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sincerelyneo · 15 hours ago

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death by a thousand cuts | l.hc

“but if the story’s over, why am i still writing pages?”

💿now playing: death by a thousand cuts by taylor swift

❯ summary: If you get more than one love in a lifetime, why does your heart still beat for the boy who wrecked you completely?

❯ pairings: haechan x fem!reader

❯ genre: angst, second chance, cheating trope, smut.

❯ words: 9.6k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, smut, cheating (booo), exes, toxic relationship, a therapy joke, lots of angst, swearing, heartbreak, a whole lotta hurt, drinking, insecurities, jealousy, arguing, heavy petting, protected sex, nipple play, oral sex (fem receiving), i can’t lie this is just 9k words of heartache and sex lol.

an: this fic will not be for everyone!! i do not condone cheating in any way, you’re a loser if you cheat. i just felt like writing something heart achey, and this is my favourite taylor swift song that inspires cheating fics whenever i listen to it.

“Give me that!”

Yeji snatches the phone out of your hand with the kind of urgency only a best friend possesses—the kind forged after too many years of watching you do the stupidest things when it comes to boys. Her eyes flare the moment she spots the familiar username.

@ haechanahceah

“Oh my god. You’re kidding.” Her thumb hovers accusingly over the screen. “Y/N, it’s been a year. A whole year. Why haven’t you blocked Hyuck yet?”

You don’t answer immediately. Just tilt your head back with an exhausted exhale, reaching for the phone. Not because you want it back, but because it feels incriminating in her hands. Like a wound she’s now inspecting. And you don’t need her inspecting it.

“Because we’re okay,” you say, not entirely convincingly. “Mostly.”

It was just a like. On an Instagram post. Of him—with his friends.

(Some of them girls. Most of them girls. All of them tagged. And you definitely weren’t planning on clicking through their profiles in the middle of your best friend coffee date with your screen brightness criminally low. Definitely not.)

“And because we’re friends,” you add breezily. Then you pluck the phone from her hand and tap back into the app, your thumb moving faster than your brain, already leaving a comment beneath his photo.

Something flippant. Something funny. Something that screams: See? I’m a functioning, emotionally stable adult who can totally be friends with the boy who annihilated my heart while he gallivants around Europe on a boat with girls.

Except probably subtler.

Yeji stares at you like she’s witnessing a slow-motion car crash. “Oh, absolutely. And when that guy drove me home from the bar last weekend and told me I had pretty eyes, we were just friends too.”

You roll your eyes, swatting the air with your hand. “That’s different. Hyuck’s my childhood best friend. I can’t just cut him off now that we’re not…” you pause, the words catching in your throat like they always do, “you know?”

“No. I don’t know,” she says, arms crossed and chin lifted in that annoyingly perceptive way of hers. “Because you two are in a loop. An exhausting, toxic, ‘I-don’t-know-where-we-stand-with-each-other’ loop. And staying in touch with him is why you can’t move on.”

“We are not toxic.��

You are.

But you’d already said it out loud like a reflex, before you even had time to make it sound believable. So, you try to fix it.

“We’re just…”

You trail off, blinking hard like the answer might fall from the ceiling.

“Co-dependent?” Lia offers helpfully.

You sigh. “Yes. That. Thank you, Lia.”

“It’s weird, is what it is,” Yeji says.

You lean back in your chair, arms folded across your chest like armour. “Ugh. You wouldn’t get it.”

And they wouldn’t. They never have.

Because nobody gets you and Hyuck. Not Yeji, not Lia, not even the therapists you’ve paid a concerning amount of money to explain it all to you. No amount of therapy or psychoanalysis can remove the him-shaped hole inside of you. The way he exists like a second heartbeat.

How many times does a person truly get to fall in love? Not the practical kind. But the kind that rewires you completely. That makes you wonder how you ever existed before this person, and fear who you might become after.

If love were fair—the answer would be simple. Once. Only ever once.

Because to love someone—truly love someone—is not just to hand over your heart. It’s to fold it delicately, wrap it in every part of your soul, and place it willingly in that person’s pocket. Trusting that they won’t ever give it back frayed or barely beating.

And if they do (and he definitely did) well, what remains might resemble a heart, but it never beats the same again. You don’t think it ever will.

So yes. One love. One person. One boy—him.

Yeji calls it nostalgia. Says that since he was your first everything, it feels bigger than it was, and that’s why he’s taking up too much space inside your chest. She says you're scared of forgetting. But that’s not it.

You’d give anything to forget. It’s better than remembering everything. Of living in a world where he’s everywhere and nowhere all at once. Where songs feel like him. Where movies feel like him. Where your own body sometimes feels like him because he’s marked it so damn much.

But if you did move on, if you could—you’d still have to ask yourself: where does all that breathless, foolish, all-consuming love go?

The common consensus is that love turns to hate when it stays too long without being fed. But you can’t imagine a universe cruel enough to make you hate the very boy who made you believe in soulmates.

So you don’t hate him. Even though you should.

“Fine,” Yeji slumps back in her chair, arms crossed, eyes sharp with that familiar fury she reserves exclusively for you—when you’re being like this. “You’re right. I don’t get it. I don’t get why you’re still in cahoots with the same boy who cheated on you and left you a complete mess.”

Lia gasps. “Yeji!”

But the thing is—Yeji has a point. And you know that. But knowing something and truly understanding it is two different things.

You don’t understand how he put his hands on someone else. How his mouth touched a body that wasn’t yours. How he delivered that line—“I didn’t mean for it to happen”—with the kind of ease that made you wonder just how many times he’d practised it in the mirror before he had the balls to actually tell you.

You didn’t understand, yet you knew all the same.

You were wearing his shirt when he told you. Still in his house. Still in the space you thought was yours too. And all you could think was: how many nights did he lie next to you like nothing was wrong? How many times did he touch you with hands that had already betrayed you?

He never told you when, or who. Just a sorry. A soft one. A useless one. And a vague promise that he’d do anything to fix it.

But there are some things sorry can’t fix.

You clear your throat, suddenly too aware of how loud your heartbeat feels in a room full of people who love you enough to hate him.

“Because we’re not in cahoots,” you correct. “We’re friends, Yej. Him and I have always been friends.”

It’s not a lie. Not exactly.

You have been friends with Hyuck ever since he moved in next door to your family when you were six. And even then—when you climbed trees and shared crayons—you think your heart was already beating for him. So much you don’t know what life is without that pulse anymore. Without a hint of him running beneath your skin.

It’s why you plaster on a smile and say, “In fact, I even invited him to my birthday party next week.”

They look at you, eyes full of pity and sympathy. And that hurts way more than him breaking you ever did. Because now your friends are staring at you like you’re some sad, shattered, pathetic thing he left behind.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Lia asks weakly.

“You’re seriously a lunatic,” Yeji cuts in before you can respond. “You’re just dragging this out for yourself. Death by a thousand cuts and all that.”

“I am not a lunatic,” you say, shrugging her off. “It’s just... he’s still part of my life. It’s not like I’m inviting a stranger.”

“He fucked up your life,” she huffs, the words stinging. “He hurt you.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “But I love him anyway, don’t I?”

And you do. Because some loves don’t end—they just rearrange themselves.

Yeji yanks her chair back so hard the legs screech against the floor.

“He’s gonna hurt you again,” she spits. “How many times are you gonna let him rip you apart before there’s nothing left? Before you’ve sacrificed yourself and everyone else around you and you’ve got nothing left to give?”

You want to say something, but the words get stuck, because she’s right.

Lia reaches out, “Yeji—”

“If he’s there next week, Y/N,” she says, eyes burning over her shoulder looking from you to Lia, “then I won’t be.”

When Hyuck got a DM from the only girl he’s ever loved—two days ago, now—he sobered.

Which, if you asked Mark, was some kind of divine miracle. Because Mark had been watching his best friend drink himself into oblivion for the better part of a year. A slow, intentional kind of fucked up that was clearly a desperate, pathetic attempt to forget you.

But no shot, no spirit, no stranger’s skin pressed to his could ever do the trick. Not really. Because no matter how hard Hyuck tried, the hangover was always the same: he’d wake up, and you still weren’t his girl.

So when he saw your username light up his phone, he paused.

Because the preview didn’t give anything away. It did that annoying thing that said “2 new messages.” No hint. No breadcrumb. Just a loaded gun of a notification staring up at him.

And, of course he clicked it. He had to. You knew he would. You’d sent two back-to-back messages on purpose—he’s certain of it. Because that’s exactly the kind of person you were. Always two steps ahead. Always orchestrating even your vulnerability.

You wanted to see when he’d read it.

And he did.

At 2:36 a.m. Because you’d definitely be asleep by then. And that meant he had enough time to draft the right response—measured, brisk, detached—like the past year hadn’t cracked him open.

He read it in the half-light of Mark’s living room, surrounded by people he didn’t really like and a bottle of something he couldn’t quite remember picking up.

hey. i’m having a thing next friday for my birthday—just a chill party. nothing major.

you can come, if you want.

Hyuck stares at the two messages.

It’s not because of the party. He couldn’t care less about the cake or the candles. That’s not what has his heart in his throat. It’s the fact that—for the first time in a year—you actually reached out. None of that accidentally bumping into each other nonsense you two pull. No one buys that it’s an accident.

At least, it’s not an accident on his behalf.

It’s not an accident when he keeps frequenting the same coffee shop you once claimed made the best lattes in the city—always at the same time. It’s not a coincidence when he drives through your favourite places on rainy days, just in case you need a ride and are too proud to just call him. And it’s definitely not a coincidence that makes him take the long way to your house. He does it deliberately. He selfishly takes more of your time than he deserves.

Because saying goodbye wasn’t an option for him. Not until it had to be. He’d take prolonged suffering. Death by a thousand cuts.

And it’s not his fault. Well. It is. All of the ruin, anyway. But in the twelve months since he blew it all up, you’ve still lingered. You always do. You always will. So he just keeps showing up in your life when he knows you need to move on. Because he doesn’t want you to.

Because everything in his life is still half-yours. And he won’t board up the windows of that love—not even now. Not when some part of you still flickers inside it, and half of his heart is still in your chest.

Hyuck stares at your message again. He types something. Deletes it. Types something else. Deletes that too.

what kind of thing is it?

Too uninterested.

who’s gonna be there?

Too nosy.

sure, if you want me there.

Too honest.

Everything felt like a trap—too much, too little, not enough to win you back, but equally too honest and would remind you of his actions that hurt you.

How was he supposed to respond to the girl who once memorised every mole on his face? Who was the muse of every song he’s written? Who still makes his hands shake on the keyboard? Who he cheated on? Who he destroyed completely?

Eventually he landed on:

might swing by, angel. happy early birthday, btw.

He hit send before he could change his mind.

11:27PM

Thirty-three minutes left of your birthday, but you’re not celebrating.

Instead, you’re sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter with one leg dangling, the other tucked beneath you, whilst your dress wrinkles and bunches around your thighs because you stopped caring how ruined you looked an hour ago.

You don’t care that your lipstick is all but gone or that your mascara is smudged under both eyes. You don’t care because he’s not here.

You were supposed to be smiling by now.

But he didn’t walk in.

He still hasn’t.

And you don’t even know why you’re surprised. He’s not your boyfriend. He’s not your baby. He’s not your Hyuck anymore. He doesn’t owe you a goddamn thing—not a happy birthday, or his time. You gave that privilege up the night you stopped being his. Or maybe the night he stopped being yours. You still haven’t decided which one came first.

Still, you hoped he would come.

It was the only thing keeping you remotely sane—delusional hope that he might still show up. That maybe he’d walk through the door like he hadn’t betrayed you and still want you. You still wanted him.

You hated that he broke you and still got to keep the pieces. Hated that even now, on your birthday, all you could think about was him. Hated that you still wanted his birthdays, his weekends, his forever.

You take another drink. Cheaper vodka this time, and let it burn your throat as it goes down. You want the sting. You deserve the sting. Your eyes drift (again) to the front door.

Still nothing.

“You need to stop doing that,” Lia pads barefoot into the kitchen, coming right behind you to smack both her hands on your shoulders. “Stop watching that door like a hawk. Yeji would kill you if she saw you pining after him on your birthday.”

You press your lips together and glance away like you’ve been caught red-handed. Because, well. You have.

“Yeah, well. Yeji isn’t here,” you mutter, taking another sip—longer this time.

Lia raises an eyebrow. “And why’s that?”

You drain the last of your drink and look her straight in the eye. “Because I invited him.”

Lia looks at you expectantly. You know she hates being caught between you and Yeji, but it’s clear she thinks you were wrong to invite Hyuck tonight, knowing full well how Yeji would react.

And maybe she’s right.

That’s why you sigh.

“Look, he said he might come,” you say finally. “He didn’t promise anything. Yeji was overreacting.”

“He never promises,” Lia says gently. “And yet, you keep prioritising him like he’s still that sweet boy we both used to love, who used to buy your favourite cookies before class, or pick fights with the boys who made fun of you. But he’s not that boy anymore, Y/N. And he’s not yours anymore either.”

You flinch.

She notices. Regrets it. “Sorry.”

You shake your head. “It’s fine.”

But it isn’t, not really. Because this is the first birthday he’s missed since you were kids. Since you were eleven and he showed up with a homemade card.

It’s not fine because his absence would say something that the cheating weirdly never quite did—that he’s not the boy you fell in love with. Maybe he hasn’t been for a long time.

Lia leans against the counter beside you. “It’s allowed, you know? Being hurt.”

“I don’t get to be,” you reply, glancing at her. “He doesn’t owe me anything anymore. I was the one who didn’t want to forgive him that night. I said I was done. I don’t expect him to grovel forever.”

“No,” she agrees. “But you deserved something. More than a half-assed apology at least.”

That lands in your chest harshly. You press your tongue to your cheek, the way you do when you’re trying not to cry. You’re not drunk enough to cry yet. Give it another hour.

“Come on,” Lia sighs and wraps an arm around your shoulders, tugging you into her side, “I’m not letting you stay in here staring at that door and giving him the power to ruin the rest of your birthday.”

But even as she says it, your eyes flicker to that door again—still no him.

Lia doesn’t let go of your hand as she leads you out of the kitchen and into the living room, where people are scattered across the sofas and floors. They all feel like strangers at your own party because you’ve spent the whole night looking for one person who never came.

“Y/N,” Lia says, squeezing your hand, “this is Hyunjae.”

You blink. The boy in front of you is pretty. Dark eyes, strong jaw softened by the curve of a perfect smile, black hair pushed back sexily. He’s holding a drink loosely in his hand as his eyes sweep over you.

“Happy birthday,” he says. “You look—”

Please don’t say beautiful. Please don’t say gorgeous. Please don’t say anything he would’ve said.

“—pretty,” Hyunjae finishes. “Really fucking pretty.”

You smile. Or try to. “Thanks.”

And look, it’s not that Hyunjae isn’t nice—he is. You can already hear Yeji telling you to give him a chance. He’s the kind of boy who’d text back, who’s safe, who’d never leave you staring at a door wondering if he’ll show up on your birthday or not. Hyunjae is the kind of boy who wouldn’t cheat on you.

But the truth is, you don’t know if you can be the girl who lets someone call her pretty and fawn anymore. Not without wondering if they’ll still mean it once they see someone better, shinier, hotter than you.

Just like he did.

You nod along when Hyunjae talks. You laugh where you’re supposed to. Play nice. Be sweet. But everything he says sounds like static. Everything he is feels like a placeholder.

And then, you hear it. That deep, honey-smooth, familiar voice saying: “Happy birthday, angel.”

It slices through the room. Through you.

Because there’s only one person who ever called you that. One boy. Lee Donghyuck.

You didn’t even hear the front door open. Typical. But there he is, leaning in the doorway, all tan skin and messy hair. His hands are buried in his pockets, his jaw set tight—too tight, like he’s seconds from grinding his teeth into dust.

But it’s not you he’s looking at. It’s Hyunjae. Sitting far too close. Arm tossed lazily behind you on the couch, thigh pointing into yours, almost grazing like he owns your space.

And Hyuck notices. You know he notices.

His eyes narrow. Lips parting slightly as his tongue presses against the inside of his cheek. You know that look. You’ve seen it before. That blend of heat and hurt and possessiveness he has no right to anymore.

It hits your chest all at once—shame, hurt, lust—and you fumble. Your hand twitches with the red plastic cup still clutched tight. The drink tilts before you even realise it’s slipping. Cranberry vodka sloshes, causing sticky, cold liquid to spill down the front of your dress, dripping into the neckline.

“Fuck—” you hiss, jerking upright as the cup lands onto the coffee table. You paw uselessly at the now soaked fabric, trying to blot it with the hem of your sleeve, but it’s only smearing it worse.

Hyunjae starts to reach for a napkin, concerned. But your eyes have already found Hyuck’s again. And the way he’s looking at you now…

Your throat goes dry. “I—I’m gonna go change.”

You don’t wait for a reply. You’re moving before anyone can stop you, heart hammering against your ribs because this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

You barely make it up the stairs, breath coming fast, fingers trembling as you reach for the door to your room. You close it. But you don’t get the chance to lock it. Because the door creaks again behind you. And then it clicks shut. You spin around. And there he is.

You don’t say anything at first.

Just stalk over to your wardrobe like it’s perfectly sane to have your ex-boyfriend—your ex-best friend, the boy you used to see every single day, the only boy you’ve ever slept with, the only person who knows all the tells on your body, the boy you still love—in your bedroom for the first time in over a year.

You wrench the closet door open. A pair of heels fall out and land with a little thud. You don’t flinch. You pretend to rifle through hangers, but you’re not looking for anything specific. All of it is just something to do with your hands, because looking at him right now would be a sick kind of torture.

“What are you doing here!?”

Hyuck doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, you only hear the soft thud of his shoes on your floor, the creak of your floorboard by the dresser. He’s closer than you want him to be.

“You invited me,” he says, like it’s obvious.

You spin around. “I invited you to my birthday party. Which started five hours ago.”

He lifts his phone, the screen glowing in the dark. “As far as I’m aware,” he says, tapping it once, “you’ve still got thirteen minutes left. So again, happy birthday, angel.”

You stiffen.

There it is. That.

That fucking word. The one that used to make you feel warm and wanted. Now it feels like an insult wrapped in silk.

“Don’t call me that.”

That stops him. Just for a second. Then, slowly, he lowers the phone. Shoves it back into his pocket.

“I thought you liked it when I called you that.”

“I used to like it,” you spit. “Back when it meant something. You know, before you fucked someone else behind my back.”

His jaw tightens. Good, you think. The truth hurts; you hope it hurts. And maybe that makes you cruel. But then again, he was cruel first.

He rubs his jaw, then exhales. “We’re really doing this now?”

You laugh dryly. “Oh, sorry. Would you prefer we pencil it in for next week instead? Talk about it over brunch sometime, yeah?”

You turn back to your wardrobe, suddenly too irritated. Your fingers find the old grey hoodie you always loved. It looks soft. Comfortable. Definitely not party appropriate. But you don’t care because you don’t want to go back out there. Not after this.

You peel your dress off in one motion, leaving you in the black lace set you picked out this morning—because it was your birthday. Not for anyone else. Not for a boy. Certainly not for him.

Him.

You forget for a moment that he’s still behind you.

It’s like your brain short-circuits in his presence. Like it still confuses this boy for the lifeline he used to be. Like your heart can’t shout loud enough to warn you: this boy broke us, this boy hurt us, this boy is bad for us. All it says is: this boy is Hyuck. This boy is sweet. This boy—we love.

You only remember when you hear him inhale—sharply—and turn around.

He’s looking at you like that again. Like he did back when he loved you, and you loved him, and he hadn’t ruined everything yet. He looks hungry, and like the only thing that might satisfy him is you.

That thought makes you clutch the hoodie to your chest. “Turn around!”

He does. Obediently. But then:

"So, did you wear that for me?"

His voice is so annoyingly smug it makes you roll your eyes as you reply. “No.”

But your cheeks betray you. Hot. Guilty. Flushed. Thank god his back is still to you, because if he turned around now and looked at you, he’d know. Because he knows all your tells. Always has.

And from just a simple flush, he’d know that yes, you wore this set for him. That yes, despite pretending you were over him in his Instagram comments, your traitorous heart had hoped that he might come tonight and rip the set off of you.

And just in case he caught your second tell (the tremor in your voice), you twist the knife a little more.

“I wore this set for Hyunjae, actually.”

A silence. Then the fucker starts laughing.

Not a little laugh. A full-bodied, head thrown back, belly laugh. You hate how much you’ve missed that sound, how it still makes your stomach flip.

“Five minutes ago, I might’ve believed that, angel,” he says, turning slightly. Just enough for you to catch the outline of his grin. “And it would’ve driven me fucking crazy.”

Your heart stutters when he nods toward your chest.

“But I wasn’t talking about your underwear,” he says, eyes dipping lower.

You follow his gaze down to the delicate gold chain resting just above the swell of your breasts. The one with the tiny heart pendant. The one with the H engraving.

“I was talking about that necklace. The one I bought you for your sixteenth birthday,” He cocks his head. Smirking now. “Did you wear it for me?”

Your fingers fly to it instinctively. You hadn’t taken it off. Not even after finding out. You always wore it underneath your clothes, tucked away like a secret, because Yeji would have a field day if she knew you still wore his necklace.

But in the heat of the moment, stripping down to your underwear, your brain hadn’t realised that he’d see it again.

“I thought I told you to turn around,” you snap, furious with yourself.

He lifts his hands defensively. “I am turned around.”

“I meant your head, not just your body, Hyuck.”

And so he does, again. Obediently.

You pull the hoodie on. It swallows you immediately. The sleeves dangle past your hands, the hem skims your thighs, and it smells like dust and weirdly like…the boy behind you.

“I’m decent,” you mutter.

He turns around, eyes flicking down before he smiles. Not smug, this time. Just soft and… a little sad?

“That’s mine.”

You roll your eyes, tugging at the sleeves. “No it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is. It’s massive on you. And unless you’ve got a secret stash of men’s hoodies in your closet, that one’s mine.”

You glare. “Oh yeah? And who says I don’t have a collection of men’s hoodies in my closet?”

“I do.”

So fast. So sure.

You scoff, a single sharp laugh. “God, you think so highly of yourself.”

He crosses his arms—all tensed jaw and too-tight t-shirt—and it’s irritating, how stupidly good he looks whilst being smug.

“Yeah,” he says, deadpan. “I do. Because, despite us being broken up, you still wear my necklace.” He nods toward your nightstand. “You still have a photo of us beside your bed.” And then, one step closer. “And you fucking invited me here tonight.”

You lift your chin. “I invited everyone. It was a mass text.”

“Funny,” he says, a fake smile forming, “Mark didn’t get a text.”

“Aww,” you coo, mocking. “You still talk to your friends about me, Hyuck? Christ. Now I’m gonna start thinking highly of myself.”

“You should.”

For some reason, those two simple words hit you like a slap across the face. Because no.

“You don’t get to do that!” you snap at him. “You don’t get to tell me I should think highly of myself when you’re the exact reason I can’t even imagine the top anymore, Hyuck!” You laugh bitterly. “I don’t know my worth because you had me. But you wanted something else.”

And in that moment—maybe it’s your tone, or maybe it’s accountability—a flash of hurt crosses his face, that makes him wince.

“Y/N, angel…” His voice cracks a little on your name, as he runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck! It was one mistake. You don’t understand—”

But you don’t want to hear it. You’ve already heard it.

You hold up a hand, stopping him from wasting his breath. “I don’t want to understand anything about the night you decided to fuck another girl, thank you very much, Hyuck.”

“Of course, I get that but—”

“But?” you raise an eyebrow in disbelief.

“Yes, but, Y/N,” he fires back. “Because I don’t know what you want from me. You say you don’t want to forgive me—and I get it. I don’t deserve your forgiveness.” He’s pacing now. “But you string me along. You comment on my posts, you let me drive you home, you still have my fucking hoodies—”

His eyes flick down to the one you’re wearing now, oversized and drooping around the neckline to show that gold chain.

“—you wear my initials around your neck, and you asked me to come tonight—you. And now you’re mad that I’m here?”

His voice rises and you swallow—hard. Like maybe if you keep swallowing, you’ll stop the tears from climbing all the way up your throat. Because it’s all too raw. All of it. Him. You.This.

He’s unraveling in front of you. And even though you know—deep in your bones—that he doesn’t have the right to be this angry, a part of you gets it. Because this awful, splintered, aching love you have for him is confusing. It’s contradictory. It fucks with your brain so much that it doesn’t matter that you’re hurting because he’s hurting too.

And that’s all you can focus on.

It’s like you said: nobody gets you and Hyuck.

“I don’t know what you want from me, angel,” he says again, quieter this time. He takes a slow step forward. Close enough to reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, like he used to.

His hand lingers.

“I don’t know what you want,” he breathes, “but if you tell me—I’ll give it to you.”

Your breath stutters. Your throat tightens.

And then, so quiet you almost miss it: “Because. I. Love. You.”

You close your eyes. You don’t want to. You don’t even mean to. But those three words wrap around you tight.

“Don’t,” your voice cracks. “Don’t say that to me, Hyuck. Not after everything.”

When you open your eyes again, they’re full of tears. Angry ones. Bitter ones. Hopeful ones too—because you’re weak, and stupid, and still a little bit in love with a boy who shattered you.

“I mean it,” he says instantly. His hand twitches at his side—you see it. He wants to touch you. Wants to wipe your tears like he used to because he hates them. But he doesn’t know if he has permission anymore. (He does, but he doesn’t know he does.)

“I’ve always meant it.”

“Then why’d you throw it all away?” You spit the words out like poison. “Why did you ruin us for a quick fuck?”

“I don’t know,” he breathes, stepping back. “But I do know I hurt you. And I’ll hate myself for that forever. But I never stopped loving you. Not for a second.”

You laugh. But it sounds more like a sob. “You have a funny way of showing love.”

“I know.”

“You know everything,” you say, “except why you did it.”

A beat passes. Two. Three.

“You should go,” you whisper. “The party’s over. You’ve said what you needed to say. And I thought I could do this but I can’t.”

“No.”

Your eyes fly to his. He’s shaking his head, tongue in his cheek again as he sniffs.

“No,” he says again “I’m not leaving us like this.”

“I don’t want you here.”

“Liar.”

“Hyuck—”

“You want me to say it again?” he asks, voice rising just slightly. Not angry. Only desperate. “You want me to beg? Fine. I will. I’ll fucking get on my knees if that’s what it takes.”

And then, to your absolute horror, he does.

“Hyuck, stop—”

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I’m sorry for everything. For all of it. For her. For the lies. For shattering everything good we ever had. But I love you, Y/N. And I’m not sorry for that. I’ll never be sorry for that.”

You’re trying to stay angry. Trying to hold onto the rage but it’s slipping. Because you want him. You love him.

He’s still on his knees. Still looking up at you. Still pleading. You wish he’d just stand up. You wish he didn’t look so much like the boy you fell in love with instead of the man who broke you.

“Please,” he says again.“I know I don’t get to ask. But I’m asking anyway. I’m asking because I love you. I never stopped. I swear to God, I never—”

“Stop it,” you say, too fast.

It feels like your chest caves in. Because the thing about love is: it’s loud. Louder than hurt. Especially right now. You love him so much you could scream. But instead, you drop down to your knees. Right there in front of him. And before you know it, your hands are reaching for him. Stupid, traitorous things.

“Stop,” you whisper. “Please, stop.”

But he doesn’t.

Of course he doesn’t.

Because he’s Hyuck. And Hyuck never knows when to shut up.

“I know I ruined it,” he’s saying. “I know I don’t deserve a second chance. I wouldn’t forgive me either. I wouldn’t. But I can’t stop loving you. I’ve tried. God, I’ve tried so hard. I’ve kissed girls who weren’t you and I’ve gone home wanting to claw off my own skin.”

You suck in a breath.

“You don’t have to forgive me now. Or ever. Just let me prove it. Let me try. I’ll wait. I’ll wait for you for fucking ever, I swear—”

You’re kissing him.

You have no idea why, but it just feels like you have to. Because you physically can’t not. Because the love of your life, him, is bleeding out in front of you and you’re the only one who knows how to stop it.

And when your mouth crahses into his, it tastes like heartbreak and history and every stupid, selfish thing he’s ever done. But you keep kissing him. Because just as much as it hurts—it feels like home. Like you’ve finally been returned to the place you belong. Like his lips have been waiting for yours all this time.

He’s kissing you back just as fiercely. Like he might die if he doesn’t. And maybe he would. Maybe you would too.

You don’t know who moves first. You think it’s you, but maybe it’s him. You’re both equally desperate—lunging backward until his back knocks against the foot of your bedframe and you’re straddling his hips.

His hands find your waist, landing heavy and possessive around you. But you don’t mind, because your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him groan into your mouth—and God, you missed that sound. Missed him like oxygen.

His mouth moves to your neck, lips skimming every slither of skin he can reach, greedily not wanting to miss a single piece of you since he’s trying to make up for all the parts he used to take for granted. And you tilt your head back, giving him that access, because you’ve never been able to deny him anything.

“Tell me you’re still mine,” he breathes against your skin, half-choked.

You should tell him no. Should tell him he doesn’t get to ask things like that—not when he gave himself away so easily. Not now when he’ll never solely be yours like you’re solely his.

But your heart is so tired and so in love it’s ridiculous, so instead you whisper: “I never stopped being yours.”

And then he’s kissing you again—deeper, this time. Until he pulls away and his forehead presses to yours, and he pants against your lips. “Let me love you,” he begs. “Please. Let me love you right this time.”

He feels solid beneath you. It’s making your brain fuzzy. It’s making you whimper.

“Okay,” you pant, tugging harder at those soft brown strands, as your hips shift and grind down against him, making him groan lowly.

His hands clamp tighter around your waist, dragging you down harder, closer, like he’s trying to fuse you to him. And suddenly your skin feels too tight. You’re too aware of the clothes between you—what little there is.

Because you didn’t put on pants. Just that hoodie of his over your pathetic pair of black panties—thin, useless fabric—and now your pussy is rubbing right up against the thick outline of him through his jeans, and it’s overwhelming. You can feel absolutely everything you’ve missed.

Heat blooms in your stomach and you roll your hips again. It’s so shameless. So needy. But you don’t care. Not when it’s been this long. Not when it’s his fault it’s been this long—because you never would’ve let it be anyone else.

And he meets you in it. Each grind matched with one of his own, more harsh than the last. Until his hips are moving on impulse, chasing you like a man starved. His head drops to your shoulder, and his breath stutters.

“Fuck, angel, slow down,” he chokes, “You’re killing me.”

You press your lips to his temple, to his jaw, anywhere you can reach, and whisper, breathless, “You deserve it.”

He groans—louder this time—like he agrees.

His hands slide beneath your hoodie, fingers splayed wide, dragging up the warm skin of your back like he’s relearning it.

“I can’t believe this is happening again,” he breathes into your neck. “You can’t be real.”

But you are. You’re right here. Straddling him. Shaking for him. Letting him touch you like he never stopped having the right to.

He kisses your collarbone. Then lower—your sternum, the tops of your breasts, the edge of lace peeking from beneath his hoodie. His hoodie. That fact alone seems to snap something inside him.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and then he’s pushing the fabric up and up and up, until it pools around your ribs and the cold air hits your bare stomach. You shiver.

“Take it off,” he murmurs. “Please. Want to see you.”

You raise your arms, let him peel it over your head, and suddenly you’re half-naked in his lap—wearing nothing but that black set you wanted him to rip off, then didn’t, then did… and now, he is. Fingers working at the clasp, slipping the straps from your shoulders and tossing the bra aside in your room somewhere.

And then, he takes his time letting his eyes drag over you. Taking a sick pride in seeing his initial rest in the valley of your breast.

“Jesus,” he whispers. “You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

And something about that word—still—makes your stomach twist.

Your arms fold over your boobs on instinct, shielding yourself from the one person you’ve always felt safest with. Because still means there’s someone else now. Someone he’s looked at. Someone he’s touched. Someone you had to beat—and somehow did.

But you shouldn’t have had to.

He notices the shift immediately—how your arms cross, how your body goes stiff, how the room, warm just a second ago, chills.

“Hey. Hey,” he says, brows furrowing. He cups your face, thumbs brushing just beneath your eyes. “Talk to me, angel. What’s wrong? What happened?”

You’re still straddling him, half-naked, kissed raw and dizzy, and yet you feel like you’re a million miles away. You try to speak, to explain, but the words choke you. How do you tell him something he’s never known? How do you make him understand? You’ve never done this to him before—and just knowing how much it hurts—you don’t think you ever could.

“I just—” your voice cracks. “I can’t stop thinking about her.”

He flinches—just enough for you to know it landed. But he doesn’t pull away.

