#I need to come up with a name for this universe

[gldrushh]

MY KINK IS KARMA | | KTH (m)

"Your boyfriend is wimpish, toothsome when he needs to be, self-sacrificing and you would've liked a hero to spend a breezy simple life with but proves to be he's not everything he excuses himself as, proves that he's selling down the river. His boss, whereas, is none of these things but worse, in a compelling-compelling way."

➵ PAIRING Idol!Taehyung x fem!reader

➵ GENRE Idol au, enemies to lovers (?), boy obssesed, smut

➵ W.C 50k (this was supposed to be pure porn sigh..)

➵ WARNINGS kim taehyung or he who shall not be named (yes he's a warning), loser boyfriend, neglecting, oc gets stood up multiple times, consuming alcohol, lots of it, loser boyfriend is taehyung’s manager, oc hates his ass, like unadulterated loathing,murder fantasies,he's chill and smug like that, also obssesed,mature language, chaotic girl group, jk pulls a jackson wang, the whole gang is here, fangirling, yoongi is short :p,mentions of throwing up, mentions of cheating, crying, slow build up, sexual tension, banter, obsessed! taehyung, smoking, sharing a cigarette, buff! tae, flirting, tae speaks french, props to his duolingo membership <3, revenge scheme, oc is out to get, explicit content, dirty talking, brat oc, brat tamer tae ayee, lil spanking here and there, praise kink, size difference, fingering,cum tasting, finger sucking, edging, oral (f! Receiving), face riding, multiple orgasms, dom!tae, mirror sex, he likes to make her watch, big dick! Tae, penetrative sex, protected sex, and that's a wrap I think :D

➵ A/N: SORRY SO SORRY i promise it wasnt in my plans to ghost you!! I was going to release this one shot on the day tae and joon got back AHAHSJAHS but I got a little shy about this fic and I still kinda am. Now about this fic, I didn’t used to a big fan of idol aus, maybe because I thought there wasn't much artistic freedom in that universe but guess what? There's free fucking will and I used it to make this big self indulgent baby 😼😼 probably should have added that as a warning because it's self gratifying as it gets girls 😔🙏 writing some parts of it made me really think twice about posting it or not because it's certainly not the work I could be proud off or something that reaches up to a caliber I have set up in my self loathing mind but it also made me giggle OH did it 🤭😜 like trust me when I say I had to take a minute to myself whenever it came to writing Taehyung’s dialouge or his mannerisms. That's a man OBSSESED and it may not come across in big neon letters because I love me some subtle infatuation and I really really hope I did the trope justice. Speaking of tropes, I know I tagged this as enemies to lovers but it's mostly one sided hatred so don't come at me for that and please don't take it too seriously haha <3 the last section is unedited becuz i'd literally jump of a clif if I have to edit any more 😓💗 love you, have a good time reading and pls tell me what did you think of it?? Should I be making more of this vibe? Feedback is always always appreciated!!

| MASTERLIST | WATTPAD | AO3 |

Wax is made of organic compounds you wouldn't be able to name with a gun to your head but what you would tell was that, it also contained your wearing patience that made a mocking sound with every drip: the candle had burned halfway down, and he still wasn’t there.

You didn’t need to check the shining silver wrapped around your wrist. Your wineglass had already gathered precipitation twice over, the bottom of the flute damp with waiting. The feiriness of the flame casted shadows against the wineglass, all rippled red and wet. It almost looks romantic. If someone were sitting across from you. If he were sitting across from you. The waiter had stopped pretending not to notice and now gave you the kind of pitiful glances reserved for women with romantic delusions or no sense of time.

But you had time. That was the whole point of tonight.

The above-named waiter had smiled like he was in on something private when he lit the match and said, “Celebrating?” And you’d smiled back, a little flustered, and said, Yeah. I guess I am.

You don’t feel like celebrating now.

You swirl the warm wine in your hands that you don't even like anyway, but you make a face that looks like you’re on the verge of tasting something rich, something worth all this waiting, when in truth it’s a defense mechanism of some sort. Something to do with your hands that should have been held and kissed. Too dry. You judge ruefully. You only picked it because he likes it.

Even when it's supposed to be about you. Tonight is about you. A rare, like rare-rare personal triumph that came in the form of an offer letter with your name printed in ink that precieved graver than it should. It will the inception of a title bump. A salary hike that would finally fill the remaining fifteen percent of a jar you had named: trip to greece. A right set of circumstances you had earned after weeks of late nights, caffeine abuse, and grinding until your bones felt hollow. You’d spent the whole morning grinning into your toothbrush, rehearsing the announcement. The breed of joy you can’t help but choreograph when it was about a milestone as big as that after you’d finally closed that deal. Got your name attached to something worth bragging about. He said you’d celebrate. Said he’d be there to toast to your achievement with the same kind of urgency he reserved for phone calls from idols. Even picked the place — God, he picked the place.

But now you’re sitting in it alone, dodging glances and wondering if you should’ve worn something less “I’m someone’s girlfriend” and more “I’m the whole fucking meal.”

Because while you may feel like a whole meal most of the times. It's a very casual number of times you feel like a girlfriend. What isn't a casual number is when you check your phone and it flashes right back at you. 8:37 PM.

He was forty minutes late.

And you could swear you had checked your phone fifty times in that length, even had memorized what you saw in the fifty times, you did: one new email with zero new messages. No calls. Your phone’s screen is a galaxy of just unanswered calls. Four, five, six if you count the one that went straight to voicemail.

You don’t, but you remember the sound. The robotic please try again later feels more honest than he’s been in days.

You try again because someone has to do the trying after all.

Calling: Hajoonie 🩷🩷

Ring. Ring. It drones again and again and again.. You tap on the angry red button with force more than needed because if you'd have to hear to that sound any more, you'd spare yourself of the theatrics and just smash it on the ground of this expensive restaurant.

You focus on what's in front of you, rather than what's not. Check the menu even though you’ve already ordered, the way people do when they’re trying not to look lonely. You fiddle with the edge of your napkin, press the clean one over your phone screen, a random thing, really, but that's what dolorous people do when they are trying not to look dolorous.

Theres a twinkle of panic when you start to run out of them, after counting the petals of the rose flower, situated in a vase, as expensive as the nails you got done. Should you do a re-over? Maybe you will get a different number than thirty two this time. Maybe you didn’t got it right the first time? You're just about to, when your phone buzzes, once.

Finally. You were two minutes away from someone tearing up over how pathetic you look.

You hold it in your hands, gentler this time, with more care, and when you read the caller id, your heart jolts, thought it's not in the way when he first said said the l word to you, or when he got you the purse you've been eyeing with hopeless eyes from his first paycheck. Not in the least, actually, it's

not any kind of relief- recognition, mayhap. Comes after a stable three year love affair. More like the way you feel when your foot misses a step but your brain already knew it would.

You snap it up. “Where the hell are you, Joon?”

"Y/N, I— God, I’m so sorry," he exhaled, the background noise already too loud, a obtuse, chaotic bustle you knew too well. "Something came up with the boys— with Taehyung. I swear I tried to get out of it, but it's really important, I—"

Your perfectly manicured red nails dig into the soft fabric of the napkin. “What?”

"He—uh, it’s kind of urgent. I have to be there.”

Your eyes shut slowly, lashes trembling. “Are you serious right now?” you whispered, voice razor-sharp despite the volume. “You promised. You looked me in the eye this morning and promised you’d be here.”

“I know, I did, and I meant it,” he babbled. “But I—I’m so fucking sorry, babe, they really need me. It’s not a normal night. there’s a situation with the sound tech, and he’s panicking, and— It's a whole thing."

A whole thing.

You want to laugh. You almost do. But it comes out as a sharp exhale instead, as you open your eyes and look around the restaurant. You view as a paranoia mode of a camera would: The couples toasting. The waiter avoiding your table. The candle welling wax made up of your ended endurance, putting up the act of as if it’s weeping for you.

You lean back in the chair, press your fingers to your temple. “Of course. Of fucking course it is.”

“Babe, please don’t be like that. I wanted to be there. You know I did.”

You’re about to bite back, when exactly did you stop being a priority and start being a placeholder,  even if you know the answer, the exact date, heavens, when you hear what is the most aggravating sound.

"Joon-sshi."

That voice. That empty headed, unwitting, greatly vexing voice.

Deep as if a hollow well would be when you say something ridiculous for it to echo back. Leveled enough that it could iron a wrinkled shirt, hot and fast. Fucking smug because it has ever right to (or so he thinks). His voice, slicing through the call like a machete that is unapologetic about whatever comes in it's way. The vocal equivalent of an expensive whiskey poured over a fire nobody asked to be set.

It pearls casual bidding, cushioned but sharp, sharp enough that it doesn’t ask for diligence. It assumes it like a ceo expecting standing ovation just because he entered the room. You hear it in variety shows, in fan compilations, in your hallway on rushed mornings when you’re trying to get a goodbye kiss and he’s halfway down the stairs already while you were busy tying your shoes and praying for a civil goodbye.

You knew it so well that you didn’t even need to see his face to imagine the annoyance etched into it. The burnished voice that was built to be beautiful and custom made just to madden you in the same breath belonged to one man and one man only, Kim Stupid Taehyung. A name that boiled your blood. A man that spiked your nerves as if you had swallowed down a live wire.

“Seriously? I told you I need that list now. We’re behind.”

And just like that, your boyfriend’s voice is smaller. Scrambled, submissive in that way he only ever got around him. “Shit—he’s calling. I’ll text you later, okay? I’m so sorry—please don’t be mad.”

Something bitter amplified in your mouth. And it's not the wine anymore. It has never been the wine.

You don’t get the chance to say anything. You couldn’t if you wanted to. If you would have opened your mouth, you would have screamed. Something like "You and your Kim Taehyung can go choke on his tech list!"

Heat crawled up your throat, all the way to your temples. People around you blurred as your thoughts tunneled into a familiar black hole.

Kim Taehyung.

Of course.

It was always Kim Taehyung.

You hate Kim Taehyung.

There’s no real logic to it, not when you’re being honest with yourself. But there it is, this raw little wound that carried a little infection with and turned it into something worse.You don’t hate him because he’s famous.You don’t hate him because he’s talented, or loud or has enough money to make it up for it and more.

You don’t know him enough for that, not really, never seen him person or had his gnawing charisma touch you through a distance even, you only know his voice; that empty headed, unwitting, greatly vexing voice. Prechance his schedule too for godsake. How he needed too many people to straighten his tie, hold his venti iced caramel macchiato, but made with oat milk instead of regular milk, added an extra shot of espresso for that kick and drizzle some extra caramel on top. And not to forget, a pump of vanilla syrup blended in with ice held down to keep it from getting too watered down. He probably needed your boyfriend for that too. He needed him for many things, always at his beck and call because that’s what this job is about, isn't it? Passionate art requires finding the vibe and running after it, at even four in the morning apparently. The endless excuses gone round and round his name like satellites. Passionate art, your ass. You hate him with the kind of bitterness that has layers: resentment stacked on frustration stacked on exhaustion. You hate the way he takes up space in your life without ever having to be in the room.

He had this way of swallowing Hajoon’s time like it belonged to him. Ever since your boyfriend became Kim Taehyung’s manager, you'd been in a three-person relationship, except the third wheel was a global superstar with a schedule more sacred than God’s while you're just another fleeting name in the schedule that gets crossed out in red ink.

This wasn’t the first time that had happened. Not even the tenth (you're keeping count). It was just the latest and every single number that adds up, also adds to your loathing.

You could still remember last spring, standing outside a theatre in the rain, makeup running and heels killing you, only to get a last-minute text: “Taehyung’s rehearsal ran late. So sorry. Tomorrow?”

Or the time he’d invited your boyfriend on a “quick trip” to Jeju for a shoot that turned into a five-day disappearance — radio silent that included no texts, no calls of even informing you whether he's dead or alive. And when they’d finally returned, he said that Taehyung had said that time flies when you're working. You’ve listened to him make excuses in every register of apology, from bashful to exhausted to just plain numb.

And now, here you are. Sitting alone in a restaurant with his favorite wine and cold fries.

You close your eyes. You breathe once, twice. Your phone is still in your hand, thumb ghosting over the last call.You don’t even consider reasoning or finishing the fries, only lift a hand to signal for the check.

Because you’re done.

You’re done letting this job, this man, this life play second fiddle to someone else’s. Especially his. Not tonight. Fuck that.

As the waiter walks off, polite and wordless, you pull your phone back up and open the group chat: Witches Who Wine, a name born in blood pact and bottomless mimosas. You’d earlier declined. The one that’s been buzzing with drunken selfies and glitter emojis since seven.

Earlier, you sent a regretful “Raincheck, girls. Girlfriend duties.”

It had felt responsible at the time. Sweet, even. Embracing that you were choosing stability over chaos, embracing you were the kind of woman who got celebrated over dinner and candlelight by a man who couldn’t stop looking at her.

Now, you typed:

“Hajoon bailed. Plans back on. Where are we drinking, ladies??"

The replies came fast like an avalanche.

[LARA]: WHAT?! HE BAILED?

[JIA]: noooooo. again???

[SAFIYA]: girl drop his ass we have shots lined up and glitter everywhere

[LARA]: WHERE IS HE I JUST WANNA TALK. with my fists.

[JIA]: You told him it was your celebration night, right?? You reminded him??

You blink at that last one, because, yes. Of course you did. You reminded him last night, this morning, this afternoon when he sent you a thumbs-up emoji and a “Can’t wait, babe.”

He could at least have the decency to cancel for himself. But no.

He let the one that wears silk shirts and smirks like he knows he has a leash around your boyfriend while he watches him obey do the honors.

[JIA]: just come over. we’re already tipsy. safiya just tried to kiss the bartender.

[SAFIYA]: he flinched.

[LARA]: so did we.

Your friends, for all their dramatics, mean well. But they’ve got the wrong villain.

Your boyfriend isn’t the real problem. Well he is technically. But he’s also predictable. Spineless. Hiding his light under a bushel and sugar-mouthed and easily tugged in whatever direction the golden boy points.

[LARA]: Don’t think, just get here. We already ordered that ugly sangria you love.

[JIA]: You owe us shots too. Plural. We saved you a booth and a sparkly crown.

[LARA]: Also your tits look amazing in that brown top you were gonna wear tonight. You're wearing it, right?

[JIA]: Wait i thought it was green

[SAFIYA]: No it’s brown she wore it to my birthday and made my cousin stutter

[LARA]: EXACTLY.

You tip the last of the wine into your mouth, it still tastes like disappointment, but the buzz that follows is warm and insistent. Insistent that you go and have the time of your life.

You type:

"Yes. Yes I got the brown top on which made safiya's cousin sutter. Lipstick’s still perfect too. Be there in ten 💋"

You have friends. You have heels. You have a face that looks fantastic under bar lights. You’ll go out. You’ll drink. You’ll laugh too loudly. You’ll just dance until your muscles ache and your chest is lighter.

You are not an afterthought.

The club smells like citrus and hidrosis and possibility.

A little dictatorial perhaps, granted you smell it the moment you step in. Temperature bandaging around your knees, bass thudding in your ribs like someone knocking to be let in. Altaria is packed, bodies glittering under pulsing lights, and your friends are already halfway drunk, half-sticky with sangria and stubborn lip gloss, wedged into a booth that should only seat four.

They scream when they see you.

A harmony of “Girl!” and “Oh my god!” and “Look at you!” rings out across the booth like gospel.

Lara practically climbs over Safiya to hug you, arms flung tight around your shoulders, perfume and tequila catching in your nose. “Oh the audacity of that man-” she gasps, pulling back to stare at you like you've just announced a felony. “You look like that and he bailed?”

“Please let me key his car,” Jia adds, sliding a pink drink across the table toward you. “I’m serious. I’ll even Google how to spell something dramatic.”

Safiya wiggles a tiny plastic crown between her fingers, slipping it onto your head. “To your promotion. Raise your glass.”

You do. You have to. They clink theirs against yours, and the moment presses in, frames you in and the joint giggling, the element, the tiny sting behind your eyes that you refuse to let spill out. You don’t wanna come off as pitiful on the night where you should be anything but, when you're surrounded by glitter and noise and people who love you so loudly.It burns like validation.

And for a while, it works.

It fades and fades and fades until it works.

Pulls you into their chaos, that's just compulsory for sisterhood. And you should be unable to picture the word without mentioning the thousand attempts at blurry phone selfies just to get one aesthetic one, the dancing to decade-old pop hits, the game where you all list your worst kiss and Jia wins when she describes a guy who meowed mid-makeout. You laugh at lara’s drunken flirting with the server (he is flustered and trembling and clearly gay, not catching on the hint that she's for the girls too, which makes it even funnier).

You drink too much too fast. You’re halfway between giddy and feral, clutching a fourth drink and a fifth reason to forget.

Lara’s on your left, knee pressed against yours. She smells like oranges and expensive perfume and she’s too beautiful to be comforting but she tries anyway. Her glitter eyeliner is slightly smudged and it suits her. Jia is across from you, chewing the straw in her sangria like it personally offended her. Safiya is already halfway gone, resuming her story about how she almost hooked up with a bartender but forgot she was still wearing her Invisalign.

You tip your head back and knock back another shot. The ice clinks against your teeth like a tiny applause.

"God," you mutter, licking lime from the side of your hand, "I should’ve just come out with you from the start."

“Should’ve dumped that man two months ago,” lara says, her voice equal parts affectionate and judgmental. “Seriously. He’s like rice cakes, bland and barely functional.”

“You know,” Jia starts, leaning in like she’s revealing state secrets, “you really could just… break up with him.”

The table becomes deathly still. The music doesn't. It's some pounding club remix of a song you once loved but now just feels like a headache with a bassline.

You blink. And then something clicks loose in your jaw. It's not like it has never been suggested or your boyfriend’s name hasn't been paired with a loads of "You should leave him" but it has been a while since you had so much to drink.

“Oh my god,” you say, and it sounds like a laugh, except it’s not. “You guys don’t get it. It’s not just Joon.”

Lara raises a brow. “Please don’t say ‘it’s me.’ We know that's far from the truth and we’re not letting you do this drama tonight or ever."

You slam your shot glass down a little too hard. “It’s him." The way you say him is a snarl adorned in lipstick. "Kim stupid Taehyung."

“Ohhh,” Safiya says like she’s watching a fuse light.

Lara points up a finger like a child asking permission to speak. "I take back what I said about your boyfriend." Your brows shoot up. "That he's boring. I think him working under south Korea's pride and honor is really interesting."

Jia leans back. "Really interesting. His boss is really interesting."

Safiya stirs the ice in her glass with the straw. "Shame Hajoon never lets us meet him. Or the hotter one with dimples."

You throw your napkin at her. "His boss is cockblocking our relationship. Ending it, if anything, actually. He’s in everything. I swear he’s got some kind of sixth sense. Any time I have plans with Joon? Suddenly it’s, ‘Tae needs this, Tae’s freaking out, Tae forgot his fucking sunglasses and now we’re all gonna die.’ And Hajoon just goes like some errand boy."

“You know what it’s like?” you say, gesturing with your hands, already a little wild. “Its embarrasing. So embarrassing. It’s like dating a guy who’s secretly married to someone else. But the other person is tall, hot, famous. And so, so self important. I swear to god, he thinks the sun rises and sets on his profile.”

Jia whistles. “I mean… it is Taehyung.”

You whirl on her. “Don’t.”

She lifts her hands, placating. “Sorry. Go off.”

And oh, you do. Glass clutched like a lifeline, tiara threatening to fall off your head. Grandeur already on the floor so there's nothing left to loose.

“Everyone loves him, right? He’s so talented, he’s so artistic, he has depth, blah blah blah. Well guess what? He also has no fucking respect for boundaries. He doesn't give a shit that he has my boyfriend enslaved or maybe hypnotized. I don't know."

“He is kind of hypnotic,” lara mutters into her drink.

You turn to her sharply. You don't care that he's carved from marble and dipped in Versace. He has ruined everything. “Lara. You're supposed to be on my side."

“I am,” she grins, clinking your glass. “I just also have eyes.”

You groan, slouching down in your seat. “God. I hate him. I hate that he’s in every conversation. I hate that I know his voice better than my boyfriend’s now. I hate his stupid face and how it's everywhere and his stupid, stupid…”

You trail off, realizing your mouth is still open, mid-sentence. The girls are watching you. Smiling like they know something you don’t. Which is insulting, really. You are the wronged party here. You are the woman left alone in a restaurant with a melting candle and cold fries. You are the girlfriend with lipstick wasted on an empty seat. You are-

“…I hate him,” you finish weakly.

“Sure you do,” lara says softly, dragging a finger through the salt on the rim of her margarita. “So much that you’re obsessed.”

Your head snaps toward her. “No—what? No. No, no, no.”

Jia’s already snorting into her glass, Safiya is ducking like she’s dodging a flying object.

You glare at all of them. “It’s not that. I’m not obsessed.”

“Okay,” lara says, suspiciously agreeable, sipping slowly.

Jia leans forward on her elbows. “You said his name like twenty-three times in the last five minutes, though. I counted.”

You sputter. “It’s not—it’s not like that. I don’t want him. I want my boyfriend back. Like he was before he started working for he who I shall not name. We were good. Normal. He remembered birthdays. He texted back. We had sex that didn’t get rescheduled for a backup dancer rehearsal!”

"Your boyfriend who's only interesting because of who he works for. That’s cute,” lara says, deadpan. “But also… lies. There's no way you both are not thinking about Mr cheekbones in the bedroom. Hajoon is not enough to spice it up."

You gape. “Excuse me?"

“Just hypothetically,” Safiya chirps.

"You guys are disgusting."

“And you’re in denial,” lara says, raising her glass.

You huff, cheeks burning. It’s the alcohol, probably. Or the lights. Or the fact that there are times when you think about him. You don't count how many. It doesn't matter if you've hated him the whole time, right?

"Fine. It's more of a murder fantasy." You mutter.

"Where he has you pinned down?" Jia asks innocently. "Beause same."

You gasp, mortified. “NO. Stop it.”

They erupt in laughter, the whole booth shaking with it, and you cover your face with your hands.

This is a mistake. Coming out. Drinking. Talking about him. Because it brings your dignity to an end and to a conclusion that you don't wanna give the benefit of doubt. That Maybe they’re right. Maybe there’s a line between hate and something else, and maybe you’ve been tap dancing across it for months.

But you don’t want to think about that.

So you think about smothering him with one of his own stupid silk scarves.

And since you'd let these sadistic thoughts in, in the first place. You let them go a little wild too. Imaginably, in public too.

Smashing a pie in his face.

Yes. A cream pie. Banana, maybe. A flavor he’d probably have strong opinions about. Somewhat humiliating. A lot whole sticky. Maybe he’s in the middle of giving a Very Serious Interview, saying something about creative control or the burden of artistry or whatever poetic bullshit he spills like he invented suffering, and then BAM! Pie ik his full face.

He would blink slow with his mouth open. Meringue on his perfect lashes.

You’d stand there, triumphant, arms crossed. Maybe you’d say something cool like “This is for every fucking dinner you’ve stolen from me, you time-sucking peacock.” then walk away while never breaking eye contact because you'd want him to see and acknowledge.

Or — okay — maybe it’s more violent sometimes.

Like pushing him into a koi pond.

You don’t even know where the koi pond came from, but it’s there. Lush garden surrounds and the tranquil museum courtyard envelops. And he’s wearing something expensive — linen, probably. Designer as you and everyone else would except yet it would be something that makes everyone turn and stare, and just as he says something snide and smug, you grab him by that overpriced lapel and shove.

Right in.

He flails with a loud splash for special effects.

You feel so good in this vision. Calm. Peaceful. Like a war general watching her final enemy fall.

You desire.

It’s laundry day.

Which is to say, it’s a day off. Your day offs come in a diversity. Last Sunday...fuck you can't remember. This sunday, howbeit, smells of detergent and damp cotton and a little bit like lemon because you spilled your candle while reaching for a sock behind the couch. It's a type of array where the floor is scattered with warm, wrinkled heaps of your own productivity and you’ve convinced yourself that folding things is a spiritual exercise.

Your playlist is somewhere between defiant and nostalgic. Beyoncé yelling about self-respect, then Norah Jones gently reminding you that you are, in fact, lonely. It’s a whiplash thing.

You’re cross-legged on the floor,in your baggy home shorts, knees to chest, tugging a fitted sheet into some approximation of a square. It’s a long weekend. Or a short one. You’re not sure anymore. They all blur together.

So well that you don't even notice when the door creaks open. Or you just pretend you don’t. That you don't see him.

Hajoon. The absentee boyfriend. Today’s featured guest star in: Please Forgive Me, Baby.

He has come to embody the role, he has come prepared with flowers. Of course he has flowers. They’re not even the cheap kind this time. Tulips, you think. Or maybe he googled “I fucked up” and picked the first bouquet suggestion.

You don't get up, neither do you look up. You keep folding. Badly.

“Hey,” he says.

You hum in reply. Not a mean hum. But not a friendly one either. Something between I acknowledge your existence and say another word and I’ll cut the sleeves of your shirts in a criss-cross way.

He hovers. Shifts his weight like a nervous intern. “I’m really, really sorry,” he starts. “I know I messed up. I was an idiot. I should’ve been there.”

“But you weren’t.”

“No.”

You fold a towel like it owes you money.He comes over, kneels across from you, places a careful hand on your ankle. And you think that only if he had thought of this carefulness before, he'd here with flowers just because. But your thoughts and you, sometimes don't align, so you don’t move either.

“I should’ve picked you over—” he catches himself, clears his throat. “Over work. I just… I got caught up again. I didn’t mean to bail. Especially not that night. I know how much it meant.”

"Did you?"

He winces like it physically hurt. “Okay. You're furious. I deserved that.”

You look back at the dryer. The silence stretches like gum. He sighs.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me right now,” Hajoon says. “Just let me make it up to you.”

"And how are you gonna do that? What if it comes between your errands?"

He flinches. That’s new. Usually, he deflects. Laughs a little. This time, he just takes it.

"I'm sorry, Y/N. Please just listen to me."

You raise an eyebrow but don’t reply.

“There’s… there’s an event this weekend.” He shifts, awkward, like he’s not sure if this is the right time to mention it. “It’s a listening party. For the new album. Jungkook’s, you know him? The youngest one? He's hosting it at the studio loft, but it’s like..fully catered, private, some press, but mostly just close circle people. And I was invited.”

You blink at him. “Okay?”

He swallows. “With a plus one.”

You look at him, one brow raised yet again. “And you want me to be your arm candy?”

“I want you to come with me,” he says. “To celebrate something with me for once. I want to show you off. Properly.” He traces circles on your calf. "Will you let me do that, babe? Let me make up?"

Your first instinct is to say no. Out of spite. Out of principle. Because this entire idol-shaped job has eaten half your relationship and still wants dessert.

But…

You’ve never been to one of their parties before. Hell not even to his workplace. So this whole showing off thing feels flat to you. You turn this over in your head like a coin. Glint. Weight. Intent. But the rumors you've heard are tempting. Oh, they are Glamorous. Lavish. Free champagne. Rooftop views. Gold-plated hors d’oeuvres that you pretend to understand. You’re not a fan of the world — but you do like a little spectacle. You do like heels and dresses and glittering places where people look at you like you matter.

And because you’ve spent so long hearing about this world from the sidelines that part of you wants to see if it’s really as ridiculous as it sounds. Maybe sip something from a crystal glass and pretend you don’t know what it cost.

Still, you have to play it cool.

“Can my friends come?”

He blinks. “What?”

“My friends,” you repeat, looking him dead in the eye. “Lara, Jia, Safiya. I’m not going in without my pack. And they like the group. It’d be a big deal for them.”

He hesitates, like he’s not sure he has that power to pull that, but then nods. “Uh—yeah. I mean, yeah. If they’re okay with signing NDAs.”

You bite back a grin. He said yes. Of course he said yes. Guilty people, and your boyfriend was one hell of a guilty man, would scrape dirty off a three thousand square feet lawn with a spoon if the desire to purify themselves of that is strong enough.

You'd like to belive that for him, it is too when you finally look up at him, arching a brow.

“I’ll think about it.”

He sags like you just handed him oxygen.

“Still mad,” you say. But your voice is softer now. Less ice, more mossy.

“I know.”

You glance back at him, tilt your head.

“But you’re making up for it.”

His whole face brightens, like a kid who just found out the punishment’s being lifted. He doesn’t move to touch you.

“Don’t fuck it up,” you say, and toss him a clean shirt from the basket.

He catches it with a grin. You let him lean in and kiss your temple. You let it feel a little like forgiveness.

You have habitually, always been on to prefer night time over mornings. Early mornings are nice too because they closely similar to the segregation of the dark sky, where sun and moon blink at each other. Doesn’t beats the former though.

It's a flurry of neon flash, on Saturdays. Colorful star-like-lights taking over the whole of the city, on the rest of weekdays.

Tonight, it's too much. You knew it would be. You just didn’t know how much.

The elevator doors part like a curtain and you step into a room that looks less like an event and more like a fever dream manifested by someone with too much money and too little sense of restraint.

The ceiling’s strung with Edison bulbs shaped like teardrops. They flicker warm, flattering light across every sleek surface and high cheekbone. The floor’s a herringbone wood polished to a shine that threatens to reflect your thoughts if you look down too long. Exposed brick walls, brutalist furniture, and vinyl booths arranged like museum exhibits. You espy that it's a look of modern minimalism that only the rich can afford to make look careless.

