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binmeister · 22 days ago

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Morally Grey - Headcanon / notes

Saja Boys x Demon Assistant! Reader (Fem)

Thinking about a demon assistant!reader instead of a demon manager!reader because you’re not actually managing their activities, you’re not scheduling events or doing all the things expected of someone to manage them. You’re there to assist their plan.

More headcanon-y than the normal stuff, just wanted to get the ideas jotted down and not that invested in writing a full story. Primarily still follows most of the movie plot. Title means nothing it just sounded cool in my head.

CW: potential angst, unformatted and not proofread, fan HC heavy, may contain mature / dark themes, these are just my loose HCs and notes

Premise

There’s demons that feast on human souls and take pride in it, but there’s also demons that still have remnants of their humanity in tact - that fight back against Gwi-Ma as their little ‘fuck you’ to him. What if you were like that?

He had no hold over you, you were disinterested in the memories he tries to control you with - your loved ones had been dead for centuries it doesn’t matter what you do now, what’s done is done and you accepted that already. Gwi-Ma wanted control and he’ll get it one way or another.

So you’re forced to assist with Jinu’s plan, despite your obvious disinterest. Despite your clear distain at the idea of hurting people. But you go along with it because Abs wanted to spend time with you, because Mystery asked you sweetly and because Jinu looked at you like he was on the verge of breaking apart.

Curse your remaining empathy.

You didn’t really care for whatever plots or schemes Gwi-Ma demanded of you, at this day and age if you remember right you’re maybe at 450 years of existence give or take - not accounting for the 20 or so years you were actually human

The first 50 years of him tormenting you with the memories of your family or loved ones had stopped meaning anything, at this rate you’ve spent more time as a demon than you ever did alive with them so what do these memories even mean anymore? He could conjure up a dragon and say that it was your father and you’d believe him at this point - because it stopped meaning anything to you

You’ve spat that at him, told him that directly to his dying flame - he was furious and burned you with your markings for hours before getting bored and tossing you aside: you’re just one of millions of demons, why does it matter anyway?

You weren’t alone in this, knew other demons who also functioned similarly where none of you could care less - what’s he gonna do anyway, eat you? Kill you? Not much of a threat if it means you’re free of purgatory from him

At this rate he keeps you and the other like-minded individuals like you alive to torture you but you’ve grown bored

Tired

He doesn’t stop any demons from sneaking to the surface when they’re able, he wants them to succeed in whatever scheme they want after all so it’s not anyone’s business what you do

And what do you do?

You sneak up in your once human form, clad in whatever time appropriate clothes matched the living and breathing humans around you and you walked amongst them, observed them, quietly adored them from afar

You just people watched.

Your not-so-secret little hobby as you watched people, watch their happy moments, their sad moments, their worst and best moments, you even had the privilege to watch a few souls from the time they were able to crawl to the time they were being laid to rest surrounded by people who loved and remembered them

That thought was what occasionally made you sad.. that no one remembered you, but realistically you didn’t remember you

You have a habit of keeping your human illusion on in hell, not always, just enough so you wouldn’t forget what you use to look like - a little scared that if you forget then there’s no evidence that you existed before, Gwi-Ma tried to use that against you and you didn’t fight back just let it happen and then he got bored because you weren’t screaming or fearful

Aside from demons with similar mindsets you’re close with the demons that eventually become the Saja Boys, not because you sought them out but because it just lined up - all relatively tossed into hell at similar time periods

Baby shares what he remembers of his life with you, his face is so young and when he talks about the desperation he faced you feel bad for him but admit that you don’t.. know how to comfort him.. that you’ve forgotten

But he doesn’t stop you whenever you seem to think he feels down, doesn’t stop you when you pull him into your arms and softly hum some tune that you’ve memorised from one of your human retreats

You teach him how to read, when he admitted that he wasn’t sure what that was - each era that goes by you bring him a piece of literature that you’ve smuggled in from the surface and you sit down and teach him what things mean - what words are what, what the current trend of slang is

Mystery had lashed out at you on your first meeting, unable to fathom what he had become and he was feral - but you didn’t look at him in anger or disgust, just sadness

And it made him hate you for a while. Every time he encountered you, he’d growl and swipe at you but you never fought back, just let him do what he wanted as he cuts at your arm for the umpteenth time and occasionally you’d smuggle something delicious for him and offer it as a peace offering

Eventually he’d been at peace with you, opened up a little about himself and when he feels like he’s losing who he becomes.. you tell him what he told you, remembering the pieces of himself that he had started to forget and it’s enough to keep him satiated for a while as you two often just sit in silence together the times where you aren’t able to escape

Abs had admitted to you one day when he had tagged along with you on your people watching escapade that he didn’t remember anything from his previous life

He’d been wiped clean, the only thing that torments him is just an overwhelming sense of guilt or rage that gets ramped up when Gwi-Ma isn’t happy with him but other than that it’s.. empty up there.. which seemed worse in your opinion

When you first met him he didn’t emote much, expression neutral most of the time and then you and Jinu teach him how to feel again, feel things other than the guilt and rage and he learns to laugh even though he doesn’t remember why it’s important, on his second century he figures out why it’s fun to laugh again but he manages to suppress Gwi-Ma’s influence over that

Romance is scared of you. You notice immediately when Abs and Jinu introduce him when they come across him when he first lands in hell, he’s terrified of you in particular

He’s not scared of Abs’ or Jinu’s height or frames, he’s scared of you - because you’re a woman, or at least once were a woman

He notices that you stop getting in his space, that whenever he shows up and sits on the ground you’ll shift over so you’re not touching him - he realises that you know he’s scared of you but you’re not disgusted or annoyed by it, you’re still talking to him and engaging in conversation with him when he joins in and over time he steadily becomes more comfortable and initiates conversation with you

At some point he’s stopped flinching if your knees accidentally bump against each other, instead he gives you a smile and his eyes sparkle with warmth - something so foreign to all of you

Jinu is.. someone that you have a mutual respect with is how to word it

He’s the most affected by his memories and it often leads to arguments and walking on eggshells, the entirety of the centuries you knew him there’d be days he was alright - bantering with everyone, engaging in conversations

Then there’s other days where the memories are loud and he snaps at you in particular, because he admits that he hates the fact that you’re not suffering like he was and you admit to him that you envy him. Envy the fact that he still remembers what they meant to him. When he asks you to elaborate you point out that you’ve spent more time with Abs and Baby in the last year of knowing them in comparison to the 2 decades you had with your supposed family, you honestly didn’t even know if they were your family in the first place because sometimes there were inconsistencies in the torment - the faces blurred

“I envy the fact that they mean anything to you.” “What?” “They stopped meaning anything to me after he dangled the memories over my head for half a century.. I’ve known all of you longer than 5 of my human life spans could fathom. And you expect me to cling onto people that I don’t remember anymore?”

Most of your interactions are neutral, sometimes even good, then Gwi-Ma yanks on the leash he has on Jinu and he pulls away again

I have a HC that Jinu is the most active for this plan and the others had just followed his lead bc there wasnt much else to do honestly and it sounded kinda fun to do, they’ve got so much time on their hands and had just existed for years without really doing much aside from occasionally going up and sapping a soul or two - and with Gwi-Ma weakening they had 0 issues being on stand by but they see how Jinu is falling apart by the day and want to help him because they did learn to care

When Jinu discloses his plan, you were originally going to skip the congregation and just go people watch like you always did but Abs had grabbed your hand before you could sneak away and begged you to be there - just be a bystander because it’d for them

What you don’t expect is for Gwi-Ma to accept the proposal. For his twisted and sick fiery head to lift you up out of the crowd and force you up the stairs and slam you onto the stone flooring as you grunt out in pain, telling you on the spot that you’ll be responsible for assisting Jinu in his little scheme - when you deny him and fight back he amps up the torture, forces the others to watch as he burns you and watches you writhe in pain until you crack and agree in front of the crowd - in front of the guys

The moment you are released you’re silent, your body feeling like it was made of molten lava as you nod blankly because the pain is too much to bare for once and he laughs at your suffering - you hear the distant laughter of other demons as they follow his lead albeit hesitantly

Getting dismissed after Gwi-Ma and Jinu have their moment you don’t speak to any of them, not when Abs asks if you’re okay, not when Mystery tries to reach out to you or when Romance or Baby try to catch your eye, Jinu even tries to catch you but you refuse to look at any of them as you try to process what’s due to happen

Jinu isn’t talking to you like before, instead primarily speaking of the plan and you all collectively ignore the elephant in the room that is what little there is left of your morals being tested for this plan - to break the honmoon and let Gwi-Ma reign supreme

Your tasks as the ‘assistant’ isn’t that much, primarily sharing what you know about the current world, because you have the most experience with the modern times and when they show you their human forms you cringe at their ugly outfits - Abs is the least offensive as he’s gone with you before on your people watching excursions but the others’.. are rough

you tell them that you’ll be the one to co-ordinate their outfits, things that will compliment them and make them look good and they’re all sceptical - even Abs

you grumble as a puff of pink smoke engulfs you briefly, now changed into one of your well-dressed outfits alongside your human form and they all pause - it’s not the usual hoodies you’d wear to blend in, it’s something nice that compliments your figure and suits your skin tone

you’ve even done your hair so it’s styled nicely with a cute matching hair pin and they begrudgingly agree to being dressed by you

you had broken down current music trends, explained what could make stand out in the current scope of tough bad boy music and girl crush music - something light and refreshing would break the market (prior to this plan you had shared this information as part of your usual info snippets when they asked about whats going on above, not knowing jinu was using this information for the plan)

when you’re tasked to help them secure a venue, Jinu already knows you have a place in mind and tasks the other guys with getting that information out of you

He knows youre not invested, knows youre trying to hide information but he knows as well that you cant help but offer up info to people when they ask with earnest

Mystery asks you, takes the time to take you aside and quietly asks you where you think a good place to go would be and youre hesitant but instead of describing it.. you take him with you so he can see himself

You warn him that it will be loud, it will be busy, you know he comes up the least aside from Jinu so you tell him if its overwhelming to let you know

When you lead him to the public square he’s a little tripped out, looking blankly at all the shiny buildings and wow that ones made of almost all glass- but he follows your direction as you point out where you think would be a good spot to try for, then he asks about what else is in the area

And you tell him with this little sparkle in your eye what you know, about the little food stalls, about how on Mondays theres a little farmer that comes in with his truck and fresh crops he sells at a low rate bc hes so proud of himself, about how theres usually a lot more teens on a Friday as theyre running around hanging out and prolonging the inevitable of having to go home to do more homework

The sound of the crowd is drowned out to him as he focusses on your voice alone, doesnt even notice when a person or two bumps into him on their way by and apologises about it bc hes so wrapped up on whatever youre describing - the little snippets of genuine joy as you share small unimportant observations

When you return back later he thanks you for taking him and he sees the smile on your face turn cold, but you still muster up the energy to say “you’re welcome” as your patterns surface

The first performance, the guilt is already steadily building up as you see people so excited about the Saja Boys debut

You’re watching them perform off to the side, looking at all the people so excited about the impromptu performance and cheering

Your heart feels full watching how happy everyone is for a moment you forget about the plan, a smile on your face as you get to witness their fleeting moments of joy

You don’t notice the hunters, and the hunters dont notice you, as you slip away from the crowd once the performance is done and you dont meet up with the boys again

Instead you wander aimlessly, appreciating the warmth of the afternoon sun and the bustling of the crowd

The peace

Abs appears abruptly, bringing an arm to wrap it around your shoulders in a playful manner but before he can, the words asking about how their performance was to you die on his tongue as he just observes your serene expression as you continued to look at the people around you

He doesnt interrupt you, letting his arm drop and just watching with a calm expression on his face and waits for you to notice him before he asks you how you thought they did

“I liked it.. you guys are good.” At your small praise, the way your lips curl into a genuine smile, it makes him feel something and it feels good

“..i wonder if it will be okay..” you murmured softly but he heard it, heard the hesitation and guilt leaking in but he doesnt engage - instead just follows you around as you continue to look around and enjoy your little hobby - the pretence of being human

After the game show that night, after their scuffle with the hunters - they come looking for you because they know you wouldnt go back right away, Jinu had split from them when he had his moment with Rumi

They catch you observing from a ways away, staring at something down by the street and they follow your line of sight to where theres a few teenagers recording themselves doing the Soda Pop dance, laughing and making fun of each other as they redo the take

You look sad as you watch them, they watch you hug yourself and the way you scratch at your arms slightly like you need to self soothe - hear you whisper “they’re so young..”

No one says anything but Baby does go up and drops his head on your shoulder and you jolt, not expecting the contact and you almost turned to punch him had he not wrapped a familiar arm around your waist and quietly mumbled in his low voice that “you’re normally happier when you watch them (humans)”

He doesnt hear you reply but he feels you tense up under his arm, then youre all groaning as Gwi-Ma starts murmuring in your heads before youre all pulled down and into the crowd of awaiting demons

You dispel your human form first, breaking contact with Baby as everyones cheering and gushing over the boys - you slink into the crowd and out of the spotlight

Then someone screams about the soul dropping from the sky and you feel your stomach drop as you watch the light come down

The boys had dispelled their appearances by now, looking exhausted at the act they’d put on all day and you don’t stay long enough to see Jinu appearing by Gwi-Ma as you rush to get away

Jinu’s first secret meeting with Rumi you had caught him, before she had appeared, you talked to him and asked him what he was planning and he shrugged and said its just a casual talk

But you know better, you know he can be cunning so you give him shit for it

“She’s a human girl, Jinu. Her heart is fragile.” “She’ll get over it.” “She won’t.”

You’re frustrated at him, at his dismissive nature as he shrugs you off and tells you to piss off, before you leave you say over your shoulder that you “..hope you’re not playing around with her for fun. Thought you were at least above that.”

After he’s done messing with Rumi he seeks you out, not really knowing he’s actively doing it when he comes across you overlooking the city at some lookout area and just quietly observing it - the city lights frame you as you lean against the railing and it makes him misstep and almost fumble over himself

Your head turns to look at him flailing to look cool and you don’t laugh, just raise an eyebrow at him and you dont even smile because youre still pissed off at him

He gives you an awkward smile as he comes up to lean against the railing as well and neither of you say anything until you say something before he can

“You know what she is now, don’t you?”

Hes surprised, questions you on how you know and you shrug at him saying plainly that youve been around long enough to spot her when she’s having a meltdown in a not so private area here and there when she thinks no ones around to hear her cry

“..Jinu don’t play with her heart.” You say it like a plea and he scoffs a little, running a hand through his hair as he’s adamant that she’ll get over it and its not that big of a deal and you finally cut him down with

“You’ve had 400 years, to get over yourself. And you expect her to get over this in her time alive? You’re playing with her heart.” He freezes for a moment before his anger flares up in return “Stay out of my business.”

“I never wanted to be part of your business, you brought me into it.” You’re both furious, patterns on full display over your human skin as you glare at eachother

You knew why Gwi-Ma forced you to assist, yeah, you knew. Jinu was the one to call your name up because when you replay the memory of that moment in your head you see the regret and guilt on Jinu’s face as he watches you suffer for his benefit

The plan is succeeding, explosively at that - everywhere you went is their song playing, their human facades plastered everywhere and you feel conflicted

on one hand you should feel happy that their plan is succeeding, that things are going good

But then you feel sick at the fact that all these people are so happy and enjoying themselves without knowing they’re being used, someone’s late night snack could mean they become a demon’s late night snack

You’ve watched unsuspecting victims as demons lurk behind them and suck out their souls, there’s an instance where you attack a demon that’s about to feed off a young child and when they ask ‘Unnie what’re you doing?’ you smile at them and say that there was a big scary bee and you were trying to keep them safe as they squeal and hide behind you at that, that demon still remembers you and grumbles about it when he next sees you

There’s a moment where you’re down below, watching all the souls fall from the sky with the other Saja Boy members as you sit over a cliff to watch it all and you can’t stomach it knowing that it couldve been any of the faces that you’ve seen yourself - people who were oblivious because they were just trying to find some semblance of joy in their short life time

Romance catches you as you’re leaving, hand on your shoulder to stop you for a moment, then he sees the conflicted emotions in your eyes and he doesn’t stop you when you disappear from his grasp - just lets you go

So it leads you to the look out again, chest heavy as you look at the peace of the city knowing that your fellow demons are wrecking havoc and indulging in their hunger and greed

You can’t take it as the shame and guilt eats you alive, your patterns burn and you can hear Gwi-Ma cackling in your head as he mocks you and reminds you that it’s your fault for helping, your fault for assisting, has always been your fault for caring

In your past life time and now he reminds you that it was always your fault because all you did was care too much that you were blinded by it and would help anyone.. including the people who could turn on you at any point and then the blurred faces he used to torment you with are clear, faces of family friends you thought you could trust when you’d been ‘blessed’ by Gwi-Ma, the same faces that gleefully stole from you and abused you after you had helped them, the same that pointed and framed you for things you didn’t do which lead to your death as you were bludgeoned and thrown carelessly into the river

Everything caves in and you’ve collapsed to your knees, heaving air into your lungs as the tears don’t stop and Gwi-Ma continues to laugh in your head as he distorts those old voices, the ones you thought you had forgotten as they all laugh at you for being a fool

You don’t hear when footsteps approach you, you don’t hear the sound of a blade cutting through the air until you feel the relief of a cold blade pressed against your neck

“You.. you’re always around the Saja Boys.” You hear Mira’s voice as she speaks, her weapon gripped tightly in her hand as she holds it against your neck and you finally turn - eyes wide and expression frazzled as you realise the three hunters were surrounding you, weapons drawn and ready to end you if you move wrong

But they don’t expect you to lean into the sharp weapon, to press it deeper into your neck until it makes a cut and there’s blood leaking out as your hand tries and press it even deeper

“Wait- you can’t-” You hear Rumi’s voice and then you vaguely remember seeing a puff of smoke as familiar hands grab you and you’re taken away, to some secluded park and you vaguely remember hearing the sound of Romance’s voice as he calls out “Sorry, we’ll be taking our assistant home now.”

You’re quiet as you feel Abs arms hold you tight before he lets you down on the grass, lets you reorient yourself as you realise the four demons you’ve grown accustomed to had followed you up - watched you break down into your most vulnerable state and refused to let you go

No one says anything, no one reprimands you for being stupid and trying to get yourself killed, you feel Baby’s hand on the cut on your neck and he complains as he pulls it back and licks your blood off his hand before he leans down to make sure that your body is regenerating - even if you didn’t want it to it’s already done

You don’t look at them, your head is lowered as they watch your patterns shift and seemingly consume what little skin there is that isn’t already covered in markings and they don’t force you to go back down with them - just quietly stay in the vicinity of you because they’d be disingenuous if they said they knew what you were feeling

Mystery drops a jacket on you and though their bodies are facing you, they keep their gaze away to give you some semblance of privacy as they let you continue to cry your eyes out until you’re throat is hoarse and you ask if they can take you back home

After Jinu has his moment with Rumi and Gwi-Ma drags him back down to mock him in front of everyone, he’s a little listless as he wanders about and gets himself sorted for their last performance - the one that will make a difference for everything

he doesn’t know that you’ve encountered the hunters, doesn’t know that Rumi had hesitated on having you killed because she never mentioned you

As he’s getting dressed and prepared to look the role - the group and you in their dressing room as the last pieces of their plan comes together, you finally break and ask Jinu in front of the others “Don’t you feel selfish?” he pauses as he finishes buttoning up his shirt and he calmly responds that “No, the memories will be gone and I’ll be free”

“What about the people here?” You ask and point out that he’s lived for centuries and most of them will be lucky if they make it to a fraction of that with their memories and joy still in tact, clearly even less now with the approaching doomsday - you hear Abs try to interject and say that things are going smoothly but you and Jinu keep going at eachother

“Just because you lost your humanity doesn’t mean these people have to suffer for it.” Your voice was quiet, softer than normal but the words were loud and cut deep.

“I don’t want to suffer anymore.” Jinu responds - tone flat because he doesn’t want to hesitate anymore.

“So they should?” You snap at him.

“What would you know! Huh?” He whirls around finally, expression crazed as his voice rumbles.

“What do you know about me, Jinu? Tell me. What do you know about me. It’s always about your memories, always about how you feel, everyone walks on eggshells around you so tell me. What. Do. You. Know. About. Me. About anyone, about any of the guys.” You’re jabbing at his chest now, with each pointed word you’ve emphasised it with a pointed finger jabbing into his chest.

“I don’t-”

“Did you know that Baby is illiterate?” Baby freezes, eyes downcast when Jinu looks at him in shock.

“What-”

“That Mystery keeps to himself because he’s scared he’ll lash out at you guys and hurt you.” Mystery shrinks in on himself, self conscious as he instinctively starts playing with his hands.

“...”

“That Abby doesn’t recall a damn thing from his past life and is still tormented.” Abs doesn’t pipe up, just stays leant against the wall with his arms crossed as he listens to everything happen.

“Wait I..-”

“That Romance is actually terrified of women. Do you? Do you know anything about any of us?” Romance doesn’t say anything either, when Jinu meets his eye he just breaks the eye contact and fixes up his shirt.

“We’ve known you for centuries and you push us aside, now you’re using an innocent girl to get what you want.”

“And how does that affect you? You’re a demon, like me.” Jinu is hurt, his throat tightening up and he feels like he’s about to burst into tears as he sees yours brimming before spilling down your face as you try to keep your voice steady.

“Because I believed that you were still human. And I was clearly wrong for that.” You left them after that, not storming out but steps confident as you excuse yourself and leave. As you trail further and further away from the room you hear Gwi-Ma roar in your head about how joyous that was to witness and soon you find yourself in front of him again.

Your human form is crumbling, the demonic part of you no longer trying to hide as you stare at the ground below your feet as Gwi-Ma giggles gleefully

“Ah.. how I’ve wanted to see you like this for so long.” He comments as he absolutely revels in your suffering, then he continues on “Though.. would’ve preferred if you didn’t meddle with the others, they were doing so well without you making them feel free enough to think about anything but their suffering.”

You don’t scream when he attacks you, you don’t fight back as he ups the anti, you’ve already lost whatever war you’d been fighting against Gwi-Ma as he finally consumes you now that you’re pitiful and broken

The final steps of the plan are succeeding, Huntrix has publicly broken up now and Jinu and the boys deliver the message on the last special performance - keeping up the pretty faces for the announcement before they allow themselves to get ready to perform in their true forms

They don’t know you’ve been consumed by Gwi-Ma, he’s gotten some low level demon to borrow your appearance and apologise to the boys - to trick them into thinking you were alive and well and on board with the plan

They’re confused, don’t believe it’s you but they don’t have time to explore that as they need to get on stage now - ‘you’ wave at them and as the song starts they catch the demonic grin that slips onto ‘your’ face and they realise that sensation they had earlier like something important had been cut from the sliver of a soul they had left was the real you - that you were gone now

#kpop demon hunters x reader #saja boys x reader #kpdh x reader #jinu x reader #baby saja x reader #abs saja x reader #mystery x reader #romance x reader

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ourdawnishotterthanourday · 4 months ago

Text

Oh Baby — Kim Mingyu

✧ Teamwork makes the dream work (and a baby) ✧

Plot: Picture this… your and Mingyu’s dream of starting your own family is finally coming true.

🎥 Starring: fem!reader x husband!Kim Mingyu 🎥 Genre: domestic au; fluff, established relationship 🎥 Word count: 0.9k 🎥 Warnings: swearing, pregnancy 🎥 Notes: no angst this time but some sweet tooth-rotting gyu fluff 🤭 with a tiny bit of crack 🎥 Shout out: thanks pookie @nothoughtsjustfic for being the best beta bestie 🥰

♡ REBLOGGING AND/OR FEEDBACK WOULD BE VERY MUCH APPRECIATED — DON'T BE A STRANGER PLS ♡

Set The Scene Masterlist — Masterlist

“If you squeeze my hand any tighter, we're going to have a serious problem, Gyu.”

“Oh, shit! Sorry, baby. I'm just nervous,” he mumbled, gently rubbing his thumb over the area he'd been close to crushing.

“I am too.” You sighed, leaning to the side to rest your head on Mingyu's shoulder as you wiggled your fingers to stimulate the blood flow. “We've been trying for months now with no success. What if there's something wrong with me?”

That shook your husband right out of his nervous state. He turned to you and grasped onto your chin to tilt your head upwards with his thumb and index fingers.

“Hey, listen to me.” His eyebrows furrowed. “There's absolutely nothing wrong with you. We both got checked and everything is fine, remember?”

“I know bu—”

“No buts. I don't want to hear you say that ever again. We're in this together and we're both doing everything we can to make this happen. It's just taking a little more time than we expected. So no matter what the results say, promise me that you won't think any less of yourself.”

His voice was stern, which told you that he was dead serious. And you were not going to argue with Mingyu when he was all determined like this. Besides, he was right, after all. There was absolutely no indication that something was wrong with you.

“Alright, I promise,” you whispered, offering him a small grin.

“That's my girl.” He returned the grin before leaning down to plant a kiss against your lips. As he pulled back, a worried expression replaced his cheerful features. “Fuck, how much time is left on the timer?!”

He looked around frantically, moving pillows and blankets aside to look for what you assumed was his phone. It was quite an amusing sight, you had to admit. But you didn't want to make the situation worse by adding more stress.

“Gyu!” You giggled, reaching out to stop him before he was about to lose his damn mind. “Would you please calm down?” You held his phone out for him to take, the display showing that there were about forty seconds left on the timer.

“Oh, thank god,” he heaved and plopped face-down onto your bed. ”If this takes any longer you might have to revive me, baby. I can’t fucking handle this.”

You rolled your eyes at your dramatic husband but moved to lay down beside him anyway.

“That makes two of us,” you mumbled, soothingly running your fingers through his black locks while you waited for the seconds to pass.

The moment the alarm went off, the two of you made brief eye contact, and then you were both off the bed, racing towards your en-suite bathroom. At least, you were until you decided to freeze on the spot when you were halfway through the door.

Mingyu, who was right behind you and luckily paying attention, was able to stop himself from barreling into you by quickly grabbing a hold of the door frame with both of his hands.

“Baby? What’s wrong?” he asked when you swiftly turned his way, your eyes squeezed tightly shut.

You shook your head. ”I don’t know if I can look.”

“Yes, you can. We’re doing this together, remember?” Mingyu cupped your cheeks in his hands.

Your eyes slowly opened to see him already looking at you. The affectionate expression on your husband's face made you feel all warm inside, and if you were honest, you didn't even know why you'd been so worried in the first place.

No matter what, he'd be right there by your side.

“Together.” You nodded and accepted the hand he offered before tugging you towards the sink where you’d laid out the four pregnancy tests.

A moment of silence passed between the two of you as your gazes trailed over each of the sticks.

Holy shit.

“Am I dreaming?” Mingyu squeezed your hand.

You swallowed, picking up one of the tests to look at the tiny screen up close.

“No,” you breathed, feeling tears start to prick your eyes. “This is very real. Oh my god!” you squealed excitedly, a big smile making its way onto your face as you threw yourself at your husband.

“We’re having a freaking baby!” he exclaimed just as excitedly as he spun you around, all while kissing the shit out of you.

To go from being disappointed again and again for months on end, to now finally getting the results you’d been longing for was everything you could have wished for and more. And being able to share this moment with your husband, the love of your life, the man who would go to hell and back for you, made it feel all the more special.

“I can’t fucking believe it,” Mingyu mumbled against your lips. “I’m gonna be a dad!“ He pulled back abruptly, eyes widening at the sudden realization as he put you back down. “Oh shit! I’m gonna be a dad!”

“Yes, a damn good one.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. You’re a natural with kids,” you answered with a smile, wrapping your arms around his neck.

Mingyu moved a hand to your stomach. “You’re right. I think our baby will be just fine with us.”

You placed your hand over his and glanced down at your joined hands. “I think so too. Plus, with so many uncles around, I’m pretty sure the little one will have everything a child could want.”

Your husband sucked in a breath. “That reminds me. The guys are definitely going to fight for the title of best uncle. We need to come up with a game plan before things get nasty.”

“I’m sure it won’t be that bad, Gyu.” You chuckled but it quickly died down when you spotted the serious expression on his face.

“I’m serious, baby. We better come prepared because someone is going to end up crying, and it’s not going to be our baby.”

“Oh boy.”

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glossdebut · 22 days ago

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PRICE OF FAME | MYG ★ 06

✧ PAIRING: yoongi x fem!reader

✧ SERIES SUMMARY: You were about ready to give up, your career nowhere near what you dreamed it’d be when you started at eighteen, bright-eyed and naive. Reality for you these past few years has consisted of pouting at a camera, ignoring whispers of your name at company events, and ensuring that the stupid, tiny designer purses they keep forcing on you can at least carry a flask. But now, you’re helping a friend in need. For the first time in a long time, it feels like you’re doing something worthwhile with your life. Too bad Min Yoongi, the newest thorn in your side, seems insistent on stopping you.

✧ SERIES TAGS: enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst, smut, fake/pretend relationship (not main couple), rockstar!yoongi, model!reader, guitarist yoongi, singer jungkook, bassist taehyung, drummer jimin, manager namjoon, yoongi & maknae line are in a rock band, reader & seokjin are best friends, yoongi & hoseok are best friends (sope duo ftw), yoongi has a tongue piercing, reader is a brat

✧ CHAPTER TAGS: yoongi and MC are both going thru it, JK too my poor baby, the band is back in seoul, communication but idk if i’d call it healthy, setting the stage for some bullshit in chapter 7 jsyk, flashbacks in italics, nsfw warnings under the cut (see series masterlist for series warnings)

✧ CHAPTER WORDCOUNT: 14k words

✧ AUTHOR’S NOTE: IT FEELS GOOD TO BE BACK… and here i am, with 14k 😮‍💨 i don’t know what came over me this weekend, i guess posting that teaser kicked me in the ass just like i wanted it to. ANYWAY, i don’t have much to say aside from i missed you guys and i missed this fic so damn much. i’ve already started work on chapter 7 that’s how down bad i am!!! thank you to claret @yoonmetogether (the knower) and K @ktownshizzle for beta reading for me <3 i can’t wait to hear what everyone thinks so please send your feedback after you read!

CH. 06: WHY CAN'T I MAKE A MISTAKE?

✧ CHAPTER WARNINGS: implied/referenced alcoholism, sexting, dirty talk, semi-public sex, oral (f. receiving), but just the BAREST HINT, but yes POF!yoongi’s tongue piercing does make a comeback lol, yoongi’s hands, vaginal sex, unprotected sex (don’t be like them), shower sex, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT! lmk if i missed anything, oh there’s a little bit of slight slutshaming in one scene? but it’s for the plot idk you’ll see

Yoongi is trying to focus, but you are testing his fucking patience.

A meeting with the label bigwigs—an important one, at that. He’s meant to be showing them his progress on the album, that all of the money they’ve already poured into creative teams and PR isn’t for nothing. He’s not an idiot. He knows they’re nervous. Of all the fickle, testy artists they have signed, Yoongi is the ficklest. The testiest.

He came here to plead his case. To prove to them that his creative drive hasn’t completely fucked off and died.

And you’re sending him pictures of yourself in lingerie. Motherfuck.

Dollface (derogatory): help me pick which one to post? 😇

You’ve been pulling shit like this all week. Blatant attempts at riling Yoongi up that have just gotten more shameless with each day—but always giving yourself just enough plausible deniability.

This time, it’s nudes under the guise of needing advice. From Yoongi. About which photo would look best on your Instagram. Something nobody has ever asked Yoongi for advice on, ever. What the fuck does he know about lingerie brand partnerships?

Yoongi would bet his record deal that there’s no brand partnership to begin with—and even if there is, you’re certainly not posting these photos anywhere. You might as well be naked.

The set you’re wearing is all lilac mesh and lace, delicate and pretty. The panties are half-obscured, revealed only by a thumb hooking the waistband of your sweatpants down just enough. He doesn’t know how sheer they are, exactly. But if he looks closely enough, he can almost make out the exact shape of your nipples through your bra. Nipples he’s had in his mouth, his mind dutifully provides.

He can recall the sounds you made—the sweet, breathy way you moaned his name. You like his piercing. He’s noticed. He likes that you like it, can’t wait to show you what he can really do with it, if you’ll let him.

It’s a damn shame. He’d much rather have you laid out in front of him, touchable and soft and begging, instead of memorialized within the paltry pixels of his phone. But he’s not about to take them for granted, even if they’re not what he wants. They’re nice fucking photos.

Yoongi wonders if you were wet when you took them. Wet for him. Maybe that’s why you left the sweatpants on. So he wouldn’t know you’re soaking your panties for him.

The thought is enough to have him stirring to life in his jeans, which—fuck, it’s really not the time or place.

"Yoongi-ssi."

Yoongi straightens up so quickly his neck cracks.

“What do you have for us?” Sejin asks expectantly.

“Uh, right,” Yoongi says, fumbling to open his laptop. He casts the screen to the monitor mounted on the wall as he speaks. “Seven recorded demos, three more songs in the works.”

He distributes photocopies of his lyrics to the executives across from him and hits play on the first track on his screen. Thus begins the familiar humiliation ritual.

It’s not that Yoongi is ashamed of his work. He was years ago, sometimes. Before Sejin signed him. When he was handing out CDs, or busking half-baked covers in front of pedestrians in the hopes of a few thousand won. Now that he’s played stadiums, though, it’s a little hard to stay humble. He knows his songs are good.

These meetings that Sejin insists on arranging prior to every album release just feel a little pointless, that’s all. Could definitely be an email. But instead, Yoongi is expected to show up and watch while the people who sign his checks listen to his work in its least-polished state.

It doesn’t help that it’s Yoongi’s voice, not Jeongguk's, pouring through the speakers this time. But that’s Yoongi’s fault. Given their last conversation, it didn’t feel like a good time to ask Jeongguk to lay down some vocals before Yoongi hopped on a plane.

So, Yoongi bears it. Plays tracks one through seven, taps his fingers on the tabletop as Sejin and the others flip through the lyrics to the unfinished songs, and waits for it to be over so he can go home and think about fucking the brat out of you. Or something like that.

Track seven comes to a close, and Yoongi lifts his head to watch Sejin gather his thoughts.

“It’s… different from what we were expecting,” Sejin says after a moment.

Yoongi fights the urge to visibly bristle, shifting in his seat. Different doesn’t necessarily mean bad.

“How so?”

“Well,” Sejin says, flipping through his copy of the lyrics again. Annotated now, Yoongi notices. “It’s an album full of love songs.”

Yoongi can’t hold his scoff in. “They’re not love songs.”

Sejin raises an eyebrow. “No?”

“It’s telling the story of someone who gets fucked over by a person they’re supposed to trust,” Yoongi explains, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s a cautionary tale. Not really sure how you got ‘love’ from that.”

“My mistake,” Sejin concedes, raising his hands with his palms out in surrender. “It’s good, no matter what it is. But that comes as no surprise.”

Yoongi’s hackles lower the slightest bit. He likes Sejin, most of the time. Sejin likes to flatter him, even if Yoongi’s demeanor as of late has been cause for concern.

“So you can work with this?”

“I don’t see why not,” Sejin hums. “Far from what we expected, so the creative team will have to regroup. But I think it’s a good time in your career for something different. Show some diversity.”

Yoongi nods once in response. He didn’t mean for this album to sound so different from what the band has released so far, but it’s normal for an artist’s sound to evolve over time. Sejin knows the industry, so Yoongi trusts his judgment.

“So.” Sejin steeples his fingers. “Let’s talk logistics.”

Right. This is what Yoongi has been bracing himself for since the tour ended.

“We’re shooting for a July release date,” Sejin starts. “That means six months for recording, mixing, mastering, artwork and design, promotion—everything.”

Yoongi sucks in a breath. Six months means a tight schedule moving forward. Mastering takes a long time. Artwork and design can take even longer, especially with three tracks missing at the moment. They’ll be finishing this album under the gun, but it isn’t impossible.

“I’ll spend a few days with your demos and work with you if I have any suggestions,” he continues. Same old, same old. Sejin is one of the few people from whom Yoongi can receive criticism, so that won’t be a problem. He rarely has edits anyway—he’s a big fan of Yoongi’s creative vision, likely due to the money it makes him.

Yoongi shrugs. “Sure.”

“In the meantime, Hyunseok will see to it that your bandmates are flown back in over the weekend so we can start recording as soon as possible. We can meet again next week to discuss with the rest of the band.”

Right. Fuck.

