bettelaboure

[bettelaboure]

hellooo! welcome to the shit show!

i was a bit inactive (funny. a bit, G?), but good news from my shit show - I FINALLY WROTE A BOOK. can be calm about this and there's a lot of things with self-publishing, but i'm so excited to finally complete one of my teen dreams.

also good news, i'm back here and already drafted a last part of the "Backstage" series and a T.O.P one-shot. soooo... as you can guess, i missed you!

[bettelaboure]

⊹After The Lights⊹ | Choi Seung-Hyun

⊹Pairing: Choi Seung-Hyun x The Reader

⊹Summary: a slow-burn backstage romance deepens into something raw and real as two guarded people learn to trust each other—first with their hearts, then with their bodies

⊹Warnings: sexual content, emotional vulnerability, and mature themes

second part to "Backstage"

⊹⊹⊹⊹⊹

It’s been weeks.

The whirlwind of the tour ended in a final, blinding crescendo in Seoul, and then—silence. Not the calm kind. The hollow kind. The kind that feels like someone hit "pause" on your life and forgot to press "play" again.

There were a few smaller projects after. Brand shoots, meetings, prep work for a commercial that never quite happened. You worked those. So did the rest of the team. But not him.

No Seung-Hyun.

Not a glimpse.

He hadn’t texted, either. Not since the night he kissed you like he meant it. Like it wasn’t just heat or tension or a backstage mistake, but something real. Something fragile. Something that scared the both of you.

And then—nothing.

You told yourself you were fine. You were focused. You had fittings to prep, samples to organize, a new rookie group whose stylist was already crying in the group chat. You didn’t have time to spiral over one man, no matter how tall, charming, and stupidly observant he was.

Still. You missed him.

You missed the banter, the way he made even silence feel intimate. You missed how he’d lean into your space without ever asking, like he belonged there. Like you did, too.

You missed the almost.

So when Jiyong’s assistant sends a last-minute invite to a lowkey brand dinner, you almost say no. But it’s been too long since you’ve seen the rest of the team, and something in your chest—hope or foolishness—says, what if?

You arrive late. The restaurant is low-lit and loud with familiar voices. The table is already full—Daesung waving dramatically, Young-bae halfway through a story, Jiyong in sunglasses like it’s a concept shoot.

And then there’s Seung-Hyun.

At the far end of the table. Laughing at something Jiyong said, wine glass in hand. He looks unfair. Hair pushed back, suit jacket slung over the chair, smile easy.

Your heart lurches.

He sees you a moment later. And freezes.

The entire room doesn’t stop. But it feels like it does.

He stands. Not instantly—he’s always a beat behind the world, like he’s moving on his own rhythm. But he stands, eyes never leaving yours.

You brace for something. A nod. A smirk. Some casual quip to cover the weeks of silence.

Instead, he just says, softly, like he means it:

"Hey."

Like it’s the first word of a conversation you’ve both been aching to finish.

You nod, heart in your throat, and slide into the empty chair Jiyong pulls out for you.

The chatter resumes. Someone clinks a glass, Daesung tells you that you’ve been missed. You laugh at the right moments, answer Young-bae’s questions about a new designer label, but your focus never quite leaves the far end of the table.

Neither does his.

You catch him watching you when he thinks you’re not looking. Once, you glance up and find him already staring, eyes dark and steady. There’s no wink. No smirk. Just… intent.

By dessert, you’re lightheaded with it.

When the group disperses for the night—hugs exchanged, a few people filtering off to an afterparty—you try to slip out quietly.

But he’s already waiting by the coat rack.

"Walk with me?" he asks, voice low.

You hesitate. Then nod.

The air outside is crisp, the night humid with summer’s last breath. You walk in silence for a block before he speaks.

"I should’ve called."

You don’t say anything.

"I didn’t know what to say," he continues. "What we had backstage... it wasn’t just a moment for me. But it felt too big. Too fast. I panicked."

You stop walking.

He turns to face you, hands in his pockets again, but he’s not hiding. Not tonight.

"And now?" you ask.

He exhales slowly. "Now, I just want to know if you felt it too. Or if I imagined it."

Your voice is steady. "You didn’t imagine it."

Something in his expression cracks—relief, maybe. Or something closer to hope.

"So what now?" you ask, quiet.

He steps closer. "Now we start over. Not backstage. Not in whispers."

You meet his eyes. "Real."

He nods. "Real. If you’ll let me."

You don’t answer with words.

You take his hand.

What does real look like?

It starts small.

Coffee on a quiet Tuesday. No disguises, no rush. He shows up with two drinks and a shy smile, and you pretend not to notice the way his fingers brush yours when he hands you the cup.

It’s texts that don’t wait for a reply. A meme here. A lyric there. A photo of his art in a box that says: he misses you.

It’s finding your rhythm outside of stage lights and rehearsals. Real means movie nights with no makeup, no witty retorts—just silence, comfortable and warm, broken only by popcorn crunches and the occasional, shared glance.

It’s messier, too.

One night, he shows up late, eyes tired, mouth pulled tight. "Had a rough day," he says, collapsing onto your couch. You don’t ask for details. You just put on music, make tea, and let him be.

He kisses you that night like he’s saying thank you. Like you’re safe. Like you’re his beginning.

Real means trust. And time.

It means he doesn’t rush. You don’t press. Some days, you talk about nothing. Some nights, he opens up a little more—tells you about his mother’s garden, or the song he scrapped because it felt dishonest.

And slowly, almost imperceptibly, the wall between you starts to dissolve.

It’s not perfect. There are moments you wonder if it’s too complicated, too fragile, too exposed. But then he looks at you—really looks—and you remember.

Real was never supposed to be easy.

Just worth it.

A week later, it’s raining.

Not the gentle, romantic kind — the messy, sideways kind that soaks your jeans and turns umbrellas inside out. You’re at his apartment. You weren’t supposed to be — just dropping off a hoodie he left at your place — but he opens the door, takes one look at your drenched figure, and says, “Stay.”

So you do.

There’s soup. A quiet playlist. Bare feet on warm floors. You curl up on the couch, your legs over his, the comfort easy and wordless.

Until it’s not.

“You didn’t tell me you were flying to Japan next week,” you say, offhand, eyes still on the movie.

“I didn’t think it mattered,” he says, equally light.

But something shifts.

You sit up a little. “It does. I mean... I want to know.”

He pauses. “I didn’t mean to hide it. It’s just a quick shoot.”

You nod. But your jaw is tight.

“You said this would be different,” you murmur.

He sighs, rubbing his eyes. “It is. But I’ve been living in a world where the less I share, the safer everyone is. It’s hard to undo that overnight.”

You don’t say anything. Just sit there, heart thudding.

Then, softer: “I don’t want to be kept on the outside.”

His voice is hoarse. “You’re not. You’re already further in than anyone else.”

You believe him. But it still hurts.

Because real isn’t just soft nights and warm touches.

It’s this — the ache of learning each other’s scars and deciding they’re still worth holding.

He touches your hand. “I’ll do better.”

You meet his eyes. “I don’t need perfect. I just need real.”

And in that silence, with rain tapping the windows and his fingers lacing through yours, you both know — you’re still choosing each other.

Even when it’s messy.

Even when it’s hard.

That’s what real looks like.

But the real is also not black or white.

It's a gray area when the takeout boxes are scattered across the floor, remnants of dinner abandoned in favor of wine and proximity. His playlist hums softly in the background — something jazzy and slow, like it knows not to intrude. The room is dim, lit only by the low lamp in the corner. You sit cross-legged on his couch, your body leaning lazily against the back cushions, half-listening to the movie playing.

He’s next to you. Warm, loose-limbed, one arm draped over the back of the couch behind you. Your thighs touch. It’s innocent. Mostly.

Then his fingers brush your hair aside.

You glance at him.

He’s watching you, not the screen.

The air changes.

The kiss, when it happens, is slow. Familiar. Like the hundred others you’ve shared since reconnecting — but there’s a hesitation behind it, too. Like he's asking, Is this okay? Can we go further?

You kiss him back harder.

That’s all it takes.

His hand slides to your waist, and he pulls you into his lap with a strength that’s never aggressive — just sure. You straddle him, your knees braced on either side, your fingers burying themselves in his hair as his mouth finds yours again, hotter now.

He groans into you — a sound low and rough, pulled straight from his chest — and it lights something in you. Your hips shift without thinking. His grip tightens.

But then he pulls back. Just a little.

Forehead to yours. Breath mixing.

"Wait," he murmurs.

You blink, breathless. “Wait?”

“I just—” He exhales. His hands are still on your waist, grounding. “Before we do this… I want to talk. Just a little. Is that okay?”

You nod, confused but curious. “Yeah. Of course.”

His eyes are steady, serious. “I don’t want to guess what you want. Or pretend I know. I want you to tell me what feels good. What doesn’t.”

You stare at him. “You’re really pausing mid-makeout to have a consent check-in?”

He half-smiles. “Yeah. Consent’s hot.”

You laugh. And then, quieter: “It really is.”

Your fingers trace the line of his jaw. “Okay,” you murmur. “I like pressure. I like hands. I don’t like being rushed. Sometimes I want control, sometimes I don’t. Depends.”

His thumbs brush gentle circles on your hips. “I like sound,” he says. “The little noises you make? They wreck me. I go slow unless I’m told not to. And I like it when you tug my hair like that.”

You smirk, tugging gently.

He groans, closing his eyes. “Yeah. Exactly like that.”

And just like that, the tension shifts again — hotter now, but clearer. There’s no guessing. Just exploration.

You kiss again, deeper this time, mouths parting with unspoken urgency. Your hands slide beneath the hem of his shirt, palms gliding up the firm line of his torso. The muscles there twitch under your touch, taut and warm, his breath catching in a sharp, audible inhale. He leans into you like he can’t get close enough, his hands gripping your hips and pulling you tighter into his lap until you feel every inch of him pressed against you.

Your fingers curl into the fabric as you push the shirt higher, and he lifts his arms without a word, letting you tug it over his head. The moment it's gone, your mouths find each other again, messier now — teeth, tongue, heat. One of his hands slides up your spine, the other tangling in your hair, guiding you into him like the world’s narrowed to just this room, this moment.

When you shift your weight, grinding slowly down, he groans low against your mouth — a sound that sends a jolt straight through your chest. You feel his restraint unraveling under your hands, and it sets fire to something in you. You want more. You want all of it.

Clothes come off slowly. Carefully. Like unwrapping something that matters. He watches your face more than your body. Your breathing. Your reactions. He treats each inch of skin like a story he’s been dying to read.

When he finally moves over you — bare, flushed, and breathless — he pauses just long enough to look you in the eye. His pupils are blown wide, his lips kiss-bitten, and his hands splay on either side of your head as if anchoring himself to this moment.

Your hands map his back, nails grazing lightly down his spine, and he shudders — visibly, deeply. His forehead rests against yours, the closeness thick with heat and wanting. You feel his body align with yours, the warmth of his skin pressing down, your legs wrapping instinctively around his hips.

He rolls his hips once — slow, deliberate, testing. Your gasp is sharp, and his lips find yours instantly, swallowing the sound as if he needs it to survive. Every movement after is a question and an answer — a give and take, paced but deep, slow but desperate. He whispers your name like it’s sacred, his breath hot against your jaw as he thrusts again, harder this time. You clutch at his shoulders, your body arching to meet him.

“Here?” he murmurs, voice gravel and reverence.

You nod, biting your lip, your hands tugging at his hair again.

His pace changes — deeper, steadier, and your breath breaks into little whimpers that make his rhythm falter in the best way. He presses kisses across your collarbone, your throat, murmuring praise against your skin, murmuring things you can’t catch but feel anyway. Like want. Like yours.

He holds your gaze as you start to fall apart beneath him, and something raw passes between you — a silent permission, a surrender. Your breath comes in stuttering gasps, hands clutching his shoulders as his name falls from your lips, wrecked and reverent. His rhythm falters for only a second, but that’s all it takes — the tension inside you snaps like a pulled thread, and the release floods through your body in waves, white-hot and consuming.

Your nails dig deeper into his back, marking him, anchoring yourself as you ride the aftershocks, your hips still moving in time with his. He groans, a deep, guttural sound that vibrates through your chest. Sweat beads at his brow, his jaw clenched as he tries to hold on, his own control slipping further with every fractured moan you make.

He buries his face against your neck, breath hitching, and you feel it — that final, desperate thrusts, the way his whole body tenses above you before he finally gives in, spilling into you with a strangled curse and your name broken against your skin.

He doesn’t pull away right away. Just breathes, heavy and warm, as his hand slides along your thigh, grounding himself in the feel of you beneath him. The weight of him isn’t crushing. It’s comforting. Protective. Real.

He follows close behind — a curse whispered into your shoulder, a tremor that shakes his whole body as he lets go.

Your names slip out in gasps and curses, your hands gripping and grounding, your mouths finding each other again and again.

And afterward, you lie tangled in the sheets, your head on his chest, his fingers stroking lazy patterns along your spine.

He kisses the top of your head.

“You good?”

You nod. “Yeah. You?”

He smiles against your hair. “Still trying to recover, actually.”

You laugh, burying your face against him.

And in that moment, raw and real and wrapped in each other — no performance, no pretenses — you realize: this is what trust looks like.

And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Taglist: @petersasteria @redhoodedtoad @mirahyun @sherrayyyyy @sherxoo @dilfismz @breakmeoff @janie-osuih @forevervibezzzz1 @kuinnoa @juliskopf @maskedcrawford @szonyix6277@ldydeath @lovelycarmenn @tabibabib

[bettelaboure]

⊹What never faded⊹ | Choi Seung-Hyun

⊹Pairing: Choi Seung-Hyun x The Reader

⊹Summary: at Netflix Tudum 2025, an unexpected reunion forces two people with a complicated history to face what they left behind—and what might still be waiting

⊹Warnings: emotional themes, including past relationship trauma, mental health references, and romantic tension

The lights of the Netflix Tudum 2025 event blazed across the sleek facade of the venue, flashes of red carpet strobes and fan cheers pulsing like electricity in the air. You adjusted the lanyard around your neck and exhaled slowly, your fingers tightening slightly around the clutch in your hand. It was just another industry event. Or at least, it was supposed to be.

You were nervous to see him.

You spotted him from behind first—the unmistakable set of his shoulders, the slight tilt of his head as he listened to someone speak. He was dressed in a sharp, perfectly tailored suit, posture elegant but relaxed. You hadn’t seen that silhouette in nearly a decade, but your body remembered before your brain caught up.

Before you could stop yourself, it slipped out like muscle memory.

"Jagi?"

The word barely made it past your lips, soft, uncertain—but it reached him. He froze.

Slowly, he turned.

And there he was.

Seung-hyun. Older. Different. Still him.

He blinked, stunned. Then something flickered in his eyes. Not disbelief.

Recognition.

And just like that, your breath caught.

You hadn’t seen him since 2016. Not in person. Not after the press conferences. Not after the apologies. Not after the silences grew too loud between the two of you and eventually turned into absence.

You'd dated nearly six years. Six years of underground cafés, late-night ramen on the floor of his studio, vinyl records and scribbled lyrics on the backs of receipts. You remembered the way he held you after his first scandal, the way he disappeared for days during the worst of it, and the way your fingers had ached from holding him together until you couldn’t anymore.

He turned.

And saw you.

For a moment, the crowd didn’t exist. The flashing lights. The murmurs. The booming mic checks. It was just him, standing there like a memory you never quite stopped loving.

His eyes widened—just a flicker—and then his lips parted in a soft, surprised smile. A real one. The kind he used to give you in the dark, after the shows, when it was just the two of you and the noise of the world couldn't reach.

He walked toward you slowly, as if he wasn’t sure you’d stay.

“You look exactly the same,” he said, voice low, rougher than it used to be.

You smiled, eyes scanning his face, older now, but still devastating. “You don’t.”

He chuckled. “Fair. Time hits different when you’ve been through a storm.”

There was silence, but not awkward. Not yet.

“Did you... come here with someone?” he asked, eyes searching.

“Oh, no. I'm hosting the event. You?”

“I'm here for a series,” he said with a half-smile. “Season two of Squid Game.”

Your brows lifted. "You’re kidding."

"Nope. Kind of a failed rapper-type antagonist. Purple, and... still very much the villain. It’s darker than anything I’ve done before."

You stared at him, half in awe. "That’s... big."

He nodded. “It is. And terrifying. But also the first time I’ve felt like I’m doing something just for me.”

He glanced down, then met your eyes again. “It’s good, though. Honest.”

Another silence. This one heavier.

“You look well,” you said.

“I’m getting there.”

The way he said it, the weight behind it—you knew exactly what it meant. You’d lived it with him, once. The panic attacks. The nights he didn’t want to get out of bed. The dark stretches he covered with sarcasm and whiskey.

“I’m glad,” you said, voice softer.

“I wasn’t, for a long time.” He tilted his head slightly. “You know that.”

You nodded. “I do.”

He hesitated, eyes flickering across your face. “I thought about you. A lot. Over the years.”

Your breath caught again.

You whispered. “Me too.”

Another beat.

“I wasn’t ready then,” he said, more to himself than to you. “To be loved like that. To be that vulnerable. I wanted to protect you and ended up pushing you away.”

You reached out, fingertips brushing his sleeve. He didn’t pull away.

“You were hurting,” you said. “You still tried.”

He looked at you—really looked—and for a moment, you were back in his studio at 3 a.m., wearing one of his shirts, humming along to whatever beat he was building. For a moment, it was just the two of you again.

He exhaled like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath. He glanced down, then back up. 

“When I heard someone say ‘Jagi,’ I thought I was imagining things. And then I turned around.”

Your throat tightened. “I didn’t mean to say it. It just… came out.”

He stepped closer, not enough to touch, but close enough that you could feel the warmth of his body, the quiet pull of gravity between you.

“Yeah.”

And just like that, the world snapped back into motion. Someone called his name. A reporter flagged you down. But you both looked back, one last glance over your shoulders before diving back into the crowd.

Because maybe some rules, like timing, were just waiting to be rewritten.

Once the camera was rolling, the mic clipped to your collar, and the stage lights hit your skin, you were home. Hosting came naturally to you. Smiling through a lineup of celebrities, introducing teaser trailers with practiced charm, tossing in off-script jokes that made the audience laugh—this was your world now.

Not his.

You told yourself you’d compartmentalized that life, those years. But seeing him tonight—so suddenly, so real—shook loose something you thought was long folded away.

After the event ended, you slipped into the hotel car alone. You leaned your head against the window, makeup still flawless, hair still perfectly pinned, and let yourself just be tired. The adrenaline was gone, replaced by a low hum beneath your skin. Not from the spotlight.

From him.

When you walked into your suite, you didn’t bother turning on the lights. You dropped your clutch on the console, kicked off your heels, and peeled out of your dress one careful inch at a time, stepping into the bathroom with the vague intention of removing your makeup.

Your phone buzzed.

You almost ignored it. Almost.

But something in your chest knew.

You padded barefoot across the cool tile and picked up the phone.

1 new message — Jagi.

You never changed the name. It has stayed like this since the day you kissed. Other lovers were down in your contact list as their names, but his was always "Jagi".

Hey. I know it’s late. Just wanted to say... you looked radiant tonight. Hosting suits you.

You stared at the screen for a beat, thumb hovering. Then another message came through.

Would you be down for dinner?

A breath escaped you.

He had always known when to give you space. But he also knew when to step in and say exactly what you needed to hear.

You sat down on the edge of the bed, the weight of the evening finally settling in.

You typed:

Yeah. I’d like that. Let me know when.

He read it immediately.

Tomorrow night? There’s a place by the beach. Quiet. I’ll send the address*.*

You didn’t hesitate this time.

Okay.

And then, as you finally removed your earrings, unzipped your dress the rest of the way, and wiped away the last of your makeup, you let yourself smile. Not the kind you wore for the cameras.

Something smaller. Private.

Because the man you hadn’t seen in almost a decade had reappeared. Not in a headline. Not in a scandal.

But in a room full of people, looking at you like he never stopped seeing you.

And now, tomorrow, you’d find out if the years had changed more than just the way you found each other.

The restaurant sat tucked into a narrow side street near the beach —no sign, no flashy entrance, just a sleek black door and a single gold lantern flickering above it. Seung-hyun always had a knack for finding places like this. Private, curated, just a little off the map.

You arrived five minutes early, nerves humming like a second pulse. The hostess greeted you by name and led you to a booth at the back, shielded from the rest of the space by sheer linen curtains and low lighting. You slid into the seat, fingertips brushing the cool, dark wood of the table.

You didn't have to wait long.

He stepped in like a quiet storm—black turtleneck, charcoal coat, hair pushed back but still artfully tousled. When his eyes landed on you, it was less of a look and more of a pull.

“Still early,” he said as he sat down. “You haven’t changed.”

“You still dress like a noir film.”

He smiled, small and sharp. “Better than dressing like a scandal.”

There it was—that edge. Still wrapped in velvet, but always present. You didn’t flinch. You just picked up your water glass and took a sip.

A server appeared to take your orders—his in slightly, clumsy English; yours confident but polite. Old habits. You used to order for each other. Tonight, you didn’t.

“So,” you said once you were alone again. “Thanos?”

He winced, smiling anyway. “I told them I wasn’t purple enough, but they gave me a really good monologue and great hair. I sold my soul for the idea.”

You laughed, the sound easing something between you.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he said suddenly, voice quieter.

“I wasn’t sure either,” you admitted.

He nodded slowly. “But I wanted to see you. Without an audience.”

The dishes arrived, and for a few minutes, conversation slowed into familiar silence—clinking chopsticks, the scent of grilled fish and roasted garlic, shared glances that lingered a beat too long.

“You always eat like you’re trying to appreciate it for both of us,” you teased, watching him carefully layer a bit of rice and pickled radish on his spoon.

“You always talk like you’re writing a script,” he countered.

You smiled. “Some of us live for structure.”

“You used to say that when you left me notes on my mirror.”

You looked down, the memory catching you off guard. “You kept those?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“I still have the one that said ‘Please remember to sleep’ on hotel stationery. It’s in a drawer. At my studio.”

You blinked, suddenly aware of the ache just beneath your ribs.

He leaned back, studying you. “Do you regret any of it?”

“No,” you said honestly. “I regret the silence that came after.”

He exhaled. “Me too.”

Another pause, longer this time. The low hum of the restaurant filled it, but the air between you felt charged.

“I wanted to protect you from the mess,” he said. “But I didn’t know how to do that and stay.”

You nodded. “And I didn’t know how to leave without feeling like I was abandoning you.”

His hand rested on the table, close to yours but not quite touching. “You didn’t.”

You looked up, eyes meeting his. “I did what I thought you needed.”

“I needed you. I just didn’t know how to be someone worth staying for.”

The words landed heavy. Honest. Raw.

And then—so gently—you slid your fingers toward his. Not quite a touch. Just a question.

He didn’t hesitate. His hand turned, palm warm, fingers curling between yours like muscle memory.

You didn’t speak for a long moment.

Finally, he said, “I didn’t ask you to dinner to fix the past.”

You looked at him.

“I asked because I want to see who we are now. And if maybe… that still matters.”

You squeezed his hand softly. “It does.”

And just like that, something shifted—an old chord, struck again, still resonant. Still whole.

The walk back to your hotel wasn’t fast. It was slow, deliberate—like neither of you wanted to get to the end too quickly. Los Angeles was glowing around you, storefronts closed but still humming with color. The air was warm enough for your coat to hang open, your blouse fluttering slightly in the breeze.

Seung-hyun didn’t say much.

But he looked at you. Again and again. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were walking beside him, the quiet rhythm of your steps in sync after so many years apart.

At the door to your hotel, you hesitated. Part of you thought he might lean in for a hug, something safe and polite.

He didn’t.

He just looked at you and said, quietly, “If I come upstairs with you, it won’t be casual.”

You held his gaze. “It’s not.”

And that was it.

You let him in.

The door clicked shut behind him like a closing parenthesis.

You stepped out of your heels with a sigh, tossing your clutch onto the nearest chair. He followed slowly, peeling off his jacket, not saying a word.

But the silence wasn’t awkward.

It was full.

You turned to face him, barefoot now, blouse still buttoned to your throat. He stood near the window, hands in his pockets, just watching you.

Finally, he spoke. “Do you still like to be touched behind your ear?”

You blinked. “You remember that?”

He nodded once. “You’d twitch like a live wire. Every time.”

Your mouth went dry, heart thudding hard against your ribs.

He stepped closer, slow. His voice was soft but sure. “Do you still like it when someone takes their time? Not just to turn you on—but to know you?”

Your breath caught.

“Seung-hyun…”

He reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering. “I’m not rushing this. I don’t want to make love to a memory. I want you. The you that’s here. Now.”

You looked up at him, throat tight. “Ask me.”

His hand slid down your neck, then to your waist, fingertips curling lightly around the dip of your hip.

