AUGUST IS A FEVER Kim Seungmin

AUGUST IS A FEVER — kim seungmin

pairing: kim seungmin x fem!reader genre: smut, fluff word count: 12k warnings: 18+ minors dni!!! mild jealousy, mean(ish) dom!seungmin (he's mean in a nice way okay), face fucking, hair pulling (f. rec), thigh riding, overstimulation, dumbification, mild degradation/humiliation, aftercare

summary: seungmin is the picture of self control around you—the perfect gentleman with no interest in you at all. maybe that is why you are so obsessed with seeing how far you can push him before he breaks. OR, hyunjin is convinced that seungmin is into you, and you are determined to prove him wrong.

"Stop looking at him like that," Hyunjin sighs.

"Stop looking at him like what?" You ask innocently.

"Like you want to jump his bones."

"I have no idea what you mean."

"...Two minutes ago you said you wanted to, and I quote, "lick the sweat off of his face.""

"Really?" You ponder. "That doesn't sound like me."

"Yes it does!"

You groan, fanning yourself with your hand. "Whatever! Can you blame me? He just looks so hot!"

The view from where you are sitting on the sidelines is spectacular, glorious even—so much so that you can almost forget the sun beating down on you as you wait for your friends to finish up their game.

"Nope," Hyunjin covers his ears. "I am not going to agree while you objectify my best friend."

"Okay... Well, it's not my fault that your best friend is the sexiest man on the face of the Earth."

You have always thought that Kim Seungmin looks the hottest when playing sports, and it is rewarding to (yet again) find yourself proven correct. Today, he is the main event: with his brow furrowed in singular determination, his hidden competitive nature full on display, his lean body hidden underneath a deceptive white tee and black joggers...

There isn't anything overtly provocative about him today, and yet you still have to stifle the urge to strut onto that field, grab him by the wrist, drag him behind the bleachers, drop to your knees, and suck him dry.

"I'm literally right here!" Hyunjin cries.

On the field, Jisung clumsily passes to Seungmin, who dribbles the ball down the field and swipes a sharp left, kicking the ball straight into the goal past Chan.

A small, self-assured smirked hooks onto the edge of his mouth when he walks back to his position, and you have to fan yourself to stop the heat on your cheeks from spreading down your neck.

"Oh honey," you tut, only momentarily distracted by the glorious view in front of you. "It's okay, I still think you're cute."

"That is so condescending coming from someone who can't confess their feelings to a guy who is obviously into them," Hyunjin scoffs. "And I'm not cute! I'm sexy."

"I don't know how many times I have to tell you this," you roll your eyes, gaze still trained on the field. "But Kim Seungmin is not into me."

"Yes he is."

"No... He isn't."

"And who are you to tell me that?" Hyunjin narrows his eyes. "I think I know my best friend well enough to know how he feels, thank you very much!"

You swat at the back of his head.

"Hyunjin, you are literally one of the most oblivious people in the world," you point out. "Forgive me for not taking your word for it."

"Okay, b-but!" Hyunjin splutters. "Not when it comes to this. I'm telling you, Seungmin is so down bad for you, it's actually painful."

"And how do you know that?" You ask, mostly just to humor him.

"Because it's obvious!" He exclaims. "Literally everyone knows. Everyone."

"Mhm," you nod along. "And... Has Seungmin ever told you this?"

Hyunjin pauses for a moment.

"...W-Well—"

You click your tongue. "That's what I thought."

"He doesn't have to say it for me to know," Hyunjin insists.

"Uh, really?" You snort. "Because it sounds to me like you're just pulling things out of your ass."

Across the field, Jisung cheers as Seungmin scores another goal. By now, they have been playing long enough in the heat for rivulets of sweat to carve their way down his face, and the thought comes to mind once again—you would love to lick it off his face. Desperately. Maybe if you begged nicely, he would let you have a taste...

Would he like it if you begged?

"Dude," Hyunjin deadpans. "All he has to do is look at you and he pops a boner. I think that's a pretty good indication that he's into you."

"Really?" You ask, momentarily stupefied by the thought of Seungmin's dick.

"Yes."

"No way," you exclaim a moment later, shaking your head. "Seungmin would never."

"Be attracted to someone? Yeah, I used to think so too..."

"No!" You pout, pinching his arm. "I mean he's such a gentleman. There is no way that is true."

"Yeah," Hyunjin scoffs. "If being a gentleman means jacking off as soon as he gets home from hanging out with you, then sure."

"Don't talk about him like that!" You pull him into a headlock. "Just because you are a nasty little shit doesn't mean that he is, too."

"Oh, god," Hyunjin groans in agony. "Yes, he definitely is."

Your grip on his neck tightens and a choked wheeze passes through his lips. A vindictive smile slips onto your face at the thought of making him suffer for putting strange thoughts about Seungmin into your head, and your grip tightens even more.

It is only when you chance a look up at the game and find Seungmin staring in your direction that your chokehold on Hyunjin slackens. Under the heated weight of his stare, the blush that you spent so long trying to fight off comes back in full force.

"See?" Hyunjin hisses. "I told you he's into you! Oh god, he looks like he's plotting my murder."

"I dunno," you sigh. "I think he looks kind of dreamy."

You drop your arm completely, and Hyunjin wrestles himself free from your grip. Seungmin smiles at you before turning back to the match, and you swoon on the spot.

"Wow," Hyunjin wrinkles his nose in disgust. "In the most offensive way possible, I think you two are meant for each other."

"Aw, you really think so?" You beam.

"Unfortunately..."

You frown. "Well... If Seungmin is so into me, why hasn't he made a move yet?"

"Because you're a psychopath?" Hyunjin guesses.

"Hwang Hyunjin, keep it up and I'm going to be the one murdering you," you threaten.

"Okay, okay!" He holds his hands up in surrender. "I dunno. Maybe he's just a pussy?"

"He's twice the man you are," you sniff.

"You're only saying that because you want his dick in your mouth," Hyunjin notes drily.

"No I'm not!" You protest. "...Well, that's not the only reason."

Jeongin runs past you, the ball between his feet as a mischievous cackle escapes his lips, and the slight tailwind he provides only grants you a moderate amount of solace from the heat beating down.

"Believe me, don't believe me..." Hyunjin trails off. "I don't really care."

"Rude," you pout. Jeongin misses the goal, and Seungmin runs a frustrated hand through his hair as he turns to face him.

"All I'm saying is that there is a foolproof way to figure out whether or not Seungmin actually wants to fuck your brains out."

"And that is...?"

"He rolls his eyes. "Duh. Just seduce him."

"I'm not going to do that!" You hiss. "He's going to think I'm a gross little gremlin that's trying to get into his pants and then he's going to reject me!"

"But you are a gross little gremlin trying to get into his pants."

"Not true! I like Seungmin for more than just his body, thank you very much."

"Okay..." Hyunjin says. "Well, as I've already said, he's definitely not going to reject you."

"You don't know that." You glare at him. "When was the last time you saw him accept anybody's advances?"

"Literally never because, again, he's into you!" Hyunjin exclaims.

"As if."

"Whatever!" He throws his hands up in the air, his face growing redder by the second. "You know what, do whatever you want. I don't care. I tried!"

Hyunjin pushes himself up from the ground, dusting his pants off in a tight and jerky motions.

"Wait," you begin. "Hyunjin!"

He doesn't spare you a glance as he stomps off towards where the rest of your friends seem to—finally—be wrapping up their game.

"Where are you going? Hyunjin? Come back!"

A nice cold shower is exactly what you need after a morning of watching a sweaty Seungmin in his element.

Which is why the moment that you and the guys make it back to Seungmin and Hyunjin's apartment, you waste no time in claiming Hyunjin's bathroom for yourself.

He refuses to speak to you the entire way back, and you decide to take your revenge by making a break for his bathroom. Maybe it's mean, because you know he's had to pee for the past twenty minutes, but you find a little bit too much joy in seeing him suffer to actually care.

You are grateful to find your shampoo is still in the same spot you left it last week when you stayed over. Hyunjin might be your best friend, but you wouldn't put it past him to use it all up—that was the fate of your facial cleanser last time you left it at his place.

The steady stream of water pelting your back is soothing as you wash yourself, and the lukewarm water does wonders for your horniness.

"Hurry the fuck up," Hyunjin whines, bursting through the door without a second thought. His irritating voice only helps quash your horniness further.

The shower curtain is solid enough that you can only make out his vague outline through it, but you don't have to wonder what he is doing in here for long—the sound of him peeing is undeniable, and you wrinkle your nose in disgust.

"You're so annoying," you shout at him.

"Whatever," Hyunjin gripes, washing his hands. "I'm hungry, so like... Hurry the fuck up."

"Yeah, yeah," you dismiss. He lets out a huff, then exists without saying another word.

Your shower lasts a little longer than usual—mostly because you know that it will piss Hyunjin off. By the time you are finished, only five stray thoughts about jumping Seungmin's bones have passed through your head, which you consider an accomplishment.

A warm blanket of contentment settles over you as you towel yourself dry. It is only after a few moments without the stream of the shower dulling your senses that you get the odd feeling that something is off.

It takes another moment for you to realize that the apartment is awfully quiet. The faint buzz of the TV streams in through the walls, but other than that... Nothing.

For a moment, you wonder if your friends have finally learned how to act like normal people and actually use their inside voices—but then you remember that Minho and Changbin couldn't shut up even if they wanted to. Which means that either someone has finally snapped and forcibly gagged them, or... They aren't here.

The urge to go investigate is so overwhelming that you decide to skip blowdrying your hair altogether (scandalous, you know), but when you reach for your clothes, you realize they are not where you left them.

In fact, a quick survey of the bathroom reveals that they are nowhere to be found at all.

"What the...?" You gnaw on your lip.

Then it clicks. You knew Hyunjin had been too quiet earlier when leaving the bathroom. He must have taken your clothes...

Which normally wouldn't have been that big of a predicament, considering that you have no shame when it comes to stealing his clothes, except for the little fact that his bedroom is on the opposite side of the apartment.

Great.

You pinch the bridge of your nose before wrapping your towel around yourself resolutely and opening the bathroom door.

"Hyunjin?" You call, only peeking your head out.

In the living room, you hear the distinctive sound of footsteps, but your best friend remains silent.

"Hello?" You try again, but still, silence is the only thing that greets you.

You narrow your eyes, irritation welling up inside of you.

"Hyunjin," you squeeze out through gritted teeth, pushing the bathroom door all the way open. "I'm actually going to kill you. Where did you put my clothes?"

Despite the anger in your tone, he still has the audacity to ignore you. Unsurprisingly, you quickly reach the end of your fuse.

"You're so—" You seethe, storming into the living room.

And then, you promptly come to a screeching halt.

"Oh!" You squeak out, a rush of embarrassment striking you in the chest. "You're not Hyunjin."

"No," Seungmin says mildly. "I'm not."

He is sitting alone on the couch, his hair damp, and you are not too surprised to notice how sexy he looks like this—domestic and relaxed. The black joggers from earlier have been replaced by sinful gray sweats, and you only have a moment to lament how unfair that is before you remember that you are standing basically naked in front of him.

To his credit, Seungmin doesn't seem fazed. In fact, his eyes remain focused on your face, his gaze cool and collected as you flounder for the right words.

