#i write with myself in mind here and there

[fuctacles]

[start here]

“What do you mean you forgot?!”

Eddie flails his hands wildly.

“I just did!” he yells back.

“What the fuck, Eddie?!”

“Language!” Claudia Henderson pipes up from somewhere in the house. Turns out, she could be just as loud as her son when she wanted, but that’s a given when you have to rise him by yourself.

“Sorry!” Dustin yells back. And then, after a thoughtful frown in his friend’s direction, yells again, not breaking eye contact: “Can Eddie stay the night?!”

“What?!” Eddie hisses through his teeth.

“Sure!” His mom’s answer is immediate. “As long as his uncle knows!”

Ms. Claudia knew he was living with his uncle? How much has their sons shared about him? Has he spilled unknowingly?

“Of course!”

Eddie was for now the only person maintaining a reasonable volume. He turned his whisper-hiss on Dustin again.

“I can’t just impose on your house like that, Henderson!”

“You’re not imposing, mom said it's okay.”

Eddie throws his hands in the air. As always, Dustin was right in the most infuriating way.

“You’ll stay over until you finish the paper.”

“I don’t need babysitting to do my work!”

“You kind of do,” his friend points out, right yet again. “And here you won’t get distracted with your guitar or campaign.”

“Do you think it’s all I do?” Eddie bristles, at which Dustin waves his hand dismissively. 

“Or a book, or a nap, or whatever gross shit you ‘almost adults’ get up to.” He makes a face, as apparently talking about jerking off is below him.

“A nap sounds great, to be honest…” he hums thoughtfully, his mind zeroing in on its pick. Dustin huffs. 

“Well, write an outline and we can discuss a nap.”

Eddie did not expect being held hostage in Henderson’s house to write a paper, on a weekday night no less, but here he was. He’s been in worse predicaments, that’s for sure, considering this cell had a radio, a soft couch, and snacks. And as much hot tea as he can stomach, though Claudia Henderson might be underestimating his love for a good earl gray blend.

The afternoon goes more or less as usual, he and Dustin do their homework in the boy’s bedroom, and then Eddie gets dragged into a family dinner. But instead of finishing up or going home, he’s being approached by Mrs. Henderson holding a huge bundle of spare bedding.

“Is the couch okay? Steve got the guest bedroom, but if you ask nicely, he’d probably switch with you.”

Eddie is shaking his head before she finishes talking, but Dustin is first actually to speak up.

“Can’t he sleep here?”

His mom frowns.

“This isn’t a sleepover. Your curfew still applies.”

“But!--!”

“No buts! Eddie, sweetie.” She turns to the older boy again. “I’ll leave the bedding on the couch, you can sleep there or talk it out with Steve when he comes back.”

“Thank you.” He smiles at her, knowing he won’t be talking with the guy.

Dustin keeps trying to argue, so she adds:

“Dusty’s curfew is at 10 and don’t let him tell you otherwise.”

“I’ll tuck him in myself, madam.”

“Traitors! Both of you!”

When the outline is done, his belly full of toast and the outside properly dark, Eddie finds himself alone in the living room. Claudia advised him to help himself to the kitchen if he got hungry and not to stay up too late. She also told him Steve had a closing shift that day and always drives his friend home, but should be back soon as well.

Eddie manages to write the beginning of his stupid essay before he hears the keys jingle at the front door. He’s itching to look up and seek out Steve, but only does so when he hears him stop by the doorway. He’s surprised to see him but quickly schools his expression into an easy smile.

“Eddie! Hi!”

“Hi.” Eddie gives him a small wave.

“Staying over?” Steve walks in, eyeing the bedding next to him.

“Yeah.” He nods and points at the notebook in front of him. “Gotta finish an essay for tomorrow.”

“Uh, good luck.” Steve winces. “Want something to eat? Drink?” He points towards the kitchen, where he’s headed. Eddie shakes his head.

“I’m good, thanks.”

He’s written three sentences by the time Steve leaves the kitchen and walks towards the bathroom. The sound of a running shower is incredibly distracting. He can picture a small waterfall, deep in the forest and glistening in the golden green sunbeams. Close by is a clearing, created by countless adventurers stopping by to refresh before continuing their journey. They’d strip naked, men and women alike, fighters and mages, dipping in the chilly water to clean off the dirt of the road, the sweat from fighting off petty criminals. The water would be just deep enough to tease at the curve of his ass, lapping against the skin and mocking any bystanders for their solid form, making them wish they could liquify too and slip over the rippling muscles, trace the dips and—

Bad Eddie!

He blinks so rapidly that he gets dizzy, but the paper in front of him becomes visible again. The shower is still running and he reminds himself he’s not into jocks. He’s not into his friends’ siblings, not into whatever Steve Henderson is, no matter how objectively attractive.

He writes another two sentences by the time the bathroom door opens and he makes a point of not looking up. The smell of coconut walks by and he focuses on the tip of his pen. He hears the fridge door open and the steps reach his spot by the couch again.

“Beer?”

The water still clings to the weary adventurer, dripping from his hair. He has no shame, no place for it in the life he leads, not with a body like that. There’s a towel strewn around his shoulders and he was nice enough to put on underwear. He’s holding two cans of chilled beer, and all Eddie can say is:

“Please.”

He’s not expecting him to sit down next to him, smelling of coconut and damp skin, reddened from hot water and scrubbing it with a towel.

“Cherish it, we’re drinking half of my weekly allowance.”

“You have a beer allowance?” Eddie gapes at him and Steve just nods, like it’s normal.

“I’m not 21 yet but Claudia knows I’ve been drinking already anyway. So as long as I’m doing it safely and out of Dustin’s eyesight, she’s okay with it. We share wine sometimes.”

"That's nice." Eddie smiles, cracking his can open. "Wayne doesn't monitor my alcohol intake, but it's not like I'm partying much. I just drink with him or with my band sometimes." He shrugs and takes a sip. It's a more expensive brand than he's used to but all beer tastes the same to him anyway.  

"Wayne is your uncle, right?" Steve asks, lowering his own can.

Eddie suddenly realizes it's nice to be remembered as something more than a freak or a Satanist. He gulps down the bitter liquid.

"Uh, yeah. I live with him. Been since I started middle school."

Steve nods thoughtfully, staring at the wall. For reasons he doesn't dare to name, Eddie wishes his eyes were on him instead. 

"Your band is uh, something Coffin? Sorry, I don't remember." He turns towards him and smiles sheepishly and Eddie is taking it all back, take these dark brown eyes away from his face immediately. Steve knows half of his band's name? Be still his traitorous heart!

"Corroded Coffin," he chokes out. 

Steve snaps his fingers.

"That's it! You guys were at the talent show a couple of years back, right?"

Be still, be still, be still. 

"Yeah," he manages. "I'm surprised you remember."

Steve chuckles, but it's not a pleasant one. Eddie prepares himself to be ripped into shreds. Again. He should be used to that by this point, shouldn't he? But his ego is as easily bruised as it is big. 

"How could I not? The biggest disaster Hawkins middle has seen in years."

Eddie winces. It was expected and it still hurt. At least his not-crush could finally go further into the 'not; category. 

Bust Steve had to open his stupid mouth again. 

"It was stupid, in my opinion. You guys are clearly talented, and the music you play shouldn't matter. Most people don't like metal--hell, I don't like metal." He slaps his hand onto his bare chest, making Eddie nod, because yes, he's listening, he's paying attention, and he is looking at his hairy pecs, thank you. "But it was a talent show, judges should be more objective." He slumps into the back of the couch. "You were great on the guitar, I've never heard anyone play like that. I was surprised you could sing too," he says, rolling his head to the side to look at Eddie, who chuckles nervously.

"Why, do I not look like I have an angelic voice?" he asks, tilting his head. 

Steve shakes his head, making a lazy motion against the couch cushion. The closing shift and the beer seem to be getting to him. 

"I guess I wasn't expecting you to be so..." He tilts his head to the side and rolls it back, considering his thoughts and how to voice them out. "Multifaceted?" he offers hesitantly like it's not a word he uses often. Eddie can relate. "I had heard the music teacher talk about your ear, how you can pick up any song insanely fast. I know your English essays get praised, and I know you're unafraid to be yourself, against all odds. It's something I couldn't do..." he trails off, suddenly looking sadder than Eddie knew how to deal with. But to his relief, Steve shakes his head to get back on track. "I just wasn't expecting you to have a nice voice like that. In Hellfire, too. It's like you're taking on a completely new persona. It sounds..." He hesitates before his next words." Freeing." He decides, nodding minutely to himself. "Like you can just tap into another dimension, a nice one," he presses for some reason. "And just live it out. Like for a moment, you're becoming a different person."

Eddie considers him. The thoughtful look on his face that he's still not qualified to deal with. 

"What's wrong with you?" he asks and he hopes against all hope that it doesn't come off condescending. He's genuinely curious, hell, genuinely worried. What makes someone like Steve--America's poster boy, attractive and athletic--think this way?

Steve rolls his head towards him again and his smile is everything but joyful.

"I'm not sure," he admits. "The adult life is more than I've bargained for, I guess." He shrugs, but Eddie knows it's the easy, dismissive answer. And he feels like he needs to get to the bottom of this, his essay be damned. Happily.

"You live with Ms. Henderson, though. You don't have to be an adult-adult," he points out and waits, hoping he's not prying too much.

"Yeah, but..." Steve seems to be collapsing in on himself. "A lot has happened," he says as much as Eddie knows at this point. "And I've been feeling so small against the world, against the universe..."

Eddie's surprised at the mention of the whole universe, but it's not like he hasn't been thinking about it too, so he nods encouragingly. 

"And I'm so grateful that Claudia took me in, I'm so relieved..." He hesitates for a millisecond before his face hardens. "That I don't have to deal with my parents anymore," he finishes with conviction. "But at this point, I don't know who I am. High school doesn't matter, the sports teams don't matter. I didn't get to college, I'm working a shitty job, and not even full-time!" He throws a hand in the air. "Actual high schoolers are taking up all the hours."  

Eddie winces. 

"You're talking to a super super senior here, I don't think I'm doing much better," he points out.

"But you have the band," Steve counters. "It's fun, you have friends for it and if you do it right, it's a great career path."

"If we do it right."

Steve turns abruptly towards him, eyes wide, before he settles back down with a sigh. 

"I believe you can. With your insane guitar skills and all," he offers. 

Eddie chuckles. 

"Thanks, man. But I'm pretty sure you can figure something out, too. I don't believe your 'sports don't matter' thing, there's a lot of money put into it," he points out, not hiding his disdain but Steve only snorts at his tone. "And you probably could land a role in a hair commercial if you tried. Hell, with your looks you could easily become an actor," he reassures his reluctant night companion.

"So you think all there is to me is my good looks?" Steve asks, rolling his head towards him again, this time pouting. 

It kind of is what he said, isn't it?

"Well, no." He straightens up, ready to fix his mistake. Well, maybe not ready, but hoping. "Henderson, uh, Dustin, sings you praises all the time and none of them are about your great hair."

"Good to know a high schooler values me," Steve scoffs, his pout deepening. 

"So!" Eddie ignores him. "If you're a good person and a pretty face, that's a whole world opening up for you. Because as sad as it is, people are simple and need pretty things to ogle. It's what sells and you could totally use it."

He looks at Steve again and when the pout doesn't disappear, he realizes he just dug himself a deeper hole, doubling down on relying on looks being Steve's only option. He stares at his bottom lip as if it could somehow pull him out. It moves and he's hoping for some guidance, but all he gets is...

"Should I just become a stripper, then?"

The flash of images is like a bullet to his head. Steve in fishnets and ridiculously high heels, bending on a pole, chest hair sticking to his pecs with sweat and shining with glitter. His lips tinted with lip gloss--

"I mean, um..." Why is Steve's hairy chest right there for him to see? "Who am I to stop you, right?" he offers with a nervous smile. "If it makes you money, it's a job." 

"I guess." He shrugs, eyes still on Eddie, but the pout is finally gone, so he can breathe easier. It's been replaced with a thoughtful expression. Steve presses the back of his hand to his arm. "Would you come to watch me?"

"Huh?" Eddie frowns at him, at the hand touching him, a single finger running against the sleeve of his shirt.

"If I was a stripper," Steve clarifies.

Would he?

It's never been something he considered, the environment more fit for sleazy older guys who can't get a girl, or businessmen too busy to bother with one. Or bachelor parties. Would he go to a strip club then, if he was invited? Probably. But would he go for someone specifically? That sounds stalkery. Would he go if it was Gareth?

Gareth would look stupid in fishnets. 

But if he asked Eddie, for moral support, would he? Probably. He tries to be a good friend. So he half-nods, half-shrugs.

"If you wanted me to."

"But would you want to?" Steve presses.

"I've never been to a strip club, I don't know." Eddie raises his shoulder in a defensive shrug, kind of lost in the weird turn their conversation has taken. 

Even more lost when Steve's hand drops lower, the back of his fingers reaching the hem of his sleeve and touching skin. The light scrape of his fingernails sends a shiver across his bones. He goes lower and lower, tantalizingly slow into the ticklish spot on Eddie's elbow.

"I'd give you a preview before the show, you could judge if it's good enough," he offers instead, hand sliding down to his thigh, resting just above the knee. Squeezing gently.

Eddie doesn't see Steve anymore. Just his big hand wrapped around his leg. There's a tiny mole on his wrist and a light dusting of hair all the way to his fingers. 

"Would you want me to strip for you?" Steve presses, snapping his attention back to himself. 

His brain is uncharacteristically empty, and It takes him a long while to register, process and understand the heavy gaze Steve's giving him, the fingers digging into the meat of his thigh, the boy next to him leaning in, his eyes dropping to Eddie's lips. 

Eddie jumps up.

"What?!"

Steve is up as well, hands out like he's placating a wild animal. Understandably, because Eddie feels like one. He wants to run like a startled gazelle, or drop dead like an opossum. But he's there frozen like a deer caught in car's headlights. Are the doors locked? How much time would he lose looking for the key if it's not in the lock? Maybe he should try the window instead?

"Shhh, please," Steve's hissing in desperation, but Eddie doesn't want to look at him. "I'll leave, I'm sorry. Please forget about it, I'm sorry."

He sounds even worse than Eddie feels, so he risks a glance towards him. His face is pale in the dim-lit living room, eyes widened in panic. 

Maybe Eddie has been the car all along. 

He knows Steve would flee if he reached out, so he doesn't dare to, slowly shows his open palms again, empty of weapons or judgement. 

"Hey, no, it's okay. I don't care about that. You just surprised me." Understatement of the century. Henderson's brother coming onto him? Impossible, abstract, a fever dream. Maybe he did have too much of Ms. Claudia's delicious earl grey. Something must have been in the tea, the school has been trying to tell him not to trust the Brits all along. 

"You don't care?" Steve repeats, not looking like he's going to puke at the very least. 

Eddie considers his words.

"Not in a 'I'm gonna punch you' way," he offers the best he's got for now. Which even he has to admit, is fucking shit. 

Steve finally relaxes, or rather deflates, half turning towards the dark corridor. 

"Thanks. Goodnight."

As the stairs creak under his steps, Eddie is still processing. He slumps back down onto the couch and for once is happy to find a distraction from his thoughts in the form of an unfinished essay. The thing gets done in no time but he barely sleeps that night. 

tags: @i-have-three-feelings @mblogs @awkwardgravity1 @imacowboy3 @just-a-tiny-void @clumsiluni @shotgunhallelujah @halfadoginatank @carlprocastinator1000 @irregular-child @dreamercec @mightbeasleep @nerdyglassescheeseychick @ellietheasexylibrarian @wheneverfeasible @wormapothacary @estrellami-1 @tinyplanet95 @steddiefication @blasvemous

[gldrushh]

MY KINK IS KARMA | | KTH (m)

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

➵ PAIRING Idol!Taehyung x fem!reader

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

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

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

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

| MASTERLIST | WATTPAD | AO3 |

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

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

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

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

You don’t feel like celebrating now.

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

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

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

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

He was forty minutes late.

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

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

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

Calling: Hajoonie 🩷🩷

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A whole thing.

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

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

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

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

"Joon-sshi."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kim Taehyung.

Of course.

It was always Kim Taehyung.

You hate Kim Taehyung.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because you’re done.

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

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

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

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

Now, you typed:

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

The replies came fast like an avalanche.

[LARA]: WHAT?! HE BAILED?

[JIA]: noooooo. again???

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[SAFIYA]: he flinched.

[LARA]: so did we.

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

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

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

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

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

[JIA]: Wait i thought it was green

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

[LARA]: EXACTLY.

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

You type:

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

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

You are not an afterthought.

The club smells like citrus and hidrosis and possibility.

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

They scream when they see you.

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

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

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

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

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

And for a while, it works.