The thing is, he doesn’t say her name. Doesn’t even mention her. Never has. But she’s here. Right here. In this room. Your room. In the silence. In his presence.

He shakes his head like he’s trying to wipe the thought away. “No. No, don’t do that. Don’t think about her. This—” his hands cup your face tighter, gently desperate, “—this is you and me. Always you.”

Your jaw clenches, your eyes sting. “Then why wasn’t it only me?”

He swallows hard, his gaze dropping to your lips before flickering away. He doesn’t answer—of course he doesn’t. He never does. And that’s been half the war between you. He doesn’t want to tell you the why.

Instead, his hands drift from your face to your waist, pulling you in like proximity might somehow make up for his silence. Like touch could smother your insecurities.

His breath ghosts over your skin as he leans in.“Forget her. Just for now. Right here, right now, it’s only you. Only us.”

You hate that you melt. Hate that the ache in your chest loosens its grip the second his hands coax your arms from where you’d folded them. Hate that even after everything, he still knows how to make you feel safe inside the wreckage he caused.

He’s infuriating.

“Let me show you,” he whispers. “That it’s always only been you for me.”

His hands skim up your sides, thumbs brushing delicately beneath your tits. His eyes never leave yours—not for a second—as he kneads and explores and feels your body in his palm. And then his mouth follows.

Lips warm, slightly chapped, close around your right nipple. Your breath punches out of you. You can’t help it because his tongue flicks once, then again, then again until your spine arches and pushes the bud further into his mouth.

“Hyuck,” you moan, helpless, feeling the curve of his smirk drag against your skin.

His free hand trails up your other side, rolling the neglected peak between calloused fingers so deliciously because he remembers exactly what used to make you fall apart, and now he’s hell-bent on proving he hasn’t forgotten.

“God, you’re fucking unreal,” he murmurs against your skin, then bites gently, just enough to make you gasp.

His words make you ache. Everywhere. Especially between your legs, where you’re still pressed tight against the thick, unrelenting shape of him through his jeans. And he hasn’t even touched you there yet, but it’s coming—you know it is.

His mouth keeps going, warm and wet whilst he stays sucking just hard enough to turn your bones to water. And whenever you whimper he groans.

“Please, Hyuck,” you plead. “Need more.”

He lifts his head, murmuring, “Yeah? You want me to show you how much I missed you?”

You nod, dizzy.

“Fuck,” he groans and wastes no time lifting you off the floor like it’s nothing, carrying you to your bed. He lays you down gently, spreads you out beneath him like something precious. And then he peels off his t-shirt.

That tan skin—scattered with moles you’ve memorised, counted, traced with your fingers and your mouth—is on full display, just for you.

“I’ll give you everything,” he says, voice low as he drops to his knees, crawling between your legs. “Absolutely everything. As long as you don’t regret this. Don’t regret me.”

Your fingers sink into his hair before you can think. “I won’t,” you whisper. “Couldn’t.”

And then he dips down.

His mouth finds the inside of your thigh, open-mouthed kisses dragging tantalisingly up your skin. He’s not rushing. He never does when he gives head. It’s his favourite thing to savour. You. On his tongue.

“You’ve no idea how long I’ve thought about this,” he murmurs, nipping at your skin, making you gasp. “How many times I’ve had to stop myself from texting. From begging you to take me back.”

“Who said anything about taking you back?” You say, hips shifting, dying for friction, but he pins them with strong hands, keeping you right where he wants you.

“I did,” he says, a smirk ghosting over his lips. “Am I wrong, Y/N? Because if I am, we can stop right now?”

“No,” you whine on a trembling breath.

He smiles. “I didn’t think so.”

Then, finally, finally—his mouth finds the place you need him most.

He licks a slow stripe up your center, groaning from the taste of you in his mouth. He does it again, and then again, until your legs are trembling and one of your hands fists the sheets, the other tangled in his hair, pulling and tugging at it, just how he likes. Just how you like.

He flicks his tongue, circles it, moans when you cry out for more.

“God, you taste the same,” he says hoarsely. “Still fucking perfect.”

You try to respond, to say something, but then he sucks again, so hard, you almost shoot clean off the bed.

“Hyuck—please,” it’s half a sob, a half moan, one hundered percent completley ruined.

He growls, arms locking around your thighs to keep you still, mouth relentless as he licks and sucks and worships like this is his penance.

“Shit, Y/N,” he mutters between licks, “I missed how fucking responsive you are. Always so good for me.”

You whimper. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

“Not gonna,” he promises. “Not until you fall apart for me. Right here. Right now.”

He hums, the vibration making your stomach flutter, and you swear your heart forgets how to beat.

“Let me make you come,” he says, voice completely ruined now too. “Wanna feel you fall apart on my mouth. Please.”

And you do. You let him. Because you want this. Want him. Still. Always.

Your entire body coils, legs shaking, hands clawing at the sheets as your orgasm crashes through you. It’s shattering, making you cry out, his name falling from your lips repeatedly.

Hyuck doesn’t stop. Not until your body finally slumps back to the mattress, boneless and trembling. Only then does he lift his head, lips wet and shiny. He crawls up your body, kissing your thigh, your stomach, the underside of your boobs, your jaw. Everywhere. Until he’s hovering over you, and you’re staring up at him, glassy-eyed and overwhelmed.

“You okay?” he whispers, brushing hair gently back from your face.

You nod, breath catching. “Yeah. I just... I can’t believe you’re here.”

“I never really left,” he says. “Even though I know I should have. I’m too damn selfish.”

Your throat tightens. You reach up, tracing his jaw with shaking fingers. “I want you to fuck me, Hyuck.”

He blinks, then his eyes darken. “You’re sure?”

You pull him down until your foreheads press again and then whisper a soft, “Yes.”

Then he kisses you. Slowly. Passionately in a way you know this about to be more than just fucking. It feels like the before. The soft. His hands coming up to your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. Everything so tender and full of love.

And somewhere between the kiss and the forgetting, his pants are off. His boxers too. He’s about to fuck you completely raw—like he used to—and for a moment, your body almost lets him. Because it remembers. The blind trust.

But this isn’t then. And that’s why you reach out, fingers curling gently around his forearm. Stopping him.

“Condom,” you whisper, cheeks flushing as you glance toward the nightstand.

Because it shouldn’t have to be like this. Back then, you were on the pill. You were his. He was yours. There was no one else. But now? Now you’ve had to share him—with her. Maybe with others too.

He freezes. And for a second, you swear he looks gutted. But then he nods.

Wordlessly, he reaches into your nightstand, gets one open and rolls it on his cock. He doesn’t protest. He never would. Because it’s not the condom that guts him—it’s what it means. It’s that reminder that everything’s different now. And why. A barrier he put there himself because he was reckless, drunk, stupid and ungrateful. A consequence he crafted with his own hands.

But he doesn’t let that thought linger too long. The past is the past—he hates thinking about it. It’s what wrecked him. What wrecked this. What wrecked you.

Now, all he wants is the present. Not even the future. Just this. Just you. Because you’re here. Beneath him. Asking him to fuck you. You’re his—if only for now. And that’s enough.

He slides back over you. And for a second—just one—you both just… look.

You’re looking at him like maybe this could fix it. He’s looking at you like he knows it won’t. Sex doesn’t fix anything. It’s what broke you two in the first place if you really think about it . But he’s still doing it. And so are you.

He pushes inside of you slowly and your breath stutters, nails digging crescent moons into his biceps.

“Fucking hell,” he groans, voice tight and thick. “You feel like—”

“Home,” you whisper, beating him to it.

Because you do. And he does. And it’s pathetic. And perfect. And completely going to destroy you in the morning.

His forehead drops to yours and he lets out a shaky breath, like the kind that comes right before someone starts to cry. But he doesn’t cry—he moves. Gently. Tenderly.

You cling to him, every nerve alight, oversensitive in that desperate, raw way that makes you breathless beneath him—letting him kiss you through it, through the pain, through the slow, aching stretch of him inside you.

And in between those kisses and the thrusts and the way your fingers tangle in his hair again, he whispers:

“Missed you.”

“God, I missed you.”

“I’ll never stop being sorry.”

He fucks you like he’s trying to put you back together with every snap of his hips. And maybe he is.

So you let him.

You let him fuck you until you’re both a mess of moans and apologies and, fractured I love yous. Until you’re panting in time with each other. Until you’re cumming—together.

After, it’s quiet.

Not awkward or bitter or biting, but comfortable. You’re tangled in each other, limbs overlapping, as Hyuck brushes his nose against your temple. Eventually, he slips out of you, careful to not hurt you, but you flinch at the loss. He presses a kiss to your forehead, one to each cheek, and then he’s moving—disposing of the condom, finding his way back to your side.

“Let’s shower,” he murmurs, thumb storoking your jaw. “Let me take care of you first. And after… we’ll talk, yeah?”

You don’t say anything—because you can’t. Your throat is raw from all the moaning and the whimpering. And also because you’re scared of the talking. Terrified, really. Of the hurting that’ll come with addressing it.

So instead, you swallow and say softly, “I’ll be a minute. Just... need a sec before I move.”

He pauses, like he’s checking you over again, brows pinching. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Not in the way he means.

“No,” you whisper. “Just… been out of the game for a while.”

He pauses but doesn’t argue. Just leans in and presses the gentlest kiss to your cheek.

“Okay,” he murmurs, brushing a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “I’ll start the shower.”

He slips out quietly, to the bathroom attached to your room. You hear the soft creak of the cabinets. He still remembers where everything is.

And then—of course—his phone buzzes.

You glance over. You don’t mean to look. You really, really don’t. You know you shouldn’t if you wanna rebuild trust and whatever. It’s just…It’s on the floor, fallen from his jeans with the screen lighting up.

It was taunting you.

And anyway, he’s the one that broke your trust first. He’s the one that made you so paranoid. He’s the one who made you like this.

Yeji

if i find out you went to that party tonight, hyuck, and didn’t tell her the truth, i will.

Your stomach drops straight through the mattress.

Another buzz.

Yeji

i’m serious. how long are you gonna keep it from her that it was lia you cheated on her with?

you’re ruining our friendship!

And suddenly you’re not warm anymore.

Suddenly you’re freezing. And hollow. And very, very awake and out of the afterglow sex haze.

You can’t breathe.

You feel sick.

Are you sick? Are you dying? Are you about to have a fucking panic attack?

Because it feels like something has clawed its way into your chest and is now eating you alive from the inside out.

Lia?

It all makes sense. It all echoes.

“That sweet boy we both used to love.”

“He’s not yours anymore.”

The door creaks again. Hyuck walks back in, towel slung low on his hips. Completely clueless.

“You okay?” he asks, soft and smiling. “Shower’s warm.”

You don’t answer because your heart is hammering against your ribs and because you physically, viscerally, cannot breathe.

His smile falters, just a touch.

And then you say it.

One word. One name.

“Lia?”

You’re not even sure if you want to scream at him, or sob, or laugh—because how dare he. How dare he touch you like that, kiss you like that, look at you like that, when he knew—he fucking knew—he’d fucked your best friend and said nothing.

The same best friend who held you while you cried over him for a year. Who told you it wasn’t your fault. Who had her arms wrapped around you less than an hour ago trying to comfort you about him.

You hold out his phone, pointing to the screen. “You fucked my best friend, Hyuck?”

He freezes. He lifts an arm reaching out towards you or towards his phone, you can’t tell. Probably the phone to see how much you know so he can spin it. Twist it. Try to manipulate this—manipulate you—again.

“Angel—”

“My name is Y/N.”

The words are a blade. His hand drops.

“Y/N,” he breathes, swallowing thickly, “it’s not what it looks like—”

But it is. You both know it.

“Yeji seems to think it’s exactly what it sounds like.”

And then it hits you. All over again. Yeji knew. Your other best friend. She knew.

Did everyone know? Everyone you loved? Everyone you trusted? Everyone you thought was safe?

And suddenly your knees give out. You drop to the floor, spine hitting the edge of the bed on the way down, but you don’t even register the pain. You’re already somewhere else, hands trembling, vision blurry, gasping like there’s no oxygen.

That fucking necklace around your neck—the one he gave you, the one you swore you'd never take off—isn’t fucking helping. So you rip it off. The chain snapping in your fist and you throw it. It lands at his feet.

It’s the first time you’ve taken it off since you were sixteen.

“Y/N—”

Hyuck’s voice sounds panicked now. Hurting. He kneels in front of you, eyes wide, reaching for you—

“Don’t you dare touch me!”

You flinch so hard you nearly hit the nightstand. You can’t stand the idea of him touching you now, even though you know there isn’t a part of you he hasn’t touched.

He freezes. Arm stopping in the air. His face furrowed. And you know that face. The face from the night, the one carved from guilt and horror and regret—but it’s too late.

It’s so late.

You’re sobbing now. And it’s ugly—gasping and choking and curling up on the floor.

“I—I didn’t mean for it to happen like that,” he whispers. “I never wanted to hurt you—”

You laugh. Actually laugh.

“You didn’t want to hurt me?” You shake your head, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, spit and snot and mascara streaking your face. “Hyuck, you fucked my best friend. And then you came here, tonight, and touched me like…like I was still yours.”

“You are—”

“No. No, I’m not!” You snap. “I don’t even know who I am right now. But I definitely am not—and never will be—yours again.”

“Please, Y/N,” he whispers. “Let me explain. It wasn’t—”

“You’ve had time to explain.” Your voice trembles, but the words are steel. “I gave you so much of myself. So much trust. So much love.” You swallow hard. “But it wasn’t enough, was it? You needed to fuck my best friend. And keep it from me. And somehow rope the other one into it too, so now—”

Your voice cracks.

“So now I can’t trust anyone.”

He opens his mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to lie, maybe to beg. But then he doesn’t. He doesn’t say a word. He just looks at you, regret written in every line of his stupid, beautiful face.

He doesn’t deny it. And that’s the last straw. You fold in on yourself. Arms wrapping tight around your knees as you bury your head and whisper: “I need you to leave.”

He doesn’t move.

You look up—eyes glassy, voice so quiet and weak.

“Get out, Hyuck. Now, please”

And this time, he listens. And you’re glad he listens. Because this time it feels different. This was it. The final fracture. Whatever you had with him? It’s dead now. You just wish you hadn’t kept it on life support for so long—wish you hadn’t clung so tightly to something already bleeding.

That thousandth cut finally bled dry.

#nct smut #haechan smut #nct dream smut #nct 127 smut #nct x reader #haechan x reader #nct dream x reader #nct 127 x reader #nct hard hours #nct angst #nct dream angst #haechan angst #nct 127 angst #kpop smut #may a love like this NEVER find me

185 notes · View notes

ctrlsht · 3 days ago

Note

Do you read bts yandere fics too? If you do, got any recs?

Yes, I do read yandere fics too, but mostly JK fics. I don’t have a ton of recommendations, but I’ll just drop all the ones from my likes list.

Lust by @umitae-blog1 | JK x reader | discontinued Description: everybody has a lust for something. but his lust was beyond the ordinary one. his lust for you was out of this world. he only wanted you and in order to make you his, everything had to go his way. This was written 7 years ago, but it's a top tier fr! Also, it's the first yandere fic I’ve read, as far as I remember. I didn’t even realize it fell into that genre until I discovered it. I’m still rereading it even now. It’s so iconic and golden that it hurts that the writer chose not to post Part 2. lol.

Drug Wars by @plumblackjeon | mafia!Jungkook x Reader | Series Description: “She’s a babygirl Yoongi, and I think I’m in love with her.” Basically, it’s a story about mafia, drugs, and how Jungkook is completely obsessed with Y/N. This writer dropped some of the hardest fics ever and then just vanished. You check their page and it’s like “last active: XXX years ago” LMAO. I’m still rereading this also because the writing is chef’s kiss. I’ve also read all of the author’s works, and every single one is perfect. I love them so much!

All @darkestcorners works Do I even gotta explain? She barely posts, but every single fic ate sooo bad. She’s literally my fave writer on here, like I’m obsessed fr. No one’s touching her cuz she is the standard lmao! You’ll see her works in every yandere rec list everrr. Even if she disappeared for 50 years, her legacy would still hit. That’s how iconic she is.

10 Seconds by @deepdarkdelights | JK x Reader | Series It’s about Jungkook kidnapping Y/N and forcing her to marry him because it’s a family tradition. You’ll see this in every rec list bc it’s a bomb! Had me feeling every emotion like I was in the fic myself LMAO. And the writing?? Straight-up chef’s kiss. I’ve read all her works, and it’s all fire, but 10 series is my personal fav.

One Way Or Another by @explicit-tae | JK x Reader | Two-Shot Description: You recant the horrible story of how you met Jeon Jungkook - a now ex-boyfriend of yours - to your therapist. You opened up about the obsessive and toxic behavior that has you constantly looking over your shoulder for the man you've been running from for years. I’ve read most of the writer’s work, but this story is my fav, or at least the one I always remember when I see her username. Her works are the best, and I remember her being one of the OG writers here.

Slave 19990319 by @explicit-tae | JK x reader | Series Description: In the intergalatic slave trade, the human race are hastily becoming the slave - or pet - of choice. When you were a child, you were given to a young Jungkook - a prince from another planet - as a pet and grown alongside one another.

All @aajjks's works I’ve read most of her works, and she still drops new ones from time to time. She’s super active, which honestly made her iconic. Not sure if she has proper navigation, but I remember struggling to find her masterlist before lmao.

Thank you, baby by @scribblemetae |JK x reader | Series (Not sure if it's complete or discontinued) Description: Turns out the boy who's been stalking you for years has decided its about time he shows his face in the form of a picture, and decides its time to talk to you for real, in the form of a phone call. Good luck finding the rest of the masterlist, lmao. I remember getting obsessed with this fic and the smut scenes are so well written, I choke every time, lmao.

Taking Over You by @go1denjeon | JK x Reader | Series Description: desperate to pay off your student debts in order to graduate, you took up on the offer of your friend to become her aunt’s personal assistant over summer break but you gained more than what you bargained for when the past that you had thought you escaped from suddenly showed up and haunted you in ways worse than he ever did before.

Every Breath You Take by @junqkook | JK x Reader | Series Description: Everything was going great when you first met Jeon Jungkook. he was a new light in your life with soft smiles and tinkling laughs, but then you noticed a lurking presence that seemed to follow you wherever you went.

Bunny Cam @roses-ruby | JK x Reader | I don't remember if it's a series or one-shot Description: He watches when you sleep, he knows if you’re awake. He knows if you’ve been bad or good, so be bad only if you dare.

illicit photography @jkeuphoriadreamland | JK x reader | Series Description: You’re a well respected university professor who assigns a portfolio project to your photography students, but your best student, Jungkook, doesn’t follow the rules very well.

Otherworldly by @sinning-on-a-sunday | JM x reader | Series Description: when you discover a tiny door in your home that leads to a much better version of your own life, it seems too good to be true. little do you know, the man posing as your boyfriend may be a lot more dangerous than you care to admit. and he is not intent on letting you leave.

A Thriller Film by @taechaos | JK x reader | I don't remember if it's a series or one-shot Description: Jungkook's life is his movies, but people don't know his movies are his life. As an anonymous director, no one can suspect him as the villain in a story, but he leaves a clue in his movie about you.

Some of non-yandere fics I recommend that I reread all the time lmao

Angel In Darkness by @icyhobi | Series Descrption: After a patient urgently pleads you to go and help a friend of his, you naively agree to it. Little did you know, that you would get more than what you agreed to, when he leads you to a brothel, to help a dangerous prostitute named Jeon Jungkook.

long way home by @sparklingchim | Series Description: the one where you babysit jungkook's baby and somehow let the night end up with being a cockblock for him.

Teacher's pet by @axigailxo | Series Description: Hooking up every so often with your English Literature professor, what’s the worst that can happen? Falling in love, perhaps.

178 notes · View notes

salem-s · 1 day ago

Note

can you please write a rafe fic based on the song “back to friends”?

like they were exes turned to strangers but there’s sooo much tension and they’re obviously still sooo in love with each other. just angst vibes with maybe some suggestive fluff? idk

just a suggestion though totally understand if it’s too specific for you!

yes! when you sent this in i had no idea what song you were talking about LOL but now ive heard it and it’s so good. love this prompt!

BACK TO FRIENDS — RAFE CAMERON ONE SHOT (18+)

SYNOPSIS you and rafe have been broken up for months, and despite not seeing him since, you haven't stopped thinking about him. then, out of the blue, he's suddenly there at one of your parties: coy yet shy, a presence yet a ghost, looking at you as if he's never seen anything prettier. and all you can think is: what the fuck?

WARNINGS aaaannnngst (miscommunication tendencies is very high here, they’re both idiots), fluff, suggestive content and descriptions of smut. post-grad au, living in a city of your choice. ex!rafe is fun to write, but apologies because this isn't super edited.

WORD COUNT 8.1k.

SONG OF THE CHAPTER back to friends by sombr

You've been single for six months.

Has it been easy? Absolutely not. Was it necessary? That's a bit subjective depending on who answers on the matter, but - of course - most of the time you'd argue no. Your ex would argue yes in a self-depricating sort of way. Part of you knew it was coming to a close in those final weeks, taking into account the way you drifted apart as one of life's natural tendencies.

You were heading in one direction. He was heading in another. There are so many things that he probably thought that he never spoke, especially with the way he hinted towards not being good enough for you, not being good enough to follow you into the next stages of your life. You, of course, knew that wasn't true, that it was his mind sending him into a spiral, not his heart. It ruptured your soul when the last image of him was his back towards you, not even having the gall to face you as he said goodbye. You never thought you'd see him after that.

So why the fuck is Rafe Cameron standing in your living room right now?

He looks good. Too good. The long locks that you used to toy with between your nimble fingers are gone, replaced with a slightly grown out buzz that suits him, makes him look more mature and grounded. A simple t-shirt adorns his torso, snug tight at the seams around his biceps, looking a little bigger than you last saw. He's clean cut, sleek in a way that makes your heart pound, and a head taller than everyone around him, commanding the room without even meaning to.

But his eyes tell a different story.

When those pretty blues meet yours, you see what he really feels: an emptiness and search for something to fulfill his soul, radiating a sadness to them that emulates the look of despair he had the last time you were with him. No one notices. He hides it well. But you were always able to read him like a book, to be able to pin point his emotion like it was your day job, to know how to approach him through various emotions to get him to feel better.

You, apparently, still can.

It's absolutely debilitating when you lock eyes across the room, and you can't even describe the weird feeling that settles in your gut. Is it anxiety? Dread? Excitement? It's a kettlebell in your stomach that only weighs more and more the longer you look at him, the more you register that Rafe Cameron, your ex and probably the only person you'll ever love, is standing in your living room in a state you never thought he'd be in with people you never associated him with.

First you feel shock. Then confusion.

How the fuck is he here? Who does he know? Did he - somehow - stumble upon this party in a stroke of pure luck and humiliation (on your part) or is this intentional? Does he know this is your apartment? Did he recognize the same decor that you had in your old place? Smell your favorite candle? See the furniture and overall mood of the house and think of you? Did he even know? How could he have?

It isn't until (some) of your questions are being answered when you spot another friend of yours, Wyatt, clap Rafe on the shoulder and whisper something in his ear, nodding in your direction and tugging him towards—

Fuck.

Tugging him towards you.

You wish you could move. Or do anything. Pretend to be caught up in a conversation with a friend or sneak out onto the fire escape that you can only access through your room. Anything would be better than this: simply standing in place and waiting for the inevitable. You're angry. Yet sad. Confused. You're mad that he's still looking at you like he's in love with you. You're sad that he's still looking at you like he's in love with you. You're confused that he's still looking at you like he's in love with you.

Before your brain can turn on and make a move, Wyatt's suddenly there with an audacious hand clapped on Rafe's shoulder and gently shaking it to emphasize the presence.

"Honey!” Wyatt chirps brightly (curse his ability to literally befriend a brick wall, and curse the fact that you can't hate him for doing this to you right now if you tried). "This is Rafe, the friend from Coastal that I was telling you about."

"Honey?" Rafe murmurs in surprise, and you nearly stop breathing at the fact that you're hearing his voice again. "This is Honey?"

Before your friend can explain the horrifically embarrassing story as to how you got that nickname that your friends use more than your actual name, you miraculously find your voice.

"And this is the friend from Coastal you were telling me about?" Your tone matches your ex's of surprise.

If Wyatt notices the clear apprehension between you two, he either doesn't notice or simply doesn't care enough to address it. With some sort of magic, he manages to smile wider.

"Yeah! Figured since you both went there, you might know the same people?" He offers innocently, darting his gaze cheerfully between you as if he's waiting for something magical to happen.

But it...doesn't.

Because you fucking laugh.

Right in Rafe's face. And it's out of disbelief (and slight drunkenness) that this is actually happening right now. Your good friend is introducing you to your ex, the same ex that you haven't spoken to (or much less heard from) in six fucking months. The same ex that you've been absolutely devastated over losing. The same ex that you've been attempting to find fragments of in different people, yet coming up short every single time and thus ruining the progression of your love life.

It's comical, really, it is. Because what are the odds of this happening? Of Rafe Cameron standing in your apartment, in a place you thought hidden well enough to shield you from the ghosts of your past? Of the mere concept that this is how you're seeing him again: flushed and drunk and having a great time at a party you organized. It's out of left field, completely throwing you off your game (if you even have one).

"Yeah," you manage to get out, "we know of each other."

Wyatt beams, and Rafe frowns, portraying the happy-sad theatrical masks to a fucking T.

Yet your friend takes that as a cue to pat Rafe's back, sending another knowing glance your way as if to say you're welcome! before disappearing into the party, chatting up another group of friends as if he didn't just cause a rapture in your brain. You let your gaze settling on your friend morphing into the crowd before glancing back at your ex.

Who's staring right at you.

The seriousness in his expression makes you falter slightly, not because of the intensity of it but because you just...miss him. You haven't seen him in so long, haven't been this close to him. If you wanted to, you could reach out and grab him, tether yourself to him, cling onto a bicep like you used to love doing, or sit snug under his arm and relish in the warmth he always unintentionally provided. But you can’t. Not anymore. He made that clear when he ended things with you: he wants nothing to do with you anymore, and that includes your touch.

"Why did you say that?" He asks gently, as if it's plaguing him. "Why didn't you tell him?"

Your expression must look whack, because you manage a confused smile and an arched brow, as if it's obvious. "Because I'm not about to re-hash the semantics of our break up in the middle of the function right now?"

The tone isn't nice, but it isn't mean either. It is indifferent. Tired. As if you've just picked up the pieces of your heart that shattered with him leaving you, only to have the cracks form again and threaten to burst through the seams of the fragile tape you used to stitch your heart back up. It's a bit crazy for him to ask that, you think. Because why would you bring it up? Wyatt doesn't know any better, as the faux introduction was done out of pure innocence, so why damper the mood with the truth?

Rafe pauses at your words, and the longer he's silent the more you feel stupid. You feel stupid that you're essentially backed into a corner, drawing shapes in the wooden floors with the tops of your toes to keep from slipping, swishing around a drink that has one small sip left in it. It's almost worse that he's silent. You want him to scream. To get mad, for whatever reason. Because then it'll be easier for you to pull away, to detach, to fucking move on.

But he doesn't. He's gentle with you. He always was. Never raised his voice or acted out. He was just...Rafe.

He still is, apparently.

"How have you been?" He manages to ask after a moment's silence, opting for the safe choice of not going on a tangent based on your snotty response.

What do you think? You want to snap.

But you don't. You simply shrug. "Fine. You?"

Rafe furrows his brows, as if his answer is obvious yet prolonging the response to see if you really know, or are asking out of courtesy. You're asking because it's the script you normally follow, when someone asks how you are you typically ask them back. It's not rocket science. It doesn't need to be complicated. God, why is he making it complicated?

Why is he looking at you like that?

"Are you going to answer, or..?" You trail off, searching his eyes for any sort of answer but coming up short.

Your tone is detached, as if you're talking to an old friend who you can joke and kid around with. Not the guy you've loved for years. The wince on his face reminds you of that, that you’re not joking around with just anyone. You’re with him. You’re acting like nothing is wrong, like these past few months have been a walk in the park. It’s funny that you’re going at him as if you haven’t shared your deepest vulnerabilities with him beneath soft sheets that smell of him.

Although Rafe has absolutely no room to guilt trip you right now. He orchestrated this. He wanted this. Not you.

You speak before tears can start brimming your waterline. “Whatever. See you around.”

You’re quick to duck around his audaciously broad figure, beelining towards…anywhere that isn’t here and anywhere that doesn’t have him infiltrating your senses, dulling you down. A flicker of anger crosses across your heart, because how dare he? How dare he show up here (even if he didn’t actually know this is your place, the meaning still applies) and send you all these weird signals? How dare he look at you as if he’s in pain?

Because this is his fucking fault. He broke it off, he separated himself when he didn’t need to, he lost faith in himself as a partner. You loved him through his faults, and you still do, yet that still wasn’t enough to make him change his mind. All him. Not you.

Rafe says your name quietly.

Like an idiot, you turn. Despite the thumping bass and the high pitched laughter wafted through each room, you hear him loud and clear. His blue eyes are too pretty, too intently focused on you, too…everything. It’s almost painful to look at, to see the reminder that you lost him, you lost the privilege of staring shamelessly at those pretty, pretty blues.

“You look beautiful,” he says ardently, low in a tone just reserved for you.

But it only upsets you further, makes your heart split in quarters after he split it in half six months ago. You hate how sincere he sounds, as if he’s been itching to say it all this time. Instead of a compliment, it comes across as a reminder that he left.

All you can do is shake your head. “Fuck you, Rafe.”

And you’re disappearing into the party before he can object.

You’re grateful that your room is somewhat secluded from the communal spaces.

It’s especially forgiving in this instant, when you’re cozied up alone on the fire escape that someone can only access from your bedroom, hugging your knees and staring out onto the cityscape with a scowl so deep one may think the horizon wronged you. A joint that was supposed to calm your racing heart lays untouched next to your lighter, and you don’t even have the gall to light it and try and forget about the events of tonight. Knowing yourself and knowing your brain, the weed will only tenfold the nagging emotion.

You fucking miss him. And you fucking hate him. And you fucking love him.

It caught you immensely off guard to see him again, much less standing in your living room and talking with your new friends without them even knowing who he is, without knowing what he did. The result in your brain is immediate: you miss him. You didn’t realize how much you did until you saw him.

You miss the way he’d always wake up before you, either getting up to brew your favorite coffee blend or simply waiting for you to wake in his arms, tracing idle fingertips along your smooth skin or kissing your hairline. You miss how he always made you laugh, no matter how grumpy or irritated you were at him or at the world. You miss his charm, the way he’d always flirt with you regardless of how long you’d been together, pretending to not know you in public just to ask you out all over again. You miss how he knew you, how he knew your favorite things and brought you your favorite foods and candies, how he’d buy you silly trinkets he saw in a store window simply because it reminded him of you, how he’d know how to approach you when you’ve had a bad day. You miss how he loved you, like there was nothing else around him worth his time.

The tears don’t come. They almost do, but when the time comes for them to fall, they just…don’t.

Perhaps it’s because you’ve already used all of them on him. Or because you’re tired. Or because you’re simply sitting with a pit in your stomach about the fact that he’s here, he’s actually here, probably making friends and slowly integrating himself in the life you wanted him to be in from the start.

God, feelings fucking suck.

“Hey.”

The voice (the all too familiar voice) startles you, snapping you out of your thousand yard stare to whip your head around to face the culprit. You blink dumbfounded when your eyes meet his pretty blues, yours definitely blown wide simply at the mere thought of someone disturbing your fire escape time, a fire escape hidden from the party.

Of course, it’s him. How did he even find you?

You didn’t even hear the window crack open. Nor your bedroom door. You didn’t think someone would have the audacity to enter someone else’s bedroom without knocking, or perhaps he did and you simply didn’t hear it. Regardless of the way in which the events played out, he’s still leaning through your window frame and still too fucking close to be considered apprehensive.

At your silence, Rafe clears his throat with a cautious glance. “Can I sit?”

I don’t know, can you? You almost snap childishly, disastrously still wanting to put on the front you had on earlier to attempt to show him your indifference, but it proves unlikely that you’ll have an ounce of that spark you had from before.

Because now you’re just tired. Worn out mentally. Re-hashing the details of your breakup over and over and over in your head to torture yourself. You have little fight left in you, and the mere thought of trying to stay strong only settles more of a kettlebell in your gut.

Wordlessly, you nod.

It’s a bit awkward when he actually realizes you’ve said yes (gestured it, actually), registering that you’ve given him the green light instead of the red that he had been expecting, especially since your venomous words about an hour ago. His limbs are long and lanky, and it takes him a bit of time to actually situate himself next to you and find a position comfortable enough to accommodate his stature. It’s not the most forgiving fire escape, but you’ve gotten used to the harsh ridges and crates that are now a source of comfort.

