#i know i am going to post this and be like

[carriesthewind]

WOW.

Okay, after a night's sleep, I have decided that yeah, there is value in responding to this absolutely steaming pile of ignorant, self-centered, self-important, anti-intellectual, b.s.

It looks like a number of people in the notes were swayed, at least to some degree, by this garbage, so I think it is worth trying to show why it is nonsense.

(Also it's possible I'm still spoiling for a fight after being denied an evidentiary hearing on Friday.)

I'm not reblogging the post because folks don't need a self-aggrandizing tantrum on their dash, but I do think it is worth taking a look for yourself, in order to practice your analytical skills. Some questions to consider as you read:

(1) What is OP saying in her original post? What claims is she making?

(2) How, if at all, does the poster respond to claims OP made? What claims is the poster saying that OP made? Do these match what OP actually said? If not, (a) what techniques does the poster use to transform what OP said into the claims the poster is claiming OP made? (b) What rhetorical purpose does it serve for the poster to warp OP's claims?

(3) What affirmative claims is the poster making? What evidence or arguments do they provide to support their claims? Do they explore any of the specifics or real world implications of their claims? If not, what real world implications of their claims can you think of?

(3) What other rhetorical techniques does the poster use to bolster their argument? Do these techniques actually enhance and support the substance of their argument?

(4) Relatedly, how does the poster play into the biases of their assumed audience (tumblr users with generally progressive policies). What claims do they make to play into those biases? What evidence or argument, if any, do they make to support those claims? Are these claims by the poster reasonably related to the claims made by OP?

Now, let's explore their response in detail!

(Also obviously don't harass the poster, and I would recommend not directly engaging with them at all. Harassment is vile and makes you far worse than them. And earnest engagement is unlikely to be productive - the OP tried to engage with them politely (and even offered to help) in the notes of poster's original post. In response, the poster (1) implied that OP is an obsessive rude busybody. (2) Told OP to "Shhhhh. Chill." (in response to (paraphrased), 'hey, the advice someone else gave you is probably a waste of time and effort'). (3) And finally, after condescendingly telling OP, "Breathe. Practice radical acceptance. Know that I am here on the other side of the internet, flagrantly wasting my effort and thinking of you every second of that time," proceeded to prove that they were, in fact, "thinking of [OP] every second of that time" by searching OP's blog to find this post by OP and dumping this Arrested-Development-level demand to be taken seriously in the reblogs.)

(All of which is to say: hi, poster who was "being vagueposted about." I assume you are reading this, because you demonstrably don't have the good sense to block and move on. I'm not going to block you in advance, because I think you have the right to make your own terrible decisions, and I suspect any response you make is going to be *very* funny. See you in the notes!)

So, let's go through the poster's response, paragraph by paragraph.

They begin by doubling down on the stance that, "any sufficiently deep enthusiasm is indistinguishable from academic rigor." This, they say, is their defense of that stance. Let's see how it goes - but first, I think it's worth remembering, OP's original post is literally a single sentence long.

OP's claim, paraphrased, that the claim that "any sufficiently deep enthusiasm is indistinguishable from academic rigor" is incorrect and anti-intellectual. If we read the OP's tags, she clarifies that enthusiasm is valuable, but different from expertise.

The poster starts their defense with a long...explanation that the structure of their claim was a reference to the Arthur C Clarke's third "law" (read: sci-fi fiction adage).

*deep breath*

Ok. I'm a big a fan of wordplay as the next person. And I know from personal experience that it can be really frustrating to do some fun wordplay to make a point, and then get misinterpreted here on tumblr.com.

But. The wordplay has to make a point for it to be relevant to your defense. OP's claim wasn't "this poster did a bad job with the linguistic structure of this sentence and is not familiar with classic sci-fi." How does the "rhetorical structure" of the poster's claim support the substance of their claim???

It doesn't, is the answer. The poster explicitly asks this question later down, but then they never actually answer it. Instead, the rhetorical effect of this whole digression is just to throw out surface level references to things (Arthur C Clarke! "AI"!) that might make the poster sound more thoughtful and knowledgeable. It also creates distance from OP's actual point - as the post continues, the poster has to remind us what they're talking about. This gives the poster more control over the narrative, over what claims are under discussion.

Which leads to the poster's next paragraph: the unanswered question of why the poster structured their claim to resemble a sci-fi author's famous quote, and a baseless attack on OP.

And I think it is worth really lingering on this attack on OP. The poster claims, OP perhaps is "misreading or misinterpreting" the poster's point. But what on earth is the poster talking about? OP literally just quoted the poster's exact words and then said that they think this is anti-intellectual. What "misreading or misinterpreting" is being done?

No. Instead, this attack rhetorically sets up the poster's next couple paragraphs: not actually defending their claim as OP originally quoted, but reinterpreting their own words, providing their own special unique meaning that they will then proceed to use for the rest of the post. They are redrawing the rhetorical bounds of the conversation. Rather than defending their stance, they are redefining their stance so that it matches the defense they now want to make.

(Which is still bad. It's a bad defense and it makes me very angry.)

The poster proceeds to define "academic rigor" in a way that just means, "enthusiasm." Notice how no part of their definition includes things like critical thinking skills, building up a knowledge base, testing ideas, receiving criticism (wow I wonder why), or any expertise or action to build up and test that expertise. It's just what a person "cares very much about," how much "curiosity" they have; some inherent quality someone who "NEEDS to know." (Also hit the bell for another surface level reference - this time to Herodotus - to make the poster sound more knowledgeable.) If you actually read the poster's definition, it is entirely "idk vibes i guess."

Now, having defined "academic rigor" as enthusiasm, they successfully declare that enthusiasm is a necessary precondition of enthusiasm.

And then, we get the best paragraph of this entire tantrum of a post: "Any sufficiently deep enthusiasm is indistinguishable from academic rigor. It's like a fractal -- the closer you look, the more complicated it gets." No only is this another attempted surface level reference, this time to fractals, but just. What is this supposed to mean. At a glance, it seems like it kind of follows from the last paragraph - maybe, the more an enthusiast looks at something, the more there is to know? But the closer you look at this sentence, the more nonsensical it gets. What does things getting more complicated the more you look at them have to do with academic rigor (either a real definition or the poster's enthusiasm-based definition)? More importantly, what does it have to do with proving the point - that enthusiasm is indistinguishable from academic rigor? (You might as well say, "the further you fall down the rabbit hole, the deeper you realize it goes," except then more people would realize you are expressing straight conspiracist reasoning oops.)

Now, several paragraphs in and having firmly taken control of the rhetorical boundaries of the argument, the poster finally decides to provide some context to the original statement (and needlessly insult OP for trying to be helpful again).

The poster correctly quotes relevant parts of the discussion (although mischaracterizes their own responses as "polite" instead of "incredibly condescending and rude"). However, the poster then immediately characterizes OP's response as "muddied." Because words have objective meanings, however, we do not need to accept this characterization. OP expressed her argument very clearly. Rather, it is the the poster who claimed that OP was making an argument that she was not, which we can paraphrase as, 'passion and capacity for learning are limited to formal education at academic institutions.' It would be convenient for the poster if OP was making this argument, because it could be easy to argue against. But since OP clearly stated that she does not believe this clearly incorrect thing that the poster made up in her head, the poster claims that her response was "muddied."

The poster emphasizes this false claim in the next few paragraphs. They say, "to me she seems to be arguing that one MUST (?) receive formal training at an academic institution ("academic training" "trained expertise") in order to achieve that level of rigor." But OP simply doesn't say that. You can look at the reply the poster quoted, it doesn't say what the poster says it does.

Now, this is speculation on my part, but I think the poster really believes that OP is saying 'passion and capacity for learning are limited to formal education at academic institutions.' I think they believe this because its how they feel when they hear the (correct) statement that enthusiasm does not equal expertise. The poster repeatedly says that they think that enthusiasm for learning is the same as expertise. They throw a tantrum after receiving the slightest, politest, disagreement. They think someone giving them advice that hey, maybe its a good idea to get a basic foundation of knowledge before cold-emailing experts is a busybody who is obsessed with lecturing them. The poster simply, demonstrably, doesn't believe expertise is real, and refuses to admit that someone else might know more or better than them. If they "care very much about getting it right," how dare you say they aren't as good as anyone with "academic training," fuck you very much you elitist jerk.

This sense is emphasized by their next paragraph. First, they shift the rhetoric framework of the conversation again. The actual claim the poster says they are defending is that "any sufficiently Deep Enthusiasm is indistinguishable from Academic Rigor" (emphasis added). Now, they are claiming that OP means that no one outside of an academic context "has the capacity to learn what rigor means in their field." These are very different claims, but the poster shits between them seamlessly.

Second, they just completely misunderstand what academic rigor is. I'm sorry, you can read every book and article and (*sigh* dear god) TED talk in the world, that doesn't make you an expert, and that's not academic rigor. A large part of academic rigor is in how you critically engage with what you read. Otherwise you just end up, at best, with a bunch of shallow facts that you can "whip out at dinner parties to impress [your] acquaintances" or sprinkle as references in arguments on tumblr to make you sound smarter.

But no, the poster confirms in the next paragraph, you don't need critical thinking or training or people who will tell you that you are wrong. All you need is the information. And if you disagree, you are arguing in favor of "the ivory tower." (Take a drink.)

In the next two paragraphs, the poster pays lip service to the idea that sure, it's easier to learn in academia. But even then, they imply that somehow that's the easy route, that good learning environments create weak men, that people who are self-taught are the ones who are actually building up the critical thinking skills because someone doesn't just "tell them the answer."

Then, before the readers have a chance to absorb, wait, did you really just say that academia is really just having someone either tell you the answer or where to look for the answer and therefore unsuitable for "sincerely love to learn," (because you are, in fact, anti-intellectual), the poster then throws in a bunch of shallow buzz phrases about how higher education isn't available to a lot of people.

And I say these are just shallow buzz phrases for two reasons. First, the poster never actually engages with this lack of access. It's just sprinkled in, like the references to Arthur C Clarke and Herodotus. (For example, no, actually, "any sufficiently MOTIVATED person" can't actually access all this information that is online. You need a stable internet connection, devices to allow you to make use of that connection, to speak or read the language those materials are published in, enough time and sleep and food and goddam shelter.)

Second, this doesn't actually have anything to do with the actual claim that the poster is supposedly defending. Remember that? Remember the position the poster is arguing for? "Any sufficiently deep enthusiasm is indistinguishable from academic rigor." How does, "some people can't go to college" support that claim, specifically?

It doesn't, which is why the poster's next paragraph instead claims that OP is arguing that "those people do not have the ability to hold themselves to a rigorous standard of learning."

Which just.

Fuck you?

Because yeah, that would be a shitty opinion to hold! And you are the only person raising it! You are explicitly making the claim - fuck, perpetrating the anti-intellectual worldview - that anyone who suggests "caring about something does not inherently equal subject matter expertise" is an elitist who thinks that everyone else, ordinary people, real Americans, are stupid.

I'm gong to be honest, this is the part of the poster's claims that made me mad enough to respond.The notes include people agreeing that academics and "experts" are actually pretty elitist, aren't they, and they deserve to be "taken down a few pegs," that suggesting that you need a baseline level of knowledge or vocabulary before you can engage deeply with a subject is "gatekeeping."

The U.S.'s institutions are crumbling as they are dismantled by people that are making these exact same arguments. There is no meaningful difference in the reasoning of the poster's argument here, and the argument that "alternative medicine" hacks who never completed their medical training have sufficient credentials to run goverment agencies, and that if you bring up their lack of credentials, well, that just proves what an elitist you are.

The "worldview" the poster does not accept - is telling you not to accept - is the idea that expertise exists at all.

And because that is an incorrect and harmful worldview, the poster has to use a bunch of rhetorical tricks to hide what they are doing. And then to sell it, they throw in a bunch of words to stir up the audience's preconceptions and biases. OP's claim (again, that enthusiasm and academic rigor are not equivalent) is "racist and imperialist." Why? Don't worry about it. Something something college is expensive and inaccessible to a lot of people. All you need to remember is that these ivory-tower academics are The Bad Thing.