You are half-satisfied, half-disappointed by his reaction (or lack thereof) because on one hand, it means that Hyunjin was wrong and Seungmin is decidedly not into you at all... But on the other hand, it means that Seungmin is not into you at all.

"Ahem," you clear your throat. "D'you know where he is?"

"Him and the guys went to get food," Seungmin tells you.

"Bitch," you mutter bitterly.

Seungmin raises a brow at you, and your eyes widen.

"Not you!" You clarify. "I'm talking about Hyunjin. I mean, he's a little bitch who took my clothes while I was showering and then went off to get food without me."

You pause, not noticing the amused look on Seungmin's face.

"Wait," you pause. "Why didn't you go with them?"

He shrugs. "Thought it was kind of a dick move to leave you here all alone."

You perk up. "Aw, thanks!"

"Although," Seungmin points out, "it was also kind of a dick move to eat his last yogurt, so I guess you guys are even."

You gasp. "Seungmin, I thought you weren't going to tell him!"

His mouth turns up in a lopsided smirk. "I never said that."

Your mind flashes back to last week when Seungmin caught you sneaking the last yogurt cup, and you frown. Technically, you realize he's right—but you had shared the yogurt cup with you, so you thought you were partners in crime.

Although, it was kind of sexy how ruthless he is...

"You're evil," you pout, crossing your arms over your chest. Then, you remember you are clad in only a tiny little towel, and your promptly uncross your arms.

He cocks a brow. "Would an evil person offer to lend you clothes in a time of need?"

The thought of his clothes, on you, is enough to make your brain short circuit.

"Really?" You exclaim, your voice pitching an octave higher.

He pushes himself off the couch with a nod.

"Kim Seungmin, you are an angel," you gush. "I could kiss you right now."

You trail after him towards his room, not noticing how your words make him freeze.

"Or, like," you blabber on. "buy you ten bags of Hot Cheetos!"

"Only ten?" He teases.

"Eleven." You bargain, and he tilts his head as if he is considering the offer.

It is right as you are considering just how puppy-like he looks that he hands you a stack of clothes.

"You can change in here," Seungmin says, and then like the gentleman he is, he walks out the door and closes it behind you.

It's strangely humbling to be in this position—in his room, with only a towel wrapped around you, as he walks out and leaves you alone without so much as a spare glance.

It's equally humbling just how hot his indifference is. Instead of making you want to back off, Seungmin's reaction only makes you want to see just how far you can push him...

To distract yourself from your horny thoughts, you unfold the clothes he has given you and take the opportunity to look around his room.

Despite how long you've been friends with Hyunjin—despite how much time you've spent in this apartment over the past two years, this is the first time you are seeing the inside of Seungmin's bedroom.

Somehow, it looks exactly how you imagined it would. Clean gray linen sheets line his simple bed, which takes up most of the center of the room. Two bookshelves stand flush against the wall, stacked with a plethora of books. His desk is a picture of perfection—white and spotless and so Seungmin, much like the rest of the room.

In a word, it is pristine. Clean. Polished. The mirror of absolute control.

You can't help but wonder if he is this controlled in every aspect of his life. If he was under you, would he still exhibit that perfect restraint? Or would you be enough for him to snap?

The thought is so electrifying that you dress in a record time, slipping out of his room before you have the chance to do something you might regret.

Even the clothes, you notice, are so him. The navy blue shirt is simple yet perfectly pressed, as if he has just bought it, and the gray sweatpants he has given you are the carbon copy of the ones he had been wearing earlier today.

"Thanks again for the clothes," you say as you walk back into the living room.

Seungmin is sitting on the couch exactly where he had been when you first came out of the bathroom.

When he looks up at you this time, however, his gaze seems to linger on you. Under his scrutiny, a flush of heat creeps up your spine and your mind blanks.

If you were a little bit more lucid, you would have registered how absolutely insane it is that one single look from him is enough to turn you on. Instead, all you can focus on is how enticing his calculating stare is.

"Your shirt is on backwards," he says then, and you flush once more—this time in embarrassment.

"What—" You begin, looking down in panic. "Oh. Haha, really funny Kim Seungmin."

Your shirt is, in fact, not on backwards. The smirk stretched across his face when you look back up tells you that Seungmin definitely knew that.

You can't find it in yourself to be annoyed at him when he looks so good, so instead of yelling at him the way you would have it if it had been anyone else (ahem, Hwang Hyunjin), you opt to take a seat next to him instead.

For your own mental sanity, you maintain at least a few inches of distance between you, even as you pull your legs onto the cushions and burrow your way deeper into the sofa.

"Do you want to watch something?" Seungmin asks.

"Sure," you nod. "Anything good on?"

You don't actually care what you watch—he could put on anything for all you cared. Knowing you, you were going to spend the entire time trying not to focus on him anyways.

He says something about some new reality show and you agree immediately. Before you know it, the two of you are three episodes deep and somehow, equally invested in the messy relationships.

It's right as the tension of the episode reaches the peak that the lock of the front door turns.

"Hey guys!" Changbin strolls in, a grin on his face and a takeout bag in his hands.

Seungmin barely nods in acknowledgement. You, on the other hand, leap up from the couch immediately when Hyunjin and his stupid face come into view.

"You."

"Yes?" He responds, unaffected by the way you are glaring at him.

"I'm going to kill you," your murderous gaze narrows.

"Hey now," Jisung interrupts, popping up from behind Hyunjin. "That's not very nice—"

"Nobody asked you," you turn your glare on him, effectively shutting him up.

Changbin plops down on the couch next to Seungmin, offering the takeout bag to him. Jisung, afraid of your rampage, scurries after him, leaving you and Hyunjin alone in the kitchen.

"Where the fuck did you put my clothes, asshole?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he shrugs at you.

In the background, the hum of the TV is loud enough to drown out Changbin's voice.

"Really?"

Hyunjin raises a brow at you, giving you a once over. "Well, you seem to have found clothes somewhere. I don't see what the big deal is."

You gasp.

"Hwang Hyunjin, did you do this on purpose?"

"...I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Yes," you say, noticing the red tinge to his ears. "You do!"

"Okay, fine!" He bursts. "You and Seungmin have been so irritating, so I decided to take matters into my own hands. Sue me!"

You are silent for a moment.

"And how exactly does stealing my fucking clothes equate to taking matters into your own hands?"

"Oh, I don't know," he says sarcastically. "How does leaving you, naked, alone with Seungmin factor into my plan to make you seduce him?"

You gape at Hyunjin.

"Literally what the fuck goes on inside your head?"

He glares at you. "I can't believe I set up the perfect scenario for you guys and you still managed to fumble the bag! What do I have to do, fuck Seungmin for you too?"

"Not fair," you pout. "At least let me fuck him first."

"What—?" Hyunjin chokes. "That's like, exactly what I'm trying to make you do!"

You roll your eyes. "Okay, yeah, but again, Seungmin is not into me."

"I don't understand," Hyunjin complains. "Nothing happened when we were gone? Like, for real?"

You think about how Seungmin didn't even spare you a second glance when you came out in nothing but a towel, how he barely even looked at you when he led you into his room.

"No," you roll your eyes. "Because, guess what? He's not into me!"

"But—"

"Which," you continue. "By the way, brings me back to my first point. Where the fuck did you put my clothes?"

"They're in the bathroom cupboard," he sighs finally.

You stare. "I literally could kill you right now."

"I don't understand, though..." He mutters to himself, still confused even when you turn to head back into the living room.

When you look up, you find that Seungmin's gaze is focused on you and Hyunjin, staring intently even as Changbin continues to talk to him.

And you swear—when his eyes meet yours and hold your gaze without flinching, your heart skips a little.

Only a little.

The next time you see Seungmin is a week later when Hyunjin tells you that clubbing is on the agenda for the night.

Enough time has passed that you are (mostly) no longer pissed at him for stealing your clothes and ditching you to get food, and so you agree without a second thought.

After all, any situation in which Kim Seungmin and alcohol are involved sounds like the situation for you.

When you arrive, you are greeted with a shot at the door (courtesy of Changbin) and a sloppy kiss to the forehead (courtesy of Jisung.) It is only the pregame and yet both of them are absolutely sloshed. The strobe lights have been pulled out of the closet and the music playing inside is so loud you could hear it down the hall when you were coming up.

"Oh, thank god," are the first words Hyunjin says to you when he finds you in the kitchen.

"Nice to see you too."

"Shut up," he waves you off. "That dress is, like, the only thing you've done right recently."

Your fingers automatically go to the hem of your short black dress. When you picked it out of your closet, you did think it was particularly cute, but something about the way he says that makes you worried.

"...What do you mean?"

Hyunjin rolls his eyes. "Black is Seungmin's favorite color. Maybe he'll finally get the hint tonight."

You stare at him.

"I'm so glad to have a friend like you."

"Thank you!" Hyunjin exclaims.

"If I ever feel delusional," you continue, patting him on the cheek. "All I have to do is look at you and then I remember there are people much worse off."

He gasps. "I'm not delusional!"

You reach out and grab Felix's arm right as he is passing by.

"Felix," you ask, "do you think Hyunjin is delusional?"

He looks at you, then Hyunjin, then back to you.

"Oh, most definitely."

"Traitor!" Hyunjin screeches as you let go of Felix and he walks away."

"Anyways," you roll your eyes. "What does one have to do to get a drink around here?"

"Did you say drink?"

As if summoned by your words, Seungmin appears behind you, holding a red solo cup in his hands. He offers it to you without a word, and both your heart and your pussy throb at the thoughtfulness of the gesture.

The visceral effect of his presence is only exacerbated by how fucking hot he looks—simple jeans and black t-shirt are somehow already a deadly combo on him, but today his hair is up and the unfiltered view of his forehead has your thighs clenching.

"Thanks," you say breathlessly.

Hyunjin looks at you in half-awe, half-disgust, as if he knows how such a simple action has you all hot and bothered. You take a deep breath in an attempt to steady yourself, but when you look down at the cup and see the pink liquid inside, you swear, you swoon.

Of course Seungmin had to be sexy and sweet by remembering your favorite drink.

"No problem," Seungmin responds. "Couldn't leave you without a drink if you plan on spending the night around Hyunjin."

"Good call," you nod seriously.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Hyunjin pouts.

Seungmin shrugs his shoulders right as you say, "that you're fucking annoying."

"You guys always gang up on me," he sniffs. "You know what, I'm going to go somewhere where I'm actually appreciated."

He turns over his shoulder dramatically, glaring at the two of you as he goes, but the sly wink he throws at you right before storming off tells you all that you need to know.

"Glad to see that you haven't lost any more clothes recently," Seungmin says, his eyes trained on your black dress as he says it.

He leans against the counter behind him, a lazy smirk stretching across his lips. He looks so good right now that its hard to think—would he look this composed, this assured, while fucking you? Or maybe—

You take a quick sip of your drink to distract yourself.

"Who says I haven't?" You say over the rim of your cup after you swallow.

"Oh?"

You shrug even as our heart beats a mile a minute.

"I don't kiss and tell," you say.

For a moment, Seungmin doesn't do anything except watch you, his gaze piercing from under his eyelashes. The attention alone is enough to send tingles down your spine.

And then, he smiles.

"We'll see about that," he says.

You choke on your drink. "W-What?!"

