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.
Chapter 2
Notes:
Here’s the new chapter—and wow, this one’s way longer than the last (almost double the words, oops!! (ﾉ´･ω･)ﾉ). We’re diving deeper into 2HJ’s dynamic (yes, finally!!) and also giving our beloved Minhyung the goodbye he deserves. cries in Guma (╥﹏╥)
I’m so grateful for all your comments and kudos!! They seriously make my day and keep me motivated to keep posting. sends virtual hugs (づ￣ ³￣)づ And OMG, did you see the LCK Awards?! I’m a little sad Doran and Peyz didn’t attend, but at least we got that beautiful Minhyung x T1 content to soothe our souls. wipes tears (；ω；)
Don’t forget to check the new tags! And as always, enjoy the chapter~ ♡(˃͈௰˂͈ ༶ )Warnings for this chapter:
Angst
Guma’s farewell (bring tissues, I’m not kidding (╥﹏╥))
Implied Guke
Heavy talks (emotional but necessary!)
Fluff & comfort (because we all need it)
No smutLove you all! Enjoy the chapter, and don’t forget to leave your thoughts—I live for them! (◕‿◕✿)
Chapter Text
The dorm was too quiet.
Hyeonjoon sat at the kitchen counter, his fingers wrapped around a lukewarm cup of coffee he hadn’t touched in twenty minutes. The steam had long since dissipated, leaving only a thin, bitter film on the surface, and the mug’s ceramic was cold against his palms. He should have reheated it. Should have done a lot of things.
His phone lay face-down on the counter, buzzing intermittently with notifications he didn’t have the energy to check. The screen lit up again—T1 Official: Minhyung’s last day today. Let’s say goodbye at 3—and Hyeonjoon stared at the glow bleeding through the cracks of his fingers. He didn’t reply. He didn’t even flip the phone over. The weight of the past week pressed down on him, a suffocating blend of exhaustion and something sharper, something he couldn’t name.
He didn’t remember the flight home.
Not really.
There were fragments, of course—the hum of the engine, the way the cabin lights had cast everything in a sickly yellow glow, the press of Hyeonjun’s elbow against his as they’d both reached for the same armrest. The way his own breath had hitched when their shoulders had brushed, just for a second. The way he’d spent the entire trip twisting the drawstring of his hoodie around his finger, pulling it tight enough to leave a faint, red imprint on his skin.
He hadn’t slept.
Not on the plane, not in the car ride back, not in the hours since they’d returned. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the black case, the coil of blood-red silk, the gleam of the cuffs. The way the leather collar had looked.
Hyeonjoon exhaled, slow and controlled, and spun his phone on the counter. It rotated in lazy circles, the screen flashing with each turn—3:00 PM, 3:00 PM, 3:00 PM—before settling face-down again. He should go. Should say goodbye. Should care.
But all he could think about was the way Hyeonjun had looked at him that night. The way his voice had dropped, low and knowing, when he’d caught him with the rope in his hands. The way his smirk had been playful, but not cruel. The way his laughter had echoed through the wall afterward, delighted, like he’d already known.
The dorm TV flickered in the corner, playing a silent replay of their Worlds victory. Hyeonjoon watched his own hands in the footage—steady, sure, confident—and felt the irony of it like a punch to the gut. He’d spent years perfecting that mask of control, and now, in the quiet of the dorm, with nothing but the hum of the fridge and the distant sound of rain, he felt like he was drowning in his own skin.
A plate clinked onto the counter beside him.
Hyeonjoon jumped, his shoulder brushing Hyeonjun’s as the other man leaned past him to set down a golden-brown waffle, still steaming. The scent of vanilla and syrup filled the air, too sweet, too domestic, and Hyeonjoon’s stomach twisted.
"Eat," Hyeonjun said, his voice rough with the kind of casual authority that made Hyeonjoon’s fingers tighten around his mug. "You look like hell."
Hyeonjoon didn’t reply. He didn’t even look up. He could feel Hyeonjun’s gaze on him, though—heavy, considering—before the other man turned back to the stove. The sizzle of batter hitting the waffle iron filled the silence, and Hyeonjoon hated how normal it all was. How Hyeonjun could stand there, flipping waffles like this was just another morning, like he hadn’t seen Doran unravel over a goddamn rope.
He poked at the waffle with his fork, the tines sinking into the soft, syrupy surface. His throat felt tight. His hands were shaking.
Hyeonjun didn’t say anything.
He didn’t tease. Didn’t linger. Didn’t even look at Hyeonjoon for longer than a second. He just slid the second waffle onto a plate, pushed it across the counter, and leaned against the fridge, scrolling through his phone like this was nothing.
Like Hyeonjoon wasn’t falling apart right in front of him.
Hyeonjoon’s fork clattered against the plate. He couldn’t eat. His stomach was a knot, his thoughts a whirlwind—the rope, the cuffs, the way Hyeonjun’s hands had looked wrapping around them, the way his voice had sounded when he’d said—
"You tripped?"
Hyeonjoon’s face burned.
He shouldn’t be thinking about this. Not now. Not when the team was falling apart and reforming, not when they had Red Bull League prep, not when—
His phone buzzed again.
He ignored it.
Hyeonjun’s elbow brushed his as he reached for the syrup, and Hyeonjoon flinched, his breath catching. Hyeonjun didn’t apologize. Didn’t even react. Just poured the syrup over his waffle, the amber liquid pooling in the grooves, and took a bite.
Hyeonjoon watched the way his forearms flexed as he chewed.
The way his throat worked as he swallowed.
The way his eyes flicked to Hyeonjoon for just a second—knowing, amused—before looking back at his phone. Hyeonjoon’s hands clenched in his lap.
He should say something.
Should ask.
Should pretend this wasn’t eating him alive.
But the words stuck in his throat, and the kitchen felt too small, the air too thick, and all he could do was stare at his untouched waffle and wonder how the hell he was supposed to breathe through this.
Outside, the rain tapped against the windows, a slow, steady rhythm. Hyeonjun finished his waffle, wiped his hands on his sweatpants, and didn’t push. He never did. And that, Hyeonjoon thought, was the problem.
The syrup bottle between them had become a boundary, a thin line of amber division that neither seemed willing to cross. Hyeonjoon stared at the way the light refracted through the glass, casting distorted, golden patterns across the countertop—like the confetti that had rained down on them after Worlds, only heavier, stickier, impossible to brush away. His fingers twitched toward it again, but he pulled back before making contact, as if touching it might somehow break the fragile equilibrium of the moment. The waffle on his plate had long since lost its warmth, the edges hardening into something unappetizing, the syrup congealing into a glossy, sugary film. It mirrored how he felt—cold on the outside, sickly sweet and cloying on the inside, like he might never digest any of it.
Hyeonjun’s presence was a physical weight in the room, not because he was crowding Hyeonjoon, but because Hyeonjoon was hyperaware of every shift of his body, every breath, every faint rustle of fabric as he moved. The way his shoulders rolled when he reached for his phone, the way his thumb pressed against the screen as he scrolled, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks when he glanced down. Hyeonjoon had seen him like this a thousand times before—casual, relaxed, utterly at home in his own skin—but now, it felt different. Now, it felt like a revelation. Like he was seeing Hyeonjun for the first time, and the realization made his chest ache.
The silence between them wasn’t just silence. It was a living thing, thick with everything they weren’t saying. Hyeonjoon could feel it pressing against his skin, seeping into his pores. It was the kind of quiet that made his ears ring, the kind that made him want to fill it with noise, with anything to drown out the sound of his own thoughts. But he didn’t. He just sat there, his knee bouncing restlessly beneath the counter, his fingers clenched around the edge of the table. He was trapped in his own head, in the endless loop of memories and questions and fears that had been playing on repeat since that night in the hotel. The night everything had changed, even if nothing had been said.
His phone buzzed again, the screen lighting up with another notification. Sanghyeok: Minhyung’s leaving in an hour. You sure you’re not coming? Hyeonjoon stared at the words until they blurred. Minhyung. Their adc, their rock, the one who had always been there, steady and reliable, even when the rest of the world felt like it was crumbling. And now he was leaving. Just like that. Another piece of the team slipping away, another change in the roster, another reminder that nothing stayed the same. Hyeonjoon’s throat tightened. He should go. He should. Minhyung deserved that much. But the thought of facing him, of standing there and pretending everything was fine when his own head was a mess, made his stomach twist.
He remembered the last time he’d seen Minhyung properly—after the Worlds final, when they’d all been high on adrenaline and victory, when Minhyung had clapped him on the back and told him he’d played like a god. Hyeonjoon had laughed then, had let the praise wash over him like a balm. But now, the memory just made him feel hollow. Because what if Minhyung had looked at him and known? What if he’d seen the way Hyeonjoon’s hands had shaken when Hyeonjun had walked into the room, the way his breath had hitched when their eyes met? What if he’d understood what Hyeonjoon hadn’t even been able to admit to himself?
The thought made him want to crawl out of his own skin.
Hyeonjun’s chair scraped against the floor as he stood, the sound grating against Hyeonjoon’s raw nerves. He watched as Hyeonjun carried his plate to the sink, the way his muscles shifted beneath his t-shirt, the way his fingers gripped the edge of the plate just a little too tight, like he was holding onto something more than just ceramic. The water ran, the clatter of dishes filling the space where words should have been. Hyeonjoon’s gaze flicked to the window, where the rain had slowed to a drizzle, the drops sliding down the glass in slow, mournful trails. It matched his mood—heavy, gray, endless.
"You don’t have to go," Hyeonjun said, his back still turned, his voice low and rough. "If you don’t want to."
Hyeonjoon’s fingers tightened around the edge of the table. He didn’t know if Hyeonjun was talking about Minhyung’s goodbye, or something else entirely. The ambiguity made his chest ache. Because the truth was, he didn’t want to go. Not like this. Not when he felt like he was one wrong word away from shattering into a thousand pieces. But he also didn’t want to be here, trapped in this kitchen with Hyeonjun, trapped in his own head, trapped in the weight of everything he couldn’t say.
The water shut off. Hyeonjun dried his hands on a dish towel, his movements slow and deliberate, like he was giving Hyeonjoon time to breathe. To think. To run, if that’s what he needed to do. But Hyeonjoon didn’t run. He just sat there, his pulse hammering in his throat, his mind racing in circles.
Hyeonjun turned, leaning back against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked at Hyeonjoon, really looked at him, in a way that made Hyeonjoon’s skin prickle with heat. There was no smirk, no teasing glint in his eyes. Just a quiet, steady gaze that felt like it was seeing straight through him.
Hyeonjoon’s knee bounced faster. He pressed his palm against it, trying to still the movement, but it was no use. His entire body felt like it was vibrating with restrained energy, like he was a live wire about to spark. He should say something. Anything. But the words were stuck in his throat, tangled in the mess of his thoughts, choked by the fear of what might happen if he let them out.
Hyeonjun’s eyes flicked down to Hyeonjoon’s hands—clenched white-knuckled around the edge of the table—and then back up to his face. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t push. Just waited, his expression carefully neutral, like he knew exactly how close Hyeonjoon was to breaking.
And that was the worst part.
Because Hyeonjun did know.
Hyeonjoon could see it in the way his gaze darkened, in the way his jaw tightened just slightly, in the way his fingers twitched like he was fighting the urge to reach out. He knew Hyeonjoon was drowning. He knew Hyeonjoon was terrified. He knew Hyeonjoon was curious.
And he wasn’t going to save him.
The realization made Hyeonjoon’s chest burn.
He should be angry. Should tell Hyeonjun to back off, to stop looking at him like that, to say something. But he wasn’t angry. He was something worse. He was grateful. Because Hyeonjun was giving him exactly what he needed—space to figure it out, space to want it, space to fall apart if that’s what had to happen.
Hyeonjoon’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"Hyeonjun-ah."
The name felt inadequate on his tongue, too small for the weight of what he was trying to say. Hyeonjun’s gaze sharpened, just slightly. An acknowledgment. An invitation.
Hyeonjoon’s fingers twisted together in his lap, his nails digging into his palms hard enough to hurt. He could feel the imprint of his own teeth on the inside of his cheek, where he’d been biting down to keep from saying something stupid. Something honest.
The rain outside had slowed to a faint patter, the kind of sound that should have been soothing but instead just made the silence between them feel heavier. Hyeonjoon’s mind raced, chasing thoughts like a dog after its own tail—the rope, the cuffs, the way Hyeonjun’s voice had dropped when he’d caught him, the way his hands had looked wrapping around them, the way his laughter had echoed through the wall afterward, delighted and knowing and—
He set his fork down with a sharp clink against the plate.
Hyeonjun didn’t move.
Hyeonjoon’s mouth opened again, his breath coming faster now, his chest tight. He could feel the words building inside him, a storm he couldn’t hold back anymore. But before he could speak, his phone buzzed again, the screen lighting up with a photo from the team chat—Minhyung, grinning, his arm slung around Sanghyeok, the caption reading Last day, hyungs. Don’t make me cry.
Hyeonjoon’s throat closed up.
Minhyung.
Their carry. Their friend.
The one who had always been there, steady and reliable, the one who had known Hyeonjoon better than anyone else on the team. The one who had seen him at his best and his worst and had never once made him feel small for it.
And now he was leaving.
Hyeonjoon’s fingers trembled as he reached for his phone, his vision blurring as he stared at the photo. Minhyung looked so happy. So at peace. Like he was ready for whatever came next.
Hyeonjoon wasn’t.
He wasn’t ready for Minhyung to leave. He wasn’t ready for the roster changes. He wasn’t ready for the Red Bull League, for the pressure, for the expectations.
And he sure as hell wasn’t ready for the way his body reacted every time Hyeonjun so much as looked at him.
The truth settled over Hyeonjoon like a weight, pressing down on his ribs until he could barely draw breath. It wasn’t just about the silk rope coiled in that black case, or the gleam of the cuffs, or even the way his pulse had spiked when he’d imagined them around his wrists. It was about what all of it represented—the terrifying possibility that this wasn’t just curiosity, but something deeper, something that had been coiled inside him for far longer than he’d ever admitted. The thought that he might not just want this, but need it, that he might be standing at the precipice of a change so fundamental it would reshape everything, made his stomach twist with equal parts dread and something dangerously close to longing.
And then there was the worst realization of all: that Hyeonjun already knew. Not just suspected, not just guessed—knew. The way he’d looked at Hyeonjoon that night, the way his voice had dropped to that low, knowing timbre, the way his laughter had echoed through the wall afterward—delighted, almost triumphant—it all pointed to the same conclusion. Hyeonjun had seen right through him. And instead of laughing, instead of teasing, instead of doing any of the things Hyeonjoon had spent years bracing himself against, he’d simply... waited.
Hyeonjoon’s breath caught in his throat as he looked up, meeting Hyeonjun’s gaze across the kitchen. The other man hadn’t moved. His arms were still crossed over his chest, his expression carefully neutral, but his eyes were sharp, watchful. There was no impatience in his stance, no frustration—just that same quiet, unshakable presence that had been there since the moment Hyeonjoon had stumbled into his room. Hyeonjun wasn’t pushing. He wasn’t even asking. He was simply giving Hyeonjoon the space to either step forward or turn away, and the lack of pressure was somehow more overwhelming than if he’d demanded an answer. Because it meant this wasn’t about Hyeonjun’s wants. It was about his.
His fingers tightened around his phone until his knuckles ached, the plastic digging into his palms. He should leave. He should go say goodbye to Minhyung, should stand in that room full of his teammates and laugh and pretend that everything was normal, that he wasn’t one wrong word away from unraveling completely. He should do all of that. But the thought of walking out that door, of facing the noise and the expectations and the normalcy of it all, made his chest constrict painfully. He couldn’t. Not now. Not when he felt like he was balancing on the edge of a cliff, one step away from either falling or flying.
With a quiet, final thud, he set his phone down on the counter, the screen dimming to black. Hyeonjun didn’t react. He didn’t shift, didn’t speak, didn’t even blink. He just stood there, his presence a steady, unyielding force in the room, and Hyeonjoon realized with a pang that this was what Hyeonjun had been doing all along—giving him the silence he needed to hear his own thoughts, the space he needed to face them. It was infuriating. It was kind. And it made Hyeonjoon’s chest ache with something he couldn’t name.
He wanted to ask. No—he needed to ask. The question had been burning inside him since that night, since the first moment he’d seen the case, since the first time he’d let himself wonder what it would feel like to let go. But the words were stuck, tangled in the fear of what might happen if he spoke them aloud. What if Hyeonjun laughed? What if he didn’t? What if this changed everything? What if it didn’t? The uncertainty was paralyzing, but the alternative—never knowing, never asking, never trying—felt worse.
So he did the only thing he could. He drew in a slow, shaky breath, filling his lungs until they burned, and then—
"Hyeonjun-ah," he began, his voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile moment between them. "Can I ask you something?"
Hyeonjun exhaled, a slow, controlled breath that seemed to fill the space between them. His dark eyes locked onto Hyeonjoon’s, steady and unflinching, before he gave a single, deliberate nod.
Hyeonjoon’s chest tightened almost painfully. He still didn’t know where to start, didn’t know how to put into words the chaos of thoughts and fears and desires swirling inside him. But the question was there, a live wire humming beneath his skin, and he didn’t try to push it down. He didn’t try to run. Instead, he let himself want the answer, let himself stand on the edge of this unknown and look down without turning away.
The kitchen seemed to shrink around them, the air growing thicker, heavier, until every breath felt like a conscious effort. Hyeonjun hadn’t moved. He was still leaning against the counter, his arms crossed, his expression carefully neutral—but his eyes were sharp, attentive, like he was waiting for Hyeonjoon to take the final step. And in that moment, Hyeonjoon realized something that made his pulse stutter: he didn’t want to run anymore. Not from this. Not from Hyeonjun. Not from himself. Whatever came next, whatever this meant, he wanted to face it. Even if it terrified him. Even if it changed everything. Even if—
Even if he was standing on the edge of something he couldn’t come back from.
Hyeonjun didn't rush him. He didn't push for an immediate answer, didn't demand explanations or confessions. Instead, he unfolded his arms and pushed away from the counter, the movement slow and deliberate, like he was giving Hyeonjoon time to retreat if he needed to. But Hyeonjoon didn't move. He couldn't. His body felt rooted to the spot, his pulse hammering in his throat as Hyeonjun stepped closer—not invading his space, but close enough that Hyeonjoon could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his dark eyes caught the light.
"You don't have to ask right now," Hyeonjun said, his voice low but steady. "We don't have to figure this out in five minutes, hyung. It's not a ranked match. There's no timer."
Hyeonjoon swallowed hard. The comparison to the game—something familiar, something safe—made his chest tighten. He wanted to grab onto that lifeline, to let Hyeonjun guide him through this the way he did in their matches. But this wasn't a game. This was real, and the stakes felt higher than any tournament.
Hyeonjun reached out, just barely, his fingers hovering near Hyeonjoon's wrist before pulling back, like he was testing the air between them. "You're overthinking," he said, and there was no teasing in his voice, just a quiet understanding that made Hyeonjoon's breath catch. "I can see it. You're stuck in your head, and you won't be able to think clearly until you step out of it."
Hyeonjoon wanted to deny it, but the words died in his throat. Because Hyeonjun was right. He was overthinking. He was drowning in his own thoughts, in the what-ifs and the maybes, in the fear of what this could mean for him, for the team, for everything.
Hyeonjun tilted his head slightly, his expression softening. "Go say goodbye to Minhyung," he said, and the suggestion was so unexpected that Hyeonjoon blinked, caught off guard. "You'll regret it if you don't. And then... if you still want to talk after, we can. No pressure. No expectations. Just talk."
Hyeonjoon's fingers twitched against the counter. The idea of facing Minhyung, of standing in that room full of his teammates and pretending everything was normal, still made his stomach twist. But Hyeonjun was right. He would regret it if he didn't go. Minhyung had been there for him through everything—through the highs and the lows, through the victories and the defeats. He deserved better than Hyeonjoon hiding in the dorms, tangled up in his own head.
"And if I don't want to talk after?" Hyeonjoon asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Hyeonjun's lips quirked, just slightly. "Then we won't," he said simply. "This isn't going anywhere, hyung. I'm not going anywhere. Whenever you're ready—or if you decide you're not—it's your call."
The weight of that promise settled over Hyeonjoon like a blanket, warm and heavy. Hyeonjun wasn't pushing. He wasn't demanding. He was giving Hyeonjoon the one thing he needed most: time. Time to think, time to breathe, time to decide what he really wanted.
Hyeonjoon exhaled, slow and shaky. He still didn't know what to say, what to think, what to do. But for the first time since that night in the hotel, he felt like he could breathe.
"Okay," he said, his voice stronger now. "I'll go."
Hyeonjun nodded, a small, approving smile tugging at his lips. "Good," he said. "And hyung?"
Hyeonjoon looked up, meeting his gaze.
Hyeonjun's expression was serious, his eyes dark and steady. "Whatever you're feeling right now? It's okay. You don't have to have it all figured out. Just... don't run from it. Not from yourself."
Hyeonjoon's throat tightened. Because that was the hardest part, wasn't it? Not the rope, not the cuffs, not even the fear of what this could mean. It was the fear of facing the parts of himself he'd spent years trying to ignore. He didn't want to run. Not from this. Not from Hyeonjun. Not from himself. He gave a small, jerky nod, and Hyeonjun smiled—real and warm, like the sun breaking through clouds.
"Come on," Hyeonjun said, nudging his shoulder lightly as he turned toward the door. "Let's go say goodbye to our carry. And then... we'll see."
Hyeonjoon followed him out of the kitchen, his steps lighter than they'd been in days. The fear was still there, coiled tight in his chest. But so was something else—something that felt dangerously like hope.
· ☀︎ ·
The steam from the hot pot curled into the air, thick and fragrant with the scent of spicy broth and garlic. The Haidilao restaurant was loud—laughter, clinking bowls, the sizzle of meat hitting the boiling water—but Hyeonjoon barely heard any of it. He sat wedged between Hyeonjun and Sanghyeok, his fingers wrapped around a glass of cold barley tea, the condensation dripping down the sides like tears.
Minhyung was across from him, his usual easy smile a little strained at the edges. He was laughing at something Sanghyeok had said, but his eyes kept flicking toward the entrance, just for a second, before he’d force his attention back to the table. Hyeonjoon knew that look. He’d seen it before—after losses, after roster changes, after any moment where the team felt like it was splintering at the seams. Minhyung was good at pretending everything was fine. Too good.
Hyeonjoon’s chest ached.
He watched as Minhyung reached for another piece of beef, his chopsticks steady, his movements precise. Always so controlled. Even now, when everything was falling apart, he was still holding it together. Hyeonjoon wanted to say something. Wanted to reach across the table and grab his wrist and tell him it was okay to not be okay. But the words stuck in his throat, tangled up in his own mess of emotions.
Sanghyeok nudged him under the table, a silent prompt. Hyeonjoon blinked, realizing he’d been staring. He forced a smile, reaching for the ladle to fish out a piece of tofu. "You’re gonna miss this, right?" he said, his voice rough. "No more free Haidilao on the company card."
Minhyung’s smile softened, just a little. "I’ll miss the company," he said, and the way his voice cracked on the last word made Hyeonjoon’s stomach twist.
Hyeonjun, ever the idiot, grinned and leaned forward. "Nah, you’re just gonna miss me," he teased, but his usual bravado sounded hollow even to Hyeonjoon’s ears. Minhyung didn’t even bother to laugh. He just looked at Hyeonjun for a long moment, then shook his head, his expression unreadable.
The silence that followed was heavy. Sanghyeok cleared his throat, dropping a handful of noodles into the broth with a splash. "Minseok couldn’t make it," he said, too casually. "Said he had a thing."
Minhyung’s chopsticks stilled. Just for a second. Then he nodded, his jaw tightening. "Yeah," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "He’s busy."
Hyeonjoon’s fingers curled into his palm. He knew Minhyung and Minseok had been close—closer than most of them, maybe. They’d joined the team together, roomed together for a while, had that easy camaraderie that came from sharing the same struggles. And now Minseok wasn’t here. Not for this. Not for goodbye.
Minhyung took a slow breath, then reached for his glass, his hand shaking just slightly. Hyeonjoon watched as he downed the rest of his drink in one go, his throat working. When he set the glass down, his smile was back in place, bright and brittle.
"More beer?" Hyeonjun asked, already reaching for the bottle.
Minhyung hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah," he said, his voice steady again. "Pour it."
The meal stretched on, the conversation ebbing and flowing around the weight of what none of them were saying. They talked about old matches, about stupid inside jokes, about the Red Bull League coming up. Hyeonjun told a ridiculous story about the time Minhyung had fallen asleep mid-game during a scrim, and for a moment, it almost felt normal. Almost.
But then Minhyung’s phone buzzed, and he glanced at it, his expression flickering before he tucked it away. Hyeonjoon didn’t have to ask to know it was Minseok. Or wasn’t. The way Minhyung’s shoulders tensed, the way he forced another laugh, the way his eyes kept drifting toward the door—it all said enough.
Hyeonjoon’s chest burned.
He remembered the first time they’d all gone out together, fresh-faced and nervous, Minhyung and Minseok sticking together like they were each other’s shields. He remembered the way Minhyung had always been the first to defend Minseok when the coaches were too hard on him, the way Minseok had been the only one who could make Minhyung laugh when he was in one of his moods. They’d been a unit. A pair. And now—
Now Minseok wasn’t here.
And Minhyung was sitting across from them, smiling like nothing was wrong, like his heart wasn’t cracking open right in front of them.
Hyeonjoon’s hands clenched under the table.
He wanted to scream. Wanted to demand answers. Wanted to fix it, somehow, even though he knew he couldn’t. Because that was the thing about goodbyes—they weren’t just about leaving. They were about what you left behind. The gaps. The silences. The people who weren’t there when they should have been.
Minhyung reached for another piece of food, his chopsticks hovering over the pot. His hand was shaking again. Hyeonjoon looked away, his throat tight.
Sanghyeok, ever the captain, leaned forward. "You’ll visit, right?" he said, his voice gruff. "When we’re not all buried in scrims."
Minhyung’s smile was watery. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I’ll visit."
But they all knew it wouldn’t be the same.
Hyeonjoon’s vision blurred. He blinked rapidly, focusing on the steam rising from the broth, the way it distorted the faces around him. He could feel Hyeonjun’s gaze on him, steady and warm, but he couldn’t look at him. Not now. Not when he felt like he was one wrong word away from breaking apart.
Minhyung set his chopsticks down with a quiet click. "I’m gonna miss you guys," he said, his voice thick.
Hyeonjoon’s chest cracked open.
He should say something. Should tell Minhyung how much he meant to them, how much he’d meant to him. But the words were stuck, tangled up in the lump in his throat. So he did the only thing he could. He reached across the table, his hand finding Minhyung’s wrist, and squeezed.
Minhyung’s eyes met his, bright with unshed tears. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Hyeonjun’s hand found Hyeonjoon’s shoulder, heavy and grounding. A reminder. A promise. Hyeonjoon took a shaky breath and he didn’t feel like he was drowning.
The ride back to the dorms was quiet, the hum of the car engine filling the space. Hyeonjoon sat pressed against the window, the cool glass a stark contrast to the heat of his own thoughts. He watched the city lights blur past, each one a reminder of how quickly things could change—how one moment you were standing on stage, confetti raining down, and the next, you were sitting in the back of a car, watching your teammate disappear into the night with nothing but a suitcase and a forced smile.
Minhyung hadn’t come back with them.
He’d hugged them all outside the restaurant, his grip a little too tight, his smile a little too bright. "I’ll see you guys soon," he’d said, but they all knew it wasn’t true. Not like this. Not the way it used to be. He’d slung his duffel bag over his shoulder, his suitcase rolling behind him, and walked away without looking back. Hyeonjoon had watched him go, his chest tight, his fingers curled into fists at his sides. He’d wanted to call out, to say something—anything—but the words had died in his throat.
Now, the dorms felt empty.
Hyeonjun unlocked the door, the click of the lock echoing in the quiet hallway. The lights were dim, the air still. It was late, but not late enough to explain the heaviness that settled over them as they stepped inside. Hyeonjoon toed off his shoes, the sound muffled by the carpet, and followed Hyeonjun inside.
They passed Minseok’s room on the way to the kitchen.
The door was closed, but not all the way. A sliver of light spilled out into the hallway, and Hyeonjoon could hear the faint, muffled sounds of someone trying—and failing—to be quiet. A thud, like something being dropped. A sharp inhale. The rustle of fabric, like someone was packing—or unpacking—or just moving, like they couldn’t sit still.
Hyeonjoon’s steps slowed. He wanted to stop. Wanted to push the door open, to demand answers, to fix whatever was breaking inside that room. But he didn’t. Because some things weren’t his to fix. Some hurts ran too deep for words.
Hyeonjun’s hand brushed against his arm, a silent nudge forward. Hyeonjoon exhaled, slow and shaky, and kept walking.
Sanghyeok continued down the hall to his own room, his shoulders tense, his steps heavy. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. They all knew. They all felt it.
Hyeonjoon made it to the kitchen before the weight of the night crashed over him. He gripped the edge of the counter, his knuckles white, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts. The dorms had never felt so empty. The air had never felt so thick.
He turned on the faucet, the water rushing out in a steady stream. He cupped his hands under it, letting the cold shock his system, his fingers trembling. He splashed his face, once, twice, the water dripping down his neck, soaking into the collar of his shirt. It didn’t help. Nothing did.
Behind him, Hyeonjun leaned against the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. His presence was enough—a steady, warm weight in the storm of Hyeonjoon’s thoughts.
Hyeonjoon turned off the faucet, his hands dripping. He reached for a glass from the cabinet, his movements slow, deliberate. The water sloshed as he filled it, the sound too loud in the quiet kitchen. He took a sip, then another, the cold liquid doing little to ease the tightness in his chest.
He set the glass down with a quiet clink.
Hyeonjun was still watching him, his expression unreadable, his eyes dark and steady. Hyeonjoon wanted to say something. Wanted to ask if he was okay, if any of them were okay, if this was just how things were supposed to feel when the world shifted beneath your feet. But the words wouldn’t come.
Instead, he just stood there, his fingers curled around the edge of the counter, his chest aching with everything he couldn’t say.
Hyeonjun pushed off the doorway, stepping closer. He didn’t touch Hyeonjoon. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, close enough that Hyeonjoon could feel the heat of him, close enough that he could hear the quiet inhale of his breath.
Hyeonjun’s dark eyes locked onto Hyeonjoon’s face, his brow furrowing as if he were trying to unravel something just out of reach. The kitchen light cast shadows across his sharp features, deepening the lines around his mouth, the tension in his jaw. For a long moment, he just looked at Hyeonjoon—not with the usual teasing glint, not with the playful smirk, but with something raw and unguarded, something that made Hyeonjoon’s breath catch in his throat. There was a flicker of pain in Hyeonjun’s gaze, a quiet understanding that this wasn’t just about Minhyung leaving, or Minseok’s closed door, or even the weight of the team fracturing. It was about the way the world had tilted beneath them, and how neither of them knew how to stand steady anymore.
Hyeonjun’s fingers twitched at his sides, like he wanted to reach out but didn’t know where to place his hands. His breath hitched, just once, before he exhaled slowly, his shoulders dropping as if he’d been holding something heavy and had finally let it go. The air between them felt charged, thick with everything they weren’t saying. Hyeonjoon could see the conflict in Hyeonjun’s eyes—the want to fix this, to do something, warring with the knowledge that some things couldn’t be fixed with words or touches or even time.
Finally, Hyeonjun spoke, his voice rough around the edges. "We should sleep," he said, quiet but firm, like he was convincing himself as much as Hyeonjoon. "Tomorrow’s gonna be a long day. And we both—" He stopped, his throat working as he swallowed. "We both need rest."
Hyeonjoon wanted to argue. Wanted to say that sleep wouldn’t fix this, that resting wouldn’t make the ache in his chest disappear, that lying down wouldn’t stop the world from feeling like it was spinning too fast. But the words wouldn’t come. Because Hyeonjun was right. They did need rest. They needed to close their eyes and pretend, just for a few hours, that everything was okay.
Hyeonjun reached out, his hand hovering near Hyeonjoon’s shoulder before pulling back, like he was afraid of breaking something. "Go to bed, hyung," he said, softer now. "I’ll see you in the morning."
Hyeonjoon nodded, his throat too tight to speak. He turned away from the counter, his movements stiff, like his body had forgotten how to move without tension. The hallway felt longer than it should have, the lights too bright, the silence too heavy. He could still hear the faint sounds from Minseok’s room as he passed, the muffled rustling, the quiet, pained breaths. He wanted to stop. Wanted to knock. Wanted to ask if Minseok was okay. But he didn’t.
His room was dark when he stepped inside, the curtains still drawn from earlier. He didn’t bother turning on the light. Instead, he toed off his shoes and let them drop where they landed, his socks following soon after. The bed was a shadow in the dimness, a promise of something soft in a world that felt too hard. He pulled back the covers and slid beneath them, the sheets cool against his overheated skin. His muscles ached, his bones felt heavy, and his mind was a storm he couldn’t quiet.
He closed his eyes.
And for the first time all night, he let himself feel it all—the grief for Minhyung, the confusion over Hyeonjun, the weight of the team splintering, the fear of what came next. It pressed down on him like a physical weight, crushing his chest, making it hard to breathe. He turned onto his side, curling in on himself, his fingers clutching at the sheets like they could anchor him to something solid.
His last thought, before exhaustion pulled him under, was of Hyeonjun’s face in the kitchen—the way his eyes had reflected Hyeonjoon’s own pain, the way his voice had been rough with something unspoken. And then, like a candle snuffed out by the wind, Hyeonjoon’s consciousness slipped away, his body finally surrendering to the pull of sleep. His head hit the pillow, and he was gone before he could even take another breath.
· ☀︎ ·
The morning sun spilled through the dorm windows in golden streams, warming the wooden table where the team had gathered for breakfast. Dust motes danced in the light, catching on Hyeonjoon’s hair and turning the strands into a halo of soft gold. Hyeonjun sat across from him, his glasses glinting as he tilted his head toward the sunlight, the lenses reflecting tiny sparks of light onto the table. Beside him, Minseok’s hands trembled slightly as he lifted his cup of tea, the steam curling around his fingers like a fragile shield.
The kitchen smelled of toast and coffee, of butter and jam, of the kind of comfort that only came from shared mornings and familiar routines. But beneath the warmth, there was still a quiet tension—like the air before a summer storm, heavy with the promise of something unresolved.
Sanghyeok sat at the head of the table, his usual composed demeanor softened by the morning light. He took a slow sip of his coffee, his gaze moving between each of them before he set the cup down with a quiet clink. "We should talk about Minhyung," he said, his voice steady but gentle. "Not with sadness, but with gratitude. He gave us so much, and now he’s moving on to something new. That’s worth celebrating."
Hyeonjoon’s fingers tightened around his own cup. He knew Sanghyeok was right. He did feel grateful. He did want to celebrate Minhyung’s next chapter. But the ache of his absence still lingered, a dull throb in his chest.
