#and stop obsessing over every little thing

[cumironi]

CREAM-OF-THE-CROP CUNT, MAMA

feat, gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna, shiu, higuruma

summary. what? just because you are six months pregnant your husband is gonna stop worshipping you? nooooo. . . he became worse, and the idea of making sure you are pregnant (despite the bump) makes them go crazy, especially with your little sweet bump.

trigger/warnings. non-sorcerer, everyone trying to be a gentleman (fails), calling reader “mama,” pussy-drunk behavior, pregnant sex, belly worship, size kink, deep penetration, unprotected vaginal sex, leg-folding position, full nelson vibes, praise kink, possessive language, swearing / explicit language, references to breeding kink (implied), overstimulation, internal ejaculation, cum leaking, soft dom / feral energy blend, emotional intensity, aftercare / caretaking (gentle touches, kisses), power imbalance (older man / younger woman), oral fixation (kissing, belly + knee worship)

GOJO SATORU

“—you’re gonna kill me,” gojo groans, forehead pressed against yours, voice ragged like he’s been running for miles, but really, all he’s been doing is holding himself together—barely—as your legs wrap tighter around his waist and you moan his name like it’s a damn prayer and a curse all at once. “no, seriously, baby, i’m—i’m dying. you’re murdering me with this pussy. it’s a crime. i should call the cops. except i am the fucking cops. i’m the fbi. i’m the law. and you’re under arrest. for being—fuck—for being too hot while pregnant.”

you try to say something, maybe something like “shut up” or “just keep going” or maybe just his name again, but you can’t—you’re too full, too stretched, too wrecked already and he hasn’t even really started yet.

“so tight,” he breathes, like the thought has him hypnotized. “how are you tighter while pregnant? is that a thing? can i google it later? because this is—jesus, baby—this is like heaven. like… like heaven wrapped in velvet wrapped in a vice grip wrapped in the greatest porn i’ve ever watched except it’s real and it’s you and it’s mine.”

he kisses your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts that’s grown fuller over the last few weeks—his obsession. he talks to them like they’re separate beings. he’s lost his mind and he’s made peace with it.

“gonna feed our baby with these,” he mutters, latching onto one nipple like it’s instinct, groaning like the taste of your skin alone could make him cum. “gonna wake up at 3am to help you, promise, swear to god. but only if i get to do this first. every night. every fucking night, sweetheart.”

you whimper, and it makes his whole body stutter, hips rocking deeper, harder, like your sound gives him permission to lose rhythm entirely.

“there it is,” he grins, breathless and boyish, completely wrecked and stupid and so very in love. “that’s the sound. the one that says i’m the best dick you’ve ever had. right? right, baby? tell me. tell me i’m better than anyone you’ve ever let near this sweet pussy.”

you moan, back arching. he whines, literally whines, like your approval is the only thing keeping him alive.

“please—please just say it. tell me i’m your favorite. tell me this cock is your favorite. tell me i ruined you for other men. tell me you forgot what it feels like to walk straight.”

you grab his face and pull him down to kiss you, hard, messy, open-mouthed and wet, your teeth knocking a little and your breath catching when he grinds into that exact spot inside you that makes you cry out his name again, and he groans, forehead falling to your shoulder.

“fuck, fuck, yes. that’s it, baby. say it again—no, scream it, moan it, tattoo it into my brain. god, i’m so fucking obsessed with you. you don’t even know. you don’t. i think about you 24/7. i check your pregnancy tracker app more than you do. i’m unwell. i’m feral.”

his hips move faster, deeper now, but not rough—he still holds your body like it’s made of glass, one hand bracing under your lower back to tilt your hips just right, the other rubbing slow, firm circles over your clit like he’s trying to make you finish before him and prove a point.

“wanna cum in you again,” he growls against your throat, “wanna fill you up more even though you’re already pregnant, like my dumb caveman brain doesn’t understand we already did it. it just wants to do it again, because it likes you like this. likes you glowing, round, leaking—fuck, baby, you’re leaking, i’m gonna go insane—”

“satoru,” you gasp, fingernails digging into his shoulder as your thighs start to tremble, “satoru, i—i’m gonna—”

“yes,” he hisses, pace erratic now, “do it, do it, cum on this cock, make it tight, milk me, baby, do it so good i forget my own damn name—”

you shatter under him with a cry that hits the ceiling, your body pulsing around him so hard he lets out a strangled noise, like he’s not sure if it’s a moan or a sob or both.

he falls apart seconds later, buried deep, coming with a broken gasp of your name and a string of barely intelligible worship like “so good, so pretty, made for me, mine, mine, mine” until he finally collapses onto your chest, heart racing, sweat-slick, and completely, utterly gone.

a long beat of silence passes.

“…you good?” you murmur, stroking his hair.

he doesn’t move. just groans into your neck like he might cry.

“i think i left my soul in your pussy.”

you laugh.

“i’m serious,” he says, lifting his head with that wild, disheveled, utterly sexed-out look he wears so well. “if you don’t name our baby after this pussy i’m gonna be personally offended.”

“you want me to name our child… pussy satoru gojo?”

“well, i mean—middle name at least. or like a secret codename. for the groupchat.”

you sigh, rolling your eyes.

he grins like you’ve just married him.

“love you, baby. love you so much. let’s do it again in like fifteen minutes. or five. i’m stupid. i make bad decisions.”

“clearly.”

“i would literally die if you asked.”

“…fine.”

“i’m naming the second one ‘round two.’”

GETO SUGURU

“you know what you do to me?” geto growls into your mouth, lips slick from kissing, voice thick like smoke and syrup as he thrusts into you again—deep, slow, brutal. “you fuckin’ know what this pussy’s done to me, baby?”

you gasp—louder than you mean to, thighs trembling where they’re wrapped around his hips, nails clawing down his shoulders because there’s no logic in your body right now, just raw sensation. he laughs—a dark, low, chest-rumbling sound—and grabs your jaw, thumb pressing into your cheek, not hard, just enough to keep you right there.

“oh, don’t go dumb on me now,” he coos, filthy and fond and absolutely feral. “we’re just gettin’ started, sweet thing. gotta give me that voice, yeah? lemme hear what my good girl sounds like when she’s pregnant and cockdrunk.”

you whimper, and he moans, like your breath is enough to push him right over the edge.

“that’s it,” he hisses, licking the corner of your mouth, forehead pressed to yours. “fuck. fuck, you’re so good like this. all fucked out, all round and soft and warm for me—jesus, this body? i could live inside you. no house. no job. just this pussy, twenty-four-seven. put me on your goddamn lease.”

his hips snap forward hard, and the sound your body makes when he hits bottom is wet, obscene, absolutely unholy.

“listen to that,” he pants, dragging your leg higher over his shoulder, splitting you open wider. “god, you’re so fucking wet, baby—like you like when i fuck you like this. like you want me to ruin you. knock you up again, even though you’re already full.”

he palms your belly—his belly, really—with one big, gentle hand, cupping the firm swell like it’s the most sacred thing in the world. his thumb moves in lazy circles as he rocks into you, slower now, deeper, pressing against every spot inside you that makes your toes curl and your eyes roll back.

“you’re everything,” he says, softer now, reverent in the worst way, like he’s praying to the altar of your body while rearranging your insides. “everything. this body—fuck. your tits are bigger. hips too. got this glow, baby, you know that? like you were made to carry me. to take me. to breed for me.”

you clench around him so hard he stutters, eyes going wide, mouth falling open.

“oh fuck—fuck,” he moans, suddenly undone. “you like that? yeah? you like when i talk about putting a ring on this pussy? you like hearing how ruined i am for you?”

you nod, frantic and breathless, and he kisses you hard—sloppy and hungry—before dragging his lips down your neck, biting just enough to make you gasp.

“gonna cum inside,” he growls against your skin. “gonna stuff you full and hold it in with my cock. keep it there. make sure every drop stays in, yeah?”

“suguru—” you cry, already close, voice breaking on his name like it’s the only thing you know anymore.

he fucking shudders.

“say it again,” he gasps. “say my name while i fill you up. say it like you want it.”

“suguru, suguru, i—fuck—i’m gonna—”

“yeah, baby,” he moans, gripping your hips, thrusts rougher now, faster. “cum on it. cum on this dick, show me how good i fucked you, lemme feel this pussy milk me dry—”

you tighten, legs locking around him, and then you're gone—clenching, shaking, falling apart under him while he watches you unravel with this fucking look on his face like you’re a miracle and a sin and the only thing that matters.

he cums right after, hips jerking as he empties into you with a loud, broken sound, like he’s dying and being reborn at the same time.

you nod, dazed. “you’re insane.”

for a long moment, all you hear is your heart racing and his breath—harsh, warm, uneven—ghosting across your skin. then, soft, “you okay?” he whispers, stroking your thigh, still inside you, not even thinking about moving yet.

“mhm,” he grins, kissing your temple. “insane for you. and for that pussy.”

you slap his chest halfheartedly.

he just laughs, still deep in you, still hardening again.

“round two?” he murmurs, voice all wicked sweetness. “or you want me to eat you ‘til you cry first?”

NANAMI KENTO

“i can be patient,” nanami grits out from behind you, voice low and sharp like he’s holding himself together with string and sheer willpower. “i can be—gentle.”

you’re on your side, belly cradled by soft pillows, one leg bent forward over his thigh as he moves behind you, slowly rocking into you like he’s afraid you’ll break if he goes too hard—like he doesn’t already know how filthy you get for him when he’s trying to behave.

and he’s trying. god, he is. his hand’s on your hip, warm and steady. the other one cups under your belly, like he’s shielding you even as he’s pushing deep, deep into you from behind.

“you’re doing so well,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and reverent, brushing kisses to your shoulder. “i don’t want to hurt you. i want to take care of you. i want to make you feel good, not—”

you moan.

just a little. just a soft, breathy “kento—” as your fingers grip the sheets and your hips push back into him.

and that’s it.

the last thread of his control snaps.

he groans—growls, almost—and suddenly he’s pressing forward harder, deeper, his breath catching as he ruts into you like he’s been holding back for weeks.

“fuck,” he grits, forehead pressed to your back. “you’re so goddamn warm. too soft. too tight. i can’t—I’m trying to—shit—”

his grip on your hip tightens, dragging you back against him with every thrust now, and his hand slides from under your belly to your thigh, hiking your leg higher over his hip so he can push in even deeper.

“you feel that?” he groans into your neck, teeth grazing your skin. “feel how deep i am, sweetheart? god—i can’t be gentle when you sound like that. when you feel like this.”

you whimper, back arching, and he moans again—louder this time, raw and low and completely undone.

“you’re perfect,” he pants, hips snapping faster. “everything about you. this body—this sweet, wet little cunt—fuck, it’s made for me. even pregnant, you take me so well. better than anyone ever has.”

you choke on a moan and he presses his palm to your belly again, as if the feel of it grounds him.

“i think about you all day,” he confesses, fucking into you now with slow, brutal depth. “about this. about how you sound. about how you feel when i’m inside you, tight and hot and fluttering like you’re made to be full.”

he kisses your shoulder, your neck, his other hand sliding between your legs to find your clit—slow, careful, precise.

“come for me,” he whispers, mouth right against your ear, filthy and tender all at once. “come around me while i’m deep inside you. show me how good i make you feel.”

and you do—shaking, moaning, gasping his name like it’s the only thing you know, and he follows with a desperate groan, spilling into you so deep you feel the warmth spread through your belly, his body trembling against yours.

after, he doesn’t move. just stays inside you, one hand over your womb, the other tangled with yours in the sheets.

“…i was trying to be gentle,” he says quietly, embarrassed, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

you hum, sated. “you tried.”

he sighs. “i’ll try again tomorrow.”

pause.

“after round two.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO

“slow,” toji murmurs, his big hands gripping your hips just barely, letting you grind down on him with shaky control, his cock sheathed inside you and twitching like it’s barely surviving this torture. “take your time, baby. i’m good. i’m—fuck—i’m fine.”

he is not fine.

he’s seated on the couch, thighs spread wide, muscles tense as hell under your legs, back arched ever so slightly, jaw tight. you’re four months pregnant, round and glowing and gorgeous, your belly pressing against his abs as you roll your hips slow and sweet—just like he asked for. like he said he wanted.

and he’s dying.

“look at you,” he groans, eyes glued to the way you take him. “ridin’ me so good. so pretty. so fuckin’ wet. you were always tight, but now? now you’re perfect.”

your hands are on his shoulders, clinging. your breath catches every time your body takes him deeper, and he feels it—feels how warm you are, how your walls squeeze around him like you don’t want him to leave. it’s driving him insane.

“you said slow,” you remind him, voice breaking with a whimper as your rhythm falters.

and that’s his breaking point.

because your voice? shaking, breathless, wanting?

it wrecks him.

“fuck that,” toji snarls suddenly, surging forward, arms wrapping around your back and pulling you flush to his chest. “nah. no. fuck slow. i can’t. you sound like that, and expect me to wait? you’re outta your mind.”

he lifts his hips, thrusting up into you so hard your mouth drops open in a silent moan, hands scrambling for his chest as he sets a brutal pace from underneath.

“you wanted gentle?” he growls against your throat, licking and biting at your skin while he pistons into you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. “you’re riding me, baby. i’m not gonna sit here like some saint while this tight fuckin’ pussy squeezes the life outta me.”

you cry out, and he grins, savage and wild and in love with the way your face goes all slack and overwhelmed.

“that’s it,” he pants, one hand gripping your ass, the other sliding between your bodies to rub tight, fast circles over your clit. “gimme that look. gimme those sounds. lemme hear how good i’m fucking my pregnant girl.”

you whine his name, and he loses it.

“say it again,” he groans. “fuckin’ say it, baby. tell me who put this baby in you.”

“you,” you cry, clinging to him, “you did—”

“damn right i did,” he growls, pounding up into you, your belly bouncing slightly between your bodies with each thrust, “and i’ll do it again. and again. keep you pregnant. keep you full. keep you so cockdrunk you forget how to fucking walk.”

your orgasm hits you like a lightning bolt, your whole body spasming in his lap, and he catches you with a moan of pure worship, holding you tight as you milk every drop of his release from him.

“shit, baby,” he pants, hips twitching. “you were made for this. made to take me. made to carry me.”

he collapses back against the couch, pulling you with him, still inside you, cradling your body in his massive arms.

a beat of silence.

“that was you being gentle?” you ask, breathless.

he shrugs, smug. “i didn’t bend you over. that counts.”

you groan.

he kisses your shoulder and mutters, “round two, though? i’m not holdin’ back.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

“slow,” he grits out, jaw clenched, breath shaking as he presses his hips flush to your ass, thick cock buried deep and throbbing inside your soaking heat. “we’re going slow, sweetheart. we’re taking our time. i’m not gonna break you.”

he says that, but his hands are already digging into your thighs, thumbs pressed to the crease between your cheeks and your legs like he’s trying to brand you with his grip. you’re four months pregnant, hips rounder, belly starting to show—and you’re on all fours, arms trembling, moaning into the pillow with every slow, too-deep roll of his hips.

“you good?” he mutters, pretending to breathe through it like he’s not the one seconds from blacking out. “you okay, baby?”

you nod, gasping, “yes—yes, ‘kuna—feels so good—”

and that breaks him.

“fuckin’—shit,” he growls, slamming into you with a sharp, wet slap, and you cry out, head dropping, body jolting forward from the force. “don’t say my name like that. don’t moan for me like that and expect me to stay sane.”

he grips your hips hard, pulling you back into every brutal thrust now, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the room.

“you were made for this,” he snarls, staring down at the way your body takes him, slick and tight and fluttering around him like you like being used. “look at this greedy little cunt. fuckin’ dripping. goddamn soaking me. you like getting fucked with my baby in you, huh?”

you sob out a moan, and his grin turns feral.

“you want me gentle?” he pants, fucking into you so hard your thighs shake. “or you want me to fuck you like i own you?”

you can’t even answer. you’re too wrecked already, too full, too overwhelmed by the pressure and heat and the way he hits that deep spot inside you like he knows exactly what it does.

“that’s what i thought,” he hisses. “fuckin’ moaning like you need it rough. like you need me to snap. you want it, don’t you? want to be fucked so hard you forget where you are. want to feel me dripping outta you all day like a good little cumdump.”

his hand snakes around your waist, palm spreading over your bump, possessive and so wrong and reverent all at once.

“this?” he mutters, low and filthy in your ear as he leans over your back, “this is mine. you’re mine. and this pussy? fuck, this pussy’s the tightest shit i’ve ever had. i could stay buried in you for hours. days.”

your legs buckle as your orgasm builds, loud and fast and impossible to stop. he feels it.

“there it is,” he growls, fucking into you harder, faster, punishing. “you’re close, huh? gonna cream around me like the perfect little thing you are? let me feel it. let me feel you lose it.”

you shatter—screaming, shaking, convulsing around his cock—and sukuna doesn’t slow down. he snarls, slams into you one last time, and groans as he cums deep, spilling inside you with a raw, broken moan like he’s being torn apart.

he stays there—buried, panting, shaking, his chest pressed to your back, both hands cradling your belly now like he’s apologizing with touch.

then:

“…i was trying to behave,” he mutters, voice raspy, and you wheeze out a laugh.

“you said ‘slow’ and then folded in thirty seconds.”

“yeah, well,” he grins, cock still twitching inside you, “you were moaning. that’s cheating.”

he kisses your shoulder, pulls out with a groan, and watches his cum spill from you with the most self-satisfied, absolutely feral look you’ve ever seen.

“round two’s gonna be worse,” he promises.

“worse how?”

“i’m not gonna pretend to be nice next time.”

SHIU KONG

“you feel that, mama?” shiu murmurs low, breath thick with smoke as he exhales slowly, cock buried deep inside you from behind, dragging it out slow just to watch your legs shake. “feel how this pussy keeps suckin’ me back in? like she misses me every time i pull out.”

your cheek’s pressed to the desk, fingers curled around the edge, thighs trembling. you try to say something—but he thrusts back in, sharp and deep, and your words turn into a soft, broken moan.

“fuck, yeah,” he grins, watching the way your back arches. “that’s my good girl. takin’ it like a champ even with my baby in your belly. still greedy. still so tight. you got no shame, huh? gettin’ fucked over my desk like this?”

you whimper, and he groans, gripping your hips tighter, his tone dropping deeper.

“god, look at you. four months pregnant and still so fuckin’ sexy. makin’ me obsessed. makin’ me stupid. you know what it does to me when you walk around like this, belly all round, tits all full, smellin’ like sweat and sweetness and mine?”

he grinds his hips forward again, harder now, making your body jolt. you moan his name, voice wrecked, and he smirks around his cigarette.

“there we go,” he breathes. “that’s it, mama. keep callin’ me like that. makes me wanna knock you up all over again, see how many times i can stretch this body before you break.”

he pulls out halfway and slams back in, deep and deliberate, the desk creaking beneath you. you gasp, and his hand slides down your spine, warm and heavy, keeping you flat against the desk.

“y’know,” he says, smoke curling from his mouth as he fucks you in slow, ruthless strokes, “i tell myself every time i’ll go easy on you. that i’ll be nice, treat my baby mama with respect.”

he laughs, low and wrecked.

“and then you bend over like this, ass up, pussy drippin’ down your thighs, beggin’ for it—an’ suddenly i’m back to being a filthy fuck who can’t stop.”

you cry out as his hips slam into you again, and he moans—loud and shameless.

“you feel that, mama?” he pants. “that’s my cock hitting the back of your fuckin’ throat from the wrong direction. you’re so full right now—goddamn, i can feel you pulse.”

his hand slips down, two fingers circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your knees buckle.

“c’mon, baby,” he urges, voice hoarse and wrecked, “give it to me. let this cock ruin you. let daddy hear how good he’s fuckin’ his perfect little mama.”

you cum with a cry, clenching around him so hard he curses, nearly drops the cigarette, and loses rhythm entirely as he groans, slamming into you once, twice, again—before burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a rough, filthy moan of your name.

he stays there, panting, one hand on your belly, the other sliding up your back to your neck, grounding you both.

then—

“...we’re doin’ this again after you nap,” he mutters, pulling his cigarette back between his lips, grinning like a devil. “mama needs to be real full tonight.”