It fades and fades and fades until it works.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whirl on her. “Don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…I hate him,” you finish weakly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You gape. “Excuse me?"

“Just hypothetically,” Safiya chirps.

"You guys are disgusting."

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

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

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

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

You gasp, mortified. “NO. Stop it.”

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

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

But you don’t want to think about that.

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

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

Smashing a pie in his face.

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

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

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

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

Like pushing him into a koi pond.

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

Right in.

He flails with a loud splash for special effects.

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

You desire.

It’s laundry day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey,” he says.

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

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

“But you weren’t.”

“No.”

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

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

"Did you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

You raise an eyebrow but don’t reply.

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

You blink at him. “Okay?”

He swallows. “With a plus one.”

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

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

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

But…

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

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

Still, you have to play it cool.

“Can my friends come?”

He blinks. “What?”

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

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

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

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

“I’ll think about it.”

He sags like you just handed him oxygen.

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

“I know.”

You glance back at him, tilt your head.

“But you’re making up for it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You haven’t decided yet.

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

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

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

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

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

The first people you meet are benign.

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

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

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

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

She turns away before you can thank her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bora turns.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hate that most of all.

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

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

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

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

The girls show up just in time to interrupt.

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

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

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

You bury a laugh in your glass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then Hajoon is pulling you forward

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

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

“No way,” Jia hisses.

“You’re joking,” lara breathes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s a lot. But you manage.

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

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

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

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

You blink. “He told you that?”

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

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

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

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

"Really nice." One of the girls add.

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

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

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

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

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

Safiya looks ready to melt through the floor.

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

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

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

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

You’re still processing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That creeping thought finally pierces through the buzz. Wait.

Six.

There were six.

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

Except... maybe you do.

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

There was a name.

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

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

That’s it.

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

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

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

You look around for confirmation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Taehyung?” he echoes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hum. “Mhm. Keep the tab open.”

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

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

And just like that, you’re solo again.

Empty-handed and bare-shouldered- Unattached.

Empty-handed and bare-shouldered- Unsupervised.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The crowd thins out here. The sound mellows.

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

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

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

“You’re not with the label, are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You raise a brow. “Is that a line?”

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

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

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

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

He sticks out his hand. “Sangmin.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. "True, that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stay where you are.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It should be nothing.

Keyword: Should be.

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

“—don’t know why you brought her.”

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

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

“Bora, come on.”

You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You feel sick.

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

Was that a lie too?

Or did he mean it then?

Does it even matter now?

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

But you think about it.

Lords, do you think about it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shift and move.

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

Inside, everything falls placid.

Like prey sensing danger.

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

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

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

You don’t look back.

You can’t afford to.

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

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

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

But no footsteps follow. No voices chase you.

Maybe they think it was nothing.

Or worse, maybe they know exactly what it was.

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

You type back:

[omw.]

It’s all you can manage.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your feet start moving before your brain catches up.

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

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

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

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

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

You were good.

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

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

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

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

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

You can’t walk in like this.

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

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

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

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

“Sorry—excuse me.”

She stops, brows raised in mild surprise.

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

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

“Of course.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You step out into the night.

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

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

You close your eyes.

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

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

You breathe. In. Out. In again.

He cheated on you.

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

He. Cheated. On you.

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

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

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

You turn your head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh come on!

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

“It's alright.”

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

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

He turns as if on cue.

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

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

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

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

You know that voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But this isn’t then.

This is now. And now you know the truth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It comes uninvited. Like most things do.

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

Except it wasn’t Hajoon.

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

You blinked at the screen, furrowed your brow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're funny. Send the photo."

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

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

You hadn’t expected a reply.

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

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

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

"Told you. I commit."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Great. Now you’re giving him lines.

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

“Come closer.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally, his gaze shifts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You smoke?"

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

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

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

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

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

You glance at the cigarette. Then at his mouth.

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

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

Do you need a distraction?

Yes. Obviously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You inhale. Lightly.

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

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

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

"Mhm. What habit?"

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

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

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

"Not always."

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

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

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

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

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

The what?

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

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

"Humor me and ask me what is that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance over. “What?”

“Share yours.”

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

“Isn’t it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your mind claws through options.

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

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

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

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

Unfair. Unrelenting. Utterly exhausting.

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

“I’m not your fan.”

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

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

The pause that follows is the longest one yet.

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

“I know.”

Huh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So you’re not bothered?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

His brows lift, slow and unsurprised.

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

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

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

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

“You’ll guess my secret.”

“Exactly. To speed things up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

As if to egg you on, he remains mum.

"You secretly hate the fame."

Oof.

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

You chance a glance at him then.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink.

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

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

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

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

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

Your face torsions into a grimace.

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

“What face?”

“The one that says I’m pretentious.”

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

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

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

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

His head tilts, just slightly. “Huh?”

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

He blinks, slow. “Prove what.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But what?”

“What did that mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

Before you can toss it — he reaches.

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

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

You say nothing. Your throat has turned treacherous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[4ranghaes]

I know you posted it almost a month ago at time I’m writing this request… but would you mind doing a follow up to that one with bnd and reader getting walked in on by another member? Like what is it like the next day? How much teasing can they endure? Will Woonhak be able to survive Jaehyun’s talk?

You don’t have to do a continuation of all the members if you do this request, I was mostly curious about Woonhak.

ot6 bnd x reader [kinda funny, fluff, fem!reader]

pt.2 to this!!!

a/n: okay i actually loved this and i wanted to do a pt.2 to taesan’s too so i just did all of them😭😭

sungho🎀

you walked into the kitchen, sungho’s t-shirt covering your body, as well as your pyjama bottoms. you poured two glasses of juice, smiling politely at riwoo and taesan who sat at the dining table. they just stared at you.

“i’m sorry, taesan! but in our defence, why didn’t you knock?!” you broke the silence, riwoo just laughing while taesan looked insulted.

“why weren’t you making noise?! any normal person does!” he threw back, as you rolled your eyes.

“whatever,” you laughed, “we were gonna order some food, do either of you want anything?” riwoo perked up opposite taesan, who sat pouting.

“just call sungho out here and we’ll talk,” riwoo smiled.

“um,” you paused, your boyfriend’s earlier words echoing in your head.

“i’m not going out there! if you want juice, you’ll have to get it yourself. i can’t look him in the eye right now.”

“i-i know what he wants anyway, it’s fine,” you said, awkwardly.

“oh my god, i can not have this ruining the dorm,” riwoo said, dramatically, “park sungho! get out here!”

“stop! he’s really embarrassed,” you said, shoving riwoo as you sat down beside him, pulling out your phone to flick through the delivery app.

“yeah i bet he is,” taesan rolled his eyes, before covering his face with his hands, “oh my god the image is seared into my brain!”

“well you could’ve left a bit quicker!” you exclaimed, “also, how do you think i feel?! why are you more embarrassed when you’ve seen me naked?!”

taesan stopped then, as the two of you shared an awkward look.

the silence was broken by your boyfriend appearing out of his room, wrapped in his duvet.

“han dongmin. if you say one thing, i’m leaving.”

“what, the band?” taesan teased.

“dongmin!” sungho scolded, collapsing onto the sofa. “i want dakgalbi.”

“okay, baby, we’ll get you dakgalbi,” you agreed, laughing at your boyfriend’s childish behaviour.

taesan just fake-cried, slamming his head into the table. “get out my brain!”

riwoo🦦🍡

“i’m kinda hungry,” you said, putting your phone down and rolling over, cuddling up to your boyfriend’s side. “shall we go and make that fried rice now?”

“or… shall we order?” riwoo grinned, wiggling his phone at you.

you gasped, “shall we?! wait. do you just not want to leave your room in case you see leehan?”

riwoo scoffed, already scrolling through the app, “no!”

you glared at him, riwoo sparing a glance to you as he rolled his eyes, “fine. yes. i don’t think he’s gonna say anything, i’m just embarrassed. i mean i literally moaned in front of him.”

you giggled, getting up and exiting the room, riwoo watching with a screwed up expression. you were right, even though you hadn’t said it, he knew your sentiment, he couldn’t spend his life in his room. but, this would pass in a day or two…

suddenly, leehan appeared at the door, breaking riwoo out of his concerns. you were stood behind him like a supportive mum.

“i’m sorry, hyung,” leehan spoke, face expressionless, “i should have knocked, i should have noticed sooner. i’m sorry.”

riwoo groaned, burying his face in his hands, “this is worse!”

“well what do you want me to say?” leehan laughed, “hyung, look, i’m sorry, but it’s life! i don’t care, also it’s not like i saw anything.”

riwoo hummed, getting out of bed and coming over to the two of you.

“what?” leehan said, as he was face to face with the man.

“get out of the way. i’m so hungry i could die, i need to make myself food.”

“you have been avoiding going outside!” you exclaimed.

“of course i have!” riwoo laughed, before grabbing leehan’s hand as they walked through the hallway. “wait. but seriously donghyun, if you tell any of the other members, i’ll—”

“what? that you and your girlfriend dry hump?” leehan laughed, riwoo smacking his shoulder.

“shut up, idiot.”

jaehyun🪻🐕

“we need to implement some serious boundaries in this band!” woonhak yelled, storming out his bedroom, taesan close behind.

“oh, it’s taesan now? it’s usually myungjae that’s being said about,” riwoo snickered.

“no one beats jaehyun, though,” taesan scoffed, still hanging off woonhak, despite the clear annoyance from the maknae, “what other friends have to implement a ‘no sex in the living room rule’?!”

“yeah, well, just be glad i stick to it,” jaehyun said, saluting all the members, while you smacked his chest.

“myung jaehyun, you absolute liar!” sungho yelled.

“oh god,” woonhak laughed, “hyung?! again?!”

“i walked in on those two making out the other day,” sungho said, now facing the rest of the members for a dramatic retelling.

“that’s not—”

“shared conversation, and everything!” sungho exclaimed, “and the entire time! he was continuing to finger her! under her skirt!”

“what the fuck?”

“myungjae—”

“please! oh my god!”

“jesus christ.”

jaehyun just laughed, while you hid your face in his shoulder, “what can i say?”

“oh my god,” you groaned. you pulled away, grimacing at the boys, “i’m so sorry, i don’t know why he’s like this.”

“yeah, yeah, you were there too, y/n! don’t act innocent,” sungho teased.

“she’s wearing a skirt, guys,” leehan said, smirking, “we should be careful, they could be up to something right now.”

“shut up, donghyun, that’s so—” you cut yourself off with a gasp as jaehyun ran his hand up your inner thigh, cupping your clothed heat. “myung jaehyun! stop it! you’re such a pervert.”

your boyfriend just giggled, removing his hand and leaning his head on your shoulder, the rest of the members groaning, riwoo and taesan even getting up and walking away, all while myungjae laughed to himself.

“i hope you’re having fun,” you said, sarcastically, peering down at him.

myungjae grinned, “of course i am.”

taesan🎸🐈‍⬛

“hi,” taesan said, entering riwoo’s bedroom.

“hey.”

“did you… get that jar open?”

“nope,” riwoo shook his head, offering an awkward smile to his friend.

taesan sighed, groaning, “i’m so sorry you had to see… that, but also—”

“i’m not gonna tell the others, tae,” riwoo smiled, “don’t worry.”

taesan sighed a breath of relief, “thank you, sanghyuk, genuinely—”

“i might tell my therapist, but, you know, they won’t tell anyone.”

taesan whined, burying his face in his hands, “oh god, i’m so embarrassed.”

“no, don’t be,” riwoo laughed, “i’m into it, actually. just didn’t realise you were too.”

“mmhmm,” taesan nodded, screwing up his face, “too raw to talk about it. maybe another time.”

riwoo laughed, nodding and waving taesan off.

“okay,” taesan nodded curtly, leaving the room, “thanks, hyung.”

he closed the door behind him, returning to his own bedroom where you were laid on the bed. you turned to smile at your boyfriend as he entered, placing your phone down.

“you do it?”

taesan nodded, trudging over to the bed where he collapsed into your arms, “he said he won’t tell anyone besides his therapist.”

you laughed, kissing his head, “well done, baby.”

taesan groaned, burying his face in your body, “fuck that’s so embarrassing. i actually want to die.”

leehan🪸🐠 [this one went in a very different direction to the others so.. smut content warning]

“thanks, woonhak,” sungho laughed, welcoming the boy back out of leehan’s bedroom and into the living room.

“why do i always loose the bets?” woonhak sighed.

“we seriously need to talk with them. how can they always be this loud?” taesan grumbled.

woonhak swallowed, “it was… hot though.”

jaehyun laughed loudly, shoving the maknae, “yeah? you liked it? perv.”

“shut up! just… objectively,” he said, embarrassed, “obviously i don’t want to see y/n noona like that, but…”

“what… what did it look like, woonhak? i mean, what were they doing?” riwoo asked, all the boys subconsciously leaning forward to listen in.

“well donghyun was sat on his desk chair,” woonhak swallowed, “and y/n was on his lap. but, i mean, her entire ass was covered in… you know.”

“in cum?” jaehyun finished, woonhak nodding in response. the boys somewhat laughed, but anyone could tell they were turned on.

“and- before they knew i was there, leehan kind of… took some and fed it to her,” woonhak said, clearing his throat as he nodded, “fuck. that was really hot actually.”

“damn,” taesan spoke.

“fuck,” sungho nodded.

riwoo and jaehyun had pulled pillows and a discarded hoodie over their laps.

“what’s up,” leehan suddenly spoke, emerging from his bedroom. he still wasn’t wearing a shirt, but he had sweatpants covering his lower half, slung low on his hips. his hair was slightly wet with sweat, lips swollen.

“nothing,” woonhak said suddenly.

“you were watching us, right?” leehan smirked, “perv.”

“shut up! you’re the one having sex loud enough for the whole dorm to hear!”

“you’re all jealous,” leehan teased, downing a glass of water, “get a girlfriend and tell me you don’t want to do just that.”

the boys all sighed, going back to their various activities until you emerged from leehan’s room. despite your hardest efforts, you seemed to be walking with a limp, and, as chance would have it, the only bathroom was past the living room.

you smiled awkwardly as you passed by, the boys all staring at you, trying to hide their own heavy breathing.

though your body was covered, they could almost see it. plus, the few hickies on the back of your neck and shoulders that were revealed as you walked by didn’t help.

when you disappeared into the bathroom, their eyelines fell to leehan who was smirking.

“losers.”

woonhak🧸

“this is the worst.”

you turned to look at woonhak, bursting into laughter at his unhappy expression.

“i’m serious, y/n. we’re busted. this is worse than my parents finding out,” your boyfriend groaned.

you were both sat on the sofa in the living room like two naughty children, pyjamas covering your bodies the next morning, while jaehyun paced up and down the kitchen, ever the dramatic.

he finally entered the living room, staring at you with the cutest angry expression ever. “when did this start?”

woonhak groaned, but he had promise to answer all his questions, “y/n’s birthday, earlier this year.”

you suppressed a laugh, nodding seriously as jaehyun took a dramatic deep breath.

“and who initiated last night?”

“hyung!” woonhak whined.

“you said all my questions!”

“fine!” woonhak sighed in defeat, “i did. i even came home early from the studio cause i was horny, and i knew y/n was here, sorry! sue me! hyung, you can’t say anything i’m an adult now!”

jaehyun wiped fake tears from his eyes, “and were you adults using protection?”

you nodded as woonhak frowned.

“what?” you laughed.

“d-did we?” he asked, suddenly worried as he looked to you.

you furrowed your eyebrows, “did we?! i don’t know woonhak you’re in charge of it!”

“y-yeah. yeah we did.”

“are you sure?” you asked, gripping woonhak’s hair to get him to look at you.

“oh my god,” jaehyun said, laying down on the floor.

“not the time hyung! i’m checking the rubbish.”

you groaned, laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation. you turned to jaehyun, “are you done?”

jaehyun chuckled, nodding, “yeah, i just like to wind him up. just take care of him, okay? and please use protection.”

you nodded sheepishly, woonhak coming back into the room with a successful smile on his face.

“we did! we did. it’s in the bin,” woonhak smiled, coming and sitting back on the sofa, giving you a quick kiss as he did.

jaehyun had obviously grown tired of his own antics, but as taesan entered the room, an evil smile grew on his face.

“taesan-ah!” he yelled.

“no! hyung!” woonhak whined, diving to the floor to tackle the leader.

but jaehyun was ever persistent, “woonhak’s having sex now! our baby! he’s all grown up, taesan-ah!”

“what?!”

[spearbxcheol]

SpiderHan!

｡･:*˚:✧｡ ૮₍ ´• ˕ • ₎ა ｡✧:˚*:･｡

Spider-Man!Han Jisung x Reader.

𖤐 drabble/one-shot?, action, mild violence, implied hostage situation.