Seungmin raises a brow. "I just meant that if you've lost any more clothing around here, I'm sure it will show up eventually."

Your face flushes.

"C'mon, losers!" Jisung hollers from the living room, saving you from having to come up with a response to that.

"The Uber's coming in five, we're doing shots before it gets here!"

You groan, the cup in your hands still heavy. "But I already—"

"Chug it!"

You pinch the bridge of your nose, pausing for a moment, but nonetheless do what he says. The sound of Seungmin's laughter accompanies the sharp sting of alcohol in your throat as it burns your throat.

Needless to say that by the time your group actually makes it down to the Uber, the liquor coursing through your veins has started to take effect.

That is probably why you don't notice the current dilemma facing you and your friends until it is too late.

"There's only four seats," you vaguely hear Hyunjin say.

"Someone's gonna have to sit on someone's lap," Changbin agrees.

Jisung, far more drunk than you, wiggles his eyebrows.

"All you had to do was ask," he grins, even as Changbin shove shim away.

The night is dark and cold, but you hardly feel it as you stare cluelessly out onto the lamplit street.

"What about the other Uber?" You ask, thinking about where Chan and the rest of your friends had disappeared to.

"Already left," Seungmin says.

A sneaky smile flashes across Jisung's face.

"Well ,you guys have fun figuring this out," he says gleefully as he climbs into the passenger seat before anyone can stop him.

Changbin sighs. "Well, I guess there's no choice. Hyunjin can sit on my lap."

Hyunjin scoffs, his face twisting as he opens the door to the backseat and shoves Changbin in. "As if!"

Changbin grumbles as he goes, but eventually concedes. Hyunjin follows suit, taking the middle seat.

Which leaves you and Seungmin as the only ones outside the car.

You reach for the door, about to climb in after Hyunjin, when it hits you—you, Seungmin, and only one available seat.

Fuck.

"Uhhh—" You begin, your eyes wide. "I—I can just—"

"You can sit on my lap," Seungmin interrupts.

Your jaw drops. "What?!"

"Unless you want me to sit on your lap?"

The look he gives you is half-teasing, half-reassuring. You bite your lip, considering your options. It isn't fair how he makes such a difficult choice sound so easy.

Eventually, though, you have no choice but to agree. Still, even when he gets into the car, you hesitate.

"Hurry up!" Hyunjin gripes from inside.

"Fine..." You mutter.

Your face blazes as you carefully climb in, barely breathing as you take a seat on the edge of Seungmin's lap.

The heat of his body sends you into overdrive and you barely notice when he pulls the door closed behind you. Blood thrums through your ears, loud enough to drown out the soft melody of whatever song is playing.

"A-Are you sure this is okay?" You crane your neck to look at him.

Seungmin huffs out a laugh.

"Yes. You can sit comfortably, I won't bite."

Even if he did, that wouldn't be a problem for you. Then again, nothing he could do would be a problem for you...

The car eases into drive and you scoot back a little in an effort to relax. You are still gingerly perched on the edge of his lap, however, no matter how hard you try.

Eventually, Seungmin just sighs and wraps his arm around your abdomen, pulling you so that your back is flush with his chest.

"Better, right?" His breath tickles your neck, and you swear, your heart stops beating.

"What's wrong?" He asks innocently, as if he has notices the visceral reaction.

"N-Nothing!" You squeak.

To your right, Hyunjin and Changbin have started bickering. In the front, Jisung has struck up a conversation with the driver about God knows what.

Even though you are surrounded by your friends, it feels as if you are caught in a bubble, just you and Seungmin. It is strangely intimate, and the thought only sends a food of heat through your core.

The drive is ten minutes at most, and yet it feels like a lifetime—both excruciating and delicious as you squirm on Seungmin's lap.

The issue isn't that you aren't enjoying this. On the contrary, the issue is that you are probably enjoying this a bit too much. All you want to do is turn around kiss Seungmin senseless, to beg him to have his way with you. But—despite how much Hyunjin might claim it to be true—there is no way that Seungmin is into you like that.

Even now, the arm wrapped around your waist remains respectful, barely touching you. He doesn't seem flustered the slightest by your proximity... Not the way you do.

The alcohol running through your veins does nothing to help your overthinking or your horniness. It is a weight off your shoulders (and Seungmin's lap) when you finally arrive at the club.

"Woah—" Seungmin starts when you almost fall onto the pavement in your haste to get off of his lap. "Are you okay?"

"Yup!" Your face is ablaze once more, this time with embarrassment.

It is only by sheer luck that the other guys arrived earlier than you and are almost at the front of the line to get into the club. You almost cry when you see Chan—because it means less time waiting outside in the cold, and it means more distance between you and Seungmin before you accidentally do something bad, like try to jump his bones.

"Shot?" You ask Chan when you finally make it through the doors.

"Uh..." He looks around, but the rest of the guys have already branched off through the strobe-lit club, leaving the two of you alone.

"Yeah, sure."

"Great!" You grin, wrapping your hand around his wrist and dragging him towards the bar.

The bass of some awful EDM song thrums straight through your chest, practically shaking the walls as Chan orders from the bartender. You are too busy looking around to pay attention to what he asks for—you have never been to this club before, and everything is new.

The walls are a melting mural of neon colors, a balcony overlooks the dance floor a few feet away, and there is even a clear slide that snakes through the club.

On the opposite side of the room, across a sea of people, you spot Seungmin and Hyunjin. They are on the outskirts of the crowd, drinks already in their hands, and your heart leaps into your throat.

Even from so far away, Seungmin looks good. Great, even. Yummy might be the right word to describe it, actually...

"So..." Chan interrupts you from your daydreams, handing you a cup.

Your eyes light up and you down the shot in one go. The burn is barely there, masked by the smooth, buttery taste of butterscotch.

"You and Seungmin, huh?"

"What?"

Chan frowns. "Isn't there something going on there?"

"Uh..." You narrow your eyes. "Did Hyunjin say something to you?"

"No? You both just spend so much time staring at each other, so I assumed..."

"Stoooop," you pout. "Don't say things like that. You're going to get my hopes up."

"Say things like what?" Chan asks cluelessly.

You are half-tempted to order another drink, but the edges of your vision have already begun to blur, and you know it probably isn't the best idea.

"Chan," you sigh. "I'm already delusional enough. Why does everyone keep trying to convince me that Seungmin is into me?"

"...Because he is?"

To his credit, Chan doesn't sound half as annoying as Hyunjin when he says it.

"Stop it," you frown.

"Hey, I'm sorry," he says immediately. "We can, um, like, dance or something?"

You nod. "Yup. Dancing! I love dancing."

In truth, you don't care much about dancing, but this is a club and you are just drunk enough that your limbs feel weightless, and you have the strange feeling that you might be able to float if you tried hard enough.

Chan is skeptical as he follows you onto the dance floor, but he remains silent nonetheless. The heat of the crowd is electrifying, and coupled with the drunken haze you have slipped in, you feel invincible.

You roll your hips in time with the music, laughing carelessly as people jostle you from all sides. Chan looks worried as you grab his hand.

"C'mon, let loose a little!"

"I don't—" He begins, but the rest of his words are drowned out when the music picks up, blasting even louder through the speakers.

And yet, even as you try your hardest to stop thinking about Seungmin, he remains at the forefront of your mind. Despite your best efforts, you find your gaze drawn towards his corner of the club.

Only—this time when you look at him, you find Seungmin staring back. His dark gaze is piercing even at such a distance and your breath catches in your throat. Even when he realizes you are looking, too, he doesn't look away.

Slowly, he takes a sip of his drink. When he pulls the cup away, the edge of his lips are curved up. you aren't sure why, but such a simple action sends a thrill down your spine.

Your eyes remain on Seungmin as you continue to dance, distracted by the promising look in his eyes. They remain on Seungmin even when someone approaches you, a flirty smile on his face.

"Hey," the guy grins.

"Hi," you say, dragging your gaze away from Seungmin after a long moment.

The guy in front of you is tall and—if you weren't so deeply obsessed with another man (Kim Seungmin)—you would probably think he was cute, too.

"D'you want to dance?" He asks.

"Already am," you giggle.

"I know," he says bashfully. "Just thought it might be more fun if you were doing it with me."

You shrug, a wide smile still across your face. He takes a step closer to you, close enough that you can see the light smattering of freckles across his nose. Emboldened, you reach up and wrap your arms around his neck. Any distraction from Seungmin is a welcome distraction, and, well, at least this one seems fun.

The guy takes the opportunity to place his hands on your hip, just low enough to be flirty but not low enough to be indecent.

The crowd surges and he stumbles forward, his lithe body pressing against yours.

"So," he asks in your ear. "D'you come here often?"

You laugh, and he has the decency to look embarrassed.

"Not like that! Just—I haven't seen you here before, is all."

"It's my first time."

The music changes tempo, slowing down to a sultry electro-beat.

"Well, I'm glad you came out tonight," he says. "What's your name?"

"Hmm..."

Instead of answering, you unwrap your arms and take his hands into yours, turning around so that you don't have to look at his face. You then take his hands and place them back on your hips.

"Thought you wanted to dance, not talk," you tease.

"Touché," he leans in. His breath is warm as it ghosts your neck, and the familiar sensation brings you back to the car earlier. Thoughts of Seungmin, and his lap, and you on his lap, and him under you, blossom in your mind. Your chest grows uncomfortably warm and against your will, your eyes trail to where he had been standing before.

Your heart stutters when you find him still watching you.

His expression is blank, a puzzling inscrutable look that sends your mind spiraling, and yet his eyes remain on you.

You are astutely aware of the distance between the two of you, even as the blood thrumming through your ears dulls your senses. The only thing you are aware of is his stony gaze. You hardly even notice when the guy behind you asks if something is wrong.

"Sorry..." you say distractedly. "I think I'm, um, going to go to the bathroom..."

"Oh, yeah, of course—"

You don't wait for an answer before disappearing into the crowd. It baffles you how you can feel Seungmin's gaze follow you even now.

Your horny thoughts and confused feelings swim through your head, a nasty cocktail of anxiety that is amplified by the alcohol. A bathroom break is exactly what you need—oh, how you wish tonight was a girl's night instead. They would know what to do in this situation, but alas, your only point of reference is Hyunjin...

Yeah, you would rather fend for yourself at that point.

The corridor leading to the bathroom snakes around the back of the club and is considerably more quiet than out in the main room. The muffled bass matches the padding of your footsteps as you continue down the hall.

You stumble slightly when you turn the corner, bumping into a firm, warm body.

"Oh—" You let out when large hands reach out to steady you.

"Sorry about..." the words die on your lips when you look up to find Seungmin staring down at you.

The same expressionless look is still on his face, but up close, you can see his eyes more clearly—how dark they are, piercing, but something more too.

"Y/N," the curve of your name on his lips sends a shock through your system.

"Seungmin," you breathe.

"You okay?" He asks gently.

"Hmm?"

"That guy," he clarifies. "Was he bothering you?"

Seungmin's face remains impassive as he asks, but the way he chews on his bottom lip catches your attention. It seems almost as if he is on edge about something... But what?

"Who?" you ask, momentarily stunned. "Oh! No, he wasn't bothering me."

Seungmin nods once, releasing his lip from where it was snagged between his teeth. Almost imperceptibly, his shoulders relax.

"Okay, that's good."