Well, Jeongguk isn’t talking to him, but Sejin doesn’t need to know that right this second. Hopefully, Jimin is smoothing things out for Yoongi right now. God, that’d be nice.

Yoongi wouldn’t readily describe Park Jimin as nice, though. Maybe he should’ve confided in Taehyung instead.

“We’ll want to shoot a music video as well,” Sejin adds, cutting through Yoongi’s thoughts. “Although I think the track for it has yet to be written.”

Mmm. Yoongi respectfully (and silently) disagrees. There are at least two songs in his recorded demos that Yoongi has been envisioning a music video for, but it’s a non-issue at this point. He has three more tries to satisfy Sejin in that regard.

“And, Yoongi-ssi.”

Yoongi meets his eyes.

“I know you won’t want to hear this, since these are not love songs.” Yoongi bristles, but Sejin doesn’t care. “But I think the video will need a girl. Someone to be the antagonist in your cautionary tale.”

Yoongi makes a face. Yeah, sure, whatever. He’ll give Sejin that. There are plenty of viable candidates signed to the label, female musicians who also dabble in acting. It could be cool.

“Okay,” Yoongi sighs. “If the song you pick calls for it.”

“Great.”

For the next thirty minutes, Yoongi sits and listens while everyone else at the table weighs in. He doesn’t want to make any decisions without the rest of the band present, but it’s helpful to know where the label is at. The head of creative talks album cover design, PR spitballs on promotion methods. Everything is still in the brainstorming stages, but Yoongi can already see the shape this album is going to take, and it looks good.

The meeting wraps up after that. Yoongi is in the middle of slipping his laptop into his bag, eager to head home, when Sejin speaks again.

“Ten is a good number,” he muses to the table, stopping Yoongi in his tracks. “I have no doubt those last three songs will be done as soon as possible. Our Yoongi is a machine.”

Yoongi looks down at his bag impassively, zipping it up and willing his expression not to sour at Sejin’s word choice.

It’s nothing Yoongi hasn’t heard over and over, nothing he doesn’t already know. Isn’t that what makes Burn The Stage so profitable for Sejin? Isn’t it what allows their songs to have a real message behind them, what allows Yoongi to have a shred of creative control under a company like this?

Yoongi busts his ass and it works out in everybody’s favor. He denies himself any real semblance of a personal life, holes himself up all day long to scribble in a notebook and play his guitar until his fingers bleed. He churns out seven songs and some change in a week and a half.

He’s heard it all—disciplined, detail-oriented, prodigious. A machine, Sejin likes to say.

Yeah.

Yeah, he is, isn’t he?

“See you,” Yoongi says in response, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

“Have a good weekend, Yoongi-ssi,” Sejin says, and Yoongi slips out the door without another word.

★ ★ ★

Seoyeon is too fucking good at her job. Honestly, if you had even a shred of power at this company (ha!) you’d use every ounce of it to make sure she got a raise.

You’ve barely had a minute to yourself all week, constantly being chauffeured from place to place. She’s managed to land you a few possible brand deals, along with setting you up with a new nutritionist and personal trainer. She even scheduled a color analysis session for you, although it doesn’t really matter whether you’re a cool winter or a soft summer if the clothes you wear aren’t even yours half the time.

You’re exhausted. You’re busy. It’s exactly what you wanted.

Too bad you still can’t stop thinking about Yoongi.

You really thought the stunt you pulled last week would do the trick. It was satisfying, at first, to give the bane of your existence blue balls. It felt good to see him so visibly frustrated, to see the smugness drain from his expression when he realized you were kicking him out. You felt like you’d won something.

He just had to ruin it with that kiss at your door.

You fully intended to leave it at that, to let him walk out with no hope of a sequel. And you will leave it at that. You’ll be damned if you break first.

But still, late at night when you can’t sleep, your brain summons the phantom feeling of his lips on yours. The slide of his tongue. The stretch of his fingers. How fucking thick he felt, even through layers of fabric. You’re not going to fuck Min Yoongi, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t been thinking about it.

So you’ve been teasing him during your small moments of free time, because you can. Because it makes you feel like you have the upper hand for just a moment.

Oh, and you’ve also been drinking. Not too much, just… more than usual. Enough to dull the guilt and the anger and the frustration you’ve been feeling since you left Jeju with no explanation.

You might’ve overdone it today, though.

You're standing on a small platform in the middle of a mirrored fitting room, drowning in swaths of chiffon and organza. Your mouth is dry, and your lips are sticky from the tint that was smeared on them earlier. The flask in your bag is half-empty now. You’ve been steadily sneaking sips of vodka since lunch.

Hyerin has been circling you like a shark with pins for teeth for the past hour and a half. You try to stand still, but your knees feel like they’ve forgotten how to lock. You shift your weight and wince when one of the pins nicks your side.

“Jesus fucking—can you not?” you hiss, jerking away as Hyerin scowls at you.

“God, hold still! If you’d stop fidgeting, this would go a lot faster.” She yanks the fabric taut again, huffing around the pin between her lips.

You shake your head and take a step down from the platform, gathering the fabric of your dress between your fingers to keep yourself from tripping. “I need a break.”

“You need to grow up,” she mumbles. “I don’t know how Seoyeon puts up with this.”

You don’t rise to the bait. Your hand trembles slightly as you unzip the dress halfway down your back, holding it tight to your chest. The room spins when you bend to grab your clothes. It’s subtle, you’ve definitely been drunker. But it’s there.

Seoyeon appears before you can even undress.

“Hyerin-ssi, will you give us a minute?”

Hyerin stands immediately, all too happy to get away from you. When the door slams shut, Seoyeon gives you a look.

You know that look. It’s the I’ve reached the end of my very long, very patient rope look.

“Sit.”

You don’t argue. The plush bench beneath you creaks as you sink into it, blinking blearily at the wall across from you. Seoyeon steps in front of you, tapping her foot.

“Give it to me.”

You blink. “Give what—”

“The flask.” Seoyeon holds out her hand, unimpressed and expectant.

You scoff, crossing your arms defensively over the itchy bodice of your dress. “I don’t—”

“Don’t lie to me,” she interrupts sharply. “Do you think Hyerin doesn’t know what vodka smells like? Do you think I don’t know?”

You look away.

“I’ve been covering for you all day,” she says. “Making excuses. Pretending you’ve just got a migraine, or you had a long night. But this is unacceptable, YN.” She exhales hard. “What is going on with you?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” she snaps, jaw tight. “You’ve been off all week, and it isn’t my job to ask questions. I don’t need to know what happened. But I do need you to stop fucking around. I can’t do my job if you’re too wasted to stand straight during a fitting.”

Your face burns hot with embarrassment. You want to argue, but you can’t. She isn’t wrong, and you feel ashamed for wasting her time.

“You asked me to pack your schedule, and I did,” she continues, softer now. “I’m not trying to parent you. I like working with you. I want you to succeed. But if something doesn’t change, you’re going to crash.”

Silence hangs between you for a moment. You shift your weight, chiffon rustling uncomfortably against your bare skin.

“I’ll throw the flask away,” you say eventually, voice small. You want to mean it.

“You’ll throw it away,” she echoes. “And you’ll drink water, eat something real, and sleep a full night. And if I catch you lying to me again—”

Seoyeon doesn’t finish the sentence because she doesn’t need to. You’re already nodding, a little too eagerly, trying to prove something, though you’re not sure what. That you’re not a total mess? That you’re still worth believing in?

She waits, watching you, then sighs and finally turns toward the door. “I’ll move some things around. Go home and sleep it off.”

You nod gratefully, even though she’s not looking anymore, and the door clicks shut behind her. You let out the breath you’ve been holding.

The dress feels heavy on your body. You peel it off slowly, careful not to tear anything or nick your skin on a pin, and drape it gently over the back of the bench.

The flask sits in your bag like it’s daring you to touch it. You stare at it for a long second, then unzip the pouch, pull it out, and turn it over in your hands. It’s cold, metallic. Familiar.

You walk it over to the trash can in the corner of the room. The clang it makes when it hits the bottom is loud. Final. It rings in your ears.

You grab your clothes and start redressing, tugging your jeans up with clammy hands. You fight with the complicated straps of your shirt, trying to untwist them as much as possible to make yourself look presentable.

The chill in the air barely registers on your skin when you leave the building. You’re warm to the touch, from the vodka and shame combined. So much so that you don’t even bother to pull your coat on before you climb into the car that awaits you. You press your forehead to the window as the driver pulls onto the road, watching streetlights swim by in blurry streaks.

Your apartment isn’t far from here, and when you get home, you won’t have another drink. Seoyeon’s words have left a mark, at least for tonight. You want to keep your word. You do.

But the truth is, you don’t know how to function without some kind of distraction. The nonstop schedule didn’t do what you’d hoped. Drinking during work hours is no longer an option. So now you’re stuck, stripped of your crutches and alone with your thoughts.

You’ll need to find a solution soon. Something to keep you moving along.

Your phone buzzes in your lap, pulling you from your thoughts. You squint down at the glow of your screen, blinking at the Instagram notification until the letters unblur themselves.

@abcdefghi__lmnopqrstuvwxyz has added a photo to their story.

Ah. Jeongguk.

You remember the countless texts from him sitting unopened in your inbox, and you tap his story open anyway.

It’s a selca of him, Jimin, and Taehyung. They’re bundled in coats and scarves, huddled together in the back of a car not unlike the one you’re in now. Three-fourths of the band smiling brightly. You wonder if they’ve spoken to Yoongi at all this week.

Belatedly, you notice the location tag in the corner.

Seoul.

Chewing at your bottom lip, you swipe out of Instagram and finally open the texts you’ve been dodging since you left.

JK: you don’t have to tell me what happened if you don’t want to right now

JK: but you can always talk to me

JK: have a safe flight. let me know when you land

You didn’t.

When you landed in Incheon last week, you just couldn’t bring yourself to open his message and explain why you left. Then, only a few nights later, Yoongi had shown up at your doorstep. You really couldn’t fathom facing Jeongguk after that. What were you supposed to say?

Sorry, I kissed your bandmate that I hate and it freaked me out so bad I had to book a flight?

Sorry, when he told me he knew about our deal I hooked up with him?

Sorry, nothing I do makes any fucking sense?

So, instead, you kept ignoring his texts, hoping that eventually his persistence would wear down. And it did.

JK: i’ll leave you alone

JK: just text me when you’re ready to talk

You take a breath, shaky fingers hovering over your keyboard. Now seems like a good time to be an adult.

Maybe you won’t need a distraction if you do.

You: can we meet tomorrow?

★ ★ ★

It’s the big day, and the dread has been churning in Yoongi’s gut since he dragged himself out of bed this morning.

The rest of the band is back in Seoul. Jeongguk is back in Seoul.

Yoongi needs to at least try to talk to him, right? It’s the right thing to do. The responsible thing. And, even pushing his personal feelings aside, it’s the professional thing to do. For everyone’s career.

But he’s been pacing outside the conference room for an hour, iced Americano sweating in his hand and rattling with each step, and he still hasn’t quite figured out what he’s going to say when Jeongguk actually shows up.

It’s not like Yoongi’s never been on the receiving end of Jeongguk’s stubborn streak. He’s known the kid since he was eighteen years old. Nearing a decade now. Yoongi has learned over the years that telling Jeongguk no—or disagreeing with him at all, for that matter—never ends well.

It’s not necessarily a bad trait. Yoongi admires him for it, honestly. Jeongguk has strong convictions. Yoongi used to think he did, but he learned over the years that he’s all too willing to bend—especially for Jeongguk.

Most of the time, when Yoongi digs his heels in, it’s on Jeongguk’s behalf. In his defense.

But that doesn’t mean Yoongi doesn’t stand his ground sometimes, as the hyung. That doesn’t mean there haven’t been blowout arguments in the past, that there hasn’t been shouting, that Jeongguk hasn’t frequently been the unstoppable force to Yoongi’s immovable object.

Still. The silence has never lasted quite this long, and Yoongi has already apologized and admitted his wrongs. What else is he supposed to fucking say?

So, yeah, Yoongi’s feeling antsy. And the coffee probably isn’t helping.

He glances down at his watch. The meeting is for noon, and it’s 11:52, and Jeongguk always shows up ridiculously early for everything. He’s known the younger to be that way since college. Yoongi was counting on it this time, which is why he showed up over an hour ago.

None of this bodes well. Yoongi needs a fucking cigarette.

He has just under ten minutes. He’ll run outside real quick, smoke, calm his nerves. Jeongguk will show up, because he’s a lot of things, but he isn’t stupid. Yoongi can just talk to him after the meeting.

He tosses his coffee in the nearest bin, patting his pockets as he shuffles towards the elevator. He finds purchase on his lighter, and it’s pathetic how quickly the touch of plastic to his fingertips fills him with relief.

And then, like a cosmic joke, the elevator dings before Yoongi can even push the down button.

The doors slide open, and there’s Jeongguk, bracketed by Jimin and Taehyung.

Yoongi tries not to overanalyze the formation, whether it’s protective or not. Instead, he makes immediate eye contact with Jimin and tries to convey telepathically that he’d like to speak to Jeongguk alone, thanks. Mercifully, Jimin gets the hint. Even if he doesn’t look pleased about it at all. Yoongi doesn’t fucking care, because at least he’s dragging Taehyung towards the conference room without a fight.

When Jeongguk tries to follow, Yoongi stops him with a tentative hand on his shoulder.

Well, here goes nothing.

“Jeongguk-ah,” he starts. His throat is dry. He hasn’t spoken yet today. “Can we talk?”

“Meeting’s in five, hyung,” Jeongguk says, staring at his shoes.

“Fuck the meeting,” Yoongi insists, jostling Jeongguk’s shoulder gently so he meets his eyes. “I just need a minute. Please?”

Jeongguk steps back, out of Yoongi’s space, and crosses his arms. It stings a little. “One minute.”

That’s more than Yoongi expected. He’ll take it.

“I—just…” Fuck, are his palms sweating? “How’re you doing?”

Jeongguk gives him a blank look. “How am I doing,” he repeats flatly.

Yeah, okay, that was stupid. This is the part Yoongi didn’t really think through. He takes a breath, re-centers himself. “Are you… Are we good?”

Jeongguk shrugs. “I’m here, right?”

“That’s not an answer, Jeongguk-ah.”

“I’m not quitting, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Jeongguk says. It’s not, but it’s still a relief to hear.

“I’m worried about you,” Yoongi insists.

Jeongguk scoffs. “Hyung.”

“What?”

“You’re not.”

“I am,” Yoongi says, testy. “Guk-ah, what—”

“You’re worried about you,” Jeongguk says, brow furrowed.

Yoongi balks. “What the hell does that mean?”

Jeongguk shakes his head like Yoongi’s being stupid. “To answer your question, I’m not doing that great, hyung. It’s been a shitty week,” he says, visibly frustrated. “But I don’t have anything to say that I haven’t already said. So if you’re wanting me to say the magic words so you can stop feeling bad, I don’t have them.”

This is going nowhere. He needs to switch tactics.

“Jeongguk, I told you I was sorry,” Yoongi tries, desperate. “I’m sorry. I fucked up. I just want to fix—”

The door to the conference room swings open, and Sejin’s head pops out. Yoongi’s minute is up.

“Gentlemen,” Sejin calls, brows raised. “We’re starting.”

Yoongi swallows down the rest of the sentence. He watches Jeongguk’s jaw work as he glances in Sejin’s direction, like he’s chewing down whatever he really wants to say.

It’s worse than shouting. At least if Jeongguk yelled, Yoongi would know what he was working with. But this… this quiet resignation, this stiff, uncomfortable silence? It’s foreign in a way that makes Yoongi’s chest ache.

“We’ll talk later,” Yoongi offers. Pleads, really, because the ball is in Jeongguk’s court and he knows it.

Jeongguk finally looks back at him. His lashes are dark and low over unreadable eyes. “Sure,” he says, and Yoongi tries to believe he means it.

Without another word, Jeongguk turns and strides towards the door. Yoongi watches the back of his head, jaw clenched so tight it aches, before trailing behind.

The conference room is unsettlingly quiet when they enter. Of the four seats across the table from Sejin, Jimin and Taehyung have chosen the middle two. A barricade.

Yeah, Yoongi expected that. But he doesn’t have the energy to dwell on it.

He swallows down the bitter hurt and sinks into the chair that remains next to Taehyung. Probably better than being shoved next to Park Jimin, if the pitying but kind smile Taehyung offers him is anything to go by. Jimin probably pities Yoongi plenty, but he wouldn’t be kind about it. Yoongi wonders how much Taehyung knows, but he has no intention of asking.

Sejin starts the meeting by getting the others up to speed on what he and Yoongi discussed last week, which gives Yoongi a few minutes to get his head in the game. His fingers twitch for the cigarette he never got, but starting the recording process is the priority right now. If he can’t fix his friendship with Jeongguk today, the least he can do is what he does best—make him more successful. Protect his career.

By the time the meeting ends, everyone has an actual timeline laid out in their calendars. Deadlines that start off rigid and become more tentative as weeks go by, because they all depend on output. On discipline. And most importantly, on whether or not the four of them can make it through the next six months without killing each other.

They’ll get through it, Yoongi thinks. This will be their most successful album to date. He’ll make sure of it. He’ll put himself through the wringer to make it happen.

Nobody lingers when the meeting is adjourned, which Yoongi isn’t perturbed about. He still wants to talk to Jeongguk, but he wasn’t hopeful enough to think ‘later’ meant ‘immediately after this.’ The efforts to record are scheduled to kick off in a week, and if he doesn’t get a chance to fix everything before then, well… Six months.

Surely, Jeongguk won’t still be mad at him in six months.

He’ll keep his distance for now. There are three songs left to finish, so Yoongi gives Jeongguk a five-minute-wide berth before he heads down the hall and down a floor, to the studio where he dropped his McCarty this morning. He’s not feeling particularly inspired right now, but he needs to finish this album.

Luckily, like most other things, that’s something he’s used to doing alone.

★ ★ ★

Burn The Stage’s company is very, very different from yours.

You knew that since you started this arrangement, but it’s never been clearer now that you’re actually standing in the building.

It’s nice in here. Clean, but not in the cold, clinical way that you’ve grown accustomed to over the years. There’s lots of natural light instead, and a cheery woman at the front desk who seems like she actually enjoys her job.

You’re waiting for a while, sitting in the lobby while the worker goes through the necessary measures to get you your guest badge. Jeongguk has added you to the visitors' list for today, so there shouldn’t be any hiccups, but you also know he wanted to meet here because he had business to attend to today. He’s probably gotten caught up. You don’t mind waiting—god knows you made him wait long enough—but you’re also actively trying not to crush the banana milk you brought as a peace offering while you sit.

You’re nervous! You’re trying not to be. It’s a good sign that he said yes to meeting you, right?

Still, your legs wobble the slightest bit when the woman at the front desk waves you over to finally hand you your badge. You slip it around your neck with a grateful smile.

“Jeongguk-ssi just got out of a meeting, so he’s already upstairs,” she tells you cheerfully, gesturing to the security guard to her left. “Eunwoo-ssi will escort you to him.”

Oh!

You turn your head in Eunwoo’s direction and recognize him instantly. The security guard from the concert at Wasteland. The one who helped you backstage and made sure you didn’t trip over your ridiculous shoes. The presence of a familiar face makes you relax just the slightest bit, and your smile grows.

“Nice to see you again, Eunwoo-ssi,” you say.

“You too, YN-ssi,” he replies, returning your smile. “Ready?”

You nod and follow as he guides you past the desk and further into the building, towards an elevator down a corridor. You make some polite small talk as you both take the ride up, asking him about his day, and he kindly asks you about yours in return.

By the time you get to your destination, your grip on the bottle of banana milk has loosened significantly, although it tightens again when Eunwoo makes to open the door.

He turns to you first, offering a quiet, encouraging smile. “Okay?”

You nod, forcing a smile. “As I’ll ever be.”

Eunwoo steps aside to open the door to the small practice room, nodding toward the interior. “Good luck.”

You nod again, eyes fixed on the open doorway. The familiar silhouette inside steals the air from your lungs for a second.

Jeongguk is sitting on a low stool, scrolling through something on his phone. He glances up when he hears the door, and even though his posture stiffens slightly, his face relaxes when he sees you.

“I’ll give you two some space,” Eunwoo murmurs from behind, and then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind you.

You step forward slowly, the banana milk cradled between your hands. You extend it toward him with a small, sheepish shrug. “Peace offering.”

That earns a quiet laugh from him, the tension cracking just a little. He takes the bottle. “Thanks.”

“Thanks for agreeing to meet me,” you say, testing the waters.

Jeongguk shakes his head, warm as ever. “Of course.”

You exhale, forcing yourself to relax. “I just… How have you been?”

He huffs a laugh at that, shaking his head. “Everybody really needs to stop asking me that,” he says. “I’m okay, YN-ah. Are you?”

It’s just so Jeongguk, to ask about you when he’s the one who’s been wronged. Your lip wobbles, vision swimming before you can stop it.

“I’ve been better,” you admit. “I’m really sorry, Jeongguk. I feel so bad for leaving the way I did.”

As soon as the words are out, Jeongguk pushes up from the stool. His arms come around you without hesitation, wrapping tightly around your shoulders, and something about the familiar scent of his detergent and the strength in his hold shatters what little composure you’d managed to hold on to.

You collapse into the hug with a muffled sob.

“Yah, none of that,” he says softly, squeezing you tighter. “I’m not mad at you, YN. I’m confused, yeah, but not mad.”

“You should be mad at me,” you sniffle, clutching the soft fabric of his sweatshirt. “I shouldn’t have left you in the dark, I just—” You cut yourself off with a puff of breath, closing your eyes.

Jeongguk holds you quietly for a moment before pulling back, hands still resting lightly on your arms. “We can talk about it now, if you’re ready.”

It isn’t lost on you that Jeongguk knows exactly what prompted you to leave now, but something in his expression tells you that he isn’t aware that you’ve become privy to that information. Which means he also doesn’t know anything about the night in your apartment with Yoongi. Not that you thought Yoongi would be stupid enough to tell him, but still. It’s a relief.

“Yeah,” you sigh, moving to sit. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

There’s a moment of heavy silence before you speak again. You brace yourself.

“The night before I left, Yoongi and I kissed.”

“Yeah. I know,” Jeongguk replies evenly. “Hyung told me.”

You’re all too aware of the crossroads in front of you. This is the moment where you can come clean, tell him about Yoongi showing up at your apartment last week and everything that’s happened since. You desperately want to be strong enough to cut off the lies here. It’s the step you came here to take, for your own sanity. Stop the lies, stop the drinking, get your life back on track and make sure your friendship with Jeongguk doesn’t pay the price for your poor decisions.

But, part of you…

A stupid, selfish, horrible part of you wants Jeongguk to keep looking at you the way he is right now. Like you could never do anything wrong. It isn’t very often that someone looks at you like that.

In the end, that’s the part that wins, and the lie comes too easily.

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that he’d do that.”

Jeongguk tilts his head. “Yeah. So… you understand why I’m confused,” he says. “You two haven’t had anything nice to say about each other since you met. Last I heard, you hated him.”

“It confused me, too.” You let out a bitter laugh. He doesn’t even know how true that is. “Honestly, Jeongguk, I don’t know why it happened. I do hate him.”

That part, at least, isn’t a lie.

“I was a little drunk. We both were, I mean. All of us had been drinking for hours. And, I don’t know, it just happened.”

Jeongguk doesn’t look entirely convinced. “Still, YN. It’s hard to believe you’d kiss someone you’ve talked so much shit about just because you were drunk.”

“I know. Maybe it was because we’d started getting along after you had me talk to him?” He lifts his head at that, brow furrowed, and you quickly try to rephrase. “I’m not saying it was your fault! Just… in that moment, he wasn’t so bad, you know?”

Jeongguk chews the inside of his cheek, then says quietly, “Okay…”

“Ever since Kihyun, I…” You trail off, swallowing hard. “It’s been lonely, Jeongguk. I can’t lie. I’m glad we ended things, but it’s still hard sometimes. I think it was just good timing for me to make a mistake. And I’m really sorry you got hurt in the end.”

“I’m fine, YN.” His voice is gentle. “I just wish you’d felt like you could talk to me about it.”

“I felt ashamed,” you whisper. “I still do.”

“Don’t.”

“Are you and Yoongi okay?”

He scoffs, looking away. “He’s trying. In his Yoongi-hyung way.”

“But you’re mad at him?”

“Not really because of the kiss, but… yeah. I’m mad at him.”

“I’m sorry if I ruined something for you,” you say honestly.

Jeongguk just shrugs. “If anything’s ruined, hyung is the one who ruined it. But… like I said, he’s trying.”

“Well.” You manage a small smile. “I hope it works out okay.”

You mean that, too.

“Thanks.” Jeongguk shifts slightly. “Oh, uh. He knows we’re not really dating, by the way.”

Your heart lurches, but you force yourself to feign surprise. “Oh.”

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “I just… it was going to happen sooner or later, but I should’ve given you a heads-up first.”

“Well, I didn’t make myself easy to reach,” you offer.

A silence settles between you, and it isn’t entirely comfortable.

“Um… so, what does that mean?” you ask. “For us?”

Jeongguk rubs the back of his neck. “Honestly, I’ve been trying to figure that out. I mean, I wasn’t trying to keep noona a secret just from him, you know?”

You nod silently.

“I guess it depends on where you’re at,” he continues. “I understand if you don’t want to pretend anymore, after everything. If anyone understands not wanting to be around Yoongi right now, it’s me, and… he’s not going anywhere.”

“Fuck him,” you mutter. “I still want to help you, if you need it. Do the public-facing part, at least. Maybe it’s a relief if we don’t have to pretend around your friends anymore, you know?”

“Jimin-hyung and Taehyung-hyung still don’t know anything, but yeah, I get what you mean. It was a lot of lying to ask of you.”

Well, that answers that.

“Are you going to tell them?”

Jeongguk winces. “I don’t know yet. Does that change things for you?”

“No,” you say instantly. “This is your thing, Guk. I’ll do it how you want it.”

“Okay. Well… if you’re sure,” he says hesitantly.

“I wouldn’t be saying any of this if I weren’t,” you reassure him. “I promise.”

“Okay.”

“I’m sorry,” you say again, quieter this time. “For everything.”

Jeongguk looks at you, eyes soft. “We’re okay, YN. A lot of shit is fucked up right now, but not this.” He pauses. “Thank you for… not giving up on me yet.”

“Same,” you murmur. Your lips curve into a faint, sad smile. “But for the record, it would take a lot more than Min Yoongi to make me give up on you.”

Jeongguk picks up the banana milk and rolls the bottle slowly between his palms, glancing at you once but not saying anything. You let the moment stretch, enjoying the comfortable silence, now that everything has settled.

Then his phone buzzes, and the spell breaks.

Jeongguk sighs as he pulls it from his pocket, thumb swiping across the screen. “Fuck,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I wanna walk you down, but Sejin wants me to meet with one of the vocal coaches in a few minutes.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you say quickly, waving him off. “I’ll let myself out.”

“You sure?” he asks, eyebrows lifting.

“You’ve got zero faith in me, Jeon Jeongguk,” you tease, earning a soft smile from him. “I can use an elevator.”

Jeongguk laughs under his breath. “Okay, okay.” He stands, tucking his phone away. “Well… I’ll text you, okay?”

You nod. “And I’ll text you back this time.”

He starts to turn toward the door, hand on the doorknob already, but something sparks in your chest—nerves or hope or maybe both—and before you can second-guess it, you speak up.

“Hey!”

He pauses, looking back.

“Uh. There’s this thing next Saturday night,” you begin, the words spilling out in a rush. “A perfume launch I’m being forced to go to. I usually hate those events, but… wanna come with? Do the public-facing part? Open bar. Could be fun.”

“Ah, um.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I would, but… It’s noona’s birthday.”

“Oh!” you blurt, a little too brightly. “Right. Yeah.”

“Yeah.” He looks faintly guilty. “And now that I’m back in Seoul, I—”

“No, I get it,” you say, cutting in before he can keep going. You swallow down the quiet, unexpected sting of disappointment. “That’s way more important. Don’t sweat it.”

“You sure?” His brow knits, eyes searching your face.

You force your lips into a smile, make your voice sound certain. “One hundred percent. I just wanted to offer.”

Jeongguk nods, visibly relieved. “Well… thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” You gesture toward the door. “Now go to your meeting.”

Jeongguk chuckles, reaching for the handle again. “I’m going, I’m going.”

And then he’s gone, the door shutting behind him with a soft click.

★ ★ ★

Eunwoo is nowhere to be found when you leave the practice room, probably off escorting another visitor around.

The halls are surprisingly quiet for midday. You keep walking, slow and meandering. You don’t have anywhere to be for a while, so you wander. Think. Process.

Everything went… well. Better than you expected, honestly. Jeongguk was kind. Forgiving, even. You didn’t deserve that. And still, he gave it to you.

And you?

You lied to him.

You can still hear the words falling from your lips. How easy it was to bend the truth, to frame it in a way that would make you look like someone he could still trust. To push all of the blame on someone else. You’d come here with the intention of being honest, with the hope that confessing everything would free you from the pit that’s been hollowing out your chest for weeks. Instead, you chose comfort. Self-preservation. Whatever version of you he still wanted to believe in.

You feel sick about it. Grateful and awful, all at once.

The hallway stretches on, and you follow it without thinking. The walls here are different from the sterile ones in your own building. Sleek, sure, but full of warmth. Color. Memory.

Photographs line the corridor in neat black frames. High-res shots from concerts and tour stops, behind-the-scenes moments caught in candid black and white. A timeline of Burn The Stage’s rise.

There’s Jeongguk on stage in Tokyo, crouched low with his mic held out to the screaming crowd. Taehyung grinning mid-strum on his bass guitar. Jimin, soaked in sweat, laughing with his drumsticks raised.

And Yoongi—never center stage, but always present. A shadow behind Jeongguk’s spotlight, fingers curled over his guitar neck, gaze cast downward.

You stop in front of a larger canvas print. Burn The Stage at their first sold-out arena show. Yoongi’s got his arm thrown lazily over Jeongguk’s shoulders. They’re both drenched in sweat, beaming at something off-camera, caught in the afterglow of a perfect night. It makes your stomach twist.

Because here’s the thing: no matter how messy it got, no matter how much they might be hurting right now, there’s a history between them that you can’t touch. You’re the disruption. The outsider. You’ve known Jeongguk for a year. Yoongi? Barely at all. But somehow, you’ve managed to wedge yourself into the fault line between them and split it wide open.

And you don’t even know what you want.

You’re turning away from the photo when you feel it—that unmistakable shift in energy, like a cold wind curling at the back of your neck.

One of the studio doors eases open with a soft mechanical click, and Yoongi steps out.

He hasn’t seen you yet, somehow, though you’re laughably close. He’s too busy looking down at his phone, one hand in the pocket of his dark cargo pants.

He looks… fuck. His jacket is a deep, bruised purple with mixed textures: ribbed sleeves, paneled faux suede. The black tee underneath is teasingly fitted, a glimpse of the muscle you had to feel for yourself to believe.

But that’s not what fucks you up.

It’s the hair.

Pulled back. Tied off, sleek and neat at the crown of his head, a few strands brushing loose near his ears. It's too good. Too unfair. It sharpens every angle of his face—his jaw, his cheekbones, the curve of his throat.

You shouldn’t.

God, you know you shouldn’t.

You’ve already lied to Jeongguk once today. Lied to his face—looked into those kind, trusting eyes and chose the easier version of the truth. The quieter one. The one that doesn’t crack your friendship down the middle.

And this—standing here, watching Yoongi like you're waiting for the chance to fold yourself back into something reckless—this is exactly what got you into all this mess in the first place.

The way your body reacts to him before your brain even catches up. The way your heart stutters just because he looks good in a fucking jacket and has his hair tied up. The way he hasn’t even seen you yet, and still, you’re already cataloguing all of the little things about him that drive you crazy.

You hate yourself for it.

You shouldn’t be feeling any of this. You shouldn’t want anything from him.

But the thing that settles in your chest is resentment—not at him, not even at Jeongguk. At the impossible standard you’ve somehow found yourself crushed beneath.

Why can’t you make a mistake?

Why can’t you do something messy, something selfish, something human—without it immediately defining the worst parts of you?

Something inside of you snaps.

Mind blank, you grab Yoongi’s wrist harshly and pull, fingernails gripping wool so tightly you’re in danger of tearing into the fabric.

“What the fuck—” Yoongi hisses, stumbling after you, but you’re not listening. You’re moving on autopilot, acting on instinct alone. You navigate the hallway of the unfamiliar building like a madwoman, trying to find somewhere private. “Yah, let me go!”

You ignore his protests, pulling harder, and your eyes zero in on a promising spot. It’s the first door you’ve seen that isn’t glass or locked or labeled conference room.

Supply closet. Sure.

The shelves inside rattle with the force of the door slamming behind you. Yoongi yanks his wrist away instantly, shaking it out with a wince.

“Are you insane?” he snaps. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Shut up,” you interrupt, locking the door with intent. You turn to him with wild eyes, chest heaving. “You win.”

He stares at you like you’ve lost your damn mind. “What are you even talking about?” he asks, still clutching his wrist like a goddamn manchild. Like it isn’t killing you how shamelessly you’re offering yourself to him, on a silver platter.

Okay, fuck. You’ll spell it out for him, then. It doesn’t matter.

“Fuck me.”

Yoongi blinks, stunned. “Fuck—”

“Yes, Yoongi,” you huff, impatient. You step into his space and touch because you can’t help yourself, your hands skimming over the smooth suede of his jacket and then under, to the soft cotton of his black shirt. Feeling the lean muscle beneath. “Fuck me. Right now.”

Apparently, that’s all he needs.

You gasp as Yoongi grabs your hips and whirls you around, shoving you firmly toward the nearest shelf. Your palms splay over it to catch yourself, wood digging into your skin as your body braces.

“You really wanna do this here?” he mutters, voice low, nearly a growl as he crowds you from behind.

“I dragged you in here, didn’t I?” you shoot back breathlessly.

He huffs a dry laugh, shoving his jacket down his shoulders and tossing it aside. “Crazy fucking woman.”

You hold yourself steady as his hands push the hem of your dress up over your ass.

“This what you want, dollface?” he murmurs, breath skating over your ear. Your panties are roughly pushed down your thighs as he speaks, pooling uselessly around your ankles.

“Yes,” you gasp, pushing back against him. You can feel the thick ridge of his cock through his jeans, pressed against your bare ass. Embarrassment and desire curl up together in your stomach, indistinguishable from each other.

“Fuck, look at you,” Yoongi hisses, grinding forward so you can feel him better. “You want it so bad. How the hell am I supposed to say no, huh?”

“Fucking—get on with it already,” you grit out. “I’m not here to talk.”

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll just have to use my mouth for something else, then.”

Oh, fuck.

You whip your head around fast, but not fast enough. Yoongi’s already dropping to his knees behind you, spreading your pussy with his thumbs.

“Yoongi, I don’t need—”

Your sentence dies in your throat, cut off by the sound of your own surprised moan as his tongue licks a flat, filthy stripe through your folds.

You lurch forward, forearms braced on the shelf as your whole body shudders. His piercing flicks against your clit, and the sensation makes your vision go white for a split second.

“Holy fuck,” you moan. Yoongi hums against you, firm hands holding you open as he devours you, tongue delving deep. “Yoongi, fuck, that’s—”

Yoongi tsks, pulling away suddenly with a sharp slap to your ass. “Noisy girl,” he chastises. “Moaning my name like you wanna get caught.”

The thought sobers you, if only for a moment. Yeah, no—no. The thought of being caught, who might catch you, sends a chill down your spine. You know exactly who is in this building right now. You need to pull yourself together.

“I’ll be quiet, just—” You steady yourself on the shelf, panting against your crossed arms. “Fuck me already.”

“Impatient,” he huffs.

You hear the shuffle of movement behind you, the sound of his zipper dragging down. Your stomach flips.

After a moment, you feel the nudge of Yoongi’s cock against your entrance, and you try to wiggle back again on instinct. There’s a sharp huff of amusement against your neck, but to your frustration, he doesn’t give in yet.

“Say please,” Yoongi says, smug.

Bastard.

“Fuck you,” you spit.

“Getting there, dollface,” he teases, running the thick head of his cock through your folds just to be an asshole. “Just wanna hear you beg a little first. Since you want it so bad.”

