a heat that started in his chest and turned into a sweet, lingering ache whenever Hyeonjun’s hand landed a bit too heavily on his back to tell him he’d played it perfectly.
Hyeonjoon picked up the rope. He weighed it in his palm, running the cord over his knuckles. Oner had chosen a color that matched their team jersey, that looked almost regal in the right light. He imagined the rope cinched around his own body, the handcuffs locked tight, the blindfold firm against his eyes and the weight of the collar in his neck. He imagined how it would feel to let go, to stop thinking, to surrender the part of himself that had spent years in ruthless control.
The door opened, slowly, without the courtesy of a knock. Hyeonjoon froze, rope in hand, as Hyeonjun stepped into the room carrying a six-pack and a bag of chips.
They locked eyes. For a full two seconds, neither said anything. Hyeonjoon’s heart spiked so high he thought he might pass out.
Hyeonjun set the drinks down, shrugged off his jacket, and surveyed the scene: Hyeonjoon kneeling, the case open, the silk rope looped between his fingers. His gaze was as sharp as ever, but there was something different in the set of his jaw, in the way he took a moment before saying anything at all. It was almost… gentle.
“You’re a bit late for the party, Hyeonjoon-hyung.”
His voice was loud, but not mocking. It was almost soft, almost coaxing, but it cut through the room.
Hyeonjoon still didn’t move. He couldn’t. He remained on his knees, hands trembling, the world collapsing inward as the weight of the moment threatened to crush him. His ears burned, his glasses slipped down his nose, and for the first time since the final, he truly couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
He waited for Hyeonjun to laugh, or to tease, or to make a show of snatching away the evidence of his secret life. Instead, the other man just watched him, expression unreadable, as if he was waiting for Hyeonjoon to make the next move.
Seconds passed, each one slower than the last.
Finally, Hyeonjun crossed the room, moving with the deliberate grace that had made him a legend in the jungle. He knelt down to Hyeonjoon’s level, close enough that Hyeonjoon could smell the lingering notes of his cologne and the faint metallic tang of sweat and beer.
He reached out, slow and careful, and took the rope from Hyeonjoon’s hands. Not snatching it away, but cradling it, as if he was handling something precious.
“Didn’t know you were curious,” Hyeonjun said, voice lower.
The air between them was thick, charged with something Hyeonjoon couldn’t name—something that made his pulse stutter and his breath catch in his throat. Hyeonjun’s fingers didn’t retreat. Instead, they lingered, brushing against Hyeonjoon’s as he took the silk rope, the rough texture of the fibers a stark contrast to the sudden, searing heat of Oner’s skin. It was a fleeting touch, but it burned through Hyeonjoon like a brand, leaving him trembling.
Hyeonjoon’s voice, when it came, was little more than a fractured whisper, barely audible in the hushed expanse of the suite. “I—I wasn’t—” The words stumbled out, clumsy and broken, as if his tongue had forgotten how to form them. He tried to swallow, but his throat was tight, choked with something that felt like confetti from the stage—sharp, glittering, impossible to dislodge. “The charger. I was just… I tripped, and it opened, and I—”
He couldn’t finish. The truth was too raw, too revealing. He couldn’t admit, not even to himself, that he had been standing there, staring at the black case, imagining the silk coiled around his wrists, the way it might feel to be bound, to surrender. Hyeonjun’s head tilted, a slow, deliberate movement, like a predator sizing up its prey. The corner of his mouth quirked upward, that familiar, playful smirk Hyeonjoon knew too well—the one that flashed right before Hyeonjun made a bold, unexpected play, the one that promised mischief and mayhem.
“You tripped?” Hyeonjun’s voice was low, teasing, each word a deliberate prod at the wound Hyeonjoon was desperate to hide. “And the rope just jumped into your hand, Hyeonjoon-hyung? That’s some impressive RNG.”