Sanghyeok’s eyes crinkled slightly at the corners as he smiled. "And we have a new member joining us soon. Let’s make sure they feel welcome. Not just as a teammate, but as a friend." His gaze flicked to Hyeonjun and Hyeonjoon, just for a second, before returning to the rest of the team. "We’ve always been more than just players. We’re family. And family takes care of each other."
Hyeonjoon felt something loosen in his chest. Sanghyeok had a way of doing that—cutting through the noise, reminding them of what really mattered.
"For the next few days," Sanghyeok continued, "let’s just be together. No scrims, no pressure. Just us. We can cook, clean, watch stupid movies—whatever feels good. We need that sometimes. To remember why we love this life."
Hyeonjun smirked, leaning back in his chair. "So you’re saying we get to slack off for a few days, hyung?"
Sanghyeok chuckled. "I’m saying we get to live for a few days."
Minseok’s fingers stilled around his cup. He didn’t look up, but his shoulders relaxed just a little, like the weight of the past few days had lightened, if only by a fraction.
Sanghyeok’s gaze lingered on Hyeonjun and Hyeonjoon for a moment longer. "And you two," he said, his voice dropping just slightly, "need to talk. Not as teammates. As friends." He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t have to. The look he gave them was enough—a quiet nudge, a reminder that some things couldn’t be left unsaid.
Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched. He glanced at Hyeonjun, who was watching him with an unreadable expression, his dark eyes reflecting the morning light. There was no teasing in his gaze, no challenge. Just a quiet understanding, a promise that when the time came, they would talk.
Sanghyeok stood, stretching his arms above his head. "Now, who’s making breakfast?"
The tension in the room eased, just a little. Minseok finally looked up, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I’ll help," he said, his voice softer than before.
Hyeonjun pushed his chair back, standing with a grin. "I call dibs on the eggs."
Hyeonjoon exhaled, slow and steady. The warmth of the sun on his skin, the laughter in the room, the promise of a day with no expectations—it all settled over him like a blanket, light and comforting. Sanghyeok was right. They would be okay.
The kitchen erupted into a flurry of movement as everyone sprang into action—or at least, into their own versions of "helping." Hyeonjun immediately claimed the stove, cracking eggs into a bowl with the confidence of someone who had definitely burned toast more times than he’d admit. "Step back, hyungs," he declared, brandishing a whisk like a sword. "The master chef is at work."
Hyeonjoon snorted, nudging him aside with his hip. "The only thing you’ve ever mastered is setting off the fire alarm." He reached for the bowl, but Hyeonjun twisted away, grinning as he dodged.
"Jealous of my skills, hyung?" Hyeonjun shot back, his voice light, teasing. "Admit it. You wish you had my culinary finesse."
"Your culinary finesse?" Hyeonjoon scoffed, grabbing a spatula and waving it at him. "Last time you cooked, we had to order pizza because the eggs were literally black."
Hyeonjun gasped in mock offense, pressing a hand to his chest. "That was one time, and they were caramelized!"
Sanghyeok, already slicing fruit at the counter, didn’t even look up. "They were carbon," he said dryly, but there was a smile in his voice.
Minseok, who had been quietly setting the table, finally laughed—a real, bright sound that made Hyeonjoon’s chest loosen. "I’ll handle the eggs," Minseok said, stepping between them and gently taking the bowl from Hyeonjun’s hands. "Before you two start a food war."
Hyeonjun pouted but relinquished his post, leaning against the counter instead. "Fine, fine. But I’m supervising. For quality control."
Hyeonjoon rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he grabbed the bread and popped it into the toaster, the warm, buttery scent filling the air. The kitchen felt alive in a way it hadn’t in days—laughter bouncing off the walls, the sizzle of eggs in the pan, the clatter of utensils. It was chaotic and messy and perfect.
Sanghyeok slid a plate of sliced fruit toward the center of the table. "Eat your vegetables, children," he said, his tone mock-stern but his eyes crinkling with amusement.
Hyeonjun immediately snatched a piece of melon. "I love vegetables," he said around a mouthful, grinning when Sanghyeok swatted at his hand.
"Then eat them like a civilized person," Sanghyeok scolded, but there was no real heat in it.
Hyeonjoon watched them—Hyeonjun’s easy grin, Minseok’s quiet focus as he cooked, Sanghyeok’s fond exasperation—and felt something in his chest unclench. This was what they needed. Not just the food, but the noise, the laughter, the way the morning light made everything feel a little softer.
Hyeonjun caught his gaze and winked, tossing a grape at him. Hyeonjoon fumbled the catch, the fruit bouncing off his palm and rolling across the table. "Hey!" he protested, but he was laughing as he picked it up and threw it back.
Hyeonjun caught it easily, popping it into his mouth with a smirk. "See? Culinary finesse." Hyeonjoon shook his head, but he couldn’t stop smiling.
The morning’s chaos had settled into a quiet afternoon hum, the kind that wrapped around the dorm like a well-worn blanket. Sunlight still streamed through the windows, but softer now, golden and lazy, stretching across the floor in long, warm stripes. Minseok had claimed the sofa, his legs tucked beneath him as he scrolled through his phone, his thumbs moving with a restlessness that betrayed the calmness of his posture. The screen’s glow reflected off his glasses, casting shifting blue shadows across his face. He hadn’t said much since breakfast, but the tension in his shoulders had eased, just a little, like the morning’s laughter had seeped into the cracks of his worry.
Across the room, Sanghyeok sat by the window, his back to the light, the pages of Miracle Mornings rustling softly as he turned them. The book was a well-thumbed copy, its spine creased from use, and he held it with the same quiet focus he brought to everything—like even the act of reading was a kind of meditation. His fingers tapped occasionally against the armrest, a rhythm that matched the distant sound of traffic outside, as if he were keeping time with the world moving on beyond their dorm.
Hyeonjoon had been watching Hyeonjun from the corner of his eye for the better part of an hour. The other man was sprawled on the floor, his back against the couch, his phone balanced precariously on his chest as he scrolled through something—probably memes or replays, knowing him. His fingers twitched occasionally, like he was itching to move, to do something, but he stayed still, as if he were waiting for a signal. Hyeonjoon’s pulse kicked up a notch. He’d been waiting for this moment since the kitchen, since the unspoken promise that they would talk. The air between them felt charged, like the calm before a storm, but not an unpleasant one—more like the anticipation of something inevitable.
He didn’t overthink it.
Hyeonjoon reached out, his fingers finding the hem of Hyeonjun’s shirt, the fabric warm from his body heat. He gave a gentle tug, just enough to get his attention. Hyeonjun’s head snapped up, his dark eyes locking onto Hyeonjoon’s with a question in them. But he didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. He just let Hyeonjoon pull him up from the floor, his movements easy, unhurried, like he’d been waiting for this all along.
Sanghyeok didn’t look up from his book. Minseok didn’t glance away from his phone. Neither of them reacted at all, as if they’d known this was coming—as if they’d allowed for it. Hyeonjoon didn’t let himself dwell on that. He just led Hyeonjun down the hall, his fingers still curled into the fabric of his shirt, the warmth of his body a steady anchor.
The door to Hyeonjoon’s room clicked shut behind them, the sound final, like the turning of a page. The space beyond it was quiet, the air still, the sunlight filtering through the curtains in soft, golden bars across the bed. Hyeonjun leaned back against the door, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp, watchful. Waiting.
Hyeonjoon exhaled, slow and steady, his fingers flexing at his sides. The room felt smaller than it had before, the space between them charged with something electric, something alive. He didn’t know where to start. Didn’t know how to put into words the storm of thoughts and fears and wants that had been building inside him for days.
The silence in the room wasn't uncomfortable—it was expectant, like the pause before a first move in a high-stakes match. Hyeonjoon stood near the bed, his fingers twisting in the hem of his own shirt, while Hyeonjun leaned against the closed door, his posture deceptively relaxed.
Hyeonjoon’s throat worked as he swallowed. He’d rehearsed this moment a dozen times in his head, but now that it was here, the words felt clumsy, inadequate. He settled for the simplest question, the one that had been burning in his chest since that night.
"Why do you have that stuff in your room?"
Hyeonjun didn’t flinch. Didn’t laugh. Didn’t even smirk. He just studied Hyeonjoon for a long moment, his dark eyes unreadable. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, measured.
"It’s part of who I am," he said simply. "Like gaming. Like you."
Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched. The comparison was so casual, so matter-of-fact, that it made his chest ache. He’d spent years treating his own desires like a secret, something shameful, something to be locked away. But Hyeonjun spoke about it like it was nothing. Like it was just another facet of himself.
Hyeonjoon’s fingers tightened in the fabric of his shirt. "I didn’t know," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
Hyeonjun tilted his head slightly, his gaze never leaving Hyeonjoon’s face. "You weren’t supposed to," he said. "Not unless you wanted to."
The words hung between them, heavy with implication. Hyeonjoon’s pulse spiked. He’d spent the past week buried in research, in forums and articles and videos, trying to understand the pull he felt toward the things in that black case. He’d read about trust and negotiation, about the careful balance of power and surrender. He’d watched videos of people tying knots, their hands steady, their movements deliberate, and felt something deep in his chest ache with longing.
"I’ve been reading about it," he confessed, his voice rough. "A lot. I don’t—I don’t know if I get it. But I can’t stop thinking about it."
Hyeonjun’s expression softened, just slightly. "What do you want to know?"
Everything. The word burned on Hyeonjoon’s tongue. But he didn’t say it. Instead, he stumbled over the questions that had been keeping him up at night.
"How do you know if you’re doing it right? How do you know if you like it? How do you—" He stopped, his face heating. "How do you ask for it?"
Hyeonjun didn't immediately answer. Instead, he pushed off the door and took a step forward, not close enough to crowd Hyeonjoon but near enough that the air between them felt charged. The golden light from the window caught the edges of his glasses, turning them into tiny mirrors that reflected Hyeonjoon's tense expression back at him.
"You don't ask for it like it's a favor," Hyeonjun said finally, his voice low and careful. "You ask like it's a conversation. Like it's something you're figuring out together." He reached up, adjusting his glasses with a slow, deliberate motion. "There's no right or wrong way to want things, hyung. There's just what feels good, what feels safe, what feels... right."
Hyeonjoon's fingers stilled in the fabric of his shirt. The way Hyeonjun spoke—like this was normal, like it was just another topic they could discuss over coffee—made his chest feel tight in a way that wasn't entirely uncomfortable. "But how do you even know what you want?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "What if I don't understand what I'm feeling?"
Hyeonjun's mouth quirked slightly, though there was no humor in it. "You don't have to understand it all at once," he said. "You start small. You think about what intrigues you. What makes you curious. What makes you..." He paused, searching for the right word. "What makes you ache."
The word sent a shiver down Hyeonjoon's spine. He looked away, his gaze falling to the rumpled bedsheets, the way the sunlight turned the fabric into a landscape of light and shadow. "I don't know if I can tell the difference," he admitted. "Between what scares me and what... what I might actually want."
Hyeonjun was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, almost hesitant. "Fear and desire aren't always opposites," he said. "Sometimes they're the same thing, just seen from different angles." He took another step closer, close enough that Hyeonjoon could see the way his throat moved when he swallowed. "You don't have to have it all figured out, hyung. You just have to be willing to explore it. To talk about it. To let yourself feel it."
Hyeonjoon's breath came faster. The room felt smaller, the air between them heavier. "What if I'm not good at it?" he asked, his voice rough. "What if I try and I hate it? What if I—" He stopped, his face burning. "What if I can't even do it right?"
Hyeonjun's expression softened. "There's no 'right' way to feel, Joonie," he said, using his nickname, making it feel like a promise. "You don't have to be good at it. You just have to be honest with yourself. And with me." He reached out, his fingers hovering near Hyeonjoon's arm before pulling back, as if thinking better of it. "If you want to talk about what you've read, what you've thought about, what you're curious about... I'm here. No judgment. No pressure. Just information."
The offer hung between them, simple and profound. Hyeonjoon's throat worked as he swallowed. "I don't even know what to ask," he admitted.
Hyeonjun's lips curved slightly. "Then start with what you've been thinking about," he said. "What's been keeping you up at night?"
Hyeonjoon's fingers twisted in his shirt again. The images flashed through his mind—the rope, the cuffs, the way Hyeonjun's hands had looked when he'd seen them that night. "I keep thinking about the rope," he confessed, his voice barely audible. "About what it would feel like. About... about what it would mean."
Hyeonjun's gaze darkened, but his voice remained steady. "Rope can be a lot of things," he said. "It can be restraint. It can be decoration. It can be a way to feel grounded, to feel held. It depends on what you need from it." He tilted his head slightly. "What do you think you need?"
Hyeonjoon's breath hitched. He didn't know. He didn't have an answer.
Hyeonjun reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone with slow, deliberate movements. The screen lit up, casting a soft blue glow across his face as he unlocked it. His thumbs moved over the keyboard with practiced ease, typing out a message before pausing to look up at Hyeonjoon. "I'll send you some links," he said, his voice warm and steady. "Not just the basics—good resources, safe spaces, things that might help you figure out what you're feeling."
Hyeonjoon's chest tightened. The offer was so simple, so Hyeonjun—practical, thoughtful, giving him exactly what he needed without making him ask for it. He nodded, his throat suddenly thick. "Thank you," he managed, his voice rough.
Hyeonjun's fingers stilled on the screen. He looked up, his dark eyes soft behind his glasses. "And Hyeonjoon?" he said, his voice dropping to something quieter, something more intimate. "This doesn't change anything between us. No matter what you decide, no matter what you feel, I'm still here. We're still us."
The words hit Hyeonjoon like a physical force, warm and heavy. He exhaled shakily, his fingers twisting in the hem of his shirt. "I just—" He stopped, swallowing hard. "I don't want to mess this up."
Hyeonjun's expression softened. "You won't," he said simply. "Because there's nothing to mess up. We're just talking. Just figuring things out." He tapped his phone against his palm, his gaze never leaving Hyeonjoon's face. "And if you ever feel lost, or confused, or just need to vent, you know where to find me."
Hyeonjoon's breath came a little easier. He nodded again, his chest loosening. "Yeah," he said, his voice steadier now. "Yeah, I know."
Hyeonjun's lips quirked into a small, affectionate smile. "Good," he said. Then, with a final tap on his phone, he sent the message. A second later, Hyeonjoon's phone buzzed in his pocket. Hyeonjun stepped back, giving him space, but his eyes were still warm, still there. "Read them when you're ready. Or don't. It's up to you."
Hyeonjoon pulled his phone out, his fingers brushing over the screen. The message was simple: a few links, a short note—"No rush. Just here if you need me."—and a stupid meme of a confused cat, because of course Hyeonjun would include that.
Hyeonjoon laughed, the sound shaky but real. He looked up, meeting Hyeonjun's gaze. "You're ridiculous," he said, but there was no bite to it. Just gratitude.
Hyeonjun grinned, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "And yet, you love me anyway," he teased, but his voice was soft, his eyes warm.
Hyeonjoon's chest ached, but in a good way. In a way that felt like healing. "Yeah," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Yeah, I do."
Hyeonjun's smile turned gentle. "Then we're good," he said. "No matter what happens next."
· ☀︎ ·
The room was bathed in the dim glow of Hyeonjoon’s phone screen, the only light in the quiet darkness. He lay on his side, the blankets pulled up to his chest, his fingers hovering over the links Hyeonjun had sent. The blue light cast shadows across his face, highlighting the furrow between his brows as he read through each one carefully.
The first link was an article about power dynamics—not the kind of thing he’d expected, not something salacious or overwhelming, but something thoughtful. It talked about trust, about communication, about the way power could be exchanged like a dance, something fluid and intentional. Hyeonjoon scrolled slowly, his pulse steady as he absorbed the words. It wasn’t about domination or submission in the way he’d feared—it was about connection. About understanding what you wanted, what you needed, and finding someone who could meet you there.
The second link was a guide to bondage for beginners, written in a calm, reassuring tone. It talked about safety, about consent, about the difference between restraint and control. There were no images, no graphic descriptions—just clear, practical information. Hyeonjoon’s fingers tightened around his phone as he read about the importance of aftercare, of checking in, of making sure both partners felt secure. It made his chest ache in a way he couldn’t quite name.
He clicked on the third link, a forum thread where people shared their first experiences. Some were nervous, some were excited, some were just curious. Hyeonjoon read through them, his breath slow and measured. It wasn’t about the act itself—it was about the feeling. The way it made them feel seen. Understood. Free.
His thumb hovered over the screen, his mind racing. He’d spent so long telling himself he didn’t understand this, that he couldn’t want it, that it was too much, too strange, too him. But reading these words, seeing the care and intention behind them, made something inside him shift. It wasn’t about being good or bad at it. It wasn’t about performing. It was about exploring.
He exhaled slowly, his fingers tapping against the side of his phone. Then, before he could overthink it, he opened Hyeonjun’s chat. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, his heart pounding in his chest. He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to put into words the storm of thoughts inside him. But he knew he needed to try.
I read them, he typed, his fingers moving slowly. All of them.
He hesitated, then added, Thank you.
He stared at the screen, his breath caught in his throat. The message was simple, but it felt like a leap. Like stepping off a ledge and trusting the fall. A moment later, the three dots appeared, signaling that Hyeonjun was typing. Hyeonjoon’s pulse spiked, his fingers tightening around the phone.
Hyeonjun’s reply came through a second later, short and warm.
Anytime, hyung.
He exhaled slowly, his breath shaky, and stared at the ceiling. The darkness of his room felt heavier now, like it was pressing down on him, urging him to be brave. He wanted to ask. Needed to ask.
His fingers moved before he could second-guess himself.
Can I ask you something else?
The message sent, and almost immediately, the three dots appeared again. Hyeonjun’s reply came through, warm and unhurried.
Always.
Hyeonjoon’s chest tightened. He swallowed hard, his mind racing with all the questions he’d been too afraid to voice. But now, in the quiet of his room, with the weight of the articles and forums still fresh in his mind, he let himself ask the one that had been burning the most.
What’s it like for you? In that world?
The response didn’t come right away. Hyeonjoon could almost picture Hyeonjun on the other end, considering his words carefully, the way he always did when something mattered. When the reply finally came, it was long, thoughtful.
It’s different for everyone, hyung. For me? It’s about trust. About knowing someone enough to let them see parts of you that most people don’t. It’s about control—not just taking it, but giving it, too. It’s about making sure the person you’re with feels safe, even when they’re vulnerable.
Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched. The words settled over him like a blanket, warm and heavy. He could feel the sincerity in them, the way Hyeonjun wasn’t just explaining—he was sharing.
Do you… like being in control? Hyeonjoon typed, his fingers trembling slightly.
Hyeonjun’s reply was almost immediate.
Sometimes. But it’s not just about control. It’s about connection. About reading someone, understanding them. About making sure they feel good, even when they’re giving up power.
Hyeonjoon’s pulse spiked. He could feel the weight of the conversation pressing down on him, but it wasn’t suffocating. It was exciting. Like standing at the edge of something new, something unknown.
Would you ever… He stopped, his face heating. Would you ever try something with me? Just to see?
The three dots appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again. Hyeonjoon’s stomach twisted with nerves, his heart pounding in his chest. When Hyeonjun’s reply finally came, it was careful, measured.
If you wanted to, hyung. But we’d have to talk about it first. Really talk. About what you’re curious about, what you’re nervous about, what you’d want to try. And we’d go slow. Really slow.
Hyeonjoon exhaled, his shoulders relaxing just a little. Slow was good. Slow was safe.
Okay, he typed. I’d want that.
Hyeonjun’s next message came with a PDF attachment.
This is a checklist. It’s got a lot of different things—kinks, limits, curiosities. You don’t have to answer all of them. Just mark what sounds interesting, what sounds like a hard no, what you’re not sure about. Take your time. No rush.
Hyeonjoon’s fingers trembled as he downloaded the file. He opened it, scanning the first few lines. It was thorough—very thorough—but not overwhelming. Just a list of possibilities, a way to explore what he might like without pressure.
Thank you, he typed, his chest tight with gratitude.
Hyeonjun’s reply was simple, but it made Hyeonjoon’s heart stutter.
You’re welcome, hyung. And remember—this doesn’t change anything between us. No matter what.
Hyeonjoon stared at the screen, his throat tight. He knew Hyeonjun meant it. Knew he could trust him.
I know, he typed back. I’ll send it back when I’m done.
Hyeonjun’s final message came through, warm and reassuring.
Whenever you’re ready. And hyung?
Yeah?
You’re doing great.
Hyeonjoon’s chest ached, but in a good way. In a way that felt like hope. He set his phone down on the nightstand, the screen still glowing softly in the dark.
Chapter 3
Notes:
(◕‿◕✿) Thank you so much for all your kudos, comments, and love! I’m beyond grateful for every single one of you! Here’s a little note with all the content warnings for this chapter so you can enjoy it safely and comfortably~ (｡♥‿♥｡)
Content Warnings
Explicit Sexual Content – Detailed scenes of intimacy, including oral sex (blowjob).
Face-Fucking
Rope Bondage
Hair Pulling
Praise & Pet Names
Power Dynamics
Subspace/Aftercare(｡•́︿•̀｡) If any of these themes aren’t your cup of tea, skip the last part of this chapter! Your comfort and enjoyment matter most. Take care of yourself, and thank you again for being here! I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as I loved writing it~! ♡(˃͈ د ˂͈ ༶ )
Chapter Text
The morning sun crept through the gap in Hyeonjoon's curtains, painting his room in soft gold. It caught the edges of his laptop screen, turning the white background of the PDF into something warmer, almost inviting. His coffee sat on the nightstand, now lukewarm and bitter—just like the knot of nerves in his stomach.
He adjusted his position on the bed, pulling his knees up to rest the laptop against them. The weight of it was familiar, comforting, a stark contrast to the way his heart was pounding. His fingers hovered over the trackpad, tracing the edges of the document without really seeing it. The title at the top—BDSM Interest Checklist—seemed to glow in the morning light, the letters sharp and unyielding. Below it, a simple subtitle: For exploration and communication. Mark what applies to you.
Hyeonjoon exhaled slowly, watching his breath fog the screen for just a second before it cleared. He reached for his coffee, the ceramic mug warm against his palm, and took a sip. The bitterness grounded him, pulling him back from the edge of his racing thoughts. He set the mug down with a quiet clink and scrolled to the top of the document again, his thumb brushing against the trackpad.
The first section stared back at him, bold and unapologetic.
Power Dynamics
His fingers twitched. He could almost hear Hyeonjun's voice in his head, steady and calm, telling him to take his time. That there was no rush. That this was just about him—his wants, his limits, his curiosity.
Hyeonjoon took another deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling with the motion. Then, with a slow, deliberate click, he began to read.
The cursor blinked patiently on the screen as Hyeonjoon stared at the first question, his fingers hovering just above the trackpad. Do you have any interest in the following power exchange roles? The words felt heavy, like they were asking more than just a preference—they were asking him to define something he wasn’t sure he understood yet.
His gaze flicked to the first option: Dominant (taking control, leading scenes, giving instructions). He tried to picture himself in that role—barking orders, holding the reins, steering the scene—but the image felt wrong, like trying to force his feet into shoes that were too small. He’d spent his whole life leading in one way or another—on the Rift, in the team, even in his own rigid self-discipline—but this wasn’t the same. This wasn’t about strategy or responsibility. This was about power, about desire, about something raw and personal that made his stomach twist. His fingers moved before he could overthink it, clicking the "Definitely NO" box with a quiet finality. The sound of the mouse seemed too loud in the stillness of his room.
His breath hitched as he read the next option: Submissive (following instructions, relinquishing control, serving). The words sent a strange, electric shiver down his spine. He imagined it—the weight of someone else’s decisions, the trust required to let go, the way his body might react to being guided—and his chest tightened, but not with fear. It was something else, something closer to the flutter in his stomach before a high-stakes match, that mix of nerves and anticipation that made his fingers twitch. He hesitated, his cursor hovering over the options. The memory of Hyeonjun’s hands—steady, sure, capable—flashed in his mind, the way they’d looked wrapping around that red rope, the way they’d moved with such deliberate care. His breath came a little faster as he marked "I DON’T KNOW", his finger trembling just slightly as he clicked. The uncertainty lingered, but so did the curiosity, warm and insistent in his chest.
Switch (enjoying both roles depending on mood/partner). Hyeonjoon frowned, his brow furrowing as he read the words. He’d never really considered it before—the idea of choosing, of shifting between roles depending on the moment, the partner, the need. It felt foreign, like standing at a crossroads with no signposts, no clear path forward. He didn’t know how to answer that. Not yet. His cursor moved to the "Unanswered" box, and he clicked it with a sigh, his mind already skipping ahead to the next question.
Service (focusing on pleasing a partner, acts of devotion). His throat went dry. He thought of the way he’d always taken care of his teammates—the way he made sure they ate, that their schedules were managed, that they felt supported. But this wasn’t the same. This wasn’t about duty or teamwork. This was intentional. This was personal. The idea of focusing entirely on someone else’s needs, of finding satisfaction in their pleasure, sent a strange, warm ache through his chest. His fingers hovered over the options, his mind racing. He’d spent so long putting others first, but this was different. This was choosing to do it. This was wanting to. He swallowed hard, then marked "I DON’T KNOW", his finger lingering on the trackpad as if he could press harder and find a clearer answer. The cursor blinked back at him, waiting, as he stared at the screen, his thoughts tangled in possibilities.
The next section of the checklist loomed before him: How do you feel about the following sensory experiences? Hyeonjoon leaned back slightly, his shoulders pressing into the headboard as he read through the options. The words felt like a door cracking open, revealing possibilities he’d never let himself consider before.
His eyes landed on the first option: Blindfolds (loss of sight, heightened other senses). A shiver ran down his spine, his pulse quickening at the thought of being plunged into darkness, of relying on nothing but sound and touch and the steady, reassuring presence of someone else. His skin prickled with a mix of nerves and something warmer, something that coiled tight in his chest. He thought of Hyeonjun’s voice—that night in the hotel, low and steady, the kind of voice that could guide him through anything. The memory made his fingers tremble as he marked the "YES" box, his breath coming just a little faster.
Next was Sound play (music, white noise, verbal commands, silence). Hyeonjoon bit his lip, his mind racing. He’d always hated loud, sudden noises—they made his muscles tense, his instincts screaming at him to brace for impact. But the idea of Hyeonjun’s voice filling the quiet, of commands spoken just for him, of silence broken only by the sound of his own breathing—it sent a warmth spreading through his chest. He marked "YES", but added a mental note in bold letters: only with someone I trust. The thought of anyone else doing it made his stomach twist, but with Hyeonjun? It felt different. It felt safe.
His eyes flicked to the next option: Temperature play (ice, warm oil, wax). A shudder ran through him at the thought of ice against his skin, his teeth aching in sympathy. But wax... that was different. The idea of something warm dripping onto his skin, the slow, deliberate heat of it—it made his breath hitch. Not a no, but not a yes either. His finger hovered before marking "Needs Discussion", his mind already spinning with questions he didn’t have answers to yet.
He moved to Sensation play (spanking, floggers, textures). His face burned at the word spanking, his mind immediately flashing to Hyeonjun’s hands—strong, capable, warm—and the thought of them making contact with his skin sent a jolt through him. He hesitated, his fingers trembling as he marked "MAYBE", his cheeks flushed. Floggers, though? His stomach twisted. "Definitely NO" without a second thought.
Breath play (restricted breathing, choking) made his pulse spike, but not with fear. He thought of Hyeonjun’s hands again, the way they’d looked wrapping around that rope, the way they might feel around his throat—firm but careful, controlling but never cruel. His breath hitched as he marked "YES", his heart pounding.
The next few options blurred together—light scratching, vibration, tickling—and he went through them quickly. "YES" for light scratching (if it was gentle), "I DON’T KNOW" for vibration, and an immediate "Definitely NO" for tickling—he’d hate that.
The last option was hair pulling. Hyeonjoon’s fingers stilled. He’d never thought about it before, but the idea of Hyeonjun’s hands tangled in his hair, pulling just enough to make him gasp—it sent a shiver down his spine. He hesitated, then marked "MAYBE", his breath coming a little faster.
He leaned back, rubbing his temples. The checklist was starting to feel less like a test and more like a map—one he didn’t have to follow perfectly, just explore.
The next section of the PDF stared back at him, the word Restraint bold and unyielding at the top of the page. Hyeonjoon’s fingers tightened around the trackpad, his breath shallow as he read through the options. The red silk rope from Hyeonjun’s case flashed in his mind—how it had caught the light, how Hyeonjun’s hands had moved with such precision as he coiled it. The memory made his pulse quicken, and he marked "YES" beside rope bondage without hesitation, his chest tight with anticipation.
His gaze shifted to cuffs/handcuffs, and he imagined the weight of metal against his wrists, the way it would feel to be held—not trapped, but secured. He marked "YES" again, the silent understanding that he’d need a safeword settling in his mind like an unspoken rule.
Collars/leashes made his face heat. He’d never considered it before, but the idea of something around his neck, of Hyeonjun’s fingers brushing against it, sent a strange thrill through him. He hesitated, his cursor hovering over "YES" before he finally marked "I DON’T KNOW", his breath uneven.
Bondage tape made his chest tighten. The finality of it, the lack of give, felt suffocating. He marked "Definitely NO" with a firm click, his shoulders easing slightly as he moved on.
The Psychological Play section made his chest tighten, but he made himself read each option slowly, carefully. Praise hit him harder than he expected. He’d spent years chasing validation, but this wasn’t about performance—it was about Hyeonjun’s voice, low and steady, telling him he was good. His fingers trembled as he marked "YES", his breath coming faster.
Degradation/humiliation made his stomach drop. The word alone was enough. "No." He marked "Definitely NO" without hesitation, his shoulders easing as he moved on.
Pet names made his face burn. He’d never let anyone call him that. But then he imagined Hyeonjun’s voice—low, teasing, "Hyung"—and his breath hitched. He marked "I DON’T KNOW", the sound of it echoing in his mind.
Aftercare made his throat tighten. The idea of someone taking care of him—not as a teammate, not as a friend, but as something deeper—sent a warm ache through his chest. He’d spent so long being the one who held everything together. But this? This was different. This was wanted. "God, I want it." He marked "YES", his finger pressing down with quiet certainty. The weight of it settled in his chest, heavy and warm.
Hyeonjoon leaned back against the headboard, rubbing his temples with his free hand. The morning light had shifted, casting longer shadows across his bed as he scrolled through the remaining sections of the checklist. His coffee had long gone cold, forgotten beside him, but he barely noticed. The document was nearly complete now, most of the boxes filled with his hesitant but honest answers. Some were firm no while others lingered in his mind like half-formed questions, maybe.
He wasn’t sure what any of it meant. Not really. Not in the way that mattered. The checklist wasn’t just about marking boxes; it was about facing parts of himself he’d spent years ignoring, parts he wasn’t sure he was ready to name.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitating before he saved the file. The cursor blinked at him, patient, waiting. He exhaled slowly, his breath steady despite the way his pulse still hummed beneath his skin. Then, with a final click, he closed the document.
The screen dimmed, leaving only his reflection in the dark glass—wide eyes, flushed cheeks, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. He wasn’t done. Not by a long shot. But he’d started.
· ☀︎ ·
The dorm kitchen was bathed in late afternoon sunlight, golden and warm, as Hyeonjoon leaned against the counter, watching Hyeonjun chop vegetables with an ease that made it look effortless. The scent of garlic and sizzling oil filled the air, mixing with the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of the team’s laughter from the living room. Hyeonjoon’s fingers tapped restlessly against his phone, the screen still glowing with the saved PDF.
He took a slow breath, his pulse kicking up just slightly. “I finished it,” he said, his voice quiet but steady.
Hyeonjun’s hands stilled for just a second before he glanced up, his dark eyes warm behind his glasses. “The checklist?” he asked, his voice careful, like he was handling something fragile.
Hyeonjoon nodded, his thumb brushing over the edge of his phone. “Yeah. I’ll send it to you later.”
Hyeonjun set the knife down, wiping his hands on a towel as he turned to face him fully. “Was it… okay?” he asked, his brow furrowing just slightly. “Not too overwhelming?”
Hyeonjoon exhaled, his shoulders relaxing. “It was… a lot,” he admitted, his lips quirking. “But not in a bad way. Just… a lot to think about.”
Hyeonjun stepped closer, his expression soft. “That’s good,” he said, his voice low. “It’s supposed to make you think.” He hesitated, then added, “You don’t have to send it if you don’t want to. No pressure.”
Hyeonjoon shook his head, his fingers tightening around his phone. “No, I want to,” he said, his voice firmer now. “I just… needed to tell you first.”
Hyeonjun’s lips curved into a small, affectionate smile. “Okay,” he said simply. Then, after a beat, he reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against Hyeonjoon’s wrist. “And hey—no matter what’s on that list, it doesn’t change anything. You know that, right?”
Hyeonjoon’s chest warmed, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Yeah,” he said, his voice soft. “I know.”
Hyeonjun’s smile widened, and he turned back to the stove, the moment hanging between them like a promise. “Good,” he said, his voice light as he picked up the knife again. “Now help me with these vegetables before I burn dinner.”
Hyeonjoon laughed, the sound bright and real, as he reached for a bell pepper. The kitchen felt warmer now, the air between them easier, like they’d crossed some invisible line and found solid ground on the other side.
The knife hit the cutting board with a rhythmic tap-tap-tap as Hyeonjun chopped the last of the bell peppers, his movements easy and practiced. Hyeonjoon watched him for a moment, the way his fingers curled around the knife handle, the way his glasses caught the light when he glanced up. There was something comforting about it—about him—that made Hyeonjoon’s chest feel lighter.
"You’re weirdly good at this," Hyeonjoon said, nudging a pile of diced onions toward him with the back of his hand. "Cooking, I mean. I didn’t expect it."
Hyeonjun smirked, not looking up from the cutting board. "And here I thought you’d assume I was a master of all domestic arts by now."
Hyeonjoon rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. "Don’t get cocky. I’ve seen you burn ramen."
"That was one time," Hyeonjun protested, pointing the knife at him for emphasis. "And it was your fault for distracting me."
"Me?!" Hyeonjoon laughed, grabbing a carrot and tossing it at him. Hyeonjun caught it effortlessly, his reflexes sharp even mid-argument. "I was in the shower."
"Exactly. You were singing. Loudly. Off-key." Hyeonjun shook his head, but his eyes were crinkled with amusement as he turned back to the stove. "A crime against humanity."
Hyeonjoon snorted, leaning his hips against the counter as he watched Hyeonjun stir the vegetables in the pan. The sizzle and pop of the oil filled the silence between them, comfortable and warm. After a moment, Hyeonjoon’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, thumbing open the message—a reminder from the coaching staff about week’s schedule. He set it down on the counter, then hesitated.
"...I sent it," he said quietly.
Hyeonjun’s hand stilled on the spatula. He didn’t turn around, but Hyeonjoon could see the way his shoulders tensed just slightly before relaxing again. "The checklist?"
"Yeah."
Hyeonjun exhaled, slow and controlled, before turning to face him. His expression was careful, like he was choosing his words with extra care. "How do you feel?"