You grit your teeth, pride clashing hard with want, but your body betrays you. Your thighs are trembling, cunt clenching around nothing, begging for fullness. For him.

“Please,” you whisper, broken and raw. “Yoongi, please fuck me.”

“That’s better.”

Yoongi sinks into you so slowly that your knees threaten to buckle.

Inch by agonizing inch, and it hits so deep your eyes flutter, mouth falling open and nails biting into wood. You can feel every detail of him. He’s thick, god, impossibly thick. The stretch burns in the best way, your walls aching to adjust but slick enough to take him, take all of him.

When he bottoms out, your moan of relief is caught instantly by his hand, clamping tight over your mouth before you can make another sound.

“Quiet,” he reminds you, and you nod, centering yourself.

He gives you a moment to adjust, then draws his hips back and fucks forward hard.

“Shit, you’re tight,” Yoongi hisses, strained. “Fucking squeezing my cock.”

He sets a brutal rhythm right away. His hips slam into the backs of your thighs so roughly that the shelves rattle with the force. Every thrust rocks you forward, and every retreat pulls a whimper from your throat as your walls try to keep him inside.

You can’t see him like this, and it feels like every other sense burns hot and sharp in its place. You can feel him—so thick, so deep, each stroke making you choke on your breath. You can hear the slick, obscene sound of your cunt, wet beyond reason, practically sucking him in.

“Oh my god,” you try to say, but it’s just a muffled sob against his hand.

He fucks you harder, one hand gripping your hip tight enough to bruise, the other keeping you silenced, helpless and pressed to the shelf. Something falls and topples to the floor, but it barely registers. Your breasts are squished against the wood, aching with every thrust. You can feel the slick mess between your thighs, every wet slap of skin-on-skin echoing obscenely in the cramped closet.

“Goddamn, you’re soaked,” Yoongi growls, hips snapping into you again. “You hear that, dollface?”

You do. The sound is filthy, each thrust punching a wet, obscene squelch into the air. Your cunt clenches tight around him, and he groans, deep and raw.

“Oh, fuck, you’re close, huh?” he asks, and your responding whimper is so pathetic your cheeks burn.

His rhythm falters for half a second, just long enough for him to yank your leg up onto the lowest shelf, opening you more. Making it deeper. He lets go of your mouth to spit in his hand, reaching around to rub your clit in merciless circles.

And oh, fuck, you can’t be quiet anymore.

“Yoongi,” you sob, “I—oh my god, please—”

The hand gripping your leg moves fast to cover your mouth again as he toys with your clit, but your body’s already unraveling. Everything clenches down, heat flaring white-hot in your belly as your cunt clamps around his cock. You bite down onto the meat of his palm, muffling your scream as you come hard.

Yoongi hisses at the bite, swearing low and dirty in your ear. His hips stutter, rhythm turning ragged as your walls flutter around his cock.

And then you feel it.

He pulses inside you with a groan pulled deep from his chest, fucking you through it as his cum fills you up. Thick and hot, leaking already as he keeps grinding through it, wringing every last drop from himself, every aftershock from you.

Yoongi’s weight leans into your back, both of you breathless, hearts hammering. The air smells like sweat and sex, and the only sound is the shallow drag of your breathing in tandem, syncing up as you both come down.

After a moment, his hand finally slips from your mouth. You suck in a shaky breath, lips slick with spit.

Your knees barely hold as Yoongi pulls out, and you feel it—his cum leaking down your thighs before you can so much as catch your breath.

You don’t dare look at him.

You feel empty. Fucked open. Raw in every sense of the word.

You hear the rustle of fabric as he probably pulls up his pants, zips himself back in. You stay where you are, bent over, trying to breathe.

“You okay?” he asks.

And that—that pisses you the fuck off.

You turn to him. His jacket is back on, his pants zipped like nothing happened. Meanwhile, you’re still shaking, your dress is still hiked up.

“Don’t,” you say, voice hoarse.

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t ask if I’m okay,” you snap. “We both know what this was.”

He just watches you. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t apologize either.

There’s a thick, awful silence after that, and you fill it with movement. You pull your panties back up and fix your dress. The mess between your thighs presents a problem, but it’s nothing you can’t conceal with your underwear for now. You grab the doorknob and unlock it with a shaky hand, peeking out to make sure the hallway is empty.

Thank fucking god.

“Don’t fucking follow me,” you say, fixing him with the most withering look you can muster, and Yoongi only raises his hands in surrender, bewildered.

It feels like stepping out of a crime scene. You take a few unsteady steps forward, one arm clutching your bag to your chest, the other dragging your hand along the wall to stay upright.

Every movement is careful. Every step makes you feel it. The soreness, the wetness, the truth of what you’ve done. You should find a bathroom. Clean up. Compose yourself. Hide.

But you don’t. You keep walking.

Because stopping means thinking. And if you start thinking, really thinking, you’re not sure you’ll be able to handle what you find.

Fuck, fuck fuck.

★ ★ ★

For the first time in months, you’re alone. Like, actually alone.

No texts buzzing your phone. No voice echoing from the other room, asking if you’ve eaten. No arms around your waist in the morning. Just you, in the silence of your apartment.

It should come as a relief.

It was only a matter of time before Kihyun dumped you. You shouldn’t have let it drag on for as long as you did. You should’ve ended it yourself. But you didn’t, because—

Because what? You were lonely?

Because it was easier to keep going than it was to look at yourself in the mirror and admit you were never really in it?

Kihyun was good to you. Kind, not performative. He remembered the little things, like how you took your coffee, where your neck always ached when you slept too stiffly. He was attentive, thoughtful, patient. You were physically attracted to him from the first date. And although the sex wasn’t the kind of thing that rewired your brain or left your limbs shaking, it was… nice. Gentle. Consensual. Consistent.

You could’ve built something with him.

But you didn’t.

Because it’s you. It’s always you.

You never opened up. You held him at a distance, even when he offered you all his softness, even when he asked—gently, again and again—to be let in.

You didn’t ask about his family. You forgot his best friend’s name—Yoo-something? You nodded along when he talked about writing music but never followed up. And when he invited you to dinners or birthdays or afterparties, you begged off every time with some excuse about your busy schedule.

You didn’t mean to hurt him. You just… didn’t care. Not really. Not about his world. Not about yours, either.

And still, he tried.

You can’t get the last few hours out of your head. He invited you over, said he wanted to talk, and you knew immediately that it was going to end. You’d felt it for weeks, hadn’t you? Maybe longer.

You almost didn’t go, but guilt won out. You showed up, and you thought—maybe you’d get one last night. One last kiss goodbye.

Instead, you got a fight.

“You don’t even care about me, YN,” Kihyun said, voice shaking. “You cling to me on red carpets, post about me on Instagram, kiss me in front of photographers—but when it’s just us? Do you even know anything about me?”

You’d accused him of being dramatic. He’d accused you of using him. Connections. Comfort. The appearance of stability he offered you.

You’d both yelled. Loud and bitter. And then there were tears. His, not yours. You just stared at the floor while he filled a box with your things and said he hoped you got whatever you were chasing.

When you finally walked out, you didn’t even look back.

Now, hours later, you sit on the floor of your apartment, hollowed out. The lights are off. Your coat is still on. You haven’t even taken off your shoes.

You don’t feel relieved. You feel sick with yourself, and you don’t know what to do with it.

There’s a bottle of vodka in your kitchen cabinet. You’ve never been much of a drinker—too many calories, too many headaches, too much loss of control—but tonight? Tonight, you need something to dull the pain.

You don’t bother with a glass. You drink it straight, the burn lighting a trail down your throat that feels like punishment.

You’re halfway to drunk when you grab your phone. The screen glows blue, too bright in the dark. You open Twitter.

You should stop yourself, but you’ve never been good at self-control.

@ynonline: i’m sorry i ruined it

A cry for help in lowercase letters. A digital bloodletting to no one in particular.

And then you keep drinking.

★ ★ ★

You can’t stop laughing. Your behavior lately has been so goddamn out of character, all you can do is laugh. It bubbles out of you, ugly and gasping, half-drunk and half-delirious, echoing through the kitchen like it doesn’t belong to you at all. The wine in your glass is mostly gone, and the second bottle on the table is already open.

You don’t know what’s going on with you. You don’t know when you lost the plot so severely that you started fucking people like Min Yoongi in closets.

How good it felt doesn’t matter. How badly you missed being kissed and touched by another person doesn’t fucking matter. Because you don’t recognize yourself anymore. And that’s funny. Like, laugh-until-you-cry funny. Because if you don’t laugh, you’ll spiral. You’ll fall into the cavern of shame that’s been yawning open beneath your feet ever since Yoongi touched you and you let him.

You’re in the middle of telling Seokjin about your week—or, at least, you’re trying to between wheezes. He’s listening intently across from you, brow furrowed and lips twitching with amusement as he tries to translate your garbled speech.

“You know,” he says dryly, “I could’ve predicted this.”

You snort so hard it turns into a hiccup. “What? All I’ve done is complain about him for weeks.”

Seokjin raises a brow. “Yeah, well. You know what they say about the fine line between love and hate.”

“Oh, believe me, we are still firmly planted in the hate camp.” You lean forward, elbow slipping slightly on the table. “It’s gonna take more than some halfway decent stroke game to change that.”

“Halfway decent, she says,” Seokjin mutters, lifting his glass to his mouth, “even though you’ve barely been able to talk about anything else for the past hour. No ‘hello, Seokjin. How has your week at the hospital been? Save any children lately?’”

You wave your hand at him. “Are you saying you aren’t entertained?”

“No, please.” He leans back in his chair, smirking. “Go on.”

Your eyes light up with memory. “Oh my god. Last week, I sent him these pictures—”

Jin frowns. “Wait, what—?”

“Look!” you cry, fishing your phone out of the pocket of your leggings. You tap open your texts with The Devil himself, dropping the phone onto your kitchen table with a clatter that makes Seokjin wince.

Normally, he’d be blushing already, flailing, sputtering something dramatic and prudish. He’s always been weird about this stuff. But this time, he doesn’t even crack a joke.

Instead, when he picks it up, his eyes widen into saucers. You watch as he fiddles with the phone in his hands, tapping into the first picture.

“YN, you didn’t—”

“Look at what he said!”

“You sent him these?” he asks, swiping out of the photos and back to the texts to confirm what he’s already seen.

The tone of his voice makes you pause. You try to catch your breath, wiping the tears from your eyes.

“What’s the big deal?” you ask, making a face. “They’re, like, tasteful.”

“They’re nudes.”

“I’m wearing underwear!”

“They’re nudes,” Seokjin repeats, like you’re stupid or something.

What the fuck? Why does he sound so mad?

“They’re just pictures,” you mumble, snatching your phone out of his hands and clutching it to your chest.

“Yeah,” he scoffs. “Because pictures like that have done you so many favors in the past.”

All of the alcohol-induced warmth rushing through your bloodstream evaporates in an instant.

“What the fuck, Seokjin?”

“I can’t believe you would do something so stupid, YN. After everything that’s happened—”

"Shut up!"

“—and you don’t even trust the guy,” he continues. “Less than a month ago, you were telling me you thought he knew—”

“Seokjin, shut up—”

“—It’s like you want bad things to happen to you, I swear.”

Something in your chest cracks open. Seokjin has never, ever implied that you were in any way at fault for what happened years ago. Even when you felt it yourself. He’s the only one who has been on your side this whole time. Unwavering.

Until now. Until Yoongi.

“Get out,” you say, voice cold.

“YN, I’m just trying—”

“Get. Out.”

He stares at you like he’s still catching up, like he doesn’t realize what he just said out loud. His mouth opens, then closes. You see the apology start to form behind his eyes, but it’s already too late.

You stand. Point to the door. “Don’t make me say it again.”

Seokjin stands slowly, reluctantly, like his limbs are made of cement. He grabs his keys from the table, fingers twitching.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m just… I’m scared for you.”

You don’t respond. Don’t even look at him. The door clicks shut behind him, and then you’re alone, still clutching your phone, wine forgotten.

And all that laughter? Gone.

★ ★ ★

You don’t sleep much.

Your body gives out around 4 a.m., but it’s not so much sleep as blackout, your limbs too heavy to move and your mind too exhausted to keep turning things over. But it’s not restful. You wake up dry-mouthed and nauseous, tangled in the sheets like you fought a war in your sleep.

The fight with Seokjin rings in your ears, louder now in the cruel quiet of the morning.

“It’s like you want bad things to happen to you.”

There’s no more wine in your system to dull those words. They weren’t fair. You’re still furious. Still hurt. But the longer you sit with it, the more panicked you become.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

You have been reckless. You did send Yoongi those pictures without thinking. Not because you trusted him, but because you wanted him to look at you. To want you. And Seokjin’s words force you to think.

Because what if he still has them? What if he shows someone?

What if you’ve made another mistake that you can’t come back from?

You drag yourself out of bed, slow and sick, your whole body moving like it’s underwater. The nausea doesn’t fade as you brush your teeth. It only gets worse. You barely manage to brush your teeth without hurting yourself, scrubbing hard like it’ll erase your words last night. But nothing helps.

Once you’re out of the bathroom, you throw on the first clothes you can find. Clean enough, mismatched, whatever.

You don’t have Yoongi’s address, so you text Namjoon. It’s early, and you don’t expect him to respond, but he replies immediately.

Kim Namjoon: Is everything okay???

You: i just need it

You: please

You: you got my address from seoyeon, sooooo

There’s a pause, then an address. You don’t offer thanks, even though you do like Namjoon. He owes you this.

You call an Uber and sit in the backseat with your arms crossed tightly over your chest, barely able to breathe. Every bump in the road jolts your stomach. By the time the car pulls up to Yoongi’s apartment, your nerves are a live wire, ready to snap.

When you get up to his door, you don’t knock gently. You pound.

It takes a moment. Nearly longer than you can take, honestly, with how wigged out you are. But right when you’re about to raise your fist again, the door swings open, and there he is.

Yoongi, bleary-eyed and hair mussed like he’s just rolled out of bed. His stupid sweatshirt has rips across one shoulder, bare skin peeking out from beneath, like he isn’t a rich rockstar who can afford nice clothes. Everything about the sight of him makes you angry.

“...Hi?” he says cautiously.

“I need you to delete them,” you blurt.

He stares at you for a second, blinking awake. “...What?”

“The pictures,” you say, voice too loud, too fast. “The ones I sent you last week. I need you to delete them. Like, now.”

You push past him and barge inside, uncaring of whether he was actually planning on letting you in.

He shuts the door behind you and turns around slowly, regarding you like a spooked animal. “What happened?”

“Yoongi,” you snap, “I’m not here to explain myself. I just want to watch you delete them.”

Yoongi holds up his hands in surrender. “Okay. Okay, yeah. I can do that.”

He fishes his phone from the pocket of his sweatshirt and unlocks it. You hover over his shoulder while his fingers move on the screen. It doesn’t take him long to find them. You watch as his thumb hovers over the images. One tap, two taps, three.

Deleted.

He goes to the trash folder. Deletes them again.

Then he turns the phone around, still unlocked, and holds it out to you. “Check it if you want.”

You take it, hands clammy, and check all the possible places. Empty.

“Okay,” you say, taking a much-needed breath.

Yoongi watches you for a moment longer, something you can’t name flickering over his expression.

“I know I haven’t given you any reasons to think I’m the best guy in the world,” he says. “But I wouldn’t have shown those to anyone. Not ever.”

You want to believe that. Want to grab onto it like a lifeline. But you’re not exactly Yoongi’s number one fan, and this isn’t a matter of trust anymore—it’s survival.

And even if you were a fan of his, Seokjin was right. This isn’t something you can afford to risk.

You nod, swallowing around the lump in your throat. “Well, you can’t, now. So.”

An awkward silence settles between you.

You’re not sure if you feel better. You don’t think you do.

Yoongi gestures toward the kitchen. “You want coffee?”

You hesitate. Under normal circumstances, you’d laugh in his face. You and Yoongi don’t hang out, like, historically. Fight, sure. Make poor sexual decisions together, absolutely. But hang out and share coffee? It seems unthinkable.

But at the same time, you’re still rattled, and getting into another bumpy Uber doesn’t sound particularly appealing right now. And Yoongi isn’t being… totally unbearable. It was shockingly easy to get him to delete those pictures, despite the way you’d built it up in your head.

“…Yeah,” you say finally. “Okay.”

Yoongi hands you a chipped black mug without saying much, and you murmur a quiet thanks as you curl your fingers around it. The heat seeps into your palms.

The two of you stand in his tiny kitchen like strangers, the silence too loaded to be easy. He leans against the counter opposite you, sipping from his own mug, eyes flicking toward you every few seconds like he’s trying to work up the nerve to say something.

Instead, you settle into the pathetic choreography of small talk.

“So… this is your place, huh,” you offer.

Yoongi glances around. “Yeah.”

“It’s big.”

“It’s too big,” he says, and, yeah. It is. Big and mostly empty. It almost seems like no one lives here, from where you’re standing.

You shrug. “Still. The quiet must be nice.”

Yoongi huffs out a small laugh. “It was,” he says pointedly, “until someone ruined my beauty sleep.”

You try not to bristle. He doesn’t sound like he’s trying to be mean, and you don’t have the energy to argue with him anyway. “Sorry.”

Yoongi shrugs. “I’ve had worse wake-up calls.”

Neither of you mentions what happened the other day. The closet. The rough, desperate way he fucked you. The way you begged for it.

Instead, you sip your coffee in silence.

“I, uh,” Yoongi starts, then cuts himself off with a quiet exhale. “I should probably go shower soon.”

You nod like that’s news you needed, staring into your mug. “Right.”

You hear the click of his mug being set down gently on the counter. “Dollface.”

You look up, partially in response to the name. Mostly because of the cautious tone in his voice. Terrifingly, you have no idea what he’s about to say.

Yoongi shifts on his feet, mouth twisting like he’s really weighing his next words before he speaks.

“Do you want to come with me?”

Oh.

Huh.

Your breath stutters. Your spine straightens just slightly.

He’s not teasing. Not playing. Not doing any of the mean things you’ve learned to associate with Yoongi since you’ve met. He’s just asking quietly, like it’s a real offer. Like there’s no pressure attached, even though the weight of it sits heavily between you.

There are a million reasons you should say no and go home. One of which being, well, the reason you’re here in the first place. You don’t trust him. You don’t like him. You keep making terrible, life-ruining decisions with him.

But still, there’s this thought in the back of your mind, half-formed but louder than all the rest.

You’re so tired of punishing yourself for every impulse, every need. Tired of denying yourself the right to fuck up. To make mistakes.

Sending the pictures was unforgivably stupid, yes, you’ll give Seokjin that. But despite your panic in the immediate aftermath, fucking Yoongi felt good. Mind-blowingly good. Like something inside you finally got to breathe after being locked up too long.

Jeongguk doesn’t know. And as guilty as it makes you feel, he doesn’t have to know, as long as Yoongi keeps his mouth shut. Judging by the state of that friendship right now, you have a feeling he will.

So.

You set your mug down carefully, meeting his eyes.

“Yeah,” you say. “I do.”

Yoongi nods once and then turns, walking down the short hall that leads to his bedroom. You follow wordlessly, heart thudding in your throat.

When you step into his bedroom, you feel like you’ve crossed into something irreversible. Yoongi opens the door to the master bathroom while you linger in the sparseness of the space, eyes fixed on his king bed. Charcoal sheets, rumpled on one side and perfectly smooth on the other.

The sound of the shower squeaking to life brings you back to the moment and forces you to take a few more steps. You hover in the doorway of the bathroom. Steam begins to curl around the room, warm and beckoning.

Yoongi looks over his shoulder.

"You coming?"

You cross the threshold.

Yoongi turns to face you, backlit by rising steam. He doesn’t touch you. Not yet. Just watches you for a second, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll change your mind.

You don’t.

You peel off your sweater first, then your shirt, then your bra. You catch the flicker in his expression when your breasts fall free. His gaze trails down your body, and when your leggings hit the floor, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days.

Yoongi steps towards you and cradles your jaw in his palm, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about your pussy for days,” he rasps, and your knees go weak.

Before you can say anything in response—before you can even breathe properly, he leans in and kisses you. Slow and sure, but greedy too. You kiss him back, moaning when his tongue slips into your mouth.

You shove your hands up the hem of his tattered sweatshirt, pushing it up his torso impatiently. Yoongi hums into your mouth, pulling back just long enough to tug it over his head and toss it to the floor. Then he steps out of his sweatpants and briefs in one fluid motion, unabashed.

You’d barely seen him last time, but now, you get a full, unhurried look. Smooth, pale skin. His cock is thick and flushed, already half-hard and growing the longer you look. Your thighs press together instinctively.

He tugs you gently into the shower by your hand, pulling the glass door closed behind you. The water is hot and heavy, already soaking your hair, dripping down your back. Yoongi presses you against the tiled wall, hands sliding along your waist like he’s been starving for this.

His mouth finds yours again, and your teeth clack together as you kiss him back. One of his hands slides up your spine, cupping the back of your neck to keep you close, while the other moves over the curve of your ass, squeezing.

“Always such a fuckin’ brat,” he murmurs against your lips, “until I get my hands on you.”

You mewl when he palms your breast, thumbing your nipple until it’s stiff. His other hand dips lower, sliding between your legs, fingers finding you embarrassingly wet even under the spray of the shower.

You gasp when he presses a finger inside, then a second, curling them just right. Your legs threaten to give out, but he hooks an arm around your waist to keep you upright, keeping you wide open for him.

“I could make you come just like this,” Yoongi says, fucking his fingers into you slow and deep. “But you want more, don’t you?”

“Yoongi—” you gasp, eyes squeezing shut.

“Tell me what you want,” he says as he kisses a heated line from your jaw to your throat. “Tell me how you want it.”

“Inside,” you pant. “I want you inside me.”

He growls—actually growls—and pulls his fingers out, lifting your leg to wrap around his waist. His cock slides through your folds, notching against your entrance as the hot water rushes down both your bodies. His forehead rests against yours.

“You’re sure?”

“Just fuck me,” you murmur, and that’s all it takes.

He slides in slowly, both of you groaning in unison at the feeling. The stretch is deep, bordering on painful, but so fucking good. He doesn’t move for a second, just holds you there, buried to the hilt.

“Fuck, you take me so well,” he groans, bracing himself with one hand on the wall behind you. You moan, high and raw, and he starts to move.

His hips drive forward again and again, the sound of skin slapping echoing sharply in the tiled space, mixing with the hiss of the shower and the ragged breathing between you. Your hands scramble for purchase at his shoulders, his neck, his biceps—anything to anchor yourself.

He fucks you like that for a while. Deep, heavy strokes, hips rolling into you like a tide. Your legs shake. Your cunt flutters around him, tight and desperate.

“Yoongi, please,” you moan, even though you’re not quite sure what you’re begging for.

He hitches your thigh higher around his hip, opening the angle. Like this, every thrust has his cock pinpoint that spot inside of you, the one you struggle to reach on your own. A strangled cry is punched out of you in response and Yoongi groans, forehead pressed to yours.

“Touch yourself,” he rasps. “Let me see.”

Your hand drops between your legs, and it only takes a few circles around your clit before you’re gasping his name, walls clenching around him. He watches as he fucks you through it, moaning as you squeeze around his cock.

His thrusts grow sloppy, unable to hold back any longer, and then he’s pulling out quickly, spilling onto the shower floor with a curse. His forehead drops to your shoulder, lips parting against your damp skin. You feel his chest rise and fall against yours, both of you trembling from the high.

Neither of you speaks.

For a long moment, there’s only the deafening beat of water against tile and the slow comedown of your heart rate. Your thighs ache. Your skin is flushed. His cum washes away down the drain between your feet, a quiet, shameful stream of evidence.

Shit.

You’re the first to move.

Gently, you press your palm to his chest, signaling space. Yoongi lets go. Steps back.

The warmth of his body leaves yours all at once, and the shower suddenly feels colder, emptier, even with the steam still thick in the air.

“I just…” you start, voice thin and heart pounding. “I need a minute.”

You don’t look at him as you reach for the glass door, slipping out of the stall on shaky legs. You find a towel draped neatly on the bar just outside the shower and wrap it around yourself, not bothering to dry off properly. The towel sticks to your skin, damp and clingy. You think you feel his eyes on you through the glass, but you can’t bear to check.

You grab your clothes from the floor and step out into the bedroom. The room is still dim, the curtains drawn, the gray light of morning barely filtering in. You dress in silence, and when you’re done, you sit on the edge of Yoongi’s bed until you hear the squeak of the faucet as it shuts off. When the bathroom door opens, you lift your head.

He emerges wrapped at the waist in a towel, hair dripping. He’s rubbing at his head with another towel as he steps into the room and freezes when he sees you.

“You actually stayed,” he says, like he hadn’t expected that.

You shrug, barely meeting his gaze. “Didn’t seem right to sneak out.”

Yoongi watches you, still drying his hair. After a moment, he sits next to you.

“Do you want to talk about it this time?”

Your stomach turns. “What is there to talk about?”

“You didn’t really give me the impression you were interested in round two, the other day.”

“I wasn’t,” you say flatly.

“And yet here we are,” he says in kind, gesturing between you. “I’m just wondering what I should expect, moving forward.”

You cross your arms over your chest. “No, you just want me to admit you were right.”

Yoongi scoffs. “I’m getting sick of people telling me I don’t mean what I say.”

Jesus.

You frown. You have no clue what he means by that—and honestly, you don’t care. Not right now. So you stay quiet.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Look,” he continues, “we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. It’s not fun if you’re not into it. But I need to know where we stand. So tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I’m thinking about how much I hate you,” you snap, on instinct.

Yoongi shrugs. “Okay. That’s not new information. Didn’t stop you from fucking me twice, though. Two and a half, if we’re splitting hairs.”

“Clearly,” you reply bitterly.

His expression doesn’t change. “Hate me all you want, dollface. I’m not asking you not to.” He tilts his head just slightly. “Are we doing this or not?”

You stare at him for a long moment, on the edge of something dangerous.

You think about the way it felt when he touched you. The way he looked at you. The way your body still feels like it’s buzzing from the inside out.

This is a mistake. You know it. You named it. But that little thought that started to form inside you earlier is louder now, stronger, and it won’t let you walk away, even though all the logic in the world tells you that you should.

“Yeah,” you say finally. “We are.”

Yoongi nods like he’d already known the answer. “Okay. Great. Glad we could clear that up,” he says, unbothered. “You feel free to let me know if you change your mind.”

And then he stands, towel low on his hips, and walks across the room to get dressed.

Fucking asshole.

You can’t stand how he can just act like this is easy for him. Like it should be easy for you. Like going behind the back of his best friend doesn’t bother him in the slightest.

Worst of all, you hate how it still feels like Yoongi has the upper hand.

Desperate to get it back, you stand. “Hey.”

Yoongi hums from where he’s rummaging through a drawer in his dresser, half-turned but not looking at you.

“My deal with Jeongguk is still on,” you say, crossing your arms with finality. “Just so you know.”

You hope it’ll get some kind of reaction out of him. He pauses what he’s doing, gaze flicking to you for a second, and you search for any indication that he’ll falter.

But then he shrugs, turning back to the drawer. “I don’t see what that has to do with me,” he grumbles.

Right.

Annoyed, you twist the knob of his bedroom door, swinging it open.

“Just keep your mouth shut about this,” you say over your shoulder, aiming to hurt. “Some of us are actually in his good graces.”

You don’t stay to see his reaction.

You wonder, as you show yourself out of Yoongi’s apartment, if this is actually going to be easy at all.

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bewitched-hours · 29 days ago

Note

Hi again, I have came once again with another of one of my fav ships, if you don't mind much, also this request is be based on your fantasy AU, so can i please request for a...

Yandere! Azuretime x GN! Peasant! Reader?

(two time is the princess and Azure is the prince, use the princess and prince skin for this one)

Fluff and Angst for the reader again

Plot: Where the reader is living on the streets in a village back then alone but now a slave, but then the royalties appeared looking for someone to clean and take care of the castle so they chose the reader as a waiter/maid (whatever you call it)

as time went by, the duo eventually love both of them and made a arranged marriage to make the reader their the king/queen and kept getting fight over but they learned to share as the reader spends time with both of them seperately.

Idk what made i ran out of ideas for this one so i hope this made sense😢

Anyways Bye!☺️

Oh rhaine, you always know how to make such delicious prompts for me to enjoy-

Reader gets They/Them'd as requested kek

Well, you never really had a chance, did you?

No, of course not. You didn't grow up in a good enough family for that.

Hell, you don't even remember growing up with parents, just being taken care of by random other peasants in the village that had to call the streets their home.

And soon, you were one of them.

Filthy, begging, ignored. Who would assume your fate could turn?

At first it began with a new ruling. Those living on the streets would instead be free to grab for the wealthy to take as slaves. You obviously hadn't known but would find out when a nobleman coming for a visit spotted you and picked you up.

You were pretty quickly one of his maids...

On the bright side, most of the maids had similar backstories to yours so you felt less alone and you could all get along.

They taught you how to be a proper maid and clean the nobleman's residence with such care that you stopped receiving punishments. That was good at least...

But life is never so predictable!

The Nobleman was soon visited by a pair of royalties, looking for a new maid to help clean their castle.

You didn't pay them much mind aside from the usual displays of respect and otherwise sticking to routine. It helped keep you from going insane with the nobleman's requests at times...

But they paid attention to you, in great detail even.

Your soft hums that you could've sworn were quiet enough to not be noticeable, your careful placement of the furniture after you were done, it was all painfully obvious to them.

And before the day was even over, the nobleman told you they had decided to buy you out and would leave with you the following morning. Although, you knew it was more of a warning to prepare them the guest room and start packing the few items actually in your position.

And true to his word, you were sent off the next morning in a royal carriage while this royal pair was kind enough to explain what your life will be like in their castle.

You'd be assigned to help the maids in the throne room and dining hall. When there's no cleaning to be done you would have to simply stand by and await orders until there is.

Hell, they even complimented you! Saying you would be a cute addition to their workforce and to feel honoured. Of course, you were already feeling honoured enough to be chosen by royalty.

And true to their words(I'm saying this too much), you were basically there to just clean and look pretty while taking orders.

The other maids were simply beautiful too! They taught you even more than you had previously known and you embarrassingly had to get used to bathing together with them all... On the plus side, you had a giant bathing hall with luxurious beauty products lining the walls.

The maids treated you as a little sibling of sorts. Cooing over how adorable you were and making sure you were just as pampered as them... Were you in heaven???

"My my, [Reader]~ You've got the majesties ruffling quite some feathers~" One of the maids chuckled as she tended to your hair, finding your visible confusion cute.

You looked at the maids in front of you who were all doing each other's hair but obviously aiding in the conversation. "Did I do something wrong..?" You hesitantly asked, relieved when you received quick headshakes from all of them.

"Sweetheart, you're simply too cute~! I can't blame the majesties for fighting over you, I would too if-"

"THEY WHAT-" Your shock made them nearly burst into laughter as another maid chimed in.

"I wouldn't worry about it~ It's kinda romantic having two people fight over you, no?" Her chuckle did not help the pit forming in your stomach.

What if you got executed? What if you end up causing one of them to be executed?? What if-

Another maid quickly came to shush you and ease your mind. "I'm sure it'll be fine! Just don't let them know we told you and spend time with them as usual and this should go over soon..." She hugged you a little, noting how sensitive your skin was as you got goosebumps.

But you decided to trust them and act as though nothing had happened. You spent time with both Azure and Two Time, sometimes even separately, and started noticing the subtle ways in which they attempted to court you. It suddenly made a lot more sense...

Or so you thought... When one night, you were ordered to the throne room instead of joining your fellow maids in your nightly routine.

You were rendered speechless when you found out why.

"We understand this is... Sudden..." Azure tried to stay quiet as he and Two Time held your hands, both enjoying the sight of your flustered expression. "But you should understand that you have this charm to you that we simply can't ignore..."

While he spoke, Two Time brought the palm of your hand gently against their face to leave a kiss on it. You felt like your heart was gonna explode right then and there.

Like bees to a flower, you were chosen to partake in an arranged marriage with them.

You were confused but it wasn't like you could just deny the request...

The ceremony took weeks to plan, but you were only included to help decide on minor choices. You worried it was a test but you noticed it was easy to tell who of them wanted which option and you made sure to pick them evenly, never picking one of them twice over to make it feel fair.

In the meantime, the other maids were giddy over your fate and made sure you only ever looked your best since. You even convinced Azure and Two Time to arrange for the closest of the maids to get assigned as your bridesmaids since they were the closest you had to a family.

But on the day of the ceremony? You were anxious beyond belief, stressing over if you looked good enough or if something might happen while your bridesmaids cradled your pretty little face and wiped away any tears that threatened to ruin your look.

You could only watch the doors as the only guests seemed to be the rest of the personnel in the castle... At least people you recognized then...

Your gaze was like that of a deer caught in a staring contest with a predator when the doors finally did open and in came your beloveds.

One in a stunning white dress that seemed somehow even more stunning than the usual one and the other in a suit that- in combination with the dress- had your face look like a tomato. And they revelled in your reaction as they slowly approached, thinking about all the effort they had put into making sure you were guaranteed to them.

All that you've been left oblivious to. The offers to have you bought out from them, proposals of political marriages- and don't think they haven't threatened any other kingdoms with war for merely suggesting you were any less than they saw you as. Because they have done so countless times.

All to bask in the glory of their victory. Sharing you between each other as they were each granted a kiss before gently placing a custom-made crown upon your head to officially make you royalty as well...

Of course, you'd arrange for your bridesmaids to be your most trusted personal maids. They were still confined to the arrangements for normal maids but they were allowed more freedom to roam and tend to you. You were eternally grateful to them and slept surprisingly well in that giant bed you shared with Azure and Two Time.

Sometimes you'd wonder how you were so lucky...

But you never questioned the lack of backlash or confrontation from other kingdoms... Not that you should, of course~

Anything you'd like to request/ask? Check out my pinned post first and I'll be happy to write up whatever you want!

#forsaken roblox #forsaken #roblox forsaken #forsaken x reader #forsaken x y/n #yandere forsaken x reader #azure forsaken #yandere azure #azure x reader #azuretime #two time forsaken #yandere two time #two time x reader #azure x reader x two time

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gldrushh · 2 months ago

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GUILTY AS SIN? | JJK | PART 𝐈𝐈𝐈 |

"After all lessons are learned. There's only one to live out in practicality. You're not sure how good you're at it —only that, this time, you won’t try alone."

→ Pairing brother in law! Jungkook x widowed fem!reader

→ Genre forbidden love! au, childhood friends to lovers, angst, fluff

→W.C 20k

→ Warnings lots of mentions of graveyards, loss, nostalgia, because you can scream and scratch and bite but you can never go back, minhos third death anniversary, he stays haunting everyone, jk being lovesick, what's new?,their dating era!!, kissing, self realization, they make it official, mentions of anxiety, soft family moments :(, mention of jk threatening someone, protective jk, mentions of alcohol, like a lot, jk manhandling oc, she's drunk and a menace, he is so in love, and so is she apparently, jks nose gets appreciated, nose kisses, fluff, jk is rich, dancing around, real chessy stuff im sorry haha but trust me when i say that it pained me too

→ Playlist You are in love by Taylor swift

→A/N hi! hello! It's definitely not been a while since I posted but it most definitely feels like I've lived a multiple lifes since. I'm sorry for not posting when I promised and I'm sorry that you had to see me falling for rage bait because i don't belive that was anything but. Like genuinely get a life my brother in christ. I write fanfiction for a hobby. A silly little hobby. It's not that deep and you don't have to lose your shit over that. Anyways, all that negativity aside I wanna thank you to all the majority of my readers who were nice enough to put up with me. You all are who I write for and will continue doing so though can't say for sure lol. I've had a great time with writing this fic and all the love it got. It will forever hold a special place. These characters will forever hold a special place. I will miss them and I really hope you understand from the word count why it took the time it did and enjoy reading <33 please comment or message your thoughts!! Love you!!

| PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE |

The graveyard was deadened in a way that empty places where bones met soil learned to be. In a way that they are belived they are. With a stillness so complete, it surmised like a hostaged breath.

You sat cross-legged before the headstone, coat draped around your shoulders, your fingers numb from the stone bench that did little to hold warmth or from holding the bundle of white lilies, their stems slick with dew. You hadn’t put them down yet. You had spent the better part of your time here, staring at another small bouquet resting at the base of the grave—white carnations and forget-me-nots, arranged with care, like they always were. Someone’s been here before you. Arranged these flowers with love. There's just no name in some card that gives away the beholder of the love.

