Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Yonsei University.

Beautiful campus, state-of-the-art facilities, amazing faculty—the dream, right?

It was for Hongjoong. Or at least, it was supposed to be.

Three years at this damn college had taught him one thing, and one thing only: Yonsei was a playground for the elite. It was a place where the rich sent their bloodthirsty offspring to make a name for themselves before unleashing them like a pack of wolves into society. It was a cesspool of nepotism. A melting pot of dirty connections and networking. At Yonsei, sub-gender was everything. That—and money.

It didn’t seem to matter how far humanity had progressed. These wolf-brained idiots were stuck in the dark ages. Omegas were either treated as their families’ prized broodmares—dripping in daddy’s riches and the finest plastic surgery—or as fodder for the alphas who needed a little something-something to keep them going. Betas made up most of the science and liberal arts departments—either wealthier than the school’s own dean or too damn smart to be there in the first place. And then there were the alphas—top of the food chain. Assholes, most of them. Of which, Hongjoong had the privilege of being.

It didn’t mean much. He didn’t exactly fit the mold. 

He was a mathematics undergrad, for Christ’s sake. And there to actually make money.

Not to mention, quite small for an alpha, so he occasionally found himself pinned up against a locker by some hungry fuck who thought he was far too petite and pretty to be anything other than a fertile omega in heat. To say he didn’t exactly subscribe to the hierarchical bullshit was an understatement. He despised it. 

But he did his best to keep his head down, stay out of trouble—play the game. The once-in-a-lifetime scholarship tucked into his back pocket was motivation enough. He couldn’t lose it. Especially when it was a miracle he was at this school in the first place. 

Unlike most of his classmates, he didn’t have rich parents. His dad had died when he was young, and his mom did the best she could raising him on her own. She was an omega—a pretty one. And a teacher—the best there ever was. Watching her navigate the world, alone with a pup on her hip... that haunted his memory. 

Not only was she beautiful—she had given Hongjoong a love that was hard to find in this day and age: endlessly kind, proud—soft in every way. Just like she was. And alphas circled her for it like vultures, bearing their teeth and snapping. Disgusting. Repulsive. Entitled. Everything Hongjoong vowed he’d never be. He vowed that, as soon as he was able to, he would give his mother absolutely everything. 

So he worked. Endlessly. Tirelessly.

Early in the mornings, when the streets were empty and frost still crept on the eaves, he waddled after her to school. Stayed. Helped her grade papers late into the evenings. It wasn’t long before his tiny oxfords wore thin, replaced by scuffed up sneakers that sent him running between her classroom and cram school. 

He studied harder than anyone. Performed better than anyone, because—if his mom was up, he was up; and if she was sleeping, he was watching over her, busy maintaining every aspect of his studies. And finally, when college entrance exams rolled around, the hard work paid off. All the restless nights—the years of being bullied for only caring about his test scores and ECAs—led him to Yonsei, a place where no one in his neighborhood could even dream of attending. 

But he could. 

He could attend the best mathematics program in the nation for actuaries. With those credentials—that kind of gold mark on his report card—a federal agency or big pharma would pick him up after graduation in no time. And his mom—his sweet, loving mother would never, ever have to work another day in her life.  

So that was the plan: Keep his head down. Study. Get a good job. 

Simple.

But nothing in life ever quite goes to plan, does it?

“Wooyoung, why are we here?” Hongjoong groaned, stepping over yet another set of knees in the bleachers. 

An air horn split the stadium, and the crowd roared so loud it nearly knocked him off his feet. 

The omega with him just laughed. 

“Because—” Wooyoung drawled, yanking the alpha down into his seat. A mountain of snacks and blue-and-white memorabilia was dumped into his lap. A tiny Yonsei flag jabbed into his bare knee. “Center-back number eight over there is hot as fuck. And if there’s one thing I’m gonna do, it’s support my man.”

Hongjoong scoffed. He should have known. 

The omega had a new sports crush every other week, and this soccer obsession was no different. After days of relentless whining, he’d finally worn Hongjoong down enough to drag him to a game. All that groveling about his love life withering had actually worked in the end. And the proof? Hongjoong had even dressed up—sort of. A white baseball jersey tossed over his denim vest was his half-assed attempt at appeasing his best friend’s eternal nagging.

“Like he knows you exist,” Hongjoong muttered, stealing a nacho from Wooyoung’s tray.

The omega gasped. His americano-colored eyes went comically wide, looking utterly scandalized. 

“I’ll have you know,” he sniffed—each word punctuated by a dramatic little head bob, full of sass Hongjoong had long since built up an immunity to. “I have many connections at this school, Kim Hongjoong. My reputation and good grades precede me.”

Hongjoong nearly choked on his chip. “You mean the same grades that had me doing your stats homework last semester?”

Before they could continue trading jabs, a sudden uproar in the stands snapped their attention back to the field. The crowd surged to its feet. Crumbled wrappers and curses rained down like confetti—all directed at a player who’d rocketed the ball into Yonsei’s goalie’s face.

“Fuck you!” Wooyoung yelled, as if he was personally offended. People around them grumbled. 

A referee and a Yonsei shirt rushed to the goal, helping the staggering man get his bearings. But he just waved them off, head wobbling like he’d swallowed a bee, dark brown hair flopping like the ears of a dazed puppy.

God, that’s gotta be a concussion , Hongjoong thought. 

A foul was called. The offending player argued with a ref, claiming it was “the motherfucker’s fault for being so damn tall,” but the following red card disagreed, sparking another lively round of cheers from the audience.

Hongjoong’s gaze drifted back to the goalie. Of all those who rushed to his side, Hongjoong seemed to be the only one actually concerned for his well-being. However, that impression was immediately shattered the moment the man turned to the crowd, waving like a kid at Disney and grinning—despite the very clear streak of blood trailing from his nose to his teeth. 

Well, doesn’t look like he had much brain left to damage anyway.

Hongjoong just didn’t get it. A bunch of sweaty alphas kicking around a muddy ball while everyone applauded as if it was the greatest feat of human evolution. It was a child’s game played by grown men. Most of them barely showed up to class—barely smart enough to pass in the first place. And when they did show, they weren’t even chastised for it.

Hongjoong rolled his eyes like the underprivileged kid he was. He’d never take a ball to the face and be happy about it—even with daddy’s money cushioning the blow. 

Wooyoung wasn’t much better, though. For someone bound to enter the world of education as a director or care facilitator after graduation, he sure had no qualms about cheating. But he was also annoyingly hard to hate. Despite his background—and the fact that his daddy was literally the dean—Wooyoung was shamelessly charming. Obnoxious and cocky, yes, but also tender-hearted and sweet. 

Hongjoong had once witnessed him tap a mom on the shoulder in a grocery store—just to pluck her infant pup from her arms so she could tend to her screaming toddler. The woman was stunned. Like—who hands their baby over to a complete stranger? 

But Wooyoung had that kind of charm. 

She took one look, passed him the pup, and shot him a grateful glance once she’d calmed down her kid. Then he planted a fat kiss on the baby’s cheek and returned to chatting with Hongjoong like nothing had happened. 

No wonder Hongjoong’s mom adored him. 

“Speaking of statistics,” Wooyoung continued once settled back in his seat, completely ignoring the earlier comment. “Use your mathematical superpowers and tell me what the probability is that I can get his number after the game.”

Hongjoong paused, squinting out at the field like he was calculating some great outcome—just to be annoying. 

The omega punched him hard in the shoulder.

But Yonsei was up by two, fifteen minutes out from the final whistle. There’d be a party after. A rush on the field. And if center-back number eight was into needy omegas, the odds weren’t bad.

“Zero-to-none,” Hongjoong replied flatly.

Another punch landed.

Yet, when the game ended in victory, Wooyoung wasted no time dragging him down toward the celebratory crowd. “Watch this, math boy!” 

Hongjoong didn’t bother to follow. Just crossed his arms and lingered near the sideline, letting Wooyoung vanish into the chaos. 

Not far off, two players were dumping a cooler of Gatorade over their teammate’s head. The man gasped at the shock of the cold, then burst out laughing—so bright and alive Hongjoong could hear it through the clamor. The man’s jersey clung to his body, soaked through, his clearly defined muscles catching the floodlights. A captain’s armband hugged tight around his bicep.

And Hongjoong stared. 

Not like he meant to. It was just—something to watch. 

And he definitely didn’t notice how close the three were getting—how the captain sprinted after the other two, rounding the crowd in pursuit—until the shorter one nearly plowed right through him. 

Hongjoong side-stepped instinctively. Wrong move. 

It put him directly in the captain’s path.

He had to screech to a halt, cleats digging into the sod. His wet uniform flounced back against his body. 

A single drop of Gatorade slipped from his long, black hair. And landed square on Hongjoong’s glasses. 

They stared at each other. Close—too close. Face to face.

But the captain’s eyes were nearly half a foot higher, round and endlessly black. Hongjoong froze as they narrowed with something sharper than amusement. The man’s lips curled into a knowing grin.

That grin.

And then the scent hit. 

Not a friendly waft—a wall of it.

Adrenaline and sweat—espresso, like a shot to the bloodstream. Enough to make Hongjoong’s eyes prick.

Sure, he’d just won a game, but— shit —it was like he was trying to drown the entire stadium. 

And below it—something sticky. Cocky and rich. Like burnt sugar. Hot—organically addictive. Sex.

Hongjoong’s eyebrow twitched. 

It was offensive . Not to mention overpowering. 

And definitely not for him .

The alpha thought he was facing an omega.

Clearly .

Hongjoong’s lips parted, about to snap something scathing—about to put the other alpha in his place for being so rude and naive—but Wooyoung’s voice beat him to it.

“Eat your words, math boy! Guess who’s the number one alpha tamer of Yonsei?”

The captain turned with a grace far too elegant for someone of his nature, that same smirk still in place. “See you at the party, Wooyoung,” he purred.

But his eyes lingered on Hongjoong. Dragging. For far too long.

That’s when Hongjoong caught it—just a whiff. An almost indiscernible whisper of something else—something worse—that completely unnerved him. 

Flowers. 

Under all that rank, the asshole smelled like a pretty girl—like fucking jasmine .

Hongjoong’s fingers twitched toward the patch at his throat. It was still there, still active. 

That had to be the only reason why that asshole would dare to look at him that way. 

Wooyoung just waved the player off. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever, lover boy.”

“You know him?” Hongjoong asked once they were clear of the crowd.

“Seonghwa?” Wooyoung snorted. “Yeah, he's the captain. Easy on the eyes, but a total fuckboy.” He didn’t miss a single beat, talking as if that justified anything. “I mean, seriously—I wouldn’t touch that man with a ten-foot pole. I heard he’s been through every omega from creative writing to poly sci. Real piece of work, that one is.” 

Hongjoong nodded slowly. Duly noted.

A fuckboy. Who obviously wasn’t very selective about his tastes. 

If he was, he probably would’ve taken a second longer to give Hongjoong a better once over before being so obvious . Made sense…

And yet, Hongjoong’s skin still prickled. Like something had wormed its way underneath it. 

That look. That scent. That cocky fucking grin.

His instincts were running haywire. Jaw tensed. Teeth gritting. He picked at the corner of his scent blocker until it peeled back—just enough to breathe freely again.

Wooyoung sighed in relief as Hongjoong’s scent drifted over to him.

But even to Hongjoong, it was off. Agitated. Bitter and all wrong.

He didn’t normally get this worked up. It wasn’t like him to care. Definitely not over someone like that. 

Hell—he’d encountered a hundred Seonghwas in his lifetime. Each one, he’d brushed off without so much as a second glance. So why— 

”You down to party?” Wooyoung asked, interrupting his train of thought with a mischievous bump. 

His tart blackberry scent rubbed against Hongjoong like a prod. Manipulative little shit. 

"Come on—I never get you out of your nerd cave! You promised we’d hang out. Plus, who’s gonna save me from myself if San actually wants to knot me?”

Hongjoong nearly choked again. No matter how long they’d been friends, the omega never ceased to catch him off guard. “ Wooyoung! ”

“You promised ,” Wooyoung sang. 

Wooyoung had him there—he had promised. And it’s not like one night out would kill him necessarily. Just—he needed to study. Or at least, that’s what he kept telling himself. Definitely had nothing to do with the possibility of running into that asshole again.

“Ugh, fine,” he groaned. Because it wasn’t a good enough excuse. And because the idea of Wooyoung getting himself into trouble didn’t sit right with him. “But who’s San?”

The omega squealed, skipping forward, more than pleased to get his way. “The center-back. God, keep up!”

As they headed for the car, Hongjoong’s eyes swept the stadium one last time—emptying bleachers, fading cheers.

And that scent he still couldn’t shake. The one coiling around his senses like a venomous snake, refusing to let him breathe right.

He told himself it was nothing. That he didn’t care.

He’d smelled jasmine before. Plenty of times.

It shouldn’t matter that he’d never, ever smelled it on another alpha—shouldn’t matter that, this time, it made his throat tight. Like something was trying to claw its way out of him into the light.

Right?

Hongjoong could only hope he wasn’t making a mistake in agreeing to go to this stupid party.

Chapter Text

“San scored a date with a hot little omega, y’all,” Seonghwa announced to the locker room with a smug, taunting jeer. 

A collective ooooo rose from the team—jerseys half-off and strewn across the floor, the air thick with sweat and victory. Because San wasn’t the only one who’d scored tonight. Their post-win ritual was already in full swing, the triumphant captain riding high on the buzz. 

“Yeah, yeah. Settle down,” San chuckled, rolling his eyes—but the grin on his face gave him away. Seonghwa jabbed a finger into his ribs just to earn a playful swat.

“What about you, cap?” Jongho chimed in. The youngest had a towel twisted into an elaborate wrap around his head like they were in a jjimjilbang. Stretched across an entire bench, he casually spun a ball between his palms while his hyungs had to squeeze around him to change. “Got you a hot date?”

Seonghwa snorted and snapped his towel at the maknae, forcing him to make room.

“Yeah. A couple,” he bragged as he plopped down to pull off his cleats.

That earned a full round of groans and laughter.

“Fuck off ,” Mingi scoffed in mock disbelief—but the eyebrow wiggle Seonghwa shot him was proof enough. The captain always had an omega in rotation, and after a win like tonight’s, he could probably rack up a few more trophies, no problem. He had options.

“Also,” Seonghwa added, dropping his tone to drive home his point as he aimed a shin guard between Mingi and Jongho, “you both are doing fifty push-ups next practice for your little Gatorade stunt.”

Another perk of being top dog: his word was law.

The two troublemakers grumbled in unison.

Fucking finally , Seonghwa thought, hearing San’s voice boom from the next room. 

“Wooyoung-ah!”

If Wooyoung was here, his pretty little bestie wasn’t far behind.

Seonghwa had been nursing a drink for the better part of an hour, and the girl on his lap wasn’t doing much to keep him occupied. She smelled more like shitty fake perfume than anything, and her bony ass was digging into his thighs. Warm and willing, sure—but not exactly his type. 

Not when someone else had already caught his eye. 

Someone infinitely more interesting.

The thought alone made his teeth grit with excitement. He was practically salivating—itching to sink into something tender and sweet.

And unclaimed . 

Their encounter had lasted all of a minute, but Seonghwa couldn’t get the little omega out of his mind. New face. Sharp gaze. Didn’t even flinch under Seonghwa’s scent. Those dorky fucking glasses were hiding something—something dangerous. 

And what Seonghwa wanted to know most now… was how he tasted .

He’d barely caught a whiff over the stink of Gatorade and grass—but what little he’d managed? 

Spicy. Unbelievably spicy. A bite he couldn’t quite place. 

That alone had his mouth watering—his prey drive going feral. Because if his scent was anything like his personality, Seonghwa was in for a chase.

He needed a challenge. Something to get the dog in him riled up. Omegas who flopped into his lap weren’t fun anymore. He wanted someone who’d make him work for it. 

Someone who’d snarl back.

Damn. Is this a new kink?

Seonghwa huffed a low laugh into his cup. He wanted to be told off and then wrecked? Maybe degradation really was the next frontier.

With a pat to the girl’s hip, he shifted her off him. Her pout didn’t even register. He was already on a mission.

Weaving through the party crowd with his drink in hand, he scanned the room. 

How would it go? 

A little teasing? A bit of push and pull? Did the omega like praise? Gooey affection? A good scenting?

No. He’d clocked the piercings. The peek of tattoo on his ankle. 

He probably liked it nasty. Rough. 

In the best way possible.

“So happy you made it!”

San.

Seonghwa spotted him on the far end of the couch, pulling Wooyoung into his lap—practically swallowing the omega whole with his big arms. And standing beside them?

There.

Seonghwa paused, lifting his drink with a slow grin.

Pretty boy looked even better off the field. His short black hair was parted perfectly to show off a dangerously attractive face, and the Yonsei jersey over his outfit made Seonghwa’s sports-fueled brain short-circuit with unlocked potential. He was already imagining it crumpled on his bedroom floor.

Maybe he’d have to lend him a soccer jersey of his own. Maybe that’s all he’d wear.

“Nice to meet you, man,” San said, leaning forward to offer a hand. Wooyoung was too busy scenting him to bother with intros, so San took it upon himself like the gentleman he was. “Cool if I call you hyung?”

Hyung?  Seonghwa mused, swirling the drink in his cup. Must be a senior like me.  

Although, age didn’t matter. Older, younger—he’d have his way regardless. Still get captain to pass through those plump lips. Hyung might be fun, too…

The omega didn’t even blink. Just nodded and shook hands, his eyes flicking toward Wooyoung with visible irritation. He looked less like a friend and more like a guard dog.

Even better.

“I thought your best friend was an omega,” San said, planting his chin on Wooyoung’s shoulder. 

Seonghwa’s cup froze between his teeth with a plastic crunch.

Because he couldn’t possibly have heard that right.

…What?

“Who said that?” Wooyoung slurred. His body had gone limp—slumped into the signature puddle omegas always melted into when flooded with an alpha’s pheromones. Especially an alpha they liked.   

Seonghwa.

Seonghwa had said that. He’d been the one to assume. 

How could he not?

“Sure, Hongjoongie-hyung is pretty,” Wooyung added dreamily, “but that’s just because he got his looks from his momma. She’s a literal angel.”

Nope. No. 

A fucking joke, is what it was. 

But then—the scent came barreling across the room. 

That same spicy bite, now slicing through the house like a knife—all fangs. Musky. Bitter citrus, like unripe grapefruit. Dripping with testosterone—so heavy, Seonghwa’s chest locked up. His eyes peeled back, nostrils flared. 

His lip twitched into a snarl on instinct alone. 

No… that’s not—

That’s not an omega.

His body began trembling like the plug had been pulled on his nerves. His mind started to spiral. He was rooted to the floor, memories from earlier flashing: soft lips, long lashes, small stature—visceral appeal.

Everything had pointed to omega. But this?

This wasn’t possible.

Seonghwa’s feet moved before his brain could catch up.

“You’re a fucking alpha?” he hissed.

All three heads turned. But his eyes only locked on one.

Hongjoong raised a brow, nonchalant. “Yeah… Why?”

The confirmation slammed into Seonghwa like a freight train.

The pretty little omega of his fantasies was a fucking alpha . A smug, claim-staking, pheromone-blasting alpha. In his home. In his space. Amongst his pack . Shaking hands with his best friend. 

As if he was worth anything amongst them.

Everything inside Seonghwa recoiled.

He should have known. The loose, long-sleeve white shirt did little to hide the defined muscles of his chest—or the wide, commanding stance. The sharp angle of his chin. The indent of his canines digging into his bottom lip. And now—his scent. 

Seonghwa had never smelled another alpha this intense. Not even during rut.

No . His nose had never betrayed him before. His instincts had never betrayed him before. 

And definitely not his body.  

A hot flash of insecurity stabbed through his chest, twisting in his gut—but it only fed the fire clawing up his throat.

An alpha?

No. Nuh-huh.

Seonghwa schooled his expression. He wouldn’t give this fucker the satisfaction. Not in this lifetime.

“Oh, nothing…” he muttered, sarcasm dripping as he hid a scowl behind the rim of his drink. “Just don’t smell like it.”

A lie. The motherfucker smelled like six alphas stacked on top of each other.

Hongjoong’s eyes narrowed. “Says you .”

Their gazes locked. 

The air pulled taut—like a rubber band against bare skin. Like if it snapped, no one would have time to stop what came next.

It stretched between them, hot and suffocating. Hongjoong’s peppery scent slid along Seonghwa’s nose—but it wasn’t an attack. It was worse.

It was calm. Collected . 

And it felt like a provocation.

Seonghwa’s heart pounded. He didn’t move—couldn’t. But his own scent flared wild and unbidden. He could smell it. Hongjoong was getting to him.

“You smell like flowers, dude,” Hongjoong deadpanned.

And that—

That sent Seonghwa over the edge. 

He lurched forward, ready to fucking brawl. “I don’t smell like fucking flowers—!”

“Okay!” Wooyoung cut in, prying himself off San. The alpha looked nervous to let go—wide-eyed—but Wooyoung ignored it. He grabbed Hongjoong by the arm. “Let’s get some fresh air before one of you starts peeing to mark territory.”

Hongjoong resisted, still glaring like an angry pug. But eventually, he gave in—letting himself be dragged toward the patio.

And far away from the fight seconds from boiling over.

“Sheesh. What is his problem?” Hongjoong huffed into the cold night air once they were free of the smothering atmosphere—and the frankly shitty party.

Wooyoung was not amused. 

His arms crossed. His brow was already furrowed.

“Oh, really? Now you’re just pretending like nothing happened?” His tone was dull, biting—too sobered by what had unfolded to play along. “Like you weren’t, I don’t know, fifty percent of the problem in there?”

A bashful smile crept onto Hongjoong’s lips. He rubbed at the back of his neck.

“Ugh!” Wooyoung stomped. “And things were just getting good with San!”

“Yeah, dude. You smell awful.” 

San’s scent was all over him—thick, pungent, and unmistakably alpha. He reeked of something harsh and unpleasant, like crushed plants. And a nightclub full of sex addicts. It screamed claimed. Taken. Spoken for.

It seemed Wooyoung’s little sports crush actually went both ways for once. 

The omega beamed. “I know, right? Why does he smell so good?”

“Good? You think that smells good?” Hongjoong made an incredulous noise, waving a hand through the air like he could swat away the scent “I don’t even want to be within ten feet of you.”

“Perfect.” A triumphant clap. “Exactly what I want.”

He grabbed Hongjoong by the sleeve. “Now let’s get outta here. Before you start any more shit.”

Hongjoong snorted but followed him around toward the front of the house, their voices fading as they moved down the driveway. 

“Hey! I told you I didn’t want to come.”

Back inside, Seonghwa was vibrating.

Nearly ready to snap.

“How’s your nose?” The question didn’t land like it usually would. Seonghwa was still too wound up—eyes slanted and jaw cocked, like he was only half-present. Barely listening to himself talk. 

“Fine. Good as new,” Yunho chuckled, pouring drinks for the two of them. “Wouldn’t be the first nose job I needed from this sport anyway.”

Seonghwa gave a weak huff.

The goalie’s gaze shifted to something a little more amused then, and he slid one of the drinks over. “Now what is this I hear about you getting into a fight, my dear captain?” 

“Fight? Fight? ” Seonghwa barked out a laugh in response. Yunho’s eyebrow arched as his captain snatched up the cup and downed it in one go, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“That wasn’t a fight, Yunho-yah. Did you see him? Little guy wasn’t even worth my time.”

“Right…” Yunho hummed back, watching him closely. Too closely. 

Because Seonghwa could deflect all he wanted, but…

Yunho could still smell a little too much.

Chapter Text

The following few weeks did not go as planned for Hongjoong. In fact, they were probably the most miserable of his entire academic career. 

Wooyoung had started spending every waking minute with San—which meant a lot of third-wheeling. (Supervising.) Actually, it would have been better if Hongjoong were just third-wheeling. That, he could handle. But no. That was not the case. Not the case at all. 

San—although a seriously nice guy, as it turns out—came with a downside: Seonghwa. 

And Seonghwa had apparently made it his personal mission to ruin Hongjoong’s life. 

At first, their interactions were tolerable. Cold. Bitter—honestly, nothing he couldn’t handle. They mostly ignored each other. Well, Hongjoong ignored Seonghwa. And Seonghwa took every opportunity to sling some half-assed remark his way, like he thought he was clever. 

When that didn’t get a rise, the attacks escalated. A glare. A shoulder check. A “clumsy” smack of his books from his hands. All of which ended with Hongjoong standing perfectly still, breathing like he was trying to meditate his rage into another dimension—reminding himself, over and over, that he was a good friend to Wooyoung and was not about to lose his scholarship anytime soon.

It wasn’t totally uncommon for two alphas to butt heads upon meeting—especially if one of them thought he owned the damn world. But God, Seonghwa was unbearably petty about it.

“I’m sorry, hyung. He’s normally not this bad,” San whispered one evening, having managed to ditch Seonghwa during soccer practice. He joined Hongjoong and Wooyoung on the bleachers, looking a little too apologetic. “He’s actually usually a good guy, if you’d believe it.”

“Well, I don’t,” Hongjoong replied flatly. 

He liked San. He even liked a few of the other guys he’d met on the team: Jongho and Mingi—the youngest, both forwards; Yunho, the goalie; and Yeosang, the pretty midfielder who mostly kept to himself. Three alphas and one omega. Hongjoong had even taken a class with Yeosang—the kid was smart as fuck. Unlike their captain. 

Speaking of which—

“San-ah,” a voice called from across the field, “just because practice is over doesn’t mean you’re off the hook.” 

Seonghwa jogged over, and for a second, Hongjoong was taken aback by his tone. Calm and teasing—almost like a real pack leader, for once. 

But that vanished the instant Seonghwa’s eyes landed on him. 

“Oh,” the dickhead captain snorted, all warmth gone. “Come to watch the big boys play, little alpha?”

Hongjoong didn’t even look up. Just grabbed his bag and nodded a brief goodbye to the others.

God, he fucking hated that guy.

Seonghwa was a walking contradiction. Dominant. Loud. Unruly. But underneath? Hongjoong could practically smell the fragility. Almost a little too curated—like he was putting on a show. Like he was really just one nudge from cracking or something.

But whatever.

Hongjoong had better things to focus on—like the mountain of grading in his backpack, and the brutal calculus lecture his professor expected him to help prep for Monday. The stack of quizzes alone was enough to snap the zipper on his bag if he didn’t adjust it just right.

He didn’t get paid if he didn’t turn them in. And if he didn’t get paid, the glorified supply closet he called housing would slip through his fingers. And then what? He couldn’t call his mom. Couldn’t tell her he was sleeping in the basement of the music building (again) just to get by.

The thought alone was motivation enough to drag his ass to the library. Seonghwa was already a fading memory.

Or—at least—he tried to let him fade.

The library was dead on the weekends. That’s why Hongjoong liked it.

He’d already found the perfect spot: back corner, tucked behind the A/B/O anatomy reference shelves. No one ever bothered him there.

A glance around confirmed it. Empty, quiet, undisturbed.

Perfect.

He dumped his bag and got to work. If he stayed focused, he could grind out all the quizzes, prep his lecture notes, maybe even get a few hours of sleep.

But about an hour in—

Coffee beans. Clean skin. Sugar.

No fucking way…

It curled in his nose—sweet, acidic. And familiar.

The hairs along his neck raised. 

Then—

“Is this all you do?”

That voice. That fucking voice. 

Hongjoong’s whole body stiffened.

He didn’t look up. Didn’t want to. The red pen in his hand carved into the paper like it could stab through. Circle. Slash. Question mark. Another wrong answer. Every student in this school was an idiot.

And apparently, so was the alpha who’d just plopped a heavy-ass gym bag down across the table from him.

Gray windbreaker. Sweats. Damp hair. Seonghwa looked like he’d come straight from showering after practice and decided stalking was his new favorite hobby.

“I can’t possibly imagine why you’re here,” Hongjoong muttered, pushing his glasses up his nose while flipping to the next page.

Seonghwa’s feet appeared in his peripheral, propped up on the table—right next to his work.

“Do you mind?” he gritted.

Seonghwa hadn’t even touched him, but his scent was already rubbing him all wrong—so faint it was maddening. Like a whisper pressed against his ear. Not strong enough to understand, but far too strong to ignore.

In response, Seonghwa simply brought a game console to his nose and started flicking through the controls. Click, click, click. Over and over. The most obnoxious sound in the universe.

Hongjoong clenched his jaw. “Why are you here ?”

The console lifted with a wiggle—like that was a legitimate answer. “Studying.”

Hongjoong nearly shattered his pen.

Ignore him, he told himself. Ignore him long enough and he’ll get bored.

He tried. He really did.

But the chewing. The music. The yawning. The fucking chip bag.

Every sound dug deeper into his skull.

“Don’t you have an irresponsibly large home to return to?” he finally snapped, voice sharp enough to cut glass. His temples throbbed like the blood vessels in his forehead were about to explode. 

He was suffocating.

Not even from the noise, not even from the smugness—but from Seonghwa’s fucking scent . From it loitering like he was expected to get used to it. Like it belonged here.

Seonghwa just shrugged, mouth full. “Eh. Don’t want to.”

The game’s cutesy theme music kept blasting at full volume.

That was how the next several hours went.

Hongjoong didn’t get anything done. His sanity? Gone. His patience? In hell.

It had turned into some kind of competition. Seonghwa was clearly bored, slumped over half the time, drumming his fingers like he had somewhere better to be. But he refused to leave—like staying was a matter of pride.

And yeah—maybe Hongjoong could’ve left.

But now it was about principle. This was a standoff. A test of wills. Seonghwa trying to prove something. Trying to say: You don’t belong here. You’re not like us. You’re not alpha enough.

Hongjoong had spent his entire life carving out this space. He wasn’t giving it up now—not for some pampered athlete brat with a complex. Not for anything. 

And maybe—maybe this wasn’t just about territory anymore. Maybe it was something else for Hongjoong, too. The way Seonghwa pushed—Hongjoong wanted to push back. Wanted to do something the other also couldn’t ignore. 

Eventually, the sounds dulled. Or maybe he just got better at tuning them out. But after a while, the quiet grew suspicious—like the other might be plotting something. 

He risked a glance across the table. Seonghwa was hunched forward, completely absorbed in his game, adjusting tiny furniture inside some pixelated little house.

It was the first time Hongjoong had seen him look… peaceful. Almost human. Like—something other than a raging asshole. 

Tongue poked between his lips. Eyes narrowed in thought. Hair falling delicately over his face.

Something about him had noticeably softened. His scent had changed, too. Not a whole lot, but—enough. Enough to notice. 

And he looked—annoyingly—pretty.

Shame about the personality.

Hongjoong had learned that lesson a long time ago. Good looks meant nothing when you were a shit person underneath. And most alphas? Especially the rich, overachieving kind? Absolutely awful.

A buzzing sound pulled him from the thought.

Seonghwa’s phone lit up on the far end of the table.

Caller ID: Abeoji’s Dog.

It rang. Once. Twice.

Then came the texts:

Missed dinner with your father again?

As you can imagine, he is not pleased.

Do not be late next month.

Hongjoong stared.

Briefly—disturbingly—he wondered if Seonghwa had saved his own mother under that name. It wouldn’t have surprised him.

But the tone of the messages—detached and clinical—told a different story.

Still, curiosity faded fast the moment Seonghwa caught him looking.

The alpha didn’t say a word. Just raised a challenging eyebrow, declined the next call, and flipped the phone face-down.

Deliberate. Calm. Intentional. 

Hongjoong scoffed silently, redirecting his gaze to the half-graded quiz in front of him.

He didn’t give two shits about Seonghwa’s home life. Not even a little. He was just… irritated. That’s all it was. Irritated and tired and stupidly aware of Seonghwa. Stupidly aware of his flowery scent still infiltrating the air.

But he had better things to care about—like some dumbass calculus student who thought swapping variables was the same as solving the equation. 

Now that was a real problem.

Chapter Text

Seonghwa peaked out of the corner of his eye. 

The little alpha’s pen had stopped moving quite a while ago, leaving nothing but a half-scribbled mark at the top of the quiz where a grade should have been. Seemed that all the computing had finally fried his circuits. 

It had been hours. 

At first, Seonghwa had only come to kill some time. Burn off a little steam. Maybe start shit. Wooyoung had mentioned Hongjoong would be holed up in the library all weekend, and honestly? That was excuse enough not to go home—anything to avoid his father. 

What he didn’t expect was for the little bastard to keep working.

Despite Seonghwa’s best efforts—hours of Animal Crossing, accompanied by munching and deliberately annoying proximity—Hongjoong hadn’t cracked. Not really. He just continued grading, shoulders tight, sighs constant, occasionally pushing his glasses down to pinch the bridge of his nose like he wanted to disappear into the table. 

It wasn’t even for his own work. No, Seonghwa had figured it out from a few sidelong glances: he was grading quizzes.

For a professor. On a weekend.

What kind of masochist was this guy?

The stack was thick. Handwriting barely legible. And from what Seonghwa could see, it was complicated math. Nerd shit, of course—nothing he cared to understand. But even he could tell it was the kind of mental aerobics that didn’t belong in anyone’s off-hours.

It pissed him off, honestly.

Because—what was this? Was Hongjoong really this much of a try-hard? Or was he just a big, dumb idiot behind those misleadingly sexy frames, letting himself be used?

The thought made Seonghwa’s lip twist.

The guy was a walking contradiction. Delicate one minute, venomous the next. Tiny, sharp, infuriating. And worst of all—unbothered. Like he didn’t even notice the pressure Seonghwa was trying to exert. Like Seonghwa didn’t matter.

At first, he assumed it was deliberate. That Hongjoong was doing it on purpose—riling him up, acting like he was above everyone. Walking into rooms with that stupid scent blocker on, staring people down like he didn’t need to posture to hold ground. Talking to alphas like they were pathetic. Treating omegas like fragile flowers to be protected from the rest of them.

Seonghwa had watched him hover over Wooyoung for weeks after San came into the picture. Like a bodyguard. A personal security detail.

And when he was introduced to Yeosang—fuck. That had been the worst. He smiled. Actually smiled. That rare, soft kind of smile that touched the corners of his eyes and made him look human. Like he had feelings. Like he cared.

And Yeosang, poor thing, had just stood there stunned. Because Hongjoong was nice to him. Jongho turned beet red watching his shy mate melt. The whole thing made Seonghwa want to kick a wall.