𖤐 SpiderHan really had its moment in the fandom and honestly?? we need that comeback, maybe i'll write more of him? 💭

Jisung rolled his eyes at the guy who tried to run away from him on the street. He had just caught him stealing from the 24/7 grocery store — and that wasn’t happening. Not on his watch.

“Hey! Do you seriously think you can outrun me?” Jisung’s voice rang out as the man started gaining distance. “It’s almost 3 a.m., and I promised myself I’d sleep early today. Don’t ruin this for me!”

As he finished complaining about the guy — now nearly turning the next corner — he pointed his hand, and the next thing he knew, his web shooter launched him forward at high speed. His spider-sense kept him safe, guiding him past obstacles and avoiding the lamppost just in time.

The thief didn’t even notice Spider-Man hanging from the lamppost ahead. Jisung could feel a smirk forming under his mask the moment the guy almost tripped from the shock of seeing him there. Jisung gave him a little wave.

“Oh my god!”

What neither of them noticed was you — standing there, frozen, eyes wide in shock. You’d only ever seen Spider-Man on the news, chasing bad guys... and now he was right in front of you. You snapped out of your trance when your dog started barking wildly, reminding you why you were even walking down the street at this hour in the first place.

But before you could grab your dog and walk away, the thief was faster. He yanked your arm, pulling you in front of him and pressing a knife to your throat. You gasped and shut your eyes.

“Back off and I’ll let them go!”

Jisung’s mind raced. It had all happened in a split second. Then he looked at you — and his eyes widened. You were Y/N. The same Y/N who always sat next to him in the class you both shared. You two would laugh at the dumb jokes the professor cracked mid-lecture. You weren’t close, but shared a mutual friend.

“Are you deaf, Spider-Boy?”

The man was holding you tightly, using your body as a shield between him and Spider-Man. Your dog — now off-leash because you’d dropped it — was barking non-stop. You opened your eyes and met the superhero’s gaze.

“Help me, please.” you mouthed.

Jisung didn’t hesitate. He aimed and shot a web at the man’s hand, pulling the knife away and tossing it aside. Then he leapt down from the lamppost, landing right in front of the two of you.

In one swift, precise move, Spider-Man pulled you behind him. You let out a breath, your heart racing. You stepped back as he grabbed the thief by the collar and punched him hard in the face, right on the nose.

The adrenaline surged in Jisung’s body. He had never saved someone he knew before — and now, with you, it all felt heavier. The real weight of his powers. It scared him.

He turned to you. You were holding your dog in your arms again, and even from where he stood, he could see you were shaking. When your eyes met the white lenses of his mask, you took a deep breath.

“Thank you,” you whispered. “I almost ruined everything.”

“No, you didn’t ruin anything,” Jisung said, his voice a little tight. He shook his head. “He’s the one who’s in the wrong here.”

“Are you okay?” he asked, and you nodded. “And what about this little guy?” He extended a hand toward your dog, but was met with a bark.

“Sorry about him!” you apologized, trying to calm your dog, but Jisung smiled behind the mask.

“That’s good! He’s a good boy. Honestly, if I wasn’t here, I bet he would’ve saved you all by himself.” You let out a small laugh and nodded.

“Yeah…” The air between you both was strange. Your body was still trembling after what happened. It hadn’t been a great experience being held hostage at knifepoint. Spider-Man seemed awkward, completely unlike the reports you’d read online. Like he didn’t know what to do once the fighting stopped. And the thief? Still unconscious on the ground.

“I’m going home” you said. “Thanks for saving me, Spider-Man.”

Jisung felt his cheeks heat up at your smile and words. The only thing he could think to do was raise both thumbs up like an awkward teenager as you walked past him, heading back the way you came.

“That was painfully weird.” he muttered to himself, glancing at the guy on the ground. “Please don’t post anything weird about me on the internet…”

He sighed, walked over to the man, pinned him to the wall with webbing, and called the police. Another job by the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.

[sicvitaest27]

I’d like to give my two cents on this subject, as an author myself.

Honestly, I consider myself quite a free speaker, and will ask if I have something to ask, just as I’ll comment, when I have something to comment. Also, when I’m done with the story, I’m more than happy to give feedback.

Of course, I understand that one of the beautiful things about writing WIP s is that real time interaction with readers, as the story progresses. But, for me personally, I do find myself waiting for the story to continue, without having the need to input anything. Not because I don’t care about the story, just because I understand what is going on, the direction, and everything else is just explained well, so there’s nothing really prompting me to ask anything, for it would, probably, be spoiler territory.

Now, of course, theories and whatnot are always welcome, but, there’s only so much theories that can be made about a story; and that heavily depends on how vague the story is being written, and don’t even get me started of people guessing and guessing, and then, by so many guesses, finish the story before you even get a chance to conclude it yourself. That’s a totally different can of worms, that I do not want to get myself into at the moment😂

Now, when an author explicitly asks a question to the readers, sure, it is always a welcome thing to answer, but, it should be considered that, unless they have enabled the notifications from a specific blog, chances are, that, if they follow a lot of blogs and people, they simply won’t see it, and for the ones that do, not all of them will feel the urge to respond. Why? I don’t know, that’s just their preference, and the reasonings are their own, and that’s okay. That’s how it is.

I’m relatively close to submitting a story of my own, and honestly, I would love to have interaction with the readers, for them to tell me how did they like the story, the characters, but I understand if they don’t, because, 9 times out of 10, I first, don’t find myself having the need to give constant feedback, and if that’s the case for me, I can’t put different expectations onto others.

But that’s just normal. That’s why you see games on steam, that everyone knows have sold millions, yet have only 300 reviews, or IF s on steam, that have authors on tumblr, and they are writing a second book for their IF, and there’ll still be barely any questions about it, or any theories.

Would I want for the community to be more active? Absolutely, but only because I want people to have a good time, and to feel free to have that good time, without thinking that they’re going to be subjected to whatever. But, if they are still here, following along, then that’s fine too, and that shouldn’t affect the authors, because, I understand that it’s always good to get that engagement, because that tells you that you’re doing something that’s worth doing, worth more than you may initially think, but, as an artist, you should do it because of yourself, first and foremost.

This is not a rant, and this is not a comment made against anyone who feels differently than what I just said; you’re justified in that, and I do feel you, trust me, but, as long as people want to stick around and enjoy your stories, then I say let them! And, if they wish to talk to the brilliant mind behind the story, then by all means, but I don’t see a point in trying to force something to do that. Because, even encouraging can be viewed like that, and I doubt that any of us want that.

So, to conclude this, yes, the community may have gone a tad bit quieter, and the reasons for that are unknown to me, but, should that change? Hopefully, but if not, then hell, it is what it is. There are certainly many factors and reasons that can be taken into account for that, but, what I advocate for, is for people to be comfortable and have a good time. And for authors, to do this because they truly like doing it, and, as Toni Morrison had put it, “If there’s a book that you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.” That’s how I view my writing. No one’s written this, in this specific setting or this specific way, with these specific characters, and so, I shall write it, and if people like it? That’s just icing on the cake.

Anyhow, to all my fellow authors, I feel you, I truly do, but hey, things change the way they do, but that shouldn’t demotivate you. People will express themselves when they wish to do so, for reasons only they have, and that’s also fine as well. Hopefully, folks will get more comfortable, for the IF community is a lovely community, which offers a safe space for everyone, but, if they just wish to follow along, let them. It’s all you can really do. Cheers to everyone, and love to all🥂🖤

I think a lot of authors have noticed this lately: Likes, comments, reblogs with reviews... everything seems to be getting quieter. Stories go on, chapters come out, but all too often, it's a great silent nothingness that greets them.

Are we at fault, or is it something else? Yet you're there, we can see you raising the view counters on our demos.

I'm not here to lecture or beg for anything. I'd just like to understand, as many other authors do, why ? Because this statement is the result of a growing concern? Depression?among our ranks. To the degree that some of us have come to say: What's the point?

I'd just like to remind you of one thing: a story is alive, yes, but ! It's alive thanks to you, not just to us.

Every word you read, every emotion you feel, every theory you silently formulate: it's all part of the magic of a story, and it needs to be shared. When you share it all, a comment, a reblog with a fews words, even a brief reaction, that's when it really comes together, you're blowing on the story's flame! You fuel it, make it tangible. You give it a life that an author, alone in front of their screen, can't always sustain over time. Believe me, we try... Some are more gifted than others, but I'm all for helping each other.

Because yes, we write out of passion, out of desire, out of need. Yes, we love our worlds. But the impetus, the joy, the motivation, the feeling of really being read, all that is also born from exchange.

So here it is, just a quick note to say that if you like or don't like something, please say so. No need for a big dissertation but there's nothing worse than silence, it's the great reaper of our aspirations and I don't want to let it win.

And to my author friends: you're not alone. 💙

[runningincircl3s]

Who Are You?

Kickboxer!Noah x Reader

Chapter Five

chapter warnings: i don't want to spoil anything but i think it's important for me to mention reader does NOT have an eating disorder!! she's just anxious!! a little nsfw? just a comment from matt tho!! i put too much of myself into reader

masterlist ♡ can i just say thank you sooo much for the love on this fic already it's actually crazy??? the idea for this has been on my mind for months (not to expose myself here but it's been my bedtime scenario to help me sleep for so long lmao) so i'm just happy that i can sit here and giggle and kick my feet whilst i write this and people can feel the same when they read it!! :)

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

Minutes ago...

“You're sure this is a good idea?” Kylie asked, her heels tapping quickly against the hallway floor as she attempted to keep up with James' pace- but right now he was a man on a mission, and he was not slowing down for anyone.

“Of course!" He grinned, turning to face her, "Worst case, we say we forgot she had plans. Best case?” He smirked, “We catch them being horny and weird, and we get to make fun of her forever!”

Kylie stopped in front of the door and fished around in her bag for her spare key, whilst James pressed his ear up against the door, listening.

“I can hear something. Are they... laughing?” His brows furrowed as he waved a hand for Kylie to join him.

“Probably-“

THUMP

“What was that?” James gasped, wide eyed.

Kylie grinned and shoved the key into the lock

“Let’s find out.”

The door slowly creaked open.

Kylie stepped in first and immediately froze. James bumped into her shoulder as he followed behind.

“What-“

And then he froze too...

Because on the couch, front and centre stage, barely five feet away from them, was you and Noah.

Or you straddling Noah, his hand on your hips, your forehead against his shoulder.

James blinked, before turning to Kylie to whisper.

“Are they-“

“OH MY GOD,” Kylie shrieked, not bothering to keep quiet as she sounded somewhere in between thrilled and horrified. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”

You yelped, recoiling like you’d been caught stealing candy.

“KYLIE?!”

Noah groaned under his breath, already covering his face with one hand like he’d foreseen this exact scenario in a nightmare.

James stared, wide eyed in stunned silence, and then calmly said.

“Are you… dry humping him on the couch?”

You scrambled upright, bashing your leg into the coffee table in your rush to escape.

“OW FUCK! No! I- we were sparring!”

“Are you sure?” Kylie asked sweetly. “Because it kinda looked like you were trying to fuck him into the upholstery.”

“Jesus Christ.” Noah mumbled under his breath as he sat up.

“Your form was solid, though." James said as he took a step forward, "Good hips.” He nodded, his hand stroking his chin as if he were a judge on a TV show, "Only thing I'd say you could improve on is-"

“JAMES,” you shrieked. “GET OUT!! BOTH OF YOU!!!”

They both giggled as they backed out of the door. You rushed to slam it shut behind them, making it rattle in its frame.

And for a minute, all you could do was stand there, your back to the room, hand still on the door handle.

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t move, couldn’t even look at him.

You’d never wanted the floor to swallow you more in your entire life.

You had just been on top of him in front of your best friends.

Oh god. You were never going to hear the end of this.

You thought you should say something to Noah, though you weren't entirely sure what you should say in a situation like this. So, you swallowed hard, your throat burning as you opened your mouth.

“I…” you said, finally turning just enough for him to hear you speak, your eyes still locked firmly on the floor. “You can have a shower if you want. Or… you can just go. It’s fine.”

For a moment, Noah didn’t move. He didn’t say anything.

And you still couldn’t look at him.

Your heart pounded so loudly in your chest that you could barely hear how suffocating the silence actually was. You tucked your hands into the sleeves of your gym shirt, as if that could help you.

“I’m really sorry,” you said, voice quieter now. “About everything. About them. About… that.”

Still, nothing.

You peeked up at him for the briefest second.

He was sitting exactly as you’d left him, on the edge of the couch, head in his hands, forearms resting on his knees. His brows were drawn tight, his lips pressed into a line, eyes fixed somewhere on the carpet, far away. He looked like he was thinking too hard.

And then he got up. He quickly threw his hoodie on and grabbed his gym bag.

“Save it. I’m the one who should be sorry.” He mumbled as he passed you on the way to the door.

He didn’t look your way once. He just reached for the handle with no hesitation.

And left.

…

You didn’t text him all week, and he didn’t text you either.

Not that you expected him to, he looked pretty pissed when he left and that only made you feel more awful about it all. You made him uncomfortable, and now you were afriad he would never talk to you again- because this time he actually had a valid reason.

Every time you unlocked your phone, you thought about texting him. But you didn't know what to say... Hey, its me, sorry! or Did I ruin everything? or Sorry you had to push me off your lap in front of my best friends, still up for class on Tuesday?

A few days later, your friends came over to make up for that night. But they noticed you weren't yourself, and they admitted to feeling guilty about it, but you reassured them it had nothing to do with them, and everything to do with you.

“Has he texted you yet?” Kylie asked gently as she handed you a cup of tea, as if she didn’t already know the answer. You couldn't even look at the tea. It reminded you of him. How he had let you try his, how he had paid for you at the café, how you had screwed everything up before it could even start.

You shook your head, placing the mug down onto the table before curling deeper into the blanket cocoon you’d wrapped around yourself on the couch.

“Nope.”

“Are you going to text him?”

“Nope.”

She gave you a look, crossing her arms as she stood above you.

“Babe.”

“I can’t,” you groaned. “What if he thinks I’m still trying to... I don’t know, hump him on the couch again?!”

James popped his head in from the kitchen, a spoon hanging out of his mouth.

"I'm sure he'd happily accept, did you see the look on his face? I thought he was about to-"

“JAMES!”

“I’m just saying." He shrugged, a grin creeping up on his face, "I'm sure he'd love for you to "fall" on top of him again.”

“Don’t listen to him.” Kylie rolled her eyes as she sat down on the couch beside you.

You groaned and buried your face in the blanket.

“I’m going to cancel my gym membership. I'm never showing my face there again.”

“No,” Kylie said firmly. “You’re not.”

You peeked at her through a little slit in the blanket.

“You can’t stop me!”

“I can,” she replied, tugging the blanket away from your face, “And I will. You love that gym, and you love kickboxing. You finally found something you enjoy and you’re good at, and you’re going to throw it away because you dry humped your hot trainer on a Tuesday?”

“I didn’t-”

“You did.” James called from the kitchen. “And it was hot!”

“Shut up, James!”

Kylie leaned in, lowering her voice.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. Neither did he. You tripped and things escalated from there. And I thought you said he was the one who encouraged you to move... on him."

"I thought so, but what if I was wrong? He kept telling me not to move, even when I was trying to get off of him but then that happened... And then you guys walked in. You weren't even supposed to be coming, and I told him that! I'm just worried I made him mad, he couldn't even look at me before he left."

“Babe,” Kylie said gently, “Noah’s not mad. He probably left because he panicked, not because he didn’t like it.”

"So why hasn't he texted me?"

"Why haven't you texted him?"

You stayed quiet, chewing your lip.

“You’re not cancelling your gym membership,” she said again. “You’re going to go to the next class like a grown up and face it. And if he acts weird, then he’s the problem. Not you.”

You stayed buried in the blanket, but your voice was soft when it came out.

“…Will you walk me there?”

“Of course.” Kylie smiled.

...

You’d been anxious all day. You didn't sleep the night before, you couldn’t eat, you couldn’t focus at work. You couldn’t stop thinking about that damn night, and regretting every moment of it.

Your apartment was a mess, responsibilities you've ignored over the last few days were piling up, both clean and dirty laundry piled on the dining table, dishes filled the sink, but all you’d done for the last hour was sit on the edge of your bed, staring at the hand wraps Noah let you borrow last week. The ones you didn't get a chance to give back before he left.

You had taken better care of them than you had yourself for the last few days, you googled if they needed washing, what to use and how to clean them correctly, what's the right way to dry them...

Now, they sat in your lap like they weighed a hundred pounds.

You told yourself that if things went wrong tonight, if he glared at you from across the room, if he ignored you, acted like he hated you, then you were simply only there to return them to him. You'd hand them back. Say thanks. Leave. Cancel your gym membership. Move across the planet.

It was barely a plan. But it was the only thing holding you together right now.