"Seungmin..." You narrow your eyes. "Were you worried about me?"

His lips purse into a thin line. A moment elapses where he remains silent, and an elated gasp bursts from your lips.

"Oh my god, you were!"

"Didn't know it's surprising that I care about the safety of one of my friends..."

"Nooo, it's sweet that you care!" You coo. "But we were just dancing!"

"I wouldn't call that just dancing," Seungmin mutters.

"What is that supposed to mean?" You pout.

He just shrugs, not responding.

If you didn't know better, you would say that Seungmin is jealous. But of what? Your head spins and all you can think is how good he looks like this—mildly annoyed, dressed to impress, towering over you. And his hands are still on your waist, which really isn't helping your current situation.

"Seungmin..." You begin. "This is going to sound really crazy, but I have a question for you."

"Everything you say sounds crazy."

"...I'm going to ignore that."

He bites back a smile.

"Do you..." You hesitate. "Are you—or, well, would you say that you—y'know, are interested in me?"

"What?"

"It's just that Hyunjin has been telling me for ages that you like me," you blabber. "At least, that you like me the way that I like you, but that's not possible right? I'm probably just making things up in my head—"

"I do," Seungmin interrupts.

"See, that's what I—wait, what?"

"I do like you," he says.

Your jaw drops. "Like... as a friend?"

"As more."

He says it so casually you think you have misheard him.

"B-But—you've never shown any interest in me!"

He rolls his eyes. "Yes I have. It's not my fault you're so oblivious."

"No I'm not."

"You were eye-fucking me from across the room all night and I was reciprocating," Seungmin says.

"Don't be mean!" You squeal.

His eyes are bright as he takes a step towards you.

"You love it," he murmurs.

Your face warms and you take a step back, the feeling of the cool wall behind you soothing the heat flowing through your body.

"You're... you're not joking with me, are you?"

"I've been dropping hints for literally months," he laughs.

"Seungmin..." You breath. "Can I ask you another question?"

He raises a brow.

"Can I kiss you?"

"I don't know," he teases, his eyes flickering down to your lips. "Can you?"

"You're so annoying," you gripe, pushing yourself up on your tiptoes to wrap your arms around his neck.

"Now who's not being nice?"

He leans down, his breath fanning over your face. Your heart thrums loudly in your chest, and in the background the music from the dance floor changes again right as you lean up and press your lips against Seungmin's.

The kiss is wet and hot as you move your mouth against his, savoring the feel of his plush lips under yours. He tastes of vodka and mint, a strange combination that has you pressing further into him. You lick a strip against the seam of his lips in hopes of deepening the kiss, but Seungmin teases you, pulling back so that your lips are barely touching.

A breathy whine escapes you as you chase his lips. His hands on your hips tighten, holding you in place.

"Min," you pout, your mouth only centimeters from his.

"So needy," he says.

You nod your head eagerly, and Seungmin seems satisfied by your easy admission.

His teeth snag on your bottom lip as he kisses you again, sucking against it in way that feels so delicious you can't stop the moan that bubbles up inside you. Your mouth parts slightly and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue inside, moving so perfectly against yours that your legs shake.

Seungmin's grip on you is the only thing keeping you upright as he crowds you against the wall, kissing you methodically in a way that has you thinking he has perfected the art of kissing. His hips rut slightly against you, the outline of his hard length pressing deliciously against your stomach.

His mouth works its way from your mouth down the column of your neck, and you pant as he licks and bites at your skin. Your legs rub together, your underwear uncomfortably wet.

"Hey, there you are, I've been—" a voice interrupts. Seungmin's mouth pulls away from your skin.

You open your half-lidded eyes just in time to see Chan rounding the corner. He freezes in his path when he sees the way the two of you are wrapped around each other, his face paling.

"Um..." you begin.

"I didn't see anything," Chan says, lifting his hand to shield his eyes. "I didn't see anything!"

"We were just making out," Seungmin rolls his eyes, his grip bruising on your hips. "No need to be so dramatic."

"Well," Chan clears his throat. "Um, carry on. I'm—leaving."

"Yes, please do."

"Seungmin!" You hiss.

He just shrugs, not even bothering to look ashamed. He remains pressed against you even after Chan practically sprints down the hall, taking a moment to look at you while considering what to do next.

When he finally pulls away, though, Seungmin looks as composed as ever. The only indication that he had been seconds away from making you come untouched a few feet away from the club bathroom are his swollen lips and his blown out pupils. It sends a shot of arousal through your core when he grabs your hand and says simply, “let’s go.”

“What?” You ask, the haze of lust over you clouding your senses.

He raises a brow. “Are you into exhibitionism?”

“…No?” You respond, confused.

“Then let’s go,” he tugs. “Because I’m five seconds away fucking you right here for everyone to see.”

“Oh,” you breath, your thighs clenching.

“Unless you don’t want that,” he says, completely serious. 

“N-No,” you shake your head. “I want it!”

His mouth lifts in a wicked smirk. “Desperate, are we?”

You hardly notice as he leads you away from the bathroom and out of the club, nor when he orders the Uber back. Your mind is too clouded by the thoughts of Seungmin fucking you and, more pressingly, the way his thumb rubs soothingly over the back of your hand as the two of you wait outside.

It has your heart swelling and makes you want to get down on your knees and show how much you appreciate him. Instead, you decide to exercise self control and instead stare longingly at him with a pout on your face.

“What’s wrong?” Seungmin asks.

“Nothing,” you mumble.

“Really?”

You nod, the cool night breeze nipping at your arms.

“I don’t believe you,” he tells you.

Seungmin’s eyes are dark as he leans down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“How can I give you what you want if you don’t ask for it, baby?”

Your breath catches in your throat and your eyes are wide when he pulls away, an innocent smile on his face.

“Maybe if you beg, I’ll give it to you. Maybe.”

You are saved from responding by the car that pulls up to the curb. Seungmin, like the perfect gentleman, opens the door for you and lets you slide into the car first. Dumbstruck by his words, you stare blankly at him, before finally noticing that the Uber is here.

The entire drive back, Seungmin doesn’t touch you once. He barely even looks at you, in fact. Your underwear is drenched, you can see the outline of his dick through his pants, and yet he pretends like the two of you are nothing more than friends, even as you squirm impatiently next to him.

It’s humiliating how much his indifference turns you on. Seungmin is already edging you, and he hasn’t even laid a hand on you.

Even as you ride the elevator up to his apartment, he remains two feet away from you. The silence is suffocating and heady at the same time. 

Your heart threatens to beat out of your chest as Seungmin opens the apartment door. He is unhurried, languid even as he slides his shoes off of his feet and places his keys on the counter.

The thrill of knowing he is most definitely going to fuck you senseless tonight, even as he does something as mundane as washing his hands, is almost too much for you to handle. Almost. You feel on the precipice of bursting, of falling to your knees and begging for him.

“Do you want something to drink?” Seungmin asks as you perch on one of the barstools.

You shake your head and then watch as he pours you a glass of water and hands it to you anyways.

His eyes watch you expectantly and you drink it without a word. The water is refreshing after the club, and you find yourself feeling much more sober after the drive back.

“So,” he says, still standing on the opposite side of the counter as you. “Aren’t you going to apologize?”

“Apologize…?” You ask, confused.

“For being such an attention whore earlier.”

Your lips part in astonishment, and yet you can’t help the rush of heat that floods your core.

“I-I wasn’t—”

He raises a brow, and you fall silent immediately. 

“I guess you just can’t help it,” Seungmin says. 

He steps out from behind the counter, holding his hand out for yours. 

“We’ll just have to fix that, won’t we?”

You stare at his hand for only a second before placing yours into it. 

“Are you…” Seungmin begins. “Are you sure you want this?”

“I do,” you say shyly. He looks at you for a long moment before sighing, leading you out of the kitchen.

“Green is for if you’re doing okay,” he says as he pulls you into the bedroom, “and red if you need me to stop. If it gets too much, just say the word. Okay?” 

You nod when he sits down on the bed, perfectly made, and he shakes his head.

“Use your words. I know you can.”

“Yes,” you breathe, standing in the space between his thighs. 

“Good,” he says. “But it’s not going to be too much, is it?”

You shake your head shyly.

“You still haven’t apologized,” Seungmin says, placing one hand on your hips.

“F-For what?”

“For that stunt back at the club, hmm?” He asks, the other hand still entwined with yours. 

“What was that? You like me,” he mocks, “but you were ready to fuck anybody who gave you a chance, huh? Are you that easy?”

“No,” you shake your head, a pout on your lips. 

“Really?” He scoffs. “You’re such a slut, I bet you would do this f0r anyone else.”

“Would not,” you insist, eyes wide as you look down at him. “Only for you.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true!” You insist. “Only you.”

“Hmm,” he clicks his tongue. “Prove it.”

His gaze is calculating and cold as he looks at you, and it makes your mind hazy.

“Prove this cock is the only one you want. And you better make it believable.”

He takes his hands off of you and places them on the bed beside him. His words have you sinking to the floor slowly, falling to your knees.

Your hands drift up to his pants, hovering over the zipper. Wordlessly, your eyes look up to him for permission, but he doesn’t say anything as he stares down at you.

After a moment of hesitation, you slowly drag the zipper of his jeans downwards. One of your hands drifts to palm over the bulge in his pants. You consider your method of action before finally deciding to reach into his boxers. 

It is awkward, pulling his dick out while he just sits there and watches you, but there is something enticing about the humiliation of it. You can feel yourself growing more wet, and your mouth waters when you take your first look at him. He is long and hard and pretty, and your breath catches in your throat.

Curiously, one hand holds him by the base while the other swipes an exploratory thumb over the head. You look up to see Seungmin with the same expression, almost bored. 

Still, he doesn’t say anything as you continue to get a feel for him.

He is so warm and firm in your hands, and you are having so much fun with your light touches—but you have something to prove. You give him one more pump before leaning down and spitting. 

The spit dribbles out of your mouth and onto him as you look up again, making eye contact with Seungmin. Then, still looking at him, you place a small peck on the head of his cock. The salty taste of his precum invades your sense and sends your mind haywire. Emboldened, you wrap your lips around him, suckling the head lightly before taking him as far as you can into your mouth.

He is so long that you can’t fit him all, gagging as he hits the back of your throat, and your hands reach up to wrap around the rest of him. The only indication that he feels anything is his dark pupils, but it is enough to motivate you to continue. 

Ignoring the burn in your throat, you bob your head on his length, building up a steady pace with your hands and your mouth. The room is silent except for the lewd sounds you make, sucking and squelching as you work. The noises are so erotic they send heat flushing through you, and you clench your thighs together in an attempt to ease the pressure. 

The silence is interrupted by the buzz of a cell phone. You pull mostly off of his dick, swirling your tongue around the head. Seungmin reaches for his phone and you release him with a pop.

The phone continues to buzz, and he turns his gaze down on you.

“Did I say you could stop?”

Your face flushes and then his cock is in your mouth again. Your eyes look up at him, but instead of saying anything more, Seungmin swipes right on the call and lifts his phone to his ear. 

“Hello?”

You freeze. On the other end of the line, music blares and the fuzzy sound of someone talking reaches your ears. 

Seungmin keeps the phone against his ear with one hand while he reaches the other down, placing it on the back of your head and pushing you forcefully further down his cock. The sudden movement has you gagging, a choked noise coming from the back of your throat.