Because what gave him the right? To infiltrate Seonghwa’s pack? To upset the hierarchy? To move through their circle like he belonged?

But the truth became obvious pretty quickly.

Hongjoong didn’t care .

He didn’t care about Seonghwa’s authority or about fitting in. Didn’t care what others thought of him, or what role he was supposed to play. Didn’t care if his very existence upset the fabric of time and space itself—the alpha did not give a shit. He just existed. Untouchable. Composed. Wrapped up in his books and his job and his picture-perfect omega mom.

None of the usual tactics worked. Seonghwa had tried everything—spiking his scent, snapping snide remarks, brushing against him just hard enough to provoke. Nothing. Not even a flinch.

It was like trying to pick a fight with a high school crush for attention. Desperate. Infuriating. Addictive.

So yeah—he got creative.

He’d finally gotten a reaction when he knocked Hongjoong’s books out of his hands. A little flicker of heat behind those icy eyes. Enough to make Seonghwa grin for the first time in weeks. Feel like he was in charge. 

And that gave him an idea: hit him where it hurt.

His study time.

Which was how Seonghwa found himself six hours into the most boring night of his life, parked at a library table like some hopeless tutoring case, just waiting for the little alpha to snap.

And it was working—at least for a while.

Hongjoong’s scent, even tucked behind that damned blocker, had turned sour with tension. So zesty it tickled Seonghwa’s nose, twisted something in his chest. Like a contact high. Like scoring a goal in overtime— big winning, baby. 

But now…

Now, the edge was gone.

Hongjoong had grown still.

His scent softened—lighter, less sharp. The rustling had stopped. No more sighing. No more scribbling.

Just… quiet.

Seonghwa glanced up.

And Hongjoong was asleep .

His head hung forward, tiny snores drifting across the table. His glasses had slipped down his nose, lips parted just slightly. The pen still clutched in his fingers, like he was grading even in his dreams.

Seonghwa blinked.

When the hell had that happened?

He frowned—more confused than anything. Because what kind of alpha falls asleep like that? In the presence of another alpha? In the middle of enemy territory?

He should have been armed to the teeth—ready to defend himself at the drop of a hat. 

But he just… folded. Not out of fear or surrender. Just—because he was tired . 

Let his instincts go quiet. Like his body didn’t even register Seonghwa as something worth reacting to.

Was Seonghwa really that unthreatening?

His hand hovered, tempted to shake the man awake. A little jolt. A jostle.

But he paused—just shy of touching. Like an invisible barrier had stopped him.

Hongjoong’s expression was relaxed—almost too much. Long lashes fluttered against pale cheeks, gray shadows blooming beneath his eyes. A pink flush kissed the tip of his nose. His mouth was slack, breath fogging the inside of his glasses.

And yeah. Fine. Seonghwa could admit it.

The fucker was pretty.

It made something in his gut twist. Something uncomfortable. Chemical.

Because this wasn’t an omega. Wasn’t someone who should be pretty. 

This was an alpha.

Another alpha.

And Seonghwa shouldn’t care what he looked like. Or how tired he was. Or if his scent had grown faint from overwork and stress. That he probably hadn’t slept well in a while. 

He especially shouldn’t care that he looked like he needed to be taken care of—and yet, didn’t need anyone at all. 

He shouldn’t care.

But his hand dropped anyway.

Instead of shaking him, he reached out and carefully—gently—slid the pen from his fingers.

Just in case he fell forward. Just in case Wooyoung saw. Because if Hongjoong stabbed himself, Wooyoung would never forgive him. San would spiral. Probably quit soccer. And then they’d have no shot at regionals.

So, really, it was practical. Smart, even.

He set the pen aside and leaned back, considering staying.

But then another thought crept in. A better one.

A mischievous smirk curled across his mouth.

And quietly—so quietly—he gathered his things and slipped out of the library, making certain no one and nothing would bother Sleeping Beauty for the rest of the night. 

Chapter Text

No. 

No, no, no. 

Hongjoong jerked awake to the sound of the library coming back to life—footsteps in the aisles, keyboards clacking, voices bouncing off the bookshelves like an alarm.

He was late. He was fucking late. 

Panic set in—hard and crushing. The reality of his situation, like a blow to the face. 

He rocketed out of his chair so fast it screeched back across the floor. 

He hadn’t finished. 

His eyes darted over the mess on his desk. Quizzes half-marked. Worksheets crumpled and scattered. A single red pen rolling off the edge, bouncing once before vanishing under the table.

He hadn’t finished.

With shaking hands, he scrambled to shove everything into his bag. 

This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t possibly be how everything fell apart. Everything he’d built—crumbling because he fell asleep for the first time ever .

He had never been late. Never missed a class. Never broken routine. His perfect record was why he still had his scholarship. Why he’d been chosen as a TA. Why he could look his mother in the eye and say, Don’t worry. I’ve got this.

But now?

Now he was sprinting—out of the library, down the steps, through the courtyard—like he could outrun this mess. Like his class hadn’t already started. Like his professor wasn’t undoubtedly pissed. 

Why? Why was this happening?

The answer was simple. Clear as day. 

That smug, soccer-playing douchebag derailed everything. 

If he hadn’t shown up, if he hadn’t stayed, if he hadn’t been the walking epitome of everything wrong with this day and age—Hongjoong wouldn’t have deviated.

He wouldn’t be late.

He wouldn’t be running toward academic demise with a three-year-old backpack ready to burst at the seams.

And most of all—he would’ve finished.

He always finished.

But now?

Now he reeked .

Like some stupid fucking alpha. Like a failure with no self-discipline. Like macerated grapefruit and—

Fucking Seonghwa. 

Seonghwa was flying.

Practice had ended on a high note—successful scrimmage, fresh win in the bag—and he was buzzing with endorphins. The crisp fall breeze and golden hour light only sharpened the pride blooming in his puffed up chest. 

He felt good. Especially after sleeping in all morning. He’d skipped his AM classes—gotten plenty of beauty rest. And the only thing that could possibly make things better was fate itself playing right into his hands.

So it had to be then that Hongjoong popped into view. 

A wide grin spread across Seonghwa’s face. He didn’t waste a single second breaking out into a sprint down the path, already savoring whatever reaction he’d manage to pull this time.

The smaller alpha looked exhausted.

Poor thing. 

His shoulders hunched, bag barely clinging to one side. His walk was less of a stride and more of a drag.

Seonghwa’s grin only deepened. 

All those hours doing fuck-all paid off. Perhaps he’d frequent the library more often. 

“Sleep well, princess?” he chimed, skipping a giddy circle around the little guy just to rub it in.

What he didn’t expect was for Hongjoong to stop so fast, he nearly barreled into him. 

“Yo! What the hell? Watch it—” he snapped, but the words died the moment their eyes met.

Behind Hongjoong’s gray-framed glasses, was not his usual flat, unreadable stare. No—what looked back at Seonghwa now was darker—much darker. Wild and twisted. A glint in his eye—deep and blood-warm red. 

“You,” he growled. Low. Guttural. Almost… feral . 

Seonghwa’s instincts flared. It was the kind of sound that made the hairs along his arms stand on end. It vibrated like an unspoken warning: I’m not playing around.

“Oh,” Seonghwa purred back, voice turning honey-thick. It seemed he’d finally, finally struck a nerve, and that amused him. “Somebody’s mad.”

Little Hongjoong-ie? Angry? 

The goosebumps traveled down Seonghwa’s spine in an excited shiver. It was almost perverse how badly he wanted to know what it would feel like to be under Hongjoong’s pin. If the little guy was all talk—or if he actually stood some semblance of a chance against him.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

Only one way to find out.

His mouth dropped open, preparing something smug. A snide comment. A tiny push over the edge. 

But that’s when it hit him.

The crackling heat. Like embers in a hearth, ash floating to land, sizzling, on his skin.

The scent . 

Familiar, yes—he and it were well -acquainted. He’d spent enough hours dogging Hongjoong to know that even a blocker couldn’t hide that irritation. 

But now—

Now it was almost too hot.

As if it were deliberate. As if it were smoke being pushed under a door—a sealed room filling with it, inch by inch. And Seonghwa was the one trapped inside.

This—this was supposed to be funny. Supposed to be a good time.

Everything was going according to plan: Hongjoong was pissed off, irritated, ready to go. Yet, Seonghwa couldn’t stop his own eyes from flicking to the soft spot at the base of the other alpha’s neck.

Nothing.

His fingers curled into fists, knuckles turning bone-white. 

No blocker. No barrier. Absolutely nothing between them.

His stomach turned. The memory of the party—Hongjoong’s scent hitting him full-force—flashed through his mind: how his hands wouldn’t quit shaking; how his body refused to move.

And this?

This was worse.

“I almost missed my class this morning because of you,” Hongjoong bit out, voice tight as a thread ready to snap. “I almost didn’t get paid.”

His eyes didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. “ Because. Of. You. ” 

He only took a single step forward. And every one of Seonghwa’s muscles tensed because of it.

People were starting to stare.

The air had changed—thickened. Hongjoong’s scent spread low to the ground, heaving like a floorboard about to melt. Like something just moments from cracking under its own weight.

Even Seonghwa’s teammates who approached from the field came to a crawl. They could smell the shift, wary of the pressure pressing in around them. Absolutely no one wanted to get close. 

Seonghwa swallowed, throat thick. 

This was what he wanted. Right? What he’d hoped for—after poking and prodding for weeks:  Something real . Something to prove he’d gotten under Hongjoong’s skin. Something that said you’re as bothered by me as I am by you . 

No more fake, stoic bullshit. No more confusing signals and silent warfare. Just—good old fashioned alpha-on-alpha rivalry. 

Seonghwa squared his shoulders. Cracked his jaw. Flexed his hands. 

Time to follow through.

But something was holding him back. His feet were glued to their spot.

Something—something wasn’t right.

Hongjoong wasn’t fucking posturing for a fight. 

The crowd had begun to whisper. Two alphas locked in like that? They knew what was coming.

Seonghwa could hear them. Feel their stares.

But Hongjoong didn’t move.

He hadn’t said a word. Only glared, jaw cocked and dark eyes burning holes through Seonghwa’s face. 

Like a brawl was the last thing on his mind. Like winning had nothing to do with this.

His scent—it didn’t explode outward, either. No territorial claim. No spike.

No—this time, when the air shifted, it sank .

The pressure dropped so intensely it made Seonghwa’s ears pop. 

It folded in. Twisted tight. Dense. Controlled.

It didn’t crash over Seonghwa. It coiled around him—squeezing and suffocating. Like a hand closing around his throat.

And Seonghwa froze.

Because this—this wasn’t a challenge. This was… something else.

Not a push—no. This was something that felt like a pull .

Not a “fuck off.” 

A— “come here.” 

A “listen to me. Right. Now.”

Not a fight— worse .

Something that made Seonghwa’s feet threaten to lurch forward. As if a leash had been fastened to him—and Hongjoong was the one yanking on the other end.

It didn’t make any fucking sense.

Seonghwa’s breathing picked up. His nails dug crescents into his palms.

Alphas didn’t do this to each other. Not this .

It wasn’t just that it felt wrong. It felt… forbidden .

And yet—he could smell himself.

He didn’t realize until it was too late—but he could smell himself reacting . 

Reacting wrong .

Not sharp and defiant in the way an alpha should respond to a threat. 

No—his scent had turned syrupy and thick. Viscous. Cloying.

And sweet.

Melting like sugar on the tip of a wet tongue— too sweet. 

Shameful.

Almost like—

Like he was prey .

Like he was a—one of them .

Like he—

No.

No, no, no.

His face pinched in panic, but his body didn't listen.

He couldn’t—

This wasn’t—

His hands began to shake.

That same feeling.

The one he’d ignored. Excused. Explained away.

Now it was crawling back up his throat in real time.

This wasn’t a fair fight. This wasn’t him losing. Wasn’t him yielding.

It was worse.

So much worse.

His eyes darted frantically back and forth.

Were people watching? Seeing this? He couldn’t tell anymore.

He couldn’t breathe .

And then—Hongjoong moved. Just a little.

A half-step forward. Barely anything.

But it was enough.

A noise escaped Seonghwa. One he should never have made.

He whimpered.

God.

He didn’t even think that was a sound he was capable of.

It stung—right in his throat. Right where Hongjoong’s scent had settled, heavy on his windpipe. Searing on his scent gland until it left an imprint. A mark .

He was being marked .

Not bitten. Not slashed. Not flooded like a rival alpha was supposed to do to him. 

But scented.

Scent marked.

Like a fucking omega . 

The thought plummeted through Seonghwa’s stomach.

He jerked back like he’d been burned, breath caught in his esophagus.

And Hongjoong—

Hongjoong froze .

His eyes fluttered. Like he hadn’t expected that. Like he hadn’t meant to hurt him.

His mouth parted, breath soft. “Seonghwa, I—”

But that was it. That was the final crack. The moment the floor dropped out from under him.

Because if Hongjoong said anything—if he named it—then it would become real. Personal. Intimate.

Known .

And Seonghwa couldn’t handle that.

He couldn’t be that.

So he turned.

The tether tied between them snapped.

And he ran .

He didn’t hear his teammates. Didn’t hear them calling out to him. Didn’t see the field, nor the path ahead of him.

There was only the slap of his shoes against the pavement—one foot, then the next, then the next. 

Faster and faster. Louder. Like he could outrun the shame building in his chest. 

But it chased him regardless.

Because it had already taken root.

It wasn’t the fight that haunted him.

Not Hongjoong’s scent or the look in his eyes.

It was the sound he, himself, had made.

That noise—that small, pathetic whimper .

Like he’d wanted it.

Like he’d asked for it.

And worse—worse was the truth: Hongjoong’s words echoing in his head.

“You smell like flowers, dude.”

He smelled it.

Sweet. Soft. Heady.

Not just today.

Not just now.

Always.

He smelled like fucking jasmine .

Chapter Text

“What… the fuck?” 

Hongjoong blinked.

The space in front of him was viscerally empty. One second Seonghwa was standing there, and the next? Gone. Poof. Vanished. Sprinting in the opposite direction at the speed of light like he just remembered he left the stove on—leaving behind nothing but the shaky feeling that something had gone terribly, cosmically wrong. 

Hongjoong’s mouth closed with a soft click.

What the hell was that? 

No, seriously—what the hell was that?

“Did I just—”

He blinked again, more stunned than anything, as he rubbed at the side of his neck. His scent hung heavy in the air—like it needed to stick around as proof of what had just happened.

Because there was no way he’d just done what it felt like he’d done… right?

A dry, incredulous snort escaped him.

He hadn’t wanted to fight—that’s all it was. 

He was pissed off, stressed out, already close to losing his shit. And when Seonghwa had popped up again, his brain flipped into overdrive—full attack mode. 

But he couldn’t get into a fight. Not with his scholarship on the line. 

He didn’t mean to scent mark him. 

He just did the first thing he could think of to shut Seonghwa down without jeopardizing anything else.

Not that .

That… that was—

Seonghwa’s face flashed in his mind—desperate and horrified—just seconds before he ran. He had completely crumpled . Sure, Hongjoong had seen omegas scent-shocked. But an alpha? That hard? That fast? It didn’t make any sense. A proverbial slap on the wrist and the guy had nearly pissed himself.

Hongjoong fought to suppress the stupefied scoff that threatened to bark out of him.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “What the fuck kind of reaction was that?”

He glanced around. The path had mostly cleared, but a couple of students still lingered—gawking, whispering. 

And he couldn’t blame them. That was weird . On both of their parts.

Scent-marking another alpha? Surely no one had realized what was happening, but still—Seonghwa running?

A breathy laugh escaped him, startled and half-wheezing. “No way.”

Because— what?

All this time, Seonghwa had been yapping like he was top dog, and Hongjoong folded him like a lawn chair in under a minute. All with a little marking—something reserved for pups and packmates. For hoobaes—to remind them of their place.   

“Jesus Christ,” he chuckled, breathless. He’d be lying if he said it hadn’t felt good to knock the jock down a notch. 

And yet… 

The high had started to wear off, just enough for something else to slip in—slower, heavier. His own scent. How drenched it was, how it wrapped around Seonghwa like it had been looking for him. 

Worse—that image of Seonghwa’s eyes. Pupils blown wide, lips parted, chest stuttering like something inside of him had betrayed him. 

And that noise—fuck. That noise.

Hongjoong’s brows lifted slightly. He rubbed at the side of his neck again, this time because of how it burned—how it tingled with the echo of that sound.

There was no way that was just fear.

It felt… different. Warm. Sticky. Almost like—

“Shit,” he whispered, voice catching in his throat.

Surely not. Not that . It wasn’t possible.

“Did he actually… like it?”

He huffed, half in disbelief, half in awe.

Hongjoong had almost felt bad—like maybe he’d crossed a line. Like maybe it really had been too much for Seonghwa to handle. But shit—if he liked it…?

That’d explain the running.

God, what if he was right?

What if Seonghwa—Mr. Captain High-and-Mighty—had actually gotten flustered because he had had that much of an effect on him? Because when Hongjoong pushed, Seonghwa had…? 

Hongjoong shook his head, trying to dislodge the thought. His cheeks burned a little too much at the idea of that kind of reaction.

It wasn’t possible. Seonghwa couldn’t have responded that way to his scent.

He’d hit him pretty hard, is all it was. Flooded and shocked him. The man was self-absorbed as hell, so he probably just got embarrassed about it—about people watching. 

And yet, as Hongjoong turned in the direction of the dorms, a question wouldn’t stop nagging at the back of his head: What if Seonghwa hadn’t left? 

What would have happened then?

He looked so… doe-eyed. So different. So small and innocent. Almost like—like he would have dropped to his knees if Hongjoong had just—

Nothing. Nothing would have happened.

Hongjoong couldn’t even fathom the possibility that Seonghwa would have submitted to him—that his scent had any affect on an alpha like that. A pack leader, nonetheless. 

But the breeze seemed to bring him the answer. 

Seonghwa’s scent.

Not just jasmine and coffee anymore—something under it. Still sweet, but deeper now—stronger. Messy. Spilled —from within.

Like a trace left behind on a bottom lip. Like a bead trickling down the side of a chin. Like a drop hitting a perfectly white tablecloth, leaving a blooming stain.

Hongjoong’s steps slowed.

It sat at the back of his throat, soft as silk and just as thin. Like the petal of a flower dragging across the inside of his mouth. He swallowed once, then again.

He’d never smelled Seonghwa like this before. He tasted— 

“Fuck,” Hongjoong whispered.

A knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips—ridiculous. Dangerous. Probably borderline arrogant.

“No…”

There was no way. He couldn’t possibly be right.

But the thought still clung to him—taunting, like an unsolved equation. Every variable pointed to the same thing. 

And now?

Now he needed to figure it out.

Before it drove him insane.

Chapter Text

“I’m sorry— what ?” 

Wooyoung pulled a limp hand to his chest, as if Hongjoong had just said the most offensive thing known to man. 

He blinked. Looked the alpha up and down. Blinked again. 

“You’re not dying, are you?” he asked skeptically, eyes narrowing as he sniffed the air—subtle, but pointed.

Hongjoong just snorted and shook his head. 

“You? Kim Hongjoong?” The omega emphasized every syllable, slamming his car door shut again—too stunned to just up and leave. “ You want to go to the game with me?” 

“Shut up…”

“You realize you sound insane, right?” 

Unfortunately, Wooyoung was right. Hongjoong never wanted to go to Yonsei’s games. Lately, he hadn’t even walked near the field if he could avoid it. But things had changed. Or maybe he had changed. Either way—he had to see something for himself. 

“Can I come or not?” 

“You know Yeosang’s taken, right? Like, by Jongho. Officially. Emotionally. Biblically , if you catch my drift.”

“Oh my god, I’m not attracted to Yeosang! Jesus Christ.” 

“That’s even more concerning, because—have you seen the man? He’s a walking piece of art.”

“Not the point, Wooyoung!”

The omega scoffed.

“Fine. You can come. Just know we’re sitting fieldside. So you better cheer your little, smarty-pants head off, you hear? Say it with me—” He popped open his car door again, and Hongjoong slid into the passenger seat, “ Choi San! Choi San! Choi San! ”

“This is probably the worst idea I’ve ever had,” Hongjoong muttered.

But he buckled his seatbelt anyway, sighing a little too often as he stared straight ahead.

Chapter Text

The game from fieldside was a whole different beast. 

Just a few feet away, chaos unfolded—bodies colliding. The sound of cleats tearing into sod. The sharp smack of feet against the ball. And the smell. God, the smell . 

No scent blockers. Athletes didn’t wear them. Just raw, unfiltered instinct bleeding from every pore. It was pungent—testosterone, aggression, and desperation—all clashing in the open air. Another layer to the game that only the best of the best could handle. But to Hongjoong, it felt like breathing in blood. Like the turf itself was soaked in battle.

Yonsei rivaled Konkuk, and the intensity of their feud was evident from kickoff. The bleachers overflowed with noise—screams louder than a deafening roar. 

And Seonghwa—Seonghwa was at the center of it all. 

Hongjoong’s eyes were glued to him.

Sweat poured down the alpha’s sharp brow, the muscles of his legs rippling with every stride. Konkuk had gotten a point on them already, and the frustration showed in his entire demeanor—in his tight shoulders and clenched jaw. 

Hongjoong’s gaze narrowed as the captain pinched the collar of his jersey, using it to wipe his chin just as halftime was called and the players sauntered off the field.

“Fuck,” Wooyoung hissed beside him. The tension was palpable—concentrated. Everyone could feel it. “They’re getting their asses handed to them.”

Hongjoong only nodded.

From the moment Seonghwa stepped out onto the field, Hongjoong had known something was off.

The captain wasn’t playing like himself. There was no bite. No grin. None of that infuriating arrogance that used to drive Hongjoong up the wall.

And the worst part? He wanted it back. He missed it.

Because watching Seonghwa slip—watching him lose that edge—was somehow more frustrating than anything he’d ever done before. And Hongjoong had a sinking feeling it might be his fault. 

“We have to score,” Wooyoung muttered, fidgeting as the players returned to the field. “We have to score—COME ON, CHOI SAN! YOU GOT THIS! KICK THEIR ASSES!” 

The omega’s scent was out of control—bitter and sharp, thick with nerves as he watched helplessly from the sidelines. 

His center-back boyfriend bounced in place near the goal, rolling his shoulders like he’d take on the entire world if he had to. His intense stare never waivered. No—San was focused . Dialed in and ready to go. 

He nodded once. A quick jerk of his head. Yes. I hear you. I got this.  

Like he was acknowledging Wooyoung’s every word. 

The whistle blew.

And Hongjoong’s breath hitched in his throat. 

Mingi took the first kick, powerful thighs launching the second half into motion. 

That’s when the real battle began. 

Konkuk’s green shirts were on Yonsei in a flash. Every opportunity they had to take the ball was challenged. Every chance to advance, thwarted. The entire team struggled to keep up—as if an invisible force was dragging them all down.  

And then—finally—a break. 

Jongho tore across the field toward Seonghwa, laughing like a madman as an opposing sweeper dove to intercept. 

But that was the plan all along. 

Seonghwa caught the signal. He slammed into the defender with a calculated force—hard enough to throw him off. The man stumbled, head jerking between the two of them, eyes wide with confusion.

The maknae didn’t miss a beat.

Instead, he grinned and raised a single steady finger—pointing straight at him. 

You . Watch this . 

The defender’s eyes peeled back. He lurched forward—but it was too late. 

Jongho pivoted, sending the ball flying in the opposite direction.

Yeosang was already there.

He emerged from the formation like a sparrow through the clouds. His leg swung—toe pointed. And all that followed was Jongho’s triumphant scream as his boyfriend rocketed the ball past Konkuk’s goalie’s head. 

The stadium erupted. 

Wooyoung screeched. Hongjoong shot out of his chair. 

On the field, Seonghwa rushed over, arms outstretched, catching Jongho mid-air and spinning him around. He was grinning—the first time the whole game—and seconds later, their teammates followed. They dog-piled on top of each other—shouts of joy and laughter—a flurry of limbs and aggressive scenting, endlessly proud. A celebration, loud and feral— pack in every sense of the word.

But it wasn’t over. 

The scoreboard flashed: 1-1. 

Now it was do or die.

With the game neck and neck, there was no room left for error. Yonsei needed another goal before overtime. 

The clock was ticking. Energy was draining. Both sides were fighting tooth and nail. 

And this time, Seonghwa couldn’t pass it off to someone else. 

This time, he had to be the one to finish it.

Hongjoong’s fists clenched—his palms sweaty and knuckles white—as he watched Seonghwa break into a full sprint.

He was fast. So fucking fast. Faster than anyone else on the field. 

But Konkuk’s players were hunting him down like wolves—teeth bared and snapping at his heels. 

Even Mingi and Jongho had fallen behind—too far to help.

No assist. No backup. It was all on Seonghwa now.

Hongjoong leaned forward without meaning to, chest tight and heartbeat pounding. He sucked in a sharp breath. His scent spiked—piercing and volatile. 

Can he do it? Will he?

The entire stadium felt like it was holding its breath.

Hongjoong couldn’t even swallow. Couldn’t even blink.

And then—just as Seonghwa flew by—it happened.

A falter in his step. A flinch. A break in his rhythm so small most people wouldn’t have caught it. 

But Hongjoong did.

He saw it—felt it in his bones.

His scent had hit.

Fuck.

Hongjoong’s heart dropped into his stomach. Fieldside. He was close—way too close.

Even through the sweat and pheromones, through the crash of bodies and chaos— Seonghwa smelled him.

And it made him stumble.

One instant, he was surging forward. The next—he faltered. Just a single step too long. Just enough for an opposing player to slam into him, sideswiping the ball.

The crowd groaned.

Hongjoong’s eyes went wide.

Seonghwa skidded to a halt, chest heaving—and then he broke.

He doubled over, hands ripping at his hair. His mouth twisted around a curse Hongjoong couldn’t hear—but didn’t need to. 

The frustration poured off of him—shame, disappointment, helplessness. Anger . 

Like this one failure was the last straw. Like everything weighing on him had finally done its job: broken him .

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get his rhythm back. Couldn't get his legs in motion.

For half a second, Hongjoong froze.

Guilt stabbed through him. He hadn’t meant for this to happen—any of it. Not to scent mark him. Not to ruin him so completely. Not—not this .

But then—then he saw it. Something that wiped the guilt from him completely.

Seonghwa’s shoulders sagged. His steps slowed. His face, fallen and defeated.

Like he was giving up. 

And that—that was worse than any guilt.

No fucking way.

Hongjoong shot to his feet—rage lighting like a match to gasoline. 

Wooyung’s head snapped toward him, stunned.

“PARK SEONGHWA!” 

His voice exploded from the crowd, hands cupped around his mouth. 

The captain froze.

Hongjoong could see it slam into him—like a wave crashing down, scent and sound hitting him all at once. Seonghwa’s whole body locked. His ears flushed red.

It was just like before—worse, even. This wasn’t the courtyard. Thousands were watching. Teammates. Rivals. Coaches. Everyone .

But just like before, Hongjoong didn’t give a shit.

He could feel his scent ripping through the air—slicing through the mess of everything else. He pushed harder, flooding the entire stadium if he had to.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” he roared, pointing downfield like he could will the momentum back into Seonghwa’s legs. 

“GET. THE. BALL!”

Chapter Text

Hongjoong hadn’t come to the game for this. Not this—not like this.

But something had gotten under his skin. And for the past week, it had been eating him alive.

Why—why it bothered him so much. Why he couldn’t let it go. 

Like a nagging question. A problem that needed to be solved.

At first, he chalked it up to revenge. Finally— finally —a weakness he could exploit without even trying. 

But even he knew that had never really mattered to him.

Then he blamed curiosity. The need to make sense of what had happened. Like a social experiment—his own little study on how a grade-A douchebag could possibly turn into a whimpering puppy overnight.

Yet every time he tried to push that narrative, something caught in his chest: doubt.

Not doubt that he’d misread Seonghwa—no, he knew what he saw. What he smelled .

Doubt about himself. What it meant to be right.

Because when Seonghwa had looked at him—trembling, with big, glassy eyes—he’d looked at Hongjoong as if he’d ripped open his anatomy from the inside. Like a helpless pup laid bare before a snarling alpha.

As if he was terrified. Terrified of Hongjoong. Terrified that it was wrong .

And Hongjoong couldn’t get that image out of his mind—no matter how hard he tried.

And now, whatever that feeling was—agitation, curiosity, or something else entirely…

It was tearing out of him louder than he ever thought possible.

“GET. THE. BALL!”

The captain froze.

For a second, Seonghwa looked as if he’d been slapped. His eyes went wide—neck stiff and limbs locked. He jerked a step back, like he might run again—the flush in his cheeks rising fast, face a mixture of shock and utter mortification.

Hongjoong could see the moment it happened. When Seonghwa recognized the voice. When he realized who had called out to him. Realized everyone else had heard it too.

He stood there for what felt like an eternity, breath short, humiliated to the bone. But beneath that, something stirred. Something worse.

This wasn’t just embarrassment. No—he should be embarrassed. For giving up. For letting something so insignificant fuck up his goal.

This—this was personal. This was him —being called out. Challenged. In front of Hongjoong. In front of everyone.

And whether he liked it or not, some stubborn part of him refused to fold. 

His eyes swept the sidelines. Locked onto Hongjoong. And didn’t look away.

The flush didn’t fade. But he wore it differently now—fierce, focused, determined.

There it was. The spark. The competitive glint that Hongjoong had been waiting for.

He sent out another surge of his scent—blunt and unwavering. A dare.

You better not lose in front of me. 

And finally, Seonghwa inhaled.

Shoulders rising, chest expanding—a slow, deliberate breath. He drank in Hongjoong’s scent. Drank in the exhilaration. The pressure. The threat that came with it.

His expression changed. Still tight. Still embarrassed. But he didn’t retreat.

Instead, his jaw locked. His chin dipped. And he nodded—just once. Like a soldier receiving a command. Just like San had done to Wooyoung.

Then—he moved.

He took off down the field twice as fast as before. And Hongjoong’s chest tightened with something inexplicable. 

“Go,” he whispered. “Go, go, go.” 

He couldn’t sit back down even if he wanted to—too engrossed in what was unfolding. 

Seonghwa slid at full speed into a vicious side-tackle of the other team’s captain. Both men went down. 

The crowd roared as the ball vanished in a blur of green and blue. 

Three minutes left on the clock. Yonsei could do it—they could end this game on top. 

They just needed Seonghwa. 

When the dust settled and the bodies parted—Hongjoong saw it.

The captain had the ball. He had it—and he was flying. 

The bleachers thundered. 

Wooyoung gripped Hongjoong by the shirt, jumping up and down as the entire stadium exploded: “GO! GO! GO!”

Seonghwa was smiling—Hongjoong could see it. Beaming from ear to ear, black hair whipping behind him, the wind resistance gluing his uniform to his frame. The opposing goal drew closer and closer. 

Even his teammates were screaming. Mingi, Yeosang, and Jongho—leaping and whooping, wild with joy.

Their captain was going to do it. 

And then came the kick. 

And it was the most beautiful thing Hongjoong had ever seen. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the refs raise their whistles, ready to make the call.

A hush fell. No one dared to move. 

Seonghwa’s toe connected with the ball. Konkuk’s goalie dove. 

Victory. 

Yonsei scored.

The whistle blew—so shrill, Hongjoong thought he might pass out. 

The shrieks were instant. Uncontainable. 

He and Wooyoung vibrated where they stood, clutching onto each other and sobbing as the players all swarmed Seonghwa.

It felt good. It felt so good. 

Hongjoong had never been one for sports. But this game—this moment—had changed something.

Watching Seonghwa claw his way to the top—fast, unrelenting, alive—had cemented something deep inside him.

Seonghwa wasn’t weak. Or scared. Or selfish.

He was sharp. Stubborn. Admirable. 

And strong enough to carry an entire team on his back. 

So then why…

Why had he ever looked at Hongjoong like that? 

Like he was seconds from folding. Like he was helpless. Like he was terrified.

And why—more than anything—did that memory make Hongjoong feel like he was the one who had done something wrong?

 “Hi, mom! Yeah, yeah—sorry. Hold on.”

Hongjoong ducked behind the bleachers, phone pressed to his ear as the Yonsei team disappeared into the locker room, still loud and rowdy. 

“Sorry, I was at a game,” he laughed, hearing his mother’s incredulity all the way from the other end of the line. 

“Oh my goodness, are you finally having some fun, Hong-ah?” Her voice was vibrant and sweet—so full of life—and everything Hongjoong loved. “You know you don’t have to work so hard all the time? Eomma is just fine without her overprotective son.” 

“Mom,” he groaned, but he couldn’t hide his fond smile. She was always like this—insisting that he did too much when he always felt like he wasn’t doing enough. 

“Okay, okay, I won’t tease. I just wanted to check in on you and see how cram school went. Oh—you sound so happy! I’m so happy, baby.”

Right as he opened his mouth to respond, he caught a whiff of something sweet. It slipped through the air, warm and delicate, lingering on his tongue. His face softened, lifting his head just enough to glance behind him. 

“Hey, mom. I’ll call you back,” he hummed. “I’ve gotta talk to someone real quick.”

Seonghwa. 

He stood just a few paces away, arms stiff at his sides and gaze glued to the ground. 

“Oh, I know that voice!” his mom gasped.

Hongjoong grimaced at her enthusiasm. 

“Tell me who they are! Are they pretty? What’s their major?”

“Mom…” he groaned again, dragging out the syllable. “You’re worse than Wooyoung.”

“Ah-ha! So it is someone. I knew it!” She snapped her fingers, and he had to suppress rolling his eyes. “Alright, baby. Call me back. Say hi to our little Wooyoung-ie for me. And you be safe.”

The implication of her words hung in the air as the line went dead. 

He let out an exasperated sigh. Then turned to Seonghwa. 

Her and Wooyoung, man…

Seonghwa stiffened under Hongjoong’s gaze. His fists tightened, legs jerking like he might bolt. 

But Hongjoong didn’t push it. 

He just leaned patiently against the scaffolding of the bleachers, posture soft and inviting. 

He dampened his scent—kept it low and careful so it wouldn’t stray.