“Do you still like having your blouse unbuttoned slowly?” he murmured, each word a pulse.

You nodded.

He kissed you—gently this time, like a question—and when you didn’t pull away, his fingers found the top button.

“One…”

The button popped.

“Two…”

Another.

You exhaled shakily, hands moving up to his chest, feeling the familiar solid weight of him beneath the thin fabric.

“Do you still like when someone tells you what they’re going to do before they do it?” he asked, voice rougher now.

“Yes,” you whispered.

“Good,” he said, thumb grazing the hollow of your collarbone. “Because I’m going to kiss every inch of your skin until you forget how long it’s been.”

The next kiss was deeper, hungrier. Your hands slid under his sweater, fingertips dancing along his ribs. He hissed a breath, mouth moving to your neck.

“And I’m going to touch you the way you liked almost a decade ago…” he growled softly against your skin, “…but I want you to tell me if anything’s changed.”

You gasped when his teeth grazed your shoulder.

His hands were patient but greedy—mapping, remembering, rediscovering.

“Here?” he asked as his fingers traced the inside of your thigh.

You nodded, breathless.

“And here?” A press just beneath your ribs.

You nodded again, biting your lip.

“And here…” He pressed his palm to the small of your back, then dipped lower. “This used to make you beg.”

“Still does,” you said, voice shaking.

He laughed softly, eyes warm but dark with heat. “Then don’t stop me this time.”

You pulled him in.

His mouth crashed into yours with a low, guttural sound — not of aggression, but desperation. Like he’d been starving and you were the first taste of something real in years.

He kissed like he remembered everything: how you liked to be caught off guard, how your breath would hitch when he took control of your mouth, your jaw, your neck. His fingers tangled in your hair, angling your head just right as he deepened the kiss, tongue sliding in to claim your gasp.

Your back met the bed as he followed you down, pressing you into the mattress with his weight, his presence. His thigh slotted between yours, grinding upward just enough to make you whimper, and his breath hitched when he felt the heat of you through your clothes.

“You’re trembling,” he whispered against your lips.

“I’ve been waiting too long.”

His hands moved to your blouse, and this time there was no slow unbuttoning. He pulled the fabric open in one fluid motion, not tearing, but unbothered by neatness. Buttons skittered across the floor.

You let out a startled laugh.

“I’ll buy you five more,” he muttered, mouth already on your collarbone.

He trailed kisses down your sternum, nuzzling into the lace of your bra, fingers slipping underneath to tease until your back arched off the bed. You could feel him already — hard and hot, still fully clothed from the waist down, but pressing against your thigh like a promise.

He murmured, lips brushing your clothed nipple. “I’ll let you fall apart before I’m even inside you.”

You moaned. “God, yes.”

Your bra joined the blouse on the floor. He sat back to look at you, his hands warm and rough as they cupped your breasts, thumbs flicking over your nipples until you squirmed.

“I used to dream about this,” he said, voice low. “About how you’d taste. How you’d sound.”

“Then stop dreaming,” you whispered, reaching for his belt.

He caught your wrists.

“Not yet,” he said, leaning down. “I want to make you forget the years first.”

And then he was kissing lower, teeth grazing your ribs, his hands pushing your pants down inch by inch. He dropped them off the edge of the bed, then knelt between your thighs like he was in prayer.

His eyes met yours as he slid his hands up the backs of your thighs.

“I remember what this does to you,” he said, pressing his thumbs into the tender skin. “Let’s see if it still works.”

You gasped as his mouth closed over you through your panties — warm, damp pressure that made your thighs tense and your breath stutter.

When he pulled the fabric aside and finally licked you — one long, slow stroke of his tongue — your hips lifted off the bed with a cry.

“There you are,” he breathed. “Still so fucking responsive.”

He took his time. No rushing. No impatience. He worked you open with his mouth, steady and thorough, alternating between gentle flicks of his tongue and deep, sucking pressure that had you moaning like you’d forgotten how to breathe.

One hand gripped the headboard. The other tangled in his hair, anchoring yourself to the moment as he pushed two fingers inside you, curling them just right while his mouth never stopped.

You were close — dizzy, teetering — when he pulled back suddenly.

“Don’t,” you gasped. “Don’t stop.”

His face was flushed, lips wet. “Say it.”

“What?”

He leaned up, sliding his fingers back inside you, slow and deep. “Tell me you want me. Not the idea of me. Not the version you made peace with. Me.”

“I want you,” you said, chest heaving. “I never stopped.”

That was all it took.

He stood and stripped fast, shirt first, then pants, his cock springing free — flushed, thick, already leaking.

Your mouth watered at the sight, and he caught it.

“Still like what you see?” he teased.

“Get in me before I forget how to speak.”

He climbed over you, grabbed your thigh, hitched your leg over his hip, and slid into you in one long, perfect thrust.

The stretch was too much and not enough all at once. Your body clenched around him like it knew what it had been missing. His head dropped into the crook of your neck with a groan.

“Fuck… still so tight. Like your body remembered me.”

You dug your nails into his back. “Move.”

And he did.

He set a slow rhythm first, grinding deep, letting you feel every inch. He kissed you as he fucked you, each thrust dragging a broken noise from your throat. His hips rocked forward with purpose, dragging his cock along your sweet spot with precision that made your vision blur.

“You always loved this angle,” he murmured, thrusting harder now. “The way it made you lose your words.”

You barely managed a nod, lips parting as a high-pitched moan escaped you.

He pulled out almost completely, then pushed back in with a sharp snap of his hips that made you cry out. “Say my name.”

“Seung-hyun.”

“Again.”

“Seung-hyun, please—”

He grunted, hips stuttering as you clenched around him, every nerve alight. “Come for me. I want to feel you lose it.”

You did — hard, sudden, shattering. Your body seized around him, thighs shaking, your back arching up off the bed. You came with his name on your tongue and his hand gripping yours like a lifeline.

He groaned and buried himself deep, hips jerking as he spilled inside you, warmth flooding you, his whole body trembling with it.

For a long moment, you just held each other — skin slick, chests heaving, his face buried in your neck.

Eventually, he pulled back slightly, brushing hair from your damp forehead.

“I missed you in every way it’s possible to miss someone,” he said.

You reached up and touched his jaw.

“I think you just reminded me how to feel again.”

Sunlight cut through the curtains, too soft to be cruel, but steady enough to remind you: the world was still turning. The hotel room was warm, silent except for the muffled sounds of traffic far below and the occasional creak of the building stretching awake.

You were wrapped in Seung-hyun’s arms, his chest at your back, one leg slung lazily over yours beneath the sheets. He was still, but not asleep. You could tell from the rhythm of his breath — too thoughtful, too careful.

Neither of you had said anything yet.

You blinked slowly, your eyes adjusting to the pale light, and finally whispered, “You’re thinking too loud.”

He let out a small, breathy laugh. “You still know me too well.”

You rolled onto your back, and he shifted with you, propped up on one elbow now, looking down at your face like he was afraid this version of you might disappear if he looked away too fast.

He reached out, brushed your hair away from your face.

“You always looked like this in the morning,” he murmured. “Like peace.”

You reached up, let your fingers curl around his wrist. “And you look like someone who has a flight to catch.”

He flinched slightly, just enough for you to notice.

Reality was already seeping in at the corners — the day waiting on the other side of the glass, emails, obligations, countries apart. The fantasy of last night had been perfect. But it had never promised to last.

“I do,” he said finally. “Tonight.”

You nodded, slowly. “Back to Seoul.”

“Back to three hours of sleep, and pretending the camera doesn’t see through me.”

You smiled gently. “Some things really haven’t changed.”

He tried to laugh, but it came out hollow.

“I don’t want to go,” he said. “Not now. Not after—” He stopped. “Not after getting a piece of you again.”

You sat up slowly, pulling the sheets around your chest as you looked out at the skyline. Your voice was quiet. “I didn’t think we’d ever be in the same room again, let alone the same bed.”

“I know,” he said. “I kept telling myself I didn’t deserve that anymore.”

“You didn’t,” you said gently. “Back then.”

He took the hit without flinching. “But now?”

You turned to him, your expression soft but steady. “Now you’re here. And I’m not angry anymore. I’m not afraid, either. But I have a life here, Seung-hyun. A home. A job I fought for. Friends who became family. And a version of myself that isn’t tied to your shadows.”

He nodded slowly. “I know. I see it in you.”

“You rebuilt too,” you added. “I’m proud of that.”

He sat up beside you, knees brushing. “So what does that mean for us? That this was… what? Closure?”

You looked at him, and your heart cracked in the way only old love knows how to do — clean, familiar, quietly.

“I don’t know if closure feels like this,” you admitted. “It didn’t feel like goodbye. But it didn’t feel like a beginning either.”

He looked down at his hands. “What if it could be both?”

You bit your lip. “You’re still based in Seoul.”

“I could come back,” he said, too quickly.

“You won’t,” you said, not unkindly. “Not yet. Maybe not ever. And I won’t ask you to.”

The silence that followed wasn’t bitter — just tired. Mature.

You leaned your head against his shoulder. He rested his chin on top of your head, and for a few moments, you let yourselves pretend the hours weren’t counting down.

Eventually, he murmured, “Can I still call you? Sometimes? Just to hear your voice?”

“Yeah,” you said. “I think I’d like that.”

He kissed your hair. “I’ll send you postcards.”

“And I’ll probably forget to reply for weeks.”

He smiled. “It’ll still be better than silence.”

You stayed there in bed for a long while, wrapped in sheets and shared regret and something that almost felt like hope. You both knew what it meant. This wasn’t a reunion.

It was a soft return. A breath in the middle of separate lives.

A maybe, in a world full of maybes.

And for now — just for this morning — it was enough.

The airport smelled like burnt coffee, recycled air, and the thin antiseptic scent of transit. It was early, too early — that cold, blue-lit hour where time seemed suspended and no one wanted to talk too loud.

You stood in front of Gate 32, boarding pass to Miami tucked into your coat pocket. The announcement for your flight had just played overhead, the calm robotic voice slicing through the tension like a knife: “Flight 6B to Miami now boarding. Final call.”

Seung-hyun stood across from you, black coat draped over one arm, carry-on at his side. His flight wasn’t for another hour, Seoul-bound. Different gates. Different directions. Different worlds.

He looked like he hadn’t slept.

You hadn’t either.

No words had been exchanged in the Uber ride from the hotel. Just his fingers brushing yours every few minutes. Just the quiet static of your thighs touching. Just glances, soft and sharp, filled with everything that couldn’t be said without making this harder.

Now, at the gate, he finally broke the silence.

“So this is the part where I say something meaningful,” he said, voice low.

You gave him a tired smile. “Or you could say something stupid and familiar. That might hurt less.”

He chuckled softly, the sound tight. “Okay. Um… 'Don’t forget your charger again.’”

You laughed, eyes stinging. “I still have the one you gave me. It’s held together with tape.”

“I’d replace it,” he said, “but I kind of like knowing you still carry something that used to be mine.”

Your smile faltered at that.

Another call echoed through the terminal: “Final boarding. Gate 32. Final boarding for flight to Miami.”

You exhaled, then looked up at him. “This is where we leave it, huh?”

He shook his head slowly. “I don’t want it to be. But yeah… I think it has to be. For now.”

You nodded. Your heart ached so deeply it felt physical, your chest tight with all the things you couldn’t do — couldn’t fix.

“I don’t regret last night,” you whispered.

He stepped closer, brushing his knuckles down your cheek. “I’ll hold on to it.”

“You always said you hated airports,” you said.

“I don’t hate this one,” he replied, eyes fixed on yours. “I hate the part where you walk away.”

You swallowed hard and stepped into him, wrapping your arms around his waist. He pulled you in immediately, fiercely, his grip firm, chin resting on your head.

You stood there, holding each other like it could freeze time.

Eventually, you whispered, “Tell me we’ll find each other again.”

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye. “We will. Even if it’s not how we imagined. Even if it’s just a voice, a message, or a half-written postcard.”

Your throat burned. “Seung-hyun…”

“I’ll think of you every time I land,” he said. “Every city, every hotel. I’ll wonder where you are. And if you’re smiling.”

You nodded, tears quietly falling now.

One final call.

“Flight 6B to Miami is closing boarding. This is your final call.”

You pressed a kiss to his cheek — not romantic. Not rushed.

Just grounding.

He whispered, “Go. Before I ask you not to.”

You turned and walked toward the gate. Didn’t look back until you had to.

He was still there. Watching. His hand raised in a small wave — the kind that meant this isn’t the end, even if it looked like it.

And then you were gone.

You started saving his postcards in a shoebox.

Not a romantic box, not something overly sentimental — just an old Converse box shoved under your bed. It wasn’t fancy, but it felt like the right place for something that lived between nostalgia and maybe.

They came regularly now, once every two or three weeks. Always handwritten. Always personal.

Some with hotel logos. Some with hand-drawn sketches — the inside of a taxi in Jakarta, the view from his apartment window in Seoul. A doodle of your coffee mug from memory. One card had just four words written in sharp ink:

I saw your smile today.

You didn’t always answer.

But you never stopped reading.

Three months after the airport.

You were brushing your teeth, half-awake in your Miami apartment, when your phone buzzed. A voice note.

Seung-hyun “I know it’s late there. I just walked out of a press dinner. I wore the stupid grey suit you hated. I looked around and kept wishing you were next to me, whispering sarcastic things in my ear while pretending to behave. I miss that. You. I’ll stop now. Just wanted to say... tonight felt empty without you.”

You didn’t respond right away.

Instead, you replayed it three times in the dark, sitting on the edge of your bed, toothbrush forgotten in your hand.

Then you sent one back, much shorter:

“I still hate that suit. But your voice... that I missed.”

It was late — technically already the day after your birthday. You hadn’t told him the date. Not this year.

At 2:07 AM, your phone lit up. Incoming call. Seung-hyun.

You answered, voice groggy. “Hello?”

He sounded slightly breathless. “I missed it, didn’t I?”

You blinked, sitting up. “Missed what?”

“Your birthday. I wanted to be the first one to call, but now I’m probably the last.”

You smiled, warmth spreading across your chest. “You’re the only one calling at 2 a.m., so technically, you win.”

“Good,” he said, a quiet laugh. “Because I didn’t get you a present. Unless you count this terrible version of ‘Happy Birthday’ I’m about to sing in a parking lot.”

You groaned. “Please don’t—”

He started anyway. Off-key. Half-whispered. Sincere in a way that made your throat tighten.

When he finished, he added, “I’m outside a ramen shop in Osaka. My driver thinks I’ve lost it.”

You leaned back against your pillow, the smile on your face far too big for 2 a.m.

“Thank you,” you said.

“Next year,” he replied, “I want to say it in person.”

You didn’t say yes.

But you didn’t say no.

It was mid-March. You had just wrapped hosting a Netflix Latin America panel. You were exhausted, your hair was still half-pinned, and you were scrolling your phone in an Uber when your phone lit up with a message from him:

I missed my flight.

You blinked. Typed back: To where?

To you.

Your stomach dropped. You stared at the screen, pulse ticking.

You called. He picked up immediately.

“You were coming here?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Just for two days. No press. No cameras. I booked it after I heard your voice in that interview. You were laughing. But not like you used to. Not like when you laughed with me.”

Your heart squeezed.

“I wanted to be near you,” he added. “Just for a little. I think I needed to.”

You whispered, “I think I need that too.”

He rebooked for the following weekend.

You spent the next six days cleaning your apartment, changing your sheets three times, buying too many things you didn’t need — just in case.

He didn’t make that flight either.

A scheduling conflict. A last-minute obligation. Something vague and frustrating and familiar.

He sent a photo of his packed suitcase with the caption:

I’m still trying.

You didn’t reply.

But you didn’t throw away the flowers you’d bought for the table.

And then, there was a quiet stretch.

No postcards.

No calls.

No messages.

Three weeks passed.

You told yourself it was fine. That he was busy. That this thing between you was never supposed to demand anything. But the silence filled every room like fog.

Then, just as you began to resent it — just as you considered deleting his number — a package arrived.

Inside was a sketchbook.

First page: a charcoal drawing of you, curled up in bed, hair messy, laughing with your head thrown back. Like you did once in 2014, in a hotel room in Busan. You remembered the night instantly.

Below the sketch was a single line in his handwriting:

You still live here.

You cried in your kitchen. Not hard. Not loud. Just enough to admit that the ache had never really gone away.

He called that night. You let it ring once before answering.

No words at first.

Just breath. Shared air.

Finally, you said, “Maybe we stop trying to forget.”

His reply was soft. “I never tried.”

The knock came at 7:41 PM.

You hadn’t ordered food.

You weren’t expecting anyone.

You were still in a robe, fresh out of the shower, scrolling through emails with wet hair and a mug of tea gone cold beside you. The knock came again—gentler this time. Two beats. Like hesitation.

You padded barefoot to the door and checked the peephole.

You didn’t breathe for a full five seconds.

He was there. Standing in your hallway.

Seung-hyun.

His hands were in his coat pockets. His hair was slightly longer now, tucked behind one ear. He looked tired but alert—like he’d flown across time zones on a single stubborn hope.

You opened the door, but you couldn’t speak.

He smiled, tentative. “I didn’t want to give you time to say no.”

You stared, speechless.

He gestured toward the hallway behind him. “If you tell me to leave, I’ll go. But I needed to see you. In person. Not through letters. Not on a screen. I needed to know what this feels like when it’s real again.”

You stepped back without a word and opened the door wider.

He walked in, slowly. Looking around like it wasn’t just your apartment he was taking in—but you. Your life now. The evidence of time moving on without him.

The door clicked shut behind you.

You turned.

He was still watching you.

“I didn’t pack a bag,” he said softly. “I didn’t book a hotel. I didn’t even bring my toothbrush.”

You folded your arms across your chest, heart thudding. “You just got on a plane.”

“I needed to know if I could still find you.”

You exhaled. “I wasn’t hiding.”

“I know,” he said. “But I think I was.”

You walked past him, suddenly overwhelmed, and crossed to the kitchen. He followed, but not too close.

You gripped the counter. “I waited.”

“I know.”

“I told myself I wasn’t. But I was.”

“I waited too,” he said, voice rougher now. “Every city, every hotel room, every time I sent something and didn’t hear back—I still waited.”

You looked at him, finally. “Why now?”

“Because I realized I was building a life around the idea of ‘maybe someday.’ And I can’t do that anymore. I’m done with maybe. I want now.”

Your voice cracked. “You still live in Seoul.”

“I don’t have to,” he said quietly.

That made you still.

He took a step closer. “I’ve already stepped away from one project. My contract’s almost done. I have enough to live a hundred lives. But none of them mean anything if I’m living them alone. If I keep leaving parts of myself behind in cities that only remind me of you.”

Tears hit your eyes before you could stop them.

He moved closer. “I want to stay. Not just visit. I want to be where you are. In your world. Not mine.”

You shook your head, overwhelmed. “Seung-hyun, you don’t just leave everything for someone who—”

“Someone who what?”

You hesitated.

“Who you lost,” you whispered.

He cupped your face, gently. “I never lost you. I just lost my way.”

You closed your eyes, chest heaving.

He kissed your forehead, then your cheek. “I don’t want to be your what-if. I want to be your what-now.”

You looked at him then, and for the first time in a long, long while, you let the fear fall away.

“I don’t know if this will work,” you admitted.

“I do,” he said, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Because I’m not asking for a second chance at the old story. I want a first chance at something new.”

A silence passed. Soft. Sacred.

Then: “Stay the night,” you said.

He blinked. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. But not for what you think.”

You took his hand. Led him toward the living room.

You sat together on the couch, not touching at first. Just breathing.

Eventually, you curled into him. His arms wrapped around you like they remembered. You felt the way his chest rose and fell. Steady. Familiar.

“You smell the same,” you murmured.

“You don’t,” he said. “You smell like lavender now. And peace.”

You both fell asleep like that.

The next morning, he made coffee.

You stood barefoot in the kitchen doorway, watching him, wondering how this felt more natural than anything had in months. He handed you a mug and leaned against the counter.

“Should I book a hotel?” he asked, sipping his own.

You looked at him.

“No,” you said. “You should look at apartments.”

He smiled, slow and quiet, like it came from someplace deep.

“So this is happening?” he asked.

You nodded. “But slowly. Carefully. With boundaries and check-ins and a drawer that’s yours... eventually.”

He lifted his mug. “To new stories.”

You clinked yours against his. “To new homes.”

It started with a sock.

One lone black sock, rolled inside-out and abandoned on the hardwood floor just outside the bathroom.

You stepped over it twice. Once on your way to the kitchen. Once on your way back.

On the third pass, holding a mug of tea and wrapped in a robe, you picked it up between two fingers like it was radioactive.

“Jagi,” you called, voice sweet but sharp.

From the living room, where he was watching an old film with headphones on, came a muffled: “Hmm?”

You walked in holding the sock at eye level.

He looked up.

You stared at him.

He blinked. “…Yes?”

“This is the fourth sock I’ve rescued this week,” you said calmly. “They’re multiplying. Like sentient lint.”

He grinned. “You’re keeping count now?”

“I have a spreadsheet.”

He laughed—out loud, that full-body laugh you used to ache for over the phone—but it didn’t soften your frown.

“I’m serious,” you said. “It’s not about the socks. It’s about respect. I didn’t fall in love with you so I could trip over your laundry on the way to the espresso machine.”

He sat up straighter. “Okay, fair. But in my defense, I’ve only left one pair of pants on the floor this week. Growth.”

You folded your arms. “Do I need to tape an apology note from the socks onto the bathroom mirror?”

He gave you a sheepish look. “I’ll be better.”

You handed him the sock. “Starting now.”

He took it, stood, kissed you on the forehead, and said, “I’ll write a haiku about it and tape it to the laundry basket.”

You rolled your eyes. “Romance.”

Sundays became domestic.

Groceries. Cleaning. That podcast you listened to together while folding towels. You didn’t think you’d love it—this slow, unspectacular kind of rhythm—but somehow, even carrying bags through parking lots and arguing over which yogurt brand to buy became… soft.

Until one Sunday, he bought iceberg lettuce.

You stared into the fridge like it had personally betrayed you.

“Why is there a head of iceberg in my refrigerator?”

He looked up from unpacking a bag of sparkling water. “Because it’s… lettuce?”

You turned slowly. “We talked about this.”

He held his hands up. “I thought you were joking!”

You blinked, expression flat. “Seung-hyun. You mocked iceberg lettuce in three different texts last month. You called it ‘crunchy water for cowards.’”

He paused. “I was being poetic.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘if I wanted a salad to feel like betrayal, I’d chew my own emotions.’”

He burst out laughing. “Okay, that’s pretty good.”

You held up the offending lettuce. “Then why is it here?”

“I panicked,” he said. “You weren’t answering, and the produce section was stressful, and I just wanted to make you lunch.”

You looked at him—at his messy hair and hopeful eyes—and sighed.

“You’re lucky you’re hot.”

He winked. “Hot enough to keep the lettuce?”

You shoved the fridge closed. “You’re eating it alone.”

The real fight didn’t come from socks or lettuce.

It came on a Tuesday night, after you’d both had long days.

He was finishing up a voiceover for an ad campaign. You had just gotten off a difficult Zoom meeting. The apartment was quiet. Tense.

He was in the kitchen reheating leftovers when you muttered, “You know, it feels like I’m the only one adapting.”

He turned. “What?”

You kept your eyes on your laptop. “I changed my schedule. I rearranged my closet. I sleep lighter now because you toss at night. You haven’t given up anything.”

He stared at you for a moment. Then: “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

He set the plate down too hard. “I moved countries.”

“You moved into my space. That’s not the same.”

His jaw tightened. “I’ve tried every day to be part of your life without disrupting it. I’m trying not to take up too much room.”

You stood, crossing your arms. “But I want you to take up room. Just not leave your laundry in it.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Sharp.

Finally, he said, “I’m not used to being allowed to exist quietly. Most people just want the show.”

You softened instantly. “I’m not most people.”

“I know,” he said. “But sometimes I forget that.”

You crossed the room, reached for his hand. “Then remind yourself. We’re not in a movie anymore. We’re just two people trying to build something real.”

He wrapped his arms around you. Held you.

“I don’t want to fail you,” he whispered.

“You won’t,” you said. “Just stop leaving socks on the floor.”

Three months into living together, you found him sitting on the couch, sketchbook open, headphones in. You watched from the hallway for a moment.

He didn’t see you.

He was sketching a corner of your apartment—the light falling across your armchair, the half-dead plant you refused to throw away, the mug you left on the sill. His face was calm. Focused. Like he’d finally found stillness.

You walked over and curled into his side.

He smiled. “You’re interrupting a masterpiece.”

“I am the masterpiece.”

He kissed your temple. “Accurate.”

You looked at the sketch. Then whispered, “You’re not afraid anymore, are you?”