It smells like vanilla, white musk, and champagne mist. If the words: luxury and aloofness and contracts had a smell, it would be this. And something underneath it all. Cologne, sweat, the heat of nerves just under the skin.

There’s no red carpet, but there may as well be.

Everyone’s dressed like they knew they’d be photographed, magical silhouettes and glittering details, statement pieces skimmed over delectable nonchalance. Too many people are wearing sunglasses indoors. There’s ambient bass threading through the room, sultry and self-assured, just like the man whose music it celebrates.

You don’t know Jungkook, but you get him from this space. From the custom scent diffusers, the soft glow of film cameras on tripods, the tray-passed hors d’oeuvres so tiny they feel like a joke.

You’re in a black slip dress that hugs just enough and what it doesn’t is draped in the denim jacket you grabbed at the last second. Your friends flank you like bodyguards, looking like different kind of unaware.

Lara’s in a blood-red two-piece with her hair slicked back, a look she went for when she was trying to get laid. Safiya’s practically see-through in a mesh blouse and sequined pants, halfway to an afterparty already. Jia’s in glitter boots and capturing every moment like she’s the official documentarian of your reckoning.

And Hajoon, dressed in a tailored jacket and that rare sheepish smile, keeps glancing at you like he’s waiting to see if this counts as absoulation or just probation.

You haven’t decided yet.

He’s been clinging to your side all night. Part guilt. Part presumption. Like he wants the whole room to see you and know you're with him. And you let him because a small, treacherous part of you likes being a prize sometimes. Especially in rooms where the stakes are stupid high and nothing is real except the flash of a camera and the clink of ice in a glass.

“Come on,” he says, fingers brushing your lower back. “Let me introduce you.”

You nod once, you'd like to meet the people who are a group of what'd you just made up in your head; sold their souls to stand in the shadow of multiple stars, (no harm meant) you can pretend. You can be charming. Just long enough.

He leads you through a maze of press assistants and studio people. A woman in chunky boots talks to a man with purple eyebrows about lighting design. Someone else passes with a tray of glasses shaped like perfume bottles.

You pass a silky curtain you’re pretty sure is hiding a private recording booth, a whole lighting rig hanging above it like a halo.

The first people you meet are benign.

“This is Chul,” he says, gesturing toward a guy in a sweater vest with half a headset tucked under his jaw. “Props coordinator. Always bailing me out when I forget which box the custom mic sleeves are in.”

Chul offers a friendly wave, eyes darting between you and the champagne like he’s calculating the weight of the room.

“And that’s Seojin,” Hajoon continues. “She handles most of the press logistics.”

Seojin is tall, thin, glossy. Her smile is tight but not unfriendly. She appraises your outfit once and seems satisfied. She doesn’t comment on your presence — merely nods at Hajoon’s introduction only becausw it's a formality. As if she already expected someone like you would appear eventually.

She turns away before you can thank her.

Next is a short man with a clipboard and hair dyed a pale green. Hajoon barely gets to say his name, Sangwoo, you think , before he’s muttering something about timing and the rental van arriving without the riser extensions.

It’s strange. The people here don’t talk the way your coworkers talk. There’s no chatter about lunch or traffic or the weekend. Everyone looks at everyone like they owe each other something, everyone talks with everyone; coded. Shorthand for a world you’re not quite part of.

Your boyfriend, though levitates like a local and you'd expect nothing else. He's a man here who knows which hands to shake and which not to, whose shoulder to touch and who to call sunbae. It’s like watching him speak another language. One he never teaches you.

There’s Minae, who runs digital content, and who immediately compliments your dress before asking if you’re single in front of your boyfriend. She’s clearly three drinks in already, her lashes tipping dangerously close to her cheeks every time she blinks. When she says that you're too pretty for this one, lara with her all too overwhelming charm slides in with an: "am I pretty too?" The rest of you resist the urge to facepalm. Minae on the other and very contrary hand, chuckles a breathless chuckle. All her focus on the brunette with stars in her eyes.

Though all of this, you too focus. On how somehow, somewhat, this isn't all too bad.

It’s flashy. Frenetic. A little unhinged in a way you kind of like. There’s too much perfume and everyone talks like they’re mid-episode on a show you haven’t watched, but you’re starting to get the monotony of it.

A little like clockwork, a sound of tick-tick you didn’t have a liking to but tolerated for the sake of peppiness of it all, spoke to you on the first date, alone. Might you add, that you had left a little bit of impression too. He couldn't speak a full coherent sentence when you saw the first time, had him stopped in his tracks and all.

So it's a suprise when hajoon does that thing again. Literally halts. Dead in his tracks.

In front of a woman whos tall- statuesque, really. That low-key brand of Gorgeous, you don't mind admitting to yourself. Sharp collarbones, sharper eyeliner, a pantsuit tailored within an inch of its life, it could've been stitched to her bones. Her lanyard reads “logistics,” but it may as well say “don’t fuck with me.” in big bold letters. Maybe it's your habit of trying to put people in a drawer that squares them in limited or weirdly specific characters (you know it's a bad one) but she has the air of a girl who once stole your charger in college and never gave it back, but made you feel like the asshole for asking. Jesus. You've got stop.

“Y/N, this is Bora." Hajoon says, voice going smooth at the edges, that press-conference tone he saves for moments when he’s trying to impress. "She runs most of our on-site coordination. Couldn’t function without her.”

Bora turns.

She smiles. With full teeth. All of them perfect. Friendly enough to pass inspection, but you’ve seen that smile before. It’s the version that lives on corporate brochures and social media bios. The smile worn by girls who never lose their temper, because they’re too busy winning and taking what they want, when they want. Her eyes catch on yours and hold.

She steps forward. Extends her hand. Her nails are immaculate — almond-shaped and the color of blush wine. You shake it out of reflex.

"Bora, this is Y/N. My girlfriend."

“Oh,” she says with a laugh, low and sugar-sweet. “So this is the girl who finally gets him to show up on time.”

Hajoon chuckles. “That’s her.” Her tone is warm and she doesn't bother laughing at her own joke. Was that a joke? Okay. Okay.

You nod, lips parting into a smile that feels functional. You don’t trust her. You don’t know why, but you don’t.

Her? You? You think it over and over again but heart flicks only once. And it tells you that it’s nothing. Hearts are trusting.

She lingers a second too long. Her eyes slide over you, not , but curiously. Like she’s trying to find the catch. The why. The how.

You know girls like her. They remember everything. And she’s definitely remembering you. Her eyes flick over your shoulder, over your friends, back to Hajoon. The corner of her mouth lifts, just scantily. You can't pinpoint if she’s thinking something you wouldn’t like or break into tears over.

She gives you the time and benefit of dount when she lingers too long. She laughs when she doesn’t need to. She doesn’t touch Hajoon, but she doesn’t need to. It’s in the way she angles her body, the way he doesn’t quite meet your eyes when she jokes again, calling him “sir” sarcastically. The way he chuckles and mutters, “You’re the one who runs the place, not me.”

She waves him off like it’s an old joke. Something only they get.

And then, because maybe she knows you’re watching too closely, she looks at you. Her smile softens. Reveals pity. Some people just arrive with a sense of prelude.

You hate that most of all.

Before you can pin down the nauseating twist in your gut, Hajoon’s already guiding you away. His fingers skim the small of your back again like punctuation.

“She’s just intense,” he whispers. “Work mode. Don’t worry.”

Which is the worst thing to say if you want someone not to worry.

And something about the curve of her mouth does bothers you. You don't know why. Just that you clock it. Quietly. Internally. The way you clock exits and weak wine.

The girls show up just in time to interrupt.

Lara practically materializes at your elbow. “This is what you’ve been hiding?” she whispers. “Christ. It’s like Versailles had a baby with Spotify.”

Jia appears next. “I think I just saw a marble ice sculpture of Jungkook’s face.”

“It’s real,” Safiya confirms. “I licked it.”

You bury a laugh in your glass.

A commotion near the back of the room makes a sound.

Having said that, a commotion is not the right word to describe when it debuts, they don’t enter like a movie cast all at once, no spotlight and chorus as you would have expected.

You spot the man of the hour halfway across the room, posted near a soundboard station with one hand around a glass and the other curled into a pocket. Black shirt, unbuttoned just enough, loose on the shoulders, as if he got dressed by thinking about air. The tattoos swirl out from under his sleeves like ink in water. He’s listening to someone speak but his gaze is darting.

Hoseok's mid-laugh when you see him, sunglasses on top of his head, leaning sideways into someone else’s story. He moves like he’s music itself, like tempo runs under his skin.

Jimin’s close behind, ghosting between clusters of people. He’s silver and silk, all fluidity and elegance, nodding to guests with a smile just shy of wicked. He’s so beautiful that makes your brain short-circuit for a second, he's what you’ve just seen something your nervous system wasn’t designed for.

Namjoon takes the longest to notice. Or maybe he’s just the most subtle. He’s in conversation with someone in a crisp gray blazer, gesturing with one hand, thoughtful and deliberate. He laughs at something, rubs the back of his neck, and then turns. You catch his face fully for the first time.

They’re not together in a pack like you'd have expected. They extent to a limitless, shimmering sky.

And then Hajoon is pulling you forward

“The boys are over here,” he says before you can even turn. “I can bring you guys over.”

Your friends, already half-buzzed and vibrating with filtered excitement, light up because for them, they’ve just been offered a VIP pass to heaven.

“No way,” Jia hisses.

“You’re joking,” lara breathes.

Safiya grabs your wrist like it’s a lifeline while mouthing oh my god oh my god as if prayer might help, and Jia is trying to fix her hair mid-step.

They hover behind you as Hajoon brings you over. The boys are — unfortunately —stupidly attractive in real life. Now when you get a clear look of Namjoon, he looks like he walked out of a cologne ad that rivals the oldest's version. Hoseok’s already grinning like he knows a secret. Yoongi barely nods but it feels like a bow.

They greet you like you’re someone, which is probably part of the charm. Idol magic.

“This is my girlfriend, Y/N,” Hajoon says. “And these are her friends- lara, Jia.." He pauses, glances at you awkwardly for a brief second like he's asking for help or bracing for the impact of some kind of punishment from you because there's no way he forgot your friend's name. Best friend's name. Idiot.

"Safiya." You jump in before her face can fall. "He's terrible with names."

The girls mumble variations of hi and holy shit and we’re fine, thank you, so fine.

Namjoon asks how you’re enjoying the night. Hoseok compliments Mina’s outfit. Jungkook flushes a hint of pink when a collective congratulations for his album is spoken out loud and safiya looks like she might actually combust.

And you smile, gracious and composed. Atleast you try. You can see the faint shimmer of Jungkook’s under-eye highlight. You can smell Jimin’s cologne.

It’s a lot. But you manage.

"Hajoon-sshi, never shuts up about you.”

You smile again, because what else do you do when one of the most famous men in the country is shaking your hand with dimples that could murder with, double- barreled friendliness that makes you want to tell him your secrets. “I’m sure he exaggerates.”

Jimin tilts his head. “Definitely not. You're the one who made him cry when he forgot your anniversary, right?"

“Jimin-sshi.” Hajoon groans, face red.

You blink. “He told you that?”

Hoseok laughs. “We heard it. He was inconsolable.”

You catch Hajoon’s eye. He smiles, sheepish.

And just like that, something inside you thaws. Invaraibly by a degree.

“It’s really nice to meet you all,” you say, because it’s the right thing to say, and you are currently functioning entirely on instinct and adrenaline.

"Really nice." One of the girls add.

Seokjin beams. “You too. Hajoon’s one of our favorites, by the way. He’s a total lifesaver."

“He also has terrible snack taste,” Yoongi says. “But we’ve forgiven him.”

Laughter rises up, light and easy. For a moment, you almost forget your nerves. Because they’re funny. And not the over the board funny, It comes off easy to them, kindness comes off easy.

Jia is flushed. “Congratulations, by the way,” she blurts to Jungkook. “On the album. It’s insane."

He blushes. Blushes. “Thank you. Please enjoy yourself."

Safiya looks ready to melt through the floor.

Eventually, the moment fades. Doesn’t last long. Nothing golden does.The boys wander off in pairs, pulled away by studioheads and stylists and producers. The girls flock back to your side, still breathless.

“Did you see Seokjin's outfit?” Jia hisses. "I saw nothing else but that."

“I didn’t even blink,” Safiya says. “I’m too stunned.”

Lara sips her drink. “Yoongi is shorter than I thought, but it’s working for him. It’s all working for him.”

You’re still processing.

The wine’s working too, and the lights are low, and there’s a strange feeling in your ribs like you’ve walked into someone else’s movie. Feels as if you’re not just in the room, you’re part of the pixels that make up the ambience.

It's overwhelming. You're not sure how one can make a living out of this, of being tbis marshallsd, of being this seen, this on all the time. . How one can breathe, even. You can barely maintain eye contact with the barista when your name’s misspelled on a cup; how do they manage this?

You couldn't have been here for a more than a hour and you already feel floaty. Flaccid, that isn’t entirely unpleasant, but definitely not normal either. As if your limbs are operating on a delay, still trying to recalibrate from being in the blast radius of status, beauty, and whatever volatile charge comes from standing too close to a reality that was never meant to include you. Your brain fumbles, rewinding the scene with all the clumsy finesse of a dropped tape recorder, replaying glances, tones, shifts in posture that must’ve meant more than they let on.

You let out a breath but even that feels too loud so lean your weight against the cocktail table. It's draped in something black and ravishingly silk.

You sip your drink. Smile to yourself when you catch lara around the corner hanging off around the content manager you met just minutes ago. She’s high on proximity, her pupils blown wide with it. Safiya’s comparing the shade of Jungkook’s lip tint to a fruit that doesn’t grow in your hemisphere. Jia looks like she just lost her religion and found it again.

This is good. You're having a pleasant time. Your friends are having a pleasant time.

Until something twitches at the edge of your memory. Was it memory? was it an observation?

That creeping thought finally pierces through the buzz. Wait.

Six.

There were six.

You count again, lips moving. An uncanny whisper of movement. You don’t know how you missed it.

Except... maybe you do.

Maybe you didn’t miss it at all. Maybe you muted it. Maybe you folded it into the background noise the second it reached your ears. Much like static. Very much like self-preservation. Developed selecting hearing for a moment there because there was a name too.

There was a name.

Something one of them said. Something just under the music, a passing remark folded into a compliment meant for Hajoon. You try to scrape it back. Rewind the moment. Seokjin had been speaking, something about Hajoon being essential. Someone else chimed in. You think it was Namjoon, or maybe Jungkook, saying:

“Good pick on Taehyung's part. He's got a good eye.”

That’s it.

And it registers now, belated and prickly. You’d tuned it out. Of course you did. It’s laughable, really. The way your body chose to keep the peace when the moment someone says his name, your brain switches off. You name it muscle memory. But it could also be survival instinct. And the primal knowledge that a name can curdle a whole night if you let it. While your mind filed away the omission.

The face you’ve been dreading. The one you’ve cursed in your sleep. The reason you almost didn’t show up tonight at all.

And he wasn’t here. And all the stars were alligned. And all was right in the universe.

You look around for confirmation.

He wasn’t in the group you met. He wasn’t hovering nearby. You were secure in your belief that a collection gasps of he just walked in would have followed too. You would’ve felt it; that particular flavor of atmospheric change he brings with him, whetted and exact. You’d have known, the shift in barometric pressure, the interference that clings to your neurons and doesn’t let go. The voice you know too well, molten steel with knive sharpened. The name that tastes of vinegar every time you say it, and you say it often. So you'd know.

He really wasn’t here. Which tracks. Of course, he’d skip his own friend’s party. Or maybe he’s late. Maybe he’s allergic to punctuality like he is to personal boundaries. For people like him time bends differently since they clearly don't have respect of it. Or maybe he’s already come and gone, and the universe just spared you the fallout.

You exhale, long. Unpacking a suitcase full of tension you didn’t know you were carrying. Somewhere deep in your chest, a locked muscle unclenches and thanks you for the mercy.

Hajoon slides in beside you again, glass of champagne hovering near his mouth, eyes all sparkle and hope, gets him one inch closer back into your good graces through this whole ordeal that is a grand, glittery olive branch.

You lean into his side, casual. "Didn’t see...your tae yet?" You ask, because you can’t not. It comes out breezy. Offhand.

He glances down, surprised by the question before he looks around, like he half-expected to find him behind a ficus.

“Taehyung?” he echoes.

You nod. Yes, he who shall not be named.

“Off-duty tonight, apparently. Said he wasn’t sure if he’d make it. Probably laying low.” He says. "You know how he is."

You hum. You don’t. Not really. But you’ve spent enough time seething in his shadow to make up your own conclusions.

Off duty. Right. Still, your eyes scan the room one more time, just in case. A surprisingly wise decision on his part. He only spared himself from the embarrasment in his own bandmates party. So you plan to keep your peace and your boyfriend tonight too.

Alas, you can only have it all before someone — some twenty-something in black denim and a lanyard swinging like a pendulum — approaches with a slightly panicked look and Hajoon’s name half-formed on his lips.

“Hyung,” the kid pants, half-doubled over with his hands on his thighs, hair damp and sticking to his temples. “Sorry—sound crew’s losing their shit over the back-lounge mic feed. Something about the press audio not syncing right. They said they tried to ping you—five times, I think."

The words fall out in a rush, tripping over each other, frantic and full of a bad conscience. He says five, but you can tell by the way he won’t meet Hajoon’s eyes that it’s probably more. Potentially ten. Potentially enough to take your boyfriend away.

Hajoon exhales through his nose. The sound is barely audible, but it echoes anyway, through the bones of the moment, through the space you occupy beside him. You don’t need to look up to know he’s already halfway annoyed. Guilty? His irritation blooms in the shift of his weight, in the flex of his knuckles behind your back, as though weighing whether to pull away entirely or hold ground. Feasibly both.

“Right now?” he asks, like there might be another option. Asks it like the rhetorical density of someone already calculating the cost of interruption.

The runner hesitates, eyes darting toward the corridor behind him where shadows of movement flicker and vanish. “They’re melting down.”

Hajoon hesitates. It almost seems like it's for dramatic effect. You can feel it on him, the feigned reluctance. Feel him preparing the apology, not the words themselves, but the posture of them. It hovers at the corners of his mouth, teeth pressing into thought, mouth pulled thin. There’s no remorse in it, nonethless, the apology is curling at the corners of his mouth before it’s fully formed.

“I can come right back,” he says. “Fifteen minutes. Maybe less.”

You almost roll your eyes. Not because you think he's lying but because fifteen minutes turns into forty. Forty turns into never mind, just go home without me.

And maybe a few days ago, you would’ve folded your arms and dared him to choose. Another moment to keep score. You don’t do that tonight. You don’t call him out. You give him a soft shrug. A little smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “It’s fine. Go.”

He leans in, brushes a kiss against your temple, a flutter thing, gone before you can even decide how you feel about it. “I owe you.”

You hum. “Mhm. Keep the tab open.”

And then he’s gone, flesh peeled from the frame of the moment. Grooved into the mass of bodies, ingested whole by noise and colored light. One blink too slow and his back is already someone else's, indistinct and moving. The crowd does not opposes him, shoulders belonging to glittering bodies and bad decisions open for him without hesitation. His absence walks away before you get the chance to apperceive it properly. Before it earns its configuration.

He moves through crowds with that easy-breath peridiocity that suggests he belongs more to movement than to restfulness. More to them than to you.

And just like that, you’re solo again.

Empty-handed and bare-shouldered- Unattached.

Empty-handed and bare-shouldered- Unsupervised.

Everything around you surges forward, and you remain perfectly still, there’s nothing in your throat but salt and silence.You edge toward the periphery, toes brushing the spill line of the room. Where the light flickers but doesn’t touch. Where the music swells and bruises the walls but doesn’t crawl into your skin. You imagine what you must look like from above, drifting toward the rim, toward the places where no one dares to notice anything too tenous. While your group of girls (havoc I sequins) are scattered like confetti.

Jia is dancing now — on the actual dance floor, in a sea of glitter and swaying silhouettes. Her boots flash under the lights. She throws her head back laughing, some guy in a turtleneck and too much confidence attempting to keep up with her steps.

Safiya is talking to someone near the catering section — maybe flirting, maybe arguing. It’s hard to tell with her. One hand’s on her hip and the other is spearing a cherry tomato off a toothpick like it insulted her mother.

Lara, as always, is missing. You scan the crowd for a glimpse of red but instead catch her exiting a side hallway, shoulder-to-shoulder with Minae, the digital content manager from earlier. They’re laughing, low and conspiratorial, and Mina’s got that subtle half-smirk she wears when she’s decided to keep something to herself. You let her be.

There’s something freeing about the anonymity here. The lights are low, and the music is louder now, bass thudding like a second heartbeat in your chest. You drift along the perimeter, your heels clicking a slow rhythm over polished tile. You accept another drink from a server. It bumps up fizzy. It turns up pink. Something you don’t have to name. You don’t ask what’s in it. That’s part of the fun. Not knowing. Not caring. (Some of the time, it is. And you say that with all precautions took care of.)

Eventually, your path leads you to the lounge side of the floor. Past the floral arch near the DJ. Past the velvet ropes draped over low-lit staircases. Past a corner where someone famous is pretending not to be famous while arguing about streaming rights. It’s less crowded here. The velvet couches are sunken and soft, little groups curled into them like petals around a flame.

The crowd thins out here. The sound mellows.

It’s cooler, too. A reduced amount of throat-choking cologne, fewer elbows in your side. The air smells feebly of melting ice and broken promises, probably vodka, possibly floor cleaner. You cradle your glass against your lips and take a sip. Sweet, cold, suspicious. The taste clings to the roof of your mouth in that way syrups do when they’ve got pharmaceutical derangement of power lust. You swallow anyway. At this point, hydration is hydration.

You have no plans to dance, you're not feeling it. There’s a part of you that still hasn’t forgiven your shoes for existing, and the beat impressions an accusation rather than an invitation. You're satisfied with it nestling somewhere inside your thorax, warming you the way wine does, gradually, dishonestly.

You stare ahead, trying to look occupied but vaguely important. It's a difficult balance, one most people fumble by the first hour. Your eyebrows lift occasionally, your mouth hovers near a smile. You even nod once at no one. Masterclass. Topper, you could've been, if someone didn't turn up in your sideways and made you want to run in circles until the loss of face wore off.

“You’re not with the label, are you?”

You turn, eyes adjusting to the source. He stands there, taller than expected, with that soft-focus face they breed in casting rooms. Brushed-back hair, that only exists in idol genetics or drama leads undone tie, an earring catching the light like it’s been waiting all night to be noticed. A smile so polite it might actually be genuine. Friendly within reason that isn’t threatening, yet somehow still feels practiced. For all you know, he came with the furniture. For all you know, he’s been here the whole time, waiting for a line.

You're a woman with theories waiting to spill out but you're also a woman with many talents so you oversee them all at once while also managing to utter out. “Sorry?”

He chuckles, mouth tugging upwards. “Sorry. That came out weird. I just meant—I haven’t seen you before.”

“It did,” you agree, but your tone is light. You’re not mad. You’re just surprised. No one’s talked to you tonight that wasn’t paid to or pretending not to know your boyfriend. A bold choice. A choice you're thinking you admire.

“I just meant,” he says, still smiling, “I haven’t seen you before.”

You angle your head, enough to let your earrings swing forward. Small weights on delicate hinges. “Do you make it a habit to keep track of everyone?”

He laughs again. This time, less apologetic. “No. Just the interesting ones.”

You raise a brow. “Is that a line?”

He shrugs with a grin so flashy, it could classify as something you would note aside and overanalyze till you've reached to one reoccurring culmination that you need better hobies than overthinking. A heathly one, most preferably. “Only if it’s working.”

You sip your drink. It’s not. But it’s a valiant effort, and in this economy, effort counts for something.

He pretends to look wounded. One hand on his heart, the other cradling his glass like it’s the only constant in his life. Winces. “Harsh.”

You allow the moment to hang, loose and golden, like fairy lights that haven’t short-circuited yet. “Y/N.”

He sticks out his hand. “Sangmin.”

You shake it, out of politeness, out of boredom, out of habit. His grip is good. Palm is warm and fingers are steady. No limpness, no clamminess. The bar’s low, and he clears it.

He smiles. “Nice to meet you, Y/N-who’s-not-with-the-label.”

You glance sideways, scanning for cameras or people pretending not to eavesdrop. “And you are?”

“Former trainee. Now an occasional singer. Sometimes dancer. Full-time mascot, depending on who you ask.” he says as if narrating a bed-time story.

That draws a laugh out of you before you can stop it. “That’s oddly honest.”

He leans against the railing beside you, drink in hand. “Honesty’s underrated.”

You nod. "True, that."

The conversation drifts into easy banter. He asks how you’re liking the party. You say it’s beautiful. He agrees. You say it’s loud. He says it’s always loud. He tells you a story about tripping on a camera wire during a rehearsal and breaking someone’s ankle. You raise your brows. “Their ankle?” He winces. “Yeah. Not my finest hour.”

And the truth of it is; it’s nice. He’s nice. Funny, even. Bothersomely so. The ease of it, of his voice that has a soft-spoken allure that slips out between sips of whatever he’s drinking, the way his sentences land on the floor between you like coins: unsubstanial, eye-catching and never heavy enought to bruise. A clever theif would take great advantage of that because his smile doesn’t ask anything of you. His eyes don’t crawl. And that should be comforting, but in some twisted, tired corner of your chest, it feels worse. Because this could be something. He could be something and that sounds inviting, when you give regard to the attention he gives you, where you don’t have to earn by vanishing parts of yourself.

It would take almost nothing to tilt this into flirtation. You would work a little on your smile and reshape your unit of speech just right, take a sip longer than imperative. Could sink into the clearance he’s offering without ramification, owing to the fact that men like him never ask, they come with tidy intentions and open palms. They don't come with an entourage or an aftertaste.

But your blood doesn’t reach for him, so you don’t. Because you’re not here for that.

Because your boyfriend, who hasn't looked at you properly in days, is still somewhere inside this building, elbows in cables, lungs full of static, cursing at machinery with the conviction of a prophet. The air around him probably smells like copper and stubbornness. You can picture his shoulders already, hunched and wired, chasing perfection with shaking hands and a deadline no one asked him to meet. He’s the reason you’ve spent the last hour smiling politely at people who might never know your name properly and won’t say it. And even if he deserves to be punished for it, for dozens of things, for all of it, you won’t be the knife. You won’t be the thing that you are inherently not.

So you smile. But you dull it with your eyes. You sip your drink, but only because your hands need something to do. You let Sangmin speak — witty, harmless, charming Sangmin — and you nod at the appropriate beats, but your solidity stays pressed into your heels.

You stay where you are.

You say. “My boyfriend,” without flinching. “He works with the group.” When he leans a little closer, elbows resting on the edge of the lounge railing. “So if you’re not with the label, and you’re not a reporter, and you’re not secretly here to pitch a demo... who are you here with?”

You’re not the type to go looking for trouble.

Even if it’s standing beside you in a perfect shirt, making you laugh like nothing matters.

You crave for a distraction from that and it comes in the fashion of a text message.

Your phone buzzes with a little tremor in your hand, screen lighting up like a jolt against the warm, dim haze of the lounge.

You glance down with the mildest sigh, thumb swiping across the screen with practiced detachment, only to freeze at the message lighting it up. Shit. That wasn't the distraction you meant.

[safiya:] emergency. jia’s throwing up in the bathroom. she drank something w dairy i think. help?

The screen lights up in your hand, and at first, the words don’t register. They stall for a second, indefinite at the corners, stubborn in the glow of your phone screen, smearing into background noise. Blame it on the cocktail fogging your bloodstream, or the hundred moving pieces around you: tinsels catching in fake candlelight, voices climbing on top of each other, the sound of a laugh that isn’t yours clamorously too close to your ear. Ends when, reality seizes, Glitter loses its glint. Music overlays inward. The dalliance hanging between you and Sangmin deflates mid-air. Safiya’s words, your friend’s, aren’t long, but they’re enough to lance through whatever artificial calm the evening had built around your shoulders.

You barely finish reading when you mutter, “Shit.” It escapes before you can pack it down.

Sangmin straightens slightly beside you. “Everything okay?” He’s attentive now. Alert even when there's no need him to be. His voice has edged out of flirty and into rigorous.

You force a smile that doesn’t reach anywhere. “Friend emergency.Like a real one.”

“You want help finding them?” His expression shifts, subtle but immediate. He offers help without posturing.

“No,” you say quickly, already stepping back. “Thanks, though. You’ve been… really sweet.”

“Anytime,” he says. A tilt of his glass like a farewell salute. Jeez. You’d laugh if your pulse wasn’t in your throat.

You murmur something like a goodbye, barely audible over the bass, before ducking through the crowd with narrowed eyes and a racing heart. Body tense and forward-leaning, pace picking up without warning. Your heels slap the floor, too fast for elegance, too slow for panic, caught somewhere in that in-between speed people only use when they’re chasing clarity. You’re dodging limbs and cocktail glasses, highlighter-streaked shoulders and half-spilled secrets, all of it flexuring away from you in waves. It’s a cartoon version of what it was ten minutes ago, voices rubbery, lights too sharp, music melting at the confines.