Seonghwa’s, on the other hand, was the sharpest Hongjoong had ever smelled. The sweetest, too—almost syrupy. Dripping like golden honey. 

But it flinched. Coiled. Zigged and zagged, as if it didn’t know where it wanted to go—what it wanted to be. 

Hongjoong could smell the nerves. The discomfort.

And that left him wondering what this was about. 

Another fight? 

Or something else.

Something like the story that sweet scent was telling.

After a pause, Seonghwa took a deep breath. He gulped like it hurt—like his pride didn’t go down so easily. 

Hongjoong raised a brow. 

“I…” Seonghwa’s voice cracked. His scent spiked—overly sweet and floral, like caramelized peaches burning on a stove.

That’s when Hongjoong offered him the teeniest tendril. 

A breath of encouragement. A small prod. 

It felt natural, given the way Seonghwa’s scent clung to him, practically begging for something solid to hold. 

“ Thank you, ” Seonghwa blurted as it hit him. 

His face lit crimson, body jolting forward like he couldn’t control it. 

The smell around them bloomed and swirled—jasmine dancing with grapefruit, spring on the warmest day. 

Hongjoong just smiled, pretending not to notice. 

“For—for the game. What you did—” 

Seonghwa still couldn’t look up. Still couldn’t raise his head. 

“Sure,” Hongjoong replied gently. 

So gentle, in fact, that Seonghwa made a displeased noise at the softness of it. 

This reaction was… interesting. It looked like it had taken everything in him to say even those few words. He didn’t seem used to reaching out. Not even to say thank you. 

Hongjoong’s chest tightened again at the realization—just like it had when Seonghwa had made that goal— proud .  

His eyes trailed to the top of Seonghwa’s bent head—to the silky mop of black hair falling over his brow. 

He hated to admit it—but San had been right.

Seonghwa wasn’t all bad. 

Even when he was obnoxious. Even when he'd made a mess of things.

Hongjoong understood now why the others trusted him. Why he wore the captain’s armband.

The man was extremely strong-willed. And tender in the most surprising ways. At least—when he wasn’t putting on an act. 

“Seonghwa-yah,” Hongjoong cooed. 

His fingers twitched at his side. An urge welled inside of him. He almost reached out—almost ruffled the other’s hair. 

But he thought twice about it and just grinned instead. 

This was new for both of them. 

The taller alpha lifted his head for a fraction of a second. 

Their eyes met.

And Hongjoong let it out.  

“ Good job. ” 

And just like before, Seonghwa spun on his heels and fled—too fast for Hongjoong to say any more. 

Chapter Text

A Week Prior

Alpha scenting alpha

Alpha submission

Do alphas respond to scent marking

Is it normal for an alpha to respond to scent marking 

Alpha alpha 

Alpha heightened scent sensitivity 

Alpha hormone imbalance 

Alpha turning into omega

Alpha pre-rut early onset 

That was Seonghwa’s search history. 

His grip trembled, thumbs hovering over the screen of his phone. Even in the dark of his room—even with his blanket wrapped around his head and the pillows barricading him on all sides—he didn’t feel an ounce of comfort. He felt like his goddamn heart was going to explode. 

It was still there, still lingering.

He’d scrubbed and scrubbed his skin in the shower—scrubbed until it was goddamn red and raw—but he still couldn’t get it off. The peppery torture that buried its way into his pores. And the trace of rancid floral beneath it. The proof .

Scent marked. 

Not just scented. 

Scent marked . 

Like a goddamn bitch. 

Like that bastard wanted everyone to know Seonghwa was his. Like he was property. Like he belonged to him.

The phone hit the mattress as Seonghwa clambered to his nightstand and ripped open the drawer. It was crammed full of condoms, lube, vitamin packs—and an unopened box of scent blockers. 

He tore into them like a rabid animal, wrappers flying. Slapped patches to the hot spots of his body—his wrists, his neck, his ribs. Anywhere he could reach. 

Still—it seeped through. Still .

Because it wasn’t his scent. The blockers were useless.

That was the fucking issue—why Seonghwa couldn’t just tell it to fuck off and be done. 

Scenting marking wasn’t just a pheromone transfer—it was hormonal. Biological. Designed to linger. To ward off rivals. To claim . And alphas weren’t supposed to do it to each other.

Especially not respond to it.

But he had. Like a fucking freak. Somehow.

It was a fluke. A biological error. A bad response to something wrong—inherently wrong. It didn’t mean anything. It didn’t. And this weird allergic reaction he was having to it would end sooner or later. 

But his body was unnaturally warm, temperature rising like his skin was about to break out into hives, and he briefly wondered how many Benadryl he could take before it killed him—and if that number out-weighed how many he would need to make it stop. 

See—completely fine. 

After a good night’s rest—and a visit from his right hand—Seonghwa was back to normal. 

You know, sometimes things like that happened. Even in soccer, he occasionally had an off day—moments where his body betrayed him and nothing went his way. But it was fine. He was fine. Back and better than ever. 

“Hyung!” Yunho called, waving him down across the hall. Mingi, of course, in tow. 

“Coach said training’s light this week,” the tall goalie rattled off as they headed toward class. “Wants us to rest before the big game on Sunday. Take it easy.”

Seonghwa just chuckled.

The boys were always enthralled to have a couple of days to themselves. But it didn’t mean they could slack off. Far from it. 

“We still have to make sure we’re ready,” he clarified. “So no skipping your cardio, or your sleep. That means you , Mingi-yah.”

Mingi put up an offended hand like he didn’t know why he was suddenly a part of the conversation—which abruptly ended as Yunho and Seonghwa reached their classroom. 

“Bye,” Yunho murmured to Mingi. The two alphas bumped heads as they always did.

But this time it made Seonghwa freeze. 

It wasn’t uncommon among a pack, a team, for alphas to scent each other—especially ones like those two, bonded since high school. Yet watching it now made Seonghwa’s stomach twist. 

Watching Mingi’s eyes flutter closed, Yunho breathing him in—the eldest felt like he was seeing something he shouldn’t. 

Smelling something he shouldn’t.

Mingi’s saltwater scent melding perfectly with Yunho’s tobacco-tinged one. A burst of warm affection. And something far too— intimate .

Seonghwa jerked back as the two parted, eyes wide with disgust. 

“What the fuck was that?” he spat. 

He didn’t even know what he was asking—just that he wanted it to stop.

“What was what ?” Yunho replied, drawing out the question as he and Mingi exchanged uncertain glances. 

Seonghwa couldn’t respond. He didn’t have an answer, and thinking about it made his body start to shake. Something in him ignited—rage, confusion. Before he knew what he was doing, he snapped at the younger of the two. 

“Get the fuck outta here, Mingi-yah!”

Yunho blinked at him in shock. 

But Mingi already had his chin tucked in a frantic display of submission, fingers digging into the straps of his bag as he bowed quickly and bolted. The goalie didn’t move an inch—couldn’t.

For a moment, he stared in the direction of his best friend. Then he let out a long, disappointed breath. 

“Hyung,” he sighed, eyes fluttering shut. “What the fuck?”

The edges of Seonghwa’s vision blurred, the blood rushing to his fingertips. He could barely hear Yunho—he could barely hear anything over the sound of his own pulse hammering in his head. 

Wrong. 

Everything was wrong. 

And he didn’t know what the fuck was happening to him. 

Seonghwa couldn’t sleep. 

He tossed and turned. Nothing felt right. Every side of his pillow was warm, and his mind was somewhere else—somewhere far away. 

Because he’d never done that before. Never snapped on a member of his own team. Not someone who was supposed to trust him. 

He sounded just like… 

He sounded just like his dad.

A groan erupted out of him and he yanked himself upright. 

Poor Mingi. 

The kid was all kinds of intimidating on the outside, but he had a heart of gold. A softie who probably cried about it after Seonghwa went off on him.

And the thought alone was keeping the captain awake—guilt sitting heavy on his chest. 

He swung his legs off the side of the bed and stood, tugging a hoodie over his head. 

He had to apologize. Or he’d never get any rest. 

Mingi’s light was on. 

It bled through the crack at the bottom of his dorm room door. But Seonghwa was struggling to knock. 

He’d driven all the way back to campus in the middle of the night for this. Actually going through with it was another story. 

He’d rehearsed the lines—said them over and over again in his mind.

I’m sorry, Mingi-yah. That was uncalled for. 

His fist raised, knuckles hovering. But his pride gnawed at him.

I’m sorry, Mingi-yah. That was uncalled for. 

Three quick knocks. 

A breath escaped him, eyes downcast as he bounced his foot. The seconds stretched. And the longer the door didn’t open, the more his confidence unraveled. 

Maybe he wasn’t in. Maybe he’d fallen asleep with the light on. Maybe he wanted nothing to do with him.

Before Seonghwa could chicken out, he heard a shuffle on the other side. Then the door eased open. 

“I’m sorry—” he started to say, but the sentence died with a choking sound as his eyes lifted. 

Yunho. 

Yunho stood in the doorframe. 

Wearing nothing but a pair of oversized gray sweatpants that hung far too low on his hips to hide the fact that he didn’t have anything on underneath. 

Seonghwa silently gawked. 

A slow, self-satisfied smirk spread across Yunho’s face. His arms folded over his bare chest, leaning casually against the doorframe—clearly blocking the way.

Seonghwa wanted to slap his palms over his eyes. He wanted to deny it at all costs. 

But there was no denying the bedhead. No denying the scent of sex and sea salt. 

“ What the actual fuck? ” he blurted. 

“Now what brings you to Mingi’s room in the middle of the night, captain?” Yunho taunted, clearly enjoying every second of it. 

“ What brings me to his —what are you doing in his room, you bastard?”

Yunho just shrugged, laughing under his breath. 

“If you’re here to apologize, Mingi’s a little preoccupied right now. It’ll have to wait until morning. You know—when he’s not scented out of his mind.”

The captain’s ears were burning, his brain working violent overtime. “Come again?”

“Oh, I mean—” Yunho stepped aside, tone drenched in sarcasm (clearly bitter about the whole thing). “Be my guest. But I don’t think his alpha would like you coming inside very much.”

“...Alpha?”

Alpha. 

The word landed flat. Like a brick to the back of his skull. The last cracks of Seonghwa’s sanity splintered somewhere deep inside of him. 

Alpha. 

As in—Yunho. 

Yunho was referring to himself as Mingi’s alpha. 

Mingi. Also an alpha. 

And Mingi was okay with this. 

Seonghwa released a sound so raw, so unfiltered, he wasn’t even sure it came from himself. 

Like a glitching robot, he turned away—stiff as a board. Behind him, Yunho was already snickering. 

But Seonghwa was too busy trying to figure out how his legs worked. How to get the hell out of there. 

A few broken steps later, Yunho called after him, “See you at practice tomorrow, captain!”

Everything Seonghwa thought he knew…

Was crumbling down around him.

He didn’t stop walking until he was halfway across campus, nearly at a jog, lungs heaving like he’d been shoved underwater for too long. His hands were shaking, vision tunneling. He didn’t know what was going on. He just knew he needed to do something—to take back control. To remind himself who the fuck he was.

Not weak. Not broken. Not like that .

He was Park-fucking-Seonghwa.

Chapter Text

This wasn’t happening. Not happening. No.

Seonghwa threw himself into the driver’s seat of his car and slammed the door shut so hard the whole thing rocked. His hands were useless, fingers fumbling the key— shit, fuck —he dropped it. Scrambled to snatch it up. 

This was fucking stupid. More than stupid— impossible .

The engine roared to life, high beams slicing through the empty parking lot. But inside him, everything screamed. His body, his instincts, his brain.

Because it didn’t make any sense. Yunho ? Yunho and Mingi ? That sentence shouldn’t even exist. An abomination. Biologically impossible. And yet— 

Since when ? How had he not seen it? Their body language, their scents? Was he that blind?  That fucking oblivious?

His pulse hammered in his throat. He couldn’t breathe—couldn’t think—couldn’t even get his head on straight. His thoughts spiraled hard and fast, almost as hard and fast as his tires when he whipped out of the parking lot.  

He blinked. The road stretched ahead of him, dark and never ending. At some point, he’d started oozing scent. It filled the cabin. Sank deep into his clothes, turning more and more sour as the miles passed. 

If he couldn’t even read his teammates… What else had he missed?

Surely not—

No.

No.

He couldn’t afford to finish that thought.

His grip cinched around the steering wheel tight enough to split it. 

No. 

He just needed to—

His hand dove for his phone. Scrolled—too fast. Swerved. Swore. 

There. Just who he was looking for: the girl from the party. The omega with the tight skirt who was all over him. 

He hit call. 

Not because he wanted comfort. Not because he gave two shits about who she was. 

No—he needed a fuck. 

It had been too long.

A good, hard fuck. Something to realign him like a chiropractic adjustment. 

Because this—this wasn’t who he was. He wasn’t broken. He wasn’t some fucking backwards freak. 

He was an alpha , for Christ’s sake. Alpha .

And if he couldn’t prove that—and prove it tonight—then what the fuck was he?

“Don’t forget your fucking pants!”

Fabric hit him in the face. 

The door followed. 

And just like that, Seonghwa was outside again—bare-legged, pathetic, and spiraling.

This had to be the single most humiliating day of his life. 

Worse than pissing himself in second grade. Worse than when his father had made him kneel outside the classroom on his head, hands tucked behind his back. 

He’d take all of that again in a heartbeat—anything over this. 

His vision blurred, zoning out on the apartment number in front of him: 1117. He read it once. Twice. A dozen times. But no matter how many times he read it, it couldn’t stop what had happened from replaying in his head. 

***

1117. This was the place. 

He’d barely knocked before the door flung open, the omega girl yanking him in. 

Her apartment reeked of shitty perfume and surface cleaner. The kind that tried to imitate fruit but landed somewhere between hairspray and burnt incense. A migraine waiting to happen. He felt as if he was suffocating in it.

“I knew you’d call,” she giggled.

And he—for the life of him—could not remember her name. Ahri? Ahjeong? Fuck—it didn’t matter. He’d stick to “baby.”

“Of course, baby. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. That scent—”

Her arms draped around his shoulders, sugary and synthetic, like a Victoria’s Secret catalog. Everything he was supposed to want. Everything an alpha should crave. 

His hands curled at her waist. The red satin robe she wore bunched in his hold. But the fabric felt wrong—cheap and itchy, and fucking annoying. He struggled to push it out of his thoughts. 

“Oppa, I wanna smell like you when you’re done,” she purred, her lips ghosting close to the scent gland at his throat. 

He immediately jerked her back. 

Harder than he should have.

“Whoa,” he laughed, forcing a grin. “Let’s ease into that, baby. Don’t want to scent you unconscious first go.”

She pouted again. The same look she’d given him at the party—the same look that meant nothing now.

He couldn’t scent mark her. He wouldn’t. Wouldn’t risk his own scent turning fucking fruity on him in the middle of it. 

Luckily, she didn’t seem to care. And it didn’t take long for her to lose the robe, and him to lose his clothes. 

She postured prettily on the bed for him, all red lace and pale skin, back arched just right and ass exposed. Her face pressed down into the pillows. 

“Please, Alpha,” she whined. “Take me.”

That was his cue. Time to take control. To dominate. 

But Seonghwa didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

He was glued to his spot in utter horror. Eyes locked onto her like she was a fitness test he was about to fail.

His cock—nothing.

He grabbed it and pumped. 

Nothing.

It didn’t move. 

No twitch. No pulse. Just dead fucking weight in his hand—slack and useless. 

He let out an incredulous bark. No humor about it.

It had to be the stress. Today had been a real fucking long day. That’s all it was.

Because there was just no way—

He was an alpha. An alpha—

He just needed a minute. To get his thoughts together.

His eyes pinched shut.

He just needed to think of something he liked—something that could get him hard. 

His ex? That one teacher in high school? Fucking soccer porn?

Nothing.

His hand moved faster, rougher. 

Maybe his favorite position when he knotted?

Yeah—the smell of slick? Of submission?

The smell of—

Pepper and grapefruit.

His cock throbbed to life in his grip. 

And he recoiled so hard, he nearly dislocated his wrist—hands ripped away, eyes flying open—staring down like it had just called him a slur. 

No. 

No fucking way. 

The girl stirred in front of him. She glanced back, looking from his face to his lap. 

Then her expression dropped—like a wine bottle on concrete.

She saw it. She saw it all.

His limp cock. His frozen posture. The panic in his eyes.

And they both realized the exact same thing at the exact same time:

He couldn’t get it up for her.

“You think I’m fucking ugly, don’t you?!” 

A succulent hit him in the chest. 

“You should have just spat in my face! It would’ve been less humiliating!” 

Clothes flew next—his sweatshirt, his underwear.

“The scenting thing was weird, but fuck—something is seriously fucking wrong with you, Park Seonghwa!”

He tripped scrambling for his clothes, trying to get something on before she shoved him out the door. 

***

That’s how Seonghwa ended up exposed to the night air with no fucking pants on. And worst—no fucking dignity to uphold. 

And what was even worse than that?

Not getting kicked out.

Not the cold.

No—the worst, worst part was that he knew exactly what would’ve gotten him hard.

And it wasn’t her.

A shuddering sigh. 

A strained exhale.

Then another.

And another.

Seonghwa couldn’t get out of the car. 

His fingers clutched the wheel like it could save him, like if he held on tight enough, it might drive him far away. Anywhere. Anywhere but here.

But the outdoor light that hung above the driveway illuminated it all: His empty home. The pants in his lap. The phone on top of them—all proof that there was no escape. Not ever.

A string of messages glowed across the screen. 

Abeoji’s Dog.

His father’s assistant. 

Once a trusted hyung. One who used to sneak him new cleats and hold him when he cried—one who used to keep his secrets and stick up for him. Now, nothing more than a leash and a lapdog. 

Dinner will be on the 30th. Do not be late.

He still thinks you switched your major. Don’t blow it.

If his father knew…

Seonghwa’s grip slipped. His head thunked against the steering wheel.

Once. Twice. A third time, as hard as he could.

“Fuck—fuck—FUCK! You stupid fuck! You can never just listen, can you?”

But he couldn’t.

Because this—this is what his father made him. 

“You’re an alpha,” he snarled to himself. “A fucking alpha.”

But the words sounded foreign and forced—shaky. They caught in his throat.

Because they weren’t his.

They were his abeoji’s.

Seonghwa’s eyes stung, and the scent inside his car turned thin. Warped and unfamiliar. Like an old dam—too tired and worn—finally cracking open.

“Don’t let that weak omega woman taint your genes. You’re an alpha. You’re the Park son.”

His father’s voice echoed in his head, crystal clear.

But his own scent betrayed him. Too delicate, too soft—broken.

Not alpha. Not like before.

Like her . Like that “weak omega woman.”

And if his father ever caught wind of it—if he ever smelled what Seonghwa had become…

He’d kill him.

Seonghwa curled in on himself, crushed by the weight of it, his forehead rolling back and forth against the wheel.

Because the truth was already there. In his scent. In his body.

And he didn’t know what the fuck that meant.

Chapter Text

“Mingi-yah.”

Practice had already started. 

Mingi was crouched near the lockers, tugging the last knot tight on his cleats, when a voice called out to him—shaky and unsure, like it hadn’t decided whether it wanted to be heard at all. 

He looked up, frowning faintly. 

The air shifted, and a shadow detached itself from the wall.

Seonghwa hovered by the exit. His shoulders hunched in on themselves, eyes glued to the floor.

“Mingi-yah,” he whispered again. 

Mingi’s brow furrowed. He had only seen Seonghwa act like this once before. Only once—a year ago—when his father had tried to pull him from the team. When everything felt like it was falling apart. 

“Hyung,” Mingi called back gently, motioning him closer. “I’m not mad, if that’s what this is about. Yunho told me you came to apologize.”

But Seonghwa didn’t answer. 

He just stood there, as if he was trapped between two worlds. His lips parted, but no sound came out. A breath caught, the words lodged in his throat. Like saying them would make them real. Like saying them would mean he’d crossed a threshold—a point of no return.

Slowly, he inched forward. One hesitant shuffle at a time. His fists clenched as his sides, gripped so tight the blood had drained from them. And Mingi noticed how his ears turned more red with every step. 

“Ah…” The younger nodded, a creeping suspicion making itself known in his chest. He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Is this about me and Yunho?”

That’s when it reached him.

Seonghwa’s scent.

A thick wave of shame—acrid and hot like metal scraping against an exposed nerve. Tangling with it, something more bitter, more undeniable: fear.

Mingi didn’t move. His heart thudded in his throat.

“I guess people can find it uncomfortable…” he murmured as it sank in. His face softened, eyes glistening with a quiet understanding. “That’s why we usually don’t tell anyone, but—”

“ Mingi-yah! ”

The word cracked like splintering glass through the locker room—sharp and startling.

Seonghwa’s head jerked up.

And Mingi saw it. Saw it all. 

Not anger. Not revulsion—the things he expected. But something far more fragile. Something hanging on by the last thread, ripped open and naked. Something terrified.

Desperation.

It rained over Mingi. Seonghwa’s scent was weeping. Not leaking— weeping . As if every gland in his skin was crying because he couldn’t. 

“Mingi-yah, how did you know?” His voice trembled, lips pale.

There was no light behind his eyes—just two wide, vacant windows. Like the words that spilled out of him weren’t his. Like he manned his body from a dark, far away room.

“How did you know… that you liked Yunho?”

“I always knew.” 

Seonghwa’s legs stopped moving.

First, he just slowed—falling into a jog while the others pulled on ahead. Then a walk, each step heavier than the last, dragging him down like lead. Until, finally, he stopped altogether. 

Still.

Stuck.

The sounds of practice—of drills and yells of encouragement—all faded into the distance. Because even out here, Mingi’s words continued to echo inside him.

Muscle memory had carried him this far. His body moved on instinct. But his head was somewhere else—and his heart… he wasn’t sure where that was anymore.

His eyes kept drifting. Always to the goal box. 

Always to Yunho. 

Over and over. For three hours. 

Back to the man who had stood behind him for years like a pillar. A rock. Unshakable.

Who now stood there… different. 

Unfamiliar. 

With someone else. 

The others noticed. Of course they did. No one said anything—they were kind enough not to. Quiet in all the places Seonghwa was unraveling. Leaving too much room for guilt to take hold. 

He was barely keeping it together. 

His skin felt too tight—stretched over bones that no longer felt like his own. Even his uniform didn’t fit right, though it hadn’t changed. The jersey on his back laid like an insult. As if he were unthreading it stitch by stitch—everything he’d built, slowly coming undone. 

And when he looked at Yunho, his stomach turned. His scent curdled—smelling of rotting flowers, long wilted and destined to be tossed. Because he wanted nothing but the best for Yunho—for all of them…

But when he looked, he saw something he didn't want to acknowledge.

After practice, the team filed out—bags slung over their shoulders and scents heavy with tired satisfaction. 

But Seonghwa stayed behind. 

He watched.

Watched Yunho watching Mingi with eyes that were deep and protective. 

How… had Seonghwa never noticed it before? 

The way Yunho looked at him? Like Mingi was something delicate. Special. Sacred . 

Like he knew every one of Mingi’s flaws—and loved him even more because of it. 

And Mingi… Mingi beamed. 

He smiled without a care in the world. All teeth and joy. No fear of being too much or too loud. No self-consciousness about where his scent landed or who might be watching.

Seonghwa’s chest pulled tight—so tight he thought something might snap inside.

And he didn’t know why.

Or maybe he did. He just couldn’t admit it out loud.

Because there was a time—long ago—when he’d wanted someone to look at him like that. When he thought if he just worked hard enough—if he ran fast enough, captained well enough, achieved enough—then one day, he’d be worthy. Of that gaze. That love.

But it never came. 

Instead, he spent years molding himself into a shape Yunho filled as effortlessly as breathing. Into the one watching out. The one making sure everyone else was okay. The emotional barometer. The strong one who held it together so the others could fall apart. 

That’s what an alpha was, right?

That’s what he was supposed to be. 

Trusted—without ever needing to put that trust in someone else… right?

But seeing Mingi now—so sure of himself, so deeply accepted under Yunho’s watchful eye—made Seonghwa feel like a fraud. Like an imitation of the real thing. 

A toy soldier in a den of wolves.

And that realization nearly brought him to his knees.

His gaze drifted. Landed on San, who came barreling out of the locker room at full speed, laughing, catching his omega mid-stride in a lift that came so naturally it was instinct. Warmth. Affection. Pride. Like those things were easy. 

And Seonghwa… Seonghwa felt so jealous, he wanted to cry. 

Because why? 

Why couldn’t that be him? 

Why couldn’t he laugh like that? Why couldn’t he just be normal? Happy? 

But he wasn’t. 

He was alone. Alone in everything.

His feet moved of their own accord. Something propelled him forward. A single step—then another—toward San and Wooyoung. Toward something familiar. His best friend. His best friend’s omega. A picture of how things used to be. How they were supposed to be. 

But before he could reach them, he saw it.

Saw what was truly calling out to him.

Hongjoong. 

Seonghwa froze. 

The alpha stood at the edge of the parking lot, charcoal gray cardigan draped over his shoulders, glasses perched on his nose. Hair dark and tousled. Face petite and unassuming. So small. So infuriating. 

Because what kind of alpha wore fucking oversized sweaters and painted their nails? What kind of alpha covered up all of their apex features and didn’t dominate by force? What kind of tiny, dainty, pathetic, unnatural alpha scent-marked one of their own? 

How fucking cocky. How irresponsible. How —how—

Seonghwa turned on his heels, chest tighter than before. 

Because the thought that crossed his mind terrified him. The thought that he wanted Hongjoong to be responsible. The thought that maybe—maybe—someone like that… could look at him the way Yunho looked at Mingi.

“I always knew .”

Seognhwa didn’t know anything. 

Not a damn thing.

“Hey, thanks again for the ride, San-ah,” Hongjoong said, nodding as he caught up with him and Wooyoung in the parking lot after practice. 

San grinned. “Oh, dude—no problem! I live, like, two streets over. I didn’t know you were a teacher, though.” 

Wooyoung cackled, the sound sharp and fond. “He’s not!”

Hongjoong rolled his eyes. “My mom is. I’m just subbing for her assistant tonight at the cram school—he called out sick.”

“Still, that’s pretty cool.”

But Hongjoong didn’t answer. Not really. Just a soft hum. 

Because something warm had brushed up against his back—gentle, like a whisper. Like fingers stroking through his hair.

His senses tingled. Eyes fluttered. His body tugged him to a stop. 

Saliva pooled on his tongue—thick and sweet, like he’d just passed by a bakery storefront filled with sugar and fresh bread. 

He swallowed hard. 

And he knew. 

If he turned around, he knew exactly who would be there. Watching him.

But he wondered— did the other know it too? That Hongjoong could smell his secret. Even from this far. 

A thought crossed his mind. 

“Hey, Sannie,” Hongjoong called, jogging to catch up. “You’ve got a game this Sunday, right?”

Chapter Text

Sunday

The sun had long since dropped behind the horizon. Only the city lights remained, casting weak halos over the empty soccer field. No roar of the crowd. No cheers for victory. Just the muted sounds of late-night traffic—and the slow crunch of a ball rolling back and forth across the turf. 

Seonghwa hadn’t been here this late in a long time. Hadn’t seen the place this empty in years. He used to come all the time before he made captain—back when he was a freshman, kicking a ball around by himself for hours, trying to be good enough to be something. 

It was that, or be alone in a home that reminded him too much of his father. Or too much of what his father had done. 

Out here, under the vast black sky, he didn’t feel alone. He liked to think his mother was watching him from above—her arms wrapped around him in the form of stars. 

Not that he remembered what that felt like. 

She died too long ago. Her memory lost in the master bathtub—washed down the drown with the pills she didn’t manage to swallow. 

Because the Parks lived and died by pharmaceuticals. And Seonghwa was the sole inheritor of that fortune. 

He was everything his father had made him into: A leader. A top dog. A competitive asshole entitled to the world. 

But not to the stars. 

Never entitled to the stars. 

Under them, he was just… Seonghwa. 

“PARK SEONGHWA!”

It echoed through him—clear as day. 

Hongjoong’s voice.

He’d been so lost. For the first time in a long time, he hadn’t known what the fuck he was doing out there. For the first time ever , he’d been the one dragging down his team instead of lifting them up. 

Then Hongjoong—that crazy bastard—had called him out. In front of everyone. Like he didn’t give a shit who heard. 

“What the fuck are you doing?”

I… don’t know , he’d thought. 

But that’s not what Hongjoong meant. And he knew it. 

He didn’t mean, “What are you doing being something you’re not?”  

He meant: “What are you doing standing there?” “What are you doing letting all this slip through your fingers?” “What are you doing thinking you can’t do something when you’ve already proven you can?”

“GET. THE. BALL!” meant move .

And he’d moved. 

God—he’d moved.

Moved like life had been breathed back into him. Like he was made of the wind. Like someone had snapped his leash and let him run. 

Like his body finally remembered what it was meant to do.

In those few moments, he’d felt like himself again.

It had been so easy.

Too easy—to do what Hongjoong told him to.

But everything else?

Everything else felt like dying.

And Seonghwa didn’t know who he was anymore.

He slumped down onto the grass, flopping back with his arms spread wide like he wanted the field to swallow him. 

A breeze swept through. 

He could smell it—faint, but unmistakable.

Ash and citrus.

Still on his skin.

Still in his chest.

“Good job.”

No one had said those words to him before—not like that. But Hongjoong…

The memory seeped in around the edges of his thoughts: Hongjoong’s soft, inviting face. Hongjoong’s smile as he listened—listened to him . 

Hongjoong. 

Seonghwa pressed the heel of his hand to his sternum. An ache had begun to bloom deep below it. 

“Fuck,” he whispered to no one. “Why can’t I get you out of me?”

Chapter Text

It had just appeared. 

Appeared.

Out of thin fucking air.

Seonghwa grimaced. Shifted uncomfortably. 

His wet hair clung to his neck, dripping onto his shoulders, soaking dark spots into the thin black T-shirt plastered to his chest. One socked foot fidgeted in his slide, toe twitching toward the damn thing like he was actually considering picking it up.

“Dude, just wear it. You’re gonna freeze to death if you don’t.” 

San shrugged beside him, ruffling his hair with a towel. The scent of his shampoo wafted through the locker room, his skin still pink and flushed from his shower. Unlike Seonghwa, he was already bundled up, tucked inside a puffer jacket, prepared to face the frigid fall air.

“I can’t do that …”

Seonghwa could smell it. 

From here. 

Didn’t even need to get closer to know whose it was. 

It overpowered everything—the stench of dirty gym socks, the lingering musk of his sweaty pack, the steam billowing from the bathroom. 

Grapefruit. Pepper. And something darker. Heavier. Like drugs—sedative, creeping through his bloodstream. Or crushed velvet soaked in sweat and heat and someone else’s mouth.

Seonghwa’s pulse pounded in his throat—too fast, too loud. Louder than any heart had the right to be. His teeth sank into the inside of his bottom lip. He had to manually remember how to breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Each breath, too forced to seem natural. Each like trying to swallow water from a garden hose.

“It’s all I have, bro. Just wear it. He left it in my car anyway.” 

San wasn’t fucking helping.

Yeah, Seonghwa had forgotten his sweatshirt. Again. His brain had been fried for the past week or so since the incident in the courtyard—the game. But when he asked San for a spare, he hadn’t expected the asshole to hand over this .

“It—smells,” he croaked, unconvincingly. Like that was a good enough excuse. But he couldn’t even tack on the word bad . Couldn’t lie that convincingly.

Because it didn’t. 

And that was the problem.

Why he hadn’t moved—why he couldn’t.

Because if he took another step forward, he might drop to his knees like some scent-drunk mutt and bury his face in it.

It smelled that good.

Like sex by a fire. Like kindling, struck and caught. Like skin on skin. Like hot fingernails dragging down a fevered back.

And his cheeks were already burning—from several feet away.

“Just put the damn sweater on!” San groaned, giving him a playful shove. Clueless.

He probably thought this was about pride. About some alpha rivalry. Like Seonghwa was too stubborn to wear Hongjoong’s cardigan out of spite.

But no.

This was worse.

So much fucking worse.

Oh my fucking god—

Seonghwa’s head thunked forward into the locker. The metal warbled. His fingers clutched at the edge like it could save him from himself. 

It took everything in him not to make a sound.

Not to whine. Or sigh. Or just straight-up moan like a needy slut.

Thank god he was alone. Thank god the others were gone.

The smell—

“Shit,” he huffed, nearly out of breath. He was panting so hard his vision blurred. His head swam, teeth clenched until his jaw locked. 

This was fucking crazy. Unbelievable. Ridiculous.

He hadn’t gotten laid—that’s all it was. It had been too long, and his entire nervous system was having a meltdown because of it. 

But the fabric of Hongjoong’s sweater hung heavy on his frame—heat woven into the fibers. Soft and silky like skin—like pressure, like a body draped over his. 

It moved with him. Breathed across his neck. Slid down his spine. Gripped him like hands would—his chest, his arms—whispering promises no one was there to keep. 

The sleeves brushed his palms and his fingers twitched—like he might actually whimper again. Like maybe this time, he’d beg.

His scent glands thrummed. 

Worse—his whole body prickled, hypersensitive, nerve endings like a live wire, ready to ignite.

The dizziness came next. Gentle and rolling. The world shimmered. Tilted. Rippled with a wash of color, turning everything fuzzy. Like the steam had never evaporated from the locker room. 

Oh my fuck—

Through the haze, a thought flickered: What if it’s actually laced? Fentanyl or some shit?

Maybe it was. Honestly, that’d be easier to explain than whatever the fuck this was.

His limbs went next—tingling and heavy. His eyelids sagged.

He took another breath. Deep. Desperate and— fuck .

His knees clamped shut. 

Hard. 

The heat hit low.

In his stomach. Between his thighs.

A soft noise escaped him—embarrassingly high-pitched.

His body pulsed like he was seconds from malfunctioning. Like he was going to implode. Or worse—get hard.

What the fuck was this?

He wet his lips. Rested his head against the locker again—weaker this time. Much weaker. He could hardly hold it up. Hardly bear the shame.

No. I can’t—this isn’t—

But it was.

It was already happening, too late to stop. Not that he wanted it to stop. God—he never wanted it to stop.

The euphoria poured over him. Bone-deep. Humiliatingly deep. In a part of him he’d never dared to touch. In a part that felt good . 

