#taehyung fluff

[nvrngl]

Can you please make one where Taehyung and the reader have been dating for a long time, and he just got discharged from the military and wants to have alone time with his girlfriend because he's been away for so long and they both really missed eachother, but they could never have any because the company or ther members keep interrupting them to tell him about their upcoming schedules and stuff. So he decided to plan a romantic getaway to Paris for him and his girlfriend to have their respective and well needed alone time.

˚ · .˚ ༘ 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒔

synopsis. taehyung is back. and everyone noticed. it seems like it has been impossible for you to find just one single moment with him. until he decides to fix things.

pairing. bts ﹢ discharged!kim taehyung x reader ﹢ very soft smut (mdni)

wordcount. 842

warnings. oral sex (f. receiving), mentions of idol life pressure & fatigue

my very first request .ᐟ god, i am excited and writing this brought such a warm and fuzzy feeling. thank you so so much for requesting, cutie. i hope you like it 💌

the first time you finally get him to yourself, really and truly—no staff, no phones, no “hyung, just one sec”—it’s three weeks after he’s discharged.

he’s home. finally. after two years of waiting, visiting, calling, missing—he’s here.

but no one will let him rest.

the moment he’s back, they start flooding in—managers with calendars, members with updates, stylists with contracts. taehyung’s patient, always kind, always polite. he nods, makes notes, smiles when he’s expected to. but you can see it in his eyes. the exhaustion. the ache. the way he glances over at you every time he has to let go of your hand just to answer another damn phone call.

so when he pulls you into the hallway that night and whispers, “pack a bag. don’t ask, just trust me,” you don’t hesitate.

you pack the minute you get home.

—

paris in june is a fantasy.

it’s sun-warmed cobblestone and dappled light under trees. it’s espresso in the morning, citrusy wine by sunset, bare legs sticking to wicker chairs outside tiny cafés. the breeze smells like sugar and car exhaust and roses all at once.

taehyung books a flat on the left bank—nothing extravagant, but personal. tucked above a bakery, with ivy on the railing and enough space to breathe. he tells you he found it years ago, “saved it just for this,” and that alone nearly breaks you in two.

he walks around barefoot. wears thin white t-shirts and tortoiseshell sunglasses and the kind of smile that only appears when no one’s watching.

you never stop touching.

hand on the small of your back when you walk. lips to your temple when you wake up slow in the morning. long, lazy fingers tracing your thigh under the table at dinner like it’s just second nature.

you’re both a little dizzy with it all.

and it’s not about the place, not really. it’s about the quiet. the space. no texts. no interruptions. no schedules.

just you. and him.

—

on your third night, he kisses you outside a wine bar on rue dauphine. just presses you up against the warm stone wall with that soft, aching urgency he’s been carrying since he got back.

you hum into it, hands curled in his shirt, breath quick as he nips at your lower lip.

“baby,” he says, voice rough. “i’ve missed you so much, i can’t—” he cuts himself off, kissing you again. longer this time. slower. deeper.

“i know,” you whisper back.

he presses his forehead to yours.

“take me home.”

—

the walk back is a blur of hands and soft giggles and him whispering “you’re not real” against your cheek like he still can’t believe you’re here, like this, under his hands again.

once inside the flat, he doesn’t flick the light on. just tugs you close and kisses you like he’s starved—like this is a need he’s held back for years.

your clothes come off in pieces, somewhere between the hallway and the bed. the early summer night is warm, and your skin feels sticky and flushed. his fingers brush lightly over your sides as he stares at you like he’s rediscovering a masterpiece.

“so pretty,” he breathes, eyes tracing every inch of you.

you smile, cheeks pink. “you’ve said that every day.”

“and i’ll say it every day for the rest of my life.”

he kisses you, slower now, his body pressing you down into the sheets. the breeze from the open window flutters against your bare shoulder, but his skin is so warm on yours, you barely notice.

he moves down your body in worship.

his mouth finds your thighs first—then the soft skin of your hip, your belly, the crease between your legs. he doesn’t rush. not even a little.

when he finally slips his tongue between your folds, it’s soft and slow and so deliberate.

you moan, hips lifting toward him, fingers already tangling in his hair.

“i dreamed about this,” he whispers, mouthing along your inner thigh. “every night.”

his hands hold you open gently, thumbs pressing into your hips as he begins again. long, languid licks—like he has all the time in the world.

you writhe under him, overwhelmed. “tae, oh my god…”

he groans into you, nose pressed to your clit, eyes fluttered shut like he’s the one losing control. “let me take care of you.”

you come with his name on your lips, a sharp cry followed by gasping laughter as your body trembles in aftershocks. he doesn’t stop until you pull him up by the shoulders, tugging him into a kiss that tastes like wine and heat and your own sweetness.

he curls around you after, warm and flushed, your bodies tangled in the sheets.

you rest your hand over his heart, feeling it beat slow and steady under your palm.

“we needed this,” you whisper.

he kisses your forehead, lashes brushing your skin. “i need you. not the interviews. not the chaos. just this.”

you nod, eyes drifting closed.

outside, paris hums on, soft and golden and slow.

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ navigation : all works ; guidelines ; let's be friends .ᐟ

[jwiirecs]

♡ two, three, four, finale (so i know where to go when the app decides to crash mid read)

Underdog – Part 1

Pairing: Dog Shifter!Taehyung x Human!Reader/Kim Taehyung x Reader

Genre: Shifter AU/Hybrid AU

Summary: Even though humans and shifters coexist in one world, it’s still a rarity for hybrids to openly show themselves. One evening, when you hit a stray dog with your car, you feel so guilty that you bring him home with you. But you don’t realize until much later that you let a stranger into your house.

Warnings: Angst, being in a car accident 

Word Count: 7.8K

Next

Authors note: Hello, hello! I had this story in my drafts for months now (thanks overthinking me) and I really wanted to get at least the first chapter out before Taehyung’s birthday. I’m not sure how many chapters this story will have, but I’m aiming for around four. I really hope you’ll like this story and this chapter and I’d be happy about every kind of feedback from you guys! Thank you so much for reading! 

…

With a gasp you woke up from a dreamless sleep. You were confused for a moment as you let your gaze glide through the dark room and could only make out the outlines of your living room. When you looked outside the window, you realized that it had already become dark.

Crap. 

You only wanted to take a short nap after work before going grocery shopping. Your refrigerator and the cupboards in your kitchen were devastatingly empty. But, as was so often the case, your nap turned into a deep sleep which left you even more exhausted than before.

In the dark, you searched for your cell phone, which you had placed on the small coffee table before falling asleep. When your fingers finally hit the small, square device and enclosed it, you breathed a sigh of relief. But the relief disappeared just as quickly and gave way to the hectic when you saw how late it already was. You had about half an hour before the supermarket would close. By car, it took you about fifteen minutes… maybe ten if you were lucky with the traffic lights.

You closed your eyes again for a short moment and thought about whether it was really worth the stress to rush off. If you were thinking about your bank account, which was already in the red, you knew that you could not afford to order food. You puffed out the air in frustration and got up from the sofa. In record time you put on your shoes and jacket and grabbed your bag before you were in your car a few minutes later. When you stopped at a red light, your fingers drummed a rhythm on the steering wheel while you kept your eyes focused on the light.

Impatient, you honked at the person in front of you when they didn’t start moving as soon as the light turned green. When you made a turn and could see the park, which was only illuminated by the moonlight and the few street lamps, you exhaled with relief. All you had to do was drive past it, take the next right before you–

The suffocated scream got stuck in your throat when you pressed your foot on the brake. Your fingers clutched firmly into the steering wheel and you tried to yank the car to the side, but then you heard the dull thud that shook your car. With screeching tires, your car came to a halt and only the roar of the engine mixed with your loud heartbeat pumping blood through your body filled your ears.

Keep reading

[gimmethatagustd]

who’s your bias? | kth

Everyone says idols shouldn’t date their fans. Little did you know the crazy sasaengs aren’t the ones who might ruin your relationship. It might just be your boyfriend’s best friends.

Relationship: Taehyung x Reader

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Canon Divergence, Idols (i’m just making shit up y'all as usual), Jealousy, Established Relationship, Angst with a Happy Ending, an attempt at army-specific humor, Insecurity, Soft Dom Taehyung, Finger Sucking, thigh riding, Blow Jobs, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Overstimulation, a breeding kink is ~hinted at~, Cunnilingus

Word Count: 12,624

A/N: this was entirely self-indulgent 😂 also i wrote 80% of this while i was high and with no beta so if it’s bad, now you know why

“Y/N, stop it right now.” 

Your boyfriend breathes the command faster than you can even open your mouth to greet him. With a roll of your eyes, you put your phone on speaker and sit it on the floor beside you. Rummaging through the cardboard boxes littering your apartment is easier done with both hands. 

“Why hello, Taehyung. What a pleasure to hear from you.”

“Are you seriously mad at me right now?” From the whine in his voice you’re positive he’s wearing a deep pout, bottom lip jutting out as far as it can. You love kissing his pouts away. 

But not this time! And not just because you’re on opposite sides of the world. 

“Shouldn’t you be asleep? It’s so late there and I’m sure you’re very tired from displaying your dick to all of America for three hours.” 

The cardboard box in front of you has “BEDROOM” scribbled in your father’s handwriting on the side in thick, black Sharpie. It’s full of little trinkets and random decor. A Shooky plushie is crammed into the corner in between a cracked Army bomb and a small framed photo of you with your parents. You smile to yourself despite your boyfriend’s huffing over the phone. Your father had given you a strange look as he helped you pack the items as if to ask, Really? Do you really need these? 

Just because you’re dating a member of BTS now doesn’t mean you can’t cherish your old BTS merch! It’s not weird, in your opinion. It would only be weird if you made it weird. And you weren’t making it weird. 

“I did not display my dick!” 

You roll your eyes for probably the fifth time while you ponder where to put Shooky. You’d kept it on your dresser in your old home in the States. Something tells you Taehyung won’t appreciate the lack of a Tata beside it. 

“You were thrusting and throwing it around! And pointing at it while doing it, too!” 

“Y/N!” 

“Don’t Y/N me! I have my TikTok evidence!” 

With your cracked Army bomb in hand, you open the app in question, scrolling through your favorited videos until you get to the one. The one uploaded only a day before. The one you’d texted to Taehyung which prompted his immediate phone call. 

“And what does the caption say?” you ask but then cut Taehyung off before he can answer the question. “It says, and I quote, ‘I will never forget Taehyung doing this. I looped this for hours. Kim Taehyung lives in my head rent-free.’ Hashtag Taehyung. Hashtag HipsDon’tLie. With the woozy face emoji. And do we need to discuss the music choice?” 

“Y/N, can you please-” 

“Slut Me Out,” you deadpan in a monotone voice. “That is the song they chose for you.”

The other end is silent for so long you start to feel bad. Every time your jealousy spikes, you seem to act on impulse rather than thinking through how you might make Taehyung feel. Yes, he sometimes plays his part in the group a little too well, but you also knew that this was his job. It’s his job to make people get excited - excited for the music, the group, and himself as an idol. 

Still, your opinion is the most important to him, and you know that. 

“Jagiya…” Taehyung sniffles and you feel your heart shatter. 

Fuck, you really are a bitch, aren’t you? 

“Tae, I’m sorry.” 

“No, I’m sorry. I just… I don’t know, I didn’t really think anything of it. It’s just an act, y’know?” 

You did know. Away from the stage and the cameras, Taehyung is quiet, almost shy. He’s happy to be a silent observer of whatever chaos his members create. He gifts everyone with puffy cheeks and boxy grins, sometimes a boisterous laugh that manages to make your heart soar every time. But the soft-spoken soul you listen to old school R&B with while you smoke strawberry swisher blunts on the balcony late into the night, and convince that yes, the apartment is soundly built and no, the balcony will not randomly fall out beneath you… That person is different from the person you see wearing a resting bitch face in interviews or the person who chews away at imaginary gum during concerts. 

You find all versions of Taehyung endearing, although the fake gum chewing is kind of embarrassing if you wanted to be perfectly honest. 

“I know, Tae. I’m sorry I’m being judgmental for no reason,” you insist and you hope he believes you. Complaints about his idol status typically resulted in red eyes and sniffles, yet sometimes you couldn’t stop yourself from pushing his pressure points despite his sensitivity.  

Your apology puts Taehyung in a better mood because his following comment is cheekier than you expect. 

“You get jealous a lot, jagi.” His smug tone is close to bringing back your irritation. 

“I am not jealous of some fans in a stadium, thanks.” 

“Good,” he says more cheerfully. “‘Cause I only have sights for you.” 

That makes you laugh and you feel your earlier heaviness disappear. “You mean, you only have eyes for me?” 

“Isn’t that what I said?” 

You shake your head as if Taehyung can see you. A few photo strips are beneath Shooky in the cardboard box. You silently curse your father (respectfully and endearingly) for casually placing something so fragile in the bottom of a box. The photos are of you and Taehyung in a photo booth at a birthday party for an idol you didn’t know. An actor, you think. You thumb at one of the corners of the photo strip that has curled inward. Taehyung’s hair was straight then, and short, falling just above his ears. You much prefer the thick waves he wears now. 

“You’re so cute.” 

“Only for you.” 

“Oh shut up, now you’re being corny.” 

You’re not sure why, but you try to suppress the smile Taehyung’s light flirting coaxes out of you, even though he can’t see you. Accepting his teasing affection has always been hard for you. All the boys are too caring; it makes you uncomfortable, but not in a bad way. You’re just not used to men acting like that. They’re all very different from the men you’ve been around growing up. There’s a reason Taehyung can’t listen to you talk about your ex-boyfriends without getting pissed. 

“Mmm, maybe. I’m also sleepy,” Taehyung slurs. His voice is so soft you almost can’t hear him, so you lift your phone to your ear rather than use the speaker setting. The smoothness feels like a lullaby gentle enough to carry you to sleep, even though it’s still daylight in Seoul. 

“Goodnight, Kim.” You decide for him, knowing he would stay on the phone if you let him. 

Confirming your thoughts, Taehyung grumbles when he speaks next. “I love you, jagi.” 

“I love you, too.” People always talk about the “honeymoon phase” when the butterflies disappear and couples no longer feel the exciting draw toward each other anymore. It’s been less than a year since you started dating Taehyung, but you’re confident that your heart will always flutter when you hear those three words so confidently spoken. Taehyung had been the first to say it; something about that makes you even more sure of your relationship. 

“Can’t wait to see you soon so I can slut you out.” 

“… please go to bed and never say that ever again.” 

In the distance, you hear someone start yelling. The noise is accompanied by a rather aggressive ruffling sound, as though Taehyung’s phone is being rubbed against fabric. 

“Are you two having phone sex?” The second voice accuses, this time sounding much clearer. 

“Hyung, leave me alone,” Taehyung whines. “Y/N, tell him to go away.” 

You let out a long sigh, but the grin finally cuts through the hardened expression you try to maintain. “Goodnight, Jimin.” 

It sounds like the two boys start physically fighting each other before Taehyung lets out a breathy, “Goodnight, baby,” accompanied by Jimin screeching something you can’t understand before the call ends. 

With a shake of your head, you leave your phone on the floor and get up to position Shooky and your Army bomb on your dresser. You’ll figure out what to do with it later, you decide.

Later ends up being three more days of you giving a half-assed attempt to sort through the boxes. Your bedroom is mostly organized by the end of the week with only one more box remaining, shoved into the corner of the room. It’s a bunch of family keepsakes that will make you cry if you start looking at them. 

Right now you want to make a beeline to the kitchen. 

It’s hard not to trip over all the boxes that litter your apartment, most of them already torn open and half-empty. The kitchen hasn’t been fully unpacked, either, so you opt for instant ramen in the microwave rather than dig for utensils to cook a proper meal. It’s pretty bad. You and Taehyung are a terrible match; you both have no idea how to cook. There’s no point in all the fancy kitchenware your parents bought you. You’ll never master any of it. It’s not because you don’t put in any effort, like Taehyung. You’re genuinely shit at cooking. 

And baking? That’s even worse. 

You stand in the middle of your living room while you shovel ramen in your mouth. It’s too hot, so you inhale loudly through your teeth to cool the food off before it scorches your throat. There’s so much you need to do, and it’s making you nauseous thinking about it. Somewhere in the mix of boxes are your Hangeul textbooks that you should be studying in your free time instead of playing video games and video chatting with your friends. It’s only been a week and a half, but you already feel lonely without the constant presence of your friends and family. The boys have been on tour the entire time. Namjoon decided you moving to Seoul while they’re on tour would make your arrival less suspicious, and everyone would be more focused on the tour than whatever an unknown American music producer is doing. 

In your opinion, Namjoon was overthinking the whole thing as he is wont to do. But you let him be bossy because you know his heart is in the right place. It’s not like the public knows you’re dating Taehyung. There hasn’t been any press or rumors about you at all. You’re genuinely unknown.

You prefer it that way. 

Your fork scrapes the bottom of the bowl and you realize you’ve scarfed down the ramen without much thought. You suppose it’s easier to do that when you aren’t using chopsticks. (You’ve managed to master them, for the most part, but you prefer to fall back on forks when you’re alone at home.) 

You place the bowl on top of the large cardboard box in front of the couch. It has the pieces for your coffee table inside, but you haven’t had the energy to put it together yet. The part of you that allows your feminism to leave your body whenever the boys are around is kind of hoping you can get one of them to build it for you. Maybe Yoongi. He’s into that kind of stuff. 

With a sigh, you flop onto the couch and slip your phone out of your back pocket. A few Whatsapp and KakaoTalk notifications light up the screen. You used to be terrible at responding to texts, but moving halfway across the world has made you a better texter. It’s a way to fill the loneliness. 

[Alex] hey bitch

[Alex] this 15 hour time difference sucks ass

[You] I’m sorry 

[Alex] its fine. i’ll forgive you for chasing money and dick

[You] I’m not chasing dick omg

[Alex] dont lie

[Alex] whats that tiffany pollard meme

[You] Stop

[Alex] i know his dick is big. i know it! i know it’s big!

[You] I hate you

[Alex] you didnt deny it. anywayyy did you see this? 

As much as you adore Alex, she’s an expert at getting under your skin. You remind yourself that it’s all harmless as you click on the link she texts you. 

BTS’ V woos fans with his casual rockstar visuals on his return from world tour

Kim Taehyung, also known professionally as V of BTS, was spotted at John F. Kennedy International Airport on Friday. The singer is reportedly returning early to South Korea ahead of his band members after completing the final performance of their…   

You don’t know why you read the shitty k-pop tabloids. You figure it’s the same reason why people make a hobby out of watching bad movies. There’s a weird itch in the back of your brain that can’t be scratched unless you open the link Alex texts you— teasingly, of course, because she thinks she’s being funny. Your friends don’t understand the nauseous feeling you get when you scroll through the article and accidentally click on a link that takes you to an external website flaunting doctored photos of your boyfriend with Jennie Kim. 

BTS’ V and BLACKPINK’s Jennie Spend Romantic Weekend in Paris 

You know it’s a lie because the weekend in question was the same weekend Taehyung flew you to Seoul to do a final walkthrough of your apartment before you signed off on it. Taehyung spent every second of that weekend by your side. 

The article makes you sick anyway. 

You’re so caught up in trying to craft a text to Alex to explain why she needs to leave you the fuck alone that you don’t hear the sound of your apartment’s front door open over the music you’re listening to. 

“I’m gone for a few months and I come home to you listening to some other band?” 

“Holy shit, Tae, you can’t do that to me,” you yelp when Taehyung leans over the back of the couch to hover over your shoulder. 

“Explain yourself.” His voice is warm honey and milk even when his strong eyebrows point downward in mock disappointment. The expression is almost convincing, his naturally sharp features making conjuring up a dark appearance easier. 

“You can’t tell me Stray Kids’ new album isn’t good.” 

“Jagiya, I just got home,” Taehyung whines. “Kiss me and stop thirsting over Australian boys.” 

He touches your chin to tip your head backward. You lean your head against the back of the couch and look up at him. The position makes you think of the iconic Spiderman kiss, seeing Taehyung’s face upside down above yours. 

“Y’know, I worked on a few of their songs. Before I met you.” 

The confession is meant to tease him for making fun of your music choice. Of course, words’ impact often diverges from intent. It’s in the twist of his face and the way he pulls back slightly just before his lips brush against yours that you know you’ve made him jealous. 

“Oh did you?” His hair hangs around his face as he leans over you.

“Mhm, Bang Chan’s accent is really cu—” 

You shouldn’t be shocked when strong hands squeeze your waist and Taehyung hauls you off the couch to stand in front of him. He wraps his arm around your waist to pull you tightly against his chest. 

“You didn’t work with any other groups before us, okay?” 

You purse your lips to hold in the laughter that threatens to explode from your chest. All you can do is nod in agreement. It reminds you of girls getting upset when they remember their boyfriends dated other people before them. 

“Good.” 

Taehyung dips his head down to connect his lips with yours. The closeness of his body forces you to inhale his cologne and feel goosebumps travel down your arms. It’s been months since you’ve so much as held Taehyung’s hand and you feel like you’ve been starved. Your body trembles so severely that you dig your nails into his biceps to hold yourself upright. You moan into his mouth, already open and ready for you because Taehyung is nothing but giving. 

The kiss isn’t bruising, not yet. It’s slow and deep. Taehyung takes his time reminding himself of your taste. You grip the nape of his neck to pull him down as you meet him by standing on your tiptoes. His height has always been one of your favorite aspects of his physical appearance. Dark, watchful eyes that pierce into your soul might be at the top of the list. 

His tongue swirls around yours, only retreating to suck your bottom lip into his mouth. His teeth graze along the plump skin, each nibble making you dizzy in the head. You normally hate wet kisses, but there’s something satisfying about seeing Taehyung’s lips pink and shiny with your spit when he finally pulls away. Pride thrums in your chest; you did that. You made his tan skin flush pink. You made his eyes dark and sharp. You made his breathing ragged and desperate. 

And, fuck, does it feel good. 

You run your fingers along his sharp jawline and watch the muscles flex beneath his taunt skin. “Don’t clench your jaw like that. It’s not good for you,” you muse, allowing your fingers to skim over his Adam’s apple. 

“I’m trying to stay calm.” 

Your eyebrows fly up with concern. “What’s wrong?” 

“Wanna bend you over the couch and fuck you until you can’t walk,” Taehyung says with such a gentle tone that the stark difference between what he says and how he says it has your body trembling once again. 

You inhale sharply and let your hand fall from his throat. Instead, you reach for the lapels of his leather jacket and squeeze them. 

“Why don’t you?” 

You can’t look at him when you ask. Even though you’ve been dating for almost a year, Taehyung still intimidates the hell out of you sometimes. The darkness of his eyes when he gets horny sends you reeling. You’re sure if you look up, you’ll see The Look. He stares at you unabashedly with an expression of desire so strong you feel like he might consume you just by looking at you.

“You haven’t eaten yet and I need to take a shower.” 

“How do you know I haven’t eaten yet?” With a pout, you finally dare to look your boyfriend in the face. The way he gapes at you is judgmental and doesn’t make you feel devour-worthy at all. 

“I know you,” he scoffs. “You’re just like Jimin. I bet you haven’t even been awake more than two hours.” 

Barely a year into your relationship and he’s already reading you like an open book. You can’t stay salty about it when his bread cheeks come out and he’s giggling at the frustrated “hmph” you let out. 

“I’ll be fast,” he promises with a smirk that collapses into another fit of giggles. The hearty slap on your ass encourages you toward the kitchen while Taehyung makes his way to the bathroom. 

You did already eat, but today is an outlier. Normally, you are like Jimin, staying up too late and sleeping in longer than everyone else. And sometimes you’re like Yoongi, too. You get so caught up in the songs you’re working on that you forget to stop to eat or pee or look somewhere other than at a computer screen. 

The move to Seoul threw you off your usual work schedule. Everything you need to get done is looming over your head like a dark cloud. If Namjoon comes back before you finish editing the English lyrics of his upcoming single, you might die of embarrassment, no matter how many times Taehyung insists that Namjoon won’t be disappointed. 

Taehyung wasn’t lying about being quick. He’s wearing a white cotton t-shirt and grey sweatpants when he returns, hair damp and swept away from his face. You’re still standing at the fridge, painfully aware of how little food you have. Plenty of grapefruit soju, though. Priorities. 

“Do you want ramen?” You eventually ask. When Taehyung doesn’t respond, you turn to give him a sheepish smile. He probably thinks you’re ridiculous. 

Taehyung is sitting at the kitchen table with your phone in his hands. His eyebrows scrunch together and he turns to you with narrowed eyes. 

“Why were you looking at this?” 

He lifts your phone in your direction. The doctored photos of him and Jennie glare back at you. You feel your heart drop into the pit of your stomach.  

“Tae, I didn’t—” You snap your mouth shut because, honestly, it looks bad. It looks bad no matter how you explain yourself because Taehyung’s bottom lip is already quivering and you know you’re both replaying the stupid TikTok phone call in your heads right now. 

The two of you stare at each other for only god knows how long. You’re the first to break; not many people can hold their own in a staring contest with Kim Taehyung. Yoongi is probably the only one. Jungkook would give a valiant effort, but he’d ultimately crumble in a fit of nervous giggles. Taehyung is scary when he wants to be. 

Dating Taehyung started as an unbelievably exciting experience. You had your brush with fame before meeting the boys, but Taehyung was the first idol to give you genuine attention beyond whatever job needed to be done. Not that you’d ever sought it out; you had more dignity than that. No, Taehyung pursued you. Who could blame you when you fell head over heels for the sinfully gorgeous man who seemed larger than life? The long legs, big hands, and chiseled features were dangerous enough. Throw in a glowing personality, quirky sense of humor, and a big-hearted desire to care for others and you had a man who was too good to be true. 

And who are you? Some dumb American kid with average looks, a standoff personality as a result of having a bit of social anxiety (and trouble acclimating to a new country), and a penchant for fucking things up. Maybe it was your fault for not seriously considering how hard it was going to be to date an idol.  

“C’mere, jagi,” Taehyung murmurs, beckoning you. 

You expected waterworks— hell, you’re ready to start crying yourself. Instead, Taehyung wears a tired but soft smile. He holds your waist as you climb into his lap, straddling him. He wiggles a little in the chair to adjust you more comfortably on his thighs. 

“Koreaboo, really?” He gathers your face in his hands, thumbs running across your cheeks. His hands are soft and you regret not washing your face when you woke up. Sometimes it’s not fun to date someone as beautiful as Taehyung. 

“It was an accident.” 

You avoid his gaze, but Taehyung coaxes you back to look him in the eyes. It’s hard. There’s so much passion swimming in them. He blinks up at you with an earnestness that makes your heart ache because you’re always the one causing problems. 

“They could have at least used better pictures of me,” he complains with an exaggerated pout. 

“Maybe I’ll send them some from my private collection.” 

“You wouldn’t dare.” Taehyung grins as he threatens you, so you grin back. 

“Oh, I dare.” 

Quick fingers dig into your sides and you let out an embarrassing squeal. Taehyung doesn’t let up on tickling you until you’ve got tears in your eyes and your threats to elbow him in the face start sounding a bit too real. 

“Please don’t torture yourself with shit like that, okay?” He mumbles the request into your neck because your arms are thrown around his shoulders. 

You slide your fingers into his hair to cradle his head against your chest. When you dig your nails into his scalp he lets out a low groan. Nothing about the position you’re in is sexual, but you’re quickly reminded that this is the most skin-on-skin contact you’ve had with your boyfriend in months. With that fact in mind, you don’t feel bad when you scoot further into his lap and squeeze his thighs with your own. 

“Tae?” 

“Hmm?” When he tilts his head back to look up at you, he’s got that spacey, blissed-out look on his face. 

“Tell me you love me.” You place your finger against the little freckle on the tip of his nose.

The slow, boxy grin is almost better than hearing the words. Your finger migrates to touch the freckle on his lip. 

“I love you with all my heart.” He punctuates the confession with a kiss on the tip of your finger. “Your turn.” 

You roll your eyes, but it’s the reaction he’s looking for. 

“I love you, too. You dork.” 

“So romantic,” he laughs, but the amusement doesn’t reach his eyes. Instead, he watches you with lust darker than what consumed his expression earlier. 

You sit with your breath burning in your lungs as Taehyung slips his hands beneath your baggy t-shirt. His smooth palms slide up your rib cage until he reaches your tits, palming one in each hand. The tilt of his chin tells you he wants another kiss, and who are you to deny him what he wants? You dig your nails in his hair harder while you kiss him, tugging to angle his head in the direction you want. Small moments like this give the appearance that you’re in control. And Taehyung loves domming while you both pretend you’re the one in charge.

He pulls back with a wet smack. If it was anyone else, you’d be ashamed of the whimper that sounds from your throat as Taehyung removes his hands from your shirt. You grip his hair tighter, but Taehyung just chuckles. 

“So needy. What am I going to do with you?” 

You could give him a couple of ideas. There isn’t time, though. Taehyung is already grasping your chin and tilting it down. 

“Open up for me, okay?” 

Your cheeks grow hot as you open your mouth. You already know where this is going, so you stick out your tongue. Still, it’s difficult not to squirm when Taehyung presses his index and middle fingers flat against the wet muscle. 

“Suck.” 

You swallow around his fingers, sucking as best you can as he begins to thrust them into your mouth. It’s vulgar, the wet suctioning sound of his fingers dragging against your tongue. In and out, a steady pace that doesn’t go too fast. Taehyung has such long, gorgeous fingers. You quite enjoy when he wrecks your insides with them until you’re on the brink of tears. Which you’ve come to find is something Taehyung thoroughly enjoys doing. 

“You miss having your pretty mouth stuffed?”

You know any attempt at a spoken response will come out as a garbled mess. You whimper, eyes fluttering closed as you swirl your tongue around his fingers. You push your tongue in between his fingers and curl around them. 

“Gonna suck my cock like this, jagi?” He purrs the question, ending it so breathy it’s almost a moan as he eases over the term of endearment. “Show me how much you miss me, hm?” 

Maybe it’s the deep, sensual way he purrs jagi with heavy eyelids and that crooked smirk on his face. Maybe it’s because he bites his lip when he says it or that he lets his lip go with such slowness that you can see the way his teeth scrape across his plump bottom lip as it falls back into place. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s shoving his fingers just a bit deeper into your mouth. Maybe it’s all of these things that make you shift so that you can press your clothed pussy against Taehyung’s thigh. 

He flexes the muscle as you start rutting against it, rolling your hips to the rhythm of his fingers gliding in and out of your mouth. 

“Look at you.” His lips brush against the curve of your ear, sending a shiver down your back. “So desperate for me that you’re going to get off on only my thighs?” 

You’re not the type to be able to orgasm just from rutting and friction like this, but Taehyung has managed to learn your body faster than you ever expected. He slips his free hand beneath the waistband of your leggings and underwear. It’s the quick circling of his thumb against your throbbing clit combined with the rutting of your hips that sends you over the edge. 

“That’s it, baby, you did so well,” Taehyung whispers praise against the skin his lips have access to on your collarbones as you shudder in his lap. “Love seeing you cum, fuck, doing this shit over KakaoTalk fucking sucked.” 

Taehyung finally removes his fingers from your mouth when you stop moving. Seeing the string of spit that connects his fingers to your lips makes you feel weak, but you’re riding the high of his praise and skillful fingers, so you don’t care. 

He wipes your spit onto his sweatpants and gently holds your chin with his other hand. He gives you a soft smile and rubs his thumb over your bottom lip. You can taste yourself when you flick your tongue over the trail his thumb left.  

“I missed you so much,” he admits with a gentle kiss on your lips. “And not just because of this. I missed all of you, everything about you, just being with you.” 

“I missed you, too.”

It’s meant to be a confirmation of your mutual love, but it comes out like a whine. You know Taehyung doesn’t mind from the way his eyes zero in on your tongue running along your bottom lip. You don’t have to say anything more for him to know what you want. He nods once and you’re almost immediately on your knees between his legs.  

“Fuck.” He leans back in the chair and lifts his hips so you can tug his sweatpants down his thighs. “Gonna be good for me, baby?” 

You quickly nod your head, though you’re focused on gently taking Taehyung’s cock in your hand. Alex isn’t wrong. Taehyung’s dick is big, but that doesn’t mean you have to go around talking about it. That’s for you to know and for others to wonder about. 

You had to sign an NDA before you were allowed to see it, anyway, but you’d keep your mouth shut even if no legal action would be taken against you for gossiping. 

“Kiss it first.” 

He tongues the inside of his cheek as he watches you. His eyelids droop lower when you plant a puckered, open-mouthed kiss on the head of his cock. You press the tip of your tongue against the slit to lick at the precum already leaking from him. The buck of his hips isn’t unexpected, but you feel like you need to remember how to do all of this after being away from him for so long. Not to mention how tired your jaw is about to be. 

Taehyung seems to sense your hesitation because he allows his body to go slack beneath you. The hand that has reached down to dig into your scalp doesn’t let up, but he doesn’t push your head down like he normally would when you finally slide his cock down your throat. 

He doesn’t buck his hips again, even when you drool so much that the inside of his thighs become just as wet as yours. You squeeze the base of his cock, twisting your wrist to the rhythm you’ve established when you can’t take all of him into your mouth. 

You reach down to gently roll his balls with your free hand. His cock twitches against your flattened tongue and you hum with satisfaction. 

“God, your fucking mouth–” 

You make eye contact with Taehyung as your hand ventures lower. There’s nothing more beautiful than the way his face crumples with pleasure when you massage his perineum. 

“Shit, I’m gonna cum if you don’t stop,” he whines. 

You ease up slightly but still suckle on the head of his cock for longer than Taehyung wants. Why not have a little fun? All you’ll end up doing is riling him up even more, and that can only be a good thing for you. 

Taehyung digs his fingers into your hair and yanks you up. It stings, but the pain might as well be white-hot pleasure once Taehyung is praising you with a gravelly voice. 

“You’re too fucking good at that.” 

You don’t even like sucking dick, but you’d do it all day, every day if Taehyung asked you to. But since he made you stop, you have other priorities to take care of, like the fact that there are way too many layers of clothes separating you from your boyfriend. While you were on your knees for him, Taehyung removed his shirt. The white cotton is discarded on the floor beside the chair and his half-dry hair is tousled around his head in a messiness only he could successfully pull off. 

After wiggling out of your leggings and underwear, you climb back onto Taehyung’s lap. His broad chest shudders beneath your touch as you run your hands down to meet his soft tummy. His responsiveness strokes the ego you didn’t realize you have. 

“Y’know, you never gave me the chance to ask you how travel went.” 

“Seriously?” He knows you’re teasing, but you like the mock-irritated tone of his voice. It makes his chest rumble. 

You use your grip on him to stabilize yourself as you grind into his lap. You scrape your nails at the nape of his neck and suck on his bottom lip. Taehyung moans into your mouth, low and throaty, when his cock glides through your wet folds as you roll your hips. He lets you pull his hair, head falling back to expose the smooth plane of his throat. Your lips leave his to latch onto his throat instead. The kisses you give him are slippery and biting and hot. 

“No hickeys, Y/N.” 

Taehyung’s scolding is deep and sharp; you both know he’s not fucking around. It’s a command he has had to throw your way more than once. The idea of marking him up is just so appetizing, but you know you can’t. Sure, makeup can make just about anything disappear, but it’s annoying to deal with and Taehyung isn’t particularly a fan of the side looks the makeup artists give each other when they see dark bruises littering his neck and collarbones. 

Maybe you’ll give him just a tiny one and suffer the consequences later. 

You cling onto him tighter when you feel two of his fingers slip inside of you. Spreading your thighs as wide as you can without throwing off your balance on the chair, you roll your hips into Taehyung’s hand to take his fingers deeper. 

“Please,” you moan against his neck. You can smell your shampoo and body wash on him. Something about him smelling like you makes you feel overwhelmingly possessive. He’s yours. Kim Taehyung is yours. 

He turns his head to the side to capture your lips with his own as he snakes his arm around your waist. The position allows him to pull you tightly against his chest. He holds you in place as he starts thrusting his fingers into your pussy just as he had thrust them into your mouth.   

Taehyung grunts as he keeps his legs spread in the chair, which in turn forces your thighs open when you try to squeeze them closed around his hand. 

“Stay still.” 

“Can’t.” You shake your head and thread your fingers through his hair, tugging the strands harder. 

It’s too much; Taehyung lights a fire against every inch of your body each time he touches you. If he was anyone else, you’d be singed, but Taehyung takes such good care of you. You’re not singed. You’re ignited. 

“You have no fucking idea,” Taehyung takes a deep breath, “No fucking idea how badly I’ve been craving you.” He warms you up with each thrust of his fingers, adding a third until you’re clawing at his shoulders. 

“So, ahh fuck, fuck me,” you gasp, your mouth hot against the corner of his jaw. Your teeth scrape against his skin and he merely lets his head fall back to give you more. 

“No please?” 

You bite his cheek in defiance and get a slap to the ass that only makes you want to bite him more. 

“Don’t be mean to me,” you whimper. 

Taehyung’s steady rhythm against your front wall has your orgasm burning so hotly in your core that you feel like you’re going to cum if he even so much as turns his head to look at you one more time. 

Your thighs are already sore by the time Taehyung removes his fingers from your pussy. He uses your sticky arousal as lube to stroke his cock and you don’t want to think about how excited you are about this. 

“Hurry up.” 

Taehyung raises his eyebrows at you just as he grips the inside of your thigh with one hand. The other he uses to line his cock with your body. You can feel the head press against your entrance, and you try to push your body down to swallow him whole, but Taehyung holds you up to stop you. 

“Impatient cockslut, aren’t you?” Taehyung chides. 

His previously spacey look is sharpened by the sparkle of mirth in his eyes. Your body tenses when he spits the insult at you, and he knows it’s making your clit throb even harder. 

“Tae.” You bite your lip because you’re close to begging at this point. 

Luckily, you don’t have to. Taehyung presses down your hip and you quickly take the lead, easing yourself onto his cock until you’re fully seated on his firm thighs. 

Your body burns from the stretch it has to make to accommodate him, but you knew it would. Even when you’re fully adjusted to him, there’s always a bit of a stretch. He also knows he has to let you ease into it to avoid slamming himself straight into your cervix. The first time it had happened, Taehyung genuinely thought he’d broken you. You kind of thought so, too, if you were going to be perfectly honest. The struggle of having a big-dicked boyfriend. 

“Okay?” He’s watching you with those lustful, dark eyes.

“Mhm,” you hum because you’re afraid of the way your voice will quiver if you try to say real words. 

You’re so full, it’s a bit overwhelming. Not just physically, but emotionally, too. You missed Taehyung a lot, but holding onto each other in such an intimate position is making you realize just how lonely you were without him. 

“I’m gonna move, okay?” 

He waits until you silently nod your head before he adjusts in the chair, scooting down slightly to spread his legs better. You allow him to adjust your legs, bending them at the knee and hooking them over the arms of the chair. With a tight grip on your ass, Taehyung pulls you down onto his cock at the same time he thrusts up into you. 

The pace Taehyung sets is desperate, but you don’t care. Your second orgasm is approaching at an alarming speed. It feels like it’s taking all of your energy to simply stay grounded with reality as Taehyung squeezes you and your hips crash into each other. You don’t even try to do anything, just let him take over your body as he pounds into you. For the most part, you’re a pillow princess and you both know it. Besides, how can you possibly keep up with someone so athletic? Taehyung’s stamina is ridiculous. Neither of you has an overstimulation kink, but Taehyung’s ability to just go and go and go might as well have given you one. None of this has ever bothered Taehyung, though. He likes giving more than receiving. 

“Oh fuck.” Taehyung nips at the base of your neck when you clench around his cock just to feel him shiver. 

There aren’t any rules about him marking you up. The petty side of him likes when you wear the dark bruises in the open, with no makeup or clothing to hide them. It’s a satisfying game he likes to play. He likes that everyone knows you’re getting dicked down and, therefore, are taken. 

You like the secret satisfaction of knowing it’s Kim Taehyung who gives you those marks, and no one even knows. 

What you don’t like is thinking about all the other people Taehyung may have enjoyed giving marks to. 

It’s hard not to let your mind wander. Taehyung has never talked to you about his previous relationships, and there’s no way for you to know about them if he doesn’t tell you. The media can’t be trusted to accurately report idols’ love lives; today has been a perfect example of that. You’re stuck with only your imagination to make up all kinds of scenarios. Maybe Taehyung has been with other k-pop idols, or models, or actresses - people with more money, who are prettier and more sophisticated than you. Hell, you’ve never even asked him about his sexuality. What if he really has been fucking Jungkook! What if they’re in love and you’re just something temporary? 

“I was made for you, jagi. You know that?” Taehyung’s breath is hot against your skin. His words are gentle, but the power with which he thrusts up into you is bruising. “Made for you.” 

It’s as if he can read your mind, as if he can somehow sense the insecurities threatening to pull you out of the moment. As always, Taehyung manages to bring you back to the present. 

Fuck, sometimes you wish he wouldn’t do shit like this to you. You’re already pathetically in love with him. You can’t imagine what more could come next, yet you feel yourself practically bursting from the seams with love.  

Your moans fall in line with the sound of the chair scraping the floor and your skin slapping against Taehyung’s with every thrust. When your mouth falls open, Taehyung presses his thumb against your tongue. With eyes fluttering closed, you suck on his thumb and try to hold on as your body rocks up and down. 

“Fuck, fuck, oh, god, Taehyung.” 

“Yeah, jagi?” Taehyung pulls down on the corner of your mouth until his thumb is dragging spit across your cheek. “Tell me.”

His voice is so soothing it makes you want to cry. It’s unfair. 

“You feel so fucking—“ 

It’s the slick pressure of his thumb massaging your clit that finally has you arching your back with a scream of Taehyung’s name. You’re so loud that you worry your neighbors heard you. There are plenty of people named Taehyung in the world, though, right? He could be any Taehyung. 

If you ask Taehyung later, he’ll probably say he can’t even remember his own name because of how tightly you clench around his cock when you cum. The feeling is so overwhelming that you think you might pass out from holding your breath. You gasp, inhaling more air than you exhale, but Taehyung keeps going. Every subsequent thrust knocks the air out of you until you have the opposite problem and now you can’t keep any air in.

“I’m gonna…”

“Go ahead, baby. Cum inside me.” 

Taehyung whimpers into the crook of your neck as he cums, the suggestiveness of your permission not lost on either of you. You’re on birth control and Taehyung knows a kid would probably ruin his career. So it doesn’t actually mean anything when you tell him he can stay inside; you’re not getting pregnant any time soon. Still, he gets off on coming inside of you, even if he doesn’t want to admit it. 

“I was going to make a joke that I should go on tour more often if that means I’ll cum that hard again, but I think I don’t want to go on tour ever again,” Taehyung admits with a shaky laugh. 

Just the idea of Taehyung leaving you for months on end again makes your stomach twist. He brings so much life to everywhere he goes, and you felt like much of that life left you when he did. Even if it was only temporary. 

Taehyung holds you until his cock is no longer twitching inside of you. Once his arms finally fall to his side, you try to untangle yourself from the chair as his body, but your limbs might as well belong to someone else.

“Help,” you squeak hoarsely. You feel like covering your face when Taehyung laughs. 

Taehyung helps you out of his lap, though you both are so wobbly on your feet that you hold onto the edge of the kitchen table when you stand. Taehyung looks wrecked, and you feel wrecked. You’re not sure your knees will ever work properly again. 

“Why are we still listening to Stray Kids?” Taehyung grumbles when he realizes the speakers are still playing in the background. 

“It’s a good album.”

“We should be fucking to my songs.” Taehyung pauses for a moment, thinking.“‘Christmas Tree’ is a fuckable song, right?” 

“You’re joking.” 

Taehyung shakes his head and reaches for your phone. His face is programmed to unlock your phone, just like your face unlocks his phone. You don’t understand how he can stand butt naked in the kitchen, cum all over his thighs, and search for the jazz playlist he made on your Spotify account. 

(“Jazz Hands, Y/N. It’s a vibe.”) 

Once his playlist has replaced Stray Kids, Taehyung wraps you up in a giant bear hug that lifts you off your feet. The hug nearly knocks the air out of you. 

“Can’t believe you made me dirty after I just showered.” You can’t see his pout, but you can hear it. 

“You’re the one who started this.” 

Taehyung scoffs. He starts walking down the hallway, practically dragging you in his arms as he goes. Your toes barely reach the ground, but you’re more content to let your body fall slack and make him do all the work. 

He kicks open the bathroom door and sits you down on the counter. 

“No, you did this. You looked at me with those pretty eyes and said, ‘Tae’.” He tries to mimic your voice by moaning his name. “I’m a weak, weak man. You influenced me. I just wanted you to eat.” 

“Well, I did eat.” 

Taehyung presses his lips together. “Don’t say it.” 

“I’m gonna say it.” You lean forward on the edge of the counter, trying to get in Taehyung’s space, but he’s ignoring you as he prepares the shower.

“Y/N.” 

“I ate…”  

“Stop.” 

“Deez nuts.” 

Taehyung drags his hands down his face, leaving his skin red. His reaction makes you giggle. 

“Technically you only played with deez nuts. Your mouth, sadly, did not ever come near my—” He tries to correct you, but you’re already throwing a scrunchie at his face. 

“You’re ruining the joke!” 

“It’s a bad joke!”

Maybe your sense of humor is way better than his, but as you suffer another Taehyung tickle attack, you can’t help but feel ridiculous for how you’d behaved earlier. How can he look at you with sparkling eyes and a boxy smile that makes him laugh with his teeth, hand coming up to cover his face when you give him your poutiest of pouts— how can you see such genuine kindness and think Taehyung would ever do anything to jeopardize what you have?

“Wassup motherfuckers!” 

You raise your eyebrows at Namjoon and tap the end of your chewed pen against your computer screen. Biting pens isn’t sanitary or cute but you do it anyway. The man’s eyes aren’t on your pen cap, though. He’s staring a hole into the podcast you pulled up because you know he doesn’t want to look at you. 

“Namjoon, why did you start the episode like that? This is not your Automatic Dick era,” you say with a deep sigh. 

“Beoryeo.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“The song. It’s called ‘Throw Away’, not… Automatic… Dick…” His correction dies on his tongue when he sees the exasperated look on your face. 

“That is not the point.” You shake your head and exit the website. You’re not in charge of PR. That’s someone else’s problem.

Your attention turns to the newest draft of the song you’ve been stressing out about since you arrived in Seoul. 

“This, though? This is fucking beautiful.” You adjust your laptop on the coffee table so Namjoon can better view the document. The two of you are at the dorm, lounging in the living room. 

There are a lot of highlighted lines and many comments throughout the document. You wish you were like the members who scribbled their lyrics in cute leather journals, but your brain is too much of a disaster and broken by technology. If you don’t have your laptop, you can’t write lyrics for shit. 

“How are you so eloquent in Korean, but in English, you’re so…” You wave your hands around like you’re rifling through the air for the rest of your sentence. 

“Casual?” 

“Yes.” Sure, we’ll go with that, Joonie. 

“Well, that’s why I’ve got you!” 

At least he thinks you’re eloquent. The boys probably think you’re spending all your time in your office easily pulling masterpieces out of your ass when in reality you’re Googling, “what’s the word for when you can’t remember a word?” 

It’s lethologica, by the way.

You love Namjoon, but sometimes you think he has too much faith in you. Writing songs is hard. He of all people would know that. The difference between you and Namjoon is that when Namjoon struggles with writing he gets all emo, buys a bunch of weird furniture, and flies to another country to look at foreign art. When you struggle with writing, you just go home and play video games with Taehyung until you’re ready to try again. 

You’re both practicing avoidance, but Namjoon’s method just looks a little more dramatic than yours. Despite his assumptions, that doesn’t mean you’re better at handling yourself. You just do things differently. 

“We’re so lucky to have Jagi PD!” 

Namjoon groans and covers his head with the hood of his hoodie as Jungkook flies into the living room. 

Strong hands cup your armpits to lift you off of the couch. While Jungkook is crushing every bone in your body as he hugs you, all you can think about is how you were kind of a little bit sweaty, and now Jungkook has his hands all in your armpits. 

“Jungkookie, don’t pick people up without their consent.” 

Hobi enters the room behind the younger man and gives him a stern look which makes Jungkook immediately put you down on your feet. 

“Sorry, Y/N,” Jungkook says with a pout and galaxies in his eyes. You give his shoulder a playful smack. His baggy black t-shirt sticks to his skin, and you’re less worried about being sweaty. Jungkook is soaked. 

“Don’t worry about it, kid. I’m tough.” You flex your nonexistent muscles to make the precious maknae laugh his pout away.

“You should come train with us, Jagi.” 

“Jungkook,” Namjoon exclaims from where he still sits on the couch. 

He turns to his friend with wide eyes. “What?”

“Stop calling Y/N ‘jagi’. Taehyung is going to kill you.” This time Jimin pipes up. 

You hadn’t realized he’d entered the room, too. The three newcomers are varying degrees of sweaty with pink cheeks and wearing workout clothes. You suppose they’ve just come back from working out or perhaps a dance practice. They’ve all been back from tour for a few weeks now, but if there’s one thing you’ve learned about the Bangtan Boys it’s that they never fucking rest. 

It’s exhausting just to think about it. 

“It’s okay,” you say with a shrug. “I think ‘Jagi PD’ is pretty fucking funny, to be honest.” 

The nickname Jungkook created for you is cute in your opinion. You are a music producer. Jagi PD is better than using your last name. It could be like your stage name. Maybe you can get Namjoon to credit you as Jagi PD under the songs you write. Using your first and last name seems lame when it’s paired with fun names like SUGA, RM, j-hope, and Slow Rabbit.

“Pretty fucking funny,” Jungkook repeats. He gives the other men a triumphant look before launching himself onto the couch with Jimin. 

Hobi chooses to sit on the couch on the opposite side of the room with Namjoon. From the way Namjoon has nestled back into his seat, it’s clear that his song will have to wait. It’s for the best. You’re not thinking about music anymore. 

You can’t blame Jungkook for interrupting your work, but the true source of distraction saunters into the room with his arms full of grocery bags. 

“Hey, jagiya,” Taehyung greets you sweetly with a kiss on your forehead as he walks through the living room to get to the kitchen. The final two men, Jin and Yoongi, trail behind Taehyung with their own bags. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Jimin give Jungkook a pointed look when Taehyung uses the term of endearment. 

“What are you guys making?” Jungkook is curled up against the arm of the couch with his phone in hand. He’s holding it sideways which makes you think he’s probably playing In The Seom. The app is old news by this point, yet Jungkook’s attention is still consumed by it. It’s hilarious. 

You wish you could meet the game developers. Whoever made Taehyung’s character look so fucking feral deserves a raise. 

“You’re gonna cook?” You don’t hide your shock at the idea that Taehyung would be cooking anything, and that makes everyone laugh.