The hallway feels longer now. Louder. The clicks come faster. The party’s music muffles and distorts as you turn a corner and push through a crowd, moving like someone with a mission,which you are. You pass a stylist laughing too loud, a guy adjusting his bowtie in a mirror, someone accidentally spilling champagne that smells too floral. All of it, noise.

All of you, instinct. Blisters when your phone buzzes again. This is messier. This is what did she say? and how bad is it? and god, how far did she get before she texted?

[safiya:] we’re in the second-floor bathroom. back hallway. jia’s on the floor.

Of course it had to be dairy. Jia’s lactose intolerance is the stuff of group lore. And of course she’d think the mousse was vegan just because it was “foamier.”

You find the stairwell, a close-mouthed back corridor lit by cooler lights. As soon as the party noise dulls behind the wall, your adrenaline kicks in sharper.

The second-floor bathroom isn’t hard to find. The door is cracked, music muffled behind layers of expensive soundproofing. You knock once and slip inside.

“Hey,” you call, already tugging your jacket off.

Safiya’s crouched by the sink, holding Jia’s hair back. Jia herself is hunched over the toilet, looking pale and miserable, makeup streaked and dignity somewhere down the drain.

“Oh, babe,” you say softly, dropping beside them. “You okay?”

Jia mumbles something that might’ve been, “Never eating dessert again.”

“She’s burning up,” Safiya says, brows furrowed. “And I can’t get lara to pick up. Her phone’s on DND.”

“She left with that content manager woman,” you mutter, digging into your bag for a napkin or some tissues. “Minae? The one with the bob and the designer clipboard?”

“God, I knew it,” Safiya huffs. "It's like she gets off being reckless."

You dab gently at Jia’s forehead. She’s sweating now, shaky and miserable but not in danger. Not thus far. Her breath’s steady. Her eyes flutter.

“Think she just needs to get it all out,” Safiya murmurs. “But I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“I’ll kill whoever made that mousse,” you mutter, brushing a hand down Jia’s back. “Or at least file a passive-aggressive complaint.”

You glance around, noting the neatly folded hand towels, the stack of fancy soaps, the porcelain sink that looks like it cost more than your rent. The absurdity of handling real shit in such an unreal place; it grates and comforts at the same time.

“Okay,” you murmur, trying to steady your own voice. “Stay with her a sec. I’ll go get water or ginger ale if they have any.”

"O-okay." She nods, shoulders relaxing.

You slip out of the bathroom like you’re walking through water.

The passage feels dissolvent now, air dense with all the words you didn’t say. You push a palm over your forehead, feel the warmth building under your skin, and wonder if it’s sympathy sickness or just frustration curling low in your gut. The worst part is you can’t blame Jia. Not really. She’s the soft one and you say that with documented proof of that one time when cried at a commercial and she still believes in horoscopes.

Your heels echo through the corridor as you walk towards the hallway spits you into another corner of the venue, this one unfamiliar, all wood-paneled doors and golden sconce lighting, like the architectural equivalent of whispering. Everything feels a little inarticulate here. Like you’ve slipped behind the curtain of the night and crashed in its quiet, unsupervised heart.

The party tucks beneath you now, flattened into a low, quaking throb that doesn’t so much speak as it vibrates, deep in the hollow between bone and breath. The music no longer reaches your ears in any clean, decipherable way. It’s washed-out, guttural, absorbed by walls and fabric and distance, reduced to a genesis that hitches itself to your chest and rides every exhale, as if a secret.

You don’t know where the catering crew disappeared to. Whether they’ve set up shop in a closet-sized prep station behind some satin curtain or if there’s a staff kitchen buried somewhere in the maze of corridors, guarded by stress and stainless steel. You don’t know if there’s a vending machine kinetic in it's opertion, in a forgotten corner, stocked with warm soda and crackers designed to outlive civilization. You don’t know, and at this point, you don’t really care. steady hands, firm jaw, no time for collapse. The crisis manager, the de facto medic, the girl who always knows what to grab when someone’s bleeding metaphorically or otherwise, is here now, and she’s got the wheel in a death grip.The part of you that runs crisis control has surfaced in and refuses to log out.

You spot someone near the elevator, clipboard in hand, wearing the haunted eyes of someone paid too little to care too much, and you slide into their eyeline before they can disappear into usefulness. “Sorry,” you say, swallowing the rest of your breath before it breaks apart. “Do you know where I can find bottled water? Or soda? It’s for someone upstairs.”

They blink at you, startled, as if you’ve spoken a spell in a language reserved for emergencies. They were expecting a headset, maybe. Most definitely from an official. Instead they got a girl in heels and unfinished mascara, looking halfway between guest and ghost. “Uh—check the prep station near the west corner? Just past the photo booth. There’s always extra stuff stored back there.”

You thank them before they can ask who you are. Your heels resume their mindless candace. Though defining it mindless would be a contradiction on it's own.

Because the longer you’re away from the bathroom, the more you start thinking. You don’t want to- this is supposed to be simple but your thoughts mutate away from the simple task of fetching a drink. Keep a friend alive, make sure she’s breathing through whatever hell clawed its way up her throat. Return. The distance from the bathroom grows, and with it, the space for your mind to spiral. Your brain won’t shut up, now. Won’t let you have that peace cause its so inconveniently wired for emotional noise, keeps dragging you somewhere else.

Hajoon still hasn’t followed up. You’d texted him, told him where you were. You told him emergency triage, and if that wasn’t enough to get his feet moving, what is?

You turn the next corner, pass a cluster of interns half-hunched over a light panel, then veer off toward a hallway marked “STAFF ONLY.” The rope is halfway slipped already, forgotten or ignored. You lift it with one hand and step through, no hesitation. There’s a kind of freedom in crossing boundaries that no one’s watching.

The floor changes under your shoes, softer now, something ductile or carpeted, dulled at the edges.

The hallway branches once. Then again. Everything here smells faintly of cleaning supplies and flowers that died too expensive. You keep left. You pass a storage room door half-cracked open.

There’s a linen cart parked haphazardly against the wall, as though someone meant to wheel it somewhere and then simply forgot how to follow through. Its wheels are crooked, one half-swallowed by the seam in the tile. Cloth napkins spill from the top shelf, un creased in places, crumpled in others, some folded with care, others balled up like someone gave up mid-shift. The cart smells unclearly of starch and lemon polish, though the scent is old now, faded. It shouldn’t register as anything important. It’s background, set dressing. But your steps hesitate all the same. Something in your gut makes you pause- it's not dread that mimics one of the many classic horror, not instinct either. It's marginally a pause. What it is, is one of those micro-moments when your brain forgets what the next step is supposed to feel like, and in that blank space, everything else happens.

You wouldn't have noticed, except you hear it. It's suprising that you hear it at all. Not at first obviously. Even-handedly a sound that feels like it shouldn’t be there, the sound being the slightest rustle of movement. You're still taken aback from the fact that you heard it before you even sum up what's in front.

There’s a door ahead of you, it’s half-open. Few and far between to be an invitation, but enough to make you wonder whether it was meant to be closed at all. Light spills through the narrow gap and pools on the floor in a long diagonal, slicing the hallway in half. It has that fluorescent, salubrious tint that makes everything beneath it look more exhausted than it already is. It paints a harsh stripe across the tile, across the napkins that have spilled out and frozen mid-collapse.

It should be nothing.

Keyword: Should be.

But your stomach twists because it not nothing. You hear it before your eyes have caught up to the chassis of it, voice seeping through the thin air, delicate in tone but heavy in intention, that unnervingly lacquered pitch women use when they want to sound wounded while making do with the peaked ends. Too close to a whine to be professional and too retiring to be a whisper held between teeth.You know that voice. From an hour ago and a handshake held too long.

“—don’t know why you brought her.”

You stiffen calcifies, muscles wrapped in an invisible brace of knowing before thought has the chance to intervene. Notwithstanding as it dawns upon you. There is no alarm in your blood, only a slow, curling recoil, a heatless burn under the structure of your bones, only happens when your body recognizes a truth faster than your brain allows. And in that second, divulgence feasts on it, on this limited space which inhabits, too much light and too many truths.

Inside, there’s a shuffle of feet. You assume Hajoon’s feet because his voice is right behind. Tired it sounds.You know the articulation of Hajoon’s steps by heart. You’ve counted them. On staircases. Sidewalks. Your apartment floor. It’s him. It’s absolutely him. And this is definitely a moment you were never meant to witness, unlike those ones.

“Bora, come on.”

You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t.

The thought spirals like a siren in your head, acute and shrill, but your limbs won’t respond. Your name—well, her edited version of it—still floats between the syllables like a ghost. It hovers in the stale air, waiting to be dissected. Examined. Embalmed. It follows that, Hajoon is right there, sufficiently beyond the narrow slit of the door, sufficiently close enough to see if you lean another inch. The thought loops inside you, blinking red, warning you off like a flashing exit sign in a building that’s about to go under.

You shouldn’t stand on the edge of a threshold holding your breath like a child in a horror film. But your feet carry you the last few steps anyway. You stop at the edge of the door. Your body does what it always does: disobeys in the ways that matter. You drift those last few steps forward, against reason, against self-respect, against your own better judgment, which has never won a single fight with your curiosity. You stop before the door, which is, predictably, ajar. Drawn by a magnetism you hate yourself for responding to, step into the slice of light spilling out, allowing you permission. You lean, carefully, slowly, not with intent to spy, but because gravity is a cruel thing when verity is involved.

But you can’t not hear. Some truths calcify on impact.

“You knew I had to,” Hajoon’s voice replies.There’s strain there, but no outrage. “You knew she was coming.”

“No, I knew you invited her. That’s different.”

Something inside you hollows, it's not a feeling of being stabbed but more like a scoop. It happens when someone’s hand just reaches in and takes a part of your stomach out. The distinct sensation of absence, of a piece of yourself being removed so gently you might’ve missed.

And then she replies, and her tone slips even further into something sugary and rehearsed, a voice performing vulnerability without ever being touched by it. “Is she really worth this whole scene? You don’t even look at me anymore.”

Your breath catches in your throat as Bora’s shadow moves. Her heels click lazily against the tile; catlike, the gait of someone who knows they won’t be interrupted. She enters the sliver of your view, the sleek line of her calf, the shimmering hem of her dress, the glint of earrings swinging arrogantly near her throat. You hear the brush of her hand against fabric and you know exactly what part of him she’s touching. You imagine the press of her palm over his chest, the lean of her body into his. It all happens in your boyfriend’s silence. And in that silence, a occurence too hefty to explain.

Your heartbeat rises in your ears. Hajoon doesn’t say anything. That’s what terrifies you. Guts you. The relevation that this isn’t new. This isn’t some messy misunderstanding begotten in champagne and ambient lighting. This isn’t just some bad timing and worse boundaries.

She knows how close she can stand. He knows not to push her away. Her encroachment and his compliance is perfection.

You don’t realize when your hand finds the doorframe, only that it’s there now, clutching the edge with a grip so tight your knuckles pale, fingers curled in as though the wood might be the only thing keeping you upright the floor. Your weight has shifted forward, barely perceptible, but enough to feel how precarious your body has become. There’s a dizziness curling at the corners of your vision, the faint, reeling you until, the floor doesn’t just spin outright but diagonals the whole hallway, sluggish and silent, until every step forward feels steeped of jeopardy.

Her voice floats closer, closer than it should be, caramel-coated and too aware of itself, dripping with old secrets cladded up as affection. “You never used to hesitate,”Bora says, purring the words confidently. Comes from years of being let terribly close, terribly often. “Remember that night in Jeju?”

Your stomach turns with such violence that your throat tightens to contain it, not quite because of the place but because of the specificity. You hate how specific it is. How casually it falls from her mouth like it was theirs, like it still is. And you’re the stranger here, the interloper. Your mind flinches against the image, desperate to resist its outline, but it sculpts itself out anyway. Sand underfoot, spending nights which rewrote everything you had spent years wasting your ink on.

“I remember, baby.” Hajoon murmurs. Three words form bruises under your skin, one by one, swelling inward, He never called you baby in years of your relationship. In that soft voice, to be exact, immensly soft to belong to anything except regret or concede, and yet there’s no regret in the accentuation.

You want to laugh. Hardly because it’s funny, nothing about this is funny, but because the absurdity of the pain has reached a point of detachment, the way your mind sometimes offers humor when the body is close to collapse. You want to cry, too.And part of you wants to throw the door wide open, break the performance into pieces, shove the truth into the light and force him to look you in the face while it burns. But your body refuses to do any of it. You remain exactly where you are, stuck in a moment too excruciating to interrupt, a bystander in your own devastation. You’re the frame that flickers on screen before the plot pivots.

You press your knuckles against your mouth, the skin there soft from earlier, now dented under pressure. The contact is painful on purpose, in the best interest of you because you need the grounding. You need the reminder that you’re real. That this moment, for all its cruelty, is happening, and you are standing inside it.

Inside, Bora sighs, and the sound is so pleased with itself you almost swerve. “You shouldn’t have brought her if you didn’t want me to do this.”

There’s no reply. And the silence, this time, is deafening. Deeply, fatally familiar.

You hear a shuffle, drag of fabric, potentially a foot dragging closer to another, following the sound of movement you don’t want to identify, a insufflation exhaled that sounds mightly satisfied, getting intimate, too sure of its position and of this delicious game. You don’t want to imagine what’s happening in that pause. You don’t want to wonder how the bated breath you hold hostage anyways, speaks like your brain, atrocious in its survival instincts, paints the picture anyway, and your body responds with a sickened tightness that has nowhere to go.

Your breath catches so sharply in your throat you think it might scratch you from the inside. You feel stupid. You feel stupid.

You told yourself this was just you overthinking, that Hajoon was tired all of the time and started to perpare for the older times when you will be older too and he'll get worse but you'll be there. Distracted, mayhaps. Pulled a hundred directions by this event. You gave him excuses. You always did — so eager, so stupidly loyal — gave him that room.

And the part that stings the most, makes you want to claw his betraying heart out, is that he let you, let you build that little myth Took advanted of the room of uncertainty you gave him. Gods, gave him so much room to disappoint you. Over and over. Until all he had to do to keep you was nothing.

Padded every missed text with understanding. Gulped down every late night, every unexplained absence with that stupid stupid smile. You rationalized his silences, handed them over with thought too. Made up for them in your head. Built a cushion out of benefit-of-the-doubt and laid down in it, eyes closed, telling yourself it wasn’t what it looked like, because you loved him. Because you chose him. Because love, as you were told, is supposed to be work.

From both fucking sides. It didn't function so when you alone did the work and never asked if he was doing it too.

And now you’re here. In this hallway. Listening to the soft undoing of your entire relationship through a half-open door and the giggle of a woman who never saw you as a threat.

The humiliation feels cinematic,doesn’t come all at once, but ponderous; seeping, viscous, with the heft of something that’s been waiting a long time to be acknowledged. It rivulets into you with the same progression as dread, thick and sticky as honey spilled across cold tile, where every inch it spreads becomes harder to scrub clean. Fills your ribs, then slips deeper, into the squishy discomfort of your sternum, and you know without needing to be told that this is a hurt that's gonna stay, will make a home.

Your body already knows what your mouth isn’t brave enough to say. You were so oblivious.

You think back to every red flag you plucked from the air and re-dyed white, into a color you could live with. The nights he came home later than he said he would, the smell on his collar (not yours, never yours) smelling faintly of something exceedingly floral to be your detergent. The half-sentence that rarely ended with an i love you, even when you had made it very clear on the early on stages of your relationship that you liked being told that you were loved, that too often. You think about all the things you chalked up to stress, to work. Every thing everyone around told you to reconsider, tried to warn you in gentle silences and wary glances, their voices cautious with pity, never saying the thing outright but circling it like buzzards. Because they knew probably. They knew.

You were the only one who refused to sit with the pattern of it. You just didn’t want to listen. Because to listen, to truly listen, would’ve meant accepting what you’ve always suspected in the nooks and crooks of your gut. Because if you listened, you’d have to admit it.That maybe it wasn’t just his job or a global popstar keeping Hajoon from you. Maybe Hajoon wanted to be kept.

You feel sick.

And suddenly your body revolts against the thought, stomach tightening as odium coils innermore and flourishes beneath your abdomen. Your mouth goes dry, the taste in it metallic and sour, and you swallow down the spasm, in hopes that it might buy you a few more seconds of composure. Your molars ache, clenched so tightly together that your jaw begins to pulse. You suddenly remember the first night he told you he loved you, how his voice cracked as if the words startled him too, you didn't even dare think about, or how that maybe he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

Was that a lie too?

Or did he mean it then?

Does it even matter now?

But those questions come with their own claws. So you don’t answer them. You don’t try, press the heel of your hand to your eye before the tears can fall, as if you could shove the tears back into their ducts through sheer will alone, refusing to let them fall here. You will not cry in this hallway. You will not give this place that power. So you don’t cry. You don’t let your anger catch fire and drive you through the door with fists full of questions.

But you think about it.

Lords, do you think about it.

You think about how it would feel to crack the illusion open, to make them both look at you, really look. You picture it in flashes- your fingers curled in Bora’s silken collar, dragging her back two steps just to see if her voice stays as sweet when it trembles. You imagine staring Hajoon dead in the eye and asking him if this is worth it, if she’s worth it, if it was all just a game to see how far he could bend your bones before they snapped.

You want to interrupt. You want to step inside that room and let the breath you’ve been holding slice through the air like glass.

You want it to be loud. Messy. Unforgettable. But your body won’t let you, again.

You’re still standing in the same spot, though you aren’t entirely sure how. Breath shallow, limbs made of rust, you feel distant from your own being,every joint stiff and unreliable, as though they were never made for movement. Your fingers are locked around the thin strap of your clutch, knuckles aching from the strain, but still, you can’t let go. Your knees buzz with a numbness that teeters too close to collapse, and you know, without testing it, that if you tried to walk away too quickly, you’d falter, legs would fold in on themselves, dragging your self-esteem down with you.

As if it hasn't already fallen so far, in the narrowest depths, probably making it's way to the seventh circle of hell, every time your mind plays it on a loop. The select few parts run on and on, and the implications that came with when Hajoon didn’t refute her. While you were left in the hallway, on the other side of the door, invisible.

And it’s in that invisibility that you forget yourself entirely. Forget why you’re here, what you’re holding, what you promised. The scene overtakes you, pushes you out of your own context. You are not the friend on a mission to fetch water for her shaking best friend anymore. You are not the responsible one, the stable one, the friend who had her life sorted out, the moment she was out of college with a fixtures on her side, all the time and not one who's witnessing the slow infidelity of your relationship in a quiet, candlelit corridor. Except the reminder comes. Sounds like ting. And reads like urgency and concern all at once.

Your phone buzzes against your thigh, a single jolt. But it ricochets through you like thunder, breaks away the trance.

You blink hard, pull yourself out of the daze like yanking the string of a broken marionette. Your fingers fumble against the screen.You don’t know how long you’ve been gone, only that it’s been long enough for concern to find you.

[safiya: everything okay? what's taking so long??]

The words feel like someone cracking a window open in a burning house.

And in that small, merciful moment, you remember the things that matter, try not to waste away at people who shouldn't have in the first place. If you would have, it wouldn't have taken you so long to remember who you are.

You swallow hard. The lump in your throat feels alive, not figurative, a snarling beast with claws scraping against your insides, trying to claw its way out through the thinnest part of your chest. The taste of it is sharp, astringent, nauseating and it's as overwhelming as a broken heart.

You shift and move.

It’s a small step- barely a shuffle- but the sound paraphrases in the tight space.

Inside, everything falls placid.

Like prey sensing danger.

You hear the soft scrape of a heel. A breath catching follows up that results in the slow, cautious creak of movement. They heard you. It's the only answer that makes sense in a moment that has your mind in pieces. They heard you, and for the first time, you’re no longer invisible.

Panic rises like heat in your throat, replacing the cluster. Your body kicks into survival mode, muscle memory taking the wheel with foot on the pedal, before they can come out. Before they can see your face. The car kicks into ignition and it turns. So do you. Fast.

You move like a current, wind-slipped and sharp. Your heels barely touch the tile. One foot, then the next, then the next. You duck around the corner just as the storage door creaks open behind you.

You don’t look back.

You can’t afford to.

Because if you see them now- if you see him- you’re not sure what will survive the encounter.Your pride, your restraint, the tight seal you’ve managed to hold around your devastation, all of it would shatter. And you are not ready to fall vulnerable in front of them.

Your pulse races like it’s sprinting ahead of you, trying to outrun the shame.Your heart races, anything but in beats, but in gallops, hurrying and zooming, trying to put as much distance as it can between you and what you heard, what you saw, what you now have to carry.

You press one hand flat to the wall, desperate for contact with something unmoving, presumably cool, the tiles are cool. You lean into them with the full weight of your trembling shoulders and try to slow the shaking in your chest. You don’t know how long you stay like that, listening, waiting, cursing the damn universe, back to the corner, ears straining for footsteps that never come.

But no footsteps follow. No voices chase you.

Maybe they think it was nothing.

Or worse, maybe they know exactly what it was.

You straighten, finally. Shake out your shoulders like you’re resetting them on your frame. Willing the bones to don’t feel foreign inside your skin. You glance down at your phone again. Safiya’s message blinks back at you like a lighthouse in fog.

You type back:

[omw.]

It’s all you can manage.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until the first tear hits the corner of your lip, warm and sharp like betrayal distilled.

You scrub the tear away with the back of your hand, rough and rushed, by its nature friction alone could erase what you saw, as though maybe if you wiped hard enough, the memory would peel with it, lift off the surface of your mind and dissolve somewhere into the air behind you. The sting lingers, anyway, heartbreak nests where it should. And somewhere down the corridor, from a place your feet no longer remember how to reach, laughter drifts upwards. It wafts through cause it has every right to, unaffected and unbothered, the fluky soundtrack of people who haven’t had their insides rearranged by the sound of someone else's name spoken too tenderly. The absurdity of it settles in your chest like lead, that the world is still turning.

You push open a random door at the end of the lobby and exhale like you’ve been holding it for a year. A folding table sits near the back wall, crowded with plastic water bottles and packets of mints, and behind it, a server looks up, startled but not alarmed, the way people do when they’ve seen enough parties to know when to mind their business.

You blink. “Water, please?” you say. Your voice doesn’t sound like yours.

He hands one over without question. You nod in return, a stiff, graceless gesture meant to approximate gratitude, and clutch the bottle so tightly that the plastic creaks in your grip.

You feel the crispy cold of the bottle in your hand. It sweats against your palm, a sharp contrast to the flush still radiating from your face. You feel the chill of it in your bones, grateful for the shock. Pain, at least, is something you know how to hold.The world around you feels loud again, even though you’re moving through a quieter section of the venue. The dull thud of bass somewhere beneath your feet. The muffled laughter of strangers who proude the sound of the clink of glassware. Every sound scratches.

Your feet start moving before your brain catches up.

First one foot, then the other, and then your body begins to catch on, muscles remembering the purpose even if your mind hasn’t fully returned to it. Left. Then right. Then forward again.

Back to the place where your friends are waiting. Where your absence must be starting to bloom into concern. Back to the bathroom, where Jia is still hunched over porcelain and Safiya is probably pacing, biting her lip, thinking you’ve gotten lost in this maze of flashing lights and secrets.

The steps are small. Practiced. But your body is still off-kilter, like the force field has shifted slightly out of sync. The party’s glow pulses in the walls around you, muffled and amber hues, but you feel none of it. Each step feels disconnected from the last, like your legs are acting on instruction rather than instinct.You are aware, in the strangest way, that you are walking. That you are moving through space. That you are passing through light and shadow. You feel everything and nothing. You could be gliding. You could be drowning. You’re not sure which would be more forbearing.

Nonethles, you try to hold onto the task. Just give them the water. That’s all you have to do. Just get to the bathroom. Just—

But the walk is long. And your mind won’t cooperate. It's franternizing in a way that plays everything that happened back there again and again. That sing-song tone that was viscous, tunes in and out, how it still manages to cut through the unbearable, monstrous silence.

You were good.

You’d always prided yourself on being composed. Reasonable. You weren’t the jealous type. You weren’t the skeptical possessive girlfriend. You’d never demanded keys or passwords or explanations. Love, in your definition, if was true, it needed no surveillance. Needed not to feel like a rope wrapped around a neck, except it did now.

And the person who held the end of it was the one you told yourself to trust. Told yourself it was the job. That the industry was brutal, demanding, parasitic. That he was a victim of it too, just trying to survive in its current. You gave him space, understanding, flexibility. You let him treat you like an supplementary information because you believed it would pay off. That this, tonight, was the beginning of him showing you off.

And he was infact. Just not to the right audience. God knows not to the right audience. The abashment of sits high in your throat, making it feel lodged yet again. The discomfort of it (or so you'd like to belive) manifests itself in a new wave of tears. They’re not falling gracefully now, they sting, angry and sudden, pooling along your lashes before you can wipe them. Still you wipe your cheek with the back of your hand again.

When you do, you become aware of how your eyes are rimmed with betrayal and your hands are shaking and your entire face feels cracked like porcelain that’s been dropped once, twice, too many times.

You round the corner to the hallway where the second-floor restroom is. You can hear feeble voices inside that start to come off as not so softened. Makes you pause just outside the frame. Look at yourself in the polished reflection of the fire extinguisher box in case your own hand failed you but that has been one of the many things that has not. Eyes glassy. Nose red. Lipstick worn off at the corners. You look like someone who’s unraveling. Methodically, even.

You can’t walk in like this.

Jia is in the feels, Safiya is perceptive. One look and they’ll know something’s wrong. And once that happens, the dam will break and you’ll start crying in front of them. And you'll cry ugly.

And right now, you can’t. You just- can’t.

Just as you're about to turn away, a woman in a slate-blue dress steps up beside you. Mid-thirties, elegant. One of the guests, you assumed. She gives you a polite smile, one hand reaching for the door.

You step in front of her before you’ve even decided to speak.

“Sorry—excuse me.”

She stops, brows raised in mild surprise.

You hold the water out, trying to steady your voice. “Could you… would you mind giving this to the two girls in there?One’s in a pink dress. One’s holding her hair back. They’re my friends—I just need to step outside for some air.”

The woman blinks once, then nods, smile softening into understanding.

“Of course.”

You hand her the bottle and add, “Please tell them I’ll be right back. I just—yeah. I’ll be back.”

She gives you a look. The kin of one where women give each other a type of laconic solidarity when they recognize something. Two words starting with the same letter. The thin line in between. Then she disappears inside, and you’re left alone again in the corridor. Alone again, the hallway exhales with you. Shallow, breathy, reluctant to hold what it’s just seen. The silence afterward is dense, thick with ghosts of hands and things not taken back. And you-still holding yourself like glass, too fine for touch-let it all soak in.

Your body wants quiet. Soundlessness is subjective, seclusion is primary. Somewhere you can let your face drop out of its composure, somewhere you can drop the mask of the girl who’s just fine.

You think about going home. But the apartment that basically gives off the odour of a once lasted relationship with a shoe rack that holds heels and loafers despite how it was shaped just for boots, a kitchen that never for once stopped smelling like raspberry jelly will make you all the more disordered. Speaking of ill, you also just can't leave your friends with no explanation at all. Disappearing for an hour or so is one thing, leaving entirely is another.

So you extract the idea from your mind whole. And since intuition has been the reason behind some very important unveiling, you chose to follow it once again. This time you distinguish it as a palace of carved panels and red rope that seems increasingly untethered from the celebration it’s supposed to contain. You follow the curl of tawny sconces as they dim behind you. You don’t have a direction, not by any means. Merely this straight urge to be elsewhere. Away from mirrors and pity and the way your voice will shatter if anyone dares to ask what happened.

The air changes again- the assuage of walkway giving way to the softer allay of space. You blink, slow, and find yourself facing tall double doors cracked just enough to tease a sliver of moonlight. You follow it like a moth and press a hand to the cool wood and ease it open when you've reached.

The balcony is mostly empty (or so you think). It's mostly meant for people who duck into here when their dates say too much, or when the music says too little. You don’t belong here for those reasons. But for a second, you let yourself pretend you do. Pretend is all that you can do, after all. Pretend is all one can do when no place reaches out like it's own.

You step out into the night.

The breeze is soft, carrying the perfume of late-blooming things that represent the late of march and early on days of may. There’s a railing with ornate curls, and a small potted tree beside it. You lean against the edge like a ghost at a masquerade, hidden in plain sight. Far from a invisible ghost, righteously misplaced.

The skyline shimmers in the distance. City lights doing their best impression of stars. Because the sky is unkind tonight. Clear and full of stars. One of those nights that dares you to feel small.

You close your eyes.

It should hurt less than it does. You should be angry, you think. Fury has a vibration, a tempo, that is not entirely senseless, that you could move to. But all you have is this ache. This underdone, expanding bruise of disbelief. That Hajoon, your Hajoon, the one who texted you goodnight from studio floors and once cried during the middle of your anniversary dinner because you surprised him with a scrapbook - that Hajoon had someone else’s lipgloss on his cheek.

And he let you walk into that party wearing your best, heart in hand, eyes wide and bright like you weren’t already being laughed at. The fact alone that he could ever be this savage measures up higher than the mere word spurning. Your fingers tighten around the railing.

You breathe. In. Out. In again.

He cheated on you.