A sudden knock at the door made you flinch, pulling you back from your thoughts as you tossed the wraps down onto your bed and made your way across you apartment to open it.

You could already hear James' voice from the other side of the door. And as you slowly pulled it open, you were met with two overly happy best friends.

Kylie was leaning against the doorframe behind him, arms folded, and James was stood directly in front of you, holding two coffees, you already knew one would be used as some kind of bribe.

“You ready?” Kylie asked, noticing how you were already in your gym clothes.

“Absolutely not.” You shook your head, but just as you were about to shut the door on them, something got in your way.

It was James' arm. Holding out a coffee.

“Drink this, put some shoes on and grab your bag.”

...

You barely spoke on the way out of your apartment, because you still weren't sure this was a good idea. The walk to the gym was barely even five minutes, but it was long enough to feel your life flash before your eyes.

James continued to sip his coffee, oblivious to your meltdown, whereas Kylie kept glancing over at you- probably to check up on you, though you thought she was making sure you hadn't ran away in the time it took her to push the main door open.

You took a deep breath as you stopped at the curb opposite the gym. It felt like you hadn't been here in years, when only two weeks had passed.

“I can’t go in." You whispered, shrinking into your hoodie like it might shield you.

“You can,” Kylie said, looping her arm through yours. “And you will.”

“What if he ignores me?”

“Then he's an asshole and he doesn't deserve you." She said simply, already steering you toward the crossing.

The light turned green, but you didn't budge.

“Come on.” Kylie tugged your arm.

“I’ll throw up!”

“You won’t.”

“I’ll cry!”

“You might. But that's okay.”

Your feet stayed rooted.

“Kylie-”

Kylie gave James a nod, and he quickly grabbed your other arm, coffee still in hand, and the two of them physically dragged you across the street.

“KYLIE. JAMES. STOP!!”

“Relax,” James waved his hand. “No one even knows what you did. Except us. And Noah. And the couch. And maybe even Aaron, depending on where you hid him.”

You groaned, the building was growing closer with every forced step.

The doors were right there now. Right in front of you.

You knew you had to do this, because what's the worst that could happen? Your life would go back to the way it was 6 months ago, and Noah would find a new girl to teach, to tease, to hold-

That was all the motivation you needed. Suddenly, you feet were moving before you could even attempt to stop, and you had made it into the gym.

As the glass doors slid shut behind you, you turned back to your friends, giving them an unsure wave.

But, as you reached the door to the usual room, you hesitated.

You peeked through the glass panel on the door, just to see if he was there- and yep! You spotted him immediately.

He was across the room, standing in his usual spot, your usual spot, but he was laughing with two guys you didn’t really recognise. They’ve never been here before. Noah looked genuinely happy, like he didn't have a care in the world, and you don't know why that stung the way it did.

Your fingers tightened around the strap of your gym bag, wondering whether or not to leave. You could slip out and nobody would notice. Noah certainly didn't look like he was bothered by your absence.

But you couldn't leave. Not with his hand wraps in your pocket. Or else you’d be reminded of him every time you saw them in your drawer of shame, along with your crochet hooks and acrylic nail kits, and other items from hobbies you had given up on a long time ago.

You swallowed hard, forcing your legs to move, forcing your arms to reach out just enough to push the door open.

Your shoes tapped lightly against the floor as you crossed the room, weaving between bodies, keeping your eyes on him.

You felt more nauseous with every step, and as soon as he was in arms reach, you felt a little light headed, like you might pass out.

You took a breath, barely holding it together as you reached him. You tapped his arm gently, his skin warm under your cold fingertips.

“Noah?” Your voice came out small, a little unsure, but he quickly turned to face you. “Can we… talk?”

For a second, he looked like he wasn’t sure what to say... but before he could answer, Tasha's voice rang across the gym.

“Alright everyone, warm up time! Partners or solo, let’s go!”

Your heart sank. But Noah gave a small, apologetic tilt of his head, offering you a softer look this time, one that was more familiar, more him.

“After class,” he promised quietly. “I’ll find you.”

You barely had time to nod before he was tugged away by one of his friends, the one with the beard and darker hair, leaving you alone.

Great!

With a sigh, you shrugged off your hoodie and dropped your bag by your usual spot on the bench. After a quick sip of water, you began to stretch near the edge of the mats. Everyone else had already partnered up, pairs sprawled across the room, laughing, bouncing lightly on their feet, and there you were. Alone.

You bent to fix your shoes, fiddling with the laces, when a voice spoke beside you.

“You wanna partner up?”

You glanced up.

One of Noah's friends, the one with the slight baby face, smiled at you. His hair was dirty blonde, and you noticed how one of his arms was completely covered in tattoos, matching the one fully covered leg.

"Sure!" You straightened, blinking.

With a kind smile, he held out a hand.

“I'm Matt.”

...

You swiped the back of your wrist across your forehead, the warm up had been a little more intense today, and you already felt a little sticky with sweat.

You had been trying your best to ignore Noah, and it had been working so far. You hadn't glanced his way once, and every time you could hear his voice, you blocked it out- or tried to at least.

But now you needed a drink. You wandered over to the where you left your bottle and took a sip before leaning against the wall to catch your breath. That’s when you noticed Matt struggling to wrap his hands. You spotted how one hand was wrapped too loose, and the other was looking like a tangled shoelace.

You couldn’t help the small laugh that slipped out, and Matt’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing as you approached, still smiling to yourself.

“Need some help?” You asked, already reaching for the wrap.

Matt made a face, you couldn’t tell if he was somewhat amused or offended.

“It’s harder than it looks, alright.” He said, watching your hands.

You chuckled under your breath, gently taking his left hand, fingers brushing his wrist as you started unravelling the mess.

“You’ve got them a little twisted,” you explained, smoothing the fabric out. “You’ll cut your circulation off if they’re like that.”

“You seem to know what you’re doing.” He pointed out.

You shrugged, carefully looping the wrap across his knuckles, the way Noah had shown you a dozen times now.

You were even slightly surprised you knew what you were doing. But Noah didn’t have to know you knew how to do it, you liked the way he did it for you.

“I had a good teacher.”

Matt thought nothing of it at first, and you finished wrapping his hands. You let yourself glance over at Noah now, just the once, and you kinda wished you didn't. He had just slipped his black gloves on, his chest was still rising and falling pretty quickly from the warm ups, and he was grinning at whoever his other friend was. His hair had fallen over his eyes a little, his biceps looked a little too biteable-

"I think we should spar," Matt said, making you flinch as he pulled you out of your Noah induced daze, "But you'll have to go easy on me, I'm still pretty new at this."

"Yeah," you nodded, your pulse still racing, your cheeks still slightly hot from looking at the guy across the room, "We should."

You both slipped on a pair of gloves, and then you looked at Matt... You tilted your head, giving him an unimpressed once over. His stance was okay, but his feet were too wide apart, shoulders too tight. You knew it wasn’t going to work.

“You’re gonna fall like that.” You pointed out, stepping closer before he could argue.

Matt’s brows lifted, but he didn’t argue as you nudged at his foot with yours to adjust his position.

He stayed perfectly still, watching you with amused eyes as your hand skimmed down his arm, gently repositioning his elbow and wrist.

“Getting real hands on already,” he murmured, grin widening. “If I’d known you were this friendly, I’d have showed up sooner.”

You laughed softly, giving his shoulder a quick push to test his balance.

“If you showed up sooner I probably wouldn’t have had to correct you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he chuckled, rolling his neck, “Show me what you got!”

And you did exactly that.

You both sparred for a while, dodging each others moves, laughing as you kept him on his toes. It was clear he wasn’t expecting you to be so good at this, and in all honesty neither were you. You dodged nearly every hit he threw, slipping just out of range, each time his frustration growing more obvious.

“Okay…” Matt exhaled, shaking his head as you ducked another jab, your grin only growing. “You’re way better than I thought.”

“Like I said, I had a good teacher.” You shrugged, your gaze meeting Noah's for just a moment.

Matt’s eyes shot across the room for the briefest second, then, a knowing smirk crawled across his lips.

“Oh… you’re that y/n,” he muttered, stepping forward faintly, “Yeah… Noah always talks about you.”

“He does?” You raised an eyebrow.

Matt didn’t reply right away, he continued to move, forcing you to follow. His grin widened, cocky now.

“All the time… y’know he never really cared too much about the gym before, but now he makes sure he doesn’t miss this class if he can help it. He said he trains with a pretty girl…” His voice dropped to a more teasing tone. “But you should hear him when he gets home… we’ve got paper thin walls.”

He let the words hang, a slow smirk spreading across his face as he watched your guard slowly drop before he continued.

“Your names real familiar by now, I thought I was just hearing things the first few nights,” he added. “Turns out, he’s not exactly quiet when he’s thinking about you.”

Your breath hitched, heart picking up speed. Matt’s grin only widened as he dodged your wobbly jab effortlessly.

“Yeah… one sleepless night was all it took for me to figure out what kind of ‘training’ goes on in his head,” he said. “Can’t unhear it now.”

Before you could respond, he made a move since your guard was down. It was just a quick kick that caught your side, but it knocked you off balance. You stumbled, laughing as you landed hard on your ass.

Matt grinned down at you.

“Gotcha!”

“You asshole!” You chuckled, reaching out for his hand as he offered to help you up.

But just as you made it back to your feet, you heard his voice.

“Swap with me.” It wasn’t a question, Noah was already tugging his gloves off.

“Noah?" Your brows furrowed.

“Dude, I didn’t mean to-“

“Don’t care. You’re with Davis now.” He said, already taking Matts place on the mat.

Matt rolled his eyes, but seemingly knew better than to fight.

“Fine, fine!” He sighed, giving you a small smile and a gentle wave as he wandered off.

“Are you okay?” Noah asked, his voice laced with panic as he turned his attention back to you. “That looked like it hurt.”

“Noah, I’m fine. Really. He didn’t knock me down, I slipped… You know what I’m like.”

“But he caught you off guard, he shouldn’t have done that.”

He was right. He did catch you off guard…

One sleepless night was all it took for me to figure out what kind of ‘training’ goes on in his head…

“C’mon, let’s take a break.” Noah nodded towards the benches by the side of the mat.

You didn’t fight him. Mostly because your lower back was already starting to throb from where you hit the floor, and the adrenaline was wearing off quick.

The second you sat down, you winced. You shifted a little, but it was enough for Noah to notice, his brows furrowing immediately.

“Where?”

“Where what?” You blinked.

“Where does it hurt?” His tone left no room for argument, his gaze sweeping over you like he was assessing every inch for damage.

“It’s nothing.” You tried to say, but he was already crouching in front of you, his hands- still wrapped but he had ditched the gloves now- were resting lightly on your knees, waiting for permission to check.

He tilted his head, eyes softer now as he said it again.

"Tell me where it hurts."

Your cheeks flushed.

"Just... near the bottom of my back."

“That’s what I thought.” He said, stepping over the bench so he could get behind you. His thumb carefully brushed the hem of your shirt, “Lift this a little?”

You swallowed, fingers trembling slightly as you pulled your shirt up. His thumb gently dipped beneath the waistband of your leggings, moving them down just the slightest bit, just enough for him to see the faint mark blooming across your skin.

His jaw flexed. His thumb traced the space just beside the bruise, never on it, never pressing.

“He shouldn’t have done that.” Noah muttered under his breath, more to himself than to you as he stepped back over the bench.

“It was my fault, I wasn't paying attention-”

“No, it wasn’t.” He said, crouching down to your level. “You don’t blame yourself for that.”

You weren’t sure what to say, so you settled for a weak smile.

“Stay here,” he said, standing. “I’ll grab some more water.”

When Noah returned with two bottles of water, sitting beside you on the bench, something had changed. Now that you weren’t on the floor in pain, you had both remembered.

He handed you the bottle, but neither of you spoke.

You both sat there in silence, you were thinking of how to word what you wanted to say, and so was he. In all the weeks of coming to the gym and seeing Noah, nothing had ever felt as awkward as it did right now. Not even the time you misjudged and kicked him in the balls.

It was just too quiet.

You fiddled with the bottle cap, twisting it open and taking a sip just to avoid saying what you knew was coming. Noah ran a hand through his hair, his own bottle untouched.

Then, finally, when you both spoke at once.

“So about last week-”

“I should probably explain-”

You both cut off, blinking at each other, the corner of his mouth lifting with a little awkward grin.

“Sorry." You mumbled, laughing under your breath.

“No, you first.” He offered, voice lower and quieter than usual- nervous perhaps, though he hid it pretty well.

You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek before glancing at him.

“I… thought you were avoiding me.”

“I thought you were avoiding me.” He said, his eyebrows raised in surprise, and a little amusement.

You breathed a soft laugh, fiddling with the thumb hole in your sleeve.

“I wasn’t. I was just… embarrassed, and I thought you wouldn't want to talk to me again.”

He tilted his head slightly.

“Why?”

“Because…” You looked away, staring down at the bottle in your hands, thumb running over the ridges of the plastic. “Because my friends barged in, and it was embarrassing for me. And I thought it was for you too, and then you couldn't even look at me afterwards... I thought I made you mad."

Noah stayed quiet for a second, his gaze fixed on you, though you were still looking down at your bottle. After a moment, you heard him exhale softly, like he was trying to ease something off his chest.

“You didn’t make me mad,” he said, his voice gentle, "Not at all."

You peeked up at him. His brows furrowed a little as he sat back, water bottle resting loose in his hands.

“I couldn’t look at you,” he admitted, the faintest edge of embarrassment touching his tone, “Because I thought I messed it up.”

"Messed what up?” You frowned.

“That night,” he said, gaze dropping to the ground for a second before meeting yours again. “I should’ve asked before I touched you like that. I wasn’t thinking straight… And when they walked in, I saw your face, I thought... I thought I pushed you too far. You looked… I don’t know. Scared. Like you regretted it.”

“Noah,” you whispered, shaking your head quickly, “I wasn’t scared. And I didn’t regret it.”

He didn’t answer right away, but the tension in his shoulders eased a little, though hus eyes searched yours like he wasn’t sure if he could believe you yet.

“I didn’t stop you,” you added softly, the words barely above a whisper, "Because I wanted it too."

Noah was quiet for a moment, like he was taking your words in. Then, with a little nod of his head, he hummed.

“Okay,” he said with a soft chuckle. “Well, I'm glad we're both idiots.”

You laughed at that, nodding your head as you felt the weight on your chest finally lift for the first time in days.

"We are."

Now, the silence between you felt comfortable. You sighed contently, like you could finally breathe.

However, the silence didn't last for long. Because your stomach decided now was the perfect time to let out a long, humiliating growl!

grrrrrhrggghhhg

Your eyes widened in horror, and you felt your cheeks heat in embarrassment. Noah’s brows raised slightly.

"Are you hungry?" He asked, his voice soft as his eyes met yours again.

You opened your mouth to deny it on instinct, but his head tilted knowingly, cutting you off before you could speak.

“Don’t lie,” he murmured, eyes narrowing in playful warning. “I’ve been watching you. You've not been yourself, your hands are shaky and you let Matt knock you on your ass… how long’s it been since you ate?”

"Last night," you confessed, fiddling with your bottle again, "I've felt too sick, too nervous to eat all day. I've been worrying about seeing you, I was worried you wouldn't want to talk to me."

“Hey,” he said gently, his voice softening. “I told you… I’m the idiot who thought you wouldn’t wanna talk to me.”

Your lips parted like you wanted to say something, but you couldn’t.

Noah exhaled softly, eyes still steady on yours before he leaned down, reaching for his gym bag beside the bench. After a moment of rummaging, he pulled out a protein bar, the wrapper slightly crumpled but still intact.

"This is all I've got," he said, sounding almost a little disappointed , like he genuinely wished he could pull a full meal out of his gym bag for you, "I guess it's better than nothing."

You smiled faintly, your nerves unraveling just enough to let a breathier laugh slip out.

“It’s fine,” you murmured, reaching for it, “Thank y-”

But before your fingers could brush the wrapper, he held it just out of reach, brow raised, the corner of his mouth curving ever so slightly.

“Only if you let me take you to dinner after class." He bargained softly, "Wherever you want."

My bed?

Your lips parted, eyes darting between his and the protein bar like you were considering the terms of a contract.

“It doesn’t have to be a date,” he added, “I already told the guys I’ll drop them home so I'll do that first... then we’ll get food. Is that okay? You can still have the protein bar if you say no by the way.”

The sincerity in his tone made your heart warm. You nodded once, small but certain, and he finally handed over the bar.

“Good.” He smiled.

You hesitated, eyeing the wrapper suspiciously, then took a cautious bite… and instantly grimaced.

“Oh my god,” you mumbled around the dry, chalky mouthful, “I've had one of these before... and I swore I'd never touch one again!"

Noah chuckled under his breath, stealing the rest from your hand and finishing it off himself with zero hesitation.