Rafe notices the unlit joint. “Were you gonna smoke?”

You shrug, because you don’t even know. You brought it out here just to have some sort of outlet in the beginning, but realized it actually might make your spiraling worse, so you left it untouched. Perhaps for later. You didn’t even bring your phone out here.

The stubborn silence coming from you makes him antsy, you can tell. Because there’s one thing that always made him nervous, and that was when you shut down. When you closed yourself off and drifted into the confinements of your mind that aren’t forgiving. When you are silent, because he’s said before that he loves your words, and life without them always hurt no matter what. He dealt with your quiet as best as he could, and for the most part he always handled it well.

Obviously, his method of coddling you back into speaking isn’t going to work now. So instead he sits, picking at his nail beds that confirms he picked up his bad habit again. You almost instinctively reach out to get him to stop, but catch yourself before you can further embarrass yourself.

“You can have it, if you want,” you offer tiredly, voice quieter than you intended.

But despite the volume, his shoulders visibly relax at the sound of your voice.

“No, I’m…” Rafe clears his throat. “I’m okay. Thanks.”

Then, more silence.

He’s so close yet so far, just barely brushing shoulders and you almost don’t want the connection because it’ll simply remind you of how good it feels to touch him. You don’t want to know it again only to have the rug swept out from beneath you once more. So instead you keep your distance, and don’t lean into him as your heart achingly wants you to do so.

You speak before you make a stupid decision. “How’d you find me?”

In your peripheral, you see Rafe’s head tilt quizzically towards you as if he wasn’t expecting you to speak, to initiate the conversation after the drought. He’s quiet for one, two beats, finally registering that, no, he didn’t imagine it, you asked him a question.

“Wyatt,” he responds simply. His eyes feel like lasers boring into your profile, but you don’t give in, keeping your gaze solely on the city. “Gave me directions.”

You hum. Of course.

“This is nice,” Rafe adds after a few moments. “The place and the…view.”

Again, you hum, ignoring how he’s only looking at you.

“What’re you doing here?” You ask gently.

His brows raise at you bringing out the one million dollar question earlier than you both anticipated, but of course it’s the only one that’s been on your mind for the better part of an hour. He’s here, in the place you initially planned for you two to be in, the place he said he couldn’t follow you to because he didn’t want to bring you down. It feels like one big joke, as if your breakup meant nothing because, despite it all, he’s here.

“Wyatt’s helping me get on my feet,” he answers quietly. “Dad cut me off.”

That piques your curiosity, facing him briefly. “He did? Why?”

Rafe almost looks relieved you’re meeting his gaze. “Backed out of the family business.”

“What?”

He nods. “Put myself in it for a few months and it…” He sucks in a harsh breath. “Fuckin’ blowed. I freaked out, got in a huge fight with him and he just…kicked me out. Cut me off. Told me to go do whatever it is I wanted to do without him.”

Your face must be puzzled as all hell.

He…stepped away from his father’s company? The business he’s been groomed to rule his entire life? Every single major step of Rafe’s life was done to accommodate his eventual take over once his father passes or retires. He majored in business and commercial real estate. He picked up ungodly hours during the holidays or whenever he went home or even logged in from miles and miles away from home to help his dad out with a deal. It’s the only path he’s ever known, only thing he’s ever planned for, only subject he’s been focused on since the responsibility of being a predecessor was high.

And now he’s not doing it anymore?

You want to pry, of course you do, and ask if he’s alright after suddenly dropping the one thing his life seemingly amounted to for the entirety of college. You’ve seen how stressed it made him, how business deals tampered with his mental health and the fear of fucking up weighed on his conscious. More so the fear of disappointing his father.

But Rafe looks content…relaxed, even. It’s as if a massive weight has clobbered to the ground off his shoulders, giving him a newfound lightness to him that you haven’t seen before. Sure, his eyes still brim with a hurt that yours surely reflect, but there’s an easiness to his posture and overall demeanor. It’s almost foreign to see on him.

“And what are you doing now?” You ask incredulously, still wrapping your head around the fact that his life has completely flipped.

Rafe looks down briefly, at the ring you still wear that he gave to you on your birthday one year.

“Working at Wyatt’s dad’s construction site.”

Your brows skyrocket.

He laughs boyishly. “I know. Totally rogue, right?”

Despite it all and despite your aching heart, you manage to laugh with him.

“Rafe Cameron in construction?” You joke. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

He hums low and amused, eyes trained on you. “Me neither. But it’s been good. Steady. Keeping me busy enough so I can save up for school.”

You furrow your brows at him for the umpteenth time. “You’re going back?”

Rafe confirms your suspicions when he nods slowly, earnestly. “Hopefully next fall.”

The words ring through silence for a few moments as you study him, really study his face. It’s soft, still laced with the etches of hurt that isn’t seeming to go away anytime soon, but there’s a firmness to his expression that encapsulates his goals for his future. He looks certain of himself, unsure of himself emotionally, but focused with the way he’s talking about his future.

Because he never really had to deal with that uncertainty. Rafe was always going to move back home after graduation and work with his dad. That was always the plan, nothing more or less to it. He never gave second options a chance and always chased the noble pursuits that would aide him in his future with the company.

But now he’s… free? If that’s the right term for it?

You remember how he used to talk about it sometimes as if it was a prison, as a wheel he’s caught on and never not spinning away from his actual dreams and desires. It was always his path, so Rafe never wanted to think about the possibility of doing something different, because it felt like a lost cause. He’d never be able to leave, so why day dream about doing so? It would only hurt his soul.

Now he’s freed from the burden. And he’s never looked more content.

“That’s…” You try and find the right words. “Good for you.”

You say it as genuinely as you mean it, one hundred percent earnestly. Because he does deserve it, the chance to find himself outside the confinements of what he was bred to be.

But it still doesn’t answer the grand scheme of questions, the big kahuna that’s been plaguing your conscious. Not the question of how he found your room, or your private rooftop, but more so you. Your apartment. Your city. You.

“Why here?” You ask gently. “Out of all the places to start over, you…”

You came to me, you almost say.

But refrain. Because that’s fucking stupid to assume.

It must be a coincidence, no? He has friends here, people to fall back on and places that someone else can introduce him to. He’s not completely alone in his endeavors, like he’s said that Wyatt is helping him get back on his feet. That’s no reason for you to assume that his presence, his uproot, is all because of you. You can’t. Because you’ll spiral more than you already are.

And his answer is worse.

“Because you’re here,” he says simply as if it’s law.

Wh—?

You can barely respond. “Bec—because I’m—?“

Rafe laughs quietly at your befuddlement. “I didn’t know you’d be here literally. Wyatt never told me your name when he told me about the party, only called you Honey. So that was…unintentional.” He hums. “What does Honey mean anyway?”

Your panic spikes. “Uh, nothing. It’s not— There’s no reason to— Semantics.” You’re still trying to wrap your head around the fact that he’s here for you. “You’re here— You— For me?”

When he nods, it literally sucks the air from your lungs.

“It’s strange,” he says quietly after a moment of relishing in your panicked demeanor. “Seeing you with people who are calling you a different name. Seeing pieces of you around the apartment. I knew as soon as I walked in, it just…fucking killed me.” His fingers twitch in your direction, as if his body is involuntarily drawing himself to touch you. “I didn’t realize it would hurt so fucking bad.”

You can’t help but frown. “You’re the one who did it.”

Rafe squeezes his eyes shut, almost pained. “I know. I know.”

“It’s not fair.”

“I know, baby,” he says, the name slipping out like a second nature that stabs your gut. “None of what I'm doing is fair, I- it's selfish. I know that. But I..."

Rafe trails off, scoffing at his own inability to form the words he wishes to speak. You can recognize that, understanding the frustration is not with you but rather the internal turmoil in his own mind. He's constantly fighting with himself, teetering between what feels wrong and what feels right and almost always self destructing in the end.

Words never came easy to him. It's something you learned early on with him, realizing that his actions spoke a lot louder than he ever could. At first, you thought he was odd for shutting down after arguments with his father or after the two of you would disagree on something. But once you saw the laundry neatly folded after one of your classes or the fridge restocked without you asking, you realized that this, the wordless acts, were his versions of mending broken amenities.

You also know that Rafe was probably never taught to properly emote. Orchestrated by the faults of his father.

So you wait patiently. You let him take time to find his words. You allow him to make up for the blunder of his break up.

Playing with the ends of your hoodie (you changed into comfort clothes an hour ago once you promptly decided you will not be returning to the party), you watch as Rafe studies the ring on your finger, brows knit as his eyes narrow in an attempt to ground himself, to focus his thoughts carefully and calculate what he wants to say, how he wants to say it. Trying really, really hard to articulate his bubbling feelings.

"There hasn't been a day that's gone by where I don't think about you," he starts slowly, tone low to articulate his seriousness. "Every fucking day, all I can see is how I hurt you."

The instinct to say something, to say anything, is stronger than you've ever felt. But you hold back, you bite your tongue, instead sucking in a deep breath with the anticipation that whatever he's about to say is going to fucking hurt. Not because you've already been through this before, but because he's probably about to break your heart without even knowing.

He continues. "It wasn't— When you told Wyatt we knew of each other, I... To look at you and pretend you were someone I've never met as if you aren't the only thing keeping my life together at this point.”

Rafe trails off, squeezing his eyes shut momentarily to avoid going on a tangent, to focus on what's important to him in this moment, to not get hung up on semantics from earlier when you were being an asshole.

With another deep breath, he continues.

"I thought I was doing what was right by distancing myself from you, because I knew I'd be suck at home working a job that would've made me miserable, and I..." He sucks in a harsh breath, shaking his head.

But you're yearning for an answer. For anything. "You what?"

Rafe briefly meets your gaze, almost shyly, because you're still here hanging onto every single one of his words. And the look on your face is fucking killing him, because you only look more hurt than before yet prettier than ever.

He swallows harshly. "I know what I'm like. Especially around my old man, and I didn't want to subject you to that."

"Rafe."

It's said as a plea, so earnest and heartbroken that he didn't think you would stand by him, through his wide range of emotions. Because you love him. You know the mental struggle he deals with whenever his father is involved in anything, and you knew that going into your post grad lives. Still, you were going to stick by him, no matter what.

Rafe says your name quietly. "I don't like who I am when I'm around him. I'm mean, and self destructive and...and a total fucking head case."

You whisper his name once more.

But he only shakes his head. "Please, I—I know it sounds stupid, alright? I just didn't want you to see that, to see that part of me. The thought of being long distance with you already fucking killed me, and I didn't need my temper adding onto it."

Rafe's eyes leave yours and settle downwards on the metal crate you're practically both sitting on. His fingers immediately fly to his hand, incessantly picking at his nail beds as a tell that he's on edge, close to panicking. He probably doesn't even realize he's doing it, but his eyes dart back on forth as he shakes his head, almost to himself, as the gears in his mind turn and turn and turn to desperately search for something more to say.

The act is muscle memory when your hand goes to cover his, stopping his bad habit immediately.

His head whips up to meet your gaze, jolted by the contact he surely was not expecting.

But you hold your own, gazing at him gently to stop the horrific insecurities you know he's spewing to himself in his head. For once, you need him to stop listening to himself and listen to his heart, listen to you, to stop trusting the devil on his shoulder and self sabotage in fear of others doing it first. You'd never. Not with him. He must know that.

"I know you," you say quietly. "And I know you would never hurt me without meaning to."

He winces.

Yet you continue. "I know you push people away before they can do it to you. But you need to understand something, Rafe, that I wasn't going anywhere. I'm not going anywhere now. When will you let yourself believe that?"

Rafe frowns impossibly deep, brows furrowing at the notion that you're still here. Despite everything he's done to you, said to you, made you think, you're still here. Wanting him. Caring for him. Being too damn sweet for your own good as you always were. And still are. You're still you, through fragments and a smile that doesn't reach your eyes quite yet, but you're still you. Looking at him like you still love him.

When your hand leaves his to cup his jaw gently, it feels like he can breathe again.

Holy fuck. You've almost forgotten what it's like to touch him. To feel him. To run your fingers along the smoothness of his skin and ground him to a moment so emotional that it nearly sends you flying away. Your palm is practically molded to the sculpture of his bone structure, as if it's been without a puzzle piece for so long, spending so much time incomplete and half of a whole.

Subconsciously, he leans into your touch.

"It feels wrong," he murmurs, eyes boring into yours so deeply that you're getting whiplash. "Having someone care about me like you do. It's not... No one has ever... I don't know how to deal with it."

"By talking," you hum low. "By telling me how you feel. Telling me what you need." Your thumb rubs an absentminded circle over his cheekbone.

He nearly sighs at the sensation. "I don't want to be a burden."

If possible, you frown even more than before. "You're not— Why would you say that? You're not a burden. At all."

Rafe doesn't answer you immediately. His brows pinch at the concept, as if it's foreign, as if what you've said is two plus two is five. His cheek is hot under your palm, hot with nerves and vulnerability that makes him temporarily speechless, and all you do is watch him. You wait for him to come to you. You've said (partially) your piece. His mouth opens and closes once, twice, as if the words are on the tip of his tongue but he refrains last minute, recalibrating his thoughts into something more cohesive.

"My worst fear is disappointing you," he says after a moment of considering your words. "Bringing you down with me. I can't... I won't let that happen."

"You're not," you say almost immediately.

"But I—“

"Do you remember the first week we met?" You blurt out suddenly, rudely interrupting him.

Confusedly, Rafe's head tilts slightly at the anecdote. Nonetheless, he nods slowly, almost egging you to continue.

And you do. "When I cancelled the dinner date at that fancy restaurant you set up? Because I had the flu?"

It was only one of the worst days of your life. Bedridden. Immobile. Practically death without the actual dying part. Too frail to even pick up a water bottle and too stubborn to ask for help. Teetering between being buried under six blankets to cranking the AC on full blast. It was grueling. Debilitating. You missed a plethora of assignments and social gatherings (despite it only being a few days).

He says your name gently. "What's this got to do wit—"

Again, you interrupt him. "You dropped everything, and I mean everything, to take care of me. And then you spent so much time with me that you fucking got sick too," you reminisce, adding a soft chuckle at the end when you think back on the don't be mad text that came from him just days after he was with you.

But he's still not getting it, blinking wordlessly at you in hopes you'll tell him what you mean, why this story has something to do with anything that's going on right now. What he doesn't realize, though, is that it is exactly the kind of thing he sees past. He probably doesn't know how much that meant to you, despite it probably being mindless for him.

How could he even think of himself as a burden? As wasted air? When all he's done is loved you in every way he knows how? How could he even think he's disappointed you when his love has been unlike anything you've ever experienced before? How could he think that low of himself?

"You could never disappoint me," you continue to further add your point. "Never. When all you've done was love me."

“I still do,” he answers almost immediately. “I haven’t stopped.”

You’re moving forward before you both can process it.

Wrapping your arms around his neck, your body is instantly taut to his, chest to chest and cheek to cheek as you find your mold against his body. It’s familiar yet agonizing, almost mind blowing that you’ve gone so long without him, without his touch, without his embrace that you quickly grew to love the first time he held you. You feel like you can finally breathe, finally remember the beautiful feeling after losing it.

Rafe’s nearly — if not more — relieved than you are, wrapping his arms around you immediately with one hand butterfly splaying on your back and the other on the back of your head, keeping you close. The deep exhale that emits from his mouth tickles your ear, and you let yourself close your eyes at the warmth of him, of how he smells the same.

“Fuck,” he murmurs quietly, almost to himself. “I missed you. I missed you so fucking much.”

Tears brim your waterline. You’ve been without him for so long, loving a shadow of a man without ever seeing or hearing from him. You wanted to be angry, to hate him, to say fuck it and move on with your life. But you couldn’t. Not when he’s the only one who has ever made you feel alive. Not when he’s been hurting in his own quiet way and self sabotaging at the fear of hurting you.

Rafe sucks in a large breath and, with that, his chest bumps impossibly taut to yours. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I made a mistake.”

“Don’t leave,” you plead, your voice ghosting the shell of his ear that makes the hair on his arm stand up. “Please. Not again.”

“I won’t,” he answers immediately, sounding absolutely wrecked. “I won’t, baby. I promise. I’m here. Not going anywhere.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, readjusting your grip around him to pull tighter — if possible — and practically seating yourself in his lap. It’s not comfortable at all, and you can’t imagine it’s comfortable for him against the grate-like fire escape. But it’s when you need, it’s what he needs, and neither of you can fathom how long you spent away from each other, almost like a sick joke.

And you just stay like this for a bit, holding onto each other as if you’re gripping onto a balloon threatening to float away. Despite his shorter, new hair, his cologne is the same as you first met him. The ring adorning his finger, the family ring, is missing from his hand, instead replaced with a similar looking one. The shirt is sleek and thin and you can feel the ridges and hills of his muscles underneath it. He may look a little different, more mature and in different clothes, but he feels the same as he’s always been, he’s still the person you know through and through.

“Inside,” you say after a while. “Please?”

“Yes,” he whispers immediately, certain. “No need to beg, baby. I’ll do whatever you want.”

When you untangle limbs, it’s slow, calculated, appreciative. His hands linger on your body longer than they should, mapping regions he hasn’t touched in months, re-familiarizing himself with the dips and crevices of your body. You do the same, pressing the pads of your fingertips along his shoulder blades and on the columns of his neck, skimming gently over the single earring adorning his left ear that definitely wasn’t there before. His skin is hot, almost burning for you, yet inviting in a way that makes you never want to let go.

It takes a little while to mobilize. You’re so caught up in feeling each other that you don’t realize how much time has passed. Not that it matters anyway. Because all you can focus on is the man in front of you, putting his heart on a silver platter and serving it to you hot. It’s all limbs and incoordination when climbing back through your window, soft laughter echoing off the alley walls and reverberating into your bedroom. His hands attempt to help you, drifting down to your waist as you climb through and you assume it’s a gesture just for him to cop a feel. But you don’t mind. You’ve missed it. You never want his hands away from you again.

When you change into pajamas and you slither into bed, your eyes brazenly watch him. The way he peels his t-shirt off his body, or unbuckles his pants to leave him solely in his boxers, in his preferred sleep wear. Yet he does it because he knows you: he knows you don’t like “outside clothes” in your sheets, wordlessly respecting your wishes without even being told so.

Rafe climbs under the sheets like he owns it, and you’ve already designated that side of the bed to him long ago, so seeing him here doesn’t feel so foreign. It’s muscle memory when his hand seeks refuge on your waist, shamelessly settling under your sleep shirt to let the pads of his fingertips dig into your flesh to almost stake a claim, but also to tether himself.

Your hand, on instinct, ghosts the skin of his chest, palm skimming over his heart. Despite not pressing fully, you can practically feel how fast it’s beating, how hard it’s thrumming against his ribcage. Though his content expression is a contrary to the feeling, looking more relaxed than ever.

The sensation makes your lips twitch. “Your heart is racing.” You let your palm press gently onto the rhythm.

His smile is impossibly bright.

“Remember when I kissed you for the first time?”

“I remember you being so nervous that you missed.”

“Alright.” Rafe laughs. “Not what I was referring to, but I guess.”

It’s devastatingly refreshing to see his smile, almost forgetting how pretty he looks like this: happy, unguarded, mind quiet of its vulnerabilities and allowing him to enjoy the moment, to slow down and indulge in the simplicities yet complexities of love.

“Then what?” You hum teasingly, his blue eyes piercing despite the dim lighting. “If not that?”

The laughter dies down. His gaze softens. His thumb traces shapes on your skin.

“Thought my heart was gonna burst out of my fuckin’ chest,” he murmurs casually as if that doesn’t make yours skip a beat, even more so when his hand comes up to caress your face, thumb skimming over your bottom lip. “Every single time.”

“You should probably see a cardiologist.”

“Don’t need a diagnosis, baby. ‘S just you.”

You try not to smile. You really try. But it’s really fucking difficult when he looks so pretty, staring at you like you’ve hung the stars yourself and holding you here in place so firmly yet gently at the same time that you couldn’t move if you tried. And he knows it. He knows you’re trying not to give into his charm, the same charm that you’ve been falling for for as long as you’ve known him.

“And now?” You dare, pressing your hand into his beating heart. “How’s it feel?”

“Like it’s gonna burst outta my chest,” he says before kissing you.

Instantly, you’re arching into his body, palms pressed firmly on his chest as a feeble attempt to ground yourself, to remind yourself that this is happening and, no, you’re not dreaming. Rafe’s here, in your bed, kissing you like his life depends on it (and it probably does). Your brows pinch even though he can’t see your face, furrowed in focus to narrow in on the passion.

Rafe makes a noise. A sigh? You think. Regardless, you reciprocate and deepen the kiss by slightly parting your lips, allowing him the access he’s been craving. And he takes advantage in less than a second, a large hand splayed on the column of your neck to keep you here against him, feeling the way your jaw slightly opens to accommodate him.

“I love you,” he praises between breaths as if it’ll kill him if he doesn’t. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

You say it back. He says it again. You tennis-match the phrase over and over and over until the phonetics are burned into your tongues. He murmurs it against your skin against your lips, you beck, your chest, your stomach, the inside of your thighs. You whisper it into the air as if it’s prayer, an incantation that, strung together, produces a spell unlike any other.

And he’s hypnotized. It isn’t until you finish twice on his tongue that he’s even thinking about himself, and it’s only when you, in a daze, paw at his chest as ask for him, for all of him. He nearly double takes, caught up in the moment of simply pleasuring you, and if you hadn’t stopped him, if you hadn’t asked so sweetly, he would’ve went down on you ‘til sunrise.

The whole ordeal is slow. Unhurried. Deep and sensual that rattles your bones to shake. When he slips inside, it’s fucking euphoric, with an overwhelming sense of longing, nostalgia that causes a pleasure tear to slip from your eye, a tear that falls without you knowing. Not until he brushes it away with the pad of his thumb, anyway.

You’re sure you’re a babbling mess, spewing out incoherent sentences and mumbles of an I love you that probably don’t make sense. But he hears you all the same, going as far as repeating the phrase over and over against your skin like a mantra, telling you how nice you feel, that you’re made for him, how beautiful you are despite probably looking like a hot mess.

When all is said and done, Rafe is right there to tend to your needs. He’s kissing your stomach as he cleans the mess from your inner thighs. His thumb is smoothing over the hickies he peppered over multiple regions of your body, praising how beautiful you look, how good you were for him. He patiently waits for you to go to the bathroom and get ready for bed before he’s welcoming you back with open arms, and you’re not hesitating to fall into them. His embrace is warm and familiar, and you find it easy to breathe, to feel like you can relax. Rafe must feel the same, because his breathing is deeper, more evened out. Calmer and more sure of himself. Content.

“Stay the night,” you plea gently as you’re halfway to falling asleep.

You know it’s pathetic to ask, that he probably was going to anyway. But there’s that small sliver of doubt, the tiny voice in the back of your brain that’s haunted from the first time he left, driven to separation by his insecurities. You say it to be sure he knows, that he could stay for the rest of your life and you wouldn’t mind.

“I’m not leaving,” Rafe reassures against your hairline. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Not again.”

And you fall asleep like that: entangled limbs and sharing the same pillow despite a whole arm’s length of space. Your even breaths are what lure him to sleep, waiting for the crazy thumping of his heartbeat to die down before you can wake up to it. He relishes in the sensation of your breathing, how your chest rises and falls against his, and how you practically nuzzle into his embrace that confirms that you missed him just as much as he missed you.

Rafe pulls you a fraction tighter, refusing to let you go again. It’s a wordless promise that he’s going to try to be better for you, to stop listening to the vulgarities of his mind and listen to his heart. He’s going to allow himself to be loved by you and he’s going to let himself believe he deserves it.

Because if you say it? It’s as good as law.

notes hope this request is what you envisioned???? hope you enjoyed!!

#rafe cameron #salem-s works #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe outer banks #rafe x reader #rafe x y/n #rafe x you #reader insert #rafe cameron x female reader #rafe x female reader #female reader insert #rafe cameron outer banks #outer banks #rafe cameron obx #rafe obx

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outtathisworld-imagines · 2 days ago

Text

Call for a good time

——☀️——☀️——☀️——☀️——☀️——

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x F!Reader

Warning: Smut! +18 MDNI!, intercourse (F & M rec), fingering, masterbation, dirty talk, phone sex, mild drug mention, swearing, unprotected sex- pls wrap before you tap. Not proofread

A.N: been wanting to do this idea for a while because I am a sucker for a sweet oblivious Bob

Please let me know what else you guys would like! I do have a few other fics on the back-burner (for now!) that I'll start to post soon and just let me know if you'd liked to be tagged in further works too ✨

——☀️——☀️——☀️——☀️——☀️——

You struggled to get comfortable one evening on the sofa, shuffling from side to side and then groaning. You flicked through your phone, boredom and tiredness settling in your bones so you decided to head to your room.

You bumped into someone on the way “Oh, hey!” Bob smiled. “I’m grabbing a soda, you want one? Anything?” He asked.

Your heart fluttered at how much he put effort into the little things. Even if it was just offering a soda to anything at all in the world- you were certain he would have done anything to get it for you. You shook your head no. “I’m a little tired so I’m just heading to bed,” you told him. “I’ll watch some Netflix until I fall asleep- thanks though.”

His head bobbed up and down with the same smile on his face. “Well, goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight Bob,” you turned away and headed to your room.

He stood there, watching you walk away, a piece of him desperate to ask you to stay. To stay with him.

He murmured a swear under his breath and went to grab a soda before tossing himself on the couch. He wish he could just let you know how he felt. How you brought a smile to his face every time he saw you, how you’d do your own dishes to be more considerate to him, how you’d sit with him for sometimes hours on end whenever he felt himself being drawn back into the void.

Bob unknowingly sat where you had, he could almost smell the faint traces of your perfume. It drove him wild. The sweet smell that lingered around you, how he would smell it with his eyes shut, his head sunk onto his pillow and using his hand to pleasure himself wishing it was you.

He also tired to make himself more comfortable, that’s when something jabbed the back of his thigh. His brow creased as his hand went between the two cushions on the couch and pulled out a baby-pink coloured business card that read ‘Call for a good time’ followed by numbers and a time between 12am and 3am.

Bobs interest peaked and he tucked it carefully into his trouser pocket. He turned on the TV and then pulled it out again. The corners were a little frayed, but the numbers were taunting him to the point that he almost reached for his phone there and then.

He snorted at himself, putting the card away and wondering whose card it belonged to. He could place every single penny he had on a bet that it was John’s. He glanced in the direction of his room and shook his head, of course he’d carry a card like that.

After an hour, Bob went to his bedroom, the delicate card in his pocket was almost weighing him down. It was reaching midnight, he wondered if putting a voice to his fantasies was wrong, knowing that he was visioning you while someone else talked to him through the phone.

But at this point, after months of pinning, he was desperate, and he was too nervous to actually admit to you how he really felt.

He took out the card and practically punched the numbers into his phone, his thumb hovered over the call button momentarily, swallowing hard and almost deleting the number and calling it a night.

But he pressed dial.

It rang three times and then the person on the other side answered. “You’ve called for a good time?”

Bob was already sweating, he wasn’t quite sure from nerves or internal embarrassment that he found himself in this predicament.

“Hello?”

He realised he hadn’t actually spoke. “H-hi! Hi! I’m here,” he swallowed “I’m here.” He said releasing a shaky breath.

A giggle floated through his speaker “Well hi, how can I help you tonight, honey?” The voice was almost as thick and as sweet as it.

Bob cleared his throat and scratched his head. “I…I don’t really know. I’ve never done anything like this before.”

That giggle again. It was gonna be the death of him. “That’s okay, I’m here to help you with whatever you need.” Bob nodded, as if the person on the other side could see him. “If it makes you feel any better, this is relatively new to me too so we might be in this together.”

Bob let out a sigh of relief “It does.”

“And we don’t have to go through anything you don’t wanna, this is your call. We can be as filthy or as mild as you want. Or we can even just talk. I’m all yours.”

Bob settled back on his bed and closed his eyes “I think I wanna tell you to touch yourself for me.”

There was a pause then that knee-weakening giggle “You think?”

Bob began palming himself over his jeans “I know I wanna tell you to touch yourself.” He placed the phone between his head and shoulder as he quickly unbuttoned his jeans and pulled them down to his knees, finding a surge of confidence. “I want you to sink those fingers so deep into your pussy that you think they are still gonna be there when you pull them out.” He heard the breath hitch on the other side “C’mon baby,” Bob began stroking himself, pre-cum already oozing from his cock and his eyes squeezed tight enough that he could see you. “Tell me what you’d do to me. Tell me what you wanna do to me.”

A soft whimper left the lips of the person on the other side of the phone. “Oh honey, I’d have that huge cock of yours hitting the back of my throat while you watched me playing with myself just like I am now,” they said and Bob sunk deeper into his mattress, about to cum already at this heightened experience he was going through. His grip tightened around both his phone and his cock. “Then I’d give you my pussy to fuck. Fuck me all night if you wanted. Want you to fill me up baby, can you do that for me?”

The begs mixed with the moaning and gentle slick nosies in the background sent Bob over the edge “Oh fuck! Yes! Fuck yes I’ll fill you so good.” He groaned as a rush of pleasure filled his body. His legs and feet stretching out as he tried to hold on for a little longer “Shit, I’m gonna cum so soon.”

“You can always call me again, honey.” The voice sounded gentle, reassuring.

“I want you to cum first, please.” He said in a broken voice, beads of sweat dripping down his face. “Please- fuck!”

“I’ll let you listen baby,” the phone went from a soft whispering voice to wet, slick, sloppy noises. Bobs whole body jolted at the noise of the pussy being played with for him. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum, you wanna hear me cum for you baby?”

“Yes!” Bob gritted between his teeth “God yes! Fuck!” Moments later, Bob’s ears filled with the sound of a stranger cumming for him over the phone, loud moans softly subsiding into laboured breaths.

“Cum for me baby, I know you wanna. Imagine you’re cumming all over my tits, cumming all over me.”

“Oh, fuck- gonna- give you it all,” Bob’s voice was strained, he was convinced he was going to have a sore throat tomorrow. “Shit, shit, shit, I’m cumming,” he said as warm white sticky streams coated his own stomach wishing it was yours. Wishing it was your voice. Wishing you were here with him. “Fuck…” Bob drawled.

“Better let you go and get cleaned up.” The voice said and Bob softly smirked.

“Wish you were here to help,” he said almost cumming again at the fluttery giggle. “But seriously, thank you, I needed that.”

“Well whenever you need it again, you got my number, honey.” They said. “Trust me, with how wet you got me, I’ll pick up within one ring for you.”

Bob caught his breath as he said “I’ll be having you on speed-dial.”

—•—

It had been almost a month since Bob had used the services of a stranger, most nights with his cock in his hand picturing you as a voice encouraged him on.

“Hey Bobby!” Johns voice brought him back to the room. “You good with this movie?” The team were curled up on the couch. He mindlessly nodded and then looked at the time, it was 11:30pm and he always called his phone-sex stranger on the dot at 12am.

He pulled out his phone and sent a quick message. ‘I’ll be calling a little later tonight- sorry.’

“I’m just going to grab a drink, anyone want anything?” You asked standing up and received a choir of ‘no’s’ in return.

You pulled out your phone, it buzzed with a text, you smiled as you text back.

Bob pulled out his phone, he could feel you sinking down beside him upon your return with a drink in hand.

‘That’s okay,’ the text began ‘You’re gonna just have to make it up to me, baby 😘’

He turned to you and sent you a small smile, if only you knew what he did behind closed doors.

Yelena groaning in disgust brought everyone’s attention to the scene on the screen. “Oh god,” you muttered as two people practically broke the bed, you and your dysfunctional family watching on. “Of course you’d put on a film that’s essentially porn, Walker!” You chided.

“Oh come on! That’s soft-core at best!” He tried to defend.

“Fast forward it!” Yelena had her eyes covered.

Bob’s eyes glanced from the tv to you, your head softly shaking with a small smile. You caught him and shrugged with a nervous smile, not seeing how red his face really was thanks to the dim lights. The scene playing was a similar scenario to what he and his mysterious stranger over the phone reenacted alone in his room.

You pulled a pillow to your chest and hid your head in it “At least mute the TV! Jesus, these noises are so fake!” Your voice was muffled by the pillow.

John snorted “Girls always moan like that.”

“No they don’t,” Bob said quietly thinking that no one would hear him. But everyone did. You blinked in surprise. “Well at least the ones who aren’t faking it.”

The soft gasps and ‘oohs’ from the team made John shift in his seat. “Good one,” you stuck your hand out for Bob to high-five, his hand against yours sending a spark of electricity up your arm. You remained on the sofa cuddling the cushion, wishing it was him instead.