*deep breath*

Anyway, knowing we need a laugh to bring the mood back up, the poster then says someone on reddit criticizing your argument is an "informal version[] of the peer-review process." Besides betraying a deep ignorance of the nature of peer-review (I guess even knowing how academic processes work is also elitist?), I think this means that the poster has to be cool with my post here, right? Because I'm just doing peer review? (Because also, just to be clear: "the academic structure of the peer review is a formalized process of the very human impulse to gleefully tell other humans when they’ve stuck their foot in their mouth." No. This is just. No.)

Next, more misstating OP's original claim. The poster says, "An institution of formal learning is not a prerequisite to pursue and absorb information," which OP already agreed with in the comments of the poster's original post.

In support of this claim that no one is arguing with, the poster than makes up a "guy at the model airplane shop who seems to know absolutely everything that has ever been known about WWII planes," and asks, "why don’t we acknowledge him as a legitimate expert?" The poster implies that this is because this guy is autistic and OP is a bigot.

But the real answer is simpler:

Unless you are referring to something you chose not to link for some reason, he's made up. He's a made up guy in your brain. And OP never said anything about him, so it's really weird for you to criticize OP for not sufficiently praising him as an expert. Fanfic isn't reality.

To the extent we are talking about real phenomenons - who do you mean by "we" and what do you mean by "acknowledge him as a legitimate expert"? There are lots of people with legitimate expertise, and in my experience, they often are recognized as such. And I don't know where you live, but outside of revenge-fantasies of conservative pundits and the people who are mislead by them, most academic experts aren't exactly exhausted and prestige and praise.

'Knowing a lot about a subject' is not the same as academic rigor. This isn't a criticism or insult to people who know a lot of things, despite your weird, self-centered hang-ups. Let me be clear here, actually: I am not an academic. I am a lawyer. I know a lot about the law in the areas I practice in. I do not practice the law "with academic rigor" because that's not really meaningful. I also like to constantly learn more about the law, including in many areas I don't practice in. I am not an expert in those areas. Just as an academic who studies the law and legal practice would not necessarily be good at actually practicing the law, my enthusiasm does not mean I have academic expertise (and my academic training is rather rusty, this many years out). This is normal? My ego is not threatened by acknowledging different kinds of expertise and knowledge exist?

And perhaps most to the point - "seems to know absolutely everything that has ever been known about WWII planes." "Seems to." An important part of academia - part of what makes it rigorous, if you will - is that you actually have to prove your expertise to other experts. They are then "recognized" as experts because there is a process the public can usually trust that they don't just "seem to" know what they are talking about. If you are talking to an amateur enthusiast - how do you know you they actually have the expertise they claim to have? Because I know of some guys who are really enthusiastic about the, claim to be experts, and have a lot of strong opinions about how they have reclaimed their Sovereign Identity by not capitalizing the letters in their name.

I agree with the poster's final paragraph. I love learning. But I can't see this as anything other than a manipulative postscript, a rhetorical trick of ending on a point of agreement and mutual enthusiasm. By a person - and I can't emphasize this enough - who refused assistance in learning and threw an enormous tantrum because someone suggested hey, maybe its a good idea to get a basic foundation of knowledge before cold-emailing experts.

[cloudedangels]

Dr’s Orders 18+

⋆⁺₊❅。

You (f reader) are ovulating, but you can't bring yourself to request what you really need… Dr. Zayne has a treatment plan for that... luckily! ● ≈4,025 words ughggh ● probably needs proofreading ● adult!!! ● mdni!!!

Tags and cw: ovulation!: the plot device, zayne, dr zayne cures you of your horny disease kinda, piv, oral (f receiving), mostly sex no plot, in the hospital of all places!, creampie, multiple rounds, fingering, established relationship implied, self indulgent smut— you know the drill

a/n: this SUCKED to write omg omg im freee you can probably tell my sauce was running out... this mostly SUCKED to write bc I am on my period a week and a half early (???) & I have 1 endometriosis (,: this is also my first time writing zayne which i hope gets better bc he's my pretty lil baby, I need him [redacted].

Go bunnie.

▪︎ next up:

☆caleb's very late birthday fic

☆extended leave pt six

☆hubby!zayne drabble

vibrator series pt 3 and pt 4

⋆⁺₊❅。

⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。

Zayne isn’t blind.

He sees the way your legs cross tighter than usual, the way your hand lingers too long on the hem of your sleeve, picking at threads like you're trying not to crawl out of your skin.

You’d stared at the closed door to his office ten times today. Every time you almost knocked, your throat had closed up. Your fingers fiddle with the edge of your sleeve again, tugging it just a little too hard until it bunches in your palm. The scent of antiseptic clings to the air, mixing with your own faint perfume, and it makes your stomach twist like a knot you can’t undo.

You'll just sit in his office and wait for him to get off as always.

And... when you see him, you're all off.

Zayne however… he knows exactly what day it is. Five days post-period. Right on schedule. He does the math in his head because, well, of course he does. He’s a surgeon. He keeps track of things.

He doesn’t mention it, not aloud. He just watches you try to wrestle yourself into stillness like you're trying to outwit your own body. He can feel it in the air—how needy you are, how tightly wound. You think you're subtle, but Zayne knows tension better than most. He lives in it and operates through it. And you're practically vibrating with it. The sterile, slightly cold office smells faintly of antiseptic and leather. Outside, the dull hum of hospital noises lingers beyond the closed door.

You won’t ask him. Not directly. Maybe you think you’re being polite. Maybe you're afraid he’ll be embarrassed. But he’s not the one squirming in a rolling chair in his office, trying to fight biology and failing.

Still, you don’t ask. You want to ask, but your voice feels small, unsure. You’ve always tried not to be a bother, this relationship is only recently sexual... but now, not asking feels like self-denial. But you can't.

So he shifts his strategy. If you won't ask him, shouldn't he ask you for a favor? That'd work wouldn't it?

He’s quiet for too long. Not in the usual way. In the way that makes your stomach twist. He’s calculating something, staring at your lips like they hold some equation he hasn’t quite solved. You feel it before he speaks—something shifting in him. Something about to snap loose? He flushes as he turns to you, words falling out like dominos.

“I need to finger you.”

His words hang in the air, clinical but sudden... like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you. His jaw's tightening briefly, a twitch of the muscle betraying the calm he’s trying to maintain. His eyes flicker down to your lips like he’s memorizing their shape… a calculation paused mid-equation.

You blink. “What?”

Your heart hammers a little faster. You want to protest, but your throat feels dry and thick, and your body answers before your brain can catch up. There's heat pooling low and insistent.

Zayne clears his throat lightly, deadpan as ever. “Desperately. I'm, ah—struggling. It’s been difficult to focus. All I can think about is the sound you make when you come. So.” He tilts his head slightly. “This is for medical reasons. Mine. Urgent.”

You're trying to make sense of this, he's usually so much more put together than this… you're so horny you don't want to deny him but… You’ve never heard him stumble like this—not even when talking you through surgical risks or listing medications. Zayne is precision incarnate. So when his voice falters, it knocks the air out of you.

“I mean… if you want, I could give you—”

“No.” He cuts you off, eyes narrowing slightly. The room seems to shrink around you. The hum of the fluorescent light overhead blurs into a steady drone as your pulse hammers in your ears. His steady gaze pins you in place, and your breath catches.

“I’m not joking. The only thing that's going to help me is your thighs on my shoulders and my fingers inside you. Repeatedly. I need to make you come, and I need to taste you while I do it. That’s the only thing that’s going to help.”

You stare at him, throat dry. “You... need... that.”

“Yes,” he says, perfectly serious. “Badly. Like, clinically.”

A beat passes. Then another.

“You’re—” you try to say something clever, but it falls flat against the heat surging in your gut.

“I’m what?” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Depraved? Professional? Pathetic?”

You whisper, “Perfect.”

Zayne exhales once through his nose, the closest he gets to smiling when he’s trying not to lose composure. There’s a twitch in the corner of his mouth, and his hand comes up—Hesitant and precise, it brushes your cheek.

“So it’s alright, then?” he says, voice softer now. “If I... lose control. Just a little… With you...”

You nod before he even finishes the sentence.

And just like that, your quiet, unbearable need—masked in silence and polite restraint—crashes into his own. His eyes flicker with something unreadable—pain, longing, something deeper. For a moment, neither of you move. Then, slow and deliberate, his fingers curl around your wrist, pulling you closer. The sharp tang of antiseptic mingles with the warm, powdery scent of his cologne, a strange but intoxicating combination that makes your breath hitch.

His lips press into yours soft and patient, and with the easy state you're in, you're already letting out a soft whimper when he kisses you with such gentleness... touches you with such wanting. You're caving into him as he pulls back, begging silently for more of his lips and the powdery scent of his cologne.

He sinks to his knees, not because you asked, but because he did. Thank God.

You’re still blinking down at him, standing with your breath shallowed, as if waiting for him to laugh and walk out. But he doesn’t. He just reaches—fingers confident, deliberate—and taps once against your knee.

“Up,” he says softly. “Come on. Be good for me. Legs over the exam table.”

You obey because you always do. But also because the way he looks at you—precise, studied, patient—makes disobedience feel impossible. Punishable, even. You scoot back on the padded surface, letting your legs fall apart, and you swear his pupils dilate just slightly.

The paper beneath your thighs crinkles loudly—embarrassingly—like it dislikes what you’re doing. The scent of antiseptic cuts through the heat in your blood. Even your shirt feels too tight, too rough. The overhead lights hum, too bright, too sterile. You feel exposed and examined. Everything feels like too much… except him.

He hums. It’s not amusement, not quite. It’s approval.

“Perfect positioning. Should’ve let me do this days ago. You’re—” He clicks his tongue once. “Edging into clinical negligence, keeping me from a treatment this vital.”

His hands are warm. Sterile. Methodical. He touches you like he’s mapping nerve endings. His thumbs press into the crease of your thighs, spreading you further. He studies you like you’re a case study, a problem he already knows how to solve but enjoys solving again anyway.

You're shaking. “And this… is... for you?” You mutter, a whisper of disbelief mixed with pleasure.

“Yes. Yes, and I want you to know,” he murmurs as he leans in, “that I’m not improvising. I’ve been thinking about this for a while. Thoroughly.”

Then he licks. Just once—slow, flat-tongued, exploratory. You jerk. He doesn’t flinch. Just shifts closer.

“Mhm,” he murmurs clinically, like he’s tasting for acidity in a dish. “As suspected.”

Another swipe. This time more pressure, more purpose. His hands keep you open, one sliding up to rest gently over your abdomen, steadying you. He moans low in his throat—not theatrical, not showy. A slip of sound, as if he forgot he could be heard.

“You’re already so sensitive,” he mutters, kissing you now, more deliberately. “This’ll take a while. Let me work. I will get everything I need from you soon enough.”

His tongue moves in slow, studied patterns. Up. Down. Spiral. Pause. A flick. A suck. He’s collecting data—what makes you twitch, what makes you sigh, what makes you gasp and grab at the table’s edges. Every time you make a sound, he shifts technique slightly. Filing it away. Adjusting. Repeating.

He doesn’t speak much. When he does, it’s all under his breath—clinical, praising, a little condescending, always devoted.

“There you go. That’s it.”

“More of that, Yes?”

“Don’t hold your breath so much. Let it happen.”

When you finally whimper out a guttural, cracked open sound, he looks up. His lips and chin glisten as he simply says, “Good. That’s one.”

As if you’re just getting started. (Because you are.) He doesn’t let up. Not even close.

He pushes in slow, deliberate. Controlled. Like he’s watching a monitor for vitals, measuring every reaction, every tremor in your body.

You gasp, nails curling against the padded table. He groans softly—a man adjusting to pressure, to heat, to you.

“God,” you whisper, already clenching. “I needed this. I—fuck, Zayne, I needed this so bad—”

“I can tell,” he murmurs, calm as ever, even as his hips settle flush against yours. “Should’ve said something sooner.”

You moan, full of frustration and want and something dangerously close to tears.

“I couldn’t. I didn’t wanna be—” You break off, panting. “Didn’t wanna bother you.”

He stills inside you. Eyes sharp. Lips parted. And then he exhales—long and quiet, like he’s biting back some deeper emotion. Maybe regret. Maybe guilt.

“You’re not a bother,” he says, low. “You never are.”

