gohyuck

[gohyuck]

he's insane

[gohyuck]

i need haechan!driver asap

[gohyuck]

Taeil only getting 3.5 years as his sentence as claimed that the crime was an accident is disgusting. The prosecution literally had proof that there was some planning done by the men before the crime. That sentence is absolutely fucking embarrassing

[gohyuck]

my home state is in a lot of distress right now. if you’ve got the time or money, please consider donating to texas search and rescue

anything helps

[gohyuck]

here is a link to the kerr county relief fund; kerr county is where the majority of deaths have occurred

my home state is in a lot of distress right now. if you’ve got the time or money, please consider donating to texas search and rescue

anything helps

[gohyuck]

my home state is in a lot of distress right now. if you’ve got the time or money, please consider donating to texas search and rescue

anything helps

[gohyuck]

Talk About - L.Mark (Teaser)

Pairing - Boyfriend!Mark x University!Female Reader

Genre(s) - Fluff, Angst, University!AU, Band!AU

Warning(s) - takes place in a club (alcohol consumption, lots of yearning from the reader and Mark included in the full fic)

Summary - During winter break, you return home and watch Mark perform a new track revealing cracks in your relationship with him. On this Saturday night, you finally confront everything that’s been left unsaid, realizing Mark’s lyrics were always about you.

Teaser Word Count - 0.8k

Estimated Release Date - July 3, 2025

Author’s Note - This is a deleted scene from my fic Everybody Talks but can be read as a standalone. Lyrics from the song will be formatted like this.

Taglist - @k-vanity @cosyhomenet @neocity-net @k-films @dinonuguaegi @tinyzen @fancypeacepersona (send an ask or leave a comment to be added!)

Written for the Band AU Collab originally hosted by @gohyuck. Part of my NCT Dream: Seven Days Collection.

Now playing: Talk About - Mark Lee, Child - Mark Lee

December, 2017. Now playing: Talk About by Mark Lee, 2020.

The car radio buzzes faintly with static before you shut it off. It’s not worth fighting the reception. Outside, the wind bites at the edge of the windshield, gusting hard enough to push your car while coasting on the freeway. You tap the steering wheel in rhythm to nothing, just muscle memory and nerves.

It’s been a few days since you got home for winter break, long enough for the silence in your childhood bedroom to feel familiar again, long enough to notice that Mark’s name doesn’t light up your phone as often as it used to. 

Not that you weren’t trying to keep in contact with him. You always tried. 

Texts. Voice notes. Late-night calls filled with muffled laughter and half-drowsy ‘I miss you’s. You kept the chat alive, even when it started to fray. But time stretches things. And so does ambition. 

You haven’t seen Mark in person since the end of August, when his hands still smelled like your shampoo and you promised not to lose track of each other. Now it’s December. And he’s no longer yours in the same way he used to be. He’s busy now. Riding the high of his band’s first few shows. New songs, new crowds, new photos where his arm wraps around the shoulders of someone who isn’t you. 

You told yourself you were okay with it, that this is what you both wanted, which is why you came tonight. A Saturday night gig at a downtown venue you’ve only ever heard of in passing. Somewhere between underground and legendary, the kind of place where people say they saw something before it blew up. 

You weren’t invited. You just came after seeing the announcement. 

You took the next exit, passing dim street lights that blur into long streaks of amber. Your phone buzzes in the passenger seat, a text from a friend, not him, still nothing from Mark. Your eyes flicker to the folder flyer next to your phone, black and white, blurry ink. 

MIDAS TOUCH. Live @ The Dream Room. 

You trace his band’s name with your finger. You’re not sure why you were going to see them, just that you had to. 

My room looking like a town.

Inside, the club breathes heat. You step in and it hits you like a wall of humid, smoky air thick with sweat and perfume. The bass isn’t just sound, it’s sensation, crawling up your legs and settling behind your ribs like a second heartbeat. Your shoes stick slightly to the floor, soles catching on dried beer and god knows what else. The lights smear like wet paint. Red, then purple, then blue. Your eyes don’t have time to adjust before everything shifts again. Bodies move in slow, synched chaos. Everyone seems to know the beat, the rhythm, the way to sway their hips just enough. 