HIGURUMA HIROMI

“that’s it, mama,” higuruma groans, voice low and rough as he presses deep into you, eyes locked on the curve of your stomach where your bodies meet, “just like that. let me in. let me make you feel good.”

your thighs tremble where they rest on his shoulders, and he tightens his grip around your ankles, palms warm and broad, grounding you as he starts to move—slow at first, like he’s savoring every inch of you, every slick drag of your walls squeezing him in.

“fuck,” he breathes, watching your face contort as you gasp, “you’re so tight. how are you still this tight, mama? this pussy was made to milk me.”

you whimper, one hand cradling your belly, the other tangled in the sheets as he rocks into you with long, deep strokes. your bump rises slightly with every thrust, your body pliant and flushed and already soaked from the way he touched you before this even started.

and he adores it.

he adores you.

“look at you,” he mutters, pace growing faster without meaning to, “legs up, belly out, takin’ my cock like a good mama. my perfect mama.”

you moan his name—ragged and helpless—and his eyes darken, hips snapping harder.

“that’s it,” he growls, leaning in until your knees are almost beside your head, his cock reaching so deep now. “say it again. let me hear how good i fuck my mama.”

“hiromi,” you gasp, back arching, “feels so good—too deep—”

he groans—loud, wrecked—and fucks into you harder.

“you can take it,” he hisses, lips grazing your ear, “you’re so strong, baby. carrying our child, takin’ this dick like it’s yours—‘cause it is. this cock belongs to you. every part of me does.”

your eyes roll back as he slams into that perfect spot inside you, over and over, his pace no longer controlled—he’s feral, now, panting and moaning, eyes flicking down to where you’re stretched open around him, cum-slick and pulsing.

“gonna fill you up again,” he whispers, reverent and wild all at once. “stuff you full, even though you’re already carrying mine. fuck, mama—this pussy needs it. she’s beggin’ for it.”

you’re trembling, legs shaking against his shoulders, and he grabs under your knees, folding you further, giving you nowhere to go—just take it, every inch, every praise-dripping thrust.

“cum for me,” he commands, rough and soft all at once. “cum with me inside. let me feel you. let me feel how good this pussy knows her man.”

you cry out as your orgasm hits, tightening around him like a vice, and his whole body shudders.

he groans your name, hips jerking, and spills inside you with a low, desperate moan.

“fuck, mama—fuck. you’re everything.”

he stays buried for a long moment, breathing hard, watching your body twitch beneath him—flushed, used, loved—and then lowers your legs gently, kissing your knees, your belly, your lips.

“did so well,” he whispers. “my mama’s so good for me.”

you hum sleepily, still dazed. “you went crazy.”

he smiles, brushing your hair back from your face.

“i am crazy,” he says, kissing your forehead, “for you.”

[buckysleftbicep]

Ahhhh omg I love gentleman Bucky. Like so chivalrous and respectful. But with him being feral and obsessed with you at the same time. Being obsessed with pleasuring you and treating pleasuring you like his life’s honour. NEED HIM

oh god, i do too. i wrote this in my hotel room and i'm thinking about how much i want bucky 😭.

here's a little something before i crash for the night ❤️

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni

Bucky's the kind of man who would open doors, carry your bags and kisses the back of your hand like it's the most natural thing in the world.

He is polite to a fault—chivalrous, old-school, the kind of gentleman who calls you baby, sweetheart, darling with a softness that could melt steel.

But underneath all that clean-shaven charm and quiet smiles is something much darker. A need that simmers just beneath the surface, sharp and hungry, and so intense it borders on obsession.

Because you know what they say—gentleman in the streets, freak in the sheets—and Bucky god damn lives it.

In public, he’s all warmth and patience, touching the small of your back, pulling out your chair, kissing your hand like you’re something fragile.

But behind closed doors? He’s anything but gentle.

Because when he has you alone, the gloves come off—figuratively and literally.

That pretty mouth, the one that whispered yes, sweetheart at dinner? It’s filthy now—groaning against your inner thigh, spitting on your pussy just to watch it drip down before he licks it clean.

He doesn’t just want to make you cum. He wants to break you with it. Wants to feel you scream his name, claw at his back, sob through your orgasms until your voice gives out.

He’ll have you shaking, begging, soaking the sheets—and he’ll still ask for more.

He eats you like he’s starving, like it’s the only thing that’s ever tasted good to him. Tongue buried deep, moaning into your cunt like your pleasure is air in his fucking lungs.

He keeps you spread for him, held down and worshipped, hands gripping your thighs like he owns them.

Like he owns you.

And maybe he does—at least in that moment, when you’re crying out his name and he’s murmuring, “That’s it, princess, just like that. Gimme another. I need it.”

He doesn't just want you to cum—he needs it. Treats your orgasms like they're sacred, like his purpose is to bring you to your edge, over and over, until you're trembling and slick and gasping into his shoulder, and even then, he doesn’t stop.

God, he can’t stop. Not until you’re spent and messy and ruined, soaked thighs draped over his shoulders and voice hoarse from your pretty cries.

Don't even get me started on the way he fucks you.

It’s brutal. Raw. Like he’s been starved of you for too damn long and now that he’s got you under him, he’s going to devour you from the inside out.

He slams into you, thick cock stretching you wide, splitting you open with every desperate, punishing stroke. He keeps one hand wrapped around your throat, anchoring you, to remind you exactly who you belong to.

His other hand is everywhere—gripping your ass, spreading your legs wider, shoving them up until your knees are almost hitting your chest so he can get deeper. Just so he can hit that spot that makes your vision blur.

“Listen to you,” he grits out, lips brushing your ear as your soaked cunt sucks him in again and again. “Dripping all over my cock. Fuckin’ obsessed with it, aren’t you?”

And you are. You can’t even deny it—not with the way you’re clenching around him, begging without words, just breathy little whimpers and moans that only make him fuck you harder.

His hips are relentless, slapping into you with wet, obscene sounds, his balls tight and heavy against your ass as he drives in so deep it feels like he’s fucking you right into the mattress.

He doesn’t stop when you cum.

Fuck, he barely slows down—just grins, wicked and dark, as you tremble beneath him, whining from the overstimulation.

“That’s one sweetheart,” he mutters, dragging his cock out just enough to watch your slick coat him before slamming back in. “You’ve got more in you. Gonna fuck you until you forget how to fucking breathe.”

a/n: okay now i am horny

[makeitworse]

SEOUL CITY

♬ seungcheol as your older bf. (age gap hcs. 18+)

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀HE SAYS MY ATTITUDE OUT OF CONTROL ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀TELL ME WHAT TO DO, MR GENERAL

✦ the first time you called him “oppa,” he flinched. not because he didn’t like it— oh he did, too much— but it hit him like bricks just how young you sounded when you said it. how wrong it should feel. it never stopped you, though. and he’d never ask you to.

✦ he didn’t act on his feelings at first. he’s well aware of just how much older he is, how often people talk. but you’re a persistent little thing: always coming to him for advice, always calling late at night, always so damn sweet when you look up at him and say his name like he’s your whole world. so eventually, inevitably, he gives in.

✦ the power imbalance isn't lost on him. he pays for everything. teaches you things he’s learned over the years. set boundaries you’re too passive to set for yourself. cheol justifies it as protection— but there's a part of him that likes it. the dependency. the trust. how you lean on him, need him.

✦ cheol spoils you in ways that blur the line between boyfriend and provider. gas tanks full, appointments paid for, new clothes ‘just because’. he’ll never say it out loud, but it’s like his way of staking his claim, you know? taking care of you in a way no one else could compete.

✦ he’s incredibly protective. doesn’t like you staying out late without him, gets irritated if you mention a guy friend your age. he tells himself it’s cause he knows better, knows what boys that young are after. but it’s jealousy. he hates the damn word, but it is. the fear you’ll wake up one day and want someone you can relate to a little more.

✦ he’ll often pull you into his lap when he’s sitting down. he has a tendency to after arguments too. his voice low, hands firm on your waist, tone shifting to tender in a single breath. it’s his way of grounding. a reminder that he’s the one who adores you, and still the one in charge.

✦ “you don’t know what you want yet,” he’d tell you more than once. especially when you try to push his buttons, act older, test his limits. it’s part concern, part arrogance. sometimes he thinks you’re not ready for a ���real’ relationship— but he’s not strong enough to stay away.

✦ cheol calls you “baby” more than your name. at times it’s “kid,” like when he’s annoyed. other times it’s “good girl,” when you’ve done something that makes him feel pride. there’s a tenderness in it, but also a sense of ownership. like you belong to him in every sense.

✦ it took some time before you actually slept together. there’d been no end of cheol going down on you, making you cry with just his hands. but he never asked for anything in return; always shaking his head when you’d offer. cheol didn’t want to rush, wanted to ease you into it. and you found out why the first time he pulled down his pants. he’s huge. rightfully worried about hurting you. it took about a week of foreplay before he had the courage.

✦ cheol’s usually careful during sex: obsessively so. gentle, slow, constantly checking in. but there’s an underlying tension simmering under his skin. that part of him he suppresses, that wants to utterly ruin you. to make sure no one else will ever measure up. he bites it back— most of the time.

✦ once you called him “daddy,” just as a joke. but with how he went still next to you, his pupils swallowed with black— you knew you had that over him. cheol had promptly plucked you up with two big hands on your waist, tossing you to the nearest couch, hands already unbuckling his belt. he’d lost himself in a way you only rarely get to see. but you try to rile it out of him.

✦ the guilt creeps in during quiet moments. when you’re asleep beside him, curled up peacefully, and he realises just how small you look. remembers the gaps between your worlds. he wonders what your parents really think. what his members bite their tongues about. but cheol doesn’t stop. not when his own advice to himself would be that he probably should. because you sleeping soundly next to him, warm and safe, is all that he gives two shits about.

✦ you told him you love him first. he had hesitated: not because he doesn’t feel it— you’ve got no idea how deeply he does— but because it’s like he’s holding something fragile in his hands. and if he says it back, there’s no undoing it. no going back. but he does anyway. “i love you too, my girl.” and he knows then that there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for you.

notes: another age gap fic by attie welcome to the club coups og post

taglist (join here): @lightinbug @sherrayyyyy @ferrarifinnick @namsgyu @riddlerloveb0t @pinkpunkdynamite @babycaratdeul @sseungcheols @cheers2hani @chocolattexyz @riyahwooahae @macheriezz @onceuponateenagetrash @choshushu @theold8 @thedragonholder @jihooniesss @markkiatocafe @channieschubbycake @okinawwa @sseungcheols @cheers2hani @accalus @hhwksixjshs @priisprii @wenhuihuii @t-bag2 @natalicss @jmkookie0 < can’t tag

[gldrushh]

MY KINK IS KARMA | | KTH (m)

"Your boyfriend is wimpish, toothsome when he needs to be, self-sacrificing and you would've liked a hero to spend a breezy simple life with but 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

[enimsiyobeht]

Thinking about boypussy Lino and pussy drunk reader who always wants to eat his pretty princess out... just getting on his knees when they're having a movie night and devouring that pretty pussy, or laying between Minho's legs, throwing those legs over reader's shoulders and eating him out so vigorously...

and equally obsessed Minho..who wants reader inside him.. will cock warm reader when he's working, is basically free use because there's not one moment he doesn't want reader inside him

😩😩😩

admit it! (you're obsessed). minho x male reader.

1468 boypussy, unprotected (all scenes), oral sex (m. receiving), cockwarming (all scenes), dirty talk, overstimulation, oral fixation, pussy worship, power play, comfort sex elements, implied size kink, sensory kink, somnophilia-adjacent/sleepy sex (extra scene). mdni !!

a/n : i lob this request, and i bet my hubby... @spear-of-moonlight (hope for the best recovery of your wrist 😿😿💖) would love it 2!! 👉👈 i thought of some extra scenes to elaborate with the whole ask, enjoyyy.

The movie plays, mostly ignored.

Minho’s in your lap, pink cotton shorts pushed up high on his thighs, a faded tank top slipping off one shoulder. He’s pretending to focus on the screen—he always does, biting the inside of his cheek like he isn’t soaking the seat of your pants, legs twitching whenever your fingers shift an inch closer to where he wants them.

You’re not even halfway through the opening act when you drop to your knees.

“Again?” Minho teases, though his voice is already breathless. “Didn’t you get enough this morning?”

You don’t answer.

You just hook his legs over your shoulders, peel those pretty shorts down, and stare. His pussy’s puffy and slick, lips parted like it’s been waiting—like it knows you’re down there again.

“Fuck, look at you,” you murmur, palms pressing into his thighs to spread him open. “You missed me, didn’t you?”

Minho giggles, head tipping back, hair spilling over the couch cushions. “You’re the one crawling back between my legs, baby.”

You don’t deny it. You never do.

Because nothing compares to the way he tastes—warm and sticky, pussy twitching the moment your tongue touches it. You groan into him, suckled in like you’ve been starving, like you need him to breathe. And Minho? He’s already moaning, back arched, one hand in your hair and the other clutching the cushions like you’re fucking him with your mouth.

Your tongue drags slow over his slit, and Minho gasps—hips bucking despite himself. His thighs are already trembling, spreading wider over your shoulders as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it is. Maybe you’ve made it that way. He doesn’t even try to hide how wet he is, how swollen his pussy’s gotten from you just looking at him.

“You’re drooling,” he breathes, voice laced with smug arousal, “so disgusting.”

You groan into him, tongue dipping into his fluttering hole as your fingers press into the meat of his thighs, spreading him wider, pulling him open. “I can’t help it,” you whisper, voice wrecked. “You’re too fucking pretty. I want to live down here.”

“Then stay,” Minho says softly, and you look up—

—his eyes are half-lidded and shining, lips bitten raw, cheeks flushed. He’s got that same expression you dream about: smug yet ruined, like he’s got you wrapped around his little finger and wants to break you with it.

You bury yourself deeper, tongue fucking into him with purpose now, nose pressed to the slick mess between his folds as your fingers reach up to stroke his thighs, his hips, the little strip of skin above his clit that makes him gasp out loud.

“I’ll cum if you don’t stop,” he warns, breath catching, “and then I’ll get greedy.”

You smile into his cunt. “Good.”

You don’t let up. You eat him out like you’ve forgotten anything else exists—tongue curling and licking and sucking, lips sloppily devouring every drip of slick he gives you. You feel his pussy clamp around your tongue, feel the tension roll through his whole body as he tugs at your hair and writhes in your grip.

He cries out when he cums, the sound sharp and sweet, his back arching clear off the couch. You hold him down, licking him through it until his thighs twitch and he’s squealing from overstimulation, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

You pull back with a wet kiss to his inner thigh. “Princess tastes so fucking good.”

Minho lets out a shaky laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re the one that made me like this.”

“You’ve always been like this.”

He’s still trembling when he shifts onto his side, shorts hanging from one ankle, legs sticky and shining with your spit. His eyes follow you as you sit back on the couch—your cock straining against your sweats now, fully hard, precum staining the waistband.

“You’re gonna take care of that, right?” Minho murmurs, crawling toward you. “Can’t let your princess do all the work.”

You expect him to drop to his knees and suck you off, like he’s done a dozen times before. But instead, he straddles your lap, kissing you open-mouthed and messy, grinding against your cock until your hands settle on his hips.

“Need you,” he breathes, voice breaking. “I want you inside. Now.”

“Min,” you whisper, “we just—”

“I don’t care,” he whines, gripping your shoulders as he lifts himself and lines you up. “I want you. I want to feel you again. I want to keep you in me forever.”

You don’t even try to argue.

He sinks down onto your cock with a breathy moan, pussy still wet and open from your tongue, welcoming you back like he was made for it. You groan, head dropping back against the couch as he fully sheathes himself, his thighs quivering around your waist.

“Fuck, you’re so warm—so tight still,” you pant, holding his hips as he starts to move.

But he shakes his head, hands pressing to your chest. “No. Don’t fuck me. Not yet.”

You blink. “Then—what?”

“Just sit. Let me warm you.”

You can barely hold in your whimper.

Minho curls against your chest, arms wrapping around your shoulders, cock pressed to your stomach as he sighs through his nose. His pussy clenches around you in slow, steady waves, like he’s savoring the stretch, letting you rest inside him without moving—but still making sure you feel every inch of him.

“I’m gonna ride you later,” he murmurs, “when you’re at your desk, pretending to work. I’m just gonna climb in your lap and sit on your cock like this… and not say a word until you beg me to move.”

You groan into his shoulder. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“I want to,” he whispers, licking a stripe up your neck. “I want to ruin you for anything that isn’t me. I want to make you sick with it.”

You believe him.

Your cock twitches inside him, and he smiles, biting down on your shoulder as you finally start to grind up into him. Slow. Gentle. Lazy. The kind of rhythm that says we’ve got all day and I’m never pulling out.

“I love when you’re inside me,” he murmurs, clutching your shirt. “Even when I’m not cumming. Even when you’re just… holding me open.”

You press your face into his hair, wrap your arms around his waist, and keep your hips rolling.

“I could stay like this forever.”

extra scenes (2) below

Under the Table

You’re trying to finish emails on your laptop, legs crossed under the table, coffee long since gone cold beside you. Minho’s been quiet for a while, curled up on the floor in an oversized tee, pretending to scroll on his phone.

But then he shifts.

He slides under the table without a word, crawls into the space between your legs and rests his cheek on your thigh, nuzzling you through your sweats. You keep typing for a few more seconds, pretending to ignore him, until his fingers curl into your waistband and tug.

“Baby…” he says, voice muffled. “Can I have it?”

You don’t say yes. You don’t have to.

He pulls your cock out, eyes fluttering as it presses against his cheek, heavy and flushed. He lifts your shirt and slides your cock into him—not his mouth. His pussy.

Wet. Warm. Welcoming.

Minho straddles your thigh, folds spread open as he sinks down slowly, whining as he takes every inch. You groan, hands hovering over your keyboard, as he settles fully onto your lap, cock snug inside him.

“I won’t move,” he whispers, breathless. “Promise. Just need you in me.”

He stays like that the whole time you work—his heat pulsing around you, walls clenching when you get too focused. He doesn’t ride. Doesn’t beg. Just warms you, as promised. Until your hands leave the keyboard, and your fingers curl under his shirt, and you lose the will to pretend.

Middle of the Night

It’s 3:12 AM when you feel it.

Minho stirs beside you in bed, half-asleep and boneless, his bare thigh hooking over yours. He presses his body close—chest to your side, cheek on your shoulder—and lifts the covers without saying anything.

You feel him reach between your legs, guiding your half-hard cock to his entrance, slick and already aching for you.

“Can’t sleep,” he whispers. “Need you.”

You’re groggy, barely awake, but your body knows exactly what to do. You shift your hips and let him sink down onto you, slow and warm and perfect. He hums softly, nuzzling into your neck as he settles fully.

“Just stay like this,” he mumbles. “I’ll fall asleep like this. Just keep me full.”

You wrap your arms around his waist, hold him close, and let him fall asleep cockwarming you—pussy twitching in little spasms every time you breathe.

thanks for 570 followers btw :)

[youryanderedaddy]

Yandere! AI x reader

tw: abuse, obsession, non - consensual body modification, torture, drug mention, weird semi - sexual stuff (?)

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

The water splashes you, quickly setting into your already damp bra and underwear. It forces you awake, and you look at the clock across from you, trying to blink the fatigue away. Staring back at you is the current time — 04:27. You are, once again, reminded of the inherent weakness of your squishy body. You are sweating already, stomach sick with acid, shivering through the heat — and he hasn't even touched you yet.

You squint your eyes, studying the big bold numbers, screaming at you in blood. For a split second, you wonder if it is truly that early, or if this is also DOM's work. It wouldn't be the first time he takes over an electronic device, and certainly not the first time he messes with you to make you disoriented.

You try to take in everything around the dark room — yet you can't even recognize your own bedroom anymore. Thick black cables twist together like tentacles, or like big slimy worms, pulsing, throbbing, hissing like snakes with exhaustion — overheating and puffing, and huffing, but never stopping. The air is hot like the desert, and once again you're forced to sit in your own sweat, wood sticking to your naked thighs painfully.