His hips roll just slightly, testing, coaxing, sending heat racing up your spine.

“If anything...” His hand slides up your side, over your ribs, soothing, grounding. “I should’ve made time for this earlier. This…” he thrusts a little deeper, “...this seems like an urgent need.”

You whimper under him. “Zayne, I—fuck, I want—”

“What do you want?”

Your face burns. Your voice shakes. But you can’t keep it in anymore.

“I want you… you to breed me... please.”

The silence after is thick.

He’s still.

Something unravels in his expression then. It’s not just arousal—it’s longing. A wish he hadn’t let himself form until you gave it voice, like he almost wants your regret. But he nods, like that need—raw, hormonal, messy—isn’t foreign to him. Like it’s the same one clawing up his own spine.

Then, slowly—gently—he fucks into you harder. Once. Twice.

“Oh,” he says quietly. “That’s what this is about...”

You’re babbling now, eyes glassy, breath hitching.

“I—I want it. I want to feel full, I want you to come inside, I want to know it’s yours—even if it’s stupid, even if it’s just my body wanting—I don’t care, I need it, please—”

Zayne brushes a hand over your cheek, thumb catching your tears before they can fall.

“It’s not stupid.”

His voice is calm. Assured. Loving in a way that makes your chest ache.

“You’re ovulating. Your hormones are spiking. Your body’s wired for this. And you’re safe with me.”

He leans over you, mouth brushing your ear.

“Anything you ever need,” he murmurs, voice rough now, strained with emotion and restraint, “you can ask me for it. Anything.”

He pulls almost all the way out, then pushes in deep—slow, worshipping.

“Especially this.”

You cry out for him again, voice cracking, and he just keeps moving, steady and full, fucking you like it’s a promise. His body warm, his voice steady, his heart loud in your ear.

“You feel so good… you wanna be bred, my love?” he whispers. “I’ll give you everything. Fill you up so deep your body won’t know anything else but mine. I like being the only one… who can fix this… problem for you.”

That's spins you undone, and when you come again—hard, sobbing his name, clenching around him like your body’s trying to keep him inside—he follows: gasping once, then going silent as he spills into you, deep and long, trembling.

Helping.

Fixing the problem.

He stays inside you for a while. Long enough that the tremble in your thighs evens out, that the ache in your belly softens from frantic to full. His hand is on your hip, steady, his breath slowing against your neck. You feel him soften inside you, but he doesn’t move to pull out, he just wraps his hand around your thigh, thumb tracing light circles. It’s as if he is still measuring your pulse through your skin.

You’re dazed. Fucked open and flushed and barely remembering where you are. He presses a kiss just below your ear. Quiet and close.

“Still with me?” he murmurs, one hand stroking your thigh like he’s grounding both of you. “Let me know if you’re dizzy. I got you.”

You nod, finally feeling like you can think with more than that warm beat between your thighs.

“…Fixed it,” he murmurs after a moment.

You let out a small, breathless laugh. “That was your treatment plan?”

“Highly effective,” he says, deadpan. “Minimal side effects. Patient satisfaction… presumed high.”

You hum and blink up at him, lips still parted. He’s looking at you, really looking, and not in the way doctors are trained to. There’s nothing detached about it now.

Then, with that surgeon’s steadiness, he pulls out slowly—so careful it makes you ache all over again—and reaches for the drawer on the wall behind you. Pulls out a warm towel like this is just another cleanup post-op.

You twitch when he touches you. Sensitive. Spent. He murmurs a soft apology, even as his hands stay precise, wiping you clean with unhurried tenderness.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” you whisper.

He glances at you. “You didn’t ask. So I had to improvise.”

You smile faintly. “You’re not mad I didn’t say anything?”

He tosses the towel aside. “I’m not mad.”

Then, more softly:

“However…I just wish you trusted me to help you. Even with this. Especially with this.”

His hand brushes your thigh again, this time more to comfort than assess. “You never have to handle it alone.”

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly thick.

“I didn’t know how,” you say.

“I’ll teach you,” Zayne murmurs. “Next time, say what you need. I’ll take care of it. I’ll take care of you. Maybe not of everything but… what I can.”

You nod, quiet.

Then he leans in again, pressing a final kiss to your collarbone. A prescription written into the touch of your skin.

And beneath it all, his voice—calm, knowing, clinical as ever:

“This appointment is incomplete, but before I continue, let's plan? Follow-up appointment… same time next cycle?”

He’s hardening again, the heat of him pressing against you, but his lips stay impossibly soft where they meet your skin. His fingers glide over you with such careful tenderness it almost aches, like he’s afraid to break something fragile inside you. His breath stutters in his throat, and when he finally looks up at you, his eyes are full of something quiet, something desperate.

“What do you want?” he asks, voice low and steady, his fingers curling around yours as if to anchor your body to him.

You swallow, heart pounding in your chest, the moment making your voice shaky. “Please… don’t stop. Not yet. Let me have this—let me have you—while you’re here, before you go back to work... before the surgeries take you away again.”

He nods slowly, swallowing hard, as if hearing that pulls something out of him. You’re full of his cum, in his office, and yet still... you want more.

“I want to care for you,” he says softly, almost like a prayer. “Let me take care of you—let me make you feel okay…”

Your breath catches, your eyes stinging. There's something in his voice—something soft, like you're worshipped. It undoes you. You nod, too overcome to speak, and he leans in to kiss you again, slower this time. A worshipful kind of kiss, one that tells you that he means it. All of it.

His hand slides between your legs, gentle, deliberate. He murmurs something you don’t catch against your cheek, and then his fingers are inside you—slow, coaxing, curling just right—and the stretch pulls a gasp from your throat.

“You’re still so wet,” he whispers, half in awe. “Still so full of my seed… and you want more?”

You whimper, your head tipping back against the couch. The way he touches you now feels different—like it’s not just about pleasure anymore, but about memory. Preservation.

“I don’t wanna forget how you feel,” he says, thumb brushing over your clit in slow, hypnotic circles. Your hips twitch under his hand, overwhelmed by the desire he builds in you. It's all too much—his voice, his touch, the heat of his body wrapped around yours—but you don’t want him to stop. God, you never want him to stop.

“I won’t let you,” you breathe. “I’ll remember for both of us.”

His mouth is on you again, but not your lips this time—his head drops lower, kissing a trail down your sternum, your stomach, until he’s kneeling between your legs.

“I want to taste you,” he says, voice rough with need. “Let me show you how good you are. How much I want you…You're doing me a favor really…”

He slips his fingers deeper, slow, deliberate, curling gently as he watches your breath hitch. You’re trembling under his touch, the way you’re spread out like a secret made just for him. His mouth moves close, breath hot against your skin.

“You’re the softest, sweetest flower,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with something between awe and need. “And I’m the luckiest man, right here, right now.”

His fingers flex inside you, teasing the spots that make you catch your breath and squeeze your thighs tight. Even after he’s already filled you once, the way he strokes and presses—there’s no doubt his desire is just as alive as yours, hungry and aching. He’s hard beneath you, the heat pressing close as he lets you feel it, a teasing promise of everything he wants.

“I told you it was for me,” he breathes, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “But really... this? It’s for both of us.” His hips shift, grinding slowly against you, the movement sending a new wave of fire through your body.

He leans down, mouth tracing a slow, burning path from your collarbone to your shoulder, lips parting just to whisper, “You make me need you. God, you make me need you so bad.”

His hands tighten around your hips as he pulls you just a little closer, filling the space between you with a quiet, fierce hunger. His fingers don’t stop, circling, curling, coaxing your body to respond again and again.

“Keep still for me,” he commands softly, voice rough like he’s holding back something fierce. “You’re mine right now. Every sigh, every shiver... it’s mine to take… I will be… your medicine…”

You’re gasping by the time he lowers his head again, mouth capturing yours in a deep, consuming kiss, and the taste of him—wanting, claiming—makes you lose the last grip you had on control.

His body is all fire and weight pressing down on you, filling the spaces inside you you didn’t even know were empty until now.

“More,” he whispers between kisses. “Always more.”

And you’re his, completely. The ache inside you answered at last.

His rhythm builds, fingers still buried deep while his other hand cradles your face—thumb brushing slow circles across your cheek, grounding you in the chaos he’s coaxing from your body. Every stroke inside you is purposeful, practiced, but full of reverence, like he’s trying to memorize you from the inside out.

“Look at me,” he says, not quite a whisper, not quite a command. Just enough to send heat licking down your spine. “I want to see you when you come undone.”

And you do—eyes wide and glassy, lashes fluttering as your breath stutters. The sight of you like this makes him groan, low and hoarse, hips jerking just slightly, betraying how close he is to the edge too, even though he hasn’t taken you fully again yet.

His fingers still, just enough to make you whimper. He presses a kiss to your jaw, then your mouth, as if that could quiet the ache.

“I could live here,” he murmurs into your lips. “Right here, inside you, around you... forever.”

Then he shifts, slow and careful, pulling his fingers free with a wet sound that makes your whole body tighten. He holds your gaze as he brings those same fingers to his mouth, tongue curling around them with a filthy sort of tenderness, eyes half-lidded, like tasting you is sacred.

“You, my dear, officially drive me undeniably insane,” he says, voice wrecked with want. “And I don’t wanna be sane again. Not so soon...”

When he finally sinks into you, it’s with a desperate groan that breaks right through you—thick and deep, every inch stretching you open like a promise. The burn is beautiful, the pressure perfect, and your body arches to meet him like it was made to.

He doesn’t rush. He moves—slow, rolling thrusts that keep you trembling, pinned under him and worshiped at once. His forehead presses to yours, sweat-slick and trembling, and for a moment he just stays there—buried inside you, eyes fluttering shut as your pulse thrums between you.

“You feel like heaven,” he breathes, and then again, “Mine.” Like he needs you to hear it more than once.

And when he starts to move in earnest, it’s with the kind of slow devastation that leaves nothing untouched. Every stroke drags a sound from your throat, every grind of his hips makes your legs shake. He’s whispering again, praise and filth mixing on his tongue:

“So tight for me. So fucking good, after this you'll learn to ask, okay? I could stay like this all night. Just you. Just us. I'll spend every break just like this, or with a mind filled with it.”

And maybe that’s exactly what you want too—him, again and again, until the world fades and all that’s left is the rhythm of his body in yours and the fire he keeps stoking, endless and aching.

He moves again, deeper this time, more sure. Not fast—not yet. But he rocks into you with the patience of a man obsessed with detail, addicted to the small shifts of your body around him, attuned to every gasp and flutter.

Your eyes roll back as you clench down, and he groans—sharp and breathless, the only crack in his otherwise impenetrable restraint.

“Fuck—tight,” he mutters, head bowing slightly. “That’s it, sweetheart. Let me feel it. That’s what I need.”

There’s nothing clinical in his voice now. It’s reverent. Hungry.

His hands are everywhere—on your hip, your thigh, pressed over your chest like he wants to memorize the stutter of your heart. You’ve never seen him like this—undone and focused, devoted. Not just having sex with you, but learning you, like you’re anatomy he wants to master, muscle and nerve and heat.

Your orgasm builds again—second? third? You’ve lost count—rising fast like a tidal wave you can’t hold back.

Zayne notices. Of course he does.

“You’re close.” It’s not a question. “Let it happen. You’re safe. You’re good. You’re mine to take care of.”

That breaks you.

You cry out, raw and sharp, body arching under him as you fall apart with a helpless sob. He takes all of it—every pulse and tremor—and doesn’t stop moving, like your pleasure is the only thing keeping him alive.

He presses his forehead to yours as you shake, still holding you, still inside.

You barely have breath to whisper it: “You really needed this?”

He laughs softly—warm, breathless, wrecked. “No... yes but,” he kisses your knuckles as he admits. “But you did.”

He kisses you—slow, deep, filled with a sweetness that makes your chest ache.

Then he adds, quiet and unshakable: “But I wanted to be the one who gave it to you.”

You blink up at him, throat tight.

“Was that... alright with you?” he asks softly. “Dr’s orders... and all.”

You smile, dazed. “Might need a follow-up appointment.”

His smirk—barely there, tired, pleased—makes your heart flutter.

