#<- bad at fighting on purpose and I think it’s good and real

[lemon-bomb]

I saw someone say the rat grinders were disappointing as villains because of how easy they’ve been to take down, but as a criticism for d20. But I think the rat grinders being anticlimactic is kind of the point? They didn’t but the work in, they took shortcuts and so they’re not doing well. I personally find them getting their asses beat to be so satisfying. They picked a fight they can’t win so yeah half of them are already dead.

That’s the point.

[nightmare8-420]

tw uhhh???? sorta ish implied possible abuse??? i have no idea how to explain this. sorry. /vent / this is so long im basically reciting one of those core issues that reply again and again

this is so stupid shouldnt this stay in the noted app

isnt this basically the open notes app?

what the fuckk everrr idc

how am i supposed to even start this. christ.

april 17th. 2022. i think at least. i dont have any of the pictures anymore. new phone and stuff. it was in april at least. i hate april for more than this reason, big factor though.

i was laying on the couch, early morning, 9-10 am ish if i remember. there was something said about going up to my fathers mothers house because she was insistant, yada yada, i zoned out, then asked for the schedule. [Fathers mothers name]s house then the store? i asked something of the like i think.

and i guess that was the wrong thing to say. she lit into me about god knows what, i can barely remember honestly. dont really wanna remember tbh. i remember some of the things she said, they make me feel disgusting just thinking about it. i wont talk about those.

it was like instead of being a normal ass rider she decided to wait 7 months and then just start fucking screaming. when i say screaming, i mean literal fucking screaming. not shouting. not talking loud. screaming. to the point shes done it so much i dont know how we havent gotten a noise complaint. or domestic violence report or something.

obviously me being 12 and an idiot, i totally took this 100% well!

i dont know why exactly i have been, but, i am to say the least, a paranoid man. kinda.?? is it paranoia if it started out as unrealistic and unjustifed but then became realistic and justified? obviously my ass hasnt trusted her since i was 8. ignoring medical issues, cheating on her husband and making me lie for her. etc. so of course, assuming that shed hit me or something bc tbh that woulsnt be shocking, i went outside, crying like goddamn i was crying bro. (note; unimportant but a habit whenever i start getting yelled at, sorta just shut down and agree with whatever they say, usually making plans on how to look like im doing what they say without actually doing it.) that stupid fucking gray sweater i was wearing. far too itchy ti be considered comfortable. shaking. vision blurrier than ever before (use this line for fanfic future j stg stg)

of course she comes out there yelling too! i think. or made me come back inside. i think it was the latter?? again, tried to forget about this. kinda hard to though tbh.

more yelling ensues, as usual, my father ends up taking me to his mothers house, because we planned to go anyways.

we didnt talk the whole ride there. he asked me on the street "still kinda upset?", god it was hard to get even a "kinda" out (note, blurry memory, dk if thats correct, pretty sure it is tho)

we went in. and i as he and them were greeting each other, i had to go to the bathroom so i wouldnt (or at least not be seen) cry. (my father worked most of the time since before i was born and theyre over protective so going mostly anywhere was always with my mother) it sucked. her bathroom really, REALLY sucks okay.

anyways i come out because i cant hide in there forever. i go into the kitchen, she has a 'gift' for me, she said so. it was a little bird house. yk the ones that arent really useable and just meant to be painted? yeah those. i actually like it still, never finished working on it though.

AND 50 FUCKINF DOLLARS FUCK YOU TO MY MOTHER I GOT 50 BUCKS OUT OF THIS BITCH 🖕🖕🖕

still sucked. (also as a note, i did smoke then, but i had left it purposefully underneath my dresser, incase she was like "HE SMOKES DID YOU KNOW THAT HUH? WHY SHOULDNT I BREATE THIS CHILD" i could be like "NUH UH I LEFT IT THERE FOR ANREASON" or some shit irdk my reasoning was so weird but id still do it today.

so after that, zoning out because god i dont remember the rest, we went to his at the time place of work (truck driver, chemicals, going to the yard to get stuff from truck to swtich it to another or just to clean or look at it is so normal i cant express it)

the yard is essentially an ass ton of those dusty gray small rocks. i stayed in the honda, it was a gray day, literally. looked like it was gonna rain.

i stayed in because everything was so much and if i got out, i probably wouldve collapsed just from being too into my own thoughts.

i guess at some point when she was yelling at me it turned into about school work and how i get nothing done.

theres actually still an app for it, but i dont think you can reset passwords, if you could, then idk how. the password was extremely long and stupid, like random numbers and letters literally. i always logged on on my laptop, by muscle memory, but the ohone keyboard is different so i texted my mother to ask if she knew, yk, to 'show initiative' and of course she was still being an ass. because why not right! so that made me feel more like shit and lowkey kinda helpless. she had been yelling sorta at my father too, so its not like i could just go get run over at this point, would make it worse on him (not actively what i was thinking but i think subconsciously)

finally he finished doing whatever he was doing, dont remember because too focused on smth else (care to guess what?)

he got back in the car and asked if there was anywhere else i wanted to go. i said something along the lines of "anywhere but home".

he said "i know, but we gotta go home at sometime.." i cant express his tone but ill try.

it was in that solem, "im about to start the process of before you cry and i can feel it but im trying not to." or "i know this isnt right, but everhthing else is wrong too and i just. cant. save. you."

i feel that its very worth mentioning that since he was 3 he was severely abused by his father and mother. as he puts it "every night was a fucking argument" i dont remember the exact words but hes stated multiple times because of said fights he used to go to bed without eating. (and his mother is SO fucking weird, i mean it in the shes literally told my mother and i quote "when his chest hair was coming in it was so sexy". im not kidding. this is a real quote from this woman. hes adopted. this makes it absolutely no better but im pretty sure thatd be her justification for that comment.)

[his first father, gene who is now thankfully rotting in hell <3, was an absolute piece of shit. a whore. an abuse. everything.

the next one, Jack because no motherfucker thats MY initial. was an alcoholic, a prick when he was drunk, but not too bad when sober, my father has told me how jacks parents used to. essentially chain him (his shirt or neck?? dont remember) to a clothes line 'so he wouldnt run off'. or smth very close. foggy memory. boils down to 'very sensitive to child abuse and doesnt take that shit' a W indeed.

third, MASON MENTIONED actually was good. he doesnt talk abt mason much (idk time period, dont think he was around too long, died of cancer i think? or tb. i think. also gene was only in his childhood. a bit of gene and then after the nexts where in adult hood)

then the last/most recent, Jimmy. hes like. fine ig????? longer story for later.]

so basically having a slight panic attack because oh god what the fuck am i going to do. i asked a question.

simple. plain. basic english.

"do you ever think she'd hit me?"

you know when youre crying and your throat closes up and is scratchy? just like that. from someone thats supposed to love and protect you.

and. the worst part? this man has been married to her for somewhere around 20? years now. and the only thing he could say?

"i dont know."

i dont know. i dont know. i dont fucking know.

i was in the backseat, so i couldnt see, but i could hear him cry. gene was in the army, so of course he was the type for everything to have to be perfect. also probably why my father is assumed to have been in the military. everything has ways had to be perfect.

and you know what isnt perfect, military or just generally being seen as wrong or effeminate?

a man crying. a grown man crying.

over his wife. not because she died. not because shes sick. but because hes unsure that his own child, his son, will be safe with her. because he has to work. no matter what.

because courts never give custody to the father here. because he doesnt have enough PTO or sick days (not that thats a thing) to see it blow over.

because in the next 24 hours he will have to come to work.

he watched his wife almost kill their newborn son because she was stressed, he stopped it. because he could. because he was there. it was understandable. i dont remember what its called but after pregnancy/birth depression is real.

but thats 12 years later. with a woman that should know so much better.

we went home. it was the first time i was glad he drove slowly.

that tension in the air. it would take more than a fingernail to cut through.

we 'discussed' some things. less yelling. more just stern talkings of 'what needs to happen', i still dont do those things.

at some point we went on a walk, there was a backhanded comment about how we didnt go to the store for some reason.

the next day her and i went to the park. the major was there, she knows him, she made me take pictures with him. and the whole time the only thing i could think of was "does he even know what happened yesterday?"

[loverboybrightsideghost]

[pulls out a giant nerf gun] [hits new dream with repression and miscommunication of the rocky traumatic start of a relationship beam]

[maximumzombiecreator]

It's often remarked how D&D 5e's play culture has this sort of disinterest bordering on contempt for actually knowing the rules, often even extending to the DM themselves. I've seen a lot of different ideas for why this is, but one reason I rarely see discussed is that actually, a lot of 5e's rules are not meant to be used.

Encumbrance is a great example of this. 5e contains granular weights for all the items that you might have in your inventory, and rules for how much you can carry based on your strength score, and they've set these carry capacities high enough that you should never actually need to think about them. And that's deliberate, the designers have explicitly said that they've set carrying capacity high enough that it shouldn't come up in normal play. So for a starting DM, you see all these weights, you see all the rules for how much people can carry or drag, and you've played Fallout, you know how this works. And then if you try to actually enforce that, you find that it's insanely tedious, and it basically never actually matters, so you drop it.

Foraging is the example of this that bothers me most. There's a whole system for this! A table of foraging DCs, and math for how much food you can find, and how long you can go without food, etc. But the math is set up so that a person with no survival proficiency and a +0 to WIS, in a hostile environment, will still forage enough food to be fine, and the starvation rules are so generous that even a run of bad luck is unlikely to matter. So a DM who actually tries to use these rules will quickly find that they add nothing but bookkeeping. You're rolling a bunch of checks every day of travel for something that is purpose built not to matter. And that's before you add in all the ways to trivialize or circumvent this.

These rules don't exist to be used, that is not their purpose. These rules exist because the designers were scared of the backlash to 4e, and wanted to make sure that the game had all the rules that D&D "should" have. But they didn't actually want these mechanics. They didn't want the bookkeeping, they didn't care about that style of play, but they couldn't just say, "this game isn't about that" for fear of angering traditionalists. And unfortunately the way they handled this was by putting in rules that are bad, that actively fight anyone who wants to use that style of play and act as a trap to people who take the rules in good faith.

And this means that knowing what rules are not supposed to be used is an actual skill 5e DMs develop. Part of being a good 5e DM is being able to tell the real rules that will improve your game from the fake rules that are there to placate angry forum posters. And that's just an awful position to put DMs in (especially new DMs), but it's pretty unsurprising that it creates a certain contempt for knowing the rules as written.

You should have contempt for some of the rules as written. The designers did.

[augustwinesworld]

𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬—𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞

What if your eyes looked up and met mine one more time?

description: 

pairing: dr. michael robinavitch x  female ob/gyn attending! reader

genre: hidden pregnancy…maybe? smut.

warning: explicit smut (p in v), oral (f! receiving), DRY HUMPING (sooo hot), unprotected sex (never do this in real life, ever—couldn’t help myself lmao), age gap relationship (present time! robby late 40s, reader mid 30s—flashback! robby late 30s, reader mid 20s), problematic power dynamics (in the flashback reader is an intern, robby is a junior attending), inappropriate use of hospital property (?), female reader.

notes: idk what happened. this wasn’t in my outline. I started fleshing out the chapter and BOOM, the smut just appeared. Also, I am so sorry to any filipino people reading this, if I butchered the tagalog please lmk. THIS WAS NOT BETA READ.

word count: 10.3 k.

extra: moodboard | playlist | ☆:**:. 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐞 .:**:.☆ (ko-fi)

Feel free to #𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 (◕‿◕✿) *:･ﾟ✧ if you have any scenarios in mind! I might not write everything but I’ll respond to everyone.

series masterlist: 𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬

12 years ago...

The vibe was off.

It wasn’t the usual exhaustion from a tough shift or hospital malaise—it was sharper. The kind of wrong you could taste in the back of your throat.

Robby could feel it the second he stepped onto the floor. 

Felt it when his gaze skimmed across the nurses’ station, caught your pink-scrubbed form bent over a chart—and you didn’t look up.

Didn’t flash him the usual quick smile. Didn’t so much as acknowledge him.

Good, he thought viciously. Better that way.

He knew he was being short—clipped orders, tight jaw, no eye contact—but he couldn’t seem to stop it. It was either that or let something uglier bleed through.

You weren’t any better.

You charted like the pen was a weapon, avoided him like a live wire. No smart remarks, no quick glances. Just silence and a careful, perfectly crafted space between them.

Which made it worse. Somehow. 

He stayed terse, barking out orders with a little more edge than necessary.

You stayed busy, answering questions without once meeting his eyes.

They orbited each other in a strange, broken rhythm—like magnets flipped the wrong way, close enough to feel the pull but fighting it every step of the way.

When the call came over the PA—Trauma incoming. OB consult needed. ETA four minutes—he felt it like a crack down his spine. 

Of course.

Of course it had to be you on consult rotation today. Of course it had to be on his case.

He reached the trauma bay first, pulling on gloves with brisk, jerky motions. You arrived seconds later, steps light but purposeful, pink sneakers squeaking faintly against the tile.

You caught sight of him and flinched so subtly most people would’ve missed it.

He didn’t.

 You hovered at the door like you considered staying back. 

But then you squared your shoulders, locked it all away behind that bright, professional mask he hated so much, and stepped in beside him.

A nurse at the desk, watching them assemble, snickered under her breath, teasing, “uh oh. Dream team’s back together.”

There was a ripple of laughter from behind the desk—not cruel, exactly, but knowing. Like the whole fucking hospital had gotten a whiff of whatever was simmering between them lately.

Robby forced a half-smirk, the kind he used to disarm patients’ families in bad news consults. 

“All part of the service,” he said dryly, snapping on a pair of gloves. “Premium package: expertise and entertainment.”

It got the intended effect—a few more chuckles, a little of the tension bleeding off the room.

But when he glanced sideways, you were already moving toward the gurney bay, chart in hand, shoulder brushing past him.

Over your shoulder, syrup-sweet, you chirped, "Just smile and nod—it’s easier that way.” 

The nurses chuckled, thinking you were just poking fun at yourself.

Someone called after you, “Ain’t that the truth!”

“Lucky you. You get to watch us work our effortless magic."

The nurses cracked up, tossing you good-natured jabs. But Robby felt the gut punch underneath it.

Effortless.

Right. 

The bitterness laced through honey.

But he caught the way your fingers tightened around the edges of the chart you held. Caught the way you shifted a fraction farther from him—no closer than you absolutely had to be, not even to grab a sterile gown.

He almost said something.

Almost reached for you.

Instead, he turned toward the incoming gurney and bit down hard on whatever reckless thing was clawing up his throat.

When they reached the trauma bay, the patient was already there—a woman in her late twenties, panting through a contraction, one hand braced under her swollen belly, eyes wide and terrified.

"Name's Emily," the nurse called quickly. "Third baby. History of a ventricular septal defect follow-up, but no set delivery plan. Presented in active labor about an hour ago. No prenatal records on file yet. No beds upstairs, so she’s ours for now."

"Vitals?" He asked, already snapping on gloves.

"Stable for now. Cervix was seven on arrival. Labor’s progressing fast."

He flicked a glance toward you, and caught the tight nod you gave, all business. 

Still so damn new, scrubs just slightly too crisp, name badge gleaming, but already standing your ground like you’d been born for this.

No panic. No dramatics. Just pure focus.

"We’ll need NICU on standby when the baby’s out," you said, voice steady. "And page Cardiology for a newborn ECHO, stat."

"On it," a nurse answered, jogging off.

Meanwhile, you stepped closer to the bed, voice softening as you addressed the laboring woman directly.

"Emily, you’re doing great," you said, one gloved hand resting lightly against the patient's shaking thigh. "I know it hurts, but you're not alone, okay? We’re right here with you. We’re gonna take care of both of you."

"My husband—" Emily gasped between breaths. "Where's—"

One of the nurses answered quickly, squeezing her shoulder. "He's on his way, sweetheart. There was a pileup on the bridge—traffic’s slow, but he’s coming."

Emily nodded shakily, biting down on a cry as another contraction tore through her.

The intern immediately stepped in, resting a reassuring hand on Emily’s arm. "You're doing so good, Emily. Breathe with me."

You turned to a nearby nurse. "Page Dr. Levin. Let them know labor's progressing quickly."

The nurse nodded and hustled away. 

Robby hovered close, not interfering, just...watching. Ready. His hands itched to help, but he knew better. This was her case to lead. And hell, if he wasn’t a little awed.

When the nurse returned, slightly breathless, she reported, "Dr. Levin's tied up with another delivery. They said you're clear to manage—hold steady."

For half a heartbeat, something flickered across your face—the barest tremor of uncertainty.

He saw it. Of course he did.

But then you lifted your chin, took a deep breath, and turned back to Emily with firm hands and a gentler voice.

"Okay, Emily. Looks like I'm here with you for now. You're not alone. We're right here."

Emily’s eyes—wild with fear—locked onto yours. "Is my baby okay?"

"She's strong," the intern said firmly. "She's a fighter, just like you."

Emily squeezed her hand—a desperate, sweaty grip—and nodded, teeth clenched against the next contraction.

There it was. That thing you had. That quiet, steel-threaded kindness no textbook could teach. You just had it, in every fiber of your being.

The next hour blurred.

Emily’s labor accelerated at a breathtaking pace. There was barely enough time to pull together a sterile field. Barely enough time for you to snap on gloves and don a gown before the baby crowned.

"Almost there, Emily," you murmured, voice low and encouraging. "You’re doing beautifully. Just breathe."

The patient whimpered through another contraction.

"It hurts," she gasped, panicked.

"I know," you said—gentle, but firm. "It means you’re close. When you feel the next urge, I want you to push right through it. You can do this. We’ve got you."

Robby was there at her shoulder, mirroring her calm, matching her rhythm. He coached the patient through each final push while you supported Emily with both words and hands, working seamlessly together.

You moved in perfect tandem without needing a single word.

"Big breath, Emily—now!"

The baby slid free, slick and furious, and Robby caught her deftly, heart thudding—clamping and cutting the cord.

"Female, vigorous, crying," he called out.

"Taking her for ECHO! Mom informed!" a NICU nurse shouted, rushing the newborn away, tiny fists punching the air.

Emily sobbed, half in relief, half in terror.

"They’re checking her heart," you reassured, leaning close. "That's all. She's strong."

One last glimpse of tiny fists and furious wails—then gone.

Emily clutched at her gown with a trembling hand. "My husband—"

"Still on his way," Robby said quietly from her side. "He knows you're both okay. He’s getting here as fast as he can."

Emily squeezed her eyes shut, another broken little sob escaping, but she nodded, trusting them because she had no choice. Collapsing back onto the bed, half-sobbing, half-laughing.

Robby exhaled slowly, swiping a forearm across his forehead as he watched you work. Gentle hands palpating the uterus, checking for bleeding, even whispering reassurances too low for him to catch. 

Emily cracked a watery smile at them. 

And he saw it hit. The way you blinked hard, throat working around whatever emotion you were swallowing down. 

God, you cared. You cared so much it made him ache. 

He turned to find you stripping off your gloves.

"You good?" 

You didn’t even look up.

"Fine," you said, too quickly. Your brows furrowed briefly—just a flicker—as your hands moved lower, more deliberate now.

"Uterus firm?" he asked under his breath.

"Borderline," you murmured, careful to keep your tone light, soothing the patient with your free hand. "Placenta delivered intact. No tears. Mild vaginal bleeding—expected. Nothing alarming, yet."

Before he could say anything else—before he could betray how hard he was trying not to reach for you—the charge nurse leaned in.

"Still no beds upstairs," she said. "Mother's stable. She can stay put for now."

He nodded. You nodded.

And just like that, the moment disappeared—tucked away like something too dangerous to look at directly.

You turned back to work. 

The current pulling you both under, once again.

It wasn’t until nearly an hour later—after two more traumas and a screaming match in a back hallway neither of you would even remember the details of—that the call came.

"Your patient, Emily" a nurse said, tugging at her sleeve. "She says something hurts. Down there."

Your forehead furrowed. Instinct snapped into place.

"Vitals?" you asked sharply.

"Stable for now. She's pale, though." 

Without thinking, you gestured for Robby to follow—habit, muscle memory—but he hesitated. Watched you.

Still, he stepped in behind you.

When they got to the room, Emily’s husband was already there, sitting at her bedside, hunched over her hand like it was a lifeline. He looked like he was about to cry. 

“She said it hurts," he said immediately, desperate. "She said it feels wrong—please, can you—?"

“We’ll take care of her," you said, already pulling on gloves.

At Emily’s bedside, it took seconds to see it: a deep, dark bulge along the right labia, swollen and angry under the skin.

You pressed gently. Emily cried out.

"Hematoma," you muttered.

"Expanding," Robby confirmed, grim.

Your eyes met, just for a moment, over the patient’s trembling body. 

Then you moved. Hands colliding, breath held, adrenaline buzzing through every shouted word.

"Type and cross two units. I want blood at bedside!" Robby snapped.

"Two large-bore IVs, wide open," you called to the nurse. "Start fluids—ringers, fast."

"Ready the sterile tray. Lidocaine. Scalpel. Suction!"

The portable scanner whined to life as they prepped the site. One nurse darted in with meds, another with a sealed tray.

"Ready?" he said.

"Ready."

The blade kissed skin, and a flood of blood spilled out, hot and dark and wrong. Way too much blood, too fast. Way deeper than a simple hematoma.

The suction whirred to life as they worked, fighting to keep up with the flood of blood. 