You say it in your head, then again. Try it out. Grant it to parrot.

He. Cheated. On you.

How long? you think. It can’t have started tonight. The intimacy you saw take place takes time. That comfort is and that silence intertwines complexly.The way he let her talk over you like you weren’t even there. It takes a history. You sniff, furious.You want to rip out whatever pages it's sanctioned in. You want to punch someon-

— and the scuff of a footfall to your left startles you mid-thought, cracking clean through the violence of it. You breathe in too sharply and choke on the tail end of it, a hiccup caught mid-throat. The sound escapes before you can swallow it back, a soft, broken thing that snags in the night air.

You flinch, just barely, but it’s enough to pull you upright, palms peeling away from the ornate railing. The sound was soft; softer than it should be for how it lands in your chest. Impalpable, but undeniable. The categorical gospel is not the wind, nor is the sway of branches or the groan of old fixtures. It's plainly in a presence. A presence that exples in a dramatic, public way.

You turn your head.

In the first instance, it’s just a silhouette. Broad shoulders caught in a slant of moonlight, leaned casually against the far railing where the wall curves into the night. You hadn’t seen him when you first stepped out- he’s tucked into the darkness like he belongs there. You blame the sleek sweep of a jacket that gleams ink-black where the light touches and vanishes where it doesn’t. Depthless black, that's the kind of shade it is. He’s fidgetless against the opposite end of the balcony, arms folded, head tilted just enough that you know he’s looking out — not at you, seasonably. The night swallows him in patches, makes him blur into the dark, view as a conundrum, lets him melt into the obscurity. Only the gleam of a metal clasp or maybe the faint shimmer of a watch betrays the shape of him at all.

Your breath halts for a different reason now. This time in mortification. How long has he been there? How much did he hear of your inner voice that would sometimes refuse to stay just inside?

You should have known. Of course someone else would be here. This party is a haven for the overexposed, the adored and overworked — balconies are harbours, and privacy is a drug. You suppose you’re not the only one tonight with a reason to step away from too much attention.

You clear your throat, subtly, and swipe at your cheeks once more with the back of your hand, hoping whatever disaster your makeup has become is at least concealable under the night’s forgiving ink. You press yourself a little more into the corner, make yourself smaller.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurt, voice cracked and low-pitched but unmistakably sheepish. “I didn’t mean to… disturb you. I didn’t know someone was here.” you gesture vaguely toward the door as if it explains your presence, your unraveling, your trespass.

You’re already turning, embarrassment washing over you, warm and prickly, when you hear that voice. That empty headed, unwitting, greatly-

Oh come on!

Dwindling deep. Familiar in that unmistakable way, because it's the voice that’s been replayed in the background of your vehemence for months. Velour worn sharp.

“It's alright.”

There’s a haitus his mouth decides upon, and so does the surroundings with him like even the night is startled into inaction.

Your breath catches, shallow. Your backbone straightens, sharp.

He turns as if on cue.

It does not take place pointedly. An appropriate response that would be startled. No, not even that. But slow, like the metanoia of a thought that’s been brewing for too long. His face is in shadow, but the movement reveals the slope of his jaw, the lazy fall of dark hair over his brow. You can’t see the details, not in this light. But something about his presence is sharp in your periphery, like recognition trying to claw its way forward but tripping on the haze.

You retreat a step. Not far away, but enough.

"Stay." He adds, a beat slower that turns the night warm around him than it was a second ago.

He says it like it’s not a big deal, offering courtesy. But the sound of his voice reaches somewhere in you that you didn’t know was flammable. It scrapes gruffly, like a match. He hasn’t moved from his spot. Still standing there, half-shrouded. Watching, maybe. Or not. You can’t tell. But the certainty in his tone, unbothered, solid, undoes you in a different way.

You know that voice.

You don’t want to know that voice. But you do.

He who shall not be named. Of all people. Of all fucking anyone.

You don’t turn yet. You stare ahead, blinking hard, gathering yourself. That name has been the thread you tugged every time you felt distance growing between you and Hajoon before the awakening dropped upon you that he was actually not.

And now he’s here. On the balcony. With you.

Your throat bobs awkwardly, unsure what to say. Maybe you misheard. Maybe you’re imagining things because he was not supposed to be here. Your brain is playing cruel little games because tonight’s already stitched together from surreal fabric.

If it was any other time, hell had it been any minute before the past half hour, you'd have applauded the timing. Would have marched over to Kim Taehyung and said everything you wanted to.

Would have looked him square in the eye and asked if it felt good, demanding Hajoon’s time, his energy, his apologies, until there was none left for you. Would have told him, with teeth bared behind a smile, that he was the reason you ate cold fries alone on your own celebratory dinner.

You would have let it out. All of it. The slow rot of resentment you watered like a houseplant. The tantrum you tucked neatly beneath your tongue every time Hajoon said “Taehyung needs me.” You would have unspooled every sentence you rehearsed in the dark, every imagined confrontation sharpened over sleepless nights.

But this isn’t then.

This is now. And now you know the truth.

He didn’t bend Hajoon’s lynchpin until he broke. He didn’t whisper temptation or rearrange the tiles of loyalty under Hajoon’s feet. He didn’t need to because Hajoon walked willingly.

And you were too busy blaming the him to see it.

Now, stripped of that blame, that convenient villainy, you’re left with nothing but the naked awkwardness of this moment. The rage you’d once felt toward him feels foolish now. Juvenile. Like screaming at the moon for letting the tide pull you under. It doesn’t quite hold the shape it used to. You don’t know what to do with it. And so you stand there, stiff in the corner of the balcony, unable to move toward him, but unable to leave.

He hasn’t said another word. Hasn’t even looked at you again. He just exhales again. Smoke blooming from between his lips like it’s part of the night.

That’s when you notice the cigarette. You hadn’t clocked it before, but now you see the faint cherry glow at his side, the way it illuminates the curl of his fingers, the slow draw of breath. It looks romantic on him, of course it does. Doubles some tragic French film character leaning against the edge of ruin, too well-dressed to decipher publicly.

And as much you loved to make joke of comments under candid clips of this man that raved about some aura of his, you found yourself then just barely, just quick enough to pass as you scoot under the luminescence, catch a better glimpse of him.

His jaw is too sharp for comfort. His hair, mussed just enough to seem accidental, shimmers like ink under the silvered light. His lips (you don’t even know why you notice) are plush and parted. And his eyes, when they finally flick toward you, are darker than the night behind him. Flippant. Sleepy. Unfathomable.

He doesn’t speak. But he doesn’t look away either.

You want to look away. You do. But it’s magnetic, the stupid made up ambience around him. Easy in a way that demands nothing and everything. He’s not performing. He’s not even curious. Seems diserepctful but at the same time it makes you understand how someone like Hajoon could crumble under it. Why people orbit men like this and call it the law of nature. You’d scoffed at it before. Scoffed every time Hajoon said he just gets so intense sometimes, you know? like Taehyung was weather instead of a man.

Yet, you're not sure how understanding the possibility of it makes any difference to you. Makes any sense.

But how the hell do you share space with someone who’s been mythologized in your mind for so long?

Because now you’re sure. You know it’s him. You could draw the line of his nose from memory. The corner of his lip. You’ve seen this face on billboards, in moving gifs, in phone screens where your ex-boyfriend kept scrolling even during dinner.

Except now he’s real. Not flattened into pixels. Breathing the same air as you. You blink hard. Try to focus. To reroute your brain back into safer waters. But all it gives you is a memory.

Because this isn’t the first time you’ve spoken to him, is it?

It comes uninvited. Like most things do.

Back when Hajoon had just started as his manager. Everything was new then. Boundaries blurry. You still thought the industry was glamorous, not exhausting. You remember being home, hair wrapped in a towel, half a sheet mask on your face when your phone that was running a tutorial video paused on a frame. You'd have turned it back on if it wasn't for the name popping up on your screen at 10 a.m. on a Tuesday. You had picked up without hesitation.

Except it wasn’t Hajoon.

"Good evening. This is Taehyung. Can you send a picture of the contract folder on Hajoon-sshi's desk? He forgot it."

You blinked at the screen, furrowed your brow.

"Sure, Taehyung. 😂 Joon your impersonation game is trash and that's tough considering you're trying to speak like the man you work for. At least commit to the bit."

The message pinged back too quick for someone pretending to be a important, busy man.

"It's actually me. Taehyung. Hajoon-sshi's busy with some stuff."

You laughed. Alone in your bathroom. Holding a spoonful of some face oil and scrolling up and down the chat.

"And I'm the CEO of Mars. Let me know if you need a crater named after you."

You had awaited hajoon finally breaking out whatever character's in.

"You're funny. Send the photo."

This wasn’t the tone a boyfriend of sixteen months should be talking in, you had thought. Unaware as ever. If only you had learned how that unawareness will end for you.

"If it’s really you, Kim Taehyung, send a selfie holding a spoon."

You hadn’t expected a reply.

But a few minutes later there it was. There it came.

A dimly lit photo that was non debatable who it captured. Grainy in a way that none of his chronicled, edited ones were. Sleepy-eyed. Hair in disarray. Wearing a black hoodie and holding a spoon between his fingers with the most unimpressed expression you’d ever seen.

You stared at the image longer than you’d admit. Tried not to cringe too much at the cataloged annoyance. And then you sent the damn contract.

"Told you. I commit."

You didn’t respond. You told yourself he was probably just weird. Probably forgot all about you two minutes later. He never brought it up again. Neither did you. But sometimes, the memory flickered. A weird little moment stitched into your timeline, half-unreal.

And maybe he doesn’t remember you. Maybe that moment was just a Tuesday to him. You'd love to take advantage of that before it gets any more lumbering here. You tuck your arms around yourself and inhale the smoke-laced air stretched thin across the span of a few meters and commodity that has you topid. Hovering at a cautious distance, two steps too far to be friendly and one step too close to be indifferent.

You didn't realize acting indifferent was something that Kim Taehyung had a copyright on until he moves again. Abundantly. A loosening of limbs, the slow unfurling of someone at ease in their own myth.

“I don’t bite,” he says, voice low, drowsy. Just on the edge of humor, like he’s saying it more for himself than for you. His head tips toward you, not quite looking. Still, he flicks the ash from his cigarette with a lazy hand, like he’s bored of his own invitation.

You swear it’s the wind at first. The words fold into the air too smoothly.

You know you should just offer a polite smile. A nod. Some kind of noncommittal noise that maintains distance. But your mouth, as always, has other plans.“Mm,” you murmur, under your breath, not even meaning for him to hear, “I doubt that.”

You don’t think he’s listening. But he is.

You catch it - just fairly - in the slight turn of his head, the way one corner of his mouth curves, slow and serpentine. twitch of lip, more ghost than grin. The kind of smile you don’t see so much as sense. Felt more in your knees than your chest.

Great. Now you’re giving him lines.

Then - like it’s a casual thing, like it costs him nothing - he speaks again. Doesn’t even glance at you this time. Tilts his head, exhales another cloud of smoke, and lets it wander up into the sky.

“Come closer.”

Um hello? What did he just say to you? Did he actually demand of you?

Though the words are simple; not barked; not begged, they still alter an insolence capillary of yours. You hesitate, the word itself making a heat rise under your collarbones. A place it had no buisness eliciting a reaction in.

Your body moves before your brain signs off. Not by a great deal, but enough to close the distance between polite and probing. The necessary for the chill in the night to fade from your arms. Proportionality to fall under the scent of his cigarette, sharp and spicy and soaked in something faintly herbal, like bergamot and smoke and warm resin.

But you catch yourself before you go further. Straighten your spine. Scupper your voice.

“I’m not doing what you tell me,” you say, and the words are sharp, snapped like a twig underfoot. “Just so we’re clear.”

That almost-smile on his mouth doesn’t move, but it changes. And to your horror, it even deepens. Grows snobbish in a way that’s unapparent but impossible to miss. It’s pompous. Infuriatingly so. That elusive tilt of his lips that makes you want to shove him and ask what’s so funny and maybe push him off the damn balcony just to see if the smirk stays midair.

He leans a little more into the curve of shadow, gaze flicking sideways. Meticulously near enough to make your pulse skitter. “I didn’t think you would,” he says, and the amusement in his voice is unmistakable now. “You don’t strike me as particularly obedient.”

You stare. You hate that your throat goes dry. Because that's a totally normal thing to say to a stranger when you've got a face like that, isn't it? "Excuse me?"

He takes another drag from the cigarette, watching the embers burn down like a timer. The tip glows in his fingers — elegant fingers, of course they are, long and unhurried in how they cradle the smoke. The ash hovers before fluttering down like snow against the stone.

“What do I strike you as, then?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

It’s too much of a question. It slips past your lips like a dare that has been sent rolling on a slippery path you didn’t mean to voice. But it’s out there now, and you can’t take it back. Idiot.

Taehyung doesn't answer right away. He just exhales smoke and thought at the same time, head tilted still back toward the sky as if the answer might be hidden between the tapestry of the stars. You find he’s giving the question the time it doesn’t deserve. It’s flamboyant. It’s aggravating. And, worse, it’s effective.

Your arms remain crossed, body drawn in like a bow pulled taut. You don't regret handing your denim to Jia but you wish the night was colder so the goosebumps could be blamed on temperature, not tension. But the breeze is tepid now. Brushed in his voice, his perfume, his stupid legendary presence that has no right smelling as expensive and ancient and fucking grounded as it does.

Finally, his gaze shifts.

And this time, he does look at you. Fully. Directly.

A slow turn of his head, the sweep of his eyes over your face with the exasperation of how he would read the fine print of something he’s already decided on. “What do you strike me as?” he repeats, softly. Then clicks his tongue once, like he’s disappointed with you for even asking. "Are you sure you wanna know?"

The words are quiet. But his voice darkens at the question. Your stomach twists, and you don’t know if it’s indignation or intrigue. You’re fairly certain it’s both. And before it permeates into a shabbier feeling that'll have you clutching your torso, you put out your blundering silence as a response that he takes willingly, haughtily so.

His mouth twitches again. Not quite a smile this time. Closer to mischief. He shrugs one shoulder, loose and languid, eyes still trailing somewhere over the skyline, this conversation’s just a side project evidently.

Whatever. If the unnerving diagonal beside you can go back to doing what he painfully seems most interested in, so can you.

The railing is back beneath your palms, familiar now, some dumb metaphor made real — edges cold, aloof chill biting. The edge of your heel nudges against a loose leaf caught in the wind. It flutters once, twice, then gives up and sinks to the floor. You almost envy it. The city is still sprawled in the distance, impersonal to your cognizing. Behind you, the door stays shut. Back there, you envisage, is too bright, too loud, too full of people who might ask what’s wrong and not wait for the right silence before answering for you. Out here, you only share oxygen with a man who has ruined half your calendar and all your curated patience.

Unbothered, broad-shouldered, draped in the kind of serenity that only belongs to cats and men who’ve never been told no. Taehyung’s jacket gleams where it catches the low light- some brand you’ll never afford and he probably didn’t pay for. His posture is too facile.

The rubescent of his cigarette hisses as he draws in again — as if every drag is advised, intented, abrasive. That mouth was made for sin or sermons. Hard to tell which one he’d preach first.

You glance over once. Quickly. Then regret it instantly.

He’s watching you. In a way he did after you threw your sharpest tone at him, just stood there — barefaced and unflinchinb —like he’d seen this particular performance from you before. Maybe in another life. Maybe in a dream.

The silence between you drones with electricity. It's not awkward, exactly. It’s too thick to be awkward. Too charged. Like the aftermath of lightning —  you don’t know if the flash already hit or if it’s coming, if this is clement or consequence.

Then, casually, the cigarette hand lifts again. He turns it between his fingers once, then holds it out across the space between you, his gaze flat and unreadable, offered to you with the same ease most people use to pass napkins.

"You smoke?"

The question cuts through the quiet like it’s been waiting there the whole time.

You scoff. "I don't smoke." Neither do you pick up addictions from strange men who talk like their only motive is to distress the already distressed women they corner in alone balconies.

“That’s a shame,” he says, still not retracting the offer. "You look like you need it."

You arch a brow. "I look like I need a way to a slow, tragic death?"

He exhales through his nose — amused. "No. You look like you need a distraction." Takes a pause before adding. "Do you not?"

You glance at the cigarette. Then at his mouth.

Unfortunate, really. That his lips have the audacity to look generous. He holds your gaze too easily for someone who’s done nothing but irritate you with a single smirk and a face blessed by nepotism from the gods. Your jaw ticks and to the degree that you'd like to believe it's from that or the persistence offer, you're sorely knowing of that's its a reaction that is spawned from how tempting it is, the silence that falls after his question. Not the offer itself — smoke never tasted good, no matter how poetic the film girls made it look — but the inaction. His inaction, in particular, that abrades against the raw wall of your morale. You hate that you’re thinking about it. Thinking about it too hard, the same way you think about late-night texts that go unanswered, or how many people have probably touched the door handle before you in a public restroom.

You turn your gaze back to the city. Your hand curls around the railing again. It digs in, sharper this time. Enough that the metal edge presses a whisper of hurt into your palm. Nothing lasts long against the pressure of being watched the way he watches — quietly, without ego, as if he’s already understood what you’re going to do.

Do you need a distraction?

Yes. Obviously.

But admitting is a type of yielding. Humans are never actually normal with such a thing, let alone letting yourself yeild in front of him — this man hewed out of tailored arrogance is a threat to your vanity. You’ve already had one of those tonight, and it ended with you biting down tears in a hallway, handing water bottles to strangers so your friends wouldn’t see your hands shake.

This, withal, would be an indulgence. A petty little rebellion. The kind of thing someone else would do in a story you’d never admit reading. Smoking with Kim Taehyung on a balcony where your relationship ended a quiet death only an hour ago. You want to laugh at the ridiculousness of it. You want to laugh so hard your ribs bruise from the inside.

But coversely, you stand there. Wound up. Too mindful.

And the longer you don’t move, the more you feel him waiting.

You steal a glance again. His arm hasn’t wavered, cigarette still extended, ember glowing low. There’s no impatience in him, and you only ever see that kind in people who already know the outcome. Kim Taehyung is a man who waits, who already lives in your answer and is just killing time in the silence before you catch up. Curious. Present. Patient in a way that suggests he’s memorizing the shape of your hesitation just to store it somewhere for later.

You sigh. A long, tight sound dragged up from the soles of your feet.

You take two steps toward him. The space closes, distance evaporating between you like heat on pavement. And he doesn’t move, doesn’t gloat — decently watches, that same unreadable interest rolling low behind his lashes.

You stop just shy of arm’s reach. With a single curl of your fingers, you take the cigarette from his hand.

His fingers brush yours for half a breath. Warm, dry, real and your dorsum locks up at the contact, pitter patter quick behind your teeth. You pretend it didn’t happen. You pretend very hard. The cigarette tastes bitter at the filter when you lift it to your lips. Not that you care. You’re not here for the flavor. You’re here because the world is ending and strikes as being only your world ending.

You inhale. Lightly.

It’s awful. Burnt and earthy. Makes your throat feel like someone wrung it out like a sponge. You cough once, quietly, turn your head away in ignominy, try to act like it was atmospheric and not your body rebelling against poor choices.

You make out the smile before you see it. It bobs up on the side of your face like a shadow. Bastard.

You exhale through your nose, eyes narrowed. "You're so charming. Does it always lets get you away from this habit of yours?"

"Mhm. What habit?"

He’s watching you, still. Closer now. Still tall, still shrouded in that stupid expensive shiny material. But something’s mutated. He looks less carved from figment and more human in the face — detail where there was once only silhouette. The curve of his mouth. The sleep in his eyes. The line of his jaw you could draw with a knife.

"Of having things your way. Is that not a habit? Do you not always get what you want?" You take another drag.

And maybe you’re imagining it — probably you are — but for once there's not a single trace of beguilement on his face or in his poorly lit stare that simmers. Drops to your mouth where your lips are wrapped around the cancer stick. He sees.

"Not always."

The filter burns a little hotter than it should between your fingers, but you don’t drop it. That would make a sound. You keep it pressed neatly against the edge of your breath and lean into the railing again. This time you don’t grip it. You let your arms rest there, loose, voluntary. It’s easier this way, to gather yourself in the flicker of things you cannot control.

“Not always?” you echo, casually, but it punches from your chest more bitter than intended. “Color me shocked.”

His hum lands soft against the back of your neck, something dulled and sun-warmed, but it still finds a grit. Tilts his chin toward the night like he’s listening to something in the silence that you can’t hear. Not a man in thought; no, that would be too benevolent. A man in leisure.

There’s no wasted effort, no shuffle or twitch. You’ve known performers, fidgeters, people who need to fill silences with breath or comment just to feel present. Taehyung is none of those. You swallow once. Your voice is back in your mouth, restless. He doesn’t match the versions of him that live in tabloids, in the pruned PR clips, in the way Hajoon used to talk about him with the slight awe of someone who’d just walked past a lion that winked. There’s nothing lofty about him. Not even in his smile, the rimple of the skin strecting around his eyes when they drift toward the line where the sky dominates over the buildings, The city’s to offer stars, and you can tell he’s still searching for them. He tilts his face up to the night, slow and unhurried, jaw catching a flicker of sallow from the railing light. There’s no revelation in his expression about what exactly he is looking for.

“It’s a lovely night,” he says finally, in that impromptu manner men do when they’re either lying or about to advance into nonsense. "Clear enough to see the Pleiades, if you know where to look.” his voice summoned.

The what?

You can't deny that there's a keeness he awakes in you, when he says that, speaking a language of his own. But you also can't deny that you have no interest enabling that, some things (Some men) require the right headspace and yours is certainly far from right. You're not some child, and you can do just fine without knowing about astronomical facts, so you don’t even nod along, as though you know what he's talking about and you've already found a pattern in the sky.

At the lack of your reaction, he does what wouldn't have predicted, because what even is your attention worth to a star (that he looks up) like him. He could sent a message to a group chat of people living and dying to keep him happy: hey who's up for some solar system facts? And atleast, four people would turn and listen with their head on their folded hands, whilst looking at him at like he had made the excellent geometries of the sky. You really wouldn't have seen him pressing from a long mile.

"Humor me and ask me what is that."

You are left with two options, one being add up another reason of fuming internally over this highfaluating wanna-be, assuming that you actually don't know what this is, while he does. Okay, he's not wrong on that but where's the graciousness when's it's needed? To save yourself for being any more miserable, you go with the second, suction smoke into your lungs and ask. "What is that?"

He lifts up a finger and starts to move it around randomly, until you notice he's not, he's actually following a cluster of stars with the tip of his index finger. “The Seven Sisters. Stars, technically. They don't always show, so we're lucky we are under the brightest star." You look up too and indeed, it shines bright. You're not sure about the lucky part. "Old story says they only appear on nights where something coffined comes to surface.”

You glance at him sidelong, cigarette perched neatly between your lips. You doubt if thats one of his fanclub astrology facts or he read that off a matchbox.

“It’s just superstition,” he says as if had the ability to read your thoughts. All the holy things above and beyond, you hope not. "When you need a direction on those nights. You can always look up."

The delivery is suspiciously straight-faced. You can’t tell if it’s sincerity dressed up as a joke or the other way around, but it sits in the air between you like something well-planned.

You exhale, slow through your nose. The filter tastes a little more bitter than before, or maybe your mouth does. “Are you fucking with me?”

His eyes don’t move from the sky, but the border of his expression ameliorates with amusement. The skin that was wrinkled, now crinkles up, and that's all. You’re puzzled, left in mystery if his motive was to annoy you. Confused over the decision of whether you should elbow in response too, twist the moment until it gives. But you don’t. Because the truth is, whatever it was, whether it was a myth or a dig or a gentle offering, you understood it. Quite possibly, needed it too. Either way, you don’t ask him to explain.

You resort to the secret third option of saying something you don’t mean to say. Your mouth opens before your sense of judgment can lace its shoes and declare your words thinly veiled as cavalier.

“I know an old superstition too,” you start, flicking ash off the edge of your cigarette, “that if two people share a smoke, they have to share a secret too.”

You don’t know where it comes from. Probably not a saying at all.Maybe something you read on a forum in college or saw scrawled on a dirty napkin in a bar bathroom. Probably from a place full of bullshit. God you are full of bullshit. But it slips out with the careless elegance of someone who isn’t bracing for repercussion.

Taehyung turns his body this time. Slow, one shoulder first, the leather of his jacket catching the light in a blink. His brows lift, just barely. He’s interested, but not performatively so. The barest cock of his head that's sharpened with intrigue makes you doubt. Wonder. You’re not sure why your heart climbs two rungs higher in your throat.

“A secret,” he repeats, as if trying the word on his tongue. “Do people actually do that? Are you fucking with me?" The wind presses his jacket against the lines of his ribs. His fingers tap once, twice, against the railing, deliberate. He smells like silk and smoke and the kind of cologne that’s expensive enough not to brag about itself.

You upraise your head, eyes fixed on a point in the city that doesn’t matter. "Apparently."

You puff out your cheeks and let the smoke linger there a second too long before exhaling through your nose. "And I'm not fucking with you." You say the terminal with an discomposing defensiveness.

The architecture of interest wraps around silence. You wait, not because you're impatient, but because you want to see what silence does to him.

He exhales, long and easy. “Alright,” he says, flicking the slag from his nail like he’s dusting off a layer of thought. “Go ahead.”

You glance over. “What?”

“Share yours.”

Your throat tightens around nothing. “That’s not how it works.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No,” you say, a little firmer. “The person who offers the cigarette doesn’t get to demand first blood.”

He grins. Oh this real bastard. “Mm. You should’ve thought of that before you lied about the saying.”

“I didn’t lie. I… embellished it up a little.”

His tongue presses briefly into his cheek. “Same thing, my darling."

The term lands heavier than it should. Unrehearsed. Wrong accent for condescension. You don’t bother correcting him. If anything, you portray as if you didn’t even hear him.

He tilts his head again, finally turning to look at you in full now. His expression is maddeningly unreadable. Eyebrows slightly lifted, but not mocking. Just open. He waits in a way that says: I have all night. Go on. Impress me. Surprise me. Burn me, if you want.

You scowl, faintly. The smoke makes your next breath hitch as it burns at the edges.A secret, he said. You shouldn’t have offered the opening. You thought you’d like the power in it, holding something sharp and choosing not to use it. But it only leaves your mouth dry and your head stupidly full.

Your mind claws through options.

Your secret would be too easy, yet too big at the same time. It sits on your tongue, hot and twitching. It thrashes to be named; this ugly thing. You could spit it out between your teeth and watch the whole balcony tilt with it. Splinter the mood and makes everyone start looking for an exit, even if their feet don’t move. It’s a secret with teeth and a jawline. It smells like cheap floral perfume and sounds like a whimper through a half-open storage door.

You could say it. You could torch the air between you both with it. My boyfriend cheated on me tonight. In the storage room. With someone I shook hands with. Maybe even while you were living in a delusion, or shaking hands with people who thought they mattered. And you don’t even know if he'll even care. If none of this would matter to him and it’s just your heart doing its pathetic little dance in a one-woman tragedy.

You could lie. God knows you’ve gotten good at that lately. You could say you hate cucumbers or that you still sleep with the bathroom light on.

But standing next to him, lying feels too pedestrian. You glance over at him, hoping his sufferance will start to look smug enough to punch. But no. He’s too relaxed for that. One wrist draped over the edge of the railing, the other hanging low beside his thigh, fingers marked with the last memory of the cigarette you just burned through together. He’s not even close enough to touch, but you swear if you breathed wrong, he’d hear it shift in your ribs.

Unfair. Unrelenting. Utterly exhausting.

You rake your teeth over your bottom lip and break the silence with something that tastes harmless. It isn’t, really, but it plays that way.

“I’m not your fan.”

His eyes flinch. Like a tick behind his lashes he forgot to tame.

You glance sidelong, watching his profile for the reaction, any reaction. The way someone checks the rearview after running a red light. “That’s my secret. Or one of them. I guess.” It’s barely louder than a whisper, but it lands with the weight of a bottle uncorked too fast. Immediate relief followed by a slow fizz of regret.

The pause that follows is the longest one yet.

You regret it. You don’t. You regret it again.

“I know.”

Huh.

The words are smooth. Soft, but pointed. As if you’ve confirmed something he’s always known but was waiting to see if you’d admit. You don’t know if you were excepting a bite to them, a sleek reveal of a bruised ego but what you were not was that slow, coiled calm that has no business feeling sexy in someone’s mouth.

Was it that obvious? Were you that obvious? You wait for elaboration on that but nothing comes.You watch his profile, the ridiculous slope of his nose, the glint of metal at his ear, you bracket for the assured curve of his lips but then again: nothing. He doesn’t clarify, doesn’t call you out, doesn’t accuse.

You can’t tell if he’s messing with you or if he means it — if he remembered your voice from a year-old phone call, if he recognized your silence tonight, if he sighted your stare in the reflection of the goddamn glass doors.

That sounds unreasonable so you don’t entertain the idea any more. "I'm not saying I hate you or anything." You add after a respite, withstanding, out of sheer principle. "In case you start thinking I'm some undercover journalist who's out to get you by making you slip up some horrible secret and ruin your career." You falter and your pupils dilate in some sort of enlightenment.

"Wait.. that does sound legitimate.." You breathe and he chuckles, chasmic. Straight from the core of his chest. Pretty.