You don’t. You’re just trying not to flinch when someone brushes your arm. 

You make your way toward the back of the venue, where the lights don’t reach as far. You pass strangers who smell like smoke and know all the lyrics, placing one foot in front of the other until you can press your back against the wall. Exhale and watch. 

Mark’s bandmates are visible just beyond the curtain that separates the stage from the floor. You catch a glimpse of Jisung laughing with Chenle, both of them vibrating with the kind of energy you haven’t felt in months. Wild, directionless, young. 

One of the other members spots you, Jaemin, probably. He lifts his chin in a nod that says ‘hey’ and ‘you’re still here’ and ‘you’re not part of this anymore’ all at once. You nod back. 

You don’t belong here. But he does. 

Then, the shift. You feel it before you see it, the way the crowd pushes slightly forward, how the air tightens. The lights go low right before the first notes cut through the room. The strobe lights kick on slow, then fast, dizzying. 

And there he is. 

Mark walks onstage like he never left it. Yellow-tinted sunglasses. A half-zipped bomber jacket. His chin catches the light just so. His mouth curls into something between a smirk and a snarl. He pulls the mic to his lips. 

The bass rattles the walls, then the beat drops. 

“말하지 않아도 느껴, distance (I feel the distance, even if you don’t say a word). 풍기는 내 vibe에 다들 미쳐, addiction (Everyone’s addicted, going crazy over my vibe).”

His voice is sharp, razor wire wrapped in velvet. He moves like he’s chasing something. 

You recognize the track. You were there in the studio with him when it was just an idea. When it was about ambition, restlessness, the hunger to make it, but it’s changed. Now it sounds like missed calls and emotional whiplash. It sounds like you.

[gohyuck]

THE WAY YOU WRITE HYUCK

Like for me it's the characterization that matters the most (the whole reason hyuck is my bias he's such a menace)

I have come across very few who write him in this way and one of fav fic is this -

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26277880

When he asks reader to sing the ottoke song it made my jaw drop he's written so well I have been looking for this author for so long

Does anyone know them???

i am literally obsessed w this fic my friend @gohyuck showed me it YEARS ago and i still reread it when i can. it’s a masterpiece i left kudos and sometimes when im feeling particularly moved i remove the kudos and leave it again 🙂‍↕️ i unfortunately do not know their url on here *heavy sigh* im sorry friend

[gohyuck]

ACTION FIGURES — KPOP FF COLLAB CALL

SAVE THE WORLD? □ yes □ no ⌧ what's in it for me?

the universe is as brutal as it is vast. when forces threaten to disturb its peace, those who rise to the challenge might become our greatest saviors or our most damning martyrs. they are the chosen ones—even if they never wanted to be.

THEME: superheroes—whether they're inspired by the iconic comic books or they're created entirely by you—we want their story. (also completely acceptable: vigilantes, anti-heroes, supervillains.)

RULES & GUIDELINES:

☆ idol x reader or idol x oc only; no idol x idol pairings

☆ nsfw works are allowed as long as you are 18+

☆ there is no min or max word count, and writers for all kpop groups are welcome!

☆ series (both written and social media) are also allowed as long as all installments are posted by the deadline

☆ do not romanticize themes such as rxpe, pxdophilia, and sxicide; any fics violating the guidelines listed will not be included in the final masterlist post

☆ side note: you can write multiple things for this if you'd like/are able to!

☆ all announcements regarding this collab will be posted here on my blog, @sungbeam! but i'm considering opening a discord server that you can vote for in the sign up form :]

DEADLINE: 01 september 2025 post your completed work between now and sept 1st with #action figures collab and also tag me!

ANSWER THE CALL: SIGN UP HERE to feature in our action figures collection!