You traced the curve of a petal with your gaze, not touching it. Not needing to.

You're not wary of them. It's a graveyeard. It's Jeon Minho's—beloved son, brilliant brother, best husband—grave. It's never empty. You recalled, absently,how on his first death anniversary the plot had been crowded. A forest of flowers so pretty and perplexing, letters folded into stones, paintings left by former students who still wrote emails to an address that no longer worked. One of them left a thumb drive with a digital portfolio and a note that simply read: “I only got in because of him.”

Even now—three years later—his name never stopped resounding in impertuable places because he had a way of staying with people, even long after he’d left the room. Had this laugh that would get stuck in your head. And somehow, that made it both easier and harder. That he was remembered in a love that he alone inspired. Gentle. that was earned without asking. The kind of love that was mourned in secret, in ritual, in color.

You placed your bouquet down next to the others, brushing a fallen leaf from the base of the headstone. The stone was smooth beneath your touch, cold. You traced the carved letters-his name, the dates-and swallowed the lump that always formed when you read them too slowly.

“I was going to bring tulips,” you said softly, not sure if you were speaking to the stone or the wind. “But you always said they looked sad. Too floppy.” A just as sad smile that would have mimicked the tulips curled at your mouth.

“Thought I’d bring lilies instead. Thought they might hold their shape better. I hope they do.”

The ache wasn’t sharp anymore. But it was deep. It was marrow-deep. Though it didn't weight like it used to. It hummed in your blood, a familiar frequency. Almost like a song you’d once loved but now couldn’t bear to hear past the first few notes. Like the sky that is a pale repose of overcast, streaked with gray, the kind that always made Minho grumble about "bad lighting" when he painted. The ground is damp but not cruel. Just enough to remind you that time moves here too. That even woe must learn to grow things again.

A breeze stirred, threading through your coat, pushing strands of hair across your cheek. You didn’t brush them away. You leaned forward, elbows on your knees, the grave in front of you, the silence beside you.

"Odd taste you had, min-min." You said after a while. "I wouldn't be suprised if you would find me sitting here, trying to make conversation with a slab of stone romantic. Probably say how so much effort for a guy who once mixed paint water into his cereal is good kind of weird."

Your voice cracked a little at that.

You don't cry.

You think that maybe you’ve used up all your tears on the wrong days—the regular ones, the grocery-list ones, the Tuesdays that came out of nowhere.

And then because the present can only be held for so long, you begin to remember.

The first time you were ever in a graveyard. Before you understood what death really was. Before it had touched you. When it was just a mystery. A place with names and flowers and questions no one could answer properly.

It had been years ago—childhood still clinging to your limbs like summer heat, with scraped knees and sticky palms and dreams that stretched further than your little world could hold. You and Jungkook couldn’t have been more than ten. Minho, already bordering on thirteen, had taken to pretending that his age made him wiser, even though he still laughed too loudly at fart jokes and left crayon smudges on his school notebooks.

You had been searching for this place for a while.

Not this graveyard, exactly, but the idea of it.

A name. A date. Something real to press against the fading edges of Jungkook’s memory.

He had come across a slip of paper one day in the back of a file, folded four times over, nearly forgotten in the drawer of father's study that nobody was allowed in. The handwriting had been unfamiliar—elegant but rushed—and it bore two names. His parents, he said. He thought.

And for weeks, the three of you had quietly tried to piece it together.

You’d used the school’s clunky computer lab—pretending to research for a social studies project while Minho furiously clicked through online directories and civic records. You whispered questions to the lunch lady, who knew someone who once worked in town hall. You even bribed the janitor with your entire sticker collection to let you sneak into the staff archives one afternoon.

No one said it was about sorrow.

No one had to.

You just wanted to help him find something—anything—that made him feel less like a shadow of someone else’s loss.

And finally, on a Thursday that still smelled like last night’s rain, you did.

You’d all skipped school that day.

The air still damp from last night’s rain, the sky overcast in a way that made the world look softer, quieter, like someone had pulled a cotton sheet over the sun.

It had been Minho’s idea, but Jungkook who needed it. You remember that part vividly, because he hadn’t asked out loud. Hadn’t needed to. He had stood in the courtyard with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his too-big jacket, hair a mess, eyes darker than usual. And Minho had just looked at him, then at you, and nodded.

“We’re going,” he said. "Are you ready, Kook?"

He was holding a slip of paper in one hand and clutching the edge of his jacket with the other.

“Yes, hyung." He had nodded. "I want to find them."

The air around you had gone quiet then—not out of shock, but out of care. Like the air had thinned out so as not to crowd him.

“We’d get in trouble,” you had broke the silence, voice a sharp whisper, mind already thinking of all ways you could get in trouble, eyes darting to the teachers pacing the other side of the field.

“Yeah,” Minho agreed. “But it’s a good reason. I'm sure they will understand...right?" Taller than the both of you already. He looked between Jungkook’s face and the paper again, then over at you.

You’d rolled your eyes, half because you were nervous and half because that was your role in this trio—to be skeptical just enough for Minho to feel brave. That made minho provide reassurance to his own doubt. "They will." Minho had said, like it was that simple.

And it was.

It always was, with the three of you.

You were kids, but not careless ones. You planned it like it was a secret mission—packed snacks in the side pockets of Minho’s bag, let Milo tag along even though he wasn’t technically allowed out without a leash. The sun was high when you snuck out, the kind of early spring day that couldn’t decide if it was warm or not. As if it was playing a cruel game of hide and seek, peeking through clouds that weren’t sure if they wanted to rain again. You wore your favorite jacket—denim with a strawberry patch on the sleeve. Jungkook didn’t bring anything except the folded piece of paper. Milo sat at his feet, tail thumping occasionally against the metal floor of the bus.

You caught the bus by the corner near the florist’s shop, ducking low behind the seats in case any familiar faces passed. The journey was slow. Long bus ride—two transfers, three wrong stops. You sat tucked in the back row, heads down, laughing behind your hands when Milo licked a stranger’s elbow. You passed the time counting license plates and telling each other made-up stories about the people outside.

One old man at the third stop looked at you from under his hat and said, “That place? That place’s been forgotten.”

But then a woman at the vegetable stall a few streets over gave you better directions. Told you to follow the path lined with dogwoods until you saw the iron gates.

You wandered through the quiet neighborhoods of Daejun on foot, sneakers wet from the last puddles, stepping over cigarette butts and crushed petals, past shuttered stores and a shrine half-covered in ivy. The deeper you walked, the more the world thinned out into something older. Something that felt sacred and sad all at once.

The graveyard.

Wrought iron gates half rusted, vines crawling up the stone wall, the sign chipped but still legible.

There was no one there to greet you. Just wind. And quiet. And Milo’s soft panting.

You stepped inside together, slow. Reverent. As if you were entering a cathedral.

You didn’t speak much. Just looked.

Row after row of headstones, some cracked, some buried under moss. The names were unfamiliar. The silence, even more so.

“I think it’s this way,” Minho said, squinting at the map he’d drawn on notebook paper. “I printed a map. And I’m, like, really good at reading maps.”

“You got us lost last week trying to find that new ramen place,” you reminded him, turning around to walk backwards for emphasis.

Minho rolled his eyes. “That was one time."

"Was it?" You looked at Jungkook to back you up but he only cracked a tiny smile at that. You caught it—brief, barely there—but it warmed you anyway. It had been a long week leading up to this.

“They’re somewhere near the east wall,” Minho said, squinting at the faded directions. “Row 12, plot 33. I think we’re close.”

Your footsteps crunched over gravel and scattered leaves. Milo veered off occasionally, sniffing at corners and chasing insects, but always came back. The sun filtered through bare branches in patches, dappling your arms in faint light.

The wind picked up when they turned the final corner—soft, not cold, brushing past their jackets like a whisper. Row twelve stretched ahead in crooked lines, some stones older than others, names worn down by years of weather and forgetfulness.

Jungkook stopped walking.

Your eyes followed his gaze.

Two gravestones stood side by side, tucked beneath a slant of oak branches. The grass was longer here. The stones smaller than you expected.

They were side by side. Dates etched beneath them.Born years before any of you. Gone before Jungkook had learned what it meant to belong to anyone. No pictures. No flowers. Just names and silence. And that was all he had.

Jungkook stared at them like he didn’t know what he was supposed to feel. Like maybe he’d expected something different. Or maybe he didn’t know what he expected at all.

His hand crumpled the piece of paper still clutched in his fist.

You moved first, not touching him, just standing nearby, close enough that he’d know you were there if he needed you.

Minho lowered the backpack slowly to the ground, the usual jokes stalled on his tongue. Even Milo went still, sitting quietly at Jungkook’s feet, as if he understood the moment too.

Jungkook stepped forward, cautiously. His sneakers scuffed the grass. He crouched slowly in front of the grave, his knees pressing into the damp soil, fingertips hesitating above the stone.

“That’s them?” he asked, voice tight in his throat. “For real?”

Minho nodded. “Yeah. The names match.”

Jungkook didn’t speak again. He pressed his fingers lightly to the letters on the headstone—first his father’s, then his mother’s. They were cool from the shade, worn smooth at the edges.

You crouched beside him. He turned his head slightly, just enough for you to see the way his eyes were glossed, not quite crying, but close. “Do you think they were nice?”

Minho sat down cross-legged beside him, stretching his legs out like it was any other afternoon. “Your mom? Definitely. Anyone who names a baby Jungkook has to be at least kind of awesome.”

That earned the smallest laugh from you, and then from him.

Jungkook looked at the gravestones again. “Do you think they’d like me?”

You nudged his side with your elbow, gently. “Koo, it’s kinda hard not to like you.”

“I dunno,” he mumbled. “I cry sometimes. And I suck at spelling.”

Minho made a dramatic groan. "You’re the coolest. Smarter than me. And you always win at Mario Kart.”

Jungkook ducked his head, but you saw the way his shoulders loosened. He reached out then—hesitant—and brushed some dirt off the stone. You watched the movement, how careful it was. How reverent.

“I didn’t think I’d feel anything,” he murmured.

“But you do?” you asked.

He nodded, still not looking at either of you. “Yeah.”

You stayed there until the sun dipped lower behind the hills. Minho finished the sketch and tore the page from his book. He folded it carefully, handed it to Jungkook without a word.

Jungkook looked at it for a long moment, then tucked it into his hoodie pocket.

“Hey,” Minho said as you were walking back toward the gates. “Think they’ve got a vending machine nearby? I want strawberry milk.”

You laughed. “You always want strawberry milk.”

He smirked, tugging his cap lower. “Yeah, well. It’s a long walk home.”

You trace the rim of the headstone now, your fingertips ghosting. Lingering. Your voice is soft. Almost like a child's again.

“We never did find that vending machine.”

The wind stirs in the trees like it remembers too.

“But you’d be happy to know,” you continue softly, “that your paintings found their way anyway.”

You smile faintly, fingers brushing a small chip in the edge of the stone like you could smooth it out. “It’s finally happening. Really. The gallery. Jungkook’s opening it today.”

You glance up toward the stone, as if you might catch his reaction.

“I told him we should. After I saw it—I mean really saw it—I couldn’t not share it with the world. And you know me. I don’t say things like that unless I mean them. I think… I think you’d be proud of how much care he put into it. How many nights he stayed up figuring out framing and lighting and titles. Gosh."

Your voice thickens around the word proud.

“He asked me what kind of wine you’d want served at the opening,” you add, with a shaky laugh. “I said you’d just tell people to bring root beer instead and call it a day.”

You look at the lilies now, at the way their petals fold gently inward. You try to imagine the sound of Minho’s laughter if he were here. Try to imagine the way he’d tease you for crying without making you feel like crying was wrong.

“It looks beautiful, Min min. The gallery. I think it would’ve made you shy. All those people showing up just for you. Can you imagine?”

You pause.

A crow calls from a nearby tree. A leaf skitters across the gravel.

“And something else,” you say softly. “I think I should tell you.”

It’s not a secret, not really. Just something unspoken for a long, long time. Something you’ve carried carefully, like glass.

“I wasn’t sure at first,” you admit, a dry laugh slipping out. “I mean, of course I wasn’t. It felt impossible. Like… crossing a bridge I shouldn’t have even been near. I can't even think of anything else to describe it to you."

The words take time. But you don’t rush them.

"The very first it was the the little bakery near the university with the good tarts. The museum with the terrible lighting but the softest benches. He even took me to that rooftop bar that used to give you vertigo—remember? "

You chuckle, covering your face briefly with your hand.

You shift your weight slightly, stretching your legs in front of you. A leaf lands on your boot.

“And then last week,” you continue, “he took me to this little Korean BBQ place in Hongdae. Said the meat was just okay, but the company made it worth it. We stayed until the restaurant closed. Walked along the river. He kissed me beside the railing. It was cold, and I couldn’t feel my fingers."

The place wasn’t fancy. People probably didn’t dress up for here dressed up or made reservations two weeks in advance. It had plastic chairs that wobbled slightly, walls lined with signed polaroids and grease-stained menus, and a sliding glass door that stuck every time someone tried to open it too quickly.

You ordered too much, of course. He insisted on the samgyeopsal, you picked the bulgogi, and somehow you ended up with three side dishes neither of you remembered asking for. The grill sizzled between you, soft smoke curling toward the ceiling vents, and Jungkook poured you a glass of water like it was part of an accent only he knew how to follow.

And there was something about watching him like that—hair pushed back, head slightly tilted, tongs in hand while he laid down the marinated strips of meat that made something alter inside you. Something small but sure.

Something you didn’t feel with the with the accountant who wouldn’t stop talking about NFTs. The guy who took you to a food truck but only ordered for himself.

A soft breath escapes you. “And it’s not the same. It’s not like it was with you. But it’s not different in the wrong ways either.”

You glance at the grave again, hands resting in your lap. Your heart hurts and swells at once.

“I think you’d understand,” you whisper.

And you do. In some strange, marrow-deep way, you believe it. That he would. That Minho, the boy who used to kiss the corners of your eyes and name his paint colors after inside jokes, would know what this meant. That he’d want this for you.

That he’d forgive you.

You reach for the lilies again, adjusting them so the stems don’t bend. Your eyes flick back to the stone.

“I still miss you,” you whisper. “I still love you.”

The breeze quiets again.

"And I still think you're the best friend I've ever had. That's why I needed to tell this this to you first."

Your fingers press gently to your lips, then down to the stone.

Who else would you tell other than the boy who had orchastered the definition of fairytale love for you? Who would you tell that you're starting to realize that he loves you? Maybe he had a for a long time now. And maybe you-

Bzzzt.

Your phone vibrated in your coat pocket.

The sound was soft, almost reluctant against the hush of the graveyard, like it too didn’t want to interrupt.

You blinked, pulled it out with chilled fingers, and read the message lit dimly on the screen.

[Dad:]

Sweetheart, we’re parked outside, still. Just checking if you’re ready.

You turned your head slightly and spotted the vague outline of your father’s car just beyond the gate, tucked in the corner of the lot. You could imagine your mother in the passenger seat, fingers wrapped around a thermos of tea, eyes scanning the trees while she waited with the scarf minho brought her two christmas ago, letting you have this moment uninterrupted.

They’re in town, of course. They always are, on this day.

It started the first year—when the pain was still red and raw and too large for your chest. Back then, you couldn’t eat, couldn’t speak without choking on the spaces where Minho should’ve been. Your parents had shown up with soup and chamomile tea and enough patience to outlast a storm. They stayed even when you didn’t speak for hours.

And every year since, they’ve found new ways to not let you be alone.

This day always makes them softer with you. Or maybe just more afraid of saying the wrong thing. Hovering a little closer. Speaking in quieter tones.

You sigh, brushing your thumb across the message. You don’t reply yet. Instead, you turn back toward the headstone, heart still soft and cracked wide open.You smile faintly.

“I should probably go.”

You reach down, sweeping a fallen petal from the edge of the stone.

“I’ll come by tomorrow, okay? Tell you how it goes."

You gather your coat closer around your shoulders, standing slowly. Your knees creak from the cold stone bench, from sitting too long in one position. You stretch slightly, then glance once more at the flowers now clustered at the grave’s base.

The sky has begun to change—clouds pulling apart in slow, reluctant threads, letting in slivers of afternoon light. You press your fingers gently to the headstone one last time.

"Wish me luck, min min."

You imagine he does. Hands in his pockets. Smile tugging wide and lazy. Head tilted, like he knows you've got this.

Like he's urging you to go back to the part of the story where something finally begins.

You slipped into the backseat with a soft apology, the car door clicking shut behind you.

“Sorry,” you murmured, pulling your coat tighter around your shoulders. The fabric had gone cold against your skin, but the chill clinging to you wasn’t just from the graveyard. “I didn’t mean to keep you both waiting.”

Your mother turned in her seat, her eyes warm even beneath the slight crease of worry still lingering at her brow. “Don’t be silly,” she said gently, her hand reaching back to rest briefly on your knee, the kind of maternal touch that knew when to press and when to ease. “We figured you might want a few more minutes. We all do."

“We were just talking about how this town hasn’t changed a bit,” she added, shifting the topic without making a show of it.

“She was talking,” your father interjected from the driver’s seat, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “I was checking the parking meter.”

“You were checking your watch and pretending it was the parking meter,” your mother teased.

“I was,” he insisted. “City’s always been eager to ticket people in parked cars.”

You let the cadence of their conversation fold around you, like the comfort of a familiar quilt. Safe. Worn soft with time. The kind of talk you’d heard all your life, in road trips and kitchens and walks through grocery aisles.

The engine kicked into motion, pulling you away from the graveyard slowly. You turned once in your seat, watching the wrought iron fence fade into the distance, your eyes lingering on the tree line long after it disappeared.

Outside, the town blurred past—branches heavy with the early promise of spring, cafés setting out mismatched chairs, signs swinging in the breeze like the sighs of old shopkeepers.

Your parents started talking about the café near the roundabout—how it had changed hands again, how the new owners apparently served matcha pancakes now, how the inside had been repainted a strange, charming blue. You listened with half an ear, forehead resting against the cool glass, hands folded in your lap.

Bzzt. Your phone made the same noise again.

[Jungkook]:

Are you on your way yet?

Missing you.

You typed back quickly, thumbs moving faster than your thoughts:

[You]:

On the way now. In the backseat with my parents. Be there soon.

He replied instantly like he was waiting with his phone in his hand.

[Jungkook]:

Good. See you.

You could picture him now—standing in the middle of the gallery in those dark slacks and a shirt with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, brow furrowed as he scanned the placement of frames and fiddled with the lighting, making sure nothing was out of place. He’d probably refused help again. Probably hadn’t eaten yet. Probably had to be convinced into not polishing every glass display himself.

You scrolled up, letting your thumb drag slowly over the thread from this morning:

[Jungkook]:

Good morning, angel ❤️

[Y/N]:

Good morning 😊

[Jungkook]:

Did you eat?

[Y/N]:

Just coffee so far. Did you?

[Jungkook]:

Two bites of toast. Stress eating. Lights are temperamental again but I'll sort them out.

[You]:

Don't stress it too much, okay? And eat.

[Jungkook]:

Copy that, professor.

You had smiled when you read that. Still did. A quiet little curve of your lips you didn’t bother hiding. Then he had sent a photo—one of the larger canvases half-unwrapped, sunlight catching the ridges of Minho’s brushstrokes like gold embroidery.

[Jungkook]:

Look at this.

[Y/N]:

Looks so beautiful. Everyone's gonna love it. You've done so much.

The light turned red and your father hummed to the radio while your mother picked at invisible lint on her sleeve.

[Jungkook]:

I can come get you after you're done visiting the cemetery. Just say the word.

[You]:

It’s okay. My parents are in town. I’m coming with them.

You were still staring down at the screen when your mother spoke again.“You’ve looked miles away for the last five minutes. Who’s texting you?”

You didn’t look up from your phone, but you could hear the knowing in her voice. “Oh.. it's Jungkook.”

“Ah,” she said, like that explained everything.

“He’s there already, isn’t he?” Your father asked casually.

You nodded, surprised. “Yeah, he’s… there. He’s doing a lot.”

“He always did have a stubborn streak,” your dad added. “Good head on his shoulders though."

Your mother smiled to herself. “I remember how he used to follow Minho around. And it's so beautiful now that he’s carrying so much of him forward.”

You looked down at your lap, throat tightening. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “It is.”

The car turned left and began its slow crawl into a lane that was too familiar.

You sat straighter as the car slowed, heart pulling taut in your chest, held in place by something between magnetism and memory. You recognized the bend in the road before you saw the sign—the soft flicker of gold script in the window, the sharp white glow of the "Open" sign casting its light across the pavement.

Your mother leaned forward slightly. “Oh. We’re here.”

The tires crunched over the gravel as your father pulled into the side lot. There were already several cars here, clustered neatly in crooked rows—some you recognized, most you didn’t. The gallery looked different in this light. Not the mum, plagnent space Jungkook first brought you to, that secret place where ghosts had been allowed to breathe without interruption.

the same place pulsed now. Lived.

Soft warm light spilled out of the tall windows. Music, muffled by glass, carried on the wind in threads. A little cluster of people stood out front—hands curled around invitation slips, eyes lifted toward the lettering carved into the wooden sign overhead.

You inhaled slowly.

It was still the same place you saw a month ago.

But it had opened its doors.

People had come. People would see it. His art.

The same paintings that once cluttered the corners of your apartment. That leaned against your sofa while waiting to dry. That held pieces of him—his bursts of joy, his quiet grays, his wild blues. You wondered if anyone walking past those canvases today would feel it. Would know what it cost him to bare his soul in brushstrokes.

And what it cost you to let it go.

Your mother turned to you in her seat, her hand reaching for yours, gentle.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

You nodded before you even knew if it was true. “Yeah, eomma. I’m fine.”

Your father opened his door, stepping out and stretching a little. “We’ll head in first,” he said, not unkindly. “Give you a moment if you need it.”

You managed a grateful smile. “Thanks, appa.”

The doors shut gently behind them. And for a beat, you were alone in the car, staring at the front doors of a dream made real.

Minho should be here.

That thought burned sudden and sharp and then softened into something acheful and wide. No. If love made ghosts, he’d be here already.

You reached for your bag, tugging out your compact mirror. You checked your eyes, smoothed your mouth, and whispered something into your reflection you didn’t quite hear yourself.

You abode in the stillness of the car for a few more seconds.

The engine long silenced. The peal of your parents’ voices faded into the low thrum of background music filtering through the gallery windows, the kind that belonged to wine glasses and quiet awe. The kind you imagined would play behind moments people would remember long after they forgot the taste of the wine or the exact words said.

You stored at the open doors. Arms stretched out. Yet you couldn't find it in yourself to move.Your fingers fidgeted in your lap, tracing the stitching of your coat. The sleeves of your blouse itched slightly at the wrists where your nerves collected like water pooling before a storm. You weren’t sure why your hands trembled. Maybe it was the anticipation. Maybe it was memory. Whatever it was, you had to brush past it.

You finally opened the door.

The wind greeted you with the breath of spring—soft, cool, perfumed faintly by something blooming just out of sight. The air kissed your cheeks, lifted the ends of your coat, and whispered welcome in a language only the brave know how to answer.

Your boots landed on the pavement. One step after the another. surely you remember the movement. there's only so much a day can take away from you.

The closer you walked to the entrance, the quieter the outside world became. The street behind you faded. The city paused if it could even do that. All you could hear now was the creak of wood beneath your feet as you stepped through the front doors, the soft closing of them behind you.

You found yourself in the hallway.

Long. Polished. Narrow in the way old corridors are. lit warmly with sconces that cast golden glows on textured walls. The murmur of voices came from farther in, down toward the gallery proper. That’s where everyone must be. You imagined them standing in front of the paintings, glasses of wine held loosely, their faces tilted upward in soft admiration, eyes wet in that quiet way art sometimes invited. People standing in front of Minho’s canvases and murmured things like "alive" and "honest" and "brilliant" without ever knowing the sound of his laughter.

But this hallway was empty. Or you thought it was.

You had just reached the halfway point—right where the hallway curved inward—when arms slipped around your waist from behind.

A gasp left you before your body remembered the shape of his.The scent of cedar, lavender soap, and faint varnish clung to him like an afterthought. His arms locked around you with the ease of practice but the fervor of something still new, and for a moment, the world dipped, rearranged itself around this one small plantery motion.

“There you are,” Jungkook murmured, voice rough against your ear.

You turned in his arms, your hands finding the fabric of his shirt like they’d always known how. His sleeves were rolled, just as you imagined, the fine lines of stress still etched around his brow.

His eyes met yours.

And something in your chest loosened.

"Were you looking for me?" you asked quietly.

He replied just as. "I'm always looking for you, angel." There was no flourish in the way he said it. Your breath hitched, a tiniest of movement and Jungkook watched the subtle shift of your expression like a ripple breaking the surface of water.

Gods, he thought, how could he not?

Even now, here, when there was so much else demanding his attention—guests arriving in waves, wine being poured, lights flickering again in the east wing. And still, in every room he walked into, in every face he passed, he found himself searching.

It was ridiculous, really. The way his eyes would scan the corners of the gallery and mistake someone’s hair, the tilt of a shoulder, the sound of your laugh echoing in his head like phantom static. The way his pulse leapt anytime the door opened. The way he felt incomplete if he couldn't place you in the room.

And now you were here. And the world had stitched itself back together.

You didn’t speak at first.

Not because you didn’t want to. But because your heart felt like it was still catching up after it had been walking this hallway too, trying to find its way to him.

“Well, you're the host. I'm sure you must be needed elsewhere too.” you whispered, reaching to smooth the edge of his collar.

Jungkook shook his head gently. “I'm exactly where I want to be.” His hands tightened just slightly at your waist.

He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his fingertips lingering just a beat longer than necessary.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded.

“Really okay?”

You hesitated, then whispered, “Now I am.”

He held your gaze for another moment, then dipped his head forward, just enough to press his lips to your forehead, his hands resting warm by your side. The world dimmed in that moment—just the two of you, suspended in quiet, his breath a soft punctuation at the crown of your head. But even as warmth bloomed beneath your ribs, there was a tight, pulsing thread of awareness that curled around your spine.

You stole a glance over Jungkook’s shoulder, eyes flickering to the curve of the hallway behind him—the doorway just around the corner where voices hummed, where glasses clinked, where footsteps could echo down the tile at any moment. Anyone could walk past. People with eyes and mouths and memories. Guests who knew your name. Friends of Minho’s. Colleagues. Distant family.

Anyone could turn the corner and see this—see him with you like this, your bodies tucked into each other. Your hand clenched softly into the fabric at his side. The paranoia was subtle, but it was real. It had crept in somewhere between the second kiss and the third hidden touch.

The thought made you tense, just slightly. He felt it.

“Baby.” Jungkook said, voice low, his hand drifting to the small of your back. “It’s just us.”

“Yeah, but…” Your voice trailed, lips brushing the fabric near his collarbone, your fingers curling into the cotton at his chest. “Someone might come.”

His eyes softened, though there was something that tightened at the corners giving way to a flicker of frustration he didn’t bother to hide. Not at you, obviously. He does'nt think he's capable of ever directing that at you. But at the way the world demanded so much of your caution, your retreat.

He leaned in, his nose brushing yours. "I promise. No one will."

The words curled in your ears, low and purposeful, like he’d carved them for just you. His hand slid up your back, a warm, steady line from your waist to your shoulder. You hated that you thought that they kinda do. You hated the need for shadows and how it has been shaping your frustration. How it has been shaping it in a circle so big you couldn’t tell where it started anymore. Only that it kept coming back. That it always ended with your pulse too loud in your ears and your eyes darting over your shoulder. Like what you were committing to didn’t deserve a place in the daylight.

You have also started eliminating even the possibility of the thought that it maybe didn't. Still, the guilt was no longer clean. It was clouded now, smeared at the edges with longing and the slow, terrible truth that what you had with Jungkook didn’t feel borrowed. It didn’t feel like a thing you could press back into a drawer once the moment was gone. It was the impossibility of compartmentalizing love.

Because how do you mourn someone and move toward someone else, all in the same breath? How do you walk through a gallery built from one man’s art only to fall into the arms of the man who framed it all?

It felt like it had grown roots.

And the more you buried it, the more it pulled at you.

You looked at him now—really looked. His brow furrowed slightly, not from worry but from effort. Like he was thinking, measuring, holding back the words that always swam just below the surface when you were this close.

Instead of saying any of the things tugging at the threads of your mouth, you stepped back just enough to feel the air slip between your bodies. Not far. Just enough for your hand to find his.

His fingers curled around yours instinctively. Always ready.

You looked up at him. “Is it crowded in there?”

"A little." He said. "Some of our colleagues. A few critiques."

You nodded again, absorbing that.

"None of them need to matter, yeah?" he added, searching your face, thumb skimming just beneath your eye. His next words were gentler.

You looked up then, caught the sincerity in his eyes, fought the urge to lean into his touch. Managed another nod. "Yeah...Can we stay a minute more?" The latter come out smaller than you would have expected.

“Take your time,” he nodded. "They can all wait."

You didn’t dare think about the look on his face when he had to let go of your fingers fitted around his after you said you were ready. He only offered a squeeze to your fingers and then let go with a kind of quiet reluctance, like pulling his hand out of warm water. The touch lingered, even as you stepped aside to let him lead the way. You rounded the curve of the hallway together, the voices sharpening in clarity now, glass clinking against glass, the soft rustle of shoes on polished tile growing louder until the threshold broke open and the gallery revealed itself in full.

It was no longer the dim, sacred place. It breathed differently now. Alive with soft light and the lull of conversation, with coats slung over arms and programs curled in curious fingers. Warm gold spilled from fixtures in the ceiling, catching on frames that lined the walls like punctuation. Artwork stretching in long, thoughtful rows, each canvas dressed in celebration. Of someone's unfinished story? you doubted it cared.

You stood still for a moment, toes just brushing the edge of the gallery’s threshold, eyes skimming the room as your body remembered how to belong to this space. The floors had been polished to a mirror shine. Glasses reflected in the glass cases. Someone was laughing softly by the front corner near the sculpture series.Others stood near the windows, wine glasses held delicately, murmuring words like “devastating,” “formidable,” “alive.” It wasn’t performative in a sense that you made up in your head. At least not all of it. You recognized a few of them—students, former professors, one woman who had once hosted Minho’s university exhibit and had cried at his brushwork.

You darted your gaze to Jungkook then. The way he walked just ahead of you now, poised and solid in his dark dress shirt and pressed slacks, shoulders straight, head slightly tilted to catch bits of conversation from passing guests. He looked composed. You assumed or you'd like to think so that he only bared his nerves in front of you. As if the man who used to flinch at compliments and pretend his silence was indifference had taught himself to carry meaning with quiet precision.

But then a man stepped into his path. Tall, suited, carrying a drink and the kind of posture that belonged to someone who used the word “impressionist” a little too often. His smile was sharp and familiar, one of Jungkook’s gallery donors or colleagues, you assumed. Maybe from Seoul. Maybe further. Either way, it took only a moment for you to read the shift in Jungkook’s expression—the subtle recalibration of his shoulders.

He turned to you before the man could fully pull him into conversation, fingers brushing your wrist in a barely-there promise. “I won’t be long.”

You nodded, already letting go. “Of course,” you whispered, because it was all you could offer right now, and maybe all he needed.

The man clapped Jungkook on the shoulder and pulled him aside, voice too loud and smile too bright. You watched them for half a moment—Jungkook answering politely, gaze flickering every so often in your direction like a thread trying not to fray before you eased yourself into the soft tide of the room, letting the current pull you away.

You moved carefully, politely. Like someone trying not to be noticed but still present enough not to be rude. You paused by a small table draped in navy linen, where empty glasses sat beside a quiet arrangement of baby’s breath and ranunculus. Someone offered you a flute of sparkling wine, and you accepted with a quiet smile.

You turned toward one of the walls, drawn in by a piece you hadn’t seen before; one of the mid-sized ones, full of green and amber and soft streaks of silver. The color didn’t move, it shimmered. Softly. Like someone had taken the feeling of being loved quietly and turned it into oil and canvas.

The placard below it simply read:

“Until Then.”

Minho’s signature curled in the corner, the same familiar scrawl you’d once watched him sign onto birthday cards and tax forms and the back of the fridge note that read don’t drink the milk, I’m trying to paint with it.

You had just rounded the sculpture wing—Minho’s smallest works, done in smoothed resin and wire, quiet things that bloomed under light like secrets left in the sun—when you spotted her.

Your mother, standing near the northern alcove, a glass of wine untouched in her hand, fingers curled gently around the stem like she was trying not to leave prints. She looked beautiful beneath the high arch of the window, her coat tucked neatly at her elbow, hair pinned like it always had been like she hadn’t aged a day past the first time she walked into your kindergarten recital.

You slipped beside her, your hand brushing her arm in greeting.

“Hey,” you said quietly.

She turned, her face lighting up with that familiar mix of joy and worry, the kind only a mother could balance so well. “Here you are. I was wondering if you’d gotten swallowed by the hallway.”

“Almost,” you said, managing a faint smile. “But I escaped.”

"where's dad?" you added. 'making friends I think."

Before you could respond, a familiar voice laced into the air from behind.

"Found you."

Mrs. Jeon stood a few feet away, her posture regal even beneath the soft, flattering lights. She wore navy silk—understated but elegant—and her hair was pinned in place with simple pearl combs. Always the portrait of grace, always the kind of woman who held her sorrow like a folded note in the corner of her purse: private, creased, but always within reach. of her, atleast.

Her smile, though, was real. It warmed as she drew nearer.

"Mom." You muttered in muscle memory.“I was hoping to catch you before the crowd did,” she said, pulling you in for a quick, maternal sort of hug. “You look lovely.”

“So do you,” you said honestly, letting yourself be held for the brief second she allowed.

"You look exactly the same, you witch. Do you age backwards?”

Mrs. Jeon turned at the sound of the voice she hadn’t heard in a while—one that still carried the same quiet humor, tinged with a touch of fond exasperation. Her eyes widened slightly before softening, and her expression brightened into something looser, something more like the woman she might’ve been before grief gave her bones new weight.

“Oh, look who’s talking,” she replied with a smile, already moving forward. “Still glowing like you’ve got a secret no one else knows.”

Your mother laughed as they embraced, arms curling gently around each other’s shoulders in a way that spoke of familiarity—of years stitched loosely together with holiday dinners and shared glances from opposite ends of the table.

“It’s been so long,” your mother murmured as they pulled apart. “I’m sorry it took something like this.”

Mrs. Jeon shook her head, brushing it off with a small wave of her hand. “Don’t be. You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

"It's been a long time still. When was even the last time we saw each other properly?"

Mrs. Jeon tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “Hmm—wait, there was that awful fundraiser for the community garden. The one where everyone got food poisoning from the shrimp cocktail.”

Your mother gasped. “That’s right! I completely forgot about that.” Her eyes glittered with the memory. The laugh that followed was lighter than you expected it to be. “We left early and went to get hotteok from that little cart in the alley.”

“We did,” Mrs. Jeon smiled, and something softened in her gaze, her fingers brushing absently over the pearl comb in her hair. “You know, I don’t think I’ve had hotteok since.”

For a moment, it was easy to forget the reason for this gathering. Easy to forget the weight of what this day had always meant.

These were two women who had held time in their hands and offered it gently to each other across decades. You saw it now, plain as anything—in the crinkle of their eyes, in their voices when they leaned closer, speaking not just as in-laws, but as women who had once, maybe still, shared the same kind of heartbreak no parent should have to.

“Has he come?” your mother asked softly, her tone shifting as she scanned the room briefly, no longer talking about students or fashion or time but of something more specific.

Mrs. Jeon’s expression softened, her posture stilling in that way you’d learned to recognize—when something trembled just beneath the grace. She shook her head once. "No." she said, smoothing her hand down the front of her skirt. “He wanted to come. Really, he did. But I guess he had to sit this one out." She passed you a apologetic look and you nodded in reassurance.

Your mother didn’t press either. She simply nodded, and her hand found Mrs. Jeon’s again—a squeeze, not meant to comfort so much as to acknowledge. To say, I know.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she added, turning to you, her hand squeezing your elbow briefly. “I know today couldn’t have been easy.”

"Makes the two of us, mom." You said with crinkle of your eye that earned a acknowledging smile from her.

Reaching out to adjust the collar of your coat like it was second nature, she added. “He’d be proud of you, you know. Both of you.”