"Dunno what you mean, they're delicious!" He teased, though it was clear he was trying not to scrunch his face up.

Despite everything, you smiled, settling back on the bench beside him, shoulders brushing slightly. For the first time all week, you could actually breathe.

"I'd ask if you want to get back on the mats," Noah said, looking over at where you had left your gloves, "But I don't want to risk you passing out on me."

"Wouldn't be my most graceful moment." You laughed softly, nudging his shoulder.

Noah's lips parted, like he was about to say something. Then, his eyes drifted across the room towards his friends. They looked like they were meant to be sparring, but instead they were messing around, seeing who could wrap their arms and legs around a punching bag and stay on for the longest.

"Okay," Noah sighed under his breath, "If they don’t wanna be sensible..." He stood, grabbing both your gym bags without asking, slinging his own over his shoulder. "We’re leaving."

"You sure?" You asked, standing slowly.

"They’re barely training, you nearly fainted, and I promised you food. Let’s go."

You smiled, following him across the mats as he called out to the other two.

"We’re done. Grab your stuff."

Matt groaned dramatically but obeyed, the darker haired one- you heard Noah say his name was Davis- shrugging as they followed on behind you.

You didn’t miss how all three of them were wearing something with the words Bad Omens on it... Noah's shorts had the name printed down the side, Matt had a black hoodie with a design on the back, and Davis wore a tshirt with the name on the front. It could've bene a coincidence, but you've noticed Noah seems to wear a lot of things with that name on...

"What's a Bad Omens?" You asked, eyeing the clothes. "You guys in some sort of cult?"

"You could say that," Davis snorted, "But no, it's a band that we're all... fans of."

"Like... a boyband?" You chuckled, watching Matt's smirk grow even more mischievous.

"Metal band." Davis clarified with a nod of his head.

"Yeah but the lead singer? He's pretty enough to be in one, isn't that right, Noah?"

"I... uh..."

You looked over at him, intrigued.

“You a fan too?”

"Yeah... something like that." Noah said, but thankfully this conversation ended as you reached the car- and now Matt and Davis were arguing over the front seat.

“Hey, you sat in the front on the way here!”

“Yeah only cos you walked!”

“So it should be me-“

“I’m older.”

“It’s Noah’s fucking car!”

"Guys, calm the fuck down," Noah interrupted, unlocking the car with a click. His hand pressed lightly to your lower back as he guided you toward the passenger side. "She’s got the front."

Ignoring the guys groans, you slid into the passenger seat, still hyper aware of the warmth of Noah’s hand as it drifted off your back, his touch lingering on your skin long after it was gone. The door clicked shut beside you, and you stared at the dashboard for a second, completely frozen.

You were in Noah’s car.

Noah’s car.

The inside smelled a little like him, you definitely needed to find out what cologne he uses. His hoodie was on the drivers seat, you assumed he took it off just as he got out earlier. He threw his and your gym back into the back with the guys, where you could hear Matt and Davis still bickering as they piled in behind you, but it all felt muffled compared to the way your pulse thundered in your ears.

You were in Noah’s car.

The guy you only knew as the hot gym guy just months ago!

Breathe. Just breathe.

You shifted awkwardly, gripping your seatbelt with shaky hands, fingers fumbling as you tried to clip it in. Noah slid into the driver’s side, glancing your way, one brow raising faintly as he caught your expression.

“You okay?” He asked, his voice laced with amusement like maybe he already knew exactly why you looked ready to combust.

You forced a little nod, swallowing hard as you clicked the seatbelt into place.

“Yeah,” you mumbled, cheeks burning. “Just… y’know… your car.”

A small smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth as he started the engine.

“Yeah, you like it?” He teased.

...

After dropping the guys off, the car was noticeably quieter... You sat in the passenger seat, picking at your nails as Noah pulled away from the curb.

He didn’t say anything for a moment, just one hand on the wheel, the other relaxed on the gear stick. The radio played quietly, which you were thankful for, glad you weren't sat together in complete silence.

“Where d’you wanna go?” He asked, glancing over at you. You were a little surprised at how gentle his voice was.

You opened your mouth, but your brain faltered. You couldn’t think. The nerves from earlier were still sat in your chest, and being in his car next to him wasn't exactly helping. You weren’t even sure what you felt like eating.

“I…” you hesitated, shaking your head with a small shrug of your shoulders. “I dunno.”

Noah’s eyes were back on the road, but his lips curved into a small smile.

“That’s alright,” he replied, steering easily through the traffic. “I’ve got somewhere in mind... It’s nothing fancy. Just somewhere I like to go when I’m home.”

When I'm home.

You frowned slightly, because that's not the first time he had said that. Where else would he go? You already guessed he travelled a lot for work, so just assumed he meant that, and you nodded.

“Okay.”

The ride wasn’t long. Maybe five, ten minutes tops. But it felt longer with how aware you were of him, and how close he was- as if you weren't sat on top of him last week.

Eventually, he pulled into a small parking lot beside a little building with soft lighting spilling from the windows. It wasn’t what you expected, though you didn't even know what you were expecting.

The place was small, but it was inviting. It looked cozy from the outside, and that was confirmed as you followed him in. The lighting was warm, the sound of chatter and laughter filled the air, along with the smell of food, which made your stomach grumble once again.

The waiter by the door didn’t even ask for a name. Just a nod at Noah, like they knew him well, and you were led to a booth tucked near the back by a window.

You both sat down, giving the waiter your drinks order before he left.

And now here you were, sat across from Noah at a small, worn in table, menu in hand, eyes darting nervously between the list of food and him.

Noah sat casually, forearms resting on the table as he thumbed through the menu.

You, on the other hand, were barely skimming the options.

It wasn’t even the food. It was him... His presence, the soft look in his eyes, how nervous you suddenly felt around him.

You had felt this way before, but every time you had ever caught feelings for someone, it was never reciprocated- and if it was, it was only an act so they could get in your pants. But here you were, sat across from a guy who genuinely seemed to care about you, and the thought of him possibly feeling the same way as you made your heart do something you couldn't explain.

You hadn't even noticed you'd been staring blankly at the menu, not reading it. You'd been in a world of your own, and you quickly managed to snap yourself out of it and looked at the options.

Cheeseburgers. Fries. Onion rings. Mac and cheese. Double bacon cheeseburgers. It all sounded delicious... if you were sat at home by yourself in front of the tv, but the thought of ordering something like this in front of Noah made you feel a little uneasy.

And, of course, Noah noticed. His gaze lifted, head tilting slightly as he set his menu down.

“What’s wrong?”

His voice startled you slighlty, fingers tightening around the laminated page.

“Nothing!”

He didn’t buy it. His stare didn’t waver, but his expression softened, as did his voice.

“Talk to me.”

Your throat tightened, cheeks warming as you exhaled slowly, admitting under your breath,

“I don’t… know what to get.”

The words barely made it past your lips, but he caught them.

“That’s okay,” he leaned forward a little, his hand resting casually near yours on the table, like he was wanted to touch you but held back. “You’ve never been here before.”

You bit your lip, heart racing embarrassingly fast. Noah let the quiet stretch a moment longer, eyes searching yours before adding gently,

“Would you like me to order for you?”

The softness and sincerity in his voice made it hard to say no. So, despite the feeling in your chest, you nodded your head.

"Okay... yeah."

A small grin spread across his face, subtle but enough for you to notice, and your heart to skip a beat.

The menu stayed in your lap, mostly forgotten about, your fingers fidgeting with the corner as Noah caught the attention of the waiter.

You half expected him to just order his own food twice, but instead he almost listed off the whole menu. Two different burgers. Chicken nuggets. Fries. Onion rings. Even a side of wings, and also requested some different sauces.

You blinked, glancing up at him as the waiter scribbled everything down and walked off.

“That’s… a lot." You almost whispered, your voice quieter than you meant it to be.

Noah leaned back in the booth, casually draping his arm along the backrest, eyes fixed on yours- god he's so fucking hot.

“Yeah.” He nodded, like it was obvious. “No pressure that way, you can have whatever you want.”

You felt like your heart was going to burst with the amount of pure love you felt for this man.

You almost felt yourself begin to tear up- sure, it was just a simple gesture, all he did was order a bunch of things from the menu, but he did it for you. To make sure you had a choice, that there was at least one thing you liked.

“Noah, you didn’t have to-”

“I wanted to.” His eyes softened as he spoke, “Figured it’s easier than stressing over what to order… and before you say you weren’t, I could tell. You always get quiet when you’re overthinking, something I noticed during that first class.”

Your stomach did a silly little flip at that, and you felt heat rush to your cheeks. You looked away, tucking your hands into your lap.

He’d noticed. And instead of blatantly pointing it out, making it worse, he made it easier.

The food didn’t take long to come, and in the time it took you had been telling Noah all about your week, and your asshole of a boss. But then, the table was filled with plates, a basket of fries, burgers stacked high, golden onion rings- it all smelled incredible, and your stomach agreed, growling loudly enough that Noah huffed a soft laugh under his breath.

“See,” he teased, already reaching for one of the burgers, sliding the basket of fries toward you, “It smells good, right?”

You reached for a fry, hesitating a little, but Noah didn’t rush you. He didn’t say anything, just started eating his own food. You nibbled at the fry, glancing up at him across the table.

He caught your gaze and smirked faintly, nodding toward the rest of the food.

“Try this,” he said, not long after, holding half of his burger out toward you, it did look delicious. “It’s good!”

You hesitated again, but he was so patient with you. Your heart fluttred as you leaned forwards, taking a bite. Noah watched you carefully, smirking as you hummed softly in approval.

“Good, right?” He said as he pulled the burger back. “Told you.”

You nodded, still chewing, smiling despite yourself. The nerves didn’t completely vanish, but they eased enough for you to actually eat and enjoy the food, your appetite growing again.

…

You weren’t even sure how it happened, but between the two of you, every plate on the table was empty after about 20 minutes- besides the spicy wings, which you pulled a face at when you tried, and Noah teased you for it. You were comfortably full now, slouched just slightly in your seat, fingers lazily chasing the last few fries in the basket.

Noah watched you, elbows resting on the table, silently taking in how comfortable you looked now compared to earlier. You peeked up, catching the way his lips had curved into a small, warm smile.

“What?” You asked, wiping your hands with a napkin.

“Nothing.” He said with a gentle tilt of his head, his eyes warming as they met yours, along with his heart.

Your brows furrowed, but his smile only grew as he leaned in a little more.

“Just proud of you,” he expressed, voice a little quieter now. “I know you weren’t feeling yourself earlier.”

Your mouth hung open a little, and you didn't trust yourself to speak as you noticed how his words made your tummy feel fuzzy. You wanted him to tell you that again and again and again. You looked up again to meet his eyes, and something in the way he looked at you in this moment settled you more than anything else had all day.

You swallowed gently, tucking your hands beneath the table.

“Thank you.” You whispered, quiet but honest, looking away to try and hide the way your cheeks had turned pink.

A gentle, comfortable silence settled between the two for a quick moment, until Noah leaned back, tossed his napkin onto the plate and glanced toward the door.

“I should probably get you home,” he said. “Before your friends freak out.” Oh yeah. Kylie and James were waiting for you at your place.

“…Shit.” You blinked, laughing under your breath as realisation settled over you. “I didn’t tell them I was going anywhere.”

“What, you just disappeared on them?” Noah chuckled.

“I didn’t think you’d actually take me to get food," you confessed, a little embarrassed, "I thought you were just saying it… just to be nice.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, pushing his chair back as he stood. His large hand came down, palm open in silent offer. You slipped your hand into his, letting him help you up, trying not to think about how perfectly your hand fit in his.

“For the record,” he murmured as you gathered your things, “I never say things I don’t mean. If I say I’ll take care of you…” His eyes met yours with a look that matched the teasing yet serious tone in the way he spoke, “I’ll do it properly.”

You followed him out, Noah’s hand brushed lightly against your lower back as he guided you toward the car, his gentle touch lingering for a moment longer than it probably needed to, like he wasn’t quite ready to let this evening end yet.

“Watch your head.” He said as he opened the passenger door for you.

The simple gesture made your heart warm, like everything else he does, but you slipped in carefully and let him shut the door for you, before he circled around to the drivers side.

The ride started quiet, the two of you still full but comfortable, you could already feel yourself wanting to yawn- it had been a long and rather emotional day.

You glanced his way once, studying his side profile, the line of his jaw, the tattoo on his throat that crept up the side of his neck- his perfect fucking nose that you wished you could reach out and just boop.

You hated how much you wanted him close again. Even if it was just for a moment, and you had spent all week regretting it, but you couldn't stop thinking about how his hands felt on your hips, how warm his bare chest was beneath your fingertips, how hard he was beneath you, and how it felt as he rocked you against him-

Stop. You shook the the thoughts from your head... but just as the horny ones left, the dreaded ones found their way back.

What if you didn't let your friends drag you across the street to the class? What if you only dropped by the class to hand his wraps back to him and leave again without saying a word. Would he have reached out? Or would he have let this- whatever was going on between you- die?

You exhaled quietly, turning your head to look out the window.

“Hey…” His voice gently pulled you from your thoughts, he glanced your way for a second before returning to the road. “You've gone quiet.”

"Sorry... I was thinking."

“Don't do that, you'll give yourself a headache,” he smirked, gently teasing. “No, seriously,” he prompted, voice a little softer now, “What’s on your mind?”

You hesitated for a moment, debating whether to come up with a lie or an excuse, but knowing Noah, he'd see through you.

"I almost didn't go to the class today. My friends had to physically drag me across the street because I was too scared to face you again... but if I didn't come, what would've happened?"

You noticed the way Noah’s fingers flexed on the wheel as he pulled the car to a slow stop outside your building, not even realising you were here already. He parked up, turning the engine off, before answering.

“What would've happened?” He repeated your question under his breath, eyes fixed ahead for a second like he was thinking it over. “I would’ve gone insane,” he admitted simply, turning his face to meet your eyes. “I spent the whole week thinking I screwed everything up. I was ready to text, I wanted to… but I couldn’t tell if you wanted space, or if you hated me, or…” He exhaled, shaking his head with a quiet laugh, almost at himself. “Guess we both overthink shit.”

"Yeah... well, we don't have to anymore." You said hopefully, meeting his eyes with a soft smile. The kind that made his heart race.

He chuckled under his breath, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips before looking away again. You unbuckled your seatbelt slowly, the click loud in the quiet car.

“I’d say come in… but my friends are waiting for me, and I'm already gonna get interrogated tonight, and I'm sure you'd rather not suffer through a million questions too.”

You noticed the way he smiled at the offer, but he also hesitated briefly.

“I’d love to, and I would have done...” he sighed, his voice dropping softer, sounding almost regretful. “But I’ve got a flight to catch in a few hours.”

"What?! A flight?" Your eyes widened.

"Yeah... work stuff." He nodded, running a hand through his hair, ruffling it a little. “It's just for a couple days."

You tilted your head, studying him.

“You’ve got a flight to catch... and you’re out here with me instead?”

That made him chuckle, and he nodded softly.

“Yeah,” he said simply, like it was obvious. “You were more important.”

For a moment, you forgot how to breathe. You were frozen completely still... did he really just say that or was this a dream? Did you pass out in the gym when Matt knocked you down?

Noah just chuckled to himself and opened his door, stepping out. The sound brought you back to earth and you followed him out the car, waiting for him to grab your gym bag from the backseat.

"Want me to walk you up?" He asked, and you answered with a nod.

Slinging your bag over his shoulder, he reached out for your hand, and he held it all the way up to the door of your apartment, his thumb brushing the back of your palm every now and then, as if to remind you this was real.

Once you reached your door, the two of you stilled. The world around you seemed to just melt away as you looked up into his brown eyes, a colour you’ve grown to love.

You really took him in from this angle... the small scars on his face which you guessed had been left behind from piercings, the dark colour of his lashes, the shape of his lips, the little freckle just under his eye... you wanted to reach out, cup his face in your hands, stand on your tip toes and kiss every inch of him.

His eyes dipped to your lips again, lingering for just a second longer than they should’ve. But he didn’t lean in, even when you thought he was going to. Instead, his grip on your hand tightened ever so slighlty, his fingers gently curling higher up your wrist, and then he lifted your hand between you.

You barely managed to swallow the lump in your throat as he pressed his lips to the back of your hand.

His lips were warm and soft against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine as his eyes met yours, looking at you through his lashes as he gave you the most gentle, delicate kiss.

It was an innocent gesture, but the way he lingered, the way his eyes locked with yours, made it feel incredibly intimate.

You were surprised your knees didn't give out beneath you. The feeling of his lips alone sent heat to your lower belly but the way he looked up at you through it almost made you whimper

“See you next week?"

You nodded, mouth dry, brain working overtime just to form a sentence... but somehow, something slipped out before you could overthink it.