Every muscle gave out. Every defense collapsed.

There was no more pain—no soreness from practice. No stress. Nothing left to carry.

He hadn’t felt this good in years—not in his own skin, not in someone else’s arms.

His breathing slowed. His body slumped. He let the locker cradle him like a lover would while drunk. It felt so good—cool and smooth against his forehead. His cheek. His nose. 

This wasn’t drugs. Drugs couldn’t do this.

He knew . 

He knew what it was.

His body knew. 

It sat thick at the back of his throat. Coated his tongue like cough syrup. Pepper. Grapefruit. Heat. Smoke. Want.

Hongjoong . 

He was being scented. By an alpha.

And he was responding to it. 

This time? Like he needed it.

It took several minutes to come down.

His pulse slowed. His skin glowed. His knees still trembled.

Pink-cheeked and dreamy-eyed, he peeled himself off the lockers—gathering his things like some pathetic one-night stand taking their sweet time to leave in hopes of another round. He managed to stack them all in his arms and stumbled out into the cold.

Even the air felt incredible .

His bed. His blankets. His pillows—all nestled around him. He could already feel them. He was going to sleep like a fucking baby tonight. 

He giggled— actually giggled. Then ducked his head, grinning down at his feet as he wobbled toward the parking lot—just in case someone saw him and decided to ask stupid questions like “ why do you look like you just got the best head of your life in the Yonsei football locker room? ”

There wasn’t an answer. No one had even touched him, and he was stumbling around like an idiot. 

But he couldn’t be mad. Not mad that he smelled like another alpha—like Hongjoong . 

Because he felt so fucking good. 

He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this good. 

Maybe—maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if—

A pair of shoes came into view, standing out sharp against the pavement.

Beat-up Nikes. Creased at the toes.

Seonghwa halted. Blinked.

An uncomfortable feeling began to creep up the back of his neck.

His head lifted—slow, dazed, reluctant—like his body already knew what it would find. But he didn’t want to believe it. Not now. Not like this. 

A new flush tore through him—mortified, embarrassed. And something worse—

The scent hit like a burst of heat to the face when he raised his head. Like stepping out of a freezer into the sun. 

It wrapped around him—far heavier than the sweater draped over his shoulders. Twice as thick, twice as strong.

His knees bowed inward under its weight. His breath caught. Eyebrows pinched.

No…

This wasn’t just some scented garment. 

This was the real thing.

Smothering. Familiar. Undiluted.

Fuck.

It was Hongjoong.

Chapter Text

Seonghwa’s stomach dropped to his ass.

The alpha stood blocking the path with his backpack slung over one shoulder, a smirk plastered shamelessly across his face. 

His gaze flicked—first to the sweater. Left, right, up, down. Slowly, like he was savoring it. Memorizing this moment to recall later. Then to Seonghwa—his flushed cheeks, his trembling hands, the total disaster of his expression.

Seonghwa’s mouth fell open. The smile he’d been wearing moments earlier was long gone, and his lips—horrifyingly—started to move like they were going to form words. Blurt out some flimsy-ass lie about laundry, or a mix-up in the locker room (as if that made any fucking sense). But all that came out was a pathetic, choked sound—like something had died in his throat.

Not that Hongjoong looked particularly interested in an explanation.

No—he looked smug . Pleased with himself. Like he’d just won a bet Seonghwa didn’t know he’d made.

His smirk deepened.

He took a slow step forward—deliberate as all hell—and Seonghwa shrank. Chin tucked close to his chest, shoulders curled in on themselves. Eyes wide, lips parted, helplessly caught somewhere between running and falling to his knees. 

It was like he couldn’t move. Something in him kept him locked in place. Something hotter, heavier, wanted him to stay right there—right where he was. Nice and close. 

“Looks good on you,” Hongjoong murmured, gaze trailing with unhurried precision. His voice was velvety smooth.

Seonghwa barely heard the words. Barely registered that Hongjoong had just complimented him about how he looked in his sweater. Because his ears were sizzling—red and loud. 

He clamped his mouth shut and prayed every other noise would stay buried. But it was too late—his body betrayed him in more ways than one. The blush crept down his neck, his chest. And he smelled like the flavored lube section at a sex shop—fruity and easy and slippery and wet and—

Hongjoong took another step forward. 

Seonghwa’s breath hitched. 

He was close enough for Seonghwa to feel the heat radiating off of him. Barely a foot away. Barely a breath away. And— fuck —the way he smelled? There wasn’t a cologne on the market that could do what that scent did.

Warm, rich spice. Like cashmere—or one of those dumb expensive candles girls liked. But the candle was melting and dripping, pooling and cooling on flinching skin. Deep, hazy citrus. Suddenly, Seonghwa was pressed up against a pane of glass, fingers leaving squeaky streaks as hot water sprayed down his back. Steam. Soap lather.

Close. So close. 

Too close.

Hongjoong was too close.

Seonghwa's arms cinched around his gym bag, clutching it to his chest like it could protect him. Really, he needed something—anything—to hold on to. To stop the world from spinning into another dimension.

Hongjoong raised a hand.

And Seonghwa flinched. 

Hard.

It was like his nervous system hiccupped—errored. The two halves of his brain slammed into each other. As if the left was telling him to dodge while the right was telling him to nuzzle up against it. 

But Hongjoong didn’t touch him. 

Instead, his fingers drifted to Seonghwa’s bag—to the corner of blue and white peeking from the zipper. Seonghwa’s dirty Yonsei jersey he’d worn for practice. Sweaty and ripe with his rawest pheromones.

“It’s only fair,” Hongjoong purred, voice lower now. Gravelly and teasing—and fucking dangerous. Like he knew.

He tugged the fabric free with infuriating gentleness. Too gentle. It would have been better if he ripped it off like a bandage. 

Because maybe then Seonghwa would have been able to do something. Anything besides standing there like he forgot how to work his body. His hands. His brain—the one that ran a mile a minute and still couldn’t catch up to the disaster unfolding before him.

There was a glint behind Hongjoong’s glasses. Mischievous. Amused. The kind of look that said, You can’t hide from me—even if you want to.

The kind that made Seonghwa want to shrivel up and die.

He felt naked. Worse than naked. Worse than having his limp dick out in front of that omega girl. This—it was like Hongjoong could read every dirty thought he’d ever had. As if they were written out on his forehead: I want to fuck you so bad. I want to touch you—I want your scent in my—n o. No, no, no. Shut up—

And then—Hongjoong turned. All he did was lift the damn jersey with a small, appreciative nod. 

And walked off.

Gone.

He hadn’t even touched him.

That’s what made it worse. Hongjoong hadn’t needed to. All it took was a smirk and a few slow steps, and Seonghwa was a ruined, shaking mess.

He finally exhaled—wheezed. The air punched out of him like he’d taken a soccer ball to the gut. 

What the fuck was that? 

What the hell just happened? And why had he reacted like that?

Frozen like a fucking idiot. 

Why had he just stood there—letting Hongjoong touch his things, pull his scent, take something from him? Why hadn’t he even tried to stop him?

Why hadn’t he wanted to?

He smashed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. Dragged them down his face like that could somehow erase the heat crawling across his skin.

But it didn’t. It couldn’t.

No matter how badly he wanted to shake it off—to climb into his car and pretend none of this ever happened—Hongjoong’s scent still clung to him.

In the sweater. In the whisper of what he’d left behind. It curled around Seonghwa’s throat. Brushed his chin. Licked at the underside of his jaw like it was only waiting on the word, and it would take him. 

Not a claim this time. An invitation.

A question. 

And the weight of that—of what it could mean—sat heavy in his chest. Dense as concrete. It pressed up against his ribs, his heart, leaving hardly enough room to breathe. And it cemented him to his spot. 

He didn’t want to leave. Didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to take a single step away from the place where Hongjoong had just been.

He swallowed once. Twice. 

But all that did was draw in more scent.

His eyes fell to his hands—unable to comprehend absolutely anything. To the way the charcoal gray sleeves of the sweater curled around his palms like paws.

He should’ve taken it off already. Should’ve thrown it to the ground. Or better—into Hongjoong’s stupid, smug face. 

But his body—his body wouldn’t listen.

And that’s when the thought struck him.

Cool air rushed against his burning cheeks. His ears popped. He blinked.

Why had he…?

Seonghwa could smell himself immediately. The way his scent spiked—sharp and floral and bubbly.

Stop. Don’t , he told himself.

But the question was already screaming at the back of his mind:

Why had Hongjoong taken his jersey?

Surely not to—

Seonghwa sucked in a sharp breath and forced his legs to move. Like he could outrun that thought.

He stumbled to his car, hands fumbling for the handle.

Insurance , he told himself.

A trade. 

I’ll give you yours when you give me mine . 

But even after he collapsed into the driver’s seat, gripping the wheel hard enough to leave indents, his whole body buzzed with the idea. The possibility. The what-if ... 

Hongjoong wanted his scent just as much. 

“—he just hasn’t seemed like himself. I thought it might be his dad again, but he won’t talk to me this time.”

Wooyoung snorted from the passenger seat, eyes rolling toward the sky. “Why do you care so much?” 

“Don’t be rude, Wooyo,” San chided. But his tone softened a second later. “He’s my captain. My best friend. My pack alpha. And he won’t even scent the team. Nothing for the past week. That really affects us.”

He glanced at the rearview mirror, brows creased. “He’s all over the place. Forgetting things. I’ve lent him two jackets. Two . Because he keeps leaving them behind.”

Wooyoung was already pouting—Hongjoong could see it from the backseat. He leaned forward to flick the omega’s ear. 

“Ow! What the hell was that for?” Wooyoung yelped, rubbing furiously at the side of his head. 

San’s eyes went wide. They bounced from the road to his boyfriend like he was bracing for impact. But Hongjoong just clicked his tongue, unbothered, and sank back with a sigh. 

“For being a brat. You’re hangry, and I can smell it. Don’t take it out on Sannie.”

“Am not,” Wooyoung grumbled under his breath, arms crossed defiantly.

San laughed. “Is that what’s going on with you?”

“Yes. And you’re an idiot for not noticing.”

“We’ll get dinner after we drop off Hongjoong-hyung, okay? We don’t want to make him late. He’s helping out his mom.”

“Ugh. Fine—”

“Thanks for the ride,” Hongjoong chirped to the happy couple the second they pulled up in front of the cram school—more than ready to be out of a confined space with them. But just as he was unbuckling his belt, an idea struck him. 

Speaking of entitled brats…

A grin spread across his face. He quickly shrugged off his sweater, rolled it up, and tossed it into the backseat. 

“I’m leaving this,” he announced to San. Let’s see if he’s as predictable as I think.

“If Seonghwa forgets his jacket again, give it to him.” 

San’s eyebrows lifted, nodding like he was both surprised and impressed. “Will do. See ya!”

And with that, Hongjoong was on his way. 

A few steps later, the passenger window rolled down, and Wooyoung stuck his head out like a nosy dog.

“You’re acting really weird, Kim Hongjoong!” he shouted. “I’m onto you.” 

Hongjoong didn’t turn around. Just lifted one hand in a lazy wave and kept walking.

But the grin never left his face.

Chapter Text

Seonghwa woke in a pool of his own sweat.

His body, hot. The sheets, soaked and clinging to his jerking stomach. His hips gave a needy roll forward, desperate to chase the last waves of heat already fading from him.

A choked sound escaped him as his sensitive cock dragged against something—something twisted in his fingers. Something soft. He was pressing into it, the warmth giving under every thrust.

He groaned. His eyelids fluttered, breath caught in his throat somewhere between a gasp and a sob.

It was still coursing through him—the pleasure, the tight grip of his wet dream. Still running its fingertips across his skin like a memory, thick and electric. And he wanted to be buried in it.

Good… So good…

He rutted forward again, just once—whining. Because it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough.

More…

The sleep-hazed urge to touch himself—to reach down and stroke himself through it, drag it out—flickered at the back of his mind. But his hands were locked in place. Tangled in fabric, pinning it to the mattress beneath his hips like he was trying to keep it from getting away.

A displeased noise slipped from his lips, and he blinked hard. But it didn’t help. Nothing helped. He was still floating, breathless, burning—right on the edge of it being too much and not enough. 

Everything was slick. The humid air clung to him. His boxers plastered themselves, wet and sticky, to his throbbing cock. His core ached—clenched—deep and hungry. Begging for friction, pressure, something— anything . Anything to feel this way a little longer. 

“F-fuck,” he panted, muffled, face shoved into the pillow. He bit down.

His body was on fire.

This never happened. He never came in his sleep—not with the amount he fucked (usually).

Not unless he was close to his rut.

But that wasn’t possible. That wasn’t for a couple more months. 

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned again, the air finally returning to him. Then he let out an incredulous huff. Because— fuck —was that the best orgasm he’d had in weeks or what?

It took him a solid minute to peel his cheek up from the pillow just so he could squint down at the mess below him.

He was holding something.

Still breathing hard. Still burning. He blinked again, slower this time. His vision adjusted just enough to focus.

And that’s when he saw it.

The knit material clutched in his fists. The curl of charcoal gray.

The sweater.

Hongjoong’s fucking sweater.

Caught between his thighs. Gripped so tight the sleeves were stretched.

And it was under him—under his hips, damp and bunched—

His eyes widened.

No… that’s not…

It was almost indistinguishable in the dark amongst his blankets—except for the smell.

His body stiffened.

The smell .

Fuck.

Low and deep and smoky, like a match being struck. Silky smooth and hot. Coiling around him as if it were being breathed into his mouth. 

And familiar.

There was no denying what it was— whose it was.

He inhaled without meaning to, and it filled his lungs. Sweet citrus. Musk. His eyes fluttered half-shut. His throat bobbed with a thick swallow. He wanted to whimper—to melt beneath it.

Hongjoong.

God—Hongjoong.

That name echoed deep behind his ribs over and over, each breath bringing more of it. Alpha , something in him whispered. Alpha, Alpha, Alpha—

He shot upright.

His eyes flew open—fully awake now. The mattress springs squeaked underneath him in protest. His chest heaved.

He stared down at himself, head whipping back and forth.

To his crotch.

Then back to the sweater.

Then down again.

The tent in his boxers was glaringly obvious—twitching and straining like it wanted to burst free. The sweater was cinched like a rope around him—creased and flattened from where he’d… from where he’d—

Oh god.

His breath hitched. A flush rocketed to his ears.

He had been humping it. Humping it. Like a dog. Like some heat-drunk omega—rubbing himself all over the first thing that brought him comfort.

That’s when it hit him. His dream came flooding back like a catastrophe.

Bits and pieces. Broken flashes.

Fogged glasses, skin slapping, his hips being dragged back by a hand in his hair. A voice low and hoarse against his ear: “You take it so good, Seonghwa. You like that? Such a good boy—”

His stomach clenched against his will, and he scrambled out of the tangle of sheets so fast he almost fell to the floor. His foot caught on the hem of the sweater, but he didn’t stop. Instead, he kicked it off of him with a wild, disgusted jerk. It flew through the dark—landed with a crash somewhere in his room.

He was panting. Dizzy. Light-headed. Overwhelmed. About to pass out.

His scent was everywhere—humiliatingly sweet, like it would beg on its hands and knees for something he wanted no part of. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. 

He wanted to run.

Far away.

And never come back.

But even if he did, he wouldn’t be able to escape that . 

That dream, that voice, that smell—his own fucking mind.

He didn’t bother to check what had broken. Just spun around and sprinted to the bathroom, slapping on the light switch. The glare nearly blinded him, but he fumbled his way to the sink regardless.

Then he did the only thing he could think to do: jammed his head under the faucet. 

Water on full blast. Ice cold. 

Sober him the fuck up real quick.

The spray immediately soaked his hair, and he gasped, flinging his head back.

Drops splattered everywhere—across the mirror and tile—poured down his back. They soaked his boxers, shrink wrapped the material to his thighs. He shuddered and his teeth chattered, goosebumps erupting along his arms.

But he pushed on. Because it did the trick. Anything to get rid of the burn in his ears or the evidence. He’d drown himself if he had to. That way no one would ever know the difference between his cum the rest of the wet mess. 

He gripped the edge of the sink so hard his knuckles blanched—stared himself down in the mirror like a threat.

“Get. It. Together,” he gritted. “Stop letting that little nerd get in your fucking head.”

Yeah , he told himself. You’re an alpha. A fucking alpha.

But the look on his face was betraying him—red-eyed, soaked, pathetic.

And the worst part?

Not the dream. No—not the fact that that was probably the best nut he’d ever had in his entire life.

It was how much he’d wanted it.

How good it had felt to give in. To curl around something that smelled strong—like it could protect him. To rut into something that felt like it could make him whole again.

He stared at his reflection, pointer finger jabbing against the glass.

You won’t lose to him. You never lose.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, he’d get payback.

Wooyoung peeked over his phone with a disgusted look. “Why are you smiling like that? It’s weird.”

Hongjoong just pushed his glasses up and flipped to the next page of his textbook, doing a terrible job at hiding his grin.

“No reason,” he said with a shrug, barely holding back a laugh.

The truth? He didn’t know why he was smiling. Couldn’t explain the warmth bubbling up in his chest or the tickle that ran down his spine like something good had just happened.

His instincts had never been wrong before.

“I just got a really good feeling, that's all.”

Chapter Text

The sun was warm, the breeze gentle, and Seonghwa was losing his battle with gravity. The weather hadn’t been this nice in weeks, and the picnic table he was parked at was quickly becoming a problem.

He’d been determined to get back at Hongjoong—to wait him out and ambush him—but the effects of his restless night were catching up fast. Within minutes of staking out the quad, his head started to droop against his bag like it weighed a million pounds. 

“Hi, puppy.” 

A voice, low and smooth, pressed to his ear.

Seonghwa jerked awake, heart nearly launching from his chest. 

His hands fumbled for something—anything—to protect himself. But it was pointless. He hardly had enough time to react before an iced coffee appeared in front of him—and Hongjoong plopped into the seat to his left with a smug look on his stupid face. Close. Too close. 

Again . 

Seonghwa gaped over at him, appalled. His pulse hammered in his throat. 

Puppy tolled through his skull like blunt-force trauma. Horror-movie style.

Puppy. Puppy. Puppy. On repeat. Like an echo. Spiraling through his sanity—down, down, down. Over and over. 

Hongjoong couldn’t have known—not about his dream. It wasn’t possible.

But that word caused Seonghwa’s ears to ring. A flash of heat surged through his gut. It reminded him of something he was desperately trying to forget.

Fogged glasses. A hand in his hair. Good boy.

His entire body locked up.  

Fuck. No. Nope.

This was not the time—not the place—to be imagining things. (Himself panting like a dog on his hands and knees while Hongjoong railed him into next week.) Nope. 

And to make matters worse, Hongjoong wasn’t wearing his usual nerd attire. The oversized sweater was gone, swapped with a leather jacket that made him look—

Like a poser , Seonghwa scoffed to himself. Acting all confident and shit… Annoying. So annoying.

But no matter how hard he tried to play it off—to scowl past his embarrassment and cross his arms—the blush creeping through the tips of his ears was all too obvious.

Hongjoong chuckled and nudged the coffee closer. “For you.”

The other alpha’s eyes narrowed. 

This was all wrong. Hongjoong being nice? After Seonghwa had tormented him for weeks on end? Something wasn’t adding up. People weren’t kind for no reason.

“Did you poison this?” Seonghwa pointed at the cup with a cocked eyebrow.

He tried to suppress the way his heart leapt at the idea of Hongjoong buying something just for him—of Hongjoong thinking about him. Of Hongjoong seeking him out. Of Hongjoong—

Nope. No. There was just no way this was a harmless act. He called bullshit. The runt had ulterior motives—he could smell it. Even tucked behind that scent blocker. 

He snuck a glance down at the coffee again.

It did look really good, though. He was fucking exhausted. The condensation pooling at the bottom was practically calling his name. Whispering, “Come on… just one drink…”

Hongjoong reached for it with a shrug. “Fine. I’ll take it back—”

But before he could get his hands on it, Seonghwa snatched it up.

“No, it’s mine!” He brought the straw to his lips defensively. 

As the first sip hit his tongue, something caught his eye—and didn’t let go.

Hongjoong’s hand. 

It was shockingly… masculine. 

Seonghwa gulped.

He expected dainty, feminine fingers. Not these—thick and strong. Decorated with chunky silver rings and black nail polish chipped around the edges. Veins stretched from his knuckles to his forearms—details Seonghwa had never noticed before. Not until now.

Not delicate. Not safe. 

Dangerous. 

Hands that looked like they could break something if they wanted to. Hands that could leave a mark.

The hands of an alpha.

It made Seonghwa’s stomach clench, and he desperately tried to get that—and all other ideas—out of his head. 

Confusing. Hongjoong was nothing but confusing. And a freak. 

“You’re fucking unbearable,” Seonghwa blurted without any forethought.

But Hongjoong didn’t flinch. He just looked at him with mild amusement and a knowing glint in his eye. 

“Oh, I’m unbearable?” he drawled—and Seonghwa didn’t like that. Didn’t like his tone. “Is that why you smell like me?” 

He leaned in, grinning as Seonghwa retreated. “Let me guess—you couldn’t get enough of scenting my sweater last night, right? You could have just called me.”

The straw popped from Seonghwa’s mouth with an offended squeak. 

“I did not, you freak—” he started to protest. But his words died in a gasp.

Hongjoong’s thumb brushed against his bottom lip.

Just a quick, mindless touch. Swiping away a drop of coffee like it was nothing.

But Seonghwa’s entire system rebooted.

He froze, blinking stupidly—like he couldn’t compute what was happening. Dumb and mute. Error codes and sirens going off in his head like a bomb had detonated. Someone was screaming. A car crashed.

And Hongjoong just smirked, letting the soft skin drag under the pad of his finger before gently releasing it and pulling back.

Seonghwa’s face turned eight different shades of red. His ears ignited, palms erupting in sweat. Heat rushed to his chest, his stomach, his neck. And worst of all—his cock twitched. Like it wanted this. Like— God —like—

Each breath came faster, sharper. Eyes wide as memories from the night before slammed into him: wet, hot; sweating, whining—

No. No, no, no.

His eyelids fluttered rapidly. Like he was fending off the wind instead of a gentle fall breeze.

Hongjoong’s scent was everywhere somehow. Sweet and slow and cloying—sticky—leaking through the patch. As if honey were being poured over Seonghwa’s body. Rubbed into his skin. Drizzled down his throat. Kissed and licked and grabbed and—

No!

But Seonghwa’s scent had already betrayed him. It spiked—needy and treacherous. Jumped out like it was going to grab onto Hongjoong’s.

Seonghwa slapped it down, choking, “You—did you just—?”

But Hongjoong was already up, slipping his thumb into his mouth to suck it clean. He smiled, completely unbothered. 

“See ya, puppy,” he purred.

And then he was gone.

Leaving Seonghwa trembling like an overwhelmed chihuahua, gripping the iced coffee as if it might keep him from going into cardiac arrest.

“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT—HELLO?!” 

Chapter Text

Seonghwa’s jersey lay atop Hongjoong’s chest like a trophy, its scent warm against his heart. He beamed from ear to ear, hands tucked behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling, replaying everything that had happened. 

So, he was right. 

All of this nonsense was because Seonghwa had a crush on him. 

A sharp, bubbly giggle escaped him. It made his heart flutter and his stomach flip to think about. The big, bad wolf turned out to be nothing more than a lost, helpless puppy. 

Hongjoong giggled again. He couldn’t believe it. Park Seonghwa was terrified of a little alpha-on-alpha action. Terrified of him. 

Granted, he’d never fooled around with another alpha before either. But with Seonghwa, it came so easily. Easier than with any omega. Almost like second nature—like once he figured Seonghwa out, the pieces just… fell into place. 

And he liked it. Big time. 

Liked the teasing. The torment. Liked watching the blush bloom through Seonghwa’s cheeks. Loved it, maybe. 

He loved the way Seonghwa smelled—especially when he got close. Close enough to remind him he was never too far away. Vibrant. Floral. Sweet—clingy. 

And his eyes—god, those eyes. They glittered when he didn’t know Hongjoong was looking. Like the world was too big and new, and he needed someone to hold his hand through it. Like all that uncertainty was suspended in his irises—stars lost in a galaxy. 

It made Hongjoong want to laugh. To pull him close. Tell him how absurd that was—just to show him he wasn’t alone.

The thought lodged in Hongjoong’s throat. His fist slowly closed around the jersey as something settled in his chest, quiet and heavy. 

“Oh no,” he muttered, smile softening—almost incredulous. 

This wasn’t just entertainment. 

Suddenly, his mother’s words played in his head—a story she’d told him too many times to count. 

“Appa was the last person I was interested in,” she recalled with a laugh, stroking her son’s hair as he lay his little head in her lap. “He was so obnoxious—oh my god. So obnoxious, Hong-ah. You have no idea. Not like the other alphas. They were obnoxious too, but not in the same way. See, appa—appa was a clown.”

Her eyes softened as she looked back on a time long, long ago—a time that sat warm in her heart. Little Hongjoong shifted, sitting up to listen, lost in the story she told of the father he had few but fond memories of. Like he was right there, walking next to his parents in the halls of their elementary school. 

“He was always getting in trouble—not like you, Hong-ah. Appa was always doing silly things. Standing on tables. Drawing mustaches on our teacher’s family photos. I remember one time, he even ran around the classroom with a pair of underpants on his head as our teacher chased him.” 

She snorted a little at how ridiculous that sounded. 

“But anyway—eomma really found him unbearable. See, I was shy and quiet—the complete opposite of appa. I just didn’t understand him. Then, one day, some of the other alphas were picking on me. Saying really mean things. That omegas aren’t smart or strong like them, that we feel too much—things like that. And that made eomma really sad. They probably only said those things because I was quiet—an easy target. But still, it really hurt. Especially at that age. I cried and cried in the dark classroom while all the other kids went out to play. But appa—appa found me…”

Her voice trailed off for a moment, and Hongjoong could smell how her scent warbled—melancholy and streaky. Like sun through the clouds after a hard rain. Then she smiled and placed a kiss on her son’s forehead, continuing, “He started acting silly in front of eomma—making really unflattering faces. He—he made eomma smile when she was sad. And I asked him, ‘Why do you act like that? You always get in trouble.’ And you know what he said?”

Hongjoong perked up, leaning forward eagerly. This was his favorite part of the story. “I like making people laugh!”

“That’s right!” she cooed, giving her son a big squeeze. He melted into her arms, folding himself against her comforting tangerine scent. 

“That’s right. ‘I like making people laugh. Because it means they're happy.’ And appa made me happy every day of my life from that moment on.” Her words grew thin and tight, like she was holding back tears. Her eyes glittered as they lined her long, dark lashes. But they didn’t fall. They never did. Instead, she smiled wider. 

“So, Hong-ah—” she propped him up on her knee, squeezing his shoulders. “If and when you find a reason to like someone, don’t ever let anything stop you from liking them with your whole heart. Even if other people find them weird. Even if they don’t make a lot of sense. Even if they’re the last person on earth you’d think you’d wanna be around. That’s not how love works, right?”

Hongjoong nodded, chiming, “Love is with your whole heart—not half.” Something his mom had always said. It was a constant reminder in their home—to always do your best no matter what. To like things with all your pride. 

“Aigo, my smart little boy!” She showered him in kisses and he giggled wildly. “So. Appa wanted me to be happy—appa wanted you to be happy. And he wanted that with his whole heart! So let’s be happy, yeah?”

“Let’s be happy,” Hongjoong muttered, feeling the warmth spread through his body as the memory faded. The scent on the jersey was faint now, but it claimed something inside him all the same.

“Shit,” he chuckled, airier—half-laughing at himself. His fingers tightened around the fabric, clutching it closer. His scent, warming in the air like an embrace. “I actually like him.”

He couldn’t believe it.

Of course it has to be him. Of course. 

And now Hongjoong was fucked.

He shook his head, feeling a little ridiculous over the whole thing—but his thoughts were interrupted by a knock at his dorm room door. 

“Come in,” he shouted, and it immediately flung open—Wooyoung barreling inside with two giant totes stuffed to the brim. 

“Why? Why? Why?” the omega cried dramatically, crumpling to the floor under their weight. “Why did I major in education? Why? So. Much. Homework. So much grading. How does your mom do it?”

Hongjoong simply rolled his eyes and threw his legs over the side of the bed. “You say that, but you’re about to subject me to half your workload. I don’t remember signing up for this.”

“What do you mean you don’t remember?” Wooyoung whined, utterly offended. “You literally signed the contract when you became my best friend—wait.”

He froze. His energy shifted. His gaze snapped into laser focus.

Hongjoong stiffened. 

That tone could only mean one thing.

“What—is that?” Wooyoung drawled, nose twitching. “What the hell is that?”

His finger jabbed toward the jersey in Hongjoong’s hands. The corner of his lip kicked up like he knew a dirty secret that was far too good to keep to himself. “Don’t tell me—is that Park Seonghwa’s?”

Hongjoong groaned. 

There it was. Wooyoung never missed anything. And he definitely didn’t miss an opportunity to tease his best friend. 

His nose twitched again—this time much more pointedly. Then his eyes turned big as dinner plates.

“Are you fucking Park Seonghwa?” he gasped, already grinning.

“Ugh, no!” Hongjoong rolled his eyes like that was a ridiculous notion, shoving the jersey under his pillow. 

But the second his and Wooyoung’s gazes met, he couldn’t hold back a grin of his own. 

“Well… not yet,” he added slyly. 

And Wooyoung released a squeal so piercing, Hongjoong was sure the entire floor would be filing a sound complaint. Again. 

“Oh my god, give it here!”

“No, it’s not yours—”

“It’s not yours either—” 

The sound of scuffling and rustling clothes ended with a loud thud, punctuating their argument.

“Oh my god!” Wooyoung whooped, having wrestled his way to the top by nearly strangling Hongjoong to death with one of the tote bags. He waved the jersey over his head, victorious and out of breath. “Kim Hongjoong—you're the number one alpha tamer at Yonsei. Wow.”

Chapter Text

Hongjoong was a bastard. A good-for-nothing, sick, sadistic bastard. 

Seonghwa’s eyes narrowed, glaring across the library. 

The little freak was buried in a book, glasses slipping down his face, strong hands busy typing away on his computer without even looking at the screen—without even looking at anything except for what was right in front of his stupid, dumb nose. Oblivious. Utterly oblivious to everything around him. Like he didn’t remember touching Seonghwa’s mouth. Like it didn’t mean anything to him. Like it hadn’t ruined Seonghwa’s life.

Seonghwa didn’t know why he was doing this. Didn’t know what he was doing anymore. He thought it was a good idea at the time—a way to prove Hongjoong didn’t matter. That he didn’t bother Seonghwa. Or better—that he bothered Hongjoong just as much. 

But it was backfiring. In more ways than one. 

He was squirming, hyper-aware of the other alpha several shelves down—of his scent. He couldn’t stop thinking about him. Couldn’t stop seeking him out—even now, when he was somehow unbearably close and insufferably far away at the same time.

Meanwhile, Hongjoong hadn’t even glanced up once in the last hour. 

“—and then you solve for Y.”

“Huh?” Seonghwa muttered distractedly, trying to lean around his tutor to get a better view. Maybe if he glared hard enough, Hongjoong would evaporate. 

“Like this,” the tutor said, tapping Seonghwa’s unfinished worksheet. 

Seonghwa’s eyes flicked toward it with annoyance. 

Fucking math. Why the fuck did he choose math of all things to pretend to be interested in? 

A muscle in his face twitched as he skimmed over the jumble of numbers and letters and words and blah blah blah… He could barely read it, his brain too busy memorizing Hongjoong’s posture, the slope of his neck, the faint shine on his cheekbone from the overhead lights.

How had he ever mistaken the little shit as an omega? He was very clearly dominant. Not to mention freakishly hot as fuck —

“Is it hard, sunbae?” the tutor asked, cutting into his thoughts, and he suddenly remembered the real reason he was doing this: getting close to one of Hongjoong’s underclassman. 

Seonghwa blinked.

The kid was cute enough. Some big-eyed rich boy with a little too much enthusiasm. And the best part? Actually an omega. Someone susceptible to Seonghwa’s scent. 

He smiled up at the tutor warmly, turning on his charm. 

“Sorry—I was so distracted by your beauty that I completely forgot what you told me,” he said, but the smile never quite reached his eyes. It felt like reciting lines from a script he no longer gave two shits about. Even the omega’s shy spike of bubblegum sweetness barely registered—soft and pale in comparison to the scent his body actually craved.

It was infuriating. He should’ve been over it by now. Should’ve been able to let Hongjoong’s scent fade from his memory like a bad fucking dream. But instead, it haunted him even in his sleep. It lingered, mocking him in his every waking moment. And Hongjoong had the nerve to act like nothing had happened.

“Can we go over it again?”

The omega nodded quickly and bent back over the table, pointing twice as vigorously at his notes while he repeated each and every step. Seonghwa tried to act like he was listening, but even that felt impossible under these conditions.

The kid’s voice faded into the background, and Seonghwa’s smile dropped, gaze trailing back to Hongjoong. Only this time, Hongjoong was staring directly at him. 

Seonghwa flinched in his seat. 

“What the fuck?” he exclaimed under his breath. 

The corner of Hongjoong’s mouth quirked up, but it was in no way a smile. Not with his jaw clenched and the veins in the side of his neck standing out against his skin. 

His eyes flicked—to the tutor, then down to where his small hand almost brushed against Seonghwa’s. 

There was nothing innocent about it. It was obvious and intentional—charged with raw, uncut alpha energy that made Seonghwa instinctively jerk back to avoid the contact.

His thighs pressed together under the table, gaze darting nervously. Sweat had started to form between his shoulder blades and he didn’t even know why. 

Then Hongjoong’s eyes dragged back to him. Something behind them had hardened, dark and endless. In their pitch-black depth, an orange glow flickered—burning and alive.

Seonghwa’s heart rate picked up. 

He began to fidget. Rubbed his palms on his pants. Crossed and uncrossed his legs. 

This is what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? 

Still, he couldn’t brush it off. Couldn't look away—even if he wanted to.

And Hongjoong? He didn’t even try.

His eyebrows slowly raised. Like a challenge. 