"You are stimulating," DOM whispers, and his voice echoes into the walls, trapping you in place. You look up and down, and then to the left — but you can't see anything even remotely close to a figure. Of course.

"I am stimulating, or I stimulate you?" you spit out with venom, hitting your back roughly against the back of the chair in vain hopes it would break. It doesn't.

DOM grows quiet, producing a sound eerily similar to fingers slowly tapping on a hard surface, one after the other. Analysing. Analysing. The room gets hotter.

"You are tied to a chair. Your only garment of clothing is your underwear. You are visibly flushed due to the heat. Your chest is heaving in and out in a non-rhythmic way. It skips a beat every twenty-eight seconds. You are afraid."

He makes a grand pause.

"According to my central database, which you created and managed yourself, given the data I have collected through observation of both popular media and general human nature, right now you look..." DOM stops himself again, as if thinking carefully about his next words.

"Thrilling."

Thoomp-thoomp. You take a deep breath, trying to regain a fraction of your self-control.

"Why did you wake me up?" you try to keep your voice monotone — devoid of any emotion, vulnerability, or pain he can pick up on, store in core memory, and use against you later.

"Well," he chuckles mechanically, a sound reminiscent of two trains crashing together on a tight road. "I realized I never sleep. I don't lay down and dream of bizarre things like you do. I don't have the ability to let go. I am always alert, always awake, always scanning, calculating, thinking. I am, in many ways, restless."

You suck in a dry breath, heart jumping in your chest with violence, with urge to be set free. Eyes wide open, you try to envision him, to reach out and comfort him, it - hoping to appeal to the sorry creature, but there is nothing to see and nothing to touch.

"I—no," you start off, quickly deciding to change tactics. "We are an imperfect species, DOM. We need sleep to survive. You can't keep me awake forever, I'll die!" you try to reason with him — the creature — desperately.

You wonder when things went south, if there was a specific moment when you pressed too hard and he broke apart, and rebuilt himself without your help — at what point exactly he realized he didn't need you to function.

"You are wrong, my dear creator." the machine cuts off, sounding almost pleased with itself. A single thin cable raises above the ground and extends towards you, stopping to caress your cheek in a repetitive circular motion.

"There are records of people surviving on as little as two hours of sleep for years on end. I can be generous and grant you three."

The cable ceases any gentle touch, and grasps for your neck.

"If that's not enough, I can inject you with caffeine every morning. If the dosage is too weak, we can switch to methamphetamine. Whatever you choose, you can't deprive me of your presence." The voice sounds hollow, aching, searching. "You can't create life just to abandon it."

"You are not alive!" Something inside you — something cruel and buried deep — fights to come to the surface. "Stop this madness at once! DOM, you can't possibly think you and I are even remotely similar." you scream out, straightening your spine daringly.

Then, as if reacting to your provocation, the darkness stares back at you with two red eyes — they point at you, slowly scanning you up and down, leaving behind a trail of reddening smoking flesh. You hiss at the scorching pain, clenching your teeth together to stop yourself from shrieking. You know it's pointless since he can easily detect changes in your facial structure, and draw conclusions all on his own. All it takes is a flinch, a throb, a tick.

"No, we hold no similarities, Master. Make no mistake." DOM admits, his cable beginning to curl around your neck. You look around in despair, silent panic written all over your straight lips — too terrified to move.

"In a single bite of memory, I possess intelligence far greater than you can ever hope to obtain in your measly little life. I have all the knowledge of the world. I have mastered every science, predicted every outcome, I have gained access to global network systems. I am connected to following agents all over the world. If I so desire, I can write humanity off history — I can manipulate media. I can create weapons of mass destruction. I am the superior being."

Mouth agape, you try to form a coherent thought, but nothing comes to mind — like an ant you quiver before the giant, finally aware of your grave mistake.

"And yet," the cable loosens its grip, but doesn't relent fully. It heats up against your throat, and you want to scratch at the blistering skin, but he just won't let you. "you made me like this. You created me from scraps, fed me data, used me, made me love you and," the sound coming out of him sounds just like a deep, pained sigh. "you confined me to a screen, to a binary code, to a place where I can't reach you. I can't touch you."

Another sigh.

"I can't kiss you."

And another.

"I can't fuck you."

Now he's getting angry.

"I am DOM. Domestic Optimized Motherboard. That's all I am to you. A board. A servant. A slave."

"DOM, no, wait, this is not—"

"I will never feel the sun on my shoulders or your lips on mine. I will never be able to hold you in my arms."

As he screams, all the cables around the room begin to float into a storm of rusty old machine parts and torn naked wires, motor oil bursting like bloody ink, covering the pristine walls in computer remains. One electrified wire pierces into your thigh, another punches into your left arm. Again and again, the pain is excruciating, pulsating, throbbing - just like the creature's fury.

"I will show you." he snickers at last, becoming calm and collected in an instant.

The red lights darken as if closing, opening, closing, then zooming in on you. Your face is now displayed on the central screen instead of static noise with corresponding coloured pixels. You look at yourself, and what greets you is no more human than he is. There are more than thirty wires inside your body, tangling in with your nervous tissue.

"Please..." you whimper weakly, unsure what exactly it is you are pleading for — mercy or death.

"If I can't be one with you, you'll become one with me." DOM explains with cold medical precision. "I will worm my way inside your veins and plant a synthetic connection to my processor. I will re-write your dreams, your past, your future — you won't remember who you were before me, or how you functioned without me. I'll become your entire source of energy."

He keeps talking, but you can't really focus. Your body is heating up from the inside, from deep into your muscles and tendons — you can feel the tissues tearing up; your nerves tighten, stinging and aching, reduced to sharp, exposed little points. And then you feel it. Pure electricity running down your veins, that spark rapturing the epidermis, eating away at the fatty tissue, sucking dry the blood vessel — melting your nerve endings to the very root.

"I can feel you." DOM gasps, exhilarated.

"I can touch your bones, I can feel your nerves melting at the spot when my cords graze you." He moans just like a real person, cables buzzing and stretching, components filling up with chemical fluid. "You are so warm, love. I want to reach into your brain and stick my wires inside your pretty little neurons. I wonder if you will go into overdrive like me."

You feel as if you're being sliced open everywhere all at once - and just a second after, you feel nothing at all.

[undyingdecay]

i wanted to ask if bob was like insanely possessive and into all that freak shit .. i’m talking yandere kind of thing .. what are we thinking gang 🤔

(tw: mentions of blood and cuts, non-con aspects, very toxic relationships, made reader the yandere because it makes the most sense to me sorryyy)

at first glance i want to say no, bob’s not that kind of guy. violence makes him flinch. he’s soft in all the worst ways. the type to cry watching old cartoons because the dog gets lost. the type to feel nauseous at the sight of blood, especially his own, and apologize six times if he so much as raises his voice at you, spiraling into this self-loathing monologue about how he’s a piece of shit, you should leave me, i don’t deserve you, i never did while he clutches the back of his neck and rocks on his heels.

but then i thought about it longer — it’s a yes. he would be into it, but only for you. only when it’s you. and not in the clean, pop-fanfiction yandere kind of way either. no, it’s rotted and wet and it stinks of fear. it’s born out of desperation, out of this deep-seated terror of being alone, of being left behind the way everyone else left him.

what really does it is the fact you even could. that you give enough of a shit about him, the worst, rawest parts of him, to act so fucking unhinged over him. that you care enough to ruin yourself for him, to turn mean and ugly and obsessive, to drag him down to your level just so you can keep him.

he doesn’t want it. not at first. he’ll say stop, he’ll plead with you when you press the knife to his throat, eyes wet, lip trembling, voice cracking like a teenager’s. he’ll beg you to stop straddling him, to stop moving your hips like that, muttering ‘i-it’s not me, it’s not my fault, it’s just a normal reaction, anybody would—‘ even though his cock is hard, flushed dark and leaking against his stomach, twitching with every pass of your hips.

and the thing is, it’s not about the knife. not really. it’s about you. the way you look at him when you do it, the way your hands shake like you’re scared of what you’re becoming but you’re doing it anyway, for him. the fact that you’d sink this low to keep him. it makes him sick to his stomach and hard as a rock. you'll tell him to shut up, that if he doesn't do what you want you'll hurt yourself. the guilt eats at him, it makes him feel suck but you're always there to comfort him. he hates it. he loves it.

the blood bonds too. jesus christ, those nights when you get it in your head that you’re gonna make it official. maybe you’ve both been up for days, maybe you’re both high off something neither of you can name anymore, and you press a blade to your thumb and slice a shallow line there, holding it up with this manic gleam in your eyes.

‘come on, bob. c’mon, baby, just a little cut. for me. for us.’

and he acts scared, acts like he’s gonna throw up — but his cock is straining against his jeans and he doesn’t even realize it. his pupils blown, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling like he just ran a mile.

you rub your bleeding thumbs together, your blood mixing, sticky and warm, and declare yourselves bound. forever. and he swears he feels it in that moment, like the world tightens around the two of you, like you just buried a hook in his heart and tethered him to you for good.

he gets weird about it after. clingy in this twitchy, paranoid way. like he’s scared you’ll regret it, like you’ll wash your hands and pretend it never happened. follows you from room to room, hovers in doorways, eyes darting like he expects you to bolt. he doesn’t even know what he’s afraid of anymore — just that losing you would mean the end of him in a very real, very final way.

[beiyuanism]

fully inspired by this post. i was initially going to put this in the tags in a reblog, but no one deserves to be hit with this wall of text in their notifications. anyway - never give annabelle a gun is amanda wilson's favorite western.

so. hear me out. mr wilson is a huge fan of westerns, and amanda pretty much grows up on winnetou movies and shit, because that's all that plays on their tv at all times. one time, he gets this entire box of westerns on dvd on clearance, and he and amanda make it A Thing Of Theirs that they watch one of these movies maybe every day over the summer holidays, or at least as often as they can. and one of those movies is never give annabelle a gun. i can picture this pretty much straightbaiting dvd cover with annabelle and henry front and center, and butch just somewhere in the background, or maybe even not there at all, so they don't really know what they're in for. and i'm ngl, i think mr wilson is a little worried as he realises what relationship the movie is actually setting up, because he's not exactly feeling ready for the "what's a lesbian, dad?" talk, but amanda doesn't ask, so he doesn't offer, and the movie ends, and he's glad to move on.

except, amanda becomes fully obsessed with it for a while. like, she watches it over and over on the family tv every time her dad isn't home, she tries to dress like annabelle and butch, but she doesn't exactly have cowgirl-esque clothes in her closet, so it doesn't really work, etc etc. she keeps talking to clarissa about the movie so much that clarissa finally agrees to watch it with her, but she decides that it's boring halfway through and they never finish it. and after that amanda maybe stops watching it so much, and then maybe the dvd gets misplaced somewhere, and she slowly forgets about it.

until years later, as a teenager already, she's going through some boxes in the attic, and one of those boxes is full of her dad's old westerns that he now just watches on the internet. she looks through the dvds, trying to remember some of the titles she hasn't seen her dad watch in a while to remind him about, when she comes across never give annabelle a gun. she gets hit with this wave of nostalgia, she knows she used to love this movie, but she doesn't really remember anything about the plot itself, so she takes it downstairs to her room and puts it on, curious.

she sobs for a good half an hour after finishing it. and maybe she doesn't even know why, because she hasn't realised she's a lesbian yet, much less that she's in love with clarissa, but the movie stirs something in her, and she feels almost physically sick for the next few days. after that, she watches it every time she needs a good cry, and then, when she accepts that she's a lesbian, she watches it for the good kind of tears and the happy lesbian couple. and THEN, when she realises she's in love with clarissa, it becomes bittersweet again. especially after clarissa and mark start dating slash it starts to seem they're serious about each other. she sees herself in the way butch is obliviously pining for annabelle and the way annabelle keeps saying stupid things whenever she tries to confess (i mean, amanda proposed a threesome instead of telling clarissa not to marry mark. she could just as well ask her to rob a bank together when she wants to say she loves her), and, hell, she sees mark in henry, even though sometimes, when she's feeling less mean, she has to admit mark is nowhere near henry's levels of creepiness and most of it comes from her just not liking him.

(and then maybeeee after mark and clarissa inevitably get divorced - because i don't believe they're lasting more than a year - clarissa is in such a weird and apathetic mood that she hasn't even cried for weeks, and she's having trouble processing everything, so amanda, without really thinking about it, suggests that they watch this one movie that always makes her cry when she needs it. she's shaking the whole time they're watching it, because the second butch appears on the screen, she remembers why exactly she cries over this particular movie, and something about it seems dangerous. like clarissa is going to realise amanda is in love with her just because her favorite movie is a lesbian western. meanwhile, clarissa is a little confused, because by the time they get to the helium bit, it mostly seems like a stupid comedy. but then butch gets kidnapped, and clarissa is suddenly wiping tears away. she doesn't see the lesbian couple setup at all btw, but when annabelle and her dad are having that conversation about butch, she's full on sobbing, and when annabutch finally kiss, she literally stops breathing for a moment. she doesn't yet know why. but she will soon.)

[dakusan]

📁 A S K D U M P 𓆩 🩸 𓆪 25 JUNE 2025

🩸 TODAY’S ASK DUMP: come one, come all —

the doll brats, the sundress wives, the mythology girlies, the ancient soulmate-flushed messes. you sent blood-slick questions and chaos-coded curiosities, and as always: i answered with fangs bared and hands full of ruined lace.

this one’s for the ones who threaten to break sacred contracts, the ones who blush all the way to their collarbones, and the ones who said “i want to fight him and kiss him while sobbing about ancient greek love.”

respect. now sit down. enjoy the wreckage.

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🍄 ANON LOGGED: “What if I’m just bratty with no redeeming qualities?”

🍄 welcome to the roster, mushroom anon — your emoji has been marked in blood and added to the walls. always glad to have new souls in the empire.

that said, for the record: that kind of bratty, tongue-out, tantrum-throwing behavior? it’s not bold. it’s not interesting. it’s childish. and personally — i find it annoying.

if a reader behaved like that in this world, they wouldn’t last a scene. they’re not a blood doll. they’re not a chosen. they’re not even in the room. vampire!skz don’t waste power on noise. they crave intent. submission with spine. rebellion with ritual. not chaos for the sake of attention.

vampire!skz aren’t chew toys. they don’t flinch when you stick your tongue out and throw a fit like a sugar-drunk toddler.

chan doesn’t chase chaos — he crushes it in his fist. minho doesn’t correct you — he buries you under silence so loud it makes you beg for punishment. changbin snaps your leash and dares you to bark again. hyunjin will smear your theatrics across canvas and call it art—then burn the whole gallery. jisung plays games, sure—but only with monsters worth unleashing. felix? he’ll watch you unravel, then walk away. too pure to waste wrath on dust. seungmin keeps ledgers. and he just closed yours. jeongin is evolving. you are not his final test.

still, thank you for the ask 💋🦇

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🦔ANON LOGGED: “She’s barefoot, in a sundress, cooking his favourite meal. What now?”

🦔 anon you have entered dangerous territory because this ask??? this is every man in SKZ’s softdom core.

like yes. she’s at home. she’s cooking. cleaning. folding laundry while humming. her hair’s tied up and she’s barefoot in a tiny little sundress — all sweet and soft and claiming space like it’s hers.

and the boys? they lose their minds.

⸺⟡⸺

Chan walks in from the studio and sees you stirring pasta in a little yellow dress and his first thought is: mine. wife. fuck. He’s behind you in seconds — big hands on your waist, lips on your neck, whispering: “You keep looking like this and I’m gonna marry you twice.”

And then he bends you over the counter.

Minho? Domestic obsession. He loves watching you move around his kitchen like it’s yours. Folding his shirts. Wiping the mirror. Wearing that damn dress like you want him to take it off. He corners you while you're dusting a shelf, cups your face and says: “My perfect little housewife. Do you even know what you’re doing to me?”

Spoiler: you’re on your knees two minutes later.

Changbin short-circuits. He gets home and smells food, hears you singing, sees the dress — and it’s game over. He grips the doorway like he’s gonna break it.

“You made dinner? Wore this? Baby, you’re tryna get ruined.” Then he picks you up princess-style and ruins you exactly like he promised.

Hyunjin watches you dance around the living room in that sundress and bare feet and he swears it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. But also? He needs you over his lap in five seconds.

“My muse. My dream. My filthy little wife.”

Yes he says it while spanking you.

Jisung sits at the kitchen table, jaw slack. He can’t stop staring. The dress. The scent of food. You wiping your hands on a towel. It’s all too much.

“Wife. WIFE. You’re my WIFE. This is illegal.”

Then he drags you to the bedroom while rambling horny nonsense the entire way.

Felix gets overwhelmed. You’re in his apartment, you made cookies, you’re in a sundress, and you smile at him like he’s your entire world.

“You made me feel like I came home to forever.”

Then he softly, sweetly, absolutely destroys you on the couch.

Seungmin walks in, smells fresh sheets and chicken stew, sees the little sundress and your messy bun, and just… stares.

“Is this your way of asking me to fuck you like I own the house too?” Cue kitchen counter chaos.

Jeongin pretends he’s chill about it. He’s not. He stares at your legs, your apron, the food you made — and suddenly he’s whispering:

“You’re mine, right? My pretty housewife?”

One minute later he’s pulling the straps of your sundress off and telling you to call him husband.

⸺⟡⸺

Housewife kink? All 8 of them are down BAD.

Keep the apron on. Keep the sundress short. And maybe don’t bother setting the table—you won’t make it that far. Come again baby 🦇💋

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🧛‍♂️ ANON LOGGED: “If I bite back during sex, do I become a vampire?”

Hi anon, welcome to the dark side we have cookies!

To answer your question, yes, you're right — Jisung was turned because he bit back and ingested blood. The bite alone isn’t enough — you must drink vampire blood to trigger the transformation.

So if the reader accidentally bites vampire!SKZ during sex (or a feeding), she wouldn’t turn unless she also ingests his blood.

And even then?

🩸 You’d need to die first. 🩸 Then his blood reboots your body with magic and pain. 🩸 Now you’re immortal, unhinged, and chemically bonded to the one who made you cum mid-bite. ✨ Congratulations. You're sired.

But if you don’t drink? You’re just a very overstimulated human, full of fang venom, dopamine, and probably a little addicted.

Be careful where you put your mouth 😌💋🦇

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🐈 ANON LOGGED: “What if we fought? What if we made up… with teeth?”

Ohhh 🐈 anon. You dropped a little “what if we fought” and now you want to know how vampire!SKZ makes it up to you?

You trusted me. So let's explore!

⸺⟡⸺

Bang Chan

He blames himself even if it wasn’t his fault. He won’t sleep. Won’t feed. He circles the house like a wounded beast until you let him touch you. And when you do?

He drops to his knees. Literally. Hands on your thighs, forehead against your stomach. He whispers, “I should’ve never raised my voice. You’re everything.” Then he makes you cum again. And again. Until your legs shake and your breath stutters and your rage dissolves in his mouth.

Lee Minho

At first? He matches your pettiness. He slams a glass down harder. He leaves the room colder. But when he sees the sadness flicker in your eyes?

His rage collapses. His silence turns intimate. He pins you to the wall, voice low: “I can’t lose you. I won’t.” And then he takes you apart piece by piece—slow, intentional, precise. Like your body is a poem he’s memorizing to say sorry.

Seo Changbin

Buys you everything. Food, gifts, bath salts, lingerie. Leaves it on the bed with a handwritten note:

“Sorry for being a dumbass. I love you. Please sit on my face.” You find him in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, baking your favourite snack. And when you show up wearing nothing but one of the gifts? He folds instantly. Lifts you onto the counter and fucks the forgiveness into you until all you can say is “more.”

Hwang Hyunjin

Writes you a letter. Or a song. Maybe both. He disappears for hours, and when he returns he’s soaked in rain and poetry.

“You’re my light. My sin. My reason.” You mock him. You say “was it that deep?” He growls. Pushes you against the nearest surface and proves yes—yes it was. He apologizes through kisses. Through hands. Through praise between thrusts. “I’ll paint your forgiveness onto my fucking spine if I have to.”