An hour and a half later Bob ran to his room and pressed his recent call log. The affectionate fake name of ‘Honey’ at the top. And the most called.

“Someone’s a late boy…” a soft chide from the other line gave him a hard-on already.

“I know, honey, I know. I’m sorry.” Bob said as he skilfully removed his bottoms. “But I’ve thought about us all day, been wanting this all day.” He shakily breathed into his own phone as he gripped onto his cock. “Wanna cum for you, want you to cum for me.”

“Steady baby,” the voice cooed “Wanna take my time with you tonight since you were late…”

Bob groaned in desperation, ready to implode. “I’ll try, honey, I’ll try.” He hissed giving his swollen cock a gentle stroke. “Shit I’m so pent up.”

“Tell you what, baby,” the smooth as silk voice said. “Let’s get you out of this pent up state and tomorrow night we can draw this out a little longer? Huh?”

“Fuck, are you sure?” Bob asked, already quickening his pace.

That giggle again. “Of course I am, wanna make you happy, baby. Let’s make you happy.” Bob barely made it to his bed before being brought to his knees in sheer desperation for release.

“Fuck, you got me on the floor, baby.” He was breathless speaking to the person on the phone. “Gonna cum so quick.”

“Yes baby! Cum for me, just imagine me under you with my mouth open and my tongue out ready for your big load just for me.” Bob yelped in pleasure visioning it was you under his body and his cock against your tongue as he came, how he would have pained your face, and neck, and tits, and stomach with how much he came.

He looked down and saw the spray of white in front of him. “Shit,” he hunched forward “The mess I’ve made baby,” he laughed, laced with exhaustion. “The mess I’ve made because of you.”

“I should let you clean up.”

Bob paused for a moment “Can I actually just hear your voice for just a little longer? Please?”

Bob couldn’t see the smile through the phone but it was there. “Of course you can.”

“Thank you,” he sat back a little, still on the floor. “What are you doing right now?”

“Talking to you of course.” The voice replied amused. “Just lazing on my fluffy sheets wishing it was your fingertips grazing me,” Bob bit down on his lip. “Wish I had you all over me.”

“I need to see your body,” Bob blurted out. His internal thoughts being spoken.

There was a silence, Bob pulled the phone back to see if the call was still connected. It was. He then wondered if he had crossed a line.

“That’s extra.”

Bob’s eyes widened, his palms suddenly sweating at the thought that this could happen. “I’ll pay. Whatever it is I’ll pay.” His voice spilled out, almost desperately.

“What’s your favourite colour?”

Bob snorted. “Why’s that relevant?”

“Just tell me.”

“I like pink.”

“Ohh takes a real man to admit that. Why pink?” The voice fluttered.

“Because I dream of your perfectly pink pussy. That’s why.” His voice was rough, ready to see a glimpse of the person finally, further enhancing a vision of you for his fantasy.

“Fuck, honey, don’t say things like that because I’ll soak my sheets.”

“Good. God, I wish I was there to lick it up,” the voice moaned at his words. “Tomorrow. Midnight. I want you ready for me.”

—•—

Bob was shaking as the clock struck 11:59pm. He was in nothing but his boxers because if the other person was going to be half naked then he would be too, making it a shared experience.

His level of phone sex was about to be taken to another level entirely.

He pressed his FaceTime button instead of the call option, pointing it away from his face. It rang and then connected.

“Fuck,” Bob’s eyes were on a baby pink lingerie set that hugged the curves of the body it was on perfectly. There was his honey, body engulfed in that furry sheet mentioned before with a hand toying with the hem of the underwear. “Holy. Fucking. Shit. You’re so gorgeous.”

“Well if I was gonna have that greeting I would have done this sooner with you.” The voice laced around him and his own hand moved down. “You’re stunning, I wish I was really there with you.”

Bob softly exhaled “If only.” He nervously ran his sweaty palm down his abs. “I’m pretty nervous…”

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” The comforting tone of the voice made him nod.

Bob looked at the phone, the beautiful body before him and swallowed hard. “Please touch yourself for me,” he asked “I’m begging you.” He pleaded.

He imagined it was you on the other end as he watched slender fingers trail towards the pink panties. Bob began touching himself through his boxers and closed his eyes momentarily. “Wish it was your fingers teasing me…” he watched as the fingers traced over the material.

“Fuck yeah, baby, that’s it,” Bob moaned as his eyes fluttered shut and then, before he knew it, got so lost in the moment he murmured a name he kept hidden behind his lips all this time. “Yes, Y/N, fuck!”

Bob didn’t notice the hand freeze.

“You…know my name?”

His eyes snapped open. “Sorry?”

“You said the name Y/N?”

“I didn’t- ah shit,” Bob fumbled with his phone and his face was now on the screen.

“Wait a second…BOB?!” The camera turned around, your face suddenly looking his face as you sat up quickly in bed. “Y-you’re the one that’s been calling?!” Your voice was tight and quick, you tried to hide your semi-exposed chest with your hand. “What?!” He was pretty sure the entire tower had heard his name being screamed at the top of your lungs.

“You’re her?!”

“Oh I’m gonna kick your ass!” You grumbled and hung up the phone. You grabbed your dressing gown and threw it on over you, you paused for a moment, a feeling of conflict now swirling inside you.

You had always wanted Bob to be more than a friend, spending countless mornings waking up breathless and in a pool of sweat after having a dream about him having his way with you, your ache remedied by touching yourself at the thought of him. Your feet however quickly rushed to his door, battering on it with a closed fist. “I know you’re in there!” You banged again and Bob opened up, you strode into his room as he shut the door behind him.

“Y/N-“

“Oh no, no, no,” you pointed a finger at him. “Do not open your mouth.” You warned. “Not after you’ve been getting off on me for weeks!”

Bob blinked and his jaw dropped “I’m not the only one here doing that!” He now pointed to you. “You’ve had your fair share of good times courtesy of me!”

Your chest was heaving and your body shaking from rage and something more seeing him in the flesh in nothing but his boxers. “How’d you even get my card anyway?”

“Oh like you didn’t give it to Walker?” Bob snapped back, a slither of jealously laced in his words. “Bet he’s always the next one on the line…”

Your brows furrowed in confusion “WHAT?!” You yelped “Walker has never called me?”

“Oh yeah? How come I found your card in the sofa then?” He asked folding his toned arms over his equally toned chest.

You groaned and tapped your hips, imagining your jean pocket there instead of your dressing down. “Ah fuck, must have fell out my pocket…” you turned on your heel away from him.

The room was silent, thick with tension. The pair of you internally debating who should speak first. “I’m just as unsure what to say now from the first time I called.” Bob finally broke the silent sound barrier. “Your voice sounds so different over the phone.”

You glanced to him over your shoulder “You were the first,” you admitted “Tried to feign some confidence through that call.” The memory of it sent a chill down your spine. “You were the only one that ever called.”

Bob twiddled his fingers “What made you do it?” He asked and you turned to give him your full attention. “What made you set up a line?”

You perched yourself at the end of his bed, you had spilled enough with each other, one more confession wouldn’t make it any less strange than it was now. “A friend suggested it. They said it might have helped, and to get a bit of money too,” you smirked. “So I got a new phone and followed their advice. In all honesty, I did it because it thought it would help me.”

“Help you how?” Bob asked, his feet bringing him closer to you.

You looked up to him through your lashes, surprised at how close he had gotten. “Help me release some…tension…” you carefully admitted. “Release the tension I had of you.” Bob gulped hard, you heard. “Why did you call?” You asked while shifting on the spot, the fabric of your dressing gown slipping down your shoulder and exposing some skin. Bobs mouth went dry.

“I-I- uh,” he scratched the back of his neck. Your eyes flickered down to his growing bulge in his boxers.

Another wave of confidence washed through like it did on that fateful first night. “Did you want a good time…honey?” Bob’s eyes quickly looked at yours then fell to the rest of your body. How he touched himself mere moments ago over it dreaming it was you.

His dreams had come true.

“Y-yeah…” he just about managed to choke out. “I had tension built over you too.” He stepped closer, you extended a leg out and brought him towards you with it. “Every time I came,” his hands gently moved the fabric from your other shoulder, exposing the lacy material you wore for him underneath. “I came thinking of you.”

You craned your head and with your own hands slipped off your dressing gown, a soft gasp left Bob’s lips. “I came thinking of you too…” you whispered. It didn’t take much force for Bob’s fingertips to push you to the bed, your foot still wrapped around the back of his calf. “Long before those calls…”

Bob watched as your teeth sunk into your bottom lip, he watched you shimmy out of your robe “You’re so beautiful,” his hand reached out, tentatively tracing his fingers over your bare skin and coming to a sharp holt when he reached the edges of your underwear.

His eyes flickered up to yours from the noticeable wet patch on your underwear that he was almost drooling over. “Will we make our phone call a reality…?” You softly nodded, a soft gasp leaving your lips as his fingers slowly moved to your clothed core. “Is this the way you’d touch yourself?” He rhetorically asked, fully knowing from the moans before it would have been. “Is this the way you tease yourself waiting for me?”

“Yes,” you brokenly admitted, gasping when he applied a delicate amount of force.

“Shit, so wet already,” his voice was gruff at the warm, wet feeling on his fingertips. How he wanted to lap it up desperately. How he wanted his cock to be coated in it. “Fuck,” you watched him lick his lips and you smirked.

You hooked your thumbs under your panties and slowly dragged them off for him, a string of swears leaving his lips like he was chanting a prayer. You went to unhook your bra but he stopped you. Bob leaned forward, his lips inches from yours as his eyes looked deep into your own as he undid your bra for you. The material falling down onto your lap as he pressed a soft kiss to your lips.

He went to pull back, your hands wrapped around the back of his neck bringing him back to your lips with an almighty force. He moaned as he collapsed on top of you, giggling at your eagerness. “No teasing me now, Reynolds.”

“No teasing, got it…honey.” Your heart fluttered at the nickname, you tossed your bra to the side and Bob’s hand grabbed your tit, rubbing your nipple between his forefinger and thumb. You moaned as your tongues battled for dominance in each other’s mouths, soft moans becoming louder and hands becoming widely uncontrollable.

You felt Bob’s cock twitch against your thigh and you smirked. “You’re overdressed,” you teased and he playfully rolled his eyes, capturing your lips with his again before pulling back and stripping off. You propped yourself up on your elbows, your jaw almost hitting your chest at the sight of him. “Jesus, I don’t think my phone screen would have fit you. Would have done you a great injustice.” Bob turned away with a blush on his face, rubbing a nervous hand through his hair. “Hey! Don’t be bashful,” you giggled.

‘God that giggle’ he thought. The same one that brought him to his knees every night.

He jumped back on you, his hands roaming every inch of your skin. “So beautiful, and all mine,” he murmured against your lips. “Needed you for so long, Y/N,” he admitted and let his hand roam to your pussy. “You ready for me, baby?” He asked, almost sounding drunk on the fumes of lust that filled his room. He stroked his fingers over your slit and you moaned at the contact. “Oh, you’re really ready for me.” Bob brought his fingers to his mouth and groaned as his tongue wiped away the glossy mess you had made off of himself. “You even taste like fucking honey.”

You giggled again, Bob couldn’t take it any more and sunk his cock inside you without any warning. “Fuck! Bob!” Your voice being ripped apart by your lungs as he stretched you out.

“Oh fuck, fuck!” He lay there for a moment feeling your pussy squeeze around him. “Couldn’t wait any longer for you. Shit, I need you so bad.” He breathlessly admitted.

“Well,” you batted your eyelashes “I’m all yours.”

He started grinding his hips, slow and gentle, a string of moans escaping his lips at the sight of you under him. “Fuck, you’re so fucking sexy. Gonna do what we talked about in our first call. Gonna give you all my cum, gonna soak you in it.” He started to quicken his pace and you gripped onto his wrists. “Is this even real, good fucking god, are you real?” His voice was dipping up and down, almost sounding delirious. He felt delirious. He felt like the room was spinning in the best way. He had never felt like this before, about someone and how they made him feel.

It was like he had taken ecstasy. Bob was higher than he had even been before.

“I’m real,” you panted out between loudening moans. “This is real,” your hand reached up to cup his cheek. “Bob, I’m gonna-fuck!” Your hand fell from his cheek, your limbs frantically reaching out and gripping onto his sheets. He watched you cum with a loud moan, spread out like an angel before him with your arms acting as if they were wings.

He opened his mouth to speak, tell you how ethereal you looked. For him, under him. But the only thing that left his mouth was a guttural scream as he came inside you, pulling out in just enough time to also coat your stomach and tits too, painting you like you were his masterpiece. He stroked himself until every last drop was on you, he sat back and watched as he poured out from your pussy. A perfect ribbon of white against a pink canvas.

“Fuck,” he breathed out, steadying himself on his knees as he watched you become more composed. He lay down next to you, the pair of you wanting to share a moment of bliss before getting cleaned up.

“Well, you called for a good time,” you tirelessly giggled. “Did you get one?” You asked fully knowing he got that and more.

“Oh trust me,” Bob turned and looked at you “I got the greatest fucking time of my life! I’ll be calling again.”

“I’ll always pick up for you.”

193 notes · View notes

tubattutu · 2 days ago

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Can I request afab!reader with yeonjun where y/n is having her first time with Yeonjun after a bad sexual experience 😭🙏🏻I can just imagine him being so sweet and so careful with her😭

“you ready?” yeonjun, your boyfriend would murmur to you, using the same, sweet tone of voice he only used with you.

you were nervous to say the least. your last sexual experience was so shitty that it left you completely scared to do it again with another guy. well—maybe not with yeonjun. so you finally gave him a chance. you just wished he proved you wrong. blankets were practically half off the bed, and your clothes were ditched onto the floor.

you nod slowly in response to him, intertwining your fingers with his securely as he pushes in. the slight burning sensation from the stretch causes you to let out a soft gasp, and one of his hands leaves your own to rub your hip comfortingly, making sure to hold atleast one of your hands. “s’ okay, im here…”

and he did in fact prove all your worries wrong. by the time you two were into it, it felt too good to stop.

“junnie-“ you whimper, your breath heavy as your walls clenched around him. he groaned lowly, his breath hot against the skin of your neck as he grasps onto your sides.

“ffuck- s’ tight for me baby.. this pussy’s mine..” he murmurs breathily, his thrusts quick and steady. “you gonna come for me baby?”

“mmh- yeahh- junnie-!” you moan blissfully, throwing your head back as he quickens his pace, his short nails practically digging into your skin. you grasp onto his biceps tight as your orgasm washes over you, leaving your legs weak.

the aftercare was just as good, him pampering you with so much care and affection. he’d press soft kisses to your forehead, making sure you fell asleep in pure comfort.

#txt x reader #txt moa #txt #txt smut #txt hard hours #txt hard thoughts #yeonjun hard thoughts #yeonjun hard hours #yeonjun smut #yeonjun x reader #txt yeonjun #kpop hard thoughts #kpop hard hours #kpop x reader #kpop fic #kpop smut #i love txt #txt post

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twstedfreak · 21 hours ago

Text

When The Moon Remembers | jinu kpdh part 1

A princess cursed to forget. A warrior doomed to remember.

Synopsis: A princess dreams of a man she’s never met—until he walks into court as a mysterious envoy. Haunted by echoes of a forgotten past, she’s drawn to him by a pull she can’t name.

Content: ANGST, early joseon dynasty themes, grief, past life death, reincarnation trauma, NOT BETA-READ BY OTHERS!! (only me), implied violence, psychological distress, dissociation, loneliness, isolation, forbidden romance, memory loss, unreliable narration, power imbalance, mild body horror, identity crisis, OPEN ENDING(?)

wc: 16.8k

A/N: ok so hi this is my tribute to jinu, thank you for reading my work,, i've been making this for 3 days straight... my back fcking hurts mannnn... just like how it hurt when jinu...... but yeah (spoiler alert: i'm not that good with endings i'm sorry...) this will only be a 2 chapter or 3?? fic idk,, it depends... it's supposed to be just a standalone fic but.... "dang only 1000 blocks allowed per post tumblr!" says tumblr LMAO so yeah,, thanks to my friends who supported me in making this,, they contributed to my dellusions LMAO<3 I love you jinu,, imma mke a smut fic soon so bye y'all,, pls patiently wait for the part 2 i'm working on it ToT (as well as the other fics,, I had in stored collecting dust LMAO) BYEEEEE HOES LOVE YLLL

The palace was silent in the hour between night and dawn. Not the stillness of sleep, but a breath held—as though the very walls were listening. Even the cicadas had gone quiet, their nightly song swallowed by something ancient in the air. Outside, the moon hung low and red, veiled by mist, casting long, skeletal shadows across the garden. Jade tiles shimmered with dew. The lattice doors of the women’s quarters remained shut, their painted blossoms fading in the dark. Lanterns had long burned out, their wax cold. Even the wind dared not stir the plum blossoms resting like offerings on the stone paths.

You moved barefoot through the garden, your silk hem damp and trailing behind you, whispering secrets to the stones. Your hair, unbound for the first time in days, hung loose down your back, its weight unfamiliar. The court would call it reckless. The guards, irresponsible. The court ladies would hide their gasps behind sleeves, calling it shameful. But in this hidden hour, with no one to witness, you were not the princess. Not the daughter of kings. Not the nation’s quiet pillar of grace and restraint. Not the bride-in-waiting, raised to be a symbol carved from jade and silence.

You were simply a girl. A girl aching for breath that wasn’t perfumed with politics. A girl who longed to feel the cold of stone beneath her feet, the damp of the world on her skin, to exist—if only for a moment—untouched by titles.

The Queen Mother’s Garden was your sanctuary, though no one called it that but you. To the rest of the palace, it was sacred ground—an ancestral space preserved for ritual offerings and seasonal rites. But to you, it was a secret world carved out of duty. A place where the weight of names dissolved into shadows and wind. The stone paths curled between groves of plum and bamboo, the air sweetened by moonflowers. A stream murmured softly through the heart of the garden, its koi sleeping beneath lily pads that shivered when touched by starlight. Small bridges arched across the water, unused at this hour—silent guardians of your solitude.

This was where you could breathe. Where the silence did not judge. Where the stars did not care for your lineage.

They called you wise, and said it like it was your greatest virtue. They spoke of your grace, your stillness, your beauty. A granddaughter of emperors, trained since birth to smile without speaking too quickly. You were praised for never stumbling, for weeping only behind screens, for knowing which words to say and which to swallow.

But no one ever asked what it was like to be watched always. No one asked how it felt to walk hallways lined with bowed heads, to sit beneath silk banners stitched with your future as though it were already sealed. No one asked if the wisdom they admired had cost you your voice.

Sometimes you dreamed of the world beyond the palace walls. Not in vivid details—but in feelings. Wind in your face. The roar of a river. Laughter not muffled by propriety. The kind of laughter that burst from the chest, unshaped by etiquette. You dreamed of color and noise, of dirt on your hands and no one scolding you for it but dreams were not for princesses. They were indulgences. Dangerous. Unbecoming. And so, you carried your yearning like you carried your name—quietly, with perfect posture. Yet tonight, something felt different. The silence wasn’t quite empty. The shadows seemed to bend differently. As though something—or someone—was watching.

Not a servant. Not a guard.

Perhaps, in that strange, fragile moment between night and dawn, when even the sky hesitated, you allowed yourself to believe—just for a breath—that this garden wasn’t empty.

That perhaps, you weren’t alone.

You drifted across the flagstones, the hem of your white under-robe soaked through with dew. Your slippers had been left behind, somewhere near the veranda, forgotten in your haste. A thin breeze tugged at your sleeves and cooled the warmth of your skin. You should have felt peace in this place. You had, on other nights. But tonight… Something was different.

The stillness felt too deliberate. Too heavy. As if something waited.

Your steps slowed as you passed beneath the archway leading toward the lotus pond. The usual murmur of night creatures… The frogs, the crickets, even the rustling birds—had gone silent. In their absence came a soft, rhythmic sound. Not natural.

Metal.

It was the distinct sound of a blade being drawn across its sheath, a slow, deliberate hiss.

Then came the growl.

Low and deep, like it rose from the belly of the earth. It did not sound like any beast you knew. Not a tiger. Not a wolf. It was… wrong. It stirred a primal part of you, an old fear buried in the marrow of your bones.

You stopped.

The wind held its breath.

From the corner of your eye, movement—something slipping between two stone lanterns, too tall and too bent to be human.

And then you saw it.

A creature—if such a word could apply—emerged from the shadows. Its form was skeletal, but bloated in places, like something had worn the skin of a man and never quite learned how to fit inside it. Its fingers were claws, each joint stretched and cracking. Its mouth was a jagged split, yawning impossibly wide, as though it had no end. The entire thing shimmered, black smoke rising off it in threads that pulsed and curled like burning incense.

Its eyes locked onto you—no irises, only molten red, like embers burning in a kiln.

You could not move. Your body refused to obey you. It was as if the very air around you had thickened, turned to tar. Your breath caught in your throat, chest rising in small, shallow gasps. You tried to scream. Nothing came.

The creature took a step forward, its limbs dragging behind like shattered branches.

And then—

Wind.

But not natural wind.

Something tore past you, so fast it sucked the air from your lungs—a streak of motion cutting through the garden, silent but precise. You turned, stumbling back, just in time to see him.

A man. Not a palace guard. Not a courtier.

He moved with such deliberate grace it made the world feel slow. His robes were dark, almost black, but close-fitting, like armor made of cloth. His hair was tied back tightly, and in his hand gleaming, curved, and lit by moonlight—was a blade.

Not like the ones you had seen in royal ceremonies. This one was old. Hand-forged. Marked. He did not hesitate. The creature lunged and he was there.

His sword moved like a whisper. A gleam. A blur. Then another. A step forward. A twist. A low grunt as the demon shrieked, staggering back, black smoke erupting from its chest as the blade found its mark again. He was not merely fighting it. He was like dancing with it, leading it in some ritual.

You tilted your head with disbelief and watched, heart pounding, unable to speak, unable to move. The final blow was almost silent. His blade sliced through the creature’s neck in a clean arc.

The demon froze, mouth open in a silent scream, then cracked, splintered, and dissolved into ash. The smoke curled, shimmered, and faded.

Silence returned.

The man did not look at it. He turned, instead, to you.

Even in the dark, you could see the sharp cut of his jaw, the sweat beading along his temple, the slow rise and fall of his chest. But it was his eyes that stopped you: dark, steady, and strange.

He said nothing at first. Neither did you.

He took one step forward. “You weren’t supposed to see that.” His voice was low. Even. Like someone used to hiding what they felt.

You found your own voice, thin but clear. “You’re no palace guard.”

“No,” he replied. The word was quiet, yet final. A single syllable that seemed to carry the weight of lifetimes, slicing through the silence like a blade through silk.

You stared at him. In the pale light, his face was partly shadowed, but you could still make out the sharp angles of his jaw, the tension around his mouth, the way his eyes—dark and deep as midnight ink—refused to leave yours. He looked at you not like a stranger caught in wrongdoing, but like someone searching for something he'd almost forgotten. Something fragile. Familiar.

“Then what are you?” you asked, your voice steadier than you felt. It wasn’t a demand. It was a whisper edged with wonder and fear. Not just about the monster he had slain, but about him—this man who had appeared from nothing, fought like a ghost, and stood now as if caught between worlds.

He didn’t answer right away.

A wind stirred, brushing through the garden with soft fingers. Your hair lifted around your shoulders. His robes fluttered at the edges, but he remained still, as if time held its breath just for him. His eyes narrowed slightly. Not in suspicion—no. In something gentler.

Recognition, maybe. Grief.

He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again.

Seconds passed.

He looked away, just briefly, as though the truth were too dangerous to speak aloud. And when he looked back, his expression had changed. Composure returned. Whatever vulnerability had surfaced was gone, locked behind a wall built by years of silence.

His voice was quiet when it came.

“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing you should remember.”

You blinked.

He stepped back, already beginning to turn, and something in you surged forward—an instinct, a knowing, a longing that made no sense.

“Wait—”

But the word barely left your lips before he was gone.

Not running. Not leaping.

Gone.

Like a breath exhaled into cold air.

As if the garden itself had imagined him.

All that remained was the whisper of the wind, and the faint scent of burned ash where the demon had vanished.

He returned three days later, not as a shadow that night, but as an honored guest stepping through the palace gates in broad daylight.

You heard his name before you saw him.

Whispers moved like ripples through the outer court that morning. Word spread fast in a place like this, where secrets were traded like silk and silence was only ever temporary. A foreign envoy had arrived from one of the southern border provinces—one long isolated by both mountains and tradition. His house had been loyal for generations, said the ministers. His presence was no more than political courtesy, said the scholars.

But your breath stopped the moment the court herald spoke his name.

Jinu…

Just that. No clan. No house lineage offered. No title beyond “messenger in service of the southern warlord.” It was a name spoken without weight, but it fell upon your ears like a stone into still water.

You stood beside your father’s throne, head bowed, hands folded neatly in front of your layered sleeves. A ceremonial fan hung at your wrist, a delicate thing of white silk and gold-leaf paint. You clutched it harder than necessary.

Then the doors opened.

He entered as the rest did. Through the tall central gates reserved for honored guests of the royal court. The midday sun poured in behind him, framing his silhouette in white light. For one impossible moment, it was like the dream had followed you into waking. Like the air changed shape to accommodate his presence.

He walked slowly, with the quiet grace of someone used to scrutiny.

And yet, he did not bow his head in reverence the way others did. He bowed only once, fluidly, with the precision of a man trained in old customs but untouched by vanity. The hem of his robes brushed the red silk mat before the dais. His eyes stayed low.

“Your Majesty,” he said, voice steady. “I come on behalf of the southern province of Naeul. My master offers peace, and his gratitude for your enduring protection.”

You barely heard the formalities. You were too busy watching the way his shoulders were tense but fluid, like a swordsman out of place among politicians.

He did not look at you.

Not once.

But you felt him.

His presence was like a string pulled taut across the space between you. Not visible, not tangible but unmistakable. It resonated through your ribs, your spine, the backs of your teeth. Like a bell you could not hear, but whose vibration you felt in your marrow.

You nearly stepped forward.

You nearly forgot the protocol drilled into you since childhood.

But instead, you inhaled slowly, carefully—and tilted your chin just slightly toward your father, as if your only concern was the formal script of receiving guests. The court watched your every movement, but no one noticed the way your fingers trembled against the fan.

Not even when you turned your eyes away from him too quickly.

The next morning, a hush fell over the inner court as the Council of State assembled.

Dawn’s light filtered through the tall latticework windows, casting the hall in a softened gold. Pale beams stretched across the lacquered floors, pooling at the feet of court ministers as they filed into place, their robes whispering like the hush of wind through reeds. Beyond the carved columns, incense smoke curled in slow, deliberate spirals, heavy with the scent of pine and frankincense. The day had not yet begun for the outside world, but inside the hall, the kingdom was already breathing its politics.

You stood behind the painted screen in the upper gallery—a place where royal daughters could listen, though never speak. Women were not meant to linger in council, not openly, and certainly not attentively. But you had always lingered, silently absorbing every syllable spoken in these chambers.

Today, you waited not for decisions, but for a name.

Jinu…

He arrived with no fanfare.

There was no trumpet to herald his steps, no servant trailing his robes. And yet, the moment he entered, the temperature in the room shifted. You felt it first in your chest—a slight tightness, like breath caught before the descent of a storm.

He wore dark robes again. Simple but striking. The kind of simplicity that was chosen, not forced. The fabric undyed silk or finely brushed hemp hung cleanly from his shoulders, cinched high at the waist in the southern fashion. A silver clasp gleamed at his throat, unadorned save for a faint engraving worn smooth by time. It caught the light briefly, like a memory flickering into view.

His hair was neatly bound not in the looped knots of noble sons, nor the rigid topknot of military men. It hung low, gathered in a black ribbon, a few strands escaping to graze his cheekbones. No sign of vanity, no jewelry, no house sigil.

He might have seemed unremarkable to the others.

But to you, he moved like someone misplaced by time.

His steps were neither rushed nor cautious. Each was exact. Balanced. There was no hesitation as he took his seat two rows back from your father far enough to remain silent, but close enough to command attention when needed. He did not scan the room. He did not shift in discomfort. He simply sat, spine straight, hands resting lightly on his knees, the picture of restraint.

When the council began, the room filled quickly with debate, First the harvest, then the tension with the eastern tribes, then the matter of fortifying the southern ridges before winter. Ministers argued with polished voices, their sleeves trailing as they gestured, voices weaving praise and strategy with veiled self-interest.

Jinu said nothing.

Not at first.

Then the Minister of the Interior, an older man with silvered brows and a mouth like a drawn string, turned to him.

“You, envoy. From Naeul. What does your lord say of the border? Are your watchtowers still standing, or have the mountain spirits finally swallowed them whole?”

A few chuckled.

You leaned forward slightly, waiting.

Jinu didn’t bristle. He didn’t flinch. He simply inclined his head—precisely once—and answered.

“The towers still stand, Minister. The rivers flooded early this year, so supplies were delayed, but the passes remain clear. The tribal scouts were seen five nights ago. They haven’t crossed the ridge, only watched.”

His tone was quiet, but not timid. Calm. Even.

He neither flattered nor flinched.

When asked about reinforcements, he answered plainly: “The southern lords have begun stockpiling grain and salt. They await your command.”

When prompted to speculate on whether the tribes would move before the snows came, he responded, “Perhaps. But fear clouds good planning. Naeul will prepare either way.”

You saw it—how the words landed.

No excess. No embellishment. Just the truth, tempered like steel.

Where another man might have taken the chance to curry favor—to lavish praise on the king, to humble himself before the ministers—Jinu did not.

He did not speak to be remembered.

He spoke because it was necessary.

And yet he was remembered all the same.

A few of the older ministers glanced at each other. One frowned, tapping the end of his ink brush against the wooden ledger with more force than necessary. Your father did not react, but you saw the way his fingers paused against the sleeve of his robe, just briefly, as though absorbing something new.

Jinu sat unshaken.

His hands rested calmly in his lap, long fingers lightly curled, the sleeves of his robe slightly parted to reveal his forearms. It was there that your gaze lingered—upon the scar.

A thin mark—faded, but deliberate—ran along the edge of his right arm, too clean to be an accident. Not self-inflicted, not ceremonial. A blade’s kiss. A wound from a different time.

And still he remained composed, every inch of him a study in stillness.

You couldn’t help but wonder how long he had practiced that kind of control.

You, hidden behind the filigree screen, felt exposed in contrast. Your fan had long since drooped in your hand, forgotten. Your pulse thrummed against your throat, beating in time with something you couldn’t name.

And then it happened.

A moment.

Small.

The room shifted—attention turned to another minister, a scroll unrolled, a disagreement erupting over a tax law that had little to do with demons or blood or truth.

And his eyes moved.

Not to your father. Not to the throne. Not to the scrolls or the gold or the empty flattery pouring from tired mouths.

But to the left. To the gallery. To you.

Only for a second.

Not long enough to be called a glance. But not short enough to dismiss.

There was no expression in it. No challenge. No softness. Just... awareness. A weight.

He knew you were watching.

And not once—through the long hours of that council, through every question and answer and silence—did he seek you again.

But he didn’t need to.

The silence between you had already spoken.

The hall had quieted.

Voices that once rose in elegant argument had settled into muttered agreement, the tension having drained with the afternoon light. Dust motes hung in the air like ash. Another hour and the servants would arrive to draw the screens, to offer tea and fruit to drowsy ministers nodding off between scrolls and silence.

But before the assembly could be dismissed, your father, seated tall in his crimson robes, shifted his weight—and the room returned to stillness.

“Send word to the western garrisons,” the king said, his voice low but firm. “Begin preparations to fortify the southern ridges before the first frost. I want updates from Naeul before the week ends.”

He turned slightly then—just enough to make it clear who was being addressed.

All eyes followed.

Jinu met the king’s gaze without pause. He bowed his head slightly, but did not lower his eyes.

“The southern ridges are already being watched,” he said. “But your Majesty’s concern is not misplaced.”

The Minister of War gave a soft scoff. “They are only mountain passers. Starved tribes and outcasts. They bark, but rarely bite.”

Jinu did not flinch. “Not all who pass through the mountains are tribesmen.”

That silenced the room.

Your father tilted his head. “Speak plainly.”

Jinu hesitated.

Only for a moment. But you saw it—like something inside him weighed whether truth belonged in this room.

“They are not all men,” he said, finally. “Some of what moves in the passes does not carry names. Or needs.”

A low murmur stirred through the court like wind across tall grass. The scribes looked up from their inkstones. One of the younger nobles narrowed his eyes, voice touched with disbelief.

“What do you mean?”