“I’ll clear my schedule.” ⋆⁺₊❅。

MASTERLIST WITH ALL MY FICS

🐇my bunnies: ((comment or reblog with a 🐇 emoji to get added to the taglist for everything I write)): @starryeyed-apple @asiatic-apple

☃️snowflakes: ((just comment or reblog with a ☃️ emoji of you only want the Zayne fics only taglist)):

[youngdragon463]

1: Yes

2: My brother

3: No

4: Yes

5: Single

6: Clinging onto every ounce of life I have left all the while forcing myself to stay concious as long as possible. I dont know if Ill get another chance, so I want to go out making sure I dont leave a second unlived

7: Kabab

8: Football, Soccer. Liked neither

9: Yes

10: playing with my brother

11: I like a lot of people, however none of that is romantic or sexual.

12: No

13: I dont think so

14: Yes I miss my mom I am on a trip currently

15: Many, 3 dog 5 cat

16:

17: No

18: Yes

19: No, never, not in a million years

20: I havent

21: Continue coding a silly little minecraft project

22: Im 50/50. Im not opposed to the idea some day. The amount doesnt really matter.

23: No

24: Math and science

25: I think yes, I havent had many friends but I have moved a couple times

26: Dark Chocolate coated Caramel sprinkled in corse salt

27: I hope not, I havent been in a relationship so probobly no

28: No

29: No

30: Coding is hard

31: I have many people who care for me. I am compleatly oblivous if anyone is attracted 5k me however but I think not.

32: Azure

33: No

34: Tensura

35: My Mother

36: Others might think so, but my logic is as long as their capable of wanting change thats enough for me.

37: Forgive, I refuse to forget I will grasp onto every memory I can

38: I think so

39: Older than I am now

40: No

41: Soup

42: No, their is no true reason for anything, the beauty of intelligent life is that they created the concept of meaning

43: Bathroom

44: No, if your done with a relationship end it before you do somthing with someone else, if your not in a situation to do so, fight for a safe enviornment

45: No, I will only be mean in jest. I belive a lot of people have gentleness confused with "softness"

46: Depends on your meaning, technically ive never been in a real fight, but I have come to blows with my brother, most of the time its for fun not for argument and never serious enough to draw blood.

47: Yes and no, I dont belive in the idea that some people are just magically perfect for eachother on contact. But I do belive that you can foster a truly healthy bond with another by learning and growing from eachother

48: Rain

49: Yes

50: Im not opposed to the idea but I doubt I would find someone for me and that concept doesnt bother me. The marrage itself doesnt matter to me anyone I form a sufficently strong bond with automatically becomes someone I want to spend time with. I dont truly understand the concept of romanticism.

51: Ive never been called such so I dont know how id feel.

52:

53: No I would not change it but having multiple would be cool. In a lot of fantasy many powerful entities have mutiple names and one true name that holds power over their being. I would want a true name and possibly another one so my govt/actual name, my true name, and my personally/altetnate name I just think it would be neat, it wouldnt like be different personalitys or identies though more just like different things to call me.

54: No

55: I cant even be my compleat self in isolation what do you think?

56: I would want to talk about it with them so I can truly understand how they feel and why. I would want to handle the situation delicatly and explain to them that while I dont feel the same I do have an increadible bond with them and I dont want them to drift away because of it.

57: My Step Mother

58: My Mother

59: No

60: Yes my closest friends and family. Their is no pain I wouldnt endure to keep them safe.

The post whent from 40 to 51 so theres only 60. That took a while

@the-fallen-collective

70 horrible questions ... Fuck it

01: Do you have a good relationship with your parents? 02: Who did you last say “I love you” to? 03: Do you regret anything? 04: Are you insecure? 05: What is your relationship status? 06: How do you want to die? 07: What did you last eat? 08: Played any sports? 09: Do you bite your nails? 10: When was your last physical fight? 11: Do you like someone? 12: Have you ever stayed up 48 hours? 13: Do you hate anyone at the moment? 14: Do you miss someone? 15: Have any pets? 16: How exactly are you feeling at the moment? 17: Ever made out in the bathroom? 18: Are you scared of spiders? 19: Would you go back in time if you were given the chance? 20: Where was the last place you snogged someone? 21: What are your plans for this weekend? 22: Do you want to have kids? How many? 23: Do you have piercings? How many? 24: What is/are/were your best subject(s)? 25: Do you miss anyone from your past? 26: What are you craving right now? 27: Have you ever broken someone’s heart? 28: Have you ever been cheated on? 29: Have you made a boyfriend/girlfriend cry? 30: What’s irritating you right now? 31: Does somebody love you? 32: What is your favourite color? 33: Do you have trust issues? 34: Who/what was your last dream about? 35: Who was the last person you cried in front of? 36: Do you give out second chances too easily? 37: Is it easier to forgive or forget? 38: Is this year the best year of your life? 39: How old were you when you had your first kiss? 40: Have you ever walked outside completely naked? 51: Favourite food? 52: Do you believe everything happens for a reason? 53: What is the last thing you did before you went to bed last night? 54: Is cheating ever okay? 55: Are you mean? 56: How many people have you fist fought? 57: Do you believe in true love? 58: Favourite weather? 59: Do you like the snow? 60: Do you wanna get married? 61: Is it cute when a boy/girl calls you baby? 62: What makes you happy? 63: Would you change your name? 64: Would it be hard to kiss the last person you kissed? 65: Your best friend of the opposite sex likes you, what do you do? 66: Do you have a friend of the opposite sex who you can act your complete self around? 67: Who was the last person of the opposite sex you talked to? 68: Who’s the last person you had a deep conversation with? 69: Do you believe in soulmates? 70: Is there anyone you would die for?

[doodleodds]

Still feel like always returning after 2 years? /pos

I'd love to see more of your art if you're still doing it, I love looking at your older art hope you have a great day✨️✨️

Haha yeah, I'm still around! Has it really been two years since I last posted?? Good lord. Here's something summery that I finished up as a thanks for sticking with me :) I hope YOU have a great day! ✨️✨️✨️

bonus image of how many times i had to export to make sure my timing was right lmao

[inhuman-obey-me]

do you remember the ask you did for the brothers about mc catching them doing something demonic?? could you do that but with the side characters?

Hi hello this is WAY overdue and I am so sorry it's taken this long to get around to it if you're even still around!! But yes, definitely wanted to do a version with the side characters for this. These...got much longer than the previous ones, so please take that as an apology for taking years to get to this.

Previous post referenced can be found here!

[Mod Cosmos]

MC accidentally catching the Side Characters being Demonic or Violent

content warning: blood, gore, implied body horror

Note: As before, this is from the perspective of an MC that might just not want to necessarily see all this

DIAVOLO

You were staying the night at the Demon Lord's Castle, exhausted after a long day running around with Diavolo. Despite your exhaustion, you find yourself waking up in the middle of the night — and notice that the Demon Prince is no longer resting beside you. Wondering where he's gone and figuring he must have had something to do, you try and fall back asleep, but to no avail. After some tossing and turning, you decide to get up and take a walk to the garden, hoping that its usual tranquility will help bring back the slumber that now escapes you.

On your way, you hear a distant crash, like glass shattering against stone. Remembering the many stories of how haunted the castle was, a chill creeps down your spine. You know its better to leave it be (just go to the garden, you tell yourself) but your curiosity gets the better of you, as it always does. With careful steps, you make your way down the hall from where you heard the crash, the portraits on the wall watching your every move with morbid glee. Every cell in your body is screaming for you to turn back, and you almost do — until you hear a hysterical laugh swiftly cut off by an agonized yell. A muffled voice soon follows, and you recognize it well.

"Your mistake, like all your predecessors, is mistaking my tolerance for weakness." Diavolo's voice becomes clear as you creep towards an archway, and your heart leaps into your throat at the scene before you. Blood stains the walls, a demon you don't recognize made further unrecognizable by the disfigurement of his flesh, as if it was melting from his bones. "A pity it had to come to this, Guthor. I'll send my regards to your little association." The mockery in the prince's voice is rare to hear, and in a flash the other demon is reduced to nothing but cinders.

"—MC?" Your startled at the sound of your name, and before you can blink you find yourself staring into worried golden eyes. "What are you doing here?! You should be asleep." His four wings fully unfurl, as if to block your view of the gruesome remains. "I…I apologize that you witnessed that." He cups your chin, taking in your unsettled expression. "I'll answer any questions you have, but let's first return to my room, shall we? I'll get you whatever you need."

BARBATOS

Your whole body vibrates as bass, drums, and discordant guitar riffs pour out the speakers at Tartarus Hall, a metal show well underway. It's not the usual environment one would find Barbatos, but you jumped at the chance to accompany him to the show when he cautiously offered. It delighted you to see him outside of the stiffness of his day-to-day duties, and although he still doesn't seem to break too much from his usual statuesque nature, you can certainly tell he's more relaxed.

Eventually deciding to take a break from the rowdy crowd, the two of you make your way to the bar for some much needed refreshments. As Barbatos hands you a drink, you notice something grabs his attention — and an ominous shadow falls over his features. Positioning you safely in a corner by the bar, Barbatos gives you a small smile.

"I'm going to use the restroom, so please stay here until I get back."

You nod and wait patiently, enjoying the music from a distance while sipping your drink, wondering what it was that really captured his attention. After a while, you find yourself with an empty glass and still no Barbatos in sight, so you decide you'll make a quick trip to the restroom yourself. After asking the bartender to let your demon companion know of your whereabouts if he gets back before you do, you make your way through the crowd and down a narrow hall lit with neon signs — and that's when you start to hear it. Screams.

At first, you wonder if its just from the vocalist on stage, but it sounds far closer to you than from the speakers. With a gulp, you cautiously turn a corner and can soon make out a familiar voice, muffled behind a door that isn't quite closed all the way. Peering in, you see Barbatos towering over another, a sharp object in his hand glistening with blood. You stomach twists. "I wish I could have more time with you, but I must return to someone far more important." He sighs, ignoring the other's pleas for mercy. "All you traitors sing the same."

In an instant, the other demon is dead on the floor. Before you can even move to take a step back, you find yourself face-to-face with Barbatos, a gasp leaving your lips as his tail captures your waist and pulls you away from the scene and back to the neon corridor.

"You can't help yourself, can you, dear?" Barbatos scolds, though his gaze softens as he checks you over. "I apologize for leaving you for so long, and for having to witness that. Let's go enjoy the rest of the show for now, shall we?"

SIMEON

It had been some time since your last visit to the human world, so Simeon had decided to gift you with a surprise trip — just the two of you, enjoying all that this coastal city had to offer. There was also a local festival in full swing, which meant dragging Simeon stall to stall to try a variety of food and play some games. You both eventually take a break away from all the festivities to enjoy the sunset, the last rays of the daylight disappearing into the horizon as waves crash on rocks below. You turn to smile at Simeon, but notice that something feels…off. In fact, you had sensed a feeling of tension from him since an encounter earlier that day with a less-than-friendly stranger.

"Simeon? Are you okay? You're not still thinking about that guy, are you?"

"Hm? Oh, yes, I'm sorry." Whatever darkness his eyes held a moment ago disappears, his gaze gentle as he looks to you. "Just a little tired, not to worry. Why don't you go look at some souvenirs," he motions to a cute store a few steps away, "…to bring back for the others, and I'll go fetch us some coffee?"

You agree, though can't quite shake off your concern. Watching from the corner of your eye, you see Simeon wander off before turning into an alley. Leaving the souvenir shopping behind, you decide to follow the angel to see what he's really up to. It's quieter in this part of town, and even quieter in the alley with no cafe in sight. You hear a dull thud and quickly follow the noise, peeking around a corner down another alley — only to freeze at what you saw.

It's a dead-end, and a man is backed up against the brick wall, holding a knife out towards Simeon as if in self-defense. You recognize the man as the one who had harassed you earlier, nearly bruising your arm when he tried to drag you off somewhere. You had managed to shake him off and thought that was the end of it, but Simeon clearly had other ideas.

An ethereal glow emanates from the angel, your eyes beginning to sting as your vision becomes slightly warped. The man opens his mouth as if to scream, but no sound comes out, and he drops his knife to the floor. "You are lucky I am only giving you a warning," Simeon's voice seems to echo, his hand now splayed out across the other's chest. "Reflect on your actions and repent, or next time you won't be so lucky."