“Calm down,” Seungmin sighs. “I already left.”

You inhale deeply through your nose, trying your best to remain still. Seungmin, of course, has a different idea, and pulls you off for a moment so you can catch your breath, before pushing you down his cock once again.

“Yes, Hyunjin,” he rolls his eyes. “You’re the one who left me for some girl, remember?”

Your eyes water as you choke on his length, overwhelmed by the feeling of him in your mouth.

“Y/N?” Seungmin says then, looking down at you. “Yeah, I took her home with me.”

You whimper around him, gaze blurry as you look into his eyes.

Another moment passes before he eases you off of him again.

“Okay, bye Hyunjin,” Seungmin says. He ends the call and then tosses his phone away.

His attention turns downwards to you, readjusting his grip on your head. His hand grabs a fistful of your hair, wrapping it around his fingers, and then he yanks so that you are looking up at him.

“You couldn’t even do that right, huh?” Seungmin asks. “I thought I asked you prove that you want this cock.”

“I do,” you whine. “Please.”

Instead of responding, Seungmin positions you so that your mouth is once again over his dick. His grip on your hair is tight enough to sting, but the pain mixes with the pleasure to make a heady concoction of horniness. 

Then, he pushes you down. He inhales sharply when your gagging around his cock turns into a drawn out moan, and then pulls you up. His dick twitches in your mouth when you tongue at the slit on the head, and he pushes you down once again.

Seungmin builds a torturous and steady pace, fucking himself with your mouth as you gag and moan around him. The way he uses you is so sexy that you can’t help but sneak one hand downwards towards your soaked center. 

Your dress has bunched up on your waist, which makes it easier for you to slip your hand into your panties and touch yourself. You rub your clit at the same pace he fucks your mouth, sending tendrils of pleasure all throughout your body.

It is only when your moans slowly devolve into whines that he notices.

He pulls you off, his hand leaving the back of your head to smooth down your hair in a surprisingly tender gesture. 

“What are you doing?” Seungmin asks softly, cupping your jaw.

Your hand stills.

“Did I say you could touch yourself?”

“N-No, but—”

“Up,” he offers you his hand. On shaky knees, you rise to your feet.

“Clothes off,” he demands, sneaking one finger beneath the band of your underwear and pulling it back so it snaps against your skin.

Your face blazes when he stares at you expectantly. Slowly, your hand reaches up to push the straps of your dress off your shoulder. You shimmy it down your waist, letting it fall into a heap on the floor and leaving you in just your underwear.

Your fingers trail down to the waistband, but you hesitate, feeling shy under his gaze.

“Color?”

“Green,” you tell him, and then take your panties off too.

Seungmin nods in approval as his eyes darken, but his gaze remains firmly trained on your face. It is almost as if he is punishing you and himself by refusing to look at your body.

“Come here,” he motion. Obediently, you pad over to him.

His hands rise to your hips, pulling you down onto his lap. A yelp leaves your lips as he pushes your core over his right thigh, your feet folding under you onto the bed.

“Since you’re so desperate to get off that you can’t even wait for me,” he says, one finger tipping your chin upwards so that your eyes are level with his. “Get off like this.”

You whimper, squirming under his gaze and he raises an eyebrow.

“Ride my thigh, and maybe we’ll see if you deserve to come.”

As if to prove a point, his hands on your hips pull you closer to him, and the delicious drag of your clit against his thigh has your mouth parting with a breathy moan.

Of their own accord, your hands rise to grip his shoulders. Your fingertips press into the divot of his collarbone as you roll your hips slowly against his thigh. His dick, hard and wet from your mouth, is pressed against his shirt by the waistband of his pants. It doesn’t escape you that he is fully dressed while you are completely naked.

The creases of his pant leg create a delicious friction that has you whimpering as you begin to move your hips faster, using your hold on his shoulders as leverage to press your cunt against him. You are so wet—have been since he first kissed you in the club, especially when you had your mouth on him—and you can feel your slick accumulating below you.

You’re too embarrassed to look down but you know, undeniably, that there must be a dark, wet spot on his pants. At some point, the thought of embarrassment fades away as the pleasure begins to build, a slow cresting wave inside the pit of your stomach. 

You roll your hips against him faster, sloppier, and you bit your lip to stifle the loud whines leaving your mouth.

“Look at you,” Seungmin murmurs. “Making such a mess on my pants. So desperate, hmm?”

“Mhm,” you moan in affirmation.

His arm wraps around your back, pulling you closer to him. Your chest presses against his and your hands go from his shoulders to loop around his neck as you bury your face into his neck.

“Feels good?” He asks mockingly.

You nod without lifting your face.

“I’m not even doing anything and you’re already so fucked out,” he sighs. “Could you come like this?”

“Yes,” you whimper, “yes, please.”

His hand wraps around the nape of your neck and pulls you back, forcing your face right in front of his.

“You’re going to come without me?” He pouts. 

“Please…” Your eyes glaze over, the precipice of your orgasm so close that you can taste it. Every nerve is on fire, your cunt clenching on nothing. 

“I’ll let you choose,” he says. “Come now and we can wash up after. Or hold it, and I’ll fuck you the way you need it.”

“Min,” you whine.

“Choose,” Seungmin breathes, his hands taking over for you as he grinds you down against his thigh. “Or I’ll choose for you.”

“Ngh,” you choke. “T-The… oh, the… The second one!”

He smiles at your answer. And then, instead of pulling you off his lap like you think he is going to, he begins to move your hips faster, pressing his thigh upwards to provide even more pressure to your clit.

“Seung—” you start, a loud moan escaping your mouth. The sensation is overwhelming, the pleasure excruciating, and your orgasm hurdles even closer than before. Your moan devolves into a high pitched whine.

“N-No,” you whimper. “I’m going to—g-going to, mmmph.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and Seungmin laughs in your ears.

“You’re going to come?” He says. “You don’t want me to fuck you?”

“I do,” you whine pathetically. “Please, don’t—”

“It’s your choice, remember? If you don’t want to come, then hold it.”

You shake your head. “I c-can’t.”

Your thighs clench, your climax building inside of you.

“Hold it.”

Your breath comes out in pants, and you try to think of the unsexiest thing you can, you try to ignore the solid feeling of his thigh underneath you—you try your hardest to not come.

Seungmin continues to move you against him, but his pace slows down until he is barely dragging your messy cunt over his thigh.

Eventually, he stops completely, watching as you quake in his lap.

“Good girl,” he coos, and he sounds both condescending and comforting. A hand lifts to cup your face, running a thumb soothingly over your face.

You can hardly focus on anything more than his touch, still quaking from the after effects of your almost orgasm. Your mind is blank, a resolute desperation worming its way into your heart as Seungmin lifts you off of his lap and lays you down on the bed. 

You watch through glassy eyes as he pulls his shirt off in one motion before his hands go to the waistband of his pants. 

“You did so good for me,” Seungmin praises. “So obedient, hmm? Didn’t know you could do that. I guess a little desperation works wonders.”

You moan at his words, watching as he pulls his pants and boxers off, leaving him just as naked as you. He produces a condom, unwrapping it in a record time, and you push yourself up onto your elbows to watch him slowly roll it onto his hard length.

Your mouth waters again at the sight of it. He felt so big and full in your mouth, so you can’t help but wonder how he will feel inside your cunt. A gush of wetness floods you, and your pussy throbs at the thought of it.

It’s painful, how slowly he moves as he situates himself in between your legs. You push yourself up further and use your hands to pull your legs apart, watching as his dick gets closer and closer to where you want him the most. 

He holds himself by the base, and then in one fluid motion, pushes himself all the way into you.

A long moan escapes your lips at the sudden fullness and you collapse flat onto your back, the pure bliss of how hot and big he is inside of you taking over every sense. 

“So tight,” Seungmin grunts, bottoming out. 

You nod your head quickly, not really processing what he says.

He pulls out completely, before pushing into you again. This time, it feels even better than the first as the ridges of his cock slide against your walls. You moan again, this time louder. 

“Feel good?” He asks, building a slow and torturous pace that has your eyes rolling back into your head.

“S-Soooo good,” you whine.

Seungmin’s movements are sharp and controlled, rolling into you with precise depth and force. It is like he knows what you need before you even say it, the head of his cock rubbing against the bundle of nerves inside of you.

His thrust speed up and a string of whimpers, each louder than the previous, fall out of your mouth. The orgasm you had been denied of begins to bubble up inside of you again, this time somehow warmer and more consuming than before. It feels like liquid fire as it burns through your veins, mounting higher and higher still.

You have no control over the noises escaping your lips, a combination of loud whines and moans as Seungmin continues to fuck you so good you see stars behind your eyelids.

He’s quiet as he fucks you, but the few pants and moans that slip out as he rolls his hips against you are the hottest things you have ever heard. He sounds so pretty as he fucks you, and the image of his furrowed brow, his bitten lips, his sweaty hair—its enough to almost push you over the edge.

A particularly deep thrust has you moaning loudly, your mouth falling open.

“You’re so fucking loud,” Seungmin grunts, his thumb pressing against your bottom lip. “Shut up.”

His words have the opposite of their desired effect as you whimper at the dark tone of his voice. At the noise, his eyes narrow, a dangerous glint in them.

“I said,” he pushes the thumb past your lips into your mouth. “Shut up.”

You nod, your lips wrapping obediently around his finger. 

Your tongue swipes over the pad of his thumb right as he resumes his deathly pace, breathing heavily through his nose. His face remains stubbornly blank except for the slight crease of his forehead.

Trying your hardest to keep your moans down, you suckle on his finger like you had his cock earlier, and he moans quietly at the feeling. The sound spurs you on, and you bite down lightly on it.

Seungmin pulls the thumb out of your mouth and moves his hand downwards, pressing unforgivingly against your clit. He doesn’t move it, only applying pressure and he continues to fuck you, but the feeling is enough to push you close to the edge.

“Close?” He asks.

You nod, unable to form the words as your lips part. Your eyes are glassy and your expression fucked out as your brain struggles to catch up with your body.

“Say it,” Seungmin hisses through his teeth and you whine.

“Aw, are you being fucked too dumb to speak?” He coos, and you nod again.

“Nope. Not good enough,” he tsks, pulling his finger away from you. “Beg me to come, or don’t come at all.”

“P-please!” You cry out finally, clenching down on him as he moves. 

“Hmm.”

“Please, Min, please. L-Let me come, oh—”

“Well,” he pants. “Since you asked so nicely."

Seungmin thrusts speed up, deeper and sloppier in the most delicious way, but what ends up pushing you over the edge is when he leans down and captures your lips with his, his tongue moving in a messy kiss against yours.

He swallows your whimpers as you come, fucking you deep through you orgasm as your cunt spasms around him, and then with one harsh grunt, he comes a moment later.

You collapse boneless on the bed, your legs still twitching as you come down from your orgasm, and Seungmin slumps over you, his sweaty body a comforting weight on your chest.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, still the endorphins lighting up even the very tips of your fingers.

“Are you okay?” 

Seungmin’s question is half-worried, an amusing juxtaposition to the way he was just fucking you.

“Yes,” you laugh. “I’m better than okay.”

He frowns at you, his bangs plastered over his forehead, and then he pushes himself off of you.