But your gut twisted. Something was off.

“Emily,” you said, clamly, “I know it hurts, but stay with us, okay? Just breathe. You’re safe.”

Emily let out a broken moan, almost animal. Suddenly her blood pressure monitor started to shriek.

"Ultrasound, now," you snapped.

The tech swung the wand over Emily’s belly—and there it was: fluid pooling deep in the abdomen. Liver involvement. Bleeding into the cavity.

Recognition hit like a gut punch.

“Fuck. It’s not just the hematoma. It’s systemic.”

"HELLP?" Robby asked tightly.

"Or DIC, probably both," you answered, voice flat. "Page Dr. Levin—911."

No simple fix. No easy out. A fucking bloodbath.

One of the nurses bolted from the room.

“Pressure's tanking,” a nurse called. “Sats dropping!”

“Keep packing! Give a bolus now—what’s the status on the blood?”

“Almost here!”

“We need to move now,” you said under your breath, voice slicing through the rising disarray.

“I’m aware,” Robby snapped, harsher than intended.

You recoiled, just for a second, then planted your feet and met his eyes again.

Emily cried out, this time weaker.

"Prep for surgery!" He barked.

Gloves snapped on. Tray rattled. He grabbed a line. You grabbed suction. You complemented each other seamlessly. The fucking dream team.

Everything was chaos. 

Gurneys squealed. Monitors howled. Gloves snapped on in a dozen frantic beats.

Dr. Levin stormed through the door, barking orders—body already covered in a half-tied surgical gown.

"Vitals?" she demanded. "Blood loss? Labs? Is the OR ready?"

Robby stepped back instinctively, clearing the way. He was there to help if it were needed, but he knew it wasn’t his fight anymore.

He caught a glimpse of you across the chaos—bloodied, but still beautiful—as you followed your attendings' lead, and it kicked something vicious inside him.

Dr. Levin snapped a glance toward you. "You scrub or you step out," she said, curt but not cruel, simply expecting a quick answer. 

But he saw you hesitate—just for a second. 

You turned and saw him. The husband. Still there. Still clinging to the bedside, white-knuckled and weeping quietly now, his hand shaking as he tried to hold onto Emily’s fingers through all the tubes and wires.

In that instant, your mind was made up.

"I’ll stay with him," you said, quiet but certain.

The words knocked the breath out of him, almost leaving him stupid.

Without another word, you peeled off her bloody gloves, yanked on clean ones, and crossed to the husband. Soft hands guiding him out of the blast zone.

Robby stayed where he was, frozen. Watching and wanting. 

He had no right to feel this. No excuse. And still—it was there, scorching him from the inside out.

The husband crumpled halfway into the hallway, sliding down the wall, burying his face in his hands. You went with him, unflinching. Dropped into a crouch beside him, your hand bracing lightly between his shoulder blades, anchoring him when the rest of the world was spinning out.

You murmured something, words Robby couldn’t catch over the shriek of monitors and boots pounding past. 

But he knew the cadence. Knew the shape of it.

You were praying with him.

Not loudly, or taking the lead. Just quietly, like it was the only thing you had left to offer. The only thing that mattered.

God, it wrecked him.

Don't do this, he thought. Don't you dare go to her. Don't you dare make this worse.

But he was already drifting—helplessly, blindly—toward you like a man leaning into a fire without noticing the heat until it was too late.

You shouldn't be able to gut him like this. Not yet. Not like this.

But you did.

He turned toward the door without waiting for orders. Not because he wanted to leave. But because if he stayed another second, he was going to lose the last thread of control he had left.

Because some reckless, broken part of him already knew: you didn’t even have to touch him to own him.

You already did.

He stayed longer than he should have. Long after the OB team left the ER. Long after the adrenaline bled out of the room, leaving only the wreckage behind.

He found himself leaning against the wall across from the trauma bay, pretending to review his chart, pretending not to watch you.

You were still sitting with the husband. No gloves now, no sterile gown, just you and your pink scrubs. He could see your face was calm, but your voice was still too soft to hear from where he stood.

Then a nurse approached, murmuring something in your ear.

Robby’s gut twisted before he even heard the words. He could see it in the nurse's face, in the way she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

The patient hadn't made it.

He watched—couldn't not watch—as you rose to your feet, moving carefully toward the husband.

Watched the way your hands hovered for a second, wanting to reach for him, not sure if you should.

Watched the moment the words hit.

The husband reeled back from her like you'd slapped him. A choked, animalistic sound tore out of him, and for a second Robby thought he might hit you. 

He moved instantly, stepping forward, already halfway between you. He was ready to use himself as a barrier—no hesitation, no second thought. But the man didn’t strike.

He didn't. He just broke. Collapsed into your arms like a man whose world had ended—because for him it had.

You held him without flinching. Held him like you’d been built for this, for carrying other people's grief when it got too heavy for them to bear alone.

Robby’s throat burned.

He turned his head, couldn't look anymore.

By the time he looked back, the damage was done. The husband was crumpled on the floor, sobbing. And you sat with him—shoulder to shoulder—saying nothing.

After a while, someone from NICU came and talked to the husband. Something about the baby. 

A chance to go meet his daughter. A chance at something salvageable.

The husband staggered away, still weeping.

And finally, finally, you were alone.

You sat there for a moment longer, head bowed, hands limp in your lap. Then you stood, moving like someone twice your age, and started toward the back hallway.

Robby followed without thinking.

"Hey," he called after you, low.

You didn’t stop.

He caught up easily, staying at your shoulder.

"You did good," he said, rough. "You stayed."

Nothing. Not a glance. Not a breath.

You barged into an empty on-call room without slowing. He followed.

"You could’ve scrubbed in," he said, almost defensive now. "That was a big case. A huge learning opportunity. You let it go."

You stripped off her bloody scrub top and threw it into the bin with a vicious flick. The sound of it hitting the mattress was louder than it should’ve been. 

He edged closer.

"It was...decent," he fumbled, hating himself for not being able to say what he meant without faltering. "Uhh—selfless. You did the right thing."

Still nothing. An awful fucking silence.

Something in him twisted sharp and stupid. "You should be more careful about getting attached," he said before he could stop himself. 

God why the fuck did he say that? How is that the only thing that came to mind? What a fucking idiot. 

Now that made her come back. You turned slowly and leveled him with a look so furious it made his mouth go dry.

He’d never seen her so angry. Furious, yes. But something deeper too. Something that had his gut clenching before you even opened your mouth.

"That's rich," you said, voice shaking with rage. "Coming from you."

He opened his mouth—tried to speak even. 

Too slow.

"You think this is about getting attached?" you asked, stalking toward him. "You think I stayed because I’m green? Because I don’t know any better?"

He took a step back, but you followed, relentless.

"Maybe because I’m soft? A little bit stupid?"

He shook his head, but it didn’t matter.

"No, Robby. I stayed because someone fucking had to," you hissed. He swallowed hard, jaw flexing.

"You think I don’t know what’s going on?" you said, voice raw now. "You think I don’t feel it too?"

You jabbed a finger into his chest, not hard, but enough to make him flinch. "You think I don’t know what this job costs? You think I don’t know exactly what this does to us?" Your voice was going hoarse now, brittle from all the things you hadn’t said for weeks. “What it does to you?”

"You’re not the only one scared, Robby. You’re not the only one who knows this is dangerous. I get it." Her voice cracked, fury burning through it. "But you don't get to use that as an excuse to punish me for something we both feel."

He swallowed hard and opened his mouth, but you cut him off—you weren’t done.

“You kissed me. And then you disappeared. For whole goddamn week. Not a fucking word.”

Your eyes were wild, glassy. “You think I didn’t notice? You think I didn’t feel it too?”

You stepped in, close enough that he could smell blood mixed in with whatever coconut-vanilla soap you’d used that morning.

"You act like we’re fine one second and then you treat me like a fucking stranger the next. You pretend none of it’s happening—and when it does, you shove it all onto me like it’s my fault."

You took a shaking breath, close enough now that he could feel the heat rolling off you.

"I see it in your face," you whispered, furious and gutted all at once. "You don’t look at me unless I’m fucking up. You don’t talk to me unless you’re trying not to want me."

He said your name, wrecked, a broken apology without words. 

You flinched like it physically hurt to hear it. 

"Don’t," you said. "Don’t you dare say my name like that."

And for a second, just a second, you stood there, breathing hard. Rage and things said undone, bubbling between them.

He reached for you without meaning to. You didn’t stop him. 

When your bodies crashed together, it wasn’t soft. It was rough, and messy, and inevitable, and everything you’d been avoiding. 

His hands landed on your waist like he'd needed something to hold on to—like you were the only solid thing left in a world he no longer trusted. You grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, hauled him closer with a force that was almost violent. 

He was fucked. 

You were fucked. 

You were both fucked. 

Everything you’d buried under sharp words and longing glances and the unbearable weight of being near each other for so long without touching.

A mix of harsh breaths, spit, heat. Your nails scraped down his arms. His hand found the back of your neck, pulling your mouth harder and harder against his like he could climb inside you and disappear.

God, you were warm. Warm and trembling and there, finally there.

He broke the kiss just long enough to look at you—lips swollen, eyes glassy, breathing uneven like you’d run miles just to get to this moment.

“I hate you,” you whispered, voice cracking once again.

“I know,” he said. It tore him open.

You grabbed the collar of his shirt and yanked him back in.

Your bodies locked like puzzle pieces that never should’ve fit, but somehow did. You pushed him until his back hit the door and then kissed him again, deeper, slower now, like you needed to make sure this wasn’t a dream. 

He let you take control for a second, hands hovering at your waist, not sure where to touch, afraid of pushing too far. Thinking that maybe he didn’t deserve to. 

But sensing his hesitation, you took his hand and placed it flat over your heart.

“Feel that?” you asked.

His fingers curled instinctively, as if to shield it.

“I feel it,” he whispered. “I feel all of it.”

And maybe it was the sincerity in his voice, or the way his eyes looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that had ever made sense—but something shifted.

His fingers skimmed the curve of your jaw, then lower—groping at your thighs as he lifted you, effortless, like he'd done it so a hundred times in a hundred other lives. You gasped into his mouth but didn't pull away. 

Your legs tightened instinctively around his waist, the heat between you sparking sharp and immediate. 

He didn’t break the kiss as he carried you to the cot, lowering you onto it with aching care. Your spine hit the mattress, and your breath caught, but he was already there again, bracing above you, forehead still brushing yours, waiting. 

Always waiting—for you.

You breathed like that for a beat, into each other’s mouths. You clutched at his waist, your anger still burning low in your gut, but your mouth was soft now when it met his again.

His hands came up to your face, tentative. Fingers stroking the wet curve of your jaw, tracing the outline of your cheekbone, brushing damp hair back from your forehead. He kissed you like you were breakable. Like you’d splinter if he pushed too hard.

But you were breaking already.

Leaving your mouth, his lips kissed your wet cheeks. Trailing down to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat. One kiss at a time. Slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing you.

Your fingers curled into the hem of his shirt and slowly pulled it up. He let you. Raised his arms. Let you see him. Not just the body, but him. The man you’d seen come apart over the course of a hundred sleepless shifts, who’d touched you once and vanished into the walls after. The man who looked at you now like he was terrified and in love and trying not to drown.

His hands found you again, sliding under your soaked top, touching skin like it was a secret. You shivered at the contact, the warmth of his palms.

“Say stop,” he whispered.

But you didn’t. You didn’t even hesitate.

Instead, you leaned into his touch like it was the first real thing you’d felt in weeks.

He smiled—barely, just a flicker—and it broke you a little more. Because underneath everything, the storm of them, he was still gentle. Still him.

“I’m scared,” you admitted against his neck.

His arms came around you fully now, pressing you to his chest. “Me too.”

And that truth, soft and wrecked and shared between them, was what made this real.

You pulled back just far enough to cup his face in both hands. Her thumbs brushed the edge of his cheekbones. Her eyes searched his—like you were daring yourself to believe him.

This wasn’t just lust.

This was every moment you hadn’t touched.

Every glance across the trauma bay. Every almost. Every held breath. Every second of wanting that had turned into hurt.

It spilled over now, like it couldn’t be contained.

He kissed you again, slow, like a vow. His hands cradled your hips, not to take, not yet—but just to hold. Just to be close.

When you rested your forehead to his, you were trembling.

“Don’t let go,” you said.

He didn’t answer. Just kissed you once more, softer than any kiss that came before it.

He’d never let go.

His palms skimmed your waist, memorizing the soft give of your body. The subtle rise and fall of your breath. His thumbs circled the skin just beneath your ribs—bare now, exposed by the thin hem of your top riding up.

Your pulse beat fast at your throat. He kissed it. Then lower.

You shivered.

You wouldn’t meet his eyes, but you didn’t pull away. Not even when his hands slid under your top and flattened against your back, not even when his mouth brushed the hinge of your jaw.

“Hey,” he whispered. His voice had gone gravel-soft. “Look at me.”

You did. Slowly. Like it cost you something. So he kissed you again, slower, so he wouldn’t have to face the hurt gazing back. 

Like he meant to prove something.

You let him undress you like you were giving permission for something you didn’t quite understand. He stripped your slowly, like the unraveling of a secret. Your top first. Then the bra beneath it. 

His fingers trembled as he touched you, like the mere touch of him would corrupt you.

When you tried to cover yourself with your hands, he caught your wrists gently.

“Don’t hide from me,” he said. “Please”.

So you let him. You let him see you. All of you.

And Robby just—stared.

You were completly undone, mouth kiss-bruised, your chest rising fast, like you hadn’t taken a full breath in weeks. Your skin was balmy, a little salty with sweat. You were trembling. But you didn’t hide. Not from him.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, reverent. Like he wasn’t sure if he was swearing or praying. “You’re—” 

But no words came to mind. Instead, he just dropped to his knees. 

You gasped. One hand flew to his shoulder like you needed to steady yourself, like the sight of him there—kneeling, breath heavy, lips parted—was almost too much.

His mouth went directly to that sweet spot, where he could feel your pulse racing. He sucked gently, feeling the thrum of your heartbeat echo against his lips. 

The scent of your bodywash—sweet and golden—rose up around him like steam. 

It clouded his senses, made his head spin. He felt drunk on it, on you, on the fact that this was real. That you were letting him close. That he had your skin under his mouth and your hands in his hair had your breath catching just for him. 

God.

He blinked—like he had to make sure this was real, like he didn’t trust what his eyes were seeing.

What had he done to deserve this? to deserve her? 

He cupped one breast gently, reverently, and kissed the curve with a kind of aching awe. Your skin was hot here—almost scorching to the touch, like the heat was rising from somewhere deep inside you. 

His fingers traced delicate paths along your ribs, brushing the swell of your breast, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps that bloomed under his touch. He could feel the hitch in your breath, and even the way your body leaned into his hands like it had been waiting for this

“Fuck,” he murmured, voice thick. “You’re so beautiful.”

He circled her nipple with his thumb, slow and lazy, watching it tighten under his touch. Then he bent to take it into his mouth, sucking softly, then deeper. You gasped—high-pitched and raw—and grabbed fistfuls of his hair like you’d needed something to anchor you.

“Robby—”

He groaned at the sound of his name. God, that did something to him. Something deep and helpless and animalistic.

He switched breasts. Licked the sensitive skin before drawing it into his mouth. Your back arched against the thin mattress, hips shifting restlessly beneath him, like your body couldn’t decide whether to rise into him or melt into the sheets.

“You okay?” he murmured against her skin, still panting. “I can stop. Say the word and I’ll stop.”

“No,” You breathed. “Don’t stop.”

And thank fuck, because he couldn’t have even if he tried.

He dropped back to his knees, hands sliding up your thighs until they met the waistband of your scrubs. He looked up.

“Can I?”

You didn’t speak—just nodded again, hard.

He hooked his fingers in the waistband and peeled everything down. Scrubs. Panties. All the way to your ankles.

When he looked up again, he had to pause.

Because you were bare in front of him now. Completely. Sweat beading lightly at your sternum. Breathing so hard he could hear it—ragged and real.

His mouth went dry.

He swallowed. 

His hands were shaking, but he didn’t even care. 

He ran them down the outside of your thighs, slow and sure, until they found the bend of your knees. He gripped them, spread her open just enough, like he needed to feel the shape of you there, the trembling tension of your body under his hands. 

Your skin was silky under his palms, your thigh muscles fluttering like they weren’t sure whether to resist or give in.

His breath caught in his throat, and he sank lower, drawn in by the scent of your skin, the impossible softness of it, the way you let him take his time.

He kissed your hipbone. Your lower belly. Tasting salt and skin and the ghost of your perfume—sweet and dizzying. Dragged his cheek along the soft inside of your thigh, inhaling the heat of you. Behind that bodywash, he could smell the faintest edge of something else—something completely yours.

It filled his lungs, made his head foggy, like he’d walked into a heatwave and couldn’t find the exit. Until the only thing in the world was you.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“So are you,” you whispered back, fingers slipping into his hair.

He let out a breath, forehead pressed to your stomach. Your nails scraped lightly against his scalp—just enough to sting. He liked it. He wanted more of it.

“I’ve never wanted something so badly,” he said it so quietly, he was surprised you heard him.

Your hand slid into his hair. “Me neither.”

Then your grip in his hair tightened, not guiding—just holding.

So he knelt lower, shoulders between your knees, hands still on your thighs.

He kissed the tender skin at the crease, where thigh met pelvis, and felt you twitch beneath him. His heart was pounding. His mouth dry. And when his mouth finally touched you—just a slow, deliberate drag of his tongue, truly tasting you for the first time—you whimpered.

You whimpered.

A tiny, involuntary sound—high and helpless and half-ashamed—but it cracked something in him. He moaned into you, deep and guttural, and started again. Licking you slowly. Carefully. Like you were something sacred, and this was a prayer. 

The taste of you. The smell of you. The feel of your thighs tensing under his palms.

You were gasping now, uneven little breaths, and he could feel every sound you made in the flex of your thighs, the clench of your fingers in his hair. When you tugged—hard enough to sting—he groaned again, sharper this time, and pushed his tongue deeper, tracing circles, lines, little teasing patterns.

It was too much and not enough all at once.

Your other hand reached down blindly, landing on his shoulder, digging in as you rocked against him. He let you. He wanted you wild. He wanted you wrecked. Unraveled. Every breath a surrender.

“Robby—” you gasped. Not a request. Not a protest. Just his name stripped bare.

He slid a finger inside you, slow and careful, groaning at the sudden wet heat gripping him tight.

“God, baby,” he whispered. “You feel... fuck.”

You clenched around him, your back arching slightly, your breath catching on a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob. He paused, eyes flicking up.

“You okay?”

“Don’t stop.”

So he didn’t. He added another finger, curling them just enough, angling until—

“Oh,” you breathed out. “Oh my God—”

That. That.

He latched his mouth to your clit, and sucked. Slow at first, almost tentative, then faster, more confident. Catching the rhythm of your hips and matching it, feeling you get closer with every broken whisper of his name, every helpless whine. 

Your hand in his hair twisted hard, and he didn’t care. It only drove him harder, deeper, hungrier.

You came with a cry—his name falling from your lips like a sob—and he stayed right there, holding you through it, licking and kissing you softly through the aftershocks. 

You trembled beneath him, gasping, hips jerking involuntarily every time he brushed you again.

He didn’t stop until you whimpered something like “please,” all airy and ruined.

You were panting when he rose again, chest heaving. Your skin was scorching hot. Eyes glassy and unfocused. Lips bruised and parted. 

He kissed your stomach again. Your ribs. The underside of your jaw.

When your mouths met again, it was nothing like the first time.

You kissed him like you needed him to know. Like everything you hadn’t said was being poured into him through her lips. Like you were burning—and somehow, he was both the match and the water. 

Your mouth opened against his, tongue slick and hungry, and he tasted you—really tasted you now. The sweetness of your skin. The heat of your breath. The faint echo of your own release still on his tongue.

You moaned into him, and his whole body tensed. Every muscle tight, every nerve ending screaming. He’d never felt this kind of hunger before. Not even close. It was overwhelming, terrifying. Addictive.

Your hands fumbled at his waistband, fingers clumsy with urgency. You were shaking, breathing like you’d run a mile, and your mouth never left his for more than a second.

“Please,” you whispered, voice wrecked. “I need you.”

The word nearly brought him to his knees. 

He pressed his forehead against yours, closed his eyes, and tried to breathe.

Because this was happening. You were asking for him. And there wasn’t a part of him—body or soul—that didn’t already belong to you.

“I need you too,” he said. And this time, it cracked.

You pulled him in again, and he kissed you like he meant it.

Like he was starving.

Like he'd been drowning for years, and you were the first breath of air.

Because he had. He had wanted this—you—for so long it had carved itself into him. And now you were here, under him, around him, letting him in.

Your legs tightened around his hips. Arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him closer, closer, until your chests pressed together, skin to skin, heart to heart.

All he could hear was your breath hitching.

All he could feel was your nails digging into his back, dragging him down like you couldn’t bear a single inch of space between you.

All he could taste was your name, unspoken but alive in his mouth.

He doesn’t let you go.

Not after you cum, not after the trembling quiet that settles over you like fog. His face stays buried in your stomach, the heat of his breath still spreading over damp skin, his hands still firm around your thighs like he’s anchoring you in place. Like he’s not ready to surface. Like he might never be.

You’re shaking. Slowly, silently, in that post-release unraveling. And he holds you through it—like he’s the only thing that can keep you from dissolving entirely.