**please boost!!

[gohyuck]

jaemin once again saying he’d be a surgeon if he wasn’t an idol… my agenda remains

[gohyuck]

you&i

image from user themightyjen on twitter

pairing: head knight!jeno x monarch!reader (reader has genitals attributed to those considered biologically female but no pronouns are actually used)

genre: angst, fluff

word count: right under 1.5k, this was a quickwrite

notes: liam payne died so i started listening to one direction again and you & i just had me Thinking long and hard... also f1 mentions lol

It is a bizarre cliché, really, and you wish you could laugh at Jeno’s outstretched hand as he wordlessly begs you to follow him out onto the fire escape. Your building is not at all up to code, and you have to force yourself through one hardly-cracked open window to make it out to where he is, having climbed up from the outside. In a completely unsurprising move, he has an overloose black leather jacket on, though it doesn’t stay that way for long — he ignores you ignoring the hand he’d put out to help you through the window and instead puts it to use shirking the leather off and throwing it over his shoulder like some two-bit greaser. 

He dangles a Corona bottle — yeuch — from his other hand, and he treats it quite gingerly. Jeno’s projecting his feelings onto the delicate glass, because of course he is. He’s a shrink’s wet dream. Not too troubled, not too troubling, but still itching to hurt and be hurt. You expect that Jeno’s “fixable,” but neither you nor him expect you to be the one to go about doing any fixing. 

“Want some?” He anticipates that you’ll shake your head, can visualize the peach moscato in your fridge door at this very moment, practically tastes how too-sweet it is. You so badly want to grab the bottle from his hand and take a swig of what really is dry bready water just to spite him, but you can’t justify the assault on your taste buds. 

You shake your head, already dreaming of the peach moscato in your fridge door. That’ll be a treat after this whole thing. You, of course, are pushing your emotions away — your psychiatrist will love and hate the debrief that’s coming to her within the next 24 hours. 

“We’re like day and night.” You want to expand on your thought, but it seems impossible to verbalize beyond this vague utterance. Fuck your life. Jeno nods, bites down on a corner of his mouth before taking the kind of swig you’d briefly daydreamed of. When he puts his other hand down right by yours, your breath catches on impulse, but only for a second. 

“They bleed into each other sometimes.” He tells you this as if you’ve never experienced the sunset. You wish you could laugh at him, but that would be cruel, unusual, and untrue. Jeno, for all his pompous exterior, is the day in this make-believe situation. Of course, the two of you are more similar than you are different. Of course, if one of you actually acknowledges this fact, the other will refute it. Maybe you’re projecting now. His leather jacket and building climbing and Corona drinking self is such a caricature that he circles back to being unequivocally real to you. Unequivocally yours. 

“They’re broken up in the same way we’re broken up.” You try your resolve. 

“Are we broken up?”

“We could probably make it if we try.” You fold a corner of your lower lip into your mouth, tucking it gently between the harsh rows of your teeth. This is a tell, though of what, you remain unsure. Jeno thinks you’re being honest when you say this, but there’s something inherently duplicitous to even having thought it. Do you mean ‘making it’ as in ‘making it as a pair of exes’ or in some other more ephemeral way? He tries his luck. 

“Do you think they ever fight like us?” 

The reason for your most recent break up is, of course, some fight over something that must have been extremely important to both of you in completely separate ways, but neither of you can genuinely recollect the entire experience. For one, he’d been high, and you’d been drunk. Neither of your problems are too far gone to kick, but everyone relies on something or the other to get them through particularly rough weeks. It was rare that your vice intersected with his; it was rare either got out of hand. 

And yet. A joint may be the only thing conspicuously missing from him at this very moment, actually, but you don’t doubt that he has rolling papers in his back left pocket even now as he leans his ass against your building’s run-down brick walls. 

“The day and the night? I think they can’t stand each other.” You reach for his beer, and he gives it up with ease. He’s nothing if not giving. Your chest hurts, there’s a reason you don’t smoke. Jeno reaches around and puts his jacket over your shoulders as you take the tiniest of sips, and you settle into it like you’d slip into conversation with an old friend. Jeno’s pinky finger extends, and you feel the dull coolness of his faux silver ring press almost imperceptibly at the bottom of your own fifth finger’s second knuckle. 