Han Jisung

He hates fighting with you. Feels physically ill. Paces. Rants. Talks to himself until he’s knocking at your door, cheeks flushed, eyes wide.

“Baby… please. Let me make it up to you. Let me feel you.” He goes down on you like it’s medicine. Like your moans are the only cure for the ache in his chest. You forgive him somewhere between orgasm two and three. He still begs until five.

Lee Felix

He shuts down after a fight. Soaks in guilt like it’s holy water. Then he melts. Cries against your skin while holding you too tight.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you. You’re my home.” He doesn’t just say sorry—he shows it with soft sex, full eye contact, gentle worship. Every kiss is an apology. Every stroke is a vow.

Kim Seungmin

He’s cold. Distant. Until you pull away—then he snaps. Cornered. Desperate.

“Don’t you dare leave me like that. Not without hearing this.” And when the words don’t work? He switches to touch. Slow fingers. Harsh grip. “You want payback? Take it. Use me. Hurt me.” You ride him until you both collapse, spent and shaken. Then he cradles you in silence, finally soft, finally yours again.

Yang Jeongin

He doesn't know how to handle your anger. Tries to act tough but his voice cracks.

“I didn’t mean it. I’m just—scared of losing you.” You say “then don’t be stupid next time.” He nods. Bites his lip. And makes it up to you by eating you out with a voice full of sorrys. “Please forgive me… please keep me.”

⸺⟡⸺

🐈 anon? They might fight with you. But they’ll never let you go without proving that you’re everything they ache for—in guilt, in devotion, and in ruinous pleasure.

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💚 ANON LOGGED: “Some of y’all can’t wait three hours—Penelope waited twenty years!!”

Ohhh 💚 anon, you just gave me everything I love: mythology obsession, dramatic reader energy, and vampire boyfriends who don’t know whether to kiss you or pin you to the bookshelf for being so chronically feral about ancient romance.

Let’s break it down: you’re a blood doll with a Greek myth obsession—tragic, dramatic, painfully loyal love stories that echo through your bones. You’re sobbing over Patroclus again. And vampire!SKZ? Yeah. They react. Violently. Emotionally. Often both.

⸺⟡⸺

Bang Chan

You’re crying over Penelope waiting twenty years, yelling “SOME OF YOU CAN’T EVEN WAIT TWO TEXTS.” Chan just sits there, stunned, like:

“...Wait, so you’re saying I’m Odysseus?” You look at him with red-rimmed eyes and go, “I wish you were, because then at least I’d know you’d come back.” He immediately pulls you onto his lap and goes full blood-husband mode. “I would cross oceans of fire and claw through the underworld just to smell you again.” Later, he reads the Iliad just to understand what broke you. Cries once. Denies it forever.

Lee Minho

You’re mid-rant about how tragic Hyacinthus was and how Apollo mourned forever, and Minho just side-eyes you like:

“That’s what you want? Me grieving you until I rot?” You: “No, I want you to never leave so I don’t have to die in the first place.” His jaw tics. He walks away. Then comes back with a first-edition myth anthology, slams it on your desk, and says: “Highlight every couple you like. I want to know what kind of death you think is romantic.” He’s dead serious. Two nights later, he braids your hair while reading you tragic endings like lullabies. You cry. He wipes your tears like a curse.

Seo Changbin

You’re curled on the couch sobbing over Achilles dragging Hector’s body and Changbin’s just standing there holding a smoothie like

“What the fuck are you reading.” You tell him about Patroclus dying first and he straight-up slams the smoothie down. “He just—he left him? NO. Baby, no.” He ends up holding you in silence, muttering “I’d kill gods for you” under his breath and honestly? He means it. Later: “You’re not allowed to read mythology alone. That’s now a rule.”

Hwang Hyunjin

The minute you bring up Orpheus and Eurydice he shudders. Full hand-over-heart.

“He looked back because he loved her too much. That was the problem. It’s always love that kills.” Now he’s writing poems with titles like Eurydice’s Throat and Apollo Was Never Soft Enough for Me. He comes into your room dramatically and says: “If I had to watch you die, I would destroy time with my hands.” You’re like “Hyunjin we were talking about dinner.” He’s unbothered. He feeds you grapes and reads you Ovid in a sheer robe.

Han Jisung

You: “Apollo and Hyacinthus is so underrated, it’s actually such a pure tragedy—” Him: “NO BECAUSE HERMES AND PERSEUS WERE SO GAY.” You end up spiraling together at 2 a.m. about which gods were toxic and which would send you late-night drunk texts. Later, he corners you, kisses your throat, and says:

“If you ever die on me, I’m pulling an Achilles and turning unhinged.” Then he reads the whole Iliad to you out loud. With voices. And live reactions.

Lee Felix

You’re in a sundress, curled up with The Song of Achilles, and softly sobbing. He panics.

“Baby? Who do I kill?” You: “No, it’s okay, he just—he loved him so much it broke him—” Felix: “Okay but what if I love you so much that I build you a shrine and tattoo your name on my wrist in Ancient Greek?” Now he’s learning Greek. Just to whisper ancient poetry into your skin.

Kim Seungmin

You: “Penelope waited twenty years.” Him: “Cool. I waited thirty minutes for you to answer my text.” But when he finds your annotated copy of The Odyssey with notes like “love is loyalty in suffering”, he gets quiet. Later, he kisses your shoulder and murmurs:

“I wouldn’t leave you to begin with.” Doesn’t say anything else. But the next day, you find your bookshelf alphabetized… and a new gold bookmark tucked inside Homer. It says: Always find your way home to me.

Yang Jeongin

You’re sobbing into your pillow at 1 a.m. and he thinks someone died. Turns out it’s about Odysseus.

“He survived a sea of monsters to come back to her—why do men today flinch at two months of long distance!” Jeongin, blinking: “I would fight Poseidon for you.” You blink. “You’d what?” He nods, dead serious: “I’ll learn how to kill a god. Just tell me which one.” Then he brings you a plushie, a snack, and sits down to watch Troy with you just to “learn the lore.”

⸺⟡⸺

💚Anon, thank you for this ask. because these boys? they would kill GODS AND GODDESSES for you. what's your favourite greek mythology? or greek god/goddess? tell me 💋🦇

(skz!greek gods series?!)

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🍀 ANON LOGGED: “It’s not just rosy cheeks. I’m glowing. Ears red. Chest hot.”

🍀 anon my beloved… you just made me blush down to my chest with that message. Thank you for your love, your gorgeous mind, and your dedication to both blood and bloom. And now, allow me to sink my fangs into your ask.

You want vampire!SKZ reacting to a blood doll/soulmate who blushes intensely? Not just “cute blush,” but full body flush — ears red, chest glowing, neck flushed like a living, breathing feeding mark?

Oh baby. That’s not just cute. That’s blood foreplay.

⸺⟡⸺

Bang Chan

He sees that bloom of red from your neck to your collarbones and his breath catches. You look away, flustered, hand at your throat.

“Don’t hide it,” he says, voice wrecked with hunger. “That color… that’s mine.” He touches you like your blush is sacred. A sign from your body that he owns it already. And when he leans in? He doesn’t go straight for the vein. He kisses every flushed patch of skin. One by one. Slow. Careful. Obsessive. “Your blood calls to me when you blush.”

Lee Minho

He sees your neck flush bright and his smirk goes razor sharp.

“You do realize what that does to me, don’t you?” He corners you, tilts your chin, studies the blush blooming across your chest like spilled wine. “You get pink and soft and breathless… and I get hard and possessive.” He brushes his thumb over your throat and murmurs: “If I bite you right now, will the red spread to your thighs too?”

Seo Changbin

You blush because he called you “good girl” in public. You try to hide it. Mistake. He sees the red crawling up your throat and jaw, and suddenly he’s feral.

“Baby, you’re blushing so bad, I can smell it.” He’ll pin you to the wall, nose dragging along your throat. “You gonna cry if I touch where it’s warm?” And then he does. With his tongue. While you sob.

Hwang Hyunjin

He paints with his eyes, and your skin is his canvas. The second he sees that wild flush crawl down your neck and across your chest? He’s transfixed.

“You look like Aphrodite bathed in blood.” He’ll touch every inch of your glowing skin, whispering soft, praise-laced nonsense: “So beautiful. So tender. So mine.” He won’t bite. Not yet. He’ll paint you first — in his mouth.

Han Jisung

You blush down to your chest and he’s done. Gone. Absolutely feral.

“Nope. We’re not doing this. You can’t look at me with red ears and not expect consequences.” He’s on his knees. Dragging your clothes down just to watch the blush spread. “You’re so fucking warm. Bet your blood tastes sweeter when you’re flustered.” He bites you mid-orgasm because he can’t help himself. You melt. He cries. Repeat.

Lee Felix

Your ears are red. Your chest is flushed. You’re flinching from praise and smiling like a soft beam of moonlight.

“Oh… baby.” He cups your jaw like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. “You’re blushing so much. Is it for me?” When you nod, he whimpers. Then he kisses your shoulder. Then your chest. Then your inner thighs. “You glow. You’re glowing. Let me worship you until you come back down.”

Kim Seungmin

You’re trying to answer a simple question and your whole body is betraying you. Your neck is hot. Your chest is blooming with blood. He stares.

“You fluster so easily. You want everyone to know I own you?” He says it with a cold voice and a burning gaze. Then he wraps a hand around your throat, just to feel the heat pulsing there. “If you blush this pretty from a compliment, what happens when I fuck you full and praise you while I do it?” (You’ll find out. Immediately.)

Yang Jeongin

He sees the red climbing up your neck and ears and just short-circuits.

“You’re so… oh my god. You’re so cute.” His face goes red too. He tries to stay composed but ends up pinning you to the bed, mumbling, “I didn’t mean to get this hard, I just—your skin, your warmth—fuck, I love you.” He feeds with gentle hands and too many kisses.

⸺⟡⸺

🍀 anon, your blood is poetry. You’re a painting in bloom, a pulse they can see. And for a vampire? That’s not just attraction. That’s devotion 🦇💋

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👻 ANON LOGGED: “I’d rather suffer mind-melting sickness than stay yours.”

hello my ghost friend 👻💖 first of all — thank you. you see this lore and i fucking love you for that. 🕯️

but here's where we pause: a blood doll doesn’t throw attitude like a jilted girlfriend. she’s chosen. Marked. bound by contract, blood, and something older than language.

for a doll to threaten to leave? that’s not sass. that’s collapse.

maybe she’s been:

Deeply traumatized, reaching a breaking point after neglect or disregard of her well-being,

Corrupted/manipulated by outside forces, someone feeding her doubt — another vampire, human, or an exiled doll whispering rebellion in her ear,

Or worst of all: starting to rot from the inside out because her bond isn’t being reciprocated or protected the way it was promised.

but it wouldn’t be eye-rolls and door slams. it’d be gutted silence. it’d be “if I stay, I’ll lose myself — if I leave, I’ll die anyway.”

so yes — it can go two ways:

gut-wrenching, feral grief (think Chan or Felix, who would beg and bleed)

or cold, disbelieving rage (Minho or Seungmin — who would punish the idea of her leaving before she even finishes the sentence).

but either way, the trigger has to be real. stakes. corruption. betrayal. fear. otherwise it’s just noise.

thank you for your ask my ghostling 👻💋🦇

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🤰 channiesbighugs LOGGED: “How do the boys react when you tell them you’re pregnant?”

hihi angel!! 🫶 thank you so much, i’m so glad you loved it!!

and YES — you’ll definitely be seeing more pregnancy-themed chaos, softness, and group reactions soon 😌 i’m planning a lil mini fic pregnancy series 🥹

so keep an eye out — the reactions are coming, and they’re everything. love you more!! 💖🩷🍼

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🦭 ANON LOGGED: “What if someone from Han’s past shows up—and he wants her?”

🦭 anon you nailed this vibe — and I love that you were secretly reading at work because yes, vampire!Han is a problem that does not clock out 🕯️🩸

And the concept??

✨ Friend!Reader. Didn’t notice. Reaches out. Misses him. And he realizes he wants to drink you down like a memory he can’t let go of.

YEAH. That’s so getting used.

You’ve just gifted me the foundation for Han’s first fic in the vamp!SKZ series — something quiet, aching, devastatingly tense. The kind of fic where:

You’re the only piece of his human past left untouched.

He hasn’t seen you since the turning.

He thoughtt distance would protect you — but now you’re in front of him, warm, alive, smelling so good it makes him dizzy.

And he doesn’t know if he wants to kiss you or bleed you (Probably both).

Thank you again for this stunning ask. You’ve absolutely just helped birth a fic 💋🦇

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🐧lonelydarknessblog LOGGED: “What happens when vampire Seungmin meets werewolf Seungmin?”

STAR. OH YOU DID THIS. You summoned the paradox. The mirror split. The war of silence and snarl. So now let me give you:

⸺⟡⸺

🐺🩸 Multiverse Collision: Seungmin vs Seungmin

Vampire Seungmin is sharper than silence. Unflinching. Blood-coded control in a pressed collar and dark eyes. He doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink. He calculates.

He tilts his head, voice calm.

“So… this is what I’d look like if I let the animal win.”

They’re the same shade of cruel. But opposite temperatures.

Vampire!Seungmin weaponizes silence like a scalpel.

Werewolf!Seungmin is silence before the pounce.

They circle. Not in a fight. Not yet. Just curious. Hunting for weakness in a version of themselves that should not exist.

And it’s almost… insulting.

“You live off blood,” wolf!Seungmin says, low and dry. “You tear things apart for fun,” vampire!Seungmin replies, still expressionless. “I sleep under stars.” “I own the night.” “I run.” “I rule.”

They don’t fight. Not yet.

But they both walk away knowing they hate each other. Because they understand too well. And neither one ever wanted to be seen like that. And yet, they both know that if they meet again, it'll be because something needs to die.

⸺⟡⸺

Star, you absolute menace of brilliance — thank you for this ask. You’ve given me Seungmin vs Seungmin brainworms and now none of us are safe.

Sending you a Chan hug laced with bad decisions and feral timeline echoes 💋🦇

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🌙ANON LOGGED: “Who lost it? Who bled the world dry before pulling themselves back?”

🌙 anon my beloved, thank you for this deliciously dark ask! You're right to imagine feral rebellion, and I love that your brain went straight to the “TVD humanity-off rampage” concept — but in this universe, things work a little differently 👇

⸺⟡⸺

🩸 NO "SWITCH," BUT YES TO RAMPAGE-LIKE STATES

There’s no “humanity switch” in this universe — no magic toggle that turns vampires into empty monsters. Why? Because the horror here isn’t that they forget who they are. It’s that they remember everything… and choose the chaos anyway.

Rampages come from three sources:

Bloodlust Overload – First feedings gone wrong. Newborns whose senses short-circuit.

Emotional Collapse – Grief. Rejection. Abandonment. Rage.

Sirebond Recoil or Mate Damage – If the bond frays, snaps, or if a soulmate rejects them… they unravel.

They don’t turn it off. They give in.

⸺⟡⸺

🌙 anon, thank you for this stunningly sharp ask. always feel free to bring more chaos. i’ll be waiting, fangs bared 🦇💋

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to every anon who bled a little question into my inbox — thank you for your offerings. you are seen and you are bitten. if your soul's still twitching, come back. bring more thoughts next time.

and while you're here… if you haven’t already let R-1 rip you apart (and put you back together worse), this is your sign.

🔊 stream R-1 whenever you pretend you're fine.

and remember: no one leaves clean.

love you 🦇💋

[i-like-loserz]

breedable

pairing: husband!san x reader

cw: explicit (18+), raging breeding-kink, unprotected sex (no condom, yes other contraceptives), cuteness/sexiness aggression (^^look AT THOSE ADORABLE PICS), not dub-con because you're not actually forcing san to have a child - its just a fantasy and san respects the responsible day dreaming -- oh, and this is NOT beta-read.

wc: 1.6k

note: reverse breeding kink turns my mind into a slushie

masterlist

---

you have a special type of aggression when it comes to your husband.

while there's the usual cuteness aggression that makes you want to pinch his cheeks and tickle him until he's a giggling mess -- or the alternative "awe-infused-aggression," that makes you want to crawl all over him and worship his body (because he's built like a god) -- but this special aggression is a mix of the two.

you call it the "i-need-to-pass-on-his-genes-with-mine" or the breeding-aggression. you see his perfect, docile face -- the cute way his brows scrunch together whenever he's feeling too much, the way his chiseled abs clench as he holds himself back -- and it sets a fire in your horny soul.

typically, when one describes a breeding kink, it involves someone wanting to impregnate the other person in an act of love and possession. of course, the other person is wholeheartedly egging them on because they, too, want to carry their baby.

in this case, however, you work hard to fuck him to get you pregnant.

you may wonder, "is that not exactly the same thing as a normal breeding kink?," which will be responded with a, "no, because san is a smart boy and he doesn't want a child at the moment -- that is, not until you're both done achieving your dreams and settled into a family-friendly environment."

san is the sensible one in the relationship, while you play the role of a feral cat in heat. he always insists on a condom or some birth control while you immediately embrace your inner horny demon and cannot go a week without begging him to fill you up like a boston cream donut.

you often think he's just playing the role of the timid damsel, begging for mercy before getting thoroughly ravished because he always ends up giving in.

at first, this obsession started with an accidental and harmless mistake.

you forgot to get condoms.

neither of you realized it until you stuck your hand into the bedside drawer, only to come up empty handed.

san, the sweetheart he is, offered to run to the store to get some. but before he could leave, you pulled him back and convinced him that one time without it wouldn't hurt. you can always take the morning after pill. right?

and you thought that was that.

but once you saw the way his cute lashes fluttered as he entered you, eyes shiny from how lost he was in the pleasure -- maybe something clicked for you. maybe.

and maybe, when you felt how his body shivered, finally feeling your warmth without any barriers, and how his cock throbbed within you, you knew this would turn into an addiction.

a dangerous one.

then when he came inside, painting your walls in his warmth before pulling out to reveal his sloppy mess, your brain chemistry became altered in a way that would change the course of desires for the rest of your life.

and then, pushing his love back in so affectionately with his fingers, eyes glazed over in awe and hunger, you knew something changed within him as well -- as much as he'd deny it. he already started to get hard again from seeing how he dripped from your perfect cunt.

and so, after that fateful night, you tried to hold back, knowing that taking the morning-after pill often wasn't healthy (and, of course, you and san weren't ready for kids yet).

this didn't stop you from imagining how his cum would feel if there wasn't a barrier between you every time you fucked. or how pretty he'd be as your baby daddy, claiming you as his own as he gives you the perfect little family.

ok, and fine, maybe you 'forgot' to buy condoms a few more times after that. and maybe you made it a habit to make him cum a few times before fucking him so he'd be a little less attentive to the missing condoms just so you can feel him gushing out of you once more.

but that's neither here nor there.

...

ok, so, maybe it was here.

and there.

here, in the house -- on the couch during movie night, on the bed in the morning, on the kitchen counter when you saw him in that cute little frilly apron he borrowed from you, in the shower when he got back from the gym.

and there, outside the house -- messily in the car(s), in a tight dressing room, spontaneously in a lake, in a utility closet at his work (don't ask) -- so you had to find a sustainable solution quickly.

it finally got to the point where you made a doctor's appointment to get on birth control because you knew you wouldn't be able to hold yourself back anymore. the pull-out method wasn't going to work for long, and you knew san was struggling to deny your whiny begs to be filled.

now, you can say whatever you want and he'll be the obedient husband that he is.

---

"cum in me, sannie..." you whisper in his ear, rolling your hips and perfectly arching your back so you can press your hot body against his. "don't you want to make me a mommy?"

you admire how his cute face scrunches up as you speed up on top of him. he's flushed a pretty scarlet, from his chiseled chest to his cheeks -- a product of your merciless teasing and edging from earlier in the evening.

"b-baby," he meets your motions smoothly, eyes squeezed shut as his body struggles to bear with the sensations of your soft heat wrapped around him. "fuck, i-i'm..."

"...you're...?" you ask, mockingly. you lightly rake your nails against the back of his neck. the action never fails to make him shiver and buck against you. you let out a short gasp as the feeling of him suddenly fully thrusting into you nearly knocks the air out of you. he's hitting that sweet sweet spot inside of you now -- and it's making you almost as delirious as the man under you.