A flash of light momentarily blinds you, causing you to stumble back. As you regain a sense of your surroundings, you find your face cupped by gentle hands and your gaze met with bewildered celestial eyes.

"MC! I…I'm sorry. That man continued to follow us throughout the day and was intent on hurting you." His voice is full of worry, his fingers flitting across your body to ensure that you were okay. "You weren't supposed to see that."

"Is he—?" You begin to ask.

"He'll be fine, just…terrified for quite some time." Simeon clears his throat, his features showing relief once he's confirmed you're not harmed. "Let's go get something to eat, okay? Whatever you want."

SOLOMON

The last few weeks had been a whirlwind, filled with various events and obligations that had kept you away from your sorcerer studies with Solomon. Far overdue for a lesson, you were finally getting together tonight to practice a few new complicated spells. You decide to stop by the market to pick up a few snacks, texting Solomon to ask if there's anything he wants. A few minutes pass and he fails to respond, so you give him a quick call, assuming he's probably not paying attention to his DDD.

No answer. You sigh and decide to just get what you know he likes before making your way to Purgatory Hall. Taking the more scenic route, you leisurely walk through one of your favorite parks, going over some of the spells in your head — but your mind begins to wander as you notice that Solomon still hasn't returned your texts or call, even though he should be expecting you later. He was usually quick to respond, especially when it came to his "favorite apprentice", as he so often said. He's probably just deep in one of his books or experiments, you assure yourself, but the slight sense of unease forming in your stomach won't go away.

Then, you sense it. A faint warmth on your hand coming from the sorcerer's ring that Solomon had gifted you. He had recently imbued a spell on both your ring and his to let you know when the other was close, but you still were no where near Purgatory Hall. Rather, the ring was pulling you towards another path that went into the forest.

"Stop, stop! I'm sorry, okay?!" You eventually hear a coarse voice, so you quietly hide behind a tree and peer around to see what's going on, eyes widening at what you find. A demon seems to be brutally bound to the floor, blood seeping from his eyes and mouth as he looks up and pleads to the sorcerer who put him in such a position.

"Coming to your senses after you tried to take away mine?" Solomon answers in a mocking and cold tone. "You should have known better than to try your tricks on me, Pinen." He takes a few steps towards the demon, squatting down to get more to his level. "And," his voice is dangerously low and furious, "…you should have thought twice before trying to threaten my apprentice. Have fun getting out of this one."

The demon opens his mouth to scream, but you blink and he's gone. You blink again and find Solomon before you, his hands gently gripping your shoulders and worry in his eyes, a shadow of guilt on his features. Of course, he must have sensed you were nearby.

"Hey, I'm sorry, I didn't mean for you to get caught up in this." He glances down and scoops up the bag that you must have dropped at some point. "I'll explain what happened and what I did once we're out of here, okay?"

[unvrsoflyly]

Simple.

— content: 1.4k, fluf, gn reader, pre established relationship (can be seen as platonic ngl), modern!au, horribly bad at design choices phainon mentioned, HAPPY PHAINON BC HE DESERVES IT☹️☹️, miiight be ooc bc it was written on a whim and i really focused more on his silly little happy guy persona more for this one, eng is not my first language + NOT PROOF READ so be ready for errors😔

note: hi hiii!! omg posted two ff in a year, shockers! hope you like this one, i wish there was more phainon content with how brainrotted i am so i made smth, might not be super super good bc erm i always write when im tired, anyways hope you enjoy this little thing one week before his banner! (him and his lightcone WILL come home.)

! art creds to hoyoverse (honkai: star rail)

Moving in with Phainon felt oddly simple. So eager to share his space with someone he loves and excited to see parts of his partner’s mundane life under the same roof as his. It was only going to be three days since they moved in. There’s boxes half empty still scattered around the apartment. The furniture is all in its place, but it looks so stiff and out of place in the new environment.

Phainon makes the new domestic feelings of living with a significant other so easy. Waking up to a simple good morning in person, not by a simple string of words on a screen. Watching each other’s routine before heading out for their respective responsibility. Laughing because of how horrible the new recipe cooked together looks. Lazing around the house in a comfortable silence with no pressure to express unnecessary thoughts. They know they could get through the eventual challenges that will come their way together, no matter the difficulty.

So, it’s not a surprise to wake up to a happy boyfriend almost every morning, but today he seemed more enthusiastic (if it’s even possible…) “We’ve been working all these days to make it our home, but it’s missing one thing” is what he said before falling asleep, promising to organize an activity. A surprise. He won’t even slip one word. Is he planning to show his newly bought decorations? As much as Phainon is a sweetheart, his choices in aesthetics are really peculiar. It was endearing, yes, but who would want eventual visitors to be met with a blasting mess of colours.

Either way, today’s the day to find out his scheming. Nothing was out of the ordinary. He usually woke up first because he liked to do a little run around the block. He’s mostly doing this these past few days to look around the place. He seems to know a bunch of things now: restaurants, cafés, small shops, parks and even some people living close by. The sound of a door opening made you head to the entryway. Tuff of slightly damp hair from the exercise is the first thing you can see while he removes his shoes. There’s a small package beside him.

“And me who hoped you’ll finally join me on a small run today” he sighs. He won’t push more, he’s more on the active side but would never force it on anyone, though sometimes he wished you would move a bit more to keep a healthy body. “Keep dreaming, it might end up happening” you laughed, eyeing the package. “Did you eat something before leaving? I cut some fruits if you want” he looked at the plate in your hand, filled with the fruits he remembers picking for you, thinking it would be refreshing for the start of the summer season. He thanks you while taking a piece of apple and heads to the living room with his mysterious new purchase.

His voice gets you out of your questioning daze. “Yesterday, I ran into a small shop selling some arts and craft supplies. I thought it would be fun to create our own matching mugs!” You remember mentioning to him how silly it would be to do them once you move in together. He got a bit flustered knowing he would get teased over his design choices though his eyes showed how excited he was to the idea. He was always willing to do silly couple things if it meant passing more time together.

You head closer to where he was putting down the blank mugs and the variety of paints. You decide to go take a cup of water for the little paint brushes still in his hands and some worn out towels to clean them in between colours. He installed some of the decorative couch pillows on the floor to sit down on. You looked at the big amount of supplies for two people spread on an old towel with familiar cartoonish faces of an old childhood show (he insisted on keeping it.) Not like you were completely broke, but you were still figuring out the whole ‘depending on our own source of income for survival’ thing, so you wondered if he took it from his personal savings just to be safe.

You sat down and put the plate of fruits aside, waiting for some sort of instructions. All he did was let a little laugh escape while putting the mug in your hands, giving you the green light to let your creativity free. Only one rule: paint the mug he will be using.

You started painting simple forms with pastel colours, easier to make them fit with each other. While he was painting, he shared bits and pieces of what he encountered this morning. A young boy heading to school who looked at him the wrong way (maybe because he purposefully chose those horrendous flashy socks that he swears are practical and fashionable), an elderly woman who’s been praising him ever since he helped her with her groceries or the dog he saw at the park on his way back.

You wondered what he could be painting with such a focused expression on his face, his brow’s knitting lightly and you could swear he was close to sticking his tongue out. You knew arts wasn’t one of his strengths, but he was willing to try and learn. If it’s from his heart, it will hold more value then any piece you can buy. Over time, stains of multiple shades are all over the towel accompanied with the mess spread on the skin of your hands.

After a while, the sun was fully up in the sky and by that time the masterpieces were dried enough to do a reveal. Phainon insisted on seeing yours first. He sneaked a look every now and then, he couldn’t wait to see how it turned out!

You held his mug out. It was a simple field painted like a talented young child would do. There were flowers and trees covering the ground decorated with a beautiful sunny sky with bits of clouds. At the front, there was a dog with white fur and blue highlights leaning its head on a greyish cat sitting beside it. Your friends often compared him to a very loyal dog. In that case, you would be the cat. Calmer, more reserved, but still very affectionate to the people you cared for. You wanted to make a scenery reminiscent of his rural hometown. He told you many times how he cherishes this place and growing up there made him who he is today. It’s not much, but you hoped you gave him a bit of his home from the glimpse you saw the first time you visited.

The shine in his eyes tells you enough: he loves it. He hugs you exclaiming how cute this is! And how adorable the both of you would be as cats and dogs! He pulls away and puts his hand over your eyes. “It’s not as pretty as yours, but I hope you like it still.” He finally hands you his masterpiece and removes his hand obstructing your vision.

You are met with a wonky ‘I ♡ my bf’ with an equally awkward self portrait of himself as a stick figure inside the heart. He always teased that he would buy a set of personalized shirts like those, whether it’s going to be stay at home clothes is up to you, but you know he would wear that proudly. You were drawn right beside it, with some sort of pointy arrow to signify you are the one saying this loud and clear. You stifle a sweet laugh before looking up to meet clear blue eyes already fixated on you, a soft smile gracing his lips. “Soooooo.. do you like it?” You nodded before leaning in for a hug.

He did make the big step of living with a significant other for the first time easy, or at least he tries to. He’s always so eager to spice up the day and make it special, even if it’s one of those mundane repetitive days. He doesn’t expect you to necessarily do things the exact same way, but you are sure you’ll try to show your care in your own ways, in ways he will understand like you understand his.

Yeah, moving in with Phainon is simple.

thank u for reading! - all rights reserved, ask before reposting somewhere or doing a translation

[knightoflodis]

I know that this is probably meant to encompass all media with female characters getting hated on by the fans. But I have been so deep into Korean webcomics and webnovels this feels like a targeted callout to the comments sections of so many of the stories I have read. Like. There are people cheering for a female character that gets her life completely ripped apart solely because she was a bit jealous of the female lead and tried to get in the way but did little to no actual harm. It’s insane how too many of those stories treat female characters that are not the main character and how absolutely abhorred those characters are by the fans. And I feel so much sympathy for a lot of them. It’s also insane how quickly they attack female characters for being a bit mean or a bit flawed (like a character that was raised in a society where non-pure nobles are seen as lesser and she is prejudiced against a lady like that because of her upbringing and because she wants to protect her lord’s standing and she was so hated in the comments when her words and actions made perfect sense because of the world that she is in, plus it is obvious that she is going to grow and change).

OP I am grateful for your post. These female characters need more love. They need more love by fans and they need more love by their authors so that they don’t just get tossed into a trash heap.

I love you hated female characters. I love you female characters who are flawed. I love you female characters who mess up and try to do the right thing after. I love you female characters who get the undeserved vitriol from fans. I love you female characters who fans completely condemn because of one mistake they made. I love you female characters who fans completely condemn because of one mistake they made as a child. I love you female characters who people blame for ripping apart their ships instead of the larger forces that be. I love you female characters who get all the hate as the male characters who do worse in canon get absolutely none. I love you female characters who get hated on because they told a man “no.”

[batsandbirdbrains]

All your posts about Dick being younger than everyone thought at first is making me think of a scenario farther in the future, with all the batkids playing never have I ever or something, and Dick's real age comes out. And none of them really bat an eye at it first, because at this point Dick is a legitimate adult. But later it dawns on them just how young he was when he first started and DID BUCE EVEN KNOW???

Okay but the batkids getting together when they’re like all in their 20s. Dick is supposedly 28, Jason is 26, Tim is 23, and Damian is like 18ish.

And what’s the question god I’ve been wracking my brain trying to think of a good one.

Okay it’s lame but I’m gonna go with Tim saying “Never have I ever smoked a cigarette before I was a teenager” because they all knew Jason had an unfortunate experience with a cigarette when he was 12 and they always make fun of him for it.

But then Dick takes a drink and they all hound him to find out how he had a cigarette before he was 13 when he lived with Bruce, the world’s biggest helicopter parent.

“Roy got a pack when he was like 18 and all the Titans tried one. They were pretty good, actually, but I coughed like hell for like five straight minutes,” Dick tells them. Then he snorts and laughs and adds, “Wally threw up.”

“Wait, how old were you?”

Dick starts counting on his fingers, then shrugs.

“Like, ten? Maybe eleven?”

“Isn’t Roy only five years older than you?”

And Dick realizes he fucked up, and he tries to start back pedaling and laugh it off and say he misremembered, but they all hound him for it.