Hyeonjoon rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt. "I don’t know. Relieved, maybe? Like I did something I was supposed to do."
Hyeonjun’s lips quirked. "That’s good," he said, his voice soft. He reached out, his fingers brushing against Hyeonjoon’s arm—just for a second, just enough to ground him. "I’ll look at it later. No rush to talk about it or anything."
Hyeonjoon nodded, his chest loosening. "Okay."
Hyeonjun turned back to the stove, stirring the vegetables with one hand while reaching for the soy sauce with the other. "You’re still helping me with dinner, right? Or are you gonna bail now that-?"
Hyeonjoon laughed, the sound bright and real, as he grabbed the rice cooker and started measuring out grains. "Shut up. I’ll help."
Hyeonjun glanced at him over his shoulder, his dark eyes warm. "Good. Because I need you, hyung. Someone’s gotta taste-test my masterpieces."
Hyeonjoon rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling as he rinsed the rice under the faucet. The kitchen felt different now—lighter, somehow. The air between them wasn’t charged with tension anymore. It was just… easy. Comfortable. Like they’d stepped over a line they’d both been tiptoeing around for too long.
As Hyeonjun turned the heat down on the pan and Hyeonjoon set the rice cooker to start, their shoulders brushed for just a second. Neither of them pulled away. And when Hyeonjun’s hand found his way to the small of Hyeonjoon’s back—just for a moment, just as he reached for the salt—it didn’t feel like an accident.
The dorm’s dining table was already set by the time the rest of the team trickled in, drawn by the smell of sizzling vegetables and garlic. Minseok was the first to appear, his hair still damp from a shower, his glasses slightly fogged as he took a seat at the head of the table. "Smells good," he said, peering at the spread with quiet approval. "Did you two actually cook, or did you just order takeout and pretend?"
Hyeonjun flipped him off without turning around, but there was no heat in it. "We cooked," he said, stirring the last of the sauce into the pan. "Hyung helped. Mostly by not setting anything on fire."
Hyeonjoon threw a crumpled napkin at him, which Hyeonjun dodged with a laugh. Sanghyeok wandered in next, his book tucked under one arm, his expression shifting from distracted to pleased as he caught the scent of the food. "You made japchae?" he asked, sounding genuinely impressed.
"Don’t sound so surprised," Hyeonjun said, but he was grinning as he carried the steaming pan to the table.
Sanghyeok was last, as always, his phone in one hand and his other adjusting the sleeves of his hoodie. He took his usual spot, his eyes flicking over the dishes with a nod of approval. "Not bad," he said, which was high praise coming from him.
Hyeonjoon set down the bowl of rice and the side dishes, then took the seat beside Minseok. The table was full—too full, really, with plates and bowls and banchan crowding the space—but no one complained. It felt right. Like it was supposed to be.
They dug in without ceremony, chopsticks clicking against bowls, the sound of laughter and teasing filling the air. Minseok reached for the kimchi first, as always, while Sanghyeok served himself a careful portion of rice and vegetables, his movements precise. Sanghyeok, ever the leader, made sure everyone had enough before taking his own share.
"You two are actually decent at this," Minseok said around a mouthful of food, nudging Hyeonjoon’s foot under the table. "I’m impressed."
Hyeonjoon smirked. "Don’t get used to it."
Hyeonjun, already reaching for seconds, shot him a look. "Speak for yourself. I’m a culinary genius."
Sanghyeok snorted. "A genius who burns ramen."
"One time," Hyeonjun groaned, but he was laughing as he said it.
Sanghyeok, quiet as ever, hummed in agreement as he took a bite. "It’s good," he said simply, and Hyeonjun preened like he’d just won a Michelin star.
The conversation flowed easily—talk of the day’s scrims, jokes about Minseok’s terrible taste in music, Sanghyeok’s dry commentary on the latest patch notes. It was normal. Comfortable. Home.
At one point, Hyeonjoon’s knee brushed against Hyeonjun’s under the table. Neither of them moved away.
As they ate, the sun set outside, casting the room in a soft, golden glow. The food was good, the company better, and after a long time, the dorm didn’t feel empty. It felt full—of noise, of warmth, of the quiet understanding that they were all in this together.
Hyeonjun caught Hyeonjoon’s eye across the table, his expression soft. Hyeonjoon smiled back, small and private, before turning to join in on Minseok’s latest rant about in-game ping.
It was just dinner. Just another night.
The clatter of chopsticks against bowls had started to slow as the meal wound down, the table littered with half-empty plates and the comfortable silence of a team that had shared too many meals to count. Sanghyeok set his utensils down with deliberate care, wiping his mouth with a napkin before folding his hands on the table. His expression was calm, as always, but there was something in the way his gaze flicked between Hyeonjoon and Hyeonjun that made Hyeonjoon pause mid-bite.
"Minseok and I won’t be here tomorrow," Sanghyeok said, his voice steady and matter-of-fact, like he was stating the weather.
Minseok, who had been reaching for another piece of kimchi, froze. His head snapped up, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose as he blinked in confusion. "What? We—we are?" His voice cracked slightly, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. He turned to Sanghyeok, his brow furrowed. "Since when? Why didn’t you tell me?"
Sanghyeok didn’t even flinch. He just gave Minseok that same patient, unreadable look he always did when Minseok got flustered. "Since now," he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "We’re going to that café near the Han River. The one with the matcha lattes you like."
Minseok’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. "But—" he started, only to be cut off by Sanghyeok’s quiet, unwavering stare.
"You do like their matcha lattes," Sanghyeok pointed out, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Minseok’s shoulders slumped slightly, his fingers twisting in the hem of his shirt. "Yeah, but—I mean—you could’ve asked me first," he muttered, though there was no real heat in his words. He knew as well as anyone that once Sanghyeok decided something, it was pretty much set in stone.
Hyeonjoon watched the exchange with amusement, a smirk tugging at his lips. He glanced at Hyeonjun, who was trying—and failing—to hide his own grin behind his hand.
Sanghyeok, seemingly satisfied that Minseok had accepted his fate, turned his attention back to his food. "We’ll leave around noon," he said, as if that settled everything. And, in a way, it did.
Minseok let out a long-suffering sigh, but there was no real frustration in it. He reached for his glass of water, taking a sip before muttering, "Fine. But I’m picking the music in the car."
Sanghyeok didn’t react, but the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Deal."
Hyeonjoon couldn’t help but laugh, shaking his head as he turned back to his own meal. The dorm felt even warmer now, filled with the kind of easy, familiar banter that made it feel like home. And as he caught Hyeonjun’s eye across the table, the two of them sharing a quiet, knowing look, he realized something else, too.
Tomorrow, the house would be empty. Just him and Hyeonjun.
The clinking of dishes from the kitchen filled the dorm’s living room as Hyeonjoon and Hyeonjun settled onto the couch, the soft fabric dipping slightly under their weight. The TV was on low volume, some variety show playing in the background, but neither of them was really watching.
Hyeonjun stretched his arms along the back of the couch, his fingers brushing just barely against Hyeonjoon’s shoulder. "So," he said, his voice quiet but warm, "you sent it, huh?"
Hyeonjoon exhaled, his thumb tracing idle circles on the edge of his phone. "Yeah. I did." He glanced toward the kitchen, where Minseok’s voice carried over the sound of running water.
"Why did you tell them we were going out tomorrow?" Minseok hissed, his tone a mix of exasperation and amusement. "We literally have no plans!"
Sanghyeok’s reply was calm, as always. "We do now."
Hyeonjoon bit back a smile, turning his attention back to Hyeonjun. "They’re gonna figure it out, you know," he murmured, nodding slightly toward the kitchen.
Hyeonjun shrugged, unfazed. "Let them. It’s not like they’ll actually care." His fingers tapped lightly against Hyeonjoon’s shoulder, grounding him. "So. The checklist. How’re you feeling about it now?"
Hyeonjoon hesitated, his gaze dropping to his hands. "I don’t know. It’s… a lot. But not in a bad way." He glanced up, meeting Hyeonjun’s dark eyes. "I just… I don’t want to mess this up."
Hyeonjun’s expression softened. "You won’t," he said simply. "Because there’s no right way to do this, hyung. It’s just about figuring out what feels good. What feels safe." He leaned in just slightly, his voice dropping. "And I’m not gonna let you mess it up."
Hyeonjoon’s chest warmed, the tension in his shoulders easing. From the kitchen, Minseok’s voice rose again, playful now. "You’re impossible, you know that?"
Sanghyeok’s reply was dry. "And yet, you love me."
Hyeonjun smirked, his thumb brushing against the back of Hyeonjoon’s neck. "See? They’ll be fine."
Hyeonjoon laughed softly, shaking his head. "Yeah. Yeah, they will." He took a breath, then added, quieter, "I marked a lot of maybes."
Hyeonjun’s lips quirked. "That’s good. Maybes are where the fun starts."
Hyeonjoon’s face warmed, but he didn’t look away. The kitchen noises faded into the background, the dorm feeling smaller, warmer, like the world had narrowed down to just the two of them on the couch. The TV hummed quietly, the variety show’s laughter blending with the sound of Minseok and Sanghyeok’s bickering, but none of it mattered.
· ☀︎ ·
The dorm was quiet when the knock came.
Hyeonjoon had been lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, the glow of his laptop casting long shadows across the walls. The PDF was still open, though he’d stopped reading it hours ago, his thoughts too tangled to focus. The knock was soft—two quick taps, then a pause—like Hyeonjun was giving him time to decide whether to answer.
"Come in," Hyeonjoon said, his voice quieter than he intended.
The door opened slowly, and Hyeonjun stepped inside, his silhouette framed by the dim hallway light. He was still in his practice clothes, the fabric slightly rumpled, his glasses reflecting the soft glow of the screen. He hesitated for just a second before closing the door behind him, the click of the latch echoing in the quiet room.
Hyeonjoon sat up, pulling his knees to his chest as Hyeonjun moved closer, settling onto the edge of the bed with careful deliberation. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight, and Hyeonjoon could smell the faint scent of his shampoo—something clean and familiar.
"I read it," Hyeonjun said, his voice low. Not accusatory. Not judgmental. Just there.
Hyeonjoon exhaled, his fingers twisting in the fabric of his blanket. "Yeah?"
Hyeonjun nodded, his dark eyes unreadable behind his glasses. "Yeah." He paused, like he was choosing his words carefully. "I wanted to talk about some of the things you marked. If that’s okay."
Hyeonjoon swallowed, his pulse quickening. "Okay."
Hyeonjun shifted slightly, turning to face him more fully. "The yes ones first," he said, his voice steady. "Rope. Blindfolds. Aftercare." He tilted his head, just slightly. "Those stood out to me."
Hyeonjoon’s chest tightened. He’d expected this—wanted this, even—but hearing Hyeonjun say the words out loud made it feel real in a way it hadn’t before. "I don’t know how to explain it," he admitted, his voice rough. "It just... feels like something I want to try." He hesitated, then added, quieter, "With you."
Hyeonjun’s expression softened, just for a second, before he school it back into something neutral. "That’s good," he said. "Really good." He paused, then added, "The maybes, though—those are interesting too."
Hyeonjoon’s face warmed. He knew which ones Hyeonjun was talking about. Spanking. Wax. Pet names. The ones that had made his stomach twist with something that wasn’t quite nerves, wasn’t quite excitement, but something in between. "I don’t know," he said, his fingers tightening around the blanket. "They just... I don’t know if I’d like them, but I don’t hate the idea either."
Hyeonjun nodded, like this made perfect sense. "That’s how it starts," he said. "With maybes." He reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against Hyeonjoon’s wrist—just for a second, just enough to ground him. "We don’t have to figure it all out tonight. Or tomorrow. Or ever, if you don’t want to."
Hyeonjoon exhaled, his shoulders relaxing just slightly. "I know. It’s just... a lot to think about."
"I get that," Hyeonjun said. His thumb traced a slow, idle circle against the back of Hyeonjoon’s hand. "But you’re not doing it alone."
The words settled in Hyeonjoon’s chest, warm and heavy. He nodded, his throat tight.
Hyeonjun shifted again, pulling his phone from his pocket. "I have something for you," he said, unlocking the screen. "My own list."
Hyeonjoon blinked. "You do?"
Hyeonjun’s lips quirked. "Yeah. I told you—this is a two-way thing, hyung. It’s not just about what you want. It’s about what we want." He tapped his phone a few times, then held it out. "Read it when you’re ready. No rush."
Hyeonjoon took the phone, his fingers brushing against Hyeonjun’s as he did. The screen was open to a document—neat, organized, just like Hyeonjun. He didn’t read it yet. He just held it, the weight of it settling in his hands.
Hyeonjun didn’t push. He just sat there, close enough that Hyeonjoon could feel the warmth of him, could hear the steady rhythm of his breath. "We can talk about it whenever," he said, his voice quiet. "Or not. It’s up to you."
Hyeonjoon looked up, meeting Hyeonjun’s gaze. There was no pressure there. No expectation. Just patience. Just trust.
He exhaled, slow and steady, his fingers tightening just slightly around the phone. "I’ll read it," he said. "Tonight."
Hyeonjun smiled, small and private. "Okay."
The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It was full—of unspoken words, of possibilities, of the quiet understanding that they were standing at the edge of something new. Hyeonjoon didn’t feel like he was about to fall, he felt like he was about to jump.
Hyeonjun shifted slightly on the bed, his fingers still resting lightly against Hyeonjoon’s wrist. The air between them felt charged, but not with tension—with something quieter, something more deliberate. "Hyung," he said, his voice soft but steady, "are you still sure you want to try a scene with me?"
Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched, just for a second. He’d known this question was coming, had been turning it over in his mind since he sent the checklist. But hearing it out loud made it real in a way that was both terrifying and thrilling. He met Hyeonjun’s gaze, his fingers curling into the blanket beneath him. "Yeah," he said, his voice firmer than he expected. "I am."
Hyeonjun’s expression softened, his dark eyes warm behind his glasses. "Okay," he said, slow and careful. "Then let’s talk about what that looks like."
Hyeonjoon nodded, his pulse quickening. "Light," he said immediately. "Nothing too intense. Just... something to see how it feels."
"Of course," Hyeonjun agreed without hesitation. "We’ll keep it simple. No pressure, no expectations. Just exploration." He paused, his thumb brushing lightly against Hyeonjoon’s skin. "How about rope? Just something basic—maybe your wrists, or a loose tie around your waist. Nothing restrictive."
Hyeonjoon exhaled, his shoulders relaxing just slightly. Rope felt safe. Familiar, almost. He’d marked it as a "YES" for a reason. "Yeah," he said, his voice steady. "That sounds good."
Hyeonjun nodded. "And blindfolds," he added, his voice thoughtful. "If you’re comfortable with it. Just to see how you feel with one sense gone. We can take it off anytime."
Hyeonjoon’s chest tightened, but not with fear. With anticipation. "Okay," he said, his breath coming just a little faster. "But no—no impact. Not yet."
"Never without discussing it first," Hyeonjun promised, his voice firm. "This is about you, hyung. About what you need." He hesitated, then added, quieter, "And what I can give you."
Hyeonjoon’s face warmed, but he didn’t look away. "What do you need?" he asked, his voice rough.
Hyeonjun’s lips quirked, just slightly. "To know you’re okay," he said simply. "To know this is something you want." He paused, then added, "And to take care of you after. No matter what."
The words settled in Hyeonjoon’s chest, warm and heavy. He nodded, his throat tight. "I want that too."
Hyeonjun’s smile was small, but it reached his eyes. "Then we’ll do that," he said. "Tomorrow, when the others are out. Just us."
Hyeonjoon exhaled, slow and steady. "Just us," he agreed.
The room felt quieter after that, the air between them charged with something new—something that felt like a promise. Hyeonjun’s hand found its way to Hyeonjoon’s, their fingers intertwining lightly, like an anchor.
"Anything else you want to talk about?" Hyeonjun asked, his voice soft.
Hyeonjoon shook his head, his thumb brushing against Hyeonjun’s knuckles. "No," he said, his voice quiet but sure. "I think I’m ready."
· ☀︎ ·
The morning light filtered through the curtains in soft, golden streaks, painting the dorm’s common area in a warm glow. Hyeonjoon had woken up a few times during the night, his mind racing with nerves and anticipation, but he’d managed to grab a few hours of restless sleep. Now, as he stepped out of his room, the familiar hum of the dorm wrapped around him like a blanket.
Sanghyeok was already in the kitchen, his hair neatly combed, his outfit crisp and put-together as always—a soft sweater and tailored pants, like he was ready to step out for a café date rather than just a casual outing. He moved with quiet efficiency, setting out plates of toast, scrambled eggs, and fresh fruit on the table. The scent of coffee filled the air, rich and comforting.
Minseok, on the other hand, was a complete contrast. He shuffled into the kitchen in his pajamas, his hair sticking up in every direction, his glasses slightly askew as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Why is it so early?" he groaned, collapsing into a chair at the table.
Sanghyeok didn’t even look up from pouring coffee into mugs. "It’s nine," he said, his voice calm.
Minseok groaned again, resting his head on his arms. "Nine is early."
Hyeonjoon bit back a smile as he took a seat beside Minseok, reaching for a slice of toast. The dorm felt cozy, the kind of morning where nothing urgent needed to be done, where the world outside could wait just a little longer.
Sanghyeok set a mug of coffee in front of Hyeonjoon, then one in front of Minseok, who lifted his head just enough to take a grateful sip. His hair was still sticking up in every direction, and he squinted at Sanghyeok through sleep-crusted eyes. "Ugh, you look ridiculous," Minseok grumbled, gesturing vaguely at Sanghyeok’s outfit with his free hand. "Why are you so dressed up? It’s not even noon."
Sanghyeok didn’t react, calmly stirring his own coffee. "We’re leaving in twenty minutes," he said, as if that explained everything.
Minseok groaned, slumping further into his chair. "I know where we’re going," he muttered, rubbing his face. "I just didn’t think you’d actually drag me out of bed for it." He took another sip of coffee, then glared at the toast on the table like it had personally offended him. "I haven’t even had my second cup yet."
Sanghyeok finally looked at him, one eyebrow slightly raised. "You’ll survive."
Minseok huffed, but there was no real heat in it. He grabbed a piece of toast and bit into it with exaggerated grumpiness, muttering around the mouthful, "I hate you."
Sanghyeok didn’t even blink. "No, you don’t."
Minseok scowled, but the corners of his mouth twitched. "Shut up and pass the jam."
The kitchen door swung open with a quiet click, and Hyeonjun stepped inside, already dressed in soft, well-worn sweatpants and an oversized hoodie, his hair still slightly damp from a shower. He moved with an easy confidence, his steps light as he crossed the room, but his eyes found Hyeonjoon immediately—just for a second—before he pulled out the chair beside him.
Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched, just slightly, as Hyeonjun dragged the chair closer, close enough that their shoulders brushed, close enough that their knees pressed together under the table. The warmth of him was immediate, grounding, and Hyeonjoon had to fight the urge to lean into it.
Hyeonjun, though, acted like it was nothing. Like this was just another morning. Like he wasn’t purposefully pressing against Hyeonjoon’s side.
He reached for a piece of toast, then pointed his chopsticks at Sanghyeok. "You look like you’re about to go to a job interview," he said, grinning. "Where’s the real Sanghyeok? The one who wears hoodies and glares at people for fun?"
Sanghyeok didn’t even look up from his coffee. "I left him in your room," he said dryly. "He was tired of your nonsense."
Minseok snorted into his mug, nearly choking on his coffee. Hyeonjun laughed, the sound bright and unguarded, and Hyeonjoon felt something in his chest loosen. This was just Hyeonjun—teasing, warm, present—and for a moment, it was easy to forget that anything had changed between them.
Hyeonjun nudged Hyeonjoon’s knee with his own, just lightly, before turning back to Sanghyeok. "So, what’s the real plan today?" he asked, wiggling his eyebrows. "Or are you just dragging Minseok out of the house so he stops hogging the good snacks?"
Minseok threw a grape at him, which Hyeonjun caught effortlessly, popping it into his mouth with a smirk. "Rude," he said, chewing. "I’m just looking out for you, Minseok. Someone’s gotta make sure you see sunlight once in a while."
Minseok flipped him off, but he was smiling. "I see plenty of sunlight. Unlike some people who live in their rooms like vampires."
Hyeonjun gasped, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. "Me? A vampire? I’ll have you know I’m very alive." He leaned into Hyeonjoon just slightly, his shoulder pressing more firmly against his. "Hyung can vouch for me, right?"
Hyeonjoon’s face warmed, but he played along, rolling his eyes. "I don’t know, he’s got a point."
Hyeonjun clutched his chest again, dramatic. "Betrayal," he groaned, but his grin never faded.
Sanghyeok finally looked up, his expression unimpressed. "You’re all children," he said, but there was no real bite to it.
Hyeonjun just laughed, the sound filling the kitchen, filling Hyeonjoon, warm and bright and alive. And when his fingers brushed against Hyeonjoon’s under the table—just for a second, just enough to say I’m here—Hyeonjoon didn’t pull away.
He just smiled, and let himself lean in.
Sanghyeok set his coffee mug down with deliberate precision, the ceramic meeting the table with a soft clink. "Minseok," he said, his voice calm but carrying the weight of a decision already made, "go get ready. We leave in twenty."
Minseok groaned, dragging his palms down his face. "Twenty minutes? I’m not even human yet," he whined, but he was already pushing himself up from the table, his pajama pants wrinkled and his hair still a mess. He shot Sanghyeok a glare over his shoulder, though there was no real heat in it. "If there’s no matcha latte, I’m throwing you into the Han River myself."
Sanghyeok didn’t even look up from his coffee. "Then I suggest you move faster."
Minseok muttered something under his breath—something that sounded suspiciously like "monster"—but he shuffled toward the hallway anyway, his grumbling fading as he disappeared into his room.
Sanghyeok didn’t respond, his gaze already shifting away from Minseok’s retreating form. Instead, his dark eyes landed on Hyeonjoon, lingering just a second too long. There was something in his expression—something knowing, something amused—before it smoothed back into his usual unreadable calm. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, there and gone so quickly Hyeonjoon might have imagined it.
Then Sanghyeok stood, adjusting the cuffs of his sweater with quiet precision. "We’ll be back by evening," he said, though his tone suggested he wasn’t speaking to anyone in particular. His gaze flicked to Hyeonjun, then back to Hyeonjoon, just for a heartbeat. "Try not to burn the place down while we’re gone."
Hyeonjun saluted him with a piece of toast. "No promises."
Sanghyeok didn’t roll his eyes—he never did—but the faintest hint of exasperation flickered across his face before he turned and followed Minseok down the hall. The front door clicked shut behind them a moment later, leaving the dorm in a silence that felt suddenly heavier, charged with something unspoken.
Hyeonjun exhaled, his shoulder still pressed against Hyeonjoon’s, his fingers brushing lightly against his knee under the table. "Well," he said, his voice quiet but warm, "look at that. We’ve got the place to ourselves."
Hyeonjoon’s pulse quickened, but he didn’t pull away. He just turned his head slightly, meeting Hyeonjun’s gaze. "Yeah," he said, his voice steady. "We do."
The silence between them stretched, thick with anticipation, and Hyeonjoon could feel his pulse thrumming in his throat. He shifted slightly in his seat, his fingers twisting in the hem of his shirt. "I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now," he admitted, his voice quieter than he intended. "Or how to act, or—" He cut himself off, exhaling sharply. "I don’t even know how to start this."
Hyeonjun turned to face him fully, his expression softening. "Hyung," he said, his voice low and steady, "relax." He reached out, his hand covering Hyeonjoon’s where it rested on the table, his thumb brushing lightly over his knuckles. "There’s no script. No right or wrong way to do this." His lips quirked into a small, reassuring smile. "Take a shower. Wear something loose, something comfortable. And when you’re ready, just come to my room. Okay?"
Hyeonjoon nodded, his chest tightening with a mix of nerves and relief. "Okay," he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.
Hyeonjun’s grip on his hand tightened just slightly, grounding him. "No rush," he said. "This is about you. About us. Whenever you’re ready."
Hyeonjoon took a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing just a little. "Okay," he said again, this time with more conviction. He stood, his chair scraping softly against the floor, and Hyeonjun let his hand fall away—but not before giving his fingers one last, reassuring squeeze.
As Hyeonjoon turned toward the hallway, Hyeonjun’s voice followed him, warm and steady. "I’ll be here."
The water in the shower ran hot, steam curling around Hyeonjoon as he stood under the spray, his hands braced against the tiled wall. He let the heat seep into his muscles, loosening the tension in his shoulders, but his mind refused to quiet. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Hyeonjun’s room—the way the light filtered through the curtains in the afternoons, the scent of his shampoo lingering in the air, the quiet hum of his voice when he was focused on something. It was familiar, but today it felt different. Today, it felt like stepping into something new.
He turned off the water with a sharp twist of his wrist, the sudden silence in the bathroom making his pulse thud a little harder in his throat. He toweled off slowly, his movements deliberate, like he could stall time if he just took long enough. But the minutes ticked by, and eventually, he had no choice but to step out, wrapping the towel around his waist and padding back into his room.
The clothes were the first hurdle. Hyeonjun had said loose, comfortable—but what did that even mean in this context? He pulled open his drawer, staring at the neatly folded stacks of shirts and pants like they were a test he hadn’t studied for. A hoodie? Too casual? Too much? He grabbed one anyway, the soft fabric familiar under his fingers, and paired it with a pair of sweatpants that had seen better days but were undeniably comfortable. He hesitated, then swapped the sweatpants for a pair of loose joggers, the fabric lighter, easier to move in. His fingers lingered on the waistband, his mind flickering with the thought of Hyeonjun’s hands—would they touch him there? Would he want them to?—and his face warmed.
He sat on the edge of his bed, running a hand through his damp hair. The room felt too quiet, the air too still. He could hear the distant hum of the dorm—the refrigerator cycling on, the faint rustle of wind outside the window—but it all felt far away, like he was standing at the edge of a pool, toes curled over the edge, debating whether to jump in. He knew Hyeonjun was waiting. Knew he’d said there was no rush. But the anticipation coiled in his chest, a mix of nerves and something warmer, something that made his fingers twitch.
He stood abruptly, pacing the length of his room. Three steps to the door, three steps back. His reflection in the mirror caught his eye—hair still damp, face flushed, eyes too bright. He looked like he always did, but he didn’t feel like it. He felt exposed, even though he was fully dressed. He felt seen, even though he was alone.
He stopped in front of the door, his hand hovering over the knob. Hyeonjun’s room was just down the hall. A few steps. That was all it would take. But his mind raced with questions—What if I do it wrong? What if I don’t like it? What if he—? He cut the thought off, exhaling sharply. Hyeonjun had said there was no wrong way. Had said this was about them. He just had to trust that.
He turned the knob.
The hallway was empty, the dorm quiet. He took a step, then another, his bare feet silent against the floor. Hyeonjun’s door was closed, but he could see the faint glow of light beneath it, like an invitation. He hesitated, his fingers curling into his palms. Just knock. Just walk in. Just—
He lifted his hand, then let it fall back to his side. He could do this. He wanted to do this.
He knocked.
The door swung open before Hyeonjoon could second-guess himself, and there stood Hyeonjun—but not the Hyeonjun he was used to. Not the teasing, easygoing teammate who laughed too loud and stole his snacks. This Hyeonjun was different. His posture was straighter, his shoulders squared, his dark eyes sharp behind his glasses. There was a stillness to him, a quiet authority that made Hyeonjoon’s breath catch in his throat.
Hyeonjun didn’t smile. He didn’t reach out. He just looked at Hyeonjoon, his gaze sweeping over him in a way that made his skin prickle with heat. "Come in," he said, his voice low and steady, carrying a weight that sent a shiver down Hyeonjoon’s spine.
Hyeonjoon stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him. The room was dimmer than usual, the curtains drawn just enough to soften the light, casting everything in a warm, golden glow. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood and something sweet—Hyeonjun’s cologne, maybe. His pulse spiked, his fingers twitching at his sides.
Hyeonjun didn’t move from his spot by the door. He just watched Hyeonjoon, his expression unreadable. "Kneel," he said, his voice firm but not unkind. "In the center of the carpet."
Hyeonjoon’s face burned, his chest tightening. He’d known this was coming. Had wanted it, even. But now that it was happening, his mind went blank, his body reacting before he could overthink it. He took a slow breath, then sank to his knees on the soft carpet, his hands resting on his thighs. The position felt strange—vulnerable—but not uncomfortable. Not yet.
Hyeonjun finally moved, stepping closer until he was standing just in front of Hyeonjoon, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating off him. He didn’t touch him. Didn’t speak. Just looked down at him, his gaze heavy, assessing. "Good," he said, and the word sent a thrill through Hyeonjoon, sharp and electric. "Hands on your knees. Back straight."
Hyeonjoon adjusted his posture, his fingers curling against his knees, his spine straightening. His face was on fire, his heart pounding, but he didn’t look away. He couldn’t. Hyeonjun’s presence filled the room, filled him, and for the first time, he understood what it meant to submit—not out of fear, but out of trust. Out of want.
Hyeonjun’s lips quirked, just slightly, like he could hear every thought racing through Hyeonjoon’s mind. "Breathe," he said, his voice softer now, but no less commanding.
Hyeonjoon exhaled, slow and shaky, his eyes locked on Hyeonjun’s. Hyeonjun’s hand lifted, slow and deliberate, before resting lightly on the top of Hyeonjoon’s head. His fingers were warm, his touch firm but gentle as they carded through Hyeonjoon’s damp hair, once, twice—like he was testing the weight of the moment, the weight of him. "Good boy," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver straight down Hyeonjoon’s spine. The praise settled over him like a blanket, warm and heavy, and he had to fight the urge to lean into the touch.
His breath hitched as Hyeonjun’s fingers lingered for just a second longer before pulling away. The loss of contact made his chest tighten, but then Hyeonjun turned, his movements fluid and controlled, and walked toward the bed. Hyeonjoon watched him, his pulse thrumming in his throat, as Hyeonjun reached for something on the mattress—a length of soft, dark red rope, coiled neatly and resting against the comforter.
Hyeonjun didn’t look back at him as he picked it up, his fingers tracing the length of it with practiced ease. The silence in the room was thick, charged with something unspoken, something that made Hyeonjoon’s skin prickle with anticipation. He could hear the faint rustle of the rope as Hyeonjun unfurled it, the strands slipping through his fingers like silk.
"Stay just like that," Hyeonjun said, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of a command.
Hyeonjoon didn’t move. Didn’t dare to. He stayed kneeling, his hands still on his knees, his back straight, his entire body humming with the effort of keeping still. He watched as Hyeonjun turned back toward him, the rope draped between his hands, his expression unreadable but his eyes dark with something that made Hyeonjoon’s stomach flip.
Hyeonjun took a step closer, the rope hanging loosely from his hands as he studied Hyeonjoon with an intensity that made his breath catch. "Before we start," he said, his voice measured and calm, "we need to talk about rules."
Hyeonjoon nodded, his throat dry. He kept his hands on his knees, his posture straight, but his fingers twitched with nerves.
"First," Hyeonjun continued, his tone leaving no room for doubt, "you don’t move, don’t speak, don’t do anything unless I tell you to. Understood?"
Hyeonjoon swallowed hard, then nodded again. "Yes."
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Hyeonjun’s mouth. "Good." He shifted slightly, the rope coiled in his palms. "Second—you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. If something doesn’t feel right, if you’re uncomfortable, if you just need to stop—you tell me. No hesitation." His gaze locked onto Hyeonjoon’s, serious now. "We use colors. Green means you’re good. Yellow means slow down or check in. Red means stop. Immediately."
Hyeonjoon exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. "Okay."
Hyeonjun’s expression softened, just for a second. "This isn’t about pushing limits today. It’s about trust. About seeing how this feels for both of us." He paused, then added, quieter, "And if you say red, we stop. No questions asked."
Hyeonjoon nodded, his chest tightening with something that wasn’t quite nerves—something warmer, something that felt like safety. "I understand."
Hyeonjun’s lips quirked. "Good boy." He took another step closer, close enough that Hyeonjoon could feel the heat radiating off him. "Last rule—if I ask you how you’re doing, you answer honestly. No hiding. No lying. Ever."
Hyeonjoon’s face warmed, but he didn’t look away. "I won’t."
Hyeonjun’s fingers brushed against his jaw, just lightly, before pulling back. "Then we’re ready." He held up the rope, his dark eyes glinting with something that made Hyeonjoon’s pulse spike. "Still good?"
Hyeonjoon took a slow breath, his hands steady on his knees. "Green," he said, his voice firmer than he expected.
Hyeonjun’s voice dropped into that quiet, commanding tone again. "Raise your hands," he said, his fingers already unwinding the length of rope with practiced ease. "Palms together."
Hyeonjoon obeyed without hesitation, lifting his hands until his palms pressed together in front of him, his pulse thrumming in his wrists. The air between them felt electric, charged with something that made his breath come just a little faster. Hyeonjun stepped closer, close enough that Hyeonjoon could feel the warmth of his body, the faint brush of his breath against his skin as he began to wrap the rope around his wrists.
The first loop was snug but not tight, the soft fibers gliding against his skin with a gentle friction that sent a shiver up his arms. Hyeonjun’s fingers moved with deliberate care, weaving the rope in intricate patterns—over, under, around—each pull and tug sending little sparks of awareness through Hyeonjoon’s nerves. He could feel the way the rope molded to the shape of his wrists, the way it held him without biting, secure but not restrictive. His breath hitched as Hyeonjun’s knuckles brushed against the inside of his forearm, the contact fleeting but intentional, like a promise.
"You okay?" Hyeonjun murmured, his voice low, his focus never wavering from the task.
Hyeonjoon swallowed, his throat dry. "Green," he managed, his voice rough.
Hyeonjun’s lips quirked, just slightly, as he tightened the final knot, his fingers lingering for a second against Hyeonjoon’s pulse point before pulling away. The rope was beautiful—dark red against his skin, the pattern intricate and deliberate, like something meant to be admired. Hyeonjun’s hands cupped his bound wrists for a moment, his thumbs brushing over the ropes as if checking his work. "Perfect," he said, his voice warm with approval.
Then his hands were gone, and Hyeonjoon was left with the weight of the rope, the way it held him just tightly enough to remind him it was there. "Hands in your lap," Hyeonjun instructed, his voice firm but gentle. "And don’t move them."
Hyeonjoon lowered his bound wrists to his lap, the rope shifting slightly against his skin. The sensation was strange—foreign, but not uncomfortable. The fibers pressed into his pulse points, a constant, grounding reminder of where he was, of who he was with. He could feel the way his breath came a little faster, the way his skin prickled with heat wherever the rope touched him. It wasn’t just the physical restraint—it was the idea of it, the knowledge that Hyeonjun had tied him, that Hyeonjun would be the one to untie him.
Hyeonjun’s fingers trailed lightly down his arm, from his bound wrists to his elbow, before pulling away completely. "How does it feel?"
Hyeonjoon exhaled, slow and shaky. "Good," he admitted, his voice quiet. "It feels… good."