“I’m making dinner,” Yoongi clarifies. “And it’s a surprise, so stop paying attention to me.” He shoos Jin and Taehyung out of the kitchen. 

Jin sits on the couch with Jimin and Jungkook, while Taehyung sits with you. The armchair really only seats one person comfortably, but you wiggle so Taehyung can sit half next to you and half under you. He arranges your legs to drape over his lap. It’s nice, being this close. You can snuggle into his side and let him wrap his arms around you without worrying about who can see or what people think. All the boys are supportive of your relationship with Taehyung. It’s a bit frustrating that there’s no way for you to fully express how appreciative you are. 

“Well, what are we supposed to do?” From the couch in the living room, Jungkook shoots Yoongi a glare as if Yoongi’s request for some alone time while he cooks is a personal attack. 

Yoongi snorts and turns his back on Jungkook to begin unloading the groceries. “I don’t know, talk to each other.” 

“You guys are boring. I only want to talk to Y/N.” You’re not sure how you’ve become Jungkook’s favorite, but it’s exceptionally endearing. 

“You’re not even going to pay attention,” Namjoon points out. “Always on that damn phone.” 

He’s still got his hood up, and he looks like he was half-asleep. No one but you gets the joke, so Namjoon nods his head in your direction before returning to his slumped position. 

“I like watching Jimin-ssi’s character spin around in little circles.” 

“It’s cute, isn’t it?” Jin chimes in. “He looks so small.” 

The glares Jimin shoots everyone in the room are terrifying. You think about something you’d heard someone say: the shorter the person, the closer to hell they are. Something dramatic that only a tall person would say. 

“All the characters are the same size,” he exclaims. “And I don’t do that!” 

“Yes, you do. There are fanmade compilation videos of you spinning around, Jimin-ssi! I’ve watched them,” Jungkook confesses with full confidence. 

A small squeal sounds from the opposite side of the room. You turn to see Hobi practically bouncing on the couch. 

“Please, can we watch some? I want to hear the cute sound effects.” 

A pillow flies across the room, and Hobi just barely dodges it. Jimin crosses his arms firmly against his chest and scowls as Jin and Jungkook enthusiastically agree and Hobi snatches the TV remote before anyone else can. 

“At least watch a video that isn’t about me doing something embarrassing,” Jimin breaks down enough to plead (not beg!) with Hobi. He eyes the room and his gaze falls on Taehyung. A small smirk twitches at the corner of his mouth and you feel Taehyung slowly exhale. “We should watch one about TaeTae.” 

You try to cover your laughter with a cough, but Taehyung applies a light slap to your thigh in retaliation. 

“Why me?” he pouts. 

“Yes! Let me pick!”

“Jungkookie, no. It was my idea.” Hobi scrolls through his phone until his face lights up with glee. “I’ve watched this one before and it’s so cute, Y/N, you’re going to love it.” 

“The suspense is killing me.” You wiggle your eyebrows at Taehyung. The rolled eyes you’re met with feel like a victory. 

“Okay, it’s called, BTS struggling to understand ‘Tae-tae language’,” Hobi prefaces while the video loads on the TV. 

Jin laughs at the loud snort you let out. “TaeTae language is hard to understand.” 

“Maybe you guys aren’t creative enough to understand me,” Taehyung scoffs. 

“Hey! I understand you!” Yoongi protests from the kitchen. 

Taehyung looks like he might say more, but the video interrupts him. It starts with highlights from the comments section of previous videos. One comment mentions Namjoon being their bias. 

“Is that weird? Like, to watch this kind of stuff and hear people talk about their biases?” If you were famous, you were absolutely positive that you’d never Google yourself. You would not want to know what kind of weird shit was out there about you, even something as seemingly innocent as silly compilation videos. 

“I think it’s funny,” Jimin says with a smirk and half-moon eyes. “I’m everyone’s bias, anyway.” 

“That’s not what TikTok says.” Jungkook turns his nose upward at Jimin, though his eyes never leave his phone. It’s a shame In The Seom didn’t allow him to drown Jimin in the ocean, or he totally would have done it by now. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Just check how many videos there are under my hashtag.” 

Jimin snorts with a roll of his eyes, seemingly dismissing Jungkook’s claims. But you see him twist on the couch so the younger man can’t see that Jimin pulls up TikTok on his phone. As if TikTok was the end all, be all. You want to tell them it’s impossible to know who’s the most “popular” or whatever, but you know that conversation is futile. 

“Y/N, you were Army before you started dating Tae!” You can practically see the light bulb going off in Hobi’s brain. Or, rather, the Army bomb. “Who was your bias?” 

Hobi’s question barely leaves his lips when the room grows quiet. Seven pairs of eyes stare at you expectantly, including your boyfriend’s. You keep your eyes on the TV, though you aren’t seeing the compilation video playing anymore. 

“I don’t know. I didn’t have a bias. Y’know, OT7 and all that shit.” 

Suddenly, the room erupts. Screeches of protests and arguments are shouted across the living room, the boys yelling on top of one another and slewing insults at each other. 

“Oh come on, Y/N, tell us!” Hobi whines.

“Yeah, we wanna know! We won’t judge you.” Pulling this precious information out of you is so vital that Jungkook looks away from his phone long enough to give you a pouty face. 

“It’s obviously me. I’m Worldwide Handsome.” 

“Leave her alone, guys.” Taehyung shifts in his seat and adjusts how your legs drape over his lap. His large hands massage soft circles into your calf muscles. “This is so childish.” 

“Right. A bias is just whoever a fan is partial to,” Namjoon says with a shrug. “What matters is that fans support us as seven.” 

“No, a bias is the one the fan wants to fuck the most.” This time Jungkook doesn’t look up from his phone when he speaks. 

Jin hums in agreement, winking in your direction and making Taehyung scowl. 

“You’re just scared it’s not you, Tae.” For someone Taehyung calls his soulmate, Jimin seems to jump at every opportunity to fuck with his friend. He turns to you with those haunting siren eyes that lure in even God’s strongest soldiers. “Is he, Y/N? Is your bias Taehyung or someone else?” 

“I thought Hobi’s question was, who was my bias? Not is.” 

His siren eyes narrow at you. “Stop arguing semantics and answer the question.” 

You can’t hold a staring contest with the now-paused Youtube video, and Jimin’s sudden snappiness makes you feel the need to look away. Right into the eyes of your answer, the only person who hasn’t spoken during the entire bias conversation. 

Yoongi’s sharp eyes catch yours when you look away from the TV. Never one to miss a beat, he raises a perfectly-shaped eyebrow at you, the ghost of his classic Yoongi smirk barely lifting the corner of his mouth before the entire room erupts into shouting again. 

“YOONGI?! REALLY?! OUT OF ALL OF US, YOU PICKED HIM?” Jimin jumps up from the couch, knocking pillows all over the floor. 

“Watch it, Jimin-ah,” Yoongi scolds the younger man for his informal language. Jimin only rolls his eyes. 

“Damn, Jimin was right. You aren’t her bias, TaeTae.” Jin shakes his head with a solemn look. He gets up to leave the room, giving your boyfriend a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as he walks past. “I’m going to my room to play Mario Kart. This is too depressing for me.” 

At the mention of video games, Jungkook perks up. “Wait Jin hyungie, I wanna play, too!” He tosses the last couch pillow in Jimin’s lap and scrambles to catch up with Jin halfway down the hall. 

Yoongi wears a full-blown smirk now. You watch with wide eyes as his tongue slips out to drag across his bottom lip before he’s drawing his lip between his teeth. “Cute.” 

“Fuck off,” Taehyung hisses at the older man, lifting your legs off his lap. 

“Tae…” You reach out to grab his arm to stop him, but he’s already heading to his bedroom. The door slams shut so hard that the photos on the walls shudder. 

You turn back around to glare at the remaining men. “Did you have your fun, hmm? Was it worth it?” 

“I really… I didn’t think…” Hobi fumbles his words, clearly uncomfortable with the outbursts he’d unwittingly caused. 

“If it doesn’t work out with Taehyung, call me, yeah?” Yoongi sends you a wink, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. 

You feel your face heat up and you refuse to look at him. You wait until he goes back to preparing the food before you stand up. Without another word, you follow in Taehyung’s footsteps until you reach his door. It’s locked, but you expected as much. 

“TaeTae,” you call softly. “Please let me in.” 

You wait in silence long enough that you consider going home. If Taehyung doesn’t want to talk to you, you aren’t going to push him. Even if you think the reason for his outburst is stupid and that he’s acting like a child. 

Eventually, the door is opened wide enough for you to slip inside. Taehyung doesn’t look at you when he shuts the door. Instead, he sits on his bed and leans his back against the wall. He keeps his eyes on his hands delicately folded together in his lap. His eyes are already red and slightly puffy. The sight is glass in your veins. 

“Tae, please don’t be upset,” you start slowly. Climbing into his bed, you scoot until you’re lounging next to him. He doesn’t pull away when you rest your head on his shoulder. 

“It’s embarrassing.” 

You let out a small sigh, not because you’re frustrated with him but because you’d known watching fanmade videos would turn out to be a bad idea. 

“If it makes you feel better, you were still in my bias line.” It’s probably not the best way to reassure your boyfriend, but it at least makes him look at you. 

“Who else?” His eyes are narrowed.

“I don’t think I should answer that.” 

Taehyung’s bottom lip droops and you feel your heart seize. 

“Okay, okay!” Maybe holding his hand will make it better. “Jimin, but, no don’t give me that look! Just listen.” 

Taehyung’s pout deepens, but he doesn’t interrupt you. 

“It’s not like when I hang out with Jimin or Yoongi I’m thinking about those things, okay? It’s just a natural thing that happens. Anyone can be drawn to specific people in a group; the same thing happens with friendships. Like you and Jimin. It’s normal.” 

Taehyung doesn’t seem convinced, but he laces his fingers through yours. You interpret the light squeeze he gives you as permission to continue talking. 

“Yoongi is cool because I always saw him as this, like, mental health icon for me. He talks so much about mental health and fans see how he has grown and gotten healthier over the years. It’s inspiring, right? You’ve seen it firsthand.”

“That’s true,” Taehyung sniffles. 

You nod your head. “Exactly, I respect him as a person and an artist. And with Jimin, I’ve always been almost jealous? of him. Because he can so beautifully balance both masculine and feminine qualities and aesthetics. He looks good no matter what and has learned to accept himself instead of forcing whatever weird masculinity shit y’all had when you debuted. That’s inspiring, too.” 

Taehyung is silent for a while. You give him the space to process what you’ve said, and you hope that it’s enough to make him understand that a bias is not just about who you want to fuck. Jungkook is such a flirt; of course, that’s how he would interpret things. 

“Why did you like me?” He finally looks at you. His eyes are a little pink from his tears, but his cheeks appear dry. The innocent curiosity in his expression tugs at your heart. 

You reach up to run your fingers through his fluffy hair, combing out any tangles and gently massaging his scalp. This is probably how Taehyung feels when you worry about fans, paparazzi, and sasaengs. 

“Well, you’re hot,” you say with a grin. You feel a bit lighter when Taehyung’s mouth curves slightly, too. 

“Is that it?” 

“Of course not.” You stick your tongue out. “You were my favorite in the vocal line. I loved how smooth your singing voice is, and how thoughtful you sound when you talk about how important the members and Army are to you. How could someone not love the inventor of I purple you?” 

It feels weird to talk about how you liked Taehyung before you knew who he was. You never made your status as a fan obvious in the beginning. Professionalism is more important than fangirling. Even now, you only casually discuss your interest in the group before meeting them.

“Your sense of fashion made me laugh. You always seemed so happy, even though people like to focus a lot on how mean you can look. And I thought your relationships with Yoongi and Jimin were cute. You’re a great example of how men can and should be soft and loving.” 

They’re all highly-simplified explanations for why Taehyung caught your eye in a group of seven, but they seem to put him at ease. He slides into the bed so he’s lying on his back under the covers. With his eyes locked on yours, he pats his chest. 

“C’mere.” 

You lie down under the covers next to him. It feels nice to rest your head on his chest and throw your leg over his waist. Ever since Taehyung came back from the tour, you’ve wanted to be attached at the hip. It’s not that you can’t handle being alone, but you don’t think it’s a bad thing to want to be with the people who bring you joy— especially when you live in a new country. 

“You know I’m in love with you, not Yoongi or Jimin.” 

“I know.” 

“Do you actually?” You shift your head so you can look up at him. 

Taehyung meets you halfway. You let your eyes close as he slots his lips with yours, allowing your body to melt into his. The desperation the two of you had for each other when Taehyung first returned to Seoul eventually died out. Now, you’re okay with taking things slow. You can savor the feeling of his body on yours, firm and warm beneath you. You can savor the smell of his cologne and his taste as you breathe him in and slip your tongue inside his mouth. 

“I do,” he responds with a heavy exhale once you pull away. “I’m sorry I got upset. I just got so angry when hyung…” Taehyung scrunches his eyebrows and his nose scrunches along with them. 

You massage his forehead and try to forcefully smooth the wrinkles there. “Yoongi is just being an ass. He loves you, too,” you point out. 

Taehyung can’t argue that, so he leans down to kiss you again. You know how important physical contact is to him, especially when he’s upset. With that in mind, you slip your hands beneath his t-shirt. Splaying your hands flat against his chest feels nice. It’s a reminder that he’s real, and he’s here. He’s safe and healthy and yours. 

“We both get pretty jealous, huh?” 

Taehyung gives you a sheepish smile, all cheeks and pretty lips. You love his little lip freckle, but your favorite will always be the one under his eye. 

“Not as bad as Jungkook, though.” 

“Mhm, please don’t break up with me over a perilla leaf or anything.” 

Taehyung giggles and you feel like you’ve got helium inside you. If you don’t hold onto him tightly enough, you might float away with how light and carefree being with him makes you. 

“You won’t get rid of me that easily,” he says as he nibbles your earlobe. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

His hands find the hem of your t-shirt, and you sit up to allow him to undress you. It’s a delicate process because Taehyung wants to take his time, too. It might seem like the two of you use sex to solve your problems, but you never see it like that. For you, letting Taehyung take his time breaking you down, just to build you back up again, is an act of emotional intimacy, just as it is physical. When Taehyung gets comfortable between your thighs, dark eyes locked with yours as he sucks your clit into his mouth, the hold he has on your wrists grounds you. And when he hovers over you with your legs wrapped around his hips as he thrusts into you, you whisper gentle praises against his throat to remind him that you are his and he is yours.

You spend the rest of the afternoon in Taehyung’s bed. It feels good to snuggle with him while he talks to you about all the jazz clubs he forced Jimin to go to during the little free time they had on tour. It seems the tension in the house fades because the rest of the boys are loud and energetic; it’s impossible to tune them out when their laughter bleeds into the room despite the door being closed. 

“Do you think Taehyung and Y/N are done having make-up sex?” 

“It’s pretty quiet in there. Maybe they fell asleep.” 

You groan and bury your face in Taehyung’s side. It’s almost as if Jungkook and Jin are purposefully talking outside of his bedroom to make sure you can hear them. Knowing them, it’s not a far-fetched idea. 

“Probably tired themselves out. The screaming was really—” 

“JUNGKOOK!” Taehyung sits up so abruptly that you fall back onto the bed. “SHUT THE FUCK UP.” 

Jin and Jungkook’s laughter eventually fades down the hallway, but Taehyung gets out of bed anyway. 

“Yoongi is probably almost done with dinner,” he grumbles. You watch him zip up his jeans and admire how tall and lanky he is. Sorry to Yoongi and Jimin. 

He manages to get his arms caught in his t-shirt somehow, so you begrudgingly get out of bed to help. You tease him endlessly because obviously fucking you is so good that he doesn’t know how to use his limbs anymore. 

Your teasing is nothing compared to the way the other boys drag you the moment you step out of Taehyung’s bedroom. 

“You okay, Y/N? Sounded like you might be dying,” Jimin grins as he prepares the kitchen table for dinner. 

Jin snickers, throwing out his own commentary. “Taehyung, you got it pretty good even though you aren’t her bias, huh.” 

Before Taehyung has a chance to bite anyone’s head off, you chime in. 

“Yeah, yeah, Yoongi was my bias when I was a fan,” you say with a roll of your eyes. You can practically see Jungkook registering that you said “was a fan”, and that makes him pout. As if you aren’t still a fan. What a baby, just like Taehyung. 

Yoongi snorts as he retrieves a dish from the oven. “I cannot fathom why.” 

“Me either,” Jimin agrees with a giggle. He’s completely unfazed by the dark look Yoongi shoots him. 

You join in on Jimin’s laughter, and you’re pleased to see that Taehyung is smiling too. The whole thing is so ridiculous. Maybe you’re feeling a bit too comfortable because you start oversharing. 

“And I was a Yoonmin shipper, I’m not gonna lie.” You’re laughing so hard that you don’t realize neither Jimin nor Taehyung are laughing anymore. After a few seconds pass, though, your smile slowly falls. Jimin’s face has turned bright pink and Yoongi has his back to the table. 

“It was one time, okay?” Jimin’s eyes burn holes into Yoongi’s shoulder blades from across the room. “Okay, two times.” 

The older man doesn’t comment. 

You nudge Taehyung’s leg with your foot under the kitchen table. He presses his lips together as hard as he can, but the smile just gets pushed into his cheeks. A rush of air explodes from his lips in a loud raspberry, and that’s what triggers your laughter again. 

“Oh my god, I really wish I was surprised but I’m not,” you confess with a wheeze. 

You’ve clearly touched on a sensitive topic. Jimin blabbers away about how it’s not that big of a deal, all while Yoongi silently finishes arranging the dishes on the table. It would feel uncomfortable, but Jimin’s flushed face and the tiniest of smiles curving Yoongi’s lips make you think it meant a lot more than what Jimin wishes to admit. 

And that’s really fucking cute. 

As the rest of the boys come piling into the kitchen, Taehyung scoots his chair until yours are touching. You bump shoulders and tilt your face up so he can press a kiss against your jaw. 

“I love you,” he whispers. “With all my heart.“ 

“I love you, too.” You lace your fingers with his and let your hands rest against his thigh. “You dork.” 

The kitchen is chaos, but all you can focus on is the boxy smile Taehyung gifts you.

[yoongsriverandme]

𓈒 ꪆৎ PROM SONG (GONE WRONG)!

❝ At the gate, stop and say, "be my valentine"… ❞

⤑ pairing: kim taehyung x fem!reader

⤑ genre: fluff, mutual pining, idiots-to-lovers, strangers(?)-to friends-to lovers, "unrequited" love, secret admirer!au, college!au.

⤑ wc: 3.8k

⤑ summary: with valentine's day right around the corner, you somehow have to muster up the courage to confess to taehyung - but oh yeah, two things: 1. he doesn't know you exist, and 2. you're his secret admirer.

⤑ rating: g/teen & up audiences

⤑ warnings: none besides a literal sprinkle of light light angst, and a little cursing! everyone gets a cameo

⤑ date posted: feburary 14, 2025

⤑ authors note: AHHH HI!!! i'm so excited to be here! this is my first ever post on this account, and i'm so happy it's on valentine's day! i cooked up this sickeningly fluffy fic for my four followers, so enjoy!

𓈒 ꪆৎ masterlist

⁘ preface: i only use bts as face claims! they are my muses, so anything they say or do, do not reflect their real life character!

Valentine’s day.

A time where couples all over the world celebrate their love with treats, and dates, and cute little notes riddled with the cheesiest, loveliest words.

What a fucking chore.

Your school was cascaded with an ocean of pink and red, the halls drowned in hearts and sweet aspirations to encourage the young lovers that housed their classrooms, and the yearners that were thinking maybe, just maybe, today might be the day.

You smack a low hanging decoration out of your way as you walk, the small scowl that was forming on your face deeping because of the irritating spangle.

You didn’t hate love. That’s just stupid.

Normally the amorous energy didn’t get on your nerves. 

How could they? With all of your friends gushing about the holiday, it’d be fruitless to be miffed over something as trivial as that, and it wasn’t like you didn’t want your friends to be happy.

You just had a bad morning.

‘Bad morning’ means seeing the guy you’re… mildly interested in, talking to another girl.

Feelings of jealousy felt like such a frivolous matter, because what’s the point in being mad at something or someone that wasn’t yours in the first place?

You hate the way your brain has labeled Kim Taehyung as yours in the first place. 

He was well known around school, a fine arts major with a minor in photography, and quite popular on the internet. 

He had a big Instagram account where he’d post personal pictures of things that were monotonous to any other person: a half empty cup of coffee, a sleeping cat on the street, a wildflower that seemed to have held some sort of beauty to the eye of its beholder.

Not that you were stalking him of course, it was just an admirable feat.

It was clear he was going to go far after graduation, and that in of itself was the most attractive part about him; not to mention his unwavering kindness or his off-kilter smile that appeared more like a box than anything.

Taehyung was also unshakably loyal. You’ve seen his anger directed at those who’d hurt his loved ones before, and it was terrifying.

So, it wasn’t strange that he’d be talking to someone that he knows. That’s just the way that life works. People talk to other people, plain and simple.

Just not you, it seems.

It’s not like you run in the same social circle, and you’ve never really made yourself available to him. It was your own fault.

It’s not that you didn’t want to talk to him, you were just… shy.

He’s the embodiment of sun, joy wrapped up into a small gift of a human being; and while yes, he does pick up where you lack, it seems to be too big of a gap to bridge. So, you’ll stick to admiring him for now.

“There’s another one, hyung!” Taehyung calls out in happiness as you round the corner to the hallway that houses the lockers.

Oh, and that too.

The love letters.

It was a lapse of judgement in your opinion. 

You were vulnerable, and one of your closest friends had managed to weasel their way into your brain and placed false hope that sharing your writing would somehow win him over.

It seems to be half true, for what it’s worth.

You were prepared for the sheer amount of warmth to spread through your chest after watching Taehyung react to your love letters the first time.

It was very simple: “your art is beautiful.”

You had haphazardly shoved it through the slits in the metal locker before hauling ass to your next class. The only reason why you were able to see his reaction is because yours was only four lockers down.

It was hard to act inconspicuous when your hands were damp with sweat, every negative thought flowing through your mind at the same time:

‘He thinks it’s stupid’

‘He’ll throw it away’

‘“Your art is beautiful”? Yeah, not like he’s never heard that one before’

But the funny part about life is that sometimes, it goes the way you want it to.

“Wah! Taehyungie, is that a love note?” His close friend Hoseok, had sounded from behind him.

It had only taken Taehyung a handful of seconds to open his locker, watch the note flutter out, bend over, pick it up, and read it.

Your body went rigid, and the grating silence that fell the nearly empty hallway was deafening.

Then, “I don’t know.”

Hoseok looked over his shoulder, and his eyebrows drew together. “It’s not very long.” He speaks unsurely. 

“I know,” Taehyung’s words were then followed by a wide smile. “It’s perfect.”

Perfect. Perfect. Perfect. 

He had called the notes perfect.

From then on, you hadn’t really written a lot, because there was so much that you had to say that you couldn’t really say anything at all.

You wanted to write more, you wanted to give him more. There were so many times that you would go to write him a note with more than a sentence or two, but you’d end up sitting there and just staring at the slip of paper.

Your compliments never seemed to bother him, because every time you’d seen him go to grab his books, he’d give a quick, ecstatic glance over its internal contents, searching for your note.

It was flattering.

So, you kept writing, and he kept reading.

But now that Valentine’s day was around the corner, you couldn’t help but feel like you should have been doing more.

More of what? More words? Gifts? Actions? Confessions?

It leaves you in a conundrum, because while yes, you did want to confess to him, you had no fucking idea how, and secondly, to address the elephant in the room, he had no fucking idea who you were.

Okay, yeah, your lockers are only a foot or two apart, and yes, you do share a class with him, but you’ve never talked to him before. You’re lucky he would even remember your name because of attendance purposes.

You're snapped back into reality by a force slamming into you from behind, sending you stumbling forward and out from behind the corner you had been standing behind.

You let out an unattractive yelp, and your headphones had been ripped out of your ears and tumbled to the floor along with your phone.

You don’t even have time to blink before one Jeon Jungkook is in your field of vision, apologizing profusely and stumbling over himself to pick your things up.

“Oh, God – I’m so sorry! I – I didn’t see you, and I just wanted to –”

You swallowed harshly, keeping your eyes downcasted as embarrassment seeped into every crevice of your body.

So much for good introductions.

You know he was looking at you, and you knew that the ‘hyung’ he had been talking to was dance major Park Jimin.

Kill me. Kill  me. Kill me – 

“It’s fine.” You spoke blankly, almost as if you were bored. Almost as if you weren’t about to spontaneously combust where you stood.

You pushed out a hand, gesturing to him to place your lost objects in them; and he did, albeit hesitantly.

“Again, I’m –”

“Sorry. Yeah, I heard you the first time, and I said it’s fine.”

You finally look up, and you try to not cringe at the overwhelming amount of worry that’s etched into Taehyung’s face. 

Worry for who? You didn’t know, but you can’t help but risk a glance his way and his large brown eyes pour into your soul.

Dangerous.

This is exactly why you weren’t going to say anything.

“I’ve got to go to class. Just be careful next time.”

You rip your eyes away and turn around, abandoning your textbook and journal in exchange for safety. 

Safe from what?

The hardest part about sharing a class with Kim Taehyung was actually having to see him.

What makes it even harder is that he has been non-stop looking at you the entire period, and you can’t help but be a little self-conscious.

You shift in your seat, straightening your shirt, and nonchalantly wiping around your mouth just in case you might have saved anything from breakfast on your face.

It was like heaven had opened up when the bell rang, and you were the first one to shoot up, shoving your backup materials into your bag. You could’ve gone faster.

Just when you thought you were free, two sneaker covered feet encroached your vision.

“Hey.”

The deep timber of his voice shook you to your very core, and you paused briefly, glancing up at him even though it felt like cinder blocks were tied to the back of your eyes.

“Hi.” You breathed.

“I’m sorry about Jungkook.”

“I already said it was fine.” You sighed, putting away the last of your things and hauling the strap of your tote bag over your shoulder.

“It’s not, though. He shouldn’t have been running in a busy hallway like that. He could’ve gotten him or someone else hurt.”

Your nerves practically hummed at his fussing, but you forced it down.

“I appreciate your concern, and I don’t blame him for running into me. A lot of my friends are like him too. Excitable, quick to injure. Like a puppy.”

At your dry-witted joke, Taehyung cracked a grin. “(y/n), right?”

Even though he was clearly in front of you, hearing him say your name nearly startled you half to death. It sounded good coming out of his mouth. Too good.

“Yeah, and I know you’re Taehyung.”

“I’m sorry we’ve never talked to each other before, I’ve just been busy with, you know…”

“Your art and stuff, yeah. I know.” He seems caught off guard by the show of information, and you think that now would be an excellent time to chuck yourself out the nearest window.

“You know about my art?”

“And your photography.”

Wow, very inconspicuous.

“Oh?”

“I… think your work is excellent. You find beauty in the small things. It’s admirable.”

For a moment he just stares at you, and you stare back. For the first time since coming in contact with him today, you didn’t have the overwhelming feeling to run.

Maybe you can give him a bit more.

“What are you doing today?” Your breath catches in your throat at his question; had it been this easy all along? “Why?” 

For the first time today, you make him work for an answer from you, and you can see his grin melt into a small smirk. A sign that he appreciates the challenge.

“I was going to invite you to go out to lunch with me and my friends as an apology. Jungkook still feels terrible for almost tackling you.”

You wave off his statement. “As much as I’d love to, I’ve got a few things I’ve got to do today, but let Jungkook know that I’ll be around soon enough, so he can give me reparations then.”

Taehyung lets out a booming laugh.

“Alright, I’ll let him know.”

When you go back to your dorm that night, your hands practically shake with the adrenaline that your interactions with him gave you today.

You fumble to get out a pen, and instead of going for the half sheets of paper you had meticulously cut in half, you opt for a full piece.

You write what you’ve been feeling for these last few months; weeks upon weeks of yearning spill through your fingertips as you express your love for his laugh, how deeply enchanting his eyes are, how inspirational he is.

You write and write and write until your fingers cramp and you near the lower half of the page.

This. This was what you have been meaning to give him all this time.

This was the part of yourself that you were so desperate to show him. What you wanted him to acknowledge about himself.

In a corny show of vulnerability, you steal a heart sticker from your roommate and slip the letter – an actual letter! – into an envelope, sealing it shut with the glittering craft.

There’s rustling coming from outside, which means said roommate is home, and you quickly shove it into a random drawer in your desk for another day.

For the day.

You don’t expect Taehyung to talk to you the next day, or for the day after that.

He waves at you in the hallway when he sees you, comes to talk to you after class is over, and even gestures you over to sit next to him when he sees you sitting at lunch by yourself.

Normally you would take lunch as the time to catch up on a few things, the music blaring through your ears drowning out the restlessness of the campus goers around you.

You all but waddle over there, plopping down next to him a respectable distance away and fiddling with your jacket sleeve when your presence draws the attention of two of your seniors.

You bow at the waist in greeting of Yoongi and Namjoon, and they bow back, but you’re hit lightly with the back of Taehyung’s hand to your arm.

“Don’t bow to them, they don’t deserve it.”

Instantly, Yoongi’s sleepy demeanour slips and he hisses, swatting over at his dongsaeng half-heartedly.

“Don’t be such a brat. Respect your elders.”

You grin a bit, raising a brow Tae’s way as he cackles and leans back to avoid being hit.

“I didn’t know my friend was so disrespectful.” You find it in yourself to tease. It’s like a flip is switched in Taehyung, and he shoots you the most breath stealing pout you’ve only ever seen him give to the men in front of you.

Your grin slips and your eyes fall to his lips, watching them closely as he speaks. “Don’t be so mean to me, (y/n).” 

Your mouth flounders like an idiot, your gaze zeroing in on the beauty marks and imperfections that riddle his face. God, he was so beautiful.

Someone clears their throat, and he pulls away from you, and you spin to face forward.

You catch Namjoon’s knowing look and act like you didn’t see it.

“Don’t worry about him, he’s just butt-hurt that his secret admirer hasn’t left anything in his locker for the past few days.” Yoongi mumbles.

You force yourself not to cringe, but you can’t help but ask, “What secret admirer?”

“Someone’s been leaving Tae little compliments in his locker. It’s one of the things he’s been looking forward to, but the person hasn’t been by in a while.” Namjoon finishes for him.

“Hyung.” Taehyung whines, but it’s clear he’s been affected by the absence of your notes.

You had been so worried about the big bang that was ‘the letter’ – as your best friend had coined it – that you had forgotten about the compliments you were supposed to be writing to him.

But why would you write him compliments when you had the real deal right in front of you?

It didn’t seem to matter, though, because you can see the sad pull of his smile, how it doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

You can’t take it.

“What if the person was planning something for valentine’s day?”

Three pairs of eyes land on you – suspicion, hope, and intrigue.

“Really?” Taehyung asks, but before he can answer, Yoongi goes, “How do you know?”

You flounder once again.

“I… I’m just making a logical guess.”

“Wah! So smart, (y/n).” The box-smiled man says in wonderment. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Because you’ve been too in your head about some compliments. Idiot.” The last word is followed by a snapped flick to Tae’s forehead from Yoongi. 

“Ow, hyung!”

You know Namjoon is staring at you. No – not staring at you – analyzing you.

You know the older man had always been too smart for his own good, so you’re not surprised that he might’ve caught on this quickly.

You refuse to look at him, because as they say, “eyes are the window to the soul,” And you aren’t interested in letting the dragon-eyed man in front of you into it any time soon.

“Well good thing tomorrow is valentine’s day, right?” You don’t realize Taehyung’s talking to you until he nudges you with his shoulder.

“(y/n)?”

“Huh?” You ask intelligently, lifting your gaze from a spot on your table to look at him. “Right… right.” You agree with a nervous smile.

If Taehyung notices your anxiety, he doesn’t say anything, and you’re all the more grateful for it, though it feels like you're not alone with your thoughts.

That night, you prop the letter up on a stack of books and just stare at it.

You lean back in your seat, crossing your arms and staring it down as though it had personally offended you.

You can do this. It was easy.

Right?

You’re sick the entire morning, stomach swimming with something nasty as you tuck the offending piece of paper into your bag.

You’re just going to slip it into his locker, the same as you have every other time. The only difference is that your name is on it, and it’s up to him on whether or not he’ll decide to ever speak to you again.

It’s not the most foolproof plan you’ve ever had, but hey, a plan is a plan.

You tremble the whole walk to school, and it isn’t until you’re face-to-face with said locker that you finally feel bile start to burn at the back of your throat.

Oh God, were you really about to do this?

You force yourself to just bite the bullet and shove it in, but you’re stopped midway by a voice from behind you.

“(y/n)?” 

Your arms that were raised to push the paper through the slots freeze midair, the only thing piercing the silence is the sound of the hefty envelope sliding in and landing somewhere inside the metal container.

Taehyung is behind you.

Taehyung is behind you and he just watched you stand here and slip a note into his locker confessing your love to him.

Yeah, this plan was sure as shit not fucking foolproof.

“It was you?”

There’s something in his voice you can’t detect, and it’s taking you everything in your power to not haul ass.

“I…” You don’t know what to say as you turn around and are confronted by a slack jawed, wide eyed Taehyung.

You swallow the sand that’s in your mouth. Tears burn at the back of your eyelids at the thought of his rejection. Your heart already aches.

“I’m sorry.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry… for leaving all those notes in your locker and for getting your hopes up… I –”

“Stop.”

“What?” Air rushes out of your lungs like someone sat on your chest.

“Don’t say sorry for doing something that made me happy.”

“What?” Now it’s your turn to be confused.

When he looks up at you, you can finally see the red hue that paints his caramel cheeks; he shares a nervous smile with you as he steps forward carefully, as though he’s afraid you’d disappear.

“I have a few secrets of my own that I think I should share with you.”

He reaches forward and encompasses your hand in his, and they are as big and warm as you had imagined they would be. They’re a bit calloused, but you figure that comes from holding a paintbrush for hours at a time.

“I… I’m really happy that it’s you.” He swallows and chuckles wetly. “I like you, (y/n). If you haven’t noticed.”

“But you don’t even know me.”

“Don’t think you’ve been the only one watching someone around here.” He’s smiling brightly and his teeth are so white they nearly blind you. 

“I confess that, I’ve known you for longer than when we first met.”

“What?” You ask again, but now you’re smiling just a bit. Butterflies swarm in your stomach as he speaks. They’re fluttering so fast you feel nauseous.

“I’ve liked you since the beginning of the year.” He’s staring at you dead on. “I… I remember seeing you and thinking you were so cool.” Taehyung laughs at himself. “And not just cool, but I thought you were the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

“I would look for you in the hallways, I’d watch you sitting alone at lunch, and I’d watch you watch your friends. I thought it was always a bit strange how you never wanted to talk, because I know you have so many brilliant thoughts in your head.”

Your cheeks flush with an unbearable heat, and you express your shyness by squeezing his hand, and he gives you an answering squeeze back.

“I remember when you presented your project and being so enamoured the entire time. I couldn’t help but think about what else you had in that brain of yours. And then I remember thinking after that, that I would read or listen to whatever you came up with.”

“Then the notes started.”

Your breath catches.

“Then I got confused. Because here this person is, telling me how beautiful they think my work is, when I already have the most beautiful thing right in front of me.”

Beautiful. You.

“Hoseok-hyung grilled me so hard after the first time you had ever given me a note.” He chuckles once more. “He had asked me, ‘what are you going to do?’ and I remember saying, ‘I don’t know.’”

He licks his dry lips. “But I knew that I hoped it was you. That you were the one that came up with those sweet words.”

“I was content with watching you, and the flattery of the notes. But then Jungkook ran into you, and I knew my time of spectating was over, because I didn’t want to lose you. I didn’t want to ruin any potential chance I may have had because my best friend was a bit of an idiot.”

You laugh at his words, and you hadn’t noticed you were crying until his free hand had come up and swiped at a stray tear rolling down your hot cheek.

“You were a bit scary to approach I admit, because if you had treated me the way you did Kook, I think I might have cried.” You cackle a bit. 

“But you didn’t and then now here we are, on valentine’s day –”

“Confessing to each other in the hallway.” Your own words made yourself cringe, but you can’t stop the cheek splitting smile that forces its way onto your face.

“Is that what we're doing?” He asks cheekily. “Is that what you want to do?” You bite back playfully.

“It depends on what that note says.”

Oh no.

“Ugh,” You groan, and allow your head to fall forward and land on a surprisingly lean shoulder. “Don’t read it around me please.”

“So that means it’s good.”

“Taehyung!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” A hand comes up to rub at your back comfortingly.

“But not really.”

You take the skin on his side and twist.

“Ow, ow!”

© yoongsriverandme 2025-26

[spideyjimin]

UNTIL I FOUND HER | kth

⤷ part of the dads universe

⏤ pairing: football/soccer player!taehyung x female reader 

⏤ genre: best friends to lovers, idiots to lovers, angst, fluff, and smut 

⏤ rating: 18+

⏤ warnings: dom!taehyung, swearing, alcohol consumption, jealousy, a lot of making out, sexual tension, mention of sex, some teasing, praising, fingering, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, rough sex, multiple orgasms, mention of oral sex, some crying, mention of pregnancy, mention of unprotected sex, mention of abortion, and pregnancy  

⏤ words: 17,145

⏤ summary: taehyung is your best friend, he’s been part of your life for as long as you can remember. his love life is a complete chaos. there is only one girl he has truly ever loved. that girl is you. but how would things turn out when he finds out that you love him back?  

⏤ author’s note: the fic is finally here 🤗 i loved writing this fic & writing this Tae, he’s so soft 🥹 honestly, i was super excited to post it, i truly hope you enjoy this fic 💜 let me know what you think of it & thanks for reading, angels ✨

DECEMBER 31, 2021

As every year, you celebrate the new year with your best friend, Taehyung. You’re not really fond of this celebration but you get to be with your best friend so you deeply cherish this day. This day is also a continuation of his birthday which takes place the day before. 

Since he became a professional footballer/soccer player, you barely get to see him. His life changed completely. He trains a lot on a daily basis, he has games during the weekend, he constantly travels, and most importantly, he became famous. He’s one of the best players of his generation so he gets a fair amount of attention. It’s been hard for you to find your place in this new life, but Taehyung has always made sure to keep in contact with you. Most importantly, he has been keeping you out of the public eye. 

Everything that he does instantly makes headlines, he doesn’t get much of a private life. However, he protects the people he dearly loves. Seeing him become that famous broke your heart because you’ve been loving him for a couple of years now. With his fame, you get to see him kissing girls and flirting with them. For a while, he also had a girlfriend and he was going everywhere with her. It was hard to see even though he had introduced her to you. 

There are quite a lot of people at this party. But nothing new. You don’t know most of the people, they are friends of friends of friends. In summary, they were invited by someone. Taehyung also invited known people like Jungkook, a famous singer, and Hoseok, a famous actor. They’ve met through acquaintances and since then, they’ve been invited to this new year party. You like them a lot, they are very nice people despite being famous. Hoseok is actually the one with whom you’ve got closer. He’s now like a super friend. 

You’re sitting at a table with Jungkook and you’re animatedly speaking. Honestly, you’re surprised by the life this man lives. He’s been a singer for more than 10 years but it feels like he has been living that life for 30 years. So many things have happened in his life and he has done so much. He’s also young so it’s almost impossible to believe him. 

For a brief moment, your eyes scan the room and your body freezes for a split second when your eyes meet Taehyung’s. He’s so fucking gorgeous. The type of gorgeous that takes your breath away. Well, he’s always handsome but tonight, he’s even more than usual. 

His hair is fully pushed back, except for a strand of hair falling on his face. It kind of makes him look like a bad boy. However, he’s a nice bad boy which is ironic. He’s wearing a flannel blue shirt with a large black pair of jeans. It’s simple but anything simple looks great on him. 

You both glance at each other for a moment, it feels like there’s nobody else but you. Since yesterday, things have been different between you. The way you look at each other is different, the way you act around each other has changed. Nothing is awkward. It’s simply different but it’s a different that feels good. However, it leaves you wondering why your encounter changed this time around. What caused this change? 

After what felt like an eternity, Taehyung joins you.

“How’s the night going?” He asks you. 

Your eyes glance at him. “So far, it’s going well,” you answer with a smile. 

Taehyung smiles back at you. “I’m glad we’re here together tonight,” he says. “I was actually looking forward to seeing you because it’s been a while.” 

Your best friend is sometimes sad to not be able to see as much as he’d like to. For sure, he’s content with being a footballer/soccer player but this life has drifted you apart. By some miracle, you managed to keep the friendship which he’s very happy with. However, he barely sees you in a year. He tries to always make it to your birthday and make sure you get to celebrate his birthday and new year together. 

However, he wishes he could be with you forever. 

This separation sometimes breaks his heart because he spent all his childhood and teenage years with you, and now, you barely see each other. Of course, you text and call each other daily but it isn’t the same.

As he says those words, you can feel the heat taking over your face. Hearing those words makes you feel something in your stomach, you can’t quite explain it but it definitely makes you feel good and loved. 

“Me too,” you simply reply. 

Taehyung offers you a genuine smile before taking a sip of the drink he’s holding. Probably a cocktail that he prepared. For a little while, you talk about random things that happened in your life for the past months. The two of you enjoy this moment, it warms both of your hearts to hear what has been going on. 

Taehyung can’t help but love the way you smile as you explain an event that occurred at work. The way your face lights up when you talk about work makes it obvious to him that you adore what you do for a living. He can’t help but find you absolutely stunning tonight. You’re wearing a blue pair of jeans with a floral top. It fits you perfectly. Well, he believes that everything fits you perfectly. 

After a while, you split as you start talking with other friends around you. Throughout the night, you keep drinking some cocktails prepared specifically for the party. Well, some bartenders were hired for the event so you can ask whatever you want and they’ll make it. 

You head to the little bar, joining Jungkook who’s already ordering something. 

“Hi again,” you say as you reach him. 

His head turns to the left, a smile growing on his face when he sees you. 

“Hi again,” he replies. 

Jungkook is a very good-looking man. He emanates a strong confidence which causes everyone to constantly look at him. For sure, you believe that this comes with being a singer. A singer constantly performs in front of people, gives interviews, signs autographs, takes pictures with fans, and many other things. For you, a singer needs to be comfortable in their shoes otherwise things can be hard, especially for the attention they get. It’s hard to imagine how Jungkook can handle all that. Well, you wonder the same with Tae because, at the end of the day, all of that applies to him as well. 

“Has someone ever told you how pretty you are?” he asks with evident seriousness. “I constantly wonder how Tae hasn’t already fallen for you.” 

Your cheeks instantly turn red. This is clearly and certainly unexpected. You never imagined that he considered you as pretty. Usually, famous people only find super thin and fit women as pretty, and to be honest, you’re none of both. But it actually flatters you that such a handsome man finds you pretty.

Since he caught you off guard, you don’t even know what to reply. “Tae is my best friend.” 

As soon as those words leave your lips, you actually feel ridiculous. Tae is your best friend but that doesn’t change the fact that you developed feelings for him. However, you’re convinced that he doesn’t feel the same about you. 

“Honestly, if you were my best friend, I would have already tried to seduce you,” he tells you. “Being best friends doesn’t necessarily mean that you can’t fall for each other.” 

He’s totally right, and you absolutely know it. 

“You’re not wrong,” you reply. 

A smile appears on his face. He’s stunning when he smiles. As you glance at him for a little while, you realize that you clearly understand why he has many girls at his feet. He’s very talented and attractive. No wonder that most of the girls scream like crazy when they see him. 

“And to answer your first question, not many people have said that to me,” you say. 

“Well, they clearly are blind,” he teasingly says. 

A little laugh escapes your lips. Honestly, if this fantastic singer is going to flirt with you tonight, you’ll do the same. It’s not every day that someone like Jungkook flirts with you. 

From afar, Taehyung watches the two of you discuss. It’s more than obvious that his friend, Jungkook is flirting with you. What he hates watching is you flirting back with him. From the way you laugh at his silly jokes to the way you touch him makes him want to throw up. Never in his life did he think he’d have to watch you flirt. 

But he can’t do anything. You’re not his. He’s just your best friend. More than anyone else, you deserve happiness. He can’t stop what is starting to happen between you and Jungkook. If you like each other, what can he concretely do? He takes a sip of his drink. For a moment, he simply looks at the two of you openly flirting together. He wishes that this would have not happened in front of him. It makes him jealous, and he doesn’t like that feeling. It makes him feel vulnerable. 

Right at that moment, Jungkook looks at him with a devious smile. Tae knows right there and then that he’s doing this on purpose. But why? For sure, he does that because he has an idea in his mind. Tae talks again with the guy next to him about football/soccer. It occupies his mind and it also doesn’t tempt him to glance at you. 

After a while, Jungkook takes a seat next to him. He smiles like an idiot, Tae only wants to slap him when he smiles like that. 

“You should tell her you like her,” he says with still that silly smile. 

“I don’t see what you’re talking about,” Tae replies with his cheeks turning red. 

“Yes, you know,” he instantly answers. “It’s written all over your face that you fell for her.” 

Tae takes a sip to try to cool down his body’s temperature. 

“I noticed it a while ago,” he starts saying. “You’re quite subtle. Being her best friend is the excuse you use to hide your true feelings. But slowly, I realized the way your face lit up when you talked about her. It was obvious you liked her more than a friend,” Jungkook explains. “I used this party to test the waters by flirting with her and your face confirmed it all.” 

The footballer looks at his friend in disbelief. It’s unbelievable that his friend did that to simply confirm a theory. But he’s also surprised that he noticed he has feelings for you. For years, he thought he was discreet but it looks like he wasn’t after all. If Jungkook noticed it, surely other people would too. 

“By the way, I totally get why you fell in love with her. Beyond being petty, she has a wonderful soul,” Jungkook adds. “But don’t waste more time. Go talk to her.” 

Tae shakes his head. “I don’t want to ruin our friendship. I care too much about her and I don’t want to lose her.” 

“Maybe you won’t lose her,” his friend says. “Maybe the feelings are mutual, maybe she loves you too.” 

Taehyung doesn’t believe that. He’s truly convinced that you only see him as a very good friend and nothing more. Plus, he isn’t going to say anything because he’s scared to be heartbroken. He wouldn’t be able to handle that and still be your friend. And he’s sure that you would refuse to remain friends.  

“I’m sorry, JK but I’m not going to do that,” he replies before leaving his friend alone. 

Tae would rather see you falling in love with someone else than lose you forever. That’s the naked truth. He would prefer to be jealous than heartbroken. 

As the night goes on, Taehyung avoids you. The discussion he had with Jungkook ⏤ and seeing you flirting with him ⏤ disturbed him. He knows that if he’s around you, he won’t be able to act like nothing happened. That he won’t be able to contain his jealousy. 

The entire night you’re confused about why your best friend isn’t with you. It actually breaks your heart. You keep wondering if you did something wrong. The only thing that crosses your mind is the little flirting session with Jungkook. You wonder if he’s angry that his friend dared to get close to you. That’s the only reason you can think of. It’s the only thing that makes sense. 

Taehyung keeps eyeing you from afar. It’s hard to be far from you when you’re in the same room. All he wants is to be next to you but he can’t. So he keeps on drinking and you do the same. By the time it’s 23:59, you’re both just completely drunk. 

“10, 9, 8,” everybody shouts as you watch the countdown on tv. 

You slowly get closer to Taehyung. 

“7, 6, 5,” he looks for you in the room. 

“4, 3, 2,” your eyes meet. 

“1, 0,” your hearts beat fast. 

“Happy new year!” everybody screams with joy. 

You hug the person next to you and wish her a very happy new year. She does the same with a bright smile on her face. You keep doing that with friends while exchanging cheek kisses. It makes you happy to be starting the new year with them and their best wishes. You can feel that this year will be fantastic. You can’t explain how but you feel it deep inside you. It’s an intuition. 

Slowly but surely, you get closer to Taehyung. There is no other person in this room with whom you’d like to hug, kiss, and wish a very happy new year. He’s the only person that has ever mattered in your life. 

Once you’re face to face, you simply stare at each other. Your heart is racing inside your chest, your body is completely frozen, and your mind can’t think straight. Being in front of him after what felt like a crazy night is strange. 

You take a step forward, your faces are quite close, and a smile appears on both your faces. 

“Happy new year, Tae,” you finally say. 

His smile grows bigger and even gets brighter. It almost looks like he’s shining. He gets closer to you in order to hug you but as he takes a step closer, his face gets closer to yours. For a split second, you can see his eyes going down on your lips which causes your heart to hammer even more in your chest. 

Your eyes are lost in his, your breathing getting heavier, and the room’s temperature increasing insanely. You can feel his hot breath on your face, his strong scent invades all your senses. Right now, the crowd in the room disappears completely. There’s only you and him. 

All you want to do right now is to kiss him desperately. You want to feel his lips on yours. You want to taste his lips. You want to get lost in his lips. For years, you wondered what it’d feel like to kiss him, and at this exact moment, you sense like you’re about to find it out. 

Taehyung sees your eyes looking down at his lips which makes him feel like he’s won. Jungkook’s words echo in his head. ‘Maybe she loves you too.’ Maybe Jungkook was right. By the way you’re looking at him, he’d say that his friend was indeed right. You wouldn’t be looking at him with an evident desire to kiss him written all over your face if you were considering him as a friend. This wouldn’t be happening if he was only your friend. 

A strong warmth invades his heart as he knows that he can do what he’s been dying to do for years. He’s still hesitant though. He’s not sure if he can do it. 

“Happy new year to you too, yn,” he whispers while his face gets even closer to yours. “I wish you all the best for this new year.” 

Shivers run down your spine. His eyes stare deep into yours and it makes you feel like he senses what you deeply crave right now. 

Once he says those words, his mouth meets yours. Even though you want this, it catches you by surprise so it takes you a hot second to kiss him back. The kiss is shy at first, as if you’re both scared but it slowly turns into a desperate and fervent one. One of his hands goes to the back of your neck while the other one goes to your hips. He pushes your body closer to his. Your hands cup his face while you intensely kiss each other. 

This feels like heaven for you two. This kiss has been wanted for years, but none of you dared to do it, too scared to ruin the friendship. Now that this is happening you’re not even afraid to lose each other. However, you wonder if this is only occurring because you’re both completely wasted. 

You open your mouth, giving him free access to your mouth. His tongue doesn’t hesitate one second to find yours. Gently, your tongues meet and it feels wonderful. Inside of your lower belly, thousands of butterflies are freed. Never have you thought that this would’ve happened one day. 

When you’re both out of breath, you break the kiss and rest your foreheads against the other. For a moment, you simply look at each other while you catch your breath. Taehyung’s fingers softly caress your face and you close your eyes to savour this moment. 

“This is a great way to start the year,” your best friend murmurs. 