Jinu remained still. Measured.

“The locals call them mountain spirits,” he said. “Whispers. Shadows. They speak of things that do not leave tracks. Things that drain the heat from a man’s bones long before snow falls. Things that do not bleed when cut.”

The War Minister frowned, voice taut with scorn. “Tales meant to frighten children.”

Jinu’s voice remained even. “Then you haven’t sent enough men.”

Silence.

A single breeze stirred one of the high windows. The incense, long since burned down to glowing embers, released its final breath.

Then your father spoke again—soft, but cold.

“And you’ve seen these… things?”

Jinu looked up then, truly looked. His expression did not shift. But something in his voice did.

“I have fought them.”

A pause.

“And they are growing bolder.”

He did not elaborate. He did not need to.

There were no more scoffs. No more questions. Only a silence so complete it felt alive. Some in the chamber looked away. Others frowned—not in disbelief, but in discomfort. In knowing. These were not the words one said aloud in a hall like this.

But they lingered all the same.

And for the first time that morning, no one answered him.

That night, sleep did not come easily.

You lay awake long after the palace had gone still, your mind haunted by the memory of what you had witnessed in the garden. No amount of ritual tea or deep-breathing chants could dull the image—the blackened creature, hissing and clawed, melting into smoke under the sweep of a stranger’s blade. Nor could you stop thinking of the man himself: the calm of him, the silence, the unnerving steadiness of his gaze as he told you to forget. There had been something in the way he looked at you—something familiar and foreign all at once, like a name on the tip of the tongue. And yet, you knew, with a certainty that defied reason, that it was not the first time you had met him.

Eventually, exhaustion overtook your thoughts, dragging you beneath the silk sheets and soft shadows into sleep. But it was not the kind of slumber that brings peace or numbness. It was deep and weightless, as if your soul had slipped into a world not quite your own.

You dreamed of a lake.

It stretched endlessly in every direction, a vast surface of frozen black glass that mirrored the star-choked sky above. Snow fell gently, in slow spirals, but the air did not feel cold. It was still, not lifeless, but suspended—like the entire world was holding its breath. You stood at the lake’s edge barefoot, wearing robes you had never seen before, layered and crimson, too ancient to belong to the present. And across the expanse of ice, barely visible through the pale haze, was a figure.

A man.

He stood facing you from the opposite shore, distant but clear in your mind. His outline was softened by the mist that hovered above the lake, his cloak stirring slightly in a wind you couldn’t feel. He made no move to approach, but you could feel his presence as keenly as your own breath. Something about him filled the air—an ache, a weight, the gravity of an old bond stretched across the void of time.

You couldn’t make out his features. His face was cloaked in shadow, but you could sense the sharp lines of it, the solemn set of his shoulders. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. But you knew him.

Not from life. From something deeper.

Recognition flared in your chest, sudden and inexplicable. It was like stepping into the ruins of a house you didn’t remember building and finding your name carved into the doorframe. The pain that bloomed in your heart wasn’t fear—it was longing. The kind that only comes when you find something you’ve been searching for without knowing it.

You took a tentative step toward him, and the snow ceased to fall. The world seemed to narrow to the space between you, impossibly wide and unbearably close. His hand rose slowly—palm outward, not to beckon but to offer. There was no desperation in the gesture, only patience. As if he had waited for this moment longer than any mortal should.

Your hand twitched at your side, but you did not move.

Your voice caught in your throat. You wanted to ask who he was, why this dream felt real, why you felt as though your heart would break if you looked away—but the words would not come. And somewhere in that deep, quiet place inside you, the answer pulsed like a heartbeat.

You’ve been here before.

The silence around you shifted. You could almost hear him speak, his voice brushing the edge of your thoughts. He said your name—not the one used in court, not the title passed down by blood and duty, but something older, softer, secret. A name buried beneath the layers of lifetimes. A name only he would know.

You felt your breath catch again. And then, as you finally moved to step forward, to speak, to reach for his hand—

—you woke.

The sound of your own breath filled the room as you sat upright, heartbeat thundering in your ears. The embroidered blanket tangled around your legs. The silk cushions were damp beneath your palms. Outside, the horizon was beginning to pale with the earliest breath of dawn, and your chamber was steeped in the cold hush of pre-morning stillness.

You stared at your hands, trembling slightly.

Your chest still ached, like you’d been holding something too heavy, too sacred to carry. You didn’t speak for a long time. Only when the silence in the room became too much did you whisper aloud, voice barely more than a breath.

“What was that…”

It was a dream, you told yourself. Nothing more.

But your soul knew better.

This was not the first time you had stood at the edge of that lake. Not the first time you had seen him. The image, the pain, the weight of it—it was too real, too familiar. You had dreamed of him before. Many times. Maybe even countless times.

The only difference was: this time, you remembered.

And that terrified you more than forgetting ever had.

The royal court gathered under the morning light, as it did every week, with the same rhythm, the same rigid protocol—sun streaming through the high lattice windows, incense curling from brass bowls set along the stone floor, ministers bowing as they approached the platform where the king and his court sat. A harmony of tradition. Ceremony choreographed like a dance.

You had performed this role so many times you no longer needed to think about it. Your posture was flawless, hands resting gently atop one another in your lap, face carefully composed into the serenity expected of a royal daughter. The stiffness of your ceremonial robe—layered silk in golds and crimsons—did not discomfort you anymore. The weight of your jewelry, the tight coil of your hairpins, the unyielding etiquette: these were your armor.

And yet… something in the air felt different today.

You noticed it before your mind could name it. A quiet shift. A stillness in the air just before the wind stirs. Not danger, exactly. But awareness. A subtle pull at the edge of your senses.

Then, the foreign envoy was announced.

You heard the name—Jinu—spoken in the subdued tone reserved for minor visitors. He was introduced without flourish. No grand lineage, no royal crest, no temple blessing. He came, the official said, on behalf of a border province plagued by strange disturbances, seeking spiritual consultation. The court barely paid attention. Their eyes glazed with disinterest. One more traveler with one more meaningless story.

But not yours.

Your gaze, unbidden, found him as he entered.

And for a moment—only a breath—you forgot how to breathe.

He stood near the side of the chamber, away from the dais, his robes plain but immaculately kept. There was nothing in his posture that demanded attention. He bowed modestly. His hands remained folded behind his back. But something about him stilled the space around him—as though the world became quieter where he stood.

He did not look at you. Not immediately. But even without meeting your eyes, you felt his presence as surely as you felt the weight of your crown.

Your fingers tightened slightly in your sleeve.

You didn’t know this man.

You were sure of that.

And yet the sight of him sent a ripple through your chest—quiet, invisible, but deep. Your breath hitched, and your gaze faltered. You turned away, forcing yourself to focus on the scroll being read before the king. You had duties. Responsibilities. You were a daughter of royal blood, seated before the highest council of the land.

And still...

You looked again.

He hadn’t moved.

He stood quietly in the filtered sunlight, half his face in shadow beneath the high ceiling. And then, just as your gaze lingered too long, his eyes lifted.

He met your gaze.

Not with arrogance. Not with curiosity. Simply—certainty.

Your heart stuttered.

There was no gesture. No expression. He looked at you, and the world seemed to tilt slightly, as if something within it had suddenly clicked into place. Not shock. Not confusion. Just that strange, quiet pull.

Like a forgotten promise finding its voice again.

You looked away, quickly, hoping no one noticed. You felt your heartbeat in your throat. You pressed your palms together in your lap to hide the faint tremble in your fingers.

You didn’t know him. And yet… it felt like you did.

You told yourself it was imagination. Court fantasy. A passing fascination with a stranger who, by sheer chance, possessed a face that stirred something unnamed in you. But you knew better. The feeling was too sharp, too immediate.

Like waking from a dream you didn’t know you’d had.

You dared another glance.

He was still watching you—but not in a way that felt improper. He wasn’t studying you, wasn’t trying to read you. He looked at you the way one looks at something long lost and finally found. Quiet awe. Sorrow. Reverence.

And something else.

That same aching familiarity that burned in your chest burned in his eyes, too.

You looked away again—this time not from fear of being caught, but from the ache. From the sudden heat behind your eyes. From the undeniable truth that something inside you had moved, shifted, cracked open in his presence.

And yet you didn’t remember him.

Not truly. There were no images. No stories. No names to cling to.

But the feeling was there. Restless. Longing. As though your soul had recognized something your mind could not.

You stayed quiet for the remainder of the court session. You listened to the debates about border tensions and sacred omens and temple resources. You answered when addressed. You nodded at the proper moments. But your body moved like it belonged to someone else. Your thoughts drifted—again and again—to him.

Jinu.

You turned his name over in your mind like a prayer. Or a question.

By the time the meeting ended, and the ministers began to file out with the rustle of silk and murmurs of satisfaction, your heartbeat had not slowed. You stood with practiced grace, stepping down from the dais with your ladies-in-waiting close behind. You walked slowly, carefully, as tradition required.

But before you exited the chamber, you dared one final glance over your shoulder.

He was watching you again.

No smile. No sign of invitation.

Only that silent, steady gaze.

Your steps didn’t falter, but the rest of you did. Your heart. Your breath. Something pulled inside you, deep and invisible, as though the space between your body and his was not empty but full—tied by something you didn’t yet understand.

You passed through the painted doors, the court fading behind you.

But that strange ache—deep in your chest, low and pulsing—stayed.

The corridors of the inner palace were hushed as you left the audience chamber. The echo of court voices faded behind you—syllables clipped and formal, dissolving into the polished stone floors. Your attendants trailed at a respectful distance, but you did not acknowledge them. You moved forward in silence, eyes fixed ahead, posture flawless. On the surface, you looked composed. Regal. Untouched.

But your hands trembled slightly within your sleeves.

You dismissed the court ladies with a wordless flick of your fingers the moment you reached the marble walkway that led toward the garden pavilions. They bowed quickly and retreated, leaving you alone. As always, they obeyed without question. You were a princess. You were not expected to explain your solitude—only to make it look intentional.

You stepped past the carved doors and out into the garden.

The air was warm with early spring. Plum blossoms stirred gently in the trees, their petals falling like soft, scattered prayers. You let the scent of them fill your lungs, as if breathing deeply enough might quiet the restless ache inside you.

The garden was quiet this time of day—too early for poets and too late for priests. Just the wind and the birds and the slow hush of water trickling through the stone basins beneath the flowering trees. You walked slowly, your slippers barely whispering against the path of worn stone, your silk sleeves trailing behind like ripples on still water.

And still, you could feel him.

Not his presence, exactly. Not his footsteps behind you, or a shadow hiding among the trees. No—it was more abstract than that. A pull. A thread. A quiet knot of tension beneath your ribs.

You didn’t know his face before today.

You were certain of it.

And yet, when you saw him... something in you had moved.

It wasn’t attraction. At least, not in the way your court tutors had described it in whispered warnings. It was deeper. Heavier. A quiet sense of knowing, like standing in a ruined temple and realizing you had once prayed there long ago.

You paused at the edge of the pond, where koi glided beneath the lilies in lazy circles. Their scales shimmered gold and red in the light, their movement hypnotic. You stared at them without really seeing.

Who are you?

The question bloomed unspoken in your mind, over and over again.

Why do I feel this way?

You had met many men before—envoys, scholars, distant noble sons presented for approval. You’d seen beauty, heard flattery, danced with politics. And yet none of them had made your heart tighten the way this stranger had by simply standing still.

His eyes...

Even now, the memory of them made your fingers curl tighter into your sleeves. They hadn’t been soft. Or kind. Not even curious. But they had looked at you like they had known you. As if your presence was expected. Remembered.

That was the part that terrified you most.

Because you didn’t remember him.

And still, part of you ached as though you’d lost him.

You lowered yourself onto the edge of the pavilion bench, your skirts spreading like ripples of silk around your legs. Your shoulders sagged slightly—not with exhaustion, but surrender. It was difficult, being someone else all the time. The princess. The example. The daughter of heaven.

But now, in this quiet moment, you weren’t sure who you were anymore.

You stared at your reflection in the pond. The woman staring back at you wore your face. She sat straight, elegant, draped in gold and scarlet. But her eyes...

They were filled with a strange longing.

A yearning that had no name.

And the more you tried to ignore it, the stronger it became.

The stillness of the garden wrapped around you like a second robe—soft, warm, protective. You remained seated on the pavilion bench, watching the water ripple with each passing breeze. Yet your thoughts had drifted so far from the koi pond that you barely noticed when the wind picked up, carrying with it the faint scent of woodsmoke and pine.

You straightened.

It was nothing—just the wind, you told yourself. But your heart disagreed. That invisible thread tugged again, pulling from somewhere just out of sight.

And then—there it was.

Footsteps.

Soft, deliberate. The kind that did not wish to intrude, and yet could not help but be heard.

You turned your head just slightly, eyes lifting past the flowering tree at the corner of the path.

He was there.

Jinu.

He walked slowly, his steps as silent as breath, his hands tucked behind his back in the manner of one deep in thought. He was alone, which you hadn’t expected. No court escort, no attendant. Just him, weaving through the garden like a shadow that belonged to the light.

He didn’t see you at first. Or if he did, he pretended not to. His gaze was cast slightly downward, thoughtful. His posture—calm. But even from a distance, you could sense it: the tension coiled within him. Controlled. Contained. But always present, like a bowstring drawn tight but never loosened.

You stayed still, your breath quiet.

He moved closer.

Not toward you exactly, but in your direction—along the same curved path that wound around the reflecting pool, past the stone lantern, beneath the arch of the plum tree just now shedding its blooms.

And then, as he passed within several paces, he looked up.

His eyes met yours.

There was no startle. No surprise. Only stillness.

A pause in time.

He stopped walking, just for a breath. The two of you locked in that strange, silent space—neither of you speaking, neither daring to move. You felt your pulse surge beneath your ribs, not from fear but from the overwhelming familiarity of him. Not his face. Not his name.

Him.

Something behind your ribs ached. You could see it in his eyes, too—that same restrained unrest. Like something within him recognized you, not with certainty, but with sorrow. As if he were witnessing the shadow of something he had once loved and lost.

You parted your lips. You didn’t know why. You weren’t going to say anything—you didn’t have the words. But the weight of the silence was unbearable.

Then, quietly, he gave a slight incline of his head.

It wasn’t a bow. It wasn’t courtly or rehearsed. It was something simpler. More personal. A gesture of acknowledgment… as if to say, Yes. I see you. I feel it too.

You returned the motion with the barest tilt of your chin.

And just like that, he moved on.

No words passed between you.

No names exchanged. No explanations offered.

But as he disappeared down the path, your eyes lingered long after his footsteps faded.

The silence he left behind was not empty.

It was full. Heavy. Stirring.

Like the breath just before a name is remembered.

Or a promise is broken again.

You did not see him again for three days.

Not among the lacquered pillars of the royal court, where officials and nobility moved like clockwork—smooth, rehearsed, distant. Not on the walkways of the garden, where spring had begun its slow bloom in soft blossoms and fragrant winds. Not even in the corridors between dawn and dusk, where you sometimes passed scholars and foreign envoys with a nod that meant nothing.

You looked, without meaning to but he was nowhere and still, his presence lingered in your thoughts like perfume—light, haunting, impossible to forget. You tried to dismiss it as a momentary fascination, the result of a long court session and a strange glance. A passing thread. Something foolish but the mind forgets. The body remembers.

Your body remembered how your breath had caught. How your gaze had clung to his as though it were some distant memory returned in flesh. You remembered the weight of his stare, not oppressive, but undeniable. As though it had reached past your skin and recognized something inside you before you even knew to resist.

You told yourself it meant nothing but moments, you were learning, could bend the fabric of things.

Could unmake silence.

Could rearrange the world without a single word.

On the fourth night, sleep did not come.

You lay beneath layers of embroidered silk, the sheets cool against your skin. Above you, the ceiling gleamed with gold-painted clouds, dragons frozen mid-flight across the lacquered beams. Your hair had been loosened from its ornaments, your maids dismissed hours ago. The palace was wrapped in silence—thick, total, endless.

And yet you were not at rest.

The moon was full that night. Not soft and silver, but low and gold, casting molten light across the polished floor. Its glow stretched in long, quiet ribbons—touching the corners of your chamber, slipping through the slats of carved windows, turning the air into something ethereal.

You breathed in and the ache was still there.

It sat beneath your ribs—not sharp, but constant. A tension. A pull. As though a thread had been tied somewhere deep in your chest, and now something far away had begun to tug it gently, insistently.

You rose without thinking.

You did not ring the bell.

You did not call for your ladies.

You left the bed like a ghost shedding its bindings. You moved through the room on bare feet, the cold wood grounding you. There was no lantern in your hand, no slippers on your heels. You stepped into the corridor as you were, silk brushing softly around your ankles, hair falling like ink down your back.

There was no fear. Only certainty. That something waited.

The halls were hushed, lit only by moonlight. The lamps had long since been extinguished. Shadows stretched from every alcove, still and solemn like silent sentries. You passed beneath the painted beams without looking up. Past the shrine room. Past the winter garden. Toward the plum grove.

The doors to the outer garden yielded to your hand with no resistance and there—beneath the flowering trees—you found him.

Jinu.

He stood at the far edge of the reflecting pool, his back to you, his posture still but not tense. One hand was clasped loosely behind him, the other resting against the small of his back. He was not dressed for an audience—no formal sash, no fan, no ribboned adornments. Just simple black robes that rippled faintly with the wind.

He did not move as you stepped into the garden but you knew he had heard you.

You hesitated. The garden was nearly silver beneath the moon, every leaf aglow with soft fire. The scent of plum blossoms was heavy, dreamlike, falling in slow spirals to the stone path. There was no sound—only the quiet trickle of water from the carved basin, the faintest creak of tree branches shifting overhead.

And him.

You moved forward, slowly, steps careful. Measured. As if approaching a memory. You said nothing. Nor did he. Only when you drew near—near enough to feel the warmth of his presence—did he turn. Slowly. Deliberately. And then your eyes met.

There was no surprise in his expression. No smile. Just stillness.

His gaze was steady, dark beneath the moonlight, as though he'd known you would come. As though he'd been waiting—not out of impatience, but something quieter. Something deeper. Recognition. He didn’t bow. You didn’t speak.

And yet, somehow, everything in the world narrowed to the space between your gazes.

You had faced nobles and generals, monks and sages. You had sat above the court in your layered robes and heard confessions of sin and pride. You had danced the politics of a nation with perfect grace. But in that moment, you forgot all of it. Because he looked at you—not like a princess. Not like a sovereign's daughter. But like something sacred.

Known.

Found.

When you finally spoke, your voice was quieter than you meant it to be. “I thought you had left.”

The words hung suspended in the moonlight, delicate as a breath. He did not look away. “I was told to remain in the city. The disturbances haven’t ceased.��

Your hands remained folded inside your sleeves, the picture of royal composure, though your pulse had begun to race.

“I see.” You turned slightly, angling your gaze toward the still water of the pool, unwilling to meet his eyes for too long. You felt unsteady beneath that stare—not weakened, not embarrassed. Simply… exposed.

As though every mask had been gently removed, one by one. Then his voice came again—low, graveled slightly by something you couldn’t name. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

You tilted your head slightly, spine still straight, voice soft but sure. “I’m not.” you replied with confidence.

His expression changed at that. A breath, no more and then, quietly, he smiled. Not the smile you were used to, those polished things nobles wore like veils. This was different.

Faint. Quiet. Honored. As though he understood what your words truly meant and what it had cost you to say them.

You looked at the still pond with a heavy expression. “Jinu.” Your voice was quiet, but it carried.

He turned toward you not with surprise, not with haste. Just quiet readiness. As though he had been waiting for your voice, not expecting it, but welcoming it all the same.

You studied him in the moonlight. The way he stood, unmoving, hands folded behind his back, the fall of his robe gently stirred by the wind. He looked like someone out of time, like a statue carved from shadow and memory.

You let the silence linger a moment longer.

And then, with no more ceremony than a breath, “You saved me.” You said with certainty.

He didn’t deny it. His eyes flickered downward, briefly, before finding yours again. “You were alone,” he said softly. “Something waited in the dark.”

You felt it again, that cold stillness from the other night—the way the air had shifted, how your body had known before your mind. The way fear had curled its claws beneath your skin before vanishing into the wind the moment he appeared.

“What was it?” you asked.

He didn’t answer right away.

“Something old,” he said finally. “And hungry.”

A pause. You tilted your head slightly, keeping your expression composed despite the knot beginning to form in your throat.

“And you knew it would come?”

“I knew something would.”

You didn’t let yourself react. Not outwardly. You were still a daughter of the court. Still the blood of kings. Your face remained smooth, still. But your gaze sharpened—narrowed, searching his face for something hidden.

He didn’t flinch beneath it and that, more than anything, unnerved you.

“Why didn’t you tell the court?”

His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer before he replied. “Would they believe me?”

You didn’t answer because you both knew they wouldn’t.

The following days, the palace slept but you did not. You walked beneath the high eaves of the eastern corridor alone, moonlight slipping through the carved screens like lacework over stone. Your sleeves whispered as they trailed behind you, the silk glinting faintly in the silver glow. You walked slowly—not with hesitation, but with intention. Every step you took was as measured as a poem. Composed. Controlled. As you had been trained to be from the moment you could stand in the throne room without wavering.

But tonight, for all your practiced grace, something inside you was not still. It had started days ago, this strange shift. A change so quiet it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else. But not you. And not him.

That morning, your royal duties had passed in a blur. Your voice had echoed in the council hall, your hands had signed scrolls, your eyes had read names and numbers and omens. But your mind—your heart—remained elsewhere. Always returning to this hour. To this path. To him.

You found him where you always did now—by the pond, beneath the old plum tree that had not yet finished blooming. A few petals clung stubbornly to its branches, defiant against the late spring wind.

He was already seated when you arrived. Not on the stone bench, but on the low step before it, his posture relaxed in a way that no courtier would dare assume in the presence of royalty. His arms rested loosely on his knees, hands clasped together. He was facing the water, but you knew he had heard your footsteps long before you reached him. He didn’t rise.

And you didn’t ask him to. You paused a moment before approaching, your shadow brushing the edge of his.

Then, carefully, you lowered yourself to sit—deliberately keeping space between you, enough to preserve the unspoken distance that always existed between a royal and… whatever he was.

You folded your hands neatly in your lap, back straight, eyes trained forward. You didn’t speak right away. Nor did he. The silence between you was not discomfort. It was something else. Like a breath held between notes in a song, waiting for the next phrase to begin.

And finally, you gave it voice. “What province do you come from?”

Your tone was smooth, formal—not out of coldness, but habit. You didn’t look at him as you asked. You looked at the water, where the moon shimmered in long ribbons across the surface.

He answered after a pause, his voice quiet. “Near the mountains.”

You tilted your head slightly. “There are many.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—not a full expression, but something ghosted and dry.

“The northern range,” he said. “Where the sky touches the stone. And the wind forgets its name.”

You turned to look at him then.

Not sharply. Not openly.

Just enough to see.

He did not meet your gaze. His eyes remained on the pond, distant, thoughtful.

“There were temples there once,” he said. “Before the fires. Before the silence.”

You studied the line of his jaw in profile, the way the light caught the edge of his cheekbone. His voice did not carry sorrow. Nor nostalgia. It simply was. Steady. Unvarnished.

“And your family?”

The question hung in the air longer this time. You weren’t sure why you asked it. You had not meant to.

He shifted slightly, hands tightening just once before releasing.

“Gone.”

One word. Bare. Clean. Without ceremony but not without weight.

There was no tremor in his voice. No mourning curled behind it. But the stillness that followed it was not empty. It was heavy. Like an altar long abandoned, but still sacred.

You wanted to ask how. When. Why. But something in you told you not to.

So you didn’t.

You turned your gaze forward again, your face calm, still as a painting. The wind moved through the garden gently, rustling the leaves above you.

A petal drifted down from the tree and landed near his hand. He did not brush it away.

“I never knew mine,” you said after a time, quietly. “Not truly. I was raised by wet nurses and tutors. Bowed to by strangers before I learned to speak. My brothers call me sister, but they do not know me. The court calls me a jewel. A daughter of heaven. But none of them see me.”

You weren’t sure why you said it. The words surprised you as they left your mouth, unfiltered, unpolished.

He turned to look at you, finally and for the first time, you let yourself meet his eyes fully.

There was no pity there. No flattery. No attempt to comfort or impress. Only the kind of attention that feels like a mirror. Not reflecting your face—but your soul.

You looked away first. Not because it was too much—but because it was too known. The silence returned. But it felt warmer now. Fuller. Like a cup being filled, slowly.

You stayed longer than usual. Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Neither of you counted them. At last, when you rose, you did so slowly, every movement practiced but unhurried. He stood as well, though not because he had to. Because he chose to.

You turned slightly to face him, hands folded, chin lifted in the poise of a royal daughter. Even here, even in this strange softness, you remained composed. You always had.

But your voice was different this time.

Softer.

More you.

“Good night,” you said.

The words were simple. But they came from somewhere deeper than you expected. A place untouched by ceremony.

He looked at you.

And though his face did not change drastically, you saw it—clearly. The pause. The shift. The breath.

As though those words were something he had not heard in a very long time.

Something small.

But deeply human.

“Good night,” he replied after a moment and then, quieter… “Princess.”

But the title did not feel distant, not this time. It felt reverent. Not because of what you were but because of who you were. You held his gaze a moment longer. Not with command. Not with coldness.

Just… recognition.

Then you turned and walked away, each step echoing faintly against the stone. You did not look back. But you felt his eyes remain on you and you carried the warmth of them with you long after the moon had disappeared behind the eaves of the sleeping palace.

On the following nights, It rained endlessly. Not a storm— no. No thunder, no sudden violence. Just a steady curtain of silver, falling from the eaves of the palace in long, unbroken strands. The sound was soft and endless, a quiet rhythm that seemed to blur the edge of waking thought. Most of the court remained indoors. Servants hurried to draw shutters closed, to cover the walkways in tarps, to ensure the braziers were not snuffed out by wind. Even the lanterns in the side halls had been dimmed, their lights softened by paper already damp at the edges.

But you?

You went anyway.

You walked the garden path in silence, the world around you softened by the rain. It clung to your hair, to your sleeves, beading against the outer silk of your robe like dew on petals. The hem of your skirt darkened where it brushed the stones, the weight of it dragging just slightly, just enough to ground you. The corridors behind you had grown hushed. Even your guards—never far, always watching—had retreated under the excuse of the weather. You had not called for them.

There was no fear in you tonight.

Only this ache again. Low in your ribs. A thread pulled taut.

You drew your robe closer around you as you crossed beneath the arching gate that led to the plum grove. The old tree rose at the center of it, as it always had, its blossoms scattering like soft prayers in the wind and beneath it—

He was already there.

You slowed to a stop, barely a breath from the pavilion's edge. Your heart, which had been steady the whole way here, stumbled.

He stood with his back to you, but not in disregard. His presence acknowledged yours the way the sky acknowledges the sea—wordless, but inextricable. He did not startle, did not turn with haste or surprise. Instead, as though he'd felt the rain shift with your arrival, his posture lifted. His head tilted slightly.

Still.

Steady.

Even in the rain, he was unmoved.

His robe—plain black, trimmed in ash grey—clung lightly to him in places, heavy at the hem, darkened by water. His hair, unadorned tonight, had come loose slightly from its tie, a few strands clinging to his temple. Raindrops traced the line of his jaw, shimmered across his collarbone where the fabric had slipped low.

But his breath…

That, you could see.

Slow. Deep. Even.

He was calm.

But not untouched.

You stepped forward at last, one careful footfall at a time, the sound of your approach swallowed by the rain. “You always come,” you said softly.

It was not a question. Not a complaint. Just truth—gently spoken.

He turned, only slightly, enough to let the moonlight catch the edge of his face. His gaze met yours without hesitation.

“I told you I would,” he answered.

His voice—low, gravel-soft, threaded with something weightier than mere words.

It wasn’t a vow. And yet it sounded like one.

You moved toward him, each step deliberate, not because you feared him—but because the moment felt fragile, as if rushing might shatter something not yet spoken into being.

You stepped beneath the tree’s sheltering boughs.

The rain softened there, caught in branches, falling more slowly like the breath of something divine.

You stood beside him—close enough to feel the warmth rising faintly from his form, from where his robe had soaked through, from where his body waited just beyond reach.

But you did not touch.

You didn’t even let your sleeves brush his.

Your hands folded neatly within the length of your robe, knuckles tight with the restraint you had practiced since childhood. That was the discipline of a princess. The art of stillness. The dignity of silence.

But your heartbeat. It betrayed you. It fluttered. Quietly. Unwillingly and yet, you spoke.

“You speak so little,” you murmured.

He did not look away.

“You carry so much,” he replied. “I didn’t wish to add to it.”

The answer struck you like the echo of something you had once known and forgotten.

So often, the court silenced you with expectations. With polished words, with praise laced in demand. You were not supposed to speak of burdens. You were not allowed to show them but he had seen them anyway and what’s more for that he had chosen silence not because he feared your power, but because he honored your weight.

You turned your gaze fully to him. Carefully. Openly. Your voice came quiet, but strong. As though you had known the words long before you ever gave them shape.

“I would rather share the weight than carry it alone.”

It was not an invitation. Not fully.

But it was the closest thing you had offered anyone in years. You felt the truth of it leave your mouth like warmth from your lungs and then, he looked at you. Truly looked. Iin his eyes, something ancient stirred.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. He simply stood, breath held as though the memory of your words touched something he didn’t know still lived inside him. The way he looked at you then…

Not like a soldier before royalty. Not like a man before a woman but like someone hearing the same line of a forgotten song after centuries in silence and recognizing the singer.

You.

He bowed his head slightly. A slow, reverent tilt—not of deference, but of acknowledgment. Not of who you were but of what you meant.

The space between you shimmered dense, warm, and alive and yet still untouched. No more words passed between you that night. You remained beneath the plum tree as the rain fell softer and softer, until the garden stilled and the moon slipped free of the clouds overhead. The petals that fell from the tree landed around your feet and his and for one long moment, you stood in silence, as if neither of you dared breathe too loudly for fear of breaking whatever strange, fragile thing had begun to bloom between your hearts.

So it began… night after night, beneath the hush of moonlight and the watchful silence of palace walls, you and Jinu met in secret. Always the same hour, when the world seemed to pause. Always the same garden, veiled in shadow and scent.

No words were spoken at first. Only glances. Only the soft echo of your steps as you found each other again and again, as though drawn by some ancient thread neither of you dared name.

It became a rhythm.

The garden, once merely a place of solitude, turned sacred. There, the ache of the day was shed, and in its place bloomed something fragile and burning. You would sit in stillness, sometimes near, sometimes apart, but never unaware of the other’s presence. His gaze would find you like a whisper in the dark. And yours would linger on him like a question you were too afraid to ask.

You returned as you always did, though you told no one where you went. Not your ladies-in-waiting. Not the guards who were always three steps behind. Not the eldest court minister who watched you like a fragile relic meant for worship, not for life but still—you came.

Drawn not by duty, not by desire, but by something older. Something wordless and constant, like the way tides know the moon and he was already there. Jinu stood beside the reflecting pool, still as stone, eyes lowered. He didn’t turn when you approached. Not immediately. But you knew he felt you. He always did.

You paused a few steps from him, allowing yourself that moment. The ritual of distance before closeness. The quiet tension of nearing without reaching.

He turned then. Slowly. And his eyes found yours. The ache in your chest returned at once—immediate, uninvited, yet so familiar. Like a bruise beneath your ribs that never quite healed. One glance and it bloomed again. You hadn’t spoken since yesterday’s rain. You hadn’t dared ask why the sorrow in his voice had settled deeper that night. But tonight, the silence between you felt different.

Not charged.

But weighted.

“Your eyes,” he said softly.

You blinked. “What of them?”

He studied you as though you were something fragile and holy.

“They’re the same.”

You frowned. “The same as what?”

He didn’t answer. Not at first. He turned from you, looking down at the still water, the reflection of the moon warping around fallen petals.

“It doesn’t matter,” he murmured.

But it did. You felt it in his voice. You stepped closer. Not much. Just enough that your sleeve nearly touched the edge of his. Close enough to feel the warmth of him, not from body, but from memory. A memory you didn’t own.

“I don’t understand you,” you said quietly.

“I know,” he replied, barely a whisper.

You waited.

And then—finally—he turned to you again, and for the first time since your first meeting, he looked tired. Not in body. Not in spirit.

In the heart. As though he had carried something heavy for far too long.

“You look at me,” you said, “like you know me.”

He didn’t deny it.

“You speak to me as though I’ve spoken to you before…..” You hesitated before you uttered more quietly “...As though I’ve broken your heart...”

A silence stretched long between you.

Then… “You did.” He spoke.