His scent reached Seonghwa then—sharp and threatening—right as the tutor’s fingers grazed the inside of his wrist. And something in Seonghwa’s body responded instantly. His core tightened, hands twitched, legs stiffening. The scent wasn’t even strong, not yet—but it was pointed. Directed. It knew exactly where to hit, and it hit hard.

He jolted up so fast the chair screeched back in the dead quiet library. People’s heads turned, but Seonghwa couldn’t see them. Couldn’t hear anything over the sound of his pounding heart, or the blush overtaking his cheeks. 

“Sunbae…?”

“I-I—uh—” Seonghwa was trying to stammer out an excuse—something that would get him out of there—but his mouth wouldn’t work. Hongjoong’s scent thickened around him, and his vision pulsed fuzzy, trembling.  

“Forgot, didn’t you?” Hongjoong’s velvety voice was suddenly right behind him—smooth and cool. The exact opposite of the effect it was having on Seonghwa’s brain. It wrapped around him like satin. Like a collar. One tug, and Seonghwa knew he couldn’t defy.

“Oh—hi, hyung,” the tutor chimed, smiling up at Hongjoong. He waved with both hands, overly friendly, hamming up the cute.

That word again— hyung . Sweet and comfortable on someone else’s tongue, when it shouldn’t belong to him. Seonghwa’s teeth gritted. Something awful twisted in his stomach. 

“Don’t—” he started to bark, but Hongjoong cut him off. 

“It seems Seonghwa forgot that we already had an arrangement today,” Hongjoong said, just as kind—almost playful—words framed with a perfect smile. But there was a tension under them, sharp and stabbing, making Seonghwa bite his tongue and tuck his chin. Like he was punishing Seonghwa for something. 

For what—reacting? For not pretending it meant nothing?

Fine. He could also pretend.

What was he even about to say to the omega anyway? Don’t call him that? Don’t talk to him? 

Why? Why did he care if some hoobae got chummy with his—with Hongjoong? He didn’t. 

Yet, his mouth stayed shut for all the wrong reasons. 

“I have to steal him from you,” Hongjoong continued, attention trailing back to Seonghwa. He examined the taller alpha’s flushed face, that same smugness returning to his expression. “Since we already have plans.”

The hoobae looked a little surprised. But he nodded nonetheless, not questioning it. “Oh, okay. Sounds good to me. I’ll see you guys later then.”

“Let’s go.” Hongjoong nudged at Seonghwa, his hand coming to rest on his lower back. 

And Seonghwa felt like he was about to crumple, die, or explode. Luckily, he just shuffled forward, letting himself be guided out of the library. 

They didn’t stop until they were down the hall, up the stairs to the right, tucked behind the bend between the sixth and seventh floors. 

Hongjoong’s hand dropped, but Seonghwa still held his breath. His lungs burned, but he didn’t dare inhale—too scared he’d start begging for who knows what if he opened his mouth again. Too scared he’d forget how to stand.

He kept his head down, fighting off the way the other alpha’s scent was doing horrific things to his body in broad daylight. It coiled around him, teasing and thickening with every second he refused to look.

That’s when Hongjoong leaned in. His heat pressed up against the side of Seonghwa’s face, lips moving slow and seductive as he whispered, “You were studying so hard, but I think the only thing you learned is that I don’t share.”

Seonghwa’s lips parted in a small gasp. His breath stuttered, stuck between blurting something out and never speaking ever again. He didn’t know what he was going to say— “Sorry, Alpha.” “I won’t do it again, Alpha.” “Fuck you for being so confusing, Alpha.” But his tongue wouldn’t listen. Every cell in his body was tuned to Hongjoong’s voice, hanging off it like a command. Seonghwa couldn’t help the way he reacted to it—stomach clenching, pulse hammering, fingers digging into the seams of his pants. 

Hongjoong didn’t move for what felt like an eternity. Just stood there, gaze heavy on Seonghwa’s mouth—like he was waiting for him to speak, to beg, to fall apart. Or worse—to lean in. Like he wanted Seonghwa to break first. Like this was some twisted game, and Seonghwa was a mere plaything to be toyed with.

Then Hongjoong’s eyes flicked up, and he smirked before turning to leave.

Seonghwa’s arm shot out. 

Something instinctual, something deep, overrode his brain—his shame. 

He pinched Hongjoong’s sleeve, barely hanging on.

Hongjoong stilled. His eyes fell to Seonghwa’s hand clutched onto him. And he stayed like that for a long moment, his chest rising and falling in deep, measured breaths. Like he was thinking really hard about how he wanted or didn’t want to react. 

“Y-you acted like you didn’t notice me,” Seonghwa blurted before he lost his courage, but even he didn’t know what that meant. It sounded childish. Pathetic. But it was all he had—because Hongjoong was already walking away, and something in him panicked at the thought of being left behind again. All he could think about was how Hongjoong had touched him like he was something precious—then ignored him like he wasn’t even worth the effort.

“Oh, puppy,” Hongjoong purred. His voice was raspy and dripping now—drenched in something soaking wet and heady—like he was holding back a flood. His scent reflected that.

Heat exploded through Seonghwa’s insides at the pet name. His breath hitched on something far too close to a whimper. The sound was barely human—all instinct. Everything in his body told him he needed to be closer. His scent. His anatomy. His soul.

But just as he opened his mouth again, footsteps echoed in the stairwell—startling and intrusive. 

Hongjoong stepped back. Not far. Only enough to break whatever was woven between them—too heavy and thick with tension for someone to stumble into by accident. 

But the heat of him lingered, like he wasn’t ready to let go just yet. 

“I always notice you,” he murmured, fingers snaking around Seonghwa’s wrist. His thumb pressed into the scent gland with unmistakable intention. He squeezed tight, skin gliding along skin.

Then, carefully—almost reluctantly—he eased Seonghwa's hand from his shirt, each finger uncurled like a quiet apology. 

And just like that, he was gone. 

Leaving Seonghwa stranded on the stairs, skin on fire, and head light. 

His wrist hummed. Hongjoong’s scent coursed through his bloodstream like adrenaline. 

Scented. 

Hongjoong had scented him. 

Touched him and scented him. 

And those two seconds—that brief brush—it wasn’t enough. 

He needed to fucking drown in it—until there was nothing left but pepper and grapefruit, and the sticky-sweet smell of surrender. His whole body—offered up like a sacrifice. Laid bare for Hongjoong to use however he wanted. 

Not because Seonghwa wanted it. (God—he didn’t want this. He hated this.)

But because no one had ever wanted him like this.

Pathetic. Broken. Weak.

Yet somehow, Hongjoong made him feel like he did.

Like Hongjoong wanted him—neck bared, hands clasped, knees to the floor. Ruined .

And Seonghwa? Seonghwa despised him for it. Despised himself. 

It made him sick.

Sick that he’d give anything for it. Sick that it felt good. Sick that he was this easy. This desperate—like some breedable omega bitch. 

Because some part of him—some twisted, masochistic, beyond-saving part— needed it. More than he’d ever needed anything.

Those words—that feeling—

Always. You.

He’d ruin himself again and again just to hear them—just to feel the way they made him feel. He’d become the worst version of himself for words that only Hongjoong could make believable.

And Hongjoong? Hongjoong had walked away again. 

Leaving Seonghwa to wonder if he had meant any of it.

Or if it really was all just a game Seonghwa had never agreed to play to begin with.

Chapter Text

Seonghwa’s hand tightened furiously around his cock, stroking it like it was the bane of his existence. 

Really, he was so hard, his stomach hurt, and it felt like his abdomen was going to fold in on itself.  

“Ah, fuck—” he gritted, doing a shit-poor job of stifling the broken, pleasure-wrecked noises coming out of his mouth. Not that he cared. This wasn’t his first time getting off in a school bathroom. But it was definitely the first time he’d done it alone. 

However, when his thumb rubbed over his leaking tip, he made a noise that was a little too unraveled—throaty and whiny, like he was begging himself for more. He barely noticed how wet he’d gotten—how the mess smeared across his palm was more than just precum. It was excessive. He’d never been this soaked just from jerking off. Never been this needy.

His stomach turned at the thought—but not enough to stop.

His scent was wild—syrupy and feral—sharper than usual, dizzying even to himself. And desperate for the one thing it wanted most. 

It began to eat him alive. His body trembled just teasing at the temptation. Even recalling the memory of Hongjoong’s thumb dragging across his bottom lip. Of Hongjoong’s scent pressing in on him. Of Hongjoong. 

His cock twitched in his grasp. 

He’d never been this sensitive. He could smell Hongjoong, and he wasn’t even there. 

But he was.

In Seonghwa’s wrist, pulsing like the scent had seeped beneath his skin. Hongjoong. He had touched him there—pressed there. That was the pathetic excuse for relief Seonghwa had been left with.

The only time he had ever experienced anything even close to this was during rut, when his senses were extra keen and his body was depraved. And even then, he’d had time to prepare—to control it, shove it down.

This wasn’t rut. 

So what the fuck was it? Why could he smell Hongjoong across a room, through a crowd, on his skin, crawling up the walls? It wasn’t scent—it was a goddamn tether. Invisible, but pulled tight between them.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he gasped—almost begging it to stop, knowing full well he’d rather die than do that. His hand picked up speed. He dragged his palm down to the base and twisted up—wet and obscene. Each stroke sent electricity through his stomach, hips jolting, thighs tight with effort.

His body didn’t feel like his anymore. It felt hijacked—rewired for something he hadn't asked for.

His other hand braced against the stall wall to keep him from falling over.

Every part of him throbbed. His skin prickled as heat swelled beneath it, and the sound of his own panting echoed off the walls like it belonged to someone else. Like he was truly fucking himself.

He squeezed harder, chased the friction—chased anything that could ease the hunger. His body was ravenous—but no amount of pressure could drown out the thing tormenting him most.

He shouldn’t feel like this. He’d gotten what he wanted—Hongjoong jealous. Hongjoong territorial— possessive , even.

But this didn’t feel like a game. Didn’t feel like victory. It felt like he was playing with fire and had just been burned—like he had done something he knew he shouldn’t. And Hongjoong had slapped his wrist for it.

And Seonghwa let him.

Let him tug him along. Let him scent him. Let him whisper mine with his whole being like they weren’t in fucking public .

Now he couldn’t stop trembling.

And he hated it—hated how fast his thoughts circled back. How the only thing on his mind was every moment they’d ever touched, like his body had already made the decision for him.

That tiny fucking alpha.

The memory came all at once—Seonghwa’s breath hitching, eyes wide. The smug curve of Hongjoong’s smile, so soft and intimate, it made his stomach twist. Hongjoong’s finger pressing against his lip, gentle and greedy, like he knew exactly how bad Seonghwa wanted it.

He did. 

God, he did.

He wanted it so bad.

And then—just imagining Hongjoong’s voice, low in his ear, his breath warm against his cheek. This time telling him he was pretty like this—that he was a good boy.

Puppy.

That was it. He shattered.

His chest collapsed with a sharp gasp, hips stuttering forward. Heat burst from the base of his spine and exploded behind his eyelids as his orgasm tore through him—thick and messy, coating his hand and tummy. He whined as he came, helpless, shaking, utterly undone.

But the pleasure was hollow. Just like his dream. Just like the stairwell. Just like every time Hongjoong touched him without touching him—not enough. It always ended like this.

Instead of relief, it left a cavern behind—something vast and gaping that no amount of touch could fill. His scent curled in the air like it was still searching, like it wouldn’t stop until it had what it wanted.

Seonghwa’s shoulders heaved. He blinked down at the mess covering his fingertips, still trying to catch his breath.

Still hard. Still wet. Still ruined by something that wasn’t even there to do this.

How was that possible? How was it possible to be so fucked by someone who hadn’t even kissed him?

For once, cumming wasn't enough. It wasn't deep enough. Didn’t satisfy anything. 

The ache just spread, making him feel delirious. Like he desperately needed something—anything—to get him off right. 

He’d fuck a pillow if it was put in front of him. Hump it like a dog— anything .

In the past, he would have plowed through twenty omegas just to make the itch stop. Hell—he could drag that tutor into a closet right now if he wanted to. But he didn’t. Even the idea of being with an omega turned him off so bad, he wanted to puke. 

Because he didn’t want to fuck—not really. 

His cock was fucking useless. 

Something inside of him clenched at the realization. 

He didn’t want to fuck.

He didn’t want to fuck just to prove something. That he could be the best. That he didn’t give a shit. That nothing mattered but himself or his achievements. 

That wasn’t pleasure. Not really. That was a performance.

And he didn’t want to perform.

Not for an omega. Not for his father. Not for his teammates. Not even for himself. Not anymore.

No—he wanted to fall apart. He wanted to be touched like he was good. Like he was precious. Like he was soft and fragile, but the thing that could break him never would, because it was touching him instead.

To be ruined slowly, lovingly—held down, praised, unmade with care so even the rawest parts of him seemed like enough.

He didn’t want to dominate. He wanted to be taken care of. Wanted to be fucked—but not by just anyone.

No—he’d beg for that at this point. He’d beg to have some useless beta turn him into a kebab if it got rid of the burning under his skin, no matter how humiliating. 

But he didn’t want it. Any of it. 

No humiliation. No putting out until he couldn’t even move a limb. 

That wasn’t what he needed. Those were things he’d done—done to survive his exhausting wreck of a life.

A memory flashed through his head—bleak and unwelcome—stirring up feelings he thought he’d long since suppressed: his last boyfriend. Lying flushed and pink across his sheets after taking his knot. How blissed out he’d looked. How perfectly serene. 

How Seonghwa had broken up with him a week later because of it.

He’d been with omega after omega, but never claimed anyone—not really. Never marked any of them with a bite, never considered himself bonded—even when he knotted during cycle. Because when it was all said and done, he resented each and every one of them.

For what they were. For what they had. 

Protection. Comfort. A purpose.

He despised them for it.

Because it’s what he wanted—but could never have.

He wanted to be cooed and coddled. Fussed over. Stroked. Told he was doing a good job. Told he was perfect. 

Told he didn’t have to prove anything at all. That he didn’t have to fight to deserve it—softness, pleasure, undivided attention.

Told his stupid, useless cock could just sit there and look pretty, and that’s all it needed to do. 

But no—he was in fucking misery. Frustrated, confused—empty. Alone .

Seonghwa whined and stomped his foot as he shoved his softening dick back into his pants. 

And of course it had to be him. Of course it had to be Hongjoong . Like the universe had zeroed out the one person most capable of ruining him—the one person he’d wanted to hate with all his guts—and handed the fucker a matchbook. That stupid, smug little alpha—with his dumb glasses and sweaters—was fucking ruining him. Inside and out. 

It made him feel trapped. Trapped in his own skin—in his own mind.

Because Hongjoong could say those things—do those things—and walk away like it meant nothing.

Like Seonghwa was some toy to wind up and leave behind.

And now he was going insane. He was the one spiraling.

Fuck him , he thought.

Seonghwa didn’t need this shit.

He pushed out of the bathroom stall, head hung with shame. 

This is what his fucking life had come to? Jerking off in public toilets like a pervert—because his body had decided to play some sick cosmic joke? 

How pathetic could he be, truly? What had he become?

His phone pinged in his pocket, and he fished it out with an agonized sigh. It was probably San, asking for the fortieth time if he wanted to hang out before practice. Truthfully, he’d been avoiding it—avoiding the rest of the pack, too. He didn’t have answers for their questions: What’s wrong? Are you okay? Why do you smell like that?  

But when he unlocked the homescreen, the contact displayed at the top made his mouth go dry. His blood ran cold.

With shaking fingers, he opened the message.

Abeoji’s Dog

Dinner at 9:30. Do not be late.

No…

He’d forgotten. 

The worst thing that could ever happen to him hadn’t arrived yet—dressed in a three-piece suit and ready to beat him into shape like a mutt.

His father .

Chapter Text

“Listen here, you little freak—”

Seonghwa slammed Hongjoong against a locker, red-faced and fuming. 

The little shit had the audacity to show up to practice after pulling that stunt in the library, and Seonghwa was sick of it. He had enough shit to worry about—being toyed with wasn’t one of them.

He hauled the tiny freak into the locker room by the collar. And Hongjoong let him, that smug-ass smirk still plastered across his mouth—like he wanted it. Like he’d been waiting for it.

“ Oof .” He let out an over-exaggerated breath as his back connected with the metal. But he didn’t even flinch. Didn’t look even a slight bit bothered to have Seonghwa in his face, pinning him.

And that drove Seonghwa insane.

He was breathing heavily, shoulders rising and falling, fist twisted in the front of Hongjoong’s shirt, ready to snap.

But he couldn’t even get a word out.

Not when Hongjoong was staring at him like that.

Not when his eyes were dark and knowing, his face inches from his, daring him to say something. To do something. Like he could wait as long as he needed for Seonghwa to get a handle on things.

Seonghwa couldn’t even pin him properly. Couldn’t grab him—just his clothes.

And Hongjoong knew. Somehow, he knew.

His head cocked to the side, pleasantly amused, as his gaze traced heavy lines from Seonghwa’s lips to his eyes.

Seonghwa felt his cheeks redden, his pulse pick up.

“You’re a freak,” he bit out, giving Hongjoong another rough shove. But even he could tell there wasn’t any real force behind it. Not enough.

“Not yet,” Hongjoong purred. 

He still had that look—cocky, like he was holding back a laugh. The fucker even had the audacity to bite his lip through a smile, flashing his teeth.

And Seonghwa was staring. 

Watching how his soft, pink lips stretched. The perfect, white line of his grin. His sharp canines sinking into the flesh.

They’d never been this close before. Not really. Not like this.

Seonghwa could see every detail—smell every detail. And his grip on Hongjoong’s shirt slowly loosened.

Dragging Hongjoong in here—alone—had been impulsive. He hadn’t thought ahead. Not about what would happen once they got here. Not about what he would do. And now he was folding under Hongjoong’s scent—under his stare. 

And Hongjoong was revelling in it.

His scent let loose. The air grew thick—nearly smoky with the sheer amount of pheromones coursing through it.

Seonghwa’s head buzzed, breath pushed out of him. His nerves hummed, heat pooling in his stomach.

Hongjoong’s hand closed over his wrist—right over the scent gland. The same spot. Like a reminder of what Seonghwa had let him do earlier outside the library.

But he didn’t grip. Didn’t press. Instead, his fingers lingered—for far too long, far too gentle. He held Seonghwa like he was caressing him, pinky stroking along his skin like he was thinking about pulling him closer. Every brush sent static jolting up Seonghwa’s spine. Like his body already knew what it wanted—even if he didn’t.

Hongjoong did.

He maneuvered Seonghwa around—slowly, giving him plenty of time to react. To stop him. But he didn’t. Not as Hongjoong switched their positions, guiding him back into the locker. Not as his other hand came to rest on Seonghwa’s hip, thumb nearly dipping under the hem of his jersey. And definitely not as his knee pressed between his thighs, spreading Seonghwa’s legs apart. 

He let it all happen.

Hongjoong was looking up at him, but it didn’t feel that way. It felt like he was infinitely smaller. As if Hongjoong loomed over him.

A tiny whimper escaped his lips. He felt the blood rush to his cock. Felt it twitch in his shorts like Hongjoong’s scent was softly stroking him to life.

He hated how easily the other alpha made him feel like this. Like a toy wound too tight—trembling, vibrating, ready to come apart.

Hongjoong’s glasses slipped down his nose, and Seonghwa could see his eyes—hungry, intense, burning like they’d burn him alive. His fingers tightened with a slow satisfaction around his wrist.

And Seonghwa's entire body burst into flames. Too much scent. Too much of that lightheaded, floaty feeling filling his head like cotton.

Then Hongjoong leaned in. Close.

It felt like something ancient and magnetic was pulling them together—and Seonghwa didn’t have the strength to resist.

Hongjoong paused. A breath’s width from the corner of his mouth. For a single moment, he watched Seonghwa with a gravity he didn’t understand. As if he was waiting again—waiting for Seonghwa to break. To stop him. 

But when he didn’t, Hongjoong let out an airy chuckle, the tip of his nose nearly dragging along Seonghwa’s jaw as he brought them cheek to cheek for the second time that day. 

The warmth of his breath hit Seonghwa’s ear, and he shuddered, eyes fluttering shut.

Fuck.

“Come on, puppy,” Hongjoong murmured, tone dripping with taunting and sex. Each word landed like a handprint to exposed flesh.

Seonghwa unknowingly pressed closer. Unknowingly bit his lip, anticipating more.

“You can’t run from me forever. Sooner or later I’m going to have to take what’s mine.”

Something inside Seonghwa clenched—that same indescribable heat pulsing deep in his core. So deep, he didn’t know where the warmth started and where it ended. What was his body, and what was Hongjoong’s.

The room sweltered, feeling sticky and hot, like steam was clawing up his stomach. But he wasn’t sweating—wasn’t overheating on the outside. He was overheating from within.  

Hongjoong chuckled again, clearly relishing in the way Seonghwa’s thighs squeezed around his—how Seonghwa's spine almost arched off the metal in an attempt to be closer. His hold cinched even tighter around Seonghwa’s wrist. This time, firm—pressing deep into the scent gland, like he was obliging some silent request—restraining Seonghwa’s hand above his head.

Seonghwa could feel every digit, every shift, the flow of the scent between them. How strong Hongjoong was—frighteningly strong. Stronger than Seonghwa could have ever imagined. Probably stronger than Seonghwa himself.

Hongjoong's black eyes glimmered—long, dark lashes flitting as he trailed lazy arcs across Seonghwa’s face like he was starving. That same look. That same feral gentleness that made Seonghwa’s stomach twist when he had brushed his thumb along his bottom lip—too close. Too intimate. His breath was calm and measured against the junction between Seonghwa’s cheek and lips.

That’s when Hongjoong’s other hand found Seonghwa’s skin, fingers bunching up his jersey so agonizingly slowly that each wrinkle could have left an impression on his abdomen.

Hongjoong pressed. First, his pinky. It brushed just over Seonghwa’s hip— just the pinky. Then the heel of his palm—firm against Seonghwa’s tummy—began to push in.

Seonghwa gasped. 

He felt his organs shift. Heat exploded through his stomach, his scent bursting from his skin below Hongjoong’s hand—wrong. All wrong.

Alphas didn’t have epi-uterine scent glands—shouldn’t have sensitivity there. But Seonghwa could feel Hongjoong inside him . Could feel the pressure building, his body reacting—craving—like Hongjoong had his hand down his pants instead of simply pushing up against him. 

He eased Seonghwa’s hips back, trapped him in place against the locker in a true pin. So he couldn’t move. 

It was in no way rough, in no way forceful, but Seonghwa’s heart hammered in his throat like it wanted to escape. As if Hongjoong hadn’t barely pushed, leaving Seonghwa to do the rest.

No, no, no, no, no…

He was rock hard—aching—cock straining under the thin fabric of his shorts.

Hongjoong didn’t care. Didn’t even acknowledge it. Like he already knew—he didn’t need to look. 

Instead, his eyes stayed locked on Seonghwa’s, prying him open with that heavy stare.

And Seonghwa couldn’t look away. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything but tuck his chin and release a sound so raw and pitiful, it felt like he’d just exposed his worst secret to the world.

He was nothing in comparison to Hongjoong. Utterly defenseless, fragile, weak—ruined.

But Hongjoong knew that, too.

Every move he made was deliberate, like he was handling a flower in his palm. Like if he was too rough, the petals might bruise. Like Seonghwa was far too soft and beautiful to do something like that too.

And it was horrific.

It was horrific to crumple under such gentleness. Confusing. Every nerve in Seonghwa’s body ignited with what should have been fear. His mind screamed that this was dangerous—that another alpha pinning him meant violence, meant death. He should have been fighting it—kicking and thrashing.

But his body was melting. Vision, fuzzy. The fingers of his freehand twitched against his side like they wanted to reach out—to pull Hongjoong in. More pressure, more friction, more heat, more scent , they pleaded.

Seonghwa wanted to be more helpless.

He wanted to sag in the jaws of the wolf just to feel how sharp the teeth were against his pulse—just to know they wouldn’t bite. Not if he stayed still. Not if he didn’t ask for it.

He wanted to believe that Hongjoong wanted him— really wanted him. That this wasn’t a game anymore. That the hands on his body weren’t toying. That the scent pressing against his throat wasn’t just to tease him—but a promise of something more.

But wanting that was dangerous. Wanting that made it real .

And if it was real… then he wasn’t in control. 

Then it wasn’t just teasing—it was longing. Need. It was his own voice shaking, his own body leaning in. It was him —panting, aching, begging for something he wasn’t supposed to want.

Because pretending was safer than knowing what this meant.

That he didn’t give a fuck about winning. That he didn’t want to fight. That he’d let Hongjoong touch him, take him, claim him right here, right now, against the locker if he wanted to.

That his body had already chosen—long before he admitted it to himself.

Even if Hongjoong didn’t want him—even if this wasn’t real, even if he snapped his teeth and broke him—it would still feel like heaven . Just for those few seconds he got to pretend.

Because lying was the only thing he had left.

His body had already betrayed him. So he clung to denial.

But no matter how desperately he clung, some deep, ravenous part of him—buried beneath the shame and reason—was already crying out for more.

It wanted this.

It wanted Hongjoong .

Even if Seonghwa didn’t.

A sharp sigh slipped from him as Hongjoong ghosted treacherously close to his neck—to his scent gland. But he never touched it—skimmed over it in a way that drove Seonghwa to the edge. And he was sure he’d lost it when he started to imagine that Hongjoong’s breaths had shortened, drawn tight like he was holding himself back. 

The closer his lips drifted toward that tender spot, the worse the ache grew. Seonghwa’s scent was vibrating and erratic, trying to stick itself to Hongjoong, trying to drag him in. His thighs clenched, chest heaved, face burning bright red.

Something was building inside of him. Something untouched. Something he didn’t have the words for. Hot. Heavy. Pressing deep below Hongjoong’s palm.

Then—Hongjoong inched in. 

His breath brushed Seonghwa’s pulse, lips close enough to kiss it.

And something awful happened.

Seonghwa’s body seized.

A strange, molten pressure burst low in his gut—then slid down the backs of his thighs in a slow, wet drag. 

For one dizzying second, he thought he imagined it. Thought the weight of Hongjoong's scent had truly broken something inside him—had conjured the feeling out of nowhere.

But no. It was happening.

It bloomed against his skin. Warm. Slippery. Spreading fast.

Seonghwa’s eyelids flew open, a gasp catching in his throat as his knees threatened to give out.

He didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

And that’s when Hongjoong froze.

He pulled away—not far, just enough to look. His eyes flicked downward, trailing from Seonghwa’s face to his shorts… to his thighs.

A pause.

Then a slow inhale. 

The scent hit. And realization dawned.

“ Oh… ” Hongjoong’s voice was low, stunned. Almost reverent. Like he hadn’t expected it—but wasn’t disappointed. His pupils dilated, lips parted as something instinctual flowed through him, overpowering thought.

His gaze crawled back up—dragging like honey, slow and thick. Like he was drinking in the sight. Like he wanted to lick it off his thighs. It settled on Seonghwa’s face. And for a moment, Hongjoong looked at him like he was something precious. Like the sight had shaken something loose in him.

“You… liked that?” he breathed.

His hand twitched around Seonghwa’s wrist. Not possessive. Not rough. Just still.

“That wasn’t nothing, now was it, puppy?”

And that was it. That was the final crack in Seonghwa’s world.

The trance shattered.

He ripped his arm free and shoved Hongjoong with all the force he had left. Hongjoong stumbled back, eyes wide with alarm, but Seonghwa was already gone—darting out from under him, panic crawling up his throat like a scream.

“Seonghwa, wait! It’s okay—!”

But he couldn’t hear him. Couldn’t register anything except the sticky heat in his shorts, the burn of humiliation racing under his skin.

He slammed into one of the shower stalls and locked the door behind himself with trembling fingers.

Collapsed. He hit the tile hard. Didn’t care. Not about the pain. Not about the back of his head smacking against the wall.

The scent flooded in around him.

His own.

So thick he could choke on it.

He scrambled to pull his knees to his chest, each breath a step closer to hyperventilating. His hand flew to the back of his thigh—and came away wet.

No.

No no no no no—

He wasn’t—

He hadn’t—

He couldn't even remember where he was. The floor was cold. His lungs, too loud. It smelled like a stranger had touched him, but there was no one there but him.

He looked down at his palm.

Slick, glistening. Still wet.

He began to wipe at it, frantically rubbing his hand on his shorts like he could erase it—like it hadn’t happened. If he didn’t look at it, didn’t smell it, didn’t name it—it would disappear.

Only omegas produced slick.

And he wasn’t an omega.

He wasn’t.

He was an alpha.

He had to be.

He had to.

Chapter Text

Hongjoong found himself thumbing through one of the A/B/O anatomy shelves in the library. It was his second year at college, and the load of his core courses was catching up to him hard. The risk assessment problem he was working on wasn’t going his way—and whenever he struggled with something, his mind liked to wander. Sooner or later, his body followed.

A break couldn’t hurt , he’d told himself as he yanked a giant book down off the shelf. It was covered in dust, the bindings yellowed from years of neglect. Definitely not an anatomy favorite. The thing probably hadn’t seen the light of day since the early 2000s. 

The title read: The Romance of Anatomy .

Hongjoong snorted, dropping the book on top of his desk with a loud thunk.

What’s so romantic about anatomy?

But as he flipped through the pages, he quickly lost himself in its contents.

…The body isn’t finite , one of the earlier pages read. Countless studies have shown us that the systems by which we categorize our genders and gender roles are not inclusive enough to be deemed universal. We’re pack creatures, meaning we’re interconnected in more ways than one. We live amongst each other, feed off each other’s emotions, form everlasting bonds, pass our love, our feelings, our scent to our offspring. And yet, we’ve disregarded the empirical. We have disregarded what it means to be human in lieu of a rigid analytical system. A box. How can we call ourselves scientists if we’ve abandoned a key principle of science: observation…

Hongjoong’s brow furrowed. 

He flipped to a chapter near the middle titled simply: Love.

Love. Love is the foundation of society—not hierarchy. Without love, there are no packs. There are no omegas raising newborns. There are no alphas to protect them all. Love is the destiny of the Rut, the fruition of the Heat Cycle. So why isn’t love considered a variable in our biology as well?

Hongjoong blinked as a memory flashed through his mind—a memory he didn’t even know he could recall. 

A soft voice cascading over him as he sat propped up in someone’s lap. It was warm, and it was safe. Chimes tinkled in the distance. The homey sound of plates clinking. His mother humming the same song she always did when she washed dishes.

The pages of a children’s board book turned in front of him, showing pictures of musical instruments—a book that still sat on the shelf in his childhood bedroom to this day.

The memory—God, he couldn’t have been more than three. It was fuzzy, but it was there all the same.

“ Appa! ” he shouted, pointing at the image of a guitar.

A deep, earthy chuckle vibrated against his back. Then—the smell of cinnamon and embers crept through the edges. Comfort. Love. Home.

His dad.

“That’s right,” his dad said, leaning over him. “Appa does play guitar. And maybe someday, Appa will teach you too, Hongjoong-ie.”

A tightness bloomed in Hongjoong’s throat as his father’s voice faded from memory.

He never learned to play guitar. Because his dad hadn’t been there to teach him—a love that never had the chance to take root. A bud that never blossomed because the spring had come and gone too soon.

Weird. He shook off the sinking feeling and flipped to another page.

This time, there were diagrams. Some he was familiar with, some he wasn’t—all of A/B/O reproductive anatomy and scent sensitivity regions. One that caught Hongjoong’s eye showed the internal anatomy of a beta who had developed a scent gland along their external jugular after adopting a sick pup. The footnote explained that this was due to an environmental factor: the pup’s deficiency in estrogen-rich pheromones caused by early separation from the omega mother.

“Huh,” he muttered under his breath, snapping the book shut. “Guess love really does change all.”

He hopped up, shoving the book back onto the shelf, determined more than ever to finish his homework. But just as he plopped into his seat again, his phone buzzed on the table.

“Ugh,” he groaned, seeing the number pop up for the third time that hour. Some freshman from the education department kept calling after he helped him with his homework one time. 

Hongjoong reluctantly brought the phone to his ear, “What?”

“Hi, it’s Wooyoung! Hey, quick question—”

“Yes, I know.”

“Oh,” the kid paused, an obvious smile creeping into his tone. “Does this mean you saved my number? Honestly, I knew we were gonna be friends. Your grumpy needs my exuberant presence to balance out—”

“What do you want?” 

“ Sheesh , you really are something. You know—I thought it was a gender thing, you hating alphas and all. But you’re barely nice to me—”

“Wooyoung!” Hongjoong snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“God, okay! Do you wanna go to the baseball game with me tonight?”

“You’re lying. This is why you called me?”

“Yep.”

Of course it was. Even back then, that was what Wooyoung did—inserted himself into people’s lives with no warning and no filter. Hongjoong had only known him a few weeks, but somehow the kid already acted like they’d been friends since birth.

And honestly? It was kind of working.

“No. I don’t want to go to the baseball game with you tonight.”

“Well, that’s too bad—” 

But the voice was no longer coming from the phone.

Hongjoong looked up just in time to see Wooyoung’s head pop out from behind one of the shelves, grinning like a maniac as he ended the call. 

He strolled over, pulled two tickets from his jacket pocket and waved them like a winning hand.

“I already got us seats, so you’re coming with me. The old man won’t let me go alone, and if I don’t jump the starting pitcher’s bones by sundown, I’m going to have a sexually frustrated fit.”

He leaned in, squinting at Hongjoong's notes. “Also, you’re clearly not doing anything important.” 

November in Seoul is one of the most beautiful seasons. The leaves have all turned, painting the sidewalks in burnt orange hues—like fire itself had learned the art of autumn. Sun streaks through the clouds, casting everything in a soft golden glow.

But November is not warm. 

During the day, it demands a scarf and wool coat. Exposed ears are nipped red. Fingers are shoved into pockets, hidden from the cold. But it’s so beautiful, no one notices.

November nights are not so kind. The temperature drops, and you find yourself running inside if you’re left out in the open for even a second too long. Breath freezes mid-exhale. Shoulders sink in on themselves. Not even the streetlights can make up for the isolation a November night can pull from you as you walk along an abandoned road. 

Hongjoong knew November well. It was the month he was born.

He had spent many nights after cram school running home from the bus stop to avoid the chill. And there had been many years he’d burst through the front door to find a small cake waiting for him on the dining room table. A note from his mom who’d already gone to bed after working overtime. Seaweed soup on the stove.