“Noooooo,” you moan. “Come back.”

“I will,” he says gently. “Just give me a moment.”

You lay there, cold and tired, as Seungmin disappears into the bathroom. He comes back with a wet towel and kneels at the foot of the bed, gently wiping you down.

“You—”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He asks. “I didn’t do too much, did I?”

You push yourself up, a hand lifting to caress his jaw as he focuses on his task.

“Seungmin, I’m fine, really.”

“Really?”

“That was the best sex of my life, so yeah.”

He purses his lips. “…Okay.”

“And besides,” you say, pulling him up from the ground onto the bed besides you. “Do you think I suck dick like that for just anyone?"

“Well….” He trails off bashfully.

“The answer is no,” you giggle. “Now come here and cuddle me!”

He lets out an annoyed huff, but listens anyways, climbing onto the bed and pulling the covers over the two of you before wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you closer to him.

“By the way,” you begin. “If I haven’t said it already, I like you Seungmin. I really like you.”

A soft smile stretches across his lips. “I really like you.”

Seungmin presses a kiss against your hair. The sound of his heartbeat echoes in your ears and serves as the soundtrack playing as you fall asleep.

And the next morning, after Seungmin eats you out and then fucks you, when you come out of his room wearing nothing but his shirt, Hyunjin almost weeps.

"Finally!"

if you enjoyed, please don't forget to reblog and leave your feedback/opinions! tysm for reading!

HYUNJIN for ELLE KOREA & CARTIER

---

No Guts / No Glory

Copyright Ⓒ 2023 by Moonjxsung

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

Read part 2 here.

Pairing: Bang Chan x fem reader

W/c: 26.2K

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

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

18+. Mdni!

•

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

•

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And you’re a boxer.”

“I am a boxer,” he affirms.

“How long have you been boxing?”

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

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

“Chan- why boxing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How long have you been interviewing?”

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

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

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

“Don’t be late,” you say again.

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

*

“How’d it go?”

“Standard.”

“Anything notable?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hm?”

“I asked if you have everything you need.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

“Is this… should I sit down? Or…”

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

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

“You’re late.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I look at you, then?”

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

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

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

“And you’re a boxer.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ve never lost?”

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

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

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

“Yet it’s never happened?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

“So he’s just never lost a match?”

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure, fine.”

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you following me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“All me, thank you very much.”

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

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

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

“Scared?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m fine, thank you very much.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Seatbelt?”

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

“Two minutes,” you emphasize again.

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Exactly.”

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

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

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

“Which ones do you use, then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can you show us a few tricks?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uppercut,” he says hoarsely.

“Hm?”

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

“Got fired at work,” you challenge.

“Easily cured by a popsicle.”

“Fight with your spouse.”

“Popsicle.”

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

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

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

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

“What?” He asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Atta boy. Be a man. Be a winner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

“Harder. No hooks this time.”

Hit.

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

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

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

“Very good. Take five.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ew, no,” you say with a small laugh.

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

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

“Oh, uh… sorry, I’m-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Depends where we’re going.”

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mom?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, those ones!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

“He took you to meet his mom?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She couldn’t say more?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Like what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

Be intentional with your questions. Get him vulnerable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There’s a bar down the street.”

“I don’t like bars.”

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

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

“Bad practice for athletes,” he states simply.

“Then I guess we’ll have to forfeit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We’ll go together,” Chan interrupts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What are you so afraid of?

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

“How so?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, he’s pretty cool.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know,” he responds.

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You chuckle in response, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

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

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

“Yeah,” he says simply. “Okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chan begins to say something, but then he’s silent again, awkwardly crossing his legs once more and forcing his attention on the television. Though the docuseries continues to play faintly in front of you, it’s painfully quiet between your breathless bodies, and Chan can’t seem to stop himself from catching glimpses of your seated figure while you try not to engage in eye contact with him. You know that if you do, it’ll only result in you practically throwing yourself at him all over again, so you remain facing the television, saying nothing in efforts to not warrant anything more between the two of you. It’s Chan who breaks the silence first, clearing his throat before grasping the remote between his fingers and lowering the volume to just above a muted speech.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks, not meeting your gaze as you sit comfortably beside each other.

“No need to interview the interviewer,” you say back to him, doing your best to evoke a nonchalant disposition. You bite back a smile, as does Chan, while he observes the interview that plays on the television.

“I beg to differ,” he then chimes in. “I believe the second most intimate thing you can do is interview somebody. If I can’t kiss you, I think it’s only fair you indulge me in a story.”

The docuseries fills the silence that overtakes the room with hushed chatter as Chan awaits a response from you, and he watches as you lean forward to grasp your glass of wine between your fingers before speaking again.

“I’m just a boring journalist,” you say to him, keeping your gaze on the television. “I collect stories the same way you do medals. There’s not much else to say.”

And the statement is only half true- there’s certainly more you can indulge him in pertaining to your career as a journalist. Details of past athletes you’ve interviewed, moments you’ve shared that permanently altered your life, for better or for worse. Restless nights spent gathering footage, following orders from the crew to get closer, be intentional with your actions. You’re as enthralled in your own career as Chan is- perhaps not at the same level, but devoted, nonetheless.

“Do you like all of this?” Chan inquires a little quietly.

You’re silent for a passing moment, and then you take another sip of wine before answering.

“It’s complicated. I like telling stories. Not always the process it takes to uncover one. Sometimes it’s a little…” you ponder the words briefly, and Chan takes a sip from his glass, too, his eyes darting in your direction as he interjects.

“Voyeuristic?”

You meet his gaze again, not having taken him as someone who could read you so carefully.

“Yeah,” you respond. “That’s exactly how it feels.”

Chan slouches back into the sofa, downing the rest of his wine, and then he sighs deeply, a level of contentedness present in his tone.

“I can’t believe you got me crying on camera,” he says with a chuckle.

You chuckle, too, mirroring his relaxed posture.

“Trust me, the footage isn’t going anywhere,” you say to him. And then you pause, before speaking once more.

“Thank you,” you continue. “For being so honest with me. And for what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re a loser.”

Chan turns his head in your direction, shooting you a small smile and a nod. He looks much more relaxed now, his once teary eyes now replaced by the glazed appearance of his blissful state. He looks comfortable like this- happy, even.

“Thank you,” he echoes. “For letting me be so honest. And for what it’s worth, I think you do a pretty damn good job at collecting stories.”

He turns back to the television, folding his arms over his chest now, as do you. And then he raises the volume on the television again, letting Baik Hyun-Man’s words echo in the otherwise quiet space between you.

“Sometimes we win, and sometimes we lose,” the familiar words play from the television.

“And knowing that, maybe through tales like mine, of guts and glory, we find our footing in the knowledge that we tried.”

*

Sherbet popsicles remain out for the foreseeable future. Convenience stores are cleared of theme entirely, every freezer in the city decorated with an impromptu sign detailing the status of them.

The environment of the gym seems to grow heavy with anticipation as every passing day brings you closer to Chan’s title fight.

And perhaps the only thing harder than unveiling the very real fears Chan harbors toward his title fight, is resisting the urge to kiss him again.

At first you’re not sure it ever happened, when Chan greets you at the gym with a casual salute, as though he’s greeting his trainer.

“My partner in crime!” He’d exclaimed, like you hadn’t been practically pleasuring yourself on his lap just days ago, mouths breathing hot gasps into each other and hands grasping desperately at his toned muscles. As though you hadn’t devoured him entirely on the sticky leather of his sofa, the flavor of his salty release still familiar to you when you graze your fingertips along your lips.

And with the passing days, he assumes the role of a video subject painfully well, detailing all of his best techniques behind the lens and keeping a comfortable distance from your camera. Part of you is relieved, of course, as you witness Chan do exactly what he’s promised- after all, mixing business and pleasure comes at a cost to the entirety of the project. But when he intentionally averts your gaze while he trains with Mr. Seo now, or refrains from speaking of anything more personal than the mundanes of his daily routine, you can’t help but miss the Chan that was only just beginning to grace you with the details of how all of this really feels to him.

How the sounds that ring throughout his ears are far too loud at times, or that he can’t stand the way his tangible memories seem to slip from his grasp when they’re no longer sacred to him. And a myriad of other admissions, including the painful truth that he’s taken a remarkable liking to you, and yet he’s forced to pretend it’s nothing more than his erratic emotions leading up to the fight when he’s intentionally ignoring you like this.

At just a little over two weeks left until his title fight, Chan is visibly distressed, though he makes his best efforts to mask the fact, growing quiet when you’re not asking him questions, and evading any talk of his fears. It’s worrying to see him like this, and you think back to when his mother previously detailed his tendency to shut himself off from the world in response to his heightened emotions.

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

It’s made clear to you now when Chan trails off from his sentences, staring off into the distance as though he’s being overcome with disdain for himself. You can see what he means about thinking of himself when he boxes, as he throws particularly harsh uppercuts at the bag in the ring, his face glazed with a sheen layer of sweat as he avoids your concerned gaze from across the room. And when you find yourself alone with him again, he doesn’t so much as crack a smile from beside you, simply lying parallel to the floor as his eyes scan the now dark ceilings of the gym at nighttime.

The photographs on the gallery wall are too shadowy to make out at this hour, except for the one in the middle, the pearly white grin of renowned boxer Baik Hyun-Man beaming down upon your languid bodies as you remain there, in complete silence. Chan thinks back to his schedule for what feels like the millionth time now- a training session tomorrow in the morning, a tour of the title fight ring in the afternoon, a series of smaller interviews to fill the week and a meeting with some of the sports directors leading up to his match. And following the eventful few days, part two of the docuseries’ broadcast. It’s one of the first times he’ll spend a few days without you in a while, and it feels admittedly unnerving to him, he realizes, as he chews on the inside of his cheek.

“What are you thinking about?” You break the silence, not breaking your eye contact from the pendant lamps that line the ceiling. He’s quiet for a moment, and then he shrugs casually.

“Not much,” Chan fibs.

Fulfilling the demanding traits of a perfect boxer. The fact that he hasn't slept properly in well over three days. Winning. Losing. Especially losing.

“Getting nervous for part two?” You query, and Chan’s eyes dart to your figure briefly.

He thinks back to the docuseries and all the interviews thus far, and then he shakes his head, furrowing his eyebrows as he speaks again.

“Nothing to be nervous about,” he lies again. “You’ll make me look like a winner.”

Chan’s chest rises and falls as he grows quiet once more. He thinks back to the success of part one, where he gained more respect than perhaps ever before, thousands of fans eagerly anticipating how he’ll perform on the evening of the title fight. And then he lets out a deep sigh, shutting his eyes momentarily.

“I miss popsicles,” Chan confesses.

You don’t find the words to reply for a passing moment, thinking back to the bright orange dessert he speaks of, perhaps not having realized he hasn’t consumed one in several weeks now. Chan sighs again, and then he repeats himself, his gaze now finding the wall, at Baik Hyun-Man’s beaming smile.

“I really fucking miss popsicles,” he says a little quieter this time around, and by the way he delivers the confession, you become aware that perhaps it’s not popsicles at all he speaks of.