“Text me… when you land?” you whispered, almost shyly. “Just… so I know you got there safe. Wherever you're going.”

“I will,” he promised quietly, his voice soft and sincere. Then, just as he pulled away, gently letting go of your hand, he whispered, “I'll miss you."

--------------------------------

reading this back i don’t really like this chapter :/ BUT THE NEXT ONE…….

@dragoncopper @renegadebirch @super-btstrash-posts @pipidoll @xslavicprincess @foliosgirl @h4tef6ck @jesuisunchaton @saythatuwill @astronoids @missduffsblog @montgomery-929496 @lonelydragonlady @happyclifford @popularpopularmonster @bluehairpunklol @bruce9818 @itsyaboinoah @mayaslifeinabox @lonesomegrace @dominuslunae @lacy1986 @jesuisunchaton @overmydeadbodysblog @kenjipepsi1 @onlyethereal @theright-wrongway @geminigirlfromfinland @miss570 @trvshdxddy @spookieolson @sugaruapologist @latenightmusiclover @eversiinceny @shuiguans @lyschko666 @xxkatsatwatwafflexx @flowery-mess @pathion @bladeupnred @urafakebetch @mycheersricochet @bloody-spades

[softtdaisy]

_____your taste on my mouth

pairing. bodyguard!Aaron Hotchner x reader

summary. all you need is a pool and aaron to be between your legs to have a good day

words count. 1 416

what to expect. 18+ MDNI oral female receiving, fingering and licking, aaron has a dirty mouth, it happens in the pool

a/n. you're not dreaming the bodyguard series is back 😭 i made this post and the comments convince me to write a story about making out with hotch in the pool so here it is ✨

_____criminal minds masterlist | aaron hotchner series 

“You’re not fun.”

Well, honestly, you were still surprised that Hotch had accepted to let you rent a house with a pool just because you wanted to leave the city. You were tired of waiting for your life to get back to normal at your apartment. And as social as you could be, you also needed to have a pool for you and you only for a few days.

Well, you and Aaron when he would finally decide to put a foot in the water.

“My job is to watch you, not swim with you," he replied in the same very calm tone. 

The good point of him sitting on the deckchair was that you could appreciate the view in peace. It wasn’t everyday Aaron was around in a swimsuit showing his muscular hairy legs -that you really wished you could see more- and a casual green t-shirt. And yes, as expected, your eyes landed on his biceps and the veins appeared on his hands quite a lot. 

It wasn’t your fault your bodyguard was the hottest man you knew.

You saw to the border, crossing your arm on the floor in front of him.

“Wouldn’t you be quicker to save me when I drown if you’re already in the water?”

He didn’t put up his sunglasses yet you could still see his judgemental look. “When you drown?”

“I’m a very clumsy person.” 

He didn’t even bother replying to your remark and took back his book. Because yes, the house was in a very peaceful and distant village. He made sure you didn’t have to worry about anything these next days. 

So the reason why he was staying out of the pool with his book wasn’t out of overprotectiveness. It was because Aaron couldn’t trust himself near you in just a bikini.

You, on the contrary, were dying to share a private moment with him. Here. In this house. In this pool. And you weren’t the type to easily give up.

After his reply -or lack of reply- you went back for a swim. Only to feel your top slipping from your neck. How strange it was untied after you pulled it. 

So you walked back to the same place you were minutes ago, your hand on your chest. “Aaron? I need a hand.” or two.

“What did you do?” he sighed, taking his time to walk to you. And when he kneeled in front of you, you almost lost it. Being this pretty shouldn’t be allowed. 

“I can’t redo it myself. And except if you want to see what's underneath…”

He let out a kind of grunt or whatever this sound was supposed to be. “Turn around.”

You hid your little smile, turning around to give him your back. For a moment, you appreciated the little contact of his hands on your neck. The touch of fingertips were almost burning on your wet skin. There was something in the way he was taking his time doing the tie.

But letting Aaron do your bikini wasn’t the whole plan. Slowly, you moved your hand up to take his.

You weren’t sure how you managed to do that, but a few seconds later, Aaron Hotchner was in the pool with you. 

You swimmed away before he put his head out of the water. But you still watched as he put a hand through his hair, brushing them away. Or when he took the sunglasses that were floating to put them away, stretching his arms right in front of your eyes. 

“I thought you needed to take a swim.” you said in a fake innocent voice that was clearly not doing it with Aaron.

“Oh you thought so?” he replied, starting to move towards you.

You laughed, going backwards. “You don’t look so pleased Aaron.”

But he wasn’t doing it the easy way. Instead, he dived underwater. And reappeared right in front of you. He didn’t waste a single second before pressing his chest against yours, trapping you between you and the pool wall. “Depends on how this ends.”

You brought a hand to his neck, playing with the small wet hair stuck on his skin. “I have an idea on this.” 

And so did he.

One of Aaron’s hands went under your thigh, bringing your leg around his waist to put himself harder against you. The other one moved to your face, cupping your cheek softly, his thumb already caressing your lips.

“What happens here stays here.” he whispered, moving his face closer to yours. But your desire for him was too high to form a single word. So instead you nod.

A nod that lasted a single second before Aaron’s lips crashed on yours. It wasn’t a soft kiss, no. His teeth went deep in your lip before you opened your mouth, welcoming his tongue in a dangerous game.

A game that was going on under water too. His hand moved to the inside of your leg, moving your bikini to the side. A moan escaped you, falling it right in his own mouth, you felt his finger exploring your lips already. He was eager to have you. And the little flick on your clit was just another proof. 

Aaron left your mouth to whisper “so wet for me baby.” But his mouth didn’t go back on yours, instead exploring your neck with wet kisses. 

“I’ve never been wet for anyone else since I met you” you managed to reply, how you weren’t sure. Your brain clearly froze the moment Aaron finally pushed his finger inside you. And he moved it. Faster. Quicker. Deeper.

Making you feel even emptier when he pulled it away out of nowhere. But Aaron knew how to make it worth it, by bringing it to his mouth. He kept eye contact with you when his tongue went around his own finger. Tasting you right in front of you. “Taste delicious baby.”

“You know there is a way to taste it better?” you said, putting your hands on his shirt to finally get rid of it. You couldn’t stand that green shirt anymore. You needed to get a full access to that chest that had been hunting your dream.

Aaron considered it for a moment. But you let out a scream when he left you up and put you on the border. His hands went on both sides of your waist and pulled on both strings to get rid of your bikini. He threw it in the water but you didn’t get the time to watch it float and drown. 

Because Aaron didn’t waste another second before spreading you open and putting his head between your legs.

The first touch of his tongue on your clit was already so good it almost made you lose your mind.

“Oh god, Aaron.” you moaned, bringing a hand to his hair. You had to bite your lips to contain your moans. Because this man was good at everything he was doing. And giving you pleasure was in his top 3. 

The way he buried two fingers inside you again, curling them and thrusting them perfectly to touch the right spots. 

The way his tongue was moving on your clit, sucking on it like his life depended on it. 

The way his other hand was caressing your ankle softly, a little attention going straight to your heart.

The way he was moaning your own name against your lips, the deeper he was going inside you. 

Taking just as much pleasure as you were.

You crossed your legs behind his neck to move him closer to you. You wanted to trap Aaron there and he didn’t want to leave either. 

Aaron knew you were close to the edge when your hand on his hair started to loosened up and you started to lean back more and more. 

“Give me everything, honey” he kissed your thighs before going back to your pussy. Licking you until you finally reached your orgasm, finally getting everything he wanted from you. 

But his lips stayed on you while you found composure again, kissing your skin softly. 

“See” you sighed, finally moving up, leaning on your elbows. “I knew it was worth it to pull you in the pool.”

An amused smile appeared on his lips. His hands kept going up and down your legs until he slid you into the water again. “You never give up when you have something in mind.” It wasn’t a question.

“Not when it comes to you.”

Tag List: @kiwriteswords @monzabee @raysmayhem-72 @kajjaka @pastelpinkflowerlife @winyourheartemma @aaronhotchnersgf  @averyhotchner  @liilysblog  @storiesbynova @lemoncee @mayhills @deeninadream @sillymuffintrashflap @alediao @jsjcue @marina468 @violettablackwood @yasministration

📬FILL THE FORM TO BE ADDED

[tqlepatia]

Hello darling!

I saw the post about plus size!reader not eating, and was wondering if I could request something kind of similar? I've always been super insecure over how skinny I am— bony joints and showing ribs. Could you write Sevika reassuring reader that she likes her even though she isn't smooth and curvy?

BONES AND ALL

— warnings : Comfort and reassurance after internalized body shame, Body image insecurity, Self-esteem struggles

Sevika sat on the edge of the bed, looking over at you with an expression that softened when she saw the way you were tugging at the hem of your shirt, almost as if trying to hide parts of yourself.

You were always so caught up in your insecurities, even when she never once gave you a reason to doubt her feelings for you.

"Hey," she murmured, her voice low but firm as she reached for your hand. She guided you to sit next to her, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "Why are you doing this to yourself again?"

You didn’t immediately answer. Instead, glancing away, your fingers still restless on your clothes.

She could tell you were thinking about all the things you're insecure — the bony joints, the ribs that sometimes peeked out from under your skin. To her, though, it didn’t matter.

“Dear…” Sevika began, her thumb gently rubbing your knuckles. "You think I care about your curves, or the lack of them?"

She smirked slightly, but her eyes were filled with warmth, softening the playful edge of her tone. "You think I don’t love you because you’re not smooth and soft? Bulshit."

She scooted closer, her arm wrapping around your shoulders, pulling you gently against her side. "Tsk, if i cared so much for a body, i would just date a manequin instead," Sevika continued, her voice steady.

"you’re more than you think your body is, and i love you, just the way you are. Those bones? They're part of what makes you... you. Hell, I’ve got scars and rough edges myself, but you’re still here, aren't you?"

You let out a shaky breath, feeling the weight of her words settle over you. She never seemed to mind the things you thought were imperfections. In fact, they felt like a part of your strength, a part of the unique person you were.

Her hand slid from your shoulder to rest over your ribs, not in a way that felt critical or uncomfortable, but protective, as if she wanted to remind you that she saw you fully, and loved everything about you—every little bit.

"You’re perfect to me. Don't let anyone... or your own damn mind—tell you otherwise." Sevika kissed your temple, the warmth of her lips lingering. "I like you this way. Just how you are."

You couldn’t help but melt into her embrace, the safety of her words wrapping around you like a blanket, making all your insecurities seem small in comparison to the enormity of her care for you.

"Now," she said, a playful glint in her eyes, "let's focus on something else, yeah? I’ve got dinner on the stove, and if you keep looking at me like that, I’m not sure I can resist taking you to bed instead."

Dinner was simple, warm and homemade, with the kind of spice Sevika always swore wasn't that strong but made your eyes water just a little.

She'd made too much, like always, scooping generous portions into your bowl without waiting to hear if you wanted that much. She didn't pressure you to eat. Just set it down in front of you and sat close at the little table. The sleeves of her button-down rolled to the elbow.

"So," She started suddenly, her voice cutting through the quiet, "this idiot at work today thought he could sneak a pistol past the checkpoint." She scoffed, shaking her head. "Tried to lie right to my face. Didn't even blink."

You gave a soft, neutral, "Mhm," and stabbed your fork into another piece of rice.

She leaned back in her chair with a dramatic sigh, lips quirking. "You should've seen the look on his face when I pulled the whole damn thing out of his boot. Thought he was slick."

She paused just long enough to see if you'd react. When you didn't, she filled the silence again. "Then Ran-remember Ran? Tall, dumb, talks like they've got marbles in their mouth?-they spilled a full pot of coffee on the main console. Sparks everywhere. Thought the damn place was gonna go up in flames."

You cracked the tiniest smile at that, but didn't speak. She noticed. She always noticed.

She didn't press you. Didn't ask why your appetite was slower than usual or why your eyes seemed a little dim tonight.

She didn't have to. She knew. And so she just kept talking, filling the space so your thoughts wouldn't have to. Kept the air light while her heart quietly worried.

Later, you curled up in bed beside her, full enough, quiet again. Your head rested against her chest, her shirt soft and worn under your cheek. Her hand gently cupped the back of your head, the other resting protectively along your spine.

She didn't say anything for a long moment. Just breathed slow and steady, letting the rhythm anchor you.

she held you there, fingers threading softly through your hair until you fell asleep, She loved you, all of you. And that was more than enough.

౨ৎ - 𝐓aglist ; @prettyinpink69 , @abbysdollie , @marieeeluvsyou , @littlelovelunette, @madzorwhatever , @zvmbitegirl , @salsalsusu, @katarandaa, @starrycherie , @moonshimegf, @watermelonshine, @zombieeepup, @laviannasfanfics , @windytulips, @genderfluidlesbain999 , @dulcerbbns, @selxoxomwa, @dynacats, @supalcina.

[equestria-cross-mod]

Very long vent/rant below the break (yes, another one). Also, go read Twin Runes, it's really good. Also also, bully me into reading the entire thing, because for some reason I can't seem to sit down and do that on my own.

And to clarify, this whole thing is directed at the anon who asked the question, not the person who answered the ask.

I was just scrolling through this blog since I enjoy the comic (though I really need to read the whole thing) and came across this post. If you know me, you know that I really don't like letting injustice stand without me saying or doing something, so here we go. Prepare for heavily restrained anger.

Akanemnon have stated that how people see them doesn't matter as much as how they make others feel. And they want them to feel positively. I can tell they're incredibly kind because of that.

I also empathize with them about this in particular, considering that, while I'm not popular, I do still struggle immensely with being social just in general. Especially publicly.

Now, here's the thing. I have a different approach to this sort of harassment they're experiencing here, which I've stated above. While I'm not as aware of the unspoken social rules that neurotypicals have, primarily because I'm autistic (among other things), some of the rules I do know are ones I don't agree with.

Now, to my point.

Anon? I didn't see the post being referenced here, but I don't think I need to. You're being ten times worse, anyhow. What you're doing is known as "guilt-tripping", and it's something I take huge issue with. You're also assuming the worst here, which tends to make you look like (excuse my language but I can't think of a better word) an asshole.

I know you'll never see this, and you know what? Fine. That's not why I'm writing this.

I'm writing this because I'm sick of people trying to make genuinely innocent people look bad. One mistake doesn't make you a bad person. Not even many. That probably just means you're stubborn or something, but not necessarily bad. Intentional and repetitive bad decisions make you a bad person.

That's what you're doing here, Anon. They made a mistake, and you decided to make them feel bad about it because you felt offended over something they said because they were stressed out.

If you were stressed out and said something dumb, I'll admit, I'd probably be a little offended too. That's not the problem. The fact that you acted on it in this way is the problem.

Everyone gets angry sometimes. Everyone can occasionally be unprofessional. But what you did was worse, because not only were you also unprofessional, but you did it intentionally. And that is unacceptable.

So many people on the internet just like you need to watch what you say, for various reasons, and to be considerate of other people. It doesn't matter if you can't be traced, those words still affect not only the people you direct them to, but also everyone else that sees them. I know that because I was affected.

And if people figured out it was you, which I don't think is entirely unheard of, they will treat you the same way. 95% guarantee.

Treat people how you want to be treated.

In this case, I'm trying to be as nice as my rage allows me to be while calling you out for being rude. As such, I also want people to tell me when I say something wrong or bad so I can correct myself, preferably in a manner that doesn't trigger bad memories to return to my mind and make me feel awful.

If your purpose was simply to ask for an apology, or to let them know that you were uncomfortable, then you need to learn to not insult them or make unreasonable assumptions in the process. You were lucky this time, but many people would've just ignored you. Telling you this from experience.

And if you do see this, just know that I do genuinely hope you learn how to address problems in your life better than this. Both minor and major. Despite how much I hate bad people (which I only think you're slightly bad since this is only one bad decision), I do want everyone to improve and become better people, no matter who they are. I often don't expect it though, considering... well, a lot of things. But I'm hoping this is a one-time thing for you.

Be better. Always strive to be better. Improve continuously, little by little. And if you don't know where or how to start or continue improving, ask someone you trust how you could do so.

Please add a trigger warning next time you threaten in your posts. I already feel you don't like neurodivergent individuals with the way you react to asks but that really unprofessional.

As a neurodivergent person myself, I apologize if that is how I came across. That was FAR from how I want to make anyone feel. Because it is simply not the case.

The threat was something I thought to be a throwaway line that I unfortunately did not think too deeply about in the moment of writing it. It was too far, and I recognize and do apologize for that. It came from a place of legit frustration as it feels like whatever I am trying to state is not paid attention to.

It is overwhelming, and I can not claim in any way that I am actually good at being a public person. I have stated before that having so many eyes on me is terrifying, as it causes me severe anxiety at times.