You didn’t trust yourself to respond to that with anything other than a quiet, "I hope so."

She let out a breath, slow and steady. “Oh, my dear. He would.”

And then, like all good women who’ve loved and lost and laughed too hard in small corners of too-large rooms, they both smiled again.

Then Mrs. Jeon tucked her arm into your mother’s. “Come on,” she said with a small lift of her chin. “You’ve got to tell me where you found that skirt. And I need wine before I start tearing up in front of a painting again.”

"Oh I've been out of loop for years. I've got to." Your mother said and offered a hand to you. "Would you like to join us, love?"

“You should.I have stories,” Mrs. Jeon promised, and you smiled. "You two should go. I'm gonna look around a bit and try to find Mira. She's here, right?"

“Oh, I saw her by the impressionist wall earlier,” Mrs. Jeon said, glancing over her shoulder. “She looked like she was interrogating someone about varnish techniques.”

“That sounds about right,” you replied with a smile. “I’ll catch up with you both in a bit.”

They nodded, already slipping back into their quiet conversation, and you watched the two of them disappear into the soft murmur of the gallery, heads tilted together like old friends caught mid-thread. You turned then, letting yourself exhale fully for what felt like the first time since you stepped through the door.

A cello murmured somewhere over the speakers, curling between the talking here and there, and the lights glowed honey-gold against the soft canvas walls. Every corner of the room breathed with pigment. you could'nt stop noticing that.

You wandered.

Your boots tread lightly over the polished floor, hands tucked loosely in front of you, eyes scanning the crowd—pausing now and then at paintings you remembered in their messier stages: taped along the kitchen wall, hanging crooked behind your sofa, still smelling of linseed and dust. It was surreal, this setting—so curated, so clean—when you remembered the life that birthed the art was anything but.

You caught a flash of Mira’s hair through the crowd, that soft copper tone that always helped you find her in a room. You lifted a hand slightly, already beginning to weave your way toward her. But before you could call out or lift a hand in greeting, someone stepped into your periphery.

“Excuse me—are you…?”

The voice was tentative, warm with a kind of hesitant reverence. You turned, expecting perhaps one of the donors or a distant family friend, only to find a young man—tall, soft-eyed, and maybe just a little older than Minho had been when he first started teaching.

He looked vaguely familiar, though you couldn’t place him immediately. He stood with a kind of earnestness that was hard to fake, his hands clasped in front of him, suit slightly rumpled like he’d run here from the train.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, offering an apologetic smile. “You probably don’t remember me. I was one of...uh..your husband's students.”

Something gentle shifted in your chest.

“I… didn’t want to intrude,” he added. “But when I saw you, I thought—well, I hoped I could say hello.”

Your throat tightened. You tilted your head and smiled softly, gesturing toward a nearby bench nestled between two hanging pieces—one of them a landscape Minho had once painted after a rainy drive through the mountains. “You’re not intruding,” you said. “Do you wanna sit?"

He seemed almost surprised at the offer, but nodded. You watched him ease into the seat beside you, clearly trying not to take up too much space.

“What’s your name?” you asked gently.

“Jihoon,” he said. “Lee Jihoon. I took one of his electives in my final year. Painting, beginner’s level. I was…awful at it.”

You laughed quietly, a real sound. “He’d argue there’s no such thing.”

“That’s exactly what he used to say.” Jihoon grinned. “Said ‘awful’ just meant you had somewhere to go. I always remembered that.”

There was a pause, full but comfortable.

“I didn’t really know him that well,” Jihoon admitted, his voice softening. “But he remembered my name. Every single week. Asked about my projects. My mood. Even told me once that the colors I picked made him think I saw the world kindly.”

You blinked.

“Not a lot of people say things like that,” Jihoon murmured. “Especially to someone like me. I was a chemistry major—out of place, anxious, tired. Had no idea what I was doing with my life. Until I came across his class, of course."

“That’s so beautiful, Jihoon." you said, the words catching slightly on the edge of your breath. “He always did have a gift for reminding people of their light.”

Jihoon nodded. “I don’t paint anymore. But I kept the last thing I made in that class. Just a mess of color on canvas, really. But sometimes I look at it and think—he saw something in it I didn’t.”

You smiled, blinking against the warmth flooding your eyes. “He had a habit of doing that.”

Another beat passed. The murmur of the gallery swelled around you like background music scored too gently for something so profound.

Jihoon looked over at you, his expression shifting into something fragile, more careful. “I’m really glad I got to meet you,” he said. “I don’t think he ever stopped talking about you in that class. Said if we ever wanted to get him any snacks, bring lemon bars." His face lit up with a quiet smile. “He said you liked lemon better than chocolate.”

You nodded, stunned by how clear the memory was now that it had been stirred. “I did.”

“Still do?”

You lifted a shoulder, the corner of your mouth tilting upward. “Some things never change.”

Jihoon smiled at that—wide and boyish. "That's nice to know." It was gentle, the way his presence sat beside you—like he wasn’t just honoring Minho, but also everything that had grown from knowing him.

Then Jihoon exhaled, slow and almost awed, eyes drifting back across the expanse of the gallery, gaze moving reverently from frame to frame, like each canvas demanded a certain kind of silence. “This gallery… it’s really something. And it’s a beautiful thing you’ve done, putting this together.”

Your heart flinched at that—touched, yes, but instinctively you shook your head.

“Oh—no. It wasn’t me.” You paused, glancing toward the crowd again. Your gaze moved past familiar faces, past wine glasses and framed brushstrokes, until it landed on the person you had, without realizing, been looking for since Jihoon sat down.

He stood just a few feet away, near the long window where the light curved in golden arcs across the floor. He was finishing a quiet exchange with someone in a charcoal suit—one of the critics, you guessed, or perhaps a gallery curator. His posture was easy but alert, as if one part of him remained in every corner of the room at once. His sleeves were still rolled, his collar slightly unbuttoned, and you could tell just by the slight shift of his brow that he was already scanning the crowd for you again.

Of course he was.

You raised a hand and waved, catching his eye. His face lit up—not in a bright, extravagant way, but in the way only people who’d been waiting to breathe could look when they finally did.

He made his way over without hesitation.

You turned back to Jihoon as Jungkook approached, gesturing gently. “That’s who did this,” you said. “That’s Minho’s younger brother. Jeon Jungkook. He’s the one who made all this happen.”

Jihoon blinked, clearly surprised. “That’s his brother? I didn’t know he had one.”

“Not many did,” you murmured. “They were close. Complicated. But close.”

Jungkook reached your side just then, eyes flicking briefly from you to Jihoon before settling somewhere in between—calm, but attentive.

“Hey,” he said to you, his voice a quiet tether. "Everything okay?"

You smiled. “Yeah. Jungkook, this is Jihoon."

Jihoon stood up immediately, offering his hand. “Lee Jihoon, sir. I was one of Minho’s students—back in my undergrad days.”

Jungkook took the hand, gave it a firm shake. “Nice to meet you, Jihoon. I'm Jungkook."

“You too. I was just telling ma'am…” Jihoon glanced toward the paintings on the wall, his expression shifting to something a little more awed, a little more raw. “This place is really special. You’ve honored him in a way that… well, I think he would’ve loved it.”

Jungkook’s jaw tensed almost imperceptibly, but his nod was deep. “He gave us so much,” he said. “This was just… the least I could do. Thank you for coming."

You watched as they stood there, just the two of them for a moment—two people connected only through love for the same person. Different kinds of love. Different shapes. But still, deeply rooted in retention, in ache, in admiration.

Jihoon dwelled for a moment after the handshake, shifting slightly from foot to foot like there was something else he was holding on to, something not yet said. His eyes moved once more over the room—past the guests murmuring quietly before landscapes of borrowed light and rain-drenched rooftops, past the gleam of gallery sconces and the soft ripple of music weaving beneath it all. Then he turned back to you, gaze steadied by something freshly lit.

“Would it be alright,” he asked, voice tentative, “if we—if someone made a toast?”

You blinked at him, surprised.

Jihoon cleared his throat, not quite sheepish, but aware of the weight of what he was suggesting. “I know it’s not that kind of event,” he continued, “and maybe this is out of turn, but… it just feels like we should. I mean—everyone here came because they loved him. Or learned from him. Or knew someone who did. I feel like he deserves that much.”

You were quiet a moment, absorbing that. Your fingers brushed against the hem of your sleeve. Behind you, Jungkook stayed still, close but not pushing. Letting you hold this decision.

Then you smiled—softly, achingly—and looked to Jihoon. “I think he would’ve liked that.”

Jihoon let out a small breath, and for the first time since he introduced himself, his shoulders eased.

Jungkook stepped in then, his voice low as he looked between you both. “Let me get someone to quiet the room.” His hand grazed your lower back briefly before disappearing again as he made his way toward the center of the gallery, where the natural dip in sound could be coaxed into pause.

You and Jihoon watched him go.

Jihoon straightened, cheeks slightly flushed, suddenly shy. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to overstep. It was just a thought.”

“You didn’t,” you said quickly, reaching to squeeze his wrist with a gentle, grateful hand. “It was a good one.”

The lights dimmed ever so slightly in a way that pulled attention without demanding it. Conversations tapered. A curator tapped gently against the side of her glass. Heads turned.

Jihoon glanced at you again, seeking silent permission.

You gave a small nod.

And then he stepped forward, clearing his throat once. “Hi,” he said, voice steadier than you’d expected. “Sorry to interrupt.”

The small squleche that followed was expectant—not cold. Rather, waiting.

“My name’s Jihoon,” he continued, “and I was one of Professor Jeon’s students. I didn’t know him as well as some of you might have. But I think—I think that’s what made him so special. You didn’t have to know him long to feel like you did.”

A few murmurs of agreement. A rustle of someone dabbing their eye with a tissue.

“He taught one class,” Jihoon said, “and I carried the things he said with me for years after. He made you believe you were capable of softness. Of seeing the world differently. Of being part of something even when you didn’t feel like you belonged anywhere.”

You pressed your fingers lightly to your lips, blinking against the sudden sting at the corners of your eyes.

Jihoon looked down, then back up again. “So if no one minds, I’d like to raise a glass. To Professor Jeon Minho. For all the ways he made us see color in places we didn’t know to look.”

There was a quiet chorus of glasses being lifted.

“To Minho,” Jihoon said.

“To Minho,” came the soft, scattered reply.

There was a sereness after Jihoon’s final words. Not silence, exactly—but the kind of quiet that settles after something sacred has been said aloud. For one suspended moment, all you could hear was the soft creak of someone adjusting their stance, the distant clink of a glass set gently onto a tray. A man nodded solemnly, his gaze fixed on the frame nearest him—one of the softer pieces, all dusk and ripple.

And Jihoon just stood there, blinking slowly, like he was still surfacing from whatever place inside him those words had come from. And when he turned toward you, there was something unreadable in his expression. Not pressure. Not expectation.

Just… offering.

He held it out—gentle, like it might break if he wasn’t careful.

“Would you…?” he asked, voice low. “I mean—you don’t have to. But if anyone should…”

Your breath left you all at once.

A soft, dizzying rush.

As if the floor tilted beneath your shoes, and suddenly you were thirteen again, being called up to the front of a school assembly. Your palms itched. The back of your knees tensed. Your first instinct—your strongest—was to shake your head. To step away. To dissolve into the crowd and pretend you were just another guest, just another echo of Minho’s story, not the one who shared the ending.

You hadn’t spoken about him like this. Not out loud. Not in public. Not since—

Not since the funeral.

And even then, the words had been written on a crumpled sheet of notebook paper you never managed to unfold.

You swallowed, blinking past the sudden blur in your vision.

The gallery was full. Packed. Shoulders bumped. Wine was held, not sipped. People who knew you only in tangents were watching now—waiting, not rudely, but with a kind of esteem that made the room feel tighter than it was. Their gazes weren't demanding. But they were present. And that was somehow worse.

Your feet didn’t move.

Your spine stiffened instinctively, not out of pride, but fear. Fear that your mouth would open and nothing would come out. That your voice would catch on the years you spent trying to say his name without crumbling. That they would all look at you and see not a woman still grieving—but a woman trying too hard to prove she still was.

Jihoon seemed to realize it too late.

His hand faltered slightly, his brows lifting in the smallest, guilty apology.

You inhaled through your nose, sharp and steady, the sound of your own breath loud in your ears. Your heart was racing. Thundering. The edges of the room blurred just slightly, like the light had leaned in too far.

This wasn’t how you imagined tonight.

You didn’t imagine standing beneath spotlights with every gaze tipped toward you like glass waiting to crack. You didn’t imagine saying Minho's name aloud in a room full of strangers who only knew the brushstrokes, not the man.

He was yours once. That memory still felt private. Sacred. Could you really put it on display like this? Wasn’t the art enough?

Your eyes darted to the floor. To your palms. To anything but the sudden attention.

And you thought—how does one speak about a person who once turned their love into art and left you with the aftermath of their absence? How does a person speak of someone who still walks the halls of their memory like the floorboards remember his weight?

But eventually, the words would come. And they would be something like: Tentative. Threadbare. But real.

“Hi,” you'd say the word small, too soft for the space at first. You cleared your throat gently. “Um. Sorry. I—I wasn’t planning to speak tonight.”

That would get a quiet laugh from someone.

“Minho wasn’t someone you really planned things with, either,” you'd add, your lips pulling into the barest shape of a smile. “He was… spontaneous. Kind of a whirlwind, honestly. He’d forget his keys three days in a row, but remember a stranger’s birthday after overhearing it in a coffee shop.”

The room would shift slightly—leaning in.

You took a breath. Let it settle.

“My husband wasn’t just a man who painted,” you said. “He was someone who watched the world the way some people listen to music. Closely. Devotionally. He noticed things most people didn't. Messy things. Especially those, I think."

You'd managed a laugh, more breath than sound. And you'd admit, for the first time out loud that grief is messy. It’s changed shape every day. Some days it’s a stone. Some days it’s a fog. Some days it’s a balloon with a string you can’t catch.

You'd pause and you'd tell yourself it's obviously not for dramatic effect. "But tonight is different. Because of all of you. Because you came."

You looked out then, gaze landing softly on Jihoon, on your mother, on Mira’s coppery hair now stilled in the far corner. You saw faces that had once lived only on the edges of memory, now lit by gallery lamps and the weight of shared knowing.

Your eyes, though painted a picture perfect of one man alone in the crown. Found comfort when they found him only.

Standing just behind the crowd now. His hands folded calmly. His head tilted, watching you like you were the only voice in the world. And maybe, for him, you were.

"And this was possible only because of one person."

Your voice would shake—just a little. But not from fear now.

“This was made possible by someone who loved him too. Someone who saw what he meant, not just to me, but to the world. Someone who held my hand when I thought I’d never feel anything but the absence. Someone who…” A unconscious smike would tug at your lips—tired, grateful, breaking gently at the edges. “Who also happens to be my boyfriend.”

And that's the thing about adrenaline.

"Thank you, Jungkook."

Or maybe it was longing, maybe it was just exhaustion wearing a braver face. Maybe it was the ache of having stood on a ledge for so long that when your foot finally moved forward, you mistook the fall for flight.

You didn’t mean to say it.

It had curled out of your mouth before you even registered the gravity of it, like a word said often in thought but never aloud. A word with teeth and color and something terrifyingly irreversible to it. A word that had lived only in backseat glances and unspoken tendernesses, in private touches and the quietness of shared nights.

And for a moment, everything inside of you would go still.

You'd wait—rigid, breath tucked in your chest—for the ripple of it. For someone to count the months, do the math, raise an invisible hand and say what you’ve been saying to yourself every night. The inevitable shift. The stiffened gazes. The whisper sliding across someone’s tongue like a question dressed up in disapproval before they decided how to create into the dirtiest scandle.

No collective sound of gasps would come but the silence would skin you down anyways. It would echo in your blood like something impossible to take back, something that forced you to run from everyone.

You locked the stall door behind you with trembling fingers.

The click of the latch echoed too loudly in the tiled silence, as if the world wanted you to know—yes, you were alone now. Yes, you had done that. Yes, you had said it. Out loud. In a room full of Minho's memories and the people who used to call you his.

You braced your hands against the walls of the stall, palms flat against the cold tile, eyes squeezed shut.

Your breath came shallow.

God.

You were so stupid.

It played again in your head—your voice, too soft and yet entirely too clear, threading through the quell of the gallery like silk cut on glass.

Boyfriend.

You had said boyfriend.

You had said Jungkook’s name and attached boyfriend.

And though none of the terrible things you thought in your head made it out loud, silence, when it’s thick enough, is just another kind of thunder. And now it was echoing between your ribs like a bell toll.

You sank down onto the toilet lid, coat bunched beneath you, elbows on knees, forehead in your hands. Your fingers against your temples like you could keep the shame from spilling further down your face.

What had you done?

You could still feel the phantom warmth of the spotlight on your face. The taste of exhilaration clung to the back of your tongue, sharp and coppery, like you’d bitten into a secret and couldn’t spit it out fast enough.

Why hadn’t you stopped yourself?

Knowing everyone who had been there. Your parents were probably standing near the back, holding a flute of wine with both hands like they always did when trying not to look worried. fingers curled too tight, probably, lips pursesd in a expression you would recognize too well.

And Mrs. Jeon. God.

What must she be thinking?

You had loved her son. Loved him through every phase of boyhood and manhood and married years. You’d sat across from her at too many dinners to count, brought her lemon cakes on Sundays, once helped her fix her shoe in the middle of the grocery store.

And now she’d watched you turn toward the brother. Heard you name him something tender. Watched you stitch that word between your anguish and your present like you hadn’t torn anything in the process.

You had handled it fine up until then. You’d spoken about Minho. You had kept your voice steady, even when your hands had trembled. You had said the hard things—the soft things. The beautiful things. But that one word had been too much. Too fast. Too soon.

Why did you always go too far when it came to him?

And worse—why hadn’t he stopped you?

Why hadn’t he looked away when you’d looked at him?

Why had he stood there, taking it, breathing it, accepting the title like he’d been waiting for it all along?

You had thrown him into the light. You’d stepped outside the one rule you’d both kept tucked beneath your skin since this thing started.

You were so stupid.

You'd undone months of silence in one breath.

And you hated yourself for the part of you that didn't want to take it back.

Because that was the cruelest truth tucked beneath your chagrin. The real reason your stomach twisted and your heart beat so wildly it felt bruised from the inside out that maybe you hadn’t meant to say it. But you had meant it.

And now you couldn’t hide from either.

Did they think you moved on too quickly?

That you had let love grow again in the ruins?

You had wanted so badly for tonight to be about Minho.

About the way he painted loneliness like it was light filtering through stained glass. About the way he had lived—not just the way he had left.

And instead, you had made it about yourself.

About you and Jungkook and the impossible thing that bloomed between the wreckage.

You could already imagine it. The murmurs. Soft as oil and sharp as glass.

“Did you know?”

“So soon?”

“Well, he was her brother-in-law…”

Your hands curled into fists against your knees. You hated that you could hear them before they spoke. Hated even more that a part of you feared they were right. That some version of yourself had always been selfish enough to want to be held again, even if it came in a contours you weren’t supposed to take comfort in.

Even if it wore your husband’s last name.

You pressed your forehead to your palms and breathed in through your nose, sharp and careful.

You didn’t know how longer it would take for your breath to even out or more importantly, how long will it before you find the courage to step inside, face everyone.

Time slowed in the tile-slick silence. You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears, thudding out some rhythm of regret. Beneath the thin fabric of your blouse, sweat cooled over your spine, a second skin of discomfort. Your coat, wrinkled beneath you, smelled faintly of rosewater and nerves.

You stared at the hinge of the stall door like it might open on its own. Like someone would find you here and drag you gently into sense, or kindness, or forgetting.

But no one did.

Not for a while.

Not till there was a knock.

You froze instantly.

Just one. Light. Then another, softer this time, like maybe they realized what this was. A retreat. A rupture even.

You opened your mouth, voice caught in the wires of your throat, about to say—occupied—or sorry—or please go—but the voice that came next was not one you expected.

“Sweetheart?”

You blinked.

Your spine went taut, then loose, as if the air itself sighed through your bones. You pressed your palms flat against the stall wall again, steadying yourself against the name.

Not Jungkook’s. Not your mother’s.

Mrs Jeon. Oh Jesus.

You closed your eyes.

Her voice didn’t come again, but you heard the gentle scuff of her heel shift just once, as if she didn’t need to knock again. As if she already knew you were on the other side, already knew what you were doing in there. As if she had once stood exactly where you were, though not in a gallery bathroom, not in navy silk, but somewhere private and full of guilt of her own.

She didn’t rush you.

Didn’t tap her fingers against the wood or call your name again like some well-meaning warning.

Just asked for confirmation. "Are you in there?"

You lowered your hands slowly, tears unshed but dangerously close, and stared at the small strip of her shadow beneath the stall.

You wanted to bolt.

You wanted to speak.

You wanted to rewind time.

Instead you dared again and answered. "Yes."

Your voice ragged and small cracked through the silence like a thread fraying loose again.

“…Did you hear it?”

There was a long pause.

“Yes.”

Your stomach flipped.

Another breath drew.

“Do you think less of me now?”

It took her a moment. But when she answered, it was without hesitation.

“No.”

She didn’t say it’s okay. She didn’t say I understand. She didn’t reach for platitudes or soft versions of a dejection you both carried like broken mirrors. She simply answered what you’d asked. Somehow that was what made your throat cave in.

“I was twenty-four,” she said, almost conversationally. “When I said something like that."

You blinked.

“It was a dinner party. The first one I attended. I said it too easily. Laughed like it meant nothing. But it did.”

Another pause. Then:

“I threw up in the bathroom afterward. Swore I’d never go to another dinner again.”

You felt your lips twitch—wet with something like a laugh, but broken at the edges.

“Did you go to another one?”

She hummed softly. “Eventually. You do things again. Not because you stop feeling, but because feeling changes. Becomes something you live with, not something you live inside.”

The silence that followed didn’t hurt the same way anymore.

When she spoke again, her voice was nearer to the door, like she had leaned just slightly in.

“Come out when you’re ready, sweetheart. I’m right here.”

Then her heels clicked softly against the tile, retreating with the same grace she always wore.

And for the first time since stepping into the bathroom, your breath moved all the way through your chest.

You weren’t sure how long you sat there after her footsteps faded.

A minute? Five? The kind of silence that doesn't tick, but swells. It filled the corners of the room, the hollow just beneath your ribs. You listened to it. To your breathing. To the subtle shift of water in the pipes behind the wall. You focused on the small things, the mundane ones—just long enough to believe the larger ones might not crush you once you stood.

Eventually, your knees cracked softly as you rose.

Your coat shifted around your hips. Your hands reached for the lock. A breath before the click. Another after. You opened the door slowly, stepped into the stillness of the restroom like someone learning how to inhabit her own skin again.

The light outside the stall was unforgiving, but Mrs. Jeon was not.

She stood a few steps away, hands folded gently in front of her, her shoulders soft with patience. And when her eyes met yours, she didn’t search your face for shame or answers.

She only opened her arms.

And you stepped in like a child too old to be held, but still needing to be.

The smell of her perfume—something floral and faintly spiced—wrapped around you like memory. Her arms didn’t grip. They gathered. And somehow, the simple weight of that embrace unspooled something inside your chest that panic hadn’t quite broken yet.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean any of it. I swear, I was trying so hard to be careful. I know how it must look. I know—”

She pulled back just enough to see your face, her hands still resting on your arms.

“Honey,” she said, voice quiet, eyes impossibly kind, “you’re talking like you’ve committed a crime.”

You flinched. “But I—God, I've been keeping this from you and everyone for so long. That doesn't feel fair."

“People who already knew,” she said gently.

You blinked. “What?”

She gave you a look—dry, fond, just the tiniest bit wry. “Darling, please. You think none of us noticed the way my son looks at you like he’s one second away from his heart bursting?” She squeezed your arms. “You said it. That’s all. You didn’t invent it tonight.”

You bit your lip. Shook your head like it might keep the tears from cresting again. “I thought I heard someone say something. A woman—by the back wall. She said something like… like it didn’t take me long.”

“Oh, that,” Mrs. Jeon said lightly, brushing your hair back as if to say not worth it. “You mean the one in the red shawl with the loud opinions and the knockoff purse?”

You blinked, stunned by the precision.

“She said something awful,” you whispered.

“I’m sure she did,” she said. “Right before Jungkook told her if she so much as muttered another syllable in his girlfriend's direction he’d personally make sure her husband’s antique store on Fifth lost its foot traffic forever.”

Your mouth parted. “He—what?”

Mrs. Jeon gave an elegant shrug, smoothing the sleeve of her jacket. “He was polite about it. But it was... unmistakable.”

You blinked again, and the breath that escaped you was half-laugh, half-sob. “Of course he did.”

“He’s terribly protective,” she said, glancing at you with a smile that was a little too knowing. “Gets that from his mother.”

It took you a moment to laugh—really laugh—but when you did, it broke through like sunlight behind thunderclouds.

“I just… I don’t want people to think I forgot Minho.”

She tilted her head, her hand coming up to smooth your hair behind your ear. “Sweetheart. No one who’s ever known you could think that. Least of all me.”

You looked down, voice low. “I didn’t want tonight to be about me.”

“It wasn’t.”

You met her eyes.

"What about my parents?" you asked quietly, your voice catching on the question like it had been waiting there all along. “Did they look mad? Disappointed?”

Mrs. Jeon gave a soft sigh, the kind that came from years of reading rooms, faces, silences. Her hand smoothed down your arm like she was pressing a wrinkle from cloth, calming you in increments.

“They’re planning to talk to Jungkook,” she said simply, brushing invisible lint from your shoulder. "Having a word with him, to be exact."

Your breath caught. “Oh god.”

Mrs. Jeon gave a small, amused shake of her head. “Don’t worry. I'm sure they're just making sure he treats their daughter right." She paused. “They’re not angry. I promise you that. A little surprised, perhaps. But not angry. No one's angry with you."

She staryed again.“I told her I’d beat her to it,” she said simply. “Can’t have him thinking he’s off the hook just because he's all grown up in a suit."

Your mouth opened, then closed. “You’re serious.”

“As a heart attack.”

You nodded slowly, absorbing it, but your hands still clutched the edge of the sink like they needed something real to tether you.

A silence passed between you, then two. You tried to swallow the knot forming at the base of your throat, but it was impossible to hide the flush rising in your cheeks. Your voice came small, hesitant. “You’re… really okay with this?”

Mrs. Jeon looked at you in that particular way only someone who’d known you through every winter and every spring could. She reached forward and took your hand. Held it firmly.

“You tell me something,” she said, and her voice was quieter now, careful in the way it stepped into the softest parts of you. “Are you happy?”

Your eyes met hers.

The word hovered in your chest, terrified and blooming all at once.

You bit your lip, shoulders curling in, and nodded—small at first, then a little more certain. “Yes,” you whispered.

Mrs. Jeon let out a slow breath, like she’d been waiting to hear it for longer than she let on.

“Then that’s all that matters.”

You looked at her, eyes glassy.

“It was about time,” she said, smoothing a strand of hair away from your face again. “About time you finally put that poor boy out of his misery.”

You groaned in exasperation. "Mom!"

She laughed, not cruelly, but full of something knowing and warm. "What? Not my fault he was so obvious before he even knew how to spell your name properly.”

You smiled again. Free and a little stunned by how light your chest suddenly felt.

“Come on,” she said, smoothing her skirt with one hand and tugging your arm with the other. “Let’s go rescue him from whatever emotional purgatory he’s pacing through in that hallway.”

You let her pull you forward but you don’t get to rescue your boyfriend. You're rather met with a very heartbroken Mira who demands answers and pulls you away before you can even get the chance too.

She stepped back, pulled out her phone, and dialed with the urgency of a 911 operator.

“Hobi?” she said when the line picked up. “Yeah, hi, I know you’re probably making out with your date or something, but this is an emergency.”

You blinked. “What are you doing?”

She gave you a look. “You said you needed a drink, right?”

“…I did, but—”

“Well then.” She turned slightly away. “You’re not going back anywhere tonight until you explain everything to me in the proper setting, which is clearly a bar with sticky menu. Hobi? Yeah. Bring your wallet."

You watched her hang up and start marching toward the coat check like a woman with a mission. And you followed because this was the girl who’d held your hair back and fed you soup in silence the first week after Minho died. The one who knew when to fight, when to joke, and exactly when to say nothing at all.

The bar Mira chose was exactly what you needed and absolutely what she promised: questionable neon signage, vinyl booths held together with decades of duct tape and bad decisions, and a jukebox that alternated between early 2000s heartbreak anthems and ABBA on repeat. The air smelled like lemon-scented cleaner that didn’t quite mask the ghost of spilled beer, and the lighting was so dim you could’ve sworn everyone wore built-in Instagram filters.

You slid into the corner booth, coat still damp from the walk over, cheeks raw from wind and embarrassment, and Mira slid in across from you like she was preparing for a high-stakes interrogation.

Hoseok arrived moments later, hair wind-swept and cheeks pink from the cold, looking far too good to be in a place with this much wallpaper peeling off the walls. He dropped into the booth beside Mira with the chaotic energy of someone who had just abandoned a very flirty date and wasn't over it.

“Boyfriend?" he said in lieu of hello. "Why am I not suprised that Mr firm hands is the boyfriend?"

You gave him a look. “Are you… judging me?”

“Oh no,” he said, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Not judging. Just trying to understand how I didn’t know this was happening.”

“You were busy dating someone named Seulgi who calls you ‘sunbeam’ and posts about her salads on Instagram,” Mira shot back, flagging down a waiter with a sharp flick of her fingers. “Now respectfully shut up and let her talk.”

You stared down at the menu, even though it was mostly beer stains and crossed-out prices. Mira reached over and gently pulled it from your hands. “You don’t need this. You need fries, something fried, and probably a little tequila.”

“Tequila?” you murmured.

“Don’t argue with the doctor,” Hoseok added, even though Mira was most definitely not a doctor.

The drinks arrived fast—too fast, which meant they were going to taste like regret—and a bowl of over-salted fries landed in the middle of the table with a satisfying clatter.

You sipped your drink slowly, felt the warmth of it bloom at the back of your throat, and only then let yourself exhale.

“It wasn’t—God, it wasn’t like that,” you said, palms out now, defensive and pleading all at once. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you. It just happened. And then it kept happening. And then suddenly it felt like telling anyone would break it. Ruin everything.”

Mira stared at you, all righteous betrayal and mascara-smudged emotion. Her voice cracked just a little when she said, “But me?”

You let out a shaky exhale, your voice breaking into something small, something that couldn’t be smooth no matter how you tried. “I didn’t not trust you. Please don’t think that. I was scared.”

“Scared of me?”

“No,” you said softly, “of saying it out loud. Sorry, it sounds pitiful."

Mira studied you for a long breath. Then, like she’d squeezed all the anger out of her in one long sigh, she deflated a little. She still looked hurt, but her eyes softened.

“I should’ve told you,” you said quietly. “I just didn’t know how.”

She stared at you for a long moment, then slid her glass aside and reached across the table. “I’m still mad,” she said, “but I love you. And I’m glad you didn’t end up in a fling with those dates they used to send you on. Yikes! At least you picked Jungkook. Who clearly worships the ground you walk on.”

“Oh, I bet.” Hoseok added, “don't know him much but oh, I bet."

You winced or flushed but you wouldn't like to use that word. “That’s not—”

“He does,” Mira said, crossing her arms. “He did. Everyone saw it. Except you, apparently. Until now.”

“look,” you said defensively. “I just… I didn’t think it’d become anything.”

Mira made a sound that was equal parts sympathy and exasperation. “Yoongi told me years ago,” she said, picking up a mozzarella stick and pointing it at you like a weapon. “Said something like, ‘Your friend’s maybe as oblivious as she pretends. But my cousin’s a lost cause.’”

"Your husband speaks?" Hoseok snorted into his glass.

That earned him a punch to the side. He groaned so dramtically the five people in the space turned around. You wrapped your fingers around the base of your glass and stared into the fizzing surface. God, you loved them.

“I just didn’t want it to look like I was replacing him,” you murmured, not looking up. “Minho.”

Mira’s teasing stilled. Hoseok’s posture softened.

“You’re not,” Mira said, and her voice was quieter now. “And anyone who thinks you are can choke on their free gallery wine.”

“I’m serious,” you said, twisting the glass between your hands.

Mira tilted her head, one of her hands coming to rest gently over yours. "So am I. I almost dropped my canape when you said it. I even grabbed the old lady next to me.”

"That sounds very serious." Hoseok expressed.

You laughed, reluctantly. “I’m glad,” Mira said, serious again. “Even if I hate that you didn’t tell me, and I will absolutely be holding it over your head until the day we die. I’m glad. Because you’re here. Laughing. Smiling."

You reached for a napkin and dabbed at your eyes. “Thanks.”

And after that—after the napkin had soaked up the last streak of guilt, after Mira’s hand squeezed yours a little tighter, and Hoseok slid a second shot glass in your direction with all the pomp of a coronation—the night began to dissolve in that peculiar, beautiful way nights do when something heavy has been named and nobody lets go.

You drank.

And even that seemed like a understatement.

Not to forget anything but to remember yourself. The version of you that wasn’t shadowed by what you were afraid people would say. The one who dared to call someone hers in a room full of ghosts and memories and didn’t completely fall apart after.

It was baffling.

It was miraculous.

And, God, it was exhausting.

The drinks made everything blur—delightfully at first, then in a way that made your friends exchange glances. You heard Mira say something like “She’s cut off after this one,” and Hoseok immediately counter with “Let her live,” and then you couldn’t hear them anymore because the bar’s speakers erupted into some throaty love song.

Your cheek pressed against Mira’s shoulder for a while, though you couldn’t recall when it landed there. She’d draped your coat over your knees like a blanket and was scrolling through photos on her phone with Hoseok, both of them whisper-laughing, passing the screen back and forth like teenagers.

You looked at them, and something inside you melted—not from the alcohol, not from the bar’s molten heat though that was quiet unbearable too—but from the simple fact of being held.

A feeling you hadn’t known two nights ago, two years back. The universe hadn’t cracked open and swallowed you whole. The chandelier hadn’t fallen from the ceiling. No one had thrown wine at your face or cornered you near the shrimp cocktail with cruel questions about the morality of love.

Instead, the world pitched ever so slightly to the left every time you blinked. The jukebox had moved on to Fleetwood Mac now—some slow, melancholy guitar that wrapped around your temples like gauze. You couldn’t feel your legs. Or maybe you could. They just didn’t want to move.

The fry basket had long since turned cold, and your drink—whatever remained of it—sat abandoned in front of you, a wedge of lime floating like a lifeboat in stormy water. You blinked down at it and considered saying something. Couldn’t remember what.

“Okay,” Mira said, voice low but distinctly not subtle, “that’s enough for her.”

You lifted your head, eyes heavy-lidded. “Wha—? No. M’fine.”

“Sure you are,” she muttered, already pulling her phone out of her coat pocket. “And I’m the queen of France.”

“I am fine.” You sat up straighter, blinked hard at her, as if that proved something. The booth spun gently. “Mmmfine,” you mumbled. “Jus’ warm. Floor’s doing a little… wavy thing.”

Hoseok’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s not the floor. That’s your tequila tangoing with the bad decisions.”

Mira gave him a look before pulling her phone out of her purse.

“Noooo,” you groaned, pawing at her wrist with absolutely no coordination. “Don’t. I’m fine. I’m just… appreciating...”

“You’re appreciating everything too much,” Mira muttered, unlocking her phone with her thumb. “He deserves to know.”

You blinked blearily. “Who?”

She didn’t answer you. Thumbs tapping furiously. You tried to grab her wrist, missed by a margin you weren’t proud of. Just pressed the phone to her ear and stood from the booth, pressing one finger into her other ear to muffle the noise of the bar.

You slumped back, staring at your half-finished drink like it had betrayed you. Hoseok reached over and silently took it away.

“Miraaaa,” you called, dragging her name like a scarf behind you. “She’s being… dramatic. Over…reacting. I could walk home.”

Hoseok said, “you just mistook a fork for your phone.”

You stared at the table. “...Did I?”

He nodded solemnly. “Twice.”

“Jungkook,” Mira said sweetly into the phone now pressed to her ear, “hi. Yeah, she’s—no, no, she’s alright. We’re at that little dive near the station. You know the one with the broken neon cactus sign? Yeah. She’s, um…” A glance at you, hunched like a tragic poet over the tabletop. “She’s had a night.”