“Wait, Roy is 33 right now,” Jason argues. “How fucking old are you, Dickhead? Because your math isn’t making any sense!”

“Just leave it alone, Jason!”

“No, no,” Tim pipes in. “If you were ten when an eighteen year old Roy gave you a cigarette, that means you’re 25 right now.”

“Shut up, Tim! No one asked you to do math!”

“Oh my fucking God, Dick-for-brains, are you younger than me?” Jason gapes at him, then gags. “I am NOT the oldest here! No! I refuse!”

“Then fucking leave it alone then!”

“Does Father know?”

They all whip their heads towards Damian, who’s swirling around the bottle of beer they let him have. He raises an eyebrow at all of them.

“No,” Dick eventually says, his voice strangled. “And no one is going to tell him.”

“What’s in it for me?”

Dick narrows his eyes at Damian, who’s smirking at him.

“You’ve been hanging out with Jason too much.”

“That’s no way to speak about your elders, Dickie!” Jason says with glee. When Dick glares at him in return, Jason holds his hands up in surrender and backs away. “Just kidding, just kidding.”

“This information does not leave this room,” Dick warns all of them. “I know where you all sleep. Don’t test me.”

“Damn, dude,” Tim whispers. “Fine, fine. What do you want, a blood pact?”

“Are you offering?” Dick asks, pulling a wing ding out of his pocket.

“Do you just carry those around?” Jason asks, laughing.

“Obviously. Now everyone hold out your palms.”

“Spit pact, spit pact!” Tim begs. “Don’t make me mix blood with the demon brat!”

“You’re just jealous my blood is superior to yours!”

Jason is the first to spit into his palm, then he holds his hand out.

“Just put your fucking hands in, gremlins,” he orders. Then he shudders and turns to Dick. “No, I do not want to be the oldest. You can keep the role. This secret dies with us.”

“That’s what I thought,” Dick says haughtily, spitting into his own palm and holding his hand out too.

Tim and Damian both groan and whine, but they join the spit pact with the other two. No one ever tells Dick’s secret.

[sweetromanova]

Claw & Order: Part Two🐾

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Summary: Natasha Romanoff is being accused of grand theft feline. The evidence? A very smug tabby. The problem? She kinda loves him now.

A/N: part three and four to follow👀

Chapter Two

“HEY! YOU- YOU- CAT-THIEF!” Natasha looked up.

You were storming down the stairs of your building like you’d been lying in wait, fists clenched, murder in your eyes, a crumpled flyer flapping like a war banner in one hand. You pointed at her with all the rage of someone who had been personally victimised by every member of SHIELD.

“I knew it.” You shouted, practically vibrating. “I knew someone stole my cat- YOU stole my cat!”

Natasha raised a brow. “Excuse me-“

“You kidnapped him! You cat-napped him! An Avenger CAT NAPPED MY CAT?! How righteous.” Your voice was borderline hysterical now, rising with every word. “You lured him with your fancy assassin snacks and your deceptively soft clothes and he fell for it like a TRAITOR!”

Liho meowed, completely unfazed.

“You think I wouldn’t notice?” You snapped, jabbing the flyer toward her face. “This photo has been up in every coffee shop and bodega within twenty blocks!”

“I didn’t see it.” Natasha said evenly, trying to not escalate the situation. “He showed up at the tower and I thought he was a stray.”

“Oh yeah? Just conveniently stray enough to wander past all the fancy Stark tech and security guards and make himself comfortable on your designer duvet?

Natasha blinked. “He… has good taste.”

“HE HAS A MICROCHIP!”

“I didn’t scan him.” This was going no where, Natasha thought. “Look I fed him tuna once. Maybe twice.”

“TUNA?!”

“It was organic.”

“You seduced my cat!”

Natasha stared. “…I’m sorry. I what?”

“You seduced him with room service and shiny toys and now he thinks he’s too good for my IKEA furniture!”

Natasha glanced down at the carrier, where Liho was poking his paw through the mesh, entirely unbothered by your escalating volume.

“I didn’t plan this. I didn’t steal him. He just kept coming back.”

“Oh, right.” You scoffed, sarcasm dripping. “Like some furry little Mission Impossible agent, scaling compound walls and disabling Stark defenses to get a snack from a redacted Russian spy? That’s your defense?”

“…He’s very agile.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You better be glad I don’t press charges.”

“I already brought him back.” Natasha pointed out.

“Too late! The damage is done! I’ve been crying into a $12 pint of oat milk ice cream for three days! Three! I thought he was in a gutter!”

Natasha said nothing. She could’ve explained, maybe. Apologized, awkwardly. But you were on a roll now, hands flailing as you listed her crimes.

“Do you know how many times I circled this neighborhood? How many hours I spent crouching in alleyways calling him like a sad ex at 2am? You stole my cat, you tuna-wielding homewrecker!”

“…That’s new.” Liho chirped like he found that accurate.

“I’m taking him back.” You snapped, reaching for the carrier. “And you- you can go back to your lonely, emotionally repressed murder-bed without him.”

Natasha didn’t fight you.

You took one last glance of anger at her and turned, muttering angrily under your breath as you stormed away.

Natasha watched you go. Under her breath, she whispered. “You’re welcome.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

There was something about the post-mission debrief that always felt like therapy with too many snacks. Except this time, no one had been on a mission. And Natasha was very much not planning to talk about feelings. Or cats. Or the fact that her apartment now felt weirdly quiet.

She sipped her drink slowly, eyes fixed on the news silently scrolling across the TV. Clint dropped onto the couch beside her with a grunt.

“You good?” He asked, reaching for a bowl of popcorn like it hadn’t been someone else’s hand.

“Fine.”

“Sure.” He said, unconvinced. “You’ve been brooding harder than usual. Even for you.”

“I am not brooding.”

“You’re brooding in HD.”

Sam strolled in from the kitchen, grinning. “Is this about the cat?”

Clint perked up. “Wait- what cat?”

Wanda entered right behind him, looking way too pleased with herself. “Oh.” She said sweetly, grabbing a sparkling water. “You mean Liho? The one Natasha definitely didn’t steal?”

Natasha exhaled slowly. “I didn’t steal him.”

Wanda flopped onto the other couch and crossed her legs. “Sure. He just ‘appeared’ in your room. Every day. For a week.”

Sam grinned. “With his own blanket and feeding schedule.”

Clint’s mouth dropped open. “Wait, you adopted a cat?!”

“I didn’t adopt him.” Natasha muttered. “He adopted me. And I gave him back.”

Wanda sipped her drink. “After the yelling.”

“What yelling?” Clint was nearly vibrating now. “Who yelled at you?!”

“Can I just say I’m never telling you anything again Witch?!” Natasha looked up, deadpan. “His original owner found me, in the street as I tried to return him. Yelled at me for ‘seducing her cat with premium tuna and fancy furniture.”

There was a moment of silence.

Then Clint exploded. He doubled over on the couch, practically weeping with laughter. Sam dropped his drink. Wanda didn’t even try to hide her smirk.

“Oh my god.” Clint wheezed.

“No!” Sam shouted. “NO WAY! She really gave it to you? To your face?!”

“She accused me of ‘weaponising tuna against her.’”

Clint was now on the floor.

Wanda raised a brow. “…Did you?”

Natasha blinked. “It was organic.”

More howling.

Clint was trying to breathe. “You- you- an international assassin got publicly shamed for catnapping via affection. This is better than the Budapest file.”

Sam wiped his eyes. “Please tell me there’s security footage.”

“There’s probably footage from some security camera.”Wanda said smugly. “FRIDAY?”

“Would you like it on the main screen?”

“No!” Natasha snapped.

“Yes.” The team chorused, she was never living this down.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Natasha lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. It was quiet, no soft grumbles, no light breathing or purring.

She’d already cleaned the corner where his toy mouse used to be, washed the blanket, closed the window Liho used to sit in.

She hadn’t realised how used to the soft weight of him she’d become. The purring, the judging stares when she didn’t finish her food.

She exhaled.

“…I am not a cat-seducing menace.”

No one answered.

Except, maybe, the empty spot at the foot of her bed.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

It was a couple days later and the morning had started like any other, mildly chaotic. Clint had stolen Wanda’s yogurt bowl, Steve was pretending not to notice and Sam was arguing with FRIDAY about music choices in the gym.

“Something’s going on downstairs.” Tony commented, looking at the security alert on his phone.

“Something as in nothing or something as in I’ve got to suit up?” Sam questioned, praying for the first part.

“Nah, it’s nothing. Some crazy woman shouting about a cat.”

Clint didn’t miss how Natasha’s tensed.

“Maybe we should ask Friday.” He suggested, still staring at the redhead that was looking everywhere but him.

“I mean sure, if you care so much.” Tony shrugged, clueless to the growing tension. “Friday, what’s the situation in the lobby?”

“It appears a civilian in the lobby is demanding to speak with Agent Romanoff. They’re… emotionally distressed and accusing you of cat theft. Again.”

Wanda dropped her spoon into her cereal.

Clint spun in his chair. “No. Way.”

“I don’t have the cat!” Natasha exclaimed.

“Wait- What Cat?” Tony was left ignored as the redhead stormed downstairs.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You were already yelling by the time security hesitantly opened the doors.

“WHERE IS SHE?”

The receptionist blinked. “I- Can I help-“

“Don’t play dumb, I know she’s here! Natasha Romanoff! Red hair, dead eyes, probably smells like tuna and theft!”

You held up the flyer, crumpled, tear-streaked, freshly re-printed.

“Milo’s gone. Gone! And do you know what that means?” You shouted, spinning toward a confused security guard. “It means someone took him. And there’s only one person insane and manipulative enough to do that! THE CAT-SNATCHING, TUNA-BRIBING ASSASSIN HERSELF.”

There was a long pause as your words echoed through the lobby.

Then the elevator dinged.

Natasha stepped out and stopped. “…What the hell is happening?”

You turned slowly, eyes bloodshot, fists clenched like this was round two of a grudge match no one else was ready for.

“You.” You hissed, voice shaking. “You took him again.”

Natasha’s brow furrowed. “What—”

“Don’t play innocent. He was fine until you got your emotionally stunted hands all over him. Now he’s vanished. Again. Like a tiny, furry double agent with a jetpack.”

Natasha opened her mouth. Closed it.

Behind her, Sam whispered. “Should we be calling, like, a professional?”

Clint leaned over the balcony. “Let them fight.”

You stomped closer, tears barely contained. “He slept in my laundry basket. He batted my toothbrush under the fridge! We cuddled! I thought he was safe and then I come home and he’s just gone and there’s only one person who’s ever made him leave before- you!”

“I didn’t take him.” Natasha said, quietly but firmly.

“You didn’t not take him either!”

Natasha stepped forward, voice low. “Do you really think I’d take him after everything? After what you said to me on the street?”

You faltered.

The weight of everything slammed into you, panic, sleep deprivation, guilt, missing fur and empty corners and all the soft little rituals that had vanished with him.

“I-“

“I don’t have your cat. I returned him the second I found out he was missing.” Natasha explained. “So I’m sorry he’s gone but I didn’t take him.”

“But-“

“Are you sure he’s missing?”

“I’m sure. He doesn’t do this, ever. We don’t have much but…” You faltered, tears springing in your eyes. “We don’t have much but we have each other and he’s never left for this long.”

Natasha hesitated.

“I just want him back.” You whispered, suddenly feeling just so so tired.

For a second, just one heartbeat, Natasha’s expression cracked, worry flickering through her cool mask.

“…Let me help.”

You looked up at her, startled. “What?”

“Let me help you find him.”

You blinked. “But… I- I shouted at you.”

Natasha sighed. “You did and maybe I deserved some things you said.”

“Not the tuna thing.” You muttered.

“No, definitely not the tuna thing.” She said. “I fed him. I didn’t brainwash him.”

“He chose you over me.”

“He chose whoever had snacks. Don’t take it personally.”

You almost laughed. Almost.

She held out her hand. “Let me help.”

You hesitated… then nodded.

Somewhere above you, Sam whispered. “So is this a rom-com now or what?”

Clint was already placing a new bet in the group chat.

[vshiftsss]

AN INTERVIEW WITH YASMIN MONET - (KATSEYE DR)

questions from this post by @heartavenue!!