Hyeonjoon’s face flushed so violently that his vision blurred behind his glasses. The ragebait was working; Hyeonjun was enjoying this, savoring the way Hyeonjoon was unraveling before him. He could feel the heat creeping up his neck, the way his hands had begun to shake.
“I’m sorry,” Hyeonjoon managed, his voice barely more than a gasp. His knees, finally finding some semblance of strength, propelled him backward. He scrambled away, his socks slipping on the polished hardwood floor, desperate to put distance between himself and the black case, between himself and Hyeonjun’s knowing gaze. “I shouldn’t have… I didn’t see anything. I’ll just—I’ll buy a new charger tomorrow. Sorry, Hyeonjun-ah. I’m so sorry.”
He didn’t wait for a response. He didn’t dare look back to see if Hyeonjun was laughing. Hyeonjoon bolted, his heart pounding so fiercely it drowned out the distant hum of the party down the hall. He nearly stumbled as he fled, his shoulder catching the doorframe with a dull thud. He didn’t stop running until he reached the sanctuary of his own suite, slamming the door shut behind him with a force that rattled the walls.
Leaning against the wood, he slid down until he was nothing more than a heap on the floor, his face buried in his hands. The heat of his shame was unbearable, the weight of his own desires pressing down on him like a physical force. Behind him, through the thin walls, he could still hear the faint, muffled echo of Hyeonjun’s laughter—loud, boisterous, and utterly delighted. It wasn’t cruel. It was worse. It was knowing.
The laughter from the party next door faded into the hum of the air conditioner, then into the distant, rhythmic pulse of the city outside. Hyeonjoon sat on the floor, his knees drawn up to his chest, his glasses fogged from his own breath.
The confetti scattered across the hotel floor was losing its luster, the metallic flakes growing dull as the light from the window slowly retreated, surrendering the room to the oncoming night. Yet, every so often, a stray beam of the fading sun would catch a stray sliver of white, igniting a sudden, piercing flash that forced Hyeonjoon to look away. In those brief flickers, he was back under the stadium rafters, blinded by the roar of the crowd and the artificial suns of the stage lights, watching the silver skin of the trophy reflect the chaos of a "perfect" night. But as the room darkened further, those flashes only served to remind him of the distance between the champion on the screen and the trembling man sitting in the shadows.
He should have been exhausted. His body ached from the match, from the adrenaline crash, from the weight of the trophy still sitting on his desk, untouched. But his mind was a storm, restless and relentless. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the rope, the cuffs, the collar. He saw Hyeonjun’s hands—always lingering, always too close. The way he’d lean in after a win, his breath warm against Doran’s ear as he whispered, Good job, hyung. The way he’d laugh when Hyeonjoon blushed, as if he knew exactly what he was doing.
Hyeonjoon pressed his palms against his eyes, as if he could rub away the images. Why did Hyeonjun have those things? The question burned, but the answer terrified him more. He thought of the way Hyeonjun’s fingers would brush his arm when they stood side by side during interviews, always under the guise of camaraderie, always just a little too familiar. He thought of the way Hyeonjun looked at him sometimes, like he was seeing something no one else could.
A sharp knock at the door made him jump. He scrambled to his feet, his heart pounding, as if Hyeonjun had somehow sensed his thoughts and come to confront him. But when he opened the door, it wasn’t Hyeonjun standing there.
Sanghyeok stood in the hallway, holding a phone charger. His expression was unreadable, but there was a quiet concern in his eyes that made Hyeonjoon’s stomach twist.
“You left this in the party room,” Sanghyeok said, offering the charger. “Hyeonjunnie told me you were looking for it.”
Hyeonjoon took it, his fingers brushing Sanghyeok’s briefly. He couldn’t meet his eyes. “Thanks,” he muttered, his voice rough. Sanghyeok didn’t move. He stood there, watching Hyeonjoon with an intensity that made him feel exposed. “Is everything okay?” he asked, his voice low.