You open your eyes to look at him. He’s so beautiful, he looks like a dream. This all sounds like a dream but it’s really taking place. You really kissed him. This isn’t something coming out of your imagination. This is real. 

This time you’re the one who kisses him. You don’t want this to ever stop, you want to keep kissing him until your body can’t handle it anymore. A soft moan leaves his mouth when your lips meet. He also wants to keep doing this forever. He doesn’t know if you’ll both remember this tomorrow because you’re drunk so he wants to enjoy every second of it. 

Taehyung teasingly bites your lower lip which causes a moan to escape your mouth. A devious smirk appears on his face but he gets back to kissing you fervently. This kiss seems to slowly evolve into something more. It’s evident that you want more. You can feel it in the way his tongue plays with yours, in the way your hands move in his body, and in the way his hands hold you tight against his body. You obviously want to have sex together. This could stop you but it doesn’t. You desperately crave this. 

He breaks the kiss, it wouldn’t be appropriate to keep doing this in the middle of this crowded room. 

“Do you want to go to my place?” he nervously asks. 

Right there, when he dares to ask this, you realize the extent of the situation. You kissed your best friend, and there’s no doubt that you’re not going to his place to play cards. If you accept his proposal, you’ll get laid. Would your friendship resist this? Would you even remain friends? Would this mean that you’re together now? 

Those questions are quickly erased from your mind. You’ve already ruined the friendship by kissing each other. Going a bit further won’t change that. And honestly, right now, you don’t want to think about what will happen tomorrow. 

“Yes,” you nod. 

Your best friend smiles before grabbing your hand and taking you out of this place. He guides you to the parking lot where his car is. It’s an underground parking lot and there’s absolutely nobody except you and Taehyung. You quickly reach his car, a brand new BMW X1. It’s such a wonderful car. You don’t know much about cars, you just look at them from the outside and judge them. You heard many good things about the brand BMW so you’re convinced it’s a good car. 

He opens the car door for you before making your way inside the car. The smell of leather invades your senses. Weirdly, it’s a smell that you’ve always liked. The smell of a brand-new car always brings you back to a childhood memory, a very good one. So, you always like this smell. Taehyung looks at you with marvel. He’s aware of this liking of yours and he knows what it is related to. He finds you adorable. 

Quickly, he starts the car and drives like a crazy to reach his place as soon as possible. He definitely doesn’t want to waste time. All he wants right now is to have his lips on yours and fuck you until there’s no tomorrow.   

As soon as you arrive at his place, the two of you leave the car in a hurry. In less than a minute, you enter your place, take your shoes and coats off, and run to his massive bedroom. You know his place by heart as you’ve come a hundred times. It’s quite a wonderful and impressive house but right now, you don’t really have the time to take a proper look at his place. 

Taehyung doesn’t waste a second before kissing you passionately. Damn, he is desperate to feel your lips against his. It’s all he wanted to do during the car ride. Actually, he is simply completely desperate for you. After all, he’s been having a crush on you for years. 

“I desperately want you, yn,” he whispers against your lips with his deep voice. 

You clench your tights together, his raspy voice sending shivers down your spine, but his voice is so low that you barely hear his words. However, you don’t need to hear him say it to know it, it’s clearly written all over his face. 

“And I’m desperate for you, Tae,” you reply. 

The football/soccer player presses his lips against yours once again but this time, he’s kissing you with a fervent passion. Having his lips on yours feels like a dream, it almost feels like this isn’t happening. But damn, this is even better than anything you dreamed. 

Slowly, the two of you walk closer to the bed before sliding onto it, now finding yourself lying on the bed with his toned figure hovering over you. His toned body is still something you’re trying to adjust. Taehyung used to have a frail body but since he became a professional player, his body has completely changed. He got even hotter with time. 

Never once do you break the kiss, loving the feeling of your tongues sensually battling in your mouth. A small whimper escapes your throat as his hands move down to your waist. He softly caresses you before his hands pull up your floral top to finally touch your skin. His long fingers brush on your stomach, the cold feeling of them making you moan.     

“Your skin is so soft,” he whispers on your lips while his eyes lock with yours. 

He doesn’t let you answer and his teeth grab your lower lip, snatching a moan out of you. Haltingly, his right hand descends on your body, goosebumps rising on your body as his fingers get closer to your core. His long fingers push your pants and underwear down your legs before throwing them onto the floor.

As slowly and carefully as possible, they swipe along your slit, making you gasp at the contact. A moan escapes your mouth, and Taehyung has to admit this is a sound that he adores. For sure, this is something that he’ll get to hear often tonight, and fuck, he can’t wait to make you moan even more. 

At first, your crush abuses your clit with his thumb in order to get you wet before he inserts his fingers inside you to stretch you open. The feeling of his cold thumb circling on your clit feels marvelous, Taehyung is doing wonders to your body. 

“I’m gonna add a finger,” he warns you.    

The man wastes no time before dipping one finger into your heat, preparing you for what is coming. His eyes watch as your face contorts with delight while his finger slowly pumps in and out of you. It feels divine to have his finger inside you. It brushes against all the right spots inside you, this already feels like heaven on earth.    

“Fuck, you’re already so wet, butterfly,” he says to you. 

Hearing the nickname sends shivers down your spine. From time to time, Tae gives you cute nicknames and you actually love that. It sometimes makes you feel like your romantic feelings are reciprocated. 

For a little while, he just stretches you open with one finger. The man has no rush in giving you pleasure but he knows that in the end, all this preparation will give you the best orgasm of your life.    

“I’m going to add a second finger,” he informs you. 

The fact that he lets you know what he’s about to do melts your heart. Taehyung is such a gentleman even when he gets all dirty. At least you can prepare yourself for whatever size his cock is. Hopefully, it’s not a monster. Based on what you can see thanks to his pants, he’s not small but at the same time, he doesn’t look too big. 

Once his second finger slips inside you, you spread your legs a bit more. Small gasps of delight leave your lips as he pleases you with only two fingers. The room around you starts to get extremely hot, your heart starts to pound faster and harder in your chest, and the pleasure starts to build within you. Taehyung smiles as he feels his fingers getting covered with your wetness.  

“Fuck, butterfly,” he mumbles, “you’re getting so wet.” 

His fingers slowly move completely out of your pussy before sliding them in again with ease. Another moan leaves your mouth, closing your eyes to enjoy the feeling of his fingers filling you up. He repeats the action of moving his fingers out but this time, he brings his fingers to his mouth to taste your sweet and sticky juices. As he does so, you take a moment to admire his strong arms. Something that always turns you on when looking at his arms is how veiny they are. 

Your eyes never leave him, a moan leaving your mouth as he twirls his tongue around his fingers. The sight is so damn erotic, and it makes you grow wetter. Taehyung places himself in between your legs, spreading them even more to get a proper view of your cunt. You’re prettier than in his wildest dreams. He can’t wait to be fully inside you and to feel your velvety walls around him. That thought alone almost makes him groan. 

The two of you are already completely consumed by pleasure. As this is something you both desired for a long time, it makes everything feel more intense. You’re simply so needy for each other. 

He licks his lips, taking in the amazing view he has before him. This sight alone turns him on even more. 

“You’re so wonderful, butterfly,” he runs his thumb over his lower lip. 

Your friend takes his shirt off, exposing his upper body to your very hungry eyes. Without an ounce of shame, your eyes wander on his toned chest and arms. He’s so fucking hot. It’s not the first time you’ve seen him shirtless. You’ve already seen him a couple of times shirtless. However, it’s different this time. He’s shirtless because you’re about to be fucked by this god. 

Taehyung leans closer to you before pressing a chaste kiss on your lips. When he stands again, he pushes again two fingers inside your core, making you moan at the feeling of his wet fingers inside your velvety walls. For a little moment, he just enjoys torturing you at a slow pace with his two fingers covered in your wetness. Nothing can compare to the excitement he feels when he sees you contorting with delight. A delight that he is causing with his fingers. That swells his heart in a way he can’t even explain. 

He’s pleasuring the woman he always loved. 

“Ready for a third finger?” he asks. 

You nod, knowing perfectly that you need that third finger to stretch your core even more. Your body and mind can even picture how it will feel. However, slowly but surely, you’re getting desperate to have his dick buried deep inside you. After your contentment, he curls a third finger into you, and damn, you love it so much. Your head rolls back, loving every second of Taehyung’s torture on you but as you do so, you expose your neck to his burning eyes. Without any hesitation, his mouth finds your neck. 

Having his fingers thrusting faster, and his tongue and teeth abusing your neck makes you moan more and more. Without any warning, the wave of pleasure fiercely washes over you, Taehyung’s name rolling out of your tongue while he keeps abusing your neck and core. You close your eyes to enjoy the feeling that this orgasm generates. 

“Wow,” you barely manage to say. 

This is the first orgasm Taehyung offered you. It tastes tremendously wonderful, and you only want more. Your friend only stops torturing you when you’ve come down for your high. His fingers are fully covered with your arousal by now, and he carefully pushes them out of you to take a proper look at them. You gasp at the feeling of emptiness.

“Wow, it was so intense,” you finally say as you open your eyes. 

You’re greeted with your friend licking his fingers to taste you. He’s standing tall between your legs with his long fingers in his mouth. That’s a very hot and intense vision, and you never thought you needed it before. This man is turning you on like crazy! You could keep looking at this forever. 

“And it’s only the beginning, butterfly,” Taehyung replies with a little smirk appearing on his face. 

“You’re such a tease,” you reply before giving him a gentle slap on his chest. 

A little laugh escapes his lips. 

“It’s nothing new,” he mumbles as he gets closer to you. “I’ve always teased you,” he whispers in your ear. 

Fuck, you’re not sure you’ll be able to survive this night. It’s only the beginning and you’re already dead. Before you can comprehend what is going on, the man on top of you fully removes your top and wastes no time in removing your bra. Feeling his fingers brushing against your skin sends shivers all over your body. Your eyes only stare deep in his lusty gaze. 

Your heart is rapidly hammering in your chest, ready to burst at any second. Sharing such an intimate moment with him is something you’ve been dreaming of for years, and you’ve been desiring it more than you can even express. However, having it actually happen is quite something. As your eyes keep watching him, you take in every single detail of his sweet face. 

He has a pronounced jaw which is part of his charm. He has a little mole on his nose which makes him cute. His dark hair is falling on his face which makes him even more handsome. His deep dark eyes are looking at you with evident desire which turns you on. He has heart-shaped lips which you’ve desired to kiss for years. 

This all feels unreal.   

Quickly, the lust written all over his face turns into worry. His brows furrow, and you can’t resist the urge to touch the spot right in between his brows. Taehyung shivers when he senses your fingers before closing his eyes for a brief moment. This moment right here is the most intimate you both ever experienced in your lives. You’ve had partners in the past and you loved them, but nothing compares to this feeling. 

The love you share has grown over the years and it only got stronger over time. This inevitable moment is the simple proof of your deep and shared love. Yes, it’s dirty, but it’s filled with true love. It’s evident that you’re soulmates. True soulmates. 

Taehyung opens his eyes to be greeted by the prettiest woman he has ever seen. He could do this eternally. Seeing you every day would be his greatest pleasure. Being able to touch you every single day would be his biggest dream. Being around you is and will forever be his home. You’re the person that has ever been able to make him feel at home. It has never been about a place. It has always been about a person. 

Without hesitation, you both kiss each other with tenderness and passion. You’re kissing each other like it’s the last time you’ll do it. And god, you indescribably love it. Your hands instantly find their way to his fluffy hair, softly playing with it as you kiss him like there’s no tomorrow. His tongue slowly finds yours to share an erotic dance. Little moans leave both your lips. Deep down in your body, you can feel the pleasure growing inside you. This kiss wakes up every single fiber of your body.  

“Yn,” Taehyung whispers against your lips. 

Slowly, your eyes look up at him. His eyes are closed so you can’t see them but you smile because you can’t help but find him adorable while he kisses you. You close your eyes to savor this moment. You break the kiss to catch your breath. Taehyung’s eyes quickly scan you before his lips get close to your ear.      

“You’re a fucking dream, butterfly,” he whispers with a deep voice before he nibbles your ear which makes you moan. 

It’s so disconcerting how he can switch from sweet to filthy in a second. 

“And you’re my fucking dream, Taetae,” you reply before pressing a gentle kiss on his cheek. 

A smile spreads across his face while he buries it in the hollow of your neck. You can feel his smile against your lips and you can’t help but hold him tight against you. After a little while, he presses kisses on your neck. Little moans escape your lips as he keeps leaving a trail of kisses from your neck to your jaw. Rapidly, he reaches your lips and presses a kiss on them. 

Taehyung stands back again to take his pants and underwear off. But before he can unzip his pants, he’s taken aback by your question. 

“So we’re going to make babies?” you softly ask while looking at him. 

Taehyung is no stranger to your shyness when it comes to sexuality. He has always spoken very openly about his sexual activities. Not with you of course because he’s a crush on you and it feels weird to be talking about having sex with someone to the girl he loves. However, he isn’t embarrassed to sometimes bring up the topic. He has already said that he adores blowjobs, especially if they are done very well. Or that he loves giving pleasure to his partner. Whenever he talks about it, you instantly turn red. He has always found you incredibly adorable. 

On top of turning red, you also don’t use harsh words. For example, you don’t say “cock” or “dick” out loud. Instead, you’ll say ‘pipi’, standing for penis. You’ll say “naughty time” instead of “having sex”. Sometimes, he even likes to tease you because you’re the cutest person ever when you get shy. He’s aware that you’ve had sex and the simple thought of you doing it with someone else makes him angry. But even though you’ve had sex, you still get very shy when the topic is brought up. Which honestly is very ironic. 

“Well, if by making babies, you mean having sex,” he starts saying. “I’ll say yes, butterfly.” 

Butterfly is a nickname that comes from when you were kids. Most of the time, you’d be the kind of girl running after butterflies in the park. Taehyung would run with you of course but you’d be the first to do it. Jokingly, he started calling you ‘butterfly’ but it stayed. But after he started dating his first girlfriend, he stopped giving you that nickname. You always thought she was the one who asked him to stop calling you like that, but it wasn’t. 

He stopped doing it because, with time, that nickname meant that he loved you. He was never able to give a simple cute nickname to any of his girlfriends. It was impossible for him. Giving you a nickname was the proof that he loved you more than a friend should. He had to hide his feelings so that meant stopping calling you ‘butterfly’. However, sometimes, he still does it, especially when he gets tipsy.  

But tonight, he has said the nickname more than he has done over the last few years. And it gives you butterflies. 

Taehyung slowly undresses himself in front of you, and you enjoy the view. He’s incredibly handsome. You don’t even understand how you got here with your best friend. You bite your lower lip as you admire him undressing himself. That’s hot. 

When he’s fully naked, your eyes inevitably look down at his manhood. It’s quite something. It’s a bit long but not too long as well. It’s a reasonable length. On top of that, it’s thick. You’d say it’s a reasonable thickness but that wouldn’t be quite right. Honestly, his dick isn’t a monster, but it’s not a baby too. Most of your previous partners had smaller dicks. Nonetheless, he’s impressive, and you can’t wait to have him deep inside you.  

“Are you ready, yn?” you nod, ready to be completely mind-blown by this man you desperately love. 

Taehyung holds his hard member before stroking it a few times, your hands snail down to his abs before slowly moving up. He bends down to press a kiss on your lips before he slowly buries his cock inside your soaked core, stretching your velvety walls. Both of you moan as he slowly pushes his thick cock inside you. Fuck, it feels wonderful. 

Since the beginning of the night, you’ve been craving this and you’re both enjoying this. 

Once he’s deep inside you, his hips stay still to give you the time to adjust. His lips press a gentle kiss since he adores doing it. For a little moment, your mind only focuses on him and his lips. Nothing else. When he breaks the kiss, your walls clench around his thick member, making him groan. 

“Don’t torture me, butterly,” he begs, his eyes locked on yours. 

“Sorry,” you apologize. “It wasn’t made on purpose, Tae,” you reply. 

His lips press another sweet kiss on your lips, but very quickly, it turns into a fervent kiss. As you’re kissing, he slowly moves inside you. It’s very subtle but you definitely feel it. When you break the kiss, you give him a small slap on his ass. 

“Whenever you want, you can move,” you whisper against his lips.   

A giggle leaves his mouth after the small slap on his ass. He’s actually very amazed, he never imagined you’d ever slap his ass one day. In all honesty, he’s surprised in a good way. 

Taehyung slowly pushes back, leaving only the tip of his cock inside you. His large hands find their way to your waist, caressing your soft skin while his eyes filled with lust glance into yours. He moves again his dick inside you, filling you up to the brim. It’s euphoric to have him completely inside you again.

“So fucking good,” you mumble as your eyes roll back. 

A smile arises on his face, happy to be able to give you pleasure with just that but well, he’s enjoying it just as much. Once he’s completely inside you, he doesn't move for a little while, hovering over you and watching you with enchantment. His eyes glance down at your body. It’s the first time he’s seen you fully naked, and you’re just mesmerizing. He wants to keep looking at you to engrave in his mind how wonderful you are. 

He starts to thrust into you at a slow pace at first. The movements of his hips are very sensual and slow, the room getting filled with the sound of his hips hitting softly yours. There isn’t any urge in Taehyung’s hips movements, all he focuses on is to provide you pleasure. His eyes keep going down on your body, and he groans when he watches himself buried deep inside you. 

“Your cunt takes me so fucking well, butterfly,” he mumbles.  

You close your eyes, completely enjoying the feeling of having him fully inside you. Never once do the thrusts become brutal and rough, they are deep and slow, making you moan a lot. It’s extremely sensual, and it definitely matches how you envisioned Taehyung in bed. The way he’s fucking you is euphoric. You only crave more and more. 

The bed under you squeaks, the headboard hits the wall just behind you while your friend simply makes love to you, or as you’d say, he simply makes babies with you. He leans down to press a sloppy kiss on your lips, your hands finding their way to his neck and hair. Your nails scratch the skin of his neck and shoulders, making him groan against your lips. 

The man over you decides to stop moving, torturing you just a bit. “Don’t stop, Tae,” you beg. 

His lips press another kiss on your lips. “Your wishes are my command, yn,” he says before biting your lower lip.  

Taehyung pushes his cock back before thrusting into you very slowly and deeply with both hands on your hips, pulling you back to meet his thrusts. The slick sound of your pussy soaking his cock as well as your moans fill the room. 

“Damn,” you gasp while he keeps torturing you at a slow pace, “you feel so good.”

You’re completely drunk in the feeling of his cock filling you up, his hips hitting against yours with every thrust he makes. This all causes sparks of pleasure to shoot throughout your body, your arousal dripping from your core and creaming his cock. Taehyung smirks as he notices the sticky mess you’re causing.  

His cock is buried deep inside you, making wonders inside you, and causing you to moan even louder with each thrust. Every time he pushes his hips back, he watches with delight the way his cock is completely covered with your arousal. Nothing drives him crazier than seeing this, you can see it in his eyes. 

“You’re so fucking wet, butterfly,” he hisses before biting his lower lip. His hands press harder into your skin when he feels your walls tighten around him, “and making such a mess on my cock.” 

“I’m only wet because of you,” you first say, “you’ve been torturing me since the beginning.”

Taehyung smiles before bending down to press a sloppy kiss on your lips while his thrusts slow down. You didn’t think it was possible to go any slower than the pace he’s going but apparently, he can do it. A desperate whine gushes from you, a sound that he instantly swallows. 

His hands go up on your body, grabbing your breasts and squeezing them to make you moan with desire before his fingers start playing with your nipples. Moans flood out of your mouth as your friend keeps torturing your body. 

“Damn, Tae,” you whine, “this feels so good.” 

His thrusts return to get a little faster. His fingers never stop abusing your way too sensitive nipples. Gradually, his thrusts are faster and deeper, causing moans to fall out of your mouth. Your walls suck his cock as he slams his hips into you with more force. His fingers keep playing with your very sensitive nipples, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.  

His eyes look at you, contorting with pleasure as it slowly builds within you. Your moans are getting louder, you don’t even try to hold them back or to stifle them. Luckily, he isn’t living in an apartment because you’re sure all the neighbors would hear you. However, you’re also convinced that you aren’t the only one being fucked tonight. It’s the New Year, everybody is celebrating it, and some in a very nasty way. Just like you. 

His hands that are on your hips can feel the way your body quivers with each thrust. The way he’s torturing your body is only making you lose yourself further. You’re already so close to your orgasm that you already know for sure that you’ll come soon.   

“Fuck,” he groans when he feels the warmth of your walls wrapping tighter around him. “Your cunt is clenching so hard.” 

The sweat is dampening his body, sticking some rebellious strands of hair to his face. Taehyung covered in sweat is a vision that can easily make you come undone. He’s so hot when he starts sweating. No wonder your mind easily gets lost when you see him playing football/soccer. 

“You’re so damn hot,” you say as your hands wander on his neck and hair. 

A smile spreads across his face as you compliment him, but he decides not to stop torturing you simply because you’re flattering him. His fingers pinch your nipples harder, making the wave of pleasure grow bigger inside you and making you cream his dick even more.

“Gonna come, Tae,” you tell him when you feel that all your emotions are overwhelming you. 

Taehyung feels his cock twitching inside of you at your words, a low groan rumbling in his throat. One of his hands slowly moves down on your body, passing your stomach, and landing on your throbbing clit. His fingers rub your sensitive spot as his cock keeps thrusting into you at a slow pace.  

“Beg for it, butterfly,” he says. 

His fingers show no mercy on your clit, and you’re not even sure if you’ll be able to beg for anything before coming.  

“Please, Tae,” you can’t even form a proper sentence with the way he’s torturing you. 

You’re not even sure that you’ll be able to recover from this moment. This is just hot with the slow and sensual pace of his thrusts, and the way his fingers torture your body. This is for sure a wonderful way to start the new year.  

“Tell me, butterfly,” he teases you with a smirk on his face. 

“Let me come,” his smirk grows bigger on his face, delighted to have you begging him to come. 

The wave of pleasure inside you is growing exponentially, almost becoming too overwhelming. You’re moaning like a mess, but at this stage, you couldn’t care less.    

“Do it, butterfly,” he whispers, “come for me.” 

Those words are what you need to hear for your orgasm to hit you fiercely. You come hard around him, your arousal covering completely his cock and your walls squeezing him over and over again. While you’re completely euphoric from your orgasm, he speeds up the pace of his hips slamming into you, chasing his own high. Breathy whines escape his pretty lips as he looks down at the mess you made on his cock. His eyes are completely hypnotized where your bodies meet. 

Desperate moans leave his mouth when his orgasm hits him hard. He fully explodes inside you, painting your walls white with his semen. His eyes roll back with pleasure as his body tenses up and releases his load. Loud cries of euphoria escape his lips as he’s high from his orgasm. 

He collapses next to you, both of your bodies covered in sweat after this intense sex session. After a little while, he pushes you against his body to hold you tight. He covers your bodies with a blanket. This warmth together with the alcohol and the steamy sex session makes you fall asleep in no time. Taehyung presses a gentle kiss on your head. 

“I love you, butterfly,” are the last words you hear before falling into Morpheus’ arms.

JANUARY 7, 2022

The past seven days have been filled with memories of the new year’s night. You can’t stop thinking about the way he passionately kissed you, the way his hands were on you, the way he touched you, and most importantly, the way he fucked you. Honestly, it was the best sex you ever had, and gosh, you’d like to do it again. But let’s be honest, he’s been your best friend for years. Yes, you’ve had a crush on him but you don’t wish to lose him and his friendship that is so important to you. 

So for you, this was a simple one-night stand. 

For you, it’s preferable to keep living in your delulu world and go back to having a crush on him instead of actually trying to build a romantic relationship. You’re too scared of what could happen. You’re afraid of the unknown. You’re simply fearful of losing him. You can’t picture a world without him by your side. He’s your best friend. 

Yesterday, he texted you, asking if you could meet today to discuss. No need to be a genius to understand that he wants to talk about that famous night. Especially since you haven’t talked at all since that night, not even by text messages. Weeks ago, it would have crushed you to not talk to him for a week but since that incident, you need some space. 

Without any surprise, he asked if you could meet at his place. The same place where you fucked. But it’s understandable. He has done everything to protect you from the public eye so it wouldn’t make sense now to have a serious discussion where anyone can see and recognize him. 

So now, you’re standing in front of his house. Just being here brings you back once more to that night. For a brief moment, you close your eyes to savor those memories. They taste good, and deep down, you know that you’d like to go back to that moment. You’d like to have Taehyung in between your legs, fucking you like there’s no tomorrow. 

You knock at the door with shaky hands. You don’t know what to expect from this conversation. The only thing you truly care about is to keep him and his friendship in your life. The door is opened by your friend who invites you in. Your heart starts beating at an insane pace. The image of him licking his fingers instantly crosses your mind, and god, that’s hot.  

Taehyung nicely asks if you desire to drink or eat something but you politely decline. You don’t know what to do or say so for a brief moment, you awkwardly stand there at the main entrance. 

“Let’s move to the living room,” he first says. “If you want, of course.” 

Your best friend notices how awkward you feel. It kind of breaks his heart because things have never been like this before. Nevertheless, he understands. After all, you had sex together. Friends don’t do that, otherwise, they aren’t friends. It leaves him wondering now what you are. Are you still friends? Are you more than friends? 

“Fine,” you reply. 

Taehyung lets you walk in front of him as the gentleman that he is. Obviously, his eyes wander a tiny bit on your ass. An ass that he finds wonderful. He definitely wants to smash it, but he can’t. That would be completely inappropriate. He gathers himself as this is not the right moment to drool over you. You need to talk about the new year’s night. 

You both take seats on two different armchairs, sitting face to face. Even though you always loved to be next to each other, this time around is different. A little space is needed, especially if you want to talk. The two of you acknowledge that the new year’s night is the only thing you can probably think of. So being next to each other will only make that night happen all over again. 

Taehyung takes a deep breath before talking. “Thanks for coming, yn,” he offers you a little smile. 

“You don’t have to thank me, Tae,” you answer. “We need to talk about what happened so it’s normal.” 

He nods. Quite frankly, he’s very nervous. Things are different between you and he feels that this conversation can forever alter your relationship. Or you remain friends, or you take it to the next level. There’s also the possibility that it becomes too hard for him to simply remain friends with you and that he takes some distance from you. He wouldn’t want to reach that point, and he believes it will never happen. But we never know what tomorrow is made of. 

“Well, I fully want to be honest with you,” he starts saying, and you nod. “I’ve been loving you for years now, but loving in a romantic way.” 

His hands are shaking. Saying it out loud makes it real, and most importantly, now, you’re aware of how he’s been feeling for years. It’s honestly quite a big deal for him. However, after what happens, he feels like he has to be honest with you. Keeping his feelings inside won’t help. 

On the other hand, your body is completely frozen and your heart has stopped beating. Now, this is real. Your feelings have been reciprocated all those years. But now that he said those words, you don’t know how to process them. Honestly, it doesn’t really change anything because you’ve already crossed all the limits. But hearing those words warms your heart indescribably. 

“Since I found out that I had feelings for you, I decided to keep it to myself. Your friendship has more value than anything else in the world. Losing you has never been part of the equation so I kept everything for myself,” he explains. 

Now, your heart starts beating again, but this time around, it crazily hammers in your chest. It’s also making you nervous to hear those words, and you know you’ll also have to confess your feelings. Even though, you know now that they are reciprocated, it still makes you nervous.  

“Jungkook understood it by himself, and he decided to provoke me by flirting with you,” he admits. It all makes sense now for you. “I was terribly jealous so I avoided you most of the night. I didn’t want you to notice the jealousy and I believed it was better like that,” he runs his hands on his face. “But it had the opposite effect. It only drew me to you.”    

Taehyung hides his face in his hands, he doesn’t want to see your face while he confesses out loud his feelings for you. You stand up to get closer to him. You kneel in front of him before resting your hands on his legs. You place your hands on his to push them so you can see his face. 

As he’s speaking about his feelings, you realize that he’s putting himself in a vulnerable position and that you need to gather all your courage in your hands to be just as brave as he is right now. For once in your life, you have to be strong and let him know that his feelings are reciprocated. 

Since you started having feelings for him, you always pictured that you’d be the one confessing your feelings and that he’d be the one reassuring you. However, the reality is literally the opposite. The reality is that Taehyung is the boldest one. 

Nevertheless, reassuring him is also scary. 

Your best friend lets you move his hands from his face. Slowly, he opens his eyes to look at you. He’s greeted by your face trying to look at him. A face that he finds adorable. 

“So you were jealous of Jungkook?” you ask with evident tease in your voice. 

Taehyung instantly rolls his eyes. 

“It’s not funny,” he says. 

You nod before taking a serious face. 

“I was heartbroken during the new year’s eve party,” you start saying. “I was there with my best friend but he avoided me half of the night and I couldn’t understand why.” 

A part of Taehyung regrets how he acted when he was jealous, but the other doesn’t because, without that, he wouldn’t have shared such an intimate moment with you. 

“I’m sorry about that, yn,” he mumbles. 

He lets his face down but you instantly place your fingers under his chin to lift his face up. You want to look at him. You want to see his reaction when he realizes you love him back. 

“Don’t be sorry, silly,” you smile at him. “Yes, I was heartbroken but you mended my heart when you kissed me later on.” 

Taehyung stares at you in disbelief. Even though you had sex and it’s kind of the proof that you share feelings, it’s a relieve to hear you say, in a subtle way, that you love him back. 

“I also have romantic feelings for you, Tae,” you admit out loud. “It’s been the case for years. Like you, I never said anything because our friendship means the world to me. I can’t imagine a life where you’re not here. I’d rather shut my feelings down than lose you.” 

Your heart is beating faster, you can feel it on the edge of exploding. You’ve finally said what your heart has been desiring to say for years. It feels liberating. 

“And if I’m being honest, for the past few days, I’ve been preferring to think that what we had was only a one-night-stand.” Those words obviously break Taehyung’s heart. “I’m so scared to lose you, Tae,” you mumble as your voice breaks. “So so scared.”     

Now, you’re the one looking down. However, in your case, a tear starts running down your face. It’s hard to admit that for the past few days, you’ve been deeply scared to lose him because of your sex session. You wanted to pretend that nothing happened that night, but you simply can’t, especially not after Taehyung’s heartfelt confession.

��Hey, butterfly,” he says while lifting your face with his fingers under your chin. 

Your best friend grabs you into his embrace. This is a very much-needed hug, but it’s also a very comforting one. Right in his arms, you start crying. For the past seven days, you’ve been bottling up your worries to build a wall around you, but now that he has confessed his feelings and is holding you in his arms, all the pressure goes down. 

“I was so scared to lose you,” you repeat in between the tears. 

Taehyung is completely heartbroken, but he inevitably understands you. He also believed that he was going to lose you after that night. The fact that you also didn’t text or call didn’t help. Of course, you both needed space, but it also made it feel like it destroyed everything. It accentuated the fear of losing each other.       

“You’re never going to lose me, butterfly,” he whispers while holding you firmly in his arms. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

For a little while, you simply stay like that, Taehyung holding you in his arms while you cry. You remain in his arms until you calm down. He invites you to sit on his lap so you can be even closer now. He presses his forehead against yours and cleans your face with his hand. It devastates him to see you like that. He hates to see you cry. 

“I missed so much when you call me butterfly,” you admit while you’re looking into each other’s eyes. 

“I missed it too,” he says. 

Taehyung explains to you why he stopped calling you by that nickname. You can understand his reason, you would have probably done the same. You never really gave him a nickname. You always call him Tae or Taetae. Nothing really too exotic. 

“You’re the prettiest butterfly I’ve ever seen, yn,” he says. 

His face gets even closer to yours, his eyes staring deep into yours. They are searching for unsaid approval to get even closer. You know that he’s about to kiss you but he won’t do it if he sees anything in your gaze that would push him away. You simply nod, and he instantly presses his heart-shaped lips on yours. You kiss him back with the same energy. It’s a gentle and soft kiss filled with a lot of passion. Even though you kissed a million times during the new year’s night, this kiss definitely makes things real. He loves you. Your little hands move to his hair to play with it while his hand is placed on your neck to hold you close. 

It also hits him as you’re kissing that you love him back. 

Fireworks explode inside him as he realizes it. He’s never going to let you go now. 

FEBRUARY 25, 2022

Being in a relationship with Taehyung is completely different than being his best friend. A lot of things are still the same, but a lot has changed too. He kisses you every time he sees you, he teases you a lot, and most of the time, it’s sexual, he calls you butterfly all the time, and he makes love to you. 

Being honest, Taehyung is quite a master in bed. He fucks you so well, you almost beg him to never stop. Being fucked by him is like constantly being in heaven. He gives you pleasure like no one else ever did before. But it’s also not easy to be dating a football/soccer player since he’s most of the time away. As before, you asked to keep your existence a secret because you don’t want to deal with the hysterical fans and also to allow you to keep living a normal life. 

Right now, you’re in Rome with your super best friend, Mia. You’ve met her later in life, she was a colleague from your first job. You instantly clicked and she’s been one of your closest friends since then. She was extremely happy when you told her you were with Taehyung. She even said that it was about time since it was more than obvious you liked each other. 

This trip to Rome was planned months ago, and you were looking forward to it. It’s a one-week trip, but it should be enough to calmly visit this incredible and history-filled city. However, it hasn’t been going as you wished. You’ve been in the city for 2 days, and you’ve been sick to your stomach since the beginning. You’ve been throwing up constantly, and most of the time, you don’t feel well. The only reason you can think of is the chicken sandwich you ate at the airport. It was probably not well-cooked or it was already out of date. 

This morning, it’s been a nightmare. You’re in the Vatican to visit the museums but you’ve already gone like 2 times to the toilets to throw up. It’s not easy for you, but on top of that, you feel sorry for Mia. You’ve been holding her back.  

“Are you better?” she asks while you’re drinking a glass of apple juice. 

You noticed that apple juice helps to calm down the nausea. Since it’s lunchtime, you’re sitting at a table in the restaurant located in the Vatican’s museums. Your friend ordered a salad while you’re simply drinking juice. You’re not hungry at all, and if you eat, you’re sure you’ll throw up again. 

“Yeah, a bit,” you answer. You take a sip of the drink. “I’m sorry for this, Mia.”     

“Eeh, don’t worry. It’s not really your fault if you’re sick,” she answers. 

For a split second, she seems hesitant to add something else, but she finishes by saying what she’s been thinking since you arrived at Rome. 

“Could you be pregnant?” 

You almost choked with your apple juice. This is very unexpected. You’re obviously not pregnant. With Taehyung, you’ve been very careful since the beginning of the relationship. Having children right now it’s far from being a great idea. Plus, you want to enjoy being together before planning to start a family. 

However, you can understand why Mia is raising this question. Nausea is one of the first visible symptoms of pregnancy. If the roles were reversed, you’d raise the same question. 

“No, it can’t be,” you answer. “We’ve been using protection, and I’m also going to start taking the pill.” 

Even if he uses condoms, you’ve decided to start the pill. This way, the chances of getting pregnant are very low. On top of that, it’s also a safety net in case you go crazy and don’t use protection. 

“But have you had your periods lately?” 

Honestly, you noticed you didn’t have them for the past 2 months but it doesn’t worry you at all. Your periods are irregular so there are moments where you can go 2-3 months without having them. For sure, lately, they’ve been quite regular but as soon as you get stressed, they come later.  

“No, but I’m not worried,” you start saying. “For the past two months, my emotions have been all over the place,” you reply without hesitation. 

There is evident concern written all over Mia’s face, and honestly, it’s worrying you. It’s making you nervous. You’re biting the inside of your cheek as you’re mentally browsing all the times you had sex with your boyfriend. It’s still so weird to call Taehyung ‘your boyfriend’.    

“You’re sure you’ve always used protection?” she asks.  

You’re still trying to remember every single time you were intimate with Taehyung. You can’t think of a time when he didn’t use a condom. Usually, you both make silly comments or jokes when he grabs a condom. 

“Yeah,” you say with some hesitation. 

“Well, maybe, a condom got broke or something,” she suggests. 

“I’m sure it’s not the case,” you reply. 

It’s impossible that you’re pregnant. In the event that you had unprotected intercourse with Tae, you would have taken the morning-after pill. 

“Maybe you should take a test to be sure, yn,” she adds. “I’m concerned, and if it’s not that, maybe we could also go to a pharmacy or something to get something to help you out with the nausea.” 

“Okay,” you reply before continuing to drink the apple juice. 

The rest of the day, your mind keeps thinking about the conversation you had with Mia. Honestly, you’re convinced you’re not pregnant, but she managed to make you doubt it. If you’re expecting a baby, you don’t know how you’ll react and what you’ll do. 

After the visit to the museums, you head to a pharmacy to get a pregnancy test. This entire situation makes you extremely nervous even though you’re sure the result will be negative. As soon as you reach your hotel room, you lock yourself in the bathroom to take the pregnancy test. You follow the instructions, you pee on the stick’s little strip. Then you wait five minutes for the result. 

You place the test on the edge of the sink while you wash your hands. For a moment, you look at yourself in the mirror. Suddenly, the memories of your first night with Taehyung cross your mind. That famous new year’s night when you had sex for the first time with him. You were completely wasted but you still perfectly remembered that you had unprotected sex. He even ejaculated inside you. You don’t understand why you didn't think of that night when you were talking with Mia. 

“Fuck,” you whisper while you close your eyes. 

You have a period tracking app on your phone, and you remember seeing that the week of the New Year was your ovulation week. As your periods are irregular, sometimes the cycles are a bit messed up, and it happens that you ovulate at a different time. But you have the app to follow your periods since sometimes, you go months without them and it doesn’t even concern you. At least, that way, you can see how long your cycles are and when was the last time you had your periods. The ovulation week on the app is always an assumption. 

Well, now you’re a hundred percent sure that the test is positive. You had unprotected sex during your ovulation week so it’s positive without any doubt. It also explains why your emotions have been all over the place lately. It wasn’t due to the fear of losing Tae or the fact that you’re now with him. It was due to the fact that you’re creating a human. 

Your eyes look down at the test. Two clear lines appear on the stick.  

“Fuck,” you repeat as you see the result. 

You’re indeed pregnant. Pregnant with Tae’s child. 

As you’re sitting on the toilet bowl, you run your hands on your face. What are you going to do now? Are you going to keep this baby? Are you going to get an abortion? 

Having a baby is not part of your life plans for now. You just bought an apartment so you’re paying a mortgage and you’re spending money on furniture. On top of that, you just got promoted. You’re also now in a relationship with a famous football/soccer player. You’re trying to adjust yourself to all of those changes. A lot happened in a short period. And now there’s a baby on the way. That’s just too much. 

Having a baby now isn’t a good idea. 

MARCH 5, 2022

The game is almost over. 

Taehyung and his teammates have been playing for over 90 minutes. For the first time in a while, you’re present at one of your boyfriend’s games. You can’t remember the last time you came, but today, you decide to join him since you have a big announcement for him. 

It’s been a week since you found out about your pregnancy. For the past eight days, you’ve been thinking about what to do. It wasn’t easy, you spent nights crying like a baby because you’re simply lost. As you were confused, you didn’t say anything to your boyfriend. You pretended like nothing happened, but since he knows you well, he noticed something was off. 

Mia was the first person to know about your pregnancy. You cried a lot in her arms, and she’s been there for you. She can’t do much because it’s your decision but she promised to be there for you no matter what you decide. For now, she’s the only person aware of your state. 

However, eight days later, you’re still confused and you don’t know what to do. The only thing you’re sure of is that Taehyung needs to know. He’s the only one who can guide you with this pregnancy. Also, you’ve booked an appointment with your gynecologist to check everything up. It’s in two days, and you don’t want to go alone. You want to have Tae by your side, and you also want him to see his child. 

Discreetly, you make your way to the changing room of Tae’s team as you desire to surprise him. He isn’t aware of your presence, he didn’t even notice you during the game. As you’re walking, you suddenly feel two arms wrapping around your waist and pushing you back. The sweet scent of Taehyun’s perfume mixed with sweat surrounds you. A smile appears on your face, and you turn around to meet the prettiest man ever. 

“What a wonderful surprise,” Tae says with the brightest smile on his face before kissing you. 

For a split second, you kiss him back but you quickly push him back. As you do so, you take a quick look at the man you love. His black hair is dampened in sweat, making it look wet. The top of his jersey’s shirt is stuck to his chest due to the sweat. His face is fully red. Even though he stinks a bit, he looks hot as hell. You’ll gladly open your legs for him right now. 

“You’re stinky and covered in sweat,” you playfully say. 

Taehyung holds you even closer and cleans his face on your chest. You giggle as he does so. He’s unbelievable, but that’s also why you love him. You try to push him back as much as you can but he’s a lot stronger than you so your efforts are in vain. He presses a soft kiss on your neck before taking a step back to look at the woman he dearly loves.

You’re wearing a jersey of his team, more precisely, the jersey he gifted you a couple of weeks ago. It’s a black one with his name and his number engraved in the back of the shirt. With that, you’re wearing a blue pair of jeans. You look hot as hell with his jersey. He could fuck you right here. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks. 

“I want to see you,” you answer with a smile on your face. “And also talk to you.” 

Concern suddenly appears on his face. 

“Something bad happened?” 

“You should go change first,” you say without answering his question. 

Your answer only worries him even more. 

“Tell me, yn,” his tone is a bit harsh, and it catches you by surprise so you jump of scare. 

None of you is smiling now. You don’t want to tell him in the middle of a stadium’s hallway that you’re pregnant while he’s wearing his team’s jersey and covered in sweat. Even if he looks incredibly hot, this is not how and where you want to announce to him your pregnancy. 

“Please,” you first say. “Change yourself first.”

Taehyung takes a step closer to you. His face is tense, his heart is beating fast, and his mind is imagining a hundred different horrible scenarios. He's worried and the fact that you don’t say anything makes him worry even more.

“I’m not going anywhere before you tell me what’s going on,” his tone is still firm. 

You look down for a moment before looking up at him. Although you know this man very well, it actually surprises you that he insists on knowing now what you have to say. 

“We should be in a more intimate place, Tae,” you tell him. “I’m not comfortable talking with you in here.” 

He takes a deep breath before nodding. If something is going on, talking here isn’t the appropriate place, and he can only agree with you. 

“Okay, I’ll be back in two minutes,” he says. 

You nod, and he kisses you before disappearing. He’s deeply concerned, worried, and scared of what you have to tell him. He’s imagining the worst. You’ve recently been back from Rome and he noticed that something changed during that trip. He noticed your puffy eyes, the dark circles under your eyes, the sadness written all over your face, and the way your mind is always somewhere else. 

At first, during your video phone calls, he’d ask if you’re okay, but since you wouldn’t say anything besides ‘yes, i’m good’, he understood that he couldn’t force you to speak. It has to come from you. He’s convinced something really bad happened in Rome. He’d even say a man acted disrespectfully towards you.

In no time, he quickly dries himself with a towel before putting his clothes on. He says goodbye to his teammates and leaves in a rush with his bag in his hand. He finds you in the same spot. You’re looking down at your phone, probably looking at some reels on insta. You always do that when you have to wait. 

Taehyung presses a soft kiss on your head when he’s next to you. 

“Let’s go?” he asks. 

You simply nod, and you both leave the stadium. Your boyfriend grabs your hand to guide you to his splendid car. The same car where Taehyung almost fucked you some days ago. You can’t get enough of each other when you’re together. 

“Where do you want to go?” he asks once inside the car. 

“My apartment?” you suggest. 

“Okay, fine,” he nods before starting the engine. 

The drive to your place is quite calm, you barely speak, but honestly, you don’t know what to say. Your mind is thinking of all the ways you can announce your pregnancy to Taehyung. Your boyfriend gets worrier as you get closer to your place. He’s scared to hear what you’ll say to him. Easily, he finds a parking spot near your place, and you quickly leave the car. 

Once you're inside your apartment, the first thing you do is jump into his arm, holding him very tightly in your embrace. He’s caught off guard which destabilizes him but he quickly wraps his arms around you. It’s something bad, he can feel it. 

“I’m pregnant,” you whisper against his chest. 

His entire body freezes as he hears your words. Out of all the horrible scenarios he imagined, pregnancy wasn’t one of them. Well, being honest, pregnancy isn’t a terrible scenario at all. It’s actually the opposite. It’s probably not the right moment but it’s not a bad thing. All this time, he was convinced that you got rapes in Rome. 

It takes him a couple of seconds to process what you said. He wasn’t thinking of getting the news of being a father this early in life. This is a shocking news. Taehyung pushes you a bit so he can take a proper look at you, his girlfriend.  

“And you found it out in Rome, right?” he asks. 

For him, that’s the only reason that would explain the shift in you during your trip with Mia. 

“Yes,” you answer. 

“Hmm,” he says while he turns his back to you. 

He runs his left hand on his hair while he starts to really process what has been going on for more than a week. Yes, it all makes perfect sense. 

His reaction worries you. Now, you’re not sure you should have said it. Maybe, he’s going to ask you to abort because he doesn’t want this baby. Oooh, this is all messing up in your head. 

“Why didn’t you tell me when you found out?” he asks. 

Taehyung isn’t still looking at you. Not having his glance on you while you’re giving him this huge news makes you feel so small. It makes you feel like a baby who needs to be reassured by a loved one.

“I didn’t want to announce that through a phone call,” you explain first, “and I also didn’t want to give you this news when I didn’t know if I’d keep the baby.” 

As he hears your last words, he turns around to finally look at you. It devastates him to hear that you even considered aborting, and it breaks his heart that he wasn’t by your side at that moment. 

“Are you going to abort?” he instantly asks. 

You shake your head. “I don’t know, Tae.” 

A tear runs down your face. Your boyfriend instantly holds you in his arms and presses a comforting kiss on your head. 

His entire life, he imagined that it’d be a moment of joy when he’d be given this news. Of course, he always pictured that you’d be the mother of his children, but this wasn’t the way he saw things. He imagined you getting together, then getting married, and then having children. All those steps in life would be filled with joy and love because they would have been so awaited. 

You take a step back. “I wanted to think by myself before announcing anything, but I don’t know what to do. All I know is that I need you by my side.” 

“And you have me, butterfly,” he firmly says. 

“It’s also your child so I can’t take this decision by myself.” 

“Before being my child, it’s your body, yn,” he cups your face in his hands. “If you can’t or don’t want to carry it, you don’t have to and I will never force you to do whatever suits me.” 

Taehyung has always been the biggest gentleman you’ve ever known. This right here is proof that he is a wonderful human being. Even if this situation is all messed up, you’re just thankful that Taehyung is your boyfriend. You’re not sure any other man would have said that. Maybe that you would be blaming you for not telling them sooner. 

“All I can do is support you no matter what,” he adds. “I’m never going to force you to carry my child when you don’t want to.” 

“But would you want to keep it?” you ask with the biggest doe eyes. 

For a moment, Taehyung gets lost in his thoughts. He imagines your bump getting bigger, what it’d be like to see you pregnant with your child, what the baby would look like, and how it would feel to be a father. 

“Yes,” he answers without hesitation. “If you’re the mother of my child, no matter what is going on in our lives, I’ll want it.” 

His answer unimaginably comforts you. Knowing that makes you love him even more. 

“Even if we’re poor and living under a bridge?” you ask. 

A smile appears on his face. “Even if we’re poor and living under a bridge, I’d love to be the father of your child.” 

A little smile appears on your face. It definitely comforts you to know that he wants to be the father of your child. 

“And you’re the only person with whom I’d want to have a child,” you tell him. 

You press a gentle kiss on his lips, causing his smile to grow bigger. This situation is a bit tricky for you, but your boyfriend’s reaction brings so much comfort to you. 

“Do you know how far along you are?” he asks.   

“Well, you probably knocked me up at New Year’s Eve party so I’d be nine weeks pregnant,” you answer. 

Taehyung remembers that night very fondly. It was the night that changed his life for the better, and it was a wonderful night. The best night ever. Your first night together was wonderful, but now that you’ve got to learn about each other, sex is a hundred times better. 

“Have you already made an appointment with your gynecologist?” 

“Yes,” you nod. “That’s also one of the reasons why I’m announcing it to you now. It’s in two days, and I really want you to come.” 

“I’ll be there with you, butterfly.” 

He passionately kisses you. Now that he knows, it makes this news more bearable. It almost makes it feel like it’s not a big deal because he wants that child. But he only wants it if you want it too. So in the end, it’s really up to you to decide what you will do. Nonetheless, it reassures you so much to know that he will be by your side. If you decide to keep the baby, he’ll gladly be a present father. And if you decide to get an abortion, he will stay with you throughout the entire process. 

MARCH 7, 2022

Taehyung is sitting next to you while you’re lying on a medical examination table. Your legs are wide open and the gynecologist is in between them. It’s honestly a bit weird to be in that position with your boyfriend sitting next to you. 

“I’m going to insert the probe,” the woman informs you. 

Doctor Park has been your gynecologist for years, and it was more than natural you’d be coming to her for this first checkup as a pregnant woman. Once you saw the positive test, you instantly booked an appointment. Luckily for you, she was available rather quickly. 

When you exposed to her the situation, she informed you that she would need to do an endovaginal ultrasound. Since it’s only the beginning of the pregnancy, if she performs a ‘normal’ ultrasound, nobody will see anything as the baby is very small. 

Taehyung is holding your hand as the probe is slowly and carefully pushed inside you. The doctor moves the probe from right to left until she finally sees something on her screen. A bright smile appears on her face when she sees what she’s been looking for and seconds later, the room is filled with the sound of heartbeats. Instantly, your head turns to your boyfriend who’s smiling as he’s hearing the sound. His eyes look down at you. They are filled with love. 

Hearing the fast heartbeat makes it real. There’s no doubt that you’re pregnant. But hearing this sound warms your heart indescribably. A tiny human is growing inside you, and you’re literally creating life. It’s so unreal what a woman’s body can do. 

Then, you both look at the screen and you’re trying to see something but you clearly don’t understand what’s appearing. 

“This right here is your baby,” the doctor points out to a tiny black dot on the screen. “And this right here is your second baby,” she points out to another dot. 

The world stops turning when she announces the second baby. There are two babies. You’re expecting twins.  

“And you can hear the heartbeats of the two babies,” she says. 

You look at the screen with disbelief. Two lives are growing inside you. You’re creating two little humans. You squeeze Tae’s hand as you can’t conceive that you’re expecting twins. 

“Based on what we can see, they are identical twins.” 

As from there, you can’t hear anything else. All you see is the two little dots on the screen. All you see and hear is your babies. They are real. They are here inside you. If you decide to keep them, two little humans will join you. You’d become a mother and Tae a father. This is a very big deal. From now on, you’ll be responsible for those two little lives. Whatever decision you make, it will inevitably impact them. 