This position was handed to me by a weird twist of fate. And more often than not I question if I really even want it.

What I do want is to tell a story. One that gives people hope and makes them feel better. No matter who they are and what they might struggle with. I do want to be a good and supportive person. To ANYONE.

Again. I sincerely apologize for my harsh words. I do not wish to make anyone feel like I hate them or hold a grudge against them.

My frustrations got the better of me, and I should have acted accordingly.

[ishestillapunk]

Everybody Wants A Piece Of Pedro Pascal

tags: grief, death.

a/n: it was so hard to write all this and not kick my sheets because of the whole photoshoot. he's beautiful.

I don't usually do this, well, I never done this, but today and after waking up to such a brilliant, raw and profound interview I see myself in the need of disecting piece by piece of this interview and the parts that touched a deep fiber in me.

You, of course, don't have to read this. I mean, not if you don't want to. I would say this is more mine than other thing, like, a precious stone I want to keep memory of how I felt when this article came out.

Don't you ever get that feeling that something is yours? like, not in a delulu and possesive way, but in a sort of thank you-way.

This interview—article, post. Damn, I don't know how to call it, forgive my scarce vocabulary in English—appeared like water in the desert for me. I had a long night of insomnia, very long, used to deal with it, and also with it came the lovely question that every 20 yo makes themselves at one point.

What the fuck am I doing with my damn life.

My phone buzzes when I finally decide to let go of it so I grab it again, and there it is. Our beloved pascalispunk. Oh, he looks hella good. I say looking at the pictures. Oh, it's Vanity Fair. I say and then, I think: Of course there is an interview. So I look up for it.

I read and then the first thing that moves my chest is:

Over lunch in London, Pascal is a grand raconteur who tells stories with his hands and uses funny voices and loves to swear and drink cocktails and murder a cheese plate. He doesn’t take himself too seriously. At the same time, he’ll press right up against the sad and raw and confusing parts of being alive. His insides are on his outsides. He cries easily. He laughs loudly.

Maybe it's the writing, maybe it's me that lately I've been overly sensitive. It must've been the wind. I joke in my head when I feel like I want to cry. Something I love deeply about this man that is Pedro, is that he never stops being human. You get me, right? Like, with some celebrities I get the kinda... fake feeling. Don't wanna sound rude towards others at all, but, he just gives me that genuine and true feeling. That's what I mean by human.

Personally, I never been a fan of an actor before. A celebrity, in general. It just used to ick me, like, why would I do that? I had nothing against it, it just wasn't part of my persona. But then, I remember the first time coming across a video of him. I guess, yeah. Maybe we all want a piece of Pedro.

Pascal tells me about his “give up” years, when he was a struggling actor in New York decimated by the sudden death of his beloved mother, Verónica.

I felt connected truly with Pedro when I learnt about his life. The struggle and loss. That feeling that nothing is going anywhere, you know? Like. Damn, what is it all this for? I kinda feel like humans (or some of us, dk, mind you) have to search comparisions to other people to feel okay on where they are at the moment and its something that lately has been happening to me. My search is literally:

'Directors that got succesful at an old age'

'How to publish my first book while being fucking poor'

'How do I live'

Is this non-stopping loop where everything mixes with everything and I feel too exhausted to leave my bed. Ends won't meet. Food lacks in the fridge. Mama is sad. But he has been in the same spot, and he's here to tell it.

Life hurts a bit less.

“In my 30s I was supposed to have a career,” he says. “Past 29 without a career meant that it was over, definitely.” Feeling hopeless, Pascal started researching other professions. But whenever he came close to bailing on his dream, friends and family would step in. “When Pedro would say, ‘I’m going to nursing school’ or ‘I’m going to be a theater teacher,’ it was just like ‘No, no, no, no! You’re too good!’” says his older sister, Javiera Balmaceda, now a producer at Amazon Studios. “He’s wanted to be an actor since he was four years old. The one thing we’d never allow Pedro to do was give up.”

And here it is. The first tears I shed.

I dropped out of college after a month in a course of studies that I thought it was perfect for me. Turns out, I felt like I was dying because there was no art in it and I was fucking dying. It was driving me apart of my soul, I would cry on my way to class, I would have no very very happy thoughts about life. Then, a crisis. Me hugging my mom's knees and telling her "Mama, I need art" and she sees me, the girl who only went to arts school for her whole teen years and grew up attached to her desk computer, pirated movies in the night and writing down stories that keep her awake.

And she told me. "It's okay. We'll figure it out"

I was embarrased to tell my friends what I did after that crisis. God, you went through a freaking exam, burnt your lashes studying, passed it and now you're saying you want to do cinema?

Well. Nobody said that.

What I mostly received was.

"That's awesome. You were about to waste your potential"

And something that sticks with me that a friend said.

"The world deserves to see something created by you".

If you're reading this, I want you and oblige you to take it as a signal.

 A New Yorker cartoon featured a therapist reassuring his client, “It’s not strange at all—lately, a lot of people are reporting that their faith in humanity is riding entirely on whether or not Pedro Pascal is as nice as he seems.” “Well, then,” Ramsey tells me, “I’m relieved for humanity.”

Bella. I love you, Bella.

On days when she (Veronica) didn’t have a babysitter, she’d drop him off at the movie theater. He remembers being seven and in heaven, able to squeeze in two and a half showings of Poltergeist before his mom returned for him. At home he’d reenact scenes of being sucked into the closet or slide across the kitchen floor. Balmaceda tells me, “When our parents got cable, the HBO song would come on and Pedro would run around the house yelling, ‘A movie is coming! A movie is coming!’” [...]He sat at a distance from his family as usual, preferring to be close to the screen. But then he started crying so loudly when Whoopi Goldberg’s Celie was being separated from her sister that his mother had to collect him and help him catch his breath outside. 

When he talks about his childhood memories, I become honey. It gives me the assertive feeling that he is the kind of person that talks and talks and talks, and tells and tells stories and never run off them, and never gets boring, and they are always sweet (or bittersweet but sweet in the end)

He makes me think about my childhood with another lens to look through. Less remorse. More a kind of let-go-of-it.

Drugs were everywhere. Pascal remembers being 16 and taking acid and calling his mother to check in and let her know he was going to spend the night out. “And she sighs and goes, ‘Oh.’ And that was not normal. And I was like ‘Wh-why?’ and she said, ‘Oh, no, I was just hoping that we would all go to a movie.’ I was just so drawn to that kind of maternal attention, so I said, ‘I’m coming!’” He rushed home and sat mute and paralyzed, tripping in the back seat as they drove to see John Sayles’s City of Hope.

yes, more tears over here.

“I was having a really hard time when I was 18, 19, 20,” Pascal tells me. “I was struggling really badly with insomnia. I was reading James Baldwin and watching movies like Once Were Warriors and Muriel’s Wedding. I just was like an open wound to the reality of life.” He pauses to smack the table with his hand, groaning and laughing at himself. “It sounds so fucking pretentious, but I felt at this crossroads of coming into an understanding of what an unjust world we live in. This world, and its lack of equanimity, is just too painful to bear. How do you live in it?”

This is the moment where I had to stop reading. I was literally a cascade at this point. I felt like that song Killing me softly with his song by The Fugees and the part that goes:

I felt he found my letters

Then read each one out loud

I prayed that he would finish

But he just kept right on

I felt like he just grabbed all my diaries, my letters, my notes on my laptop. Everything. And just read them out loud.

And I felt less lonely for a moment, less detached from reality. More grounded to this moment that is, maybe, a wake up call.

That there is still time.

His grief had no place in Los Angeles, with its isolating highways and traffic and sprawl. So he went home to New York City, where he’d made some headway as an actor after college, only to find that his early luck had run out. He lived in a seventh-floor apartment of an East Village walk-up. Every night he’d have a cigarette on his fire escape and watch the moon rise between the Twin Towers.

Suicide grief is something I've never had the opportunity—well, more like favour of spilling my guts out for once—to talk with anyone. I went through it alone, mostly. I always think that there is no place as lonely as oneselves head (is oneselve's a word? am I dealing already with the precious side effects of twenty years of insomnia?). Reading Pedro talking about grief is ligthening.

I use to make myself a question, every now and then:

'When does it stop?'

Maybe never. And it's okay.

"Listen, I want to protect the people I love. But it goes beyond that. Bullies make me fucking sick.”

Just wanted to highlight this. Everyone should have this kind of values.

In the car, Pascal gasps and points out the window. “Look at that cemetery, isn’t it gorgeous?” he says. He doesn’t want to be buried—just throw him in the ocean. “Fish food, fish food, fish food,” he says. “And yet, I find sometimes cemeteries are so beautiful.” So, yes, now we’re back to talking about death.

In the car to Downey’s house, Pascal points at the word “FAITH,” which someone has spray-painted on a wall. He scrunches up his face in mock disgust. He’s agnostic, practically an atheist—and yet. “I still feel like I’m being mothered sometimes. I feel her witness all around me. I don’t feel like any of this right now would be happening if it weren’t for her.” There was something magical about María Verónica Pascal Ureta. Her firstborn son misses everything about her. Her beauty. Her smell. How funny she was, and how funny she found farts. “She couldn’t get past a fart of any kind without it absolutely destabilizing her into hysterics,” says Pascal. “She thought they were the most brilliant, hilarious, wonderful thing in the world.” She was also “very deep-feeling, very complex, very, very out of reach in a way,” he adds.

I tell you that I did nothing more than laugh and cry with all this part. Is that kind of make peace with death vibe that he sometimes gives me and I just take as a life advice.

I can't get mad at something that is long gone.

That I don't know the answers to.

That is as invisible as the air, and painful as a healed fracture.

And that I have to live, for those who aren't here anymore.

So... I will finish with this:

Of all the performances in Pascal’s now formidable career, Balmaceda singles out the monologue she saw him deliver as a sophomore in high school. It was a piece Pascal had written about a bike path near their house in Corona del Mar, a neighborhood he couldn’t wait to escape. Onstage, he described how, at first, he’d cross this narrow path that went over a bridge on foot, then progressed to riding over it gingerly on his bike, then with just one hand on his handlebars, and then, finally, being able to cross over with his hands in the air.

I can't wait to escape this place. A home that keeps me warm but silences me. Hugs that don't feel comfortable or familiar anymore. A room that is too little for the dreams that move this soul. A roof that isn't strong enough to hold me from touching what it's-maybe-waiting for me.

Somewhere.

Kudos to Karen Valby for such a great article.

if someone read this whole thing, uhm, thank you!

keep loving Peps. 💜

[dumplingsjinson]

List of “smartass x dunce (and they fall in love!)” prompts

Requested by: Anonymous Request: “HELLEOEODLIDOWIDLDIXO. may I request ‘smartass paired up with fucking idiot for a project and then they fall in love’ ? I love your prompts kiss kiss”

“Did you even understand what the instructions were?” “Well, not really, but I know you’re smart so I’m just kind of relying on you.”

“That’s not how you’re supposed to do that!” “Stop yelling at me and tell me how to do it, then!”

“If you don’t want to fail this, you might want to do it my way.” “You sound like a dictator.”

“You don’t have to be an asshole to get your point across.” “In what way is calling you out on your shit job done me being an asshole?” “That’s exactly what I mean!”

“Can you stop bossing me around? I can manage to do this without your help!” “Well, you’re not really showing you’re capable of that, are you?”

“You know what, just leave this whole thing up to me.” “No, but I actually want to help-” “Well, your contributions are actually kind of making things worse.”

“…That’s not what that means, look at the dictionary.” “I did! I swear that’s the definition on Urban Dictionary.” “Urban Dic- oh, for fuck’s sake-"

“This is how you do it.” “…Ohhhh-"

“I’m not that stupid, and you’re not that smart. You’re just acting like a know-it-all, maybe that’s why you don’t have friends.” “Well, that- I don’t need friends.”

“Oh… Your writing’s kind of cute.” “Oh? Uh, thanks.” “Yeah, well, I do compliment people when they deserve it.”

“See! I just needed a demonstration so I can do this myself!” “Yeah, I’ve repeated this like… Ten times now but sure, if it finally helps then that’s my goal reached, I guess.”

“Gosh, here, let me do that for you.”

“You know you can ask for help when needed, right?” “Yeah, well, you don’t exactly make yourself approachable.”

“I’m not sure what’s happening, but you seem more patient with me now.” “Oh… Am I? That's false, why would you even say that?”

“I do like being told I’m doing a good job.” “Oh, so I should do that more often?” “…Are you flirting with me?” “No, you idiot- what? Focus on the work, goddamn it, letting one compliment get to your head like that…”

“That… Was decent.” “You know complimenting me more than that isn’t going to kill you right?”

“Do you use your brain to think or…” “Why would I need to do that when I have you here?”

“Your dumbassery is infecting me.” “Well, you know what they say. Great minds think alike.”

“Maybe you’re not as bad as I thought.” “That’s a huge compliment coming from you.”

“We should probably see each more outside of this project.” “…Say that again, I didn’t hear you.”

Join my Discord server: Steaming Dumplings Nation

[linkenthusiast]

Hello!!!!!! So I had this idea a couple of days ago, and I can’t get it out of my head, so here it is: the Chain reacting to Guide! Reader cry. I’d love to see this in your works, but please don’t feel any pressure. Have a fabulous day!!

No pressure at all!! Always up for brain storming these days <333

Splitting this to 3 parts cuz I can’t keep up with all 9 at once.

I cried just writing about this y’all I need some comfort.

This part contains Time, Twilight and Warrior.

Guide!Reader tears

Pt 1

Time

- Time wouldn’t really call himself much of a comforter— he’d be at a total loss when someone breaks down crying in front of him.

-he’s not completely helpless though! When he manages to find his words, he can offer solid words of wisdom from his experience.

- however, when he found you —his guide— crying softly in a quiet area in the woods, he helplessly watched.

- he didn’t know what to do— you’re his guide! You know his adventures more than he does, how does he expect to have wisdom that tops that??

- However, now that he’s seen you, he can’t leave you alone.

Your sniffling can be heard in the rustling leaves, the tears continuously falling down your face with each time you try to wipe it off. You’re sat beside a tree, hugging your knees tightly.

Time had found you not too long ago, but it seems you have yet to notice him.

He’s at a loss. You, his guide and support system through his adventures—broken in sobs.

His next step created a loud rustle, jumping you out of your trance. You looked in the direction of the sound and was greeted with a slightly awkward Time.

“Hi…sorry, didn’t want to scare you…” he softly spoke. You aggressively wiped the rest of your tears as a response to his appearance. “It- it’s fine. Uhm… did you need something?” Your voice was quiet, slightly cracking. You even avoided looking at him.

He simply just shook his head, “I was just walking around…do you…need some company?” They were really simple words, respectful to you even if you had rejected it. Fortunately, to his pleasure, he received a nod.

He went to sit beside you, leaning on the same tree you did. “Do you want to talk about it?” He hesitatingly questioned. He looked over, feeling and seeing a shake in your head. No? Okay, that’s fine, he can work with that.

The silence picked back up once again, your occasional sniffles breaking it.

“Y’know…it’s nice to cry. I myself find it hard to do but…it always feels like a rain shower, like the world is going to end…” he spoke softly.

“But, if you take a second to look at the sky, you’d always find a rainbow when the clouds disperse.” He continued.

“It’s okay to cry, it will always be a better tomorrow.” A sob broke from you. You leaned onto Time’s armoured shoulder, letting more held back tears spill. Soon enough, you found the pain numbed and your eyes tired, and Time still there with you. Silent but observant, and always there for you.

Twilight

- designated big brother.

- knows how to calm plenty of children down— who’s to say those tricks wouldn’t work on anyone older?

- he becomes really concerned whenever you seemed down.

- he’s always seen you as the singular optimistic hope in a rather dark and horrifying world that he lived in.

- he’d always want to see you smiling. He’d pull every trick in the book to cheer you up.

No good. Nothing was working.

He’d noticed the loom and gloom that followed you the whole day. The silence that was carried by you and the way you always seemed to look at the ground. You followed whoever’s shadow was in front of you in a trance. He tried asking you what was wrong before, but your response was a simple “I’m fine” and moved on.

He had tried a couple things that would usually work with the kids in his village. Any sweets? No, trying to get you to talk about your interests, you just shut him down instantly. He would’ve tried giving you a little gift to get your mind off of things to help improve your mood even a little.

Nothing worked, to his luck. The rest had noticed your mood and didn’t ask too many questions when you went out.

Twilight decided that there’s one thing he’s yet to try—Wolfie. Then he slapped himself, instantly forgetting that you already know that it’s him, you were his guide for goodness sake!

“Hey Rancher? Mind taking these for a good wash?” Wild spoke up from behind him. A ton of time had passed and Twilight didn’t hesitate to agree, wanting to at least check on you. He can’t help it, he’s worried.