You thread your fingers through his hair, not gently, not just affection. It’s grounding. A silent I’m still here. A don’t stop touching me.

But then he shifts. 

Your chest was still rising fast when his eyes meet yours—blown pupils, damp cheeks—and you look at him like you can’t believe he’s still there.

And he is. He’s not moving. Not pulling away or deflecting or pretending any of it meant less than it did. He stays above you, arms braced, heart hammering, caught in between whatever feelings you’re not ready to speak out loud.

He watches you trying to catch your breath and thinks: I did that. I got to do that. And it should scare him. It should make him bolt. But instead, it roots him in place. Makes him feel something terrifyingly close to home.

“I—” he starts, voice low and hoarse, but you don’t let him finish.

You pull him up to you. Fist your hands in the collar of his shirt and drag him up until your mouths meet. Kisses him open-mouthed, tasting yourself on him, swallowing the sound he makes into your throat. And when he groans—low, guttural, reverent—it vibrates through you like a second climax.

He breaks the kiss only to mouth at your jaw, your cheekbone, the soft, sensitive skin beneath your ear. Your body arches instinctively into the drag of his weight—hips tilting, thighs parting again, already needing more.

He’s not asking questions anymore, he’s moving on instinct.

When he shifts his hips, the front of his scrubs drags along your thigh—and her gasp punches straight through him.

You lift into it, chasing the contact like it isn’t just friction—it’s relief, a damn finally breaking open. Your legs tighten around him, and you grind against the hardness still trapped between you. It’s clumsy and frantic, but you want him, and he can feel it.

His breath shudders as you grind up again, the soft heat of you dragging against his hard, aching length through far too many layers. It’s clumsy, maddening, perfect. He clutches at your hips like he can’t bear to let you move without him.

And God, you’re killing him—rubbing yourself over him like you’re trying to carve the shape of him into you. Every movement makes him sink deeper into it. He buries his face in your shoulder and lets out a low groan, hips instinctively answering yours.

If they stay like this much longer, he’s not going to make it. He’s going to cum just from the feeling of you writhing against him. Clothes in between or not. 

“Robby,” you whisper, almost a warning, almost a plea.

He hears it. Feels it. Freezes for half a second like he needs permission to keep going.

Your hands fumble between them—fingers unsteady and impatient—and he realizes you’re trying to undo his scrubs. The drawstring catches, knots. You curse softly, and he feels himself smile.

“Here,” he whispers, his voice gone rough, and he helps you. Together, you tear through the last of the barriers—cotton and a little hesitation and whatever thin line you’ve been pretending still exists.

And then he’s bare—finally—his scrubs kicked off, forgotten, the cold air licking over his flushed skin as he covers you again.

Your eyes drag over him—his chest, the line of his stomach, the flush across his throat, and that downright sinful happy trail resting a top his navel. 

No more barriers. No more restraint. He chokes on the sound it drags out of him, the way your thighs fall open to cradle him, so ready for him.

He’s not calm anymore. Not careful. His control’s gone. He fits himself between your legs, shaking with it, dizzy from wanting you for so long. His hands frame your waist like he’s afraid he’ll fall through the moment if he doesn’t hold tight.

You’re everything he’s never let himself take. And now—God help him—he’s about to.

Your damp skin. The way your eyes darken as you drag them over him. He shudders under the weight of it. Not just desire—reverence. 

He touches you again. Slowly, trying to memorize you. Trying not to lose his mind.

And when he settles between your legs, it's not dominance. It's gravity. It’s surrender.

And for a moment, you just look at each other.

Then he reaches down—between you—and touches you again, runs his fingers through the wetness there, swears under his breath when he finds you still open, still aching.

“I don’t—” His voice cracks. “I don’t have anything.”

“I’m on the pill,” you whisper. “And I trust you. Just—”

You break off. Her voice fails under the weight of the moment.

But your hands say it for you. The way you pull him down. The way you guide him.

The way your whole body opens.

He’s shaking as he lines himself up. Not from fear. From restraint. But also from something softer.

He has to breathe through it just to hold himself still.

You’re slick and hot and open beneath him, and when he lines himself up, it takes everything in him not to just take. 

But this is you.

This is you.

He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, and the sound you make—sharp, helpless, real—almost breaks him. Your back arches, nails dig into his skin, and he feels you take him in like you were made for this.

Like he’s not an intruder. Like he belongs.

Your fingers curl around his shoulder blades, your back arches, and you gasp—a sharp, involuntary sound that drags straight from your lungs.

He groans, deep and raw, like he’s trying not to collapse.

You’re hot and tight and soaking, and he slides, trying not to rush, trying to make this last. But it’s overwhelming—you’re overwhelming—and his whole body is tense with the effort of not falling apart the moment he’s fully inside you.

When your hips finally meet—when he’s there, all of him—you exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for ten years.

He doesn’t move.

Just rests his forehead against yours. Your noses brush. Your eyes open at the same time. And there’s nothing guarded left between them.

“This…” he says, barely audible. “God. This feels like…”

He never finishes. But you know what he means.

It feels like everything.

And then he starts to move.

Not fast. Not frenzied. Just deep. Slow. Like he’s building something, not just chasing release. His hips roll into yours with purpose, with rhythm, with care. Every thrust stretches something inside you that hadn’t been touched in quite some time—something you didn’t realize you’d been starving.

You wrap your legs around him, thighs cradling his waist, trying to bring him closer, deeper. He answers with a groan, thrusts harder, presses a kiss to your cheek, your temple, your lips.

It’s not just sex. Not to him.

You moan his name—quiet, almost shocked—and it wrecks him. Because he wants to answer it with everything.

So he holds your hand. Laces your fingers tight and pins it above your head—not to trap you, but to stay connected. To prove he’s still there.

He doesn’t say what he’s thinking.

That you’re undoing him.

That he might never recover.

That this is the beginning of the end, and he’d do it all the same.

He moves inside you like he’s afraid to wake from this—like each thrust might break the spell. Slow at first, reverent, then deeper, as your body rises to meet him, to welcome him in like it’s been waiting.

And maybe it has. Maybe you both have.

Your hips lift, chasing him. Your fingers press into your shoulders, then his hair, pulling him closer. Your mouth parts on a breathless sound, and it undoes him. Everything about you undoes him.

He’s not thinking anymore.

He’s feeling—with every inch of her wrapped around him, every soft gasp, every whispered plea. His heart pounds like it’s trying to speak for him. Like it’s trying to climb up his throat. 

Every slick slide of your hips is a plea, every arch of your spine a surrender he wasn’t sure he was ready for. It overwhelms him—how much you give, how much he wants. It’s too much and still not enough.

He buries his face in your neck and lets himself break there, lets himself believe this is real, just for a second. That he gets to be here. That he gets to love you like this—without shame, without hiding. 

Even if he’s never said the words. Even if it’s only here, in the silence between your bodies, that he ever could.

And somewhere in the middle of it—sweat-slick skin and shaking limbs and your name on a loop in his head—he chokes out, “God…” he pants. “You feel so good, I can’t—”

He thrusts deeper, slower. Shuddering. “I don’t wanna stop.”

It slips out without thought, raw and hoarse and truer than anything he’s ever said. “I don’t know how.”

His voice cracks on it.

You go still for a second, your breath caught between you.

Then your hand finds his jaw, trembling slightly as you coax him to look at you. And when he does—eyes blown, lips parted, ruined in the most beautiful way—you whisper, “Then don’t.”

Your other hand moves through his hair, cradling the back of his head as he rocks into you.

“Stay here,” you breathe, forehead against yours. “Just like this—with me.”

He stills for a breath.

God, you’re soft even now—sweet in a way he doesn’t deserve. And the way you say with me like you actually believes he belongs there—like you’re offering him something permanent—he can’t bear it. He won’t let himself believe in it, not really. But fuck it, does he want to.

He presses his mouth to your shoulder to keep from saying something too honest. To keep from telling you he’s never felt more home than right here, skin to skin, heart to heart.

“I’m here,” he mumbles against your skin. “I’m not going anywhere.” A lie. A wish. A prayer.

And maybe you hear the crack in it, or maybe you’re too far gone to notice because then you’re falling apart beneath him, and the sounds you make aren’t words at first—just broken, breathy sounds punched out with every thrust.

“Oh—God—Robby…” you gasp, almost whines. “Please—don’t stop—don’t ever stop—”

Then your voice breaks into soft, helpless babble.

You shudder beneath him, thighs trembling around his waist, and when you fall over the edge, you clutched him and let your nails leave marks down his back.

“Michael,” you breathe.

Then again—broken, urgent. “Oh, michael.”

And he’s gone. Gone.

As he hears his real name fall from her lips, he knows he’s falling. Knows he’s already too far gone.

He stutters out a sound like a sob. And then it hits him.

Your body tightens around him, gripping him like you never want to let him go. Like you won’t. The way you pulse around him—hot, frantic, relentless—undoes him completely. It’s not just the friction, not just the pleasure, it’s you—all of you—wrapped around him, crying his name like a prayer.

His breath catches in his throat. He tries to hold on, tries to stop, but it’s no use.

He spills into you with a groan, low and wrecked, his face buried in the curve of your neck, one arm locked tight around your waist. His whole body shudders with it. Like he’s giving something back he didn’t know he still had.

He keeps his eyes clenched shut. Like if he doesn’t look, the world can’t take this from him. 

They lie there like that, both of them shaking, breathing into each other. Your hand still in his, fingers sticky with sweat. Her chest pressed to his, rising and falling as their pulses slowly begin to settle.

Then—quietly—you let go.

Your fingers move to his hair, soft, reverent, stroking through the damp strands. 

He stays buried in her neck, doesn’t want to lift his head. Doesn’t want to ruin this by speaking aloud, by naming it, by asking for something he knows he can’t keep.

But your touch undoes him all over again.

No one's touched him like this in years—maybe ever. Like he's not just wanted, but known. Like he could stay.

He swallows hard against the burn in his throat, his hand still gripping yours, like if he lets go, the moment will slip through his fingers and vanish.

“Robby,” you whisper.

God, he loves that. How you sabor his name whenever he says it out loud. Trying to feel every syllable and how they roll on her lips. 

A little louder: “Robby…”

His breath stutters. He clings to the moment like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered.

And then you say it again, louder, almost sharp now—“ROBBY.”

His eyes snaped open. 

Bright light. Cold air.

The sound of his name—still echoing. But it’s not your voice anymore.

He’s standing just outside Trauma Room Two, a clipboard in his hand, with Dana waving her hand in front of his face like she’s been doing it for a while.

“Jesus, Earth to Michael,” she says. “You good?”

He blinks. His throat feels raw. “Yeah. I—I’m fine.”

Dana doesn’t look convinced, but she lets it slide—for now.

He pivots away before she can press further, walking down the hall like the fluorescent lights might burn him alive. His heartbeat still hasn't evened out. Every breath scrapes. Every step is a reminder that the past is bleeding straight into the present, and there’s nowhere in this goddamn hospital to hide from it.

He passes the nurses’ station, trying not to limp through the ache still in his chest, and that’s when he hears them.

Perlah and Princess, whispering in Tagalog, throwing glances in his direction like he can’t feel them.

“‘Yung reaction niya kanina? Sobrang weird,” Princess murmurs.

“Alam mo, baka may history sila nung babae,” Perlah whispers back.

He doesn’t know what they’re saying. Not exactly. But he knows what it feels like.

He knows the sound of people talking around him—about him. He can feel the weight of their stares, the way they try to glance without being obvious. 

He catches Princess miming a fainting motion and Perlah responding with a wide-eyed shake of her head.

“Ang drama, ‘di ba?” one of them breathes. “Parang teleserye.”

They laugh, restrained but not unkindly. He knows it isn’t malicious. It’s curiosity. Speculation. The kind that blooms in places like this, where drama is the norm and gossip moves faster than blood through a vein.

Still, it grates.

Not because they’re wrong—but because they might be right.

Because he doesn’t have the language to explain it, even if he tried. Because there’s nothing he could say that would make this feel any less insane. Because some part of him—the part still stuck in that flashback—is screaming that he deserves to be talked about like this.

He keeps walking.

He doesn’t look back.

The files are digital now, stored on hospital tablets and synced between departments. He finds one, signs in, and scrolls until he lands on what he shouldn’t be looking for.

Noah. Age: Nine years, three months. 

Sex: Male. 

Arrival: cyanotic and unconscious after blunt trauma from an SUV. Brief cardiac arrest in transit. Bleeding from a head laceration. Resuscitation successful. 

Blood type: AB positive. A rare enough match—compatible with his. And yours.

There’s no last name listed. Just “Mother: information withheld at patient request.”

His thumb freezes above the screen.

Noah.

He stares at the name for too long.

The word blurs and sharpens, then blurs again.

Noah, from the Hebrew—nuach—rest, comfort.

It’s almost funny.  Or cruel. Or divine.

He doesn’t know which.

Because it’s not just a name. Not to him. Not now.

It’s a prayer.

It’s a mercy he’s long forgotten how to believe in.

It’s the kind of name whispered into linen blankets after a war. The kind spoken over sleeping children in stories passed down like blood. The kind rabbis preach about during parsha Noach, reminding congregations that even in destruction, there’s survival. That even in floods, there’s mercy. That one man, alone and chosen, can carry a future in the bow of a boat. 

A name that carried the future in its hands. A name that meant someone made it through.

Noach matza chen b’eynei Adonai—Noah found grace in the eyes of God.

He swallows hard.

He hasn't thought about that in years.

Not since he stopped showing up to temple. Not since he stopped believing God had anything left to say to him.

This isn’t about loss. Not yet. This is about the possibility of something that lived.

The irony isn’t lost on him. He hasn’t known peace in years, not the kind that stays. Not the kind that sinks into your bones and says, you can stop running now.

He thinks of the Shema. The words that still curled around his ribs when he can’t sleep. Not a shield, exactly—more like a thread. A thread he pulls when the world spins too fast, when grief makes the ground tilt.

Shema Yisrael, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Echad.

He closes his eyes.

He doesn’t know what he’s praying for. He just knows it feels like a prayer.

A boy named Noah. Nine years old. Hit by a car and still breathing. And his blood type—compatible with Robby’s. And hers. No listed father. No last name that gives anything away. Just—

Noah.

A name that shouldn’t mean anything, but feels like it knows him.

Like it’s been waiting.

His mouth goes dry.

He tries to focus on the chart again. On the vitals, the scans. Anything to keep the rising panic from pushing through his ribs. But he hears footsteps behind him and doesn’t even need to turn around.

Dana.

“I’ve been looking for you,” she says. Half-pissed, half-worried.

“I’m fine.”

“Bullshit,” she snaps, tugging his arm. “Come with me.”

He doesn’t resist.

They step outside through the staff doors, onto the ambulance bay. Dana lights a cigarette, doesn’t offer him one. Just waits, arms crossed and her gaze burning through him.

He stands beside her in silence. Watches as rain starts pouring in. The once sunny sky now a dull gray.

He doesn’t know where to start. Or maybe he does.

“There was a girl,” he says finally, voice raw. “Before I came here.”

Dana raises her brows but says nothing.

“We We were together,” he says quietly. “A year and a half. She wasn’t just some girl—I loved her. Like, deeply. Fully. The way people only do once.”

Dana squints at him through the smoke. “And you left her?” 

He nods. Once. Like the motion itself hurts.

A pause. The words come slower now, heavier. “Didn’t say goodbye,” he admits, voice breaking on it. “Didn’t give her a fucking word. I didn’t even tell her where I was going. I just disappeared. She woke up and I was gone.”

Dana doesn’t blink. “Jesus, Robby.”

“Yeah,” he snaps, his voice sharp with guilt. “Yeah. I know. You don’t have to say it—I say it to myself every goddamn day.”

He looks away, toward the street, where red lights blur in the rain. “She loved me. I know she did. And I—God, Dana. She was everything to me.”

Silence stretches between them. The rain hisses around them like static.

“I thought I was doing her a favor," he says. "I thought if I left… I don’t even fucking know. Maybe she'd be better off without me."

Dana lets the silence linger, smoke curling from her lips. Then she exhales sharply through her nose. "You’re an idiot."

He flinches, but she’s not done.

“You think you saved her? That wasn’t mercy, Robby. That was cowardice."

He bows his head soaking it all in. The taste of the word coward still burning on his tongue because it’s true. It's what he’s called himself every day since. Not in passing. Not just once. But like penance.

Dana watches him for a beat, then steps forward—barely a shift, but enough to make the air between them feel tighter. She speaks quieter now, but it still lands like a blow.

"You didn’t just disappear, Robby. You broke something. Something real."

That’s when it hits him. All at once.

His chest caves in on itself, his throat locking up around something sharp and guttural. The rain feels like needles now, every drop stinging against skin that suddenly feels too thin.

He steps back like her words were physical. Shakes his head once, hard, like trying to dislodge the thought before it roots.

“No—don’t—” he rasps. He tries to look away, but even the shadows feel too loud. His hand grips the railing behind him, white-knuckled.

“She—fuck.” He drags a hand down his face. His voice goes lower, fraying at the edges. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t lie awake every night trying to rewire it—trying to un-ruin it?”

And then quieter.

“I haven’t let anyone close since.”

Dana doesn’t move. Doesn’t rush in. She just lets him crash against the weight of his own words.

“You loved her,” she says, softer this time. “And you punished her for it.”

“I punished myself,” he snaps—but even he knows it’s not the whole truth. “I thought if I buried it deep enough, maybe it wouldn’t rot everything else.”

A pause. His breath shakes. Then he goes still, like he’s finally flatlined.

Dana takes one last drag from her cigarette, flicks it away into the rain.

“So what happened today?”

He presses the heel of his palm to his eyes. “I saw her. With a fucking kid”

There’s a pause—too quiet, too long.

Then: “How long ago was this?”

“Ten years.”

Dana stiffens. Her mouth parts like she’s about to say something, then closes again.

“The kid is…”

“Nine,” he says.

And that’s it. That’s the moment.

The math doesn’t just hang there—it detonates, slow and sharp, slicing straight through the humid silence.

Dana lets out a long, quiet, “Shit,” but there’s no real surprise behind it. Just gravity. Just confirmation.

Robby’s expression doesn’t shift, but something inside him buckles. His throat works like he’s trying to swallow glass.

“She looked exactly the same,” he murmurs, barely audible. “Like time skipped her. But then I saw the kid. And he had eyes like—”

He cuts himself off.

Dana’s voice is gentler now, but steady. “Like yours.”

For the first time all day, he doesn’t try to outrun it. He doesn’t shift the blame or dodge the truth or bury it under sarcasm. He just lets it hit him. Full-force.

The ache of it, the finality—the years lost, the silence, the what-ifs.

He might’ve left her.

But he didn’t just leave her.

He left them.

And now, the cost of that choice stands in front of him with wide brown eyes and a crooked smile—one he might’ve passed on without even knowing.

next chapter ↠

taglist: @snowflames-world, @nosebeers, @midnghtprentiss, @delicatetrashtree, @thestrals-and-firewiskey, @rosiepoise88, @miss-me-jack, @jojodojo02, @whimsicalfungiforager, @whos6claire.

© AUGUSTWINESWORLD : no translation, plagiarism, or cross posting.

[loganhowlettshousewife]

we’ve all watched the scene of logan putting out the cigar on himself and it got me thinking about him with a reader whose mutation allows them to burn people. (he’s such a freak i need him).

-

he’s a squirming, whimpering mess underneath you. such a gorgeous sight, and one that only you get to witness - the big, bad wolverine turned into a moaning mess through the use of your power, completely at your mercy, his hands tied so he couldn’t fight you off even if he’d wanted to (not that he ever would).

you were anxious to try this. your power wasn’t one that could be used for good. it only ever caused pain, suffering, family and friends leaving you once it had manifested, spitting out words that felt like venom. you burn people when you touch them, like fire licking over their skin, making them cry and scream and beg for mercy. 

you have gloves of every colour of the rainbow, an array of different fabrics and patterns and textures, pairing them with your outfit every day. you hate touching people, hate hurting them.

but logan has a thing for pain. he’d admitted it to you, under the cover of a dark and cloudy sky, when you’d asked him how he could possibly stand to be with you when you’d never be able to touch him, never be able to kiss him without hurting him.

he’d begged you, actually begged you to touch him, to burn him, to hurt him.

for the first time ever you can touch someone without a layer of fabric in between. you can drag your fingers along his thighs and watch the red burn marks it leaves behind, watch the colour fade and the texture smooth over as his body heals itself. it’s like he was made for you, a perfect match, both with cracked and broken edges, but somehow you fit.

“fuckin’ touch me,” he spits, “c’mon.”

“i am touching you,” you reply, pressing your hand down onto his hairy chest. his skin is warm, slightly damp from a thin layer of sweat, alive and real. he cries out, but it’s not the sound you’re used to hearing when you touch people. it’s a whine, higher than you thought his voice could go, pain and pleasure mixing into something he hadn’t been able to describe to you in words.

“y’know what i mean,” he pants. you just smile, serene. you’re not teasing him on purpose, though you must admit it’s certainly entertaining to watch him fall apart, rather you’re taking the opportunity you thought you’d never get, exploring your lover's body with your touch, breathless at the feeling of skin against skin.

you finally grab his cock, feeling the thick, warm weight of it in your hand. you can feel the telltale buzzing under your skin, the sign that your powers are burning him, but he doesn’t try to pull away from you. rather, his hips jerk up, chasing more of the feeling. a bead of precum pearls at the tip, and you rub it down his shaft.