You flush, hand tightening around the cigarette. "What I mean to say is that I mean no offense."

"None taken." That's all he gives you.

Another non-answer that sounds just close enough to a hum to pass for approval. It makes your eye twitch. The bluster in it is staggering. Like he’s heard every variation of insult and adoration and now catalogues them by scent.

“So you’re not bothered?” you ask.

“No.” For a second, the look in his eyes could melt paint from a canvas. “Should I be?”

You hesitate. You don’t know why you hesitate.

"No." You nearly choke on how dishonest it isn’t. You don’t want him to be bothered. You don’t want him to care.

And yet — there’s a morbid thrill in seeing if he will.

You angle yourself slightly toward him, careful not to break whatever tension is braided in the space between your bodies. The heat of him remains, even with a whole arm’s length untouched. You need the tilt of something else. So you pivot, words tumbling faster than thought.

“So,” you say, voice stripped bare. “Your turn.”

His brows lift, slow and unsurprised.

“For the secret,” you add, not giving him the chance to weasel out.

He considers. You can see it — the slight furrow at the edge of his brow, the twitch of his jaw, the progression of thought moving unhurried behind his eyes. The line of his mouth doesn’t change, but the solidity of it shifts.

“I need time,” he says at last, tapping the back of his fingers against the railing like it’s a piano.

“No time,” you counter, before he can wax poetic or poeticize wax or whatever the hell he’s about to do. “Actually, I’ll help. I’ll guess.”

“You’ll guess my secret.”

“Exactly. To speed things up.”

He sighs. Appealed, again, in that maddeningly low-key way that reads more indulgence than exasperation.

You straighten slightly, clear your throat. “You’ve got six toes on one foot.”

Taehyung shifts, and you hear the soft rustle of his jacket as he moves. One hand disappears into his pocket.You wonder if anything he does is ever clumsy. You want to see it. But to all appearances, no.

"You talk to plants. You whisper to them, atleast for the sake of dignity. Apologize when you forget to water them. You have at least one fiddle leaf fig in your apartment that’s seen you cry in a silk robe.”

He says nothing, which is infuriating in its own right. So, to punish him, you keep talking.

You tap your chin. “You cry when you're watching a Pixar movie."

As if to egg you on, he remains mum.

"You secretly hate the fame."

Oof.

“Okay..you’re secretly married to an heiress in Monaco but only out of obligation because her father saved your family from a blood feud—wait, is this why you smoke? To cope?”

You chance a glance at him then.

He’s still quiet, one brow slightly lifted, his mouth doing that thing again — where it thinks about smiling but chooses restraint instead. He hasn’t said a word. Just stands there, gaze unwavering, letting you dig your own grave with a shovel he probably forged.

"That's a hell lot of gusses. Are you sure you're not a fan?" He finally says. Dragged through just enough baritone to sound stuffy without needing help.

Not even close. But you lapse anyway, roll your eyes and resist the urge to melt into the railing beside you. You’ve been standing here too long, you think. Under this particular constellation of stars and scrutiny. Talking too much. Giving too much. Your mouth, again, has outpaced your sense.

"I'll pace myself." You mutter under your breath. His laugh is soft and bothersomely warm that sits like a pat on the head you didn’t ask for.

"Well?” you prompt, arms crossed now. Your cigarette’s been flicked away into the night, but the heat of it lingers at your fingertips. “Are you going to give me a real on--"

He cuts you off and offers. “I’ve been learning French.”

You blink.

That’s it? That’s the secret? You nearly threw your soul onto the balcony floor, and he came back with learning a forigen langauge?

You don’t hide your disbelief. You don’t even try. “That’s your big, mysterious secret?”

He shrugs. One-shoulder, elegant, unconcerned. “You wanted one.”

“French?” you repeat, deadpan. “Oh fuck off. That’s what you went with? That’s what you’re hiding from the world?”

His lip twitches and he whispers in a exaggerated manner. "You're the only one who knows."

Your face torsions into a grimace.

"See? That's why I didn't told anyone." The hand from his pocket slips out and he runs it over his jaw. There’s a ardency in his voice now, stretched and prearranged. “Because of that face you’re making.”

“What face?”

“The one that says I’m pretentious.”

“That’s because you are pretentious,” you say, eyes narrowed. “Learning French for fun?”

“Not for fun,” he corrects. "It's work. For Paris. I’ve got a event there next month.”

You groan in the quiet that returns,balmy and teeming.The metropolis hums below, ignorant of your little corner modeled out of smoke and shared breath.

You glance at him, brows pinched. “Say something in French, then.”

His head tilts, just slightly. “Huh?”

You square your stance, chin lifting, voice dipped in faux detachment. “Prove it, I mean.”

He blinks, slow. “Prove what.”

“That you’re not full of shit, Jesus."

His gaze slides across the space between you. Perhaps he was offened that you asked him to believe his nonsense. And you don’t believe that was anything but. A made up lie about how he has a hairless cat named Nietzsche and that would have charmed you more ‘I’ve been Duolingo-ing French in the dark.’

Then again, he had no reason to say something that would have entertained you. Why would he? You're no one. Not even his dedicated enthusiast that he feels bound to in some way. So, you beyond a shadow a doubt, don't expect him to even attempt.

“Je pense à toi plus souvent que je ne le devrais.”

Let alone say that many of words. They sky in ample, partly because of the tone, the tempo. Partly for the way it leaves his mouth already inflamed with meaning. The vowels roll soft in the back of his throat, mutilated just a little and for a brief, stupid moment, you forget you’ve just spent the last two hours being publicly, privately humiliated.

You blink, slow. “Wow. Okay. You're not lying but..?"

“But what?”

“What did that mean?”

The current tightens. Scarcely from the wind, in no manner from cold, but with pause. A single moment suspended by silence, thick and humming. You expect him to laugh, to shrug it off, to hand you back your question with a lopsided grin and a conveniently vague answer. You excepted a big headed translation of what he said, probably praised how beautiful his sternum is in the language of the romancers.

But the expectation that arrives is staining the moment. It thickens between you like honey slow-dripped over the edge of a knife. Definitely not the kind you can breathe through. You count five seconds. Then seven. Then forget to keep counting because definitely not when he eventunally moves. One slow step forward, a flux that cuts the space between your bodies down to a corruption.

Simply folds himself into your periphery. Doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t need to. The heat of him arrives before the shadow does. You can feel the slope of his body, the broadness of it, the made to measure frame of someone who was never taught to shrink. It sure does makes you do so.

You stand there with your neck craned, still leaning against the railing, still biting the inside of your cheek, still trying to remember what the fuck he just said. You told him to prove it. You hadn’t told him to make a meal out of it. But here you are, jaw locked and throat dry.

You lock eyes with him, by a nose. He’s taller up close — of course he is.He leans in a touch, eyes cutting toward the stub of a cigarette still between your fingers. Or what’s left of it. The lipstick ring, half-smudged, stares back up at you in a little flash of chagrin.

Before you can toss it — he reaches.

Two fingers, unhurried, brushing yours again as he plucks it from your hand. His skin grazes yours and you swear your breath stutters like a faulty wire. It’s warm. Calloused in the way expensive hands aren’t supposed to be.

He lifts the cigarette and turns it slowly, inspecting the end. The smear of your lipstick, the last traces of you still on it.He twirls it once between thumb and forefinger, then glances at you. “You said I have a habit,” he says. His voice is calm, low, threaded with that warm rust he never bothers polishing.

You say nothing. Your throat has turned treacherous.

He tucks it between his lips. Listlessly. Takes his time. Drags in smoke, hollow and full. Then he exhales through his nose.

“I’m starting to think you have one too.”

You narrow your eyes, jaw tight. “What.”

His next words come darker. A commodity less said than laid down in front of you.

“A habit of asking questions you don’t want answers to.”

Your breath hits you crooked. You press your lips together, try to will sensation back into your legs. The silence stretches between you again, full of heat and that despicable prescience that he hasn’t broken it, because he doesn’t need to.Your mouth stays shut. It's not used to being without an opinion. He’s taken that from you too, somehow. The only sound you make is a shaky exhale, quiet enough to be mistaken for wind.

Your gaze follows his to his wrist, where his watch glints faintly beneath the low light, that watch you’d mocked internally for being too shiny, too sumptuous-looking, too aware of its own importance. You don’t know what he reads in the time, but he makes a soft sound, a breath, maybe a sigh, latterly he shrugs. The shoulders of his jacket shift, roll, and then, before your body can react, he’s pulling his arms free.

That black, unbothered thing of a jacket, the one that smelled like amber and ash and subtle conceit. He holds it for a second in his hands, then swings it gently, stupidly, over your shoulders.

Your first instinct is to shove it off, slap his hand away, say something defensive that hides how everything in you is currently rioting.

“What are you doing?” you ask, voice splintered at the ends.

You don’t know what’s more disorienting. The unexpected gesture or the sheer weight of it. The jacket is heavy, still warm from his body, lined with something smooth that smells criminally luxurious, smoke and vetiver and a note you can’t name but feel in your knees. It swallows you instantly, hangs too wide over your frame, sleeves grazing knuckles you didn’t realize were clenched.

You stiffen, hands raised as if the fabric might detonate.

“No—no, I’m fine,” you protest, reaching to return it, but his hand catches your wrist, gently. Not holding you there, just… halting the motion. His fingers barely curve around your skin.

"I'm trying to be a gentleman." he says, eyes soft but voice gravel-edged. "I am a gentleman, actually."

You almost snort, but your throat tightens too fast for it to come out fully. Good thing, you decide. Otherwise, you would’nt have trusted yourself not to speak up on the think pieces, The fan-written fever dreams about how Taehyung held a door open once and that made him the reincarnation of chivalry itself.

Kim Taehyung, the article said, is a gentleman — he's out to get your poor heart because Kim Taehyung is the refined man of our modern times who asks before he touches, and never forgets a name.

You’d rolled your eyes so hard they clicked. You’d said aloud, to no one in particular, yeah, I bet. And yet here you are. Swaddled in the evidence.

Before you can launch into your next indignation, he speaks again — this time with a glint, a grin that blooms crooked at the edges and threatens to bring down whatever composure you’ve reassembled prior to disappearing away back to the glow.

“It was nice finally meeting you, ceo of Mars."

A/N: it does not end here!! tumblrs just shit and got me with its word limit but I will not be stopped and you can keep reading from here <3

[intoblonde6ftwbbplayers]

Transferring Hearts; a love story from Columbia to Storrs

TransferTeammate! x UconnPaige!

pairing; octransferteammate! x uconnpaige!

description; A South Carolina transfer comes to uconn after winning her second championship. Not a lot of people know why but all Andrea knows is that she needed to get away for her cheating ex and her lying “friend”.

random details; Andrea Pierce was ranked #1 on espn for her class and that’s how she got a big following. She’s basically 3 years younger than paige (like 2 years and 10 months) she’s entering her junior season and has won the championship twice with south carolina and got MOP in the 23-24 season. Her ex bf (yes a bi queen represented) and her close friend were hooking up behind her back for weeks. Andrea is very active on social media especially tiktok and youtube (think tara yummy style vlogs and edits being made of her). 

warnings; none really just I have no clue about basketball like other then what I learned 8th and 9th grade when I was forced to play. Probably bad spelling and grammar bc idk how to used commas. Oh also forgot to mention Andrea is going Latina bc I love my Latina baddies

lmk if y'all want longer chapters like this or shorter ones!

||

High off wining; prologue

April 6th 2024

"Hey guys what's up. It's your girls here with a quick little check in before tomorrow's game" Andrea said pulling her best friend and teammate Chloe Kitts into the camera

"Andrea Pierce basketball phenom and internet sensation everybody!" Chloe said giving her friend an introduction that wasn't needed but well deserved after her performance during this tournament.

Andrea begins blushing slightly "Okay bro not too much on me" she said with a smile

"alright y'all... i'm feeling it for tomorrow's game like seriously. Mark my words if our girl Andrea gets hot tomorrow then REALLY it's over for Iowa"

"Yeah we're speaking it into the universe guys. Gamecocks are taking the title tomorrow!" Andrea chants

"Yeahhhh! LETS GO WE GOT THIS!" Chloe yells right back into the camera before both girls look at each other laughing

"Alright, alright we need to get to bed before the big game tomorrow but we'll check in with you guys after getting the dub"

Andrea quickly stops the camera and sighs trying to shake out the nerves thinking about the game.

April 7th 2024

"And with 5 minutes left in the 4th quarter both Andrea Pierce and Kamilla Cardoso have been on fire tonight really pushing gamecocks ahead." Ryann Ruocco says

"Yes and let's talk a bit about Andrea Pierce for a second because at first glance you wouldn't expect a 5'7 shooting guard to be one of the biggest names of women's collegiate basketball" Rebecca Lobo said

"And that makes her all the more special. I mean from being ranked #1 in her class from ESPN and just seconds away from winning a national title with the gamecocks" Holly Rowe said

"I mean could Andrea Pierce be the key to a new dynasty for women's basketball? She was out for most of the season her freshman year with a knee injury but South Carolina has had a perfect season so far and Andrea Pierce has been a name that keeps coming up when you ask why" Rebecca Lobo says

"Her basketball IQ and court vision are unmatched I mean just this tournament alone, the no look passes, clutch three-pointers, and even blocks that have changed the game for the gamecocks this season." Rebecca Lobo continues

"And now finally with 4 seconds left and a 7-0 run by South Carolina, all by Andrea Pierce, the score is 87-75 with the gamecocks and Andrea Pierce solidifying this win for coach Dawn Staley and South Carolina." Ryan Ruocco said

"Lets check in with Holly on the court as she interviews Andrea Pierce" Rebecca Lobo said

"Yes thank you Rebecca, Im here with the Andrea Pierce who just got named most outstanding player. How do you feel right now Andrea?" Holly asks

"Uhm... Honestly im feeling really good right now. Just like on top of the world and just so extremely grateful for everything and for this season and for the people around me and that have supported me through everything"

"Yes you certainly have been through a lot in your short collegiate experience. How did your injury last year affect the way you went into this season?"

Andrea laughs nervously and looks down a bit before answering "It's changed the way I look at the world and has given me a deeper appreciation for everything I do and everything I want to accomplish. After my injury i was just living in a state of uncertainty but lots of people reached out, including players i've looked up to for a while, and I formed new bonds and deepened old ones that helped me get here today."

"Wow thats really sweet. Final question Andrea, you've had an amazing season and have even been referred to as the future of women's basketball and even just won MOP, what do you have to say about all this?" Holly asked

"I mean it wasn't just me it was my teammates giving me good looks, good assists, setting screens, the plays being made and just our overall trust in our talent. Everyone that's ever believed in me, close friends and family, and even my fans online that let me know that they're proud..."

Andrea looks to the side for a second with tears in her eyes.

"Ugh i'm tearing up I cant believe this, but uhm yeah when fans tell me 'you're doing so good' or like 'keep it up' like even those little moments have an impact and have gotten me that much closer to this moment and i'm so thankful for everything and everyone who has led me to this and... I cant wait to be back here next year for my second ring!" Andrea finishes excitedly, wiping her tears

"Alright thank you so much Andrea and again congratulations on the win and on the award." Holly finishes.

"Yeah thank you Holly. Bye!" Andrea says waiving one last time to the camera and giving Holly Rowe a quick side hug as she leaves to cut the net down.

"Wow what humble answers Andrea gave us, I mean at this point what's not to like she's great on the court and off" Holly says to the camera

"Yes and that comment about being back here next year? I believe it, I truly think that Andrea Pierce is just going to get better and already being so mature for being just 19 years old. We often talk about her poise on the court but off the court as well." Rebecca Lobo responds

"Yes I noticed that. Whenever you ask about a good game she talks about her teammates and coaching staff who made the plays or executed them, Andrea Pierce is next level and I don't want to jinx anything but it's likely we'll be seeing her cut this net down again in a year." Holly says bringing the broadcast to an end

Andrea runs to cut her piece of the net and even ends up getting a big piece to wear like a necklace.

She gets to the sidelines where her one of her closest friends, and roommate, Maddie, had been vlogging for her.

Andrea runs up to her and hugs her tightly.

Even though Maddie barely knew anything about basketball she had been Andreas friend since freshman orientation and was the first person to tell her that it was all going to be okay when she hurt her knee.

"You did it Drea I'm so proud of you!" Maddie says hugging her tightly while still recording.

"Thank you Maddie for being such a good friend and being there for me I wouldn't have been able to do this without you." Andrea says tearing up while thinking about all the highs and lows that her and Maddie have gone through together

As they finally pull away from each other Maddie spots Andreas new necklace that she assumes will be going home with them.

Maddie tugs on the net lightly and begins laughing at her friend. "New necklace?" she asks

"Yeah" Andrea responds glancing down. "You like it? 'Cause it's coming home with us." She says grabbing the net with both hands and lifting it toward Maddie to show her and the camera that caught this entire moment.

Andrea grabs the camera and says goodbye to Maddie who said she needed to get home to study for whatever pre-med class she said she was 'failing' (got anything below a 90).

"aight vlog its just us now! But guys oh my god i'm a national championnnnn!!" Andrea says walking toward the locker room now.

"It hasn't sank it yet... I'm just so thankful for all of you guys who have gone through everything with me and just grateful for everyone around me and most of all thank you God" Andrea finishes as she gets to the locker room where everyone is celebrating.

"There's our MOP" Kamilla says stretching the last syllable out playfully

"Aww I love you so much Kamilla I wouldn't have gotten this award without you."

"Heyyy vlogggg let me just steal them for a sec." Chloe says reaching for the camera.

Andrea and Chloe have a system when it comes to after a game. Chloe knows that the first person Andrea wants to call is her grandfather.

And she also knows that Andrea wants to capture every moment on camera so she helps her out by 'stealing' the camera for her segment of the video.

Andrea quietly thanks Chloe and proceeds to FaceTime her grandpa who picks up immediately.

"Hola abuelo!" (hi grandpa) she greets excitedly

"Hola mi princesita, estoy tan orgulloso de usted." (Hi my princess, im so proud of you) he says holding the phone at a very low angle like any old person.

"Gracias abuelo! Me nombraron la jugadora mas destacada del torneo. Y mire mi nuevo collar... le gusta?" (Thank you grandpa! They named me most outstanding player in the tournament. And look at my new necklace... do you like it?) Andrea said holding her net up to the screen smiling like someone had given her the whole universe.

"Me encanta. Bueno se que esta ocupada ahorita pero ya viene el verano entonces espero verla pronto. La quiero mucho, adios" (I love it. Well i know you're busy right not but summer is coming up so I hope to see you soon. I love you so much, bye)

"Adios abuelo lo quiero mucho!" (Bye grandpa i love you so much!) Andrea says hanging up the phone and going to find Chloe again.

"So where's Ethan?" Chloe asked Andrea as they get into the car ready to head back to the hotel

they were gonna celebrate back at Columbia since they had a 5 am flight the next day

"Oh he said he needed to study for some engineering class and couldn't come to the game or celebrate"

"Drea... You know I love you right but, why do you put up with that? I mean you deserve someone who see's how great you are and how bright you shine, not Ethans ass who gets in a mood every time someone talks about your accomplishments." Chloe says as they wait at a red light

"I dont know... I love him. When we met I was in a really dark place mentally and he helped me through it and even if we're going through a rough patch right now I do love him so much." Andrea says finishing the conversation

April 8th 2024

"Aight bye Drea see you tonight!" Chloe says once they arrive back their dorms.

"Yeah see you later!"

Thats when Andrea gets her phone out to see if Ethan has texted her back yet.

Still no reply. Andrea loved texting and often had no shame about pressing the 'notify anyway' button. Because who do you think you are on dnd?

But at this point her and Ethans texts were starting to look like he wasn't her boyfriend and more like a guy trying to ghost her.

'Heading to the game now'

delivered.

'Okay I lowk ate warmups up so we got this'

delivered.

'nvm thats fucking cc out there'

'who do I think I am? they beat uconn'

'they beat fucking paige bueckers yesterday'

'how can we even compete with that?'

delivered.

'ok officially crashing out wtf'

delivered.

'babe?'

delivered.

'sorry ik ur studying'

'just respond when u can'

delivered.

'ok momentary lapse of judgment'

'im fucking Andrea Pierce'

'I GOT THIS'

'LIKE DEADASS I GOT THIS'

delivered.

'BABE I GOT FUCKING MOP'

'LETS GOOO'

'LETS FUCKING GO OMGOMGOMG'

'IM ACTUALLY HIM'

delivered.

That was all last night. Andrea hadn't bothered to text Ethan this morning. She didn't know what had been going on lately but her and Ethan had been fighting a lot recently.

She felt like he was always on edge around her and didn't know why. He was picking fight for no reason or just wont respond for days and then act like nothing happened.

Andrea was getting a bit tired of it but she loved him so much. Be cause he wasn't always like this. He used to kind and would always check up on her mental health and never said anything about basketball because he didn't care about her stats only her.

But it felt like recently he not only doesn't care about her stats he just doesn't care about her either which really hurt Andrea but she figured that it was just the honeymoon phase coming to an end and nothing more.

All Andrea wanted to do was get back to her dorm and take a nap before going out tonight but she remembered that she had let Kamilla borrow her charger on the plane and she really needed it back.

So Andrea being half asleep at this point dragged herself over to Kamilla's dorm. Once Andrea showed up to her room she saw the door wasn't fully closed so she just let herself in.

As she walked in Andrea heard it before she saw it. Ethan's muffled voice mixed with kamilla's giggles coming from her room where that door was also left ajar.

"Bro what the fuck..?" Andrea quietly mumbled to herself as she walked up to the room where she didn't want it to be true.

As she walked in she saw Ethan and Kamilla on her bed making out and looking like the happiest people on earth so wrapped in with each other they didn't hear her walk in.

"So this is why you've been weird lately, Ethan? Because you've been fucking Kamilla?" Andrea said finally breaking them from their trance making her presence known

"I-Oh-Uh-Fuck! No! It's not what it looks like babe!" Ethan says barley able to form a sentence

"Do you think im fucking slow? She's literally on top of you. Like there is no possible way you this isn't exactly what it looks like... and it looks like 2 lil bitches who I never wanna see or talk to again."

"No Andrea this is the first time please baby you have to understand. We were just high off the win! You know a little celebration?" Ethan says getting out from under Kamilla and moving toward Andrea to try and calm her down

"High off the win? That's your excuse? Ew."

"We're fucking done Ethan. Fuck both of you."

The second the words leave Andreas mouth they feel bitter. She truly had so much love for both of them and for them to be able to treat her like this and be able to betray her then literally turn around and say 'I love you' is making her question who she can trust

Andrea quickly grabs her charger that she spots on the desk in the corner and makes her way out.

Portal Promise; chapter 1

April 13th 2024

It's officially been the most chaotic and dramatic 5 days of Andreas life.

Everything had gone downhill since that moment. Apparently in the time that Andrea had taken to take a nap and try and clear her mind after finding out her close friend and boyfriend were hooking up, they decided to get ahead of the story and start making shit up about her.

Ethan started spreading weird ass rumors about how Andrea was crazy and that she was manipulative and Kamilla was backing him which made it that much more believable.

Andrea was so overwhelmed and ended up speaking with coach Staley about everything that happened. Staley told her that she would speak to Kamilla but also knew that the damage was already done and that the team and the school would probably never feel the same to Andrea anymore.

So as much as it pained Staley to see one of her best players leave and one that she genuinely had grown to love and care for so much these past 2 years. She reminded Andrea that she still had time to enter the transfer portal.

So after some thought Andrea decided that she would. She told Chloe and Maddie of course, but the rest of the team had barely spoken to her since everything had gone down. Andrea knew they were just trying to keep the peace and not pick sides but it didn't help how alone she felt when people were believing those rumors.

And even though Andrea knew that the media would be all over her about the reason why. She knew that it was the right choice to make for her future. And who knows, maybe this could be the start of something great?

May 19th 2024

'On a recent instagram post made by uconnwbb you see that 19 year old basketball phenom Andrea Pierce has officially committed to Uconn'

Andrea was nervous. She didn't know what to expect. She was going to play for Geno Auriemma who had coached uconn into the dynasty it's known for and she wanted to live up to those standards.

June 2024

Andrea was about to walk into the women's basketball training facility for the first time and officially meet everyone. Sure she had been following Azzi Fudd on instagram, they were friends.

Her and Azzi had met a couple of times during their AAU days and were even on the same USA basketball team one year. But after Andrea got hurt last year Azzi reached out knowing what it's like to tear your acl at a young age and gave her some much needed advice.

CD had already let Andrea know that she had gone through all her vlogs and actually commended how well spoken and how poised she made sure she always presented as.

And said she could continue vlogging as long as it stayed within their guidelines for what they can do or say in media.

Andrea hadn't spoken to the media about her decision to leave South Carolina yet or posted anything on socials which was out of character for her, but what was she supposed to say?

My boyfriend and teammate fucked behind my back then spread rumors about me so I wanted to leave? Ew.

But Andrea quickly shook those negative thoughts out her head as she approached the gym locker room and heard a couple voices.

"Dude i'm so excited"

"Yeah have you seen her highlights?"

"Forget her highlights, lets talk about the face card and the game day hair"

"She's so cool like"

Andrea hears a couple of phrases but since they're all talking over each other she doesn't catch everything. Suddenly she doesn't feel as nervous when she hears the quiet whispers and the giggles coming from her new teammates.

Because at the end of the day they're all just girls who all share a love for the same sport.

"Wait shut up I hear someone coming!" Andrea hears someone whisper horribly which makes her laugh slightly

"Uh... Hey everyone" Andrea says looking around the locker room at everyone thats just getting settled in.

"Oh my god!"

"Hiii"

"Hey"

"Andrea Pierce!"

Everyone echos out at the same time. Which makes both Andrea and Azzi laugh, being the most familiar with you she decides to take the lead.

"I always said you'd look better in blue Drea" She finished quietly before the hurricane of fangirl questions and comments came in.

Azzi tried to recruit Andrea her senior year of high school but she had already fallen in love with South Carolina by then. She did let Azzi know that her efforts were appreciated and that Uconn was almost chosen.

"Yes guys this is THE Andrea Pierce so fangirl all you want know because you know coach is gonna get mad if you're all distracted during practice" She says walking up and putting her arm around your shoulder in a reassuring way to let Andrea know it was all going to be okay.

(random switch to first person idk why)

It was a lot from Kk and some from Caroline and even a couple from the incoming freshman Morgan and Sarah. Most of it having to do with basketball but every couple seconds Kk would throw in a comment about your 'face card never declines' or how your 'fits are always fire' which you thanked her for and even complimented some of her stuff you'd seen as well.

Then you finally got to Paige. And even after all of them fangirling over you and wanting to know everything about how you can score at all three levels while still looking good. It was not your turn to be starstruck.

Because Paige Bueckers was someone you had looked up to since she was in High School and now you're going to be on the same team. And she was looking right into your soul with the most pleasing smile in the world.

Luckily that smile and stare only made you forget your name for 2 seconds before you remembered where you were and just went with a simple 'hi' and a smile before turning back to the group making sure you were now officially following all of them on instagram and TikTok.

(back to third)

But what Andrea didn't know is that Paige had been a little starstruck too and the only person that knew just how closely she had followed your career was Azzi.

So the second Andrea looked away already fitting in with everyone so well, Azzi turned back to Paige and quietly asked if 'she had remembered her name yet or if she was just gonna keep staring'

Paige just shook her head and said a little too loudly "Bro i'm not staring" which made some of the group look at her confused for a second before going back to their conversation

"Im simply observing the newest member of our team" Paige finished quite this time

But the look Azzi gave her best friend wasn't one of belief it was one of knowing.

Because Azzi Fudd knew that this portal transfer could promise their team the chance to get back to the final four and win it all this time.

||

all any suggestions y'all want me to include in this story, my request r always open!!

thx for reading, goodnight!

[slut4sugu]

Gentle Giant, One of stone. — gyomei x femhashira!reader

꣑ৎ synopsis: what falling inlove with gyōmei himejima is like <3 ꣑ৎ including: tooth rotting fluff, kinda introverted reader, mitsuri being a sweetheart, confessions, mutual pining.

꣑ৎ BEFORE DATING

gyōmei himejima he had always stood out to you, not just because he was quite literally 7 feet tall. but because of the softly powerful energy Gyōmei had when entered a room. Though he wasn't one to boast or gloat like Tengen or Sanemi, he was reserved yet always helpful.

When you first became a Hashira, he was the first to commend you on your strength and heart to get to your position. Though you were a bit introverted with all the new faces at first, Mitsuri and gyōmei soon helped you get more comfortable with the others. Though when Mitsuri was off with Obnani or Shinobu, he would keep you company.

However there wasn't much conversation at first. You’d sit in the gardens together after missions, sometimes just listening to the wind rustle through the trees, and somehow, it never felt awkward. His presence didn’t demand conversation—it simply made you feel safe.

♡ somehow always had whatever you needed nearby; whether it be a sip of water, rice buns, or a hairtie, he seemingly had it all on standby

♡ would soflty remind you that your health is the main priority as a Hashira.

♡ whenever you'd spar/train with him he'd always ask if your alright immediately after.