He pulls a pack of Golds from his back pocket — you’d been wrong about the weed stuff, it seems — and you pull a cigarette out when he flips it open. Jeno’s eyebrows pull together, but every feature of his drops simultaneously when you simply turn it upside down and put it back in. The designated final smoke, for good luck. Your ex — ex? — pulls it together quickly enough, and you do him the service of pretending. 

“You can’t stand me?”

The defiance mingled with disbelief, confusion, genuine apprehension all come together into the kind of cocktail that can only break your heart. Jeno hasn’t even fished out a cigarette yet, his brilliantly red lighter undoubtedly still in his jacket. He really wants a straight answer from you. 

“Two Ferrari wins in a row, in the double header,” You just say, every other word tamped down on by an impenetrable force. “I still haven’t canceled my F1 TV subscription.”

“You’re really into it, no matter what you say.” He’s certainly right, but you refuse to let him know just how often Forza Ferrari Siempre really comes into play for you. Jeno, with his head in your lap as you take a swig of absolutely horrendous Big Red from a mug he’d made on a pottery date (“it’s good luck” your ass). Jeno, pacing around his dining table while he mutters about how Charles Leclerc suffers more than Jesus. Jeno, pulling you into his arms after you give him a Ferrari-red lighter on a whim. 

“I just like watching car crashes.”

“I still have the lighter you gave me.”

Both of you speak at once, stunned immediately into confused silence. A sob gets caught in your throat early enough to where it becomes a snicker, and Jeno sniffles into a snort of laughter, and suddenly you’re face-first in his chest and he’s giggling into your hair. He says something about being incapable of remembering what your fight was about, and you whisper that you know he’s smoking cigarettes so he stays off of weed and off of paranoia. You appreciate him. 

“We could switch vices,” He gestures towards the beer that’s in your hand. “Ever think about lighting up?”

“I’d rather die.” Your eyes turn up with the corners of your lips.

“We could make it if we tried.” Jeno shrugs, and his hand finally settles onto yours, a weight you’d sorely missed. Stupid, stupid argument with very real implications. 

“You and I?

“I can more than stand you, if that’s what you’re asking.” His tone of voice is jovial but his gaze is steady. His implicit question hangs in the air, the begging of reciprocity only unbecoming if verbalized. You turn your hand over under his and lace your fingers together, jagged and messy. 

“With all this teen angst in our twenties, we should probably start sitting down instead.” Jeno isn’t going to get too far through your general sense of levity, but he knows that you’ll murmur apologies and promises to him later tonight. You’ll make good this time, and so will he. 

“I’ll pour out your moscato if you put on the highlights from last week’s race.” He tilts his head towards your open window, and you set the Corona down at your feet, knowing full and well that neither of you are finishing that now. He’s made some amends though — you’ll work on the cigarette smoking, but at least it doesn’t affect how he treats you — and you recognize that you need to do the same. Jeno is sound to your silence. 

“Pour it into the sink, if you can.” 

Your boyfriend seems stunned, comically so as he pauses to look back at you while only halfway into your apartment. You follow up with some rib about how you still have Big Red in your fridge, stifling a laugh at his own wince, but his overarching surprise reigns supreme. He doesn’t even have to ask if you’re sure — his eyebrows do it for him. You nod, knowing all kinds of questions deserve answers.

“We can make it if we try.”

[gohyuck]

you&i

image from user themightyjen on twitter

pairing: jeno x reader and they are exes but they get back together sort of (i mistakenly used a previous work of mine’s earlier pairing when i first posted this!)

genre: angst, fluff

word count: right under 1.5k, this was a quickwrite

notes: liam payne died so i started listening to one direction again and you & i just had me Thinking long and hard... also f1 mentions lol

It is a bizarre cliché, really, and you wish you could laugh at Jeno’s outstretched hand as he wordlessly begs you to follow him out onto the fire escape. Your building is not at all up to code, and you have to force yourself through one hardly-cracked open window to make it out to where he is, having climbed up from the outside. In a completely unsurprising move, he has an overloose black leather jacket on, though it doesn’t stay that way for long — he ignores you ignoring the hand he’d put out to help you through the window and instead puts it to use shirking the leather off and throwing it over his shoulder like some two-bit greaser. 