The words weren’t bitter. They were reverent. As if even that pain had been something precious. Your breath caught. Your throat tightened.

“What are you saying?”

He looked at you now with a gaze that belonged to another time. Another life. Another you.

“I’ve known you before,” he said. “Not in name. Not in title. But in the way your soul moves. In the way your voice softens when you speak truth.”

You felt your spine stiffen, not out of offense—but out of fear. What truth? What memory did he carry in those steady hands of his? You shook your head slightly. “I would remember something like that.” you scoffed in disbelief.

His voice was gentle. “Would you?”

Your jaw tightened. “What do you remember?” You pushed on.

He didn’t answer for a long time, from what felt like ages with you looking at him with expectant eyes, daring to know the answers. Maybe because of this ache? For this longing? For this…regret? You do know… You can’t somehow pinpoint what it is.

“A temple. A crown. A night of fire. Your hands in mine.” He stated simply, looking through you gauging your reaction.

And with a stuttered breath, he exhaled slowly. “Your death.”

You stepped back. Just one step. Just enough to break the warmth between you. You hadn’t meant to but the word struck something deep.

“I think you’re mistaken,” you whispered. Your eyes broke contact with him.

He didn’t follow. He let the space between you grow. “I wish I were,” he muttered.

Your voice trembled. “I don’t remember… This.. What– What you’re talking abou–”

“I know,” he murmured, not daring to look you in the eye.

And that was the worst part. The kindness in it. The grief of someone who had waited lifetimes for your voice to remember his name and accepted, without anger, that it never would.

You didn’t speak again that night. You only watched him as the wind shifted through the trees, carrying petals into the dark.

He bowed, low and reverent, not as a courtier, but as a man laying something sacred at your feet. Then he turned and left you beneath the plum tree.

Alone.

With the ache of something lost you could not name and a memory not yours… but that still made your eyes burn with ache.

That night, the palace walls felt heavier.

The garden’s stillness clung to you even as the moon rose over the curved rooftops, its pale glow stretching long shadows across the floor of your chamber. You bathed. You prayed. You drank the calming tea the court maidens left by your bed. But none of it quieted your thoughts.

You lay beneath silken covers, eyes closed, hands folded over your chest as if in mourning.

But your mind would not let you rest.

And eventually, sleep came—not gently, but all at once.

You fell.

Into silence. Into snow.

The dream was not a place at first. Only sensation. Cold air against your cheek. The muted hush of falling snow. The scent of cedar and smoke. Then slowly, images formed like ink spreading through water.

You stood beneath a pale sky, the light bruised violet, clouds like smoke curling around the edges of the world. Before you, a temple stood in ruins. Its once-red gates charred black. The prayer stones along its path shattered, half-buried in frost.

Your breath curled in the air, though you felt no cold.

And then—you saw him.

He stood with his back to you at the far end of the ruined path, his long dark robe stirring faintly in the wind. His shoulders were broad, but something about the way he stood looked… tired. As if he had been waiting too long. As if he didn’t dare turn around.

You took a step forward.

The snow beneath your bare feet didn’t crunch. It didn’t resist. The world felt muffled, distant, dream-thin. Your voice caught in your throat, but something in you cried out to him all the same—Don’t disappear.

And slowly, he turned.

You couldn’t see his face clearly. It shifted—light and shadow playing across it like ripples on water. But his eyes… those you saw. Deep and dark and full of something sharp. Longing. Grief. Recognition.

He opened his mouth to speak.

You leaned forward. You needed to hear him.

But the dream fractured.

The temple split. The ground beneath you cracked with a sudden roar, like thunder underwater. You reached out. He did too. The world between you shattered like glass—light and smoke and ash spiraling up around your hands before they could meet. And in the last sliver of the dream, you heard a voice.

Not his. Yours.

A whisper, spoken across lifetimes.

“Come back to me. Even if I forget—come back.”

You woke up with a gasp.

The room was quiet, bathed in early pre-dawn blue. Your pulse throbbed in your throat. You sat up slowly, hands trembling, sheets damp with sweat. The sound of your own breath filled the silence.

You pressed a hand to your chest. The ache was still there. You couldn’t remember what you had dreamed.

At least not fully.

The details slipped through your mind like sand. But you remembered the voice. The cold. The reaching. And the eyes. Always the eyes. Yours—and his.

Different in every dream, but always the same. And somehow, as the sky outside your window began to lighten, you knew with sudden clarity that this was not the first time you had dreamed of him.

Only the first time you had wanted to remember.

You told yourself you wouldn’t go tonight. The ache had grown unbearable—slow, consuming, like the flame of an incense stick that left no visible wound, only smoke that clung to your skin long after the fire died.

You had tried, for the sake of your composure, to stay in your quarters. You sat beneath the polished glow of your chamber’s lanterns, the same scrolls spread across your lap, the same courtly petitions laid before you and yet your eyes had passed over the characters without reading, your fingers numb against the paper, your body still—but your thoughts miles away.

Worse than longing was uncertainty… and this… this thing between you and the envoy—had begun to unravel the careful architecture of your world. He had never touched you, not once. Had never stepped too close, had never whispered anything that could be held against you in a court of law or tradition. And yet he had undone you more completely than any sword might have.

By merely standing in your presence. By looking at you like he remembered. And worse still—by saying it.

You hadn’t answered him when he spoke those words under the rain. When he said he remembered your death. That you had been his. That he had lost you once.

It had unsettled something too deep to reach. Not because it sounded false—but because it didn’t.

…and that terrified you.

Still, you went. You told yourself it was only a walk. A short one. Nothing more.

You crossed the stone walk in silence, ignoring the guards’ subtle glance, the tilt of your lady’s head, the quiet ripple of unease that followed you like a whisper. You said nothing. You didn't need to. You were a princess. You owed no one an explanation for the direction of your footsteps. But the truth was that you were not walking to clear your mind. You were being pulled.

Drawn by something invisible. Old. Sacred.

The wind stirred faintly through the plum trees, now nearly bare, their petals strewn across the garden paths like the remnants of an old prayer. The air was heavier tonight. Damp. Cool. The moon above is half-shadowed by clouds. You moved slowly, as if the night itself demanded reverence. As if your presence here, at this hour, was not a chance—but a ceremony.

And there he was.

Jinu stood beside the pond again. Jinu stood by the edge of the reflecting pool, the pale arc of the moon behind him, casting a halo across his shoulders and silvering the dark fall of his hair. His robes stirred lightly in the breeze, loose and unbelted, like he too had been drawn here by instinct rather than will. His posture was still, deceptively at ease, yet there was tension in the way his fingers flexed once—barely noticeable. His posture was as still and silent as the surface of the water, but there was something about him tonight—something quieter. Sadder. As if his silence had become a weight.

He didn’t turn when you first appeared. He did not look up when you approached, which alone struck a sharp note inside you.

You stopped, just a few paces behind him, your hands buried in the folds of your sleeves. The moon cast a faint silver sheen on his shoulder. You could see the rise and fall of his breath, steady but low. As if each inhale required effort.

Then, you moved closer. Wordlessly. Slowly.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, voice low, almost too soft to be real. Still had his back turned.

You swallowed. Your throat was dry.

“No,” you said, after a beat. “I dreamed.” He didn’t budge to turn around but the flinch that was barely ignited some sense in you.

The silence returned, stretching between you like a thread pulled taut. The moon reflected dimly in the water, a fractured glow that danced with every ripple, just like the unsettled feeling twisting in your chest.

You didn’t speak again. Neither did he and yet the air between you thrummed—thick with the weight of unspoken things. Like something reaching across time, across lifetimes, straining to be remembered. Something more than mere coincidence.

Jinu’s turned his head and gazed at you. Flickering—not in surprise, but with quiet recognition. “You remember it, then?”

“I remember... the cold. And your face. Or part of it.” You wrapped your arms more tightly around yourself, though the air wasn’t cold. “There was a temple. A voice.”

Jinu looked down for a moment. Then back at you. “You’ve dreamed that before. Many times.”

The words made your skin prickle. You stared at him, uncertain. “How would— how do you know that?”

He exhaled slowly, as if he hadn’t meant to say so much. “Because I’ve been there, too.”

You took a small step backward. Your voice trembled.

“Who are you, really?”

You stared at his back for a long time before you spoke.

“Jinu.” The name came unbidden.

You hadn’t planned to say it. You hadn’t even meant to. But it was the first time it had passed your lips aloud. And the moment it did, something shifted.

He turned to you, slowly, his expression unreadable. But it was his eyes—always his eyes—that betrayed the ache behind the calm. He met your gaze, and something in you fractured.

You felt it.

A thrum. A shock of emotion, as if the sound of his name in your voice had stirred something buried deep in both of you. And gods—it hurt. Not like a wound. But like recognition. Like coming home after centuries in the dark.

He didn’t speak and neither did you, for a long while.

But you stepped forward. One step. Then another. Until the space between you had narrowed to only a breath. You could feel the warmth of him now. The nearness. The heartbeat that pulsed in time with your own.

“I…” You faltered, unsure why you had come, what you meant to say. The words stuck like thorns behind your ribs. “... Feel like… There’s something I should ask you, but I don’t even know how.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt. He waited. Always, he waited.

You forced yourself to meet his eyes again. “When you said... that you remembered me. That I had died in your arms.” You swallowed hard. “That wasn’t… metaphor, was it?”

His eyes closed, only briefly. As if the memory pained him too much to hold all at once.

“No.”

Just one word. Quiet, Unyielding, and the world tilted.

A strange pressure built behind your eyes. Your hands clenched in your sleeves. You could feel something inside you shatter and reform all at once. Because you had felt it too. The pull. The ache. The way your chest had seized the first time your eyes met his in the audience chamber.

And now—

Now there were fragments rising to the surface.

Not images. Not names.

But sensations.

The weight of your head in his lap. The scent of blood and burnt wood. The feel of his hand pressed against your ribs, trying to stop something. Your own voice, trembling, saying his name—not Jinu. No, it had been something older. Something softer. Something yours.

You staggered a half-step back, breath caught in your throat.

“No,” you whispered. “No, that’s not real. It can’t be.”

But your body didn’t believe you. Neither did your soul. You could feel it—like the echo of a scream in an ancient hall. Like a scar long healed, aching with the weather.

His voice was low when he spoke again. “You don’t have to remember, Princess.” His eyes burned with grief that did not belong to this life.

“Your soul already does.” And that—that—undid you.

Your knees nearly buckled. Not from fear, not even from disbelief, but from the weight of it all. That you could walk through this life blind to what your soul had carried through death. That he had remembered you, mourned you, found you again—only to face you without the warmth of recognition returned.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “I don’t remember. I want to—but I can’t. And it hurts. It hurts, and I don’t know why.”

He stepped forward, slowly, deliberately, but stopped just short of touching you. His hand lifted—hesitating in the space between you—then lowered again. He would not reach for you. Not unless you asked him to.

“I came here for you,” he said, softly. “Every night. In this life, and the last. Whether you remembered me or not.”

Tears burned behind your eyes, unfallen. You didn’t know why. “No,” you whispered.

Jinu didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He only watched.

“I don’t remember,” you said again, but the words trembled now. Hollow. Because part of you did. It lived in the deepest part of you, beneath thought, beneath language. A thread of gold sewn through your soul that pulled tighter every time he stood too near.

“You died in my arms,” Jinu said softly, “and I have carried the silence of that moment for lifetimes.”

You flinched.

“I don’t—” You swallowed. “I don’t believe in such things.”

He stepped forward then, slowly, carefully, his voice a hush meant only for you.

“You don’t have to believe. Your soul already does.”

Gods help you—you did believe him. You believed him in the way the tide believes the moon.Your heart was racing now. Your hands trembling in your sleeves. You turned away, desperate to hide the rising chaos inside you. “It’s not possible.”

He didn’t reach for you. He didn’t try to prove it. Instead, he said, quietly— “Then why do you come to me every night?”

You froze. The wind stirred your hair. The petals from the tree fell around you like snow and still, he waited. Not demanding. Not even hoping. Just knowing.

You stood still for a long, shattering moment. And then—Your voice cracked when you answered

“I don’t know.”

But you did. You both did.

Only that his voice struck you with a sorrow so old, so familiar, it felt like a wound being reopened by the one who once tried to heal it.

“I think,” you whispered, “I once loved you.”

A pause. His breath caught.

Then, barely above the sound of the wind—

“I never stopped.”

And just for a moment, the space between you vanished.

Not with a kiss.

Not with a touch.

But with something far more sacred.

A memory.

Shared.

Felt.

And in your chest, your soul whispered a name you still could not speak—but would never again forget.

For a long while, neither of you moved. You stood in the garden as though the air itself had thickened around you—charged with memory, aching with the weight of everything unsaid. The night had deepened, but neither of you marked the hour. It didn’t matter. The palace might as well have fallen away, the moon disappeared, the world stilled. There was only the distance between you and how unbearably sacred it had become.

Jinu did not look away. His expression didn’t change. He stood like stone—and yet not cold. No, never cold. He carried the stillness of someone who had waited a very long time without demanding anything in return. He had always left it to you.

The choice. The pace. Even now, as your fingers trembled within the shelter of your sleeves, as your heart pounded like something wild against your ribs, he made no move to close the gap. No whisper of invitation. No reaching out and somehow, that broke you more than anything else.

Because he didn’t assume he was owed your touch. He didn’t believe he deserved it. He was waiting—with the quiet, soul-breaking patience of someone who had held you once, and lost you forever.

You swallowed hard, the sound deafening in your ears. Your breath shook and then—Your hand moved. Barely at first. A slow, quiet shift within the sleeve. The subtle flexing of fingers against silk. You took a step forward, the motion small but deliberate. And you looked down—past the folds of your robes, past the petals scattered at your feet—to where his hand rested at his side, still and open.

He hadn’t hidden it. He hadn’t offered it. He had simply… left it there. In case you ever chose to return to him. Your hand lifted, unsure at first, suspended in the space between doubt and desire. You hovered there—your fingers trembling inches above his. He did not move and that gave you the courage to go further.

You touched him. Just the lightest brush of your fingertips across the back of his hand. And the moment you did— Your breath caught. Not because it startled you, but because something deep within you stirred, like a bell struck in the marrow of your bones. A warmth bloomed beneath your skin, quiet but all-consuming, like sunlight reaching into the corners of a temple long abandoned.

You felt something click into place. Something that had been missing.

You curled your fingers around his slowly, as though the memory of it lived in your body already. You didn’t think. You didn’t speak. You just reached.

And he—He didn’t gasp. He didn’t flinch. But something in him changed, subtly, devastatingly. You felt it in the way his fingers slowly closed around yours. In the silent exhale he released, like a man who’d been holding his breath across lifetimes. In the way he bowed his head just slightly—not in deference, not in fear—but in quiet gratitude.

As though your hand in his was a prayer answered after a century of silence. You didn’t let go. Not right away. You couldn’t. Because the moment your hand touched his, the ache inside you shifted. Not gone—but quieter. Bearable. As though your soul, so long exiled from something it once called home, had found its way back to the threshold.

Neither of you said a word. You stood there—your hand in his, fingers barely curled, heart unraveling—and let the moment stretch, wide and eternal.

He looked up at you again and this time, when your eyes met, there was no fear.

Only knowing and beneath it—something deeper still.

Something not yet spoken, but already true. Love.

His fingers wrapped around yours with unbearable gentleness—careful, reverent, as though you were something sacred and fragile, a living relic pulled from the ruins of time. There was no hunger in the touch, no urgency. Only quiet certainty. A recognition that pulsed between your joined hands like a heartbeat shared.

The garden stilled around you. Even the wind, which moments before had stirred the petals beneath your feet, fell into silence. No birdsong. No rustle of leaves. Just the soft rush of blood in your ears, the tremble of your breath, the world folding inward.

Then something shifted. Your vision swam. Not like faintness. Not like fear. It was deeper than that. As if the very air had cracked, and something inside you—the oldest part—had split open to pour through. Your breath hitched and the breath you drew was not your own.

It came sharp and ragged, thick with heat, choked with the scent of burning pine and smoke-soaked stone. You smelled it before you saw it. Felt it before you understood. Your lungs filled with ash. Your skin prickled with phantom heat. And before you could cry out—

The garden was gone. It didn’t vanish—it simply peeled away, like paint flaking from ancient murals, revealing the true layer beneath.

The moon above you burned red. Not from beauty—but from flame. The sky was split open, thick with black smoke, curling from rooftops half-collapsed and glowing at their edges. Screams echoed from far-off courtyards. You could hear the panic in every bell that rang—loud and unrelenting, not in ceremony but in alarm. The kind that never stops. The kind rung at the end of things.

You were barefoot.

Your feet bled, though you hadn’t noticed. The ground beneath you was stone slick with water—or maybe blood—you didn’t look too closely. Your robes, once embroidered with silver moons and lined with soft mink fur, hung from you in torn ribbons. The silk was scorched along the seams. One sleeve had burned away entirely. The other clung to your arm, soaked through with something warm. You were cold, despite the fire. But not alone. He was with you.

Jinu—no. That wasn’t his name here. Not yet. He was younger, or maybe older, his face thinner, sharper, streaked with soot and blood. His hair was longer, tied hastily with a red ribbon that now hung loose, as if it too had given up its purpose. His hands were blistered. A blade was strapped across his back, dark with runes and old iron. Not a royal envoy. Not a demon hunter.

A soldier? A guardian? No.

A protector. Of you.

He stood with you beneath the temple ruins, the shattered archway above still glowing faintly where fire had not yet reached. His eyes—those same eyes that held the weight of centuries—were fixed on you, wide with grief.

Not fear.

Grief.

As if this moment had already happened a hundred times, and he had tried to change it in every single one. His hand clutched yours. Tight. Not crushing, but grounding. Desperate.

“I promised I’d protect you,” he said.

His voice was hoarse, dry from ash and pain, and yet it cut through the roar of fire like a blade through silk.

“And I failed.”

You turned to him—weakly, barely able to hold yourself upright. Your legs trembled. Your mouth tasted of copper. The edges of your vision swam red. But your hand in his stayed firm, even as your knees buckled.

And somehow, you smiled.

Not with joy.

But peace.

“You didn’t fail,” you whispered. “You found me.” The words weren’t conscious. You didn’t decide to say them. They poured from you like breath. Like memory. Like something your body had memorized long ago.

He drew closer, his brow pressed to yours. His shoulders shook—not from pain, but from the weight of loss already known. You felt it in the way his hand trembled against your wrist. In the way he pulled you close, even knowing he could not keep you.

“I tried,” he whispered. “I tried everything. I begged the gods. The stars. Anything that would listen.”

You rested your forehead on his. The temple burned behind you. You didn’t flinch.

“I know,” you said softly. “You always do.” Your voice was faint now. Your pulse slowing but you weren’t afraid. You weren’t alone. He kissed your knuckles. Just once. As gently as one lays a prayer on a shrine.

“I won’t forget you,” he said. His voice cracked. “Not in this life. Not in any other.” You smiled again. Slower this time. Sadder.

“I’ll find you,” you whispered. “Even if I don’t remember. Even if it takes a thousand years.”

His eyes closed and as your body gave out, your soul lifted— Not away.

But forward and just as your last breath left your lips—

A vow passed between you, silent and binding.

Return. Remember. Love. Again.

Then, The vision tore away.

You didn’t return to your quarters that night. Not right away. The garden stretched long and quiet around you, bathed in the soft hush of midnight. The plum blossoms had begun to fall in earnest, scattered like snow across the stone paths, and your hand still lay within his—warm, trembling slightly, but unwilling to let go.

Neither of you spoke at first.

You sat together in silence, his shoulder against yours, the edge of your sleeve brushing his robe. It should have felt forbidden. Improper. You were royalty, after all. He was nothing more than an envoy, a guest, a shadow at court. And yet—out here, in the dark, with only the moon as witness—none of that mattered.

You had seen a part of the truth.

You had felt it in your bones.

Still, it wasn’t enough.

Not yet.

You turned your head slightly, just enough to glance at him—his profile calm, his gaze distant, fixed somewhere beyond the garden. His features were drawn tight in thought, jaw clenched not in anger, but in restraint. Like he was trying not to speak. Like he had held something back for too long.

“Jinu,” you said quietly.

He blinked once, slowly, as though waking from a long sleep.

You hesitated. “Tell me. All of it. Please.”

For a moment, you thought he might refuse. He turned his face away, his lips parting slightly—then pressing into a thin, quiet line. But after a long pause, he nodded Not out of obligation but out of exhaustion because some truths can’t be buried forever and this one had waited long enough.

He began slowly, his voice low, barely above the wind.

“It started long before you were born. Before any of us were. In a life I no longer remember clearly—only in fragments. I wasn’t born into royalty. I wasn’t chosen by the heavens. I was… a guardian. A keeper of old paths. I walked between this world and the next.”

You listened, heart quiet, breath steady.

“I made a vow,” he continued. “To protect a temple of the forgotten gods. Not out of piety. Out of love. It was sacred to you. And I… I would have followed you anywhere.”

You turned toward him slightly, your gaze catching the faintest shimmer at the edge of his lashes. Not tears. Not yet. But the promise of them, held back by pride or grief.

“I broke that vow,” he said. His voice cracked, just barely.

“I failed. You died. And I lived.” He swallowed hard. “I begged the gods to take me instead. To undo time. To change the ending.”

You could feel your heart aching now—not in confusion, not in pity, but in terrible, helpless understanding.

“And they answered,” he said.

He finally looked at you then. Not as the envoy. Not as the stranger. But as the man who had been yours once, long ago.

“I was cursed,” he whispered. “Not to die. Not to forget. But to remember. Every time you returned to the world—I would remember. Who you were. Who we had been. How I failed.”

You stared at him, breath caught.

“And I would remember,” he added, “even when you didn’t.”

The words struck like a blow, not in their cruelty, but in their truth. You had seen only fragments—one vision, one night. But he had carried the whole of it. For lifetimes.

“Why?” you whispered. “Why would they do that to you?”

He looked up at the sky. Not bitter. Not angry. Simply… resigned.

“Because I asked them to,” he said. “Because I begged to remember you, no matter what. Even if it meant suffering. Even if it meant being born into every lifetime as a stranger to you. I chose it.”

Your chest tightened.

A rush of heat stung behind your eyes. You reached for his hand again—not out of obligation, but out of instinct. As though your body remembered what your mind still struggled to name.

He didn’t resist.

“I didn’t want to forget your face,” he said softly. “Not again.”

A silence fell between you, deep and fragile.

You sat beneath the flowering branches of the tree, hands entwined, lives entwined, the past curling around the present like mist. The wind stirred faintly, lifting the scent of old petals, and with it came the truth you had no language for.

This man had loved you through death.

Through time.

Through every cruel rebirth.

And he had carried the weight of that memory alone—all for the chance to see you again.

And you had.

At last.

You exhaled slowly, your thumb brushing over the back of his hand.

“I’m here now,” you said.

He looked at you.

And for the first time, a flicker of something softer passed through his eyes.

Hope.

The moment lingered.

You sat together beneath the plum trees—his hand in yours, the scent of blossoms like incense in the night, soft petals collecting in the folds of your robes. For a heartbeat, there was only silence. A silence that felt full, not empty. You felt it in the warmth of his fingers, the aching steadiness of his gaze.

Your soul had begun to understand him.

Even if your mind still chased questions.

But then—

A sound. Sharp. Hollow. Distant. Bootsteps on stone.

You both froze.

The rhythm of it was unmistakable. The hurried march of armored feet, five or six men at least, coming from the eastern corridor. It echoed through the garden like thunder, chasing away the stillness like wind scattering prayer scrolls.

You looked at him, your fingers tightening around his instinctively.

Jinu’s jaw tensed.

He stood without a word, hands already releasing yours, his posture shifting with uncanny calm—like a shadow returning to its shape. He no longer looked like the man you’d just bared your heart to. In an instant, he was once again the envoy. The outsider. The one who did not belong.

You rose more slowly, brushing your hands down your robe to steady yourself. But your pulse was racing. You knew the guards would be looking for you by now—curfew long passed, your presence long missed.

And yet—

You had never heard them move this quickly.

A crack of voices cut through the air.

“Secure the perimeter!”

“Over there!”

The guards' silhouettes appeared between the flowering arches—dark shapes in lacquered armor, blades drawn. Their torches flared orange and angry against the soft hush of the moonlit garden.

Then one of them saw you. “Princess!” The guard claimed.

You flinched. His voice wasn’t one of relief.

It was panic. Urgency.

He rushed toward you, the others not far behind. “Your Highness, we must return you to the palace immediately. There’s been a breach near the outer gate.”

You turned sharply, eyes darting to Jinu. He remained still beside you, but his eyes… they had gone sharp, distant, alert. A familiar tension rolled through him—like a hound scenting smoke before fire.

“What kind of breach?” he asked quietly.

The captain didn’t look at him. Didn’t even acknowledge him.

“The monks at the outer shrine sent a hawk—they say something clawed tried to cross the river ward. It didn’t make it across… but it was fast. Strong. Not human.”

Your heart dropped.

The guards didn’t see it, but you did. The way Jinu’s shoulders stiffened. The flicker of heat beneath the calm in his gaze. It wasn’t surprise that crossed his face.

It was recognition. He knew what it was. He had seen it before— you. Had seen those things before, it was the ones who tried to pry on you… to eat you, and now, it was close.

“Escort the princess,” the captain barked. “We’re locking down the entire palace. No one leaves the inner grounds until sunrise.”

Another guard stepped forward, reaching gently for your arm not to touch but merely hovering over it. “Forgive us, Your Highness, but you’re not safe here.”

You opened your mouth to protest—but before you could speak, Jinu took a step back, away from you, hands at his sides.

He was vanishing again. Not literally—but behind the mask. Behind the role. The man you had just touched—the one who held centuries in his eyes—had retreated.

As if he could not be seen beside you now. As if this moment, this truth, would be burned away by the torches of men who did not understand.

“Go,” he said quietly, not looking at you. “Your highness, it is not safe here.”

You look at his eyes with reckless abandon. It hurt more than it should have.

You stepped forward, unwilling to let it end like this. “Wait—Jinu—”

He looked at you finally and the pain in his gaze—masked though it was—struck you like a blow.

Just like the blow of a wind it was redirected immediately. He looked at the captain of the guards. “I’ll find it,” he said. “Whatever crossed the wards tonight… I’ll deal with it.”

You knew what he meant.

Not ‘I’ll help.’

Not ‘I’ll try.’

He was already hunting it.

Even now.

Your chest ached.

Still, the guards surrounded you. You couldn’t stay. Not without drawing suspicion. Not without risking him.

So you let them guide you away.

But as you turned back once—just once—you saw him standing beneath the tree, petals falling around his shoulders like snow.

Alone.

Watching you leave again. The way he always had. The way he always would.

It was not the first life. Not even the second. But it was the first time he failed you in a way the gods would not forgive.

It began with fire. Not the kind that rages and burns—but the kind that waits, patient, breathing smoke beneath the floorboards of the world. It crept in slowly, like rot. Like a whisper. The skies had turned red days before, the moon swollen and rusted like a dying eye. The monks had muttered about omens, drawn talismans in vain. The people had begun to pray louder, to offer more.

But it wasn’t enough. Nothing ever was. That night, he had been late.

He remembered the details with agonizing clarity—the scent of lantern oil, the cold sweat along his back, the way the forest had gone too quiet. The stars had vanished behind a veil of cloud, and still he had pressed forward, not yet knowing what he would find.

You were already gone from the palace by the time he arrived.

He’d warned the king. Pleaded. Begged. Told them something was coming. They hadn’t listened.

You had insisted on leading the ritual yourself—brave, stubborn, always trying to carry the weight of your people with dignity. You never should’ve been there. You never should’ve been alone. He found the field outside the temple gates in ruins.

Blood soaked the grass, mingling with crushed blossoms. The shrine’s wooden arch had splintered, talismans torn from their posts. The sacred circle meant to repel demons had been defaced—scratched through by claws that gouged through stone like silk.

And in the center of it— You.

Collapsed at the base of the offering altar, your ceremonial robe torn, your arm streaked red. A wound to the stomach, deep and glistening, like something had tried to claim you.

He dropped to his knees beside you, breath leaving his lungs in a single broken sound. “What… did you do!”

You were still breathing.

But not for long.

“Stay with me,” he had said, over and over, his voice raw with disbelief. “Stay. With. Me.”

Your eyelids fluttered.

And in that brief moment of clarity, you looked at him—not with fear. Not with confusion.

With recognition.

As if, even dying, you knew him.

As if your soul remembered what the body had barely begun to understand.

He tried to lift you.

Tried to carry you to the healers, to the monks, to anyone who could undo what had been done.

But you reached for him weakly, fingers brushing his cheek.

“No,” you whispered. “I’m sorry—”

He shook his head.

“I can fix this. I can—I’ll offer anything—”

You smiled.

It broke him more than the blood.

“You always do, my lov…” you muttered.

And then—Your eyes looked at him. A shortness of breath. And you were gone. The Gods did not come with thunder or wrath. They did not scold. They watched and when he screamed at the heavens, when he bled into the shrine’s soil, when he swore he would give anything—his soul, his name, his next thousand lives—to undo this, they answered in silence.

And then they bound him. To time. To memory. To you. You would return. In another form. Another face but he would remember.

And he would be made to walk beside you again and again—always too late, always too far, always unrecognized—until he had paid the price.

And so he did.

He woke from the memory with a start, not in sleep but in the garden.

Now.

Your scent still lingered on the breeze. The warmth of your hand still ghosted against his palm and yet the ache in his chest burned like it had that night because something had crossed the wards and this time—he would not be late.

Not again. He stood, turned toward the shadows, and vanished beneath the plum trees.

Silent.

Deadly.

Ready.

˚ 　 ⤹ 　 ❝ ©twstedfreak | all rights reserve to the owner. . . . do not plagiarize, steal, translate, or modify my work. . . . banner & header is made by yours truly

taglist: @sparky2020sworld. @enerofairy.

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bowxs · 19 hours ago

Note

59 + soldier boy but someone comes in while they’re in there and he tells reader to stay quiet unless she wants someone to hear ykyk

prompt 59 - “ill fuck you in the bathroom stall if you dont stop”

normally, you and ben didnt do fancy. it wasnt for any specific reason, you just never had time to get dressed up, make reservations, and waste your night at an overpriced restaurant

and tonight was no different, even on your anniversary. you swore up and down you didnt mind, that you were fine to go to you and bens usual bar and spend the night there. but you did care, and you were going to make it bens problem too.

you and ben were seated in your normal booth, one tucked in the back corner of the bar, away from prying eyes and people who would happen to recognize ben as ‘soldier boy’

ben was looking at the list of drinks they offered, and you were supposed to be doing the same, but you had other ideas as you glanced around the bar, making sure there was no one happening to look over at you two

“damn baby, look, this ones called ‘the lovebird’, kinda fitting for our anniversary” ben comments, not bothering to look over at you as he keeps scanning the list

your hand snaked onto his muscular thigh, the motion normal enough to not elicit any concern from ben, instead making a barely-there smile play at his lips. that wasnt enough of a reaction

you shifted your hand higher, up his thigh, right on-top of the pocket of his jeans, getting closer and closer to actually making him react. except you dont need to even push it that far, cause his eyebrow cocks up, finally turning to face you

“watch it” he grunts out, like he knew what you wanted, and you wouldnt even be surprised if he did. “m’not doing anything” you shot your best innocent grin at him, your hand sliding over the zipper of his pants with just the right amount of pressure to feel him

“ill fuck you in the bathroom stall if you dont stop” he narrows his eyes at you, as if trying to prove his point, and god you hoped he did. you only squeeze your hand around the faint outline of him before your being dragged away to the mens bathroom

your hands were pressed against the wall of the tight bathroom stall, your feet wide so ben can fit himself behind you, whimpers leaving your mouth as ben pumped in and out like he had something to prove, the wall you were holding onto slightly shaking with each thrust

“couldnt even wait till we got home- couldnt be good for one fucking night” he grunts into your ear, one of his hands holding your hips, the other one holding the back of your neck to keep your head up

“ben m’sorry-” you choke out, tears threatening to fall at his relentless pace, like he wasnt scared of someone hearing. before you can continue babbling your apology, his fingers are shoved into your mouth and hes frozen, still balls deep inside of you

he hears it before you do, the creak of the bathroom door opening, the sound of boots on the ground, presumably walking to one of the urinals on the other side of the bathroom.