Hyeonjoon’s throat tightened. He wanted to lie, to brush it off, but the words wouldn’t come. He shook his head, still unable to look up. “I’m just tired,” he managed.
Sanghyeok was silent for a moment. Then, softly, he said, “You know, Hyeonjun’s always been… Hyeonjun. But he’s not as reckless as he seems. If something’s bothering you, you should talk to him.”
Hyeonjoon’s chest ached. He wanted to ask Sanghyeok if he knew—if he knew—but the question lodged itself in his throat.
Sanghyeok sighed, his voice gentle. “Get some sleep, Joonie. You look like you need it.”
Hyeonjoon nodded, gripping the charger tightly. Sanghyeok gave him one last look before turning and walking away, leaving Hyeonjoon alone with his thoughts once more.
He shut the door and leaned against it, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor again. The charger lay in his lap, a lifeline he didn’t know how to use. He thought of Oner’s laughter, the way it had echoed through the wall, knowing and delighted. He thought of the rope, the cuffs, the collar—and the way his body had reacted to them, the way his mind kept circling back, unable to let go. He didn’t know what any of it meant. But for the first time, he wasn’t sure he wanted to run from it.
· ☀︎ ·
The water hit the tile with a sharp, hissing sound as Hyeonjoon twisted the knob as far as it would go. Steam billowed up almost instantly, filling the small bathroom, fogging the mirror before he could catch a glimpse of his own face. Good. He didn’t want to see himself—not like this, not with his skin still prickling with the memory of Hyeonjun’s fingers brushing his, not with his pulse still erratic from the way his own body had betrayed him.
He stepped under the spray before the temperature had even settled, gasping as the needles of heat pricked at his skin. It wasn’t enough. He turned the knob further, until the water bordered on scalding, until his breath came in short, uneven bursts and his shoulders tensed against the sting. He wanted it to hurt. He wanted it to burn away the confusion, the shame, the way his stomach had twisted when he’d seen the contents of that case. He wanted it to wash away the way his hands had trembled, the way his voice had cracked like a rookie’s under pressure.
But the heat couldn’t reach the thoughts coiled tight in his chest.
Hyeonjoon pressed his forehead against the tile, his palms flat against the wall, and let the water pound down on his neck, his shoulders, the back of his skull. Little confetti—stubborn, glittering remnants of the night’s victory—clung to his hair, his lashes. He scrubbed at his scalp with his fingertips, nails digging in as he tried to dislodge every last fleck. They swirled down the drain in silver and blue eddies, disappearing into the dark. He watched them go, his jaw clenched. It should have been cathartic, symbolic. Instead, it felt hollow.
He lathered his hair with shampoo, the scent sharp and clinical, nothing like the rich, warm cologne Hyeonjun always wore—the one that had lingered in the air of his room, the one Hyeonjoon had caught traces of when Hyeonjun leaned in too close during team huddles, when he clapped him on the back after a win, when he—
Hyeonjoon’s hands stilled.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but the image was already there: the black case, the coil of blood-red silk, the gleam of the cuffs. The way the leather collar had looked in the dim light, heavy and deliberate. The way his own fingers had betrayed him, reaching out, touching.
A shudder ran through him, unrelated to the temperature of the water.
He rinsed quickly, his movements jerky, as if he could outrun the memory. The soap slipped from his hands, clattering against the tub. He left it there. His skin was red, slick with water and heat, his glasses fogged beyond use on the sink. He didn’t bother to grab them. He didn’t want to see clearly. Not yet.
The towel was rough against his skin as he dried off, scrubbing at his arms, his chest, as if he could erase the way his body had reacted—the way his breath had hitched when he’d imagined the rope around his wrists, the way his pulse had jumped when Hyeonjun’s voice had dropped, low and teasing: “You tripped?”
Hyeonjoon wrapped the towel around his waist, knotting it tighter than necessary. The bathroom mirror was still fogged, his reflection a smudged, indistinct shape. He wiped a patch clear with the heel of his hand and forced himself to look.