He dangles a Corona bottle — yeuch — from his other hand, and he treats it quite gingerly. Jeno’s projecting his feelings onto the delicate glass, because of course he is. He’s a shrink’s wet dream. Not too troubled, not too troubling, but still itching to hurt and be hurt. You expect that Jeno’s “fixable,” but neither you nor him expect you to be the one to go about doing any fixing. 

“Want some?” He anticipates that you’ll shake your head, can visualize the peach moscato in your fridge door at this very moment, practically tastes how too-sweet it is. You so badly want to grab the bottle from his hand and take a swig of what really is dry bready water just to spite him, but you can’t justify the assault on your taste buds. 

You shake your head, already dreaming of the peach moscato in your fridge door. That’ll be a treat after this whole thing. You, of course, are pushing your emotions away — your psychiatrist will love and hate the debrief that’s coming to her within the next 24 hours. 

“We’re like day and night.” You want to expand on your thought, but it seems impossible to verbalize beyond this vague utterance. Fuck your life. Jeno nods, bites down on a corner of his mouth before taking the kind of swig you’d briefly daydreamed of. When he puts his other hand down right by yours, your breath catches on impulse, but only for a second. 

“They bleed into each other sometimes.” He tells you this as if you’ve never experienced the sunset. You wish you could laugh at him, but that would be cruel, unusual, and untrue. Jeno, for all his pompous exterior, is the day in this make-believe situation. Of course, the two of you are more similar than you are different. Of course, if one of you actually acknowledges this fact, the other will refute it. Maybe you’re projecting now. His leather jacket and building climbing and Corona drinking self is such a caricature that he circles back to being unequivocally real to you. Unequivocally yours. 

“They’re broken up in the same way we’re broken up.” You try your resolve. 

“Are we broken up?”

“We could probably make it if we try.” You fold a corner of your lower lip into your mouth, tucking it gently between the harsh rows of your teeth. This is a tell, though of what, you remain unsure. Jeno thinks you’re being honest when you say this, but there’s something inherently duplicitous to even having thought it. Do you mean ‘making it’ as in ‘making it as a pair of exes’ or in some other more ephemeral way? He tries his luck. 

“Do you think they ever fight like us?” 

The reason for your most recent break up is, of course, some fight over something that must have been extremely important to both of you in completely separate ways, but neither of you can genuinely recollect the entire experience. For one, he’d been high, and you’d been drunk. Neither of your problems are too far gone to kick, but everyone relies on something or the other to get them through particularly rough weeks. It was rare that your vice intersected with his; it was rare either got out of hand. 

And yet. A joint may be the only thing conspicuously missing from him at this very moment, actually, but you don’t doubt that he has rolling papers in his back left pocket even now as he leans his ass against your building’s run-down brick walls. 

“The day and the night? I think they can’t stand each other.” You reach for his beer, and he gives it up with ease. He’s nothing if not giving. Your chest hurts, there’s a reason you don’t smoke. Jeno reaches around and puts his jacket over your shoulders as you take the tiniest of sips, and you settle into it like you’d slip into conversation with an old friend. Jeno’s pinky finger extends, and you feel the dull coolness of his faux silver ring press almost imperceptibly at the bottom of your own fifth finger’s second knuckle. 

He pulls a pack of Golds from his back pocket — you’d been wrong about the weed stuff, it seems — and you pull a cigarette out when he flips it open. Jeno’s eyebrows pull together, but every feature of his drops simultaneously when you simply turn it upside down and put it back in. The designated final smoke, for good luck. Your ex — ex? — pulls it together quickly enough, and you do him the service of pretending. 

“You can’t stand me?”

The defiance mingled with disbelief, confusion, genuine apprehension all come together into the kind of cocktail that can only break your heart. Jeno hasn’t even fished out a cigarette yet, his brilliantly red lighter undoubtedly still in his jacket. He really wants a straight answer from you. 