“you better keep fuckin’ quiet, unless you really feel like being a slut” ben whispers into your ear before he slowly starts to move again, pulling almost all the way out before sliding himself back in to the hilt, careful not to make the stall shake

he stays moving like that- torturously slow, fingers stuffed into your mouth, hand gripping your hip so hard you wouldnt be surprised if it left bruises- and he expects you to be silent?

small, barely audible, muffled whimpers leave your mouth every time he pushes back into you, the tip of his dick hitting that spongy spot inside of you perfectly, every damn time

he tsks next to your ear, just for you to hear “its like you want someone to hear you”

and goddamnit if he wasnt right

divider from @cursed-carmine

#soldier boy #soldier boy x yn #soldier boy x you #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy smut #soldier boy fic #soldier boy x female reader #soldier boy x y/n #the boys x you #the boys #the boys smut #bowxs posts!

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gldrushh · 1 day ago

Text

MY KINK IS KARMA | | KTH (m)

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

➵ PAIRING Idol!Taehyung x fem!reader

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

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

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

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

| MASTERLIST | WATTPAD | AO3 |

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

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

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

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

You don’t feel like celebrating now.

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

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

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

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

He was forty minutes late.

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

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

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

Calling: Hajoonie 🩷🩷

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A whole thing.

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

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

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

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

"Joon-sshi."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kim Taehyung.

Of course.

It was always Kim Taehyung.

You hate Kim Taehyung.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because you’re done.

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

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

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

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

Now, you typed:

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

The replies came fast like an avalanche.

[LARA]: WHAT?! HE BAILED?

[JIA]: noooooo. again???

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[SAFIYA]: he flinched.

[LARA]: so did we.

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

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

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

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

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

[JIA]: Wait i thought it was green

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

[LARA]: EXACTLY.

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

You type:

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

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

You are not an afterthought.

The club smells like citrus and hidrosis and possibility.

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

They scream when they see you.

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

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

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

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

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

And for a while, it works.

It fades and fades and fades until it works.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whirl on her. “Don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…I hate him,” you finish weakly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You gape. “Excuse me?"

“Just hypothetically,” Safiya chirps.

"You guys are disgusting."

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

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

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

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

You gasp, mortified. “NO. Stop it.”

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

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

But you don’t want to think about that.

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

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

Smashing a pie in his face.

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

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

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

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

Like pushing him into a koi pond.

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

Right in.

He flails with a loud splash for special effects.

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

You desire.

It’s laundry day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey,” he says.

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

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

“But you weren’t.”

“No.”

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

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

"Did you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

You raise an eyebrow but don’t reply.

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

You blink at him. “Okay?”

He swallows. “With a plus one.”

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

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

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

But…

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

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

Still, you have to play it cool.

“Can my friends come?”

He blinks. “What?”

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

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

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

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

“I’ll think about it.”

He sags like you just handed him oxygen.

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

“I know.”

You glance back at him, tilt your head.

“But you’re making up for it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You haven’t decided yet.

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

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

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

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

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

The first people you meet are benign.

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

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

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

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

She turns away before you can thank her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bora turns.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hate that most of all.

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

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

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

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

The girls show up just in time to interrupt.

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

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

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

You bury a laugh in your glass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then Hajoon is pulling you forward

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

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

“No way,” Jia hisses.

“You’re joking,” lara breathes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s a lot. But you manage.

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

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

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

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

You blink. “He told you that?”

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

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

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

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

"Really nice." One of the girls add.

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

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

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

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

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

Safiya looks ready to melt through the floor.

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

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

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

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

You’re still processing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That creeping thought finally pierces through the buzz. Wait.

Six.

There were six.

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

Except... maybe you do.

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

There was a name.

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

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

That’s it.

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

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

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

You look around for confirmation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Taehyung?” he echoes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hum. “Mhm. Keep the tab open.”

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

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

And just like that, you’re solo again.

Empty-handed and bare-shouldered- Unattached.

Empty-handed and bare-shouldered- Unsupervised.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The crowd thins out here. The sound mellows.

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

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

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

“You’re not with the label, are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You raise a brow. “Is that a line?”

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

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

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

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

He sticks out his hand. “Sangmin.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. "True, that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stay where you are.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It should be nothing.

Keyword: Should be.

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

“—don’t know why you brought her.”

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

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

“Bora, come on.”

You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You feel sick.

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

Was that a lie too?

Or did he mean it then?

Does it even matter now?

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

But you think about it.

Lords, do you think about it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shift and move.

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

Inside, everything falls placid.

Like prey sensing danger.

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

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

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

You don’t look back.

You can’t afford to.

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

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

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

But no footsteps follow. No voices chase you.

Maybe they think it was nothing.

Or worse, maybe they know exactly what it was.

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

You type back:

[omw.]

It’s all you can manage.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your feet start moving before your brain catches up.

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

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

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

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

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

You were good.

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

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

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

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

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

You can’t walk in like this.

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

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

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

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

“Sorry—excuse me.”

She stops, brows raised in mild surprise.

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

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

“Of course.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You step out into the night.

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

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

You close your eyes.

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

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

You breathe. In. Out. In again.

He cheated on you.

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

He. Cheated. On you.

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

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

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

You turn your head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh come on!

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

“It's alright.”

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

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

He turns as if on cue.

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

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

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

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

You know that voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But this isn’t then.

This is now. And now you know the truth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It comes uninvited. Like most things do.

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

Except it wasn’t Hajoon.

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

You blinked at the screen, furrowed your brow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're funny. Send the photo."

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

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

You hadn’t expected a reply.

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

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

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

"Told you. I commit."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Great. Now you’re giving him lines.

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

“Come closer.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally, his gaze shifts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You smoke?"

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

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

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

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

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

You glance at the cigarette. Then at his mouth.

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

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

Do you need a distraction?

Yes. Obviously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You inhale. Lightly.

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

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

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

"Mhm. What habit?"

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

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

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

"Not always."

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

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

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

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

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

The what?

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

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

"Humor me and ask me what is that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance over. “What?”

“Share yours.”

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

“Isn’t it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your mind claws through options.

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

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

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

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

Unfair. Unrelenting. Utterly exhausting.

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

“I’m not your fan.”

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

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

The pause that follows is the longest one yet.

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

“I know.”

Huh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So you’re not bothered?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

His brows lift, slow and unsurprised.

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

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

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

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

“You’ll guess my secret.”

“Exactly. To speed things up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

As if to egg you on, he remains mum.

"You secretly hate the fame."

Oof.

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

You chance a glance at him then.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink.

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

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

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

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

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

Your face torsions into a grimace.

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

“What face?”

“The one that says I’m pretentious.”

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

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

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

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

His head tilts, just slightly. “Huh?”

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

He blinks, slow. “Prove what.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But what?”

“What did that mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

Before you can toss it — he reaches.

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

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

You say nothing. Your throat has turned treacherous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

122 notes · View notes

buckets-and-trees · 3 days ago

Note

Imagine: villain (masked/hidden) choose one the city or your lover (y/n).

Hero leaves to save the city and y/n exposes themselves saying “you were right” to the villain (Bucky) if possible maybe a little angst abandonment and seeking comfort via buckyxreader with some smut if you have the time 👉👈 if you do thank you and please tag me I love your writing and I love saving to reread!

Take My Hand

Characters/Pairings: MMC x curvy Millennial female!Reader, Sam Wilson, Bucky Barnes Word Count: 13k Summary: You're brought into a plot that you never asked for, caught between two men, former best friends.

Content/Warnings: kidnapping; drugging; angst; explicit smut: vaginal fingering, oral (male receiving), unprotected vaginal intercourse, anal fingering

Notes: This was a the last piece leftover from the little request fest I threw when I hit 300 followers. This week I've just hit 3500. I've always had an idea of wanting to tell a story with this prompt featuring a post-Thunderbolts Bucky, and as time wore on and we got closer to the movie ACTUALLY coming out, it seemed better to wait and see what would happen. It only gave more for me to work into my original idea, and I'm really pleased with how it turned out now. I sketched out most of the outline and quite a bit of dialogue back in spring/summer of 2023, and the majority of that is still here, including the fic title.

Additional Note: Trotting this out for week WEEK FOUR of @buckybarnesevents' Hot Bucky Summer - it's free week, but I did use Anal Play and Aftercare here.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

The taste in your mouth is wet coins.

For a long, soft moment, you assume you must have rolled off your own bed and onto the floor, but the linoleum—if it is linoleum—is too cold and too smooth, and the air had that sterile, metallic nip associated with hospital waiting rooms and broken lightbulbs.

And why would you have rolled off your bed onto the floor? You weren’t in bed the last moment you remember, and you wouldn’t have fallen asleep in your clothes.

No, the last thing you remember was softly closing your front door behind you, humming to yourself as you flicked the lock closed, and then a sudden sting to your neck.

There’s a sting in your eyes now because you realize the awful truth.

The worst case scenario you and your boyfriend had only ever spoken about once because it was a viable possibility, a hazard of dating him: you’d been kidnapped.

You sit up, gracelessly, and your teeth chatter. You let yourself feel the terror, but only for a heartbeat—your brain rings with it, a tuning fork of dread, and you clamp it down, hard, into the pit of your stomach where it radiates. Not now. You need to think.

You take inventory: arms and legs both work, hands still attached, no obvious wounds besides the soreness blooming at your neck like a thumbprint on a peach. You press the tender spot and wince.

The room is not what you would have imagined for a kidnapping. It’s wintry and lit too brightly. You’re inside a small cube, walling you off with thick, aquarium-grade panels of glass. The encasement is large enough for you to reasonably pace back and forth, but there’s no furniture, no cot or even a pillow or a bowl of water. Whoever has taken you must not plan on keeping you here long, and that could be either very good or very bad for you.

Beyond the glass, the room is cathedral-big, with a single wall of windows running from floor to ceiling. Daylight pours in, and by your best guess it’s afternoon sunlight. Probably the same afternoon you were taken as you’re not hungry or thirsty.

Scratch that.

You are thirsty, but not uncomfortably so.

You swab your tongue around your gums, tasting metal and something else—something faint and sharp, like ozone during a summer thunderstorm. There is no handle or aperture on your side of the glass, only a seamless plane, and you get the sense that were you to pound your fists on it, it would barely quiver. Still, you raise your hand and press your palm to the surface, feeling its chill seep into your bones.

Nothing. No movement, no sign of life in the luminous cathedral beyond.

It isn’t fear that keeps you quiet, exactly. You simply know, with a fundamental certainty, that if you were to scream or shout, no one would come. You’re a captive sentenced to solitude until someone deigns to antagonize or rescue you.

The silence is not total. There is a white noise, a faint thrum—ventilation, perhaps, or some slow machine grinding in the bowels of the building. If it is a building. You aren’t sure what else it could be, but it feels crucial not to assume.

You check yourself for tracking bugs, but you’re still clothed: a hoodie, jeans, your comfortable sneakers. You didn’t dress for comfort in case of kidnap, but at least that went well for you with what the universe apparently had in store for you today. You have your watch - an old piece from your grandmother, no smart capabilities there, which is probably why it’s still on your wrist. No phone, of course, and your pockets are nearly empty. Lint in one and - thoughtfully for whoever this villain and their cronies are - your lip balm in the other.

At least you won’t have chapped lips.

You pace the perimeter, mapping the enclosure with your steps. Six and a half paces by five, three full circuits before your limbs stop feeling groggy and your brain thundering with each heartbeat.

After the third circuit, you crouch, and then sink down to the ground, pressing your back up against the glass, facing forward to the wall of windows. Unfortunately you’re not even close enough to the windows to catch any of the sunlight - would’ve been nice to be able to bathe in it sleepily like a housecat.

You count your breaths. By forty-two, you’re over it. You slide down the glass a little further, legs splayed. You rest your head against the glass panel and close your eyes, just for the luxury of not seeing where you are.

You are almost comfortable, almost numbed into resignation, when the silence is broken by a blunt, echoing clank.

You shift on instinct, drawing your knees up to crouch defensively, ready to propel yourself in either direction or attack if needed, though there isn’t much direction to go.

There’s a second clank, sharper. A shadow falls across the threshold, and then a white panel in the wall slides away like a bank vault, soundless, on hidden rails. The cold is sharper now, and you catch the smell of winter through the climate-controlled sterility: iron, gun oil, something so clean it’s almost dangerous.

A figure enters, and your surge of adrenaline is strong and immediate, tinged with hope, and your heart soars. This is not your captor, not a faceless goon or a hissing cackler like you’d half-expected. This is someone you know.

Bucky Barnes.

It’s not your boyfriend, but one of his old trusty allies, though it’s been a long time since he and Sam have worked together or even seen each other.

He is broader than you remember, hair falling in dark, soft waves around his face. He’s not in tactical gear, instead wearing a charcoal suit that fits him too well, like he used to when he was a senator. That’s when you’d first met him.

His eyes are the pale blue of a glacier's heart, flat and expressionless, and for a moment you think maybe this isn't Bucky. Maybe it's the other him, the one people used to fear - the old Winter Soldier, not the one who was part of the New Avengers, not the one who had worked with Sam, not the one they called the White Wolf.

He stands behind the glass, and you realize the panel has remained opened in the outer chamber, but not for you. It's for him. Your throat closes, choking on his name.

"Bucky?" you croak, and then wish you hadn't. The sound is needy, broken. You weren't going to be that person—someone who begged at the first sight of a familiar face.

He looks at you, head tilting very slightly, as if he's listening to music only he can hear.

“Are you hurt?” His voice sounds normal, maybe a little raspier than you remember, but still warm enough to seep through the wall and thaw your panic a degree. You shake your head. The glass does nothing to blur your expression, so you let it hang open, let him see everything you’re feeling, the fear and the hope braided together into something that tastes as bitter as old coffee.

Bucky studies you with that same tilted curiosity, the kind that makes you feel like he’s already taken you apart in his mind and knows exactly how you’re put together.

You edge forward, still on your knees. “Where’s Sam?” you ask, and the moment you say it, the question feels both necessary and perilous.

Bucky glances at the panel behind him, lips pressed together as if considering whether to share the answer or let it fester.

He glances over his shoulder. You realize then he’s not alone in the cathedral beyond. Two figures—faceless in sleek black, like chess pieces—stand sentinel behind him. They don’t move, don’t even appear to breathe, and a cold animal part of your brain registers that they don’t need to. They’re just there to watch.

He steps closer, so close his breath briefly fogs a patch of the glass between you. “He’s busy, but he’s on his way.”

Coolness spreads through your veins.

Bucky’s eyes flick to the corners of the cube, where cameras you hadn’t noticed are now winking alive, the power inlet’s red dots glaring. You’re being recorded—filmed, archived, maybe studied—and the revelation lands with a dull, resonant thud. You try not to show your panic on your face, but your body betrays you: fingers curl, jaw tenses, pupils go wide.

He is not here for a rescue. You know it before you know you know it.

"Why am I here, Bucky?" Your question comes out too steady. You want to throw something at him—your shoe, your voice, your fear—but there’s not enough space in this box for anger, only the condensation of every instinct you have, crowding in, begging you to understand.

“The safest place for you right now is here.” He says it quietly, like he’s apologizing, but the immediacy of it, the lack of debate, has your mind racing, his words in no way soothing.

“Bucky,” you say, “let me out.”

He shakes his head, almost fondly. “I can’t. Not yet.”

You stand, legs trembling, and you press both hands to the glass when you say, “Please. Whatever this is, don’t do this.”

You expect him to sigh or look away, but instead Bucky studies you with that lethal patience you’ve seen before, the one that made you want to work for his congressional campaign when you first met him, the one that made him a shrewd negotiator in the House of Representatives. He waits so long you want to scream, but then he raises his hand—slow, deliberate—and presses it to the glass, palm-to-palm with yours. Despite physics, you almost feel the pressure, the almost-heat leaking across the boundary.

"It’s already done," he says.

You stare at him, a thousand implications creasing into your mind, none of them good. "What have you done?" you whisper, because you know it’s not only about the kidnapping, not really.

Bucky’s jaw flexes, and, again, he doesn’t speak right away. His fingers splay, as if wanting to catch yours on the other side, and then curl into a fist, knuckles whitening against the cold.

“Technically speaking, I haven’t done anything yet,” he says. A smile, thin and wintry, crosses his lips. “But I did send a message.” He says it with the offhand air of someone admitting to forgetting to water their plants.

Your brain scrambles. “A message to who? Sam?”

He shakes his head, though not in the way someone would if they were lying. “To enough people at the top - Sam, Valentina, government officials.”

He waits for you to catch up. Sam hadn’t been able to tell you about the message he’d received - common when he got called away to do Captain America work - but he’d looked more concerned than usual.

You watch Bucky’s face for hints, for the shadow of an old self or a new one. Bucky, who once avoided all but necessity, has always been the kind of person who made statements with action, not words. But this—this was theater.

He leans a shoulder against the glass, as if the two of you are just tired of standing at a long party, finding a quiet spot together. “Do you want to know what it said?”

You don’t.

But you nod, because not-knowing is the same as being powerless, and you can’t bear the cold feeling of helplessness.

He cocks his head, almost gently. “It said that unless certain demands were met, a biotoxin would be released at the heart of Manhattan. Three hours for it to spread across the borough. After that, containment would be impossible. The message detailed three drop points for the ransom, and a protocol for negotiation.” He says it without bravado, a recitation of fact, as if he’s reading it from cue cards in his head.

You try to laugh. It comes out as a dry, shuddering guffaw. “That’s—cartoon villain stuff, Bucky.”

He shrugs, as if that’s the point.

You rub your hands over your face, and for a moment you are tempted to laugh harder, because this is what Sam always used to joke about: that Bucky operated on logic so clean it seemed mad, his thinking a locked-room puzzle with only one solution.

“Why?”

“No one was listening to anything else anymore.”

You swallow, but your mouth is dry again. “You could’ve called Sam.”

Bucky’s eyes flicker, and for a second you see the old pain underneath, a wince almost too quick to mark. But in its wake is an emotionless frown. “You know I couldn’t.”

Your chest hollows at the words because you know he’s right. He and Sam haven’t spoken for months, and the last time they did, it went poorly.

Bucky is watching you with a steady, unblinking intensity. You get the unsettling sense he’s rehearsed this conversation in his head, every line and gesture.

“Sam has forty-seven minutes to show up here and deliver the payment,” Bucky continues.

“Does Sam know it’s you?” you ask.

He considers the question, lets his eyes drag up and down the box, your body, your face. “No,” he says. “Not yet.”

“And what then?” You press. “He comes, you do your villain monologue, and what, he hands over cash and saves the day?”

“Untraceable cryptocurrency. And it’s not money I’m after.”

Bucky stands there, his blue eyes eating the distance between you. There’s a hush like reverence, like the building itself is holding its breath. Both of you are silent, and for a moment the glass between you softens, your memories of him rewinding to that first campaign event in the corridor of the Natural Hisory Museum, when he’d looked at you so long and so full of yearning, but you’d just started working his PR team days before, and neither one of you had wanted to cross professional boundaries. You’d met Sam later that night.

But that look… He’s looking at you like that now, older and sadder, but somehow more intent.

He presses his forehead to the glass, and it seems less like a threat and more like a confession. "You know," he says, voice low, "I still think about the night I introduced you to Sam. I wanted to kiss you then. Think I should’ve. Instead, I decided it would be less complicated to let my best friend take a chance with you instead. I knew you’d be good for each other."

The ache in your chest shifts, nostalgia and fear suddenly indistinguishable. You stare at the space between you and try not to let it show, the old hunger, the regret.

But there’s anger there now, too.

"You don’t get to say things like that," you respond.

“You can’t stop me.”

You want to spit or hiss or stomp at him, say something sharp and scathing, but your own feelings are scattered and skittering as you try to make sense of this situation.

“Don’t try and say you did this all for me,” you finally manage, and you almost sound angry.

And you are. But you’re also tangled by a feeling you’d buried years ago when you committed to Sam, convinced yourself that your short stint of longing for Bucky was little more than a whim. But it is still there, uncovered from a place you forgot existed, reverberating in your bones, making you ache.

Something in his face flickers, another microexpression so brief you almost miss it. He leans back from the glass, folding his arms, the suit tightening across his chest. “I won’t lie to you. This isn’t all for you, and it isn’t all for Sam.” His voice turns quiet, almost uncertain. “But if I didn’t want you, I would have done this without you. You weren’t necessary for the plan, but you’re certainly worth it.” He lets the words hang between you, sees the way they knot your throat. “So don’t doubt how much I want you.”

That admission robs you of the breath from your lungs. You only realize your jaw has dropped when he smirks.

“Now,” Bucky resumes, beginning to pace casually in front of you. You know it’s a move to momentarily lower the stakes given everything he’s just said. “Once Sam gets here, I’m going to offer him a choice: save you or save the city.”

“He’s going to pick the city,” you respond automatically.

“Oh, we both know that’s not even a question for our dutiful Captain America, but I want you to observe and assess how long it takes him to make the decision.”

Your brow furrows.

“He will disappoint you,” Bucky says.

“Bucky, don’t say that. Don’t be cruel.”

His eyes flick back to yours, and for a second they’re raw, not glacial at all, but blue as bruises. “I’m not trying to be cruel. I want you to see the world as it is. As I do now.” He pauses. “You once said only the honest stuff matters. Remember?”

You do remember. On the rooftop of a hotel in D.C., debating a speech draft, Bucky had said honesty was the only way to cut through the noise. You’d laughed—knowing how honesty had almost destroyed him once—and now you wished you hadn’t. You wished you’d listened more closely.

He presses his hand to the glass again, his whole body vibrating with something that looks like need and restraint, and maybe a dash of childish hope.

You want to hate him, but you can’t. Maybe you could if it were anyone else, if the person threatening your life and Sam’s career and the largest city in the country, hadn’t seeped into your heart so long ago.

And why was that romantic ripple resurfacing now when you’d been so content to have him platonically exist in your life?

You had been content with Sam.

You still were.

You look away, throat raw.

"And if Sam doesn't come for me?"

Bucky’s laugh is soft, brief, and not as cruel as a villain’s should be. "He will.”

And he does.

Same bursts onto the scene when there are only twenty-seven minutes left to save the city.

“All of this was you? All along?” Sam thunders at Bucky.

He still has a hand on the glass, having rushed to you the second he saw you were part of this messy situation, too, but his full attention was now on the other man.

Apparently your kidnapping is something Sam hadn’t discovered until this moment. Which made sense. He’d left your apartment to take care of the world, and it was still the same day. He hadn’t even had time to reasonably have figured out you’d gone missing.

“That explains why this whole area is a dead zone for Red Wing,” Sam adds.

Bucky’s only response: a shrug.

He oozes such nonchalance you know it’s boiling Sam’s blood more than almost anything else.

“Come on, man, this isn’t you,” Sam insists.

Bucky cocks his head to the side. “Except clearly it is. And isn’t it inevitable? Just going back to my roots, right? Like everyone said about me and the rest of the New Avengers. Only a matter of time until we reverted to our nefarious settings.”

Sam’s jaw tenses. “That’s not what I said. I never said that about you.” Sam’s voice is tight, incredulous but not, you realize, surprised. “You think I ever saw you that way? After everything?”

“No?” Bucky’s lips tick up at the corners. “Could’ve fooled me. You remember the last time we talked, right? The argument over who had claim to the team, the name, the whole damn legacy? You know I never wanted any of that. Valentina made sure my face was on the front page for her own benefit, not mine. That was her power move, not mine.”

Sam’s gaze doesn’t waver. “You let her.”

Bucky’s hands flex at his sides; the metal fingers twitch and sing against each other. “I let her because I knew where the real threats were. I thought I could steer if I had one hand on the wheel, if I knew what was coming, turns out I was wrong. You want to talk about legacies, Sam? You got to choose yours. All I ever got was a list of people to kill that just keeps getting longer.”

You can see the hurt behind Bucky’s words; it’s so absent of melodrama that it slaps harder than any shouted accusation. Sam stands still, breathing hard through his nose, shoulders squared for a fight neither of them wants but both are already losing.

“Bucky,” Sam says softer now, “I know you think this is the only way, but there’s always another way. Give me the protocol. I’ll fix it. I promise. You can trust me. You always have.”

Bucky’s laugh is ugly and quiet. “You’ll fix it? That’s the problem. Nobody wants it fixed, Sam. The world is addicted to the circus.”

Sam stands very straight. His fist on the glass trembles, a visible effort not to lose his composure. “This isn’t justice. You don’t fix the world by threatening to destroy it.”

“Don’t I? The only thing anyone listens to anymore is a gun to the head. Or in this case a virus to the water supply.”

Bucky draws in a long, deliberate breath, scanning the cathedral-sized chamber as if taking the measure of human history. It’s another theatrical move. You can see so plainly now that Bucky’s pushing Sam’s buttons on purpose. "Now," he says, letting his hands drop to his sides, "I assume you came ready to make the drop. It's a big ask, I know. One point eight billion is a lot of zeros, even for Uncle Sam."

Sam doesn't flinch. "The money’s ready, untraceable transfer, just like you wanted." He threw a pointed look at the two sentinels waiting beyond Bucky, then back to him. "Now drop the coordinates and the codes. Let the authorities handle the rest. Hell, let me handle it if you want."

They exchange small drives - tossing them at the same time to each other from across the short distance. Sam is already pressing the one he caught to the technology face on the panel in the forearm of his suit, and you can see Bucky uploading his funds to a small device in his hand.

“We good now?” Sam asks.

Bucky looks up, one eyebrow raised. "You think I’d make it that simple? After all the theatrics so far? You’re still thinking in terms of clean beginnings and endings. But that’s not how any of this will work,” Bucky deadpans. “Obviously I’ve brought our guest of honor for a reason,” he shifts the focus back to you.

Sam’s eyes flick past Bucky to you, searching for some sign. You give him a small nod, as if to say: I’m okay, keep going, don’t let him win.

But what would winning mean here? What would losing?

Sam’s jaw tics. “You’re not going to do this. You don’t want to hurt anyone. Not really.”

“There’s always a choice, Sam. That’s what you used to say.” Bucky looks, for a moment, almost apologetic. “The system at the deployment site—the only way to access the control terminal is with a biometric confirmation. Yours, Sam. No one else on earth, not even me, could get past it once it’s locked. You’re the linchpin.”

You don’t see the move, not even the flicker of Bucky’s hand—there’s only a flick of light, an infinitesimal click, then a cold bite in your neck. Your hand slaps toward it by reflex; your fingers close over a dart, needle still vibrating where it breached skin. At first, you think it’s a threat, an empty goad to make Sam act, but then your chest constricts, heart stuttering, then galloping so fast you can’t count the beats. Your vision pulses, the color and contrast cranked up to a sickly, menacing degree.

Sam shouts your name. He pounds the glass, rips the shield off his back and tries to breach it with a throw of the titanium to no avail.

So it’s more than mere glass.

Unable to penetrate the clear walls of your cage, Sam round on Bucky. “So you’re going to make me decide. Save the city, or save her.”

“That’s the game.” Bucky finally lets his eyes rest on you again, and the sadness in them isn’t performative, though everything else about this situation is. “If you’re fast enough, maybe you could do both, but is that a gamble you’re willing to take?”

“Damn you, Bucky Barnes!”

Bucky shrugs again. “We can talk it out, if it will make you feel better.”

Bucky rotates his wrist, metal joints clicking. When he continues, his voice is matter-of-fact. “You go for the city right now, you have time to stop this, a win for sure, maybe have time to come back and save her.”

Bucky then nods toward your glass enclosure.

"If you choose her over the city, you can probably get her to a medical professional quickly enough that they can sort her out. You’ll probably miss the window to prevent contamination though. But there will likely be enough time for them to synthesize an antidote. I made sure to use something new. Not in the wild yet. They’ll quarantine and triage, and–”

“Stop, Buck!” Sam cuts him off.

Then your boyfriend turns to you, and his face is soft, the expression broken, pain in his eyes. Sam’s voice is rough as gravel, but clear: “I can’t make a sacrifice like that. Not ever.”

The words hang in the air, immense and echoing. Bucky’s expression doesn’t change, but you see the faintest tremor in the way he sets his jaw—more evidence than any confession that he’d always known what Sam would say.

Sam presses his hand to the glass, and you meet it with your visibly trembling hand. But the gesture seems to pain him as if there wasn’t a barrier between you. “I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s for you, not for Bucky or the world. “I have to.” The words come thick, strangled.

You want to say something clever, something reassuring, but the only thing that escapes in the clenched space of your chest is, “I know.” It escapes in a whisper; your lips barely shape the words.

You let yourself cry, and Sam watches, helpless, his own eyes shining with the effort of keeping himself together. You knew he would choose the city, he had to, but you wish he had shown even a moment of hesitation. Half a moment.

Then Sam turns back to face Bucky. “You won’t get away with this.”

Bucky’s mouth tugs to one side, almost a smirk, but more like something cracked and resisting the urge to bleed out. “Of course I will,” he says. “That’s the game, right? The dangerous former fist of Hydra goes berserk, but only in a way the right people see. If you pull this off, it all stays classified. Just another day of nothing in the files.” He looks at Sam. “You think anyone in charge wants the world to know this was me? This is a PR nightmare the government can’t risk right now.”

The simplicity of it is breathtaking. The threat never even had to be real—only real enough to get everyone moving the way Bucky wants. Only real enough to get the money and to get Sam to choose.

“Don’t think you can just disappear,” Sam says, voice low but iron-strong. “I’ll find you, Bucky.”

There’s the tiniest shimmer of mischief, or perhaps relief, in the crow’s feet at Bucky’s eyes.

“Will you, though?” Bucky’s voice is almost gentle, as if he’s breaking the news of a death to a child. “For decades I was Hydra’s untraceable and lethal assassin. For two years you couldn’t find me, and you were working with Steve who knew me better than anyone, and I was living off next to nothing. Now I have nearly two billion in untraceable cash, I have my mind back, and I know the ins and outs of the modern world. You won’t see me unless I want to be seen.”

Your heart claws at your ribs. The glass magnifies every sound—Sam’s breathing, Bucky’s measured steps, the pulse in your eardrums. You taste blood where you’ve bitten the inside of your cheek.

Sam’s lips curl in a snarl. “You’re not the only one who’s learned a few tricks.”

“Maybe,” Bucky says. “But you’re still too honest to win.”

“How could you do this to me? To Steve?”

Bucky cocks his head to the side. His eyes flick to you for the briefest of moments, and then he says, “You didn’t want me to run out the clock discussing the moral dilemma of saving the city or your girl, but now you want to go over me, you, and Steve? Steve who’s removed himself from the narrative?”

Sam roars in frustration, then turns to look at you again. “I’ll come back for you, I swear,” then races across the floor and leaps off the balcony, off to save the city.

It is, you admit, one hell of an exit.

You can see him—Sam, bright and audacious in the Captain America suit, wings extending like an exclamation mark, darting through the skyline beyond the tall windows. He is smaller, fleeting, a fleck of blue and silver against the impossible glass of the city.

But Bucky doesn’t watch him go. He is watching you.

You slide down the glass, and try to breathe through the chemical tangle in your system. It feels as though the world is going to start sliding off its rails soon; you feel it in the way your pulse speeds and slows, in the clotted shimmer at the edges of your vision. The dart, the toxin, was probably designed for maximum drama, but you don’t know what else it could do.

A low, hydraulic moan startles you from your trance. The glass panels around you shiver, then begin to disappear, sinking in perfect unison into the floor. You scramble to your feet, knees threatening to buckle, and stare at the sudden borderlessness of the room. For a heartbeat, you’re suspended—no cage, no line in the sand, nothing to keep you from collapsing right there.

Bucky advances, quick but cautious, hands visible and open. His silhouette blots out the cathedral lights, broad as a thunderhead. He stops exactly an arm’s length from you, looking at your face as though searching for a misplaced detail.

“Careful,” he warns, voice a scratchy hush. “You’re on a comedown, and it’s a big one.”

You try to say something, but your tongue is a fat, electric slug in your mouth. The cold coins taste returns, sharper than before. “What did you do to me?” you ask.

He crouches cautiously next to you, balancing on the balls of his feet.

“There’s a lot of adrenaline in your system,” Bucky murmurs. “Far more than is natural. It’s spiked everything in your system. As it crashes, you’ll be sluggish, maybe some chills or confusion, but you’ll be okay. I promise.”

You want to believe him. You do, but given what he’s just orchestrated, you’re naturally reluctant.

“What now?” you ask. You’re not even sure who you’re asking: him, the universe, yourself.

Bucky shrugs, all gentle fatalism, and then reaches out—slowly, like you’re a trembling bird that might fling itself into a window if startled—and helps haul you upright. He adjusts his grip to keep you steady, lets you take more of your own weight as you find it.

He leads you out of the big white, windowed theater and down a corridor to an elevator.

A pang needles your heart: he is good at this. At triage, at rescue, at caretaking. At the thousand tiny, invisible gestures that make a person feel seen. Always has been. You hate that you’re grateful for it, just as you hate that you remember the long-ago night of his campaign, that secret gravitational pull between you, the unspoken thing you both stamped down with the solemnity of professionalism.