You sat up with all the indignation of a drenched cat. “A night?” you hissed.

Mira patted your shoulder. “Don’t worry. He said he’s on his way.”

You blinked, your voice in unison with Hoseok’s. “Already?”

"Already." Mira echoed.

You groaned and buried your face into her shoulder again. “Noooooo.”

“Yes,” she cooed. “Yes, ma’am."

You let out a slow, melodramatic exhale, sliding lower in the booth, your face half-buried in your coat. “This is humiliating.” You didn’t say anything after that. You couldn't and you didn't think you could even hear when the door to the bar creaked open. Not really.

The world had dulled to a low, sluggish hum, softened by liquor and dim light and the weight of your own mortification. But Hoseok glanced up, muttered something under his breath about “the cavalry,” Mira lifted her head, glanced over your shoulder, and then tilted her chin in that way that always meant: look sharp.

Not that you could.

You barely had time to blink before you caught the scent of him.

Jungkook’s cologne always managed to find you first—cedar and lavender, dusk and heat. Then the weight of his presence settled behind you like gravity, and before you could lift your head or find your voice, his shadow stretched over the booth.

His eyes found Mira first. A curt nod. Grateful. Barely spared Hoseok a glance. Hoseok looked almost grateful for it.

“Thanks for calling,” he murmured.

Mira didn’t flinch beneath his seriousness. “Thanks for coming,” she replied simply, standing up and gathering your coat like a reflex.

You stirred at that, blinking up at the blur of black shirt, rolled sleeves, and the soft fall of dark hair just slightly wind-tousled. He looked unfairly beautiful for someone who'd just found you curled into a booth like a regretful blanket. His jaw was set tight, you really hoped it was not anger.

He didn’t glance around. Didn’t blink against the tacky lighting or the low thrum of music. Just made a beeline toward your side of the booth, and for one breathless moment, you thought maybe he’d try to coax you out gently.

Instead, he looked down at you—your ridiculous half-hunched self curled in a coat that had long since become your second skin—and without preamble or ceremony, he scooped you up. Just like that.

Just a sure, practiced ease, like he’d been doing this for lifetimes. Like the world made more sense when you were in his arms and he didn’t have to guess where you were anymore.

You yelped.

He didn't say anything, just adjusted your weight slightly and wrapped his coat tighter around you.

But you felt the slow exhale he gave through his nose.

Not a sigh. Something closer to relief.

He tilted his head to Mira again when she spoke.

Mira’s expression had softened. “Don’t forget to make her eat something. And maybe—y’know—hydration?”

“I’ve got it.”

You were already half asleep against him.

Half awake.

All warmth and clumsy enegry, with your head tucked beneath his chin, the wind nipping at your cheeks while your fingers curled into the front of his shirt like some last-minute apology stitched into cotton. The air outside the bar was bitter enough to bite the inside of your lungs, and it sobered you in slivers—slow, fogged pieces of clarity threading through the haze like dawn slipping between window blinds.

But neither of you said anything.

He didn’t look down at you.

He didn’t speak.

Only the faint sound of his boots hitting pavement filled the space—cadenced, unbothered, maddening in its calm.

You let your cheek fall heavier against his chest, where his heart should’ve been louder. But it wasn’t. It was steady. Frustratingly so.

Your lips brushed against the fabric of his collar. You felt his heartbeat pick up. It felt charged now, as if both of you had bad thoughts trying to form, pushing through the quiet in crooked shapes and half-decisions.

You wanted to say something.

You wanted not to say something.

Your mouth tastes like tequila and fear and bad timing. God, you were all about bad timings today, weren't you?

You turned your head slightly, breath catching on the scent of him. The movement made your stomach sway, but you managed.

You swallowed. "Koo?" You asked in a voice barely above the wind. The nickname slipping out thick and syrupy from your mouth. The sober you would have winced at yourself the second it did.

Good thing you were not.

Before there was an audible response, you heard the sound of his breath catching. Muttering a incohered curse under his breath. "Yes, angel?"

You fiddled with the fabric of his shirt where your fingers rested. “Y-You mad at me?”

He didn't answer at first. His jaw tensed once, twice, the movement as familiar as the sound of your voice laced with slur and shame.

His eyes stayed forward. Watching the parked cars blur past like it mattered more than the conversation pressing in the air between you. Watching the lines in the concrete like they might give him something to focus on other than the pounding of his pulse.

Because your question so slurred and soft and soaked in all the wrong kinds of courage had landed somewhere sharp in him. Not painful, exactly. But startling. Like someone tapping on glass that had long since been sealed shut.

“Are you asking me that because you got drunk?"

"I'm not too drunk-" You mumbled, trying to line your spine straighter and immediately regretting it when your vision swans. "I mean, yeah, okay, I'm a bit- I mean I drank but that's not what I meant.

"What did you mean?" He asked, not unkindly. Voice low, like he already knew but needed you to say it again anyway. Needed to hear it from your own clumsy, slurred lips.

“I meant—fuck.” You groaned, dropping your forehead against his collar. "for what I did. Back there. At the gallery.”

It had rung through him with the violence of something gentle. And that was the worst kind, wasn’t it? The soft truths. The ones you didn’t brace for.

He had spent so long keeping this thing quiet; out of respect, out of fear, out of the twisted need to protect what didn’t yet have a name. He had convinced himself it was better that way. That if he never said it out loud, he couldn’t lose it. That the world couldn’t break what the world didn’t know existed.

And then you’d just carved him into your life liturgy. The only that he'd felt was unhooked.

God, how were you still scared of that? How could you not see it still?

Your hair smelled like lemon shampoo and something warm. sugar, maybe. Your breath still carried the ghost of tequila and lime and the kind of boldness people only conjure up when they don’t think they’ll remember it later.

He felt you pick nervously at the seam of his collar, like maybe that was safer than looking at his face.

You didn’t know that he’d replayed your voice a hundred times already.

Didn’t know that when you said it. His entire body had stilled. Had gone hot, then cold, then weightless.

You didn’t know that it had taken everything in him not to walk across that gallery and kiss you in front of everyone. The urge was so strong, the relief was so overwhelming that it had nearly leveled him.

And still, here you were fearing the thing he had dreamed of.

He finally spoke.

“Angel,” he said, voice low, careful, “I have been yours for a long time. I thought about it. Dreamed of hearing you call me that for longer than I’ll ever admit. Over dinner maybe. But I don't care where it happened."

You went still in his arms.

He tilted his head, just enough to brush his cheek against your hair.

“I’m not mad,” he said again, softer now. "I'm fucking elated." He rasped low, one hand tightening on your thigh, the other cradling your back like a secret. "And I'm just trying not mess it up."

Before you could make more of the latter, his parked car came in view.

The door clicked open, leather and warmth spilling into the night. He placed you into the passenger seat like you were made of glass—though that was nothing new. He always held you like that. As if the ache in you had a physical symmetry, and he was the only one allowed to carry it.

And maybe it was the night, or the alcohol still warm in your veins, or the sheer disbelief that your world hadn’t crumbled after your confession. But you believed him.

You slumped into the seat, curling into the warmth of his coat that he hung around your shoulders, the hem pooled at your lap like a blanket.

“so…you still wanna be my boyfriend?”

He laughed—really laughed this time, soft and low, one hand bracing on the top of the car door. Then he leaned in, pressed a kiss to your temple, and whispered.

“Forever, if you’ll have me.”

When he finally closed the door and climbed into the driver’s side, the cabin filled with that muted, in-between silence. The kind where things weren't okay yet—but maybe on their way.

The heater came on with a soft whir, chasing off the cold from your knees. You barely noticed it, half curled beneath his coat, one boot unbuckled and heel slipping off as your foot tucked up against the seat like you had no intention of looking composed.

Outside, the streetlights blurred through the window. Pale yellow and blinking, like they couldn’t quite keep their eyes open either. The windshield fogged a little from your breath, everything smudging into something dreamlike and quietly unreal.

You didn’t speak for a moment. Just watched the haze of the window, your cheek nestled into the fleece of his coat collar. But your chest was loud. Restless.

Because for all the softness he wrapped you in, for all the peace you should’ve felt, you couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that if tonight hadn’t gone like it did, you might still be pretending you were just shadows again. That this wasn’t real.

Your fingers clenched gently at the hem of his sleeve where it had fallen across your lap. You sat there like that for a while, quiet and too full of all the wrong questions. Only to repeat.

"Koo?"

Your voice, thick with exhaustion and treacly from the weight of everything you’d drunk and everything you hadn’t said.

He hummed, fingers flexing against the steering wheel, gaze flicking toward you but not quite leaving the road yet.

You turned your head slowly toward him, your forehead creasing a little as the warmth from the heater tangled too hot against your cheek. “I… I don’t wanna go home.”

The words were blurry. Fumbling. Like they’d been handed to you in pieces and you hadn’t had time to stitch them back together.

But they were true. That they were.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Just glanced at you from the corner of his eye. A muscle in his jaw ticked, and you watched the careful tension in his knuckles where they wrapped around the wheel.

You bit your lip. “Not—not forever. Just. Y’know. Just not… tonight."

You sniffled once, rubbing at your nose like a child, embarrassed by the confession but too drunk to walk it back. “Please don’t take me home.”

Jungkook exhaled softly. A sound that felt too much like relief for someone being asked for something so heavy.

“Good thing,” he said at last, turning the car down a different street, his voice curling warm and dry like smoke in your ear, “I’ve got a habit of taking you anywhere but.”

You sighed, relaxing deeper into the seat. “You’re not real,” you murmured. “You're… like. A fever dream. With like really... good cologne.”

Jungkook chuckled lowly, eyes flicking to your profile again, this time longer. “Drunk you’s a menace.”

“I'm sensitive,” you corrected, slurring. “Be nice.”

He reached across the console and found your hand without even looking. Threaded his fingers through yours and held it there like it was always meant to be.

“I am,” he said. “Always.”

“Your nose,” you whispered, studying him like you were discovering the shape of him for the first time. “It’s really pretty. Like. Like you paid someone. But you didn’t, did you? That’s just you.”

He bit back a laugh. “That’s just me, angel.”

You poked the tip of it with the gentleness of a feather. “Insulting.”

“Deeply.”

And then you kissed it.

Quick. Clumsy. The faintest press of lips to the slope of bone. Like you were branding him with your approval.

“Drunk,” he murmured, but he didn’t sound annoyed. If anything, he sounded like he was retaining you.

You nestled your face into his neck again, legs wrapped tight around his torso with his palms supporting your weight hanging off of him. Docking you to him the moment he slipped the car into some underground garage and stepped out without a word, circling to your side. Didn’t even wait for permission. Apparently when you flinched with a tiny sound, then whined when your limbs refused to cooperate was reason enough. You were up in his arms again before the cold could touch your ankles, the world tilting briefly before settling against his chest. You had blinked, dazed, then turned your face upward. “Warm,” you replied.

Jungkook made a noise that was halfway between a laugh and a sigh, the kind of sound someone makes when they’re trying not to fall even deeper in love than they already have.

You hummed a note of agreement, then leaned forward and pecked the tip of his nose again like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Boop.”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, and kept walking, a little faster now.

The lobby was sleek and quiet, lit low with ambient light that glittered off the marble floor. A sleepy doorman nodded as Jungkook passed. You didn’t even ask where you were until the elevator opened directly into a hallway with only one door, black, modern, heavy. You blinked as he shifted you gently in his arms and pressed the keypad. The soft chime of the lock sliding open echoed too loudly in your ears.

“Where…” You blinked again as he nudged the door open with his shoulder. “Where are we?” This wasn’t your apartment. This wasn’t his parent's place. Did'nt exactly look like a hotel or if it was it was a really expensive one. This wasn’t anything you knew.

He set you down slowly—like a ribbon being untied—and turned on the light with a quiet flick of his fingers. Warm, dim lighting spilled into the room, softening everything to velvet edges. The floor beneath your boots was heated tile. The couch in the center of the room was oversized, draped in soft gray throws. There were no bright colors. No screaming art. Just low lines of furniture, oak and ash tones, clean details that whispered instead of shouted. You could see hints of habit: a stack of books with bookmarks poking out crookedly near the couch. A worn mug sitting on the edge of a console table. A leather jacket flung across a chair like it belonged there. Which it probably did.

There was a piano by the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Of course there was a piano.

You stood still, swaying gently in your own boots, the air too warm against your skin now after the chill of the street. You stared across the space with wide eyes, lips parted, trying to absorb the fact that you’d never stepped foot in this place, and yet… there was something terribly intimate about it. About all of it.

It looked like somewhere important people lived. Or people who wanted to be left alone.

You moved forward carefully, shrugging out of his coat and draping it over the arm of the couch like you were afraid to wrinkle anything. The floors were silent beneath your boots, and the air had the clean scent of lemon balm and something else you couldn’t name something earthy. Sage, maybe.

You turned toward the open kitchen across the loft just in time to catch the warm flick of the fridge light opening. Jungkook stood there sockedfeet now, sleeves still rolled, a glass in one hand and the other pushing aside a cabinet door.

And your eyes stuttered. Not at him. (You’d long since gotten used to the way he looked like sin and salvation in dim light.)

But at the contents of the cabinet. You swear you just got a peak of dozens of tea boxes. Not just one brand or two—but everything from supermarket bags to specialty tins, chamomile to lavender to citrus blends. Lined like he’d been collecting them, like someone who maybe didn’t even drink tea but wanted to be prepared in case someone who did ever stayed the night.

He poured the water.

Set the glass down.

And only then turned to you.

You were still staring.

His brow lifted slightly, but he didn’t speak.

You felt suddenly too sober. Or maybe just drunk in a different way now. “What… is this place?”

Jungkook stilled.

It was a half-second pause small, almost imperceptible but you caught it. The way his hands slowed, the way his eyes darted once toward the far window before coming back to you.

He wiped his palm on a dish towel, came around the counter, and set the glass gently in your hands. You took it, grateful for something to focus on. It was cool and smooth and anchored you just enough.

"it’s… it’s really…” You looked around again. “Expensive-looking.”

Jungkook ran a hand through his hair, fingers catching in the strands at the back then the same hand reached out to steady your elbows like he didn’t trust you not to float away. His voice, when it came, was low. Soft in that Jungkook way like gravel dragged through silk.

“I bought it,” he said. “Next day after the night at Kim's."

Your brows pulled together slowly.

“It was impulsive,” he admitted. “Probably stupid. But I couldn’t sleep. I felt like I needed to make space for something that might never happen." He needed to make space for the possibility of you. Because who was Jeon Jungkook if not the most hopless of case when it comes to you.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

“I didn’t know if I’d ever get to bring you here,” he said, eyes not quite meeting yours. “But I bought it anyway.”

You blinked slowly, piecing the words together. Your fingers lifted to press against your lips, as if trying to feel the echo of what you’d confessed there.

“This is yours?” you asked, like it still didn’t quite make sense.

He only said the simplest of truths. "It can be ours."

It felt too big for the room and too small at the same time.

“ours?” you repeated, tasting it.

He gave you a crooked smile, faint and self-conscious. “Well. That was the hope.”

Your heart tripped somewhere in your chest.

You looked around again, slower this time. Noticed the wine glasses above the sink, still drying. A photo frame faced down on the side table like it hadn’t been ready to be displayed yet. A stack of takeout menus in the corner, one with a smudge of sauce on it. A blanket draped over the back of the couch, creased like someone had slept there recently.

“Have you… stayed here?”

He nodded once. “Sometimes. When I needed to breathe." When he wanted to imagine you in here.

He didn't plan to tell you that part.

The truth of how often he came here, and you were in every corner of it.

He watched you now, standing there in the soft yellow glow of pendant lights, barefoot on the tile with your hair a little wild, your eyes flicking from one piece of furniture to the next like they were giving away secrets. And Jungkook—God, Jungkook had never known what it meant to wrench quietly until he imagined you here for the first time. Until he watched you exist in a space he had once only filled with feasibility.

He had picked that couch because it looked like it could hold two people who didn't mind tangling legs. Had stood in the kitchen and wondered if you'd drink your coffee by the window. Had stared at the second drawer by the bathroom sink and thought, that’s where she could keep her earrings.

He didn’t say any of that.

Didn’t confess the way he’d lain on that very couch more than once, staring at the ceiling and trying to imagine what your laugh would sound like bouncing off these walls.

He hadn’t wanted to jinx it. But he’d wanted it.

He still did.

“Were you gonna tell me? About this place?”

He smiled a little—wry, sheepish. “Eventually.”

“Why wait?”

“Because,” he said, stepping closer, “I didn’t want to give you something you didn’t ask for. Not unless you were ready to want it, too. Was'nt that right?"

Then, without meaning to, you took a small step forward and wrapped your arms around his waist. Clung. He didn’t hesitate. His arms were around you in a second. One hand cupped the back of your head, the other pressing gently against your spine.

You buried your face into the soft black cotton of his shirt. “I feel… dizzy.”

“From the alcohol?” he asked, a barely restrained urgency in his voice.

“No.” You turned your cheek against him. "This is just..really dreamy. Yeah. Really dreamy."

He heaved out a breath and started started rocking you back and forth against him in an missable motion. "Sure, angel? You like it?" He asked for confirmation. He didn't bother hiding his need for reassurance in front of you. And you don't mind giving him so. You nod with confidence.

He huffs a soft chuckle. "You haven't seen the half of it. Maybe you won't like the colors. We can change them if that's what you'd like. Add plants." His voice spilled low against the crown of your head. An offering disguised as a list of design choices. But you knew what he meant. You heard it tucked between every carefully placed word.

Let’s make a life here.

Let’s try. Together.

Your face pressed to the slope of his chest, listening to his heartbeat carry the words he didn’t yet say aloud. Your arms looped tighter around his waist, fingers bunching the back of his shirt like you might fall through the floor otherwise.

"We can do whatever we want." he murmured, then exhaled like something eased in him. "All the little, big things. Do you ever wanna get a pet?"

You bobbed your head with far too much enthusiasm. "Absolutely! We could get a dobermoon! You once said you always wanted that!"

"I did." He smiled gently.

Your mouth twitched, and you didn’t mean to smile—but you did. It bloomed slow and sleepy across your face, the kind of smile that couldn’t be helped. “And what else?”

He was still swaying you—slow, steady movements, his hands warm at the small of your back. It took you a moment to realize what he was doing, what the motion even was. You blinked, nose brushing the side of his neck. “Wait,” you whispered, a soft snort cracking loose. “What are you doing?”

Jungkook tilted his head down, eyes meeting yours, glittering a little under the golden pendant light. “I just realized,” he said, and his voice was so low, so unbearably soft, you almost didn’t catch it, “I never got to dance with you at your wedding.”

You blinked, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with that dizzy kind of drunk only heartbreak and hope could cause. “You left before the music started.” You pouted against his chest.

“I know.” His hand found hers. “Can I have one now?”

You burst out laughing, giddy and golden. The thought of so that's how your laugh sounds bounching around the walls came paired with If he could have bathe in the sound of it he would for the rest of his life. “There’s no music.”

He tilted his head. “There’s you.” With a theatrical sigh, you let him slip all around you. It was unsteady, like gravity had forgotten you tonight, yet just like gravity; the way you fit against was a contradiction. All too well. All too comforting.

He moved you slowly, in wide, meandering arcs, like your bodies weren’t bound to tempo or beat, just to each other. You stepped on his toes once. Maybe twice. Your sock slipped on the smooth floor and you cursed under your breath. He caught you, hands tightening with the kind of tenderness that made you want to cry.

“Oops,” you muttered.

“You're Graceful,” he murmured, voice fond.

“You love it,” you countered.

“I do.”

He twirled you then. Not properly God, no, but with that not so perfect grin that made your ribs ache and your stomach flip. You stumbled a bit, laughing into the fabric of his shirt, and he caught you again like he’d been born to. You buried your face in his shoulder. The air around you felt velvet-rich, the heat of his skin, the soft whirr of the heater, the scent of coffee grounds faint from the sink and your perfume still lingering on his collar. The world felt like something you could carry in your palm tonight.

Your cheek pressed right above his heart, where it thudded steady, solid, yours.

Your cheek pressed on right above his heart. “We’re not very good at this,”

“I don’t care,” he murmured into your hair.

You sighed. “My feet hurt.”

“We can stop,” he offered, easing to a gentle halt.

“Mhm." You leaned back to look at him, blinking up through your lashes, voice cotton-soft. You pressed your hand against it absentmindedly, right over the steady beat of his heart, fingers splayed like you could read it in Braille.

He watched you.

Watched the curve of your mouth. The warm glassiness in your eyes. The way your thumb moved without rhythm against his shirt.

You sighed out a thought. “Thank you,” you said.

He tilted his head, brushing a piece of your hair back behind your ear. “For what?”

“For this.” You squinted a little, like you were trying to remember something and only barely catching the edge of it. “For everything. I love you."

You hadn’t even flinched when you said it. You were smiling. Loose-limbed and lidded and not the least bit rattled, still swaying in place like the words had meant nothing more than a sweet note scribbled in a thank-you card.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe for a second. Could only feel the way his heart kicked against his ribs so hard he thought maybe you could hear it. hear the sound of it clawing toward your name.

His mouth opened slightly, but no sound from that came. The function of his body when he was around you, especially, this you was beyond him.

You just looked at him, lashes heavy, lips curved soft. “Hmm?”

“What did you just say?” he asked, voice rough around the edges.

You blinked. Tilted your head. “Thank you?”

“No, not that—fuck, angel." A deep chuckle rumbled out of chest. "Fuck."

But you were already pressing your cheek back to his chest, humming something tuneless, eyes drifting shut.

He swallowed hard. Tugged you closer to him and pressed his lips hard against your head. "I love you too."

Because what had once started with a love so rooted will end with a love that will survive an eternity.

It would always end in "I love yous."

SERIES TAGLIST: @ashslight @wannaghostbts @amatun28 @tteokbokibyjk @kelsyx33 @rexana19

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regulusrules · 3 months ago

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5 Post-Diamond of the Day fic recs with Happy Endings

Since we’re trending, AGAIN, this fic rec is one of The Basics ™️ to those who finish the series now. Personally I remember desperately navigating ao3 (with tears and snot) when I first finished the show, looking for a happy continuation. So here’s a list you will absolutely need

1. My breaths are run by your compass by @regulusrules. 75K, M.

If I wasn’t the one who wrote it, I desperately would’ve wanted this fic to be the first thing I read after the finale. Because holy fucking hell this fic healed all what dotd did to me. It has a plot that matches the angst of s5, yet the ending we deserved. Sometimes when I’m wallowing in bed, I remember that certain scene of them in the epilogue, and my frantic heart calms. Also when I remember Arthur kneeling there. Holy lord above.

2. The Patter of Tiny Feet on Cold Stone Floors by @theavalonian. 79K, M.

This fic is the definition of perfection. From its perfection, I’ve only read it once (five years ago) and still recall every single detail about it. Which is insane if you know me irl. But it was just simply amazing. A fic bestowed from above. My heart hurt for days while reading it, but at the same time it showed me love I can never forget. I’d sell my kidney for the sequel if dear author is still interested.

3. Winning the battle, losing the war series by @prattery. 27K, T.

“He doesn’t beg again—not out loud, anyway.” This line, and this fic in general, sometimes ring in my ears in a way none do. There is something just so hauntingly beautiful with how Merlin’s journey to recovery here was written. A lifetime of disaster finally resolved, not shrugged. Golden love remaining. Would sell my other kidney if dear author still wishes to bless us.

4. Golden As I Open My Eyes by @queerofthedagger. 2K, E.

Only queerofthedagger could write a 2k fic and stun us all with it. I mean; what was it all worth indeed if we do not get an alcove scene of desperate yearning? We cannot expect canon AUs of dotd to be immediately happy. That goes against the essence of the whole show. But when they work for it— when they consciously choose to leave destiny behind for love’s sake, that’s what makes fics more telling.

5. Something More by @captain-ozone. 5K, G.

If, like me, you finished the show and you were like oh I’d love to read a fic about Arthur’s side of the journey and torment myself even more! then this is the best fic you could possibly read for that. Leave the MCD aside, it is genuinely so good. And the actual proof of that is that I absolutely hate first POV books, but this one was an exception. Bring tissues next to you though.

[For more fic recs]

#merlin #bbc merlin #regulusrules recs #merthur #ao3 #arthur pendragon #merlin fic #king arthur #merlin bbc #fanfic #fic recs #merlin fic recs

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woantohae · 4 months ago

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Bang, Bang (My baby shot me down) Part I || (Rocco x reader)

Summary: Leftie hires Y/N and her brother Lonnie to help him avenge the death of his son, who was murdered by Rocco. To do so, Y/N must infiltrate the family and get close to Rocco so he can carry out his plan during the holidays.

Could it be possible without certain feelings getting in the way?

Part 2 soon!

Author's note: I haven't seen Lewis's (Riff Raff) film, but I saw some scenes in the trailer and this idea came to mind. Clearly, it won't be faithful to what happens in the story, but something similar and related to the plot.

《tags: smut, curse words, fuck, make out, rocco being a simp and whipped for reader, mentions of tits, dick and sex, explicit scenes, +18, somehow fluff, angst》

"So.... let me get this straight?" She says trying to sort and process the information. "This Rocco guy murdered your son, and you're looking for revenge. So to do that, you want me to seduce the boy to make him confess, even though you know the truth, so you can then attack them when they're all gathered for the holidays and make each of them pay. Is that right?"

Leftie nods while drinking his beer. The girl had no plans or issues to attend to, so it wasn't difficult for her to come up with an answer. Besides, she was bored with nothing interesting happening these days; maybe she could entertain herself for a while by doing the dirty work. Literally.

Y/N pouts and nods. "Deal."

Lonnie gives her a surprised look. His sister could be very impulsive if she didn't reason things through and consider the consequences. They had started doing odd jobs a long time ago so they could live in peace and with enough money to have a place to call home. Although Lonnie didn't like his younger sister doing a job—considered dirty and criminal—he knew how stubborn she was, and a simple order from him wouldn't be enough. She would do it anyway.

But this was crossing the line. As soon as he heard Leftie say that Y/N would practically have to sleep with Vincent and Ruth's son to gain his trust and get him to confess, his stomach churned at the thought of what her little sister would be going through. Getting into a guy's pants just to make the old man in front of him feel better and deal with his loss and get his revenge.

Maybe he had been a jerk to her and not been an honorable brother who guided her down the right path, but now was the time to act like an older brother.

"Wow, wow, wow" Lonnie says raising his hands to interrupt the conversation.

The gray-haired man and the girl look at him, waiting for him to continue.

"You want her to sleep with the guy so he can gain his trust, just like that." Leftie nods, indifferent.

"Wasn't I clear about the plan?" he asks, and Y/N shrugs at her brother's attitude.

Lonnie laughs sarcastically.

"No, I understood you, old man. But I can't allow you to throw my sister like a bitch into the arms of a man who we don't know if he'll put a bullet in our heads if he ever finds out."

The man lets out a laugh as if he just said the funniest thing in the world. Lonnie looks at him, exasperated, and Y/N frowns at her brother.

"Lonnie, I thought we talked about this since we started working on this," she says, putting her drink aside.

"Yes, but it only means we'd shoot if necessary and if the pay was good. Not that you'd sleep with just anyone to satisfy this old man's vengeful desires."

Leftie wipes a fake tear from his eye and sighs, then explains the situation in more detail.

"Believe me, it'll be a piece of cake with this family— Vincent is divorced from Ruth, who is an idiot woman when it comes to intelligence and coherent thinking, considering all the hairspray she uses for her hair I really wonder how she survives at this point. The man says he's put his criminal past behind him and is trying to move on to start a new family with another woman. Meanwhile, our main target is a nobody who follows orders and is too cowardly to confront problems like a real man. He's easy to seduce if you're an attractive woman who knows how to manipulate a man." The man explains, clasping his hands together.

"I think if I wasn't sure what we were dealing with, I wouldn't put you two up for this. I couldn't count on two pathetic babies as siblings to carry out the plan."

Y/N glares at him, and Lonnie curses under his breath. He knew they were the most suitable people to carry out the plan, but even though it was hard to admit, he didn't want his sister to suffer the consequences of all this. After all, he made the mistake of saying yes to her working in this criminal environment.

"So, are you in or not?" Leftie asks, bluntly and already fed up with having to explain the plan.

Y/N looks at her brother, who looks back at her.

"You know I'll be fine, idiot," she assures him.

Lonnie clenches his jaw for a few seconds and then looks back at the old man in front of them, who's waiting for an answer. The good thing about all this is that Lonnie will be able to keep an eye on her and make sure everything is okay, if she needs his help.

Besides, they need the money.

So it doesn't take that long for the man to make the decision.

"When do we start, fucking old man?"

Y/N was sitting at the bar waiting.

She was adjusting her earpiece to hear Leftie and Lonnie's instructions, while they could also hear everything she said to the target. The girl wasn't nervous, but she was a little curious about what the guy looked like. Y/N just hoped he didn't turn out to be a total jerk, although from what Leftie had told her about him, she wasn't that anxious about that.

"Okay, the guy is already entering the bar. He has a black leather jacket and long brown hair," Leftie says into her earpiece.

She looks up and cranes her neck to see a man enter, scanning the surroundings with some caution, as if testing the waters for danger. She smiles to herself when she sees that he's handsome and has a face that would beg her forgiveness on his knees if he made a mistake with her. A man who could be considered pathetic, and simp for a woman. Just Y/N's kind of man.

Although Y/N immediately seems to frown when the man arrives next to a woman with bangs and a bump. She was pregnant.

"We have a problem, gentlemen," she murmurs.

"Damn it, it's Mariana. Rocco's ex," Leftie says in an angry tone. "They were supposed to have broken up because she cheated on him with another man and got pregnant. Now she wants to get back with Rocco because the other bastard dumped her."

Y/N licks her lips without looking away from the ex couple.

"What do we do now?" she asks.

"I'll take care of it," Lonnie says. "You walk over to Rocco's table, and when I say 'now,' pretend to fall into his arms, understood?" Y/N sighs and nods.

She gets up from her seat, straightening her short evening dress and fixing her hair. Then, Y/N starts walking over to where Rocco and the woman are, just to notices how Lonnie enters the bar and goes straight to their table.

"Excuse me, do you happen to own that red Nissan in the parking lot?" her brother asks the woman, who answers yes. "You should go check it. It was just towed for illegal parking."

"What! Those fuckers!"

The woman suddenly shoots up from her seat and leaves Rocco frowning, not hearing him call her name to wait for him. Lonnie glances at his sister leaving the guy alone and she walks around Rocco's side of the table, and when her brother tells her the code word, she trips and falls into the brunette's lap, who is surprised to see her. But he inmediatly moves his hands to the girl's waist.

Rocco stares at her, and she begins to play her role.

"Oh my God! I'm so sorry. I hope I didn't hurt you," she says in a sweet tone, feigning concern.

He shakes his head with a light laugh, still holding his hands on the girl's waist. Rocco can't help but think how beautiful she is, especially given how close her body is. Suddenly, his ex seems to be forgotten by the girl in the red dress on his lap.

"Not at all. I'm fine. Are you okay?" he asks her.

She nods, a smile plastered on her face. "I am now."

"Part two of the plan, in action," Leftie says in her ear.

Y/N settles into the guy's lap and frowns slightly.

"Actually, no." The guy in front of her frowns and looks at her closely. "There's this old guy at the bar who kept bothering me. And it's already really late, and my friends have left, and I'm scared to take an Uber at this hour. So I don't know what to do."

She sighs feigning sadness and pouting.

Rocco misses the feeling of her on his lap when the girl gets up and adjusts her dress to start leaving. It's not every day that a pretty girl falls into his lap as if she were sent from heaven, just like an angel. That's what he'd believed with Mariana, until she decided to cheat on him with that idiot Tim.

"Well, I'm sorry I fell all over you. I should go." She turns around, but when she hears Rocco stop her, Y/N smiles amused and triumphant, seeing that he caught the bait.

"I could take you home," he offers, and she turns to look at him with a twinkle in her eye.

"Really?" Rocco nods and puts on his best flirtatious smile.

He approaches the girl and playfully takes her hand.

"I promise I'm a gentleman," he says in a low, sincere tone, as far as the girl can tell.

She seems to think about it for a few seconds, biting her lip. An action that doesn't go unnoticed by the man.

"Okay. But I'd like to know your name first," she tells him.

He laughs and offers his hand to introduce himself. "I'm Rocco. A pleasure."

"Y/N" she says shaking her hand with his "The pleasure is mine"

"Oh God. I'm gonna be sick," Leftie groans, overhearing the conversation.

Y/N clears her throat as if warning him and walks with Rocco, who places his hand on the girl's back to guide her to his car. Like a true gentleman, Rocco opens his car door and lets the girl in, and when he closes it he has to calm down when he feels Rocco Junior harden from being to close to her, intoxicating himself with her sweet perfume.

As he's walking to the driver's seat, Y/N speaks into the microphone hidden in the collar she's wearing.

"Should I tell him we're going to his place, or what do you want me to do now?" she asks, looking at the boy circling the car.

"Try to get him to take you to his place so you can get used to it and know the surroundings," the gray-haired man orders.

"Be careful, Y/N," Lonnie warns. She rolls her eyes and sighs.

As soon as Rocco gets in the car, she smiles sweetly at him. He mimics her gesture and starts the car.

"So, where should I take you?" he asks.

"Mhm..." She sighs, as if she's complaining. "I'm not really sleepy. And I'm sure my friends brought some guys over, so I don't want to bother them."

The man beside her listens and thinks for a few seconds. He had to be careful with his actions; after the accident with the son of a mobster and everything that happened, he had to watch his back. He had already talked it over with his father, Vincent, and he had told him not to trust anyone but him and his mother. But when he looked into the girl's eyes, he knew nothing bad would happen with her.

"Do you want to go somewhere else?" he offers the girl. "You tell me where, and I'll take you anywhere."

Y/N is surprised by how quickly the boy grasps the situation. It seems like he really wants something more to happen, but he stops himself so as not to pressure her into anything she doesn't want. The girl makes a sound with her mouth and subtly rests her hand on the man's thigh.

"Maybe, if you don't mind, we could go to your place. We could chat some more and get to know each other better," she says, while stroking the man's thigh with her thumb, who holds his breath for a moment.

Rocco nods repeatedly. "Yeah, yeah. No problem."

Rocco pins the girl against the wall, his lips moving frantically to devour her.

Y/N moans in response and pulls off the boy's jacket, feeling him grab her ass in a desperate attempt to move her against his hard member. She runs her hands over his neck and hair, tugging lightly.

Rocco is immersed in the passionate moment, not noticing his mother, Ruth, entering the room in a pajama robe.

"Rocco!" she exclaims.

They both separate, and the boy looks at her in frustration for interrupting them.

"Mom! What the fuck are you doing here!" he exclaims, pulling away from the girl, while Y/N licks her lips and stares at the scene in front of her.

The woman who claims to be his mother is perplexed. "You know exactly why I'm here," she raises an eyebrow and then sees the girl with messy hair and a raised dress. "Nice to meet you, honey. I'm Ruth."

"Hi" Y/N smiles and waves her hand.

"There's Vincent's damn wife," Leftie says in her ear.

Y/N remembers that her brother and Leftie can hear everything, so she blushes at the thought of what they just heard.

Rocco snorts and takes the girl's hand to start leading her to her room.

"Just don't interrupt us like that, Mom," Rocco says, walking up the stairs to his room.

The boy lets her in, and Y/N carefully examines the man's room. It's simple, with a few pieces of furniture, a double bed, and some photo frames, including one of him and his ex. She hears him close the door and curses under her breath for what happened.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't know she was going to be here tonight," he explains in a desperate and frustrated tone. "We're going through a complicated family situation."

"Complicated, my ass" says Leftie through her earpiece.

Y/N pays attention to what the guy is saying as she walks over to the photo frame and looks at it.

"What do you mean, complicated?" Rocco sighs and puts his arms around his waist, moving closer to her.

"Business," he replies, then notices the photo in her hands. "Oh, that's ah.... it's- It's my ex, and I forgot she was there..." Y/N smiles at him and leaves the frame upside down on the dresser, listening as he tries to explain himself. "I swear we're done. She's in the past, and we don't...."

She decides to place her hands on his chest and push him onto the bed, which silences the man.

"Y/N please let us know when you're done with him so we can listen again. We're going to mute you now, for the sake of my ears," Lonnie announces, and she hears the beeping of the device in her ear go off.