𝖭𝗈𝗐 𝖯𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀: 𝖦𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝖸𝖺𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗇 𝖬𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖪𝖠𝖳𝖲𝖤𝖸𝖤 | 𝖳𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖵𝗈𝗀𝗎𝖾

INTERVIEWER: Before we start, can you just introduce yourself for anyone who may not know you?

YASMIN: Of course! Hello everyone, my name is Yasmin Monét, and I am a singer, dancer, and actress. Though my most notable role is my position in KATSEYE as the leader, one of two main dancers, and a vocalist.

INTERVIEWER: What is your favorite memory of the Dream Academy?

YASMIN: My favorite memory by far is when we all went to Korea for a mission. It was such an eye-opening experience, to absorb an entirely new culture, an entirely new environment...plus, we got to see HYBE headquarters? We got to meet LE SSERAFIM? Literally one of the best moments of my life. In that moment, I knew I had to secure my spot in KATSEYE.

INTERVIEWER: What is your least favorite memory from the show?

YASMIN: Every time someone got eliminated. It would always leave such a gloomy effect on the rest of the girls, including myself. We didn't want to see our friends leave. We wanted to enjoy this experience together. And that's the fucked up thing about these survival shows, like...not all of us can make it, no matter how badly we want it to happen.

INTERVIEWER: What did you enjoy the most about being on the Dream Academy?

YASMIN: The friendships you build in settings like that are stronger than ever. 'Cause, like, you're competing, but at the end of the day, we all got to a point where we were just as happy for our friends as we were for ourselves. I still talk to everyone I met during Dream Academy, too. So yeah, the friendships.

INTERVIEWER: What did you enjoy the least?

YASMIN: I think I enjoyed the mental battle the least. While it did prepare me for what I do now, it's just too much stress to put on one person. Especially when you're at the risk of being eliminated and ripped from your dream forever. Sounds dramatic, I know, but it's how I felt during Dream Academy. I am very lucky to be where I am now.

INTERVIEWER: If you could pick one person who did not make the final lineup to join KATSEYE, who would you choose and why?

YASMIN: Oh...that's a hard one. Everyone was so talented! Literally, if we could've made like, a twenty member group, I would be down. But if I had to pick one person, I would probably pick...Marquise or Nayoung. Both of them are insanely talented and I can definitely seeing them pulling off KATSEYE's concept. Their take on Gnarly would be interesting to see, too!

INTERVIEWER: What were your first impressions of your members?

YASMIN: Hmm...let's see.

Sophia: Nice, sociable girl, but she knew what she came for. I admired her drive.

Megan: Literally clicked automatically. I think it was because we had such similar personalities and senses of humor.

Lara: Intimidated, but in a way. She just has that undeniable it girl vibe about her.

Manon: Same thing, but we bonded easily. She showed appreciation for my sister's music, too, and we got closer through our similar interests.

Yoonchae: She was so quiet, yet she was on top of it from the get go. I could tell she also had the end goal in mind, but I did want to get to know her better.

Daniela: So funny. Loved her from the first moment I met her. I also remember literally asking her for guidance during dance practice cause I loved her dancing so much.

INTERVIEWER: Who did you meet first?

YASMIN: I met Megan first.

INTERVIEWER: Who are you the closest to?

YASMIN: Megan, Manon, and Dani.

INTERVIEWER: How long have you been training for?

YASMIN: I have been through vocal training since I was 5. I started acting around the same time. I started dancing when I was around 10 years old, but everything else began when I first auditioned. Songwriting and producing are just hobbies of mine, so I wouldn't call that training.

INTERVIEWER: How did you join the Dream Academy? Did you audition, get scouted, or something else?

YASMIN: I auditioned.

INTERVIEWER: What is your position in the group?

YASMIN: I am the leader, a main dancer alongside Daniela, and a vocalist. I also try to involve myself in the songwriting and production aspect.

INTERVIEWER: If you could change your position, which position would you choose and why?

YASMIN: Honestly, we don't really have rappers in our group, but I would be open to going down that path. Rapping has always intrigued me, and I think it would be cool to see what I can do with it. We'll see what the future brings.

INTERVIEWER: If you could trade lives with a member who would you and why?

YASMIN: Mmm...probably Daniela. I mean, she was on America's Got Talent. The girl was already a superstar.

INTERVIEWER: What song do you listen to get you hyped before a performance?

YASMIN: I don't have a specific song, but the girl group FLO is constantly in my rotation. Same with Kendrick Lamar, Beyonce, and Doechii. Whatever feels right in the moment.

INTERVIEWER: What is your favorite song in your discography?

YASMIN: Debut has such a special place in my heart, so I have to go with that one. Though, Gnarly is a close second for me. I love the more confident and showy songs we put out, if that makes sense.

INTERVIEWER: What is your favorite choreography?

YASMIN: Once again, Debut. The different formations and the unique moves - like the main leg swing, and that kind of stuff - it was hard to learn, but it was very exciting.

INTERVIEWER: Which choreography was the hardest to learn? The easiest?

YASMIN: Hardest one was Debut, mainly because it was our first choreography meant for the group. You know what I mean? We had to make an impression and show everyone that this is what we can do. Especially with a completely new song, too. There was a lot of pressure for that one to be perfect, but it was also incredibly exciting.

For the easiest one, I would say My Way. The song isn't that complicated musically, so the choreography is very gentle and simple for us.

INTERVIEWER: What was your initial reaction to joining the final lineup?

YASMIN: I'm sure we all saw the clip of me crying my eyes out on livestream. It genuinely felt like I was dreaming. My name being called first? Out of everyone? It changed my whole mindset. That moment told me that all my hard work paid off, that all the doubts I had were pointless. It was surreal. Afterwards we went backstage, I called my sister Victoria as soon as I got access to my phone. I had never heard her cry so hard in her life. She was all like, "That's my sister right there! You made it! We're all so proud of you, girl!"

Yeah, it was...it was crazy. Absolutely insane.

INTERVIEWER: What was your initial reaction to Gnarly?

YASMIN: Shock. Pure shock. I could already tell it was a risky move, but I loved it. They had pitched the concepts for the upcoming EP a bit before we heard the demo, so from the jump I knew I was gonna like it. But hearing the lyrics and that beat? Yeah...I saw the vision.

INTERVIEWER: How do you feel about the Eyekons reaction to Gnarly?

YASMIN: They all honestly had the same reaction I expected. The first few days, the girls and I were kinda anxious. Like what if they really don't get it like we did? But the minute our first performance video dropped, it was like something switched, and suddenly a lot of people got it. I'm glad for that.

INTERVIEWER: Who is the loudest member?

YASMIN: Definitely Dani or Manon. The amount of times I hear them screaming while I'm on live...I love it, but I can't replicate it. I respect it.

INTERVIEWER: Who is the most talkative?

YASMIN: Sophia in general, me when I'm talking about an interest of mine. I'm mostly a listener when it truly comes to it, but when it's a realm I'm well-versed in, I can't help myself.

INTERVIEWER: Who is the best cook?

YASMIN: Sophia. And Lara. Both of them make the best food, dude, it's hard to compete.

INTERVIEWER: Who is the mom of the group?

YASMIN: Me, and...Sophia, again. She's just like an all rounder. She does everything, it's amazing.

INTERVIEWER: And that's all we have for our interview today! Is there anything else you want to shout out or say?

YASMIN: Please check out KATSEYE's newest song, Gnarly! Out on all music platforms. You can find us on TikTok, Instagram, and Weverse, as well. As for myself, my handle is @/yasminmonet on all platforms! Thank you for having me.

𝖭𝖤𝖷𝖳: 𝖪𝖠𝖳𝖲𝖤𝖸𝖤 (캣츠아이) "𝖦𝗇𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒" 𝖮𝖿𝖿𝗂𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝖬��

note... wow! this literally took two months! i've been so burnt out recently in terms of posting, but my motivation has been renewed...and i have a few new (and revamped) drs i want to talk about! so hopefully i can stay on it this time. also, i know gabriela just came out, but i'm just going with it. my fault for being late 😟

tags... @avelineshifts @julianasversee @miaojune @visualcve

END OF POST - HAPPY SHIFTING!

[renniferno]

i don't normally comment in the body of a post, i'm more likely to just put my two cents in the tags and leave it be.

but i've had my meds and no food and a big ass mug of coffee and i'm feeling a way about human connection at the moment, so. This stuff is so, so important, especially right now. Small signals from your coworkers, the people you have to talk to at the doctor's office, anyone and everyone you see in small moments and chance meetings. I was lucky enough to grow up with understanding/queer parents, in a city that was known for being open and welcoming to people who had been Othered before. Sure, I cried coming out to my parents, it was a tense emotional moment where I was so, so unsure of what would happen next, but I couldn't lie about it. The relief you feel, when you're accepted after coming out, you get to microdose that shit in real life, day to day, seeing others with a rainbow flag pin or just something that speaks to the solidarity they're willing to show.

I hadn't known what it was to be afraid of holding hands in public until I moved to a small town that sprung up around a federal jail and a military base in kansas. I hadn't known that fear, of having to let go of your love's hand just walking into the grocery store. And now that fear is EVERYWHERE. Will they yell, scream, will they attack us, do they have a weapon, am I going to be another nameless victim of a hate crime that doesn't get reported because the cops don't give a shit? It's an awful way to live, and people who are closeted for one reason or another have to deal with it all the time.

The simplest show of solidarity and community in a small way can be the difference between someone feeling so hopeless and alone that they don't know how they're going to survive and someone being reminded that they aren't alone, there are others out there just like them, willing to stand with them or defend them or even just treat them like a normal human being. It's important, it's worth it. Especially now.

[casavanse]

I need to talk about this.

Misha, I think you're a brilliant actor, I love supernatural. But sometimes you really don't know what you're talking about.

This post needs some context. It was posted at 22.6.25 (yesterday) - just a few days after Trump bombed the three nuclear sites in Iran. Now, don't get me wrong, I am not a Trump supporter in any way. This isn't about him.

Now, I'm not only talking about him. This is a message to all of ya'll who think he's right.

The point is that that post is condemning America for the decision to bomb Iran. Iran, or the IRGC, who have publicly stated their intent to bring the destruction of America (and Israel). The IRGC, who had for years illegally continued in research and development of nuclear weapons. The IRGC, who supported and funded terrorist organizations like Hamas and Hezbollah for years.

Which, I'm sorry, but What The Fuck.

You say you don't want war. You don't think it's a good idea to bomb a country into stopping creating bombs as self defence. But that's not what Iran is doing.

Iran wants to build nuclear weapons. That's not the fucking same. That's not "using bombs to defend themselves". That's a nice and easy way to annihilate a country, like they were saying they were going to do, without facing consequences, 'cuz the rest of the world is terrified they're going to do it to them.

(Or worse, inciting another world war. I don't think we would want that either)

the current Iranian government is not only dangerous to America and Israel, it's also oppressing it's own people. Ever since the Iranian Revolution in 1979, which resulted in the rising of Khomeini to power, the regime had oppressed its citizens and violated their human rights countless times. Try to remember the protests for Mahsa Amini that everyone talked about not so long ago. Have you all forgotten what the IRGC is capable of?

Of course, I hope the people of Iran will be free of the oppressive government. I hope this will end with as little civilian casualties as possible. But that post isn't about them.

Misha, I assume you were talking about America attacking Iran - because you always conveniently ignored Israel when it came to anything political - but. America didn't just bomb civilian areas. They attacked, very specifically, only nuclear sites. There were no civilian casualties. This wasn't America saying Iran couldn't have any bombs at all, it was trying to make sure they didn't have nuclear weapons. I really, really hope you see why no one would want that.

On a slightly different topic, I have something else to say.

So you don't want war. Okay. You don't think it's a good idea to bomb a country to convince them they don't need bombs to defend themselves.

Interesting.

Hamas and Hezbollah - Iranian proxies, as I'm (not so) sure you know - have threatened Israel for decades now. They are terrorist organizations. They have had a lot of bombs they were more that willing to send against Israel, many times against Israeli civilians and civilian areas.

Israel had been forced to develop an exceptional defence system - Iron Dome, the Arrow system, etc. - in order to protect itself from those threats. In a way, Israel is the perfect example that bombing a country won't convince them that they don't need bombs to defend themselves. But did you ever say anything about that? No?