Rather, Chan misses his innocence, his youthful days when none of this mattered so much to him. He misses training with Mr. Seo in his garage, a bright blue pair of kanpeki mitts around his bruised knuckles as he delivered much softer hits to the punching bag. He misses days spent at his mom’s house without these heavy burdens he bears- a lifelong promise to himself to make her proud, and simultaneously pushing her away, because he knows his obsession with boxing only brings out the very worst in him. He misses the summer days he lost to training sessions, he misses the life he knew before a winning streak was ever uttered in reference to him.

And he misses you, although you remain at this comfortable proximity to him- no camera in sight and a yearning to know him as intimately as he longs to know you. But the truth remains, that you’re just here to tell his story, not be a part of it. The relativity of a journalist to an athlete- new burdens he bears, new fears he harbors.

“I have an interview with Mr. Seo,” you voice from beside him. “Anything in particular I should ask about?”

Chan chuckles at your ability to ground him once again, and then his eyes scan the ceiling as he thinks it over.

“Anything you want,” he says simply. “He probably knows me better than anybody else.”

The cogs turn as you think over the seemingly endless possibility of questions for Mr. Seo- a voyeuristic journalist’s dream.

“I’ll see you after part two airs,” you say to him, sitting up from your spot on the ring. “And then we just have your final interview, following the match.”

Chan is quiet for a moment as he sits up, too, leaning back on the palms of his hands and observing the way you gather your bag from beside you. He thinks back to the start of this series, when you’d scolded him for being late, and when he first detailed to you his start to boxing. It feels like a lifetime ago that you were first stating your introductions to each other, and now you’ve quickly become just as important to Chan as boxing is.

“Everything’s going to be different,” Chan says, as you hoist yourself off the platform and sling your bag over your shoulder. You meet his gaze with furrowed brows, humming in response, as he brings his hands forward and toys with the taut bordering wire.

“Hm?”

“Things are just going to be different after this airs,” he concludes. “It happened the first time. It’s going to happen again. I can feel it.”

Whether he speaks of his upward trajectory to fame, the likeability of him to the masses, or his relationship to you, you’re unsure. But you entangle your fingers in the bordering wire across from him, too, letting your fingers caress the stringy metal as you meet his gaze.

The vibrating sound of the wire’s recoil fills the space between your bodies, so close to each other and yet worlds apart, as you let the pads of your fingers brush against his, and then you allow his fingers to intertwine with yours, the bruised knuckles of a boxer’s embracing the silky smooth flesh of a knackered journalist.

He brings your hand up as though he’s going to seal the action with a kiss, yet he doesn’t, simply letting your fingers graze along his lips as he waits for you to say something.

“Are you scared?” You ask him again, not yet moving your gaze from his tired eyes.

He doesn’t blink, or even let his racing heart produce another beat before he’s answering you truthfully this time, his breath tickling your knuckles as he exhales a breath he hasn’t realized he’s been holding in all this time.

“I’m terrified,” Chan confesses. And from the gray bags under his eyes, to the somber expression painted across his face, you catch a glimpse of the vulnerable state only you’ve had the pleasure of becoming so acquainted with.

*

The evening of Friday is the fourth day spent in the absence of Chan.

As he busies himself with smaller interviews, meetings with sports directors and preparations for his title fight, you occupy the office space with members of the network, the common area transformed into a makeshift theater as they project part two of Chan’s series on a large screen.

“A toast,” Lin says, grasping a glass of wine between her fingers as she holds it up to clink against yours. “To y/n, who managed to piece together a hell of a story from our stubborn boxer.”

Your colleagues fill the room with laughter and praise, and you shoot them a sheepish smile, shaking your head as they start up the series.

You think back to the reserved fears Chan carries with him, and the way he’d only uncovered the rest of his story to you- all of his worries, the reality of his exhaustion with boxing and how he’d taken a liking to the one person who made all of this feel a little less important in the grand scheme of things. And it’s a story that will never exist fully in its publication, per your promise to Chan to maintain its secrecy. It’s the one thing still sacred to him- the one thing that still belongs to him.

Lin mutters quietly as Chan’s interview plays in the background, leaning in to not disturb the careful focus that falls upon the employees as they watch him speak.

“Sometimes you have hundreds of eyes on you,” he voices on screen. “You have to be intentional with your actions. You have to know what to show people.”

As he recalls one of his early matches, Lin sets her glass of wine down on a table, folding her arms over her chest and leaning into the shell of your ear.

“Listen,” she says reluctantly. “You did a fantastic job getting all this out of him.”

“Thanks,” you say with a chuckle. “Wasn’t easy, but I think it’s sufficient.”

“We did manage to go in a… different direction, than what was originally passed along.”

You pause your actions of taking another sip of wine, turning to face her as she continues to face the projection screen.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s nothing personal,” Lin explains. “It just wasn’t the same without it. Of course we tried different angles, but the footage on those memory cards- it was a lot to work with.”

As she speaks, your gaze falls back to the projection screen, where Mrs. Bang appears, hands folded nearly in her lap as she details all of Chan’s tendencies to shut himself off from the world.

“He’s so preoccupied with being the best at what he does. And I can’t help but think there’s something keeping him down.”

And then just as you’d feared, and although you specifically requested the footage be omitted from the film, Mrs. Bang begins to cry, expressing her worry for Chan and his future.

“You kept that footage in?” You say out loud, earning a few glances from your colleagues around you.

Lin gestures for you to lower your voice, taking a sharp breath before explaining.

“It wasn’t me,” she voices in a whisper, fidgeting with a ring on her finger. “The network wanted it personal. It was still on the card when it was imported, and I was told to leave it in.”

“I can’t believe it,” you say, in disbelief as the footage continues to indulge a painful amount of personal information- albeit filmed, not intended for the docu series.

“What else did you keep in?” You say to her, heartbeat quickening in your chest when you remember your conversation with Chan. She scratches the back of her head awkwardly, failing to give an answer, and then without missing a beat, you lunge forward to collect the remote control, fiddling nervously with the buttons as you fast forward through the footage.

The room grows quiet as the footage scrolls rapidly through part two- candid shots of Chan in his car, more interviews, his blue boxing mitts, his training sessions in front of Mr. Seo.

And then before you can begin to ask her about it, your heart sinks in your chest when you’re met with the scene on-screen; one of Chan crying, his head hung in defeat as he sits on the familiar leather couch in his apartment.

“Losing scares the shit out of me,” he says between sniffles, as your camera captures him at a painfully close proximity.

All eyes are on you now, a heavy tension falling over the room as Chan continues to speak on the projection screen. He begins to detail the burdens of valuing his winning streak so much, and you can hardly make out his sentences as you practically toss the remote at Lin and gather your purse once more.

“I can’t believe this,” you say to her, scoffing as you meet her blank gaze. “That was supposed to be for my use. Not for the series. I mean, what the fuck were you thinking?”

“It wasn’t my decision,” she explains, trailing after you as you begin out of the common area. “They loved how personal it got. I’m just here to translate it into the series-”

“I should’ve known you wouldn’t listen to me. God, I should’ve checked the fucking memory card.”

“We wouldn’t have had the ratings we did for part one without this level of closeness,” Lin explains. She follows as you saunter to your desk, gathering a stack of papers and shoving them into your bag.

“I never should have listened to you,” you explain, as a stream of tears finally makes its way onto your reddened cheeks. “All this push to get closer to him, and for what? So you can get your stupid ratings? Well congrats, I hope you got what you were looking for.”

Lin pauses for a moment, and then she scowls in response. For a fleeting moment, you assume she’s going to apologize, or maybe offer to take the fall for you. But when she speaks once more, you’re disenchanted to find it’s the complete opposite.

“I hadn’t taken you to be one to put pleasure before business,” she begins. “He’s just a video subject. Unless there’s more we’re not seeing?”

“He’s a human being, first,” you interject. “His lows aren’t some sick form of entertainment for you to cash out on.”

“Then why were they filmed?” She wonders out loud, and you grow quiet at the question.

You want to argue back, and yet you can’t, not possessing a clear answer to the very fair question she poses to you.

She’s right, to some degree- perhaps in your desire to know Chan so intimately, you’d also begun to house a fascination for the way he opens up to you, recounting stories of his childhood and confessing to a long list of fears he harbors deeps down under the facade of a “perfect boxer”. The lines between business and pleasure had been blurred long ago- as were your intentions when you filmed him every chance you got. Perhaps in navigating the painful reality that you will never be more than a keen journalist relative to a charming boxer like himself, you’d put him on a pedestal the same way many now do. And now you’re no better than the voyeuristic tendencies your network pushed you to possess.

Bang Chan is not some “perfect athlete”, nor can he be reduced to the numerical value of trophies and medals. He doesn’t fit within the binary of a “winner” or a “loser”, and he certainly isn’t some cocky sports fanatic like you’d once taken him for.

He’s a human being- with tangible fears, and hopes for the future, and a profound love for the people who shaped him to be the person he is today. And though the fact remains, that he’s on an unbroken winning streak and about to participate in the biggest fight of his life, it’s just a fraction of who he really is.

“Did you really think this was going to end differently?” She voices. “You really don’t think that you played a role in his exploitation, either?”

“Stop,” you practically beg, glancing past her figure at the caravan of colleagues who’ve now exited the common room, too. They eye you curiously, whispering amongst themselves and awaiting your next move. For a moment, you’re reminded of the boxing ring in Chan’s gym- it’s as though you’re there on that raised platform, pairs of eyes eagerly anticipating your next strike from across your opponent. Your heartbeat echoes in your ears, glancing around the room with such desperation as her words play in your head over and over again.

“If I recall correctly, the second most intimate thing you can do is interview somebody,” Lin states, using your own words against you.

Her voice is like an uppercut to the jaw, leaving you breathless and full of disdain, as she gives you a small shrug. And then before you can strike back, she pivots on her heel, joining your colleagues once more as she departs from your trembling figure.

In the context of this docuseries, you’re entirely complicit in the unjustified publication of Chan’s vulnerability to the whole world.

And in the context of a boxing match- perhaps nothing more than a loser.

Part 2.

---

… i think i feel smth for meruem… from hxh… jus a lil smth… maybe the tiniest of crushes like THE ABSOLUTE TINIEST OF CRUSHES

---

📹 .˳⁺୨୧ part 2 - everyone else camboy!felix x chan camgirl!reader x changbin camboy!jisung x camboy!minho

summary: miscellaneous posts and a changbin x reader love story from the same universe - or lix's friends <3

word count: 2.2k words

author's note: have some more fun posts and story of the other characters aksjhdkjh idk this is v random but I hope you enjoy

warnings: non!idol au; exhibitionism & voyeurism; camming; mxm content; somewhat implied sexual poly!skz; implied romantic chan x felix, jisung x minho, reader x changbin

<< 📹 .˳⁺୨୧ part 1

Your phone buzzes once, twice, three times, while you're waiting for your take-out to arrive. You expect Felix asking you to hang out tomorrow, maybe even Hyunjin, requesting emergency outfit help for another one of his ill-fated dates. But's neither of them. It's an unknown number. Leaving five messages. Your phone buzzes again. Six messages?!

from: xxx-xxx-xxxx hi! it's changbin, chan's friend the one he, hopefully, told you he would give your number to haha otherwise this will be very awkward ... I'll shut up now

You can't help but giggle.

You reach for the remote, click down the volume of the TV until it's only a steady hum in the background.