꣑ৎ CRUSHING <3

now of course you couldn't exactly tell gyōmei that you discovered last night you had a big fat crush on him when you fell asleep on his shoulder, so you told the one other person you knew could help. "OH MY GOD REALLY?!" Mitsuri gasped so loudly that you swore a flock of birds fled the trees nearby. She nearly broke your wrists with how tight she grabbed them, green-pink curls bouncing as she leaned into your personal space like you just confessed to being in love with a god.

Which, to be fair… wasn’t entirely wrong. Gyōmei is handsome. Like stare at him while he's training hope he doesn't catch you handsome. To everyone else your a lovesick fool trying to convince herself she's not crushing hard on the stone hashira.

Looking at the ground you fiddled with your nails before admitting it. “Yeah…?” you mumbled, “EEEEEE!” she squealed, bouncing in place like an energetic bunny. “I knew there was something between you two! You always get this little look on your face when he says your name! It's so cute!”

You groaned, covering your face. “Mitsuri, please—”

“No no no, this is so good!” she beamed, already plotting. “Gyōmei so gentle and kind and, and he’s so observant—yknow I bet he already knows!” Ever since that afternoon you were a bit more on edge around the stone Hashira, even sitting next to him had your heart racing.

♡ noticing your sudden jumpiness and tense frame, he asked slightly worriedly if your nightmares had been doing a number on you again. you said no but, he's been keeping checking on you more since

♡ told you that if you needed comfort from your nightmares, to come to his quarters (he likes having you fall asleep on him)

♡ started to realize his own feelings when you hugged him randomly one day and murmured, "thank you for always being here."

♡ began to crave your touch more after that day but didn't know how to get it without being suspicious, but realized that it would make more sense to simply confess so, he did just that.

It was late afternoon when it happened—one of those unusually quiet days in the Butterfly Mansion gardens. You had just finished helping Aoi carry supplies inside, and decided to rest under the shade of a camellia tree before making your way back.

And of course, like the universe had a habit of doing, he found you there. You didn’t hear Gyomei's footsteps—he never made much sound—but you felt him. The same way you always did. His quiet presence was a steady waterfall: calm, grounding.

“I thought I heard your voice,” he said gently. You looked up, your heart already fluttering like it always did. “Oh uhm, sorry I just needed a second. I didn't mean to intrude."

“You’re never intruding,” he replied almost immediately. “This place is more peaceful when you’re here.” Before you could respond, he slowly made his way to sit beside you, folding his large frame with practiced grace. There was a beat of quiet. A few birds chirping. A soft wind brushing your cheek.

“I’ve been meaning to speak with you,” he said after a moment, hands folded on his lap, eyes still turned toward the quiet horizon. You glanced at him. “Is something the matter?”

“No,” he chuckled, so softly it was more of a warm breath. “Not at all. In fact… it’s the opposite.” Your stomach twisted and knotted as you prepared for the worst. His words came slowly, deliberately. “You’ve always been so kind to me. Even when you hadn't known me quite well yet. You stayed.”

You swallowed thickly, fingers clenching your knees. “That’s because you’ve always made me feel safe, and respected. Even when I told you about my dreams. You never tried to fix me or anything, just listened." You confessed softly.

He turned his face just slightly toward you. “I always will, I know you are more than capable of overcoming your night terrors on your own, you're stronger than most in that regard."

He said with a small smile, before pausing, a soft pink tint dusting his his cheeks as he said, "Though, I'd be dishonest in saying I don't wish for you to find solace at my side."

Your eyes widened at his words, words falling deaf on your tongue as you stiffened—just slightly, before asking, "Really?" He hummed in response, nodding briefly before continuing.

"What I have felt with you, what I feel when I'm in your presence..” he started, voice low, like he didn’t want to scare the truth away. “It's never fleeting not even for a moment, it’s evident, and strong. It's all I can feel when you're in my reach." You breath hitched as your heart rattled in your chest.

"If you'd allow it, I'd offer you the kind of care that you deserve. The comfort that I find in your smile when we speak." You blinked rapidly, tears pricking your eyes. His lips twitched faintly, almost smiling. “But, If I have misread the situation, please forgive me. It's just..if there is a place—for me in your heart, even a small one, I would be honored to hold it.”

Your answer came in a second, even with your voice quiet. Your words stood true, “You haven't misread me,” you whispered, barely audible. “I have feelings for you too, 'had for a while now.” Your gaze flickering from his face to your lap, still clutching your knees until his big hands came and took them in his calloused ones.

Gentle, warm, and so encompassing. His thumbs brushed slow circles over your knuckles, grounding you. “Then,” the Hashira said softly, reverently, “I promise to care for your heart. As you do for mine."

꣑ৎ DATING

♡ after waking from nightmares or rough missions, he'll wrap you in one of his prayer robes and murmur soft reassurances, letting you sleep on his chest while rain taps on the temple roof.

♡ grows flowers for you in his personal garden—saying he likes the idea of having something beautiful to give you, even if he can’t see them himself.

♡ loves when you hum. Even if you’re a little off-key, if you’re folding clothes or brushing your hair and absentmindedly humming, you’ll catch him not even trying to hide how soft his smile is.

♡ always falls asleep after you do, he typically does out of habit but seeing your sleeping face kissed by moonlight has certainly become another reason to wait <3

[sesmiq]

HEART. I wanted to be somewhere From iron to red drench 그 둘 사이 어딘가에 ┆bttm m!reader x top m!oc(riku) ‧★ 𐔌 warnings: one of my heavier work, not finished sadly, may cause dysphoria or discomfort please read on your own discretion, angst no comfort, internalized homophobia, cross dressing, a pinch of religious guilt, no prep (always prep your partners!!), blowjob (giving), reverse cowgirl (receiving),, not proof read

Riku was born into a family that strictly follows the bible.

the kind of family where love was a commandment, where sin was an unforgivable stain.

from a young age, his parents taught him two important things, 

one, boys shouldnt cry.

two, two people of the same gender cant marry each other.

as he grew older, he stayed with these rules. he only dated girls, never cried even at his pets death, and was never really close to the “weird” boys in his class.

everything was going well for him, as long as he follows the rule, life will be normal,

right?

that was until you transferred to his school during the last year of high school, who even transfers school in their senior year? he asked his friends, laughing it off until he saw you.

the moment you walked into the room, it felt like the room became more vibrant, like how the male lead felt when he first saw the female lead in a shoujo manga.

when he saw you, the first thing he noticed was your presence, it was different from the others. something that made his chest tightens, his thoughts short circuit,

and his heart started to beat faster.

his friend nudged him from the side, muttering a short ‘youre staring.’, making him come back from his senses,

no. 

this is wrong. his mind screamed. he can already imagine the disappointment from both his parents if they knew. you were a guy. hes a guy. it just wouldnt work.

he loathed you, he hated the way he made him feel.

but despite all that, he mustered the courage to go up to you during lunch break.

“hey, my name’s riku, youre the new kid who sat in front of me, right?”

he shouldnt have done that. shouldnt have introduced himself to you.

because the moment you looked up from your food and smiled at him— everything in him froze. this is wrong. I shouldnt feel like this. he said to himself, again.

but the feelings didnt go away.

a few years had passed.

but sadly for riku, the doki doki feelings for you didnt. 

he was fully convinced that once the two of you graduated high school, you’ll slowly drift apart and cut off all contact. then the feelings would disappear.

that is, until he saw you on orientation week at his university during his freshmen year.

you didnt expect to see him either, but here you were, standing face to face with riku again like the first time you two met.

since that day, the two of you have only grown closer.

it was casual at first, you’d walk to class together, wait for each other’s class to end so you can have dinner, just the two of you.

nothing too much. you two thought to yourself. its just being friendly.

but somehow, the feelings only deepened.

you began to look for him in a crowded hallway. you couldnt help but notice how his hand would brush against yours whenever you pass him a drink. when he waited for you outside of your lecture hall during one of your night classes.

you told yourself to not think much about it, he cant feel the same way towards you, he had multiple girlfriends throughout the year.

he wouldnt be interested in you like that.

but sometimes, you found yourself hoping that maybe, just maybe, he felt something too.

Now, the two of you were at the bar, graduation just a few weeks away.

riku didnt think much when you invited him to a bar you two usually goes to, telling him that you needed to tell him something.

you two talked while drinking, laughing at some lame joke riku made or complaining about a certain professor who kept giving you assignments as if you didnt have other classes.

a few drinks in, and riku was slowly getting tipsy. you noticed the way how he started to slur his words, how his hands are slightly shaking whenever he brings his cup to his lips.

“‘you good?” you asked him, voice slightly moving his hair away from his face when he started to lay his head onto the table.

he didnt respond at first, just stared at you unblinking. his gaze lingers longer than usual, the kind that made your chest tighten. 

the silence between you two was almost too quiet if it werent for the booming music playing from the bars speaker.

you felt your heart racing, just nervously gripping onto your own drink as riku stared at you.

before you could say something to unease the tension, out of nowhere, riku blurted out something.

“i wish you were a girl.”

you didnt respond right away, just stared at him with your mouth agape. how the hell are you supposed to reply to something like that?

you stared at him, expecting him to say something but his gaze didnt falter. he looked at you, as if waiting for you to say something.

you shifted in your seat, gripping onto your glass a little too tight, like it was the only thing holding you back from.. doing something.

your mind raced, what the hell does this mean?

does he like you? he did tell you about his religious family, it doesnt make sense.

the silence between you stretched longer, the music from the bar— casual by chappel roan played loudly in the background but it felt muffled.

“I-” you started, your voice slightly trembling. “..youre drunk riku, you dont mean that.” you tried to tell yourself. maybe he said it as a joke. Maybe he meant something else.

his dark eyes flickered for a moment, but he didnt looked away from you. “..no.” he shaked his head, you expected him to apologize, to laugh it off- or just. say nothing.

“i do mean it.” he repeated himself, quieter this time. before looking away from you to take another sip of his drink.

taking a deep breath, you ordered another drink for yourself. downing it in one go before facing riku again, leaning closer to his face.

his breath hitched slightly, but he didnt pull away. 

“cmon.” you whispered, sliding your arm around his waist, pulling him just enough to drape his arm around your shoulder. you could feel his weight leaning against yours, he was heavy, but you didnt mind. “lets get you home.”

he leaned onto you with a groan, nuzzling his face into your neck and for a moment, you nearly forgot what he said earlier.

the walk to his dorm didnt take long, you fumbled for his key card while trying to hold him at the same time. you  soon unlocked the door. laying him down in a comfortable position on the couch. 

you turned back to leave his dorm, his hand reached out to pull you slightly towards him. his touch was so gentle, as if he was testing the waters.

“stay,” he murmured, his eyes half lidded.

you hesitated for a second, pulling your hand back from his hold. you brushed a hair from his face, “get some rest.” you whispered, walking towards the door slowly. “ill see you tomorrow.”

with that, you turned and left, making sure that his door was locked before you did so. heart still pounding in your chest, tears threatening to spill out as you walked.

the next day came in a miserable blur.

thankfully it was the weekend, which meant no classes, an excuse to pretend things were normal.

riku woke up with a hammering hangover, groaning into his pillow for drinking too much last night.

he got up from his couch to go to the kitchen, chugging a cup of cold water and popping 2 painkillers.

he texted you once he found his phone on the coffee table, complaining about his hangover and thanking you for bringing him back to his dorm. “thx for bring me back btw” “i owe you one” “my head is killing me” 

he waited for your reply, sitting in front of his tv as he kept glancing at his phone every time a notification came in. expecting for your contact name to appear on the screen.

he stared at the ‘havent read’ on his screen for a second, before typing out a text again, “i didnt say anything stupid, did i?”

he flipped through the channels mindlessly, not really watching whatever is on the tv.. just, waiting.

finally, after what felt like an eternity, he heard a buzz from his phone- a ringtone he used specially for you— no one noticed by the marias.

he scrambled for his phone, nearly stubbing his toe in the process, and unlocked his phone as if he won the lottery.

on top of his screen was glowing, “yn 𖹭.ᐟ hands slightly sweaty (from nervousness? or from the heat, he wasnt so sure himself.), he hastily clicked on the message,

“drink more water^^”

.. just that? no silly stickers that you usually send, no whining about how he better treat you for food as a thanks? 

just a simple, distant text. like a nurse reminding him to take his medication.

nothing else.

he stared at the message, lips twitching into something like an irritated smile, “hah?” he scoffed.

before he could type in another message, he heard a knock from the door.

grumbling underneath his breath, he dragged himself to the door unwillingly, brain fogged with confusion, anger, regret?

he opened the door, ready to give whoever decided to knock on his door at this time a piece of his mind,

but then, he realizes it was you,

standing at his door in the dimly lit hall of his dorm, he glanced down at you, eyes widened at what youre wearing.

he stared at what you were wearing, a loose shirt and shorts but from his view, he could see the white strawberry patterned frilly bra, the strap just peeking through the neckline of the shirt. 

youre wearing a cheap long wig, some mascara and a pink glossy lip gloss. he takes note of your eyes, red and slightly puffy- like you cried before coming here. 

to top it all off, you wore an oversized brown coat, as if you were trying to hide the outfit on the way here.

at first, the two of you didnt say anything, just stared at each other. 

riku wanted to throw up, what did he say for you to do this? did he do anything stupid? dared you to do this?

before he said anything, you smiled at him, “i tried,” you whispered,

“you said youd love me if i was a girl, right?”

he shouldve asked you to leave, yelled at you to never come back and closed the door in your face.

but pathetically enough, he didnt.

instead, he pulled you in by your wrist so tightly to the point it hurts. he slammed the door behind you with a loud bang! 

“you look pathetic.” he hissed, his hands discarding your coat and throwing it to the side,

you only blinked at him, smiling even though your eyes looked nervous.

he grabbed your jaw, squeezing your cheeks and glaring down at you with something between disgusted and desperation.

“isnt this what you wanted?” you asked him, voice small, fake smiling.

riku couldnt breathe. his breath hitched when you brought up your hand to touch his face.

“touch me,” your voice sounded softer, “you can pretend.”

he almost backed away. almost. 

but you looked up at him so sweetly, like he was your whole world. like you wanted him to ruin you.

he pulled you in for a kiss, it wasnt like those romantic kisses a couple would share in the movies. It was ugly, your teeth keep clashing with each other, tongue fighting for dominance.

riku’s hand slides under your shirt, tugging it down enough to see the bra.

“where the hell did you even get this?” he asked you, “dont tell me you got a matching set of panties too.”

at this comment, you looked at the side, as if youre guilty.

he raised his eyebrows at this, his holds on you tightened, just enough to make you squirm. 

he didnt say anything, just dragged you to his room, making you kneel in front of him while he sat on his bed. 

he looked down at you, as if expecting you to do something. “suck.” he says, pointing towards his crotch.

you didnt say no. 

you fumbled at the waist of his pants, fingers trembling and nearly scratched your nails at his skin.

you stared awkwardly at his member, you never did this before— only watched it happen on low quality porn.

you leaned into him, lips brushing against the head of his dick, awkward and shaky.

the moment you took him into your mouth, he hissed before grabbing a fistful of your hair (wig?) and pulling you back,

“watch your teeth.” he grunted, then pushed your head lower to take him deeper.

you choked immediately, the foreign feeling of his dick deep in your throat.

drools dripped from the corner of your mouth, the salty mix with bitter taste filling your nose and tongue, making you feel like puking.

you gagged, eyes watering slightly.

yet he didnt care when you tried to pull back instinctively, he pushed you down again, your nose against his pubic hair.

you whimpered around him, desperate but humiliated. your knees burn from the carpet on the floor. 

but you continued bobbing your head, tears stinging your eyes when riku started to move his hip forward shallowly. 

you gagged again, spit and precum dripping down your chin yet you didnt pull away.

“‘m close,” riku hissed, attempting to pull out but you wrapped your arms around his waist, refusing to let him go.

his fingers tightened in your hair, tugging harshly enough to make you whine.

he cursed under his breath, then  with a sharp gasp, he came inside your throat.

yet you didnt pull away, you stayed there, drinking up everything he had to give to you, letting him fill you up like you havent eaten for days.

he didnt look at you at first, just covered his eyes with his arm while catching his breath.

you looked up at him, pulling off his dick with a small pwah! just waiting for the man above you to say or do something.

you stayed kneeling there for a second, dazed and blinking up at him.

he soon snap out of it, suddenly finding your arms to yank you up from the cold floor.

you nearly stumbled, before you can fully find your footing, he dropped you onto the bed roughly, like you were nothing but a doll.

you werent sure what to do, you sat there, staring at him. his body sprawled out, his legs slightly spread, his cock twitching and half hard against his stomach.

you crawled up into his lap without thinking, riku stared down at you for a second — breathing heavy, face twisted into something between regret and lust — before his hands fell away, like even touching you was too much.

you straddled him awkwardly, knees digging into the mattress on either side of his hip, breath hitching when you felt his cock twitch underneath the thin layer of your shorts.

you started to grind onto him slowly, almost shyly, hips rocking against him like you were afraid he would run away, though, he didnt stop you. you let out a tiny whimper at the friction of his member rubbing against you.

he didnt move at first until he brought his hands up, not to hold you, just held onto the bed sheet tightly. his hand twitches every time you grind down onto him.

you kept moving your hips, your breath catching every time your own dick rubbed against his own.

after a while, he finally said something, “turn around.” he muttered, his voice low and tight in his throat.

you blinked at his command, head tilted slightly to the side as if you were confused, the wig somewhat sideway on your head— but you obeyed.

you shifted your position slugglisly, turning your back towards him while youre still in his lap. your thighs trembled, tired from kneeling for too long.

riku wasnt patient. 

he grabbed your waist, his finger digging in. he lowered his hand towards the hem of your shorts, yanking it to the side roughly—

revealing a white frilly panties with the same strawberry pattern as the bra you were wearing.

he didnt say anything, just scoffed before shoving the panties to the side as well, exposing your hole to the cold air, the fabric snapping against your thigh. “bite your shirt.” he tells you, his hand fondling with your ass, pinching the meat slightly, making you mewl out in pain (maybe even pleasure? ponders.)

you did what he tells you anyway, bringing the edge of your shirt on your own and biting it down.

you turned your shoulder slightly to the side, glancing at him. he noticed your gaze and grabbed your head to face the wall again. 

“what are you waiting for?”  he said, his voice cold, as if he was disgusted, impatient. “do it yourself.” you flinched at the harsh tone of his voice, your hand fumbled as you reached down, guiding him to your entrance. 

you whimpered when you sank down slowly, fingers unintentionally digging into riku’s thigh to keep yourself from falling, making him hiss in pain. the stretch burned, the mix of your spit and his cum from earlier made it bearable to take.

it doesnt make the pain go away, but enough for you to slide down until your ass meets his hips. 

you could feel him in your gut, deep— too deep, like he was fucking up into your guts and trying to find something, (a womb, perhaps.)

yet, your walls still squeezed around him like you didnt want to let him go.

you stayed still, trying to catch your breath, teeth still biting onto the fabric of your shirt. he noticed this, he brought his hand up to grab your flat chest through the thin fabric of the bra.  

he palmed your chest lazily, tugging at the frill of the bra, fingers slowly curly towards the inward,

his fingers barely came in contact with your nipple at first, fingers brushing lightly against your sensitive skin just circling, almost teasing.

you could barely hold back your whimper, you bit down harder on the fabric as your body jolted from the cold sensation of riku’s finger.

then without warning, his finger curled, pinching and tugging onto your perky nipple sharply.

you nearly cried out in pain, but all that came out was a muffled whine.

riku stilled for a second, his hand, once holding on you hardly, loosened just a little.

“you okay?” his voice came out low, quiet and rushed. like he regretted saying it once it had already passed his lips.

then, his jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed once again.

“who said you could stop moving?” he murmured, his voice still low- but not as cruel as before. he grabbed onto your hips and lifted you up slightly, slamming you back down.

you whined when you felt his dick hit your prostate dead-on, hips trembling from the sudden movement. you started moving again, slow and shaky, each bounce shallow and pathetic.

your movement grew desperate, trying to keep the rhythm even when your thigh burned. 

riku watched, his jaw tight. his nails dug deeper into your skin, holding you in place.

he didnt move, didnt thrust, just sat there as you kept rolling your hips clumsily.

your knees screamed from the pressure and your hole throbbed hopelessly. each movement sent a sharp jolt up your spine, tears threatening to fall out of your eyes anytime soon.

if it werent for the shirt in your mouth muffling your whimpers, a security guard is probably called to rikus dorm at this point.

his hand rested on your hip, hes not clutching it, not controlling- just stayed there. like he wasnt trying to touch you, watching your grind down desperately.

“pathetic,” he grumbled, more to himself than to you. "cant even do this right.”

your hips stuttered, but you keep grinding, slower now.

a/n ts is unfinished im so sorry guys (◞‸ ◟);; i have no other excuses other than procrastination, no motivs and i have a j*b now so ausghshs if i can i would finish but its been rotting for,, 2 months in my google docs now </3 i feel bad for not feeding you guys too,, please dont burn me at stake

[tprings-hair]

what happened on tarsus iv?

this is my attempt at creating a definitive list of information on what kirk experienced on tarsus iv for fic writers and other fans who want to know wtf is up with kirk's backstory.

(I have a longer, more general post on tos kirk's backstory here.)

"Kodos the Executioner, summary. Governor of Tarsus Four twenty Earth years ago. Invoked martial law. Slaughtered fifty percent of population Earth colony, that planet. Burned body found when Earth forces arrived. No positive identification. Case closed."

let's start with this quote from spock, detailing the information he found on their ship's computer.

first of all: at its core, this episode is tos's take on the nazis who escaped capture. adolf eichmann was only found in 1960, and would certainly have been in the public memory as a high profile nazi who managed to make a new life under an assumed name. he was not the only one to have escaped capture, and I don't think I need to explain which conspiracy theory the circumstances of kodos's faked death call to mind.

this episode was an exploration of what form cruelty and authoritarianism might take in star trek's universe, with a huge amount of influence from shakespeare's work. the two together make up this central dilemma: is it kodos? might kirk be condemning an innocent man? if it is kodos, does kirk have the right to act as judge, jury, and executioner? is it possible for someone who carried out terrible acts to live a new life somewhere else, and not have the violence follow?

SPOCK: According to our library banks, it started on the Earth colony of Tarsus IV, when the food supply was attacked by an exotic fungus and largely destroyed. There were over eight thousand colonists and virtually no food. And that was when Governor Kodos seized full power and declared emergency martial law.

MCCOY: I've heard of it.

SPOCK: You may not have heard it all. Kodos began to separate the colonists. Some would live, be rationed whatever food was left. The remainder would be immediately put to death. Apparently he had his own theories of eugenics.

MCCOY: Unfortunately, he wasn't the first.

SPOCK: Perhaps not. But he was certainly among the most ruthless, to decide arbitrarily who would survive and who would not, using his own personal standards, and then to implement his decision without mercy. Children watching their parents die. Whole families destroyed. Over four thousand people. They died quickly, without pain, but they died. Relief arrived, but too late to prevent the executions. And Kodos? There never was a positive identification of his body.

the thing is, this introduces a number of inconsistencies. it could easily be chalked up to confusion between multiple drafts of the script, but if you want to look deeper and see where the information comes from, you'll notice the two survivors have very different stories than the official starfleet record.

specifically, spock says that they died quickly and painlessly, and though he is sure that karidian is kodos, he does not seem to treat him as a legitimate threat to anyone's safety. we don't know if kodos ever directly killed anyone, or if he only gave the orders. but kirk and leighton seem to agree on the violence: leighton refers to his own injury as "the bloody thing (kodos) did", and kirk recalls kodos "blasting" others out of existence. it's possible kirk was saying it to confuse kodos, so kodos might say "that's not how it happened" and give himself away. it's also possible that leighton sustained his injury at a different time than the massacre. it seems likeliest to me in any case that the information on the ship's computer is not the entire truth.

which also means you can headcanon whatever you want and nobody can tell you definitively that you're wrong. be free with your tarsus iv headcanons.

exploring the tarsus iv lore (or lack of it) has led me to this sort of consensus in the fandom that kirk was looking after a group of children. I think it's a very cool way of exploring how central it is to his character that he has to be in control, protecting people, and fighting back, and I've read and enjoyed some absolutely fantastic fics with that premise. even william shatner seems to agree. in his novel collision course (which gives kirk and spock a sort of alternate first meeting as teenagers and gives some great insights into how shatner viewed kirk's backstory), kirk ().

the ship's computer specifies the number of survivors later in the episode as nine, and lists them as

Kirk, J., Leighton, T., Moulton, E., Riley, K., Eames, D.

before kirk cuts it off. once leighton dies, the last two surviving are kirk and riley.

the novelization by james blish names a couple more characters, and in order of age: Leighton, T., Molson, E., Kirk, J., Wiegand, R., Eames, S., and Daiken, R., which was what they called the role of kevin riley initially. he is specified as being five years old at the time, and kirk is not a child or teen but a midshipman.

and collision course names still more characters. edith zaglada, an eight year old girl who kirk saw killed. donny, tay, and billy are named as other survivors. this novel doesn't get into kodos's motivations or kirk's circumstances, but it gives us two new characters, griffyn and matthew, who are teenagers employed by kodos as bounty hunters for escapees of the initial massacre. starfleet arrives just as edith is shot and griffyn is trying to convince matthew to shoot kirk. we don't really know if kirk knew any of the other survivors, but he mentions edith's name specifically a few times as a death that affected him a lot. it's heartbreaking to watch city on the edge of forever with that in mind. I also can't find a source for anyone calling him JT, but collision course does call him jimmy during the flashback chapters.

crucially, the novel isn't technically canon. so you can have your gang of children led by JT, or you can have jimmy stick with a couple of people, or you could do something totally your own. none of these are wrong! do whatever your heart desires.

if you want some practical details, there's a great post here by @spirk-trek and pt 1, pt 2, and pt 3 of a great post by @pywren. I may make my own tarsus iv headcanon post if anyone is interested, and if I do I'll link it here.

[endivinity]

WOUGH okay so the premise all started because of the way I play FO4 on survival which is about as long and arduous as this post. it's ALL in settlement building and most of my mods reflect this. I play that shit like minecraft. I'll chuck some screenshots at the end

the more you think about it, the less plausible it is for a soldier or a lawyer respectively to have ANY idea about the fine tuning of crafting a fusion generator or a water purifier, let alone know how to construct a pre-broken window pane. None of the wood is useable - there's no amount of fantasy that can make me believe a whole bed can be constructed out of two pencils and a pack of cigarettes. Realistically - the resources need to come from somewhere. I've also read critiques about how the commonwealth hasn't progressed for two centuries (which, part of this is because of how Bethesda handles the Fallout franchise vs the established societies in 1 and 2. for the record i LOATHED 3 and am very firmly a new vegas bitch). They're still living in Diamond City surrounded by piles of trash and the rest of the NPC settlements are canonically wiped out or basically considered the dregs (Goodneighbor, the Children of Atom, charitably the Atom Cats; Quincy and University Point, etc). They live off scavenging for trash and components that are somehow still lying around untouched. Most of this is because the game wants you to use this cool mechanic they've introduced and to feel like you're rebuilding the wasteland with your bare hands, and you get your pick of a huge scope of lands to build on, and the appearance of actual civilisation suffers for it. Nobody lives there. Realistically, you're going to build up one or two really good settlements and the rest are barebones or empty.

Jake (probably has a longer name. it's never mentioned) is a civil engineer who has combat training and survival know-how for funsies and by the cusp of the great war her department had enough downsizing that she was taking on the work of coworkers who had been "let go" (executed for thought crimes), so she knows some stuff about blueprinting things other than major city infrastructure, at least enough to delegate or make suggestions. She also stirred the pot and got higher-ups very angry at her and was punitively assigned to marriage and domesticity in Sanctuary Hills. Most importantly, she's not related to the family that have the kid. Nate gets shot and Nora suffocates in cryo.

She enters a world that perplexes her specifically because nothing has progressed for two hundred years, but through very very careful investigation she finds out that something or someone is actively interfering with any attempts to settle and develop. There's an intensive spying network going on and she has to figure out what's safe, who's safe, how the raider groups are able to be raiding year-round without dying of starvation because they're certainly not farming, how to build and manage and educate her new settlements without tripping the local spy network, how to set up trade convoys for lumber and concrete without tripping the local spy network OR instigating the raider gangs that systematically wiped out the convoys in the first place, and how to source parts for this goddamn water purifier schematic while not dying to super-radstorms or a really big wild hog. She customarily fights with a knife (Throatslicer); she's proficient at sniping and occasionally uses a plasma sniper or a gauss rifle.

Deacon is her story companion because of the 'friend' RR sign above the vault. Guy's been spying from the get-go. But because Jake's super paranoid and realistically, he has no way of knowing who you are because you aren't stupid and bald and wearing a pair of signature sunglasses, he loses her the moment she ditches the vault suit at the Abernathys'; half of his part of the story is trying to find out what happened to her, why the institute was involved in the vault at all (and increasingly wild theories about how she's a synth plant), and who this weirdass woman is who's suddenly taking over the trade routes, and talk of new settlements that's kept so hush-hush he can't even crack the secrets with his super believable caravan hand outfit.