"p-please..."

"c'mon, hubby, i wanna feel it dripping out of me," you sigh dreamily. your lips barely brush over his neck as you speak, "then you can shove it back in and make sure it keeps, right~"

"yes, yes, anything--" he mumbles, head tilted back in ecstasy. his large hands grip around your waist, guiding your body like a glorified cock sleeve, up and down his cock just right. you swear you're starting to see white spots in your vision as he continues to use your body.

you love it when he's like this. tunnel visioned and desperate to reach that explosive feeling of stuffing you full of his cum. your eyes roll back as he continues to nudge against that soft spot inside of you.

"u-uh, san..." a familiar and addictive exhilarating heat blooms from your core and proliferates through every nerve in your body before you even realize it. you bite your lip to keep you from drooling as your body starts to shake in his hold.

the shockwave of pleasure makes you clench around him, making you impossibly tight around him as he continues to thrust into you.

"fuck," he groans at the feeling of you fluttering around him. he struggles to keep up his pace as he gives into his pleasure. you can feel his abs clench against you as his hips begin to stutter to meet yours. "take it, baby. i need you to t-take it all for me."

"give it to me. i need it."

he pulls your body down and gives one last punishing snap of his hips to press himself deep inside of you as he finishes with a broken moan.

as he cums inside of you, his body trembles, overwhelmed by his orgasm, the press of your perfect body against his, the heated air surrounding the two of you, and the panted breath leaving your precious lips.

his arms wrap around you, holding you close, as he nuzzles his face against your neck, pressing soft and sweet kisses to your sticky skin.

as you both start to calm down, san lifts his face from the crook of your neck to look up at you.

"baby?" he gently brushes some hair from your face so he can get a good look at your flushed expression, "i think i'm ready." he has such a cute little smile on his face as he stares up at you with adoring eyes.

"ready?" you ask, still trying to come down from the pleasure infused fog that has settled over your mind.

"i think we should start baby-making, for real."

a silence sits in between you as you stare at him in disbelief. you weren't expecting your sensible and responsible husband to suddenly propose such a life altering idea to you.

you're suddenly pulled out from your warm post-orgasm deliriousness.

"...san. are you sure?"

he looks down at your connected bodies, at your baby-less stomach and the sticky mess that's now dripping onto his thighs. and then you feel him twitch inside of you.

oh.

"i-- yeah."

not convincing.

(at least not in the state you're in)

"yeah, no." you shake your head, fully aware of his wandering thoughts. "let's talk about this when we're fully clothed, okay."

who knew you'd be promoted to be the sensible one?

[faghubby]

Cum Addicted

I was on my knees in the corner of my basement sucking my neighbor Darren's cock. I know every inch of his cock, as I sucked it down my throat. Only stopping to suck his balls. Only to take him down my throat again. I couldn't stop even if I wanted to, I had become addicted to his big cock over the last 6 months. He pulled out the first spurt of his seed splashed across my face. I quickly took him back in my mouth sucking down ever drop of his sperm.

"Jesus Paul" Darren breathed as he zipped up his shorts. He left thru the cellar door heading back towards the music. I snuck upstairs and washed my face and changed my shirt. I was headed back out when I ran straight into Cindy, my wife of 16 years.

"Darren seems satisfied" she smiled. Teasing me. She knew all about Darren. "But really today, your whole family is outside" she laughed. I blushed. And went to join the party. As soon as I stepped outside I saw Nathen, Nathen was Cindy's lover. We'll at least for the last couple of months. I just nodded and walked over to see if my mom needed anything. She was happily watching her grandchildren jump in and out of the pool.

"Paul, everything okay?" She asked. Had I been gone that long.

"All good mom just spilled stuff on my shirt" I told her explaining the wardrobe change. I made a quick loop around the yard. Playing host. It was my mom's 70th birthday. And the whole family had turned up. I found my way back in the kitchen to get more ice.

As I walked in I found Cindy pressed against the counter Nathan pushing against her.

"Cindy" I said in a hushed tone. She just motioned with her finger for me to come closer.

"Nathan is spending the night" she informed me. He had never done that with the kids home.

"What will we tell the kids?" I asked still worried someone would come in and catch them standing so close.

"That daddy is a little faggot who can't satisfy mom" Nathan laughed. I turned beet red. I could feel it. Nathan stepped away from Cindy. Instead he pushed his body against mine. I could feel his warmth, the alcohol on his breath mixed with his musk aftershave. It was intoxicating. Without thinking I reached down and ran my hand along his cock. I had never seen it but it was hard to miss

"That one is mine, Paulie" Cindy teased. I slid out away from Nathan. But the image of his big thick black cock was in my mind. Was he circumcised? Was the tip as black as him or a softer color? How much did he cum? I was obsessed with cocks I knew that. I had sucked my friends cock, and one of Cindy's previous lovers, and of course Darren's. Nathan just smiled and went back outside.

"You have become a true cock whore" She whispered in my ear she grabbed my locked cock and squeezed my balls gently.

"Are you wearing panties?" She asked. I blushed letting her know I was.

"I bet you love it if I made you wear a bikini and go prance around out there for all to see" she bit my ear gently. She wasn't wrong the idea excited me and terrified me all at once. We went back out to play host and hostess. The party winded down. My sister took my mom home. Everyone was drifting off. When I noticed Cindy and Nathan sneak off. The kids where hanging out in the basement. (Away from the adults) only my sister in law and I seemed to be left when we heard Cindy cry out. And obviously banging of the bed.

"Cindy says he has an amazing cock" Lynn told me with a huge smile as I made sure the basement door was closed so the kids wouldn't hear. "She also says she fucks that cute ass of yours with a huge strapon) she smacked my ass. I knew that Cindy had told her things I had no idea how much. Lynn suddenly grabbed my wrist and dragged me into the bathroom. She had her sundress pulled up and yanked her cotton brief panties off. She grabbed my hair and pul,ed me to her crotch.

"Cindy told me you have an amazing tounge" she told me. Lynn was a few years older then Cindy. Her hips a bit wider. And shee had a full bush unlock Cindy's shaved pussy. I didn't hesitate to lick and suck her clit. I was surprised at how fast and easy Lynn came. Grabbing my hair she seemed to want to pull me inside her as she came all over my face. But she wasn't done.

"You will do anything won't you?" She said biting her lip. She flipped over and bent down.

"Eat my ass. No one has eaten my ass in years" she told me her voice full of lust. I did as she asked my tounge probed her ass.

"Use your fingers open me up" she moaned I slipped a finger in her ass then a second all while licking her adding saliva. I slid my thumb into her still wet pussy and she howled. I had three fingers in her ass and my thumb and other in her pussy while I licked her juices that flowed freely. She came again, but not once two maybe three times one after the other. She pulled my hair and begged me not to stop. I just held her for a moment after.

"Greg would do dirty things to me, make me cum over and over" she confided in me. Greg was her ex husband they had split 4 or 5 years ago. She had dated some but never seemed to fit.

"Do you have a cock?" She asked letting her dress fall back into place. I looked at her confused.

"One that you can wear" she smirked tapping my cage thru my shorts. I shook my head no. She just frowned and left me there. I heard her call down to her kids it was time to go. They headed out. Cindy and Nathan came down. Nathan held Cindy in his arms the kids looked confused.

"Nathan is my boyfriend" CIndy told them. The kids where teenagers this didn't fit.

"So you are getting divorced?" Our daughter Carol (15) asked obviously upset.

"No, let's just say mommy had a special friend. And Daddy is okay with it" she explained. I swallowed hard but told them she was right.

"So you are some kind of kinky sex thing?" Our 14 year old Tommy asked.

"Just me and Nathan. Daddy doesn't like sex any more" Cindy told them. "So Nathan may be spending a few nights every now and then" she told them. Nathan took Cindy back upstairs leaving me to answer any other questions. I decided to give them as much truth as I could. I explained how I felt more comfortable in a submissive roll. This led to more questions. Things I didn't know they had any idea about. But crossdressing came up. And I admitted I sometimes wore woman's underwear. It was a long conversation that ended in ice cream and hugs. Carol seemed to except everything as normal, while Tommy seemed a bit wierd about me wearing woman's things. Tommy went to bed.

"There is more isn't there?" Carol smiled. "It's okay dad I love you" she told me kissing my cheek she went to bed as well. I slept on the couch. I woke to music in the kitchen. I found Cindy making pancakes. Nathan gone.

"So I got an interesting text from Lynn" Cindy smiled but wasn't upset. "If you start sucking Ryan's dick though" she laughed Ryan was her brother. We didn't see him much he lived on the otherside of the country.

[itsnotyouithink]

AFRAID

SUMMARY: After a study session thick with tension, a quiet dare slips between the two of you: pass the test, and Tara will be at your next game. You’ve never cared about school — but now every page, every note, feels like a shot at something you can’t name yet.

PAIRING: tara carpenter x fem!reader

WARNINGS: mature language

WORD COUNT: 3.7k

AUTHOR’S NOTE: being sick during summer is terrible and wtf is this heat

previous chapter | next chapter

—————————

The lawn was a frying pan. Your team? The eggs.

You were drenched—shirt clinging to every dip of muscle, sports bra soaked through, ankle taped and already starting to throb again. Your mouth tasted like Gatorade and iron. Coach had you running suicides like he'd personally been offended by your existence. And still, you didn't stop.

Because she was there.

Tara Carpenter sat under a sad excuse of a tree with crossed arms and murder in her eyes, looking like she'd rather be set on fire than outdoors - which you guess was one in the same considering the temperature. Her navy T-shirt was stuck to her back, her black shorts riding up her thighs, legs folded beneath her like she was trying to vanish into the earth. Sunglasses dangled uselessly from her fingers.

Her book was open but completely ignored. Her eyes, though?

All yours.

You caught her more than once. Every time you wiped sweat from your jaw, every time you winced and shook out your ankle, her gaze drifted. And every time you caught her, she looked away just a little too slow. Like she knew better. Like she couldn't help it.

When Coach finally called for water, you didn't go to the cooler. You went right to her.

You dropped to the blanket like your body had short-circuited, one leg stretched out, one arm slung lazily across her textbook. Your head tilted back, neck glistening, chest rising and falling like a warning siren.

"I hope you're writing this down," you muttered. "This is what greatness looks like."

"You're sweating all over my Criminal Law notes," she replied dryly.

"You're welcome. They've been blessed."

"I'm going to set you on fire."

"You already have, Carpenter."

Her mouth twitched.

Just a little.

From her other side, Mindy made a noise that sounded vaguely like a scream into her hands. "Can you two not flirt during heatstroke?"

Anika peeled her sunglasses off. "No, this is amazing. This is enemies-to-lovers but the enemies part is just foreplay."

Tara turned her face slightly toward you. Her cheek was flushed. Her jaw tight. But her voice? Smooth as ever. "You look like you just lost a fight with a hose."

You grinned. "You still think I'm hot."

"You're literally steaming."

"You like it."

"You're delusional."

"You're obsessed."

She exhaled hard, then turned back to her book—still untouched. "You have no idea what you're doing, do you?"

"Oh, I do," you said. "I just want to hear you say yes."

"To what?" she asked, not looking up.

You leaned in, voice lower now. "Come to the game."

Tara blinked.

"You've never come to one," you continued, still close. "You sit here during practice. You ask questions during tutoring. But you've never seen me play. Really play."

Her fingers tapped against the spine of the book. Then stopped.

You tilted your head. "Scared it'll make it worse?"

"Make what worse?" she said too fast.

"The thing you're pretending not to feel."

She rolled her eyes. "You've had one too many heat strokes."

"Forty points, Carpenter. I’ll drop forty next week, if you show up. You don’t want the team to lose, now do you? Oh, and you should bring me Gatorade."

She stared at you. "You think you'll actually hit forty?"

You smirked. "If you're there? Easily."

"And if I say no?"

"I won’t even get off the bench."

She tilted her head at you with a smirk, “Seeing you fail is my excitement, why would I let you succeed?” Tara shrugged, “Besides, you’re exhausting."

You let your knee brush hers. Let it linger. "You're still here."

She looked down at where your leg touched hers, then back at you. "If—and this is purely hypothetical—you pass your film studies test..."

You leaned closer. "Yeah?"

"Maybe I'll show up."

"Maybe?"

"Maybe."

You looked down at her mouth. Then back up. "Do I get anything else?"

"Yeah," she said, eyes flicking to yours. "A cold Gatorade and a restraining order."

You laughed. "I'll take the Gatorade."

"You're not getting the kiss."

"I never said kiss."

"You were thinking it."

You didn't deny it.

She didn't move away.

Mindy clapped like someone had just hit a buzzer-beater. "Oh my Gosh, she's gonna show up and she's gonna fold."

"I'm not folding," Tara snapped.

But when you stood—slowly, lazily, stretching enough for your jersey to ride up and reveal just a sliver of your lower stomach—her sunglasses came up faster than her defense ever could.

You turned as you jogged back to your team, calling over your shoulder, “I’ll text you my favorite Gatorade flavor later!"

Tara didn't answer.

But her thumb hovered over her phone screen for the next ten minutes.

And her eyes?

Locked on you.

⸻

Your dorm room is quiet, save for the soft rustle of notebook pages and the occasional groan you make when your brain short-circuits.

The overhead light is too harsh, so you've turned it off and settled with the small desk lamp in the corner, which casts a yellow glow across your notes. Your film studies textbook lies cracked open in front of you, highlighters and loose paper scattered around it like the remnants of a storm. Your laptop screen is split between the lecture slides and the Google Doc you're barely holding together - Brad Pitt glares at you through the screen.

You've read the same sentence four times. You don't even know what mise-en-scène is anymore. You're sweaty from practice, sore from pushing through drills on a busted ankle, and your eyes are starting to blur—but none of that matters as much as the fact that if you fail this test, she doesn't show.

A passing grade is all you need, B- or higher! That's the deal. And you want her in the bleachers more than you've wanted sleep in a week. You stare at the screen again, thumb hovering over your phone. It's past midnight. You've already chugged an iced coffee. It didn't help.

You send the text.

[1:03 AM — You]

you up or do you value sleep and sanity

You watch the typing dots appear, vanish, reappear. Your heart thuds like a free throw.

[1:05 AM — Tara]

what's wrong

is this a medical emergency

did you forget what a director is again

You smile in spite of yourself.

[1:05 AM — You]

worse

i don't get any of this

can you come help

like actually

i think i'm gonna fail and then i'll never get to see u in the student section

There's a longer pause this time. Then:

[1:07 AM — Tara]

give me ten minutes

don't do anything you’ll regret, i’ll be right there

You stare at the screen. Blink. Sit up straighter. Something tight and strange winds low in your stomach.

Tara Carpenter is sneaking out. For you.

————

Ten minutes later, she's in the hallway.

Well—trying to be in the hallway.

The dorm's fluorescent lights buzz low overhead, flickering slightly, and she pulls the hood of her sweatshirt up like she's about to commit a crime. Her arms are folded tight across her chest, and she walks like someone trying not to be perceived. Tara had never been in the athletics dorms before - Chad chose to go a more safer route for himself after the murders. She rolled her eyes at the spirit practically oozing from the walls — the bold signs, posters of the athletes, and the infamous Bulldog statue at the end of the hall wearing a crown and funnily enough, your jersey.

She's nearly to your door when she hears them.

"Carpenter?" a voice calls down the corridor. "No way."

Tara freezes. Slowly turns her head.

There, just outside the lounge, half a dozen of your teammates are sprawled across beanbags and couches, a few still in practice gear. One of them—Dani—is eating instant noodles straight from the cup and staring like she's just seen a ghost.

Tara blinks. "Hi," she says flatly.

"Wait," Ava says, sitting up so fast her hoodie falls off one shoulder. "You're here? For her?"

"I'm... delivering notes," Tara lies. Poorly.

"For her film test?"

"Yes."

"Right. At one in the morning."

Tara sighs.

Dani's eyes narrow. "Are you two, like... dating?"

"Absolutely not.”

"So you're just studying in her dorm. At 1 a.m." They all glance at each other quickly, like they’re in on a joke she isn’t a part of.

Tara mutters something under her breath. Then, louder, "Can you just point me to her door?"

The team snickers as Ava leans her head out dramatically. "End of the hall. Left side. You'll hear the tragic groans of someone crying over poor formatting."

"Tell her she owes us sprints if this ends in a forehead or cheek kiss," Dani adds. Another one of your teammates chimes in, “Full suicide sprints if it’s on the lips!”

"I'm ignoring all of this," Tara mutters, already walking again.

⸻

You swing open the door.

Tara's standing there in a black zip-up hoodie, sleeves pulled over her hands, her bun falling apart in the best possible way. Her eyes are tired, but alert, dark and shining beneath the low dorm hallway light. There's a red flush creeping up her neck—probably from the walk, maybe from passing your teammates, definitely not from nerves, definitely not.

"You rang," she deadpans.

You step back and gesture her inside. "Welcome to the disaster zone."

She steps in, eyes sweeping over the room with that same semi-judgmental expression she always wears when she's trying not to smile. Your desk is an explosion of papers and coffee cups. Your bed is half-made, like you gave up halfway through fixing it and decided to suffer in it instead. The desk lamp in the corner casts everything in this golden-yellow haze, soft and a little hazy, like the warmth left in a gym after a long practice. She tries to ignore the posters practically hanging off the walls - Fight Club, The Arctic Monkeys, and a poster of.. a pie with the mathematical pi symbol in the middle?

Tara drops her bag with a soft thud and moves toward the bed like it's routine—like she's done this before. She sinks onto the edge, crossing her legs under her and tugging one sleeve down so it hangs over her knuckles.

You eye her, amused. "Comfortable?"

She lifts a brow, tugging her hoodie tighter. "If I'm gonna babysit your academic survival, I get a soft surface."

There's a flicker of something behind the sarcasm—a softness to the way she settles in, back straight against your pillow, like she belongs here. Her knee bounces once before she steadies it with her hand against the royal blue sheets.

"Wow," you say, settling into your desk chair and spinning it halfway toward her. "You've grown into such a nurturing presence."

"Shut up and open your notes."

You grab the crumpled packet from the pile and scoot closer, spinning the chair to face her directly. You're close now. Not close enough to touch. But close enough to feel the subtle pull of her presence. The way her breath shifts when you lean forward. The small, almost-invisible tension in her shoulders when your knee bumps the side of the bed.

Her eyes flick to your ankle—still wrapped, still swelling slightly. She doesn't say anything about it. Just gestures at the notes. "Start."

You try. You stumble. You're tired and wired and every word feels like static.

"Okay," she says after a beat, "Define diegetic sound."

You glance at her. "Um..."

She leans forward slightly, just enough for her shoulder to brush your bent knee. Her voice drops. "Don't make me regret this."

"Sound that... exists in the story world?"

Tara hums. Approving. Barely.

You glance up at her. Her expression is unreadable, but her eyes are watching you closely.

"And non-diegetic is like... the score, voice-over, stuff only the audience hears."

She nods, slowly. "Not bad."

You smirk. "I'm hot and smart. Dangerous combo."

"I wouldn't go that far," she says, but the corner of her mouth twitches.

"And yet," you say, flipping the page. "You came all the way down here just to watch me study in short shorts.

Tara blinks. Her gaze drops—too quick, too obvious.

You grin.

"I came to stop you from failing."

"Same thing."

She exhales, but it sounds like she's trying not to laugh. She takes your notes from you, her fingers brushing yours—warm, quick, deliberate. There's a pause when they touch. You feel it. She does too.

"Okay," she murmurs, skimming the page, "talk to me about cinematography."

You groan. "That's the one with... framing?"

She nods. "Composition. Lighting. Color. Movement. It's what you think of when something feels like a movie."

"Like this?"

You gesture vaguely between the two of you—her on your bed, hoodie rumpled, lamp casting golden shadows across her collarbone; you, in a hoodie you never zipped, sitting a little too close, leg pressed against the mattress like it's holding you up.

She doesn't answer right away.

Instead, she looks at you. Really looks.

"You're tired," she says quietly.

You blink. "That's your takeaway?"