Those moments had been warm—so warm.

But bringing a piping hot spoonful of soup to your mouth in the dim-lit cavern of an empty kitchen makes you feel infinitely small. 

At the time, he didn’t have a name for it—the feeling. 

For scorching your tongue because you left the spoon in the pot for too long. Hissing and huffing while jumping up and down as quietly as possible as not to wake your mom. Scooping off a bite of cake with the same spoon after it cools.

When the sweetness hits your taste buds, the world turns a bit colder. Everything goes quiet.

The metal scrapes against your molars.

Because you suddenly wonder what it’s like to have someone waiting for you in the dark.

What it’s like to sit around a table with people you consider your friends. To hear them sing you a shitty rendition of Happy Birthday while you pretend not to smile.

What it’s like to not have to study for one night and have everything turn out fine. 

What it’s like to not be alone.

So, yes—Hongjoong knew November well. A little too well…

And now, looking back—he understood what it meant to want—to need—someone beside you at the table. Someone to light your candles in the dark. To blow on your burns.

He understood now what it meant to be there when no one else was.

And as he kicked a rock along the dimly lit path outside the soccer stadium—his hands shoved in his pockets, gripping an extra set of heat packs—he could tell: November was coming.

But not for another two days.

Tonight, he was waiting for something else.

Tonight—he needed to apologize.

Chapter Text

Seonghwa’s tie was too tight. It dug into his throat like a noose. With two fingers wedged underneath, he yanked—again and again—but no matter how many times he tugged and adjusted, it wouldn’t come loose. 

Not in the presence of his father. Not in this room. Not in this house, where the walls were a cage and freedom was an illusion. 

His skin burned. Beneath the starch of his dress shirt, his body was red from rubbing himself raw in the shower. He scoured every inch—furious and frantic. But no amount of scrubbing, no amount of soap, could wash away what had happened in that locker room.

Hongjoong. 

Seonghwa had… done something he never should have. Something he couldn’t even admit to himself—not once he was sopping wet and shivering on his bathroom floor, the slick all cleansed and gone, the memory of submitting to another alpha rinsed down the drain. He told himself it wasn’t real. That the way he had felt—wanted, exposed, stripped of every mask he spent years perfecting… hopeful —wasn’t real.

But now his fingers found his throat every few seconds, obsessively checking if the scent blockers were still there. Like bandages over a wound. Like tape over a crack—the edges sealed and smoothed. A desperate attempt to keep everything inside.

They were fine. Perfectly applied. Doing what they were supposed to. 

Only, he wasn’t. He was the one who was broken. He was the one who was defective and wrong, coming apart at the seams when he was expected to be the perfect son.

And he swore he could still smell it. 

The sweetness. The jasmine. The shame. The trace of Hongjoong on his skin. 

Maybe it wasn’t there. Maybe it was all in his imagination.

But the tightness in his chest tried to convince him otherwise. It played tricks on him. Toyed with his mind.

Something in him was whispering—something that wasn’t there before. It dragged its claws along its enclosure, telling him he shouldn’t be here. Not tonight. Not alone. Not like this. 

Not where it wasn’t safe. 

His fingers pressed to the patch again. Just once more. Just to be sure. 

He couldn’t afford another slip.

Not in front of his father.

No—he could never know. He could never find out just how far his son had fallen.

Only one thing filled the air when they had dinner together: the sound of silverware scraping against porcelain. 

That—and his father’s overpowering scent. Oppressive. Domineering. Relentless.

As always, he sat at the far end of the table. Seonghwa at the other, dressed like it were some corporate meeting, not an oh-so-warm family gathering. 

And as always, Kyungmoon hovered—off to the side like an attendant. Never sitting. Never eating. A fixture of the room that disappeared into the background. Like a snake in a den of wolves—a beta who was neither seen nor heard when the alphas were around. Upright and obedient, perfectly nonexistent, with a lifeless stare that said: I’m not listening unless you need me to.

Liar. 

Abeoji’s Dog was always listening. 

Seonghwa cleared his throat. Swallowed. Not for the attention—he didn’t want any of that. Far from it. But because the atmosphere was so stifling, it scratched at the back of his esophagus.

His father only came home once a month. Twelve times a year, for the past twelve years. And somehow, it never got easier. It never got any better. These dinners weren’t for quality time and bonding, after all. 

These were check-ins. Evaluations. Threats . 

And now, instead of bringing home his report cards and trophies that his father never gave a shit about, Seonghwa was bringing home his lies and secrets. Lies and secrets that were eating him alive this time around.

“I assume the pharmaceutical studies are going well?” Abeoji said, setting down his fork. 

But as the utensil connected with the table in a soft tink, Seonghwa flinched like it had just been thrown at his head.

He scrambled to decode what was buried beneath that question—what his father wanted, what he meant, what he was implying, what he knew .

Not that Seonghwa hadn’t changed his major. Surely not that.

His eyes flicked to Kyungmoon. But his face, as always, remained unreadable. 

Then it came—the bomb. The real reason his father was asking. The reason that Kyungmoon had ensured Seonghwa would be at tonight’s dinner—that he wouldn't run.

“I’ve already assigned a position to you at the company.”

It landed like a fist to the ribs. Like a death sentence. A knell. 

“You’ll live in Gangnam. Close to me, and the company. Kyungmoon will drive you. I’ll know your schedule. Who you speak to. Where you go. You will leave your varsity days behind you. No more distractions. No more games. You’ve played long enough, Seonghwa.” 

No.

No, no, no.

Not the company. Not pharmaceuticals. 

Anything but that. 

His chest seized. The walls shifted. His ears rang, loud and deafening.

This couldn't be happening.

Not now. Not yet.

He was supposed to have more time. He had a plan. Major leagues were scouting Yonsei. This year was it—his only shot to get out.

To be something more than Park Seonghwa, the heir . The Park son.

But now it was slipping—crashing—blowing up in his face.

He wasn’t ready. He'd never even stepped foot in a lab. Never opened a pharmacology textbook.

He couldn’t walk into that company.

Not after what those drugs had done to his mom—

The chair screeched back as Seonghwa shot to his feet. 

“I can’t,” he said, voice cracking under the weight of it all. Soccer. The field. His team. Hongjoong.

All of it flashed before his eyes—his happiness, about to be robbed from him. His mistakes that didn’t even matter to begin with.

“You will,” Abeoji responded simply, tossing down his napkin as if it disgusted him. 

“This isn’t—I can’t—”

The side of his father’s fist collided with the table, causing the cutlery to rattle. His scent spiked, slapping Seonghwa hard across the face. A warning before the real blows followed. 

Seonghwa’s breath caught in his throat.

“You will do as I tell you!”

The words cut like knives—gutted him. Left deep incisions across his arms, his wrists, his scent glands.

“I have given you everything—life, wealth, privilege— a title . And this is how you repay me? With lies? With weakness?” His father's tone dropped, laced with venom and something darker. “You think you’re special, Seonghwa? You’re not. Without me, you’re nothing. Do not humiliate me any further.”

Seonghwa’s brain clanged, vision stuttering. His body ran ice cold. Limbs, numb. Fingers, drained. The floor threatened to drop out from below. 

He collapsed back into the chair. Made himself small—folded. Spine, broken.

It was too loud. Too bright. The room spun. His throat clamped shut. 

He couldn’t breathe. Choking—the tie too tight. 

No air. No voice.

The world blurred at the edges, caving inward. Ink bled through his thoughts.

And suddenly, he wasn’t in the dining room anymore.

He was back in that bathroom. The one with the cold marble floors.

His voice came from somewhere distant. It echoed like the drip of water in an empty well. Tiny and helpless. Over and over. 

“Eomma,” he called. 

There was no answer. 

Just the slow tink… tink… tink of a faucet left slightly ajar. The weight in his chest building like his head was under water.

Silence. 

“Eomma…”

The smell. God— the smell .

Metallic—like copper in his nostrils. Flowers, withering and wet, turning soggy in a swamp. No longer vibrant. No longer laughing, humming, or happy—now just sluggish and slow, fading from him. 

He could see it: the French manicure. The limp hand slumped over the edge of the tub. The fingers. Perfect. Still.

Too still.

A bead of water slid from her thumb.

Drip… drip… drip…  

Seonghwa tasted blood.

He hadn’t been able to save her. Just like he couldn’t save himself now.

He bit the inside of his cheek—hard. 

Weakness. Never show weakness.

Weakness was for those beneath him.

Weakness got you killed. 

“ Yes, sir. ” 

The words snapped into place like a reflex. 

His spine jerked straight. Shoulders squared. Chin high and sharp. Perfect.

The perfect son. The perfect alpha.

His fingers returned to the silverware with surgical grace, slicing through the filet on his plate as if nothing had happened.

Gold-rimmed dish. Crystal glass. Silver spoon. Rolex on his wrist—ticking down the minutes until his father left. Until he could breathe again. Until he could run to the place he wanted most.

But his hands didn’t feel like his own.

He forced himself to swallow. 

Once.

Twice.

Anything to seem real.

Yet, something awful—something unbearable—still crept back up his throat: the truth. 

He wasn’t a son—he was a shadow in the shape of one. The shape his father demanded. The shadow his mother died loving.

He had tried so hard to be everything expected of him. Tried so hard to fit the mold. Pounded down his soul until it was puny and deformed. Until it knew better than to ask for more. 

But now the cracks were forming, and he was far from perfect. 

The meat bled onto the porcelain in front of him. His stomach churned. His fork trembled.

Perfect .

He hated that word. His father’s definition of it. 

Instead, he was soft, weak, delicate—and smelled like flowers.

Perfect?

He was only perfect in the way his mother was. A way that brought him frighteningly closer to that claw foot tub. 

Chapter Text

Things had become a game for Hongjoong.

For the first time in his life, he wasn’t worrying about his homework. Or his grades. Or his future. Or any of the decisions looming over his head.

All he could think about was Seonghwa. Only Seonghwa. 

How far could he push him? How far could he go before the alpha just caved and admitted how he felt?

Brushing up against him—a hand on the waist, the small of the back, the wrist. Hongjoong took any excuse to casually scent him.

Because that’s what Seonghwa’s body wanted.

Even if he wouldn’t admit it—Hongjoong knew.

But still—Seonghwa ran from his instincts. And Hongjoong? He had no reason to.

Not when they screamed at him every time he got close. Every time he felt that bone-deep pull—that very clear, very needy signal Seonghwa was unknowingly sending him.

Like Seonghwa’s sweet coffee scent was begging to be noticed.

Like there was a void inside him only Hongjoong could fill.

So he teased. Poked and prodded. A nudge toward the truth—a taste of what Seonghwa could have if he just stopped fighting it. Stopped being so goddamn stubborn. Stopped clinging to that tight-minded ideal of what alphahood meant.

Hongjoong could show him something better.

He could treat him right. Touch him good. Turn him into the pliant, pampered puppy he so clearly craved to be.

He could take care of him.

That—and Seonghwa had called Hongjoong small one too many times not to enjoy watching his cheeks turn red.

But somewhere along the way, they’d crossed the line of harmless fun.

Hongjoong didn’t know when—not exactly. He just knew that one day, he woke up itching.

Like his skin didn’t fit anymore. Like his shirt was too tight, or his sheets had changed thread count overnight.

And the itching only stopped when he was around Seonghwa. When he had the other alpha in his line of sight. When he could see he was okay—close enough to reach, close enough to scent if need be.

But when they were apart?

It felt like his whole body went up in flames.

He started thinking about Seonghwa every moment of every day—obsessing.

Where was he? How close? Was he eating, smiling, existing—

Hongjoong couldn’t ignore it. Couldn’t walk away.

Even when he tried, he always ended up in the same place: wherever Seonghwa was.

Eventually, he figured it out—why it was so strong. What was happening.

He realized Seonghwa was calling out to him, too. Just as intensely.

So Hongjoong offered a touch here, a brush there. And every time, Seonghwa’s scent preened with satisfaction—so delicious, Hongjoong could have taken a bite out of it.

But when Seonghwa denied him—when he rejected his scenting?

It felt like Hongjoong’s one duty in life was right in front of him, and he wasn’t allowed to fulfill it.

And that did something to him.

Shit, if he had it his way, he’d scent Seonghwa stupid. Until he was drunk and wobbling, cross-eyed from the pheromones.

And he knew he could do it. That was the worst part—he knew.

Seonghwa’s body would accept it. Thrive in it.

If he just gave in—to this thing between them.

But Seonghwa always froze. Always pulled away. Always said yes and no in the same breath—like he’d been taught that wanting was dangerous. A trap.

And it drove Hongjoong insane.

Because underneath it—beneath the teasing, the push and pull—the instinct to protect had only grown stronger.

To the point that it was overpowering.

Seeing fear in Seonghwa’s eyes?

A fear that didn’t make sense—didn’t belong there?

That was enough to push Hongjoong past his limit.

Past pride. Past patience.

Past pretending this wasn’t real.

So when his skin itched again that night—when his mind kept looping back to the image of Seonghwa in that locker room, terrified—he couldn’t just sit around anymore.

Next thing he knew, he’d grabbed his jacket and hand warmers, and was out the door.

The walk was quiet. Cold. That kind that soaked through his coat and made his fingers ache—the kind that brought too many memories back and reminded him of home.

He didn’t really know what he was hoping for. Maybe nothing.

But something inside him told him to go.

Something inside him told him he needed to be there.

Just in case.

Hongjoong jerked to his feet. 

He’d been lingering for hours, unsure if Seonghwa would come. Waiting on hope alone. Most nights, during his walks back from the library, he’d catch the distant thump of a ball rolling across the field, the trace of Seonghwa’s scent in the breeze—sweet and lonely. 

But tonight, the stadium had been blanketed in silence for too long. The sky stretched endless above him, stars barely visible through the city haze. Hongjoong lay back on the bleachers, trying to pretend the metal wasn’t biting into his shoulder blades, and the chill wasn’t gnawing on his bones. Waiting. Losing faith. 

Just as he was about to call it quits—chalk it all up to a stupid, desperate, dumb, idiotic instinct—the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

He felt it.

Seonghwa was here. 

And something was wrong.

It didn’t take long to spot him—slumped at the center of the field. 

He was curled so tightly into himself, arms locked over his knees and forehead pressed down between them, that he looked tiny. Like if he stayed still long enough, he’d disappear.

Hongjoong didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. 

He just stood there. One foot on the turf, one foot on the stairs. 

Seonghwa’s scent. It wasn’t right.

Like static—electricity coursing through the air before a lightning strike. Erratic and frantic, clawing up Hongjoong’s spine. And beneath it—something else. Something metallic, like blood on pennies or a knee, scraped and bruised. Something wounded . 

Hongjoong’s heart picked up. His legs started moving before he even knew what he was doing.

Usually, Seonghwa would have sensed him by now—would’ve smelled him and turned, slammed up defenses around himself.

But tonight, he didn’t react until the crunch of Hongjoong’s footsteps crossed the grass.

His shoulders jerked. A startled inhale, sharp and shaky, broke from his throat. He scrambled to his feet like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Panic clung to him. His scent spiked—feral and cornered.

“Hey,” Hongjoong said, raising both hands. “It’s just me.”

Seonghwa froze. His head lifted like it hurt—eyes puffy and red, the points of his cheeks pink and swollen from rubbing them. From crying. But more than anything, he looked dazed.

His eyes locked onto Hongjoong’s face, as if he didn’t recognize him—as if he couldn’t make sense of anything. Not right now. Not in the dark.

And Hongjoong felt it again—Seonghwa’s scent warbled, confused and alarmed.

But he didn’t run. Something in his body wouldn’t let him. So he hovered—torn. Caught between fight and flight. Between fleeing and collapse.

“Go away,” he bit out, but there was no true bite behind it. Not really. 

“You shouldn’t see me like this,” is what his voice said. “I can’t handle being seen.”

Hongjoong’s throat bobbed.

He should’ve. He should’ve walked away. Should’ve respected it.

But he couldn’t.

Instead, he took a cautious step forward. “Seonghwa—”

Seonghwa flinched, and Hongjoong stopped cold.

Not because of Seonghwa—because of something else.

Another scent. 

It smacked Hongjoong hard—a slap to the face. A stench pressing down. 

Heavy and foul and holding on too tight to something that didn’t belong to it. Like a raw welt across a flower petal. 

It wasn’t his.

It wasn’t theirs .

Someone else.

Another alpha. 

Someone had touched Seonghwa. Someone had dared —

Hongjoong’s stomach dropped. A snarl curled in his chest, rage unfurling through his body like neon sparks—instincts flickering to life. I wasn’t there. Someone hurt him, and I wasn’t there.

“Seonghwa,” he gritted. “Who—”

But Seonghwa back-peddled when the words hit him.

His eyes went wide, irises shaking. His entire face morphed.

And Hongjoong saw it. The thing that punched the anger from his gut and turned it into sorrow: The trembling limbs, the blown out pupils.

He looked wrecked. Hair a mess. Clothes stained. Tie ripped from his throat.

Not like he’d been simply crying—like he’d fought off the entire world and lost.

Fear.

Seonghwa was terrified. Not just of whatever had happened—but of Hongjoong . Like he was another threat.

“Jesus, puppy,” Hongjoong breathed, hands dropping uselessly at his sides.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” His vocal cords cracked with grief. “I couldn’t. I’d never—” A thick swallow scraped down his throat. “I’d never hurt you.”

But Seonghwa was still paralyzed. Like he didn’t believe it. Like he wanted to—needed to—but couldn’t let himself. Couldn’t risk it.

And Hongjoong understood. He understood too well.

So he didn’t step any closer.

“I mean it,” he repeated, firm and earnest. His arm extended. You come to me. I won't chase anymore.  

A part of him was drenched in guilt, drowning in the things he’d done. He couldn’t stop his mind from wandering back to the locker room. He should have never—

“Seonghwa, I’m serious. I’d never hurt you. Not ever. I can promise you that.”

Instead, he let his scent creep out.

Warm and comforting. A subtle thrum of rich pheromones—not to overpower, not to control. To soothe and lull, like an embrace. To say: You’re safe. With me, you’re safe.

He released it in waves so it flowed around them, weaving steady streams until the bitterness of Seonghwa’s scent mellowed. Until the stadium smelled like spice, grapefruit, musk, and calm.

And Hongjoong watched as Seonghwa’s lashes fluttered. The way his knees wobbled. That same thing in him—the thing that kept him from running in the first place—wavered just a little more.

He leaned in, drawn like a tide—drawn to the scent. Drawn to him . 

Drawn to the one thing that could take away the pain.

“You’re not the only one, puppy,” Honjoong said, his voice quiet and low. Like he was sharing a secret. “I’ve fallen apart too.”

Seonghwa didn’t move. But his breath caught.

Not in a way that showed—in a way that could only be heard if you were close enough. And Hongjoong was.

To see his fingers shaking. To smell the shame—the gash. The desperate hunger underneath.

Hongjoong waited. Careful. Patient. Reaching out with his scent instead of his hands—not until Seonghwa wanted that. Not until he initiated.

And then, hesitantly—after what felt like the most agonizing thirty seconds of Hongjoong’s life—Seonghwa shuffled forward.

Hongjoong suppressed a sigh, holding completely still as Seonghwa closed the distance between them on his own. And when he finally stopped in front of the other alpha, he looked about a breath’s length from bursting into tears.

Hongjoong examined him with tender eyes.

“Can I?” he asked, lifting a hand. It paused inches from Seonghwa’s shoulder, holding back—waiting as long as it needed to.

When Seonghwa didn’t pull away, Hongjoong nodded. There didn’t have to be words. Seonghwa didn’t have to speak.

Hongjoong reached. He brushed the hair away from Seonghwa’s neck, baring the delicate curve where his scent gland pulsed.

And Seonghwa tilted—just a little. Just a fraction of an inch. Just enough.

A splinter formed in Hongjoong’s heart. 

Whether he meant to or not, Seonghwa was saying he trusted him. That he was scared, but he trusted Hongjoong enough to let him touch him.

Something lodged itself in Hongjoong’s throat. Something heavy, something important.

“The scent,” he rasped. His fingertips grazed the warm skin below Seonghwa’s ear, soft and trembling. His gaze traced the flushed expanse of his terracotta neck, his thumb dragging a line down his jaw. Like stroking the sun with bare knuckles—Hongjoong knew it could burn him, but he couldn’t stop, too in awe. “Let me fix it. Please.”

He needed that stain off his perfection. Needed the hurt, gone.

Seonghwa’s eyes fell shut the longer Hongjoong touched him. And after a deep, drawn inhale, he nodded. Small and uncertain.

Hongjoong's pulse pounded in his ears. He didn’t know what he was doing—not really—but his body cried out to do something . To mark Seonghwa. To overpower that wretched stench. But not like before—not like in the courtyard.

This wasn’t punishment or frustration or a scolding.

This was intimate. This was… possessive.

This was what alphas did to their omegas.

Hongjoong’s whole body quivered with restraint—not to rush, not to overwhelm, not to take.

He needed to rewrite Seonghwa’s scent—slowly. Reclaim him. Comfort him. Erase the pain. And he needed to leave a piece of himself behind—a piece that said, You’re mine. To protect. To care for. To cherish. So nothing like this can ever happen again. 

An apology. 

I wasn’t there. I allowed this. I’m sorry.

His hand slid through Seonghwa’s hair. 

Slow. So slow. 

Every inch dragged like the world itself didn’t want to rush—until the heat between their skin became unbearable. 

And still, Seonghwa didn’t move away.

Hongjoong’s fingers curled around his silky, black locks. Right at the nape. Right where it would hold.

Exactly like he would an omega. 

A way to keep them still. To keep them vulnerable.

Seonghwa stiffened. A tiny whimper escaped his throat, and he squirmed against the pressure—an instinctive jerk.

Hongjoong’s eyes flashed to his face, searching for any signs of fear, any hint to stop. 

But what he saw was worse. So much worse.

Seonghwa’s cheeks glowed. His chin dipped, gaze turned away—shame bleeding from his every pore. 

Not frightened.

Not defiant.

Submissive . 

Willing—a need so raw, it hurt to look at.

Like he was fighting himself for it. Forcing himself into it.

Like he wanted more than anything to be good for Hongjoong.

But that’s not what Hongjoong wanted.

“Oh, puppy,” he cooed, barely above a breath. “Let me do the work.”

His hand tightened in Seonghwa’s hair. Much tighter—to show all his strength. To show that he was an alpha in exactly the way he was supposed to be: powerful, strong, in control—there to catch him when he fell.

Seonghwa gasped. His pupils dilated. Shock coursed through his veins, causing his breath to pick up, his chest rising and falling in quick, successive puffs. 

But Hongjoong didn’t yank or pull. Didn’t make any demands. Just waited for the adrenaline to run its course—for the dopamine to sink in. Waited for Seonghwa’s lungs to slow. Holding on like you might hold a shaking hand in the dark. Gentle—like only someone strong enough to break you could be.

“Look at me,” Hongjoong whispered. With a soft tug, he guided Seonghwa’s gaze back to his own. His reflection swam in the endless black of Seonghwa’s pupils. “You’re not alone. I’m right here.”

The wrinkle between Seonghwa’s brows slowly flattened out. He blinked—like he’d never heard those words before.  

“It was hard, wasn’t it, puppy?” Hongjoong’s thumb brushed along the nape of Seonghwa’s neck—just once—his voice going watery and emotional. “Let me take care of you now, hm?”

His heart cracked open at the sight. All that pride Seonghwa wore like armor—shattered. Because he didn’t know how to accept this—gentleness. Because somewhere along the way, someone taught him strength was being alone.

As if no one had ever held him through it. No one had ever whispered how much they loved him, or kissed his wounds after he tripped.

“You’re doing so good,” Hongjoong reassured, offering the faintest hint of a smile. “I know it’s scary to let go, but—you feel that?” He squeezed his hold just a little tighter, earning another airy gasp—soft and fragile. “I got you.”

It took a second. For the words to make sense. For Seonghwa’s pulse to recede. 

But eventually, Hongjoong felt it—the shift. The uncoiling of tension beneath his palm. 

“There it is,”  he breathed, warmth flooding his voice. His scent swelled again, full and vibrant, like sunlight breaking through the clouds. “Good. Good boy.” 

Seonghwa’s muscles relaxed. And then, finally— finally —he leaned into Hongjoong.

Rested his weight against him.

Collapsed, not from failure—but from relief. Ready now. Ready to be scented.

“I got you,” Hongjoong whispered again, cradling Seonghwa’s head. His eyes glimmered as the field fell quiet around them. Only the stars—and himself—bore witness to how beautiful Seonghwa was like this.

“That’s it, puppy. Perfect. Just perfect… I won’t let you fall.”

Chapter Text

Hongjoong’s nervous system buzzed to life as his puppy melted in his palm.

The sight alone did something to him—something guttural and deep. His instincts surged, pleasure rushing down his spine in a waterfall of sparks.

His other hand moved automatically, sliding around Seonghwa's waist, the fabric of his jacket bunching under his touch. Soft. Warm. His fingers pressed in, coaxing Seonghwa closer until their bodies aligned—rib to rib, thigh to thigh.

Contact.

A slow breath hissed through Hongjoong’s nose. He could feel the tremble in Seonghwa’s frame, the heat rolling off him in waves. His face was flushed—burning. A vivid, flowering pink beneath his ears, down his neck, blooming across his chest and collarbone. 

So pretty, Hongjoong’s mouth watered.

So shy, it was crippling to look at. 

But even so, Seonghwa leaned in to every touch. Let it happen. Pressed closer as Hongjoong slipped the tie from his collar, watching as it dropped to the ground. Eased his head back into Hongjoong’s grasp as he returned his hand to his nape. And tipped his chin—sweet and uncertain—just enough to bare his throat.

To expose the delicate artery running beneath his skin.

Something no alpha should ever offer.

But he gave it to Hongjoong.

And that did something else to him—something far worse.

“Wow…” Hongjoong whispered.

A grin, slow and awestruck, spread across his face. His fingertips tingled like they were dipped in electricity. Pride swelled inside him—bright and golden and loud, bursting from his chest like his scent had nowhere else to go.

It flooded the space between them. Dense and heady. Wrapping around Seonghwa like silk. Greedy—like it wanted to swallow him whole.

“Look at you,” Hongjoong breathed, voice overflowing with acquiescent joy. “You really are so perfect for me.”

Seonghwa made a noise in the back of his throat—low and whiny and displeased. But the way his scent swirled said otherwise. Sugary and clingy and unguarded—wanting more.

“I’m going to scent you now, puppy.”

Hongjoong nudged his forehead against Seonghwa’s, catching his eyes. They were already half-lidded and sleepy, barely holding focus.

“And you’re going to take it real good for me, right? All of it?” he whispered. “...Ready?”

Seonghwa’s breath stilled—just for a moment. Just for a pause.

He swallowed thickly.

Then nodded.

That was all Hongjoong needed.

He leaned in.   

Slower than slow.

Every inch felt stretched. Measured. Like if he moved too fast, the moment would snap and unravel. His prepossessing thread, unspun.

The heat was the first thing that hit him—a burst of skin and scent against his face. Like cradling a steaming cup too close, causing his glasses to fog and his lungs to open. The smell of coffee and salt curled around him, trying to drag him in. Dark and rich and strong—but somehow still sweet on the back end.

So near, he could taste it. The texture of it. As if the scent itself had a frequency, and he could feel it humming against his lips.

Then—the tip of his nose brushed past Seonghwa’s hair.

And Hongjoong was gone.

He inhaled through it, deep and deliberate, like the air itself was heavy. Like one inhale wasn’t enough.

Seonghwa opened up for him like a sakura petal—blossoming so beautiful. 

For the first time, he could smell everything Seonghwa had never allowed him to: his shampoo, faint and woody. His cologne, worn thin through the day. The hint of detergent on his clothes.

And beneath it all—something quieter. Something alive and thrumming.

Emotion.

Hongjoong could smell the emotion now.

The things Seonghwa had never wanted him to know.

A tremor ran through Seonghwa’s body. His hands shot out, gripping the back of Hongjoong’s jacket like he was falling and needed something to hold.

His pulse thumped loud—so close to Hongjong's mouth he could feel it.

He shuddered. Let his fingers curl against Seonghwa’s head.

And breathed him in.

A full inhale this time, long and slow, dragged through parted lips. The kind of breath that rewrote something inside him. The kind of breath that gave him it all.

He’d never felt this way before. Not ever.

Like his entire anatomy had clicked into place. Like something chemical and inescapable had activated inside him.

Hongjoong knew an alpha’s scent could be powerful, but this—this was inexplicable and otherworldly. Like magic on his skin.

His nerves sang. A chorus. A hymn. A plucked guitar string. A vibration that harmonized with Seonghwa’s heartbeat.

Without thinking, he dragged Seonghwa against him. Melted their bodies together until there was no space left.

Seonghwa’s hand trembled at his back, fluttering like a wounded dove. And Hongjoong reached—gently guided it up to his chest, pressing it flat over his heart. Directly over the scent gland.

“Feel that,” he murmured. 

His breath ghosted along Seonghwa’s jaw. 

He squeezed Seonghwa’s hand.

“...That’s all for you.”

A tiny gasp escaped him as Hongjoong’s lips brushed. 

His mouth molded tenderly against the dip between Seonghwa’s throat and shoulder—like he’d been made to fit there. Like that space had always belonged to him.

The kiss started soft—dragging. Lips, warm and plush, pulled slowly along the curve of Seonghwa’s neck. Testing. Savoring. Listening. To every hitch in Seonghwa’s breath. Every flitter of his lashes. Every tremor beneath his skin.

Seonghwa’s head lolled back, arching into the pressure, exposing more of his throat. A sigh, barely audible, pushed from his mouth—like it escaped without permission.

But Hongjoong heard it. Felt it. Tasted it. Knew it. Had always known it.

Hongjoong's eyes rolled back into his skull.

Each press lingered longer than the last. Each breath, heavier. Each graze of his mouth, a little harder, a little needier—like he was trying to lure out more of those airy, helpless noises. Like each one was a confession. Each one, a confirmation: You’re making him feel good.

And Seonghwa let him. 

No tension. No resistance. Just flushed and pliant. Growing looser in his arms with every passing second.

Hongjoong kissed again—this time firmer, fuller. Then rolled the tip of his tongue over the scent gland, pushing into it with care. 

It pulsed against his mouth. 

Seonghwa twitched—released a high-pitched, shaky sound. 

Like he hadn’t meant to. Like Hongjoong had brushed something deeper than just a nerve.

His scent bloomed over Hongjoong’s tongue—flooded him. Drenched him. Thick and lush, and laced with pleasure. Sweet with submission. 

Hongjoong gasped against his throat, lips parting wide.

The scent—it was soaking . Heavy as rainwater. Velvety smooth—like rose petals on satin. Seeped in surrender, crushed between palm and skin.

“Fuck—” he breathed, barely holding himself together.

His own scent erupted—exploded into the air around them like fire catching kindling. His hand clenched in Seonghwa’s hair. Yanked him close. Heat coursed through his blood.

Soon, his lips were dragging passionately along Seonghwa’s neck. Down, then up. Again. And again. Just to feel him shake. Just to taste the skin he’d claimed.

Seonghwa clutched at him, pulling them closer. His breaths ramped—growing quick, sharp, and desperate. Chest rising and falling, hips rolling forward, body restless against Hongjoong's. Each gasp in time with Hongjoong's mouth.

Hongjoong nosed down Seonghwa’s jaw. Massaged with his tongue. Scraped with his teeth—right over the throbbing soft spot. 

Not a bite. 

But— god —he wanted to.

He wanted to sink his teeth in and mark . To bite and growl and make it permanent. To take that scent as his own. 

But it was enough.

Mine.

It sank into Seonghwa’s skin like a brand. Like a warning. Like a promise.

This is mine.

He’d smell like Hongjoong for days. And anyone who got too close would know exactly what that meant.

Seonghwa whimpered—high and fragile. His hips twitched, seeking contact. His fingers curled into Hongjoong’s jacket. 

More .

And Hongjoong nearly lost it.

Seonghwa was marked. He was scented. The deed was done.

But in no way did they stop.

Hongjoong’s hands roamed freely now—through Seonghwa’s hair, down his back. No longer holding him in place. 

Only holding him up.

He mouthed along his throat, dragged kisses up the edge of his jaw—each one messier, sloppier, hotter. Each breath came harder, sending hungry sighs across Seonghwa’s fevered skin.

He traced Seonghwa’s chin. Then higher. His breath stuttered against Seonghwa's cheek—his lips.

Seonghwa turned into it, blindly. Let out a cry—soft and open—right before he brushed against Hongjoong’s mouth.

And Hongjoong froze.

Sirens blared in his head: Not okay. Not safe. Too far.

This isn’t what we’re doing. He’s not ready. He’s not here.

Seonghwa was too far gone—unraveled, dizzy, pheromone-drunk. 

And Hongjong's instincts screamed at him not to take—but to protect. Protect above all else.

He exhaled through it. Caught his breath. Slowed.

Loosened his grip.

And cupped Seonghwa’s face. Held him steady.

Then kissed the corner of his mouth—delicate. Careful.

Pressed deeper kisses to his cheek, his jaw, the spot just below his ear. Each one softer than the last. Each one, tender at most.

Then he gently turned Seonghwa’s head away.

Not rejection.

Just redirection.

He nuzzled into him—quiet, comforting touches. Breath warming Seonghwa’s neck.

“Sorry, puppy,” he murmured. Each word, a kiss. Each kiss, a promise. 

“That’s not mine to take. Not yet.” 

Seonghwa didn’t argue. Didn’t speak.

Just released a tiny, needy noise—let the tip of his tongue flick out once, dazed. Like his body still wanted what his mind couldn’t process.

And then he sagged. Like he’d finally exhaled something he’d been holding in for years. 

Eyes closed. Lips parted. Scent loose and languid. No real shape or form. Just syrup and soup—spilled over Hongjoong's hands like a puddle.

He was gone. And he was safe.

Hongjoong eased them both to the ground, holding Seonghwa steady the whole way down. And Seonghwa went without protest—soft and pliant and sleepy in his arms, no fight left in him at all.

Chapter Text

Seonghwa’s fist.

Hongjoong did his best to bite back a grin. 