He paused. Then shook his head. “No. Not of this. Not of us.”

You looked around your space—your shared space. The toothbrush beside yours. The hoodie on the chair. The photos developing on the fridge.

“Me neither.”

And maybe it wasn’t perfect. Maybe socks would still end up in strange places, and he’d keep buying the wrong lettuce. Maybe you’d argue about space and silence and whose turn it was to clean the stovetop.

But maybe that was the point.

Love wasn’t always loud. Or cinematic. Or tragic.

Sometimes, it looked like two toothbrushes and a haiku taped to a laundry basket.

And sometimes, it looked like someone staying long enough to make it home.

Taglist: @petersasteria @redhoodedtoad @mirahyun @sherrayyyyy @sherxoo @dilfismz @breakmeoff @janie-osuih @forevervibezzzz1 @kuinnoa @juliskopf @maskedcrawford @szonyix6277@ldydeath

[bettelaboure]

⊹Backstage⊹ | Choi Seung-Hyun

⊹Pairing: Choi Seung-Hyun x The Reader

⊹Summary: amid the chaotic final show of a world tour, a stylist and K-pop idol finally surrender to the slow-burning desire that’s been simmering between them for months, caught between professionalism and passion

⊹Warnings: sexual tension, emotionally charged interactions, and adult themes involving consensual but suggestive physical intimacy in a professional setting

⊹Author's note: hello, i'm alive <3 it's gonna be a 3 part short series that i hope you'll like

⊹⊹⊹⊹⊹

The dressing room is alive with its usual controlled chaos. Makeup cases, racks of glittering outfits, half-finished iced americanos, and a Bluetooth speaker blasting something vintage and funky — probably picked by Daesung. You're weaving between scattered costume bags, a hair curler in one hand and a lint roller in the other, trying to find the godforsaken studded jacket Young-bae insisted he needed before soundcheck.

From across the room, loud laughter erupts — unmistakably Seung-Hyun’s rich, bassy voice, deep and unrestrained. You look up just in time to see a shirtless Young-bae scream something in Korean before hurling a towel at Seung-Hyun, who is cackling like the devil himself. Of course, he’s pulled another prank — probably turned off the hot water mid-shower again.

You sigh. “You’re incorrigible,” you mutter, mostly to yourself.

“I’m what?” Seung-Hyun calls out, eyes gleaming like a misbehaving cat who’s proud of the destruction he’s caused.

“In-cor-ri-gi-ble,” you say louder, enunciating each syllable. “Look it up.”

“Oh, I will.” He winks. “I always like learning new words from my favorite firecracker.”

You roll your eyes, but a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. “If I’m a firecracker, then you’re a Roman candle—loud, obnoxious, and you burn out fast.”

He places a hand on his chest in mock offense, sauntering over dramatically. “Ouch. And here I was, just admiring how fierce you look today. That ponytail’s doing dangerous things to my heart.”

You blink up at him, heat crawling up your neck before you can stop it. “You're full of it, Choi.”

He smirks. “Full of charm. Admit it.”

“Full of crap,” you retort, poking a finger at his bare chest. You’re painfully aware of the way your finger bounces off taut skin. God help you, he doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he leans down, bringing his face comically close to yours.

“You know what else you’re full of?” he whispers with that deep timbre that always gives you goosebumps.

You lift a brow, refusing to back down. “Enlighten me.”

“Full-sized attitude, fun-sized frame.”

You swat at him, and he jumps back, laughing. “You’re not still on that?”

“You know I can’t help it. You’re the only person here who can glare up at me and still make me nervous.”

“I’m not short,” you reply automatically, hands on your hips. “I’m concentrated awesome.”

“And I keep telling you—” He points at you, eyes twinkling. “Fun size. Like those candies that pretend to be small, but one bite and your whole day’s wrecked.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re lucky you’re charming.”

“I know I’m charming.” He grins. “You keep me around for that and the wardrobe critiques.”

You snort and turn your attention back to the garment rack, brushing past him. But he follows, of course. You can feel his presence behind you, warm and teasing. He’s always like this — like gravity. You’re used to his orbit by now.

“I saw how you fixed my collar during rehearsal,” he says, voice lower now, like it’s not meant for the room full of people. “You always get this little crease between your brows when you’re focused.”

You pause. “Observant today, are we?”

He leans in, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. “Always observant when it comes to you.”

Your breath catches. This isn’t part of the usual banter.

“You flirt like it’s a competitive sport,” you murmur, trying to play it off, but your voice comes out softer than you intended.

“And you sass like it’s your survival instinct,” he replies, eyes not leaving yours. “But I see you.”

The chaos of the dressing room fades, somehow. Young-bae is grumbling to Daesung about shampoo, and Jiyong is yelling about someone stealing his eyeliner — but none of that matters. Not when Seung-Hyun is looking at you like that.

Like you're not just the stylist. Like you're something... more.

You break eye contact, your voice a whisper now. “Don’t look at me like that, Choi.”

“Like what?”

“Like you mean it.”

He steps in closer. You don’t step back.

“What if I do?”

You blink up at him. That damn height difference again. His tone is playful, but the look in his eyes—steady, serious, almost reverent—tells another story.

“You always joke,” you say. “I never know when you’re actually being real.”

He reaches out, fingertips grazing your wrist. “Then let me make it real.”

Your heart is doing cartwheels, and your brain is throwing red flags, but your body’s betraying you—leaning ever so slightly toward him.

“I don’t date idols,” you say, voice trembling.

“Good,” he murmurs. “I’m not asking you to date an idol. I’m asking you to take a chance on the guy who’s been looking at you like you hung the moon since Tokyo.”

You stare at him, stunned into silence. He’s never said that. Not once.

“What about the others?” you manage.

He chuckles. “They already think we’re secretly in love. Have you seen the way Jiyong watches us? That boy’s practically writing fanfiction.”

You laugh, the tension easing slightly, but your heart still pounds like a drum.

“Okay,” you say finally, letting out a breath. “One coffee. After the show. That’s all.”

His grin is slow and bright and full of triumph. “Make it two, and I’ll let you win the next height joke battle.”

“You’ll let me win?” you scoff.

“Let you think you won,” he corrects with a wink. “There’s a difference.”

You shake your head, fighting a smile. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re perfect.”

You don’t answer that. But the flush in your cheeks and the tiny smile you can’t quite hide?

That’s answer enough.

The show ends in a blur of lights, sweat, and thunderous applause. You barely remember how you got backstage — one moment you’re zipping up a pair of black leather pants on a frantic Daesung, the next, you’re dodging a shirt Young-bae throws at you with a wink and a “Noona, tell me I was sexy!”

And then there’s him.

Seung-Hyun.

Leaning against the wall by the mini fridge, a towel draped around his neck, hair damp and curling slightly at the edges. He’s watching you.

Not obviously — that’s never his style — but in that quiet, sideways way he always does. You’ve learned to recognize the weight of it. The warmth of it.

He takes his time strolling over, every step somehow deliberate, but casual. Like he has nowhere better to be. Like you’re exactly where he wants to end up.

“Guess I owe you that coffee,” he says, voice low, smooth. A thread of mischief still tucked in there somewhere.

You glance up. “Technically, you owe me a jacket first. I nearly froze to death during that encore outfit change.”

He grins, tugging the towel off his shoulders and tossing it at you. It smells like shampoo and cologne and sweat and him. “There. Vintage Seung-Hyun. Limited edition.”

You wrinkle your nose but don’t throw it back. “Gross.”

“And yet,” he says, slowly lowering himself onto the couch beside you, “you’re still holding it.”

“Only because it’s warmer than your personality.”

“See? There she is.” He nudges your knee with his. “Concentrated awesome, in all her post-show glory.”

You can’t help the small smile that curves your lips. He has that effect on you — like he knows exactly where to poke to pull out a grin, a groan, a glare. And somehow, it always feels like flirting, even when it shouldn’t.

“You’re unusually calm tonight,” you note, sipping your coffee. “No water bombs. No fake spiders. No traumatizing the staff.”

“I used all my pranks on Young-bae,” he says. “I’m rationing my chaos now. Becoming mature. Sophisticated.”

“Choi Seung-Hyun? Sophisticated?” you say, feigning disbelief. “What’s next? Emotional vulnerability?”

He hums, quiet for a moment, like the joke didn’t quite land. Or maybe it did — too well.

Then, with a small shrug, he says, “I’m saving that for someone worth it.”

You freeze.

Not obviously. You keep your posture relaxed, eyes on your cup. But your pulse kicks just slightly.

You glance sideways at him. “Are we still joking?”

He meets your eyes — not smiling now. Just... watching.

“Depends,” he says softly. “Are you still deflecting?”

Your throat tightens, and for a moment, the air between you both feels heavier than it should.

“I’m not deflecting,” you say after a beat, your voice quieter. “I just know how this goes. Idol flirts with stylist. Stylist doesn’t take the bait. Life moves on.”

“Except I’m not trying to bait you.”

“No?” you ask, lifting a brow. “Then what are you doing?”

He exhales a laugh, almost sheepish, and looks down at his hands for a moment. He taps a rhythm on his coffee lid. When he looks back up, his voice is careful — not hesitant, just... intentional.

“Trying to have a real conversation with the only person on this tour who actually talks to me like I’m a human and not a brand.”

That hits harder than it should.

You study him — really study him. The slight slump in his shoulders now that the performance is over. The raw edge still left in his voice. The way his walls are down, but only just.

It strikes you how much effort it must take for him to always be “T.O.P.” out there, when all he wants in here is to be Seung-Hyun.

“You have a way of surprising me,” you say finally.

He turns to you, lips quirking. “Good surprises or bad ones?”

You hesitate.

“Confusing ones,” you admit. “You throw out all this charm, all these lines, but then you say things like that and... it feels different.”

He nods, slowly. “It is different.”

You glance down, then back up, your voice careful. “I don’t know what to do with different.”

He smiles again — not teasing this time, but gentle. Understanding.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he says. “Not yet.”

The word yet lingers in the space between you like a dare, soft and waiting.

You nod once, more to yourself than to him.

He leans back on the couch, stretching, his arm brushing behind you without actually touching. His fingers hover just a little too close to your shoulder. And you feel it — that tension. That humming buzz of something just barely held back.

But neither of you cross it.

Not tonight.

“You ever think about how weird it is,” he murmurs suddenly, “that in rooms full of thousands, some people still make you feel the most seen?”

You glance over. He’s not looking at you now, but you know the words are meant for you.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice a little rough. “I think about that a lot.”

And even though the room is still buzzing around you — voices, movement, life — you both sit in that silence, in that almost-touch, in that slow-burn space where something real is beginning to smolder.

Another night, the bass from the stage still pulses through the walls like a second heartbeat. The lights back here are dimmer, buzzing faintly above you, casting long, narrow shadows. The energy after a performance is always strange — raw and electric — but tonight, it’s different. He’s different.

You’re crouched near a rack of performance coats, checking for a loose button on Daesung’s backup jacket when you feel him before you hear him.

Seung-Hyun.

He doesn’t walk so much as glide — lazy, quiet steps in those custom boots that cost more than your entire wardrobe. His shirt’s half-unbuttoned, collarbone damp from sweat, and his hair’s messy in that deliberate, sinfully sexy way that makes him look like he just walked off a runway and into your peripheral vision like a problem you didn’t ask for.

“Need a hand?” he asks, voice like velvet and cigarette smoke, low enough that it’s meant for your ears only.

You don’t look up right away. “Only if your hands come with a tailoring certification.”

He crouches beside you anyway, far too close for backstage propriety. His knee presses against yours — casual, unbothered — but it steals your breath just the same.

“You always get like this after shows?” he asks, watching you work. “All focused and bossy?”

You finally meet his eyes. They’re dark with something that flickers between curiosity and something else. Something thicker.

You smirk. “Someone’s got to keep you boys from looking like bedazzled clowns.”

“Is that what I am?” he murmurs, tilting his head. “A clown in your hands?”

Your breath hitches.

“No,” you say, voice lower now, the energy shifting between you. “You’re a problem.”

“And you like problems.”

“I like solving problems.”

His eyes drop to your mouth, linger, then flick back up.

“So solve me.”

There it is — the moment. The flick of the switch.

You should laugh. You should deflect. But you don’t.

Instead, you lean just slightly closer, fingers pausing on the jacket’s seam. You speak barely above a whisper. “You really think I haven’t already figured you out?”

His gaze sharpens, playful, but taut — like a wire pulled tight.

“I think you’re still trying,” he says, his hand brushing yours — just a graze, but deliberate. “And I think... you want to keep trying.”

Your heart hammers in your chest, and you’re suddenly painfully aware of how narrow the space is between the two of you. The hallway is empty. The others are still changing, laughing somewhere down the corridor.

It’s just the two of you here.

Breath and heat and too many things left unsaid.

He shifts slightly, not closer — just enough that you feel the pull, the gravitational tug of his presence.

You narrow your eyes. “You think you can flirt your way into getting your jacket fixed faster?”

“I think I could flirt my way into worse decisions,” he says, his voice a rasp now.

“Like what?” you challenge.

He’s quiet for a beat. Then:

“Like kissing you in this hallway and not caring who walks by.”

The silence cracks between you.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

The tension coils tight — breath, heartbeat, heat — until it’s almost unbearable.

Then he leans in, so close his mouth is a ghost along your ear, and whispers:

“But not tonight.”

You swallow, hard.

He pulls back slowly, eyes lingering on you like he’s memorizing every piece, every flicker of restraint.

Then he stands, adjusts his shirt, and offers a hand — not teasing this time, just there, solid.

You take it. Of course you do.

And when you rise, brushing imaginary dust off your thighs to avoid meeting his eyes, he smirks — that slow, dangerous kind.

“Soon, though,” he murmurs. “Very soon.”

Then he walks away, leaving you there — pulse racing, knees weak, and absolutely ruined for anything else.

Final night, the corridors hum with energy, staff and crew zipping past in a controlled frenzy. It’s the final show — Seoul — the one that means everything. Emotions are high. Nerves tighter than usual. Your clipboard is tucked under your arm, headset pulled off one ear as you pace the hallway with practiced focus. That is, until a hand grabs your wrist.

A familiar hand.

Before you can protest, you're tugged through a door and pulled into a private dressing room — his dressing room. The door shuts behind you with a decisive click. You barely have time to breathe before you're pressed gently but firmly back against it.

Seung-Hyun stands in front of you, tall and radiating heat, his stage outfit half-on — jacket unzipped, black shirt clinging to his chest, jaw sharp and set. His eyes are molten.

"We need to talk," he says.

Your brows shoot up. "Now? You go on in twenty."

He leans in, close enough that his scent — leather, musk, and something inherently him — curls around your senses. "Exactly. Twenty minutes, and then I’m on stage pretending I’m not losing my mind thinking about you."

You laugh, breathless. "You’ve been dramatic since Tokyo."

His lips brush your ear. "And you’ve been running since Berlin."

The room is too quiet. The air between you is charged, hot. He doesn’t touch you — not really — but the space between your bodies is thin enough to feel the burn.

You meet his eyes. “So what, this is your grand confession?”

“No,” he says, voice low. “This is me losing patience.”

He leans in — not kissing, not touching — just hovering. The tip of his nose brushes yours. His breath is warm on your mouth.

“I think about you every night,” he murmurs. “I hear your voice when I’m alone. I taste your name every time I’m quiet too long.”

Your pulse slams against your ribs. “Seung-Hyun—”

He groans your name like it’s already been sinfully whispered in his bed. His hand lifts, fingers tracing your jaw, soft and slow. He’s still not kissing you. And somehow, it’s worse.

You breathe out. “Do it, or let me go.”

His eyes flash, that dangerous, beautiful glint. “You think I won’t?”

“No,” you whisper. “I think you will. And I think I’ll like it too much.”

His lips press just below your jaw, a kiss so soft it barely registers — but it unravels everything. Your hands fist the front of his jacket, tugging him closer without meaning to. He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes.

“I want you,” he says. “But not in a way I can rush. Not like a backstage fling.”

You blink, breath catching.

“I want to know what makes you lose control,” he says. “What makes you loud. What makes you shake.”

You exhale, shaky. “We’re running out of time.”

He smirks. “Then you’d better tell me what to do. Or walk away now.”

You don’t walk away.

Instead, you push off the door and into him, your mouth barely brushing his. He growls low, hands gripping your waist, body tight with restraint. You can feel it in him — the tension, the way he’s holding himself back by the thinnest thread.

His mouth finds yours. At first tentative, then deeper — hungry, warm, desperate. You gasp against his lips, and he takes the sound into him like a man starved. His hands skim down your back, pulling you flush against him.

Every inch of your body buzzes. Your hands are in his hair, tugging, needing. He presses you harder into the wall, mouth hot at your throat, teeth grazing just enough to make your knees wobble.

"You drive me insane," he murmurs. "Every look, every smart little comment. You know exactly what you do to me."

You whisper his name like a plea.

His hands are everywhere — at your waist, your hips, your thighs. He lifts you slightly, your back thudding softly against the door, his mouth tracing fire down your neck.

"Tell me to stop," he pants against your skin.

You don’t.

Instead, you kiss him again — deep, open-mouthed, messy — and he groans into it, his restraint starting to fray. One hand cradles the back of your head, the other still gripping your hip, grounding you both.

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

"If we start this," he breathes, "I won’t stop until I know everything. How you taste. How you sound. How you fall apart."

Your answer is simple.

You pull him back in.

And then — a knock. A voice. “Hyung! Two minutes!”

This time, he doesn’t move. His chest rises and falls against yours, rapid.

"Damn it," he mutters.

You close your eyes. You’re both trembling slightly.

He finally pulls back, smoothing your hair, brushing a kiss to your temple. "This isn't over. It never was."

You nod, lips swollen, breath shaky.

He smiles — dark and promising — then turns and disappears down the hall, toward the stage.

You let the door close, your back against it again, heart thudding. Tonight might be the final show.

But something between you and Seung-Hyun is just beginning.

And it’s not waiting much longer.

Taglist: @petersasteria @redhoodedtoad @mirahyun @sherrayyyyy @sherxoo @dilfismz @breakmeoff @janie-osuih @forevervibezzzz1 @kuinnoa @juliskopf @maskedcrawford @szonyix6277@ldydeath

[bettelaboure]

oh boy…😮‍💨😮‍💨

Tenth Circle Of Hell ◎ Choi Seung-hyun

◎ Summary: During a late-night hangout at Ji-yong's penthouse, playful conversations about sex take a darker, more intimate turn when Seung-hyun sets his sights on redefining what "hell" truly feels like.

◎ Warnings: almost sex, orgasm denial, power play, teasing, a bit of mature language, i guess

◎◎◎◎◎

The velvet night outside Ji-yong's penthouse window stretched like spilled ink across the skyline, Seoul glittering below like a bed of scattered diamonds. Inside, laughter echoed off polished marble and glass, warm and unrestrained, swirling around you like the scent of Seung-hyun's vintage wine—bold, complex, and entirely too easy to indulge in.

You were curled into a corner of the expansive leather sectional, your legs tucked under you, a half-full glass of something red and ruinous balanced in your hand. Around you, your friends sprawled in various states of delight and disarray—Jiyong with his feet propped up on a designer ottoman, Mina doubled over in laughter, her head on her boyfriend's lap, and Seung-hyun, lounging too gracefully across the rug, his eyes lazily watching the room from beneath heavy lids.

The conversation had long since drifted from work. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the low hum of the playlist Jiyong had put on, full of songs with bass lines that thrummed right through your spine. Or maybe it was just the safety of friendship, that unique invincibility that only blossoms when everyone is a little tipsy and the night is soft and forgiving.

"Okay but seriously," Mina giggled, "how do people actually do downward dog in the shower without pulling a hamstring?"

"It's all about angles," Jiyong replied, surprisingly earnestly. "And non-slip mats. Very underrated."

"Eye contact during a blowjob," you said, swirling your wine, "romantic or deeply unsettling?"

"Romantic if you're into soul-searching," Mina shot back. "Unsettling if your mascara is running."

"God, yes," groaned Mina's boyfriend. "Like a raccoon in heat."

Jiyong laughed so hard he almost spilled his wine. "Okay, okay. What about rhythm versus spontaneity? Like, should good sex be well-paced or completely chaotic?"

"Both," Mina said without hesitation. "Structured chaos. Like jazz."

You nearly dropped your glass laughing. "Jazz sex. Got it."

The conversation devolved from there into an enthusiastic ranking of sex positions as if they were basketball league draft picks. Mina picked cowgirl first. Jiyong countered with spooning, citing emotional depth. Someone shouted "doggy for the win!" and the room exploded.

The air was thick with too-loud laughs, flushed cheeks, and mock-scandalized gasps. You took another sip of wine and let your head fall back against the couch, grinning into the ceiling, warmed by the comfort of being able to talk about anything and everything without shame.

"It is the tenth circle of hell," you announced suddenly, without thinking, "when you find the love of your life, but the sex is intensely meh."

For a split second, the room inhaled.

Then: an explosion of noise.

Jiyong howled. Mina nearly choked on her drink. Someone slapped a cushion. You flushed, your grin widening in half-mortified glee, but you didn’t take it back. Why should you? It was true. It was brutally, painfully true.

But not everyone was laughing.

Across the room, Choi Seung-hyun hadn’t moved. His glass was suspended mid-air, that lazy, unreadable smirk twitching just slightly at the corner of his mouth. His eyes met yours across the flickering candlelight and didn’t waver.

"Tenth circle of hell?" he murmured later, when the others had retreated into giggles and side conversations.

You blinked. "Yeah. You know. Like, Dante didn't write it, but he should've."

"Hm," he said, taking a slow sip of his wine, his gaze still pinned to you. "Sounds like you need a new definition of hell."

He didn’t smile.

And in that moment, with the air between you humming like a struck match, you realized: Seung-hyun wasn't laughing because he was planning something far more wicked than words.

Later, the silence of your apartment was a different kind of intoxicating. No music, no laughter, just the low thrum of your heartbeat in your ears as you unlocked the door and stepped inside, Seung-hyun close behind you. The wine still burned pleasantly in your bloodstream, but it was his gaze that set your skin alight.

You turned to say something—you didn't know what, maybe a quip, maybe something about the ridiculousness of the night—but the words caught in your throat. He was too close. Not touching you, but there, in that magnetic field just before contact.

He took one step.

Then another.

And you stepped back until your spine met the cool plaster of your hallway wall.

He didn't ask. He didn't need to.

One hand braced beside your head, the other curling gently around your jaw, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

"You talk a lot," he murmured, his voice low, deep, almost lazy. 

Then he kissed you—not soft, not tentative. Demanding. Full of promise and something darker.

He kissed you like a secret. Like a challenge. Like he meant to undo every smug, resigned thing you'd ever said about lackluster love.

Your fingers found his shirt, clutching the fabric as his body pressed into yours, pinning you to the wall in a way that made it impossible to think, to breathe, to be anywhere but here. Heat coiled in your belly, sharp and sudden. You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, tilting your chin higher like he owned you, like he was just getting started.

His lips left yours only to trail a slow, maddening path along your jaw to your throat. His breath was warm. His words were colder.

"Tell me something," he said between kisses, each syllable brushing against your skin like velvet. "Am I not the love of your life..."

A pause, his hand skimming beneath the hem of your shirt, dragging his knuckles up your bare side until you shivered.

"Or is the sex... actually meh?"

You choked on a breath, a half-laugh slipping from you before it turned into a low moan as he pressed his hips harder into yours.

"Seung-hyun..."

He looked up, his eyes gleaming with something too amused, too feral. "Answer me."

"You—"

He silenced you with another kiss, slower this time, more possessive. His tongue teased at the edge of yours, retreating, advancing, until you were chasing it, drunk on the taste of him, the feel of him, the weight of anticipation thrumming in every nerve.

"Because," he murmured against your lips, "if you think this is 'meh'... you haven't even stepped into hell yet."

His hand was under your thigh now, pulling it up, guiding your leg around his waist. Then the other. You let him. You wanted to. You wanted him to prove it. All of it. That love didn’t have to mean boredom. That sex didn’t have to fade into familiarity. That hell could be heat and teeth and fingers digging into your hips like you were the only thing he wanted to destroy tonight.

You moaned his name, half a prayer, half a challenge of your own.

And when he finally lifted you, carrying you toward your bedroom like a man with a mission, you realized: hell wasn’t cold.

Your back met the edge of the bed as Seung-hyun approached, the air shifting with him, as if the room obeyed the rhythm of his breathing.

You reached for him, aching. But he caught your wrist mid-motion, not unkindly, and brought your hand to his lips, kissing the pulse point softly.

"You're so impatient," he murmured, smile barely there. "But I like that. It means you'll break beautifully."

Heat rushed under your skin.

He didn’t rush. He undressed you in slow gradients, each inch of skin revealed like a secret, like he was memorizing you with reverence and something darker. His gaze never left yours, anchoring you even when you trembled.