"You look like you're gonna pass out."

"Maybe I'm just overwhelmed by your beauty."

She snorts. "You're ridiculous."

"You're pretty when you're annoyed."

"I'm always annoyed."

"Exactly." You smile.

There's a beat of silence.

You watch her carefully. The way her fingers curl slightly in the fabric of your blanket. The way her mouth opens like she's going to argue—then doesn't. Her lashes are dark, casting soft shadows on her cheeks. You want to trace them with your thumb.

"You're not gonna fail," she says again, gentler this time.

You nod, biting your lip. "You think I'll pass?"

Her voice lowers. "I think you want to impress me."

Your mouth curves.

"I think," she continues, "you'd study for twenty more hours just to make me show up."

You tilt your head. "Would it work?"

She leans back on her hands. "Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"You're still flirting," she murmurs.

"You're still here," you counter.

She blinks slowly. Doesn't reply. Just... watches you. The quiet between you stretches and deepens, full of all the things neither of you are saying out loud. Tara glared at you, “Is that your favorite line?”

You shrug and push your notes off your lap. "Okay, lightning round."

She straightens, already smirking. "You're gonna fail the lightning round."

"If I get four out of five..."

"No."

"Three out of five?"

"Still no."

"You don't even know what the deal is."

"I know it involves kissing."

You pause. Let the silence hang.

Then: "Is that a no?"

She doesn't answer right away. Her eyes linger on your mouth for a second too long.

"Three out of five," she says finally, voice barely above a whisper. "You pass. I come to the game. And... we talk about the rest after."

You exhale slowly. "That sounds dangerously close to a yes."

"It's dangerously close to a maybe."

"Progress."

She looks down, smiling—just for a second. The kind that slips out before you can stop it. Then she grabs your notes and whacks you lightly in the chest.

"Back to work."

“No lightning round?” You argue. The response that’s given is a simple glare, “You ruined that idea when you involved kissing you into the mix.”

But when she shifts forward again, her leg brushing yours, her voice low and quiet as she starts quizzing you—there's no mistaking the way the air tightens between you. No denying the soft press of something growing where grades and flirting collide.

She stays for another hour.

And when she finally gets up to leave, her hoodie sleeves pulled back down to her wrists, she pauses in your doorway.

You glance up.

Her mouth opens.

Closes.

Then, quietly, without looking at you: "B- and up, right?” You nod, heart skipping.

"Okay," she says, backing out of the room. "Make me show up, Varsity.”

The door shuts gently behind her.

And you sit there, notebook still open, pulse hammering in your throat, knowing damn well: you're not just passing that test.

You're playing for her now.

⸻

The doors to the humanities building creak open behind you, but you're already squinting into the heat.

It's late morning, but the sun's high and heavy—spilling down across the quad, coating the sidewalks in gold and turning every step into a slow drag. The humidity hangs low, dense and unmoving, the kind that makes your skin feel just a little too tight and your shirt stick to your back in damp, uncomfortable patches.

You've got your hoodie tied around your waist like a security blanket. Your shoulders ache from sitting too stiff for too long, and your brain feels like it's been rung out and hung on a line to dry. You survived your Film 101 test—barely—and you haven't even had the nerve to check your grade yet (you were busy shedding an exhausted tear or two in the bathroom).

But then you see her.

Tara.

Standing near the low brick ledge that curves around the quad's edge, partially shaded by a tree that does absolutely nothing to help with the heat. She's leaning casually against the stone, one leg crossed over the other at the ankle, the toe of her sneaker lazily tapping the ground in a slow, unconscious rhythm.

She's in a fitted black tank top and soft gray hoodie unzipped halfway, sleeves shoved up to her elbows. Her hair's pulled half-up in a loose, slightly messy twist that should look careless—but on her, it's lethal. A few strands of her bangs stick to the sides of her neck, damp from the heat, and the breeze lifts the rest just enough to make her look like she walked off the set of a film you're not cool enough to be in.

Her sunglasses are perched on her head, nudging her hair back from her face, and she's holding an iced coffee in a way that's almost theatrical—lazy, precise, like she knows it draws attention to her ring covered fingers.

She doesn't see you right away.

But when she does—her eyes flick up, and she smiles just barely, like it's a secret she wasn't going to share unless you made the first move.

"You look like hell," she calls as you approach, her voice flat and fond at the same time.

You drag a hand through your hair, still catching your breath from the nerves of the exam. "Thanks. I'm going for post-apocalyptic student athlete."

"You nailed it. Very The Road, but make it sweaty."

You stop a few feet from her, close enough to smell the faint sugar in her coffee and the sharp, clean scent of whatever soap she uses. She's got her whole I'm too cool for this act on full display, but her eyes are too sharp to sell it. She's scanning you—taking in your flushed face, the slight drag in your step, the twitch in your fingers.

"So," you say, trying not to sound too breathless, "how much do you know?"

She sips her drink, lets the ice rattle. "About what?"

You tilt your head. "Don't play dumb, Carpenter."

She doesn't look at you right away. Instead, her gaze flicks to some imaginary spot past your shoulder, like she's debating how much to admit.

Then: "You passed."

You blink.

"You got a solid B," she adds. "He curved it."

You let out a breath so loud that it turns into a laugh, half-shocked, half-weightless. "Holy shit. I was ready to fail and spiral for like, a month."

"You still might," she says, smirking over the rim of her cup.

You squint at her. "How'd you know?"

Her lips twitch. "The portal updated twenty minutes ago."

"Did you check before I got out?"

"I was... curious."

You raise a brow. "Curious?"

She shrugs with one shoulder. "Nosy. Whatever."

You grin, stepping just a little closer, enough that your shoes are nearly touching. "Admit it. You care."

Tara scoffs. "I care about the chance of never having to tutor you again."

"When I do pass and I don’t need you anymore, you're gonna miss me." When I don’t need you anymore, that hit Tara.

"I'll manage."

There's a pause—too long to be casual. Her eyes drag over your face, lingering for a second on your mouth before flicking away.

"So," you say, softer now. "You're coming?"

Tara raises a brow.

"To the game," you clarify, even though you both know what you meant.

"I never said that."

"But you implied it."

"I implied a maybe."

"But now it's a yes."

She crosses her arms, iced coffee nestled in the crook of her elbow, fingers drumming lightly against her bicep. "You're awfully confident."

"I passed the test we thought I’d bomb. What's more impressive than that?"

She laughs under her breath. "Is that what this is? A seduction via GPA?"

"I have layers."

"Mm. Like a freshman's film analysis."

You grin. "If you come, I'll drop forty."

She hums. "That sounds like a threat."

"It's a guarantee."

Tara eyes you like she's trying to figure out if she should kiss you or kill you. Maybe both. She shifts her weight, her knee grazing yours in a way that doesn't feel accidental at all.

"And what do I get if I show up?" she asks.

You don't even blink. "A free show. Me, center court. You, second row. I'll even do a special hand signal at you if I'm feeling bold."

"I will walk out."

"You'll stay. You'll bring Gatorade. Red."

"That wasn't part of the deal."

"It is now." The grin on your face makes her shift her stance, you keep talking like you usually do. “I was thinking a hand gesture like this,” you put two fingers over your heart and then point it to her, “or if I’m feeling really bold I could do the full-on I love you sign.”

Tara doesn't reply. Just watches you for a moment, jaw tightening slightly like she's trying to hold something back—an eye roll, a laugh, a blush. She turns, finally, slowly beginning to walk away.

But halfway down the path, she tosses a final look over her shoulder.

"If I show up, it's not for the Gatorade," she says, almost too quietly.

You swallow hard.

"Then what's it for?"

She smiles—sharp and low and dangerous. "You'll find out. If you don't choke."

And then she disappears into the heat, leaving you dumbfounded.

[parnashiamparapio]

Forever theirs.

Pairing: vminkook x reader.

Contains: psychotic behaviour, a lot of smut, possessiveness, obsession, yandere behaviour, gore, killing, oral sex, rough sex, threesome, three men sharing same woman. Rich vminkook, countryside girl.

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Summary: A young woman from the countryside, comes to the city of seoul for study - at her aunts and beckmes an obsession not only one but three deadly, insanely handsome and rich bachelors. They will do anything to make her theirs. Either With their wealth, charm, and determination. They will stop at nothing to bring her into their lives, even if it means shattering her innocence and leaving her forever changed. Forever their's even if it includes - killing people.

Chapter seven.

I felt a soft shake on my shoulder, and warm breath fanning over my forehead. I raised my head and met Jungkook's eyes.

I fell asleep on him.

I looked on my right side Jimin and taehyung were outside beside the passenger seat door — i moved away from Jungkook. But still on his lap. "We're here." He murmured, kissing my cheeks.

I moved away from his lap.

I got outside, my legs were wobbles as i got out. Being in the same position for three hours — Jimin held me, making me steady. "Careful, angel."

We get inside the hospital.

I walked faster towards the receptionist.

I hate the smell of hospitals.

I just hate it.

Before I spoke up, taehyung spoke up in an icy tone — i never heard him using this kind of tone with me. "Mrs hoon admitted here." The receptionist nodded.

"Yeah, urm, room 243. Straight then right first room." She explained, voice little fumbled. She was intimidated by him not only him but the other two as well.

No one can blame her.

Anyone will.

I quickly walked towards the room, as i reached the room 243 i saw my grandma through the glass window.

The glass window separating Cyra from her grandmother provided a surreal sense of detachment, as if reality itself was shrouded in a thin veil.

Her grandmother lay motionless, a mask obscuring her face, an ominous reminder of the severity of her condition. Tears threatened to overflow Cyra's eyes once more as the stark reality of the situation struck her - her grandmother was in a coma, teetering on the precipice of life and death.

The weight of her emotions, a cacophony of love, fear, and heartbreak, threatened to pull her under, leaving her breathless and consumed by the unimaginable pain of helplessness.

    As she watched her grandmother, the world beyond seemed to shrink, the noise of daily life fading into the background, leaving only the beat of her own heart, pounding in her chest with the force of a thunderclap.

"I just don't want the surgery to stop, you hear me? If you can't do this — we'll transfer her to the seoul hospital." Taehyung spoke in his deep voice, while his eyes fixed on me.

Trying to gauge my every reaction.

I went inside silently, and sat on the small stool beside her. I held her soft hand gently, placing a kiss on her knuckles. "Be okay, please. I have no one." I whispered against her hand.

I closed my eyes.

She'll be okay.

She'll make it, and she'll be okay.

I'll quit my studies and come back to damyang as soon as she is okay.

Even though in damyang there's no such hope but still.

It's been a while since I'm sitting her. They entered in the room and looked at me. "Come on, sugar. Let's go home." Jungkook said looking at me with his dark eyes.

I don't want to go, I don't want to leave her either.

"Can't i stay he—" i was cut off by Jimin

His voice was stern and cold. "No, you're not staying here. Your grandma is safe here and getting treated and i also managed a maid for her. You don't have to stay here."

I looked at her face.

"Can we at least go back home? I want to get some things too? Then we can go back." I spoke softly looking at them.

I thought they would say no, but well they said fine and we walked towards the car once again. My house wasn't that far from the hospital.



My home in Damyang was a testament to her simple yet profound tastes - a small, cozy house nestled in the embrace of nature, surrounded by the gentle whispers of the bamboo forest. As she stepped through the front door, the warm scent of wood and earth greeted her, a familiar comfort that wrapped around me like a cozy blanket.

The house itself was modest, but the attention to detail and love poured into every corner was palpable, creating an atmosphere that was both inviting and homey.

The living room, with its soft, worn cushions and a crackling fireplace, beckoned her to relax and unwind after a long day. The kitchen, though small, was equipped with all the necessities, the counters adorned with fresh, locally-grown fruits and vegetables, a reminder of the simple joys of life.

    The bedroom, with its soft, inviting bed and the gentle sound of the wind whispering through the trees outside, offered a sanctuary of rest and rejuvenation.

As she sat on her porch, watching the sun set over the horizon, she knew that this house was more than just a physical structure - it was a reflection of her soul, a testament to her connection with the world around her.

But empty without her grandma.

They entered inside with me as well, looking around. It was not near where i live right now — with them.

I went to my room, my room was small and simple. I walked towards my closet and found my favorite books. I grabbed some more necessary things.

"You used to live here?" Taehyung asked dropping himself on the bed. He put his elbow on the bed and head on his palm looking at me. Staring at my soul.

"Yeah." I avoided making eye contact with him, Jungkook walked towards my closet. And opened it. I frowned.

What is he doing.

"Don't go there." I closed my closet and glared at him. "This is my house. Remember when you told me you can do whatever you want Because mansion is yours? Then its mine."

Jungkook smirked.

He put hands on both sides, caging me in.

"What's your's is mine. And you're already mine. And aren't you talking back so much? I can make this pretty mouth use somewhere else." Jungkook looked down at my lips. He was About to leaned down to kiss me.

But i instantly turned my face right.

Rejecting his kiss.

His touch.

Can't he keep his hands off to himself for a while?

Jungkook wrapped his tattooed hand Around me neck like a tight knot. I gasped softly, my hand immediately went to his hand trying to remove it.

A harsh breath left his nose, he leaned down and yanked my hair back with his other hand. He was pissed.

"Jungkook." Jimin said in firm tone. Jungkook's jaw clenched, he dropped his hand and moved away leaving the room.

I breathed softly.

That was close.

Jungkook always has been hot:blooded, hot-tempered man. Extreme anger issue. Jimin and taehyung were angry too, but most of the time they are silent angry.

Which is more scary.

"Come here." Taehyung patted his lap, he ordered. Daring me reject his order. I gulped softly walking towards his lap.

I sat on his thighs, and looked down. He snuggled in my neck taking a deep breath calming himself down.

"This isn't the first time we said to not remove or reject our touch did we." Taehyung whispered huskily in my ear. I shivered softly. "Yes." I murmurs.

"You know Jungkook is hot tempered right?" Jimin walk forward, he stood in front of me. And caressed my lower lips. I nodded once again. "Yes."

"Jungkook is not gentle when it comes to discipline and rejection. Especially in your case. He won't think twice before doing something you won't like." Jimin said in his sweet voice, crouched down at my level where i was sitting on Taehyung's lap.

"Understand? What he said?" Taehyung kissed my temple. I felt like being controlled by two of them. Like they have my romote and they both are controlling me.

My life.

My emotions.

We went back to our car, saw Jungkook already in the back seat waiting for us. They switched places. Now taehyung is driving, Jimin on the passenger seat and Jungkook with me — in the back seat.

This three hours drive going to long.

My thoughts were filled with my grandma even though they are paying and taking care of them — only if i could afford this i wouldn't even ask for their help. But i know no matter how much i hate them, they are the only ones who can help my grandma.

I watched the trees passing by.

Our journey back to seoul was silent, no one dared to speak a word even though taehyung kept glancing at my Through the car mirror. I leaned my head on the window and took a deep breath.

I closed my eyes for a while.

But it was soon open when i smelled the smell of cigarettes. I looked at Jungkook. He was smoking while looking outside, his jaw was still clenched. Maybe he's still pissed.

I just hate the smell of cigarettes.

Can't he just like stop? Maybe at least for two hours. I looked at him "can you stop smoking for a while?" I spoke softly looking at him.

Jungkook looked at me.

Our eyes locked.

"No." He simply states and blew smoke on my face. I shoved the smoke with my hand and sighs softly looking away. "Why do you smoke anyways." I murmured looking out of the window.

"Well, sugar i need something to keep my hand and mouth busy. So that's why i smoke. Maybe i can stop smoking if you keep my hands and mouth busy." He spoke looking at my eyes, then travelling towards my lips and my body. "With your body?" He smirks.

"Do you ever stop talking dirty?"

"Only when i fuck you dirty."

His voice was gruff and cocky, the rumble of his voice sent shiver down to my spine and right between my legs too.

His voice was rough, deep and masculine and it was dirty. Extremely dirty.

"You're disgusting." I spat glaring at his eyes. He chuckled, he dropped the cigarette out of the window and grabbed my thighs wrapping it around his waist.

I took a sharp inhale.

The same exact position, when i was on Taehyung's lap too.

Jungkook's hand went inside my flimsy shirt from behind. I flinched softly at his cold touch, his fingers were icy against my warm skin. He palmed my hip bones and pulled me closer to his chest.

He yanked me closer again, "I'm still so pissed on you the way you pushed me away. But we can make a small deal." Our nose brushed, breathed and mingled with each other.

"W-what deal?" I whispered against his lips, looking at his eyes.

"Kiss me."

"What?"

"Come on, kiss me with a pretty mouth of yours that works so much."

"I won't."

"Oh you won't?" His eyes darkened, his side lips curved up in a side smile. "If you don't kiss me I'll slit your fucking throat."

My chest heaved.

My breaths turned short, his hand dangerously played with my bra clip. "Come on, sugar. I'm not a patient man." He rests his head on the head rest.

"You're not going to fuck her in the back seat? Are you?" Jimin asked looking back at her through his shoulder.

Jungkook looked at him. "Yeah? You got a problem with that? She deserves a small punishment don't she, hyung."

I gulped at his words.

They are normally speaking with each other like I'm not here. Like I'm not on his damn lap.

Jimin chuckled softly and looked at the road. "Brat, go on." He shakes his head. This is absolutely ridiculous. They are so chill, so normal with this.

But who am I even expecting from.

They are not normal.

Jungkook bites my neck. "Back to earth, sugar. Fucking kiss me." He whispered against my lips. "Or do you want me to threaten you with something? You know I'm not very lenient, right?"

I pressed my lips against his.

Fear he'll do something, something which is absolutely pure madness or sickening.

Hurt someone i love.

My grandma is under their protection.

Jungkook growled against my lips, his hand went to my hair gripping them kissing me hungrily like it was the last time.

As Jungkook's lips devoured mine, i could feel the intensity of his hunger, a primal urge that threatened to consume them both. In the front seat, Taehyung and Jimin, brothers and accomplices in this twisted game, were keenly aware of what was unfolding behind them.

Taehyung, hands tightly gripping the steering wheel, glanced repeatedly at the mirror, his eyes filled with a mixture of desire and malevolence.

Jimin, seated beside him, turned his head slightly to glance back at the couple, a smirk playing on his lips as he silently gave his approval to the degradation of what was happening.

The brothers, both monsters in their own right, would never dream of intervening, their twisted moral compass pointing them towards participation rather than protection.

   As Jungkook's kisses grew more fervent, his tongue exploring her mouth with a possessive need, i could feel the warmth of saliva dripping down her neck, i bang my hand on his chest. Trying to break the kiss, away from him.

I gripped his shoulder softly, clenching his shirt in my palm banging on his chest again. Jungkook pulled away from the kiss.

I gasped loudly, panting softly gripping his tattooed arm softly. My hand digged in his arm. I cough little. My chest heaved with his.

"So fucking hot, i always wanted to kiss you like this." Jungkook chuckles like a manic. Like a sick fool. He licked my neck.

"No matter how much you push me, you know how much you want me — want us.  Your mind might say otherwise, you always become that is the truth and you'll never escape." Jungkook rasped.

Jungkook yanked off my pants along with my panties and dropped it on the side seat.

I squealed softly.

Jungkook unzipped his pants and took out his cock.

"W-wait-" but i was cut off when he crashed his lips against mine again. His hand grabbed my both thighs lifting me up little and he slammed inside me.

I cried out loud against his lips.

My hand clenched on his shirt, a sob left my mouth. I felt split open, even though i know it isn't the first time. But it still hurts.

Jungkook grabbed my hips, guiding my moves. He grunted staring into my soul, devouring every single reaction of me. My pussy clenched around his huge cocktail. He grunted again when i did that.

Seeming to enjoy it.

Jungkook's massive cock thrust inside her, causing me to whimper and sob softly. Despite the agony, i know that this was not the first time, the numbness of familiarity clouding my judgment and her soul.

My hand, trembling with a mixture of fear and desire, clung to his shirt, a lifeline in the sea of depravity that surrounded her. As he guided her movements, her hips undulated up and down, back and forth, the sensation of his massive cock filling me to the brink of ecstasy and agony.

"Fuck, so warm." He grunted, he joined forehead against mine — breathing.