He showed up near the river, surprised to spot you crouched down and sobbing. You used the water to try and calm your puffy eyes and covered your face a little.

Twilight stepped out to approach you. His steps were heard by you, pausing for a minute, you looked up at him.

Your eyes were puffy, feeling both your warm tears and the cold river water littering your face. “Oh…Hi Twi…” you looked over at the basket of clothes, realizing what he was there for.

“Do you…uhm…need some help with that…?” You asked, wanting to avoid talking about your tears altogether. Twilight couldn’t buy that.

He set the basket down and knelt right in front of you. “Can I hug ya?” He asked simply. Shocked, you kind of looked at him. The request itself broke you to tears again. You softly nodded, trying to wipe your tears away again as you felt his arms wrap around you like a warm blanket.

The water works wouldn’t stop, your own arms wrapped around Twilight and clutched him tightly. Your sobs muffled into his shoulder and your tears coating his tunic.

He stays there until your tears died down and you fell asleep on him. He laid you down and wrapped you with his wolf pelt until he had finished his chores, to which he then carried you back to camp.

Warrior

- him living in war gives him a very different experience compared to the rest of the Links.

- most of their tears came from the urge to survive, to live, and to mourn the loss of loved ones.

- so when he catches you crying, he’s kind of coded to think the worst.

- someone’s dying or you’re in danger, just to the very extreme.

The chain was in town, restocking and getting ready to depart once again. Wars went ahead to try and remind you of their soon departure.

Coming to your room’s door, he knocks on it. Staying put for a minute for any response. He invited himself in, thinking that you had maybe fallen back asleep, only to hear sniffling.

Instantly alert, he sees you at the table in front of the mirror— you looked horrible. Your eyes are puffy, you kept wiping the tears from them. Your hair was an absolute disaster, a bird’s nest if you will.

“Hey— hey hey, what’s—what’s wrong? Are you okay?” Wars rushed to your side, trying to lift your face up to look at him. Questions spilled from him, looking around to see if you were hurt in any way and such. You looked almost silly, your cheeks were squished because of his hold and your eyes were tightly closed, your brows frowned. Wars wiped your tears carefully with his thumb.

You hiccuped out—“N-nothing— nothing is— working with me.” Breaking every now and then.

“What? What’s not working?” Wars urges you to continue. “A-all week, nothing was okay— stupid wild shoved me i-in the river! My clothes kept g-getting cuaght and— the needle kept—poking and and…” you took a breath, “I got a bug b-bite and— I just— my hair doesn’t want to work—” Wars shushed you softly, finally understanding that your frustrations throughout the week had got to you.

He kept holding your face and shushing you, trying to lessen your tears. A couple minutes later only sniffles can be heard from you. Wars took a breath, relieved that you were getting a little better. “Do you…want me to help you with your hair?” He quietly asked you. You, tired from crying, softly nodded and turned to face the mirror and Wars went to behind you to brush your hair out piece by piece. He’d take his time to try and make it look the way you wanted.

[lanurmisme]

This is the first time I’ve been tagged.

It means a lot that you considered me, @versesbyaaliyah — thank you.

------------

It’s a profound question, and it deserves a profound answer.

Honestly, there is no single answer.

Sometimes, I just write my mind out —

I let it flow on paper in black and blue.

Sometimes, I write what I observe, what I feel —

my writing is the extract of it. Anything and everything.

It may not always be me in my writing,

but it’s always my lens —

my way of understanding the world.

And sometimes, it’s a way of preserving myself.

Because if one day I lose all my memories — my sense of self — I know I won’t trust anyone to tell me who I was.

But maybe I’ll trust these pages.

My writing is the most honest trace I’ll leave behind.

It’s how I say: This was me. I was here.

‐--------

I don’t know many people here yet.

And the first person I ever connected with from the writing community is the one who tagged me.

So, I have no one to tag back just yet — but I’m grateful to be here, and I hope to cross paths with others who carry their worlds in words, too."

Since you’re always coming up with cool prompts and all, here’s a little one for you:

Not to sound like a nosy anon but, what’s your biggest inspiration when you write? Spill the tea 🍵✍️ And tag a few folks to answer too”

Great question! Really just little pieces of my life in general. Usually people I've met and the experiences we've had. I've had a very interesting life so it's the easiest thing for me to write about. So many different ways I could word the stories, so to speak. And so many different stories. I have bits of my life I've never touched in my writing, though I would like to change that.

@moonknightmaiden @noxnightingales @peepeepoopoo3d @butwhyareyoureyessosad @nyx-tenberis @faemaril @behindstonewalls

[itoshiabi]

Someday write about escaping reality.

I really couldn't control myself from writing hahaha... It felt so good, I really needed to write something like this!

I want to escape reality too... Just to reach Rin!

Escaping Reality just to reach you (ft. Rin)

The room is quiet.

Your phone buzzes somewhere in the blankets, the world outside hums with real life—but you don't hear it.

You're tired. Not the kind of tired sleep fixes.

The kind where even existing feels too loud.

So you close your eyes.

Just for a minute.

And you wake up somewhere else......

Not in your room.....

Not in your world.....

➽──────────────❥

The air is warm, the sky a soft watercolor wash of pink and gold. Wind blows through open fields. You hear laughter in the distance—light, easy.

You're barefoot.

Your hands are clean. Your chest doesn't feel heavy anymore.

You walk.

And soon, you see them.

Barou, standing in front of a food truck, arguing with the vendor over which protein bowl is superior.

Isagi, sitting on the grass with a tactical notebook, head tilted, brows furrowed. He glances up and waves when he sees you, his grin boyish and familiar.

Shidou is there too, hanging upside down from a jungle gym he clearly should've outgrown, yelling something obnoxious at Nagi, who's lying flat on a bench with a popsicle melting in his hand.

And then—

You feel it before you see it.

That shift in the air.

You turn.

And he's there.

Rin.

Standing beneath a tree that sways with the breeze, hands in his pockets, a soft look in his eyes that you've never seen in the anime. Not really. Not this tender. Not this open.

You move toward him. Your footsteps are light here.

He doesn't speak when you reach him.

He just pulls you into a quiet hug. Like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like you belong there—in his arms, in this place, in the version of reality that doesn't ask you to break yourself to fit in.

You rest your forehead against his chest.

No pressure. No weight. Just peace.

This can't be real, a voice whispers in the back of your mind.

But it feels real.

God, it feels real.

Rin presses his lips to the top of your head. You look up, just enough to meet his gaze.

"You found your way here," he murmurs.

You nod. "I didn't think I would."

He cups your cheek gently. "You'll always do."

You want to stay. Just five more minutes.

You reach for his lips and suddenly-

You wake up.

The room is cold again.

Your phone buzzes beside you.

There's a stain of dried tears on your pillow.

You sit up slowly.

The ache is back.

But now there's something else too.

A lingering warmth in your chest.

The echo of his voice.

Of their laughter.

Of what it felt like… to belong.

You whisper, barely audible:

"I want to go back."

But for now, all you can do is write about it.

Because sometimes, escaping reality isn't about running away.

Sometimes, it's just a place your heart builds for you when it needs to breathe.

[waves-after-dark]

i think its interesting that in the kataang storyline katara is given grief for her endgame being mother, wife, healer A N D not being an active member of the world stage

but in most of the zutara content katara is wife, mother and in quite a few stories embraces her healing abilities because it goes great with zuko being the burn victim

now, i have not read every zutara creation in existence but i have immersed myself in a lot of zutara content for many years since the original show aired and do not mistake my point here, i enjoy zutara, i'm not anti any ship, i'm a multi shipper. this post is a matter of an observation and recent conversations on here over the topic of the katara we see in The Legend of Korra

a lot of zutara works amount to katara and zuko happily married, of course with plenty of drama on the way because it would not be a proper zutara story without all the flair and drama, and naturally, their steam babies

a big difference i see, politically speaking. politically. is katara is a monarch in one story and not in the other

in many zutara stories katara and zuko have the envied romance, beautiful, steam babies and katara is almost always heavily involved in the politics of the fire nation (zuko's court)

and this is the point where i want to offer a perspective change. maybe lok was following a more realistic approach which reality is grim and injust whereas the fantasy that katara is a leader in politics in the fire nation is less likely to be based in reality. and that's fine, it's fanfiction.

we hope and dream as writers and readers

but there is this idea that katara by marrying zuko has more political say and knowledge and influence by simply being his wife and they re-write the entire culture of the royal family, its duties, the family structure of the nation, it's wonderful! but those things do not happen overnight, it is fantasy if it does, it takes generations, centuries to sometimes see that kind of change

unfortunately, The Legend of Korra is grim

there have been a lot of great people who pushed back against abusive systems who were well-known in that bubble of a moment but history washed them away

so the writers "stripped katara's power" maybe the writers were expressing what has happened to women like katara and i know it pisses people off and it is understandable that it does

i do not deny a writer can let their ego get in their writing and just decide they do not want to care about a character and do not want to invest in said character because they no longer care about what the character cares about

all of these things are plausible and the fact that some people do not accept that all are plausible is the definition of close-minded

until bryke says: hey, this is what happened to katara, it is widely left open and let's be honest, no matter what bryke confirms about katara in those years between a:tla and what we see of her in lok, not everyone is going to be happy and that's okay too

[absolutebl]

This is a BL Challenge for you (if you want to accept them) :

1.) Is there a BL that you finished even when :

a. You love the story but not really fond of the actors (maybe the acting or other reasons)?

b. You love the acting (the series as a whole) but not really fond with the story?

2.)

a. Is there a BL that you dislike at the beginning but when you finish them, it became one of your favorite?

b. What is your fav BL cover?

3.) Please write your top 3 or top 5 favorite tropes in BL.

From each trope, write at least 2 BL that you love.

4.) Who are your top 5 (or top 3) top & bottom from your favorite BL media, the top and bottom don't have to be from the same BL.

5.) What are you favorite BL from the 1990s and 2000s?

6.)

a. BL you finished that is just bizarre but you still enjoy them?

b. BL that have stayed with you (special for you) or influenced you (at least 5 titles)?

7.)

a. BL that you love only (mostly) because of the sexy scenes?

b. BL that is your guilty pleasure?

8.) Your fav non-canon BL ships from any media?

9.) Your top 5 or top 3 fav each for Green Flag BL couples & Red Flag BL couples.

10.)

a. What is your first BL that made you got into BL?

b. What BL that made you cry (happy or sad)?

Thanks if you want to answer all of the above! Feel free to answer how many that you want...

Also, thanks so much for your BL recs & reviews! 🤩😆

OMG this is so fun! Exactly what I wanted to do this morning (and not work). Challenge accepted!!! (I also added a few for s&g)

The BL Challenge Questions

1.) Is there a BL that you finished even when :

a. You love the story but not really fond of the actors (maybe the acting or other reasons)?

This is hard, very rarely does BL get me on story alone. It would likely be from Korea or Japan. Picks up an examines Life Love On the Line. Sets it back down gently. Maybe Blueming? Don't kill me stans, but Bump Up Business? Would I put some of the first season HIStory in here.?

Honestly? I'm super hard pressed to name a BL that got me on story alone.

b. You love the acting (the series as a whole) but are not fond of the story?

One instantly springs to mind for this, Eternal Yesterday. I knew what I was in for with that story from the start. We all did. But it is still horrible.

Also My Stand-In, The On1y One, and The Time of Fever. Oof.

I would put a number of second seasons into this category too like Minato 2, or To My Star 2. And quite a few of early BLs with missed or muddy endings like I Am Your King. All the true dark BLs and moody artshouse stuff have to be set aside, I think, because I knew what I was in for. Well, except The Effect and HIStory3: The BL That Shall Not Be Named. Never forget. Never forgive.

c. You're not fond of either just some kind of BL masochist?

Cupid's Last Wish and Ossan's Love in all iterations. (WHY did I do that to myself)

If I had a do over I would have dropped CLW. Now that I have a solid DNF policy in place (and there is so much BL airing I can be picky) there are quite a few BLs I wish I had simply never wasted time on in retrospect.

2.) Is there a BL that you dislike at the beginning but when you finished, it became one of your favorites?

Ooooh another easy one! Bad Buddy. It started as a trash watch and became a praise watch and it stuck that landing like nobody's business. I live blogged it, so you could all watch my CTJ moment in real time.

There are actually a few others in this category like My Beautiful Man, DNA Says Love You, even Love Sick but I wouldn't say I disliked them as much as I did BB at the start.

3.) What is your fav BL cover?

You mean OST? Oh good, another easy one (I have so few songs I like from BLs).

Eternal Yesterday's Sunshower by Ayumu Imazu

Ooo, now I'm listening to it. Yay!

4.) Top 5 favorite tropes in BL. For each trope, write at least 2 BLs that you love that represent it.

Whipping Boy - My Beautiful Man, My Personal Weatherman

Stepbrothers (or similar family taboo) - Unknown, Cherry Blossoms After Winter

Age Gap (specifically were the younger is the aggressor) - Minato's Laundromat, Old Fashion Cupcake

Student/teacher - Private Lesson, Love Class 2 (side couple)

Kink - KinnPorsche (side couple), The Next Prince (side couple) - neither of these are BLs I love, but I love these couples in them.

I know I have some other rare topes too, but I wanted to choose 5 obviously recognizable ones.

5.) Who are your top 5 top & bottom seme/uke from your favorite BLs, they don't have to be from the same BL.

I specifically tried to pick not from the same BL as a challenge.

a. Top 5 seme

Dean in Until We Meet Again

Solo in Oxygen

Shin in Minato's Laundromat

Togawa in Old Fashion Cupcake

Karan in Cherry Magic Thailand

Gotta say I eliminated a number of favorites because they were too toxic (my bad) and others because they did not come from a favorite BL. But most went to the wayside because they didn't fit the ideal of seme well enough. Bye bye Taiwan.

b. Top 5 uke

Taekyung in Light On Me

Sangwoo in Semantic Error

Kakeru in I Cannot Reach You (possibly my favorite of all time)

Amagi in Takara & Amagi

Won in Unintentional Love Story

Different reason for eliminating favorites with the uke. Blushing maidens and super tsunderes don't make my cut.

Gotta shout out My School President for satisfying both.

6.) What are you favorite old BLs?

a. From the 1990s

I would argue that BL as a genre (defined as such by watchers and critics) did not exist until after 2000. So instead here is a blog post on some 90s movies that, in retrospect, have certain QL leanings. Old Guard Queer Cinema for BL Lovers.

b. From the early 2000s

Seven Days

Another easy one. Always shows up somehow. Someday everyone on this hellsite will have watched this show and it will be primarily because of me.

And then I will disappear in a puff of smake and accomplishment.

But here are some early BLs you might not know about that I also enjoy.

7.) 5 BL you finished that is just bizarre but you still enjoy them?

The Sign

To Sir With Love

Secret Relationships

Pit Babe

Laws of Attraction

8.) 5 BLs that have stayed with you (special for you) or influenced you?

We Best Love

Dark Blue Kiss

Until We Meet Again

Seven Days

Old Fashion Cupcake

9.) BL that you love only (mostly) because of the sexy scenes?

This Love Doesn't Have Long Beans

The Sign

Deep Night

Love in the Air (sigh)

Jack & Joker

10 more here from 2023 and prior. My Stubborn might get into this category too.

10.) BL that is your guilty pleasure?

2 Moons Ambassador probably. But I don't really feel guilty about BL. Here are some of my all time favorite Trash Watches,

11.) Your fav non-canon BL ships from any media?

I try not to ship unless strictly called for so, Devil Judge probably.

12.) Your top 5 fav each:

a. Green Flag BL couples

ThamePo

WandeeGoodday

Monster Next Door

My Ride

Your Sky

Just to name a few. I have MORE. 2024 was very good to us.

b. Red Flag BL couples.

My Personal Weatherman

Our Youth

The Time of Fever

the stepbrothers in HIStory 4 (I KNOW)

far too much MAME

13.) BL that got you into BL?

Until We Meet Again

I had seen some before it from Japan (Takumi etc..) but I thought of them as a rare one offs (not a genre). Which they kind of were. I think it took Thailand really entering the field to drag my arse in whole hog.

Honestly, my memory from 2019 Bl is so Hazy it might have been Love By Chance instead. But UWMA is my origin story and I am sticking to it.

This is one reason I advise, if you keep a spreadsheet, to have a column for "date you watched" as well as "date it aired."

But I didn't even have a spreadsheet back then. Early days...

14.) BL that made you cry (happy or sad)?

A hard one, since it isn't charted on the Spreadsheet of Doom. And I cry A LOT. I'll just pick 10 recent ones:

Unknown

Love For Love's Sake

Let Free the Curse of Taekwondo

When it Rains it Pours

See Your Love

Our Youth

Secrets Happened on the Litchi Island

Caged Again

Heesu in Class 2

The Time of Fever 

(source)