“you actually like this,” you muse, “you’re such a freak.”

the degrading comment only makes him groan, rutting his hips up to fuck into your fist. and he’s just so pretty, so lovely when he’s desperate, so as much as you want to play with him, spend hours making him beg, you don’t. because you need to see what he looks like when he’s falling apart.

you jerk him off slow, never letting the pressure relent. it’s a fight with your instincts, your mind telling you to let go before you hurt him, before he decides that he doesn’t actually like this, before he leaves like everyone else. but he heals as fast as you burn him, again and again.

you watch his face instead of your hand, focusing on the way his lips part with each sound he makes, the pleasure contorting his expression. he gets louder, warnings filling the space between you, and then his hips stutter, faltering, and you watch his eyes roll back as he cums, shooting thick ropes of white all over his own chest.

your eyes widen slightly at how quickly you’d made him cum, but he’s already hardening again in your hand, chasing the pleasure of his orgasm even as it fades.

“do it again,” he orders, though really he’s in no position to be making demands. still, you oblige, because it feels good to be able to hurt him and know he’ll always come back. you could definitely get used to this, and isn’t that a terrifying thought.

[ladyloveandjustice]

One thing that always bothered me as a kid, and still bothers me, is it honestly makes so little sense Steph didn't rank super high on the scale of Martial Artists after receiving the Robin training, if it's so amazing. Considering what she could do while untrained, the experience she had, it's baffling that no one ever considered her a prodigy, or that she wasn't at least notably more skilled than say, Tim was, when she started out as Robin.

Like, Steph was in the field and knocking out grown men twice her size with zero training. It was not even mentioned that she took martial arts classes or anything to explain how she can do this, just gymnastics and softball. And both were high school gymnastics, high school softball, not fancy expensive classes??? Even Babs, in Batgirl Y1 had the advantage of having taken martial arts classes and presumably a lot more since her goal was to be in the FBI.

Meanwhile Steph like. She's jumping off rooftops and surfing trains and taking down bad guys with nothing. Tim's gone through extensive Batman training and trained with Lady Shiva and all this stuff, and obviously she's not as good as him and needs him to watch her back at times, but she can keep up with him, and even saves him or get the jump on him quite a few times, and that's incredible when you think about it. Tim gave her gadgets and instructions in the field, but it's never shown that he taught her any moves.

There's even a panel where Batman notes Stephanie almost snuck up on him and "not many people can do that" when again, no training, no martial arts classes, this is way before he agreed to give her any help at all-- and then for some reason, after noting this girl with no training is more talented than most people he knows, just keeps telling her she's not good enough and should go home.

That's a ridiculous level of raw talent, and it's honestly so bizarre nobody in the Batfamily ever noted that and kept telling her to go home. When she does get training, it's very sporadic, it is not clear how much Batman or Black Canary trained her the first time, he disappeared on her and then fired her as soon as he came back, and we never saw her get trained on screen by Dinah (the only person who ever acknowledged she had talent). She sparred with Cass, but Cass never taught her anything. Despite all this, she was noticeably getting way better during the era.

But when she received the six month Robin training that's supposed to make them so strong or whatever...how did that not result in her being a prodigy? She's the only Robin who was an experienced superhero before she took on the mantle?

Bruce literally tells her "Tim did this better" when he was training her about something, which makes no sense considering she came into being Robin with way more skills and experience and martial arts prowess??? When she was surviving on her own and fighting villains before that? When she could nearly sneak up on Bruce even before that?

You could claim she's a "bad student" or whatever, but she was a clearly very good at taking her gymnastic coach's instructions, enough to become a genius at it, so that doesn't really hold water.

The only explanation that would make any sense would be that Bruce taught her badly on purpose. which. unfortunately wouldn't be too far out of character from how he treated her in that era. (And that she apparently improved a lot under Babs tutelage as Batgirl but not his. So. Not a good look for him)

I mean the real answer for why all this makes no sense is DCs misogyny ofc. But it’s pretty wild how there’s no justification for this in universe.

[martian-astro10]

Astrology observations - Part 6 (use whole signs and sidereal)

🐻‍❄️ I said it before that moon in 6th house people can be great leaders, and since then I met 4 new people with moon in 6th and I've come to the conclusion that rather than being the leader, these people work better as the right hand person of a leader. They're much better at following the instructions rather than giving them.

🔵 If you are a girl, and you have mars aspecting Saturn and vice versa, I would HIGHLY recommend you guys to marry a non binary person. This placement can cause unpleasant situations to arise if you don't take the right measures. So I won't say, don't marry, or your married life will be bad, but rather, marry someone who is comfortable expressing both their feminine and masculine side.

🐻‍❄️ if your 7th lord of d1 is in the 3rd house of d9 and the planet is a natural malefic like, Saturn, mars or sun, then it can make you fight with your siblings after marriage. I know 3 people with this and now none of them talk to their siblings. So i would recommend you guys to not listen to your spouse when it comes to your siblings. If you have a good relationship with siblings then first, talk to them rather than believing someone who you just met.

🔵 In vedic, sun is considered to be dead when it's in the 12th house, and the common interpretation is that they cannot be good leaders but I view it a little differently. I know a lot of people with this who are SOO GOOD at leading people BUT they have zero self confidence and it genuinely pisses me off so much because one of my friend has this and I always push her to apply for HOD positions but she's like "no, I can't do it" like GIRL, ATLEAST TRY FIRST. So if you have this, just trust yourself and apply for that position. All I'll say is "A real loser is someone who is so afraid of not winning, they don't even try"

🐻‍❄️ I know quite a few people who say that mars in Aries/ scorpio is better when it's in the chart of a man but I don't agree with that. Maybe I'm being biased because I have it but I think that women handle this placement better. Men already have so much fucking audacity and with mars being so strong it just gets multiplied by 100. I feel like these are the men who make podcasts about how a woman's purpose is to be a submissive breedable bitch for a man. Whereas, some of the most successful businesswomen have their mars in Aries/Scorpio/ Capricorn (the effect is multiplied when it's in the 1,4,7, 10 house). women are literally taught to put everyone else's needs before theirs but with mars being so strong they don't give a fuck, because now they embody those traditional "masculine" traits like being a selfish asshole.

🔵 Honestly, the real men, the ones who embody all the good masculine traits are those who have Jupiter in 1,4,10 house. I can give 100 examples from my personal life but, all I'll say is that Keanu Reeves has this....they are the ones who are actually the protectors, providers, brave, strong and dominant in a gentle way. Also, I'm like 100% sure that Carlisle Cullen would have this if he was a real person.

🐻‍❄️ Also, 7th lord of d9 in 1st or 4th house of d9 gives you a future spouse who represents your "ideal type". As I've said many times before, I only know 2 happily married straight couples 🥲 and both of them have this, so in one couple, both the wife and the husband have it and in another, the wife has it. I also know a lesbian couple and both the wives have this. I didn't cross check it with celebrities since most of them put on a facade.

🔵 Jupiter in 6th house....these people have such good luck. It's like, they get everything so easily and the worst part is that they don't know how to work and yet they keep on getting promoted because of nepotism and corruption, and the person who says anything against them gets fired. I wish I was making this observation based on one person, but I know FIVE people with this and it's the same case with all of them.

🐻‍❄️ Mercury in 10th is a placement that I've been seeing quite a lot these days, literally every chart I see has this. These people can be GREAT therapists and journalists from what I've seen, or they may also be the "mom" friend in their group. They're also very social and love interacting with people, they may be the most beloved in their friend group like "if you don't go then we won't go either" type. I'm a little jealous of them tbh, love their ability to light up the room with their presence.

🔵 Venus in 8th, I feel like this is going to be a little negative 😭. These people are very much into the hook up culture, especially men. I feel like they would be happier in a polyamorous relationship. This is also the placement that I do not like seeing in d9, I don't fuck with people who have this but I know many people who are okay with such unconventional relationships, and if you're one of those, then good for you. You don't have to fit in boxes made by other people. If you like something, then you like that, period. (If you're not like this, good, don't start ranting in the comments, it's annoying)

© martian-astro All rights reserved, 2025

[thealchemistbae]

Random Astro Observations 🚀⭐

Disclaimer: This post is for entertainment purposes only.

thealchemistbae © do not copy, redistribute, or edit my content.

If you enjoyed this post, you can leave me a tip via PayPal at goddessguapa@gmail.com or via Venmo @goddessguapa. Thank you.

🚀: People with Venus at 23° or 29° tend to have "iconic" beauty that gets more legendary with age. 23° brings an edge (think unforgettable features), while 29° gives them an almost fated aesthetic that people try to imitate but never quite get right.

🚀: Mercury in 8H natives can literally read minds. They don't hear what you say...they hear what you don't say. These are the people who catch on to the subtext and hidden intentions behind every conversation.

🚀: Mars in 12H (especially in a fire sign) can struggle with repressed anger, but once they unlock their assertiveness, they become unstoppable. They often have dreams where they're fighting, running, or winning in ways they can't in real life (yet).

🚀: Neptune in 5H people are the definition of "method acting" in their own lives. They don't just experience emotions...they become them. Their childhood fantasies and imaginary worlds were so real to them that sometimes they still feel like they live in a dream.

🚀: Jupiter in 3H natives might be the fastest learners you'll ever meet. They could pick up a new language in months, teach themselves a skill overnight, or randomly know a ridiculous amount of fun facts about everything.

🚀: Pluto in 4H (or conjunct IC) people go through deep transformations in their home life. Their childhood could've felt like a survival mission, but as adults, they build a home environment that is entirely theirs...even if they have to burn everything down to start over.

🚀: Saturn in 2H isn't just about struggling with money...it's about mastering it. These people often feel like they're "always working", but once they learn the system, they become undeniable in wealth building. A slow start, but when they win, they win big.

🚀: People with their Midheaven ruler in 12H often have an "invisible" reputation. People know of them, but not about them. They might be mysterious public figures or work behind the scenes in a way that makes them way more powerful than they seem.

🚀: Venus sextile or trine Neptune people are living in their own love story. Their romantic ideals are so strong they often manifest exactly what they want in love...whether that's good or bad. These are the people who say "I dreamed about my soulmate before I met them" and actually mean it.

🚀: Uranus in 6H makes people allergic to routine. The moment their daily life feels predictable, something unexpected happens. These people thrive when they create their own work schedules and often attract jobs that are unstable or ever changing.

🚀: Chiron in 10H natives may go through public failures before they get the recognition they deserve. Their career path hurts before it heals, but once they embrace their unique purpose, they become living proof that setbacks don't define you.

🚀: Asteroid Fama (408) in 1H or 10H = someone who was born to be talked about. Even when they're not trying, people notice them, their name randomly pops up in conversations, on social media, or in circles they didn't even know existed.

Do you have any of these placements? Let me know below.

thealchemistbae © do not copy, redistribute, or edit my content.

I’m sure there is more but honestly this is all I have for now. Enjoy ⚡️

If you enjoyed this post, you can leave me a tip via PayPal at goddessguapa@gmail.com or via Venmo @goddessguapa. Thank you.

[twistedpink]

Hiya hiya it's me again! (And I hope you are having a good night/day) So where I was left off, house wardens taking care of your back because they left so many scratches after a spicy night 😳 but also maybe with different reactions and how they noticed the scratches??? I can't think of any scenarios 😭 but I would love to hear your opinion 👍

TYTY IM FREED

I just KNOW Riddle is an A+ scratcher. NOTHING is off limits. Your only saving grace is with how groomed his nails are, you’re practically mark free! Goes bright red and sighs a lot (GUILTY 🫵🤯) when the time comes to apply antiseptic, but is overall v thorough and gentle, 7/10. Usually notices if you sleep naked or he’s fixing your collar/hair!

Leona is the second worst, and not because he needs a lot of grounding, but his nails are LONG LONG for no reason,, God your poor legs,, 5/10. Prone to scraping you up during play fights, but isn’t very guilty about it unless you express a fear of infection or scarring.. Lowkey blames YOU for not cutting his nails, but only because he doesn’t want to hurt his pookie <3 (laughs at you for having thin skin. Secretly wants you to get him back x10.)

Refuses to have long nails. Being very much a “real men only have clear coats” guy, Azul doesn’t scratch, but it’s the hitting that’s bad,, He can’t help it, but that doesn’t make it BETTER!! No matter how gentle he goes about it, the little pinches and punches against your skin’ll bruise eventually, but he’s always open to massages! 6/10. V pathetic and cute about it. (Please don’t eat him)

VERY SWEET! VERY DEMURE! Kalim only scratches on purpose!! With all the oils and creams you’re slathered with it’s a challenge to get any real grip, but sometimes you’ve gotta scratch that mental itch with a physical one,, Straight up LATCHES so it’s just crescent moon after moon on your biceps and back, but he makes a point to kiss and soothe every. Single. One. So you can’t stay toooooo mad :D,, 9/10!!

Vil cares too much about the both of you to “mark you up” in that way- Of course he has moments of weakness where your hair and neck pay the price, but cat scratches just aren’t in the cards for you,, You KNOW that’ll mess up his manicure, and do you want to spend an hour getting patched up?? Okay maybe you do,, But that’s besides the point! He has things to do that don’t involve cleaning sweat and grossness from under his nails. 5/10 for cleanliness. Might as well bang in a hospital bed. There’s no advanced sloothing for how he finds them, just that your nightly back scratch turns into a horror movie pretty quick,,

One accurate word describes Idia and his gamer nails. Grooooooooooooooosssssssssssssssssss,, The ONLY way to trim them is to hold him down like a dog getting clipped, and even then he’s still whining about how they’ll break on their own time- He knows they’ll get all snaggy, but doesn’t he look cool? (Don’t encourage his delusion) Very much cultivating claws rather than human nails, but is emotionally attached to your mangled back. 4/10. Doesn’t have to “discover” them, knows EXACTLY what he’s doing.

The one true exfoliater to trump them all,, Malleus may not have experience or sex appeal on his side, but he has HOOKS in you, and that’s a sure way to keep you loyal!! He gasps like a murder witness whenever you get naked because “my word however could this happen??” while crying a little and trying to stop his lip from quivering :( Basically wraps you in bubble wrap and puts himself in a chastity belt, but not before having the worst phone call of your life and getting his dad to patch you up!! Lilia KNOWS what you’ve been up to and couldn’t be prouder! Just learn how to use a nail file for next time, alright? 8/10!! <3

@bju3c0re @kyokills

[cum-aside]

Ok it’s not like I go here really, but I’ve been reading a bunch of DPxDC recently because it’s very good, and I had an idea that won’t go anywhere

The various gangs in Gotham have callsigns/uniforms or something right??? If not, they should, and imma say they do. Anyway. Redhood I think didn’t think too hard about what people in his gang on his turf should wear for identification purposes, but they sure did. And what they came up with was Red.

Wearing red in the vicinity of the ‘Bad Part’ of Gotham?? Part of the red hood gang. Generally head gear is the preferred method of wearing red. Red hats and beanies, red head scarfs and hijabs, red headbands, red masks. The idea has been communicated. To a certain point, wearing red even if you aren’t officially part of the gang is a great way to get an in with them, or be under protection if you’re the right age in the right area, as long as you’re willing to risk getting roped into low stakes gang activity, which can range from working the counter at money laundering sites to community service (guarding clinics and shelters and volunteering) to making deliveries to destroying certain hostile architecture. (Hood saves the real jobs with cops and shootings and turf disputes for actual members, that he knows the names faces and skills of, and who are at least above 18, but preferably over 20, and who wear real gear he supplies them with, not just whatever’s in their closet that’s red) (this does not entirely stop the smaller ‘members’ from getting into their own fights with the cops and turf wars, but Jason has found that giving them Something to do that feels like direct action helps curb those tendencies. And it’s not like those things aren’t things that don’t need doing, so it’s a win win. Mostly)

Danny, bless him, does not know any of this. But has been staying in the sketchier areas of Gotham because that’s where people don’t care how old you are or if your papers are real or not, and he absolutely does not want people looking into how old he is and wether his papers are real or not. He is also wearing an inadvisable and vaguely conspicuous amount of red. His converse are red, his signature baseball tee is white and red, and his hoodie is also red.

Clearly, this kid (he’s like 17) really wants in with the hood gang.

And eventually, they oblige him.

Random people will approach Danny and ask/tell him that them and a couple others are going somewhere to do (insert vaguely/definitely illegal job or act of community service here) and Danny, who is deeply directionless in life currently, and also pretty assured in his ability to eat danger for breakfast, and has never met an institutional authority he doesn’t disrespect at least a little bit, is totally down for some civil disobedience and chaotic good shenanigans.

And then it spirals from there. Like. A worrying amount.

It takes Danny actual months, almost a year, to realize that he’s been low key slow cooked into the criminal underbelly of Gotham, and like… he’s not really mad about it?? Honestly if he had a choice when he came to Gotham, he probably would have picked the redhood gang anyway. He just seems to vibe with them on a… Spiritual Level…

Hm

Anyway

Years go by, and while Danny doesn’t have the most going for him in terms of a normal person life, vis a vis higher education, official employment, health insurance, dating life, or any other benchmark one uses to measure the trajectory of their lives— Danny’s feeling pretty good! Jazz, Tucker, and Sam have all finagled their ways into Gotham, (Tucker has a WE internship, Jazz is working/doing work studies at Arkham, Sam does what she likes now that she is a legal adult and has her inheritance, and what she likes is environmental activism, and occasionally being spotted with fellow activist Damian Wayne, and someone who may or may not be poison ivy, sources differ) and Danny finds his obsession suspiciously well served as a hood goon. Hood hench? Redgoon? Hench hood?? Name pending, who cares.

Danny is also suspiciously good at, well, his job. One of the best runners, even when he gets caught and frisked they never seem to find the goods on him (they never do check IN him, but then why would they) very well liked at every volunteer spot they have, patient, kind, funny, good with old people, kids, bitter people, addicts and the homeless, the sick and injured. And yet also very competent in the field, when they finally let him do actually dangerous things. Act as protection detail to the working girls in the red light district, he’s very respectful, and very good at intimidation, de-escalation, and when push comes to shove, excellent in a fight. Knows when to keep pressing his advantage and when to make a retreat with whoever he’s guarding. Not afraid to fight scrappy, and presses through pain and fear like a true gothmite.

He gets so good at his not really a job job that he becomes essentially, Redhoods right hand man.

The rest of the bats are skeptical of this for several reasons. Because generally speaking, the people in Jason’s turf are not fans of the bats, but Jason does a lot of coordinating with them, and someone so close to him is going to pick that up eventually if they’re half as sharp and useful as Danny is. Other than that, secret identity issues, plus pit rage, plus the fact that Jason trusts pretty much nobody. But Jason has great feelings about this guy, he always feels more clear headed and even keeled when he’s around, and he helps Jason remember the community he’s trying to build, and the community he serves. Also he delegates and mother hens like nobody’s business, but Jason just really can’t seem to work up too much irritation about it.

It is around this time, however, that the past, and shady government organizations come knocking.

Perhaps the GIW has also noticed how ecto-contaminated and lawless Gotham is and decided that they could start doing research and experiments with its live and undead denizens instead of amity, where the portal has closed, and ghost activity is down since phantom disappeared. Or maybe the GIW has finally located phantom specifically and is interested in what they’re always interested in. Or maybe it’s various ghosts harassing Danny to take up the throne, which he’s been avoiding successfully, but having settled into a life routine that suites him his core has finally ‘settled’ (halfa cores fluctuate more than other cores due to the transient nature of being alive, but halfa people settle into lifelong patterns and relationships quicker than other people because of the static nature of being dead) he is mature enough by ghost standards to assume the throne, or at least begin preparing for it.

Regardless, danny is being tracked down for his childhood baggage’s extended warranty, and brings the entirety of the JL and almost all associated sidekicks, hero group spin-offs, and organizations into the thick of it.

Idk. I just got through Secretary Danny by DeathlySilent13 on ao3 and I thought man oh man wouldn’t it be neat if Danny got to be Jason’s second in command instead??? That could open up a lot of avenues I haven’t seen yet. I’m also just very curious about how the Jason’s runs his gang according to the fandom, and I think that with all the ACAB energy Danny has been assigned, he should have a little bit of community focused organized crime. As a treat. Like I said I don’t go here thou, I just needed to put this somewhere and see if it vibed with anybody besides me

[nadvs]

home before dark (part four)

pairing rafe cameron x kook! female reader

rating mature 18+

summary as children, you and rafe were best friends, but then tragedy suddenly struck his family and he shut everybody out. years later, you need his help when a pushy ex-boyfriend won’t leave you alone. rafe is perfect for the job because everybody’s afraid of him. except for you.

content warnings stalker ex, violence, substance abuse, death and mourning of parent

» masterlist

· · ── ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ── · ·

Rafe is being selfish again. When he offered to sleep in your room, it was so you’d feel safe. But that wasn’t entirely why he did it.

He’d be a liar if he said it wasn’t for him, too. Something about being around you gives him a sense of quiet when he’s so used to noise.

It’s disorienting feeling a pull to someone he used to avoid, but life stopped making sense to him a long time ago, so why try to find the logic?

Rafe collects the blanket and pillow from the guest bed he slept on last night, figuring he’ll just sleep on your floor.

The way he touched you earlier tonight is playing like a song in his head. When did he get so soft? He’s hardly ever sober for this long. It must be messing with him. It was just a kiss on your cheek, but his heart pounds when he thinks about it.