His face was flushed, his hair damp and messy, his eyes darker than usual, pupils still blown from the adrenaline of the night—or maybe from something else. He looked… undone. Vulnerable. Like someone who had just lost a match he hadn’t even known he was playing.
He turned away.
The pajamas were an old set, soft cotton worn thin from years of washing. He pulled on the pants first, the fabric cool against his heated skin. The shirt followed, but he left the top buttons undone, as if even that small constriction was too much. He needed air. He needed space. He needed to pretend, just for a moment, that he wasn’t drowning in his own thoughts.
The bed was a sanctuary. He pulled back the covers—crisp, cool sheets, the scent of laundry detergent faint but comforting—and slid beneath them. The weight of the blanket was a relief, a physical pressure to anchor him. He buried his face in the pillow, inhaling the familiar smell of fabric softener, of home. But even here, in the quiet dark of his own room, his mind wouldn’t quiet.
His phone lay on the nightstand, the charging cable snaking toward the outlet like a lifeline. Hyeonjoon reached for it, his fingers brushing the screen. It was warm from charging, a small, steady heat against his palm.
He hesitated.
The party was still going on next door. He could hear the muffled bass of music, the occasional burst of laughter. Hyeonjun’s laughter, probably. Always loud, always unapologetic. Always knowing.
Hyeonjoon rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. The shadows played tricks on him, shifting and stretching like hands reaching out from the dark.
He exhaled, long and slow, and let his head sink deeper into the pillow. For the first time all night, he let himself admit the truth:
He wasn’t just confused.
He was curious.
And that terrified him more than anything.
The phone was warm in his hands, the screen casting a pale, flickering glow across the sheets. Hyeonjoon stared at it, his thumb hovering over the browser icon. He could still turn back. He could set the phone down, roll over, and let the exhaustion of the night pull him under. He could pretend he’d never seen the case, never felt the weight of the rope in his palm, never heard the way Hyeonjun’s voice had dropped, low and knowing, when he’d caught him.
But the memory of the black case was still there, vivid and unrelenting. The way the silk had gleamed under the lamplight. The way the cuffs had looked—cold, unyielding, but somehow inviting. The way the collar had rested in its foam cutout, heavy and deliberate, as if waiting for someone to claim it.
Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched. He tapped the screen.
The incognito tab opened with a quiet, damning finality. The search bar sat empty, a blank canvas for the thoughts he’d spent years burying. His fingers hovered, trembling slightly. He could still pretend. He could type something else—post-match interviews, best hotels in Seoul, anything to distract himself from the storm inside his chest.
But his body had already made the decision for him.
B D S M
The letters appeared one by one, stark against the white screen. Hyeonjoon’s pulse spiked as he hit search, the results loading instantly—a flood of information, images, forums, and definitions. His throat went dry. He scrolled, his eyes skimming over words he’d heard whispered in jokes or thrown around in locker room banter, but never truly understood: dominance, submission, bondage, discipline, power exchange. The clinical definitions did little to ease the tightness in his chest. If anything, they made it worse.
He clicked on the first link—a beginner’s guide to BDSM. The page filled with text, the words neat and orderly, as if something so raw, so primal, could be distilled into bullet points and subheadings. His gaze caught on a single sentence, bolded for emphasis:
“BDSM is not about pain or humiliation—it’s about trust, communication, and the exploration of power dynamics in a consensual, controlled environment.”
Hyeonjoon’s fingers tightened around the phone. Trust. The word echoed in his mind, mocking him. He’d spent years building walls, perfecting the art of control, of never letting anyone see him falter. And yet, in the span of a single evening, Hyeonjun had somehow slipped past every defense he’d ever constructed—not with force, but with something far more dangerous: understanding.