When his hands finally slid over bare skin, the contact was maddeningly gentle. He didn’t grope or grab; he caressed, explored, stroked until your nerves were alight and every breath felt heavy with need.

Lips to neck. Teeth to shoulder. His breath at your ear.

“You look like you’re already there,” he said lowly, brushing his fingers just above where you wanted him. “But you’re not. Not even close.”

He coaxed you down onto the bed, taking his time. His mouth trailed heat from your collarbone to your stomach, every inch a study in restraint. You moved beneath him, desperate, greedy, but he kept you still with a hand splayed against your hip.

When he finally touched you where it mattered, it was slow. 

Seung-hyun’s hand was between your thighs, spreading you open with firm, practiced confidence. He looked down at you, half-lidded eyes glowing with amusement and hunger.

“You’re soaked,” he said, almost admiringly. “And I haven’t even given you anything real yet.”

His thumb brushed over your clit in slow, deliberate circles. You jerked in response, a moan breaking out of you before you could stop it.

“Already that sensitive?” he murmured. “We’ve barely started.”

He slid one finger inside you, curling them expertly as his thumb never stopped circling your clit. The pressure was maddening. Perfect. You gasped, arching up into him.

“Yes—please—”

“Shh,” he cooed, kissing your throat. “Not yet, Jagi. You’re not even close to falling apart the way I want.”

He added another finger, his movements steady, building a rhythm that had your hips moving on their own. It was too much. It wasn’t enough.

Your orgasm rose, fierce and unrelenting, teetering on the brink.

Then he pulled out.

You cried out, the sudden emptiness a brutal contrast to the heat he'd stirred inside you.

“Don’t pout,” he whispered against your skin. “You’ll come. Just not now. Maybe not tonight.”

He climbed between your thighs, licking you with deliberate, devastating strokes. His tongue was wicked, his mouth merciless. He sucked your clit into his mouth, gently, then harder, just enough to make you sob his name.

“Seung-hyun, please—I need to—”

He lifted his head, lips glistening. “You think begging gets you what you want? No, Jagiya. Begging gets me what I want.”

He stood, unzipping his pants. His cock was hard, flushed, and dripping. He stroked it slowly, watching your eyes follow the movement.

“You want it?” he asked, teasing the tip against your entrance.

“Yes,” you breathed.

He pushed in an inch, then pulled out.

You whined.

He did it again. And again. Never fully giving you what you needed.

“You feel that?” he murmured. “That ache? That empty, desperate stretch in your belly? That’s mine..”

Then he leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “And I’m not taking it away yet.”

He thrust again, this time deeper, slow and purposeful. You gasped, hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

“Fuck,” you whispered. “Please, please let me—”

He silenced you with a kiss, devouring your mouth as he rolled his hips once more, dragging the head of his cock along your slick walls.

“Not yet,” he growled.

He picked up a rhythm—controlled, relentless. He brought you back to the edge, made you feel the tremor start in your legs, the tightening in your core. You were right there.

And again, he stopped.

Your body shook with the effort of holding back what he denied.

“Please, I can’t—”

He grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head with one hand, towering over you. The other hand traced down your stomach slowly.

“You can. And you will. You’ll take everything I give you—and nothing more.”

He leaned down, kissed you hard, then pressed the flat of his palm against your clit and held it there. The pressure was maddening, unbearable.

Your thighs trembled, your breath came in gasps.

“Beg prettier,” he said, his voice low and merciless.

“Seung-hyun—please, let me come, I need it—I need you—”

He released your wrists, lifted himself off the bed, and stood at the edge, watching you fall apart with hunger in his eyes.

“Not tonight,” he said.

He pulled his shirt back on, his pants already zipped, his cock still hard as he adjusted himself with maddening calm.

Minutes passed—or hours; He drove you toward the edge over and over, only to pull you back with maddening control. He made you feel each moment stretch into torment, each near-release a cruel reminder that you weren't in charge.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

"You’re going to lie awake tonight and feel this every time you close your eyes. That pressure in your belly. That empty ache."

His hand pressed flat against your stomach, just above your heat. “It’ll burn here. Low. Heavy. And you’ll remember I put it there.”

Your body bucked, needing more, anything—

Hell burned.

The heat of his mouth had mapped every inch of your skin, you lay breathless, trembling, your body alive with the echoes of everything he'd done and everything he hadn't yet.

Seung-hyun leaned over you, his breath still shallow, but his smirk very much intact. He pressed a final kiss to your shoulder, slow and deliberate.

Then he stood, stretching as if nothing had happened. As if your legs weren’t still weak, your chest still rising in uneven waves.

You blinked up at him, stunned and aching, your body still begging for release that hadn’t come.

At the doorway, he paused, glancing back at you with a wicked gleam in his eye.

"You wanted a new definition of hell?" he said, voice low and smooth as sin. "Try this: your entire body is on fire, every nerve raw, your pulse a thunderstorm in your veins... and you don’t get to come."

He grinned, cruel and beautiful. "That, Jagiya, is the tenth circle."

[bettelaboure]

⊹When Shadow Breaks⊹ | Christopher Chahn Bahng

⊹Pairing: Christopher Chagn Bahng x The Reader

⊹Summary: two haunted souls—Christopher, a runaway‑turned‑musician, and Y/N, a fire‑survivor photographer—collide in an abandoned warehouse installation where their art and shared secrets ignite a slow‑burn redemption

⊹Warnings: childhood trauma, fire and injury, survivor’s guilt, emotional distress, and brief strong language

⊹Author's note: this is in 3rd person, so i'm sorry. and that's pure imagination on characters. lots of love

⊹⊹⊹⊹⊹

The Remington Warehouse loomed like a sleeping giant on the edge of the city's industrial district. Its exterior walls, once painted a vibrant red, were now flaking in great chunks, revealing layers of past lives: pale blue primer, yellow undercoats, streaks of graffiti both crude and beautiful. A single bulb above the entrance sputtered on and off, illuminating the warped metal doors and casting long, jittery shadows across the cracked concrete.

Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of rust, sawdust, and something faintly sweet—like old paper left too long in the rain. Rows of folding chairs draped in white sheets formed an audience of ghosts, facing the makeshift stage where Christopher stood alone. His guitar—a battered acoustic with a missing headstock inlay—hung from a strap across his broad shoulder. He tuned each string with practiced care, the metallic twang echoing in the cavernous space.

He wore a charcoal-gray T‑shirt rolled at the sleeves, revealing tattooed script along his biceps: lines of poetry in Korean and English, each a fragment of his inner narrative. His dark hair, streaked with a bright blue tip, hung into his eyes as he bent over the tuning pegs. Storm-gray eyes flicked to the photographs suspended by nearly invisible wires: Y/N’s work, a haunting montage of abandoned factories, broken windows, and rusted machinery.

He inhaled, summoning the calm he needed. But beneath that calm was a tempest: the memory of nights spent on the street, the phantom ache for a friend lost to flames, the guilt that echoed in every note he wrote. This installation—his collective’s first public collaboration—was meant to be his redemption. But the moment he’d met Y/N among those photographs, something in him shifted: her images didn’t just reflect decay; they beckoned to soul-navels buried beneath years of neglect.

A soft click clicked from the back row. Y/N—her leather jacket zipped high, the collar turned up—moved among the chairs. Each photograph she captured on her camera pulsed in the dim light, framing his music before the first note even sounded. The hum of her shutter was a metronome in his chest.

He stood, fingers hovering over the strings. The warehouse fell eerily silent, as though the building itself were holding its breath. He strummed once, twice—slow notes that hung in the air like question marks.

“Thank you all for coming,” he said, voice deeper and calmer than he felt. He let those two words roll through the rafters. Then he began:

“Brick and steel on hollow ground, Whispers trace each jagged pound, In these halls where ghosts have found Their voices stilled, their secrets drowned…”

His first verse was tentative—fragile as a newborn breath. Then, as the melody unfurled, he found purpose. Each chord was his confession, each lyric a tremor in the earth. Y/N lifted her camera again, capturing his backlit silhouette against the broken windows, light filtering like shattered halos.

When the final chord died, the warehouse thrummed with silence for a heartbeat. Then applause—soft at first, then building in a crescendo that rattled the metal beams. He lowered his head in gratitude, looking up to find Y/N watching him. Her eyes bore into his: half curiosity, half inquiry, wholly intimate.

Two nights later, Christopher wandered the empty alley behind Dunbar Street, hood pulled low against a fine drizzle that blurred the neon glow of storefront signs. The rain tapped against metal dumpsters and danced across puddles, turning the alley into a corridor of liquid color. He was restless, unsettled—haunted by the knowledge that Y/N had broadcast his unreleased lyrics across town, scrawling his pain on cracked brick.

He stopped beneath the flickering sign of the Moonlight Café: a curved crescent moon painted in chipped neon. There, crouched at the base of a rusted lamppost, was Y/N—camera in hand, snapping her own reflection in the puddle. The black leather jacket made her look fierce; the braid down her back gave her a softness he couldn’t place.

“You stole my lyrics,” he said, stepping into the yellow circle of light.

She half-turned, shoulders tense. “I didn’t steal them—I shared them.”

“By spray‑painting them on an alley wall?” He pulled the hood from his head, letting rain slick his dark hair. “The shorthand you posted: ‘I carry the weight of fires I cannot quell’—that was private.”

Her camera clicked shut with a practiced motion. “Art feeds on truth. I thought you wanted to share it.”

He paced a few steps, boots splashing in water. “Art built on my pain isn’t art—it’s exploitation.”

She rose slowly, leveling her gaze with his. “Exploitation?” Her voice was quiet but fierce. “My entire project is about survivors. About reclamation. You’re a survivor, right? Or did you forget?”

He stiffened. “I didn’t forget.” His chest tightened. “I just… I didn’t ask to have my scars broadcast.”

Y/N wiped rain from her lens, hands steady. “My installation is about ghost spaces—places abandoned, remembered only by the people they hurt. If you want to redefine those spaces with me, you have to let go of some of that shame.”

He looked at her, saw something unspoken in her posture: the way she lingered by that lamppost, as though even worn metal offered sanctuary. “And if it scars me more?”

She lifted a single eyebrow. “Then maybe you need a new kind of scar—one that proves you survived it.” She clicked her camera one last time and turned to go.

Christopher stood between neon and drizzle, heart torn between fury and fascination. He watched her disappear around the corner, the echo of her footsteps drowned by rain.

The collective’s studio was a loft above a shuttered warehouse: high ceilings, exposed brick, and a scattering of instruments. It smelled of vinyl cables and hot solder. Lamps cast pools of amber light, illuminating mixing boards and stacks of half‑finished tapes. Christopher found Y/N seated on a battered sofa, her camera at her feet. She looked up, a silent invitation.

He placed his guitar on a stand and took the stool beside her. “I want to show you something,” he said, voice lower than the buzz of the city outside.

She nodded, folding her hands. “I’m listening.”

He opened a weathered notebook—the one he’d kept since he was thirteen. Pages were filled with scrawled lyrics, doodles of wings, fragments of memory. He flipped to a page stained with coffee and ash: “Night came swift with hungry flame…” He pointed to the margin, where a date was written in spidery script: June 12, 2017.

“That was the night,” he whispered. “Jaemin and I—we thought we found an empty factory to sleep in. But the workmen’s torch had ignited dry grease. I woke to flames. I grabbed his hand and tried to pull him out, but…” His jaw clenched. He closed the notebook.

Y/N leaned forward, elbows on knees. “But what?”

“He slipped.” His voice cracked. “I heard him scream my name. I tried to go back for him, but I was terrified. I ran.” He looked at her, eyes red-rimmed. “I ran and left him.”

Silence swelled between them, broken only by the hum of a refrigerator-sized amplifier. Y/N reached out and placed a hand over his. “You were a child,” she said softly. “You did what you could.”

Christopher’s shoulders shook. “I couldn’t live with what I’d done. Music was all I had to repay him.” He wiped a sleeve across his eyes. “But this guilt… it won’t let me write anything else.”

Y/N lifted his hand and brought it to her lips. “Your music saved you. And now it can save others.”

He swallowed. “How can I believe that?”

She pressed her palm to his chest. “Feel it.” Her eyes glistened. “Let me document it, and let the world hear your truth.”

He hesitated, then closed his eyes, took a breath—and allowed her to guide him. Tonight, at least, he didn’t run.

The catalog lay on a steel table in the heart of the warehouse gallery: thick matte pages bound in charcoal linen. The frontispiece was Y/N’s photograph of a shattered window, overlaid with translucent lyrics:

“I carry the weight of fires I cannot quell— Ashen echoes trapped inside my shell.”

Y/N stood beside Christopher, both of them examining the layout under the harsh glow of overhead fluorescents. He traced the letters with a fingertip, as though daring them to burn.

“I’m afraid of what this will do,” he said quietly. “People will know.”

She closed the catalog gently. “They deserve to know. Your art and my images—they’re stronger together. Because this isn’t just about an installation. It’s about healing.”

He paced the table’s length. “Some will call it exploitative. Others will clap me on the back and say, ‘Bravo.’”

Y/N stepped forward and placed a hand on the open page. “We need controversy to make change. Silence never saved anyone.”

He looked at the photograph beneath the lyrics: the ghostly silhouette of a young boy, blurred by motion, framed by charred beams. It was the same factory from his flashback.

“Promise me,” he said, voice taut. “If it hurts too much, you’ll pull it.”

She met his gaze, unwavering. “I promise.”

He exhaled, shouldering the weight of that promise. The catalog felt heavier in his hands, but for the first time, he didn’t feel alone in carrying it.

The crowd that gathered for opening night was a mix of art patrons, underground music fans, and curious onlookers. The warehouse’s great doors were propped open, floodlights aimed at Y/N’s largest print: a panoramic shot of Remington’s main hall, taken from the balcony. Beside it, a plaque displayed Christopher’s lyrics, etched in bold white type on black.

As guests murmured in admiration, Christopher tuned his guitar on the small stage in the corner. He wore a sleek black vest over a dark shirt; tattoos peeked from under his sleeves. Y/N, in a flowing dark-red dress, lingered at the back—camera holstered, eyes shining.

He stepped up to the mic and nodded to Y/N. She returned a smile and wink, as though she, too, was a part of the performance.

He began:

“Walls bleed stories of the ones who came before, Lost in embers, longing for a door… I found my beat in hollowed veins, And rose again from secret flames…”

His voice was richer, steadier than it had ever been. The audience fell silent, hanging on every word. Y/N watched from the wings, heart pounding. She felt each lyric resonate in her chest—her story entwined with his.

As he reached the line “I failed you once, but let me try again,” he paused and looked directly at her. The hush was almost sacred. Then he bent, plucking a single note, and beckoned her forward. She stepped onto the stage, their eyes locking.

He offered her the guitar’s neck; she placed a hand on it, guiding his fingers into a gentle chord. The gallery’s lights softened as the instrument chimed—a duet of music and photography made manifest.

When the final note faded, the room erupted. Applause thundered through the beams, cameras flashed, patrons wept. Christopher and Y/N stood side by side, breathless. He bowed his head, she pressed her hand to his back, and together they faced the crowd.

Months later, the Remington installation traveled to galleries across the country—Atlanta, Berlin, Tokyo—each time leaving audiences in tears and awe. Christopher’s melodies, once choked by guilt, now soared with hope. Y/N’s photographs, once silent witnesses, now spoke loudly of resilience.

Back in their renovated hometown warehouse—now a thriving arts center—they often returned after hours. Beneath those broken skylights, they’d sit on the stage’s edge, fingers intertwined.

Christopher hummed a new tune, soft and unhurried. Y/N traced her camera strap with a smile.

“Shadows still linger,” he said, eyes on the empty seats.

She leaned into him. “But they’re part of the light now.”

He kissed her temple. “Together, we outshine them.”

And in the quiet aftermath, two survivors found home in each other—where shadows broke, and new stories began.

Taglist: @petersasteria @redhoodedtoad @mirahyun @sherrayyyyy @sherxoo @dilfismz @breakmeoff @janie-osuih @forevervibezzzz1 @kuinnoa @juliskopf @maskedcrawford @szonyix6277@ldydeath

[bettelaboure]

⊹Grow Up⊹ | Choi Seung-Hyun

⊹Pairing: Choi Seung-Hyun x The Reader

⊹Warnings: contains emotionally intense scenes, toxic relationship dynamics, verbal hostility, and themes of betrayal and emotional abandonment

⊹Summary: a fierce trainee, Y/N, at YG Entertainment navigates cutthroat ambition, slow-burn tension, and a volatile romance with Seung-hyun, discovering both passion and heartbreak in Seoul’s spotlight

⊹⊹⊹⊹⊹

You always knew Seoul would change you. What you didn’t expect was how—not through fame or adoration, but through pain, sweat, and a rivalry so sharp it could cut through your dreams.

You were barely 20 when you signed the contract with YG Entertainment. A trainee. Another hopeful chasing the impossible. But you worked harder than most. When others collapsed, you stayed behind, repeating routines until your muscles screamed. It wasn’t about being the best. It was about survival.

That’s how you first met BigBang.

Your recording sessions often overlapped. Ji-yong, ever the perfectionist, stayed late—writing, tweaking, layering vocals. He’d pass you in the hallway, nodding, sometimes stopping to ask what you were working on.

"You dance like someone trying to outrun something," he said once, watching you through the glass of the practice room.

You looked up, sweat glistening down your spine. "Maybe I am."

He smiled. "Then keep running. You're catching up."

You became friends slowly. Late-night ramen after practice. Notes scribbled on napkins. He'd lend you headphones to preview his tracks. You trusted him. In this ruthless world of competition and perfection, Ji-yong was a sliver of warmth.

But where Ji-yong offered sanctuary, Seung-hyun gave you hell.

He was cruel in ways only brilliant people can be. Cold critiques layered in sarcasm, timed so perfectly they echoed through your head long after practice ended. "You call that a spin? My grandma turns faster on her recliner," he'd sneer, arms folded across his chest as he leaned in the doorway, pretending to be uninterested.

Once, during a group choreography run, he deliberately altered his timing by a fraction of a beat. It threw you off just enough to earn a glare from the dance instructor. Afterward, he whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear, "Some people just can’t keep up with professional tempo. Maybe you should try Zumba instead."

Another time, you were assigned a duet in a showcase piece. He showed up late to rehearsals, made minimal effort, and when you finally snapped, shouting, "Do you even care about this?", he looked you dead in the eyes and said, "Not really. But I care that you’ll fail if I don’t."

He pushed your buttons with clinical precision. Switched your marked water bottle with one filled with vinegar once—an immature prank, but one that left you gagging in front of half the studio. When you caught him laughing in the mirror's reflection, your hands balled into fists.

"Grow up," you hissed.

He only smirked. "Maybe you should learn to take a joke. Or are you too tightly wound from all that 'running'?"

Yet no matter how angry he made you, no matter how sharp his barbs, there was something behind his eyes in those moments—something unreadable. Like he was testing you. Waiting to see if you’d shatter or survive.

You hated him. And worse—you noticed him. The way his eyes tracked you across the room. The smirk he wore like armor. He made you feel combustible, volatile.

Once, after a particularly brutal rehearsal, you stormed out, tears streaking down your cheeks. Ji-yong found you by the stairwell.

"He’s just... Seung-hyun," he said softly. "It’s how he connects. Broken people throw punches instead of reaching out."

"He’s not broken. He’s just a bastard."

Ji-yong didn’t argue. Just handed you his water bottle and sat beside you until your breathing calmed.

Time blurred. You got better. Stronger. Bolder.

And Seung-hyun? He noticed.

One night, your choreography coach called out sick, leaving you alone in the studio. You stayed anyway, rehearsing the same sequence on loop. You didn’t hear him come in.

"Your left foot’s still slow."

You groaned. "Seriously? I thought I had one evening without your commentary."

He walked to the speaker and replayed the track. "Do it again. This time, don’t think. Just feel."

You hesitated, but danced. This time, smoother. More instinctive.

When the music faded, he was watching you with something like respect. Or hunger.

"Not bad," he said. "For someone who used to dance like a scarecrow."

You threw your towel at him. He dodged, laughing. A real laugh. You’d never heard it before.

The shift was subtle at first—a brush of fingers during formation, a stare that lingered a few seconds too long, arguments that cut a little deeper than necessary. But then it became undeniable.

One afternoon during vocal training, he barged in unannounced, claiming he needed to check a demo. He stayed at the back of the room, arms crossed, eyes locked on you. You faltered on a high note, nerves getting the better of you under his intense gaze.

After the session, he said loud enough for the vocal coach to hear, "Maybe some people shouldn’t multitask. Dancing and singing at the same time’s clearly too much."

You shoved past him, humiliated, cheeks burning.

Then came the time you were finally assigned your first dance solo. It was supposed to be your moment. You worked tirelessly, until the routine was muscle memory. On showcase day, Seung-hyun somehow got himself inserted into the stage blocking last minute. During your set, he hovered too close, throwing off your spacing. The choreographer scolded you afterward.

Backstage, you rounded on him. "Why do you keep doing this? Why can’t you just leave me alone?"

He looked at you, jaw tight. "Maybe I like watching you stumble. Makes you more human."

You blinked. "You mean weaker."

He shrugged. "Same thing."

Later that night, you kicked a water bottle across the practice room, crying from exhaustion and anger. Ji-yong found you there, crouched beside the mirror.

You told him, voice shaking, "I think I hate him less than I used to."

Ji-yong looked at you, eyes unreadable. "Just be careful. Seung-hyun doesn’t let people close unless he’s ready to burn them."

You laughed bitterly, wiping your face with your sleeve. "Maybe I’m fireproof."

But even as you said it, your chest ached like something inside had already begun to melt.

The night it happened, the studio lights flickered overhead like stars about to die. Rain tapped against the windows, gentle at first, then harder—an urgent rhythm that echoed the tension between you. You’d both stayed late, pretending it was for work, but the truth hung heavy in the air like smoke.

You were adjusting the EQ levels on a demo when his hand brushed yours over the same control panel. You looked up. He didn’t move.

His face was close, closer than it had ever been without sarcasm or mockery between you. He was breathing harder than usual, lips parted like he wanted to say something and couldn’t.

His voice was gravel-soft. "Tell me to stop."

But you didn’t. Couldn’t.

The moment snapped. His mouth crashed into yours. The kiss was desperate—wild, unpracticed, tasting of frustration and every word you'd swallowed over months of tension. His hands gripped your waist as if anchoring you to the earth, and he lifted you onto the console like it was inevitable, like this had always been coming.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, and for a moment, all the hatred, the jabs, the chaos—it all burned away under the fever of your touch. The rain outside became thunder. The room was heat and breath and teeth.

When he finally pulled back, his pupils were blown wide, his lips bruised. He looked furious.

"You ruin everything," he whispered, like an accusation.

You exhaled, chest heaving. "You started it."

He stared at you—then kissed you again. Slower this time. Deeper. Like he knew he shouldn’t, but couldn’t stop.

It didn’t last.

Rumors started. Whispers in the practice rooms. Sideways glances from other trainees. Whispered bets on how long it would last. Someone saw you sneaking out of a studio with your hoodie up. Another swore they heard your name from Seung-hyun’s lips during soundcheck. It was no longer a secret—it was spectacle.

You missed practices—once for an ankle strain, but the truth was deeper: you couldn’t bear seeing him with that cold expression again, like you were a stranger who’d embarrassed him.

He grew distant like winter settling into spring—slow, bitter, and impossible to stop. Conversations ended abruptly when others walked in. In formations, his touch that once lingered became clinical. Ji-yong watched it unfold, torn between loyalty and silence.

But it wasn’t just the coldness—it was the confusion. The stolen moments you still shared.

A week before it ended, you stayed late again, choreographing something for the trainees’ showcase. He showed up with a coffee and didn’t say a word, just sat on the floor, watching. When you stopped to catch your breath, he walked over and pulled you into him—kissing you like he couldn’t breathe without it.

It was gentler than the first time. His mouth moved with reverence. He whispered against your lips, “I keep saying I’ll stop.”

“Then stop,” you murmured, but kissed him harder.

Your back hit the mirror. His hands moved beneath your sweatshirt, up your spine, careful, tracing you like he was memorizing a map he’d soon forget. It felt like a goodbye, even then. A sweet, aching one.

And then came the break.

One night, after a long rehearsal, you found yourself alone in the hallway, stretching out your aching legs. Seung-hyun appeared, stepping out of the shadows like he’d been waiting.

His jaw was tight, like he’d been holding something in for too long. "I can't do this," he said, voice low. "Not with cameras. Not with contracts."

You stood slowly, muscles trembling, but not from fatigue. “You held me like I mattered. Like I was something real.”

He looked away. “You are. That’s the problem.”

“So what was I? A distraction? A way to blow off steam between takes?”

He didn’t answer. His silence was a knife.