Your eyes move to Taehyung to watch him with admiration. There is no doubt that he will be a fantastic father and those two babies will always be lucky to have him as their father. Since you’re quite young, your boyfriend always said that he wanted a big family. He wants at least five children. It’s a bit too much, but from a very young age, he has that desire to become a father. You know that he wants those two babies. And as you’re looking at him right now, it’s evident to you that he truly wants to have the twins in his life. 

Being here changes everything. Seeing the babies on the screen and hearing their heartbeats helps you to make a decision. 

For sure, it won’t be easy to become a mother and jungle with all the challenges you’re facing right now. But never on earth will you get an abortion. You had doubts up until now, but you don’t have any more. You’re a hundred percent certain that you will keep them.    

APRIL 7, 2022

Let’s be real, being pregnant with twins is far from being easy. You’re still pretty much nauseous, you’re belly is slowly but surely growing, and your emotions are definitely all over the place. Thankfully enough, Taehyung has been very supportive. 

A month ago, when you told him that you wanted to keep the babies, he was the happiest man on earth. That night was very very spicy. He now speaks to the babies every single day, and that’s the cutest thing on earth. You’re now living together to make it easier and you chose his place. It’s a bit far from your workplace but before going to his daily trainings, he drops you off at work. When he’s present of course. When he’s in another city or country, you stay at your apartment to make it easier. 

So far, you’ve been enjoying living with him. You get to be goofy together, to spend more time together, to watch random movies together, and to have more often sex. Surprisingly, your libido has been quite high. Whenever you lay eyes on your boyfriend, you simply want to make babies with him. 

However, it’s not easy to be dating him. Every single day, there are rumors that he’s dating this or this girl, and they all come from because they liked a picture of him. It’s really incredible what can be read online. It’s such silly things. You try to avoid checking anything about him on social medias because when you read those things, all you want to do is to say that he’s with you which isn’t a great idea. It’s been four months that you’ve been together but since the beginning, it’s been hard on that aspect. 

Since yesterday, Taehyung has been in another city because he played earlier against the team from that city. He’s coming back tomorrow morning, and you’re excited to see him again. You deeply miss him when he’s not hear. You miss your little bear. 

After months of trying to find a little cute nickname for Taehyung, you finally found it. It came out of nowhere, he was speaking with the babies, you ended up calling him a papa bear, and it stayed. He’s your cute little bear. 

You’re going through your phone, and you come across a video on insta of Taehyung. It’s apparently reported that he’s dating a random girl you never saw before. Nothing new so far. However, almost at the end of the video, there’s a picture of your boyfriend with her. They look very close, almost as if they are about to kiss. The picture isn’t very clear but obviously something is going on. 

That breaks your heart in an unimaginable way. 

Many questions cross your mind but you push them away because it’s definitely not a good idea to start imagining the worst. He’s clearly madly in love with you so he’s not going to cheat on you right now. But seeing this picture creates a big doubt in your mind. 

You put your phone away before turning on the TV. Maybe you need to watch something else to distract you. You trust Taehyung, you know he’s never going to cheat on you. You’ve known him for years, he’s a respectful man. He would never cheat on his partner. 

Nonetheless, watching TV isn’t helpful at all as this ‘new relationship’ of Taehyung is being displayed everywhere. Based on reliable sources, they have been together for months. They have been trying to keep it lay low, but they were seen yesterday in front of her house having a very intimate moment. This is heartbreaking. You want to cry. 

Maybe it’s best you simply go to bed and sleep. Taehyung is coming in a couple of hours and you will speak about all of this. You don't want to jump to conclusions just yet. You want to hear what your boyfriend has to say about this incident. But it’s hard to fall asleep with that picture of him with another woman in your mind. 

Your phone buzzes and the screen lights up, indicating that you received a message. It’s a message from Taehyung. “I’m here, open the door please.” You frown. What is he doing here? Shouldn’t he be in another city? 

Slowly, you leave the bed to open the door. The main entrance is a bit far from the bedroom so it takes you a bit of time to reach the door. As you open it, you notice it’s raining outside. Your boyfriend is standing in front of you, fully swamped by the rain. It warms your heart to see him because you really need him right now.  

“What are you doing here?” you ask. 

“I saw the picture of me with that girl,” he starts saying. “I knew you’d see it too and I didn’t want to leave you thinking about it all night long.” 

This scene seems coming straight out of a movie. Your lover is standing in front of you while it’s raining, swamping him more and more. Although you’re worried about his health, you find this is a heartfelt moment. It’s also very romantic.  

“Come inside,” you tell him. “I don’t want you to get sick.” 

He does as you say, and you close the door behind him. The two of you head to the bathroom. As you’re walking, you take a look behind you, noticing how wet the floor is getting. You mentally note to yourself that you’ll need to clean otherwise somebody slip and get hurt. Once inside the impressive bathroom, you stop in front of the toilet bowl while Taehyung remains close to the door.  

“Why did you ask me to open the door?” you ask as he’s getting undressed. “Don’t you have the keys?” 

“I left in a rush and forgot the keys,” he answers. 

Your eyes wander on his toned body as he removes every single piece of clothes. Taehyung is so damn handsome. 

“You didn’t need to come for that,” you tell him. “We could have waited for tomorrow.” 

Taehyung looks up at you with wet strands of hair falling in front of his eyes. He looks incredibly hot. He’s pushing his black pants down but they feel quite heavy. He notices that you’re a bit sleepy, and he can’t help but find you extremely pretty. Taehyung hides the little smile appearing on his face.  

“I couldn’t,” he says. 

Once he’s fully naked, he wraps himself in a towel before sitting on the edge of the bathtub. Your eyes follow him before you sit next to him. Your eyes stare at him for a hot minute, but you quickly turn your face to look right in front of you. 

“That’s an old picture,” he suddenly says. “It’s from like a year ago. It’s one of the many one-night stands I had.” 

You nod. “I believe you,” you simply say. “It’s hard to be looking at this kind of pictures, it was even before we started dating, and seeing them makes me doubt.” 

Taehyung puts his hand on your leg to softly soothe it. The warmth of his touch conforms you a lot. 

“I love you, butterfly,” he says. “I’ve always loved you. You’re actually the only woman I’ve ever loved, and I would never do anything to hurt or lose you.” 

You rest your head on his shoulder. 

“I guess you know but my love life was a complete mess before the new year’s night. I was sleeping with lots of girls but I was never able to commit to any of them. It was mostly one-night stands,” he explains. “I was in love with you but thought you didn’t love me back the same way so I was trying to find that love somewhere else. But I couldn’t because you’ve always been the only one on my mind.” 

Obviously, you knew about his many one-night stands but never said anything. You always considered those girls to be lucky to have at least had the experience of having sex with him. You weren’t exactly looking for sex with him, but when you’re in love, physical attraction is inevitable. So yeah, from time to time, you’d think about that. 

“So I decided to only sleep with them. It’s easy, you just sleep and then, you never see them again,” he adds. “It got worse when you started dating Noah. I couldn’t bear seeing you in love and the only thing that could distract me from that was literally having sex with someone else. For a brief moment, my mind is simply lost in pleasure.” 

It breaks your heart to hear that. You never thought it would be that hard for him to see you with Noah. Back then, you knew you weren’t in love with him because the only person you ever truly loved was Taehyung. But since you couldn’t have him, you tried to find love in someone else. Even if it meant to never truly be happy.  

“So you did that for 3 years?” you ask. 

“Yep,” he says while nodding. “Honestly, at some point, I even thought you’d get married.” 

As he says those words, you bite your lower lip. 

“Have I ever told you how it truly ended up with Noah?” you ask while turning your head to look at him. 

Taehyung glances at you with confusion. Why are you suddenly raising this question? 

“I guess you never told me at all how you broke up.” 

“Well, he proposed but I said no,” you tell him. 

“Really?” he asks with evident surprise. 

“I never understood why he proposed. Back then, we were falling out of love. It was obvious that it was going to end sooner or later,” you explain. “I was never going to marry him. I wasn’t happy anymore.” 

Quite frankly, he’s very surprised. In his mind, you would have agreed to get married with him. He always thought you were madly in love with Noah but now, he knows that he was wrong. 

“So if he had proposed earlier, would you have accepted?” he asks with hesitation. 

“Probably,” you shrug. “In my head, it was better to be with someone else than losing your friendship.” 

His hand slowly moves higher on your thigh while his face gets closer to your ear. “Then, I’m lucky he didn’t,” he whispers, causing goosebumps all over your body. 

Before his hand reaches your pussy, you push it back. “You should take a hot bath before you get sick.” 

Taehyung rolls his eyes. “I didn’t come to take a bath.” 

“Well, if you didn’t walk under the rain, you wouldn’t be taking a bath,” you say. “Maybe, we’d be making more babies.” 

It frustrates him when you tease him like that, but he finds it extremely adorable that even if you’re together, you’re still kind of prude. 

“I can still fuck you in the bathtub,” he replies. 

“You’re always so crude,” you tell him. 

“And you’re still so prude, butterfly,” he says. “No need to hold back with me.”

Your boyfriend gets closer to you before crashing his lips against yours. Kissing you is without any doubt his favorite part of being with you. This isn’t at all a shy kiss, on the contrary, it’s a very fervent kiss. No doubt you crave to do unholy things together. 

“Let’s get in that damn bathtub,” Taehyung says on your lips. 

He grabs your lower lip with his teeth, causing you to moan. Right after that, you stand up to get undressed while Taehyung turns on the water. Once you’re naked in front of him, a bright smile appears on his face when he looks at your little bump. It’s getting bigger as it should. Inevitably, he gets closer to you and softly caresses your belly. You watch him with tenderness. This is so cute. 

“Hi babies,” he whispers against your belly before pressing a kiss. “It’s daddy.” 

Your heart is melting at his words. Taehyung also takes a weird voice when he speaks with them. It’s the tone everybody takes when speaking to a baby, but it’s adorable to hear him speak like that.  

“I love you both already very very much,” he adds. “And I can’t wait to meet you in October. Please be gentle with your mommy until there.” 

Your hand caresses his soft hair as he presses another soft kiss on your stomach. It’s adorable to watch him interact with the babies. The gynecologist advised to do so in order for the twins to recognize his voice but she didn’t need to say it. Taehyung adores to talk to them. 

“Now, I will ask you to close your eyes because your mommy and daddy will do nasty things,” you laugh at his words. 

“You’re crazy,” you tell him. 

“Hey, I’m just warning them,” his eyes look up at you. “It’ll be a little shaky shaky for them.” 

He gets up to press a smack on your lips before turning off the water. He doesn’t waste any second before jumping into the bathtub. You don’t follow him directly as you’re watching him. Once he’s taken place inside the bathtub, his eyes look at you. 

“You’re not coming?” he asks. 

OCTOBER 01, 2022

Charlie & Freddie. 

Those are the two names you and Taehyung chose for your little twins. They were born very early today, it was 2 am when they joined you. It wasn’t easy to give birth to two healthy boys, but honestly, this day is the best day of your life. After all, it’s the day you became a mother, but it’s most and foremost, the day you met the little boys you created with your boyfriend. 

Taehyung is sitting on a chair, shirtless with Freddie in his arms. Seeing him with the babies is without any doubt the best thing in the world. He has spent the last hour holding them, one after the other to make the skin-to-skin contact. 

On the other hand, you’re sitting on the bed with Charlie in your arms. After a little struggle, you’ve managed to breastfeed him. Between him and Freddie, he was the one having the most difficulties to latch. But now, all is good. 

The twins really are identical, you can’t tell them apart. So with Taehyung, you’ve decided that for now, you’ll always put something red on Charlie and something yellow on Freddie. However, you wonder how long you’ll be able to keep up with that. Many sleepless nights are waiting for you. For sure, once you’ll get tired, you’ll get all mixed up. 

Being in this room with Taehyung and your twins seems unreal. Last year, you were still having a crush on your best friend, not able to reveal your true feelings. You were so scared to lose him if you’d reveal your feelings. It was hard to see him with other women. But today, things are completely different. You’re madly in love with your best friend and you started your own little family. 

Taehyung looks down at his son. His life has drastically changed in less than a year. He finally found peace because he was bold enough to reveal his feelings for you. He isn’t any more sleeping with strangers in order to stop thinking about you constantly. He’s now allowing himself to think about you night and day. All that because you love him back. 

It’s crazy how a simple kiss on a new year’s eve party can flip someone’s world upside down.  

[jwiirecs]

♡ twenty five, twenty five.five, twenty six, twenty seven, twenty eight, twenty nine, thirty (rest of the parts here so i dont get lost.)

⇅Taehyung college au ⇅

→ Character intro

→ Part 1

→ part 2

→ part 3

→ part 4

→ part 5

→ part 6

→ part 7

→ part 8

→ Part 9

→ Part 10

→ Part 11

→ Part 12

→ Part 13

→ Part 14

→ Part 15

→ Part 16

→ part 17

→ part 18

→ part 19

→ part 20

→ Part 21

→ Part 22

→ Part 23

→ Part 24

[gukcnt]

MY LOVE, UNTIL I RETURN ⭒ KTH

in which you and taehyung share an emotional final day, filled with desperate love and physical connection, as you prepare for the pain of his impending military enlistment.

pairing — dom!taehyung x sub!femreader

genre — established relationship, slice of life, military enlistment, long distance relationship, heartbreak, smut, fluff, lots of angst, sad ending

warnings/tags — 18+, explicit smut, hard dom!taehyung, possessive!taehyung, emotional intimacy, grief, military enlistment anxiety, physical closeness, shyness and vulnerability, possessive tenderness, music and dancing, promises and vows, love confessions, lots of crying, post departure grief, separation anxiety, assurances of love, they love each other so much i can't, oral sex (f. receiving), eating out, cunnilingus, face riding, face sitting, cum swallowing, tongue fucking, clit stimulation, multiple sex scenes, multiple orgasms, multiple positions, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering, lots of breast play, he is obsessed with her tits, nipple play, nipple sucking and biting, rough sex, missionary position, doggy, riding, gentle lovemaking, emotional sex, cockwarming, dirty talk, praise kink, degradation, against the wall sex, cum play, overstimulation, making out, hickies/marking, bruising and scratching, spanking, shower sex, morning sex, oral sex (m. receiving), cock palming, cock sucking, face fucking, hair fisting, cum swallowing, power dynamics, body worship, loving aftercare

wc — 11k

a/n — i literally shed tears while writing this aaaa, i miss tae so much y'all! 😭

series m. list | main m. list

────୨ৎ────

The mourning was inevitable, the regular smell of air in your apartment filled with the musky smell of Taehyung's cologne.

A scent you were so used to that it felt like a part of your own skin.

The sunlight casts a soft glow over the couch where you sat, its cushions filled with years of shared moments.

Taehyung was beside you.

His presence as always providing you comfort, yet it was painful.

His broad shoulders, usually confident, now hunched forward showing the weight that he was carrying.

His dark hair slightly messy and falling over his eyes, framing his face in a way that makes him look both boyish and mature.

His deep brown eyes usually having a playful spark or intensity, were clouded today with grief.

And a desperation.

The sight of him like this—beautiful, broken, and yours—makes your chest ache painfully.

With a fierce love.

You’re curled up beside him, legs tucked beneath you as your body instinctively seeks his warmth.

You wore one of his oversized white shirts, it felt warm and cozy along with the smell of him that clings to the shirt.

Enveloping you.

Reminding you of his impending departure.

Your hands rested in your lap, fingers twisting nervously—a habit developed from anxiety that didn’t leave you since he told you about his military enlistment six days ago.

Your heart felt like it's trapped.

A reminder.

Of the clock ticking and each minute slipping from you until he leaves.

Taehyung's deep voice soon breaks the silence.

“My love.” he murmurs.

The endearment spilled out of his mouth for you, making your breath catch.

He reached for your hand, fingers warm and calloused from years of hard work, his roughness softening just for you.

His hand slowly starts tracing slow comforting circles over your knuckles, making your lips part.

“I don’t know how I’m going to do this.” he says.

Voice cracking slightly with emotion.

“A week left and all I can think about is how I wanna memorize every inch of you,” he breathes.

“I wanna carry you with me, sweet girl, so I don’t forget what it feels like to be whole.”

His words felt like a knife to your chest and tears well up in your eyes, threatening to spill.

Your cheeks warming beneath his attention as you finally lift your eyes to meet his, raw vulnerability in them.

Stealing your breath.

“tae…” you whisper.

Your voice trembles, biting your lower lip, trying to hold back the sob trying to escape.

He shifts closer, arm wrapping around your waist possessively.

The heat of his touch grounding you against the ache in your chest.

His other hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen.

“I know my baby”

Voice steady for you despite the storm you know he is facing by looking at his eyes.

Wanting to stay strong for you.

His lips brush your forehead, lingering there.

Branding himself into your skin.

“I’m terrified too. The thought of being with you... fuck—it's like losing a part of myself,” he says.

“But I’m here now, hmm? I’m gonna love you so much, so completely, you’ll feel me even when I’m gone.”

His words felt like a lifeline and you lean onto him, head resting against his chest.

The steady beat of his heart matching your own.

That lulled you to sleep several nights.

Just imagining how you will sleep without it once he was gone brings tears back to your eyes.

You whimper shakily, causing his arms to tighten around you and you breathe in his cologne, clean male scent.

Your fingers clutched shirt.

Desperately clinging to him.

۶ৎ

The week before his departure has been full of emotions.

All moments shared close together, barely giving you any relief.

Mornings were spent tangled in bed as Taehyung's lips traced your sensitive skin—your neck, shoulder.

Especially the sensitive spot behind your ear, him knowing it makes you arch into him.

His constant whispers of “I love yous” and “you’re mine” surrounding you permanently.

Afternoons spent with quiet walks in your backyard garden, relishing each other's presence.

His hands never leaving yours, fingers holding yours tightly

Afraid you’ll slip away.

He tried to make things normal, you could feel it. His laughter, so rich and deep, comforting you in ways you couldn’t explain.

Taking away the pain of separation that will happen eventually, even for a little bit.

He wouldn’t leave your side even while cooking, staying by your side all the time while you prepared all his favorite meals.

Knowing he was gonna miss them when he's gone.

Heartfelt conversations and teasings would end up with heated kisses against the counter, his body pressed against yours, hands roaming all over you with hunger.

Never leaving a chance to not touch you.

But the nights—oh god, the nights.

It unraveled both of you in a way, desperation controlling you both.

The nights were a mix of touches and need.

Bodies speaking louder than words.

Each kiss and touch felt like a promise, a plea and a goodbye that will break you both.

And yet no amount of memorizing felt enough.

Not when the time constantly taunted you both.

۶ৎ

Taehyung pulls you closer, now in bed, arms tightening around you until there’s no space left.

His lips finding yours, gentle and soft, tasting you, tongue tangles with yours, slow and exploring every corner of your mouth.

Consuming you.

When he pulls back, his forehead rested against yours, both your breaths ragged, eyes searching yours with an intensity that makes your stomach flutter.

“My love,” he rasps.

“I need you to know something… for me, yeah? no matter where I am or how far apart we are, you're with me no matter what, always…”

“You’re in my very blood, my soul, and I’m gonna fight every day to come back to you, to hold you like this, and love you until we’re old and gray.”

His voice was gruff, laying his heart for you through his words.

“Do you hear me, hm, baby?”

His voice hitched, and you see his eyes glistening with tears.

A rare emotion, he hides so well.

He never cries.

But for you, he was a broken man.

You nod, throat too tight to speak, burying your face in his chest, tears soaking his shirt.

“I love you, taehyung.”

You sob, voice muffled.

“I’ll wait for you. I'll always wait for you.”

He holds you for what felt like hours and hours, the world fading.

Only the two of you.

All that existed was him, you, and the raw love you both shared for each other.

The love that you guys will have when he needs to go for his enlistment.

But for now, you clinged to the moment, soaking his warmth and his loving words, meant for you only.

Because you knew… that soon…

It will be all you have left.

۶ৎ

It's the day before Taehyung's departure.

The sky itself was gloomy today, the threat of rain mirroring the environment in your home.

The ache in your chest.

You stir awake in bed, body feeling heavy with what's about to come, the loss you're gonna face.

Your half lidded eyes opened slightly, only to find Taehyung already gazing at you.

He’s propped on one elbow, bare torso and hard muscles, his eyes holding yours with several emotions—love, hunger, and a quiet fury.

Anger at the time slipping away.

You’re curled up against him, your legs tangling with his beneath the sheets, an usual act, hinting that the intimacy of such normality will be gone soon.

“Darling…”

His voice made your throat tighten.

His hand reaches up, fingers brushing your cheek, calloused finger tracing your features.

A shiver goes down your spine.

“I want today to be ours.” he growls.

You let out a quiet whimper, tears welling in your eyes, but you held them back for the sake of both of you.

Wanting to make the most of today.

His dark eyes stared straight into your soul, getting to know all your feelings without you telling them.

“taehyung,” you crooned

“I don’t know how to let you go. I'm so scared.”

The words spilling out uncontrollably, raw and heartbreaking as tears started streaming down your face.

Against your will.

He immediately pulls you into his arms, hard chest pressing against you, and he fists your hair, holding you to him.

His hand slides to the small of your back, the heat of his touch seeping through you.

“Baby,” he hums.

“I’m terrified too. But I'm here now.”

Lips brushed over your jawline.

“I love you, sweet girl… more than anything”

۶ৎ

The day starts with each moment in a midst of needing to be close, imprinting the other's presence into memory.

Breakfast was quiet in the kitchen.

Taehyung was standing at the stove, broad shoulders relaxed as he flips the pancakes with a practiced ease.

He’s shirtless, only wearing sweatpants that hung low on his hips, revealing his masculine beauty.

Making your legs clench unknowingly.

You sit at the table, hands wrapping around a hot cup of coffee Taehyung made for you earlier.

Taehyung soon turns, a plate of crispy pancakes in hand, flashing you a warm smile.

A boxy smile that was now tinged with sadness.

That he tried his best to hide.

“Eat for me, love.” he orders.

His commanding voice slipped out of him, unknowingly.

Whenever he needs to take care of you.

He sets the plate before you, and drizzled some chocolate syrup over the pancakes, knowing by heart you like them like that.

He leans down, pecking your lips, your chest heaving at his care.

“I wanna see you smile today.” he demands.

You try, but the smile feels fake, something he notices.

He always does.

His eyes softened, and he sits across from you, knees touching yours under the table, teasing you.

His thumb strokes your palm, the simple touch sent a warmth through you, eyes meeting his, biting your bottom lip to control your emotions.

“tae…”

His grip tightens on you, eyes darkening.

“You don’t have to be strong, darling.” he coos.

“Fall apart if you need to. You know I'll always be here. Ready to catch you… always.”

The words felt like a vow, and before you know it, a tear spills down your cheeks.

He leans across the table, kissing the tear away, and you gasp, clinging to him.

His actions making you ache more.

And you realize you’ll ache forever.

Until he returns.

۶ৎ

After breakfast, his need to be close to you becomes overwhelming, and Taehyung suggests a shower.

Voice laced with desire.

Taehyung stepping in first in the spacious shower, and the sight of him under the water steals your breath.

The water streaming down his body, almost tracing his muscles, droplets cling to him, causing an insistent pulse between your legs.

His wet hair pressed to his forehead, and his eyes met yours, longing and lust in them.

He motions at you with a single finger.

“Come here.” he exhales, sharply.

You step into the shower, heart racing and the water now falling over you as well, soaking your shirt.

Making it see through for your man.

The sensation felt too much.

He pulls you against him, hands clutching your hips.

The water falling over you both, a warmth that shuts out the world.

You forget about everything.

Except him.

“You’re so beautiful…” he hums.

Lips brushed against your ear, naked chest pressing against yours, and his warm baritone makes your stomach flutter, eyes getting dilated.

“I wanna you feel good.” he purrs.

You huff, gripping his naked chest, nails digging into his skin.

His rough hands slide under your shirt, lifting it slowly, taking his time and making you impatient.

His hands roamed all over your body, gripping you wherever he wanted, and he finally tossed the shirt aside

It landed on the floor.

Leaving you bare for him.

The sudden exposure makes you shy, a flush warming your cheeks as you look away. Even after years of your relationship with him, the shyness never really faded.

But his gaze was unwavering, filled with so much adoration and love.

Your insecurities were gone.

“tae…” you whisper.

“You make me feel so…so seen.”

The words were vulnerable, and he responds with a hungry kiss, lips insistent, all tongue and teeth, claiming your mouth.

Almost like a feral animal taking his place.

The intensity made your knees weak as you cling to him while he practically eats your mouth.

The taste of him—clean, with a hint of the chocolate syrup from breakfast—flooding your senses, and you moan uncontrollably in his mouth.

“Mmm, tae…”

He swallows all your sounds with his tongue, his hands find your breasts, weighing them in his hands, loving the weight of them.

He always bragged about how your tits were the perfect size for him.

Made for his hands specifically.

His thumbs brushed over your nipples, hardening them instantly under the touch, and the sensation was almost electric, a jolt of pleasure that goes straight to your pussy.

Your clit throbbing in need.

“Hah… oh, tae!”

You gasped, arching and pressing your breasts closer to him.

He groans lowly, thumbs connecting to your nipples, and he pinches your nipples lightly, rolling them between his fingers.

“Mhm, oh…oh…please—”

The combination of pain and pleasure made you pant.

“You’re always so sensitive… mm... I love it, baby.” he murmurs.

His lips brush against your collarbone while continuing to tease your nipples.

Water streamed over both of you, amplifying the sensation, the water acting like a slickness that leaves your mouth parted in ecstasy.

The water droplets slide down your skin, between your breasts, and Taehyung snarls at the sight.

Chasing the droplets with his tongue.

He finally decides to give you a bit of relief, taking one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, tongue flicking it in fast motions.

“Nghh, taehyung!” You cry out.

The wet heat of his mouth and tongue was almost overwhelming, your thighs trembled, pussy growing slick with arousal.

Your hands, desperate for him, slides down his body, tracing the hard planes of his chest and abs.

He exhales, humming his approval against your nipples, the vibrations have you trembling.

Your hand soon reaches for his cock, already hard and heavy against his thigh.

You wrap your hand around him, fingers barely meeting from his thickness, and you revel in his hardness.

His head fell back, the noises escaping unrestrained.

“Fuck my love,” he pants.

Hips bucking into your hand.

“You drive me crazy.”

You start stroking him slowly, your own chest heaving with shaky breaths, feeling the throb of him, water washing away the precum bedding out of him.

Your mouth waters with want.

Your clit pulsing in time with your strokes, an ache that you try to ignore by pressing your thighs together.

Seeking relief.

“You’re so hard…” you coo.

Your voice shy but laced with need and he growls, hands gripping your ass and pulling you flush against his chest.

Your bare tits pressing onto his hard chest, you let out a whimper.

“I want you,” he gruffs.

Eyes meeting yours burning with a love so intense, you struggle to breathe.

“My baby, I’m gonna miss this—miss you—every fucking second.”

The words a confession full of raw pain, and you feel your tears mingling with the water streaming down your body.

“I’m gonna wait for you… I swear.” you sob.

Your hand still working his cock, and your other arm wrapped around his neck, holding him close.

Your promise settled on his chest until he feels desperate again, tongue entering your mouth, biting and sucking your bottom lip.

All while he fucks your fist, hips bucking.

His hand fisted your hair, and you whine, letting him take whatever he wants from you.

Taehyung’s hands roam all over your body, every curve, every dip.

As if he's memorizing you.

Your slick now dripping on the floor, and with each brush of his finger, the ache seemed to increase, and it was almost painful.

You didn’t want teasing.

Not today.

Not when the time was running out so fast.

“tae, I need you.” you begged.

He nods, eyes darkening with a promise.

His own patience running out, not wanting to waste even a second with you.

“Not here, princess,” he rasps, gently.

“I want you in our bed, where I can take my time with you… wanna make every moment worth it.”

He turns off the shower, grabs a fluffy towel, wrapping you in it, hands gentle but possessive as he dries you off.

His lips brushing your skin with every moment, and you lean against the wall, lips parted.

Savoring his attention.

۶ৎ

Taehyung picks you up in bridal style, naked and you clutch his shoulder.

Your heart pounded with the adoration he stares at you with, he starts walking, reaching the bedroom, both your bodies still wet and dripping from the shower.

He gently lays you down on the bed, your heart racing as you look up at him.

He hovers above you, one hand propped beside your head, his presence and your need causing goosebumps all over your skin.

“My love,” he breathes.

“I wanna worship you today. Every inch of you—I want it all to be mine.”

Devotion in his words.

You swallow hard, shyness making your cheeks flush, but his gaze holds you to him.

Taking away your instinct to hide.

“taehyung,” you tremble.

“I’m yours.”

You declare, like always, his eyes softening before he presses his lips to yours once again.

The kiss starting slow, his mouth moving against yours with a hunger.

He deepened the kiss, making you let out needy noises on his mouth, his teeth scraping your lower lip, your fingers curling into the sheets as you arch into him.

“Mhhh, Tae…” you moan, softly.

He pulls back, breath hot, looking at you with dark eyes.

Eyes gazing all over your naked body, drinking you in, his stare felt like a physical touch.

“I could spend forever just kissing you, but I need more.”

You pant as he begins his descent downwards, lips trailing over your jaw to your sensitive neck, sucking gently.

A gasp left your mouth.

A faint hickey left on your skin.

The sensation was a delicious sting, your toe curling.

You felt exposed, still slightly wet breasts rising and falling with your quickened breaths, and a groan leaves his mouth.

His eyes taking you in.

“Perfect,” he rasps, in awe.

“Absolutely goddamn perfect for me.”

His hands cupped them just like he did moments before in the bathroom, but he doesn’t make you ache anymore.

He smirks wickedly, at your neediness.

A knowing curve on his lips.

Lowering his mouth to your breast, taking one nipple in his mouth, harshly, a lot rougher and hungrier.

“Oh, Taehyung!” you cry out.

Fingers tangled in his damp hair, tugging.

His teeth grazed your nipple, enough to make you gasp out, body shuddering with his attention to your breasts.

“Please… please!” Your breath shakes.

Hips shifting against the sheets.

“It feels so good.”

He moves to the other breast, grazing your nipple with his teeth while pinching the other neglected one.

You're a squirming mess for him.

“Fuck,” he chuckles, darkly.

Pulled away from your now overly sensitive breasts, from his torment.

“I love the noises you make for me, darling…”

His kisses trailed lower, slow and taking his time as he places kisses over the smooth skin on your stomach.

Lips lingering on your navel, tongue licking a stripe.

The ticklish feeling making you squeak.

And you let out a giggle despite the heat building inside you.

The sound draws a deep chuckle from him.

He glances up at you, eyes sparkling with love.

“I love that sound too,” he says.

Thumb brushing over your thigh.

“I’m gonna miss every part of you, love, every bit of your noises along with your happy ones.”

The reminder made your grin fade, the sadness taking over.

But it doesn’t last long.

His fingers start brushing against your folds, slow and teasing. He parts you gently to reveal your glistening pussy.

He uses the pads of his thumb, exposing you completely, baring the throbbing nub between your legs.

His fingers grazed your inner thighs, and you whine, slickness dropping more.

Shyness forgotten at the back of your mind from being so vulnerable in front of him, only needing relief.

You’re already too wet, pussy slick with arousal, clit needing his touch.

He paused, eyes fixing on you, and you gulp.

“Look at you,” he grunts.

“So wet for me already.”

His hand cupped your entire mound, fingers exploring your cunt, gathering your slick

“Tae… please.” you whimper.

Hips bucked towards him, seeking more.

He hums darkly, his gravel voice sending a shiver down your spine as he starts to circle your clit with his thumb.

Your hands fisting the sheets tightly, brows furrowing.

“So needy… just like a naughty girl,” he grits out.

“Don’t worry, sweet girl. I'm gonna give you everything you deserve.”

After all the teasing.

He finally presses his mouth to you.

The first touch of his tongue against your clit felt like a shock of pleasure, your hips lifted off the bed with a cry leaving your mouth.

“Hahh hah, tae—”

Your hands bunching the sheets around you, feeling dizzy with the wet heat of his tongue on your sensitive clit.

He starts sucking your clit, quickly and mercilessly, until you are shaking.

He hums against you, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure through you, and you're uttering nonsense right now.

Voice unrestrained.

“Oh God, taee.”

Your fingers griped his hair, hips tightly closing around his head but he holds you open with ease.

Your strength nothing compared to his.

He continues worshipping you with his mouth.

His tongue switched patterns, alternating from flat licks to your clit to occasional sucks that make your thighs tremble.

The obscene sounds filling the room—wet noises from his mouth, mixing with slick and his own soft groans, while tasting you.

“You taste so fucking good, I can eat this little pussy forever.” he growls.

Voice muffled in your pussy and you sob, hips rocking on his mouth instinctively.

His fingers soon join his tongue, sliding inside you with an ease and the sudden stretch has you letting out a scream.

Overwhelmed.

He curls them instantly, trying to find that spot inside you that makes you cry for him, his favorite music.

You start seeing stars behind your vision.

He thrusts his fingers in time with the movement of his tongue.

The dual sensation was too much

Too much all at once.

The wet heat of his tongue and his thick fingers fucking you in fast motions has you calling out his name constantly.

He groans against you like he’s the one being pleasured.

“Nghh, Tae, I’m fuck—I’m close.”

You quivered.

Thighs clamped tighter around his head, the pressure building in your stomach, ready to snap any moment

He doesn’t let up.

His tongue worked your clit, fingers thrusting faster, hitting that sweet spot every time, and it felt like torture to you.

A delicious torture.

“Come for me, princess,” he hisses.

Lips brushing your clit as he speaks.

“I want to feel you fall apart.”

The orgasm hits you, body convulsed, a broken scream leaving you.

“taehyung! oh god, taehyung!”

Your loud moans filling the room as your pussy clenches around his fingers, clit pulsing wildly against his tongue.

The sensation makes your body tremble uncontrollably, your grip on the sheets keeping you from falling apart.

He doesn’t stop.

His tongue gentle, still lapping at you, drawing out your pleasure until you’re letting out breathy sobs.

Oversensitive and breathless.

“It’s too much, please—”

You plead.

Hands tugging at his hair.

He finally pulls back, lips and chin glistening with your arousal, the sight made your pussy clench, despite your orgasm.

He crawls up your body, capturing your mouth in a possessive kiss.

The taste of yourself on his tongue makes you moan, gripping his hair once again.

A reminder of how thoroughly he’s claimed you.

“I love you.” you whimper against his lips.

“Love you too… my baby.”

Forehead rested against yours.

You cling to him, body still trembling as you press a kiss on his sweaty chest.

Your heart close to bursting.

You lie there, his arms wrapped around you, breathless and spent, the sheets damp beneath you with your release.

A proof of how he unraveled you so easily.

Your eyes fell to the clock, and your nails dig into his chest.

No matter how much you try to forget about what's about to come and enjoy the moment.

It's not possible.

Taehyung senses it, pulling you tighter to him.

His lips brushed your ear.

“This is just the beginning. I'm gonna spend all day today showing you how much you mean to me.”

۶ৎ

In the afternoon, you both are in the living room.

The air filled with jazz playing, a romantic song creating an intimate atmosphere.

A music genre that Taehyung always loved.

You both were enjoying each other's presence after having lunch, every detail of the day felt heightened.

As if the world had slowed.

To savor these last hours with Taehyung.

The weight of what's gonna happen tomorrow still there.

But for now.

There's only him—his presence, his touch on your body and love for you.

You’re standing in the center of the living room, bare feet. Taehyung standing across from you, intense eyes locking with yours

Your breath catches and you look away, a shy grin tugging at your lips.

“My love,”

“Dance with me.”

The command was soft, cheeks flushing as you hesitate, fingers twisting your shirt nervously.

But he steps closer, taking your hand in his big calloused ones, holding your soft small ones.

Protectively.

He pulls you into his arms, hand settling on his chest, and his hand grabbed your waist.

The other hand guiding your hand to his shoulder.

You felt the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm, looked up at him, your own heart pounding, and eyes glistening.

You sway together.

The music helped with the slow movement of his hips against yours, breath warm against your temple, his lips brushing the sensitive skin there.

You purred unknowingly, and you felt his smile without seeing it.

In that moment it felt like the world disappeared.

Only the two of you existing.

His hand slides lower, fingers laying across the small of your back, pressing you closer.

The moment innocent and romantic, but the hunger between you was palpable.

Wanting to feel each other all the time.

Before everything ends.

The friction of his pants against your bare thighs felt maddening, a tease that made your pussy pulse.

Even though he made you come just a few hours ago.

His hard cock pressed against you, and your breathing turns shaky.

“tae…”

Your eyes flickering up to meet his and the raw emotion there make your knees weak.

Love, desperation, hunger.

He doesn’t respond with words, only a low guttural hum left him, dipping his head to capture your lips in a tender kiss.

His lips soft yet demanding, wanting to take as much as he can from you.

It felt familiar.

In a way, you know where he does it when he's needy for you.

The taste of him, flooding your senses.

You melted into him.

Your fingers fisting the fabric of his shirt.

The kiss deepens, his tongue sliding into your mouth, exploring you, something that he has been doing the entire day, almost as if he wants to etch your taste in his memory.

Still, it makes your head spin.

His hands begin to roam, one sliding up to cup the back of your neck, the other slipping beneath your shirt to caress your bare skin.

You gasp into his mouth, body arching towards him.

The dance forgotten.

Music faded in the background, both getting distracted by each other.

Once again.

“I can't get enough of you, baby.” he rasps, against your lips.

His words laced with an urgency that makes your heart pulse.

He pulls back enough to look at you.

“I need you. Right fucking now.”

Your breath hitched, restriction fading at the fire his words.

“Yea…”

The word was simple, but he hears the plea in it.

His lips curve into an almost predatory smile, and before you can process it, he’s moving with an urgency.

He presses you against the wall, the wall cool against your back, pressing himself against you, pinning you in place.

His hands are everywhere, tugging the shirt up and over your head in one quick motion, leaving you bare before him.

You didn’t bother to wear any bra and panties because he was busy taking your clothes off everywhere, at anytime.

And he always loved it when you remain bare for him.

The cool air raised goosebumps all over your body as he takes you in, never getting enough.

His hands start tracing the swell of your breasts, the dip of your waist.

Always taking his time exploring.

“I wanna see all of you… my beautiful girl.”

You tremble, lips parting on a shaky breath.

His mouth later finds your breasts, sucking and biting the nipple to his liking, switching breasts faster than you can keep track of.

Supplying both of them with his attention.

Your back arched off the wall.

“Oohh, Tae”

His obsession with your breasts never ending.

“I can never get enough of these tits” he grunts.

Your knees get weak, when he finally pulls back, your nipples completely coated with his saliva, and you whimper at the sight of him.

So commanding.

So utterly devoted to you.

“I wanna taste you everywhere” he groans.

He was about to kneel before you on the floor, but you stop him, a sudden urge overtaking your shyness.

A need to give as much as you’re receiving.

“taehyung…” you breathe, determined.

“Let me… Let me please you, please.”

His eyes widen slightly, soon turning into a smirk. He straightens, hands resting on your hips and nods, eyes never leaving yours.

“Anything for you, sweet girl.”

His voice thick with anticipation.

Now you are the one sinking to your knees before him on the floor.

Your hands tremble, reaching for his sweatpants, and you tug them down slowly, your breath catching as his cock springs free.

It's thick and heavy, tip glistening with precum, and the sight makes your mouth water.

Your pussy clenching.

You wrap your fingers around the base, marveling at the weight and it throbs for you, veins visible.

A low groan left Taehyung.

“Darling,” he exhales.

“Look at you, so eager for me.”

His hands cupped the back of your head, fingers fisting your hair.

Not pushing but guiding.

A gentle encouragement.

You leaned forward, lips brushing the tip, his salty taste filling your senses.

You moan softly, the sound vibrating against him, making him curse.

His grip on your hair tightened.

You finally take him into your mouth, tongue swirling around the head before you slide down taking him deeper.

The stretch was intense, tears welling in your eyes from the sheer size of him, the weight of him making you sputter as you try to breathe through your nose.

You hollow your cheeks, sucking gently, and he groans, hips twitching forward.

“That’s it,” he growls.

“Such a good girl. Look at you, taking my cock so well.”

You whine against him.

“Fuck, keep doing that”

You bobbed your head, setting a rhythm, hand working what you cannot take inside your mouth, making gagging noises, which encourages him further.

His pleasing noises make you squeeze your thighs together, tears spilling down your cheeks.

The taste of him grows stronger as he spills more precum on your tongue and you savor it hungrily.

Your other hand cup his heavy balls, fondling and massaging them, to your liking, and he hisses.

His hips start to move, fucking your mouth with quick thrusts.

Taking what he wants from you.

“Oh God, your mouth feels like heaven.” he rasps.

Voice filled with awe and desperation.

His words spur you on and you take him deeper into your mouth, trying to relax your throat in order to fight the urge to gag.

The way he fills you so completely.

Taking over you.

You don’t stop, driven by the need to make him feel as cherished as he makes you feel, how he always puts your needs before his, when he deserved to be pleasured as well.

He’s close, you can tell—his breathing turns heavy, thrusts erratic, cock twitching against your tongue.

“You’re gonna make me come,” he warns.

“You want it, baby? Want me to come in this pretty mouth of yours?”

You nod as best as you can, your needy noises expressing your request for him to let go.

Your mouth worked faster.

And he finally lets out a strained groan, spilling in your mouth, hips stuttering.

The taste was overwhelming.

You swallow every drop, some of his release dripping down your chin, but you lick them like a good girl.

Licking the excess fluid off his cock.

Cleaning every single drop.

Trembling above you as he comes down, fingers stroking your hair, his eyes half lidded and jaw clenched.

He pulls you to your feet immediately, kissing you hungrily, tasting himself on your tongue.

“You’re incredible,” he breathes.

“I don’t deserve you.”

Before you can deny him, his hands are on you again, lifting you effortlessly, legs wrapping around his waist and he presses you back against the wall.

Your chest heaved with your pants from his manhandling, the strength in his arms.

“I need to be inside you,” he growls.

“now.”

His cock hard again, or maybe it never softened.

It finds your cunt like a magnet, pressing against your slick folds like it's meant to be there and you whimper, core aching with need.

He doesn’t tease, doesn’t make you wait.

Knowing time was running out.

He lines himself up to your slit, thrusting into you in one smooth motion, filling you up and you forget to breathe.

“Gahhh, shit! taehyung!”

The stretch burned, but the pain soon mixes with pleasure, your head falling back against the wall.

He groans at the feel of your cunt clenching around him, forehead falling against yours.

“You're so tight and warm, my love.” his voice breaks.

“so damn good”

He starts to move, thrusting deep, yet quick, each one hitting that spot inside you, making you tremble in his arms.

Your body losing strength to hold yourself up, only supported by his arms, knowing he won't ever let you fall.

Trusting him with everything.

His powerful hands supported you, anchoring you to him, fucking you with a desperation that matches your own.

You call out his name, voice high and broken, nails raking down his back, leaving red, burning scratches all over his skin.

The sound of you both going at it drowns out the jazz still playing in the background.

Your breasts bounce with each thrust, his tongue exploring your mouth almost matching with the motion of his thrusts.

All your loud moans and whimpers swallowed by his mouth.

“Mhmm, ahnnn.” you gasp, on his mouth.

Your noises encouraging him further to fuck you stupid against the wall.

“You’re mine.”

His palm lands a sharp spank on your bouncing ass and you let out a startled scream, his hips snapping.

Harder and faster.

“Say it, baby. Tell me you're mine.”

His voice possessive and angry, but there's also a hint of vulnerability.

A need for reassurance, making your heart ache.

He was overthinking.

“I’m yours tae!” you chant, voice breaking.

“Always, always only yours”

The words pushed him over the edge, hands bruising your ass while he pounds you to his liking.

You bite his shoulder to ground yourself, pussy clenching around his cock constantly, as the pressure builds.

“Come on,” he commands.

“I wanna feel you come on my cock like a good slut.”

His hands slips between you, fingers finding your clit like an expert, rubbing tight, quick circles, and you see stars.

“Ah, oh, fuck, fuck—”

You felt dizzy, head swimming as the pleasure makes you shatter so fast.

“Gosh, taehyung!”

Voice raw, pussy pulsing around him, milking his cock as you come.

He follows moments later, letting out an animal growl, cock pulsing, and he finally spills inside you, filling you to the brim.

His release warm inside you, making you shudder against him, biting his chest needily.

“Damn it.” he pants.

His thrusts slow and gentle now, drawing out the aftershocks until you are squirming in his arms, tears brimming your eyes.

He holds there, pinned to the wall, cock softening inside you.

You both cling to each other, a tangled mess of sweaty bodies not caring about anything but each other.

The room quiet now except for both your ragged breaths, the jazz playing in the background and the romantic song matching both your current state.

“I will miss you,” he whispers, voice choked.

“I’m gonna miss you every day.”

You cling to him, face burying in his shoulder, a few tears leaving you.

“I love you, tae,” you whimper

“I promise.”

The weight of tomorrow presses, heavily.

But for now.

You hold each other, everything else forgotten, every fear in the back of your minds.

Love the only thing existing.

۶ৎ

The night felt endless, raw desire and pained love filling the bedroom with heat.

The air heavy with the scent of sweat and arousal, your shared smell, the sheets tangled messily, soaking with dampness, clinging to both of your skin.

The only sounds—creak of the bed, skin slapping against skin along with your pleased noises, and his rough breathings.

The clock ticked on the nightstand.

A devastation.

Counting down the hours until Taehyung was gone.

But in this moment, time felt like an enemy, each touch and moan felt like you both wanted to hold it against the coming separation.

Taehyung was possessed with wild feral need, a beast with relentless energy, on a mission to unravel you and test your limits.

His dark hair was a sweaty mess clinging to his forehead, eyes were feral with a mix of rage, hunger, and love.

His muscles flexed with every movement of his, unbeatable strength driving him further into ruining you.

His cock standing proudly, hard and leaking precum, thrashing despite using it several times now.

And the breath leaves your lungs, shocked at his crazed need to own you.

Never getting enough of you.

Your pussy clenched with a need that feels almost painful, core swollen from all it has endured, but the slickness dripping out of you said otherwise.

Wanting him for the last time before morning arrives.

And everything ends.

“Mhnmm,” he growls.

“I’m gonna fuck you so hard tonight, you’ll feel me for weeks… mm, you’ll feel me every time you sit or walk.”

Your stomach knots under his gaze, he looks at you all over, memorizing all your trembles and reactions completely.

The intensity makes you feel exposed yet treasured in a way that has your lips parted trying to breathe as much as you can.

You’re spread across the bed, skin flushed with slick and sweat. Your thighs slick with arousal, the cool air making your pussy throb with an ache.

Your cunt sensitive from hours of his touch, yet you crave more.

Always craving more.

Your breasts felt tender and way too painfully sensitive, nipples hardened from the night's earlier attentions, along with your swollen reddened lips from his relentless kisses and makeouts.

“Hnn tae,” you mewled.

“Take me, please…”

He doesn’t hesitate, movements quick, crawling over you and his lips crash against yours, tonguing your mouth.

His arousal clinged to your tongue as well, and all of it mixing together to make a lewd taste.

That has you both moaning.

Your hands clawed at his shoulders, nails scraping the already marked skin from earlier actions, making him hiss.

“This pussy is dripping for me, begging for my cock…”

“You’re gonna take my cock like a good naughty girl, hmm? Want me to fill you up, make you scream… yeah?”

His dirty words make you pant and you nod, breath hitching as he grips your wrists, pinning them above your head with one large hand.

The restraint has your body arch towards him, instinctively, body completely in control of him.

Turning you on further.

His fingers caress your soaked folds, parting them, sliding through your slickness, gathering them and teasing your slit.

You let out a whiny sigh, thighs parting further for him.

“tae… baby, please, I need you.”

The endearment for him rushes out of your mouth, a rare nickname for him that rarely slips out of you, due to your shyness.

And it makes him growl, satisfied, instantly rewarding you by plunging two of his thick fingers inside you.

“Hahh, gosh!” you moan.

He starts scissoring his fingers, stroking your spot and you are a mess, writhing against the bed, hips starting to rock against him at the motion of his thrusts.

“Yes, yes, yes, oh.”

You chant.

Your noises spilled out unconsciously, trying to quiet yourself as he works you open for him.

“That’s it, love”

Eyes fixed on your face, taking in all your reactions, making sure to go along with it, knowing exactly what you like, like the back of his hand.

“Don’t hold back, sweet girl,” he coaxes you.

“let everyone know how much you love my fingers in your tight little pussy… how it greedily sucks me in.”

His thumb finds your clit, circling it and your body jerks towards him.

His lips fall on your collarbone, leaving marks everywhere, sucking the marked skin from earlier, turning them purple.

Making sure the marks last you for weeks.

A reminder of him every time you look at a mirror, his love tattooed to your skin.

“taehyung, please… ohh, stop—stop teasing me! I need you—you inside me.”

You struggle to speak between your moans, voice breaking.

He groans, withdraws his fingers out of you with a wet squelch, bringing them to his mouth.

The sight of him licking your arousal off his fingers—eyes locked on yours, tongue slow as he savors each drop—makes you grind on his thigh, humping him like a bunny in heat, whimpers sputtering out of you.

Shame and shyness at the back of your mind.

Nothing makes sense to you anymore.

All you wanted was him and the connection.

“Shhh, don’t be such a dirty slut, baby.”

He rasps, steadying your moving thighs, stopping you from relief, and you pout.

“I could eat you the whole night, but I need to be inside you.” he exclaims, roughly.

Positioning himself between your legs, keeps your legs spread and without warning, he penetrates you.

Burying himself with a fast, brutal thrust.

“Oh my god, Taehyung, fuck!” you scream.

He grunts, beginning to move at a fast pace.

Pounding you or ruining you.

You couldn’t understand.

He reached such depths inside you, you didn’t know existed, almost reaching your stomach and your wails came out freely.

“Fuck, this cunt is all mine, yeah? made for my cock…”

He laughs darkly, a sex demon in his place and you almost couldn’t recognize him, hand fisting the sheets, burying your face in them.

“Fucking answer me, slut!”

He lashes out, fingers finding your clit and pinching it hard and you let out a scream, soon turning into a sob.

“Yes, yes, only yours, tae, too much.” you hiccup.

He hums his approval, bed shaking beneath you, the headboard hitting the wall with each of his thrusts.

His cock hits that spot inside you with every thrust, a torture that has your toes curling, breasts bouncing for his eyes.

You moaned, hips automatically pulling away from the pleasure, not understanding whether you want more or it's too much.

“Don’t run, baby…”

Gripping your wrists tighter, pinning you in place.

“Mhhh—you love this, don’t you? love being stretched to your limits?”

His hips puncturing each of his words inside you and you let out a sob at his words, body arching to meet his, hand gripping wherever you can on his body.

He releases your wrists, griped your hips instead, fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to leave bruises.

He angles you to take him deeper, thrusts growing more forceful and the sound of skin slapping against skin gets louder, his grunts escaping along with your mindless noises.