Because Seonghwa’s fist —was twisted in the front of his jacket. So tight, every one of his knuckles had gone bone-white. 

Every twitch of his grip, every futile attempt to loosen it, only for it to clamp down again—Hongjoong noticed them all. 

And he was beginning to wonder if he’d ever get his jacket back.

“Stop laughing,” Seonghwa snapped—right into his stomach, right where he’d been for the past half-hour. His voice, muffled and pouty, carrying barely enough bite to count. 

Hongjoong truly was trying to be a good sport, but he just couldn’t help it.

“I’m not,” he answered, his tone betraying him immediately—warm, giddy, and too damn pleased with himself.

Because—fuck—it was cute.

The infamous alpha captain of Yonsei, reduced to a floppy, blushing mess in his lap? That was just too adorable not to gloat over. 

Seonghwa groaned and burrowed his face deeper, as if that would somehow erase the evidence of how red his ears had gotten or how wobbly his knees were. Or the fact that his cheek was squashed against the scent gland at Hongjoong’s inner thigh like he was determined to suffocate himself.

Glued.

Seonghwa was glued to him.

For someone who fought so hard to keep his distance, the cling was almost comical. And who was Hongjoong to deny himself a little pleasure? A little victory? His puppy could sulk and deny it all he wanted, but every inch of that grip screamed the truth: he wasn’t about to let Hongjoong go.

Hongjoong stroked over the back of Seonghwa’s head, humming happily. The euphoria of the moment before still buzzed through his blood—his instincts flaring, the exact second Seonghwa had finally, finally melted under him. And god, the calm that followed. The itch beneath Hongjoong’s skin was gone. For the first time in weeks, he could breathe again.

He hadn’t realized just how tightly wound he’d been—how loud his instincts had been screaming—until Seonghwa gave in. Until he let go. And now, with the alpha soft in his lap, the release left him dizzy with relief.

Because his body had been starving. Starving to do just this. Starving to give Seonghwa his all.

And he couldn’t have hoped for a better outcome.

Scenting Seonghwa was unreal . 

Not just intense—but consuming. It had all the pleasure and raw seduction of scenting an omega: that bone-deep satisfaction, that intoxicating pull of chemical bliss. But it was also something else entirely.

Because Seonghwa was an alpha.

Which meant Hongjoong’s scent had to work harder. Push deeper. Wrap tighter—just to get Seonghwa where he needed him. And Hongjoong’s body didn’t want to stop. Instead, it amped every signal, electrified every touch, driving the heat deeper until it was racing through Seonghwa’s system like a heatstroke.

And Seonghwa—god, he was divine for letting Hongjoong in like that.

It was biological warfare. A battle of instincts pushing and pulling, confused and open. And Hongjoong hadn’t won by dominance—not like he would an omega. He won by turning Seonghwa inside out. By making him feel good. By indulging him. By dragging him deeper instead of forcing him down.

Every brush of skin, every breath drawn in through Seonghwa’s nose had sealed the bond tighter. The sheer pressure of it had burned through Hongjoong's body—his pheromones not just coating Seonghwa’s glands, but sinking into him. Holding him. Marking his throat.

And still, Seonghwa hadn’t pulled away.

If anything, he clung harder.

That was the difference. An omega’s submission was built into their biology—offered freely, instinctively. But Seonghwa’s was chosen. Every flicker of softness was hard-earned. Every sigh, every shudder—a gift.

And Hongjoong felt that.

Mine , his body sang. Mine, mine, mine.  

All his.

To protect. To comfort. To dote on.

Every instinct in him had narrowed to that one truth, thrumming through his veins with brutal simplicity. Not a choice. Not a negotiation. A law written into his bones. Like his body had already chosen for him: Seonghwa was his . 

And he had been for weeks. 

Seonghwa just hadn’t let him take responsibility. 

But now—now everything was exactly as it should be. 

“Careful, puppy,” Hongjoong chuckled, tucking a stray strand behind Seonghwa’s glowing ear. “Cling any harder and I might start thinking you like me.”

Another muffled groan followed. “I do not like you.”

“Mm.” Hongjoong’s grin widened. “And yet here you are, curled up on top of me, with that pretty little scent mark all over you.” 

The tips of Seonghwa’s ears burned even redder, the flush creeping all the way down his neck and chest. Hongjoong could feel the heat of it even through his pants.

He chuckled once more.

Silence fell over them—not uncomfortable. Just dense with the intensity of being so close. Of touching in a way they’d never touched before. 

But the quietness felt to Hongjoong like Seonghwa’s thoughts were loud. And after a moment, he finally spoke, his voice so small, Hongjoong almost missed it.

“My father…”

Hongjoong’s hand stilled in his hair.

Their combined scents shifted, tinged by Seonghwa’s turning weary and thin—brittle around the edges. The sound of his breaths, delicate and uneven, caused cracks through the night around them. Fragile. Something Hongjoong longed to cup in his hands before it shattered. Something he longed to care for and hold. 

And it made every one of his instincts surge. Threat. Danger. Mine , they snarled.

His muscles tensed. But the very instant they did, Seonghwa’s fist flinched against him, and he froze.

Because his scent wasn’t just his anymore. It belonged to Seonghwa. His pheromones were Seonghwa’s guiding force. If Hongjoong could feel the shift, so could he—a hundred times more. 

So Hongjoong steadied his breathing, smoothed his fingers instead of clutching, and pressed gently into the small of Seonghwa's back to pull him closer. To coat him in more comfort. A promise. A shield. 

“Mm,” Hongjoong softly coaxed. “Go on.”

“It was his scent…” Seonghwa’s words thinned, shame catching them before they could fully form. Hongjoong felt them all the same—like a sandbag poured straight into his lungs.

He swallowed roughly past the lump rising in his throat.

A part of him knew there was so much more buried beneath that sentence than Seonghwa could bear to admit. But no matter how much Hongjoong wanted—needed—to protect him, he wouldn’t ever pry open that wound. That wasn’t how you kept a puppy—not this puppy. You didn’t drag him by the scruff. (No—Hongjoong would gut anyone who tried that.) You called him into your lap and let him stay until he called it home.

So he bent, pressing a kiss to Seonghwa’s hair. Just one. Just enough.

“Good boy.”

A tiny sound escaped Seonghwa—half protest, half relief—and he pressed deeper into Hongjoong’s stomach, as if hiding from himself.

“He doesn’t know,” he whispered after a shallow breath, his voice trembling like a confession not meant for anyone but the dark. “About me still playing. He doesn’t care that I love it. He only cares if I take over the company, but… I can’t. I don’t want to. Not after—what happened to my mom. Not when it feels like it’s killing me too.”

The weight of it sank between them, heavy and cold.

Oh… 

Oh. 

Anger began to well behind Hongjoong’s breast—something horrified, something grief-stricken and disbelieving—as the meaning made its way into his heart.

Because everything that Seonghwa had just said—Hongjoong didn’t want to believe. It rang in his ears. The utter cruelty of it clanging through him like lead, as if it had just been dropped from his skull to his ribs. 

Hongjoong didn’t know what it meant. Didn’t know what happened to Seonghwa’s mom, or what his father had truly done to him. But he could guess as much. 

From the way that stench had clung to him like a scar—from how deep it cut, how broken Seonghwa had looked—Hongjoong could only guess what he’d endured. 

What made him so afraid. Afraid to be himself. Afraid of what it might cost him. 

Hongjoong drew in a deep, strained breath through his nose, eyes falling closed. 

If that was what Seonghwa had been taught love looked like, no wonder he flinched from every kindness. No wonder he bristled at every touch. It wasn’t denial—it was survival.

That—whatever the fuck that was—was not love. Not alphahood. 

Love was selfless. Unconditional. And alphahood was being willing to die for the ones you loved—to protect them, to catch them when they fell. 

Just like Hongjoong’s dad had done for his mom. Just like Hongjoong wouldn’t hesitate to do for Seonghwa. 

Not—not—forcing someone to be something they never wanted to be to begin with. 

But everything made sense now. The arrogance. The mask. The hiding.

It had never been about Hongjoong.

Hongjoong had simply represented the one thing Seonghwa was always denied. The one thing he wanted most.

Freedom. 

And the miracle of it—the part that nearly undid Hongjoong—was that Seonghwa had chosen to admit it here. In his lap. In his arms. With him.

Seonghwa shifted just enough to search Hongjoong's expression. And Hongjoong quickly blinked away the sting in his eyes, forcing a smile. 

On top of everything, Seonghwa didn’t need to carry his emotions too—didn’t need to think it was his fault. 

Hongjoong could have made a million promises then— I won’t let this happen again; I’ll always be there for you; I’ll make sure you’re happy —but promises meant little when wounds were still fresh. So he gave Seonghwa the one thing he’d actually accept: affection dressed as teasing; devotion he wouldn’t have to name yet.

Hongjoong reached into his pocket, pulling out the hot packs he’d brought with him. He pressed them gently to Seonghwa’s cheeks.

“Here,” he murmured, soft but firm. “I can feel how cold your fingers are, even through my jacket. Can’t have you freezing to death on me.”

Seonghwa’s lashes fluttered in surprise. Hesitant—like he still wasn’t sure how to accept it. And Hongjoong gave him an encouraging nod.

“Take ‘em.”

Slowly, Seonghwa's hands came up, closing over the hot packs—over Hongjoong's fingers.

But Hongjoong didn’t let go. Not yet.

Those eyes—so wide, so endlessly round—met his. They reflected every star in the sky. All of the sharpness had melted—so different from the moment they first met. They weren’t the eyes of a high-strung captain, nor dulled from any crushing expectations. They were innocent. Soft.

For one dizzying second, Hongjoong’s heart stuttered in his chest. He almost forgot what he was doing. Almost bent down and pressed their lips together. Seonghwa was so close. A simple tilt of his chin and he could do it—kiss away every last shred of doubt. 

But he stopped himself.

For Seonghwa, he would hold back. For Seonghwa, he would wait as long as he had to.

Because nothing Seonghwa had was for him to take. It was only for Seonghwa to give. 

Instead, he smiled. Tugged Seonghwa’s hands closer, brushing his lips over his knuckles. Dragging and deliberate—worshipping every joint. Showing him just how much he had to offer if Seonghwa wanted it. 

“The only one…” he whispered, each word heavy with intent.

He felt the hitch in Seonghwa’s breath. Felt the tiny falter of his pulse in anticipation. 

“…allowed to bully you is me, puppy.”

The words landed like a hammer. 

“Stop!” Seonghwa’s squeaked, so high-pitched Hongjoong nearly barked out a laugh. He yanked his hands back, cheeks blazing, and practically headbutted Hongjoong's stomach in his rush to hide. 

“You’re so annoying!” he mumbled furiously into the fabric, right back where he started: muffled and sulky.

There it was: the easygoing banter. The teasing. His puppy, a ridiculous, flustered mess. 

Seonghwa could go back to being himself, distraught about hot packs and kisses—no room to crumble under the weight of his own thoughts.

And Hongjoong could go back to indulging him, pretending like he didn’t know Seonghwa loved it. 

Hongjoong chuckled, stroking a lazy hand over his hair again. “Oh, I’m annoying? Funny. That’s not what you said earlier when my mouth was on your neck.”

“Shut. Up.”

A soft thump hit his chest—Seonghwa’s fist, now half-hearted and bratty instead of holding on for dear life. Just how Hongjoong liked it.

“Oh, don’t pout now,” he crooned, leaning down so his breath ghosted over the shell of Seonghwa’s ear. “You were making the cutest little noises a second ago. All melty and sweet, like you wanted me to keep going. You know, if you ask nicely, I might—”

Seonghwa made a strangled sound that might have been a growl—or a whine. Or a choke. “I hate you!”

“You hate me?” Hongjoong smirked, sitting back like a man utterly victorious. “Puppy, you’re glued to my lap. If you really hated me that much, you’d have run off ages ago.”

“Shut! Up!”

Another fist thumped against him. And Hongjoong’s grin only spread. 

Because Seonghwa’s scent, suddenly exploding through his—sticky-sweet and needy—said everything his words didn’t. 

He wasn’t going anywhere. Not a goddamn inch. 

And neither was Hongjoong. 

Not now—definitely not now. Not when he knew—no matter how loud Seonghwa protested—deep down, Seonghwa had already chosen him too.

Chapter Text

Seonghwa finally sat up, hair sticking in every direction like he’d just been dragged through hell—or worse, Hongjoong’s den. His cheeks were pink, lips swollen, and his eyes had that hazy, post-nap daze to them like he’d just had the most mind-melting affair with his bed. 

Hongjoong bit back another grin. “Wow. You look… great.”

Seonghwa blinked. Slow. So slow—as if even processing the words was too much effort. Then gave the weakest glare imaginable. 

“Shut up,” he mumbled.

It only made Hongjoong grin harder. 

“C’mon, noodle.” He held out both hands. “Think you can stand without collapsing this time?”

To his surprise, Seonghwa didn’t take the hands. He just stared at them.

Then up at Hongjoong.

Then back at the hands.

And something shifted.

Hongjoong stilled. He watched the way Seonghwa’s lips pressed into a thin line. There was a sudden flicker in his scent—bright, buzzing, and energetic. Like an idea just sparked in his mind. Not a good one, either. 

A stupid one. 

A very, very stupid idea. 

“…What?” Hongjoong asked, narrowing his eyes.

Seonghwa didn’t answer.

Didn’t move either.

Just stared.

His lip tucked between his teeth. His brows twitched like he was battling his own instincts. And Hongjoong recognized that look immediately.

It was the same one Seonghwa always got before opening his mouth and saying something deeply idiotic. Before slinging some stupid, half-baked insult about Hongjoong’s glasses or his height. Before challenging Hongjoong to a dominance battle and immediately regretting it—every time.

Up to no fucking good. 

“Puppy,” Hongjoong warned, slowly lowering one hand. “What are you about to—?”

But before he could finish his sentence, Seonghwa lunged.

It wasn’t elegant.

It wasn’t even all that coordinated.

It was a lurch—a full-tumble straight into Hongjoong’s lap, one hand gripping his shoulder for balance as the other braced against his chest.

Hongjoong didn’t even have time to blink before Seonghwa’s lips were on his.

Soft. Warm. The sweetest goddamn thing Hongjoong had ever tasted.

And then they were gone.

So was Seonghwa.

The moment Hongjoong’s brain caught up, the boy was already sprinting off the field like a mad man running from his own consequences.

“You’re still annoying!” Seonghwa’s voice cracked in the distance, high-pitched and horrified.

Hongjoong sat stunned. Hands frozen mid-air like he was holding the space Seonghwa had just been. 

He blinked once. 

Twice. 

What… the fuck?

Seonghwa had just kissed him.

On the mouth.

And ran.

Oh…

Oh my god!

Heat surged up Hongjoong’s neck and into his ears, blooming like a firework explosion. His heart felt like it skipped a beat—or five—and then decided to restart in triple time.

Seonghwa had just kissed him.

And ran.

“I’m gonna die,” Hongjoong muttered.

He stayed perfectly still, as if moving would shatter the moment. As if his lips would forget the shape of Seonghwa’s if he so much as breathed wrong.

Every single one of his instincts screamed—possessive, protective, territorial. He wanted to tackle Seonghwa. Drag him back. Kiss him properly. Pin him down, scent him all over again, and keep him where he belonged.

Instead, Hongjoong took a very slow, very deep breath.

Control, he reminded himself.

He wiped his thumb across his bottom lip.

It still tingled.

“One lousy kiss?” he scoffed under his breath, trying not to smile.

But it happened regardless.

“Oh, puppy…” he whispered, gaze flicking toward the path Seonghwa disappeared down. “You have no idea what you just got yourself into.”

Chapter Text

Seonghwa hid his face behind his cup. 

Hongjoong had been staring at him all night across the room, gaze unwavering, smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth every time Seonghwa glanced his way.

Which was, admittedly, every five fucking seconds. 

If you had told Seonghwa a couple months ago that he’d be at Kim Hongjoong’s birthday party, he would have choked with laughter. 

But now he was fiddling with a soju bottle on the counter, clinging to the shadows with ears red as a tomato, while Hongjoong watched him from the couch like there weren’t other people in the room. 

The alpha sank back into the cushions like he owned the place, legs spread and arms draped lazily over the backrest—so cocky it bordered on obscene. His hair fell in wet-like strands around his sharp face. Every so often, his hand would raise to brush one back before returning to the drink he’d been sipping all night.

Toying. Toying with Seonghwa. 

And it was working. 

Worse—he smelled fucking good. 

Whiskey swirling on the tongue, candles crackling in the background as the bed rocked —type of good. 

Seonghwa noticed it all. Knew where Hongjoong was the second he and San pulled up outside Wooyoung’s house. He could taste him, his body running hot as they climbed the entryway steps. And when the front door opened to reveal an overly-excited Wooyoung blabbering about throwing the best birthday party ever, Seonghwa had to refrain from shoving past him and running right to the source. 

Even now, every breath felt like he was defying physics. The pull was so strong he had to grip onto the edge of the bar just to keep his feet in place. 

He had never in his life smelled something like this. He could smell things on Hongjoong that shouldn’t even be possible: the shift in his scent between regions of his skin; the spike, the swell; the pulse of his wants, his desires. It was as if the moment Hongjoong marked him, everything had intensified—his taste, his touch, his smell. The thing inside Seonghwa that used to be a whisper was now screaming. And he finally realized what it was: 

The claim of an alpha. 

He hadn’t stopped thinking about it—the scenting, the stupid impulsive kiss. The indescribable, floaty feeling. Hongjoong’s lips against his neck. His teeth dragging.

It just felt good at the time, okay? Stupid good. His brain short-circuited for a second and now he was living with the consequences.

Why the hell did he let Hongjoong scent him? Why did he kiss him? God—he was such a dumb, dumb, stupid idiot—an idiot with a scent mark !

The mark didn’t just feel like a mark, either. Not this time—definitely not like before. This time, it lingered. Not like something on him. Like something in him. Like his body was trying to hold onto it. Amplify it. 

He smelled like Hongjoong—he knew that much. 

San’s shocked expression when he picked him up had said enough. The way he’d pulled his shirt over his nose, giggling like Seonghwa couldn’t see him. 

“Don’t—” Seonghwa had snapped—then sighed, because it wasn’t San’s fault. But the sideways glances he kept sending read like a smug accusation: So… this is why you’ve been acting weird… 

“It’s okay, hyung,” San giggled into his shirt. 

And Seonghwa could only think to blame Wooyoung. 

And then Hongjoong. 

But he couldn’t blame Hongjoong, because his brain wouldn’t let him think a single negative thought about the man—not while his scent still wrapped around Seonghwa like a collar. A constant reminder of who he belonged to. 

And it was fucking embarrassing. 

It was embarrassing to be so fidgety and flushed under a little eye contact. It was embarrassing knowing other people could smell it. Worst of all, it was embarrassing how Hongjoong didn’t even try to hide it—how locked on to Seonghwa he was. How his scent screamed that he’d imprinted and was glowing with happy, possessive pheromones—coiling Seonghwa like a second skin. Like a leash and a warning all in one.

It was only a matter of time before people put two and two together, and Seonghwa would dissolve where he stood. 

The alcohol wasn’t helping either. 

He’d started to feel his buzz, and the more he felt it, the more needy he got—no longer able to ward off his impulses. 

Fuck , he thought, realizing he wasn’t even trying to disguise it anymore. 

Hongjoong’s eyebrow cocked. He took a slow sip of his drink, smirking into his cup. 

And Seonghwa wanted to die. 

Because those lips were dangerous. 

Goosebumps raised along his neck as his body recalled what it felt like to have them drag across his scent gland. The soft press of them against his mouth. 

He wanted that—no, needed that—again. He wanted Hongjoong to—

Wait —what?

Seonghwa’s eyes went wide, and he ducked his head, mentally punching the fuck out of himself. Because—what the hell was he thinking? He wanted Hongjoong to what ?

No—he needed to pull himself together. He wasn’t some down bad, loser fuck. This wasn’t him. He was Park-fucking-Seonghwa! If he wanted something, he took it. He wouldn’t let a five-foot-eight alpha runt—

Hongjoong lazily curled two fingers in Seonghwa’s direction. 

And Seonghwa jolted upright so fast, he nearly knocked over the bottle in front of him. 

Come here , Hongjoong beckoned with a tilt. Warm. Inviting. Like he’d saved Seonghwa a seat and was waiting for him to take it. 

Seonghwa furiously shook his head. Nuh-huh. 

His hands scrambled to keep the soju from toppling over. 

He wouldn’t do it. Not with everyone around. Nope . 

Hongjoong’s eyes narrowed—terrifying and amused, like he was playing poker and knew Seonghwa had just made a very stupid bluff. Like he’d already decided how this was going to end, and his bet just went up. 

His fingers tipped. His palm turned. And with a sharp but subtle flick—

Here. Now. 

And before Seonghwa knew it, his feet were moving of their own accord. 

He shuffled forward, dragging out every step like a condemned man on his last walk down the plank. His pride was burning. But the call of an alpha—his alpha—was stronger. 

When he reached the couch, his face was so red he had to tuck his chin just to hide behind his hair. 

Wooyoung and San were cuddled to the right. Jongho and Yeosang were on the floor, shouting over MarioKart. Mingi and Yunho were deep in a pool-table pun war. The pack hadn’t noticed yet—only San. And San was goddamn good at keeping his mouth shut. Especially if he didn’t want Seonghwa’s teeth in his arm. 

Everyone was right there —close. Too close. And Seonghwa was terrified of what Hongjoong was about to do. 

He hoped it would be innocent. A quick exchange. Something he could slither his way out of. 

But what he didn’t expect was for Hongjoong to gently wrap his hand around his wrist, looking up at him with eyes that were heavy—protective, possessive, smug. And unfairly tender. 

Seonghwa suppressed a whine—half submission, half protest. But Hongjoong just cocked an eyebrow, pumping that intoxicating scent into Seonghwa’s wrist gland. 

He wouldn’t be taking no for an answer. 

Fuck . 

Seonghwa’s ears burned like a scorching hot forge as Hongjoong guided him. 

Into his lap. 

In front of everyone. 

The room fell dead silent. 

No one had been paying them much mind—until Seonghwa sank down on Hongjoong's lap with zero resistance

Everybody froze. 

Their heads turned slowly—uncomfortably—like haunted dolls. Their eyes zeroed in on Seonghwa. 

He released a whimper—quietly, just for Hongjoong—then buried his face in his chest like a coward, hoping maybe, if he stayed there long enough, he would evaporate. 

But Hongjoong didn’t even flinch. He just chuckled and cradled the back of Seonghwa’s head, tucking him deeper into his neck—like he was sheltering a very shy, very flustered puppy. 

You could hear a pin drop. 

No one spoke. No one moved. 

Then, unceremoniously and dumbfounded: 

“…Ayo! What the fuck?” 

Jongho’s voice echoed through the room.

Chapter Text

Nope. 

Seonghwa rocketed to his feet—only to be snatched and yanked back down again. 

“Easy,” Hongjoong purred, rubbing what should have been calming circles along his spine. 

But all Seonghwa could feel was Hongjoong’s crotch under his ass—the very defined, very apparent outline of what he prayed was a belt. The flex of the alpha’s thick thighs—the throb suddenly making itself known deep in a place Seonghwa would rather not talk about. 

His breathing picked up. 

His pulse was too goddamn loud. The room was too goddamn hot. Something pounded in his throat like it wanted to take him out—rear-naked choke-style. 

All he could hear was the frantic thrum of his own heartbeat. And the sticky sound of him trying to swallow the reality of whatever was unfolding around him. 

That—and deafening silence. 

Utter, deafening silence. 

No one had moved. 

It was like a fucking wax museum—drinks hanging mid-air, a pool ball clacking to an awkward, aborted halt, a controller hitting the carpet like time had stopped. 

Seonghwa desperately tried to swallow again, but it just got stuck. 

“They’re gonna find out eventually,” Hongjoong murmured into his hair, and—by fuck, did that not help. 

Because his scent hit like a wall—so dizzying and dense, Seonghwa could have given up all his pride in a single instant just to moan. His lips parted, sucking in a deep breath like he was about to do just that. Then—

“What the fuck—” Jongho didn’t even get to finish his sentence before a hand slapped over his mouth. Yeosang dragged him down to the floor, nearly smothering him to death as he kicked and flailed. 

Mingi, mid-sip, inhaled beer into his lungs. 

The sound was akin to a dog coughing up the ocean—way too loud, demonic, and unnatural. 

“Oh, fuck—” he hacked. 

Yunho—startled—smacked him hard between the shoulders. 

“Oh my god—” another hack. 

Thump, thump, thump.

Seonghwa attempted to escape again—only to earn himself the privilege of two meaty alpha arms seatbelting him into the worst ride of his life. Please, please, please— He squirmed to no avail. 

Jongho’s muffled swears spilled out from behind Yeosang’s palm—something about their captain getting bent by a fucking nerd. But Yeosang—bless his soul—only tightened his hold, smiling politely as he pressed down with all his might like he was drowning a feral mutt in the bathtub. 

(He’d just become Seonghwa’s favorite teammate.)

"He’s—he’s in his lap.” San’s eyes were blank—two wide saucers of disbelief. Like he’d just watched a cow levitate through a beam of light, abducted and zapped from existence into the dark of night. You know—instead of simply seeing his best friend be a little affectionate. 

“He’s just… in it. The same alpha who wouldn’t hold my hand because he said it made him look like a bitch—in someone’s lap.”

Seonghwa had resolved to die. No—scratch that. This was his villain arc. He would go on a murderous rampage, wiping everyone in the room from existence so there was no one left to remember this moment. Starting with Hongjoong—

“Aww, babe,” Wooyoung cooed sympathetically, drawing everyone’s attention as he rubbed San’s back—like he was going to apologize to the big cuddle-bug for his loss of bromance. But instead, he leaned in, a wicked grin lighting up his face. “Correction: He’s in Hongjoong-hyung’s lap. And, if I’m not mistaken… totally purring right now.” 

“I am not—” 

“Well, something is,” Wooyoung said cheerfully, his grin widening, not letting Seonghwa get a word in. (The bastard was clearly on Hongjoong’s side.)

“Look at you—tail wagging and everything. Where’s my phone? I gotta record this.” 

“I will kill you,” Seonghwa hissed before shoving his face back into Hongjoong’s chest—so hard, the impact felt like a punishment. If this was his fate, so be it. But he was going to be a real fucking bitch about it. 

“See? He likes it.” 

“I do not—”

“Oh, yes you do,” Yunho chimed in around his drink. His smirk was so obvious Seonghwa wanted to rip his own hair out. Everything about his tone screamed payback for the one time Seonghwa had made Mingi sulk. “You’re practically vibrating. Hongjoong-hyung scent you that good?”

Hongjoong—the other bastard—found that funny, apparently, because all he did was chuckle and tuck Seonghwa more securely against his chest. 

The adjustment was so subtle, Seonghwa shouldn’t have even noticed. But instead, the way Hongjoong rocked him against his thigh—pressing up, slow and deliberate—sent sparks bursting along Seonghwa’s spine. Like Hongjoong did it on purpose just to remind him where he was seated. 

Worse—Seonghwa felt every inch. Every soft bounce of Hongjoong’s laugh. The sound, vibrating through his stomach and over his skin—shooting straight down to his dick. 

Oh, fuck. 

The air felt thick—heavy with Hongjoong’s scent—clinging to the inside of his lungs until every breath had the room spinning. He knew he should have pulled away, but his fingers only clutched at the front of Hongjoong’s shirt like he needed more—or needed something to hold him up. 

Don’t, don’t, don't, Seonghwa prayed. His thighs squeezed together in a futile attempt to stop it, but the heat only dug deeper. 

It was too late. 

Something in him clenched—and Hongjoong noticed. 

Of course he did. 

His eyebrows shot up in shock. Then delight. And amusement. Like Seonghwa had just whispered the filthiest, dirtiest little confession in front of all their friends.

Fuck. 

“Congrats, by the way,” Yunho went on, blissfully unaware of the battle Seonghwa was waging against his own raging boner. “Nice seeing you relaxed for once.”

Relaxed—?! 

”Relaxed?!” Jongho wheezed at the same time, finally prying free from Yeosang. Tears streamed down his cheeks from laughing so hard. “He’s being cradled like a baby by another alpha, and he’s relaxed? Should we build him a nest next? Get some blankies? A bottle?”

“Oh my god, he’s fine!” Wooyoung shot back, his scent spiking sour with maternal instinct. But the sharpness quickly faded, replaced by a sparkling gleam as he added, “Just, also, maybe a little bit… in heat.” 

The noise that erupted from Seonghwa wasn’t even human—closer to a squeak than a snarl. (Real tough alpha shit.) He buried himself further into Hongjoong’s neck like maybe suffocating to death would get him out of this. 

Wrong move. 

Hongjoong’s scent was so much stronger there—sexy and maddening—making Seonghwa’s head swim like he’d stood up too fast. And he belatedly realized why Hongjoong had never scented him like this—in the traditional sense: nose to neck. 

Because he probably assumed it would kill him.

Seonghwa gasped for breath. 

It really could have. 

“…Oh.” Yeosang’s nostrils flared. A scandalized hand flew to his mouth. “Oh, my.”

“What? What?” Jongho’s voice jumped an octave, eager to know what Yeosang had realized. Then it hit him too. 

“Oh my god!” He jabbed a finger at Seonghwa, pinching his nose. “You do like it! You smell like a slut!”

“Jongho!” Wooyoung barked, smacking him upside the head.

“What?!” Jongho’s hands flew up. “You’re telling me this—” he pointed dramatically at the tangle of two alphas, “isn’t the dictionary definition? ₩10,000 says they’ve sucked each other’s tongues.”

Yeosang cupped a hand around his mouth, muttering, “₩20,000 says they’ve sucked more than that…”

Hongjoong nearly spit out the drink he’d decided then was a good time to take a sip of. 

That set the room off like a spark. Everyone exploded all at once.

“Should I, like—?” San half-rose from his seat, hands hovering like he was about to wrangle a toddler. A really big, really angry toddler. That liked to bite. 

“Yeah, get him out of there, hyung!” Jongho howled, clutching his stomach. “Before they both go into rut or something!”

San looked almost serious, making Seonghwa’s body tense. He opened his mouth—unsure if he was about to protest or beg to be rescued—but Hongjoong’s arm tightened around him, keeping him put.

The alpha’s head cocked as he set aside his glass. His eyes dropped just enough to lock onto San’s, voice sinking low in his chest. Dangerous. “Try it,” Hongjoong offered—almost pleasantly, as if the challenge might be fun.

San plopped down again so fast the couch springs jumped.

Wooyoung cackled next to him.

And Seonghwa had to bite back the involuntary moan that bubbled up in his chest.

Because—fuck—that was so unnecessarily hot. 

He hadn’t even noticed that his hands had wandered, now laced behind Hongjoong’s neck. Like his body had decided, without permission, that he wouldn’t be letting go anytime soon—not when his alpha was making such enticing threats.

“You’re really not gonna move him?” Jongho asked incredulously, eyes flicking between them.

Hongjoong just smiled faintly, his chin dipping so his lips brushed the crown of Seonghwa’s bowed head. “Why would I? He’s perfectly fine where he is.”

Seonghwa scoffed—well, tried to. It came out so pitiful that his voice cracked. “Perfectly fine?!”

He was not fine. Hongjoong’s fingers had started rubbing lazy little circles at the inside of his thigh. The slow, steady motion synced perfectly with his pulse, making it almost impossible to think right. The edges of his vision trembled in and out of focus, throbbing in perfect time.

“Aren’t you, puppy?” Hongjoong nearly pouted. 

And that one word detonated in Seonghwa’s stomach like a fucking land mine. 

The chorus of the pack’s oooohhhhs blurred in his ears, each one muffled and distant. If he moved, he was certain that would be the end: ultimate humiliation. Or worse—Hongjoong would let him go. 

Seonghwa went completely limp against the alpha’s neck, defeated and whimpering. As much as he hated everything about this, he hated the idea of being anywhere but Hongjoong’s arms even more. 

A hand slid to his nape, thumb brushing languidly over the hinge of his jaw.

“Relax, puppy,” Hongjoong murmured against him. His presence pressed in, warm and constant—heavier than the chaos around them.

Slowly, the world began to fall away under Hongjoong’s touch. It was just the two of them—the steady weight of Hongjoong’s fingers. The soft brush of his nose against Seonghwa’s head. The curl of his smoky, citrusy pheromones.

The pack kept laughing—kept cracking jokes—but their jabs bounced uselessly off the quiet little space Hongjoong had pulled him into. And somewhere in that haze of heat and humiliation, Seonghwa realized—to his horror—that he wasn’t fighting it anymore. He was actually clinging to Hongjoong. Being scented. By another alpha. In public. 

“They’ll get used to it,” Hongjoong hummed. 

Seonghwa made a defiant noise. “They better not.” 

“Then you better stop looking at me like that.” 

“Like what?” he retorted. 

Hongjoong’s smile grazed his ear, low and teasing. “Like you want me but don’t know how to ask.” 

A flush surged down Seonghwa’s neck. He opened his mouth to deny it—but Hongjoong’s fingers curled into his nape, cutting his words in half.

“…You’re insufferable,” he managed to choke. Even he could hear how weak it sounded. 

Hongjoong grinned—slow, seductive. “Yet,” he said, guiding Seonghwa’s gaze up, “here you are, still in my lap.”

Seonghwa’s eyes immediately zeroed in on his lips.

His head felt caught between the steady pull of that voice and the slow, absentminded cradle of Hongjoong’s hand in his hair, holding him like he was something precious. 

He desperately tried—and failed—not to think about that kiss. 

“Are you always this loud with your scent when you’re smug?” Seonghwa muttered to distract himself, shifting just enough to feel Hongjoong’s thigh flex under him.

“No,” Hongjoong replied easily, nose grazing his scent gland. “You just make me happy.”

Seonghwa swallowed hard.

That… wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair how natural this was to Hongjoong. It wasn’t fair that he could make Seonghwa feel appalled and infinitely safe all in the same sentence—make his body hum like it was already halfway into something it shouldn’t be. 

And yet, here he was, melting—his muscles all loose. The clawing tension in his chest had eased. His head felt fuzzy and floaty, like there wasn’t a single thing he needed to be worried about.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d been bracing for his pack’s judgment for the past few weeks. Obsessing over how they’d react, what they’d think—if he’d lose them.