“Say it,” you pressed, stepping closer. “Tell me it meant nothing. Say I was just a mistake.”

He clenched his fists but said nothing. His eyes glistened, but he blinked the truth away.

“Coward,” you whispered, and the word echoed off the hallway tiles.

Something split inside you—not a clean break, but a messy tear, like fabric ripping at the seams. You wanted to scream, to hit him, to kiss him one last time. But you didn’t. You walked.

You didn’t run. You didn’t cry. Not until you reached the end of the corridor, where no one could see your reflection shaking in the glass. Where the echoes of everything unspoken folded into the silence he left behind.

Years passed.

You debuted. A smaller company. Modest fame. Enough to live, to create. But not enough to forget.

In quiet moments—late-night bus rides home, under neon lights reflected in puddles—you caught yourself searching for his shadow. His name became a wound you pressed on, just to feel.

You danced differently now. More restrained. Less reckless. Not because you feared falling—but because you had fallen once, and the memory of impact never left.

You dated others. Nice men. Safe men. But none who looked at you like they wanted to tear down your armor just to hold the person underneath.

One night, at an awards afterparty, you saw him again.

He was older. The lines near his eyes deeper. His mouth tighter, as though he’d bitten back a thousand things he’d wanted to say over the years.

"You look good," he said, nursing a drink.

"I am good."

He nodded. Looked away, then back again, eyes holding yours like they used to in that mirrored practice room.

"I was scared," he admitted finally. "Of you. Of me with you. It felt like if I let it happen, everything else would unravel."

You touched his hand. Just once. His skin was still warm. Still familiar.

"So was I," you said. "But it unraveled anyway."

He didn’t argue. Just offered a broken smile.

"You deserved more than I could give."

You stepped back. Smoothed your coat. "I gave what I had. That was enough for me."

And then you left.

Not with anger.

But with peace. And the ache that peace sometimes carries.

Seoul did change you.

It shaped your fire. Sharpened your spine. Gave you stage lights and sleepless nights.

But you just didn’t expect it to leave a scar shaped like him—one you no longer tried to heal, but carried like a tattoo under your skin. Permanent. Faded. But always there.

Taglist: @petersasteria @redhoodedtoad @mirahyun @sherrayyyyy @sherxoo @dilfismz @breakmeoff @janie-osuih @forevervibezzzz1 @kuinnoa @juliskopf @maskedcrawford @szonyix6277@ldydeath

[bettelaboure]

⊹In The Quiet⊹ | Choi Seung-Hyun

⊹Pairing: Choi Seung-Hyun x The Reader

⊹Warnings: explicit sexual content, emotional vulnerability, and romantic tension

⊹Summary: After a passionate connection with Seung-Hyun deepens into something more complicated, you're forced to confront old fears, new feelings, and the messy middle between lust and love.

⊹Author's note: note proofread, only something i had to get off my chest

⊹⊹⊹⊹⊹

You flirt.

"I’ve never been more attracted to someone in my life."

Your cheek rests against his chest. The rhythm of his breathing anchors you, makes you forget the static in your mind. "You’re everywhere. I can't shut you out."

He laughs, low and easy. "So am I. Seems I’ve taken up permanent residence."

His hand slips into your hair. You turn, lift his fingers to your lips, kiss them slow, like confession. "I wish I could think of something clever right now."

Seung-Hyun leans in, brushes his mouth against yours—brief, deliberate. “Maybe it's better if you didn’t say anything at all.”

You both smile into the kiss that follows.

Later, when your bodies are close again and the night feels indulgent, you pull away only slightly.

"I think a shower is in order," you murmur.

You go into the bathroom to shower, Seung-Hyun close behind. The hot water runs down your body, Seung-Hyun watching you with an intense stare as he steps into the tub. He steps behind you, his body pressed up against yours. His lips meet your neck as his hands find their way around your waist, and he grasps your breasts, squeezing them gently as the hot water cascades over your bodies. He reaches around, one hand grasping your breast and the other finding its way between your thighs. His fingers slowly move up and down, finding their way between your folds as you whimper in pleasure. His thumb rubs slow circles against your clit while the fingers of his other hand knead your breast, and soon you're gasping and writhing in pleasure against him. Seung-Hyun pushes you against the wall, continuing his slow, sensual ministrations until you come apart in his hands, screaming his name. After you've caught your breath, he spins you around and kisses you deeply, his hands exploring your body. You moan against him, gripping his cock in your hand as you slowly stroke it, enjoying the feel of it pulsing and hard in your hand. You slide your hand down his shaft, teasing him, before taking him in your mouth. Seung-Hyun gasps, his fingers threading through your hair as you run your tongue along his shaft, lapping up his pre-cum. He groans loudly, hips bucking, and you smile up at him before taking him deeper into your mouth. You feel his hand tighten in your hair and his breathing deepen as he takes control, fucking your mouth slowly. He moves faster and faster until his cock is hitting the back of your throat, and you can't help but moan as he uses you for his pleasure. Seung-Hyun comes with a loud grunt, thrusting deep into your mouth before pulling away and releasing himself on your breasts.

The hours after blur. Clothes. Hands. Sleep.

You wake to quiet. The air between you still crackles, but there's something else now—something slower. You sit on the edge of the sofa as Seung-Hyun buttons his shirt. He left for his apartment briefly. Just for fresh clothes. Even so, the bed feels emptier.

He glances at you. "Everything okay?"

You don’t answer right away.

When he comes close, you reach for him. "What are we doing, Seung-Hyun?"

He sighs, but it’s gentle. "I was about to ask you the same thing."

His forehead leans against yours. "Do we need to name it?"

You breathe in his warmth. "I guess not. But—"

He kisses you before the doubt can finish forming. "We'll take our time."

He stays again. Not because he says the right thing, but because you don’t ask him to leave.

It’s late, and your legs are tangled, laughter soft in the sheets. He rolls you beneath him, mouth warm against your throat, when the doorbell rings.

He groans. "Ignore it."

You hesitate, then slip from bed. Something tells you to check.

At the door, a police officer stands.

"Evening, miss." He hands you a folded piece of paper. "This was taped to a tree out front."

You open it. Your stomach sinks. It's a letter. From her.

You crumple it fast. "No problem," you lie.

Back in the room, Seung-Hyun looks up. "Everything okay?"

You sit beside him. "Just... stress."

He touches your back, calming.

You roll away. "I think we need to take things slow."

His hand finds your waist, then lower. You push it away. Silence folds over the room.

He exhales. "Fine."

You lie awake long after.

n the morning, the light makes everything seem softer. Less threatening. He smiles when he sees you.

"Good morning."

You reach for him. "Good morning."

He kisses you, lingers. Then shifts, pinning your wrists gently.

Seung-Hyun kisses you softly. "It's been a long time since I woke up next to someone," he says quietly, a soft smile on his lips. He grins, looking down at you. "I have to say...I quite enjoy it."

You chuckle, bringing a hand up to brush your fingers through his hair. "Me too."

"I hope we can do it again soon," he murmurs, leaning in and kissing you again. He moves on top of you, gently pinning your hands down to the bed. He leans in, nuzzling his face in your neck. "And I hope you'll let me take control." He kisses you hungrily, rolling his hips against yours as he bites your lip. He groans, sliding a hand between your legs. He slips a finger inside of you, working it back and forth. He licks his lips, looking at you with a devilish grin. "God, you're wet."

You're overwhelmed.

You can't think straight as he kisses you—the room spins, your head swims, and you feel a sharp heat between your legs. His fingers move faster and faster until you come, arching your back and crying out his name. He pulls his finger out and moves it to his mouth, licking it clean as he smiles at you.

He leans in again, kissing you and rolling over so you're on top of him. You kiss him hungrily, moving your hand down to grasp his cock and stroking him slowly as you kiss his neck. You pull away, sitting up, and straddle him. You lift yourself up, guiding him into you, and slide down slowly as you groan. Seung-Hyun bucks his hips, filling you as you ride him, his hands coming up to grip your thighs as he groans loudly.

"Fuck," he gasps. "You're so tight." He sits up, pulling you into him and rolling over, slamming into you as you scream. He bites your shoulder, sucking a mark as he thrusts deep into you.

You keep going.

He kisses you again, his hands gripping your ass as he pumps his hips, slamming into you as you cry out, whimpering. He grunts, grinding against you before pulling out and coming on your stomach. You collapse, panting, and he lies next to you, both of you silent for a moment.

Seung-Hyun turns his head to look at you, his gaze lingering on you as he gazes at you with a soft smile. He reaches over, stroking your cheek with his hand as he smiles. "You are stunning." He kisses you softly. "And so good. So sweet."

Later, when the heat fades and the day stretches out, he dresses. You stare at the mark on his neck—one you made.

"I think we should keep this quiet. Just until I figure things out."

He pauses, halfway into his shirt.

"You don’t have to decide yet."

You search for the words. "I don’t want to hurt you."

He steps closer, takes your hands. "Then don’t lie to me. If you want to end this, I’ll go. But don’t pretend."

You nod. "I’ll give it some thought."

His smile returns, light but real. "We can talk tonight. Do you want me to stay?"

You hesitate. "Not tonight."

He lingers at the door, fingers brushing yours. "Goodnight."

The lock clicks behind him.

You stay in bed. Your thoughts flicker like static. You think about the letter. About her. About him. About the way he looks at you like you're something he's waited for.

You know what it means to be left. And you know he doesn’t deserve that.

When sleep finally comes, it brings him with it. His hands. His voice. His mouth on your skin. You wake wanting him beside you, even if you can’t yet say why.

Maybe tomorrow, you'll tell him not to leave.

Taglist: @petersasteria @redhoodedtoad @mirahyun @sherrayyyyy @sherxoo @dilfismz @breakmeoff @janie-osuih @forevervibezzzz1 @kuinnoa @juliskopf @maskedcrawford @szonyix6277@ldydeath

[bettelaboure]

i need to be baptised. please read this😮‍💨

Blind With Love | Kwon Ji-yong (G-Dragon)

Summary: You and Jiyong have been secretly dating for awhile. Everything has been running smooth until a new dancer gets a little handsy with Jiyong.  Word count: 2k Warnings: 18+, MDNI. Unprotected p in v, teasing, jealousy, fluff.  Author’s Note: This was sent over to me by my lovely best friend @wcnderlnds . Hopefully you all enjoy this! 

It has started off as a fling, you and Jiyong needing a way to release steam in between sets and after shows. But it had grown into so much more of the years. You’d been a dancer for BigBang since they started, having an instant bond with all four boys, but an especially close one with Jiyong.

You were two sides of the same coin, you’d fallen in love slowly and then all at once, the only catch was that nobody really knew. The guys did, sure, it was hard to hide it from them. But the rest of the crew and dancers had no idea. Neither didn’t fans of the general public. They didn’t need to know. A decision you’d made incase anything had happened during your relationship. 

You’d been paired with Seunghyun for Bae Bae, something you’d laughed about. Seunghyun always one to tease you and Jiyong and had tested those boundaries on more than one occasion. Pushing your head down to mimic a blow job. Jiyong had almost lost his composure for that one. Almost. But he was annoyingly professional and had decided it was best to just ignore it. 

Everything had been running smooth the entire tour until one of the dancers fell ill. Someone you loved and trusted who had also been paired up with your boyfriend during Bae Bae. Now there was a new girl and she obviously had a crush on him. It didn’t bother you at first. Jiyong was clueless and still only had eyes for you. But one day you’d walked in and she’d been just a little too close during rehearsals. You and Seunghyun hardly touched during the dance, something fans had grown to love and something you two laughed about on stage. 

So why was she being so handsy with your man? This wasn’t going to work. You watched closely during rehearsals, her hips brushing against Jiyong and your grip tightened around Seunghyun’s neck.

“Ow.” He whined, pulling away from you to rub his neck. 

“Sorry.” You frowned at him, before turning back to the group. Jiyong looking at you with a raised brow. You shrugged.

Rehearsal continued on, the Yoojin, the new girl standing close to Jiyong even after Bae Bae had finished and your hands balled into fists. 

“You good?” Seunghyun picked up on the tension, of course he had. 

“Peachy.” Your tone was nothing but light and you stormed off. “We need to talk.” You grabbed  Yoojin’s hand and practically yanked her from the stage.  

“We need to switch partners for Bae Bae. You’re too tall for Jiyong in heels. You’re a much better match for Seunghyun.” 

“Ok?” Yoojin shrugged before walking off. 

The rest of rehearsals went smoothly, Jiyong finding his way to you during breaks. His hand brushing yours. He always found time for you during long days like this, something you’d grown to appreciate throughout the tour. You squeezed his hand before heading off to your dressing room. 

Before you could make it there you felt a hand wrap around you and pull you into a closet. You spun around, coming face to face with Jiyong and let out a sigh as your body relaxed.

“Are you ok? You seem off today.” His hands cupped your cheek, his eyes searching yours.

“I’m fine. You’re killing us with rehearsals today, but I’m fine.” You smiled, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. 

“We have a new dancer, I just want to make sure everything goes smoothly tonight.” 

“If you exhaust us now we’ll have no energy for tonight.” He raised a brow and you rolled your eyes. “Get your mind out of the gutter.” You swatted at his chest. 

He grabbed your hand, pulling you closer to him before pressing a kiss to your lips. You fully relaxed into his touch, your worries of Yoojin fading away as your lips parted to deepen the kiss. 

“I have to go get ready.” You mumbled against his lips.

“You look great to me.” He smirked, his lips brushing against yours again. 

The show started off well, you and Jiyong finding time for a few stolen moments while he got a little bit of a break. As he took the stage again you noticed Yoojin watching closely and rolled your eyes. Maybe it was time for someone other than the boys to know about your relationship. 

As the music started up for Bae Bae you took your usual spot, the guys having no suspicions that you’d taken matters into your own hands to switch up who was partnering with who. As the guys took their positions you moved to stand in front of Jiyong. Seunghyun frowned at Yoojin and Jiyong barely acknowledged the change. His brow raised slightly as you wrapped your arm around his neck. 

His hand rested on your stomach as your hips brushed against him and he sucked in a breath. So that’s how you wanted to play it? He moved against you and you turned slightly to look at him, a smirk on your lips. His hips bucked into yours as he held you tightly against him.  As you moved to stand behind him your hands ran up his sides before landing on his shoulders and he turned to face you, a brow raised as a challenge. Before you moved to the other side of him, you planted a kiss on his cheek. It was quick but it had definitely been noticed. 

Jiyong stumbled slightly, as you moved back in front of him and as you bent over, a move that typically required no contact from the guys, his hand moved to rest on your back. His hand moving to wrap around you as he pulled you to him. Oh. Everyone definitely noticed that. 

The song ended and Jiyong grabbed your hand as you walked off the stage. All eyes were on the two of you, but you didn’t care. Your cover was officially blown, you couldn’t change that now. 

“What the hell was that?” Jiyong yelled as you made it off stage. 

“She was flirting with you all day. She needed to know that you’re taken.” 

“Aein. Fuck. Warn me next time!” He pulled you closer to him, his voice barely above a whisper, “And don’t start something you don’t plan on finishing.” 

“Who says I wasn’t going to finish this?” You leaned up, your lips hovering over his. “It’s just too bad you have to get back out there.” You moved away from him just as everyone filed into the backstage area. 

“Hope we’re not interrupting.” Seunghyun smirked and you turned around to face them all, a smile on your face. 

“Not at all.” You turned back to Jiyong. “See you in a bit.” You pecked his cheek before walking away. Leaving him to answer the questions everyone else had. 

Jiyong stared after you, blinking a few times before he collected himself. He couldn't retaliate on stage no matter how badly he wanted to, he was a professional after all.

After the show was over, Jiyong found you just outside your dressing room talking to a couple other dancers. He didn’t even bother to say anything, just grabbed your hand and pulled you away from your group of friends.

“What are you doing?” You smirked as he pulled you back into the utility closet. 

“Finishing what you started.” He smirked, his lips on yours. 

Your tongue darted out, massaging his in a dance of dominance. His hands moved to your thighs and he lifted you up gently, your legs wrapping around him as your back rested against the door. Jiyong broke the kiss, trailing soft kisses against your neck, his hand moving, fingers ghosting across the thin material of your panties. 

“Thank fuck for skirts.” He smirked as he teased you. You moaned, your head resting on his shoulder. 

He pushed your panties aside, his finger entering your slick folds, your hips rocked into his hand and he entered you slowly, teasing you before entering a second digit. He pumped his fingers in and out of you quickly. 

“You’re so cute when you’re jealous.” 

His fingers pumped into you harder, faster and you let out a moan as you rocked against him. You could feel him growing harder beneath you and you needed him. 

“Ji please.” You whispered in his ear, not trusting your voice. 

“Please what, pretty girl?” 

“I need you.” He smirked and removed his fingers. Bringing them to his lips, he licked you off him, his eyes locking with yours. 

“Sweet.” He smirked before his lips were on yours again. 

Your hands moved to his pants, undoing his pants and pushing them down slightly. Your hand grabbed ahold of his dick and you positioned him at your entrance. He entered you slowly, allowing you to adjust to him. Your walls tightened around him. 

He let out a moan as he pulled out, slamming into you again. His thrusts were fast and desperate. His mouth stayed on yours and your hips rocked against him, meeting everything thrust. He’d been thinking about this since you’d rocked against him on stage. He wasn’t sure how he’d made it through the rest of the night without getting his hands on you. Now that he had you though, he didn’t want to let you go. 

His hand moved between you, his thumb rubbing circles on your clit. Your breath hitched in your throat and he swallowed your moans. You could feel yourself getting closer, your stomach tightening and your head getting cloudy. You pulled back from the kiss, your fingers clawing into his shoulders as your head fell back against the door.

You came, his name falling from your lips so loudly, you were sure everyone could hear you. You didn’t care though. Jiyong thrust in you faster as you road out your orgasm, he followed closely behind you, kissing your neck and then your lips. 

He kissed you slowly before setting you back down on the ground. His arm staying wrapped around you as you steaded yourself. You helped him pull his pants back up before fixing your skirt. 

“I love you, you know that, right?” You nodded as you looked at him. His hands moving to smooth your hair. “I only have eyes for you, gorgeous.”

He leaned in, kissing you softly and you melted into him. Not wanting to go back out there. You knew you had some explaining to do, maybe some apologizing, but staying in this room with your boyfriend was much more appealing. 

“How bad is it going to be out there?” Jiyong shrugged. 

“I took care of it earlier.” 

“Oh?” You raised a brow. 

“Yep.” He smirked.

He gave you one last look before opening the door and poking his head out. The hallway was suspiciously empty. He walked out first, his fingers lacing with yours as he led you down the hallway. 

“Oh hey. There you guys are.” Seunghyun rolled his eyes as you entered the dressing room. 

“Where is everyone?” Jiyong folded his arms as he leaned against the doorway. 

“Dinner. I said I’d wait for you guys. Is everything resolved? Can I get my dance partner back?” 

“Yes, and no. I think I like the new arrangement better.” Jiyong smirked, his arm wrapping around you. 

“Whatever.” Seunghyun rolled his eyes, moving to leave the room. “Everyone’s still freaking out. But us three are glad we no longer have to keep a secret.” He turned to face you both. “Maybe no more hooking up in closets though? Save it for your hotel.”

Your cheeks flushed and Jiyong let out a snort as Seunghyun left the room. He kissed your cheek before following Seunghyun out. Jiyong didn’t mind that everyone knew. He’d been planning on telling them when the tour was over, so what if it had happened a few weeks early? He was surprised you’d been able to keep it a secret this long. 

He didn’t see the issue with everyone finding out, you loved each other, he wasn’t planning on letting you go. It was a necessary next step in your relationship, so at dinner he’d formally announce it. Then he’d talk to you about going public so that everyone knew. He didn’t want to keep you a secret for another day.

tag list: @wcnderlnds @infinetlyforgotten @berfgrimm @aizshallnotbefound @loveesiren @gdinthehouseee @tulentiy @petersasteria @alosss-blog @sooyasya @dprvivi @mirahyun @breakmeoff @1950schick @flymetothexmoon @sherrayyyyy

[bettelaboure]

hello, welcome to the shit show.

for sometime i had writer's block, but not writer's block, at the moment not sure how to describe it.

it's maybe an emotional block?

i have so many ideas and things that i want to write regarding bigbang, but shit hit the fan, and i can't write anything. last night i tried to write something like royalty not royalty trope about jiyong and i couldn't type anything, just because it doesn't lineup with reality even if he's a prince in my heart.

not sure what to do, just wanted to share it with you.

thanks for reading my rant.

and as i said, welcome to the shit show.

[bettelaboure]

⊹The exception⊹ | Felix Yongbok Lee

⊹Pairing: Felix Yongbok Lee x The Reader

⊹Summary: forbidden romance between Stray Kids' Felix and his PR specialist unravels in stolen moments, quiet confessions, and breathtaking intimacy—only to be destroyed by scandal, silence, and the harsh reality of an industry that punishes love

⊹Warnings: suggestive content, emotional heartbreak, workplace romance, power imbalance, public scandal, angst

⊹⊹⊹⊹⊹⊹⊹

You’re hiding in the conference room again. Not hiding from the job—God knows that never ends—but from him.

The book in your hands is supposed to help. Kill Switch is your emotional support blanket, your escape hatch, your "if he’s brooding and emotionally constipated, I can fix him" anthem. But the words blur when the door swings open.

You don’t need to look up. The scent of cologne and smugness announces Felix first.

“You have got to stop claiming rooms like they’re fictional boyfriends,” he says, plopping into the chair across from you with that slow, lazy sprawl like he has nothing but time to kill.

You don’t flinch. You refuse to give him the satisfaction.

“I booked it,” you say, highlighting a line you’ve already memorized. “Properly. Through the calendar. Like a normal, functioning adult.”

“Sounds exhausting.” He leans in on his elbows. “Want me to teach you how to break the rules instead?”

You finally look up. “Tell me. What’s it like being the human version of a migraine?”

He grins, delighted. “You’re lucky you’re cute, or I’d sue you for emotional damage.”

You bite your lip, hard. Because he’s joking. Of course he’s joking. That’s all Felix ever does—banter and tease and throw gasoline on your carefully lit candles of control.

“Felix, I swear—”

He reaches over and plucks the book from your hands. You gasp, too slow to stop him.

“‘She doesn’t need a hero. She needs a monster. Me,’” he reads dramatically, narrowing his eyes at the page. “Damn. You highlight like it’s a sacred ritual.”

“It is,” you snatch it back. “Romance books are the only place where people actually mean what they say.”

His smirk falters.

You didn’t mean to say that out loud.

The air tightens between you. He leans back slowly, head tilted like he’s trying to see past your PR-perfect exterior.

“You really believe that?” he asks, softly this time.

You hesitate. Then nod.

“In real life, people dodge. They backtrack. They make you feel crazy for needing clarity,” you say. “In romance novels, they fight for it.”

Felix doesn’t say anything for a second. Just studies you like you’re something more complicated than he expected.

Finally, he shifts. “So what are the rules, then?” he says, lighter again. “Romance law, according to you.”

You cross your arms, trying not to smile. “Rule One: Never fall for someone who gets under your skin on purpose.”

His eyebrows lift. “Yikes. That’s rough for me.”

“Rule Two: If he flirts by insulting your favorite things, he’s not the one.”

Felix makes a wounded sound. “Hey! I insult you, not your books. Equal opportunity chaos.”

You shake your head, lips twitching.

“Rule Three,” you say, and here’s where you pause. Because your heart skips—traitorously—when he leans closer. You could count the constellations in his eyes at this distance.

“Don’t fall for someone whose job overlaps with yours. Exception: if he's your rival and the sexual tension is unbearable.”

Felix watches you, the teasing faded, replaced with something quiet and unreadable.

“You always follow the rules?” he asks.

“No,” you admit. “But I try.”

Felix reaches out—hesitates—then tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your breath catches.

“Well,” he murmurs, “if we’re in a romance novel, you know what happens around Rule Three, right?”

You swallow. “What?”

He leans in, lips almost brushing your ear. “The exception happens.”

It takes months.

Months of accidental brushes—his hand grazing yours as you both reach for the same folder, his fingers brushing your waist as he slips past in the narrow hallway. Each contact lingers too long to be just friendly, but never long enough to cross the line.

One night, it’s raining after an award show. You sit together in the backseat of the van, both staring out opposite windows, but your knees touch—and neither of you moves away. When you shiver, he doesn’t ask, just slides off his jacket and wraps it around your shoulders. You whisper a thank you into the quiet, and he just nods, like it means more than it should.

A late shoot runs over, and everyone else leaves. You’re starving. He returns an hour later with your favorite takeout and a sheepish grin. You eat on the studio couch, cross-legged, teasing each other between bites. When you laugh—really laugh, the kind that scrunches your eyes—he stares for a beat too long.

Then he kisses you.