“I love you,” he signs.

“Shit, I can’t—I hate leaving you like this. I wanna stay here, fucking you, loving you forever...”

His anger can be heard in his words, thrusts turning angry, a glare etched his eyebrows.

“I love you, tae.”

“always—gahh hahhh—”

He leans down, capturing a nipple in his mouth, teeth grazing it.

The dual sensation—his cock pounding into you, mouth on your breast—too much.

You cannot take it.

“Come for me, darling. Show me how much you love my cock.”

His own voice strained.

His words pushed you over the edge and you shatter, orgasm breaking through you and you scream loudly in between your sobs.

“tae! mmphhh, nooo.”

Your pussy pulsed and clenched on him, his hips faltering.

He doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t give you a moment to recover.

He pulls out and the sudden emptiness has you whimpering, but he's already flipping you onto your stomach, hands rough and urgent.

“On your knees.” he barks.

You obey, body trembling and controlled by him, sensing his anger.

All this will soon be over in a few hours.

You lifted your hips, ass presenting to him, pussy gaping after being stretched, giving him a good view of your insides and your release dripping out, folds swollen.

Your tight ring just above clenching pathetically, slicked as well.

“Goddamnit!” he growls.

You jump at how unrestrained and possessed he seemed right now, both of you wild and feeling madness overtake.

His hands grip your cheeks, spreading you open more, taking a good look at your bottom, your both holes.

You let out a trembling whimper, hiding your face in the sheets, overtaken by shame, but your hips still rocked towards him.

Wanting him.

“Such pretty holes for me. You're going to take me so good, mhmm?” he breathes.

He thrusts into you again, the new angle getting him a lot deeper than expected.

“Ahh, tae, too much—too—”

Your voice cracks, hands fisting the sheets, burying your face in them and biting on a pillow, trying to ground yourself.

Almost tearing the fabric in the process.

His hips slam against your ass, eyes fixed on your bouncing ass and the way his cock plunges in and out of your sopping pussy.

Coated with your arousal.

A sight that will be a permanent thing in his memory for the lonely nights in the military.

He trembles, his own moans leaving as he continues drilling into you, balls slapped against your clit with every thrust, sending jolts of painful pleasure into you.

Your body instinctively moves away, his fingers quickly grabbing a handful of your hair, pulling you to meet his thrusts and the pain along with pleasure has you letting out cries.

Your throat aching from the constant noises.

“Ah, you’re my girl for sure.” he praises.

He reached around, palming your pussy, tapping your clit with his fingers a few times, enough to make you scream.

“taehyung. taehyung. taehyung”

You call out his name repetitively, mindless, only capable of uttering his name.

“I’m gonna, ahhah, come again.”

He grunts, thrusts growing erratic, control leaving him.

“Do it, baby, let me feel you fall apart for me once again”

You scream, vision going white, coming once again, losing count of how many orgasms you've had in a day.

Your body hurt, achy core swollen, body falling limp onto the bed.

He follows you soon, his groan primal, cock pulsing, spilling inside you, filling you up until it hurts.

A pain you welcomed.

“Fuck” he pants.

He collapses onto you, his weight heavy and making you feel secure, breath hot against your neck.

“You’re everything”

Your body still shook, which he tries to soothe by lovingly caressing your back.

But he’s not done.

The night still there, a need still wanting to be quenched.

He pulls out, making you whimper and he flips you onto your back again, eyes dark.

“I need more,” he growls.

“You know I won’t stop until you say the safe word, love…”

His words final and he spreads your legs, eyes locking onto your pussy, dripping with his release mixed with yours and he snarls loudly at the sight.

Your body weak as your toes curled, almost like you're preparing yourself for the long night ahead.

He leans down, not being able to help himself, tongue capturing the little overstimulated bud that has been palpitating needily.

Your body jerked.

“Hnnngg! tae, please, I can't anymore—”

You sniffed, tears streaming but he didn’t listen, tongue collecting both of your arousals mixed together, humming at the taste, sucking until you let out a broken wail.

Your mouth parted, drool spilling onto the sheets.

Your thighs shook around his head and he finally decides to give you a break, letting you breathe.

He slowly faces you, lips glistening, kissing you, sucking onto your bottom lip, letting you taste the combination.

“I’m so angry I have to leave you.”

His words were angry as you see his nostrils flare, and you grip onto his hair, sucking his tongue needily.

“Come back to me soon, tae… come home.”

Still struggling to speak from your intense orgasms, you could feel your heart breaking, a feeling that was more painful than anything.

Home.

A word that he knew was only associated with you.

Home was where you are.

“always... my precious girl.”

His eyes locked onto yours and the endearment of his words, the connection between the two of you had tears streaming down your eyes, his own tears mixing with yours.

Him not being able to stay strong any further. You cling to each other, never wanting to let go.

Hating the universe for separating you both

۶ৎ

The night continues in a rush of different positions, each one more desperate than the other.

He takes you on your side, one leg hooked over his shoulder, cock hitting deep.

You also ride his cock, which turned into him fucking you against the headboard, your back pressed against the wood.

Your screams and cries echoed through the night, filling the room along with his occasional groans and ragged breaths.

By dawn, you both were spent.

The room heavy with the scent of sex.

You collapsed together, naked and tangled, bodies no longer able to move, drained of all its energy.

۶ৎ

The morning light hits you through the bedroom window, unforgiving, the reality of what's about to happen sinking in.

The tangled, damp sheets clings to both of you, the faint red marks on your body and his, from the passion and roughness of last night.

The air still thick with the obscene smell of sweat and sex from what you and Taehyung shared.

Your body ached intensely, each muscle raw and painful from hours of lovemaking.

But it doesn’t compare to the pain in your heart.

A wound that's threatening to break you completely.

You stirred, fighting against the exhaustion, and the first thing you feel was that Taehyung's still inside you.

His cock, now softened but heavy, remains nestled deep inside your pussy, a connection that felt like a lifeline in this moment.

He didn’t want to let you go.

So he stayed inside while you were unconscious in tiredness, asleep.

The sensation was overwhelming—binding you together physically as if that can even stop what's about to happen soon.

Your walls pulse softly around him, still sensitive from the night's intensity, each flutter on your oversensitive core, sending you gasping.

The warmth of him inside you grounded you, reminding you of the way he claimed you.

Just an hour ago.

You’re sprawled across his chest, cheek pressed against his hard muscle, his heartbeat lulling you.

His skin was still slightly slicked with sweat and you look up at him, watching him sleep so peacefully, the sight bringing fresh tears to your eyes.

His lips slightly parted, skin flushed, in that moment he looked so innocent, so peaceful, away from all the worries in the world, just resting, something so rare.

A sight you will lose for long months.

You placed a soft kiss on his chest, just below his nipple, tasting the saltiness of his sweat.

The cockwarming felt more than physical—a refusal to let go even in sleep.

Your pussy stretched and full and every breath you took shifts you slightly, causing him to press further into your inner walls.

Your breath hitched, a moan escaping.

It's not arousal, not exactly, your body was too spent for that.

But a deep, aching connection

A need to hold onto him in every possible way.

You felt vulnerable, heart breaking into pieces at the thought of losing this closeness. The sensation of being connected to him felt both comforting and torturous.

You pressed closer to him, fingers curling onto his chest.

As if you can keep him here.

Make him stay.

Taehyung’s arms are wrapped around you, one hand resting possessively on your hip, the other tangling in your hair as if he’s afraid to let go even in sleep.

His chest rising and falling with his breaths, but there’s a tension in his body.

You shift slightly, his cock twitching inside you and you let out a quiet whimper, body too tired to respond fully but you are too aware of him, so you cannot ignore it.

Your movement felt by him and he soon wakes, breath hitching as he realizes that it's morning now.

The thought settling over him like dread.

“Morning, sweet girl.” he murmurs.

His voice raspy and deep from sleep.

You knew he was trying to lighten your mood.

But it wasn’t working, it ached you further hearing his voice.

His lips brushed your forehead, lingering there, feeling his lips tremble, his emotions can be felt just from that simple touch alone.

His cock still inside you and he doesn’t move to pull out as if he were too clinging to the final moment of connection.

“So warm, so perfect around me… god, I don’t want to leave this—leave you.”

His voice almost breaking with his own pain, your chest tightened, throat constricting with unshed tears.

You tilt your head to meet his and the sight of his eyes—red rimmed along with exhaustion but still expressed so much love for you just with his eyes alone.

The stubble on his jaw gives him a rugged, almost broken beauty.

“tae” you breathe.

His face was blurry with the tears you cannot hold back anymore, buring your face in his chest, wanting to escape this moment so bad.

But his fingers grip your chin, turning your face to his, gaze intense, demanding the truth.

“I’m—I’m gonna miss you.” you confess, shakily.

His jaw clenched and you can see the flash of anger in his face—anger at the fact that he has to leave you, that you are crying.

He hates being the reason for your tears.

He feels like killing himself if that will stop you from crying, from hurting.

“Fuck this,” he spits out.

“I don’t want to go, baby. I can't—”

He swallows hard, brows furrowing in pain.

“I can't leave you like this, still wrapped around me, so mine... this is killing me.”

His hands tighten on your waist, fingers digging into your skin, with a desperate need to hold onto you.

You’re crying now, silent tears streamed down your face, he cups your face in his hand, thumbs brushing away your tears.

His tenderness making you cry harder.

His warm touch not enough to dull the grief you were facing.

“I’ll wait for you, tae. I promise, until you return.”

His eyes soften, but the anger still there.

“I’m coming back to you. Nothing, absolutely no fucking thing, will keep me from you… I swear it, hm?”

His hand holds you to him tightly, the movement causing his cock to shift inside you, you shudder against him.

He lets out a deep, tortured groan, forehead meeting yours.

“You’re my only girl.”

You whimper at his words, his endless love for you and how he makes you feel so important.

So needed.

“I want to stay like this forever.” he murmurs.

You nod, tears falling faster, he captures your lips, desperately, with a mix of sorrow.

His tongue claims your mouth with a hunger that makes your heart race, you kiss him back with equal fevor, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan.

You feel him twitch inside you.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, hands still cupping your face.

“Promise me you’ll take care of yourself,” he commands.

“Eat properly, don’t skip meals. You know I don’t like it, yeah? and I need you strong and healthy, waiting for me… promise me, come on.”

His voice authoritative in a way that makes a small smile tug at your lips, a hushed chuckle leaving you that makes him smile in return.

Him always fussing over to take care of you in other days made you amused, tease him, but now it felt too wrong.

Too heartbreaking.

“I promise.” you tremble.

He nods, eyes searching yours, memorizing all your features for one last time.

“And sleep well.” he continues.

Voice almost pleading.

“Don’t stay up all night worrying about me, tiring yourself. If you’re not okay, I won’t be either… so be a good girl for me.”

You lean into his touch, tears soaking his skin.

“I’ll try,” you whimper.

“For you, I’ll try.”

He exhales shakily, pecking your lips.

“I love you.”

“You’re my reason. Don’t ever forget that.” he whispers.

Finally he moves, his cock slipping out of you, with a wet sound, you both gasp at the loss of him so suddenly after being full the entire night.

Leaving you hollow.

Your pussy gapes before clenching around nothing and you let out a whine, the sudden absence almost painful.

“I’m sorry, my love.” he croaks, hurt in his voice.

Kissing your nose, he helps you settle against the pillows, hands gentle but trembling.

The room already felt cold without his arms wrapped around you and you bite your bottom lip trying to hide a wail, pulling the sheets around your naked body.

A shield against the reality of his departure.

Taehyung stands, broad shoulder decorated with red marks from your nails, occurred from your desperation.

His skin holding your marks.

He moves to the dresser, pulling out the neatly folded military uniform that’s been waiting like a burden all week.

The olive green fabric was a sharp difference from the soft masculine clothes he usually wears and the contrast breaks your heart a little more.

He dresses with a quiet intensity as if getting ready for a war he doesn’t want to fight.

Being forced to do this.

The uniform hugs his muscles tightly and the sight of him in it was both breathtaking and devastating for you.

He looked like a soldier.

Strong and determined.

But the slump of his shoulders and his clenched jaw proved that he was breaking inside.

Shattering.

He catches you watching him, a flash of raw pain etches his features.

“Don’t look at me like that, princess,” he pleads.

“You’re making it harder.”

But he crosses the room in two strides, dropping to his knees beside the bed, hand reaching for yours.

He pressed your hands to his lips, kissing your knuckles with so much adoration you cannot breathe, his own hand shaking.

“I need you to be strong for me”

“Eat and sleep well. Do it for me, my love, because I'm coming back… and I need you whole when I do.”

“I will.” you sob, voice barely there.

He stands up, pulling you in his arms, capturing your lips in another kiss, this one softer and gentler, trying to savor you.

His hands cupped your face, thumbs wipe away your tears when his own are spilling.

The saltiness of both your tears being tasted and shared between you.

Last shared kiss.

One last time.

“I’ll write to you.” he says.

Once he pulls back, voice fierce and determined.

“Every chance I get, and when I’m back. I’m never letting you again… you'll be mine forever.”

He stands, grabbing the duffel bag that’s been packed and waited by the door.

You follow him to the doorway, the sheets wrapped around your bare body, legs unsteady, each step aching your core from all it endured last night.

But it wasn’t enough to stop your cries, or the pain of him leaving you for so long.

He turned to you one last time, eyes burning with love and rage, his jaw ticking at how helpless he felt.

“I love you”

He breathes, rough hand coming up to caress your cheek one last time.

“always”

And then he’s gone.

Just like that.

The door closes behind him with a soft click, and you're left empty, all alone.

You collapsed to the floor, sobs leaving your mouth, freely now, no longer holding back as you poured out all your emotions.

Your pained cries echoing in the room, the empty room taunting you.

His scent still on your skin, his warmth in the sheets.

But it's never enough.

It's not him.

But it will be all you have left to cling to in the long months ahead, his love for you the only anchor.

Until he returns.

Back to your arms, but this time no world to pull you both apart.

────

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[yoonia]

tears of the sea (m) | kth

— title: The Forsaken II: Tears of the Sea | pairings: Taehyung x female reader| genre: Siren!Taehyung, Smut, Mystery, Slight Horror | word count: 6,350 words

— summary: after a long time spent apart, he finally came in the night, accompanied by the soft, haunting serenade which he has been singing for you since the day you left, putting your broken souls together back into one.

— ratings & warnings: +18 / M for mature; curses, black magic, siren’s spell, mention of hypnotism, mention of pregnancy and child birth, body horror (shape-shifting), body worship (mentions of body dysmorphia), explicit smut scenes: nudity, fingering, oral sex (female receiving), breast play, clit play, public sex (sex on the beach), unprotected sex, rough sex, cum eating, multiple orgasms. 

— original: The Forsaken by @yoonia — fic drop date: Oct 24th, 2024 — song companion: half the world away — written as part of my 2024 birthday bash event, 𝖙𝖜𝖎𝖑𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙 𝖋𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖊𝖓𝖆𝖉𝖊, created based on this request. 

How many nights have you done something like this?

To find yourself walking across the beach, over the jagged rocks lining the water’s edge, with the steady waves crashing over your feet and ankles. 

On most nights, you would find yourself drawn to the sea by the ghostly sounds of a tune, serenading you to come out of your shelter before it would fade into the night. Other nights, you would come out here with the hope of seeing a shadow of a movement dancing between the waves, to see the sight of a figure that had been filling your dreams, of seeing rough viridescent scales slinking across the water when you look on towards the night. 

The only times you stopped visiting the water’s edge had been the night your daughter was born, and the many nights after when you were still too weak to travel out into the night and onto the seashore.

And those nights had been the most peculiar moment of your life. The alluring tune you heard kept echoing from the sea each time your newborn baby girl was crying and you were too exhausted and spent to soothe her. Yet those tunes had always managed to calm her down, just the way it eased your lonely soul, as if there was some kind of a magic force flowing through the night, through the water, coming in the waves, just to help make your baby girl—and you—feel safe. 

And now you are back here, just like the many nights that have passed since six months ago, when your baby was born, lured towards the water’s edge at the sound of the same tune serenading for you to come. 

Out here, there are no lights to guide you. Nothing but the glowing moonlight falling from above. You look back over your shoulder towards your cabin on the top of the nearest hill, where your baby girl had just fallen asleep in her crib. 

Leaving her behind feels heavy. If not for Mira, the young local girl you recently hired to be her caretaker, you would have never been able to step out of your temporary home. The home that was built by the people of the tribe for you to reside. To welcome you as a part of them, even when you never felt like you had truly become one of them. 

The island of Parram. 

You arrived here one year ago in your boat after a long journey. All because of the Fountain of Life, the source of magic that would be able to restore life and prosperity. Everything that your island—your tribe, your people—needed needed for the sake of their survival. 

But that long journey had given you more than one blessing. 

Not only had you found the Fountain of Life and the Elder who had learned about the magic and how to use it to save your home island, but you have also been blessed with the birth of your baby girl. 

The latter had been the reason why you are still here on this island, while your travel companion, Namjoon, and Elder Moira travelled across the sea to bring home the magic from the Fountain of Life. The presence of your child and your steady recovery from childbirth had been deemed too risky for you to challenge the journey home. So you stayed, even if only for a while. 

Your moment of wondering about life and the mystery of your fate is suddenly disrupted by a rough, splashing sound coming from the nearby waters. It sounds nothing like the steady waves; so abrupt and violent, that it immediately draws your attention towards the dark waters by the shore. 

And that is when you see it; a sparkle of viridescent scales slinking between the jagged rocks breaking apart the waves, before it slips into the darkness and disappears into the water’s edge. 

Heart pounding, you hike up the front of your nightdress and hastily rush towards where the sparkle of scales had faded into. The rocks feel sharp against the soles of your feet, and the water feels cold on your skin, soaking the ends of your dress, yet you keep going, searching, until you see a figure rising in the dark. 

You are breathless when you come to a halt. Your heart is pounding when you see him. 

Standing between some high, unruly rocks, with crashing waves rising as tall as his shoulders and dark, wet sand beneath his feet, he stands on unsteady legs, as if being on land has taken away his sense of gravity. 

And he is glowing. 

The sight draws a gasp out of you. It seems magical. Enchanting. And then your eyes slowly adjust to the bleakness of the night and soon notice what is making him appear as if he is emitting lights. 

Just like how his legs are still trying to adjust to land, his skin is taking its time to shift. As you take a few steps closer, you can finally see them; the bright, viridescent scales on his skin which are still present, glistening as they reflect the bright moonlight coming from the night sky above. 

Slowly, the scales begin to melt into his skin. In their places, dots of redness appear, until they all fade and his skin turns smooth right in front of your eyes. 

The last time you met, the scales on his skin, the gills that appeared on the sides of his neck and ribs—which had now melted into smooth skin, with nothing but fading red lines left behind—and other changes on his facial features, had all frightened you enough to let out a scream. Looking at him now, with the remnants of his true appearance slowly fading away, he looks—beautiful. 

Truly beautiful. 

You look up just as he slowly raises his head, quickly realising that you are not the only one who has changed. His body appears bigger, stronger, with more solid muscles growing on his limbs and chest and less scar marring his skin. His hair has grown longer, framing his face as they fall under the weight of the water soaking each strand. 

You don’t realise that you have reached him until he lifts his head, and his face appears so close to you. His eyes glow in bright, golden yellow, looking inhuman for a brief moment until he blinks, and a pair of dark eyes are looking back at you. His gaze is filled with longing and sorrow, one that you can immediately feel in your chest as you return his gaze with your own. 

His lips, which have been in your dreams for many nights since you were apart, twist into a smile. “You’re here,” he says in his deep voice which sounds almost like a serenade. 

Just like his voice, his whole presence feels like an enchantment, a magic spell that keeps pulling you towards him, that you are brought closer and closer. Close enough that you can almost feel the warmth of his skin without touching. 

“I—” You try to speak, yet the words are caught on your tongue. You have so many things to say to him that you have no idea where to start. Instead, you slowly reach up, brushing the wet strands of his hair away from his face so you can get a better look at him. 

“Taehyung,” you gasp the moment you touch him. The moment you feel him. “Is this real? Are you really here? Is this not a dream?” 

His smile softens as he lifts a hand to cup your cheek. “It’s real. I am here,” he says with a soft hum. “I’ve travelled far just to see you again.” 

You sink into his touch, and an incredulous laughter slips out of you when you hear his words. “That’s the part that is so hard to believe,” you say with a chuckle, drawing his own when you glance over his shoulder. “How—? I doubt that you used a boat to get here.” 

He gently shakes his head. “I have better ways,” he says, a playful glint in his eyes. 

You almost laugh again, knowing what he means. Then an uneasy tightness grows in your chest as you imagine him swimming all the way here. Another thought crosses your mind when you remember about the cave where he was confined in. The cursed place where you first met. 

“You managed to escape the cave.” His gaze finds yours, surprised to know that you had somehow found out about his secret. 

“I learned about your kind,” you explain with a wry smile. “You wanted to keep me in that cave.” At your accusation, remorse fills his eyes. “I know what you—sirens—do with humans. Were you planning to…did you cast magic on me so you could…” 

Taehyung stops you from finishing your sentence by pressing his thumb on your lips. “My magic never worked on you,” he says, admitting his secret with a pained tone of voice. 

“I wanted to keep you. I’ve been confined in that cave for so long, I lost track of time. Days blended into weeks, months, years, perhaps decades to hundred years had passed since, and I was lonely,” he continues to admit. “But it was your magic which allured me, enchanted me until I was falling helpless in your presence.” 

You merely shake your head, refusing to believe him. Mostly the part where he said you have some kind of magic in you. 

“I was wrong to even think that I could keep you, to even think about holding you captive just to keep me company, when it meant for eternity,” he says with a resigned sigh. Then, lowering his head to rest his forehead against yours, he gently whispers, “Forgive me.” 

“You’ve already been forgiven,” you admit to him with a soft voice, and relief washes over him. 

He looks at you again. “He left you here. Your friend.” There is a bite of bitterness and anger in his voice at the mention of your travel companion, Namjoon. And you cannot even blame him for it, knowing what Namjoon had done to him.

The image of Taehyung hurting, wounded by Namjoon’s arrows when he came to rescue you—who came barging into the cave, believing that he was protecting you from a monster—and left bleeding in that cave, alone, still haunts you to this day.  

“He has other responsibilities, while I was—” You stop yourself from continuing, not sure how to reveal about the child that you carried after the one night you spent with him. You continue instead to tell him about how Namjoon had to return to your home island to bring home the cure to your declining land, to marry his betrothed—just like how he was always meant to—and bring Elder Moira, the grand Healer, to meet your father. 

“I couldn’t travel with, so I stayed,” you continue, omitting the fact that you were too heavily pregnant to join Namjoon in his journey home. 

Biting your lips, you look up to see his eyes, only to find him smiling. 

“I know why you stayed,” he murmurs, his eyes trailing down to follow his hands as he lowers them to your covered torso, brushing at the slightly swollen flesh which has yet to recover after carrying the child inside you for nine whole months. 

“You knew,” you can barely say those words without getting your breath caught in your throat. 

“I was there with you the entire time you carried her in you, even if only in my spirit,” he says, his gaze finding yours again. “The curse that was holding me back in that cave was broken when we got together and our child was conceived. That’s how I knew.”  

As relief washes through you, your hands fall from his face to his shoulders, slowly moving lower to his bare chest. You react with a gasp at the touch of his skin, having been too enamoured by his presence and his alluring voice, you have failed to realise that he has been standing there with you, completely naked. Bare to nothing but his skin, instead of the bone-coloured tunic and soft, tattered pants that he wore when you first found him in that cave. 

Seeing him this way, and thinking about the night you spent with him in the cave, gets you feeling warm inside. Heat begins to coil in your belly, unfolding through your chest while drifting down south. As does your gaze, as it travels down his body, following the trail of lines of muscles on his chest, to the V-line below his toned torso, and then—

Sensing where your attention and your mind have drifted towards, Taehyung slips a hand to the nape of your neck. He gently brings your face closer to his, making you look up at him while lowering his head until his lips are touching yours. 

“I’ve missed you,” he murmurs against your lips, before he gives a deep, gentle kiss, stealing your breath, your thoughts, your everything away until it all fades into pure lust. 

As you return the kiss, you no longer remember where you are. The sea fades into the back of your mind. The sound of the steady waves chasing each other becomes white noise, drowned under the sound of your heartbeat. The uneasy feeling that has been plaguing you—all from having been stuck in a land which you cannot find it in you to call home—is no longer gripping at your chest, replaced by a sense of belonging which manifests under his touch. 

With your arms wrapped around his neck, your chest pressed against his, and your mouth being devoured in his kiss, you are lost in his warmth. You melt into his embrace as Taehyung wraps his arms around your waist, bending you backwards as he deepens the kiss. 

With your bodies moulded to one another, you can feel his arousal pressing down against your lower belly. It draws some intense heat rising inside you, warmth pulsing from between your legs as you rub your hips against his. 

Your mind grows so hazy with lust that you almost believe you are floating from the sensation of his kiss when you feel like you can no longer feel the ground beneath your feet. It takes you a moment to realise that Taehyung has lifted you in his arms. You react with a gasp, breaking away from the kiss to tighten your hold around him to keep yourself from falling over. 

Yet he holds you steady in his arms, with his unwavering smile on his face as he carries you away from the jagged rocks, away from the rough waves and the rising tide, and from the wet sand that has been soiling the ends of your nightdress. He carries you across the rest of the way until he reaches the cliffs wall where he finds a flat slab of rock to lie you gently down on. 

Grinning wickedly, he crawls over you, pressing his lips gently on yours as he teases, “Should we take this time to reminisce our first night together?”  

You cannot help but laugh, but you also cannot stop the heat rising in your skin from having the chance to reminisce and repeat that night all over again. A do-over in a new place, where you can see the ocean of stars filling the wide sky above you instead of being in an enclosed cave with nothing but walls of rocks around you. 

Your laughter dies down as he once again captures your lips with his, distracting you from the work of his hands as he gently peels your nightdress and undergarments off of your skin. Soon, you are left just as bare as he is, naked as the day you were born, with the pulse of your desire building between your legs. 

Taehyung pulls away from the kiss, giving you the chance to breathe. Only to quickly steal your breath again when his hand reaches down, lifting your left thigh up to open your legs. Cold breeze touches your skin, and then his fingers find your center, pressing at your slick heat.  

“Taehyung,” you gasp at his touch. “Oh, heavens.” 

Pressing his lips on your bare shoulder, you feel his deep chuckle as he gently pushes a finger into your hot entrance. “You are so wet, beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin, and your heart stutters at the sweet endearment that he had once used to call you when you were with him for the first time. For him to be using it again brings back the memory of you surrendering to your carnal desire. To him. 

“I’ve waited for so long for this,” he whispers, sounding desperate that his voice trembles. 

Running your hand up the back of his neck, you slip your fingers between the strands of his hair and whisper, “So do I.” 

Hearing this pleases him, and he quickly presses his lips on yours again, kissing you gently until you nearly melt to lax beneath him. At the sound of your muffled hum, he begins moving his hand, pushing and pulling his finger in and out of you, over and over again until your breath grows ragged and your body grows even hotter. With his thumb, he finds your clit, pressing on it as he adds another digit into your pulsing walls. 

“Oh!” you cry out when the pleasure comes to you in waves. Building up and rising over you, engulfing you until you feel like you are floating high in bliss. He continues until you feel it coming, your legs quaking around his hips and you begin raising your hips to meet each thrust of his fingers. 

While Taehyung is busy working his hand in your heat, his mouth begins to trail lower, down the column of your throat, to your shoulder, not stopping until he captures the pebbled tip of your breast in his mouth. Cries of pleasure keep slipping out of your mouth as he suckles, licks, and lightly bites on your hardened nipple. His hand remains steady, moving at a slow pace to bring your pleasure to its peak. Then he releases your nub with a pop, before moving to the other breast where he does the same. 

The pleasure feels too much, it almost feels like you are falling over the edge with nothing to hold on to. Your fingers slip out of his hair as he begins to move again, crawling his way down. You watch through hazy gaze as he trails kisses down your body, still relentless in his work of hand, and then—

“Oh, dear Gods!”

Your hips rise higher as Taehyung dips between your legs, burying his face so he can kiss your slick heat. With his fingers still moving inside you, he moves his thumb away and his mouth takes its place. 

“Taehyung—!” 

Once again, your hands find leverage by burying your fingers through the strands of his wet hair. With your grasp, you press his face deeper, while each steady rocking of your hips keeps pushing your center onto his mouth and his fingers deeper into you. 

It doesn’t take long before you finally unravel. The coil in your core snaps, and you are engulfed in the intense waves of your orgasm, with his fingers buried inside your heat still and his mouth latched around your throbbing clit. 

“That’s it, beautiful. I love it when you cum,” he murmurs against your heat, his lips still ghosting over your throbbing center, as if he has yet enough to drink your essence. “You taste so good,” he says between licks, “I’ve craved for this for so long.” 

You cry out once more when a smaller spasm rocks through your body at the touch of his lips on your nether region. Then you feel a void forming inside you when he pulls his fingers out of you. Still lost in bliss, you barely feel the touch of his wet lips pressing on your skin as he slowly crawls his way up, trailing kisses on your stomach—right across the stretch marks on your skin which has made you feel unconfident, as if he is worshipping them with his lips—and up to your heaving chest, brushing his lips from one breast to another, and continues his way up until his lips are on yours. 

He is biting and kissing you gently one second, and then devouring you like a beast, taking everything that you have to offer while letting you taste the heady scent of your release from his mouth and tongue. 

Your body heats up further when he begins touching the curves of your body with his big, wide hands. His gentle touch makes it seem as if he wants to memorise everything, even as he kneads at your breasts. 

Then his hands reach down, pulling your legs wide apart so he can settle in between. You are still sensitive after your first climax that the touch of his hard shaft makes you jolt beneath him. Yet you make no move to avoid him when he carefully aligns himself at your center. He moves the tip of his cock between your slit, back and forth, coating himself with your release, and then you feel him nudging at the entrance. 

“Can I—?” he asks with a strained voice, filled with need, yet still keeping himself back when he seems so unsure to proceed. 

“Yes,” you simply cry out before he can finish asking, already lifting your hips to welcome him home. 

At your final word, Taehyung pushes into you in one smooth stroke that stretches your walls to the point of pain. Yet the pain feels exquisite, so much so that you almost find yourself unravelling once more in the peak of pleasure. At the same time, it also feels as if you are gaining back a piece of your soul which you lost on the day you left him behind in that cave. 

You look up to him to say this, only to see him closing his eyes. The relief written on his face is so profound that it almost brings you to tears. Because you know that he is feeling the same way too about this moment; of having your bodies and souls joined into one. 

Taehyung opens his eyes and his forehead comes down to yours. For what seems to be the longest time, neither of you makes a move. You simply exist in this space together, your bodies joined, your breaths colliding with one another, and your hearts beating as one. As if you are bounded not by magic, but by fate. 

“________,” he whispers your name as he kisses your face, your nose, lips, and hair, down to your neck, and then returns to claim your lips again. “I’m so happy to be able to touch you again. To love you like this.” 

Your breath is caught in your throat, just as your words do. “Then make love to me,” you whisper breathlessly beyond the sound of your rapid heartbeat. Wrapping your legs around his hips, you encourage him to move. “Show me how happy you are to see me again.” 

You rock your hips, and then he follows. His tortured moan seems as if it is being ripped out straight from the depths of his soul. There is a hint of tears forming in his eyes as he begins to move, thrusting deeply inside you, withdrawing and slamming back into you, over and over again. He hooks his arms under your legs, pulling them up higher as he starts driving further into you. 

Despite getting lost in his pleasure, Taehyung keeps his eyes on you the entire time. Just like how he did it back in that cursed cave, the way he wanted to keep the moment he had with you in his memories, he does the same thing as he rocks his hips against you, taking you over to the peak of pleasure. 

Soon, his forceful strokes trigger the familiar strain of your orgasm. He seems to feel you holding back, both of you wishing that you could let this continue just a bit longer. But the pleasure is too much, and he is close to falling over the edge as well to stop it. 

Reaching down, he touches your clit, pressing hard between his rapid thrusts and groans, “Come for me, beautiful. Let me see you fall apart for me.” 

With a cry, you allow yourself to fall into a spiral of pleasure, engulfed in the delectable waves of your release. Your body squeezes around his cock, and the pleasure unwinds, ripples going through your body in waves of pure ecstasy.

Thrusting deeply, Taehyung throws his head back, his eyes closed and his jaw tense as he joins you in his own release. The magnificent sight of him losing himself in passion immediately drives you right back to the edge again. And you are too spent to prevent it from happening. The strain from the intense lovemaking, done right here in the open space where the ocean breeze continues hitting your skin—now dampened with slickness and sweat—is beginning to wash over you. It has been so long since you ever felt this kind of pleasure, not since that night in the cave, not since him. 

Taehyung remains inside you for a moment longer. Giving you slow, gentle strokes as he helps you come down from your high. And then he slowly pulls out, bringing the drops of his release and yours in his exit. 

With a small smile, he crawls back down, carefully cleaning your center with his mouth and tongue. Once again, the ripples of pleasure rise from within. It feels subtle, barely a spasm, and ends just as he finishes cleaning you up. 

“I’m officially addicted to your taste, beautiful,” he whispers against your lips when he returns to your side, taking you in his arms so you can rest for a while. 

“Hmm, I think I’m officially addicted to everything about you. Knowing you, it seems like I’m risking my entire being to be with you,” you sleepily admit as you melt into his embrace with contentment. You smile when you feel his chest vibrating with his deep chuckle. 

“Do you regret it? Meeting me?” 

“Not a chance,” you quickly say to him. Especially not when you have earned something good from meeting him. And it’s not about the carnal pleasure he gives you. 

As if she knows that you are thinking about her, the sound of your baby’s cry echoes through the night, calling for you. 

The hitch in his breath is palpable, and you wonder what is going through his head right now at the sound of your child’s cry. His child. “May I see her next time?” he gently murmurs, closing his eyes as if he is listening to the sound of a singing tune. 

“You may. She is yours, after all.” Biting your lips, you cup his cheek with your palm and turn his face towards you. His eyes are filled with the same longing you first saw when he came up from the water, and you immediately understand. 

“You were here when she was born, weren’t you?” you ask him, “I felt you.” 

You did. The night your baby was born, you felt intense fear washing over you. Yet for some reason, you could almost hear him, serenading a tune from the open sea until you found your courage, and the sense of calmness came over you until she was born into the world. 

With an amused smile on his face, Taehyung nods. “I came at her call. She was singing for me right before she came into the world.” 

Your eyes grow wide. “She…sang?” 

Again, he nods. “But I heard nothing,” you murmur with a wonder.

His gaze softens as he recalls that night. “She needed me. She wanted to let me know that she was arriving,” he says, telling you a tale of your child’s birth from his point of view. “It was your magic that saved me, freed me from the curse which bound me to the cave, but it was her magic that gave me the power to find you both across the sea.” 

Tears form in your eyes as you picture him finding the strength to swim across the ocean just to find you, all because of the baby’s magic pulling him all the way here. 

As if he knows what you are thinking, Taehyung brushes his thumb across your cheek, wiping a stray tear away. “But I had no way of approaching you. It would have been too dangerous for me to make haste and come too close to humans.”

Nodding, you understand. Surely, it would have been hard to explain to the people of the tribe about his sudden appearance when there was no sight of a boat coming after Namjoon had left. The people of Parram Island are highly superstitious. Just like the elders from your tribe, they believe in curses and the evil side of sea monsters, and would have condemned Taehyung for crossing over the shoreline and stepping foot into their land knowing what he was. 

“Do you still fear humans?” 

A wry smile comes to his face. “Only some. Not all.” He sighs. “Not after I met the most beautiful star hidden among them.” He gives you a warm smile and your heart stutters. “But I still fear for what they would become once they find out how our child was conceived, and whose blood she was born from.” 

Your breath hitches. “I never thought of that—” 

He tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear and then takes your hand to kiss the back of it. “One day, when it’s time for us to be together, she will sing for you to help you find your way to find me, or to let you know when it’s time for me to come back to you.” 

You find it hard to understand what he means, until it slowly dawns on you—

“You’re leaving.” 

He presses his lips, hating the crack in your voice. “I must. If we want to be together, and if we want to keep our child safe, then I must find the source of the curse.”  

Slowly, you push yourself up. “The curse?” 

He grimly nods. “The same curse that has been hurting the sea and your home island, plaguing the rest of my kind, and the one that is threatening our daughter’s future like it did when it imprisoned me in that cave,” he slowly explains, before he launches into explaining why he had always resented humans. He tells you how many years and decades ago, a mortal from a deserted island came into the sea to poison it with their magic, hurting sea creatures and turning them into cursed sea monsters like himself, and how the same magic that the mortal used had been the true cause of your people’s suffering all this time. 

“They’re all the same, cast by the same source, hidden somewhere in the wide sea,” he continues to explain, while you are having trouble letting all of this sink in. 

Why had none of the elders known about this? If they had known about the presence of sea monsters, then why had they never talked about the dark spell which had been the true cause of them?

You are still reeling in the revelations—the true secret behind your people’s hardships and Taehyung’s curse—that you don’t fight him as he pulls you up from the rock bed where you have been lying on and helps you put on your nightdress again. 

Once again, your baby’s cry echoes through the night. You can only wonder if her caretaker is having trouble calming her down or if she can somehow feel her father’s presence so close.   

“Her voice is so beautiful,” Taehyung murmurs lovingly, closing his eyes as he savours the last moments of his daughter’s cries.  

“She’s crying for her mother,” you bleakly reason with him, unable to find the right words—or any right at all—to stop him from going back into the sea. “I must go back.” 

Opening his eyes, Taehyung leans down to press his lips on yours, stealing a kiss that lingers for a moment too long for someone who is ready to depart into the night. “I will return for you. For our child. For Raena.” 

“How did you—” You pull back with a start. “How did you know her name?” 

He smiles. “She told me. I told you, she would sing to me at night. She told me everything,” he says, his gaze softening with so much love it overwhelms you. “She shared her feelings about being born into the world, so close to the sea but too far away from her father. She always sings about her beautiful mother, who feels lonely at night yet still shows her so much love.” 

He brushes your cheeks with his fingers and then presses his lips on your palm when you try to do the same. “She sang to me the day you gave her the name—Raena—so I would know what to call her when we finally meet. And I have always been singing to her since she came to the world, just like I have been singing for you since the day you left.” 

Tears continue to fall as you look back on those nights when you kept hearing those humming tunes. His voice. 

You remember the haunting tune you kept hearing during the nights spent in the sea to escape his cursed island. The serenading tune which broke your soul apart, to the point that there were moments that it had weakened you and nearly caused you to turn the boat’s sail back around just to return to his side again. It had gotten so bad at one point that Namjoon had to tie you against the side of the boat to stop you from trying to go back. Now, you imagine Taehyung singing in the cave all alone, serenading the tune of his heartbreak, calling your soul to return to him again. 

And then there were the nights when the tune began to change. No longer filled with despair, the serenading sound you heard reverberating through the rough waves had been filled with hope and love, helping you to heal and find comfort even as you were still drifting away in the wide, open sea. 

Had that been the moment when your baby was beginning to grow inside you? Was it during that time when Taehyung first felt his child’s presence in your belly? 

You question him all of this, which draws a small, sorrowful smile to his face. “My soul shattered when you ran away, and the moment I felt our child’s presence inside you”—his hand drifts down, touching your stomach from over your nightdress—”all of my broken pieces were put together again. I kept growing stronger the more she grew.” 

You cannot help it. Knowing that you have this invisible bind keeping you together even when you are apart breaks your heart and fills it with love at the same time. Rising on your toes, you wrap your arms around him and press your lips on his. 

He returns your kiss gently. You can feel him bearing his heart and soul, just as bare as his skin, drawing your sense of longing to have a future together. 

A future that seems bleak now as the dark forces hurting everything around you is still out there, somewhere. 

A sob threatens to escape as he slowly lets you go. You swallow it down to beg him, “Don’t go.” 

You keep your arms around him with the hope of keeping him from leaving. And yet, seeing the sight of his scales slowly appearing on his skin, you know that anything you say to make him stay would be futile. 

“I’m not going anywhere far. I’ll return when Raena sings for me, or when you call me back home in time of need,” he promises with a smile, just as his eyes turn golden glow. “I’ll return once the curse has been defeated, or whenever I feel you and Raena needing me here.”

But we need you here now, the small voice in your head speaks.  

“Tell me how to help,” you say to him, trying a different angle, only for him to shake his head.  

“Just stay where you are and be safe. Keep our child safe.” 

You open your mouth to say something—anything—to make him change his mind. Your heart is already breaking apart as you see him slowly stepping back. Back into the jagged rocks, back towards the water’s edge. 

Until Mira’s voice is heard from the top of the nearest valley of rocks, calling you. 

“________?” you hear her shout, and you quickly turn around to make sure that she isn’t near enough to see Taehyung. “Where are you? Raena needs you.” 

Her words, mixed with Raena’s cries, make you restless. It drowns the sound of the splashing water coming from behind you. 

Once you are sure that Mira is nowhere in sight, you turn back to Taehyung. 

“Taehyung, I—” 

You wish to share one final goodbye, yet he is no longer there. You are met with silence, with nothing else but the sounds of the crashing waves hitting the jagged rocks as your magnificent siren disappears into the dark sea.

The last thing you see is the sight of a tail, covered in viridescent scales illuminated by the moonlight, slinking into the rough sea as he sets off towards his new journey. A sorrowful tune of a song echoes through the night, as he serenades his goodbye and his promise to return. 

For you. 

For Raena.  

— ©Yoonia, all rights reserved. reposting/modifying of any kind, translations, unsanctioned adaptations are not allowed.

[devotedfem]

«Corpse bride groom»

Synopsis: You were forced to marry for convenience, so you practiced your vows in the forest, but you didn't expect the branch coming alive after you marry it. You thought you saw a ghost, but he was worse, a corpse groom.

K. Taehyung x f. Reader

4.7K words.

Genre: Corpse bride au | yander-ish.

Tags: inspired by Corpse bride by Tim burton, arranged marriage, Infatuation, obsessive behavior, Original male character (Victoria's male version from the movie), Tae is so deeply in love with reader, he's whipped, dead Taehyung (he'll come back to life for smut purposes lol), captivity, innocent and naive reader, gothic vibes, Taehyung's a wolf in sheep clothes, possessive behavior, bad ending for reader but not for Tae, smut and dub-con s3x.

From the series masterlist; Hush.

Navigation Masterlist.

You tapped your fingers against your dress impatiently, you didn’t want to be there, you didn’t want to be wed to a stranger. The huge living room greeted you and your parents, the place looked cold and lifeless, your soon to be parents in law were standing before you, with grimaces on their faces. You felt them staring at you -judging you- so you crossed your arms over your chest, almost as if you were shielding yourself from their stares.

“Good evening Mr. and Mrs. Everglot!” Greeted your mother with a big smile, you noticed contempt flashing Mrs. Everglot face, but it disappeared as soon as it came.

“Why, you must be Victor…” said your father with a gentle smile.

The boy before you was pale and scrawny, like a fragile Victorian kid. You couldn't believe you’ll be wed to this dull looking boy.

“Smile Dear,” whispered Mrs. Everglot to his husband, and the man did try his best to smile but he made a weird grimace instead, and of course your parents chose to ignore the pathetic attempt.

“We’ll be taking tea in the east room.” Commanded Mrs. Everglot with a blank bored face, turning around to walk towards the east side.

You noticed them walking away and leaving you behind almost as if they forgot about your existence. You sighed with slumped shoulders, blinking with excitement when you spot a piano in the corner of the living room. You glanced around before sitting to play it. You let your fingers play the keyboards, turning them into a sweet melody.

“You play very beautifully.” That voice startled you, making you jump away from the piano.

You felt your cheeks heating with embarrassment at being caught by the fragile Victorian boy.

“Do forgive me, I didn’t mean to be rude…” You muttered biting your inner cheek.

The boy chuckled shaking his head.

“Oh please don’t apologize, I’m not like my parents.” He said smiling, easing your tense shoulders.

But the moment was interrupted by a dramatic gasp.

“Y/n! Victor! How improper of you two being alone before the wedding!” Yelled Mrs. Everglot, making the fragile boy roll his eyes. You bit your bottom lip trying not to laugh.

That woman was such a prude.

After the unnecessary scold, Victor and you were practicing your vows for the wedding. The problem was that your brain wasn’t braining, if that makes sense. You were making mistakes every time.

“With this hand I… I will uhm, lift your, your-“

“Sorrows,” finished softly the fragile boy, you smiled at him in gratitude.

“Sorrows,” you repeated.

“Your cup will never- never empty… and uhm, for I will be your… your wine!”

You heard a deep and disappointed sigh behind you.

“With this candle, I will light-“ you interrupted yourself when the candle flame goes out, lighting it up again.

“I’d light your way in the darkness.”

“I will,” scolded the priest, but you ignored him.

“With this ring, I ask you to be mine.”

The ring fell to the floor, rolling under Mrs. Everglot's dress. You didn't think twice before pulling it out from under her dress, regretting your action almost immediately when you accidentally set his fabric on fire.

Long story short, it was a disaster. Your parents were ashamed, and a strange woman save the day by putting out the fire. You felt your lips wobbling and your gaze blurring, you didn’t mean to be so clumsy, you were just trying your best. You ran away from the house, after all everyone was ignoring your presence, so you weren’t worry about them wondering where were you going.

Your eyes were teary and your chest stung with shame and helplessness. You were so deep in your thoughts that you didn’t realize that you were walking into the forest. It was already night; the forest floor was covered in blankets of snow with the moonlight as the only source of light. You paced around with knitted brows and clenched fists.

“That pale boy must think I’m a fool,” You spoke out loud to yourself, with a long sigh. “It shouldn’t be that difficult to say a few simple vows…” You muttered, clearing your throat to practice your vows again.

“With this hand I will- i… uhm, cup your wine? Fuck no, with this uhm… candle! I… i… set your annoying mother on fire,” you mumble kicking a branch.

You look up to watch the beautiful moon, spinning around and imagining you were at your wedding, everything was perfect and Victor’s parents didn’t hate you.

“Oh hello Mrs. Everglot, you look lovely this evening,” you smiled to a trunk, spinning around with your fluffy dress.

“With this hand, I will lift your sorrows,” you said raising your hand. “Your cup will never empty… For I will be your wine,” you carry on with an imaginary cup. “With this candle I will light your way in the darkness.”

And then you stopped, watching the shiny ring on your palm.

“With this ring, I ask you to be mine,” you whispered softly, placing the ring on a branch as if it was a finger.

And suddenly, the earth shook beneath you, making you gasp with horror at the sight of the branch coming back to life. Or more like a man rising from the earth, or from the death.

In front of you stood a handsome man, dress for a wedding. His boxy smile and left white eye were charming, unlike his ragged suit and cadaveric purple-like skin. You spotted some of his rib bones through a hole in his wedding suit.

You blink hard and quick, thinking you went mad. You screamed with fear when the man walked towards you, showing you his finger wearing the ring. His grin never eased.

“I do.” He replied with a deep voice, bringing his face an inch closer to yours. “Now kiss the groom.” He whispered lowly, brushing your lips.

And when his mouth touched yours, everything turned black.

“She’s still so soft and warm,” said a distant voice, making you frown and blink slowly your eyes open.

Your eyes widened with horror and your mouth opened with a scream at the sight above you, there was two men looking down at you, the both of them were definitely dead. The one in your right didn’t even have arms. It was horrific, straight out of a horror movie.

Where the fuck were you?

The place seemed like a bar cave, with skeletons speaking and living corpses looking at you with confusion and pity.

“Oh don’t frighten her Yoongi, maybe she’s one of those that doesn’t know they’re dead yet,” the man on your left says with pity in his gaze, making you gasp with disbelief.

“Dead? The fuck are you talking about! I’m alive, is… is this a dream?” You whispered the last words to yourself, maybe you just were in a bad dream. Nothing to worry about, right?

“You two leave her alone, don’t overwhelm my wife,” the mysterious man from the woods ordered with a stern voice, however his gaze was gentle and fixated on you.

You blinked with knitted brows, did you hear him right?

“Wife?” You muttered with confusion, but everyone ignored you.

“Of course tae, we are very aware of your temper,” said the man named Yoongi.

“To the newlyweds!” Yelled the other man, raising a beer and making everyone repeat the words with joy.

“Newlyweds!?” This time you shouted out the words, watching them with horror written on your face. As far as you know you were still single, yet to be wed but single.

“You said your vows so beautifully in the woods my dear,” the deep and dark voice from the mysterious mantook your attention again. His gaze was still lingering on you, looking at you with adoration in his eyes. You didn’t know how to react at his intense gaze, so you averted yours instead.

“I… did?” You muttered to yourself, remembering your rehearsal in the woods. You didn’t mean to wed a corpse.

“You did, my love.” His words were sugary sweat, as if they were trying to melt into your ears.

You gulped, feeling a deep and primal fear squeezing your chest, you were about to have a panic attack. You wanted to run away now.

“Well, let me introduce myself, I’m Namjoon, the waiter. I died a year ago and-“ You interrupted him by grabbing a dagger from a corpse to aim it at them as a threat.

Your mind was foggy and your thoughts erratic, you weren’t thinking straight.

“Get away from me! I-I have a knife and I’m not scared to use it! Give me questions now!” You yelled with panic.

“I think you mean answers sweetheart,” your supposed husband mention with amusement.

You blinked feeling like a moron. Realizing you were threatening literally corpses.

“Ehm, yes, answers. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said calmly, walking towards you with every step screaming confidence and elegance. He stopped inches from your body, leaning his beautiful face to yours. You flinched when you felt him curling a lock of your hair with his finger.

“As you can see, I’m a dead groom, with a very… tragic past. I was betrayed in life the day of my wedding, I thought I’d doomed for eternity until you said your vows to me, as a gift from life… or dead.” He caged you against the bar counter with his arms at each side of you and his body leaning even more closer, making you lean your back on the counter as an attempt to get away from him.

“Our poor Tae, he was so handsome and naïve in life. Always wearing his heart on his sleeve, that snake of a woman manipulated him to keep his money.” Said Yoongi with anger on his voice, while he was speaking, tae didn’t look away from you for a second. His intense gaze was piercing you.

“And our Taehyung has always been a romantic with a kind heart, for that woman to murder him in cold blood on his wedding day. But he made a vow, to wait for his true love.” Continued Namjoon.

You felt a pang of guilt cross your heart, that was truly a tragic and sad story. No one deserves to die in such way.

“Taehyung,” you whispered his name, making him inhale sharp.

“Yes, my moon.” He said back, smiling at you gently.

“I’m… really sorry for what happened to you, but I think there is a misunderstanding,” you tried to say, getting away from Taehyung with him following your steps.

“There is none my love. We are married.” Irritation flashes his handsome face.