He scrolled further, his pulse quickening as he read about the different roles—Dominant, submissive, switch—and the rituals that defined them. His mind kept circling back to the image of the rope, the way it had felt in his hands, the way Hyeonjun had looked at him when he’d taken it. That slow, predatory tilt of his head. The smirk. The way his voice had dropped, like a secret meant only for him.
Did he know?
The thought was paralyzing. Hyeonjoon’s thumb hovered over the screen, trembling. He clicked on another link, this one a forum thread titled “How do I know if I’m submissive?” The responses were a mix of personal anecdotes and practical advice, but one line stood out, bolded for emphasis:
“Ask yourself: Do you crave the feeling of letting go? Of trusting someone else to take control, even just for a little while?”
Hyeonjoon’s breath came faster. He closed his eyes, but the image was still there—the rope, the cuffs, the collar. The way Hyeonjun’s hands always lingered on his back. The way his praise had started to feel like something more than just encouragement, something that settled deep in Hyeonjoon’s chest and stayed there, warm and heavy.
He scrolled again, this time landing on an article about aftercare—the emotional and physical care given to a submissive after a scene. His chest ached as he read about the importance of reassurance, of touch, of gentle words. It was so far from the cold, detached professionalism he’d built his life around. It was terrifying. It was intoxicating. It was everything he’d never let himself want.
A notification buzzed at the top of the screen—a message from the team chat, probably another round of congratulations or plans for the next event. Hyeonjoon ignored it, his focus locked on the words in front of him. He clicked on another link, this one a video titled “Introduction to Rope Bondage.” The thumbnail showed a pair of hands, deft and confident, weaving intricate knots around a willing partner’s wrists. Hyeonjoon’s throat went dry. He hesitated, his finger hovering over the play button.
He pressed it.
The video began with soft, instrumental music, the instructor’s voice calm and methodical as they explained the basics of safety, of consent, of the trust between the person tying and the person being tied. Hyeonjoon watched, transfixed, as the rope coiled and tightened around the submissive’s wrists, the way their breath hitched as the last knot was secured. The instructor’s hands were steady, their movements deliberate, almost reverent. It wasn’t just about restraint—it was about connection.
Hyeonjoon’s own breath matched theirs.
The video ended. He stared at the black screen, his mind racing. He didn’t know what to do with the storm inside him. But for the first time, he didn’t want it to stop.
He set the phone down, the screen still glowing in the dark. The room was quiet, the distant hum of the party next door faded into the background. He pulled the blanket higher, as if it could shield him from the weight of what he’d just discovered. But the thoughts kept coming, relentless and hungry.
What if I want this?
The question burned in his chest. He rolled onto his side, pressing his face into the pillow, as if he could smother the thought before it took root. But it was already there, unfurling like a seed in the dark.
What if I’ve always wanted this?
His phone buzzed again. Hyeonjoon ignored it, his fingers curling into the sheets. He could still hear Hyeonjun’s laughter from earlier, as if he’d already guessed what Hyeonjoon was only now beginning to understand.
What if Hyeonjun already knows?
The thought sent a shiver down his spine. He buried his face deeper into the pillow, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts. The sheets were tangled around his legs, the blanket too warm, the air too thick. He kicked it off, then pulled it back up, restless and unable to settle.
His phone lit up again, the screen flashing with another notification. Hyeonjoon reached for it, his fingers trembling as he unlocked the screen. It was just a message from the team manager, a reminder about the flight home tomorrow. Nothing important. Nothing that could distract him from the storm inside his head.
He closed his eyes, but the images were still there—the rope, the cuffs, the collar. The way Hyeonjun had looked at him, not with mockery, but with something far more dangerous: recognition.
Hyeonjoon rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. He could still feel the weight of the rope in his palm, the way it had warmed to his touch, as if it had been waiting for him.
He reached for his phone again.
This time, he didn’t hesitate.
His fingers moved across the screen, typing out another search, his heart pounding in his chest.
how to know if you’d be good at submitting
The results loaded instantly.
Hyeonjoon took a deep breath—and began to read.