It’s awkward at first—your lips crash, your teeth knock. But then his hand finds your jaw, cradling it tenderly as your bodies sync. You grab the front of his hoodie, anchoring yourself to him, and the kiss deepens. The air turns molten. When you finally break apart, breathless, neither of you speaks. You don’t need to.

That night, you go home with him.

The air between you is heavy with anticipation, the kind that simmers just below the skin. His hand brushes yours as he unlocks the door, and the touch lingers, hesitant. Once inside, neither of you rushes. You hover near the kitchen counter, nerves jittering in your chest, while he sets down his keys, then turns to face you—his gaze soft, unreadable.

He steps closer, inch by inch, until you feel the warmth radiating off him. His fingers find yours again, intertwining slowly. He raises your joined hands to his lips and presses a kiss to your knuckles, eyes never leaving yours.

"Still sure about the exception?" he murmurs, voice husky with something more than want.

You nod, breath shallow. "I’ve never been more sure of anything."

He closes the space between you and kisses you—not with heat, but reverence. Like he's memorizing you. His lips move gently against yours, and you melt into it, your hands finding the hem of his shirt. He breaks the kiss only to whisper your name, then kisses you again, deeper this time.

Clothes slip away between soft laughter and quiet gasps. His hands roam carefully, reverently, like every inch of your skin is a secret he’s determined to uncover. He presses his mouth to the hollow of your throat, your shoulder, the curve of your hip. Every touch is slow, deliberate. Worshipful.

When he lays you back on his bed, the dim light casts a golden halo around you. You reach for him, and he comes willingly, settling over you with a gentleness that makes your heart ache. He kisses the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your collarbone. Whispers your name like it’s a prayer.

"Are you okay?" he asks, forehead pressed to yours.

"Yes," you breathe, threading your fingers through his hair. "I want this. I want you."

His hand finds yours again and pins it softly beside your head as he moves inside you, slow and sure. The world narrows to just the two of you—the rhythm of your breaths, the way he watches your face like he’s watching something sacred. It’s not just physical. It’s a letting go. A giving in. A promise made without words.

You kiss him through the crescendo, and when you both fall apart, it’s with his arms wrapped tightly around you, like he's afraid of what might come next. You fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, steady beneath your cheek, like the first rhythm you’ve ever trusted.

After that, the moments come easier. Soft mornings tangled in his sheets, your voice reading him chapters from your dog-eared romances. He teases the prose, but his thumb draws lazy circles on your hip under the blanket, and he never misses a word. At night, he tells you his truths—how the idol life feels like a glass box sometimes, how hard it is to always smile. You tell him how exhausting it is to curate perfection.

You fit. You fall. Slowly. Completely.

Then the headlines hit.

Blurry photos. A hotel hallway. Your hand on his chest, his gaze locked to your face like it’s the only thing in the world.

You thought you were careful. You weren’t.

The company reacts instantly. PR crises erupt like wildfires—flashes of headlines, grainy images splashed across gossip columns: STRAY KIDS' FELIX IN LATE-NIGHT ROMANTIC SCANDAL? and MYSTERY WOMAN IDENTIFIED AS COMPANY PR SPECIALIST.

Your inbox becomes a graveyard of panicked messages. Conference calls blur together, each one colder than the last. You're told it’s better for everyone if you leave quietly. That your presence compromises not just him—but the group, the brand.

Felix storms into the last meeting like a force of nature. The door slams behind him, startling the executives mid-sentence. His jaw is clenched so tight you think it might crack, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

"This is bullshit," he growls, his voice rough and barely restrained. "She did nothing wrong. None of this is her fault."

The room falls deathly quiet.

"You knew," he continues, pacing now, wild energy radiating off him. "You knew we were close. You knew we were careful. But the moment a camera catches us in a hallway—just talking, not even touching—you act like we’ve committed a damn crime."

One of the senior execs clears their throat. "Felix, this isn't personal. This is about optics. The group’s image—"

"To hell with the image!" he explodes, slamming a hand on the table. Everyone flinches. His eyes flash dangerously. "We didn’t hide. We weren’t sneaking around. We just… wanted something real. For once."

He turns, gaze scanning the room, daring someone to challenge him. "But I forgot. Real isn’t allowed here, is it? Not if it doesn’t come with a PR plan and a pre-approved script."

No one speaks. Not even you.

Finally, Felix exhales a shaky breath, voice breaking as he says, "She mattered. And you’re treating her like a liability. Like she’s disposable."

His fury quiets then—not gone, but channeled inward, where it hurts more. He looks at you, eyes rimmed red, voice lower now, wrecked. "You mattered. You still do."

Then he walks out. No more words. Just the echo of everything he couldn’t fix.

But even he can't rewrite the rules that have already been carved into stone.

That night—your last—you sit in his apartment in silence. The only light comes from the city outside, casting fractured reflections on the floor. You sip cold tea you don’t taste. He sits beside you, a hand on your thigh, his thumb brushing in slow, useless comfort.

"I’ll say something," he murmurs. "I'll go public. I’ll—"

You turn to him, press a finger to his lips. "And what happens after that? You lose everything you’ve worked for? They spin it worse? Make me the villain?"

He looks at you like he’s already mourning you. "So what? I’ll lose it. I'd still have you."

You kiss him then—hard, aching, like you’re trying to memorize the shape of him before you forget. Your fingers twist in his shirt, dragging him closer until breath and heartbeats blur. He responds in kind, kissing you like a promise and a goodbye all at once.

You undress each other slowly—his hands brushing under your shirt, your fingers fumbling with the buttons on his. It's not rushed. It's reverent. Like peeling back the final layer of defense, like unwrapping something precious that neither of you wants to let go of. Each item of clothing falls to the floor with quiet finality, soft thuds in a world that’s suddenly far too silent.

His hands find your skin, warm and trembling, tracing the lines of your shoulders, the dip of your waist, the curve of your spine. You gasp when his mouth follows, pressing kisses in the hollow of your throat, the inside of your wrist, the spot just behind your knee that makes you shiver. You arch toward him, and his breath hitches like he’s trying to memorize the sound you make.

When you finally fall into bed, limbs tangled and hearts racing, he holds you like a question he doesn’t want answered. He moves with care, like your body is a memory he’s carving into his bones. There’s heat, yes—skin slick, breath shallow, the friction of need drawing gasps from both your lips—but it’s the way his forehead rests against yours, the way your fingers clutch at his back, that burns the most.

He whispers your name like a plea and a prayer. And when you come undone beneath him, it’s with his mouth against your shoulder, your hand clutching his, and the aching, quiet knowledge that this is goodbye disguised as closeness.

After, he doesn’t let go. His arms stay wrapped around you, one hand tracing invisible circles on your back. You bury your face in his neck and breathe him in, memorizing the scent of cologne and sorrow.

Neither of you speaks. You don’t have to.

Not for this.

After, you lie with your head on his chest, fingers drawing lazy spirals on his skin. He doesn’t speak. Just holds you. Just breathes.

Before you go, you place Kill Switch on his nightstand—your copy, the one with the cracked spine and coffee stains and bent pages from nights reading aloud to each other. Inside, tucked between pages 239 and 240, is your note:

She didn’t need a monster. She needed someone to stay.

He finds it the next morning. Sits on the edge of the bed with the book in his hands like it might break. He doesn’t cry—not then.

But when he walks into practice later and sees your old coffee mug still on the table, untouched, he almost does.

He reads the note again that night. And the next. And the one after that.

Like a rule he forgot to follow.

Taglist: @petersasteria @redhoodedtoad @mirahyun @sherrayyyyy @sherxoo @dilfismz @breakmeoff @janie-osuih @forevervibezzzz1 @kuinnoa @juliskopf @maskedcrawford @szonyix6277@ldydeath

[bettelaboure]

yes, hi. so how about a little Felix's fic sneak peek?

You’re hiding in the conference room again. Not hiding from the job—God knows that never ends—but from him.

The book in your hands is supposed to help. Kill Switch is your emotional support blanket, your escape hatch, your "if he’s brooding and emotionally constipated, I can fix him" anthem. But the words blur when the door swings open.

You don’t need to look up. The scent of cologne and smugness announces Felix first.

“You have got to stop claiming rooms like they’re fictional boyfriends,” he says, plopping into the chair across from you with that slow, lazy sprawl like he has nothing but time to kill.

You don’t flinch. You refuse to give him the satisfaction.

“I booked it,” you say, highlighting a line you’ve already memorized. “Properly. Through the calendar. Like a normal, functioning adult.”

“Sounds exhausting.” He leans in on his elbows. “Want me to teach you how to break the rules instead?”

You finally look up. “Tell me. What’s it like being the human version of a migraine?”

He grins, delighted. “You’re lucky you’re cute, or I’d sue you for emotional damage.”

You bite your lip, hard. Because he’s joking. Of course he’s joking. That’s all Felix ever does—banter and tease and throw gasoline on your carefully lit candles of control.

“Felix, I swear—”

He reaches over and plucks the book from your hands. You gasp, too slow to stop him.

“‘She doesn’t need a hero. She needs a monster. Me,’” he reads dramatically, narrowing his eyes at the page. “Damn. You highlight like it’s a sacred ritual.”

“It is,” you snatch it back. “Romance books are the only place where people actually mean what they say.”

His smirk falters.

You didn’t mean to say that out loud.

The air tightens between you. He leans back slowly, head tilted like he’s trying to see past your PR-perfect exterior.

“You really believe that?” he asks, softly this time.

You hesitate. Then nod.

“In real life, people dodge. They backtrack. They make you feel crazy for needing clarity,” you say. “In romance novels, they fight for it.”

Felix doesn’t say anything for a second. Just studies you like you’re something more complicated than he expected.

Finally, he shifts. “So what are the rules, then?” he says, lighter again. “Romance law, according to you.”

You cross your arms, trying not to smile. “Rule One: Never fall for someone who gets under your skin on purpose.”

His eyebrows lift. “Yikes. That’s rough for me.”

“Rule Two: If he flirts by insulting your favorite things, he’s not the one.”

Felix makes a wounded sound. “Hey! I insult you, not your books. Equal opportunity chaos.”

You shake your head, lips twitching.

“Rule Three,” you say, and here’s where you pause. Because your heart skips—traitorously—when he leans closer. You could count the constellations in his eyes at this distance.

“Don’t fall for someone whose job overlaps with yours. Exception: if he's your rival and the sexual tension is unbearable.”

Felix watches you, the teasing faded, replaced with something quiet and unreadable.

“You always follow the rules?” he asks.

“No,” you admit. “But I try.”

Felix reaches out—hesitates—then tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your breath catches.

“Well,” he murmurs, “if we’re in a romance novel, you know what happens around Rule Three, right?”

You swallow. “What?”

He leans in, lips almost brushing your ear. “The exception happens.”

[bettelaboure]

⊹Letters⊹ | Choi Seung-Hyun

⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹

⊹ Pairing: Choi Seung-Hyun x Reader

⊹ Warnings: themes of heartbreak, mental health struggles, emotional trauma, substance use, and a bittersweet, tear-jerking conclusion

⊹ Summary: emotional journey of reader and Seung-Hyun, whose once passionate relationship collapses under the weight of fame, a personal scandal, and Seung-Hyun’s mental health struggles

⊹ Author's note: that's one hell of a rollercoaster. buckle up🤍

⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹

You were just another face in the classroom. A girl with average lines and average features, wearing a uniform that smelled like starch and borrowed ambition. The kind of role people forget even existed. You weren’t even credited.

But he saw you.

It started small—barely a nod when you passed each other in the hallway between takes. Then, a full glance. Then, lunch.

“Mind if I sit?”

The first time, his voice was a surprise—smooth and deeper than you remembered from interviews, disarming when paired with that lazy, crooked smile.

You blinked, almost said “Why?”, but your nod came faster. The table was too narrow. His knee touched yours under it.

He asked your name. Then he used it every time he saw you, like it meant something.

“Y/N, you ever get tired of sitting in that second row?” “It’s where they put me.” “You don’t look like you belong there.”

Your hands had tightened on your chopsticks.

The days blurred. His schedule was heavier—always running to rehearse, to change wardrobe, to be seen. But he kept returning, sitting beside you, even when he barely had ten minutes to eat.

On wrap day, you waited. For a goodbye. A text. Anything.

But no one called you. No one thanked you.

You watched the trailer on your cracked iPhone in a sublet with mold in the corners. You weren’t in a single frame.

They were right. You were nothing.

But you knew—he never thought that.

And you left, moved overseas. Booking small, later bigger roles in commercials or TV shows. Trying to leave everything behind, until you couldn’t. You missed Korea too much and your manager brought to much shit over your head. 

“Y/N, thing about the opportunities. Think about the spot light. They mightn’t have recognised you then, but now you are stronger.” He used to say.

And now, you are back.

The air is too cold in the studio. Typical. You hug your arms as the stylist pinches fabric at your waist, muttering something about natural curves and compression gear.

You spot him before he spots you.

He’s leaning against the wall, arms folded, laughing with a PA who looks like she’s about to melt. His hair is darker now. Sharper jawline. Broader shoulders. Same presence, like a thunderstorm caught in a designer hoodie.

Your throat tightens.

You turn away before he catches your stare, but it’s too late.

“This is Y/N,” the director says cheerily. “You two will play the couple. I expect real chemistry, real heat.”

“We’ve met,” he answers without missing a beat.

Your pulse stutters. You don’t look at him.

You just nod. “I’m not sure. Nice to meet you.”

His expression flickers. Just for a second. Then it smooths into something unreadable.

That day, you don’t speak beyond what’s written in the shot list. You smile when the camera’s on, rest your hand on his chest like it’s scripted—because it is.

But under your palm, his heart is beating fast.

Between takes, you're in the wardrobe, trying to fix a stubborn zipper, when you feel him behind you.

You freeze. The air changes. You see his reflection in the mirror, the way his jaw is clenched. The way his eyes are fixed on you like you’re an answer to a question he didn’t know he still had.

“So that’s it?” he asks. “We’re strangers now?”

You don’t turn around. “We were never anything else.”

The zipper jerks. You hiss. He’s there in an instant, his hand catching yours.

“Don’t,” you whisper.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t do this. Not here.”

He leans in close, his breath warm on your neck. “You really forgot everything?”

You lift your eyes to meet his in the mirror. “No. I just buried it better than you did.”

He doesn’t back away. Not even when the door creaks open and someone calls for him on set.

“You owe me,” he says, voice low. “One night. One real conversation. You disappeared.”

“So did you.”

But even as he leaves, your skin remembers every inch of him.

You don’t tell anyone where you’re going.

He sent the address in a text you didn’t respond to. But you showed up. You always do when it’s him.

The restaurant is quiet, lit by soft lamps and filled with low jazz. Not his usual scene, you think. Maybe that’s the point.

He stands when you walk in. His smile is cautious, but real.

“Wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“I wasn’t sure either.”

You sit across from him. The space between you feels like an open wound.

Dinner is slow. You talk about the industry. About mutual directors. How much has changed. How much hasn’t.

Then it happens.

“I looked for you,” he says, cutting through grilled mackerel like it’s nothing. “After the film. No social media. No credits. You disappeared.”

You sip your wine. “People like me don’t leave footprints.”

“People like you?” he leans forward. “You mean the ones who steal every scene they’re in without saying a word?”

You bite your lip.

He doesn’t stop there.

“They erased you from the movie. But I didn’t forget. I still have a photo from set. The one where you're laughing at something I said. You looked so—”

“Don’t.” Your voice cracks.

He falls silent.

You don’t finish your food.

But you stay until closing.

The night smells like rain and gasoline. You both linger on the sidewalk like teenagers with nothing left to say but everything left to feel.

Your rides haven’t come yet.

He steps closer.

“I asked everyone about you. The makeup team. Extras. Nobody knew where you went.”

“I didn’t want to be found.”

“Why?”

You pause. Wind pushes your hair across your cheek, and you let it. It’s easier than facing him.

“Because I was tired of being treated like an accessory. A body. A set piece.”

“That’s not what you were to me.”

His voice is thick now, rough around the edges.

“Then why didn’t you say something?”

“I thought I’d see you again. I didn’t know it’d take five goddamn years.”

You turn. The streetlight pools behind him, casting his face in gold.

“You were the only person on that set who made me feel seen,” you whisper. “And it terrified me.”

He steps closer.

“Don’t do that again,” he says, almost breathless. “Don’t look at me like a stranger.”

You let him pull you in—just a fraction. Just enough that the heat of him fills your lungs again.

“Then don’t leave me like one.”

It started in halves. One dinner turned into two. A late night phone call that became a habit. Then a weekend where you never really left his place, your toothbrush leaning next to his, too domestic, too easy.

You both tried to be careful. Tried not to let it look like something real—because the spotlight hated real things.

But he’d kiss your forehead while you scrolled scripts in bed. You’d run your fingers through his hair while he mumbled lyrics into his phone’s recorder. You began building a language that didn’t need words.

Then, you moved in.

Not officially, not with boxes or contracts. Just little things. A coffee mug, your favorite lotion, a robe slung over his chair. Then more. Until home was wherever he was.

Sweet mornings became rituals. He made coffee exactly how you liked it, even when he had to leave before sunrise. You’d find sticky notes on the fridge with hearts and scribbled lyrics. On days off, you curled into his chest on the couch, laughing at old variety shows and stealing kisses between yawns.

When he came home late—sometimes at dawn, sometimes hours after you’d fallen asleep—he’d always stop in the doorway and just watch you. You’d wake to his hand brushing your hair back, soft kisses to your temple, the press of his forehead to yours like a silent promise: still here.

The rumors always came fast.

A new actress seen with him at a showcase. A kiss on screen that lingered too long. And for you—it was worse. The way they talked about your "chemistry" with other co-stars. The way tabloids pitted you against idols with perfect skin and public smiles.

“You looked good with him,” he said once, too quiet, one night after your drama premiere. He was leaning against the kitchen counter, half in shadow, the unopened soju bottle between you like a line neither of you wanted to cross.

You had laughed, short and brittle. "That's your takeaway from my first lead role?"

He pushed off the counter. “Don’t,” he warned, his voice low.

“Don’t what?” you asked, not quite ready for the answer.

“Pretend like it doesn’t affect us.”

You met his eyes, and they were sharper than you'd seen in weeks. Not stage-hardened or camera-smooth. Just real. Hurt.

“I hate it too,” you whispered. “But it’s part of it.”

“Then let’s change it. Or fight for it. Or something. Because pretending it doesn’t matter—it’s tearing pieces off of us.”

And that night, in the small silence after his words, you kissed him like he was oxygen and you had been drowning. Not to fix it. But to feel him. To remind him.

Still, the cracks appeared.

They always do.

In silence at breakfast, when he’d read articles about your co-stars without looking up. In the way you smiled a little too wide at red carpets, because it was easier than explaining the ache in your ribs. In how sometimes, you both fell asleep with backs turned, not because you were angry—but because saying the right thing was too hard, and saying the wrong thing might break the fragile quiet.

But love stayed.

In forgiveness. In shared earbuds on long-haul flights when words failed you both. In comfort when the cameras turned off and your hands found each other like instinct. In how he waited three hours outside your shoot in the rain, hood up, shivering, just because your text said: "rough day." In how you showed up at his studio past midnight with kimchi stew and a sweatshirt that still smelled like him, because you knew he hadn't eaten, and he hated being alone when the lyrics wouldn’t come.

It was messy. And beautiful. And real.

And one night, when you caught him watching you in the mirror as you took off your makeup, red carpet glitter still clinging to your collarbone, you finally broke the silence.

“You’re it for me,” you said. Soft. Scared. Fierce. “Even when I hate everything else—when I hate the fans, and the makeup, and the lies, and the constant pretending—I never hate you. Not once.

I think about that night in the stairwell at the Commitment set, when we sat on the metal steps and you gave me half your sandwich because the staff forgot extras need to eat too. You asked me why I always wore those threadbare gloves with holes in the thumbs, and I told you they were my brother’s. You didn’t laugh. You just touched the frayed edge like it meant something. No one else ever noticed.

I think about the way you’d text me lyrics at 3 a.m., not asking for help, just… wanting to share them with me. You said I was your filter. That I made things sound like they were worth hearing.

I think about that morning after your showcase when you came home and collapsed on the floor instead of the bed, and I laid down next to you because neither of us had the energy to speak, but we needed the closeness like breath.

You know me. You know I hate peaches but I eat them when you cut them up. You know I pretend not to cry at dramas, but I do, and you always hand me tissues without saying a word. You know I lose sleep over every audition, and you never tell me I’m overreacting. You just sit beside me until the storm quiets.

And I know you. I know that you bite your lips when you’re nervous but pretend you don’t. That you hum to old Big Bang tracks when you think no one’s listening. That you always sleep facing the door when I’m not home, like you’re waiting for me.

I love how you love. Fierce. Whole. Scared but unwavering. You see the parts of me I try to bury and never look away. I love the way you say my name like it’s a vow. The way you kiss the spot behind my ear like it’s instinct. The way you never ask me to shrink myself to fit the shadows of your world.

I love you.

I love you in every tense. Past, when I didn’t believe I mattered. Present, now, when I see you and it feels like light. And future—yes, future—whatever we become, however this ends or grows, you are in it.

You’re it for me. You’ve always been.”

He crossed the room with purpose, slow but sure, as if each step burned through the layers of fear and silence you'd both worn like armor. The tension hung thick between you, electric, ready to break. When he reached you, he paused—not for breath, but for clarity—as if seeing you under this soft light, bare-faced and brave, carved something deep inside him.

His hands lifted with reverence, not haste. They trembled as they cupped your jaw, thumbs brushing your cheekbones like he was afraid you'd disappear. Your breath caught. His eyes locked on yours, not demanding, just present—heavy with everything he hadn’t said.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t hurried or wild. It was deliberate. A vow. A plea. A memory. A promise.

You felt it in every cell—that this wasn’t just lips on lips. It was his way of saying, I see you. I still choose you. Again and again.

And when you kissed him back, it wasn’t surrender. It was recognition.

You were home.

You didn’t sleep that night. You just held each other in the dark, hearts speaking a language louder than fame.

He’s sitting on the couch, guitar in his lap, no shirt, just sweatpants and bare skin. Light spills through the balcony like it’s been painted just for this moment—gold against the curve of his collarbone, the dip of his stomach, the familiar freckle near his left shoulder you’ve kissed a hundred times.

He’s humming softly, plucking at strings with no real melody. Just the sound of him, raw and unguarded. You’re watching from the kitchen, wearing one of his oversized hoodies that smells like cedarwood and his shampoo. Your feet are bare. Cereal box in hand. The spoon forgotten somewhere nearby.

He looks up. Sees you. Really sees you.

“You’re staring,” he says with that boyish smile, the one that made you fall in love.

“You’re beautiful,” you reply, soft but certain. It’s not a compliment. It’s a truth.

He grins wider, strums a lazy chord, one that echoes through the sunlit apartment like a sigh. “Marry me.”

You laugh, not because it’s funny, but because it’s so him. “That’s not how you ask.”

He sets the guitar down. Stands. Walks toward you with that slow, deliberate grace that still unravels you, all long limbs and quiet gravity.

“It’s how I feel,” he says again, voice lower now, fuller. He stops in front of you, brushing your hair back from your face with a reverence that almost hurts.

You blink. And for a second, the room tilts.

“You don’t believe in marriage,” you murmur. “You said it was a cage. That it ruined love.”

He nods, then leans in, pressing his forehead to yours. “It is. For most people. But with you... it feels like flying. Like maybe love could finally be something I build instead of something I run from.”

Your hands find his chest, warm and steady. “Say it again,” you whisper.

“Marry me.”

Not a command. Not even a question. A prayer.

Tears sting your eyes. You bury your face in his neck, inhale the comfort of skin and sweat and music and safety.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

And for the first time—not in your career, or on red carpets, or under studio lights—but here, in the golden silence of a shared life, you don’t feel like nothing.

You feel like his everything.

And he feels like yours.

The apartment felt like a tomb. The silence that had settled over the space was suffocating, a cold, haunting presence that refused to be ignored. The smell of his cologne lingered faintly in the air, but it was no longer comforting. It was a reminder. A cruel one.

You had always thought that if you lost him, you’d somehow feel the break coming. You’d know when it was happening, feel it in your bones. But you didn’t. It just… happened. Gradually at first. He pulled away with the excuse of his military service, then with the scandal that broke everything he had worked for. And then came the cold silence—days without calls, without texts, without the sound of his voice.

The first night he left was the hardest. You couldn’t bring yourself to say goodbye, so you didn’t. You just held him that last time, memorizing the way his warmth felt against you, the rhythm of his breath, the way he pressed a kiss to your forehead like it was an unspoken promise.

But that promise slipped away with the first headline. The first accusation. You saw the words written in bold, his name smeared across gossip magazines like a stain, and your heart shattered a little with every passing minute. They painted him as a monster, a man who had everything and lost it all, and with him, they tried to take you too. They questioned your love, your loyalty, your very right to exist beside him. And as much as you tried to ignore it, tried to shut it out, the whispers and rumors were louder than your own heartbeat.