“We’re not!” You yelled, and then you ran away.

You ran as fast as you can, almost tripping a couple of times. You watched with horror and fear the corpses surrounding you, passing in your way between a person cut in half. You watched all of their organs.

But then exhaustion drugged your movements, making you stop to take a deep breath and calm your racing heart. Your eyes burned with tears at the realization that you were lost, with nowhere to go. You sit on a bench and sob your heart out like a child.

“Oh my dear, what are you doing here alone sweet thing.” Taehyung’s voice cooing at you made you look up at him, feeling relieved to see at least one familiar face. You hiccupped with fat tears streaming from your eyes, making Taehyung knit his brows with deep concern. He opened his arms and you rushed to them, hugging him tight.

“I want to go home,” you sobbed into his chest, wetting the fabric of his shirt.

He shushed you, stroking gently your hair and tightening his grip on your body.

“You are home.” His words only made you cry harder.

But then a thought crossed your mind, maybe if you manipulate him to take you up to the world of the living then you could escape from this marriage.

“Tae, i- I want to introduce you to my parents,” you said not looking into his eyes.

“Sure Mon Amour. Where are they buried?” He asked cheerfully.

Your stomach twisted at his words.

“They are… alive.”

His brows knitted for a moment, but he smiled again.

“Then we must find a way to go up.” He said taking your hand to pull you with him.

And that’s how you two ended up in front of an old skeleton magician, who was trying to find a spell in his huge and dusty book.

“Aha! There it is, a spell that’ll allow Taehyung to go to the world of the living,” said the skeleton before coughing loudly.

Taehyung’s grin was wide, he was so charming and beautiful like this, it was such a pity and waste that he was dead.

The skeleton that resembles an old man, gave Taehyung an egg, telling him to eat it to be able to go up. After he does, a cloak of smoke wrapped you both, you felt dizzy for a second, with Taehyung holding your hands. And then you blinked slowly, noticing with joy that you were in the woods again.

“Yes!” You shouted without being able to contain your relief.

Taehyung smiled gently at you, although he has a white dead eye, his gaze was full of life and love. Your smile fell at the guilty pang piercing your heart, it was a little bit cruel to leave him like this, but you have no other choice. You don’t belong to the world of the dead, at least not now.

“I- uhm, I’ll look for my parents to bring them here. I’ll go ahead, wait here for me and don’t move,” you said clearing your throat, trying to look convincing enough.

“Sure thing, I’ll wait right here,” he said cheerfully, sitting on a piece of log. Looking at you with a hint of innocence and trust. You averted your gaze, unable to bear looking into his eyes.

“I’ll… I’ll be right back,” you muttered, walking away from him.

At first your steps were calm and confident, until you turn your head back realizing you were far enough to run like a mad woman, and you did, gasping by how fast you were running. You burst with happiness when you got to the town safe and sound, back home.

But Victor’s house was on the way, and you needed to give him some explanations as to why you disappeared the night before the wedding. You climbed to the balcony of his room, too scared to face his parents at this hour.

Your grin widened when you watch him reading on his bed, so you tapped his window eagerly. He jumped with surprise at the sight of you.

“What on earth are you doing here!?” he whispered shouted to you when he opened the balcony doors, and you walked past him into his room.

“I’m so sorry for disappearing, i-I am so scared Victor. Something really bad and weird happened to me! I got wed to a corpse groom against my will!” You knew you sounded like a maniac, probably making no sense to Victor. But there was no other way to explain what happened to you in the woods.

“What? I’m confused…” Victor said carefully, with his brows knitted and looking at you as if you grew another head. You sighed deep at his words.

“I know I sound crazy, but I’m telling you the truth. I’m running from-“

You were interrupted by the balcony doors bursting open and slamming against the walls, making Victor and you startle. There, on the balcony, stood Taehyung, with an intimidating aura. He looked frightening without his typical smile, looking at you two with a cold face.

His steps were large and heavy, pulling you away from Victor with force, tightening his grip around your arm.

“Y/n? who’s that?” Taehyung asked between teeth, not breaking his heavy gaze from Victor.

“He’s my… my-my…” Your brain literally bugged at that moment, blank and without any rational thought.

“I’m his soon to be husband.” Replied Victor, making you open and close your mouth like a fish, you wanted to deny it but you just couldn’t because it was the truth. You didn’t know how well Taehyung will cope with that information.

“You wish,” said darkly Taehyung, pulling you away with him. You two disappeared into the cloaked smoke that brought you here. And you witnessed the horrified face of Victor before vanishing away into the air.

You were again in the place of the old magician skeleton, with Taehyung crying in front of you. Your heart was clenching with pity and anger, he didn’t have any right to take you away from Victor!

“You’re a liar!” Sobbed Taehyung, with tears streaming from his betrayed eyes.

You gasped in disbelief.

“Excuse me? I’ve never lied to you!”

“Yeah sure, go back to that other man,” said lowly Taehyung, with venom and hurt in his voice.

“You are the other man!” You shouted, feed up with his victim complex.

“No I’m not! You’re married to me! He’s the other man!” He screamed with his voice breaking at the last words.

“He’s got a point though,” the skeleton commented softly.

There was a moment of silence, you didn’t know what to say at this point. Taehyung looked defeated with his shoulders slumped.

“And I thought this was going well,” he muttered, making you feel even worse.

“Look, I’m so sorry you have to find it out like this, but I don’t want this marry.”

Hurt flashes Taehyung’s face, his eyes swan in tears again.

“But why? It’s because my eye, isn’t it?” He whispered sadly, looking vulnerable and hurt.

“No! Of course not, your eye it’s very… lovely, you are very lovely, and handsome. But that’s not the point.” You pinched the bridge of your nose in exasperation. “The point is, that we’re not meant to be! You’re… dead, and I’m alive, this just can’t work.”

“Well, you should’ve thought about that before saying your vows,” he replied with an angry scowl and crossed arms.

“Why can’t you understand that this is a mistake! I would never, ever, marry you!”

You regretted your words immediately after watching Taehyung’s crestfallen face. He just stood there, saying nothing back and turning around, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

“Well, a marriage isn’t a marriage without arguments, isn’t it?” You ignored the skeleton, feeling really bad with yourself.

You went out, ignoring the corpses watching you with curiosity, you were the only one with a beating heart and they know it, everyone knows it except Taehyung.

With a sigh, you sit heavily on the bench, biting your bottom lip with no clue of what to do down here without the company of Taehyung. Are you doomed to be in the land of the death? Maybe that was your destiny, in some way, the universe fulfilled your wish; you won’t marry Victor, but at what cost?

You searched for Taehyung after a couple of hours, asking every corpse If they have seemed him, but they never answered your questions.

And then you listened a sweet piano melody from afar, your body followed the sound as a sailor going after the call of a siren. Your feet brought you to a small terrace where Taehyung was playing piano, he looked absorbed in his own little word, until you sat beside him on the piano’s bench, making him startle and widen his pretty eyes.

But he blinked his surprise away, snorting with a roll of his eyes, ignoring you to keep playing. You played the keyboards too, following his melody. He side-eyed you with annoyance, playing quicker the piano, making you smirk playing even more quicker than him. Your hands touched at some point, and you noticed how Taehyung’s defenses broke down little by little, enjoying the melody you two made, smiling softly at you.

“That was so beautiful,” you say breaking the comfortable silence. Taehyung only nodded at your words.

Your lips curled down, feeling that pang of guilt in your chest again.

“Look, I’m so sorry for what I said earlier. You’re the most interesting and handsome man I’ve ever met, and if death weren’t separating us, I’d fall head over heels for you.” You said softly, trying to make him understand why you two weren’t compatible at all.

He just hummed, not looking at you.

“So the only thing you want from me… it’s a beating heart?” He asked trying to look nonchalant, but you noticed the tension of his lips.

“I… I mean, I can be dead to be with you… at this point, there’s nothing left for me up there,” you muttered, you didn’t miss Victor’s parents flattering the woman that turn off the fire of Mrs. Everglot dress, she seemed interested in marrying Victor.

“No.” Growled Taehyung with anger, a fire burning his dead eyes. “I would never take that away from you, life is a gift, and you’re full of it. That’s whyI’m head over heels for you, my moon.” He whispered the last words, full of love and passion, melting your heart and filling your eyes with tears.

You’ve never felt more loved and seemed in your life, but it felt wrong, because the feeling wasn’t mutual. You appreciate him, yes, you think he’s beautiful and sweet, also yes. But you didn’t love him.

“I have to be honest with you Tae, I just… don’t feel the same, and I can’t guarantee you that my feelings will change in the future.”

Taehyung smiled with sadness and determination, holding tightly both of your hands and stroking lovingly the back.

“I have enough love for the both of us, even If you never love me, even if you hate me. I’ll never leave you.” He said like an oath, one he’s not willing to break.

You blinked at his words, taken aback. It felt more like a threat rather than a confession of love, but you didn’t mind. It felt nice to be cared for.

“Okay.” You whispered, looking into his pretty eyes.

“I have something to show you,” his voice dropped an octave, and his gaze darkened for a moment, but he returned to his bright persona immediately. You nodded slowly, not sure why you felt uneasy all of a sudden.

He took you to a hidden cottage deep in the land of the death, it was hauntingly beautiful, its garden has dead roses and dark sunflowers. Charming and deathly, just like Taehyung.

He showed you a death rose covered in honey, smirking at you like the Cheshire cat, with a mischievous and a naughty glint in his eyes. You narrowed your eyes, raising a brow when he remained silent.

“So? You wanted to show me a withered rose?” You asked with a frown, not sure what the hell you two were doing in that cottage. “Do you live here?” You changed the subject, watching your surroundings with curiosity.

“Yes, we live here. And… this rose it’s enchanted, it will bring me back to life, it’ll make my rotten heart beat again.”

You freeze at his words, whipping your head towards him in shock, watching Taehyung’s eyes darkening. His gaze was intense and unreadable, staring piercingly at you like a hawk, a predator ready to pounce and chase its preys if it dares to run away.

You gulped hard, blinking and processing his words.

“Are you sure…it-it’ll work? I mean, I’m sure it will, we got up a couple of hours ago.” You rambled, trying to think how to say your next words. “If… if, this works, that means… we can go back to the land of the living?” You asked softly and cautiously, watching his every expression as if you were dealing with a wild animal.

Taehyung only smiled at you, but it didn’t reach his eyes. That smile looked forced, so unlike him.

“Of course, my moon, we will go to your home. I want to meet your parents after all,” his voice sounded constricted, as if he was restraining himself.

“If you don’t want to do this, then don’t. Do it because you want it, not to please me.”

This time his smile was genuine, sparkling his eyes.

But then his gaze darkened again, like a dusty cloak covering his eyes, his intentions.

“Don’t worry about me, although I have to tell you something. To make this spell permanent, there’s one condition.” He said, not breaking his heavy gaze from you.

A chill run down your spine at his odd vibe.

“What condition?” You asked with your brows knitted.

“We have to consummate the marriage,” he said lowly, approaching you with slow steps.

You widened your eyes at his proposal, no fucking way. You won’t fuck a corpse.

“Taehyung you’re dead. I’m not fucking a corpse, I’m sorry.”

To your surprise, his smirk didn’t falter.

“Did I say I’ll fuck while dead? No. This spell will revive me, but only for 4 hours, that’s why we need to… be intimate to make it permanent.” He said calmly, getting even more closer to your body.

You didn’t know what to say to that, it wouldn’t be a problem if he was alive, right? But… he was still a stranger, and you didn’t feel comfortable being intimate with him.

“I don’t know…”

“Don’t you want to go back home? To be with your parents? Wouldn’t be easier if you tell them you’re already married? I promise to give you space up there, I can love you from afar.” His tone was deep, and his stare burned with determination.

“I… guess you’re right.” You whispered, not knowing what else to say.

It can’t be that bad. Right?

Taehyung smirked mischievously, his eyes glinting with eagerness. He took the withered rose, eating its petals covered in honey. Staring at you while swallowing each one of them.

And then… he changed.

His purpled skin tone turned tan with a healthy glow, his lips changed into a cherry tone. His hair was more ebony and shinning, and that hole that showed his rib bones, was covered with new skin.

He looked alive.

Your lips parted and your eyes widened with fascination. You took one large step to be an inch closer to him, putting slowly your hand on his chest. Laughing with joy at the feeling of his heart beating against your palm. You just witnessed a miracle.

“I’m impressed,” you said feeling his heart, he felt so alive.

Taehyung pulled your hand towards his lips, kissing it softly and staring at you heavily. His lips lingered on your hand, brushing the inner of your wrist.

And then he carried you in bridal style, making you gasp in surprise by the sudden movement. You wrapped your arms around his neck, watching how he took you deeper into the cottage, laying you on the mattress of his bed.

He lingered above you, caging your head and body with his hands and legs, staring down at you with hunger in his eyes. His left white eye didn’t change of color, making you smile. It was his charm.

And then he kissed your smile away, sucking and biting your lips like a starve man, swallowing all of your sounds as if he wanted to devour you.

Your head spined because of how rough he was kissing you, not breaking the kiss to give you a chance to breath. You felt him tearing off your clothes like a savage, making you frown and whimper. It was a lot, you tried to turn your head away but he growled, gripping your chin to attach his lips again.

“Tae. I, I don’t know if this is-“

“You said yes, I won’t let you set a foot outside until I’m buried balls deep inside you.” He snarled, with anger and lust clouding his intense eyes.

He widened your legs until your knees brushed your shoulders, baring you open to him. You felt your cheeks heating with embarrassment, you’ve never felt more exposed in your life.

And Taehyung’s eyes glinted with so much hunger that it scared you, the grip he has on your legs was tight, not letting you go.

“You’re mine,” he growled.

And you teared up, feeling like a lamb that fell into its predator’s trap.

You can read the +18 continuation on Patreon.

taglist:

@demonshauntingthedoves @pynkgothicka @cutequeen00 @nothingsreal420 @ririkookiemonster-archives @cannotalwaysbenight @loumin908 @devilzliaison @uniquecutie-puffs @polarnightmyg @acherry04 @lizziekitty @catlove83

[gard3nias]

update status: 6.84k words, 50% done

Amor tam pulcher | KTH - masterlist

❁pairing: taehyung x oc

❁description: Daphne moves from the city to the countryside; objectively, a downgrade, but, emotionally, an upgrade. From the urban chaos straight into his warm embrace

❁synopsis:

He laughed at it and leaned in to peck her cheeks. “The cat’s got your tongue now?” he said, and she felt every single vibration of his vocal cords for how deep his voice sounded. “Don’t worry then. From now on, no rap verses, but only clear messages with distinct words… and actions,” and with the final words, he kissed her neck, trailing down to her collarbone. "Those words apply to you, too." “I don’t speak in rap verses,” she rebutted, noticing that he’d switched the positions, having her back against the wall. “Yeah, you don’t. You don’t speak at all. You just look at me with those eyes.” As he spoke, he angled her chin upwards so their eyes could meet, and when she visibly blushed, he chuckled. “Damn, you’re so pretty.” He barely let out those words before leaning closer and kissing her.

❁genre: strangers to lovers, coming-of-age, romance, fluff, smut, angst, cross-posted on Wattpad and ao3

❁wc: 272.59k+

❁date: 30/03/2024

❁warning: mature content

❁notes: strangers-to-lovers, lots of fluff, smut, a lil angst, taehyung is head over heels for oc, nature lovers (oc loves flowers, taehyung loves butterflies), countryside (looks like Italy because that is the only type of countryside I know and love), oc has a lovely family, taehyung has daddy issues, jimin and jungkook are taehyung's besties (they also have other two girls as best friends); oc has a girl best friend (childhood best friend) and three boys as best friends); oc is so fucking prettyyy, like girl pretty; cross-posted on wattpad and ao3

❁chapters (status - ongoing) ⇀ updates every Friday, midnight

latest — 22/07

❀ ❛prologue❜ - 1.52k

Rewriting the story of Daphne and Apollo ⇀ «A love that drives me crazy, a lovely crazy, a sexy crazy, an amazing crazy»

❀ 01 ❛love is all around❜ - 4.24k

On a chilly summer morning, a bouncy curly-haired sun rose up and shone above the flower

❀ 02 ❛ying yang❜ - 4.28k

Photosynthesis: the sun shines bright above the flower providing it with energy which will be transformed into nutrients

❀ 03 ❛the exploratory stage❜ - 5.48k

As the sun shines in its might, it brightens the way for a little flower to see over the horizon

❀ 04 ❛just like old times❜ - 6.70k

The bright rays of the sun show the way to the flower, introducing it to an innocent little bear, a ferret and a little wasp

❀ 05 ❛a monarch butterfly❜ - 4.17k

There, going back home, was an unusual combination of subjects: a cricket, a wing-man, a monarch butterfly, a little pika and a puppy

❀ 06 ❛venus❜ - 4.82k

Who could have ever thought that a flower could grow in space? Who? No one surely and yet... there it was, standing upright in its beauty

❀ 07 ❛a laurel❜ - 4.92k

He knew he wasn't meant to fly to space because he physically couldn't but this thought wouldn't stop him. Was he being pretentious? Trying to exceed his limits?

❀ 08 ❛fuck you!❜ - 6.10k

Normally, flowers are in people's gardens or on a bed of green grass so... what the hell is one singular one doing in the middle of the ocean. Does it know, does anyone know, that too much water will cause it harm... especially when the water is salty?

❀ 09 ❛en route❜ - 5.07k

With its six tiny feet into proper boots, a good protective shield over his wings and an astronaut helmet on, the monarch butterfly embarks on a life-threatening journey, one believed to be a one-way ticket travel

❀ 10 ❛who we are, what we do❜ - 6.01k

Flowers don't have eyes, yeah, and neither does a pika glow even during the day. The flower is used to seeing only the sun shine during the day. The little pika walking by is unusual.

❀ 11 ❛an overly ambitious hedonistic seductress❜ - 6.04k

Cleopatra is the modern definition of the term "femme fatale"; she's known for ruling in ancient Egypt but also for her relationship with Ceaser and Mark Antony

❀ 12 ❛the butterfly, the cricket and the wing-man❜ - 4.49k

A butterfly, a cricket and a wing-man all have wings somewhat. The first does fly, the second mostly leaps and the last doesn't fly unless the first two do.

❀ 13 ❛the Titanic❜ - 7.31k

Between the night of the 14th and the 15th, in 1912, one of the biggest ships of its time sank, going against the expectations but did it? At the time, there was a little competition between countries so when it sank it wasn't so surprising: something so big with very few resources would have never made it across the ocean.

❀ 14 ❛from five to ten❜ - 11.44k

Brighten the mood. Increase the energy. Make a downturned flower rise high and flunt its beautiful petals for others to see.

❀ 15 ❛bold, red and underlined❜ - 14.70k

“You know? That party I wanted to host at mine? You’re so invited. In fact, you’re the first one on my guest list and I’ll underline your name in red as in ‘in great and urgent need of pussy’—”

❀ 16 ❛«it's Daphne»❜ - 11.30k

A monarch butterfly sees a lot of flowers in its short span of life but never has this one, nor its ancestors, seen a flower as pretty as the one ahead. The flower was there, living beautifully in space.

❀ 17 ❛hesperiidae❜ - 6.41k

Right when the sun faded away and the dark clouds took over, the little butterfly's wings fluttered less as it lost hope until something caught his eye, a gleam slicing through the gloom and focusing on a flower.

❀ 18❛opposites attract❜ - 5.59k

Winter and the Wind of the West come to destroy but nothing can touch a flower when it's under a shelter, something that will prevent it from dying in the cold or losing its beautiful petals.

❀ 19 ❛peek-a-boo (boo boo)❜ - 5.66k

Things have been too unusual for this butterfly. Wasn't it trying to embark on an impossible journey? To space? How did it end up in a shiny sea? it's floating and his pupils are swelling. The beauty is indeed out of this world

❀ 20 ❛lifejacket❜ - 6.97k

The wings grew with each flutter. There was a glowing dot on the ocean and it was slowly fading out into the darkness so the butterfly cradled it and protected the leur

❀ 21 ❛monarch and blue morpho butterflies❜ - 4.13k

The weather was chilly and slightly windy. Despite the discomfort it caused everyone, the flower stood out like a thumb as it danced and waved with the soft patterns of the breeze. The butterfly couldn't do anything other than admire with widened orbs

❀ 22 ❛rosy cheeks❜ - 3.91k

Did it see it? Did the flower see the butterfly? Because the butterfly has already seen the flower. Had already memorised every curve, every line, and every dot that brought the flower to life.

❀ 23 ❛caramel macchiato❜ - 4.23k

There was no way he could ever get lost: one look at those eyes and he'd see all the constellations, the map leading him to Venus

❀ 24 ❛butterflies, flowers... and butterflies❜ - 6.03k

«I mean, it's also an evergreen plant like the Laurel but it doesn't sound as special. Lauri does though.»

❀ 25 ❛bittersweet❜ - 4.10k

There were seven lanes, each welcoming an athlete, for a total of seven athletes. Yet, as the contestants got ready for the lace, some chose to acknowledge the presence of only a few athletes, the ones they were marking. Their true competition.

❀ 26 ❛open stage❜ - 9.78k

Floating and hovering around his spaceship, the butterfly moved closer to the round window giving to the dark glittered expanse. There was Venus and standing proudly in its infinite beauty was the flower.

❀ 27 ❛approach, round out, flare❜ - 8.08k

Poor Cinderella. She cried and cried. Then a small woman appeared in a cloud. It was Cinderella’s fairy godmother. “Biddidi, bobbidi, noo!” sang the fairy godmother as she waved her magic wand, but she gasped, hand coming to cover her mouth in bewilderment. Cinderella had turned into a tomato!

❀ 28 ❛a lighthouse❜ - 6.47k

Water flowed through the clothes, the hair strands, and around the body as the flower held onto a wide piece of wood. The water was chilling, the night was silent, and the ambience was dark, but right through the blackness slid the rotating rays of a lighthouse. Blinking to adapt to the brightness, the flower called for help.

❀ 29 ❛sus or sos?❜ - 7.12k

The rotating and flashing lighthouse lights shone upon a cricket, which floated barely a foot away from the flower. Yet, as the butterfly came to rescue, it didn’t see it, leaving the cricket trying to swim for its life, screaming and choking on water.

❀ 30 ❛a coup d'état❜ - 5.95k

Standing on a tower, two neurons patrolled the area, binoculars to their eyes. Suddenly, they sighted something. They squinted their eyes despite the instrument in their hands and tried to make sense of what they saw. "Hey, send in the alarm. Prepare the defensive barrier. Do something. Hurry up!" As this one darted away, the other remained still, binoculars back to its eyes. Confusion bubbled in its head. What had happened for the heart to be heading towards the body's headquarters? And what was that army of hormones behind it?

❀ 31 ❛the sun on the horizon❜ - 10.75k

The butterfly had finally found the flower. After travelling across space, it landed on Venus, where a singular ethereal natural being stood erect in its almighty beauty. After the coup d’etat, the heart realised that the situation was bigger than expected. The heat rose up to every part of the body. Butterflies increased and with that the flutters of their wings, which fanned the fire, expanding instead of quenching it. Infatuation at its peak.

❀ 32 ❛the lily family❜ - 7.09k

A new member of the Liliaceae. “You like butterflies, and she’s named after a flower.”

❀ 33 ❛twinkle, twinkle little star!❜ - 12.75k

1905. Annus mirabilis. Three important elements: Einstein, the relativity of time, Planck, quantum mechanics, and Quantum entanglement.

❀ 34 ❛on the highway to Forever❜ - 11.76k

Livin' easy, lovin' free. No stop signs, speed limit. Hey, mumma, look at me. I'm on the way to the promised land.

❀ 35 ❛collywobbles❜ - 11.57k

Collywobbles: queasiness, intense nervousness… or butterflies in the stomach.

❀ 36 ❛the Daphne odora❜ - 7.65k

A pure white bed. Snow. Then a bundle of grace. Pink petals gathered into a flower. Green leaves held the masterpiece, all in a pure white bed of snow.

❀ 37 ❛«Uno, nessuno, centomila» Love❜ - 18k

Love has many faces, many identities. It depends on the situation, the receiver and the giver. It’s similar to Pirandello’s theory of masks. Eros, Storge, Philia, but no Philautia. Romantic and passionate love, familial love, goodwill and platonic love, but no self-love… yet.

❀ 38 ❛the casus belli❜ - 21.43k

Goddess, sing the rage of Achilles, son of Peleus, which brought countless woes to the Achaeans and sent the souls of many brave heroes to Hades, their bodies made into a feast for dogs and crows, all to carry out the unfathomable will of Zeus.

❀ 39

❀ 40

❀ 41

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❀ 44

❀ 45

... and there's more

❁pinterest board // my main

[honeytae]

synopsis: you never thought love could be so easy — until taehyung. six months into your relationship, you feel worlds away from the past version of yourself.

pairing: taehyung x reader

genre: fluff, tiny bit of angst (but not really)

word count: 900+

warnings: discussions of a past toxic relationship, unwanted contact from said toxic ex, hints of jealous/protective bf taehyung, they’re so in love, we’re ending this series short and sweet!!!

you curl up on the couch, legs drawn beneath you, your body naturally gravitating toward taehyung’s side.

the last rays of the setting sun spill through the large windows, coating everything in a soft golden hue. the light glows against his skin, casting shadows over the angles of his face, and for a second, you just stare. he looks like a painting—timeless, beautiful, yours.

you rest your head on his shoulder, and he welcomes the weight without a word, adjusting slightly so you’re tucked in closer. his arm wraps around you effortlessly, his fingers trailing through your hair in slow, affectionate strokes.

each touch draws you deeper into that safe, familiar space only he can create. your shoulders loosen, and you let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh.

“you’re quiet today,” he murmurs, his voice a low hum near your ear. “everything okay, baby?”

you smile, eyes fluttering closed. “yeah. just… being here with you. it feels good.”

his fingers pause in your hair for a moment before he leans in, pressing a kiss just above your temple. “i agree,” he murmurs, “you’re my favorite place.”

the words settle in your chest like a warm drink. you chuckle softly, turning your face into his shoulder. “you always say things like that. sweet and completely unfair.”

“unfair?” he repeats, amused. “you’re the one who looks at me like that and expects me to function normally.”

you lift your head slightly, meeting his gaze. “like what?”

“like i’m the best thing since sliced bread,” he grins.

“you are,” you shrug. “i didn’t even know i could feel this way until you.”

there’s a pause between you—quiet, thick with meaning. he swallows like your words went straight to his chest.

he leans closer, resting his forehead against yours. “me too. and that scares me, sometimes,” he admits in a whisper.

your brows draw together. “why?”

“because i want to keep you this happy forever,” he says. “and i’m scared of what i’d do if i couldn’t.”

you soften, lifting your hand to his cheek. “then don’t worry. you do. every single day.”

he smiles then, slow and full of something deeper than joy—devotion. “okay. good. because i love you, and i want to spend a long, long time loving you.”

your eyes sting at the edges, but you blink it away, laughing gently. “you’re such a sap.”

“for you? absolutely.”

you nestle against him again, content and whole. but as your body relaxes, your mind wanders—just a little, just long enough to cast a brief shadow over the golden light.

you think about the past. about the man who used to hold this spot in your life. about how he used to make you feel small with smiles that didn’t reach his eyes and apologies that always came too late.

“you know,” you say quietly, “i used to think love meant always being on edge. like if i didn’t give everything, i’d lose everything.”

taehyung doesn’t speak immediately, but his arm tightens around you.

“he made you feel like that?” he finally asks, his voice low and unreadable.

you nod. “i never knew which version of him i was going to get. the sweet one with the promises or the one who disappeared when things got hard.”

“he didn’t deserve you.”

“no,” you agree. “he didn’t. but for a long time, i thought i didn’t deserve better.”

taehyung pulls back enough to see your face, his fingers gently tilting your chin so you meet his eyes. “don’t ever say that again.”

you nod. “i know better now.”

he studies you for a long beat before whispering, “i wish i could go back and pull you out of that. show you what real love looks like.”

you smile. “but you already did.”

just then, your phone buzzes on the table beside you. you don’t even have to look. you already know.

with a resigned breath, you reach over, glance at the screen—your ex, again—and swipe the notification away. you toss the device across the sofa with no emotion. no second thought.

“was that him?” taehyung asks softly.

“yeah,” you say, placing the phone face-down. “another ‘hey’ like nothing happened.”

taehyung is quiet, but you can feel the shift in his energy. his jaw tightens. his hand stills on your back.

“he’s never going to get the version of you that i get,” he says firmly. “the one who laughs with her whole body. who talks with her hands when she’s excited. who believes in love again.”

you look up at him, tears stinging your eyes again—but these, too, are happy. “i didn’t think i’d ever be that girl again.”

“you always were,” he says, brushing his thumb under your eye. “you just needed someone who didn’t make you doubt it.”

you wrap your arms around his middle, burying your face into his chest. “i kind of hope he sees it now. everything he lost.”

“oh, he sees it,” taehyung says with a small smirk. “guys like him always do. right when it’s too late.”

you let out a laugh, muffled against his shirt. “petty.”

“it’s true,” he shrugs.

you tilt your head up. “you know what the best part is?”

“what?”

“i don’t care what he thinks. not anymore. he’s just… noise.”

taehyung grins and kisses your forehead again. “you’ve come a long way.”

“and you’re my peace,” you murmur, eyes closing.

he holds you tighter, his voice soft and steady. “then i’m never letting go.”

a/n: thank you all who read this series <3 i so enjoyed writing it and i hope this short and sweet conclusion wrapped it up nicely. i love this couple soooo much and hope you do too! as always, let me know any feedback you may have!

[chimcess]

⚔︎ Chapter Two: Your Name's Buck, Right? Pairing: Taehyung x Reader Other Tags: Assassin!Taehyung, Assassin!Reader, Assassin!Jimin, Dad!Jimin, Assassin!Yoongi, Gang Leader!Yoongi, Assassin!Namjoon, Swordmaster!Hoseok, Chef!Hoseok, Pimp!Seokjin Genre: Assassins! AU, Exes!AU, Lovers to Enemies, Action, Comedy, Suspense, Martial Arts, Drama, Thriller, Romance (if you squint), Heavy Angst, Violence, Age Gap, 18+ only Word Count: 22.2k+ Summary: A former assassin awakens from a four-year coma after her ex-lover Taehyung tries to kill her on her wedding day. Driven by revenge for the loss of her unborn child and stolen life, she creates a hit list and embarks on a ruthless mission to take down everyone responsible. Warnings: graphic violence, grief, implied SA, stabbing with IV drip, bashing head in with a door, stolen car, very crude language, revenge plot, past relationships explored, previous reader and Yoongi, smut, backshots, friends with benefits, more than likely poorly translated Korean, my bad, bickering, swords are here, guns too, crying, seething anger, PTSD flashbacks, implied CSA, more backstory, pedophilia referenced multiple times, blood and gore, all of the content warnings really, dead dove: do not eat, seriously this really only gets darker as we go along, throwing knives at someone, I love Hoseok in this one, he's one of my favorites here, attempted murder, actual murder, ripping tongue out with teeth, jealousy, character in a coma, body scars, no one here is really a good person morally or otherwise, I don't think I missed anything but let me know if I did... A/N: Happy 4th!

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It was raining hard in El Paso. The storm hit Mesa Street in sheets, the streetlights flickering weakly through the downpour. Their halos cast brief, warped shadows on the wet asphalt. Cars crawled through the flooded intersections, tires cutting through the water. Windshield wipers slapped against the glass in frantic rhythm, and hazard lights blinked in every lane. Some drivers had given up, pulling to the curb with their turn signals on. Others huddled in their seats, squinting through the storm.

Three floors up at El Paso General, the building rattled with the force of the storm. Room 304 sat at the end of a beige hallway that looked like it hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in decades, the walls lined with buzzing vending machines. The air inside smelled of mothballs, bleach, and old paper. The room was still. The bed was neatly made around the body, the tubes connected, and machines hummed in a steady lullaby of survival: a soft beep, then another. No flowers, no cards, no voices waiting for her to wake up.

The name on the chart: Rhonda Portnoy.

A man had come to identify her—Bill White. Big guy, quiet. Hard to place. He came four days after the paramedics had brought her in. Signed the papers, listened to the surgeon’s rundown without blinking. He didn’t ask about the swelling, the coma, or the chances of waking. He just signed and left. Took the baby with him.

A girl. Born premature. Five days in NICU under blue lights and wires, machines breathing for her. Then Bill came back, this time with a duffel bag, and left with the infant like it was just another errand. No photos, no family, no questions. Just a man walking out of a hospital with a newborn like he was clocking out.

The nurses wondered, as they do. Did Rhonda even know she’d had a baby? Did she remember the wedding? The white dress, the flowers, the crowd that never made it to the reception. Tommy Groban was the groom. Shot in the chapel before the vows. Most of the family went with him. Blood on the church floor, champagne never popped. Rhonda took a bullet to the head, but somehow lived.

At first, they called it a miracle. News vans lined the street, reporters scrambling for the scoop. The Bride Who Lived. The story wrote itself. There were cameras, tabloids, a viral ambulance video. But Rhonda never woke. No blink, no cry. So the miracle faded. Headlines dried up. The cameras moved on to other tragedies. The world forgot.

Now, there was just the hum of machines, the rain beating against the windows, and a silence that had stopped waiting. Four months of it. No visitors, no changes. The air in the room had turned stale, a sour, chemical smell—like melted plastic or a burnt match. The kind of air that clings to you.

She lay there, untouched by time except in the way it drained her—soft muscles, drained color, a body left to maintenance. A life on pause. The monitor kept its steady beat, like a metronome counting nothing. The IV kept dripping, a drop at a time, into a vein that never twitched. The staff kept up their routines, but none of them expected her to wake.

Down in the rain, a black car slid into the hospital lot. It idled for a moment before dying, the only sound the ticking of cooling metal and the steady slap of wipers. Then, the door clicked open. A red umbrella unfurled, sharp and efficient, the kind of movement that came from practice, not panic. Yellow boots splashed into the ankle-deep water, followed by the woman herself—tall, composed, wrapped in a bright coat that seemed out of place in the washed-out world around her. She didn’t rush. The rain hit her shoulders, her face, and slid down her cheeks, but she walked as though it was nothing.

The ID badge clipped to her collar read: R. Stone, RN. The name meant nothing. The photo was blurry enough to avoid suspicion, and the laminate caught the light just right. It was a good fake—hospital-grade, correct barcode, and even the weight was spot on. The automatic doors slid open for her, just like the night before when she’d tested the entry points, counted the cameras, and watched the shift change.

Inside, the hospital buzzed under fluorescent lights, the air thick with the scent of disinfectant. The floor was too shiny, and the dry, sterile air barely masked the faint mildew and copper tang that lingered beneath.

Janice sat at the desk, barely awake, scribbling through a crossword with two untouched coffees beside her. Her scrubs were wrinkled, shoes discarded, feet swollen in pink compression socks. She didn’t look up when the woman walked by.

“Late shift?” she muttered, more out of habit than curiosity.

The woman gave a tight, professional smile, empty and practiced. “Always short-staffed.”

Janice grunted and scratched at the puzzle, too tired to question anything.

The woman moved quietly down the hallway, her footsteps soundless on the linoleum. Her pace was steady, her eyes sharp beneath the brim of her umbrella. She didn’t break stride as she passed the nurse’s station, the vending machines, the rooms marked with numbers no one cared to remember. She turned into the restroom, and the door clicked softly behind her. The lock slid into place.

The mirror caught her slowly—first her shoulder, then her face—drawing her in like a photograph developing in real time. The umbrella lay crumpled at her feet, leaking water into the grout. Her soaked coat hung from her shoulders, rain dripping from her elbows, her mouth set in a firm, unreadable line. She moved with a calculated grace, the kind earned by discipline or violence—every action precise. She peeled off the coat, folded it tight, and sealed it in a plastic bag with practiced ease.

She sat on the edge of the sink, pulling on white stockings that snapped against her thighs. The fabric was slick, uncomfortable, but she wore it anyway. Next came the white nurse's shoes—standard-issue, ugly—and she slipped them on without ceremony.

The uniform was a near-perfect match for the hospital’s own. Just enough wear in the seams to pass unnoticed under tired eyes. She adjusted her cap, smoothing an invisible wrinkle on her chest, flat palm over the fabric, breath held. Her reflection stared back. One eye icy and sharp. The other hidden behind a clean white patch, sealed at the edges with surgical tape. Her lips were bright, rose red, her face symmetrical and flawless. She looked like someone who knew how to get away with anything.

From her duffel, she retrieved a stainless steel tray, placing it carefully on the counter. On it, a single glass syringe. Next to it, a vial of something clear and viscous—mercury without the shine, more shadow than liquid. She held it to the light, but it didn’t reflect. She rolled it in her palm, watching the liquid slither from one side to the other. Then, with steady hands, she drew it into the syringe—no bubbles, no tremble. When the plunger reached the mark, she flicked the needle once. A bead swelled at the tip like a tear.

“Goodbye forever,” she murmured to herself.

She capped the needle and slid the syringe into a pocket sewn just for it. A final check in the mirror, fingers brushing over her collar, her sleeves, her eyes—no flaws. Perfect.

She stepped into the hallway, the same sterile hallway she’d walked through the night before. Hospitals had a way of staying the same—clean floors, the smell of bleach and antiseptic, the hum of machines behind thin walls, carts squeaking, and somewhere, someone was crying.

She moved through it like she belonged. The ID badge clipped to her collar caught the light as she walked, the tray in her hands steady, unshaken. If anyone bothered to check, the ID would pass. The name wasn’t hers, but the photo was. It didn’t matter—there were no fingerprints on file, no records of any kind. Just a trail of dead ends. Brandi had gotten good at leaving them.

She walked with purpose, tall and commanding, her shoes silent against the linoleum. People glanced up, saw what they expected, and looked away. She didn’t try to hide—she just blended in, looking exactly how they thought she should look.

Years ago, she used to fight behind a warehouse in Modesto. Bare-knuckle, no gloves, no rules. The air smelled like piss and cigarettes, and she wasn’t angry, she was just fast. She fought to feed her sister, Presley, when there were no shifts left at the liquor store. She did what she had to do. Then Taehyung found her. He’d watched her knock out a man twice her size in under eight seconds, and the next day, he showed up at her door. He promised her an escape, a place for Presley, a life away from everything that had always chewed them up.

The next morning, her boss was found dead, and Brandi left with Taehyung before the sun came up. She didn’t look back.

Taehyung called her California Mountain Snake. Not because of where she came from, but because of how she moved—quiet, fast, and lethal. She didn’t charm or slither; she waited, struck, and disappeared. Y/N, though, had laughed when she heard the name. "Those snakes don’t even bite, right? Copycats. Harmless," she’d mocked. That pissed Brandi off, but Taehyung stepped in, stopping her before she went too far.

Y/N was better. Brandi knew it. Faster, smoother. When Taehyung looked at her, he saw everything. He gave her the keys to everything—everything Brandi wanted, everything she’d worked for. Brandi had loved him, fiercely, foolishly. And when Y/N walked in, everything changed. Brandi’s world tilted, and nothing was the same.

Brandi thought she could take Y/N on, but in the end, she was wrong. Thirty seconds, one slip, and Brandi was down. Y/N didn’t gloat. She didn’t have to. Brandi took her hand, but hated herself the whole way up.

Years passed, and through it all, there were pictures—Presley in a costume, Presley with cake smeared on her face, Presley on stage. Brandi studied each one like it might explode, then locked them away. She never reached out. She never tried to find Presley. That deal had been made long ago. Presley was alive, and that’s all Brandi wanted to know.

That life was worth less than shit on the bottom of her shoe.

Brandi stepped into the hall, the same quiet hall she'd walked down the night before. Hospitals didn’t change. The floors were too clean, the air dry with the scent of bleach and disinfectant, and the buzz of fluorescent lights was constant. Behind the walls, machines hummed. Somewhere, someone was crying.

She moved with purpose, tray in hand, badge on her chest swaying with every step. It would pass any scan. A perfect fake. The name, the photo, everything matched the records, even the barcode. No one would notice the difference. Brandi had spent years perfecting the art of vanishing in plain sight.

Now, she walked down the hallway to room 304. The door was old, the nameplate crooked, clinging by rusted screws. “Rhonda Portnoy.” The name pissed her off. Soft. Stupid. She knew what she was walking into. The door opened without resistance. Inside, the room was too still. The light overhead flickered, buzzing a sick yellow. One tile sagged, curling at the edge. Outside, rain smeared the windows. Inside, the machines hummed, the oxygen hissed, and the monitor beeped in an endless rhythm, like time moving without weight.

Y/N lay in the bed, unmoving. Eyes open, mouth slightly ajar. Hands folded over the blanket. She didn’t blink. Didn’t stir. Just stared at the ceiling. Brandi knew this person. Not the body. Not the shell. But the woman who used to burn bright.

Brandi stepped in, like a witness, like a judge. She set the tray down, and the cold metal clicked. The syringe gleamed in the low light. It was the end. The final step. The thing that would stop all the waiting.

She looked at Y/N—not the body, but the ghost of the woman she used to be. The one who fought and burned everything in her path. Now, there was nothing but breath and machines. No fire. No soul. Just a hollow shell.

“I don’t think I ever liked you,” Brandi said, her voice rough, the words tasting like ash. “Actually, no. I hated you.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind Y/N’s ear, her fingers gentle in a way they hadn’t been in years. “But I respected you.”

Brandi set the syringe in her hand, tapping it once, twice. She moved to the IV line, found the vein without looking. The plunger was ready. The silence was thick, and for a second, Brandi wondered if she could hear Y/N's heartbeat. Then, she whispered, “Dying in your sleep... that’s a mercy we never get.”

She hesitated. Just for a moment, her thumb pressing against the plunger, ready to end it. 

“My gift to you.”

But then, the phone rang.

It cut through the silence like a knife. Sharp. Wrong. Unwanted. The monitor beeped in confusion, struggling against the sound. Brandi froze, her hand still holding the syringe.

Brandi froze mid-step, every muscle locked tight. The syringe in her hand didn’t waver, but she could feel the rage crawling up her spine. The phone buzzed again, sharp and insistent. She reached into her coat pocket, slow and methodical, and answered.

“Yeah?”

“Brandi.”

His voice. The name. It sliced through her like an old wound, reopening everything. The tension inside her shifted—subtle, inward—but it wasn’t calm. It was controlled. Her jaw ticked. She couldn’t hide the disgust in her chest. The air seemed thicker now, too thick to breathe.

“I’m here,” she said, her voice dead, stripped of everything. “She’s out. No change. I’m standing over her.”

There was a pause before Taehyung’s voice came back.

“I changed my mind.”

Brandi’s body didn’t move, but the words hit her like a sucker punch. She felt something freeze inside her. She didn’t even know how to react.

“What do you mean?” she growled, every word cutting through her teeth.

“Pull back.”

The laugh that slipped from her was broken, hollow. No warmth. Just a dry rasp that seemed to fill the room with its emptiness. She didn’t know if she was laughing at the absurdity or at herself. But she had to say it.

“You’re serious.”

“I am.”

“Now you’re switching it up?”

“It was always mine to switch.”

The words hit like a crack down her spine. She turned on her heel, pacing in tight circles, the anger bubbling inside her. Her heels snapped against the floor, louder with each step. The syringe still hung in her fingers. The tray sat cold on the counter, untouched. The whole world was shifting. The one person she thought she could rely on had just changed everything.

“You don’t owe her anything,” Brandi snapped. “You don’t owe her shit!”

There was a pause. Her voice dropped low, a breath caught in the middle of everything.

“You don’t owe her shit.”

The silence stretched, thick and heavy. And then Taehyung’s voice came again—steady, sure, cutting through everything.

“You all beat the hell out of her, but you didn’t kill her. I put a bullet in her head, and her heart kept beating. You saw that yourself. With your own beautiful blue eye, didn’t you?”

Brandi didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. The truth hit her hard. She felt it, deep in her chest.

“We’ve done things to that woman,” Taehyung continued, his voice gravelly, each word dragging. “And if she wakes up, we’ll do more. But we don’t sneak in like rats and kill her in her sleep. That’s beneath us.”

A beat of silence.

“Don’t you agree, Miss Phoenix?”

Brandi stopped dead in her tracks. The syringe slipped in her hand, and her fingers tightened around it, knuckles turning white. Her jaw flexed, her body vibrating with the change in the room’s air. The tension was unbearable now.

She looked at Y/N, still there, still lifeless. But there was something in the room now. A heaviness. An awareness. Y/N had been here before, and now she was just a breath away from death. Or mercy.

Brandi inhaled. Slow. Like she was preparing to vanish.

“I guess,” she said, the words slipping out like poison.

Another pause, and then Taehyung pushed.

“Do you really have to guess?”

Her eyes flicked to the peeling paint on the wall, the dark stains on the ceiling tile. She couldn’t answer, but she didn’t need to.

“No,” she whispered. “I know.”

She stood there, still, in the silence of the room. For the first time since walking in, Brandi felt it. The pull. The twisted history. The venom of memory that had never quite let her go. Y/N’s presence, even in her coma, felt like something was still alive—something that refused to die.

Taehyung’s voice cut through the silence again. Soft. Sweet. That tone he always used to get what he wanted.

“Come home, honey.”

Her eyes fluttered closed. The tension drained from her body. She didn’t even realize she was holding her breath. The syringe dropped slightly in her hand. Her shoulders slumped.

“Okay,” she breathed.

Taehyung never had to convince her of anything. All he had to do was speak like that. Sweet as bourbon, rough as salt. He made her feel like she belonged—even if it wasn’t real.

“I love you very much.”

Brandi’s gaze dropped to the floor. Her heart was heavy, but she had no choice but to speak the words.

“I love you too,” she whispered. “Bye-bye.”

Brandi stood in the doorway, feeling the weight of her decision, but not moving. She wasn’t sure what had changed, but something had. The tension in the room settled on her shoulders, thick and suffocating.

Her fingers clenched around the syringe, but they didn’t tremble. She was pissed. Her jaw tightened as she stood there, watching the woman in the bed, the one who used to own every room she walked into, reduced to nothing more than a body being kept alive by machines.

Y/N used to be the most dangerous woman in the world. Now, she was a husk. Just a body on a bed, still breathing in sync with a machine.

Brandi looked at her for a long moment. She remembered the girl Taehyung brought home back in 1990. The woman she became over the following ten years. But this wasn’t her. This wasn’t the girl who made men stumble over their words and women step back. The very same woman who’d kill an entire crew single-handedly and walk away without a scratch.

Brandi stepped closer to the bed. Her shoes made no sound on the floor. She stood there for a while, watching the rise and fall of Y/N's chest. The machines hummed and beeped in time, but it was all lifeless. The air in the room felt thick, like it had been soaked in bleach and blood for too long. A scent she could never wash out.

When she spoke, it was slow, almost measured. “Made me come all the way out here,” she said, her voice low and cold. “Steal a uniform. Forge the badge. Walk through a fucking thunderstorm. Just to stand here and get told to stand down like I’m a motherfucking intern.”

She didn’t wait for an answer, because there wasn’t one. Y/N’s body didn’t respond. It was just there, lying in the same position it had been for months.

Brandi’s mouth twitched. “Only good thing about it, is that I can see how fucking pathetic you are.”

Her gaze dropped to Y/N’s face. The woman who had once made her want to tear her apart now looked so small, so… ordinary. The once sharp cheekbones, the daring eyes, all softened into nothing. There was no power left in her. No fire. Just a faded memory of what she used to be.

Brandi’s expression hardened. The softness drained from her voice. “You shouldn’t wake up,” she muttered. “Now that I get a good look at you?” Her voice turned whisper-thin, sharp. “You’re not even that pretty.”

Her eyes scanned Y/N’s face, dissecting it. The curve of her nose, the slack jaw—it wasn’t beautiful anymore. It wasn’t anything. Just like the bitch in the coma.

“Face like that only works from a distance,” Brandi said, a dry laugh escaping her lips. “Put you under real light, and what’ve we got? Crooked nose. Plain face. Probably snore. Probably drool. Probably stink.”

Brandi stood still, her body tense as she watched the woman in the bed. No anger now, just a cold, deep disappointment. Her head tilted, almost mechanically. “My skin’s better,” she muttered. It wasn’t a boast, just a blunt fact. A reminder of what Y/N used to be—and what she was now.

Without thinking, she straightened, the syringe still in her hand, the metal catching the dim light. The weight of it felt familiar, like it had always been hers, like it had always belonged there.

Then Y/N coughed. It wasn’t a breath or anything close—it was a wet, hollow sputter, the kind of sound something rotting makes as it falls apart. It didn’t echo. Didn’t make a noise that felt alive. Just existed for a moment. A fleck of it hit Brandi’s cheek—warm, damp, and undeniable. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t recoil. She just froze. Her limbs locked up, rigid as stone. Slowly, her hand rose to her face, not out of alarm, but something worse—disgust. She touched the wet spot like it had insulted her.

Her jaw clenched. Her lips went flat. Her nostrils flared like she could smell something dead.

“Oh,” she whispered, her voice low and filled with venom. “No, you didn’t.”

She reached for the gown, grabbed it with a sudden pull, yanking it. The body shifted, limp and unresisting, the tubes pulling tight, the tape curling at the edges. Y/N’s head snapped to the side. The machines screamed in alarm, a chorus of metal shrieks, the lights flashing red.

Brandi didn’t give a shit.

She drew back, then swung—once, fast, a punch to the jaw. Her knuckles hit hard, rattling teeth that didn’t even seem to remember what pain was anymore. Another strike, higher—right to the temple. A clean hit. One last punch to the chest, right above the sternum.

The machines screamed louder, stuttered, then picked up their normal rhythm again.

Brandi stood over the bed, fists clenched, her chest rising and falling, slow and even. She leaned in close, her breath brushing against the dead skin that still felt warm. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“If you ever—” she said, each word like it had been carved from stone. “—drag yourself out of this bed—ever—”

Her voice faltered for a split second, her anger only increasing with every word.

“I’ll kill you myself, bitch.”

Brandi let go. Just shoved the body back into the bed like she was returning a broken piece of furniture. Y/N collapsed, limbs slack, arms hanging off the bed.

Brandi didn’t move right away. One breath, slow and deep. She smoothed her uniform, resetting herself. Her face remained blank. She needed to calm down if she wanted to speak with Taehyung once she left. He would be angry if she knew what had just happened.

She glanced at Y/N one last time before she turned and walked away, leaving the room behind. The door clicked shut behind her.

The hallway buzzed with the cheap hum of fluorescent lights. Polished floors, blank walls, machines beeping like it meant something. Nurses moved with practiced urgency. Strangers talked too loud about nothing that mattered. A hospital doing its best impression of control.

Brandi didn’t pause. Didn’t look back. As far as Taehyung was concerned, the job was done. Whether she liked it or not.