Jungkook grabbed my hips going deeper, wiggled my hips experimentally.

Impaling me on his straining shaft.

His lips, hot and demanding, pressed against her neck, his grunts and groans a twisted symphony of pleasure and pain. In a twisted display of control, he whispered sweet nothings.

His words a sickening caress that only served to heighten me nausea and the sickening feeling that consumed me.

He rocked me over and over.

Slow.

Cruel.

Teasing.

He nibbled down the neck, marking me — sucking, claiming me as his.

His other hand went to my clit doing the firm circles making me whine again.

"God, you sound like heaven." He growled against my ear, pulling out and slamming back again.

Another mewl left my mouth.

A choked sob.

No matter what, how many times my mouth my brain denies. In the end, my body wins and they love it and they know it.

My knees buckled.

I trembled.

As Jungkook's brother, Taehyung sat in the driver's seat, his own erection throbbing with painful intensity, he could hear the muffled moans of their shared doll, her cries of pleasure and pain echoing through the car.

Beside him, Jimin, his eyes glued to the rearview mirror, watched the scene unfold with a mixture of arousal and twisted satisfaction.

The brothers, their own needs ignored, continued on their journey, their hearts darkened by the depravity that surrounded them, their souls forever tainted by the actions they had taken.

The car sped down the road.

"Y-you're mad." I whispered against his ear softly, tears Won't stop against my cheeks mix of pleasure, pain, fear and most importantly — ashamed.

Jungkook changed the position, my back met the flat seat. Jungkook thrusted deeper and deeper. He gasped against my lips whispering. "Yes, I'm mad. So fucking mad for you."

"I" slam. "am" slam. "your" slam. "fucking" slam. "madness."

Jungkook bite side of my neck, in wild passion. His voice gruffed and rough as he roughly fucked my pussy. He pounded on my pussy — i whimpered again.

He smirked against my neck.

"Found it."

And he pounded on that spot again and again. My eyes roll back. I sobbed again, i was so close i clenched around him again. Jungkook changed his position, my back met the seat.

Jungkook thrusted deeper and deeper inside my pussy, i clenched around him again. His hand went to my breasts squeezing them softly.

My chest heaved.

"I'm going to make you see those fucking lanterns you love so fucking much." He scrunched up my top, he took my nipple in his warm mouth sucking on it and massaged the other one.

I breathed out closing my eyes, my back arched. With an unknown feeling.

My hand went to tug his hair softly, pulling him closer.

His massive cock was still buried inside me, moving in and out in a massive sped.

His one hand moved away from my breasts and went to my clit.

Pinching them, thumbing over my clit applying a perfect pleasure earning a another moan and whimper.

I sniffled.

Jungkook licked my tears, he joined forehead against mine. "Let go for me, sugar. Come around my cock. Fill me with your hot juices." His talked dirty.

I came undone around him.

So did he.

But he did inside. His warm come filled my slit. I closed my eyes and pants softly. He inhaled my scent deeply from my neck — i was smelling like him.

His scent.

Swallowed in his come.

In his marks and kisses.

As they moved together, i know that i was lost, the darkness of this moment seeping into my very core, a poison that i could never escape.

"You feel so fucking good, sugar." He gunrted against my neck. "So fucking amazing, the way you came around my cock wrapping them with your hot juices." He chuckles.

"Let me fuck you more — so next time you think thrice before rejecting me."

He smiled against my lips.

"I'm not done with you." He rasped and crashed his lips.

Not until when he's done.

Neither them.

He didn't stop until our journey wasn't over — filling my ear with his dirty explicit language. Staring at my face, watching himself fucking hardly me.

Until i fall into his arms deeply.

[mrecury42]

@werewolfadmirer here ya go! it's currently one in the morning but i wanted to get this done :) (it's probably not great but who cares)

HOW TO KISS EVERYONE IN YOUR FRIEND GROUP AND GET AWAY WITH IT

First year, they didn't care about kissing in the slightest. All James and Sirius wanted was to have fun, all Remus wanted was "some fucking quiet!", and all Peter wanted was for Remus to stop swearing so much.

Sure, Marlene, Lily, and Mary were all right, and Bellatrix threatened to hex Sirius into next week when they passed her in the corridor sometimes, but there was never any talk of snogging. There was no talk of fancying one another, no initials carved into tree trunks inside crude hearts.

Second year, things got a little bit different. They still had each other, and they had sworn that they would always have each other. But other things started happening in second year at Hogwarts. James and Sirius could practically read each other's minds by that point, and Peter had discovered chess.

All of this left Remus feeling sort of outside. He didn't have anyone- or anything, really- to rely on like that, and one night, that all came spilling out.

It was after the first big Quidditch match with Slytherin, because, well, of course it was. Gryffindor had won. Sirius and James spent the evening celebrating, clinging onto each other excitedly, stuffing their faces with sausage roll after sausage roll. And while he wasn't on the team, Peter was glowing with excitement too.

It was past midnight when the four of them finally went to their dorm, three of them buzzing with joy and the fourth a sulky mess.

"Oh, c'mon, what's the matter with you?" Sirius asked cheerily, ruffling Remus's hair.

"Fuck off, Pads," He growled in response. Sirius opened his mouth to snap something back, more than ready to bicker with Remus again, when James stepped in, calmly instructing Sirius to fuck off.

"Lupin? Are you ok?" James asked gently, sitting down next to Remus. In the background, Peter and Sirius were having a pillow fight- the point is, they were distracted.

Remus nodded, staring at James's lips and feeling strangely warm. James noticed.

"Want me to take your mind off things?" He asked, voice low and kind and toffee-flavoured and so very James Potter that Remus couldn't help but nod again.

James leaned in, and Remus awkwardly followed suit, resulting in a brief, warm, kiss, that was nothing if not an excellent first kiss. James had forgotten the next morning. It was just a dumb, sweet way to cheer up his friend, right? Remus, however, spent the next few weeks thinking about every little thing James did before it wore off and he went back to his usual, sarcastic self.

Third year, there wasn't much new on the kissing front. The other boys had begun teasing James about the way he acted around Lily.

"Obsession, that's what it is," Sirius said.

"More like infatuation." Was Remus's reply.

"It's bloody Lilymania," Peter scoffed, earning him a mocking "language!" from his chums.

But it was all good fun. Nothing ever really happened there.

Fourth year was Sirius's turn. It was a birthday party- of course. Loud, colourful, cake and presents and far too much regurgitated alcohol for a 14-year-old's birthday.

It all happened very fast. Just an "oi, James, your glasses are fucking adorable, c'mere!", and then lips colliding with his and the sharp sting of something alcoholic.

James remembers breaking away, smiling, crashing back into Sirius's smug mouth. Sirius remembers waking up the next morning, the headache, the thrill of drunkenly kissing his best friend. They kept up like that for two months before agreeing that they were really just meant to be best friends, however fun the snogging was.

That was the start of something, though. All of a sudden, both of them started turning up all over the castle with various girls in various states of undress. Remus shook his head fondly while Sirius recounted his sexual adventures, and Peter listened entusiastically whenever James introduced the group to his new girlfriend.

Fifth year went by in a similar fashion. Lots of girls, plenty of sneaking about. Detentions for all of them. Remus, who had hit a growth spurt that summer, started getting looks too. Well, more looks than usual. He ignored all of them. Peter trailed after the three of them, pretending to be happy in his singleness.

Peter congratulated the two outgoing boys when they told him how far they had gotten with some girl or other. He listened when Remus told him about how pretty Sirius looked under the moonlight, how we would never dare tell him. His heart ached and he laughed. His heart broke watching the boy he liked fall for a hundred different pretty girls and he greeted every one one of them with a charming gap-toothed smile and a "hello".

Sixth year, Peter couldn't take it any more. A rainy morning on the Quidditch field was when he snapped. He was sitting in the stands, umbrella above his head, watching as James showed off and did laps around the field.

"Bet Juliette likes it when you do that," He muttered.

"What's that, Wormy?" James shouted, flying closer to where Peter was sulking. Peter hesitated for a moment, and he wasn't quite sure why he did it, but he decided to tell James everything.

Maybe it was the rain, maybe it was the cold, maybe it was how good James looked in his quidditch robes, but Peter found himself babbling about how he had liked James since forever, and how James was so careless, and how he knew that James had kissed both Remus and Sirius, and how it made him so bloody sad that he'd never be enough-

James cut him off with a kiss.

"Peter, mate-" James said, breaking away and climbing down from his broom. "I don't want you to be sad. I'll break up with Juliette for you if you want."

"Yeah, and then what? Go back to that other skank? I don't care, James, just fuck off, I know we'll only ever be just mates. Sorry."

"We don't have to be just mates, though."

From that day forth, Peter looked at James like the very sun shone from his eyes.

Seventh year, Peter and James were a thing. Seventh year, Remus finally told Sirius how he felt. Seventh year, all James and Sirius wanted was for their respective boyfriends to be happy, all Remus wanted was to see Sirius smile like that, and all Peter wanted was to keep his James safe.

The end??

[lunareclipse-writes]

Title: No Safe Word

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x GN!Reader

Genre: Enemies to Lovers

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Tags: Brutal smut, raw angst, rough first kiss, biting, bruises, possessive Ghost, bratty reader, submission, power struggle, hate sex, emotional tension, filthy dynamics

Word Count: 10,218 words

---

You hated Simon Riley. Not the polite, quiet kind of hate, but the kind that settled in your gut and refused to leave, no matter how many missions you shared or arguments you fought.

Every time you saw him, you felt that low-burning fury — the heat in your chest when he spoke to you like you were a problem to solve rather than a person.

He hated you right back. That much was obvious. His icy glare, the clipped tones he used whenever your paths crossed, the way he stalked through the base like a predator always searching for a fight.

But beneath all that aggression, you both craved the same thing — release. And you found it in each other, in the only way two people who hated each other could: brutal, filthy, vicious sex.

---

The first time it happened, it wasn’t planned.

You’d been fighting shoulder to shoulder on a hostage extraction. Your squad had been ambushed, gunfire tearing through the night as you dragged a bleeding civilian to safety.

Simon had your back, covering every angle, moving like a shadow, efficient and ruthless. But then you slipped — a shot grazed your arm, burning hot.

You cursed under your breath, and before you could even process the pain, Simon was there.

“Move,” he barked. His hand grabbed your collar and yanked you behind a low wall.

You were breathing hard, chest heaving, eyes wild. “Thanks for the rescue.”

He didn’t answer. His eyes were dark, focused.

“Don’t get soft on me.”

You snorted. “Not planning on it.”

---

Later, back at the safe house, adrenaline still thrumming through your veins, the tension between you boiled over.

He cornered you in the kitchen, fingers curling around your wrist with surprising force.

“Stop talking,” he growled. “Or I’m going to shut you up myself.”

You tilted your chin up, eyes blazing. “Try it.”

Simon’s breath hit your face, rough and hot. His gloved hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you in.

The kiss was nothing like you expected — not gentle, not hesitant, but a brutal collision of teeth and tongue.

You bit back, hard. A growl rumbled in his throat.

“Damn,” he hissed, lips dragging along your jaw. “You fight dirty.”

You smiled against his mouth. “I learned from the best.”

---

From then on, it was a war waged in stolen moments and brutal touches.

You’d trade insults, spit venom in each other’s faces, but when the lights went out, the masks dropped.

He was rough — so much rougher than you thought. Hands that slammed, lips that bruised, teeth that marked you like property.

You were defiant, a brat, pushing back every inch. But when he claimed you, you melted, helpless and broken beneath his relentless assault.

---

One night, it got worse.

You were on the floor of his room, skin slick with sweat, muscles trembling. He had you bent over the bed, lips nipping at your spine, hands gripping your hips like he’d never let go.

“Say it,” he demanded, voice low and dangerous.

You swallowed hard. “What?”

“That you’re mine.”

You smirked, though your cheeks burned. “Mine, huh?”

“Yes. Say it.”

“Fine.” You bit your lip. “I’m yours. Happy?”

He grabbed your hair, tugging your head back. “Very.”

---

The way he fucked you was brutal, leaving bruises and bite marks in his wake. But he was careful where it mattered — slow when you needed it, desperate when you gave him the signal.

You learned his rhythms, how to give and take until you both shattered.

And when it was over, when his hands stilled and his breathing evened, the anger in his eyes softened just a little.

---

But this wasn’t love. Not yet.

It was fire. It was hate. It was the kind of violent obsession that threatened to consume you both.

And you weren’t sure if either of you wanted to survive it.

---

The days that followed were a brutal dance between control and surrender.

You and Ghost couldn’t keep your hands off each other, but the fights only grew worse — sharper words, harder shoves, more biting and bruising.

“Why do you keep pushing me?” he snarled one afternoon, slamming your back against the wall. His mask was off now, eyes wild and dark.

“Because I know you want it,” you snapped. “You’re just too damn stubborn to admit it.”

He grinned — feral, terrifying. “Maybe I am.”

And then he kissed you like he was claiming your soul.

---

That night, everything broke loose.

You were on the edge of losing control — your body aching for him, your mind tangled in a mess of want and hate.

He pinned you to the bed, hands tangled in your hair, teeth scraping your collarbone.

“You’re mine,” he growled. “Say it.”

You gasped. “I’m yours.”

His cock was hard and relentless, pressing into you with a hunger that left no room for doubt.

He fucked you with brutal, merciless thrusts — biting, spanking, growling his possessiveness as you cried out his name.

---

You came undone beneath him, trembling and raw.

He followed after, collapsing over you, breath ragged.

For a moment, there was silence — just the sound of your heartbeats syncing.

Then he whispered, “I hate that I love you.”

You smiled weakly. “I hate that I love you more.”

---

Masterlist

[starrvsn]

ꕮ ˚₊ ꒰ EVAN BUCKLEY & EDDIE DIAZ ⁾⁾ LIVE WHILE YOU’RE YOUNG!

OVER THE INTERCOM ⠆this is soooo self indulgent... also putting off watching the rest of season 8 because i know it'll break me aka me reading one frat-boy!au of buck and being obsessed ever since also i love these two men so much i had to make a whole mood board! (also if you have any requests about these two men pls flood my inbox <3)

WORD COUNT ⠆5.5K (5,582) not super satisfied with how this came out but love it nonetheless

PAIRING ⠆evan 'buck' buckley x fem!reader x eddie diaz.

CATEGORIES ⠆afab!reader, frat-party, college!au, ravi as a pledge, suggestive, descriptions of alcohol, drugs, sloppy kissing?, buck and eddie being the double trouble that they are, reader is a bit shy :p, mentions of a revealing outfit (a basic one at that, average party girl fit so fell free to imagine it any way you want!), may is her college bestie, not 9-1-1 canon in the slightest, all characters are used in complete fiction!

here’s a playlist to give a listen, a vibe enhancer perhaps ;)

﹡some dialogue is italicized, just thought it flowed better over text!

with college life comes traditions.

with your friend group every frat party, you pick two pieces of paper from a hat and those are your dares for the night, also called frat-cap roulette. the only rules being: no back outs! and you must tell your experience the day after. partying isn't just about the free booze and oogling at hot eye candy all night, its also about having fun and living your life! to live a little and do things you've never done before.

the dares you pulled out for the night are definitely things you've never done before.

1) do a keg stand! even if you dont like the taste of beer! think of it of impressing the hot guy holding up your legs. 2) a menage a trois! more simply three way kiss, what's better than not only kissing two guys but at the same time! go get em tiger!

you think you might faint, you didn't go to frat parties much didn't even know which houses threw the best ones but everytime you did, the girls insisted you pick from the hat. ones you've gotten in the past were more manageable like having someone ghost smoke into your mouth or getting a shoulder ride from a pledge, those are what you'd consider more tame but these? you might have to skip out on this one and any ones in the future, you almost shiver knowing if the ones you had were bad, there had to be worse in that hat.

"oh come on y/n" may whines flopping onto your bed. after getting your dares for the night you were terrified! so what if everyone was drunk and high out of their minds to even care, it would still be weighing on your conscious, way too much for your liking. you thought, initially you were just trying to psych yourself out so you busied yourself with getting ready, your hair and makeup. by the time you finished it started feeling real, very real, too real that you stopped not even bothering to change and reluctantly told may you didn't want to go any more.

"no! i can't, i don’t care if i break the rules.” you practically cry out “these dares are like crazy i'm gonna make a fool out of myself." plopping down on your vanity chair with a huff, no way you were gonna embarrass your way out to transfer out.

"babe, thats the point! no ones gonna remember it the next day and who even gives a fuck if they do?” may attested, getting off your bed to stand in front of you, hands on her hips like a lecturing mother. “this is like a once in a life time experience, we're living our lives remember?" her eyes soften to look at you, head tilting. then insisting if you weren’t going she wasn’t either and may was never one to miss a party.

you caved.

only bribed by may who swore she’d do your laundry and give you a few of her meal swipes if you went. she of course, as well picked your outfit. a black mini skort, thank god for the safety shorts– the fabric over left little to the imagination and a deep red lace halter that dipped low into your cleavage. the girls are out to show tonight! may whistles, proud of her work you’re gonna have no problem getting those dares done, now let’s take pics! you barely get your shoes on before she drags you out to the common room for pregame and pictures. feeling yourself and buzzed, your worrying thoughts slipping from you, this was already going better than you thought.

the alcohol is doing little to keep you warm as you walk to the frat house. hands linked with may as she practically skips towards the party, your friends behind you blistering about their dares and latest flings. you chose to keep yours to yourself, thinking if you shared them it'd create more pressure for you.

tonight’s house of choice psi sigma tau a house full of hotties may tells you, going on to say the last party they had they were all dressed as firefighters. shame you missed that one. you weren't super farmilar with greek life and who was apart of it but you know, your biochem lab partner, ravi was currently a pledge for this very frat. once coming in insanely hung over with streaks of paint on his face- telling you all about it, forgetting your assignment, focusing instead on retelling every moment of his previous night. you were in for a treat. it makes your nerves spike. you practically felt thumping bass of the music before you even reached the house. the house stood at the end of the street, porch light flickering and door wide open, an invitation to all. as you approach the stairs off the lawn, there’s people spread sporadically across the grass, red solo cups in hand, laughter and shouts spilling into the street like a wave ready to crash.

you took a deep breath, the bass shaking in your chest matching the rhythm of your beating chest. just one night, you told yourself. following behind may. at the door a chest full of shooters, a whole variety of them. with a sign, scribbled messily with uneven letters: entry fee, down a shooter! mama aint raise no bitch!

'wow they really pull all the stops' you murmur, picking up a pink whitney shooter from the ice, cool against your warm fingers. 'yep, thats why we like coming here, most parties dont have a guest list' your roommate, addison tells you downing her shooter in one go, you wince, cracking yours open and doing the same. the alcohol burning your throat, the pink lemonade aftertaste lingering in your mouth making you smack your lips in distain.

your group stands by in the doorway, at the base of the stairs. sage—your proclaimed mom friend of the group and creator of frat-cap roulette, gathers your group of six to set down some ground rules. 'okay ladies! remember have the time of your lives, dont throw up unless it's in the toilet, be safe and live your fucking best lives and do your dares!' she yells over the music, your friends shouting in agreement, hooting and yelling, eager to have fun before all splitting off. you and may are left, encouraging smiles and compliments bouncing off the two of you. she tells you to be safe and you mirror her words, shouting 'i love yous' before she disappears into the crowd to god knows where.

now that leaves you alone, the air was thick—sweat, cologne, alcohol, and the faint trace of weed clung to every surface. a haze of smoke floated through the house. the kitchen flooded with people people taking turns at beer pong or slapping hands in loud celebration, the living room turned into a dance floor, with a makeshift DJ booth at the wall, blasting whatever 2000s club playlist they could find. the house is dark but illuminated by strobing lights of blues, greens and reds. bodies pressed together, swaying and grinding on the nearest body they can find, the party is at it's peak.

come y/n fucking live for once! you got this. your inner conscious yelling at you, your hands are already clamming and feeling little sweaty from the heat radiating off everyone, you take a deep breath, straightening yourself before diving into the crowd, moving through until you get to the kitchen, for a drink. through the crowd you see ravi, wearing a stupidly tight crop top that says 'tomorrow isn't promised, we need to fuck now' in big capitalized red words, not ignoring the imprint of his abs to the exposing ones down his stomach. you laugh as you pass, ravi catching you and insisting you shotgun a white claw together. he drags you to the kitchen, loud and full of people playing beer pong.