She smiles at the boy and sits on his lap, her thighs on each side of him. Rocco feels as if he's hypnotized by the girl, especially when she begins to pull down the straps of her dress in front of him.

"Like you said: she's in the past, right?" Y/N says, and watches as he nods desperately, watching his eyes linger for a long moment on her now-exposed breasts "Now I just want us to focus on getting to know each other better. Do you like that idea?"

Rocco moans and nods.

"I'd really like that." Y/N smiles and connects her lips with his in a kiss.

Then, she feels Rocco move his hands to her breasts and begin to mold them to his liking, playing with her nipples. She pulls away and leans her head back to let him enjoy it, as she does so at the same time.

"Is it okay if I do this?" the man asks.

"As long as you don't cum and do it inside me afterward, it's all good, baby," she says.

Rocco grunts and takes one of her breasts, sucking on it like his life depends of it.

Something tells him they'll get to know each other very well that night.

It had been a couple of months since Rocco and Y/N met. The passion that had consumed them the night of the plan had led them to grow much closer and to learn aspects of each other that neither had told anyone else.

Y/N had already met his mother, Ruth, and was able to understand a little more about Rocco's family. A bit crazy, to be honest. The boy's father, although present, was now focused on his new wife and family, so Rocco sometimes took a backseat—although, the boy understood and preferred it that way.

In the hundreds of conversations the two had after making love and spending the night together, Rocco had confessed his criminal side to her. He had admitted that he had hung out with untrustworthy guys and that they had led him to do things he regretted to this day. But he was trying to change it and make good decisions. The girl seemed to have the information she needed until the moment Rocco dropped the bombshell news Leftie needed.

"Oh fuck! Fuck!" Rocco moans, feeling how tight Y/N feels with each of his thrusts.

Y/N's ass is up in the air, clutching the messy sheets of the boy's bed. Rocco grips the girl's hips to continue touching her deepest point and reach the climax they both desire.

"You feel so-so good, baby," she says to keep motivating him.

Rocco can't help but continue moving his hips against hers with more desire.

"Fuck, you're taking me so well" he grunts kneading one of the girl's ass cheeks.

Y/N feels like she's going to cum if he keeps pounding her. She can only tighten her pussy against the boy's penis, letting him know she's about to do it, to which Rocco speeds up his movements. The room is filled with the moans and obscene sounds of their bodies colliding against each other.

"Rocco, I'm going to cum," she gasps, feeling the pleasure about to consume her completely.

Rocco continues moving, stimulating her so they do it at the same time. He smirks at the girl reaction feeling proud of him being the reason to it.

"Yeah, darling? You wanna cum on my cock?" he talks dirty to her "Let's cum together, uh?"

She makes a sound with her mouth and rests her forehead on the pillow, unable to stand it any longer.

"Okay, babygirl. Cum for me," he commands, and she lets out everything she'd been pent up, followed by him releasing all his cum into her pussy.

They both exclaim, possessed by the satisfaction of their release, catching their breath. Rocco moves a little deeper inside the girl, feeling their mixed juices from the mess they've both made. Then he pulls out his penis and affectionately caresses the girl's ass. Y/N lies down on the bed and tries to fix her hair, while Rocco falls beside her, breathing heavily. He looks at her profile and holds her against his body with his arm, while the girl lets herself be enveloped by him.

Y/N would be lying if she said she wasn't feeling anything for the boy, but she still has a feeling that she must fulfill the mission Leftie gave her.

"You're incredible, Y/N," he murmurs in her ear.

She smiles at him and clasps their hands together, before Rocco brings them to his lips and kisses her knuckles.

"What I'm about to tell you is ridiculous, and you might think I'm a fool for admitting it out loud." Y/N strokes his hair and smiles softly.

"Not at all, Rocco. You can trust me." she lies, feeling awful for that "Tell me".

Rocco caresses the soft, bare skin of her back and sighs heavy.

"You make me want to be a better man," he admits, and she listens intently. There seems to be a conflict in his blue eyes. "Like I told you, I've done things I regret, because of my criminal past and being part of the mafia on my family's side. But there's something I can't forget so easily."

Rocco looks down for a moment, and Y/N swallows to wait for him to continue, but she has an idea of what it might be.

"There was one time I had to take care of a guy who owed us money and... well," he says in a rueful tone "Things didn't happen the way they were supposed to. I was just getting started to accept this kind of business, and I wasn't able to..." Y/N strokes his cheek, frowning slightly at his internal struggle. "My partners saw me struggling and refusing to kill the kid, so one of them took the gun and murdered him in cold blood."

Y/N freezes when she finally hears the truth about the whole mess with Leftie's son.

"Obviously, I got mad at him and told him he was insane and that he'd messed up. And well, you know how the mafia gangs works, so..." he mumbles and then clears his throat "But he was just a kid, and he already had enough problems, so them going after him because of that was to much. So I decided to take the blame for his actions and never see him again."

Rocco sighs and closes his eyes for a moment, as Y/N continues to caress his cheek, trying to let him know she's there with him.

"I don't think I fully understand how a mafia works or your criminal past," she says, lying because she knows it perfectly well. "But what you did in the past doesn't have to condemn your future if you decide to take the right and most logical path."

Rocco looks at her and nods, listening.

"Maybe it's not the right thing to do, but you made a decision you thought was best for a child you thought was best left out of all that mess," she continues, feeling the guilt slowly consume her. "That small gesture was already making you a better man, especially when you accepted that what you were doing was wrong. It will haunt you for life, yes. But only you have the power to change your future."

Rocco smiles, and Y/N kisses her lips as she feels him hug her. When they separate, he brushes the strand of hair that falls across the girl's forehead, admiring her closely.

"I haven't felt this way since, you know..." They laugh, and Y/N nods, understanding who he's referring to. "But I can't deny what I'm starting to feel for you."

Y/N swallows, feeling a tingle in her stomach at the sight of his vulnerable and honest side, even though she'll have to betray him after all. However, the girl has felt it too, and she'll have to face it no matter how hard it is.

"I love you, Y/N."

Oh shit, she thinks.

She really needs to talk to Leftie.

#riff raff 2024 #rocco x reader (lewis pullman)#lewis pullman x reader #fanfic #smut #lewis pullman #lewis pullman masterlist #writing #fanfic smut #fanfiction #writers on tumblr #riff raff

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nujins · 3 months ago

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[ 𓆩♡𓆪 ] for you... maybe — k.wh smau

[ SYNOPSIS ] ━━ you and woonhak are in different friend groups, different classes, different social bubbles, but always find yourselves in the same place: the student council’s shared committee space. why? because the two of you and your friends somehow all, coincidentally, represent the student body despite all their hidden crazy. woonhak? doesn’t really care. you? cares a bit too much. disaster? abso-fucking-lutely. well your respective friends are very much over it. yeah, they all see what’s going on. all the bickering, the accidental eye contact, the weird tension when you’re both stuck doing posters together at 10pm. so they form an unofficial matchmaking pact. but because both sides can’t really rein in their chaos for shit, the plans are anything but smooth.

[ PAIRING ] ━━ k.woonhak x afab!reader

[ FEATURING ] ━━ boynextdoor members, le sserafim’s eunchae, itzy’s yuna, aespa’s karina, enhypen’s jungwon, riize’s anton, & more to be mentioned.

[ GENRE ] ━━ smau & written, organizational enemies-to-crushes-ish-to-lovers, matchmaking gone wrong, everyone but them sees it, mutual pining, non-idol au, high school au, slow-burn, fluff, crack, angst, and more.

[ WARNING ] ━━ swearing/vulgar language, inconsistent time stamps, possible spelling mistakes for realism, suggestive / sexual content (there’s barely any, just mentions of it), kms/kys and other chronically online jokes, strict parent/s, academic / school organization-related stuff, and more to be mentioned as the story progresses.

[ UPDATES & STATUS ] ━━ currently ongoing & sporadic / weekend updates!

[ RELEASE DATE ] ━━ april twenty-second, 2025.

[ A. NOTE/S ] ━━ yes ik ik i still have another tbz q fanfic ongoing that i haven’t updated in a while,,, i accept the boos and tomatoes… but ANYWAY with that aside, let us take a moment of silence to appreciate the new layout yuuuuup YUP, spent hours on it dare i say i left no crumbs and gulped down the plate ! 😝 also got a new phone and laptop so everybody cheered for the quality photos 🥳 but yes, i recently got SO obsessed with bnd anyway, started fixating on “serenade” (it was on a certified L-O-O-P for a whole day high key obsessed lowkey autistic for that) however,, you have been graced with a sexy ass plot and layout cuz of it so dont PLAY w me 😙 me & jaehyun fight to the death hunger games style for the title of having woonhak as my baby WHEN?? like im so ready no cap deadass,, idc if me and unagi are litrly the same age he is babie !!! n e ways hope u enjoy reading this one! leave a like and comment? maybe??? gg thnx divas!

✧.* TABLE OF CONTENTS! ⁀➷

PROFILES ━━ cedar heights’ student body ❈ y/n’s minions ❈ woony & the wombats ↺ PROLOGUE ━━ the first clash ↺ CHAPTER ONE ━━ coming soon... ↺ CHAPTER TWO ━━ coming soon... ↺ CHAPTER THREE ━━ coming soon... ↺ CHAPTER FOUR ━━ coming soon... ↺ CHAPTER FIVE ━━ coming soon... ↺ CHAPTER SIX ━━ coming soon... ↺ CHAPTER SEVEN ━━ coming soon... ↺ more to come!

[ TAGLIST ] ━━ (open) @s0shroe @kazukazukiiii @beomev @sfnctzen @tempewra @aeminju @wondoras @mensisim @person-line @g3laatin @jungwonbropls @tkooooop @w3willris3 @woonbabie @prodkwh

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itsgirlcraft · 3 months ago

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OOO :0

Just finished doodling a storyboard for a cutscene for my fangame and I am going FERAL y'all are going to love this

#steve saga #steve saga fangame #the steve saga #the plot's gonna follow Blue and Light after escaping the spiritless world #and it's gonna run parallel to the illusion/virus arc cannon #up until the end crystal incident #that's where I'm breaking cannon off #bc while the space saga was fun #i feel like a lot of the charm of the steve saga was really made by relying on only vanilla mc mechanics #aside from the magical cryptids #and introducing mods like that really messed with that charm imo #anyway the cutscene I just planned runs parallel to when Illusion used the “fake” Light Steve to try to convince Sabre to join him #and oh boy is there ANGST #i am NOT used to freehand drawing with a pen #< OH HELLL YEAHJHH!!!!!!#delightful #my beloved #favremysabre

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zuppizup · 2 days ago

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Well, don't know about the rest of you, but I am still reeling from SDCC and the bits and pieces we've learned since thing.

I must say, this is my favourite time in fandom, when people are going off with all kinds of theories and speculation. Honestly, it's the best and I think everyone should just go wild. Don't let anyone think your ideas are too wild, too out there, too self-indulgent. Wonderstorm loves to throw curve ball at us and who knows what they've planned for this arc.

I thoroughly expect pretty much everything below to be inaccurate, but I'm theorying and no-one can stop me.

So, aside from the general theme of the next arc, we don't really have much to go off in terms of what's going to be happening. I'm excited for more dragons, and I can't wait to see Zym's character explored in a more in depth manner.

I initially wanted to explore a whole bunch of thoughts in this post, but ran long (shocking for me, I know) so I've moth balled some other stuff for another time.

Anyway, what else did we get from the teaser... well, I guess the whole baby crying and what on earth that means or might mean.

At this stage, it seems like there are three main possibilities for the identity of this baby.

Rayllum Baby

Aaravos Baby

Random Baby

What I'm thinking with these possibilities is as follows:

Random Baby

Sure, possible. There are a number of couples in the show, or just, people of child bearing age, so I can see the possibility of Official throwing a red herring, and they do like subverting expectations.

All the same, the whole thing feels just a little too loaded for the teaser baby to not play a very significant role. Again, it’s possible we’ll get thrown a curve ball, but I do feel this is the least likely scenario.

Rayllum Baby

Currently the leading theory, I think?

I honestly don’t think there’s any point in rationalising a potential Rayllum baby. Age, financial status, etc are all meaningless because it’s not real life. It’s fiction with dragons and magic.

And, crucially, people who control the plot.

If the plot calls for a Rayllum baby, there will be a Rayllum baby. That’s how canon works. You either buy it or you don’t and that’s not what I’m looking to examine here.

With that in mind, why would the plot call for a Rayllum baby? How would that baby affect the plot?

When it comes to a Rayllum baby, I think it’s worth considering the whole planned versus unplanned aspect.

In a world with Aaravos' return is so soon (seven years is damn soon when you're talking about the potential end of the world), would Rayllum plan to start a family?

It’s possible, though considering their natures, I feel like it’s unlikely. Rayla left the Moon Nexus to hunt down Viren due to her anxiety and paranoia. Callum has repeatedly been shaken by the threat Aarvos' possesses to him in particular. In light of these factors, would they really elect to knowingly bring a child into a world that might end soon? Or even one where they might not both be there to raise said child?

Even if they are incredibly confident that they can defeat Aaravos, it still seems like an incredibly overconfident move for them. Especially considering how much of a blow the whole false pearl kerffule dealt them.

So, if there's is a Rayllum baby in arc 3, I'm banking on it being an unplanned baby.

All right then, an unplanned Rayllum baby?

This seems more likely to me than a planned baby. As I’ve mused before, I do think a case can be made for their universe of The Dragon Price having reliable birth control, however, no birth control is infallible.

Accidents do happen.

If we were to see a Rayllum baby, the fact it was unplanned and coming at the worst possible time would very much add to the sense of urgency surrounding defeating Aravos, as well as add to the personal angst of Rayllum.

It's a bit cliche, but well, people like cliches.

But what else has been going around?

Aaravos Baby

Ah, the BabyVos theory.

Or theories. I’ve seen multiple.

The argument in favour of the baby cries being Aaravos/Aaravos related is the teaser itself.

That's some very loaded timing of the cries in the teaser. It certainly could be implying that the baby is indeed Aaravos but that then leaves us with the issue of the threat posed by BabyVos.

Listen, I could be wrong, but I’m not envisaging some kind of Boss Baby scenario with this. If Aaravos is reincarnated as a baby, I think it's going to be damn hard to present him as a serious threat while still being a baby.

So, if the baby is Aaravos, he's either going to have an accelerated growth cycle (which kinda defeats the purpose of him being a baby at all, I suppose, but could still be done) or the Aaravos baby is going to present a different dilemma for the Dragang.

Is it morally right to kill a baby if you think he might end the world?

Probably not.

No-one is going to cheer for the "heroes" who kill babies. But then where do we go? Wait until he is a threat?

Or enough of a threat?

And that's not touching on, who's going to bring up this baby... which is actually where I think this theory could get quite juicy.

Rayllum baby versus Aaravos Baby...?

Hear me out!

Aaravos reborn and Rayllum baby to compare and contrast.

An Aaravos baby forcing Claudia to confront her Mommy Issues, while Rayllum baby makes Callum think about his own beliefs surround controlling his own destiny, while also believing that Aaravos poses an unacceptable threat, even as a harmless child.

What about Claudia, with an elf child?

Is it okay to use the baby's hair and spit for dark magic?

What about in dire circumstances... would it be acceptable to use the child's blood?

My angsty brain likes to go all manner of places, that I realise. I think it would be interesting to see Claudia confront her issues with family and abandonment, how she might relate to a baby with a purpose, while still caring for him in such a helpless fashion.

This could also present a path to redemption for not only Claudia but also Aaravos.

At the same time, Callum and Rayal grappling with the reality of warring against a child the same age as there would present a huge moral dilemma. I like how the show deals with the difference between Rayllum, and it certainly would be interesting to see how they'd deal with this issue both individually as well as as a couple.

I'd love if the promised trailer sheds some more light on this, but I fully expect to be strung along for as long as possible.

In the meantime, I'm super excited to see what fandom cooks up!

#the dragon prince #tdp #tdp spoilers #the dragon king #rayllum #rayla #callum #tdp claudia #tdp callum #tdp rayla #arc 3 speculation #tw child endangerment #tw pregnancy #to be safe #not really mentioned be we know where babies come from

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writeriguess · 2 months ago

Note

Hey!

First of all, I love your work! Thank you so much for everything you've written 💖

May I make a request? 🫣 Only if you’re comfortable with it, of course. I checked your list of what you've written, and it matches!

Could you write some sort of love triangle between Katsuki x F!Reader x Shoto, set in the Omegaverse AU, with a bit of yandere/darkfic tone (smut or not, I’ll leave that up to you, queen) and angst, The plot would go like this:

Katsuki and the reader have been childhood friends, and everyone knows they’re some sort of item. Katsuki is an Alpha, and the reader is his omega, but they haven’t bonded yet. They've been waiting for it, but for whatever reason you choose (maybe a trip whit the class that Katsuki couldn’t attend last minute due to hero work/internship), the reader ends up going on the trip and ends up mating with Shoto (due to her having her heat, maby induced by someone cof cof a red and white haired boy cof cof) who has a huge crush on the reader and is an Alpha as well, so he is pretty happy about it.

I don’t know, I would just love the drama around this. Thanks so much if you even read this. Have a beautiful day 💕

Mine, Always

Katsuki’s scent still clings to your skin like an old song—familiar, warm, promising. Your Alpha since childhood, your best friend, the one you were supposed to bond with.

But promises don't hold up in the dark.

Not when your heat comes early.

Not when he finds you first.

The trip to the mountains was supposed to be a break. A class reward. A breath of fresh air. Katsuki had pulled you aside the night before, gripping your waist with those rough hands, eyes burning.

“Don’t go into heat without me. Promise me.”

You promised.

But the gods must’ve laughed.

You woke up two days into the trip drenched in sweat, thighs slick, the sheets tangled around your restless legs. Your heat had slammed into you like a truck—fast, consuming, wrong. Too early.

You tried to hide it. You bit your tongue, muffled the whimpers. You took a cold shower, soaked your scent blockers. Nothing worked.

And then Shoto was there.

“...You’re in heat.”

He stood in your doorway, hair damp from the bath, towel still around his shoulders. His dual-colored eyes sharpened, nostrils flaring.

“Did Bakugou know it would happen this early?”

You shook your head, panting. “No—I was supposed to have another week, I don’t—Shoto—please—don’t come closer—”

He stepped in anyway.

“I can help you.”

You whimpered, crawling back on the futon, scent thick and desperate. “You shouldn’t be here. I—Katsuki—he’s my Alpha—”

“But he isn’t your mate,” he said smoothly.

That made you freeze.

“You’re not bonded. Not yet.” His voice dropped to a growl. “He left you alone like this. Unclaimed.”

“Shoto—” You meant to protest. You really did.

But then he touched you.

Just a brush of fingers along your calf and your whole body arched, heat blooming like wildfire. You keened, hips twitching, slick soaking the sheets.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he murmured, crawling over you. “And now you need me.”

“Don’t—” Your voice cracked. But it wasn’t resistance anymore. It was fear of how much you wanted him.

“I won’t hurt you,” he whispered against your throat. “Just let me take care of you.”

And you did.

Because your body betrayed you. Because part of you had always wanted to know what his touch felt like.

Because you were an Omega, and your heat was ripping you open from the inside out.

It was slow at first—his lips pressing against your neck, his scent flooding the room like soft snow over fire. His hands roamed down your sides, reverent, possessive. Your fingers twisted in his hair, pulling him closer even as your mind screamed no no no—

But your body was already begging for it.

He buried his face between your thighs, tongue slow and precise, licking up every drop of slick like it was sacred. You came like that—trembling, sobbing his name, your fingers clutching his shoulders as your heat boiled over.

And then he fucked you.

It was rough, raw, deep—his Alpha instincts taking over as he gripped your hips and slammed into you over and over, claiming every inch. You cried out, breathless, as his cock dragged along your swollen walls, the tip brushing that needy, aching spot again and again.

You were so full. Too full.

“I’m gonna knot you,” he growled, voice feral. “Gonna make you mine.”

Your mind was too fogged to say anything else. Your legs locked around his waist, body clenching down like it was meant to. And when his knot swelled, when it caught and locked you together, you screamed—and you came again.

And then you felt it.

The bond snap.

His teeth in your neck. Blood. Heat. Home.

The next morning, you woke up sore, trembling, full of his cum and guilt.

And then you smelled Katsuki.

He came back to campus early. Kicked in your door. Grabbed you by the wrist before you could even cover the fresh mark on your neck.

“What the fuck did you do?”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

But he knew.

The rage that tore through his expression was feral. Your scent was different now. Altered. Twisted by another Alpha’s claim.

You tried to apologize. You tried to explain. “I didn’t mean to—Katsuki—I wasn’t thinking—I was in heat—”

“So you let him fuck you?!”

You flinched. “I didn’t mean to—he was—he was just there—”

“You were mine,” he whispered, voice raw. “I was gonna bond you. You fucking knew that.”

Tears burned your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t say anything else.

He just slammed the door behind him.

That night, you woke up with Katsuki standing over your bed, panting, his eyes wild.

“You think he claimed you? You think one fucking heat makes you his?”

You didn’t get a chance to answer before he was on you.

He kissed you like a threat, tore your shirt in half, shoved your legs open and took what he thought was his.

“Gonna breed you over and over until all you smell like is me again,” he snarled as he split you open, knot already forming.

And you let him.

Because part of you still belonged to him.

Now, you’re marked by two Alphas.

One whispers sweet nothings against your skin, treating you like a precious, fragile thing.

The other claims you every night like a war he refuses to lose.

And you?

You’re the Omega no one wants to let go of.

Even if it breaks you.

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aellesira · 5 months ago

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— OUR ENEMY, MY FRIEND. (PART 1)

pairings, sethos x princess!reader, royal au.

summary, "do not cry. if your cheating fiancé won't even look at you anymore, why do you still stay with him?" 2.8k words.

content, character cheating (on reader), secret meetings, angst.

notes, sethos fic!! i got my motivation from a fic from my lovely friend @/knnichs, and here we are!! no hate to nilou or cyno, just for the plot.

The feeling of constant unease and discomfort was weighing down on you, getting heavier as days passed. Something was… wrong. You could tell. Something that those two were keeping secret from you.

During one of your many visits to Lady Nilou’s estate three weeks ago, just as you had pushed the door open to her bedchamber, you froze momentarily, your interest caught by the sound of Nilou’s voice… and the things she was saying.

“...Oh, he is just so sweet! He gave me these lovely Padisarahs as a thanks, isn’t he just so thoughtful? They are my favourite flowers after all…” Nilou gushed, a pink blush rising on her face. The maid sitting next to her seemed to agree, nodding her head, but voiced some confusion. Your initial thought was that, perhaps, she may have fallen in love with someone. A soft smile tugged at your lips at this, before fading away only a second after that.

“You mean General Cyno, my lady? Isn’t he… isn’t he engaged to Lady [Name]? …What do you think of him, if it is not so rude to ask you, my lady?” The servant, bold enough to question the lady she served, seemed to doubt. You did too. But there was no way…

“I don’t… no. He is engaged after all, and he is just a lovely friend of mine. His fiance is, too.” Even though there was nothing but honesty and sincerity in her tone, the way her eyes looked down and the uneasy expression on her face was telling you otherwise. You couldn’t bring yourself to doubt Nilou when she said this, but you suddenly remembered that Cyno was always forgetting your favourite flower.

She loves all flowers of all kinds, Tighnari. I know her. Cyno had once said this to the botanist Tighnari, someone who came to be a common friend of the both of you, and even he knew your favourite flower. Tighnari tutted at his friend’s mistake, looking at you with a look that said This is the person you’re engaged with?

But he could remember her favourite flower. Not yours, though. You decided you didn’t want to meet her that day.

The second time something had happened was when Cyno had called Nilou to meet him for a discussion. For some reason, he refused to elaborate on it.

She’d spent a good while in his study. When it was evening he could still be heard with her, although to you it seemed like their important discussion had quickly transitioned into a hearty banter between two close friends. All of this had happened too quickly. And why?

Lately, Cyno had been cancelling time in the day that he usually set aside for you so that he could run errands for Nilou. Even the simplest things that she could have easily had her servant do for her.

With everything in mind, you had reached a simple conclusion; that Cyno didn’t love you anymore, that he loved Nilou and that they were having a secret affair. And as much as the kind part of you wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt, and as much as the spiteful part of you wanted to confront them… you couldn’t bring yourself to.

The windows creaked, interrupting your thoughts. Ah, one of the most anticipated parts of your evenings as of late. After all, it wasn’t like you didn’t have your own secrets. In truth…

In truth, one of the kingdom’s most notorious enemies, namely Sethos, had been coming to visit his new best friend; you, the honourable and lovely princess of the palace, engaged to the General. If anyone ever found out about your secret rendezvous with him, you could only imagine how people would talk, the scandal… but your relationship with him was only a reluctant understanding and friendship, in your eyes, anyway. Sethos, while someone who had caused much panic and launched many attacks on your kingdom, was, at heart, a gentle and truly honest soul. A polar opposite to the person he was rumoured to be, the person he had a reputation of.

And yet, you couldn’t help but want to stay close to him. In a time of doubt and loneliness, Sethos came into your room one night with the intent to attack you. Knowing nothing about you, except having seen your harsh glare whenever he came to send a message to your kingdom, the glare being reflected back to you.

He’d appeared out of nowhere, dagger in hand. A threat had been uttered, but the man halted himself upon gazing at your tear-stained cheeks and distressed expression. Not one for comforting his enemies, or at least, anyone part of the kingdom he was so adamant on getting revenge on, he froze. Pondered if he should leave or if he should do something. Because he wasn’t, in reality, a monster like people said.

He only wanted revenge on your kingdom; generations of monsters and tyrants in the monarchy that had waged war on his kingdom as a result of dangerous feuds and scathing abhorrence of their royals. He’d watched his kingdom suffer, all those innocent villagers and civilians, and he promised he would, one day, be the one in which his kingdom would find a voice in. Sethos. Of course, this truth was something he had revealed to you bit by bit over time, and he still had more to tell you.

At the time, Sethos had chosen to try his best to comfort you. Even though he hated it, the architecture of your room being of your distant kingdom’s, even the style of your clothing reminded him of your kingdom, there was something about you that was undeniably different to the ruthless cold-blooded murderers he was used to facing.

It made him want to protect you.

Who knew that a few small but warm words of assurance and a shoulder for you to cry on would begin a genuine friendship between two people who, in any case, would seem like an unlikely pair; like a beautiful rose and a sharp, blood-stained dagger.

You sat up on your bed, tuning yourself out of your thoughts to see the figure of a man in dark clothing enter through your bedroom window. The figure slipped through the window sill of your room, looking left and right and closed the curtains to make sure that he was discreet in his arrival. When he was sure that he’d come without anybody noticing him, he took off the hood of his cloak, revealing his distinct emerald green eyes and shiny smile that had you drawn in closer to him every time you were given the chance to look at him. He was quite the looker.

He pulled out beautiful flowers from under his cloak, your favourite type of flower. You hadn’t even known him for so long, but he did remember. It was, if your memory served correct, one of the first things you told him in general conversation.

Only Sethos knew why he had engrained and etched such small, seemingly trivial and forgettable details about you that you shared with him. Because he was the one who truly cared.

“Sethos.” you grinned, feeling the familiar kind of excitement at the prospect of having your best friend to stay with you for a while. As it happened, you tried to see Nilou less, distancing her from yourself, and Nilou didn’t seem to notice. Sethos had come at the perfect time to fill that empty space, and you were so grateful for that.

“Hey, princess~! For you, my lady.” Sethos presented to you the flowers, an infectious grin spreading on his face. You smiled back, or rather, tried to. His smile lessened into something more sympathetic when he noticed your lack of reaction.

He went over and sat on the edge of your bed, watching you as you placed the flowers in a rather ornate vase on your bedside table in which, Sethos had noticed, you kept all the flowers that he gave you. Specifically from him.

“Something wrong? You seem more bothered than usual.” he asked cautiously. At your silence, he was utterly puzzled. Normally, even on really bad days, Sethos’ comforting presence was enough to lift your spirits, and you always greeted him with unabashed enthusiasm. “Hey, I’m talking to you. You never ignore me.”

Turning to him, you sat down at his side. Let out a sigh. “I’ve been thinking about it more than usual.” He crossed his arms and tilted his head as a response to your vague sentence. “Thinking about what exactly?” he inquired, clearly confused, but after a moment or two of silence it hit him. “Oh… did your fiance and that pretty noble lady have something important to attend to again?” Sethos frowned. Ah, right, your current situation was something you often spent many hours venting to him.

You always seemed to think about them, about Cyno, even when Sethos tried his best to capture your attention and to have your thoughts divert from your pathetic love life for once. But his heart did ache for you. He knew what it was like to see someone you loved fall for another. He felt it, even now. But he couldn’t let what he felt get in the way of your friendship. “Talk to me, [name].” He looked down at the floor. You sighed heavily. “It’s… it’s not like I have concrete evidence, you know, Sethos? Like, it’s very odd and all, b-but it could be, just… two really great friends who love spending time together and have s-such a good relationship that to everyone else it feels like they’re in love and they don’t know th-that what they’re doing is hurting me and-and—” Sethos snapped you out of your daze when he grabbed your hand. He looked at you with worry, and you hadn't even realized that your eyes were glistening; tears were streaming down your cheeks. He reached over and wrapped an arm around your shoulder. You always made him want to protect you.

“Hey… hey, come on… shh…” He rubbed your arm in an effort to soothe you. Seeing how distressed you were, his heart sank a little more than it already was. You were avoiding eye contact with him, sobbing, although quietly, and he pulled your head closer to his chest, his shirt soaked with your tears.

He felt your pain, but even more so he felt angry. Cyno was actually a distant relative of Sethos’, and even though they weren’t on speaking terms anymore, he didn’t expect this from Cyno.

For a few minutes he remained quiet, wanting you to get everything out of your system, this was hard for you. He patiently waited for you to speak when finally, the tears had ceased. You looked up at him. “...Sethos… what should I do?”

Sethos reminded himself that a) you weren’t very sure if Cyno was cheating on you or if this was just a big misunderstanding and b) even if it wasn’t a big misunderstanding, you didn’t think you could handle leaving the man you loved so much. Knowing you, you would happily go along with marrying him if it meant you could stay with him, even if his heart wasn’t yours anymore. “You don’t want to confront them, just in case you're wrong. You don’t want to expose them, just in case you're right. It wouldn’t be a good look on you, princess, and definitely not on those two. So…?” You looked at him helplessly, pulling away from his comforting embrace. “You need to figure out what you want to do. You don’t deserve him, you don’t deserve this… you’re an absolutely amazing woman.”

“I may be the enemy, but I’m also your friend. Remember that.” he placed a hand on your shoulder. “...How about this? I’ll… I'll find proof. Undisputed, concrete proof that he’s cheating on you. And then you’ll be satisfied, and we can decide how we should move forward, hm?”

You looked at him incredulously. “You’d do that?”

“I’m a pretty good spy, you know that. I can do this without getting caught,” a confident smile appeared on his face. “How do you think I’ve been getting in and out of your room every evening these past weeks if I couldn’t, eh?” He pointed out and chuckled, and he could see that you were already beginning to feel better.

“Ugh, thank you, Sethos…! You’re actually the best.” Wiping the last of your tears away, you nodded, thankful of Sethos’ constant support. This was the person people hated so severely? You wrapped your arms around his neck, his smirk softening into a gentle smile and patted your head in silent affection. At least you were smiling a little now?

“I’ll get you that proof, okay? Promise. Trust me.”

You huffed. “I trust you, Sethos.” Trust… Sethos couldn’t suppress a grin at your admission.

—

“Where do these flowers keep coming from, [name]?” It was a simple question. Nothing that Cyno really cared about, coming back from a mission after two weeks he only cared to see you. Not that Sethos mentioned that he’d seen him with Nilou in the forest just four days ago, likely for a quick meeting with his new love. How could you believe that Cyno wasn’t truly cheating? He’d wanted to tell you, and yet he couldn’t hurt you further with that.

Cyno was supposed to come back a little later, Sethos had planned another secret meeting with you just so he could find time to see you before your cheating fiance came back. Early was not something he was expecting.

“Where would they be coming from, dear?” The pet name slipped out, and a part of you felt guilty for speaking to Cyno so sweetly when you’d been telling Sethos you’d try to stop loving him. And Sethos was currently hiding out behind your wardrobe, listening to the conversation happening outside. No doubt he was listening, and Sethos had to stop himself from scoffing at you two.

“Do you go picking flowers often?” Cyno asked you curiously. No, your worst enemy, the kingdom’s worst enemy comes into my room every evening to assure me that my sorry life of a princess is actually fine and he shows me love that you don’t, by, as an example, giving me flowers that he actually knows I love—

“From time to time, yes.” You shifted your weight to either foot, eyeing him like he was eyeing those flowers; accusingly. But he dropped it. Flopped onto your bed and buried his face in your bedsheets. He was exhausted.

He opened his eyes when you didn’t say anything, expecting a warm welcome from his lover, but… “Are you feeling alright?” He lifted his head to look at you, and luckily he didn't notice your distraction. Or the way your gaze flicked worriedly towards the wardrobe, where Sethos was currently trying to remain silent.

“Er… when do you have to leave again?”

Cyno rolled over to his side to face you again, raising an eyebrow. “You’re already waiting for me to leave?” Yes, but you couldn’t say that, could you? “...Tonight. Just a few hours, and I’ll be gone by then. It’s a shame I can't spend as much time with you like we used to.”

“Ah, I’ll miss you.” That wasn’t a lie, you would miss him. But you were also trying to deny that in your heart, you wouldn’t miss him as much as you usually did. He sat up.

“I’m sure you will.” Rather dismissive today, wasn’t he? You supposed he was just tired. He got up, and simply placed a kiss on your forehead. “I need to go prepare. Don't miss me too much, okay? I don't need you worrying about me when I'll be fine.” He didn’t even look at you after that.

When you were certain he left, you let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding, and Sethos remained hidden for a good moment or two after Cyno left. You closed the bedroom door, trying to push down the anxiety you always felt when people were just moments away from catching the enemy. In your room. When Sethos emerged from the wardrobe, he stretched his limbs.

“Close one. We nearly got caught.” he smirked. You grumbled; hadn’t it been Sethos who’d told you Cyno was coming home later?

“You make it sound like we’re doing something we’re not supposed to.”

“We are, though?” Sethos sat on the edge of your bed, looking at you intently, his smirk disappeared from his face. “...Remember how I told you I’d find evidence for Cyno cheating on you?” Your eyes were only focused on him at that moment, your heart beating at your ribcage painfully.

“Well, I found it.”

#genshin x reader #genshin fanfic #sethos x reader #sethos #genshin impact #nilou #cyno #tighnari #sethos x reader angst #genshin angst #sethos genshin #sethos x y/n #royal au #genshin royal au #genshin royal au angst #— [ 𝓦𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. ]

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svmjaeyvn · 1 day ago

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LOVE MAZE — 심재윤

chapter 11. truth untold. pairing: trust fund baby!jake x college student fem!reader

An unfortunate encounter, drunken mistakes, and a sort of (definitely) stalker lead to Sim Jaeyun 'dating' his best friend's childhood crush!

or, your life gets intertwined with a rich boy’s in an attempt to not get sued by his crazy personal fangirl and like with all good cliches, sex overcomplicates things.

11. TRUTH UNTOLD

prev masterlist next word count - 2.4k note - self sabotage baddies unite!!! oh poor y/n, she’ll learn. insane work they’ve been way more than casual from the start, she’s in denial don’t hate her lol. anyway had to add some (tiny) angst cause after all this was fake dating trope. yearning jake incoming ;)

"HOW MUCH MONEY do you think Bianca would give me to break up with you and move across the world so she can force your marriage?"

"Are you telling me you could be bought?" Jake muses, raising a brow as he lazily lifts his head. You pull your gaze away from your phone, a cheeky smile forming on your features as you nod.

"As long as it's enough to buy me a plot of land, build a big ass house, and never have to work again? Hell yeah," You shrug, holding the phone out to show Bianca's user that continued to monitor your account like a hawk, not following you but ensuring to be one of the first to view any stories posted.

Jake's hands that were massaging your feet came to a halt. He shakes his head, rolling his eyes at the familiar user that has done the exact same to him recently and he gently pulls the device from your grasp. You groan, watching as his nimble fingers slide across the screen, presumably going to block the account before he clicked it off. He places the phone on the coffee table, a cheeky smile sent your way as he moves his way up your body.