Eventually Jake realizes she's in way over her head trying to manage settlements and hunts down the Railroad to ask for help, which... they're very downsized. They're basically a skeleton crew. I have no idea how they suddenly have all those heavies at the battle of bunker hill or the castle or whatever the fuck. So they can't and/or won't help her, and it comes down to Deacon to make an executive decision over what he thinks is going to be longterm better for the wasteland and the synth populations, and when weighing up the options between this cool lady who never shows her face and creeps around spiderman-style to sever a gunner's spinal cord and wants to crack the Institute wide open, or being trapped in a crypt with Carrington and successfully exfiltrating one synth every three months, the decision is obvious

and since you made it this far here's some shots of builds I've worked on. My main base at Egret Tours; Sanctuary Hills after I removed all the shitass housing for funsies; Murkwater Construction with incredibly poor navmeshing; my other main at Dalton Farm. yes my save file hates me

[holoska]

after debating for weeks whether to stay very far away from the deltarune soriel discourse or let myself ramble about my faves like I want to, the latter has finally won out

I've had time to properly absorb the weight of all that happens at the end of chapter 4, and obviously I do feel for both kris and susie. that is The Point of the scenes being from their perspectives; after everything they just went through and all the worry they had for toriel's safety (for the second time in 24 hours!), the scene they come home to is maybe the most uncomfortable slap in the face possible. it sticks out to me that the last thing susie talks about before the dark fountain is sealed is her wanting tomorrow to be the same as yesterday and for everything to always be able to go back to how it was, and that's what greets them - a blatant, obnoxious sign that things are changing. even though the scene has a lighthearted side, its overall tone adds to the downcast feeling the chapter ends on.

having said that, as someone who has spent the past 9 and a half years being normal about sans and toriel, I'm still very very happy that this is a canon scene we got 💜

the fandom may be largely not considering their perspectives in the slightest (or worse, only viewing their perspectives from the most bad faith angles possible), but I for one love this for them!! as other very good posts have pointed out, toriel has been sorely in need of someone who's there for her - an awful lot of people in town saw the divorce play out and have something to say about it, the holiday family are closer to asgore than toriel, kris is her child and stuck in the middle of their parents' issues, and while she's friends with alphys, them being coworkers and alphys being kris' teacher likely puts a distance of sorts between them. but sans is new in town, someone she immediately connects with, who has no pre-existing opinions about her family and has seen firsthand what toriel has to put up with from asgore. in every universe, sans is exactly the kind of person toriel needs in her life.

there's less to work with from sans' perspective given how little we know about him, and I'm not all-in on sans being from deltarune just yet (more specifically I do love the theory, I'm just giving myself room to not be too disappointed if it doesn't happen), but the new version of it's raining somewhere else being named 'the place where it rained' emotionally destroys me forever. either way it drives home just how happy toriel makes sans in both worlds and I love that so so much :']

to be clear I'm not saying they did nothing wrong, their choices negatively impacted kris and susie and they were objectively disruptive and inconsiderate after kris went to bed. but I like that they're being messy and flawed, because it means this isn't just "my faves are getting closer in the background yippee" but that their relationship is potentially an actual part of the story, and that's how you get The Good Stuff!! we wouldn't have had meaningful character moments like noelle finally standing up to queen if queen hadn't tried to control noelle and just listened to her from the start, or susie comforting ralsei with her bloodied hand if he'd told her and kris every detail of the full prophecy the moment he met them and never kept any secrets. if all the hints towards a flower shop dark world turn out to be true then it's pretty clear the story is building things up to make those future character moments hit, and considering we still don't know what happened with the dreemurr divorce at this point, chapter 5 seems like a perfect opportunity to dive into all of that.

plus, as sweet as susie's bond with toriel is, I honestly think susie seeing this side of toriel needed to happen. a lot of the fandom's complaints about toriel right now boil down to her not being the "perfect mother" they thought she was, and what bothers me about that is toriel was never meant to be that kind of character. toby has said that she's not the classic video game protagonist's mother who sees you off on your journey and you can come home and visit any time, and nothing changes and she never has any substantial character of her own. in undertale she literally handholds frisk through the tutorial, she becomes the first boss in her attempt to protect them when every other human left her care, and once they leave she won't let them come back or even call her phone because she can't face seeing them knowing they'll leave again and likely be killed. she's more than just the mother figure of the game, she's her own person with likes and dislikes, hobbies and flaws, and a past and trauma she can't overcome until the best ending.

we've only seen the tip of the iceberg of her history in deltarune, but that same principle holds true: she isn't the perfect parent you return to after each day's adventure, who gives you butterscotch pancakes every morning and never has any real part in the story because that isn't the intent behind her character. she mentioned her loneliness back in chapter 1, kris has secrets and problems they aren't letting her in on, asgore is being relentlessly inconsiderate of her boundaries, and for all susie's praise of toriel being a good mother, I think that house of cards was going to fall eventually. my hope is that, like her blowing up at ralsei ultimately bringing them closer, susie being able to see toriel as the imperfect adult she is but one who does genuinely care might help them build a stronger bond in the end too.

I think I always knew that if soriel ever inched closer to being canon there'd be discourse about it, and toriel slander is unfortunately nothing new. people are just being annoying about it currently and it sucks when I genuinely love what's being built up here!!

anyway crossing my fingers for a scene where toriel invites sans to the festival before she gets thrown in the bunker/he gets sent to undertale/the roaring happens/all of the above 🤞

[olliepop718]

Type of boyfriend: Ateez

1. Hongjoong – The Protective Leader Boyfriend

• Always makes sure you’re safe, warm, and taken care of—no matter what

• Inspires you constantly; pushes you to chase your dreams and never give up

• Deep talks at 2am about life, success, and the universe

• Quietly jealous—won’t say much, but his hand will stay on your lower back all night

• Makes you playlists and writes you tiny love notes on napkins or sticky notes

• Constantly busy, but still remembers every detail about you

• Looks at you like you’re his muse

⸻

2. Seonghwa – The Soft Gentleman Boyfriend

• Carries your bag, opens doors, and fixes your hair without thinking

• So gentle with you but deeply passionate when it counts

• Keeps your shared space immaculate, but never nags—he’ll just do it himself

• Gets you little gifts “just because”—like your favorite tea or hand lotion

• Encourages your self-care and takes it seriously when you’re not okay

• Always looks at you like you’re the most beautiful person in the room

• Would sit in silence with you for hours just to be near you

⸻

3. Yunho – The Golden Retriever Boyfriend

• Always laughing, hugging you, picking you up and spinning you around

• Turns everything into an adventure—yes, even grocery shopping

• Gets pouty if you ignore him too long, then smothers you with affection

• Brags about you constantly to everyone

• Will watch shows with you, even if he hates them, just because you like them

• Protective but never controlling—always checks if you’re okay first

• Will dance with you in the kitchen wearing matching slippers

⸻

4. Yeosang – The Quiet but Loyal Boyfriend

• Reserved in public, soft and clingy in private

• Says “I love you” through acts of service—charging your phone, fixing your laptop, bringing you snacks

• Secretly takes photos of you all the time and keeps them in a hidden album

• Can be blunt, but only because he wants to be honest with you

• Gives the best silent support—just sits with you, holding your hand, letting you breathe

• Once he lets you in, you are his whole world

• Looks at you like you’re art, even when you’re a mess

⸻

5. San – The Passionate & Playful Boyfriend

• Teases you relentlessly, flirts non-stop, and calls you “baby” like it’s your name

• Super clingy—always touching you: your hand, your face, your waist

• Gets very protective when you’re out, especially if someone looks at you the wrong way

• Melts when you’re affectionate—acts tough but turns to mush when you kiss his cheek

• Randomly stares at you and says, “You’re so pretty it’s actually unfair”

• Loves doing everything together—workouts, watching dramas, even laundry

• When he loves you, it’s full intensity. No half-measures.

⸻

6. Mingi – The Loyal, Flirty, Deep-in-Love Boyfriend

• Total flirt—but only with you

• Calls you pet names with his deep voice that makes you blush every time

• Looks intimidating but is such a softie when it comes to you

• Has deep insecurities, so your affection means the world to him

• Would write you random love texts when he’s on the road—like “I miss your laugh today”

• Pulls you into his lap and refuses to let you go

• Gives you his full trust and expects the same

⸻

7. Wooyoung – The Chaotic Romantic Boyfriend

• Loud, affectionate, dramatic—he wants the world to know he loves you

• Posts you on his socials with captions like “Mine 🖤”

• Gets jealous fast but needs reassurance more than confrontation

• Buys matching outfits or accessories without asking, just shows up like “Couple fit!!”

• Gives the best hugs—tight, long, and with little kisses

• Laughs with you constantly, but takes your pain very seriously

• Calls you his best friend and his baby

⸻

8. Jongho – The Protective Soft-Teddy Boyfriend

• Strong as hell but so gentle with you

• The type to carry you to bed when you fall asleep on the couch

• Doesn’t drink if you’re drinking—just wants to take care of you

• Quietly observant—knows when something’s wrong without you saying it

• Rarely flirty, but when he says “you’re mine,” it hits hard

• Always remembers the things you like, and surprises you with them

• Sings to you softly when you’re sad—his voice will be your comfort zone

[sophiathefallen]

The way the Crystal Gems exploit Greg's insecurities about being a failure will always make me sick. Greg always brings up how he doesn't understand really gem stuff, even well into season 5 (need I remind people of the SDCC 2017 trailer). Pearl was aware of, and dare I say even planted, this insecurity in We Need To Talk:

"Fusion is the ultimate connection between gems. And you. Are not. A gem."

So of course when Steven was born, he would feel unequipped to take care of him. The last time he tried to do something gem related (fusing with Rose), he failed, so why would now be any different.

What people tend to miss out on is that Greg also feels like a failure when it comes to just being a person.

Remember, he was not some musical rockstar. He hosted a free concert where one person attended and it was literally someone from a different planet. That very concert essentially ended his music career (Greg the Babysitter shows that his attempts to continue were unsuccessful), which need I remind you is something he ran away from home and changed his name to do.

In Steven Universe Future, we see that Greg's parents were very overbearing and expected him to lead a very different life than he did. "Everything I liked, or wore, or wanted was always wrong." Even to his own family, Greg was a failure, if not a disgrace to their legacy. We are explicitly told in Future that Greg's hands-off parenting was heavily influenced by him not wanting to repeat his parents mistakes. As soon as Greg was able to give Steven freedom, the Crystal Gems swooped in and drew Steven in with ideas about being part of some magic destiny, which follows Steven throughout the show.

This complexity pot was brewing since the beginning. The Crystal Gems were grieving the loss of their leader while trying to fulfill her wishes. Greg was afraid of failing Steven just like he failed almost everybody else in his life. I believe that even if the Crystal Gems didn't want to take Steven, Greg would have made them anyway.

Do you guys ever think about how greg never “othered” steven. like in the beginning i mean. in three gems and a baby we see that as worried as greg is about the gem part, he never ultimately sees steven as anything more than just,,, a normal human kid. Like it truly feels like greg wanted to just give steven a normal human life,,, or at least as normal as possible

Do you ever think about how the gems avoided greg as often as they could. How judgemental they are towards him in the beginning. How they genuinely think they’re better caregivers for steven to the point that theyre willing to take him forcefully themselves. And yeah obviously that was a one time thing and they regret it now but like,,, yk how they clearly cling onto steven Because of their grief for rose, and their desire to keep that part of her as close as possible? Doesn’t it feel like greg, in the earlier seasons, is kind of more like a friend to steven than a father? it almost feels like at a certain point he started to. Agree that steven was better off with the gems?

we can see that they started building the beach house when steven was Very little- like its hard to say exactly how old but he’s like. still missing baby teeth. And like yeah obviously steven should get to grow up in a house and not a van but why would greg want the house specifically built at the temple and be okay with just. Not being included in the accommodation? Greg is essentially just accepting giving steven up to the gems when hes still so young and. Why would he do that unless…He specifically feels like he isn’t fit to care for steven to begin with…? I mean like,, when he even Tries to actually parent steven after this point the gems literally stare at him like HE’S the alien in the house. Like for a solid 3 seconds

Essentially. Specifically in the early seasons we can TELL the gems think very lowly of greg. its made explicitly clear that they dont respect his judgement or his decisions regarding steven let alone. Anything really. Hell pearl fucking tries to take him to SPACE after greg explicitly tells her Not to do that. I think they get a lot better as the show goes on but like in s1 especially it is very clear the gems just do Not gaf about Anything greg says 😭😭

And obviously pearl is the most vocal about this…Garnet its hard to say since she isn’t very vocal abt Anything but she definitely feels similarly to pearl. amethyst is p chill with greg but she also doesn’t really Object to the gems’ treatment of him. They all deep down truly believe that they are better suited to care for steven than greg is— they literally say this outright in three gems and a baby and pearl says “He’ll thank us later” after they literally KIDNAP HIM. and obviously they dont. kidnap him again. and they realize that they cant raise a human baby. Obviously. But this doesn’t prevent them from clearly “othering” steven— insisting that he’s a Gem and he’s Different from other kids. (Also they still do a LOT of other fucked up shit like. AGAIN. pearl literally taking him to space despite greg NOT consenting to that WHATSOEVER is essentially the same thing as kidnapping him LMFAOOOO)

And like they do also eventually realize how important of a figure greg is in steven’s life….especially in the later seasons, and that’s when we really start to see greg be more of a Parent to steven i feel. It’s honestly why i think they kind of instilled this blatant “othering” of steven onto greg— because not only is he clearly willing to give steven up to them, but later in “mr. universe”…. greg pretty much implies exactly the same thing the gems did. That steven is Different. that he Can’t be raised like a normal kid.

Im not saying he wasn’t worried about stevens gem half before ofc, I’m sure he’d still be hesitant to take his fucking half rock alien son to the doctor or to enroll him in school but like— i truly do think greg wanted steven to have a normal life!!! and i feel like the gems kind of poured salt in the wound when it came to these preexisting insecurities, and because these are Rose’s Friends, they’re Steven’s family too and like,,, greg is completely clueless when it comes to the gem stuff!!! He doesn’t know what to do with ANY of that, but garnet, pearl, and amethyst Do— so rlly who is he to object???

Obviously i dont think either party is a Saint or the Devil in this situation or anything but hopefully I dont have to say that because this show is well known for incredibly nuanced characters so i Hope people understand what im saying here— basically i think the gems, in their grief, genuinely instilled this belief in greg that he just Wasn’t suited to care for steven. That steven was Different. that They were the only ones who knew what was best for him. And so greg truly felt like giving steven up to them was what was Best for him

And I don’t think either situation, whether living with greg or the gems, would’ve necessarily been “better” or “worse” for steven— i think his whole magical destiny is inevitable or else like the earth is gonna get hollowed out by the fucking cluster, and both living situations had their pros and cons. But like. Man the fact that the gems probably Genuinely made greg feel like he wasn’t good enough to be a parent to his own kid makes me want to scream and throw up and punch the walls sometimes

[rosie-posie1313]

TASM Peter Parker Fic Recs

06/26/2025

⭒ Fatal flaw  by @pogueswrld

y/n is a former widow that found a safe home in New York with the Avengers and a fellow former widow, more specifically with a certain brunette doe eyed spider named Peter Parker. But lately, Natasha got caught up with the red room and taking them down alongside her sister, y/n figured it's only right to help out.

⭒ My Spiderboy by @myflicker

⭒ Fake Dating by @marauder-exe

⭒ Wrong Window by @/marauder-exe

You live a floor below Peter Parker, your boyfriend, and you get the sneaking suspicion he’s hiding something from you. You find out once you get a surprise through your window.

⭒ Peter Parker #2 by @gothicwidowsworld

⭒ ‘Tis The Damn Season by @imaginesfordifferentfandoms

⭒ Chemistry  by @its-an-obsession

Being on Broadway was a dream of yours since you were little, you loved watching musicals and plays with your friends and family. When you found out that you would be able to play your dream roll, you were super excited. After a few rehearsals you met Andrew Garfield. The two of you instantly hit it off when your director told you and the brown eyed boy to get to know one another.

⭒ Awaited Confessions by @/its-an-obsession

When you met Peter Parker, you never would’ve thought you’d fall in love with the brown eyed boy you called your best friend. He was different than other stupid teenage boys you had encountered throughout your high school career. As time ticked on, your awaited confession began to sink in, wanting to let itself go as it began to form into a loose canon. Little did you know, Peter felt the same way.

⭒ I’ll Crawl Home to Her by @embrassemoi

After a long day, all Peter wants is a bit of love and someone to take care of him.

⭒ Partners  by @mads-weasley

You and Peter Parker are best friends, but neither of you know that you are friends behind your masks as you fight the Lizard together. Will one of you figure it out or will your friendship come crashing down because of it?

⭒ Bittersweet  by @oswildin

Peter Parker lost you in his universe… Never did he think he would see your face again…

⭒ A bunch of coincidences by @spidey-webz

What are the odds to end up in a different New York where your brother acts strangely and you find a different, quite attractive, version of yourself? (Spider-Woman reader)

⭒ reminder of her by @/spidey-webz

You are Peter’s best friend, yet he is not the one to save you from a fall…

⭒ Dating Andrew!Spidey Would Include… by @bowieandqueen11

⭒ yeah right by @lunasdream

what if after the blip you don’t die and end up in another universe.

⭒ BEING FLIRTY BEST FRIENDS WITH PETER PARKER by @angelfic

⭒ Into Battle by @slowdownurdoingfine

⭒ Coffee Run  by @curseofaphrodite

Visiting the Stark Enterprises and being a tour guide to someone from another universe wasn’t as fun as it sounded. Especially since the man in question was adamant on scoring a date with you.

⭒ Memories by @multifandom-gabi

You’ve been stuck in a different universe for a while now. You seem to have no memory of where you came from. All you know is Dr. Strange has been trying to help you out, but he’s had no luck. You seem to lose hope, until one day, a familiar face comes through a portal. 

⭒ Welcome back by @kimmyiewrites

⭒ peter, won’t you be the one i really need? By @nghtwngs

you gift peter a new camera for christmas, but what will be his gift to you?

⭒ The Real Peter Parker by @upsideoffalling

Peter recalls the first time he really noticed you; when you defended him in class.

⭒ Missed Calls by @caramelcal

⭒ missed calls [2] by @/caramelcal

⭒ Attention by @/caramelcal

you and peter have already admitted your feelings for each other, but aren’t in a committed relationship yet so when you see another girl getting close with him, you can’t help but be a bit jealous and insecure.

⭒ Out of Focus, Eye to Eye by @irndad

⭒ Orbitational Pull by @/irndad

⭒ remember me by @softlymellow

Peter Parker had lost you in a different reality, but when he is brought to a reality with another Spiderman, he also finds you, but you don’t remember him.

⭒ The Click by @erule

you catch feelings for Peter Parker, but he’s from another universe.

⭒ Pretty Girl by @tomsparkyr

when peter finds himself in another universe like his, he never expects a pretty girl on the other side to completely throw him off.

⭒ Peter accidently hits the reader by @webslingingslasher

⭒ Negotiating by @literaila

you wake up on peter’s chest.

⭒ a constant state of bursting atoms.  By @/literaila

stranger danger, and all that, except, of course when its a superhero. (part two)

⭒ perishable hours  by @/literaila

peter reminds you how important sleeping is. and then proceeds to keep you awake.

⭒ just barely  by @/literaila

⭒ Contacts by @/literaila

"what do you think would happen if i tried?" he asks. "with my reflexes? i'd blink fifteen times before they even handed me the contact. i'd run out the door as soon as they got the solution out."

⭒ bandaids & kisses by @bartxnhood

after a few encounters with the friendly neighborhood spider man, you let him in on a little secret. your crush on your best friend, peter parker.

⭒ size issues by @spidernerdsblog

you prank your husband by getting the wrong size of bra just to see his reaction.

⭒ Doughnuts by @cosmal

you’re really excited about doughnuts. peter really wants to kiss you.

⭒ doctor pete by @/cosmal

you freak peter out to get his attention.

⭒ YOU BELONG WITH ME  by @slytherheign

you can’t help but feel insecure when you realize your best friend peter and the most famous girl in the school are keeping a sweet secret from you.

⭒ SPIDER-BOY by @spider-stark

Thinking he has no chance with y/n as himself, Peter begins approaching them as Spider-Man.

⭒ “standing on your tippy toes, frustrated you can't reach your lover's lips” by @flightlessangelwings

⭒ dating headcanons-peter parker by @mqctavish

⭒ Who Are You Really by @obislittleone

⭒ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐲 𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐛 by @curseofaphrodite

imagine being tom!peter’s bestfriend while having a crush on andrew!peter.

⭒ 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐏𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐫 by @/curseofaphrodite

When Peter enters this earth, he stumbles upon you first.

⭒ 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐩𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐭. 𝟐 by @/curseofaphrodite

when it’s time to say goodbye, you’re reluctant. 

⭒ 𝐜𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐢𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞 by @/curseofaphrodite

best friends to lovers with our spidey

⭒ Redeemable by @empyreanwritings

You weren’t a do-gooder; the idea of saving the world gave you hives, if you were being honest. But you’d do anything to make sure Spiderman knew he was better than anger.

⭒ No Words Needed  by @genesisrose74

Peter’s love language is something of which he is very deprived. You’re his exception.

⭒ Movie Nights & Makeshift Medics by @/genesisrose74

It’s Thursday, and Peter doesn’t realize you’re in his room until he’s quite literally crawling through the window.

⭒ scenes from a modern romance  by @dameronology

everyone has stupid arguments, but it’s hard to stay mad at peter parker

⭒ thank you. By @saviorellie

⭒ Another Chance  by @mgparker

[masterlist]

⭒ A Quite Love by @maybe-its-britney-bitch

⭒ Near-Death Experiences by @parkersbliss

The moment Peter Parker stepped through that portal, you knew you were definitely screwed, but it wasn’t supposed to be this bad

⭒ Body Heat by @/parkersbliss

They do say if you’re ever cold that body heat is a great solution, wanna test that theory?

⭒ puppy dog eyes by @saviorellie

⭒ “THE FALL” by @lemon-boy-stan

peter couldn’t catch y/n when she fell, but maybe he could get a second chance to make things better.

⭒ Secrets Not Left Unshared by @stylesparker

⭒ Monsters of Men  by @/stylesparker

⭒ Kiss Me You Fool by @/stylesparker

⭒ Pictures by @dylcnobriens

⭒ Second Chances  by @wondergotham

⭒ Second Chances - Part 3 by @/wondergotham

⭒ It’s Always the Quiet Ones. by @nyeddleblog

Peter and you weren’t friends, but you definitely loved arguing.

⭒ right where you left me by @loeyparker

when Peter Parker falls into another world, you’re there to welcome him with suspicion and a drawn gun

⭒ how it should have been by @pctcr

reader wakes up in the wrong universe after dying in her original one

⭒ serendipitous salvation by @maximoff-pan

After everything he’s been through, Peter finds himself coming back to the one constant in his life: you

⭒ you are not to blame by @/maximoff-pan

From your universe, you’re spider woman. You lost your Peter Parker and it’s all but destroyed you. What happens when you end up somewhere else, meeting a look alike of your Peter, but from a different universe?

⭒ You are here by @violetrainbow412-blog

⭒ Photographs and birthdays by @/violetrainbow412-blog

⭒ Changes by @/violetrainbow412-blog

⭒ band-aid brand  by @kaylawritesfics

⭒ Daydreaming by @bristark616

Peter’s got it baaaaaad for his childhood best friend.

⭒ and then there was you  by @ptersparkers

secrets come to light when peter parker breaches the universe’s threshold and the last thing you expected was to fall for a stranger.

⭒ Crush by @/ptersparkers

peter has been visiting you as spider-man long enough to develop a crush on you. the problem? you have a crush on somebody else.

⭒ best friends by @/ptersparkers

you’ve always considered yourself peter parker’s best friend. but when his interest in mary jane complicates your friendship, it gets harder to hide your feelings for him.

⭒ In Another Universe by @mrshipsmcgee

After the events of No Way Home, our reader finds herself in the arms of a villainous green man.

⭒ your hand in mine by @s-r-writes

the three times Peter shyly held your hand in his, and the one time you not-so-shyly did.

⭒ pain relief by @luveline

spider-man likes you a little bit too much, and wants to help you get rid of your migraine - by whatever means necessary.

⭒ Peter Parker Masterlist by @heliads

⭒ TASM!Peter Parker Masterlis by @writings-of-a-hufflepuff

⭒ Gratitude by @eunoiathewriter

She expresses her gratitude to Spider-Man in a different kind of way, knowing exactly who he is.

⭒ undeniable chemistry  by @starrysoftie

it’s pretty obvious that you both like eachother

⭒ THE INTERNAL PRESSURES OF THOUGHTS AND AFFECTIONS by @donald4spiderman

peter isn’t sure why you make him feel the way you do. all he knows is that his heart races every time you say his name, and it’s bound to explode.

[elderwisp]

OC Tag Game

thank you for the tag @morrigan-sims ! as requested, here is some lore about Buff ;_; i tag: @allfrogsmatter @cakepoppresent @lynzishell @gvaudoiin-tricou @flovoid

General

Name: Buff. He doesn't have a last name since his clan takes on the last name based off of an achievement. His alias doubles as his last name which was given to him by his Dad gave him before sending him off.

Alias: the Unremarkable

Gender + Pronouns: Cis | He/Him

Age: 20

Spoken Language(s): Orcish and Common

Sexual Orientation: Straight

Occupation: He works for Edrick Morvin as a mercenary (although it's more like he's paying off a debt after destroying this man's bar)

the rest shall be under the cut! ⇣

Favorite

Color: His favorite color would have to be green! It's more comforting if anything. The peacefulness of the forest. The familiarity of his tribe, the Stonlight clan.

Entertainment: In the past, entertainment was hard to come by unless it was the brutish celebrations after a kill or pillaging. However, once he started venturing off into cities, he enjoyed the spectacles life had to offer. Whether it was an entertainer on the street, a bustling market or a lively bar. There was always something new for him to enjoy. Although out of everything, he enjoys a night out in a bar.

Drink: He likes the bubbles of ale. The side effects? Not so much

Pastime: He loves to nature-watch, especially if he finds a nice tree with some plush grass underneath. Lately though, he's started to pick up on sewing his clothes. Although he occasionally needs the help of Bone when it comes to threading the needle. (They both are pretty bad at it!)

Food: Any sort of hearty soup. The first time he tried soups of the city was such a life-changer to him. In his past, all he ever really had was boar, potatoes, and occasional green, but to put it in a soup?? Oh my

Have they...

Passed University: Negative.

Had Sex: Nope.

Had sex in Public: Also nope.

Got Tattoos: No although getting inked has piqued his interest. In his tribe, it was more like ceremonial markings, whereas the city, he likes the artistic element to it!

Got Scarred: Plenty. He has the scar on his nose from sparring in his youth. He has scars from his previous encounters. His most recent was a bite from his encounter with a bone naga.

Had a Broken Heart: Nah. Even the disappointment of his father didn't feel like having his heart broken, deep down inside, it felt like he was finally set free. Even if freedom came with a whole other set of problems.

Are They...

A Cuddler: If he experienced cuddling, I just know he'd enjoy it. But he'd really have to trust the other.

Jealous Easily: No, he finds jealousy, while valid, simply complicates a situation based on paranoia. Although he has more of a logical viewpoint because he's never been placed in a scenario where he's had to experience it.

Trustworthy: Once you get to know him, yes. But at first glance, absolutely not. Especially if his face is covered, he's quite looming, carries a huge ax and has the typical orcish features, he comes off as a bloodthirsty brute. And then the hood comes down and you're sorta perplexed because he has a soft face followed by a quiet voice.

Family

Siblings: None. Bone is like the closest he's experienced to having a sibling.

Parents: His father is Jagg Oathsworn and his mother is Dura the Undying. He wasn't raised by his mother, that was left to the handmaidens so their relationship is practically nonexistent. Meanwhile, he had to answer to his father a bunch and that relationship was strained since Buff had no attachment to taking over the tribe when it was time. His father took Buff's lack of interest as lazy and ungratefulness. Buff simply felt like there was more to life than cruelty. (Which is interesting considering his current occupation requires cruelty at times but I'll yap about that separately!)

Children: None.

Pets: None!

[spitefulsatanfics]

🕯️ 𝕀 𝔽𝕠𝕣𝕤𝕠𝕠𝕜 𝕃𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝔽𝕠𝕣 𝕐𝕠𝕦 — ℂ𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕚𝕖𝕝 𝕀𝕟 𝕃𝕠𝕧𝕖 🕯️

"You don’t understand. I would fall again — a thousand times — just to stay beside her." — Castiel (probably whispering this in Enochian when you're asleep)

Pairing: Castiel x Reader (She/Her)

Rating: T / PG-13 — Canon-level violence & language, celestial yearning, heavy emotional intimacy, angelic affection with mortal weight

Tone: Canon-compliant, reverent romance, socially awkward clinginess, holy devotion meets unintentional obsession

Written by: 🖤 Little Devil — ⌘ Written and published: June 26, 2025 ™

Based on: Supernatural — Seasons 4 through 9 (canon-compliant, 17+)

✧ 𝟏. 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐎𝐫𝐛𝐢𝐭 ✧

Castiel doesn’t follow you. He just... happens to appear wherever you are. Constantly.

Drabble: “Cas?” you ask, half-laughing. “You were just in Idaho.” He blinks. “You stubbed your toe. I felt your pain spike.” You stare. “It was... distressing.” You blink back. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t explain further. He just steps a little closer. “I wished to be present in case you needed comfort.” And suddenly, you’re not annoyed. You’re floored. Because his version of love? It’s instinct.