Hyeonjun’s smile was small, but it reached his eyes. "Good boy," he murmured, and the words settled over Hyeonjoon like a touch, warm and heavy and right.
The air between them felt thicker now, charged with something that made Hyeonjoon’s skin hum beneath the rope. Hyeonjun didn’t step back—he stayed close, close enough that Hyeonjoon could feel the heat of him, the quiet rhythm of his breath. His fingers traced the edge of the rope where it wrapped around Hyeonjoon’s wrists, not tightening, not loosening—just touching, like he was memorizing the way it looked against his skin.
"You’re doing so well," Hyeonjun murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down Hyeonjoon’s spine. His thumb brushed over the inside of Hyeonjoon’s wrist, right where his pulse fluttered wildly. "Look at you. So obedient. So good for me."
Hyeonjoon’s face burned, but he didn’t look away. He couldn’t. Hyeonjun’s gaze was dark, intense, like he could see every thought racing through Hyeonjoon’s mind. His fingers slid up, tracing the line of Hyeonjoon’s forearm, slow and deliberate, before gliding over his shoulder and up the side of his neck. The touch was light, barely there, but it made Hyeonjoon’s breath catch, his body leaning into it without conscious thought.
"Tell me," Hyeonjun said, his voice dropping even lower, "do you like this? Being tied up? Being mine for a little while?"
Hyeonjoon’s throat went dry. He swallowed hard, his bound hands twitching in his lap. "Yes," he breathed, the word escaping before he could stop it.
Hyeonjun’s lips curved into a slow, satisfied smile. "Good," he murmured, his fingers sliding into Hyeonjoon’s hair, his grip firm but gentle as he tilted his head back just slightly. "Because I like it too. I like seeing you like this—kneeling for me, bound for me, listening to me."
Hyeonjoon’s chest tightened, his pulse racing beneath the rope. He could feel the weight of Hyeonjun’s gaze on him, the way his fingers played with the strands of his damp hair, the way his thumb brushed over his bottom lip—just once, just lightly. It was torture. It was perfect.
"You’re so responsive," Hyeonjun observed, his voice a dark purr. "Every little touch, and you just melt for me." His fingers trailed down Hyeonjoon’s throat, slow and teasing, before resting against his collarbone. "I wonder how you’d react if I did more."
Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched, his body tensing with anticipation. He wanted to lean into the touch, wanted to beg for it, but he stayed still, his hands obediently in his lap, his entire focus on Hyeonjun’s voice, Hyeonjun’s hands, Hyeonjun’s control.
Hyeonjun’s fingers slid lower, tracing the line of his shoulder before gliding down his arm, following the path of the rope. "Such a good boy," he murmured, his voice thick with approval. "So patient. So perfect."
Hyeonjoon’s face flushed darker, his body thrumming with the need to move, to react, but he stayed perfectly still, his breath coming in short, shallow bursts. He could feel the way his skin prickled wherever Hyeonjun touched him, the way his pulse raced beneath the rope, the way his entire body ached for more.
Hyeonjun’s hand finally stilled, resting against his bound wrists, his thumb brushing over the intricate knots. "You’re mine right now," he said, his voice a quiet command. "And I’m going to take such good care of you."
Hyeonjoon shuddered, his body responding to the words like a touch. "Please," he whispered, the word escaping before he could stop it.
Hyeonjun’s smile turned darker, more satisfied. "Since you asked so nicely," he murmured, his fingers sliding back up Hyeonjoon’s arm, his touch lingering just a second too long before pulling away—leaving Hyeonjoon trembling with anticipation, bound and obedient and his.
Hyeonjun reached for another length of rope from the bed, the dark red fibers uncoiling smoothly between his fingers. His movements were deliberate, his gaze never leaving Hyeonjoon as he sank to his knees in front of him, close enough that Hyeonjoon could feel the warmth of his body, the quiet rhythm of his breath. "Keep your legs together," he instructed, his voice low and steady, as he guided Hyeonjoon’s knees to press tightly side by side.
Hyeonjoon obeyed without hesitation, his thighs pressing firmly together, his bound hands resting in his lap. The first brush of the rope against his skin made him shiver, his breath hitching as Hyeonjun began to wrap it around both thighs just above his knees, the fibers snug and secure. Hyeonjun’s fingers moved with practiced ease, weaving an intricate pattern that bound Hyeonjoon’s legs tightly together, the tension just tight enough to be felt—to hold him in place without discomfort.
Hyeonjoon could feel the way the rope molded to the shape of his thighs, the way it held him without biting, the pressure grounding and deliberate. His breath came a little faster as Hyeonjun’s knuckles brushed against the inside of his legs, the contact fleeting but intentional, like a promise. The rope was a constant reminder of his position—kneeling, bound, owned—and the way Hyeonjun’s dark eyes burned into him made his pulse race.
His mind began to blur at the edges, the way it always did when Hyeonjun’s hands were on him like this—when the rope tightened, when the world narrowed down to the feel of the fibers against his skin, the sound of Hyeonjun’s voice, the quiet command in his touch. He exhaled slowly, his shoulders relaxing, his thoughts growing softer, hazier, like he was sinking into something warm and deep.
Hyeonjun’s fingers trailed along his skin as he moved to the other thigh, repeating the process with the same careful precision. The rope was a constant pressure, a grounding weight that made Hyeonjoon’s breath come slower, his body heavier, his mind quieter. He could feel the way the fibers pressed into his muscles, the way they held him in place, the way they connected him to Hyeonjun.
Once both thighs were bound, Hyeonjun reached for the rope around Hyeonjoon’s wrists, his fingers deft as he tied it to the loops around his thighs, securing them together in a way that made it impossible for Hyeonjoon to separate his hands from his lap. The tension was perfect—snug, but not restrictive, holding him in a way that made his entire body hum with awareness.
"You’re so beautiful like this," Hyeonjun murmured, his voice a dark purr as he sat back on his heels, his hands resting on Hyeonjoon’s bound thighs. "All tied up for me. All mine."
Hyeonjoon’s mind felt deliciously blurred, his thoughts slow and heavy, his focus narrowed down to the feel of the rope, the sound of Hyeonjun’s voice, the quiet command in his touch. He didn’t need to think. He didn’t need to do anything but feel—the pressure of the rope, the warmth of Hyeonjun’s hands, the quiet safety of being held just like this.
Hyeonjun’s fingers trailed up his thigh, his touch light but possessive. "How do you feel?"
Hyeonjoon exhaled, his voice soft and hazy. "Good," he murmured. "Really good."
Hyeonjoon’s gaze flickered downward almost by accident, but once he saw it—the way Hyeonjun’s pants strained slightly, the unmistakable outline of his arousal—he couldn’t look away. His breath hitched, his bound hands twitching in his lap as heat flooded his face. He could feel his own body responding, his pulse racing beneath the ropes, but it was the way Hyeonjun’s dark eyes burned into him that made his stomach flip. He licked his lips, slow and nervous, his tongue darting out again and again as he stared up at Hyeonjun with wide, hungry eyes.
Hyeonjun didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just watched, his expression darkening with something that made Hyeonjoon’s skin prickle. The silence stretched between them, thick with tension, until Hyeonjun’s voice cut through it, low and commanding. "Tell me what you want, hyung."
Hyeonjoon’s throat went dry. He swallowed hard, his fingers curling against his thighs, the rope digging just slightly into his skin. He licked his lips again, his gaze flickering between Hyeonjun’s eyes and the obvious bulge in his pants. "I—I want to—" His voice cracked, and he had to start over. "I want to touch you. Please."
Hyeonjun’s lips quirked, but his eyes remained dark, intense. "Not yet," he murmured, his voice a quiet tease. He stood smoothly, his movements deliberate as he stepped back and sat on the edge of the bed, his legs spreading just enough to make room. "Come here," he said, his voice firm. "On your knees. Between my legs."
Hyeonjoon’s breath stuttered, his body responding before his mind could catch up. He shifted forward, the ropes pulling taut as he knelt on the carpet between Hyeonjun’s open thighs, his bound hands resting against his lap. The position put him eye-level with Hyeonjun’s waist, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, close enough to see the way Hyeonjun’s fingers tightened against the bedspread.
Hyeonjun’s free hand reached out, his knuckles brushing against Hyeonjoon’s cheek before tilting his chin up, forcing him to meet his gaze. "Like this?" he asked, his voice a dark rumble.
Hyeonjoon nodded, his face burning, his lips parting as he licked them again. "Yes," he breathed, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Hyeonjun’s thumb traced his bottom lip, his touch light but possessive. "Good boy," he murmured, his voice thick with approval. "Now tell me exactly what you want."
Hyeonjoon’s breath came in short, uneven bursts, his bound hands clenching against his thighs. He could feel the heat of Hyeonjun’s body so close, the way his fingers still traced the curve of his jaw, the way his dark eyes burned into him with an intensity that made his stomach twist. He wanted to say it. He needed to say it. But the words stuck in his throat, tangled up in nerves and desire, his lips parting and closing again like a fish out of water.
Hyeonjun’s expression darkened, his patience wearing thin. His hand slid from Hyeonjoon’s cheek to the back of his head, fingers threading into his damp hair before tightening just slightly—just enough to pull, just enough to make Hyeonjoon gasp. The sharp sting of it sent a jolt through him, his body arching into the touch instinctively.
"If you don’t say it," Hyeonjun murmured, his voice a low, dangerous purr, "I won’t do anything."
Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched, his face flushing darker. The pull on his hair wasn’t painful—it was demanding, a silent command that made his mind blur and his body ache. He licked his lips, his voice trembling. "I—I want you," he finally forced out, his voice rough with need. "I want to—please—"
Hyeonjun’s grip tightened just a fraction more, his thumb brushing over Hyeonjoon’s bottom lip. "Say it," he ordered, his voice firm.
Hyeonjoon’s breath came in a shaky exhale. "I want to touch you," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I want to—make you feel good—"
Hyeonjun’s grip on Hyeonjoon’s hair loosened, his fingers sliding free with a slow, deliberate drag that left Hyeonjoon’s scalp tingling. The second his head was released, Hyeonjoon leaned forward instinctively, his face brushing against the warm fabric of Hyeonjun’s thigh, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts. He could feel the heat of Hyeonjun’s skin through the thin material, smell the faint, musky scent of him, and it made his head spin. His bound hands twitched in his lap, his body aching with the need to do something, but he didn’t know how to start—didn’t know if he was even allowed to.
Hyeonjun’s voice cut through his hesitation, low and rough. "I’ll help you," he murmured, his fingers moving to the waistband of his sweatpants. Hyeonjoon watched, his breath hitching as Hyeonjun hooked his thumbs into the fabric and pulled it down just enough to free himself, his cock already hard and flushed, the tip glistening slightly in the dim light.
Hyeonjoon’s face burned, his pulse racing as he stared. He licked his lips again, his body thrumming with a mix of nerves and desperate want. He wanted to reach out, to touch, to taste—but his hands were still bound, his movements restricted by the rope. He whimpered softly, the sound escaping before he could stop it, his forehead pressing against Hyeonjun’s thigh as he tried to ground himself.
Hyeonjun’s fingers tangled in his hair again, this time gentle, guiding. "Go on," he murmured, his voice thick with encouragement. "Use your mouth, hyung. Show me how good you can be."
Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched as he leaned in, his lips parting as he finally, finally pressed them against the hot, smooth skin of Hyeonjun’s cock. The first touch of his tongue was hesitant, a slow, exploratory lick along the underside that made Hyeonjun’s breath stutter above him. The taste of him—salty, musky, real—sent a jolt through Hyeonjoon’s body, his bound hands clenching uselessly in his lap. He wanted to touch, to grip, to do more, but the ropes held him in place, forcing him to focus only on his mouth, only on the way Hyeonjun’s fingers tightened in his hair as he took him between his lips.
Hyeonjun let out a low, rough sound, his hips shifting just slightly as Hyeonjoon took him deeper, his tongue flattening against the underside. "Fuck, hyung," Hyeonjun groaned, his voice thick with need, his fingers twisting in Hyeonjoon’s hair just enough to make his scalp prickle. The slight sting only made Hyeonjoon’s body thrum harder, his own cock aching against the inside of his joggers as he hollowed his cheeks, taking Hyeonjun deeper, his lips sealing around the base before pulling back with a slow, wet pop.
Hyeonjun’s grip tightened, his fingers pulling just hard enough to make Hyeonjoon gasp around him. "Just like that," he murmured, his voice dark and rough. "Look at you. So good for me."
The words sent a shiver down Hyeonjoon’s spine, his body flushing with heat as he took Hyeonjun back into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the tip before sliding down the length of him again. He could feel the way Hyeonjun’s thighs tensed, the way his breath came faster, sharper. The ropes dug into his wrists as he tried to shift closer, his body aching with the need to please, to take—to be good.
Hyeonjun’s hips rolled up just slightly, a silent demand, and Hyeonjoon took him deeper, his throat opening as he swallowed around the tip. Hyeonjun’s fingers twisted in his hair again, pulling just enough to make his eyes water, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps around the cock in his mouth. "That’s it," Hyeonjun growled, his voice rough with need. "Take it all, hyung. Show me how much you want it."
Hyeonjoon moaned around him, the sound vibrating through Hyeonjun’s cock, making his fingers tighten almost painfully in his hair. "Fuck—just like that—" Hyeonjun’s voice was a low, broken groan, his hips lifting just slightly as Hyeonjoon took him to the back of his throat again, his lips pressing against the base.
Hyeonjoon’s own body was a live wire, his cock throbbing, his skin flushed with heat, his mind blurred with the need to please, to obey, to take everything Hyeonjun would give him. He pulled back just enough to breathe, his lips slick, his breath coming in short, desperate pants before taking Hyeonjun back into his mouth, his tongue working along the underside as he hollowed his cheeks again.
Hyeonjun’s grip on his hair turned almost bruising, his hips lifting just slightly as he thrust up into Hyeonjoon’s mouth. "So fucking good," he groaned, his voice rough and broken. "Look at you. On your knees for me. Bound for me. Taking my cock like such a good boy—"
Hyeonjoon whimpered around him, the words sending a fresh wave of heat through his body, his own cock leaking against the fabric of his joggers.
"Hyung—fuck—" Hyeonjun’s voice was a low, desperate growl, his hips lifting as he thrust up into Hyeonjoon’s mouth again, his cock hitting the back of his throat. Hyeonjoon swallowed around him, his throat fluttering, his body aching with the need to take more, to be more—to be everything Hyeonjun wanted.
Hyeonjun’s fingers pulled his hair again, harder this time, his voice a rough command. "Eyes on me," he growled, and Hyeonjoon obeyed instantly, his gaze flickering up to meet Hyeonjun’s dark, blown-out eyes. The sight of him—flushed, desperate, his—made Hyeonjoon’s stomach clench, his own need coiling tighter as he took Hyeonjun back into his mouth, his lips sealing around the base as he swallowed around the tip.
Hyeonjun’s breath came in short, sharp gasps, his fingers twisting in Hyeonjoon’s hair as he thrust up into his mouth again, his cock hitting the back of his throat. "That’s it," he groaned, his voice rough and broken. "Take it all, hyung. Take me—"
Hyeonjoon moaned around him, the sound vibrating through Hyeonjun’s cock, making his fingers tighten almost painfully in his hair. His hips lifted as he thrust up into Hyeonjoon’s mouth again, his cock hitting the back of his throat.
Hyeonjun’s hand slid from Hyeonjoon’s hair to the back of his neck, his grip firm and unyielding as he held him in place. His cock pressed deeper, the thick head nudging against the back of Hyeonjoon’s throat, cutting off his air just enough to make his lungs burn. Hyeonjoon’s nose brushed against the warm skin of Hyeonjun’s lower stomach, the scent of him—musky, intoxicating—filling his senses until there was nothing else. His eyes watered, tears blurring his vision as saliva spilled from the corners of his mouth, dripping down his chin, but he didn’t pull away. He couldn’t. Hyeonjun’s grip was absolute, his dark eyes locked onto Hyeonjoon’s, burning with something raw and possessive.
"Breathe through your nose," Hyeonjun murmured, his voice a rough growl, his thumb brushing over Hyeonjoon’s pulse point where it fluttered wildly beneath his jaw. His hips rolled forward just slightly, his cock pressing deeper, and Hyeonjoon’s throat fluttered around him, his body trembling with the effort to stay still, to take it. The world narrowed down to the weight of Hyeonjun’s hand on his neck, the press of his cock against his throat, the dark, endless depth of his gaze.
Hyeonjoon’s bound hands clenched in his lap, his fingers curling into fists as he fought the urge to reach out, to touch. The ropes dug into his wrists, a sharp reminder of his place—kneeling, bound, owned. His chest burned with the need for air, but he didn’t struggle. He waited. Patient. Obedient. Good.
Hyeonjun’s lips parted, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps as he held Hyeonjoon there, his cock throbbing against the back of his throat. "Such a good boy," he groaned, his voice thick with need, his fingers tightening just slightly on Hyeonjoon’s neck. "Taking me so well. So perfectly."
Hyeonjoon’s vision swam, tears streaking down his cheeks as he stared up at Hyeonjun, his dark eyes the only anchor in the blur. He could feel the way his own body ached, his cock throbbing painfully against his joggers, his skin flushed with heat, but none of it mattered. Not when Hyeonjun was looking at him like this—like he was something precious, something his.
Hyeonjun’s hips rolled again, his cock pressing deeper, and Hyeonjoon’s throat convulsed around him, his body trembling with the effort to stay still, to take it all. His lungs burned, his vision darkened at the edges, but he didn’t pull away. He couldn’t. He was Hyeonjun’s and he would take everything he gave him.
Hyeonjun’s voice was a rough whisper, his thumb brushing over Hyeonjoon’s damp cheek. "You’re doing so well, hyung."
And then, finally, Hyeonjun pulled back just enough to let him breathe, his cock slipping from Hyeonjoon’s lips with a wet, obscene sound. Hyeonjoon gasped, his chest heaving as he dragged in air, his vision swimming, his body trembling. But he didn’t move. He waited. Patient. Obedient. Good.
Hyeonjun’s fingers tightened in Hyeonjoon’s hair, pulling his head back just enough that his swollen, spit-slicked lips stretched into a thin, glistening thread connecting him to the head of Hyeonjun’s cock. The sight of him—face flushed a deep, desperate red, tears still clinging to his lashes, lips obscenely parted and glistening—made Hyeonjun’s breath hitch. "Look at you," he murmured, his voice rough with awe, his thumb brushing over Hyeonjoon’s bottom lip, smearing the saliva there. "So fucking pretty like this. Ruined for me."
Hyeonjoon’s chest heaved, his bound hands trembling in his lap as he gasped for air, his blurred eyes locked onto Hyeonjun’s. He could feel the way his own body ached, his cock throbbing painfully, his skin flushed and sensitive.
Hyeonjun’s grip on his hair loosened just for a second, his fingers carding through the damp strands before tightening again. "You want more, hyung?" he asked, his voice a dark purr, his cock twitching against Hyeonjoon’s lips.
Hyeonjoon didn’t hesitate. He nodded, his breath hitching as the thread of saliva between his lips and Hyeonjun’s cock finally snapped. "Please," he whispered, his voice raw and needy.
Hyeonjun’s smile was slow, satisfied. "Since you asked so nicely..." His hand tightened in Hyeonjoon’s hair again, pulling him forward, guiding him back onto his cock with a rough, possessive groan. Hyeonjoon took him eagerly, his lips sealing around the head, his tongue flattening against the underside as he hollowed his cheeks. The taste of him filled his senses again, and he moaned around him, the sound vibrating through Hyeonjun’s cock, making his fingers tighten almost painfully in his hair.
"Fuck—" Hyeonjun’s voice was a broken groan, his hips lifting just slightly as he thrust up into Hyeonjoon’s mouth. "Just like that. Take it all, hyung. Show me how much you want it."
Hyeonjoon obeyed, his throat opening as he took Hyeonjun deeper, his bound hands clenching uselessly in his lap.
Hyeonjun's fingers twisted tighter in Hyeonjoon's hair as he pulled him back, his cock slipping from Hyeonjoon's swollen lips with a wet pop. The sudden loss of pressure made Hyeonjoon gasp, his chest heaving as he dragged in ragged breaths, his bound hands trembling in his lap. His entire body was a mess of need and sensation, his cock throbbing painfully against the fabric of his joggers—until a sharp, electric jolt of pleasure shot through him, his hips jerking involuntarily as he came with a broken whimper, spilling hot and messy into his pants.
Hyeonjun didn't notice. His dark eyes were locked onto Hyeonjoon's ruined face, his lips parted and glistening with spit, his cheeks flushed and tear-streaked. His cock twitched in his grip as he rubbed the slick head against Hyeonjoon's lips, smearing the wetness there. "Where do you want me, hyung?" he asked, his voice rough and thick with need. "Tell me where to cum."
Hyeonjoon's breath hitched, his mind still hazy with the aftershocks of his own orgasm, his body trembling. "On me," he whispered, his voice raw. "Please—"
Hyeonjun's grip on his hair tightened, his thumb brushing over Hyeonjoon's bottom lip. "Such a good boy," he groaned, his voice breaking as he guided his cock back to Hyeonjoon's lips. "Open."
Hyeonjoon obeyed instantly, his lips parting as Hyeonjun stroked himself, the head of his cock brushing against Hyeonjoon's tongue. The first hot, thick spurt hit the back of his throat, and Hyeonjoon swallowed around him, his throat fluttering as Hyeonjun came with a rough, broken groan. The rest spilled over his lips, dripping down his chin, marking him as Hyeonjun's fingers loosened in his hair, his breath coming in sharp gasps.
"Fuck—" Hyeonjun's voice was a ragged whisper as he pulled back, his cock slipping from Hyeonjoon's lips. His thumb brushed over Hyeonjoon's chin, smearing the cum there, his dark eyes burning with something raw and possessive. "Mine," he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Look at you. So perfect. So good for me."
Hyeonjoon's face burned, his body still trembling, his bound hands clenching in his lap. He could feel the sticky mess in his joggers, the weight of Hyeonjun's cum on his lips and chin, but all he could focus on was the way Hyeonjun was looking at him.
Hyeonjun’s fingers still trembled slightly as he reached down, his palm pressing against the damp, sticky fabric of Hyeonjoon’s joggers—only to freeze when he felt the warmth of his release already there. His breath hitched, his dark eyes flickering over Hyeonjoon’s dazed expression, the way his lashes fluttered, his lips parted and swollen, his body still trembling with aftershocks. "Hyung..." he murmured, his voice softening as he realized how deep Hyeonjoon had gone—how far he’d let himself fall.
He abandoned the idea of touching him there. Instead, his hand moved to the back of Hyeonjoon’s head, his fingers carding gently through his damp hair, pressing him closer until Hyeonjoon’s forehead rested against his thigh. "Shhh, it’s okay,"Hyeonjun murmured, his voice low and soothing. "You’re so good. So perfect." His other hand rubbed slow, grounding circles on Hyeonjoon’s back, feeling the way his breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, his body still humming with the remnants of pleasure and submission.
Hyeonjoon leaned into him, his bound hands resting limply in his lap, his mind foggy and warm. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Hyeonjun’s touch was enough—his voice, his warmth, the steady rhythm of his fingers in his hair. He could feel the way his own body slowly relaxed, his breathing evening out, his muscles unclenching as Hyeonjun kept murmuring praises, kept grounding him with every touch.
After what felt like forever, Hyeonjun pressed a soft kiss to the top of his head. "Let’s get you up, hyung," he said gently, his hands moving to Hyeonjoon’s shoulders, helping him sit back on his heels. Hyeonjoon’s vision was still blurred, his movements slow and unsteady, but Hyeonjun was there—always there—guiding him, supporting him.
First, the ropes. Hyeonjun’s fingers worked carefully at the knots, unwinding them with practiced ease until the fibers slipped free from Hyeonjoon’s wrists and thighs. The sudden absence of pressure made Hyeonjoon’s skin tingle, his limbs feeling light and strange, like they weren’t quite his own yet. Hyeonjun massaged his wrists gently, his thumbs brushing over the faint red marks the rope had left, his touch lingering just a second longer than necessary.
"Can you stand?" Hyeonjun asked, his voice quiet.
Hyeonjoon nodded, but his body swayed when he tried to rise. Hyeonjun’s arms were around him in an instant, steadying him, helping him to his feet. The world tilted for a second, but Hyeonjun’s grip was firm, his presence a solid anchor. "Easy," he murmured, guiding him toward the bed. "I’ve got you."
He helped Hyeonjoon out of his cum-stained joggers, replacing them with a pair of soft, clean sweatpants before easing him onto the mattress. Hyeonjoon collapsed against the pillows with a soft sigh, his body heavy and warm, his mind still floating in that hazy, perfect space. Hyeonjun pulled the blankets over him, tucking them around his shoulders before sitting on the edge of the bed, his hand resting on Hyeonjoon’s hip.
"Water?" he asked, already reaching for the bottle on the nightstand.
Hyeonjoon nodded, letting Hyeonjun guide the bottle to his lips. The cool water grounded him further, the world slowly coming back into focus—soft and warm and safe. He swallowed, his throat still raw, his lips still sensitive, but it didn’t hurt. It just was.
Hyeonjun set the bottle aside and brushed a damp strand of hair from Hyeonjoon’s forehead. "You did so well," he murmured, his voice thick with pride. "So good for me."
Hyeonjoon smiled, slow and lazy, his eyes half-lidded as he leaned into Hyeonjun’s touch. He didn’t have words yet. He didn’t need them.
He just needed this—Hyeonjun’s hands, his voice, the quiet warmth of the bed around him.
Chapter 4
Notes:
First of all, thank you so, so much for all the kudos, comments, and love you’ve given this story! ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: I never expected to reach almost 900 hits, 60 kudos, and 10 comments—it still feels surreal, and my heart is so full. I read every single comment, even if I don’t reply (I’m painfully shy, but I scream internally with happiness every time I see one!). Knowing that people are enjoying this story means the world to me, and I’m so grateful for every one of you.
A quick update on the story:
We’re officially at the midpoint of the fic! That means… the angst is coming.
Also, I’ve been debating whether to split these longer chapters (like this 15k monster) into two parts for easier reading, or keep them as they are. What do you prefer? Shorter, or these long chapters? Let me know in the comments—I’m happy to adjust!Chapter Warnings
Explicit Sexual Content.
BDSM Elements – Rope bondage, collar use, power dynamics, orgasm control/denial, breath play, blowjobs, deep-throating, sex toys, cum-play, overstimulation, edging, praise kink, aftercare, crying during sex (in a good way).
Consent & Communication – Safewords are established and respected. All acts are consensual and negotiated.
Alcohol.Final note: If any of these themes aren’t for you, that’s completely okay! Your comfort and well-being matter most. And if you’re enjoying the story, thank you so much for being here—I hope it brings you as much joy to read as it does for me to write! (◠‿◠✿)
Chapter Text
The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the air conditioner and the distant murmur of the city outside. Hyeonjoon stirred slowly, his body heavy with the weight of sleep, his cheeks still warm from the dream he couldn’t quite remember. The first thing he noticed was the warmth—Hyeonjun’s warmth—beneath his cheek. His head was resting on Hyeonjun’s lap, his body curled under a nest of blankets and sheets, cocooned in the scent of sandalwood and something sweet, something him.
He blinked his eyes open, the room bathed in the dim glow of the moonlight filtering through the curtains. Hyeonjun’s fingers were carding gently through his hair, slow and rhythmic, like he’d been doing it for hours. Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched, his chest tightening with something soft and aching.
"You’re awake," Hyeonjun murmured, his voice rough with sleep but warm, like a blanket wrapped around him.
Hyeonjoon hummed, shifting just enough to press his face further into Hyeonjun’s thigh, his arms tightening around his waist. "Mm. How long was I out?"
"A few hours." Hyeonjun’s fingers didn’t stop, tracing slow patterns against his scalp. "You were exhausted."
Hyeonjoon exhaled, his body relaxing further into the touch. He could feel the faint ache in his wrists, the ghost of the ropes from earlier, and something deeper—something that settled in his chest like a weight. "I…" He swallowed, his voice quieter. "I liked it. More than I thought I would."
Hyeonjun’s hand stilled for a second before resuming its slow, soothing rhythm. "Good."
Hyeonjoon lifted his head just enough to meet Hyeonjun’s dark eyes, his own still heavy with sleep. "I trust you," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "More than before."
Hyeonjun’s expression softened, something warm and fond flickering across his face. He cupped Hyeonjoon’s cheek, his thumb brushing over his cheekbone. "I know."
Hyeonjoon leaned into the touch, his lashes fluttering. "Next time…" He hesitated, his fingers curling into the fabric of Hyeonjun’s shirt. "I want you to surprise me."
Hyeonjun’s lips quirked, his eyes glinting with something dark and promising. "Oh?"
Hyeonjoon nodded, his face warming. "I… I want to see what you’d do. If I just… let you."
Hyeonjun’s grip on his cheek tightened just slightly, his thumb brushing over Hyeonjoon’s bottom lip. "You’re sure?"
Hyeonjoon didn’t hesitate. "Yeah."
Hyeonjun’s smile was slow, satisfied. "Then I’ll take care of you, hyung." His voice dropped, dark and promising. "I’ll make it good."
Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched, his body humming with anticipation. He shifted closer, pressing his face back into Hyeonjun’s lap, his arms tightening around him. "I know you will."
Hyeonjun’s fingers resumed their slow, soothing patterns in his hair, his other hand resting on Hyeonjoon’s shoulder, grounding him. The room was quiet again, the only sound the soft rustle of the blankets and the steady rhythm of their breaths.
The quiet rhythm of Hyeonjun’s fingers in his hair lulled Hyeonjoon into a half-daze, his body heavy and warm, his mind drifting somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. The room felt like a bubble, insulated from the rest of the world, the only sounds the soft rustle of the blankets and the steady, even breaths they shared. But then—faint, but unmistakable—the creak of the front door echoed down the hallway, followed by the muted thud of shoes being kicked off. Hyeonjoon’s body tensed instinctively, his ears pricking at the sound of low voices, the unmistakable murmur of Sanghyeok and Minseok returning.
Hyeonjun’s hand stilled in his hair, his fingers pressing just slightly against Hyeonjoon’s scalp, as if sensing the shift in his attention. The voices grew closer, not loud, but enough to cut through the quiet of the room—Sanghyeok’s calm, measured tone and Minseok’s lighter, slightly slurred laughter, the kind that meant he’d had at least one drink too many. Hyeonjoon could hear the clink of keys being set down on the entryway table, the rustle of bags, the quiet shuffle of feet moving toward the living room. His breath hitched, his body suddenly hyper-aware of the position they were in—him curled against Hyeonjun’s lap, the blankets tangled around them, the faint marks on his wrists still visible if someone looked too closely.
Hyeonjun didn’t move. His hand remained in Hyeonjoon’s hair, his touch grounding, but his body had gone still, listening. The voices grew clearer as Sanghyeok and Minseok stepped into the living room, their footsteps soft but impossible to ignore. Minseok’s laughter rang out again, brighter now, followed by the thud of something being set down on the coffee table—probably snacks, or maybe the bags from whatever café they’d been to. "I’m telling you, hyung, you’re impossible," Minseok groaned, his voice carrying just enough to reach them. "How do you even function on that little sleep?"
Sanghyeok’s reply was too quiet to make out, but Hyeonjoon could imagine the look on his face—the same unimpressed, slightly exasperated expression he always wore when Minseok got like this. The sound of the fridge opening followed, the hum of it filling the silence before the clink of glass—probably Sanghyeok pouring water, or maybe making tea to sober Minseok up. Hyeonjoon’s fingers twitched against Hyeonjun’s shirt, his pulse quickening. They weren’t being loud, weren’t doing anything wrong, but the knowledge that they were there, just beyond the door, made his skin prickle with a strange mix of nerves and guilt, like they’d been caught doing something forbidden.
Hyeonjun’s thumb brushed over the back of Hyeonjoon’s neck, slow and deliberate, as if to say it’s okay. But Hyeonjoon still held his breath, his body tensed, waiting. The sound of the TV turning on filtered through the door, the low murmur of a late-night show filling the silence. Minseok’s voice rose again, slightly muffled but still clear. "Ugh, I’m starving. Did you guys eat all the snacks again?" There was a pause, the rustle of a bag being opened, and then the crinkle of a chip bag being torn into. Hyeonjoon could practically see Minseok flopping onto the couch, his legs sprawled out, his hair a mess, his cheeks still flushed from the cold night air.
Sanghyeok’s voice was a low rumble, something about "leftovers" and "you’re a mess," but Hyeonjoon barely registered the words. His focus was on the way Hyeonjun’s fingers had started moving again, slow and steady, tracing patterns against his scalp, as if willing him to relax. The sound of the microwave beeping made him jump, his body tensing further, and Hyeonjun’s hand stilled again, his grip tightening just slightly. "Hyung," he murmured, his voice barely audible, "breathe."
Hyeonjoon exhaled shakily, his fingers curling into the fabric of Hyeonjun’s shirt. He could hear the clatter of dishes, the murmur of the TV, the occasional burst of Minseok’s laughter. It was all so normal, so everyday, and yet it felt like a violation of the quiet, intimate space they’d been in just moments before. He wanted to stay like this, pressed against Hyeonjun, safe and warm and theirs, but the reality of the dorm—their teammates just beyond the door—made his chest tighten.
The sound of footsteps approaching the hallway made Hyeonjoon’s breath catch. He didn’t know if they were coming this way, if they’d knock, if they’d— But then the footsteps retreated, followed by the creak of the couch as someone sat down. Minseok’s voice rose again, slightly louder now, "I swear, if Hyeonjun ate the last of the ramyeon, I’m throwing him off the balcony." Sanghyeok’s dry reply was lost under the sound of the microwave starting up, the hum of it filling the silence.
Hyeonjun’s fingers slid from Hyeonjoon’s hair to his shoulder, his touch warm and reassuring. "They’re not coming in," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "They’re too busy being dramatic."
Hyeonjoon exhaled, slow and shaky, his body relaxing fractionally. He could still hear them—Sanghyeok’s calm, measured tone, Minseok’s occasional laughter, the clink of forks against plates—but it was fading into the background now, becoming just another part of the dorm’s usual noise. Hyeonjun’s hand moved to his back, rubbing slow, soothing circles, his touch grounding him.
The sound of the microwave dinged, followed by the rustle of food being taken out, the quiet murmur of conversation. Hyeonjoon’s body slowly unclenched, his breath evening out as he pressed his face back into Hyeonjun’s lap, his arms tightening around him. The voices faded into the background, the TV’s low hum becoming white noise, the occasional burst of laughter just another sound in the night.
Hyeonjun’s fingers resumed their slow, soothing patterns in his hair, his other hand resting on Hyeonjoon’s shoulder, grounding him. The room was quiet again, the only sounds the soft rustle of the blankets, the steady rhythm of their breaths, and the distant, muffled noise of their teammates in the living room.