Then you noticed his gun and looked at him with such disgust that he knows you’d be horrified to learn what his mind sounds like these days. To learn how much anger he has burning through his veins. You’d run in the opposite direction.

You told him you’ve never said anything bad about him. He’d like to keep it that way. So he’ll take all this fake stuff and enjoy it from a distance, far enough removed from you to avoid taking any risks.

You’ve been tucked into bed for a few minutes when Rafe comes through your open door, darkness filling every corner of the room.

After you accepted his offer downstairs, you parted tensely, as if either of you had said one wrong word, the agreement to sleep in your room together would lose all legitimacy.

Rafe’s tall figure quietly makes a bed on the floor a few feet away. He lets out a low grunt when he lies down, turned away from you.

You stare at his back, thinking about how he said whatever you did wrong wasn’t on purpose. You should probably let it go. He’ll never talk about it. But the curiosity is relentless.

After a few minutes of watching Rafe turn from his back to his side over and over, you break the silence.

“Is your brain doing it again?” you ask. Your voice makes the knot in his chest loosen.

“What?” he rasps.

“Is it not turning off?”

He doesn’t respond. You talked about this hours ago at the party, but it stayed with you. He’s not used to this much attention on him. He usually has to fight for it.

“If it isn’t, maybe I could bore you to sleep,” you offer.

“I bet you could.” A second later, Rafe feels a pillow you threw from your bed hit his chest and roll beside him. He smirks in the dark.

You clarify, “I meant I could distract you.”

“For real this time? I don’t need another interrogation.” You love that you can hear a smile in his voice and hate that you can’t see it. Little by little, he’s acting like your friend again.

“Since when is asking one question an interrogation?” Last night, all you did was ask why he was helping you.

“See?”

“Oh, my God,” you sigh with a laugh. “Okay, let me think… I can tell you about the errands I ran today?”

“I’ll be out cold in a minute.” You laugh again and Rafe smiles up at the ceiling. Making you feel safe feels good. Making you laugh like that feels even better.

“Rude,” you say. “Pass me that pillow so I can throw it at you again.”

In the dark, you watch him reach for the pillow on the floor and tuck it under his arm. You breathe out a chuckle.

You pull your duvet up to your chin, unable to believe that the same Rafe who ignored your every attempt to talk, who wouldn’t even hold eye contact with you, is on the floor of your room, joking around with you.

You start to ramble about the shopping you did after he left your house this morning, getting into every menial detail, down to the long line at the gas station.

At first, Rafe can’t imagine falling asleep to this. Your voice humming through the dark is soothing and even though you’re trying to make your story boring, he’s interested.

But eventually, his eyelids get heavier. You’re dozing off, too, but it’s not until you hear his breaths grow deeper that you allow yourself to succumb to the fatigue.

Your senses are blurred and bleeding into each other like paint on a messy canvas, and while you’re confused, you know one thing for sure: you’re terrified.

Ty’s behind the wheel and the car is barreling down the busy freeway at a vicious speed. It’s storming and he’s laughing and you can’t scream. You can’t even speak.

Anne’s car is coming right for yours and Ty won’t slow down no matter how hard you try to gain control of the wheel and you brace for impact, but suddenly you’re in your fifth grade class and you’re crying and everyone is staring at you.

You wake up to big hands holding your shoulders, gently shaking you. A low and soft voice whispers your name, coaxing you to wake up.

Your eyes open to see Rafe standing over you in the dark and you realize your cheeks are wet with tears. Consciousness slowly wraps around you. It was a nightmare.

Your adrenaline pushes you to sit up, your chest heaving. His hands drop off of you, but he’s still standing and leaning over your bed, inches away.

“Bad dream?” he asks over the sound of your shallow breaths. Your whimpers are what woke him up. Hearing you crying in your sleep like that was painful.

You rub both eyes with your knuckles and try to catch up with reality.

“I was in the car with Ty and he was driving too fast and then I saw your mom-” You immediately shut up. In your fog, you forgot what you’re allowed to say and what you’re not, and by the way Rafe stands straight, you know you messed up.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, reaching for his hand. His fingers are still and don’t curl around yours. The fact that you pull him towards you shows just how disoriented you are. “Can you sleep up here?”

“What?”

“Can you sleep up here?” you mumble dazedly. Rafe’s already sinking onto the mattress before you finish asking your repeated question.

You turn to face him when he lies down. You curl into a ball, your hand still gripping his as you try to breathe slower. You remember your other pillow is on the floor and you lift your head to shift your pillow to the middle so that he can rest his head on it, too.

Rafe stares ahead, listening to your fast breathing and his loud heartbeat. He’s struck that even when you’re in a half-asleep trance, your instinct is to make sure he’s comfortable.

And to ask him to lie next to you. To be close when there’s nobody around to prove your pretend relationship to. You actually find comfort in him. He thought he was starting to find it in you, too, but then you mentioned her.

You shudder when Rafe’s hand twists out from yours, losing the anchor reminding you that none of it was real. But then you realize he did it to put his palm on your cheek.

“You’re good,” he reassures you. He frowns when he feels a tear on your skin. “It’s alright.”

You nod under his touch, your eyes shut, swallowing hard and cupping his wrist. He’s still trembling from withdrawal.

The dream took you to when you were ten and Rafe’s desk was empty and your teacher told the class he lost his mom a couple of nights ago, so you’d spend the period making sympathy cards for him.

It’s important we show him he’s not alone, she said and you were so upset that you didn’t know how to do that when you were supposed to be best friends. You stared at a blank piece of paper for long enough that your teacher told you that you could work on something else.

You did eventually make him a card. And you visited. And you called. And you tried talking to him over and over.

But nothing you did or said was ever good enough. He shut everybody out and you were no exception. Maybe someone else would be mad at him for it, but you couldn’t ever find it in your heart to be. You still can’t.

“I’m sorry,” you say into the dark, wishing he knew just how heavy the pain you carry for him is. You feel frantic now, the emotions washing over you with no mercy, as if you just learned she died all over again. “I’m sorry for everything. You were just a kid-”

“Don’t,” Rafe interrupts. “Just sleep.”

You sniffle and he swears he can feel his heart crack but he can’t indulge you. He can’t open the wound he pretends isn’t still bleeding. He can’t talk about how his life crumbled into ruins and he’s still sitting in the rubble.

He lost his mother, his security, and eventually his mind, and there’s no point in talking about what he can never get back.

Rafe’s hand slips off of your cheek but your fingers remain wrapped around his wrist. He lets you keep holding onto him as you fall back asleep.

The sunlight is coming through slitted blinds when Rafe’s eyes open. He couldn’t see your room last night, but now that he can study the space that is so you, his mind starts racing.

You’re asleep next to him, head tilted towards him on the pillow you’re sharing. He gazes over your pretty features, the slope of your nose, the shape of your lips.

How could someone so sweet hurt him so fucking bad? Last night was brutal. You mentioning his mom without any warning was like a sharp jolt of electricity. He was an idiot to think he could find comfort in you.

You’ll always remind him of it. Of the helplessness and the horror and the agony. He can’t handle it. Even if you never talk about it again, your presence alone is a reminder.

You shuffle awake and reach out for him, but his side of the bed is cold. He’s not on the floor, either. You look out the window to see his motorcycle is still where he parked it last night.

When you come down to the front room, Rafe is in the same chair he sat in the night of the storm, grudgingly playing with his ring, staring ahead with a hard frown.

He sees you and immediately stands up, eyes darting away from you like the last few days didn’t happen at all. All his coldness is back.

“Finally,” he grunts. You watch him stalk past you with screwed up lips. “Lock the door behind me.”

You realize he was waiting for you to wake up. And now he’s acting like you’re contagious with something he’d rather die than catch, rushing out of your home, triggering the alarm when he opens the front door.

You follow him to punch the code into the security system and then quickly open the door he closed, watching him stride down the steps towards his bike.

You’re in a haze. Last night, he held you so gently and you fell asleep inches away from each other. This morning, he can’t get away fast enough.

It’s what you said. You mentioned his mom. You knew it was out of bounds, but you were so frightened and disoriented and spoke without thinking.

“Wait,” you say to his back. But Rafe continues on his way, making you feel just like you did in your nightmare. You’re speaking but it’s like nothing is coming out.

“Please don’t go back to ignoring me,” you call louder, a shake in your voice. This makes him pause. You swing the door shut behind you and close the distance, stepping out into the brisk morning air.

You face him and he looks absolutely wrecked. Guilt digs its sharp claws into your heart.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him. “I was out of it.”

Rafe stares down at the paved ground, his jaw tightening.

“You’re always gonna remind me,” he mutters.

His sentence is simple, but it carries the weight of your broken friendship. It hits you that you could never mention the past again, not a single memory or anything about his loss, and it still wouldn’t be enough. You’re a constant reminder.

“That’s why you never wanted anything to do with me?” you say. Rafe looks at you again. Your eyes have lost all their light.

It’s just a part of the reason the bridge between you can’t ever be rebuilt, but talking about it with you is torture, so he’ll let you believe that that’s all there is to it.

“You can go,” you say quietly, stepping back. If being with you just brings back painful memories to him, you won’t subject him to it any longer.

Every muscle in Rafe’s body aches as he drives home. His head is hammering with pain and his bones weigh a million pounds and he’d kill for a hit of anything right now. He needs the escape.

Just when he thought he found a place to slow down, you reminded him of why he’s always running. As soon as he’s sure your ex is done bothering you, he’s out.

As you watch Rafe drive away, the gate opens when the sensor detects a vehicle leaving the property, and you notice the mailbox is open.

You pick up the mail to see an envelope with your name handwritten on it. Panicked, you rush back inside, locking the door. You know it’s Ty, finding yet another way to contact you.

You would’ve noticed the mailbox was open when you got home with Rafe last night. He did this overnight or early this morning.

When you finally find the courage to read his letter, dread forces its way into your body so roughly that you’re not sure you’ll ever feel happy again.

You feel some relief when Sarah texts in the group chat a couple of hours later asking if anyone wants to go shopping. It’s the distraction you need.

It’s late afternoon when you meet her and your mutual friend Lia at the mall, trying to get your mind off of Rafe’s coldness and Ty’s persistence and your own pain.

Afterwards, Sarah invites you both to her house and soon, the three of you are sitting in her room, chatting and listening to music.

The door is open and when a figure passes by, you look up to see Rafe. He glances at you for a second, then goes right back to ignoring you, continuing on his way without another second of hesitation.

When he got home, he took a couple of shots before he fell asleep in his bed. He woke up still partly buzzed and he can’t handle seeing or talking to you right now.

Sarah shakes her head in the corner of your eye. She noticed him, too.

“Jesus, Rafe, that’s how you treat your girlfriend?” she half-shouts. Two pairs of eyes land on you as your friends await your reaction.

“We’re in a fight,” you say, anxious that the topic has come up and that you’ll have to lie your way through it.

“Already? Didn’t you just start dating?” Lia says.

“Yeah, it’s sad,” you say with a downcast laugh.

Rafe chews on his thumbnail as he kneels against the hallway wall. He should’ve kept walking, but he’s secretly hanging onto your every word.

“I still can’t believe you guys are together,” she says. “I didn’t even know you liked him.”

“I did,” Sarah laughs. You look at her with wide eyes. “Come on, you never let anyone say anything bad about him.”

“Why do you?” Your eyes jump to Lia.

“Why do I what?” you say, trying to play it off.

“Like him,” Lia replies.

You figure while all of this is a sham, you can at least answer this question with full honesty.

“He takes care of me,” you say. You think about how you laughed together in your bedroom last night. “And I have fun with him.”

Regret gnaws at Rafe. Even though you’re upset with him, you still speak of him kindly. His growing feelings for you would be so much easier to get rid of if you were like everybody else, writing him off, calling him psycho.

“Yeah, you look like you’re having a lot of fun,” Lia replies with a playful nudge, trying to bring some humor to the room. “Seriously, are you okay? You seem off.”

You believe it. Your mind doesn’t feel any clearer since last night’s nightmare.

“I’m really freaked out because of Ty,” you admit.

“It’s crazy that he’s still bothering you,” Sarah says.

“It is. He won’t stop. I saw footprints outside my front door last night and I think they were his. That would mean he found a way around the gate,” you tell them. “And then there was a letter from him in my mailbox this morning. It was so creepy.”

Rafe’s body stiffens.

“God, that’s like stalker level,” Lia says. “What’d it say?”

The sound of Rafe saying your name interrupts you. You look up to see him standing in the doorway, staring at you. He cocks his head, silently beckoning you to come out.

When you face him in the corner of the hallway, far from Sarah’s room, you cross your arms and let him start the conversation.

“That asshole left you a letter?” Rafe mutters quietly. “Why didn’t you call me?”

Embarrassment turns in your stomach. He was eavesdropping.

“You wouldn’t have answered,” you reply.

“Yeah, I would’ve,” he says sternly. “What’d he write?”

You bite your bottom lip in anguish, choking back your tears.

You’re clearly shaken up. Rafe’s protective instinct overpowers him. He grasps your arm, squeezing gently, giving into his every impulse around you like he always does. You breathe slowly, eyes darting away.

“What did he write?” he repeats. His hand is so warm, a hard contrast from how cold you know he can be.

Your mind turns over the scribbled words on the crumpled page Ty left for you. It was mainly nonsensical, but some phrases stuck with you like a dagger to your heart.

“That he and I are meant to be,” you recall. “And that I know deep down we’re supposed to be together and he’ll keep waiting until I realize it.”

“What a fucking creep,” Rafe snarls, dropping his hand off of you. He’s not going to miss the next opportunity to beat the hell out of the guy and get him away for you for good.

The intensity of your nightmare and the shock from your argument still hurts, and as you look at Rafe, his hair falling over his forehead, his skin pale and his lips pursed in anger, you don’t have it in you to ask him to continue doing this for you.

“You don’t have to do this anymore,” you say. “I’ll stay with friends until my parents get back.”

“What?” Rafe’s pulse quickens. This thing with you isn’t real, he knows that, but it feels like you’re breaking up with him.

“We’re just hurting each other,” you tell him.

“No,” he says. “No. I’m keeping you safe. I’m taking care of you.”

He can’t possibly be hurting you. He can’t be fucking up yet another thing in his life.

“Rafe,” you exhale, defeated. “This whole thing was a bad idea. I’m just a reminder to you. And you’re…”

“I’m what?” he asks.

“You’re always going to keep me at a distance,” you say.

You hang on to what feels like your last shred of hope. You wait, hoping he’ll deny it, hoping he’ll finally meet you in the middle. You thought you had infinite faith that he’d let you in again. But after this morning, you’ve reached the end.

“Listen, I’m…” Rafe begins. Being with you hurts sometimes, but he can’t allow you to be in any danger. “I’m not letting you deal with him on your own.”

“I won’t be on my own,” you respond. He scoffs. Your friends couldn’t scare him off like he can.

“I can’t risk anything happening to you,” he says quickly. “Just… we’ll keep doing this until he finally gets it, alright?”

You’ve been barely grasping onto hope and his words are enough to keep you from letting go. That’s when you accept the fact that you’re doomed. You’ll never give up on him.

“Alright,” you say. Until he finally gets it. Your time with Rafe is limited. But nonetheless, it’s time.

He breathes out in relief. The possibility of disappointing you is more painful than he imagined. He can’t mess this up.

You leave him standing in the hallway, knowing you’ll have to walk away for good when all of this is over. You wonder if you’ll be able to do it without it breaking your heart.

Later in the evening, Sarah invites a few more friends over, who then invite their friends, and soon, the backyard of the Cameron estate is buzzing with conversation and laughter, the beach a glittering backdrop to the spontaneous party. You’re not surprised the space filled up so fast. This is all Kooks do these long summer days.

You find relief in the fact that Ty probably wouldn’t come. Not to Rafe’s house. You stand by your group of friends under the setting sun, the crowd growing around you.

When you spot one of Ty’s friends, your stomach sinks. If he’s here, maybe your ex is, too. It’s best to be cautious.

You search the crowd for Rafe. You noticed him a little while back, drinking with his friends, but he’s nowhere to be found now.

When you break from your group to ask Rafe’s friends where he went, they only offer you shrugs.

You slip into the quiet house, your heart starting to pound at the possibility of Ty finding you and Rafe not being around.

You find Rafe’s name in your phone and dash up the grand stairs, your phone to your ear as you decide to hide in Sarah’s room until you’re sure you’re safe.

It rings once before he answers.

“You okay?” he says.

“Where are you?”

“I’m - uh…” Rafe starts to clean away the lines of coke he made on his nightstand. He never hid it before, but with you around, he’s ashamed of his drug use now. That he needs it. That he couldn’t stay away. He finished his first line before you called. “I’m in my room.”

“I’ll be right there,” you say.

He panics, spilling the powder in his rush, wondering how many seconds he has left before you catch him mid-relapse.

The door opens and he catches your eyes darting to the hardwood floor, covered with coke he didn’t clean up on time.

Rafe’s at the edge of his bed, glaring up at you.

The last time you were in this room, he was just an innocent kid, and now he’s hunched over and drugged up and living through grief you’re not sure he’ll ever be able to bear.

He tries to shove past the shame, focusing on what he’s supposed to be focusing on.

“Is he here?” Rafe asks, standing up, filled with a rush of energy from the drugs.

He approaches you, his pupils blown, rubbing his nose. You stare up at him with concern. He’s so obviously trying to hide the fact that he just used.

“I don’t know,” you say. “I saw his friend and I thought I should find you in case he came.”

“Shit,” he mumbles, erratically shaking his head. “I shouldn’t have left you alone out there.”

“It’s okay-”

“It’s not,” Rafe says, his agitation growing. He was fighting the urge to use as long as he could. Then he told himself he’d just do a couple of lines and go back downstairs, but something could have happened to you in those few minutes. “It’s not okay. I fucked up. All I do is fuck up.”

You watch him pace back towards his bed, raking his hand through his hair. He’s nearly hysterical.

“That’s not true,” you say. Is that really what he thinks of himself?

“You don’t…” Rafe lets out a defeated huff as he sits on his bed, his head in his hands. “You don’t know me.”

It’s a painful reminder. But he’s right.

He stands up again, his breaths heavy. He needs to get this anxiety and anger and fear out the best way he knows how. With a fight.

“He better not be here,” he mutters.

Rafe stalks past you quickly and you follow him as he rushes down the stairs.

He darts towards the crowd scattered across the backyard. You trail him as he pushes through groups, his fists clenched tight.

He realizes your ex isn’t here and turns to look down at you in the middle of the crowd.

“Who’s his friend?” he asks, panting. You can tell that at this point, he just wants to hit someone. He doesn’t care who. And you’re not going to lead him to a guy who hasn’t done anything wrong.

“He has nothing to do with this,” you say over the chattering surrounding you. “Ty isn’t here, okay? That’s what matters. I’m safe. You didn’t fuck anything up.”

The worry in your eyes is almost too much for Rafe. He doesn’t get you. Whatever you see in him doesn’t exist. He feels like he needs to prove to you how wrong you are.

“I couldn’t last two nights,” he says. “I wanted to get clean and I couldn’t last two nights.”

Your face falls. The ground you’re both on feels shaky. You didn’t know he thought so low of himself.

“It’s not all or nothing,” you say. “You don’t have to get it on the first try. It’s…” You almost say an addiction, but you don’t want to insult him.

“It’s a habit and it takes time to break,” you conclude.

Rafe exhales shakily, his body jittery. He looks so upset that you couldn’t leave his side if you tried.

“I need to get away from all this noise,” you say. “Can we go down to the water?”

Rafe curtly nods. He needs to get away, too. The commotion around him is only fuelling his rage.

You stride towards the boardwalk leading to the private beach. The party wasn’t too loud for you at all, but he looked overwhelmed, so you fibbed just to get him out of the chaos.

You quietly walk towards the beach under the dark orange sky. Even with the baggage between you, it feels good to be by his side like this. You just wish it didn’t hurt him to be around you.

You ran up and down this boardwalk so many times as kids. One morning, you fell and scraped your knee and even though you were fine, Rafe put his arm around you to lean on him the whole way back up to the house so his mother could bandage you up.

Now it’s your turn to help him. However you can.

You make it to the sand. The crowd’s sound is just a dull roar behind you now that you’ve reached the beach.

You look over at Rafe to see his chest still rapidly rising and falling as he gazes out at the sea. You wonder why he was hiding it. He never shied away from snorting lines in the middle of a party before.

But by the look on his face, you can tell. He’s ashamed. His words ring in your head. All I do is fuck up.

“You can do it,” you tell him. “You can quit.”

Rafe looks at you and expels a dismissive scoff.

“Doubt it,” he murmurs.

You settle onto the sand, legs stretched out towards the water.

“Why?” you ask.

He stares out at the sea again, the shallow waves curling and tumbling into the shore beneath the setting sun. When he thinks about the hours you two spent out here, it’s like the memories aren’t even his.

He leans to sit next to you, arms resting on his propped up knees. You want so badly to talk about all the silly games and conversations you had out here years ago, but you know better now.

“Why do you care so much?” Rafe finally says, his voice low. You gaze at his profile and notice his lower lip just barely tremble. There’s a fragility in his face that you’ve never seen before.

You take a breath. How can you possibly answer without bringing up the past?

“I just do. Whether you want me to or not.” You say it with a soft chuckle in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere.

His shoulders slump. Before all this started, he was sure nobody cared about him. Not really. Not when it mattered. But you do.