“Two Ferrari wins in a row, in the double header,” You just say, every other word tamped down on by an impenetrable force. “I still haven’t canceled my F1 TV subscription.”

“You’re really into it, no matter what you say.” He’s certainly right, but you refuse to let him know just how often Forza Ferrari Siempre really comes into play for you. Jeno, with his head in your lap as you take a swig of absolutely horrendous Big Red from a mug he’d made on a pottery date (“it’s good luck” your ass). Jeno, pacing around his dining table while he mutters about how Charles Leclerc suffers more than Jesus. Jeno, pulling you into his arms after you give him a Ferrari-red lighter on a whim. 

“I just like watching car crashes.”

“I still have the lighter you gave me.”

Both of you speak at once, stunned immediately into confused silence. A sob gets caught in your throat early enough to where it becomes a snicker, and Jeno sniffles into a snort of laughter, and suddenly you’re face-first in his chest and he’s giggling into your hair. He says something about being incapable of remembering what your fight was about, and you whisper that you know he’s smoking cigarettes so he stays off of weed and off of paranoia. You appreciate him. 

“We could switch vices,” He gestures towards the beer that’s in your hand. “Ever think about lighting up?”

“I’d rather die.” Your eyes turn up with the corners of your lips.

“We could make it if we tried.” Jeno shrugs, and his hand finally settles onto yours, a weight you’d sorely missed. Stupid, stupid argument with very real implications. 

“You and I?

“I can more than stand you, if that’s what you’re asking.” His tone of voice is jovial but his gaze is steady. His implicit question hangs in the air, the begging of reciprocity only unbecoming if verbalized. You turn your hand over under his and lace your fingers together, jagged and messy. 

“With all this teen angst in our twenties, we should probably start sitting down instead.” Jeno isn’t going to get too far through your general sense of levity, but he knows that you’ll murmur apologies and promises to him later tonight. You’ll make good this time, and so will he. 

“I’ll pour out your moscato if you put on the highlights from last week’s race.” He tilts his head towards your open window, and you set the Corona down at your feet, knowing full and well that neither of you are finishing that now. He’s made some amends though — you’ll work on the cigarette smoking, but at least it doesn’t affect how he treats you — and you recognize that you need to do the same. Jeno is sound to your silence. 

“Pour it into the sink, if you can.” 

Your boyfriend seems stunned, comically so as he pauses to look back at you while only halfway into your apartment. You follow up with some rib about how you still have Big Red in your fridge, stifling a laugh at his own wince, but his overarching surprise reigns supreme. He doesn’t even have to ask if you’re sure — his eyebrows do it for him. You nod, knowing all kinds of questions deserve answers.

“We can make it if we try.”

[gohyuck]

drops 6 pm cst tomorrow it's a short one but idk. thinking about it as a writing exercise mostly

never gonna be mad we love your fics <3

yippee scheduling my short jeno fic based on you & i by 1D to post tomorrow then

[gohyuck]

never gonna be mad we love your fics <3

yippee scheduling my short jeno fic based on you & i by 1D to post tomorrow then

[gohyuck]

will yall be mad if i post a fic but it’s really short

[gohyuck]

before i worked in music journalism and literary studies, before i was into kpop, before i was into fandom in general, before i was into 5sos, i was into one direction. my engagement with their community in those lonely awkward formative years (for me, ages 9-12) was so fundamental. i do not grieve; rather, i feel sadness at the fact that liam payne was a product of abusive childhood stardom, and horrified at how he passed that suffering on. 22 years old me has such nuance that would be lost on 12 year old me, and i mostly feel pain for those he hurt, those who knew and loved him, and those who feel as if him and one direction changed who they were. i think being a directioner shaped how i interact with and how i consume music, how i approach community, how i show my passions. the little girl in me whose first pieces of merch were an i <3 1D shirt and the 1D scholastic book fair poster seems completely erased, suddenly. the graduate student i am today is, perhaps, surprised, and mostly honestly saddened by how his life turned out and how he died and how his victims will never get closure. i wish maya henry and the other women who came forward more than the best, and i wish the same for liam’s family.

[gohyuck]

yuta: off the mask