She’d made it ten steps before a door cracked open behind her. A young doctor spilled into the hallway, wild-eyed and bloodied, dragging a gurney like momentum might save the patient.

“We’re losing him!” he shouted, voice high and breaking. “Nurse! Help me!”

Brandi kept walking. Eyes forward. Spine straight. One loafer in front of the other. Behind her, the alarms screamed louder. Code blue or red or whatever color meant dying. Machines panicked. Nurses scrambled.

“Tough titty,” she muttered. Just loud enough for the tile to hear. “I quit.”

She didn’t stop. Didn’t flinch. Not for the blood, not for the chaos, not for the sound of lives cracking open behind her.

By the time anyone thought to ask who she was, she was already gone. All that remained was the echo of her whistling her way out of the front door. And even that didn’t last.

The room was dim. Fluorescent light flickered overhead, throwing thin shadows across the white walls. The air was stale and smelled heavily of ammonium. No one had touched the furniture. The scuff marks on the tile looked frozen in time. A nurse had come by at seven. That was it. The night shift forgot she was even there.

Y/N lay motionless in the narrow hospital bed, swallowed by stiff, scratchy sheets that hadn’t been changed in days. Her body was frail—little more than skin stretched thin over bone, nearly weightless. Her eyes stayed open, dry and unblinking, staring at the water-stained ceiling tiles like they might shift into something that made sense.

Her hair was dry and brittle. It broke off in soft clumps, collecting in the creases of the pillow like dust. She hadn't moved in years. Four of them—long, silent years.

Just above her left temple, a crescent scar curved across her forehead, its edges pale and raised. Beneath it, a metal plate—an ugly, necessary thing. The bullet had missed the vital parts of her brain by millimeters. A miracle, the doctors had called it. But still, she hadn’t woken.

Her vitals were normal. Brain activity, too. Nothing about her looked wrong—except for the fact that she wasn't there. It was like her body had been waiting for her to come back.

The room was quiet except for the machines. One kept time with a soft, patient beep. Another hissed every few seconds, pushing medication into the thin line that disappeared into her arm. A third clicked, slow and metronomic.

A mosquito drifted through the still air. It landed on her forearm, then bit in, feeding on its easy meal.

Then, miraculously, she moved. At first, just a flicker in her fingers. Small. Almost imperceptible. It could’ve been a twitch. A reflex. But it came again—sharper, more deliberate. Her hand lifted and then dropped.

Slap.

The mosquito was crushed. A smear of red on translucent skin. Her hand hovered, trembled, then brushed the remains aside.

Her eyes blinked. Once. Twice. They focused.

She was awake.

Her body convulsed upright in one sudden, panicked jolt. A scream tore out of her—raw, cracked, like something rusted breaking free. Her chest rose and fell in rapid, gasping waves. Breath came in hard and uneven. Her lungs, unpracticed in the chaos of living, struggled against the rhythm machines had held for years.

Her eyes darted around the room. White walls. Fluorescent lights. Machines still whirring, still unaware. A camera in the corner. A door with no window. Nothing familiar.

Then the memories hit.

A chapel. Roses in bloom. Music playing low. A man’s voice—warm, certain. Then light. Then pain.

Her hands flew to her head, digging into her hair. She found it. The scar. The plate. Hard and unnatural beneath her fingertips.

Tap. Tap.

Tink. Tink.

Her throat felt scorched, her voice barely a sound. “My baby,” she rasped.

She clawed at the thin hospital gown. Her fingers slid over her stomach—soft, unfamiliar, hollow. Then they stopped. A scar. Long. Healed. Her hands froze.

The room didn’t. The machines went on without her.

She looked down at her palm and began tracing the lines, slow, methodical—like she was reading tea leaves. One. Two. Three. Four.

Her gaze shifted to the wall across from her. A calendar hung there, pages curled and yellowed at the edges. The year: 2004.

“Four years,” she whispered. The words felt foreign in her mouth.

Something deep inside her cracked.

Her chest tightened. The weight of her own breathing pressed in, sharp and raw. Her lungs fought to remember how to expand, how to fill. But it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

Her shoulders began to tremble—small, uneven shakes, like a warning before a storm.

Then the tears came. Fast. Violent. Not graceful. Not cinematic. They gushed down her cheeks, soaking the pillow, her gown, her tangled hair. Her mouth opened in a wordless cry, her jaw shaking with the effort of trying to make sound happen. Her face, blank for years, folded under the force of emotion—creases of pain, of memory, of things lost.

She reached for the gown again, gripped it in both fists. Twisted hard. The fabric pulled tight across her lap, straining, threatening to tear. Her body convulsed—not from sobs, but from something deeper, more primal.

Beep. Hiss. Drip.

The machines didn’t pause.

She wept. Everything she’d once had—gone. Erased. A life folded closed and filed away somewhere she couldn’t reach. And now here it was, back in front of her, impossible to look at without shattering.

She had carried a heartbeat that wasn’t her own. Protected it. Loved it.

Now there was silence beneath her ribs. Just the machines. Just the room. Just her.

Then she heard it. Step… step… step. Distant, muffled at first, but unmistakable. She froze mid-cry, her swollen eyes snapping open, not with hope, but recognition. The cadence. It cut through the haze of her emotions and hit her with a force that made her heart stutter. Taehyung. The name surged in her chest, filling her entire being. Her mind seized the sound, molding it with memories that had been locked away for far too long. She saw him then—his black leather boots striking the floor with that exact rhythm she had heard before, a sound so ingrained in her mind that it was etched into her very bones. The image played behind her eyes like a film reel, the memory of the chapel flooding back—his presence walking down the aisle, the distant sound of wedding bells ringing, the roses scattering beneath his feet. And then, gunshots. Screaming. Blood on white.

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, she almost believed he was there, just beyond the door, walking toward her like it was a lifetime ago, before everything fell apart. But then, another set of footsteps joined the rhythm—quieter, irregular, wrong. Step… step… squeak. No boots. Rubber soles. She barely moved her head, just enough for her ear to catch the subtle shift in sound. Reeboks. A hospital orderly. Not him.

Her body remained frozen, suspended in the collision between the haunting memory of him and the harsh reality of the present. Her pulse thundered in her ears, and her breath caught in her throat. The room seemed to spin around her, the walls closing in. The illusion of Taehyung’s presence still lingered, fighting for dominance in her mind, refusing to let go of the ghost it had conjured.

And then the voice came, breaking the fragile thread of her thoughts. “She’s right in here.” It was too nasal. Too flat. It wasn’t him. But her brain twisted the words, distorting them with his intonation, layering them with his deeper, smoother voice. The sound of his voice—familiar and warm—cut through the confusion, and her body involuntarily flinched. It wasn’t him. But in that moment, logic didn’t matter. The mind could be cruel, playing old reels at the worst possible times, trapping her in a memory that wouldn’t let go.

Outside the room, there was muffled conversation. Then, three figures appeared behind the frosted glass of the door. One in scrubs, two in mismatched uniforms that had no hospital logos, no stethoscopes. Their presence was commanding—broad, upright, and expressionless.

Her breath narrowed into controlled, shallow gasps. Panic wasn’t an option now. She couldn’t afford to be seen, to make a sound, to break the stillness that had fallen over the room. They couldn’t know she was awake.

In one swift, practiced motion, she snapped back into the bed, flattening herself against the pillow. Her body went limp—limbs slack, jaw loosened. Her eyes fluttered closed, but just barely. A sliver remained, enough to see, enough to plan.

The door opened, and the orderly stepped in first, speaking over his shoulder to the two men who followed. He didn’t look at her. Didn’t even acknowledge her existence. His attention was fixed on the clipboard at the foot of the bed as he scribbled something down, his movements automatic. One of the men scanned the room with a practiced sweep, his eyes flicking from corner to corner, searching for anything that might pose a threat. The other stood stiffly near the door, his posture rigid and watchful, as if expecting trouble to spring out from the walls at any moment.

Y/N remained motionless. Her eyes didn’t blink, didn’t shift. She didn’t breathe a hint of movement. But she saw. She was aware of everything around her. The subtle bulge beneath the jacket of the man closest to her—the unmistakable outline of a weapon tucked under the fabric. She committed their profiles to memory. The way they stood, the way they carried themselves—too controlled, too silent to be hospital staff. Too deliberate, too tense to be just guards.

Her gaze was unfocused, not really on them. Her mind wandered elsewhere—back behind them, past them, to a place where a phantom figure still loomed. The memory of Taehyung remained, his presence almost tangible in the air, as if he were still standing in the doorway, just out of sight. His image slipped away from her every time she tried to concentrate on it, like water running through her fingers. But his footsteps lingered, echoing in the background, following her even here, in this cold, silent room. She felt them, deep in her bones, haunting her with the weight of unspoken things.

She didn’t move. She didn’t even try to force herself into the world she had left. She was a shadow now, a body that wasn’t really alive, a presence that was forgotten in the space between the past and whatever future she hadn’t yet found.

The men moved around her, completely oblivious, as if she were nothing more than a fixture in the room—an object no one had bothered to remember. That was her advantage. Let them think she was nothing, that she was still just a body on a bed. She would let them believe it, until she could learn more, until she had the strength to act, until she had a plan.

She waited, every breath measured, every muscle tense but still. Her eyes were closed, but the world kept moving around her. The door opened wider, the sounds of the hallway spilling in. Footsteps, distant voices, the hum of hospital life carrying on without interruption. And in her mind, the chapel reappeared—the soft crunch of rose petals underfoot, the unmistakable rhythm of steps she had once known too well, then the sudden, sharp crack of a gunshot. Blood spilled over white satin, and pain flared in her abdomen. The last breath of a second heartbeat—the one that had been taken from her.

The orderly turned slightly, moving to the foot of the bed, like he was on autopilot. His motions were bored, almost lazy, as if checking her vitals was just another item on a list of things he had to do. His eyes didn’t meet hers. His hands moved through the motions with no real intention behind them. He glanced at the clipboard, shifted it as if pretending to read.

The men behind him hung back near the door, towering and silent. Their size was enough to make their presence known without a single word. The first man scanned the room again, looking over the machines, the walls, the hall outside. His eyes lingered on nothing, but it was clear he was calculating. The other focused entirely on her—the body in the bed, the woman who hadn’t moved in years. He was watching, waiting, assessing. She could feel it, the weight of his gaze pressing down on her.

Her body remained still. She let her limbs fall limp, let her face slacken with the same blank stare she had worn for so long. But her mind was anything but still. Behind that vacant expression, her thoughts raced. She studied every detail, took stock of every tiny thing. The faded tattoos on one man’s forearm. The way the other’s jacket hung lopsided, weighed down by something hidden underneath. The stench of old sweat and cigarettes clung to their clothes, giving them away. These were not hospital men. Not staff. Not guards. They didn’t belong here. Yet, here they were.

Her eyes were open, wide, unblinking. She let them take her in, let them think they were in control. The game wasn’t over yet.

The orderly shifted, moving to the side of the bed. He pulled the thin hospital sheet back, the rough fabric crinkling as it was dragged. He lifted her gown with a slow, deliberate motion, a kind of crude ceremony. His eyes flicked to the men as he did so, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, as if he were showing them something worth their attention.

“Now is that the cutest little pussy you ever saw, or is that the cutest little pussy you ever saw,” he said, chuckling like it was a joke between old friends.

One of the truckers—tall, with a pitted face and a voice like gravel—nodded approvingly. The other—shorter, squatter, his arms crossed—shrugged with affected disinterest.

“I’ve seen better,” he muttered.

Y/N didn’t blink, but there was a flicker in her eyes. Not quite a flinch. More like contempt. Barely controlled.

The orderly scoffed, not missing a beat. “Yeah, in a movie - maybe. But I know damn well this is the best pussy you ever saw you had touchin’ rights to. The price is seventy five dollars a fuck gentlemen, you gettin’ your freak on or what?”

He held out his hand. The taller trucker reached into his pocket, peeled off a folded wad of cash, and slapped it into the man’s palm.

The orderly turned back to them, his face dropping into something close to professional. “Alright, listen close. Here’s the rules; Rule number one; no punchin’. Nurse comes in tomorrow and she got a shiner - or less some teeth, jig’s up. So no knuckle sandwiches under no circumstances.”

Both men nodded.

“And by the way, this little cunt’s a spitter. It’s a motor reflex thing but spit or no, no punchin. Now are we absolutely positively clear about rule number one?”

“Yeah,” The taller trucker says. 

The other one just nods again.

“Rule number two; No monkey bites, no hickeys - in fact no leaving no marks of no kind. But after that, it’s all good.”

The Orderly finished counting the money and stuffed it into his back pocket.

“Her plummin down there don’t work no more, so feel free to cum in ‘er all ya wont. Keep the noise down. Try not to make a mess, and I’ll be back in twenty.”

More nods.

He pointed toward the door. “Keep it quiet. No yelling. Don’t knock over anything. And clean up after yourselves.”

Then, as he turned to leave, he paused, reached into his satchel, and pulled out a half-empty jar of Vaseline. He handed it off like an afterthought, barely concealing his amusement.

“Oh by the way, not all the time, but sometimes this cunt’s cunt can get drier than a bucket of sand. If she’s dry, lube up with this and you’ll be good to go. ”

He smirked.

“Bon appétit, boys.”

The door clicked softly behind the orderly, the sound too quiet to be anything but deliberate. It wasn’t the kind of sound that should have been heard—it was the finality of a lock being turned, the certainty of isolation. To Y/N, it felt like the cold embrace of a deadbolt sliding into place. Now, it was just her and them.

Inside the room, the two men laughed—low and wrong, the kind of laughter that carried nothing but malice. It wasn’t amusement. It was nervous energy, the kind that signals the start of something that shouldn't have been allowed. Warren, the larger of the two, fumbled with his belt, hands clumsy, tugging at the leather strap beneath his stomach. He didn’t glance at her; he didn’t need to. She was nothing to him. Furniture. Inventory. Part of the room he’d already written off.

Y/N blinked.

It wasn’t deliberate. Not a flinch. Not fear. Just a reflex. A quiet reclaiming of her body after so long, a whisper of life. Her lashes flickered, just enough to stir in the dim light. But it was enough.

Gerald saw it first. His voice, still playful but with a sharp edge, cut through the haze of laughter. “Hey, Warren... she just blinked.”

Warren didn’t even look up. His focus was still on his belt, the effort slow and unfocused. “He said she can’t blink.”

“I know what he said,” Gerald replied, quieter now, voice dropping an octave. “But I saw it. I’m not imagining it.”

Warren grunted in response, the sound of his pants dropping loud in the tense silence. His hands were heavy, fumbling with his jeans. “Just nerves, man. You’re jumpy. You think I care if her eyelid twitched?”

Gerald didn’t answer. He stood still near the foot of the bed, uncertainty in the way he held himself, his eyes flicking to Y/N like he didn’t know what to make of what he had seen.

Warren, irritated, moved to the bed. His bulk sank it with a groan, his knees pushing into her frail body. Y/N didn’t move. She didn’t flinch. She was stone beneath him. The gown pressed cold against her skin, but she didn’t let herself react. Her muscles were tight, rigid, holding on to the stillness like it was the only thing she could control.

Her heart hammered in her chest. The only thing alive in her body.

She stared past him, eyes dull and empty. A mannequin. A shell. Her mind was a hundred miles away from the man above her, but it wasn’t in peace. She was a captive, caught between the body she couldn’t move and the memories that still haunted her.

Warren shifted his weight, letting out a grunt of discomfort. “Hey, Gerald.”

Gerald blinked, his arms folded as if trying to block out the awkwardness of the moment. “What?”

“This ain’t no damn peep show,” Warren muttered, eyes narrowing. “Go wait outside. I’ll call you when I’m done.”

“Aww, c’mon, you serious right now?” Gerald’s voice was petulant, but it didn’t last long.

Warren’s glare darkened. “Dead serious. Get out.”

Gerald muttered under his breath and shuffled toward the door, his shoulders slumping as he cast one last glance at Y/N before slipping out into the hallway.

The door clicked behind him with finality, leaving the room empty save for the sounds of machinery. The steady pulse of the heart monitor, the hiss of the ventilator, and the hum of the fluorescent light above filled the silence. The air in the room felt colder now, heavier, like the space had closed in on itself.

Warren turned back to her, his eyes roaming over her body with a sneer. “Damn,” he muttered under his breath, bending close as he leaned over her. His breath was sour, stale tobacco and decay, and his eyes gleamed with something ugly. “You really are pretty up close. Like a doll somebody left in the attic.”

He positioned himself over her, hands braced on either side of her head, blocking her view of the ceiling as his lips parted. He leaned in, slow and deliberate, his breath heavy as it neared her.

And then, without warning, she moved.

It wasn’t hesitation or uncertainty. There was no struggle. It was raw action, fast and decisive. Her arms shot up from the bed with brutal precision, hands locking into the back of his greasy hair, yanking his face down toward hers. Her mouth opened, and in an instant, her teeth sank into his tongue.

The sound was immediate—a sick, wet crunch, followed by a strangled, guttural shriek. Blood flooded her mouth, hot and coppery, coating her tongue and throat. Warren jerked back, howling in pain, his hands clawing at his face in panic. The scream was garbled, unrecognizable—his mouth no longer formed words.

He stumbled, tripping over his own pants, blood streaming between his fingers.

Y/N sat up with the suddenness of a corpse reanimated. Her chest heaved as her chin, slick with blood, turned. She spat the severed piece of his tongue onto the floor, the sickening thud echoing in the room.

She didn’t flinch.

Her eyes locked onto him—clear, blazing with life, a fire ignited in her chest.

With a practiced motion, she ripped the IV from her arm. Blood welled from the site, but she didn’t even flinch. The sting barely registered. All she could feel was the rush—the flood of adrenaline, every muscle alive and ready to move.

Warren, now trying to crawl backward across the bed, was still shrieking through gurgles, his eyes wide with disbelief, his hands still clawing at his mouth.

She didn’t wait.

She launched herself at him, throwing her body forward and slamming him down flat against the mattress. She straddled his chest, her fists planted firmly above him. The IV needle, now in her hand, glinted with cold steel under the harsh fluorescent light. She drove it into his left eye.

His scream tore through the room—a pure, primal sound that reverberated off the walls. He bucked beneath her, thrashing, but she held tight, twisting the needle deeper. There was resistance, then a soft, wet pop. His limbs stiffened, his spine arched—and then, with a sickening finality, he went still.

It wasn’t the stillness of sleep. It wasn’t the stillness of unconsciousness.

It was the stillness of death.

But she wasn’t done.

Gripping the collar of his shirt, Y/N shoved his weight sideways. His body rolled toward the edge of the bed, and with a twist of her hips, she sent him crashing into the metal bedframe. The impact rang through the room, a hollow, awful crack that punctuated the silence that followed.

Y/N crouched at the edge of the bed, her body splattered with his blood, her gown clinging to her like a second skin. Her breath came in ragged bursts, each inhale burning, each exhale heavy with the weight of what she had just done. Sweat beaded at her brow, her vision pulsing with adrenaline, sharp and distorted. She scanned the room quickly, making sure there were no more surprises.

Outside, Gerald paced. He’d heard the shift—a grunt, followed by a scream, then nothing. His instincts told him something wasn’t right.

He banged on the door. “Hey! Hey, man, keep it down in there! I can hear your ass from out here!”

Silence.

One second. Two. No answer. No more sounds. Just a deep, unsettling quiet that settled in his gut like a bad omen.

Something wasn’t right.

He hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering over the doorknob. Then, he pushed it open.

“Come on, Warre—”

The sentence died in his throat, stifled by the overwhelming stillness of the room. His eyes scanned the scene, trying to make sense of what was unfolding. His mind struggled to process the violence before him.

Warren was on the floor, crumpled in a heap beside the bed, his limbs twisted unnaturally, like a broken puppet discarded on the floor. Blood pooled beneath his head, so bright and red it looked surreal against the pale linoleum. The bed was in shambles—ripped sheets, soaked blankets, and machines strewn across the floor as if they had been cast aside in the chaos. But the woman…

She was there. Exactly where they had left her. She was flat on her back, eyes open, staring blankly at the ceiling. Motionless.

Gerald blinked, his confusion deepening. His gaze flicked between the bodies, trying to find some logic in the mess. There was too much blood, too little movement. Everything was wrong. He took a tentative step forward, unsure of what he was seeing.

Y/N blinked. It wasn’t a flinch. It wasn’t involuntary. It was deliberate. Her eyes moved, and in the next instant, she acted.

Her arm shot upward in a blur of motion—fast, practiced, explosive. She grabbed the front of his shirt, yanking him toward her with a force he wasn’t prepared for. He stumbled, thrown off balance, and pitched forward, only to meet the cold steel of the IV needle still slick with Warren’s blood. It sank into his temple, and a sickening crunch echoed in his ear. Metal piercing flesh. The kind of sound that made your stomach twist.

Y/N didn’t hesitate.

She twisted the needle, driving it deeper.

Gerald’s body jerked, spasming uncontrollably. His mouth fell open, but no sound came out—just a bubbling, choking gurgle, like drowning in air. His limbs kicked and flailed, but it was too late. His body sagged, heavy and lifeless, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

Y/N released him.

He dropped to the ground beside Warren, a wet lump of dead weight.

For a moment, Y/N stayed still. Her breath was shallow, her body streaked with blood. The adrenaline buzzed through her, but there was no time to savor it. The two men, both much larger than her, lay dead around her, and she hadn’t moved more than a few feet from the bed she had been trapped in for years. But it wasn’t over.

With a quick, fluid motion, she ripped the blood-soaked sheets off the bed and swung her legs over the side. Her bare feet hit the cold tile with a slap, and she tried to stand—

Her knees buckled beneath her. Her body folded like dry paper, crumpling to the floor. Pain shot through her ribs as she hit the hard surface, and a tray of instruments scattered, clattering across the tile like metal rain. Tubes snagged on her ankle, tangling in a mess she couldn’t escape.

She lay there, her cheek pressed against the freezing floor, gasping for air. Her legs didn’t move. They were numb—foreign. They didn’t feel like her own. Panic surged, but she forced it down. Now wasn’t the time. Survival wasn’t going to wait for her fear.

She closed her eyes, focused on her breath.

One second. Two. Just enough to recalibrate.

Then, she heard it.

Footsteps. Not Warren. Not Gerald. Her heart skipped in her chest.

Taehyung?

His name echoed in her mind like a shot fired in the distance, but she didn’t speak it. She couldn’t afford to. Instead, she focused. She focused on what she could control.

Her head turned, just enough to see who was coming.

Gerald's body lay sprawled on the floor beside her, his jacket hiked up from the fall. His belt—still intact—held a trucker’s knife in a worn leather sheath. Y/N’s hand shook as she reached out, her fingers brushing the cool steel. With a steady grip, she grabbed the hilt and pulled.

Click.

The blade snapped open with a clean, satisfying sound. The noise cut through the air, sharp and empowering.

In the hallway, she heard an elevator chime. The doors slid open with a squeak, and footsteps followed, each one slow, deliberate—the orderly. Y/N pressed herself flat against the floor, sliding against the wall next to the doorframe. Her body screamed in protest, muscles strained and protesting the movement, but her grip on the knife didn’t waver. It was steady, cold.

The footsteps stopped. The door opened.

The orderly paused, the mess before him catching his attention. Blood pooled on the floor. Bodies were scattered. Sheets shredded and twisted. The horror of the scene struck him, but not her. Not yet.

“Oh, shi—”

The words never finished. Y/N struck.

In one swift motion, she cut down, the blade slicing through the air with precision. It hit his Achilles tendons—both of them—splitting through flesh, tendon, and bone. His scream tore through the corridor, high-pitched, desperate, and ragged. He collapsed, his legs giving way, folding beneath him as his body crashed to the floor.

Y/N didn’t give him a moment to recover. She crawled toward him, her muscles burning with the effort, teeth clenched against the strain. She grabbed a fistful of his uniform, blood smearing across the floor as she dragged him into the room. His legs twitched uselessly behind him, his body weak and limp.

With a growl, she pulled him toward the door and slammed his head into the frame.

CRACK.

The sound of bone hitting wood filled the room. His scream was muffled, but it only pushed her further. She did it again.

CRACK.

And again.

CRACK.

Each blow sent fresh waves of blood splattering across the floor. His body jerked, limbs twitching in a desperate attempt to escape, but Y/N held him steady. His breath came in ragged gasps. His eyes fluttered open, glazed with pain. And then, they locked onto her.

And he saw her.

His face twisted in terror, raw and unfiltered.

Y/N crouched over him, her breath labored, strands of hair plastered to her face with blood and sweat. She wasn’t just looking at him—she was seeing him. She was past the point of mercy.

“Where’s Taehyung?” she rasped, her voice jagged, like shards of broken glass.

His lips trembled. “I—I don’t… I don’t know—”

She slammed his head into the doorframe again.

CRACK.

He gasped, his body shuddering in pain.

“I saw him,” Y/N growled, voice thick with fury. “Here. In this room. You tell me where he is—or I’ll beat your brains in until you can’t lie anymore.”

“I swear—I don’t—”

SLAM.

The room was quiet now, heavy with the weight of the silence that followed the last blow. Blood seeped from his face, dripping steadily, his breathing short and labored. Y/N didn’t speak. She just stared at him, her eyes narrowing as she caught a glint of something at his neck. A flash of gold caught in the dim light. A thin chain, delicate despite the blood and grime clinging to his skin.

Her hand shot out, quick and sure, and she yanked the chain with all the force she had left. The link snapped with a sharp ping, the tension sending the pendant swinging into her palm. She didn’t hesitate as she examined it. It wasn’t jewelry.

It was a coke straw.

The metal was cold, smooth, worn down by years of handling, the mouthpiece tinted from use, heat, habit. It wasn’t meant to be noticed. It wasn’t flashy. It was personal. Private. And it was deeply familiar.

Her blood ran cold as she realized what she was holding.

She’d seen this before. She’d seen it hang from a neck like this, swinging and tapping against a collarbone in the dim light. Taehyung had worn it, a signature of sorts, like it was part of him. The click of it against his lighter echoed in her mind. The way it swayed when he leaned in close, whispering things that blurred the line between promise and poison.

Now it was here. In her hand. On this man.

Y/N stared at the straw for a long moment, the world shrinking down to that single object—its shape, the cool metal, the heat from the skin it had touched. She felt her chest tighten as she looked down at him.

“Where,” her voice was low, the words cold and cutting, “did you get this?”

His eyes, wide with panic, flickered up to meet hers. His lips barely moved, strained by shock and pain.

“It’s mine,” he gasped.

Y/N didn’t say anything at first. She just stared at him. And then, she laughed—no humor, just disbelief, sharp and biting.

“Bullshit,” she hissed under her breath.

Her hand tightened around the doorframe, ready to slam it down again, but something caught her eye. Ink.

She saw it on his hands, faded but still visible. Amateur tattoos. Crude block letters, likely done in a backroom or some dark corner of a prison. The letters stood out against his skin like scars.

B.U.C.K.

F.U.C.K.

The words hit her like a punch to the stomach. She wasn’t just shocked by what they said, but by what they meant.

Her eyes locked on the tattoos, and in that moment, her mind slipped away from the present. It slid into something older, something darker. The memory hit her like a wave.

The room was dim, bathed in the cold glow of security flashlights that cut through the shadows. Y/N lay there, helpless. Trapped in her own body, floating somewhere between a dream and oblivion, unable to move, unable to scream. And then, he’d appeared.

He stood at the foot of her bed like a storm she couldn’t escape, his presence dominating the space. His voice had been thick with a Southern drawl, slick with overconfidence.

“Well, ain’t you just the slice of cutie pie they all said you was,” he’d said, his words dripping with a disturbing kind of charm. “Ma’am, I’m from Longview, Texas. My name’s Buck. And I’m here to fuck.”

She hadn’t been able to respond then. She couldn’t even move. She had been frozen in that hospital bed, paralyzed, unable to fight back. But now, the tables had turned.

Now she was awake.

The memory of him—his tattoos, his boots, the stench of cigarette smoke mixed with rot—had haunted her for far too long. But this time, she wasn’t trapped in a dream. This time, she was fully in control, and he was here.

Her vision snapped back to the present. She looked down at him, cold fury simmering in her eyes.

“Your name’s Buck, right?” she asked, her voice quiet, almost too calm, as if she were confirming the simplest of facts. “And you came to fuck.”

He froze, recognition flashing in his eyes even as blood poured from his wounds. His body trembled, a sick realization sinking in: she knew exactly who he was, and he wasn’t going to make it out alive.

“Right?” she pressed, louder now, a challenge in her voice.

“Wait-”

Her grip tightened on the doorframe, her muscles coiling, ready for what came next. And then, with a sharp motion, she brought the door down.

CRACK.

The sound was deafening, final, wet. It ended him. He didn’t move after that—not a twitch. His body was still, lifeless, his breath stilled forever.

Y/N stayed crouched there for a moment, her body slumped slightly, arms trembling from the force of it all. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. Her legs were still numb, unresponsive, like they belonged to someone else. But she didn’t care. He was gone. The weight of him was gone.

The room was silent again, the sterile hum of machines the only sound. The world outside continued to spin, oblivious to the violence that had just unfolded within these walls.

Slowly, she leaned over the body, her fingers working to find something useful. She brushed against the cracked leather of his pocket, tugging out a battered wallet. It smelled of sweat and cheap cigarettes. The faded gold letters on the outside still read, BIG EL PASO PIMPIN’. She curled her lip in disgust and opened it.

A wad of bills, mostly ones and fives, damp from the heat of his body, sat in the wallet. Y/N didn’t hesitate. She shoved them into the inner pocket of her scrubs without a second thought. Her hand brushed against the front pocket next, and she found the keys.

They weren’t just keys. A bulky plastic fob dangled from the ring, shaped like a tacky novelty license plate. Bright yellow, with pink flames licking the sides. PUSSY WAGON in a loopy, absurd font.

Her fingers tightened around it. It was vulgar, ridiculous. But it was hers now, and it was her way out.

She pocketed the keys quickly, then shifted her focus to Gerald’s body. Her arms felt like lead. Her lungs burned with the effort of each breath. But she dragged herself across the floor anyway, leaving a trail of sweat, blood, and fury behind her. She found the knife where it had fallen, still open, the blade slick with old blood. She wiped it clean on Gerald’s pants, then gripped it tightly once more.

She looked back at Buck’s body, still lying in a heap. One more thing to take.

With a grunt of effort, she began to peel his uniform off him. The fabric was damp, clinging to his body, still warm from his flesh. She worked one sleeve off at a time, her arms shaking with the effort, but she didn’t stop. It didn’t matter if the clothes fit. It didn’t matter if they were clean.

It wasn’t about comfort. It was about freedom.

When the last piece of his uniform came off, she pulled it on. It wasn’t smooth, her movements clumsy, but she was determined. Her legs still refused to work. Numb. Unresponsive. But her mind was sharp. Her arms were strong. Her will was unwavering.

She might have to crawl out of here, but she would get out. And she would take whatever she needed to make it happen.

The elevator doors opened with a low hiss, like something ancient trying to stretch itself awake. Flickering fluorescent lights spilled into the dark, damp parking garage, revealing a cracked, oil-streaked concrete floor, stained from years of neglect. The air felt thick—heavy with diesel fumes and dust, as if even the air had given up on movement, resigned to a stagnant existence.

Y/N’s wheelchair shot forward with swift precision. The wheels clicked rhythmically as she pushed, each rotation sending a jolt of pain through her arms. She gripped the rims hard, her palms blistered, pushing herself relentlessly. Her shoulders burned, muscles protesting, but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t. She kept her head down, eyes fixed on the ground, her scrubs sticking damply to her back. The oversized fabric bunched awkwardly around her hips, borrowed from a dead man’s body. Her legs hung motionless in front of her, pale and stiff, like lifeless mannequins strapped to the chair. No feeling. No response. Just dead weight.

At least her arms were working.

The garage stretched out before her, a dim maze of columns and half-lit corridors. Cars sat like dormant creatures, their shapes ghostly beneath the flickering lights. The shadows seemed deeper down here, every sound sharper. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, louder than the hum of the overhead lights or the distant whir of a ventilation fan.

She maneuvered through the rows, the wheelchair tires rolling over debris and cracks in the concrete. Every few feet, she stopped, scanning the vehicles—make, model, color—matching them to the image etched into her mind. It was in here somewhere.

And then she saw it.

A yellow Chevrolet Silverado, sitting low to the ground against the far wall, half-hidden in the shadows. It stood out like a neon sign in the dark. Red flames curved across the sides, peeling at the edges, as if the paint had been burned on. The word PUSSY WAGON sprawled across the tailgate in bold, fluorescent-pink cursive. Obscene. Ridiculous. Unmistakable.

Her chest tightened. It was real. Not a hallucination, not a memory. After everything—after him, the blood, the pain, and the years locked away—there it was. Still there. Still waiting.

Her hand slipped into the baggy pocket of her scrubs, fingers closing around the key ring. The plastic fob dangled out—gaudy and yellow, shaped like a miniature vanity plate. The same absurd font gleamed beneath the garage lights. She stared at it for a second. Just a moment. Then, without hesitation, she pushed herself forward.

Her wheelchair wheels clicked faster, urgency spiking inside her. When she reached the truck, she didn’t pause. She slid the key into the lock and turned it. The sound of the mechanism snapping open hit her like a blow. Simple. Clean. But to her, it split the world in two. Before and after. Caged and free.

The door creaked open. Warm, stale air rushed out—thick with the smell of vinyl and old sweat. It hit her like the breath of a sleeping animal disturbed too soon. She reached up, bracing one arm against the seat, the other gripping the doorframe. Her fingers slipped a few times, but the third time she caught it.

Her muscles screamed in protest as she forced herself upward, her elbows scraping against the metal. Every inch of her body resisted, but she didn’t stop. She gritted her teeth, a grunt escaping her lips as she pulled with everything she had left. With one final surge, she collapsed into the cab.

Her body hit the backseat in a jumbled heap, her head crashing against the cracked vinyl with a dull thud. Sweat streamed down her face, slipping into her eyes, her arms hanging limp at her sides, trembling from the strain. For a moment, she just lay there, panting like she had run a marathon, the exhaustion from the last few hours crashing over her in waves.

Her legs lay stretched out across the seat, stiff and lifeless, like two pale pillars frozen in time. Her bare feet were caked in dirt, toes pointed upwards in the stillness, as though her legs had never moved at all. She stared at them, her mind reeling with the disconnect between her and her body.

So close. So far.

She nudged the wheelchair with her heel, watching it roll a few feet before tipping sideways and crashing to the floor with a metallic clang that reverberated through the empty garage, loud and jarring like a gunshot. The sound hung in the air, then settled into silence.

Alone. Hidden, for now. Buried in the belly of this forgotten, cold space.

Her eyes shifted to her right foot, her gaze fixating on her big toe. She stared at it as though it held the key to something important, something she had forgotten how to reach.

“Wiggle your big toe,” she whispered. Her voice cracked with desperation.

Nothing.

She repeated it again, quieter this time, as if the words could somehow coax movement. “Wiggle your big toe.”

Still, nothing.

Her eyes narrowed. She focused harder. Her breath slowed, measured. It was that one small piece of her. That tiny bridge between mind and limb. She needed it to move. Just that one thing. It wasn’t too much to ask, was it?

“Wiggle your big toe,” she said, the words now coming with the cadence of a chant, a desperate plea, a silent demand for her body to obey.

No movement.

She wasn’t going to give up. She couldn’t. That toe had four years of sleep to wake up from. And she was going to wake it, no matter how long it took. She wasn’t going back to the bed. She wasn’t going back to that place, that silence. She had a truck, keys, cash in her pocket, blood on her arms, and names in her head—names like prayers she hadn’t spoken yet.

She had a mission now.

But as she concentrated, her thoughts shifted, deepening into something darker, older, more familiar. She wasn’t in the garage anymore. Not fully. The stale air, the cracked vinyl seat, the flickering lights—they all blurred at the edges of her awareness as something colder and heavier slid into her mind like smoke, creeping beneath a locked door.

The faces returned. Not as ghosts. Not as visions brought on by trauma or fever. No, they came as memories—names, histories, real people who had been part of her life. Each face slipped into her mind like a puzzle piece finding its place, fragments of a life she had lived, of betrayals that had shattered it. They came without order, but their presence was a fire all the same.

Yoongi Min.

He had once been her calm in the chaos. Cottonmouth. The quiet one. Always the sharpest in the field, the one who spoke the least but saw the most. For a time, he had been one of the few people she allowed to see her without armor. He was precise, elegant in his violence, the kind of man who would leave a room of people dead without saying a word. She had trusted him, even loved him once, before everything had blurred and bled together.

They had shared secrets, missions that required silence, that left them covered in blood and dirt, unable to speak of the things they’d done. He had been her friend, one of the only ones she had left.

And yet, when the time had come to make a choice—when her name had been spoken in that room—he had stayed silent. He hadn’t argued, hadn’t asked questions. He had simply let it happen. Worse, he had known about her daughter. And still, he had let it happen.

He would be the first.

Not because he was the easiest target, but because he had known exactly what they were doing and had done nothing to stop it.

Then there was Jimin Park.

Copperhead. Her mirror image, her partner in crime, the quiet rebellion in a world of rigid obedience. Jimin was the one who made her laugh when everything else felt like it was sinking. They had trained together, fought side by side, and trusted each other with a loyalty forged in the fires of their past. They both had wanted out—once, briefly, they had even believed it was possible. She had helped him disappear. Off-grid, out of Mexico, up into the hills of California with some girl who dreamed in watercolor. Big eyes, kind voice, a future untouched by blood.

She wondered if he was still there.

She hoped he was.

If he was, it meant he’d made it out. Truly escaped. If he wasn’t, finding him wouldn’t take long. Jimin, for all his sweetness, had a sharp edge. He’d made enemies on the West Coast, and all she’d need was a name, a rumor, a whisper, and she’d find him.

But if he had stayed quiet, like Yoongi? If he had known what they were doing to her and walked away? Then that edge of his wouldn’t be enough to save him.

Her hands curled into fists in her lap, then released.

Brandi Phoenix. California Mountain Snake.

Cold. Beautiful. Calculating. Brandi wore her hatred like perfume—light enough to be unnoticed but poisonous beneath the surface. From the moment she stepped into the fold, Brandi had resented her. For her skill. For her rank. For the space she filled beside Taehyung. For simply existing where Brandi wanted to be.

Their fights were legendary—venom in their words during missions, fists behind closed doors. Brandi was a storm in heels—always circling, always striking. There had been no mystery in her betrayal. It had been coming for years. Brandi had needed only the excuse.

And she got it.

That confrontation would come. Eventually. It wouldn’t be clean. It wouldn’t be subtle. Brandi wouldn’t beg for her life. She’d fight to kill, and Y/N had no illusions about that.

And honestly, she welcomed it.

But Brandi wouldn’t come easy. She’d be close to Taehyung, as always. If Y/N wanted one, she’d have to face the other. When that time came, she’d need to be ready for both.

Then there was Namjoon.

Namjoon Kim. Sidewinder.

Taehyung’s older brother. Stoic, haunted, built like a fortress but just as empty. Namjoon had never truly belonged to their world—not the way the others did. He had inherited the family legacy, a weight he never wanted. Over time, it had slowly broken him, year by year.

He hadn’t been cruel. But he hadn’t been kind, either. He’d simply been... resigned. Watching his own story unfold from behind a wall of glass.

And yet, he had been there. He had participated. He hadn’t stopped it.

That was enough.

She wouldn’t make him suffer like the others would. Her rage didn’t burn as hot for him. But he would die. Quietly. Quickly. No warnings, no speeches. Just a clean ending for a man who had stood silent while she was buried alive.

And then, always at the center of it all, was Taehyung Kim.

The Snake Charmer.

The leader. The architect. The one who had bound them all together with whispered promises and elegant plans. He had trained them, molded them into something more than human. He had spoken of legacy, eternity, while hiding a blade behind his back.

He had touched her like she mattered.

He had promised her a future—a shared future.

A life.

And then, with cold precision, he had signed the order. Clinical. Exact. The same hand that once traced lazy circles on her skin had sentenced her to four years of silence, stillness, stolen breath, and severed motherhood.

He was the father of her child. Her lover. Her executioner.

No one else came close.

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the pain wash over her. The constant ache in her body had become familiar, a pulse deep within her muscles and bones, a reminder of the years spent in stillness. But beneath the physical suffering, deeper than any physical wound, was the rage. It wasn’t hot anymore. It didn’t burn like it used to. It cut. It was cold, sharp, focused. She opened her eyes, her gaze fixing on her foot again.

“Wiggle your big toe,” she whispered, her voice hoarse but steady.

Nothing.

Her foot stayed still, lifeless. But something in her shifted. There was no disappointment in her face. Only determination.

The silence around her grew thicker, but she was anything but still inside. She could feel the fire inside her, the rage pulsing beneath the surface. She wasn’t done. She wasn’t free yet, but she would be. She would feel the ground beneath her feet again. She would move again. It would start with her toe. Then her foot. Her knee. A step. Then a run. And when she ran, she would hunt.

She knew where to start. Yoongi Min. If he was still alive, he'd be in Korea. And she would find him. She would look him in the eye, and the last thing he’d see would be her.

His face appeared in her mind without effort—soft features, a strong chin, pale skin with freckles in the summer, though he never tanned. His hair was as black as a raven’s feather. He moved like a cat, always calm, always assessing.

Yoongi’s life hadn’t been easy, though he would never admit it. His father never laid a hand on him, but he hadn’t seen his entire family slaughtered, either. Yoongi’s first real encounter with death had come when he was just eleven years old, in the summer of 1981. She couldn't recall the exact date, but she knew it had been hot. He’d told her once, many years ago, how warm the room had been, the sweat dripping down his back, his breath shallow.

Yoongi had been hiding beneath a rusted iron cot in a small apartment on the outskirts of Busan, the kind of place where the ceiling leaked when it rained and the walls were thin enough to hear the neighbors’ every move. He was small, too small for the horrors he’d already seen, too small for what was unfolding now.

He curled into a ball beneath the bed, his limbs bent like fragile paper, wedged between an old pair of sneakers and a half-empty tin of candy. His mother’s candy, the kind she used to sneak into his backpack, telling him to chew quietly during class. Yoongi held his breath, his hands clamped tightly over his mouth, as the cold wood floor pressed into his ribs. Dust filled the air and his nose.

Above him, the room was chaos. His father, still in uniform, sweat darkening his shirt, was fighting three men. They were strangers, but not unfamiliar. They wore dark suits, polished shoes. The kind of quiet that came with practiced violence. They were members of the Chilsung-pa, a crime syndicate as old as the neighborhood itself. These men were no thugs. They were trained, hardened, and they were here with purpose.

One of the men carried a blade longer than Yoongi’s forearm. Another moved with the calm assurance of someone who didn’t need to rush—because he never needed a second swing.

The first man lunged. His father, once a sergeant, met him head-on, muscle and instinct colliding. The sound of their struggle filled the room, the shuffle of feet, the crash of furniture. The man’s neck snapped loudly, cleanly, like a branch breaking in a storm.

But it wasn’t enough.

The other two were faster, smarter. Steel gleamed in the dim light. It cut through air, then flesh.

Yoongi couldn’t see the details—only flashes of motion, grunts, and the spray of blood. Red splattered across the walls, the floor, the photograph of his grandfather pinned crookedly to the wall. His father made a sound—half snarl, half gasp—and then he collapsed. A heap of blood and breathlessness.

Yoongi didn’t scream. His voice had vanished somewhere in the violence. He didn’t blink. He didn’t cry. He just watched, frozen, as the world around him shattered.

They dragged his mother into the room, barefoot and frantic, wild with fear and anger. Her resistance was relentless, a last stand against everything that had already broken her. She fought like someone who still believed there was a way out—kicking, clawing, her body a whirlwind of desperation. Her curses filled the air, her cracked lips spitting venom. Her teeth snapped at the hands that tried to control her. But even in her fury, they moved her with ease. The bed loomed ahead, and she was shoved toward it.

Yoongi watched from his hidden spot, trapped under the bed, unable to move, unable to help. His eyes were locked on the struggle above him, his heart hammering in his chest. Her foot struck one of the men holding her, and for a moment, it seemed like she might break free. But then came the backhand—hard, sharp. It landed with a hollow crack, and she crumpled.

They didn’t hesitate. Two of them hauled her up by the arms, dragging her limp body the last few steps. She was crying now, but not out of fear—this was pure, unbridled fury. Her body shook with the force of her grief as she was thrown onto the bed. The mattress sank under the weight, groaning with the strain. The bedsprings screeched, the dust falling through the seams in the wood.

Yoongi’s breath caught in his throat. He could smell her—citrus and talc, warm and familiar. But that scent was quickly overtaken by the metallic stench of blood and sweat and something darker, something far worse. He clamped his eyes shut and pressed his hands over his ears, hoping for silence.

It didn’t help.

The noises started—sickening, unrelenting. The sound of bodies colliding. Her screams started out defiant but quickly turned into broken gasps, half-screams, choked sobs. The kind of sound you make when all hope is gone, when you’ve lost everything that could save you.

Yoongi was frozen. Trapped in his own body, not by fear, but by the sheer magnitude of his helplessness. His hands balled into fists so tight his nails broke the skin on his scalp, but his body refused to move. His teeth ground against each other, the pressure building until a molar cracked, but he barely noticed. He pressed his face into the splintered floorboards so hard his nose bled, warm blood trickling down his lip and pooling in the dust beneath him.

But none of it mattered.

The bed above him dipped and rose, groaning under their weight. The rhythm of the violence was sickening, steady, relentless. The sounds—every thrust, every scream—carved themselves into him, deep, permanent. It was like being marked, like each noise was a chisel, shaping him into something different.

Time stopped. The seconds stretched into eternity, each one slow and distorted. Reality blurred like smoke, like the edges of a dream slipping into something darker. He felt as though he was underwater, struggling to reach the surface, but never getting any closer.

And then, through the chaos, came a whisper. A sound so small, so broken, it nearly crushed him.

“Yoongi…”

Her voice. His mother’s voice. It was a breath, a prayer, shaped by pain and defeat. Her words were barely audible, muffled by her suffering. She wasn’t just calling out to him; she was reminding herself that he was still there. Still alive. Still hers.

That one word broke him. It shattered the last of his resolve. He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t help her. He couldn’t do anything.

So, he stayed there. Silent. Hollow. No tears left.

He was still staring into the dark when the blade came down. It sliced through the mattress with a sickening crack, cutting through flesh and bone with a brutal, decisive force. The sound of it—sharp and final—was one Yoongi would carry with him for the rest of his life. His breath stopped in his throat, his body freezing in the moment, as if everything had paused with the strike. The tremor that shook the frame seemed to ripple through the world itself, as if the earth itself winced in response to the violence.

Blood soaked through the mattress slowly, cruelly. The warmth of it was thick, spreading downward like it had all the time in the world, creeping into every fabric thread, darkening the cotton, turning it maroon, then black. One drop fell through the mattress and landed beside Yoongi’s eye. Then another, splattering his cheek. It didn’t stop—more followed, dripping onto his lips, his forehead, like a slow rain.

The blood clung to his skin as though it had been there forever, like his mother’s touch had once clung to his hand. And just like that moment—he couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t fight it. He lay still beneath the bed, covered in her. Still, he made no sound. No scream. No breath.

It was over.

Not just the violence. Everything.

The room seemed to hold its breath, a heavy pause that hung thick in the air. Then, one of the men spoke, his voice low and calm, almost bored. Yoongi couldn’t make out the words. He didn’t want to. His mind had gone white, the kind of empty stillness that comes when everything around you has shattered. He floated somewhere above the horror, detached from the mess unfolding above him. But still, his eyes didn’t leave them.

He saw the man move to the side of the bed, wiping the blade clean on the edge of a pillow. Watched as he straightened his tie, adjusted the cuffs of his suit as if he were stepping out of a business meeting, not a slaughterhouse. The man’s face was composed—cold, calculating. A scar marked his right cheek, a thin line, old and worn. The kind you get when you’ve been in the thick of it, up close, and survived. His eyes were dead—dark, lifeless coal that had long since lost their light.

Shin Ji-Sung. They called him Boss Shin. Yoongi never forgot that face. Not then. Not ever.

He stayed there, unmoving, until the door slammed shut behind them, until their footsteps faded into the stairwell, and the quiet resumed. The rain had started again, tapping lightly against the glass, like it knew it couldn’t do anything but bear witness.

Only then did Yoongi crawl out. His knees slid in the blood as he pulled himself forward, inch by inch. His movements were slow, mechanical, drained of everything but the force of will. When he reached the edge of the bed, he stopped. He looked up.

His mother’s body lay twisted, her eyes wide open but unseeing. One arm hung over the edge of the bed, her fingers curled toward nothing. Her mouth was slightly open, as if still trying to say his name.

Yoongi stared at her for what felt like forever—minutes, hours, maybe more. He couldn’t tell. His own mouth was open, but no sound came. Not a cry. Not a breath. Just a hollow, unbearable stillness.

Yoongi was eleven years old, half-Korean, half-Japanese, a base kid—an accident in a country that barely acknowledged his existence. But even at that young age, something inside him survived. It wasn’t his innocence—he lost that the moment he was forced to witness violence beyond comprehension. It wasn’t his sense of safety—he never had that to begin with. But something deeper, something colder, remained. A promise. Silent. Absolute. Forged in blood and etched into the marrow of his bones.

He would survive. That was his truth. And when the time came, he would rise. The men who had done this to him—he would find them. All of them. He would track them down, one by one, and make them bleed.

The world had broken him in so many ways, but it had also shaped him. He had learned to live with the pain, to swallow it whole and keep moving forward, even when every instinct told him to stop. And one day, that hunger for retribution would fuel him. He would find Boss Shin. The man who had sealed his mother’s fate and shattered his life. The man who would pay in ways he couldn’t yet fully comprehend. But Yoongi would make sure he bled. He’d make it hurt.

In the cruelest twist of fate—or perhaps the cruelest design—Yoongi wouldn’t have to search far. Boss Shin, for all his power, for all the fear his name inspired, carried one fatal flaw. A craving. A hunger for boys who looked just like Yoongi. And in time, Yoongi would give him exactly what he wanted. He would become the thing that haunted Boss Shin's every nightmare. And when he did, there would be no escape.

By the time Yoongi Min turned thirteen, he had stopped being a child. He had learned to stop asking questions, to lower his gaze, and let silence speak for him. He had perfected the art of stillness—watching without being seen, listening for what wasn’t said. He had learned to hear the meaning beneath words and the threat behind a smile. He spoke less but saw more.

But what he had learned most of all was patience. Not the kind you’re taught in school or the kind that’s scolded into you by tired parents. This was something darker. A patience that comes when you’ve been hollowed out, when the only thing keeping you upright is the shape of the rage you’re saving for later.

He waited. Not for days or months, but for years. He moved through the system like smoke—foster care, state programs, shelters with locked food cabinets and bars on the windows. He was polite, obedient, invisible. Until the moment came.