Hyeonjun’s phone buzzed softly against the mattress, the vibration subtle but enough to make Hyeonjoon tense again. He felt Hyeonjun shift slightly, his fingers pausing in Hyeonjoon’s hair before he reached for the device with his free hand. The glow of the screen cast a faint light over his features as he read the message, his expression unreadable in the dimness. Hyeonjoon lifted his head just enough to watch him, his breath catching as Hyeonjun’s thumb moved over the screen, typing out a quick reply.
"Sanghyeok," Hyeonjun murmured, his voice low. "They’re ordering dinner. For all of us." He hesitated, then added, "And they got alcohol. Said they want to spend the night together."
Hyeonjoon’s chest tightened, a strange mix of relief and disappointment swirling inside him. He should have known this would happen—it wasn’t unusual for them to have nights like this, all gathered in the living room, laughing and teasing each other over food and drinks. But tonight felt different. Tonight, he’d been here, wrapped in Hyeonjun’s warmth, his body still humming with the afterglow of what they’d shared earlier. The thought of facing the others now, of pretending everything was normal, made his stomach twist.
Hyeonjun’s fingers returned to his hair, his touch gentle but firm. "You don’t have to go out there if you don’t want to," he said quietly, his voice a rumble in the dark. "I can tell them you’re not feeling well."
Hyeonjoon exhaled, his fingers curling into the fabric of Hyeonjun’s shirt. He knew Hyeonjun was giving him an out, a way to stay hidden in this quiet, private space they’d created. But he also knew that would only draw more attention, more questions. Minseok would know something was up the second he saw him avoiding everyone. And Sanghyeok… well, Sanghyeok noticed everything.
"No," Hyeonjoon murmured, shaking his head slightly. "It’s fine. We should go." He didn’t want to admit it, but part of him wanted this—the normalcy, the laughter, the way things had always been before. Before this. Before them.
Hyeonjun studied him for a long moment, his dark eyes searching Hyeonjoon’s face. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Okay." His hand slid from Hyeonjoon’s hair to cup his cheek, his thumb brushing over his cheekbone. "But if you change your mind—"
"I know," Hyeonjoon interrupted, leaning into the touch. "I’ll say something."
Hyeonjun’s lips quirked, just slightly. "Good." He pressed a quick, soft kiss to Hyeonjoon’s forehead before shifting beneath him. "Come on. Let’s get you up before Minseok starts yelling for us."
Hyeonjoon let out a shaky laugh, the tension in his chest easing just a little. He allowed Hyeonjun to help him sit up, the blankets pooling around his waist. The room felt colder without Hyeonjun’s warmth, but his hand was still there, steady on his back as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed.
Hyeonjun stood first, stretching slightly before offering Hyeonjoon a hand. Hyeonjoon took it, letting Hyeonjun pull him to his feet. For a second, they just stood there, hands still entwined, the space between them charged with something unspoken. Then Hyeonjun squeezed his fingers, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You’re sure?"
Hyeonjoon nodded, squeezing back. "Yeah. I’m sure."
Hyeonjun held his gaze for another heartbeat before letting go, stepping back to grab his phone from the bed. "Then let’s go before they send a search party." His tone was light, teasing, but his eyes were still dark with concern.
Hyeonjoon took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair in an attempt to smooth it down. He could still feel the ghost of Hyeonjun’s touch on his skin, the faint ache in his wrists a secret only the two of them shared. He glanced at the door, then back at Hyeonjun, who was watching him with an intensity that made his pulse jump.
"We’ll find a way to slip away later," Hyeonjun promised, his voice low and rough. "If you want to."
Hyeonjoon’s face warmed, but he nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah," he said softly. "I’d like that."
Hyeonjun’s smile was slow, satisfied. "Good." He reached for the doorknob, pausing just long enough to shoot Hyeonjoon one last look before turning it and stepping into the hallway.
The noise from the living room grew louder as they approached, the scent of food and the low murmur of conversation wrapping around them like a familiar blanket. Hyeonjoon followed Hyeonjun out, his steps hesitant but steady, his heart pounding with a mix of nerves and anticipation.
They were just teammates tonight. Just friends.
But as Hyeonjun glanced back at him, his dark eyes glinting with something only Hyeonjoon could see, he knew the truth.
They were so much more.
The living room was already a mess of laughter and chaos by the time Hyeonjoon and Hyeonjun stepped inside. The coffee table was covered in bags of snacks, half-empty bottles of soju, and a spread of takeout containers that smelled like spicy chicken and garlic. Minseok was sprawled on the couch, one arm slung over the back as he gestured wildly with a pair of chopsticks, his cheeks already flushed from the alcohol. "I’m telling you, hyung, if you don’t try the fried squid, you’re dead to me," he declared, his voice just loud enough to carry over the noise of the TV.
Sanghyeok, ever the picture of calm, was perched on the armchair, a glass of water in hand instead of soju. He glanced up as they entered, his expression unreadable as always, but there was a faint quirk to his lips. "Took you long enough," he said, though there was no real accusation in his tone. "We were starting to think you’d been kidnapped."
Hyeonjun snorted, dropping onto the couch beside Minseok with an ease that made it look like he hadn’t just been tangled up with Hyeonjoon minutes ago. "Please. If anyone was getting kidnapped, it’d be Minseok," he shot back, grabbing a bottle of soju and twisting off the cap. "You’re the one who looks like easy prey."
Minseok gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. "Excuse me? Easy prey? I’ll have you know I’m a wild tiger—"
"A drunk one," Hyeonjun interrupted, pouring soju into a glass and nudging it toward Hyeonjoon before taking one for himself.
Hyeonjoon hesitated for only a second before sitting down on the floor beside the coffee table, close enough to Hyeonjun that their knees brushed. The contact sent a jolt through him, but he forced himself to focus on the food, grabbing a pair of chopsticks and a plate. "You’re both ridiculous," he muttered, but there was no heat in it, his lips already twitching.
Minseok grinned, leaning forward to grab a piece of fried squid and dropping it onto Hyeonjoon’s plate. "Eat up, hyung. You look like you need the energy." He winked, and Hyeonjoon rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up.
The conversation flowed easily after that, the four of them falling into the familiar rhythm of jokes and teasing. Minseok was in rare form, his usual loud energy amplified by the alcohol, and even Sanghyeok cracked a smile once or twice—though he still mostly sipped his water and observed. Hyeonjun, meanwhile, seemed to have appointed himself the official soju pourer, his fingers brushing against Hyeonjoon’s every time he refilled his glass.
"You’re gonna get me drunk," Hyeonjoon murmured the third time Hyeonjun topped him off, his voice low enough that only Hyeonjun could hear.
Hyeonjun’s lips quirked. "Maybe I want you drunk," he replied, his voice a dark purr. "See what happens when you lose those inhibitions, hyung."
Hyeonjoon’s face flushed, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he took a sip of the soju, the burn of it doing little to distract from the way Hyeonjun’s knee was still pressed against his.
Minseok, of course, noticed everything. "Why are you two so quiet over there?" he demanded, pointing his chopsticks at them. "Plotting something? Secret handshakes? Illicit affairs?"
Hyeonjoon choked on his drink, coughing as the soju went down the wrong pipe. Hyeonjun, ever the picture of innocence, just raised an eyebrow. "Careful, Minseok. Your imagination’s showing."
Minseok gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. "I knew it!"
Sanghyeok sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You’re all insufferable."
Hyeonjoon laughed, the tension in his chest easing as the night wore on. The alcohol warmed his veins, the food filled his stomach, and the laughter of his teammates wrapped around him like a blanket. And through it all, Hyeonjun was there—his knee pressed to Hyeonjoon’s, his fingers brushing against his when he passed him food, his dark eyes catching his every time Hyeonjoon looked up.
At one point, Minseok—now thoroughly drunk—somehow ended up on the floor beside Hyeonjoon, leaning against his shoulder as he rambled about some ridiculous dream he’d had the night before. "And then the squid started singing, hyung," he slurred, waving his hands. "Like, full-on K-pop."
Hyeonjoon was laughing so hard he could barely breathe, his side aching. "You’re insane," he wheezed, but he didn’t push Minseok away.
Hyeonjun watched them, his expression soft in a way Hyeonjoon rarely saw. When their eyes met, Hyeonjun’s gaze was warm, possessive, and Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched.
"Having fun?" Hyeonjun murmured, leaning in just close enough that his breath ghosted over Hyeonjoon’s ear.
Hyeonjoon shivered. "Yeah," he admitted, his voice quiet.
Hyeonjun’s lips brushed the shell of his ear, so quick no one else would notice. "Good."
The night stretched on, the soju bottles emptying, the snacks disappearing, and the jokes growing increasingly ridiculous. At some point, Sanghyeok—who had, against all odds, consumed one glass of soju—started telling a story about their rookie days that had them all in stitches. Minseok, now lying on the floor with his head in Hyeonjoon’s lap, was snorting with laughter, his fingers clutching at Hyeonjoon’s shirt.
"No way," Minseok wheezed. "Hyung, you did not trip on stage!"
"I did," Sanghyeok said, deadpan. "And Hyeonjun laughed."
"Because it was funny," Hyeonjun protested, though he was grinning.
Hyeonjoon shook his head, his fingers carding through Minseok’s hair absentmindedly. "I can’t believe I missed that," he said, his voice warm.
Hyeonjun’s eyes met his again, dark and knowing. "We’ll have to recreate it for you sometime," he said, his voice low.
Hyeonjoon’s breath caught.
Minseok, oblivious, just sighed happily. "I love you guys," he slurred, his voice thick with alcohol.
Sanghyeok rolled his eyes, but there was a smile tugging at his lips. "We love you too, idiot."
Hyeonjun’s hand found Hyeonjoon’s under the table, their fingers intertwining for just a second before pulling away. Hyeonjoon smiled.
The room spun just a little as Hyeonjoon blinked up at the ceiling, the warm glow of the lamp blurring at the edges. Sanghyeok’s voice cut through the hazy laughter like a judge’s gavel—calm, final. "Alright, that’s enough. Everyone to bed before Minseok starts crying about Minhyung again." His tone was dry, but there was a fondness underneath it, the kind that only came out after a few drinks and too many shared memories.
Minseok, who had been slumped against Hyeonjoon’s shoulder, groaned dramatically. "I do miss him," he slurred, his voice thick with alcohol and something softer. "He’s so pretty… and his hair…" His fingers twitched in the air, as if trying to grasp something just out of reach.
Sanghyeok sighed, standing up with the practiced ease of someone who had dealt with drunk teammates far too often. "Come on, you disaster. Let’s get you to bed before you start writing love letters." He grabbed Minseok’s arm and hauled him upright, Minseok’s protests dissolving into giggles as Sanghyeok steered him toward the hallway.
Hyeonjoon watched them go, his own body heavy with alcohol and warmth. The room felt quieter without Minseok’s loud energy, the only sounds now the distant murmur of Sanghyeok’s voice and Minseok’s slurred replies. He tried to push himself up from the floor, but his limbs felt like they were made of lead, his balance nonexistent. He wobbled, his hand slipping on the coffee table, and—
"Whoa, easy there." Hyeonjun’s voice was low, amused, as his hands closed around Hyeonjoon’s arms, steadying him. "You’re worse than Minseok, hyung."
Hyeonjoon huffed, but there was no real heat in it. "Shut up," he muttered, though his lips were twitching. "I’m fine."
Hyeonjun’s smirk was all teeth. "Sure you are." He didn’t let go, his grip firm as he helped Hyeonjoon to his feet. "Come on. Let’s get you somewhere you won’t faceplant."
Hyeonjoon wanted to protest, but the room tilted dangerously when he tried to stand on his own, and he ended up leaning heavily against Hyeonjun’s side. "Ugh, fine," he grumbled, but he didn’t pull away. "But I’m not a disaster like Minseok."
Hyeonjun laughed, the sound warm and low as he wrapped an arm around Hyeonjoon’s waist, supporting most of his weight. "No, you’re worse," he teased, guiding them toward the hallway. "At least he owns it."
Hyeonjoon groaned, but he was smiling, his face pressed against Hyeonjun’s shoulder as they stumbled down the hall. The dorm was quiet now, the only sounds the distant hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the floorboards. Hyeonjun’s room was just a few steps away, the door slightly ajar, the light inside still off.
"You’re mean," Hyeonjoon mumbled, but there was no real bite to it. He let Hyeonjun steer him inside, his body heavy and warm, his mind fuzzy around the edges.
Hyeonjun chuckled, kicking the door shut behind them with his foot. "And you’re drunk," he replied, his voice soft as he helped Hyeonjoon sit on the edge of the bed. "But you’re cute when you’re drunk."
Hyeonjoon’s face burned, but he didn’t look away. "You’re cute all the time," he slurred, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
Hyeonjun’s smirk softened, his dark eyes warm as he crouched in front of Hyeonjoon, his hands on his knees. "Flirting with me, hyung?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble.
Hyeonjoon huffed, but he was smiling, his fingers curling into the fabric of Hyeonjun’s shirt. "Maybe," he admitted, his voice quiet.
Hyeonjun’s laugh was soft, his hands moving to Hyeonjoon’s waist, steadying him. "You’re dangerous like this," he said, but there was no real warning in his tone. Instead, he leaned in, pressing a quick, soft kiss to Hyeonjoon’s forehead before pulling back. "Now sleep, before you pass out on me."
Hyeonjoon wanted to argue, but his body was heavy, his limbs leaden, and the bed was so warm. He let Hyeonjun guide him back until he was lying down, the blankets pulled up to his chin. Hyeonjun lingered for a second, his fingers brushing over Hyeonjoon’s hair, his expression soft in the dim light.
"Goodnight, hyung," he murmured, his voice warm.
Hyeonjoon hummed, his eyes already drifting shut. "’Night," he mumbled, his voice slurring with exhaustion.
He heard the quiet rustle of Hyeonjun moving around the room, the soft click of the lamp being turned off, the creak of the bed as Hyeonjun settled beside him. The warmth of his body pressed against Hyeonjoon’s back, his arm slipping around his waist, pulling him close.
Hyeonjoon smiled, his body relaxing into the touch, his mind quiet and content.
· ☀︎ ·
The morning light filtered through the curtains in soft, golden streaks, painting the room in warm hues that made everything feel slower, quieter. Hyeonjoon stirred first, his body heavy with the remnants of sleep, his mind still foggy from the alcohol the night before. He blinked his eyes open, the room blurry at the edges, his cheeks warm from the heat of the bed—and the heat of Hyeonjun pressed against his back.
He could feel the steady rise and fall of Hyeonjun’s chest, the slow, even rhythm of his breathing, the way his arm was still draped over Hyeonjoon’s waist, his fingers curled loosely against his stomach. The weight of it was comforting, grounding, like an anchor holding him in place. Hyeonjoon exhaled, slow and quiet, his body relaxing further into the mattress, into him.
He didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to break the quiet, the warmth, the way the morning light painted Hyeonjun’s skin in gold. So he stayed still, his breath evening out, his fingers twitching slightly against the sheets. He could hear the distant sounds of the dorm waking up—Sanghyeok’s quiet footsteps in the kitchen, the clink of dishes, the faint hum of the TV—but it all felt far away, muffled by the cocoon of the blankets and the warmth of Hyeonjun’s body against his.
Hyeonjun shifted slightly, his breath hitching as he started to wake, his body stirring behind Hyeonjoon. His arm tightened just slightly around Hyeonjoon’s waist, his fingers pressing into his stomach before loosening again. "Mm," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep, his face pressing into the back of Hyeonjoon’s neck. "You’re awake."
Hyeonjoon hummed, his voice still thick with sleep. "Barely."
Hyeonjun’s lips curved against his skin, his breath warm. "Me neither." He didn’t move, didn’t pull away, his body still pressed close, his arm still wrapped around Hyeonjoon like he was something precious. The quiet between them was comfortable, easy, the kind that only came from knowing someone so well you didn’t need to fill the silence.
Hyeonjoon’s fingers twitched again, this time reaching down to cover Hyeonjun’s hand where it rested against his stomach. Hyeonjun’s breath hitched, his thumb brushing over Hyeonjoon’s knuckles, slow and deliberate. "You okay?" he murmured, his voice still rough.
Hyeonjoon nodded, his cheek pressing into the pillow. "Yeah." He hesitated, then added, quieter, "This is… nice."
Hyeonjun’s grip tightened just slightly, his fingers lacing with Hyeonjoon’s. "Yeah," he agreed, his voice soft. "It is."
They lay like that for a long moment, the only sounds the distant noises of the dorm and the quiet rustle of the sheets. Hyeonjun’s thumb traced slow, soothing circles over Hyeonjoon’s knuckles, his breath warm against the back of his neck. Hyeonjoon’s eyes drifted shut again, his body heavy and warm, his mind quiet.
Eventually, Hyeonjun shifted, pressing a quick, soft kiss to the back of Hyeonjoon’s shoulder before pulling away just enough to sit up. The loss of his warmth made Hyeonjoon shiver, but Hyeonjun’s hand was still there, resting on his back, grounding him. "We should get up," Hyeonjun murmured, though there was no real urgency in his voice. "Before Minseok starts yelling about breakfast."
Hyeonjoon groaned, but he didn’t move. "Five more minutes," he mumbled, his face still pressed into the pillow.
Hyeonjun chuckled, the sound warm and low. "Fine. Five more minutes." His hand didn’t leave Hyeonjoon’s back, his fingers tracing slow, lazy patterns over the fabric of his shirt.
Hyeonjoon exhaled, his body relaxing further into the mattress. He could feel the warmth of Hyeonjun’s touch, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way the morning light painted the room in gold. It was perfect. Quiet. Theirs.
Hyeonjun’s fingers slid up to Hyeonjoon’s hair, carding through the strands slowly, his touch gentle. "You’re impossible," he murmured, but there was no real heat in it, his voice warm with affection.
Hyeonjoon smiled, his eyes still closed. "You love it."
Hyeonjun’s laugh was soft, his fingers still moving through Hyeonjoon’s hair. "Maybe I do."
Hyeonjun’s fingers stilled in Hyeonjoon’s hair, his breath hitching just slightly as his other hand slid down Hyeonjoon’s back, slow and deliberate. His palm pressed against the waistband of Hyeonjoon’s sweatpants, his fingers curling just enough to feel the heat of him—hard, already aching beneath the fabric. Hyeonjoon’s breath caught, his body tensing for just a second before melting into the touch, his face flushing as Hyeonjun’s fingers traced the outline of him through the thin material.
"Hyung," Hyeonjun murmured, his voice rough and warm, his lips brushing against Hyeonjoon’s temple. His hand didn’t move away. Instead, his fingers pressed in just a little more, his thumb circling slow, teasing patterns over the fabric. "You’re like this just from waking up next to me?" There was a smirk in his voice, but it was soft, affectionate, his touch gentle as he finally slipped his hand beneath the waistband, his fingers wrapping around Hyeonjoon with a slow, deliberate grip.
Hyeonjoon exhaled shakily, his fingers clutching at the sheets, his body arching just slightly into the touch. "Y-You’re doing that on purpose," he stuttered, his voice breathy, his face burning.
Hyeonjun’s laugh was a low rumble, his lips pressing against the back of Hyeonjoon’s neck as his hand began to move—slow, lazy, his thumb swiping over the tip in a way that made Hyeonjoon’s breath hitch. "Maybe I am," he admitted, his voice a dark purr. "But you like it, don’t you?"
Hyeonjoon couldn’t argue. His body was already responding, his hips shifting restlessly against Hyeonjun’s touch, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps. Hyeonjun’s strokes were maddeningly slow, his grip just tight enough to make Hyeonjoon’s toes curl, his other hand still carding through his hair, grounding him. "Such a good boy," Hyeonjun murmured, his voice thick with affection. "So responsive for me."
Hyeonjoon whimpered, his face pressing into the pillow, his body trembling with the effort to stay still, to let Hyeonjun take his time. Hyeonjun’s fingers tightened just slightly, his thumb swiping over the tip again, drawing out a broken gasp. "That’s it," he murmured, his lips brushing against Hyeonjoon’s ear. "Just feel it, hyung. Let me take care of you."
Hyeonjoon’s breath came in short, desperate bursts, his body arching into Hyeonjun’s touch, his fingers twisting in the sheets. Hyeonjun’s strokes stayed slow, affectionate, his touch worshipful as he worked him, his other hand never leaving Hyeonjoon’s hair, his lips pressing soft, lingering kisses to his shoulder, his neck, the shell of his ear. "You’re so pretty like this," he murmured, his voice rough. "All mine."
Hyeonjoon’s face burned, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he turned his head just enough to press his lips against Hyeonjun’s wrist, his breath hot and shaky. "P-Please," he whispered, his voice breaking.
Hyeonjun’s grip tightened, his strokes finally speeding up just slightly, his thumb swiping over the tip in slow, deliberate circles. "What do you want, hyung?" he murmured, his voice dark and teasing. "Tell me."
Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched, his body trembling. "You," he gasped, his voice raw. "I want you—"
Hyeonjun’s lips curved against his skin, his hand moving faster, his touch sure and confident. "You’ve got me," he murmured, his voice a rough promise. "Always."
Hyeonjoon’s body tensed, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps as pleasure coiled tight in his stomach. Hyeonjun’s hand didn’t stop, his strokes steady, his thumb swiping over the tip again and again until Hyeonjoon was trembling, his fingers clutching at the sheets, his body arching into the touch.
"Come on, hyung," Hyeonjun murmured, his voice a dark whisper. "Let go for me."
And Hyeonjoon did. His body shuddered, his breath breaking as pleasure crashed over him, his release spilling over Hyeonjun’s fingers. Hyeonjun didn’t pull away, his hand still moving slow and gentle, drawing out every last shiver, his other arm wrapping around Hyeonjoon’s waist, holding him close as he came down.
"Good boy," Hyeonjun murmured, his voice thick with affection as he pressed a soft kiss to Hyeonjoon’s shoulder. "So perfect for me."
Hyeonjoon’s breath was still uneven, his body heavy and warm, his mind foggy with pleasure. "You okay?" he murmured, his voice soft.
Hyeonjoon nodded, his cheek pressing into the pillow, his body still humming with aftershocks. "Yeah," he whispered, his voice quiet. "More than okay."
The air in the room felt thicker now, charged with something electric, something raw. Hyeonjun’s fingers didn’t pull away. Instead, they traced slow, deliberate circles over Hyeonjoon’s oversensitive skin, his touch feather-light but knowing. His breath was warm against Hyeonjoon’s neck as he murmured, "Color, hyung?"—his voice a dark rumble, a command wrapped in velvet.
Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched, his body already tensing in anticipation, his skin prickling with the ghost of pleasure still humming through his veins. "Green," he whispered, the word escaping before he could even think, his voice rough and needy. The admission sent a fresh wave of heat through him, his body already responding, his cock twitching beneath Hyeonjun’s touch.
Hyeonjun’s lips curved against his skin. "Good boy," he murmured, his voice thick with approval. His fingers tightened just slightly, his grip firm as he began to stroke Hyeonjoon again—slow at first, his touch maddeningly gentle, as if he were memorizing every inch of him. Hyeonjoon’s breath came in short, uneven gasps, his body arching into the touch, his fingers clawing at the sheets. The pleasure was different this time—sharper, deeper, his nerves still raw from his first release, every stroke sending jolts of sensation through him that bordered on pain.
Hyeonjun’s other hand slid up Hyeonjoon’s chest, his palm pressing over his heart, feeling the way it raced beneath his touch. "You’re so sensitive for me," he murmured, his voice a dark purr, his strokes growing firmer, more deliberate. "Every little touch, and you melt."
Hyeonjoon’s breath stuttered, his body trembling as pleasure coiled tight in his stomach, his mind blurring at the edges. Hyeonjun’s grip was relentless, his strokes slow but unforgiving, his thumb swiping over the tip in a way that made Hyeonjoon’s hips jerk, his body arching off the bed. The sensations were too much—too intense, too overwhelming—but he didn’t want it to stop. He couldn’t.
His fingers twisted in the sheets, his knuckles white, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps. Hyeonjun’s hand didn’t falter, his strokes steady, his touch possessive. "That’s it," he murmured, his voice rough. "Take it, hyung. Take all of it."
Hyeonjoon’s vision swam, his body trembling as pleasure crashed over him again and again, his mind blanking, his breath breaking. He could feel the way his skin burned, the way his body ached, the way his nerves screamed with overstimulation—but it was good, it was perfect, it was Hyeonjun’s hands on him, Hyeonjun’s voice in his ear, Hyeonjun’s breath against his skin.
His fingers finally found Hyeonjun’s wrist, his grip tight, his body trembling as he tried to ground himself, to breathe. "I—I can’t—" he gasped, his voice breaking, his body arching into the touch even as his mind screamed for a reprieve.
Hyeonjun’s strokes didn’t stop. Instead, his free hand slid up to cup Hyeonjoon’s jaw, tilting his face just slightly, his thumb brushing over his bottom lip. "You can," he murmured, his voice dark and steady. "You’re mine, remember? And I know you can take it."
Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched, a broken sound escaping him as his body shuddered, his grip on Hyeonjun’s wrist tightening. His vision blurred, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes as pleasure and sensation overwhelmed him, his body trembling, his mind blanking. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe—all he could do was feel, all he could do was take what Hyeonjun gave him.
Hyeonjun’s lips pressed against the back of his neck, slow and lingering, his hand still moving, his strokes relentless. "Such a good boy," he murmured, his voice thick with pride. "So perfect for me."
Hyeonjoon’s body jerked, his breath breaking as another wave of pleasure crashed over him, his fingers clutching at Hyeonjun’s wrist, his body trembling. He couldn’t take it, couldn’t breathe—but he didn’t want it to stop. He needed it. Needed him.
His vision blurred, tears spilling over as his body shuddered, his breath breaking in short, desperate gasps. Hyeonjun’s hand finally stilled, his grip gentle as he pressed a soft kiss to Hyeonjoon’s shoulder, his other arm wrapping around his waist, pulling him close. "Shhh," he murmured, his voice warm and soothing. "I’ve got you, hyung. You’re so good for me."
Hyeonjoon’s body trembled, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps as he clung to Hyeonjun’s arm, his fingers still tight around his wrist. His mind was blank, his body humming with aftershocks, his skin oversensitive, his nerves raw. But he wasn’t afraid. He was safe. He was Hyeonjun’s.
The room spun as Hyeonjun shifted them, his movements deliberate but gentle, guiding Hyeonjoon onto his back on the bed. The fabric was cool against his overheated skin, a stark contrast to the fire still burning beneath it. Hyeonjoon’s chest heaved, his breath ragged, his body trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure and overstimulation. His fingers twitched at his sides, his mind still hazy, his senses overwhelmed. He could barely focus, barely breathe—but then Hyeonjun’s hands were on him again, tugging his sweatpants down just enough to expose him, the cool air hitting his skin and making him shiver.
Hyeonjun didn’t waste a second.
His mouth was on Hyeonjoon before he could even process it, hot and wet and perfect, his tongue swirling around the tip in a way that made Hyeonjoon’s back arch off the couch. A broken, desperate sound tore from his throat as his fingers flew to Hyeonjun’s hair, gripping tight, pulling. The pleasure was too much, too intense—his nerves still raw, his body still humming from before—but Hyeonjun didn’t stop. His lips sealed around him, his tongue working in slow, deep strokes that had Hyeonjoon’s vision whiting out, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
"Fuck—!" Hyeonjoon’s voice broke, his fingers tightening in Hyeonjun’s hair, his hips jerking up involuntarily. Hyeonjun’s free hand pressed against his stomach, holding him down, his touch firm but not restrictive. He took Hyeonjoon deep, his throat fluttering around him, the wet, obscene sounds filling the room, driving Hyeonjoon closer and closer to the edge.
Hyeonjun’s fingers dug into his hip, his other hand sliding up to wrap around the base of Hyeonjoon’s cock, his mouth working in perfect rhythm. Hyeonjoon’s body tensed, his breath hitching as pleasure coiled tight in his stomach, his grip on Hyeonjun’s hair bordering on painful. "I—I can’t—" he gasped, his voice raw, his body trembling.
Hyeonjun didn’t pull away. Instead, he hummed around him, the vibration sending a jolt through Hyeonjoon’s body, pushing him over the edge. His release hit him hard, his body shuddering as he spilled into Hyeonjun’s mouth, his fingers clutching desperately at his hair.
Hyeonjun didn’t swallow.
He pulled back just enough to let Hyeonjoon’s cock slip from his lips, his tongue darting out to catch the last drops, his dark eyes locked onto Hyeonjoon’s. His free hand slid up Hyeonjoon’s stomach, collecting the cum that had spilled there, his fingers smearing it before bringing them to his mouth. Hyeonjoon watched, dazed and breathless, as Hyeonjun’s tongue flicked out, cleaning his fingers with slow, deliberate licks.
Then Hyeonjun was leaning over him, his hand cupping Hyeonjoon’s jaw, his thumb pressing against his bottom lip. "Open," he murmured, his voice dark and rough.
Hyeonjoon obeyed without hesitation, his lips parting. Hyeonjun’s mouth crashed onto his, his tongue sliding in, sharing the taste of him. It was filthy, obscene—the taste of salt and heat, the slick slide of Hyeonjun’s tongue against his, the way his fingers still gripped Hyeonjoon’s jaw, holding him in place. Hyeonjoon moaned into the kiss, his body trembling, his mind blanking as Hyeonjun deepened it, his tongue sweeping through his mouth, claiming him.
Hyeonjoon’s fingers tightened in Hyeonjun’s hair, his body arching into the kiss, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps. He could taste himself on Hyeonjun’s tongue, could feel the way his body still hummed with pleasure, the way his skin burned where Hyeonjun touched him.
Hyeonjun finally pulled back, his lips swollen, his dark eyes burning into Hyeonjoon’s. "Mine," he murmured, his voice rough, his thumb brushing over Hyeonjoon’s bottom lip.
Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched, his body still trembling, his mind still hazy. "Yours," he whispered, his voice raw.
Hyeonjun’s smile was slow, satisfied. "Good boy," he murmured, pressing one last, soft kiss to Hyeonjoon’s lips before pulling away, his hand sliding up to card through his hair, grounding him.
Hyeonjoon exhaled, his body relaxing into the sheets, his mind quiet, his heart full.
He was ruined.
And he loved it.
The kitchen was already alive with the clatter of dishes and the scent of toast when Hyeonjoon and Hyeonjun stepped inside, freshly showered and dressed in comfortable clothes. Hyeonjoon’s cheeks were still flushed, his hair damp and slightly messy, but his body felt light, his mind clear. The aftercare had been thorough—Hyeonjun had made sure of it—warm towels, water, and quiet reassurance until Hyeonjoon’s breathing had steadied and his limbs had stopped trembling.
Minseok was slumped over the kitchen table, his head resting on his arms, his hair sticking up in every direction. He groaned as they entered, lifting his head just enough to squint at them with bloodshot eyes. "Ugh, you two look disgustingly awake," he muttered, his voice rough with sleep and what was likely a pounding headache. "How is that fair?"
Sanghyeok, who was standing by the stove flipping eggs with an ease that suggested he’d been awake for hours, glanced over his shoulder. His expression was amused, his lips quirked in a rare smile. "Because we didn’t drink enough to drown a horse, maybe?" he suggested, his voice dry.
Minseok groaned again, dropping his head back onto his arms. "I hate you all."
Hyeonjun chuckled, pulling out a chair and nudging Hyeonjoon into it before sitting down beside him. "You brought this on yourself, Minseok," he said, though there was no real malice in his tone. "No one forced you to drink that much."
"You didn’t stop me," Minseok grumbled, though his voice was muffled by his arms.
Sanghyeok slid a plate of eggs and toast in front of Hyeonjoon before setting another in front of Hyeonjun. "Eat," he ordered, though his tone was fond. "And Minseok, drink this." He placed a glass of water and two painkillers beside Minseok’s elbow.
Minseok lifted his head just enough to glare at the glass. "I hate water."
"Drink it anyway," Sanghyeok said, unimpressed.
Hyeonjoon bit back a smile as he picked up his fork, his fingers brushing against Hyeonjun’s knee under the table. Hyeonjun’s hand found his, their fingers intertwining for just a second before pulling away.
Minseok, apparently sensing something, lifted his head again, his eyes narrowing as he looked between them. "You two are weirdly touchy today," he observed, his voice slurred but suspicious.
Hyeonjun raised an eyebrow. "You’re delusional," he said, though his fingers twitched against Hyeonjoon’s knee.
Sanghyeok, ever the observer, didn’t say anything, but there was a knowing glint in his eyes as he turned back to the stove.
Hyeonjoon ducked his head, focusing on his food, but he couldn’t stop the smile tugging at his lips. The kitchen was warm, the food was good, and for the first time in a long time, everything felt right. Even Minseok’s groaning and Sanghyeok’s dry humor couldn’t ruin the quiet happiness settling in his chest.
Hyeonjun’s shoulder pressed against his as they ate, their arms brushing, their knees touching under the table. It was small. It was everything. And as Minseok finally downed his water with a dramatic sigh, Hyeonjoon realized he wouldn’t trade this moment—this team, this chaos, this family—for anything.
As the last bites of breakfast settled, Hyeonjoon pushed his plate away with a quiet sigh, his fingers lingering on the edge of the table. The warmth of Hyeonjun’s shoulder against his own had left a faint imprint, a lingering heat that made his chest feel light. He could still hear Minseok’s exaggerated groans from the other end of the table, the way he dramatically clutched his head as if the world were ending, and Hyeonjun’s amused voice cutting through the noise with effortless ease. "You’re pathetic," Hyeonjun had said, though there was no real bite to it, his hand briefly squeezing Hyeonjoon’s knee under the table before pulling away.
Hyeonjoon stood slowly, the chair scraping softly against the floor. He gathered his plate and Minseok’s abandoned one—still half-full of toast—before carrying them to the sink. The water ran warm over his hands as he rinsed the dishes, the steam rising in gentle curls. Behind him, Sanghyeok moved with quiet efficiency, wiping down the counter with a cloth, his movements precise and unhurried. The kitchen felt alive in a way it rarely did in the mornings—warm, full of laughter and the lingering scent of coffee.
Hyeonjoon turned slightly, leaning his hip against the counter as he watched Sanghyeok for a moment. There was something comforting in the way Sanghyeok worked, the way his brows furrowed just slightly in concentration, the way his hands moved with practiced ease. It was a quiet kind of familiarity, the kind that made Hyeonjoon’s shoulders relax. He reached for the dish soap, squeezing a generous amount onto the sponge before scrubbing the plates clean, the rhythmic motion grounding him.
The clatter of silverware and the occasional burst of laughter from the table filled the space, but it all felt distant, muffled by the steady rush of water and the warmth of the kitchen. Hyeonjoon’s mind drifted back to the way Hyeonjun’s knee had pressed against his, the way his shoulder had felt against his own—small, fleeting touches that had made his pulse jump. He exhaled slowly, a smile tugging at his lips as he rinsed the last plate and set it in the drying rack.
It was only then that he felt it—a hand on his shoulder, firm but not heavy, pulling him gently from his thoughts. Sanghyeok’s touch was warm, grounding, and when Hyeonjoon turned, he found Sanghyeok’s dark eyes studying him with an unreadable expression. The noise of the dorm faded into the background, the moment stretching between them.