You rose a brow, the coldness of his hands trailing up your skin, slightly lifting up the oversized lounge shirt you were wearing over the tiny pajama shorts you've been in all day. Things have been quiet, you were almost certain the gala night would've brought significantly more problems but aside from internet stalking and Bianca and Minjun flaunting their relationship as if it were a match made in heaven, nothing had come of it.

Which you were thankful for. No more run-ins with Minjun and things have been surprisingly easy with Jake's family. You've had two dinners with his brother and Nani since then, and a handful of phone calls with his mom over the past two weeks where she's insisted on having a weekend in Jeju soon which his father strongly encouraged.

It was safe to say you hit it off in the Sim family. Part of you felt bad, lying to basically everyone, putting on a seemingly perfect relationship that no one suspected, and it made you feel worse considering you liked them.

Things were.. weird. Too real at this point, overwhelming and almost scary. You didn't realize when, but there was a definite shift in your relationship with Jake and the lines blurred into nothing. You had no idea what a fake relationship was supposed to be like, but you knew there was dangerous territory you've fallen into.

The worst part was you refused to bring it up.

"You know," Jake starts, his words hummed against your skin, breath whispered in the crook of your neck. He had you trapped beneath him, one hand wrapped around your waist while his other kept his weight balanced above you, keeping just enough pressure between you. "I have more than enough capabilities to make that your reality now, the only thing would be to keep you by my side instead of chasing you away,"

Your body tenses. Jake felt it, the shift in your demeanor, the way you managed to pull back just enough to catch a glance of his side profile. Your eyes pinched shut, a deep sigh leaving your lips.

"Jae..."

"Don't," Jake interrupts quickly. "Don't say anything," He mumbles, shaking his head as he pulls himself up. You follow, propping yourself up on your elbows and eyes tracing his figure. You felt the tug in your chest, the same unspoken conversation repeating more consistently over the past week but nothing ever came of it.

Every time you found the courage to say something; he'd stop you. The two of you knew exactly what it was, the boundary that's been crossed too many times, the fact that you were far too close for it to be casual. But he wouldn't let that harsh truth sink in yet, not while he could still play pretend and you hadn't pushed for anything less.

Jake clears his throat. His head lifts up, eyes meeting your own and sporting a less than perfect smile, the gesture not quite reaching his eyes. His hand finds your own, lifting your knuckles to his lips for a lingering kiss that seemed to sting, heat running through your body and throat dry, unable to speak even though you desperately knew it was on the brink of spilling out.

"Forget about what you want to say today, I promise I'll make it worth it,"

•☽────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────☾•☽────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────☾•

YOU SHIFTED IN your seat, thighs pressed together and hands folded neatly in your lap. You were dressed up, an elegant well fitting dress hugged your body, the shawl you grabbed in a hurry something you were thankful for considering it stayed snug over your shoulders warming you in the air conditioned restaurant.

It was busy, low mood lighting and candles on the tables being the majority of the illumination in the dimly lit building that was filled at each table. Jake had disappeared to the bathroom a moment ago, leaving you patiently waiting at the table tucked away in the corner, a little secluded from everyone else but you still felt out of place in the upscale restaurant you were certain nearly always required a reservation a few weeks out.

When Jake offered to take you out for dinner earlier, an attempt to break the tension from the morning, you agreed without much thought. You presumed it would've been casual, somewhere you've been before and both liked but when he dropped you off with a plain bag, one you weren't allowed to open until you were inside, and forced you to promise to wear it for tonight—it should've been your first indicator.

You had called Jake in a panic, noting the rather expensive looking article of clothing you didn't need but conveniently fit you to a tee. He insisted, stating it would match his own outfit as he wanted to take you someplace you can play dress up—something you mentioned in passing stating how getting fancy for a date once in a while seemed fun.

What you didn't realize was that your version of fancy was an entirely different tax bracket than his. It was hard, constantly reminding yourself he was loaded while simultaneously acting like any other average college student who survived off of air-fryable food and ramyeon. Even his car wasn't as flashy as it could've been, definitely on the pricier side considering it was a Lexus but still attainable for the average person.

So when you reached the restaurant, Jake pulling into the valet and handing off the keys to a worker prepped and ready, your door being opened by another employee who held out a hand for you to climb out, you felt the sense of money required to dine here. Sleek formal attire, required dress code, dim lighting and quiet murmurs even with the building filled.

The menu listed entrees in a confusing manner, extravagant words in an attempt to seem more pleasing but in reality they were basic dishes aside from the high quality meats and vast options of seafood. You pursed your lips as you glanced at the laminated paper, a lack of prices not doing much to ease your mind.

Jake slipped back into his seat a moment later, his white button up rolled up his forearms, his coat draped over the chair. It baffled you how well put together he seemed, it was almost annoying how slipping on slacks and a nice shirt elevated his looks—though he was attractive as is but he truly seemed in his element when in formal attire that took little effort compared to your hair and makeup that you stressed to match the elegant dress on your body.

"Somethin' on my face?" Jake smirks, velvety words ringing through your ears and pulling you from your inner thoughts. You click your tongue, gaze falling back down to the menu to instead find which entree you'd guess would be the least expensive.

The candle in the middle of your table danced, the flame flickering every so often, the illumination creating an intimate atmosphere. Jake's eyes lingered on you, tracing the slope of your cheeks, the slight pinch of your brows, and the way your hands played with the edge of the menu absentmindedly.

His foot nudged yours beneath the table. You jumped, quick to pull your leg back to ensure he wouldn't accidentally step on you considering you wore open toed heels. You frown your brows, tilting your head in question as to why he decided that was the way to gain your attention.

"Yes?"

"What's wrong?" You swallow the lump in your throat at his words. He sat across from you, eyes doe-y and pooled with concern beneath the surface.

"I feel weird," You admit, embarrassed by your lack of better words. Gesturing around, you place down the menu with a small sigh. "This feels.. it's too much Jake," He stiffens, sitting up straighter and clearing his throat. "I don't understand why we're here—"

"—it's a date,"

"We're not supposed to actually be together," You finally rush out. Your eyes shut upon impulse, wincing at the harsh tone but a small part of you felt relief. The other part of you felt instant regret though as you're met by Jake looking utterly disheartened, the light in his eyes seemed to dim, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth attempting to remain composed.

"It's just a date __," He says, words clipped and you felt the sting. Your eyes darted around, now thankful for the spaced out layout and glad you two were tucked away in the corner of the restaurant for the ever dramatic conversation you were opening up for some reason.

"This isn't what we agreed to," You shake your head, gesturing to the situation you were in, the far too expensive restaurant and dress you wore. "It's not supposed to be serious, we can't play pretend on top of trying to do the same to everyone else. It's messy, and it's getting more complicated than we intended,"

Jake scoffs, leaning back in his seat and arms folding across his chest. "You agreed to weekly dates,"

"Yeah as a way to make sure we knew each other well enough to play the part," You defend, reminding yourself to keep your voice down although you felt the tension rising by the second. "An expensive date was never in my mind, I can't have you spending money on me like this. It feels wrong,"

"Why?" Jake frowns his brows. "When you're with me you should never care about anything that has to do with money?"

"I'm not you," You shake your head, the lump in your throat hot, almost choking and you prayed you didn't allow yourself to get worked up enough to cry. "I'm not you, or Jay, or Sunghoon, or anyone else for that manner that has a family to back them up. I get it, I do trust me. I grew up with Jay's family but mine? We're average, and my parents never accepted hand outs even if it was insisted. I can't, in good faith, take advantage of you like that, it's not the way I was raised and it makes me uncomfortable to think you're willing to throw your money at me as if it were nothing,"

"Because it doesn't mean anything to me," Jake shrugs and you scoff, agitated by how he seemed to not get your point. He interjects before you could argue. "No—listen, I don't care about the differences between us. You shouldn't feel embarrassed about what I spend money on, you or not. I was born into money, but I'm not an asshole, am I? And it's not like I do things without regard, my family's business is steady, and my brother doesn't want the company either way—not the responsibility of it at least, so it's mine if I want it. So please, have a little more faith in me instead of just thinking I'm an idiot rich kid who spends money on anything—anyone, 'cause I don't,"

You bite your tongue, unable to form a coherent argument while combating the stinging behind your eyes. You didn't know why, but the guilt and anger mixed into an irrational fear.

Jake's eyes watched you. He knew you well enough, hell, better than you probably would've thought. He knew what you were thinking, what you were implying, the same thing the two of you were dancing around recently to keep your relationship steady. "For the record, as cliche as it sounds, you're the first one I've decided to do any of this for—including meeting my family,"

Almost as if the universe sensed the need for a break, a formally dressed waiter stopped at the edge of your table. He introduced himself, smiling politely which you and Jake returned. He pulled himself together fairly quickly, sitting up and beginning to order drinks as well as a starter with practiced ease, you merely nodding allowing him to take charge as the waiter promised to be back shortly.

Once the two of you were alone again, you met Jake's piercing gaze. You shifted, suddenly feeling small and wishing you never mentioned anything in the first place, now stuck to eat a meal together that would surely cause indigestion and sit in awkward silence.

"This wasn't the agreement," You mumble, not going back on your word even if it was probably the wrong choice.

He scoffs once more. Jake runs a hand through his hair, a few strands falling perfectly over his forehead, his rings glistening in the candlelight. "Tell me one thing," He starts, voice significantly softer, careful almost but his stern expression never left. Jake leans closer, a hand reaching for your own. "Disregarding everything else, just purely how you feel for me, can you honestly tell me that this isn't something?"

You didn't respond. You didn't know how, there was a reason why you were perfectly fine with the fake aspect of your relationship—true, real, commitment was terrifying. You weren't great at being vulnerable, and as much as you hated to admit it, the reminisce of your ex made it difficult to wholeheartedly accept someone actually cared for you above sex and convenience.

Jake knew that. He knew you, and as much as he could try to get you to understand, you wouldn't. Not at this point at least, so he merely nods. The waiter returned with glasses filled with liquid, engaging in small talk that Jake was receptive of. You sat quietly, nodding when needed and smiling to not put a damper on the worker who was merely doing his job.

This would be a conversation for another day. Something you'd dread, something you've been mulling over, but he’d be damned to let you push him away now.

81 notes · View notes

weirdsht · 2 months ago

Text

Stereotypical . Pretermit - LoTCF & Venion Stan! Reader

a/n: please read the tags in detail and proceed carefully. If you are going through something please contact your local emergency hotline or talk to someone about it. I do not condone any of the toxic/harmful behaviours shown in this fic, but rather I'd like for this to serve as a message of how suicide affects everyone involved. Also holy fckin hairball this is 18 pages with 5400+ words

tags: PLEASE READ CAREFULLY AND BE WARNED! semi-detailed aftermath of suicide attempt, gore?, amnesia, inspired by freud's concept of repression still hate the guy tho, hints of depression, insomnia, hints of eating disorders if you squint, hurt/comfort, angst only lasts for a bit tho dw, isekai, yandere everyone if you squint really hard, everyone is trying to deny that they like reader (platonically), Taylor is the best brother

Pls don't repost my work anywhere without my permission

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@areaderspov said:

Hello hello!

I just read your fanfic of Venion!Reader aND I LOVE IT SO MUCH😭 I ACTUALLY TEARED UP ANYWAYS—

Did you ever thought of making and alternative version? —or angst sorta? Like, imagine if reader just gives up on life BUT WITH A PLOT TWIST.

THey could either go back to their world or suddenly be brought to Cale's world again BUT they just like, had a feeling of what happened, but nothing cleared, they mostly confused on what's going on but are trying to be… Chill, in a way. Like everything was only a nightmare and they had no recollection of it.

Maybe they could even sorta recognize Taylor? Like the feeling of their hyung but not really knowing why the connection.

Imagine that Raon is the first to recognize them, and they are in a way very happy since they looked so content, so different.

They don't have the "shackles" anymore so, I'm not sure how everyone else might play it.

Hope you like this idea though!<3

“Hey, wake up. Class ended already.”

You feel someone shake you awake as you groggily open your eyes. Looking around the lecture hall, you see that there really is no one else in the room aside from you and your friend.

“Where should we eat? I think I'm craving something sweet…”

Slinging your bag over your shoulders, you ask your friend for food recommendations. Your friend hummed as you guys walked out of the lecture hall onto the busy hallways of your university.

“There are no classes after this, so we can check out that new cafe outside the campus. Are you craving something specifically?”

You hummed as the two of you exited the building successfully. The two of you walk towards the gate to get away from the busy campus and be on your merry way towards the cafe.

“I weirdly want to eat apple pies…”

“Apple pies? You've never even had one before. Why are you craving something you've never eaten?”

Your friend stopped walking for a second to look at you weirdly before leading you to where the cafe is.

“I mean, you can crave something you've never had. But hmm, it is a bit weird because I feel like I've eaten it plenty before.”

After a few minutes of more banter and walking, you finally reached the newly opened cafe. The interior was minimalist, taking into account aesthetic pictures for social media. Their colour scheme was beige and black, and there were some plants and paintings on the wall.

The cafe seating looks like an open area. No booths can be found, but the seats are still comfortable-looking couches.

Your friend asks you what else you want aside from pie as you eye which seat would be the best for the two of you. You tell your friend your order before making a beeline for the couch seat in the corner of the cafe beside the windows.

As you sit on the couch, you can feel your body physically relaxing. Weeks of sleepless nights and early mornings are absorbed by the comfortable plush of the seat. Thankfully, those days are about to end as today marks the start of your summer break.

Few more minutes passed by before your friend finally arrived with both of your orders. After finally settling, the two of you continued your light talk while eating your well-deserved sweet treats.

* * *

Summer break was absolutely the best. No deadlines to think about, no group mates to accommodate, no professors to chase for requirements. It's just you, your bed, and your phone.

Six weeks into the vacation and you're still bedrotting. You even go as far as to refuse whatever plans your friends present to you. Well, you didn't mean to spend the entire vacation just lounging around the house; actually, you initially just planned to spend a week and a half catching up on sleep before going out with friends. However, for some reason, your body felt incredibly heavy, and your mind was exhausted. Leading to you spending a month and a half at home to sleep.

Life of a slacker is nice. You actually enjoyed doing nothing. It’s just that there seems to be one problem… you feel more tired after sleeping.

It wasn’t always like this. In fact, you’re usually a good sleeper. Everything just started after that one time you fell asleep during class before the start of summer break. After that time, it was like no amount of sleep could quench the tiredness you felt.

Was it because of that weirdly realistic dream you had that day?

But you could barely even remember it, so it couldn’t be.

‘Well, it was just a dream, so it feels silly to give it this much meaning.’

You thought to yourself as you finally got up to prepare your first meal of the day. It’s already 5 pm, and you are just now starting your day. Well, you live alone anyway, so no one’s going to scold you. Plus, you’re still eating, so you’re still living a healthy life.

With that justification in mind, you finished eating the small portion of food you prepared for yourself before going back to bed.

Days passed until there was only one week left until the start of the new semester. Not once did you go out, even your enrollment was done online, and you figured you could just update your ID on the first day of classes.

Even after all that rest, you still felt tired. Your mental state was also a mess for no reason. Sometimes you would even start crying out of the blue.

Like right now, for example.

You were merely scrolling on your phone when suddenly tears started dripping from your eyes. Unsure of the cause yet still continuing to cry, your heart clenches at the random picture of a dragon plushie presented on your phone.

You would tear up just like this at random times of the day.

‘I have to get myself together. Classes are starting soon, and this year is very critical.’

With that conviction, you fell asleep with a heavy mind and an even heavier heart.

* * *

“CALL A HEALER HURRY”

“EVERYONE ON STANDBY, CANCEL ALL APPOINTMENTS AND DON’T LET VISITORS INSIDE”

Frantic shouts and hurried footsteps filled Raon’s ears as soon as he teleported in the Stan territory. The young dragon just wanted to checked on Venion Stan but such a chaotic scene welcomed him instead.

The curious — and worried — toddler followed the voice while remaining invisible. He could recognise the man shouting to be Taylor Stan. Just what happened to make such a usually composed man sound so frantic?

Raon’s question was answered as he peeked inside Venion’s room, the source of the chaos. From outside, he could see how healers and Cage are desperately trying to heal the young noble. Raon could also see Venion’s bloody wrist.

Copious amounts of blood dripped from the blonde’s wrist onto the bedsheets. There was too much that his bed was stained red; something the maids and butlers are trying to clean, but to no avail.

Taylor Stan can be seen besides the unconscious man. Desperately trying to put pressure on Venion’s wounds to stop bleeding. His own shaking hands gripping onto his brother’s wrist while he tries to stop the tears from escaping his blurry eyes.

Unable to take the sight in anymore, Raon teleports back to where Cale is. His paws shaking as he cries on the redhead’s chest while explaining what he saw.

It wasn’t until the next day he heard a word from the Stan Marquisate.

“I… I’m not sure how to explain what happened, Young Master Cale.”

Taylor Stan said on the other side of the communication device. Cale’s gaze hardened at the sight of the Marquiss; he looks so gaunt, as if he hasn’t slept in a week. Clearly, something has happened to Venion Stan.

“Take your time.”

Cale said while holding onto Raon’s invisible yet shaking paw from his lap.

“Yesterday morning… when I visited my dongsaeng’s room to start our day, there was a strong stench of blood. So I opened the door and…”

Taylor Stan sighed deeply, his voice shaking but he pushed through it as he has to break the news.

“Blood was everywhere, Venion’s wrist was bleeding, he wounded himself too deeply. At first, I didn’t know how he even managed—no, I didn’t have the time to think about anything else, I frantically called Cage and the other healers to try and save him.”

Even Cale had to take a sharp breath. No wonder Raon looked so traumatised. The scene yesterday was too unsightly for anyone to witness, let alone for a child to see it first-hand.

“We managed to stabilise his condition, we also found out that he did it by breaking the drinking glass on his bedside… but that’s not where it ends.”

Cale and Raon stiffen at the news, only knowing about the news of Venion’s critical condition.

“Did he try again…?”

“No, young master, he hasn’t even woken up yet. We made him wore a magic bracelet that would keep track of his consciousness.”

Then what was the problem? Isn’t everything fine now unless Venion Stan’s health somehow becomes critical again?

Seeing the confused look on Cale’s face, Taylor further explained the situation.

“We are confused too, because later in the afternoon, my dongsaeng disappeared. But the bracelet showed no signs of being removed, nor did it alert us that he woke up.”

Distress became more evident in Taylor’s face as he explained. The news also further shocked the human and dragon combo. Just how and why did Venion disappear?

“Human, we have to look for him! He's unconscious and alone!”

“Wait.”

Cale spoke, making the two look at him.

“First, is there any possibility that he found a way to bypass the bracelet?”

Taylor thought about it for a second before speaking.

“It’s pretty strong as Cage made it and is monitoring it personally, so…”

“Ah…”

“Yes…”

Silence befalls all of them. This seems to be a very tricky case, no one knows where to even start.

“My men are discreetly looking for him, but there’s no progress yet.”

“...I’ll also keep an eye out.”

“Thank you so much, Young Master Cale.”

As soon as the call disconnected, Cale couldn’t help but slouch and sigh deeply.

“Haaaa”

Just what could’ve happened to Venion Stan?

Is this related to the plot he was talking about? Is the universe, or maybe even the gods, making Vention pay for deviating from the novel?

Cale doesn’t pity him.

Cale can’t pity him. His a grown man who doesn’t need Cale’s concerns.

No matter how child-like he seems to Cale—even if the redhead won’t admit it—Cale won't pity Venion Stan.

‘But if I don’t do anything and something happens to Venion, Raon might destroy a country…’

Just the mere thought of the toddler going on a rampage was enough to send a chill down Cale’s spine. He really needs to find Venion before that happens.

As if sensing Cale Henituse’s distress, Ron knocks on his door, stating that he bought lemon tea.

“Ron, scatter your people. Tell them to look for Venion Stan discreetly.”

The attendant looked like he had a lot of questions, but dared not voice them after seeing the distressed look on his young master's face.

“I'll inform them, young master.”

Cale has his people stationed all over this world and the next, surely they'll be able to find Venion on time.

…Right?

* * *

Surprisingly, that usual heaviness in your body was gone when you woke up this time. You could even say that you felt oddly refreshed. It's a feeling you haven't experienced during the summer break.

You actually felt so light and refreshed that you didn't notice how you weren't in your apartment at first. But soon enough, you noticed that the bed you are in seems softer than usual. The mattress doesn't feel like something a broke uni student can afford.

“Wha- where..?”

The realisation of not being in the comfort of your home broke your dream-like trance. You looked around for clues to determine where you might be.

‘Did I get kidnapped? I’m not worth the ransom money though… Plus, if I was kidnapped, then the kidnapper is certainly richer than me.’

So why would you get kidnapped? But at the same time, there's no other explanation you could think of to justify the sudden change in setting.

‘I haven't drunk alcohol in 2 months, so I was certainly NOT drunk last night.’

After looking around for a while, you found a fancy vanity table against the wall. You got up from the cosy bed to try and inspect it. The colour was gold and certainly looked expensive.

For a moment, the possibility of being kidnapped by a rich mafia boss who's obsessed with you crossed your mind. Because all the items in the room look too high-class.

‘No, I'm too antisocial to even try and catch something like…’

“What the actual fuck???”

You couldn't help but trail off your thoughts and curse out loud as you look at your reflection in the mirror. At first, you just wanted to inspect the drawers of the vanity, hoping to find some clue as to where you were. But instead, you saw how you totally don't look like yourself.

Smooshing and pinching your facial features, you could see the mirror in front of you do the same, confirming that you are indeed looking at yourself.

“Isn't this Venion Stan from the novel I read a few months ago?”

You asked yourself as you observed the mirror reflecting you, pinching and pulling your own cheeks. Your brand-new pale white face with blonde hair staring back at you

As you further observe your new body in the mirror you couldn't help but notice some differences from the Venion Stan you knew. First was that he was skinnier than how he was drawn in the manhwa. He already had a lanky build from what you read, but he's even skinnier than that.

The second thing you noticed was how long his hair was. In the manhwa, you recall Venion having above-the-shoulder blonde hair. However, the reflection staring back at you has hair that reaches past the armpits.

‘His pretty… too bad his trash.’

Having had enough of pulling your reddened cheeks, you decided to explore your new vicinity, surprisingly adapting well to the fact that you transmigrated.

The house was small but certainly luxurious. It was just enough for one noble to reside in. You got the idea that it must be some kind of vacation house, the more you see the interior.

While walking towards the front door, you suddenly had a realisation. Venion might look different because it's been a while since the part of him being captured by Taylor Stan.

Then is this house not a vacation house, but something used to house-arrest Venion instead?

“Even if this is prison for that guy, this is practically a mansion for someone like me. I have no reason to complain.”

You don't have to get involved in the plot, and you get to have this fancy house to yourself? It can't get any better than this. Sure, it might be small for noble standards, but for an ordinary, modern person like you? This place was better than anything on the housing market.

Finally, you reached the front door. As you push the doors open, lush, green grass greeted you. Nature said hello with a gush of wind that refreshed you from all the thinking you’ve been doing.

As you step out, it looks like this house was built in the middle of the forest. The perfect place for people who like peace and quiet.

It’s perfect.

This is actually really perfect.

You’re sure Cale and his group can handle bringing world peace to this world. It also looks like Venion’s part in the story is done. There’s absolutely nothing left for you to do other than sit back and enjoy this simple life given to you.

‘If they come to visit, I’ll just pretend to be insane, that should be easy enough.’

Is what you thought to yourself.

“Did you know how worried I was?! Why didn’t you even try to go home?!”

…Wasn’t Venion Stan on house arrest? So why is Taylor Stan on your front door frantically looking for you like you’re a naughty child that ran away from home? You thought they just didn’t care about you anymore, that’s why they didn’t visit for months. But it turns out that you were actually missing?

Just what is going on?

To know what happened, we must first travel back to the time when you first woke up in that house.

Cage was actually in the Super Rock Villa at the time of the incident. She had a momentary break and decided to visit and see how Cale was doing as well as give updates about the search in person. The excommunicated priestess had seen how worried the young master was about you and thought it would be better to update him in person.

Well, it was actually Raon who was worried, but Cage digressed.

The moment the two are speaking to each other, the bracelet Cage was wearing suddenly emitted a faint, yellow light, surprising both of them.

“Is that..?”

Cale asked, to which Cage softly nodded.

“Yes, I have to go back and inform everyone of what happened.”

“Please do that, I’ll also inform Ron and the others.”

With that, their conversation was cut short as both went their separate ways to alert their respective people.

“Human! I think I know where he is. I need to go to him and check if he's there!”

Raon dashed over to Cale as soon as the redhead entered the room. The toddler is restless, already preparing a magic circle to go to you at any given moment now.

“Slow down and explain.”

Cale got hold of his child, who was flying in circles, as he was starting to get dizzy from watching. Raon complied and stayed put before starting to explain.

“The kind grandma who wears her hair in a bun! I remember Venion talking to her about building a rest house before. He might be there, and that grandma is the only one who knows the location!”

That grandma in question is actually spending a sound retirement with her family. Venion’s older brother, Taylor Stan, gave her money and house last year as Venion’s birthday gift since the younger man wouldn’t accept any other gift Taylor had.

Wasting no time, Cale informed Ron of what happened before they set off to that grandma’s house in order to know if Venion really had a secret rest house.

“Oh dear, is that so..? He has a house in a forest near Ten Finger Mountains that I still sometimes go to to maintain. I haven’t gone there this month to clean. Usually, I would not give the address even to Master Taylor, but I’ll give it to you since Venion says he trusts you and this is an emergency.”

Cale Henituse’s face soured for a moment. First of all, when did Venion say that? And second, he thought this grandma was retired? Why is she still working for Venion when she should be spending it with her grandchildren?

“Don’t look at this old woman like that.”

The grandmother laughed as she handed him a piece of paper containing the coordinates of the house.

“The young master told me countless times not to go there anymore. But like you, I’ve also grown fond of that child, he’s also like one of my grandchildren. Plus, the nature there is good for this old body of mine.”

Cale’s face soured even more at her words. He is NOT fond of Venion Stan in any way, shape, or form.

‘I have no reason to be emotionally attached to such a guy. I’m just doing this to prevent Raon from throwing a tantrum.’

Cale and his group thanked the old lady before going back to the underground villa to plan their next move.

* * *

“He’s there… human, his actually there!”

Raon shouted in Cale’s mind as they saw your silhouette from a distance. It was just the two with Ron visiting the rest house, where you are currently residing. The three of them teleported a few feet away from the house in order to prepare for whatever might be waiting for them.

Well, they just didn’t expect to see you have such a serene look on your face.

Your face looks peaceful, free of worries even. A look Raon has never seen on your face. It’s also something Cale had never read back when he was reading TBoaH.

“Something’s wrong, human! But I think it’s a good kind of wrong?”

Raon questioned, to which Cale nodded along. Something is definitely amiss. The Venion Stan Cale knows wouldn’t be able to get over the trauma you’ve been through like some amnesiac…

…

Wait…

Could it be..?

“Ron.”

“Yes, young master?”

“Approach Venion and pretend that you’re a lost old man wandering the woods.”

“Of course, young master.”

Raon and Cale watched from a listening distance as Ron approached you, whose tending to the flowers in the mini garden in front of the house. Your hair was tied in a half-bun, exposing your forehead. There’s also dirt on the cuffs of your sleeves as proof that you were taking care of the flowers before the assassin interrupted.

“Excuse me, young sir, could you perhaps tell me where we are? I was travelling with my young master, and we got lost with no means to go back to our inn.”

Cale could see a look of recognition pass your eyes as Ron smiled benignly at you.

‘Was I wrong..?’

The redhead had a moment of doubt, perhaps you actually found a way to get over your trauma? But if you did, then why would you run away? Assuming that you ran away at least.

“Uh… uhm… actually I…”

You stuttered, internally panicking for a variety of reasons.

Why is Cale’s servant, who's actually an assassin in disguise?

Is Cale also here?

Are they actually lost?

Are they here to get more revenge?

How are you going to tell them that you actually don’t know anything, let alone where you are?

“Are you perhaps hesitant to talk to me because I’m a stranger? I’m sorry for that. My name is Ron Molan, and I serve the Henituse household. To be specific, I am currently serving Young Master Cale Henituse.”

Ron made an excuse for you to which you graciously accepted.

“Ah yes, that’s part of it… But it’s also because I don’t know where we are… You see, I don’t really remember anything? I just woke up here one day with no recollection whatsoever. I’m sorry that I can’t be of help in getting out of here, but my house has some spare bedrooms that I can lend to your party as you try and figure out how to get out of here.”

You decided to tell Ron the truth as you figured they are not here to get more revenge, at least.

‘This is their scamming approach, so I should be fine. I don’t have any powers or knowledge that would help Cale save the world anyway.’

With that conviction, you truthfully explained the situation to the assassin as you don’t have much of a choice anyway.

“Is that so, then we’ll take you up on your kind offer. I shall go fetch my young master”

Just as Ron was about to turn around, Raon spoke in his head.

“Lemonade Gramps! The weak human said it’s okay to tell Venion that the great and mighty me is here!”

“Oh, and please do keep this a secret, but we have a great and mighty dragon with us.”

Ron smiled benignly once more before turning around to where Cale and Raon were. Leaving you confused by the bombshell information you just received.

‘...Did I assess the situation wrong? They don’t disclose that information just to anyone, right?’

* * *

“I’ll entrust my brother to you then, young master. Please take care, and I’ll try to go there as soon as I can.”

Taylor’s words went in Raon’s one ear and out the other. It has been a few hours since they entered your house, and Raon has been in a dazed ever since. The toddler just can’t believe his seeing you act so lively… smile so freely.

Raon had only seen such things in his dreams.

It’s a shame that you can’t remember anything, but on the other hand, he was also glad you had no recollection of what happened. Raon doesn’t think he would get the chance to see you so content if you still have your memories intact.

The black dragon was so out of it the whole day. Sure, he still performed his tasks well, but everyone could tell how he was constantly in a daze. Looking at everything as if it were his first time seeing the world once more.

He also seemed to cling more to you, cuddling you up every chance he gets, instead of sticking close to Cale as he normally would. The toddler’s actions confused you, made you wonder what happened in the past that made Raon act so close with the person who was his supposed torturer.

Of course, you weren’t aware, but this is just Raon giving you all the affection he had been holding out on before. The you before Raon could see looked so fragile that he was even scared of touching you the wrong way. Fearing that one wrong touch would make you disappear forever.

And after seeing your pale skin and bloody arm as healers worked hard to revive you a few months ago?

Yeah, Raon is definitely not letting go of you anytime soon.

Honestly, it’s not just Raon acting like this. You can’t tell as they hide it better, but Cale and Ron also seem to be on guard. Not the type of guard that is on edge, but rather protective.

It’s especially apparent when you try cooking dinner. The moment you tried to pull out a knife, Ron was by your side, insisting that it’s a servant's job to do such things. That was the worst case, though, for most of the time, the two opted to observe you, making sure that you would not revert to your old mental state.

Finally, after a few more exchanged words, the call between Cale and Taylor ended, and Raon could lift the soundproof barrier he had placed to prevent you from hearing their conversation. They plan on slowly breaking the news to you tomorrow to give you time to prepare for Taylor’s arrival. They also plan to make Cage go first, acting as if she will be the one to inform Taylor of your existence after “miraculously finding a way to contact Cale”.

Raon trusts his weak human’s plan. Cale had never conjured up a plan that didn’t work. Sure, the toddler hates it when their plans end up making their human cough up blood or pass out, but never once had their plans failed badly before.

With that peace of mind, Raon was about to fall asleep when he suddenly heard a small whimper.

It seems to be coming from your room.

“Human, Venion is crying…”

At once, Cale and Raon went to your room. However, your bedroom door was already open once they arrived.

Ron, fast as ever, was already tending to you.

“It seems to be a nightmare, young master.”

The servant said as he wiped the tears from your eyes. Ron held no affection for you in particular. There’s no reason for him to have one. Although you did remind him of his son when they first ran away to the Henituse territory.

But that’s a different matter.

“Or perhaps memories.”

Cale spoke as he and Raon walked closer to your bed. As they did, they could hear your soft whimpers of “Don’t” and “I’m tired”. Raon couldn’t help but tear up a little as he looked at your state.

“Human, does this mean his going to remember? Maybe showing up was a mistake… what if we made him remember those bad memories?”

Raon cried as he lay down beside you, using his paws to wipe the continuous tears flowing down your cheeks.

“I’m not sure. Let’s observe how he does tomorrow.”

Cale answered honestly, a bit at a loss on how he should proceed.

But it’s not like they can do much if you really do remember.

Thankfully, you continued to act happy and lively the next morning.

“Did you sleep well?”

Cale casually asked you as Ron served breakfast.

“I did, I’ve always slept well since being here! Maybe it’s the nature surrounding us, but I’ve never felt this relaxed before. Hmm, though I think I had a dream? I never seem to remember my dreams these days, though.”

‘He subconsciously remembers… we need to be careful not to make him fully remember just yet.’

Cale thought to himself as he chose his next words carefully.

“So we managed to contact someone last night.”

“Really?”

You beamed at him, genuinely happy that you’ll soon find out where you are.

“Mhm, it’s a priestess named Cage. She’s coming here tomorrow to get us.”

Cale and Raon gauged your reaction; you seem to be doing well, so the redhead continued speaking.

“You actually know her. She’s a friend of your brother.”

“Oh you mean Taylor Stan? The one you told me about?”

The redhead hummed affirmatively as he continued to eat his breakfast. From the kitchen, he could see Ron staying alert as well, ready for anything that could possibly happen in case you remembered something.

“There’s a chance she already told your brother about you, so there’s a chance he’ll follow here after her.”

If you’re being honest, the thought of meeting Taylor Stan scares you. He was lenient to Venion in the novel, but he may still harbour some ill will becuase of all the things the original Venion Stan did.

But for some reason, you don’t think that will happen.

On the contrary, the mere thought of him brings you a sense of comfort. Like a long-lost hyung you haven’t seen for a long time.

Weird… but maybe the original Venion Stan had some lingering brotherly feelings for Taylor?

‘What kind of loving brother incapacitates their hyung though?’

* * *

And that now brings us back to the current situation.

“Did you know how worried I was?! Why didn’t you even try to go home?!”

Taylor Stan couldn’t help but hug you tightly the moment you opened the door. You think a lone tear or two landed on your shoulder, but you’re unsure.

“I didn’t want to risk getting lost…”

You tried to reason helplessly as everyone else inside the house went out to the front porch to greet the marquis. All of you talked for a few minutes before going back to your respective homes. Of course, Taylor promised you that you could go back to this house anytime you want.

Life with Taylor is comfortable, cushy even. You’re supposed to be a convicted criminal, but he spoils you so much.

“Yeah, you’re actually serving your sentence right now. Your punishment is house arrest, and since you ran away from home, your sentence has been extended.”

Taylor smiled at you, and you could only look confused at his logic.

Well, it’s not like you can contest the marquis’ words. Plus, everything works out well for you.

* * *

“...Can I call you hyung?”

You suddenly spoke as the two of you were eating dinner. It’s been a month since you returned home, and you’ve been meaning to ask for a week now.

You’re not sure if you have the right to do so, but he really just gives off a comfortable feeling. Unsure why, but his been your safe person ever since you came to this world despite him not being your favourite character when you were reading the novel.

Meanwhile, Taylor is having a hard time keeping a straight face. He feels so giddy, so excited that you asked to call him hyung, as he had to tell you before. If he as being completely honest, he was glad you lost your memories. Sure, you may have a hard time sometimes, but it's miles better than your state months before.

It’s a fact that everyone around you could agree on that you had no clue about.

“Of course you could, you’re my dongsaeng after all.”

A wide smile etched your face at the approval.

“Okay, hyung!”

But then it fell as you remembered something.

“Honestly, I feel bad I can’t remember anything. I seem to have a good relationship with everyone, and I can’t remember a thing…”

“You don’t have to be. You remember what we told you about you suddenly disappearing because of some unknown force when you were sick, right? All of us are just glad you made it back safely.”

Taylor stopped eating for a moment in order to talk to you seriously. He does not want to see you spiralling into any kind of underserve guilt once more.

Your previous wrecked mental state really took a toll on everyone.

But that’s now water under the bridge.

Right now, the only thing that matters is the fact that you are happy and smiling.

Taylor Stan couldn’t ask for anything more.

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