You bite your lip, desperate to make him feel better.

“I’m not scared of him when you’re around,” you say. “I didn’t think that was possible. And maybe you weren’t downstairs when I was looking for you, but you answered my call right away. So, no, you don’t fuck everything up. You’re helping me when you don’t even have to.”

“I do have to,” he replies.

“Why do you think that?” You know he has a sense of loyalty towards you, a sense of owing you something, but maybe, just maybe, he’ll give you a warmer answer this time.

Rafe’s heart is racing. He’s failed so much. He failed making his own dad like him. He failed staying away from the coke. He’s not going to fail you.

“You’re the only person left who gives a shit,” he admits, unable to say about me out loud.

His words send a shiver through you. Just like in your bed last night, even though there’s nobody around to prove anything to, you touch him. You cup your hand around the inside of his elbow and squeeze.

Feeling your skin on his is a rush for him every time. The only contact he’s had with other people for years has been violent. But you’re so gentle with him and it unravels his anger.

Rafe swallows the lump in his throat. Or he tries to. But he can’t. The coke is making him manic. He took too much. He’s overwhelmed by your affection and he can’t stop what his body’s doing in response.

When you watch a tear run over the curve of his cheek, your shock and concern and sadness give you an ache so painful, your breath hitches.

Before he can try to leave, you lean on him, your temple pressed against his shoulder.

He’s humiliated. He’s actually fucking crying in front of you. So much for being the strong person keeping you safe. Behind everything he pretends to be, he’s weak.

It’s odd to cry in front of someone and not have them tell him to man up. You simply nuzzle against him and tighten your grip.

“Rafe!” someone calls in the distance. “Dude, what the hell? Why’d you leave?”

You both look back to see a group of his buddies stumbling down the boardwalk, laughing drunkenly.

“Shit,” Rafe grunts, wiping his eyes with the heels of his hands. His friends are probably looking for some blow. They can’t see him like this. He’s pissed you’re seeing him like this.

You can see how his guard is suddenly up again, how frantic he is to cover his tears.

“Should I…” you stammer, “try to get them to go?”

Rafe shrugs, at a loss, pulling the collar of his shirt up to wipe the evidence off of his face.

You watch his friends get closer and your mind rushes through how you can possibly get them to leave him alone.

It’s ridiculous, but it may be the only thing that’ll work.

“Maybe…” You take a breath to gain a bit of courage. “Maybe we just do what we did at the party last night?”

Glossy blue eyes land on you. He thinks back to the way you held each other, the way he kissed your cheek.

“I don’t know,” you say, words rushed. “Maybe if they think you’re in the middle of a hook-up, they won’t interrupt? It’s stupid, but I don’t know what else we could do.”

The invitation ignites a fire in him. Suddenly, Rafe’s hand cradles your jaw and he pulls you in. You were expecting a hug or something tame. But he kisses you.

Everything that felt heavy in you lightens. His lips are even softer than you imagined. Your mouths melt together and it feels so natural that you almost forget this is all a tactic.

Everything in and around Rafe blurs when he kisses you. He doesn’t feel weak or fucked up or like a failure. He just feels you. Kissing him back. Tasting him like he’s tasting you.

You hear Rafe’s friends’ voices grow louder and you pull back, glaring at them.

“He’s busy!” you shout. Some of them laugh, others holler, but the guy at the front of the group throws his arms up and turns around.

“Say no more,” he slurs, laughing. “But hurry it up, will you?”

You watch them stumble back towards the house and you realize you can hear your heartbeat. You wish it was from the rush of getting away with a lie. But it’s not. It’s from the lie feeling this good.

“It worked,” you say. When you focus on Rafe again, his eyes are on your lips. Then, he quickly looks away, his hand lifting off of you.

The air between you is thick and awkward and you nervously clasp your hands together.

He looks out at the water again. So do you. You’re not touching anymore. And even though he’s right next to you, he suddenly feels miles away.

(part five)

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[lurkingshan]

A Brief History of Queer Representation in Modern Kdrama

Earlier this week, totally unrelated to Heesu in Class 2, @twig-tea and I were making a list of kdramas with proper queer representation, because Twig loves to track queer things and I love to make highly specific lists. In light of all the discussion around Heesu and its appeal to a mainstream kdrama audience, we thought it would be helpful to share as context for what Heesu’s creators set out to do, how it compares to Love in the Big City and its goals, and why both shows are so significant for those who are not as familiar with this media landscape. We wrote the below together (strap in, folks, it's a long one).

As always, let us be clear what we are talking about with this list. We’re only looking at modern mainstream kdrama, so this list is not inclusive of Korean queer cinema or QL dramas, both of which have a rich history of their own. And when we say queer representation, we mean canonically queer characters that are acknowledged as such in the text of the show, if not by saying the words, at least by openly acknowledging same sex attraction. If there’s anything we know about queer people on the internet, it’s that our community can read gay subtext into anything, but that’s not what we’re doing here. For this list we are only interested in depictions of LGBTQ+ people that are clear and spelled out for anyone watching a show.  In addition, for the purposes of this list we are talking about intentional inclusion of queer characters with a proper role in the story, not nominal nods to queer people existing (like every Hong Seok Cheon cameo in a drama), comedic gender bending without real reckoning with sexuality (ala The King’s Affection), use of queer people as the butt of a joke (glaring at you Vincenzo), queerness in psychosexual dreams to titillate and generate buzz (hiiiii Friendly Rivalry), or subtextual gay tension between two same sex actors who happen to have chemistry (waves hello to The Devil Judge). The point of this exercise is to chart the evolution of significant queer representation in kdrama—both good and bad—not to document every gay character that ever appeared for two seconds on screen. That said, while Shan has watched several hundred kdramas and Twig has tried to watch everything gay on the planet, it’s possible we missed something that should be here, so let us know if you think we did (though please do mind the criteria and don’t send us an impassioned essay about why Beyond Evil should count). 

With that, let’s begin our walk through of the last two decades of queer characters in kdrama. 

Coffee Prince (2007) 

Among the most famous dramas on this list, Coffee Prince kicked off queer rep in modern kdrama with a classic gender bender in which Go Eun Chan, a girl, pretends to be a boy for Reasons. But what made it stand out is that her love interest falls for her while he still thinks she’s a man and has a whole sexual identity crisis and bisexual coming out process. Choi Han Gyul (and Gong Yoo), you will always be famous! This show was sincerely groundbreaking, not only for depicting a male romance lead struggling with his sexuality, but also including lots of gender fuckery for the female lead. It’s still one of the most significant queer kdramas ever made.

Life is Beautiful (2010) 

This show is notable for how high it set the bar and how nothing has reached it since. Yang Tae Sub is our central character in this 63-hour ensemble family drama, and his arcs struggling with the closet, falling in love, coming out, commitment, and marriage (yes: marriage! In 2010!), are surprisingly realistic and touching without being too cliche. Kyung Soo and Tae Sub start as a casual hookup, and they have to recalibrate as their feelings change (and yes, they kiss on screen and the show is clear that they have sex throughout the series). They fight, they make up, and as their relationship deepens they have other problems in their lives they support one another through—their gayness is not the only or even the most interesting thing about them. It’s also notable that both of these actors (Song Chang Eui and Lee Sang Woo) were established kdrama stars before taking these roles. 

Secret Garden (2010)

This het romance features a side character (played by our beloved Lee Jong Suk) who is a young musical prodigy pursued for his talents by the second lead, a senior musician. Over the course of the story we learn that he’s gay and harboring feelings for his would-be mentor. His plot is minor, but he ends the story happy and successful in his career, if not in a relationship. It’s small scale representation in the grand scheme of things, but one of only a handful of decent depictions of a gay person in kdrama at that point.

Reply 1997 (2012) 

This wildly popular drama (at the time, it was one of the highest rated cable dramas in history) that spawned two follow-up iterations features a gay character, Joon Hee, who is in love with his long time best friend, Yoon Jae, and confides his feelings to their other best friend, Shi Won. Of course, this show is ultimately Yoon Jae and Shi Won’s love story, so Joon Hee does not get his happy romance ending, but his friends and the show treat him with kindness and compassion, and his character was well received by audiences. 

Reply 1994 (2013)

Similar to its predecessor, this drama featured a side character with a gay subplot, but this time it was more about questioning his identity. Bingguere is a character whose arc is all about his confusion and indecision, and that extended to his sexuality when he struggled to understand his attraction to the male lead. Ultimately, he moves past those feelings and we learn his partner in the future is a woman, and the drama doesn’t really clarify where his sexuality landed. It’s kind of weak in terms of explicit queer rep, but showing a man grappling with his sexuality in a very popular family drama still feels significant.

Seonam Girls High School Investigations (2014) 

While most of their content is limited to two episodes of this 14-episode high school drama, Eun Bin and Soo Yeon have, to our knowledge, the first lesbian kiss on Korean television, which earns them a place on this list. They are an established couple struggling with how their relationship is a risk for them (because it can be and is used against them). Their relationship doesn’t survive to the end of the series, but they are treated with compassion and their humanity is underscored by the narrative. They also spark an important conversation among the main characters about whether they should be helped because they’re gay, which was a little better intentioned than it was executed, but the show had the spirit. 

Perseverance Goo Hae Ra (2015)

In a show about aspiring musicians forming a group to take a second shot at stardom, Jang Goon (portrayed by solo idol Park Kwang Seon) is one of the core group members with a heartwarming arc about acceptance. His story is about his father coming to terms with him being an idol and being gay. He has a one-sided confession scene that is decently done, and the scene where his father accepts him knowing the truth (after having been outed against his will) is genuinely moving. It was also touching to see the girl who originally crushed on him support him once she found out about his sexuality. 

Hogu’s Love (2015) 

This drama was considered progressive for its time, as its core plot is about Hogu, a man who decides to support his first love when he finds out she is pregnant with someone else’s child. In addition to that, side character Kang Chul has an arc where he experiences attraction to Hogu and tries to sort out his feelings, considering whether he identifies as gay before ultimately deciding he does not. It’s not the best rep we’ve ever seen, but it was part of an interesting attempt by a drama to explore complicated social and identity issues.

The Lover (2015)

Lee Jun Jae and Takuya (played by Lee Jae Joon who was also in the gay film Night Flight (2014) and Takuya of jpop group CROSS GENE) are roommates in this series about four couples in an apartment building. Their story starts as a comedy, in which Jun Jae and Takuya end up in ship moments that are played off by the narrative as jokes and misunderstandings, but then they catch feelings for real. We see one of the characters struggle with his queer awakening and there is a happy ending. Using the actors’ real names was a choice, and led to some seriously disruptive RPF shipping; but it was refreshing to have an active idol not only play gay but in a romance with a happy ending. 

Prison Playbook (2017)

Another ensemble show with a queer side character; Loony, one of the main character Je Hyuk’s cell mates, is notable for his queerness not being used as a joke and not being the core of the character’s arc. Instead, this character struggles with addiction and how that affects his relationship, which is only incidentally gay. His story is moving and well developed, especially considering the size of this cast, but it doesn’t get a ton of screen time.

Romance is a Bonus Book (2019)

The queer rep in this drama is minor but overall positive, as we learn that the male lead Eun Ho’s ex-girlfriend, who he is still friendly with, ended their relationship because she fell in love with a woman. The show presents her as a lovely person who helps the female lead several times and is happy in her lesbian relationship, and we even get to see her with her partner briefly. A small win for sapphic representation in a very popular Netflix drama.

Moment at Eighteen (2019)

Jung Oh Je (RIP Moonbin) is a side character friend of the main lead. His sexuality becomes part of the plot when he is confessed to by a friend of the female lead, and he admits that he has a crush on the second male lead (Ma Hwi Young). While the characters in the show are mixed in their response, it’s clear the story is on the side of treating Oh Je with compassion. 

Be Melodramatic (2019) 

This is an ensemble show centered on a group of friends who move in together to support a grieving young woman, Lee Eun Jung, and one of the housemates is her younger brother Lee Hyo Bong, a gay musician with a long-term partner. He is a side character and his most significant plot is about supporting his sister, with his sexuality and relationship part of his characterization rather than an active story thread. It’s a positive depiction and the way his sexuality is presented as just part of who he is felt significant at the time. 

Love with Flaws (2019) 

Joo Won Suk (RIP Cha in Ha) is one of the FL’s older brothers, and while not the focus of the drama he gets his own fully developed arc, including the mentorship of queer side character Choi Ho Dol. The queer rep in this show covers suicidality, the loneliness of the closet, bullying, solidarity, and fear of parental shame. That makes it sound depressing, but it’s a hopeful story about the character moving out of depression and into self-acceptance, has one of the best scenes depicting gay acceptance from a father in any show, and both Won Suk and Ho Dol have a happy ending (including for their romance). 

Itaewon Class (2020)

The first drama on this list to feature a transgender character, Itaewon Class is about a group of social misfits trying to launch a restaurant on a trendy street in Itaewon. Ma Hyun Yi, a transgender woman saving money for her gender affirming surgery, is among the gang. Her story is not a big focus for the drama, but she gets a nice arc about coming into herself and gaining recognition for her talents as a chef, and the other characters always respect her identity. It’s pretty solid representation for a side character.

Sweet Munchies (2020)

This drama tries to tackle the problems of homophobia and appropriating queerness but misses the mark on both. The queer character in this show, Kang Tae Wan, is here to function as a driving force and conscience for the main male lead and female lead; he’s essentially the second lead but never had a chance (though he didn’t know it, since the main lead is pretending to be gay for clout). Tae Wan is a good character, but the narrative doesn’t care much about him or about queer people in general, it’s focused on how heterosexuals experience queerness. Not exactly amazing queer representation, whatever its intentions.

Run On (2020) 

This drama features both a gay character and an asexual character, both of whom are written respectfully and get proper coming out scenes. There is also some messiness around one of the main characters appropriating queer identity as a way to avoid the pressures of her patriarchy, and the drama knows she’s wrong for that. This was one of the first instances of a kdrama acknowledging queer people as a regular part of the world around us and not singular oddities, and it was nice to see multiple facets of queer representation in one show.

Mr. Queen (2020)

This gender bender retains its place on the list because the main character (a man who awakens in the body of a Queen during the Joseon dynasty) openly struggles with his gender dysphoria as well as what it means that he’s attracted to a man, and these struggles are present for the bulk of the show. The character also has sex with both men and women while in that body. It’s one of the better representations of gender swap and feels queer, even when the relationship on screen has the guise of heterosexuality. 

Mine (2021)

In this drama about ambitious women married to powerful men who struggle to break free from their constraints, one of the main characters reunites with her first love—another woman. The drama follows Jung Seo Hyun as she struggles to acquire the power she needs to live as she wants, and she ultimately achieves her goal, reuniting with her lover at the story’s end. It’s the first kdrama with a lesbian character in a major role who gets her happy romance ending. 

Move to Heaven (2021)

Despite only being featured in episode 5, this was a good story that garnered a lot of attention in a popular Netflix drama, so for cultural impact reasons alone it belongs on this list. We start the episode with Jung Soo Hyun’s death, but this is a show about finding closure after death, so for once this death doesn’t feel like bury your gays. This is a compassionate tragedy in which we see how fear held Soo Hyun back from his relationship with Ian Park while he was alive, but his belongings at death indicate he was getting ready to face his fear and move to the US to marry Ian after all. Through the main characters of the show, Ian gets the closure of knowing Soo Hyun loved him. 

Nevertheless (2021) 

Yoon Sol and Seo Ji Wan have a typical plot for side characters (they’re in the female lead’s friend group) with a friends-to-lovers arc that depicts the fear and frustration when both friends are closeted and uncertain about risking the friendship but reach the point where they can’t pretend anymore. Since they’re both women, this felt pretty radical. They got a good romantic arc and a happy ending, if not a lot of screen time.

Under the Queen’s Umbrella (2022)

In this sageuk, the fourth prince is living a double life, hiding away makeup and women’s clothing that they wear in secret. The character is depicted as trans, but given the setting, explicit language and modern terminology (including altered pronouns) are not used in this side plot. When the prince’s mother finds out, she supports her child to have an artist paint a portrait of their true self, and ultimately, the prince leaves the royal family to go live a more authentic life in isolation in a bittersweet resolution. 

A Time Called You (2023)

The queer rep in this drama comes in the form of a brief backstory montage for two gay characters, one of whom (Yeon Jun) is in a coma. We learn that he ended up in this state after getting into a car accident while in the process of confessing to the guy he mutually liked (Tae Ha), who was killed in the accident. From there, Yeon Jun’s body is taken over by a heterosexual character (it’s a whole time loop thing). This entry is mostly notable for featuring a high profile cameo from Rowoon playing Tae Ha, and unfortunately, for being a fairly textbook example of the bury your gays trope. In 2023!

Wedding Impossible (2024) 

This disaster of a drama purported to finally feature a gay character in a prominent role that drove the narrative—in a story about Do Han pretending to marry his longtime friend to avoid being forced to marry another woman—but Do Han ended up a minor side character in his own story when the show chose to focus nearly all its attention on his brother’s het romance. Worse, the other characters treated him terribly and the story blamed every problem on his sexuality. This show was straight up homophobic and it was a significant regression for queer depictions in mainstream Korean media. 

Bitter Sweet Hell (2024)

image credit @respectthepetty

Choi Doi Hyun (played by Park Jae Chan of Semantic Error) is the closeted son of the main character, struggling with how hiding his secret affects his school life and his relationship with his family. His story ends happily with Jun Ho in the US, which felt like a win after the above history with kdrama, but because his secret being his queerness is hidden for most of the story, we don’t get to see it inform the narrative much except in retrospect. 

Squid Game 2 (2024)

The most recent entry on our list features Park Sung Hoon as Hyeon Ju, a transgender woman who enters the life or death game at the center of this drama to earn money to move to Thailand and get gender affirming surgery. While her inclusion wasn't entirely groundbreaking, Hyeon Ju was a well-developed character with a sympathetic backstory who quickly became a fan favorite, notable given Squid Game's popularity and broad international audience. 

Bringing Better Queer Stories to Mainstream Drama Audiences

With all that context established, we have been contemplating how queer creators in Korea can reach a wider audience with their stories and ensure queer representation in kdrama is both more common and more authentic. We look to Love in the Big City and Heesu in Class 2 as a start, as we would argue that both shows exist in the gray space between mainstream kdrama and kbl. They both leverage kdrama style and structure to tell queer stories that include, but are not limited to, gay romances. They both had unusual distribution and battled to even get released and in front of an audience, with LITBC rushing its episodes out amidst public protests and Heesu sitting on the shelf for two years before being quietly released on a streaming platform. And they both had goals to reach an audience beyond the usual BL viewers, albeit with wildly different tones and themes in their stories. The BL audience is too niche to effect the social change that queer creators are seeking, and the limited runtime, genre tropes, and laser-focus on romance means it is harder to make wider social and cultural points in a BL story (it doesn’t hit the same when gay characters are treated as human in a story that takes place in the no homophobia BL bubble). And as we’ve seen from this walk through the past, there are real limits to queer representation that is not created by queer people or informed by their lived experiences.

As you can see from reviewing this list, these two shows were the first kdramas in well over a decade (after the only other example, Life Is Beautiful) to center on a gay main character whose journey drove the story, and they were doing this in the context of a media landscape that rarely elevates queer people beyond minor side plots, still regularly fumbles on respectful representation, and in which representation seems to be getting worse. Love in the Big City set out to show a young queer man’s life in all its glorious messiness. Go Young was not an easy character, and the show did not hold back on his flaws or shy away from either the joy or the struggle he found in his sexuality. Heesu is about a younger character and so his struggles are centered around coming of age and first love, but it similarly depicts a beautifully flawed young gay man coming to terms with himself and asks the audience to empathize with and care about him as his loved ones in the story do. Where LITBC uses a unique storytelling structure to draw in the viewer and highlight what makes Young’s life feel different, Heesu roots itself in familiar drama beats and queer-coded side plots in the hopes that the audience will see and be comforted by the familiar in Heesu’s world. 

Both of these stories, in their own way, speak to a mainstream audience and ask for queer existence and queer humanity to be acknowledged. And this does not make them problematic as queer works, because they accomplish their goals of speaking to a wider audience while still being true to queer experiences. Given how scant decent queer representation has been in kdramas over the last twenty years (consider the size of the list above against the fact that there are well over 1500 modern kdramas, and so few of the above listed characters are mains or even significant sides in these dramas), more shows like LITBC and Heesu are needed to bridge this gap. We sincerely hope they find the support they need to get made.

[kxsagi]

Good evening to you! I recently read that isagi fic of yours where the reader drooled over his thighs and how they looked in compression shorts (honestly so real #NEEEDTHATT ). I then couldn't stop thinking of Itoshi Rin in compression shorts.

HEAR ME OUT GUYS COME BACK JUST LISTEN WAIT🗣🗣🙍‍♀️🙌🙏

So i wanted to make a request for Itoshi Rin with a fem or gender neutral reader where its similar to that Isagi fic but with Rin? JSHEKAMKKAA IDKK I hope you don't mind this request and thank you if you read this 😭❤

“#𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐩𝐭. 𝟐”

a/n: i fear this is my villain origin story 

i love watching rin edits and they just show that one part of him with the leg press machine in season 2 and his thighs are bulging out like 🤤

(idk art credits sorry 😖)

you’d like to think you’re a person of dignity. that you have self-restraint. but then rin itoshi walks into the living room in compression shorts like it’s no big deal. like he’s not out here casually committing crimes against your sanity. 

compression shorts. clinging to him. highlighting every sinew of muscle, every sharp curve of his thighs, like the fabric was custom-made to ruin your life. his quads look carved out of stone, taut and firm from years of training. you blink once, twice, and then just openly stare, because what’s the point in pretending? 