Sanghyeok’s voice was quiet, just loud enough for Hyeonjoon to hear over the running water. "Can I talk to you for a second?"
Hyeonjoon turned off the faucet, wiping his hands on a towel before nodding. Sanghyeok’s expression was unreadable, as always, but there was something in his eyes—something soft, something knowing—that made Hyeonjoon’s stomach twist with nerves. He followed Sanghyeok into the living room, the space quiet and empty, the couch still slightly rumpled from the night before.
Sanghyeok sat first, his posture relaxed but his gaze sharp as he patted the spot beside him. Hyeonjoon hesitated for only a second before sitting, his fingers twisting in his lap, his cheeks already warming. He could feel Sanghyeok’s eyes on him, assessing, seeing—and it made his pulse jump.
For a long moment, Sanghyeok didn’t speak. He just watched Hyeonjoon, his expression carefully neutral, as if weighing his words. Then, quietly, he asked, "Did everything go well last night?"
Hyeonjoon’s face burned. He ducked his head, his fingers curling into the fabric of his sweatpants. "Y-Yes," he stuttered, his voice barely above a whisper. The admission made his chest tighten, his mind flashing back to the way Hyeonjun’s hands had felt on him, the way his voice had wrapped around him like a promise. He could still feel the ghost of it—still ache with it.
Sanghyeok’s lips quirked, just slightly. "You’re very red, Hyeonjoonie," he observed, his voice dry but not unkind.
Hyeonjoon groaned, covering his face with his hands. "Don’t—" he mumbled, his voice muffled. "Please don’t tease me."
Sanghyeok’s laugh was quiet, warm in a way that made Hyeonjoon’s shoulders relax just a little. "I’m not teasing," he said, though there was amusement in his tone. "I’m just… making sure you’re okay."
Hyeonjoon peeked through his fingers, his cheeks still flushed. "I’m fine," he insisted, though his voice was still quiet. "More than fine. I just—" He cut himself off, his face burning even hotter. "I don’t want to talk about it."
Sanghyeok’s smile softened. "Alright," he said easily, though his eyes were still sharp, still knowing. He didn’t push, but Hyeonjoon could feel the weight of his gaze, the way it lingered just a second too long.
For a moment, they sat in silence, the quiet between them comfortable, familiar. Then Sanghyeok’s eyes flickered down to Hyeonjoon’s wrists—just for a second—where the faintest red marks still lingered beneath the cuff of his sweater. His brow furrowed, just slightly, his fingers twitching as if he wanted to reach out, to ask. But he didn’t. Instead, he exhaled, slow and measured, and looked away.
Hyeonjoon noticed, of course. He always noticed the way Sanghyeok watched—the way he saw. His fingers instinctively slid down to tug at his sleeves, pulling them lower, hiding the marks. But Sanghyeok didn’t say anything. He just… let it go.
After a beat, he stood, stretching slightly before offering Hyeonjoon a hand. "Come on," he said, his voice light. "Before Minseok starts whining about how we abandoned him."
Hyeonjoon took his hand, letting Sanghyeok pull him up, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary. Sanghyeok’s grip was warm, steady—reassuring. And when Hyeonjoon looked up, Sanghyeok’s expression was soft, his eyes crinkling just slightly at the corners.
"You know," Sanghyeok murmured, his voice quiet, just for him, "I’m happy for you."
Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched. His fingers tightened around Sanghyeok’s, his throat suddenly thick. He didn’t know what to say—didn’t know how to say it. So he just nodded, his face burning, his heart full.
Sanghyeok squeezed his hand once before letting go, his smile gentle. "Now let’s go before Hyeonjun starts thinking I kidnapped you."
Hyeonjoon laughed, the sound shaky but real, his shoulders relaxing as they walked back toward the kitchen. The dorm was alive with noise again—Minseok’s dramatic groaning, Hyeonjun’s low teasing—but it all felt distant, muffled by the warmth still settling in Hyeonjoon’s chest.
Sanghyeok didn’t ask again.
· ☀︎ ·
The afternoon sun filtered through the half-drawn curtains, casting a soft golden glow across Hyeonjun’s bed. Hyeonjoon lay sprawled on his stomach, his phone propped up in front of him as he scrolled through mindless videos, the quiet hum of the dorm wrapping around them like a blanket. Beside him, Hyeonjun was stretched out on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, his other hand absently tapping on his phone screen. The air between them was warm, comfortable, the kind of quiet that only came from being so at ease with someone that silence didn’t need to be filled.
Hyeonjoon’s fingers paused mid-scroll as he glanced over at Hyeonjun, taking in the way the light caught the sharp angles of his face, the way his dark lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. There was something about the way Hyeonjun looked in these moments—unguarded, relaxed—that made Hyeonjoon’s chest tighten. He bit his lip, his thumb brushing over the screen of his phone before he set it aside, rolling onto his side to face Hyeonjun. "What are you looking at?" he asked, his voice quiet but curious.
Hyeonjun didn’t look up from his phone, but the corner of his mouth quirked. "Nothing important," he murmured, though his fingers stilled on the screen. He tilted his head just slightly, his dark eyes flickering over to meet Hyeonjoon’s. There was something in his gaze—something thoughtful, something planning—that made Hyeonjoon’s pulse jump.
Hyeonjoon studied him for a long moment, the quiet between them stretching, comfortable but charged with something unspoken. "You’re thinking," he observed, his voice soft. "I can tell."
Hyeonjun’s lips curved, just slightly, as he finally set his phone aside, rolling onto his side to mirror Hyeonjoon. His fingers brushed against Hyeonjoon’s wrist, slow and deliberate, his touch warm. "Maybe I am," he admitted, his voice low. "I’ve been… considering something."
Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched, his fingers twitching against the bedsheets. "Oh?" he prompted, his voice quiet but eager.
Hyeonjun’s gaze was dark, intense, as his fingers traced slow patterns over Hyeonjoon’s skin. "I was thinking," he murmured, his voice a dark rumble, "about tonight."
Hyeonjoon’s face warmed, his body already responding to the promise in Hyeonjun’s tone. "Tonight?" he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper.
Hyeonjun’s smile was slow, satisfied. "Mm. I have an idea," he said, his fingers sliding up to card through Hyeonjoon’s hair, his touch gentle. "Something I think you’ll like."
Hyeonjoon’s breath stuttered, his mind already racing with possibilities, his body humming with anticipation. "What… what kind of idea?" he asked, his voice quiet but curious.
Hyeonjun’s eyes glinted, his fingers still moving through Hyeonjoon’s hair, grounding him. "You’ll see," he murmured, his voice a dark promise. "But you’ll have to trust me."
Hyeonjoon’s chest tightened, his fingers curling into the bedsheets. He didn’t hesitate. "I do," he said, his voice soft but sure.
Hyeonjun’s smile deepened, his fingers sliding down to cup Hyeonjoon’s jaw, his thumb brushing over his cheekbone. "Good," he murmured, his voice warm. "Then let me take care of you, hyung."
Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched, his body already responding to the promise in Hyeonjun’s touch, his mind quiet and content. He leaned into Hyeonjun’s hand, his eyes drifting shut as he exhaled, slow and steady. "Okay," he whispered, his voice quiet.
Hyeonjun’s lips pressed against his forehead, slow and lingering, his touch warm and sure. "Tonight, then," he murmured, his voice a dark whisper.
Hyeonjoon smiled, his body relaxing into the bed, his mind quiet and happy. The warmth of Hyeonjun’s promise lingered on Hyeonjoon’s skin long after he pulled away, a quiet hum of anticipation settling deep in his chest. He stretched lazily on the bed, his fingers brushing over the spot where Hyeonjun’s hand had just been, as if he could still feel the ghost of his touch. The afternoon light had softened, casting long shadows across the room, and the distant sound of Minseok’s voice—loud and slightly slurred—drifted down the hallway, a reminder that the dorm was still alive with its usual chaos.
Hyeonjoon pushed himself up with a quiet sigh, his body still humming with the afterglow of Hyeonjun’s words. "I should… get ready," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else, though Hyeonjun was already watching him with dark, knowing eyes. The air between them felt charged, electric, but there was no rush. Just the quiet understanding that tonight would be theirs.
Hyeonjun nodded, his fingers tracing slow patterns over the bedsheets, his gaze lingering on Hyeonjoon for a moment longer before he sat up. "Take your time," he said, his voice low and warm. "I’ll handle everything else."
Hyeonjoon’s face warmed, but he didn’t look away. Instead, he stood, his body moving with a quiet confidence he hadn’t felt before. The hallway was empty as he stepped out, the dorm quiet except for the faint sound of Minseok’s laughter from his room. He paused outside the door, his fingers hovering over the handle before pushing it open.
Minseok was sprawled across his bed, his phone in one hand and a half-eaten bag of chips in the other. He looked up as Hyeonjoon entered, his expression brightening instantly. "Oh, hyung!" he slurred, sitting up with a dramatic flourish. "You’re alive! I was starting to think Hyeonjun kidnapped you or something."
Hyeonjoon rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t stop the smile tugging at his lips. "I was just… resting," he said, though his voice was soft, his mind still half-focused on the promise of tonight.
Minseok snorted, tossing a chip into his mouth. "Sure, sure. Resting." He waggled his eyebrows, but there was no real malice in it. "You look weirdly happy, though. Did something good happen?"
Hyeonjoon’s face burned, and he quickly turned away, busying himself with grabbing a change of clothes from Minseok’s closet—they’d swapped shirts enough times that it wasn’t weird. "Shut up," he muttered, though his voice lacked any real heat.
Minseok laughed, the sound bright and uninhibited. "Fine, fine! But if you do have secrets, you have to tell me eventually." He flopped back onto his bed, his phone already back in hand. "I’m your best friend, after all."
Hyeonjoon shook his head, but he was smiling as he turned toward the bathroom. "You’re insufferable," he called over his shoulder, though his voice was fond.
The bathroom was quiet, the steam from the shower already filling the air as Hyeonjoon turned on the water. He stripped slowly, his fingers lingering on the faint marks still visible on his wrists, the ghost of Hyeonjun’s touch making his skin prickle. The water was hot as he stepped under the spray, washing away the last traces of the day, his mind already drifting toward tonight. He took his time, letting the warmth seep into his bones, letting the anticipation build in his chest like a slow, steady flame.
By the time he stepped out, toweling off his hair, the dorm was quieter, the usual chaos of the afternoon giving way to the softer hum of evening. Minseok was still in his room, now passed out on his bed, his phone discarded beside him, his snores faint but steady. Hyeonjoon smiled to himself as he closed the door behind him, the hallway dimly lit, the air thick with the promise of what was to come.
He could hear the quiet rustle of movement from Hyeonjun’s room as he approached, the door slightly ajar, the light inside soft and warm. He paused outside, his fingers hovering over the handle, his breath hitching in his chest. He didn’t knock. He didn’t need to.
When he pushed the door open, Hyeonjun was already there, standing by the bed, his back to the door as he arranged something on the nightstand. The room smelled faintly of sandalwood and something sweet, the air charged with anticipation. Hyeonjun turned as Hyeonjoon stepped inside, his dark eyes meeting his, his expression unreadable but his gaze burning.
The moment Hyeonjoon stepped into the room, the air between them shifted—thicker, heavier, like the calm before a storm. Hyeonjun didn’t turn immediately, his fingers still moving with deliberate precision as he arranged a few items on the nightstand. The soft clink of metal against wood sent a shiver down Hyeonjoon’s spine, his breath hitching as he watched the way Hyeonjun’s shoulders tensed, the way his back rose and fell with slow, controlled breaths. The scent of sandalwood wrapped around him, warm and intoxicating, mingling with something sweeter—something that made Hyeonjoon’s pulse quicken.
When Hyeonjun finally turned, his dark eyes locked onto Hyeonjoon with an intensity that made his knees weak. There was no smile, no teasing remark—just that look, the one that made Hyeonjoon’s stomach twist with anticipation and nerves. Hyeonjun’s gaze raked over him, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing every detail—the way Hyeonjoon’s damp hair curled at the edges, the way his fingers twitched at his sides, the faint flush creeping up his neck.
"Close the door," Hyeonjun murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent a jolt through Hyeonjoon’s body.
Hyeonjoon obeyed without hesitation, the soft click of the door latching shut echoing in the quiet room. The sound seemed to snap something into place between them, the air crackling with tension. Hyeonjun didn’t move, didn’t speak—just watched, his eyes dark and hungry, as Hyeonjoon stood frozen in place, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps.
"Kneel," Hyeonjun commanded, his voice soft but firm, leaving no room for hesitation.
Hyeonjoon’s face burned, his body trembling as he sank to his knees, the carpet soft beneath him. His hands rested on his thighs, his fingers curling into the fabric of his sweatpants, his gaze fixed on the floor. He could feel Hyeonjun’s eyes on him, tracing over his shoulders, his back, the way his breath hitched as he waited.
Hyeonjun stepped closer, his movements slow, deliberate, like a predator circling his prey. He stopped just in front of Hyeonjoon, close enough that Hyeonjoon could feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that he could see the way Hyeonjun’s chest rose and fell with each breath. "Eyes on me," Hyeonjun murmured, his voice dark and velvety.
Hyeonjoon lifted his gaze, his lashes fluttering as he met Hyeonjun’s eyes. The intensity there made his breath catch, his body aching with the need to please, to obey.
Hyeonjun’s fingers brushed against Hyeonjoon’s cheek, his touch feather-light but commanding. "Good boy," he murmured, his voice thick with approval. "Remember the rules, hyung."
Hyeonjoon swallowed, his throat dry. "Y-Yes," he whispered, his voice barely audible.
Hyeonjun’s lips quirked, just slightly. "Say them."
Hyeonjoon’s face burned, but he didn’t look away. "No speaking unless you ask me to," he began, his voice quiet but steady. "No moving unless you tell me to. And—I have to tell you if I need to stop."
Hyeonjun’s fingers slid down to tilt Hyeonjoon’s chin up, his thumb brushing over his bottom lip. "And?" he prompted, his voice a dark purr.
Hyeonjoon’s breath stuttered. "And… I’m yours."
Hyeonjun’s smile was slow, satisfied. "That’s right," he murmured, his fingers sliding to the back of Hyeonjoon’s neck, his touch warm and possessive. "Mine."
Hyeonjoon’s body shuddered, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps as Hyeonjun’s fingers tightened just slightly, his grip firm but not painful. He could feel the way his pulse raced, the way his skin prickled with anticipation, his mind already blurring at the edges.
Hyeonjun’s other hand reached for something on the nightstand—a length of black rope, smooth and soft beneath his fingers. Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched as Hyeonjun knelt in front of him, his movements slow and deliberate. "Give me your hands," he murmured, his voice a dark whisper.
Hyeonjoon obeyed, turning his hands palm-up, his fingers trembling as Hyeonjun took his wrists, his touch warm and sure. The rope was cool against his skin as Hyeonjun began to wrap it around his wrists, binding them together behind his back. The fibers were soft but firm, the pressure snug but not painful, the way Hyeonjun’s fingers moved with practiced ease sending shivers down Hyeonjoon’s spine.
"Comfortable?" Hyeonjun asked, his voice low as he tightened the knot, his fingers brushing over Hyeonjoon’s skin.
Hyeonjoon nodded, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps. "Yes," he whispered, his voice raw.
Hyeonjun’s hands slid up to cup Hyeonjoon’s jaw, his thumb brushing over his cheekbone. "Good," he murmured, his voice warm. Then, his fingers moved to the nightstand again, picking up something small and black—a collar, sleek and simple, with a silver ring at the front.
Hyeonjoon’s breath caught as Hyeonjun held it up, the leather gleaming in the soft light. His fingers trembled as Hyeonjun fastened it around his neck, the cool leather pressing against his skin.
The collar settled around Hyeonjoon’s neck with a quiet snick of the buckle, the weight of it foreign but right, like it had always been meant to be there. His breath hitched as Hyeonjun’s fingers traced the edge of the leather, his touch feather-light but possessive, sending a shiver down his spine. The room felt smaller suddenly, the air thicker, charged with something electric. Hyeonjun’s dark eyes never left his as he reached for the hem of Hyeonjoon’s shirt, tugging it up just enough to expose the waistband of his sweatpants. "Stay still," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that made Hyeonjoon’s pulse jump.
Hyeonjoon swallowed hard, his fingers curling into his own palms as Hyeonjun’s hands moved to the drawstring of his pants. The fabric loosened with a slow, deliberate tug, the sound of it slipping through the loops almost painfully loud in the quiet room. Hyeonjun didn’t rush. He took his time, his fingers hooking into the waistband before easing the sweatpants down Hyeonjoon’s hips, the cool air hitting his exposed skin and making him shiver. His underwear followed, the fabric pooling around his knees before Hyeonjun guided it the rest of the way off, leaving him bare from the waist down.
"Good boy," Hyeonjun murmured, his voice thick with approval as he knelt in front of Hyeonjoon, his dark eyes raking over him with a hunger that made Hyeonjoon’s breath stutter. "You’re so beautiful like this." His fingers traced up Hyeonjoon’s thighs, slow and teasing, his touch light but commanding. Hyeonjoon’s body reacted instantly, his cock twitching, then hardening under Hyeonjun’s gaze. He bit his lip, his face burning, but he didn’t look away. He couldn’t.
Hyeonjun’s lips quirked, his fingers still moving in slow, maddening circles over Hyeonjoon’s skin. "Quiet, hyung," he reminded, his voice a dark whisper. "No one can hear you."
Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched, his body trembling as Hyeonjun’s fingers brushed closer, closer, until they were there—just barely grazing the tip of his cock. A broken whimper escaped him before he could stop it, his fingers clawing at the carpet. Hyeonjun’s touch was maddening, feather-light and teasing, his thumb swiping over the sensitive head in a way that made Hyeonjoon’s hips jerk involuntarily.
"Shhh," Hyeonjun murmured, his voice a dark purr as he reached for something on the nightstand. The soft click of a button echoed in the room, and then—buzzing. Hyeonjoon’s breath caught as Hyeonjun held up the vibrator, sleek and black, the low hum of it sending a jolt through his body. His eyes widened, his pulse racing as Hyeonjun brought it closer, the cool silicone pressing against the tip of his cock.
"Fuck—!" Hyeonjoon’s voice broke, his body arching into the touch before he could stop himself. The vibration was intense, sending waves of pleasure through him that made his vision blur at the edges. Hyeonjun didn’t move it away. Instead, he held it there, the buzzing pressure right against the most sensitive part of him, his other hand sliding up to grip Hyeonjoon’s hip, holding him in place.
"You like that, don’t you?" Hyeonjun murmured, his voice dark and knowing as he dragged the vibrator down the length of Hyeonjoon’s cock, slow and deliberate. "Such a good boy for me, taking it so well."
Hyeonjoon’s breath came in short, desperate gasps, his body trembling, his fingers clawing. The pleasure was too much, overwhelming, but he didn’t want it to stop. He couldn’t. His hips twitched, trying to chase the sensation, but Hyeonjun’s grip on his hip tightened, holding him still.
"No moving," Hyeonjun reminded, his voice firm but not unkind. "You take what I give you, hyung. Only what I give you."
Hyeonjoon whimpered, his body trembling as Hyeonjun dragged the vibrator back up, pressing it against the tip again. The sensation was too intense, his nerves already raw from earlier, his body oversensitive and aching. His breath hitched, his fingers twisting in the carpet as he tried to stay still, tried to obey.
Hyeonjun’s free hand slid up to cup Hyeonjoon’s jaw, tilting his face up so their eyes met. "Look at me," he murmured, his voice a dark command. "I want to see you when you fall apart."
Hyeonjoon’s lashes fluttered, his gaze locking onto Hyeonjun’s as the vibrator pressed against him again, the buzzing sensation sending a jolt through his body. His breath broke, his body trembling, his mind blurring at the edges. He was so close, so desperate—but Hyeonjun didn’t let him come. Instead, he pulled the vibrator away just enough to make Hyeonjoon whine, his hips jerking helplessly.
"Not yet," Hyeonjun murmured, his voice a dark promise as he dragged the toy down again, slow and teasing. "You’ll come when I say so, hyung. Only when I say so."
Hyeonjoon’s body shuddered, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps as Hyeonjun continued to tease him, the vibrator pressing and pulling away, over and over, until Hyeonjoon was trembling, his mind blank with need. He could feel the way his skin burned, the way his body ached, the way his nerves screamed with overstimulation—but it was good, it was perfect, it was Hyeonjun’s hands on him, Hyeonjun’s voice in his ear, Hyeonjun’s control.
The vibrator hummed against Hyeonjoon’s oversensitive skin, the relentless buzzing sending jolts of pleasure through his body that bordered on pain. His breath came in ragged gasps, his fingers clawing at the carpet as Hyeonjun pressed the toy against him again, this time holding it right there—right where it made his hips jerk, his body tense, his vision blur at the edges. He was so close, teetering on the precipice, his entire being focused on the way the vibrations pulsed through him, the way his nerves screamed with overstimulation. His mouth fell open in a silent gasp, his body coiling tight, ready to—
Hyeonjun pulled the vibrator away.
Hyeonjoon’s breath broke in a whimper, his body shuddering as the pleasure was ripped from him, leaving him trembling, his cock throbbing with denied release. "P-Please—" The word escaped him before he could stop it, his voice raw and desperate. His face burned with humiliation and need, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes as he tried to catch his breath.
Hyeonjun’s fingers tightened around the base of his cock, his grip firm, unyielding, as if sensing how close Hyeonjoon was to tipping over the edge. "Not yet," he murmured, his voice a dark purr, his free hand cupping Hyeonjoon’s jaw, tilting his face up so their eyes met. "You don’t come until I say so, remember?"
Hyeonjoon’s lashes fluttered, his breath hitching as Hyeonjun’s thumb brushed over his bottom lip, his touch maddeningly gentle. "I—I can’t—" he gasped, his body trembling, his mind blanking with the effort to hold back.
Hyeonjun’s smile was slow, satisfied. "You can," he murmured, his voice rough. "And you will."
The vibrator buzzed to life again, pressing against Hyeonjoon’s tip, the sensation so intense that his back arched, his bound hands clenching into fists. His breath came in short, sharp gasps, his body straining against Hyeonjun’s grip, his hips twitching helplessly. He was so close, so desperate—but Hyeonjun’s fingers tightened around the base of his cock, his grip almost painful as he held him back, his touch a cruel reminder of who was in control.
"Please—" Hyeonjoon’s voice broke, tears spilling over as he tried to breathe, tried to obey, tried to hold on. His body was on fire, his skin oversensitive, his mind a blur of need and frustration. "I c-can’t—"
"You can," Hyeonjun repeated, his voice firm but not unkind. His thumb swiped over the tip of Hyeonjoon’s cock, the touch feather-light but maddening, sending another jolt through his body. "You’re mine, hyung. And you’ll take what I give you, when I give it to you."
Hyeonjoon whimpered, his body trembling as Hyeonjun pressed the vibrator against him again, the buzzing sensation pushing him right to the edge—only for Hyeonjun to pull it away once more, his grip on the base of Hyeonjoon’s cock unrelenting. "N-No—" Hyeonjoon’s voice was a broken whisper, his tears falling freely now, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps.
Hyeonjun’s free hand slid up to card through Hyeonjoon’s hair, his touch surprisingly tender as he murmured, "Such a good boy, taking it so well for me." His fingers tightened around the base of Hyeonjoon’s cock again, his grip firm as he held him back from the edge. "You’re so close, hyung. But you don’t come until I say so."
Hyeonjoon’s body shuddered, his breath hitching as Hyeonjun pressed the vibrator against him again, the sensation so overwhelming that his vision whited out, his body coiling tight, his mind blanking with need. "P-Please, please—" he begged, his voice raw, his tears falling faster.
Hyeonjun’s grip didn’t falter. "Soon," he promised, his voice a dark whisper as he pulled the vibrator away once more, his fingers still tight around the base of Hyeonjoon’s cock. "But not yet."
Hyeonjoon’s breath broke in a sob, his body trembling, his mind a blur of pleasure and frustration. He could feel the way his skin burned, the way his body ached, the way his nerves screamed with overstimulation—but he couldn’t come. He wouldn’t. Not until Hyeonjun said so.
Hyeonjun’s fingers finally loosened their grip, his touch gentling as he pulled the vibrator away, leaving Hyeonjoon gasping for air, his body trembling with the aftershocks of denied release. The sudden absence of stimulation made his skin prickle, his nerves still raw and oversensitive, but the break was a relief—just enough to let him breathe, to let his mind clear for a single, precious moment.
"Breathe, hyung," Hyeonjun murmured, his voice low and steady as he set the vibrator aside. His hand slid up to cup the back of Hyeonjoon’s neck, his thumb brushing over the collar in a slow, grounding motion. "Just like that. Slow and deep."
Hyeonjoon exhaled shakily, his shoulders slumping as he leaned into the touch, his bound hands resting against his back. His breath came in uneven bursts, his chest rising and falling as he tried to steady himself. The room felt quieter now, the air thick with the scent of sandalwood and the faint, lingering hum of the vibrator. His skin still burned, his body still ached, but the break gave him just enough clarity to realize how exposed he was—how vulnerable—and how much he trusted Hyeonjun to take him apart like this.
Hyeonjun’s fingers left his neck, moving to the nightstand where a coil of thin, black rope lay waiting. Hyeonjoon watched through heavy-lidded eyes as Hyeonjun picked it up, the fibers sliding smoothly between his fingers. "You’re doing so well," Hyeonjun murmured, his voice a dark purr as he knelt in front of Hyeonjoon again. "But we’re not done yet."
Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched as Hyeonjun’s fingers brushed against his thigh, tracing slow, deliberate patterns over his skin. The touch was light, almost teasing, but it sent a shiver down his spine. He watched, his pulse quickening, as Hyeonjun picked up the vibrator again, the low hum filling the room as he pressed it against Hyeonjoon’s inner thigh—just close enough to his cock that the vibrations ghosted over the sensitive skin, but not quite touching. Hyeonjoon’s body jerked involuntarily, a broken whimper escaping him as Hyeonjun began to wrap the rope around his thigh, securing the vibrator in place.
The rope was snug but not tight, the vibrations a constant, maddening presence against his skin. Hyeonjoon’s breath came in short, uneven gasps as Hyeonjun tied off the knot, his fingers brushing over the rope one last time before pulling away. "There," Hyeonjun murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Now it’ll stay right where I want it."
Hyeonjoon’s face burned, his body already trembling with the effort to stay still, to not chase the sensation. The vibrator’s buzz was a constant tease, just there, just enough to make his cock twitch, his hips shift restlessly. He bit his lip, his bound hands clenching into fists as he tried to focus on his breathing, on the way Hyeonjun’s dark eyes were watching him—studying him—with a hunger that made his stomach twist.
Hyeonjun stood slowly, his movements deliberate as he stepped closer, his body looming over Hyeonjoon. His fingers found the silver ring of the collar, gripping it firmly as he tilted Hyeonjoon’s head back, forcing him to meet his gaze. "You’re mine," Hyeonjun murmured, his voice a dark whisper. "And you’re going to take all of me, aren’t you?"
Hyeonjoon’s breath stuttered, his body trembling as Hyeonjun’s free hand moved to the waistband of his own pants, the sound of the zipper echoing in the quiet room. His cock sprang free, already hard, the tip glistening as Hyeonjun gripped the base, his fingers wrapping around himself with slow, deliberate strokes. Hyeonjoon’s eyes widened, his pulse racing as Hyeonjun guided his cock toward his lips, the silver ring of the collar tight against his throat.
"Open," Hyeonjun commanded, his voice rough.
Hyeonjoon obeyed without hesitation, his lips parting as Hyeonjun’s cock pressed against them, the tip slipping past in a slow, deliberate glide. His breath hitched, his body trembling as Hyeonjun’s fingers tangled in his hair, gripping tight as he began to move—shallow at first, just the tip brushing over Hyeonjoon’s tongue, the vibrations from the rope-bound toy sending jolts through his body with every shift of his hips.
"That’s it," Hyeonjun murmured, his voice thick with approval as he pushed deeper, his cock sliding over Hyeonjoon’s tongue. "Take me like a good boy." His hips rolled forward, his grip on Hyeonjoon’s hair tightening just slightly, his other hand still wrapped around the collar, holding him in place.
Hyeonjoon’s mind blanked, his body humming with the dual sensations—the weight of Hyeonjun’s cock in his mouth, the relentless buzz of the vibrator against his thigh, the way his own cock ached, hard and neglected. His bound hands clenched, his fingers digging into his palms as he tried to stay still, to obey, to take everything Hyeonjun gave him.
Hyeonjun’s breath hitched as he pulled back slightly, his thumb brushing over Hyeonjoon’s bottom lip. "You look so pretty like this," he murmured, his voice rough. "On your knees, bound, mine."
Hyeonjoon whimpered around him, the sound muffled but desperate, his body trembling as Hyeonjun’s hips rolled forward again, his cock sliding deeper. The vibrator’s buzz was a constant torment, the vibrations ghosting over his own cock, making him ache, making him need—but he couldn’t move, couldn’t chase it. All he could do was take, all he could do was obey.
The air in the room grew thicker, the only sounds the low hum of the vibrator and Hyeonjoon’s muffled whimpers as Hyeonjun’s grip on the collar tightened. His fingers flexed, the leather pressing into the sensitive skin of Hyeonjoon’s throat as he guided his head forward, deeper, until the tip of his cock brushed against the back of Hyeonjoon’s tongue. The pressure was immediate—Hyeonjun’s cock filling his mouth, the collar restricting his breath just enough to make his lungs burn. Hyeonjoon’s eyes watered, his lashes fluttering as he tried to relax his throat, to take it, to obey.
Hyeonjun’s other hand slid from Hyeonjoon’s hair to wrap around his throat, his thumb pressing against the pulse point beneath his jaw. He could feel the way Hyeonjoon’s swallow reflex fluttered around him, the way his body trembled with the effort to breathe, to please. The vibrations from the rope-bound toy buzzed against Hyeonjoon’s thigh, a relentless tease that made his cock twitch, his hips shift restlessly against the carpet. But he couldn’t move. He couldn’t chase it. All he could do was kneel there, bound and breathless, his body entirely at Hyeonjun’s mercy.
Hyeonjun’s hips rolled forward again, his cock sliding deeper, the head pressing against the entrance of Hyeonjoon’s throat. He didn’t push further—not yet—but the threat of it hung in the air. His bound wrists ached, his muscles tensing as he fought the instinct to pull away, to breathe. Hyeonjun’s grip on his throat tightened just slightly, his thumb tracing the line of his jaw as he held him there, suspended in that perfect, terrible moment between control and surrender.
"That’s it," Hyeonjun murmured, his voice a dark rumble as he felt Hyeonjoon’s throat flutter around him. "Take it like you’re meant to."
Hyeonjoon’s breath came in short, desperate gasps through his nose, his chest heaving as Hyeonjun’s cock pressed deeper, the tip breaching the tight ring of his throat. His vision blurred, tears spilling over as his body fought the intrusion, his gag reflex flaring. But Hyeonjun’s hand on his throat was steady, his grip unyielding as he held him in place, his cock sliding in another fraction of an inch. The pressure was intense, his throat stretching around the intrusion, his lungs burning with the need for air. But he didn’t pull away. He couldn’t.
Hyeonjun’s breath hitched as Hyeonjoon’s throat finally relaxed, the muscles fluttering around him as he took him deeper. His free hand slid down to grip the base of his cock, his fingers pressing against Hyeonjoon’s lips as he held himself there, buried to the hilt. The vibrator’s buzz was a distant torment now, the sensations from Hyeonjoon’s own cock muted by the overwhelming fullness of Hyeonjun in his throat, the way his breath came in short, ragged bursts through his nose.
"Fuck, hyung," Hyeonjun groaned, his voice rough as he felt Hyeonjoon’s throat constrict around him. His hips rolled forward just slightly, testing, and Hyeonjoon’s body shuddered as he fought to stay still, to take it. The lack of air made his head spin, his vision tunneling as Hyeonjun’s cock pulsed against the back of his throat. His own cock ached, neglected and throbbing, the vibrations from the toy a maddening tease that only made the deprivation worse.
Hyeonjun’s grip on his throat loosened just enough to let him drag in a shallow, gasping breath before tightening again, his cock still buried deep. "You’re such a good boy for me," he murmured, his voice thick with approval as he felt Hyeonjoon’s throat flutter around him. "Taking me so well."
He pulled back just enough to let Hyeonjoon breathe, his cock sliding out until only the tip remained between his lips. Hyeonjoon gasped, his chest heaving as he dragged in air, his tears still falling, his body trembling. But before he could recover, Hyeonjun’s grip on the collar tightened again, pulling him forward, his cock pressing back into the wet heat of Hyeonjoon’s mouth, deeper this time, faster. The rhythm was relentless—Hyeonjun’s hips rolling forward, his cock sliding deep, his grip on the collar and Hyeonjoon’s throat restricting his breath just enough to make his lungs burn, his vision swim.
Hyeonjoon’s body shuddered with every thrust, his bound hands clenching into fists as Hyeonjun fucked his throat in slow, deliberate strokes. The vibrator’s buzz was a constant torment against his thigh, the vibrations ghosting over his cock, making him ache with denied release.
Hyeonjun's hips rolled forward in one deep, controlled thrust, his cock sliding so far into Hyeonjoon's throat that his nose pressed against the warm skin of Hyeonjun's stomach. The pressure was overwhelming—Hyeonjoon's breath came in short, desperate gasps through his nose, his lungs burning, his vision swimming with tears.
Hyeonjun's grip on the collar tightened, his fingers pressing into the back of Hyeonjoon's neck as he held him there, buried to the hilt. The vibrator's relentless buzz against his thigh sent jolts of pleasure through his oversensitive cock, the denied release making his body ache with need. His throat fluttered around Hyeonjun, his gag reflex fighting the intrusion, but he didn't pull away. He couldn't.
Hyeonjoon's lashes fluttered as he forced his heavy gaze upward, meeting Hyeonjun's dark, burning eyes. His own were watery, his face flushed and tear-streaked, his breath coming in ragged, desperate bursts through his nose. He looked ruined—and Hyeonjun loved it.
"Come for me, hyung," Hyeonjun commanded, his voice a dark, rough growl. His grip on Hyeonjoon's throat didn't loosen. His cock didn't pull back.
Hyeonjoon's body shuddered violently at the words, the permission sending a wave of relief and desperation through him. The vibrator's buzz against his thigh, the pressure of Hyeonjun's cock in his throat, the way his breath was restricted—it was all too much, too intense, and his body responded instantly. His cock twitched, his release spilling over his skin in hot, desperate pulses, his body trembling with the force of it.
But Hyeonjun didn't let him go.
Hyeonjoon's orgasm wrenched a broken, muffled moan from his throat, the sound vibrating around Hyeonjun's cock as his body convulsed. His throat fluttered, his lungs burning, his vision blurring as pleasure and deprivation crashed over him. He was coming, his body shuddering with release, but Hyeonjun's cock was still buried deep in his throat, his grip on the collar unyielding.