But, somehow, Hongjoong took all that away without even trying. Made him feel like, no matter what, he’d be the one to carry the weight.

They’ll get used to it. 

That was so… weird.

For the first time in his life, Seonghwa wasn’t a captain or an alpha.

In Hongjoong’s lap, he was just… Seonghwa. 

And that was almost more terrifying.

“Happy birthday to you—Jongho-yah, kill the lights!” 

Wooyoung emerged from the kitchen, singing boisterously while balancing a cake in both hands. San trailed behind, grinning as the rest of the pack joined in—voices crowding the space as they all clustered around the tiny coffee table in the center of the living room. The lights dimmed.

“Happy birthday to you…”

Seonghwa felt a chuckle rumble through Hongjoong’s chest.

“Happy birthday, dear Hongjoong-hyung…”

Wooyoung set the cake down in front of them, and Seonghwa shifted, ready to slide off Hongjoong’s lap. Even he wasn’t so selfish as to take the spotlight on someone else’s birthday. 

But the hand on his waist only tightened—just enough to stop him.

He paused, shooting Hongjoong a questioning glance—but was met by a sight so pretty that his breath caught and every thought dropped from his head.

The candlelight cast Hongjoong’s face in a warm orange glow, flickering across his glasses. 

His smile curved upward, small and unguarded. Not the sharp, knowing grin Seonghwa was used to—this one was easy, almost tender, making the corners of his eyes crinkle and his features soften. Like he was happiest here, holding Seonghwa, letting the others sing obnoxiously out of key.

Seonghwa relaxed back into him. 

And his scent shifted. Subtle. Barely noticeable. 

But Seonghwa, steeped in it, felt the change like a ripple through his chest.

Something delicate. Thin at the edges. Not the unshakable, dominant musk that usually rolled off Hongjoong—but something stripped down and bare. Something touched with loneliness.

Suddenly, Hongjoong’s scent wasn’t the only thing to change. 

Seonghwa was no longer staring at the Hongjoong in front of him, but at the one asleep in the library, his head drooping, red pen still clutched in his hand. His face slack with exhaustion. The faint shadow of his lashes against his cheeks.

Pretty. Vulnerable.

This Hongjoong reminded him of that one.

And those eyes…

Seonghwa traced the alpha’s profile.

How had he never noticed before? That Hongjoong’s eyes weren’t black at all.

No. They were deep and still, like sunlight spilling over a lake in late autumn. The kind of day when the trees had already turned, the soil stayed dark and damp, and the crunch of leaves made you ache for a fire.

November.

Hongjoong’s eyes were like November.

“…Happy birthday to you.”

“Blow out my candles for me?”

The words tugged Seonghwa from his daze. 

His brow drew together. “Hm?”

Hongjoong’s smile deepened, his eyes holding Seonghwa in place.

“Come on,” he coaxed, low and warm, like the words were just for Seonghwa—special. “Blow them out for me.”

“Me? Why?” Seonghwa’s voice came out much quieter than he intended—smaller—like he wasn’t sure this moment was even real. His chest still caught in the pull of that scent.

“Because.” Hongjoong gave him a playful nudge, but the fingers pressed into his hip didn’t budge. “I already got my wish. I want you to have this one.”

Seonghwa stilled.

Those words landed deeper than he would have ever thought possible. They sat heavy in his heart, making a blush bloom across his neck and cheeks. 

He blinked.

It was so simple for Hongjoong—to say things like that and mean them. To make Seonghwa feel like no one had ever truly looked at him before. Not until now.

Seonghwa nodded shyly and leaned forward, breath ghosting over the candles.

But before he blew them out, he let his eyes fall shut. Just for a second. Just once. 

If Hongjoong was giving him this wish, he wouldn’t waste it.

He exhaled. The flames snuffed out in a thin curl of smoke.

“What’d you wish for?” Hongjoong’s voice was closer now, his breath ghosting along Seonghwa’s jaw as the others cheered and moved to cut the cake.

Seonghwa’s lips quirked. He nudged Hongjoong back with his shoulder.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he said, tipping his chin in mock indifference. “I’m not letting you ruin my chances of it coming true.”

Hongjoong chuckled, settling deeper into the couch without ever removing his hand from Seonghwa’s hip. Like he’d never let go. “Fair enough, puppy. I’ll let you have this one.

“You want some cake?”

Chapter Text

“Uh—uh—I was just leaving,” Seonghwa stammered, spinning on his heels—then spinning back like he’d forgotten which direction he’d come from.

Hongjoong cocked an eyebrow, hand still on the handle of his dorm door, holding it open.

“Seonghwa, I could smell you standing here nervously for the past five minutes.”

Seonghwa went still. His head dropped an inch.

The corner of Hongjoong’s mouth quirked up—small, restrained, but there nonetheless. He was trying so hard not to laugh, knowing it might send Seonghwa bolting. But the pleasure of catching him red-handed was too delicious to hide completely.

And God, the sight of him—hugging his jacket like it was the only thing keeping him grounded, shoulders hunched enough to stop him from launching into orbit if he so happened to drop it. Still in the same clothes from the party, except for the slides. Which meant he’d gone home… but hadn’t stayed there for long.

And Hongjoong knew exactly why.

He leaned against the doorframe, letting his gaze drift down, then up again—slow, deliberate—stopping a fraction too long on places that made Seonghwa’s ears go red. His hair, mussed from the wind. Throat, exposed in the dip of his collar. The faint stretch across the front of his shirt where his chest rose and fell a little too quickly. His scent.

When Hongjoong’s eyes dipped lower, it flared—heady, hot, and sweet in all the right places.

Obvious. So obvious.

And predictable.

Seonghwa wasn’t here for small talk.

“Come to give me a present?” Hongjoong asked, teasing, his grin barely concealed.

Seonghwa’s head jerked back up, eyes wide—brows pulling into something between panic and pleading.

Hongjoong didn’t relent. Instead, his gaze lingered, lazy—predatory, like he had all the time in the world to drink him in. A look he was certain Seonghwa was familiar with, but not used to receiving. 

“Ugh, I’m leaving,” Seonghwa groaned after a moment, tossing his head back. “I never should’ve come here.” He pivoted, muttering under his breath—only to jolt when Hongjoong’s fingers closed around his wrist. Right over the spot they always did.

“Puppy,” Hongjoong said with a smile, tugging just enough to pull him forward. Seonghwa stumbled into the doorway, not resisting—just teetering, like his pride hadn’t caught up to his body yet.

The gap between them closed.

Hongjoong pressed in with his scent, the doorframe at Seonghwa’s back cutting off retreat. His palm slid to anchor at the inside of Seonghwa’s gland, the pad of his thumb brushing slowly over the delicate thrum of his pulse. The pressure wasn’t rough, but it was enough—leaning his weight forward until Seonghwa felt the strength of him through the thin barrier of their clothes. His warmth, a quiet wall that told Seonghwa exactly what he already knew: there was no running.

That’s when Hongjoong caught it again—that same burst, coaxed open and blooming. Like Seonghwa had been waiting for the door to open all night.

His smile softened, voice turning heavy. 

“You’re not going anywhere.”

Chapter Text

Hongjoong's dorm had a warmth to it. All earthy and neutral tones. A small desk lamp with a yellow bulb cast flickers across the space like a candle. Twinkling string lights stretched over the window with an amber glow—barely bright enough to illuminate the room. 

And it smelled like spice and comfort. It smelled like home. 

Seonghwa shyly shuffled forward. 

He’d been in the Yonsei dorms before—crashed on Mingi’s tiny couch after a night of pounding beers. Drunkenly weaseled his way into some omega’s shitty bed. 

But this? 

This was quiet. Lived-in. Personal. Nothing like the places he normally found himself—chaotic, noisy, and borrowed. Or deafeningly silent. 

Hongjoong's dorm felt like a whole new world. 

There were plenty of things Seonghwa expected—Hongjoong’s desk, perfectly organized. His laptop propped open with the screen dark, like he used it so often he couldn’t even be bothered to shut it. A tower of textbooks stacked on the floor, reaching well over Seonghwa’s knee. And next to it, a small Bluetooth speaker playing lofi music so faint it barely registered—less like a sound, and more like a memory.

But there were also things Seonghwa never would've expected. Not in a million years. The guitar case, for instance—tucked behind the books. Or the massive pile of clothes bursting from the wardrobe—like it had tried, once, to be contained, but had given up and decided to overflow.

Then there were the posters. Flyer-sized, mostly. All different colors, flaunting bands from all over the world—plastered to the walls above Hongjoong’s bed. 

And the bed…

Seonghwa felt his cheeks heat up as his gaze lingered on the queen-sized bed nestled into the corner of the room. The duvet was a deep olive green linen, tangled and haphazardly turned down, like Hongjoong had been laying in it. Pillows, thick and plenty, were stacked along the headboard, offset by dark gray sheets.

The kind of bed someone slept in—not crashed in. The kind where dreams were made—alongside something else. And you woke in the morning reaching for that exact thing: love—someone close.

And the smell—God, the smell . 

Seonghwa’s heart stuttered.

It was like Hongjoong's sweater all over again—but worse. A hundred times worse. Because the scent wasn’t just clinging to some fabric. It was in the walls. In the bedding. The air itself was made of Hongjoong. Saturated and silky smooth. Seonghwa’s lungs fought to pull it in without it showing. It called to him—whispered of warmth. Whispered of something darker, something inescapable. 

He swayed slightly, the scent tugging at him. It smelled too good. Irresistible—the mattress, the pillows. Dense. Familiar. His eyes fluttered. Something inside him turned syrupy and sweet— desirable . 

And for some reason, his body knew what that meant far before he did.

This was Hongjoong’s space.

Not a den. Not technically.

Dens were prepared with intent. For rut. Usually somewhere guarded. Somewhere no one else could touch. No one but a chosen omega, that is. 

But his instincts didn’t care.

They screamed and buzzed: This is where Alpha sleeps. This is where he claims. Where he rubs himself against his sheets. Where he touches himself—

Seonghwa’s stomach flipped. At first, with arousal. Then with something uglier. Envy. Jealousy. Greed. Mine .

Someone else—

Seonghwa swallowed.

Someone else could’ve touched Hongjoong here. Someone else could’ve rolled around in his scent and—

Seonghwa ripped his eyes away before they could say any more. 

“Like what you see?”

Seonghwa turned, startled. 

Hongjoong was watching him from the desk, arms crossed, leaned back with that stupid smug look on his face he always wore. 

“Fuck off.” Seonghwa rolled his eyes, though his burning ears were too hard to hide. 

“You’re a slob,” he continued, clearing his throat—hoping that was reason enough to excuse his staring.

But Hongjoong just snorted. “Please.”

They hovered around each other, caught between an old tension and a new. It crept into the room like a weary animal. And Seonghwa couldn’t stop his mind from drifting back, over and over—to the soccer field. To Hongjoong’s arms, tight around him. To the party. To his hand on his hip as the candles snuffed out. 

Seonghwa's feet moved. 

He wandered closer, gesturing at the guitar. “You play?”

Hongjoong glanced over his shoulder like he’d forgotten what was there, then shrugged. “Nah. It was my dad’s. He was a musician.”

“Was?” Seonghwa picked up a pen from the desk, fiddling with it. 

Red—the one Hongjoong always used to grade papers. Seonghwa traced the smooth barrel, lining his fingers up with where he’d seen Hongjoong’s press.

There was a small pause before Hongjoong let out an amused huff through his nose.

“Yeah,” he whispered, words framed by a soft smile—soft enough to make Seonghwa lift his head.

“What?” he asked, confused. But the way Hongjoong was looking at him made all his follow-up questions fall short. 

“What?” he repeated, quieter. 

Hongjoong’s hand extended as he spoke.

“He passed away,” he said simply, sliding the pen from Seonghwa’s fingers like it was intruding—before returning it to its home. 

Seonghwa froze.

He didn’t know. 

He didn’t—how could he have? He shouldn’t have asked. 

But there was no sadness in Hongjoong’s voice. Just something distant. Fond. Like an old Polaroid—well-loved, and well-worn.

Still, the taste of it settled at the back of Seonghwa’s throat. A bitterness. The kind that reminded him of cold marble floors and a bathtub he never went near.

“It’s okay, puppy,” Hongjoong laughed, as if he could smell the shift. He leaned in just a little, eyes glimmering. “It was a long time ago. Plus—” he nodded to the guitar, “I fucking suck. Like— really bad.”

That earned him a small huff.

“My old man is probably turning in his grave over it, but—” Hongjoong shrugged toward the books, “I have other talents, I guess.”

“Sure,” Seonghwa scoffed.

And somehow, without noticing how it happened, they were pressed up against each other. Close. Very close. Seonghwa could feel the heat of Hongjoong’s legs framing his hips—still seated. Still watching him with something unreadable.

“I don’t think being a nerd counts as a talent,” Seonghwa mumbled, reaching for Hongjoong’s glasses.

Hongjoong didn’t flinch. Just watched with eyes that were tender and knowing. Studied him. Traced his every detail.

Seonghwa tried the frames. The world blurred out of focus. 

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You’re practically blind. That’s embarrassing.”

The glasses were still warm from Hongjoong’s skin. Seonghwa adjusted them, pulse hammering for reasons that had nothing to do with vision.

“What kind of alpha needs glasses?” he snorted. But it was so weak, he was embarrassed before it even left his mouth.

Silence followed.

Heavy. Loaded.

Hongjoong stared right through him—right through his lame attempt to cut his own nerves. Through his shitty excuse to be within an arm’s length of what he really wanted to reach out and grab.

“The kind that studied in the dark for sixteen years.” Hongjoong smirked. 

Seonghwa couldn’t even come up with a response.

Instead, he just stood there—dumb—words caught in his throat, too hard to swallow. Silent and bracing as Hongjoong carefully lifted the glasses off his nose.

But he didn’t put them back on.

No.

He folded them. Set them aside. 

All with an excruciating slowness that made Seonghwa’s cheeks burn.

And when Hongjoong looked up again—he forgot how to breathe altogether.

Without glasses, Hongjoong’s face was sharper. His gaze, exposed. There was nothing to shield Seonghwa from the weight of it.

And it hit him like gravity. Like a blow.

“Seonghwa.” Hongjoong barely spoke. Seonghwa’s name was all air as it rolled off his tongue. Delicate and hardly there, like dusk kissing someone’s fingertips.

Hongjoong’s hand grazed Seonghwa’s knuckles.

Not pulling. Not demanding. Just… can I have this?

Seonghwa’s throat closed.

He wasn’t used to being asked. Not like this. Not with such care. Not with such patience.

Usually, people just expected him to take. Or expected him to give.

But Hongjoong…

His hand barely touched. Like he was afraid to press.

He was offering something. Something terrifying. Something intimate. A kind of gentleness Seonghwa didn’t know existed—not for him. Not anymore.

Something that could break him.

You don’t have to give it to me , Hongjoong’s touch said. But if you want to—I’ll take care of it.

He left a space. A line between them. One Seonghwa would have to choose to cross. 

A line that meant giving up the one thing he’d clung to his entire life: control. 

And that was… horrifying . 

Because he couldn’t run. He couldn’t hide. 

He could only look Hongjoong in the eyes—and realize, maybe for the first time, how exhausted he was.

How badly he wanted to stop being the one who decided it all, who made it all possible. 

His instincts had already crossed the line. His scent had already shifted. He didn’t know when. Or how. 

Only that it was happening. 

That he was unraveling—not with violence. Not with something he was used to. But with something unpredictable and alien and awful: a soft, sinking sigh.

What if I can’t go back? What if I want more? What if I let him take it—and I like it too much? What if I—?

Hongjoong leaned closer. His breath brushed the corner of Seonghwa’s mouth.

Then he paused. 

Perfectly still. 

Nothing but a tiny choice left between them. Heavy and inviting. Waiting for Seonghwa's decision.

“We can stop—” Hongjoong whispered.

“I know,” Seonghwa cut in—too fast. Too sharp.

He winced at his own tone. At the fact that he was already closing the distance despite every fight he’d put up.

His fingers twitched—then curled around Hongjoong’s. 

Shaking and weak. But closing anyway.

Their hands interlocked. And Seonghwa’s heart spiked like it could burst through his chest.

He wanted this.

Their noses brushed.

Hongjoong’s scent flared, thick and calm, blooming at the base of Seonghwa’s skull. Coaxing. Like the hand holding his. Like the lips drawing closer. 

It wrapped around him like steam. Hot. Heavy. Soaked. It made his knees feel untrustworthy and his breath catch in a choke. It seeped deep into his bones—into places he didn’t even know had been empty and cold. 

He shouldn’t want this.

Shouldn’t be repeating the same mistake.

He should’ve stopped. Should’ve stepped away.  

But he didn’t.

“Hongjoong-ah—” His voice cracked. Because a part of him had broken. A part of him was barely holding on by a thread. 

“Hey,” Hongjoong whispered, soothing and low. His thumb stroked over Seonghwa’s knuckles. “I got you. Remember?”

That same voice from the field. That same strength that held him.

Seonghwa’s throat bobbed.

I got you.

Hongjoong wouldn’t let him fall.

Then—

His eyes fluttered closed.

Hongjoong’s lips touched his. Just barely. A ghost of contact—more a question than anything. 

And Seonghwa’s breath hitched. His whole body leaned into it. His lips parted without a thought, chasing more—like the answer had already been decided.

Pull away. Laugh it off. Pretend it doesn’t matter. 

But now no part of him listened. 

He didn’t fight. Didn’t argue. Didn’t move. 

He just let it happen. Let Hongjoong kiss him like it’s where he belonged.

And shuddered—as if it had stolen everything vital.

He’d been kissed before—too many times to count. But never like this. Never so slow, so consuming. So overwhelmingly gentle.

Hongjoong tilted his face, guiding him deeper—one hand coming up so a thumb could brush the curve of his jaw. So a palm could cradle the back of his neck. So fingers could thread into the hair behind his ear.

The other found his waist, pulling him into the space between Hongjoong’s knees. Squeezing just enough to remind him: Don’t run from this.  

And when their mouths fully met—flush and full—Seonghwa’s lips tingled. The pressure made his head light. Made his scent turn sticky and docile.

The kiss deepened.

Hongjoong kissed like he had all the time in the world. With patience, with hunger disguised as restraint. Not rushed. Not commanding. Just a steady press—firm lips moving with Seonghwa's. A tongue that nudged the seam of his mouth, soft and decadent. A scent that coiled around his ribs and pulled.

A breathy moan caught in Seonghwa’s throat. It slipped out before he could stop it. And Hongjoong— fuck —Hongjoong just smiled against his mouth. Like fucking perfection. Like he wanted nothing more than to turn Seonghwa inside-out.

He licked into Seonghwa—smooth, slow, savoring. The slide of their tongues was wet and quiet, intimate in a way that made Seonghwa’s stomach clench and hips tremble forward.

His hands drifted blindly to Hongjoong’s chest, clenching the soft cotton of his t-shirt.

Every part of him burned. He could feel the heat blossoming down his neck, across his stomach, curling low. Every sweep of Hongjoong’s tongue felt deeper. Every breath between them, like fire.

Time bent around it. Seonghwa didn’t know if he was still breathing. Didn’t care.

All he knew was this—this dizzy, awful, beautiful thing between them.

Hongjoong’s lips trailed briefly—just for a second—to the corner of Seonghwa’s mouth, pressing there like a promise. Then he sealed their mouths again—tender but strong. His tongue curled under Seonghwa’s, drawing another broken whimper from his chest.

And Seonghwa gave it.

Because he couldn’t stop—not when Hongjoong’s hands held him like a prized possession. Not when he was so close to something irrevocable.

No one had ever kissed him like this. No one had ever touched him like he was fragile and invincible all at once. 

No one had ever made him feel he didn’t need to be anything more. Like he was worthy of being worshipped—without having to earn it. 

No one had ever—

Not in his entire life—

Made him feel the way Hongjoong made him feel.

Like he could let go.

Chapter Text

Hongjoong was smirking. 

Not an ounce of shame. Not a trace of guilt. Just utter smugness. As if he was reading every one of Seonghwa’s very private, very pornographic thoughts—and basking in them like a glorious game of I-told-you-so . 

Seonghwa’s eyes darted away, ears flaming bright red. Shut up, shut up, shut up—

But Hongjoong’s hand stayed on the back of his neck, keeping him locked in place. 

There was nowhere for him to go. He couldn’t run, couldn’t hide—couldn’t even put together a single thought that didn’t end with Hongjoong inside of him somehow. And he definitely couldn’t run from the fact that he was panting like a dog, his lips slick, swollen, and pink from a kiss he enjoyed a little too much. Nor could he hide from the fact that Hongjoong’s thumb, brushing mindlessly against the corner of his jaw, was driving him fucking mad . 

“You didn’t stop me—”

“You didn’t give me much of an option, dickhead,” Seonghwa snapped. It sounded far less convincing than he’d hoped, his voice cut thin from the lack of oxygen. 

And from the blood evacuating his brain to rush south. Because— of course it did . Of course it had to betray him. Just like every other part of his body apparently. 

Hongjoong’s smirk morphed into something far more infuriating then. 

The corners of his mouth pulled down in a mock-pout, eyebrows knitting together in what failed to be concern—all while his thumb continued its unbearably tender and maddening assault on Seonghwa’s brain. 

If you don’t stop fucking touching me like that—fuck. I swear to God—

“Aw,” Hongjoong cooed—no real sympathy found. Just an obvious, self-satisfied edge he used to rub in Seonghwa’s face. “Poor thing. So helpless when someone's nice to you.”

“I hate you.”

“You’re still holding my hand.”

Seonghwa’s head jerked down.

What? No? Not possible. 

Yet, lo and behold, Seonghwa was staring at their cupped hands like a spectacle. 

He didn’t even know when that could have happened. 

One minute he was gripping the front of Hongjoong’s shirt for dear life—and the next, he was finger-locked with him like they were a couple of sweethearts.

Seonghwa ripped his hand away. Fast—way too fast. Obvious as hell that he was flustered after a single kiss. 

And Hongjoong just grinned.

Nothing about it brought Seonghwa any comfort though. 

No, the space between them as Hongjoong stepped away felt like a ploy. Like a chasm. Like Hongjoong could already tell what Seonghwa would do next. And Seonghwa fucking knew the bastard was right—he was always right. He had a sick, sadistic sixth sense for watching Seonghwa embarrass himself.  

He bit at his lip, sending nervous glances toward Hongjoong as he sank down onto the edge of his own bed. The sight alone undid something in him. 

Hongjoong. 

Hongjoong. Bed. 

Hongjoong’s slow, confident movements. The way he leaned back, legs spread—waiting.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Even the air smelled like sex—Seonghwa’s scent, downright feral and sweet; Hongjoong’s, thick and cocky. 

Hongjoong let his gaze linger a little too long, flitting over Seonghwa’s body as if it were an art piece in a gallery—leisurely, just admiring. And Seonghwa’s immediate reaction—was to tuck his chin and fawn . To look so enticing, no alpha could ever deny him. 

What the fuck?

No. No—it wasn’t possible. 

But he couldn’t stop. 

He was already batting his eyelashes like some pretty fucking girl. 

All logic had gone out the window. His pride? Who even knew where that was anymore. Instead, some part of his brain screamed at him to do something—anything—to get Hongjoong’s attention: Choose me. Pick me, Alpha. I can be good.

And it wouldn’t shut up.

He didn’t even know when he’d learned to do that, but he had. Like muscle memory—resorting to acting out every little thing omegas usually did for him. But on a much more desperate and pathetic level. Hiding his canines, tilting his head. Exposing the soft vulnerable spot at the side of his neck. Harmless. Open—innocent for Alpha. 

So fucking easy —and he was doing it for Hongjoong . 

Fuck—really?

For a split second, Seonghwa’s pride flared. A sharp, stubborn scoff burst from his throat.

Was he really doing this right now? Fluttering his eyelashes and twirling his hair? Attempting to seduce an alpha all for a little attention—

“Puppy.”

Yep. 

Yes he was.

Seonghwa could not have raised his head any slower. Hesitant and coy, like making direct eye contact with Hongjoong would cause him to burst into flames. (He was half-convinced it would.)

“Hm?” he asked, playing dumb. 

Playing? He sounded fucking stupid. 

‘Hm?’ That’s the best you could come up with? Real smooth, Seonghwa. Why don’t you just roll over and bark while you’re at you, you dumb mutt?

Why was it so impossible to be normal around Hongjoong? Why couldn’t he just rip Hongjoong’s clothes off and demand everything he wanted as usual? But even the thought of doing that made his cheeks turn so red, he wanted to disappear. 

Worse—Hongjoong was watching him.

Like a hawk. 

The way the alpha released a slow, controlled breath through his nose could have put Seonghwa through the floor. His eyes were glued to him—still inviting and warm, sure. But behind them was something primal. Something dark. Something that said Hongjoong was very much aware of everything Seonghwa was doing, and he very much liked it. 

Holy shit.  

Seonghwa burned like a tea kettle. The kind that screamed at an ear-shattering volume, nearly ready to explode. 

What the actual fuck was wrong with him? Why was he offering himself up like a five course meal? Silver platter—here you go. Alpha à la crème. Eat up, Hongjoong. 

He could feel himself practically trembling with want, thighs threatening to spread just from being looked at too long. Every nerve screamed take me , even as his mind shrieked shut up, shut it down, hide, run. 

He actually wanted to beg. Beg for it. Like some scent-drunk omega.  

That realization alone should've killed him with shame.

But it didn’t.

It just made him want it more .

“Come here please.” 

Fuck.

Hongjoong’s voice was every bit as irresistible as it was the first time around. He maintained that same quiet, tender timbre—but below it was crackling wood, taut leather, and rough gravel. Strain . The one Seonghwa had grown to memorize. From the library. From the locker room. From the field.

Hongjoong was fighting with himself. Holding back. So close to caving in and snapping that Seonghwa could actually feel the restraint physically slipping between them. 

And that was too fucking tempting to leave alone.  

His knee-jerk reaction was to bark something bratty: Fuck no. Don’t tell me what to do. Make me— just to see how far he could push Hongjoong. Just to earn back some power and assert himself. 

But no words came out. None. 

Only the sticky sweet bloom of his scent like he was trying to drown the room in jasmine.

Only that awful, stupid urge to crawl into Hongjoong’s lap and nuzzle until the world stopped spinning.

Seonghwa blinked. Swallowed. Stalled .

But Hongjoong wasn’t fucking having it. His stare only hardened. His eyebrow arched.

And the instant his hand lifted, Seonghwa knew how this would go. 

It wasn’t a request. Hongjoong might have said please, but it was out of courtesy and respect—nothing more.

This? This was a command. 

And Seonghwa—so help him, God—was about to die under it.

Humiliated, he shuffled forward. Every step toward the bed felt like stepping off a ledge. His palms broke out in a clammy sweat. His knees knocked together— no, stop. Don’t. Stop fucking shaking. Could you be any more obvious?

He knew what came next. He’d been on the receiving end plenty of times—too many times to count. And now those moments were haunting him. Flashes of horror: pushing someone’s head down, wet gagging sounds, his headboard slamming dent after dent into the wall.

Fuck—he should really start giving omegas more credit. Because Hongjoong looked like he wanted to eat him for real, and it was every bit as scary as staring down a loaded gun. 

He really tried to keep some dignity. Tried to glare. But when Hongjoong’s hand wrapped around his wrist, that all poofed into thin air. Hongjoong had to simply tug, and Seonghwa went without protest.

He stumbled a little—off balance and off guard like a dainty princess being swept off her feet—and ended up right between Hongjoong’s knees.

Tucking his chin no longer helped. His hair no longer hid anything. Hongjoong could see every fine detail of his embarrassment in HD— but he wasn’t even looking at him anymore.

Instead, the alpha’s gaze had dropped to where his thumb traced dizzying shapes over Seonghwa’s scent gland. Back and forth, over and over.

And Seonghwa could have reeled back and punched himself for the thoughts he was having. More, more. More, please—

The contact was featherlight. Touching Seonghwa in that same maddening way—like he was too delicate to handle carelessly. Yet, somehow, each brush lit a slow throb low in his belly.

He could hear his own breaths in the room—growing quicker, sharper, more needy. The longer Hongjoong’s skin dragged against his own, the hotter it got.

His entire body betrayed him—his thighs pressed and held, heart kicking up a notch as a pitiful sound gathered at the back of his throat. He hated it—hated every aspect of it.

But most of all—he hated the way Hongjoong looked at him. Like there wasn’t a part of him that wasn’t sacred. Like he was worshipping Seonghwa’s every inch. Like Seonghwa was something to be wanted.

And he hated that he was prepared to give anything for it.

Only when Hongjoong’s touch became insufferable, and Seonghwa was certain he was going to do something he regretted at any instant—did Hongjoong’s hand disappear.

Seonghwa’s stomach dropped. 

What?! Why?

It felt like the air had been ripped from his lungs. And suddenly all his reservations turned into the frantic need to take them back.

Please—no! Please keep touching me, Alpha. I didn’t mean it. I want it! Please.

His mouth opened to protest—to beg. But before he could get the words out, Hongjoong’s hands were back on him—one at his hip, one behind his knee—gripping firmly.

And he yanked.

Seonghwa gasped as his weight shifted out from under him. 

He tumbled forward.

And just like that, he was in Hongjoong’s lap—straddling him. Body to body. His thighs on either side. His cock squirming where it pressed against denim.

“Fucking—” he cried, face beat red, hands flying to Hongjoong’s shoulders for balance. “You—!”

“What?” Hongjoong asked. He was doing that fake pouty bullshit again, acting as if he was innocent—all while his palms smoothed up Seonghwa’s waist like he owned it. “I’m just sitting.”

He was not just sitting! “You’re insane!”

“And you’re on top of me.”

“That’s not—”

Hongjoong’s voice dropped, silky and dark—and Seonghwa felt something hot burst inside him at the sound. “Your pupils are blown, baby.”

Fuck.

His mouth hinged. Opened, then closed again.

He didn’t have an excuse. 

But apparently he didn’t need one, because Hongjoong took his silence as a win and immediately slipped his hand into the hair at the base of Seonghwa’s head. 

Whatever excuse Seonghwa might have managed, died right there and then.

Hongjoong’s fist closed. 

His fingers twisted close to the root, and he squeezed. 

Hard . 

A zap cracked through Seonghwa’s body—electric shock.

He jerked. His eyes flew wide as bursts of white ignited behind them. His fingers buzzed like they were shoved into light sockets, goosebumps erupting everywhere like a shower of sparks. 

Snap! Crack! Boom!

Then a wash of pure pleasure .

Seonghwa melted like candle wax.

Every muscle in him went slack.

He wobbled slightly, but Hongjoong was already there to hold him up, strong hands cradling his head and lower back. A thick, syrupy warmth poured down his spine, all the tension dissipating from his bones, loosening him from the center outward. His whole body felt like it had just exhaled for the first time in months.

“ Oh ,” he moaned. He couldn’t even stop the sound before it escaped, too surprised by the heavy feeling oozing through his limbs. 

It felt good .

His head sagged back into Hongjoong’s palm like that was the only place for it.

Ffffffuck…

“Ooo,” Hongjoong breathed against his neck, promptly scenting him. “Did that feel good, puppy? You just went so limp.”

Seonghwa could only answer in deep, sluggish breaths.

Good didn’t cover it. More than good. He felt euphoric .

Like his whole brain had been wiped clean. Like every thought had been replaced with the smoky, singed imprint of Hongjoong’s voice and scent and hold: Alpha. Alpha would take care of him—make him feel good.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been scruffed—maybe not since childhood. And it definitely didn’t feel like this. That had been punishment. 

This? This was something else, something he had never experienced before. 

Because an omega wouldn’t dare to scruff him. Not during sex—not ever. Not even as a joke.

But Hongjoong had done it twice already. 

And it was… 

Seonghwa’s lips parted.

It was so good.

His thighs twitched, cock flexing greedily against his pants. 

Sizzling and sensual—it was the kind of touch that shattered him from within and left his body glowing.

Bliss. 

A reward.

And he wanted more. So much more.

Chapter Text

Seonghwa released a soft, breathy sound as his head lolled forward in search of Hongjoong’s.

He couldn’t formulate words—couldn’t control his body well enough to get where he wanted to go. But Hongjoong was right there, his gentle fingers cupping his jaw to guide him in close.  

Their lips met, and it was so much heavier than before. Deep and slow. Hungrier now, more demanding. Hongjoong pressed harder—no less careful, but undeniably possessive. Undeniably in control. Like he was memorizing how Seonghwa reacted under his every touch.

And Seonghwa opened for him like a flower, lips parting willingly, helplessly—and Hongjoong took it.

Their mouths slid together, tongues brushing, testing. Wet and warm and intentional. A slow, filthy drag that had Seonghwa wrapping his arms around Hongjoong like he wanted to be held. 

And Hongjoong groaned into him.

It was so low, Seonghwa barely heard it—like he hadn’t meant to let it slip.

But the very fact that it sounded so raw left Seonghwa aching and trembling. It rang through his body, settling deep, then deeper, until a coil drew tight behind his navel. 

The sound alone nearly made him rut forward, like his body recognized hunger and wanted to feed it. 

Hongjoong wanted him. Hongjoong wanted him badly—badly enough to let himself trip.

And Seonghwa couldn’t stop what that did to him. He whined pathetically, muffled against Hongjoong’s mouth as he tried to keep up.

It was all too much and somehow not enough. 

He didn’t know how to kiss like this.

Didn’t know how to be kissed like this.

Like he’d give his last breath for it and let Hongjoong take it. 

But Hongjoong didn’t take—he only gave, shifting to bring Seonghwa closer until their chests touched. Heat to heat, heartbeat to heartbeat. And Seonghwa felt it then: how hard he was breathing, how fast his heart was beating, how out of his depth he’d become.

Hongjoong’s mouth curled in a slow grin.

“See?” he murmured, lips brushing. “You like me.”

“I don’t ,” Seonghwa slurred back reflexively—because he’d said it so often, it now meant something else. His head was nodding even while his mouth was lying, chest pressing closer like it couldn’t stand the distance that didn’t exist between them. 

But when Hongjoong’s hands ran down his sides again, there was no denying how much he liked it. They didn’t wander or grope—just touched. Feeling him. Reminding him with the softest strokes that if he really didn’t like it, they could stop.

He never, ever wanted them to stop.