Chan told you about Changbin a few weeks ago, a few hours into dinner the first night Felix finally introduced you two. He had dropped it casually, tongues loosened by copious amounts of Korean BBQ and soju and a very awkward moment where you weren't sure if Chan was aware that Felix had been balls deep inside of you on camera before. But it turned out he did know, and he didn't mind.

He mentioned Changbin as he poured you another shot of peach soju.

"I swear, I'm not trying to set you up, but I really think the two of you would hit it off."

You shrugged, gave him a playful wink.

"I mean, sure. Do I at least get to see a picture of him before you whore me out?"

Felix broke out into giggles, tumbling backwards into Chan's shoulder, knocking his knee so hard against the table that you had to stop your glass from toppling over.

Chan gasped, blushed furiously. But to his credit, and to your joy, because you knew this was the kinda guy Felix needed, played along nonetheless.

"For that comment alone? No."

"Oh, so he's ugly?" you countered. Not like you cared. Beauty was subjective after all.

Chan had scoffed.

"Trust me, he's not ugly."

Felix nodded gravely next to him, giving you a sly smirk.

"I've seen him, Y/Nie. He's hot. And exactly your type."

You raised an eyebrow at Felix.

"And how do you know what my type is?"

Felix huffed, tossed his head prettily. You couldn't help but notice how Chan's eyes were glued to him.

"Let's just say you loooove complaining about the type of men you never get to have when you're drunk."

Your phone buzzes again, pulls you back into the present where you're perched on your sofa with a stupid grin on your face.

from: xxx-xxx-xxxx fuck, did I already scare you off I swear I can shut up I'm just nervous

God, he's cute.

from: me hiii~ you really don't give a woman much a chance to respond before jumping to conclusions, huh

from: xxx-xxx-xxxx oh no, that's not ha ha fuck I'll see myself out pls pretend I never messaged and don't tell chan, please, he'll laugh at me if he hears how bad I fucked this up

You actually chuckle out loud this time. You click on his number, create a contact.

from: me aw no changbinnie don't go :( I think it's cute~

from: changbin 👀 changbinnie.... I'm so normal about that If I haven't fucked up yet, I'd love another chance but full disclosure I kinda know you wow that sounds creepy I mean ... what you do on the internet

You falter. That sentence is usually not a good sign. The sweet pink bubble you were floating in pops abruptly. You take a deep breath in. Better to know early than to get your heart broken again, you remind yourself. You still hate it.

from: me oh is that a problem?

His reply is instant.

from: changbin 👀 NO! I mean, no, of course it isn't

from: me so ... did you know before chan gave you my number? is that why you texted me?

from: changbin 👀 no!! I mean I did know but that's not why I texted you at least not in a gross way I ... fuck, this is embarassing

There's a moment of silence. Changbin's little bubble appears and disappears over and over again. The next messages that pop up takes your breath away.

from: changbin 👀 basically – chan told me about lix, and then, when he met you, he told me about you, about how you went on a 5 minute rant about the perfect dipping sauce for hot pot when you were out and I was like damn, a woman after my own heart and then when he said our senses of humour aligned and he thought we would get along and you said you were okay with him giving me your number he did also say what you did. like, that you do camming, solo, with lix, with other friends, all that so I may have looked you up just a tiny peek, I swear and ... uh fuck basically I think you're a goddess and I want to worship the ground you walk on and no, camming is not a problem, god, it's so sexy, actually and what's even sexier is that you like a vinegar base for your hotpot dipping sauce anyways ... if you want to block me, that's fine!! but like, I really really need you to know that I would love to take you out on a date sometime

Your whole face is burning by the time you reach the end of his message. He's so ... honest, and it's so oddly charming. You nearly jump out of your skin when the doorbell rings. You scramble to the door, barely able to face the poor delivery guy's eyes when he hands you your food, before you slam the door in his face. You make a mental note to tip him really well later.

You absentmindedly drop the bags on your coffee table and pick your phone back up. You take a deep breath, before you finally reply.

from: me I don't even know what you look like chan refused to show me a picture you could be a 60 year old axe murderer for all I know

from: changbin 👀 OH well, that would be weird, if chan was friends with a 60 year old axe murderer, don't you think but uhm here let me send something real quick before I start overthinking it

from: changbin 👀

Suddenly, you remember exactly what night Felix was referring to. The one where the hot buff guy at the bar had very kindly rejected your tipsy advances. You were covered in glitter, drunk off fruity cocktails, leaning on Felix's shoulder on the bus, whining about 'just wanting to be thrown around a little'. "I just like ... I want a man who thinks of me as an equal every day except in bed, ya know?! But most of them can't do that."

Then you'd gotten existential. Then horny again. Then you'd thrown up. And Felix had brushed your teeth and cuddled you to sleep, giggling and mumbling how he was sure one day you'd find an intelligent, hot buff dude who would not want you to be a housewife but also rail you into the mattress.

Not your proudest moment.

from: me oh

from: changbin 👀 ... oh? what does 'oh' mean? were those weird pictures to send? I'm sorry if they were, I even asked chan-hyung because I never do this and he said they were good was the gym one too much?!

from: me changbin, oh my god, shut up

from: changbin 👀 😳 🤐 yes ma'am (that probably shouldn't have turned me on, huh)

You don't blush. Years of masturbating and having sex on camera have made shyness a stranger. And men don't exactly sweep you off your feet.

And yet here you were. Blushing at a text message from a stranger. A stupidly hot stranger, but a stranger nonetheless. Well, Chan's friend. Your best friend's almost-boyfriend's best friend.

Your food is long forgotten on the table in front of you. You can always heat it up in the microwave.

from: me I'm going to be so serious right now I need you to take me out on a date asap

from: changbin 👀 oh oh my god yeah, no, absolutely I would love to when's the earliest you can do that doesn't make me look weird?

You giggle stupidly to yourself. If you kick your legs a little, too, that's between you and your fuzzy socks.

from: me saturday?

from: changbin 👀 ... this saturday? like in three days?

from: me only if you have time!! now I'm the one who sounds crazy, aren't I

from: changbin 👀 god, no, you don't sound crazy you sound many things but none of them are crazy at least not in a bad way I'll shut up again now saturday is great I'll text you the details

from: me sounds good~~ I'm glad you texted me, changbinnie I'm looking forward to it

from: changbin 👀 me, too, darling you have no idea

📸 @/min_knows posted 2 photos

you want it? j_one ohhhh DADDY j_one grrr bark bark bark grr woof j_one oh wait you prefer cats j_one meow meow mrrrroowwww hiss hiss seungmong @/j_one you are pathetic wtaf

📸 @/j_one posted 2 photos

love being friends with photography majors (by @/hynjn) min_knows oh j_one @/min_knows hi 🥰

📸 @/lixieixie posted 2 photos

fuck a soft launch when this fine piece of ass is finally mine 😈 mine alone 😈 now everyone help me convince him to stream with me

from: y/nie 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨 lix sos im not your strongest soldier i need this man in my guts yesterday tell me not to put out on the first date tell me it's a bad idea

from: me holy..... 😳😳

from: y/nie 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨 back off 🤺 that's my man you have your own hunk now please tell me not to drag this man into bed and let him fuck me 25 ways into next thursday on the first date

from: me I just asked chan and apparently, changbin has never even brought home a one night stand so like I'm prettyyyyy sure if you wanted to you could like he wouldn't run away after if you know what i mean chan says he's not the type to hit it and quit it like at all he's a hopeless romantic actually and he's like super obsessed with you :)

from: y/nie 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨 lix 😩😩😩😩 this is not helping

from: me i mean do you like him???

from: y/nie 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨 😭 so much he's so perfect almost too perfect, like it scares me a little

from: me then do it! follow your heart! chan says to go for it changbin apparently hasn't stopped talking about you since he texted you he's so down bad for you! and chan says he'll treat you right though when I asked if he means in bed he made a disgusted sound so idk about changbin's sexy skills but with those arms!! he would just have to lie there and look hot and I'd happily do the rest

from: y/nie 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨 🤺 i am spraying you with a water bottle like a cat okay I'll see how it goes but god, if he kisses me, I might not survive it he's the most beautiful man I've ever seen oh and he's so kind! and so thoughtful and his eyes!!! like i can barely look at him where has chan been hiding him all these weeks i might marry him

from: me ok ok calm down wait until you know how his stroke game is at least before you make life-changing decisions

from: y/nie 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨 ok lixxxxx i gotta go now wish me luck!!

from: me good luck!! go get your man!!

from: y/nie 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨 good morning, sweet lixie, my bestest friend i'm marrying him

📸 @/min_knows posted 2 photos

hi hiii~ j_one you are actually so beautiful min_knows in a best friend way or ... j_one oh! yeah! haha absolutely seungmong nevermind, you're both pathetic

📸 @/j_one posted 1 photo

happy birthday to me 🧁 getting topped by a beautiful man is my only birthday wish. beautiful man please make it happen min_knows happy birthday sungieee~~ min_knows but for the record, your cock is too pretty not to sit on j_one oh haha ... in a best friend way? min_knows absolutely not j_one please come over seungmong kys seungmong but fucking finally

📸 @/y/nnn posted 2 photos

brb 🖤 j_one uhm hello?!?!?! j_one TEXT ME RIGHT NOW

📸 @/j_one posted 2 photos

finally mine 💘 stream tonight! he's gonna fuck me real nasty to celebrate us finally becoming boyfriends! y/nnn we all cheered! y/nnn wait does this mean y/nnn lmk if you ever need a third 😃 for a stream i mean spearb uh ... min_knows four sounds good, too, you know 😘 spearb UH... seungmong i can't believe the day has finally come min_knows just say you're happy for us, minnie. it won't kill you seungmong ugh. happy for you. or whatever seungmong still mad i had to watch you both pine and jerk off to each other for years j_one what the fuck??? you said you couldn't hear me??? seungmong I told you what you needed to hear seungmong plus I'm your stream mod so ... nothing I haven't heard before seungmong same moans, just more "minho! daddy! please!" in between. tomtato tomato j_one oh my god shut up?!?!?!? j_one im gonna die

<< 📹 .˳⁺୨୧ part 1

skzms' masterlist // ko-fi

taglist gen 1: @puppyminnnie @like-a-diamondinthesky @lyramundana @laylasbunbunny @minsflannelwrap148

@caitlyn98s @straystays2345 @3rachasninja @maximumkillshot @sungprotector

@stayconnecteed @mellhwang @chlodavids @kookiesbunny @noellllslut

@warren-thedarkangel @kidrauhlschik @anyhow-everything @krishastumblernow @cutiespaghetti

@hobi-szn @usagi---mochi @stolasisyourparent @steadysuitenthusiast @queen-in-the-shadows

@ayoitschannie @starsandrqindrops @redstayrosie @vitrealisbunny @seukijeuxq

@bakedlilgoonie @bookworm731 @jazziwritesthings @katsukis1wife @minhos4thkitty

@gbskzlover @armystay89 @chuwii3o @foivetimesacharm @palindrome969

@luvyev @binnies-binna @gimmeurtmi @ashareeboobear @seochangbinnnnnnnnnnn

@staysinbloom @f1wh0r3 @mnwrld @linocz @linosssss

GENERAL TAGLIST OPEN 🔖 (please be 18+ and have your age in your bio, otherwise I won't add you)

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hes too fine im genuinely going to piss and shit my pants

he’s smooth with it …

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