Hyeonjun's breath hitched as he felt Hyeonjoon's throat constrict around him, the muscles fluttering in desperate, involuntary waves as he came. "That's it," Hyeonjun murmured, his voice rough with approval. "Take it all, hyung. Every second."
Hyeonjoon's body trembled, his tears falling freely as his orgasm dragged on, his cock still throbbing, his breath still restricted. The sensations were overwhelming—pleasure and deprivation twisting together, his mind blanking, his body entirely at Hyeonjun's mercy.
Only when Hyeonjoon's release finally began to ebb did Hyeonjun pull back slightly, his cock sliding out just enough to let him drag in a ragged, gasping breath. His chest heaved, his body trembling as he tried to recover, his throat sore, his lips swollen.
Hyeonjun's grip on the collar loosened just slightly, his thumb brushing over Hyeonjoon's cheekbone, wiping away a tear. "Perfect," he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. "So fucking perfect for me."
Hyeonjoon's breath stuttered, his body still humming with aftershocks, his mind blank and blissful. He couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but kneel there, bound and breathless, his body entirely theirs.
The air between them was thick with the scent of sex and sweat, the room quiet except for the ragged sounds of Hyeonjoon’s breathing as he knelt there, his body still trembling with the aftershocks of his orgasm. Hyeonjun’s fingers carded through his hair, slow and deliberate, as if savoring the way Hyeonjoon’s body had just given in to him completely. His cock twitched, the pleasure coiling tight in his stomach as he watched Hyeonjoon—ruined, breathless, and still so beautiful—kneeling before him.
With a low groan, Hyeonjun’s release spilled over Hyeonjoon’s face, hot and thick, streaking over his flushed cheeks, his parted lips, his dark lashes. The cum glistened under the soft light, clinging to his lashes like delicate, obscene glitter, catching the light every time he blinked. A drop rolled down his cheek, another settling on his bottom lip, his breath hitching as he tasted it—salty, bitter, theirs. His eyes fluttered, his lashes sticky with it, his lips slightly parted as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.
Hyeonjun exhaled slowly, his chest rising and falling as he reached down to brush his thumb over Hyeonjoon’s lips, smearing the cum just slightly. "Look at you," he murmured, his voice rough with satisfaction. "So perfect."
Hyeonjoon’s breath stuttered, his body still humming, his mind floating in that blissful, weightless space between pleasure and exhaustion. He didn’t move, didn’t speak—just knelt, his bound hands resting against his back, his skin still flushed, his lashes heavy with Hyeonjun’s release.
The aftercare began without a word.
Hyeonjun crouched in front of him, his movements slow and deliberate as he reached for the rope around Hyeonjoon’s thigh. His fingers worked carefully, untying the knots with practiced ease, the vibrator falling away with a soft thud onto the carpet. The absence of the buzzing sensation made Hyeonjoon shiver, his oversensitive skin prickling as the blood rushed back to his limbs. Hyeonjun’s touch was gentle as he massaged the faint red marks left by the rope, his thumbs pressing into the warm skin, soothing the ache.
Next came the ropes around his wrists. Hyeonjun’s fingers brushed over the bonds, loosening them with the same care, his touch lingering as he unwrapped the fibers from Hyeonjoon’s skin. The moment his hands were free, Hyeonjoon’s fingers twitched, his wrists still tingling from the restriction, but he didn’t move them. He just waited, his breath slow and steady, his gaze fixed on Hyeonjun’s face.
Hyeonjun’s hands moved to the collar last.
His fingers hovered over the buckle, his dark eyes searching Hyeonjoon’s face for any sign of discomfort, any hint that he wanted this to end. But when his touch brushed against the leather, Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched, his trembling hands suddenly flying up to grip Hyeonjun’s wrists.
"No—" His voice was raw, broken, desperate. His fingers tightened, his grip unsteady but firm. "Don’t take it off."
Hyeonjun stilled, his breath catching as he looked down at Hyeonjoon—his flushed face, his sticky lashes, the way his fingers clung to him like a lifeline. His throat tightened. "Hyung…"
Hyeonjoon’s grip didn’t loosen. His voice was barely a whisper, but it was pleading. "Please. Not yet."
Hyeonjun’s chest ached. He cupped Hyeonjoon’s face, his thumb brushing over his cheekbone, smearing the cum there just slightly. "Okay," he murmured, his voice soft. "Okay, I won’t."
Hyeonjoon exhaled shakily, his shoulders slumping in relief as his forehead pressed against Hyeonjun’s wrist, his breath warm against his skin. His fingers still trembled, but they didn’t let go. He just held on, as if the collar—the weight of it, the meaning of it—was the only thing keeping him grounded.
Hyeonjun’s other hand slid into his hair, his fingers carding through the damp strands as he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the top of his head. "I’ve got you," he murmured, his voice thick. "Always."
He didn’t remove the collar.
Instead, he reached for the damp cloth he’d prepared earlier, wiping away the cum from Hyeonjoon’s face with slow, careful strokes. He cleaned his lips first, then his cheeks, his touch gentle as he worked around the collar, leaving it exactly where it was. When he reached Hyeonjoon’s lashes, his fingers hesitated, his thumb brushing over them lightly, as if afraid to disturb the way the cum had dried there, catching the light like something precious.
"You’re mine," Hyeonjun whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "Even without the ropes. Even without the rules."
Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched, his fingers tightening around Hyeonjun’s wrists. "Yours," he whispered back, his voice raw but sure.
Hyeonjun’s heart clenched. He pulled Hyeonjoon close, his arms wrapping around him as he guided him onto the bed, their bodies pressing together. Hyeonjoon went willingly, his head resting against Hyeonjun’s chest, his breath slow and steady as he listened to the beat of his heart.
The collar stayed on.
Chapter 5
Notes:
Hiii!! (˶˃ᆺ˂˶)
First of all, I’m so sorry for taking so long to update! I was away for Christmas, spending time with family and trying to recharge a little (though I missed you all so much!). Now that I’m back, I wanted to start the year right by sharing this chapter with you. Happy New Year 2026! (๑˃̵ᴗ˂̵)و May this year bring you all the love, happiness, and kinky adventures your hearts desire!
I saw all your comments and messages, and I’m so grateful for your patience and support. 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯💕 This chapter didn’t get the full revision I usually like to give it because I was too excited to share it with you ASAP, but I hope you still enjoy it! If you spot any mistakes or have feedback, feel free to let me know—I’ll fix them in the next update!
Chapter Warnings:
Explicit Sexual Content.
BDSM Elements – Collar use, power dynamics, orgasm control/denial, overstimulation, edging, spanking, anal fingering, a lot of lube, praise kink, crying during sex.
USE OF THE SAFEWORD. The safeword is respected and the scene ends when it is said; right after that, the necessary aftercare takes place.
Consent & Communication – Safewords are established and respected. All acts are consensual and negotiated.
Arguing.
Heavy angst.
Chapter Text
The days leading up to the Red Bull event in Germany stretched out like an endless, restless tide—each one pulling Hyeonjoon further into the quiet storm of his own heart. The dorm was alive with the usual chaos of preparation: Minseok’s loud, exaggerated complaints about packing, Sanghyeok’s methodical organization of their travel itineraries, and Suhwan’s nervous energy as he tried to find his place among them. But beneath it all, beneath the laughter and the noise, Hyeonjoon felt something shifting inside him, something he couldn’t ignore.
It was in the way Hyeonjun’s fingers brushed against his when they passed in the hallway, the way his dark eyes lingered on him just a second too long before he looked away. It was in the way Hyeonjun would lean against the couch beside him during their rare moments of downtime, their shoulders pressing together, their knees touching under the pretense of watching a replay. It was in the way Hyeonjun’s voice dropped to a low, velvety murmur when he spoke to him, as if every word was meant only for Hyeonjoon’s ears.
Hyeonjoon had tried to tell himself it was nothing. That it was just the lingering thrill of their scenes, the way his body still hummed with the memory of Hyeonjun’s hands on him, his voice in his ear. But it wasn’t just that. It never had been.
It was the way Hyeonjun would reach for him without thinking, his fingers curling around Hyeonjoon’s wrist to pull him closer, his thumb brushing over his pulse point in a way that made Hyeonjoon’s breath catch. It was the way Hyeonjun’s smirk softened when Hyeonjoon laughed, the way his eyes darkened when Hyeonjoon bit his lip.
And it terrified him.
Because Hyeonjoon had loved him for a long time. Long before the ropes, long before the collar, long before Hyeonjun had ever touched him like that. It had started in the quiet moments—the way Hyeonjun would listen when Hyeonjoon talked about his fears, the way he’d bring him coffee when he was tired, the way he’d stay up late just to watch a movie with him when everyone else had gone to bed. It had been in the way Hyeonjun’s laughter made Hyeonjoon’s chest tighten, the way his presence felt like coming home.
But now, with the way Hyeonjun’s hands lingered on him, the way his voice wrapped around him like a command and a caress all at once, Hyeonjoon felt like he was drowning. Because what if it wasn’t real? What if it was just the thrill of the scene, the rush of control and submission? What if, when the novelty wore off, Hyeonjun looked at him and saw nothing but a teammate? A friend?
The thought made his stomach twist.
He tried to distract himself. He threw himself into practice, into helping Suhwan settle in, into the endless logistics of travel. But no matter how busy he kept his hands, his mind always circled back to Hyeonjun. The way he’d catch Hyeonjun watching him from across the room, his dark eyes burning with something Hyeonjoon was too afraid to name. The way Hyeonjun’s fingers would trail over his skin, leaving a path of fire in their wake. The way Hyeonjun’s voice would drop to a whisper, "Good boy," and Hyeonjoon’s heart would stutter, his body aching with something deeper than desire.
He wanted to tell him. He wanted to grab Hyeonjun’s hands and press them to his chest, to make him feel the way his heart raced, to make him understand. But the words stuck in his throat, tangled in fear and longing. So instead, he let Hyeonjun’s touches wash over him, let his voice wrap around him, let himself pretend, just for a little while, that this was enough.
But it wasn’t.
Because every time Hyeonjun pulled away, every time his hands left Hyeonjoon’s skin, every time his voice faded into the noise of the dorm, Hyeonjoon was left with the gnawing fear that he was nothing more than a fleeting distraction. That one day, Hyeonjun would look at him and see only what he’d always seen—a teammate, a friend—and Hyeonjoon would be left with the wreckage of his own heart.
Then, a touch.
Hyeonjoon’s breath caught as fingers brushed against his shoulder, light but deliberate. He turned sharply, his heart stuttering as he found Hyeonjun standing there, his dark eyes unreadable. Hyeonjun had been restless all day—distracted, his gaze flickering away every time it met Hyeonjoon’s, as if he couldn’t bear to hold it for more than a second. It had left Hyeonjoon unsettled, his stomach twisting with the fear that he’d done something wrong, that he’d misread everything. But now, with Hyeonjun’s hand on his shoulder, warm and grounding, he could only stare, his pulse quickening.
Hyeonjun’s fingers tightened just slightly, his thumb brushing over the fabric of Hyeonjoon’s hoodie in a slow, deliberate motion. His voice was quiet, rough around the edges, as if he’d been holding back words all day. "I’ve been trying to talk to you," he murmured, his gaze flickering away before meeting Hyeonjoon’s again, something raw and uncertain in his eyes.
Hyeonjoon’s throat tightened. "You have?" His voice came out softer than he intended, his fingers twitching against his thighs.
Hyeonjun exhaled, his hand sliding down to rest on Hyeonjoon’s wrist, his grip warm and sure. "Yeah." His voice was low, almost hesitant, a stark contrast to the confidence Hyeonjoon was used to. "I have something for you. Something I want to give you… when we’re alone."
Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched, his mind racing. The way Hyeonjun’s fingers trembled just slightly against his skin, the way his voice dropped to a whisper, the way his dark eyes searched Hyeonjoon’s face—it felt like standing on the edge of something vast and unknown. "Oh," he managed, his voice barely above a whisper.
Hyeonjun’s lips quirked, just slightly, but there was no smirk in it, no teasing. Just something soft, something vulnerable. "Is that okay?"
Hyeonjoon’s chest ached. He nodded, his voice barely a breath. "Yeah. Of course."
Hyeonjun’s grip tightened for just a second, his eyes darkening with something Hyeonjoon couldn’t name. "Good," he murmured, his voice rough. Then, as if realizing how close they were, how intimate the moment had become, he pulled back slightly, his fingers slipping from Hyeonjoon. But his gaze didn’t waver. "Later, then," he said, his voice a promise.
Hyeonjoon’s fingers curled into his palms, his pulse racing. "Later," he echoed, his voice quiet.
Hyeonjun lingered for just a second longer, his dark eyes searching Hyeonjoon’s face, as if memorizing it. Then, with a final, soft brush of his fingers against Hyeonjoon’s shoulder, he turned and walked away, leaving Hyeonjoon sitting there, his heart pounding, his mind spinning.
The dorm noise faded back in—the distant sound of Minseok’s laughter, Sanghyeok’s quiet voice as he talked to Suhwan, the hum of the refrigerator. But Hyeonjoon barely registered it. All he could think about was the way Hyeonjun’s fingers had felt on his skin.
The phone buzzed softly against the mattress, the sound cutting through the quiet hum of Hyeonjoon’s thoughts like a gentle reminder of the world outside. He reached for it automatically, his fingers brushing over the screen before he even registered the notification. The name that flashed across the display made his chest tighten—Mom. It had been months since he’d last seen her, since the World Cup, since everything had changed. The weight of time settled over him, heavy and bittersweet. So much had happened since then, so much had shifted inside him, that it felt like a lifetime ago.
He hesitated for a moment, his thumb hovering over the screen. His mother’s messages were always warm, always full of love and concern, but lately, he’d been avoiding the thought of going home. Not because he didn’t miss her—he did, more than he could put into words—but because he didn’t know how to explain the storm inside him. How could he tell her about the way Hyeonjun made him feel? About the quiet, overwhelming happiness that settled in his chest every time Hyeonjun’s fingers brushed against his, every time his voice wrapped around him? And how could he ever begin to describe the other part—the part that was just for him, the part that made his skin prickle and his breath catch? That wasn’t something he could share. Not with her.
He unlocked his phone, his fingers tracing over the screen as he read her message. "Joonie, when are you coming home? I miss you. The house feels too quiet without you." The words made his throat tighten, his heart aching with a familiar, bittersweet longing. He could picture her sitting in the living room, her phone in hand, her expression soft with that quiet sadness she always tried to hide when she talked about him being away. He knew she worried. He knew she missed him. And he missed her too, more than he let himself admit.
His thumbs moved over the keyboard, typing and deleting, typing and deleting again, before he finally settled on something simple, something true. "I’ll come soon, Mom. Before the season starts. I promise." He added a smiling emoji, hoping it would ease the worry he knew she carried. He wanted to tell her more. He wanted to tell her about how Hyeonjun made him feel in a way he’d never thought possible. He wanted to tell her about the quiet moments, the way Hyeonjun’s laughter made his chest tighten, the way his touch made him feel like he was exactly where he was meant to be. But those words felt too big, too fragile, to put into a message. So he left it at that. A promise. A smile. A lie by omission.
He hit send before he could second-guess himself, his chest tightening as the message disappeared into the void of the internet. He could already imagine her reply, but for now, he set his phone aside, his fingers lingering on the screen for just a second longer before pulling away.
He leaned back against the headboard, his mind drifting to the last time he’d been home—the way his mother had fussed over him, the way she’d made all his favorite foods, the way she’d watched him with that quiet pride that always made his throat tighten. He wanted to see her. He needed to see her. But the thought of sitting across from her, of looking into her eyes and knowing he couldn’t tell her everything, made his stomach twist.
He exhaled slowly, his fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie. Maybe he didn’t have to tell her everything. Maybe he could just tell her the parts that mattered—the way Hyeonjun made him feel like he was enough, the way his heart raced when they were together, the way he finally understood what it meant to be happy. That was something he could share. That was something he wanted to share.
His phone buzzed again, and he picked it up, his chest tightening as he saw her reply. "I’ll hold you to that, my dear. I’ll make all your favorites. And we’ll talk. I want to hear everything." The words made his eyes burn, his throat thick with emotion. He could picture her smile, the way her eyes would crinkle at the corners, the way she’d pull him into a hug the moment he walked through the door.
"I’ll be there soon, Mom," he whispered to the empty room, his voice quiet but sure. "I promise."
The door to Hyeonjoon’s room swung open with a dramatic flourish, and Minseok’s voice boomed through the space like a herald announcing the arrival of a royal feast. " Hyung! Food’s ready! If you don’t come now, I’m eating your share!" His words were punctuated by the unmistakable clatter of chopsticks and the aroma of something savory and delicious wafting down the hallway. Hyeonjoon blinked, his thoughts still half-lost in the quiet reverie of his conversation with his mother, but the scent of food—something spicy and rich, probably Minseok’s infamous tteokbokki—snapped him back to the present.
He pushed himself off the bed with a laugh, shaking his head as he followed Minseok’s retreating figure. "You’re so dramatic," he called after him, but there was no real heat in it. The truth was, he was hungry, and the thought of Minseok’s cooking—though often questionable in its execution—was enough to make his stomach growl in anticipation.
The dining table was already a lively scene of chaos and camaraderie. Sanghyeok sat at the head, as always, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp as he scrolled through his phone, likely double-checking their schedule for the upcoming week. Suhwan was perched beside him, his expression a mix of nervous excitement as he fiddled with his chopsticks, clearly still getting used to the team’s dynamic. Across from them, Hyeonjun leaned back in his chair, one arm slung over the back, his dark eyes flickering up to meet Hyeonjoon’s as he entered. There was a smirk playing at the corners of his lips, something knowing and warm, and Hyeonjoon felt his face flush just a little before he quickly looked away.
Minseok, ever the center of attention, was already dishing out food with the enthusiasm of a chef presenting his magnum opus. "Okay, listen up!" he declared, waving a pair of chopsticks like a conductor’s baton. "I made tteokbokki with extra cheese—because I’m generous—and also some kimchi jjigae for those of you with refined tastes." He shot a pointed look at Sanghyeok, who merely raised an eyebrow in response, unfazed.
"You mean for those of us who don’t want to die from spice overload," Sanghyeok corrected dryly, but there was a hint of amusement in his tone. He reached for a bowl of the jjigae, the rich scent of fermented kimchi and pork filling the air.
Hyeonjoon slid into the seat beside Hyeonjun, their shoulders brushing just slightly, sending a jolt through him that he tried to ignore. He grabbed a bowl and held it out to Minseok, who grinned and piled it high with tteokbokki, the rice cakes glistening with spicy red sauce and melted cheese. "Eat up, hyung!" Minseok said, his voice cheerful. "You look like you’ve been starving yourself with all that thinking you’ve been doing."
Hyeonjoon rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up. "Shut up and eat your own food," he shot back, but there was no real bite to it. He took a bite of the tteokbokki, the heat of the sauce hitting his tongue with a delicious burn. "Okay, fine," he admitted around the mouthful. "This is actually good."
Minseok gasped, clutching his chest in mock offense. "‘Actually good’? Hyung, I’m wounded."
Suhwan let out a surprised laugh, his shoulders relaxing as he took a bite of his own food. "It is good," he admitted shyly, his voice quiet but sincere.
Hyeonjun chuckled beside Hyeonjoon, his voice a low rumble. "Careful, Minseok. Your ego might not survive this level of praise."
Minseok flipped them both off, but he was grinning, his earlier dramatics forgotten in favor of the easy, warm banter that always filled their meals. The table was a flurry of activity—chopsticks clinking against bowls, laughter spilling between bites, the occasional groan as someone took a particularly spicy mouthful. Sanghyeok, ever the voice of reason, passed around glasses of cold water, his expression amused as Minseok dramatically fanned his mouth after taking a bite of the jjigae. "I told you it was spicy," Sanghyeok said, but there was no real reproach in his tone.
"Worth it," Minseok declared, already reaching for another bite.
The quiet of Hyeonjoon’s room was a stark contrast to the lively chaos of dinner. The soft glow of the bedside lamp cast long shadows across the walls, the hum of the dorm outside muted to a distant murmur. Hyeonjoon lay on his side, his head propped up on his hand as he watched Hyeonjun, who was stretched out beside him, one arm tucked beneath his head, his dark eyes reflecting the dim light. They had been talking for what felt like hours—about nothing and everything at once. The conversation had flowed easily, the way it always did when it was just the two of them, the rest of the world fading away until there was only the warmth of Hyeonjun’s presence and the quiet rhythm of his voice.
But now, with the weight of the evening settling over him and the warmth of the meal still lingering in his stomach, Hyeonjoon felt a boldness he hadn’t expected. The memory of Hyeonjun’s words from earlier had been gnawing at the back of his mind all night, a quiet anticipation humming beneath his skin. He turned slightly, his fingers curling into the fabric of his blanket as he met Hyeonjun’s gaze. His voice was quiet, but steady. "What was it you wanted to give me earlier?"
Hyeonjun’s dark eyes flickered, something unreadable passing through them before he looked away, his fingers twitching slightly against the bedsheet. For the first time that night, he seemed nervous—a rare vulnerability that made Hyeonjoon’s chest tighten. "Wait here," Hyeonjun murmured, his voice rough as he pushed himself up from the bed. He hesitated for just a second, his gaze lingering on Hyeonjoon before he turned and slipped out of the room, the door clicking softly shut behind him.
Hyeonjoon exhaled slowly, his pulse quickening as he sat up, his fingers tracing the edge of the blanket. The seconds stretched, each one feeling heavier than the last, until the door finally creaked open again. Hyeonjun stepped inside, his posture tense, his fingers wrapped around a small black velvet box. The logo engraved on the lid was unfamiliar, elegant and understated, and Hyeonjoon’s breath caught as Hyeonjun crossed the room and sat down beside him, the box resting between them.
Hyeonjun’s fingers trembled just slightly as he lifted the lid, revealing the collar inside. It was black leather, sleek and simple, but there was something different about it. Hyeonjoon’s heart stuttered as Hyeonjun turned it over, revealing the inside of the leather where his name—Hyeonjun—was carefully engraved into the supple material. And on the buckle, a small silver plate gleamed, engraved with Hyeonjoon in delicate script.
His breath hitched, his fingers trembling as he reached out, brushing over the leather. It was soft beneath his touch, warm from Hyeonjun’s hands, the weight of it familiar but different. His name on the buckle, Hyeonjun’s on the leather. A promise. A claim. His throat tightened, his vision blurring as he traced the engraving with his thumb, the reality of it settling over him like a second skin.
Hyeonjun’s voice was quiet, rough around the edges, as if he’d been holding back the words for a long time. "Since our last scene… I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it." His fingers curled into the bedsheet, his knuckles turning white. "About you." He exhaled slowly, his dark eyes searching Hyeonjoon’s face. "I haven’t been with anyone in a long time, hyung. Not like this. Not in a way that…" He trailed off, his gaze dropping to the collar before meeting Hyeonjoon’s again, something raw and honest in his eyes. "I want you to be mine."
Hyeonjoon’s breath broke, his fingers still trembling over the leather. The words sent a jolt through him, a mix of longing and fear and something so big he couldn’t name it. His chest ached, his throat tight with emotion as he looked up at Hyeonjun, his vision swimming. "Yours?" he whispered, his voice raw.
Hyeonjun’s hand cupped his jaw, his thumb brushing over Hyeonjoon’s cheekbone, warm and grounding. "Mine," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "If you want that."
The tears spilled over before Hyeonjoon could stop them, his breath hitching as he nodded, his voice barely a whisper. "Yes."
Hyeonjun’s exhale was shaky, his fingers tightening just slightly against Hyeonjoon’s skin before he pulled him close, their foreheads pressing together. "Mine," he repeated, his voice rough with something that sounded like relief. Like hope.
Hyeonjoon’s fingers curled into the fabric of Hyeonjun’s shirt, his chest aching with the weight of it all. The collar felt like something he’d been waiting for without even realizing it. But beneath the warmth, beneath the quiet joy, there was a flicker of doubt—a quiet, gnawing fear that he wasn’t enough, that this wasn’t real, that one day Hyeonjun would look at him and see only what he’d always seen: a teammate, a friend.
But he pushed it down, locked it away, because right now, in this moment, with Hyeonjun’s hands on him, he believed it. He needed to believe it.
Hyeonjun’s lips pressed against his forehead, slow and lingering, his breath warm against Hyeonjoon’s skin. "Let me put it on you," he murmured, his voice a dark whisper.
Hyeonjoon nodded, his fingers trembling as he handed the collar to Hyeonjun, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps as the leather settled around his neck, the buckle clicking softly into place. The weight of it was right, like it had always been meant to be there, like it was a part of him now. Hyeonjun’s fingers lingered, tracing the edge of the collar, his touch warm and sure.
"Perfect," Hyeonjun murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction.
The air in the room seemed to shift the moment Hyeonjun’s voice dropped to that low, velvety tone—the one that sent a shiver down Hyeonjoon’s spine every time. "I have something prepared for you," Hyeonjun murmured, his fingers brushing over the collar around Hyeonjoon’s neck, tracing the edge of the leather as if memorizing its weight. "If you want, we can do it now."
Hyeonjoon’s breath caught, his pulse quickening beneath Hyeonjun’s touch. He nodded, his voice barely a whisper. "Yes."
Hyeonjun’s dark eyes searched his face for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in their depths before he exhaled slowly. "Go to the bathroom," he instructed, his voice steady but laced with a quiet intensity. "Clean yourself up completely. Then kneel in the middle of the bed and wait for me." He paused, his thumb brushing over Hyeonjoon’s bottom lip. "I’ll be back in a few minutes."
Hyeonjoon’s chest tightened. The instruction was unexpected—he was used to kneeling at Hyeonjun’s feet, not on the bed. The change sent a jolt through him, a mix of anticipation and curiosity, but he didn’t question it. Instead, he nodded again, his fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie before he pushed himself off the bed and made his way to the bathroom.
The water ran warm over his skin as he followed Hyeonjun’s instructions, his mind racing with possibilities. What was different this time? What had Hyeonjun prepared? The uncertainty made his stomach twist, but beneath it, there was a quiet thrill, a spark of excitement that made his breath come just a little faster.
When he returned to the bedroom, the room was dimly lit. He climbed onto the bed, his knees sinking into the mattress as he settled into position in the center, his hands resting on his thighs. He was wearing only his underwear, the cool air of the room making his skin prickle. The anticipation hummed beneath his skin, his pulse quickening as he waited, his breath slow and steady.
The door creaked open, and Hyeonjun stepped inside, his posture relaxed but his eyes dark with focus. He carried a small black bag, the contents hidden from view, and Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched as he watched Hyeonjun set it down on the nightstand. The bag looked unassuming, but the way Hyeonjun’s fingers lingered on it, the way his gaze flicked to Hyeonjoon before he turned back to the bag, sent a shiver down Hyeonjoon’s spine.
Hyeonjun approached slowly, his movements deliberate, his dark eyes tracing over Hyeonjoon’s body as if memorizing every detail. His fingers brushed over Hyeonjoon’s cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of his lip before sliding down to rest beneath his chin, tilting his face up just slightly. "You look perfect like this," he murmured, his voice a dark rumble.
Hyeonjoon’s breath stuttered, his fingers twitching against his thighs. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice quiet but steady.
Hyeonjun’s lips quirked, just slightly, but there was no smirk in it. Just something warm, something possessive. "Remind me of the rules, hyung," he murmured, his thumb brushing over Hyeonjoon’s bottom lip again.
Hyeonjoon’s chest tightened, his mind racing as he tried to remember, to focus. "No speaking unless you ask me to," he began, his voice quiet but sure. "No moving unless you tell me to. And I have to tell you if I need to stop."
Hyeonjun’s fingers slid down to cup his jaw. "Good boy," he murmured, his voice thick with approval. Then, his thumb brushed over Hyeonjoon’s cheekbone, his expression softening just slightly. "But for this scene, you don’t have to ask for permission to speak," he said, his voice low and deliberate. "You can say whatever you want. Whatever you need."
Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched, his eyes widening just slightly. The change in rules sent a jolt through him, a mix of surprise and relief. "Okay," he whispered, his voice raw.
Hyeonjun’s hand slid to the back of his neck, his fingers carding through his hair before gripping just slightly, his touch firm but not painful. "And it’s very important that you’re honest with me," he murmured, his voice rough. "If you need a break, if you need to stop—anything—you tell me. Understood?"
Hyeonjoon nodded, his throat tight. "Yes," he whispered, his voice steady.
Hyeonjun’s grip tightened just slightly, his dark eyes searching Hyeonjoon’s face. "Good," he murmured. Then, his fingers slid down to trace over the collar around Hyeonjoon’s neck. "Now… let’s begin."
The air in the room seemed to still as Hyeonjun’s finger traced a slow, deliberate path down the center of Hyeonjoon’s chest, each inch of skin prickling beneath the feather-light touch. Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched, his body already responding, his cock hardening beneath the thin fabric of his underwear. The anticipation coiled tight in his stomach, his pulse quickening as Hyeonjun’s finger continued its descent, trailing lower, lower, until it hooked beneath the waistband of his underwear. The touch was maddeningly slow, each second stretching out like an eternity, his skin burning where Hyeonjun’s finger had been.
Hyeonjun’s dark eyes never left Hyeonjoon’s face as he slowly, deliberately, eased the fabric down his hips, his movements unhurried, as if savoring every second. The cool air of the room hit Hyeonjoon’s exposed skin, making him shiver, his body already aching with need. He kept his hands pressed firmly against his thighs, his knuckles turning white with the effort to stay still. The rules were clear and he wouldn’t break them. Not for anything.
Once the underwear was gone, Hyeonjun’s hands slid up the inside of Hyeonjoon’s thighs, his touch warm and possessive, his thumbs brushing dangerously close to where Hyeonjoon ached the most. "This time, I won’t tie you up," Hyeonjun murmured, his voice a dark rumble that sent a shiver down Hyeonjoon’s spine. "But your hands stay right where they are." His fingers pressed lightly against Hyeonjoon’s thighs, a silent command. "If you move them, I stop. Understood?"
Hyeonjoon’s breath stuttered, his body trembling with the effort to obey. "Yes," he whispered, his voice raw, his gaze locked onto Hyeonjun’s.
Hyeonjun’s lips quirked, just slightly, his dark eyes glinting with something that made Hyeonjoon’s stomach twist. "Good boy," he murmured, his voice thick with approval. Then, his hands slid higher, his fingers tracing the sensitive skin of Hyeonjoon’s inner thighs, so close to where he needed them most but never quite touching. The teasing was maddening, each brush of Hyeonjun’s skin sending jolts of pleasure through him, his cock twitching, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps.
Hyeonjun’s fingers finally, finally brushed against the base of Hyeonjoon’s cock, his touch feather-light, barely there, but it was enough to make Hyeonjoon’s hips jerk involuntarily. He bit his lip hard, his fingers digging into his thighs, his body trembling with the effort to stay still. Hyeonjun’s dark chuckle sent another shiver through him, his voice low and knowing. "You’re already so hard for me, hyung," he murmured, his thumb swiping over the tip of Hyeonjoon’s cock, the touch so light it was almost cruel. "Such a good boy, waiting for me like this."
Hyeonjoon’s breath broke in a whimper, his body aching with need, his skin prickling. He wanted to reach out, to grab Hyeonjun’s hands and press them where he needed them most, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. The rules were clear, and he would follow them, no matter how much it made him ache.
Hyeonjun’s fingers trailed higher, his touch maddeningly slow as he traced the length of Hyeonjoon’s cock, his thumb swiping over the tip again, collecting the bead of pre-cum that had formed there. The sensation was too much, his nerves already raw, his body oversensitive, and Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched, his fingers clawing at his thighs. "P-Please—" The word escaped him before he could stop it, his voice raw and desperate.
Hyeonjun’s dark eyes flickered up to meet his, his smirk deepening. "Please what, hyung?" he murmured, his voice a dark purr as his fingers continued their slow, torturous path up and down Hyeonjoon’s cock, never quite giving him what he needed.
Hyeonjoon’s breath stuttered, his body trembling. "Touch me," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Please, just—touch me."
Hyeonjun’s fingers stilled, his grip tightening just slightly around the base of Hyeonjoon’s cock, his touch firm but not painful. "Like this?" he murmured, his thumb swiping over the tip again, the sensation sending a jolt through Hyeonjoon’s body.
Hyeonjoon’s hips jerked, his breath breaking in a whimper. "Yes—like that—"
Hyeonjun’s dark chuckle sent another shiver through him, his fingers finally wrapping around Hyeonjoon’s cock, his grip warm and sure. "Such a good boy," he murmured, his voice rough with approval as he began to stroke him, slow and deliberate, his thumb swiping over the tip with every pass. "Taking it so well for me."
Hyeonjoon’s breath came in short, desperate gasps, his body trembling, his fingers digging into his thighs as he fought to stay still, to obey. The pleasure was intense, overwhelming, and his mind blanked, his body coiling tight as Hyeonjun’s hand worked him, his touch maddening.
The pleasure was building too fast, too intense, Hyeonjoon’s body coiling tight beneath Hyeonjun’s touch, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps. Every stroke of Hyeonjun’s hand sent jolts of electricity through him, his nerves raw, his skin burning, his mind blanking with the overwhelming sensation. He was so close, teetering on the edge, his body trembling with the effort to hold back, to wait.
And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, Hyeonjun’s hand was gone.
Hyeonjoon’s breath broke in a groan, his hips jerking helplessly, his cock twitching with the sudden absence of touch. The air felt too cool against his overheated skin, the loss of Hyeonjun’s grip leaving him aching, needy. A whimper escaped him before he could stop it, his body trembling, his fingers digging into his thighs as he fought to not beg.
Hyeonjun’s dark chuckle sent a shiver down his spine, the sound low and knowing. "Such a good boy," he murmured, his voice rough with approval as he reached for the black bag on the nightstand. The rustle of fabric and the soft click of a bottle cap filled the silence, and Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched as he watched Hyeonjun pick up the bottle of lube, the label glinting in the dim light. His pulse quickened, his mind racing with possibilities—toys, restraints, something more—but Hyeonjun’s voice cut through his thoughts, low and deliberate.
"Today, we won’t be using any toys, hyung." His dark eyes flicked up to meet Hyeonjoon’s, something wicked and promising in their depths. "You’ll only get pleasure from my hands."
Hyeonjoon’s breath stuttered, his cock twitching at the words, his body already aching with the promise of it. He nodded, his voice barely a whisper. "Okay."
Hyeonjun’s lips quirked, just slightly, as he squeezed a generous amount of lube onto his palm. The sound of the bottle’s cap snapping shut echoed in the quiet room, and Hyeonjoon’s breath caught as Hyeonjun’s hand approached him again, the lube glistening in the dim light. The first touch was cold, the gel slick and shocking against his overheated skin, and he jerked, a broken gasp escaping him as Hyeonjun’s fingers wrapped around his cock, his grip wet and messy.
"Fuck—!" The word tore from Hyeonjoon’s lips before he could stop it, his body arching into the touch, his fingers clawing at his thighs. The sensation was too much—the cold slickness of the lube, the firm grip of Hyeonjun’s hand, the way his thumb swiped over the tip, spreading the gel in slow, deliberate circles. His cock throbbed, his nerves raw, his body oversensitive from the earlier teasing, and every stroke sent waves of pleasure crashing through him, his vision blurring at the edges.