On October 7, 2023, Hamas had entered Israel, kidnapped more than two hundred people and murdered more than a thousand. Most of the dead were civilians. 50 hostages are still in Gaza. We don't even know how many of them are alive.

But let's see, Misha, what did you say about them? What did you say when all these people were killed and kidnapped?

Oh, right. You didn't.

If you really wanted "No More War", supporting countries that want exactly the opposite maybe isn't such a great idea. And if you don't know what you're talking about, you really should just shut up and find something you know better to talk about.

[respectthepetty]

I know you think having a gf thing is a joke and honestly I don't think it's a problem when bl actors have gfs or bfs, but they do get massive hate for that for real. do you know that new got so much hate for having a girlfriend? he still gets hate comments from toxic shippers that he should die for heart failure because he got heart problem? and that account that was hating on dunk was really pushing for hate. so of course it was the problem. the number one reason bl/gl actors get massive hate and death threats is literally having a gf/bf. it's a sad reality but i don't think you should treat it lightly.

I don't think this situation is a joke.

It -is- a joke.

And to show you how serious I am about this, I'm not even going to include images. This is just a giant wall of text.

Because outside of the BL-sphere, what are the repercussions of Dunk really dating a girl? What issues would he face if he was really straight? I'm going to skip over bisexuality because Lord knows half these fans don't even register that as a thing. So what harm would come his way if he was an actual heterosexual man?

Nothing. None. Nada.

If he was dating a girl, it would hurt his branded pair, but he could pivot. He could still work in other roles outside of the pair which he has done because being straight or being perceived straight isn't an issue. He would still have a job. He could even do something else outside of the industry. He'd be fine.

Because the issue isn't Dunk having a girlfriend. The issue is him stepping out on his branded pair because people are real weird about monogamy, especially when it comes to two boys because queerness actual queer people are scary to them.

So since you wanted to start with Tay and New, let me remind you that New get threats for having a girlfriend, but when Gun and Tay kissed during New's live, people went out of their way to call Gun, who is perceived as the more effeminate one, a straight up fag in the comments of his posts. Tay also got so much hate that he made a video and people's biggest issue was how could he go from such a masculine guy like New to such a twink like Gun who has never stated his sexuality. Because the issue wasn't Tay 'cheating' on his partner (with the partner literally being right next to him), but was the possibility of Tay kissing an actual gay guy.

Milk of MilkLove was rumored to be dating Noeul of BossNoeul and both of them received online hate at the mere thought they were breaking up their ships, but Noeul has received far more online and in-person hate once he started dressing and presenting a bit more effeminate than previously.

Freen of BeckyFreen was dating Seng formerly of BillySeng. The hate was ridiculous and it has followed Seng even after he departed from Idol Factory, which can easily be seen in the comment section of his posts. I genuinely feel bad for the boy, yet he still is working.

So you know who I do feel bad for all of the time? Publicly out queer folks in this industry!

Max of MaxTul dates women. People knew that and hated it because he was 'cheating' on Tul. But he still had work, and he still has work now. Because being straight does not harm people. Online hate is real. Cyberbullying is real. But Max could pivot if he wanted to like Nanon, Bright, and Win. But you know who never said he was dating anyone? The actual gay guy, Tul! And who retired from acting before he announced he was dating a man? Tul.

Cooheart has gone on record stating that being an openly gay man in the BL industry has severely limited his options. He will not be able to play a straight character because people know he is gay, so the online harassment he receives isn't because of not being faithful to a branded pair, but because he is actually gay, and that harassment has translated into him getting less jobs. He cannot pivot. He is essentially stuck.

When Supanut was hanging out with Sailub, he received more online and in-person harassment because he is the openly queer man. Sailub received comments that he was disrespecting Pon per the usual, but Supanut received comments that were directed not at him just trying to break up a ship, but about him being queer. People were equivocating him to being basically a gay hussy, who just wanted to wreck all the ships, which makes me very interested in what fan interactions will look like once I'm the Most Beautiful Count airs.

Daou gets lots of comments about disrespecting Offroad by hanging out with other guys, but the comments that really upset him were the ones saying HE WAS DISGUSTING FOR POSSIBLY BOTTOMING! Offroad stays quiet mostly, but he was bothered by people saying he was BULKING UP TOO MUCH AS A QUEER MAN!

I'm not even touching Mew and Gulf, but only one of them was labeled a predator and it wasn't the straight one!

So just because some of y'all want to take Joong liking a post about Dunk having a girlfriend seriously does not mean I need to. The online harassment is disgusting because people have parasocial relationships with actors who are simply doing their jobs, but I am not going to sit here on Tumblr dot com slash Respect the Petty and entertain this made up drama that stemmed from Joong liking a post about Dunk being perceived as a straight guy when openly gay people are being significantly more harassed, targeted, and limited for being gay in an industry that profits off of gayness.

Take all this energy you have for me and meet me in the My Sweetheart Jom chat on Friday, so every time someone mentions how Saint isn't believable in his role because he is a 'bottom,' you can give them the same lecture you want to give me about the seriousness of online harassment and its real-world repercussions.

Kay? Okay!

[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

[happyk44]

[ID: 1. Tumblr post from @/ryebreadgf: [all caps] YOU CAN NEVER GO BACK! YOU CAN NEVER GO BACK! YOU CAN BITE AND SCRATCH AND BEG BUT YOU CAN NEVER GO BACK! [end all caps]

2. Tumblr post from @/mothvhs: the fact that time passes and things change and people leave and you can nly go back to a place physically and you will never be 14 15 16 again………….. I don’t understand how we are meant to endure that

3. A letter reading, “Hey, I used to live in your house. I’m drunk in Boston, and it’s the only address I know. Happy holidays. MW.”

4. Tumblr post from @/finelythreadedsky: a lil bit emotional about how “nostalgia” originally meant longing across a displacement in space but in common parlance it refers to longing across a displacement in time… you don’t go away from home and miss it, you stay where you are and times passes and home just disappears

5. Text reading: I want ‘em back, I want ‘em back The minds we had, the minds we had It’s not enough to feel the lack I want ‘em back, I want ‘em back, I

6. Quote from Alida Nugent: “You still crave lemonade, but the taste doesn’t satisfy you as much as it used to. You still crave summer, but sometimes you mean summer, five years ago.”

7. Tumblr post from @/firstfullmoon: I miss everything and will never get any of it back. Whatever

8. An orange and white kitten wearing a pointed pink princess hat and a pink cape. The cap is attached by a string tied beneath their chin in a bow. The cat’s eyes have been edited to look dramatically teary and sad. Black text across the image reads, “We are all going forward. None of us are going back”

9. Tumblr post from @/n1ntendos: [all caps] I AM HAUNTED BY A PAST I CANNOT GO BACK TO !!!!!! [end all caps] anyways

10. Text reading: You don’t have a home until you leave it and then, when you have left it, you can never go back.

11. Text reading: We won’t know what happens next, because it’s all made-up anyway; but really, we won’t know because that’s what life is. Life is the best friend from high school whose last name you can’t remember. Life is the ex-girlfriend who kept a piece of your soul, and it burned until you realized there were so many pieces left you didn’t miss it anymore. Life is the cousin who dies and maybe you saw her at Christmas that one year and maybe you didn’t. Life is the status updates you don’t understand, the phone calls you forget to return, the coffee dates that don’t lead to anything more than a caffeine high. Life is knowing that however hard you try, however wide you open your arms, in the end, you’ll leave everything behind you. Life is always leaving. And always leaving means that every friend you make it just one more goodbye.

It's worth it, though. In the end, little else is. /end ID]

Sources: 1. @/ryebreadgf; 2. @/mothvhs; 3. Unknown; 4. @/finelythreadsky; 5. Ribs sung by Lorde; 6. You Don’t have to Like Me: Essays on Growing Up, Speaking Out, and Finding Feminism by Alida Nugent; 7. Tumblr post from @/firstfullmoon; 8. Unknown; 9. @/n1ntendos; 10. Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin; 11. Zack Handlen’s AV Club review of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine

the ache of nostalgia

[sirenontheloose]

Please Don't Clip This

Crushes are just little heart attacks you enjoy

The livestream wasn’t planned. No announcement, no fancy setup. Just Y/N in her studio, sleeves pushed up, hair pulled into a loose bun, a mug sitting beside her laptop as Rosé’s new album played quietly in the background. She leaned forward to adjust the screen, face lit softly by the glow of the monitor.

"Hi," she started. "Was gonna listen to this alone, but figured I might as well have a little listening party with you guys."

The chat lit up instantly. Some fans welcomed her back, others teased her for ghosting them again. She skimmed the comments, eyes flicking left to right as a small smile tugged at her lips.

"Water," she said, lifting her mug. "No snacks sadly. This wasn’t planned," she pouted.

She let a few tracks play without interruption, swaying slightly to the beat, reading comments here and there while the music filled the room.Then someone asked about LA.

"When am I going back? Next week, actually. For about two weeks." She paused, then lowered her voice. "I don’t know if I can say this but... I’ll start working on my solo."

The comments instantly exploded. She didn’t elaborate, just smirked a little and took a sip like she hadn’t just dropped major news.

Then the tone of the chat shifted. Some fans asked what the solo would sound like, while others started suggesting people she should hang out with in LA. At first, it was casual. But then one name kept popping up.

KATSEYE. And more specifically, Lara.

"Lara?" Y/N leaned forward again, squinting slightly to keep up with the flood of messages. "From KATSEYE?"

The comments answered immediately.

"Yeah, she’s in LA." "She said you’re her bias." "She mentioned she likes your tone and stage presence." "@lararaj, just look."

Y/N didn’t say anything. She just grabbed her phone and started typing.

A few seconds of silence passed. Her eyes locked onto the screen. Then she started scrolling, slowly.

For a good five minutes, there was nothing. No commentary. Just Y/N, completely locked in, quietly staring at her phone.

Her lips parted slightly. She blinked once. Then a quiet, almost breathless whisper escaped before she could stop it.

"Wow. She’s gorgeous."

The chat instantly lost it.

"She’s gone." "We’re watching her fall in real time." "HELLO???" "Down bad but respectfully." "This is the softest spiral ever." "She forgot we’re here."

Her mouth curved into a small, helpless smile. She tapped into a video post, watched it more than once probably, and only then did it seem to hit her that she wasn’t alone.

She set her phone down on the desk, screen facing down, and leaned back in her chair with a quiet, guilty sigh. One glance at the chat told her it was already too late.

"I hate you guys," she mumbled, tugging the sleeve of her hoodie over her hand and dragging it across her mouth like she could erase the past five minutes.

The teasing came fast.

"You’ve been quiet for three whole songs." "Are you okay? Blink twice if you’re in love." "Would you DM her?" "You’re smiling again."

Y/N laughed softly, sinking lower in her seat.

"I was just... looking."

More comments scrolled past.

"What if she sees this?" "Someone tag her." "It’s over for you, girl."

"Y’all..." she started, then stopped mid-sentence.

Her eyes froze on one comment.

hey?

The username next to it is @lararaj

She blinked. Once. Then again.

Silence.

The chat exploded.

"OH MY GOD." "NO WAY." "LARA ENTERED THE CHAT." "SHE’S HERE." "EVERYBODY STAY CALM." "SHE SAW EVERYTHING."

Y/N didn’t move. Her hands flew up to her face as she let out a soft, horrified laugh. Then she hunched forward over her desk like she could disappear into it, muttering,

"Nope. Nope. I’m ending this. I’m ending this right now."

She fumbled for her mouse, keeping her head low as her other hand stayed half-covering her face. Her ears were visibly pink. Her embarrassment was so real, it radiated through the screen.

"Thanks for hanging out," she said quickly. "Please don’t clip this. And Lara..." she hesitated, groaning softly, "if you’re here, I promise I’m not weird."

Then the screen cuts to black.

And the next morning, #ynra was trending in eight countries.

divider - @v6que

a/n - can you tell I'm obsessed with Rosé?, can't wait for "On My Mind" this Friday OMG. I’ve also been working on a few other one-shots, but none of them feel "fun" enough imo. Sooo if there’s anything you’d love to read or maybe tropes you’re into right now, let me know!