When his mom called, her voice tight with worry, you felt a flicker of hope. She said he wanted to see you, that he had asked for you specifically. And for a brief moment, you thought that maybe he was going to come back to you. That maybe this was all a mistake, and he’d still remember what you meant to him.

But when you arrived at the hospital, his cold silence crushed that hope like a house of cards. His mom escorted you in, but her eyes were already red from crying. She didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. You could feel it—the weight of everything unspoken hanging between you, thick and unbearable.

The hospital room was a sterile, unforgiving space. The air smelled of antiseptic, and the pale white walls reflected nothing but the exhaustion on his face. Seung Hyun was sitting by the window, looking out, his back hunched as if the weight of the world had been placed on his shoulders.

For a moment, you stood frozen, trying to process the man before you. The man who had once been the light of your life, now a stranger in the room. His eyes were distant, as though he was trying to disappear into the cold glass. He didn’t turn when you walked in. He didn’t even acknowledge your presence.

But you weren’t going to give up on him. Not this easily.

You took a tentative step forward, your heart racing in your chest as you approached him. “Seung Hyun…” Your voice broke in the middle of his name, your throat tight with the effort to hold back the flood of emotion that threatened to consume you.

He didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch. It was like he couldn’t hear you. Or didn’t want to.

You took another step. This time, you reached out, your hand brushing his shoulder. He flinched. The first real response you’d gotten from him since he’d left. And yet, it was as if it hurt him more to be touched than to be alone.

“Why are you doing this?” You whispered, voice trembling. “Why are you pushing me away?”

His jaw clenched, his eyes still fixed on the window. The silence stretched out, thick and suffocating. You could hear your heart pounding in your ears, feel the cold panic rising in your chest.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice so quiet you could barely hear it over the hum of the hospital machinery. “I’m sorry for everything.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me,” you said, desperation rising. “I’m not angry. I’m just… scared. I don’t understand. Why won’t you talk to me? Why won’t you let me in?”

His voice cracked. “You don’t get it. I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve this… this love. I’ve ruined everything. And I don’t want to drag you down with me.”

You felt the sting of those words like a physical blow. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that.” Your voice was shaking now, your chest tight with the force of the emotions you could no longer keep inside. “You’re everything to me. You’ve always been everything to me. How can you say you don’t deserve me when you’ve never once made me feel anything but loved?”

He turned his head, his eyes meeting yours for the first time in what felt like forever. His gaze was raw, filled with so much pain it made your heart ache.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he whispered, his voice strained. “You don’t know what it’s like to lose everything. To feel like you’re nothing. And I don’t want you to watch me destroy myself. I don’t want to drag you into this mess.”

You took a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. The tears were welling in your eyes now, blurring your vision. “But I’m already here. I’ve been here. I never left you.”

And that was when he finally broke.

Seung Hyun stood up so suddenly, you barely had time to react. He moved away from you, walking toward the far corner of the room, his fists clenched at his sides. “I’m not the man you fell in love with. I’m not the man you think I am.”

“I don’t care who you think you are,” you shouted, your voice thick with emotion. “I don’t care about the mistakes or the scandals or the lies. I care about you. I care about us. And I still love you.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and aching, as if they had taken everything you had to say. He stood there, his back to you, shoulders shaking with the weight of his own grief.

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t bear to see him like this, so broken, so lost. And yet, he wasn’t coming back to you. Not now. Not ever.

You stood there in the silence, your body shaking with sobs you couldn’t contain anymore. “I can’t do this,” you whispered to yourself. “I can’t lose you.”

But you had already lost him.

And it was the hardest thing you’d ever had to face.

Later, when his mom took you home, she didn’t say a word. She didn’t need to. The two of you didn’t speak, didn’t share words. The only thing that passed between you was a shared understanding of the heartbreak that weighed you both down.

The apartment was empty. His presence still lingered in the corners of the room, in the smell of his cologne, in the warmth of his favorite sweater you had folded and left in the closet. But it was empty, like you were empty. The place where you had built your life, where you had imagined a future, was gone.

You didn’t have the strength to stay in that place anymore. The thought of walking past the walls that had once held the laughter, the quiet moments, the love you had, made you sick. So you packed your bags, slowly, one item at a time, as if each piece you took was one more part of you that was being ripped away.

Your heart broke with every step. Every time your hands touched something that once belonged to him, you felt that fracture deepen.

When you walked out the door for the last time, it wasn’t just the door to the apartment that closed. It was the door to your future, the one you had believed in. The one where you and Seung Hyun were together.

But it was over. He was gone.

You couldn’t fix him. You couldn’t save him.

And it hurt more than you could ever have imagined.

The pain didn’t come in waves. It came in an endless, suffocating tide. And as you walked down the hallway, past the door that had once been home, you knew that you were leaving a piece of your soul behind.

But you had to. You had no choice.

And when you stepped out into the night, you didn’t look back.

Because if you did, you knew you might never leave.

It’s been weeks since you last saw him, since you visited him at the hospital, since he pushed you away—like he was doing what he thought was best for both of you. But you didn’t understand it then, and you don’t understand it now. All you know is that the silence between you feels like a never-ending void.

You tried calling, sending texts, leaving voicemails. But there was nothing—no response, not a single word. Nothing. Just silence. And you knew. You knew that silence was more than just the absence of sound. It was the space he’d created between you two, an invisible wall that seemed impossible to climb.

You found a new place. A small, quiet apartment, much smaller than what you shared with him, but it’s yours. And as much as it feels like a fresh start, it doesn’t feel like home. Not yet.

You didn’t know where he was—what he was doing—but you couldn’t stay where he had once been. You couldn’t pretend that the apartment was still the place where you were a part of his world. And even though you were miles away from that life, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. About the promise he’d made, the love he said he’d never let go of.

And still, nothing. No sign of him. Not a message, not a call.

Letter #1

May 10, 2018

Seung-Hyun,

I don’t know where to even begin. How do I write to you when it feels like you’re a ghost? How do I tell you everything that’s happened when I don’t even know where to start?

The truth is, I left. I left our apartment. It didn’t feel like our home anymore, not after everything that happened. After the hospital, after you pushed me away. I couldn’t stand being there. It hurt too much to see your things—the things that reminded me of what we were—and to know you weren’t coming back.

I found a new place. It’s small, quieter. I thought that maybe if I started over somewhere else, it would help. But it doesn’t. It doesn’t feel like a home without you. It’s just a place. A lonely place.

You told me to leave, Seung-Hyun. You told me you couldn’t do this anymore. And I wanted to understand, I really did. But I can’t. I still don’t get why you walked away like that. You were hurting, I get that now. I know you were going through something I couldn’t fix. But you never let me in, not even when I begged you to.

And now, I don’t know where you are, or if you’re even okay. I hear nothing. No word from you. I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again. And it hurts, more than I could ever put into words.

I just want to know that you’re okay. That you’re still out there. I want to believe that you’ll come back, that you’ll remember what we had. But maybe I’m just fooling myself. I don’t know anymore.

I’ll always be here, Seung-Hyun. Even if you don’t want me to be.

Y/N

Letter #6

March 20, 2019

Seung-Hyun,

It’s been a few years since I moved into this new apartment. The silence is deafening. I thought it would be easier, I thought maybe being away from the place we shared would give me some kind of peace. But it hasn’t. It’s just made everything worse.

I keep going over the last time I saw you. The look in your eyes when I walked into the hospital room, how distant you were. It felt like you were already gone, even before you said those words—"I can’t do this anymore." You wouldn’t look at me. You wouldn’t let me be there with you. And I think that’s what’s killing me the most. You shut me out when I needed to be there for you the most.

And now, I’ve shut myself out too. I can’t stay in that apartment. I couldn’t breathe there without you. It felt like the memories were choking me, pulling me back to a time when things were simple, when we were just happy.

I don’t know where you are. I don’t know what you’re doing. But I can’t help but feel like you’ve disappeared from my life for good. That what we had, what I believed in, doesn’t matter to you anymore.

I’m scared, Seung-Hyun. I’m scared that I’ll never hear from you again, that I’ll never get the answers I need. That I’ll never understand why you left, why you pushed me away when I wanted nothing more than to help you.

I’m trying. I’m really trying to move on, to let go of the hope that we’ll ever find our way back to each other. But I don’t think I can. Not yet.

I just want you to be okay. Please, take care of yourself. Please don’t shut the world out completely.

Y/N

Letter #13

June 1, 2020

Seung-Hyun,

You won’t believe, but I’m still waiting for you to call me, for you to send me a message, anything. But I know you won’t. You haven’t. I know this silence is intentional. I know you’re trying to push me away, to push everything away.

But I can’t do it. I can’t let go of you, not yet. I still see you in everything—when I walk into the coffee shop we used to visit, when I hear our song on the radio, when I think about the way you’d smile at me just before we kissed.

I don’t want to believe that everything we shared was a lie. I don’t want to believe that it was just a fleeting moment in time. But I can’t keep pretending that I don’t miss you. That I don’t still love you. I do. I always will.

I don’t know what happened. I don’t know why you pushed me away. I don’t know what I did wrong. But I can’t keep pretending I’m okay when I’m not. I’m broken, Seung-Hyun. I’m empty without you.

I just want you to come back. I want to see your face again, to hear your voice. I want us to figure this out, even if it takes time.

I don’t want to move on, Seung-Hyun. Not if it means giving up on us.

Please, come back.

Y/N

You don’t know if he’ll ever read these letters. You don’t know if he’ll even ever know that you still care. But as long as you keep writing, as long as you keep sending them to the old apartment, there’s a tiny, fragile part of you that believes he’ll come back. 

Letter #27

August 10, 2023

Seung-Hyun,

I’m writing this letter, and it’s different than the others. I’m not writing this out of sadness, or desperation, or out of longing to hear from you. This is my last letter to you.

I’ve learned so much these past years, and I want you to know that, even though we’re no longer a part of each other’s lives, I’ve healed. Or, at least, I’m in the process of it. It hasn’t been easy—hell, there were times I wasn’t sure if I’d ever get through the pain of losing you. But here I am, sitting with a sense of peace I never thought I’d have. It feels surreal, but it feels real.

I’ve been seeing a therapist, and I’ve learned more about myself than I ever thought I would. I didn’t know how much of me I was holding onto, waiting for you to come back, waiting for things to be the way they were. I didn’t know that I had been keeping myself in a state of limbo, not truly moving on because I was so afraid of saying goodbye. But my therapist told me that I’ve finally reached a place where I can say goodbye—and I’m ready.

I’ve made peace with everything, Seung-Hyun. I understand now that sometimes people just need to walk different paths, no matter how much it hurts. I needed to walk mine. And you needed to walk yours. And while that truth doesn’t erase the love I had for you, it does help me let go of the weight I’ve been carrying around.

You were my everything for so long, and for a while, I couldn’t imagine my life without you. But now, I can. I’m creating a new life, one that’s all my own. It’s not perfect, but it’s mine. I’ve started picking up pieces of myself that I’d forgotten, pieces that got lost in the person I was with you. And I’m discovering who I am again, outside of the love we shared.

I’ve started a new job too, one that challenges me in ways I never thought I’d be capable of. And I’m starting to find joy in the little things again—the quiet mornings, the late-night walks, the sound of my own laughter.

But the truth is, there’s still a small part of me that will always remember you. Always love you. You were a huge part of my life, and that won’t ever change. You taught me so much about love and about who I am, even if we didn’t end the way we thought we would. And for that, I’ll always be grateful.

I guess this is my way of saying goodbye—not just to you, but to everything we were. I’m not angry anymore, Seung-Hyun. I’m not sad. I’m just… letting go. I’m setting myself free, and I want you to do the same. I hope that, wherever you are, you’re finding peace, too. I hope you’re healing. I hope you’re becoming the person you were meant to be, just like I’m learning to become the person I’m meant to be.

Take care of yourself, Seung-Hyun. I’ll always wish you well, even if we never speak again. And though I will carry our memories with me, I’ll carry them in a way that’s lighter now—because I know that it’s okay to move on.

Goodbye.

Y/N

As you write the final words, a sense of quiet settles in your chest. You fold the letter carefully, slipping it into an envelope one last time, and as you seal it, you finally realize—you’re not looking for anything in return. You’re no longer waiting for him to read it, no longer clinging to the hope that he might come back.

You’ve let go. You’ve said goodbye, not just in the words you’ve written, but in your heart.

Seung-Hyun pushed open the door of the old apartment, the one he hadn’t set foot in since everything came crashing down. The space was different from what he remembered —dusty, untouched, silent. The air felt thick with the weight of years, of memories that had settled into the corners like cobwebs. He hadn’t wanted to come back. He had convinced himself that returning here, to this place, would be a kind of self-inflicted punishment. But now that he was standing in the doorway, he realized it wasn’t the apartment that held him captive.

It was the memories of you.

He didn’t know what he expected, walking into the apartment where so much had unfolded, where your love had bloomed and then withered. Maybe he had hoped for some kind of relief, some clarity to wash over him, like the turning of a page. But instead, he was met with the same heavy silence, the same haunting stillness that had followed him in every other room of his life. The space was too quiet, too empty, and yet it was filled with everything he had tried to forget.

The walls, once adorned with pictures of your time together—birthday dinners, lazy Sundays, random selfies and pictures from film sets—now felt bare. The frames were gone, the once-colorful walls now washed with the dull gray of neglect. Everything you had left behind felt like a lifetime ago, a distant, unreachable place. His fingers brushed against the old coffee table, worn from use, but it felt like he was touching a ghost.

He moved slowly through the apartment, the echoes of his footsteps louder than they should have been. His gaze fell on the small kitchen, where you’d once spent hours cooking together, laughing over spilled ingredients and burned toast. The thought of how you had once danced around this kitchen, your laughter bright, your spirit so alive—it hurt in a way he didn’t know how to explain.

The apartment was no longer yours. You had moved on. He had pushed you away, and you had left. You had to. It wasn’t just the scandal that broke them. It wasn’t just the fame or the distance or the expectations. It was his inability to face the truth. His fear. His brokenness.

He was still broken.

But something had shifted in him during the past months, something had changed. Maybe it was the therapy, maybe it was the time away from everything, or maybe it was the sheer weight of everything that had happened. But the man who had walked away from you was different now. Not fixed, not healed—but better. He knew that now.

As he wandered through the apartment, he noticed a stack of mail that had been left unopened on the counter. He hadn’t expected anything, but something caught his eye. Small, yellow envelopes with a familiar handwriting on them. Your handwriting.

His heart stopped.

There were several others. All addressed to him. Some had already yellowed with age, others still crisp and fresh. He hesitated, staring at them as if they were fragile, as if touching them would make them disappear. He had thought that if he kept avoiding you, if he kept pretending like he didn’t care, it would all go away. But it hadn’t gone away. It had only made the guilt worse.

He picked up the first letter and read the words that felt like a punch to the gut.

"I don’t know where to even begin. How do I write to you when it feels like you’re a ghost? How do I tell you everything that’s happened when I don’t even know where to start?"

His chest tightened. He put the letter down, his eyes blurry. That one simple sentence—"I still think about you every day"—was enough to crack him wide open.

The tears came quickly after that, and before he knew it, he was crying. Not for the man he used to be, but for the man he had become in your absence. He had shut you out, pushed you away, and in the process, had torn apart the only good thing he had ever had in his life.

He read every letter. All twenty-seven of them. Each one a painful reminder of what he had lost. Of what he had taken for granted. Of how much you had loved him, how much you had fought for him, even when he hadn’t deserved it. You had poured your heart out, over and over, each letter a piece of yourself you had given to him.

And now, he was finally hearing you.

When he had finished reading the last letter, he was a mess. His emotions were all tangled—regret, guilt, sorrow, but also something else. Something he hadn’t felt in years: peace.

You were moving on. You had healed. You had said goodbye, even if it had taken you time to get there.

And he?

He was still here, still holding onto the past, still holding onto the love he had never allowed himself to fully feel. He wasn’t sure what to do with all of it, but one thing was certain: he had to tell you. He had to let you know how much he had changed, how much he had grown, how much he had learned.

He had to say goodbye, too.

That’s when he grabbed the pen and began to write.

March 5, 2025

Y/N,

I wasn’t sure what to expect when I came back. It’s been seven years since everything changed. Seven years of silence that felt like a lifetime, each day growing heavier than the last. But when I walked through the door of our old apartment today, I wasn’t expecting this.

I wasn’t expecting to find the mailbox full of your letters.

Twenty-seven letters. 

I sat down right there in the hallway, with the stack of envelopes in my hands. At first, I didn’t know what to feel. I almost didn’t want to open them. I thought, "What could they possibly say that could make me feel any less guilty?" But I couldn’t leave them unread. Not when you’d written every word with such care. With such honesty. With your heart laid bare.

I started reading.

It took me hours. The wine bottle beside me slowly emptied, and with each letter, I found myself feeling a little more. Regret. Sadness. Anger—at myself. But most of all, a sense of loss. Not just for what we were, but for the person I used to be. The person who thought he had everything figured out.

I didn’t have anything figured out.

I didn’t have you.

I don’t even know how to begin. How do you explain years of silence? How do you apologize for the hurt you caused without sounding like you’re trying to justify it? How do you say that you were broken, too, but never even tried to fix yourself until it was too late?

I didn’t deserve your letters. I didn’t deserve your patience. Your love. The fact that you spent all these years waiting for me to come back, while I was lost in a place where I couldn’t even recognize myself anymore.

I know it’s not enough to say "I'm sorry," but I need you to hear it. Because for the first time in years, I can actually say it and mean it. I’m sorry, Y/N. I’m sorry for how I treated you. For pushing you away when all you ever wanted was to be there for me. I’m sorry for not being the person you needed. I’m sorry for taking you for granted when you deserved so much more.

I know it’s hard to believe, but I am a better person now. I’ve taken the time to work on myself, to heal in ways I never thought I could. And that’s why I’m able to write this to you now—not out of guilt, but because I truly want you to know that I’m in a better place. Mentally, emotionally… everything. I’m not the man who left you behind. And I know that doesn’t change what happened, but it’s the truth.

When I look back at everything—the good times, the bad times, the love we shared—it’s clear to me now that I was never the person you needed me to be. You deserved someone who was whole. Someone who was ready. But instead, I was broken, and I broke us both in the process.

I’m sorry for that.

And now, as much as I wish I could ask for your forgiveness, I know I don’t have the right. But I hope, one day, when you look back on our time together, you’ll remember the good parts. The love. The laughter. The moments when we both felt like we were more than just two people in the same space. I hope you remember those times with warmth, and not just the hurt.

I don’t expect anything from you. I don’t expect a response. I don’t even expect you to forgive me. All I want is for you to know that I have always, and will always, care about you. I wish you nothing but happiness. And peace. You deserve everything good in this world, Y/N.

Maybe one day, our paths will cross again. But if they don’t, I want you to know that I’ll always carry the love we shared with me. I’ll never forget it. You’ll always have a place in my heart, even if we never speak again.

Goodbye. But this time, it’s different.

Take care of yourself. I hope you’re as happy as you deserve to be.

Seung-Hyun

This was his goodbye. The letter he had never thought he’d write, but knew he needed to.

Taglist: @petersasteria @redhoodedtoad @mirahyun @sherrayyyyy @sherxoo @dilfismz @breakmeoff @janie-osuih @forevervibezzzz1 @kuinnoa @juliskopf @maskedcrawford @szonyix6277@ldydeath

[bettelaboure]

bf jiyong x reader where its the morning after doing ykw 🌚

⊹Morning, Jagi⊹ | Kwon Ji-yong

⊹⊹⊹⊹⊹

⊹Pairing: Kwon Ji-Yong x reader

⊹Summary: The morning after their first night together, you and Jiyong share tender moments, teasing banter, and quiet intimacy—with sore bodies, soft kisses, and the company of his two cats, Lye and Zoa—as you navigate the gentle, love-drenched aftermath of something real.

⊹Warnings: brief nudity, soft aftermath, teasing

⊹⊹⊹⊹⊹

It’s the kind of morning that feels suspended in time—like the universe has pressed pause just for you.

The air is still, golden with sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, and wrapped in the kind of hush that only exists between two people who’ve just crossed the most delicate threshold together. Your body is draped in a tangle of sheets and skin, still echoing with the aftershocks of the night before, but it’s not lust that lingers now. It’s something quieter. Thicker. More dangerous.

“I’m your menace,” he whispers again against your shoulder, and this time you don’t argue. "Morning, Jagi."

Because it’s true.

You feel it in every inch of your body—the ache in your muscles, the sore tug between your thighs, the gentle soreness of your lips from where he kissed you too many times to count. Your skin still hums with the memory of his mouth, the way he murmured your name like a promise, like a prayer, like a secret he’d waited his whole life to say out loud.

He’d ruined you.

Not just your body—though yes, thoroughly—but your standards. Because how could you go back to anything less after last night? How could you kiss anyone else, when no kiss would ever feel like that again?

He shifts behind you, the smooth press of his chest against your back, a hand running down your side with the kind of gentleness that belies how rough he had you hours ago. “You sure you’re okay?” he murmurs again, and it’s that question—the quiet sincerity of it—that really undoes you.

“I’m better than okay,” you whisper, nudging your nose against his jaw.

“I’m a little concerned I’ve turned you into a puddle,” he murmurs. “You haven’t moved in twenty minutes.”

“I can’t move,” you say with mock accusation. “You broke me.”

“You loved it,” he says smugly.

“You made me say your name like—ten times.”

“Twelve,” he corrects with a sly grin. “I counted. Every time you said it, I got harder. I thought I was going to combust when you moaned it that last time.”

You swat at his arm, embarrassed, but he catches your wrist and kisses the inside of it, soft as silk. “Don't be shy now,” he whispers. “You were so confident last night. You told me exactly what you wanted.”

Your cheeks burn at the memory of it—how you’d pulled him close by his shirt, whispering in his ear with a voice you barely recognized as your own. He liked when you took control. He loved it when you gasped into his mouth and begged him to let go.

And he did.

Completely. Messily. Beautifully.

Now, in the golden hush of morning, he’s a different kind of creature—softer, gentler, eyes half-lidded and sleepy, but still teasing, still dangerous in that way only Jiyong can be.

“Come on,” he says after a beat, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Bath time. You’re too sore to walk straight, and I don’t want your memory of me to include falling down the stairs.”

“You’re so full of yourself.”

He’s already climbing out of bed, naked and unapologetic. “I have you in my bed. I think I’ve earned it.”

You watch him stretch, lean and gorgeous and completely at ease in his skin. He disappears into the bathroom and a second later, you hear water rushing, the hum of something dropped into the tub—probably one of those expensive bath salts he pretends not to use.

Zoa follows him with an offended chirp, like she’s had enough of this romance and wants breakfast. Lye stays with you, curled into the blanket, still purring like a small engine.

You finally sit up, wincing slightly, and laugh at yourself. “He really did break me.”

From the bathroom, you hear: “I can still hear you.”

You roll your eyes and shuffle toward the doorway, Jiyong’s oversized shirt slipping down one shoulder. The scent of eucalyptus and jasmine is already filling the air, steam curling through the room as the tub fills.

Jiyong’s kneeling beside it, testing the temperature like he’s preparing something sacred.

“You treat baths like rituals,” you tease, leaning against the doorframe.

He glances back, then stops altogether—eyes tracing you slowly, like he’s seeing you all over again.

“You look ridiculous,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“Ridiculously good,” he clarifies. “Like...you should be in a painting. In a museum. Guarded. Or stolen.”

You shake your head, but your smile betrays you.

He stands, reaching for you. “Come on. I made it perfect.”

You let him undress you, slowly, reverently—like last night all over again, but quieter now, gentler. He helps you into the water first, then slips in behind you, pulling your back to his chest as the warmth envelops you both.

His legs slide around yours. His arms find your waist. His chin rests on your shoulder.

And you sit there like that—two bodies suspended in a world made of steam and skin and the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of breath.

“Can I ask you something?” you murmur.

“Anything.”

“When did you start liking me?”

He’s quiet for a second. You almost regret asking, but then he answers, voice low and honest:

“The first time you called me out.”

You turn your head. “Seriously?”

He grins. “Yeah. Everyone around me nods too much. But you? You looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘That’s a terrible idea, Kwon.’ I think I fell in love right then.”

Your heart thumps. “I remember that day.”

“You had no idea who I was,” he says, kissing your temple. “It was so hot.”

You both laugh, and he holds you tighter.

Silence falls again, but it’s the best kind. Not awkward. Not empty. Just comfortable. Like two people who no longer need to fill the space between them with words.

Eventually, you feel your eyes start to close.

Jiyong kisses your wet shoulder and murmurs, “Nap here. I’ll carry you back to bed after.”