✧ 𝟐. 𝐍𝐨 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐓𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐇𝐢𝐦 ✧

He doesn’t understand human relationships. But he knows he’d rather be in the same room as you than anywhere else in the universe.

Drabble: He’s standing in your doorway. Again. “Cas, are you lost?” “No.” He tilts his head. “I am... orbiting.” You blink. “Orbiting?” “I’ve read that’s what... emotionally bonded humans do.” You raise an eyebrow. “I feel calmer when I can hear you breathe.” You just sigh, setting down your book. “Come in then.” He smiles like it’s the sun rising in his chest.

✧ 𝟑. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞 ✧

He says your name like it’s the first word he ever learned, and the last thing he’ll ever say.

Drabble: It’s quiet in the bunker. He says your name out of nowhere — soft, reverent. You glance up. “Cas?” He blinks. “I like saying it.” “Why?” “It grounds me.” You swallow thickly. He tilts his head again. “Would you prefer I say it less?” You shake your head. “No. Never.”

✧ 𝟒. 𝐀𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐬 𝐑𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥 ✧

He touches you like he’s afraid he’ll break something sacred. And every brush of his fingers is deliberate.

Drabble: He fixes your coat collar with the care of a priest handling relics. Wipes dirt from your cheek with his thumb like he’s writing a prayer. Every touch is laced with that careful restraint — as if he’s still afraid that being close to you might burn the wings off his back again. You reach up and touch his jaw. “Castiel,” you whisper. He closes his eyes like it’s a benediction.

✧ 𝟓. 𝐋𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐀𝐭 𝐘𝐨𝐮 ✧

You could be talking about pie or killing demons — doesn’t matter. He looks at you like you are divine.

Drabble: You’re rambling. Again. Cas hasn’t blinked in three minutes. “Are you even listening?” “Yes.” “Then what did I say?” He repeats every word — perfectly. Then adds, “But I was also cataloging how you tuck your hair behind your ear. I like that.” You stare. He doesn’t flinch. Just keeps looking. Like you hung the stars. Like you’re what the angels were supposed to follow.

✧ 𝟔. 𝐂𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ✧

Cas will straight-up smite anyone who threatens you. He says it very calmly.

Drabble: The demon sneers. You take a step back. Cas takes a step forward. His voice doesn’t raise. “If you touch her, I will end you.” The demon laughs. Castiel lifts one hand. The scream doesn’t last long. He turns back to you, all softness again. “Are you alright?” You nod, stunned. “Good,” he says, visibly relaxing. “Because I’m not.”

✧ 𝟕. 𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 ✧

Cas can sense your heartbeat across a battlefield. It keeps him grounded — and a little obsessed.

Drabble: The town’s chaos. Black-eyed demons everywhere. Dean and Sam are shouting. But Cas? Cas is still. Head tilted. “What are you doing?” Dean yells. “I can hear her,” Cas says quietly. “What?” “Her heartbeat. It hasn’t faltered. She’s alive. I’m going to her.” And then he vanishes like smoke in the wind.

✧ 𝟖. 𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜, 𝐈𝐧 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐎𝐰𝐧 𝐖𝐚𝐲 ✧

Cas doesn’t cook. Doesn’t clean. But he folds your laundry like it's a sacred rite and refills your shampoo because he noticed it was low.

Drabble: You step out of the shower and your favorite towel is already waiting — warm. Your shampoo bottle’s been replaced. Your tea is steeping. Cas walks by with the faintest smile. “You used the last of it yesterday. I wanted to ensure you wouldn’t be inconvenienced.” You blink. He tilts his head. “Is that... not the human standard of care?” “No,” you whisper. “It’s... more.”

✧ 𝟗. 𝐀𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐇𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐬 ✧

Cas is bad at being apart from you. He doesn’t understand why it makes him feel... cold.

Drabble: You’re on a solo supply run. He’s pacing in the bunker. Dean groans. “She’ll be back in twenty.” Cas stops. Stares. “But what if something happens?” Dean sighs. “You know you could fly to her, right?” Cas nods. “I promised to give her space.” Then quieter—“But my chest feels... wrong.” Dean mutters, “Yeah, that’s love, buddy.” Cas blinks. “I don’t like it.” “You’re not supposed to.”

✧ 𝟏𝟎. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐲 𝐇𝐞 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐒 ✧

It’s not casual. It’s not simple. Cas doesn’t just fall in love — he devotes himself. Fully. Unquestionably. Eternally.

Drabble: You say “I love you” like it’s air. Easy. Warm. He says it like a vow. “I love you,” he murmurs, brushing his fingers over your cheek like it’s carved from starlight. Then— “If Heaven demands I walk away, I will rebel again.” You blink. “I will always choose you,” he whispers. “Even if it destroys me.” And he means it. Every syllable. Every lifetime.

✧ 𝙁𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙏𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩:

Castiel never expected love. But when it came — when you came — it became the only thing that felt holy. He’s not human. But he knows how it feels to need someone so deeply it rewrites your very existence. You are his compass. His covenant. His cathedral. And there’s nothing in Heaven or Hell that could make him stop choosing you.

✧ The End ✧

[tellingoldstories]

WIP Wednesday

This week's is from chapter 2 of and flowers, stronger than cement which I am hoping to have finished before next week's WIP Wednesday rolls around:

Most people's first call, upon discovering that they have a three-year-old child, wouldn't be to their ex-wife. But then again, Jack Abbot is not most people, and Emery Walsh is not most people's ex-wives.

“Christ, Jack,” she says, after he’s told her the whole story; after she’s stopped laughing at him, “things that would only happen to you.”

He’s holding his phone tightly in both hands, Emery’s voice echoing through the tinny speakers as he tries to remember that he’s supposed to breathe - legs planted wide apart, head hung low as if it will stave off the buzzing in his mind.

“You handled it well though,” she continues, and it must be the truth because she doesn’t lie to him; never has and wouldn’t start now. Demands nothing but unfailing honesty in return and, really, he supposes, that’s probably why they didn’t even make it to their second wedding anniversary.

“You think?” He rasps

“I think.” Emery responds firmly. He can hear her rustling about - she doesn’t like to stand still, is probably doing her laundry as they talk, is probably balancing her phone between her ear and the crook of her neck. “Listen,” she adds, “you’ve made an appointment with your therapist, right?”

He nods, realises she can’t actually see him, and then answer in the affirmative. He’d texted Dr Pullman before he’d even pulled out of the hospital parking lot, hands shaking. Invoked the emergency appointment procedure for the first time in nearly a year and has a session scheduled for a couple of hours’ time. The older man has been treating Jack for the best part of a decade now, knows him as well as anyone save perhaps the woman on the other end of the phone, but Jack has the feeling that even he is going to have a hard time helping him rationalise this particular kick from the universe. If Jack was Dr Pullman, Jack would demand a raise.

He's about to express this to Emery when his phone buzzes, lighting up with a with an incoming text message,

Samira Mohan (9:26 AM):

I know earlier must have been kind of lot and I understand if you need more time

But Anika and I will be in the playpark near the hospital after your shift tomorrow

If you wanted to get coffee?

Underneath she has attached a photo. Anika is wearing a yellow raincoat and holding a stick, has a smudge of mud on her face and a feral, delighted grin that makes his heart clench in his chest; the breath punching right out of him. Thinks about every time in the last three years he’s thrown himself between a colleague and punch, stood on the wrong side of the hospital railings after a bad shift and not cared, not really, if he’d lived through the rest of the night. Thinks shit. Thinks he could have lost all of this so easily, before he’d even realised he had it at all.

Distantly, he can hear Emery’s voice through the ringing in his ears. “Jack?” she asks, and he has no way of knowing if it’s the first or the fifth time she’s said his name. Thinks it must be nearer the latter because she follows it up with, “Fuck it. I’m coming over. I’ll drive you to that dumb ass office your therapist thinks creates a nice environment or whatever, but I swear to God I will not be held responsible for what I’ll do if you don’t buy me a coffee on the way.”

She has started up her engine by the time he has the presence of mind to thank her. Thinks wryly, rapturously and not for the first time, that twenty-eight-year-old Jack Abbot had impeccable taste in women.  

[dilly-dahlia]

hi everyone! welcome to my milestone event!! I recently reached almost 300 followers and decided it was about time to celebrate that

first and foremost i want to thank everyone that has followed or interacted with me. it truly means the world to me that y'all are part of this community i have and enjoy being here. i'm over the moon that you guys like my writing and the silly stories because i love writing and coming up with silly stories :)

FANDOMS: aphmau, epic the musical

DATES: June 23 - Aug 9

event masterlist | main masterlist

before you jump in, check out my blog rules !

event rules !

✿ first and foremost, all of my usual blog rules apply

✿ this event is open for any character x reader!

✿ if you only give me the name of a character then i won’t answer your ask! I need a little more than that to get going for this event, which is why I’ve added prompts in the first place

✿ if you want more than just the vague prompt then add it! tell me if you want it to be angst or fluff or hurt/comfort or whatever other trope strikes you

✿ there is also not a limit for each prompt! more than one person can recommend the same song as the different fics will likely be titled differently, so don’t worry about any spots already being taken!

✿ i will not be a machine in churning requests out guys. i’m still a person with a life and i want to take time putting effort into each fic so they’re crafted with love and turn out the way i want. that takes time, so don’t rush me. and if you know anything about me, it’s that i like to take a lot of words to get to the point

✿ lastly enjoy! this is an excuse for me to indulge further into my hobby so make it an excuse for yourself as well :)

THE PLAYLIST !

below is a list of songs accompanied by vague prompts that I think are good fits for the music. just send an ask into my inbox—be sure to include the character and universe you want it written for, as well as any other intricacies (ie. what kind of reader, what season, etc.)! and if you want to request a song listed but have a different idea for the prompt, add that to your ask! also, these are full length fics

Beautiful Stranger Laufey - two strangers. the possibilities in front of them are endless.

so american Olivia Rodrigo - you’ve never been more in love than when they point out the little things.

Strawberry Mentos Leanna Firestone - you realized they were the one when they got you your favorite candy. or, alternatively, what they did for you to realize you were in love.

Good Looking Suki Waterhouse - learning about your partner. the little things—what makes them so irresistible to you.

Welcome to New York Taylor Swift - moving to a new place always has its highs, and you love all of them.

Silver Lining Laufey - through thick and thin, the two of you will follow each other no matter what

Backyard Boy Claire Rosinkranz - your classic “boy next door” vibes. that youthful love that always leaves an imprint on your heart.

Miss Americana & The Heartbreak Prince Taylor Swift - rivals to lovers. everyone can see the chemistry. everyone but you and them.

add your own! - in your ask, recommend me a song followed by your own prompt! be sure to add the character you want it to be written for and any tropes you want.

THE FOOD !

below is a list of different things to make headcanons about. these are just vague ideas, so feel free to put a little spin on them. again, make sure you specify the character(s) you want and the universe.

general dating headcanons

if they were in an au, what would they be like?

how they confessed

alternatively, who confessed first?

first date

love languages

when and how did they realize they like you?

how they react to something

send in your own!

THE CONVERSATIONS !

this is sort of a freebie category where you guys can ask me any questions about myself or anything else! anything you wanna know about me like music tastes, favorite movies, hobbies, about what i’m planning to write, plans for my rewrite, etc. this is just an open category!

alright! i hope you guys enjoy this event and once again thank you so much from the bottom of my heart for showing love and support. it truly means the world to me because it makes me believe i have a genuine shot at the things i’m passionate about. so thank you

[xreaderdumpster]

Smutfest day 4- Favourite ship/self-ship Shunsui x Reader

Was originally going to be for the AU one but thought I'd save it for today as Shunsui is literally my favourite man in Bleach (if you couldn't tell by the sheer amount of normal fanfics I post to this blog about him. In this universe, Shunsui is a captain general of an isolated Ancient Greek town with the reader being a travelling Maenad (a female devotee to Dionysus). Enjooooooooooy!

Content warning: 18+ MDNI!!!!, p in v, no protection (wrap it before you tap it IRL), forest sex, assault but nothing graphic (and not from Shunsui!),

Word count: 2,271

“Care to try some wine, General? My sisters and I made it a year ago so it’s juuust right.” You said with an innocent smile as you held your flask out to the older man. He looked up from his helmet. The general was handsome. Tall and tanned with a broad frame and a balance of muscles and fat. He had one gray eye, the right side being covered with an eyepatch. His gaze went from the flask to your face. A lazy but sincere smile spread on his lips. “You’re too kind to offer, miss, but I’m afraid I can’t. Being on shift and all, it wouldn’t be the most befitting thing for an officer to succumb to libations.” He spoke in a soothing deep lull. “What a shame. It will only stay sweet for so long.” You said with a coy pout. The general looked to his left and his right before leaning in as if to conspire with you. “Maybe just one sip wouldn’t hurt.” He whispered into your ear. His breath was hot against your neck and he smelt of natural musk and sandalwood incense. You held out the flask. His sturdy fingers brushed yours as he took the flask and pressed it to his lips. A sigh escaped him as he swallowed the dark red liquid. He passed you the flask back as his fingers yet again brushed against yours. Something electrical seemed to pass between you with every subtle touch. You watched as his tongue slowly licked his lips. The small heat that settled in his good eye seemed to portray a deep desire. “Delicious, probably one of the best wines I have ever tasted. Let me guess though, it’s not just wine in there, is it?” He asked as he leant back against the city wall. 

“You have a skilled tongue. You’re right. We also put blackberries, pomegranate seeds and lotus flowers in there for more flavour.” 

You could hear your sisters walking past you, giggling and chattering as they entered the city walls. Despite their radiant beauty, the general kept a polite smile and merely nodded as they strode past. His attention stayed planted on you. 

“Well, I’ll have to thank you, miss… What was your name again?” He said. 

“(Y/N) (L/N)” You replied with a slight bow “Me and my fellow Maenads are visiting the city for a few days to rest and gather supplies. And of course, spread the teachings of Dionysus.” “Pleasure is all mine, (Y/N). My name is Shunsui Kyoraku.” His serene smile slowly fell “Do be careful. This town has a… Reputation with travelling folks. Should you or your sisters need anything, please just call my name, I can come running.” 

A heat crept across your cheeks at his offer. You smiled more, fiddling with your dress. “I’ll keep that in mind, General Kyoraku. If you would like to join us once you finish your shift, we can always save you a seat.” 

His smile returned at your offer as he replied with a small nod. One of your sisters clasped your shoulders, running as she hurried you into the town square to join your fellow maenads. Shunsui watched as you walked off, his eyes only leaving your voluptuous form once you were but a spec in the crowd. 

The sun began setting as Shunsui stretched his weary limbs. As usual, nothing much happened as he watched over the gate to the city. It hardly ever did, really. That was until a woman came running towards him. Her dress, the same white with red stains across the edges, had tears across it as she rushed towards him. Shunsui frowned, catching her before she tripped. “Easy, miss. What happened?” He asked. The young girl panted, eyes wild with terror. “General, me and my sisters are being attacked! We tried to sleep and a group of men-” 

Shunsui knew what was happening. He knew the moment he saw her but needed to confirm. He rushed off, the young Maenad hot on his trail to guide him. He could hear it before he saw the sight. Men of the town chastising and heckling the group of women. Shunsui got there just as his niece, Nanao, tried to pull a man’s hands off of you. Tears kept falling from your eyes as he smacked Nanao to the ground. Shunsui’s blood boiled. He walked with large steps towards the man. Other men who were attacking the other men recognised Shunsui and began running off, not wanting to get in trouble. You shrieked as you fought against him. “Stop squirming, little fawn. Aren’t you maenads supposed to love this-” The man said with a wicked grin. Shunsui suddenly punched the man, causing him to fall to the ground and let go of you. A sigh of relief escaped you as you ran to check if Nanao was ok. Shunsui picked the man up by the front of his tunic. “Leave them be.” He said in an unexpectedly gruff voice. The man groaned before punching Shunsui in the face. His lip busted open as blood trickled down his beard. Shunsui let out a growl as he let the man go, pointing his sword at the man’s throat. “You dare defy a general? Leave before I take you to the court of law and have your hands cut.” 

The man cowered slightly under the knife as it pressed closer to his neck. Like a bolt of Zeus’ lightning, he ran. Shunsui knelt beside Nanao and you. “Are you both alright?” He asked gently, checking Nanao over first before checking you. “I’m alright.” Nanao said, slowly rubbing her back where she hit the ground “I tried to protect the Maenads but…” “You did good, Nanao.” He reassured her before helping her up to her feet. You followed them, gently placing an arm on his shoulder. “Please, let me clean up that wound of yours and offer you some wine. It’s the least I can do for you as you protected my sisters and I.” 

Shunsui thought for a moment before glancing at Nanao. It was as if he wanted to check she was ok before he agreed. She shrugged. “You might as well, General. I’ll be alright getting myself back to the house.” Nanao said before turning around “But please be quiet when you return. Or by the gods, I will shave your head off.” She began to walk off, not noticing the audible gulp Shunsui made. You giggled before grabbing his wrist and brought him to the fire your group had set up before the attack. 

The maenads you had travelled with, at first, were hesitant of the large man sat in their ranks. But as they saw you carefully cleaning the blood from his lip, they eased. Some members began dancing, singing songs Shunsui had never heard before as they passed the wine around. That rich, delicious smelling red ambrosia. He took a long and hearty swig before offering the bottle to you. You took a long swig too, savouring the slight metallic taste his blood had given the lip of the bottle. Some of your sisters giggled excitedly as their hands began exploring Shunsui’s form. They seemed particularly fascinated with the thick wavy locks of hair he had tied back. The group began placing flowers in his locks. Roses, daffodils, orchids, lotuses, wisteria, lilies; anything you found on your travels. Delicate fingers intertwined them in each strand. You giggled, watching the scene fondly. Shunsui didn’t seem to mind the colourful additions. In fact, the more he drank, the more relaxed he became. As your sisters wandered back to dance around the fire, you smiled at the General. 

“The look suits you. Seems you’ve been welcomed into the group.” You said, scooting closer to his side. His grey eye turned to you, his gaze going up and down slowly, as if to remember every detail of you.

“It appears so.” Shunsui replied as he took another swig of wine. 

“I don’t blame them. You did save our girls. We don’t often trust men outside of Dionysus.” You explained. 

“Well, I feel honoured to be trustworthy to you and your sisters.” 

Shunsui smiled warmly, his hand resting on your plush thigh. That wine began going to his head. His blood felt warm, like he’d bathed in the presence of gods. Your face heated at his gentle but firm touch. A strange tightening began stirring in your lower stomach. Something you’d felt before when you’d lay with men or your sisters but… It never happened this quickly from one touch. You gulped down more wine, keeping an eye on your group as they slowly entered the euphoria that came with drinking the wine. Their dancing became more erratic and their singing words became slurred. Shunsui watched before turning his gaze back to you yet again. 

“Is this what you maenads do? Drink wine and dance?” He asked in earnest. 

“We believe that wine brings us closer to communicating with Dionysus, General. The more wine and dancing through our veins, the clearer we can hear his messages.” You finished the bottle of wine after you spoke. You used the back of your hand to wipe the excess that lingered. Shunsui took your hand, bringing it to his lips and gently licking what sticky wine stained your smooth skin. 

“What does the great Dionysus say, petal?” Shunsui asked. His eye met yours as that knot in your stomach tightened. You weren’t sure whether it was the wine or how handsome he looked bathed in the light of the fire. A blush crept across both your faces. A side effect of the wine perhaps. The grip on your hand tightened slightly as if he urged you to speak. 

“I…” You hesitated. You wanted to say Dionysus encouraged you to sleep with him but that would have been a lie. A lie on a god's name could be ruinous. 

“I don’t know… But my body is telling me something very clear.” 

“And that is?” “Follow me.” You whispered as you grabbed his wrist and dragged him towards the wooded area on the outskirts of town. Your sisters hollered and cheered as they spotted you walk off with the general. Like a drum, your heart began pounding in your chest. Your body had a mind of its own as you stopped in front of an old oak tree. Gripping the straps of his armour, you pulled him closer. Shunsui responded in kind, his hands grabbing your hips. The material was soft under his calloused hands. His lips met yours in a hesitant but firm kiss. His tongue licked your lips to which you gladly allowed him to explore your mouth. The sweet mingling of wine slowly began clouding your minds as the kiss became more fervent. One of Shunsui’s hands moved to slowly rub between your thighs, gently rubbing your sex through your perizoma. A grin crossed his face as he could feel how wet you already were. “Already wet for me, are we?” He teased. A moan escaped you as your hand ran down his body before stopping at his crotch. Your hand rubbed his growing erection, eliciting a groan from him. “Please, captain. Make love to me.” You pleaded as your hand slipped into his underwear. Your head swam with lust and the intoxication from the wine. You slowly began pumping his cock, smearing pre-cum all along the tip. Shunsui groaned louder before he nodded. His arms released you for a moment before pulling down your perizoma. It crumpled at your feet before he dropped his own. His cock stood proudly, thick with a prominent vein running from his tip to the base. You hungrily licked your lips before he lifted one of your legs to gain better access. Slowly, he centred himself towards your folds. An aching stretch enveloped your senses as he entered you. The minute he bottomed out, you both gasped at how well his cock filled you. “You’re so tight, petal. So wet and perfect.” He mumbled against your neck. Shunsui kissed your neck as he allowed you to adjust around him. He sucked your pulse point which elicited another long moan from you. Your legs wrapped around his waist and your arms around his neck. His hands cupped your ass cheeks as he began thrusting up into you. You held onto Shunsui for dear life as he picked up the pace. Each thrust made you moan and gasp, feeling his cock mold your pussy around him.Skin against skin slapping filled the forest along with your insatiable moans. Shunsui’s thrusts got harder and sloppier as you felt a tightening in your abdomen. “S-Shunsui… I’m close.” You gasped. Your nails dragged across his broad back muscles. He moaned wantonly as he practically whimpered for release. “You’re gonna make me cum…!” He whispered in your ear before your orgasm hit you like a chariot. You practically cried out as your pussy swallowed him whole, fluttering as you came. Shunsui wasn’t far behind, coming deep inside you two thrusts later. His seed trickled down your thigh as Shunsui lowered your legs back onto the ground. Your muscles shook and cried out. As you went to take a step, you felt your knees buckle as you almost fell. Luckily, Shunsui held you close to him. “Woah, are you alright?” He asked, worry in his tone. You nodded with a smile as you laid your head against his chest for just a moment. His heart still beat rapidly. “Want me to carry you back to the fire?”

[ecandjamesvpjournal]

Another ping, this time from a familiar e-mail address. Tucker and Sam look at each other, then back at the ping, where they check.

Another e-mail. A message that started with: “If you’re reading this, then things have gotten bad!”

Tucker find a video attached, and clicks play.

The video shows a young man in a jumpsuit, wearing goggles on his head, with the patch on his breast pocket reading, “Robertson”. He sits, face forwards as there are sounds in the background. “If you are watching this, then we’ve been reported dead.” There is a pause, before he adds, “If it works, and I suspect it has, the GIW will be no more, and Amity Park will be at peace, but it’ll come at a cost.”

There is a bang in the background as Dr. Robertson looks to the side, “Have they broken in yet?” “Not yet, but they will in the next 25 minutes.” a voice off-screen said, presumably based on the familiarity of the voice, it was Danny. Dr. Robertson nods, and he turns to the camera.

“Sam, Tucker, and to whoever gets this message,” he pauses for a moment, “At 5:29 pm on Wednesday, The GIW attempted to capture a clone of Danny Phantom named “Danielle Phantom”, who was trying to get away.” He grabs a cigarette from off screen, possibly the desk the camera is on, and takes a drag, exhaling smoke as he spoke, “She almost didn’t get away if it wasn’t for quick thinking and timing. Danny and I fought them, but she almost-” he pauses, rubbing his face for a moment, before continuing, “W-we defended Danielle, and due to her falling apart, I quickly used a trap to save her.”

“She’s fine, don’t worry.” he said, as he took another drag, contemplating what he was going to say next before continuing, “After all of that, Danny and I agreed that we had to destroy the GIW and take them down. Thankfully, their security was pretty bad, so I was able to access their files.” “23 minutes!” “Thank you Danny” Dr. Robertson confirms, while taking another drag. “Our plan is relatively simple. After finding out what the GIW is planning, Danny and I are planning on stopping them before they break the cardinal rule of the universe. For it to work, our…” he puts up his hands to do air quotes, “doomsday device”, he says as a image is cut to a blueprint for a device made from the Ghostbusters attempt to stop a cosmic horror, “uses the Ecto PKE to disable and destroy anything related to a ritual or cult.”

“However, it needed a powerful source of this energy.” he said. He paused, as he put out his cigarette, before pulling another and lighting it. “We’re gonna use ours to power the device and to hopefully, destroy the GIW from the inside out.” Tucker and Sam didn’t like where this was going. From the bad news of the Bats, they saw the e-mail telling them the bad news.

“While it might have some possibility of killing us,” he said, taking a drag before releasing a puff of smoke, “I’ve crunched the numbers. There’s a slim chance that we’ll survive.” He paused, as a thought occurred to him, “On the off chance that someone reports that Danny or I are dead, there’s a chance that we’re in a ecto-coma. Which means that as a safety measure, our bodies as a means to protect our cores, will shut down our bodies, until we’re restored to health. But our heartbeats will be significantly slower.”

Sam and Tucker seemed shocked, as the video continued, “IF by chance, and this is a big IF, you get in contact with the Batman and his team, this video will be sent to them as well, and hopefully, they’ll already have two things. 1) a means of restoring both of us back to normal health, and 2) the same thing that you have Sam and Tucker. A compressed PDF file of the GIW, what they were doing, and what their plans were.” Tucker was shocked and quickly looked to see that the other attachment was a .zip file.

“Sam, Tucker, whoever else is getting this video. It’s important now that you know that the GIW was not a good paranormal agency. Their methods were almost gurilla in nature, attacking ecto-entities, and causing damage and even casualties.” “18 minutes!” Danny yelled, with Dr. Roberts, putting out his other cigarette. “Well, that’s all I’ve got to say on the matter. Sam, Tucker… prepare for the sh*tstorm that’ll happen. The Bats will be contacting you soon.”

“Jimmy! They’ve come early!” Danny said. Jimmy switched on the Proton Pack, “Alright, let’s do this.” he said to himself. He then switched off the camera.

Tucker and Sam looked at each other, shocked. Neither of them knew what to say, as their friends that they thought was dead, was in a coma. Possibly still alive.

Suddenly, another ping from the inbox came up and both of Danny’s friends knew what was up.

DC + DP

Sam stared at the city. She and Tucker had left as soon as they could. Amity wasn’t safe, Danny stayed, he stayed because he couldn’t leave.

she didn’t understand it, didn’t understand how ghosts worked like that. She and Tucker visited sometimes, they’d talk with him. He looked the same as ever, imaging. He was different though. His eyes more tired, he limped more. He no longer seemed so young.

they talked over the phone, Sam begged him sometimes. When he called a bit too late at night to be normal, when his voice sounded hoarse and broken. Tucker did too, they’d have offer him a place.

“I can’t,” he’d say with no explanation. The next time they’d see him he’d be more tired, he’d look older still, despite being forever fourteen.

Sam worried, but there was nothing to be done. She called him, the phone rang and his name ran across the screen. She’d taken his last name of years ago, when he told her he hated them,

He didn’t pick up. Again. She’d called him yesterday and the day before, and the day before.

He hadn’t answered. She and Tucker called him hourly at this point, and still nothing. She stared as his voicemail started playing. He’d made it years ago, at fifteen. “Hi, this is Danny, I’m probably busy or something so leave a message, or don’t, I don’t listen to voicemails.” She hit the hang up button, and sighed.

she and Tucker were more than worried, she supposed it was time to head back to amity. The road trip was generally fun, even if the destination was somewhere they hated.

this one was quiet. They played car games, but without the usual laughter. Because Danny wasn’t responding. He never didn’t call back, and yet he hadn’t. So they went back to Amity.

amity looked the same as always, probably would never change. There was construction in progress repairing a building. Sam didn’t need to ask, if she did the answer would be. “Gh

but the town was in worse condition than she’d ever seen before. Broken buildings, glass on the streets. And a distinct lack of Phantom. Locals talked about it, mourning his loss. Others celebrated it with beer in pubs.

They returned home with heavy hearts, and they didn’t know what to do. It was one of those nights, with high tensions, and they’d had a little bit to much to drink.

“We’ve got to help him,” she croaked.

“I know,” Tucker agreed, “but how?”

Sam doesn’t have an answer, “there are other heroes?” She finally suggests.

Tucker smiles, “the bats are based in Gotham right? Maybe we could ask them?”

“so let’s find them!” Same agrees, she’s worried, and has no clue what to do, so the idea of helping even if it might be a dead end is fine.

it’s probably the hardest thing tuckers ever done, hacking into the bats servers, he’s worried though and it worth it just to see his friends smile again.

They wait after messaging, someone replies says they’ll look into it. Sam and Tucker hold their breath. Waiting for a reply, it comes.

“Give us two days,” there is nothing left to do but wait. So they do. Checking the computer hourly barely making it through school or work. until finally they finally get a response. They hug eachother as it pings into the message box and Sam on it and they wait with bated breath as the screen loads. She reads it with a smile already on her face.

“We were too late, I’m sorry for your loss.”

Sam’s smile vanishes.

—

so… yeah… idk bye? 👋