“what?” rin’s voice is flat, disinterested, like he hasn’t just casually unleashed the seventh circle of temptation into your living room. 

“... what do you mean ‘what’?” you blurt out, voice far too scandalized. you gesture vaguely at his legs. at the sin itself. “that. that’s illegal.” 

he gives you a slow, unimpressed blink. like you just said something profoundly stupid. because to him, this is nothing. just regular training attire. but to you? it’s a personal attack. 

he stretches his leg slightly, just to adjust his stance, and you swear you see god. the muscle shifts and flexes beneath the fabric, and your soul practically leaves your body. 

“you’re being weird.” his tone is completely flat, but his eyes linger on you for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. 

you snap. “don’t act like you don’t know what you’re doing.” 

he shrugs, exuding the kind of calm indifference that makes you want to scream into a pillow. “i’m literally just standing here.” 

oh, the gaslighting. the audacity. as if he isn’t fully aware of the way his compression shorts are clinging to him like a second skin. 

he drops onto the couch beside you, legs slightly spread, muscles still taut from practice. like he’s not driving you insane on purpose. 

“you’re staring,” he mutters, eyes fixed on his phone, like he couldn’t be less bothered. 

“yeah,” you deadpan, “because you’re out here with your thighs of mass destruction.” 

he doesn’t even look up. just a disinterested hum, as if you’ve made an observation about the weather. like you’re not currently fighting for your life over there. 

“not my fault you’re weak,” he mutters. 

your eye twitches. “oh, you think this is funny?” you jab a finger at his thigh. bad decision. because the moment your finger brushes the firm muscle, you’re done for. his thigh is unreasonably solid. unfairly warm. you swear you feel a faint tremor in your hand. 

rin finally, finally, glances at you, one brow arched slightly. no emotion. just mildly condescending boredom. but there’s the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. 

“go on, then.” his voice is low. neutral. “if it’s so distracting, just touch it already.” 

your brain fully short-circuits. you can’t tell if he’s being genuinely dismissive or just subtly cruel, because his expression doesn’t change at all. perfectly calm. unreadable. like he isn’t making you unravel from the inside out. 

and you hate yourself for how fast you comply. your fingers press into the firm muscle, heat blooming under your palm. and god, it’s everything you imagined and worse. 

“done?” rin asks, glancing at you like you’re the one inconveniencing him. 

“no,” you say instantly, gripping his thigh just a little tighter. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[animationnut]

Life's Purpose

Day 6: Pets

Ao3 link here!

...

After the Flynn-Fletcher kids discovered Perry was a secret agent, they spent the first week charging into activities with their platypus with explosive enthusiasm. They ate meals together in shadowy corners of restaurants, with Perry insisting Candace pay for the food with his credit card. They played board games until midnight, laughing and bickering, until Linda banged on Phineas and Ferb’s bedroom door and told them to go to bed. Phineas and Ferb built Perry a collar that would translate his sounds into English with a flip of a dial, and Candace didn’t even think about busting them.

But when the bliss faded away at the edges, some thoughts occurred to the kids. Candace winced as she recalled all the mean things she spat at Perry, and for a childhood of shoving him into sparkly doll dresses. Ferb considered that perhaps Perry wasn’t the most comfortable whenever he would drag the platypus across the lawn to chase a ball Phineas had thrown. Phineas worried about all the times he lugged Perry around like a sack of flour.

While Perry was out on his mission, Candace, Phineas, and Ferb clustered on the couch, Phineas holding a notebook and pen, and started brainstorming ideas to make Perry’s life more comfortable. “I know he’s a platypus, but he clearly enjoys human food,” Phineas spoke. “So what can we make him for meals?”

“Hmm, we could do up some salads, sandwiches, crackers, cheese and deli meat,” said Candace thoughtfully. “Easy meals to prep that won’t make Mom suspicious.”

Phineas wrote them down. “Great! We can probably clear out his toys.” His smile faltered, and Ferb set a hand on his shoulder. “I hope he didn’t hate playing fetch or tug of war with us too much.”

“We can get him some nice body wash for his baths,” suggested Ferb. “Instead of the pet soap.”

Candace nodded. “That’s a good idea. That stuff is nasty.”

“Oh, his own pillow and blanket,” said Phineas.

There was a stretch of silence as they stared at the lined paper, trying to think of more things they could do for Perry. “Maybe a cushion for the car?” voiced Candace. “So he doesn’t have to sit in someone’s lap?”

“And we can put the cage in the basement,” said Phineas with a nod. “Definitely don’t need that. Oh, man, I feel bad for all the times we put him in there.”

His eyes were downcast. Candace frowned. “Yeah, it was probably like a jail. But we had no idea he was more than just a platypus.”

“Well, now that we know, we’re gonna make sure we give him everything he needs.” Phineas’ eyes glinted with determination. “C’mon, guys, let’s keep thinking.”

When Perry arrived home from his mission, the first thing he did, and the first thing he’d always done since being adopted by the Flynn-Fletchers, was to go in search of his kids. He found them in the boys’ room, hunched over a notebook, with Phineas twirling a pen between his fingers.

He gave a curious chatter, and three heads turned to face him. “Oh, there you are, Perry!” Phineas said cheerfully.

He and Ferb slipped off of Phineas’ bed and ran to give Perry a hug. He squeezed them tight, a sensation he would never ever get sick of, and padded after them to rejoin Candace. She reached out with outstretched fingers, but she paused just before scratching his head. She bumped his shoulder with her fist instead. “Hi, Perry. How was the mission?”

He gave a thumbs-up. It was an average run of the mill fight with Doofenshmirtz. He pointed at the notebook his kids had been so focussed on, and Phineas slid it over to him. “Let us know if we’re missing anything.”

What Perry Needs

Real food – make him salads, sandwiches, snack trays, etc.

Blanket and pillow

No cage – apologize for making him go in it

No toys – donate to animal shelter

Stop calling Perry meatbrick, loser, etc.

Cushion for car

Body wash

Get rid of pictures where I forced him into dresses

Ask to carry him or pet him

Appalled by the list his kids had created, Perry immediately tore it up into tiny pieces. “Hey!” said Candace in surprise. “What was that for?”

Perry grabbed the notebook and pen from Phineas and started writing furiously. Phineas peered at his siblings in bewilderment, but they just shrugged in response.

Tossing the pen over his shoulder, Perry held out the list he had created and tapped it forcefully. Phineas, Ferb, and Candace leaned forwards so they could read it.

What Perry Needs

His family

I’m a platypus. I love human food, but bugs are also very delicious

Candace’s bed, Phineas’ bed, Ferb’s bed

The perfectly good cage lined with comfy blankets that was my safe space when I was a pup

Do not touch my toys, you bought them for me, no other animal can have them. I especially like the squeaky hamburger. It is very satisfying

You better keep calling me a meatbrick and loser. That’s how I know you love me, you brat

I don’t need a cushion, I need a lap

Body wash does sound nice

Don’t touch the pictures

You never ever have to ask to carry me or pet me

Phineas’ dark blue eyes welled with tears. “So you didn’t hate it when we played fetch with you or carried you around?” he asked hopefully, his voice hitching slightly.

Perry wrapped his arms around Phineas’ torso, and the boy buried his face against Perry’s warm fur. He turned on the dial on his new collar. Though he preferred communicating without it, he wanted to make he got his message across loud and clear.

“Not once, not ever, have you annoyed me or bothered me,” said Perry fiercely.

“But you’re so smart, and we treated you like a normal pet,” said Candace, picking at a loose thread on Phineas’ blanket. “Didn’t that, like, humiliate you?”

“No!” said Perry, horrified. He eased back from Phineas and looked between his kids urgently. “Where is all of this coming from? Of course it didn’t humiliate me. I am a pet. I’m YOUR pet. Every second spent with you has made my life worth living.”

Phineas beamed. Ferb itched at a spot just below his eyes. Candace sniffled. “Aw, Perry.”

“That’s meatbrick to you,” said Perry lightly. “And I don’t know about you, but that fist bump thing earlier was weird.”

“It was,” agreed Candace, scratching Perry’s head, giggling when he purred.

“I suppose we’ve been overthinking things,” mused Ferb.

Phineas rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess we started worrying that because you’re a super cool secret agent, you might not always have liked being treated like a pet.”

Perry raised a finger, eyes narrowing. “Being a secret agent is my job. Being your pet? Like I said, that’s my life. I can live without my job. I can’t live without being your pet.”

He opened his arms wide, and the kids gathered him up in a group hug. Their arms squished against his body and it was perfect. Candace nuzzled her nose against his side, Ferb rested his forehead against his temple, and Phineas tucked his chin against the top of Perry’s head.

“I love you,” said Perry, his voice surging with emotion. Never in a million years could he express just how much he loved them, but he would have to settle with the most important phrase in existence.

“We love you too,” murmured Phineas.

“You said the body wash sounded nice, right?” said Candace. “Let’s go get some. It’s gotta make you smell nicer, you little meatbrick.”

Perry looked at her with twinkling eyes. He squeezed her nose teasingly before switching off the dial on his collar. He gave an enthusiastic nod and gave a happy rumble when Ferb scooped him up into his arms.

Defeating evil was important, sure. But being the pet of Phineas, Ferb, and Candace? That was his life’s purpose.

[shelovesosa]

PRETTY WHEN WE FIGHT

PAIRING: punk!Choso X Meangirl!reader

CW: brief mentions of sex, enemies with benefits.

SUMMARY!! Y/N is a rich, spoiled mean girl used to getting what she wants. Choso is a rebellious punk star who’s her worst enemy — and unexpected lover. What starts as a fiery enemies-with-benefits game quickly spirals into jealousy, secrets, and feelings they both try to deny.

(Mean girls collection masterlist here!)

There were two types of people who walked into Takamine Academy: those who owned the world and those who scraped for crumbs beneath its velvet-covered tables. You belonged to the first. You made sure everyone knew it.

Black SUV. Custom-tinted windows. Your driver stepped out before you even touched the door. He opened it with a slight bow, and you slipped out in Louboutins like your feet had never known uneven concrete.

“Good morning, Y/N,” he said politely.

“Is it?” you asked with a light yawn, adjusting your Chanel shades. “I guess we’ll see if the peasants can entertain me today.”

You weren't exaggerating. The school courtyard buzzed with life—uniforms, whispered gossip, the smell of burnt espresso from the student-run café. Your entrance was like clockwork. Heads turned. Girls smirked or stiffened. Boys fumbled their coffee lids.

And you drank it in like it was your birthright.

Someone whispered your name too loud, probably on purpose. You smiled like a knife and waved like a queen, already bored. You didn’t need to try. You didn’t even need to speak. Your presence was enough to tilt the room on its axis. You were the glittering storm cloud everyone was too scared to touch.

Then you saw him. Choso. Leaned against the campus fence like a punk rock statue sculpted out of bad ideas. Black jeans ripped at the knees, combat boots scuffed to hell, and a leather jacket you knew he hadn’t taken off in two years. He had a cigarette tucked behind his ear, a heavy chain around his neck, and a chipped ring on every other finger.

He didn’t look at you. He never did—until you looked first. And like always, you regretted it instantly. Because his gaze slid to you with that crooked smirk, a little amused, a little predatory, like he could see through the layers of brand names and carefully curated indifference. Like he knew the real you beneath the gloss and venom.

“Nice tantrum yesterday,” he called out, voice smooth like ash and sin.

You didn’t slow down. You didn’t have to. He’d come to you.

“You’d cry too if your stylist showed up twenty minutes late,” you replied, deadpan, lips glossed a soft pink. “Not that you’d know. You still dress like you’ve been dragged behind a truck.”

He chuckled. “Aw, princess. You say that like you weren’t clawing at my shirt last night.”

Your steps faltered. Just for a moment. A flicker.

Last night had been a blur of loud music, strobe lights, and drinks too strong to remember fully but not strong enough to forget. You remembered Club Necra. You remembered the way the walls vibrated with music. You remembered his voice in your ear — low, dark, familiar — before he dragged you into the back hallway and—

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you said, masking it with a smile as your heels clicked back into pace. “I was drunk. And bored. You’re a charity case I happen to use when my battery’s dead.”

Choso grinned, pushing off the fence like he had all the time in the world.

“You called me, sweetheart. Three times. Begged me to come get you. Remember what you said?”

You whirled on him. “Shut the hell up.”

“Say please.”

You wanted to slap him. You wanted to kiss him. You hated him. And you hated how much he knew it.

Later, during class, you sat by the window like the light only belonged to you. You twirled your pen between your fingers, trying not to think about the way Choso had looked at you—like he wanted to ruin you slowly.

You had a boyfriend once. Perfect on paper. Legacy family. Polo shirts. He gifted you diamonds and called you baby girl. But he never made you feel like your blood was boiling under your skin.

Choso? He was heat. He was the cigarette burn in a silk dress. The reason you kept bruises hidden beneath your cardigan and told your friends you were just clumsy.

He sat in the back row, sketching lyrics into a notebook he never let anyone see. You could hear the soft scratch of his pen. Could feel his eyes on the back of your neck even when you didn't look.

When the teacher left to grab papers from the copier, your phone buzzed. One message.

Choso:
Tonight. Same place. Don’t wear that fake-ass attitude.

You didn’t respond.
But your thighs pressed together under the table.

The address never changed. It was always the same run-down club tucked between a 24-hour tattoo parlor and a bakery that somehow stayed open despite no one ever being seen inside.

Club Necra. Dark. Loud. Hidden in the bones of a city that was never built for people like you.

The first time you came here, you wore diamonds. You’d laughed when the bouncer looked you up and down like you didn’t belong. You liked that. You liked walking into places that didn’t want you and owning them.

But tonight you didn’t wear diamonds.

You wore a black silk slip dress and a vintage fur coat that smelled faintly of your mother’s perfume and money. Your lips were lined darker than usual. You looked like violence dipped in honey.

And you were late. On purpose. You knew he hated waiting. That was the point.

Inside, the bass pounded like a heartbeat. Neon lights blinked over wet floors and tattooed shoulders. It smelled like sweat, liquor, and smoke. No place for someone like you, which made it the perfect place to find him.

You saw Choso leaning against the DJ booth. Tall. Dark. Lazy-eyed like he hadn’t slept in a week. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, revealing ink spiraling up his collarbone. His lip piercing caught the light when he smirked—at someone that wasn’t you.

Some groupie. Too close. Too comfortable.

You rolled your eyes and made your way to the bar, ignoring him completely. You knew the bartender. He always gave you whatever you wanted before the others.

“White Russian,” you said, drumming your nails on the counter.
“Double?”
“Obviously.”

Behind you, you could feel Choso watching.
Like clockwork. You didn’t turn around. Until his breath ghosted behind your ear.

“You’re two hours late.”


“Busy.”


“Doing what?”


You sipped your drink slowly. “Better people.”

He laughed low and dangerous. “Bet none of them make you scream like I do.”

You turned around with the kind of smile that usually came before a car crash. “Let’s get one thing straight.”

Choso raised an eyebrow, close enough that you could see the little scar under his eye. “Oh? Do we do straight things now?”

You stepped closer. “I use you. Not the other way around. You’re a phase, Choso. Like pastel streaks or dumb trends.”

His hand slid to your waist. Bold. Possessive.
“And yet you keep coming back.”

You hated how good that felt. You hated the warmth curling up your spine when he touched you like he had the right. And yet—

You grabbed his wrist and pulled him down the hallway, past flickering EXIT signs and speakers vibrating against the walls. Back to the stairwell no one checked. Same as always.

His mouth was on yours before the door even closed. It was always like this. Anger. Lust. Shame. Need.

He kissed you like a secret. Like he knew you couldn’t afford to be caught. Like you liked it better that way.

“Fucking rich girls,” he muttered against your throat.
“Fucking poor boys,” you replied, pulling him harder against you.

When it was over, you leaned back against the wall, chest heaving, mascara smudged, throat raw from moaning his name like a dare.

And he just stood there. Watching you. Like he didn’t hate you. Like he didn’t want to.

“You got your rules?” he asked finally, voice still hoarse.

You met his gaze. Sharp. Cold.
“Yeah.”

You started counting them off on your fingers, sarcasm dripping with every word.

“One — don’t talk to me at school unless it’s to piss me off.
Two — don’t catch feelings. That’s not what this is.
Three — no one finds out.”

He tilted his head. “What about four?”
You paused. “No kissing in public.”
“Mm,” he hummed, eyes flicking to your lips.

“You say that like you mean it.”

“I do,” you snapped.

He smirked. “Then why are you always the one pulling me back in?”

You shoved him half-heartedly. “Because your band sucks and you’re good for exactly one thing.”

“You say that,” he said, leaning closer again, “but you stay until sunrise every damn time.”

He wasn’t wrong. You did.

Later that night, when you were lying in his cheap bed with a spring poking your thigh, wrapped in an old hoodie you’d pretend not to steal again, you asked the question you weren’t supposed to.

“Why me?”
Choso turned to you, shadows casting soft lines across his face. “Because you’re the only girl who lies better than I do.”

You didn’t ask anything else. You didn’t need to.

You liked your bruises. The ones he gave you.
The ones no one could see. The ones that lived in the soft skin between your thighs, in the places hidden by silk skirts and smug smiles.

Because bruises meant he still wanted you.
Bruises meant you hadn’t lost your grip.

And control — that’s what this was about. Always had been.

You didn’t love Choso. You wouldn’t even call it like.

It was an itch. A punishment. A game of chicken you were too stubborn to lose. You were a rich girl with blood on your lipstick, and he was a walking sin with chipped nail polish and a voice that made your stomach twist.

You didn’t need him. But you hated the idea of anyone else having him.

So when you saw Reika draped over him behind the club building, laughing at something he said, her chipped black nails sliding down his chest like she had a right— It felt like your vision split open.

You didn’t even know you were moving until your heel clicked too loudly on the concrete. Choso looked up. His body didn’t move, but his eyes sharpened. His smirk faded. Reika turned halfway. Her arm still slung around his neck, like she didn’t see you as a threat.

You smiled. That slow, syrupy, venomous smile the girls at school feared.

“Oh,” you said lightly, “Is this bring-a-rat-to-the club day?”

Reika blinked, laughing through her nose. “You really walk around talking to people like that?”

“Only the ones beneath me,” you replied. “It’s a short list, but congrats. You made it.”

Choso didn’t say anything. He just leaned back against the wall, head tilted, watching you with that calm detachment that always pissed you off more than yelling ever could.

“She’s just being friendly,” he said.

Your eyes never left Reika. “Do I look like someone who wants to share?”

Reika straightened up now, facing you fully. She was maybe your height. Definitely not your class. Her lip was pierced. Her boots were muddy. She had a denim mini-skirt with safety pins down one thigh and a face that dared people to hit her.

“You really think I’m scared of some little rich bitch with daddy’s credit card?”

You stepped forward, close enough that she’d smell your perfume. “No. I think you’re stupid enough to touch something that doesn’t belong to you.”

That was it.

A drink went flying. Someone gasped. Reika lunged. You dodged, nails swiping her arm, catching denim and skin. She shrieked, tried to slap you, and you threw your drink in her face.

Hands were grabbing you both in seconds. Some punk kids. A couple of Choso’s bandmates. You barely registered who pulled you back until Choso’s voice cracked through the air:

“Enough.”

Everyone froze. Even you.

His tone wasn’t angry. It was tired. You hadn’t heard him sound tired with you before. Not like that.

“Y/N,” he said, eyes hard on you, “What the fuck are you doing?”

You blinked. “What am I doing? You let her sit on your lap.”

“We’re not exclusive. You made that very clear.”

“She touched you.”

He looked like he wanted to scream, or maybe hit a wall. “You have a boyfriend every other week. And now you care?”

You felt heat rise in your throat. “That’s different.”

“No. It’s not. You just hate the idea of me wanting someone else.”

“She’s not someone. She’s trash.”

“Yeah?” he snapped. “Then what does that make me?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Your chest felt like it was caving in, and you didn’t know why. This wasn’t supposed to matter. It wasn’t supposed to hurt.

So you did the only thing you knew how to do.
You kissed him. Hard. In front of everyone.
His lip was still bleeding. The music from the club blared behind you, and Reika was still standing there, seething. But none of it mattered.

Because when his hand went to your jaw and his mouth crushed yours like it was the last time, the whole world flickered out.

You broke the kiss, panting. Your voice shook. “She doesn’t touch you again.”

Choso stared at you for a long time. And then, low and dangerous:
“Say it.”

You blinked. “Say what?”
He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.
“That I’m yours.”

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out. And that silence was louder than the music.

You ended up in his apartment that night anyway.

His sheets smelled like cigarettes. Your perfume was smeared all over his hoodie. There was a cut on his lip and a burn on your wrist from someone’s cigarette in the scuffle.

Still, you crawled into his lap. Still, he held you like he hadn’t just watched you fall apart in front of Reika and half the club.

“You’re gonna be bruised tomorrow,” he murmured.

You said nothing. Just traced the ink on his shoulder. After a while, he spoke again.

“She’s gonna talk, you know.”

You didn’t ask who. You already knew.

“Let her,” you whispered. “Let her talk.”