Hyeonjun’s hand moved with a slow, deliberate rhythm, his grip tight and sure, his fingers twisting just slightly with every upward stroke. The sound of slick skin filled the room, obscene and intoxicating, and Hyeonjoon’s breath came in short, desperate gasps, his body trembling, his mind blanking with the overwhelming sensation. "Look at you," Hyeonjun murmured, his voice a dark purr as his free hand slid up to cup Hyeonjoon’s jaw, tilting his face up so their eyes met. "Taking it so well for me."
Hyeonjoon’s lashes fluttered, his breath hitching as Hyeonjun’s hand picked up speed, his strokes growing firmer, more demanding. The pleasure coiled tight in his stomach, his cock throbbing, his release so close—
And then, just as he was about to tip over the edge, Hyeonjun’s hand stilled.
Hyeonjoon’s breath broke in a whimper, his body jerking, his cock twitching desperately in Hyeonjun’s grip. "N-No—" The word escaped him, raw and desperate.
Hyeonjun’s chuckle sent another shiver through him, his hand still wrapped around Hyeonjoon’s cock, his grip firm but unmoving. "Not yet, hyung," he murmured, his voice rough as his thumb swiped over the tip, spreading the slickness in slow, teasing circles. "You don’t come until I say so."
Hyeonjoon’s breath stuttered, his body aching with denied release, his cock throbbing in Hyeonjun’s grip. "P-Please—" he gasped, his voice breaking.
Hyeonjun’s grip tightened just slightly, his thumb pressing against the sensitive underside of Hyeonjoon’s cock, the touch maddening. "Soon," he whisper as he began to stroke him again, slow and deliberate, his hand slick with lube. "But not yet."
Hyeonjoon’s body shuddered, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps as Hyeonjun’s hand worked him, the pleasure too much, not enough, his mind blanking with the overwhelming sensation. His cock throbbed, his release so close, his body trembling with the effort to hold back—
And then, just as he was about to come, Hyeonjun’s hand pulled away again.
Hyeonjoon’s breath broke in a sob, his body jerking, his cock twitching desperately, his fingers digging into his thighs. "Please—" he whimpered, his voice raw, his tears spilling over as he looked up at Hyeonjun, his dark eyes burning with need, with desperation.
Hyeonjun’s smirk softened, just slightly, as he cupped Hyeonjoon’s jaw, his thumb brushing over his cheekbone. "Such a good boy," he murmured, his voice thick with approval as he leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to Hyeonjoon’s forehead.
The shift in position was slow, deliberate—Hyeonjun’s hands guiding Hyeonjoon with a care that made his breath catch. There was no rush, no urgency, just the quiet certainty of Hyeonjun’s touch as he helped Hyeonjoon lie back against the bed, his fingers pressing gently against his chest until his shoulders settled into the mattress. The sheets were cool beneath his overheated skin, a stark contrast to the heat of Hyeonjun’s palm still resting against his sternum, grounding him. His legs bent at the knees, feet planted flat against the bed, the position leaving him open, exposed—vulnerable—in a way that made his pulse race.
Hyeonjun’s other hand, still slick with lube, never left him. His fingers curled around the base of Hyeonjoon’s cock, his thumb brushing over the sensitive skin of his balls in slow, teasing circles. The touch was maddening, each stroke sending jolts of pleasure through him, his nerves raw and oversensitive from the earlier teasing. Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched, his body trembling as Hyeonjun’s fingers worked him with practiced ease, his grip firm but not cruel, his touch possessive. The wet, messy sounds of skin against skin filled the room, obscene and intoxicating, and Hyeonjoon’s mind blanked, his thoughts scattering like leaves in a storm.
His fingers twitched, his body aching with the need to move, to touch, but he forced himself to stay still. Instead, his hand slid up, wrapping around Hyeonjun’s wrist where it pressed against his chest. The contact was grounding, the steady pulse beneath his fingers a reminder that this was real, that Hyeonjun was real. His other hand fell weakly against Hyeonjun’s, his fingers curling around his in a desperate, silent plea. He couldn’t form words, couldn’t think—all he could do was feel: the weight of Hyeonjun’s hand on his chest, the slick slide of his fingers over his cock, the way his breath hitched every time Hyeonjun’s thumb swiped over the tip.
Hyeonjun’s dark eyes never left his face, his gaze burning with something Hyeonjoon couldn’t name—something hungry, something tender. "Look at you," Hyeonjun murmured, his voice a dark rumble that sent a shiver down Hyeonjoon’s spine. "So beautiful like this." His fingers tightened just slightly around Hyeonjoon’s cock, his thumb pressing against the sensitive underside, the touch sending a jolt through him that made his back arch off the bed.
Hyeonjoon’s breath broke in a whimper, his fingers tightening around Hyeonjun’s wrist, his body trembling. "Hyeonjun—" His voice was raw, desperate, his name a prayer and a plea all at once.
Hyeonjun’s lips quirked, just slightly, his hand stilling for just a second before resuming its slow, torturous rhythm. "I’ve got you, hyung," he murmured.
Hyeonjoon’s breath stuttered, his body coiling tight beneath Hyeonjun’s touch, his cock throbbing, his release so close he could taste it. But he didn’t move. He couldn’t. Not when Hyeonjun’s hand was on his chest, grounding him. Not when his dark eyes were burning into him, owning him.
Hyeonjun’s fingers twisted just slightly with every upward stroke, his thumb swiping over the tip in slow, deliberate circles. The pleasure was too much, overwhelming, and Hyeonjoon’s breath came in short, desperate gasps, his body trembling, his fingers clawing at Hyeonjun’s wrist. "P-Please—" The word escaped him, broken and raw, his voice barely a whisper.
The air in the room seemed to thicken as Hyeonjun’s fingers slid lower, trailing away from Hyeonjoon’s aching cock to trace a slow, deliberate path toward his entrance. The touch was feather-light at first, just the barest brush of his fingertips against the sensitive skin, and Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched, his body tensing instinctively. His fingers still clung to Hyeonjun’s wrist, his knuckles white, his other hand weakly grasping Hyeonjun’s fingers as if they were the only thing keeping him grounded. Hyeonjun’s dark eyes never left his face, studying every flicker of emotion, every hitch in his breath, every way his body reacted to the touch. There was something intense in his gaze—something possessive, something careful—as if he were memorizing the way Hyeonjoon’s lips parted, the way his lashes fluttered, the way his chest rose and fell with each ragged inhale.
Hyeonjun’s fingers pressed just slightly against his entrance, the pressure firm but not invasive, testing. "You okay, hyung?" His voice was low, rough around the edges, laced with a concern that made Hyeonjoon’s throat tighten.
Hyeonjoon nodded desperately, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps. "Y-Yes," he managed, his voice barely above a whisper. He was okay. More than okay. He was aching for it, his body trembling with the need to be filled, to be owned, to be Hyeonjun’s in every way possible.
Hyeonjun’s lips quirked, just slightly, his dark eyes burning with something that made Hyeonjoon’s stomach twist. "Good boy," he murmured, his voice thick with approval as he reached for the lube again, the bottle making a soft, wet sound as he squeezed more onto his fingers. The gel was cool against Hyeonjoon’s overheated skin, the sensation making him shiver as Hyeonjun’s slick fingers pressed against him again, this time with more purpose.
The first finger slid in slowly, carefully, and Hyeonjoon’s breath broke in a gasp, his body tensing before forcing himself to relax, to breathe. The stretch was intense, the pressure unfamiliar but not painful, the slickness of the lube making the intrusion smooth. His fingers tightened around Hyeonjun’s wrist, his grip almost desperate as he tried to ground himself, to focus on the way Hyeonjun’s dark eyes never left his, the way his breath hitched just slightly as he watched Hyeonjoon take him in.
"That’s it," Hyeonjun murmured, his voice a dark rumble as his finger slid deeper, his thumb pressing against the sensitive skin just behind Hyeonjoon’s balls. "Just like that, hyung. Breathe."
Hyeonjoon exhaled shakily, his body trembling as Hyeonjun’s finger began to move, slow and deliberate, the sensation sending jolts of pleasure through him that made his cock twitch, his hips shift restlessly against the bed. The sounds of slick skin filled the room, wet and obscene, the noise mixing with Hyeonjoon’s ragged breaths, his quiet whimpers. It was too much, overwhelming, but he didn’t want it to stop. He couldn’t want it to stop.
Hyeonjun’s finger curled just slightly, pressing against that spot inside him that made his breath catch, his body jerking, his fingers clawing at Hyeonjun’s wrist. "F-Fuck—" The word escaped him, broken and raw, his voice trembling.
Hyeonjun’s dark chuckle sent another shiver through him, his finger stilling for just a second before he added a second, the stretch burning just slightly but good, so good. "Such a good boy," Hyeonjun murmured, his voice thick with approval as his fingers worked in slow, twisting motions, his thumb still pressing against the sensitive skin behind Hyeonjoon’s balls. "Taking me so well."
Hyeonjoon’s breath stuttered, his body coiling tight beneath Hyeonjun’s touch, his cock throbbing, his mind blanking with the overwhelming sensation. His fingers tightened around Hyeonjun’s wrist, his grip almost painful, his tears spilling over as he looked up at him, his dark eyes burning with need, with desperation. "More—" he whimpered, his voice raw, his body aching with the need to be filled.
Hyeonjun’s dark eyes flickered, something wicked and promising in their depths as his fingers twisted just slightly, pressing deeper, the stretch burning but perfect, the pleasure coiling tight in Hyeonjoon’s stomach.
The pressure inside Hyeonjoon built with every deliberate twist of Hyeonjun’s fingers, each movement sending jolts of pleasure so intense they bordered on pain. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body trembling as Hyeonjun’s fingers found that spot inside him again and again, pressing with a relentless precision that made his vision blur. His cock throbbed, aching and neglected, but Hyeonjun’s touch never wavered from his prostate, his fingers curling and pressing in a rhythm that left Hyeonjoon gasping, his feets clawing at the sheets.
"Hyeonjun—" His voice broke, a desperate plea escaping his lips as his body coiled tighter, the pleasure overwhelming, too much. His hips jerked involuntarily, his body trying to chase the sensation, to escape it, but Hyeonjun’s free hand pressed firmly against his lower stomach, holding him in place. The pressure was grounding, restrictive, and it only made the pleasure more intense, his body trapped between the relentless stimulation inside him and the unyielding weight of Hyeonjun’s palm.
"You’re doing so well, hyung," Hyeonjun murmured, his voice a dark rumble as his fingers pressed deeper, his touch unrelenting. "Just like this. Take it."
Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched, his body trembling as the pleasure built, his cock twitching desperately, his release so close he could feel it coiling tight in his stomach. But Hyeonjun’s hand remained on his lower stomach, his fingers pressing just hard enough to keep him from moving, to keep him still. The denial was maddening, his body aching with the need to come, to let go, but Hyeonjun’s touch never faltered, his fingers pressing, twisting, owning him.
"P-Please—" Hyeonjoon’s voice broke, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes as the pleasure became too much, his body trembling, his mind blanking with the overwhelming sensation. His cock throbbed, his release right there, just out of reach, his body coiling tighter, tighter—
And then, with a broken sob, he came.
His release spilled over his stomach in hot, desperate pulses, his body shuddering with the force of it, his tears falling freely as the pleasure crashed over him, overwhelming and uncontrollable. He hadn’t been given permission. He hadn’t been allowed. But his body had betrayed him, his release wrenched from him by the relentless pressure of Hyeonjun’s fingers, the unyielding weight of his hand.
Hyeonjun didn’t stop.
His fingers continued to press, to twist, drawing out the pleasure until it bordered on pain, until Hyeonjoon’s body jerked, his breath breaking in sobs, his tears falling freely. "N-No—" he whimpered, his voice raw, his body trembling as the overstimulation sent waves of pleasure and discomfort crashing through him.
Hyeonjun’s voice was low, rough with something Hyeonjoon couldn’t quite name—amusement, satisfaction, or maybe just the raw edge of control. "You came without my permission, hyung." His fingers finally stilled, though the ghost of their pressure still lingered inside Hyeonjoon, his body trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure and the sting of overstimulation.
Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched, his voice breaking as he tried to apologize. "I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—I just—" The words tumbled out, raw and desperate, but Hyeonjun’s fingers pressed gently against his lips, silencing him.
"Shhh." Hyeonjun’s voice was firm but not unkind, his touch warm as he cupped Hyeonjoon’s jaw, tilting his face up just enough to meet his gaze. "No apologies." His thumb brushed over Hyeonjoon’s bottom lip, his dark eyes burning with something that made Hyeonjoon’s chest tighten. "You’re mine, remember? Even when you break the rules."
Hyeonjoon’s breath stuttered, his tears still falling as Hyeonjun guided him to turn over, his movements slow and careful. The sheets were cool against his overheated skin as he settled face-down on the bed, his buttocks still raised slightly, his head turned to the side. His cheek pressed against the fabric, the tears instantly soaking into the sheets, the dampness a stark contrast to the warmth of his skin. The buckle of the collar pressed against his Adam’s apple, a constant, grounding reminder of Hyeonjun’s claim. His fingers flew instinctively to touch it, tracing the edge of the leather, the engraved name beneath his fingertips. Hyeonjun. His.
Hyeonjun’s hand slid down his back, slow and deliberate, his touch warm and possessive as he traced the curve of Hyeonjoon’s spine. "Such a good boy," he murmured, his voice a dark rumble that sent a shiver down Hyeonjoon’s skin. "Even when you’re a mess for me."
Hyeonjoon’s breath broke in a quiet sob, his body still trembling, his mind a blur of pleasure and emotion. The weight of the collar, the press of Hyeonjun’s hand, the way his voice wrapped around him—it was all too much, overwhelming in the best way. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. He just felt, his fingers still curled around the collar, his tears falling silently into the sheets.
Hyeonjun’s fingers slid lower, tracing the curve of his hip before resting on the small of his back, his touch grounding. "You’re perfect, hyung," he murmured, his voice thick with something that made Hyeonjoon’s chest ache. "But you still need to be punished for disobeying the rules, hyung."
Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched, his body tensing as Hyeonjun’s fingers pressed against his entrance again, this time without hesitation. Three fingers slid in at once, the stretch burning but good, the slickness of the lube making the intrusion smooth. But this time, Hyeonjun avoided his prostate, his fingers pressing and twisting in ways that made Hyeonjoon’s breath stutter, his body aching with the need for more. His mind blanked, his thoughts narrowing to just Hyeonjun—his warmth, his fingers, the way his other hand pressed firmly against the back of his neck, pushing him down into the mattress.
"You’re going to take a fourth, hyung," Hyeonjun murmured, his voice rough with command, his fingers pressing deeper, stretching him until Hyeonjoon’s breath broke in a whimper. The burn was intense, his body trembling as Hyeonjun’s fingers worked him open, his touch unrelenting. "You can handle it."
Hyeonjoon’s fingers clawed at the sheets, his body trembling as the fourth finger pressed in, the stretch overwhelming, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps. "F-Fuck—" The word escaped him, broken and raw, his voice trembling as his body adjusted to the intrusion, his mind blanking with the overwhelming sensation.
Hyeonjun’s dark chuckle sent another shiver through him, his fingers twisting just slightly, the stretch burning but perfect. "Such a good boy," he murmured, his voice thick with approval. "Taking me so well."
Hyeonjoon’s body shuddered, his cock already hardening again, aching and neglected between his thighs. The pleasure was too much, overwhelming, and his mind blanked, his thoughts focused only on Hyeonjun—his warmth, his fingers, the way his hand pressed against the back of his neck, holding him down, owning him.
And then, without warning, Hyeonjun’s free hand came down in a sharp smack against his ass.
Hyeonjoon’s breath broke in a gasp, his body jerking, the sting of the impact sending a jolt through him. "Hyeonjun—" His voice was raw, desperate, his body trembling as Hyeonjun’s hand came down again, this time on his upper thigh, the sound echoing in the quiet room.
"You disobeyed, hyung," Hyeonjun murmured, his voice rough as his hand came down again, the sting mixing with the pleasure, the pain making his cock twitch, his body aching with need. "You came without permission."
Hyeonjoon’s breath stuttered, his body trembling as Hyeonjun’s fingers pressed deeper, his touch unrelenting. "P-Please—" he whimpered, his voice raw, his tears falling freely as the pleasure and pain twisted together, his mind blanking with the overwhelming sensation. "Please, fuck me—" The words spilled from his lips, broken and desperate, his body aching with the need to be filled, to be owned, to be Hyeonjun’s in every way possible. "I can handle it—I need it—"
"Such a needy boy," he murmured, his voice thick with amusement as his hand came down again. "Begging so pretty for me."
Hyeonjoon’s breath broke in a sob, his body trembling as Hyeonjun’s fingers pressed deeper, his touch unrelenting. "Please—" he whimpered, his voice raw, his tears falling freely as the pleasure and pain twisted together, his mind blanking with the overwhelming sensation. "Please, fuck me—" The words spilled from his lips.
Hyeonjun’s breath hitched, his own control fraying at the edges as Hyeonjoon’s broken pleas filled the room, raw and desperate. The sound of his voice, the way his body trembled beneath his touch, the way he begged—it was too much. With a low groan, Hyeonjun’s free hand slid down to press against the hard length of his own cock through his pants, his fingers curling around himself as he stroked in slow, deliberate motions. The friction was a poor substitute for what he really wanted, but it was enough to take the edge off, enough to keep him grounded as he watched Hyeonjoon fall apart beneath him.
"No, hyung," Hyeonjun murmured, his voice rough and strained as his fingers twisted deeper inside Hyeonjoon, his touch unrelenting. "I’m not going to fuck you." The words were a dark promise, his voice thick with the effort to maintain control. His own cock throbbed beneath his hand, his body aching with the need to bury himself inside Hyeonjoon, to claim him in every way possible. But he wouldn’t. Not yet. Not when Hyeonjoon was like this—so desperate, so broken.
Hyeonjoon’s breath broke in a sob, his body trembling as Hyeonjun’s fingers pressed deeper, his touch maddening. "Please—" he whimpered, his voice raw, his tears falling freely as he pushed back against Hyeonjun’s hand, his body aching with the need to be filled. "I need you—I need it—" His words were broken, desperate, his mind blanking with the overwhelming sensation, his body coiling tight with the need to come.
Hyeonjun’s dark chuckle was strained, his own breath coming in short, uneven gasps as he stroked himself, his fingers working Hyeonjoon with the same relentless rhythm. "You’re mine, hyung," he growled, his voice rough with need. "And you’ll come when I say so." His fingers curled inside Hyeonjoon, pressing against that spot that made his breath catch, his body jerk, his cock twitching desperately between his thighs.
Hyeonjoon’s breath stuttered, his body trembling as the pleasure built, his release so close he could taste it. "P-Please—" he sobbed, his voice breaking, his fingers clawing at the sheets, his body aching with the need to come, to let go, to be Hyeonjun’s in every way possible. "I can’t—I can’t—"
Hyeonjun’s dark eyes burned with something wicked, something possessive, as his fingers twisted deeper, his touch unrelenting. "You can," he murmured, his voice a dark promise as his own hand picked up speed, his cock throbbing beneath his touch. "And you will."
The words slipped out before Hyeonjoon could stop them, raw and trembling, muffled against the damp sheets. "I love you." His voice broke on the syllables, barely more than a whisper, but the moment they left his lips, the world seemed to still. His fingers clawed at the fabric beneath him, his body still trembling from the edge of release, his mind foggy with pleasure and need. But then—realization. His breath caught, his body freezing as the weight of what he’d just said crashed over him like a wave.
Hyeonjoon’s eyes flew open, wide and panicked, as he registered the sudden stillness in the room. Hyeonjun’s fingers, which had been moving inside him just moments before, were now completely motionless. The air between them felt electric, charged with something Hyeonjoon couldn’t name—shock, maybe, or something deeper, something more dangerous. He turned his head just enough to see Hyeonjun staring at him, his dark eyes unreadable, his expression frozen in a way that made Hyeonjoon’s stomach twist.
Panic clawed up his throat.
With Hyeonjun’s fingers still buried inside him, Hyeonjoon jerked away, his body twisting as he rolled onto his side, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. The sheets were damp beneath his cheek, his skin still flushed and oversensitive, but the heat of arousal had vanished, replaced by a cold, creeping dread. His fingers trembled as he pressed his palms against the mattress, as if he could somehow push himself away from the moment, from the words he couldn’t take back.
Hyeonjun’s hand reached for him, slow and careful, but the moment his fingers brushed against Hyeonjoon’s shoulder, Hyeonjoon flinched away, his voice breaking on a single, desperate word: "Red."
The room seemed to hold its breath.
Hyeonjun’s hand stilled mid-air, his fingers curling into a loose fist before he pulled back, his expression carefully neutral. The silence between them was deafening, filled only by the sound of Hyeonjoon’s ragged breathing, his body still trembling—not with pleasure now, but with something far more fragile. Hyeonjun’s fingers slid gently from inside him, the absence of their presence making Hyeonjoon’s stomach clench.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then, slowly, Hyeonjun shifted back, giving Hyeonjoon space. His voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet, carefully controlled. "Hyung—"
Hyeonjoon couldn’t look at him. He pressed his face into the sheets, his fingers curling into the fabric as if it could anchor him, as if it could make the last few minutes disappear. His heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts, a thousand fears. What have I done? What does he think? Does he—?
Hyeonjun’s voice was soft, but it cut through the suffocating silence like a blade. "Hyung, the scene is over." His tone was careful, measured, as if he were approaching a wounded animal. "Relax. Breathe." He paused, waiting for some sign of acknowledgment, but Hyeonjoon remained motionless, his face still buried in the sheets, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts.
Hyeonjun exhaled slowly, his fingers twitching at his sides before he reached for the cloth he kept on the nightstand. "What do you need?" he asked, his voice low and steady. "Tell me, hyung. Do you want me to leave? Do you want to talk?" Another pause. When Hyeonjoon didn’t respond, Hyeonjun’s voice grew quieter, rougher. "Can I touch you? At least let me take care of you. Please."
Hyeonjoon’s fingers curled tighter into the fabric, but after a long moment, he gave a barely perceptible nod. It was all the permission Hyeonjun needed.
With slow, deliberate movements, Hyeonjun dipped the cloth into the warm water he’d prepared earlier, wringing it out before bringing it to Hyeonjoon’s skin. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, as he cleaned him—first his thighs, then the dampness between his legs, careful not to linger, not to press. Hyeonjoon didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t look at him. His body was tense, his breath still uneven, but he didn’t pull away.
Hyeonjun worked in silence, his movements efficient but tender. He could feel the way Hyeonjoon’s body trembled beneath his hands, the way his breath hitched every time the cloth brushed too close to somewhere sensitive. When he was done, he set the cloth aside and reached for Hyeonjoon’s discarded clothes, helping him into them with the same quiet care. His fingers brushed against Hyeonjoon’s wrists as he guided his arms into the sleeves of his hoodie, and for a second, Hyeonjoon’s breath stuttered, his body tensing. But he didn’t stop Hyeonjun. He didn’t say a word.
Hyeonjun pulled the fabric down gently, smoothing it over Hyeonjoon’s shoulders before stepping back, giving him space. The room felt heavier now, the air thick with everything left unsaid. Hyeonjun’s chest ached as he watched Hyeonjoon sit there, still curled in on himself, his face hidden, his silence deafening.
He wanted to say something—to fix this, to make it better—but he didn’t know how. So instead, he reached out one last time, his hand hovering just above Hyeonjoon’s shoulder before pulling back. "I’m here," he murmured, his voice rough. "Whenever you’re ready."
The door clicked shut with a soft finality, leaving Hyeonjoon alone in the suffocating silence of his room. The weight of Hyeonjun’s absence pressed down on him like a physical force, his chest aching with a pain that went deeper than anything he’d ever felt. His fingers trembled as he wiped at his face, his tears still falling freely, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. He couldn’t stay like this. He couldn’t let Hyeonjun walk away thinking—thinking what? That this was just a scene? That what they had was nothing more than a game?
Before he could stop himself, Hyeonjoon pushed off the bed, his legs unsteady as he stumbled toward the door. He didn’t care that he was still a mess, that his eyes were red and swollen, that his voice would break the moment he tried to speak. He didn’t care about anything except the desperate, gnawing need to make Hyeonjun understand.
The dorm was quiet, the usual hum of activity absent as everyone else had already retreated to their rooms for the night. Hyeonjoon found Hyeonjun standing in the hallway, his back to him, his posture tense, as if he’d been about to walk away. The sight of him made Hyeonjoon’s chest tighten, his breath catching in his throat.
"Hyeonjun—"
Hyeonjun turned at the sound of his voice, his dark eyes widening slightly as he took in Hyeonjoon’s state—the tears still streaking down his face, the way his hands clenched at his sides, the raw, desperate look in his eyes. "Hyung—" His voice was rough, laced with something that sounded like regret, like pain.
Hyeonjoon’s breath broke in a sob, his fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie. "I love you," he whispered, his voice raw and trembling. The words spilled out again, but this time, they weren’t an accident. They were a confession, a plea, a desperate attempt to make Hyeonjun see what he’d been too afraid to say before. "It’s not just the scenes. It’s not just the sex. It’s you. It’s always been you."
Hyeonjun’s expression flickered, something raw and pained flashing across his face before he looked away, his jaw tightening. "Hyung—" His voice was strained, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "You know I care about you. But this—this—" He gestured between them, his voice breaking just slightly. "I can’t give you what you want."
Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched, his chest tightening as if someone had reached inside him and squeezed his heart. "W-What?" His voice was barely a whisper, his tears falling faster now, his body trembling.
Hyeonjun’s dark eyes met his again, and the pain in them made Hyeonjoon’s stomach twist. "I see you as a sub, hyung. A partner in this. But not—not like that." His voice was rough, his words careful, as if he were trying to soften the blow. "I don’t want to ruin what we have. I don’t want to lose this."
Hyeonjoon’s breath broke in a sob, his body shaking as the words hit him like a physical blow. "So that’s all I am to you?" His voice was raw, desperate. "Just another sub? Just another scene?" He could barely get the words out, his chest aching with the weight of them. "I thought we had something real. I thought—" His voice cracked, his tears falling freely now, his body trembling with the force of his sobs. "I thought you felt it too."
Hyeonjun’s expression twisted, something that looked like guilt flashing across his face. "Hyung—"
"No!" Hyeonjoon’s voice broke, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "Don’t hyung me like that. Not when you’re telling me this is all just a game to you." His breath hitched, his body shaking as the pain crashed over him, overwhelming and suffocating. "I love you," he whispered again, his voice raw and broken. "And you’re telling me it doesn’t matter."
Hyeonjun’s dark eyes burned with something that looked like regret, like sorrow. "It’s not that it doesn’t matter," he said, his voice rough. "It’s that I can’t—" He cut himself off, his jaw tightening as if he were holding back words he couldn’t say. "I don’t want to hurt you, hyung. But I can’t give you what you’re asking for."
Hyeonjoon’s breath broke in a sob, his body trembling as the reality of Hyeonjun’s words settled over him. He felt like he was drowning, like the world was crashing down around him and there was nothing he could do to stop it. "You are hurting me," he whispered, his voice raw and trembling. "You’re hurting me more than you ever could by just walking away."
Hyeonjun’s expression twisted, his hands clenching into fists at his sides as if he were fighting the urge to reach out, to pull Hyeonjoon into his arms. "I’m sorry," he murmured, his voice thick with something that sounded like grief. "I never wanted to hurt you."
Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched, his body shaking as the tears fell freely down his face. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to fix this. All he knew was that his heart was breaking, and Hyeonjun was standing there, watching it happen, unable—or unwilling—to stop it.
The silence between them was deafening, filled only by the sound of Hyeonjoon’s ragged breathing, his quiet sobs. Hyeonjun’s dark eyes burned with something that looked like pain, like regret, but he didn’t move. He didn’t reach out. He didn’t say anything else.
And in that moment, Hyeonjoon realized that this—this right here—was the end of something he’d never even known he had until it was slipping through his fingers. The collar around his neck felt heavy, suffocating, and for the first time, he wished it weren’t there. He wished he could take it off, throw it away, pretend none of this had ever happened.
But he couldn’t.
So instead, he turned and walked away, his body trembling, his tears falling freely as he retreated to his room, leaving Hyeonjun standing there, alone in the hallway, with nothing but the echoes of Hyeonjoon’s broken heart between them.
The hallway felt like it was closing in around them, the air thick with the weight of everything left unsaid—and now, everything that had been said. Hyeonjun’s voice dropped to a low, rough growl, his dark eyes burning with something Hyeonjoon couldn’t name—frustration, maybe, or something deeper, something more painful. "You’re lying," he said, his voice raw, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. "You don’t mean it. You’re just—just confused. It was the scene. The moment."
Hyeonjoon’s breath hitched, his body trembling as he turned back to face Hyeonjun, his tears still falling freely, his chest aching with a pain that felt like it would never fade. "I’m not," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I love you. And you’re standing there telling me it’s all in my head—"
Hyeonjun’s expression twisted, something raw and desperate flashing across his face before he took a sharp step forward, his voice rising, cracking with emotion. "Then why the hell did you say it like that?!" His hands clenched at his sides, his dark eyes burning with a mix of anger and something that looked like betrayal. "Everything was fine until you—until you ruined it!"
The words hit Hyeonjoon like a slap. His breath broke in a sob, his body shaking as the weight of Hyeonjun’s accusation settled over him. "Ruined it?" His voice was raw, his tears falling faster now, his fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie. "I love you. And you’re telling me I ruined it?"
Hyeonjun’s chest heaved, his expression a mix of frustration and something that looked like grief. "You don’t even know what you’re saying—"
"Just leave me alone!" Hyeonjoon’s voice broke, his body trembling as he took a stumbling step back, his tears blurring his vision. He couldn’t bear to look at Hyeonjun anymore, couldn’t bear to see the way his dark eyes burned with anger, with disbelief. "I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want any of it."
Hyeonjun’s breath caught, his expression freezing as if Hyeonjoon had struck him. "What?" His voice was barely a whisper, raw and trembling.
Hyeonjoon’s fingers flew to the collar around his neck, his touch shaking as he gripped the leather, the physical reminder of everything he’d just lost. "I don’t want the contract. I don’t want this." His voice broke, his tears falling freely as he looked up at Hyeonjun, his dark eyes burning with a mix of pain and something that looked like betrayal. "I don’t trust you anymore."
The words hung between them, heavy and final.
Hyeonjun’s face paled, his expression crumbling as if Hyeonjoon had reached inside his chest and torn something out. "Hyung—" His voice was raw, his hands reaching out before falling to his sides, his dark eyes wide with something that looked like devastation. "You can’t—"
"I can," Hyeonjoon whispered, his voice breaking as he turned away, his body trembling with the force of his sobs. "And I will."
Hyeonjun didn’t follow him.
He just stood there, frozen in the hallway, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his dark eyes burning with a pain that matched the ache in Hyeonjoon’s chest. The silence between them was deafening, filled only by the sound of Hyeonjoon’s retreating footsteps and the quiet, shattered pieces of something that had once felt like everything.
The hallway stretched out in front of Hyeonjun like a void, the silence pressing down on him until it felt like he couldn’t breathe. He stood there, frozen, his fingers curled into tight fists at his sides, his chest burning with a mix of anger and regret. The weight of Hyeonjoon’s words still echoed in his mind, raw and desperate, and the way Hyeonjoon had turned away—broken, trembling—made something inside him twist painfully.
He didn’t know how long he stood there. Time felt suspended, the quiet of the dorm suffocating. But then, the soft creak of a door opening behind him shattered the stillness. Hyeonjun didn’t turn immediately. He didn’t want to face anyone, didn’t want to see the concern or the questions in their eyes. But Sanghyeok’s voice cut through the silence, quiet but firm.
"Hyeonjun?"
Hyeonjun’s jaw tightened. He didn’t look at him, his gaze fixed on the floor as if he could burn a hole through it. "Not now," he muttered, his voice rough, barely more than a growl.
Sanghyeok hesitated, but Hyeonjun could feel his gaze on him, assessing, concerned. "Are you okay? What happened?"
Hyeonjun’s fingers twitched, his anger at himself flaring hotter. He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to feel. He just needed to get out of here, to breathe, to escape the weight of what he’d just done. Without another word, he turned sharply, his movements stiff as he grabbed the keys from the counter by the door. His voice was clipped, barely controlled. "I’ll be right back. Look after Doran."
Sanghyeok didn’t press, though Hyeonjun could feel his gaze lingering on him, heavy with unspoken questions. But he didn’t care. He couldn’t care. Not right now.
The door slammed shut behind him as he stepped out into the cool night air, the keys biting into his palm. He didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t know what he was doing. All he knew was that he needed to move, to run, to outpace the guilt and the anger and the ache in his chest.
Because if he didn’t, he’d break. And he couldn’t afford to break. Not now. Not ever.
The apartment was quiet when Hyeonjun finally returned, the night air still clinging to his skin as he stepped inside. The dorm was dark, the only sound the distant hum of the refrigerator and the quiet rhythm of his teammates’ breathing behind closed doors. He moved through the space like a ghost, his footsteps silent, his mind still a storm of regret and self-loathing.
When he pushed open the door to his room, the first thing he saw was the collar.
It lay on his bed, carefully placed in the center, the black leather stark against the dark sheets. The silver buckle glinted faintly in the dim light filtering in from the hallway, the engraving—Hyeonjoon—catching his eye like a knife to the chest. His breath hitched, his fingers trembling as he reached out, hesitating just above it. The leather was still warm, as if it had just been removed, as if Hyeonjoon had only just taken it off.
Hyeonjun’s throat tightened. He didn’t need to ask why it was there. He already knew.
He sank onto the edge of the bed, his fingers finally brushing over the collar, tracing the engraving with a touch so light it was almost reverent. The weight of it in his palm felt like a betrayal. He had given it to Hyeonjoon as a promise, as a claim, as something that was supposed to bind them together. And now, it was back. Returned. Rejected.
His chest ached, the guilt and regret twisting inside him like a living thing. He had done this. He had pushed Hyeonjoon away when all he had wanted was to be close. He had taken the one thing Hyeonjoon had offered him—his heart—and crushed it beneath the weight of his own fear.
For a long moment, he just sat there, the collar clutched in his hand, his breath uneven. The room felt too small, the silence too heavy. He wanted to go to Hyeonjoon. He wanted to kneel at his door and beg for forgiveness, to tell him he had been wrong, that he was wrong. But the words stuck in his throat, tangled in the same fear that had driven him to push Hyeonjoon away in the first place.
He didn’t deserve forgiveness. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
With a shaky exhale, he set the collar down on the nightstand, his fingers lingering on it for just a second longer before pulling away. The leather felt cold now, lifeless. Like everything else in this room. Like everything else in him.
He didn’t bother turning on the light. He didn’t bother undressing. He just lay down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, the weight of the collar’s absence pressing down on him like a physical force.
He had ruined this. He had ruined them.