You don’t want to face where that train of thought leads.

“You made Sam pick. I don’t know if he’ll forgive that.” You try to sound hard-edged, but the words slide out syrupy and damp.

“He doesn’t have to.” Bucky’s voice is almost gentle. “He just has to live with it.”

The elevator dings, and the two of you step in. He punches the top floor.

“And you were right.”

“I wasn’t going to say it.”

And because there’s no reason to hold back, you add, “You didn’t have to twist the knife at the end by pointing out what he was and was not willing to discuss.”

Bucky sighs and drops his head. “No. I didn’t. It was an extra cut of cruelty.” Then he looks up, meets your eyes. “I’m sorry for that.”

The elevator doors slide open, revealing the sort of opulent space that’s either a billionaire’s penthouse lounge or the bridge of a spaceship. You instantly recognize the place, even though you’ve only seen it on screens and in the background of photos: the inner sanctum of Avengers Tower.

Of course. It had to be here. Not a new base, not a black site, not some abandoned eco-bunker in Upstate New York. No, Bucky brought you to the one place that was once the center of the universe for people like him and Sam and all the rest. Even after Tony’s death, after the rebranding and the PR dust-ups and the slow, embarrassing dissolution of the first lineup, the building stood. It was a symbol, indelible and too expensive to demolish, even when all the heroes left in it were ghosts.

Bucky leads you to the counter of what appears to be a bar and helps you into one of the stools there.

The New Avengers had evidently converted it to a cooking area, as well, as you watch Bucky begin to pull out some food and pull together a plate for you.

You watch him, scrutinize him, and you’re sure he knows that’s what you’re doing. He merely endures it, allows it. You assume he knows he owes you that much.

He finally slides the plate in front of you along with a glass of water. “Eat. It’ll help stabilize you more quickly.”

You take a bite out of one of the strawberries on the plate, chew, swallow, then you ask, “There’s no biotoxin, is there?”

Bucky lifts his gaze from where he’s preparing a sandwich for himself. “No. It’s a placebo.”

You pop another strawberry into your mouth and let the silence be the answer for a moment. The water tastes sweeter now, the iron leaching away, leaving only cold relief behind. No biotoxin. Sam would save the world, the money will be untraceable, and Bucky—well, Bucky would get away, wouldn’t he? Or almost.

"So why all this?" you ask, and your voice is steady again. "If it was just about the money, you could’ve found a less theatrical way."

Bucky tilts his head, slicing his sandwich with surgical precision. "I needed to prove a point," he says, not quite looking at you. "To Sam, to Valentina, to whoever is watching the tapes. To myself, maybe. That I can still do the impossible. That I have a choice. Not just a finger on the trigger but a plan. The kind that changes things. To make it clear that I’m done playing their games."

He smiles, half-lopsided, and lets his long exhale fill the empty space between you.

“I could have done it,” he says, and for the first time he sounds almost frightened by the idea. “I thought about it, how easy it would be. Make them all beg, make every suit in D.C. panic. But I couldn’t.” His eyes dart up, meet yours. “I couldn’t risk you.”

You look down at your hands, which are barely shaking now, and rub your thumb into the tender crook of your elbow where the dart had hit. There’s no swelling, no mark, just the memory of panic and the aftertaste of adrenaline. No biotoxin, no threat to a city’s population that could endanger the world, just a glass of water and a plate of fruit in a room of too many old ghosts.

You finish the strawberries, then some of the grapes. It’s not enough sugar to counter the crash, but it brings clarity. The clarity is not comforting.

“Are you going to disappear now?” you ask.

Bucky wipes bread crumbs from his fingers. “Very soon. I wanted to see you safe, first.” He hesitates, leans his weight onto the heel of his hand, like he’s about to confess something with weight.

You push him in the direction you hope he’s going. “Why did you bring me into this? Did you really need to prove Sam’s more Boy Scout than boyfriend? That he’d sacrifice me for millions, for the greater good?”

Bucky’s gaze sharpens. “You knew he would. And so did I.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. Instead, he slid a grape off the stem, rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, as if the answer might be contained somewhere in the slick green skin. When he finally spoke, his voice was almost mild, but there was a sandpaper edge under the calm.

“There’s something different about him. Over the years since he took up the shield, since he started making the world’s problems his own, he’s…” Bucky let the grape fall, steadied his hands on the counter, “He’s not letting anyone in anymore. Not even you. You can feel it, right?”

You wanted to protest, to say Sam was just tired, just carrying the weight of a world that had never belonged to him, a world that had only ever demanded and doubted. That he came home to you at night, sometimes wordless and aching, sometimes with a wild, generous joy that made all the distance worth it. But you did feel it.

The last few months had been like living with a shadow, the two of you orbiting each other in careful ellipses, sharing space but not gravity. You’d told yourself it was just the stress, that this phase would pass. But how long would you have to keep saying that?

You shrugged, unsure if the gesture was defensive or conciliatory. “He’s got a lot riding on him. They all do. It’s not like anybody’s waiting to see if Captain America screws up, right?”

“Maybe. Or maybe he’s losing too much of himself to the machine.”

You finish the food, drink all the water. Already, the fine tremor in your hands is dying down, and your vision is as sharp as it’s been in months.

“You said you didn’t have to involve me, but you did anyway. Why?”

Bucky comes around the counter to stand next to you before he answers.

“Take my hand,” he says, extending his flesh hand to you.

You study his face for another moment before hesitantly placing your hand in his. He pulls you gently from the stool, bringing you close to his chest, and you can’t help but cave into the comfort he’s offering on a platter in his arms. This is the closeness you wondered about years ago. And it feels even better than you thought it could.

His flesh hand encloses yours, and his metal arm wraps around your back, comforting, solid, while he maintains eye contact with you. Then he leans in and presses a kiss fervently to your forehead. “He wanted the idea of you, I want you.”

Those words steal the breath from your lungs, and you pull back. He allows it but does reach up to wipe more tears from your face.

“Now, he’ll come back for you,” Bucky says. “I’ll leave you here if you want to wait for him. Or…”

Bucky leans forward, slowly, but deliberately, eyes locked with yours, and there is no question that he will kiss you if you let him.

In those brief seconds, your chest swells and aches. It’s a yearning.

“Or you can come with me,” he murmurs against your lips.

You don’t remember who moves first, or if movement is even required—maybe it’s just the inexorable collapse of distance, of vacuum, of more than two years spent circling each other and pretending not to. Your mouth meets his in a kiss so light you might have missed it, a flutter of wings against glass, if not for the way he shudders and tightens his hold on you, molding your body into his with that impossible, titanium certainty.

You gasp, and he swallows it, and the taste of him is nothing like coins or blood or the clinical tang of adrenaline: it’s salt and memory, an old wound newly raw. His lips tremble with restraint, with the effort of holding back the full weight of want, and you feel it in the rigid line of his jaw and the knotted fist of his hand at the small of your back.

The first kiss is a question, but the second is an answer: you press closer, and the kiss goes from uncertain to dangerous, from a secret to a promise.

It would be easy to hate him, even now, for what he’s done, for turning to a villain’s playbook. But what you really feel, what you can’t help feeling, is the way your own hands seek out Bucky’s chest, feel the frantic pulse of him beneath the shirt, the way his heart seems to leap at every slight contact. You break only when your lungs demand it, and even then, you stay close enough that your noses touch, breath shared and erratic.

“I shouldn’t,” you say. You mean the whole thing: kissing Bucky, wanting Bucky, forgiving him, forgiving yourself the old feeling of being seen, truly seen, by someone who never really belonged to you in the first place.

He laughs, low and weary. “That’s why you should.”

Time feels syrup-slow and amplified, and the aftershocks of adrenaline jitter along your bones. You want to lay your head against Bucky’s chest and let everything else go glassy and indistinct, but this moment can’t last forever.

You have to make a choice.

As if to underscore that fact, the moment breaks with the sound of rotors thumping through the silent glass like a racing pulse. A black helicopter, all stealth and menace, settles on the old landing pad just outside the window. You watch its slow, predatory descent, and only then do you realize how little time is left for indecision.

You turn your face back to Bucky. "Where would we even go?" The bitterness in your voice is half challenge, half invitation. A plea for a story you could believe in.

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t offer you a fantasy. "Doesn’t matter," he says. "With this much money, the right lies, and the right hands pulling the strings, you don’t have to vanish, we will just slide out of frame. Show up somewhere else, different name, different haircut, but us together. You just have to decide if you want to build that new life with me or not.”

He says it like a vow, not a seduction. You almost laugh at how simple he makes it sound. As if all the laws and all the wounds and all the history between the three of you could be severed with a haircut and a fake passport.

You want to slap him. You want to scream at him for making it sound so simple, so transactional, like trading one set of coordinates for another. But isn’t that the whole truth of it? Bucky Barnes had spent his adult years being a ghost wearing a name, a myth forced into the flesh, until the only thing that made sense was reinvention. If you followed, you’d never be more than a co-conspirator in your own vanishing act, but there’s a wild logic to it. There’s even a certain beauty.

It occurs to you, sharply, that you should stay—wait for Sam, let yourself be rescued, let him cry and rage and know that in the end he did what was right. You could handle the heartbreak, or at least pretend you could, because that’s what people like you do. The noise would settle, the scandal would pass, and maybe you’d even find your way back together, though at that moment the possibility seems to diminish more and more.

The real truth is: you don't know what will make you happy, or safe, or sane. You only know that for too long you've been waiting for more, even though you didn’t know it until Bucky pulled the wool from your eyes today.

“Let’s do it,” you say, before you can overthink the words or slip into complacent cowardice disguised as duty. “Let’s go.”

The look on Bucky’s face is less vindicated than startled, as if he hadn’t really thought you’d say yes. He doesn’t whoop or smile. He just takes a breath—deep, rib-rattling—and then his hand closes tight around yours, leading you out to the helicopter.

The pilot is a nobody, faceless behind reflective glass, but you know the kind of men who’d be waiting in the belly of a craft like that—mercenaries who could blend in at the Four Seasons or a funeral, featureless as mannequins until the masks came off.

You duck into the cabin. Bucky keeps a hand at the small of your back, guiding you with a care that feels out of time, out of place, as if this is not a high-speed escape but a date at the theater or a gallery opening. The interior is tight and dark: Kevlar seats, two jump seats with harnesses, a battered first-aid kit stashed in the mesh netting by the door.

He straps you in, efficient but gentle, and without warning the engine screams to life and the city falls away beneath you. The pilot takes you southeast, past the relit towers and the stitched-together parks, past the city’s neat wounds and its ugly repairs.

You don’t ask where you’re going. You’re not sure you want to know. Since you’re all in, you don’t need to know. There is something exhilarating about that, the permission you have given yourself to not care for the first time in … maybe ever.

The chopper banks east, the city’s sprawl dissolving into ribbons of freeway and then the sparse, snow-blotched fields of Long Island. When you spot the airstrip you’re almost disappointed by its ordinariness—just a pair of runways, a wind-wracked row of hangars. The chopper touches down so softly you barely feel it, but Bucky is already unclipping your harness, moving you out with a minimal set of gestures.

He guides you across the tarmac, his grip on your hand steady as he leads you to a small, sleek, white jet. A thinly mustached pilot nods to Bucky as he shepherds you up the stairs. The jet’s interior is cloaked in tasteful leather and woodgrain, the sort of hush money aesthetic that comes with bespoke crimes. Bucky deposits you onto a wide seat and follows with a duffle bag you only now notice slung beneath his arm.

Bucky stows the bag in an overhead bin, then returns to you, sliding into the seat across the aisle. His eyes flick to the window, scanning the tarmac for threats, but his left hand—your hand—remains anchored between you, thumb tracing tight, distracted circles over your knuckles. The door seals with a quietly pneumatic hiss. The engines ramp up, the world narrows to the pressurized silence of the cabin, and you feel a flutter in your chest that is not entirely terror.

In the window’s glass you catch the afterimage of your own face, drained and wild-eyed, and behind it the ghost of Bucky’s reflection—softer, maybe, than you’ve ever seen, as if the act of running is its own absolution.

You’re so tired. You let your head tip sideways, resting against his shoulder—not as surrender, but as a declaration: you are here, you are staying, you are more than the sum of your panic and your decisions good or bad.

Bucky turns to you, the crumple in his brow arranging itself into a question, one palm rising to hover along your jaw. “Hey,” he says, a hush inside a hush. “You okay?”

You nod, too fast, and then press his hand to your cheek, making sure it’s real, it’s flesh, it’s here. He holds your face, thumb slipping beneath your eye, gently searching for evidence of regret or fear or whatever else he’s ruined in you. But all you feel is the burn of anticipation in the hollow of your throat.

He leans in, slower than before, and brushes your lips with his, brief, reverent. Another. Another—each one less careful, less patient. You open for him, cup the back of his head, tangle your fingers deep in his hair, and he looses a sound like a confession; he lets the restraint drop, mouth insistent and hungry, hands finding your waist, your ribs, the sweetly bare patch where your shirt has ridden up. His breath is ragged, the rasp of stubble on your jawline making your skin prickle in a way that borders on pain, but you want that, you want more of it, and you arch into him, letting the seatbelt cut into your hip as you all but crawl onto his lap.

The jet is barely airborne when his metal hand skims under your shirt, cold electricity against the bend of your back. You gasp, half laughing, then bite his lip, tasting the salt and copper, the promise of scars. His flesh hand is at your nape, anchoring you, and you realize this is how you always wanted him to hold you—hard enough to bruise, but gentle in the moments between.

Before you can process how you went from catatonic hostage to this wild, reckless person, you’re straddling him in the narrow jet seat, breathless and laughing into his mouth, kissing him like you’re kissing a different future into existence.

You kiss until your lungs burn, and when you part, your lips are wet and swollen, and he’s looking at you like you’re the oxygen his lungs need. You can feel the restraint it takes for him to stop, even for a second.

When he speaks, it’s against your mouth, so soft and low you have to strain to catch it. “I wanted you for so long.” He nips your lower lip in punctuation, then kisses the sting away, chasing the shape of your mouth as if memorizing it.

His hands slide under your shirt, confident and unhurried, a slow drag of heat and cool along the ridge of your back and then the soft, uncertain slope of your side. He maps you like new terrain, reverent, deliberate, his palm broad and rough as river rock where it skims above your waistband. You’re conscious, absurdly, of the way your flesh yields and gathers beneath his grip, the fold at your waist, the plush seam above your jeans. You brace for the recoil—the pause, the flinch, the embarrassed withdrawal that men as fine as Bucky Barnes always seem to have in their DNA when faced with anything that doesn’t fit the platonic ideal of a lover’s body, the first time they touch you intimately—but it doesn’t come. He doesn’t falter, doesn’t even hesitate. If anything, the way his hands frame you, hold you together, suggests he’d prefer more of you, not less.

You’re all nerves and need, the pulse in your throat so present it’s almost embarrassing, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You want this. Want him. Want the mess and the wrongness and the chance to hurt and heal in ways you’ve only ever fantasized about, in the long blank nights when Sam was out saving the world and you were left with the ghost of a life you didn’t remember choosing.

You don’t remember unbuttoning your jeans, or how his hand gets under the waistband, but it’s there—skin on skin, soft and cool where the metal arm braces your spine and the flesh hand moves against your belly. He shivers when you wrap both arms around him, as if the pressure of your grasp is the only thing anchoring him to the world.

There is a hush in the jet, the kind that lets you hear your own blood roaring, lets you hear the catch in Bucky’s breath as you grind against him, slow and unashamed, letting him feel the sum of your want. He doesn’t talk, doesn’t try to fill the silence. His hands do the talking instead, every gesture translating what words never could: careful, desperate, worshipful.

The way you undress—it’s not hurried, but it’s not shy. You peel yourself out of your shirt, shivering in the cool pressurized air, but you catch nothing but hunger and awe in Bucky's gaze. It’s as if he’s been waiting in a Siberian cave since the forties to see you like this, and there is something almost holy in the way he runs the backs of his fingers over your clavicle, your breasts, the jigsaw of you that’s both familiar to yourself and entirely new. For a brief flash, you wonder how you look—are you beautiful to him in the brash daylight of the aircraft, or is it more like a study in imperfection, in odd shapes and old bruises and the vulnerable, workaday flesh of someone who’s never been anyone’s ideal for very long. But his breath catches, and his pupils blow wide, and he says your name so softly it sounds like a benediction. That’s answer enough.

The feel of him is just as you’d imagined—no, it’s more: the impossible tautness of muscle beneath cool skin, the way he holds you so precisely you never for a moment doubt your own safety. The metal arm is cold at first, its ruthlessness pressed along your ribs, but the warmth of his body as you mold to each other chases the edge away. He kisses down your neck, slow, never rushed, as if marking time on a clock only you share. When you arch into his mouth, when you let him finally cup your breast, you’re rewarded with a sound from deep in his chest—a wounded, yearning, making it clear you’re all he wants.

He doesn’t hurry. The world is burning behind you out the window, somewhere Sam is fighting for a city that will always need him, but here, inside this tiny, moving sanctuary, Bucky gives you an unhurried exhale, ritual slow, as if neither of you have ever had a single moment in your lives to spare for pleasure before now. His palm slides along your thigh, then the inside of your thigh, then waits, patient as a dog in winter, for you to open further. You do, knees bracing on either side of his.

His hand makes its way between your legs, and it’s devastating—how lightly he touches at first, just the pads of two fingers drawing lazy circles along the seam of your underwear, as if reacquainting himself with the geometry of gentleness. You are slick and shockingly warm, and when his thumb circles your clit, the jolt of pleasure is so keen you dig your hands into his shoulders, hard enough for the flesh beneath to yield. He watches your face, noting every tremor, every catch in your swallowing breath, mapping the arc of your wanting. You want him to devour you, but he worships instead, building you slow and slow and never letting you fall all the way down. Every time you shudder or gasp or roll your hips, he radiates a pride so profound it makes you want to cry.

You come with his metal hand splayed across your back and his living hand cupping you, his mouth open against your neck, whispering your name and then fragments of words: “beautiful,” “always wanted,” “don’t believe it”. You shake and quake around his fingers, a hot flood, and you laugh out loud because you can’t do anything else—your body is burning alive and Bucky Barnes is the only cooling agent in the universe.

After, he tucks you close, skin to skin, and listens to the staccato drum of your heart as if it’s telling a secret. He brushes damp hair from your temple and studies you like he’s afraid to blink, lest you vanish with the throb of the engine.

“I wanted you for so long,” he murmurs again, and you want to say, me too, but your tongue is thick and slow and all you manage is to grip his wrist, pinning him to this reality, to this moment run wild on the clock.

You slip from his lap when the urge surges past all reason—not because you do not want to be held, but because you want to see what he looks like when you take him apart. The carpet beneath your knees is soft and plush, but you are not thinking of the carpet, you are thinking of the way Bucky’s breathing shears out of him in a rush as you settle between his legs and glance up.

His pupils are blown, making the pale blue more starless sky than glacier. His lips, wet and a little bitten, are parted in shock, and there’s something so starkly boyish in his awe that you nearly laugh. Instead, you run your hands up the inside of his thighs, not missing how his legs tense and shudder under your grip.

You unbuckle his belt, and for a second you’re all thumbs, nerves having gone to static in your head, but Bucky just sits with hands open and breath held, watching you like you might ghost away if he looked elsewhere. The rough newness of the situation—doing this with him, in daylight, on a moving plane—sends a flush crawling up your body, heat prickling in your scalp. You want to be perfect for him, but you settle for real. You unfasten him, you work his jeans down enough, and he springs against his own belly, more than you’d realized, heavy and flushed, and your chest tightens with wanting.

You feel a spike of victory at the way he swells in your hand, the living pulse of him, velvet-hard and as hot as a fever.

You taste him, first with your lips pressed soft against the tip, then with the slow, savoring press of your tongue along the length, and Bucky’s head drops back, the tendons in his neck cording. He doesn’t make noise, not at first—he’s too disciplined, too careful—but when you increase the pressure, take more of him in, he grits out your name, a rattle of consonants, like he can’t bear up under it any longer. You commit to the rhythm, fast then slow, enjoying the play of pressure and the way his thighs brace in agony and pleasure under your hands. The metal one pets your hair at first, then fists in at the nape of your neck, holding you still for a second while his hips buck minutely, then he curses and releases the grip, as if reining in some inner avalanche.

You’re delighted—delirious almost—by how much you’re able to make him shake. How much you’re able to unmake the man of precision. You want to keep him at this edge forever, but you can also see how hard he’s working not to tear you apart with need. You let the rhythm go ragged for a moment, using your hands to cup him, stroke him, take him deeper. You revel in the way his restraint crumbles, in the way he murmurs pleas and fractured sweet nothings and dirty wants and promises.

He rocks his hips once, twice, then pulls back with a warning—a rough, strangled sound that you recognize as care, as wanting not to overwhelm or take—so you press your hand to his thigh and keep him still, refusing retreat. You want all of it: the taste, the heat, the salt and the proof. When he spills into your mouth, every muscle in his body shivers and the shuddering pulse of him fills you, thick and sweet and endless. You swallow, and his thighs buckle, and he drags you up, mouth to mouth, tasting himself on your tongue and growling in approval.

You expect him to collapse, to flop boneless and dazed into the seat, but instead his cock is still hard, red and slick and angry-looking in the open vee of his jeans. You look down, then up, and the expression on your face must be famished and raw, because Bucky’s answering expression is a wolf’s grin—hungry, delighted, and you’re so glad for it, so mindless with wanting, it almost hurts.

You want him inside you, want him to push every thought from your head. He licks his thumb and traces your lower lip, then presses it past your teeth, not forceful but insistent, and you suck without a second thought.

“Fuck, you’re going to kill me,” he says, but the way he says it, it sounds like he’s eager for the mutual ruin.

He coaxes you up, not with a command but a gentle tug of your wrist; you let yourself be arranged, his palms guiding your hips and then gently coaxing you up, angling your body so you're kneeling, braced on the plush seatback, spine arched, ass tilted toward him. There’s nothing clinical or hasty here; he positions you like an artist with a marble he’s spent decades yearning to carve. You feel the raw, predatory focus radiate off him, and you can’t help but turn to catch the look in his eyes—eager but almost reverent.

His cock nudges against you, then slides up the seam, gathering wetness, and for a moment he lingers, thumb stroking the base of your spine, the cool metal of his hand anchoring your shoulder. The first push is slow, deliberate, the kind of pressure that makes your whole body tense and then open for him. He fills you with an unhurried inevitability, and for a moment you can’t breathe for how big he is, how much he fills your most intimate space.

He groans at the feeling, deep and sin-worn, and the sound shoots heat up your back, makes your thighs shake. He holds you steady with both hands, one flesh and the other a cold star at your hip, and waits for you to tell him to move. Your own voice is gone to glass, so you just tip your hips, a silent plea, and he obeys, rolling into you in a series of slow, tidal thrusts that let you feel every inch.

It’s impossible to be quiet, and Bucky clearly prefers you not to be. He leans over you, his chest hot along your spine, and bites your shoulder, not hard enough to bruise but just so you know he’s there, and you cry out at the dual sensation—sharp and yielding, ache and relief. His rhythm is slow at first, but when you reach back and dig your nails into the firm cut of his thigh, he hisses and snaps his hips with a force that borders on brutal, but never spills over into cruelty. It’s want, not violence; hunger, not harm. You want every bit of it, every relentless stroke, every scrape of his teeth on your skin, the bruise of his hand as it sprawls between your shoulder blades and pins you to the world.

You have the sudden, feverish sense that Bucky wants to own every part of you, not just the places you expect to be touched, but the boundaries you never thought to keep. His hands—both of them, vibranium and flesh—roam your hips, your back, the trembling crease where thigh meets ass. When he pushes in deeper, it’s with a precision that feels engineered; he wants to draw something new from you, to find the note that will finally split you open.

You’re so wet you can hear it, the slick wet music of skin on skin. His flesh hand is anchored at your hip, fingers digging into the softness there, holding you steady as he fucks you, each thrust deliberate. But the cold of his metal hand is more curious; it traces up your spine, fans across the nape of your neck, then drops down again, palming the globe of your ass with a hunger that feels almost greedy.

He shifts, altering the angle of his thrusts so each one drags a new, devastating friction along your inner walls, and his hand, the metal one, snakes lower, cupping your mound so your clit is pressed and circled in perfect tandem to the building rhythm. The world telescopes to the points at which he touches you, and then just when you think you can’t take more, that the heat will level you into unconsciousness, his finger—cool, slick now with your own wetness—traces the forbidden line between your cheeks. A barely-there touch, a slow, teasing swirl around the tight, neglected ring, and you startle at the contact, gasping out a word that could be “fuck” or “please” or both, pulse stuttering with the shock of it.

He doesn’t force, doesn’t press, just circles, gentle and patient, letting you acclimate to the possibility, the threat. With each swirl you feel yourself open more—this hunger, this trust, this dumbfounding desire to let Bucky give you something that nobody else ever has. When he finally presses in, just the barest tip of a finger, the line between pleasure and pressure melts and you keen aloud, startled at your own reaction. He groans at the sound, his cock twitching inside you, and the next thrust is deeper, more desperate, as if he’s as ruined by you as you are by him.

There is nothing for it but to surrender. You arch into every sensation, let Bucky fill every blank in your vocabulary of want. Each time his finger moves, gentle and relentless, you feel your body respond with such wild, involuntary gratitude that you want to weep. You reach between your legs, questing for your clit, greedy for more and not caring if you break apart in his arms.

He pistons into you, relentless and sure, and somewhere in the haze you catch yourself thinking: this is what it feels like to matter to someone so much they lose their mind. Bucky coaxes every sound from you, every plea, every curse. When you clamp down around him hard enough he nearly loses his grip, you hear him choke out your name in a shattered, breaking way, and he plants his palm to the curve of your ass and drives you into the seat with a bruising finality.

You come again, and this time the sound you make is so raw you’re embarrassed, but he only groans in reply, matching you stroke for stroke, as if the louder you are, the more it means. You shake, legs threatening to go, but he holds you, refusing to let you slip through his grip. You ride out every ripple, every quaking tremor, and when you finally slump forward, breathless and wrung out, he chases your high with his own, hips jerking in a wild, arrhythmic staccato as he empties himself in you with a deep, almost haunted sound that echoes in your lungs for ages after.

He collapses over your back, breath damp against your neck, arms caging you in. For a moment, the world is nothing but the drum of his heart, the shockwave of your own afterglow, and the faintly ridiculous realization that you’re at cruising altitude over the Atlantic, sweat-soaked and boneless and impossibly, impossibly alive.

It takes a long time before you find words. It takes even longer before you can turn to look him in the eye.

“So that happened,” you say, voice soft but rooted in satiation, and the hint of a question behind it, craving his thoughts, his impressions.

Bucky is still inside you, softening, but when you laugh at your own understatement, he laughs too, the sound honest and unselfconscious and bright enough to startle you out of the receding fog. He nuzzles your hair and bites your shoulder, just once, in a gentle, feral way. “You say that like it wasn’t inevitable,” he says. “Like I haven’t been thinking about you since the first time you told me off in front of the whole comms team.”

You twist in his lap, wince a little at the sticky ache between your legs, then kiss his jaw, his pulse point, the soft curl of his ear. You want to say something perfect, something to thread all this pain and elation together, but your mind is losing the war with your body’s demands. You just want to be held, and he seems to know it, because he wraps those impossible arms all the way around you and tucks you close to his chest, bringing you into his lap.

You burrow in, cheek pressed to the racing engine of his heart, your legs folded up to your chest as a drowsy quiet settles in the cabin. The hum of the jet, the soft huff of Bucky’s breath in your hair, the double warmth and chill of his touch—it’s all a nest, a chrysalis, and you’re content to lie there for however many thousand miles it takes to put the old world behind you.

You lose track of time. The hum of the engine, the proximity of Bucky’s bare skin to yours, the way your heart replays every inch of what just happened: it all floats you through a corridor of warmth and contentment that you haven’t felt since you were young.

The world out the window is seared gold, the last of day sinking past the wing as you cruise east. At some point Bucky stands, balancing both of you as if his balance is unassailable, and fetches a blanket, a hand towel, and a glass of water from the service cabinet before returning you both to the comfortable leather seat.

You drink it down in greedy gulps while he wipes you off with practiced, delicate swipes of the towel, his touch less clinical than worshipful. He tucks the blanket around you both, creating a cocoon for the coming moments.

You pull the blanket up to your nose, tuck your chin and watch him above the rim, eyes wet and still trembling from what you’ve both done. He doesn’t try to explain it. Instead, he finds your hand beneath the blanket and holds it, thumb stroking slow circles over the pulse at your wrist.

You spend the next hour drowsing in and out, stolen moments of sleep lurching you awake with the latent fear that this is all a fever dream, that you’re actually still in the glass box in the cathedral, or floating in some post-toxin afterlife. But Bucky is always there when you surface, his arm warm across your shoulders, the scars along his shoulder catching beneath your fingers.

You and Bucky share quiet conversations during the waking moments. It’s so easy to fall into this side of intimacy with him, too, not only the physical you shared earlier.

He tells you about the safehouse you’re going to in Paris, the bank accounts, the names and legends already prepared for both of you. It sounds almost routine, except for the faint blush in his cheeks, or the sheepish smile when he admits, “I even have a cat, for appearance’s sake.” He says this with a half-smirk, daring you to mock him. Instead, you ask about the cat. Its name is Alpine; it’s white and sassy and already edging toward overweight now that she’s been rescued from the streets. Somehow, that makes the plan feel more plausible, more fit to live in and real.

When you ask about Sam—where he’d go, how long before he finds both of you—Bucky’s face softens into a sort of loving regret. “He’ll do what he’s always done: fight the good fight. Even if that means chasing after us for the next few years.” He says it not with bravado, but with the sigh of someone who’s accepted the cost of his actions.

Bucky’s thumb drew a few more circles over your hand, and you watched with the drowsy clarity of afterglow as he studied you, the long focus of a man who still had something left to say. He let you sleep for most of the flight, let you curl and sprawl across his lap and the seat, but somewhere over the dark green quilt of the Irish Sea, he angled your face up to his with a touch so gentle you almost missed the gravity behind it.

“You know,” he said, “I didn’t do any of this–bring you into it–because I thought Sam was a bad person. Not even because I thought he was a bad partner to you.” The words were slow, deliberate, like he meant them to lodge somewhere deep and stay. “I just wanted you to see the thing he never lets you see—how, in a pinch, he’ll always run toward the fire. Even if you’re the one burning.”

It was a monstrous thing to say, but Bucky didn’t hold back from the full measure of his meaning.

“He did love you,” he says. “Still does. You know that, right?”

The words land heavy and soft, an ache buried under the warmth of the blanket, the pressurized hush of the jet. You want to nod, to agree, but something in Bucky’s expression dares you to challenge that, to perhaps ask for more.

“He did,” you echo, your voice shot through with all the hurt, relief, and confusion you’d stored on a shelf in the back of your mind that you’d ignored. Because sometimes that’s just what couples do. “You don’t have to defend him. Or me.”

“He’s better in so many ways than me,” Bucky says, not so much conceding as saluting, as if the point is a living monument somewhere between you. “But he’s been Captain America so long, he’s started to believe the only way to love anyone is to protect them from everything, even himself. Maybe especially himself.”

You catch the twinge in Bucky’s voice, the jealousy and the admiration braided together so tightly you can’t tell where one leaves off and the other picks up. You tried to find the flaw in this logic, some hidden malice or manipulation, but the words rang too true. The last year with Sam had been a string of empty nights in his apartment or yours, half-eaten dinners, phone calls cut short by emergencies with names you never learned and crises that belonged to the world.

“You deserve someone who’ll always pick you. Even if it’s selfish. Even if it’s not the end the story wants. And I never want you to wonder–I didn't do this because of him, I did it for me. It's the only truly villainous thing I did today.”

You open your mouth to reply, but there is something inside you, a molten sorrow or longing or both, that makes words taste foreign. For a moment, you just look at Bucky—the long, tired face of a man who’s lost nearly everything more than once, and yet still offers up his devotion, his heart, his everything.

There is a comfort in that. Not the comfort of fairy tales or sunny brunches with friends, but the comfort of an old wound that’s finally healed over, ugly and permanent, yes, but proof you survived.

You nestle in, letting Bucky wrap you tighter, and the two of you pass the last leg of the flight in an unspoken truce with your ghosts, listening only to the lull of engines and the steady, intermittent thump of his heart. A heart that you know is yours and yours alone. It’s not a magic ending. It’s a messy beginning. But it’s tangible, real, something whole that you know you can grasp and hold without hesitation.

This villain is yours, and if your full embrace of this new alternative makes you villainous, too, at least you know it’s the two of you all in, hand in hand, together.

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