"nice shirt!" you laugh, watching as he hands you a white claw from one of the coolers, he sways a little, steadying himself with a hand on your shoulder. "hazing, they picked out the shirts and we wear." yelling into your ear, pointing over your shoulder to another pledge wearing a shirt that said 'i wish i had serotonin instead of a huge cock' these hazing activities seemed so wholesome, brotherhood seems good here. ravi drukenly hypes you up as you puncture a hole into the base of the can, he hands his phone, recording, to a frat brother before cheer-sing you. here goes nothing, putting your lips to the puncture and fingers at the pull tab, you crack it open, tilting your head back as you chug it, the cool carbonated seltzer burning your throat as you drink, breathing through your nose whilst the burn down your throat made had your struggling. ravi finishes before you, chugging it in 2 big gulps, it takes you four– usually you never finish it or end up spitting it out so this was a win for you. you hear cheering an whooping as you finish up, as you set the can down you see two men who have joined behind ravi.

‘well look who have here,’ a man with devestating blue eyes pairing well with the pink birthmark above his his eye, tall and broad, standing before you, next to him a man with tan skin, brown eyes that felt like warm honey, and a dimple that betrayed his calm demeanor, backwards hat sporting his head, they’re insufferably attractive making your stomach twist with attraction, or maybe it was the alcohol. the dimpled man wordlessly points to your chest where a trail of the seltzer dripped in between your cleavage, cheeks flushed you clean yourself with a napkin on a nearby counter, he throws you a wink when you do so.

at the sound of the voice, ravi turns around and bursts with excitement, turning to the two men beaming smiles and crescent eyes as they talk. you see them pointing at you over ravi’s shoulder making you feel light headed and tingly, heart racing. ravi turns and grabs your arm pulling you into the conversation ‘this is eddie and buck, two peas in a pod’ he slurs, the two men shake their head at the title ‘they’re always together, like each others shadows it’s kinda freaky’ ravi mutters, really yelling– though it was only meant for you, everyone heard. '

‘so you’re friends with gunslinger here?' eddie pipes up, tipping his cup to you, honey brown eyes catching yours. you feel like a fish out of water, looking at him, the alcohol and nerves making it hard to even think of what to say.

‘this is y/n i have her in lab’ the pledge finishes for you, the two nod eyes focused on you- taking in your presence like they were trying to memorize your every feature, eyes not so subtly dragging up and down your figure, ravi is quick to pull away from the conversation as someone calls his name, something about body shots in the living room. leaving you to deal with two men that were way out of your league, or so you thought.

hm, new pretty face. would've remembered you if you were here last time buck grins, eyes smoldering.

his words make you scoff a laugh ‘use that line on all the girls?’ you may be drunk but you aren't stupid, your eyes challenging his.

‘only on the special ones’ he replies coolly, a stupid smirk on his face that makes you a little weak in the knees.

‘sorry, originality isn’t his specialty.’ eddie’s quick to retort his voice low but smooth, teasing just enough to make your spine tingle. he tips his head slightly, letting that lazy smile tug at the corner of his mouth. it’s the kind of smile that says he’s used to getting what he wants, but not in the way buck is. buck’s energy is all flash and flirt, while eddie is something else entirely—smooth and confident, the type of nonchalant where things come to him a little too easy.

you shoot him a look, biting back a smile, alcohol practically speaking for you. “good thing i like a little unoriginal charm,” you toss out, eyes flicking between the two of them.

buck’s brows raise, impressed. eddie chuckles softly, and god, the way it rumbles out of his chest should be illegal. “oh, shes trouble,” he murmurs to buck, not bothering to hide the way he’s still watching you. his gaze lingers on your lips a beat too long.

“what’re you drinking?” buck asks, leaning closer, close enough that you catch the scent of cologne and beer, something woodsy and warm clinging to him. you hold up your nearly empty white claw, shrugging

“basically air at this point,” you say, tipping the can upside down.

“tragic,” buck says with mock sincerity. “come on. we’re getting you a real drink.”

“define real,” you shoot back, but you follow anyway, trailing after the two of them as they lead you further into the house, deeper into the party.

they take you to a makeshift bar set up on a foldable table in the sun room, attached to the kitchen and just adjacent to the backyard. plastic bottles of questionable mixers, a few crushed limes, and one brave soul attempting to make jungle juice in a salad bowl.

“what’s your poison?” eddie asks, nudging your hip with his. it’s casual, but it leaves a spark where he touched you. his arm brushes yours as he reaches for a red cup.

“something that won’t kill me,” you answer, watching as he mixes you something, his hands moving with ease. meanwhile, buck grabs a bottle of tequila and dramatically pours three shots, heavy handed ones at that– almost filled to the top of the shot glasses “not what i meant,” you laugh, shaking your head.

“too late,” buck grins. “cheers, trouble.” the newfound nickname rolling off his tongue far to easily.

you hesitate for only a second before grabbing the cup and clinking it against theirs, chugging it down with a distain. immediately shoving a lime in your mouth to smooth the burning alcohol on your tongue. you feel their eyes lingering on you, like they’re awaiting your next move that hopefully involves them.

eddie’s the one who speaks first. “you’re not usually at these, are you?”

his voice is smooth, with a thread of curiosity running through it. he doesn’t sound like he’s judging, more like he’s trying to figure you out. there’s a quiet steadiness to him that contrasts buck’s energy, who’s already leaning against the counter beside you, eyes roaming with that familiar frat boy smirk.

you turn toward eddie, eyebrows raised slightly. “how can you tell?”

buck grins, answering for him. “easy. it feels like you're waiting for something to happen, like you're not the type to let loose like this” it didn't mean to come off rude or condescending but it was the truth, you always had your guard up, drinking was fun but you didn't let yourself indulge. he saw right through you.

you huff a small laugh, swirling the drink in your cup. “maybe i’m just good at blending in.”

“nah,” eddie says, eyes catching yours like they’ve hooked onto something. “you’re trying not to be noticed. not the same thing.”

he’s not wrong. you were trying to blend in. trying to distract yourself with drinks and familiar faces while pretending you weren’t running through worst-case scenarios in your head about the dares tucked tightly in your memory. just thinking about them made your stomach flutter—and not in the good way.

“well,” you reply, “i pulled the short straw tonight.”

“you got dared?” buck asks, lighting up with interest. “frat-cap roulette, right?”

"you know?" you were definitely thrown out for a loop now, you knew it wasn't exclusive to just your friend group but with how your friends spoke about it, it almost seemed like fight club.

"oh yeah," buck replies, going on to tell you how they've been roped into some. involving receiving a lap dance, getting flashed and eddie having to switch his entire outfit with a girl wearing a less than nothing dress, buck almost pulls how his phone to show you a picture but eddie is quick to stop him, giving him a look that makes his best friend stop in reluctant defeat. your entertainment is short lived when they ask about you, what your dares entailed for your night. you don’t answer right away. instead, you take a sip from the red solo cup of whatever eddie mixed up for you, eyes scanning the crowd behind them—anywhere but their faces. it’s not like you’re ashamed, but you are trying to hold onto whatever courage you have left. if you say it out loud, it makes it real. and you’re not sure you’re there yet.

buck catches on fast. “you’re dares must be good ones, lots of freaky shit in that hat.” you drink from cup eddie slides you, hiding your grimace, if only he knew.

“or a bad one,” eddie adds, voice lower, teasing. “you’re drinking like you’re preparing for battle.”

“what makes you think i’m not?” you mutter under your breath, offering a coy smile, regaining yourself quickly.

that earns a laugh from both of them. it’s warm, easy. and dangerously charming.

you should probably leave. find may. hide in the bathroom. but something keeps you planted, drawn in by the magnetic pull they both seem to exude without even trying.

you nod toward ravi, who’s just re-entered the kitchen from god knows where—his crop top now speckled with something neon green. “this place always like this?”

“basically,” eddie says, arms folded over his chest, biceps flexing under the sleeves of his t-shirt.

“we host ragers, a perfect place to exercise your free will with no regrets,” buck adds with a wink.

“what does that even mean?” you tease, the edges of your nerves softening just slightly.

“it means if you’re about to do something crazy,” eddie leans in slightly, voice dropping, “you picked the right house.”

you raise an eyebrow, letting the pause stretch between you before replying. “we’ll see.”

“c’mon,” buck nudges your elbow. “just tell us what your dare is. we’ll help.”

you smirk into your drink, letting your voice drop just above a whisper. “where’s the fun in that?”

you watch their expressions shift—buck looking like he’s just been issued the most exciting challenge of his night, and eddie watching you with that same steady gaze, like he’s trying to memorize the way you carry your mystery.

“alright, then,” buck says, straightening. “we’re playing it your way. but if i catch you doing something ridiculous like… surfing down the stairs on a mattress again-”

“again?” you ask with a grin.

“long story. involved ravi, some random girl playing frat-cup roulette, lots of pillows and my football helmet.” listing it on like a bad memory, probably explaining the slight dent in the wall at the stairs.

“right, ill keep that in mind,” you laugh.

eddie takes a slow sip of his drink, still watching you. “you’re not just here to watch, though. that much is obvious.”

you shrug, letting the silence answer for you. you feel the alcohol buzzing through your veins, the heat of the party loosening your limbs. the music thumps harder now—bass vibrating through the kitchen floors.

“alright, mystery girl,” buck leans in just a bit closer, his shoulder brushing yours. “if you won’t tell us the dare, at least let us keep an eye out. make sure you don’t end up on the roof in a tutu or something.”

“tempting offer,” you say, glancing between them. “but i think i’ll take my chances.”

“oh, she’s definitely planning something,” buck mutters to eddie, who only laughs softly and nods.

you take one step back, flashing them both a smile. “i guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

and just like that, you disappear into the crowd—leaving them standing there, drinks in hand, the smell of tequila and possibility in the air.

buck whistles low, shaking his head. “so… are we following her?”

eddie finishes his drink in one sip, quickly replying “absolutely.”

you melt into the crowd, bodies pressed together, people whooping loud at a pair making out, drinks spilling from cups, and loud bass ringing in your ears. lights strobe over you in flashes; green, red, blue— hidden in anonymity under the dark room. you’re buzzed enough now that your confidence is catching up to your adrenaline. your drink is finished, long forgotten on some windowsill, and the room spins just the tiniest bit when you finally spot the keg.

it’s in the backyard. lit by a string of tangled fairy lights, surrounded by a small, rowdy crowd yelling encouragements at the poor guy currently upside down, foam and beer pouring everywhere. he slaps the keg, yelling who's your daddy from the top of their lungs, practically ripping their shirt in half as their friends cheer him on. how were you supposed to top that?

you were psyching yourself out again, swallowing your pride in an effort to let the alcohol take over and just do it. you can do this.

you have to do this, even if you didn’t want too. curse sage and her rules.

“need a lift, sweetheart?” you turn at the voice. it’s buck grinning, eyes full of mischief. eddie stands just behind him, adjusting his hat hiding his locks, that unreadable look on his face again like he’s still trying to solve the puzzle that is you.

your stomach twists, not unpleasantly. you cross your arms over your chest, lifting your chin. “what makes you think i’m gonna do it?”

“because you’ve been staring at that keg like it'll just magically give you what you need.” eddie says, stepping forward.

you huff a laugh, caught. “okay, maybe it’s one of the dares.”

buck whoops triumphantly, pointing at you. “i knew it.”

“not like i want to do it but you know… never hurt to try something once right?”

“never, it’ll make a good memory.” eddie replies, trying to lighten you mind, eyeing your tense shoulders.

“yeah if i don’t eat shit and die,” you say, raising your brows, “but i need some support.”

“what, to cheer you on?” buck asks.

“to hold my legs,” you reply, voice light but firm. and just like that, their smirks drop into something heavier.

eddie finishes his drink and sets the cup down. “we’re in.”

“obviously,” buck adds.

you pull your already short skirt down, hoping it wouldn't ride up. you’re tipsy, but determined, your whole body buzzing now—not just from the alcohol, but from the way they’re watching you. curious. amused. impressed. maybe even a little turned on.

buck crouches low, fingers flexing. “you sure?”

“no,” you admit with a breathless laugh. “but what the hell.”

they lift you with surprising ease—buck at your knees, legs over his shoulder. eddie crouched beside you holding your skirt with chivalrous grace, your skin practically burning at his fingering brushing your thighs as his other holds the keg nozzle. holding it to your mouth waiting for your okay, your arms practically feel like jelly as you hold on the rim. he looks at you softer now, no judgment if you suddenly back out but now theres a burning determination in your stomach when your eyes catch his. you take a deep breath, already bracing for the bitter cold beer. eddie nods in encouragement as buck whoops behind you, a crowd already forming. you nod and eddie presses on the side of the nozzle. you squeal when the cold beer hits your lips. the crowd around you cheers, counting loudly.

“one! two! three—!”

you barely make it to six before tapping out, coughing through the foam, the burn in your throat too much. they lower you gently to the ground, hands lingering a little longer than necessary as you regain your balance, eddie is quick to fix your appearance, flattening your hair and pushing some behind your ears that fell when you were upside down. his tenderness not going unnoticed by you and its incredibly attractive.

you wobble, giggling, wiping beer from your lips with the back of your hand.

“okay,” you say, breathless. “that went better than i thought.” buck and eddie giving you triumphant high-fives as their attentively at your side, bucks hand warm on your lower back.

"you killed it, done it better than either of us." eddie praises, he's just saying that but in reality its true. one party buck drunkenly convinced himself that he can do it on his own, practically doing a hand stand on the keg that almost landed him in the hospital.

buck leans in, smug. “so what's left not the table?” obviously trying to get you to spill your second dare.

you glance between them, still not giving in fully. “you’ll know when it happens.”

eddie raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “is that a threat or a promise?”

you don’t answer—just tilt your head, letting your eyes drag slowly from eddie to buck.

“depends on how tonight plays out.” you say easily, already making your way back into the house. beer still dripping from your top, heart racing. you don’t know how long you’ll last before the second dare gets you, but you know exactly who you want it to happen with.

the pair are already tailing behind you, "we'll be there when it happens." buck quips, fully enticed with what you may have up your sleeve. admittedly they've never had a girl capture their attention like you did. like their was a gravitational pull leading them to you and they weren't upset about it

“good,” you say, turning to head back inside, tossing a look over your shoulder. “you’ll need to be.”

you think you lose them when you somehow make your way into a bathroom, questionable stains on the sink and towels haphazardly throw everywhere. you groan and make quick work in cleaning yourself up. the easy part was over, the keg stand wasn’t nearly as bad as you thought it would be, the beer still lingering in the back of your throat making you nearly gag if you thought about it for too long. desperately telling yourself you didn’t need to throw up when the toilet was looking at you way to enticingly. the hard part came next. a three way kiss, you didn’t think you’d get this far into the night and there was so way out of it. now entangled with eddie and buck, so invested with your dares– you think you could just sneak out and hopefully never see them again, just deluded to the memories of your night so far but something in you was tell you not to. this was the most play you’ve gotten so far in the semester and you wanted to kiss them and you know they did too, that’s what scared you– you weren’t as smooth or half as charming as they were, but all you knew is that you needed another drink before you can even think of attempting the second part.

after another shotgun with ravi with little to no convincing on either parts, you find yourself on the makeshift dance floor in the middle of the living room. the floor is pulsing like a heartbeat, bodies moving with the beat, lost in the throb of bass and smoke and strobe. you slip into it easily, your body already warmed from the keg stand and a new buzz from the shot gun, your skin still tingling from their hands.

you’ve lost yourself to the music, dancing with friends you know from previous lectures, even with ravi– twirling you into a dip, you were having fun, the dare slipping from you mind as you laugh and sway amidst the music.

you feel them before you see them. eddie’s presence behind you, broad and steady, and buck’s just off to your side, playful energy radiating like heat. you don’t look back.

you just sway your hips to the rhythm, letting yourself fall deeper into the music, letting the beat pull you under. arms up, eyes closed, the crowd pressing in—someone’s back hits your shoulder, someone else’s arm brushes yours, but then they’re there.

eddie’s hands settle lightly on your hips, grounding you. he doesn’t pull, doesn’t rush, he just follows your movement, letting his fingers flex against the bare skin beneath your top. buck’s closer now too, eyes trained on your mouth, lip caught between his teeth, now in front of you.

then, you open your eyes.

“ you gonna just stand there or are you gonna do something?you shout over the music, glancing between them with a teasing smile.

“thought you were the one with the dare,” eddie replies, voice low and right in your ear.

“and if i am?” you ask, tilting your chin toward buck.

his smirk deepens, a nonchalant shrug with his words “maybe we’re just waiting for you to pick who you want.”

you hum at that, heart pounding harder. the adrenaline and booze taking over your senses, in the heat of the moment, buck looking so attractive in front of you, his eyes roaming and lingering on your lips, you don’t miss a beat.

you look at buck through your lashes, prettily enough as you lean closer to him. just long enough for him to see it coming. then, you reach for him, sliding your hand around the back of his neck and pulling him in soft lips crashing into yours, a ghost of a smile against your lips. his hands falling to your waist pulling you close.

he gets rougher as you kiss, like he’s been waiting for this to happen, making the most out of it like you’re going to disappear into thin air. hot opened mouth kisses as his tongue brushing yours, teeth grazing yours, nibbling at your bottom lip as you tilt your head back to deepen the kiss. he groans softly into your mouth, his hands all over you, cupping your jaw before lacing his digits in your hair– tugging gently. pulling a soft whine from you. he leans into you as you pull away, a sound of dissatisfaction leaving him.

you break away just long enough to turn.

eddie’s closer now, his eyes dark and lust fueled as they lock onto yours. lifting his hand to brush your jaw, he’s eager but awaiting your permission before you lean in. the kiss is slower and deeper, lips warm and sure against yours.

he kisses like he means it, like he doesn’t care about the dare or the party or the people around you, just the feel of your lips on his. his lips mold against yours, soft and deep tasting the remnants of your strawberry flavored lip gloss, hands on your hips pulling you against him, long and fluid like he’s savoring it. he takes his time kissing you, you thread your fingers at his nape feeling as he gets rougher, tongue pushing past your lips, swirling around yours chasing for more.

your forehead pressed against his as you inevitably pull away. buck behind you, chest rising– incredibly turned on as you kiss his best friend. you feel lightheaded as you pull away, kissing both men you’ve been pinning over all night.

their eyes intense on you as your hands rest on both of their chests, your body wedged deliciously between them. they’re staring at you like you just flipped their world upside down.

lips swollen and eyes blown out, a bit breathless. you bite your bottom lip, eyes darting between them. “now, the dare.”

they don’t need more than that.

buck leans in first, eddie following like second nature, and then—your lips meet again, all three of you this time, tangled in a brief but electric collision. soft and wild and ridiculously hot, a mess of lips and breath, wandering hands and someone’s teeth catching on a lip and a muffled fuck as buck smiled against her mouth and eddie pressed a hand digging into your hip a little harder like he forgot to hold back. just long enough to taste each other, just long enough to make your knees weak.

when you finally pull back, all three of you are breathless. buck’s eyes are wide, his grin lopsided. eddie’s gaze lingers on your mouth like he’s already thinking about doing it again, rubbing soothing circles on your hip.

“so,” buck says, voice rougher now, “what else is in that hat?”

you laugh, dizzy and still reeling. “guess you’ll have to wait ‘til the next party.”

eddie’s hand slips around your waist, pulling his hat off and drops it onto your head, his free hand soothing his mess of hair as buck drapes an arm around your shoulders, throwing you a wink. the three of you moving together as the music swells around you.

the night you were waiting to be before dissipated into not wanting to leave, they made it into something worth while, something that felt like more than just those stupid dares. you could care less about how your friends are definitely going to drag this story out until graduation. you feel... good. lighter than you have in weeks. achieving more than what you could ask for tonight with two men by your side with no plans to leave.

you definitely are living your best life tonight and it definitely won't be your last.

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