“You okay with people knowing?”

“No,” you said, turning your face into his chest. “But I’ll lie better than anyone else.”

He laughed quietly, the sound warm against your hair. “That will do it.”

Then silence. His fingers slid down your spine. You breathed him in. You didn’t say it. You wouldn’t.

But for the first time since this started — you were scared you might have already lost.

You could feel it before you even stepped into the room. The looks. The whispers. The way conversations shifted the moment your heels clicked into earshot.

It wasn’t paranoia. It was worse than that. It was true.

Monday morning, the group chat was dead silent — except for one screenshot.

A blurry photo from behind the club. You. Choso. That kiss. His hand on your jaw.
Captioned:
“Y/N really said enemies to lovers???”

You left it on read. Didn’t even blink.

You were good at this. Born for it. A legacy of polished lies and perfect posture. You’d been trained your whole life to make disasters look like accessories.

And so, you showed up to school in Valentino, sunglasses on, latte in hand, wearing the confidence of someone who’d never had to beg or bleed for anything in her life.

But still, the eyes followed. Even from people who should’ve known better.

“Is it true?” Ayaka asked at lunch, her voice low, wide-eyed like she was asking if you’d joined a cult.

You took a long sip of your drink. “Is what true?”

“You and that guy… Choso?”

You tilted your head, smiling like she just told a joke you didn’t get.
“Do I look like I’d slum it with someone who dyes his hair in a bathroom sink?”

She blinked. “But the photo—”

“It’s Photoshop,” you said smoothly, cutting her off. “Or a lookalike. People are bored.”

“But Reika’s—”

You raised an eyebrow. “Reika is a crusty little groupie with a crush and no filter. She’d lie about getting hit on by a tree if it made her feel wanted.”

A pause. Ayaka looked down, biting her nail. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend—”

You smiled wider.
“No offense taken. You’re just… misinformed.”

And that was that.

The others shut up after that — for now.
Because when you speak with that kind of poise, that kind of poison-laced charm, people tend to swallow their doubts.

But later that day, behind the school gym, you heard someone laughing.

“Bro, she really clawed Reika’s shoulder over him. Like, isn’t she supposed to be better than that?”

“She thinks she’s royalty, but she’s out here throwing drinks over a bassist.”

You turned the corner, slow, deliberate.

They didn’t see you at first. Two guys and one girl. Loudmouths from the lower social tier. The kind who always hovered near the edges of your circle hoping to get invited somewhere that mattered.

You cleared your throat. They whipped around. You were already smiling. But it wasn’t kind.

“I heard someone mention my name,” you said, voice like sugar glass. “And I just wanted to confirm something.”

They froze.

“Do I look like the kind of girl who chases after men who smell like mildew and bad decisions?”

“N-no—”

“Exactly.” You stepped closer, voice lowering. “So next time my name leaves your mouth, make sure it’s followed by ma’am.”

Silence.

“Got it?” They nodded.

You turned and walked away like nothing had happened. Because that’s what you did — made messes disappear before they ever touched you.

But later that night, you were alone in your room. Curtains drawn. Phone lighting up again. This time a text from Choso:

“You good?”

You stared at it.

He hadn’t reached out all day. Not since the kiss. Not since Reika’s shoulder. Not since the rumors started.

You didn’t answer. Because you weren’t mad at him. You were mad at you.

Mad that you felt anything at all. Mad that one blurry picture could make you flinch. Mad that you could walk a hallway full of rumors and still wonder if he thought about you at night.

You threw your phone across the bed. Then stared at the ceiling. You were unraveling.
But only on the inside.

Outside? You were still perfect. Still rich. Still untouchable. And tomorrow? You’d show up in designer boots, red nails, and a smirk.

Because if the world was going to talk— You’d make sure they said only what you allowed.

He stopped texting first.

You noticed right away — not because you cared, but because you cared too much. Quietly. Pathetically. In the worst way a girl like you could.

No “you up?” No midnight calls. Just… silence. It was intentional. It always was with him.

The punk boy with smoke on his fingers and a stare like rusted metal didn’t ghost — he withdrew. Carefully. Slowly. Just enough to make you wonder if he’d ever been yours at all.

And it infuriated you.

So you waited. Let a few days pass. Pretended not to care. You posted a photo dump on Instagram that made your body look dangerous and your smile look fake. Every single frame was calculated.

Choso watched all of it. Viewed your story within minutes every time.

But he said nothing. No reaction. No message. Just cold, deliberate distance.

You spotted him twice at school — once outside the music building with Reika, and once behind the parking structure where he was sitting on a bench, legs wide, cigarette dangling from his lip.

Both times, he didn’t look at you.
But Reika did. You recognized that look. The smug, greasy kind of satisfaction that came from thinking she'd won.

So you made a decision.

Friday. Club Necra. 11:47 p.m.

The second you stepped inside, heads turned. Your perfume hit the air like a threat — sharp, rich, and heavy with something that said I don’t bleed, I bite.

The dress was black silk. Thigh-high slit. No back. It screamed: Look at me. And regret it.

You spotted Choso almost instantly. He was against the wall, drink in hand, surrounded by bodies — Reika at his side, laughing, touching him like he was already hers.

He didn’t glance at you once. But you saw it.
His grip on the glass tightened. His jaw flexed.

So you smiled. And made sure he saw what you did next.

You drifted to the bar and let yourself be pulled into conversation by Riku — some spoiled rich boy from your father's charity gala circuit. Pretty, stupid, rich. The kind of boy who’d call you goddess and mean it.

You let him touch your bare shoulder. Let him press too close. You didn’t even like the way he smelled, but that wasn’t the point.

Choso was gone within minutes.

He cornered you outside twenty minutes later.

The alley behind the club reeked of old beer and smoke. You lit a cigarette just to feel something, and when the door slammed behind you, you already knew it was him.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

His voice cracked the air like thunder.

You turned slowly. “Getting a drink?”

“With Riku?”

You raised your brows. “Didn’t know I had to run my plans by you now.”

“You don’t,” he said coldly. “But don’t act like this wasn’t aimed at me.”

“Oh, so now you notice me again?”

He stepped forward, slow. “I always noticed you.”

“No,” you said, heat creeping into your throat. “You watched. You ignored. You let that little gremlin sit on your lap like I wasn’t even real.”

“We’re not exclusive. That’s what you said.”

“I didn’t say I’d be replaced.”

He laughed once — bitter, quiet. “You never thought you could be, huh?”

That was it. You slapped him. Hard. The crack echoed.

He didn’t flinch. Just turned his face back to you and stepped closer.

“You’re so used to being wanted that the second someone doesn’t beg, you spiral.”

You shoved him. “Screw you.”

“You already did.”

And then— he kissed you. Hard. Messy. Teeth and tongue and everything you’d been starving for all week. You could feel his anger in the way he grabbed your waist. Feel your own in the way you bit down on his lip, drawing blood.

And when he finally pulled back, breathless, forehead against yours—

You whispered, “If you ever let her touch you again, I’ll ruin you.”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t laugh.

He just said:

“Then ruin me.”

Later, you lay in his bed, makeup half gone, your nails still marked in his back. He lit a cigarette and didn’t offer you one. The silence was heavier than anything he’d ever said.

“You’re not mine,” you said flatly, staring at the ceiling. “You never were.”

“No,” he replied, “but I never let anyone else fuck with me the way you do.”

That should’ve felt like a win.

It didn’t. You turned your back to him, and he didn’t reach for you. Not this time.

And in the dark, with his smoke curling behind you like a ghost, you realized:

He wasn’t going to chase you anymore.
Not unless you gave him a reason to.

And if that meant breaking every rule you’d ever made? So be it.

You told everyone you didn’t care.

Said it with a smirk over iced matcha at your favorite café. Said it in group chats and voice notes and bored eye-rolls in class when Reika’s name came up.

“She’s not a threat.”

“It was just a thing.”

“He’s not even my type.”

Lies. Gorgeous, effortless lies.

But even the best liar can only run for so long.

Because a week later, a photo hit the story cycle like blood in the water: Choso. Reika. His hand on her thigh in the greenroom before a set.

The caption was worse.

“Tonight’s Muse 💋🎸”

That’s when you snapped.

You weren’t supposed to be at the show.

You told people you were in Shibuya shopping. You posted a blurry story from a rooftop bar in Omotesando. But at 9:42 p.m., you were backstage at Club Eclipse, slipping through the crowd like a ghost in heels.

You wore all black. No statement jewelry. Minimal makeup. For once, you didn’t want to be seen — just to see.

Reika was in front of him, laughing, pretending she knew what being mysterious felt like. Her voice was fake sugar. Her fingers were too familiar. And Choso?

He didn’t stop her.

You stood in the hallway just behind the stage door and watched it all. Watched him. Watched the way he looked bored, detached, high off something you couldn’t name. His mouth curved, but not into a real smile.

And then— He saw you. You didn’t blink. Didn’t move. But he did. His eyes flicked from you to Reika. Then back. And maybe it was your imagination— but his jaw tightened.

You didn’t wait for the show to start.

You left. Slipped out into the night like nothing mattered. But by the time you reached your car, your hands were shaking. You weren’t sure if it was from jealousy, from anger, or from the way his eyes had searched yours like a question he couldn’t ask.

You didn’t sleep that night.

You went home, poured yourself a drink, and scrolled back through every message he’d ever sent you. Every photo. Every voice memo. The dumb, scratchy ones he recorded half-drunk at 3 a.m. about nothing.

You deleted none of it. And then, at 2:17 a.m., you did something stupid. You texted him.

Y/N: She doesn’t even know your favorite song.

Y/N: Or that you hate when people touch your knees. Or that you only smoke when you’re trying not to cry.

Y/N: So go ahead. Be her muse.


Y/N: But don’t pretend she knows you like I do.

You stared at the message for two full minutes.

Then: Deleted it. Every line. Unsent. But it was too late. Because thirty seconds later, your phone lit up.

Choso: You jealous?

Your heart stopped. Your fingers hovered. And for once— You told the truth.

Y/N: Yeah.

There was no reply. Not that minute.
Not that hour. But the next day, he showed up at your building.

You found him waiting outside in the alley near the private elevator, hoodie pulled low, cigarette between his lips.

He looked at you like a sin he wanted to commit twice.

“You meant it?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Why do you care?”

He took one step forward. “Because if you’re gonna be jealous—”

Another step. Close now. Your perfume tangled in his smoke.

“Then I want you to do something about it.”

And then, like he knew you would— you kissed him first. It was possessive. Desperate. The kind of kiss that didn’t say I love you — it screamed you’re mine.

You dragged him upstairs. Ripped his hoodie. Bit his collarbone. Left marks where everyone could see. It wasn’t romantic. It was war.

The next day, Reika showed up with a bruise on her ego and no answers. She asked Choso what happened.

He didn’t tell her.

But later, you posted a photo.

Just your shoulder in a mirror. Red hickeys and bite marks. A cigarette smoldering in the background. And one caption:

“Try harder.”

The story post was petty. You knew it. But it worked — at least for a second. People talked.
The whispers started again.

“Wasn’t she with that guy, Riku?”


“Aren’t Reika and Y/N about to kill each other?”


“Did you see the bruises on her hip? They matched Choso’s hand size exactly.”


“She’s insane. I love it.”

You didn’t correct any of it. Didn’t confirm.
Didn’t deny.

You just walked through campus like you were untouchable, iced coffee in one hand, sunglasses pushed into your perfectly blown-out hair, while girls whispered and boys stared.

But Choso didn’t say a word. No reaction. No text. No visit.

You went home with someone else just to feel something. Let him undress you and call you pretty. But halfway through, you made him stop. Told him to leave.

Because his hands weren’t rough enough.
His voice wasn’t low enough. His scent didn’t remind you of ash and aftershave and electricity.

It wasn’t Choso. And the ache in your chest was starting to feel too real.

It was three days before you saw him again.

He was outside the skate park, hood pulled up, smoke curling from his lips. He didn’t look up when you passed. Just flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette and kept scrolling on his phone.

“Seriously?” you snapped, stopping a few feet away. “You’re just ignoring me now?”

Still nothing.

“Fine,” you said, louder. “Pretend you didn’t fuck me twice in one night and tell me I ruin you.”

He looked up then. Slowly. Lazily. Like it was a chore.

“You done?”

The way he said it —you flinched. Choso stood. Tossed the cigarette. Walked toward you.

“I’m tired,” he said. “Of being something you use when you’re bored. When you’re hurt. When Reika pisses you off or your daddy stops wiring money.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“No.” His voice sharpened. “I get it. You’re hot. Powerful. Rich enough to make your mistakes disappear. But I’m not one of them.”

You hated how steady his voice was.

“I told you,” you said, jaw tightening. “She doesn’t know you. She doesn’t care.”

He nodded. “Yeah, maybe not. But at least she doesn’t play me.”

That hit harder than it should’ve.

You crossed your arms, voice low now. “So what? You’re choosing her?”

“I’m not choosing anyone.” He stepped closer. “You don’t get it, Y/N. I don’t want to be someone you only want when it’s convenient. I’m not a rumor for you to wear like jewelry.”

The silence after that was worse than yelling.And then, because you hated feeling small— you did something stupid. You looked up at him and asked:

“So what the fuck are we then?”

His answer came too fast.

“We’re nothing.”

You felt it in your bones. He walked past you without another glance. And for the first time since this whole mess began—

You didn’t chase him.

That night, you stayed quiet. No parties. No posts. No lipstick. No noise. Just you, curled in your king-sized bed, staring at your own reflection in the ceiling mirror.

You were beautiful. You were rich. You were untouchable. And still— you felt abandoned. Because for the first time in your life, someone chose to leave. Not because you weren’t enough. But because you were too much.

You don’t show up to class the next day. You don’t show up to anything.

The group chat floods with messages — “where are you,”

“babe are you okay,”

“tell me this isn’t about that emo boy.” You ignore them all. No makeup. No heels. Just you, bare-faced in your penthouse, looking smaller than you ever let anyone see.

The silence wraps around you like velvet. Thick. Heavy. Your phone rings. You ignore it.
It rings again. And again.

You pick it up once, just to stare at the screen.

Riku.
Ayaka.
Your father’s assistant.
Blocked. Blocked. Ignored.

Not a single notification from Choso.

Of course not. You’d played every hand — seduction, jealousy, lies, silence — and now the deck was empty. No cards left.

So you open your Notes app and do something you’ve never done before. You write something honest. Not for anyone else. Just for you.

“He said we were nothing.
But I felt everything.
I hate that he saw through me.
I hate that he walked away.
And I hate, hate, hate that I would've stayed.”

You stare at the screen for a long time before pressing delete. But something about the words lingers. Like perfume on your skin after he's gone.

Two nights later.

You’re at a rooftop party in Minato you don’t even remember agreeing to attend. Everything is beautiful. Neon. Loud. Shallow. It feels like being wrapped in bubble wrap — safe and fake.

A girl tells you she loves your dress. A boy offers to buy you champagne. And then someone says it—

“Did you hear? Choso’s band might be playing at the 47Club pop-up next weekend. They’re bringing her.”

You freeze. You shouldn’t care. But your stomach drops anyway. She. Reika. Still in his world. Still trying.

You excuse yourself and go to the bathroom, lock the door, lean against the marble.

You press your hands to your face. And you cry. Quietly. No sobs. No sound. Just hot tears tracking perfectly down your sculpted cheekbones.

Because girls like you don’t get dumped.
You don’t get replaced. You’re the girl boys regret. You’re the girl they write songs about after you destroy them.

But with him— you were just a footnote.

The next morning, you don’t call. You don’t text. You just show up.

Outside Choso’s apartment. Hair tied back. No makeup. Dressed in a hoodie that wasn’t yours but looked like it could’ve been his.

He opens the door in a tank top and low sweats, blinking at the early sunlight. His tattoos are half-faded from sleep. His voice is rough when he says—

“What do you want?”

You look at him. Not like a spoiled girl with something to prove. Not like a vengeful ex.
Not like a game. Just you.

And for once, you tell the truth:

“I miss you.”

He doesn’t answer right away. But something shifts in his face — confusion, recognition, pain. Like he doesn’t know what to do with softness from you.

“Y/N—”

You shake your head. “I’m not asking for anything. I just… I don’t know who I am without this stupid war between us.”

He stares. Quiet.

Then:
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Your throat tightens.

“You didn’t. Not the way you think.”

There’s a pause. Then he lets you inside.

You don’t hook up. You don’t kiss. You just sit on the floor in his living room, knees touching, passing a cigarette between you like old war friends.

And for once, you talk.

About the pressure. The image. How exhausting it is to always be that girl. You don’t even realize you’re crying again until he reaches over and wipes it with the sleeve of his hoodie.

And when he says—

“You’re more than what you pretend to be,”

—you believe him. Just for a moment.

You left quietly that morning. No kiss. No whispered goodbye. Just slipped on your jacket and shut the door behind you like a secret. Choso didn’t wake up, or maybe he just didn’t stop you.

Either way — you were gone.

And something about that silence… stuck with him.

The next day, he texted.

Choso: You good?

No reply.

Choso: You left fast.

Still nothing.

He tried not to care. Played his guitar until his fingers ached. Wrote lyrics that didn’t rhyme. Lit a cigarette and let it burn out between his fingers. Checked your socials.

No posts. No stories. No digital trace of you anywhere. For the first time, he realized you weren’t trying to be seen. And that terrified him.

The week stretched thin.

He thought maybe you'd pop up somewhere — a rooftop bar, some glittery event, a gossip thread. But you didn’t. Even Reika asked about you, voice dipped in something smug and sweet.

“Haven’t seen her around. Did you two finally kill each other or what?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at her. Because all he could think about was you on his floor — raw and exposed — saying I miss you like it had cost something.

It took six days. Six days before he broke.

He went to your apartment. Pressed the buzzer like a junkie waiting for a hit. You didn’t answer. So he left a voicemail. His voice was low. Not angry. Just… uncertain.

“You don’t get to disappear like that, Y/N. Not after what you said.”

He paced. Lit a smoke. Deleted the next message before sending it.

But twenty minutes later, your door opened. And there you were. Hair up. No makeup. Wearing the same oversized sweater you’d stolen from him months ago.

You didn’t look angry. You didn’t look cold. You looked resigned.

“What are you doing here?” you asked.

He stared. Then stepped closer.

“I thought you were gonna leave again.”

You shrugged, like the answer didn’t matter. “So?”

“So,” he said, “this time I’d chase you.”

Your breath caught. Something about the way he said it — not desperate, not needy, just true — hit deeper than anything else had.

“Why?” you whispered.

Choso didn’t blink.

“Because I don’t want anyone else touching you.”

Your jaw tensed. “You said we were nothing.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, “and that was the biggest lie I ever told.”

This time, when you kissed, it didn’t feel like war. It felt like surrender. Like falling backward with your eyes closed, trusting he’d catch you — even if it hurt.

You spent the night together. Not just fucking — being. Laughing. Arguing over music. Playing dumb card games until 3 a.m.

You fell asleep wrapped in each other. For once, it didn’t feel like a transaction. It felt like something worth staying for.

But deep down, you knew: This wasn’t the end of the war. It was just a ceasefire. And love?
Love is a battlefield with no rules.

The morning was quiet.

Golden light spilling across Choso’s bedsheets. Your leg draped over his. His fingers still tangled in your hair.

No fights. No post-hookup silence. Just you, breathing in sync.

You opened your eyes slowly and caught him staring. He looked away too fast.

“What,” you asked.

He shrugged. “Nothing.”

“That’s a lie.”

He smirked. “You’ve always been good at calling my bullshit.”

You yawned, stretching like a cat. “It’s a talent.”

He sat up, back turned, hair messy. His spine looked too tense for how soft the morning felt.

“Choso…”

He didn’t answer.

“Are you thinking about her again?” you asked, half-joking. Half not.

“No.”

“Then what?”

He glanced at you over his shoulder. Dark eyes unreadable.

“Just wondering how long this version of you’s gonna last.”

You froze.

“What version?”

“This one,” he said. “Real. Not the polished, icy, ‘fuck off or fall in love with me’ version.”

Your chest tightened.

“You don’t like that version?”

“I like you.” A pause.
“But sometimes I don’t know which part’s real.”

That stung more than you expected.

“I could say the same thing about you.”

He turned fully now. “I’ve never lied about how I feel.”

“Bullshit. You told me we were nothing.”

“Because I was scared.”

The room got too quiet.nYou looked down at the sheets. Picked at the edge like it could distract you.

“This isn’t love,” you mumbled. “Right?”

He exhaled.

“I don’t know.”

You stood, grabbed his shirt off the floor, slipped it on like armor.

“Because it feels like it.”

“I know.”

“And that’s the part that pisses me off.”

He smirked. “Because you can’t control it?”

“Because I’d let you break my heart.”

That silenced him. He walked toward you, stopped inches away.

“Then let me try not to.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re not the romantic type, Choso.”

“Maybe not.” He leaned down. “But I’d fight for you.”

You kissed him then. Not hard. Not fast. Just deep — like every breath you’d taken since meeting him was leading to this.

Later, when the sun was higher, you sat out on the balcony. Coffee. Cigarettes. Legs brushing. Silence between you — comfortable, not cold.

“What now?” you asked.

“We try,” he said.

“To be normal?”

He looked at you like you were an idiot. “We’ll never be normal.”

You laughed. He reached over and took your hand. Just held it. No games. No labels. Just this. Two disasters, finally learning how to be gentle.

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