You smile. “You’re not strong enough for that.”

“Woman, I lifted you last night while you were wrapped around me. Do not question my power.”

You laugh into his neck. “Okay, okay.”

He kisses the top of your head. “I’ll prove it again tonight.”

You don’t reply.

But your hand finds his beneath the water. Fingers tangled.

Heart full.

And for the first time in a long time, you think you finally understand what home feels like.

Taglist: @petersasteria @redhoodedtoad @mirahyun @sherrayyyyy @sherxoo @dilfismz @breakmeoff @janie-osuih @forevervibezzzz1 @kuinnoa @juliskopf @maskedcrawford @szonyix6277@ldydeath

[bettelaboure]

it’s not smut, but oh boy i got worked up🥵

Meet me backstage ◎ Kwon Ji-Yong

◎ Summary: A long-simmering attraction between you and Kwon Jiyong ignites backstage after a performance, unfolding into a slow-burning, emotionally charged encounter where desire meets deep, unspoken connection.

◎ Warnings: suggestive content, i guess?

◎ ◎ ◎ ◎ ◎

The bass is still humming through the walls when you step off stage, skin hot beneath sequins and silk. Seoul’s summer air clings to you, sticky and electric, and your mind is still halfway in the last chorus. The crowd’s roar lingers in your bones. But it’s not just adrenaline that’s keeping you charged.

You didn’t expect him tonight.

Kwon Jiyong. GD. The name everyone else whispers like gospel in the industry — but to you, it’s more than legacy. It’s late-night studio sessions and glances too long to ignore. It’s the text he sent you two hours ago: “I’m watching tonight.”

You’d hoped he meant it.

And then, you saw him.

Leaning against the VIP balcony like he owned the air around him, black shirt open just enough to show a glimpse of ink at his collarbone, a drink untouched in his hand — watching you. Not your group. You. Eyes low and deliberate, lips parted like he was singing along, even though you could barely focus on your lines once you caught him there.

Now, backstage is buzzing — but none of it touches you. You’re alone in the dim corridor by your dressing room, breath caught in your throat when the door opens without a knock.

He’s here.

“Didn’t think you’d actually come,” you say, voice lower than you meant.

He doesn’t smile — not fully. Just closes the door behind him and leans against it, eyes running over you in that way that makes it hard to breathe. “You looked good up there,” he says, voice soft and slow, velvet with heat. “You knew I was watching, didn’t you?”

Your throat tightens. You nod.

He steps closer, the scent of him filling the room like the first hit of a track you didn’t realize was on repeat in your head. Sandalwood. Smoke. Something sharp and expensive.

“You were singing my verse,” he murmurs.

“You wrote it.”

He smiles this time. “You still remember every word.”

The space between you evaporates in an instant. His fingers lift the hem of your stage outfit — not suggestively, not yet. Just a brush, feather-light, like he’s checking if you’re real. You don’t move away. You don’t want to.

“Why don’t you meet me backstage?” he whispers, quoting his own lyric — and suddenly, everything tilts.

You back into the wall, your breath catching when his hand slides up your arm. Not rushing. Never rushing. Jiyong doesn’t do anything without control, without purpose. His eyes lock with yours, asking without words.

You nod.

He kisses you like he sings — measured, poetic, dangerous in its precision. Lips brushing over yours once, twice, slow enough to make you chase the third. He lets you. His hand tangles in your hair, pulling slightly, anchoring you to him, while the other traces down your waist like he’s finding lyrics in the curves of your body.

Your heart’s beating out of time.

He mouths against your jaw, “You drive me crazy in that black outfit.”

“Then do something about it.”

He does — but not in the way you expected. No frantic need. Just closeness. Palms against your sides. A low exhale against your neck. His breath travels from your ear down the curve of your throat, lingering there, just where your heartbeat flutters the most. He kisses you there — slow, slow, slow — his signature tattooed behind your eyelids with every pulse.

It’s not just lust.

It’s something heavier. Older.

Maybe it’s the way you’ve been circling each other for years now, both too careful to touch what you couldn’t undo. Or maybe it’s the silence after the spotlight — when all that’s left is two people backstage, stripped of illusion, chasing something real.

You run your hand through his hair, fingers tugging gently at the nape as you pull him closer. “You gonna sing me that line again?”

“Which one?”

“‘Oh, you so good on your knees…’”

His eyes darken, a smirk flickering like static at the corner of his mouth. “You’re dangerous.”

“You started it.”

He sinks to his knees without breaking eye contact. His hands on your thighs are steady, reverent. But before anything else can happen, he pauses — presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, slow and deliberate. Then the other. Not moving higher.

You’re trembling before he’s even touched you.

He whispers, “Tell me to stop.”

You don’t.

Instead, you drop to your knees too, facing him in the quiet pulse of the backstage haze. Your forehead touches his, both of you breathing the same air, wanting the same release.

But what you say is, “This… isn’t just tonight, is it?”

His answer comes in a whisper, pressed to your mouth.

“No. This is the start.”

The room isn’t made for moments like this. It’s too cold, too white — a temporary space built for quick changes and exit routes. But the second his hands find your waist, the space warps around him.

Jiyong’s presence is commanding without trying. He doesn’t touch you like a man who’s guessing. He touches you like a man who’s been imagining this for months. Like he’s traced every inch of your body with his mind a thousand times before tonight — and now, he’s finally allowed to confirm the fantasy.

His hands slide under your jacket, knuckles brushing your bare skin. You shiver — not from cold, but from anticipation. From the weight of his gaze as he watches your reaction, as if memorizing the exact sound you make when he drags his fingers along your ribs.

“You always perform like that?” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Or just when you know I’m watching?”

Your reply catches in your throat. He’s too close, too overwhelming, and his breath is warm against your skin, flooding your nerves with heat.

“I didn’t expect you,” you whisper.

“No?” He’s grinning now — wicked, confident. His fingers slide the zipper of your outfit down one slow inch at a time. “Then why were you looking up at me like you wanted me to walk down and pull you off stage?”

You swallow, the movement betraying you. He hears it. Feels it.

“You want me to stop?” he asks, thumb brushing just beneath your chest now, grazing the edge of your bra like a threat.

“No.”

It comes out hoarse. Honest.

His lips finally meet yours again, this time without hesitation. It’s not a kiss meant for cameras. It’s deep, deliberate — the kind of kiss that takes. His mouth moves with rhythm, tongue teasing yours, breath mixing until you can’t tell where you end and he begins. You grip the collar of his black shirt, feeling the silk stretch in your fists.

“Been thinking about this since Jeju,” he murmurs into your mouth. “You remember that after-party?”

You do. You remember the way he stood too close behind you in the hallway, breath ghosting over your shoulder as he passed, saying nothing. The way his hand brushed your back — not enough to be obvious, but enough to stay with you. The way you felt all night after.

“I thought you didn’t like sharing,” you murmur now, teeth catching his bottom lip.

“I don’t.” His voice dips. “That’s why I waited.”

He pulls your jacket off completely, letting it fall to the floor. The air hits your skin and you hiss through your teeth — not from cold, but from how exposed you feel under his eyes. He’s staring like he’s starving.

“You’re prettier up close,” he says. “But I already knew that.”

Then he’s on you again — hands on your hips, mouth at your neck. His lips move slowly, deliberately, down your throat to your collarbone. He doesn’t rush. He savors. Every kiss a message, every exhale a promise. You gasp when his teeth catch lightly on your skin — not enough to mark, just enough to claim. One hand slides behind your back, pulling you flush against him.

You can feel him. All of him. Hard, unyielding, and pressed right against your hips. The pressure makes your knees threaten to give, but he holds you steady.

“You good?” he murmurs, nose brushing yours.

You nod, breathless. “Better than good.”

He lets out a soft laugh — low, satisfied — and turns you slowly, backing you toward the vanity mirror. Your body hits it gently, and the cold glass is a shock against your spine. The contrast only makes the heat between your bodies more intense.

You stare at yourselves in the mirror — his dark eyes over your shoulder, your parted lips, your body pressed to his. His hands snake around your stomach, dragging up slowly, flattening against your ribs.

“Look,” he whispers in your ear.

You do.

“Look how you react to me. This is what I wanted.”

Your eyes lock in the reflection, and it’s almost too much — too intimate. But you don’t look away.

His lips skim your shoulder, then lower, lower. When his hands finally touch the hem of your skirt, you suck in a breath. You don’t stop him. Your head tilts back onto his shoulder, letting him explore.

Then, without warning, he lifts you.

You gasp, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. His grip is strong, practiced — like carrying you is second nature. He sits you on the makeup table, knocking over a few compacts and brushes that clatter to the ground. Neither of you care.

He leans in, forehead against yours, breathing hard.

“We don’t have to go further,” he says, and it’s real — not a line. His eyes are serious, even while his body is still pressed tight against yours.

You place your hands on his jaw, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones.

“I want to,” you whisper. “But not fast. Not like I’m another stop on your tour.”

That stops him. Something flickers in his eyes — guilt? Respect?

He leans forward, kisses your temple, your cheek, your lips — all soft now, all careful.

“Then I’ll go slow,” he says. “So slow you’ll still feel me tomorrow.”

You close your eyes and let yourself fall.

Not into lust. Not into recklessness.

Into him.

[bettelaboure]

To everyone who’s been with me on this "Course in Chemistry" journey—

From the very first word to the final scene, you’ve been here—reading, showing love and support, feeling, breathing life into these characters alongside me. What started as a simple story became something so much more because you were there. You laughed with them, wanted with them, hurt with them, and maybe even healed a little, too. (I hope so.. I mean Y/N loves English now..)

Thank you for every comment, every like, every DM where you screamed with me about Seung-Hyun and the reader. Thank you for waiting between updates, for believing in the tension, the longing, the messiness, and the beauty. You saw them the way I did—flawed and real and worthy of love in all its chaotic forms.

You helped me tell that story, and I’ll never forget it.

Here’s to the bold ones. The shy ones. The ones who burn quietly. And the ones who write their own endings.

Until the next one. Standalone or Series.

Lots of love,

G. 🤍

[bettelaboure]

⊹Course in Chemistry: epilogue⊹ | Choi Seung-Hyun

series "Course in Chemistry" epilogue

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⊹ Pairing: Choi Seung-Hyun x Reader

⊹ Warnings: sexual tension, embarrassment, mature language, peer pressure, and high school dynamics involving gossip and judgment

⊹ Summary: Y/N meets Seung-Hyun years after their last encounter and their chemistry is still there

⊹ Author's note: that's the end. thank you for being with me on this short journey. i hope you loved to read the series as much as i loved to write it. your love and support is what keeps me going🤍

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The air was thick with anticipation, the kind that wraps itself around your chest and pulls tight. Outside, the streets of Seoul buzzed with energy, lights flashing in every direction as night descended upon the city. The last stop on BigBang’s world tour was here—Seoul. It was the culmination of years of hard work, of sweat and sacrifice, of late-night rehearsals and sleepless flights. And here, in the heart of the city, the crowd was waiting.

Inside the stadium, the backstage area was a maze of polished floors and glowing lights. You stood in the shadows, just beyond the curtain, watching the chaotic flurry of activity unfold. The buzz of voices, the clatter of crew members running past, the distant thrum of bass and drums as they tested the sound system. It all felt surreal, like something you’d only ever seen from the outside.

But this time, you were here—finally, after all these years.

You never imagined this moment would come. Not after all the years apart. Not after the goodbye, the silence, the distance. The last time you saw Seung-Hyun—T.O.P now, you reminded yourself—was at the beginning of his journey, before the world knew his name. Before the stages and lights, before the music and the fame. You were still in school back then, navigating your own life while he was off chasing a dream that seemed impossibly distant.

And now, here you were. No longer that awkward student who had to be tutored in English. No longer that girl who was tangled in the mess of first loves and unspoken feelings. You were different now. You had grown, shaped by the years, by the life you built for yourself—one that didn’t include him. At least, not in the way you once thought.

You were a professor's assistant at a local university now, specializing in English literature. The irony wasn’t lost on you—how much you’d once hated the subject, but here you were, navigating academic texts and theories with ease. It was a life you had found some kind of peace in, even if you often felt like you were living in a world you didn’t quite belong to. But it was safe. It was stable.

Unlike Seung-Hyun. 

You had kept up with him, of course. How could you not? His name, his face—always there in the headlines, always there in the background of your quiet life. You'd heard his voice on the radio, seen him on the cover of magazines, and seen him in movies. You couldn’t escape it, even if you tried. And deep down, there was always that part of you—the one that still felt tethered to him, no matter how much time had passed.

A knock on the door broke your thoughts, sharp and unexpected.

You turned quickly, and the manager, a harried woman in her late thirties, stood there, looking around the room. "T.O.P. has asked for you," she said, voice laced with the urgency of someone juggling multiple tasks at once.

You blinked, unsure whether you'd heard her correctly. “What?”

She smiled at your confusion. “He asked to see you. If you’re ready, I’ll take you to him.”

Your heart skipped. For a moment, everything around you seemed to blur—her words, the buzz of the crew, the humming sound of the music that filtered through the walls. It was like time had snapped back to that locker room, those quiet moments in the space between the chaos of the world and the comfort of his touch.

“Yeah,” you managed to say, voice steady even though your pulse was anything but. “I’m ready.”

The hallway was long and narrow, decorated with posters of BigBang’s latest world tour. You passed dressing rooms, empty rehearsal spaces, and dozens of crew members rushing in every direction. The manager led you to a private area, one with a door that looked out onto the stage. It was quiet in here, and the first thing you noticed was the cool air, the scent of cologne, and the unmistakable presence of him.

Seung-Hyun. 

He stood by the window, facing the city skyline, his back to you. His silhouette was framed by the glow of the lights outside, but he didn’t turn around as you entered. His stance was familiar—calm, collected, but there was something different. Something... distant.

“Who would have thought that T.O.P himself would want to see me?” you said softly, but with a rasp in the sound, your voice breaking the silence.

He turned slowly, and for a moment, neither of you moved. It was as if the world had stopped, leaving only the two of you in this suspended moment, suspended in time.

His face was different, of course. Sharper, more mature. The years had carved out new lines in his features, the edges of his jaw and cheekbones more defined. His hair was darker now, styled in a way that contrasted sharply with the way you remembered him. But his eyes? They were the same. The same deep, dark gaze that seemed to see through you, even now. The same eyes that had always held more than what was on the surface. The same eyes that had once caught yours in that locker room, making your heart race like it had no control over itself.

You were both different now. Grown. Changed.

But in this moment, there was a part of you that hadn’t shifted at all. And you saw it in him too—the way he was looking at you, as if you were the one thing that could ground him, even for just a moment.

For a few seconds, neither of you spoke. Then, with a careful step forward, he spoke your name.

“Y/N?” His voice was low, the words trailing like he hadn’t fully believed you’d be standing here, after all these years.

“Yeah,” you replied, your voice steadier than you felt. “It’s really me.”

There was a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, but it was more bittersweet than anything. “I thought about you a lot,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, like the confession was something fragile. “More than I should have.”

You nodded, your chest tightening with the weight of those words. You’d thought about him too, more times than you could count. But what was the point in saying that now?

“You still hate English?” he asked, his voice warming with the hint of a teasing edge.

You couldn’t help but smile at that, despite everything. “It’s not so bad anymore,” you said. “I actually... I teach it now.”

Seung-Hyun’s eyebrows shot up, clearly surprised. “You teach it? Who would have thought? Back in the day, you were ready to kill me for giving you a 7th grader’s book,” he said, his gaze shifting from your face to your hands, as if trying to map the years between you.

You shrugged, feeling that familiar discomfort of old emotions threading through the conversation. “It’s not what I thought I’d be doing, but it works. I found my place.”

He nodded, taking a step closer to you. The movement was slow, deliberate. He wasn’t in a rush, and neither were you. He was giving you the space you needed, as if waiting for something more to reveal itself.

But you weren’t sure what that something was anymore.

“Do you think about that night?” he asked suddenly, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

The question caught you off guard, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to answer. You thought about it, of course, more than you’d ever admit to anyone. But that was a different time. A different life.

You nodded slowly. “Sometimes.”

“Yeah. Me too,” he murmured. “I guess... I guess I never really got over it.”

The words hung in the air like a confession. A secret he was only now ready to share.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then, T.O.P. reached out, his hand brushing lightly against yours. The touch was light but enough to make your heart race, enough to remind you of the chemistry that had always been there between you.

“I should be going on stage soon,” he said, pulling his hand back slowly. He hesitated, then added, “But... can we talk later? When I’m done?”

You blinked at him, the sincerity in his voice making your stomach flutter. This wasn’t the same shy boy you remembered, the one who stumbled over words. This was a man—older, more experienced, but with that same warmth behind his eyes.

“I’d like that,” you said, your voice soft.

He smiled then, the kind of smile that made your chest ache with memories you thought were buried. “I’ll find you after the show. I promise.”

You nodded, and as he turned to walk away, you watched him disappear into the backstage crowd. The weight of the moment lingered in the air—unspoken, but understood.

And as the lights of the stadium flared, and the roar of the crowd filled the arena, you felt the longing pulse in your chest, a quiet echo of something that had never truly gone away.

T.O.P. was out there, performing for thousands, but here you were—waiting for Seung-Hyun, just as you always had been.

The night exploded into sound as the stadium lights flickered and dimmed, signaling the start of BigBang’s grand finale in Seoul. The crowd roared, a wave of energy so powerful it felt like it could shake the very ground beneath your feet. The music pulsed, heavy with the beats that had become anthems for millions across the world, and the lights swirled in every direction, as if the entire venue had turned into a living, breathing organism, undulating with excitement.

Seung-Hyun—T.O.P.—was out there now, commanding the stage with a presence that was impossible to ignore. You could see him, even from the backstage area where you stood, hidden in the shadows. The crowd’s response to his entrance was deafening, their screams sharp, full of adoration. And it made sense, of course. This was the culmination of years of hard work, of struggles, of sacrifices. And him, with his deep, commanding voice and icy charisma, was at the very heart of it all.

He was different, undeniably so. His posture was straighter, more confident, the way he held his body and moved across the stage a clear reflection of everything he had become in the years since you'd last seen him. The red leather jacket he wore was a far cry from the baggy hoodie he used to favor. His hair, darker now, was slicked back, adding to the sharp edge of his features. His eyes, though—those deep, soulful eyes—were still the same. And they were fixed on the crowd, on the thousands of faces that adored him.

But when his gaze flickered for a moment, even briefly, in your direction, front row, you saw it. The subtle change in the way he moved, the tightening of his jaw, the soft flicker of recognition that passed between you. And suddenly, you were back to that locker room all those years ago, the tension between you thick in the air, palpable, undeniable.

You stepped back into the shadows, trying to steady your breath. God, how had so much time passed? He was a star now, a god in the eyes of so many, but he was still the same. He was still the same.

The show seemed to go by in a blur, the thumping bass and flashing lights an almost overwhelming symphony of sound and color. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the stage, though, watching him. Watching them all. But most of all, watching him. His performance was everything you remembered and more. The way he moved, the way he commanded the stage with that effortless swagger, the way the crowd screamed his name—everything about him screamed "celebrity." It was clear this was his world now, and you were just a spectator.

But it wasn’t just his stage presence that had you hooked. It was the moments when his eyes would flicker, even if just for a second, toward the shadows where you stood. Those moments felt like a thread connecting the past and the present, like he was reaching out to you without anyone knowing.

By the time the final song was over, and the last notes of Fantastic Baby reverberated through the stadium, the crowd was in a frenzy, but you were already on your way to the backstage area, making your way through the maze of corridors to the spot where you had agreed to meet him.

The anticipation gnawed at you, sharp and raw, as you stood by the door. The thought of seeing him—of being this close to him again after so long—stirred something inside you that you hadn’t expected. The same chemistry, the same attraction, flared back to life.

And then the door opened.

Seung-Hyun stood there, just beyond the threshold, his red jacket now discarded, his t-shirt clinging to his toned frame. His face was flushed from the stage lights, his hair a bit tousled, but his eyes were locked onto yours, intense and unwavering.

You both paused for a long, loaded moment, just taking each other in. You could feel the heat between you, the chemistry that had never really gone away. His lips curled up into a slow, knowing smile, and there was no mistaking the way he looked at you. His gaze was hungry, searching, and it ignited something deep inside you, something that you had buried for years.

“So…” Your voice was low, like a whisper shared between two people who had shared too much time apart. “You still think I’m trouble?”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, your heart racing in your chest. There it was again—the teasing, the playful edge that was so very you together. The boy who had always known how to make you smile even when you didn’t want to. You couldn’t help but smirk.

“You’re still full of yourself, aren’t you?” He shot back, unable to keep the laughter from his voice.

His eyes twinkled with that familiar mischievousness, and he took a step closer. The air between you thickened. His scent—woodsy, musky, with a hint of cologne—invaded your senses, making your breath catch.

“I’m just confident,” you replied, your voice dipping lower, and his gaze dropped briefly to your lips, before returning to meet your eyes. “I don’t remember you complaining about that before.”

Your chest tightened, the distance between you feeling too great, and yet, impossibly small at the same time. Everything about this moment—the proximity, the familiarity, the lingering touches in your memory—felt like a spark on the edge of an explosion.

“I was always trouble,” you whispered, but the words held no accusation—only the playful sting of something unspoken.

His smile deepened, and without saying another word, he reached out. One hand came to rest on your waist, pulling you slightly toward him, while the other cupped your chin, gently lifting your face so your eyes locked. His thumb brushed the skin just below your lips, the touch soft but intimate, sending a shiver up your spine.

“You’ve always been trouble,” he murmured, his lips dangerously close to yours now. “But maybe that’s what I’ve always wanted.”

You met his gaze, steady and unflinching. Everything about this moment, about him, felt so familiar, like you were coming back to something you had always known. There was no fear, no hesitation, just an undeniable pull—magnetic, powerful, dangerous.

And then, without warning, he kissed you.

It wasn’t the tentative, awkward kiss of two people who had just found each other again after so long. No. This was raw, a collision of desires that had been simmering for years. His lips were urgent, almost desperate, and you met him with equal intensity, your hands finding his chest, gripping him as if you needed to prove he was really here, really in front of you.

The kiss deepened, and time seemed to stand still. The chaos of the concert, the noise of the stadium, the distance between the two of you—everything faded away. There was only this, only him, only the way your bodies seemed to recognize each other as if no time had passed at all.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and trembling, Seung-Hyun. rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closing for a moment as if he was grounding himself.

“God, I’ve missed you,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion.

You swallowed hard, the words catching in your throat, but when you looked at him, you saw the same longing in his eyes that mirrored your own.

“We’ve both changed,” you whispered, your voice almost a question.

“Some things don’t change,” he replied softly, a small smile tugging at his lips.

And then, without another word, he kissed you again.

He looked at you like he was seeing something rare—something lost and found again.

“I kept thinking about what I’d say if I ever saw you again,” he said quietly, voice low and full of restraint. “And now… none of it’s enough.”

You reached up, fingers brushing a damp lock of hair from his forehead, letting your hand linger there, thumb resting lightly against his temple.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you murmured.

That was all it took.

His lips found yours again—hungrier now, but no less reverent. He backed you gently against the cool glass of the window, his hands resting on either side of your face before sliding down to your waist. The kiss deepened quickly, the air between you dissolving. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders instinctively, pulling him closer, needing him closer. Every press of his body against yours was a memory reawakened—your hips, your chests aligned like they always had belonged.

It wasn’t just lust, though it simmered beneath the surface like a live wire. It was years of unspoken words and unresolved tension, tangled up in each touch. His mouth moved from your lips to your jaw, to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, where his breath turned hot and uneven.

“You still taste the same,” he whispered between kisses, the sound of his voice laced with a groan, as if it pained him to say it.

Your hands wandered under the hem of his shirt, palms splaying across the toned, warm skin of his back. He hissed softly when your nails grazed him lightly, pressing his hips tighter to yours. You gasped—his body, all hard lines and simmering control, molded perfectly against you. His hand slid up your spine, slow and purposeful, and you arched into his touch.

The glass behind you fogged faintly with each breath, the world outside Seoul a distant galaxy as your bodies collided again and again in kisses that grew slower, deeper, more dangerous. The weight of years—the missed chances, the unspoken feelings—clung to you both.

He pulled back slightly, forehead against yours again, panting softly. His fingers traced along your ribs like he was trying to memorize them.

“I don’t know if this is the wrong time,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, “or the rightest thing I’ve ever done.”

You slid your hand along his jaw, thumb brushing the soft stubble, smiling softly even as your heart pounded.

“I think we stopped worrying about timing a long time ago.”

He kissed you again. Slower this time. More certain.

And that was how the night ended—pressed against each other in a quiet stadium that had just witnessed the final roar of a world tour, rediscovering something that had never truly disappeared.

Not lust. Not even love, exactly.

But something fierce. Something that still burned.

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