And when it came, it wasn’t gentle. It came with blood.

The room reeked of false luxury—gold-leaf frames on the walls, velvet drapes drawn tight against the light, the lingering scent of expensive cologne. It was all soft, muted. Except Yoongi.

Boss Shin, the man on the bed, was nearly asleep, his eyes heavy from wine and narcotics, his body limp from a life of routine depravity. His breath came shallow and uneven, a smugness laced in every exhale.

Yoongi stood over him. Smaller than he would ever be again—thirteen years old, narrow-shouldered, wiry, but taut with focus. His hair was jet-black, tied back beneath a wig, and he wore a schoolgirl’s uniform—pleated skirt, white blouse, knee-high socks. He had spent weeks preparing. Days enduring. It wasn’t shame; it was strategy. Because Shin liked boys who looked like girls. Everyone knew that. And Yoongi had made sure Shin noticed him.

Now he was here.

Yoongi climbed onto the bed, his knees sinking into the mattress without a sound. Shin’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused, the haze of his stupor thick around him.

And then the blade came down.

There was nothing delicate about it. No finesse, no grace. It was raw. A thick military-grade combat knife, taken from a dead man months ago, plunged into Shin’s chest with a grunt of effort. The steel slid between his ribs. Shin’s eyes snapped wide, and a wet gasp tore from his throat.

Yoongi didn’t stop.

He twisted the blade. Blood erupted—hot, arterial—splattering across his neck, his chest, the pale blue sheets. Shin thrashed, his body arching in agony, but Yoongi held him down, straddling him like iron. The man’s strength already began to fail, his nails scraping futilely against Yoongi’s skin.

Yoongi watched it all. Not with hatred. Not even with satisfaction. But with cold, clinical detachment.

This wasn’t revenge. It was correction. A realignment of the world.

When the light finally left Shin’s eyes, Yoongi pulled the blade free and exhaled. The silence that followed was brief.

Shouts thundered from the hallway. Heavy footfalls. Yoongi moved quickly, slipping off the bed and into the shadows beneath it, blending into the folds of the velvet bedskirt like he had rehearsed a hundred times.

The pistol was already in his hand, taped beneath the bedframe for days, waiting. A small .22, stolen, modified for close-range, silent, deadly. It felt cold in his hand, familiar. He didn’t need to think. He was ready.

The door crashed open, the hinges groaning under the weight of the men rushing in. Two of Shin’s enforcers. Guns half-raised, but their bravado faltered as soon as they saw the scene inside. Blood-soaked sheets, their boss’s lifeless body slumped across the velvet pillows, red dripping from the mattress and pooling on the floor. They froze, not with grief, but confusion. Fear. Real, raw fear that shot through their chests like ice.

They didn’t see Yoongi yet.

He was hidden beneath the bed, crouched in the shadows. His knees pressed to his chest, pistol steady in his hand. Silent. Still. Waiting.

The first man stepped forward, cautiously, barking orders at the dead. His boot heel thudded just inches from Yoongi’s face.

Bang.

A clean shot to the chest. The sound cracked through the air like thunder. The man dropped instantly, a startled gasp leaving him as he flailed briefly before crumpling onto the marble floor. Blood pooled beneath him.

The second man reacted in panic, shouting and lunging toward his gun.

Yoongi was faster.

He rolled left, coming up on one knee, and fired twice.

Bang. Bang.

The first bullet ripped through the man’s throat, the second hitting him in the shoulder mid-fall. He spun into the doorframe, hitting it hard, and slumped to the ground, coughing up blood. His body twitched once, then stilled.

Yoongi stood slowly, his movements controlled, calm. There was no thrill in his actions, just the weight of inevitability. The pistol hung loosely in his hand, blood drying on its grip. In his other hand, the knife remained, still warm and dripping.

His breath was steady, his eyes cold. No fear. No exhilaration. Just motion.

The suite was filled with the scent of death now. The thick, coppery smell of fresh blood mixed with sweat and fear—fear that filled the air with every dying breath. It clung to the velvet curtains, soaked into the carpet, streaked across the cream-colored wallpaper like blood-written script.

Yoongi moved through the rooms methodically. He knew this place. He knew the layout. The blind spots. The shift changes. He’d memorized everything.

The guards were nothing. Complacent. Half-drunk. Slumped in side rooms, slack faces illuminated by the glow of TV screens. He ended each of their lives with the same quiet efficiency. A gun to the head. A knife to the throat. No cruelty. Just necessity.

There were no screams. No pleading. Just footsteps, soft thuds, a few strangled gasps—and then silence.

When it was over, the suite was still. Nine dead. One boy standing. Yoongi didn’t pause to admire it.

He moved through the same route he had come in: down the hallway, past the empty kitchen where the cooks had abandoned their posts, through the swinging back door that led to the stairwell. He descended three flights in silence.

No one stopped him. No one even looked. The staff knew enough to avoid the scene. Whatever had happened in that room, it was better left unseen.

He stepped out into the alley just as the rain began to fall again. Soft, warm drops washing away the blood from his bare calves but not from his hands. A cab waited at the curb, just as planned.

The driver didn’t ask questions.

Yoongi slid into the back seat, the worn leather sticking to his bloodied thighs. The wig, matted and soaked, was shoved into a plastic bag beside him. His socks were damp, crusted with blood, but his eyes were clear. Sharp. Focused. He sat still, watching the rain blur past the window as the cab pulled away. Tires hissed on wet asphalt.

He didn’t look back. Not once.

There would be no news reports. No police inquiries. No rumors of retribution whispered through the backrooms of politicians or mob bosses. Boss Shin had surrounded himself with loyal men—men willing to die for him, and the ones left standing would know the cost of speaking his name. It was a code. A simple one. You spoke his name, you joined him in the grave.

Justice, as Yoongi understood it, had been served. Not through courts or lawyers or long, drawn-out appeals. Not behind prison walls or slow deaths at the hands of officials. No, it had come in the form of a blade, a gun, a thirteen-year-old boy, and a vow whispered in the dark. Simple. Final.

And yet, as the city lights flickered by, streaked across the rain-smeared window, Yoongi didn’t feel peace. He didn’t feel anything at all. The blood had been spilled, and the world had kept turning, indifferent to what had been done. To what he had done.

By the time Yoongi Min turned twenty, his name had become an echo, heard only in the darkest corners. His name wasn’t on any official documents. It wasn’t part of any police briefings or secret intel files. It didn’t show up in headlines or trending topics. Yoongi’s name existed in whispers, passed between powerful men who only ever spoke of him in shadows. They never looked at him directly, never dared to. They only saw the consequences of his presence—the bloodshed, the chaos, the power shifts that seemed to follow in his wake.

Yoongi didn’t have a country. No flag to swear loyalty to. No passport, no fingerprints. He had no past anyone could prove. But he had a record. Not an official one. No papers to file. His record was a trail of disappearances, accidents, and sudden, unexplained shifts in power. A collection of bodies scattered across continents. And those who saw Yoongi Min knew it was already too late. Those who didn’t? They were the ones he preferred.

He was a ghost with a pulse. A master of stillness, of precision, and of murder. The kind of man who didn’t need orders. He needed only coordinates.

On a rooftop in the blistering heat of a Central American capital, Yoongi lay flat against the sun-baked concrete. He had been there for hours, and he would stay as long as it took. Sweat trickled down his face, caught by the bandana beneath the brim of his cap. His black-gloved hands gripped the matte body of a custom-built sniper rifle, the stock pressed tight against his shoulder. The barrel extended out beyond the ledge, covered with a heat-shielded tarp that blended seamlessly into the rooftop’s gravel.

The scope was adjusted with practiced precision. The crosshairs found their target without hesitation. Yoongi didn’t guess. He calculated. Every move, every angle, every second was mapped out in his mind before he made it.

Three stories below, a silver SUV inched through midday traffic, its armored exterior reflecting the sunlight. The SUV was flanked by two motorcycles, the lead bike carrying two men in mirrored sunglasses, the second one already scanning rooftops too late. Yoongi watched as the SUV slowed to a stop at a red light. The noise of the street, the shouting of a vendor trying to sell mangos, the squawk of a parrot from a balcony, all of it faded into the background. It was chaos, a mix of life, sound, and color. But in the scope, there was only stillness. Only precision.

The backseat window caught the sky for a split second before dipping down, revealing his target: General Ernesto Gaviria. Former intelligence chief turned cartel-backed politician, with private prisons and private armies to his name. He’d once been a revolutionary. Now, he was just a parasite feeding off the system he helped create.

Gaviria was laughing, his head tilted back, his stomach heaving in amusement, a man who hadn’t fought a battle in years—or perhaps never had. Two women sat beside him, their bodies rigid and poised in a way that made it clear they were well-practiced in the art of silence and beauty. Miss Panama and Miss Venezuela. Their sashes shimmered under the light, the fabric clinging to bodies sculpted with wealth and threats.

The general's hands rested casually on his knees, a pose of entitlement, the kind of careless dominance that came from too much power. Yoongi exhaled slowly, his breath measured, pushing out the heat, the noise, the weight of the past. His finger found the trigger. It curled around it like a whisper, soft but steady.

And then, with the crack of the rifle, it all shattered.

The sound was sharp, godlike, a roar that cut through the thick, humid air. The shot sliced the afternoon in half. Inside the SUV, the top of the general’s skull disappeared in a burst of red mist, a violent bloom of blood, bone, and gray matter that exploded upward, splattering the ceiling with gore. The noise was muted by the glass, but the image—crystal clear, forever etched—would never fade.

The woman to his right screamed, recoiling as if struck. The other froze, her mouth open, eyes wide with the horror of what she'd just witnessed. Yoongi didn’t watch. He didn’t need to. He was already moving, his body in motion before the chaos began to unfold below him.

The casing rolled near his elbow, catching a brief flash of sunlight before falling silent on the rooftop. He dismantled the rifle with mechanical precision, his movements smooth, practiced. Each action was like muscle memory—barrel unscrewed, stock folded, scope detached and secured. The rifle slid into a slim, matte-black case, nondescript, efficient, forgettable.

He didn’t confirm the kill. He never did. He knew.

By the time the chaos bloomed beneath him—sirens wailing, screams cutting through the air, armored boots pounding against pavement—Yoongi was already gone. He was down the stairwell, through a service door, and around a corner into the skeletal remains of an abandoned church. The cameras never worked there. It was a place no one could trace.

In less than sixty seconds, Yoongi changed clothes—dusty jeans, a bleach-stained T-shirt, a cheap knockoff Dodgers cap. He walked into the market square like he belonged, just another face in the crowd that moved like water, undisturbed by disaster.

The cab that picked him up blended in, too. The driver said nothing. The cash was exact. The route was direct. By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, Yoongi was already out of the city, no trace, no trail. He didn’t leave behind a name spoken aloud or a footprint anyone would follow. He was just another ghost, fading into a world full of them.

Another job done. Another name crossed off a list no one would ever see.

For Yoongi, it wasn’t personal. It never was. But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel something. In the space where others might find relief, guilt, or satisfaction, Yoongi Min felt only one thing: momentum. And it was pushing him somewhere darker.

At twenty-three, Yoongi Min became the latest name on an infamous ledger—a list that didn’t exist on paper, kept out of sight in rooms the world preferred to pretend weren’t real. It wasn’t an organization, not really, but a design—precise, efficient, built for one purpose: death. Officially, they were known as the Deadly Viper Assassination Squad, but in the underworld, they were simply called the Vipers. A name that spread like poison through intelligence channels, whispered in black-market ports, and muttered by the dying who understood what it meant to be hunted by one of them.

Now, Yoongi stood in a windowless room, somewhere outside any country that mattered. The space around him was cold and sterile—unpainted concrete walls, a single overhead light casting long, calculated shadows. There was no clock, no insignia, no way to tell if they were underground or above the clouds. The silence hung heavy, pressing against the air like it carried weight.

Yoongi didn’t break it. He stood alone at one side of the table, still and deliberate. His frame was narrow but lean, his body honed, not hardened. Black boots, black pants, black shirt—no adornments, no flash. He didn’t look dangerous in the way most people would imagine. He looked precise, like a man who knew the exits before he entered the room, who understood the angles and could turn anything into a weapon if needed. He wasn’t there to impress anyone. He was there to belong.

Across from him sat Taehyung. Older, with sharp features and a clean-cut look that seemed timeless. He looked like he belonged to every decade and none at all. His eyes, however, were sharp and studying, as if he could see through Yoongi and straight into his bones. He sipped tea from a porcelain cup with a calmness that suggested he’d ended more lives than heart disease. His suit was dark and crisp, but unbuttoned—relaxed, but not in a way that suggested comfort.

“I’ve heard stories,” Taehyung said at last, his voice smooth, warm, and quiet enough to pull attention. “I don’t usually believe them. People romanticize this work too much. But your record?” He gave a small, appreciative nod. “That—I believe.”

Yoongi didn’t respond. He didn’t smile. He didn’t blink. He just watched—his silence as controlled as the room was filled with power.

Beside Taehyung, Y/N leaned against the wall, her arms crossed. She was younger then, early twenties, her jawline still sharp with defiance. The blood on her hands hadn’t yet dried into ritual. Her hair was longer, tied back loosely but with intent. She wore scuffed boots, a jacket two shades too dark for the room, and eyes that didn’t stray from Yoongi. There was no warmth in her gaze, no judgment. Just calculation. She wasn’t impressed, but she wasn’t dismissive either. She was reading him, watching every muscle shift, every subtle movement.

After a moment, she tilted her head and spoke, her voice dry. “He doesn’t talk much.” She paused, then added, “Is that part of the act, or do you just enjoy being cryptic?”

Yoongi’s voice, when it came, was low—measured and quiet, almost like the tail end of a threat that hadn’t been fully spoken yet. “I talk when it matters.”

Y/N’s eyes narrowed slightly—not in challenge, but in recognition. She knew exactly what kind of man stood before her.

Across the table, Taehyung let out a slow exhale, his eyes glinting with something that might’ve been amusement. He set his teacup aside and leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, his posture casual but calculating. “Cold,” he said, eyes never leaving Yoongi. “Controlled. Surgical. But you’ve never worked on a team. Not like this.”

Yoongi nodded once, the gesture brief but firm. “Then I’ll adapt.”

There was no arrogance in his voice. Just a quiet certainty. A fact.

Taehyung glanced sideways at Y/N, as though looking to her for confirmation. She didn’t break her gaze from Yoongi, not a blink, not a shift. The air between them was thick, charged, but she remained silent.

Taehyung turned back to Yoongi. “He’s fast,” he said, a statement that seemed almost to float between them. “Not emotional. Not reckless.”

There was a beat of silence, then Y/N gave a small, reluctant nod, just enough to signal that she had made up her mind. “Then give him a name.”

Taehyung didn’t hesitate. “Cottonmouth.”

The name landed in the room like a verdict, heavy and sure. Yoongi didn’t flinch. He didn’t acknowledge it with any outward response. It didn’t matter. The name slid into him, as if it had always been there, waiting to be said. He accepted it without question, without ceremony.

No formal welcome. No applause. No blood oath. Just a room full of silence. And a name.

And a shift.

By the end of the week, Yoongi had a new passport, new directives, and a kill list that spanned five continents. His first target was dead in three days. His second never even made it off the runway. No one ever saw his face, but governments knew when he passed through. They just didn’t know how to prove it.

He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t leave traces. He didn’t miss.

He left for Korea after that, and Y/N was sent to him a few months later. Taehyung had been too busy to teach her about swords and Yoongi had taken her under his wing. Within the six months she was there, their relationship went from nothing to meeting up in his bath room. They would explore one another for hours, and Yoongi made her feel good.

She couldn’t remember the last time someone had done that.

There were no declarations, no promises, no softness. Just need. Just impulse. Just adrenaline, control, and something neither of them ever bothered to name. It didn’t matter that she belonged to Taehyung’s crew. At that point, she didn’t belong to anyone.

She was his Rabbit, and over the years they’d grown an understanding. Taehyung sent them on missions together frequently after her time with Pai Mei the year after she’d left Busan. In those hotel rooms she’d find herself able to slip away from being Black Mamba. With Yoongi, she’d felt like she was back home in Abbeville and he looked at her the same way Sam Wallace had before he’d died.

One of her favorite memories came without much effort.

In an out of the way hotel room overlooking a vantage point, Y/N clutched the bedsheets as she was pounded from behind by a smirking Yoongi. Y/N fought down her groans, not wanting to give her showman a teammate the satisfaction of vocalizations, even though she knew that Yoongi could feel how wet she was and how deep he was getting hit.

"Anata no soba---" Yoongi began before clearing his throat, pulling out. "Get on your side."

Y/N sighed at the unwelcome interruption as she lied on her hips, raising her leg like a tame dog as Yoongi entered her again, torturously working back up to his original tempo as Y/N fought to keep her breathing under control, the disappointment and anticipation being all a part of the kill for her friend. She found her right breast being squeezed as he began to pick up speed, sneaking there when she was distracted. 

"Tch!" Y/N betrayed her surprise as Yoongi kept hammering away in her, tweaking her erect nipple in between his fingers. Y/N gave up, letting out a subdued moan as she came. Yoongi, not really surprised in any sense of the word, turned his head to pridefully peck her on the lips.

Afterward, Yoongi moved with the quiet finality of a man who was used to following through. He didn’t speak, didn’t rush—just slipped out of bed, his bare feet barely making a sound against the worn hotel carpet. The room, dimly lit by a single bedside lamp, felt still in his absence. The click of the bathroom door, followed by the soft hiss of running water, filled the space between breaths.

Y/N lay on her back, her eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling like they might somehow form a map of something that made sense. Her chest rose and fell slowly—not from exertion, but from the familiar weight of being close to someone and still feeling the air too thick to fully exhale. Her skin hummed, warm and flushed, but not from love, not from longing—just connection. The kind that lingers long after the adrenaline is gone.

The faucet stopped. A moment later, the door creaked open. Yoongi returned with two bottles of water—one of which he tossed to her without needing to say anything. She caught it mid-air, cracked the seal, and drank deep. “Thanks,” she murmured, her voice a low hum of acknowledgment.

He slid back into the bed beside her with the ease of someone who had long since mastered the art of not being noticed. His skin was cool from the tap, and when his arm brushed hers, she shivered just slightly. He was already folding into the sheets like he’d always belonged there.

“You alright?” he asked, his voice low and nonchalant. The kind of check-in between old friends who’d long stopped asking just to be polite.

She smirked. “I’m good.”

They lay there in the quiet for a moment—just the hum of the city seeping through the barely working air conditioner, the occasional honk from traffic five floors below. Then Yoongi turned toward her, propping his head up on his arm, eyes catching hers in the dim light.

“Your breathing was off,” he said, his tone almost casual.

Y/N gave him a sideways glance. “You keeping stats on me now?”

“Maybe,” he said, his eyes flicking to her with an almost imperceptible smile. “You usually exhale on the upstroke.”

She snorted. “Creep.”

He shrugged. “Observant.”

A quiet laugh passed between them, easy and familiar. She nudged his shoulder with hers, and he leaned into it slightly. Their bodies fell back into the same rhythm they always had—no tension, no need. Just proximity. His hand settled on her waist, fingers drumming lightly against her hip.

“You ever gonna tell me what you think of Taehyung?” she asked, not bothering to look at him.

Yoongi sighed through his nose. “He’s interesting. Don’t care for him much outside of work.”

“You jealous?”

He scoffed. “No. He’s not my type. I like pretty boys, baby.”

She rolled her eyes. “You think I’m gonna sleep with him?”

“I think you might,” he said, his voice unexpectedly honest. “But not for the reason you think.”

“Oh?”

“You’re strategic. You don’t get close unless you mean to. But with him... I don’t know. Maybe it would just feel easy. Wouldn’t be for love, I could tell you that right now.”

She was quiet for a long moment, fingers absently tracing the ridge of his forearm. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer. “You think I’m trying to survive him?”

Yoongi didn’t answer immediately. He studied her face in the dim light, then reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear with unexpected tenderness.

“I think you survive everyone,” he said, his words settling between them. “Even the ones who don’t want you to. Even me.”

Y/N blinked, then looked away, irritated with herself for the way his words hit too close to home. She hated it when he said things like that—too real, too quietly, like he didn’t mean to drop it in her lap but couldn’t help himself.

She liked to think herself in love with Taehyung Kim. Why else would she put up with his ass? It’s obviously real love because he disgusts her and puts up with him willingly when not many others would. Maybe Brandi would, but Brandi was insane and didn’t care about his more… unsavory traits. At least, none that she ever showed. She had to be in love with Taehyung. It was the only way any of this made sense. Even when she stopped thinking about him the second Yoongi came to visit, she knew that she loved him.

Y/N did not want to think about it anymore. It was too confusing.

She rolled toward him, curling into his side until her forehead pressed gently against his collarbone. He didn’t flinch. He just adjusted the blankets with one hand and wrapped the other around her back.

“You’re warm,” she mumbled.

“You’re cold,” he replied, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head.

They stayed like that for a while—tangled in sheets and silence. No urgency. No plans. Just the kind of closeness that comes from knowing someone too long and too well to lie to them.

Y/N felt his breathing start to slow beneath her cheek. His hand continued its slow rhythm against her back, each gentle motion lulling her closer to sleep.

“Yoongi?” she whispered.

“Mmh?”

“Thanks.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just kissed her hair again, slower this time.

“For what?” he murmured.

“For always coming back.”

He was quiet for a moment before pulling her a little tighter. “Where else would I go?”

Y/N smiled, her eyes slipping closed. She didn’t know what this was between them, and she didn’t need to. Not that night or any other night.

Their relationship ended three years later, when Y/N and Taehyung started seeing each other differently. Or, as Taehyung had put it, she began acting like a grown woman. The others said he’d just waited until she was old enough to avoid looking like a creep. Y/N didn’t dwell on it. She’d always been with older men. This wasn’t new.

Yoongi, ever practical, accepted the shift, acknowledging their sexual relationship had run its course. Lynn Easton, his longest friend and most prized possession, swooped in to care for him like a mother. She was glad to be rid of Y/N’s presence. Jealous little rat. They left Mexico for Korea, returning only for missions tied to Taehyung’s operations. The bond between Yoongi and Y/N wasn’t the same, but it remained, still strong despite the distance. Y/N cared for Yoongi, and she knew he felt the same.

Four years ago, in the year 2000, on a West Texas morning beneath a bleached sky, a wedding turned into a massacre. It was meant to be quiet, intimate—far from politics, cameras, and consequence. The chapel, small with whitewashed walls and hand-carved pews, was made for whispered vows and fragile beginnings. The bride chose every detail: pale ribboned flowers, a sun-worn guitarist in the corner, an officiant who spoke briefly, knowing this was something sacred, not to be overstretched.

There were only a handful of guests—people she trusted, loved. No reporters. No guards. Just light spilling through stained glass, the faint hum of music threading through the silence. Everything was still. And then, the doors opened.

The gunshots were everywhere. In less than a minute, eight people were dead: Tommy’s parents, his sister, a last-minute college friend, the guitarist who didn’t even drop his instrument before he fell, the man with the Bible who’d asked them to join hands. And then Tommy himself.

The bride, dressed in white, life growing inside her. She didn’t see who fired first, only felt the light leave her and something tear through her chest like fire. The impact folded her in half. Her knees buckled, fingers reaching for something that wasn’t there.

She fell hard, stained-glass light still dancing around her as she hit the floor. Blood soaked her lace midsection, blooming quickly—bright at first, then darkening, the white dress drinking it in. From the floor, she saw him.

Not the one who shot her. That was Brandi—smiling like she was doing God’s work. No. It was the other one. The one who didn’t smile. The one who moved like smoke.

Yoongi Min.

He hadn’t fired the shot that dropped her, but he had ensured no one else could rise to stop it. His job was taking out her groom. Silenced pistol in hand, he moved through the chaos with the precision of someone far removed from it all. No tremor in his hand. No hesitation. He stepped over the dead without a glance.

When she writhed on the floor, bleeding, breathless, Yoongi held her down. He didn’t spit at her, insult her, or speak. He just pinned her shoulders to the blood-slick wood while Brandi Phoenix did what she did.

None of them expected a heartbeat to survive that day. They didn’t rush to leave. No panic. No second glances. No double-checking for survivors. They were professionals. The job was done. Eight confirmed kills. One silenced chapel. No cries. No movement.

They should’ve killed nine, but they didn’t. Because Y/N didn’t die.

She remembered everything. Not in flashes, not like a dream, but in brutal clarity. The crack of gunfire echoing off vaulted ceilings. The splintering pews. The sound of bodies hitting the floor. Her own strangled gasp as the bullet hit, knees buckling like broken beams.

She remembered the color of her blood, soaking through the lace of her dress—bright at first, like a flare, then darkening. The smell—the mix of roses, gunpowder, and iron. The weight of another body near hers, warmth spilling onto her bare shoulder. The sticky wetness. The stillness.

Yoongi Min stood over her, not a drop of blood on his face. Blood caked her lashes, but she saw him clearly. His face unreadable, no curiosity, no cruelty—just focus. He didn’t look at her like a woman or a target. He looked at her like a loose end. He helped the others finish her off once the others were taken care of.

Then came the darkness.

Four years. Four years of machines, wires, and strangers’ prayers. Two times, she was declared brain-dead. Two times, a doctor marked the time on a clipboard and walked away. She was kept alive by a nurse’s pity—hidden, forgotten, buried alive. Until the moment she started to wake.

It wasn’t pretty. It didn’t come all at once. It was slow, violent, like pulling herself from wet concrete—blind, gasping. Her mind clawed its way back long before her body did, trapped inside, screaming silently.

Now, she lay curled in the backseat of a stolen truck beneath a blanket that smelled of engine grease and stale air. Parked between desert scrub and rusted fences. The road behind her was gone, the road ahead uncertain. Her body was broken—foreign. Her skin too tight in places, numb in others. Her muscles sagged, deflated. Her legs, stiff as wax, stretched out. Her fingertips tingled. Her breath shallow, lungs relearning survival.

But her mind—her mind was wildfire.

She could feel the hum of memory beneath her skin, relentless and alive. Her pulse thudded in her neck, fast and heavy, reminding her she was alive. She couldn’t remember her face anymore, couldn’t picture her reflection. But she remembered everything else. The echo of her name, shouted just before it was drowned out. The scrape of her nails against the chapel floor, as she tried to crawl. The flutter beneath her ribs—her child—growing still. And Yoongi Min. Silent. Still. Pressing her down while someone else tore her apart.

She hadn’t died. And because of that, because they hadn’t finished the job, they would all pay.

Her body lay in the dark, breath shallow, skin slick with sweat gathering in the hollows of her spine, soaking into the seat beneath her. The air in the truck thick—humid with oil, dried blood, and the sour scent of fading adrenaline. Outside, the desert heat pulsed like a living thing. Inside, time collapsed into nothing but stillness and breath.

Her eyes drifted down her body. Slowly. Deliberately. Past the shallow rise and fall of her chest. Down to her right foot, unmoving. Pale. Slightly curled at the toes. Still. Dumb. Useless.

It looked like it belonged to someone else—like it had been sewn onto her by mistake.

Her jaw tightened, and her hands curled into loose fists on her thighs. Every nerve in her body screamed with confusion, as though someone had rewired her and then left without a trace. She took a slow, steadying breath, thick with resolve. Whatever had been done to her, whoever had taken control of her body, they would pay. She would walk again. She would hunt them down. And when the time came, there would be no mercy. Yoongi might have been the shadow in the chapel, but she was the fucking hurricane.

“Wiggle your big toe,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, as if the simple command could bridge the distance between her and the action she craved.

Her eyes narrowed, focus tightening like a vice. She stared at her foot, willing it to move, as if sheer force of will could make it obey.

“Wiggle your big toe,” she repeated, louder this time, her voice sharp with impatience.

Still nothing.

Then—

A tremor.

Just a flicker. A subtle, almost imperceptible twitch that disturbed the dust on her skin.

She blinked hard, heat rushing behind her eyes, the sting of tears threatening. Her throat tightened. But she didn’t cry. Not yet.

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the silence settle around her, like the stillness after an explosion.

The toe had moved.

And that was enough.

Her cracked lips parted, voice raw and thin. “The hard part’s over,” she muttered to herself, her words barely a rasp. “Now let’s get the rest of these piggies moving.”

It took an hour just to sit up.

Every second felt like war.

Her arms trembled beneath her, muscles unfamiliar and weak. Her shoulders burned, her breath shallow and frantic. Sweat dripped into her eyes, but she didn’t blink it away. She focused only on the task ahead: moving. Dizziness pulled at her, nearly swallowing her whole. Twice, her vision blurred, her fingers going numb. But she kept going. One breath at a time.

Finally, after what felt like forever, she was upright.

Slumped forward, shaking, soaked in sweat, gasping like she'd been pulled from the sea. Her hospital gown clung to her, a reminder of the fragility she still carried. But she was sitting. That was something. That was power.

She let her head fall forward, staring at her left leg.

“Your turn,” she whispered.

She focused, hard. Her body wasn’t responding; it was remembering, like each limb needed to reacquaint itself. Her left foot didn’t move at first. Then, a twitch. A faint tremble in her calf. A sudden jerk in her thigh, more seizure than progress.

But it was something.

“Again,” she murmured, voice shaky. “Come on.”

Her hand gripped the edge of the seat, knuckles white. She slapped her thigh—once, twice. Hard. Not out of frustration, but command.

Another minute passed.

Another tremor.

She let out a breath that caught in her throat, threatening to choke her before she smothered it with the back of her hand. She couldn’t fall apart. Not yet. But the tears came anyway. Not from fear or pain, but from the weight of it all. Years of silence, stillness, being trapped in a body that didn’t obey. She breathed through it, let the tears fall, wiped them away, and kept going.

By hour seven, the tremors were constant, though still uncoordinated and unpredictable. Her limbs were waking up in fits and starts, like a machine that hadn’t been used in years, sputtering to life. Her muscles spasmed, kicked, locked up, then released. At one point, she reached for the window frame for balance, but instead collapsed sideways, her shoulder slamming into the door, rattling the hinge. She gasped, cursed, and kept going.

By hour ten, one leg dangled over the side of the seat, scraping the truck floor uselessly—a dead weight. But it was down. It was gravity. It counted. Then, with a grunt, the other leg followed—slow, twitching, her breath ragged as she forced it over the edge. Her body ached like it had been beaten from the inside out, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

By hour thirteen, she was ready. The truck was stifling, the air thick with heat and the smell of sweat. Her gown clung to her skin, her back soaked through, hair matted to her forehead. The seat beneath her was stained with sweat and grit from where she’d braced herself. Her hands were filthy, coated in dirt from every inch of the cab she’d used to steady herself. But now, she had two feet on the floor. Her heart pounded in her chest, a warning reverberating in every bone.

She took a shallow breath—pained, but enough—and then she pushed.

Her legs shuddered beneath her, like old, rusted machinery fighting to move. Her thighs jerked with violent tremors. Her knees buckled—not from her weight, but from the shock of standing. Her back arched, muscles protesting. Her fingers dug into the seat, nails biting into the leather, arms straining to keep her upright. Every tendon screamed. Every nerve burned.

Her breath caught, high in her chest. Her jaw clenched so tight her teeth ached. Darkness crept at the edges of her vision, urging her back to the place where nothing moved, and everything was still. But she didn’t let it. She fought it.

She stood.

Her body bent forward like a reed battered by a storm, elbows locked against the truck seat, spine curved with the strain. Her legs shook violently, unfamiliar with their own weight, but she was up. Her eyes fluttered closed, sweat soaking her lashes. Her lungs rasped, desperate for air. Her body swayed once—enough to threaten collapse—but she caught herself, held steady by willpower alone.

With a voice cracked from hours of silence, she whispered, "The hard part’s over."

There was no triumph in her tone. No victory. It wasn’t a declaration—it was a vow. Then, she smiled. Not wide. Not bright. It was a smile forged from iron and exhaustion—bent at the corners, all teeth and rage. A smile born from blood and memory. A smile no one had seen in four years. A smile like steel pulled from fire. And now, she was fire.

When the first light of morning touched the horizon, soft and golden against the desert, Y/N swung open the backseat door. The hinges groaned under the weight of the moment, and the air outside smelled of dust, fuel, and the heat to come. Her bare foot hit the pavement first, the shock of raw skin against gravel stinging. She winced. The earth was tender, soft like it had never been touched, but she didn’t stop. She settled her heel, then her arch, then her toes. She hissed through her teeth, then brought the other foot down beside it.

Both feet. On the ground. Standing.

She took a breath. It hurt. Her ribs protested, her chest constricted, but it was a breath nonetheless.

And then, she began to walk.

Her gait was uneven, her balance uncertain. Her knees locked at odd angles. Her arms reached for anything to steady herself. She looked like a newborn deer—legs and uncertainty, driven by furious determination. Each step was a silent scream. Each second, a battle. But she kept going. Around the truck, her hand dragging along the scorched metal, her palm leaving a smear of sweat against the door. She reached the driver’s side, gripped the hot steel with one hand, and reached for the handle with the other.

She pulled the door open and climbed in.

The seat was too high. Her hips protested. Her back pulled tight with the warning of strain. But she got in.

It felt surreal—sliding into that seat again. A place that once belonged to someone else, someone cruel, someone arrogant. Someone whose blood still stained the floorboards beneath her bare feet. She could still smell Buck—cologne of bad whiskey and burnt plastic. Fast food wrappers rotting in the door pocket. Cigarette butts jammed into the ashtray.

The keys were still in the ignition, dangling from the garish yellow “PUSSY WAGON” tag. She reached for them, fingers closing tight around the plastic. The key turned with a low mechanical thunk.

The engine coughed to life, then roared—a deep, guttural sound, like an old beast shaking off its sleep. The dash lights flickered, and the vents blasted warm air into her face. The whole truck vibrated beneath her.

She gripped the steering wheel, hands steady for the first time in a long while. Her gaze flicked to the dashboard, where a pair of sunglasses rested, shoved against the edge of the windshield. Plastic. Cheap. Gold-rimmed knockoffs. Elvis-style. Gaudy. Stupid.

Without thinking, she reached for them, turned them over in her hand, then slid them on. They sat crooked. She adjusted them, fixing the angle until they felt right. Now, they were perfect.

She glanced up into the rearview mirror. The woman staring back wasn’t the one who’d bled out in a wedding dress. She wasn’t the one who had cried silently in a coma or been broken into pieces.

No, this woman had bruises under her eyes, chapped lips, skin stretched tight against bone. A large scar on her forehead where they’d taken the bullet out. But her eyes—they were alive. They were awake, alert, burning with something cold and sharp.

Y/N reached for the gearshift. Her hand didn’t shake this time. She dropped it into drive, the truck lurching forward with a growl as gravel kicked up behind her.

It was time to start the list. Eight names. One by one. And the first name was Yoongi Min.

Taglist: @haru-jiminn @fancypeacepersona @futuristicenemychaos @cranberrycupcake @mar-lo-pap @wannaghostbts @solephile @paramedicnerd004 @stargirl-mayaa @calmyourtitts7 @bjoriis @11thenightwemet11 @screamertannie @everybodysaynoooooo

[minbon]

🐻🐯 KTH FICS 🐯🐻

My taehyung reads revolve mainly around brother's best friend, best friend and arranged marriage AUs and those with angsty themes.

°°°°°•°

● hush, yeah? - @kithtaehyung [brother’s best friend au, music festival au ; smut]

I'm at the corner, waiting for the next part for this series 🥲

● The Island - @taestefully-in-luv [strangers to lovers, enemies to lovers, soulmates au, roommate au, slow burn, fluff, smut, angst, slight crack, and drama.]

This is one of the first kth fics I've read. I was sooo into finding out if there would be a happy ending that I binged-read all the chapters within a day. This one's a good read ♡

● The Fun Day - I , II - @hoseoksluna [fluff, a bit angsty]

Thought Tae was a ghost here hehe (or was he really? read and find out lol). Also love the pjm in here. (AND, Luna , the one who wrote this, is a fave of mine ☆)

● Baggage - @back2bluesidex [angst, exes AU]

A hand-written letter... and some angst. I cried. 🥺

● Rainy days - @back2bluesidex [angst, exes AU, follow up drabble to Baggage]

I want to tell Tae that expressing his guilt and regret will not be able to make things go back the way they were before. (We gotta keep the angst going lol)

● loving you is all i know - @jiminrings [heavy angst, unrequited love (at first)]

By far my fave fic with a non-human character. The angst in here broke my heart. tears won't stop falling since the mid part up to the ending. 🥺

~ arranged marriage × angst for the next 5 fics* (why do I love this combination??? 🤔🥴*) ~

● One Night Stand - @sodoyouknowbts [angst, romace, arranged marriage

● Love Me or We Both Go Down - @gukyi [fluff, angst, smut, arranged marriage]

● Dichotomy - @kpopfanfictrash [arranged marriage]

● Maybe i do - @chateautae [arranged marriage!au, ceo!tae, s2l!au, eventual smut, fluff, angst ]

● All this stigma - @army-author [heavy angst, arranged marriage au, smut]

**

~ a friend / a friend's brother / a brother's friend ~

● Backstreet serenade @jungkxook [band au / brother’s best friend au, smut]

● Crazy for You - @oddinary4bts [best friend’s older brother, a little bit of fake dating trope, idol!au, angst, smut, fluff]

● On the 6AM Train - @bangtan-madi [best friend to lovers, unrequited love/one-sided pining, a realistically happy ending]

● Talk slow - @writtenwhalien [brother’s best friend, exes to lovers AU]

● One of the Boys - @littlemisskookie [childhood friends/bestfriend au, fluff, angst, smut]

•••••°•

Happy Reading (or Re-Reading) ‼ ♡

(c)

[rpwprpwprpwprw]

i had to put this move after reading this cause what the hell guys i want kim taehyung so bad… not a joke. ever since 2021…. like he’s surreal.

just want to share this:

yeah…. my uterus is itching inside with the desire to carry his child.

but besides my endless obsession with him… what is this writing? @mrsvante im melting like a ice cream on a hot summer day 😭 the amount of love, caring, kindness….. i loved every second of this.

your writing is something else… you put me in their love nest, in a surreal fantasy but now it has become a nightmare because this man only exists in our imagination 😭😭😭😭😭👍 😍👏 honestly devastated

baby what about 50k with dad!taehyung huh??? say yes please please 😭

anyway i will add more dad!taehyung pics to my pinterest and do some shifting tonight… letting my thoughts travel enough so i can sleep on his chest while our kids sleep in the next room 😍

(Just sharing but i’m actually editing a whole asmr video with him… i want to upload to youtube maybe?

let’s see how far my illusions take me 😏

ex-husband taehyung head canons

your ex-husband is and was always in love, he just couldn’t properly expresss it. it comes to him too late, and he respects your wishes and agrees to the divorce; then you tell him you’re pregnant.

ex-husband taehyung still wears his wedding ring even after signing the papers. he tells himself it’s out of habit, but the way his thumb rubs over the band whenever he thinks of you says otherwise.

ex-husband taehyung never changes the passcode to the penthouse because it was your birthday. even after you move out, he still punches in those six familiar digits like a prayer.

ex-husband taehyung doesn’t touch the empty side of the bed. he sleeps stiff and angled, convinced the lingering warmth of your absence is the only part of you he still has permission to hold.

ex-husband taehyung rehearses conversations with you in the mirror, but always forgets the words when he sees you in person. he’s still trying to figure out how to say i’ve loved you the whole time without it sounding like too little, too late.

ex-husband taehyung finds out you’re pregnant from a voicemail. your voice is shaking, soft and steady like you rehearsed it a hundred times, but you hang up before the message is even complete. he listens to it twelve times that night. then he drives to your place and falls asleep in his car out front, just in case you want to talk.

ex-husband taehyung buys a small speaker and starts playing classical music against your belly. he doesn’t say why, just sits cross legged on the floor next to the couch while you nap, the soft sounds of violins floating between you like lullabies. sometimes, he hums along. and when your daughter kicks for the first time, she does it to the sound of his voice.

ex-husband taehyung starts holding your belly to ease the pressure on your back, it’s practical at first. his hands slide under your bump while you brush your teeth or stand too long in line, gently lifting and supporting. “i’ve got you,” he murmurs, grinning secretly into your hair as you sag against his chest with a groan.

ex-husband taehyung doesn’t let go of your hand once. not through the contractions, not through the screaming, not through the panicked moment when the nurse mentions an emergency c-section might be necessary. he’s there, foreheads pressed together, breath matching yours, his voice low and trembling as he repeats, “you’re okay, no matter what happens, i’ve got you.”

ex-husband taehyung never sleeps that first night. you’re sleeping from exhaustion, but he holds each baby like they’re stitched from gold thread, whispering apologies they won’t understand yet—i’m sorry i wasn’t softer, i’m sorry she didn’t know, i’m sorry it took this. then he kisses the tops of their heads and murmurs, but i love you. so much. and i love her too. still.

ex-husband taehyung learns to swaddle from a YouTube video at three in the morning, using one of the nurses’ clipboards as a makeshift changing table. when he finally gets it right, he lifts your daughter like a treasure and says, “there we go, sweetheart. appa’s got you,” with a smile that still aches around the edges.

ex-husband taehyung holds your hair back when the postpartum nausea kicks in. he wipes your mouth with a warm cloth. he rubs your back in slow, grounding circles. when you cry over nothing and everything, he says, “let it out, jagi.” and when you whisper, “i don’t think i’m strong enough for this,” he kisses your hand and replies, “then we’ll be weak together.”

ex-husband taehyung calls you every night he’s not there. asks if you’ve eaten, if you’ve slept, if you’re drinking enough water. when you tell him the babies are fussy and you’re too tired to shower, he shows up thirty minutes later with dinner, your favorite almond body wash, and fresh towels. “you take the first half of the night,” he says, already lifting your son from the bassinet. “i’ve got the second.”

ex-husband taehyung starts wearing the baby carrier everywhere. grocery store? baby on his chest. walking the dog? baby on his chest. brunch with his mother? both babies, one on his chest, one in a stroller, as he calmly explains the difference between breastmilk storage bags and formula. you watch him from the doorway and wonder how you ever thought this man didn’t love you.

ex-husband taehyung falls asleep on the couch with the twins tucked into his arms like they’ve always belonged there; your heart aches watching them. and when he stirs with bleary eyes, voice rough, he says, “you can come lay with us, if you want.” like he’s inviting you back into something you never really left.

ex-husband taehyung takes the twins to the park every sunday so you can have a moment to yourself. he packs snacks, wipes, toys, a change of clothes, even your daughter’s emergency glitter wand. when he sends you videos, it’s always your son stomping puddles in his little rain boots and taehyung’s laugh trailing behind like sunlight.

ex-husband taehyung always waits in the entryway during drop offs. even when it’s a hectic day, or he’s running late. you asked why and he shrugged, eyes tender. “i like watching you say goodbye to them. it makes them feel safe.” what he didn’t say was, it makes him feel safe, too.

ex-husband taehyung asked if he could come with you to the twins’ first day of preschool. he waited downstairs for you in front of your apartment with your favorite chai latte and a bouquet of the same flowers he got on your first anniversary. neither of you said anything about that.

ex-husband taehyung never raises his voice in front of the twins. not even when they draw on the walls with crayons or pour orange juice into his shoe “to make it smell better.” instead, he crouches to their level, eyes gentle, and says, “let’s clean it together, okay?” like patience is stitched into his DNA.

ex-husband taehyung is the first to notice when you’re overwhelmed. a glance, a sigh, a slight slouch in your shoulders; he sees it all. and when you whisper “i’m okay,” he simply nods, picks up both toddlers with ease, and murmurs, “go take a bath. i’ve got them.” he always does.

ex-husband taehyung barely looks up when you ask if he’s planning to start dating soon. “no,” he says quickly, too quickly, brushing it off with a shrug. “i don’t want to confuse them.” but then there’s a pause, just a second too long, and his voice goes quieter when he asks, “are you?”

ex-husband taehyung doesn’t ask to stay the night anymore. he just… never really leaves. his toothbrush finds its way into your bathroom. his cologne sits quietly beside your perfume. the twins start asking why appa always comes back after he leaves, and neither of you really have an answer.

ex-husband taehyung confesses on a tuesday. not with a huge gesture, just over grilled mackerel and kimchi stew at the kitchen table, the twins snoring softly in the next room. “i think…” he says, staring at his bowl, “i was in love with you even when we were strangers. i just didn’t know how to say it without hurting you.”

ex-husband taehyung kisses you like he’s making up for every day he didn’t. slowly with both hands cradling your jaw like you’re fragile and a goddess and entirely his. and when you whisper, “maybe we don’t need the papers this time,” he smiles like it’s the first day of spring.

ex-husband taehyung still introduces you as the mother of my children when you’re out. even after he moves back in. even after you’ve started wearing his shirts to bed again. it’s not until your daughter blurts out, “eomma and appa kiss now,” to her teacher that you realize you’ve become his person again.

ex-husband taehyung buys a new ring. simple, elegant, no fanfare. he slips it onto your finger one night while you’re folding laundry, as if he’s just remembering something that’s always been true. “no grand ceremony,” he says, voice low. “just us. just this. forever, if you’ll let me.”

masterlist

[nvrngl]

˚ · .˚ ༘ 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒆

synopsis. you're dating taehyung but no one really knows. backstage tension turns explosive when tae corners you in the only place private enough at an award show.

pairing. bts ﹢ kim taehyung x popstar!reader ﹢ smut

wordcount. 991

warnings. NSFW ! mdni ! semi-public sex (bathroom), secret relationship, rough sex, unprotected sex, dirty talk, dom!tae, mild choking (consensual), strong language.

You didn’t plan on sneaking into the disabled bathroom—it just sort of… happens.

There’s a throb in your chest that has nothing to do with the post-performance adrenaline and everything to do with the man watching you from across the hall, half-shadowed beneath a greenroom sign, collar popped, gaze molten.

Kim Taehyung. Black hair falling into his eyes, that sinful mouth curling in amusement when your eyes catch.

You look away too fast. He’s going to make a meal out of that.

And sure enough—ten seconds later, his footsteps fall in behind you like a predator stalking prey. You catch the sound of a quiet tsk just before a hand grazes your hip, low and secret and lethal.

“Running, baby?” he whispers, hot breath against your ear. “Didn’t take you for a coward.”

You whirl around, shoving open the nearest door that doesn’t lead to a hallway full of makeup artists or stagehands or nosy backup dancers. It’s a single-stall bathroom—larger than necessary, bright, sterile, and mercifully empty.

Click. Lock. And suddenly you’re caged.

Taehyung moves like a storm, sweeping you back until your spine meets cold tile. His hands find your face like he’s been waiting hours to touch you. Then his mouth crashes into yours, and you dissolve.

Your limbs forget how to work. You melt under him like sugar on hot skin, all gloss and glitter and need.

He tastes like breath mints and victory. His tongue swipes across your bottom lip, hungry and bold. You groan into him, legs already threatening to give out.

“Fuck, baby,” he huffs, dragging the zipper of your dress down way too slowly. “Do you even know what you do to me?”

You whimper. “Tae, we don’t have time—”

“Oh, we’re making time,” he growls, pulling the neckline down until your tits bounce free. “You’re out there singing like a fucking temptress, staring at me with those fuck-me eyes, and you think I’m not gonna wreck you?”

Your panties are soaked. The lace clings to you like a second skin, doing nothing to hide how ready you are.

He dips two fingers between your thighs, swiping through your folds without warning.

You arch, gasping.

“Dripping,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. “So fucking wet and I haven’t even put my mouth on you yet.”

You nearly sob. Your head falls back, hitting the wall. You should stop this. You should.

But Taehyung is palming your ass, pulling you closer, kissing down your chest like he’s tasting his favorite meal. His voice is low and teasing as he sucks a bruise into the curve of your breast.

“You wanna know what I was thinking about while you were on stage?” he asks, lips brushing your skin. “I was thinking about this pussy. Wondering if you were bare under that little slit dress. Imagining dragging you under the stage and fucking you with the mic still in your hand.”

You let out a broken moan, clinging to his shoulders.

“Turn around,” he commands, voice wrecked. “Now.”

You obey like your life depends on it.

The mirror in front of you catches every sinful angle: your flushed face, mussed hair, dress hitched up over your ass, Taehyung behind you looking like sin incarnate.

He nudges your legs apart with his knee, pulls your panties to the side, and runs the tip of his cock along your slit with a groan.

“I’m gonna fuck you so good you’ll be trembling at your encore.”

And then he slides into you—slow, thick, devastating. You cry out, clutching the edge of the sink as your body adjusts. He bottoms out with a hiss, hands anchoring you in place.

“Goddamn,” he breathes. “You take me like you belong to me.”

Your eyes flutter shut. “I do,” you whisper. “I do.”

He loses it.

His thrusts start hard and fast, dragging obscene sounds out of both your mouths. The stall walls shake with every movement, the slap of skin on skin echoing. His hands grip your hips tight enough to bruise.

“You feel what you do to me?” he rasps, snapping his hips up into you. “I’m supposed to be cool, baby. Collected. Instead, I’m railing you in a bathroom like a fucking animal.”

“F-fuck, Tae—” you cry, back arching.

He yanks you up against his chest, one hand on your throat, the other slipping down to your clit.

“Gonna make you come like this,” he growls. “All messy and cock-drunk with my cum leaking out of you.”

Your orgasm hits like fire. You shudder in his arms, walls clenching around him so tight he chokes on a curse and fucks into you harder.

He doesn’t last much longer.

A few more desperate thrusts and he’s coming deep inside you with a moan, face buried in your neck.

For a long, long moment, the only sounds are your panting breaths and the faraway thump of bass from the stage.

He pulls out slowly, his cum trickling down your thigh. You hiss at the sensitivity and clench your legs together.

Taehyung chuckles—low and smug—and helps you straighten up.

“You’re lucky I didn’t bend you over the greenroom couch,” he mutters, kissing your shoulder. “But I like this. Messy. Secret.”

You look at yourself in the mirror: completely fucked-out, lipstick gone, chest flushed. “You’re gonna get us caught.”

He grins, refastening his pants. “And? Worth it.”

You swat his chest, trying not to laugh. “I have an interview in ten minutes.”

He hums, licking your lip gloss from the corner of his mouth. “You’re glowing. They’ll think it’s highlighter.”

You roll your eyes but you can’t help smiling.

Before you leave, he stops you with a hand on your wrist. His expression shifts—less cocky, more earnest.

“I meant it, earlier,” he says quietly. “You do belong to me.”

Your heart lurches.

You lean up and kiss him, soft and sweet. “Then prove it. Later.”

He smirks. “Hotel key?”

“Back pocket.”

“Good girl.”

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ navigation : all works ; guidelines ; let's be friends .ᐟ

[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 it turns out he's not everything he claims to be, turns out that he's selling you down the river. His boss, meanwhile, 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